The army hospital at the garrison being full, the remaining sick and wounded men were sent to St. James Church where the pews were removed to make room for those needing care. Annie Powell busied herself every morning superintending Cook in the preparation of a milk broth she sent daily to the church. She had often dined upon this broth at her aunt’s home in Boston. To stifle William’s complaints about excessive spending, she ordered Cook to substitute milk for the cream in the original recipe, but not to stint on the turnips and onions and chicken stock.
As Annie came up from belowstairs, she met Anne in the front hallway preparing to depart for her day’s volunteer work at St. James. A large and bulging satchel lay on the bench near the front door.
“What are you taking in that satchel, daughter?”
“Some of Papa’s whisky, Mama.”
“Whisky! Why in tarnation would you take that when I am sending over to St. James today several buckets of my milk broth?”
“Milk broth is all very well, Mama, but some of these men have such pain the only thing that can soothe them is a glass of whisky. It puts them to sleep, and when they awake, they feel better.”
“And how am I to explain all this to your father? His fine imported Scotch whisky is expensive now and hard to get and since last night—”
“Tell him he must make the supreme sacrifice for his country, Mama. Perhaps if you phrase it in this way, he will feel ennobled by his contribution.” And with those words, her daughter gave a loud laugh, gathered the satchel into her arms, and departed.
My God, what am I to do? I cannot bring up the subject of whisky again this day. In her mind, she once more travelled the territory of last night’s debacle. She had been sound asleep and was suddenly awakened by a noise that shook the house like a clap of thunder. It took her a moment to realize that a shelf in the cellar had collapsed, undoubtedly from the weight of ten dozen bottles of whisky.
Outside, some drunken louts, clearly on their way home from Frank’s Tavern, had started shouting, “Cannon fire! The Yankees have come again! Up and arm!” Her husband had been much put about by the noise and the shouting, and he had gone into the street in his nightshirt to admonish the revellers.
At this juncture, she had stuck her head out the window of her bedchamber and called him to come back to bed. This morning he had been in a dreadful temper. She could not discern whether it was from the loss of the whisky or the ribald laughter her regrettable remark had prompted.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Anne returned from her work at St. James Church. Her dress was stained with blood, and she had pulled her pretty hair up from her ears and tied it at the top of her head with what looked like a piece of . . . yes, bandage.
“What has happened, daughter? You are a mess.”
“Yes, Mama, perhaps I am a mess, but I have two arms, two legs, no pain or trauma, and a comfortable abode to return to at the end of the day.” The girl slapped her empty satchel onto the floor and faced Annie, her arms akimbo and her countenance wreathed into a grimace. “And prepare yourself for the news. I have today offered a bedchamber in this house to four wounded men who are now lying on the floor of the church.”
Annie let out a yelp of pain. She placed one hand over her heart that had begun to beat like the drum in a warriors’ parade. “My God, my God, girl, how am I to deal with this?”
Her daughter’s face softened. The frown disappeared. She reached out towards her mother and took her hands in a hard grip. “You have been brave, Mama, and I should have applauded your courage sooner. I should have told you how much I admired the way you stayed in town instead of fleeing to the country with the other women during that terrible day at the garrison.” The girl paused for a moment, as if she were letting these words sink into her mother’s soul. Then she said, “And I need your courageous support on this day.”
“But your father, Anne. What will I say to him?”
“Let me handle that, Mama. I shall make him realize that all the Brits in this place will admire him for his sacrifice. Yes, sacrifice, that’s what I’ll call it. I shall point out how Mrs. Jarvis and her husband have fallen out of favour since her brother, Mr. Peters, welcomed the invaders on the very streets of this town. I shall tell him that the powers-that-be—all of them Brits—will pay heed to his extraordinary act of selflessness. That he, a prominent member of York’s ruling class, should give over a room in his fine house to aid the courageous men who opposed the invasion . . . blah blah blah. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mama?”
“Yes, Anne. And your idea is a good one. But what room is to be sacrificed to this ‘extraordinary act of selflessness’?”
“Ah, yes, that’s the question. I pondered it as I walked home from the church. You know our sleeping arrangements. My two nieces are in one bedchamber. My sisters and I occupy another room. Papa has his own chamber. And you have yours . . .” Anne’s voice trailed off, but her eyes spoke the unsaid words.
“I am to give up my room and move in with your father. That’s what you are saying?”
“Yes, Mama.”
* * *
Annie would never forget the supper hour that night. William’s shouts of anger at first drowned out the sobs of her daughters Mary and Eliza and her small granddaughters. Through it all, Anne stood steadfast, making her small speech about “selflessness” with dignity and conviction. In an hour it was all settled. On the morrow, she and Anne would superintend the removal of her most necessary possessions to William’s bedchamber.
And then she alone would be left to deal with the man’s snores and farts.