Sup With the Devil aam-3

by Barbara Hamilton

  “And he probably went home and took his rage out on his wife. ’Tis odd,” Abigail continued, “that you should speak of a pirate in connection with the books. Because there’s a very strange story attached to them.”

  She hesitated, studying Sam’s face—already lined, the gray eyes watchful but bearing no trace of sleeplessness, for all the waiting dread that had settled on the city. If he was anything like John, she reflected wearily, he could probably sleep through the Lisbon earthquake . . .

  “Are you familiar,” she asked slowly, “with a young gentleman named George Fairfield?”

  “That young Tory jackanapes who’s got up a troop of mounted militia?”

  “The same.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “He was killed Tuesday night, wasn’t he?”

  “He was.”

  She saw his expression change as he realized the direction of her question.: “Oh, for God’s sake, Nab—!”

  “’Tis what they’re saying.”

  “’Tis what who’s saying? We’re not the Assassins, Nab. I promise you, masked patriots don’t lie in wait for every young imbecile who takes it into his head to get himself a King’s Commission by raising a troop of horse that’ll likely schism itself into insignificance the next time the father of one of them cheats the father of another over a land-deal. The countryside is full of them.”

  He made a movement to pick up the folio, then set it down, regarding her with troubled eyes. “What evidence do they have?”

  “None that I know of. Yet the man they’ve arrested for the deed—the dead boy’s servant—is to my mind as innocent as my son Johnny. And there is something most curious going on.” And, a trifle hesitantly—one never knew what Sam was going to do with any piece of information one gave him—she related what Horace had told her about Mrs. Lake’s disgraceful document, about the events of Tuesday night, and the sudden indisposition of four Harvard students on Wednesday morning. “Does it not seem to you that not having found what she sought—or all of what she sought—in the account of Captain Morgan’s and Mistress Pitts’s embezzlement of Crown funds, this Mrs. Lake or her scar-faced henchmen are now in quest of other volumes from the same source? I have written Narcissa Seckar—she lives in Medfield—asking for the favor of an interview, to ascertain that Mrs. Lake’s Arabic document was indeed connected with the only other source of texts in that language that we know of in the colony: I hope to receive a reply tomorrow.”

  “And you think that this Mrs. Lake—or one of her henchmen—knew only that young Fairfield had gotten books from the same source, not knowing what they might be.” Abigail could almost see the flash and flicker of thought passing through his eyes. “Who’s Mrs. Lake?”

  “I’d hoped you might know someone of that name.”

  He shook his head and opened the folio. “Geof. Whitehead,” he read the large, rather crooked signature that sprawled, in faded ink, across the title page of The Sceptical Chymist. “Sixteen eighty-two. The name isn’t familiar—Mrs. Lake’s, I mean—and probably isn’t her own—”

  “I’d thought of that, yes.”

  “But I’ll make enquiries. Embezzlement of the Crown treasury of Jamaica—”

  “Horace is recopying what he can remember of the document,” said Abigail. Having paged completely through the quarto on horse-doctoring, she opened its front cover and ran her hand over the rather mildewed marbled paper of its inner binding, but she found no evidence that anything had been hidden beneath it. Nor had anything been written on it or on any of the blank pages that made up the ends of the last signature. “His memory is excellent—”

  “There are notes in the back of the Paracelsus,” provided Sam, who had evidently gone over the volumes with some care. “In English, Latin, Spanish, and what I think is Algonquian, which the writer—I presume Geof. Whitehead, whoever he was—seems to use interchangeably. And that thin quarto with the red cover is all notes—mostly about chemical experiments, the position of stars as they progress through the ecliptic, where he goes to harvest witch hazel, and how long it takes cranberries to progress from first leaf to jam on his breakfast table. Nothing about pirate treasure . . .”

  But there was a soft thoughtfulness in the way he said those last words, and when Abigail looked up sharply at him, she saw a distant glimmer in his eyes.

  “Did you have a look about young Fairfield’s rooms?”

  “I did. And found naught but a great quantity of tailors’ and bootmakers’ bills—which I shall pass along to Mr. Fairfield, Senior, when he arrives next month—and love-notes from about a dozen young ladies.” The drawer had also contained several drafts on Boston moneylenders, a huge quantity of gaming-vowels, three promissory notes that young Fairfield had signed—hair-raisingly, for other men’s debts, including one for Joseph Ryland—and two letters from his father, decrying his spendthrift ways in terms that gave Abigail little hope for liberality or pity where Diomede was concerned. But these were not Sam’s business.

  Nor were the love-letters that had been in Fairfield’s pocket when he’d died—nor the note in the same dainty hand begging for an assignation behind the barn.

  “You didn’t tell Hutchinson any of what you’ve told me, did you?” Sam asked at length. “The man’s a serpent; he couldn’t crawl straight if he wanted to . . . and he knows everything there is to know about who did what in this colony ninety years ago. He’ll know who Geof Whitehead was, and if he was burying pirate treasure . . .”

  “I didn’t tell him that there were other books, no. I had to tell him of those in Mr. Fairfield’s room. As the slave Diomede stands in peril of his life, I didn’t think it proper to withhold evidence. I left him with the impression that they had not been included in the Harvard bequest because of their nature, which I understand to have been eyeball-scorchingly obscene.”

  “The man’s a trustee of Harvard. Belike he’s already got his hands on the rest.”

  “He said nothing of it . . .”

  “Good Lord, woman, d’you think he’d mention it to you if he sees you poking about on the trail of the stolen books? The man’s a snake, I tell you. There’s every chance ’twas he who hired Mrs. Lake in the first place, and the man who put laudanum in young Mr. Fairfield’s rum.”

  “Now, that’s ridiculous!” said Abigail. “I know you and John hate the man like poison, but even his enemies allow him to be a man of justice—”

  “God save us,” retorted Sam, “from a good man with a bad idea—though I reserve my judgment about our dear Governor Hutchinson’s goodness. He’s a merchant and a pedant who convinced the King to appoint him, first to the chief justiceship of the colony, despite the fact that he has exactly as much legal training as the kitchen cat, then to the governorship—on the grounds of his loyalty to the idea that the colony exists solely for what money can be wrung out of it and handed to the King’s friends. And he’s kept there by his adherence to the principle that any means are legitimate to keep its people in bondage to the merchants of London who support the King. If he so much as suspects that money embezzled from the Jamaica treasury a hundred years ago is floating about in ‘undeserving’ hands—”

  “I think you’re confusing the man with Cesare Borgia,” replied Abigail resolutely.

  “And I think you’re confusing him with Solon the Good, Lawgiver of Athens . . . who had a few weaknesses of his own that they’ve kept out of the history books. Will you show me this ‘reconstructed’ treasure-key, when your nephew finishes with it?”

  “So far as I know it isn’t the ‘key’ to any ‘treasure’ . . .”

  “Someone seems to think it is.”

  “I know,” retorted Abigail. “I’m looking at him.”

  “Don’t mock me, Nab.” Sam’s voice fell suddenly quiet. “And don’t play hide-and-seek. The matter is serious.”

  “Of course ’tis serious! A man’s life—”

  Sam brushed aside the issue of Diomede’s guilt or innocence with a wave of one square, blunt-fingered h
and. “We need that treasure. If it’s there, we need to be the ones who find it. Not this Mrs. Lake or whoever is behind her. In a week, maybe in a day, there’ll be British troops landing in Boston—”

  “How can you know—?”

  “For God’s sake, Nab, what else can the King do? He’s not going to content himself with some watered-down Royal Commission as everyone seems to expect. We destroyed his tea, he’ll send troops, and the whole colony will rise in rebellion. Everyone who’s been sitting on the fence dithering about which side they’ll hop down onto, will see that there is no middle course anymore: the choice is between rebellion and slavery. No, I’m not going to make a speech at you, Nab, don’t look that way,” he added. “You’ve heard it all before.”

  He spread his hands out over the covers of the books and leaned toward her. He was bulky and powerful in his gray coat, and compelling, for all Abigail’s distrust of his alliance with every man who liked his politics simple and violent; for all the whiff of boiling tar, burnt feathers, and charred flesh that seemed to her, for a moment, to cling about him, like sulfur on the sleeves of a man who’s had supper with the Devil.

  “We need money,” he repeated. “Every farmer in New England possesses a gun, but when those farmers come into Boston to work on the wharves or in the grist-mills, they leave their guns at home. And every gun needs powder and ball, flints and cartridge-paper—things we’re forbidden to manufacture here and must purchase . . . and the King tells us, we can only purchase them from England. We need guns for those who have not the money to buy them, but only the willingness to shed their blood for their rights to choose where and how they’ll spend their money and their blood. Will you help us, Nab? Will you tell us what you find? This could be a Godsend, if and when it comes to shooting . . . which it will very soon. When do you go out to Medfield to find this Mrs. Seckar?”

  “Monday, I hope,” she replied unwillingly. “If I hear from her tomorrow. John should be back—”

  “If he isn’t, I’ll send a man with you,” promised Sam. “Did you speak to this slave Diomede about his master’s books?”

  “I tried,” said Abigail. “On Wednesday he was still too stupefied yet from the laudanum—and were he not, I should think he would have been too shocked and grieved at the death of a master he loved . . . for all what that imbecile Langdon said!”

  “If I sent a man with you tomorrow—someone respectable,” he added, as Abigail opened her mouth to make a comment on the waterfront ruffians who were usually most at liberty to run Sam’s errands for him. “Would you go?”

  “Thank you. And if I could prevail on you to carry a message for me there this afternoon, with some food for that unfortunate slave, I would most appreciate it.” As long as Sam was eager to make himself her partner in the enterprise, reflected Abigail, she might as well take advantage of the facilities he offered, even if those consisted of assistance from every scoundrel, idler, and illegal importer of French contraband from here to Halifax. “And whatever else you may learn of Seckar and pirates and Geof Whitehead . . . I must be circumspect,” she added, gathering her shawl about her shoulders again. “Else John will divorce me, I shall be forced to enter a convent, and there will be no treasure for anyone.”

  Sam bowed. “I should be much entertained,” he said, “to see what havoc you would make of a convent, m’am. There’ll be a man by at noon to take your message, and a wagon to get you to Cambridge first thing in the morning. But you watch out for Hutchinson,” he added. “I understand you wanting his help in getting that poor slave out of danger . . . but the Governor is a powerful enemy. The more so because he seems so nice.”

  Cambridge Thursday evening

  28 April 1774

  Mrs. Adams,

  Mr. Thaxter and I have spent this afternoon (following lecture and study) in making enquiries in and about Cambridge concerning either Mrs. Lake or the house in which Mr. Thaxter performed his translations. Though we have found no one of that name hereabouts, I believe that we have located the house. As it lies at several miles’ distance from the town, we propose to investigate it on our half-holiday Saturday and will write you of our findings.

  Moreover, young Mr. Pinkstone, who “fags” under the protection of Mr. Pugh, tells me that Messrs Pugh, Blossom, and Lowth were playing at cards Tuesday evening in Mr. Pugh’s rooms, which face across from the staircase occupied by Mr. Thaxter, Mr. Fairfield, and myself, and that Mr. Pugh—clean against his custom—broke up the party at midnight and went out; this despite threats from Pugh that should Mr. Pinkstone reveal this fact he would have him killed and eaten by Pedro and Eusebius, Pugh’s two African grooms.

  Diomede is in good health, and Mr. Thaxter, Mr. Ryland, and I have endeavored to take food and clean linen to him at the gaol, and to see to his comfort and cheer.

  Yrs respctfly,

  Enoch Wylie

  “Midnight,” muttered Abigail to herself, turning Weyountah’s note over in her fingers even as she shed her shawl and donned an apron. “A curious time to break up an evening of cards: I wonder if the Black Dog cheats? I see an interview with Mr. Pinkstone is in order—”

  She glanced at the late-morning sunlight through the kitchen window, estimating the time before John would be home against the chores undone: Pattie’s wooden clogs thudded on the floor overhead (doing the sweeping, by the sound of it) . . . Beds to be made, lamps to be cleaned and filled, and then the ironing of those wash-damaged linens mended yesterday . . .

  At her feet, beside the heavy sideboard, Tommy played contentedly with four walnut shells and two of Charley’s toy soldiers and where was Charley???

  His blocks were by the hearth, but her middle son was distinctly missing. Nor could his scurrying steps be heard upstairs, following Pattie from bedroom to bedroom impeding her work. Abigail’s first thought—The stable—was succeeded by a more frightening one, The street . . .

  Two steps took her to the back door, caught between her usual anxious spurt of panic about her increasingly adventuresome son making his way down the little alley to the street, and preparation for a stern talking-to if he was found digging around in the clean—but probably none too sanitary—straw in Their Majesties’ stalls . . . And as she opened it, Charley swung into sight from behind it, clearly in disguise in the raggedy old coat that John wore to clean out the cowshed, and a knitted cap acquired from Heaven only knew where, into whose hem straw had been thrust to approximate a bandit’s long, untidy hair.

  “Stand and deliver, m’am!” the boy croaked throatily, brandishing a crooked stick. “For I’m a robber on the King’s Highway.”

  “Gracious me!” Abigail flung up her hands in mock terror. “Have mercy . . .”

  She broke off and took a closer look at the boy. “And just who are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m Mr. Scar-Eye,” replied Charley cheerfully. “I saw him, and I bet he’s a robber and a villain.”

  He had made for himself, as a part of his disguise, out of wax and mud and Heaven only knew what, a V-shaped scar down his left eye and cheek . . .

  Precisely as Horace had described.

  Nine

  And of course, the first thing John wanted to know of when he returned that night—just as Abigail was sweeping the coals from the lid of the Dutch oven, and Johnny and Nabby were setting the table for dinner—was about what everyone in town was saying about the King and whether the ship from London had been sighted?

  This was understandable, Abigail knew, considering the possibility—remote but not unthinkable—that John himself might be included on a list of suspected persons as Sam’s cousin . . . and as someone who had written any number of inflammatory letters and pamphlets concerning Governor Hutchinson. “The countryside is in arms already,” he said, when Abigail had outlined what she knew on this subject, which was—as with everyone else in Boston—merely a collection of speculation and rumor. “From here to the Kennebec, every village and town has formed militia, elected officers . . . They’ve spoken of
reestablishing the minutemen, as a first defense against an alarm, and are stockpiling powder and muskets in Concord and a dozen other places. What good that will do against trained troops—”

  He shook his head, his round face grave. “What frightens me more, Portia—”

  She smiled a little, at his use of the old nickname from their courting-days.

  “—is that the Tories are arming as well. If war breaks out, ’twill be civil war, with every local squabble about landboundaries and who-cheated-who-out-of-Grandpa’s-inheritance dragged into it, to confuse and embitter the quarrel. Sam has threatened the King: If you don’t give us our rights, we’ll open the gates of Hell in this country . . . But I think Sam has deeply misjudged what will emerge from those gates.”

  He who would sup with the Devil . . .

  Abigail was silent, sitting beside the spent dishes—dinner over, Nabby and Johnny quietly clearing off and (thank Heavens!) fending aside Charley and Tommy as they clamored for their parents’ attention . . . “How much danger are you in?” she asked at last.

  “Not much, I don’t think. I’m Sam’s cousin, not Sam.” John finished his cider, handed the empty cup to his daughter, who—Abigail feared—was listening more than was probably good for the little girl’s peace. “I’ve done what it’s within the rights of every Englishman to do: spoken for our rights as Englishmen. I’ve broken no windows, boiled no tar, hamstrung no man’s horse—”

  “What if they don’t care?” asked Abigail softly. “What if the Crown gives Hutchinson extraordinary powers to disregard the rights of habeus corpus, to suppress disorders here as and how he pleases, and sends him the troops to do it with? You’ve marked yourself his enemy—”