Boston

Early December 1778

CHAPTER XI

* * *

She did not know when the disquiet arose inside. Brigitte Dunson only knew that by noon, when the children in her small classroom were sitting at their desks eating the lunches they had brought from home, she was able only to pick at her own small pieces of bread and meat. Nervous, glancing repeatedly out the windows of the schoolhouse at the trees along the streets, their bare branches moving in the freezing wind, she was unable to dispel the rising uneasiness or identify from whence it sprang. By one o’clock she could not concentrate on the one-half hour reading time, and she found herself stumbling over words, starting over time and again. By two o’clock the foreboding had become oppressive. By half-past three o’clock, when she bundled the smaller children in their heavy woolen coats, and scarves and caps, the sense of gloom had become a premonition.

Something was wrong.

She ushered all the children out into the cold to wave at them as they walked away, each toward their home, then rushed back to get her own coat and scarf and knit cap. Minutes later she was leaning into the wind, walking rapidly, face numb and showing white spots as her mind searched frantically for anything that would explain the gnawing that would not let go in the pit of her stomach.

Mother? Something with mother? Matthew? Lost at sea? The children? Caleb hurt—killed—in battle? She was yet two blocks from home when the thought struck searing through her. Richard! Something’s happened to Richard! Something bad.

She was trotting when she came to the white fence at the front of the Dunson home, threw the gate open, and ran to the front door to plunge into the house. Across the parlor was her mother, standing in the archway to the kitchen, feet spread slightly, mouth clenched, arms at her sides, not moving, not speaking. Behind her, the twins, Adam and Prissy, stood staring. Margaret gave them hand signs, and they marched to their rooms. Brigitte blanched and gasped and stopped short.

“Mama! What’s wrong?”

For a moment Margaret did not move. Then she walked to the parlor fireplace mantel and lifted down a small package wrapped tightly with cord. She drew a deep breath, turned, and handed it to Brigitte without a word.

With trembling fingers Brigitte took the packet and read her name, then the name in the corner. General William Howe, Royal Army of his Majesty, King George III. Her breath caught in her throat as she rushed into the kitchen for a knife to cut the string. In a moment she was back at the parlor table, fumbling to jerk the string away and tear open the heavy, brown paper. Inside was a box, and she lifted away the lid to peer inside. Shaking, she lifted out a stiff document, a folded letter, and a smaller package folded in more brown paper. She opened the stiff document and laid it flat on the tabletop to scan the beautiful cursive scroll.

“Commission in the Tenth Foot, Royal Fusiliers. Richard Arlen Buchanan—duly qualified—granted commission—Captain—Tuesday, January 30th, 1776.”

Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Richard’s commission? Why had General Howe sent her Richard’s commission in the British army? Instantly she knew, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the cry. She fumbled with the folds in the letter, shaking so badly she could not hold it still to read the lines. She laid it flat on top of the commission and held it on both sides as she read:

Thursday, October 8th 1778

Dear Miss Dunson:

I deeply regret to inform you that Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan, officer in the Royal Army, lost his life while serving with distinction at the battle of Freeman’s Farm, state of New York, Tuesday, October 7, 1777.

He had declared no family in his military records, hence we were unable to find next of kin to whom we could forward his personal effects. However, four days ago, by chance we discovered a brief statement signed by Captain Buchanan, mixed into a bundle of letters he had received from yourself, in which he directed that in the event of his demise, his commission as a Captain in the Royal Fusiliers should be forwarded to you, together with this written statement, and your letters, which he treasured.

I tender my personal apologies that this arrives so long after his untimely death, which matter I undertook personally, immediately upon discovery of his statement above mentioned. I can only beg you to understand the difficulty of handling such matters in a time of war.

Your obdt. Servant,

General William Howe

Everything inside Brigitte went dead. She slumped into a chair, staring at the document, dull-eyed, silent, numb, no longer trembling. Behind her, Margaret stood waiting without a sound, without moving.

With steady hands Brigitte unwrapped the small bundle, set the wrapping paper aside, and slowly understood she was looking at a packet of the letters she had sent to Richard since the day the British evacuated Boston, March 17, 1777. Mechanically, without thought, she counted them. There were twenty-one. He had received them all. Nine of them were dated after October 7, 1777. They had arrived at his regiment after he was dead.

She peered at the last document, folded but with the seal already broken. Written on the outside, in Richard’s own hand, were the words: “To be opened in the event of my demise.” She unfolded the paper and read it.

Thursday, September 18th 1777

Should I not survive the campaign under the command of General Burgoyne, now in progress, I hereby direct that my commission as a Captain in the Royal Fusiliers should be delivered to Miss Brigitte Dunson, daughter of John P. Dunson and Margaret Dunson, of Boston City, Province of Massachusetts, together with this document, and her letters, which will be found herewith. I have no other property, save my personal effects and military accoutrements, which I direct be disposed of as will best accommodate the army.

I will rest satisfied if I know she will have these things that are my most cherished possessions. Would God have granted me one wish in this life, it would have been that I had been born in the colonies, or that she had been born in my beloved England.

Signed,

Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan

Margaret had not moved, but with a mother’s heart knew that something had nearly unbalanced her daughter. She waited and watched, every nerve, every instinct singing tight.

Finally Brigitte turned in her chair to look her mother in the eyes.

“Richard is gone. He’s been dead since October seventh of last year.”

Margaret’s eyes closed and her head rolled back and all the air, all the life, went out of her. Before she could speak, Brigitte stood, carefully replaced the documents in the box, picked it up, steadily walked to her bedroom, and quietly closed the door.

The twins came from their rooms, sensing in their childlike wisdom that something terrible and important had happened, and silently stood before their mother, waiting.

“Come sit down,” Margaret said calmly. “There are some things I have to tell you.”

In her room, Brigitte placed the box on the small table beside her bed, next to the unlighted lamp, and sat on her bed in her coat, scarf and cap, not aware she had never removed them. She stared down at her hands, working them slowly together, one rubbing the other. She did not look at the box, nor the papers inside, rather, she remained seated on her bed in the twilight of a late, wintry December afternoon. She had no thought about what to say or do, faintly aware that her mind was beyond reasoning, beyond function.

She knew only that her heart of hearts, that small, private chamber into which she and she alone had access, where she kept the great treasures of her life from the eyes of any others, had been violated. Richard was dead. Dead. Dead. The chamber was empty. Sealed, never to be opened again. That secret place where she had kept him, had gone to him each day to revel once again in his touch, their single embrace, their single kiss, to find reason and sweetness in life, her purpose in going on day after day, praying for him, savoring her every thought of him, was forever empty. His body lay in a grave near a place called Freeman’s Farm—a place he had never seen before the day he was killed—a place she had never previously heard of, somewhere north, near the Hudson River.

Time meant nothing. The room grew dark and she did not care. Margaret rapped on her door, then entered with a tray of warm food for supper. Brigitte looked at her listlessly, said nothing, and went on gently working with her hands. Margaret set the food on the table next to the small box, lighted the lamp, and without a word, closed the door as she left the room.

It was after nine o’clock when the sounds of the twins walking down the hall to their rooms reached through her door, and Brigitte glanced up, but did not rise. She heard the sounds of Margaret’s steps, and knew they were gathering in Adam’s room for evening prayers.

At half-past ten she stood, removed her coat and cap and scarf, and laid them on her bed. She glanced uncaring at the tray of cold food before she once again sat down, hands folded in her lap, staring without seeing at the floor. At midnight the first tears came, silent, trickling down her cheeks to spot her white blouse. At half-past midnight the first sob escaped her throat. In an instant Margaret was through her door, and from somewhere inside, Brigitte understood her mother had been sitting on a chair in the hallway for more than three hours, waiting for the unbearable pain to manifest itself.

Something inside Brigitte crumbled, and the sobbing rose to choke her, blind her. Margaret sat beside her and Brigitte turned, and Margaret enclosed her in her arms and held her close, stroking her hair, rocking her gently, quietly humming to her, holding her as she had when Brigitte was a child. The anguished sounds rose as Brigitte surrendered fully to the pain. At one o’clock the twins crept down the hall in the blackness to stand near the open door, listen, then silently creep back to their rooms and into their beds to lie wide-eyed in the darkness, aware something was happening far beyond their childish ability to comprehend.

At half-past two o’clock Margaret rose, turned back the bedcovers, laid Brigitte down still fully dressed, and covered her. She stepped into the hall to bring the rocking chair inside the bedroom and close to the bed. She turned the lamp down low, slipped Brigitte’s coat about her own shoulders, and sat down in the rocker, where she would be at dawn, watching Brigitte sleep, feeling her daughter’s pain.

She waited in the dusky light, watching until Brigitte’s eyes finally closed in sleep, her pillow damp with tears.

Thoughts came to Margaret as she sat slowly rocking, and she let them come as they would. Why must all beautiful things in life bring pain? John—how I loved him—dead. Matthew—my eldest—gone—who knows if he is alive? Caleb—gone—dead or alive? Brigitte—such promise—so beautiful—gave her heart—Richard dead. Why do all the greatest joys in life bring the most terrible pain?

She paused in her rocking. Are such thoughts blasphemous? Will the Almighty forgive me if they are? Can He see into a mother’s heart and understand? I hope so. I hope so.

Notes

Brigitte Dunson and Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan are fictitious characters.