The Schoolmaster's Daughter

by John Smolens

  He placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder; it was gentle, loving even.

  Abigail began walking toward the house, but then Samuel pushed her mother aside and stepped out through the doorway.

  Father at first appeared uncertain. He glanced back at Abigail, and then again toward the house. And he raised his cane, causing Samuel to stop. “You’ll go no further,” he said.

  “Sir.” There was outrage in Samuel’s voice.

  He began to go around Father, until Father stepped in his path, shaking the cane even higher above his head. “Not another step, do you hear?” Father said.

  Samuel appeared baffled, and then he looked angry. When he moved, Abigail ran back to the fence gate, and as she opened it she looked over her shoulder, to see Father and Samuel doing what appeared to be a ridiculous dance. Samuel would step to one side and Father would follow his lead; Samuel would step in the other direction, and again Father would do the same—back and forth, a strange sort of minuet that stirred up the dust in the dooryard.

  Abigail turned her back on them both and ran down the alley toward King’s Chapel. It was nearly dark, and chimney swifts darted above the rooftops. At the end of the alley, Beacon Street was packed with Bostonians and British soldiers, and she fell in with the throng, which was heading toward the Common.

  There was a sense of urgency in the mob, a combination of joy and fear. Torches illuminated faces that were slick with sweat. There was the smell of ale and rum. Soldiers sang and whistled and some seemed to be barking at the sky. As they entered the Common, they joined hundreds of others who were gathered near the Great Elm. There were officers on horseback and a small drum corps. Four men were being trussed up, three in British uniform. The other was Lumley, who stood gazing out at the crowd, a noose about his neck. When the drums were quiet, an officer made a speech, saying something about cowardice and loyalty—it was difficult to hear because the crowd was so impatient and unruly. When the officer said “A traitor, a damned traitor who fired upon his countrymen at Bunker Hill,” Lumley’s eyes found Abigail in the crowd. He nodded to her once, and his stare appeared faintly amused.

  The officer drew his sword, raised it above his head, and then swung it down. All four of the men were hoisted off the ground. Their bound bodies wriggled desperately. In the near dark, they resembled not men so much as insects, beetles suspended from their own filament. Their struggling sent the mob into a frenzy, and then one soldier hung in the air limp, but the others continued to dance and swing beneath their quivering branches, until a second, and then a third soldier became still. Upon seeing that Lumley was the last, the crowd broke into cheers and huzzahs, and still he would not be still.

  Abigail had seen enough. She pushed her way through the crowd, and it wasn’t until she reached Beacon Street that she looked back toward the Great Elm. Samuel was following her, seated now on his horse, which seemed to drift above the throng. As she rushed down the street, she realized that the crowd was still agitated, as though the execution were not enough. To the east, she saw that the sky was aglow. Groups of men ran toward the fire. Someone shouted that there was a riot at the prison on Queen Street.

  When she reached the prison, the street was packed with people. There was no organization, despite commands being shouted by officers; all was chaos. The smoke from the fire made it difficult to see. Abigail could not locate Samuel astride his horse. She managed to make her way to the entrance, fighting against the stream of people, soldiers as well as prisoners, who were fleeing the building.

  She ran through the stone corridors shouting for James and Mariah. Roof timbers roared and crackled loudly. Many cell doors were still locked. Arms and hands extended through bars as prisoners pleaded to be released. There were screams—women’s shrill voices—coming from one wing of the building, and Abigail moved in that direction. Ahead, a wall collapsed, belching so much smoke that it was impossible to see. She covered her nose and mouth with her arm, but she could no longer speak. Everyone was running in the other direction, toward the entrance, and she could only continue by keeping one hand on the stone wall.

  She came to a courtyard. Overhead, flames leaped into the sky. The fire was creating its own wind, and incredible heat, but here it was easier to see, and in the flickering light she found Molly Collins, lying on the cobblestones.

  She helped Molly to her feet. “Mariah, my brother—do you know where they are?”

  Molly’s small face was black with soot, her eyes large. “Mariah,” she said, pointing.

  “Show me,” Abigail said, grabbing her by the arm, “and I will help you get out.”

  Molly led her across the courtyard. So many women behind bars. Boston women, shouting, pleading, trapped in cells.

  “She be kept separate, special like, away from us whores,” Molly said, pointing at the end of the corridor.

  There was a wooden door, with only a small barred window. Mariah’s face appeared in the window for only a moment, and then timbers crashed down through the roof. Abigail was knocked down, her arm striking the stone floor hard. She seemed not to hear anything and she only wanted to sleep. It would be all right, she thought, to just rest a while. But she was lifted up by the arm and she cried out in pain. And then she realized that she was being embraced by both Mariah and Molly. They made their way back to the courtyard and entered a corridor. Walls had collapsed and there were dozens of women now, shouting, pushing. Abigail clung to Mariah and Molly as they were swept along with the others, while the building rumbled and disintegrated about them.

  And then they were out, they were in the street. Abigail was dazed and her head hurt, worse than when she had struck the tree on Trimount. Mariah led both women away from the burning prison. As they turned a corner, Abigail looked behind them and saw Samuel astride his horse. He was following them, though his progress was impeded by the crowd.

  Mariah took them through to the North End, using alleys and lanes. There was the smell of salt water, of low tide. When they approached her house, they could see the white horse in the distance, a faint smudge in the dark.

  “Cleaveland,” Abigail whispered.

  Mariah pushed them back around the corner and down the path lane to the beach. Ahead of them was Joshua Tigge’s sail loft. Skiffs and dories were pulled up on the sand. The three women ran to the boat nearest the waterline and shoved it down across the kelp and into the harbor, where it became light and buoyant. The water, salty and cold, felt good about Abigail’s legs. She wanted to immerse herself in the sea; but, realizing that she was covered with blood, she only dipped her forearm and elbow in the water.

  Then there was the sound of a horse’s hooves pounding on the sand, and she saw Samuel riding along the beach toward them.

  Abigail shouted, “No! No more!” And then, looking at Mariah and Molly, she said, “James, where’s James?”

  They didn’t answer but only lifted her over the gunwale and into the dory. They climbed in, causing the boat to rock wildly, but then Mariah took up the oars. Abigail struggled to get up and sit on the stern thwart. In the bow, Molly said, “Pull, dammit, pull.”

  Abigail turned back toward the beach. Samuel dismounted his horse and strode purposefully out into the shorebreak, looking as though he might walk on the water toward them. Instead, when he was knee-deep, he drew a pistol from his holster, extended his arm, and took aim.

  “Pull!” Molly screamed. “Pull with all you’ve got!”

  Mariah groaned each time she dipped and pulled on the oars.

  Samuel hesitated, lowering his arm slightly. He seemed to be saying something, speaking to her across the water.

  “No,” Abigail whispered. “I’m sorry, Samuel.”

  He sighted along the barrel once more, slow and deliberate, and then she saw the flash. His head seemed engulfed in white smoke. Out on the water, the report was small, harmless, lost in the vastness of the harbor.

  Abigail slid off the thwart and fell to the bottom of the dory, crying out as her head stru
ck the gunwale. She was unable to move, her cheek against the wood, staring back toward the shore. A hot, tearing sensation filled her breast, forcing her to gasp for breath. They were far enough out in the harbor that she could barely see Samuel, his pistol now at his side. He seemed tranquil and even satisfied, as though proud that he had executed such a fine piece of marksmanship. Beyond him, the sky over Boston was enshrouded in smoke, illuminated by the fire. The entire city appeared to be burning. She had never seen a sky so beautiful. By morning, surely, nothing would be left. As she closed her eyes, she heard the oars creaking in their locks, and Molly and Mariah, their voices frantic, but there was also the soothing sound of water trickling alongside the hull as it pushed out into the dark harbor.

  EPILOGUE

  April 1776

  BENJAMIN DIPPED HIS OAR AGAIN AND LEANED BACK INTO HIS stroke. Now, after midnight, the air was dead calm, allowing the skiff to glide across Boston harbor, its wake curling ribbons of moonlight. He pulled in concert with the other oarsman in his boat, Dr. John Warren, Joseph Warren’s brother, while Mr. Revere was perched on the stern thwart, one arm draped over the tiller.

  From the bow, Mariah’s uncle Joshua Tigge said, “Rocks to starboard, Paul.”

  “I see them.” Revere swung the tiller a few degrees. “That smell,” he said, looking at Benjamin, “don’t you love it?”

  The warm night air was heavy with the scent of low tide coming off the marshes.

  “Always have, sir,” Benjamin said.

  “It’s even sweeter this spring,” Revere said, “now that the British are gone.”

  A month ago, Boston had seemed doomed. General Washington had ordered that cannon be placed on Dorchester Heights, where it could bombard the city. The artillery had come from Fort Ticonderoga, New York. In January, Benjamin had joined Henry Knox’s detail that was charged with the task of hauling the fifty-nine British cannon back across Massachusetts through relentless snow, sleet, and ice. It had been a hard winter, and the three-hundred-mile journey took nearly two months. But once the weaponry was delivered outside of Boston, it provided George Washington, the new commander of the American army, with the means to liberate the city.

  Or what was left of it. Benjamin had not been in Boston since the night before the battle at Charlestown the previous June. The siege had led to starvation and disease—every form of ague and flux, and, most feared, smallpox. Through the winter months, the British army, now under the command of General Howe, who, fittingly, was an illegitimate uncle of King George III, had become increasingly desperate and brutal. Buildings were continually razed for fuel. The Continental Congress had resolved that General Washington must do whatever was necessary to remove the British army, even if it meant the utter destruction of the Boston peninsula. Many provincials believed that firebombing it would be an act of mercy. Even John Hancock, who stood to lose substantial holdings in private and commercial property, agreed that the city must be won at all costs.

  During the winter months, Benjamin had received only one letter from his father, delivered to Mr. Van Ee’s house in Watertown. His report was unusually direct. James had been in prison since June, his health deteriorating. His wife Mary and the children were getting by as best they could—they had all suffered periods of illness. Yet Father still remained loyal to the crown (he had refused to see James in prison, though Mother visited their son frequently) and expressed bafflement at the provincials’ desire for war and independence, neither of which he believed could be won. Benjamin was concerned by what Father did not address in the letter. There was no mention of his health, or of Mother’s. His hand, which like his voice had always been assertive and robust, was now shaky. Father acknowledged that he had heard that Benjamin had survived the battle at Bunker Hill, and he had sent the letter to Mr. Van Ee’s, where, he understood, Benjamin now lived with his pregnant wife, the daughter of the fisherman Anse Cole. There was no offer of congratulations. Most troubling, perhaps, was how the letter concluded: In Boston we are for the most part rendered Blind to the World beyond this Sorry Peninsula. We possess no news of Abigail and Pray constantly that you and she have been Reunited and are Safe and Well.

  “You’re confident of the location?” Revere eyed Benjamin carefully, as though he knew that his thoughts had been wandering.

  “I have no reason to believe I’ve been misled,” Benjamin said.

  Revere glanced up at the moon. “But you will not divulge your source?”

  Perhaps Revere smiled—it was difficult to tell in such faint light. He seemed often to find things amusing, even when others did not. He was known to be difficult, some even suggested insubordinate, and he was no orator—that he would leave to his more eloquent compatriots—but his round, swarthy face was expressive, his large, dark eyes observant. His eloquence was in his hands, the certainty of his actions. This past year, since Dr. Joseph Warren had died, Benjamin often felt that Revere was being watchful, even protective of him.

  “I prefer not to, sir,” Benjamin said. “Doctor Warren always—”

  “Yes, his instructions: mind your tongue,” Revere said. “He was a good teacher.” After a moment, he added, “And a dear friend. My wife and I have decided that our next child, if it is a boy, will be named Joseph Warren Revere.”

  Dr. Benjamin Church himself had removed the lead ball from Abigail’s breast. It was lodged within inches of her heart. In July, the Continental Congress had appointed him Surgeon General, and, with the death of Dr. Warren, he was, along with John Hancock, the highest-ranking member of the Committee of Safety. Despite such duties, he visited Abigail several times a week and oversaw her convalescence personally. But by summer’s end, there was much rumor and speculation about Dr. Church being in league with General Gage, providing him with invaluable information regarding the American troops. Yet he remained cordial with Abigail, devoted to her recovery, until the day that she inquired after the money she had given him on behalf of Rachel Revere.

  “A hundred and twenty-five pounds, you say?” His eyes concentrated on the old dressing covering her breast. “I fear I have no recollection of that.”

  “I delivered it to your house in Boston, so that you could convey it to Mr. Revere once you left the city.” As the dressing was removed, Abigail’s flesh stung and she breathed in sharply through her nose. “Rachel gave it to me and I brought it to you. It was a Sunday morning, dense fog, and a woman left the house in a carriage.”

  He raised his eyes to her, curious. “A woman? Are you sure?” He attempted a smile. “Abigail, so much has happened during the past year, everyone is bound to misinterpret or misconstrue certain events.”

  “Your implication, then, Doctor,” she said, “is that my memory is at fault?”

  He finished changing the dressing and, without looking at her, said, “This is a serious wound. It is most fortunate that I didn’t have to remove the entire breast.”

  Dr. Church never paid her a visit again, opting to send one of his assistants, who always claimed that the doctor’s time was too precious. In October, he was first court-martialled by General Washington, and then brought before the Massachusetts Assembly on charges of consorting with the enemy. Though he vehemently defended his actions as attempts to mislead the British command for the benefit of the patriotic cause, there was sufficient evidence—ciphered letters, sympathetic ink, the confession of a young woman who admitted to conducting the letters to the British—that Church was sent to prison in Connecticut, where over the winter he developed asthma. The fall of one of the most influential leaders of the patriot cause was met with shock and outrage, but eventually a prisoner exchange was negotiated with the British command in Boston; however, at the last moment the agreement was abandoned. Though the proposed exchange didn’t include Abigail’s brother James (which Abigail thought would have been logical, considering that both men had been found guilty of similar charges), the idea of such an occurrence gave her hope, only to have such expectations dashed.

  Abigail�
�s recovery was difficult, and she might not have survived the winter but for the generosity of Mr. Van Ee. Not until February was she strong enough to venture outside for any considerable time. She had built up her strength by walking, first on the grounds about Mr. Van Ee’s house, and then, more and more frequently, through the village of Watertown, with frequent visits to the house where Rachel now lived with the children.

  “It will all come out,” Rachel said. They were sitting by the stove in Rachel’s kitchen. Outside they could see the children in the dooryard, playing in the snow. “Paul, Dr. Warren—none of them ever fully believed Dr. Church. The blood on his stocking, his so easily returning to Boston immediately after Lexington and Concord, and the missives—it has long been suspected that there was someone high up in the provincial leadership, perhaps even a member of the Committee of Safety, who has been feeding information to the British. I’m not surprised that it was our dear, sophisticated Dr. Church, who pens plays and liberty songs, and keeps an expensive wife in a country manor, and a mistress in Boston.” Laughing, Rachel added, “It’s preferable that you no long bare your breasts to him. He could never truly appreciate such rare beauty.”

  Though she blushed, Abigail laughed as well. “But, Rachel, a hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

  “It’s a great deal of specie. And I suspect I’ll never know what happened to it,” Rachel said as she prodded the logs with the poker, bringing about a welcome surge of heat into the kitchen. “There are far worse things to lose than money.” She closed the stove door and sat back in her chair. “You are recovering from more than that bullet wound. I can tell—”

  “Tell? How can you tell?”

  “Because you never speak of him, Abigail. It is your way.”

  “We were talking about specie.”

  “We were talking about loss.”