Time Enough for Drums (23 page)

“Who told thee?” Mr. Moore asked.

“My sister, Rebeckah.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time before that happened,” he said. “We would have told thee, but we thought thee had enough to weigh down thy spirit.”

I nodded. “I’d like to see my mother now, please.”

“Would thee be telling thy mother what thee has learned?” Ruth asked.

“I would be. But it doesn’t matter. She never pays attention to anything I say.”

“Then why must thee tell her?” she insisted.

“I don’t know. I just know I have to.”

“Sometimes I think thy mother hears with her heart,” she said. “Go. Thee knows where to find her.”

“I don’t know what to do with Becky, Mama. Things are just awful at home.”

I sat at her feet on the braided rug in the sun-filled parlor. I had learned, over the long summer months, not to let her blank looks bother me. The Moores had encouraged me to talk to her and tell her what was going on at home. So I usually chatted with her as if she were perfectly normal.

“John Reid came home. You know I told you we were betrothed now. But he’s sick. Lucy had to doctor him with your medicines. I told him he could stay at our place until he was well. And Rebeckah wants me to put him out.”

She was sewing a petticoat, not looking at me.

“Mama, we had the most awful argument. She accused me of being like you. She said the trouble with you was that you couldn’t give up your precious principles. And it was those principles that were the cause of Father’s death.”

I had never spoken to her of Father, not once in all my visits. But her face never changed, nor did she stop stiching.

“She said, Mama, that Father was killed because you wrote all those letters to the
Pennsylvania Gazette
. She said copies of the letters were … pinned to him when he was found.”

There was silence in the room. Through the open window a bird sang and sounds of an autumn day drifted in the window. I heard a horse whinny from the barn.

“I always
wanted
to be like you, Mama. When I found out you were writing those essays, I wished I could be like you and do something to help the army. I thought you were
so brave. But now Becky tells me it was stupid and that I’m the same way because I want to keep John in the house until he’s well. She’s given me a choice, Mama. She says that either John goes or she goes with the baby in three days. And I don’t know what to do. I know they haven’t anywhere to go. I’d be turning her out.”

She was still sewing.

“Oh, Mama, I wish you could help me! I wish you could tell me what to do! I don’t want to turn Becky out. But she’s being unreasonable. And John is so sick. And if something happened to
him
, I’d die!”

I ran my finger along the braided rug. The sunlight was warm on my back. I felt better for having told her. It would be a long ride back on Bleu, and oh, I did feel so forlorn and tired. Wearily, I got to my feet. I leaned over and kissed her. “Well, Mama, thank you for listening. I must go now. That’s a lovely petticoat you’re making.”

I walked to the door. “Goodbye Mama.”

I was in the hall when I heard her voice. At first I thought I was dreaming it.

“Jem.” So soft at first, and then louder. “Jemima.”

I flew back into the room. She
knew
me! Never before had she called me by name!

“Yes, Mama?”

“Come, here, Jem, sit down.”

I was shaking and I sank down like a sack of flour. “Yes, Mama, I’m here.”

She kept right on stitching that petticoat. For a while she said nothing, and I thought I had lost her again. But soon she spoke.

“I sit here, day after day, Jem, and I think of what I did. And there are days when I know it was right. And days when I know it was wrong. What you must realize is that
your heart breaks in life no matter what decision you make Just make one. It’s worse not to.”

I looked into her eyes. “But, Mama, that’s what you did.”

“I know, child. I’m not here in this room because I’m not right in the head from what I did. I couldn’t have you go away thinking that. I’m here because my heart is broken and I can’t face the world. I can’t do it anymore, Jem. I choose not to. The Moores have given me shelter until I feel I can face the world again. You mustn’t tell anyone, Jem. I need more time.”

“Oh, I won’t, Mama. I promise.”

“There are days I can’t even talk to you. I knew who you were, Jem, right from the beginning. I just couldn’t …” She started to cry.

Dear Lord, I hadn’t wanted to make her cry. “Oh, don’t cry, Mama, please!” I held her until she stopped.

When I had quieted her, she dried her eyes.

“I didn’t want you to think I was out of my head from what I did. I couldn’t have you afraid to do what you have to do.”

“Thank you, Mama. I’m not afraid. But I don’t know what to do.”

She touched my face. “Yes, you do. Do what you know in your heart is right. Whatever decision you make, you’ll feel bad. Life does that to us sometimes. Do what is right.” She smiled. “You
are
a lot like me, Jemima. But you can learn from me. You can learn to live with your decision. That’s what you must learn. If I can teach you that, I won’t feel so bad.”

I knew when I got home that day what I would do. As for whether I could live with my decision, well, that remained to be seen.

Three days later my sister left our house for good. It was a beautiful day in late September when the carriage pulled up in front and she took her leave with the baby and the servant girl.

She would not say goodbye to me. The two days of her preparation to leave turned out to be a nightmare. I had been unable to sleep or eat. John Reid was still sick upstairs in Daniel’s room. The doctor had come and gone and told us that sleep, care, and good food would put him on the mend again.

The house was so silent after they left. I couldn’t believe that I had done what I had done or that she had carried out her threat and left.

So now I was indeed like Mama, with something on my conscience. For two days afterward I walked around like a ghost, doing my chores in the shop in a daze. I left my food untouched at the table. I snapped back at Lucy when she told me to eat, ordering her to leave me be.

On the third day I came in through the center hall after I had closed the shop.

“Jemima, come in here.”

John was in Father’s study, fully dressed. I was startled to see him downstairs, to hear his voice so firm and normal again. I stood in the doorway, staring.

“John, are you well enough to—”

“Come in here and close the door, please.”

I closed it and stood against it. “What is it, John?”

He sat perched on the edge of Father’s desk. “What’s been going on, miss?”

“Why, nothing, John. Whatever do you mean?”

“Lucy tells me you’re walking the house at night. You snap at her when she tells you to eat your food and order her to leave you alone. Now tell me, what is it?”

“I think Lucy must be imagining things.”

“And I think you are lying to me.”

“John, would I—”

“Yes, you would. Come here.”

There was something of my old tutor in the way he said it. I raised my chin defiantly. “I was just about to clean up for supper.”

“You were just about to come here.”

There was no sense in upsetting him, since he’d been so ill lately. I went to him. I raised my eyes innocently, but he would have none of it.

“Now tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing, John. Heavens, can’t a person be out of sorts?”

“Jemima Emerson, you may well lie to the saints on Judgment Day and get away with it, but I know you too well. What are you keeping from me?”

I smiled sweetly at him and fastened two buttons on his waistcoat.

“I quarreled with Rebeckah before she left to visit with her friend in New Brunswick.”

“A quarrel with Rebeckah would bother you as much as a quarrel with a chipmunk. I see you are determined not to tell me.”

“John, we women all have our little secrets. Won’t you let me have mine?”

He moved away from the desk. He coughed. “I think that I shall move back to my quarters on King Street tomorrow.”

“But why?” I felt alarmed.

“Jemima,”—he looked at me—“I am only a human being and so are you. It isn’t good for us to be under the same roof like this until we marry. You may not admit it, but I will. I appreciate your hospitality, but it’s time to go.”

So that’s what he thought was wrong, that I was languishing about because he was under the same roof with me! Well, let him think it, then. Better that than know the truth.

“But you can’t go. You aren’t well yet!”

“Oh, and you’re telling me what I can and can’t do now, miss?” He coughed again. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“You won’t be fine! And I shall worry about you!” I stamped my foot and my lips trembled. Didn’t he see? If he left now, my quarrel with Rebeckah would have been for nothing! I had stood up to her and done the right thing for the first time in my life. On my own. And for what?

For nothing. And I had Rebeckah on my conscience now, too. But I couldn’t tell him that!

He stared at my outburst, open-mouthed. “I should be completely on my feet in a month, Jem,” he said. “By that time your grandfather will be home. We can marry in October. What do you say?”

“If you leave, John Reid, you can marry yourself in October!”
I burst into tears and ran from the room crying.

Of course it was childish and I knew it. And of course he left. He was too much of a man to allow a woman to tell him what he could and could not do. He stood in the hall the next morning and put his arm around me, humoring me like the child I still was.

“I’ll be over tonight to court you properly, under Lucy’s watchful eye,” he teased.

“I may not be here tonight.”

He kissed my forehead. “I wouldn’t love you half as much if you hadn’t such spirit, Jemima. But you do try my soul sometimes.”

That afternoon Canoe came into the shop.

I had two customers. He waited in the background. Then, when they had left, he nodded at me.

“Beautiful weather,” he said. “Blue skies and trees turning. A good day for a ride. Why don’t you close up early?”

“Thank you, Canoe, but I don’t feel up to it.”

He sat down on a barrel. “I came to tell you something that might help you. Put the color back in your face, make you eat again.”

“Why everyone is so concerned with my eating, I don’t know.”

He smiled. “Lucy told me of the argument with your sister.”

“Lucy talks too much.”

“The British have occupied Philadelphia.”

I stared at him. “How would that make me happy, Canoe?”

“Four days ago now. Your sister left three days ago.”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. He nodded. “She knew. She must have known since August they
were heading there. All the officers knew. She got letters from him.”

“You mean I didn’t put her out? She had someplace to go?”

Again he nodded. “I have word from the driver of the carriage. She arrived there safely.”

“Oh, Canoe, what would I do without you!”

“Now you can eat again and look healthy when your grandfather arrives.”

I smiled at him through my tears. “It isn’t that simple, Canoe. There’s more to it. I was so worried about Rebeckah I wasn’t eating, and John Reid thought it was because he was there under the same roof with me. Now he’s left. And I quarreled with him because I thought I’d turned Rebeckah out in the cold for him. But I couldn’t tell him that. Oh, Canoe, it’s all so confused!”

He smiled. “It’s always confused when there’s love. He left because he has pride. Who wants a man without pride?”

“But he’s still sick, Canoe. He won’t cook properly for himself in those rooms of his. He has no one to care for him.”

“We have room at Otter Hall.”

“He wouldn’t take your charity any more than he’d take mine.”

“We also have a few Indian children running around there who need book learning.”

“Oh, Canoe, that’s a wonderful idea! But I couldn’t ask him. He’d see through me in a minute.”

“Then I will ask.” He stood up. “I’ll go there this afternoon and tell him your grandfather requests it while he’s on leave, since he did such a fine job with you.”

I blushed. “You’ve done much for me, Canoe.”

He said nothing. I looked at him shyly. “Canoe, things are so mixed up in my head. I don’t know if I’ll ever get them straight again.”

“Things are more straight in your head now than ever before,” he said.

“I miss my father. There are days I don’t think I can stand it.”

He looked at me long and steadfastly. “Why do you think your grandfather sent me on ahead when he heard of his death?” he said.

Across the counter I looked at him. And it came to me then how stupid I was being. For he couldn’t have said it plainer.

He was indeed my father’s brother.

Four years later, on October 22, a lone horseman rode into town and went straight to the Presbyterian church where everyone gathered to hear news of the war.

People were running out of houses and shops and heading in the direction of the church. It was then that I heard the cry taken up by one, then the other and passed around.

“Yorktown!”

I stood on the steps of the shop. “What is it? What’s happened?”

A young indentured servant boy came flying out of the Black Horse Tavern. “The war is over! The British surrendered at Yorktown!”

Yorktown. I knew the name, for John had written to me of such a place and all the other important places in his letters, which he sent in invisible ink.

John and I had married when my grandfather Emerson came home in the fall of 1777. John left to rejoin the army in December, deliberately had himself captured again, and was held prisoner in Philadelphia until June of 1778 when the British evacuated that town.

The British shipped him to New York. It was then that I started getting the letters in invisible ink. One day a package was sent to me with a curious-looking chemical in it, with the message to keep it and rub it over the entire next letter that came. When I did, another message became clear, in between the lines!