The Schoolmaster's Daughter (23 page)

“I gather this is so,” Abigail said. “I was unconscious for most of the next two days.”

General Smythe leaned to his right and conferred with General Armbruster for a moment, while Samuel tried not to appear insulted. Finally, General Smythe looked past Abigail, toward the guard at the door. “Bring the two soldiers in.”

Abigail turned in her seat and watched as two Regulars marched in to the room. They were both younger than she, perhaps still in their teens. They approached the side of the table, and General Smythe said, “Miss Lovell, have you ever seen either of these soldiers before?”

“Not that I recall, General.”

“Well,” General Armbruster said. “This is Private Lodge and Private Dayton, and they have seen you. Private Lodge, tell us what happened up there on Trimount.”

He appeared to be the older of the two, had good military bearing, and he looked straight ahead as he spoke. “Sir, we was taking our constitutional on the Trimount when we comes across this woman. She was knocked out of her wits and quite bloodied, so me and Dayton carries her down the hill and soon enough some hag by the King's Chapel recognizes her and points to the house she lives at and we delivers her to the gentleman there, who we understand to be the master at the Latin School.”

General Smythe was about to speak, but Samuel placed a hand on his forearm, and then turned to Lodge. “Private, you took a constitutional on the Trimount?”

“Yes, sir,” Lodge said.

“Just you and Dayton.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn't meet anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“No assignation?”

“Sir?”

“You didn't arrange to meet anyone?” Samuel waited a moment, and then asked, “Do you and Dayton know a Molly Collins?” Lodge didn't answer. “Didn't you arrange to meet Molly Collins and another girl, named Eliza, on the Trimount?” Samuel waited again, but then spoke quite severely. “Private Lodge, I can have Molly Collins brought here to testify that you and Dayton have made such arrangements in the past, and that they were going to meet you that night on the Trimount, after dark. Am I correct, Private? You and Dayton went up there early with a flask and had a few nips in anticipation of your assignation with these two women, who, it is my understanding, have considerable reputations on the street.” Samuel leaned back in his chair, which creaked loudly, echoing off the high ceiling. “Well, Lodge?”

The private continued to stare straight ahead, but he did blink before he said, “Yes, sir. We know these women, they being familiar with a lot of the Regulars, you know? And we went up there … like you says.”

General Armbruster raised a hand off the table, but Samuel said, “All right, Private Lodge. Now, tell us what you heard up there.”

“Heard, sir?”

“Did you hear anything? A scream perhaps?”

“No,” Lodge said. “We didn't hear no scream.”

“Dayton,” Samuel said. “You hear any scream?”

“N-no, sir,” Dayton said.

“Miss Lovell here,” Samuel said. “She testified that she heard a scream. You were in the vicinity—how could you not hear it?”

“With all due respect,” General Smythe said. “We have two soldiers who claim they heard no scream, while this young woman—who was found covered in blood and was knocked unconscious—claims that she did.”

Samuel folded his hands in front of him, studying his knuckles with care. “Their word against hers, the daughter of Boston's most respected schoolmaster.”

“No slight intended,” Smythe said, glancing toward Abigail's father. “Miss Lovell claims she was knocked unconscious for two days. Perhaps she imagined—or even dreamed—that she heard a scream.”

“Miss Lovell's statement was clear enough, I think,” Samuel said, looking up from his hands. “Private Lodge, and Private Dayton, you both know Corporal Lumley?”

Lodge began to turn his head toward the table, but then looked straight ahead again.

“Yes, sir,” Dayton said. “We knows him.”

“Have you seen him lately?” Samuel asked.

“No, sir,” Dayton said. “He's …”

“Gone missing,” Samuel said. “Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Dayton said. “He's not been at parade drills and such.”

“Missing since the night all of you were on Trimount, the night that Sergeant Munroe was killed. Isn't it true that both men, Munroe and Lumley, walked street patrol together regularly? Isn't it true that on the night Munroe died, both men set out for Trimount not long before sunset? I have talked with other soldiers who claim that Munroe and Lumley were seen together in a tavern, and then they left together, heading in the direction of those hills, and no one has seen Lumley since. Isn't that so?”

Lodge cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. I have heard that among the men.”

“Soldiers do talk,” Samuel said, “and there has been talk about a row between Munroe and Lumley—are you aware of that?” Samuel didn't wait for a reply from Lodge or Dayton. “They argued over an incident which occurred recently in the North End. While on patrol, they came upon some suspicious behavior on the beach, and the result was that a fisherman was killed—by Munroe, is my understanding—and a boy was taken into custody for questioning.”

General Gage shifted in his chair so he could look over his shoulder and out the windows. Clearly, he was reluctant to be a direct participant in the proceedings.

“What boy was this?” General Armbruster asked.

“We don't know, sir,” Samuel said. “He wouldn't volunteer his name, and …”

“And?” Armbruster said.

“My understanding,” Samuel said, “is that the boy escaped custody.”

General Gage turned away from the windows and faced the officers, none of whom dared look at him.

Samuel said, “Thank you, Lodge and Dayton.”

After a moment, General Armbruster said, “That is all, men. Dismissed.”

The two privates left the room, and once the door was closed behind them Samuel said, “I would like to find Lumley … I would like to find that boy.”

“Well,” General Smythe said finally, and he began to get out of his chair.

But then he paused when General Gage beckoned toward the soldier at the door. He conferred with the soldier a moment, and then sat back, crossing his legs the other way. The soldier went around the table and whispered to General Smythe. When he was through, he returned to his position by the door.

General Smythe looked at Abigail and raised a hand toward his scalp. “That cloth, it's a fine red satin—”

“It's a turban,” Abigail said.

“Yes, a turban.” Smythe seemed embarrassed, but then he looked toward General Gage a moment, and said, “Would you be so kind as to remove it for us?”

Abigail's father shifted in his chair, but she said, “Not at all, General.”

She was keenly aware of the men watching her as she raised her arms and untied the knot at the back of her head. When she unwound the turban, her hair fell down to her shoulders and over her face. With one hand, she drew the veil of hair aside, and turned toward General Gage so that he could see the gash that ran at an angle from her forehead up into her scalp. There was something unnerving and even intimate in the way General Gage looked at her wound. But then he seemed to have come to a decision and he got to his feet, causing the three officers to also rise. He bowed slightly toward Abigail, almost as a gesture of apology, and then he went to the door, which the guard opened for him.

No one moved as they listened to the general's boots in the lobby. Neither Smythe or Armbruster would look at Abigail, and Samuel only ventured a brief glance, which seemed difficult to decipher—he appeared disappointed, even concerned.

Father got to his feet then, rapping his cane on the floor to get the officers' attention. “I would like to know what conclusion you draw from this inquiry.”

All three officers stared at him, though after a moment Samuel lowered his eyes. Smythe, who seemed perturbed that the question had been asked, said, “This inquiry is ended, for the time being. And we have not come to a conclusion.” Louder, he said, “There is as yet no conclusion.”

They began to arrive shortly after sunset, when the western sky was still light. Mariah was at first confused, but by the time it was dark, there were hundreds of people crowded into the narrow lane in front of the house. There were fishermen and their families who knew Anse Cole, but word had worked its way through the neighborhoods of Boston and by ten o'clock a crowd extended all the way down to the beach at the end of the lane. Six relatives, lobstermen and clam-diggers all, hoisted Anse Cole's shrouded body on to their shoulders and made their way down the lane behind the Reverend Whitman, while Mariah and the womenfolk in the family, children in hand, followed behind. As they proceeded, the crowd parted silently, faces glistening in the light from lanterns. As the procession moved down to the beach, Benjamin fell in toward the rear, his hat pulled low over his eyes, relying heavily on his crutch.

At the cove they were met by a patrol, two Regulars, who after an extended discussion with the Reverend Whitman, stood aside as Anse Cole's body was placed inside his dory and rowed out into the harbor, accompanied by several other boats, bearing Mariah and her immediate relatives. Hymns were sung, prayers recited.

More soldiers soon appeared on the beach, led by an officer on horseback. Despite his warnings, the crowd would not disperse. Eventually, he ordered his men to form a line and take aim, but when the Reverend Whitman stepped to the front of the crowd and by lantern light recited the seventh Pslam—
“Let the enemy persecute my soul, and take it!”
—the officer elected to withdraw his men farther down the beach.

XIII

Coiled Rope

T
HIS TIME IT WAS YOUNG
P
AUL
R
EVERE WHO APPEARED IN THE
dooryard, requesting that Abigail accompany him to North Square. Rachel sat knitting on the front step, watching the children as they played in the square. Paul was a solidly built adolescent who favored his father and said he had to get back to work and went inside the house.

“He will take over the shop,” Rachel said, gazing out at the square.

“You're going to leave Boston.”

Rachel sighed. “We have obtained an evacuation pass, yes.”

“Perhaps it's best.”

“It's getting worse by the day. Food is very scarce—it's even difficult to get fish, now that there are restrictions on boats venturing into the harbor.” Rachel pointed to the North Church, which was across the square. “They're going to tear it down. Fuel. It's May, and the weather has finally turned warm, but they're already planning for the winter. But it's not just fuel, it's a form of retribution, this tearing-down business. There's talk that they're going to cut down the trees in the Mall.”

“I had heard that, but it just seems unbelievable.”

“And Old South.”

“Rachel, Old South? They can't tear
that
down.”

“They're not. But they've cleared out the pews and covered the floor with dirt so that officers can exercise their horses, regardless of the weather. Old South—there's not a church, nay, a building that has greater importance to Bostonians.” She glanced at Abigail, the red silk turban about her head. “Very stylish, really, most exotic.” She smiled, if only briefly. “How are you getting on?”

“Better. Every day I walk more. But I will have to wear turbans for months until my hair grows back—caps and bonnets don't conceal the awful space in my scalp.”

A carriage entered the square and stopped at a house a few doors down from the Revere's. A footman opened the door and an officer stepped out; he looked about briefly and then entered the house.

“Major Pitcairn is billeted there,” Rachel said. “Some evenings he has sweets sent out to the street. Can't catch their fathers, so he kills the children with kindness.” She had been knitting, but her needles lay in her lap, idle.

“Rachel, what? You're worried about leaving, I know, but—”

“I've been thinking about Dr. Church lately.” She stared at Abigail for a long moment. “You delivered the money I intended for Paul to him?”

“Of course.”

Rachel nodded.

“Why? Have you heard from Paul?”

“One letter has been smuggled in, encouraging me to bring his mother and the children out, and his sisters too, though I think they plan to remain here.” Rachel looked out at the children, who were crouched about a frog, prodding it with a stick and cheering each time it leaped forward in the dirt. “But there's so much talk, and, believe me, I hear it, rumor and speculation, and then … there's what you don't hear.” A fly bobbed in front of her face, which she shooed away with her hand. “Mary Burke lives just down Moon Lane there, and I heard that that her husband Matthew got word to her. He was in Cambridge, but now he's encamped with the troops in Charlestown. He got word across the harbor by the ferry boat, and it sounds like they're marching constantly and burning those bonfires we see on the hills at night—it's all an effort to make their force seem more impressive. So I go by Mary's yesterday and ask if Matthew had any word about Paul—they being good friends and all. And she says yes, Matthew has seen Paul several times, and she even said that Paul told Matthew that he wanted to get word across that he wanted me to be informed that he was well.”

“That is good news,” Abigail said. Rachel stared at her again. “But there's been no mention of the money you sent out—either in Paul's letter or from Mary?”

“Exactly.”

“There must be an explanation.”

“Yes, I suppose there is.”

“I delivered your letter and the money to Dr. Church.”

“I know you did.”