The Schoolmaster's Daughter (14 page)

He was invited to tea once, upon Mother's insistence. It didn't go well. Father thought he was a merely a young man intent upon bettering himself by association with the daughter of a schoolmaster (
association
being his word—he couldn't even bring himself to mention the prospect of marriage). Mother proved more understanding; she found Ezra polite and well-mannered, and she admitted that he was indeed handsome, though his broad shoulders seemed the result of strenuous physical labor. After the occasion, Abigail kept to her room for days, barely speaking to her parents, and in the months that followed there had developed a smoldering tension within the house. Every time she went out, she felt their suspicions stalking after her. She didn't want to lie or deceive, but the more she felt their wish to deny her this
association
, the more she desired to be with him. Their meetings were often swift, furtive encounters, increasingly more reckless. Only Rachel understood and made every effort to help them arrange their trysts.

Slowly, a sense of futility caused the egg, their egg, to crack and break open. They had begun to discuss marriage, but Ezra was still only an apprentice physician, in no position to assume such responsibilities; and if they did marry, he was certain they would not receive her parents' benediction. Abigail claimed that it only mattered that they loved each other—she knew that in time her parents would come to realize that, and accept it. But he could see how torn she was over this notion of defying her parents, whom she loved dearly. Here was where they began to argue. Ezra was certain that to marry under such circumstances would eventually lead to disaster; soon enough she would regret such an impulsive decision and come to resent him. Yet his saying this only convinced her more of his love for her.

The last time she had seen him, in January, it was a raw, damp evening. It had been an unusually warm winter, but this only made the east wind off of the Atlantic all the more brutal. She had spent the afternoon at Rachel's house—it was the first time she'd seen their new baby boy—and on the walk home she paused at the canal which ran from the Mill Pond down to the harbor, separating the North End from the rest of the city. As was her habit, she stopped soon after crossing the footbridge to Ann Street. There was a stable, sided with weathered clapboards: tucked in an open knothole near the corner-board was a pebble. They called it the Egg.

It had been approaching five o'clock; nearly dark. Abigail looked up and down Ann Street, which was quiet, and then slipped down the alley, and behind the stable she came to an outbuilding. The door was ajar; she stepped inside and into Ezra's arms.

She raised her face to his and they kissed, but after a moment she leaned away so she could see his face in the dim light coming through the door. “What is it?”

“Nothing—” and he pulled her to him. His kiss this time was unlike any other. At first it confused her, but then it brought up her own heat. They fell back against the wall, which was hung with harnesses and tack. If anything, the smell of leather and horsehide only made them more ardent, to the point where Abigail began to laugh.

“You've made a decision—I sense it,” she whispered.

He pressed his cheek to her forehead. “I have.” He was holding her tightly, so tightly that it occurred to her that he might be afraid.

“Well, tell me,” said.

“I—I can't. Not yet.”

“Something's happened.”

“Yes, something has happened, Abigail. It changes everything.”

But she couldn't get it out of him. The more they kissed, the more she realized that he was desperate and distracted, that he was fearful. She'd never seen him afraid; never imagined that he could be afraid. His eyes, even in the near dark, seemed to be seeking acceptance from her, or perhaps some form of absolution. Or understanding, yet he would not say what it was that he wanted her to comprehend.

Now, gazing out her bedroom window, she recalled how she finally became angry with him. It was very confusing, those last few minutes. She must have expected him to fight back, and in doing so divulge what was tormenting him. He did neither. Worse than afraid, he seemed defeated. His last words before he left the outbuilding were “I hope you can forgive me one day.” Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing off the stable walls as he walked up the alley to Ann Street.

She stopped often at the stable, looking for the pebble in the knothole. But the Egg wasn't there.

The knock at the door woke her and she had no idea how long she'd been asleep.

“Abigail?” her mother said.

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“May I come in?” Before Abigail could answer, the latch was lifted and the door opened. Her mother came into the room, closed the door behind her. “I—I'm sorry.” She couldn't look directly at Abigail.

“Come,” Abigail said, sitting and arranging the pillows. Moving with difficulty, her mother sat next to her on the bed. Abigail took her frail hand in hers. “Cold,” she said, rubbing the fingers.

“I must ask you,” her mother hesitated. “Benjamin, he's always been closest to you. Ever since you were small, he would cling to you.”

“I know. James was so much older, he was like a third parent. But Benjamin, he would often come and climb in bed with me at night, because of the cold or a storm.”

“I'm so—have you any …”

“What, Mother?”

“Is there anything you're not telling us?”

“About Benjamin?” For a moment Abigail wanted to chastise her mother for such a suggestion, but then she realized it would be neither fair nor true. “No,” she said. “I don't know anything.”

“He's been a courier, hasn't he?” Abigail said nothing but the answer was obvious, and her mother squeezed her hand. “I knew it, Abigail.”

“How did you know?”

Pulling her hand free of Abigail's, she said, “I am your mother, after all.” She carefully turned and slid her legs off the bed. Standing, she said, “I worry about you, the way you wander the streets. Boston's no longer a safe place for a young woman—”

“Would you have me locked away here in this house?”

Her mother didn't answer, but went to the door.

“I will find him,” Abigail said. “I will.”

Her mother paused, her hand on the door latch. “It's the not knowing that is so terrible. Please, do be careful.” She let herself out of the room.

VIII

Brothers in Arms

E
ZRA DETERMINED THAT HIS WOUND, THOUGH BLOODY, WAS
not serious. The musket ball had grazed his upper arm. He had removed the leather string from his hair and told Benjamin to tie it tightly above the wound, to slow the loss of blood. They walked back to Cambridge, arriving in the early evening. A camp was being established on the common, and the first few nights there was a great amount of revelry, followed by complete exhaustion. Each morning, when Benjamin awoke, he found himself among several thousand provincials, sleeping in the grass or makeshift tents and lean-tos. Being a doctor's apprentice, with surgical experience, Ezra was immediately put to work in the field hospital. There was little order in the camp, and food and water were scarce. Though there were some attempts at sharing among the men, there was more likely suspicion and not a little theft. Men bartered and traded. From one quarter of Cambridge Common there would be song and festivity, while from another it would be likely that fisticuffs would break out.

On Saturday, Benjamin was waiting outside the hospital tent when a hand suddenly gripped his shoulders. He turned and Dr. Warren said, “Ezra told me you and he were sharing a lean-to on the Common.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is much disease among the men. You are getting enough to eat?”

“Sometimes Ezra visits his mother in Concord and brings back victuals.”

“Very well. You stay close to him.”

There was something peculiar about Dr. Warren. One portion of his wavy blond hair stuck out from the side of his head as though it had been snipped away abruptly. He raised a hand and tried to smooth it back against his ear, but it only curled out again. “Something in the air yesterday,” he said with a smile.

“Sir?”

“Bullets.”

“You were …”

“Shorn. Not shot, shorn. Yet another reason why we must seek our liberty.” The doctor took Benjamin by the arm and guided him toward the shade of a maple tree. “I was quite concerned about you, Benjamin. You were instructed to return to my surgery and let me know if Mr. Dawes got through the gates at the Neck. What happened?”

Benjamin lowered his head.

“Were you detained?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

Dr. Warren didn't say anything, and when Benjamin raised his head the doctor was eyeing him with suspicion. “I think I should be quite upset with you,” he said. “You disobeyed an order.”

Benjamin nodded. “It seemed there'd be some fighting, and I wanted to make myself … useful, sir.”

Warren studied him a moment, and said sternly, “Forgiven, this once. But from now on, you do as I tell you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The doctor clutched Benjamin's shoulder as he nodded toward the Common. “There is hardly any semblance of order as yet, I know, but that will come. At this point no one knows really who is in command, what the orders are, and if there
are
orders they're not followed. There is much to the organization of an army that remains to be done.” The doctor's sleeves were rolled up and his pale forearms were spattered with blood. Suddenly, he sat on the ground, and gestured for Benjamin to do the same. He appeared weary, exhausted, but seemed relieved to take a moment in the shade of a tree. “I can remain only a moment, for I have duties to attend to. Now listen to me, Benjamin. There will be much confusion. If you need anything, you come to me—we are setting up offices in Hastings House.”

“Thank you, sir,” Benjamin said. “I was wondering … when I might go back.”

The doctor seemed not to understand, and then he said, “To Boston?”

“I can get across. Often I swim the Charles when the tide is right.”

“Listen to me.” Dr. Warren's eyes now seemed determined to hold Benjamin's attention. “I do not want you to attempt to get back into the city.” Then he seemed to reconsider. “At least not for now. You've been one of my most reliable runners, and there may be a time when I might need you to go into Boston—but not until I say so, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right now isn't the time. Dr. Church, much to our surprise, announced that he was returning and I expect that he's now being held in captivity. If he can get out of Boston, we're hoping he might bring some medical supplies. We're suffering a shortage of everything. And there's a great deal of illness developing among the men—no surprise under these conditions. I fear that it may reach epidemic proportions. Still, at the moment, it's safer for you here in Cambridge.”

“If I returned, the redcoats would not bother with me, I suspect,” Benjamin said. “Why did Dr. Church go back, if he knew he'd be captured?”

Dr. Warren smiled. It was the kind of smile Benjamin seemed to receive from adults all his life, one which that said that there are reasons and explanations for everything, and there is no point in your knowing them—you're too young.

“I don't understand,” Benjamin said.

Dr. Warren got to his feet. When Benjamin began to do so, the doctor halted him by placing a hand on his shoulder. “You ask a fair question, Benjamin. I'm not certain of the answer, really, though in Dr. Church's case it may have to do with a woman.” Now he appeared serious. “Do you have a girl, pining away for you in Boston?”

Benjamin felt caught and embarrassed, which only seemed to make Dr. Warren's stare even more indulgent.

“Does she have a name?”

“Mariah, sir.”

“I see.” The doctor pulled down on his waistcoat and tried once more, unsuccessfully, to tame the hair that stuck out from the side of his head. “Well, I suggest you keep your desires for Mariah in check, for the time being. You're both still quite young and will savor such sacrifice later.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. You stay close at hand here in Cambridge. That's an order. I will need runners.”

When Abigail entered North Square, she saw a carriage stopped before the Reveres' house. Two soldiers were standing guard outside the front door, and as she approached the stoop one of the redcoats, a boy still in his teens, held his bayoneted musket across the entryway.

“If you please, state your business.”

“My business is my own,” she said. “In this case, it's to visit the Reveres' house, obviously. What is the purpose of your visit, soldier?”

He seemed confused by her challenge, and after exchanging glances with the other young redcoat, he said, “You may knock.”

“I'm much obliged to you, sir, but that is my intention.”

Abigail tapped the brass knocker, forged by Paul Revere himself, against the weathered plank door. While she waited, she studied the boy's face, which was thin and pale and appeared malnourished. He remained at attention, staring straight ahead into the square, but she could tell that her inspection was making him uncomfortable.

“I'll wager that you miss your home,” she said at last. His eyelids fluttered and his cheeks became blotchy with color, but he was steadfast in his refusal to look at her. And after a moment she felt a pang of guilt, and said, “I beg your pardon. I'm sure you really do.”

The boy seemed about to look at her, but the door opened and Rachel stepped out on the threshold, her infant son cradled in one arm. “I'm glad you're here.”

“What's happened?” Abigail asked. “Why these guards?”

With her free hand Rachel took Abigail by the arm and drew her inside, kicking the door shut behind them. “We have word from Paul,” she said, guiding Abigail through the house.