by C. C. Finlay
Danvers peered over Proctor and Deborah at the road behind them, then puffed on the pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I don't see any cattle.”
“We're here for a different reason, but we still need transportation.”
“I do seem to recall him mentioning you to me, right before the current trouble started.” Danvers watched Deborah closely. “Something about a connection to his daughter.”
Proctor shuffled his feet, uneasily. “Yes, sir, that's how I know him, sir. He and Emily are behind the siege lines in Boston now, and we need to reach him.”
Danvers puffed again. “Are you taking him some beef?”
“No, sir.”
“That's a shame, because there's a shortage of fresh meat in the city right now, and we could get a prime price for it. What are you taking then?”
“Just the two of us, sir.”
A pair of boys, maybe ten and twelve, peeked out from the open door. Without looking back, Danvers closed his fist around his pipe and jabbed it in their direction. The boys jumped back. Danvers stepped away from the house and crossed the yard to the edge of the garden. He rolled from side to side as he walked. He gestured at the colonial military lines visible from the hillside. Beyond the militia lines, across the glassy sheet of the bay, the steeples of the Boston churches spired into the sky, fixed points against the drifting masts of the British ships.
“So you're Tory loyalists, going over to the British side?” he said. “You realize that means I'll have to report you to the local militia.”
“No, sir, we're not planning to stay there—”
“It's a personal matter,” Deborah interrupted. “We only plan to deliver our message and then make our way out again.”
“You may not have noticed,” Danvers said. “But there's a war going on. The militia don't want anyone going into the city, and the British don't want anyone coming out. That's a narrow channel, with shoals on either side. There's nothing in it for me to pi lot you through those waters.”
If Danvers couldn't smuggle them into the city, Proctor wasn't sure they could make it. “Sir, you're the only recourse we have left.”
Deborah pulled a small purse from one of her pockets and retrieved a gold coin. “Will this make it worth your while?”
Danvers stared at the coin, although he didn't reach to take it. “If I were the sort of man who could help you, and I'm not saying that I am, that would be enough to ferry one of you under the circumstances. And one of you is all I'm likely to be able to help in any case.”
Proctor stared at the coin also, unaware that Deborah had that much to spend. He regretted the price they got for the milk cow a little less.
She reached in her purse for a second gold coin and a silver piece. “Both of us need to go. This is all we have.”
Danvers sucked on his pipe and looked at her purse as if he could judge its weight simply by the way it sat in her hand.
“The British boats patrol the bay looking for so much as a canoe or a skiff that moves across the water without their permission,” he said. “The officials give writs to fishing boats to sail out from the Boston wharves because they're short of food and they need the catch. Each writ is for a specific number of men per boat, say four or five. When the boat returns to dock, the British inspectors count the men getting off again, so that no spies can get into the city undetected.”
Proctor turned away. “So you're saying it's hopeless. There's no way to get us inside.”
“That's not what he said,” Deborah interceded. “Only that's it's difficult.”
“Aye,” Danvers said, and he drew on his pipe again. “The boy here, he wouldn't be much of a problem. One could meet a fishing boat in the bay and exchange one of their crew for him. Do you know how to fish, lad?”
Proctor shook his head no. “Never been on a boat, except a ferry.”
Danvers frowned, as if such an admission made one a bit less of a man. “Then we'd best make the exchange later in the day, after they've already hauled in their catch. Fish are too valuable to forgo the help of a crew member right now. But the lass—”
“I could hide on the boat, under a blanket or something,” Deborah said. “The inspectors wouldn't see me.”
Danvers frowned again in frank disapproval. “Maybe if you hid her under a blanket of fish you'd escape the first inspection. But it wouldn't do you much good after they unloaded.”
Proctor could go alone, but he didn't know how to do the spell that Deborah planned to perform. He turned to her and lowered his voice. “I can do this, if I have to; you just need to show me—”
“Captain Danvers,” Deborah said. “Could two men be exchanged for two crew members, if such were the case?”
A puff on his pipe, and a nod. “Maybe.”
“Then, as I understand it, the problem is not that there are two of us, but that I'm a woman.”
“I've got nothing against the fairer gender, as Mrs. Danvers can attest, but yes, young lady, that about sums it up.”
She opened her purse a third time and placed her fingers inside without withdrawing anything. “Mr. Danvers, tell me, would it be possible to buy some boy's clothes from you? About my size.”
His eyebrows rose, his mouth hinged open, and he held his pipe there for a long moment before clamping down on it and puffing again. “I thought your purse was empty.”
“Is that a no, sir?”
Danvers looked over at Proctor, who had straightened and taken a step back. “I've a dozen children, ma'am. It's difficult to keep them all clothed, as they're constantly outgrowing things or wearing them out. A contribution toward the purchase of new clothing would make Mrs. Danvers extraordinarily pleased.”
Behind them, the door flew open and out stepped a woman half Danvers's age and twice his considerable size. “Elihu Zachariah Danvers, your devil-bred sons were jumping on the bed and broke it—what are you going to come do about it?”
He held up his hand and waved to her, then puffed silently on his pipe until she stormed back into the house. “So we have a deal then?”
Proctor had too many misgivings and not enough options. Deborah didn't even glance at him for approval before she answered. “We do.”
“Meet me here tomorrow morning before sunrise.” He held out his hand for the coins.
Deborah dropped the coins back into her purse and shoved it into her pocket. “Not a shilling before we're aboard the boat. And only half then, the other half when we reach our destination.”
“Leave me the musket as a down payment,” he said, puffing vigorously on his pipe. “You won't be able to take it with you anyway.”
Proctor's fist tightened on the weapon. “No, sir.”
Deborah said, “We'll give you half a shilling now, and you send the boy out with the clothes.”
“Another half a shilling when he brings the clothes?”
Deborah nodded, and Danvers nodded back, the equivalent of a handshake. She placed a half-shilling coin in his hand. Danvers walked back toward the house, humming and trailing a cloud of smoke behind him.
Proctor lowered his voice as soon as they were alone. “You don't have to spend all your money to get us into Boston.”
“It's not really mine,” she said. “My father earned it, a shilling here, a penny there, and my mother saved it. This is the only way it can still do them any good.”
A mop-haired boy of about ten ran out of the house with a bundle of clothes so worn Proctor would hesitate to use them for rags. He was about to say so when he saw that the clothes the boy was wearing were no better.
Deborah gave him the coin and they hurried away. “I was afraid he wouldn't send out the clothes to night, and then it would be harder to change his memory.”
Proctor looked over his shoulder. Even though he felt so sick he wanted to find someplace to lie down, he said, “Slow up. The boy is following us. Let's let him grow bored.”
Deborah, lost in thought, looked back, startled. It was late in the day and already g
rowing dark. They meandered, drifting from one side of the road to the other until the boy gave up and ran back toward his house. Proctor found a ditch covered with brush and pulled Deborah down under the branches, where they found a dry spot, relatively flat, and sat down.
Deborah said, “I expected you to put up more of a fuss about me dressing in boy's clothes.”
“No,” he said. He was sweating less, breathing easier now that he was at rest. “If you're dressed like a boy, I won't feel as bad when I spell you into a squinty-eyed hunchback simpleton. What did you mean, change his memory?”
“If I have a different appearance tomorrow morning, I can convince him that's how he saw me today. Make him think it was two young men who came seeking his aid all along. It's not much, but it may throw off Nance or anyone else if they come looking for us.”
“How can you do that?”
“Memory is malleable as clay in a potter's hand.” She passed him half the cheese they had packed, but it was no more than a few bites. “We all like to think we remember things exactly, but the fact is memory has to be shaped, like a bowl or a pot, until it can hold something without it spilling out. If you shape the vessel, you can limit what it holds, or how it spills.”
The thought made Proctor vaguely uncomfortable. He shifted, pulling another New En gland stone out of the dirt beneath him, and tossed it aside. “So you're saying that, if we tried, we could change my memory of the attacks this week? I could remember them differently.”
“If you wanted to, we could even try to make you forget them. It might help you sleep better.”
That kind of talent, in the wrong hands, could do an awful lot of harm. That Deborah had so much power, and never tried to use it except for good, left him a little awestruck. As if he knew he ought to hold himself to higher standards. It wasn't enough to want to raise cattle or become a rich farmer. A man ought to stand for something, make a positive difference in the world.
As much as he hated the memories, he decided he ought to keep them, just to remind himself of who he ought to be. “No,” he said. “But thanks.”
“You should get what rest you can right now,” she said.
He found it awkward, being in such close proximity to her, but at least they wouldn't be sleeping at the same time. He carefully placed the musket between them, rolled up his hat to use for a pillow, and closed his eyes.
His dreams mixed memory and fear. The images of the corpses from that night on the farm blurred with the skeletal visages of the men from the militia companies. Then Amos stood before him. Flesh melted like candle wax from Amos's bones. He kept handing Proctor a bowl, which Proctor smashed, then a cup, which Proctor shattered, over and over again. Every time he smashed something, Amos handed him something else.
He woke to the sound of feet crunching in the brush nearby. It was still, and he bolted up not knowing where he was, fists pulled back, heart pounding, ready to fight.
“There,” a man's voice whispered. “I heard something.”
Deborah put a hand over his mouth and pressed against him, holding him down. The sensation of her body against him produced a different kind of agitation, but then a knife hacked through branches just a foot from their heads.
“Where?” asked a second voice.
“Over here, maybe,” the first said. They moved off, randomly cutting their way through the culvert until finally they gave up and left.
When it had been silent a long time, Proctor whispered, “It's a good thing you did a concealment spell.”
Deborah's face was drawn, her eyes wide. “But I didn't.”
“Deborah!” he whispered, quickly scanning the brush around them.
She pulled away from him. “I fell asleep and forgot. We were lucky.”
“Do you think it was Danvers?”
“It was a couple of his boys, that's for sure. I recognized the younger one. But whether he sent them, meaning to rob us, or they came on their own, I can't say.”
Proctor rubbed his face, trying to wake up, trying to clear his mind of sleep. “Maybe that's why he wanted the musket, so we couldn't defend ourselves. We should be cautious today. We won't be lucky again.”
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Deborah had already changed into the boy's clothes. They were huge on her slender frame, so she had rolled up the cuffs on the breeches and sleeves. She didn't look like Deborah to him anymore. More like young Arthur Simes back home.
“You already did the spell,” he said.
“I wasn't sure how I was going to do it, so I worked on it for hours before I fell asleep.” She had removed her cap and unpinned her hair. “You still need to help me cut this shorter.”
“I can barely see it,” Proctor said.
“It doesn't have to be perfect, just short,” she insisted. “Saw it off as best as you can.”
She turned her back to him, holding her long hair out to the side in one hand.
“I'm not sure I can do this,” he said.
“Hack it off already!”
Her hair felt heavy and soft in his hand, like folds of silk. He held it tight and, after a short sigh, began to slice through it with his knife.
“Proctor?”
“Yes?”
“Who's Emily Rucke?”
The knife jumped, nicking the tip of his finger. He shook several locks from his hand, then sucked on the wound. “She's, um, Thomas Rucke's daughter. He's a sugar merchant, someone I met once in Boston. We talked about the cattle business. He was going to help me get started.”
“Ah,” she said.
He finished cutting her hair, doing about as credible a job as he would have for Amos or another fellow. After tucking the knife in his belt, he brushed the loose hairs from his hand and shirt, reaching out to catch the largest lock as it fell. He held on to it a second, thinking to keep it.
“We're lucky they came by to wake us,” she said, tucking her hair under a boy's cap. “Are you ready to go?”
His hand closed around the lock, and he slipped it into his pocket where she couldn't see it. “Yeah, I'm ready.”
He unrolled his hat and jammed it back on his head. Climbing to his feet first, he held out his hand and helped her up.
Danvers waited for them exactly where he said he would, the coal in his pipe like a beacon in the night. “Aha,” he said. “I was wondering if you two boys would show.”
As soon as he called them boys, he pulled his pipe out of his mouth and stared closely at Deborah as if he knew something was wrong. Then he shook it off, like a dog spraying water after a bath.
“I have to admit, I don't like a fellow with a gun aboard my boat,” he said to Proctor. “You won't be able to take it with you on the other boat nohow.”
“It's unloaded,” Proctor replied, and showed him. “I'll leave it in the boat when we make the transfer.”
Danvers accepted this and led them down to the water's edge, which smelled green and fishy. A white slash appeared in the predawn sky, and a seagull screeched overhead as they climbed aboard a little one-mast boat. Danvers pushed it offshore, splashing knee-deep in the water before climbing aboard. Though he rolled awkwardly when he walked on dry land, he was perfectly in balance the minute they set off. His legs barely moved except to keep him steady, but his upper body coiled rope, raised anchor, and hoisted sail, reminding Proctor of the way his father used to work in the barn.
In moments they were away from shore and gliding into the harbor among all the other boats. A British man-of-war sat just offshore of Charlestown, with the gentle rise of the hill outlined against the sky behind it. Dozens of other ships were anchored around Boston.
Proctor felt better as soon as they left land. The constant sickness in his stomach lifted, and he didn't feel as wobbly. He turned at Deborah to tell her, but her boyish, Arthurlike face disturbed him; he looked away as fast as he had from the skeletal militiamen.
“There seem to be a lot of British ships,” she said.
Danvers blew out a cloud of smoke
and shifted the stem to the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it. “Troopships have been arriving from Britain the past few weeks, bringing thousands of soldiers. Any day now, I expect they'll march out to teach the militia a lesson.”
Proctor recalled what Thomas Rucke had told him about the city of London compared with Boston, how it was hundreds of times larger, and he wondered if there was any limit to the number of troops they could send.
By sunrise, they sailed around the north end of Boston with its great steepled church, past the hay fields of Noodle Island, and beyond the mudflats that surrounded some of the other harbor islands. They saw more British men-of-war, at anchor like sleeping dogs. Through the morning they bobbed on the water, drifting east into the sound, amid a diverse collection of fishing boats and cargo ships. The rocking motion of the boat lulled Proctor to sleep, and for the first time in days, he slept without nightmares.
Deborah shook him awake. Her face was green with seasickness. Fishing boats were coming back to harbor with their catch. Clouds of gulls dived toward the decks, stealing guts and cast-offs.
Danvers steered toward a two-master with Laughing Jenny painted on its prow.
“'Hoy, there,” Danvers called. “Two to board.”
The captain was a young broad-chested man, with a trim beard, a clean upper lip, and bloody hands. Without a word, he stepped away, checking the horizon, looking at other ships through his glass, then beckoned two of his crew.
“What are you waiting for?” he barked at Proctor and Deborah when they sat waiting.
Deborah handed the coins over to Danvers, who held them up to examine them. He tucked one into his vest pocket and handed the other back to her. “Give it to the cap'n.” He pulled a packet of letters from inside his jacket. “Would you mind handing these over to him as well?”
Proctor snatched the packet from Danvers's hand before Deborah could take it, wanting to see if any were addressed to Mr. Rucke. Then he clambered up the side of the boat, slipping as soon as he put his foot over the side. There were stacks of cod on the bottom of the craft, and the deck was slimed with the guttings. He reached over to help Deborah, and the captain gave him an odd look—of course, he thought it was another young man and not a woman. She remembered herself better than Proctor, and ignored his proffered aid. She made it on to the deck and stood there while two men climbed down into Danvers's boat and pushed off.