I had an errand to run after leaving Dan, so I hurried along Queen Street. Mrs. Pinkerton was ailing and Mother said I was to deliver a copy of Gulliver’s Travels for her to read. I delivered the book to David Pinkerton’s shop, inquired after his wife’s health, took quick note of the price of his printed calicoes, as Father had asked me to do, and then looked to see if he was still stocking tea.
He was. My father was a merchant too and hadn’t sold tea in his shop since early 1774 when Dan and the other students at the College of New Jersey in Princeton had burned the school’s supply in protest of the tax on tea the British had imposed on us back in 1773. I went back out into the cold, thinking of how dearly the decision not to carry tea must have cost Father. Many people patronized Pinkerton’s shop now instead, and my father had a lot of other difficulties, too. Since October he’d been a member of the Committee of Safety, which meant he had a say not only in the commissioning of military officers for our army but also in how the money should be spent that the legislature issued. And he had to keep an eye on the activities of avowed Tories, those who were loyal to the king, in our town. And many of them were his friends.
“Jemima. Jemima Emerson!”
Up ahead a figure came running toward me. I recognized Raymond Moore instantly in his round, flat-brimmed Quaker hat and somber clothes. The Moore farm, where Dan had been earlier, was two miles outside town. Raymond was the younger of the two sons and always my favorite. We’d played together as children, Dan, David, and I and the Moore children. But in the last year or so, he’d been looking at me with different eyes. I must say his looks quickened my heart, though I was determined it would be a long time before I married.
His parents and mine were friends, in the steadfast but inscrutable way Quakers were friends with people. Dan was just about betrothed to Raymond’s sister, Betsy.
“Hello, Jemima.”
“You would think the devil himself was chasing you, Raymond.”
He stood holding his hat in both hands against his heaving chest. The Moores grew their corn and their sons tall, Father always said. He’d forgotten to add handsome. But Raymond’s handsomeness was obscured by some private anguish.
“I would speak with thee.”
“Fine, you can walk me home.”
“No. Here. We mustn’t let thy parents see us together.”
“Why? Do we have some secret they wouldn’t approve of?”
“Don’t jest. In fact, perhaps we soon shall if I persist in my plan.”
“And what plan is that?”
“My plan to enlist in thy brother’s regiment.”
“Oh, Raymond!” I stopped dead in my shoes. Our eyes met, and in his I saw all the pain and determination of his decision. “Why, Raymond? I don’t want you to go away and fight. Isn’t it enough that Dan is going? And perhaps David too? And almost everyone I know?”
“I have seen thy brother running himself ragged these last six weeks to recruit men for the company he’s had to raise to prove himself worthy of his commission. I have watched and stood by in silence while others I grew up with have signed on. And I know he hasn’t reached his quota of men yet. Betsy has told me.”
“Has Betsy also told you what it will do to your parents if you enlist?”
“She’s not had to tell me that. I have anguished and prayed on my decision. Thy brother and I have been close for many years. I cannot stay and let him fight the British so we can keep our land.”
“But it’s against your faith to fight.”
“It is part of the Quaker philosophy that if thee has a concern, thee has the responsibility to follow through on it. I have a concern.”
He looked at me, waiting. I was cold through to the bone and anxious about the trouble I was in at home. I was annoyed with Raymond, who had suddenly become very dear to me as he stood there talking about Quaker philosophy.
“I’ll never forgive you if you get killed. Do you know that?”
He smiled. “Thee will help me, then?”
“How can I help?”
He cast glances up and down Queen Street, which was deserted. “Will Dan be home tonight?”
“He comes and goes as he pleases these days. Sometimes when he’s out recruiting, he doesn’t come home until morning. And sometimes young men knock on our door in the middle of the night to enlist. He did promise Mother he’d be home for supper, though. We’re having Indian pot roast. He wouldn’t miss that.”
“I will be in thy barn at ten tonight. All thee has to do is tell Dan. It would anguish thy parents if I came to the house.”
“Oh, Raymond!”
“It disturbs thee.”
“Yes, it disturbs me. I know the Patriot women are supposed to send their men off to war with pride. And I am proud. But it still disturbs me. And what will Betsy say about Dan taking you? He’s about to ask for her hand, you know.”
“Betsy knows I will enlist elsewhere if not with Dan.”
The wind gusted around us, wrapping us both in guilt and misery. “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll tell Dan.” His eyes sought mine as he lingered. He started to speak, then stopped.
“Yes, Raymond?”
“I hold thee in very high esteem, Jemima Emerson. I’ll not forget thee.” He turned and ran, leaving me with my mouth open in the middle of the street.