by John Smolens
“I think, Ma’am, it’s the other way around.”
Her eyes were gentle but weary. She was attended to by two girls, cousins named Bartlett—it seemed most everyone in Concord was named Bartlett—and the house was filled with women; in the kitchen there had been several older women and more children, all busy cleaning up after dinner. Mrs. Hammond had not joined them for the meal. She required much rest, they had said, but now she was up, sitting in a rocker, the baby in her arms. He remembered her, in the streets of Boston, a tall, slender woman who had what his mother often referred to as good bearing. But now the lines about her mouth suggested great frailty and exhaustion.
“We do worry about you so,” she said, parting the blanket to better reveal the child’s face.
Babies made Benjamin nervous. This one had a pink, wrinkled face, and its fat arms and legs struggled as it opened its mouth, its chest heaving.
But it was silent.
She looked up, and there was something direct and imploring about her stare.
“He’s … quiet,” Benjamin said.
She glanced at Ezra, who was leaning on a windowsill.
Benjamin felt as though he’d said the wrong thing, so he asked, “What’s his name?”
“Jonah.” Ezra gazed at Benjamin a moment, and then looked out the window.
“Jonah,” Benjamin repeated. You were supposed to say something nice about a child’s name, he believed, but all he could think of was Jonah in the belly of a whale, and somehow the idea of a baby being swallowed up at sea didn’t seem appropriate. “Jonah,” he said once again, as if the name spoke for itself.
“He is quiet,” Mrs. Hammond said. “You’re very observant, Benjamin.”
Confused, he turned to Ezra, who was now gazing out the window at the last light on the hills outside Concord. “You see, he’s mute,” Ezra said patiently. “He’s not made a sound.”
“And we fear he’s deaf,” Mrs. Hammond added.
Benjamin looked at the baby again, and suddenly he thought of this tiny child as a person. Jonah. Deaf Jonah. “How do you know?” He immediately regretted asking, but she seemed pleased.
“His birth—” she glanced toward the cousins, who were sitting patiently on the sofa across the room—“it was hard, very hard. There were complications. But we soon realized that when he appeared to cry, he made no sound. And while he slept, the midwife clapped her hands, and he wasn’t disturbed.”
Ezra shifted on the windowsill. “So I took up a Bible and dropped it on the floor. He stirred but did not wake up.”
“That’s how he got his name,” Mrs. Hammond said. “The book fell open to the passage about Jonah.” She gazed down at the baby a moment, and then said to the cousins, “I think it’s time I lie down, I’m afraid.” One of the girls came across the room and took Jonah, placing him in his wooden crib by the fireplace. The other cousin and Ezra helped Mrs. Hammond out of the rocking chair, and, holding on to their arms, she made her way slowly to the parlor door, where she paused. Gazing back at Benjamin, she smiled weakly. “We all worry about what is to come. This is the beginning of a terrible thing, and I don’t see how we can stop the British. It’s just impossible. I wish it had never started.”
“None of us does,” Benjamin said. “But it has.”
“I’m sorry that you have to return to Cambridge tomorrow,” she said. “You will look after Ezra, Benjamin.”
“I’ll try, Ma’am.”
In the evening, not long after James left, a chaise arrived, accompanied by two soldiers. They were tight-lipped, only saying that they had been instructed to deliver Abigail to Old South Church. Father stood in the doorway in his toga as Abigail climbed into the carriage. “I have not heard from Colonel Cleaveland since Noddle’s Island,” she said, “and no doubt this is his doing.”
When delivered to Old South Church, Abigail was appalled: the pews and the pulpit had been removed and dirt spread on the floor so the British officers could exercise their horses. Abigail was escorted to the balcony, where Samuel sat at a table with a bottle of wine. He stood and bowed, offering her a seat.
“A house of God should not smell of manure, Colonel.”
“I agree,” he said. “But this way, the command is unlikely to tear this venerable old building down for firewood. Please, be seated.”
After a moment, Abigail sat down. He returned to his chair and poured her a glass of wine, which she ignored. Below, there were two horsemen posting on their steeds about the ring. The sound of their hooves echoed off the rafters, where an audience of pigeons cooed.
“Likewise,” Samuel said, his eyes following the riders, “a well-exercised horse is less likely to become dinner for the troops encamped on the Common.”
“If you had me brought here to complain about the conditions in Boston, there really was no need, Colonel,” she said.
He picked up his glass of Madeira and took a drink. His face was flushed, from the heat—it was stifling in the church—as well as from the wine. “I wish that we could discuss other matters, Abigail, believe me. Though I doubt you will believe me, I asked you here to convey a warning.”
“I was not asked.”
He put his wine glass down on the table. There was something disturbingly patient about him; clearly he anticipated her wrath and was resolved to weather it.
“Just tell me what you have to say,” she said.
“Thank you, I will.” He stared at her a moment, for the first time showing a hint of sympathy. “I must tell you that your situation is not improved by your recent actions.” He waited and when she didn’t respond, he said, “Did you think that spending days out on the islands herding sheep would go unappreciated?”
“Unappreciated? It never occurred to me.”
“I gather that. Even in pantaloons. I’m sorry I missed that. You see, the fact that your father is much in favor of General Gage has allowed you considerable liberties, but I have to tell you that said liberties are coming to an end.” When she did not respond, he took up his glass once again and drained it. “You will soon be informed that the tribunal will reconvene. Their deliberations have become reinvigorated of late, since the disappearance of a particular soldier. That would be Corporal Lumley.”
“What about him?”
“You know where he is?”
“No.”
“It is believed that you do.”
“By whom?”
“Members of the tribunal.”
“Including you?”
He merely stared at her.
“Samuel, why would you think I know where he is?”
“It is believed that you may have had a direct hand in helping him escape from Boston.”
Abigail watched the riders. The horses were working hard in such heat, breathing and snorting as they circled the ring. “Do you know for a fact that he’s left Boston?” she asked.
“It is assumed that he has defected. This is happening with too great a frequency.”
“Are you surprised? Perhaps he was hungry.”
“Perhaps.”
“If you’re hungry, you might consider defecting.” When he didn’t respond, she turned to him. “Would you like me to arrange it?”
He leaned sideways in his chair, propping his elbow on the armrest so that he could cradle his chin in his palm. “Could you?”
“You seem to think so. You give me great credit.”
“Not enough, is more like it. I appreciate your offer, but at the moment I must decline. I do not envy Lumley and men like him.”
“Are you sure?”
“He has lost all sense of loyalty.”
“Or perhaps he has discovered where his true loyalties reside.”
“This is possible,” he said. “But loyalty or love—is it not common to confuse the two?”
“That is a good question.”
“It may be the question, especially where the tribunal is concerned.” He suddenly got to his feet and took a few steps toward the balcony railing.<
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Abigail understood that their interview was over, and she rose from her chair. Samuel continued to stare down at the two officers, who were now dismounted; their assistants were vigorously toweling the lather from the horses’ coats. She went downstairs and a young soldier opened the front door for her. The carriage stood waiting in the road. But she walked past the chaise, causing the coachman to say, “Ride, Miss?”
It was hot, so very hot, and the traffic in the road filled the air with dust, which took on a yellow haze in the sunlight. “No, thank you,” Abigail said. “I prefer to walk.”
XIX
Nocturnal Affairs
DR. WARREN KEPT A SMALL BOOK OF POETRY IN HIS POCKET AT all times, which he used to hold letters and papers. He was forever pulling from it sheets of foolscap and making notations. Benjamin stood, hands clasped behind his back, in the Hastings House office when the doctor laid the book on his desk and said, “My little volume of diversion and dreams, my receptacle for revolutionary documents. What I need is a personal amanuensis.” He saw that Benjamin did not know the word—there was no concealing that. “If this war ever ends, Benjamin, you must needs return to your father’s school for a proper education.”
Benjamin looked out the window; the constant passage of soldiers, horses, and wagons maintained a cloud of dust above Brattle Street.
“What?” the doctor asked.
“That is unlikely, sir. I was expelled some time ago by my father, and it is a point of honor that he not make an exception for me, his own son.”
“I see.” Warren seemed impressed. “And how do we feel about that?” At times he referred to we, often meaning the provincials who sought to divest themselves of British tyranny. But now he employed a more personal we, as though he and Benjamin were one and the same.
Benjamin did not answer immediately; the doctor was addressing something he had long ago tried to put behind him. “I believe, sir, that I admire him for it. My father is a much principled man—despite his attitude regarding current events.”
Dr. Warren revealed a hint of a smile. “You are capable of fair assessment, judgment unspoiled by personal bias, Benjamin, and this too is an admirable trait, which, I gather, runs in your family.”
He leafed through his poetry book, fat and misshapen with paper, until he withdrew a sheet. This was customary; it meant that Benjamin would make another delivery. The doctor took up his quill and began writing, furiously, and as he did so—this being another aspect of the doctor that fascinated Benjamin—he spoke, as well. It was as though the man were capable of entertaining two distinct trains of thought at the same time, though sometimes, such as at the moment, it seemed that what the doctor said—muttered, really, half to himself and half to Benjamin—was almost in response to whatever it was he was scribbling. It had occurred to Benjamin that Dr. Warren had two brains (he often said he was “of two minds” regarding a particular subject), capable of conversation and debate with each other. And as he dipped his quill and scratched away on the sheet, he talked about everything all at once.
“We are blessed with so many talents,” he uttered. “Look at Billy Dawes, who has smuggled gold and artillery out of Boston, and who has recently brought Paul Revere’s plates out, metal plates which are now being used for printing money. Because, you understand, all revolutions require money, and since Massachusetts has no money, the only solution is to make our own. Money that is not worth the paper it’s printed on, to be sure, but still it gives a good impression, with the image of a sword in hand on one side, while on the other there’s Mr. Revere’s finely etched view of Boston. Worthless these notes might be, but they are an absolute necessity when it comes to procuring essentials for this burgeoning army.” The doctor hesitated a moment, and then dipped his quill and continued writing. “Our powers of deception and illusion are, perhaps, our greatest gifts. You no doubt have heard about Ticonderoga, where Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys have captured British artillery. The question is, of course, what good are such armaments doing us out there, when we have the British army hemmed in here in Boston? So it appears we hope to send a detail out to Ticonderoga to bring those guns to Boston. Neck by concealing it in her skirts?” The doctor laughed, without missing a stroke in composition. “And, yes, I know, Benjamin of your great affection for artillery, but it could be some time before an expedition to New York is organized and I need you here, for the time being. I would like you to take this missive to Watertown, where the Reveres are staying. Unless—” and here the doctor took a moment to look up at Benjamin—“unless you’d like to accept the offer of amnesty that General Gage has just issued to all provincials. I learned of this just today. New generals, Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne, have recently arrived from London, and they have inspired Gage to issue a proclamation that offers amnesty to any provincial who lays down his arms, except—with tyranny, there are always the exceptions—except for two individuals. And do you know who they are? Well, you can guess, right? Samuel Adams, of course, and John Hancock. Even Paul Revere and I could easily slip back into the good graces of George the Third as easily as we could slip beneath the warm sheets of our dear mothers on a winter’s night, to once more nestle against their warm, nourishing bosom.” Dr. Warren stopped writing and gazed up, his bright blue eyes wide with inquiry. “Would you like that, Benjamin? Would you like to accept such a generous offer of amnesty so you can return to your loving mother?”
“No, sir.”
“Thus our fates are sealed, as the poets would have it.” He sanded the sheet he had been writing on, and then folded the paper so that he could pour the excess back into the jar. “So instead you will risk your neck by taking this to Watertown.” He folded the letter up, sealed it with candle wax, and handed it to Benjamin. “Go. You’ll find them residing in the house of Mr. Van Ee. Procure a horse from the stable and be back here tonight, for tomorrow I will have another errand for you, provided you think you can get back into Boston once more.”
Then Dr. Warren curled over his book again and began reading, not just reading but consuming the lines on the page as though they—and only they—could provide rare spiritual and intellectual sustenance. And this too Benjamin found a remarkable habit, how the doctor could immediately disengage himself, only to immediately reinvest himself in some other enterprise.
Once more, Abigail appeared before three British officers at Province House. Her father sat in the chair next to her, his stout fingers worrying in his lap, to the point where she finally reached over and placed a hand over his, calming them. Startled, he turned his head, but then his eyes seemed to melt into a grateful if febrile stare. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning toward her, smelling of his pipe tobacco, “I expected General Gage to be present.”
“He has been most kind to you and mother,” she said. When this did not seem to satisfy him, she added, “The last time, he did not join the proceedings until well after they began.” She attempted a smile. “His army is besieged on this peninsula and I image that keeps him occupied.”
Father was about to respond, but one of the generals cleared his throat, indicating that they were ready to commence. Father and Abigail looked toward the polished mahogany table, where three officers sat, as before; but now, instead of Armbruster, General John Burgoyne sat on the left and Samuel Cleaveland on the right, while, between them, not General Smythe, but General Henry Clinton was poring over a stack of documents.
They waited. More than the absence of General Gage, the presence of these two new officers concerned Abigail. They had arrived, along with a third general, William Howe, from England in the last days of May. Supposition immediately ricocheted about Boston: Gage’s days as governor-general were numbered; the new generals came with direct orders to launch a major assault on the provincials; and, most often repeated, all of Massachusetts would be burned and razed as a warning to the other colonies. No matter what the rumor, the arrival of these new generals did not bode well for Boston, where in the streets one could not help b
ut notice how the patrols seemed invigorated, stricter and unwilling to ignore the slightest taunts and accusations. But what worried Abigail at this moment was Samuel, who sat up very erect in his chair with his hands folded on the table, an acquiescent schoolboy on his best behavior. He seemed determined not to stare directly at Abigail.
Finally, looking up from the documents, General Clinton said, “Abigail Lovell, you are the daughter of John Lovell, headmaster at the Latin School.” She was about to confirm that this was so, but he continued: “And you have been under investigation by this tribunal in regards to the murder of a British sergeant, named—” he glanced down at the documents in his hands—“Munroe.” She felt her father stir next to her, but the general regarded him with nothing short of scorn. “You, sir, are this woman’s father, I take it, but I do not see the purpose of your presence during these proceedings.”
“But, General, if I may—” Father began.
Clinton looked toward one of the soldiers standing guard by the door. “Mr. Lovell shall be escorted from the room at once.”
The soldier stepped forward, his boot heels hard and brisk on the wood floor, and reluctantly Father clambered out of his chair. Abigail knew he was leaning down toward her, but she did not turn to him; instead she kept her eyes on General Clinton. He seemed quite young for a general, perhaps not even forty. He had a deep dimple in his chin and his periwig was flawlessly groomed and curled. His protuberant eyes gazed back at her, seeming to possess neither curiosity nor feeling. They might have been marbles, smooth, polished stones. She had heard—rumor, again—that of the three new generals, he was the one to be most feared, that he was querulous and assertive, that he suffered no lack of self-confidence. She listened to her father’s shuffling footsteps as he left, and the door closed behind him with an ominous echo.
“Now, Miss Lovell, on the night in question, you were at the place locally referred to as Trimount.” She was prepared to speak, but then realized that it wouldn’t stop him. “And it was there that Sergeant Munroe met his death.”