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Virginia, April 1775
“Have you heard?”
“What's happening?”
“The Governor's gone too far.”
The rumblings of revolution reverberated through the marketplace, biting at the ears of all assembled. As swift as a plague, talk of freedom and changing relations with England swept through the colony.
“Did you hear the news, Jeremiah?” Jacob, his older brother, asked him now as they hammered the smoldering metal in the blacksmith's shop. Their father had set up this shop before either of them was born. He had poured his life into forging the fledgling business, before the brothers had inherited it three years before.
“The news of Dunmore?”
“Aye.”
“How could I not? It is all anyone is speaking of,” Jeremiah said, in a low voice as the hot rod he was twisting into shape hissed under the heat and a cloud of steam, fed by the bellows, encircled his work.
“Jeremiah,” Jacob said, looking serious and turning his gunmetal gray eyes from the furnace fully to his brother now. Jeremiah resisted hammering the rod into shape, so as not to interrupt his brother's words.
“I agree with Henry,” he said.
“You agree with the tavern owner?” Jeremiah said, not at all sure what Jacob was talking about. It poured over him steadily now, though, as heat continues to pour from coals raked over hours after the fire has gone out. His eyes, deep brown like their mother's, grew in shock as he realized what Jacob must mean.
“You're talking about the speech, last month—in Richmond, aren't you?”
He nodded, with the somberness that such admittance to his statement required. Addressing the House of Burgesses, the red-headed Patrick Henry had declared, “Give me liberty or give me death!” His declaration, the two had heard, was met with rousing cheers to take up arms against England and the King.
“I am going with Henry and his men to the capital.”
“Shh!” Jeremiah cautioned, feeling his brother—who had always been slightly more reckless—was committing himself hastily to the sure danger that would follow. Ignoring his brother or not having heard him, though he did speak more quietly now so perhaps he was paying some measure of heed to Jeremiah, he continued,
“We must march to Williamsburg.”
“But, the shop—we cannot abandon it,” Jeremiah said.
“What difference does it make to have a shop, if there is no freedom to conduct business in?” Jacob said, his face growing animated with that strange sense of enthusiasm and overconfidence Jeremiah had observed in it so many times before.
“And when Ma has no food to eat, because her sons have abandoned their livelihoods and source of income, then what?”
A steeliness flashed in Jacob's eyes for a moment, not at his brother but at the unfairness of the situation. With two competing ideals vying for his attention, both gravely important, there was only one solution.
“I will go to Williamsburg with the militia. We will demand that Dunmore return the powder he has stolen from the magazine! We will not allow them to take our defense from us. We must not! And you can stay here, with the foundry and Mother until I can return.” Jeremiah knew Jacob was trying to sound wiser and older than his years through the proposal of the solution and in calling her Mother. He only ever called her that when trying to convince her that he was old enough to complete some feat she questioned. Jeremiah, younger in years but older in action and mind, had to accept his brother's proposal. Even if it were delivered with a measure of showmanship, there was no other viable solution.
At daybreak Jacob left with the men of Virginia, gathered in the militias to march toward Williamsburg. Life continued for Jeremiah in the forge much the same as it had before Jacob departed. By early May, rumors spread that negotiations had been reached and without Dunmore carrying out his threats of ordering the navy to attack Yorktown. Jeremiah and his mother watched each day for Jacob's arrival.
Covered in dust, Jacob's tall lank frame filled the doorway one early evening. His shadow spread across the floor and consumed the room, as the setting sun shone on his back. Soon more than the shadow filled their home, as he regaled tales of his own campaign to his mother and brother and brought news from further afield. He shoveled mouthfuls of his mother's rich pork and vegetable stew in, almost as quickly as the words poured out. He'd pause only briefly when absolutely necessary; chewing and swallowing were luxuries he could hardly afford on this night.
“And it's not just here in Virginia,” Jacob said, gobbling down thick slices of bread in accompaniment to his stew, between words.
“Oh?” his mother asked, as she ladled more stew into his bowl. Jeremiah and she had eaten only one bowl each and were trailing considerably behind Jacob's four bowls. It seemed he had been gone for a year instead of a couple of weeks the way he ate, ravenously and without fill.
“There have been shots fired in Massachusetts,” he said, slapping the wood of the table for emphasis. Drawn into the conversation and concerned at this newest information, she tolerated her son's rambunctious show of enthusiasm for the cause he spoke of. Jeremiah, who had been largely silent, spoke now,
“Then it's true what I heard—about Lexington and Concord.”
“Aye. We can't let them take our land and our rights from us. We must fight for it!” His face took on the glow of determination, while his cheeks reddened in the bombast of the rhetoric.
Jacob, who counted patience as a vice rather than virtue because it dictated delay and tedium, gave Jeremiah and their mother hardly any time to welcome him home before leaving once again at daybreak. As he ate his fifth bowl of stew, his mother came to realize that he was not merely making up for lost sustenance from the proceeding weeks; he was fortifying himself for the work ahead. Recapturing gunpowder had taken less than a month, but how long was needed to recapture a country? When Jacob left, he would journey north this time. His uncle lived in Rhode Island during part of the year and was funded by his rice fields in South Carolina that grew the remainder of the year. Jacob had every intention of joining the fight once there. Many men were joining the militias in Virginia now, but Jacob was not content to wait for the fighting to arrive.
As the year progressed, Jacob's restlessness spread like wildfire. By the following July, a little over a year since Jacob had departed, all eyes turned to Philadelphia as the representatives of the Second Continental Congress transformed rebellious colonists into citizens of a new nation in signing the Declaration of Independence. By August, all thirteen of the colonies had pledged devotion to the United States of America, as the declaration was now determining them to be. Of course support was not unanimous and Loyalists fought alongside the red-coated British, rather than joining the new colonial army led by the newly-promoted General George Washington. Others, like Jacob, joined the newly-created navy. His uncle had ties with some of the men at the American naval station in Rhode Island and Jacob earnestly delved into the work as a seaman. Running blockades to relinquish the enemy's control of vital supplies provided the adventure he so craved.
As for Jeremiah, he remained in the more subdued work of the blacksmith shop. His work, which had greatly increased without his brother to take his share, only grew. Weapons, in place of the kitchen and farm tools his father founded the business upon, were needed in increasing numbers.
Early in the new year, a letter arrived in Jeremiah's shop.
“Letter for you, Jeremiah.”
His hammer rang against the metal and sweat glistened on his brow from the heat of the fire.
“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder, “just leave it on the table.” He finished the task, wondering how large of an order was requested in the new letter. When finished he set aside the metal, wiped his brow with the back of his hand and opened the letter.
“Dear Sarah and Jeremiah,” he read and then paused. This was not an order; it was personal correspondence. His eyes ran to the end of the page.
“Thomas,” he said aloud. A cloud of fear descended over Jeremiah now. Quickly he read his uncle's letter, his heart nearly stopping as he read those words.
The naval base, where Jacob was, has been taken over by the British. On the day after Christmas, they captured it and I fear Jacob may already be on his way toward England to be held as a prisoner of war.
Jeremiah's stomach churned with the intensity of the glowing embers in the fire. Not wanting to face his mother, but knowing he must, he shut the shop early and hurried home, encumbered by the weights that lay heavily upon his back.
“Oh Jeremiah, hello! You are home early,” Sarah greeted her son, when he came home. And then, realizing what she had said, she repeated,
“You are home early. Has something happened?” He pulled the letter from his pocket, charring the envelope slightly with the black on his hands he had not taken the time to wash off. Sarah noticed this oversight, which she would have readily expected from carefree Jacob but not from meticulous Jeremiah.
“News from Uncle Thomas, I'm afraid.”
“Oh?” she said, rushing forward without wiping her hands of the dusty flour that covered them now.
“Jacob's been captured,” he said. Sarah swayed in her step and Jeremiah reached out to steady her. She didn't say much for the rest of the evening. Jeremiah was consumed by his own thoughts. From time to time, he would look up at her and see her lips moving silently in prayer.
Jeremiah lay awake, tired beyond exhaustion, but resistant to the sway of slumber. When morning came, no answers had yet arrived but, Jeremiah rose to face the day.
“You have been kept awake, as well,” Sarah said, when seeing her son.
“Aye, Ma. I have been trying to figure out what to do.”
“I too have been searching for the answers,” she said.
“And have you come to any conclusions?” he asked her.
“Aye. It is time for me to show you something.”
He thought perhaps she would give him something of his father's, preparing him for the inevitable battles ahead. Instead, she reached deep into the pine cabinet and drew out a heavy blanket.
“Sit here,” she instructed, patting the bed beside her. He did as she requested and watched her small hands unfold the woolen covering. He waited for the gleam of a knife or some tool to catch his eye. Instead, he was faced with a portrait of a young woman. Seeing his confusion, she began her explanation.
“I suspect that you are feeling the pull to go away, now that Jacob is missing.”
He nodded.
“I also suspect that you may be questioning if you should go, because of me.”
“Aye, Ma. First Pa left a few years ago and now Jacob is missing. I can hardly abandon you.”
“Jeremiah,” she said gently, but with authority, as she reached out to cover his hand with her own,
“My great-grandmother survived her son fleeing to the New World. I would be a hypocrite, if I did not allow my son to fight for the freedom of that country my grandfather helped found in his settlement. And Jeremiah, I am not the feeble older woman that you see me as.”
“Then, you think that I should fight,” he said, surmising her opinion from what she said. She shook her head no.
“Then, you wish for me to stay?” Again, Sarah shook her head.
“What is it that you want, then?” he said, feeling he was missing his mother's point entirely.
“What I want is for you to follow your heart and she will help you do it,” she said, gesturing toward the painting.
“I don't understand.”
“When I was a very young girl, my grandfather would set me on his lap and tell me stories about his life. He would tell me about life in France when he was young, though he spared me the horrible details of the persecution. Happily he would talk about London, where he moved next with his parents. He would tell me that I was a part of a special family of skilled craftspeople. Jeremiah, I am certain he would greatly admire your work that you do with the metal. You have such a way with it.” She paused only for a moment, taking in the man before her that so shortly before had been the age she was when hearing her grandfather's tales. Not allowing herself to be distracted any longer, she continued,
“I loved his stories about coming to America and about his Indian friend that he called John. He would tell me about meeting my grandmother and how their farm spread and even allowed for him to set up a silversmith shop, like his father had in London. But, of all of his stories, my favorite was always about the painting.”
“Oh! Then she must be very old,” he said, surprised at the lady's age because she bore such youth and grace.
“Oh, yes. She must be around two hundred years old now.”
His eyebrows dashed up in surprise, but he said nothing to allow her to continue.
“My grandfather told me that the painting was very special and that she was a gift from his mother. What he said next surprised me but, in the delighted innocence of childhood, I accepted fully what he had to say. 'Sarah, my love, this painting is very special. She can talk.'” Sarah paused, gauging her son's reaction and seeing the skepticism she expected to find written on his face.
“I accepted what my grandfather said. After all, I loved him dearly and why should my grandfather tell me a lie? As I became older, I packed the story away with my toys and fairy tales.”
Jeremiah shifted on the bed, more from confusion than anything else. He was certainly not bored by his mother's story, but he failed to see how a magical painting would bring back Jacob or give him the answers he needed to decide what to do.
“You are probably wondering why I am telling you this.”
“Aye.”
“I am telling you, because your grandfather was right. The painting can talk. It once helped me decide the most important decision I ever made—whether to marry your Pa or the rich farmer my father wanted me to.”
“And the painting told you to marry Pa?” he asked, incredulously.
“Aye, but not in the way that you and I are having this conversation. You see Jeremiah, the painting speaks to you what is in your heart. It is like a mirror and reflects that which is deepest inside of you.”
“How?” Jeremiah said, intrigued at the possibility. It seemed beyond belief, but just as his mother had no reason not to trust her grandfather, he had no reason not to trust her.
“I do not know how the painting does it, to be truthful. But I know that to hear it, you must hold something in front of her that can reflect your heart.”
“A mirror, you said?”
“Aye, you could use a mirror or something shiny like metal or transparent like glass. I discovered it quite by accident when dusting off the portrait. She must have caught the gleam of the silver medallion on the necklace my grandfather made for me.”
He looked at his mother, who spoke in such honesty that he wondered if somehow the impossible might be true. His eyes moved to the painting who, other than her age and beauty, seemed like such an ordinary portrait.
“You think the painting will give me my answers?”
“Aye. Look into your heart, Jeremiah. You will know what to do. Sometimes, you just need a little help in being able to see what is there. Sometimes, there are too many thoughts in our heads to quiet to get to an answer. Sometimes, we are afraid of what we will find. The answer is there, though. You will find it.”
She gestured toward the painting,
“With her help.”