It was not yet dawn, but Master Wilkins pounded on the door until it was thrown open by a weary Deacon Thomas and a hovering Mrs. Thomas. The brethren then enumerated my sins in great specificity while I stood silent, guilty of every word, clutching my jaunty hat and swaying in my new shoes. I’d lost the deacon’s hat somewhere along the way.
When they left, the deacon and Mrs. Thomas stared at me, eyes bleak and mouths tight, as if I’d brought tidings of new death. The deacon pointed toward my room, his voice weary. “Go to bed, Deborah. We will talk when you aren’t addled.”
I did as I was told, fighting tears of humiliation, and Mrs. Thomas hurried behind me. I refused her assistance, afraid she might take my costume, and bolted the door behind me.
When I joined them at noon, pallid and penitent, they had already discussed my fate.
I handed Deacon Thomas the bounty money that remained, combined with the money I had spent. It left a dent in my paltry savings. For years I had pocketed every penny from my wool and my vegetables, and in one night I’d squandered almost a quarter of it.
“I’ll take the bounty and see that it is returned to Israel Wood. I’ll talk to the church elders too. I’ll tell them you lost your senses, but it won’t happen again.” Deacon Thomas paused and raised somber eyes to mine. “It won’t happen again, will it, Deborah?”
I shook my head. No. It would not happen again. Not in Middleborough. I had been a fool.
“Why did you do it, Deborah?” Mrs. Thomas asked. “The whole town will think something is wrong with you. They won’t hire you for their weaving or let you in their homes. Not if they think you’re not of sound mind and you’re loose with your morals.”
“I drank too much. I didn’t mean to. But many people do that. Some get sozzled night after night. No one thinks they are nutters. No one thinks they are loose.”
“The men who get drunk are not females dressed as males. They aren’t schoolteachers and itinerant weavers. They aren’t women,” the deacon said gravely.
“No. They aren’t women,” I agreed. And that was the heart of the matter. “I should never have gone into the tavern.” Why had I gone in the tavern?
“Going into the tavern was the least of your sins,” the deacon chided.
“You signed the muster!” Mrs. Thomas cried. “Do you really want to go to war?”
“Yes. I really want to go. I want to help end it. And why shouldn’t I? I can do everything the boys can do. I’m a better shot, and I make a decent trap. I ride well. I can barber, I can cook, I can sew, I can run. I’d make a good soldier. Jerry told me.” Oh, Jerry. I was suddenly fighting tears, but I swallowed them down, refusing to be undermined by my own emotions.
“Such skill is wasted on a woman.” Deacon Thomas did not speak unkindly; it was what he believed. I supposed it was the truth. Such talents were wasted on me.
“You have broken the law. It is forbidden for a woman to disguise herself as a man, or a man to pretend to be a woman.”
I nodded.
“You cannot teach the children any longer.”
I nodded again, knowing he was right. “It was always a temporary position.”
“The church elders do not want you among their members. You will be removed from the rolls. I anticipate that Mr. Crewe will withdraw his offer of marriage as well. You should have married him months ago.” The deacon sighed.
“I did not seek his offer, nor would I have accepted it. And I don’t care about the church. Either of them.” The words welled and spilled over, and unlike my tears, I could not hold them back.
“You have lost your faith,” Mrs. Thomas mourned.
“My faith is not in a church. My faith is in God. I have not lost my faith,” I argued softly, shaking my head. I had not lost my faith, but I was in grave danger of losing all hope.
I spent the Sabbath alone in my room, reading from my Bible and writing a useless letter to Elizabeth, growing more and more distraught as the evening deepened. Never had I felt so alone, both in my convictions and my circumstance, but it was my disappointment that was the hardest to bear. I had attempted escape, and I had failed. Miserably.
Oh, Elizabeth. I’ve been an utter fool, and I can’t help but think that the line between courage and madness is a thin one. I have told myself what I did was wrong, but deep down I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it, and my regret is not that I acted but that I didn’t succeed.
I set my journal aside and turned back to scripture, looking for inspiration, for something to ease my disconsolation. It was in Proverbs, the thirteenth chapter, twelfth verse, where I found an answer.