I hear the King’s going to close the port . . .
He can’t do that, can he?
They say in Salem there’s a royal commission on its way to inquire . . .
Royal commission my backside, my cousin says they’ll send troops from Halifax and hang the rebels that did it . . .
Sam Adams’ll never let that happen.
Don’t be a fool, Adams is the first man they’ll hang. The King won’t put up with rebellion . . .
No
, agreed Abigail silently.
The King won’t put up with rebellion.
And she wondered for the dozenth time since leaving the house if she had any business going out of Boston even for an afternoon.
Her common sense told her that even if the King sent a Royal Commissioner to investigate the circumstances of last December that had resulted in over three hundred crates of East India Company tea being dumped into Boston Harbor, trouble wasn’t going to erupt on the first day. For one thing, the Sons of Liberty—the semi-secret organization devoted to defiance of the King’s arbitrary commands—would have to take the measure of the commission’s mandate and decide what to do. And these days, Sam Adams—her husband’s wily cousin—kept a tight rein on the Sons, cooling violence in one place, puffing it up in another, simplifying the issues at stake, and playing upon the angers and fears of men like a virtuoso playing upon a pianoforte.
A journey out to Cambridge for the afternoon would likely do no harm.
She hoped.
Begbie drew rein to let a half-dozen men pass, bearing on their shoulders the massive beam of what would be a ship’s keel. Some of them called out greetings to him, asked after wife, children, that keg of nails they were waiting for . . .
Abigail returned her thoughts to the note she had received.
To what “troubling” events did John introduce Horace by letter?
As far as Abigail knew, her esteemed husband—stout, peppery, brilliant, and maddening—hadn’t had anything to do with any of the Thaxters other than John Thaxter, his young law clerk and Horace’s cousin (
second cousin? Uncle? That was the trouble with being related to half the colony . . .
) for over a year, one whole branch of that well-off merchant clan having decided that she—Abigail—had stepped down in the world by marrying a farmer’s son even if he
was
related to the extremely respectable (
back then, anyway
) Deacon Adams of Old South Church . . .
And into what earthly situation could John have pitchforked the boy that would have put him
—so he believed—
in danger of his life?
A man in the leather apron of a ship’s carpenter emerged from a chandler’s shop, crossed the gravel, and spoke to the deliveryman, quiet beneath the din of hammering. Abigail didn’t hear his exact words, but she knew what they were.
Any news . . . ?
Begbie shook his head.
Only a few clouds spotted the bright April sky, but Abigail felt a chill and pulled her shawl close about her.
No news yet.
Six weeks for the news of the so-called Tea Party to reach England. Then whatever Parliament was going to decide to do about the rebellion growing in the colony. Then six weeks back.
Which meant that whatever was going to happen, was going to happen soon.
“Half a mo’, Mrs. Adams.” Begbie sprang down from his seat, darted down the split-log steps to the shipyard. From where she sat Abigail could see the broad, flat shape of the ferry scow and no sign of its captain or crew. A carter, a country minister in a black coat, and two stout farm-women in widebrimmed straw hats clustered by the ferry landing, talking eagerly with a couple of men in sailors’ slops.
Even the gulls that wheeled above the dumped remains of some fisherman’s unsold catch seemed to be yammering rumors to one another.
Men came and unloaded an immense coil of ship’s cable from the goods-wagon; Begbie took the horse’s bridle, led the animal down to the ferry just as Obed Pusey and his crew reappeared and began collecting sixpences for the voyage. Abigail climbed down before they crossed the wet black wood of the wharf, and sought out the bench farthest aft and as close to the mast as she could get without interfering with the crew’s work. Crossing through the confluence of the Charles River and the bay itself, the ferry would roll like a home-going drunkard and—a disgrace to her merchant heritage—Abigail knew she invariably became seasick in even the half-mile voyage from Boston to Charles Town across the harbor.
The sharp spring wind filled the sails as the men poled the scow off the wharf: Abigail resolutely fixed her eyes on the tidy cluster of brown houses, of orchards and farmlands, on the feet of the mainland hills. Like Boston, Charles Town stood on a peninsula, connected to the mainland by a neck of land, but from Charles Town you didn’t have to wind around rivers and over bridges to get to the town of Cambridge, where young Horace Thaxter was presently in college.
A letter from Mr. Adams . . . which induced me to believe myself safe in entering a situation at best equivocal . . .
Of course, Horace always believed himself in danger of his life. Abigail recalled more than one conversation with the weedy boy devoted entirely to his recital of his latest symptoms, which ranged from
tremor cordis
to sanguineous congestion of the lungs. At the time of their last meeting he had been, she estimated, fifteen and “grinding” with a tutor to prepare himself for Harvard College. Horace was tall, thin, and filled to the hairline with Aristotle and medical quackery. That had been on a visit to Salem where his parents (as well as Abigail’s sister) lived, shortly after Abigail’s son Charley’s first birthday.
Now Charley was three.
This is a matter which frightens me.
After long and complex circumlocutions in Latin, it came down to that.
This is a matter which frightens me . . .
Simple words in English.
And it was true—Abigail admitted it to herself—that she took a deal of pleasure in chopping through the Gordian knot of puzzling circumstance and the deliberate obstructions of evildoers.
It was also true that it was May, after a winter remarkable for the bitterness of its cold, and that once Mr. Begbie’s goods-wagon was off the rocking waters of the bay and onto the road that ran along the feet of Breeds and Bunker Hills, the sweetsmelling quiet of the countryside made a blessed change from Boston’s fishy reek and the stinks of sewage and backyard cows, the twitter of birds a delight after the rattle of carts and the shouting of boys playing in Queen Street and the clatter of hammers in Mr. Butler’s cooperage next door . . .
The peaceful air a relief from that dread that seemed to have settled over the town like a pillow pressed to an uneasy sleeper’s face.
What will we do if . . . ?
It should be any day we’ll hear . . .
Massachusetts in the spring.
The countryside that lay between Charles Town and Cambridge was prosperously settled, orchard trees parting now and then to show Abigail tidy farmhouses, and fields of corn already shoulder-high. Cows chewed mildly in their pastures; gray stone walls lined the road. In patches of woodland, finches and robins sang. Abigail dearly enjoyed the noise and excitement and conveniences of Boston—the ability to simply go down to the wharves for Spanish lemons or to a mercer’s on the next street if she happened to decide her daughter Nabby needed a new dress. The ability to go to a bookstore and purchase the newest works of Goldsmith or Smollett, or the fact that John could bring in newspapers printed that day. The fact that in winter, snow did not mean utter isolation. Yet she had been raised in the parsonage of a very small village, and in her heart, she sorely missed the scents of deep grass and woodland in May.
As Mr. Begbie had a number of deliveries in Cambridge and was likely to pursue his second vocation—that of collecting and disseminating news and rumor—when they reached the outskirts of the village, Abigail bid him good-by with thanks. “I shall finish up at the Golden Stair, on the Common,” said the carter—a neighbor of hers on Queen Street—shaking her hand in farewell. “You’ll find me there in three or four hours—time enough to locate your nephew—and we’ll still be back at the ferry long before the sun’s down. Good luck, m’am!”
Good luck indeed
, reflected Abigail good-humoredly, as she set off with her marketing basket in the direction of the College, whose cluster of brick halls she glimpsed through orchard trees, for she hadn’t the faintest idea in which of its several buildings Horace was lodged. The open-sided quadrangle of Harvard College faced the town common, across a lane and a four-foot wall. A young man in a freshman’s short gown emerged from the gate as Abigail drew near. He bore a wig box and walked swiftly, as if pursued or in fear of pursuit, and hesitated for an instant when she waved him over. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Horace Thaxter? Would you know—?”
“I say, I say—!” Another scholar in the longer gown of a more senior student strolled over from a group of his friends. “You there, Yeovil—”
The freshman gave Abigail a harassed look and turned.
“What are you up to, Yeovil?”
“I was speaking with this lady, sir,” said the boy. He looked about fifteen—Horace had been sixteen and a half when he’d entered the college the previous September, but they took boys younger even than this one—with linen spotlessly white against the blue of his academic gown and a beautifully curled pigeon-wing wig, powdered like marble.
“Now, Yeovil,” chided the newcomer, who looked rather like a ferret in a scarlet gown, “a
freshman
? Address a
lady
?”
“And so beautiful a lady,” added another of the group, coming over and making Abigail a handsome leg as he bowed.
“Che il crin s’è un Tago e son due Soli i lume/Prodigio tal non rimirò Natura
. . .
”
Between a crumpled neckcloth and an elaborately curled wig, his face was plump and unshaven, and his eyes, set in little cushions of fat discolored by sleeplessness, had the twinkling and rather dangerous intelligence of a pig. The effect was of a dissipated baby who had been spending far too many nights in a tavern. “How may your humble servant be of use to you, fair stranger? You, Yeovil, run along . . . Where
were
you off to?”
In a taut voice that showed an unfortunate tendency to crack, the boy said, “I was taking this wig to be curled, sir.” He held up the box.
The fat student viewed it through a quizzing-glass; his companion in the red gown, suppressing a grin, exclaimed, “Why, so you were! And whose wig is that, Yeovil?”
“Mr. Lechmere’s, sir.”
“Lechmere, Lechmere . . .” The older men—and the other two of their group who had joined them—all made a great show of trying to remember who Lechmere was.
“Egad, isn’t he a sophomore?”
“Disgraceful . . . !”
“For shame!”
“Tell you what,” said Red Gown, and produced from his voluminous sleeve two pewter pitchers, “why don’t you be a good chap and, while you’re in town, just hop on over to the Crowned Pig and fill these up with our good host’s best?”
John had told Abigail about the customs of the college: Yeovil, a lowly fresher, was obliged to do the bidding of his seniors. She also guessed that Red Gown was probably a junior and thus able to preempt the boy’s services (
How was he going to carry both pitchers full of ale and also Mr. Lechmere the Sophomore’s wig box . . . ? Which of course was the point, the wretched boys . . .
).
Thus she wasn’t at all surprised when Yeovil had been dispatched on his errand and the fat student—whose lush yellow gown gave him the general appearance of a gargantuan squash—made another bow, to find her request for Horace’s direction interrupted yet again . . .
“Excuse me, my very dear madame, I beg of you—Yeovil!” the fat man yelled. “Yo, Yeovil, come back here, blister it!”
He was the senior, then, reflected Abigail with a sigh. Or a bachelor-fellow, by the look of him. And privileged to preempt the junior’s request for ale, which had preempted the sophomore’s demand for his wig to be taken to be curled . . .
The fat student’s companions were stamping and slapping each other and smothering with laughter to such an extent that none of them saw another man—crimson-gowned and a few years older than they—until he had crossed the yard from the gate and reached Abigail’s side. “Pugh, aren’t you getting a little old for this kind of trick?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Pugh turned, piggy eyes sparkling in their pouches of fat. “
Dulce est disipere in loco
, my dear Ryland . . . Have you a quarrel with educating the wealthy in the arts of humility?”
“When it involves rudeness to a stranger,” replied his dear Ryland, “yes, I have. How may I serve you, m’am? My name is Joseph Ryland—Are you here in search of someone?” With a gesture he led her away from the group and farther into the quadrangle.
“I’m looking for Mr. Horace Thaxter, yes, thank you. I am Mrs. Adams, his aunt.”
“I’ve heard him speak of you, m’am. Did Mr. Fairfield write to you, then, about Thaxter’s illness?” Mended red gown billowing, Mr. Ryland led Abigail cattycorner across the yard to the old brick building that enclosed its southern end. “I’m sure it isn’t as serious as Fairfield thinks it—”
“What happened?” asked Abigail, startled.
Ryland made a gesture of frustration. Unlike the refulgent Mr. Pugh and his friends, the young man—she guessed his age at nearly thirty, her own age . . .
A tutor, then, or a bachelor-fellow waiting for an appointment somewhere
—wore his own hair, long and only lightly powdered; he spoke with the accents of Pennsylvania. “To be honest, Mrs. Adams, I think it was the food in the Hall. Do what they will, the Governors cannot keep the kitchen staff from buying the cheapest slops they can come by and pocketing the difference, and I know Horace’s constitution is a delicate one. I was going to let the matter go another day—I am the Fellow in charge of Massachusetts Hall—and then write his parents . . .”