by Lake, Deryn
Gage, in full uniform, was at the port to meet him and had never been so grateful as when Hugh stepped onto the gangplank. With an ill-disguised grin, the young Earl hurried downwards and arrived at the bottom where he gave an impeccable salute.
“A good journey, Brigadier?” asked Tom, his eyes twinkling. “Very good, Sir. Thank you.”
“Your men all ready?”
“Ready for inspection in forty minutes, Sir.”
“Right. Order disembarkation, my Lord.”
Hugh turned to shout to his second-in-command and shortly afterwards there came the tramping of feet as the men left the ship and lined up on the quay. Gage and Percy drew to one side.
“My dear boy,” said Tom quietly, “it’s so good to have you here.”
“Has it been difficult, Sir?”
“Not really, not yet. But it’s shaping up. Adams and Hancock are blowing hot. But we’ll see what difference the troops make. I’ll wager that people will be glad to see them and might now be able to act and speak freely. Without fear of retribution from the Faction.”
Hugh Percy looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. We can only wait and see.” He deliberately changed the subject. “What news of Mrs. Gage, Sir?”
“She’s landed safely in New York. She’ll be joining me in September.”
“It will be good to have her here,” Hugh Percy said with enthusiasm. Gage looked thoughtful. “I tried to persuade her to remain in England, you know”
“Why, Sir?”
“I thought she – and Charlotte – might be safer.”
“But surely with the army…”
Gage shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Anyway she insisted on coming so that’s an end to it. Now, time I inspected your men.”
The two regiments were lined up on the quay and Gage began his slow progress amongst them, pausing to chat with as many troops as he could. Also present on the dock, standing at a respectful distance and making little noise, were the soldiers’ women. These were the wives and camp followers who accompanied the army wherever it went. They were under the absolute control of the commander-in-chief who, eventually, turned to them.
“There will be no plundering on this expedition, absolutely none. Is that understood?” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” answered an older and more senior woman, speaking for the rest.
“I want no offence caused to the local population,” Tom continued. “Most of them are loyal and deserve to be treated with courtesy. Do I make myself clear?”
The women bobbed their understanding though Gage trusted them about as far as he trusted the men, namely hardly at all. To him the soldiers were low grade individuals, who operated best in packs, which was the way they had been trained, unlike the men of his own regiment, sadly long ago disbanded, who had been hand-picked and individually trained.
He turned to Percy. “Very good, Brigadier. Take them away.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you are to call this evening at Province House. We need to talk privately.”
“Very good, Governor.”
The Earl saluted, nodded to the bandmaster, and to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers’ mounted the white horse that had been brought specially to the quayside for him. Then he was off at the head of his regiment, making as brave a showing as any as he made his way through the silently staring people of Boston towards the Common.
*
He had walked through the streets and, on a whim, decided to call in at the Blue Bell and Indian Queen before returning home. Having ordered a cognac, Tom settled himself in a corner and drew a copy of the Boston Mirror from his pocket. Just getting into it, he was disturbed a few minutes later by a small and very nervous cough. Glancing up, he found himself looking into the spectacular eyes of Sara.
Since his first day in Province House, he had seen little of her and what glimpses he had had been of her back view, disappearing rapidly down a corridor. So now it was something of a shock to find himself face to face with her in the unlikely surroundings of a tavern.
As he looked up she gave a small bob and said, “I am sorry to disturb you, Governor, but you have a visitor waiting in the house.”
“Who?” he asked shortly.
“Mister Germain, Sir. He said you arranged to meet him.”
“God dammit,” Gage said, swallowing his drink in one. “I’d forgotten all about it.” He folded his paper, then said, “How did you know I was here?”
The exquisite face coloured. “I saw you come in, Sir.”
“Saw me?” Tom said, puzzled.
“Yassir.”
And that was all she would say, though the Governor had a shrewd suspicion he knew the answer. She had been down on the docks watching the soldiers arrive and had probably taken the same route home and seen him go into the tavern.
The girl turned to go but Gage, for no logical reason, leaned forward and caught her wrist. “Wait a second. You can walk with me.”
The poor thing did not know where to put herself. “No, Sir. I couldn’t do that, Sir. It would be unfitting, Sir.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at her, yet part of him wanted to comfort her, as if she were a sad child.
“Why would it be unfitting?” he said, smiling.
“Because it would, Sir, and you know why. The Governor walking with one of his slaves. Why, Robin would put me clean out the house.”
“Damn Robin,” Tom remarked, feeling the cognac hit his stomach. “But I take your point. It wouldn’t be right.”
She gave him a look which, despite everything, he felt himself responding to. “Goodbye, Excellency,” she said, and she gently removed her wrist which he still grasped.
“Goodbye.”
He felt outwitted, yet why Tom could not explain. But he was so overcome by the encounter that he ordered another cognac which he downed in haste before heading back to Province House. There he found Rupert Germain, looking slightly tense.
“Ah, Tom, you’re here. I must speak to you urgently.”
“My dear friend, what is it?”
“It’s this wretched business of Sam Adams and the locked door.” For a minute Tom couldn’t think what he was talking about, then he remembered. Wrenching his thoughts away from Sara, he listened while Rupert repeated the story of Samuel Adams, the unwashed revolutionary, calling an Assembly then, when Gage had sent his secretary to dissolve it, locking the door to prevent him entering.
“I shall present it as a shameful gesture to you,” Rupert announced. Tom looked thoughtful. “Why mention it?”
“Why? Because it is a disgusting and flagrant insult, that’s why.”
“Then refer to it on your inside page and give it nothing but small attention. I declare that Sam Adams wants publicity, indeed he craves it. So why satisfy him?”
Rupert rose to his feet and paced round the study. “You’re right, of course. Yet on the other hand it is my duty to keep the public informed.”
Tom Gage, who was extremely on edge himself, though he couldn’t have explained why, rose from his chair and poured two cognacs, passing Rupert one.
“The public will believe what it wants to believe, and there is nothing you can do about it. The Dung Barge will present the incident as a great victory for Adams and say that this town is now under military rule. You will tell the truth as you see it.”
“Yes, I must.”
“Oh Rupert, Rupert,” said Gage wearily. “I know you do your best – and thank God for the Mirror – but it will all be the same in a hundred years’ time.”
He sank down in his chair again, suddenly tired beyond belief.
His friend looked at him. “You could do with a day off. Come out to my place on Saturday. There you can get away from everything for a few hours.”
Tom smiled at him, a certain fatigue in the smile. “I most certainly will if I can.”
Rupert stood up. “I’ll expect you for dinner but come well before. Come in the morning and then you can see the house and grounds at thei
r best.”
“I will make a point of trying. Thank you.”
After he had gone Tom toyed with the idea of having another cognac but decided against. Drinking in the daytime was the last thing he needed in these difficult and dangerous times. Still, he had an hour to kill before Hugh Percy’s arrival and nothing in particular to do. He turned to his desk to attack some paperwork but at the last minute decided to put it off until the morning. Yawning slightly, he climbed the staircase. However, when he reached the floor on which his bedroom was situated, he continued to ascend until he came to the narrow set of stairs that led into the cupola. He had only taken two steps when he realised that somebody was there ahead of him. Without even seeing who it was, he knew it was Sara. Smiling wryly to himself, the Governor continued to clamber upwards.
There was a small wooden bench fixed to the wall, running round the entire structure. The slave was sitting there, staring out at the harbour but turned with a start at the sound of his footsteps. She gazed horrified for a moment, then jumped to her feet.
“Oh, Excellency, I didn’t think it was you. I didn’t know you came up here.”
“Sara, sit down, there’s a good girl. I do come here occasionally when I want to get away from everything. Why do you?”
She stood looking at him, wondering whether to fly down the stairs and out of his way, or whether perhaps to remain. For the second time that day, he caught her wrist.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. And if it will make you any happier I won’t tell anyone that we’ve spoken. But you interest me – as do all my servants,” he added hastily as he saw a sudden wary look in her eye. “Tell me about yourself, please.”
Slowly she sat down again, opposite him. “There’s not much to tell, Masser.”
“Everyone has a story. Tell me yours. Who was your mother?”
“I never done meet her.”
“But what of her? Where did she come from?”
“From England,” Sara answered surprisingly.
“Really? So she was white?”
“As white as you, Governor. But she didn’t have such a good start.”
He smiled at her encouragingly. “Go on.”
Sara smiled as well and her face transformed. It was as much as Tom could do not to draw breath audibly at her beauty.
“She was born in prison, Sir. In Bridewell. Her mother was a young prostitute, put away for her crimes. I don’t know any more about her but I guess it was prostitution or starve.”
Tom was silent, thinking about the Bridewell prisons, one near Fleet Street, the other off Tothill Fields, where it was considered sport to go and watch the women whipped for their crimes. However, the men who hired the poor wretches suffered no such fate. But Sara was continuing.
“Anyway, as soon as my mother, Lucy, was eight she was taken from the poor house and sent off to work in the plantations. That was the way of it with all the Bridewell kids, provided they was healthy and strong.”
Again, Tom said nothing, his mind full of his own children and their golden days. He pictured them as he had seen them, smiling at him so recently on his eagerly awaited visit to England. For all of them, girls too, were sent home to his brother for an English education. He loved every one of them, though he had to admit that William had a most endearing way with him and was possibly his favourite. But the thought of any of them being put to work at the age of eight filled him with horror.
He realised that Sara had stopped speaking and was studying him. “What was you thinking, Sir?”
“I was thinking about my children.”
“Are they back in England?”
“All but Charlotte. She’s in New York with her mother. She’ll be coming here in September.”
Sara’s face lit once more. “It’ll be good to have a baby in Province House, Sir.”
“Yes, I suppose it will. Anyway, continue with your story.”
“You really want to hear it?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“Well, my mother was shipped out to Virginia and there she worked until, at the age of fifteen, she had a baby too.”
Tom looked at her. “There has to be more to it than that. Who was your father? Do you know?”
She gave him a cynical smile, her face looking momentarily hard. “Oh yes, I know all right. He was another slave, a black slave, name of Jordan. He loved Lucy but she died giving birth to me. My black grandmother brought me up and I lived. Eventually I was sold off at the age of ten. I was taken to the slave market in New York and bought by a dealer, who got a better price for me here in Boston. So that’s how I come to be in your house, Governor.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “What a sad tale.”
She looked annoyed, the first sign of spirit he had seen in her. “No, Sir, it ain’t sad. It’s a true story of working folk and how they survive. I’m proud of my Mammy. Yes, and I’m even proud of my Grandmammy too. I reckon she sold her body in order to keep it going.”
The Governor burst out laughing, delighted by her strange phraseology. Then stopped as he saw her mortified expression.
“Sara, Sara, don’t look like that. I’m just amused by the way you say things. You’re so direct, so straightforward. Please don’t be annoyed.” She got to her feet. “Forgive me, Excellency. I said too much.” Tom looked at her and stated honestly, “If you go now our friendship will never continue, you know that.”
She stared at him, straight in the eyes. “How can it continue anyway? The Governor and a black slave? I don’t believe so.”
He, too, stood up, taller by far than she was. “The fact is that I like to have my mind diverted from the difficulties of reality. I enjoy talking to you.” An inspiration came to him. “Tell me, can you read?”
She shook her head mutely, lowering her eyes. “No, Sir.”
“Well then, let me teach you.” He gave her a very straight look. “And that is what I mean, Sara. There’ll be no question of payment, of any kind whatsoever.”
He gave particular emphasis to the last few words he had spoken and waited for her to respond. Eventually she did. After gazing at the floor for a while, she looked up. Then she gave a slow, stunning smile.
“Thank you, Governor. I would like that. When shall I come?”
He found himself speaking rapidly, anxious to get the words out and go before she changed her mind.
“Perhaps tonight. After I’ve finished work. I’ve Lord Percy coming to see me. After he has gone. Now, if you will excuse me.” And he had turned and was going down the narrow staircase before she could say a word.
*
That night Tom Gage dined in solitary splendour, sitting at one end of the huge dining table, missing Margaret and wishing she would conclude her business in New York and join him. He drank rather more wine than he should and felt distinctly mellow by the time the meal was ended and he was at liberty to leave the room and take a pipe into the garden. It was five o’clock, still light, and he sat beneath an apple tree and thought of the situation in Boston. It seemed to him that the only way forward was to fight fire with fire, to be as tough and as hard as the British required. To keep the port closed until such time as the colonists paid for the tea they had thrown so carelessly into Boston harbour. Yet, in his opinion, there were only a handful of rabble-rousers leading the gullible with them. He felt certain – well, almost – that the Bostonians would come to their senses with the arrival of the army.
He closed his eyes and must have dozed off, for the next thing he remembered was the face of old Robin saying, “Masser Governor, Lord Percy is here.”
“Gracious me,” said Tom, shaking himself. “Have I been asleep?”
“Just for half an hour, Sir. You looked so peaceful that I didn’t like to disturb you.”
“Well, thank you for letting me rest. Where is Lord Percy?”
“In the withdrawing room, Sir.”
Just for a moment Gage stood in the shadow of the doorway and let his eyes take in the face of the Duke of
Northumberland’s son, thinking to himself what a fine figure the young man presented. Yet, as far as looks were concerned, he had few. It was his general manner, the way he had with him, that was so attractive.
He was thirty-two years old but already suffering from hereditary gout, though this he stoutly refused to accept, marching miles with his men, declining to go on horseback when the soldiers were on foot. He was thin, almost to the point of being bony, and had a large nose and receding forehead. But his eyes, wide and with an endearing ability to give sidelong glances, caused by the fact that he was short-sighted, were extraordinarily arresting. And now they lit up as he caught sight of the Governor, standing in the doorway, watching him from the shadows.
“Well, Sir. How are you this evening?”
“More to the point, my boy, how are you?”
They sat down and waited until Robin had served cognac and withdrawn.
“I’m as well as can be expected, Sir. Under canvas for a few days until I find somewhere to rent. Then I’ll be well away.”
Gage smiled. “It takes a bit of getting used to, I warn you.”
Percy gave a confident grin. “The locals seem very pleasant to me. I’ve already been chatting to several of them.”
“And who might they be?”
“Mostly residents of the houses in Beacon Street, come out to watch the men setting up camp. One of them was a femme formidable named Lydia Hancock. Quite frankly, Sir, she’s huge. But she’s invited me in for meals until I find somewhere of my own.”
The Governor raised a cynical brow. “Mrs. Hancock, eh? You know who she is, don’t you?”
“No.”
“She’s the aunt of John Hancock, the other part of Sam Adams. And who is Adams, I hear you ask. He is the most dangerous and deadly of all the rabble-rousers. He is obsessed with returning the Colonies to Puritanism, black hats, Bibles and all. But to achieve this end he uses methods that others of his belief would shun. He causes riots, stirring the waterfront mob into a frenzy; he tars and feathers his critics; his propaganda is inflammatory and untrue. In other words he is the most ruthless individual it has ever been my misfortune to encounter.”
