by Lake, Deryn
“Well, Rupert, you have a fine place here. Tell me, from whom did you buy it?”
They both looked at the stately house, the shutters back to greet the day, a wisteria clambering over its front door up to the windows.
“From Augustus Hamilton. He had raised a family here but after they had all left home and his wife died, he sold the estate to me and went to New York.”
“Do you ever get lonely here on your own?” Tom said thoughtlessly.
“Never,” Rupert Germain answered immediately. “I like my own company. I’m used to it. I could never live with anyone else. Too dog selfish.”
Tom smiled lazily, feeling more relaxed than he had for weeks, basking in the August sunshine, enjoying himself.
He had at last kept his promise to visit Rupert at home. And how glad he had been to leave Province House, get into his coach, with merry black Andrew – who had got his wish and now was permanent coachman – seated above. He had watched with interest and a certain kind of childish delight as they had passed through the heavily guarded Boston Neck and then turned south, heading past Dorchester to the attractively situated Milton.
He wondered now, sitting on the terrace in the sunshine, why Rupert Germain should choose to be so reclusive, why he had elected to live out of Boston and come in on a daily basis. Yet what was there to stop him? A man could live where he liked when he had no responsibilities, no family to consider.
These thoughts brought Tom back, yet again, to Margaret. She had had more than enough time in New York now and was daily due to join him. Yet, for some strange reason, he hadn’t written to ask her to come back, knowing that his moments of escape with Sara would be doomed to end. For he could not see a woman of Margaret’s temperament allowing him to teach a slave the basic elements of reading and writing. Nor, indeed, the pleasant interludes that followed the lessons when he and Sara often sat in a comfortable silence, he drinking a nightcap or two, she content to drink tea, quiet and still, almost like a lady.
“What were you thinking?” said Rupert.
Tom laughed a little. “About my wife, Margaret,” he said.
He saw Rupert stiffen. “Oh yes?”
“Wondering when she was going to leave New York and join me. She landed there in early July, you know, and her brother, Stephen, has already reported for duty. Anyway, it’s her decision. She’ll come when she’s ready.”
“Assuredly,” said Rupert, and put his fingertips together.
Tom Gage smiled somewhat cynically. Despite the fact that he had been married nearly sixteen years he knew full well that Rupert still disliked the thought of her.
“I’m sure you will take to her,” Gage said for the twentieth time. “You don’t recall her from that party we were all at?”
“My dear fellow, no. There were so many people there. Anyway, I shall meet Mrs. Gage in due course I expect. Now, would you like some more punch?”
“Thank you.” Tom held out his glass, closing his eyes against the sun. Rupert got up from his chair in order to pour, standing closer to the Governor than was utterly necessary. As he leant forward his cheek brushed that of Gage and held for a second before it was withdrawn. Tom opened his eyes, realised what had happened but decided to say nothing. Yet it was of interest that in seventeen years Rupert’s feelings had not diminished.
A beautiful black slave, male, came out of the house.
“Dinner is served, Sir.”
Rupert looked up. “Thank you, Jamie.”
Tom, watching, thought he knew how Rupert whiled away the hours of solitary existence. And what could a slave do but agree? His mind for no reason flew to Sara and his erotic dream of her. Angrily he pushed the vision away and stood up, preparing to go in to dine.
“It is truly a pleasure to have you here, Tom,” Rupert said suddenly. “It is truly a pleasure to have been invited,” Tom replied, and followed his host into the house.
Chapter Eleven
September, 1774
“And that, Sir,” said Hugh Percy with a grin, “should show ’em who’s in charge.”
Gage lifted a glass of claret. “I’ll drink to that.”
They were seated opposite one another at the dining table, the room lit by candles, the servants dismissed.
“If this little venture comes off,” the Governor continued, “it will give those damned rebels something to think about.”
“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t,” the Earl answered. “Dammit, we’ve planned it hard enough.”
And he was right. The secret manoeuvre of September 1st, 1774, had been discussed down to the finest detail. Now all that awaited was the execution.
It had been a grim summer. Gage’s retreat from Salem back to Boston had been undignified to say the least. He had gone there to swear in the newly appointed royal councillors, only for the radicals to challenge the regime, preventing several members from attending by threat of physical violence. Others they had forced to resign, others still to flee to Boston for their own safety. In this last number Tom himself had been included. He had left in a hurry at the end of August and was now safely back in Province House.
Yet was safely the right word? He had returned to Boston to find the place had deteriorated further. For now it was filling with people who sought royal protection. People who looked to the presence of armed troops for asylum. The Governor had seethed with anger and out of this feeling a plan had been born, a plan which this very night was going into action.
“Do you mind, Sir?” Percy was asking, producing a pipe.
“Not if it helps you to concentrate. Tonight is going to be a long one.”
“Indeed it is.”
So saying, the Governor stood up and led the way to his study, the Earl following closely behind. There, he unrolled a map which showed in detail Boston Harbour, the Mystic River, and the surrounding countryside. Both men pored over it, Lord Percy taking a pair of spectacles from a pocket and putting them on. Tom gave him a sideways glance and thanked God that his sight still held out.
There was a knock at the door which opened to reveal Robin, looking slightly puzzled. “Colonel Maddison to see you, Sir,” he said. “Very good. Show him in.”
The clock in the hall was just chiming midnight as the Colonel came into the room. Gage straightened up from the map, while Percy shot one of his brilliant looks in the direction of the door, partly because he was unable to see who had arrived until he grew closer.
“My dear George,” said the Governor enthusiastically, and shook the new arrival warmly by the hand.
The Colonel saluted, then bowed. “I await your final orders, Sir.”
“Only one. That the men wear sacking over their boots. I want this done entirely in secret. If there is any noise and somebody wakes then we may as well forget the whole thing.”
George Maddison smiled. “It’s already taken care of, Sir. Every man, all two hundred and sixty, has been issued with hemp.”
“Good. You leave at four-thirty?”
“On the stroke, Sir. As you ordered.”
“Then there’s nothing left but to wish you success.”
The Earl spoke, removing his glasses and giving them a quick polish with a handkerchief before thrusting both into his pocket.
“I’ve ordered the longboats to await the men, Colonel.”
“Very good, my Lord.”
“So bon chance.”
Colonel Maddison saluted and bowed once more. “Goodbye, gentlemen, and thank you.”
Percy turned to the Governor as the door closed behind him. “A very able man that. You chose well, Sir.”
Tom looked grim. “Don’t speak too soon, my friend. Anyway, I suggest we get a few hours’ sleep before the event. You’re welcome to stay here.”
“I will, Governor, thanks. What time are you getting up?”
“At four-thirty when it begins.”
“So shall I,” said Hugh Percy, and bowing to Tom, took a candle and made his way upstairs.
*
<
br /> On the stroke of the half hour, while the town of Boston lay asleep, Maddison and his men crept out from their various quarters and marched silently to the Long Wharf. Here, longboats from the King’s navy, thirteen in all, bobbed on the morning tide. The men climbed aboard and when the entire company was seated the coxswains pushed off, their mission to row across Boston Harbour to the Mystic River. Once the hand-picked battalion had arrived its orders were to march inland to the Powder House on Quarry Hill and there to seize the remaining gunpowder and bring it back to Boston, placing it under British control.
As soon as he had been forced out of Salem it had come to Tom’s attention that the powder was disappearing into the surrounding countryside. Angry with the way he had recently been treated, the Governor was determined to put a stop to such activities. Hence the surprise raid under cover of darkness.
Having crossed the straits the soldiers came ashore at Temple’s Farm and marched, in silence, to Quarry Hill, about a mile away. Here they waited in the dim light until morning, then they went into the Powder House – opened for them by the sheriff of Middlesex County, Colonel David Phips – and retrieved two hundred and fifty half-barrels, which they carried back to the boats. Then they were rowed back to Castle Island, leaving behind a small detachment who marched on to Cambridge and removed two brass field pieces that belonged to the Province. By noon it was all over, the munitions safely stored in Castle William, the men back in their barracks and snoring.
At Province House there was indeed cause for celebration. Earl Percy sent his coachman to his home to bring extra champagne and he, Tom and Colonel Maddison proceeded to get slightly drunk. The largest store of gunpowder in Massachusetts had been seized without a shot being fired. It was a triumphant exercise, brilliantly carried out. “Well, Sir, here’s to your health,” said Percy, shooting Gage one of his spectacular glances.
“Here’s to all of us,” said Tom, lifting his glass to the half dozen people who had crowded into his study.
“Hear, hear,” came a general chorus, and there was a clinking of glasses.
Into the silence after they had swallowed, Lord Percy said, “This will give the Faction food for thought.”
Gage refilled Hugh’s glass. “Yes. I wonder what their reaction will be.
“Who knows?” came the reply. “Let them get on with it whatever it is.
*
In the event it was more, far more, than anyone could have imagined. While the officers were busy getting merry in Province House, the first rumours had started to fly. It was growing in the telling, of course, like a whispering campaign: war had broken out, the King’s ships were bombarding Boston, the Regulars were marching. Bells began to toll in all the towns as the men of Massachusetts responded to the gossip, none of which was true but which they implicitly believed.
As dusk fell fire beacons were lit, beacons that had been erected to warn against war with the French. The whole countryside began to arm itself and to march in the direction of Boston. By the morning of September 2nd, armed men in their thousands were heading for the town on both foot and horseback. Everywhere the leaders of the revolution found themselves trying to stop the people from perpetrating acts of violence and failing despite their best effort.
The mob turned ugly in Cambridge and marched on the local supporters of King George, forcing them to flee for their lives. One house had its windows smashed by boys and servants. Yet another unfortunate, Customs Commissioner Benjamin Hallowell, was riding in his chaise, complete with an accompanying servant. Suddenly surrounded by a violent mob he took his servant’s horse and galloped for Boston full pelt. The mob, at least a hundred and fifty strong, came howling in hot pursuit. Behind, thundering along to no avail, were three of the rebel leaders vainly trying to stop them.
As Hallowell approached the safety of Boston Neck the horse collapsed beneath him. Nothing daunted, the loyalist Tory had taken to his heels and sprinted through to the sanctuary of British lines, where he remained, telling his tale to anyone who would listen.
In Province House the Governor was astounded by the turn of events. That the people would have been mildly irritated by the seizing of their powder, he had reckoned on. That the whole countryside should have risen against him, in force, frankly astonished him. Sitting quietly, he considered what was best to be done.
He was still alone, inasmuch as his wife was yet to join him. But now he no longer missed her so much, indeed had had hardly a moment recently to concentrate on his married life, or anything else for that matter. She had written that she would be arriving in early September but it was already the evening of the second and there was no sign of her. Gage sighed. When Margaret joined him it would be the end of teaching Sara, he felt certain of that. Though even those enjoyable interludes had been shelved since the affair of the gunpowder raid.
Seized by a sudden restlessness the Governor got to his feet and paced the room. A feeling of impending disaster gripped him and with it the conviction that he must defend Boston to the hilt. Sitting at his desk and starting to write urgent orders, he rang a bell, not looking up as it was answered almost immediately.
“Yes, Sir?” said Sara’s voice.
Gazing in surprise, Tom allowed himself the brief respite of studying her. She had grown even more beautiful, if anything, since he had started to teach her. For now the girl had a poise, an air of calmness about her, which had been missing before. Despite himself, despite everything, Gage found himself smiling at her in pleasure.
“Sara. Where have you been hiding? I haven’t seen you around for days.”
She smiled back at him and instantly the atmosphere in the room lightened. “I’ve been here, Master Governor, but I think you’ve been rather preoccupied.”
He gestured to the seat on the other side of the desk. “Come and sit down. I’m sorry about your lessons. But you’re right. I’ve had a lot on my plate. You know about it, I take it.”
“Yes, Sir. I know about it.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it’s mighty difficult for you, Sir.”
Gage gave a humourless laugh. “Yes, you could say that.”
“So what are you going to do?”
It was the first direct question she had ever asked him, except for queries about their lessons together. And it was also the first time that she had not addressed him by a title of some sort. Gage stared at her for a moment, then laughed, pretending for a second that she was an old and intimate friend and rather enjoying the feeling.
“I’m going to close Boston, that’s what.”
“But how, Sir?”
“I am writing orders right now for the Neck to be defended by heavy cannon, put them on Roxbury Neck too. Then I’m going to call in all the weapons in the town and compulsorily buy any existing stocks of gunpowder.”
“In case you’re attacked from within?”
“Precisely.” Gage put down his pen, thinking how bright the girl was and wondering, yet again, about the poor drab who had been her grandmother. Had she perhaps been the daughter of some aristocratic house, run away to marry, only for her lover to let her down? But the girl was speaking again.
“Won’t it annoy the Faction, though, Sir?”
Tom sighed again. “It’s too late for that. The uprising of today was too big to take any further risks. Boston must be fortified.”
The slave nodded, and wisely changed the subject. “I can write all my alphabet, Sir. From memory.”
“Good girl. Well done.” His voice changed. “Sara, I can’t teach you tonight. I have too much to do. But stay and have a cup of tea with me please.”
She stood up, her plain dress making no sound as she did so. For an instant Tom had a vision of her dressed in dark green silk, cut to enhance her beautiful body. Then he remembered his dream and felt guilty.
Sara noticed nothing though, merely nodding and saying, “I’ll fetch the tray, Sir.”
He worked on, writing orders, checking lists, aware tha
t she was in the room – a comforting, soothing presence – but paying her no attention at all. Until, at one o’clock in the morning, he looked up, wiping his eyes, from which he could no longer see straight.
Sara slept in a high-backed chair, deeply unconscious, uncomfortable but tranquil. Gage laid down his pen and stretched, stiff with sitting. Then he got up and began to douse the candles. Finally he approached her and shook her gently by the shoulder.
“Sara, wake up. It’s time to go to bed.”
She opened her eyes but he could tell by the expression in them that she was still asleep. “Yes, Governor.”
“Come on, there’s a good girl.”
For answer she stood but collapsed against him, flinging her arms around his neck. The temptation to kiss her overwhelmed him to the point where, through tiredness and worry and general despair, he actually did so. Holding her close like that, he bent his head and engaged in a long, deep embrace. Then he felt guilty again and, candle tree in one hand, he escorted the sleeping girl up the stairs, opened the door to her tiny room, and put her inside. Then he hurried down a flight, flung off his clothes and finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
*
In Warren House in Hanover Street, Dr. Joseph Warren, similarly tired, was still sitting in his study wondering about the future. He had been one of the few Whigs, as the revolutionaries liked to call themselves, who had known the truth about the seizing of gunpowder during the small hours of September 1st. But communication being what it was it had been difficult to notify the country folk that war had not broken out and they had marched on Boston regardless. Eventually, of course, the news had got through that this was not a state of high alarm and they had withdrawn again. Yet there had been satisfaction in seeing that vast number rise as to a man. When the time came, thought the young doctor to himself.
