Journey to victory, p.17
Journey to Victory, page 17
The tears started then, a flood of them that flowed down her face and wet her dress. Gently Michael put his arm around her. She looked up and saw his tears, too. It was impossible to talk as she let herself be led down the ladder and out of the barn. She was surprised to see that the endless night was over, but the dawn was gray and lifeless around her. Michael led her to a stand of trees nearby. A woman stood up.
“Tildy!” Christiane cried and ran to her. Tildy opened her arms and they clung to each other. It was several minutes before they could bear to break their embrace.
Too soon Christiane was standing by the trench Michael and a few others had dug for Tom. A chaplain appeared and from his little black book he read the appropriate service. Christiane did not spare herself, and though Tildy gently tugged at her arm, she stayed and watched till the last shovelful was thrown and Michael knelt to pound the hand-fashioned cross at the grave’s head. I’m the only one left who remembers now. A cool wind of loss whistled through her. I’m the only one. When all was complete, she let herself be led away.
As she passed through the field, now a cemetery, she tried not to count the graves being dug. The smells and sights of death suffocated her and were grotesquely familiar. Then what she was feeling snapped into focus. She was at Rumsveld again the morning after the massacre. The scalped, half-burned bodies were all around her.
Here, near one of these battle graves a woman moaned, “He can’t be dead! He can’t! No! No!” Her words echoed in Christiane’s head. Only in her mind they were transformed to “I can’t be alive! No! No!” Her knees buckled and she fell forward, unconscious.
***
The following days were the most confused Christiane had ever known. While trying to go on with her duties as usual, the emotions she’d been able to keep below the surface seemed to bubble up without warning or cause. She was careful not to speak often because she never knew if she would suddenly forget her line of thought or begin crying.
One afternoon, stopping in the midst of dictating a letter to her which she was to translate into French, General Washington had fixed her with a distracted frown.
“Is there something wrong, sir?”
“I wish, Christiane, I wish Martha were here.”
Christiane didn’t move. From the way he was looking at her, she knew better than to ask why. Any word of sympathy would send her into tears. At last they finished the letter and he let her go.
She went upstairs and sat on her bed in her small tidy room and tried unsuccessfully to make sense of the churning thoughts and feelings inside her. Who could untangle this mess? The image of a thin woman with a baby in her arms came. Tildy, of course.
Christiane quickly went through her mental list of things to do for the day. Most could be done immediately or postponed till tomorrow. She would not be needed again till evening. Quickly she went down to the kitchen to go over the menu for the evening meal.
Finally, Christiane donned her bonnet and gloves. Just as she was about to leave, she turned back to the kitchen. She wrapped up a dozen sugar cookies in a cloth. As she made her way to the family camp, she thought over what to say and what to ask Tildy. A war raged inside her—the past versus the future.
Soon she was making her way through the family campground near the stream. Many women were slapping the rocks along the bank, trying to get their laundry done. There Tildy was, sitting under a deep red maple, nursing her baby.
“Tildy!” Christiane called. Soon she was sitting beside Tildy on a sturdy camp stool. “I brought the boys some sugar cookies,” Christiane said, opening the cloth in her lap.
“Oh, they will be delighted. Is there one for their mother, too?” They both chuckled.
“Of course. I didn’t forget you or me.” Christiane handed Tildy a cookie and selected one for herself. They sat munching happily together. The boys appeared almost magically to claim their cookies and scampered off to share pieces with favored friends. Christiane’s buoyant mood evaporated suddenly and she was somber again. What did I come to say? What should I do?
“Christiane,” Tildy asked quietly, “what is the matter?”
At this, Christiane dissolved into tears. “I don’t know. I feel so strange.”
Tildy put her arm around her and waited. The fall wind blew briskly and the clouds overhead flew easily across the sky, but the warmth of the sun still held them comfortably. The small infant slept now peacefully on a doubled blanket at their feet, only a thin flour sack draped over her. Finally Christiane’s tears ended. She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and sighed deeply. “Oh, Tildy, what am I going to do?”
With her hands folded in her lap, Tildy faced her thoughtfully. “Christiane, I have been thinking of you for months. Ever since we came back, I wanted to see you and talk to you, but there didn’t seem to be any way. You were at the general’s quarters and we were here.”
Christiane tried to speak.
“No, let me go on,” Tildy insisted. “Tom told us how things had happened for you and I was glad, really glad. You deserved it. But I still missed you. Then I saw you that day after Brandywine with the general and everyone and I almost spoke to—”
Christiane broke in, “Tildy, I’m so sorry about that day. I saw you. I acted terribly and I know it.”
“Christiane, I understand.” The woman’s tone was firm.
But Christiane was convinced that her friend really did not comprehend.
“Now…” Tildy paused to breathe deeply. “What else is bothering you?”
“I don’t know. I seemed to have gotten over losing Jakob, at least, I wasn’t crying anymore, but when Tom died, I don’t know…”
Tildy waited patiently.
Christiane began again, “I keep seeing images from the past, unpleasant ones.” My mother’s murder, she thought silently. Losing my first husband, Rumsveld, Jakob. “It’s like having nightmares during the daytime.” Christiane shivered. “And ever since Tom died, everything has gotten more muddled in my head.”
“Do you think it’s because he was the last person to die from Rumsveld?” her friend asked quietly.
“I don’t know. It could be. Yes, I think that’s it somehow. Why is life so sad, Tildy?” Tears filled her eyes for the second time and she let them fall freely.
“It does seem to me that life sometimes has ‘runs,’ do you know what I mean?” Tildy asked. “A person for no logical reason will have a long run of luck or of sadness.”
Christiane nodded. Certainly her run of sorrow and poverty should be just about over. One of these two, poverty, she could control. The other one she could not. A glance around at the squalor of family camp reminded her of her own resolve never to be destitute again. And she wanted more than just a reasonable margin against poverty. In this life one needed it. And she would get what she needed. I can’t go back. I can’t.
They sat silently then, Christiane thinking her own thoughts. One of the precious facets of Tildy’s heart was that she never rushed one into further confusion. The baby at their feet began to stir in her sleep. They watched her, as mothers do, enjoying the cherub cheeks and the movement of the tiny hands and feet.
The child awakened and stretched drowsily, blinking up at her mother. Tildy bent to pick her up. “My little catnapper,” she murmured as she nuzzled the child’s cheek.
“I’m so happy you have your little girl.” And that she had remained healthy in this awful place.
“Yes, I am grateful to God for my two strong sons, but my heart did long for a girl to share womanly arts with.” Tildy looked at Christiane. “Would you like to hold her?”
Christiane held out her arms. Tildy held up a hand. “First let me introduce you. Christiane Kruger, may I present to you, Christiane Matilda Main?”
Christiane’s mouth formed an O as she took the babe in her arms. “Tildy, you named her for me!”
“Of course, who else? I only hope she will grow to be as lovely as you are.”
Christiane held the dear little baby close to her breast. How honored she felt. Then unbidden it came, just a whisper from deep inside her, “I want Jean Claude.” She looked down. “I want my son.”
“How old is he now?” Tildy questioned softly.
“Two. Two years old the first day of this month. I have not seen him for a year.” She waited fearfully for a word of condemnation.
“I remember how you wanted to go to him when you first came to New York,” her friend said sympathetically. “If only we hadn’t taken your horse, you could have gone to him this spring.”
Christiane wanted to deny this, but she could not put her motives into words. Almost bitterly she said, “I should have gone for him when we fled New York City.”
“You couldn’t. Jakob needed you. If you hadn’t stayed, maybe young Ben would never have been returned to me.” Tildy paused. “I can never thank you enough for finding him that night.”
Christiane shied away from recalling that appalling night of freezing terror.
Tildy picked up the thread of the conversation. “Now you can have your mare back anytime you want. We are grateful of the loan, but she is yours.”
Christiane pursed her lips. How can I go to Jean Claude? With a horse or not, I will not travel to New Jersey or anywhere else alone.
“Would you want to go north with us? Michael’s six months is over later this month. Then we’ll go back to Massachusetts for the winter. Michael located an aged cousin of his who lives alone on her farm northwest of Boston. She is a zealous patriot and has consented to take us in with her for the duration of the war. I hate the thought of not being with Michael for a year or more at a time. But he has insisted that this is our last summer in camp.”
“You mean you are leaving for good?” The thought hit Christiane hard. Knowing Tildy was near had been a comfort.
“Yes, Michael is going to spend this winter repairing the barn and stockpiling wood and other things. Then he will come back next spring for good. New Jersey is right on our way,” she offered hopefully.
A silent battle crashed and raged within Christiane. Her well-made, logical plans were shaken under the onslaught of her maternal feelings. Her well-ordered plans for her future meant nothing right then. “When would we leave?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow.”
“I’ll be ready,” Christiane heard herself say. She stood up resolutely. “I have to go now.” Their interlude ended abruptly, but what needed deciding had been settled. Christiane could visit Jean Claude and still return before Mrs. Washington arrived when the armies closed down for winter.
***
The next two weeks rushed by. Christiane spent the time shrinking the load of French/English translation that she helped with and generally tying up loose ends. At first, she did not tell anyone she was planning to leave, but finally even the busy men noticed her preparations. General Washington was concerned about her safety. He wanted to be sure that she knew that she should come back only with proper escort. After her promise to this, he was satisfied, but he urged that she return soon. Martha would be wanting her when she came.
The night before she left, Christiane walked outside the big house. A mixture of anticipation and apprehension had made it impossible for her to settle down inside her quarters, so she took a walk in a nearby grove of red-leaved oak trees. The sun had just finished setting and a huge, golden harvest moon was rising. She clutched her shawl close around her in the crisp night air. At a distance she saw another figure coming toward her. From afar she recognized the man’s broad shoulders and long strides.
“Henry,” Christiane greeted him. Caution churned in her stomach. Her decision to leave still caused her worry.
“May I speak with you?” he asked as he bent over her hand.
“Of course.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “I wish I were able to escort you to New Jersey, but my duties—”
Christiane cut in, “I understand. You are needed here.” In any event, though it made her feel petty, Christiane still wanted to keep her two classes of friends separate. The gulf between the Mains and the Lees was vast. She pushed this problem aside. I can’t help that. The world is as it is. I can’t change that.
“Christiane, I wish to take this opportunity to discuss a personal matter with you, if I may,” he said formally.
She nodded, suddenly apprehensive. What do you want, Henry?
“The brevity of our acquaintance and your recent widowhood have prevented me from speaking—” His words sounded as though he had practiced them carefully before coming.
Suddenly Christiane guessed his intention. “Henry, please I—”
“Christiane,” he interrupted “you leave in the morning. Please, I implore you, let me speak.”
Christiane agreed reluctantly. She did not wish to hear his declaration of love now, but it sounded as though he had prepared one. And she did not wish to hurt his feelings.
“Christiane, I do not think my feeling for you has been completely concealed.” He took her hand in his. “Your loveliness attracted me from that very first day I saw you at Morristown. But you are more, so much more than just a lovely face and form. I admire your honesty, your ability to deal with life without complaint, and to bear up under incredible responsibilities.”
Christiane writhed inside. She knew she was not as noble as he perceived her. “Henry, I—”
“Please don’t stop me. Christiane, I love you. If these were normal times, I would never declare my love for you after such a short friendship. But I love you. If it were not for the conflict that we are presently a part of, I would not hesitate to propose an immediate marriage. But I know you will understand that my present duties and devotion to the cause of liberty preclude this. However, this war will not last forever. And when our cause triumphs and peace returns, I would like to look forward to spending that peace with you. Will you, Christiane? Will you consider my proposal?”
Christiane’s mind raced in a panic at the word “marriage,” but his flowery proposal included a clause of postponement. Then the thought came to her. She could have exactly what she wanted: her son and a secure future now, not later. “My son—” she started.
“I have already considered him, an orphan,” Henry said readily. “When we are married, he would be an equal heir with our children.”
Christiane looked up at the sky, pondering. His proposal was more than generous. Deep emotion stirred but she couldn’t face any more images from the past. She took action. “Then I accept your proposal,” she said coolly.
He responded happily, “Oh, Christiane, I thank you. I will spend my life trying to make you glad of this decision.” He paused. “May I kiss you?”
“Certainly.” Christiane moved closer. He embraced her, and several minutes passed before she withdrew from him.
“Christiane, I have a token of my love for you.” He pulled a small box from his pocket. “I purchased this in Philadelphia in hopes that you would sometime accept it.”
Christiane took the small box and opened it. The moon and stars revealed a gold ring with a pearl, surrounded by garnets, delicate and lovely. Jakob’s face in her memory scolded her. She turned away from his image. “Henry, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“The garnets reminded me of the warmth of your hair,” he murmured, putting his arms around her again. “You accept this ring and my suit?”
“Yes, Henry, I will,” she answered. I will not think of the past. I will live now and do what I must for Jean Claude, for me. I cannot lose my place in this world again.
Chapter Ten
At the beginning of the familiar lane, Christiane stood with her mare patiently at her side. Just hours before she had left Tildy and her family at a fork in the road. Though she had urged them to come with her to spend the night at the Richardsons’, they had declined. It was early November and they wanted to get to Massachusetts as soon as they could. Because of the slower pace necessary for the boys and Tildy, it might take them another two weeks or more on foot.
Christiane had offered them Nancy for good, but she knew their pride had prevented them from accepting this gift. Also, since Quakers did not support the Revolution, Christiane had gotten the feeling that Sergeant Main did not want to be beholding to the Richardsons. Christiane led Nancy up the lane. The autumn sun’s rays were shafts of light nearly level with the horizon. It had been a warm day and her mouth was dry, but not only from the dusty roads. Anticipation and nerves caused her heart to thump erratically.
Then she was at the Richardsons’ kitchen door, knocking. In a few seconds the door was opened by Josiah, still straight and tall. He seemed stunned at first and then his voice boomed, “Sarah Anne! Our prayers are answered! Christiane is home!” His large arms clasped Christiane to him till his small, plump wife pushed between them.
“Christiane! The Lord be praised!” Sarah Anne drew her in excitedly. Josiah went out to stable Nancy and Christiane sat down while the old woman hurried about preparing tea.
“Sarah,” Christiane said, glancing around, “where is Jean Claude?”
“Napping. In fact, we all nap a bit in the afternoons. He will be down the steps soon.” She smiled and set a steaming cup in front of Christiane.
“You said in your August letter that he was talking now?” The kitchen was as large as she had remembered and even in the low light was bright with its white walls and blue curtains.
“Oh, yes, two and three words at a time now. He is quite a talkative little fellow. And so big! He has grown so fast I have had a time keeping him in clothes these months!” Christiane drank in the information, trying to imagine her infant son talking and grown large.
“Oh, Christiane, I praise the Lord for thy safe return. Thee does not know how many times Josiah and I have sat outside on the porch and looked down the road, hoping for the sight of thee.” Sarah reached for and took Christiane’s hand, but Christiane only smiled distractedly, her eyes going to the stairs. Sarah looked at her sympathetically. “He will be along soon, my dear.”
Christiane glanced at Sarah. “It has been so long.”
