Revere looked wise and tapped the side of his nose.
“We thought we’d be left in the mud, us not havin’ two shillings for our dinner, let alone the price of a horse,” said Miller, leaning forward on the bench with his manacled hands folded on his knees. “But he rode along at a walk, in no hurry, down the main streets of the town and out west of town near the Common, where they got a couple of streets cut but not so many houses to speak of, and cows and gardens and maybe a house or two. Cottrell rides straight up to one of the houses that is there, a good-size brick place with what looks to be an orchard at one side of it, that nobody’s taking care of, and puts his horse up in the stable like he owned the place and goes inside. We couldn’t get close, on account of him knowin’ us and us not wantin’ to be seen.”
“How did he know you?” asked Revere, and Matthias Brown looked puzzled, as if there were some self- evident portion of the story inscribed in the air above his head that Revere had neglected to examine.
“Because I’d laid hold of him in the ordinary-room of the Blue Ox and told him I’d beat the innards out of him for the festerin’ English Tory psalm-singin’ bastard he was.”
Revere echoed Abigail, “I see.”
“Only after that the festerin’ psalm-singin’ English Tory bastard kept indoors, or had two of Bingham’s men go about with him, so I never got the chance in Maine, y’see. I followed him all the way down to Georgetown Island and back, too. And that witch-friggin’ coward Quimby that owns the Blue Ox kept close to him, like they’d got engaged, as if there’s any harm in poundin’ the Proprietors’ agents, the festerin’—”
“Quite so,” said Abigail. “So you threatened Cottrell with a beating in front of witnesses.” No wonder Miller —who seemed in charge of what brains the duo possessed—had exhibited anxiety over the magistrates learning their right names.
“Ain’t I just told you that? But like Hev was sayin’, we never got the chance.” Brown’s deep voice was tinged with regret.
“Did you wait for him outside the house?”
“Oh, yes, m’am,” said Miller. “The house stands on a rise of ground, some two-three hundred yards off from the meeting-house that looks out over the Mill-Pond. I had my glass with me, so we stayed by the corner of the meeting-house and watched the place, turn and turn about, all the afternoon. Just before dinnertime a man rode up on a dapple gray horse and went inside, and stayed maybe an hour. Bar that, there was nothing, though just after Cottrell got there, smoke came out the chimney, white and clotty-looking the way it is when the chimney’s cold. We didn’t see no servants, no stableman, nothing.”
“When it grew dark,” asked Abigail, “did you see lights in the house?”
Both culprits looked abashed and scratched in silence.
“It was mighty cold there by the meeting-house, m’am,” said Miller at length. “As bad as back home, or nearly.”
“And we hadn’t had but a heel of bread and some cheese we brought from the boat,” added Brown. “And no rum for hours and hours.”
Abigail said again, “I see.” The Lynd Street Meeting-House stood largely isolated in that hilly, thinly built district north of the Common, but along the Mill-Pond nearby stood little clumps of habitation, which included at least two distilleries and several of Boston’s less salubrious taverns.
“We weren’t going to be gone from our post but for a few minutes,” added Miller earnestly. “Either of the pair of ’em would have been in sight when we came out, if they’d left, and if those festerin’ Massachuser scoundrels at the Dressed Ship had been able to hold their rum like real men.”
“It wasn’t the rum,” insisted Brown. “ ’ Twas the damn butter.”
“When you show witch-friggin’ Massachusers how to make hot buttered rum,” explained Miller to Abigail, “you’ve got to watch out for the butter. Lot of men can’t take it. Renders ’em quarrelsome.”
“Ignorant festerin’ bastards,” added Brown.
Abigail sighed. She’d heard all about hot buttered rum from her brother William, and how it was indeed all the fault of the butter. “And did it,” she asked, “render the other customers of the Dressed Ship quarrelsome?”
“It has to be good butter,” insisted Brown. “This slime they had at the Dressed Ship wasn’t hardly butter at all, so we wasn’t to be blamed really for what happened. If they’d had decent butter there, all would have been well, and so we told ’em.”
Miller nodded agreement.
“What time did the fight start?” asked Abigail resignedly. “Was there still daylight in the sky?”
“Oh, yes, m’am,” said Miller. “But only just.”
“The sun was down,” agreed Brown. “But when they throwed me through the window, there was plenty light in the sky for me to find a good stick of firewood to go back in with.” He made a gesture indicative of brandishing a club. “Those table-legs, they just break first thing you hit with ’em.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Abigail. “Was it still light when they brought you here?”
“Yes, m’am,” said Miller promptly, though his friend looked a bit puzzled, possibly because he had not been completely conscious at the time. “Fight didn’t last but a minute or two, before the Watch came in. Probably drinkin’ just down the street, festerin’ Puritans. Dusk it was, when we come in here, and that scoundrel Hoyle took my glass in trade for just enough wood so we didn’t freeze to death in the night, the witch-friggin’ Massachuser bastard. The magistrate had already gone home, and next day was Sunday, so nobody asked us our names. And by Monday everyone in the jail was talkin’ that Cottrell had been found beat to death. So we figured, better we not give our names nor nuthin’, and take our whippin’ at the stocks, and be on our way. Only
“Your time’s up.” Hoyle reappeared in the doorway, possibly brought back in by the incautious raising of Hev Miller’s voice. Paul Revere got to his feet and crossed to meet Hoyle. Abigail heard the clink of a coin, followed by the discreet closing of the door again.
“He says we’re going before the magistrate Monday,” murmured Miller, lowering his voice again. “Then we’re going to get shut of this town, quick as ever we can. Eli’s all right, isn’t he?” he added. “You seen him? The
“It is,” said Abigail. “But—”
“I’m afraid getting out of town isn’t in it for you yet.” Revere came quietly back to the remains of the fire, to which Abigail and the two prisoners had been huddling with greater and greater intimacy as the sticks were consumed. “They’re searching for you—not the Watch, but the Provost Marshal of the Sixty-Fourth Regiment—and they’ve got a man keeping an eye on the
“’ Tis true. We were afraid we wouldn’t find you in time.”
“But don’t worry, men,” Revere went on bracingly. “And hold yourselves ready. I’ll talk to Mr. Adams tonight.” He winked at them. “We’ll find a place to keep you, ’til we can find another way to take you out. In the meantime I’ve given that brute Hoyle the price of a half-decent meal and a blanket for the two of you, and we’ll get word to Eli that all’s well.” He clasped Miller, then Brown by the hands. “You boys stay sharp. And not a word to anyone. Someone will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir—Thank you, sir—”
“Mr. Revere!” Abigail stopped herself from scratching as they followed Hoyle back through the cold little vestibule and grudgingly handed the man a tip as he bowed them out the door. “You aren’t going to have Sam arrange a jail deliverance for those two ruffians, are you?”
“The way I see it, we have little choice, m’am.” They crossed Queen Street, then turned down the little passway that led to the Adams yard, Abigail reflecting in annoyance that her dress, both her cloaks, and every petticoat she had on would have to be hung up outside overnight in the freezing cold to rid them of the livestock they’d picked up.
“For one thing,” Revere went on, “we’re going to need them to point out the house. There’s probably half a
