Sup With the Devil aam-3

by Barbara Hamilton

  The Governor’s slim fingers—cool and dry as a snake’s back—closed around hers, and he led her to the door. “Mr. Oliver—?”

  His secretary materialized, bowing, to conduct her out.

  Mrs. Adams!” Joseph Ryland got to his feet in surprise as she came back into the parlor, which was—despite the dimming of the daylight from the windows—more crowded than before. Nabby—to Abigail’s approval—who had been about to leap to her feet and scamper to her mother’s side, yielded at once to the dictum that the affairs of adults took precedence over the discomfort of eight-year-old girls abandoned in roomfuls of strangers, and settled back in her chair, grateful at least that her mother was in the range of her sight.

  “Mr. Ryland.” Abigail held out her hand, over which the young bachelor-fellow bowed. “Are you here also to speak to His Excellency on behalf of poor Diomede?”

  He looked momentarily nonplussed. “Of course, I shall speak as to his innocence—”

  “Not necessary,” she assured him, a little drily. “Governor Hutchinson has agreed to intervene, insofar as the laws of property permit, to at least give us time to find the true culprit.”

  “I would have expected nothing less of the man.” Ryland’s shoulders relaxed, as if relieved of the weight of a water-yoke. “I know that your husband finds his politics objectionable.” He spoke diffidently, but who in the colony wasn’t aware—Abigail reflected—of the diatribes John had had printed, under his own name and pseudonyms like Novanglus and Mrs. Country Goodheart? “But in truth, m’am—as I’m sure you have learned, in even the briefest of encounters with him—that his nature is not only just, but generous and noble. Will your husband indeed take on poor Diomede’s cause?”

  “I shall see to it he does. But I did mean to ask you—”

  He glanced around as another young man, trim and elegant in a suit of plum-colored velveteen, was shown into the parlor. “Mr. Ryland,” the newcomer greeted him affably, casually handing off his hat to the secretary, and Ryland bowed.

  “Mr. Heywood.”

  “Shocking business about poor old George, isn’t it? So much for La Woodleigh’s schemes to snabble his acres for her daughter—”

  Abigail tardily identified La Woodleigh as the wife of Montgomery Woodleigh, who lived in Cambridge and owned five ships and considerable property in Boston.

  “Anyone know if she’s heard?”

  “I myself informed Mrs. Woodleigh this morning.” Spots of color appeared on Ryland’s cheeks, and Mr. Heywood grinned.

  “Not wasting a moment, are you, old boy? Going to get your bid in with the beautiful Sally?” But he laughed as he said it, as if he’d asked, did Mr. Ryland have plans to be crowned King of England in the near future? An absurdity, to think that a young Fellow of the College whose out-of-date coat was worn threadbare at the elbows and whose stockings showed neat mends above the re-dyed backs of his shoes would offer for the hand of a Woodleigh. Abigail felt a flush of anger rise along her neck, at his look of carefully controlled chagrin.

  “More to the point,” spoke up another young gentleman seated nearby—Abigail half recognized him as one of the younger Apthorps, whom she’d seen with his extremely wealthy parents at the Brattle Square Meeting-House—“d’you know when the Volunteers will be meeting, to select a new captain? I mean, we’ll miss old George terribly and all that, but trouble could break out at any moment, you know. We can’t be caught leaderless when it starts if we’re to get any kind of preferment when the King sends in his regular troops.”

  “You sound very sure that he’ll be sending troops, sir,” said Abigail, and the young Apthorp rose to bow to her, Mr. Heywood acknowledging her with a deep salute as well.

  “Mrs. Adams,” introduced Ryland in a colorless voice. “Mr. Heywood, Mr. Apthorp.”

  She saw the glance that passed between them at her name.

  “Lieutenant Apthorp, of the King’s Own Volunteers . . .”

  “If you’ll excuse my saying so, m’am,” replied Mr. Heywood politely, “the King can hardly do anything but send troops, you know. I mean, whatever is finally decided about colonists’ rights and all that”—his gesture dismissed the question as if it were one of how many beads to pass along to the Indians—“Parliament isn’t going to let itself be dictated to by a gang of hooligans dressed up as Mohawks. If you ask me, m’am, your husband and his friends did themselves a great disservice, resorting to violence that way. They’re never going to get away with it.”

  “I’m not sure who you think my husband is,” responded Abigail, “as there are a great many Adamses in Massachusetts—but if violence is not the answer, as you say, I don’t entirely see how sending armed men into the situation is going to calm it. Surely—”

  Young Mr. Oliver appeared in the doorway of the inner study. “Mr. Heywood?”

  Mr. Apthorp went in with his friend; the secretary raised no objection. Nor, evidently, did the Governor, because the door remained closed.

  Ryland turned back to his chair but waited until Abigail took the seat next to his before sitting down himself.

  “And is Mr. Heywood a lieutenant also?”

  A small sigh escaped his lips. “I had hoped—” he began, and then was silent.

  Abigail said nothing, and in time, Ryland went on, with suppressed exasperation, “I shouldn’t mind it, you know, if either of them had the slightest experience of arms or command—other than telling their grooms to saddle their horses, that is. George served in the Virginia militia; for my sins I volunteered, like the idiot boy I was, to join the King’s forces when Pontiac and his Indians attacked in the west of Pennsylvania. I’ve had experience in war. And, His Excellency knows me. For six years I’ve worked in his library . . .”

  He stopped himself again, and simply finished, “Well.”

  And you still ask why men in this colony find fault with Crown Governors who give positions of advantage only to those whose wealth will help them or to friends of the King? She didn’t say it, but Ryland, looking at her face, must have seen the words there, for he sighed again, and said, “Dura lex, sed lex . . .”

  “The law is harsh, but it is the law,” repeated Abigail softly.

  “And things as they are, are harsh,” said Ryland. “But the alternative—turning the country over to men who think the answer to a legal problem is the destruction of other men’s property—is, I think, a solution worse than the problem.”

  He folded his hands and sat for a time looking at them. The Governor’s butler came in with yet another petitioner and, as he passed Ryland’s chair, nodded to the young man in a friendly way. She remembered someone saying yesterday—Weyountah?—that Mr. Ryland was one of the several young men whom Governor Hutchinson was sponsoring into Harvard, supporting not only the cost of their tuition and books, but in cases providing clothing and fuel in the cold New England winters as well. His faded green coat, with its old-fashioned, too-full skirts and threadbare cuffs, was of expensive wool and might well have belonged to the Governor himself ten or fifteen years ago. It was nothing a young man would buy for himself, even if he had the two or three pounds that such a garment would cost new.

  At length he said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Adams. There was something you wanted to ask of me, and I’ve let myself become distracted—”

  “No, ’tis no matter.” She put a hand briefly on his sleeve, and he raised his head a little, brown eyes meeting hers, then moving to the blue twilight beyond the windows. A servant came in with a taper and proceeded to light the candles in their holders all around the walls: beeswax and bayberry, not tallow, and all of them new. Abigail wondered what the Governor paid for lighting this great house, first and last, and if his half-burnt candles were passed along to his protégé?

  “It is, though,” he said. “And I see your very faithful and patient daughter is hoping that all of this will be over soon.” He smiled at Nabby, which made Abigail smile in her turn.

  “And so it will,” said Abigail. “I wished only to as
k you, Mr. Ryland . . . How difficult would it have been for someone to drug Diomede? To get into Mr. Fairfield’s room, and to put laudanum into his rum? I think it must have been someone in the college, someone who knew the doors have no locks, who knew that Diomede was in the habit of sneaking his master’s rum when Mr. Fairfield was out at night. Was Diomede generally in his master’s rooms when his master was at lecture or in the library?”

  Or meeting with “friends” behind the college barn—a practice which seems to have been common knowledge.

  “Either there or close by,” replied the young man. “Or Horace was there—doing George’s work as well as his own, I fear.” Disapproval deepened the lines at the corner of his mouth. “Two years ago—not long after the Volunteers were formed—Fairfield’s rooms were vandalized: books torn up, clothing and bedding defiled. No one was ever punished for it.”

  Given Dr. Langdon’s political views, this didn’t surprise Abigail, but something inside her cringed. Though in principle she understood it when Sam said that the King and his minions would not pay attention to mere words, still she sensed that this kind of random violence did their cause no good, particularly with men such as Joseph Ryland.

  “Surely students—” she began.

  “It wouldn’t have to be a student,” said Ryland. “Laundresses, scullions, the cooks who work in the Hall . . . everyone knows everything in Cambridge. I daresay the Sons of Liberty know which staircase George lived on, and when he came and went.” Bitterness tightened his voice like alum, and it occurred to Abigail to wonder what challenges and indignities this young man had encountered, both as a freshman and later, in a college population three-quarters or more given to the cause of the colonists. Every man in Harvard, practically, had been reading the broadsides John and Sam and Josiah Quincy had written denouncing his patron’s venality and pigheadedness: who was it who had said that old Professor Seckar had abused him more for being Hutchinson’s protégé than for his own—admittedly variant—views on a mere man’s ability to alter by any human deed the abiding judgment of the Lord?

  “Surely you don’t think it was the Sons of Liberty who killed him?”

  “Can you doubt it?”

  “I’ve never heard that they sink to murder—”

  “Have you ever seen a man who has been tarred and feathered, m’am?” The young man’s voice dropped and his glance touched Nabby—engaged in a shy conversation about her schooling with a stout and fatherly merchant—then passed to his patron’s shut office door. “Have you ever been there the next day, when his family and his doctor are trying to pull cold tar off his skin? Or the day after that, when the raw flesh suppurates? The mob covers their victim in feathers to make him look ridiculous, so that the onlookers don’t fully realize what is being done in the name of this ‘liberty’ they’re proclaiming . . . So those who hear about it think the object is to make a man look foolish, rather than to kill him in great agony and to terrorize the onlookers into acquiescence.”

  Abigail was silent, knowing what he said to be true. Then after a time she replied, “But the actions of the mob in no way alter the question of whether Englishmen here deserve the same rights that Englishmen deserve of Parliament and King.”

  “Perhaps they do not,” replied Ryland. “Yet ’tis said, He who sups with the Devil needs a long spoon. However Mr. Sam Adams, and men like Josiah Quincy and Dr. Warren, may defend the question of their rights, they’ll find themselves treated like savages if they employ savages to frighten those who oppose them. And, I think, rightly so, for there is no way of knowing when those savages may choose to take matters into their own hands.”

  Behind him, the study door opened and Messrs Heywood and Apthorp emerged, joking and waving behind them to Governor Hutchinson. Mr. Oliver said, “Mr. Brattle—” and the stout merchant who had been talking with Nabby bade her a courteous farewell and went in. Abigail rose, tucked the collection of love-letters back into her satchel, and found a silver bit in her pocket to tip the footman who had taken charge of her lantern—congratulating herself on her forethought as to how long she might have to wait for an interview—and Ryland stood also, to shake her hand.

  “Mrs. Adams, please forgive me if I’ve spoken too vehemently—”

  “You have said nothing untrue,” she responded. Certainly the men who’d gutted and looted the Governor’s house nine years ago—destroying much of his precious collection of manuscripts—had acted far beyond Sam’s intention. “And no fault lies in vehemence of sentiment. ’Tis our actions by which we are judged.” She added, “Good luck, in the matter of the Volunteers.”

  He managed a wooden grin. “Thank you for your good wishes, m’am. I expect I shall continue as company sergeant—the position I held under Captain Fairfield—and I can do a great deal there in making sure that the Volunteers are fit to fight. Because you were quite right in your observation to Mr. Heywood: the infusion of armed men into a situation that has already turned violent will beget still more violence. And it is our duty, as subjects of the King, to keep matters from degenerating to such a pass that the French or the Spanish think themselves safe to come in and take over these colonies for themselves in the chaos that will follow.”

  The butler entered again and in the hallway handed Abigail her lantern, the candle lighted already and shedding a wan glow barely stronger than that of a couple of fireflies. Abigail was glad that the way home led through familiar streets and wasn’t a long one. As the servant showed mother and daughter from the room, Abigail looked back over her shoulder to see Mr. Ryland patiently waiting, while Mr. Brattle emerged from the Governor’s study and another wealthy merchant in a bottle green coat was shown in, in his stead.

  Eight

  What did you make of the books, Sam?” inquired Abigail, when Surry—the slave-woman who was the sole remnant, along with the ramshackle old house itself, of the modest fortune old Deacon Adams had passed along to his son Sam—showed her into Sam’s book-room the following morning.

  Sam Adams looked as if he might have protested that he would never have been so impertinent as to pry into volumes left in his charge by his cousin’s wife, then grinned, held Abigail’s chair for her, and went to the secret panel to get the books. Upon her arrival in Boston from Cambridge late on Wednesday afternoon, Abigail had taken the seven volumes straight to Sam’s old yellow house on Purchase Street. Though John’s clerk—Horace’s and Abigail’s cousin—Thaxter had been for some months now living under the Adams roof, Abigail still felt sufficiently uneasy about George Fairfield’s murder to want to get the volumes out of her own hands as quickly as possible.

  Ryland might say what he chose about the Sons of Liberty—and might indeed, she reflected uneasily, be right—but the coincidence of there being two sources of Arabic documents in the colony within the past two weeks was a trifle difficult to swallow.

  Besides, Sam was the only person she knew positively had secret panels in his house. Cellar to attic, there was probably enough treasonable material cached here and there—books, pamphlets, correspondence with the Crown’s opponents in other colonies, and the true names of a hundred authors of sedition—to blow the roof off the Houses of Parliament. She guessed the hidden compartment beside the mantel in his book-room was one of a dozen.

  “Not a solitary thing.” Sam set the books carefully on the desk between them: a folio edition, four quarto-sized volumes, and two octavos, their leather bindings cracked, agedark, and bearing signs of having been gnawed by mice. “Three of the Arabic volumes bear the imprint of the Medici Press in Rome. I had no idea typefaces existed in Arabic—I assume for the benefit of Christians in the Turkish Empire. We would have to have Dr. Warren”—he named a mutual friend and fellow member of the Sons of Liberty—“pass judgment on the chemistry and astronomy texts, but they must be shockingly outdated.”

  He passed his big, square hand gently over the cover of the folio, and Abigail remembered that in his youth, Sam Adams had also been a student at Harvard and had
acquired there—along with a taste for fiery politics and the Rights of Man—the fascination with books shared by so many questing minds.

  “Where did you come by them?”

  “My nephew Horace purchased the Arabic texts from a woman named Narcissa Seckar,” began Abigail.

  “Good lord, not old Malachi Seckar’s wife? I can’t imagine the old boy letting his wife sell so much as the kitchen drippings without his permission—”

  “He didn’t.” Abigail gingerly opened one of the quartos, studied the curious loops and squiggles that surrounded a woodcut of a horse’s backside, elaborately detailed. Presumably not the legend of Alexander. “She sold these upon his death—I understand, in order to get money to live on, her husband having bequeathed everything else he owned to the College.”

  “That sounds like the old—er—gentleman. Everything?” Sam’s square, friendly face clouded. “She should have sued. John would have pried a living out of the College for her—”

  “Indeed he would have. Just as well he knew nothing of it, for we’d probably have had to send Johnny to Princeton rather than Harvard as a result. In any case, these were hers—or rather, her grandfather’s—”

  “Wasn’t he a pirate or something?”

  It was Abigail’s turn to startle. “Not to my knowledge. According to Governor Hutchinson—whom I called upon last night for a perfectly legitimate reason,” she added, as Sam’s frown returned in earnest at the name, “Barthelmy Whitehead was a slave-trader and a merchant, but a pirate I hadn’t heard. Why,” she inquired thoughtfully, “did you say pirate?”

  “Oh, ’twas a great joke when I was at Harvard. That for all Seckar’s thunderings in chapel about how nine-tenths of us were going straight to Hell, not for anything we’d done or resisted, but because God in his infinite wisdom had positively determined that we should do so, before the beginning of time for His Own Ineffable Purposes—and there was some frightful argument about whether this decision was active or passive and whether it had taken place before or after the Fall of the Angels—for all his condemnation of us, the Reverend Log-In-Thine-Own-Eye Seckar’s wife was descended from a pirate. We used to think it a huge jest to chalk a skull and crossbones on the door of his study, just to hear him curse at the servants.”