The Midwife's Revolt (27 page)

By the time I reached Roxbury and Boston Neck, my feet were numb. But I thought it prudent not to stop until I reached the wharf. I kept feeling for the false little mustache about my lip to ensure it was there. The board, shifting upon my chest as I trotted, dug into my clavicle, no doubt forming a welt there.

I arrived at Rowe’s Wharf and descended immediately. Leading Star by his harness, I followed my nose to the smoke and fermented-apple smell of the tavern. I hitched Star, who was frothing at the mouth and in dire need of water, to the post outside the tavern. A boy—looking much as I must have done—rushed to care for the horse in fullest expectation of a penny or two for his troubles.

Money! The sudden, terrible truth struck me then: I had forgotten all about money, and so had Martha. It had been so long since we had used—or seen—any that it had simply slipped our minds. I stuck my hands in Jeb’s breeches, finding a penny for the stable boy’s troubles, but no more.

The thought of turning back brought tears to my eyes. No, no. That was too much to bear! I could not. I was numb with cold, tired, and hungry. I had to stop, come what may. I would think of something.

Luckily, the tavern was crowded, and I easily blended in. Though it was still relatively early, many men had already gathered there. I thought it possible that some had never left from the previous night. These specimens swayed to and fro in their seats as if on a ship in rough waters.

As I walked in, I kept my gaze down. My cap hid my face, but I was able to survey the scene once my eyes had adjusted to the dark. In one corner, by a round table, four men smoked and played cards. Near the back, by the barrels of rum, stood a few rough sailors and fishermen. A deep cloud from pipes hung chokingly in the air, and altogether I received the shocking impression that this tavern was quite a low place. It was like nothing I had pictured in my mind. Here there were no gentlefolk. I heard no tinkle of feminine laughter. No, there were only men, and rough ones.

The owner, one Mr. Smythe, a balding man of about forty, was rushing to satisfy his many customers. When he caught me in his shrewd gaze, he knew at once I was a stranger. I looked about me as if for a place to sit, tired of my long journey. I remembered my story: Johnny Tucker from Weymouth (who
wasn’t
named Tucker from Weymouth?) with a package for someone not from this town, whose name had unfortunately become obscured.

As the hurried little man finally saw fit to approach, having delivered his other orders, I panicked and thought,
Sit you down and order a drink, nothing more
. I thus held my tongue and kept my eyes down when he nodded in the direction of a free table. It stood in a far corner, beneath a beaded Indian cloak that hung upon the wall. It must have held some particular significance for the owner, but I thought it prudent not to ask.

“Punch, please,” I said huskily, still not knowing how I was to pay for the drink.

He nodded again and went off. I exulted in my ruse’s success thus far, tempered only by the sinking feeling that my journey had been a waste of time and effort. Any notion I might have cherished of coming upon a group of whispering Tories, full of intrigue and intelligence, had already been sadly disappointed. But I was there and in need of refreshment, so I was obliged to go through with the charade. Mr. Smythe returned with my punch and announced, “That’ll be two pence, please.”

I foraged in my sack, knowing the search to be useless. My only consolation as I did so was that I must’ve presented a convincing portrait of an idiot.

Mr. Smythe then did something unexpected: he smiled, twisted his mouth in pity, and announced, “That’s all right. It’s on me. First time visitor, like.”

“Oh, I’m much obliged,” I mumbled somewhat too politely. “I can pay you on my next stop here, for I left Weymouth in haste, I’m afraid. But I am good for it.”

Mr. Smythe nodded. “Oh, that’s all right. Do a good turn, it comes back to you, like. Or that’s what they tell us in meetin’, right?” He winked at me as he turned to answer another customer who was calling to him.

“Hang on there, fella!” he called back.

I was touched and surprised by Mr. Smythe’s kindness, whatever his political views might have been.

His behavior served to remind me, once again, how very unclear right could sometimes be from wrong.

“And you are—?” he inquired, extending his rough callused hand.

“Tucker, sir.” I was going to proceed with a Christian name, but he seemed satisfied with that, so I offered none.

“Well, Tucker, what’s your business here, if you don’t mind me asking? I’ve not seen you before, have I?”

“No, sir,” I replied, abashed. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bungle of things. I’ve been sent with a package for a man what’s supposed to be at Rowe’s Wharf. But look at the direction. The ink’s all blurred
. . .
”

I took my dirty parcel from the bag and thrust it at him, suddenly aware of my small hands. Mr. Smythe didn’t seem to notice them. He took the parcel and turned it over.

“You’ve abused this parcel very ill, lad,” he said, and I hung my head as if in shame. Then, Lord forgive me, the spirit of invention o’ertook me:

“It’s my first assignment, sir. I thought to help the family, what.” I stifled a smile of self-approbation. I’d improvised quite nicely!

But Smythe said, “Only take care so’s folks’ll hire you. It won’t do to leave directions to get washed off in the snow.”

Now, having soundly scolded me like a disappointed father would his own son, Mr. Smythe took up the package once more and asked, “You said you’d be wanting a stranger, like?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, there be but one stranger arrived this week, far as I know.”

“One man, you say?” I replied, certain I had already made great strides for the Cause.

“Indeed. And it’s your luck he’s sittin’ right over there.”

Mr. Smythe turned and pointed to a far, smoky corner of the tavern. I squinted and inhaled, and then all my limbs froze. There in the corner, nearly obscured by the smoke that rose above his head, sat Mr. Cleverly.

33

HE MUST HAVE felt our stares, for
he lifted his head and stared straight back at us. His eyes soon focused on me, and I detected both suspicion and hostility. Unlike everyone else in the tavern—rough wharf men, for the most part—Mr. Cleverly was dressed the part of the upper-class Tory I had envisioned when Admiral d’Estaing had first mentioned this tavern. He wore a mauve silk costume and powdered wig. He had been speaking to a man across the table from himself. The question was: What on earth was he doing here? I had—we all had—thought him long since gone from our midst.

“That’s Mr. Cleverly of New Hampshire. He would be the man of your parcel.”

“Mr. Cleverly?” I repeated.

Hearing his name across the room, Mr. Cleverly stood. “Oh, no! That is not my man,” I said quickly. I panicked to think of handing my parcel—a box of cornhusks, as it happened—to Mr. Cleverly.

Oh, this would never do! Another step closer, and he would surely recognize me. I unconsciously put a hand up to feel the soft strip of fur that Martha had secured above my lip. Thank goodness it was still there.

I continued, “No, my man’s name began with a—with a
W
.”

“A
W
, did you say? There’s no man here, no stranger, by the name of
W
that I know of.”

“Oh, no. I have mistaken the wharf entirely.” I slapped my head, stepping backward. “It is Long Wharf I seek, not Rowe’s.”

As I rushed away, Mr. Smythe rolled his eyes and smirked. Clearly he thought me the stupidest lad he’d ever seen.

“You’d best stick to a laboring job, Tucker,” he called after me helpfully. “In the barn, with the animals, like!”

I felt a deep shame that I’d duped this kind man. I unhitched Star and, once beyond the wharf, set off with great celerity for the safety of home.

“Mr. Cleverly?” Martha asked as she faced me by the fire, slowly picking my mustache off my face. I winced in pain, for the glue had penetrated my skin and threatened to pull it clear off. “What’s that ass still doing in town? I thought he’d long since evaporated.”

“Apparently not. And you should have seen him in all his pompous finery. He wore a mauve costume!”

“Mauve?”

“Yes, and a powdered wig!”

“In a tavern such as that?” Martha sounded incredulous.

“You’ve been there?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, no. Well, in passing. It is quite near my brother’s lodgings.”

“I had not the time to finish my drink,” I said sadly, as I had been looking forward to enjoying my first rum punch. Jeb had often enjoyed this drink.

“A good thing, too, or you might have frozen in a ditch in the road.”

Having finally succeeded in removing my whiskers, Martha asked, “What now?”

“Well, I suppose I must ask Richard whether he knows Cleverly is still about, and to what purpose. Could he be on the trail of our criminals?”

“It is not my job to concern myself with such things,” Martha said pointedly.

“Oh?” I queried, somewhat offended by her disinterest. “And what is your ‘job,’ as you call it?”

“To see that you don’t get up to too much foolishness. Come, I’ll boil you a bath. You smell.”

I grinned maliciously, pressing my odiferous body toward her as she fled in the other direction, holding her nose.

Two days later, I left for Cambridge once more, this time having been kindly loaned a small chaise and coachman by Colonel Quincy. I insisted upon taking Star, however, and so the coachman hitched him and a pretty little mare of the colonel’s to a double harness. Before leaving, I heard from this same coachman that the Cranches had gone to town. I was delighted to hear it, as I would thus be able to discuss the presence of Mr. Cleverly with them later in the week.

Poor Star! He was unaccustomed to being used in such a manner. Pulling a chaise was neither fish nor fowl: he had neither the freedom to move as he chose, nor the welcome human weight upon his back. Indeed, he disliked his new job intensely and kept curling his head around to chew on the pesky harness.

By the time I arrived at my house in Cambridge, Star was frothed at the mouth and I was frozen solid, much colder than I would have been had I simply ridden on Star. I vowed never to put horse or rider through such torment again.

Bessie greeted me with a cry of alarm and brought me into the parlor to thaw. The coachman, bidding me a good stay, took himself off to a nearby tavern. Once in the parlor, I discerned a more hopeful aspect to the old manse, though I knew not whence it came—there was no more furniture than previously, nor art, nor Turkey carpets. But apparently Bessie and Giles had been cleaning and maintaining the house in the hopes that it would be used again someday.

Soon I understood that this hopeful spirit came from Bessie herself. She had been unable to suppress a guilty smile, and no sooner had I sat down and asked for a dish of tea than Bessie said, “A letter come for you yesterday, miss. As I knew to expect you, I thought I’d best not forward it.”

“You did well, Bessie,” I said. “From whom is the letter?”

But she had already left the room to fetch it, leaving a half-eaten corn cake. She soon returned with the letter for my perusal. Its seal was broken; it had clearly been opened.

“Bessie. This letter has been opened, yet it is addressed to me.”

Bessie looked down. “Forgive me, miss! I couldn’a help it! I had to know—I just had to!”

I began to scold her, until I saw what had brought Bessie to such a pitch. Could I forget my own dear brother’s hand?

Dearest Lizzie,

If you are reading this, it is because at long last a Letter has succeeded in getting through to you. Truth be told, I have not had many Opportunities to write, being not only much engaged but cautioned to conceal our Whereabouts.

I have received three of your Letters, the last being dated this May past. Suffice to say I was exceeding glad to know you are well. Though it is near four Years since he gave his Life, your dear Jeb is never far from my Thoughts. I have taken special care to stay above the Earth myself, knowing I am your last Relation upon it. If I could speak of the Things I have seen
. . .

But never mind. For now, I have but one true message, which is that I am very like to see Boston this year. I cannot say when. Rest easy, dearest Lizzie, that my first act upon dry land will be to fly to you, my most beloved sister
. . .

By the time I had finished reading, tears ran down my face and bodice. Bessie fetched a cloth for me so I would not drown in them.

Mine were tears of joy, but joy that is not without pain, like a sleeping limb that tingles to life. Harry was alive, and I would, God willing, see him that very year! I cried and cried, till Bessie said I must leave off crying or make myself sick.

The idea that Harry was alive nearly made me abandon my resolve. Thrice that week I attempted to return to the tavern, and thrice was I obliged to turn around in fear. There had been a kind of freedom in the belief that I would not be greatly missed were the worst to befall me.

This would not do! On the day of my fourth attempt, I arose and sought help from those close to me.

“I can keep my secret from you no longer,” I announced to Giles and Bessie that evening. “You must either help or denounce me.”

“Denounce you, miss?” asked Bessie, confused.

I looked up at my two servants and nearly laughed. So unaccustomed was Giles to being asked his advice that his face assumed the gravest air imaginable, as if the weight of the world were now upon him.

I quickly told them my plan. Bessie fell to shrieking, saying I’d get myself killed in no time flat. Giles was silent and left the room. I thought he considered me a lunatic beyond redemption, but he returned in a few moments carrying a filthy leather vest.

Let me not mince words: it stank.

“What do you propose I do with this?” I asked him.

“If I may, ma’am.”

“Make free to tell me and be quick about it, Giles!”

“Ma’am, if you are to convince anyone of your new identity, you must—pardon me, it is indelicate—you must smell a little worse.”

I looked at Giles in astonishment. My smell was something I had not once considered. I practiced good hygiene as unconsciously as I breathed the air. But of course he was entirely correct. A messenger boy would not adhere to my standards of cleanliness.

Then I did something that no doubt made Giles blush, had his skin not been too dark to show it: I kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you for your invaluable contribution to the Cause, Giles.”

Giles shuffled out, one leathery hand pressed to the spot where I had kissed him.

I had been given my servants’ “slow leave” at last. But, around noon the following day, after I had set off, it was my own trepidation that had me nearly turning back several times.

What’s more, the weather made for treacherous traveling. I had not gone half an hour on Star before I felt I could go no farther. My feet were icy, my lungs ready to explode. My hands became vices about the reins. With difficulty, I pushed my shawl across my mouth to keep the air from singeing my lungs. The ties about my breast felt like the straps of an iron maiden, but I continued apace until the latter part of the afternoon, when I finally arrived at the Rose and Crown.

Before entering, I looked briefly around at my whereabouts, though I dared not remain long out of doors. Even with the frigid air, the wharf stank of manure and urine, rotting fish, and unwashed men.

I dismounted and asked the stable boy to oat my horse. I kept my eyes down and mumbled my order. The boy nodded, and I went in. This time, I had remembered to bring some coins, which I had had to borrow of Eliza. Looking about me, I was relieved to find no sign of Cleverly. There was no sign of Mr. Smythe, either.

The sweet smell of tobacco filled the air. Soon a practiced young server came by to hear my order. Hot rum punch was my request. I hoped that I would not become so drunk as to fall off my horse and be found frozen in the gutter. But drink I must. Drink, and keep my eyes and ears open.

The server returned with my rum and asked me was there anything else I required. He said they had a ham just out of the roaster. I told him I’d have a ration of that with some buttered bread, for eating might help my head from growing dizzy.

The ham came on a wooden trencher. It was a thick, large slab, smoky and delicious. A chunk of real bread accompanied it. The sight and smell of it nearly made me swoon. Gradually, as I satisfied my hunger and thirst, my ears opened to the conversation around me. Some men playing at cards were speaking about Washington’s latest defeat. At a table to my right, four men were discussing their recent distemper inoculations, sharing in disgusting detail the happy eruptions upon their various relations or themselves.

At one point, I got up to warm myself by the massive fire burning in the tavern’s great room. At the fire, I picked up one interesting conversation about the current whereabouts of Mr. Stephen Holland, the traitor behind the counterfeit money plot, who had thus far eluded capture. Some men were saying in hushed tones, “They say he stopped right here!”

“No.”

“Indeed. They say he’s been spotted out at Isaac Jones’s place.”

“Go on!”

My ears perked up. Jones’s place was a notorious Tory gathering place in Weston.

I had begun thinking once more about that five-pound note Abigail was obliged to burn when I felt a pair of eyes staring at me from across the room.

I bent my head and shuffled back to my seat. When I thought it was safe to do so, I turned my eyes up in the direction of the stranger, who continued to stare directly at me.

It was Thomas Miller.

He was at a table with several other gentlemen, and, after a brief moment, he ceased to look at me. I sighed with relief. He went back to his conversation and paid me no heed. They all spoke earnestly, quietly. Indeed, their subdued behavior made them stand out. The men accompanying Mr. Miller seemed a cut above the tavern’s coarse clientele, though they were not dressed formally. I ordered another rum punch. But, Reader, my heart pounded so in my chest, and my hands shook so violently I could hardly drink it!