by John Smolens
“Heard, sir?”
“Did you hear anything? A scream perhaps?”
“No,” Lodge said. “We didn’t hear no scream.”
“Dayton,” Samuel said. “You hear any scream?”
“N-no, sir,” Dayton said.
“Miss Lovell here,” Samuel said. “She testified that she heard a scream. You were in the vicinity—how could you not hear it?”
“With all due respect,” General Smythe said. “We have two soldiers who claim they heard no scream, while this young woman—who was found covered in blood and was knocked unconscious—claims that she did.”
Samuel folded his hands in front of him, studying his knuckles with care. “Their word against hers, the daughter of Boston’s most respected schoolmaster.”
“No slight intended,” Smythe said, glancing toward Abigail’s father. “Miss Lovell claims she was knocked unconscious for two days. Perhaps she imagined—or even dreamed—that she heard a scream.”
“Miss Lovell’s statement was clear enough, I think,” Samuel said, looking up from his hands. “Private Lodge, and Private Dayton, you both know Corporal Lumley?”
Lodge began to turn his head toward the table, but then looked straight ahead again.
“Yes, sir,” Dayton said. “We knows him.”
“Have you seen him lately?” Samuel asked.
“No, sir,” Dayton said. “He’s …”
“Gone missing,” Samuel said. “Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Dayton said. “He’s not been at parade drills and such.”
“Missing since the night all of you were on Trimount, the night that Sergeant Munroe was killed. Isn’t it true that both men, Munroe and Lumley, walked street patrol together regularly? Isn’t it true that on the night Munroe died, both men set out for Trimount not long before sunset? I have talked with other soldiers who claim that Munroe and Lumley were seen together in a tavern, and then they left together, heading in the direction of those hills, and no one has seen Lumley since. Isn’t that so?”
Lodge cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. I have heard that among the men.”
“Soldiers do talk,” Samuel said, “and there has been talk about a row between Munroe and Lumley—are you aware of that?” Samuel didn’t wait for a reply from Lodge or Dayton. “They argued over an incident which occurred recently in the North End. While on patrol, they came upon some suspicious behavior on the beach, and the result was that a fisherman was killed—by Munroe, is my understanding—and a boy was taken into custody for questioning.”
General Gage shifted in his chair so he could look over his shoulder and out the windows. Clearly, he was reluctant to be a direct participant in the proceedings.
“What boy was this?” General Armbruster asked.
“We don’t know, sir,” Samuel said. “He wouldn’t volunteer his name, and …”
“And?” Armbruster said.
“My understanding,” Samuel said, “is that the boy escaped custody.”
General Gage turned away from the windows and faced the officers, none of whom dared look at him.
Samuel said, “Thank you, Lodge and Dayton.”
After a moment, General Armbruster said, “That is all, men. Dismissed.”
The two privates left the room, and once the door was closed behind them Samuel said, “I would like to find Lumley … I would like to find that boy.”
“Well,” General Smythe said finally, and he began to get out of his chair.
But then he paused when General Gage beckoned toward the soldier at the door. He conferred with the soldier a moment, and then sat back, crossing his legs the other way. The soldier went around the table and whispered to General Smythe. When he was through, he returned to his position by the door.
General Smythe looked at Abigail and raised a hand toward his scalp. “That cloth, it’s a fine red satin—”
“It’s a turban,” Abigail said.
“Yes, a turban.” Smythe seemed embarrassed, but then he looked toward General Gage a moment, and said, “Would you be so kind as to remove it for us?”
Abigail’s father shifted in his chair, but she said, “Not at all, General.”
She was keenly aware of the men watching her as she raised her arms and untied the knot at the back of her head. When she unwound the turban, her hair fell down to her shoulders and over her face. With one hand, she drew the veil of hair aside, and turned toward General Gage so that he could see the gash that ran at an angle from her forehead up into her scalp. There was something unnerving and even intimate in the way General Gage looked at her wound. But then he seemed to have come to a decision and he got to his feet, causing the three officers to also rise. He bowed slightly toward Abigail, almost as a gesture of apology, and then he went to the door, which the guard opened for him.
No one moved as they listened to the general’s boots in the lobby. Neither Smythe or Armbruster would look at Abigail, and Samuel only ventured a brief glance, which seemed difficult to decipher—he appeared disappointed, even concerned.
Father got to his feet then, rapping his cane on the floor to get the officers’ attention. “I would like to know what conclusion you draw from this inquiry.”
All three officers stared at him, though after a moment Samuel lowered his eyes. Smythe, who seemed perturbed that the question had been asked, said, “This inquiry is ended, for the time being. And we have not come to a conclusion.” Louder, he said, “There is as yet no conclusion.”
They began to arrive shortly after sunset, when the western sky was still light. Mariah was at first confused, but by the time it was dark, there were hundreds of people crowded into the narrow lane in front of the house. There were fishermen and their families who knew Anse Cole, but word had worked its way through the neighborhoods of Boston and by ten o’clock a crowd extended all the way down to the beach at the end of the lane. Six relatives, lobstermen and clam-diggers all, hoisted Anse Cole’s shrouded body on to their shoulders and made their way down the lane behind the Reverend Whitman, while Mariah and the womenfolk in the family, children in hand, followed behind. As they proceeded, the crowd parted silently, faces glistening in the light from lanterns. As the procession moved down to the beach, Benjamin fell in toward the rear, his hat pulled low over his eyes, relying heavily on his crutch.
At the cove they were met by a patrol, two Regulars, who after an extended discussion with the Reverend Whitman, stood aside as Anse Cole’s body was placed inside his dory and rowed out into the harbor, accompanied by several other boats, bearing Mariah and her immediate relatives. Hymns were sung, prayers recited.
More soldiers soon appeared on the beach, led by an officer on horseback. Despite his warnings, the crowd would not disperse. Eventually, he ordered his men to form a line and take aim, but when the Reverend Whitman stepped to the front of the crowd and by lantern light recited the seventh Pslam—“Let the enemy persecute my soul, and take it!”—the officer elected to withdraw his men farther down the beach.
XIII
Coiled Rope
THIS TIME IT WAS YOUNG PAUL REVERE WHO APPEARED IN THE dooryard, requesting that Abigail accompany him to North Square. Rachel sat knitting on the front step, watching the children as they played in the square. Paul was a solidly built adolescent who favored his father and said he had to get back to work and went inside the house.
“He will take over the shop,” Rachel said, gazing out at the square.
“You’re going to leave Boston.”
Rachel sighed. “We have obtained an evacuation pass, yes.”
“Perhaps it’s best.”
“It’s getting worse by the day. Food is very scarce—it’s even difficult to get fish, now that there are restrictions on boats venturing into the harbor.” Rachel pointed to the North Church, which was across the square. “They’re going to tear it down. Fuel. It’s May, and the weather has finally turned warm, but they’re already planning for the winter. But it’s not just fuel, it’s a form of r
etribution, this tearing-down business. There’s talk that they’re going to cut down the trees in the Mall.”
“I had heard that, but it just seems unbelievable.”
“And Old South.”
“Rachel, Old South? They can’t tear that down.”
“They’re not. But they’ve cleared out the pews and covered the floor with dirt so that officers can exercise their horses, regardless of the weather. Old South—there’s not a church, nay, a building that has greater importance to Bostonians.” She glanced at Abigail, the red silk turban about her head. “Very stylish, really, most exotic.” She smiled, if only briefly. “How are you getting on?”
“Better. Every day I walk more. But I will have to wear turbans for months until my hair grows back—caps and bonnets don’t conceal the awful space in my scalp.”
A carriage entered the square and stopped at a house a few doors down from the Revere’s. A footman opened the door and an officer stepped out; he looked about briefly and then entered the house.
“Major Pitcairn is billeted there,” Rachel said. “Some evenings he has sweets sent out to the street. Can’t catch their fathers, so he kills the children with kindness.” She had been knitting, but her needles lay in her lap, idle.
“Rachel, what? You’re worried about leaving, I know, but—”
“I’ve been thinking about Dr. Church lately.” She stared at Abigail for a long moment. “You delivered the money I intended for Paul to him?”
“Of course.”
Rachel nodded.
“Why? Have you heard from Paul?”
“One letter has been smuggled in, encouraging me to bring his mother and the children out, and his sisters too, though I think they plan to remain here.” Rachel looked out at the children, who were crouched about a frog, prodding it with a stick and cheering each time it leaped forward in the dirt. “But there’s so much talk, and, believe me, I hear it, rumor and speculation, and then … there’s what you don’t hear.” A fly bobbed in front of her face, which she shooed away with her hand. “Mary Burke lives just down Moon Lane there, and I heard that that her husband Matthew got word to her. He was in Cambridge, but now he’s encamped with the troops in Charlestown. He got word across the harbor by the ferry boat, and it sounds like they’re marching constantly and burning those bonfires we see on the hills at night—it’s all an effort to make their force seem more impressive. So I go by Mary’s yesterday and ask if Matthew had any word about Paul—they being good friends and all. And she says yes, Matthew has seen Paul several times, and she even said that Paul told Matthew that he wanted to get word across that he wanted me to be informed that he was well.”
“That is good news,” Abigail said. Rachel stared at her again. “But there’s been no mention of the money you sent out—either in Paul’s letter or from Mary?”
“Exactly.”
“There must be an explanation.”
“Yes, I suppose there is.”
“I delivered your letter and the money to Dr. Church.”
“I know you did.”
They both looked out into the square again.
“Do you suppose something’s happened to Dr. Church?” Abigail asked.
“It’s possible.”
They didn’t speak for a minute, and then Abigail got up off the step, smoothing her skirt. “I should walk, because later I must get back home to help Mother. We are frequently entertaining Tories, and I am … I’m so fed up with being pleasant to them.”
Rachel got to her feet. She put her arms about Abigail and hugged her. “We shall be away soon, and I may not see you … for a good while.” They began to let go of each other, but then Rachel clutched at her more tightly, and said in her ear. “I suggest you walk by and visit Mariah Cole.”
“I’ve been meaning to, to pay my respects.”
Rachel released her, and, smiling, she said with some urgency, “Go—go see her.”
Abigail leaned back so she could study Rachel, look in her eyes. “I will, once I’ve regained my strength—the walk this far from the house has about exhausted me.”
“Yes, but visit her, soon.” Rachel pulled herself free and turned to open the door. “Soon as you are well enough.”
“You’re usually so blunt. Why are you being so cryptic?”
“Consider it a symptom,” Rachel said, and then she laughed. “It has been too long since I’ve lain with my husband.”
“Boston won’t be the same without you.”
“I leave our city in your capable hands.” Rachel entered the house, shutting the weathered oak door behind her.
Benjamin had spent several days recuperating in the shed behind Mariah’s house. He lay on a bed of old sailcloth, surrounded by nets, buoys, anchors, block pulleys, clam rakes, shucking knives, coiled rope, and more rope. There were chipmunks, and the occasional rat. Seagulls’ claws scratched on the roof shingles, and the few chickens in the yard behind the house squabbled as they pecked relentlessly at the dirt. Mariah insisted that he not venture into the yard until nightfall, as a matter of safety and propriety. She would not admit him to the house, but brought his meals out to him. Too often there were unexpected visits from people who wished to pay their respects, and it would not do to find that Anse Cole’s daughter was not as she seemed, alone.
By mid afternoon it was very hot in the shed, the heat and humidity bringing out the smell of salt and fish, so that, sweating in his damp shirtsleeves, Benjamin thought of himself as a quahog, moist and formless, encased in its hard shell. He was dozing when he was startled by the sound of familiar voices. He peeked out through a wide crack in the door and saw that Mariah and his sister had come out the kitchen door to sit in two wooden chairs she had set by the chopping block. They sat there in the shade, facing the shed, a plate of gingerbread and two glasses of water on the block.
Mariah seemed to be attempting to stare right through the shed door, while Abigail paid her condolences. She was wearing her white linen dress, which she reserved for the warmest days of the year, and her hair was concealed beneath a yellow turban; the fabric had a gloss even in the shade. It gave her a foreign appearance, and her face, browned by the sun, seemed fuller for not having her dark curls draped around it.
Benjamin wanted to shout her name.
He wanted to pull open the door and hobble out into the yard, scattering chickens, giving his sister a fright and then an enormous hug. He wanted to tell her all about the fighting, about driving the British back to Boston, about working for Dr. Warren, about living among the men encamped on Cambridge Common. He wanted to tell her about Ezra, that he was safe and that they had become like brothers, brothers in arms. But then Benjamin realized that he could not tell her: he had promised not to say anything about Ezra to Abigail. Why would Ezra make such a request? What was being concealed? Or revealed? Benjamin retreated to his bed of sailcloth, lay down, and gazed up at the rafters, where spiders had woven elaborate webs, cluttered with the remains of dead bugs.
It was understandable, Abigail supposed, that Mariah seemed distracted as they sat in her yard. She looked like she’d gotten little sleep, and her posture suggested that she was thoroughly spent and weary. And nervous: her hands fidgeted in her lap (she wouldn’t touch the cornbread and only occasionally sipped water), and her eyes stared hard about the small yard. She seemed afraid to look at any one thing for very long, and when she did look at Abigail it was a momentary, furtive glance. Baffling, but what did Abigail know about mourning, how it affected different people?
“I heard how there was a large gathering on the beach for your father,” she said, “and that they proved defiant when the redcoats ordered them to disperse.” Mariah only nodded, as though she didn’t quite remember. “Your father gives us strength, you must know that, Mariah.”
The girl turned to her then, as if just discovering that she was not alone. “Everyone has been so kind.” She then shook her head. “No, I mean it, Abigail. I’ve been saying that to people who come by,
but truly, I thank you.” Then she looked down at her hands, worrying in her lap.
“I must ask—” Abigail waited, hoping she would look up again, but she didn’t. “You saw my brother? I hear that he landed here by boat and this was what brought on the incident with your father.” Mariah still didn’t look up, though her shoulders seemed to lift and tighten, as if there was a need to fend off the next question. “Have you seen Benjamin since?”
Mariah looked up and stared at her, but did not answer.
“I know he was taken into custody,” Abigail said. “But he escaped and no one’s seen him since.” She paused; Mariah’s eyes were large with fear. “I hear he was not well treated, and fear that he might be injured.”
Mariah was on the verge of tears. She turned her head away, staring toward the back of the yard. Abigail picked up her water and finished it. Putting her glass down on the chopping block, she leaned forward. “Mariah, what is it?”
Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. She shook her head.
“There’s something … I know you’re grieving, but there’s something else—I can feel it.” Abigail waited, and then got up from her chair. “Well, I should be going.”
Mariah walked her to the fence gate at the side of the house, where they could see a woman and two little girls coming down the lane, both carrying baskets. “My cousin Anne,” Mariah said. “They’ve all been so good to me, bringing food and whatnot.” She waved, trying to smile, but when she looked at Abigail she seemed to come to a decision. “Listen, could you come back tonight?”
“Of course—”
“After dark,” she said, opening the gate for Abigail.
Family and friends visited Mariah throughout the afternoon and on into the evening. Children played in the yard, chasing each other, pestering chickens, while the adults sat in the shade of the house. On one occasion, Benjamin heard footsteps approach the shed, and he saw an eye—a child’s eye—gazing through the crack in the door. It was dark inside, and Benjamin remained absolutely still, and quickly the child was warned by her mother not to go in the shed.