by John Smolens
“Yes, General, it is so, but I was not—”
“You are said to have been covered in blood.” There was something about his voice, how it seemed to tear through each syllable with dauntless precision. “Is this not true?”
“It was—”
“No weapon was found, but a knife, it is presumed, or some sharp implement was employed to cut the sergeant’s throat,” Clinton announced, not really to her, but to the entire room as though he were addressing a vast audience. “He was covered in blood—”
“But it was not—”
“—and you were covered in blood.”
“I never saw Sergeant Munroe on Trimount, General.”
“How then did you come to have this blood on you?”
“It was not his blood, sir. It was my own blood. I explained the last time I was here—”
“Come now, Miss Lovell, do you expect this inquiry to believe that you both were bloodied at the same time, in the same place, but that there is no connection between these incidents?”
“Yes, I struck my head on a tree, in the dark.”
“A tree, in the dark.” General Clinton. “Really, Miss Lovell, we have—”
“General,” John Burgoyne said. “If I may.”
General Burgoyne was a much more substantial man, and significantly older, certainly over fifty; yet Clinton was clearly the superior officer and, seeming to take this request as a personal insult, settled back in his chair.
Burgoyne placed his forearms on the table (no clutter of documents there) and squared his shoulders. Despite his age, his ruddy face was nothing short of dashingly handsome. No wig, he possessed a full head of dark wavy hair, with hints of gray descending into his meticulously trimmed sideburns. “Tell me, Abigail,” he said. “How did you come to bloody yourself?”
“As I said, it was dark and I struck a tree.”
“This claim is preposterous,” Clinton snapped: “It’s all in the record from the previous session of this inquiry.”
“I wasn’t at the previous session,” Burgoyne replied, without looking at Clinton. “Now, Abigail, where exactly did you suffer your injury?”
Burgoyne’s eyes were large and kind, and not without the suggestion of humor. There was something else about them which Abigail had seen all too often: they were greedy. He used this question to allow his eyes to inspect her person—her neck, her shoulders, and finally clearly settling on her bosom.
Samuel, seated on the other side of Clinton, stirred in his chair. “She received a laceration to her scalp, as was demonstrated at the last session of this inquiry.”
Clinton swung his head toward Samuel, and Abigail would not have been surprised if he’d taken a bite out of the shoulder of his red jacket. “Colonel,” he said.
“Sir,” Samuel said politely, “I was at the first session of the inquiry, and I have seen the wound to her scalp.”
Such impertinence forced Clinton to consider the documents in his hands, but then, quickly, he looked up at her and said, “Yes, I read here that you wore a turban during the last session.”
“I did, sir. Perhaps—” she hesitated. Clinton appeared nearly apoplectic, while Samuel looked resigned—to his fate, as well as hers—and Burgoyne’s gaze continued to be transfixed upon her breasts. “Perhaps I could show you?” Uncertainly, Abigail raised an arm so that she could push the curls aside from her forehead.
Samuel lowered his eyes as though out of decency, while Burgoyne’s mouth fell open.
“That will not be necessary,” Clinton nearly shouted.
“But it has significant bearing on this matter,” Burgoyne said, almost pleading.
“Such a laceration,” Clinton said, “could have been inflicted at any time.”
Slowly, Abigail took her fingers out of her hair and lowered her arm, much to Burgoyne’s disappointment.
“Miss Lovell,” Clinton continued. “Would you tell us why you ventured up to this place called Trimount?”
“I was taking a walk,” she said
“In the dark of night.”
“I—yes, it was night.”
“You make a practice of walking about Boston, at night?” Clinton asked.
“I took offense at the implication the last time I was here, General, and I do so now.”
“Do you indeed?” Clinton asked.
If possible, Burgoyne’s face seemed to become more crimson as he gazed at her. With great concentration, Samuel kept running his thumb back and forth along the edge of the table, while his somber upside-down image was reflected in its vast, glossy surface.
“Indeed,” Clinton repeated, and then he looked toward the guards at the door. “In that case, it would be appropriate to seek testimony from a new witness who might shed light on the nocturnal affairs of Boston.”
It was ever so slight, but Samuel’s shoulders collapsed and his chest seemed to deflate.
Abigail heard the door behind her open and quickly turned in her chair. Molly Collins strode in from the vestibule, wearing a yellow dress that was fairly clean, though the hem was powdered with road dust. She appeared taller, more robust; her cheeks were artfully rouged and her wide blue eyes nothing short of triumphant. A guardsman led her to the chair next to Abigail, where she sat down and demurely arranged her skirt. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, revealing a remarkably slender neck, which had a poorly stitched scar just above the collarbone. She made no attempt to acknowledge Abigail and gave her full attention to the officers at the table.
“You are Molly Collins,” General Clinton said, “a resident of Boston.”
“I’yam.”
Burgoyne’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two women, and he appeared to be in a genuine quandary.
“And you were on Trimount the night that Sergeant Munroe was murdered,” Clinton said.
“’Tis true.”
“General.” Samuel’s voice was exasperated, weary. “The testimony of this woman—”
“Had it been sought at the first session,” Clinton said, “we might not need to be here now.”
“But General,” Samuel said. “This woman is—”
“Is what?” Clinton demanded. “Are you going to tell me she walks the streets at night? It seems that this is the occupation of virtually every provincial woman in the city of Boston.”
“Sir, her testimony cannot be considered valid in this matter,” Samuel said, though now he clearly realized he was engaged in a futile exercise.
Burgoyne, without taking his eyes off Molly, said, “If she was present at the incident, I would like to hear what she has to say. Then we can judge how best to view her sentiments.”
“How magnanimous of you,” Clinton said, smiling, quite wickedly, for the first time. Unlike Burgoyne, he seemed resistant to the idea of looking directly at Molly, so he shuffled through his papers and took up his quill. “So, if you please, Miss Collins, would you confirm a few things for us?” Before she could answer, he continued: “That night on Trimount, you went up there to meet two soldiers, I believe their names were Lodge and Dayton.”
“Don’t recall their names exactly,” Molly said sweetly, “but, yes, I met two soldiers up the hill there.”
Burgoyne’s mouth hung open in alarm. “You met two soldiers?”
“Well, there was me and Eliza,” Molly said. “Me cousin, she is.”
Clinton had dipped his quill and was writing, but paused to ask, “And what did you do with these two soldiers up the hill there?” His voice was also sweet, but mockingly so.
Abigail stole a glance at Molly. Though she had full, overly puckered lips, her profile was rather flat and her jaw slung forward enough that she suffered from a mild degree of underbite. Her mouth faintly resembled that of a cod. She had boasted that she was the best suck in Boston, and Abigail wondered if this had resulted in her slight deformity. Molly’s eyes moved over the three officers, gauging the situation, until she suddenly brightened and said, “Yes, well, we was invited up the hill there
to share a picnic with these two blokes.” Then, proudly, and with a smirk, she added, “Members of the King’s Own Foot, so they claimed.”
“A picnic,” Clinton asked. “At night.”
“Yes, it was evening,” she said. “All very on the up and up, you know. Proper, like.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Clinton intoned, scratching away rapidly. He paused to dip his quill. “And then?”
“And I hear this scream,” Molly said, “this ’orrible scream from up the path.”
Samuel cleared his throat. “I distinctly recall that Lodge and Dayton testified that they heard no scream.” He looked toward Clinton. “It would be in your records, sir.”
Clinton laid down his quill. Reluctantly he considered Molly.
“Well, they was preoccupied,” Molly said. “With their food and beverage, you see. And there was a great deal of laughter, and to tell you the truth I think they’d both imbibed a bit much by then.”
“What did you see?” Clinton asked.
“See?” Molly asked.
Clinton merely gazed back at her.
“Well,” she said, sighing. “I seen this other soldier running down the path by us—some scared out of his wits, he was. And that’s what alerted Lodge and Dayton, and they goes up the hill and discovers Miss Lovell there, and your other soldier, this Sergeant Munroe. In quite a state they was.”
“Who?” Clinton asked.
“Everyone. But Lodge and Dayton, they sobered up right quick, I tell you.” Molly smiled, but only Burgoyne complied.
“Who was this other soldier, running down the hill?” Clinton asked.
“That would be Corporal Lumley, I believe,” Molly said. “Yes, it was definitely he.”
“So you didn’t see—” Samuel began, but paused when Clinton placed a hand on his arm.
“What happened then?” Clinton asked.
“We was told to go down the hill, Eliza and me. That’s what Lodge told us to do. And glad to go, I was. So we rushed down the path after Lumley.”
“You’re sure it was Lumley?” Clinton asked. “It was dark.”
“It was Lumley.” Molly hesitated a moment. “Gone missing, ain’t he?”
“That is true,” Clinton said. “Do you know anything about that?”
“Indeed I do.” She took a moment to fuss with her sleeve, the lace there frequently mended.
“What can you tell us about Corporal Lumley?” Clinton said impatiently.
Molly continued to fidget with her garment as she said, “He was right jealous, if you ask me.” And looking up at the officers, she said, as though it were obvious: “Lumley, he and Munroe they was mates, you know, on patrol together and such. But then they both became enamored of—” she tilted her head in Abigail’s direction—“of this schoolmaster’s fine daughter.”
“Lumley and Munroe?” Clinton asked.
“The bot’ of them, yes,” Molly said, surprised at such lack of understanding. “Lumley, you know he was billeted there in School Street, but a few houses from where she resides. And Munroe, he was the mouthy kind, you understand, and in the taverns and such he was bragging about her, her attributes. Oh, he had it bad. She gave him a taste and he was besotted. Mind you, what I don’t know for certain is which of ’em got to her first, or perhaps she was playing them bot’ at the same time. But they was bound to find out eventually, being mates, and when they did they had this grand argument—on that very night—and not long after dark they’re all up there on Trimount and it’s Munroe that ends up with his throat cut. It’s kind of prophetic, in’it? Trimount, meaning three hills, and here you have your love triangle all played out on its slopes there. Like a bard’s tragedy, it is.”
“There is no truth to this,” Abigail said. “None at all.” Though Clinton held his hand up to stop her, she continued. “The fact that Lumley billeted on my street doesn’t prove anything, and as for Munroe—” She gazed down at her hands in her lap and saw that they were shaking. Looking at Clinton, she said, “One night I encountered them while I was on my way to my brother’s house. It was April eighteen, a Tuesday, the night that the British troops ferried across the Charles and marched out into the countryside. Munroe and Lumley remained here on street patrol. You must have records of that—you could check. They were on patrol and they were both quite drunk and they stopped me and by force they fondled me in the rudest way.”
“Both men?” Burgoyne asked.
Abigail nearly stood up, but she only came to the edge of her seat. “Lumley held me by the shoulders, pressing me against the wall of the house, while Munroe put his hands on me. They both reeked of rum.” She glanced at Molly, who was looking at her as though she were a child spawning an outrageous fib. “They took from me what they pay to get from the likes of Molly Collins. Ask her how many of your soldiers have had their hands on her.” She looked at Samuel. “How many, Colonel? You’ve been in Boston for some time. How many of you have bought her paltry favors?” Again, Clinton raised his hand, but Abigail said loudly, “You can’t possibly take her word for any of this. If you do so, it is only because it suits your own purposes. This is not a court. This has nothing to do with justice. Why are you here, in this room? Why are you all here, in Boston?”
Clinton slapped the tabletop repeatedly, the sound reverberating throughout the room. “That will be enough, do you hear?”
Abigail sat back and folded her arms. She took long slow breaths.
None of the officers seemed to know what to do, and for a moment Burgoyne leaned over and whispered in Clinton’s ear. Samuel gazed at the tabletop, shaking his head slowly.
“If you please,” Molly said with remarkable poise. “Sirs, you wish to know about Lumley. Let me tell you about your corporal that is gone missing.” She turned away from Abigail ever so slightly and glared at the officers.
Clinton said, “Go on.”
“I’ll tell you,” Molly said, her voice now hurt, deeply insulted. “I’ll tell you about this fine daughter of a schoolmaster. Lumley and Munroe they took her younger brother Benjamin into custody on suspicion of espionage, and, lo, the boy manages to break free. How? Lumley, that’s how. And then they both escape Boston together. That’s the truth.” Now she extended her arm, pointing at Abigail. “This woman—this woman arranged for them to be ferried across the harbor in a working boat. I was there! I tried to stop it, and what does she do? She throws me into the water, she does. With one great shove, just as the boat is pulling away from the dock.”
Abigail slapped Molly’s hand away from her face and got to her feet. “It wasn’t like that at all,” she shouted. “You know that!”
Folding her arms and turning her back on Abigail, Molly said, “I speak the truth.”
“All lies,” Abigail shouted. “This isn’t justice!”
And then she was grabbed from behind as one of the guards took her by the shoulders and forced her to sit down in the chair. She shrugged until he released her, shouting, “Take your hands off me!”
All the while, Clinton was again slapping his hand on the table. Finally, when he stopped, the room was quiet for a moment and no one, it seemed, dared to move. Then Clinton gathered up his documents and got to his feet. He was not a tall man, and quite stout, less imposing without a fine table in front of him. Burgoyne and Samuel also got to their feet, all seeming eager to leave, but then Clinton had a change of mind and put his papers down. “You are right about one thing, Abigail Lovell,” he said, placing his fists on the tabletop and leaning forward as though making ready to pounce. “It is my understanding that, sadly, the legal system in this colony has by and large ceased to function. And the reason that is so has to do with numerous provincials’ threats against judges and lawyers, against any person who would participate in a court of law in any way. Death threats—death threats have been posted on lawyers’ doors. Damning letters have been published in local broadsides and journals. There is no court in Boston, at the moment. But there is justice. Here in this room, there will
be justice. Now I will confer with my fellow officers and you will be summoned shortly—in a matter of days—and then you will hear our determination.” Looking toward the guards, he said, “Take her out to her father and see that they are away from this house promptly.” Then, looking at Molly Collins, who was still seated, he added, “And see to it that this young woman is provided with a coach and four to convey her home.”
XX
Bête Noire
“IT’S HARD TO LOOK AT HIM,” RACHEL REVERE SAID. “BUT after a while you don’t notice it so much. What comes through is the kindness in his eyes, and his gestures—I don’t know where we’d be if it weren’t for Mr. Van Ee taking us in.”
Benjamin looked down toward the riverbank, where the man was sitting, smoking his pipe, minding Rachel’s little ones. It was a long, sloping plane of grass, between two fields of vegetables above the Charles. Now, approaching sunset, the river mirrored pink clouds and a lambent hatch of flies drifted in the angled light.
“What happened to him?” Benjamin asked.
“He’s Dutch,” she said, as though that explained everything. “Didn’t have a farthing when he came over some thirty years ago. Now, this.” She nodded toward the house that lay at the top of the slope, a three-story manse with chimneys and ells as testimony to decades of accumulation. “When he first arrived he worked as a farmhand, and he promptly fell headfirst into a wagonload of manure.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled with the delight of telling. She found lustful humor in the lurid and grotesque; Abigail said that no one could make her laugh like Rachel. “He was stuck, up to his waist, and about to suffocate when they grabbed him by the heels and yanked him out. Potent stuff, that fertilizer. Burned and deformed his head and hands. But he likes to say it had no effect on his better half.” Her grin was sly, conspiratorial. “Sired fourteen children—all in the dark of night, I presume—which accounts for so many additions on the house. A fireplace in each bedroom. Can you imagine?”
“So now he’s here alone?”
“Wife long dead, children grown and dispersed,” she said. “Alone, save for this fleet of maids.” She looked down the table at two of the girls who were clearing away the dinner plates. “I was cooped up in that little house in the North End with Paul’s brood, his mother, plus our own little one, and now—” she leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands behind her head and gazed at the sky. “I could get used to this life of ease. Paul wants still more children, and I would be happy to oblige him under these circumstances. But, alas, our time for making babies will have to wait.” She sat up and eyed Benjamin closely. “Revolution tends to make for hasty lovemaking, don’t you think?”