The Schoolmaster's Daughter (3 page)

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 Warren, 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.

James's wife Nancy answered the door and stepped outside onto the stoop, holding a covered chamber pot by the handle. “Abigail, please go in. I must needs get rid of this at once.”

“You shouldn't be, in your condition—”

Though Nancy was only a few years older than Abigail, her brow seemed pinched with worry, and her hair was without luster, dry as straw. It was as though she had aged rapidly to catch up with her husband, who was more than a decade her senior. She was a good seven months along and stood with her back arched and her legs spread for balance.

“When his diarrhea is this bad, I've little choice, have I?” Gingerly, she made her way down the steps. “Quiet as you go, I just managed to get the children bedded down.”

“Of course.”

Abigail watched her sister-in-law walk to the corner of the house and turn into the alley which led to the privy. Then she stepped inside the house and, as she closed the door, she heard coughing. She went down the hall and knocked on the study door. “Jemmy?”

He coughed again, and said, “Abigail, come in.”

She opened the door and found James seated at his desk, scratching away with a quill. Though it was a warm night, the fireplace was blazing and the windows were shuttered. When he looked up, she could see beads of sweat at the edge of his wig.

“It's bad tonight,” she said, going to his desk. “You should be in bed, Jemmy.”

He glanced up, irritated. But she was the only one he allowed to use his childhood nickname, and his eyes softened. “There's much afoot, and you'll have me sleep through it?” He studied her a moment, his eyes curious and perhaps alarmed, and then said, “Are you all right? You look—”

“I have something for you,” Abigail said. She turned her back to her brother and lifted up her skirts, so she could remove the other letter from her pantaloons. After smoothing her skirt down, she placed the envelope on the desk. “From Province House.”

He put his quill in the ink well but ignored the envelope, as though he didn't want to acknowledge its existence.

“Jemmy, something's happening tonight—the soldiers are about, and they're not headed for the taverns but fitted out for a march.” Abigail suddenly felt weak, and she sat in the straight-back chair facing the desk.

“It's been coming, we've known that.” He picked up a glass jar and sprinkled sand on the letter he'd been writing. “And now, now it's begun. General Gage has many flaws and weaknesses, one of them his inability to do anything in secret. We've seen all sorts of signs. Last weekend it was observed that numerous longboats were being repaired on the beach below the Common. Then we hear word that the grenadiers and light infantry are to stand down from duty. This was intended to deceive us? And we've had word of officers, dressed as civilians, venturing out of Boston. They've been seen as far west as Worcester. For weeks there have been all sorts of reports of these ‘civilians' turning up in roadhouses asking questions about the country, distances, terrain. Maps—they need maps.” He carefully folded up the letter he'd been writing and tucked it inside an envelope; the skin on his frail hands was the same color as the parchment. “Perhaps our greatest weapon is the countryside. Thousands of redcoats bottled up here on Boston peninsula, and they haven't a decent map! They don't know the land out there at all. There are soldiers—I hear as many as seven or eight hundred—marching out tonight, and they have little idea of where they're going. At least until recently. We believe they finally have a map, an accurate one.” He took up one of the candles on the desk, tilted it, dripping red wax to seal the envelope.