The Schoolmaster's Daughter (16 page)

Your Humble Servant
,

Colonel Samuel Cleaveland

Abigail folded up the letter and went into the kitchen.

“Let me guess,” her mother said, standing before the fireplace, where she leaned over the large cauldron, wooden ladle in hand. “You won't be staying for supper. And we're having haddock, one of your favorites. You're off, God knows where, and I do worry—”

“Mother, I am not about to lock myself away in this house, no matter how many of the king's soldiers are sent to guard over us.”

“The soldiers, I presume,” her mother said, “are here to protect us.”

“From what, ourselves?”

“Precisely.” Her father, seated at the table by the window, did not look up from his book.

“I just worry about her safety,” Mother said.

Father removed his clay pipe and said, “She's meeting a gentleman, an officer, I gather.” When he looked up at Abigail, he smiled. “Who else would send a Regular with a letter?”

“If that is so, then it follows that you need not worry about my safety.” Abigail turned and started back down the hall toward the stairs. “I must change before I go out.”

“Precisely,”
her father called. “Tomorrow afternoon I'm away to Province House and I will expect you to accompany me.”

“Why, John?” Mother asked.

“That's where she'll meet the finest British officers, and we want them to see her, what a gem she is.” Raising his voice, he said, “Displaying her before such promising company is a loving father's obligation, you realize.” He waited. Abigail began climbing the stairs. “Perhaps I must send my own daughter an invitation by courier?”

Abigail paused on the landing and thought of Margaret Kemble Gage, dressed in fine raiment as she stood in the window of Province House. “No, Father,” she called down the stairs. “I would be honored to accompany you.”

“Praise be to the Lord!”
her father shouted. And then he laughed—too seldom, Abigail realized, did her father do so. “We'll make a respectable Tory out of our daughter yet!”

At dusk, Abigail arrived at the Two Salutations, only to find a soldier, standing by a chaise, who approached her eagerly.

“Miss Lovell?”

“Yes?”

“Colonel Cleaveland regrets that he has been detained.” The boy gestured toward the chaise. “So he has asked that I drive you to a suitable meeting place.”

“Where might that be?”

“The Common, Miss.”

“I see,” she said. “All right, then.”

The soldier helped her into the chaise and then climbed onto the bench, where he took up the reins. He drove through the streets as the lamps were being lit for the evening. When they arrived at the Common, the chaise stopped at the north end of the Mall, a lane that was bordered by a row of budding maples. Colonel Cleaveland was standing beneath one of the first trees, a basket leaning against the base of the trunk. He stepped forward and offered his hand as Abigail climbed down from the chaise.

“I appreciate your coming.” He saw Abigail glance toward the basket, and said, “The truth is I found our meeting in the tavern a bit confining. It's a beautiful evening after the rain, so I thought we might have something to eat here by the Mall, followed by a stroll. I've been in Boston long enough to understand that a constitutional is one of the great pleasures of this city.”

“It is, Colonel,” Abigail said, looking down the empty lane that ran between the rows of maples. “But, as you can see, the current circumstances are keeping most Bostonians from partaking of such pleasures.”

“So we have it to ourselves,” he said smiling. “And perhaps by example we might encourage others to venture out of doors.” When she didn't respond, he asked, “Would you prefer to eat first? Or would you like to walk?”

She glanced back toward the chaise, where the young soldier was strapping a feedbag about the horse's head. “Walk,” she said.

“I agree. Food tastes better after exercise.” The colonel took her arm and they started down the gravel path. “Could I also make a small request?”

“What would that be, Colonel?”

“It's that exactly—‘Colonel.' I realize much has changed in the past few days, and that in everything one must start anew. But I would appreciate it if you would at least call me Samuel.”

After a moment, she said, “Yes. That would be all right.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at her as though to make sure he hadn't taken too great a liberty. “Thank you, Abigail. I walk here often, actually. It's the open field dotted with grazing cows, I think, as well as these splendid trees. All this space reminds me of my family's pastures in Surrey.”

“Where exactly is Surrey?”

“South of London. We have a townhouse there, of course, but I prefer the farm, and I look forward to the day when I can return there. Raise cattle, breed horses, hunt and fish, that sort of thing. So I'm thankful for this Common, particularly on a night like this when the air is fresh after the rain.”

“I've lived a short walk from this Common my entire life,” Abigail said. “I've always loved to come here, but since I was a child there's always been something dark and dangerous about this open space.”

“How so?”

“It's the history of Boston.” She pointed toward a lone elm tree on a knoll. “That's the Great Elm,” she said. “Witches were hanged there. Children still believe their spirits roam the Common. And after the witches came Quakers, and then Baptists. The Puritans held tight rein over this town for generations, showing little tolerance for deviance.”

“And now we redcoats are here, new oppressors. In the eyes of Bostonians, we're the hangmen.” She glanced at him, but he was looking up at the trees arching overhead. “I don't like this role,” he said. “It doesn't suit me, but I am here to do my duty.” When she didn't respond, he said, “Not always a pleasant task, duty.”

“No, I'm sure it isn't.”

“This siege, it will take its toll on all of us.” With his free arm he gestured toward the trees ahead of them. “You know there's a committee of officers who are responsible for providing wood.”

“Wood?”

“To burn,” he said. “Now that General Gage finds his army trapped on this peninsula, unable to venture out into the countryside, there's great concern about these things—wood, to fire the ovens that provide meals for our men in the barracks.”

“The Mall trees?”

“It's a possibility. They're drawing up a list.”

“A list?”

“Historically, the state of siege is a long, drawn-out, withering affair. Essential practicalities have to be taken into account. If the siege of Boston continues, say, beyond the summer, then there will be the problem of providing sufficient heat through the winter.”

“You think it will last that long?”

“No one knows. Cities under siege often languish for years. The trees will be exhausted in due course, so other sources of fuel have to be found.”

Abigail freed her arm from his gentle grip and stopped walking. “What other sources are there? What has your committee put on this list?”

“It's not
my
committee, Abigail. These matters don't concern me directly. I'm in charge of artillery.” Yet he faced her, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he was prepared for a reprimand. “It's not my decision, but you can understand that in time the necessity will arise.”

She took a step back in the direction of the chaise, but then turned to him again. “I want to know what is on this list.”

“I don't know all the particulars, and I don't believe anything has been determined with certainty yet—”

“Colonel Cleaveland.”

He was clearly surprised at how sharply she had spoken, and whispered, “Churches.”

Abigail couldn't look at his face, and for a moment studied the gold buttons on his uniform.
“Churches?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Pews, perhaps,” she said. “And I know that there have been instances where metal has been removed from churches for the purpose of making shot. The organ pipes in a church over to Charlestown, they were torn out and melted down. So is that it? General Gage would have the pews removed from our churches for firewood?”

“No.” He waited until she raised her eyes to his. “Churches, Abigail. They will tear them down.”

“Tear them
down?”

“Board by board.”

“Which ones?”

“As I said, that has not yet been determined with certainty.”

She looked up at the budding branches overhead. The small pale green maple leaves were luminescent in the last light of day. “If you know anything about Bostonians, you will know that we consider these trees as sacred as our churches.”

“I do know,” he said. “I really do. God's wood.”

She began walking quickly, back in the direction of the chaise, repulsed by his sincerity as much as by the idea that Boston could become so barren of wood. He strode alongside her, his hands still clasped behind his back. “I'm really sorry to upset you. That wasn't my intention. I was only, only being truthful.”

“Truthful,” she said, without looking at him. “You said you would inquire about my brother Benjamin. Have you learned anything?”

“Nothing, I'm afraid. I can only tell you that he is not in any of our prisons.”

“Thank you! Thank you, Colonel, for putting my mind at rest.”

But sarcasm couldn't suppress her sudden anger. “My brother has gone missing, and in an effort to be of assistance you make inquiries regarding prison inmates. Logical, perhaps, but you do see why such logic can be so disconcerting.”

“I was merely trying to help, Abigail.”

She walked even faster, leaving him behind, though she could hear his boots quickening. “I suggest,
Colonel
, that you get thee back to your farmhouse in … Surrey. You have no duty in Boston.” She passed the tree with the basket of food, passed the chaise and the young soldier, who was stroking the horse's nose as he watched them with interest, and when she heard the colonel's boots finally drag in the gravel and come to a halt, she picked up her skirts and began to run for home.

IX

Fog

S
UNDAY MORNING,
A
BIGAIL DRESSED FOR CHURCH BUT DECLINED
to accompany her parents to the service at Old South, claiming that she would instead attend at Old North with Rachel and her children. This naturally brought objections from her father, but her mother saw the importance of giving succor to a woman with a houseful of children and suddenly no husband. Abigail promised to return home before one o'clock, in time to accompany her father to Province House.

She walked to Rachel's house, collected the letter and the hundred and twenty-five pounds, all wrapped in a small leather satchel, which she carried through the streets beneath her good Sunday cape. Overnight the wind had turned easterly and raw, bringing salty fog in off the harbor. When she arrived at Dr. Church's townhouse, an elderly maid admitted her to a drawing room, where she waited for several minutes. She could hear voices in the adjacent room, Dr. Church's and a woman's; he sounded harried, and the woman seemed more than a little put out. When he finally entered the drawing room he was wearing his vest, with his shirt collar open. He was clearly distracted.

“Forgive me, Abigail. I'm preparing to depart and there are so many preparations that I'm—but, please, can I have Mrs. McColl bring you tea?”

“No, thank you, Doctor.” Abigail handed him the satchel. “I only came to deliver this from Rachel Revere, as we planned.”

He appeared confused. “I didn't really expect her to find the money.”

“You will see Mr. Revere?”

“I expect so. He may be off doing out-of-doors work for the Committee of Safety, but he'll return to Cambridge in a few days, I'm sure.” When he saw that she was confused, he added, “These express rides he takes to the other provinces, we often refer to it as ‘out-of-doors work.'” He attempted a smile, but it faded as they both could hear the woman's voice in the next room, where she was sharply reprimanding someone, most likely the maid, Mrs. McColl.

“I see,” Abigail said. “Well, I understand that you're busy and I shouldn't keep you.”

A door slammed somewhere in the back of the house.

Benjamin Church was now truly alarmed. “Please, will you give me a minute?”

“I should go and leave you to your preparations.”

“No, please—I'll be right back.” He went out into the hall and Abigail listened to his footsteps rush through the house.

She sat down and minutes passed. There was, she realized, something about the room that was lacking; there was no evidence of a wife's care, nor was there anything really personal, such as a framed portrait. Only a small painting hung above the mantelpiece, depicting cows grazing by a stream.

Suddenly, outside there was the clatter of horses' hooves. Abigail went to a window that looked out at a drive that ran along the side of the house to the street. A carriage entered the drive but halted at the back corner of the house. Abigail couldn't see well, as she was looking through glass at such an angle that the whorls and imperfections distorted her view. Clearly, the man who approached the carriage was Dr. Church—his arms were folded against the chill air. Abigail caught a glimpse of a woman in the carriage but only enough to assume that she was wearing an ample wig. They spoke for a minute, and then the carriage came down the drive, and as it passed the window Abigail saw a woman's hand, wearing a white glove, resting on the window.

Reluctantly, Abigail sat down again and waited. She wanted to leave, but to do so would be impolite. Finally, Dr. Church returned to the drawing room.