The Schoolmaster's Daughter (34 page)

His voice pushed relentlessly against the heavy night air. After a while she stopped trying to follow him, but just listened to the sound of him—angular, inexorable phrases spilling forth. She'd become accustomed to his accent, which she gathered was unique to Surrey, but now she paid close attention to the lengthened
a's
, the open
r's
. Not that different from a Boston accent, but richer, deeper, each syllable more involved. He would probably insist that the Boston accent was a descendant, weak and diluted. Had he said that once? She couldn't be sure. And he was whispering, as though someone might be on the other side of the fence listening. She was tempted to tell him that Old Mrs. Symmons was, as she liked to say (shout) herself, deaf as a haddock.

Finally, she put a hand on his arm to stop him. “It's clear that you're concerned for my well-being, but I don't understand what you want me to do.”

It had been a good while since she had touched him, and it seemed to calm him. “Abigail, you need to understand what happened at that inquiry today. With these new generals arrived in Boston, everything has changed.”

“I understand that they intend to make an example out of me, regardless of the facts.”

“I'm afraid this is so.”

“So there really isn't anything I can do. I've been thinking that I might be more useful.”

“Like a martyr.”

“Yes.” She had been thinking something else, as well: fleeing Boston.

“It's too dramatic a term—burning at the stake with eyes lifted toward the heavens—that's for papists, and Frenchmen,” he said. “No, you'll be an example, a form of reprimand. They mean to show you—show all of you colonists—what you're in for. Push back against the king and you will have met your bête noire.” He took hold of her hand, which she rather welcomed. She had to admit she was frightened. “You're perfectly suited, you see. You're not part of Sam Adams's mob, his rabble. You're the daughter of a schoolmaster loyal to the crown.”

“Samuel, I did not kill Sergeant Munroe.”

“I know that. But Clinton believes that the mere possibility that you murdered him is sufficient for his needs. There's enough evidence, enough blood. In Clinton's mind, it doesn't really matter which of you cut Munroe's throat.”

“They actually believe Molly Collins?”

“It doesn't matter, Abigail. What matters is that she has served her purpose.”

“That is her one skill. A well-honed skill it is.”

He gasped, but then in exasperation said, “Don't you
see?
What's equally important is that you helped Lumley get out of Boston. The corporal's defection is an act of treason.”

Her legs suddenly felt as though they would give way. “I need—can we please sit down?”

There was a bench by the gate that opened to the alley, its maple slats warped by the seasons. It was dark now, and as they sat, he put his arm around her shoulders.

“I realized something after the inquiry,” she said. “In your own way, you were trying to protect me. It's a strange logic, just like Old South Church.”

“How so?”

“You had something to do with turning Old South Church into an exercise course.”

“Well, I may have, but—”

“I understand. Houses and buildings are being demolished all over Boston,” she said. “The way you ‘save' Old South is to denigrate it. The only way to preserve our place of worship is with dirt, sawdust, and horse manure.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, but—listen to me. I have no real influence, less so now with the new generals. I'm surprised I wasn't relieved of duty on this inquiry, along with Smythe and Armbruster, but, see, that's how Clinton operates: everything for the appearance of impartiality and fairness, when the real design is to achieve the necessary outcome.”

“I was guilty before I walked into Province House today.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“What will they do to me?” He didn't answer, and, placing her hand on his chest, she could feel that his breathing was shallow. She put her head on his shoulder. “You can tell me.”

“I don't know. Yet. Nothing has been determined. This isn't just about you. It's about the balance of power. Gage has it. Clinton wants it, and William Howe nearly has it.”

“He wasn't even there today.”

“A sign of his strength. Howe won't become directly involved until it's absolutely necessary. And then the question will be who will win. Clinton will want to make an example of you. Burgoyne, he took one look and the old dog was won over by your beauty. He will plead for mercy, as I will. So finally it all comes down to Clinton.”

“Gage, he doesn't—”

“Forget about Gage. He won't last long here. They're questioning his tactics, why he hasn't taken a firmer hand, why he didn't long ago establish outposts in the countryside so that there was little chance of the provincials even thinking of challenging the army—let alone managing to coop us up here in Boston. It's really up to General Howe. He's a gambler and a drunkard, but has a reputation for courage on the battlefield—all the attributes of a fine British commander. If Howe sides with Clinton, he will demonstrate that he has the stuff to lay down the law in Massachusetts. That's why they were sent here, after all.”

“If I am to be found guilty,” she said, “if they decide against being merciful …” She couldn't go on. She lifted her head off his chest and looked up at him, but he continued to stare straight ahead into the night.

His arm tightened about her shoulders. “For this, you can hang.”

The next hour, until dark, was devoted to the bullfrog. Rachel had struck a bargain with the children: the frog could be their guest for the night, but they must agree to release it down by the river in the morning. They agreed, and their excitement proved contagious. Everyone got involved: Mr. Van Ee asked that Mrs. Burke find an appropriate jar in the pantry, and then he sent her daughters out into the yard to pull grass, which the children then used to create a bed for the bullfrog. Once ensconced in his glass abode, the children all leaned in close, attracted and repulsed. They commented on the frog's lumpy, spotted, slick skin, his bulging eyes, his swelling, pulsating throat. They debated names and finally settled on Mr. Van Ee's suggestion of John, short for John Bull. But then there was the question of the frog's sex, which no one knew how to determine, a question which Mrs. Burke settled (a role she apparently played often in the Van Ee household) by flatly claiming that it had to be male because such an ugly creature couldn't possibly be female. All the while, Rachel dropped hints that the inevitable was approaching: bedtime. The children were resistant. There were some tears, there was pleading, but eventually, after much cajoling and horseplay, they were all tucked away for the night.

When it was time for Benjamin to leave, Rachel walked him out to the stable.

“The days here are good for the children, but exhausting for me,” she said. “The air, the river, it increases their appetites, their energy, and then they collapse in bed. And I must get to sleep soon, because in a few hours the baby will be awake for his feeding.”

There was something in Rachel's voice that Benjamin didn't understand, and he concentrated on tightening the cinch under the horse's belly.

“When you return to Boston,” she said, “you will be careful?”

“I will not announce my arrival with fife and drum.”

She laughed, but nervously. “If you see Abigail, you will tell her how I miss her.”

“Of course.”

“And I wonder if you could ask her something for me.” He tucked the leather strap through the buckle and turned to her. The lantern that she held illuminated one side of her face. Though she was only about ten years older, the light revealed lines caused by worry, and her eye was hard and direct. “Soon after Lexington and Concord, I received a letter from Paul saying he was in desperate need of clothing and money. I gave these to Abigail, and it was arranged that she would convey them to Dr. Church, who had managed to get into Boston and was taking medical supplies out, for the aid of both American and British wounded. Would you—I hope she doesn't take this in the wrong way, because I mentioned this to her before I left Boston—but would you ask her if she delivered everything to Dr. Church?”

“Of course,” Benjamin said. “Mr. Revere did not receive it?”

She shook her head. “It has us baffled. Dr. Church is, he is such an honorable man, a member of the Committee of Safety, and—there must be some explanation.”

“Have you seen him since you've left Boston?”

“I haven't. Paul has, when in consultation with Dr. Warren and others. He has not asked Dr. Church directly.…”

Benjamin understood. Paul Revere was an artisan, a mechanic, while Benjamin Church, he was quite the other thing, a doctor and a gentleman. For all the talk of freedom and equality, there were still distinctions to be made.

“It was a substantial sum,” Rachel said. He took hold of the reins, hoping that he wasn't revealing his desire to know the amount. “One hundred and twenty-five pounds, Benjamin.”

In an attempt to conceal his surprise, Benjamin placed his boot in the stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle. “Of course, I will ask her.”

Rachel touched his knee and smiled. “And you will see your Mariah. Perhaps the revolution can stop for one night. I hope so.” She squeezed his knee, let go, and then stepped back.

He pressed his heels into the horse's sides and touched the brim of his hat in farewell.

XXI

Heat

O
N A WARM, STILL NIGHT IN THE SECOND WEEK OF
J
UNE
, B
ENJAMIN
rowed across the Charles, avoiding the watch on the
Somerset
, as well as the British patrol boats that plied the harbor. At first light, he entered the city, working his way through the maze of alleys that ran behind the main streets, until he came to James's house. All the windows were dark. He placed Dr. Warren's letter, tied between two flat stones again, on the left corner of the kitchen stoop, and then went off to the granary. From the top floor, he watched the sun rise above Long Wharf, which ran a half mile into the harbor, and beyond that the outer islands and Nantasket Roads. Exhausted, but thankful for the smell of salt water, he curled up on the straw ticking and fell asleep to the belligerent cawing of seagulls.

Abigail was exhausted. She had hardly slept during the night, after the message had been delivered the previous evening that she was to appear before the inquiry the following afternoon. While preparing for the appointment, James came up to Abigail's room. “I wonder if I should pack some belongings,” she said. “If they sentence me, then will I be taken straight away to prison?”

“I will come with you,” he said.

“Absolutely not. You of all people shouldn't go near Province House. It's bad enough that both Father and Mother insist on coming this time. Father won't forgive himself for not protesting his removal from the room the last time. If you should show up, these generals are likely to find a reason to haul you in with me.”

“Kill two birds with one stone.” James sat heavily in the chair in the corner and looked out the window a moment. “I believe,” he began, “I believe we have been granted certain latitude, because of Father's association with General Gage, but that, that is over now.” Something was on his mind.

“What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Benjamin is back.” He turned to her and before she could speak, he said, “He arrived the night before last. I can't tell you where he's staying for fear that they might somehow get it out of you.” James sat forward on the chair; it almost looked as though he were preparing to drop down on the floor and pray. “Listen. He has brought information from Dr. Warren that Gage and the new generals are finalizing plans to make a foray out of the city.” Again, she was about to speak, when he said, “Soon. Very soon. I believe they have devised a plan where they will attack us on Dorchester Heights.” James touched his fingers to his lips a moment. “Benjamin is going to try to return to Cambridge tonight. You must go with him.”

It was so warm. Abigail pressed her sleeve against her forehead. “How? Father has arranged for the carriage to come around immediately.”

“We go downstairs right now,” he said, getting to his feet. “We go out the kitchen to the dooryard gate.”

She could barely breathe. “I can't, I can't—think.”

He took her by the elbow. “Now, Abigail. Benjamin, he's very close. Believe me, I can take you to him—in a matter of minutes. We hide both of you until it's dark, and then he rows you across the harbor. By morning you'll be safe. You can stay with Rachel.”

“Rachel? He has seen Rachel?”

“Yes, he says she and her family are staying in a house in Watertown. He'll take you there and you'll be fine.”

“But—”

With his other hand, James opened her bedroom door. “Now. We must go right now.”

“I have nothing.” She looked toward her bureau. “I would need—”

“You take nothing. You just go.”

He drew her out into the hall and then down the stairs. She hesitated at the landing, but his hand was still holding her elbow and he urged her on, down to the narrow hallway, where sunlight streamed in through the open front door, reflecting off the floorboards. Her father was standing on the front stoop. The carriage had arrived, the smell of horse coming down the hall. Her mother came out of the parlor and took her shawl down off the peg by the front door. Without looking back down the hallway, she went out the door, and Father helped her climb up into the carriage.

“Now,” James whispered. “We must do it
now
, Abigail.”