The Schoolmaster's Daughter Page 2

  She went to him, taking ahold of his hand. He looked down, and she almost thought he was going to walk home with her to dinner, hand in hand, like they did when they were younger. Gently, though she knew he didn’t want to, he pulled his hand free. He turned and ran, his familiar loping strides, the sound of his boots reverberating down that narrow cavern of weathered clapboards.

  There was no choice now.

  Choices had been made, for all of them.

  II

  Sympathetic Ink

  PROVINCE HOUSE HAD A WELL-TENDED ORCHARD AND GARDEN, and sentries stood guard on the wide front steps. Abigail walked around to the back of the property, where the carriage house gates opened onto Governor’s Alley. Inside the wrought iron fence she saw a boy of about ten, beating a row of horse blankets on a clothesline with a stick. When she motioned to him, he came to the gate.

  “Do you know a groom named Seth?” she asked.

  “He’s my father, Ma’am.”

  “I wish to speak to him.” He gazed through the bars at her and didn’t move. “Please tell him I have something for him.”

  The boy ran across the yard and entered the carriage house, which itself was a handsome building, with a fine cupola. A moment later, a man came out and walked toward the gate. He had no hair, and his round forehead shone in the faint light. On the right side of his head there was just a small nub of flesh where there should have been an ear. “You have something for me?” For a man with such broad shoulders, he had a voice that was high and quite musical. His accent was Caribbean, which was heard frequently in the port of Boston.

  “Your name is Seth?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m to deliver a letter.”

  “James Lovell sent you?”

  “Yes, he’s my brother.”

  Seth opened the gate, allowing Abigail to slip inside.

  “You should not have come until it is completely dark,” he said.

  “Odd. I’m usually admonished for refusing to not stay indoors at night. Or perhaps you would have me taken for the sort of woman who sells her wares in the dark?”

  “I speak not of your honor, Mistress, but of necessity.” He studied her with a bold eye, which made her uncomfortable, but then he whispered urgently, “Boston is in such a state, what with hangings, executions, and tarrings, that we all may be required to make sacrifices, no?” He bowed his head, as though requesting forgiveness.

  “Indeed. This is so.”

  He smiled then, revealing broken yellow teeth, and then with great haste and an air of formality he led her up the cobblestone drive to the carriage house, which they entered by a side door. It was a clean, orderly stable, smelling of horses and hay, and they went into a small office, where there was an oil lamp on a desk. From her shawl she removed the letter Benjamin had given her and handed it to Seth.

  “Sit, please,” he said, gesturing toward a desk chair.

  Abigail didn’t move. To sit would seem to place her at a disadvantage. Other than her brothers, no one could be entirely trusted.

  “Very well,” Seth said. “You can stand here, if you prefer. All the easier to flee for the gate, if you lose your nerve. Some do, you know. The British have made us all wary. Fear is their greatest weapon.” He stared at her once more, his dark eyes earnest and even greedy, and then he tucked the letter in his pocket, saying, “It may take a while, but I will be back.”

  She watched as he went out into the courtyard and entered Province House by a back door. In one window she could see an enormous chandelier with dozens of lit candles, their glow casting an oblong of light down across the cobblestones, making them seem polished.

  There were so many letters. They were the whispered voice, the unspoken language of Boston, the only means of genuine communication since the city had fallen under the yoke of General Gage’s military occupation. The British had been a heavy presence in Boston for as long as Abigail could remember. Before she was ten she had witnessed her first hanging at the Great Elm in the Common, and since then public floggings and executions were all too frequent. Gage was perceived as being even-handed as he meted out punishments for his men as often as for the colonists. Tensions increased five years ago, when on a wintry night in March British soldiers opened fire on a crowd of Bostonians gathered in front of the Customs House on King Street. Five people died and numerous others were wounded, yet at the trial the commanding officer, Captain Preston, had been absolved of any culpability. The Bloody Massacre, as it was often called (though the British referred to it as the Boston Riot), was commemorated every March 5th by enormous crowds gathering to hear Whig speeches, this year’s being given by her brother James.

  As the situation became increasingly intolerable, more troops were shipped over from England. There were some fifteen thousand Bostonians, and perhaps three thousand British soldiers, many of them billeted in homes against the will of their owners. The sense of confinement on the Boston peninsula only contributed to the tenor and frequency of altercations. Yankee rum was plentiful and cheap, and there was a great tendency toward drunken disorder amongst the Regulars. Boston being a seaport, the situation was further complicated by the availability of easy women. Daily incidents occurred in the streets, in the taverns, and particularly in waterfront establishments, which were infested with idle sailors since General Gage had ordered the port closed, as a form of reprimand for the colonials’ unwillingness to bow to a series of edicts and acts regarding taxation. That winter, even William Dawes, jocular Billy Dawes, had knocked down a soldier in the street in response to an insult made to his pretty wife.

  Indeed, all of Boston was waiting, expecting the situation to break open any day, especially since the series of powder alarms which had taken place the previous fall. It started when General Gage began a campaign to secure the gunpowder throughout New England. A sound strategy, perhaps, taking weaponry away from a discontented people on the brink of revolt, but ultimately the plan only succeeded in exacerbating the situation. In September, he sent the first of several military expeditions out from the city. There were only two ways off the Boston peninsula, and before daylight a Lieutenant-Colonel Maddison led his men out Long Wharf, where they boarded some dozen longboats, which were then rowed across the harbor and up the Mystic River. They landed at a place called Temple’s Farm and marched about a mile to the Quarry Hill powder house. This stone tower, which housed several hundred barrels of gunpowder, belonged to the towns in the province (one of Benjamin Franklin’s new lightning rods rose up from its conical, shingled roof). It was a tidy operation, the mission carried off without any mishaps, and nary a shot fired; by midday the soldiers returned to Boston with the largest supply of gunpowder in the region, plus two brass field pieces.

  But Gage was forever underestimating what he often called the “Country People.” Early on the day of the raid, they were caught unawares by the British deployment, but soon church bells tolled, and an elaborate system of alarm went into effect, riders sprinting on horseback deep into the countryside to give warning. After the British soldiers marched back into Boston, rumors rolled through the province like ocean swells in a nor’easter. There was talk of shootings, of people wounded and killed; the British men-of-war in the harbor were bombarding Boston (which was not true). War had finally, inevitably broken out. Within hours, thousands of men collected in villages and towns throughout New England and, armed with muskets and cartridge boxes and provisioned with hastily prepared wallets of food, marched toward Boston.

  By the following day, several thousand country people were collected on Cambridge Common, their anger fueled by newspapers which printed a letter (always, the letters) from William Brattle to General Gage, suggesting the raid upon the provincial powder house on Quarry Hill. William Brattle was one of the wealthiest, most flagrant Tories in Massachusetts. Four generations of Brattles had resided in a mansion with mall and garden which ran down to the banks of the Charles River. It was a brutally hot day and Whig leaders, such as Dr. Joseph Wa
rren, persuaded most of those gathered on the Common to lay down their arms, so the mob was primarily equipt with stones and cudgels when they marched on Brattle’s house. Brattle fled, taking refuge on Castle Island in Boston Harbor. (Though he subsequently wrote a letter of apology, which was published in the newspapers, he had yet to dare return to his house.) The crowd then swarmed the residence of a Tory barrister, Jonathan Sewall, where windows were broken and the house ransacked. They weren’t through. Benjamin Hallowell, Customs Commissioner, was accosted, escaping Cambridge on horseback, pistol in hand. Hundreds chased him all the way to Boston Neck, where his horse collapsed and died of exhaustion. Hallowell barely made it behind the safety of the British sentries who stood guard at the gates to the city.

  Throughout the winter, the rift only became more pronounced as both sides awaited the inevitable moment when the smoldering tensions would be sparked to violence. The judicial system was rendered ineffectual; juries could not be sequestered and hastily printed handbills were nailed to the doors of attorneys, threatening death to anyone who attempted to conduct business in a court of law.

  General Gage attempted several subsequent raids in search of gunpowder and weaponry—north to Salem and Portsmouth, New Hampshire—but they failed to quiet the colonials. The alarm system worked, and with each attempt it proved even more efficient. Through the winter months it was not uncommon to hear stories of men and women working over fires, in barns, in stables, or even in the open air of the dooryard, melting down tankards and plates, and pouring the molten pewter into bullet molds. Metal of all kinds was sought—even organ pipes ripped out of a church across the harbor in Charlestown.

  At least a half hour had passed when Seth returned to the carriage house. He handed Abigail two letters, both sealed with a red wax. “This,” he said, tapping one of the letters, “must be encrypted by your brother immediately, and then taken to Dr. Warren’s surgery. The other here, the other is a fake.”

  “All right.”

  He led her out of the carriage house, toward the back of the Province House. “Now it is dark. I’ll let you out a side door, and you must go quickly.”

  When they reached the courtyard, there was a shadow that blocked the light from the chandelier in the house—it was a woman at the window, peering out into the night, a very elegant woman, wearing a dress of red satin. She wore a gold silk shawl about her shoulders and her hair, piled up on her head, was wrapped in a blue turban. It was the general’s American wife, Margaret Kemble Gage; her elegance and her penchant for Turkish-styled garments were legendary—she had sat for a portrait by John Singleton Copley. There were rumors that she was sympathetic to Whig cause.

  “Mistress,” Seth whispered.

  The woman gazed down at Abigail for a moment. There was no change in her expression. She held a small fan, which she began to flutter beneath her chin.

  “Mistress Lovell, please.”

  Abigail curtseyed, and then the woman turned away from the window and disappeared into the vast room.

  Boston was such a small peninsula, its nights now illuminated by hundreds of streetlamps, smelling of burning oil, and it was only a matter of minutes before Abigail approached her brother’s house. But when she turned a corner she saw two soldiers standing beneath the next streetlamp—Sergeant Munroe, accompanied by Corporal Lumley. She had no choice but to continue on toward them slowly.

  “Rather late for you to be out and about,” the sergeant said.

  He’d been drinking. In fact, they both had been, though Lumley seemed in fuller possession of his faculties.

  “It is curious,” Lumley said, not unpleasantly. “A young woman, out alone.”

  “Evening, sirs,” Abigail said.

  “Not long ago, Sergeant Munroe, Miss Lovell was in a hurry to get home in time for her dinner with her brother.”

  “And where you be headed now, Miss Lovell?” the sergeant asked, leaning toward her slightly, as though compensating for a sudden tilt of the earth.

  Before she could answer, Lumley said, “I believe she has two brothers, and one lives back this way—James, who is a terribly outspoken supporter of the Whigs.”

  “James,” Munroe said. “Of course.”

  Abigail straightened her back as though to proceed, and said, “I’m going to visit my brother and his wife, who is expecting. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  Lumley stepped in her way, and then taking hold of her by the shoulders maneuvered her out of the lamplight and only stopped when he had her pushed up against the shingled wall of a house. The smell of rum came off him like an insult.

  “Sir,” she said.

  He said nothing, and Munroe, standing next to him, only glanced up and down the street to see that no one was approaching. Lumley’s hands still clutched her shoulders more firmly as she began to resist his grasp.

  “What would she be bringing to her brother, do you suppose?” Munroe said as he stepped closer, also reeking of liquor. “Begging your pardon, truly I am,” he whispered.

  He ran his hands up her sides and then over her breasts. Abigail tried to turn away but her shoulders were pinned to the wall behind her. Munroe fondled her thoroughly until he found what he was looking for and then removed his hands. “If you please, Miss Lovell, you will hand over that letter, or I shall retrieve it myself.”

  Lumley let go of her shoulders. “Should we do her the honor of turning our backs?”

  “Certainly,” Munroe said. “We are gentlemen, after all.”

  Both soldiers did an exaggerated about-face.

  Abigail untied her shawl and unbuttoned the top of her dress. She removed the letter, and then set everything to right. “Here,” she said.

  The two soldiers turned around and she held out the envelope to them, which Lumley took. Munroe looked put out, but Lumley said, “Shall I open it, sir?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Lumley broke the wax seal and removed a sheet of paper, which he unfolded as he turned toward the nearest streetlamp. He didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” Munroe demanded.

  “It appears—” Lumley glanced up at Abigail, angrily. “It be a recipe, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “‘Quahog pie,’ it says here,” Lumley said. “‘Two quarts of fresh quahogs, finely chopped. Onions, diced potatoes—’”

  Munroe grabbed the letter away and held it up close to his face. “I haven’t got me spectacles,” he said. He moved his lips as he read, and then he gazed across the top of the paper at Abigail. “Why, it’s a recipe.”

  “I told you that, sir,” Lumley said.

  As Munroe folded up the sheet of paper, he said, “It’s in code, in’it?”

  Lumley gently removed the letter from the sergeant’s fingers. “Perhaps it is, sir.”

  “We should take you in, Miss. Give this missive a proper examination and see what you’re really up to.”

  “I said I was on my way to my brother’s, to visit his wife who is expecting.”

  “Yes, another bold young patriot about to enter the world,” Munroe said, leaning close, until his sour breath was warm on her face. “That’s one way to build an army, right, Love?”

  Lumley stepped closer as well, but it seemed in an effort to deflect Munroe. “May I inquire, Miss, why you concealed the letter?”

  “Sir, one never knows who one might encounter here on the streets, at night. To carry an envelope in hand only invites curiosity.”

  Lumley nodded. “Of course.”

  “I say we take her in,” Munroe said. He placed a hand on her upper arm.

  Abigail tried to pull herself free, but stopped when Lumley cleared his throat. “Sir.”

  “What?”

  “Unhand me!” she said, trying to yank her arm free of his grasp.

  Munroe only gripped her arm more tightly, and he clearly seemed to enjoy seeing her struggle. His eyes darted about, frequently falling upon her breasts. Earlier he had put his saber point to Benjamin’s neck, and now he
seemed determined to make up for being thwarted. “I like your spirit, girl,” he breathed, his face nearly pressed to hers. “You want to put up a fight, eh? That makes for good sport!”

  “I will scream,” Abigail said, “if you don’t release me at once, I will—”

  “Might I suggest, Sergeant,” Lumley said with remarkable calm, “that we confiscate the letter and let the young woman pass?”

  Munroe seemed angered by such distraction. “I want to conduct a thorough search,” he said, pulling Abigail hard against him. “This mistress bears more than a letter, I think.”

  “But we have the letter,” Lumley said.

  “Corporal, I’ll wager it’s in code. Look at this one—sly as she is comely.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Lumley said. “But we must determine that. If it is, we know where the girl resides.” Gently, he removed Munroe’s hand from Abigail. “And if it proves to be an innocent recipe, then we won’t have to explain to the schoolmaster why we have detained his daughter. Mr. Lovell is, after all, most loyal to the king, as everyone knows.”

  Munroe tried to take hold of Abigail’s arm again, and for a moment there was the slightest test of strength between the two soldiers. Both their faces were hovering over Abigail’s as they tugged at her, until finally, Munroe relented, and he stalked out into the street.

  Lumley remained in the shadows with Abigail. “I’m truly sorry for this imposition, Mistress Lovell.”

  “This has been more than an imposition, Corporal. I should report it. You’ve been drinking, both of you.”

  Lumley only lowered his eyes.

  When he looked up at her, he said, “Report us? I think not.” Then, with surprising kindness, he said, “Rather, I think you’ll just continue on to your brother’s and pay your visit to his pregnant wife, and this will all be forgotten, for the time being.” This time his bow was exaggerated, and then he walked down the street with Munroe as if nothing had happened.

  Abigail remained with her back pressed against the wall, gasping for air. Her limbs shook, and then she discovered that the sleeve of her dress was torn and her elbow was bloodied where it had scraped against the shingles. She touched the burning skin and oddly the sight of blood on her fingers helped to calm her.