The Schoolmaster's Daughter (5 page)

“You are a divided family,” he said. “It can't be easy, for any of you.”

She kept her back to him for a long moment, unable to speak.

Finally, he stepped out of the doorway, admitting light to the henhouse. “I'm sorry, I should deliver—” He started across the dooryard. A swirling breeze coming off the harbor caused his blond hair to whip furiously about his head. He had a wide, straight back, and his stride was long and determined.

“Wait.” Abigail picked up the fresh egg and stepped out into the sunlight. He paused and turned, watching her walk toward him. “I'll take her the medicine,” she said, taking the package from his hand. “And this is for your trouble.” She placed the warm egg in his palm, and then walked on toward the kitchen door without looking back.

So it began and she thought of it, how she felt about him at first, as though it were an egg, its perfect ovoid shape, the shell hard and protective, yet fragile. They carried it together, it seemed, nestled in the palm of their union, a delicate secret. Love proved to be a kind of conspiracy. They met in streets and squares while she was ostensibly on errands; at dockside they looked over the day's catch together. But soon enough there were trysts after sundown. She would claim she was only going into the North End to visit with Rachel, who was more than happy to be complicit, providing the alibi so that Abigail and Ezra could meet in one of their chosen darkened corners of Boston. She had kissed boys certainly, but previously it had always been a form of teasing, a game. Rachel, who was five years older and just beginning to be courted by the older silversmith widower Paul Revere, said bluntly and with her snorting laugh that it was about time Abigail went into heat. Rachel found all matters of sex intoxicating and hilarious. Most Boston girls your age, she would say, already have a brood of chickens huddled about them. Often Ezra would wait for Abigail after dark. Claiming that she wanted to visit Rachel, Abigail would leave the house and walk up School Street, past King's Chapel, across the burying ground, to the bushes along the brick wall surrounding the granary courtyard. There, in the shadows, she and Ezra would hold each other, his whispered breath warm on her neck, while his hands.…

The thought of the sergeant's rough hands clutching her breasts struck through her, causing her to walk faster, almost at a run, breathing long and deep through her mouth as she repeatedly glanced over her shoulder. Nothing like Ezra's hands, tender, loving.…

Abigail had not seen Ezra since January, when suddenly, without explanation, he had quit Boston. She tried not to think on it, but it was impossible to put aside.

One of Dr. Warren's apprentices answered the door, and he led her up the stairs to Dr. Warren's office. Dr. Warren was seated at a polished mahogany table with Dr. Church, and they got to their feet and greeted her cordially. Dr. Warren was a widower and he had a large house across the Neck in Roxbury where his four children were cared for by various family members. Here in the city, his rooms were sufficient for his medical practice. He had wavy blond hair and pale blue eyes, and, as always, his cheeks bore a high flush. Dr. Benjamin Church was more somber, and his straight black hair held a fine gloss in the candlelight. His eye had a tendency to dwell, lingering upon Abigail's face.

“A glass of wine?” Dr. Warren asked, nodding toward the decanter on the table.

“No, thank you, Doctor. My brother has sent me.”

“How is James's health tonight?” Warren asked.

“It has been better.”

“Encourage him to come and see me, will you?” Dr. Warren offered her a chair at the table, but Abigail shook her head. “You bear a letter from him?”

Dr. Church had moved to a window, hands clasped behind his back. He was often reticent in Abigail's company, since two years ago when Ezra Hammond, one of his apprentices, had begun to court her. Since then, Dr. Church had seemed careful around her, distant, and yet she was always aware of his presence. When she wasn't looking, she felt that he was watching her, and now she suspected that rather than gazing down into the street, he was actually observing her reflection in the glass.

“No, there is no letter tonight,” she said. “My brother said there wasn't time.”

“Just as well,” Dr. Warren said. “James has a reputation for missives that are impossible to decipher. But then he's a schoolmaster's son.” He could be polite to a fault, and he seemed now to cut himself short—there wasn't time for pleasantries this evening. He raised a hand and with his fingers gently massaged his jaw. For the briefest moment, he seemed to be in considerable pain, but then he said, “So then, Abigail, what have you to tell us?”

“There was a report, from Province House,” she said. Dr. Church turned away from the window now. “As most Bostonians know, General Gage has a sizable force gathering on the Commons, an estimated eight hundred grenadiers and light infantry. The letter says they will cross the Back Bay by longboat.”

“By water,” Benjamin Church said. “You're sure of that?”

“Yes,” she said. “The troops will disembark somewhere between the Cambridge marshes and Lechmere Point, and then they'll march out through Cambridge and Metonomy to Lexington and Concord. Their objective is to secure weapons, ammunition, powder, and cannon stored there. They are also to seize Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock, who are currently stopping at Concord.”

Neither doctor spoke for a moment, until Warren looked at Church and said, “This confirms the other reports we've received. If nothing else, our system of observation is alert and responsive to the movement of our British brethren.”

“Yes.” Church turned back to the window. “It's as we expected.”

“Now that we know how they're leaving Boston,” Dr. Warren said, “we'll send Dawes and Revere.”

Both doctors were members of the Committee of Safety and the Parliamentary Congress. Warren was famous (or notorious, in the view of the Tories) for his eloquence. For years he had produced a constant barrage of articles, broadsides, and speeches, issued on behalf of the cause of liberty in the colonies. In March he gave a speech commemorating the fifth anniversary of the Boston Massacre. Old South Meetinghouse was packed, and there were dozens of British officers seated directly in front of the pulpit. Warren delivered a rousing speech in a white toga while the lobsterbacks expressed their displeasure by rolling and clicking lead shot in their hands like dice. As the doctor concluded his speech, some of them shouted
“Fie! Fie!”
—which was misunderstood by the huge crowd as
“Fire! Fire!”
A riot broke out as everyone tried to evacuate the building. In the street a detachment of armed soldiers happened to be passing by (by design or coincidence, no one could say), and there was a confrontation between them and the Bostonians, most of whom had cudgels of various sorts which they'd kept hidden beneath their coats. A fight was barely averted.

Church glanced away from the window. “We'll send both Dawes and Revere?”

“Yes,” Dr. Warren said. “No doubt Gage already has soldiers out there, watching the roads. At least one express has to get through to Concord and Lexington. I'll go send my runners to fetch them.”

Warren left the room, closing the door behind him. Abigail turned and went to the other window. Down in the street, several redcoats marched by.

“This is a larger expedition than before,” she said.

“I'm afraid it is.” As Church approached her, she continued to stare out the window. “How did your brother come by this information from Province House?”

Abigail watched his reflection in the mirror. “By letter.”

“You saw it, the letter?” He stood behind her, off to the right as though he wished to accommodate her as she gazed at his reflection.

“I did.”

“And the source, it's reliable?”

She turned around, which seemed to at first surprise him, but then his eyes softened and he appeared relieved. “What are you asking me, Doctor?”

“It's only that General Gage is himself well versed in subterfuge.”

“The letter came from Province House,” Abigail said. “It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“By an intermediary, Doctor. So perhaps it was from General Gage? Or perhaps from Mrs. Gage, who is, after all, an American, and is often suspected of sympathizing with the Whigs.” She took a step closer to Church. “Or maybe
I
wrote the letter, and it's full of misinformation? Maybe the British troops aren't headed for Lexington and Concord at all? Instead, they could be going south, or is it north? Perhaps they're boarding ships that will take them to Gloucester or Newburyport—”

“Abigail, please—”

“Or perhaps the ships will take them down the coast to New York, where they'll sever us New England upstarts from the rest of the colonies. Wouldn't that be an ambitious yet sensible plan?”

Church unclasped his hands and raised them as though to protect himself. “Really, Abigail, I only—”

“No, Doctor, let's think this all the way through. You suspect something? There's
so
much suspicion—no one's to be trusted. Maybe
I
am not to be trusted, even by my own brother. Maybe this is a question of
my
loyalty.” She moved closer still, causing him to lean back slightly. “Because everyone knows about the Lovell family—reputable educators, father and son, but look how divided they are in their allegiances.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, gently, and then he said, “I must apologize, Abigail. I mean to make no inference—”

She turned her head, glancing at the hand on her right shoulder, and then looked back up at him. Embarrassed, he removed his hands as though he had committed some heinous crime and walked back to the other window.

“It's just that we—we are overly wary and cautious,” he said. “It's the nature of things now, particularly since we are forced to have His Majesty's army live among us. I think it very brave of you to venture into the streets on a night such as this.”

“You have no idea,” she said with a sigh, calming down. “The redcoat patrols … they show no respect.”

“This, I suspect, is what makes matters so difficult,” Church continued. He seemed not to hear her; he seemed not to want to hear what she'd just said. “Why? Because so many Bostonians are obligated to bivouac soldiers in their homes. Provide them a bed and food and drink—and the Lord knows what else—without any say as to what or how many soldiers will live under one's own roof.”

“And all for no compensation, regardless of their circumstance.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Other than the privilege of accommodating the king's men.”

She thought of Munroe and Lumley, their hands, and said, “There has been enough accommodation for the king's men.”

He seemed nervous, standing at the window. “I am sorry. I wish there was something that could be done.”

“There is.” She waited, but he would not turn from the window. “You could tell me what happened to Ezra. You do know, don't you?”

“Well, I can't say. I shouldn't say.” After a moment, he added, “I realize how hurtful to you this has been, his sudden—”

“Do you? Do you, Doctor? He suddenly comes to me in a hurry one night and says he's leaving Boston. No explanation about where he's going, when he'll be back, and now he's been gone more than three months.”

“I wish I could tell you—”

“But you can't? You know, but you can't?”

“I can't.” Dr. Church looked around, slowly. “I'm sorry.”

“Ezra is your apprentice. Surely he would not leave without your permission.”

Dr. Church considered her for a long moment, until they both suddenly looked toward the door. There were footsteps out on the stairs, and then Dr. Warren reentered the office. Abigail realized that she was blushing, but Warren was too preoccupied to notice.

“So,” he said, “that is done. I have sent for express riders.”

Down in the street there was a familiar cadence, running footsteps. Abigail looked out the window and caught sight of her brother Benjamin just as he sprinted around the corner. “You've sent my brother Benjamin,” she said, “to fetch Mr. Revere?”

“No, another boy's on that mission,” Dr. Warren said. Again, his hand tenderly rubbed the side of his face, just beneath the left ear. “I sent Benjamin for Mr. Dawes, who is already preparing to leave the city.” Abigail thought his faint smile was intended to be reassuring. “They're as good as we've got, your brothers,” he said. “James's fierce pen and Benjamin's swift feet.”

“And with this we're to rid ourselves of the king's men?” she asked.

Dr. Church went to the table and poured himself a glass of wine. “And with your help, as well,” he said, though he wasn't smiling. “How can we lose?”

III

Into the Country

B
ENJAMIN HAD BEEN INSTRUCTED BY
D
R.
W
ARREN TO GO TO
the Green Dragon Tavern, where he would find William Dawes, the tanner. Dawes was already drunk. Or pretending to be—it was always hard to tell. Most likely he'd had a few bowls of flip, for he reeked of the sweet concoction. After they left the establishment, he let Benjamin help him climb on his horse and then take the reins as they walked through the city toward Boston Neck. Dawes was tall and lanky, with a long nose and the expression of a half-wit, and he rocked from side to side in his saddle.

“Where are we going if we get through the gate?” Benjamin asked.

Dawes slumped forward until his head rested against the horse's mane. “You are to take me only as far as the gatehouse, understand?”

“But I always accompany you through the gates—”

“I know, but tonight is different. I will give you a coin for your trouble, which the guard will find quite a distraction. I know the soldiers that stand duty at the Neck, and not one of them can see past the glimmer of a coin.” When Benjamin did not respond, Dawes said, “You understand?”