by Lake, Deryn
For several minutes there was no reply, then she whispered, “I’m going now. Good night, Sir.”
“Wait.” His hand shot out and grabbed her arm and he pulled her close to him. He could see in the moonlight that she had been weeping, for her eyes were red and puffy, even her face was swollen with tears.
“Sara, what is it?” he asked, his voice completely different.
“Nothing, Governor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, girl. Nobody gets into a state like yours over nothing. Tell me what is wrong.”
He sat down on the wooden seat, pulling her to sit beside him. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at the floor.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said eventually.
“But why should that make you cry?”
“I don’t know, Sir.”
“Sara, pay me the respect of treating me like an adult. Tell me why you’re crying.”
“Because…”
“Yes?”
“Because I miss my lessons, Sir.”
“Oh, is that all,” said the Governor, and instantly regretted it, for the slave wept again, profusely.
“Sara, come on. I didn’t mean any harm. Come here.”
He put out his arm and placed it round her shoulders. Reluctantly, she drew a little closer.
“Come along, my dear. There’s no need to upset yourself. We’ll think of something,” he said, as if he were placating a child.
From where he was sitting his nostrils were full of her essence. Clad in her nightclothes, away from the kitchen smells, she was extraordinarily fresh and clean, an overriding scent of some exotic flower, something unidentifiable, emanating from her.
“If the lessons mean that much to you, we must continue them,” he said, wondering where he was going to find the time in his busy life.
She put a small hand out and touched his arm, the one that lay resting on his lap.
“Just occasionally, Master. I know how committed you are.”
“I tell you what,” he said, looking down at her, “if I get you an adult book to read, will you read it to me when next we meet?”
“Oh, yes, Governor.”
“And what would you like?”
“Nothing too difficult, Sir.”
Her voice was slowing, as if sleep were coming.
“I’ll see what the bookseller has to offer.”
There was no answer and looking at her again he saw that she had indeed fallen asleep, sitting up and leaning against him. In repose he studied her perfect face, admired its angles and contours, the sweep of the dark lashes on the damask skin. Then he, too, closed his eyes and felt the pressures of the day drain away from him as he fell asleep at last.
He awoke in the steel grey light of dawn, rigid and uncomfortable. Sara still slept deeply, her head in his lap. Gently but firmly, the Governor shook her till her eyes opened and looked into his.
“Sir, what are you doing here?”
“I came into the cupola late last night and found you here. As seems customary with us, we both fell asleep whilst talking about books.”
She was on her feet in a matter of seconds. “Oh my, I’ll be put in the street for lateness. The other slaves will be round the house by now. Forgive me, Sir, but I’ve got to fly.”
And she was down the ladder and out of his sight on the instant. Aching in every limb, Tom stood up and looked out of the window of the cupola. Far below in the streets of Boston two figures were walking along, patrolling. He smiled grimly. It was the rebels, watching the soldiers, who, in turn, watched them from behind the window panes of their lodgings, leaning towards the fire, sipping their mugs of mulled wine and laughing their heads off.
*
“And so, you see, Ma’am, why I am a devoted member of the Faction.” Joseph Warren, sitting beside her on a rug on the Common, paying no attention to the marching soldiers whatsoever, leaned slightly away, having made his point.
Margaret played with the baby, who sat utterly still, watching the military men with fascination.
“I must say, Dr. Warren, that when you explain certain things they most certainly give me cause to think. But what say you to the mob violence? To the tarring and feathering? How can you justify them, pray?”
The young physician sighed and, forgetting himself, removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Specks of powder fell onto his coat which he brushed at with a truly beautiful hand.
The hand of a doctor, Margaret thought, watching the gesture.
“It’s mainly the work of Sam Adams,” he said apologetically. “He can start a riot on the instant if so required. He has the ear of the common man.” He paused then said, “And that last remark makes me sound like a diabolical snob. For what are we, after all, but common men? I went to Harvard so I have a good education. But stripped naked I am the same as all the rest.”
Margaret sat silently, watching him, thinking that he was a true patriot, a truly decent man, whatever the differences between them might be. But were they so different? They had both been born in this enormous country, this country that even now was going through birth pangs trying to free itself of British tyranny. Shocked with herself for that last thought, she bent over Charlotte.
“Come along, my sweetheart. It is time we were getting back.”
Joseph was immediately all contrition. “Was it something I said?”
“No, of course not. It is just that the baby needs to go home now”
He scrambled to his feet. “Of course. Let me help you pack up.”
He bent over the rug, folding it carefully, corner to corner, and for the first time it occurred to Margaret that he might be falling a little in love with her. She had thought to begin with that he was meeting her merely to talk about the Colony’s future. But now she wasn’t quite so certain. After all he was a widower in his thirties, she just forty-one. She gave him a brilliant smile.
“Well, Doctor, are you going to walk back with me?”
“It will be my pleasure, Ma’am.”
“Do you then enjoy my company?” she asked, testing the water.
“I love it,” he answered frankly, and Margaret’s suspicions deepened. “It will be too cold soon to sit and watch the soldiers,” she answered as they started to saunter back.
“Then perhaps I might be permitted to take you to a coffee house.”
“I don’t know if it would do for the Governor’s wife to be seen in company with a well-known rebel.”
He sighed. “No, I don’t suppose it would. However, there is a small place little used by other people.”
She laughed at his depressed expression, certain now that he was more than interested. “Well, I’ll think about it.”
“Would you,” Joseph said.
“Of course I will.”
They had reached the street corner that indicated the parting point.
“Till next time then,” said Dr. Warren, and raised his hat.
“Till next time,” answered Margaret, and gave him a small bobbing curtsey.
Then she turned the corner and made her way to Province House, nursing a small secret which, if truth be told, brought a smile to her lips and a sudden lift to her heart.
Chapter Fourteen
November, 1774
The winter of 1774 was one of the most severe the country had known. Snow fell early and the seas were rough and icy. For the warship sailing from Britain to America, carrying the long-awaited troop of British Marines, it was a journey of pure hell. Gales battered the rigging, the ship plunged crazily through foaming green waters, the hands had to beat the ropes with sticks to remove the ice. But as well as the four hundred men promised to Governor Gage on board, there were personal letters for him, one of which bore terrible and tragic personal news.
The ship finally managed to stagger into Boston harbour in mid-December. Lord Percy was there to oversee the landing of the men and personally took possession of the letters intended for his superior officer. These he stored in a bag and la
ter that day, when the Marines were safely ashore, he called at Province House to deliver them.
He found the Governor in his study, his usual retreat, and handed him the letters which Gage sifted through, glancing casually at the various writings on the outside.
“Ah, here’s one from my brother,” he remarked, breaking the seal and opening it.
“How is he?” asked the Earl.
There was no reply and, looking at him, Lord Percy saw that the Governor’s face had turned the colour of ash and his shoulders were hunched, as if he had some great burden on them. A great rush of concern filled Hugh Percy and he put his glasses on to make sure he had not misinterpreted the events. But Tom was reading the letter again, his face drawn and haggard.
“Bad news, Sir?” the Earl ventured quietly.
At length the Governor glanced up and Hugh could see that the man had tears in his eyes, tears only barely held in check.
“It’s my son,” he said softly. “It’s William. He died on October 30th.”
“Oh my God,” exclaimed Percy. “What a tragedy. Oh, my dear Sir.”
And it was at that moment that Margaret, giving the lightest of knocks but not waiting for an answer, swept into the room. She stopped short as her eyes took in the scene before her.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “What’s happened?”
Tom rose from his seat behind the desk and crossed to her, putting his arms round her. The Earl immediately felt de trop and started to make his way out. But the Governor stopped him.
“No, Hugh. Don’t go. Not now anyway.”
“Then I’ll wait in the other room, Excellency. You two should be alone.” And with that Lord Percy made his way into the hall.
Robin was there, hovering as usual, waiting for his master to ring for him. Hugh hesitated, not certain what to do for the best. Eventually he said, “Robin, your master has received some very bad news today. I would advise that you and the other servants treat him with the greatest care.”
Before the slave could answer, the two men heard a cry from inside the study. “Oh no! Oh no!” said Margaret’s voice. “I can’t bear it. Not my darling William.”
This was followed by the sound of her starting to weep. Gage could be heard murmuring to her, gently and comfortingly.
“I think,” the Earl said to Robin, “that this might be the moment when I take in brandy.”
“Not me, Sir?”
“No, not you. Not at present.”
“Very good, your Lordship.”
The two men, Percy still wearing his spectacles – a fact that he loathed but thought necessary on this occasion – went into the withdrawing room and assembled a tray. And then, as in the way of high drama, the front door chimed and Robin, smart in blue livery, went to answer it. Rupert Germain stood there, his smile fading as he saw the Negro’s grim expression.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked.
Lord Percy stepped forward, rapidly whipping off his glasses. He gave a very small bow. “Lord Rupert, how nice to see you,” he said. The newspaper proprietor made his way into the hall. “Is everything well here?” he asked.
The Earl lowered his voice. “Your friend the Governor has received some very distressing news. His young son, William, has died in England. He and Mrs. Gage are currently in the study together.”
Rupert looked stricken. “What a terrible thing to happen. Do we know what killed the little fellow?”
Hugh shook his head. “There may be details contained in the letter. But I have no idea. You’ll have to ask the Governor.”
“I will, obviously, but not now. I’ll go again. Goodbye…”
But he got no further. The study door flew open and Margaret stood framed in the entrance, her face crumpled up like that of a small girl. She stared at the two men blankly, then ran into Percy’s arms.
“Oh Hugh, Hugh,” she said between her tears. “That he should have died without me being there. That my little boy should have died by himself.”
“He was not alone, I feel positive,” Percy said softly. “The Viscount would have been with him, I’m sure of it.”
“But he needed me and I wasn’t there.”
“Madam, your place is here with the Governor. Your son must have known that.”
“I have left my children by themselves for too long.”
“But Mrs. Gage,” ventured Rupert, “could you have saved him if you had been there?”
She shot him a look of pure anguish, disentangled herself from Hugh Percy’s grasp and fled, sobbing, up the stairs.
“Oh dear,” said the young man.
The Governor appeared in the study doorway. “Let her go. She’s mortally upset. As for you two, come and have a drink with me for God’s sake. I feel so low.”
Putting on his spectacles briefly, Percy shot a look at Tom Gage’s face. He was holding back his tears, just, but his face was still ashen white.
Rupert hesitated. “Tom, I feel I should go.”
“You’ll go to hell if you leave now. If you care for me, you’ll spend half an hour with me.”
“Very well.”
The clovernor called out quietly. “Robin, no more visitors today.
Tell them I am indisposed.”
“Yassir. I’m sorry, Sir.”
“You’re a good man,” Tom said by way of reply, then, ushering in his two guests, he closed the study door.
*
He got amazingly drunk. So drunk, indeed, that he fell asleep at his desk. A gentle tap at his door, a tap which grew progressively louder, woke him again, and he stared round angrily, then realised where he was. This was followed almost at once by an awareness of what had made him get drunk in the first place. Sighing deeply, Tom straightened his uniform as best he could.
“Come in,” he called.
Sara entered silently and stood regarding him from the other side of the room.
“What do you want, my girl?” he asked, irritable even with her. “Just to say I’m sorry about your little boy, Sir.”
“Oh, oh. Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Master?”
He regarded her bleakly. “Just tell me where he is now. Where his small soul has journeyed to.”
“Don’t you believe in Heaven, Sir?”
“No, not really.” Tom let out a sigh in which the weariness of years was voiced. “I’ve seen too much of death and dying. Seen soldiers fall all around me. Seen…” But his voice choked and was silent as again, unbidden, the memory of Culloden field came back.
He stared at Sara silently and then, at last, the tears came and the Governor wept bitterly. She said nothing but came to stand behind him, her fingers seeking out the nape of his neck where all the tension and pain were centred. Thus they stayed in silence, he sobbing without restraint, she quietly massaging his neck and shoulders. Eventually she spoke.
“Go to Mrs. Gage now, Governor. She needs you.”
“Yes,” he said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose. “She must be so distressed.”
“She’s asleep, Sir. But she’ll want you beside her when she wakes. And I also have an answer to your question.”
“About William?”
“Yes. He’s in Heaven, for certain. Whether you believe it or not makes no difference. He’s gone there.”
“Gone to Jesus, eh?”
“I don’t know about that, Master, but he’s sure as Hell gone to God.”
Her choice of words made the Governor give a short laugh. “Thank you, Sara. You’re a good girl.”
Just for a second her hands lingered on his shoulders, then she collected herself and giving him a little curtsey, left the room. He stood staring at the space where she had been then, moving like a man suddenly grown old, he went out and made his way upstairs.
*
There was to be no peace for him. Paul Revere, hearing a rumour that the storm-embattled ship, HMS Somerset, was heading for Portsmouth, Massachusetts, to seize gunpowder and armaments, rode
off to warn the people. Heading through the frozen slush, he arrived in Portsmouth on December 13th. There he made himself busy rousing the town folk. But if he thought his ride had been in secret, he had another think coming. On the very day of his arrival in Massachusetts, the Governor had a visitor.
“Well?” he said, as Calico Joel made his way silently into the study.
“Revere’s gone,” said the scout briefly. Then, thinking that maybe that explanation was too brief, he continued, “He thinks we’re after the powder in Fort William and Mary. He’s rousing the people to fight.”
“God damn the bastard,” shouted Tom, throwing his arms aloft. “The miserable little prick. He must have had word of the Somerset battling its way up the coast and thought it was after the powder.”
“But you are going after the powder, Excellency.”
“Yes, but not yet. I was waiting for the weather to improve. Now I’ve got to send out a ship to protect the fort. In these conditions. Merciful heaven, is there to be no end?”
Calico Joel looked at him wryly. “Not till we beat them or get out.”
“Get out? Yes, I sometimes think that will be the answer.” Gage looked at the scout very directly. “Joel, have you heard the bad news?”
“Yes, Sir,” the scout answered quietly.
“It’s been a terrible blow to me and Mrs. Gage.”
The Indian nodded silently. “When did you hear?”
“When the Somerset docked, two days ago.”
“I see. You must not cry for him, my Governor. He is everywhere now.
“What do you mean?”
“The Navajo people have a prayer. It goes, ‘Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.”’
It was said very simply, with no pretence, and Tom sat silently, staring at the scout. Eventually he said, “Could you write that down. I would like my wife to read it.”