“When it grew dark,” asked Abigail, “did you see lights in the house?”
Both culprits looked abashed and scratched in silence.
“It was mighty cold there by the meeting-house, m’am,” said Miller at length. “As bad as back home, or nearly.”
“And we hadn’t had but a heel of bread and some cheese we brought from the boat,” added Brown. “And no rum for hours and hours.”
Abigail said again, “I see.” The Lynd Street Meeting-House stood largely isolated in that hilly, thinly built district north of the Common, but along the Mill-Pond nearby stood little clumps of habitation, which included at least two distilleries and several of Boston’s less salubrious taverns.
“We weren’t going to be gone from our post but for a few minutes,” added Miller earnestly. “Either of the pair of ’em would have been in sight when we came out, if they’d left, and if those festerin’ Massachuser scoundrels at the Dressed Ship had been able to hold their rum like real men.”
“It wasn’t the rum,” insisted Brown. “ ’ Twas the damn butter.”
“When you show witch-friggin’ Massachusers how to make hot buttered rum,” explained Miller to Abigail, “you’ve got to watch out for the butter. Lot of men can’t take it. Renders ’em quarrelsome.”
“Ignorant festerin’ bastards,” added Brown.
Abigail sighed. She’d heard all about hot buttered rum from her brother William, and how it was indeed all the fault of the butter. “And did it,” she asked, “render the other customers of the Dressed Ship quarrelsome?”
“It has to be good butter,” insisted Brown. “This slime they had at the Dressed Ship wasn’t hardly butter at all, so we wasn’t to be blamed really for what happened. If they’d had decent butter there, all would have been well, and so we told ’em.”
Miller nodded agreement.
“What time did the fight start?” asked Abigail resignedly. “Was there still daylight in the sky?”
“Oh, yes, m’am,” said Miller. “But only just.”
“The sun was down,” agreed Brown. “But when they throwed me through the window, there was plenty light in the sky for me to find a good stick of firewood to go back in with.” He made a gesture indicative of brandishing a club. “Those table-legs, they just break first thing you hit with ’em.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Abigail. “Was it still light when they brought you here?”
“Yes, m’am,” said Miller promptly, though his friend looked a bit puzzled, possibly because he had not been completely conscious at the time. “Fight didn’t last but a minute or two, before the Watch came in. Probably drinkin’ just down the street, festerin’ Puritans. Dusk it was, when we come in here, and that scoundrel Hoyle took my glass in trade for just enough wood so we didn’t freeze to death in the night, the witch-friggin’ Massachuser bastard. The magistrate had already gone home, and next day was Sunday, so nobody asked us our names. And by Monday everyone in the jail was talkin’ that Cottrell had been found beat to death. So we figured, better we not give our names nor nuthin’, and take our whippin’ at the stocks, and be on our way. Only someone”—he glared pointedly at his friend—“got mixed up whether he was supposed to be Smith or Jones, and the magistrate said, we’s to stay in the jail ’til they figured who we really was and if we’d done some other crime like robbery, and he wouldn’t pay no mind when we swore on the Bible an’ everythin’ that we’d been with each other the whole of the day and neither of us had done anythin’ barrin’ defend ourselves from a bunch of witch-festerin’ Massachuser scoundrels who can’t handle hot buttered rum on account of the butter bein’ unfit.”
“Your time’s up.” Hoyle reappeared in the doorway, possibly brought back in by the incautious raising of Hev Miller’s voice. Paul Revere got to his feet and crossed to meet Hoyle. Abigail heard the clink of a coin, followed by the discreet closing of the door again. Money may be the root of all evil, but it can certainly make the affairs of the world more convenient.
“He says we’re going before the magistrate Monday,” murmured Miller, lowering his voice again. “Then we’re going to get shut of this town, quick as ever we can. Eli’s all right, isn’t he?” he added. “You seen him? The Magpie’s all right?”
“It is,” said Abigail. “But—”
“I’m afraid getting out of town isn’t in it for you yet.” Revere came quietly back to the remains of the fire, to which Abigail and the two prisoners had been huddling with greater and greater intimacy as the sticks were consumed. “They’re searching for you—not the Watch, but the Provost Marshal of the Sixty-Fourth Regiment—and they’ve got a man keeping an eye on the Magpie at the wharf.” This was news to Abigail, but he laid a hand, very gently, on her shoulder to suppress her start, and she nodded quickly and made her face grave.
“’ Tis true. We were afraid we wouldn’t find you in time.”
“But don’t worry, men,” Revere went on bracingly. “And hold yourselves ready. I’ll talk to Mr. Adams tonight.” He winked at them. “We’ll find a place to keep you, ’til we can find another way to take you out. In the meantime I’ve given that brute Hoyle the price of a half-decent meal and a blanket for the two of you, and we’ll get word to Eli that all’s well.” He clasped Miller, then Brown by the hands. “You boys stay sharp. And not a word to anyone. Someone will see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir—Thank you, sir—”
“Mr. Revere!” Abigail stopped herself from scratching as they followed Hoyle back through the cold little vestibule and grudgingly handed the man a tip as he bowed them out the door. “You aren’t going to have Sam arrange a jail deliverance for those two ruffians, are you?”
“The way I see it, we have little choice, m’am.” They crossed Queen Street, then turned down the little passway that led to the Adams yard, Abigail reflecting in annoyance that her dress, both her cloaks, and every petticoat she had on would have to be hung up outside overnight in the freezing cold to rid them of the livestock they’d picked up. And she would be obliged to wash her hair . . .
“For one thing,” Revere went on, “we’re going to need them to point out the house. There’s probably half a dozen within that distance of the Lynd Street Meeting-House, and at least two I know of have the remains of orchards or gardens attached. For another, it may take us some time to locate Cottrell’s mysterious visitor—the last man to see him alive. The last thing we need is to have to send to Maine for them—and get them sobered up and back down here to testify in court that it was indeed he whom they saw enter the house.”
Always provided they haven’t done something else in the meantime . . .
“What about the boy Putnam?” asked Abigail, surrendering to the inevitable. “You can’t oblige that poor child to stay living on the water like that—”
“Heavens, no! We’ll have to tell him some tale that will get him out of town altogether—Lynn or Salem should do. One of our boys there will see to him, so we can send for him quickly if need arises.”
“I suppose now our only problem will be,” she sighed, and maneuvered her arm beneath her cloak so that she might scratch without being obvious about it, “whether when we find Cottrell’s visitor, the Provost Marshall will believe our witnesses about a mysterious visitor to an unknown house . . . or whether he’ll find a more complicated explanation too much bother to pursue.”
Eleven
The jail deliverance took place the following night.