The Tea Chest

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  We passed Uncle Daniel’s burial spot and wound our way south, where I could not resist a look at my old home on Cross Street.

  Like much of the town, it stood lonely and abandoned, Mother’s flower boxes long ago cut off for firewood. I glimpsed my window, remembered Noah climbing the portico to see me. How very long ago it all seemed.

  An intense longing for my husband overcame me. A longing for the man he was when we’d met—the one with the dancing eyes; a longing for the man he was now—the one with the patient smile and tender touch. I could not wait to be home the next day, to bury myself in his arms and never leave his side again.

  Sarah and I crossed Mill Creek, and I dared hope that our destination would lead us to a cup of chocolate and a bit of warmth by an open hearth before we made our journey back. In the distance, marching feet sounded off cobbles. We ducked in an alley, held our breath as a group of dragoons passed us, red coats worn and faded beneath the moonlight.

  Lights of the Royal Exchange tavern glowed and we skirted around them, keeping toward Long Wharf to avoid the center of town.

  Everything about the city spoke of weariness. Dirt and ice had pressed between tired cobbles, making them uneven and lopsided. The roofs sagged; once-booming businesses were boarded up, their ragged fronts chipped of paint. The Clarkes’ warehouse lay on the left but it too looked abandoned.

  I did not hear the steps upon us until ’twas too late. I pushed at Sarah, told her to run. Hands grabbed at my cloak. I stifled a scream just as I saw my friend making her way around the next corner.

  As hard fingers turned me around, I could only think on my relief that Sarah—and General Washington’s dispatch—had gotten away safely.

  Then I looked into the face of my captor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Emma

  It [is] impossible to beat the notion of liberty out of the people, as it [is] rooted in ’em from their childhood.

  GENERAL THOMAS GAGE

  SAMUEL.

  I had supposed he had gone back to England. But clearly he’d been hiding with the loyalists in the town, cowering beneath the protection of the King’s Army.

  “It is you,” he said, a slight slur to his words. “I thought my eyes fooled me.” He dug his fingers into my arms.

  “Pray, Samuel. Let me be. I—I must see my kin to tell them of an impending death in the family.”

  The words, which had sounded so reasonable when Sarah had relayed them, sounded lifeless and false to my own ears now.

  His hands continued to knead my arms. “I’ve missed you, Emma. I thought you were gone, off with your parents to England.”

  “I—I did not go with them.”

  His fingers loosened but did not release.

  I wondered if Sarah kept to an alley, waiting to help me, or if she had gone on with our mission. I could not fault her if she had. ’Twas part of the plan. Still, I felt suddenly alone and trapped, abandoned. I had escaped this town and this man long ago only to walk back into their clutches.

  He stood, unsteady before me, and I thought to run from him. He was drunk. I could surely escape him in the dark alleys. But I must wait for the right opportunity.

  “How do you fare?” I asked, knowing nothing would distract him better than talk of himself.

  “I would be better if I weren’t stuck in this insufferable town.” He looked at me more closely. “You are frozen. Come home with me and warm yourself.”

  I near succumbed to the invitation, as I now shivered beyond control. I had never been so frigid in all my life. “N-no thank you. I must see to my kinsman.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “You did not go with your parents. Did you marry him, then? That Yank of yours? Why is he sending his lady to do such dirty work?”

  I didn’t answer, for to lie felt to dishonor Noah, yet to tell the truth would prick Samuel’s pride.

  He nodded, knowing. “I see. If I were your husband, Emma, I would never let you wander the streets of town alone and cold. I would keep you home, nice and warm.” His fingers went to my icy cheek and I turned from them. “A real man would not allow you into such danger.”

  I slapped his hand away. “None of this is your concern.”

  His grip grew stronger. “Perhaps it should be. He is obviously not taking care of what belongs to him.”

  My bottom lip trembled. “You know nothing. Now excuse me, I must take my leave.”

  “I will escort you. Tell me your destination.”

  I searched my mind. He needed to get as far away from Sarah as possible. The North End. I knew it well and might be able to escape him there.

  “Ship Street,” I said.

  “Very well.” With a viselike grip upon my arm, we began our journey north.

  I wondered what I might do when we arrived at Ship Street, if I could simply pick out an abandoned home and feign disappointment if no one answered. Hoping no one answered.

  We crossed back over into the North End. I waited for Samuel to loosen his grip. I would run and hide near Copp’s Hill Burying Ground. I would wait for Sarah in sight of the boat. We would return this night, across that frozen expanse of water and on toward home. By dawn’s light, I’d be in the cozy home Noah and I had made together. I’d have naught to fret over but a loaf of bread to be made, mayhap a press to be set. I could near taste the contentment, the freedom, remembering all Samuel had symbolized to me—the tight chains that once bound me.

  When he laughed at one of his own jokes and stumbled on a cobble in his drunken haste, he lost his hold of me.

  I ran.

  Though my toes were numb and unwilling to propel me forward, I forced my feet fast up Middle Street, my breath heavy in my ears, my muff in one hand, the burying ground my goal. I took a sharp left on Beer Lane but ran into a solid mass.

  A pleasant chuckle reached my ears. “Well, what do we have here?”

  I looked up from my wincing to see a red coat, brass buttons shiny in the moonlight, epaulets upon his shoulders. I sensed more Regulars behind him.

  “Now, lass, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  More footsteps behind me, then Samuel’s voice. “There she is! Sir, don’t let her get away. She is not loyal to the crown. She is likely here to betray us all.”

  My heart sank at Samuel’s words, at the solid brick of a man before me, backed by his patrol. It seemed all my efforts were for naught. I should have heeded Noah and not come at all. What help was I to Sarah and Major Brooks and General Washington if I only drew attention to myself and our secret endeavor?

  The man in the bearskin hat spoke. “Those are serious allegations, sir. What cause have you to make them?”

  Samuel seemed to sober under the intense gaze of the officer, and I inwardly begged him not to implicate me. We were not friends, that much was true, but our families had been, at one time. Could he not spare me?

  “I was to wed this woman. She is daughter of John Malcolm, honored servant of the king, who was humiliated by the rebels. This woman ran away with the rebels, from me and from her own loyal father. I see no reason for her to be in the city now and suspect her intentions are less than honorable.”

  The man cleared his throat. “This is hardly discourse to have in the middle of the street. You both will be escorted to Province House, where we will continue this conversation with General Gage.”

  The long, cold walk back to the center of town and then on toward the South End caused my brain to numb. By the time we’d reached the grand entrance of Province House, the copper weather vane at the top depicting an Indian archer, I could only anticipate the warmth within, not the intense questioning—and the answers I didn’t have—that would surely ensue.

  Somewhere in my frigid mind lay the thought that Sarah must have certainly accomplished her mission by now. She would take the boat back to Charlestown, for what else could be done for me? ’Twas one thing when it was only Samuel, but now I was in the hands of General Gage himself.

  As I followe
d the red-coated officer inside, the warmth enveloped me like a thick afghan. I went to the fire of the sitting room, put my hands to it without invitation so they might begin to thaw.

  “General Gage will not be pleased to wake at such an hour, but your allegations are cause for urgency.” The officer sent a man in the direction of the stairs.

  A short time later, my limbs still frozen through, the general came into the room in full uniform, red sash and waistband, epaulets and brass buckles gleaming. I began to shake at the sight of him, certain my reaction was not entirely from the cold.

  I’d heard rumors the general’s wife sympathized with the Patriots. Might he be a reasonable man? Certainly not as hard as Father. What was my best course of action?

  He sat in a large wingback chair, crossed his legs, and raised his eyebrows at Samuel. “State your case, Mr. Clarke.”

  He was familiar with Samuel, then. Was that to go against me in this inquisition?

  Samuel stepped forward. A stray hair fell before his face, the only sign of his drunkenness. The fresh air and circumstances had apparently sobered him nicely.

  “I’ve reason to believe this woman should be investigated.”

  “Go on.”

  “Her name is Emma Malcolm. We were to wed two years ago. Our families had been close, until her father was tarred and feathered by the rebels, until this woman ran away with those who committed such a crime, until she ran away from our nuptials and into the arms of the rebels. I have not seen her since, which leads me to believe she has no due cause in being here tonight.” He left out the oath, surely knowing it would implicate not just me, but both of us. I realized then that his bringing me here was likely a result of his anger. He’d thought I had gone to England with my parents—that, he could accept. Now, knowing I had stayed, realizing that I had wed a Patriot instead of him, he was determined to make me pay.

  General Gage listened to Samuel’s words. He stared at the worn Persian rug at his feet, and when Samuel was done, he released a tired sigh. He seemed so very human in that moment, weary, and I saw how this conflict weighed on him.

  “And what have you to say for yourself, young lady?”

  This was so far removed from anything I could have imagined when setting forth from Medford with Sarah. Then, I had assumed we might be stopped at Charlestown Neck, that I would allow Sarah to explain our unlikely whereabouts in her confident manner. I had even pondered being stopped in Boston, but not alone. And not required to give an explanation to the commander of the King’s Army himself.

  I could argue with Samuel, state that he had been the one to flee Boston, yet what did the general care about such a paltry matter?

  I swallowed down what felt like a hot stone lodged within my throat. Still, my body shivered. I would need to lie.

  What made a lie worthy? Was the cause of liberty worth it? Was my life?

  “I c-came to seek out a kinsman for my husband. ’Tis his uncle. My husband’s father is ill and his brother needed to be told.”

  I felt the sear of General Gage’s gaze slicing hot through my chilled body. “Why did your husband not come himself? Why send you?”

  Samuel’s words came back to me, accusing, and I felt the need to defend Noah.

  “My husband is not able to travel, as he is unwell also.”

  More untruths, or rather, part untruths. ’Twas a dirty business, war. In that moment, I wondered why I had involved myself. I’d considered it honorable, this fight for liberty. And though it might be, war perhaps was not. It caused men—and women—to do dishonorable things. To deceive and kill. I’d been a fool to think I could make a difference, to think I could earn the respect of Sarah and Major Brooks and General Washington—and aye, Noah—by accomplishing such a secret mission.

  What did it matter now?

  “And what might be the name of the kinsman you came to inquire of?”

  I scurried to think of the name of a Patriot within the town, but I knew none. I thought of a common name, one that I hoped wouldn’t draw suspicion. “Charles Smith.”

  “On Ship Street,” Samuel added, and I tried not to glare at him.

  “Is that right, Miss Malcolm?”

  I didn’t bother to correct my last name. “Yes, sir,” I said, wondering if my words would condemn me.

  General Gage’s eyes didn’t leave my quaking form. “Very well, then. Captain Wells, be sure to check for a Charles Smith on Ship Street first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, Miss Malcolm, you will stay in one of the rooms upstairs tonight, under guard of course. Until we verify your story, I’m afraid I will not be able to release you.”

  I did a slight curtsy, grateful he didn’t send me to the gaol this night. I had time. Yet time for what?

  Samuel left Province House smirking, and I was led upstairs to a spare bedroom, a fire already burning. I thanked the guard before closing the door. I heard the creak of the wood boards as he patrolled the hallway.

  I knelt by the fire, removed my cloak, and hung it on the back of a Queen Anne chair to dry near the heat. Slowly my fingers thawed. I turned sleepy beside the warmth of the heat, forcing myself to come up with a plan that would save my life.

  General Gage’s officer would not find a Mr. Smith on Ship Street. At least no Mr. Smith who recognized my name. What would they do then? What untruth could I tell to allow my escape? I went to the window and looked down. Two red-coated soldiers guarded the entrance of Province House.

  I was trapped.

  The room that held me was finer than any I’d seen in years. Yet it held no friendliness. I had disappointed Noah. Sarah would return to Medford and tell my husband how I had landed myself in enemy hands. He would be mad with worry, in an anxious fit that there was nothing he could do. Or perhaps Sarah would spare him the guilt of being able to do nothing and tell him I had drowned in the Charles. Aye, I could picture her telling such a lie if it meant keeping him safe in Medford. In fact, I prayed she did tell him the untruth.

  Staring into the fire, allowing it to lull me into sleep, I thought of little Mary, her last words to me.

  “Jesus knows about everyone.”

  Did He see the predicament I’d gotten myself into, then? Did He see my heart? My desire to act with honor, to help those who loved me and the cause for which we fought? What did He think of this war, these battles?

  With not a little guilt, I realized this was the first I pondered the question. I’d been so eager to have a part, to assist those I loved, I’d never stopped to wonder which side Christ loved. A verse of Scripture came to me, one that Reverend Osgood read often.

  “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you.”

  Who were my enemies? Was General Gage my true enemy? We believed in different causes, but did that make him my enemy? I thought of Samuel, who truly did show his hatred for me this night. Either way, I was to bless them both.

  Whether ’twas the warmth of the fire or the late hour, a peace came over me, even in my weakness. I prayed for Sarah’s safe return home. I prayed for Noah. I prayed for the Redcoats I’d encountered that night.

  I prayed for Samuel.

  The light of morning would bring more troubles, but here, now, I rested in the arms of One who was stronger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Emma

  The waves have rolled in upon me—the billows have repeatedly broken over me: yet I am not sunk down.

  MERCY OTIS WARREN

  THE LIGHT OF DAWN stretched and yawned lazy in the early March hours. I woke in the feather bed, my toes and fingers warm.

  General Washington would attack Boston soon, and it seemed that I would be trapped within the city when he did.

  I splashed water upon my face from the pitcher beside the bed. I donned my dry boots and smoothed my dress and cloak as best I could.

  And waited.

  Not long after, a knock came at my door. ’Twas the same officer I had run into the night before.

  “Miss, General Ga
ge wishes to see you in the parlor.”

  I nodded, started down the hall. My boots echoed against the pine planks. He would have found out by now, of course. There was no Mr. Charles Smith on Ship Street. Quite likely there was no Mr. Charles Smith in all of Boston. And if there were, he certainly did not know an Emma Malcolm. Quite likely he did not have a brother outside of Boston.

  I entered the parlor, my knees trembling. Outside, bright sunshine shone down on tired streets. Sarah would be home by now. Had Noah slept at all last night? I imagined him at the Fultons’, peering past the entrance to the Royall estate. I imagined him seeing only one form coming up the road. I imagined him seeing Sarah, tired, haggard from her trip. He would hobble to her as best he could, demand answers, deny her words.

  What would she tell him?

  It truly didn’t matter. There was no help for me now. I was in the hands of the crown, all but convicted. Boston would be attacked with the cannons Henry Knox had obtained from Fort Ticonderoga and I would be held within its gates.

  General Gage stood as he had the night before in front of the hearth, his hands behind his back. On a table lay a large map, and I imagined him with his officers, planning an attack or perhaps anticipating General Washington’s.

  “Miss Malcolm,” he said as I stood before him, two soldiers and an officer flanking my sides.

  “Sir.”

  “My officers have searched and scoured for this Charles Smith of Ship Street, and they have come up empty-handed. Mr. Clarke is trusted by the crown, and so I have no choice but to believe his words. Still, I entreat you to supply me with another explanation, or else tell me honestly what you are about, young lady.”

  I scrambled for another untruth, but it seemed vile, useless. Would this man—this man who possessed a wife who sympathized with the Patriots—find it in his heart to understand?

  But what could I say that would not implicate Sarah and General Washington? That would not give away the imminent plans the Continental Army had to attack Boston?