The Schoolmaster's Daughter (46 page)

From the bow, Mariah's uncle Joshua Tigge said, “Rocks to starboard, Paul.”

“I see them.” Revere swung the tiller a few degrees. “That smell,” he said, looking at Benjamin, “don't you love it?”

The warm night air was heavy with the scent of low tide coming off the marshes.

“Always have, sir,” Benjamin said.

“It's even sweeter this spring,” Revere said, “now that the British are gone.”

A month ago, Boston had seemed doomed. General Washington had ordered that cannon be placed on Dorchester Heights, where it could bombard the city. The artillery had come from Fort Ticonderoga, New York. In January, Benjamin had joined Henry Knox's detail that was charged with the task of hauling the fifty-nine British cannon back across Massachusetts through relentless snow, sleet, and ice. It had been a hard winter, and the three-hundred-mile journey took nearly two months. But once the weaponry was delivered outside of Boston, it provided George Washington, the new commander of the American army, with the means to liberate the city.

Or what was left of it. Benjamin had not been in Boston since the night before the battle at Charlestown the previous June. The siege had led to starvation and disease—every form of ague and flux, and, most feared, smallpox. Through the winter months, the British army, now under the command of General Howe, who, fittingly, was an illegitimate uncle of King George III, had become increasingly desperate and brutal. Buildings were continually razed for fuel. The Continental Congress had resolved that General Washington must do whatever was necessary to remove the British army, even if it meant the utter destruction of the Boston peninsula. Many provincials believed that firebombing it would be an act of mercy. Even John Hancock, who stood to lose substantial holdings in private and commercial property, agreed that the city must be won at all costs.

During the winter months, Benjamin had received only one letter from his father, delivered to Mr. Van Ee's house in Watertown. His report was unusually direct. James had been in prison since June, his health deteriorating. His wife Mary and the children were getting by as best they could—they had all suffered periods of illness. Yet Father still remained loyal to the crown (he had refused to see James in prison, though Mother visited their son frequently) and expressed bafflement at the provincials' desire for war and independence, neither of which he believed could be won. Benjamin was concerned by what Father did not address in the letter. There was no mention of his health, or of Mother's. His hand, which like his voice had always been assertive and robust, was now shaky. Father acknowledged that he had heard that Benjamin had survived the battle at Bunker Hill, and he had sent the letter to Mr. Van Ee's, where, he understood, Benjamin now lived with his pregnant wife, the daughter of the fisherman Anse Cole. There was no offer of congratulations. Most troubling, perhaps, was how the letter concluded:
In Boston we are for the most part rendered Blind to the World beyond this Sorry Peninsula. We possess no news of Abigail and Pray constantly that you and she have been Reunited and are Safe and Well
.

“You're confident of the location?” Revere eyed Benjamin carefully, as though he knew that his thoughts had been wandering.

“I have no reason to believe I've been misled,” Benjamin said.

Revere glanced up at the moon. “But you will not divulge your source?”

Perhaps Revere smiled—it was difficult to tell in such faint light. He seemed often to find things amusing, even when others did not. He was known to be difficult, some even suggested insubordinate, and he was no orator—that he would leave to his more eloquent compatriots—but his round, swarthy face was expressive, his large, dark eyes observant. His eloquence was in his hands, the certainty of his actions. This past year, since Dr. Joseph Warren had died, Benjamin often felt that Revere was being watchful, even protective of him.

“I prefer not to, sir,” Benjamin said. “Doctor Warren always—”

“Yes, his instructions: mind your tongue,” Revere said. “He was a good teacher.” After a moment, he added, “And a dear friend. My wife and I have decided that our next child, if it is a boy, will be named Joseph Warren Revere.”

Dr. Benjamin Church himself had removed the lead ball from Abigail's breast. It was lodged within inches of her heart. In July, the Continental Congress had appointed him Surgeon General, and, with the death of Dr. Warren, he was, along with John Hancock, the highest-ranking member of the Committee of Safety. Despite such duties, he visited Abigail several times a week and oversaw her convalescence personally. But by summer's end, there was much rumor and speculation about Dr. Church being in league with General Gage, providing him with invaluable information regarding the American troops. Yet he remained cordial with Abigail, devoted to her recovery, until the day that she inquired after the money she had given him on behalf of Rachel Revere.

“A hundred and twenty-five pounds, you say?” His eyes concentrated on the old dressing covering her breast. “I fear I have no recollection of that.”

“I delivered it to your house in Boston, so that you could convey it to Mr. Revere once you left the city.” As the dressing was removed, Abigail's flesh stung and she breathed in sharply through her nose. “Rachel gave it to me and I brought it to you. It was a Sunday morning, dense fog, and a woman left the house in a carriage.”

He raised his eyes to her, curious. “A woman? Are you sure?” He attempted a smile. “Abigail, so much has happened during the past year, everyone is bound to misinterpret or misconstrue certain events.”

“Your implication, then, Doctor,” she said, “is that my memory is at fault?”

He finished changing the dressing and, without looking at her, said, “This is a serious wound. It is most fortunate that I didn't have to remove the entire breast.”

Dr. Church never paid her a visit again, opting to send one of his assistants, who always claimed that the doctor's time was too precious. In October, he was first court-martialled by General Washington, and then brought before the Massachusetts Assembly on charges of consorting with the enemy. Though he vehemently defended his actions as attempts to mislead the British command for the benefit of the patriotic cause, there was sufficient evidence—ciphered letters, sympathetic ink, the confession of a young woman who admitted to conducting the letters to the British—that Church was sent to prison in Connecticut, where over the winter he developed asthma. The fall of one of the most influential leaders of the patriot cause was met with shock and outrage, but eventually a prisoner exchange was negotiated with the British command in Boston; however, at the last moment the agreement was abandoned. Though the proposed exchange didn't include Abigail's brother James (which Abigail thought would have been logical, considering that both men had been found guilty of similar charges), the idea of such an occurrence gave her hope, only to have such expectations dashed.

Abigail's recovery was difficult, and she might not have survived the winter but for the generosity of Mr. Van Ee. Not until February was she strong enough to venture outside for any considerable time. She had built up her strength by walking, first on the grounds about Mr. Van Ee's house, and then, more and more frequently, through the village of Watertown, with frequent visits to the house where Rachel now lived with the children.

“It will all come out,” Rachel said. They were sitting by the stove in Rachel's kitchen. Outside they could see the children in the dooryard, playing in the snow. “Paul, Dr. Warren—none of them ever fully believed Dr. Church. The blood on his stocking, his so easily returning to Boston immediately after Lexington and Concord, and the missives—it has long been suspected that there was someone high up in the provincial leadership, perhaps even a member of the Committee of Safety, who has been feeding information to the British. I'm not surprised that it was our dear, sophisticated Dr. Church, who pens plays and liberty songs, and keeps an expensive wife in a country manor, and a mistress in Boston.” Laughing, Rachel added, “It's preferable that you no long bare your breasts to him. He could never truly appreciate such rare beauty.”

Though she blushed, Abigail laughed as well. “But, Rachel, a hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

“It's a great deal of specie. And I suspect I'll never know what happened to it,” Rachel said as she prodded the logs with the poker, bringing about a welcome surge of heat into the kitchen. “There are far worse things to lose than money.” She closed the stove door and sat back in her chair. “You are recovering from more than that bullet wound. I can tell—”

“Tell? How can you
tell?
”

“Because you never speak of him, Abigail. It is your way.”

“We were talking about specie.”

“We were talking about loss.”

Abigail gazed out the window. She bit her lip, but it couldn't keep her eyes from welling up, blurring the image of the children as they played in the snow. She knew Rachel was watching her and she turned her head away.

“Ezra left Boston,” Rachel said quietly. “He left you.”

“There was a reason. There had to be.”

“Then remember him fondly, but you must allow your heart to heal, too.”

Abigail wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “And how do you do that?”

“Dwell not on the past. Think only of future plans.”

When her strength finally returned, Abigail did make plans. At first, she thought she would join Molly Collins, who, like many Massachusetts women, had formed an attachment to the provincial army, providing assistance in caring for men who had fallen ill—as in Boston, disease was rampant in the military camps that surrounded the city. Molly had traveled to New York City with the army. In her letters, which were clearly dictated to someone (yet they still managed to retain the tone and spirit of her voice), she was adamant in the fact that she was not providing the American soldiers what she called the “old services.” Abigail believed her. Molly was a changed woman. They all, it seemed, were changed, changed in ways that perhaps a year earlier none of them could ever have imagined. No one doubted that this would be a long war and there would be much to do.

Mariah, who had married Benjamin in January just before he went to Ticonderoga with General Henry Knox's detail, was expecting. She was also staying at Watertown, working in a tavern, and when she was close to term Abigail took her in to her own room at Mr. Van Ee's and assisted in the delivery of a baby girl. It wasn't until late February that Benjamin returned from Ticonderoga to see his wife and child, which they named Abigail.

On that first night at Mr. Van Ee's house, Benjamin sat before the fireplace in a rocker, his sleeping daughter in his arms, and he looked weary from the winter's journey. There was now something different about Benjamin. It wasn't just that he was exhausted. He was no longer the wild boy wandering Boston, living by the ebb and flow of the harbor tides. His gaze was distant, yet inward. He too was consumed by the war, by the difficulties that faced the provincials. As he spoke, his thoughts meandered, and Abigail realized that it was like so many conversations she'd had with their father. Benjamin talked about the importance of bringing the British artillery to Boston, of George Washington becoming the commander of the Continental Army. He talked about why the Americans must force the British to evacuate Boston, regardless of the cost to the city.

But then he stopped rocking in the chair. Hesitantly, he began to apologize as he gazed at the burning logs in the fireplace. Abigail didn't understand what he was saying; she worried that the strain of the Ticonderoga expedition had been too much for him. There was something odd about him, how he was scrutinizing her. He seemed worried, even frightened. Hesitantly, he took something from his vest pocket and held it out to her. Abigail leaned forward in her chair and gasped. Her entire body clenched like a fist. There was a pain in her breast—not the same as when she'd been struck by Samuel's bullet, but a wrenching pain that rose from within her heart.

The Egg?

Benjamin was still apologizing, saying that he didn't want to give her this until he felt she had recovered from her wound, that she was strong enough.

She craddled the Egg in her palm.

But it was a stone, a white stone, stained with blood.

“He dug it out of the ground on Bunker Hill,” Benjamin said. “And he gave it to me just before he died later that day.”

“Ezra,” she whispered.

The keel scraped sand, and they shipped oars. The men climbed out into knee-deep water and then pulled the skiff up onto the beach. They removed their tools—shovels, a lantern, a wad of old sailcloth—and crossed the beach. To their left, the village of Charlestown was visible beneath a gibbous moon. Nearly a year after being burned by the British, new houses and buildings were under construction, presided over by an incomplete steeple, bound in staging. Once they reached the firm ground of pasture, they waded through tall grass that crackled beneath their feet and climbed over wooden fences. Dark, slow-moving forms—grazing cattle—littered the hillside. Benjamin led the way, a shovel resting on his shoulder, occasionally guiding the others around a cow pie. When they were near the angular, battered earthen walls of the redoubt, he paused and said over his shoulder, “East, now.”

They descended toward the Mystic River, which bordered Charlestown Neck, until they could see a stand of trees by the brick kiln.

“Joshua,” Revere said. “Light the lantern, and let's have a good look at this ground.”

Though new spring grass had begun to sprout, there was evidence of digging—holes, numerous holes.

“Well, Mr. Lovell?” Revere asked.

Benjamin walked toward the stand of trees near the kiln, followed by John Warren, holding the lantern. When he reached the trunk of the tallest maple, Benjamin noticed that the bark had been gouged with knives.