The second chest was lighter than the first. It was loaded with ships’ maps. A captain’s logbook, and another. Four of them. A sextant. A long glass. At the bottom lay five cutlasses. One of them was battered, dented, its tip broken off. I feared to touch it, though I supposed if the thing were haunted with the blood, we would have seen the spirits by now. I closed the lid and held my hand against it, thinking of my brother’s hand having lain upon this very wood, and I wished him health and life.
In the mornings oak leaves captured the slanted sunlight, fooling the eye, as if they held the last golden rays of summer suspended for a few more days. The nights turned cold. One day, just before noon, a hand knocked at my door. A winter wind was howling. Before me stood a boy dressed in rags, thin as Roland’s poor frame had been so long ago. “M-m-mistress? Have you got a spare crust? Anything?”
“What are you doing abroad in this weather, young man?”
“Going to join the rebels, Mistress.”
“Where is your musket? Your cartridge bag?” He ducked his head in a clumsy bow and pulled his weapon, an ancient blunderbuss, from where it leaned against the wall. “Come in this house.” I fed him bread, such as I had, and meat, both of them meant for our noon.
He drank every drop of the broth in the pot. “Thank you so, Mistress. I hain’t et in two days.”
When he rose to leave, I pulled at his sleeve. “Wait,” I said. “Take this.” I draped my cloak across his shoulders. It was too small, for though he was all bones and angles, he was tall. “This will not do you. Wait, boy, would you please? I have something else.” I hurried up the stairs to my room. There behind the door hung a new cloak I had made for Cullah. I pulled it from the hook. I held it against my cheek.
When I put it across the boy’s shoulders, he took hold of it with reverence. “Oh, Mistress, this is so very fine. It must belong to the master of this house.”
“It did. Now stand there while I bless it upon you,” I said. I chanted the old Gaelic words, circling the boy, my hand upon the wool of the cloak. It began, “Nar a gonar fe-ahr an eididh. Nar a reubar e gue-brath,” and the words settled oddly, going from asking protection for the man who wore the garment, to describing the leg bone of a deer piercing the tail of a salmon. I believed the meaning was long lost, for even Goody Boyne, who had taught it me, knew them not, but I imagined, too, since the words had survived all this time, that they had strength, and perhaps the leg shank referred to the sharpness of a spear tip, so that the wearer of my goods would be swift in battle and safe from all piercing. Perhaps I was wrong to say the words, but they were said, and I patted his shoulder.
“Wait,” he exclaimed, stepping back. “Do you cast a spell upon me for having asked food?”
I smiled. “It is not witchcraft. It is a prayer older than this time. We must not question what has stood since before King Richard’s day.”
“Oh. It’s a Christian prayer, then? What language?”
I almost said Scottish, but the tongue was outlawed in its own land and I dared not. “The tongue of angels. When you wear this cloak, you will embody courage and cunning skill in battle, clear thinking, and bravery. Yours will be the mind of a general at arms, a strategist. Keep it always with you, even on warm days when you cannot wear it. Never forget the power of it.”
“Mistress, your words give me fear.”
“Let them give you comfort instead.” I questioned him with my expression and changed my tone to be more motherly. “Would you rather not have the cloak? You may leave it here if you wish. It is not a spell, I promise you on the Holy Cross.” He took one look at the snow piling against the glass over the kitchen table, shook his head no. I said, “Then see that you wear it well and proudly. This belonged to a great man, a Patriot. A gentleman and an American Patriot.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
When I closed the door after him, I said, “Alice? Let us make another cloak. Another man will come along soon enough. They will all be hungry and cold.”
“Mistress, you give away Master Cullah’s cloak.”
Tears dripped from my chin, already rushing the moment his name crossed her lips. “Yes.”
“Why you do that?”
“The boy needed it. He will fight for freedom.”
“How you know that?”
“Well, I do not know it. He said it, and I believed him.”
“Not every man comes to the door going to tell the truth.”
“Alice, did you suspect him of something?”
“No, Mistress. He was honest enough. Just hungry enough to tell you what you want to hear. Any boy might be hungry. Can’t feed ’em all.”
I smiled. “Then I have done him no harm. If it keeps him alive, it is given gladly.”
Alice stared at the fire, then without turning her head, she glanced in my direction and asked, “Mistress, would you give me a cloak?”
“Is something amiss with your own?”
“I gave it to a slave woman I know.”
I held out my hand. Somewhat reluctantly, she reached out with her own. I held her hand in mine. We both welled up with tears, and her face darkened as did mine.
Alice asked, “I suppose we making another cloak?”
“Probably better make two.”