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.Have you brought us supper?” she asked, with a sudden, dazzling smile.“How very sweet of you, dear, though not at all necessary.It won’t take me but a moment to put together a green goose pie and some veal fritters; I’m sure my son has told you how well I cook.The prophet of the Lord says that my cooking would be sinful, if I were not so righteous myself.”And smiling, she fell asleep.When Abigail returned to her house it was to find Sam in the study, talking quietly with John.“Has there been any word?”Sam shook his head.“I’ve put out word to every patriot in the town,” he said.“And I’ve been to see Hancock.He’s having all his tea smugglers look in every cellar, every hidey-hole, every warehouse along the wharves—every nook and cranny throughout the town.Revere tells me that white-faced pup from the Provost’s office found Pentyre’s chaise sunk off Lee’s shipyard, and the chaise was all they found.No word of the book, either.”His brow clouded further when John told him of their visit to the Tillets’, and Mrs.Tillet’s declaration that all Rebecca’s things would be put out of the house.“I’ll see what I can do, about getting one of our men to rent it,” he said.“That way it can be searched properly.”“If you can find someone pious enough to suit Tillet,” muttered John.“Doesn’t have to be pious, my boy.” Sam grinned, putting on his hat.“Just an enemy of someone—like Charles Malvern—whom Tillet hates.”When Sam was gone, John put an arm around Abigail’s shoulders.The kitchen was quiet: the children engaged in playing with wooden soldiers near the hearth, Pattie working at her tatting, a task which to Abigail’s baffled disbelief gave her pleasure.The gray tabby cat, Messalina, purred by the fire, dreaming of the slaughter of mice.Precisely as things had been last night, thought Abigail: when she’d known her friend was safe, when the doors that looked into households of pain, and sourness, and distrust had all been shut.When she knew that she might sleep and dream of gardening, not blood.“She’ll return.” John rocked her softly in the clasp of his arm.“If harm had come to her, they would have found some sign of it by now.”Abigail put her hand over his.“I think you’re right,” she replied.“Which leads me to wonder—Why has she neither been found, nor come forth? And I can think of only two reasons.One is that she received a concussion when she was hit on the head—yet if that were so, would not the people who found her know her? Or at least, have heard by this time that she was being sought?”“I agree,” said John.“Furthermore, if she had been so severely injured, she could not have got far.And the second?”“Barring the romantical chance that she hid herself in the hold of a ship that is now on its way to China.She is hiding because she recognized the man who did it.And he knows she did.”EightFrom Griffin’s Wharf it was a voyage of about half an hour to Castle Island.Dozens of small skiffs and sloops made the trip daily over the choppy gray waters of the harbor, bearing provisions for the men and fodder for the horses, firewood to heat the brick corridors of the squat fortress of Castle William and tailors, boot makers, wig makers, and wine merchants to make sure its officers had everything they needed for a comfortable stay.These little craft bore also the friends of the Crown, who were likewise friends of its representatives: the customs officials who relied on the soldiers to enforce His Majesty’s duties, the clerks who surrounded the Governor (a large number of them his relatives), the Royal Commissioners who carried out the King’s decrees.And, most recently, they carried the consignees to whom the Crown had given the monopoly on the East India Company’s tea.“The Company’s on the verge of bankruptcy, from paying for its own troops to take over land in India,” said John, as he handed Abigail down into the sloop of a farmer named Logan, who had agreed to carry them to the island.“The King’s lowered the customs duty on the tea, so that he can put the smugglers—like Mr.Hancock—out of business.it’ll barely be three pence a pound.Once it arrives here, there is no way it will not be sold—and then the King and Parliament will have their precedent, that it is legal for the King to tax goods that come to us, without our consent to the tax.”“And who cares about their constitutional right to consent to be taxed,” murmured Abigail, “if it means cheap tea?” She gripped the rail as the cold wind caught the Katrina’s sails, fixed her eye on the pine and granite tuft of Bird Island, the nearest of the small eyots that dotted the harbor’s deep channel.The clammy cold seemed to seep into her joints, and the pitching of the sea turned her stomach.“Are you all right?” John pulled his own scarf higher and tighter about his throat.“I will be quite safe, you know.” As Abigail had feared, she slept little.When John had come to bed after midnight she had been lying with open eyes, fearing what she would see when she closed them.“I know you can slay any number of British troopers with your bare hands,” she replied gravely.“Yet you may need someone to untie the boat, while you battle your way to the wharf.”John slapped his forehead.“I had forgot, we might have to fight our way out.” His eyes danced as they met hers.But there was a sober worry in them, that answered the fear in hers, and neither needed to speak of what they both knew.On Castle Island, there was no chance that Sam could summon up a convenient armed mob to outnumber the available British troops.The only thing that might prevent Lieutenant Coldstone from arresting John the moment he set foot on Castle Island would be the fact that if he wished to do so secretly, he would have to detain Abigail as well [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]