No Rest for the Dove (31 page)

F
URTHER GRIM TIDINGS
came in through the kitchen door of Richard Longfellow’s town house, early the next morning. Because of her habit of rising to milk the herd, Charlotte was already enjoying a last cup from the housekeeper’s teapot, wondering what to do with herself next, when the woman ran in from the street.

“Oh, madam—the news!” cried Hephzibah. Rachel craned her neck from the pantry. “Such a thing was never seen before! And to such a fine gentleman, too! It is Mr. Hutchinson,” the housekeeper wailed. “His house—his beautiful house is
gone
!”

“What?” Rachel gasped in disbelief.

“Razed clear to the ground! I had it from a barrow man, just come from there. Only the walls left standing,
he says, and the lovely gardens all destroyed. Even the trees chopped down!”

“Who?” Charlotte exclaimed, though in her heart she knew.

“Townsmen,” Hephzibah spat out, “an army of
brave
townsmen! Oh, the shame will be on us forever—”

Seeing the old eyes brim with hot, angry tears, Charlotte hurried to the hearth for water. As she found a tin of tea, Hephzibah sat to be comforted by young Rachel at the long wooden table. Once new leaves were wetted, Mrs. Willett joined them.

It was more than a little strange, she thought; while they absorbed the awful news, little sound came from the usually busy street above. They could hear only occasional footsteps, or the distant, hollow ring of iron horseshoes on the cobbles. Perhaps the city lay hushed in its surprise—yet many must have participated in such broad destruction. How many more had stood by, doing nothing to stop it? And what possible good could it bring to anyone? For revenge was more than likely—

A rapping at the front door disturbed the house once more, and Rachel ran to answer. She called out from the hall that it was Captain Montagu, for Mr. Longfellow. Charlotte joined Edmund moments later, in the small morning room where he’d gone to wait.

“Mrs. Willett.” He spoke in a voice that was oddly flat, as he rose from his chair.

“Edmund, we’ve just heard—”

“The place has been utterly destroyed. They have stolen his plate, his jewels, his money—even the servants’ clothing. It is beyond belief! It is open rebellion against the King….”

Falling silent, the captain walked stiffly to the hearth mantel, where he began to finger a fragile crystal ornament
turned to fire by the sunlight. Charlotte, too, was now at a loss for words. But before another minute ticked by, Richard Longfellow strode in on stockinged feet, his shirt still hanging half out of his breeches.

“Edmund! How did this happen?”

“How indeed, Richard?” asked Montagu, looking up with an exceedingly solemn face. “Can you tell me you know nothing of this matter?”

“I? Last night I suspected
something
might occur, as you did, I’m sure. But to destroy the man’s home—the pride of this entire town! Where is the sense in that?”

“Do you finally believe, then, that some of your circle have lost their reason? Or is it
treason
that has been their aim all along?” countered the captain, as a vein at his temple throbbed.

“You seem to have ways of knowing what the town is about. So perhaps you will explain to
me
just how this—”

“Richard!” Charlotte cried out.

“I suppose,” said Longfellow, relaxing at length, “that it must be called no less than an act of terror, whoever its instigators might have been.”

“Agreed,” Montagu returned sharply.

“But how is Hutchinson? They haven’t dared to harm him—?”

“Safe, thanks to the warning of a friend. Yet the curious fact is that the lieutenant governor of this colony has not even a coat in Boston to call his own, as he escaped in his shirtsleeves. A neighbor saw the entire family run through the back garden, while the mob went in at the front. And all the while these men looted, they were actually heard to call out for the defense of liberty and property.
Liberty, and property!
”

The captain’s harsh laugh broke the tension, while both men paused to consider this new proof of blighted humanity.

“Word came to me in the early hours, Richard, that Hallowell, the customs commissioner, was another of the Liberty Boys’ targets last night. Three days ago the Admiralty records he kept were looted, no doubt to save someone’s skin; but this time, attacking his house, they stole or destroyed more, including his personal belongings. Judge Storey—Deputy Register of the Court of Vice Admiralty, no less—was deprived of court records and personal papers when his home, too, was ransacked. Both men had their cellars emptied, of course! Those bottles must have provided fuel for the later attack on Hutchinson….”

“I suppose all of them will eventually receive compensation from the town.”

“Do you?” asked Montagu, with a look of disbelief. “I doubt it. At the moment, I believe the town’s latest victims are surprised to have come away with their lives!”

“Well—let me buckle my shoes, and find my coat.”

Longfellow hurried from the room, to be stopped by Signor Lahte and his wife as they came down the stairs. They, too, sought a reason for the general alarm that had, by now, run through the household.

And so five walkers, including Mrs. Willett, went out minutes later, to see for themselves.

“
I HAVE WATCHED
riots before, certainly,” Montagu asserted as they walked down Hannover. He looked coldly at a pair of familiar gentlemen who passed with quiet faces, going in the opposite direction. “But even in London, I’ve seen nothing like this. Never!”

“I doubt,” said Longfellow, “that it began as it ended. The heat is known to encourage a thirst, as even your wife has declared. And once started, unfortunately …”

“No—this mob of yours comes and goes like a wild
animal that has been trained. Yet even a dancing bear may call his own tune, one day. And when that happens, what man, what woman or child in its path, will be safe?”

The captain turned to watch a rider coming toward them, thinking it was fresh news—but he was disappointed as the man rode by.

They approached North Square, and saw many others who had come to observe the scene. Even Montagu was moved by their chagrin. What had once been a proud home on a busy street, across from Old North meeting house, was indeed little more than a pile of rubble. There was no sense of victory in the air—only genuine sorrow at the terrible waste.

The house itself was but a skeleton. Slates from the roof, even from the cupola, had been thrown down onto the grass, or out into the street. Carved woodwork lay ruined beside costly panels ripped from interior walls. Over all fluttered a rough sea composed of papers, books, and branches—for even the fruit orchard behind had been hacked with axes. Flowers had been trampled, rare bushes uprooted, a glass house and its plants smashed down. Slashed portraits sat on top of jagged pieces of painted china. All that remained of the home of a man and his five children was an open grave, proclaiming the sudden death of respect, and decency.

“Even his papers,” Charlotte said softly, looking down.

“Including the history he had barely finished,” Montagu informed her. It pained him to see her face become even more pinched at the news. “However,” he continued, “a neighbor picked up much of it, including many of the old documents. Not all are in the best of shape, but most have been preserved. Reverend Eliot was a brave man last night, if another clergyman may feel some blame for what has happened.”

“What’s that?” asked Longfellow, looking up from the
destruction. He forced himself from his recollection of the magnificence he had seen just days ago, when mansion and owner had welcomed him.

“Reverend Jonathan Mayhew, it seems, gave a sermon on Sunday that many took to be a call to action, in the name of God. That, at least, is what I am told. If it is true … then may God help the Reverend Mr. Mayhew!”

Longfellow knew the popular minister had long ago proven himself to be a man of great vision, or of madness. Who else among them had dared to preach England had a constitutional right to remove the head of a king? He also had the notion that British subjects might some day span the continent, settling all the way to the Pacific Sea. With a wrench, Longfellow brought himself from this unlikely idea back to the moment.

“Your letter, I suppose, is gone,” he recalled suddenly, looking to Gian Carlo Lahte.

“The proof of my marriage,” sighed the musico.

“It was here?” asked the captain.

“Hutchinson was to have had a copy made and filed.”

“And duly stamped?” Edmund Montagu replied in a flash of grim humor.

“That, I think, would have been impossible,” his new brother retorted, unable to keep a challenge to the Crown out of his voice.

“Do you
still
defy Parliament’s right, and the King’s?”

“You see before you, Edmund, one house that has been destroyed—but how many more do you suppose will go, if this continues? I tell you, your game is a dangerous one for us all!”

Charlotte closed her eyes; still, she saw the scene of destruction before her. She knew the Hutchinsons were one of the town’s first families, long a part of Boston. Surely, they had all read the lieutenant governor’s views in the newspapers—even she, who paid scant attention,
knew Thomas Hutchinson disliked the stamps. But was it truly the stamps that had again kindled men’s passion? Or were they only an opportunity to continue a greater fight, which none of them might live to see finished? The thought appalled her as she stood, far from her quiet farm, in the midst of Boston’s woes.

As the party began their walk back to Sudbury Street, Charlotte considered that two among them were even farther from their homes, with little chance they could ever return—at least, together. As if he shared this thought, Signor Lahte dropped back to walk slowly beside her. Meanwhile, Elena went on ahead, her eyes alert, confident as only youth can be when faced with destruction. Though the night before the girl had suffered a serious threat at the hands of Thomas Pomeroy, today her step was light, and she was charming in a borrowed bonnet trimmed with little curling feathers, worn above a vermilion gown. What next, Charlotte wondered, would the world offer young Signora Lahte, as she attempted to settle into the rhythms of wedded life?

“I’m sorry for the loss of your letter,” she eventually said to Gian Carlo Lahte, noting that he, like the captain, appeared weary despite the early hour.

“It is very little, compared to what Mr. Hutchinson has lost.”

“But the new ceremony should be honored here—perhaps even more than the first.”

“Here, yes—here, it may be honored, madamina.”

“But …?” she asked, her eyes searching his still handsome face.

“In Europe, I do not think so. And as Elena wishes to return there …”

“In England, surely, your union will be allowed?”

“I cannot say. It is something that has not often been
done. But I feel—it is as if her first promise to me has been taken away—destroyed. It is only a feeling, perhaps.”

“Won’t Elena’s love continue to bind her, no matter what a paper or a court might say? Can you forget that in marrying you, she has defied even the will of her own father?”

To this he made no reply, other than to turn his face away.

When they had drawn near the bridge over Mill Creek, Charlotte heard the sound of another horseman hurrying toward them. Once more, she saw Edmund turn to be recognized by a possible bearer of official news. But when she looked up to see for herself, she knew immediately that it was not for the captain that this rider had come.

Something like a dark cloud swallowed the sun, as a black cape was flung out over Elena Lahte. She leaned away, but it was too late—caught in the rider’s clutches, she was hauled up to sit across the saddle before him, her waist clasped tightly. At the pull of a rein, the horse wheeled with a neigh that did little to mask the scream that trilled from the girl’s throat, when she recognized her father.

His mount lifted its forefeet and lurched wildly ahead, kicked hard by spurred heels. Then it took to the walk beside the street, forcing those on foot to dodge out of its way. In an instant, Longfellow put himself before Charlotte, and Montagu made a futile grab for the horse’s bit. At the same time, Lahte attempted to save his wife in the only manner he could—by clutching her skirts and laying hold to a foot. Arturo Alva’s arm went up; his whip cracked down against Lahte’s shoulder, shocking him into releasing the slight advantage he’d gained.

The animal stumbled again as it continued to snort in a panic of its own. Then, it ran for the harbor. At the end
of the short street, the horseman forced the beast to stop, not sure which way to turn. A boy who pushed a barrow full of squash around the corner caused a further delay, as the horse reared up once more.

Gian Carlo Lahte cried out, running after his wife and her captor. It appeared that he might reach them, until Don Arturo turned the horse from the barrow, and spurred it on.

Edmund Montagu now saw another mount coming down the slope of the cobbled street. He soon had its bridle in hand. “Officer of the Crown, in pursuit of a felon,” he shouted, forcing the rider to abandon his seat. The man then stood astounded as he watched his own horse turn the corner, and disappear.

Richard Longfellow had less luck, but he did know where to find the nearest livery stable. Leaving Charlotte, he ran to the next block. There, he gasped out a request to the proprietor, motioning frantically for something to ride. Marveling at his distress and excitement, Angus Jones gave over a horse that had just been brought in, its saddle still on, and Longfellow was again off, ducking his head at the door.

Meanwhile, Montagu continued to follow Elena and her father, watching them twist around carts and carriages, and dodge horses that turned away in fright at the strange thing coming toward them with three heads, and several flailing limbs. Down Wood Lane to Fish Street they went, past the wharves and warehouses that stretched out into the water—then up by Old North again, and on to Fleet. After crossing North, they turned into an alley. Here Montagu lost them, forced to halt by a group of women whose skirts startled his horse as they whirled in confusion. Hearing cries ahead, he wheeled and took the fastest route to Salem Street, where he saw his prey fly by
while the Christ Church bells began a stately peal. The captain then jogged to Charter, and hurried toward the nearby burial ground. Now, he heard the approach of another steed coming up from behind, and jerked his head around to observe Richard Longfellow gaining ground.