by Deryn Lake
‘Yes, please,’ said James, who had come back from school early. He’d run up and sat at Julian’s feet, his eyes agog. He was, John decided, one of the most beautiful little boys alive. His hair was as dark as Elizabeth’s but curly like his father’s, his skin was fresh and clean and with a collection of beautifully placed freckles. As for Jasper, who came and sat with his brother, he was his replica, except that his complexion was more swarthy. But as they laughed and surreptitiously punched one another, it was virtually impossible to tell one from the other.
When Julian finally had everybody’s attention, he said, ‘They are going to attack the ships tonight. They intend to unload them and dump the tea in the harbour. They are going to disguise themselves as Indians.’
There was a sarcastic snort from Blue Wolf, who had stood quietly in the background during Julian’s announcement. Other than that there was silence.
Then John broke out with ‘This I have got to see,’ followed by Tom saying, ‘I’ll be with you, Master.’
Tracey, George and Julian all leapt in the air and shouted ‘Yes’ simultaneously. ‘I’d like to come,’ said Suzanne, whose eye was almost healed from Dr Warren’s operation and was looking on the point of being attractive.
There was a great altercation about who would care for the children but Matthew’s wife promised to take them to her place, which was guarded by her hulking brother who did not go out in large crowds. So, that settled, Blue Wolf saw them home and promised to join the party later.
The group of men set forth, filled with a strange elation mixed with a sense of dread. It was in the air because the crowd, formerly so noisy and shouting slogans, making war whoops, had grown silent and tense. As they neared Griffin’s Wharf they had to push their way through the solid mass of people which John reckoned stood at several thousand. You could almost feel their barely controlled excitement.
‘Look,’ said Tom, pointing a gnarled finger, ‘it’s the Indians.’
John gazed where he was pointing and barely controlled a laugh. He had never seen such poor disguises in his life. Tattered and tatty old clothes were supposed to pass for Indian gear, while the conspirators had smeared their faces with grease and soot or lampblack. To make matters worse, the Indians were speaking in grunts and pidgin English like ‘me know you’.
But there was one Indian who caught the Apothecary’s eye. Slimmer than the rest and garbed in buckskin trousers and a beaded shirt, he was the only one who even remotely looked the part. He had one red war mark painted right across his cheekbones, concealing his nose as well. A hat was drawn down close about his features so that it was impossible to recognize who it was. However, there were several men there whom John knew at once: Paul Revere, Sam Adams and the badly disguised Dr Warren.
They watched in silence as the invaders boarded the three ships lying at anchor, demanding lights and keys from the mate of each. The sailors made no resistance but handed over the keys while the cabin boys were sent for lights. The tea chests were then hauled up on deck and the contents emptied into the water below, making a great whooshing sound, but other than that there was a terrible quiet. The men worked in silence, fierce and concentrated. John strained forward, listening for a cry or scream, but there was nothing except the sound of tea being emptied into the ocean. And then came a plop, as if something had been dropped from the rigging.
‘Did you hear anything?’ he asked Tracey Tremayne – or was it George Glynde?
‘What do you mean?’
‘An extra sound, like something falling into the water?’
‘I certainly heard a noise but I just thought it was tea.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. Well, I’m getting tired and I’d like a drink before I retire. I’ve a feeling that this tea dumping may well last till dawn and I’ve work to do tomorrow.’
They pushed their way through the crowd, but while the others chatted John was silent, thinking of that strange sound as something fell out of the rigging and into the sea below. He also wondered about the identity of the man disguised as an Indian who had looked so amazingly realistic, thinking that it was one of the cleverer disguises of the night.
They reached the Orange Tree, Irish Tom carrying in Suzanne, who was exhausted with all the excitement of the day. But as George took the key from him and turned it in the lock, he suddenly turned to the others and put his finger to his lips.
‘There’s somebody in here,’ he whispered. ‘There’s some bastard stealing our toddy, damn his eyes.’
Rather like bad actors in a poor melodrama, they crouched down as one and proceeded silently to follow George, who was opening the door which, inevitably, squeaked and groaned in the process. There was someone standing at the bar – or rather leaning on it in a drunken posture.
‘Gadzooks,’ shouted Tracey, unsheathing his sword, ‘I’ll run you through or plant a facer on you. You’re as rough as a kicked dog, damn you.’
Meanwhile, John had lit a candle tree and now swung it in the face of the reprobate who had stolen into the premises and was putting drink down his gullet as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Grabbing the man’s tail of hair, John peered closely into his face.
‘God’s life, it’s Jake O’Farrell!’ he shouted.
In that strange, dancing light the handsome features looked terrible. Jake was a greenish pallor and his blue eyes, normally so twinkling and expressive, were rolling round in his head as if they belonged to someone entirely different. His jaw was slack and a trace of vomit ran down his chin.
‘Take him outside, Tom,’ commanded John in stentorian tones. ‘He’s vomiting an ocean and we don’t want it in here.’
‘Out with you, you bag of sleazy scum,’ ordered the big Irishman, and there was an unsightly scuffle followed by the noise of a rapid exit which, in turn, heralded the most disgusting sounds coming from the street.
‘Lordy,’ said George, dabbing at his front, ‘I do hope none of that dropped on me.’
‘Or me,’ said Tracey.
Outside there was a mighty roar as Sir Julian Wychwood, who had been following behind, shouted, ‘Don’t you spew at me, you filthy bucket pisser. I’ll land you a bunch of fives.’
There was the noise of a fist connecting with flesh and then the sound of a body slumping to the ground. John, meanwhile, had filled a pail abrim with water and, rushing out, threw it over the prostrate figure lying outside, dousing away the vomit and managing to splash Sir Julian into the bargain. The scene ended with the Apothecary and Wychwood dragging Jake O’Farrell inside and carrying him up the spindly staircase where they threw him on to a bed and left him to sleep it off, the pail remaining beside him for good measure.
Coming down the stairs, Julian flapped his fingers. ‘I hope I haven’t damaged my hand. I landed a real belter on him. I cannot abide a man who can’t hold his liquor.’
‘He’s quite a decent chap when he’s sober.’
‘Yes. I wonder what got into him tonight. I presume he was watching our badly disguised friends unloading the tea.’
‘And where was his wife? She doesn’t let him wander far from her side on most occasions. Was she watching as well?’
‘I have no idea,’ answered Julian, ‘and frankly I couldn’t care less. They are not a couple who have ever appealed to me greatly.’
John smiled in the dawning. ‘Come now, Sir. Be charitable.’
‘Charity, my dear fellow, is for the weak-livered.’
And so saying, they marched downstairs and into the Orange Tree, and had a cup of coffee fortified by brandy.
FIFTEEN
It was the decision of all the men not to go to bed that night and so they set off to their homes and their various employments at an early hour. Little Suzanne was put to bed by Irish Tom, who lingered a while in her house, making John wonder if his former servant had at last found a true love, a fact which gave him enormous pleasure to consider. However, there was work to be done and a tea room and an apothecary’s shop to be sweetened and cleaned before he
could open for custom. Suzanne woke up, yawning and small-eyed with sleep, and at that signal John walked the short distance to his premises and closed the door.
No sooner had he whipped the covers off the counters and checked that all was well with the decoctions and concoctions he had left overnight when there came a thunderous knocking at his door. ‘Help, Apothecary,’ a voice was shouting outside. He threw it open to see two English officers in full uniform.
‘Are you the herbalist?’ one asked in a rough voice.
‘Yes. I used to practice in Shug Lane, Piccadilly.’
‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ remarked the other. ‘My father went to you once for a cure for a megrim for my poor mother.’
‘What can I do to help you?’
‘Come immediately. There’s a body been hauled up by the Long Wharf. Dead as a drowned cat but we want you to have a look at it.’
‘Wouldn’t one of the doctors be better?’
‘They’re all out on calls – or more likely not stirring. Same with the other apothecaries. I think you’re the only man in Boston that’s awake after last night’s little do.’
John snatched his hat and cloak and grabbed a bag of travelling medicaments. As he ran the comparatively short distance he wondered who it was, and for some reason felt himself grow cold with an inexplicable fear. He had had these feelings before and knew that they always augured ill.
The body was being guarded by two soldiers and was halfway up the Long Wharf, which lived up to its name and stretched far out into the ocean. As John approached he had a sense of recognition. Still visible despite the ravages of the sea, it was lying huddled up, dripping wet, and John saw the big fishing net in which it had been hauled out of the water. He felt a moment of total tenderness towards the small, sad remains before professionalism took over as he knelt down beside the corpse. He looked up at the soldiers. ‘Has the body been touched?’
‘Yes and no. A fisherman spotted it and we helped him pull it up. That’s all.’
John removed the slouch hat from the head and gasped with shock. A straggle of long, dyed hair streaked with grey greeted him, and he had the horror of seeing a face so familiar. Dressed as a boy she might be but the dead sea-changed features that he was looking into were those of Demelza Conway. He drew in his breath sharply and one of the soldiers said, ‘Do you recognize him?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s a woman – Lady Conway. She comes from England.’
The poor face had been changed by the amount of time she had spent in the water and the eyes, over which John tried to close the lids, were strange and glassy, as if attacked by some sea creature. As he turned her over the Apothecary could see that there was bruising on her back, but whether this had been caused by knocking against an object in the water or whether there had been a struggle before she fell in, it was impossible to tell.
Around him he was aware that the soldiers had come to the salute and were raising their bayonets before their faces. He looked up and saw that a young officer was approaching. He recognized him – it was Lieutenant Harry Dalrymple with whom he had spent a pleasant evening in The Duke of Marlborough. He got to his feet. ‘Good morning, Lieutenant.’
‘Good morning, Apothecary.’ Dalrymple glanced down at the sodden body lying at his feet. ‘What’s all this? Another accident?’
John hesitated, calling up in his mind the scene of the previous night. There had been several thousand people surveying the smashing of the tea chests and the subsequent throwing of the tea into the ocean, and he had watched the proceedings with a group of his friends. But who had actually been present? Irish Tom had been standing a few yards away from him, lifting Suzanne so that she could get a better view. But what of the others? He had spoken to Tracey – or was it George? – without turning his head. The two men had such similar voices, light and fashionable, using all the slang expressions current in London, so it could have been either. Matthew had also been present but had slipped away early to go back to his new wife and their various children. Sir Julian Wychwood had not been standing in the little group but had followed them to the Orange Tree hard on their heels. Blue Wolf had not joined them at all. As for the husband of the newly drowned woman, the impish Jake O’Farrell, could he have got into the Orange Tree before the rest of them and then put on the act of his life?
John’s silence must have impinged on Dalrymple’s consciousness. ‘Good heavens! Do you suspect foul play?’ he asked.
The Apothecary looked at him frankly. ‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is the strangest thing about this is that an Englishwoman – who married a title, no less – was involved in last night’s affair. That is, if she was.’
Harry Dalrymple pulled his earlobe. ‘And why should she end up in the sea?’
John spread his hands wide. ‘I have no answers.’
The lieutenant thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’m going to have this body looked at by our top army doctor. There is something odd about the whole business.’
‘Lady Conway was born in America and knows Doctor Warren, I can tell you that much.’
Dalrymple frowned. ‘Do you think she was a sympathizer?’
‘I have no idea.’
The lieutenant shook his head, puzzled, then shouted to his men, ‘Cover the corpse with a cloth and get a cart. I want her taken to the army mortuary.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
One of the soldiers removed his jacket to hide the sad white face of the late Lady Conway while the other rushed about to do his bidding. John stared out to sea, rapt in thought.
Harry Dalrymple came and stood beside him. ‘Tell me your ideas.’
John said, ‘She might have been a spy.’
‘But for which side?’
‘I have no inkling.’
‘Look,’ said Harry, ‘although I don’t know you I have the feeling that you are a trustworthy man. Will you act as my unofficial eyes? In my position I can do a little snooping around but not a great deal. I would be so obliged to you, my dear Sir, if you would find out all you can about the mysterious lady.’
John smiled. Was it his fate, wherever he was in the world, to be the unofficial snooper for a shadowy puppet master? Presumably, yes. He turned to Harry. ‘I’ll do what I can but I won’t betray my friends.’
‘Not even if they killed her?’
John smiled wryly. ‘That remains to be seen.’
He had not followed directly behind Lady Conway’s death cart, instead strolling along the Long Wharf to its very end, half a mile out to sea. There he had climbed down some rickety steps and hired a rowing boat which had taken him over the waves to the town dock, where he had alighted. Turning left he cut across King Street, Water Street and Milk Street, then down Hutchinson’s Street, finally emerging in Belcher’s Lane which stood immediately opposite Griffin’s Wharf, the scene of last night’s frantic activity. This morning the crowd had dispersed and all was relatively quiet. The three tea ships still rode forlornly at anchor, the tea chests, crunched open, littering their decks and a trail of tea floating on the ocean as far as the eye could see. It was a fairly dismal scene and one which John observed neutrally. But something was stirring in his blood. The vigour with which the previous night’s action had been undertaken by the citizens of Boston could only endorse a feeling he had had earlier: the Sons of Liberty were a powerful organization who would gladly lead a revolt, the upshot of which was anybody’s guess.
He was picturing it, his thoughts a universe away, when a hand plucked at his elbow. John jumped with fright and looked round to meet the piercing gaze of Blue Wolf. He was rather angry.
‘Where have you been? You didn’t come home last night.’ Then, realizing that this sounded peevish, he relented. ‘Blue Wolf, I wanted you to act like my servant. I even dressed you as such.’
A flicker of a smile crossed the dark, intense face. ‘I called on Lady Eawiss.’
‘Did you? Why? To glimpse Jane Hawthorne, I suppose.’
‘Jane had gone out. I
bowed low – as I have seen Rafe and Hugo de Jongleur do. Then I left.’
‘And you came here, didn’t you? Don’t deny it, Blue Wolf. I saw you aboard the Eleanor last night, I swear I did.’
The Indian tipped his broad brimmed hat forward. ‘Yes, John Rawlings, I did creep on to one of the ships. I wanted to see what they were doing. It was easy enough. They were all disguised to look like my people.’ He gave one of his contemptuous snorts. ‘Huh.’
‘Did you recognize anyone there?’
‘Several people, including Doctor Warren. I thought he had a great deal of nerve, as a professional man.’
John could not help but smile, thinking how brilliantly Blue Wolf had mastered the English language, which he spoke like a Frenchman, echoing his teachers of long ago.
‘Did you see anyone else you knew?’
Blue Wolf frowned. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘Like Lady Conway?’
‘Yes, she was climbing up the rigging of the ship. Do not question me why because I do not know.’
‘Great God! Was she alone or was she being followed?’
‘I could not tell you. I was too far away.’
Knowing that Blue Wolf had the vision of a hawk, John frowned. ‘So what did you do next?’
‘I spotted Jane in the crowd. Furthermore, that little dark man Revere was giving me some piercing looks, so I hurried off the ship and joined her.’
‘What happened then?’
‘We watched till dawn. Do you know, when first light came up one could see a trail of tea going back as far as the eye could see. I believe it stretched as far as Dorchester.’
‘Good heavens. And then?’
‘I took my Silver Fox back to the fat old lady’s apartment.’
‘Silver Fox, is that what you call her?’
‘Yes. I have made her a member of our tribe.’
‘How have you done this?’
Blue Wolf gave a beautiful smile. ‘In the usual way, Mr Rawlings. We did not need a ceremony to become husband and wife.’
It was said so earnestly that it would have been cruel to laugh or, worse, be hypocritical. John was only too conversant with the great surges and urges of love to know that denying them was extremely difficult, if not impossible. And to a true child of America, born and bred in the thundering endless landscapes, it would have been an impossibility.