Cornelia Brother is Born
Valentine Brother, grandfather of Civil War Marine Charles Brother, offered his tavern to house and feed army officers. They needed places to store their weapons and equipment, causing complications and overall wear to their woodwork and floors. Any sudden burst of cheering or appetites from the rough men, animated after refreshments or liberty, was particularly hard on the women, half awake, bearing children, burying children, or bent over the stove.
In the committee meetings the night before, Valentine happily said yes. But things were not so rosy in the kitchen: how to tell his pretty lady, who said no?
Bartgis's Maryland Gazette (Frederick, Maryland) June 20, 1793
One day in 1795 he found she was particularly motivated to say no by throwing pots and pans. These silent treatments reminded him of his father, so practical and efficient, but Valentine was part of the modern times. It would be his decision. He kissed the back of her damp neck.
Finally, she spoke, “Why do you go on wholly ignorant of God and the human body? So ambitious, Val, always wanting to improve us in dramatic degrees as your father had improved his lot—going from debt slave to tavern runner and postmaster—that he ignored God’s will and ran himself into the ground. Limits were put in place for one’s muscles and wits. I’m going to have a child.”
He swung her around, overjoyed for a new topic. But in a few months, his own gut beat to quarters, confining him as a ball with gastrointestinal revolt and leaving her to welcome the guests at the tavern porch in the middle of the night.
The soggy day arrived when husband and wife were wailing in unison but in separate rooms: he was passing a stone and she was giving birth. Mother-in-law was passing hysterics: Soldiers arriving in a downpour. Mud rucking. God willing.
What this “wet goods” establishment needed was a woman’s touch. With that, Captain Baer called, “Attention!” The men bolted up straight like a catapult, chairs flying to the wall. A toast for baby Cornelia, now in the arms of her grandmother, weaving through the tables, rifles, and boots, scattered about the planks. The dirty men backed away to protect her and softened, moving tables for their night on the floor. Their snoring washed over them, resetting a natural rhythm for the good of the country, their body, soul, and wits.