The Schoolmaster's Daughter (35 page)

Father stepped up into the doorway, a silhouette against the glaring light. “Your mother,” he said, “is impossible. She insists on going, too. Come now, we don't want to be late.”

James looked at their father, and then back at Abigail. He was still holding her arm.

“Today we will see justice done,” Father said. “You'll see, Abigail. We'll be there with you.” It was in his voice: he was trying to be brave, his confidence a thin veneer, barely concealing his worry. “And James,” he added, hopefully, “perhaps you should come today, as well. It may be instructive for you to see how the King's men conduct themselves. And—and at the very least we should be together.”

James continued to look at Abigail. “I know how the King's men conduct themselves, thank you, Father.” He let go of her arm.
Make up your own mind
.

Abigail offered her brother a smile. “I think it is a matter of curiosity.”

Disappointed, he nodded, and she walked up the hallway toward the light that streamed in behind her father.

As before, Obadiah and his son Ezekiel found Benjamin, asleep in the granary loft.

“This will not do,” Obadiah said. “Soldiers come here every day now. Like everything else, grain is scarce, and the redcoats insist on knowing exactly what we have in storage, and where every wagonload goes out of here.” He looked at his son. “Go down and fetch my satchel. Your mother has packed us some bread and cheese. Bring it up here.”

The boy ran from the room. Obadiah took a moment to settle his girth onto the stool in the corner. “You cannot stay here, not in this room.”

“Just for one more night? There's no grain up here.”

“Not safe.” Obadiah glanced out the door, apparently to make sure his son had begun his descent down the stairs. “This room, it serves a purpose that has nothing to do with … grain.” He eyed the straw ticking beneath Benjamin. “There is a captain who marches the detail here most every day. He is one very arrogant man. He has the usual weaknesses. It is not uncommon for him to meet with women up here in the afternoon. Lately it is a young wife who works in one of the vendors' shambles in Dock Square.” Obadiah shook his head. “He brings sausages, meats. She does this for her children—this is how desperate we have become.”

Benjamin got up off the ticking and brushed straw from his shirt and trousers.

“We'll give you something to eat,” Obadiah said, “but then we must get you out of here before noon. Is there nowhere else you can hide?”

“I'll find some place.”

Ezekiel's boots could be heard on the stairs. He came into the room, and his father took the leather satchel from his shoulder. Obadiah removed a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, and with his knife he cut a good portion of each, which he gave to Benjamin. Obadiah looked at his son, tilted his head, and the boy understood that he was expected to leave the room.

“Thank you for sharing your noonday meal, Ezekiel,” Benjamin said.

The boy smiled and then ran out of the room and back down the stairs.

“It was weeks ago that we ate our last chicken,” Obadiah said. “Most of them had already been pilfered. Sometimes this captain's woman, she will leave a bit of sausage here, by way of payment for the room, and for my silence.”

Benjamin nodded and then he began to eat quickly.

“There is something else you should know.” Obadiah got up off the stool. “There is news about your sister. There has been an inquiry into the death of a sergeant, and the disappearance of a corporal. This afternoon your sister is to appear at Province House again—the third time. Word comes out of the stable there, and it does not look well for her.”

“Today?”

Obadiah nodded.

This time Abigail was shown into a different room in Province House; larger, with a railing that separated a gallery of pews, filled with officers—so much red; red jackets and white waistcoats, and buttons of bronze or pewter. The men were well fed; some grossly fat. As they spoke, their jowls quivered above their high, tight collars. Many wore wigs, or some had their hair greased into a tight stick, which was powdered. The deep murmur of their voices swelled as a guard led Abigail to a small table in the center of the room. He held the chair for her, but instead she turned to face the gallery. Among the officers were some of Father's Tory associates and friends, all dressed as if for Sunday meeting. Aside from Mother, who sat near the door with Father, there were only two other women, Molly Collins and Mariah Cole. They sat quite apart from each other. Mariah's cheeks were flushed and her breathing seemed labored. Molly waved a fan beneath her chin and her blue eyes gazed back at Abigail as though she were a delicious morsel. The chamber was extremely hot, yet all of the windows were closed.

Suddenly the officers all clambered to their feet. Abigail turned around and watched as General Clinton led Burgoyne and Samuel into the chamber. They seated themselves behind the long table of well-polished mahogany. A fourth officer followed and sat in an armchair off to the side. She suspected that this was General William Howe. Thomas Gage was not present.

Abigail sat down and folded her hands on the table, while behind her the audience settled into the gallery pews. Samuel gazed at her, his eyes somber, even remorseful.

General Clinton, again sitting between Burgoyne and Samuel, cleared his throat, bringing silence to the room. He took his time, sorting through the papers before him. He appeared to be looking for something in particular, which Abigail found humorous—it was as though he had forgotten why they were all here. When he looked up from his papers, he seemed surprised by her expression.

He cleared his throat again and said, “Abigail Lovell, after much deliberation and review of the evidence, this inquiry has reached a conclusion regarding the murder of Sergeant Edmund Munroe, who was found with his throat cut on the Trimount in April of this year. It is our determination that you—”

A pew creaked loudly behind Abigail; turning, she saw that her father had gotten to his feet.

“General,” he said. “I implore you—”

“Mr. Lovell,” Clinton said. “Your testimony is not required at these proceedings.”

“Sir,” Father said, louder. “I must protest—my daughter has been provided no legal counsel, and no real opportunity to defend herself against these charges.”

Clinton slapped his palm on the tabletop. “Mr. Lovell, you were removed before, and I—”

The officer sitting to Abigail's left—General Howe—shifted in his armchair, and after a moment Clinton said in a more conciliatory manner, “If you please, Mr. Lovell, be seated.”

“I would like to know why General Gage is not present,” Father said, remaining on his feet. “Thomas Gage knows my daughter, he knows my family. He has been a guest in our home. He knows very well that Abigail is not capable of such a crime. You have no—”

Clinton said, “Sir, we acknowledge your objections but we must proceed.”

“You have
no
witnesses. You have provided no one who actually
saw
what you claim happened on Trimount.
You have no
—
”

Clinton nodded toward the door and one of the guards went over and stood next to Father's pew.
“Sir
. Please be seated.”

Father stood his ground, staring back at Clinton, until Mother placed her hand on his forearm, and slowly he sat down. A deep murmur ran through the chamber, until Clinton again cleared his throat.

“Now,” he said. “As I as saying, we have made a determination, based on the information presented before this inquiry.” He paused, staring at Abigail. She didn't understand what it was he wanted from her, but then Samuel raised his head slightly.

“You want me to stand?” she said.

General Burgoyne said, “If you please.”

Abigail got to her feet, and the effort made her lightheaded for a moment. Burgoyne was looking at her—not at her face but at her, all of her. She stared at him hard, until he looked away.

“Now,” Clinton said. Again, he was studying his documents, and he began to read, “As it is hereby determined that you are guilty of taking the life of a British—”

“No.”
This from the other side of the gallery—Mariah's voice. Abigail turned and watched her get up from her pew.
“No,”
Mariah nearly shouted over the voices of the officers. She moved sideways quickly and then came to the railing, where she opened the gate, but there she was intercepted by a guard. “Abigail didn't do this,” she said. The guard took her by the arm, and she resisted. “She didn't kill the sergeant.”

There was a slight struggle, and then the guard began to push her back toward the door.

“Let her speak.” Abigail turned again. It was General Howe who had spoken. Softly, but it silenced the room. “Bring her forward,” he said.

“Sir?” Clinton said.

“Let's hear what she has to say.” Howe had large eyes, heavy lids. He appeared to have just awakened from a heavy sleep, and there was something quite startled about him.

The guard escorted Mariah to the table, where she stood next to Abigail. She would only look at the three officers seated at the front of the chamber.

“Well,” Clinton said, annoyed, “what is it you have to say?”

“Abigail didn't kill Sergeant Munroe,” Mariah said.

“You are?”

“My name is Mariah Cole.”

“You have proof, Mariah Cole?” Clinton said. “You can provide evidence?”

“I tell you she didn't do it,” Mariah said. “She didn't do it. I did.”

The officers' voices echoed through the room and only subsided after Clinton slapped the table repeatedly. When it was finally quiet again, he said, “You—you claim that you killed the sergeant? How?”

“With a shucking knife.” Her voice trembled and she still wouldn't look at Abigail. “I still have it. It was one of my father's, and it's at my house, covered with the sergeant's blood.”

Clinton's mouth moved but he uttered no sound, until he managed to say, “A shucking knife?”

“Yes,” Mariah said. “You know, with the short, stiff blade, for opening oysters and clams. My father had many, but I used his favorite. He must have opened thousands of shells with it. I gave it some thought and decided that that knife would be most appropriate, you understand?”

“But why?” General Burgoyne said. “Why did you murder the sergeant?”

“Because he killed my father,” Mariah said. At first she appeared to think this explained everything, but then she realized it wasn't enough. This made her slightly impatient, having to explain everything to the men who were supposed to be so learned. “Your sergeant killed my father, you see, on the beach below our house, using the butt of his rifle. My father was a fisherman—he set his nets, he dug in the beds at low tide. His whole life, he worked Boston harbor. He was unarmed and your sergeant struck him in the chest—I was there, I saw it,” she said. “Nothing was done. You did nothing about it, did you? Why would you? You demand our loyalty to the king and you kill an old waterman. So. So, I sent the sergeant a note. I enticed him to Trimount, allowing him to think I was offering him—what women frequently offer up there. So he came up the hill that night and I killed him with the shucking knife that belonged to my father.”

“Mariah,” Abigail said. Her voice was barely audible. Mariah didn't seem to hear her, or perhaps she didn't want to hear.
“Mariah,”
she said again, and then she had to place her hands on the table before her.

Still looking at the officers, Mariah said, “And Corporal Lumley? There was no love affair, no cause for jealousy between him and the sergeant. The sergeant, he came up Trimount because he thought I was a prostitute. There's only one reason why your men go up there. And Lumley? For days before he escaped from Boston, he stayed with a
real
prostitute.” She turned toward the gallery, extended her arm, and pointed at Molly Collins. “That one there.”

“No!”
Molly shouted, struggling to her feet.

“She hid him from you. She harbored him until he could get out of Boston.”

There was pandemonium then.

Officers were standing, many of them shouting.

Their voices drowned out Clinton's fist as it pounded the tabletop, reverberating through the chamber, which began to tilt, causing Abigail to lean to her right, trying to halt the movement, but it only got worse, and she looked toward the windows, thinking that if someone only opened them there might be a breeze off the harbor, and there was a sweet sensation that allowed her to look at the plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling, which reminded her of cake, a cake with white frosting, like the one that had been prepared for James's wedding, made by a baker whose shop was near the Mill Pond, and whose name she couldn't now remember, but she had once promised herself that if she and Ezra ever did marry, they would request the very same cake with white frosting, so that when Ezra had abruptly left Boston her first thought was
There will be no need for the cake now
.

Which she may have said now, she wasn't sure, as she realized that she was gazing up at Samuel who was leaning over her, his head backed by the ceiling medallion, as though it were a halo.

Benjamin didn't dare get too close. There was a crowd gathered in front of Province House, facing a line of British sentries. He watched from down the street, leaning against a brick wall at the entrance to an alley. He recognized people in the crowd, shop-keeps from Dock Square, the Teele's Irish maid, a fishmonger's wife, a cooper and his son. The crowd was silent, as though they might be able to overhear the proceedings inside the house. The sun and heat were fierce.

When the front door of Province House opened, the crowd pressed forward, but the sentries held them back. There was a moment of tense jostling, but then all at once the crowd seemed to freeze as Abigail appeared in the doorway. Father and Mother were at her side, supporting her by the arms, and they helped her down the steps and into the waiting carriage. There was absolute silence in the street, until slowly, as the carriage pulled away from the house, the crowd began to stir. Benjamin didn't know exactly what it meant, but the people began to wave and clap their hands. A few cheered and laughed, while others shouted at the sentries.