The Schoolmaster's Daughter (19 page)

“You're only wasting it on me, Mother,” he said. “On me, and on Abigail.”

Their mother put down the teapot, adjusting the cozy, which she had knitted while recuperating from her illness during the winter. “Jemmy, you sit at this table so seldom now, I wish you would—” She stopped abruptly, looking at her husband, who put his cup of tea in its saucer with a loud clatter.

“It is a question of honor, you think?” he said. “Abigail doesn't drink tea in our house, and yet I have no doubt that every time she runs off to visit with the second Mrs. Paul Revere she imbibes all the contraband tea that woman offers.” He stared at James, his eyes protuberant beneath his bushy eyebrows—the same close inspection he'd bestowed upon his students for years. “You, on the other hand, don't visit the Revere house to drink tea, though I understand you often write letters to her husband, wherever he may be, out there riding through the country, stirring up revolution.”

Before James could answer, his mother said, kindly, “Tea gives you strength, dear.”

James smiled across the table at Abigail. His face was narrow and pallid, and there was no joy in his eyes. “The king's tea does not ‘give strength.' Besides, I was strong enough to venture here this morning.”

“I suspect you're going to leave Boston,” his father said. “You're going to take your wife and children and flee to the hills with the rest of the … patriots.” Father looked down the table at his wife, “You see what is happening in this city, my dear? Thousands of ‘patriots' have packed up and left, granted safe passage by General Gage—something
we
negotiated as a matter of decency and honor—”

“And at the same time,” James said, “Tories are being allowed to pass safely into Boston. But that is not, on the part of the provincial government, an act of decency and honor?”

Father smiled; he enjoyed a good debate at the dinner table, though there was weariness and perhaps even sorrow in his voice. “There most certainly is a difference,” he said. “If these loyal subjects remained out in the country, they'd come to harm, no doubt. You've heard the stories—you can't deny them. It's a rabble out there. Mobs have destroyed property, burned houses, tarred and feathered innocent souls, have committed the most heinous acts of indecency.”

James adjusted his wig, and then proceeded to butter his biscuit, as though he hadn't heard what his father had just said. This was, at times, their only, best weapon: silence.

“The behavior of some redcoats,” Abigail said, “has not exactly been civil.”

“True, on occasion,” her father said. “And when there have been transgressions the generals have taken swift disciplinary action. This situation is too much for one man. Aided by generals Howe, Burgoyne, and Clinton, General Gage will soon have this situation under control. See, one of the many failures on the part of the patriots is that they all think that the king is lazy and daft, and that his advisors in London are all in favor of rebellion.
Hardly
. The British are by and large informed by the love of God and an appreciation of the virtues of common sense.” He inserted the last of his biscuit into his mouth and chewed with obvious satisfaction.

Abigail kept her hands folded in her lap. She didn't want this to go any further. It was bad enough that she had to endure such conversations each morning (while she practically went hungry as a meager form of protest), but now, with James present at table, she feared this amiable discussion would turn into an argument that would only result in her mother retreating to her bedroom, feeling poorly for the remainder of the day.

But James placed both elbows on the table and leaned forward until his face nearly touched his joined hands. “Father,” he said patiently, “can you not see what is happening to Boston? To all of New England? Thousands of patriotic Bostonians have fled the city, while at the same time thousands of Tories have entered it, many taking up residence in houses that have been abandoned.” His father was about to speak, but James turned one palm toward him, begging to continue. “You know it's true. No matter what the generals' official policy is—and I grant you that in some ways Gage has acted as a true gentleman—some of these Tories are inhabiting houses left by their rightful owners. Others—and this is of greater concern—are being used by soldiers.”

“The men require billeting,” Father said. “And it is our responsibility to provide for them. After all, they do us a great service.”

“I wouldn't call it a
service,”
James said. “The fact is, between the redcoats and the Tories, we are now outnumbered about three to one, by some estimates.”

Father smiled. “Which, I submit, is consistent with the sentiment throughout the colonies—easily three out of four are loyal to His Majesty.”

“I would venture that a good number of colonists are hesitant to take sides,” James said. “Some, I understand, in anticipation of hostilities, have begun to flee.”

“Quite,” his father said. “Even the general's lovely wife has fled.”

“She was sent,” Abigail said. “Sent to England by her husband, the gentleman.”

“Yes, a wise precaution,” Father said. “Perhaps she can write letters to you, James, informing you of the weather in London?”

“She's the victim of rumor and speculation, nothing more,” James said.

“She couldn't hide her true sentiments,” Father said, and then he laughed. “Not beneath those … Turkish
turbans.”

When no one joined him, he stopped laughing abruptly. He leaned toward his son and said,
“If you
leave Boston, you might find the odds more to your liking out
there
—in Dorchester and Cambridge and Charlestown, where they have this city you claim to love so much sur
round
ed.”

“He's not going anywhere,” Mother said. “Not in his condition, and not with another child on the way.”

James considered her a moment, his eyes softening. “No, I'm not leaving for the country, Mother. Though I would if I could.”

“Better to stay here,” his father said, “and compose your secret missives.”

James lowered his hands to the table.

“Sympathetic ink,” his father muttered.

James only stared at Abigail.

“Informers, you realize,” his father said, “commit acts of treason.”

“Action not taken lightly,” James said. “Taken after much careful consideration.”

“Of what?”

“Years of injustice.”

His father mumbled something in Latin. Abigail caught the word
officium
—duty.

“You know, for years—ever since I can remember—we've sat at this table and voiced our differences, with passion and well-churned butter.” James smiled at Abigail. “But it wasn't until just now that I understood that when Father begins to spout in Latin he realizes that his argument is weak. When I was a boy, he could wield Latin—and Greek, and French—”

“Moi!”
his father said. “No!”

“But it was always an act of desperation, a debater's ploy.”

“I only heed the word of God,” Father announced, “and seek the light of truth.”

“School's out,” James said. “We converse only in English now.”

“I agree, James,” Father said. “And, sadly, we can't understand each other at all.”

For a moment, no one spoke, no one moved, and then James got up from the table, leaned toward his mother, kissed her on the forehead. As he walked out of the dining room, Father stared down at his tea cup. They listened to James close the front door behind him.

“You see how gingerly he walks?” Mother said. “Can't you see he's ill?”

“I know,” Father said.

“We've one son missing and the other—”

“Lost,” Father said. “Missing and lost. It aggrieves me terribly.” He considered Abigail for a moment. “But you, dear, are still with us.”

Abigail looked down at her untouched cup of tea.

“See, Mother?” he said with sudden delight. “See how our pretty girl
blushes?”

Abigail got up from her chair. “Thank you, Mother, but if you'll excuse me.”

“She has a
beau,”
her father said in a proud whisper.

As she left the room, Abigail hesitated, but then continued out into the hall.

Her father said, louder, “An officer and a gentleman, he is, too!”

She collected her shawl and bolted from the house.

At first she considered following James home. But to do what? Commiserate? Weep? Drink some contraband tea and rail against their mercurial father? As long as she could remember, there had been such encounters, often at table. Countless meals ruined. As children they fled, yelling, screaming, in tears, and in that there was some sweet release, whereas now her anger seemed to boil inside, and Abigail realized that the only comfort was walking.

So she walked, swiftly, gazing at the ground before her. Packed earth and cobblestones. When she did look up, what she saw, despite the fact that it was a sunny morning, with the faintest sea breeze cooling the air, was truly a different city—much changed from just a few weeks ago. Bostonians didn't look at each other in the street the way they used to; there was something furtive and distrustful about how they regarded each other in passing. Tories tended not to look directly at anyone, their haughty gaze averted (Abigail was certain she could tell which ones were newly arrived from the country), and those who sympathized with the patriots now looked beleaguered, fearful.

The military presence had changed as well. For years the sight of redcoats was all too common, but now that Boston was in a state of siege there were more patrols, more marching drills (the beat of the drum so frequent, beckoning from different neighborhoods, that she only took notice when the distant rattle ceased). There was a greater exercise of British authority. They now treated the peninsula not so much a city as a fortress. Indeed, they were building a massive redoubt on Copp's Hill, its earthen walls facing Charlestown, and at the Neck the gate was being substantially fortified. There was among the soldiers an alertness that had not existed before, which resulted in encounters with the natives that were often formal and stern.

Natives:
this was the word Samuel used in his last letter, as though he were reporting from some remote, exotic island in the South Pacific. He had written to Abigail often over the past few weeks. Days would pass when he was too occupied and could not see her. Happily, he said, the command once again, after the disastrous expedition to Lexington and Concord, fully appreciated the role of artillery, thus he had been deeply involved in the fortifications at both the Neck and Copp's Hill. But the letters (always delivered by a young Regular) sometimes lamented the dullness and routine of his days, as well as the fact that he was unable to see her more frequently; other letters tended to reminisce about home, particularly his family's country estate in Surrey.
What I would give to walk those fields now, to show you the gentle contour of the land
. And there were moments recently when Abigail dwelt on such a possibility, and this was an occupation of another sort: an invasion of the mind by daydreams, stupid daydreams. Life in Boston, never easy, was getting harder by the day. By contrast Surrey, where Abigail imagined green hillocks dotted with grazing sheep, and a house maintained by a fleet of servants, offered images that were too rich for a colonial schoolmaster's daughter. But then there was Margaret Kemble, Pennsylvania-born, who became Mrs. Thomas Gage, and who, for whatever reasons, whatever transgressions, had been put on board ship, bound for the safe, distant shores of England.

And when Samuel did get away from his duties for an evening there was now something different about how they talked. There was restraint, and there was tenderness, of course; but there was also a sense of urgency, and before parting they would find some place to be absolutely alone, invisible except to each other. She welcomed his hands, how they seemed to shape her, remake her, while they kissed and burrowed into each other. It was always swift, febrile, and then it was over and she was alone again. The last time she had seen him, they had strolled at dusk beneath the trees along the Mall, before she was driven home in a closed carriage. They clung to each other as the vehicle jounced through the streets, and just as they arrived in front of her house he talked frantically about a room, how he could acquire a room. She said nothing, but alighted and rushed inside.

Now Abigail found herself climbing the slope of Trimount. Alone. Soon the city began to spread out beneath her, punctuated by church spires, with an apron of blue water extending from her jagged shores. The harbor was speckled with patrol ships, with patrol boats, the sails of fishing smacks.

She paused to sit on a rock at a turn in the path and looked down at the deep, angular trench that had been dug into the side of Copp's Hill. The sounds of labor—hammers, saws, the clap of boards—came up to her, and almost seemed to soothe the anger she had brought away from the house. More walking, more climbing was required, she thought, but as she stood up she looked back down the path, and there she saw red.

Corporal Lumley. Again.

Looking up the path, she realized that in her fury she had failed to take into account that here on Trimount she would be very much alone. Turning, she watched him climb the path. He made no attempt to hide this time.

And she started back down the hill, long, determined strides that caused him to stop and watch her approach with a combination of fear and relief. He appeared winded, his face flushed, his damp hair plastered to his high forehead.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

“I've been—” He took a deep breath. “Following you.”

“I
know
that.”

“You, you set a good pace.”