The Schoolmaster's Daughter (9 page)

“And you don't know where Benjamin is?” Rachel asked.

“No, no word since last night.”

The back of the baby's head was as smooth and round as Rachel's breast. She was Paul Revere's second wife. His first, Sarah, died two years earlier, only in her mid-thirties yet worn out from bearing eight children, each in an even-numbered year. Joshua was Rachel's first-born. “So many of the men have already fled Boston,” Rachel said. “The countryside is safer for patriots now. After the flood of recoats today, you wonder how many will return. I don't know when I'll see Paul again.”

“You're certain he got across the Charles safely last night?”

“All I know is that two friends rowed him across the harbor, passing close by the guns of the
Somerset
, which is at anchor in the mouth of the river. And that once he was across, he was given a good horse by the deacon in Charlestown. Then he rode off into the night.” She smiled, seemingly in defiance of impending despair. “He's so careful in his arrangements—last weekend, when there were the first signs that the British were planning something, he had established that a signal would be sent from the Christ Church belfry. One lantern if Gage's expedition was leaving by land, two if by sea—in case he failed to get across the water. But last night, when he and his friends are on their way down to his skiff, they tell me it becomes a comedy of confusion.”

“How so?” Abigail asked.

“First, it was his spurs. Paul left the house without them,” Rachel said, nodding toward the old brown dog that was curled up in front of the hearth. “So he sends him home with a note—and I attached the spurs to the dog's collar, and he sprints down to the waterfront. And then, when they're about to shove off, they fear that the oars will make a frightful lot of noise creaking and groaning in their locks and alert the watch on board the
Somerset.”
Now Rachel laughed, until the baby's head lolled away from her breast and began to cry. She eased him back to her nipple and looked at Abigail, a strange glee in her eyes. “So they need something to muffle the oars, and one of Paul's young associates goes down the lane to the house of the girl he's been courting, calls up to her window, and in a moment she throws down a pair of pantaloons—still warm.” Both women laughed, though this time Rachel gently held the back of her son's head. And then they were silent for a moment, until she said, “Paul got across, that's all I know. I pray Benjamin's all right.”

“But this isn't uncommon, Benjamin disappearing. He's always wandered the city, like a stray, he is. But with all the activity among the soldiers—he was supposed to accompany Billy Dawes to the Neck, and then report back to Dr. Warren, letting him know whether Dawes got out through the sentries all right.”

“I've seen how Benjamin runs through the streets. He will not be easy to catch.”

“He is quick,” Abigail said. “But they often use him to convey letters, important letters, and I worry that if he gets caught …” She ran her finger around the rim of her teacup, causing a faint, sweet ringing. “He can't read, you know, hardly a word. And our brother, James, he won't say it outright, but I know he believes really important letters are safer with Benjamin.”

“This be a hard business,” Rachel said. “The men, they just disappear.”

“They do.”

“Suddenly, out into the countryside,” Rachel said.

“First Ezra,” Abigail said, “and now Benjamin.”

“It's safer than here on the peninsula.” She gazed at Abigail. “You've not mentioned Ezra before—I've been waiting. How long has it been … since January?”

“Yes.”

“We were sorry to see him go. We were fond of him, too.” She leaned forward, smiling. “Though it be a fondness of a different nature.”

Embarrassed, Abigail looked down at her cup of tea.

“Every time Paul leaves Boston,” Rachel said, “I wonder when I'll see him next. This time I fear he'll be in the countryside a good while.”

Abigail finished her tea. “I should go to Dr. Warren's. At least they should be able to tell me if Benjamin came back from the Neck.”

“They,” Rachel said. She was smiling now, though her eyes seemed doubtful. “You mean both doctors, Warren and Church?”

“Yes. They were both at his surgery last night. Why?”

Rachel only smiled as she stroked her son's back, saying nothing.

Through the open door Abigail could see into the yard: old Mrs. Revere, with the children standing about her, and with the chickens circling around them. For the moment, the children appeared content.

Abigail left the North End, taking Fish Street, passing ships that were tied up along the wharves; dozens more rode anchor in the harbor. Since General Gage had closed the port, there was little activity along the waterfront, but today, a Wednesday, seemed quieter than usual—so quiet, you might think it was the Sabbath. Fish Street turned into Ann Street, and then she took the footbridge across Mill Creek, which divided the North End from the rest of Boston. Many stores were shuttered and vendors' stalls were closed. On Cornhill Street she saw the old man Elisha Bowen leaning against the bricks of Faneuil Hall. He was an octogenarian who spent his days in the streets. Half mad and with clipped ears—from an offense long forgotten—he was deemed harmless.

“Elisha, the shops, why are so many not opened?” Abigail asked.

He was nearly blind and he stared straight ahead as he began to laugh.

“Has something happened?”

He continued to laugh, until it churned up phlegm in his lungs and he began to wheeze and cough. But still he laughed, even after Abigail gave up and moved on down toward Marlborough Street.

At Dr. Warren's surgery, a chaise was stopped by the front door and Dr. Church climbed out. As the carriage continued on down the street, Abigail could see a woman's white-gloved hand resting idly on the windowsill.

When Dr. Church saw Abigail approaching, he at first seemed surprised, perhaps even embarrassed, but then he walked toward her with a sense of urgency. “You've heard, Abigail?”

“No,” she said. “What—”

“Fighting, it broke out on Lexington Green early this morning. Please, come inside.”

She felt confused, and realized he had a hand on her upper arm, as though he were trying to keep her from falling. “No, I—fighting?”

“We've just begun to receive word,” he said, “but the information is contradictory.”

“Where's—” she looked down the road at the chaise. “Where's Dr. Warren?”

Benjamin Church tried to guide her toward the front door, but Abigail resisted until he let go of her arm. “He's left already.”

“Left?” She could not read his eyes.

“Left for Lexington,” he said. “Reports have come in that the militia there engaged the British expedition at dawn. There are wounded and some dead, that seems quite certain. Then I understand they moved on to Concord. I'm preparing to go there now, though getting out of Boston will be even harder at this point. I'm arranging to be ferried across by a fisherman.”

“That explains it,” she said. “The markets, the shops—they're closed. And columns of soldiers are on the march.”

“Reinforcements. They were sent for by the expedition's command.”

“This can't bode well for the militia.”

“It's difficult to say what it means, Abigail. You sure you can't come in for a moment? Before long, it's going to prove to be a warm day.”

“No, thank you, Doctor.” Now Abigail took hold of his sleeve. The oncoming heat of the day was the least of her worries. “My brother, my younger brother Benjamin. He was sent to the Neck with Mr. Dawes last night.” She let go of his sleeve. “Benjamin was supposed to tell you if Dawes got through.”

“Oh, Dawes got through, of that we're certain. But the boy—” He shrugged.

“Do you suppose he went through the gates with Mr. Dawes?”

“I don't know.” Once again, he touched her sleeve, but this time it was a means of farewell. “Listen, I have to meet this boat—”

“Yes, of course.”

“I'm sure Benjamin is all right.” He leaned close, too close. “It's finally begun, Abigail. It could be over already. It could be over by nightfall.”

“Doctor, I don't know how to ask, but Ezra, do you know what's become of him?”

He looked away, down the street for a long moment, and he seemed to be considering his answer carefully. “I haven't seen Ezra for months now.” He appeared disappointed, hurt even, at the mere mention of his apprentice. “I realize that you and he would walk out, as young people do, but I don't—” He looked at her again, and now he spoke with a sense of urgency. “Listen, a great many people right now don't know where their loved ones are, and, yes, people are shutting themselves indoors—perhaps you should consider doing so yourself. Go home, Abigail. Go home to your mother and father.” He had been holding his hat, a broad-brimmed leather hat, at his side, but now he pulled it down on his head. “I only wish for your safety.”

“I see,” she said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He touched the brim of his hat, and then turned and walked back toward the front door to Dr. Warren's surgery.

Abigail stood in the street, which was empty. Then in the distance—from the mainland—she heard the faint peal of church bells. In the house directly across from Dr. Warren's, the shutters on a third-story window swung open. An elderly woman leaned out, resting a plump arm on the sill. Shading her eyes, she gazed toward the west, and after a moment she looked down at Abigail in the street.

“Them's the bells over to Cambridge.” Extending her arm and pointing more to the south, she said, “And them's the Roxbury bells. Whole countryside's in alarm, it is.” She seemed delighted. “It's the alarm!” she said, and then she reached out and pulled the shutters closed.

V

The High Ground

S
EVERAL HUNDRED PROVINCIALS STOOD ON THE RIDGE
overlooking the Concord River. Graybeards and a good number of boys barely in their teens. Most were bearing firearms, though some had only a stick or a farm implement. In the distance, church bells could be heard sounding the alarm.

Benjamin stood apart, as he often did around strangers.

But then a voice behind him said, “And how'd you get free of Boston?”

He turned and saw Ezra Hammond striding toward him through the tall grass, a haversack slung over one shoulder and a musket and powder horn over the other. Ezra was perhaps seven or eight years older than Benjamin, and taller—something Benjamin was unaccustomed to—and he grinned broadly.

But when he reached Benjamin, he waved a hand in front of his nose.
“Phew
. You must have swum off that Boston peninsula. We're well inland for such a powerful low-tide stink.”

Benjamin looked down at his britches, which were dry now and caked in hard black clay. “Marsh muck. I waded, mostly.” He slapped at his legs, and clods of dirt fell to the ground. “To get past the guards at the Neck, I had to walk out into Dorchester Flats, and the tide was rising. There was this corporal—Fredericks—and after I give him Mr. Dawes's shilling, he heads off to a tavern, so I went out on the clam beds to get around the sentries at the gates.”

“I see,” Ezra said. “And overnight you walked all the way out here to Concord? Twenty miles at least, I'd say.”

“I—” Benjamin hesitated, and realized that he was reluctant to mention his sister. “We haven't seen you about for some time.”

“Months,” Ezra said. He seemed chagrined, disappointed.

Benjamin cleared his throat and, surprising himself, spoke louder. “My sister—”

“Deserved an explanation,” Ezra said, anticipating him.

“You used to come calling.” He began walking away through the tall grass.

“It wasn't right, I know,” Ezra said. “It wasn't proper.”

Benjamin stopped and turned around. Something about Ezra's voice.

“She deserves better.” There was such remorse in Ezra's eyes that Benjamin couldn't continue to walk away. “I came out to the countryside in January.” Ezra began walking toward him. “My mother, she removed to Watertown to take employment there in an ordinary.”

“You don't know how Abigail—she holds a thing inside.”

“It's right that you're mad,” Ezra stopped in front of Benjamin. “I wish it had been otherwise.” He seemed not to know what else to say, and then he swung the haversack down off his shoulder and rummaged inside. “My mother, she prepared for me a wallet of victuals. I reckon after a walk like that, you might be some famished.” He pulled out a wad of brown paper and began to unwrap it. “Don't suppose you'd mind a piece of salt cod?”

Benjamin hesitated, and then finally broke off a chunk of the dried fish and stuffed it in his mouth. He couldn't eat fast enough.

Beneath Ezra's wide-brimmed felt hat, his long brown hair was tied in a pigtail with a strand of leather. He gazed down the hill toward the river. “I can only hope she doesn't think ill of me.”

“She has said nothing.” Ezra's eyes slid toward Benjamin now, curious. “But she would not say anything to me, her little brother.”

“I see.” Ezra cleared his throat, as though it would be best that they move on from such embarrassing matters. “It couldn't be helped,” he said—as though trying to convince himself. “I had no choice, really.”

In an effort, it seemed, to distract himself from his discomfort, Ezra reached into the haversack again, producing a spyglass. He raised the long metal tube to his eye and scanned the lowlands beyond the river. Pointing, he said, “Look: redcoats, mostly grenadiers—those tall fellows with the high fur hats, very imposing. They're searching every house and barn in Concord, looking for armaments, ammunition, provisions, anything the militia might use. And a detail of light infantry is marching this way, toward the bridge.” He turned and pointed farther upriver toward a farm. “I'll bet they're headed there, to Colonel Barrett's place, several miles upriver.”