The Schoolmaster's Daughter (28 page)

“No.”

“How does she fare?”

Benjamin held the glass up to his eye and scanned the harbor, seeing nothing unusual, just a few fishing boats beating for Boston, their lanterns swinging gently, their light reflected on the chop. “She's well.”

“Good,” Ezra said. “I'm glad to hear of it.”

Benjamin continued to gaze out at the harbor. He knew Ezra was staring at him in the near dark. Finally, he said, “This siege in Boston—they are in hard times. Food is becoming scarce.” Benjamin returned the spyglass. “But she is well, Ezra.”

Evenings, Abigail often walked to the Mall alone. There was growing consternation in the city that the British were going to cut down the trees lining the path. So much damage had been done—houses and churches dismantled in a matter of days—that nothing seemed safe any longer. Rumor had it that John Andrews had begun a vigorous campaign, writing letters to General Gage, protesting the possibility that the Mall trees might be felled for firewood. She had heard her father in conversation with some of his Tory friends, and even they expressed dismay at the ravaging of the city, fearing that by winter the town would be barren as the moon.

There was little news from the countryside—a great deal of conjecture, but little news. There were constant rumors that the provincials were about to launch an attack on the city, which caused the British to labor tirelessly at their fortifications. And there were reports—verifiable and often accompanied by the most outlandish details regarding the redcoats' behavior—of occasional skirmishes, often the result of a boatload of British soldiers stealing ashore to take a few pigs or set fire to a barn. There was news of a raid on Grape Island, south of Boston, which led to watches being set up along the coast.

Abigail was so deep in thought during her stroll that she didn't notice the sound of a horse's hooves approaching from behind, until suddenly the white head of Samuel's stallion was nearly breathing on her shoulder. When she looked up, Samuel touched the brim of his hat in a rather formal manner.

“Might I walk with you a spell?”

Abigail looked straight ahead. “I prefer not, thank you.”

“It'll be dark soon, and do you think it wise to be out unaccompanied?”

“I am long accustomed to walking Boston by myself.”

“Yes, I know. But things have changed.”

“And who is responsible for that?”

“A fair question,” he said. “Which requires a complicated answer.”

“You may withdraw, and the question will no longer be pertinent.”

“Withdraw?”

“To England. All of you.”

Samuel didn't reply, and Abigail listened to his mount's easy tread upon the path. She glanced toward the horse's head, his large brown eye suggesting that he was content to keep pace. His coat gave off a fine scented heat.

Finally, Samuel said, “That would present difficulties, I'm afraid.”

“It shouldn't, really. Simply pack your men aboard the ships in the harbor and depart.”

“Back to England?” Samuel laughed. “That is … impossible. Imagine the reception we'd receive, an army sent to quell dissention in the colonies coming home without having accomplished its mission.”

“If it would help troop morale, we would gladly provide you with a rousing sendoff.”

“I am sure,” Samuel said. “No, I believe we have no choice but to stay.”

He pulled up on the reins and the horse stopped, but Abigail continued on, listening to the creak of the leather saddle as he dismounted. When he said her name, she paused and turned around. The sun had just set and the buttons on his coat seemed to absorb the last light of day. The horse nudged his shoulder and with one hand he pushed its snout away.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. He walked toward her and she took a step backwards, which caused him to hesitate. “How many times have I called at your house and you've refused to see me?”

“Tell me, Colonel. What is your interest in Mariah Cole?”

“Mariah Cole.”

“You wish to question her, I understand, regarding Sergeant Munroe?”

“Oh, yes. It's possible that she was on Trimount the night he was murdered.”

“What is your source of information?”

He stood up a little straighter. “I'm afraid I can't divulge—”

“It's Molly Collins.” Abigail began walking toward him. “She provided you with the information, didn't she?” As she passed him, she said, “And that's not all she's provided.”

“I do not take your meaning, Abigail.”

“I believe you do, Colonel.” She continued down the Mall, the last moments of sunlight streaming through the canopy of leaves overhead.

XVII

The Livestock Skirmish

L
UMLEY WAS INTERVIEWED REPEATEDLY AT
H
ASTINGS
H
OUSE
, and he seemed to relish the attention. “Nobody in Tommy Gage's army ever heeded my words so,” he told Benjamin after emerging from yet another session with the American command. “That was a right good interrogation. Your Dr. Warren's a bit of a fop with his fine clothes—a real gentleman he is—but I've never seen a man so devoted to a cause. This General Artemas Ward, though, he'll have to go. Too old, and can't make up his mind. His subordinates are walking all over him. All these questions make me hungry, and thirsty.” They went out the front door, past two guards sleeping on the steps. Lumley nudged one, rousing him. “You could be whipped for that in Boston.” He smiled at Benjamin as they walked down into the street, which was littered with piles of manure, strong in the warm air. “And this Dr. Church,” Lumley said. “He's the smooth one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time they haul me in for one of these confabs, he makes himself scarce. I haven't seen him since that first time you and I met Dr. Warren.” Lumley tapped a finger to his forehead. “Church, he knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That
I
know.”

They wended through the roiling tent camp that was now Cambridge Commons, and went down Garden Street to a small tavern they'd taken a liking to, The Sign of the Dancing Crane. Ezra was awaiting them at a table, his shirtsleeves encrusted with dried blood from the day's operations. The ale here was good and cool, the meat charred black. As they hovered over their trenchers, Lumley reviewed what he had told the officers at Hastings House. “It all comes down to this,” he concluded, nodding toward the shank of lamb in his hands. “General Gage is running out of fresh meat and his horses are in desperate need of hay.”

“Cut off an army's food supply,” Ezra said, “and it grows weak.”

“Exactly.” Lumley raised his empty tankard, seeking a barmaid's attention. “I'm so pleased to be quit of that army and taken in by you provincials, I thought it only just that I offer my assistance.”

“To do what?” Benjamin asked.

“Preemptive military action,” Lumley said. “And, needless to say, I did both of you the honor of volunteering your services as well.” He stripped another chunk of meat off his shank and chewed vigorously.

Ezra leaned across the table. “
What
exactly did you volunteer us for?”

“Why, shepherding, of course.” Lumley's eyes were still intent upon his ample bone. “I grew up on a sheep farm and I'll tell you, gentlemen, the trick is to keep the animals in front of you, and to watch your step.”

Truer words were never spoken, and the following Saturday they marched with a small detachment to Charlestown, where in the early morning hours they ferried across the Mystic River to Hog Island. At low water they forded the tidal inlet between Hog and Noddle's islands and began herding livestock back toward the mainland—hundreds of sheep and lambs, and a lesser number of cattle and horses. It was one thing to step in it, another to slip and fall in it. Piles of it. This, Lumley informed Benjamin as he helped him up off the ground, was how his own grandfather had died, losing his purchase in mud and dung and cracking his skull open on a rock. Lumley employed a staff, and he implored Benjamin and Ezra to do the same.

By midday, they could see a British schooner and a sloop beating across the harbor from Boston. The Americans continued to herd animals as the ships approached, until the schooner cruised up the inlet at flood tide in an attempt to cut off any provincial retreat. A landing party of redcoats fanned out into the marshes, and their steady fire forced the provincials to take refuge in a shallow ravine. They exchanged sporadic fire into the afternoon, and portions of the hayfields were torched, consuming the island with smoke.

Benjamin lay on the slope of the ravine alongside Ezra and Lumley. They had limited ammunition, so would shoot only occasionally. Late afternoon Lumley's ball caught a soldier in the thigh. As the man hobbled back to the schooner, which was out of firing range, Lumley handed his gun to Ezra and slid down to the bottom of the ravine. He sat, his arms embracing his knees, staring back toward the burning hayfield.

Ezra and Benjamin began to reload the musket. “He's got a good eye, a steady hand.”

“That he does,” Benjamin said.

They glanced down at Lumley but he took no heed.

When the musket was reloaded, Ezra and Benjamin crawled up to the lip of the ravine. The redcoats were retreating to the schooner.

“The tide,” Benjamin said finally. “It's turning.”

For the next hour they watched as the British tried to move the vessel down the creek toward the deep water of the harbor. They kedged with anchors, they put men out in tow boats, while others pulled lines from the shore, yet the hull made little progress downstream. Meanwhile, from the left, perhaps a hundred yards across the hayfield, there was steady report of British firearms, enough to keep the provincials from leaving the ravine and descending upon the ship.

Eventually, Benjamin slid down in the dirt until he was crouching in front of Lumley. Since coming over from Boston, Lumley had been in high spirits, delighted in his newfound freedom. But now the tracks of his tears ran down through the soot and ash that were caked on his cheeks.

“Tide's falling,” Benjamin offered.

Lumley didn't seem to hear.

From above, Ezra said, “By nightfall she'll be grounded, then we'll take her.”

Abigail had been hanging linens in the dooryard, when boys ran down School Street crying out about a skirmish on Noddle's Island. She went in haste to the North End, and all along her route Bostonians were crowded in upper-story windows; boys perched on roofs, clinging to chimneys and weather vanes as they gazed toward the harbor. When she found Mariah in her kitchen, oblivious to events, they rushed down to her uncle's waterside sail loft.

“The Brits have sent acrost the schooner
Diana,”
Joshua Tigge said. Mariah's uncle held a spyglass to his eye with a gnarled hand. “She's gone up Chelsea Creek, meaning to keep our boys from getting back to the mainland. And a sloop has landed a small party of soldiers on the beach at Noddle's.”

He offered Abigail the glass, and what it bore was quite remarkable. She could make out redcoats, hunkered down in the dune grass. Occasionally there was a burst of white smoke from their guns, and a few heartbeats later she could hear the faint report come across the water, sounding like the crackle from a distant fire. Beyond, the hayfields were in flames, the breeze pushing a column of smoke out over the harbor. “I cannot see our men,” she said as she gave the spyglass to Mariah.

Joshua raked his fingers through the vast gray beard that fanned out on his chest. “Them fools will run aground if they don't get that schooner back down the creek.”

“I see a puff of smoke—two,” Mariah said. “It must be the Americans returning fire.”

Joshua's eyes were bright with joy. “The bastards have been raiding the islands for livestock. Our best chance is to drive the flock inland. Deer Island, Pettick's Island—all grazing pastures. We best remove them all. I've been talking with other fishermen. After dark, our smacks will help take sheep off the outer islands.”

Mariah returned the spyglass to him and said, “I wish to assist you, Uncle.” He collapsed the spyglass and thrust it down into a small leather pouch, seemingly an act of refusal. Hotly, she added, “You know how often I put out with my father and helped him haul in his nets. And I know every island shore in this harbor.”

“Mariah, your father will back come to haunt me for putting you in harm's way.”

“Father, I'm sure, will see to it that we come to no harm.”

Joshua shook his head. “So, I be cursed.”

“Not if we accompany you,” Abigail said, and then Mariah touched her sleeve. “With our help, we can gather sheep faster.”

“We?” Joshua's rheumy eyes were the palest blue, and they bore in on Abigail with undivided attention. “You have been abroad on the harbor? The currents and the wind, they can be most unpredictable.”

“I have fished and worked the clam beds with my brother oftentimes,” Abigail said.

Only in half jest, Mariah said, “Uncle, think you not this lady too delicate.”

As he lifted his eyes skyward, as if asking forgiveness, the graybeard muttered, “I pray my brother Anse is so preoccupied in heaven that he does not cast an eye upon me this day.” He started for the loft stairs. “I will go down the beach and talk to others. We will make our preparations and push off after sunset.”

The exchange of fire continued through the afternoon, but provincial reinforcements streamed on to the island—hundreds of men, including Dr. Warren and General Israel Putnam, from Connecticut. In the early evening, Old Put climbed up over the lip of the ravine and stood in full view of the British schooner, which was now hopelessly aground in the tidal mud. He was a stout man with an enormous deep voice and he bellowed out that if the crew surrendered, he promised them safe passage off the island. He walked slowly back to the ravine, defiantly, almost taunting the British to fire. None did. Several minutes passed and then the British responded by setting off two of their deck carronades. The balls whistled through the smoky air and fell well short of the ravine, landing in the sand with a dull thud.