The Schoolmaster's Daughter (32 page)

“No, sir.”

“Thus our fates are sealed, as the poets would have it.” He sanded the sheet he had been writing on, and then folded the paper so that he could pour the excess back into the jar. “So instead you will risk your neck by taking this to Watertown.” He folded the letter up, sealed it with candle wax, and handed it to Benjamin. “Go. You'll find them residing in the house of Mr. Van Ee. Procure a horse from the stable and be back here tonight, for tomorrow I will have another errand for you, provided you think you can get back into Boston once more.”

Then Dr. Warren curled over his book again and began reading, not just reading but consuming the lines on the page as though they—and only they—could provide rare spiritual and intellectual sustenance. And this too Benjamin found a remarkable habit, how the doctor could immediately disengage himself, only to immediately reinvest himself in some other enterprise.

Once more, Abigail appeared before three British officers at Province House. Her father sat in the chair next to her, his stout fingers worrying in his lap, to the point where she finally reached over and placed a hand over his, calming them. Startled, he turned his head, but then his eyes seemed to melt into a grateful if febrile stare. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, leaning toward her, smelling of his pipe tobacco, “I expected General Gage to be present.”

“He has been most kind to you and mother,” she said. When this did not seem to satisfy him, she added, “The last time, he did not join the proceedings until well after they began.” She attempted a smile. “His army is besieged on this peninsula and I image that keeps him occupied.”

Father was about to respond, but one of the generals cleared his throat, indicating that they were ready to commence. Father and Abigail looked toward the polished mahogany table, where three officers sat, as before; but now, instead of Armbruster, General John Burgoyne sat on the left and Samuel Cleaveland on the right, while, between them, not General Smythe, but General Henry Clinton was poring over a stack of documents.

They waited. More than the absence of General Gage, the presence of these two new officers concerned Abigail. They had arrived, along with a third general, William Howe, from England in the last days of May. Supposition immediately ricocheted about Boston: Gage's days as governor-general were numbered; the new generals came with direct orders to launch a major assault on the provincials; and, most often repeated, all of Massachusetts would be burned and razed as a warning to the other colonies. No matter what the rumor, the arrival of these new generals did not bode well for Boston, where in the streets one could not help but notice how the patrols seemed invigorated, stricter and unwilling to ignore the slightest taunts and accusations. But what worried Abigail at this moment was Samuel, who sat up very erect in his chair with his hands folded on the table, an acquiescent schoolboy on his best behavior. He seemed determined not to stare directly at Abigail.

Finally, looking up from the documents, General Clinton said, “Abigail Lovell, you are the daughter of John Lovell, headmaster at the Latin School.” She was about to confirm that this was so, but he continued: “And you have been under investigation by this tribunal in regards to the murder of a British sergeant, named—” he glanced down at the documents in his hands—“Munroe.” She felt her father stir next to her, but the general regarded him with nothing short of scorn. “You, sir, are this woman's father, I take it, but I do not see the purpose of your presence during these proceedings.”

“But, General, if I may—” Father began.

Clinton looked toward one of the soldiers standing guard by the door. “Mr. Lovell shall be escorted from the room at once.”

The soldier stepped forward, his boot heels hard and brisk on the wood floor, and reluctantly Father clambered out of his chair. Abigail knew he was leaning down toward her, but she did not turn to him; instead she kept her eyes on General Clinton. He seemed quite young for a general, perhaps not even forty. He had a deep dimple in his chin and his periwig was flawlessly groomed and curled. His protuberant eyes gazed back at her, seeming to possess neither curiosity nor feeling. They might have been marbles, smooth, polished stones. She had heard—rumor, again—that of the three new generals, he was the one to be most feared, that he was querulous and assertive, that he suffered no lack of self-confidence. She listened to her father's shuffling footsteps as he left, and the door closed behind him with an ominous echo.

“Now, Miss Lovell, on the night in question, you were at the place locally referred to as Trimount.” She was prepared to speak, but then realized that it wouldn't stop him. “And it was there that Sergeant Munroe met his death.”

“Yes, General, it is so, but I was not—”

“You are said to have been covered in blood.” There was something about his voice, how it seemed to tear through each syllable with dauntless precision. “Is this not true?”

“It was—”

“No weapon was found, but a knife, it is presumed, or some sharp implement was employed to cut the sergeant's throat,” Clinton announced, not really to her, but to the entire room as though he were addressing a vast audience. “He was covered in blood—”

“But it was not—”

“—and you were covered in blood.”

“I never saw Sergeant Munroe on Trimount, General.”

“How then did you come to have this blood on you?”

“It was not his blood, sir. It was my own blood. I explained the last time I was here—”

“Come now, Miss Lovell, do you expect this inquiry to believe that you both were bloodied at the same time, in the same place, but that there is no connection between these incidents?”

“Yes, I struck my head on a tree, in the dark.”

“A tree, in the dark.” General Clinton. “Really, Miss Lovell, we have—”

“General,” John Burgoyne said. “If I may.”

General Burgoyne was a much more substantial man, and significantly older, certainly over fifty; yet Clinton was clearly the superior officer and, seeming to take this request as a personal insult, settled back in his chair.

Burgoyne placed his forearms on the table (no clutter of documents there) and squared his shoulders. Despite his age, his ruddy face was nothing short of dashingly handsome. No wig, he possessed a full head of dark wavy hair, with hints of gray descending into his meticulously trimmed sideburns. “Tell me, Abigail,” he said. “How did you come to bloody yourself?”

“As I said, it was dark and I struck a tree.”

“This claim is preposterous,” Clinton snapped: “It's all in the record from the previous session of this inquiry.”

“I wasn't at the previous session,” Burgoyne replied, without looking at Clinton. “Now, Abigail, where exactly did you suffer your injury?”

Burgoyne's eyes were large and kind, and not without the suggestion of humor. There was something else about them which Abigail had seen all too often: they were greedy. He used this question to allow his eyes to inspect her person—her neck, her shoulders, and finally clearly settling on her bosom.

Samuel, seated on the other side of Clinton, stirred in his chair. “She received a laceration to her scalp, as was demonstrated at the last session of this inquiry.”

Clinton swung his head toward Samuel, and Abigail would not have been surprised if he'd taken a bite out of the shoulder of his red jacket.
“Colonel,”
he said.

“Sir,” Samuel said politely, “I was at the first session of the inquiry, and I have seen the wound to her scalp.”

Such impertinence forced Clinton to consider the documents in his hands, but then, quickly, he looked up at her and said, “Yes, I read here that you wore a turban during the last session.”

“I did, sir. Perhaps—” she hesitated. Clinton appeared nearly apoplectic, while Samuel looked resigned—to his fate, as well as hers—and Burgoyne's gaze continued to be transfixed upon her breasts. “Perhaps I could show you?” Uncertainly, Abigail raised an arm so that she could push the curls aside from her forehead.

Samuel lowered his eyes as though out of decency, while Burgoyne's mouth fell open.

“That will
not
be necessary,” Clinton nearly shouted.

“But it has significant bearing on this matter,” Burgoyne said, almost pleading.

“Such a laceration,” Clinton said, “could have been inflicted at any time.”

Slowly, Abigail took her fingers out of her hair and lowered her arm, much to Burgoyne's disappointment.

“Miss Lovell,” Clinton continued. “Would you tell us why you ventured up to this place called Trimount?”

“I was taking a walk,” she said

“In the dark of night.”

“I—yes, it was night.”

“You make a practice of walking about Boston, at night?” Clinton asked.

“I took offense at the implication the last time I was here, General, and I do so now.”

“Do you indeed?” Clinton asked.

If possible, Burgoyne's face seemed to become more crimson as he gazed at her. With great concentration, Samuel kept running his thumb back and forth along the edge of the table, while his somber upside-down image was reflected in its vast, glossy surface.

“Indeed,” Clinton repeated, and then he looked toward the guards at the door. “In that case, it would be appropriate to seek testimony from a new witness who might shed light on the nocturnal affairs of Boston.”

It was ever so slight, but Samuel's shoulders collapsed and his chest seemed to deflate.

Abigail heard the door behind her open and quickly turned in her chair. Molly Collins strode in from the vestibule, wearing a yellow dress that was fairly clean, though the hem was powdered with road dust. She appeared taller, more robust; her cheeks were artfully rouged and her wide blue eyes nothing short of triumphant. A guardsman led her to the chair next to Abigail, where she sat down and demurely arranged her skirt. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, revealing a remarkably slender neck, which had a poorly stitched scar just above the collarbone. She made no attempt to acknowledge Abigail and gave her full attention to the officers at the table.

“You are Molly Collins,” General Clinton said, “a resident of Boston.”

“I'yam.”

Burgoyne's eyes shifted back and forth between the two women, and he appeared to be in a genuine quandary.

“And you were on Trimount the night that Sergeant Munroe was murdered,” Clinton said.

“'Tis true.”

“General.” Samuel's voice was exasperated, weary. “The testimony of this woman—”

“Had it been sought at the first session,” Clinton said, “we might not need to be here now.”

“But General,” Samuel said. “This woman is—”

“Is what?” Clinton demanded. “Are you going to tell me she walks the streets at night? It seems that this is the occupation of virtually every provincial woman in the city of Boston.”

“Sir, her testimony cannot be considered valid in this matter,” Samuel said, though now he clearly realized he was engaged in a futile exercise.

Burgoyne, without taking his eyes off Molly, said, “If she was present at the incident, I would like to hear what she has to say. Then we can judge how best to view her sentiments.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Clinton said, smiling, quite wickedly, for the first time. Unlike Burgoyne, he seemed resistant to the idea of looking directly at Molly, so he shuffled through his papers and took up his quill. “So, if you please, Miss Collins, would you confirm a few things for us?” Before she could answer, he continued: “That night on Trimount, you went up there to meet two soldiers, I believe their names were Lodge and Dayton.”

“Don't recall their names exactly,” Molly said sweetly, “but, yes, I met two soldiers up the hill there.”

Burgoyne's mouth hung open in alarm. “You met
two
soldiers?”

“Well, there was me and Eliza,” Molly said. “Me cousin, she is.”

Clinton had dipped his quill and was writing, but paused to ask, “And what did you do with these two soldiers up the hill
there?”
His voice was also sweet, but mockingly so.

Abigail stole a glance at Molly. Though she had full, overly puckered lips, her profile was rather flat and her jaw slung forward enough that she suffered from a mild degree of underbite. Her mouth faintly resembled that of a cod. She had boasted that she was the best suck in Boston, and Abigail wondered if this had resulted in her slight deformity. Molly's eyes moved over the three officers, gauging the situation, until she suddenly brightened and said, “Yes, well, we was invited up the hill there to share a picnic with these two blokes.” Then, proudly, and with a smirk, she added, “Members of the King's Own Foot, so they claimed.”

“A picnic,” Clinton asked. “At night.”

“Yes, it was evening,” she said. “All very on the up and up, you know. Proper, like.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Clinton intoned, scratching away rapidly. He paused to dip his quill. “And then?”

“And I hear this scream,” Molly said, “this
'orrible
scream from up the path.”

Samuel cleared his throat. “I distinctly recall that Lodge and Dayton testified that they heard no scream.” He looked toward Clinton. “It would be in your records, sir.”

Clinton laid down his quill. Reluctantly he considered Molly.

“Well, they was preoccupied,” Molly said. “With their food and beverage, you see. And there was a great deal of laughter, and to tell you the truth I think they'd both imbibed a bit much by then.”

“What did you
see?”
Clinton asked.

“See?” Molly asked.

Clinton merely gazed back at her.

“Well,” she said, sighing. “I seen this other soldier running down the path by us—some scared out of his wits, he was. And that's what alerted Lodge and Dayton, and they goes up the hill and discovers Miss Lovell there, and your other soldier, this Sergeant Munroe. In quite a state they was.”