The Schoolmaster's Daughter (22 page)

Benjamin was awakened by footsteps on the stairs. He sat up on the straw bedding, a sense of alarm coursing through his veins. There were two pairs of boots coming across the loft toward the room, one heavy and slow, the other lighter, swifter. He looked at the open window, the night sky above the harbor. If he was found out, if they were redcoats come to arrest him, he would not endure such an interrogation again.

Jump.

He would: a swift fall into a graveyard, where they would not be able to beat information out of him. Names. Troop strength. Plans for deployment. Things he heard while acting as courier in Cambridge. The dead don't tell secrets.

He moved toward the window, the pain in his knee such that he rested a haunch on the windowsill, and then he faced the door.

The door swung open. Obadiah stepped into the room. He was not wearing his key ring and he was followed by his son Ezekiel. “My boy has been to the North End,” Obadiah said. “We have much news.”

Benjamin inhaled deeply, surprised by the smell of fish. The boy walked toward him, carrying a pail covered with a white cloth. “Haddock?”

“And bread and potatoes,” Ezekiel said, handing him the pail.

Benjamin removed the cloth and heat rose up, warming his face. “Thank you, Ezekiel, and thank your mother for me.” Then, looking at Obadiah, he said, “What news?”

“Eat.” Obadiah leaned against the door jamb and slid down the wall until he was resting on his heels. As he draped his arms over his knees, he said, “There's been a murder—two, actually: one Bostonian and one redcoat. And I'm not sure it's safe for you to stay here any longer.”

XII

The Seventh Psalm

L
IGHT, PIERCING LIGHT, AND BRIEF SPIKES OF CONSCIOUSNESS
parted her dream:
a dory in the harbor beneath a mackerel sky, with Benjamin laughing as he hauls in one mackerel after another, and the countryside
—
Surrey, England?
—
smells of sweet grass, moist air, grazing sheep, where Mrs. Margaret Kemble Gage carefully wraps her hair in a red silk turban saying One day we must travel to Constantinople together, leave our husbands and children behind, just you and I, and in the distance there is a hunting party, red coats, black helmets, the horses snorting with the effort of the chase, while in the woods beyond the yelping of the hounds, as Mother feeds her fish chowder and Father sits by the window in her room, his book open, mumbling in Latin, until Samuel dismounts his horse, his white jodhpurs and polished riding boots spattered with fox blood
.

Whose blood?

When Dr. Phelan unwound the bandage, she saw the red-soaked linen just before he dropped it into the pan on the floor. “This is a terrible gash,” he said. “I suspect you have quite the headache.” Turning to Mother and Father, he said, “But it appears her fever's passed.”

Her head felt as though it had been split open just above the left eye. She laid back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

Ezra's hand cupped the side of her face briefly, and then he went to the doorway, where he paused a moment before leaving the outbuilding … She watched him walk up the alley and disappear around the corner of the stable. His footsteps grew faint, moving down Ann Street to the footbridge, and when he reached the other side of the canal there was only silence
.

It was Dr. Phelan, his fingers touching her cheek, smelling of tobacco, and he whispered, “More rest and you'll be fine, though I hope you won't go knocking this pretty skull against any more trees.”

The redcoats want to cut down the trees
.

He didn't seem to hear that, and he said, “Hard as wood, her noggin is.”

They plan to clear-cut the Mall, leaving only the Great Elm in the Common for hangings
.

And all the churches, too. For fuel
.

Paul Revere's mother says they will level Boston
.

But none of them seemed to hear her, and Mother opened the bedroom door for Dr. Phelan, while Father sat again in the chair by window, his eyes large with worry before he resumed reading his Latin.

Samuel's coat was red. He too looked worried, though he smiled down at her.

“Finally,” he whispered, “I have you alone in bed.”

She looked toward the window, expecting to see her father there, his face flushed at such impertinence, but the chair was empty.

“I believe I ran into a tree,” she said weakly.

“Yes, and you have given everyone a fright,” Samuel said.

“It was dark. There was a scream.”

His smile could not hold. Concern flooded his eyes. “There was, I'm sure.”

“Do you know what happened?”

He seemed to consider how to respond for too long. “Don't you know?”

She moved her head from side to side, gently. Something behind her forehead drifted, dislodged, a yoke inside an egg. She touched the bandage above her ear. “It's too tight.”

His hand caught hers. “Best to leave it. Doctor's orders. Besides … in time it will grow back.”

“What will?”

“Your hair. I'm afraid that in order to clean the wound, the doctor had to cut away a portion of your lovely hair, here in front, above your left eye. I must say you had us worried there.”

“How long?”

“Two days.” He held her hand on the counterpane. “Listen to me now. There are going to be inquiries, of course. And the rumors—what were you doing up there?”

“On Trimount?”

“Yes. It's no place for you to go.”

“I was walking. Am I not allowed to go for a walk?”

“But you do understand what goes on up there.”

“Your soldiers go there, seeking … services. Perhaps you should place restrictions.”

“We have, for now.” He straightened up, his eyes averted; he was thinking of something else. “It's strictly off limits until we determine what happened to Munroe.”

“Munroe? Sergeant Munroe?” Samuel nodded. “What happened to him?”

“We don't know for certain who killed him.”

“On Trimount—that was his scream?”

“I imagine so. I suppose one might scream as his throat is being cut.”

“But who? What rumors?”

He turned and glanced toward the closed door. “It was kind of your parents to let me visit with you, though we'll be alone only a few minutes.” Looking back down at her he said urgently, “You remember nothing?”

Again, she shook her head slowly. The pain was dull, heavy, left side, then right.

“You were found up there, beneath a tree, covered with blood. Yours, certainly, though there is speculation—but there was no weapon, no knife, or whatever was used to kill Munroe. You didn't see him up there?”

She remembered then: Lumley and the cave. Talking about his defection. “No, I didn't see Munroe.”

He stared at her.

“Who found me?”

“Two soldiers. They carried you down the hill.”

“What were their names?”

“I'm not sure—”

“It wasn't Corporal Lumley? He often patrolled the streets with Munroe.”

“Lumley? No … but he's been reported missing, which is curious.” There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and he turned toward the door again. “Listen, I must be off.”

“What happens now?”

“You rest.”

“But you mentioned inquiries.”

“Yes,” he said. “They will be necessary for you to be cleared.”

“Cleared?”

“A soldier has been murdered, so there must be an inquiry, and … and you were found close by, covered in blood. They wanted you to appear at Province House, but I said I'd heard you weren't well enough.”

“When?”

“Soon. They offered to come here.”

“Who did?”

“The officers conducting the inquiry.”

“You are one of them?”

“Yes.”

She sat up in bed. “Not here. I will go there. The sooner the better. Today.”

“Today? Are you sure you're capable?” She nodded. There were footsteps outside the door and Samuel got to his feet hastily. “Then you must rest. That's what's important now—that you get well.”

The door opened, and her mother entered with a tray. “I thought a little chicken broth. You've hardly eaten a thing in two days.”

Obadiah arranged it. Though Benjamin still had great difficulty walking, even with his crutch, he was taken down on the lift and placed in a tool crate in the back of a wagon. The ride was jarring, the air inside the crate stifling, smelling of corn. But then he was let out and in the North End, and he worked his way through the lanes and alleys down to the waterside, until he came to Anse Cole's house.

The front door was draped with black ribbon. He knocked with his crutch, and after a moment he heard footsteps on the pine floorboards. When the door opened, Mariah looked out, squinting against the light. Sorrowful, weary eyes, red from crying, but then she flung her arms about his neck and pressed herself against him, pulling him back into the house. She wept as she clung to him, deep convulsions of grief surging up from her chest.

And then they separated, embarrassed. She rubbed her long, thin hands on the front of her skirt. “Thank God you're all right,” she said.

“Your father, what happened? That soldier with the rifle killed him?”

She nodded. “Come, look.”

It was a small house, built around a central chimney. Benjamin's crutch knocked loudly on the pine floorboards. Anse Cole's body, wrapped in old sailcloth, which was stitched with heavy thread, lay on a pallet before the stone fireplace.

“The Brits won't let us take him out into the harbor,” she said, “and I'll not have him buried in the ground. He was insistent that he be buried at sea, like we did when my mother died.”

The air was close; there was a smell. “He can't stay here much longer, Mariah.”

“They've restricted all boats on the harbor now. Permits are required, and of course you have to pay dearly for them. There are patrols along the beaches. They shot at Myles Lapham when they saw him rowing out to the marshes, and they've put holes in a good many of the boats down in the cove there.”

She left the room and he followed her through the kitchen and out the back door, where they sat on the steps. “I heard you were interrogated, but then you escaped. They hurt you bad, did they not?”

“I'll be all right.”

“Your face, Benjamin.” She touched his cheek, gently. “Are you hiding?”

He looked across the dooryard toward the alley. “I am.”

“Then we shouldn't remain outside, not in the daylight.” She got to her feet and helped him up, and they entered the house, with her arm about his waist.

“But … the air in here, Mariah. We must do something soon.”

“Tonight,” she said as she eased him into a chair at the kitchen table. “Relatives, neighbors, they're all coming and we will get him in the water tonight, while the tide's falling. In the meantime, you can rest. You look like you haven't eaten in—I'll make some chowder.” She began to move away from him, toward the fireplace, but she came back and began to sit in his lap, which made him wince. “Oh, your poor knee, I'm sorry.” Standing, she gathered his head in her arms as she wept uncontrollably.

Abigail's father accompanied her to Province House, and they were admitted to the room at the end of the lobby. It was a chamber where official business was conducted, a place where a woman was seldom allowed. Seated behind a long table were three British officers, the youngest of them Samuel Cleaveland. The other two were of her father's generation, and they greeted him warmly. They were extremely cordial toward Abigail, asking her to sit in a fine polished chair in front of them. The two older officers, General Smythe and General Armbruster, maintained the blank, noncommittal expression of judges. Samuel, leaning back, with one arm draped over the back of his chair, appeared disinterested. Then the door behind Abigail was opened by the guard and everyone stood up as General Gage entered, taking a seat to Abigail's left; he was tall and elegant, and he crossed his legs.

“Carry on, please,” he said. “I'm merely here as an observer.”

“Then we will begin,” General Smythe said. He had a long face and thin, loose jowls. “Miss Lovell, if you please, why did you climb up Trimount two nights ago?”

“For the exercise, General.”

“The exercise? Were you accompanied by anyone?”

“No.”

“A woman, alone on Trimount, at night? Were you not afraid to go up there?”

“I am Boston born and bred, General. I have never felt any reluctance or hesitation to walk anywhere in this city.”

General Armbruster's plump cheeks were shiny as a russet apple, and he kept working his tongue into the left side of his mouth as though trying to dislodge something from between his teeth. “A woman of your breeding—” he glanced deferentially toward Abigail's father—“should know that walking up Trimount is simply not the proper thing to do.”

Abigail's father stirred in his chair, preparing to speak, but she turned to him and said quietly, “That does not deserve a response, Father.” At first he looked as though he were determined to argue the point—with her, she imagined—but then he sat back, folding his hands over the silver knob of his cane, looking discontented.

Samuel leaned forward in his chair, placing both elbows on the table. “You acknowledge that you were there on the Trimount, Miss Lovell, so please tell us what you observed.”

“It wasn't much, Colonel,” she said. “I was starting my descent as it was nearly dark, when I heard a scream. Then there were running footsteps coming down the path toward me, and as I attempted to get out of the way I struck a tree branch with my head.”

“The blow was sufficient to knock you unconscious,” Samuel said. “And there was much blood.”