“So far as I know it isn’t the ‘key’ to any ‘treasure’ . . .”
“Someone seems to think it is.”
“I know,” retorted Abigail. “I’m looking at him.”
“Don’t mock me, Nab.” Sam’s voice fell suddenly quiet. “And don’t play hide-and-seek. The matter is serious.”
“Of course ’tis serious! A man’s life—”
Sam brushed aside the issue of Diomede’s guilt or innocence with a wave of one square, blunt-fingered hand. “We need that treasure. If it’s there, we need to be the ones who find it. Not this Mrs. Lake or whoever is behind her. In a week, maybe in a day, there’ll be British troops landing in Boston—”
“How can you know—?”
“For God’s sake, Nab, what else can the King do? He’s not going to content himself with some watered-down Royal Commission as everyone seems to expect. We destroyed his tea, he’ll send troops, and the whole colony will rise in rebellion. Everyone who’s been sitting on the fence dithering about which side they’ll hop down onto, will see that there
He spread his hands out over the covers of the books and leaned toward her. He was bulky and powerful in his gray coat, and compelling, for all Abigail’s distrust of his alliance with every man who liked his politics simple and violent; for all the whiff of boiling tar, burnt feathers, and charred flesh that seemed to her, for a moment, to cling about him, like sulfur on the sleeves of a man who’s had supper with the Devil.
“We need money,” he repeated. “Every farmer in New England possesses a gun, but when those farmers come into Boston to work on the wharves or in the grist-mills, they leave their guns at home. And every gun needs powder and ball, flints and cartridge-paper—things we’re forbidden to manufacture here and must purchase . . . and the King tells us, we can only purchase them from England. We need guns for those who have not the money to buy them, but only the willingness to shed their blood for their rights to choose where and how they’ll spend their money
“Monday, I hope,” she replied unwillingly. “If I hear from her tomorrow. John should be back—”
“If he isn’t, I’ll send a man with you,” promised Sam. “Did you speak to this slave Diomede about his master’s books?”
“I tried,” said Abigail. “On Wednesday he was still too stupefied yet from the laudanum—and were he not, I should think he would have been too shocked and grieved at the death of a master he loved . . . for all what that imbecile Langdon said!”
“If I sent a man with you tomorrow—someone respectable,” he added, as Abigail opened her mouth to make a comment on the waterfront ruffians who were usually most at liberty to run Sam’s errands for him. “Would you go?”
“Thank you. And if I could prevail on you to carry a message for me there this afternoon, with some food for that unfortunate slave, I would most appreciate it.” As long as Sam was eager to make himself her partner in the enterprise, reflected Abigail, she might as well take advantage of the facilities he offered, even if those consisted of assistance from every scoundrel, idler, and illegal importer of French contraband from here to Halifax. “And whatever else you may learn of Seckar and pirates and Geof Whitehead . . . I must be circumspect,” she added, gathering her shawl about her shoulders again. “Else John will divorce me, I shall be forced to enter a convent, and there will be no treasure for anyone.”
Sam bowed. “I should be much entertained,” he said, “to see what havoc you would make of a convent, m’am. There’ll be a man by at noon to take your message, and a wagon to get you to Cambridge first thing in the morning. But you watch out for Hutchinson,” he added. “I understand you wanting his help in getting that poor slave out of danger . . . but the Governor is a powerful enemy. The more so because he seems so
“Midnight,” muttered Abigail to herself, turning Weyountah’s note over in her fingers even as she shed her shawl and donned an apron. “A curious time to break up an evening of cards: I wonder if the Black Dog cheats? I see an interview with Mr. Pinkstone is in order—”
She glanced at the late-morning sunlight through the kitchen window, estimating the time before John would be home against the chores undone: Pattie’s wooden clogs thudded on the floor overhead (doing the sweeping, by the sound of it) . . . Beds to be made, lamps to be cleaned and filled, and then the ironing of those wash-damaged linens mended yesterday . . .
At her feet, beside the heavy sideboard, Tommy played contentedly with four walnut shells and two of Charley’s toy soldiers and
His blocks were by the hearth, but her middle son was distinctly missing. Nor could his scurrying steps be heard upstairs, following Pattie from bedroom to bedroom impeding her work. Abigail’s first thought—
Two steps took her to the back door, caught between her usual anxious spurt of panic about her increasingly adventuresome son making his way down the little alley to the street, and preparation for a stern talking-to if he was found digging around in the clean—but probably none too sanitary—straw in Their Majesties’ stalls . . . And as she opened it, Charley swung into sight from behind it, clearly in disguise in the raggedy old coat that John wore to clean out the cowshed, and a knitted cap acquired from Heaven only knew where, into whose hem straw had been thrust to approximate a bandit’s long, untidy hair.
“Stand and deliver, m’am!” the boy croaked throatily, brandishing a crooked stick. “For I’m a robber on the King’s Highway.”
“Gracious me!” Abigail flung up her hands in mock terror. “Have mercy . . .”
She broke off and took a closer look at the boy. “And just who are you supposed to be?”
“I’m Mr. Scar-Eye,” replied Charley cheerfully. “I saw him, and I bet he’s a robber and a villain.”
He had made for himself, as a part of his disguise, out of wax and mud and Heaven only knew what, a V- shaped scar down his left eye and cheek . . .
Precisely as Horace had described.
