“You lie quiet, sir. You’ve taken no mortal hurt. We’ve sent for the surgeon—”
Abigail backed away and slipped through the door. Thaxter was talking softly with Muldoon; Paul Revere was nowhere to be seen. Muldoon asked, “How is he, m’am?”
“That artilleryman says the Lieutenant isn’t mortally wounded—Who is he, anyway?”
“Him? One of the officers at the South Battery. When himself went down a couple of the herd-boys came runnin’, an’ one went to fetch the Watch whilst t’other helped me get the Lieutenant here. The constables must’ve gone for the nearest officer they could think of. Before we even tried to shift him I packed the wound with everythin’ I could lay hand to—” Abigail noticed for the first time that Muldoon was missing his neckcloth. “But he’s lost a fair river of blood. What was it made you send to ask for a meetin’ here, m’am, if you don’t mind me askin’? There’s not someone watchin’ your house, is there?”
Abigail explained for what felt like the dozenth time that she had had nothing to do with the message that had brought Coldstone to the Common, then asked, “Where was he shot from? The bushes below the Powder-Store?”
“Got to be, m’am. ’Tisn’t an inch of cover that would hide a man any closer. And further off, Robin Hood himself couldn’t hit at the distance, not if he had a telescope and a magic gun from the King of the Fairies.”
“And of course anything resembling tracks would have been trampled out by this time by Sam Adams’s pet mob—”
The sergeant took his eyes off the little knots of men still moving about in the vicinity long enough to give her a quick grin. “Wouldn’t be no tracks anyway, m’am. The ground’s like flint. Well, here’s someone in a hurry,” he added, as a horse burst at a clattering canter from the bare trees of the Mall. “Let’s hope ’tis the surgeon—”
“It isn’t, though.” Abigail shaded her eyes. “It’s Mr. Adams.”
How she knew it at this distance she wasn’t sure—he was riding a horse unfamiliar to her—but sure enough, when he came a little closer, she identified the caped gray greatcoat and mud-spattered top boots. She lifted her arm to wave, and he drew rein beside her and flung himself from the saddle to catch her in his arms. “Nab, are you all right?”
“I’m well—”
“I can’t leave you for half an hour before you’re arrested—and for murdering a British officer—!”
“As I have explained to all those gentlemen in the Watchhouse,” sighed Abigail, “I had nothing to do with it. But someone went to a good deal of trouble to see to it that the British think I did. I’m beginning to know how poor Harry feels! Now that,” she added, shading her eyes and looking in the direction of the other end of the Mall, “will be the surgeon.”
Several of the assorted stevedores, layabouts, smugglers, and such, appeared as if by magic from the copse and the hillside as the three crimson-coated riders drew near, but there was not even shouting. The absurdly young officer saluted Muldoon and left his escort on guard outside; John—no coward but no fool, either—stepped back and nodded in the direction of the copse at the foot of the hill.
Abigail shook her head. “You go,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
“There’ll be trouble, if they try to arrest you—”
“They won’t try to arrest me. They haven’t a leg to stand on—and if I know Mr. Revere, reinforcements are already on their way.”
When she reentered the Watchhouse, the youthful surgeon was examining the wound by the clustered light of the lanterns, but at least, Abigail reflected, he didn’t suggest that his patient be bled, puked, or given emetics to regulate the balance of his bodily humors.
“We should get him to the camp before I attempt to remove the ball,” he said, straightening up at last. His speech, like Coldstone’s, was that of the gentry class: Abigail wondered if his parents, like the Lieutenant’s, had not been quite able to afford professional training for their son and so had apprenticed him to an Army surgeon instead. Looking around him, he registered a moment’s surprise at the sight of a woman in the place, then stepped over to her and bowed. “Lieutenant Dowling, m’am, at your service . . . Can you tell me, if there is some herb—some poultice that the local midwives use—as a sovereign for cleansing a dirty wound, or as a febrifuge? I have often found these old remedies to be of great use, but unfortunately I only know them for the Indies.”
“Willow-bark tea will bring down a fever,” Abigail began.
The artillery officer broke in, “Really, Lieutenant Dowling, do you think that’s wise?” And in a lower voice, “’ Twas this woman who lured Lieutenant Coldstone into the trap! Her husband is the head of the Sons of Liberty!”
Exasperated, Abigail snapped, “Mr. Adams is nothing of the kind! You’re thinking of the other Mr. Adams—”
And in a thread of a voice, Lieutenant Coldstone added, “’ Tis true.” His hand stirred toward her. “Mrs. Adams—”
“Hush,” said Abigail. “Lie quiet. They’ll be taking you back to the camp—” For the soldiers that young Lieutenant Dowling had brought with him now entered, with a makeshift litter of poles.
Coldstone shook his head. “My sergeant—?”
“Is well,” said Abigail. “The shot was meant for you.” She stepped close, avoiding the soldiers as they prepared the litter. “I sent you no note, Lieutenant. That is, I did send you a note, but ’twasn’t the one you received: that was a forgery.”
“What news?” he murmured. “Shocking news, you said—”
She bit back her protest that she’d had nothing to do with that particular communication, and only said, “I shall tell you later, Lieutenant. All is well for now.” She laid her hands over his and through both pairs of gloves could still feel how cold his flesh was. “But I must have your permission to see you—” She glanced at the artillery officer, who was frowning at her in a way that presaged future welcome by the authorities in the camp.
Coldstone nodded. Encouragingly, Lieutenant Dowling bent over him and said, “It will all be well, Mr. Coldstone. Beyond the loss of blood there is no mortal hurt.”
He started to withdraw, with a sign to the soldiers to proceed, and Abigail laid her hand on his sleeve. “Pray, sir, tell no one that.”
“I beg your pardon, m’am?”
Her glance went to the artillery officer, to the constables, calling them close. “Please, listen to me, gentlemen. Tell no one that Lieutenant Coldstone’s hurt is not mortal.” And, when they looked at her blankly: “Do you not see? A trap was laid for him, by whom we know not. Nor do we know when they will strike again, or how. Let no one see him—”
“Really, Mrs. Adams!” exclaimed the artilleryman. “In the safety of the camp—”
“As few as may be, then . . . and myself.”
He looked as if he had something else to say about that, but Coldstone whispered, “Let it be as she says. She is right.”
“Enough now, sir.” Lieutenant Dowling stepped forward again, a trifle diffidently, and signed again to the soldiers. “We must take you across to the island, before the gale freshens further. Mrs. Adams—” He turned to her as the men began, with the competence of those who’ve handled the wounded on the field of battle, to shift Coldstone over onto a litter. “Is there one in Boston who deals in these herbal simples you’ve spoken of? In the islands it was the Negro midwives, and one had to go to the slave-dances to find them—”
“I shall make up a packet for you,” she said, “and have it sent across before the day grows dark. I grow them myself, and dry them—my mother, and my mother-in-law, send others across from our family farms.” She flinched, as a cry was wrung from the patient when they settled him on the litter, and she turned to take his hand again. “Remember, when they carry you out, to do your best to look like a dying man, sir,” she instructed briskly, and Coldstone managed the flicker of a smile.