MAYFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS
February–April 1775
It was Ben, our hired boy, who put my nerves on edge that February morning, coming to meet me with a finger to his lips as I crossed the backyard to feed the chickens.
“Look, Miss Abigail,” he whispered, his blue eyes large as he pointed to the roof of the house. “Two crows a sittin’ on your roof.”
I looked up and saw the birds, their black feathers glistening in the winter sun.
Ben stepped closer, his voice still a whisper. “You know what they say ’bout crows: ‘Two crows on the thatch . . . soon death lifts the latch.’”
“’Tis but an old saying, Ben, and nothing for you to worry about.”
“You think so?” Ben didn’t look convinced. “Jacob Warren said he saw two crows sittin’ on the Miller’s roof the day their baby died.”
“The baby had been sick for weeks. I’m sure ’twas only happenstance.”
“But Jacob says . . .” Ben’s freckled face screwed up with worry. “Jacob says crows have a way a knowin’ when death’s comin’. ’Tis why I thought to warn you.”
Seeing the twelve-year-old boy’s concern made me want to pull him close. Fearing to embarrass him, though, I only smiled and held his gaze. “That was very thoughtful, Ben. But ’tis only superstition. We’re both too wise to give it any thought, aren’t we?”
“Yes’m.” Looking like a great weight had been taken off his thin shoulders, Ben shouted and waved his arms at the crows. “Off with you,” he cried and grinned when the birds took flight. “There,” he said. Still grinning, he set off for the barn, his booted feet trampling the crusted snow, the ends of his dark woolen scarf fluttering.
I pulled my blue hooded cape closer about me to ward off the morning chill. Had it not been for the need to feed the chickens, I’d have stayed in the house where it was warm.
As I poured grain for the chickens, broke ice on the frozen water trough, and gathered eggs, my mind remained on what Ben had said about crows knowing when death was coming. There had been no crows on the roof ten months ago when my twin brother, Jonathan, had died. His death had wounded us all, our sorrow like a fresh gash whose pain still hadn’t diminished. Some years before, death had also taken two of my little sisters. Now there was only ten-year-old Bethy and me, her nineteen-year-old sister.
“’Tis only superstition,” I told myself, needing the reassurance as much as Ben. But the idea upset me, especially since Father had ridden to Cambridge and Boston almost a week ago and still hadn’t returned.
When I finished with the chickens and returned to the kitchen, the heat from the large fireplace rushed like a warm quilt to envelop me. Rather than give in to the enticement to stay inside, I handed the egg basket to Jane, Ben’s older sister who helped with the cooking and cleaning, and said I’d be back in a few minutes.
I crossed the snowy yard to the lane that led from our farm to the road into Mayfield. Week-old snow crunched beneath my boots as I walked up the tree-lined lane. Wrapping my red woolen scarf more tightly around my neck, I tried to ignore the cold creeping through my boots and heavy woolen stockings. Something larger than me pulled me at a steady pace along the lane where slender shadows from bare-branched maples laid delicate patterns across the snow. In another month, the snow would be melting, and I consoled myself with the thought as my breath rose in white puffs of vapor around me.
Glittering white beauty stretched in all directions, but Ben’s words and my unease about Father made my mood somber. What was keeping him? He’d said he’d be back in three or four days. Today made six.
I didn’t expect to see Father riding along the Mayfield road at such an early hour, but when I got there, I stared down the rutted snowy surface that ran in a winding course until it curved around the rise that marked the halfway mark to the village. “Where are you?” I whispered into the crisp air. “What’s keeping you?”
Times were uneasy in Massachusetts as we embarked on the new year of 1775. In retaliation for the Sons of Liberty’s dumping a shipload of tea into Boston Harbor to protest the tea tax, England’s Parliament had passed the hated Intolerable Acts, which, in addition to closing Boston Harbor, had abolished self-government and allowed British troops to be quartered in colonial homes. Although our Continental Congress had sent a letter to England requesting the abolishment of the acts, Parliament and the King had ignored it.
Now voices clamored for the colonists to break with England. Flaring tempers sometimes brought men who’d once been friends to fisticuffs as they debated matters of English sovereignty and Colonial rights in taverns throughout New England.
Although Mayfield was some twenty miles from Boston, talk was heated here as well. Despite cries of treason from Tories and those loyal to the Crown, more than forty Mayfield men and older boys had signed their names on the roster of the Committee of Correspondence, my father among them. They now drilled weekly on the common with the militia. Minutemen, they called themselves—men ready to defend their freedom at a minute’s notice.
Boston was a hotbed of Liberty Men bent on revolution, and their leaders—Sam Adams, Paul Revere, and Dr. Warren—were closely watched. Had more riots broken out? Was this why Father was late?
I was about to turn back when I heard the distant sound of hoofbeats. Shading my eyes from the sun, I discerned the outline of a horse and rider coming from the direction of the village.
“Father?” His name slipped from my mouth, for the rider wore a gray cloak like Father’s, and the horse was chestnut like his horse, Jumper. Bundled with scarves against the cold and wearing a tri-corn hat, the man’s features were difficult to discern. As he drew closer, I realized he wasn’t Father, nor was he anyone familiar.
The rider slowed his mount and, turning, doffed his hat as he drew near. “Good day to ye, mistress.”
I curtsied, noting that the man’s brown hair, rather than powdered, was neatly pulled back and bound by a dark ribbon. He was also younger than I’d first supposed, perhaps in his mid- to late twenties.
His gaze as it traveled over me was admiring. Such was not unusual, for I had known for some years that men, both young and old, found pleasure in looking at me.
“My name is Gideon Whitlock, late from Boston. I was told at Hillam’s Tavern where I lodged last night that I can find the home of Charles Carter not too far down this road.”
“’Tis but another two miles . . . a white clapboard house set close to the road.”
“I’m much obliged.” Replacing his hat, he smiled, and his face, which I’d thought neither plain nor handsome, leaned on the side of handsome.
I stepped closer. “Please, sir, has there been new trouble in Boston? My father went there almost a week ago and hasn’t yet returned.”
Mr. Whitlock’s face lost its smile. “There is always trouble in Boston. Who’s to say what the rabble-rousers are up to?”
I lifted my chin. “My father is not a rabble-rouser but a man who believes that England lays too heavy a hand on the colonists. He’s—”
“One of traitor Sam Adams’s Liberty Boys, hey?” he cut in sharply. “Tell your father he’d best stay home where he belongs, not traipse around the county looking for trouble.” He urged his horse past me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Taken aback, I stared after him in chagrin. Though this Gideon Whitlock claimed to have come from Boston, he obviously lacked the good breeding and manners for which Bostonians were noted. Since he’d asked directions to the home of Mr. Carter, an avowed Tory, he was a Tory as well.
“How rude,” I said in a voice loud enough for him to hear. “But what can one expect from a Tory?”
Without slackening his horse’s pace, the stranger looked back and doffed his hat a second time, his wide grin making the corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement.
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I turned so he couldn’t see it. “Insolent man!” Still fuming, I started back down the lane, consoling myself that at least the arrogant Tory hadn’t mentioned any new trouble in Boston. Since Father dearly loved to talk, he was probably spending time with friends in Boston and Cambridge. At least that was what I told myself as I gave the receding figure of Mr. Whitlock a dismissive frown.
Pique sent me down the lane at a brisk pace. Even so, the sight of my home, its windows glinting in the morning sun, made me pause. Despite Reverend Whipple’s frequent sermons on the sin of pride, pride was exactly what I felt as I gazed at the two-storied, red-brick house. There were four windows facing east on each floor, with shutters painted a crisp white like the large double door of the entryway.
Our house had been built by Grandfather Stowell some fifty years before, but the farm, with barn and numerous outbuildings, had been in the Stowell family since the late sixteen hundreds. An orchard with over twenty trees sat to the north of the barn, and three hundred acres of fields and pasture stretched all the way to Hobb’s Woods. Like Father, Stowell farm was well known in Middlesex County, and though I didn’t think myself better than others, I was proud I bore the Stowell name.
“Abigail! Where are you?”
The sound of Mother’s voice sent me hurrying to the back of the house, where Ben carried filled milk pails from the barn. Mercy! Had I been gone so long?
Mother stood by the kitchen doorway, a heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders. Her worried face was framed by a white cap and fringes of dark hair. “Where have you been at such an early hour?”
Not wanting her to know of my concern for Father, my answer was evasive. “I thought to walk up the lane.”
Mother’s look was knowing. “You needn’t try to hide your worry. Yesterday I walked up to the road to look for him too.”
“There was no sign of him this morning either,” I said. “But I did meet a stranger riding from the village.”
Mother’s brows lifted. “Stranger? What is a stranger doing in Mayfield in the dead of winter?”
“He called himself Gideon Whitlock, and he asked directions to Mr. Carter’s farm.”
Mother’s mouth tightened. “Likely a Tory.”
“A rude Tory,” I corrected indignantly. “When I asked for news of Boston, he called Sam Adams’s followers a bunch of rabble-rousers . . . Father included . . . and said Father should stay home instead of traipsing around looking for trouble.”
“Nathan Stowell is not a rabble-rouser.” Her voice was as indignant as mine. “There’s not a better man in all of Middlesex County.”
“In all of Massachusetts, but before I could tell him, he rode away.”
“Well, ’tisn’t likely you’ll ever see him again. Still, it does seem peculiar that someone from Boston should be looking for Charles Carter. I think ’twould be wise to tell your father about it when he returns. He’ll know what to make of it.” Sighing, she turned back to the house. “How I wish he’d hurry back.”