Chapter Twenty-Two
BOSTON
Massachusetts
The war was over.
It hadn’t ended all at once, of course.
It began with a battle won at faraway Yorktown two years earlier, followed by treaties and endlessly slow negotiations. Then,
at the end of November, British soldiers had evacuated New York City. Before the enemy had even vacated the harbor, George
Washington’s troops raised our new flag to mark the momentous occasion.
We won.
We were free.
I wanted to fall to my knees and give thanks to God that we had prevailed. And what was once the whisper of a new nation was
about to be a reality.
“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” As news of the British evacuation spread, crowds thronged Griffin’s Wharf, the site of the Boston Tea Party ten years before.
“It started here,” I told my children, though the road to revolution had been more than dumping tea into a harbor. Even those
who lived through it were likely to forget all the outrages that led to rebellion.
But we wanted to remember this one act of proud defiance as the spark that lit the torch. And though my family hadn’t suffered as much as others—those who gave
their lives and limbs, those who lost fathers, sons, and brothers to the violence—I still felt entitled to some measure of
pride.
Gratifyingly, Boston recognized this by offering me a viewing box from which to watch the parade. Now, at my side, my boys watched soldiers muster, and I watched Nabby who was, in turn, not very surreptitiously watching Mr. Tyler cheer for the procession.
She’d broken things off at her father’s insistence. In truth, the two lovebirds had been so convincing in ending things—flitting
from heartbreak to quarrel to disdain—that I’d been utterly persuaded it was over.
But from the way she gazed longingly at him through the passing crowds, I deduced that the fire still burned. As if to confirm
it, Nabby asked, “Shouldn’t we invite Mr. Tyler to sit by us?”
“Nabby,” I said, with warning.
“I don’t see why he cannot visit with us with the freedom of a friend, though not with the intimacy of a nearer connection,”
she argued. “I will never act contrary to the advice of my father. I’ve surrendered all notions of love. But why should I
treat a friend who has done nothing to forfeit my esteem with neglect or contempt?”
This might’ve been more words than I’d ever heard my taciturn daughter string together at once. And let no one doubt she was,
indeed, the daughter of John Adams, because she made a very good case.
Besides, I knew that my husband’s stance was softening. The longer John wrestled with the realization that he’d have to come
home to exert his paternal authority, the less exertion he made. For he had not yet been released from his duties abroad,
Congress believing that the infant nation needed senior diplomats in Europe possibly more now than ever before. Thus, he wrote,
“Nabby’s felicity is very near my heart but I must resign her to your prudence and the advice of your friends.”
Since the decision was now apparently mine, I took a cautious approach. “Very well. Invite Mr. Tyler to join us with the freedom
of an acquaintance.”
Thereupon I turned and noticed my thirteen-year-old Charlie, recently recovered of measles, squinting in the winter sun, trying
to get a better look at the parade. And now I, too, strained to look, because I thought I glimpsed my brother.
I hadn’t seen Bill since before he abandoned his family, fully embracing his wastrel ways. Still, if, indeed, my brother was marching in this parade amongst other soldiers—some of them freedmen—I thought he deserved to cling to the one proud moment of his life: his service to our country.
For I could begrudge no one their celebration.
Certainly not Sam Adams, who had thrown off his austere demeanor to express real pleasure after so long and hard-fought a
struggle. Nor could I begrudge Governor Hancock, who paraded about in a peacock-embroidered coat. Many other Sons of Liberty
were missing, however. I mourned their absence. Mercy’s brother, James Otis Jr., who had led the rallying cry of “no taxation
without representation,” had died in May, having been struck by lightning. An absence dearer to my heart was Dr. Joseph Warren,
who’d so long ago been martyred to the cause. I took some solace in the fact that he’d finally been given a proper burial
after Paul Revere identified his body by some silver dental work he’d made for him. So now I joined in the cheers for all
the men who fought against the British, like Henry Knox, the Boston bookseller who’d turned general of the artillery, and
Farmer Whittemore, who was now, thanks to Dr. Tufts, somehow still alive at the age of eighty-six to tell the tale of how he’d taken thirteen bayonet wounds and a bullet to the face. Merchants,
tradesmen, and common working men of Boston looked forward to freedom with pride.
I was also gratified by the expressions of joy and satisfaction displayed by the women, who waved kerchiefs, cried open tears,
and pinned ribbons to their bonnets. I searched in vain for Mrs. Warren in the crowd but knew that she would also feel joy
on this day. Naturally, an end to the war ought to mean easier days for us at hearth and home. We wives and mothers had a
right to anticipate that with pleasure. Still, it was more than hope and gratitude that women felt when I spoke to them. We
counted ourselves patriots and participants in this cause.
And I was pleased when Mr. Tyler acknowledged this with a tip of his tricorn. “I hope you will bask in this moment of triumph,
madam. No doubt, Mr. Adams would attribute part of it to you for keeping the home fires burning.”
I’d done that and more. So had my countrywomen. We’d sewn shirts to clothe and inspirit the soldiers. We’d prepared bandages, tended the wounded,
run messages, provided military intelligence, and even taken up pitchforks to guard strategic locations.
We, too, were patriots. Which, considering our situation, I considered heroic. After all, excluded from honors and offices,
we would never be rewarded for it. Our property was still subject to the control of our husbands. Deprived of a voice in legislation,
obliged to submit to laws imposed upon us without our consent, we ought to have been indifferent to the public welfare.
Yet all history and every age exhibited instances of patriotic virtue in women.
Therefore, I’d praise myself for having sacrificed so large a portion of my peace and happiness to promote the welfare of
my country, even if that country would never thank the hand that rocked its cradle.
In truth, I swelled with pride. And when I thought about my husband, I could trace his conduct through this war and find an undaunted character.
He’d faced the dangers of the ocean though he risked captivity and the noose. He’d contended with wickedness in high places.
He’d hazarded his life against the revenge and malice of a now-defeated king.
In so doing, he had contributed to the happiness of millions.
These were facts. Solid truths no one could dispute. My anxieties and distresses at every period bore witness to them. Whatever
shortcomings John had as a husband, I could never fault him as a patriot. And now, as the enormity of what he’d accomplished
sank in, these recollections were more sweet than painful.
Perhaps this showed upon my expression, for Mr. Tyler asked, “If you knew Mr. Adams would’ve remained so long abroad, would
you have consented that he should have gone in the first place?”
I collected myself with a deep breath while looking overhead at the evening’s illuminations. “If I had known, sir, that Mr.
Adams could’ve achieved what he has in creating this country, I’d not only have submitted to the painful absence I’ve already
endured, but I’d have not opposed even more years apart. For I consider the happiness of myself and family the smallest dust
in the balance.”
“Pray tell me you did not mean it,” Nabby said, whirling upon me later that night. “You’d consent to Papa being away longer still?”
“I was answering a hypothetical question,” I said.
“It is not hypothetical when Papa remains abroad even though the war is done!”
She already knew the myriad reasons her father was still in Europe as Congress dithered over whether they yet needed him there.
But Nabby cared nothing for these reasons, and how could I blame her? In a fit of high-minded patriotism, I’d called our happiness
but a speck of dust in the balance, but for a girl Nabby’s age, it was everything.
Her life’s prospects depended on a successful courtship before she reached a spinster’s age. It was one thing for me to sacrifice
my own happiness for the country. But I also had a duty to my children.
The war was done. We had won. We’d sown the seeds of independence, then struggled and suffered mightily to harvest that crop. Now it was time to enjoy
the plentiful bounty in peace.
It was time for John to come home. It was time to stitch our family back together. Time for my husband to meet our daughter’s
suitor. Time for John to be the guiding influence our boys so badly needed.
His children needed him. The farm needed him. And with the war over, I’d have fewer freedoms to operate independently without
a husband.
So, perhaps, to my chagrin, I’d need him again, too.
As I fiddled with my quill over the balance books that night, I knew my mercantile business was done. Now was the time to
invest in something less volatile. Something that would help pay for the education of my sons.
I’d reluctantly consented to send Charlie and Tommy to learn under Reverend Shaw in New Hampshire because my sister Elizabeth
housed, fed, and cared for them as if they were her own. It was affordable, but was it the best situation for them? And must
I always worry about money?