Clegg—age 28—ferryman, Winissimet Ferry—no one of Cottrell’s description crossed from Boston to Winissimet morning of Saturday, March 5.
Obed Hussey—age 20—ferryman, Charles Town Ferry—no one of Cottrell’s description crossed from Boston to Charles Town morning of Saturday, March 5.
“As if anyone in Boston would tell a British officer anything about anyone’s movements, if he came asking.” Abigail folded up the sheet, set Tommy down, and took out her pastry-board. “And now of course if I go inquiring for a slender little fair-haired fellow with a cleft chin and the remains of a black eye on Saturday morning, both ferrymen will leap to the astute conclusion that I’m hand in glove with the British and give me a second helping of what he got. Drat the man!” She edged past John into the pantry, scooped out flour from the barrel there into a bowl, and gathered the lard-crock from the kitchen’s chilliest corner. “Perhaps if I inquire after Mr. Howell’s horse and ask the men who’d be on duty late in the afternoon when he’d have been coming back—”
“If he went,” pointed out John, and caught her for a firm kiss before turning back to the hall and his study. “The man could as easily have had a lady-friend in the North End as across the river.”
“Then why rent a horse?”
“Perhaps his toenail had become ingrown while he was in Maine, and he didn’t feel able for walking.”
Abigail threw a dishrag at him as he ducked through the hall door, to Charley and Tommy’s crows of delight.
But after she’d got the vegetables chopped for a rabbit pie, and the dried herbs that her mother-in-law sent her every autumn from her garden in Braintree pounded up, and caught Tommy twice as he attempted to toddle out the back door and freeze to death in the yard—Abigail took coarse paper from the sideboard drawer and wrote neatly in kitchen-pencil,
Sam,
Can you inquire if men from Boothby in Maine or its vicinity came to town on Saturday morning, and if so, the name of their vessel and their ostensible business? There is a good chance they know aught of Cottrell’s true killers.
A.A.
S am’s reply came on Thursday afternoon.
As one of Boston’s busiest lawyers, John was one of the few who rode the circuit of all the colony’s courts: from New Bedford up to Newburyport, west into the backcountry as far as Worcester, and on up into Maine. Unlike many of Boston’s lawyers, he came from a relatively poor family. Though his younger brothers still in Braintree sent the produce of the family farm—barrels of flour and apples, cider, corn, and potatoes—with three sons (so far) to educate and a daughter to whom he hoped one day to make a suitable marriage-portion, John would take whatever work was offered, wherever it might be.
Abigail sometimes wondered whether the success of her marriage with this driven, vain, overly erudite man owed something to the width of her own interests. While she missed him sorely while he was away—both in bed and around the kitchen table in the evenings—she was never bored. There were too many books in the world, too many newspapers, too many interesting friends . . . completely aside from the fact that nobody could be bored who had four such enterprising children as Nabby, Johnny, Charley, and Tommy.
She occupied herself on Wednesday with enquiries between Prince’s Street and the Winissimet Ferry after a fair, well-looking gentleman, of small stature, with a long nose and a cleft to his chin . . . etc. and learned what she had always suspected, that most people were far more preoccupied with making shoes or sewing shirts or chasing after their own errant children at ten thirty on a Saturday morning than they were with passersby. In the afternoon, after taking another basket of bread, cheese, cider, and clean shirts to Harry’s brother Billy for dispatch to Castle Island, she wrote letters to her mother and sisters—busy, gossipy Mary and the
Obed Hussey—age 20—ferryman, Charles Town Ferry—no one of Cottrell’s description crossed from Boston to Charles Town morning of Saturday, March 5.
“As if anyone in Boston would tell a British officer anything about anyone’s movements, if he came asking.” Abigail folded up the sheet, set Tommy down, and took out her pastry-board. “And now of course if I go inquiring for a slender little fair-haired fellow with a cleft chin and the remains of a black eye on Saturday morning, both ferrymen will leap to the astute conclusion that I’m hand in glove with the British and give me a second helping of what he got. Drat the man!” She edged past John into the pantry, scooped out flour from the barrel there into a bowl, and gathered the lard-crock from the kitchen’s chilliest corner. “Perhaps if I inquire after Mr. Howell’s horse and ask the men who’d be on duty late in the afternoon when he’d have been coming back—”
“If he went,” pointed out John, and caught her for a firm kiss before turning back to the hall and his study. “The man could as easily have had a lady-friend in the North End as across the river.”
“Then why rent a horse?”
“Perhaps his toenail had become ingrown while he was in Maine, and he didn’t feel able for walking.”
Abigail threw a dishrag at him as he ducked through the hall door, to Charley and Tommy’s crows of delight.
But after she’d got the vegetables chopped for a rabbit pie, and the dried herbs that her mother-in-law sent her every autumn from her garden in Braintree pounded up, and caught Tommy twice as he attempted to toddle out the back door and freeze to death in the yard—Abigail took coarse paper from the sideboard drawer and wrote neatly in kitchen-pencil,
Sam,
Can you inquire if men from Boothby in Maine or its vicinity came to town on Saturday morning, and if so, the name of their vessel and their ostensible business? There is a good chance they know aught of Cottrell’s true killers.
A.A.
S am’s reply came on Thursday afternoon.
As one of Boston’s busiest lawyers, John was one of the few who rode the circuit of all the colony’s courts: from New Bedford up to Newburyport, west into the backcountry as far as Worcester, and on up into Maine. Unlike many of Boston’s lawyers, he came from a relatively poor family. Though his younger brothers still in Braintree sent the produce of the family farm—barrels of flour and apples, cider, corn, and potatoes—with three sons (so far) to educate and a daughter to whom he hoped one day to make a suitable marriage-portion, John would take whatever work was offered, wherever it might be.
Abigail sometimes wondered whether the success of her marriage with this driven, vain, overly erudite man owed something to the width of her own interests. While she missed him sorely while he was away—both in bed and around the kitchen table in the evenings—she was never bored. There were too many books in the world, too many newspapers, too many interesting friends . . . completely aside from the fact that nobody could be bored who had four such enterprising children as Nabby, Johnny, Charley, and Tommy.
She occupied herself on Wednesday with enquiries between Prince’s Street and the Winissimet Ferry after a fair, well-looking gentleman, of small stature, with a long nose and a cleft to his chin . . . etc. and learned what she had always suspected, that most people were far more preoccupied with making shoes or sewing shirts or chasing after their own errant children at ten thirty on a Saturday morning than they were with passersby. In the afternoon, after taking another basket of bread, cheese, cider, and clean shirts to Harry’s brother Billy for dispatch to Castle Island, she wrote letters to her mother and sisters—busy, gossipy Mary and the
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