Boston

February 1815

CHAPTER XXVI

* * *

A Chinook wind had moved in from the south to seize and hold Boston for three days, with temperatures ranging up to forty-six degrees in the daylight hours. The sound of snowmelt dripping from the roofs and trees to run in the streets was a low, steady undertone for the ringing of horseshoes and rumble of iron-rimmed wheels of carriages and wagons and carts that clattered on the worn cobblestones, moving people and farm produce and shipping crates among the shops and the offices and the wharves and piers on the waterfront. People had shed their heavy winter coats and scarves in the unexpected thaw, and stepped gratefully around puddles as they hailed each other in the streets, knowing the warm breeze would soon pass to leave them locked once again in the icy grip of a Boston winter, but determined to glory in the lift of soul that was theirs for a brief moment.

On the bay, the wind had drifted chunks of rotting ice north to pile them beneath the docks, wharves, and piers, and along the shore, where the sea birds continued their endless quarrels over the carrion and flotsam that sustained them. With the shocking news of General Andy Jackson leading his collection of thirty-two hundred mismatched rabble to the most lop-sided victory in the history of warfare, ships of foreign flags had begun to appear once again at the docks in Boston Harbor, hesitant at first, then more boldly, as the sea lanes remained clear of the British men-of-war that had for so long sealed off most American ports and strangled the vital trade with all nations. For the first time in more than three years, a cautious spirit of optimism, of hope, was taking root in seaports from Maine to Florida. Was it over at last? The peace treaty had been signed by the American and British negotiators in Ghent, Belgium, but would it be ratified by the United States Congress? Was it really over?

In clear, bright, midmorning sunshine, a train of six, broad-wheeled freight wagons rumbled onto the Boston waterfront, driven by bearded men who had harnessed their teams beneath the stars at four o’clock am They had drunk strong black coffee and eaten fried sowbelly, mounted the wagon seats, and traveled twenty-two miles east on a muddy dirt road to deliver one hundred twenty barrels of dried Pennsylvania beef to a waterfront warehouse for shipment to a buyer in Charleston, South Carolina. In the confusion of the traffic on the docks and piers, the driver of the lead wagon hauled back on the four long leather lines and bawled his team to a halt long enough for Caleb Dunson to drop coins in his hand, climb down from the driver’s seat with his two suitcases and greatcoat, nod his thanks, and walk rapidly toward the office of Dunson & Weems. He set one suitcase down, opened the door, entered, and set both suitcases in front of the counter, with his heavy overcoat on top. He did not expect the rise of emotion that touched him for a moment at being in the familiar office, with Matthew, Billy, and Adam coming from their desks to meet him, warm, eager, smiling, all speaking at once.

Matthew reached him first to thrust out his hand. “We were beginning to worry! Are you all right?”

Caleb grasped the hand of his older brother. “Fine. A little tired.”

He shook hands with Adam, then Billy, who asked, “You came home overland?”

“Up the Mississippi, then east. When I left New Orleans there were still too many British ships in the gulf. Too risky.”

Adam broke in. “We heard about the battle at New Orleans. Were you there?”

“I was.”

“Have you heard about the treaty?”

Caleb shook his head at the unheard-of anomaly. “I heard. Read it in a Philadelphia newspaper. The treaty was signed by both sides in Ghent on Christmas Eve? And we fought that battle two weeks later, on January eighth? Two weeks after the war was over?”

“It’s true. The treaty isn’t officially binding until it’s ratified by our Congress. They’re debating it now, but there’s no question about it. A matter of formality.”

Caleb shook his head again. “We didn’t know about it the morning of the fight. Neither did the British. If we had known . . .” his voice trailed off for a moment—“a lot of good men might still be alive.”

Billy asked, “Was the fight at the canal as one-sided as the newspaper reported?”

For a moment Caleb was caught up in the memory of the unending, rolling thunder of the American cannon and the rattle of muskets and rifles and the great field covered with crimson-coated British dead and wounded.

“The report I saw in that Philadelphia newspaper came close. The British didn’t get their scaling ladders up to the canal and our breastworks in time. They had to stop right there in front of us. It was bad. It cost them about thirty-two hundred men. We lost only thirteen. All within less than ninety minutes.”

For a few seconds the four men looked at each other in disbelief and shuddered inside at the thought of the slaughter that had occurred on that distant battlefield.

After a moment, Matthew asked, “You got to see Jackson? And Lafitte?”

“I got them together. They worked things out.”

Billy saw that most of the story was missing. “What about Jackson? And Lafitte? What happened?”

Caleb scratched his jaw, and the other three fell silent to hear the story as only Caleb could tell it.

“Well, you know that Governor Claiborne put out a reward for the capture of Lafitte, so Lafitte put out his own reward for the capture of Claiborne. Problem was, Claiborne only offered five hundred dollars for Lafitte, while Lafitte offered fifteen hundred for Claiborne. The local citizenry couldn’t decide which one to capture but were leaning toward delivering Claiborne to Lafitte, mostly because of the price difference.” Caleb chuckled, then added, “They argued for a while and then laughed the whole thing off. Nothing ever came of it.”

Matthew and Billy and Adam were all grinning as Caleb went on.

“I talked with Lafitte alone. He said all he wanted was a full pardon from President Madison for all crimes and charges, and American citizenship for himself and all his men. In return, he’d help the United States fight the British. And he meant it.”

He paused to order his thoughts. “Then I talked with Jackson alone. Now there’s one tough, hard-headed, ornery man! He was sick with the fever, and weak, but he just wouldn’t quit. He called Lafitte and his men a bunch of bandits and murderers and swore that before he left New Orleans, he was going to clean out the whole lot of them. That’s when things got a bit testy between Jackson and me. I saw no other choice but to tell him he was dead wrong. For a minute there I thought he was going to reach for that sword he wears, and I was getting ready to take it away from him. But in addition to being about the stubbornest man I ever met, he’s a practical man, and a born leader. He settled down, and I told him that Lafitte and his thousand men were the best cannoneers and fighters in Louisiana and that he was going to need every man he could get. I arranged a meeting between the two of them with me there to prevent a killing, and whatever their differences, something good happened between those two.”

Caleb raised a hand in gesture. “At the battle, Lafitte and his men made the difference. I never saw a crew run a cannon battery and handle rifles and muskets as they did. Jackson saw it, too. He’s already written to President Madison, telling him we owe Lafitte the pardon he asked for, and American citizenship. I hope Madison listens.”

Caleb dropped his hand. “Well, we can talk more about that later. How are things here? I see more ships and dockhands out there than when I left.”

Billy answered. “Since the treaty, a steady increase in shipping. I think the worst is past. If business continues to pick up, we’ll make it.”

“Good. The family? Barbara?”

Matthew’s face clouded. “Barbara’s fine. You should go home to her. It’s mother who has us worried. She’s slipping. She’s been asking for you lately. You better go see her later this afternoon, after you’ve been home.”

Caleb saw it in Matthew, and then in Billy and Adam. He sobered and spoke to Matthew. “Straight. Are we going to lose her? Is it her time?”

Silence held for a moment. “I think so. Go see her. It’ll be a comfort to her.”

Caleb stepped back from the counter and drew a leather purse from his coat pocket.

“There’s the money that’s left.”

Billy took it as Caleb drew the letter from his inside coat pocket. “And there’s the letter Madison sent. Might want to keep it.”

He picked up his suitcases. “I’m going home and then I’ll go see mother. Tomorrow I’ll be here and write up a report for Madison. Anything else?”

Matthew shook his head. “Good to have you back.”

With a suitcase in each hand and his heavy coat over his shoulder, Caleb walked west to the end of the wharves and piers, hailed a hack, gave directions to the elderly driver with the gentle, tired eyes, loaded the luggage, and took his seat with his thoughts running.

Mother slipping—asking for me—why would she be asking for me?

The driver slowed and stopped the hack, gently rocking on its leathers, waited while Caleb set his suitcases on the cobblestones, accepted the coins with a smile and a nod, and gigged the horse to a walk while Caleb opened the gate and walked the stone walkway to the front door of his square, white, two-story brick home. He opened the door, stepped into the parlor, set the luggage and great coat on the hardwood floor, and called, “Barbara? I’m home.”

For a moment the words echoed faintly through the house, and there was no answer—only a hollow silence. Caleb had started through the house toward the backyard and the root cellar when a premonition struck.

Mother!

He spun and trotted out of the house into the street and turned east, hurrying back toward Fruit Street. He held the pace for the four blocks to his mother’s home, pushed through the gate to the front door, and walked into the parlor.

“Barbara,” he called. He heard the hurried footsteps coming up the hall from the bedrooms, and she came through the archway to throw her arms about him and bury her face in his shoulder while he wrapped his arms about her to hold her.

“You’re home, you’re home, you’re home”—she repeated it like a chant.

“I’m here. What’s happened? You’re trembling.”

She drew back her head to peer up at him. “Your mother. She says she’s been talking to John. She wants to see you. I think she’s going to leave us. She says she needs to go—wants to go.”

“Is she awake?”

“Yes. She asked for you again just five minutes ago.”

Caleb broke from Barbara to lead her down the hall into the master bedroom shared by his mother and father from his earliest memories and walked softly to her bedside. Her face was turned away from him, with her eyes closed and the gray hair brushed and lying on the pillow. The great feather comforter was drawn up to cover her chest, with both arms lying outside, covered to the wrists with her pale blue nightshirt.

He knelt beside her bed and gently took her aged hand with the large blue veins and the crooked fingers between his. Her eyes opened, clear and direct, and her head turned to face him, smiling warmly.

“Caleb. You came. I need to talk to you.” Her voice was strong, her thoughts orderly.

“I’m here, Mother. Listening.”

“Do you remember the war? The big one?” she asked.

“I do.”

“It came at the wrong time for you. You were no longer a little boy like Adam, and you weren’t yet a grown man like Matthew. When I lost John, and Matthew went to the sea with our navy, I didn’t know what you needed. I didn’t know what to do for you. I watched the anger fester inside you because they had taken your father away, but I didn’t know what to do.”

He gently shushed her. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s past.”

She went on as though he had not spoken. “Do you remember that you moved away from the Almighty? Refused to pray? Refused to go to church?”

“I remember, but it doesn’t matter now. That’s all in the past.”

He felt a tremor in the old, gnarled hand, and he saw her eyes close and her mouth clench tight as she shuddered. He turned to Barbara and spoke with a quiet urgency.

“Get the family.”

Barbara turned on her heel and left the room, and he turned back to Margaret.

“Mother, don’t worry yourself with those things now. Rest. I’m here.”

Her eyes opened again, and they were clear, focused. “Do you remember the night you left? Tried to get away in the dark? I stopped you at the front door?”

“I remember.”

“It was almost more than I could stand. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I could face losing you in war, but I could not face you losing your faith in the Almighty. Can you understand?”

“I didn’t then. I do now.”

An intensity came into her face that he had never seen before. “I have talked with John in the past few days. He’s in heaven, waiting for me. Our heaven will not be complete without you. I told John I would not come until I knew in my heart you had returned to God. I can’t go until I know that. I have to hear it from you.”

He saw the excruciating pain in her face and in that instant understood she had lived with it for thirty-eight years, bearing the soul-destroying torment of believing she had failed him by allowing him to drift from the anchor of her life—her unshakeable conviction that she could be with her family in the presence of the Almighty forever if they would but remain faithful.

A feeling like none Caleb had ever known rose, choking, filling him. Tears came welling to run down his face. His jaw trembled, and he could not control it, nor could he speak. How could he not have seen what he had done to her? How could he have let her bear the terrible burden of punishing herself for his transgressions?

He looked into her eyes and knew she was seeing into his soul. He tried to speak, but his voice broke. He started again.

“Mother, it is wrong to punish yourself. The transgressions were mine. God in heaven knows what you have done for the family—how you’ve given everything. A legion of angels could not have done more.”

He stopped to swallow hard. “I do not know how to ask your forgiveness. Can you find it in your heart? Forgive me, Mother, for the pain I brought down on you. Forgive me.”

He choked, then continued.

“Many times I have been on my knees in the night, seeking forgiveness from on high. God is in His heaven. I believe He has forgiven me.”

He saw the tears gathering in her eyes and went on.

“I know He guides the affairs of men. I know He was there during the great war. I can see it now.”

He cleared his throat and took control of himself. “I give you my oath, Mother. I will never leave the family. Barbara and I and the children.”

He heard the front door open and the sound of many feet crossing the parlor and coming down the hall, and they came into the room behind him to stand quietly—Matthew, Kathleen, Brigitte, Billy, Adam, Laura, John, Barbara. He laid the old hand back on the comforter and rose to let Matthew take his rightful place beside his mother.

Matthew took her hand and knelt beside her, and she peered past him to speak, lucid, clear.

“You all came.”

Matthew answered, “We’re all here.”

“John is so proud of you. So proud. You are our treasure. Forever.”

She peered into Matthew’s face, and a radiance began to rise in her. “Matthew, John is so grateful to you. You were so young when you had to become the head of the family. I could never have lived through it without you.”

“Don’t concern yourself about it. Rest. You need to rest.”

She smiled. “I need to go. I couldn’t until I knew Caleb would be with us. John’s waiting.”

Matthew felt the hand begin to relax, and he saw her eyes turn away to focus above the foot of the bed. A smile formed on the old, wrinkled face, and the radiance that shone was like nothing any of them had ever seen before.

She said softly, “John? Oh, John! You’ve come.”

Every person in the room peered above the foot of the bed, and they could see nothing.

The old hand went limp, and Matthew felt his mother leave.

He waited until the radiance had dwindled, and then he reached to close her eyes.            

Notes

The treaty ending the War of 1812 was signed by representatives from England and the United States on December 24, 1814, in Ghent, Belgium, and is called the Treaty of Ghent. However, it was not ratified by the United States Congress and signed by President Madison until February 16, 1815. Thus the Battle of New Orleans, fought on January 8, 1815, occurred after terms had been reached between the two sovereigns but before they became binding.

See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 296–98.