by Lake, Deryn
“My God,” he said to himself, “what has she done to me?”
Wild thoughts went through his head. He pictured the Governor dead as pork, out of the picture. He envisaged the battle for independence won, America belonging to the Americans, the British chucked out for good and all. Then he briefly allowed his mind to wander over a picture which became more and more appealing. The widow Gage throwing in her lot with him, becoming a mother to his children, them starting out as a family in a brand new country full of golden opportunity.
Acting completely atypically, Dr. Warren ordered another rum and remained silently sitting in the corner, dreaming his dreams.
*
At Province House, dinner eaten early according to British custom, Margaret and Tom retired to the withdrawing room where they both sat reading. He, official documents, as usual, she, a novel by Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones. Where Tom grunted and sighed, Margaret laughed and chuckled, a welcome sound which, even though he was not joining in, Tom enjoyed. Eventually, though, she put down the book and yawned.
“My dearest, I am so tired. The journey to Boston has really drained me of energy. So, if you will forgive me, I shall make my way to bed.”
Tom put down the report he was reading and took off his glasses. “Of course. I shall be up in half an hour. It’s just that I’ve got to get through these wretched things tonight. Forgive me.”
She crossed over to where he sat and leaned over the back of the chair. “Of course I do. But don’t stay up late. You’ll exhaust yourself and then where will everyone be?”
“Bloody glad, I should imagine.”
“How can you say that? Hundreds of people are relying on you.”
“And unfortunately for everyone of those there are thousands who wish me out of the way.”
Margaret kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Now stop it. Such gloomy talk does not become you.”
He leant up and retui lied the kiss. “You’re, right. I must be optimistic. Anyway, I won’t be long, I promise.”
She went from the room and Tom heard Robin leave his post in the hall and escort her up the stairs. He half-listened to their progress, scanning the report at the same time, and was slightly startled when there was a gentle knock on the door.
“Come in,” he called. Then again, “Come in.”
The entrance opened a fraction and Sara stood there, her face anxious, her children’s primer in her hand.
“Is it all right, Master Governor?”
“Sara. Come in and sit down.”
She obeyed him quietly, taking the chair vacated by Margaret. Tom, who had put his spectacles back on, looked at her over the top of them. Yet again, the girl’s singular beauty made his throat constrict slightly as he did so.
She said nothing, regarding him silently, so that he was finally forced to say, “How can I help you?”
She spoke. “I realise this must be the last lesson, Sir, ’cos of the arrival of the lady. But I wondered if I might read my primer to you. I been practising.”
He put down his papers. “Go on then. It will be a relief after this lot.”
She opened the book and started to read, slowly but clearly. Gage got up from his place and poured himself a cognac, then returned to his chair. His eyes closed and for a while he listened, as intently as he could at this hour, then sleep finally overcame him.
He was awoken by silence and by the fact that Sara was shaking him gently. It was a complete reversal from the last time they had been alone together.
She smiled at him. “Come on, Governor. Your wife will be waiting.” He opened his eyes. “Sara, I’m so sorry. But I heard most of what you read. It was excellent. You’ve really worked hard.”
Her face clouded. “Thank you for everything, Sir. But I still couldn’t read an adult’s book.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“‘Cos I ain’t got any,” she answered simply. She moved away from him. “Goodnight, Sir, and thank you again.”
“Think nothing of it. Goodnight, Sara.”
She went out, still moving silently, and Tom, left alone to look at the dying embers, thought to himself how different it could have been for the girl if she had been the illegitimate child of another father, a sea captain perhaps. Or even someone like himself. He smiled briefly, got up, raked out the fire and went upstairs.
Entering his room quietly, carrying a candle tree, he heard regular breathing coming from the bed. Holding it high he saw that Margaret was fast asleep. Silently he undressed, put on his nightshirt – something he hadn’t done in a while – and climbed in beside her. In a few minutes he was deeply asleep as well.
Chapter Thirteen
October, 1774
The situation remained stable that autumn. Stable, that is, as far as one could tell. Three thousand more soldiers arrived during this time, together with the promise of four hundred Royal Marines to be there before the end of the year, to join the forces already camping in Boston. Yet against the twenty thousand men of Massachusetts who had been summoned within a day to march against the town, it was a pitifully small number. Meanwhile, the Governor wrote home begging for further reinforcements. To Viscount Barrington he implored, ‘If you think ten thousand men sufficient, send twenty; if one million is thought enough, give two; you save both blood and treasure in the end.’ But the answer had come, ‘such a force cannot be collected without augmenting our army to a war establishment’. The British powers had promised him four hundred Marines and told him to get on and do the job.
During this time the rebel leaders of New England were gathering strength. At a convention held on September 27th, 1774, they urged that special bands of minutemen – men who could literally be ready to fight in one minute – be formed, so that one third of them would constantly be on hand to march. It also recommended that a means of communication, of alarms and express riders to give notice of what was happening, be set up throughout the whole of Massachusetts.
In Boston clandestine meetings continued at The Green Dragon Tavern, attended by Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and the two doctors, Warren and Church. But though Joseph appeared to concentrate, to give his all to the cause, he had a secret, a secret which he kept entirely to himself. A secret which had sent him in his own private world into a kind of frenzy of excitement.
After the night when he had met Margaret, a night which had culminated in him drunk and unsteady, returning home late, he had gone to bed in an agony of deadly fascination. But in the morning, sick and sorry, he had resolved to put her out of his head forthwith – but with scant effect. The only moment when she departed from him was when he was dealing with patients. Thus he had decided that if you can’t kill the feeling then let it all emerge, and had taken to hanging round Province House whenever he had a spare moment. Eventually, after two weeks, he had been rewarded. Mrs. Gage herself, pushing the bassinet, emerged, with no sign of the nursemaid. He had stepped forward, sweeping his hat from his powdered hair.
“Mrs. Gage, what a delightful surprise.”
She had flashed her great eyes in his direction. “Why Dr. Warren, what brings you this way?”
“I was just walking past, Ma’am. May I accompany you?”
They fell into step beside one another. “How are you liking Boston?” he asked.
“Tolerably well. Though the town seems to be getting more and more full.”
“Full of my fellow countrymen who would prefer to be British,” was out of his mouth before he had had time to think that he was addressing the Governor’s lady.
“Are they not forced to come here?”
“Indeed they are. Because of the behaviour of yet other of my countrymen who are giving them a difficult time in their own surroundings. So they hurry to Boston for protection.”
Margaret turned to look at him, closely scanning his face. “And what of you, Dr. Warren? Would you pester loyal subjects so that they are obliged to leave their homes?”
Aware that he was being tes
ted in some way, Warren weighed his words carefully. “Yes, I probably would, Ma’am. You see, to me the bigger picture is all.”
“And what bigger picture would that be, pray?”
“Madam, listen to me.” Joseph had stopped walking in his anxiety to get through to her. “I truly believe – indeed would die for – my conviction that America is for the Americans, that British rule here is oppressive and, dare I say, tired. Surely you as an American, a Yankee, must see that.”
“I certainly don’t. America is a British colony and as such should remain loyal to the King.”
“The American people have rights too,” said Dr. Warren, then realised how he must be sounding to her, a mad doctor spouting forth political doctrine, a provincial besotted with the idea of freedom.
“I’m sorry,” he continued hurriedly. “Those are my beliefs but I should have kept them to myself, particularly in view of who you are.”
“No, you have a right to express them to whom you choose, Doctor.”
“But not to you,” he said lamely. He gathered himself together.
“Good day to you, Madam.”
They had reached the junction of Winter Street and Marlborough Street and she was apparently going to make her way towards the Common because she was already starting to turn up the narrow thoroughfare.
“I’ll be on my way. Goodbye,” the doctor added for good measure. She smiled at him. “Despite our differing views I have enjoyed speaking with you, Dr. Warren. Perhaps we can do it again another time.”
His heart soared in his chest and he snatched his hat from his head and gazed at her, his blue eyes blazing sincerity.
“You’ve enjoyed it? Truly? Oh, my dear Madam.”
Her smile deepened. “Until next time then.”
“Next time it is.” He swept her gloved hand to his lips. “Shall I wait here at this hour tomorrow?”
“No, Sir. In three days from now. I shall take Charlotte to the Common to see the soldiers drilling. She enoys that.”
“I will be here unless I have a visitor. Good day, Mrs. Gage.”
“Good day, Dr. Warren.”
And with another smile she rounded the corner and headed away. Joseph stood watching her until she was out of sight then quite literally took to his heels and ran all the way back to his house, close to the Fanueil Hall, terrified he was going to be late for his next patient.
*
In Province House Governor Gage was attempting to decipher a letter which he had received that morning. For a start the writing was crabbed and difficult to read, for a second it was written in appallingly bad French. Indeed it was not until he got to the end and saw the signature ‘Joel’ that he realised who it was from. With a suppressed whoop of joy he carried the letter to the window, the better to read it.
‘Your Excellency,’ it began, ‘I find myself able to put my hand and heart at your disposal. I shall report for duty shortly. Please be so good as to give me a safe conduct through Boston Neck and its environs. I will come soon.’
He was still reading it, delighted by its contents, when Robin knocked and put his head round the door.
“Lord Percy to see you, Governor.”
“Show him in, would you?”
“Yassir.”
Hugh came through the door and Tom was struck again by the man’s apparent fragility. Today he moved as if he were in pain and even saluting seemed to hurt him.
“Sit down, man. You don’t look well.”
Hugh gave him one of his sidelong glances. “I’ve been better, Sir. It’s this damnable gout. I’ve got a bad attack today. It’s hereditary, don’t you know. My poor father is riddled with it.”
“Damn shame, unfortunate fellow. Well, my friend, on another topic, how goes it with the men?”
“Reasonably well. They are clothed against the winter and relatively fit.
“Thanks to yourself I believe.”
And it was true. Lord Percy, ever watchful of his troops, had provided their winter uniform personally. Now the younger man looked at the Governor.
“I was wondering, Sir, if you and Mrs. Gage might be free to dine with me tonight.”
“Yes, I’m sure we are. She is out at the moment, taking the child to the Common to see the soldiers. But I will ask as soon as she returns.” The Earl hobbled to his feet. “Will you send word?”
“Of course. Now, did you come by carriage?”
“I did today. The pain is considerable.”
“Are you sure you want guests tonight? Would you not be better resting?”
“No, quite honestly having company seems to help. That and the alcohol.”
“What time would you like us to arrive?”
“I thought perhaps six o’clock. After all, we’re not in England now.”
“No,” echoed the Governor, “we’re not in England are we.”
It had been the merriest of parties at which Margaret had been the belle. Admittedly she had every opportunity to shine for the only other woman present had been the wife of the Lieutenant-Governor. Unfortunately Abigail Oliver had several chins, all of which bounced as she spoke, together with a long pointed nose. She had also grown plump with the passing of the years. In short, it was no contest and Margaret, in a dark red gown with black petticoat, effortlessly rose to the occasion.
Sitting down at the table, for once relaxed and enjoying himself, Tom let his eyes linger on his wife of sixteen years. He felt immeasureably proud of her, for she had kept her figure despite having the children, and her dark hair and amber eyes had picked her out as a beauty many years ago. These had not changed; indeed, although he stared at his wife’s hair quite closely for signs of grey he could see none. Percy, meanwhile, was looking at her with his ravishing glances which meant he could scarcely see her. But she, unaware of this, flirted and laughed with him and generally acted as hostess. Eventually, though, Margaret and Mrs. Oliver retired and left the men to their port and pipes.
At this several gentlemen called for the chamberpot and relieved themselves at table. Gage, however, preferred to step outside, even though it was somewhat cold. He had just finished his affairs when a voice spoke suddenly out of the darkness.
“Greetings, mon Gouverneur.”
His hand flew to his pistol, he couldn’t help it. “Who are you?” he hissed.
There was a soft chuckle and the speaker stepped into the light of the porch. “Do you not know me, mon ami?”
It was Calico Joel.
Tonight he was dressed in buckskin trousers, with a strange jacket which appeared to be made of patches atop. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, his dark eyes gleamed with thoughts. He had abandoned the cocked hat – which had probably died of sheer wear, Gage considered – and now had a broad-brimmed chapeau, with the scarlet feather, presumably a new one, stuck into the headband.
“My friend,” said Gage delightedly, “I only got your letter this morning.”
“Letters take their time, I travel swiftly.”
“I contacted the troops guarding the Neck as soon as I received it.”
“They were suspicious but eventually they let me through.”
“How was it in Canada?”
“Everyone wants to be French,” said Joel, and laughed shortly.
Gage looked at him. “Have you been to Province House yet?”
“I saw the outside. Very important looking place. I did not try to gain entry because I feared being turned away.”
“Then how did you know…?”
Calico Joel allowed a flicker of a smile to cross his taciturn features.
“Shall we say I followed your trail, mon Gouverneur.”
“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“I have no plans, Excellency.”
“Then you must stay with me. Indeed, you must remain with us until you find alternative accommodation.”
“Very well, but I shall sleep in the garden.”
“But, my friend, it is getting cold.”
> “I shall not be cold, mon Gouverneur. I have my things with me.”
And the scout indicated a large rucksack which was lying on the ground.
“If you insist. But now I must get back within. What about you?”
“I shall go to a tavern. I will return in three-quarters of an hour.”
“As shall I.” The Governor looked at him. “I can honestly say that I have never been happier to see anyone.” He added as an afterthought, “Mrs. Gage will be delighted too.”
The scout nodded but made no comment, and then, quite literally, he was gone, disappearing into the night from which he had suddenly sprung. Tom, smiling to himself, went inside.
*
Whether he had had too much brandy, whether it was the strange turn of events with the sudden arrival of Calico Joel, or whether it was worry about the state of affairs generally, but the Governor found it impossible to sleep. Beside him in the great bed Margaret slumbered deeply but Tom lay awake, staring through the curtains to where the balcony lay bathed in moonshine. His thoughts ran wildly, wondering if he would ever bring the Colonies to heel, wishing he were out of the whole damn business and back in England again.
After an hour enduring this, during which his mind went over the same problem again and again, he decided to get up. Moving very quietly so as not to disturb his wife, he got out of bed and put on his slippers and a night rail, then, almost acting on impulse, he climbed the stairs up to the floor where the servants slept. Then up the narrow flight to the cupola.
Here, standing up, he could see the darkness of Boston, one or two lights here and there, spread out before him. Gazing down into the garden, he could vaguely make out a small tent and knew that this must be where Calico Joel had bedded down for the night. Then he froze, went utterly rigid, as for the second time that evening, something moved in the darkness. The Governor whirled round.
“Who’s there?” he whispered.
“It’s Sara,” said a muffled voice.
“What are you doing here? You should be in bed asleep.” His fear had made him sound harsh, abrupt almost.