by John Smolens
“Excellent,” Church said, but then he hesitated. “But I’m not sure I will be allowed to return here again.”
“I see …” Rachel said, exasperated.
Abigail said, “I suppose that I could deliver it for you.”
“That would best,” Rachel said.
Now Benjamin Church stared directly at Abigail. “And perhaps you might bring it to my surgery tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly,” she said.
“I regret to make such a request of you on the Sabbath, but I expect I’ll depart for the country by midday.”
“I understand, Doctor,” Abigail said.
He gave the slightest bow and then left the kitchen.
Rachel got up and said to the doctor, “I’ll see you out.” She brought the baby around the table and handed him to Abigail.
Swaddled in his blanket, the child conformed easily to Abigail’s shoulder, and the top of his warm head rested against her cheek. He had recently been bathed, for the fine hair that brushed lightly against her skin held the faintest smell of lye soap.
When Rachel returned to the kitchen, she cast an assessing eye upon Abigail. “That baby is fast asleep in your arms. Usually, he’d be wailing by now. You hold him for a spell—you need the practice.”
“Stop.”
Rachel grinned as she went to the kitchen door. “Come with me.”
They went out into the dooryard, attracting a flock of chickens, and crossed the yard to Paul’s workshop, next to the stable. Inside the workshop were a forge and a large stone chimney, and along one wall stood a workbench fitted with several anvils and blocks, above which hung the tools of a silversmith: clamps, hammers, pliers, saws, chisels, awls. Rachel took a small wooden box down from a shelf and placed it on the workbench; then she got a crock from another shelf. After removing the lid, she took out a wad of paper money. Slowly, she peeled off bills and smoothed them out on the bench.
“We will need more,” she said. “Paul’s mother believes she can raise at least fifty.”
She opened the wooden box, which contained a quill, an inkpot, and a sheaf of foolscap. Finally, when she had everything laid out, she regarded Abigail for a long moment. “I see the way he—”
“What are you saying?”
“Dr. Church—I see the way he avoids looking at you, as though he’s afraid to give himself away.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were courted by his apprentice, and something went wrong there, am I right?” After a moment, Rachel smiled. “You’re so tight-lipped. I’m now an old married woman, but I still have an eye for these things. What happened between you and Ezra—”
“Nothing.”
“I see. All that trysting, and it comes to nothing. Things didn’t go a bit too far?”
“Rachel—”
“Ha! Are you blushing because it’s none of my business, or because I’m right?” Before Abigail could answer, Rachel said, “Doesn’t matter whether I’m right or not, though, does it? What matters is what the good Doctor Benjamin Church thinks.” She suddenly laughed. “These older men—I married one of them, remember? They get on the scent and then they circle.”
“What do you take me for?”
“Quarry! Ah now, that cuts you to the quim, doesn’t it!”
“You’re despicable—”
“Indeed I am,” Rachel said, delighted. Then she whispered, “You do understand that Dr. Church has a wife?”
“Yes, I’ve heard this is so.”
“Yet she is a woman seldom seen, mind you.” Rachel took up the quill and dipped its point into the inkpot. “But this other, she can be quite public and extravagant in her ways.”
“What other?”
Rachel ignored the question and commenced to write on the foolscap. There was only the sound of the quill scratching across the page. She worked slowly, leaning to her task. When she paused to dip the quill again, she said, “I’m obliged to you for taking this money to his house, but I’m afeared, too.”
“Rachel, be plain.”
“Plainly, he keeps another woman. But then this is not so uncommon in Boston.” Rachel glanced up from her work and light from the window cut across her face, illuminating her right eye. “Even your own brother, James—before he was married, he kept that woman, right? She was somewhat older, I understand, and she had a son, which she took with her to—where was it?”
Abigail sighed. “New York.”
“New York, yes, a city full of Boston bastards, it is. But at least your brother’s the well-bred kind and I’ll bet he sends her a regular assistance.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Abigail said. “It was years ago.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Rachel mimicked. “It was years ago.”
“It’s not my business, anyway.”
“There you go, love. Mind your own business.” Rachel laughed again. “They’re like a bad tooth, men. The ache never quite goes away.”
She continued to compose her letter, and Abigail said nothing. The baby’s arms and legs struggled within the blanket, and she softly patted his back. When Rachel was finished, she laid the quill back in the box and took out a small bottle; after removing the cork, she sprinkled sand on the ink.
Rachel picked up the piece of paper, bent it so that she could pour the sand back in the bottle, and then laid the sheet on the bench in front of Abigail. “Tell me, schoolmaster’s daughter, does this suffice?”
My dear, by Doct’r Church I send a hundred & twenty-five pounds & beg you will take the best care of yourself & not attempt coming into this towne again & if I have an opportunity of coming or sending out any of the children I shall do it. Pray keep up your spirits & trust yourself & us in the Hands of a good God who will take care of us. Tis all my dependence, for vain is the help of man. Adieu my Love.
From your Affectionate R. Revere
“It’s fine,” Abigail said.
“Now,” Rachel said, counting the wad of notes on the bench. “I hope Mother returns with the rest of the money. Please come by in the morning, the earlier the better, I think. You will do me a great kindness in conveying this to Dr. Church. I don’t wish to put you in harm’s way, but—”
“I’m glad to help, Rachel.” The baby, nestled against Abigail’s neck, began to stir and whimper.
“Seriously,” Rachel said, putting a hand on Abigail’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I would miss you so.” Her eyes suddenly grew large, brimming with tears.
“Rachel, if you could get the children out of Boston, would you go?”
Nodding, her tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s you who are despicable. That’s the question, all right. Their father is out there,” Rachel said as she lifted the baby off Abigail’s shoulder. “The thought of leaving Boston frightens me so. It is all I’ve ever known.” Unbuttoning her dress, she eased her son’s mouth to her breast. “But then if we stay here,” she said, “what would happen to us?”
Abigail walked home, pausing several times in doorways to wait out an intermittent spring shower. When she entered School Street, there was a redcoat standing outside the door of her house, speaking to her mother; it wasn’t Lumley, so Abigail approached as the young soldier walked off down the street.
“My dear, we are honored,” her mother said when Abigail reached the stoop, “so many messages from the British command.” Though she claimed to be a staunch supporter of her husband’s political views, her comments to Abigail were at times rather sarcastic in tone, and she spoke them as though they shared a carefully guarded secret. “Now we have two—imagine, two in one afternoon! I look forward to the day when King George addresses us directly.” She led Abigail into the house.
“Two?” Abigail said, removing her damp shawl and hanging it on a wall peg.
“Earlier, General Gage sent a request that your father attend a meeting at Province House tomorrow. He’s sending round a coach!” In the vestibule she handed Abigail a folded letter, sealed in wax. “And thi
s just arrived for you, my dear. Far be it for me to inquire as to who is sending missives to my fair young daughter.” She walked down the hall toward the kitchen.
Abigail went into the parlor and, standing by the window, she broke the seal and opened the letter.
April 22, 1775
My Dear Miss Lovell,
I am most grateful for your company the other night and only hope that I did not appear to be too much engrossed in the current events that have beleaguered you Bostonians. If it is not too Impertinent, nor too great an imposition, I wonder if we might meet again, for it would be a great benefit for this weary Soldier to bask for even a few minutes in Your Gentile Presence. However, the purpose of this request is not entirely selfish (though it is that, to be sure), in that I have, after making some discreet Inquiries, obtained information regarding the subjects we discussed, which I would very much like to convey to you personally. If this Proposition is agreeable to you, I would appreciate your meeting me this evening at the same time and place as before.
Your Humble Servant,
Colonel Samuel Cleaveland
Abigail folded up the letter and went into the kitchen.
“Let me guess,” her mother said, standing before the fireplace, where she leaned over the large cauldron, wooden ladle in hand. “You won’t be staying for supper. And we’re having haddock, one of your favorites. You’re off, God knows where, and I do worry—”
“Mother, I am not about to lock myself away in this house, no matter how many of the king’s soldiers are sent to guard over us.”
“The soldiers, I presume,” her mother said, “are here to protect us.”
“From what, ourselves?”
“Precisely.” Her father, seated at the table by the window, did not look up from his book.
“I just worry about her safety,” Mother said.
Father removed his clay pipe and said, “She’s meeting a gentleman, an officer, I gather.” When he looked up at Abigail, he smiled. “Who else would send a Regular with a letter?”
“If that is so, then it follows that you need not worry about my safety.” Abigail turned and started back down the hall toward the stairs. “I must change before I go out.”
“Precisely,” her father called. “Tomorrow afternoon I’m away to Province House and I will expect you to accompany me.”
“Why, John?” Mother asked.
“That’s where she’ll meet the finest British officers, and we want them to see her, what a gem she is.” Raising his voice, he said, “Displaying her before such promising company is a loving father’s obligation, you realize.” He waited. Abigail began climbing the stairs. “Perhaps I must send my own daughter an invitation by courier?”
Abigail paused on the landing and thought of Margaret Kemble Gage, dressed in fine raiment as she stood in the window of Province House. “No, Father,” she called down the stairs. “I would be honored to accompany you.”
“Praise be to the Lord!” her father shouted. And then he laughed—too seldom, Abigail realized, did her father do so. “We’ll make a respectable Tory out of our daughter yet!”
At dusk, Abigail arrived at the Two Salutations, only to find a soldier, standing by a chaise, who approached her eagerly.
“Miss Lovell?”
“Yes?”
“Colonel Cleaveland regrets that he has been detained.” The boy gestured toward the chaise. “So he has asked that I drive you to a suitable meeting place.”
“Where might that be?”
“The Common, Miss.”
“I see,” she said. “All right, then.”
The soldier helped her into the chaise and then climbed onto the bench, where he took up the reins. He drove through the streets as the lamps were being lit for the evening. When they arrived at the Common, the chaise stopped at the north end of the Mall, a lane that was bordered by a row of budding maples. Colonel Cleaveland was standing beneath one of the first trees, a basket leaning against the base of the trunk. He stepped forward and offered his hand as Abigail climbed down from the chaise.
“I appreciate your coming.” He saw Abigail glance toward the basket, and said, “The truth is I found our meeting in the tavern a bit confining. It’s a beautiful evening after the rain, so I thought we might have something to eat here by the Mall, followed by a stroll. I’ve been in Boston long enough to understand that a constitutional is one of the great pleasures of this city.”
“It is, Colonel,” Abigail said, looking down the empty lane that ran between the rows of maples. “But, as you can see, the current circumstances are keeping most Bostonians from partaking of such pleasures.”
“So we have it to ourselves,” he said smiling. “And perhaps by example we might encourage others to venture out of doors.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “Would you prefer to eat first? Or would you like to walk?”
She glanced back toward the chaise, where the young soldier was strapping a feedbag about the horse’s head. “Walk,” she said.
“I agree. Food tastes better after exercise.” The colonel took her arm and they started down the gravel path. “Could I also make a small request?”
“What would that be, Colonel?”
“It’s that exactly—‘Colonel.’ I realize much has changed in the past few days, and that in everything one must start anew. But I would appreciate it if you would at least call me Samuel.”
After a moment, she said, “Yes. That would be all right.”
“Thank you.” He glanced at her as though to make sure he hadn’t taken too great a liberty. “Thank you, Abigail. I walk here often, actually. It’s the open field dotted with grazing cows, I think, as well as these splendid trees. All this space reminds me of my family’s pastures in Surrey.”
“Where exactly is Surrey?”
“South of London. We have a townhouse there, of course, but I prefer the farm, and I look forward to the day when I can return there. Raise cattle, breed horses, hunt and fish, that sort of thing. So I’m thankful for this Common, particularly on a night like this when the air is fresh after the rain.”
“I’ve lived a short walk from this Common my entire life,” Abigail said. “I’ve always loved to come here, but since I was a child there’s always been something dark and dangerous about this open space.”
“How so?”
“It’s the history of Boston.” She pointed toward a lone elm tree on a knoll. “That’s the Great Elm,” she said. “Witches were hanged there. Children still believe their spirits roam the Common. And after the witches came Quakers, and then Baptists. The Puritans held tight rein over this town for generations, showing little tolerance for deviance.”
“And now we redcoats are here, new oppressors. In the eyes of Bostonians, we’re the hangmen.” She glanced at him, but he was looking up at the trees arching overhead. “I don’t like this role,” he said. “It doesn’t suit me, but I am here to do my duty.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Not always a pleasant task, duty.”
“No, I’m sure it isn’t.”
“This siege, it will take its toll on all of us.” With his free arm he gestured toward the trees ahead of them. “You know there’s a committee of officers who are responsible for providing wood.”
“Wood?”
“To burn,” he said. “Now that General Gage finds his army trapped on this peninsula, unable to venture out into the countryside, there’s great concern about these things—wood, to fire the ovens that provide meals for our men in the barracks.”
“The Mall trees?”
“It’s a possibility. They’re drawing up a list.”
“A list?”
“Historically, the state of siege is a long, drawn-out, withering affair. Essential practicalities have to be taken into account. If the siege of Boston continues, say, beyond the summer, then there will be the problem of providing sufficient heat through the winter.”
“You think it will last that long?”
“No one knows. Cities und
er siege often languish for years. The trees will be exhausted in due course, so other sources of fuel have to be found.”
Abigail freed her arm from his gentle grip and stopped walking. “What other sources are there? What has your committee put on this list?”
“It’s not my committee, Abigail. These matters don’t concern me directly. I’m in charge of artillery.” Yet he faced her, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he was prepared for a reprimand. “It’s not my decision, but you can understand that in time the necessity will arise.”
She took a step back in the direction of the chaise, but then turned to him again. “I want to know what is on this list.”
“I don’t know all the particulars, and I don’t believe anything has been determined with certainty yet—”
“Colonel Cleaveland.”
He was clearly surprised at how sharply she had spoken, and whispered, “Churches.”
Abigail couldn’t look at his face, and for a moment studied the gold buttons on his uniform. “Churches?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Pews, perhaps,” she said. “And I know that there have been instances where metal has been removed from churches for the purpose of making shot. The organ pipes in a church over to Charlestown, they were torn out and melted down. So is that it? General Gage would have the pews removed from our churches for firewood?”
“No.” He waited until she raised her eyes to his. “Churches, Abigail. They will tear them down.”
“Tear them down?”
“Board by board.”
“Which ones?”
“As I said, that has not yet been determined with certainty.”
She looked up at the budding branches overhead. The small pale green maple leaves were luminescent in the last light of day. “If you know anything about Bostonians, you will know that we consider these trees as sacred as our churches.”
“I do know,” he said. “I really do. God’s wood.”
She began walking quickly, back in the direction of the chaise, repulsed by his sincerity as much as by the idea that Boston could become so barren of wood. He strode alongside her, his hands still clasped behind his back. “I’m really sorry to upset you. That wasn’t my intention. I was only, only being truthful.”