by John Smolens
Abigail took the copy of The Odyssey upstairs and sat on the window seat on the landing. The late afternoon clouds had grown dark and a thunderstorm was approaching. The air was close, and rain would be a relief. She removed the envelope from the book, broke the seal of white wax, and removed a single folded sheet of parchment.
April 20, 1775
My Dear Miss Lovell,
I apologize for the forward and rather impersonal Nature of this communication as we have not been formally introduced, but I suspect that you will agree that the Events of the past few days have dramatically altered how you and I—to be sure, all of us—view even the most ordinary occurrences. I find everything has changed Now and I cannot see where this will all lead. If you would do me the kindness of meeting me this Evening, I would be most Grateful. Of course, should you find it necessary to Decline, for whatever reason, I will fully understand and not trouble you further. However, I believe You and I have much to discuss and pray that you will do me the honor of your company at the Two Salutations at seven o’clock.
Your Humble Servant,
Colonel Samuel Cleaveland
Abigail looked out the window as the first raindrops streaked the whorled glass.
A soldier was waiting in the pouring rain outside the Two Salutations, and he escorted Abigail inside to the private room Colonel Cleaveland had secured. He was alone and the table was laden with poultry, fruit, and wine. Abigail took the seat when offered, but declined to eat. She kept her cloak on, only pushing the hood back onto her shoulders.
He poured her a glass of wine, which she did not touch. There was much different about him, and it was difficult to believe he was the same officer she had encountered in Dock Square two days earlier. Scratches ran down his face and the side of his neck, and there was a purplish bruise at his temple. His left hand was bandaged. And his eyes, though still a pale blue, seemed now to linger in a way that suggested newfound doubt. He stared at the wine glass in his hand as though he’d never seen one before, and once he picked up a knife and appeared to be looking at himself in the reflection of its blade. Beyond that, he was somehow diminished. Though his uniform was crisp, he seemed not quite able to fill it as he might have only days ago. He had, though, taken considerable pains with his hair, which, as before, was smoothed back from his forehead and tied in a neat queue.
“I appreciate your coming,” he said, “particularly in such weather.” When she didn’t answer, he picked up his wine and drank down half the glass. “When I sent my letter, I was certain you wouldn’t come. I got the impression—”
“What impression?”
“The private I sent, he only said you accepted the letter and made no commitment.”
“The private?”
Cleaveland put his glass on the table. “Yes, the soldier who led you in here.”
“That private, standing out in the rain? He didn’t deliver the letter.”
“I don’t understand. I must ask him for clarification.” Cleaveland began to get up.
“Colonel, please sit.” When he did so, she decided to take a sip of wine. It was a full-bodied red and immediately she could feel it warm her cheeks. “For now, it’s of little importance. The fact is that I received your letter. I assume you have something to tell me.”
“I have.”
“About my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Benjamin?”
He stared across the table at her. “I have learned that your father, the schoolmaster, is indeed very much the loyalist, and that you have an older brother, James, who is—” He glanced down in an attempt to be circumspect. “But your younger brother, that boy in Dock Square, I don’t—”
“You didn’t ask me here to tell me about my younger brother Benjamin?”
He shook his head, genuinely bewildered. “Why would I?”
Abigail took a breath. “He’s, he’s gone missing.”
The colonel seemed relieved. “I’m afraid this is true of many men, on both sides.”
“You have no news of his whereabouts?”
“No, I’m sorry to say.”
“This is my own fault. I’ve been so concerned about him that I’ve been grasping at straws. Of course, why would you know about him?” Disgusted with herself, she began to get up from her chair, but then paused. “Why did you invite me here?”
He took another sip of his wine and seemed much preoccupied. “Circumstances,” he said, leaning toward her and barely whispering. “It’s the circumstances, I believe.”
“What circumstances, Colonel?”
He straightened up in his chair and shook his head wearily. “I must apologize, Miss Lovell. I’ve gone about this all wrong. These past few days, everything has changed. No one could have foreseen these events.”
“You mean the expedition, Lexington and Concord.”
“I was correct,” he said adamantly. “In retrospect, I was right, though you’ll be hard pressed to find an officer who will admit that this is so. I told them, I argued that we needed to take artillery with us on this expedition. That is my responsibility, you see. I’m in charge of artillery, and I said it was foolhardy to venture into the countryside without cannon. They not only refused, as though such a proposition were preposterous, they found the very idea that we would require such armaments insulting. You must understand that this army is—well, it’s organized in a fashion and imbued with traditions that often prove to be its own worst enemy. In this case, my expressed concerns were not just ignored but ridiculed, by some. They anticipated no real resistance once outside of Boston and claimed we wouldn’t need to burden ourselves with such heavy equipment, that we could move swiftly without it. Of course, they also believed that our expedition could actually march out into the countryside without anyone even taking notice. Good God. Furthermore, they said, essential to our purpose was to locate the provincials’ artillery—confiscate it and bring it back to Boston, and if that proved too unwieldy a task then we would spike the cannons where we found them. That would be my responsibility. That was why I had to accompany the march. Not to oversee the transport and deployment of our artillery, but to see to it that, if necessary, we would properly render their guns ineffective.” He finished his wine, and then refilled his glass from the decanter. “Those were the ‘circumstances’ at the outset, and from there things only seemed to spiral further and further out of control. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand, Colonel,” Abigail said. “But I don’t see why I’m here, why you’re telling me all this.”
Colonel Cleaveland put his elbows on the table and for a moment massaged his forehead with the fingers of his bandaged hand. “I’m sorry. Still, I’m going about this all wrong.”
“How did you do that?” she asked. “Your hand.”
He looked at his bandage. “You know, I don’t remember.”
“The stories we’ve heard … horrible.”
His expression changed, his eyes becoming distant, but then he looked at her in a way that took Abigail by surprise. He almost appeared to be pleading, his eyes seeking some kind of acceptance, some recognition. “None of this should ever have happened, but now it has.”
“What will this mean, do you suppose?” she asked. “What will become of us?” He seemed delighted by the questions. “Colonel, my brother is missing. All of Boston is traumatized. Can you tell me, what are the circumstances?”
“Yes.” He took a moment, gazing about the room. “This is the question. I would say that it does not bode well, for any of us. We—General Gage’s army—are now trapped here on this crowded little peninsula. Our intelligence sources tell us that the provincial army is establishing camps on Dorchester Heights to the south, in Charlestown to the north, that there are thousands of men from all over New England pouring into the camp in Cambridge, and that many of the rebel leaders have taken up residence upriver in Watertown. We are surrounded, confined.” He studied her a moment, his expression turning sympathetic. �
�You. You Bostoneers are in a worse plight than your country people. You are here on this peninsula with us, your enemy—we are enemies now, to be sure. Life here will become very difficult. Today the word ‘siege’ was used by my superiors. They said Boston is in a state of siege. And there’s no knowing how long that will last.” He surveyed the table a moment, and then said, “Sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?”
“No, really. But please, do not refrain on my account.”
Something had eased in him. He took up a chicken leg and bit into it, and then as he ate he continued to explain the circumstances. It was all rumor and speculation at this point, but there had already been communication between sides. Evidently, Dr. Warren, who, despite his views, was held in the highest regard by the command, had already been in communication with General Gage regarding the situation. There was another doctor, a Dr. Benjamin Church, who had managed to return to Boston, and apparently he had brought a letter from Warren which expressed concern for the citizens of Boston who were in support of the provincials. Likewise, Gage was concerned that there would be further repercussions regarding the loyalists who lived out in the country. Certainly there had already been ample evidence that rebels could not respect the property of those who were loyal to the king. It was true, perhaps, that there had been instances where British soldiers had taken certain liberties with some Boston residents, but one had to admit that General Gage had been very consistent in his response to such provocations, so much so that he had sown both fear and anger among the ranks. Many of his officers complained that he had gone too far in his restrictions on the men and, when necessary, he had ordered unduly harsh reprimand upon the Regulars. What was clear was that there was now even greater potential for further untoward behavior.
“It appears that Gage and Warren are negotiating a swap.” The colonel was now eating grapes. “Tory sympathizers living in the country would be allowed to remove to Boston, while those who supported the rebel cause in Boston would be allowed to evacuate the city. It seems an equitable solution.”
“You said Dr. Church has returned to Boston?” Abigail said.
“Quite extraordinary. He arrived at the gates on the Neck and was apprehended. They took him straightaway to Province House, where he met with General Gage. I understand that his stockings were bloodied from the fighting.”
“And Dr. Warren sent him?”
The colonel shrugged as he leaned back from the table. “Warren’s taken up residence in Watertown. There’s word that a musket ball passed so close to his head that it cut off a lock of his hair. There are those among us, of course, who believe that killing the likes of Church and Hancock and that little monster Sam Adams would bring a swift end to this rebellion. Cut the chicken’s head off.”
“But you?”
“Oh. One must acknowledge and admire Dr. Warren for his many attributes: persistence, ardor, and his damned eloquence. But at the bottom of it he’s a reasonable man who bears true dignity. Take that away and you’re left with Adams and his mob. If it were left to him, they would scalp every Tory in the countryside, rape their women, burn their houses, and to hell with whatever repercussions rebel sympathizers in Boston would face in retaliation.” Cleaveland looked out the window. The rain had stopped. “If you read history,” he said, “you know that cities under siege can lead to long and protracted suffering.” Looking at Abigail, he said, “I appreciated your coming, Miss Lovell. Your company is a much needed antidote. I wonder if we might possibly meet again?”
Abigail drew the hood up over her head. The colonel looked down at the table, the bones on his plate. She began to get to her feet, but then said, “Colonel, would you know a soldier named Lumley, a corporal?”
“Lumley?” He shook his head. “No. Why?”
“It’s not important.” She got up from her chair, and the captain did so as well. “He’s billeted near our house, is all.”
“I see.” Colonel Cleaveland seemed to struggle now, and Abigail was afraid of what she was certain he wanted to say. Finally, he managed: “Might I escort you home?”
“Thank you, no.”
“Then my private, waiting outside, he could at least accompany you?”
“Colonel, you’ve been very cordial. I accepted your invitation thinking that I might learn something of my brother’s whereabouts.” She thought of Ezra, too, who most likely was out there somewhere, among the country people. “I fear for people very dear to me, people who would be here, here in Boston, if it weren’t for your … presence.”
“I understand,” he said, and for the moment he seemed sincerely distraught. “My intentions were—they were purely honorable, I assure you. Forgive me, but my purpose was not to ask you here under false pretenses.” He studied the chicken bones remaining on his plate as though he might read his fortune in them. “I’m just a soldier who is a long way from home, and that evening when I encountered you and your brother in Dock Square, engaged in that unfortunate business with the street patrol, I found you to be remarkably forthright.”
“‘Unfortunate,’ indeed. The sergeant had his saber point held to my brother’s neck.”
“You were calm and brave, and—”
“And I could tell you a few more things about that sergeant.”
“I’m only offering to escort you home.”
Abigail pulled on her gloves in haste. “I’m a Bostonian, not a Bostoneer—as you and General Gage like to put it—and I assure you, Colonel, I know my way home.”
The next few days confirmed what Colonel Cleaveland had said: There was much congestion in the streets as carts and wagons, loaded with the belongings of patriots, streamed out of the city. The only stipulation was that all evacuees had to surrender any weapons—firearms, pistols, bayonets, and blunderbusses—to the British.
At breakfast Saturday, Abigail’s father and mother discussed this possibility of evacuation, though it was clear from the outset that Father had no intention of leaving their home on School Street. It was bad enough that the Latin School was closed indefinitely, leaving some hundred boys to their own mischief, but Father refused to entertain the thought of abandoning their home.
“You should go, though,” he said, looking down the table and gesturing with his butter knife.
“John, please,” Mother said.
“It might be best,” he said, “if both you and Abigail quit the city.”
“And leave you here alone?” Mother asked.
“You think I can’t manage?” Father laughed suddenly. This was not uncommon; though he was often brooding and serious, he would also find the humor at the most unlikely times. “My dear, James is right down the street. He’s certainly not going anywhere. I’m sure they would set another place at their table for me. I’ll not starve, though his wife is perhaps too fond of pepper.”
Abigail’s mother had a tendency to gnaw on her lower lip when she was upset, and she did so for quite some time now.
“Where would you go?” Father said, though she had said nothing. “There are any number of my former students living outside the city who I’m sure would be happy to accommodate you. Considering your health this past winter, it might be best if you were away from this city. If fact, it might be wise to leave Massachusetts entirely. Perhaps someplace sensible—like New York.”
Mother didn’t seem to hear.
“It’s Benjamin,” Abigail said, turning to her father.
Father’s eyes appeared to soften with uncertainty. “The boy’s like a stray dog,” he said quietly. “I spoke to James about him last night. He’s convinced that Benjamin has left the city. He’s out there, among them. James would be, too, if his health weren’t so …”
Mother pushed her chair back from the table, but she didn’t seem to possess the strength to get up. She sat there, as though waiting for divine intervention.
That afternoon, when Father’s guests had finally departed, Abigail went up to her room. She lay down on her bed with the copy of Pope’s translation of Homer,
but she found herself only able to stare out the window. They were a family divided, in so many ways. When Mother and Father had finally discovered that Abigail had a beau—a friend had seen her and Ezra walking by the Mill Pond—they of course insisted upon knowing about him, about his family. It was what Abigail feared; it was why she was willing to maintain her affections in secret. Ezra was an apprentice to a physician, but he didn’t come from family, none at least that would be recognizable, and therefore acceptable, to her parents. Ezra lived with his mother, a tall, still quite handsome woman, and there was never any mention of his father. This was enough to cast doubt upon Ezra, whom Abigail defended to her parents relentlessly.
He was invited to tea once, upon Mother’s insistence. It didn’t go well. Father thought he was a merely a young man intent upon bettering himself by association with the daughter of a schoolmaster (association being his word—he couldn’t even bring himself to mention the prospect of marriage). Mother proved more understanding; she found Ezra polite and well-mannered, and she admitted that he was indeed handsome, though his broad shoulders seemed the result of strenuous physical labor. After the occasion, Abigail kept to her room for days, barely speaking to her parents, and in the months that followed there had developed a smoldering tension within the house. Every time she went out, she felt their suspicions stalking after her. She didn’t want to lie or deceive, but the more she felt their wish to deny her this association, the more she desired to be with him. Their meetings were often swift, furtive encounters, increasingly more reckless. Only Rachel understood and made every effort to help them arrange their trysts.
Slowly, a sense of futility caused the egg, their egg, to crack and break open. They had begun to discuss marriage, but Ezra was still only an apprentice physician, in no position to assume such responsibilities; and if they did marry, he was certain they would not receive her parents’ benediction. Abigail claimed that it only mattered that they loved each other—she knew that in time her parents would come to realize that, and accept it. But he could see how torn she was over this notion of defying her parents, whom she loved dearly. Here was where they began to argue. Ezra was certain that to marry under such circumstances would eventually lead to disaster; soon enough she would regret such an impulsive decision and come to resent him. Yet his saying this only convinced her more of his love for her.