Chapter 11
…it is very certain that half the army is almost naked, in a great measure bare-footed.”
SNOW FELL THICK and steady that Monday afternoon as Eunice heard sleigh bells jingle down the street. Hannah pressed her face to the frosted window. “They’re here!” she cried, racing for the door.
The Gloucester Haradens tumbled in at last, Andrew and Lydia, stamping snow from their boots, their brood of six girls following close behind in cloaks dusted white.
Laughter and chatter filled the entry as Silas shouldered in their baggage and hurried the wet cloaks upstairs to hang on pegs in their bedchambers.
“Welcome, welcome!” Eunice called, drawing Lydia into a warm embrace. The Gloucester cousins hurried to the hearth, holding out mittened hands to the blaze, while the adults let the heat sink into their bones.
“By the smells coming from the kitchen,” remarked Lydia, “Your Martha has outdone herself.”
Martha came into the parlor wiping her hands on her apron, beaming at the praise. “Aye, I’ve been cookin’. And there’s hot spiced wine on the stove and cider for the girls.”
In the parlor, Hannah danced with her cousins, and games were quickly arranged with laughter spilling through the house.
The adults retreated to the dining room, where a fire burned in the small hearth. Martha brought in a pot from the stove, the aroma of spices in the heated red wine wafting in the air. Eunice served the spiced claret, as they traded stories of the Gloucester girls and Hannah and Polly.
“Snow and children, both leave a mess,” said Martha, “but since they are here, includin’ our Hannah and Polly, best to warm yourselves by the hearth fire in the parlor, and I’ll see you’re well fed before the day is out.”
Lydia exchanged a smile with Eunice. Andrew Haraden leaned closer. “And Jonathan?” he asked Eunice. “Have you word?”
Eunice smiled, producing a folded letter.
“Only last week. He writes that the Tyrannicide has captured ship after ship loaded with cargo bound for the Indies. Providence has favored them and they do well.” Pride lit her face, though her eyes flicked briefly to the empty chair at the head of the table where the captain always sat.
Silas came into the dining room. “With all that snow outside, I wager the girls would be glad to raise a snowman before supper.”
“I think mine would love that,” said Lydia.
“Any excuse,” said Andrew.
“Hannah, too,” said Eunice. “And I can watch the two Pollys.”
That afternoon, the yard rang with laughter as the cousins rolled great balls of snow across the lawn.
Their mittens were soaked, their cheeks red, but together they built a snowman tall enough to guard the front gate, with sticks for his arm, a carrot Martha donated for his nose, and a hat borrowed from Silas perched on his head.
Christmas arrived on Thursday as the smell of roasting turkey and the sweet tang of apples and spice wafted through the air.
The two families gathered at the table. In Captain Haraden’s absence, Andrew carved the turkey, its savory scent mingling with plain pudding and mince pies cooling on the sideboard.
Children chattered, and toasts were raised, to health, to the men who would not see their families at Christmas for sake of the greater cause.
It was a day filled with laughter and warmth as they celebrated the Savior’s birth.
By week’s end, the snow had stopped and the sun glistened on melting icicles hanging from roofs.
On Sunday morning the two families bundled into heavy cloaks and mittens.
Martha waved the older girls toward the door with a snort.
“Off with you, then. I’ll keep the two little Pollys here by the fire.
It’s near their nap besides. No sense draggin’ babes out to freeze and fidget through a sermon. ”
“Thank you, Martha,” said Lydia.
“Yes,” agreed Eunice.
Snow crunched underfoot and their breath rose white into the still air as they trudged together to the East Church where Eunice’s father, Reverend Diman, would be preaching.
As they entered, Eunice’s parents greeted them. “Greetings, Daughter,” said her father, “and to all those with you.”
“What a lovely bevy of young women,” remarked Eunice’s mother, Mary Diman. “All Haradens, I trust?”
Lydia Haraden laughed. “Yes, all Haradens.”
“They are cousins from Gloucester,” Eunice explained, “come to join us for Christmas.”
Inside the church, they took their places in the family pew. Candles flickered against frosted panes as the congregation filed in, wishing each other a blessed day.
A woman with a lovely voice sang “Come, Thou Almighty King” after which the congregation joined in to sing together “Joy to the World”.
When the music ended, Reverend Diman mounted the pulpit, his black robe with white preaching bands reminding all of his ordination.
“We gather to praise God for His goodness and to rejoice at the Savior’s birth.
” He then prayed and all heads bowed. When the prayer ended, he said, “My friends, while we rejoice at Christ’s birth, yet we must not forget those who suffer even now for our liberty.
” He pulled a paper from his black robe, his face grave.
“A messenger has brought word from Pennsylvania that General Washington’s army at Valley Forge is in want of food, clothing, and blankets.
Near half the camp is sick or dying, and snow lies deep upon them. ”
Gasps and murmurs ran through the congregation. Eunice had heard nothing and suspected others knew little of what conditions the Continental Army was enduring in snow-covered Valley Forge.
Eunice’s father read slowly, his voice carrying through the hushed church.
“Our soldiers are without shoes, without stockings, without blankets. Many are sick, many more half-naked, yet they hold the line for liberty. For three days, a heavy snow has fallen. Unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place, this army must inevitably starve, dissolve, or disperse. Thousands of our horses are perishing for want of forage. I cannot describe the distress it brings me to see brave men so poorly provided for and noble beasts failing for want of food, when they deserve everything a grateful country can give.”
Diman lowered the page, his gaze sweeping the pews. “Friends, these are the conditions at Valley Forge. Let us not only thank God for our Savior’s birth, but pray for our commander and his suffering army, that Providence will sustain them through this trial. And, let us send what aid we can.”
Hannah’s small hand tightened on Eunice’s sleeve. “What if Papa is cold like them?”
Eunice bent close, her voice steady though her heart ached. “Didn’t your father’s letter speak of his well-being? He is safe, and God has blessed his work. Now, we must also pray for our soldiers.”
Reverend Diman lifted his hands. “Let us pray for our commander-in-chief, for our soldiers at Valley Forge, and for this cause of liberty in which we are all joined.”
The families bowed their heads. In that hush, warmed by faith though chilled by winter, the people of Salem felt themselves bound to those ragged men in Pennsylvania, and to the perilous promise of independence.
As they were leaving the church, Eunice said to her mother. “We will contribute clothing and blankets for our soldiers and bring those to the church.”
“Bless you, my dear,” her mother said as she gave her a last hug.
Boston Harbor, early May 1778
EASTER HAD COME and gone as the Tyrannicide limped into Boston, her rigging frayed, her sails patched, her decks heavy with silence.
Word spread quickly along the wharves that Captain Haraden had returned.
But when she warped into her berth, onlookers saw hammocks strung on deck and pale faces peering from the forecastle.
She looked more like a hospital ship than a brig of war.
Jon stood at the quarterdeck rail, his own body aching with fever.
Of a crew once proud and able, near fifty were on the surgeon’s list, some with agues, others spotted with the marks of smallpox.
He had buried three at sea, committed to the deep with prayers hastily spoken by Chaplain Marsh.
Others he had left behind in Martinique hospitals, too weak to rise when the brigantine sailed.
He forced himself below to the great cabin, to scratch out the letter he dreaded writing. The quill shook in his hand as he bent over the log-stained desk.
Gentlemen, I have been very unfortunate ever since I left home.
My people have been sick more or less every day of the whole cruise.
I was obliged to leave several in Martinique, some with fevers, others with the smallpox.
And to crown all my misfortunes, the day we sailed from Martinique, I had a man taken down with smallpox, which obliged me to inoculate thirty others who had not had the disorder.
The words blurred for a moment as his head swam. He dipped the quill again, pressing on.
I have buried three. Near fifty are sick still. In a gale, I was parted from Captain Sampson. In our weak condition we could not stand against any armed vessel. By God’s grace, we captured a snow from Bristol laden with flour, though her master threw his papers overboard before we boarded.
He signed his name with effort, then added the plea that weighed most heavily:
I beg you to write me what I shall do with the sick that I have on board, whether I shall land them that have the smallpox on Rainsford Island, or leave them at Marblehead, as most belong there. I also beg you to send me money, for I must buy fresh provisions for the sick, and I myself am unwell.
Jon set aside the quill, his hand cramped, the ink spattered. Outside the stern windows, Boston Harbor glittered in spring light. But inside the cabin, the air smelled of fever and fear. He prayed the Board would send word quickly, before more names joined the list of the dead.
Boston Harbor, June 1778