NINE

A Mere American

The ship was named the Active, all too accurately. It rocked on the mountainous sea like a giant cradle festooned with billowing white cloth webbed with interminable rope. When the sailors attributed the violent motion to a “breeze,” Abigail could only hope heaven would defend her from a storm. Just to move a finger made her dizzy; she could not even bend over to put her shoes on alone. Crashing bottles, dishes, plates, chairs, and tables only orchestrated her misery. Sometimes she and the other passengers had to be tied to their deck chairs or cabin bunks; all too frequently, one of the male passengers would almost sit in her lap to keep her from falling out of her chair, while he braced his feet against a table to keep it from toppling over on her. Other times, when she had to be helped to her cabin to lie down, “obliged” to hold herself in with all her might, she was certain that seasickness was the most “disheartening, dispiriting malady.”1

Abigail was clearly embarrassed. She would have refused to believe, before embarking on June 20, 1784, that she could lie herself down at night “in common with half a dozen gentlemen,” with only a curtain between them, having shed as many layers of wool and calico from her frail frame—though thankfully no more, she said—as a Yankee bundler. The door of her prison-size, eight-foot-square stateroom, with its small, solitary window fenced with iron, opened into the men’s cabin, which also happened to serve as dining quarters. It was shut only when it was time to dress or undress; otherwise she would have suffocated, she was positive, or at least have been poisoned by the foul air that clotted her every breath.2

Inevitably, however, Abigail adjusted to the demands of the occasion. Reassured one early morning by the smooth sea and the mild blue sky, she pronounced it time to make a “bustle” over matters, at least in the matter of cleanliness, a virtue both “Cardinel and Deified” in her opinion. If she could not remedy the “odorifferous” cargo of leaking and fermenting oil and potash, she could most definitely see that the filthy passageways were cleansed, so that she wasn’t obliged to scrub her shoes every time she traversed them. Her mind made up, she did not waste a moment. Her manservant, John Briesler, luckily recovered from his own bout with nausea, was dispatched to muster as many hands as he could to set to work with scrapers, mops, brushes. In a few hours, and with multiple infusions of vinegar, the boards of the floors were visible; in fact, the job was so well done that Abigail almost thought herself on a different ship.3

Next on the agenda was the matter of food, and the cook in particular. Abigail thought him dreadfully disorganized, and his “higgledy-piggledy” manner of presenting dinner intolerable. First came the leg of pork, all bristly, then fifteen minutes elapsed before he produced a pudding, or maybe a pair of roast fowls, and then a piece of beef; when dinner was nearly finished, he was apt to bring on a plate of potatoes. Supervising the cook, Abigail finally taught him how to prepare and present his food decently; on several occasions she concocted puddings on her own that she personally found the only things fit to eat anyway. The cook was not only taught order but cleanliness, the putrid milk pail receiving repeated soapy dousings, though Abigail had already decided that if the passengers did not die immediately of dirt, they would certainly have eaten at least a peck’s worth.4

*   *   *

All in all, only the hope of ending what Abigail counted as a ten-year separation from her husband—John had set out for Philadelphia in August 1774—could justify this wrenching change in her life. About to turn forty in the autumn, Abigail was sure she would have been otherwise quite content with the “page of the Historian” and never sought this firsthand view of her own. Yet, halfway out to sea, when she had learned to live with the dampness that aggravated her rheumatism and made her head ache until she could hardly read, she began to believe that serenity was not always the most desirable state in life, that perhaps every object was most beautiful in motion: trees agitated by the wind, a fine woman dancing, a ship under sail. Man was made for action, perhaps, and, after all, in an instance of self-discovery, Abigail found herself admitting, “I am quite out of conceit with calms.” At eight or nine knots, the ship loping across the ocean at one hundred miles a day, Abigail began truly to appreciate the beauty of the voyage. Bound in her chair, hemming a handkerchief, studying the porpoises and their spiraling gymnastics, she scrutinized the sea with a poet’s eyes, finding it “smooth as a Glass, then gently agitated with a light Brieze, then lifting wave upon wave, moving on with rapidity, then rising to the Skyes, as in majestic force to our ship to & fro, alternately riseing & sinking.”5

Caught by the sea’s splendor, as well as revolted by the ship’s filth, erosion of privacy, and physical punishment, Abigail was soon intrigued by the challenges of her new life at sea. “Daughter of Eve,” James Lovell had teased her, her admitted curiosity irrepressible. The prison had turned into schoolroom, library, theater, and she herself could not help marveling at her resiliency. A fragment from Alexander Pope echoed her determination to make the most of this fresh adventure:

Pleasures are ever in our hands and eyes:

And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.6

The kind and ever-watchful captain, Nathaniel Byfield Lyde, though he could not be called a polished gentleman, was certainly a clever one, took an interest in her writing, and brought large sheets of paper to her cabin. In turn, she set out to learn the names of the masts and sails that so preoccupied his attention. Passing his test with a most rewarding accolade, she knew enough to steer the boat herself, the captain had told her. Abigail could also divert herself by reading. A Political Survey of Britain by John Campbell spurred her to the huffy conclusion that America equaled, if not surpassed, Britain’s advantages. “The one half has not been told” she decided, and she did not forget that two of the most celebrated painters living among the British were Americans named Copley and West. Another book that absorbed her time was William Buchan’s Domestic Medicine. The author’s proposal that a change of ideas was as necessary for health as a change of posture appealed to her as especially pertinent to her remarkable new situation.7

When Abigail tired of books, she enjoyed studying her fellow passengers. At a square table in what she called the “great” cabin, she often noticed Colonel Norton, a grave, sedate man, whose literary accomplishments she thought “not very great,” playing backgammon with a merchant, Mr. Foster, a great favorite of Nabby’s. A Scotsman named Green, Abigail found haughty and imperious; he “plumes himself upon his country,” she complained. Edging around gently in her chair on Sunday noon, she saw that Mr. Green was writing, Dr. Clark was eating ham, and Mr. Spead, whose easy and happy “blow high or blow low” humor and wit she thoroughly enjoyed, was reading James Thomson’s Seasons with his hat on. Almost tipping backwards, she found her maid, Esther, relaxed and knitting, realized Nabby was still asleep in the cabin she shared with a woman coincidentally also named Adams, who was no relation. The atmosphere was certainly relaxed, virtually festive, as she watched the steward bustling about serving wine.8

The sense of peace had endured throughout that day. At dusk it looked to Abigail as though thousands and thousands of fireflies bejeweled the ocean, kindled the horizons, and illuminated her most private thoughts in the process. She had agonized about this trip, about the sea, about people she would leave behind, about those she would meet anew. Just the past February, she confided to John her fears about being unequal to the trial, about presenting an awkward figure at court.

You invite me, you call me to follow you, the most earnest wish of my soul is to be with you—but you can scarcely form an idea of the conflict of my mind, it appears to me such an enterprize, the ocean so formidable, the quitting my habitation and my country, leaving my children, my friends with the idea that perhaps I may never see them again, without my Husband to console and comfort me.…

It was remarkable, now that there was hope of landing at Portsmouth this next Tuesday, that the fear of touching ground was dispelled. In the beginning, she hadn’t thought she would survive the thirty days aboard ship; now she felt she could continue for eight or even ten days more. She marveled at how easily one could become reconciled to the most disagreeable situations. Her ability to overcome obstacles surprised even her.9

*   *   *

Abigail pulled the thick green woolen cape closer to her slender body as she contemplated the ocean and its “secret world of wonders.” The report of the captain’s mate that the ship was within fourteen hundred miles of the British coast reminded her of lines of poetry that described “a sober sense of joy,” a “joy prepared to weep.” Hers, too, was a joy of many emotions. As “a mere American” she pondered the imminent challenge of court life and its unfamiliar etiquette and how she would fare, given her habits, “taught to say the thing I mean, and to ware my heart in my countenance.” But more than her own future, she was concerned for her daughter’s. It was because of Nabby that Abigail had grown so fond of the soft-spoken Mr. Foster, who seemed to sense her daughter’s needs, soothe her, and entertain her. “Nobody said a word,” Abigail wrote Elizabeth Shaw, “nor do I know from any thing but his manner of treating her that he suspected it.… She has behaved with a Dignity and Decorum worthy of her.”10

Abigail was referring to Nabby’s role in what her parents called “The Family Affair”, which had given greater impetus to their trip abroad than they might have realized. John had recognized immediately on learning of his daughter’s romantic involvement that it would require delicate handling, but thought it “may be managed very well. The Lady comes to Europe with you—if the parties preserve their regard until they meet again and continue to behave as they ought they will be still young enough.…” The father had not sounded quite so genial when his wife first informed him of Nabby’s involvement with the dashing newcomer.11

At Christmastime in 1782, Abigail had reported with care that their little circle at home included “another Gentleman” who had opened his office in town, who had earned his welcome by his attractive and appealing personality, despite gossip about his dissipation of much of his fortune. Certainly, from Abigail’s vantage point, his behavior was “unexceptionable” since he had taken up residence in town, and in consequence, his business, which was law, had increased. In conclusion, Abigail had said she felt this gentleman would not fail to make a distinguished figure in his profession, if he pursued it steadily. She was not acquainted with any young gentleman whose attainments in literature were equal to his, she had added, or anyone who had more accurate judgment, or more delicate and refined taste. “His days are devoted to his office, his Evenings of late to my fire side.”12

The tall, darkly handsome, vigorous newcomer with curly hair and a musical voice, the heir to £4,100 and a chaise, a mansion, a ship, and a store, who was the subject of Abigail’s admiring scrutiny, was the twenty-five-year-old Royall Tyler, a boarder with the Cranch family. He had entered Harvard at fifteen, and graduated in 1776 as valedictorian of his class; subsequently he had earned a master’s degree, read law, and was admitted to the bar in 1779. Abigail, full of praise for Tyler, was beholden, in her scrupulous way, to brush in some less appealing details, though she dealt with them sympathetically.

Loosing his Father young and having a very pretty patrimony left him, possessing a sprightly fancy, a warm imagination and an agreeable person, he was rather negligent in persueing his business in the way of his profession; and dissipated two or 3 years of his Life and too much of his fortune for him to reflect upon with pleasure; all of which he now laments but cannot recall.…”13

Royall Tyler had not incurred the village gossip without provocation. Abigail, even if she knew about them, omitted news of the “Great disorders” he was said to have initiated at college, where he was remembered for his drinking, his profanity, his noisy binges, and his shocking response to members of the Harvard faculty who charged him with shattering the glass of some dormitory windows. Though he later apologized, at the time of his reprimand he had said he cared nothing for a little paltry degree that might be bought for twenty shillings at any time. Far graver was another charge, never proven, but never entirely refuted; the volatile yet gifted young man was said to be the father of one Royal Morse, the son of a charwoman at Harvard.14

That Nabby knew Tyler’s blemished past seems logical, judging from the message of warning she had written to her cousin Elizabeth Cranch in June of 1782, just six months before her own mother was to send news abroad of Nabby’s relationship with Tyler. Affection, Nabby assured her cousin, was her inducement for writing. Although she was confident Betsy could protect herself from temptation in any shape, she ought to know that everyone who was formerly acquainted with Tyler told her that he was the essence—the quintessence—of artfulness. Nabby only feared he would ingratiate himself into Betsy’s good opinion.

His character and his conduct are not deserving the least degree of your friendship and I dare say you will discover it soon if you have not at present. I was told the other day that I could not see him and not become acquainted with him. I am determined to avoid the least degree of acquaintance if anything short of affrontery will answer his whole study, his dissimulation; our sex cannot be too careful of the characters of the acquaintance we form.15

Who else but Abigail could have forbidden Nabby to meet Tyler, and who else but this colonial knight, in snowy ruffles, scarlet waistcoat, white vest and knee breeches, could alter her opinion so remarkably? Within six months, Abigail would be hinting not only at a more permanent relationship among all of them, but talking with pride about the increasing “esteem and kindness” in which the town held Tyler. When Tyler began to negotiate for the ample property known as the Vassall-Borland place, with its rolling meadow and mahogany-paneled house that was, ironically, to become the Adams homestead on their return from Europe, and for generations to come, Abigail took this as a concrete move on his part to solidify his relationship in the hope he would not be considered “unworthy a connection in this family.”16

*   *   *

At sixteen, when the solemn, often inscrutable Nabby captivated Royall Tyler, there were those who thought her a beauty, especially a younger cousin who could never forget Nabby in her riding habit made of blue cotton bound in blue satin. The small matching hat, bravely feathered, and curving over soft, dark curls, had framed a rounded face on which her father’s rather puffy features were delicately transposed into an almost cherubic softness. Still, her attraction to Tyler surprised her mother. When people spoke of Nabby, they tended to talk of her “discretion and good sense.” Even her mother recognized in her daughter “as much apparent coldness and indifference as ever you saw in one character,” acknowledging candidly that Nabby’s formidable reserve kept people at a distance. Appearing so unyielding, almost wooden, Abigail spoke of her daughter as not possessing “all” of her mother’s sensibilities, a discreet way of saying she thought her daughter quite insensitive. Yet daily, before her stunned and delighted eyes, she noticed that Tyler’s attraction was so powerful that he at last succeeded in piercing the waxen exterior; accurately, she could say that his attention “daily becomes more pleasing” to her daughter.17

Abigail, investigating her quarry in her typically searching way, but “with decency and without disclosing motives,” was delighted to learn that even in his most dissipated state, Tyler always used his mornings for study. If, at Christmastime, he had not quite won Nabby’s hand, he had certainly earned her mother’s affection and sympathy. One evening, when he seemed in a state of what could only be described as “misirable doubt” over his status with her daughter, Abigail was compelled to write a note that might clarify his involvement. It seemed only fair to tell him that she might quit America in the spring, that she planned for Nabby to go with her, and that if they did go, she wished to take her daughter with a mind “unattached.” Besides, she suggested somewhat bluntly to the would-be suitor, he wasn’t established enough to think of a connection with anyone.18

The effusive response of the future playwright and judge assured his hoped-for mother-in-law of his “love and respect” and confidence in her.

.… I can safely trust my dearest fondest wishes and persuits in the hands of a Friend that can feel, that knows my situations and her designs. If reason pleads against me, you will do well to hesitate. If friendship and reason unite I shall be happy. Only say I shall be happy when I deserve; and it shall be my every exertion to augment my merit, and this you may be assured of, whether I am blessed in my wishes or not.…

Abigail’s reaction was all Tyler could ask for. To John she wrote that she felt “too powerful a pleador” within her own heart, reminiscent of her own early affections, to forbid Tyler hope.

I feel a regard for him upon an account you will smile at, I fancy I see in him Sentiments, opinions and actions which endeared to me the best of Friends. Suffer me to draw you from the depths of politicks to endearing family scenes.—I know you cannot fail being peculiarly interested in the present.19

John was indeed “peculiarly interested,” but not in the way Abigail might have hoped; two days after signing the armistice at Versailles, he adopted a strong position on “The Family Affair.” An irate father and thoroughly annoyed husband wrote back to say that the contents of Abigail’s letter had awakened all his sensibility. He did not like the subject at all, thought his child too young, and did not, under any circumstances, relish the word “dissipation.” Not only did he not know what it meant in this case, but nothing Abigail told him could convince him that there was enough modesty and diffidence in the traits of the suitor to satisfy him or their daughter. “My Child is a model as you represent her and as I know her and is not to be the Prize.” Furthermore, he did not wish Abigail to criticize their daughter’s prudence, and was amazed to hear her refer to Nabby’s “want of Sensibility.” The more silent she was in company, the better; “I would have this observed as a Rule by the Mother as well as the Daughter,” he added.20

Royall Tyler had failed on all counts, as far as John was concerned. “Was he a speaker at the Bar?” John asked. If not, he would never be anything, was his tight-lipped conclusion. Besides, John positively forbade any connection between his daughter and any youth upon earth who did not totally eradicate every taste for gaiety and expense. He had never known anyone who had it, and indulged it, that was not made a rascal by it, sooner or later. Unfortunately, he could readily name an example of what he meant by pointing to Tyler’s “detestible” brother, arrested for high treason by the London police, and “gallivanting” about in the company of the equally “amphibious” Winslow Warren, son of Mercy and James. Even Tyler’s father, though John conceded that he was an honorable man, had not all those “nice” sentiments John preferred. In conclusion, he reminded Abigail that the business of his daughter’s courtship was “too serious a subject to equivocate” and, further, that he didn’t like this method of “courting” mothers. “There is something “too fantastical and affected” in all this business for me,” he said.21

At the same time he scolded his wife, John soothed his daughter. He bade his “Image,” his “superscription,” his “Princess” to take care how she disposed her heart. He also told her that he hoped to come home and help choose a partner for her, or at least give her some good advice. If he was not mistaken about her character, it was not gaiety and superficial accomplishments alone that would make her happy. Rather, “It must be one who can ride 500 miles upon a bolting horse and cross the Gulf Stream with a steady heart. One may dance or sing, play or ride, without being good for much,” he reminded her. Then, wistfully, he added that he flattered himself with the hopes of a few years of the society of his daughter, at her father’s house.22

Despite his strenuous protestations, John took a more pragmatic view of the possibilities of a “connection” between his daughter and Tyler than he revealed to either mother or daughter. Checking on Tyler over the next months, he wrote to various friends for references, and read with studious regard several unsolicited ones. He begged Francis Dana, in St. Petersburg, to tell him in confidence about the character of a Mr. Tyler who had once studied with him, asking about Tyler’s moral character, literary talents, and future at the bar, insisting that he not be spared the truth “in the least.” He was appreciative of General Joseph Palmer’s reassurances of Tyler’s behavior since coming to Braintree. Whatever was said about any wild oats Tyler might have scattered before coming to Braintree, Palmer himself could only say that Tyler was “generally respected, & had, I believe, his full share of business.”23

*   *   *

Once again, however, Tyler showed he had a natural flair for bridging doubts about himself, with father as well as mother. He began the new year of 1784 with a letter to John explaining his silence, and enclosing a reference from Richard Cranch.

Dear Sir: When a man’s views are sweet and his Intentions consistent with Honour and Virtue he seldom affecteth concealing. I will not presume therefore that my attentions to your daughter are unknown to you: If you demand why an affair of so much importance to your Domestic Concerns was not communicated by me sooner—I hope that my youth, the early progress of my professional career, and the continued expectation of your daily return to your Family will be accepted as a sufficient Apology. The increase of the strongest attachments is often imperceptible; while I everyday anticipated your return I heeded not that every day I increased my esteem for her virtues.24

Since Abigail was about to leave for Europe, Tyler was writing to John because he felt he could no longer put off seeking his approval of his suit. Though he did not think himself entitled to John’s consent to an immediate union, he could not suffer this separation without requesting permission to expect it whenever Nabby returned to her native country. Their mutual esteem, he assured John, “was formed under the Inspection of your lady” and with the knowledge of the worthy family in which he resided. Wisely, Tyler had then obtained a positive testimonial from his landlord of two years, Richard Cranch: “From my acquaintance with him, he appears to me to be possessed of Politeness, Genious, Learning and Virtue; and I think he will make a very respectable Figure in his Profession of the Law. His Business in that Department increases daily.”25

On January 25, signs of the father’s capitulation were clearly recognizable. He must leave all to her judgment, John wrote Abigail. If Nabby wishes to marry, if her object is worthy, if Tyler has sown all his wild oats and will study, John could no longer object. Tyler’s flattering references, combined with his purchase of the Vassall-Borland house and land, demanded a new approach. By April 3, John had made peace between Tyler and himself:

Your connections and Education are too respectable for me to entertain any objections to them: Your Profession is that for which I have the greatest respect and Veneration. The Testimonials I have received of your personal Character and Conduct are such as ought to remove all Scruples upon that head.…26

As an ultimate sign of peace between them, John offered his true treasure, his books. Graciously, John wrote of his hope that “my Library may be of Use to you, in the Prosecution of your Studies or your Practice, the loan of it is at your Service.” As further evidence of his trust, John asked that Tyler take care of his account books and assume responsibility for collecting debts and turning the proceeds over to Dr. Tufts. The ambivalent sequence of his next thoughts spoke of reservation, but also of consent. “But the lady is coming to Europe with her Mother,” he added. Neither statement nor question, he said, “It would be inconvenient to you to make a voyage to Europe perhaps.” Then, capitulation at last: “You and the young Lady have my Consent to arrange your Plans according to your own Judgments.”27

Tyler probably received John’s letter after Nabby’s departure. Even if it had come earlier, it was doubtful that she would have stayed behind; duty, as she told him, motivated her commitment to her parents’ plans for her to go abroad. Tyler’s reply to his prospective father-in-law was exceedingly wordy, polite, and placating. Marriage, he agreed, was indeed a “Serious Affair,” and, he assured John, the “Parties” involved had not proceeded with their plans without “suitable reflections” on its significance to the happiness of their friends and relations, as well as themselves. As a serious, sensible, prospective son-in-law, Tyler also discussed financial entanglements regarding his eighty-three-acre property and his expectation of momentary possession of it. He also acknowledged John’s generous invitation to frequent his library with a reverent promise to “endeavour to make that use of it which is becoming a man who wishes to be serviceable to his friends and country.” He had ended his letter (he was speaking for Nabby as well, he said) in hopes that their union would afford John and his “Lady” that enviable satisfaction which parents experience when they perceive their children “useful, worthy, respectable and happy.” As things were to turn out, Tyler could not have named four more elusive aspects of Nabby’s future.28

*   *   *

Eventually, it was rather “from necessity than choice” that Nabby decided to leave Tyler to accompany her mother abroad. Abigail understood the sacrifice: “The parting of two persons strongly attached to each other is only to be felt; description fails,” she said. When the struggle was resolved, Nabby’s self-discipline surprised her mother. She appeared to be calm and cheerful, though the only one who could actually elicit a smile from her, even a sad one, was Mr. Foster, understandably Abigail’s favorite shipboard acquaintance. Whether it was her awareness of her daughter’s intense inner conflict over her separation, or her own honest affection for the ardent young lawyer with whom she shared great intellectual rapport, or a guilty concern for his thwarted quest, Abigail was moved, one afternoon, though “sincerely” afflicted with seasickness, to write to Royall Tyler. The letter, profusely nostalgic, overflowing with advice, was oddly devoid of any reference to Nabby, except for the oblique mention of Abigail’s own ability to “commisirate all your situations.”29

It was on July 10, twenty days out, with ten more to go, that Abigail wrote to Royall Tyler that she had thought of him “frequently” and traced him in her imagination in one situation and another, following him in the morning sun, during the cool, fragrant, silent hours of the day, even to his professional employment. She spoke of observing his pleasure at his studies of the law, in the company of writers such as Grotius, Pufendorf, and Bacon, and of her admiration for his “close and heady” application to his work, his willingness to try to master the subjects of his study, rather than superficially skimming their surface. She promised him many things: reflection was like a “pale star” that would point to the truth; consideration of what he wished to be would make him what he ought to be; greatness had its seat in the heart but must be elevated by aspiration and by daring, and kindled by energy and force.30

Abigail’s relationship with Tyler was obviously close; that she cared for him, and about his future, was indisputable. She spoke of his having ambition that should enable him to shine with distinguished brightness as a deep thinker, a close reasoner, an eloquent speaker. But the point she was really trying to get across was that talent, aspiration, and achievement were secondary to strictest honor and integrity. Although Abigail seemed nearly apologetic about her moralizing, she was nevertheless resolute. Tyler might ask why she was compelled to advise one who knew his duty. Her answer was direct: “Who of us my dear Sir practise as well as we know?” She also supposed that nobody took reproof so kindly as one who deserved most to be commended, and that everyone was in want of a friend who dealt plainly and gently with one. Abigail, as the self-designated friend, dealt with Tyler not only plainly and gently but also lengthily. Fame without honor would be ephemeral, “like a feint meter [faint meteor] gliding through the sky shedding only a transient light”; fame acquired with honor was to be compared to “fixed stars” that shine on to endless duration.” Abigail’s explicit instructions to Tyler reminded him to take care to have sentiments and thoughts worthy of himself, that virtue raises the dignity of man and vice degrades him, that “nothing makes a man truly valuable but his heart, and nothing but that can make him happy, since our happiness depends only on the nature of our inclinations.” Trifling passions, she added, made one the sport of vain attachments. “They offer us flowers, but says Montaigne, always mistrust the quenching of your pleasures.”31

Whether it was the long, solitary hours of ocean gazing that revived specters of Tyler’s bygone follies, or merely her instinctive tendency to dwell on the subject of virtue, the sermonlike content of Abigail’s lecture to Tyler was modified by the underlying tenderness of her questions. Did he visit their cottage out of habit, though it was deserted, remembering what it once was? And was her place “supplied” by the memory of pleasures from some other scene? Before she put down her pen, she had assured the young man that he had “a share and not a small one” of her affectionate regard.32

*   *   *

Early on Sunday, July 18, Abigail counted at least twenty boats with cloud-colored sails, signaling, like flags of welcome, the approach to the English Channel. Captain Lyde announced his hope of landing at Portsmouth within the next day or two, and recommended that passengers pack immediately, during this time of light wind and momentary calm. Methodically, Abigail readied the small trunks the captain referred to as hand luggage, her mind reviewing the events of the preceding month, which had taught her an impressive lesson. If she could not claim to have conquered her fear of the unknown, she could at least be proud that she was as happy as the sea would permit. One’s humor made one agreeable or not; men of dark, sour humor had no music in their souls, she thought.33

It had, she recognized, taken a great deal of music to drown out the sorrowful memories of her departure from home, from the house of mourning she had left on Friday, June 18. They were no “unmeaning complimenters,” but honest yeomanry who lined up from the road to her front door and passed through the sunny parlor, shaking her hand, sharing her tears. Her father’s death that past December, her mother-in-law’s great age, her love for her sisters and nieces, her devotion to Uncle Tufts, only intensified the pain of leave-taking. That night she wrote last-minute notes and letters; by noon the next day, Sunday, a crowd waved her, Nabby, and the servants, Esther Field and John Briesler, across the gangplank from Rowe’s wharf to the Active, the ship Abigail had chosen especially because its copper bottom was regarded as a safety feature. Almost immediately, the ship threaded its way out of the thicket of the noisy, busy harbor, and though sick and terrified, Abigail mused about the endless gray distance ahead. The ocean, however else it affected her, awed her. Could she be so near the laws of her forefathers? And was she, “Gracious Heaven, there to meet the Dear long absent partner” of her heart? “How many how various how complicated my Sensations!” Abigail wrote into her shipboard diary that evening. “Be it unto me according to my wishes,” she added prayerfully.34

*   *   *

One of the onerous realities of leaving home was the knowledge that people would change during her absence, that relationships would be altered by circumstances, if not by age or death. In a few instances they would disintegrate entirely, their traces etched only in memory. Such was the fate of Abigail’s evanescent friendship with James Lovell, her enigmatic confidant, protector, and informer. Abigail had been appreciative of his “retailed Politicks”; since his return to Massachusetts she had lost her source of intelligence from Congress. He had been her dispatcher of mail, money, china, glass, and linens. She had always worried that his letters to her would be intercepted, and had warned him that the world would not understand his uniquely familiar writing style. When she had reprimanded him, cautioned him about unfriendly eyes and ears, he had explained that he never meant to hurt her or himself. He insisted he was not a “gallant,” but only eager to administer even the smallest degree of satisfaction to a mind very susceptible of anxiety and a little prone, he feared, to see harm where there was none.35

But Lovell had come to harm, not because of a letter he had written to Abigail, but because of one to Elbridge Gerry. The discussion that had precipitated this particular letter had centered on rumors of Lovell’s suspiciously prolonged absence from his wife in Boston. In his way, inferring rather than explaining his reasons for remaining in Philadelphia, Lovell asked Gerry, “Does my Wife look as if she wanted a toothless grey headed sciatic Husband near her? I am more Benefit to her at a Distance than in as the Almanac has it.” The letter, with its unfortunate choice of the male sex symbol, intercepted and reprinted in the British-affiliated newspaper, James Rivington’s New York Royal Gazette, appalled enemies and friends alike. Lovell’s reputation was shattered, even colleagues pronounced him unworthy of his position as a member of Congress, the job, he claimed, that kept him, for financial reasons, from returning to his wife all these years.36

Abigail was swift to scold Lovell for “the unbecoming Levity,” which he tried to explain away by insisting he had used the provocative hieroglyphic not in any sexual connotation, but as a symbol of the sign of Mars. But Abigail was interested only in the remedy, not the excuse. Only Massachusetts air would exorcise year-old charges of immorality that persisted in Philadelphia, as well as in his home state, that he had violated the most sacred of vows, that a house of ill repute was his residence, and a mistress his “Bosom associate.” Though Abigail sailed for England before Lovell’s future was settled, she would learn from Richard Cranch’s letter to John Adams of her friend’s fate. On July 3, 1784, Lovell was appointed naval officer for the Port of Boston. Richard Cranch wrote to John Adams of his hopes that the post would afford Lovell “genteel Living,” that his virtues and sufferings in the common cause entitled him to more loyal support. Abigail had never withdrawn hers. This man of “inventive genius,” with his fondness for intrigue and his devotion to Abigail, was part of the life she had left behind with finality. Lovell had kept her in the mainstream when she was at her most solitary, and she would always be grateful to him.37

*   *   *

On Saturday night, when soft breezes increased into demon gales, and thick fog blocked neighboring land and ships from sight, Abigail brushed away the past to concentrate on her survival. Her fear of crashing into the unknown and unseen was augmented by the sight of the weary captain, who would not leave the deck for food nor sleep. On Tuesday, July 20—in simmering winds and disintegrating fog, past Portsmouth (their original destination), past Dover’s heroic stone cliffs, slanting skywards from watery depths—Abigail would own that she had successfully negotiated the final lap of her epic voyage in the fierce embrace of a gentlemen passenger. The couple were buttressed against the rim of the pilot boat, that they might escape the predatory six-foot waves. Some miles later the entire party, reminding Abigail of a parcel of naiads, was disgorged with a roaring thump onto the soaking sands of Deal’s inhospitably muddy shore.38

Lodgings were available just across the road from the beach; post-chaises would be hired for the next morning at six. Only the seventy miles between Deal and London were left of a journey that had begun in earnest more than two years before. Abigail closed her eyes at the thought of reunion: “Heaven grant it may be a joy, without alloy.”39