by John Smolens
James’s wife Nancy answered the door and stepped outside onto the stoop, holding a covered chamber pot by the handle. “Abigail, please go in. I must needs get rid of this at once.”
“You shouldn’t be, in your condition—”
Though Nancy was only a few years older than Abigail, her brow seemed pinched with worry, and her hair was without luster, dry as straw. It was as though she had aged rapidly to catch up with her husband, who was more than a decade her senior. She was a good seven months along and stood with her back arched and her legs spread for balance.
“When his diarrhea is this bad, I’ve little choice, have I?” Gingerly, she made her way down the steps. “Quiet as you go, I just managed to get the children bedded down.”
“Of course.”
Abigail watched her sister-in-law walk to the corner of the house and turn into the alley which led to the privy. Then she stepped inside the house and, as she closed the door, she heard coughing. She went down the hall and knocked on the study door. “Jemmy?”
He coughed again, and said, “Abigail, come in.”
She opened the door and found James seated at his desk, scratching away with a quill. Though it was a warm night, the fireplace was blazing and the windows were shuttered. When he looked up, she could see beads of sweat at the edge of his wig.
“It’s bad tonight,” she said, going to his desk. “You should be in bed, Jemmy.”
He glanced up, irritated. But she was the only one he allowed to use his childhood nickname, and his eyes softened. “There’s much afoot, and you’ll have me sleep through it?” He studied her a moment, his eyes curious and perhaps alarmed, and then said, “Are you all right? You look—”
“I have something for you,” Abigail said. She turned her back to her brother and lifted up her skirts, so she could remove the other letter from her pantaloons. After smoothing her skirt down, she placed the envelope on the desk. “From Province House.”
He put his quill in the ink well but ignored the envelope, as though he didn’t want to acknowledge its existence.
“Jemmy, something’s happening tonight—the soldiers are about, and they’re not headed for the taverns but fitted out for a march.” Abigail suddenly felt weak, and she sat in the straight-back chair facing the desk.
“It’s been coming, we’ve known that.” He picked up a glass jar and sprinkled sand on the letter he’d been writing. “And now, now it’s begun. General Gage has many flaws and weaknesses, one of them his inability to do anything in secret. We’ve seen all sorts of signs. Last weekend it was observed that numerous longboats were being repaired on the beach below the Common. Then we hear word that the grenadiers and light infantry are to stand down from duty. This was intended to deceive us? And we’ve had word of officers, dressed as civilians, venturing out of Boston. They’ve been seen as far west as Worcester. For weeks there have been all sorts of reports of these ‘civilians’ turning up in roadhouses asking questions about the country, distances, terrain. Maps—they need maps.” He carefully folded up the letter he’d been writing and tucked it inside an envelope; the skin on his frail hands was the same color as the parchment. “Perhaps our greatest weapon is the countryside. Thousands of redcoats bottled up here on Boston peninsula, and they haven’t a decent map! They don’t know the land out there at all. There are soldiers—I hear as many as seven or eight hundred—marching out tonight, and they have little idea of where they’re going. At least until recently. We believe they finally have a map, an accurate one.” He took up one of the candles on the desk, tilted it, dripping red wax to seal the envelope.
“If it’s accurate,” Abigail said, “someone gave it to them.”
“True,” her brother said. “It’s certainly not the result of their reconnaissance. No, this is the real concern: they got it from one of us.”
“They’ve done this before, marched out into the country in search of arms and powder—but, Jemmy, eight hundred men?”
“Yes, this time it will be different. But with each foray, we’re more prepared.”
“Where are they marching to this time?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. “We’ve set up our own government, the Provincial Congress, the Committee of Safety—committees, so many committees.” With a finger he tapped the pile of letters on the side of the desk. “These committees create paper—and a bureaucracy to generate it. That’s my role, I’m afraid, to sit here in my study, assisted by my damned chamber pot, and scribble … letters and more letters. But every government needs an army. We’re going to establish an army and we’ve begun to collect supplies. This, more than anything, has led Parliament in London to declare that we are already in rebellion, though a shot has yet to be fired.”
“Jemmy, you talk as though you might—”
“Others will stand in the field, and I envy them.”
“Tonight,” she said, and he nodded. “Do you know where?”
“Wish I did, with certainty. We have—we have only conjecture and theory.” He picked up the letter she had brought. “Tell me, who gave you this letter at Province House?”
“A groom named Seth.”
“Good.”
“And there was a woman—”
“You spoke with her?”
“No. I only saw her in the window. I believe it was Mrs. Gage—”
“His beautiful wife from Pennsylvania?” James’s smile was brief.
“The letter was from her, I believe,” Abigail said.
“You’re certain?”
“No, not certain.” Then she said, “You’ve received letters from her before.”
He stared up at her, the candle light dancing in his eyes. “You never saw her. Do you understand, you never saw her.”
For a moment, she felt like she was a girl, back when her older brother was a third parent, often correcting her, reprimanding her behavior. But this was something else. “No, James, I never saw her.”
“Right, then.” James had a way of disposing of business, and then moving on; all very efficient. He looked down, broke the seal on the envelope, and removed a single sheet of paper, folded once.
“May I see?”
He glanced up and at first she thought he was going to say no, but then he nodded his head. She went around the desk and stood at his side. He opened the letter and spread it out on the desk. Abigail leaned down, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder.
My Dearest Samantha,
I have been much remiss in conveying to you this simple recipe, which you requested when last we met. Please accept my apologies.
7-8 quarts quahogs or oysters, finely cubed
2 white onions, chopped
Celery
Parsley
6 eggs
Salt pork
¾ lb. Butter
Crumbled bread for crust( 4 qt.)
flour
Milk, 2 pint (if cream, somewhat less)
Salt & pepper
White wine, touch (if not for Sabbath dinner)
Bake time depends on the quahogs 1 hr. at least. Or till fork doesn’t pull. Quahogs must be tender, fresh. Preferably taken from Back Bay or Cambridge marshes. Avoid digging in Noddle’s Island beds unless you want your pie seasoned with the urine of grazing livestock.
In your hands, I am assured that this pie will make a fine repast.
Yours Sincerely, Louisa B.
“It’s the same,” Abigail said. “Same recipe as in the other letter.”
“Seth gave you two?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She cleared her throat. “On the way here, two soldiers on patrol stopped me.”
“Did they now? And?”
“Quite rude. They’d been drinking, of course.”
James turned and gazed up at her. “Boston rum is so cheap, they can’t resist.”
She took her hand off his shoulder, went around the desk, and settled in the chair so she could stare into the fire again. Something soothing about the d
ance of flames upon the logs, the heat on her face.
“Along with our uncharted countryside,” he said, “Boston rum and whores may be our best defense.”
“Women. Indefensible women, James. This is our defense?”
He didn’t answer immediately. “I do worry about you, Abigail, walking the streets of Boston alone, particularly at night.”
“Yes, yes, Jemmy, but please don’t start,” she said. “You. And mother. And father. All singing the same tune about why a woman should remain sheltered. But I often slip out of the house when they’re occupied. Would you have me locked up in my room?”
“No, of course not.”
“Should all Bostonians stay shuttered away, cowering in their houses?” She turned from the fire and faced him then.
“No, Abigail,” he said quietly, as though reprimanded. He could not quite look at her. “How? How rude?”
She didn’t answer; she could not.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I wish you were not so …”
“So what?”
“Pretty. And—”
“And?”
“Bold.”
“Is that what I am?”
“In a word, yes,” he said. “If you were otherwise, you wouldn’t be you, but it might be safer.”
“James, no one in Boston is safe.”
For a moment he seemed at a loss for what to do. “This, this all becomes so …” He glanced at her, helpless. It lasted only a moment. He was their older brother, like a third parent when they were growing up. Rarely did he reveal this, uncertainty and apprehension. “It becomes personal.”
“So we must put that aside.”
“Yes. And we must attend to the matter at hand.”
James opened a side drawer and removed a bottle and a rag. He dampened the rag with the yellowish liquid, and then carefully daubed at the paper. Abigail got up and leaned over the desk. She drew the lantern closer to her brother’s work and watched as new lines appeared on the letter, scrawled in a different hand, rounder and more elegant.
“Sympathetic ink,” she whispered.
“Yes.” He was suddenly buoyant, invigorated by the discovery.
“The recipe,” she said. “That’s the hand of some servant or cook. But this other, this is from the lady. So many numbers.”
“Troops.”
“Leaving Boston tonight.”
“You’ve always been too bright for your own good, and—”
“And. There’s another and?”
“Bright, and naughty.”
“You’re one to talk about naughty.”
“It’s true I strayed in my youth, but I’m married now, with children and responsibilities. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see you as men see you—”
“And how exactly do they see me?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” He leaned back, fixing her with an assessing eye. “They see this slender, lithe beauty—but not frail, no, and with a fine carriage.”
“Carriage—Jemmy, please.”
“Bosom, then, if you prefer. A full bosom.” He smiled quickly. “Don’t blush—you asked how men see you. And then there’s the long dark hair, the way it catches the light and tumbles down over your shoulders. Even when you wear it up, men can only imagine how it would look undone.”
“Now you’re trying to make me blush.”
“Not yet, Abigail.” He hesitated, and she realized that he was reluctant to continue. But then he cleared his throat and pushed on, a bit of color coming to his pale cheeks. “It’s your eyes. They’re large, deep and soulful. Intelligent. But they also hold—I’m not sure how to put it, and I’m rarely at a loss for words—this sense of inquiry. You gaze at someone and sometimes it seems that you’re seeking them out, reaching right inside them.”
“And this is ‘naughty’?”
“Some young men, yes, this is how they will respond. You’re the daughter of a schoolmaster—you’re supposed to be educated, to possess poise, and you do. But you’re also supposed to be demure, even a bit dowdy. And that you most definitely are not.”
Abigail couldn’t look at her brother any longer, so she turned to the fire. They were silent for some time. He was getting close to something she thought she could conceal. “You’ve always been able to do this,” she said finally, still gazing at the burning logs. And then she turned to him and began, “Jemmy, I have to tell you—”
But he held up his hand as he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk. “Hold it, hold on to it here.” Gently, he rapped his fist against his chest. “We must all bear our fears and sorrows quietly, because our situation is about to become very hard, unlike anything we’ve seen before—and Lord knows, Boston has been under the king’s heel for years. We’ll all have to contribute, some in ways that we can’t imagine. Rather than think of ourselves, we must act.”
“I know,” she whispered. “You’re talking about sacrifice.”
“I am.”
“We’re going to have to make sacrifices. It’s why we’re here.”
“With these coming difficult times, Abigail, I would take a more active role—but, regrettably, I will remain here at my desk, with a chamber pot close by.” James removed the quill from its well and began to make notes on a separate sheet of paper. He worked for several minutes, the only sound in the room the crackle of the logs on the fire and the scratch of his pen. At times he moved his lips, which reminded Abigail of their father, who often silently mouthed the words he read from one of his Latin tomes.
When James was finished, he leaned back in his chair. He now appeared weak, exhausted. “You’re going to have to go directly to Dr. Warren’s surgery,” he said. “No encrypted letters. There’s no time for that. I hate to send you out on the streets again.”
“No, Jemmy. Just tell me.”
He looked up at her. “Listen carefully.”
She loved Boston at night. Despite her parents’ warnings, she often managed to get out of the house. Hurrying to Dr. Warren’s, she kept mostly to the alleys, where the shadows were heavy and she was more likely to encounter stray cats, dogs, and pigs, rummaging for food. When she did have to use the streets, she encountered few Bostonians, only redcoats, bearing haversacks, and bayoneted rifles, hurrying toward the Common, as though lured by a piper’s silent flute.
We are all British, Father said frequently. Announced, rather (he never really left his classroom, even at the dinner table). And he often noted that General Gage was widely perceived to be a man of decency, one who was often more inclined to impose restrictions on his own Regulars than on the “Bostoneers” (as the redcoats often called them).
At the bottom of it, many colonials still hoped that at some point the king’s men would simply come to their senses and acknowledge that there was no point in dividing them. They were all British. They were, like the Lovells, a family divided. And all families, which possessed love, respect, and honor, had the ability to heal themselves. Did they not?
It will never happen. Ezra had said this many times. They will never treat us as equals, never. The purpose of the colonies is simply to provide. Provide for England.
Ezra had been apprenticed to Dr. Church for several years. He often answered the door when Abigail visited the doctor’s office. He frequently delivered prescriptions to the house, as Abigail’s parents were often in need of elixirs and potions. Perhaps, when she was still in her teens, Abigail had ignored him because she was afraid of him, of what he might become to her. He seemed, in her presence, to gaze too long at her, while at other times he couldn’t bring himself to look at her at all. Though he was tall, with broad shoulders, he looked crushed by some invisible weight when he was near her. But that’s the way boys were: awkward, nervous, distressingly incomplete. Better to simply ignore them.
But one summer afternoon when she was twenty-one, he entered the dooryard by the back gate, a package for her mother in hand. Abigail had just stepped out of the chicken coop, a half dozen eggs cradled in her apr
on pocket. She bid him good day, and then, to avoid having to talk to him, she stepped back inside the coop. To her surprise, he stopped in the open doorway, blocking the light.
“You need more?” he said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Eggs. You need more?”
She leaned over the bins, alarming the hens. “Six. I have six, but Mother’s recipe calls for eight.” She was lying—to the doctor’s apprentice, she was lying. With both hands she shifted the straw about, though she knew there were no other eggs to be found. “But these hens seem unwilling to cooperate today.”
He said nothing. She was keenly aware of him, standing behind her. Why hadn’t he simply gone on to the house to deliver his package?
“Mother has been anxious for you to deliver her medication,” she said.
But he still remained in the doorway, silent. There was only the sound of her hands rummaging through straw and the chatter of chickens, alarmed that these two large beasts had disturbed the peace of their darkened house. Occupied and occupier.
“It must be hard,” he said at last. His voice was different now, as though they had been having an entirely different conversation and he was trying to commiserate with her plight.
She began to turn, but hesitated, and asked, “Excuse me?”
“Here, in your house,” he said. “It must be difficult … to get along, I mean.”
Abigail straightened up, her skin flooding with heat. As she removed her hands from the straw her fingers brushed against something smooth, round, and very warm: a freshly laid egg.
“You are a divided family,” he said. “It can’t be easy, for any of you.”
She kept her back to him for a long moment, unable to speak.
Finally, he stepped out of the doorway, admitting light to the henhouse. “I’m sorry, I should deliver—” He started across the dooryard. A swirling breeze coming off the harbor caused his blond hair to whip furiously about his head. He had a wide, straight back, and his stride was long and determined.