Read Online The Ninth Daughter by Barbara Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Hamilton
Ads: Link
town. Lt. J. Coldstone, on His Majesty’s behalf.
“Do not fail.” He dusted it, poured off the sand, and handed the sheet to John as if he were sorry that it was not poisoned. John inclined his head respectfully.
“I will not. Thank you for your forbearance, Lieutenant.”
Coldstone opened the door to the hall, snapped, “Muldoon!” in the direction of the kitchen, and the young man appeared, vastly flustered and with crumbs of molasses candy on his jacket. “Get your musket,” he reminded him disgustedly. “And come.”
John and Abigail walked them to the front door, emerged onto the step to bow another farewell. From the step it could be seen that Queen Street was filled end to end with men: most of them young, though Abigail recognized Billy Dawes the cobbler and the blacksmith Isaac Greenleaf, who had to be in their thirties and masters of their own shops. None were armed, but all were watching the house, and there were a lot of them. More arriving even as the remaining sentry saluted.
Knowing Bostonians, the moment Coldstone turned away, John put his finger to his lips for silence—but when the Lieutenant and his two sentries turned the corner into Cornhill, somebody let out a cheer that was taken up for the length of the street.
Coldstone didn’t turn around.
Seven
“We’vemadeanenemy.” John closed the door, after thanking the mob, a little stiffly, for its appearance. John was never comfortable with the idea that it was often Sam’s mobs, rather than the well-reasoned justice of British Law, that got things done in Boston.
“He was our enemy when he arrived.” Abigail went back into the parlor, picked up a beaker of tepid cider. It was well past noon, and she had intended, she recalled, to share breakfast with Rebecca. “Did he say why he was so certain you were the killer? Other than that your name is Adams?”
“In that case, why not call on Sam? Which he clearly didn’t, if Sam was able to marshal a mob at short order—”
The parlor door crashed open, and Pattie and the children swarmed through. “Ma, did you see it? Did you see it? Uncle Sam brought them, and Mr. Dawes, and Mr. Revere, and they made that lobsterback captain look nohow!” “Oh, Mrs. Adams, that Irishman said as they were going to take Mr. Adams up for murder—” “Ma, you should have shot him!”
Nabby flung herself silently at John, clutched him around the waist, buried her face in his coat, and burst into tears. Tommy, still very uncertain of his balance, did likewise with Abigail.
“I will say this for Sam,” remarked Abigail, as their family tugged them into the kitchen, “he’s quick.”
“So was the lad who picked my pocket last month in front of Christ’s Church, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him in charge of the destiny of this colony. I’m quite all right, dear girl.” John put a gentle finger under Nabby’s chin, raised her eyes to his. “Spartan women didn’t shed tears after defeat in battle,” he added with a smile. “So why weep for a victory? Keep an eye on your brothers and help Pattie with dinner—Lord, I’m hungry!—while I talk to your mother. What happened?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he followed Abigail to the sideboard, helped her carry to the table the heavy iron Dutch oven and the crock of lard. “Was he telling the truth? Perdita Pentyre! Did Mrs. Malvern know her?”
“She must have.” Abigail dug in her pocket, brought out the note. “I think she must have been Rebecca’s source, for secrets and scandal in the British camp. I suppose there’s no doubt that it was she, and not another? Her face was . . . much mutilated.”
At the other end of the table, Pattie raised a cleaver and whacked off the head of one of the dinner chickens. The other, decapitated, gutted, pale, and naked, lay on a plate before Abigail already. Her empty stomach turned, and she looked queasily away.
“That officer at least was as sure as he could be,” rumbled
“Do not fail.” He dusted it, poured off the sand, and handed the sheet to John as if he were sorry that it was not poisoned. John inclined his head respectfully.
“I will not. Thank you for your forbearance, Lieutenant.”
Coldstone opened the door to the hall, snapped, “Muldoon!” in the direction of the kitchen, and the young man appeared, vastly flustered and with crumbs of molasses candy on his jacket. “Get your musket,” he reminded him disgustedly. “And come.”
John and Abigail walked them to the front door, emerged onto the step to bow another farewell. From the step it could be seen that Queen Street was filled end to end with men: most of them young, though Abigail recognized Billy Dawes the cobbler and the blacksmith Isaac Greenleaf, who had to be in their thirties and masters of their own shops. None were armed, but all were watching the house, and there were a lot of them. More arriving even as the remaining sentry saluted.
Knowing Bostonians, the moment Coldstone turned away, John put his finger to his lips for silence—but when the Lieutenant and his two sentries turned the corner into Cornhill, somebody let out a cheer that was taken up for the length of the street.
Coldstone didn’t turn around.
Seven
“We’vemadeanenemy.” John closed the door, after thanking the mob, a little stiffly, for its appearance. John was never comfortable with the idea that it was often Sam’s mobs, rather than the well-reasoned justice of British Law, that got things done in Boston.
“He was our enemy when he arrived.” Abigail went back into the parlor, picked up a beaker of tepid cider. It was well past noon, and she had intended, she recalled, to share breakfast with Rebecca. “Did he say why he was so certain you were the killer? Other than that your name is Adams?”
“In that case, why not call on Sam? Which he clearly didn’t, if Sam was able to marshal a mob at short order—”
The parlor door crashed open, and Pattie and the children swarmed through. “Ma, did you see it? Did you see it? Uncle Sam brought them, and Mr. Dawes, and Mr. Revere, and they made that lobsterback captain look nohow!” “Oh, Mrs. Adams, that Irishman said as they were going to take Mr. Adams up for murder—” “Ma, you should have shot him!”
Nabby flung herself silently at John, clutched him around the waist, buried her face in his coat, and burst into tears. Tommy, still very uncertain of his balance, did likewise with Abigail.
“I will say this for Sam,” remarked Abigail, as their family tugged them into the kitchen, “he’s quick.”
“So was the lad who picked my pocket last month in front of Christ’s Church, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him in charge of the destiny of this colony. I’m quite all right, dear girl.” John put a gentle finger under Nabby’s chin, raised her eyes to his. “Spartan women didn’t shed tears after defeat in battle,” he added with a smile. “So why weep for a victory? Keep an eye on your brothers and help Pattie with dinner—Lord, I’m hungry!—while I talk to your mother. What happened?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he followed Abigail to the sideboard, helped her carry to the table the heavy iron Dutch oven and the crock of lard. “Was he telling the truth? Perdita Pentyre! Did Mrs. Malvern know her?”
“She must have.” Abigail dug in her pocket, brought out the note. “I think she must have been Rebecca’s source, for secrets and scandal in the British camp. I suppose there’s no doubt that it was she, and not another? Her face was . . . much mutilated.”
At the other end of the table, Pattie raised a cleaver and whacked off the head of one of the dinner chickens. The other, decapitated, gutted, pale, and naked, lay on a plate before Abigail already. Her empty stomach turned, and she looked queasily away.
“That officer at least was as sure as he could be,” rumbled
Similar Books
