The Schoolmaster's Daughter (12 page)

“Someone own Obadiah?”

“Reginald Fiske, a merchant. But Obadiah, he acts like a freeman.”

Ezra nodded toward the cage. “But he stays put because of such warnings.”

“Wasn't for him, that tide would have taken me out to sea.”

Ezra turned and looked back into the woods. “We're out of water. There's a spring down there a ways.”

They got up and walked down to an outcropping of granite, where they could hear the gurgle of running water. The spring ran below the rocks and wound farther down through a glen. The stream ran clear, and moved fast enough that there was white water curling over stones. Something about the movement of water fascinated Benjamin. A stream, a pond, the harbor stretching toward the sea, he could stare at the movement of water endlessly. They knelt on the mossy bank and drank from their cupped hands, and then Ezra began to fill his canteen.

The shot came from above them, to their right. Ezra groaned as he seemed to be pushed into the stream. Blood-stained water ran downstream.

Benjamin looked back up at the granite outcropping and saw two redcoats. One was reloading his Brown Bess, while the other held his rifle across the top of the rock, taking aim. He fired, and Benjamin was sprayed by moss and clumps of dirt. Turning, he looked at Ezra, who was still lying on his side in the stream, holding his shoulder. His musket lay on the embankment and Benjamin picked it up, got to his feet, and ran toward the rocks. He could only see one of the soldiers, perhaps thirty yards away, ramming ball and powder down the barrel of his gun. Benjamin kept running toward him, dodging in and out behind tree trunks. When he had closed half the distance, the soldier raised his gun to his shoulder. Benjamin fell to the ground as the soldier fired. The ball hit the nearest tree, raining bark and splinters down on Benjamin, who remained on the ground. He took aim at the soldier, who was beginning to move to his right along the angled granite faces—his boots slipped on the stone, so that he fell, losing his rifle. He had acne on his face and neck, and he stared at Benjamin helplessly.

Benjamin got to his feet and moved until he was behind a wide tree trunk. It was quiet for a moment; there was only the sound of the stream behind him. When he peered around the trunk, he saw the other soldier running downhill. Benjamin shouldered Ezra's rifle and drew a bead and, just before the soldier reached a stand of bushes, he fired. The soldier's hands went up into the air, his gun clattered against the ground, and then he tumbled down the hill until he lay motionless, gazing at the sky.

There was a terrible ringing in Benjamin's right ear and it made him feel dazed. He leaned the musket against the tree and looked back toward the other soldier. He was on his feet and reloading his gun. Benjamin pressed his back against the trunk. He could see Ezra, who was now sitting up in the stream, his jacket slick with blood.

Turning, Benjamin stepped out from behind the tree and began walking quickly toward the soldier. He drew the old man's pistol from his belt. The soldier was pouring powder down his barrel, when he paused and looked up. Benjamin stopped a few feet away and extended his pistol toward the soldier. “Put it down.”

The soldier seemed about the same age as Benjamin, perhaps even younger. He looked down toward the other soldier, and then back at Benjamin.

“Put it down or I'll fire.”

“Shoot!”
Ezra yelled from the stream.
“Shoot him!”

Benjamin didn't take his eyes off the soldier. “You heard me.”

“What will you do?”

“Put it down and I will let you walk out of here.”

“Shoot!”

The soldier stared at the pistol, and then at Benjamin. The front of his red coat was covered with grass stains and sweat ran down his dirty face. He let go of the muzzle of his rifle and it fell to the ground. Slowly, he turned and began walking away through the woods. His hat was on crooked and when it fell off he didn't stop to pick it up. His hair was black, short, and cut unevenly. He was already developing a bald spot on the crown of his head. Once, he glanced over his shoulder, and then began to trot, with difficulty because he was encumbered with so much equipment. He disappeared into the trees in the direction of the Charlestown road.

They were walking down the hill when Mariah hesitated and said, “What's that?”

Abigail looked back out across the Charles. The land, in its new spring green, stretched toward the horizon beneath an afternoon sky crowded with towering clouds. She looked down the path, thinking that Mariah had caught sight of Lumley.

She heard it then, a faint clap, coming from miles away. The only other sound was the lowing of a cow, grazing well below them on the hill.

There came a succession of claps, more like the crackling of logs in a fire.

“Guns,” she said.

They moved quickly, back along the ridge. The gunfire was constant now, coming from different quarters to the west.

“That's closer than Cambridge,” Mariah said.

“Yes.”

“It must be a slaughter, my God, it must be.”

Minutes passed. The shooting became constant, moving closer to the vast salt marsh on the far side of the river. There was movement, a line of red, crossing to the Charlestown peninsula, advancing slowly, resembling a snake the way it moved sideways through and around the trees. It was redcoats, but something was wrong with the column, the way it was disorderly and bedraggled. Finally they stopped in the pastures above the Charlestown village, spreading out like a stain along the hillside.

“I don't understand,” Mariah said. “Who's shooting?”

“We are.”

“Can it be?”

“Must be. They must be in the woods.” Abigail suddenly needed to sit down. She settled in the grass, and Mariah did the same, leaning toward her as if for protection. Abigail placed her arm around the girl, and could feel the faintest quiver in her shoulders. “They've run them out of the countryside.” She stretched out her other arm and pointed. “See that cluster of soldiers at the head of the spit. They're holding us back. There must be thousands of men. They're safe on Charlestown peninsula, but trapped. They'll have to be ferried across the river. By nightfall, they'll be back here.”

“And then what?” Mariah asked.

“Once in Boston, they've no place to go. I don't know what happens then.”

VII

Bostoneers

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
B
OSTONIANS
'
SHOCK AND AWE WERE
as great as the redcoats' exhaustion. Throughout the city there seemed to be no order. Drunken soldiers were everywhere; but there was also a peculiar stillness. It was eerie, this quiet, more threatening than the rattle of drums and the stamp of soldiers' feet during a parade drill. Commerce was sporadic and there was a reluctance to gather in the streets, yet rumors abounded: dozens of British soldiers were said to have been killed and several hundred wounded. There were stories of their anguished cries during the night as they were ferried over from Charlestown. The provincials suffered losses as well, though it was generally believed that they had fared better than the redcoats. And there were outlandish stories about provincials being slaughtered in their beds; houses and entire villages put to the torch. Repeatedly, there were descriptions of women being seen running naked from the redcoats. But there was also word of how, though greatly outnumbered, the militia stood at Lexington and then at Concord, how they fought like Indians, shooting from behind trees and fences and barns, never confronting the British in the open as they pursued the redcoats all the way back to Charlestown. Perhaps, most horrifying, were the tales of soldiers being scalped.

The Latin School was closed, and would remain so for an undetermined period of time. Father shut himself up in his study, and a succession of his Tory friends came calling. Mother served them, but she was often on the verge of tears, worried about what had become of Benjamin.

“He may still be somewhere in hiding,” Abigail said as she helped prepare another tray of tea and biscuits for Father's guests. “I've looked in all his usual places, but—”

“I went to James's house first thing this morning, thinking he knew something, but he assures me he doesn't know where Benjamin is either,” her mother said. “The boy has gone and joined them—I know it. He's got himself out into the countryside and can't come back.”

Abigail couldn't deny the possibility. But then she said, “If anybody can slip back into Boston, it's Benjamin.”

Her mother took the tray down the hall to Father's study. Abigail went into the parlor, where she stopped at one of the windows. Corporal Lumley was walking down School Street and when he reached the house, he paused at the front stoop.

Abigail quickly went into the hall, opened the door, and said, “What is it you want?”

“I'm billeted just there.” He said, pointed down the street. “And—”

Abigail came out on the threshold. “You were following me yesterday.”

He appeared uncertain, embarrassed. “I meant you no harm, Miss.”

“You've done enough already. Now go, go away from my house.”

She stepped back and began to close the door, but hesitated when he reached inside his red tunic and produced an envelope.

“This is for you, Miss.” Now he nodded in the direction of the house where he was staying. “He sent a messenger this morning, saying I was to deliver this to you personally.”

“Why you?”

“I cannot say. It's all a muddle now.”

“Who's it from?”

He only held the envelope out to her. “I meant no harm, I assure you. The other night, it was most inappropriate.”

“Corporal Lumley, you search my brother's hat, you have the temerity to assist in the search of my person in the most improper fashion, and then you follow me up the Trimount.”

He only lowered his head as though to acknowledge that this was abject behavior. “I wished only to speak to you, Miss. And now this messenger comes from the colonel, requesting that I—”

“The colonel?”

“Colonel Cleaveland. Seems he made inquiries and learned that I—” Once again, he nodded toward the house he was staying in farther down School Street. “The messenger he says, ‘The colonel has learned that you knows the schoolmaster's daughter and he expects that you'll make delivery of this.'” Lumley gazed down at the envelope, which he still extended toward her. With a shrug, he added, “So says I, ‘Yes, I know where Master Lovell lives,' and here I am, as instructed.”

“Didn't Colonel Cleaveland go with the expedition to Lexington and Concord?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“It's about my brother.”

“That I cannot say. I have no knowledge of the contents of this letter.”

“Are you sober, Corporal?”

“Indeed I am.”

He seemed in earnest; different in some way that she couldn't fathom. Also, his extended arm appeared to be growing tired, which gave her a little satisfaction.

“You are pathetic, sir.”

“I offer no rebuttal, mistress.”

Abigail snatched the envelope from his hand, stepped back, and shut the door hard.

The demands of her parents' guests were immediate. She tucked the envelope inside Alexander Pope's translation of Homer's
The Odyssey
, which was on the shelf in the parlor, and then went about the business of assisting her mother. The afternoon wore on, and it wasn't until early evening that her duties were concluded. Her father was still locked away in his study, and her mother, exhausted in her rocking chair, had dozed off with her needles and yarn in her lap.

Abigail took the copy of
The Odyssey
upstairs and sat on the window seat on the landing. The late afternoon clouds had grown dark and a thunderstorm was approaching. The air was close, and rain would be a relief. She removed the envelope from the book, broke the seal of white wax, and removed a single folded sheet of parchment.

April 20, 1775

My Dear Miss Lovell
,

I apologize for the forward and rather impersonal Nature of this communication as we have not been formally introduced, but I suspect that you will agree that the Events of the past few days have dramatically altered how you and I
—
to be sure, all of us
—
view even the most ordinary occurrences. I find everything has changed Now and I cannot see where this will all lead. If you would do me the kindness of meeting me this Evening, I would be most Grateful. Of course, should you find it necessary to Decline, for whatever reason, I will fully understand and not trouble you further. However, I believe You and I have much to discuss and pray that you will do me the honor of your company at the Two Salutations at seven o'clock
.

Your Humble Servant
,

Colonel Samuel Cleaveland

Abigail looked out the window as the first raindrops streaked the whorled glass.

A soldier was waiting in the pouring rain outside the Two Salutations, and he escorted Abigail inside to the private room Colonel Cleaveland had secured. He was alone and the table was laden with poultry, fruit, and wine. Abigail took the seat when offered, but declined to eat. She kept her cloak on, only pushing the hood back onto her shoulders.

He poured her a glass of wine, which she did not touch. There was much different about him, and it was difficult to believe he was the same officer she had encountered in Dock Square two days earlier. Scratches ran down his face and the side of his neck, and there was a purplish bruise at his temple. His left hand was bandaged. And his eyes, though still a pale blue, seemed now to linger in a way that suggested newfound doubt. He stared at the wine glass in his hand as though he'd never seen one before, and once he picked up a knife and appeared to be looking at himself in the reflection of its blade. Beyond that, he was somehow diminished. Though his uniform was crisp, he seemed not quite able to fill it as he might have only days ago. He had, though, taken considerable pains with his hair, which, as before, was smoothed back from his forehead and tied in a neat queue.