By late August of 1777 all we knew was rumors about the war. I hadn’t heard from my brothers since June. In mid-August John wrote from New York and said that he had been exchanged as a prisoner and freed from his parole. “I do not plan on returning to the American army yet,” he wrote. “I have made such good friends here in Manhattan, I think I shall stay on awhile and rest. I have a bit of a cough.”
Was he pretending to be sick in order to stay and gather information, or was he really ill? I had no way of knowing, and it maddened me.
In August Becky received a letter from Oliver saying that the British were pushing off in a fleet of over two hundred ships from Sandy Hook in New Jersey. If Becky knew where they were headed, she did not tell me. We didn’t talk at all anymore.
Late in August Canoe had word that the Continental army was in Pennsylvania, heading toward a place called Brandywine. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. And I was so exhausted I didn’t care.
You couldn’t believe anything you heard about the war, anyway. One minute we’d hear about a victory, the next a defeat. Becky let something out about Howe’s junior officers being dissatisfied with the way he was running the campaign of 1777, since he seemed to be constantly stalling and letting the Americans elude him.
I was weary of it all. The war was practically ruining my father’s shop. Canoe set off again the last day of August and brought me another wagonload of supplies. I didn’t inquire where he’d gotten them. And I didn’t invite him home for supper. But the supplies picked up my spirits the same way the pemmican used to when he gave it to me in the old days before I was grown up.
There comes a day each September when you wake up and know the summer is over and fall has arrived. The slant of the sun looks different and something is in the air—a coolness, a hint of frosty mornings to follow. I woke early on the morning of September 24 and reached for a warmer petticoat. In the kitchen I sat at the side of the table closest to the fire rereading the letter that had arrived from Dan the day before.
The news was not good. Washington’s army had suffered a defeat at Brandy wine on the 11th of September. But both Dan and David were still fine. I ate my breakfast and went to the shop.
Shortly after noon, when I’d finished the bit of stew left over from last night’s supper, there came a knock on the shop door.
I sighed in exasperation. “Ought to make them wait,” I mumbled, even as Father would have mumbled to himself. “A person can’t even have a minute to have some nourishment.”
But something about the shadow of the figure cast through the window caught my eye. It was not a civilian who had come to buy shoe buckles. It was a soldier. I shivered as I crossed the floorboards and fumbled with the door.
He just stood there. So did I, staring. I don’t think I even blinked once. I’m sure he didn’t. I went hot and then I went cold, then I closed my eyes for a moment, sure I would faint. Yes, it was a soldier, an officer in the Continental army.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in, Jemima Emerson? Or have you forgotten your manners again?”
I backed into the shop. He followed, leaving the door ajar. Inside I stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to speak. I could see that he looked thinner and older.
He stood, looking very authoritative and handsome in his uniform, sizing me up. He walked around me as I stood in the middle of the shop, his boots clicking on the wooden floor. His eyes went over me from head to toe, and I flushed.
“Well, Jemima Emerson, you do look very grown up.” He came full circle around me and stood surveying me sternly, his hands clasped behind his back.
“But you haven’t curtsied. You do know how to curtsy. I’ve seen you do it. Can you do it for me?”
I was shaking so, I could barely manage it. But I did execute a fine curtsy, if I do say so myself. I raised my eyes to look at him.
“Your head and shoulders could be held a little higher, but it will do for now.”
I straightened up. “How do you know so much about it, Mr. Reid?”
“I’ve been in the company of a few fine ladies in my time.” A smile played about his lips, although he was doing his best to frown.
“I’m afraid I don’t look anything like a lady today, sir.”
“You look perfectly fine to me, Jemima Emerson.” And then he smiled, gave a whoop, threw off his hat, and opened his arms. I ran to him. He embraced me and kissed me.
“John!”
Still kissing me, he turned and kicked the door shut with his foot.