Cradle to Grave (5 page)

“Ten months or so,” Jerusha said. She gestured to the other two children staring at the visitors. “My brother and sister: Judah and Nancy.”

Uncombed dark brown hair touched Judah's shoulders and his eyes were not blue but hazel. He still wore a dress but the front pleat that identified him as a boy was ripped almost to the waist. Judah put his hands over his eyes so he wouldn't see them. Nancy was older, five or six, Rees guessed, and quite dirty. Despite the cold, everyone but Jerusha was barefoot and, although not gaunt, none of them looked well nourished.

“Do you have any food?” Lydia asked, stripping off her cloak and bonnet. Then she looked around in bewilderment; there seemed no place to put them.

“Pegs by the door,” Jerusha said with a nod, just like a little old woman. Without comment Lydia put her cloak next to the tattered shawl that probably served as Jerusha's coat and a woman's blue cloak with a long three-cornered tear at the bottom.

“I used the last of the cornmeal this morning,” Jerusha said with a sigh. Rees recalled the bacon and eggs, the loaf of bread, and the oatmeal that had made up his breakfast and the hearty dinner he'd consumed not more than an hour ago and felt guilt sweep over him. Lydia glanced at him, her eyes moistening. She pressed her lips together.

“I have something,” Rees said, putting his hand on the pocket of his greatcoat, then remembered he'd left the food in the buggy. “I'll fetch it.” He darted outside and could not resist drawing in several deep lungfuls of fresh sweet air.

He broke the ice in the trough so Ares could drink and took the napkin-wrapped parcel from the buggy seat. When he entered the cottage, the ammonia stink from the diapers drying by the fire seemed even stronger.

Lydia had rolled her sleeves to the elbow and wrapped a rag around her waist to cover her gown. She was attempting to sweep the floor with an almost bald broom. “I'll need a kettle full of water,” she said to Rees.

“I'll fill it with snow,” he said with a nod.

“And drinking water … Is there a well?” Lydia turned to Jerusha.

“No. We fetch our water from a spring.” She looked at Rees thoughtfully. “I'll show you. We can carry more if there's two of us.”

“I'll fetch the wash water first,” Rees said, grabbing up the copper. Old and much used, it was scratched and dented. But he suspected Lydia planned to wash diapers as well as the table and the floor, and he didn't want to use the kettle in which the food was cooked for that water. Not that it would matter; even the inside of the black kettle was crusty with the remains of several previous meals.

He went outside and found a drift of clean snow. He piled the snow into the pot, packing it in until it was almost too heavy to carry. He staggered back inside and put the kettle on the crane over the fire.

Lydia had already taken down the cloth squares from the line over the hearth and swept the table clean. Rees peered at the garment she had spread out upon the wood; it looked like her petticoat. As he watched she slashed the linen with a knife and ripped a long slit in the cloth. A slash across the top and down the other side, and she'd manufactured a large clean linen square. A fresh diaper. Folded into several thicknesses it would serve for a little while and perhaps the other clouts would be washed and dried by the time it required changing. She quickly cut several more. Under the guise of inspecting her work, Rees leaned over her.

“Where's the mother?” he whispered.

“In the other room. Sleeping. She's ‘ill.'” Her mouth twisted with angry disgust.

Jerusha took her ragged shawl from the peg and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Watch the babies,” she told Nancy. She picked up a small pot. “Ready?” Rees snatched up another pot and followed her from the cabin.

Rees watched her totter forward in the large clogs. The bare wood of her shoes rubbed angry red patches on her delicate skin. But she didn't complain and Rees wondered if her feet were so cold she didn't feel the scrapes.

They walked down to the lane and across to the woods on the other side. A well-trodden path looped through the trees and as they walked deeper into the forest Rees heard the sound of running water. They broke through the trees and Jerusha knelt on the bank of a fast-moving stream, the water whipped into a creamy froth by the jutting rocks and boulders. Rees looked at the ice coating the stones. “Does this stream ever freeze?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Not often. The water runs fast and it's deeper than it looks.” She scooped up the icy water in the pot. She was careful and did not plunge her hand into the water. But Rees had a clear view of her feet, tinted blue by the cold.

He thought of his thick wool socks, hand-knitted for him by Lydia. After all, he wore stockings underneath them and stout leather boots so he didn't really need the socks, did he? He thought his wife would approve, something that had become increasingly important over the last few months. He sat down upon a boulder and began taking off his boots.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Giving you my socks. They'll be too big for you, of course, but they should keep your feet warm.”

“Why would you do that?” Jerusha asked, her voice shrill with astonishment.

“I have stockings and boots,” he said, peeling off the sock and handing it to her. “Put it on. I'll have the other one in a moment.”

She took the sock, staring at it in disbelieving joy, and then quickly sat down and put it on. Rees peeled off the second sock and handed it over. He was so tall, and she so small, that the socks went up over her knees, the heels mid-calf. Stamping his feet back into his boots, which felt odd without the thickness of his socks, Rees picked up the pots of water.

“It is a long way to go for water,” he said as they started back.

“Not really,” Jerusha said. “It's better in the winter, though, than summer. Too many mosquitoes then. And we use more water, too,” she added as an afterthought.

Lydia had scrubbed the table and laid out Rees's bread and cheese upon wooden plates. The other three children were seated at the table and even the baby was eating. Lydia had mashed the bread into crumbs and mixed it with something; Joseph's plump hands were clutching at the pottage and scooping it into his mouth. Rees peered in revulsion at the brownish mess. “Maple syrup,” Lydia said, wiping her arm across her forehead. “I found a jug in the cupboard.”

“Mama will be angry,” Jerusha warned. “The syrup was a gift. We aren't supposed to eat it.”

“Joseph must eat,” Lydia said with a snap. When Jerusha, blinking anxiously, looked at Lydia, she clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn't express her opinions about Mama, all of them unkind.

“You must be hungry, too,” Rees said, giving the child a little push toward the table. Tossing her shawl on the peg, she hurried forward. Lydia glanced at the child, noticing Rees's socks upon those small feet. When she looked up, he shrugged. “Her feet were bare.”

“You are a good man, Will Rees,” Lydia said, the approval in her smile warming him all the way through.

Bobbing his head self-consciously, Rees turned to pour the water into the oak bucket.

In a moment of quiet after the children had eaten, Lydia went to the copper boiling over the fire and stirred it. “I couldn't find soap,” she said, “so I hope hot water will be enough.” She swung the crane away so that the water in the copper could begin to cool.

She dipped a corner of a rag into the hot water and then into the cold. After testing it upon the soft skin inside her wrist and judging it the proper temperature, she brought it to the table and began wiping faces and hands. Rees watched her in amazement. Did women just instinctively know how to do these things?

All of the children fought the rag save Jerusha. Joseph screamed until Jerusha picked him up, her slight frame bowing with the effort. The baby relaxed into Jerusha's shoulder, snuffling wearily. “He's tired,” she said. Lydia stretched out her arms to take the baby from the girl but suddenly paused.

“He'll settle with you,” she said. “Why don't you lie down next to him and maybe he'll fall asleep. Judah, too.” She looked at Nancy, who was rubbing her eyes. “And Nancy.” She didn't comment on Jerusha but Rees knew Lydia saw the same exhaustion in the child's face as he did himself.

“I'm not tired,” Nancy proclaimed.

Jerusha followed Lydia's gaze and nodded. “We'll all lie down for a moment,” she said. “None of us slept well last night. Mama was … upset.”

She shepherded the younger children to the pile of rags and arranged the tattered cover over them. Then, exhaling a weary sigh, she lay down in the middle, curving her body around the baby. Nancy and Judah rolled closer to Jerusha and in a few moments all was quiet. Lydia looked at the nest of children, huddled together under rags, and took her cloak down from the peg to spread over them.

“I suppose I'll have to wash my cloak immediately,” she said, as though tears of pity did not shine in her eyes.

Rees smiled at her. “I know. I'll get some wood,” he said.

Since the children had collected all the sticks nearby, he was forced to cross the road and collect the deadfalls. As he gathered as many of the downed branches as he could, he reflected that the gentler weather in New York was a blessing to these children. In Maine, or in a harsher winter, they might very well have frozen to death.

By the time he had made several trips for wood, hewn it into pieces, and stacked it outside the horse's lean-to, Lydia had gotten most of the diapers wrung out and hanging on the rope. The dripping water pattered on the hearth, hissing when it fell among the burning logs. She took the stick with which she was lifting the sodden cloths from the copper and laid it upon the floor. “I want to show you something,” she said, breathing hard. She crossed to the shelves and pulled down a large canister. “Empty.” Another came down. “Empty.” She pushed the lid off a barrel on the floor. “Empty. There is no food at all in this house. But I did find this.” From the back corner of the topmost shelf, behind a large Bible with a worn leather cover, she pulled a small drawstring leather bag that clinked. She poured some of the coins into her hand. They were mostly coppers but there were a few English shillings in the mix. “Why isn't she buying food?” Lydia looked up at Rees, anger and outrage contorting her features. “I peeked into the bedroom. All whiskey bottles, Will.”

Silently Rees took the bag and the coins from her and returned them to their hiding place. “Maybe she's forgotten this is there.”

“These poor children. I agree with Mouse. She did the right thing and I will tell her so when next we meet.”

“It certainly looks that way,” Rees said more cautiously as he took down the Bible. He didn't want to judge until he understood the entire situation.

As Lydia returned to the diapers, burning off her emotion with the hard physical labor, Rees took the Bible to the table and sat down with it. Marriages, births, and deaths for the Baines family filled the unprinted front pages, inscribed in a variety of hands from a careful copperplate to crude block capitals. Rees searched for Olive Tucker, finally locating her married to Phineas Tucker but listed under her maiden name, Baines. A notation next to Phineas identified his brother Silas; they were the only survivors of thirteen Tucker children.

From the Baines family, a brother and a sister survived as well as Olive. Birth dates and marriage dates were inscribed. Rees noticed that Olive had had two sisters; a death date was noted for one. Someone, probably Olive, had written “gone west” next to the entries for her remaining siblings.

Olive and Phineas's three children were also included. Marriages were noted for all. Olive's son and his wife had followed his aunt and uncle west. There were no death dates. Rees wondered what had happened to Olive's daughters. Had they moved? Olive must not have known either; nothing was listed.

But where was Maggie Whitney's name? Wasn't she Olive's niece? Rees searched the page, finally finding a Margaret Tamar at the very bottom. There was no last name and no mother or father identified. Why, she was little better than a foundling. Rees felt a flash of sympathy for the girl. And what had Maggie used as a last name before she married? Tucker? Baines?

He turned forward one page. Maggie must have begun this page herself; her name was inscribed in tentative block capitals at the top. She'd noted her marriage and below that date was a list of her children: Jerusha, Simon, Nancy, and Judah. The months and years of the births were noted, but only Jerusha's entry bore a firm date: June 22, 1788. She wouldn't be nine for four more months. It did not require a mathematical genius to see that she was born a scant five months after her mother's wedding. Well, Maggie and her husband wouldn't be the first couple to jump the broom without benefit of clergy. The dates for the other three children were entered with pale hesitant strokes; Rees took that to mean Mrs. Whitney hadn't known the exact days and was certain only of month and year.

Rees closed the Bible and deposited it upon the shelf. “It's getting late,” he said to Lydia. “I want to start back to Dover Springs before dark.” And his stomach was beginning to growl.

“I still have some diapers to hang,” she said, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “I think
she
must have used every single piece of cloth in the house.”

Rees eyed his wife's pale, tired face. “I'll help you,” he said, and crossed the floor to her. “I don't want you exhausting yourself.”

“These children…” Lydia's voice suddenly broke. Rees put an arm around her shoulders. “It's not their fault,” she said, her voice trembling. “That woman doesn't deserve them.”

Rees gave her a squeeze. “I know.” Someday he hoped they would have children of their own but this was not the time to say so. Nor did he want to remind her of the infant she'd lost before he'd met her. That was a wound he could not heal. Lydia freed herself from his arms and offered him a weak smile.