lovely and studious Betsy—and, when Nabby and Johnny returned from school, with sorting the household laundry preparatory to the gargantuan nuisance of boiling and soaking that night, before washing on the morrow. Fitful squalls had flickered over Boston on Wednesday, rain freezing to sleet, but Thursday dawned clear, windy, and brutally cold. By the time the last of the rinsed and wrung-out sheets had been hung over the lines in the yard, the first shirts and shifts and baby-clouts had frozen solid. She, Pattie, and Nabby had just cleared up after dinner, and she was settling with the mending when the children came dashing in from the yard in a skirl of mud, and Johnny gasped in passing, “Ma, something’s going on!” as they pelted through the kitchen to the hall that led to the street door.
Abigail called, “ Don’t go out!” as she sprang up to stride after them. Four years ago, at nearly this hour of the spring evening with the snow still on the ground, she’d heard the shouting of men in the street, even as she heard it now when her son yanked open the door. She’d heard shots fired, had run from the house they’d had in those days in Brattle Street and around the corner, to see blood black on the snow in the twilight, bodies lying where they’d fallen under a haze of powder-smoke—
Even with lingering daylight still in the sky, the jeering voices of a mob caught her with a twinge of dread.
She caught Charley by one shoulder, Tommy by his trailing leading-strings, and looking down Queen Street saw the men: jostling, shouting, throwing ice-balls and rocks.
Coming toward the house.
DRAT the man! Has he NO sense?
She drew her children into the house, shut the front door, and unhurriedly returned along the passage to the kitchen to collect her cloak and pattens. At the same time Pattie hurried in from the yard: “Mrs. Adams, ’tis Lieutenant Coldstone, I think—”
She wrapped a scarf around her neck. “Yes, I know. Keep the children inside, please.” At the market that morning she’d heard all manner of rumors about what vengeance the King was going to take on the rebellious Massachusers for dumping his precious tea, and violence hung in the air like the whiff of powder-smoke. It would be too easy for someone to start shooting. Johnny and Nabby were sensible children, but they were still terribly young.
She stepped into the street.
Lieutenant Coldstone was indeed walking up Queen Street from the direction of the customhouse, with the burly Sergeant Muldoon at his heels. A dozen men followed them, layabouts from the wharves, mostly—Abigail judged by their rough coats and ragged breeches—and prentice-boys who should have been at their work. One man hurled a snowball at Coldstone, which shattered in a way that told Abigail that there’d been a rock inside it. By the state of his long military cloak, she surmised it was far from the first. Sergeant Muldoon had a musket—shouldered—and was glancing about him, ready for an attack but with no evidence of panic. Somebody shouted “Lobsterback!” and somebody else yelled something a great deal worse.
Abigail strode quickly toward them and held out her hands. “Lieutenant Coldstone, what a pleasant surprise! Were you coming to see me?”
A man yelled, “Tory whore!” and Abigail was gratified to see another of the ragged group grab him by the shoulder and explain to him who exactly she was. The others were already falling back to a respectful—but still visible—distance.
“I wanted a word with you, m’am, yes.” Though his voice was impassive, Coldstone bore himself as if he’d just swallowed his own ramrod.
“I do apologize for my townsmen.” Abigail led the way back up Queen Street toward her door, where she could see Pattie looking out and holding the children back. “I fear that as sailing-weather improves, everyone is counting the days until the King’s message—whatever it is going to be—arrives. Some of the most
Abigail called, “ Don’t go out!” as she sprang up to stride after them. Four years ago, at nearly this hour of the spring evening with the snow still on the ground, she’d heard the shouting of men in the street, even as she heard it now when her son yanked open the door. She’d heard shots fired, had run from the house they’d had in those days in Brattle Street and around the corner, to see blood black on the snow in the twilight, bodies lying where they’d fallen under a haze of powder-smoke—
Even with lingering daylight still in the sky, the jeering voices of a mob caught her with a twinge of dread.
She caught Charley by one shoulder, Tommy by his trailing leading-strings, and looking down Queen Street saw the men: jostling, shouting, throwing ice-balls and rocks.
Coming toward the house.
DRAT the man! Has he NO sense?
She drew her children into the house, shut the front door, and unhurriedly returned along the passage to the kitchen to collect her cloak and pattens. At the same time Pattie hurried in from the yard: “Mrs. Adams, ’tis Lieutenant Coldstone, I think—”
She wrapped a scarf around her neck. “Yes, I know. Keep the children inside, please.” At the market that morning she’d heard all manner of rumors about what vengeance the King was going to take on the rebellious Massachusers for dumping his precious tea, and violence hung in the air like the whiff of powder-smoke. It would be too easy for someone to start shooting. Johnny and Nabby were sensible children, but they were still terribly young.
She stepped into the street.
Lieutenant Coldstone was indeed walking up Queen Street from the direction of the customhouse, with the burly Sergeant Muldoon at his heels. A dozen men followed them, layabouts from the wharves, mostly—Abigail judged by their rough coats and ragged breeches—and prentice-boys who should have been at their work. One man hurled a snowball at Coldstone, which shattered in a way that told Abigail that there’d been a rock inside it. By the state of his long military cloak, she surmised it was far from the first. Sergeant Muldoon had a musket—shouldered—and was glancing about him, ready for an attack but with no evidence of panic. Somebody shouted “Lobsterback!” and somebody else yelled something a great deal worse.
Abigail strode quickly toward them and held out her hands. “Lieutenant Coldstone, what a pleasant surprise! Were you coming to see me?”
A man yelled, “Tory whore!” and Abigail was gratified to see another of the ragged group grab him by the shoulder and explain to him who exactly she was. The others were already falling back to a respectful—but still visible—distance.
“I wanted a word with you, m’am, yes.” Though his voice was impassive, Coldstone bore himself as if he’d just swallowed his own ramrod.
“I do apologize for my townsmen.” Abigail led the way back up Queen Street toward her door, where she could see Pattie looking out and holding the children back. “I fear that as sailing-weather improves, everyone is counting the days until the King’s message—whatever it is going to be—arrives. Some of the most
Similar Books
