Once was a powerful king, whom the gods did favor.
Not that one needed books to receive a political education that summer. Everywhere people debated what was happening at Philadelphia, even as they prepared for the seasonal harvest. Slaves, hired men, landowners, and governors all argued among themselves, and sometimes with each other, whether they should break from the mother country and chart a separate course or hold to the path they were on. All men then were expert on the subject, and each held either that war was anathema to their interests or else the only way to secure their rights and rightful consideration.
The debate raged on even after the Congress voted for independence in midsummer. After the harvest games that year, which had become tradition, Caleum and Magnus drove into town to buy such winter supplies as they could not produce themselves on their farm.
What he paid that year incensed Magnus, as there was a tax on nearly everything he needed, which cut deeply into his cash profits. After loading the cart with wares, though, they headed to Content’s, to forget the labors they had just completed, as well as the sting of giving money for nothing in return. The tavern was emptier than was usual for that time of the year, and the two of them sat looking out on the square in reflective silence for quite some time, before Magnus said to Caleum at last. “You know I will die some day.”
Caleum was at first taken aback by this pronouncement and wondered whether something was the matter. “Are you ill, Uncle Magnus?” he asked, with gravest concern.
“No,” Magnus replied evenly, drinking from his mug. “But I will die one day all the same.”
Caleum thought about it for some time again before answering. “I understand.” They continued drinking their beers in silence for a while, before Caleum asked, “Do you think they will rebel?”
“I don’t know. You?”
“I suspect.”
Magnus was thoughtful and withdrawn into himself then, reflecting on all the change he had seen and the change he knew he would not see. It was true that he was not ill, at least not in any immediate manner, but he had been aware since that spring of his mortality in a new way, and the mortality of their way of life as well. He wanted to impart some sense to Caleum of how it was, how it had been for him and his father — and Caleum’s own father as well — when they were all there on the land together, and what Stonehouses was for all of them. He settled instead on asking, “Do you think the eastern field is getting overworked?”
“It would not hurt to rest it,” Caleum answered. “But it is still good land and only needs fertilizing and a rest.”
“It was always the most productive field.”
He asked next after Libbie and her condition.
“She will not stay off her feet, though she is otherwise well and good,” Caleum replied. “She says she isn’t due until September, and might as well do now what she won’t be able to then.”
“Well, I suppose you have to trust she knows best in this.”
“I suppose so.”
At last he put forth his question about the militia, very casually.
“There is nothing new to report,” Caleum answered, “but Stanton has us drilling in secret now, so I think he knows something we do not.”
“He is always first with news.”
They returned to the discussion of the past harvest, then finished their beers and went outside to claim the wagon. Magnus mounted on one side of the vehicle very carefully, and Caleum took the reins on the other, neither of them self-conscious or apologetic about his age, yet both enjoying where they were in life at that moment. They rode leisurely then, back to the country, stopping to enjoy the great swells of greenery and lushness and the fields all under cultivation. When they arrived home, each of them went to his own place feeling somehow they had had a very meaningful conversation that settled something of great import that day. As each ate dinner with his wife and discussed his plans, both knew that the future would arrive only after a rupture with the past. That is the understanding that had blossomed between them, that they were in the final moment of that shared past, and as for the other part — what the future would be — that would be decided only in time. For what it was, though, and what they themselves believed in, they were very clear on that.
When Libbie gave birth in November it was a daughter, and Caleum was finally able to honor his promise to his grandfather by giving to her the name he had asked him to. Libbie, however, when Caleum told her the story of where the name came from, insisted they give her another as well, “Because we don’t wish for her too many sorrows either.”
She suggested at first that they call the girl Lucky, but Caleum, being superstitious in such matters, thought that was too tempting of fate. Instead they agreed together on Rose, which was the name she was known by the length of her days.
In the weeks immediately after her birth they did not have the kind of celebration they had before on such an occasion, but at Thanksgiving that year mother and child were foremost in everyone’s prayers. The other great topic, which was now ever-present before them, was the fighting that had broken out in Massachusetts between the colonists there and the Royal Army.
Caleum and Magnus were both ardent supporters by then not only of Berkeley, but also of independence in general, and Caleum continued to drill with the militia that winter in anticipation of being called to serve. It was then that he remembered the sword his grandfather had given him. When he went off to battle it was this weapon that would serve him best. He would also wear the coat Libbie had made for him, with the scene of Stonehouses on its interior, and that was complete now with the birth of young Rose.
He would sleep nights in the future with it wrapped around him, swearing it to be warmer than any three blankets combined and that he never knew coldness when it was upon him.
The day he left Stonehouses was late in winter, and Magnus Merian had already turned his attention to the coming season. But Caleum Merian was not to be there as they tilled the earth that year and planted their hopes on another spring.
The two men had just mended a hole in the fence of the western pasture together and returned home for dinner in the main house. They were all seated, and had complimented Adelia on the meal, as Libbie nursed young Rose, and Caleum carved the roast. It was as he doled out the food that they heard the sounding of the knocker on the front door. When the great clacker sounded again, they knew it could only be one person in all of Berkeley.
Caleum went and answered Stanton’s knock, and their neighbor entered the hall all in a flush. “We are sending a regiment up to join the Continental Army,” he said. “Naturally, I have volunteered the Berkeley militia to be among it.”
Looking at his face then, it was clear to all that what he was announcing had been a lifelong wish, which he kept secret until that moment. During the hours when he debated other men and seemed to take their opinions into consideration, it was just they themselves he considered, as his own opinion was etched already and he waited only for its soundness to become obvious to others. It was clear as well that all else in the world was present in his mind only to serve this one great purpose.
He could not stay for dinner, he said, having much else to do that night. He gave instructions to Caleum as to when the militia would assemble and depart, leaving him with his family until that time. Caleum went back to the table and delivered the news.
All in the hall were feverish with the excitement and uncertainties it induced. These they did not speak of aloud, because they did not want to burden Caleum with worry. Instead they tried to turn dinner that evening into a proper feast, eating and conversing until late at night and sparing nothing for Caleum’s pleasure.