by Lake, Deryn
Gage turned to look in the other direction, remarking the thinness of the Neck. When storms blew or there was a particularly high tide, waves would rush over the mudflats and then Boston would become an island. An island over which he would have total control. Shuddering suddenly, the Governor turned away.
He was just about to begin the descent when he recognised a figure in the grounds far below. Sara, the slave, had gone to peg out washing. What kept him standing there he never afterwards knew. But the fact remained that he stayed motionless, simply staring at her, wondering about her mixed ancestry and who her parents might have been.
A cough brought the Governor back to reality and he climbed down the narrow staircase and found himself facing Robin.
“These are the servants’ quarters, Sir. The women sleep in those rooms, the men in the others. We thought we would place your valet in the small guest room on the floor below.”
“That will be fine,” said Tom.
“It is so arranged at the moment that the receiving rooms are on the ground floor, the bedrooms above. The master bedroom opens onto the balcony, which is very pleasant. But should Mrs. Gage be desirous…” His voice trailed away.
Tom turned to look at him, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Mrs. Gage will be arriving when she has visited her friends in New York.”
“And approximately when will that be, Governor?”
“About September I would imagine.”
“Very good, Sir.”
The tour continued, terminating in the master bedroom, where a large four-poster awaited.
“I’ll rest for a while, Robin. Can you make sure that I’m called at six.
“I’ll send your valet as the hour strikes, Sir.”
Robin bowed his way out and Tom, removing his shoes, his formal jacket and his hose, lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. The noises of the house grew distant even while he listened to them. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.
He woke to the sound of voices. A girl was saying, “Take your hands off me, Isaac. I told you I ain’t interested. Leave me alone.”
A man’s voice, clearly Negro, replied, “Just one little kiss, Sara. I sure as hell think you ain’t going to miss that.”
“I said no and I meant no. Now go ’bout your business.”
“You’re my business, Sara.”
There was the sound of somebody catching someone, followed by a muffled scream. In one move Tom was off the bed and padding silently and bare footed to the door, which he threw open, taking the couple by surprise.
Sara was in the arms of one of the black slaves, struggling violently, turning her head this way and that to avoid his kisses. They both whirled as they heard the door open and the male slave let go of her so violently that she rocked on her feet as he made off at speed down the corridor.
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Well, well.”
The violence of her reaction startled even him. Flinging herself at his feet, she burst into sudden tears.
“Oh Masser Governor, don’t dismiss me. I have nowhere to go. Don’t put me on the street, I beg you.”
Bending over her, Gage pulled her to her feet, then fetched a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes. “Sara, don’t cry like that. I’m not going to put you out. I just want to know what happened.”
She looked at him, her face awash with tears. “It’s Isaac, Sir. He wants me bad. But I don’t want him and I wish he would leave me alone.”
Despite her tragic look the Governor could not help but grin at her strange accent, half of it Negro, the other half with the flat Boston sound. Seeing him smile, Sara yet again dropped her gaze, suddenly aware that she had said something amusing.
It was he, the Governor, who suddenly felt awkward, not quite certain what to do next, “Run along now, there’s a good girl,” he said lamely.
“Yes, Sir,” she answered, and scuttled away, not looking behind her.
Tom went back into his bedroom, conscious of the fact that he had probably made matters worse for her. Crossing to the window he stepped out on to the balcony, still in his bare feet, the feel of the cool slabs beneath his toes giving him a sense of freedom. Then he heard six o’clock chime and a simultaneous respectful knock on his door.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened and his personal valet stood there. “Good evening, Sir. I have come to help you get ready for dinner. I’ve pressed your dress clothes.”
Glad to have one familiar face on his staff, Gage answered cheerfully, “Good evening, Perkins. Are you settling in all right?”
“Yes, Sir. Very comfortable I’m sure. Would you like a bath, Sir?”
“Do you know,” Tom answered, “I would like that very much.”
So it started. The tin bath was carried into his dressing room and the slaves began to labour in and out with pails of boiling water. Meanwhile, Tom stood in his shirt and breeches, still barefoot, supposedly looking through papers but in fact watching the black people, feeling that he was learning about their characters from the very way they carried the buckets. First came Andrew, grinning as broadly as ever, obviously wanting to make an impression and, in fact, succeeding. He would make a fine-looking coachman, Tom thought. He visualised the black man in livery and had to smile at the mental picture.
Isaac appeared terrified and would not meet the Governor’s eve. In fact on the one occasion he did glance up, Tom was looking at him with a stern reproving gaze that would have frightened anyone who caught it. I doubt he’ll give Sara any further trouble, Gage thought, and wondered why he felt pleased by this.
Robin and Beulah were married to one another and were older than the other slaves. They had been together so long that they had started to look alike, both having gentle kindly expressions and greying hair. It appeared that Mildred, the youngest of the slaves at fifteen, was their daughter, and they also had a son, Peter, who was twelve and worked at fetching wood for the great fireplaces. This, of course, left Sara.
Yet again, Tom tried to decide her ancestry. She was a half-caste, he could have sworn it, and whichever parent had been white had given her her long straight hair, her amber skin and the setting of her eyes and nose. She was totally beautiful to look at and, so the Governor thought, as yet unaware of it. He wondered about her age and came up with seventeen or eighteen, thinking to himself that whatever slave married her would be very lucky indeed. In fact she was almost too good for that, Tom thought, then remembered her accent and smiled rather sadly.
The pail procession was almost done, the honour of the last being Andrew’s. With his empty bucket in his hand, the slave bowed low, his jackanapes grin wide and happy.
“Don’t forget Masser, I can drive horses real good.”
Tom, who was undoing his shirt, looked up. “What happened to the last coachman? Did you say he died?”
“He did, Sir, and there ain’t been nobody to replace him. We all take it in turns.”
“Tell you what, Andrew. You can drive me tonight to Fanueil Hall. Be ready, clean and dressed in one hour.”
The grin spread even wider. “I’ll be ready, Sir. You can rely on Andrew.”
He bowed briefly and was gone, leaving Tom Gage in peace to soak in a hot bath, to shave himself and then to prepare for the banquet being given in his honour.
*
He thought afterwards that it had been a great success. The townspeople had toasted him liberally, there had been expressions of goodwill and loyalty to the English Crown, indeed the whole atmosphere had been one of conviviality and good humoured ease. The only sour note had been when Tom had risen and proposed a toast to the retiring governor, Thomas Hutchinson, and had been greeted with hisses. However, he had overcome the embarrassment and one or two people had risen to drink with him. In fact one of the figures had looked vaguely familiar and after the banquet, when people were mingling, Tom had approached him. The man had turned at the sound of footsteps and Governor Gage had found himself looking straight into the face of Lord Rup
ert Germain.
“Rupert, my dear chap, what on earth are you doing in Boston? Last I heard of you you were in New York running a newspaper. What a wonderful surprise.”
The other man, slightly older, slightly greyer, but slim as ever and still with that tendency to flush, went very red. “Governor,” he said, “I had hoped to be able to speak to you.”
Gage clapped him on the shoulder. “Speak to me! Dammit, man, there would have been trouble if you hadn’t.”
Rupert’s colour faded, but only slightly. “Truth to tell, Governor, I’ve a great deal to say to you, what with one thing and another. Quite a lot has happened in the – how many years is it since we met?”
“It has to be twelve.”
“Has it really?”
It was out of Tom’s mouth before he could control the words. “Are you married, by any chance?”
The flush again. “No.”
“Ah well.” Tom did not add, I thought not. Instead he said, “Look, Rupert, can you join me for a drink after the banquet? My carriage is outside and I’d appreciate a chat. But this is hardly the place.”
The younger man looked immensely pleased. “I’d be delighted, Governor. Actually I have a coach here so I’ll meet you at Province House at half past ten. Would that suit?”
“It would suit very well indeed. Thank you.”
“I’ll see you there, Governor.”
Gage was being called away to meet official dignitaries, struck by the thought that he would rather they paid loyal service to the Crown than hung flatteringly to his coat-tails. For tonight, as with earlier in the day, it would have been almost impossible to guess that this town, Boston, was the seat of insurrection, the boiling point of the whole damnable rebellion. A rebellion that it was his avowed intent to avoid, come what may.
An hour later and it was all done. The Governor descended the staircase in Fanueil Hall and swept out to his carriage, where Andrew, in full livery, a fanciful hat with a low brim on his head, awaited him. Pulled up close to the Governor’s coach was another, very finely appointed. Tom was amazed to see Lord Rupert Germain swing into its dark interior as he got aboard his.
“Andrew, hurry,” he called up to the Negro, still grinning cheerfully at this hour of the night. “That’s my guest in there.”
The slave rolled his dark eyes. “Why, Governor, that be Mister Germain who is one of the richest folks around. Do you know him?”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, bless me,” said Andrew, and applied the whip.
*
In the event they arrived at Province House about a minute or so before Rupert Germain. The gates had been opened and it was the Governor himself who informed the guards that he was expecting a visitor. Thus the two men ascended the steps side by side and made their way into the room that Tom, on his first inspection of the house, had noted as the withdrawing room.
It was large and spacious, thick curtains drawn over the windows, a harpsichord imported from France against one wall, several large chairs and a chaise placed discreetly. A fire had been lit which was flickering rather feebly as they entered. Tom, ringing the bell, placed the dried wood on it himself and watched the flames catch almost straight away. There was a pause as Robin came in with the tray and poured the brandy, then Tom turned to his guest.
“My dear man, tell me everything.”
“You were right about where we last met. It was in New York but it was ten years ago, not twelve.”
Tom laughed and sipped his brandy. “Time rushes by, I wouldn’t have known.”
“You do recall that I was going back to England and came to say goodbye?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why it was such a surprise to see you tonight. I rather thought you had stayed.”
The flush crept up Rupert’s neck again. “Fact of the matter was that I went back to see my mother who was far from well. Then she died, quite suddenly, while I was there.” Tom made sympathetic noises. “Anyway, to cut a long story short I stayed a year, didn’t like it as much as I thought, so I returned.”
“So your future lies in this country, does it?”
“Yes, I think so. I sold my interest in a New York newspaper before I departed. Now I own the Boston Mirror.”
Tom gaped. “Do you? Good gracious. And to think I knew you when you were struggling along. Why, Rupert, you have come a long way.”
Rupert permitted himself a slightly satisfied smile. “Yes, I have. But I mustn’t overlook my competitor, the Boston Gazette, otherwise known as the Dung Barge.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t come across that yet.”
“Oh you will, Governor. It slants stories, fabricates events, distorts and suppresses the truth. In other words it is an inflammatory rag, a revolutionaries’ handbook, and it is my avowed intent to bring it down.”
He emptied his glass rapidly and Tom refilled it.
“What you say interests me enormously. I must get hold of a copy.” Then, realising that this sounded tactless added, “But, of course, I shall make yours my regular read.”
Rupert nodded, “It would certainly be wise to keep an eye on the enemy. It is only a weekly but is packed with sedition.”
“And you? How often do you publish?”
“Three times a week. Our next edition will be full of a tribute to yourself, Governor.”
“How very kind. But please call me Tom. My close friends do.”
Rupert finished another brandy and again Gage refilled his glass, wondering as he did so whether Germain had developed a liking for alcohol over the years.
Rupert sipped, then said, “And Mrs. Gage? Will she be joining you?”
There was a certain edge to his voice which Tom ignored. “Margaret presented me with a daughter, Charlotte, last August and, quite frankly, I wanted them to stay in England. For their own safety. But she set sail in May, three weeks after I did. A nursemaid accompanied them and they are headed for New York where they will remain for a while. I’m expecting her in September.”
“I see.”
“You’ll like her, Rupert.” Tom realised that a cajoling note had crept into his voice and tried desperately to erase it. “When you called on me in New York she was in Brunswick, visiting her parents. But I really want you to meet her. She’s truly delightful.”
“I’m sure she is,” answered the other man, still with that same tone. “Anyway, I must be off, my dear fellow. I have quite a way to travel.”
“Oh, where do you live?”
“In Milton, near old Governor Hutchinson’s place. It’s very beautiful there. You must come and visit.”
“I should like that. Thank you.”
Lord Rupert stood up. In all the years since Tom had last seen him he had not gained an ounce of weight. His hair, still long, now had some fine grey strands but other than for that, there was little change.
“Allow me to escort you to the front door.”
“Gladly.”
The house was quiet, other than for Robin snoozing in a chair in the hall. He sprang to his feet as he heard the two men approach, hurrying to get Rupert’s cloak. Having seen Tom Gage’s guest safely into his coach, the slave bowed.
“Will that be all, Governor?”
“Yes, Robin. You can lock up and go to bed. Goodnight.”
Suddenly exhausted, Tom walked slowly up the great stairs, unbuttoning his formal red coat as he went. He hadn’t felt so tired in an age, yet it was the tiredness of contentment. For today at least had been good. When he closed the port on June 1st no doubt the situation would change, but tonight he was happy.
He walked into his room whistling to himself, taking his coat off and throwing it over his arm as he went. Then he stopped short. Somebody was there ahead of him, standing in the shadows cast by the four-poster.
“Who’s there?” he called.
Sara emerged from the gloom, her eyes as usual cast downwards, the warming pan in her hands.
“Oh, it’s you,” Tom said abruptly.
Just for a moment Tom was a young soldier again, stationed in Dublin, and was opening his mouth to say something mildly rude when the full import of who he was came flooding back.
“I see. Well, goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Governor.”
She raised her eyes and Tom stared straight into them, drawn in spite of everything. Then, again, he recalled his position and turned away.
“Goodnight, Sara.”
“Goodnight, Sir.”
And she was gone, leaving nothing but the shadows behind her.
Chapter Nine
July, 1774
It was a thrilling sight. With a great roll of drums and tramp of booted feet, the King’s Own and the 43rd regiments landed in Boston the day after Governor Gage closed the port on the first of June. The inhabitants, strangely silent, sullen indeed, stood to one side and watched them pass. Nobody cheered or shouted as the soldiers, scarlet-coated, upright, looking neither to right nor left, marched through the streets of Boston, standards fluttering in the breeze, bands playing, towards the Common where the men were to camp.
And down on the waterfront, other than for the transports which had brought the regiments in, the wharves were also strangely silent. There in the bay rode the warships, the transports lying to close by, but there was not a topsail vessel to be seen. General Gage had come to close the port – and close it he had. But the British had misjudged the situation. Salem and Marblehead had offered the use of their jetties to the Boston merchants rather than make a profit at the expense of the town. In other words there were signs that the colonists were starting to hang together.
*
A fortnight after the grand military display, two more regiments came into port, the 5th and 38th. Leading the 5th, to Tom Gage’s great relief, was one of the most able young men in the British Army, Hugh, Earl Percy, son of the powerful Duke of Northumberland, to act as second-in-command, only superceded by the Governor himself.