The Schoolmaster's Daughter (27 page)

That night, Benjamin and Lumley departed as well. It happened very fast. No time for lingering goodbyes, for hugs and kisses. Abigail and Mariah huddled together at the end of the pier, watching as Benjamin and Lumley boarded the oyster boat. Molly Collins stood a ways behind them, reeking of perfume and liquor. Quickly, the boat moved out into the harbor as the oysterman and his son pulled on their oars, while Benjamin and Lumley lay down out of sight. It was a night where the overcast sky appeared to be smoke rising up off the black water, and the boat soon vanished in the dark.

“So, did you give your boy a fondling farewell?” Molly said.

Mariah glared at her but said nothing.

“Most likely that's the last you'll see of 'im, so I hopes you did. We gave old Lum a fine sendoff, me and Eliza did. A good rogering, that's what they needs with this fighting that's a-coming. Takes their mind off of the dying.”

Mariah turned around again, but Abigail put a hand on her arm.

“That's what they wants, don't matter which side they're on, ye know? A right hard fuck. Them British chaps, they like a good mouth on a girl, too. Lum couldn't get enough of that, no. He tells me it's on account of their red coats, and they don't want to get nothin' on 'em.” Molly laughed loudly.

Abigail and Mariah looked once more toward where the boat had disappeared into the night, and then started back along the pier.

Molly clutched her shawl about her shoulders. “Ain't it so, Mistress Lovell?”

They walked past her.

“Ain't
your
officer careful of his fine red coat?”

Abigail stopped and resisted Mariah's hand, which now clutched her arm, urging her to continue on and ignore Molly's indecent taunts.

“Well, then maybe you don't know what he likes.” Molly snorted. “I kin tell ye, if you want. Save ye lots of trouble, it will. See, ye know a man's wants, and you kin own 'im.”

Abigail turned around and faced her.

“I see ye,” Molly said, delighted. “The colonel walking out of an evening with his schoolmaster's daughter, all fine and lovely she is, but where do ye think he goes when he wants to get himself done right and proper, like? Huh? Eliza and me, we do him good, but I think, ye know, he always kind of fancies me more. Something about Eliza being a bit too plump for his taste. And, ye know, I have the mouth.”

Abigail felt weak suddenly, and she realized Mariah's hand was holding her upper arm, helping her keep her balance. She began to turn away, to walk off the pier, but then Molly laughed.

“That's what he says, ye know, I give the best suck in Boston.”

Abigail pulled her arm free from Mariah's grip, went back to Molly, and pushed her, so hard that she staggered backwards and then fell off the pier, landing in the harbor with a great splash.

Molly struggled to get up—she was standing in about four feet of water—and, looking at Abigail through matted hair, she began to laugh again. “I know about the both of ye! You was up on Trimount that night.” She peeled the shawl off of her neck. “I
seen
you! And I know what you was up'tah.
I seen you!”

Mariah took Abigail by the arm again, and together they hurried off the pier.

The following afternoon, Benjamin and Lumley were shown in to Dr. Warren's office in Hastings House.

“I'm glad you're safe.” Dr. Warren shook Benjamin's hand and gripped his shoulder—an unusual show of affection. “I'm told that you've had quite an ordeal.”

During their journey from Charlestown to Cambridge, both Benjamin and Lumley had been required to repeat their stories to various officers, most skeptical at best, though eventually they would be sent on with an escort.

“My brother asked me to deliver these to you.” Ben took the packet of letters from his coat pocket and handed them to Warren.

Dr. Church, who had been sitting on the broad windowsill, now crossed the room, staring at Lumley. “And you're the deserter.”

Lumley only stared at Church, dumbfounded. Odd, Benjamin thought, because during their trip out of Boston the man rarely shut up. “I am here to assist in your cause, however I can,” Lumley said finally.

Warren placed the letters on his desk. “Yes. Well, we've been getting a fair number of redcoats coming across, and we certainly can use more help. But I understand you have information that might be particularly useful.”

Lumley still seemed reluctant to speak.

“So?” Dr. Church said.

“The food shortage in Boston is becoming dire,” Lumley said, looking at Warren. “General Gage is planning raids on the islands in the harbor, to procure livestock and hay.”

Church said, “It would help if—”

“I don't know exactly when,” Lumley said, “but soon. They are awaiting reinforcements from England. When they arrive, Gage will begin plans to penetrate the countryside.”

Church went to the desk and picked up the letters. “Coming from James Lovell, these will no doubt be difficult to decipher. I should take them downstairs and have our men begin work on them immediately.”

Warren nodded without looking away from Lumley. When Church reached the door, he said, “I'll see if they can find something for these two to eat. They looked rather famished.”

“Of course.”

Lumley watched Dr. Church open the door and leave the room, and then he turned to Dr. Warren. “I've seen him, sir, many times, at Province House.”

“Dr. Church?” Warren asked.

“While on guard duty there, yes.”

“He has been back to Boston since Lexington and Concord,” Warren said. “We know he was picked up and questioned.”

“Sir, he would arrive in a fine carriage.” Lumley was speaking rapidly now. “More like an honored guest of the general.”

Warren clasped his hands behind his back and walked over to the desk. “I'd like to speak with Benjamin a moment. You go on downstairs, and after you've had something to eat you'll be assigned to a company.”

“Yes, sir,” Lumley said. He walked to the door, opened it, but then looked back at Benjamin. “Thanks to you—and your brother and sister—for getting me out of that wretched city.”

Benjamin nodded, and then Lumley went out of the room, closing the door behind him. Warren sat at his desk and seemed preoccupied with the papers before him. “How was he?”

“Nipping at a bottle as we crossed the harbor in an oyster boat. He prefers dry land.”

Warren looked up from papers. “You think he's genuine?”

“Well.” Benjamin had to look away from Warren's gaze. “I suspect he is. What he says about Dr. Church is rather odd. I mean, he just got here and all. Why would he make up something like that? Wouldn't he just try and fit in?”

Dr. Warren was a man famous for his manners and his eloquence, yet now he maintained a silence that made Benjamin nervous. When he ventured to look at the doctor again, Warren merely nodded. “Go get yourself something to eat.” As Benjamin went and opened the door, Warren said, “And rest. I notice that you're walking with a limp. I want you to remain close at hand—you stay here in Hastings House—because I will want you to run messages for me.”

“Sir, if I may say so …” Warren suddenly looked impatient. “I'd like to fight.”

“I understand, and no doubt that will all come in time. But for the moment I need a good runner, so you should rest. Besides, I may have to send you back.”

“To Boston?”

“Eventually.” He smiled. “You still possess a talent for slipping in and out of the city. And even when captured, they don't have a prison that can hold you.”

XVI

Bold Suggestions

F
OR DAYS,
A
BIGAIL REFUSED TO SEE
S
AMUEL WHEN HE CALLED
at the house. Her mother and father were baffled and eventually overwrought from making up excuses to the colonel. Finally, he stopped coming.

She spent much of her time in her room, which was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as May proved to be a warm month. Rachel was gone, Benjamin was gone. Occasionally she visited James, and regularly she would go to Mariah's house, usually after supper, when the day's heat was diminishing. Mariah was herself often distracted, but she seemed to welcome Abigail's visits.

“You've heard nothing from Benjamin?” she said one night as they walked the beach below her house.

“Nothing.” It was dusk. They had their shoes off and held their skirts up so that the hems wouldn't trail in the wet sand. “I look forward to this all day,” Abigail said.

“I know. This heat.” Mariah stared down at her bare feet and avoided broken shells in her path. “My cousins, they have suggested that I evacuate, but I'm not going to. They want me to go up to an aunt's in New Hampshire—Concord, which is so far inland. At least we get some relief from the heat down here at waterside.” She stopped and picked up a shell, and then another; wading out into the water, she rinsed them off and deposited them in the sack she always carried over her shoulder during their walks. “I don't know how I'm to live, nor do they. There's little food. Right after father died, they brought food around, but now it's so scarce. I comb the beaches and sometimes find something, usually a bunch of mussels clinging to a rock. Yesterday I found a bracelet and sold it in Dock Square.” She walked on, coming back up to the sand. “I think some relatives really want to get the house—they have families and … and I suppose it's selfish of me to live there all alone. But it is my house.”

“Of course.” Abigail picked up a conch; it wasn't broken and had a dark purple streak emerging from its smooth interior. “This one?”

“Yes, I think so.” Mariah took the shell and placed it in her sack. “There's something I should tell you. It's about that woman, Molly Collins.” She looked out at the harbor, where high pink clouds were gathered over Noddle's Island. “What she said that night on the pier.”

“I've not seen Samuel Cleaveland since then.”

Mariah nodded. “Not surprised, though eventually you will.” She glanced at Abigail, and for a moment her eyes seemed as old and wise as they were sad. “You know that, don't you?”

Abigail inhaled a deep draft of salt air and released it slowly.

“It's the other thing she said, about Trimount,” Mariah said. Now she sounded slightly winded, as though she were confessing something long repressed. “Do you remember what Molly said?”

“About being up on Trimount the night Sergeant Munroe was killed, yes.” Abigail's hair had come loose in the sea breeze and she gathered it at the side of her neck as she turned to Mariah. “She said she saw both of us—it didn't occur to me until now—she saw both of us up there. You were on Trimount?”

Mariah stooped over and picked up another shell.

“You saw Munroe?” Abigail said. “Why? How?”

After a brief inspection, Mariah dropped the shell in the sand. “I sent him a note, asking him to meet me up there. I lured him there. He didn't know who I was, but I made bold suggestions.”

“Because …” Abigail hesitated, gazing out at the water. “Because of your father.”

“Yes.”

“No. Mariah—”

“I cut his throat.”

“Oh, please Lord, no.”

“I used a shucking knife, the one my father had so long that the handle was worn down to smooth ridges by the grip of his fingers.” The wind swirled hair about her face, but she didn't seem to notice. “I was much surprised,” she said, her slow voice now filled with wonder, “at how easy 'twas—easy as carving a quahog out of its shell.”

They stood for a moment longer, and then Mariah began walking again, back toward her house. It was nearly dark now.

When Abigail caught up, Mariah said, “I shouldn't have told you. It's not your burden. It's mine, and I'll bear it the rest of me days. And I might as well tell you the other.”

“What other?”

“Colonel Cleaveland, he sent a messenger to my house this afternoon. I'm to meet him tomorrow, at the Two Salutations Tavern.”

“We first met there,” Abigail said.

“Now that you've refused him, do you suppose the colonel harbors amorous intentions toward me?” Mariah's laugh surprised Abigail—it was sly, even devious. “Or do you suppose Molly has been using that fine mouth of hers again?”

Benjamin spent his days going to and from Hastings House, delivering messages for Dr. Warren. He slept in a storage bin in the cellar, which was cool if damp. It was better—and dryer—than lying in a tent on Cambridge Common, where several thousand men, the bulk of the American army, now lived in their own filth.

One evening he was sent to Medford, to deliver a message to General John Stark, leader of the militia that had come down from New Hampshire. Benjamin spent that night in Charlestown, where several hundred men were encamped in the hills above the village, with a view across the Charles River to Boston. Marching exercises were conducted and bonfires were burned, in an effort to give the impression that the troops were disciplined and great in number. In fact, provincials came and went from home at will; there was little order, and a great deal of illness.

Benjamin discovered that Ezra was living in a tent on the north pasture on Bunker Hill. He offered Benjamin a bit of ham, which he'd brought from a recent visit to his mother in Concord. Afterwards they walked down to Morton's Point, a small hill overlooking the mouth of the Mystic River. They sat in the tall grass, lightning bugs weaving about their heads.

“When you were in Boston there,” Ezra said, “you saw your family?”

“My parents, no. James and Abigail, yes, but briefly.”

“Did you mention that you saw me, to your sister?”

“No,” Benjamin said. “You asked me not to.”

Ezra handed him the spyglass. “I did. So Abigail asked after me?”