The Schoolmaster's Daughter (45 page)

But then she heard Samuel's voice, angry, demanding.

The others moved swiftly, running. Cabinet doors were opened and slammed shut. A pair of boots stopped outside the closet, and then the door was yanked open. Slowly the soldier walked into the small room, so dim that he knocked over some brooms and mops, their long handles clattering on the floor. He came to the back of the closet and Abigail looked up. His face was pale and the eyes that gazed down at her reminded her of a cat. He stared at her for a long moment, and then went out of the closet and shut the door. She waited. Samuel was shouting now, his voice impatient. The men continued to search, knocking books to the floor, causing a bust to crash (that would be Homer), but after a few minutes they were ordered outside and back into the alley.

Again, she was awakened by a sudden sound. Footsteps—not boots, shoes. Shuffling shoes, accompanied by the tap of a cane on the wood floors.

Father?

The light had changed and the closet was nearly dark: hours must have passed.

James?

She could not tell—they both frequently used a cane now.

The closet door was opened, and then silence. With her hands on both walls, Abigail pushed herself up from the floor in the corner and looked across the stack of books at her father.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I always knew. Where else would my girl learn Latin?”

“I was curious.”

“You were brighter than most of the idiots seated out there in the benches.” He left the closet and sat wearily in the first bench.

Abigail went out into the classroom. When Father took his hand off the knob of his cane to touch his forehead, his fingers trembled. “What is it?” she asked.

He turned his head toward the windows. Outside there was the sound of seagulls. “James,” he said. “They arrested him. Apparently, when they killed Dr. Warren, they found he was carrying a letter, an encoded letter that they attribute to James.”

“Dear God,” Abigail said.

“How can a man in his condition survive prison?”

Father struggled to get to his feet, and Abigail helped him out of the schoolhouse and up the alley. “I cannot ascribe blame,” he said as they entered the dooryard. “I'm overwhelmed by incomprehension.” She expected Father to revert to Latin or Greek in his next utterance, but he continued in English. “The political aspects of this—I understand how this came to be. But our family.” He paused, pulling his arm free of her grip. “How is it that our family became so divided?” He looked at Abigail then, his eyes welling up and his mouth quivering. “I'm responsible.”

“No, Father.”

“I brought this on. I know I did. I don't know what I should have done, but my failure goes back, it goes back years.” He began walking toward the house, slowly. “I'd ask forgiveness, of all of you, but what good would it do, even if granted?”

“Father.”

He paused but didn't turn around. Mother opened the kitchen door.

“Father,” Abigail said. “You do not need to ask forgiveness, from any of us.”

He stood for a moment, and then he stabbed the tip of his cane in the dirt and continued on toward the house. They were both so old, and frail. Abigail wanted only to go into the house, clean up the damage the soldiers had left behind, and help them up the stairs to bed. She began to follow her father, until Mother made a small motion with her hand, as though shooing away a fly that was hovering over the pie crust.

And then he appeared in the kitchen, standing directly behind her.

“Abigail.” Formal, yet not unfriendly; it reminded her of when they had first met, when he had been so courteous.

“Samuel,” she said.

“You have caused me—” He hesitated. “Great consternation. And embarrassment.”

She merely stood there. Her feet seemed to be rooted in the ground beneath her.

“It makes me sad.” He seemed uncertain, confused, even. She suspected that he had given great thought to what he might say, but now too many emotions, too many thoughts came together at once. “It could have been,” he continued, “it could have been very different between us.”

“I wish that were so,” she said.

“Do you? Truly?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Samuel.”

There was something different about him, about his eyes. They were sad, hurt, even; but there was also an acceptance—or perhaps it was resignation—there that she'd never seen before, and it made her want to go to him, to ask his forgiveness and understanding. She wondered if they could still set things right between them.

He placed a hand on her mother's shoulder; it was gentle, loving even.

Abigail began walking toward the house, but then Samuel pushed her mother aside and stepped out through the doorway.

Father at first appeared uncertain. He glanced back at Abigail, and then again toward the house. And he raised his cane, causing Samuel to stop. “You'll go no further,” he said.

“Sir.”
There was outrage in Samuel's voice.

He began to go around Father, until Father stepped in his path, shaking the cane even higher above his head. “Not another step, do you
hear?”
Father said.

Samuel appeared baffled, and then he looked angry. When he moved, Abigail ran back to the fence gate, and as she opened it she looked over her shoulder, to see Father and Samuel doing what appeared to be a ridiculous dance. Samuel would step to one side and Father would follow his lead; Samuel would step in the other direction, and again Father would do the same—back and forth, a strange sort of minuet that stirred up the dust in the dooryard.

Abigail turned her back on them both and ran down the alley toward King's Chapel. It was nearly dark, and chimney swifts darted above the rooftops. At the end of the alley, Beacon Street was packed with Bostonians and British soldiers, and she fell in with the throng, which was heading toward the Common.

There was a sense of urgency in the mob, a combination of joy and fear. Torches illuminated faces that were slick with sweat. There was the smell of ale and rum. Soldiers sang and whistled and some seemed to be barking at the sky. As they entered the Common, they joined hundreds of others who were gathered near the Great Elm. There were officers on horseback and a small drum corps. Four men were being trussed up, three in British uniform. The other was Lumley, who stood gazing out at the crowd, a noose about his neck. When the drums were quiet, an officer made a speech, saying something about cowardice and loyalty—it was difficult to hear because the crowd was so impatient and unruly. When the officer said “A traitor, a damned traitor who fired upon his countrymen at Bunker Hill,” Lumley's eyes found Abigail in the crowd. He nodded to her once, and his stare appeared faintly amused.

The officer drew his sword, raised it above his head, and then swung it down. All four of the men were hoisted off the ground. Their bound bodies wriggled desperately. In the near dark, they resembled not men so much as insects, beetles suspended from their own filament. Their struggling sent the mob into a frenzy, and then one soldier hung in the air limp, but the others continued to dance and swing beneath their quivering branches, until a second, and then a third soldier became still. Upon seeing that Lumley was the last, the crowd broke into cheers and huzzahs, and still he would not be still.

Abigail had seen enough. She pushed her way through the crowd, and it wasn't until she reached Beacon Street that she looked back toward the Great Elm. Samuel was following her, seated now on his horse, which seemed to drift above the throng. As she rushed down the street, she realized that the crowd was still agitated, as though the execution were not enough. To the east, she saw that the sky was aglow. Groups of men ran toward the fire. Someone shouted that there was a riot at the prison on Queen Street.

When she reached the prison, the street was packed with people. There was no organization, despite commands being shouted by officers; all was chaos. The smoke from the fire made it difficult to see. Abigail could not locate Samuel astride his horse. She managed to make her way to the entrance, fighting against the stream of people, soldiers as well as prisoners, who were fleeing the building.

She ran through the stone corridors shouting for James and Mariah. Roof timbers roared and crackled loudly. Many cell doors were still locked. Arms and hands extended through bars as prisoners pleaded to be released. There were screams—women's shrill voices—coming from one wing of the building, and Abigail moved in that direction. Ahead, a wall collapsed, belching so much smoke that it was impossible to see. She covered her nose and mouth with her arm, but she could no longer speak. Everyone was running in the other direction, toward the entrance, and she could only continue by keeping one hand on the stone wall.

She came to a courtyard. Overhead, flames leaped into the sky. The fire was creating its own wind, and incredible heat, but here it was easier to see, and in the flickering light she found Molly Collins, lying on the cobblestones.

She helped Molly to her feet. “Mariah, my brother—do you know where they are?”

Molly's small face was black with soot, her eyes large. “Mariah,” she said, pointing.

“Show me,” Abigail said, grabbing her by the arm, “and I will help you get out.”

Molly led her across the courtyard. So many women behind bars. Boston women, shouting, pleading, trapped in cells.

“She be kept separate, special like, away from us whores,” Molly said, pointing at the end of the corridor.

There was a wooden door, with only a small barred window. Mariah's face appeared in the window for only a moment, and then timbers crashed down through the roof. Abigail was knocked down, her arm striking the stone floor hard. She seemed not to hear anything and she only wanted to sleep. It would be all right, she thought, to just rest a while. But she was lifted up by the arm and she cried out in pain. And then she realized that she was being embraced by both Mariah and Molly. They made their way back to the courtyard and entered a corridor. Walls had collapsed and there were dozens of women now, shouting, pushing. Abigail clung to Mariah and Molly as they were swept along with the others, while the building rumbled and disintegrated about them.

And then they were out, they were in the street. Abigail was dazed and her head hurt, worse than when she had struck the tree on Trimount. Mariah led both women away from the burning prison. As they turned a corner, Abigail looked behind them and saw Samuel astride his horse. He was following them, though his progress was impeded by the crowd.

Mariah took them through to the North End, using alleys and lanes. There was the smell of salt water, of low tide. When they approached her house, they could see the white horse in the distance, a faint smudge in the dark.

“Cleaveland,” Abigail whispered.

Mariah pushed them back around the corner and down the path lane to the beach. Ahead of them was Joshua Tigge's sail loft. Skiffs and dories were pulled up on the sand. The three women ran to the boat nearest the waterline and shoved it down across the kelp and into the harbor, where it became light and buoyant. The water, salty and cold, felt good about Abigail's legs. She wanted to immerse herself in the sea; but, realizing that she was covered with blood, she only dipped her forearm and elbow in the water.

Then there was the sound of a horse's hooves pounding on the sand, and she saw Samuel riding along the beach toward them.

Abigail shouted,
“No! No more!”
And then, looking at Mariah and Molly, she said, “James, where's James?”

They didn't answer but only lifted her over the gunwale and into the dory. They climbed in, causing the boat to rock wildly, but then Mariah took up the oars. Abigail struggled to get up and sit on the stern thwart. In the bow, Molly said, “Pull, dammit, pull.”

Abigail turned back toward the beach. Samuel dismounted his horse and strode purposefully out into the shorebreak, looking as though he might walk on the water toward them. Instead, when he was knee-deep, he drew a pistol from his holster, extended his arm, and took aim.

“Pull!”
Molly screamed.
“Pull with all you've got!”

Mariah groaned each time she dipped and pulled on the oars.

Samuel hesitated, lowering his arm slightly. He seemed to be saying something, speaking to her across the water.

“No,” Abigail whispered. “I'm sorry, Samuel.”

He sighted along the barrel once more, slow and deliberate, and then she saw the flash. His head seemed engulfed in white smoke. Out on the water, the report was small, harmless, lost in the vastness of the harbor.

Abigail slid off the thwart and fell to the bottom of the dory, crying out as her head struck the gunwale. She was unable to move, her cheek against the wood, staring back toward the shore. A hot, tearing sensation filled her breast, forcing her to gasp for breath. They were far enough out in the harbor that she could barely see Samuel, his pistol now at his side. He seemed tranquil and even satisfied, as though proud that he had executed such a fine piece of marksmanship. Beyond him, the sky over Boston was enshrouded in smoke, illuminated by the fire. The entire city appeared to be burning. She had never seen a sky so beautiful. By morning, surely, nothing would be left. As she closed her eyes, she heard the oars creaking in their locks, and Molly and Mariah, their voices frantic, but there was also the soothing sound of water trickling alongside the hull as it pushed out into the dark harbor.

EPILOGUE

April 1776

B
ENJAMIN DIPPED HIS OAR AGAIN AND LEANED BACK INTO HIS
stroke. Now, after midnight, the air was dead calm, allowing the skiff to glide across Boston harbor, its wake curling ribbons of moonlight. He pulled in concert with the other oarsman in his boat, Dr. John Warren, Joseph Warren's brother, while Mr. Revere was perched on the stern thwart, one arm draped over the tiller.