Boston
January 1781
CHAPTER XXVII
* * *
A bitter January wind in chill morning sunlight blew steadily in from the Atlantic across Boston harbor and down the cobblestone streets, sighing in the chimneys and gusting in the stark, bare branches of the trees. Kathleen Dunson stood in her felt slippers at the stove in the kitchen of her childhood home, apron over her heavy woolen robe, dark hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon, while she stirred thick oatmeal porridge. She breathed heavily, head tipped back, eyes closed, as she struggled with the nausea that came in waves at the foul odor of a dead mouse coming from somewhere in the kitchen. She jerked at a quick nudge and looked down to see the front of her apron move, and she placed her hand on her extended midsection to feel the tiny life inside settle and the movement stop.
Knee, or maybe an elbow, she thought, then clenched her eyes one more time as the rank stench of the dead mouse came again. At four o’clock in the black of night she had awakened to the foul smell, and with a lamp searched the pantry for the dead remains. There was nothing. She went back to her bedroom to get into her bed and lay on her side, searching for a comfortable position. At six o’clock she was up, boiling water for the breakfast porridge for Charles and Faith, gagging at the thought of them eating it.
She turned to call, “Charles! Faith! It’s time.”
Her younger brother and sister came from their bedrooms, dressed for school, quietly looking to see if Kathleen’s mouth was clenched shut. It was, and they silently went to their places at the table. Kathleen set the pot of porridge on a hot pad in the center of the table, and said, “Charles, you offer grace.”
The two children bowed their heads, Charles quietly recited the morning prayer, and they reached for cream and molasses while Kathleen walked quickly back into the kitchen, out of sight. The two finished their breakfast, and Kathleen came back to help them with their heavy coats and scarves and wool hats. She handed them their books and lunches, said, “Stay together—listen at school,” and opened the door to watch them hunch into the wind and walk through the front gate into the morning traffic. She closed the door, took one look at the porridge pot on the table, clamped a hand over her mouth, and walked quickly to her room to get into her bed and pull the thick comforter up to her chin.
She thought of Matthew, and for a long moment felt the need to vent her misery on him. Five months along with their first child made each day an adventure in extremes. Mornings brought nausea, afternoons hope, evenings the greatest joy and anticipation she had ever known. Thoughts of Matthew followed the same pattern: nausea and despair, followed by hope, joy, and anticipation.
She lay for half an hour before throwing the comforter back and swinging her feet to the braided carpet on the hardwood floor.
“Well,” she said aloud, “the work isn’t going to do itself.” She took an iron grip on her stomach and marched out to the parlor. By noon the house was in order, and she was sitting in a rocking chair before a fire in the great fireplace, knitting a blue baby cap to add to the blanket already knitted and carefully folded into a dresser drawer in her bedroom. A little past one o’clock the wind quieted. At two o’clock she bravely went out the back door to the root cellar with a saucer to cut a chunk of cheese for the house, then returned to break a small piece to nibble on. The thought of eating anything beyond the cheese was more than she could bear.
At ten minutes before three o’clock, with the sun warming the outdoors, she laid her knitting aside and answered a rap at the front door.
“Reverend Olmsted! How nice to have you come visiting. Do come in.”
The small, wiry, gray-haired man nodded his greeting, entered, and Kathleen hung his heavy black coat and hat on one of the pegs beside the door. She held her gorge down as she said, “Come sit at the dining table. Can I prepare something hot? Chocolate? Tea?”
“Thank you, no. I just stopped by to deliver a letter. I was at the inn when the mail came in a while ago and there was a letter for you from Matthew. Thought I’d save you the walk down to get it.” He drew the letter from inside his coat and handed it to her.
Hands trembling, heart racing, Kathleen took the letter, then glanced at Reverend Olmsted. He nodded and smiled. “Go ahead and read it,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until you’re through.”
Kathleen broke the seal, smoothed the letter on the tabletop, and began reading, eyes racing over the neatly written page.
The twenty-ninth day of December, 1780.
West Indies, aboard the Swallow.
My Dear Wife,
It is my greatest wish that this letter finds you well. I do not have the words to tell you how I miss you. My thoughts are with you always in this time, and were it possible I would be there with you as we prepare for the coming of our family. I can only hope you understand that I felt I had no choice when General Washington requested that a ship sail into these waters to gather information concerning the French and British navies that are now contending for possession of the various islands here in the West Indies. When I was selected to be the navigator, I could not refuse. That you must be alone at this time is a sacrifice that is justified only because it is in the cause of freedom for all of the United States.
I am well. The food is acceptable, and our Captain, Dominicus Mears, is competent. The schooner on which I am writing is small and speedy. There is no ship in the West Indies capable of catching us. We have been within two hundred yards of many British ships, and less than one hundred yards from their ships anchored near St. Lucia, St. John, Barbados, and Jamaica. None have fired on us, simply because they cannot load and bring their guns to bear quickly enough.
It is apparent the French remain here primarily to protect their interest in the sugar and rum trade, and secondarily to await any opportunity that may present itself to make a strike at the British. Their naval forces are under command of Comte Guichen. The Spanish also have ships in the West Indies under Admiral Solano, however, they are not as ambitious to offend the British as are the French. The British are commanded by Admiral Rodney. Matters between these forces are worsening rapidly, and it appears to me that one way or another, the French and British are going to eventually enter into a grand battle to settle matters between them.
Unfortunately the United States does not have a navy capable of lending support to the French. However, I quickly add, the French Admiral, de Grasse, appears to be a most competent commander and has the unqualified support of his command. It appears the British Admiral Rodney is also competent, but in the balance, the French probably have the edge, both in determination and in numbers of ships and cannon.
I do not know when we will conclude our mission here and return home. We are going to sail north tomorrow morning to deliver our written findings thus far to a small frigate on the open seas, which will then sail north to deliver the report to General Washington near New York. I shall include this letter with the report, hoping it will find its way to you. We will then return to the West Indies to complete our mission.
We survived the stormy season of October and November in good condition. We had two hard storms but rode them out without misfortune. The weather here in winter is much balmier than in Boston.
I carry my watch fob over my heart. You are never out of my thoughts. How I wish I could sit with you before the fire in the evenings and share in your special time. I beseech the Almighty to watch over you and protect you. You hold my heart in your hands.
Until I see you again, I remain your faithful and loving husband,
Matthew Dunson
Kathleen raised her head, looked at the kindly, old, wrinkled face of Silas Olmsted, and tears came welling. She shook her head.
“I don’t know why I’m crying. Matthew’s well. I’m so grateful you brought the letter. I’ve been worried sick about him.” She wiped at her tears, and more tears came, and she laughed. “Sometimes I feel so big, so disgusting to look at. This morning I smelled a dead mouse at four o’clock, and I got up and searched the pantry. There was no dead mouse, and I knew it, but I searched anyway. And when I fixed the lunches for the children, and their breakfast, I was so sick I just . . . I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Reverend Olmsted chuckled and reached to take her hand. “In about four months the dead mouse will be gone. You’ll still have tears, but they’ll be from the greatest joy you will ever know.”
“I know it. I knew it this morning. I just feel so . . . ridiculous, sitting here, big, crying when I have everything I ever wanted.”
Silas laughed out loud. “Kathleen, you’ll never be more beautiful. You’ve entered into a partnership with the Almighty. He’s sending one of his precious little ones to you. Be patient, and don’t worry about the dead mice and the tears. You’ll not remember either of them when they place that little child in your arms and you see the miracle.”
Kathleen drew a handkerchief from her robe pocket and blew her nose. “I must be a sight, sitting here, red eyes, red nose.” She laughed. “It’s so good to have you come.”
Silas nodded, then moved on. “Heard about the mutiny? In the army?”
Kathleen came to instant focus. “Margaret said something about it ten days ago.”
Silas shook his head. “Sad. New Year’s Day. Over at that place near Morristown. Mount Kemble, I think. The soldiers learned Congress had offered to pardon and release common convicts in prisons, and to give them good pay in silver, and some land in Pennsylvania at the end of the war, if they’d enlist in the army. Congress did not make the same offer to the soldiers who had already been enlisted and fought for three years. Made them angry.”
Kathleen started. “It wasn’t fair!”
Silas nodded. “The soldiers mutinied. General Anthony Wayne was their commander, and he took their side. Tried to get them to settle down and offered to take their case to Congress, but the soldiers don’t trust Congress. They raided the magazines and got cannon and muskets and did some shooting. One officer was killed, two others wounded. Then they marched on Princeton and on to Trenton where they demanded to meet with Joseph Reed. He came, and the soldiers settled their differences with him. Those who wanted to be discharged were allowed to go, with the firm promise of Pennsylvania to pay their back wages. That should have ended it, but it flared again, this time at Pompton in New Jersey.”
Kathleen covered her mouth with her hand, fearful of what was coming next.
“Mutiny is a dangerous thing. Let it get started, and there might be no end to it. General Washington was a torn man. He knew how unfairly Joseph Reed and the Pennsylvania Supreme Council had acted, and said so. But he could not allow the mutiny to spread. They caught the leaders, and had to hang two of them—two of their own—men who had spent three years fighting for the cause of liberty. How I felt for General Washington. I know the man suffered over it.”
Kathleen leaned back in her chair. “Ohhhhh,” she moaned. “How terrible. I didn’t know about it.”
“It’s over and done with, but there were a few days when it looked like the revolution was going to end with the entire Continental Army in mutiny, walking out, going home.”
“General Washington? Did he resign?”
“No. I’ve never known such a man. He hung two of his own to save the battle for freedom.”
“I wonder if Matthew knows.”
“Probably not.” He stood. “Well, I should be moving along. Just thought I’d deliver the letter.”
Kathleen smiled and shook her head. “No, you just knew I needed you to stop by and listen to me complain. Thank you. More than I can say.”
Silas shrugged. “Didn’t do much of anything. Mattie said she’d likely stop by in a day or two. In the meantime, dead mice and tears are the order of the day. Give my love to Matthew when you write next.”
Notes
Kathleen Dunson and her brother and sister, Charles and Faith, and Reverend Silas Olmsted are fictional characters.
However, the letter Kathleen received from Matthew correctly sets forth information regarding an ongoing conflict between the navies of England, France, and Spain, in the West Indies, now known as the Caribbean area. The British claimed Barbados, Jamaica, and other islands in the Caribbean, while France claimed St. Lucia and others, and Spain claimed Puerto Rico and others. The Dutch were also incidentally involved to protect their holdings in the area. A substantial war was in progress in those islands, with the French and Spanish navies trying to displace the British. The navies and the admirals involved are correctly presented and were to later play a crucial role in the Chesapeake Bay, at the battle of Yorktown (Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, pp. 375–82).
Further, the mutiny discussed, beginning at Mount Kemble, near Morristown, New Jersey, is briefly but accurately described, with Pennsylvania offering common criminals rewards they did not offer the veterans. The officers named and the incidents related are true and accurate, including the fact that General Washington finally arrested the mutineers at Pompton and hanged two of the leaders (Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp. 591–93).