The Schoolmaster's Daughter (6 page)

It seemed Benjamin was always being asked to understand. To understand was to be told no. By his father, his mother, Abigail, and James. And now, when Dawes asked a second time, reluctantly Benjamin nodded his head.

Of course, it wasn't fair. They had gotten through the gates together so many times. Dawes was a convincing thespian, an accomplished smuggler. He would assume different costumes, sometimes a farmer, sometimes a tanner, sometimes a farrier. Often drunk, real or pretend. When they brought gold out of Boston, to be delivered to his wife who had removed to her family's farm with their small children, the coins were covered in cloth and sewn on to his jacket as buttons. Dawes was fearless. He would smuggle anything, coins, a lamb shank, butts of beer. By water, by land, and often right through the city gates at the Neck. Guards could be tricked, they could be bribed.

But Dawes's greatest feat—his legend, which was now whispered about by the Bostonians—were the cannon. It took months, several trips a week, to take two stolen British cannon, piece by piece, out of Boston. Beginning in January, he and Benjamin dismantled the cannon Dawes kept hidden in his tanner's shed. The wheels were laid in the bottom of a wagon, loaded with hides. One barrel was concealed beneath bales of hay, the other a boatload of seaweed. Other, smaller parts were buried in bushels of oysters or boxes of cod. Once, a firing pin, tied to a leather strap which was then wrapped about Benjamin's waist, had been hung down into his breeches, the steel bumping against his inner thigh as he walked out the Neck alongside Dawes's horse, which had more parts sewn into the underside of his saddlebags. Dawes was adept at fashioning leather pouches that would fit beneath their clothing. The trick, he would tell Benjamin, was to walk as though you weren't carrying the weight, as though heavy steel, cold in the winter air, wasn't pressed against your skin.

Since his youth, Benjamin had loved cannons. There was the fearsome noise when they fired, jarring the earth and belching smoke, followed by the terrible whistling of the projectile as it hurtled toward its target—which brought a distant, spectacular explosion. Countless times Benjamin had watched the redcoats conduct artillery drills on the Common or Fort Hill or the North Battery. With other Boston lads, he observed the intricacies of loading and firing a cannon, the methods of cleaning the sundry parts, the specifics of design. But he'd never actually gotten his hands on a cannon until the last time he and Dawes had traveled to Concord. It was a miserable night as they rode the wagon through a driving sleet, with steam rising off the backs of the team as it labored through the icy mud. Finally, at dawn, they arrived at Colonel Barrett's farm across the river from Concord village. Several men were in the barn, their tall lantern shadows thrown up on the stalls as they considered the pieces of cannon which lay spread out on tarps, awaiting assembly.

There was bread, cheese, and whiskey. There was laughter among the men. Colonel Barrett, commander of the Concord militia, presided over their activities much like a preacher before his congregation. One minute he would chastise them for not taking care in their handling of the parts, while the next he would slap his girth, thrust his hips, and crow about the day when they would give Tommy Gage a bit of his own cock.

Benjamin was given the task of climbing into the back of the wagon with a pitchfork and digging out the three crates, bound up in old sailcloth and concealed beneath the pile of seaweed. Dawes and the colonel's men removed the crates and laid them on the ground. It was a solemn moment, silent with anticipation. Dawes opened each crate and the men leaned in closer. No one moved, no one spoke. Finally, Dawes reached into one of the crates and then stood up, holding a cannonball in his hands. There was something tender, even loving in the way he cradled the leaden orb in his hands.

“Ben,” he said, looking up. “We've made many a journey together, and I think you should do the honors.”

The other men gazed up at him, some smiling, though a few of the younger fellows were clearly envious.

“Come on down now,” Dawes said.

Benjamin jumped off the back of the wagon. Dawes walked toward him and handed the ball over, gently, as though it were alive, a new-born living creature.

In his hands the ball's surface was rough. There were nicks and ridges beneath his fingers, which made him think of a face, a lead face, with nose and eyes and perhaps even dimpled cheeks. The other men stared at him expectantly.

“Round shot, solid iron,” he said, and then he paused and gazed down at the ball, as if to make sure that it was really there, in his hands. And looking up at them again, he said, “I believe this is … an eight-pounder.”

There was a moment when they seemed confounded—until Colonel Barrett snorted, and then he laughed. “Right you are, Lad! It's an eight-pounder! Why, I'll bet you even know about assembling such a gun.”

“I have watched the redcoats do so many times, sir.”

“Then, please, Benjamin, show my boys here, because these bumpkins have no idea where to start.”

“Well, sir. First, we must assemble the carriage, and—”

“Hear that, lads?” The colonel shouted. “We start by assembling the carriage!” He slapped his belly, while the others laughed, too.

They worked into the morning, and by the time the sun had risen above Punkatasset Hill there were two eight-pound cannon standing in Colonel Barrett's barn. The whiskey was passed around one last time, until the jug was empty. They stood about, gazing dumbly at the fruit of their labors, until Dawes said, “Would be lovely to roll them outside and set off a round—as a form of practice.”

“Aye,” another said. “To make sure they are in proper operating condition.”

Colonel Barrett ran a hand lovingly along one of the cannon barrels, but then said, “No, you don't want to go wasting precious powder, and you don't want to alert all of Concord to that fact that we have these guns at all.” He eyed each of the men sternly. “You're not to breathe a word about them, understand?”

They nodded like reprimanded schoolboys.

“Good,” the colonel said. “Now you want take them apart again and hide them. Some parts can go up in the hayloft, and I think the large pieces should be wrapped in canvas and buried out there in the woods beyond the fields.” They looked at him, incredulous. “So get to it, boys,” he said, striding out the barn doors. “And I'll see if my wife has enough eggs for breakfast.”

When the doctor's apprentice announced that Paul Revere had arrived, Warren and Church accompanied Abigail downstairs and out the back door. Revere was in the alley, his arms folded, a shoulder leaning against the brick wall of the house. He was a different sort of man than Warren and Church, possessing little of their gentlemanly refinement—and not seeming to care. Swarthy and thickly built, he had muscular hands and forearms from wielding the silversmith's tools.

“It's certain now,” Warren said. “We've already sent Dawes out by the Neck, so you must cross the water, Paul. It will be dangerous—you'll be in sight of the troops, and we've heard that they've anchored the
Somerset
in the mouth of the Charles.”

“I've already arranged for a horse with Deacon Larkin over to Charlestown.” Removing his tricorn, Revere gazed up at the sky. “It's about ten o'clock, and a clear night. The moon'll be up later, so I must be away.”

“God's speed,” Church said.

Revere didn't acknowledge Church's comment, but was staring at Dr. Warren, who again was rubbing his jaw. “The new teeth I made you,” Revere said, “still bothering you?”

“They are well fitted, Paul,” Warren said. “I know. I'm a physician. Such things take time.”

“If they continue to bother you,” Revere said, “I'll have to adjust the wires.”

“For that I will prescribe an ample portion of rum for myself,” Warren said, and then to Abigail, he added, “My dear friend, Mr. Revere, a man of many talents. The finest silversmith in the colonies, but he also makes the best false teeth in Boston. And just to spite me, he refuses to say from what animal he extracted my two new teeth.”

“I can't recall with certainty,” Revere said. “But I believe my supplier said that for weeks he'd been tracking a feisty bobcat.”

He and Warren laughed, and then the doctor said, “Perhaps you could accompany Miss Lovell as far as her home?”

“Of course,” Revere said.

Warren smiled at her. “You can be his decoy, Abigail.”

“If you encounter redcoats,” Church added, “they will be distracted from this brute by your sublime beauty.”

“They won't even notice me.” Revere stepped forward and took her gently by the arm. “I'll be as invisible as her brother's ink.”

Both doctors bowed graciously toward her, and then Church went back into the house, while Warren remained in the alley a moment longer, watching them as they walked out into the street, arm in arm.

They saw few British soldiers. Revere suspected it was because they had orders to be at the Common by ten to begin the embarkation—it would take several hours to ferry so many soldiers across the Charles, and he'd heard that they'd already begun to encounter delays. “Word is that the expedition is being led by a lieutenant colonel named Smith,” Revere said. “He's very fat, very slow—the perfect man for the job.”

When they turned a corner and entered School Street, they saw a pair of redcoats up ahead, rushing toward them hastily. Revere, who had kept his hand on Abigail's upper arm, pulled back so as to slow their pace as they strolled toward the two men. “These two must be late for the dance.”

“Or they recognize you.”

They walked on slowly, and as they neared the soldiers Abigail said, “The boy left the door to the summer kitchen ajar, and of course some hens were lured inside by the smells coming from simmering pots, and they caused all sorts of havoc, so that Mother was absolutely furious, demanding that father reprimand the stupid lad with the switch.”

“A lesson he'll long remember next time he sits down to his fried eggs.” Revere touched the brim of his tricorn as they passed the soldiers, adding, “Evening, gentlemen.”

They merely nodded as they marched down the street, and then turned the corner in the direction of the Common.

“Mr. Revere, I'm not the one who needs an escort tonight,” Abigail said when they stopped before her house. “Should I accompany you farther?”

“Thank you, no,” Revere said. “It would only mean you'd have to walk back home alone.” He began to turn away, but then faced her again. “If you don't mind my asking, when you visited Dr. Warren's did you bear a letter?”

“No letter. My brother James didn't think there was time.”

“So you conveyed information …” he hesitated. “To Doctor Warren.”

“Those were my brother's instructions.”

Revere merely stared at her. “So you spoke to both doctors?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Again he seemed hesitant. “Might I ask you a favor?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“You've been such a good friend to Rachel. It's a large brood we have in that small house, and she has only my mother there to help her. Might you look in on her, if I don't return to Boston soon?”

“She's like a sister to me. I will visit her as often as I can.”

“I'm most grateful,” he said, as he touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “You've been a wonderful escort on this fine spring evening, Abigail.” He set off quickly in the direction of the North End.

They crossed the Neck, which connected Boston to the mainland. Dawes liked to call it walking on water. It was merely a strand not a hundred yards wide; when there was a storm surge the road was often flooded, rendering Boston an island. To the left, there was a vast salt marsh, and across the water a few lights could be seen on Dorchester Hill; to the right, water lapped against a pale beach, strewn with wrack lines of seaweed.

When they could see the guards' lantern up ahead, Dawes said, “No matter what happens at the gate, you are to return to the city.”

“But I always go through with you, sir.”

“Tonight I must ride hard. There's very likely to be British patrols on the roads tonight and I must travel light.”

“You're going to give the alarm. I could go to Concord. I can walk.”

Dawes didn't answer.

“I can go to Concord, where the cannon are. That's why the redcoats are marching out, isn't it, to secure armaments, and to capture Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams?”

“No, Dr. Warren said you are to report back to him.”

The air was heavy with the smell of salt. “And if you don't get through?”

Dawes only laughed. But then he said, “Might you be nervous?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.”

They were coming in sight of the guardhouse, which was about thirty yards before the large gate that blocked the road. Dawes began to whistle off-key, as he often did—it was a means of alerting the guards to their approach. There was no benefit to taking them by surprise, as it would only make them more suspicious. When they were close, a soldier stepped out of the gatehouse, holding a lantern.

“That you there, Corporal Fredericks?”

“Billy? Billy Dawes? Ain't seen you come through 'ere in, oh, must be a week.”

Ben stopped the horse as Dawes said, “At least. I must be getting over to Roxbury, where my aunt is taken ill.”

“Sorry to 'ear that,” Fredericks said. He was stout and spoke with a heavy wheeze, the kind of soldier who would not be selected for a march into the countryside to seize weaponry and apprehend provincial leaders. As though such a mission were beneath his dignity, he sniffed loudly as he stepped up close to the horse. “Might we be well perfumed tonight, Billy?”

“I am much distressed over my aunt's condition.” Dawes leaned sideways, nearly falling off the horse. “It be a grave condition, is my understanding.”