by Lake, Deryn
“Never!”
“Yes, and to crown it all, she’s a black slave.”
“Well I’ll be blowed, so I will. For now I’ve heard it all.”
Chapter Eighteen
New Year’s Eve, 1774
It was New Year’s Eve, the end of the year 1774, and a more solemn occasion Tom could not recall. He had invited Lord Percy and one or two other officers to dine but despite his best effort, despite the attempts of everyone present to put some enthusiasm into the party, conversation had been sporadic, laughter at a premium. Even Mrs. Gage, who had earned something of a reputation amongst the British high command as a belle of fashion, had dressed sombrely, as if echoing the general atmosphere.
Hugh Percy, surreptitiously putting on his dreaded spectacles for a few minutes and studying his host and hostess, found them changed. Yet it was an indefinable difference, something he could not have described even to himself, but for all that they had altered in some way. Yet the circumstances in which they were presently living were enough to transform anyone, he thought. And that statement applied to all those present. All faced with the fact that war was almost inevitable. The only question was when and how it would break out. He removed his glasses again as the Governor started to speak.
“Gentlemen, I can tell you frankly that I am extremely perturbed.”
Instead of asking why, there were murmurs of assent from those present; Stephen Kemble, Margaret’s brother, nodding his head wisely.
“It is the business of the Government at home to make the decisions,” Tom continued. “It is my job to execute measures, not to choose what they are.”
“I think,” said Lord Percy, selecting his words carefully, “that they are going to procrastinate.”
“Deliberately?”
“Yes, I believe so. I think they are rather hoping the situation will resolve itself.”
Gage let out a deep sigh. “In my opinion the Yankees are spoiling for a fight. It’s just a matter of time.”
Margaret spoke. “But you must admit the colonists have a point.”
There was an awkward silence, broken by the General himself. “Which is?” he asked.
To give her her due his wife looked uncomfortable but still said, “There are thousands of people, many of whom were born here. Surely they have a right to feel they could govern themselves.”
“Just as you have a right to your opinion,” Tom replied calmly. He turned back to his fellow officers. “Gentlemen, let me give you a toast. To 1775, whatever it might hold.”
They stood up, raising their glasses, and there was a chorus of, “To 1775.”
Margaret got to her feet a second or two later and drank with them. Then she said, “If you would excuse me, gentlemen. I am sure there is a great deal you want to discuss privately. Goodnight to you.”
And she left the room, her skirts stiff and crackling. There was another silence broken by Lord Percy saying, “Mrs. Gage has an outlook, Sir. After all, she is American born.”
Tom muttered something almost inaudible which sounded suspiciously like, “I am more than aware of it,” but Hugh let it pass. He turned to the Governor. “Well, Sir, do you wish to discuss plans?”
“No, not tonight.” He turned to the assembled company. “Is it your wish that we have one evening free of this worsening situation? That we forget it and enjoy ourselves?”
“Yes, indeed,” answered several heartfelt voices drowned out by Major Pitcairn, a tough Scotsman who swore great oaths yet had a gentle exterior and soft, large eyes. “By God, it will do us good, Sir.”
“In that case let me ring for the port,” Tom answered, and pealed the handbell loudly to attract Robin’s attention.
Upstairs, lying fully dressed on the bed, Margaret heard the sound and thought that the evening might well end in cards and dice. For she had guessed that there would be no serious talk this night. She felt ashamed now of her outburst, felt she had said too much. Not that she didn’t believe in the cause but to speak so in front of her husband and his officers had been going too far. Suddenly full of nervous energy she rose and opening the doors, walked out onto the balcony.
Below her she could see the gardens and beyond the two sentry boxes with the sentries marching between them. Then suddenly her heartbeat quickened and she hastened to the balcony’s edge to get a better look. A man stood in the shadows, a man whom she recognised instantly. She could dimly make out his dark cloak and the white blur of his upturned face. He was holding something, perhaps a book purchased from young Henry Knox, a big fat boy who had a shop close to Province House. But he had been unable to resist lingering a moment in the hope of seeing her. Quickly, almost surreptitiously, she briefly raised her arm to wave, and was rewarded with a similar gesture from Dr. Joseph Warren. Then she stood silently, watching him walk away, seeing him turn his head once more for a final brief glance.
Going back into the room, Margaret thought of Joseph’s blazing sincerity, of his passionate belief in the cause of freedom, of his willingness to lay down his life for it. Lying on the bed once more, she saw herself as a woman torn between two opposing factions. Out of her loyalty to her husband she must support the Tory cause, yet when Joseph spoke to her of the Whigs, of his belief in the future of the country of which she herself was a native, then she knew that was where her beliefs lay.
Downstairs the party continued, the port being passed, the men swapping stories, Lord Percy giving brilliant glances from his shortsighted eyes. But eventually there seemed a silent consent and several of the officers stood up to take their leave. The Governor, who was exceptionally weary himself, bade them farewell, ill concealing a fit of yawning, until eventually all had gone with the exception of Hugh Percy.
“Half an hour to the new year, Sir.”
“Yes,” said Tom, and gave a small, bitter laugh.
“Do you dread it as much as I do?”
“Every bit, I imagine.”
“War is inevitable, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, my dear Hugh, indeed it is.”
After the Earl had left, Tom poured himself another brandy and sat alone, dousing the candles and pulling back the curtains to allow the moonlight to shine through. He found his thoughts turning to Sara, wondering whether she was up to see the new year in or had gone to bed, tired as he was.
She had settled in comfortably enough with Mrs. Wells and the Governor had booked further reading lessons for her with a certain Francis Borland who lived in Milk Street. Because Tom regarded her as a kind of daughter – that is what he told himself, anyway – he called on her once a week, desperately clawing the time out of his busy days.
With no work other than helping Mrs. Wells to keep the house clean, Sara had devoted herself to her studies and was now reading well, frequently aloud to the Governor, who sat in the chair while she perched on the end of the bed. He had said to her once, “Sara, do you never go out with people your own age?”
She had smiled at him just a trifle wistfully. “Sir, where could I go? I think you sometimes think you are back in England and that I am a young woman of position. As it is I run errands during the day for Mrs. Wells. I visit the shops and go to church on Sundays. But as for meeting people like myself, no I don’t.”
Terrible feelings of guilt had suffused him. “But, my dear…”
“Don’t worry about it please, Master Governor. I have visits from you. They are quite enough.”
Time went on a loop and he said to his wife, “But I’m years older than you are,” then had wondered why Sara’s cheeks had suddenly flamed and realised he had spoken aloud.
Now, sitting alone in the moonlight, he thought of that remark and cursed himself for making it. Sara could have been forgiven for imagining he was meaning something entirely different. Yet, he had said the words, had thought momentarily that he was speaking to Margaret, then realised that it was Sara, so young and innocent, who sat there.
The Governor rose and paced the room, hoping that his former slave
was happy yet having the sneaking suspicion that his visits alone kept her going. He wondered how much longer he could continue making them in view of the worsening situation. Not only that, the journeys to the other side of town were shrouded in secrecy, yet Andrew was aware, driving the coach through the winter nights as he did. At least, Tom thought to himself, his disguise had not been penetrated. Nobody was aware of who he actually was, of that much he was certain.
He jumped as the door behind him opened slowly. Turning, he saw that Margaret stood there, clad in her nightclothes. She smiled at him. “I’ve come to see the new year in.”
He was filled with relief, half imagining that she had found out where he went occasionally, that his excuse of overseeing the troops had been penetrated.
“My dear,” he said.
She came to stand close to him, her familiar perfume pervading the atmosphere.
“Shall we drink to it?”
“For better or worse, yes,” he answered, and going to the bottle-stand drew out a bottle of champagne. “This is probably the last we’ll have for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“That supplies are beginning to run short.”
“Don’t let’s discuss it, Tom. Lets pretend that we’ve rolled the years back.”
It was his turn to ask her what she meant.
“Can’t we just be us for half an hour? As carefree as we were when we started out on our life together?”
“I don’t see why not.” He poured two glasses and as he did so the longcase clock that he had bought in England and shipped out with him, struck midnight.
“Happy New Year, darling,” she said, and snuggled close to him. “Happy New Year,” he answered, and wished with all his heart that it would be for both of them.
Chapter Nineteen
February, 1775
The spies had been called for duty to the office of Major Stephen Kemble, who had been put in charge of intelligence. And nobody, thought Margaret’s brother, who had grown older and wiser and no longer affected an English accent, could have wished to see a more contrasting bunch of men. First there was Captain John Brown, an eager young sprite, willing to do anything and go anywhere. Then there was his companion, Lieutenant John De Berniere, also young but a veteran of Gage’s old regiment, the 44th. Seated at the back of the room was Major Thomas Pitcairn, he of the terrible oaths and soft, gentle eyes. While standing was the oddity, Calico Joel, clearly sizing up the other men in the room and not being particularly impressed by what he saw.
There was one spy missing, of course. Dr. Benjamin Church, on the surface an avowed patriot, but secretly, silently on Governor Gage’s payroll. His mistress was a woman of expensive tastes and he had been forced to sell out to the other side in order to satisfy her whims – or so he told himself. In fact he was a greedy man and liked the power and pleasure of extra money. Simply enjoyed feeling it and having it around him. He was also, strangely for a medical man, totally devoid of conscience.
Everyone looked in Stephen Kemble’s direction as he started to speak.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am sure you all know why you’re here. It is the Governor’s intention to learn as much as possible about the nature of the country round Boston so that the troops, should they receive the order to march, can do so with maximum efficiency. And that is where you will come in. I would like each and every one of you to scout out certain places and report back directly to me. In this way I can make a plan of the area with particular notes as to manpower, arms and so on. This will be invaluable.”
Kemble turned his attention to individuals.
“Major Pitcairn, you are to scout round the area looking for possible ambush sites. Captain Brown and Lieutenant De Berniere, you are to venture towards Concord and beyond, absorbing anything of interest. As with Howe, sketch maps will be invaluable to us.” Major Keznble cleared his throat “…Any questions?”
“We won’t wear uniform, surely to God.” This from Major Pitcairn. “No, you will dress as countrymen. Even you, Sir.”
“Me?” Calico Joel spoke for the first time.
“You. I want you to take up residence in Concord and report back every move the people make. I also want you to seek out information regarding military equipment and stores gathered by the Whigs and give me the dates, names, places. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” the Indian answered succinctly. “But I would prefer to dress as I do normally.”
“Then please be as inconspicuous as possible,” Kemble answered, and grinned broadly. “Perhaps you should start by cutting your hair.”
Calico Joel looked at him very straightly. “I would not do that, not even on the Governor’s command. But then he is too great a man to ask it of me. Don’t worry, Monsieur, you will have your information whatever my attire. Now, may I go?”
The request came as such a surprise that the Major answered ‘Yes,’ and even before the word was out of his mouth Calico Joel had saluted and left the room. There was a moment’s silence after his exit then Lieutenant De Berniere said, “Queer sort of a cove, ain’t he.”
“He certainly is. But say nothing against him before the Governor. He can see no wrong in the fellow at all.”
“If this was any other time I’d be tempted to take him down a peg or two, damnable half-breed.”
“Well it isn’t so you can get that thought right out of your head.”
Major Pitcairn let out a crack of laughter. “You’re all jealous of the man’s reputation, I’d swear it. The chap’s an excellent scout and there’s an end to it. I warrant he’ll do the best of any of us.”
“That, my dear Sir,” Lieutenant De Berniere replied with dignity, “remains to be seen.”
It was so easy to change into ordinary clothes and slip round to the stables to take out the chaise, or so the Governor thought as he hurriedly took off his uniform and put on plain dark breeches and coat. Yet tonight it seemed as though fate were conspiring against him because as he descended the stairs Margaret, who was frequently out herself at this time, came from the living room and stood regarding him.
“Going to inspect the troops?” she asked him pleasantly.
Some instinct made him say, “No, not tonight.”
“I thought not.”
“Why?”
“Because tonight you are dressed as a civilian. Tell me, my dear, what is it you do when you are garbed thus?”
“I drive round Boston in the chaise. Anonymously.”
“With what purpose?”
“To see how the people are faring,” he answered smoothly.
“But surely that is something you already know.”
“I like to keep my finger on the pulse.”
Margaret pulled a face. “What a nasty thought. Do you go to the taverns and mix with the lower orders?”
“Sometimes.”
She gave a humourless laugh. “You sound as if you are a Whig.”
Thomas made a great effort to be agreeable. “My darling, I have been doing this for some time now. I may have sent my spies out of
Boston but I think it is imperative that somebody knows how the people within are reacting.”
“People or person?”
“What do you mean?”
“I sometimes think that you are going to meet a woman.”
He hated lying to her, had always prided himself on his truthfulness, but the consequences of her knowing that he went to see Sara were too terrible even to contemplate.
“I resent that remark,” he defended himself. “How would I have had time to meet anyone, let alone see her on a regular basis?” Margaret suddenly looked unbelievably weary and Thomas’s heart bled for her.
“Darling, don’t be suspicious. Let me assure you that I have always been utterly faithful to you.”
She leant her head against his chest. “I know, I know. It’s just this beastly place and the situation which gets worse daily. Go on, mix with the populace if that’s what makes you happy.”
“Strangely enough, it does.”
“Then go on. I won’t wait up for you. Go and enjoy yourself.”
Such a sudden capitulation brought out the reverse in Thomas Gage. “My darling, I won’t go tonight,” he said. “Let us sit together in the candlelight and talk of England and how one day we will return there.”
In the way of all human beings, having won her victory, Margaret promptly answered, “No, Tom. I insist that you go. It is clearly essential that you keep your eye on the citizens. Now, run along do.”
“No, darling, I’ve decided to stay.”
“No, I insist that you go.”
In the end, the Governor was practically pushed through the front door, where, having returned the salute of the two guards on duty, he went round to the stables and persuaded the small grey horse into the traces of the chaise. Normally this would have been Andrew’s job but when he went to visit Sara, Governor Gage considered it more private if he did the whole business himself. He was blissfully unaware, of course, that the entire staff of Province House knew exactly when he called on the girl and made lewd jokes about it. A fact that would have infuriated him had he been aware of it. But now, having got the horse in position, he climbed aboard the chaise and set off through the darkening streets of Boston.
He could see the light in her room as he turned the corner into the crowded alley, huddling beneath the shadow of Christ’s Church. In Christ’s Gage had a boxed pew with his name on it which he dutifully attended every Sunday. On those days, accompanied by Margaret and driven by Andrew, he could not even look at the place where Sara lodged, indeed averted his eyes. Yet he often wondered if she attended divine service, sitting somewhere at the back, leaving hastily before he had time to catch a glimpse of her.
Tonight, though, she must have been watching from the window because she was standing on the stairs as Mrs. Wells opened the front door and curtsied.
“Good evening, Sir.”
“Good evening, Madam. Is Sara within?”
“Oh yes, Sir.” Mrs. Wells looked upwards. “There she is; waiting for you. And what a sweet smile she’s giving,” she added archly.