by John Smolens
There was a moment when they seemed confounded—until Colonel Barrett snorted, and then he laughed. “Right you are, Lad! It’s an eight-pounder! Why, I’ll bet you even know about assembling such a gun.”
“I have watched the redcoats do so many times, sir.”
“Then, please, Benjamin, show my boys here, because these bumpkins have no idea where to start.”
“Well, sir. First, we must assemble the carriage, and—”
“Hear that, lads?” The colonel shouted. “We start by assembling the carriage!” He slapped his belly, while the others laughed, too.
They worked into the morning, and by the time the sun had risen above Punkatasset Hill there were two eight-pound cannon standing in Colonel Barrett’s barn. The whiskey was passed around one last time, until the jug was empty. They stood about, gazing dumbly at the fruit of their labors, until Dawes said, “Would be lovely to roll them outside and set off a round—as a form of practice.”
“Aye,” another said. “To make sure they are in proper operating condition.”
Colonel Barrett ran a hand lovingly along one of the cannon barrels, but then said, “No, you don’t want to go wasting precious powder, and you don’t want to alert all of Concord to that fact that we have these guns at all.” He eyed each of the men sternly. “You’re not to breathe a word about them, understand?”
They nodded like reprimanded schoolboys.
“Good,” the colonel said. “Now you want take them apart again and hide them. Some parts can go up in the hayloft, and I think the large pieces should be wrapped in canvas and buried out there in the woods beyond the fields.” They looked at him, incredulous. “So get to it, boys,” he said, striding out the barn doors. “And I’ll see if my wife has enough eggs for breakfast.”
When the doctor’s apprentice announced that Paul Revere had arrived, Warren and Church accompanied Abigail downstairs and out the back door. Revere was in the alley, his arms folded, a shoulder leaning against the brick wall of the house. He was a different sort of man than Warren and Church, possessing little of their gentlemanly refinement—and not seeming to care. Swarthy and thickly built, he had muscular hands and forearms from wielding the silversmith’s tools.
“It’s certain now,” Warren said. “We’ve already sent Dawes out by the Neck, so you must cross the water, Paul. It will be dangerous—you’ll be in sight of the troops, and we’ve heard that they’ve anchored the Somerset in the mouth of the Charles.”
“I’ve already arranged for a horse with Deacon Larkin over to Charlestown.” Removing his tricorn, Revere gazed up at the sky. “It’s about ten o’clock, and a clear night. The moon’ll be up later, so I must be away.”
“God’s speed,” Church said.
Revere didn’t acknowledge Church’s comment, but was staring at Dr. Warren, who again was rubbing his jaw. “The new teeth I made you,” Revere said, “still bothering you?”
“They are well fitted, Paul,” Warren said. “I know. I’m a physician. Such things take time.”
“If they continue to bother you,” Revere said, “I’ll have to adjust the wires.”
“For that I will prescribe an ample portion of rum for myself,” Warren said, and then to Abigail, he added, “My dear friend, Mr. Revere, a man of many talents. The finest silversmith in the colonies, but he also makes the best false teeth in Boston. And just to spite me, he refuses to say from what animal he extracted my two new teeth.”
“I can’t recall with certainty,” Revere said. “But I believe my supplier said that for weeks he’d been tracking a feisty bobcat.”
He and Warren laughed, and then the doctor said, “Perhaps you could accompany Miss Lovell as far as her home?”
“Of course,” Revere said.
Warren smiled at her. “You can be his decoy, Abigail.”
“If you encounter redcoats,” Church added, “they will be distracted from this brute by your sublime beauty.”
“They won’t even notice me.” Revere stepped forward and took her gently by the arm. “I’ll be as invisible as her brother’s ink.”
Both doctors bowed graciously toward her, and then Church went back into the house, while Warren remained in the alley a moment longer, watching them as they walked out into the street, arm in arm.
They saw few British soldiers. Revere suspected it was because they had orders to be at the Common by ten to begin the embarkation—it would take several hours to ferry so many soldiers across the Charles, and he’d heard that they’d already begun to encounter delays. “Word is that the expedition is being led by a lieutenant colonel named Smith,” Revere said. “He’s very fat, very slow—the perfect man for the job.”
When they turned a corner and entered School Street, they saw a pair of redcoats up ahead, rushing toward them hastily. Revere, who had kept his hand on Abigail’s upper arm, pulled back so as to slow their pace as they strolled toward the two men. “These two must be late for the dance.”
“Or they recognize you.”
They walked on slowly, and as they neared the soldiers Abigail said, “The boy left the door to the summer kitchen ajar, and of course some hens were lured inside by the smells coming from simmering pots, and they caused all sorts of havoc, so that Mother was absolutely furious, demanding that father reprimand the stupid lad with the switch.”
“A lesson he’ll long remember next time he sits down to his fried eggs.” Revere touched the brim of his tricorn as they passed the soldiers, adding, “Evening, gentlemen.”
They merely nodded as they marched down the street, and then turned the corner in the direction of the Common.
“Mr. Revere, I’m not the one who needs an escort tonight,” Abigail said when they stopped before her house. “Should I accompany you farther?”
“Thank you, no,” Revere said. “It would only mean you’d have to walk back home alone.” He began to turn away, but then faced her again. “If you don’t mind my asking, when you visited Dr. Warren’s did you bear a letter?”
“No letter. My brother James didn’t think there was time.”
“So you conveyed information …” he hesitated. “To Doctor Warren.”
“Those were my brother’s instructions.”
Revere merely stared at her. “So you spoke to both doctors?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Again he seemed hesitant. “Might I ask you a favor?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“You’ve been such a good friend to Rachel. It’s a large brood we have in that small house, and she has only my mother there to help her. Might you look in on her, if I don’t return to Boston soon?”
“She’s like a sister to me. I will visit her as often as I can.”
“I’m most grateful,” he said, as he touched the brim of his hat in farewell. “You’ve been a wonderful escort on this fine spring evening, Abigail.” He set off quickly in the direction of the North End.
They crossed the Neck, which connected Boston to the mainland. Dawes liked to call it walking on water. It was merely a strand not a hundred yards wide; when there was a storm surge the road was often flooded, rendering Boston an island. To the left, there was a vast salt marsh, and across the water a few lights could be seen on Dorchester Hill; to the right, water lapped against a pale beach, strewn with wrack lines of seaweed.
When they could see the guards’ lantern up ahead, Dawes said, “No matter what happens at the gate, you are to return to the city.”
“But I always go through with you, sir.”
“Tonight I must ride hard. There’s very likely to be British patrols on the roads tonight and I must travel light.”
“You’re going to give the alarm. I could go to Concord. I can walk.”
Dawes didn’t answer.
“I can go to Concord, where the cannon are. That’s why the redcoats are marching out, isn’t it, to secure armaments, and to capture Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams?”
“No, Dr. Warren said you are to repor
t back to him.”
The air was heavy with the smell of salt. “And if you don’t get through?”
Dawes only laughed. But then he said, “Might you be nervous?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
They were coming in sight of the guardhouse, which was about thirty yards before the large gate that blocked the road. Dawes began to whistle off-key, as he often did—it was a means of alerting the guards to their approach. There was no benefit to taking them by surprise, as it would only make them more suspicious. When they were close, a soldier stepped out of the gatehouse, holding a lantern.
“That you there, Corporal Fredericks?”
“Billy? Billy Dawes? Ain’t seen you come through ’ere in, oh, must be a week.”
Ben stopped the horse as Dawes said, “At least. I must be getting over to Roxbury, where my aunt is taken ill.”
“Sorry to ’ear that,” Fredericks said. He was stout and spoke with a heavy wheeze, the kind of soldier who would not be selected for a march into the countryside to seize weaponry and apprehend provincial leaders. As though such a mission were beneath his dignity, he sniffed loudly as he stepped up close to the horse. “Might we be well perfumed tonight, Billy?”
“I am much distressed over my aunt’s condition.” Dawes leaned sideways, nearly falling off the horse. “It be a grave condition, is my understanding.”
“Aye, a pity, that.”
“She’s been good to me, my aunt.” Dawes searched his vest until he located the pocket, and then came the click of coins. He leaned over unsteadily and extended his arm toward Benjamin. “That’s a good lad, for your assistance. Now you get on back home.”
Ben handed the reins up to Dawes, and then looking at the coin in his palm, he said, “Thank you, sir.”
He turned to start back across the Neck, but Fredericks stepped in his way. “A shilling, Billy,” he wheezed. “Rather steep, for a lad.”
“Perhaps, but I have been feeling sorely, because of my aunt and all.” Dawes reached inside his vest now, and for a moment he seemed unable to find what he was searching for, until he produced a small glass bottle. He removed the cork and took a pull, the sharp smell of rum spicing the salty air.
“Well, I’ll tell you, Billy. We’ve got our orders tonight.”
“How’s that?”
“Can’t exactly say, but we’re supposed to keep a tight fist on who comes and goes from Boston tonight. You understand. Maybe you could visit your aunt tomorrow.”
Dawes took another drink of rum. “Most likely I’ll be visiting her grave tomorrow.” He offered the corporal the bottle. “This is my last chance, you understand. I don’t see her tonight and—” He began to sob. Very convincing: just the slight intake of air, and hint of a quiver in his shoulders.
“Come now, Billy,” Fredericks said, his voice barely a whisper.
Dawes leaned over and rested his head against the horse’s neck. Fredericks looked at the bottle in his hand, and then tipped it up to his mouth. He winced as he swallowed, but then he took another pull on the rum.
“Sir,” Benjamin said. “If you won’t let Mr. Dawes pass, perhaps I could go to Roxbury and convey a message to his aunt.”
Dawes raised his head from the horse’s mane. “No, lad, that won’t do,” he said sternly, yet helplessly awash in emotion. “It’s very kindly of you, but it wouldn’t be the same.”
Fredericks raised his lantern and gazed hard at Benjamin. When he lowered his arm, the light cast deep shadows upwards on his face. After further consideration, he took a last pull on the rum and handed the bottle back to Dawes. “No, Billy,” he said. “The boy cannot go in your place. It wouldn’t be right, for your aunt, I mean.” He looked out across the marsh toward Dorchester Heights. “It’s not right, is it? I had a sister died last fall. Her lungs, you know. I didn’t learn of it till January—near three months later, an’ all’s I gets is a letter from me mum. Priscilla was her name, me sister, that is. Had two little ones and a husband that’s a cooper. Don’t much care for ‘im, never did, and I worry about them kids, ’avin’ no mum, an’ all.”
“I’m sorry, Fredericks.” Dawes jammed the cork in the bottle and then held it out for the corporal. “At least keep this, to get you through the night. Fact is, I’ve had enough.”
“I can see that, I can.” Fredericks tucked the bottle inside his coat pocket. “Well now, Billy, you just be on your way before it’s too late.” He turned and raised his lantern as a signal to the two soldiers manning the gate. “Rider comin’ through,” he called out. “Open ’er up, boys.”
“Are you sure?” Dawes asked.
“It’s only right.” Fredericks placed a hand on Benjamin’s shoulder and giving him a firm squeeze. “And, like you said, this good lad should be on his way ’ome. In fact, it’s well past me suppertime, so I may accompany ’im to that tavern there on down Orange Street so’s I might take my evening repast.”
“You are most kind, Fredericks,” Dawes said. He straightened up in the saddle and walked the horse on as the gate was being swung open.
“Now, Ben,” Fredericks said. “I will just inform me men that I’m going off-duty. It’s a dark night and a lad such as you shouldn’t be out alone.”
“Much obliged, sir.”
Frederick’s hand remained on Benjamin’s shoulder a moment longer, squeezing tighter, and then he went back into the gatehouse and spoke to another soldier, handing over the lantern.
Benjamin was tempted to turn and run. Fredericks would never catch him. But the young soldier standing in the gatehouse doorway looked barely sixteen, and if he couldn’t run as fast as Benjamin, he might be a fair shot.
So Benjamin stayed put, waiting for the corporal to return.
As he looked toward the gate, Dawes and his sauntering horse disappeared into the night.
When Abigail let herself into the house, there were the two candles, which her mother always left on the table by the front door. Benjamin had not yet returned home—his tricorn was not hanging from its peg. She climbed the stairs, but at the landing she sat in the window seat, blowing out the candle and placing the holder on the sill. The darkness was scented with melted wax and the house was silent, except for the sound of her father’s snoring in the room at the end of the hall. Suddenly, she was exhausted, so tired that it would take too much effort to climb the rest of the stairs to her bedroom. Since her youth, the window seat had been her favorite place in the house, and she could dwell there for hours, reading, dozing, or merely gazing out the window. Now, leaning her back against the paneling, she curled her legs up on the cushions. She wondered where Ezra was now. She had lived her entire life in Boston and had rarely ventured from the peninsula. She thought of the rest of the continent as being a vast, uncharted place, darker than the city. Yet there was promise out there, and she wished she knew whether he had run away from something here in Boston, or whether he had been drawn toward something out there. Her brother James, in his subtle way, would suggest that this was not the time for such thoughts, reminding her of the sacrifices soon to come. And she thought of Paul Revere, crossing the Charles to warn the countryside that British troops were coming out from Boston. Perhaps this was the beginning of what was to come, the hard times James said were drawing near. She was tired, exhausted really, and she knew she should go up to bed. But this was her window, her view, and the moon was on the rise over Boston, reason enough to linger a few minutes longer. From this angle, she looked across the rooftops toward the North End and Christ Church, the tallest steeple in Boston.
IV
Tea and Togas
THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR AND ABIGAIL AWOKE, LYING on her bed, still fully clothed.
“You there, dear?”
“Why would you ask that, Mother?” Vaguely, she recalled getting up from the window seat in the middle of the night and making her way to her bedroom. “Where else would I be?”
“Coming down for breakfast, then?”
&
nbsp; “I’ll be just a few minutes.”
The floorboards creaked in the hall as her mother moved toward the stairs, but then she returned, and this time her voice was barely a whisper. “Benjamin didn’t come home last night.”
Abigail was undoing buttons, but she paused and went to the door, saying, “He didn’t?” Raising the latch, she opened the door—her mother looked startled and she shook her head. In the early morning light her pale eyes seemed to shine from within.
“I don’t know what’s happened to him,” she said. “And there’s word on the street—Jonas, the milkman, says that hundreds of soldiers crossed Back Bay last night.”
“I know.”
“The streets, they’re quiet this morning. It’s strange, and frightening.” Her mother’s voice had an unusual quiver to it. Over the winter she’d suffered from a long spell of the ague, and she still hadn’t regained all her strength. Her step was slower now, her shoes often sliding along the floorboards, and, perhaps of greater concern, she seemed more forgetful. “Where would he be?”
“I don’t know.” Abigail took her mother’s fidgeting hands. “He’ll be all right.” Her mother’s hands, too, seemed reduced of late; thin, frail, and always cold, even though it was already quite a warm morning. “Let me just wash and change, Mother, and I’ll be right down.”
“Tea!” her father hollered from downstairs.
“He’s—” her mother said, pulling her hands free. “Please hurry, dear.”
Abigail watched her mother shuffle to the staircase and take hold of the banister as she eased herself down each step. At the landing, she paused to look back toward her daughter.
“I’ll be right down,” Abigail said.
She stepped back into her room, and as she shut the door she heard her father’s voice again, louder. “Tea, woman! And biscuits.”
After she finished getting dressed, Abigail quickly went down the hall and climbed the ladder to the attic. This was Benjamin’s usual hiding place, in the house. Since he’d been small, she’d find him up here, sitting on some boards laid across the rafters. He would just sit, often after a row with Father, and he would refuse to speak, refuse to come down. But he was not in the attic this time. Still, this was not unusual. He had a tendency to wander, and sometimes days would pass without sight of him, and then he would walk through the kitchen door as though he hadn’t been missing at all.