by John Smolens
Abigail gazed out the window. She bit her lip, but it couldn’t keep her eyes from welling up, blurring the image of the children as they played in the snow. She knew Rachel was watching her and she turned her head away.
“Ezra left Boston,” Rachel said quietly. “He left you.”
“There was a reason. There had to be.”
“Then remember him fondly, but you must allow your heart to heal, too.”
Abigail wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand. “And how do you do that?”
“Dwell not on the past. Think only of future plans.”
When her strength finally returned, Abigail did make plans. At first, she thought she would join Molly Collins, who, like many Massachusetts women, had formed an attachment to the provincial army, providing assistance in caring for men who had fallen ill—as in Boston, disease was rampant in the military camps that surrounded the city. Molly had traveled to New York City with the army. In her letters, which were clearly dictated to someone (yet they still managed to retain the tone and spirit of her voice), she was adamant in the fact that she was not providing the American soldiers what she called the “old services.” Abigail believed her. Molly was a changed woman. They all, it seemed, were changed, changed in ways that perhaps a year earlier none of them could ever have imagined. No one doubted that this would be a long war and there would be much to do.
Mariah, who had married Benjamin in January just before he went to Ticonderoga with General Henry Knox’s detail, was expecting. She was also staying at Watertown, working in a tavern, and when she was close to term Abigail took her in to her own room at Mr. Van Ee’s and assisted in the delivery of a baby girl. It wasn’t until late February that Benjamin returned from Ticonderoga to see his wife and child, which they named Abigail.
On that first night at Mr. Van Ee’s house, Benjamin sat before the fireplace in a rocker, his sleeping daughter in his arms, and he looked weary from the winter’s journey. There was now something different about Benjamin. It wasn’t just that he was exhausted. He was no longer the wild boy wandering Boston, living by the ebb and flow of the harbor tides. His gaze was distant, yet inward. He too was consumed by the war, by the difficulties that faced the provincials. As he spoke, his thoughts meandered, and Abigail realized that it was like so many conversations she’d had with their father. Benjamin talked about the importance of bringing the British artillery to Boston, of George Washington becoming the commander of the Continental Army. He talked about why the Americans must force the British to evacuate Boston, regardless of the cost to the city.
But then he stopped rocking in the chair. Hesitantly, he began to apologize as he gazed at the burning logs in the fireplace. Abigail didn’t understand what he was saying; she worried that the strain of the Ticonderoga expedition had been too much for him. There was something odd about him, how he was scrutinizing her. He seemed worried, even frightened. Hesitantly, he took something from his vest pocket and held it out to her. Abigail leaned forward in her chair and gasped. Her entire body clenched like a fist. There was a pain in her breast—not the same as when she’d been struck by Samuel’s bullet, but a wrenching pain that rose from within her heart.
The Egg?
Benjamin was still apologizing, saying that he didn’t want to give her this until he felt she had recovered from her wound, that she was strong enough.
She craddled the Egg in her palm.
But it was a stone, a white stone, stained with blood.
“He dug it out of the ground on Bunker Hill,” Benjamin said. “And he gave it to me just before he died later that day.”
“Ezra,” she whispered.
The keel scraped sand, and they shipped oars. The men climbed out into knee-deep water and then pulled the skiff up onto the beach. They removed their tools—shovels, a lantern, a wad of old sailcloth—and crossed the beach. To their left, the village of Charlestown was visible beneath a gibbous moon. Nearly a year after being burned by the British, new houses and buildings were under construction, presided over by an incomplete steeple, bound in staging. Once they reached the firm ground of pasture, they waded through tall grass that crackled beneath their feet and climbed over wooden fences. Dark, slow-moving forms—grazing cattle—littered the hillside. Benjamin led the way, a shovel resting on his shoulder, occasionally guiding the others around a cow pie. When they were near the angular, battered earthen walls of the redoubt, he paused and said over his shoulder, “East, now.”
They descended toward the Mystic River, which bordered Charlestown Neck, until they could see a stand of trees by the brick kiln.
“Joshua,” Revere said. “Light the lantern, and let’s have a good look at this ground.”
Though new spring grass had begun to sprout, there was evidence of digging—holes, numerous holes.
“Well, Mr. Lovell?” Revere asked.
Benjamin walked toward the stand of trees near the kiln, followed by John Warren, holding the lantern. When he reached the trunk of the tallest maple, Benjamin noticed that the bark had been gouged with knives.
“Lead balls,” Joshua said.
“Souvenirs,” said John Warren, “for posterity.”
“For sale,” Joshua said. “I’ve seen this in Boston, the sale of ‘Bunker Hill balls.’ Turns a nifty profit and certainly every ball is the genuine article.” When Revere looked at him, he said, “Young Dr. Warren here is an idealist. I’m the cynic.”
Revere turned to Benjamin and said, “Proceed.”
Benjamin put his back to the tree, and then began to walk north, taking long, deliberate strides, counting to twenty, and then stopped in front of an oval-shaped mound of earth. The other men gathered around, and then John stepped forward, his shovel in both hands. “I hope to God you’re right,” he said.
“I do, too,” Benjamin said as he stabbed the blade of his shovel into the dirt.
In March, General Washington had made his move on Boston. Benjamin again bid his wife and both Abigails farewell and rejoined the ranks. Under the cover of darkness and a storm that brought heavy rain and winds, thousands of provincials quietly—so quietly for so many—moved the Ticonderoga cannon into position on Dorchester Heights. The countryside was cleared of wood, and fascines were constructed—all the while, other provincial regiments conducted diverting tactics down near Boston Neck, as well as from across the Charles River. The result was that General Howe knew something was afoot, but he was unsure where it would come from—most British reinforcements were sent to the Neck. It was, Mr. Van Ee observed at his dinner table, like watching a shrewd chess game played in the dark of night. In daylight, when the weather began to clear, Howe was confronted with the fact that Washington had fortified Dorchester Heights to the south, with artillery in command of the entire Boston peninsula.
Bombardment from the heights would surely set the city ablaze. Abigail’s father and mother were there; her brother James was confined to a prison cell there, his wife and children still in their home. Abigail had never known such an overwhelming sense of dread. And she had never seen it on so many faces. When she would venture from Mr. Van Ee’s house, everyone on the streets of Watertown seemed lost in thought, fearing that the worst was about to happen. Trapped, the British would surely strike out, sending massive forces out the Neck, or perhaps ferrying them across the Charles—or both. Each day, the tension seemed greater. There were constant rumors and conjecture about sightings of troop movements, of ship activity in the harbor.
Until it was reported that the British were evacuating Boston. At first, there was disbelief, but for days there were clear indications that the ships were being loaded with troops and supplies, as well as with loyalists. Washington, perhaps most daringly, did nothing. He simply waited. There was looting throughout the city. What couldn’t be stolen from homes and taken aboard ship was often destroyed. The river and harbor were littered with furniture, adrift on the currents and tides. The evacuation was a massive operation involving several hundred ships.
Rachel came to Mr. Van Ee’s house with news about Samuel Cleaveland: he was responsible for loading the artillery aboard ship and in the process of doing so had lost several cannon, which inexplicably fell off of a barge and sank to the bottom of the harbor. “In the end,” Rachel said with a laugh, “the man’s simply incompetent. He probably thinks he shot and killed the beautiful, treacherous schoolmaster’s daughter.’
But Abigail did not laugh. “I don’t wish to dwell upon Samuel. I only wish him God’s speed in returning home. Rachel, what I did was deceitful.’
“And necessary.”
“It is nothing to be proud of. It’s this war—in another time and place, he—”
“Now you only deceive yourself.” Rachel ventured one more laugh, placing her hand over her mouth as though promising that it would be her last. “In war and love, Abigail, a man like that will always have the wrong balls.”
It took the British ten days to evacuate Boston, concluding on March 17, St. Patrick’s Day. His majesty’s vast fleet left the harbor but remained in sight of the city, maneuvering in Nantasket Roads. Was this some trap? Lure the provincial army back into the city, and then return the ships of the line to the harbor and commence bombardment? Or perhaps they were only being cautious, waiting to intercept the troop ships that were expected to arrive any day from England? Then, after more than a week, the British fleet abruptly disappeared over the horizon. Many speculated that they would head south, and immediately General Washington began preparations to move a sizeable force down to New York City. But then there were reports of the British fleet, sighted off the coast north of Boston, apparently sailing for Halifax.
Provincials, led by the army, began to return to Boston.
But not Abigail. Thinking of Ezra, buried in Concord, she left Watertown and walked inland, against the flow of Bostonians who were journeying home.
The soil was loose, thawed now after the long winter months, but difficult.
“So many rocks,” John Warren observed.
“Our beloved New England soil,” Joshua said.
Benjamin’s shovel struck something hard, but not stone. “There, now,” Joshua said.
“Too shallow,” Revere said. “The bastards can’t even bury the dead with dignity. Go easy.”
Benjamin and John continued to dig, carefully. First, they revealed a hand, then an arm in a frock coat.
John whispered an oath.
Benjamin paused and reached into the pocket of his leather vest, producing two folded bandanas. He handed one to John, and said, “You brought gloves, I hope.”
John nodded, reaching into his coat pocket. They tied the bandanas around their heads to cover their noses and mouths, and then pulled on their gloves.
“You say there are two bodies?” Revere asked.
“That’s what I was told,” Benjamin said.
He resumed digging, going slowly now, pulling the earth away, exposing the form of a man curled up on his side. John gasped for air as he worked beside Benjamin. Revere stood close by, refusing to be pushed back by the smell. Finally, Benjamin got down on his hands and knees and took the body by the arm. John knelt beside him, and together they pulled the corpse free of the dirt.
Quickly, John scrambled to his feet, gagging, and then he lumbered off into the dark, where he hurled in the grass.
“Worms,” Benjamin said.
“Some farmer, I’d say by that coat,” Joshua said.
“Fifties, maybe older.” Revere picked up the lantern and held it over the hole. “This must be Dr. Warren,” he whispered.
“Can you tell?” Joshua ventured closer.
Benjamin reached down and with his hands began scooping earth out, exposing a shoulder, the skin bare. He continued to work, and eventually John came back and helped as best he could, but he was sobbing, and having great difficulty breathing. Still, they kept pawing at the hole, bringing dirt up, freeing more of the second body.
“All right,” Revere said, finally. “This will require all of us.”
He pulled on a pair of gloves, as did Joshua, and they all knelt around the hole. They reached down and took hold of a limb—an ankle, an arm—and slowly dragged the body up, everyone now gasping with the effort, and when it was there, lying on the ground, illuminated by the lantern, they fell away, rolling on the ground, repelled, coughing, and sputtering.
Several minutes passed while they regained their breath and composure. Joshua produced a flask, and each took a pull. The rum, hot and burning, cut through the vile taste in Benjamin’s throat.
John picked up the lantern and crawled on his knees toward the body and began his inspection. “Shot in the left cheek,” he said. “Bayonet wounds, chest and abdomen.”
“Can you tell if it’s him?” Revere asked.
“Impossible to say,” John said. “They stripped him naked.”
“And put him on display, I hear,” Joshua added. “Then they sold his fine clothes.”
“I can’t say with certainty,” John said, “if this is my brother.” He looked out into the dark pasture. “He could be in any one of these holes.”
“His teeth,” Benjamin said. “Sir, didn’t you—”
Revere nodded. “Last year I put two false teeth in Joseph’s mouth.” He took the lantern from Joshua and came closer. “Let’s have a look then.”
Carefully, Benjamin held the skull in both hands and pried open the jaws.
“There—those wires,” Revere said, leaning close with the lantern.
“Are you sure?” Joshua asked.
“I can recognize my own handiwork,” Revere said. “I fashioned those teeth, and secured them with wires. Gentlemen, this is our compatriot, Doctor Joseph Warren.”
No one spoke for a moment, until Joshua said, “We take him back to Boston—for a proper funeral and burial.”
“What about this other man?” Benjamin said, as he carefully lowered the skull until it rested on the soft earth.
“No knowing who he is,” John said.
“He’s a patriot,” Revere said. “Bury him again, only much deeper, so that he honors this ground.”
Benjamin picked up his shovel and, as he began digging, he couldn’t help but think of Lumley, just up this hill on a hot June day, passing rum to him and Ezra before the British assault. He stayed in the redoubt when the others—those that could—fled. Certainly he intended to die there, at the hands of his countrymen. Instead he was captured, and Abigail had told Benjamin about how he stared at her in the crowd only moments before he was hung from the Great Elm in the Common. Where was he buried? Benjamin wondered. Traitors are seldom honored with a headstone. If he could, Benjamin would find Lumley, dig him up, take him north, bury him on a hillside in Vermont, and give him a headstone of New England granite.
Abigail returned to Boston in April, a few weeks after the British evacuation. She walked most of the way from Concord, though when she passed through the now-deserted fortification at the Neck she was riding in a wagon driven by Mr. Barnabas Tyng, who had years earlier matriculated at the Latin School. Mr. Tyng’s wagon was filled with all of his earthly possessions, as well as his wife and their seven children. Tethered to the wagon were two cows and a vociferous mule. Abigail sat in a rocking chair, tied down next to a crate of chickens, the sleeping bundle in her lap.
The city was in ruins. Houses had been ransacked. There was evidence of disease and starvation. At the sound of chickens, people came out to the street. It was easy to tell that they were Bostonians who had endured the winter’s siege in the city—they were gaunt and weary, and there was in their eyes something unsettling and true. They had survived, and there was nothing to stop them from salvaging their homes, rebuilding their lives.
There was something else. A woman Abigail knew from the Dock Square market gazed at her bundle, smiled, and then turned away in disdain. I know where you got that from, your kind, consorting with the Brits.
She would have to contend with that; it was inevitable.
>
When Mr. Tyng stopped in School Street, both the Lovell house and the school were shuttered. Abigail requested that she continue on with them. The wagon passed slowly through the streets, to the North End, and she got off at the place where Mariah’s house had been. It was gone. Nothing left but a pile of chimney bricks and some lumber, much of it charred. At the back of the dooryard, however, the shed remained intact, and there was evidence that it was being inhabited: laundry strung on a line, a wood chopping block, an iron pot sitting on a fire pit constructed of rounded beach stones. She looked at where the house had been and realized that some of the lumber had been neatly stacked, and that there was a trench dug and the beginnings of a new stone foundation laid.
Abigail walked down the lane toward the beach, her bundle clutched to her shoulder. He was getting heavy, but she was pleased at the sounds he made while asleep. Strange, this language all his own, the sighs and grunts speaking to her of his needs and wants. At the end of the lane, the breadth of the harbor opened out before her, blue-black beneath a cerulean sky, and in the distance salt marshes and island pastures turning the palest green of early spring.
And there, down by the row of fishermen’s shacks, she saw Benjamin with Joshua Tigge, working on a boat hull, the sound of their caulking mallets like a knock on an eternal door. Crying out, Mariah dropped the fishnet she was mending and began running along the beach toward Abigail. Then Benjamin came too, calling out, and his hat flew off as he ran, his long hair a flag in the breeze. But not Joshua, who sat down on the overturned hull, content with the business of packing his clay pipe with tobacco.
Mariah and Benjamin gathered about Abigail, clutching, embracing, and they all kissed and wept with joy. A baby, too, was crying, from a basket lying in the shade of the shack. “Time to feed our Abigail,” Mariah said, laughing through her tears, as they started back along the beach.
The bundle stirred, and Abigail paused to open the blanket. Benjamin and Mariah leaned in close to see. “This is Ezra,” Abigail said. “Ezra Hammond Lovell.”
She put the child down and he began to walk toward the waterline, strands of kelp clinging to the bottom of his gown. Abigail followed close behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. Each step was an adventure, precarious, determined. When he reached the water, he stopped and stared back at her, at all of them, curious, and then he squatted down and slapped his hands in the white foam as it swirled about his ankles.