The sound of voices drifting up the stairway of The Black Swan wakened me the next morning. Lifting my head, I saw the sun well risen and Jane putting her nightgown into one of the saddlebags.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked.
“I tried, but you was so fagged from yesterday you didn’t move.”
“I’m sorry. Your father must be wondering where we are.”
“Most likely.” Jane’s attention was on the sights outside the window. “I can’t believe there’s so many people and carriages and houses. It makes Mayfield look like nothin’.”
“There are places bigger than Boston,” I said while I donned my clothes. “London, of course, and maybe even Philadelphia.”
Jane shook her head in amazement. Since I had no mirror, I had to depend on her to help me pin my hair in place and adjust my white cap.
“Come,” I said. “I must see if I can find a pretty butter mold for Mother. If we hurry, there should be time for you to see the wharves on our way back to the ferry.”
My spirits were high as we left The Black Swan. Hadn’t I successfully delivered the message to Mr. Whitlock? Maybe even now it was being whispered into Sam Adams’s ear. As for the kiss . . . Jerking my mind to other matters, I set out for Cornhill Street and the woodcarver’s shop.
After I’d purchased a scalloped mold with flower petals carved into the bottom to decorate the butter, we made our way to King Street to see the marvel of Long Wharf that stretched half a mile into the bay. The naval blockade had left the wharf almost empty, though a few scows transporting goods from Boston out to the redcoats quartered on Castle Island were visible.
The tide was out, and the smell of fish and seaweed permeated the air as we made our way along Fish Street, where coils of rope and nets dried in the morning sun. A short time later, we were on the ferry to Charles Town.
Thomas took the lead from there, setting the horses to a brisk pace that said that while he’d enjoyed the bustling sights of Boston, he was eager to be back to a more familiar life where the air smelled of freshly plowed soil instead of fish.
Though I shared his feeling, part of me was loath to leave. In accompaniment to the steady rhythm of horses’ hooves, I wondered if Gideon had successfully relayed my information to Sam Adams and if he were now safe. Thoughts of intrigue and how I could help traveled with me as the horses slogged along the muddy road back to Mayfield.
It was late afternoon when we reached home, where Father waited tall and solid with a smile on his face.
“I think ’twill be a very long time before I’ll want to ride a horse again,” I said when he helped me dismount.
He smiled and squeezed my arm. “Did all go well?” Tension left his face when he saw my pleased nod.
“And I found a lovely butter mold for Mother,” I responded.
“Good girl.”
Leaving Father talking to Thomas, Jane and I walked toward the house. “Was Boston what you expected it to be?” I asked.
“The shops and seeing so many people was like somethin’ I dreamed, but I weren’t so fond of all the noise. Just the same, I’m glad I got to go. I’ll likely still be talkin’ ’bout it when I’m an old granny.”
“I’m glad you liked it . . . glad, too, that you were such a help to me.” I gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t forget your promise. Not a word about what happened at The Rose and Crown.”
She shot a glance back at Father and Thomas. “I won’t.”
Like Jane, I glanced back at the barn, where Father and Thomas still talked. Although I couldn’t hear what they said, I was certain our having passed the night at The Black Swan instead of The Rose and Crown had been mentioned.
Mother’s warm embrace and Bethy’s excited questions greeted me as I entered the house.
“I prayed for your safety both morning and night,” Mother said when there was finally a lull in Bethy’s questions. “I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.” She hugged me a second time, and grateful tears shone in her eyes when she pulled away.
“Did the redcoats carry guns?” Bethy asked. “Were they mean to you?”
“There were certainly a great many of them, and, yes, they carried guns and were unfriendly.”
“Who was unfriendly?” Father asked as he came in the door and took off his coat.
“The redcoats,” Bethy answered.
“Ah,” he said. “Such is expected.” He gave me a significant look. “Come with me to my study.”
As soon as we reached it, Father closed the door and turned to me. “Now tell me how you gave the information to Mr. Whitlock. Were there problems? Thomas said you spent the night at The Black Swan instead of The Rose and Crown.”
Though I was as impatient to tell Father about my success as he was to hear it, I had determined not to share that Gideon . . . Mr. Whitlock . . . had kissed me. It was my first kiss, and though I’d slapped him, it was nonetheless my first kiss. More than that, had the circumstances been different, I think I might have enjoyed it.
“I found Mr. Whitlock at the tavern, just as you said. He recognized me at once and was clever enough to provide opportunity for us to speak. I don’t think anyone suspected what passed between us, but in case anyone did, I thought it prudent to seek lodging elsewhere.”
“Good . . . good. When Thomas told me you’d lodged at The Black Swan, I began to worry.” He nodded to himself. “I think ’twas wise of you to do so. Despite our worry for your safety, I never doubted your ability . . . or that of Mr. Whitlock . . . to carry this off.” He nodded again. “By now, the information should be in patriot hands.”
“Perhaps Mr. Whitlock passed it to Sam Adams himself.” I hadn’t realized until that moment how much pleasure I derived from speaking Gideon’s . . . Mr. Whitlock’s . . . name.
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Mr. Whitlock has valuable contacts on both sides of the conflict.”
“Have you heard from Uncle William? Have they caught the two men?”
Father shook his head. “As yet, there’s been no sign of them. ’Tis feared they knew which home was Tory and were hidden until it was safe to leave.”
“Then the maps they drew . . .”
“There’s no way of knowing if ’twas a map he drew, though the fact that they disappeared as if they’d never ventured this way makes me think they were up to no good.”
“Then all the more reason to be glad the patriots in Boston know they were here.”
Father nodded and took my hand. “Thank you, Abby. ’Twas a brave thing you did . . . one that may well play an important part in the coming weeks.” His hand tightened on mine. “Thank you.”
***
My spirits remained high in the days following my return. Not only had my estranged relationship with Father been mended, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I’d succeeded in giving the message to Gideon Whitlock. Gone was my dissatisfaction with my life in Mayfield. In its place was a strong sense that if I exercised patience, other opportunities would come.
The message Mistress Blood had read in the tea leaves had something to do with it. But there was more—something I wasn’t yet ready to explore or acknowledge.
A few days later, a letter arrived at the farm. Father had gone into the village to drill with the militia, so it was Mother who met the post rider. She stood for a long moment looking after him before she brought the letter into the house.
“What can this mean?” she asked, pointing to the address on the folded, wax-sealed paper.
I frowned and read the address aloud. “Master Silas Talbot, Stowell Farm, Mayfield, Massachusetts.” I looked up as puzzled as she. “There’s no one here by that name.”
“I know.” Mother looked uneasy. “Perhaps ’tis one of your father’s friends in Boston or Cambridge playing a game of secrecy.” The long look she gave me said she thought otherwise. “Put it on the desk in your Father’s study. Most likely he’ll know what to make of it.”
As soon as Father returned, he went directly to his study, and we didn’t see him until supper. Instead of mentioning the letter and the strange name on the outside, he spoke only of events in the village. Ignoring the expectant way I looked at him or that Bethy fidgeted more than usual, he spooned his soup into his mouth with maddening nonchalance. Only as he rose from the table did he ask Mother to come to his study. She delivered a similar summons for me an hour later.
I managed to hold my curiosity in check until I entered the study. “Who is it from? And why is it addressed to Silas Talbot?”
“The letter comes from William Brooks, a printer in Boston. I believe you know his bookshop. I placed an order with him in February for fifty broadsheets to tack on signposts and in taverns. He has written to tell me my order is ready.”
“Are the broadsheets seditious?” Seeing him nod, I went on. “Was it not dangerous to order copies of such an inflammatory nature?”
“It was. That’s why I gave my name as Silas Talbot. If Sam Adams and his cousin John can have letters published in the Boston Gazette under assumed names, why can’t I?”
“But Silas Talbot?” I teased. “Why not something mysterious like Prinopolous?”
Father chuckled. “Such would attract even more attention.” Looking down at the letter, he went on. “Mr. Brooks, in addition to saying my order for five copies of the Reverend Cooper’s sermons are ready, goes on—”
“Reverend Cooper’s sermons? I thought—”
“Reverend Cooper’s sermons,” he repeated, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “According to Mr. Brooks’s letter, the good reverend’s sermons are in high demand. ’Tis why it has taken him so long to complete my order.”
I stared at him, not knowing whether to be amused or to look for deeper meaning.
“Mr. Brooks is a cautious man and refers to my order as sermons to protect himself.” Tapping the letter with his finger, he said, “Since it’s not safe for me to show my face in Boston, I’m left with no other recourse than to ask you to again go in my place.”
“Which I’ll gladly do,” I said without hesitation. I didn’t relish riding Dolly to Boston again, but the thought of outsmarting General Gage and his lobsterbacks strongly appealed to me.
***
Plans were quickly laid for another trip to Boston. Thomas and Jane would again accompany me, Thomas having been told about the broadsheets but Jane innocent of our true purpose. To my relief, instead of traveling on horseback, we would ride in the cart.
We left early the next morning, Thomas flicking Dolly’s reins and Jane and I waving from the backseat of the cart. As before, we stopped at Monroe Tavern in Lexington and, from there, traveled without incident eastward to Boston. The day was overcast, but thankfully, the clouds weren’t threatening. Even so, I was glad for my cape, for the wind was chill and belied the fact that we were almost into April.
Ever vigilant, Father had instructed Thomas to avoid the ferry where we might be recognized from before. Instead we took the longer way through Roxbury and thence down the narrow neck of Boston peninsula to the blockade.
The sun was lowering when we finally neared the guardhouse and saw the red-clad soldiers who manned the barricade. Though I tried for nonchalance, my heart jumped when a soldier stepped close to the cart and began to question Thomas. Jane reached for my hand, her fingers tight around mine.
I had a clear view of the young, freckle-faced soldier who wore his red uniform with pride, but it was his gun that held my attention. The long muzzle and metal trigger and firing pan were freshly polished, as if they were as prized as his uniform. I also knew that with one quick movement, the soldier could point his gun at Thomas should he not like or believe Thomas’s answers.
There’s nothing to fear. I only go to Boston to purchase copies of Reverend Cooper’s sermons. Even so, I didn’t breathe easily until the soldier gave permission for us to pass through the wide gate.
A second soldier standing at attention at the gate had been openly watching me. Fortunately, his eyes were admiring, not suspicious, and when his companion waved us on, he smiled. “Should ye be lookin’ for a comfortable place to be stayin’, The Black Swan is but a few streets from here.”
I nodded and returned his smile, wondering what he would think if he knew I was on my way to Mr. Brooks’s print shop to retrieve seditious broadsheets hidden among the pages of a sermon.
Leaving the blockade, we bumped along Orange Street to Newberry Street and The Black Swan, where we ate and spent the night.
My sleep was fitful as I worried about being discovered with the broadsheets and arrested.
After breakfast, we set out for Mr. Brooks’s print shop and bookstore. Jane’s excitement at seeing more of Boston swept us along, though we were obliged to take care not to step on horse droppings. Shops of milliners, coopers, and wigmakers were set close to the street, with upstairs living quarters for the owners and their families.
Thomas’s eyes grew large when he saw a portly gentleman wearing a blue coat generously decorated with gold buttons and swirls of gold braid. His look of wonderment changed to anger when four redcoats with guns forced him into the street.
Father had warned us not to call attention to ourselves, and I shook my head in warning when an uncomplimentary epithet left Thomas’s lips.
A short time later, we found the print shop. A bell tinkled, and a middle-aged man wearing spectacles looked up as we entered.
“May I be of service?” he asked.
My voice and manner were calmer than my fast-beating heart. “I’m on an errand for my father, Silas Talbot. He asked me to pick up some sermons he ordered last month.”
The man rubbed ink-stained fingers on his canvas apron. “Silas Talbot, you say?” Muddy eyes the same shade of brown as his wig studied me intently.
“Yes.”
“And you are his daughter?”
“I am.” I wondered at his questions, wondered too why he studied Jane and Thomas as carefully as he studied me.
“And where, might I ask, does your father reside?”
Alarm and suspicion leapt at me. Was something wrong?
“Are you not William Brooks?” I asked.
The man pushed his spectacles more firmly onto the bridge of his nose. “I am.”
“Since you sent my father a letter informing him that his order was ready, you should know where he lives.”
“So I do.” Some of the tension left him, and after giving me a quick nod, he turned to a drawer behind the counter.
Thomas moved to my side, a troubled expression on his face. “Mistress Abigail,” he whispered, nodding in the direction of the back room. Following the direction of his nod, I saw a boy of perhaps thirteen listening intently from the half-opened door.
Realizing he’d been noticed, he stepped more fully into the shop. “I’ve finished setting the type,” he told the proprietor.
Mr. Brooks laid a small bundle of papers on the counter. “Now set to work cleaning the type from yesterday.” Returning his attention to me, he said, “I hope your father will enjoy Reverend Cooper’s sermons. They are much in demand, and I’m hard pressed to print enough copies to meet the demands of his flock.”
“Father said he is a popular preacher.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Brooks went on smoothly. His finger lightly tapped the papers. When he’d gained my attention, he slipped his finger from the title page to the middle of the stack where one of Father’s broadsheets lay.
Looking up from the broadsheet, I saw his silent plea for me to take care what I said. “Mother looks forward to reading them too.” As I spoke, I heard a tiny sound from the back of the shop and saw the boy again listening at the partially opened door.
Mr. Brooks’s attention was solely on wrapping the stack of papers with a piece of string. “That will be twenty shillings.”
I reached into my pocket and took out Father’s coins.
As I counted them, Thomas leaned close. “Hurry! The lad’s run out of the shop. He’s up to somethin’.”
Mr. Brooks’s head shot up. Breaking off the string, he thrust the package at me. “Go!” he said. “Quick, before he brings soldiers!”
Heart leaping, I hurried to the door.
Thomas yanked it opened and looked up and down the street. “Come,” he said, motioning Jane and me through the door. As he closed it, the boy and two soldiers ran around the corner of the shop.