Emma
In every human Breast, God has implanted a Principle, which we call love of Freedom; it is impatient of Oppression, and pants for Deliverance.
PHILLIS WHEATLEY
SAMUEL’S FAMILIAR SCENT of leather and bourbon hung heavy in the air as I ransacked his bureau. Whereas I’d felt only shock at the mob’s treatment of Father, anger now settled in to replace it. Many men who’d smeared Father’s skin with boiling tar had no doubt signed Noah’s oath. I thought I recalled the name of Mr. William Russell—the very one who had been first to climb into our home on Cross Street.
I had little desire to protect them now. I acted only for Noah and the Fultons, for my own sake.
I searched beneath a shaving kit, a snuffbox, a few waistcoats and stockings. Knee buckles. A drawing of a woman in a rather provocative pose. With the amount of—or rather lack of—clothes she possessed, I assumed her to belong in a brothel of some sort.
Once again, a married life with Samuel flashed before my eyes. I hoped this was God’s way of saving me from it.
Now, though, as I rummaged through his private things, I wondered if the oath was in the home at all. It could be in the warehouse. It could be on Samuel’s person. It could be so well hidden I might never find it. My hopes sank as I continued searching to no avail.
After I’d looked through his chest of drawers, I opened a nightstand, then a small cupboard, then the drawers of his desk. Nothing.
I released a small cry of exasperation. I placed the candle upon the desk, ran a hand over my face. I closed my eyes beneath the cold of my palm, suddenly cognizant of the frozen, sodden petticoats clinging to my legs.
Was this out of my hands? Would nothing be gained? Samuel would return to Boston to fulfill his pledge to marry me. True, the Fultons and Noah were safe, but I couldn’t ignore the hurt that they’d so easily abandoned me for Medford.
I dropped my hand to my side, opened my eyes before the flame of the candle. Light flickered to a crooked painting above the desk, an oil portrait of an older man, presumably a Clarke ancestor.
Perhaps, after this night of chaos and destruction, I sought only to set something to rights. No, it was certainly more than that. Some otherworldly tug on my heart, some holy whisper, prodded me to stretch out my hand and straighten the portrait. And as I did so, the corner of a paper slid from the bottom.
I gripped its edges and tugged, freeing it from the back of the frame.
I blinked twice, sure that the cold and exertion and terror of the last two hours had finally taken their effect.
The paper’s folds spoke of the familiar, and my fingers trembled. I fumbled as I opened it, breathing an exhalation of gratitude at the names radiating out from the center, the words Oath of Secrecy in the middle.
I held it to my chest, each breath a prayer of thanksgiving, not bothering to stop the warm tear weaving its way down my frozen cheek.
Noah’s oath. In many ways, the key to my freedom.
As I refolded the paper and placed it beneath my corset—the only warm, dry place on my body—I pondered the deep possibilities of a very real grace.
I thought of Father smashing Mr. Hewes upon the head, of striking a man outside our house with a sword, of belittling Noah the night he had escorted me home. I thought of the mob that had visited our home. Of Mr. Hewes, who no doubt wanted Father to face justice for what had been done to him, but who had taken pity on him and given up his own coat at the sight of Father naked and shivering. I thought of how good had been borne of this terrible night. Unplanned, perhaps undeserved, yet nevertheless real.
I took my leave of Samuel’s chambers, donned my cloak and muff, and left the Clarke house, wondering what Father’s fate—and mine—would be.
I had been home for well over an hour, attired in dry clothes and coaxing Mother from her worry with a cup of chocolate, when the mob returned. I rushed to the door and opened it against her warnings.
They did not stay this time. Rather, they pushed the cart by our house, rolling a lump of frozen tar and bloodied feathers off like a log upon a hill. I gasped at what I could only assume was Father, patches of skin exposed on his naked body, neck raw and bloodied, flesh mixed with tar.
From behind me, Mother cried out, then fainted straightaway onto the floor. Chloe went to her while I went to Father, unsure how to approach him in his humiliation. Scared to touch him, I knelt by his side, knowing not if he was alive.
“Father—Father, answer me!”
Mr. Hewes came beside me. He laid his cloak upon Father’s lower half. “He is alive, though barely. I will help you get him inside.”
I grabbed Father’s legs, thankful he appeared unconscious. By the time we’d brought him into the parlor, Mother had roused and Chloe had laid several sheets upon our couch, then fetched more to cover Father.
Mr. Hewes left, promising to come back with Dr. Warren or Dr. Young, both Patriots but the only men of medicine left in town.
Mother, Chloe, and I flitted about Father, trying not to stare at the evidence of savagery before us. How could anyone—no matter their grievances—think it right to perform such travesty upon a person?
Mother sobbed as Father’s frozen body began to thaw by the fire and he woke, his pain renewed as his tarred flesh began detaching from the rest of his body in strips, all of its own volition. She ended up running from the room, and I heard the sounds of her retching from down the hall.
I felt I would not be far behind.
When a grim-faced Dr. Warren returned with Mr. Hewes, he asked us to light as many candles as the room would hold, then urged us to retire for the night, assured us he would stay with Father and care for him until morning.
But when we made to leave the room to find a set of chambers which still had their windows, he called out, “Mrs. Malcolm.”
We stopped at his summons, turned to face him. I could not help my gaze from landing on Father’s scalded, peeling flesh, his bloodied neck from where they must have roped him mixed with bits of brown, thawing tar within the wounds.
Dr. Warren, too, glanced at Father, his handsome face a mask of worry. I knew him to run with the Sons. Friend of Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock, he was a splendid orator, leader of the commemoration at Old South for those who had died in the massacre on King Street almost four years earlier. His wife had died two years earlier, leaving him one of the most eligible bachelors in town. And although he did not participate firsthand in the dumping of the tea, it was common knowledge that Dr. Warren was behind many of the activities of the Sons. Perhaps ’twas he who dubbed himself the chairman of the Committee for Tarring and Feathering.
But nay, the look of pity he now gave us, similar to Mr. Hewes’s, did not match a man responsible for the ill-treatment of my father.
“I think we all know I do not share the same politics as your husband—” he turned to me—“and your father, Miss Malcolm.”
I nodded, felt the bold and intelligent eyes of the doctor on us, not a strand of the horizontal rolls of his hair out of place.
“That does not mean I condone what has been done Mr. Malcolm this night. Any grievance against him should have been settled in a court of law. This—” he gestured to where Father groaned in pain upon the sofa—“is inexcusable. And I am certain I am not alone in my thinking.”
Mother nodded. She turned on her heel and rushed up the stairs. I stayed back, stirred by Dr. Warren’s heartfelt words, relieved by them. For my heart still very much understood the cause of the Liberty Boys. The violence—the means by which they sometimes sought to achieve it—I did not.
So what was right? Which side did I choose? Was it all or nothing? Part of me wished to sit with Dr. Warren, explain to him my part in the dumping of the tea, the way my soul felt torn between both sides of this blasted conflict. I felt he might understand. That, no matter his political leanings, he was like Noah in his intelligent mind, willing and able to at least see the other side in conflict.
Instead, I simply granted
him a curtsy. “Thank you, Dr. Warren. And thank you for caring for Father. I realize . . . I realize he is oft a difficult man, but he is still . . . ours.”
Dr. Warren gave me a small smile, a dimple upon his clean chin.
“I will wake early. Mayhap you will break your fast with us and instruct me how to care for his wounds?”
Dr. Warren shook his head. “I will share breakfast with you, but the tending of his wounds will be . . . unpleasant. ’Tis not suitable for a young lady. But rest assured, I will see to your father’s recovery myself.”
“Will he . . . will he live?”
“He’s been to the gates of eternity and back. That he is still alive should give you hope. If infection does not set in . . . he may stand a fair chance.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
I left him to go to my chambers. Shards of the windowpane lay scattered across the floor and I swept it up as best I could. Tomorrow, Mother or I would have to go into town to enlist help in either repairing the windows or having them boarded up.
I took Noah’s oath from where it lay hidden beneath my bodice. In many ways, I felt like an African slave holding my papers of manumission.
I was free.
I slid the tea chest from beneath my bed, took the rag blanket from it. Before me lay the dark pine wood, and I ran my hand over its cold and sturdy surface, wondered what Noah did in that moment, wondered if he’d truly left thoughts of me for Medford so easily.
I placed the list at the bottom of the chest, beneath my story, and covered it with Sarah’s blanket.
I was free. Free to leave and seek out Noah and the Fultons. Free to lead my own life once again, as I’d done for three glorious days in December. And now, with Father incapacitated, I could leave without fear of recompense or him chasing after me.
My words from two months earlier echoed in my head. Oh, how it felt so much longer since that night Noah walked me home.
“Noah, tell me which is more honorable—loyalty or liberty?”
Still, after all I’d been through, I did not have an answer. While my heart longed to go to Medford, I knew I could not leave Father and Mother in this, their time of deepest need. Margaret had left for the country with her husband, anticipating the birth of their child. Could I live the remainder of my life knowing I’d deserted my parents? True, we did not see eye to eye on most things. But they were my family.
Yet if I stayed, was I in essence putting the shackles upon my own wrists? Would I regret the decision? On the other hand, how would I travel? I had no money to my name, nothing to call my own other than what lay in the tea chest.
My gaze landed on the fresh sheets of paper at the bottom of the chest, my heart chasing a rapid beat at the thought of sending a letter to Noah, of telling him the turn of events that left me with his oath.
Surely he would return for me. Yet what if Samuel returned first, found the oath gone before I could arrange to leave?
’Twould be easy to visit the Gazette tomorrow and request they post my letter while I was out looking for help to repair the windows. Neither Mother nor Father need know. I only hoped Noah would receive my letter before Samuel’s return.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emma
The people should never rise, without doing something to be remembered—something notable and striking.
JOHN ADAMS
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, upon returning from the Gazette to post my letter, I entered the parlor to tend the fire. Dr. Warren had taken his leave some hours ago, promising to return before nightfall. On the sofa lay Father’s bandaged body.
The fire crackled from behind, and Father stirred. I wondered if I should fetch Mother. She had not come down from her chambers since last night.
I took a tankard from the Carolina tea table and poured some water in it from the pitcher nearby. I approached Father, his form restless, his breathing slight.
I leaned close, saw the pink of blood that soaked through the bandages along his arms and chest. The smell of rotting flesh and tar assaulted my nostrils. How could the Sons have done such a thing? And in the name of such a blessed thing as liberty?
“Father? Dr. Warren says you should have plenty of water. May I give you some?”
His eyes came open, his gaze set upon me.
I tried again. “Some water, Father?”
In a single motion that surprised me with its agility, he hit the water from my hand. The metal clattered to the floor, the water spilled upon the Oriental carpet. “I want nothing from you, disloyal whore.”
I backed away. Was he having a dream, a delusion? “Father, ’tis me. Emma.”
He laughed, mocking me, then clenched his teeth in what must have been pain from the exertion. I could not stop the tears that fell from my eyes.
“I know who you are and I demand you stay away from me. I don’t need your help. Where were you to help when the Mohawks began this mess? You are disloyal—disloyal to your family and disloyal to your king. A whore. I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”
Rapid breaths fell upon me, and with what little strength my legs possessed, I ran from the room.
It had been a mistake to pity him. The man’s heart was pure ice. Nothing could thaw it. He blamed me, his own daughter, for the wrong done him—not the Sons, not his own vile actions in hitting Mr. Hewes, in striking a man with his sword, in goading those who already held so much against him.
How could I live beneath his roof any longer? I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
I’d been on my own once before. And though I’d had the help of Sarah and John and Noah, surely anything would be better than living beneath the roof of a man who despised me.
A few more days I would manage. By that time I would certainly hear from Noah. And if I did not, I would make my way on my own.
Two days later I came downstairs to hear Dr. Warren and Father talking quietly in the parlor, the good doctor no doubt attending his wounds. Though Dr. Warren estimated it would be months before Father was well enough to be out of bed, he was to make a deposition to a town official the next day.
I had not yet heard from Noah. Surely he’d received the letter by now.
But I could wait no longer. The possibility of Samuel’s return was too risky. Upstairs, my things were packed. I would leave that night, seek refuge at Sarah’s mother’s tavern. Mayhap she could arrange for my travel to Medford.
I paused at the door of the parlor, heard Father’s familiar groans, then voices from within.
Dr. Warren’s low, soothing voice, then Father’s filled with pain and anger.
“Be sure to save a hunk of my flesh—feathers and all—as a trophy for me to bring back to the king.”
“You can’t be serious, Mr. Malcolm?”
“I’m very serious, Doctor. As soon as I am well enough, I will be paying a visit to him. Mayhap I will request a knighthood. A single Knight of the Tar, in fact . . . for I quite like the smell of it.”
I leaned against the wainscoting outside the parlor, disbelieving my ears. I truly had been a fool to think Father’s ordeal would soften his prideful heart. If the events of three nights earlier did not humble him, then nothing would.
And now I knew for certain: my family would be returning to London, quite likely to stay. I would not be going with them. I cared not if I had to take work at a tavern, I would not cross the vast breadth of the ocean only to put myself in chains on the other side of the sea.
My hope for reconciliation with Noah had been renewed, but as my letter seemed to have been met with silence, my hope dimmed darker and darker. I wondered how long before ’twould be snuffed out altogether.
For the second time, I stole out of my own home as if I were a thief. My loot? The tea chest, the oath, the book Noah had gifted me and the cup Sarah had, a sparse amount of my belongings, and my stories I hadn’t the heart to feed to the flame.
’Twas not as late this time. With Father immobile in the parlor and Mother making little appearance from her chambers, I slid
easily from the house after all settled for the night.
I shut the door quietly and turned, the chest clutched to my middle. I gasped at the form of a man upon our steps.
He stood. “Emma.”
I near dropped the chest of belongings at the sight of Noah, handsome as ever. The beat of my heart would not slow, seemed to take flight with itself. My arms grew weak. A lock of hair curled at his brow, sending my limbs quivering.
“Noah . . . you’ve come.”
“Of course I’ve come. I told you I would not leave without a fight. I was in Medford, helping John and Sarah move when I heard news of your father. I just returned and came as soon as I could. I know it is a risk, but . . . I had to see you.”
My heart near burst at his words. I placed the tea chest on the ground and fell into his arms. “You did not receive my letter, then?”
His brow wrinkled. “No. What news did you write?”
He hadn’t abandoned me after all. Even when I’d asked him to. Even when there was no hope. “I will tell you, but we must leave. Now.” I found his hand. “I have the oath, Noah.”
His gaze widened beneath the light of the moon, and I took the opportunity of his silence to pick up the chest and thrust it into his arms. “’Tis here. It is our freedom.”
He didn’t ask for an explanation, rather tucked the chest beneath one arm and me beneath the other, led us toward the South End.
The snow had begun to melt, finding its way of escape through the cracks of cobbles along the crisscrossed streets of the town. We walked fast, clinging to one another. When we reached the printing shop where he apprenticed, I followed him in. He laid the chest down, worked to stoke the fire.
“Mr. Alves is in the next room,” he explained quietly. “But tell me what has transpired—tell me everything.”
I told him of the mob, how they had taken Father to be tarred and feathered, how I’d come for help and had sought Samuel in the end. How he had fled, leaving me alone, how I had pleaded with the mob, and how, miraculously, I had found Noah’s oath behind the portrait.
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