The Schoolmaster's Daughter (36 page)

A man emerged from the crowd, heading toward Benjamin. Thin, frail, wearing a long coat despite the heat, he walked with a cane and kept his head lowered so that his broad-brimmed leather hat shielded his face. Benjamin was about to slip back into the alley, when he realized it was James. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother outside—it was always in his house, or at their parents'. James turned in to the alley, saying quietly, “Don't follow me. Long Wharf, tonight at ten,” and he continued on.

Benjamin looked back toward the crowd and saw that another man was walking toward him. He was trying to appear casual, but his stride was too energetic. Benjamin turned and walked down the street in the opposite direction. When he looked around, he saw the man enter the alley.

Abigail slept well into the evening. The curtain on the west window was a bright rose color in the sunset. She had been vaguely aware that her mother had come into her room at least once, to bring tea (which went untouched). Eventually, she was awakened by footsteps coming up the stairs. Boots: heavy and familiar. She rolled on her back, drawing the bed sheet up to her shoulders. If anything, the air was closer now than it had been at noon.

Before he knocked, she said, “Come in, Samuel.”

He opened the door. “You're awake. You parents said you were exhausted all afternoon.” He left the door slightly ajar and looked at her uncertainly, once glancing at the chair in the corner.

“This intolerable heat.” But she gazed directly at him, and he came to the bed. She moved her hand on the coverlet. “It isn't just any man that my parents allow to visit their daughter's bedroom.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, where her hand had been.

“Tell me,” she said.

Samuel studied the glowing curtain a moment, and he took a deep breath, as though he needed to prepare himself for the news he bore. “They've both been taken into custody.” She began to sit up, but he put his other hand on her shoulder. “There's nothing to be done,” he said. “They've been remanded to prison. I don't know what will happen. The process will be slow. The command, it is quite preoccupied now.”

“Was Mariah sentenced?”

“No, not yet. But after today it's merely a formality. Unlike you, she doesn't come from a respected family, or have anyone—”

“She's just a waterman's daughter.”

“Who freely admitted to murdering a British soldier,” he said. “I'm sorry, Abigail, I really am. She did a brave thing today.”

“There's something else,” she said, studying his face. He did not conceal worry or concern well, and now made a weak attempt at smiling. “There's going to be an assault, isn't there? You're going on maneuvers.”

He only stared at her, helpless. “Your mother says you haven't eaten a thing.”

“You're going to march out into the countryside.”

“You need to eat, and to rest,” he said. “That's what's important at the moment.”

The light was changing very quickly in the room. Everything had remarkable clarity, the buttons on his uniform, his blue eyes. “What's going to happen?”

“No one can say.” He leaned toward her slightly. “Whatever happens, it won't change the way I feel about you. Do you understand that, Abigail?”

She nodded. “You aren't like the other officers. You have tried to be fair by me.”

He bent down and kissed her, gently, briefly, and as he began to straighten up, she withdrew her arm from beneath the sheet, put it about his neck, and pulled him down to her.

Long Wharf ran nearly a half mile out into the harbor. A year ago, it was the heart of Boston commerce; but after General Gage closed the port, the wharf had become desolate. Grass and weeds sprouted where carts and wagons had passed, laden with ships' cargo. Many of the grog shops and chandleries were closed, and idle vessels quickly had fallen into disrepair. Benjamin walked out along the darkened wharf, which was nearly silent, save the lament of groaning dock lines.

Browne's Sail Loft had belonged to his mother's brother, Leander. It used to be one of Benjamin's favorite places to go when he was small. While his father tried to get him to conjugate Greek and Latin verbs, he preferred lessons he could learn at Uncle Leander's loft. The door was locked and the windows boarded up, but Benjamin stepped into the dark shadows and leaned against the shingle wall and waited. He could hear the current work around the pilings beneath him.

On the dock boards, James's arrival was announced by the triple knock of his uneven gait—
step, cane, step
—and when he reached the front of the sail loft, Benjamin said quietly, “Here.”

James entered the shadows. His shoulders were crooked; he was carrying a satchel. “My wife sends you dinner. It's not much, but these days that's more than nothing.”

“You weren't followed?”

“It took me about an hour to lose my friend, but no.”

They went to the back of the small building and sat on pulley blocks. There was salt cod, black bread, a cooked potato, still warm. “I always thought no one baked a better loaf,” Benjamin said with his mouth full.

“Soon even the ingredients for bread will be hard to come by,” James said. In the distance they could see the lights of North Battery. “I gather you eat better on the mainland.”

“Aye. There's plenty to be had. Next time I return to Boston, perhaps I should bring a shank with me? I'd bring chickens, but their clucking would certainly alert the harbor patrols.”

“We are so hungry,” James said, “a chicken would likely alert the entire city.”

“I remember,” Benjamin said, biting into the potato, “that when Father would get too upset with me—which was often—I'd come down here. I had dreams of shipping out as a cabin boy, and Uncle Leander would humor me, keeping me preoccupied until you came and retrieved me.”

“You've always been good at hiding out,” James said. “But your love of salt water was a dead giveaway. Perhaps someday this harbor will be reopened and you'll get to ship out.” After a moment, he added, “It's too bad that Uncle Leander won't be here to see it. He'd be proud.” He was leading up to something. Long ago, Benjamin had learned that you had to give James time—room, he really thought of it as room—to say what he was going to say. “Mother received a letter from Leander not long ago, and it sounds as though they are fairly well established now in New York. The harbor there is thriving, and his talents at sailmaking are in much demand.”

“Why is it that Boston's misery always seems to benefit New York?”

“That is a question for the ages,” James said.

Benjamin finished the potato and the last of the salt cod.

“I have learned,” James said deliberately, “much of what transpired at Province House today. At first I thought that the way Abigail looked when she was being helped down the steps, I was sure it was because the decision had gone against her.”

“That is not the case?”

James shook his head. “She looked so weak because she collapsed during the proceedings. The heat, that had something to do with it, I'm sure, but there was something else.” He paused but continued to stare out at the lights reflected on the still water. “It has to do with Mariah.”

“Mariah?”

“I'm afraid so,” James said. “She confessed to killing that sergeant in revenge for her father's death. She has been imprisoned.” He turned his head now, and though it was dark, Benjamin could see his right eye, which was steady and direct. “She's in prison, Benjamin, and I don't think there's anything anyone can do.”

Benjamin wiped his hands on his trousers. “Nothing?”

“No. She will likely languish there for a good while, and then …”

“She will hang?”

They did not speak for a good while, but only stared out at the lights on the water. Finally, James picked up his satchel. “Have you a place to stay tonight?”

Benjamin, lost in thought, didn't answer at first. “I'll manage.” He then looked at James. “What do you want me to do? Am I to return to Cambridge with a message for Dr. Warren?”

“No, not now.” James got to his feet and hung the satchel from his shoulder. “I will need you here. Things are going to heat up. Soon, in a few days. I will know more tomorrow, I hope. Meet me after dark. But not here. Abigail will want to see you, so somewhere close to the house.” He hesitated a moment. “I will need both of you to help me in the next few days.”

“All right,” Benjamin said. “I'll be in the granary graveyard after dark.”

James placed a hand on Benjamin's shoulder, and then moved off toward the city, disappearing in the shadows.

XXII

Dark Maneuvers

A
BIGAIL COULD FEEL IT.
T
HEY ALL COULD.
T
HE CONGREGATION
at Sunday meeting seemed inattentive, distracted. Frequent glances toward the windows.

It wasn't that the heavy air was filled with the sound of drums and officers' commands, or that all day soldiers paraded through the streets—these were daily occurrences in Boston. But it was different now. The noise, the dust, the way a column of regulars marching down School Street would rattle the teacups in their saucers and make the pictures hanging in the hallway clatter against the wall.

After meeting, James stopped by the house briefly. He seemed more animated with Mother and Father than he'd been in some time. They were celebrating Abigail's freedom. But she recognized that he was acting with purpose, and was not surprised that when they were alone in the dining room—Mother had gone to the kitchen, Father to his study to consult a dictionary after a minor dispute over a Latin term for
justice
—James leaned over the table and whispered, “Benjamin's back. Tonight in the granary graveyard, after dark.” And before he took his leave, he made innocent arrangements with Abigail to come to his house that evening to help them rearrange the furniture in the parlor.

When Samuel came for afternoon tea, she could see that he felt it too. He ate little and barely touched his tea, claiming that the heat had put his appetite off. But there were moments when he gazed across the table at Abigail with a longing that made her cheeks flush. Could not her parents see it? Yesterday, in her room, when she had pulled him down to her, they had embraced as never before. It may have been the heat; it may have been the fact that she was lying in bed. Her nightgown was damp with perspiration, and there was a relief when his hand slid the fabric down off her shoulders. It only lasted a minute—the door, for discretion's sake, had been left ajar—but when Samuel kissed her breasts, his mouth hot and moist as it sucked on her nipples, she arched her back, as though he might consume all of her. But then, as quickly as it happened, there was a creak of a floorboard at the bottom of the stairs, and Samuel was standing up next to the bed, saying
Yes, Mrs. Lovell, I believe your patient could use some refreshment
. And as quickly, while Mother's slow steps climbed the stairs, Abigail pulled her nightgown about her shoulders and drew the sheet up to her chin.

But her parents weren't aware of any of this. Or perhaps they were, but they didn't let on. The veneer of formality was so thin, his gaze so indiscreet, and yet both Father and Mother seemed overjoyed by his presence. Abigail knew they had expectations. After the inquiry, they viewed Samuel as her savior, her protector. Perhaps they were willing to look the other way, hoping that all would soon be justified with a proposal of marriage.

And then, at the front door, after they said goodbye, Mother and Father skillfully made a retreat to the kitchen. Samuel held Abigail's hand. He had something to say, something awkward and difficult—she could always tell by the way his eyes would drift away. Finally, when she asked what it was, he said that he wouldn't be able to see her for a while.

“It's this,” he said, “it's like time is tightening upon us, and that soon events will—”

“I know,” she urged. “Everything is on the brink of changing. And you—”

“I can't say any more, but I'm sure you've surmised.”

“Your maneuvers.”

He merely cleared his throat, as though she had come close enough.

“How long?”

“Who knows.” He looked at her then. “I really don't know.”

“You'll be out of Boston.”

His silence was confirmation.

“We are at war, aren't we?” she said.

“It is about to begin, Abigail. There will be great uncertainty. I have my orders.” He stepped out onto the stoop. “You will always be in my thoughts.” He looked at her as he had the previous afternoon, but now, here in the street, in public view, as it were, he gave her a polite bow, and then he was gone.

Benjamin waited in the graveyard, back by the granary wall. He could see across the field of headstones to the corner of Beacon and School streets. It was night and he felt invisible. The dark had always been safe, always harbored him. It was the dark that had saved him during the previous night, when, after meeting James at Long Wharf, he had made his way to Mariah's house. He planned to spend the night in the shed in her dooryard tonight, sleeping again amid her father's fishing gear. It tortured him, knowing that she wasn't there in that house, knowing there was no way he could get to her. But her house, particularly the shed, was probably his only safe haven in Boston now.

Though exhausted, he had difficulty falling asleep, wondering where they were keeping her—there were numerous jails and garrisons throughout the city, and there was the
Preston
, the much-detested prison ship moored in the harbor. Once he did manage to close his eyes, he was soon startled awake by the sound of breaking glass. He got up and looked through the crack in the door. Lanterns had been lit inside the house, and after a moment he saw soldiers moving about, pulling out drawers, emptying crocks and jars on the floor. The kitchen door was thrown open and one of the men said, “I'll have a look in that shed.”