Chapter Ten
brAINTREE
Massachusetts Bay Colony
I refused Colonel Quincy’s invitation to dine. At least until my sister prevailed upon me. “But you must go,” Elizabeth said, quite fretful. “You cannot grieve so hard and so long as you have done and survive to tell the tale,
Abigail. You are sinking, and Mama would never want that.”
Of course, neither would our mother have wanted for Elizabeth to fall prey to the commonest fate of unmarried daughters—to
spend all her days looking after my father, supervising the servants, and trying to preside over a household that was not
her own.
It was a heavy responsibility that Elizabeth now bore—one she would likely have no escape from. But that didn’t mean she’d
lost all interest in the world. “Besides, you say Dr. Franklin has come to see the situation here, so you must go with me to meet him!”
We’d first heard of Benjamin Franklin when our father taught us to fly kites. Papa told us about Dr. Franklin’s experiments
with electricity, which put us in awe. Then, when we were older, Colonel Quincy gifted us with copies of Dr. Franklin’s almanac,
taking great amusement from the man’s wit.
The two had business dealings in chocolate, candles, and glass. And our maternal relation taught us to admire Franklin for
his inventions and accomplishments in statecraft.
But we admired Franklin most for having introduced America to the idea of a lending library.
Now I had the opportunity to dine with the man and tell him so.
Nevertheless, I shook my head. “I can scarcely get through a dinner with my own children without dissolving into tears. How can I dine in society?”
“Because you aren’t only a daughter grieving for her mother,” my sister said. “You’re Mrs. John Adams. You’re a delegate’s wife and it’s your duty to meet with his colleagues and go where he cannot whilst he’s away.”
Elizabeth was right. Though I’d yet to receive a comforting word from my husband, he still needed me to be his eyes and ears.
So, I dried my tears, tried to pinch some life into my cheeks, and dressed for my duty.
When I arrived at the familiar and beautiful mansion, I encountered Franklin by accident in the hall, and without introduction.
I recognized him straightaway from a printed likeness—though at nearly seventy years old, the venerable old Franklin was now
stout, balding, and bejowled. And I hadn’t anticipated the flirtatious twinkle in his eye.
“I am Mrs. Adams,” I said with a small curtsey.
Franklin tilted his head. “Sam, or—”
“John. Mrs. John Adams.”
“Lucky John Adams,” he murmured, gallantly offering to help with my cloak.
Fortunately, its removal revealed my black dress, which reminded him that I was in mourning. And he sobered instantly. “Madam,
I offer my deepest sympathies in your time of sorrow.”
Having come from the Second Continental Congress, where he now served with my husband, he continued, “When your Mr. Adams
heard the dreadful news about your mother, he quite nearly mounted his horse to fly to you. I was the one who prevailed upon
him not to abandon his country. And I sincerely hope that my safe delivery of his letters will offer solace, and an excuse
for you to forgive me.”
Thereupon he presented me a bundle of letters that I clutched like precious talismans to be opened in private. For the time
being, I thanked Dr. Franklin, saying, “There is nothing to forgive, sir, for I, too, would have counseled him to stay. For
our own sake, and for all our friends in distant colonies.”
“Very good, madam. For as I always say, we must all hang together or, most assuredly, we shall all hang separately.”
He laughed, but I could not. The possibility of my husband being hanged was far too real for me to laugh.
I joined Dr. Franklin at Colonel Quincy’s table, where I was reunited with my sister and other prominent patriot wives and
neighbors, including the wife of Sam Adams, with whom I was so often confused. The fare was considerably humbler than before
the war. Cornbread with some scant butter. A watery soup of potatoes seasoned with salt pork and pickled cabbage on the side.
All to be washed down with small beer.
Warmer fare, still, than our soldiers had to eat, not far distant from here, lacking firewood for cooking. And when I thought
of the privations of those trapped in Boston . . . well, it seemed a feast fit for kings.
In conversation, I found Dr. Franklin to be social but not talkative. When he did speak, something useful or entertaining
always dropped from his tongue. He was grave as the circumstances demanded, yet pleasant, and extremely affable. In truth,
I thought I could read in his countenance the virtues of his heart, among which patriotism shined in its full luster.
The meal was finished with pears stewed in wine. And when the course was served, Dr. Franklin turned to ask all the intelligence
I knew. “Congress sent me to take stock and I am interested to know everything a housewife in Braintree may have heard from
friends, relations, and even the enslaved population of the area.”
I liked being asked. And digging a spoon into my pear, I told him all I knew, from the supply of flour to the story of a cannonball
shattering the sign in front of an inn.
“A thorough report,” Franklin said, tipping his glass to me in compliment. “Perhaps I’ll recommend you as a scout to General
Washington if you’d like to enlist.”
I laughed. “No. But if our soldiers should fail, the redcoats will find a race of Amazons in America wielding muskets against
them. For the sufferings they’ve unleashed here are unendurable. Though I do worry about the southern ladies, given the example
of their husbands.”
“Why so, madam?” Franklin asked.
I leaned forward, wary to confess, “I have sometimes thought the passion for liberty cannot be equally strong in the breasts of those who have been accustomed to deprive their fellow creatures of theirs.”
Franklin knew I spoke of slavery, which was not diplomatic to mention whilst a slaveholding Virginian led our army. And yet,
I could see he heartily approved of my sentiments. “I’ve been told, Mrs. Adams, that you speak frankly. To my delight, I now
know this is true. You’d make a lovely addition to our society in Philadelphia. Mrs. Hancock shall be joining us for the winter.
I hope you shall, too, for your husband’s sake, and for mine.”
How tempting an offer! Winter fast approached and I’d been like a nun in a cloister, with no desire for company, my evenings
lonesome and melancholy, still occasionally breaking down into a flood of tears over my dearly departed mother. So my desire
to travel was engaged for more than one reason.
Elizabeth’s eyes now encouraged me to accept, for she knew that to be reunited with my husband would be good medicine, even
if I had to travel to the distant country of Pennsylvania.
But how would four small children fare on such a journey, and what would become of our farm? My husband hadn’t the means of
Mr. Hancock, so I thanked Dr. Franklin for the invitation and said I’d spend the winter wherever Mr. Adams thought best.
That night, closeted with John’s long-awaited letters, I finally felt consoled and comforted. Among the many precious words
John had written, I found, “I bewail more than I can express, the loss of your excellent mother. If I could write as well
as you do, my sorrows would be as eloquent as yours, but upon my word I cannot.”
And finally, “It’s very painful to be four hundred miles from my family and friends knowing they’re in affliction. But when
I shall come home I know not. We have so much to do, and it is difficult to do it right.”
Did any of us know anymore what was right?
Sunday, sitting in meeting, listening to our worthy Reverend Wibird, I found that I could no longer join his prayer that Britain
reunite with her colonies in peace and brotherhood.
My mind was too agitated by the news that British regulars had attempted to seize the cattle that would sustain us during the winter.
A skirmish erupted and they killed one of our sentinels.
A young man dead simply for watching over cows.
No, I would not join prayers for reconciliation with these savages.
Instead, I’d spend the rest of my Sabbath day thumbing through Thomas Paine’s new pamphlet Common Sense.
Paine argued that we should declare our independence and sever all ties with the king to form our own nation—a sentiment we
found appealing. But my husband ultimately called the pamphlet an “ignorant, malicious, short-sighted, crapulous mass.”
Despite the seriousness of the topic, that critique had inspired a hearty laugh from me. I knew that John thought Mr. Paine’s
work dangerously populist in nature. In response, my husband wrote his own pamphlet, Thoughts on Government, carefully laying out a plan for a balanced government with co-equal branches to prevent the tyranny of one from overrunning
the other, and the people besides.
But that was all too speculative for me. I thought the important part of Paine’s pamphlet was how well it argued for a new nation. We did not feel British anymore,
if ever we did. And we could not have suffered all this only to go groveling back to the king.
Britain was no loving mother, no benevolent parent giving guidance and discipline with our good in mind. In truth, she was
a tyrant. Her people were unworthy to be our brethren. So, we’d have to govern ourselves or grovel all our lives.
Which was why I felt no hesitation in urging John to action. “Renounce them,” I wrote him. “Let us declare independency and
beseech the almighty to bring about their ruin.”