A Marked Man

Was it a sound? She saw again the open window in the kitchen on Sunday night, the dark form against her candle’s feeble glow, the dead mice beside the barrel of contaminated flour . . .

John dead. Johnny dead. Nabby dead . . .

What had waked her?

A shutter banging?

A footfall?

She slithered from under the blankets and out through the curtains, shuddering in the cold, which seemed deeper and more intense than it had for two weeks now. Wrapped herself in her wool robe, scuffed slippers on her feet. Padded, silent as breath, to the door of her room and opened it, feeling rather than seeing the change of air in the dark of the hall. She’d dreamed of Paul Revere, of Dr. Warren, of other men she knew—dreamed of John, though she knew he would never undertake anything so mad-brained as what Sam proposed . . . Dreamed of them rowing across the choppy water of the bay, headed under pitch-black cloud-cover for Castle Island and death.

Was that what she had heard? Shots, cries . . . Impossible, across three miles of open water.

Then what sound—?

She was halfway to the stair before she realized that what had waked her was not sound, but stillness.

The wind had died.

Her candle-flame burned straight upright in its lantern when she crossed the yard two hours later, at the first crowings of Arabella Butler’s rooster. The new moon had set already, behind the breaking clouds. Thin starlight showed her her own breath.

Dear God, protect them . . .

Their Majesties—as she sometimes called Cleopatra and Semiramis—blinked sleepily at her as she entered the cowhouse, waked before their usual time but accepting of it. Abigail was a poor sleeper and often rose at such an hour to do the milking and start her work rather than waste another three-quarters of an hour in bed in an unprofitable quest for further sleep. Their eyes flashed gold at her in the dark; the thick smell of hay was deeply comforting.

First light saw her hastening along Queen Street, when in other houses the kitchen-fires were just being lit. The market-square looked queer in twilight this early, without the booths and barrows she was used to seeing on Mondays and Thursdays. But life was stirring along the quays, as men called back and forth among the fishing-boats and warehouses—Maybe we’ll get down to Charleston this time . . . Looks to be clearing . . . Jaysus, we’ve had the hold filled for a week! If we’re caught in harbor again, Cap’n’ll have a seizure . . .

At Castle Island they’d be loading the Incitatus.

Paul Revere was eating breakfast when she rapped at the kitchen door.

Just the sight of him as Young Paul opened the door for her—the shutters in the front of the house were not yet taken down—flooded her with relief, like a benediction: “You didn’t go.”

“Blasted smugglers were taking a cargo across to Lynn with the boat—!” His dark eyes fairly glittered. “And now—”

“Now I think I know at least a part of what happened,” said Abigail. “At least enough to make an argument for the Provost and Colonel Leslie. But I must get word across, and quickly—what time does the tide go out?”

“It won’t turn ’til near noon.”

“Good,” said Abigail. “Will you come with me to Old North? I need to speak to our brave boys from Maine.”

Matthias Brown was still asleep when Revere and Abigail crossed Sun Court to the church; Hev Miller was helping Robbie Newman take down the shutters on the vestry, and explaining in intense detail just why his mother’s way of cooking canvasback duck with woodchuck-fat was superior to and more healthful than the Boston way, not meaning any disrespect to Mrs. Newman . . .

He listened to the question Abigail put to him and shook his head. “No.”

“Had he any remnant of it? Any mark whatsoever?”

“No. I don’t see how he could have gotten one,” the Mainer added. “The man wouldn’t have put up a fight if you’d walked up and spat in his face. Is there a chance Matt and I might be getting back to Boothbay, now the wind’s turned to the north?” he added, looking over at Revere. “Matt and I took a turn along Ship Street yesterday, and I’ll swear we saw the Magpie, tied up at Burroughs’s Wharf—”

Revere glared at Robbie, who made a helpless gesture: “I couldn’t see the harm in it—”

“A few days more,” promised Abigail. And to Revere, “’Tis no matter, in fact ’twill help. Can you go find it there, and ask young Mr. Putnam if he’ll take us across to the Castle, the moment the tide turns? I shall be at the wharf at half past eleven—”

She had hoped to find notes from Dr. Warren, or Lucy Fluckner, or both, upon her arrival at her home at half past eight. Instead, when Abigail entered the kitchen she was startled to see Mrs. Sandhayes rise awkwardly from the table. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Adams, for calling at such a horrifying hour,” she said, holding out her hand. “I must speak to you. I have used you dreadfully—as I find that I have been used myself.”

Abigail was silent, regarding that beaky, over-painted face, the red mouth set and the green eyes filled with an expression of chagrin. She asked, “By Palmer?” and Margaret Sandhayes nodded. “Or Elkins, if that was his name—or was it Tredgold?”

Pattie’s footfalls reverberated dimly from upstairs, trailed by Charley’s toddling steps. Tommy, tied by his leading-strings to the leg of the sideboard, left off trying to undo the knots and stood up, holding out his arms for his mother: “Mama!”

“Who? Oh, the Seaford girls, yes.” Mrs. Sandhayes shook her head. “To be honest, Mrs. Adams, I don’t know. Your lovely handmaid said I might wait for you in the parlor—?”

“Mama!” crowed Tommy urgently.

“Of course.” Abigail kissed the boy, stood again—Tommy began at once to wail his protests—and picked up the teapot and her guest’s half-drunk cup and saucer. In the parlor a lively fire had been kindled to warm the room. A second cup, pristine, sat on the tray beside a small plate of gingerbread. God bless Pattie, for thinking of everything.

“I had this”—from her pocket, Mrs. Sandhayes drew a folded sheet of paper, which she handed across the small table to Abigail—“last night. Brought to the back door as usual by a boy picked at random off the wharves—at least, the whole time I knew Mr. Palmer, if that was in fact his name, it was never the same boy.”

“Last night?” Abigail unfolded it.

Mags, it said, in a sprawled and jagged hand, sorry to do this, my dearest dove, but the time has come for us to part. There’s a man come forward, that says he saw me follow Sir J from the wharf to the house, and I can’t risk staying. Thank you for all the help you’ve given. Perhaps we’ll meet again. A thousand kisses—A.P.

Abigail looked up, frowning, as her guest poured her out a cup of the yellowish chamomile tea.

“You must be frozen.” Mrs. Sandhayes pushed the plate of gingerbread nearer. “Did you make this gingerbread, my dear? I used to make a fair gingerbread myself.” She sighed, bitter and weary, and sipped her tea. “I thought—Well, I’m well served, I suppose, for believing the man.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That Cottrell had—ruined, I suppose the novelists would say—his sister . . . though I suppose it is stretching the truth a bit, to speak of ruining an actress. She was caught with child, and being very young and inexperienced, I suspect she let matters go a little too long before she took steps to resolve the matter, and the long and the short of it was that she died.” The Englishwoman’s hand strayed nervously to the black Medusa cameo at her throat, rubbing it, as if it were a talisman of some loss of her own. “She was the only person he had ever cared about, he said, and it enraged him that no one would so much as chide the man for his deed. I was angry for his sake, and for hers—but more than that, I’m ashamed to say I . . . I