The Schoolmaster's Daughter (37 page)

“Anythin' of value, Sergeant,” another joked, “we get to split amongst ourselves?”

“Something of value? In this fisherman's 'ovel?” The sergeant snorted and then he crossed the dooryard. By his gait and the way the lantern swung erratically from his hand, it was clear he'd been drinking. Over his shoulder, he said, “You find that girl's undergarments, be careful not to tear them!”

The others laughed as they continued to ransack the house. The sergeant approached the shed, and Benjamin moved back into a corner, standing next to a roll of netting that smelled of fish and brine. His shoulder pressed against something sharp, something protruding from the wall—a blade, with a finely honed edge. It was a shipwright's adze, hanging from a nail, used to trim boards in the repair of a skiff. Benjamin had seen Anse Cole use it several times, always marveling at his skill at shaping a board that might replace a cracked plank in the lapstrake hull. Benjamin groped in the dark, finding the adze handle, and then with both hands raised it above his head, his only chance to deliver one swift blow.

The shed door was yanked open and the sergeant stepped inside.

“Found it!”
one of the soldiers hollered from the house.
“Sergeant, I 'ave found the shucking knife!”

Turning in the doorway, the sergeant called, “It be the right one?”

“Covered with blood, it is! It's got to be the right fucking knife. It's the fucking shucking knife, sir!”

All the soldiers in the house laughed.

The sergeant laughed too, but then he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. For a moment it looked as though he was so besotted that he might simply fall back into the shed and pass out. The rum stench coming off him overwhelmed the smell of the sea in the shed.

One of the soldiers came to the open kitchen door. “Might we torch 'er, sir?”

“Whot?”
the sergeant said.

“The 'ouse. Burn 'er to the ground.”

The sergeant straightened up, becoming more alert. “No, you idiot. In this heat the entire neighborhood is like to go up in flames. But what I can do is make a recommendation that this place be put on the list for demolition. Make for good kindling, this, and it'll be like it was never 'ere.” He stepped out into the dooryard, leaving the shed door open, and made his way back toward the house.

Left in the dark, Benjamin lowered the adze to the dirt floor.

Now, it was well after dark in the granary burying ground, but still no sign of James or Abigail. Benjamin waited so long, he began to fear something had gone amiss. He began feeling watched. He moved among the headstones, until he saw a woman walking up the street. Despite the heat, she wore a full cape, with the hood up. At the entrance, she paused and then came into the graveyard. It was Abigail—her stride was as balanced and graceful as James's was not—and she continued toward the brick wall of the granary.

Benjamin followed her, and when she suddenly stopped, he whispered, “It's only me.” She came toward him and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly. Then she kissed him on both cheeks and then on the mouth. Her skin was hot, and she wouldn't let go, until he finally said, “James, where's James?”

She stepped back from him. “He isn't here?”

“I've been waiting over an hour, since before nine bells.”

“He must be having difficulty getting away. Mother and Father, they kept delaying me. I said I was to go to James's to help move furniture, and Mother wanted to accompany me, but eventually she realized how tired she was from all this heat.”

“James, they're constantly watching him,” Benjamin said.

“I know. He won't come unless he's certain he's not being followed.”

Benjamin took his sister by the arm and walked her toward the granary, where they stood amid some bushes. He could feel the heat come off the brick wall.

“Have you been well?” Abigail whispered, touching his face with her hand.

“Yes, yes.”

“How long will you be in Boston?”

“I don't know. I thought James would send me back out with information for Dr. Warren, but last night he said he needed me to remain here. Something's up—the redcoats are preparing for something.”

“Yes, and James is, too.” She looked toward the street. “We must wait as long as we can.” Then, turning to him, she said, “But where are you staying?”

“I shouldn't say.”

She took hold of his forearm. “Have you eaten? I should have thought to bring—”

“Stop, please stop. I'm fine.”

“Well, tell me, where have you been? The last time I saw you was on the beach on Noddle's Island. Mariah and I waved—oh, do you know about—”

“I was outside Province House when you left. James told me everything last night.”

“There must be something we can do for Mariah.”

Benjamin didn't answer. He didn't know how to, and for a moment they stared at each other in the dark. “Rachel,” he said suddenly. “I saw Rachel. They're all in Watertown, where the Provincial Congress has been established. Rachel, the children, they're all well cared for, staying at a fine house owned by a Mr. Van Ee.”

“You saw her?”

“Just a few nights ago. She wanted me to ask you about her money, the hundred and twenty-five pounds she sent out for Mr. Revere.”

“Yes?”

“He never got it.”

Abigail didn't seem to comprehend what he had said, until she finally said, “But I gave it to Dr. Church. I told her so before I left Boston. The clothing and the money—”

“She said so, Abigail. She's not doubting you, but now she's seen Mr. Revere and the money's just disappeared. Mr. Revere never received it.”

They both leaned against the wall, lost in thought for several minutes. Once Abigail said, “How—” but she couldn't continue.

Benjamin saw someone out in the street and, taking Abigail's arm, he pulled her in behind a bush. It was a woman, bent over with a sack on one shoulder. She came into the graveyard and began to wander haltingly among the headstones, until she paused by a bench. Slowly, she eased her burden down to the bench, and then straightened up, revealing her overlarge belly.

Abigail suddenly whispered,
“Mary.”

She stepped out from behind the bush and approached James's wife.

“Abigail?” Mary said, slowly getting to her feet. “Benjamin?”

They rushed to her and helped her sit on the bench.

“Where's James?” Abigail sat next to her. “Is he all right?”

Mary tried to catch her breath.

“Are
you
all right?” Benjamin asked.

“Benjamin,” she sighed, relieved. “It's good to see you. We worry about you so. I'm fine, really—though you might say my condition is greater than when you last saw me.” She placed her hand over her mouth to suppress a nervous laugh. “I have not walked such a distance in a good while, and I cannot stay but a minute. General Gage's men watch our house all the time. James went out earlier but he was unable to lose them, so he returned and then went out a second time, to lead them from the house so I could bring you this.” She stuffed her hand inside a pocket of her cloak and produced several envelopes. She gave one to Abigail. “He has learned that the British will march out the day after tomorrow and we must do what we can. I don't know the contents of the letter, but he said you—” she looked at Abigail—“will understand that something might be possible because of your association with Colonel Cleaveland.”

After a moment, Abigail nodded once.

Mary gave another envelope to Benjamin. “This one is for you.” She then handed him a second envelope. “And these James wants you to deliver to Dr. Warren when you get out of Boston. We all know that much will happen soon. James said that in a few days many Americans will die, and we must do what we can.”

Mary struggled to stand, and both Benjamin and Abigail took her by the arm and helped her up off the bench.

“Let us walk you home, at least part way,” he said.

“That won't be necessary.” Mary looked down at the sack on the bench. “This is for you, Benjamin. I hope it fits. My journey home will go much easier without it.” She raised her face to him, kissing him on the cheek. He could see that her eyes, often so playful, were quite exhausted, but she attempted a smile. “If I have more children after this, please God allow them to be born in winter.” She hugged Abigail, and then started back toward the entrance to the street, one hand on her hip.

XXIII

The Armory

T
HE FOLLOWING EVENING
, A
BIGAIL SET OUT FOR THE GARRISON
at North Battery, a basket on her arm. It had been another hot day, the air humid and still. While she prepared the food for Samuel—bread, cheese, pickled cabbage, and quahog pie—her mother had asked when the colonel would be arriving. Abigail said that she was taking the meal to North Battery, where Samuel was on duty. When her father suggested a carriage take her, she insisted on walking.
In this heat?
While the pie cooked slowly in the oven, she ushered her parents out of the kitchen, filled the tin bathtub and bathed, and then donned her finest summer linens. Now, as she walked through the North End, the basket became quite heavy and she shifted it from one arm to the other. A few minutes after eight bells, she passed Mariah's house, and when she heard the footsteps approaching behind her she did not turn around, did not slow her pace.

The uniform wasn't a bad fit. A bit short in the waistcoat, but the red jacket with brass buttons was ample in the shoulders. The white breeches were tight, as they were supposed to be, and the gaiters were so snug that they practically made his feet go numb. Which might have been for the best, because the shoes were terribly painful. He'd always heard how bad the British soldiers' footgear was, how there was no left or right shoe. If anything made him look convincing, he figured it was his walk, which was tender and careful, as though slogging through salt-marsh muck at low tide.

Abigail passed Mariah's house right on schedule. Benjamin, who had spent the day cooped up in the sweltering shed behind the house, came out of the dooryard and followed her as she continued on toward North Battery. She did not slow down for him, did not look around. Ordinarily, he would have easily caught up with her, but in these infernal shoes he could not walk fast. But eventually, he caught up to her, and without looking at him she handed him the basket.

“I'm supposed to be your escort,” he muttered, “not your manservant.”

“I'm supposed to be a proper Bostonian, who would insist. Besides, it may distract attention away from the fact that you bear no arms. In the past, Samuel often sent an escort who has carried the basket for me. Your mission is to deliver the colonel his supper.”

“Samuel. It's Samuel?”

“And you'll be best to keep your mouth shut, unless you can put on some kind of a Cockney accent as easily as you put on that uniform.”

“How or where did James get this outfit?”

“Our brother has his sources.”

“I think it comes from several, actually.”

She glanced at him. “What's the matter with you?”

“These shoes, they're killing me.”

“The stiff queue is quite appropriate, though. I've never seen your hair dressed up so.”

“Found a candle in the shed and waxed it.”

“A little tallow works wonders for you.”

Benjamin smiled, if only for a moment. “These getups are impressive,” he said, “but I don't know how they fight in them. And yet they're the best army in the world.”

“When we get there,” she said, “don't change anything about that walk. Most of the regulars are boys, and they all look obedient, ready for a reprimand. They all look a long ways away from home.”

“That smell,” Benjamin said, gazing down at the towel that covered the basket. “Quahog pie?” When she didn't answer, he added, “At least you're well armed. Nothing could be more distracting. I've tasted none better.”

“I only hope it's sufficient.”

“And if it's not?”

Abigail didn't answer him at first, but then said, “I just don't know. But I know what James said about American lives in the coming days. No matter what happens, Benjamin, we have to do what we can. We've no choice.” They walked on in silence, until she added, “And I know what sweet Rachel would say if she were here: ‘It's either the quahog pie or your virtue.'”

He knew she hoped he would smile or even laugh, but he didn't.

Abigail had been Samuel's guest at North Battery several times. The sight of a woman was not uncommon around the garrisons, but they were usually wives, maids, charwomen. Abigail was another matter, and the guards at the outer gate hardly took note of Benjamin. The soldier in charge studied her carefully, and after he let them through she heard laughter among the men.

The battery jutted into the harbor and in places it had stone walls, while the British had recently added earthen parapets and fortifications. As they walked to Samuel's quarters in the armory, soldiers on guard, soldiers passing by paused to look at Abigail, at her white linen dress. It was getting dark and she could see the harbor, the water black as ink. The piers below the battery walls were cluttered with dozens of longboats and barges.

They came in sight of the armory, a long building of stone with only a few small windows. “This is his domain,” she said. “Commander of artillery. He has his office, and down the hall his private quarters,” she said. “You should wait outside the office door—that's what my escort has done in the past. I will try to get him to go to his private quarters. Then you can go through the office into the storeroom.”

“And if you don't?”

“He eats his quahog pie in his office and then I leave, with you as my escort.”