Harvard Yard (30 page)

Benjamin said, “I was hoping to show the children the wonder of the theater.”

“Precisely why you leave in the morning. If you are not on the road by daybreak, heading again for New York, where these things are permitted, I shall have you arrested.”

“On what charges?” asked Benjamin.

“Assault upon a selectman, creating a nuisance inimical to good order, theft.”

“I’ve stolen nothing.”

“That slave. He’s the one who ran off with you, is he not?”

“One cannot steal what is not property.”

“I do not believe in slavery,” said Abraham, “but I believe in the law, which requires me to tell the descendants of Reverend Bleen that their property has been returned to the province.”

Benjamin looked at the two young people. “Children—”

“You have nothing to say to them”—Abraham glanced at his grandchildren—“though I do.”

Lydia ignored the anger in her grandfather’s voice and said, “I abhor slavery, too. And I thought the play was wonderful . . . what I saw of it.”

“Good night and go to bed,” said Abraham. “The both of you.”

Caleb stood slowly, as if to keep the contents of his stomach from sloshing, and crossed the room to offer Benjamin his hand.

Benjamin looked the boy up and down. “You have the family height. I can see the family intelligence in your eyes. And the smell of rum shows you’re a lad with some curiosity about the world.”

“Thank you, sir.” Caleb burped.

And Lydia spoke up. “Caleb is among the best mathematics students at the college. He went with Professor Winthrop to Newfoundland and used scientific instruments.”

Benjamin nodded. “A Wedge . . . a man of science. The world is changing.”

“Indeed it is,” grumbled Abraham.

Then Benjamin asked Lydia: “And what do you wish for?”

Lydia realized it was the first time that anyone had asked her the question. She was so surprised that for once, she was speechless.

“She is to be a wife and mother,” said Abraham, “to some unfortunate soul.”

“I would also be a poet,” she said.

“I should like to read your work,” answered Benjamin.

“Grandfather thinks my poems are whimsical and childish,” she said.

“So are Shakespeare’s comedies,” answered Benjamin. “Till you think on them. Then they become a map of the human heart.”

“See, Grandfather”—she turned to the old man—“just what I’ve said to you.”

“And I said, ‘Good
night,
’ to both of you,” said Abraham.

The two old men listened as the children went into the foyer and mounted the stairs. One set of footfalls went all the way up, but the heavier seemed to stop halfway, then come stumbling down again. The front door was thrown open, and a moment later, the sound of retching could be heard in the bushes.

Benjamin said to his brother, “Raising children must be a hard proposition.”

“Harder than you can imagine, especially for the second time.”

Benjamin said, “’Tis good to see you, Brother.”

“’Tis good to see you, however you are seen. But why? Why now? Why so late?”

“I could not die without seeing this world again,” answered Benjamin. “And without doing what Father once urged me—to step forward and stand in the open.”

“You broke their hearts, you know. Father and Mother both.”

Benjamin looked down at his hands. “Once set upon the road with a runaway slave, there was nothing else for me to do.”

Abraham removed his coat and put his wig on the stand. Then he and his brother talked far into the night.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, as it always did on the day of the Harvard commencement.

In the Wedge barn, where Burton Bones and his players had spent the night, the actors packed their wagon, then downed gallons of tea and pounds of bread and jam served by the housekeeper, Mrs. Beale. Then Benjamin called for the green velvet suit he had worn into Cambridge the day before.

“No need to be puttin’ on your fancies,” said Demetrius. “We’re leavin’.”

“Not quite yet,” said Benjamin.

“We’s supposed to go at dawn,” answered Demetrius. “And I’m nervous enough as ’tis. That constable, I think he’s thinkin’ to send me back to Sudbury.”

“Aye,” said one of the others. “And that selectman may yet press charges.”

“I missed my own commencement,” said Benjamin. “I’ll see this one. Besides, the roads be so choked now, we’ll never get out. So stay here and stay out of sight.”

In the village square, the crowds were gathering for the “great and last day.” The spectacle was beginning with the arrival of the governor’s mounted entourage, preceded by the constable and six deputies. Waiting for them in the courtyard before Holden Chapel were portly old President Holyoke, the tutors, the Corporation, and all the candidates in their black gowns.

Benjamin Wedge had no use for the ceremony, except as a distraction that allowed him to slip unnoticed into Harvard Hall.

Inside, the college steward was directing preparations for the commencement banquet. The long tables were covered with linen. China plates clattered politely in a place where students ordinarily used pewter. And the Great Salt of 1650, the oldest piece of silver in the college inventory, sat in its place of honor before the president’s chair.

A scene full of ancient tradition, thought Benjamin, all grandly symbolic and theatrical, in a province where theater was prohibited. Such a place did not deserve the fine work secreted in the library above the Great Hall.

So he took the stairs, levering himself with his walking stick, as if he were far older and weaker than he was. Once at the top, he moved quickly to the library door.

He knocked but heard neither answer nor footfall, so he slipped the handle off his cane, revealing a long, thin blade, perfect for probing locks. He bent down and—

The door was pulled open.

Benjamin stood up so quickly that he was certain he’d raise suspicion.

But the young man on the other side of the door seemed too startled. He looked Benjamin up and down and said, “The library is closed, sir.”

Benjamin slipped his cane back together and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Mr.—”

“Spurgeon. Tutor Spurgeon.”

“You’re the keeper of the library, then?”

The young man nodded. He wore an academic gown and a harried expression, for he was clearly late to the ceremony.

“Beggin’ your indulgence”—Benjamin put on his oldest voice—“I be but an ancient graduate, back to see the school. Many’s the happy day I spent in the library. So—”

“That voice—”

“Sir?”

“You’re the actor, the one who played Signior Baptista.” Tutor Spurgeon closed and locked the door behind him and said, “You were ordered to leave Cambridge. What are you doing here?”

Benjamin looked down at his hands, his favorite gesture of contrition. “My story is true. I’ve just come back to see the library.”

“Well . . . not today. And if your intent is to find some play to put on here—”

Just then, the meetinghouse bell began to peal.

“I am late,” said Tutor Spurgeon. “So I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

And there was nothing Benjamin could do, except to calculate, as he went down the stairs, that it would be at least a year before Tutor Spurgeon left his position and an old actor could walk into Harvard Hall, lift the bottom shelf in section twelve, and retrieve an ancient play. But it would only be a few minutes before Spurgeon took his place in the procession. Then an old actor might take his advantage.

Outside, the candidates in their black gowns were marching by, two abreast. President Holyoke puffed along after them, followed by the Corporation and tutors, including the harried Mr. Spurgeon, then the governor and his council. With the constable’s deputies opening a path through the crowd and the clanging of the town bell providing the only rhythm, they marched in stately step to the meetinghouse, where Reverends Appleton and Wedge waited.

Benjamin was struck with a twinge of envy as the procession passed Abraham, for all the students seemed to know him and offer him some sign of respect. Benjamin had yearned all his life for such respect. If he rescued that play from the library, he might gain it, at least in those parts of the world not still mired in ignorance.

Then Constable Hull appeared beside him. “’Tis good you defied my order to leave, Wedge. The Bleens are here for the ceremony. They say you run off with their grandfather’s slave years ago. Would that be the one they call Demetrius?”

“No, sir, it would not.”

“Stay put till the ceremony end, so that we may have a look into this.”

Benjamin knew that if he stayed, even a few moments more, it might be the difference between slavery and freedom for his old friend Demetrius. But if he left, he might never have another chance at that play. He debated no more than that. By the time the ceremony ended and the constable came knocking, he and his troupe were gone.

iii

That summer ended more quickly than the one before, as summers always did, and it ended more quickly for Abraham than for his grandchildren, which was the natural order of things.

By autumn, the furor over Benjamin Wedge had faded. The Bleens withdrew their claim to a human possession they did not wish to own. The constable, however, swore to arrest Benjamin on general principle, should ever he appear in Cambridge again. From time to time, stories were heard of his troupe, driven from yet another New England town, but as winter came on, the stories faded, too.

January brought a celebration at the opening of a new dormitory, called Hollis Hall, funded by the generous Hollis family of England.

January also brought the provincial legislators to Cambridge. The townspeople prayed that the legislators did not bring the smallpox they had left Boston to escape. But none in Boston or Cambridge would escape the storm that blew in on the twenty-fourth.

At noon, the sky was clear, the air calm, the temperature in the thirties. Caleb set these facts down in a meteorological diary that he kept in emulation of Professor Winthrop. At dusk, he noted that the wind had shifted to the northeast, the temperature had dropped, and clouds covered the sky.

But he paid the weather no more mind; he was expected at the home of Professor Winthrop on the corner of Spring and Wood Streets for Tuesday-night supper. The group was smaller than usual, as most students had gone home for winter recess, but there was a warm greeting from Mrs. Winthrop, a fire on the grate, a fine bottle of claret, and a succulent joint of meat. And the educated conversation began the moment the students took off their hats and the professor showed them his new brass and mahogany barometer.

“An amazing instrument,” Winthrop said. “It allows us to quantify something as mysterious as the pressure of air, which enables us to predict the weather.”

“What is it telling you at the moment?” asked Caleb.

“If the mercury was at 29.81 inches at noon and is now at 29.31,” said the professor, “what is it telling
you?
”

“That bad weather is on the way?” answered Caleb.

“Indeed. But quantify it. What kind? How much? When?”

“Snow, coming in on a northeast wind, tonight,” answered one of the others.

Winthrop nodded. “Based upon the rate at which the mercury has fallen, I would say that by the time dinner is done, it will be snowing.”

And it was. Caleb and the others—overflowing with roast pork, claret, and fresh notions about the practical applications of science—stepped out into the flurries.

“It has begun.” Winthrop looked up into the sky. “We’ll be digging out come morning, mark my words. Good night, gentlemen.”

Caleb turned up the collar of his cape and headed home. By the time he passed the house of Brigadier Brattle, his shoes were filled with snow and his feet were freezing. He hoped that his sister was still up, so the fire would be stoked, even if it meant listening to the poetry she had been writing. He also hoped that his grandfather had taken to bed, so a boy might dip into the port without hearing a lecture on temperance.

The streets were dark, except for small pools of light under the lanterns at the corners. The wind was icy, though the smell of woodsmoke promised warmth. And a lamp burned in the front window of the Wedge house, a handsome place of two full stories, dormered windows, and a white picket fence.

As Caleb opened the gate, a cold gust struck him in the back and sneaked under his cape. But it wasn’t the wind that caused the hairs to stand on his neck. It was the sight of a dark figure emerging from behind a tree trunk, calling his name.

Caleb stepped quickly inside the gate and closed it. “Who’s there?”

The figure lurched toward him: a tricorne dripping wet snow, an ice-crusted beard, a bony hand reaching out. “Caleb, it’s me. It’s Benjamin.”

The house was quiet, except for the windblown rattling of the shutters. Reverend Abraham, Mrs. Beale, and Lydia were all abed. So Caleb threw a log onto the grate, poured two glasses of port, brought out a slab of ham and a wedge of Stilton.

Benjamin sat by the fire, a blanket around his shoulders, his complexion as blue-veined white as the cheese. With shaking hand, he took the port and drank it down, then he tore into a piece of ham, chewed, and swallowed.

“Why have you come back?” asked Caleb. “Constable Hull has a long memory.”

Benjamin did not answer until he had finished another glass of port, sliced off a chunk of cheese, and settled back. “I came back to see you.”

“Uncle,” said Caleb, “what’s happened? Where is your troupe?”

“Two quit.” Benjamin downed another glass. “Two died.”

He said that after he and his players were chased from New England, they determined to go to Quebec, where the English viceroy might enjoy a season of Shakespeare. But they were actors, not woodsmen, and they did not reckon with the northern winter. Two froze to death, Demetrius and the cart of costumes were lost in the St. Lawrence, and one refused to do anything more than take a corner in a Quebec public house and recite soliloquies for pennies.

“So I come seeking shelter for the night,” said Benjamin, “and help from you.”