by Ron Carter
“Ask him.”
She grasped Thorpe’s arm. “Father?”
Thorpe brushed her aside and shook the warrant in Samuels’s face. “I demand to know who obtained this warrant! I’ll have them in irons!”
Samuels squared his shoulders and stared Thorpe in the eye. “That warrant was obtained by John Phelps Dunson and Thomas Sievers. It is for your arrest on the charge of spying against the colony of Massachusetts. Now, sir, you will get dressed immediately and come with us or we are prepared to shackle you now and take you by force. The choice is yours. Pronounce yourself.”
Kathleen gasped. Phoebe’s face blanched white and she sighed and her knees buckled. Kathleen caught her and held her on her feet.
Thorpe’s mouth dropped open in utter disbelief, and he lowered his hand with the warrant and stared blindly into the face of David Samuels while his mind numbed. For five seconds he stood unable to move, to speak, his face a blank. “Dunson? Dunson did this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On what proof?”
“I don’t know. I do know Enid Ferguson is now in my jail, and she has freely written and signed a full confession against you. It implicates you in giving information directly to General Gage.”
Thorpe’s head rolled back and his eyes closed and everything inside the man crumbled. He sagged against the door frame, and Samuels reached to hold him erect.
Kathleen laid her mother on the sofa and turned back to her father, shock and utter terror in her eyes. “Is it true? Is John right? Is Enid right?”
Thorpe tried to speak but sound would not come, and he swallowed and tried again. “Of course not, child. A mistake! This is grotesque beyond words!”
She turned to Samuels. “What is he accused of giving to Gage? What information?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Of course you do!” Kathleen cried. “If Enid wrote out a confession, you know what she said. Tell me. Now!” Her voice rang and her eyes were points of light.
Samuels’s mouth became a straight line for a moment before he spoke. “I do recall mention of the muskets that were taken into the church on Monday.”
Kathleen spun to face her father. “Did you do it? You knew! Someone told them and they searched the church. Was it you, Father?” Her eyes bored into his face.
Thorpe could not meet her eyes. He stammered and stopped, then said, “Of course not.”
Behind them, the children came padding on bare feet, digging at sleepy eyes. “Mama, what’s wrong? Why is everybody shouting?” They walked to Phoebe, slumped on the sofa.
Kathleen backed away from her father, staring at him as though she did not recognize him. “Spying,” she hissed. “Spying,” she repeated as though the word were a poison, bitter on her tongue. “You’ve destroyed us! All of us! There will be no place we can go! Like lepers!”
Samuels started at the sound of the sobbing and shoved Thorpe aside and strode to Phoebe. She started to rise, then sank back onto the sofa. She clutched Samuels’s arms and her racking sobs filled the room. Her cries were unintelligible as she screamed, and then she turned her face upward and began to call to God to take her and the children from the pain. Samuels seized her shoulders and she slumped. Kathleen ran for water and returned, and Phoebe struck the dipper and it flew clattering against a wall.
“Get Doctor Soderquist,” Samuels called to a deputy, and Kathleen stepped in close and wrapped her mother in her arms to stop her. Phoebe stared at Kathleen as though she did not know her, and she suddenly sagged into a huddled lump on the sofa and dissolved into pitiful moans and tears. Kathleen sat down beside her mother and gathered the frightened, crying children under one arm, her mother under the other, and started the instinctive rocking back and forth, talking low.
Samuels turned back to Thorpe, deep anger in his eyes and face. “You, sir, had better get dressed if you intend to. You have three minutes.”
Thorpe walked to the bedroom as though in a trance, a deputy beside him, and minutes later emerged, dressed. The deputies clamped the manacles onto his wrists and led him out into the night while Samuels went back to the sofa.
“Kathleen, only God knows how sorry I am. Is there anything I can do?”
She tried to speak and could not. She shook her head.
“Can I send someone? Margaret? Matthew?”
Kathleen turned tortured eyes up to his. “No. No. There’s no one you can send.”
He placed his large, awkward hand on her shoulder and patted her, then walked from the room and closed the door on the wrenching sounds of Phoebe moaning and the children, huddled against Kathleen, wailing in their anguished fear. He trotted to the carriage waiting in the street, checked to be certain Thorpe was seated beside a deputy, and climbed to the driver’s seat. He grasped the reins, clucked to the horse, and the carriage started up the street, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering on the cobblestones. He raised the horse to a steady trot, and from the corner of his eye caught a glimpse of a tall, slender, shadowy figure sprinting towards the Thorpe home. He eased back on the reins, lost the figure in the dark, considered for a moment, and continued on into the night.
Matthew threw open the front gate and hammered on the front door of the Thorpe home. Moments passed in silence and he raised his hand again, when he heard the handle turn and the door opened slightly.
“Who’s there?”
“Me, Matthew. Kathleen, in the name of heaven, open the door!”
He heard the breath catch in her throat, and slowly the door opened. Kathleen stood facing him, feet slightly apart, cheeks tear-stained and eyes brimming. Instantly he seized her and pulled her inside his arms and held her, his cheek against her hair, and he felt her stiffen, arms at her sides. Slowly he released her and backed away to look deeply into her face. Behind her, hidden by the door, he heard the sounds of Phoebe moaning and the children sobbing.
“Kathleen, I came as soon . . . what’s wrong?”
He watched her chin tremble and knew she could not trust herself to speak, and tears silently ran down her cheeks to make dark spots on her robe.
“Where’s your father?”
She choked out two words. “Arrested. Gone.”
“Arrested! You can’t stay here alone. Come with me. All of you. Come home with me.” He reached to push the door open and she caught his arm.
“No. We can’t.”
Stunned, Matthew stepped back. “What are you talking about? Of course you can. You know how—”
The strangled sound that came from deep in her throat struck Matthew like the thrust of a dagger, and she cried, “Don’t you know what’s happened? They’ve taken my father for spying! Spying! We can’t come with you or anyone else! Go home. Stay away from us.”
Matthew’s mouth fell open at the agony in her voice, and he stood rooted for a time before he could form words. “I love you and—”
The pain in her face and her voice was beyond anything Matthew had ever known. “Don’t say it, don’t say it!” she moaned. “It’s gone. Gone. I can’t stand you being here, knowing you will never be mine! It will kill me! If you feel anything for me, go! Leave and don’t come back! I couldn’t stand the pain again!”
He reached for her, and she pounded clenched fists on his chest and shoved him back roughly and her voice rose. “I’m a leper! Don’t you understand? My father is a traitor! We are unclean!”
Overwhelmed, Matthew tried one more time. “I need to be here with you. I can help.”
“No, no, no. Go, Matthew. If you feel anything for me, go.”
She closed the door and Matthew heard the oak bar drop. He stared at the door, his mind blank, his heart numb. He heard Kathleen’s agonized sobbing from within and then her footsteps as she gathered her mother and the children and walked with them into the bedroom wing of the home.
Slowly Matthew backed away from the door, then turned and walked through the front gate and turned north at a regular, firm stride.
North and east, Sheriff
David Samuels hauled the carriage to a halt before his office and climbed down. The deputies helped Thorpe to the ground while Samuels unlocked the door and stepped back to let the deputies lead Thorpe inside the bare, austere room. A single lantern glowed, and the deputy turned up the wick.
“Take him on back to the first cell,” Samuels ordered, “and then Jonathan, you stay to guard these two while Will and I serve the last warrant.”
While the deputies worked with the huge, flat brass keys and the clanging cell door, Samuels walked back outside to look up and down the street. Nothing moved. Satisfied, he walked back inside, closed the door, and dropped the thick oak bar into its brackets.
Across the street, a slight, stooped figure leaped from a dark doorway and sprinted west. Amos Ingersol ran the half mile to his rented room and threw open the door, fighting for breath, sweating, face pasty white. He lighted a single lamp, jerked a woven wicker suitcase from beneath his bed, threw it open, and jammed clothing from his closet and dresser drawers inside. He slammed it closed and buckled the straps, then threw his toiletries into a second small fabric bag. For a moment he surveyed the room to be certain he had not left papers that would incriminate, then turned the lamp wick off and backed out the door into the darkness. He closed the door and turned on his heel to run, and stopped dead in his tracks.
Five feet away, a thin, shadowy figure faced him in the moonlight, eyes glowing like embers. His hair was long and stringy, shoulders pinched, face lined and unshaven, coat worn and tattered. His right hand held a tomahawk loosely at his side.
“Run if you’ve a mind,” the quiet voice declared, and waited. Ingersol did not move nor speak.
“Then get back inside. We’ll wait for the sheriff.”
Ingersol fumbled the door open and backed into his dark room, eyes never leaving the tomahawk.
A chill breeze moved in from the Atlantic and whispered through the oaks and maples and moved their leaves, which made lacy silver patterns of moonlight on the ground and rooftops. Matthew opened the front gate and rapped on the door. Margaret opened it, and Matthew moved past her without a word and sat down at the table. Margaret followed him and sat down facing him, and waited. They sat in silence for a time before Matthew raised his eyes from the tabletop and looked directly at his mother.
“She sent me away.” He could think of nothing else to say.
Margaret’s eyes dropped for a moment. “She’s been wounded. Give her time.”
“She said never come back.”
“That wasn’t Kathleen. That was pain. Try to understand.”
“She said they were lepers. Unclean.”
“It will pass.”
The muscles on his jaw made little ridges for a moment, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat. He looked into his mother’s eyes and she saw the deep fear. “I can’t lose her. I can’t.”
Margaret’s chin quivered for a moment, and she impulsively reached to touch his cheek. “You won’t lose her. Give her time.”
Matthew dropped his head forward to stare unseeing once more at the tabletop, and then he raised his head and drew in a great, ragged breath and released it slowly. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and stood and ran his hand through his hair, feeling a rise of anger at the black hopelessness. “I don’t know what to do,” he exclaimed. “I can’t go back over there.”
“Sit here and we’ll talk.”
He shook his head and paced to the middle of the room. “She wouldn’t even let me past the door. Pushed me out.” He turned back to Margaret and she saw the angry points of light in his eyes. “I can’t . . .” Suddenly Matthew raised a hand and stopped and turned his head to listen. “Someone’s coming.”
A soft rap came at the door, and Matthew was there in two strides while Margaret stood.
“Who’s there?” he called through the door.
“Tom Sievers.”
He threw the door open and Tom stood in the yellow light.
“Has John left yet?”
Margaret spoke as she hurried to the door. “Yes. About half an hour ago.”
Matthew paced back to the center of the room, agitated, battling the anger that was building.
Tom nodded to Margaret. “Thank you, ma’am. I stopped to tell him the sheriff arrested Amos Ingersol. He has all three in the jail now.” He paused for a moment and glanced at Matthew. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait,” Margaret said. “John left a message for you. Come in. Tell us what happened.”
Tom backed up half a step. “Ma’am, I oughtn’t be inside your house, looking like I am. I can tell you that Ingersol is signing a statement about what he done, like Enid Ferguson. It looks bad for Mr. Thorpe.”
At the words “Mr. Thorpe,” Matthew stopped dead in his tracks and his head pivoted towards Tom. For a moment their eyes locked, and then Tom looked back at Margaret.
“There’s not much more to tell. What message did John leave for me?”
Matthew listened intently.
“He said he’s gone to Concord. Across the river, past Charlestown, west at Winter Hill, cross-country to Menotomy, and then onto the main road into Concord.”
Tom tracked John’s path in his mind as Margaret spoke, and he nodded his head. “Thank you. I’ll go find him.” He turned to go, then hesitated. “Ma’am, I’m sorry about Henry Thorpe. I know you was close. I hated doing what John and me had to do, but it had to be done.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Tom bobbed his head. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Wait,” Matthew commanded. “I’m going with you.”
Margaret clutched at his arm. “No, you stay here. This thing with the Thorpes is clouding your thinking. We’ll need you.”
Matthew shook his head. “No. I can’t take it—being here and not being allowed to help her. I’m sick to death of this whole thing. Muskets, the church desecrated, war coming, Father gone, Henry arrested, Kathleen talking crazy. If I stay here I’ll do something bad. I’m going.” He turned to Tom. “Give me five minutes.”
Tom shook his head. “You’ll need a clear head if trouble starts at Concord. You oughtn’t go if it’s just to get away from things here.”
Matthew shook his head firmly. “I’m going. With you or alone.”
Tom shrugged and stepped inside and remained silent while Matthew trotted back to his bedroom. Five minutes later he returned, dressed in dark woolen pants and shirt, musket in hand. He stopped at the table long enough to slip the straps of his powder horn and bullet pouch over his shoulder.
Margaret walked to him, shoulders slumped, and spoke quietly. “Take sixty balls, eighty patches, four extra flints, and a full powder horn. Father said.”
“I have them.”
“I’ll get some food.” She filled a small bag with cheese and dried apples and meat and bread from the pantry, and Matthew tied it to his belt. “Will you need a bottle of water?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.” Tom answered. “There’s streams.”
Matthew slipped the shoulder strap of his musket over his shoulder and faced Tom. “Let’s go.”
Margaret gently took him by the arm and looked up into his face, her eyes filled with a sadness, and wonder. “It’s all come too fast,” she said thoughtfully. “Henry arrested, the British, and now both you and John going to war.” She shook her head. “I never thought of you and John going to war.” She paused, and Matthew saw the flat look in her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see either of you alive again.”
She did not weep. The feeling in her heart was beyond tears. Without warning, her warm, safe nest, the center of her life, her reason for living, was being wrenched into pieces. Her husband and best friend had gone in the night, carrying a musket to kill other men if he must or be killed. And now her firstborn, her beautiful, tall, obedient firstborn was walking out the door with a musket in his hand to shoot men or be shot. How could such dark and evil things rear their ugly heads so quickly and in a moment steal from her the
very foundations of her life? What law of heaven had she offended that brought such soul-destroying punishment down on her head? How had she provoked God that he would allow it to happen?
She slipped her arms about Matthew and for long moments held him close, feeling the warmth and the life and the strength of him, and savoring the smell of him, and remembering countless little things in his life that are precious only to a mother.
She released him and stepped back. “God bless you and bring you home, son.”
“I’ll be back,” he replied, with the blind innocence that hides from all youth any hint of their own mortality.
“Take care of him,” she said to Tom.
“I’ll try, ma’am. I surely will.”
She watched as the two men walked out the door, into the night. She walked out into the chill east breeze and stood in the irregular rectangle of light with her robe wrapped tightly about her and stared after them for long seconds after they disappeared. Then she walked back into the house and closed the door and dropped the heavy oak bar into the brackets, and started at the soft sound of slippers on the hard polished floor from behind. “Brigitte! What are you doing up?”
Brigitte stood at the archway in her nightclothes, arms at her sides, frowning, suspicious. “Couldn’t sleep. Where’re Father and Matthew?”
Margaret heaved a sigh. “Sit down at the table.”
A few moments passed while Brigitte sat rigid at the side of the table, Margaret next to her in John’s big chair at the end. Margaret leaned forward on her elbows facing her, arranging her thoughts. “Your father has gone to Concord, and Tom Sievers and Matthew followed.”
Brigitte’s eyes widened and a shadow passed over her face. “Why?”
“The British have moved hundreds of troops across the Back Bay.”
Brigitte gasped. “To do what?”
“No one knows.”
“Which troops did the British send? the marines?”
Margaret slowly straightened in her chair, forehead drawn down in puzzlement. “Why do you ask that question?”
There was alarm in Brigitte’s voice. “I want to know. Did they?”