by John Smolens
Mary gave another envelope to Benjamin. “This one is for you.” She then handed him a second envelope. “And these James wants you to deliver to Dr. Warren when you get out of Boston. We all know that much will happen soon. James said that in a few days many Americans will die, and we must do what we can.”
Mary struggled to stand, and both Benjamin and Abigail took her by the arm and helped her up off the bench.
“Let us walk you home, at least part way,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary.” Mary looked down at the sack on the bench. “This is for you, Benjamin. I hope it fits. My journey home will go much easier without it.” She raised her face to him, kissing him on the cheek. He could see that her eyes, often so playful, were quite exhausted, but she attempted a smile. “If I have more children after this, please God allow them to be born in winter.” She hugged Abigail, and then started back toward the entrance to the street, one hand on her hip.
XXIII
The Armory
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, ABIGAIL SET OUT FOR THE GARRISON at North Battery, a basket on her arm. It had been another hot day, the air humid and still. While she prepared the food for Samuel—bread, cheese, pickled cabbage, and quahog pie—her mother had asked when the colonel would be arriving. Abigail said that she was taking the meal to North Battery, where Samuel was on duty. When her father suggested a carriage take her, she insisted on walking. In this heat? While the pie cooked slowly in the oven, she ushered her parents out of the kitchen, filled the tin bathtub and bathed, and then donned her finest summer linens. Now, as she walked through the North End, the basket became quite heavy and she shifted it from one arm to the other. A few minutes after eight bells, she passed Mariah’s house, and when she heard the footsteps approaching behind her she did not turn around, did not slow her pace.
The uniform wasn’t a bad fit. A bit short in the waistcoat, but the red jacket with brass buttons was ample in the shoulders. The white breeches were tight, as they were supposed to be, and the gaiters were so snug that they practically made his feet go numb. Which might have been for the best, because the shoes were terribly painful. He’d always heard how bad the British soldiers’ footgear was, how there was no left or right shoe. If anything made him look convincing, he figured it was his walk, which was tender and careful, as though slogging through salt-marsh muck at low tide.
Abigail passed Mariah’s house right on schedule. Benjamin, who had spent the day cooped up in the sweltering shed behind the house, came out of the dooryard and followed her as she continued on toward North Battery. She did not slow down for him, did not look around. Ordinarily, he would have easily caught up with her, but in these infernal shoes he could not walk fast. But eventually, he caught up to her, and without looking at him she handed him the basket.
“I’m supposed to be your escort,” he muttered, “not your manservant.”
“I’m supposed to be a proper Bostonian, who would insist. Besides, it may distract attention away from the fact that you bear no arms. In the past, Samuel often sent an escort who has carried the basket for me. Your mission is to deliver the colonel his supper.”
“Samuel. It’s Samuel?”
“And you’ll be best to keep your mouth shut, unless you can put on some kind of a Cockney accent as easily as you put on that uniform.”
“How or where did James get this outfit?”
“Our brother has his sources.”
“I think it comes from several, actually.”
She glanced at him. “What’s the matter with you?”
“These shoes, they’re killing me.”
“The stiff queue is quite appropriate, though. I’ve never seen your hair dressed up so.”
“Found a candle in the shed and waxed it.”
“A little tallow works wonders for you.”
Benjamin smiled, if only for a moment. “These getups are impressive,” he said, “but I don’t know how they fight in them. And yet they’re the best army in the world.”
“When we get there,” she said, “don’t change anything about that walk. Most of the regulars are boys, and they all look obedient, ready for a reprimand. They all look a long ways away from home.”
“That smell,” Benjamin said, gazing down at the towel that covered the basket. “Quahog pie?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “At least you’re well armed. Nothing could be more distracting. I’ve tasted none better.”
“I only hope it’s sufficient.”
“And if it’s not?”
Abigail didn’t answer him at first, but then said, “I just don’t know. But I know what James said about American lives in the coming days. No matter what happens, Benjamin, we have to do what we can. We’ve no choice.” They walked on in silence, until she added, “And I know what sweet Rachel would say if she were here: ‘It’s either the quahog pie or your virtue.’”
He knew she hoped he would smile or even laugh, but he didn’t.
Abigail had been Samuel’s guest at North Battery several times. The sight of a woman was not uncommon around the garrisons, but they were usually wives, maids, charwomen. Abigail was another matter, and the guards at the outer gate hardly took note of Benjamin. The soldier in charge studied her carefully, and after he let them through she heard laughter among the men.
The battery jutted into the harbor and in places it had stone walls, while the British had recently added earthen parapets and fortifications. As they walked to Samuel’s quarters in the armory, soldiers on guard, soldiers passing by paused to look at Abigail, at her white linen dress. It was getting dark and she could see the harbor, the water black as ink. The piers below the battery walls were cluttered with dozens of longboats and barges.
They came in sight of the armory, a long building of stone with only a few small windows. “This is his domain,” she said. “Commander of artillery. He has his office, and down the hall his private quarters,” she said. “You should wait outside the office door—that’s what my escort has done in the past. I will try to get him to go to his private quarters. Then you can go through the office into the storeroom.”
“And if you don’t?”
“He eats his quahog pie in his office and then I leave, with you as my escort.”
There were two guards at the entrance to the armory. They had been informed of Abigail’s arrival and admitted her without question. Inside, the air was thankfully cool. Abigail led Benjamin down the hall to the office door, which was ajar. Samuel was seated at his desk, writing in a ledger. He was in his shirtsleeves and his hair was untied. Though he appeared weary from his tasks, he looked up and smiled broadly.
“I trust you’re hungry, Samuel,” Abigail said.
She took the basket from Benjamin, and entered the office. The colonel got up, came around his desk, and without looking at Benjamin closed the door behind her.
Benjamin stood at attention in the hallway. Though his back was against the cool stone wall, sweat seeped out from beneath his hair, which was hard with tallow. He felt as though he was wearing a helmet beneath the heavy hat. A blister had developed on his right big toe, so he kept most of his weight on his left foot. The wooden door next to him was thick and he couldn’t hear them in the office.
Outside, there was the constant sound of marching feet, small groups of men, stepping to the command of an officer. There was the clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carts. There was also the murmur of voices and the clatter of utensils, which must be coming from a mess hall. The minutes were very slow.
When Abigail placed the basket on the desk and removed the towel, Samuel leaned over and took a deep breath. “Quahog pie,” he said slowly.
“I wanted to make something special, since this may be the last time—”
He was staring at her, his eyes filling with anguish. “You’re very kind.”
“I don’t have any wine, though.”
“Ah.” He tried to be cheerful. “But I do.” She looked around the office. “It’s down—i
t’s down the hall,” he said.
“Perhaps it would be more comfortable for you to take your repast there anyway?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
“Really, I couldn’t.” She gazed up into his disappointed face. “When I cook, I tend to nibble, and I really couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Then you’ll keep me company?”
She raised a hand and touched her hair a moment. “Of course I will, Samuel.”
He replaced the towel, carefully tucking it in around the sides. Picking up the basket, he opened the door for her. She led him out into the hallway and turned left. Benjamin was standing at attention but she didn’t look at him as she passed by. Samuel’s private quarters were at the end of the hallway. When she was about halfway to that door, she heard Samuel’s footsteps hesitate and then stop. She turned and watched him: he seemed perplexed, as though he’d forgotten something. He turned around and went back toward Benjamin slowly, passed by him, and pulled the office door shut. Then he came down the hallway, and when they reached the end he opened the door for her.
Benjamin remained at attention for several minutes. The door at the end of the hallway was closed and he could hear nothing from within. He kept thinking about the office door, how the latch had clicked when the colonel pulled it shut. It was a sound that reverberated off the stone walls.
There was a parade of soldiers approaching the depot. As they drew closer, it was as though he could see them through the opposite wall, advancing along the side of the building. They passed by him and continued down toward the colonel’s chambers.
Suddenly Benjamin turned and put his hand on the latch to the office door, and he was about to raise it when the officer shouted a command and the marching soldiers came to a halt. Benjamin stood still, the latch in his hand. He considered returning to his position, standing at attention, but he couldn’t move. The officer was saying something to his men, his voice muffled by the outer stone wall of the building. When he shouted, the men began marching again, and Benjamin raised the latch, stepped inside the office, and closed the door carefully.
He stood still for a minute, just listening. The sound of marching feet receded, but there were others in the distance, some seeming to come near. The office was tidy, illuminated by a lantern on the desk. There was a long oak cabinet with rows of drawers and, beyond the desk, another door. Benjamin picked up the lantern and went to the door. It was locked. On the desk there were only papers, a ledger, quills, and an inkpot. He opened the drawers and in the second one down on the right found an iron ring of keys. He unlocked the door and entered a long dark room. In the wavering lantern light he could see stacks of barrels, casks, and wooden crates.
For this, Madeira was required.
Abigail sat across the table from Samuel. He ate with grateful passion, complimenting everything, particularly the quahog pie. Repeatedly, he asked if she’d reconsider joining him. Instead, she accepted a second glass of wine.
“There is great activity here tonight,” she said, nodding toward the window, small and square, which was shuttered from inside. “They’re beginning, your maneuvers.”
Samuel nodded, chewing, concentrating on his plate.
“Earlier today, I heard there was much military activity at Boston Neck.”
He drank some wine.
“You’ll strike at Dorchester Heights, and then march out into the countryside.”
As he wiped his mouth with his napkin, he asked, “Does that seem a sound plan to you?”
“I know nothing of military strategy, but only wish it didn’t take you from Boston.”
He leaned back in his chair. Clearly, he was discouraged by the prospect. “I wish—” He suddenly seemed ashamed. “I wish there was more time.”
Abigail drank some wine.
The door to the hallway was behind her. She could hear nothing; didn’t know if Benjamin was still standing there at attention, or if he’d gained access to the storeroom.
This was her idea. Weeks ago she had described the armory to James, not realizing that he would use such information as he formulated plans for this invasion. Men will die soon, he’d written in his letter. We cannot stop it, but we must needs do all that we can to reduce their numbers.
Thus, an invasion. An intimate invasion.
Behind Samuel, there was another door, closed. Certainly this was the bedchamber.
Rachel frequently spoke of intimate things, and often found humor in them. Once, laughing, she suggested Like eating, it’s merely a matter of commencing. The body succumbs, as to hunger.
Samuel drained his glass, watching her. She finished her wine.
“More?”
Abigail glanced at the closed door again. It was made of wood planks held together with black iron strapping. She placed her empty glass on the table. “A little, yes.”
There were barrels of gunpowder, casks of saltpeter; crates containing cannonballs for field guns and howitzers, each marked according to gauge: three-pounders, six-pounders, nine-pounders, twelve-pounders, eighteen-pounders. There was solid round shot that would skip through advancing troops, removing head and limb. There were shells filled with gunpowder and fitted with a fuse so, if properly set, the projectile would explode above the heads of infantrymen. There was case shot, which was packed with refuse—scrap metal, shell fragments, nails, glass, rocks—that burst forth from the disintegrating canister in a devastating spray of shrapnel.
Benjamin recalled the night at Colonel Barrett’s farm in Concord, when he’d helped assemble the stolen British cannon. Barrett’s men were at first wary of his knowledge. When asked how he knew so much, he merely said that boys in Boston had ample opportunity to observe the redcoats’ artillery squadrons. There were constant drills: assembly, disassembly, transportation, loading, target practice. Heavier balls traveled faster and went farther, but lighter field guns, sometimes referred to as gallopers or grasshoppers, offered greater mobility for the exercise of a favorite tactic known as in enfilade: to flank a marching formation and rake it from the side, so that one shot could do more damage to more men.
Benjamin had never seen such a wealth of ammunition.
This was the stuff of empires.
The easiest solution was right in his hand: just drop the lantern in a barrel of gunpowder.
Samuel had brought the bottle of Madeira, which stood guard on the nightstand. They lay together on the featherbed, limbs entangled. Abigail had decided that she couldn’t go through with it, but then, upon finishing her third glass of wine, she simply got up from the table and went to him. She sat on his lap as they kissed. They moved to the door, and then into the bedchamber. It was, as Rachel had said, a matter of hunger, of feeding. She was no longer frightened, she was no longer worried, and she might have been oddly giddy.
“What?” he asked, his face buried in her neck.
“Is this why they call it the armory?”
They both laughed.
He proceeded with laces and buttons.
Occasionally, she assisted him with a knot or snagged hook.
“There is order in everything,” he whispered, “even this.”
“Do we have time?”
“We have all night.”
She pulled back so that she could look at him, risking a moment of clarity. “Then let’s take our time. This is something I do not wish to rush into. Do you understand?”
“I do,” he said. “I do.”
Benjamin couldn’t do it. Not that way, not with his sister down the hall.
He heard a noise but couldn’t tell if it was a voice, a moan, a sigh. It might even have been laughter. It seemed to come from within the stone walls. He held still, and then he heard it again. A signal? A sign? He needed time and Abigail was giving it to him. To render this ammunition ineffective, he would proceed as planned.
He raised the lid of one of the crates marked 8 Pounders.
XXIV
Acrost the Harbor
ABIGAIL WAS AWAKE
NED BY THE SOUND OF KNOCKING, KNOCKING on the outer door of Samuel’s private chambers. Samuel had already pulled on a robe and was rushing out into the other room. When he opened the door, Abigail could only see lantern light streaming into the room.
“Pardon, sir,” a man whispered, “I’m to report to you immediately.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly three bells, sir.”
“Report what at this hour?”
“There has been activity observed by the guards, sir. Noises coming acrost the water from the direction of Charlestown.”
“Noises?”
“Sounds, sir.”
“Sounds. Do you mean voices?”
“No, sir. Shovels. Digging in the earth.”
“Digging what?”
“We don’t know that, sir. General Clinton was alerted to it, and he has left for Province House. He suspects it is the Americans, establishing a redoubt.”
Samuel didn’t speak for a moment. “It could be a farmer burying his cow. But we must take every precaution. What does General Clinton propose to do?”
“He will recommend to General Gage that we strike Charlestown at daybreak.”
“I see. The plan, of course, is for us to strike south, at Dorchester Heights. This could be only a diversion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the other hand—” Samuel didn’t finish his thought. “All right, that’ll be all, Sergeant. I’ll be out directly. And tell the soldier standing guard outside my office to wait outside this door.”
“Yes, sir.”
Benjamin had just returned to the colonel’s office when he heard the heavy outer door open. He rushed out into the hall and could hear the sound of footsteps, though he couldn’t see who was coming—there was a turn in the hallway up near the front entrance. He stood at attention outside the office, looking straight across at the opposite stone wall, and listened to the footsteps (boots: a long, determined stride) approach. The soldier strode by Benjamin, and at the end of the hall he knocked on the door to the colonel’s private chambers. He was a grenadier, one of the British soldiers selected for his height and strength. They were distinguished by their tall fur hats, which made them seem even more imposing.