Chapter Sixteen
brAINTREE
Massachusetts
On my knees with brush and bucket, I thought, I should have heard from them in April. I was scrubbing the floor because I needed to keep my hands and brain occupied with mundane tasks, lest I go quite mad.
We’d heard reports that Dr. Franklin had been murdered in Paris—which left me to worry that even if my husband and dearest
little boys safely reached France, they might be targets for assassination.
The only person who could provide me with good intelligence was Mr. Lovell, who had promised to stand in my husband’s stead
while he was gone. So, I wrote to him of my alarm and distress.
Thankfully, Mr. Lovell assured me that reports of Dr. Franklin’s death were not true. But then he added the strangest postscript.
“Call me not a savage when I say that your alarms and distress have afforded me delight. If you expect your griefs to draw
only pity from me, you must not send them in such elegant language or I shall be far more apt to admire than feel compassion.”
Was that a flirtation? If so, strangely made.
Because I did not know what to think, I made the grave mistake of telling Mrs. Warren about it on a visit to Plymouth.
“The impertinence!” she sputtered, fanning herself with the suspect page. “Oh, my dear. What will you do?”
“About the letter?” I asked, taken aback by her dramatic reaction. “I suppose I shall thank Mr. Lovell for putting my mind
at ease about Franklin.”
Her lips pinched. “He did more than that. And what about the other letter?”
I had, to my profound regret, also told her about a letter in which Mr. Lovell had professed affectionate esteem for me. While there was nothing unusual in a married gentleman conveying his esteem to a lady, affectionate esteem was altogether something else.
Now Mercy said, “Some husbands might call a man out for professing such a thing.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, let us not make too much of it.” After all, my husband considered Lovell to be both a patriot and
a friend. Special consideration must be made. Besides, it was rather flattering to have an admirer. “Thankfully, my husband is not a man for senseless duels of honor and what Mr. Lovell
wrote is harmless.”
Mercy did not agree. “What if a letter like this was to fall into British hands and be printed for all the world to see? You
think it would cause no scandal?”
Nauseated at the thought, I had to admit she had a point. Now I wanted to throw these letters in the fire, and I said as much.
“But what else can I do but ignore these flirtations? I depend on Mr. Lovell.”
“Nevertheless, my dear, you must discourage this man in no uncertain terms.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re right. I know you are right. I simply cannot think straight because I am so distressed
to be parted from my husband in these trying times.”
“You’ve been parted from him before,” Mercy reminded me.
“Never by an ocean. He may be gone as long as a year with my boys.”
“But then he’ll be back and all will be well,” she said, a little impatiently. “Abigail, you are young and have many years
left to spend in peace with your dearest friend after he’s finished his work. And think of the advantages that will come from
this honorable appointment. Advantages to yourself and your children.”
“Advantages?” I wondered if she knew how little my husband was paid. “I cannot imagine any that would recompense me for my
worries.”
Mercy sighed like a patient schoolmistress. “If I were in your situation, my dear, I’d strive for less worry and more heroism.”
I startled with a flash of anger. The truth was that Mercy was not in my situation because she’d complained so bitterly about
her husband’s absences that he resigned his post as major general of the Massachusetts militia. So, it was a bit galling to hear
this from her . . .
Nevertheless, I stifled my irritation because I admired her so very much. Mercy was, to me, a heroic figure. She had, after
all, published her own play to be scrutinized by the public. Something that took more courage than anything I’d ever done.
Besides, we were now doing brisk trade together in Plymouth, and that wasn’t a business relationship I could afford to endanger.
So, I decided that if Mercy were precisely in my situation—younger and healthier—she would indeed exert the heroism she called
upon me to exert.
Heroism. Heroism. Heroism.
This I repeated to myself when, upon returning home to Braintree, I found both my sisters and Phoebe waiting. All three together,
hands clasped fretfully, which could only portend bad news. “What is it?” I asked, frightened that Elizabeth had come all
the way from New Hampshire. “What’s happened?”
Mary ushered me inside with motherly solicitude. “Come sit and let us make you something to drink.”
It was Elizabeth who reluctantly showed me the newspaper clipping that reported: john adams captured by the british.
It was good that I was sitting, for my knees would’ve buckled otherwise. And as I tried to catch my breath, my younger sister
hastened to say, “But you mustn’t believe everything in the newspapers. They make mistakes.”
I nodded, though my mind was already racing to the worst possible outcome. My husband captured, starving in a rat-infested
prison ship . . . and what of my boys?
“We need to corroborate this story,” said Mary, ever sensible. “I’ve already sent messages to friends, family, and neighbors
who might have cause to know the printer and learn where he gets his information.”
Phoebe added, “Folks I know say it might be a trick by the British to put the war into more confusion.”
I was grateful for their solicitude and support. And I said so.
“It’s what family should do,” Mary replied. “Since Mama is gone, we need to do more for each other. Hence, Mr. Cranch has
heard my pleas to move to Braintree to be near you.”
This welcome news was soured only by the knowledge that she wouldn’t have pleaded with him on this score unless she believed
John was captured. That he’d be tried and executed. And that I’d need my sisters nearby to survive as a traitor’s widow.
They feared I was to be an object of charity.
It was all so upsetting that I needed to lie down. I let my sisters take charge of the household and the children so I could
wail fearful tears into my pillow. I was tired, so tired. But whenever I closed my eyes, my dreams echoed with my husband’s
footsteps on a ladder to the gallows. John would hope, being stout, that the fall from the trapdoor would break his neck;
but my husband had such a strong neck that he might strangle to death . . .
Would my boys have to witness it? Even if the king spared my sons that monstrous cruelty, how would I ever get them safely
home again? Those were the terrors I endured night after night until at last, one morning I was awakened by the sound of feet
pounding up the stairs.
The women in my family burst into the room as one. Nabby jumping onto the foot of my bed. Elizabeth waving a packet of letters.
Mary helping Phoebe into the doorway. “Abigail!” Elizabeth enthused. “Letters from France.”
From France. Not England, but France.
I sat up abruptly, breaking the seal to read of the safe landing of my husband and sons. And I made a sound—almost a shriek—of
relief. I read the letters aloud, though the words had little meaning. All that mattered was that my husband hadn’t been captured.
The newspaper told it false!
Mary finally took the letters from my exhausted hands and read them to me. “Your dearest friend says that the treaty of alliance he’d been sent to negotiate had already been signed before he even set foot on French soil.”
“An alliance?” Elizabeth chirped. “So, the French are going to help us win the war!”
It was marvelous news. French warships would be our salvation, but my husband and sons had never needed to expose themselves
to danger to secure that salvation. Which made the news bittersweet.
My daughter worked it out for herself. “It means Papa didn’t even have to go to France. Now that he’s not needed, will he
take the next ship home?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Though on second thought, I doubted it. Having undertaken the expense of sending John Adams to Europe,
Congress was likely going to find a way of getting their money’s worth.
For the time being, I must continue embodying the heroine of the pendant I wore round my neck. Which was easier to do now
that I knew my husband and sons were safe. Or at least as safe as anyone could be in this world.
Dabbing sweat from my forehead with a kerchief as I melted from the early summer heat, I told my newest farmhand, “Sir, I
cannot pay what you’re asking.”
He jutted his chin. “I’ve been offered more by others.”
I wasn’t too proud to plead with him, but I could scarcely afford to pay what I’d already promised. “With the high tax levy
from Congress—”
“In which your husband served,” he interrupted with a snort. “And to think we rebelled against the king for high taxes.”
I laughed at what I took for a jest. “Taxes were only part of the reason.”
“Be that as it may, your husband was one of those who saw fit to start the war, so you cannot complain of the taxes to fund
it now. It’s only fair Mr. Adams pay his share.”
Mr. Adams is paying more than his fair share, I thought.
“The king started the war by sending an army to strip us of our liberties. Not Mr. Adams,” I said, arguing with the man even though I knew I shouldn’t.
“Aye, we wanted our liberty,” the farmhand said. “Now you certainly have yours, Mrs. Adams.”
That struck me as a bold and insolent thing to say; unfortunately, I must suffer this insolence because without farmhands,
I couldn’t sow or harvest or bring any crop to market. I’d have to somehow charm and cajole this man into staying. I simply
needed to put on a cheerful smile, govern my tongue, and convince him to accept the wage I offered.
It’s what I needed to do.