Time Enough for Drums (6 page)

Mother’s face was very white. “James, this is the Lord’s Day.”

“My dear, the Lord Himself could have inspired this essay. It addresses the womenfolk, reminding them that
their willingness to sacrifice should match the courage of the men in the field.”

“The women in Trenton
are
sacrificing, James.”

“I don’t understand your resistance to hearing this.”

“It isn’t proper conversation for the Sabbath.”

“As far as I know, that has never stopped us from discussing anything in this house.” Father was about to say more when Dan stood up.

“I’d like to be excused, Father.”

“Excused? From what? Breakfast? You not hungry? Impossible.”

“Breakfast and services. I can’t go to church and pray for the king.”

“Ah.” Father took off his spectacles, intrigued by the possibility of the discussion. “Nobody expects you to pray for the king.”

“Reverend Panton always includes prayers for him in the services.”

“So he does. And do you know why?”

“Because Reverend Panton is a Tory.”

“Not so simple, Dan. As a condition of his ordination in the Church of England he has taken an oath of the king’s supremacy. To depart from that oath would be to break his solemn vows.”

“Well, I took no such vows. My loyalties are to our Cause.”

“As they should be. But we still belong to the Church of England. So we go to services. But we don’t have to join in the prayers for the king. Many remain silent.”

“I know that. But I also know that the whole parish is torn. And that church is a hotbed of controversy. Why go and practice hypocrisy? You always said hypocrisy is the worst sin of mankind.”

“Second only to rudeness, Dan. Civility is all we have
left in times of war. As an officer, you should know that.”

“As an officer in the Continental army I know one thing, Father. That I have no place in a church where prayers are said for George the Third—or any king.”

Silence followed. At least Dan had diverted Father from his essay reading. Father took a piece of pumpkin bread and spread it liberally with butter, regarding Dan. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I can understand that. Where are you off to, then?”

“I have a meeting.”

“A meeting? On the Sabbath?”

“We leave tomorrow. It can’t be helped.”

Father nodded. “Very well, Dan, if your mother agrees, I will excuse you.”

Of course, Mother agreed. “I’m sure you will pray in your heart, won’t you, Dan?”

“I’ll be sure to do that, Mother.” He kissed her on the way out. How I envied him, coming and going as he pleased. I pushed my food around on my dish.

“Eat your breakfast, Jemima,” Father ordered. “And stop slouching at the table.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If you think that by mimicking your brother you’ll be excused from services, you’re wrong. So you might as well eat.”

“Would you excuse me from services?” David asked.

“Do you have problems saying prayers for the king?”

“I’m one of the people who doesn’t say them. I keep quiet.”

“Good. Put that into practice now and eat.”

“John Fitch says St. Michael’s will soon be closing. Too many vestrymen are Tories.”

“How John Fitch knows so much about the Anglican
Church when he’s a Methodist is beyond me.”

“He knows a lot about what goes on in town,” David insisted.

“So it seems. He could start his own newspaper. Trenton could use one. But until he does, I’d like to read mine.”

“Father, I have to ask you something,” I said.

He sighed. “Is there no peace for a man in his own home on the Sabbath? What is it, Jemima?”

“I’ve promised to write to Raymond Moore while he’s away.”

“Since you’ve already promised, I don’t see the problem.”

“John Reid insists on reading my letters first.”

“And why is that?”

“He says my penmanship is a disgrace and as my tutor he can’t allow a letter to go off unless he inspects it.”

He smiled.

“Well, goodness, Father, I don’t see what’s so funny. Why should he be allowed to read my letters?”

“Jemima, first, your penmanship
is
a disgrace. And second, one of these days you will understand the humor of his purpose. And when you do, God willing, you’ll be mature enough to not mind John inspecting your correspondence.”

“Now whatever is that supposed to mean? Mama, please can’t you help?”

“John means no harm dear. Do as he wishes.”

“You always defend him! Both of you! He has more privileges in this house than any of us!”

“Jemima!” Father said sternly. “You will conduct yourself as a proper young lady of Christian upbringing in this house on the Sabbath or you will be confined to your chamber for the day. Now, which will it be?”

He knew which it would be. I calmed myself. The bells of St. Michael’s were ringing. Well, at least Dan and I kept Father from reading the essay and upsetting Mama.

In the west the sky was still dark, and the houses and shops loomed against it in unnatural shapes. But in the east the sun was streaking the sky with red.

Like blood, I thought. I shivered and pulled my blanket coat around me. All up and down our street Dan’s men were assembling to go off to war on that cold January morning. Some brought their womenfolk with them.

The Moores were there. I saw Raymond in the distance, and he sighted me immediately and came over and took off his hat. He had a fine new musket, and with his cartridge box and canteen and powder horn, he looked like a soldier. Lanterns flickered in the morning cold and families huddled with their men for the last time. Horses and men alike breathed spurts of white breath. Dan and his officers were everywhere, checking off names and inspecting equipment. Some children whimpered in their mothers’ arms, and a few dogs mingled with the crowd, wagging their tails at the excitement.

Lucy stood next to me holding a lantern and a small bundle. Cornelius held the reins of Dan’s horse, Gulliver.
How many times I, on Bleu, and Dan, on Gulliver, had ridden over to the Moores’. Now Gulliver was going off to war. I couldn’t bear thinking on it.

“I would speak with thee, Jemima.” Raymond Moore took my arm and led me away from the lantern light. “Thee will look after Betsy while I am gone?” He peered down earnestly into my face, his eyes filled with unspoken longings.

“I’ll look after her, Raymond. And oh, I’ll miss you. And I am proud of you for … for going against everyone and joining up.”

“Jemima …” He almost croaked my name. Then he looked about wildly to see who was watching, pulled me farther into the morning dark, took me by the shoulders, and kissed me.

I was too surprised to resist, and then, after I got through being surprised, I didn’t want to resist anymore. The last thing in the world that I wanted to do was resist, as a matter of fact. It was very nice in his arms and I wished it would never end. But it did. He pulled back, confused and embarrassed.

“I hope I haven’t offended thee.”

“You could never offend me, Raymond.”

“Jemima, remember thy promise to write.”

He was moving away. I knew in my heart that I would never forget the way he stood looking at me in the middle of the confusion that day. “I’ll write, Raymond.”

Dan was shouting commands and the men, about fifty of them, fell into some sort of order. They would rendezvous with another twenty-five or so along the way to Princeton. I saw Dan go to Mother and Father and Betsy and say goodbye. Then he murmured some words to David, shook Cornelius’s hand, and hugged Lucy, who gave him the bundle.
He was in full dress, wearing epaulets on his shoulders, a sword and pistols, and a cocked hat. He looked very capable and dashing.

“Jemima.” He was looking down at me.

I couldn’t bear any more goodbyes. “Dan, I don’t want you to go.”

“None of us wants to go. But it’s our duty. Will you look after Mother and Betsy?”

“Goodness, if one more person asks me to look after Betsy …”

“I saw you with Raymond.” He smiled. “Is that what he was doing? Asking you to look after Betsy?”

I blushed. “Dan, could you really kill people?”

“I don’t think about killing.”

“But you will if you have to?”

“I’ll do what I must. As you will. Don’t worry about killing. War is mostly marching and encampments and drilling and boredom. Jem, listen to me. Grandfather Emerson knows about Mother and the letters.”

“What?”

“He mentioned it to me. Mother confided in him. You know those two have always gotten along. It’s all right. There’s no better Patriot than he.”

“I’m glad he knows.”

“Yes. You can confide in him, if you must. But no one else. And don’t mention it to Mother. Let her keep her secret. And one more thing. Be kind to John Reid.”

“How can you think of him at a time like this?”

“Because he’s a dear friend. More dear than you could know. And although you two are always fighting, he holds you in high esteem.”

“I won’t argue with you because you’re leaving.”

“Then don’t. Trust me. Things are not always what they
seem with people. Goodbye for now, Jem. I’ll write.” He embraced me. His hold was fierce, his face cold, and, pulling away, he brushed my face with his hand. He walked to his horse, which Cornelius still held, mounted, gave an order, and then they were all moving down the street. They would pick up their two musicians in Penny Town, so there was no music now, just their steady rhythmic shuffling and the creak of their wagons as they marched off into the mist.

The houses hovered over us protectively. A cock crowed, a dog barked, and the lanterns added an eerie light to the awful, silent scene. I stood rooted as they marched past the red frame house of Sam Bellerjeau, Dr. Bellvidere’s stable, Ethan Downing’s house, and Benjamin Smith’s, then past Third Street and Thomas Tindall’s fine house of brick.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, I thought. It was all too desolate, too final. I had never thought that anything could be as empty and final as seeing them march off like that. I’d gone several times with Father to see our militia drill. It had always been under blue skies. The drums had been drumming to quicken the blood. And the fifes had been playing saucy tunes. There had been a gaiety and excitement about it.

There was no gaiety and excitement now. There ought to be more to it, I decided. All around me people were leaving, going back home. “Come along, Jem,” Father said.

But I stood there until I felt a hand on my arm. “Come on in,” Lucy said. “We be havin’ fresh-baked bread and strawberry preserves for breakfast.”

In the kitchen I sat numbly, shivering, still in my blanket-coat, while my family ate. Mother had gone upstairs. David and Father ate in silence and left to do their respective chores. Cornelius went about his work out in the barn.

“He be all right,” Lucy said. “Dan’l is one smart boy.”

“It’s all wrong, Lucy. A person shouldn’t go off to war like that. There ought to be more to it.”

“What more is there?”

“I don’t know. Drums. I think there should be drums.”

“Drums on the battlefield. Time enough for drums. Eat now.”

I ate. The morning light came through the windows. I never knew that a person’s soul had such depths as I felt, sitting there. And I still thought there ought to be more.

After breakfast I had chores, and since it was Monday, John Reid was coming in the afternoon. I couldn’t bear the thought of lessons that day. I didn’t know if anybody could undo my soul more than it was undone already. But I knew one thing—John Reid would try.

There was only one person in the world I wanted to see, and that was Grandfather Emerson. So I slipped out of the house and saddled Bleu and was off, cutting across our property to Second Street. At the corner I headed up King to DeCow’s Alley and out to River Road. The morning wind whipped my hair and the ground blurred beneath Bleu’s hooves. Once out on River Road, I let the tears come. They fell into Bleu’s mane as he carried me along.

Grandfather Emerson had three hundred and fifty acres of farmland on River Road. All his help was hired, for he would not keep slaves. He lived with an Indian servant or an Indian friend—I wasn’t quite sure what the young man known as Broken Canoe was to him.

I’d heard gossip that Canoe was his son by a second wife, an Indian woman he’d left up in Canada. I had never asked
my father about it. Father was always friendly to Canoe, but Canoe never visited our house and hardly ever came to town. I never held with gossip. All I knew was that Grandfather’s first wife had died when my father was a boy in 1745 and that Canoe was twenty-seven.

I figured that what Grandfather did with any woman in Canada after his wife died was his business. He still made trips to Canada every so often and traveled among the Indians. He had their respect and was invited to all their treaty-making assemblies.

He never scolded me for being unladylike. He had a white beard, and I knew that my father visited him often for quiet talks and counsel. I did too, but not as much as I would have liked.

About half a mile before the farm Bleu surged forward with a new burst of energy, his muscles straining. I held on, but while I was cutting across a field to Grandfather’s barns, he tripped. I didn’t have enough of a grip on the reins, and I flew right over his head and hit the ground hard, landing on one hand.

Everything was upside down for a moment, spinning. I sat on the frozen ground, stunned. There was a narrow brook nearby, and Bleu was drinking out of it with as much concern for me as John Reid had when I cried after one of his scoldings.

I jumped up and grabbed the reins. He shouldn’t be drinking so greedily after such a workout. He was glistening with sweat, and Grandfather would scold me for allowing him to become overheated. I dipped my wrist into the water, and it was so cold tears came to my eyes. I started shivering. I was feeling poorly, as a matter of fact, so I began to walk slowly across the field in the direction of Grandfather’s house. But by the time I was halfway across, the wrist was
hurting to the point of distraction and I was almost faint with my efforts.