Death at the Boston Tea Party Read online

  The man merely looked down his nose and John watched as the bag man then leapt into the sea with a splash and pulled out a drowning sailor, who gasped for air as his head was pulled from the water. He felt encouraged to shout out, ‘Help! Over here. I have three young children.’

  A third canoe which had just been launched must have heard him, because he saw its savage prow turn towards them and the blades slash the waves like daggers. This vessel, too, contained a white man, who had a hat upon his head made entirely of fustian, with a red strap beneath his chin. He leant out a muscular arm and with a certain anxiety John watched as James was hauled from Tom’s back and landed in the vessel, followed by Jasper. John saw that Rose’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Help my daughter, I beg you,’ he called, and had never been more grateful than when that powerful limb appeared once more and, without even drawing a breath, the man lifted in first Rose and then the pale young girl swimming beside her. Still trying to work out who his saviours were, John felt a wriggling beneath him and, before he could ascertain its cause, was lifted clean out of the water by a pair of dark arms covered with many beaded bracelets. He gasped as he was then grabbed by the fustian hat man and put on the floor of the canoe where he crouched, half in fear, half in gratitude, while the boat turned and headed for the shore.

  It would appear, as John and his family were helped on to the rocky beach, that this tribe of Indians were not only kindly disposed towards white people but had managed to co-habit without warfare alongside the handful of settlers who had chosen this out-of-the-way place on which to build their homes. Dying to find out more and having checked that his children were safe with Tom, John walked in shaky fashion towards the man with the fustian hat who grinned at his approach, displaying a mouth full of rotting brown teeth.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said. ‘You have had a lucky escape, non.’

  ‘You are French,’ John exclaimed, staggered by the surprise of it all.

  ‘Yes, indeed. After all, this island belongs to France.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It is perfectly true, mon ami. It was discovered in 1604 by Samuel de Champlain, who named the place Isle au Haut. So, therefore, it belongs to the greatest country in the world – France.’

  John chuckled. This was no time to get into an argument about the greatness, or otherwise, of one’s land of birth. Instead he commented on the island. ‘Isle au Haut, eh? High Island. I can see why.’ He gazed at the three towering peaks which dominated the skyline. ‘So how do you come to be here?’

  The man laughed. ‘How do you think? My brother and I were on the run in Paris – wanted for a royal murder, no less, which we planned and successfully carried out. But the authorities were after us so we hid ourselves as sailors, working aboard a ship that foundered on the very rock which brought yours down. We swam for the shore – it being summer and the waters much warmer – and when we arrived we found a tribe of Indians ready to string us up.’

  ‘Why didn’t they?’

  ‘Because my brother – he’s standing over there, by the way’ – the Frenchman waved in the general direction of the man whose face resembled a post boy’s bag – ‘could play the fiddle like an angel. He had a good violin – magnifique – and do you know he swam all this way holding it high over his head. Anyway, I digress. He played it to the chief of the tribe and, voila, we were saved. They let us live on condition that mon frère gave them a nightly concert. And this we continued to do until the old man died. By that time more settlers had arrived and they decided to trade with us rather than kill us. So here we are – natives of the island.’

  John smiled quizzically, not sure whether to believe him or not. But half of the story was at least true: the brothers fustian and bag lived in harmony with the Indians. He bowed and said, ‘I am John Rawlings and I am an apothecary from London. May I know your name, Sir?’

  ‘Hugo de Jongleur. My brother is Rafe.’

  John bowed again and, turning to his three children, waved them forward. ‘And these are my three offspring, Rose, Jasper and James.’

  Despite their gruelling experiences, John’s daughter dropped a curtsey and the little boys made a tiny bow. His heart swelled with pride and then, in an instant, he recalled the terrible circumstances of their arrival on the island and put his arms round all three of them.

  ‘Sir,’ he asked Hugo, ‘is there anywhere in this remote spot that I could take my children to rest? They have just been subjected to a terrible ordeal.’

  ‘As have all of the survivors,’ Rafe answered drily. ‘However, considering their youth, you may take them to our house for the night. Tomorrow we must make further plans. Who knows, some of those saved might wish to settle here.’

  ‘Well, I shall not be one of them,’ said a loud voice angrily, and they turned to see the fat lady approaching, very out of countenance and wobbling as she walked. Hugo de Jongleur gave a slow wink at John and then, turning to the woman, said, ‘Madam, please forgive the informality of our island. Had we known you were coming we would have laid on a proper celebration.’

  She rewarded him with a glacial stare. ‘I’ll have you know, Sir Foreigner, that my late husband was Sir Bevis Eawiss.’

  Hugo clutched his throat and reeled back, as if in horror. ‘Mon Dieu, why did you not say so before, Madame? This throws a completely different light on the matter. Allow me to take you to the village at once.’

  She gave him a regal smile. ‘You may do so, my good man.’

  But their conversation was cut short by the arrival of the two dandies, exhausted and drained of vitality, having swum to the island and, by some miracle, actually got there. Following them slowly came the pale young girl who had shared John’s raft, assisted by a young buck Indian, raven hair flowing loose about his shoulders, his face set and intent. Hugo addressed him in a tongue that was completely foreign to John’s ears, to which the young man answered in similar vein.

  ‘What language is that?’ the Apothecary asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Alnombak dialect. The Indians are part of the Penobscot Abenakis. For that is where we are, in Penobscot Bay.’

  ‘Our ship was heading for Boston but got blown off course.’

  ‘A long way. It will take you quite a while to get back there.’

  ‘But it will be possible?’

  ‘That, my dear Sir, is entirely up to you.’

  And with that reply John had to be satisfied as the small procession set off, leaving the beach and heading inland to what Hugo, joined by Rafe, the post boy’s bag man, called civilization.

  TWO

  The disgruntled comments of Lady Eawiss died away as she fought for breath on the sloping terrain. The young buck Indian, after glancing in the direction of the pale girl – who totally ignored him – left the group and hurried on, presumably to tell the others that some of the survivors were making their way towards them.

  John, looking back at the beach, saw that about twenty people had got to the island from a total complement of forty, which included the crew. Irish Tom, who had stayed with them to help those too weary to walk, was busy making fires out of dried driftwood round which the poor wretches could sit. The Apothecary cupped his hands and shouted, and Tom looked up.

  ‘Will you join us later?’

  Tom nodded. ‘I’ll stay with these people overnight and come and find you in the morning.’

  ‘Very good. Any sign of Julian Wychwood?’

  Tom shook his head slowly.

  They had entered a forest, the trees tall, throwing glinting shadows on to the mossy turf below. Through the lacework of branches the Apothecary could see a hint of blue which, as they approached more closely, revealed itself as a glittering lake. Winter sunshine reflected on it like a million shards of mercury, leaping with light. Close to the shore but still within the shelter of the forest was a village built of wigwams. John stared. His very basic knowledge of the Indian people had always led him to believe that they lived in triangular dwelli
ngs but these structures were round at the top and made of bent birch bark, covered with mats made of woven cat’s tail or bulrush. A little apart from the village, and looking oddly out of place, were a few log cabins, and it was to these that Rafe, speaking for the first time, pointed.

  ‘That’s our place where you can rest your kinder for the night.’

  But John had no chance to do more than murmur a word of thanks before a great crowd of Indian people surged out of their homes and stood staring in a not unfriendly manner at the newcomers. The women had their brilliant black hair in plaits or tied in loose bunches, their eyes, shining as night, looking out boldly at the strange sight that the strangers must present. Old men, with sculpted, haughty faces, a single feather adorning their grizzled heads, gazed with tired eyes, as if they had seen everything and nothing new was strange any more. Little children stared and one child broke free from his mother’s restraining hand and was approaching Jasper and James with a broad grin before his mother snatched him back. But the twins were having none of that and with a sudden spurt of new-found energy rushed into the very heart of the village and began chattering in English. John ran after them as Hugo called out to the tribe in their native tongue.

  It was as good an introduction as any and the Indians broke their ranks and clustered round the newcomers, talking animatedly in a language that only the two small Frenchmen could understand. The young buck Indian appeared from a wigwam and stood silently watching. John turned to the fair girl who was leaning against him, almost fainting with fatigue.

  ‘Excuse me, I have yet to learn your name.’

  ‘It’s Jane Hawthorne, Sir.’

  He could not bow because she was using him as a living prop, but the Apothecary inclined his head. ‘Mine is John Rawlings and this is my daughter, Rose. My two sons have just run into the village to make friends.’

  ‘They succeed well,’ she answered, then slithered down and collapsed in a rather pathetic little heap at his feet.

  John stooped to pick her up but collided with someone who had also come to the rescue. He straightened and met the piercing dark eyes of the young Indian who had raced to be at her side. Hugo said quietly, ‘Do not challenge him, Sir.’

  So that’s the way of it, John thought, and stood up so that the young man could do the honours. It was a wise move because the fire went out of the Indian’s gaze. The Apothecary bowed. ‘John Rawlings,’ he said, and pointed to himself.

  ‘Blue Wolf,’ replied the other in English with a French accent.

  Hugo and Rafe chuckled in unison. ‘We have taught him a great deal of your tongue, Monsieur. He can converse with you – if he so wishes.’

  John felt in his pocket for smelling salts and pulled out nothing but a sodden handkerchief, forgetting just for the briefest second that he had been thoroughly soaked in the sea. He turned to the French brothers, who stood side by side, and wondered what the true facts were behind their escapades in their native land, but they merely smiled at him.

  ‘Don’t worry about the girl, Monsieur. She will become part of the tribe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Blue Wolf has taken a fancy to her. He will marry her and they will breed little mixed blood children.’

  ‘But supposing she objects? Suppose she wants to stay with her own people?’

  ‘That will be up to her, of course. But would you protest if you were in her shoes?’

  John had to admit that, for an orphaned girl, if that was what Jane Hawthorne turned out to be, he could think of worse fates. But, on the other hand, there might be someone, even now lying exhausted on the beach, who could lay claim to her.

  ‘I think I should await developments before making a judgement,’ he answered. ‘But for tonight, can you give her shelter?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hugo replied. He said a few words in Blue Wolf’s language and the young Indian reluctantly released the recovering girl. ‘And now, Sir, if you would like to join me.’

  John called out to the twins, who came quite slowly from the settlement, and they proceeded along a well-trodden path to the furthest log cabin. Inside, despite its somewhat stark exterior, it was very comfortable. All three of John’s children fell asleep at the supper table and were unable to appreciate the fact that Rafe had given up his bed for them. As he tucked them beneath the coverlet the Apothecary was aware that he must stay alert and be on his guard to protect them from the strange environment in which the four of them had been inextricably placed.

  Like a band of desolate pilgrims, the next morning saw Tom arrive with his straggle of followers. At the sight of them Lady Eawiss had burst forth from her log cabin, thankfully at some distance from the one in which John and his family had stayed, crying loudly for help. She clutched Tom’s arm as he made his way along the path, seeking out his employer.

  ‘My man, you must help me. I did not get a wink of sleep all the long night. I was too frightened even to close my eyes.’

  Tom looked at her from his considerable height. ‘And what were you frightened of, Madam?’

  She lowered her voice a little. ‘Of God knows what evil practices these island people are capable. I leave it to your imagination.’

  Tom frowned. ‘I can’t think what you mean, Madam.’

  She heaved her redoubtable bosom. ‘Don’t be silly, fellow. What all women are afraid of.’

  Tom looked puzzled, then his brow cleared. ‘Ah, you mean of getting a spot on the end of their nose.’

  Her eyebrows flew. ‘If my husband Sir Bevis Eawiss were alive he would challenge you to a duel.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, My Lady. I’m just a foolish chap from Ireland. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have lodging to find for these poor people who slept rough on the beach last night.’

  And he set off, leading the rest of the shipwrecked party to a place where they could rest in some comfort and decide on their next move. It was there that John caught up with them, sitting outside one of the cabins where the kindly couple living within had provided freshly baked bread and meat for the hungry victims of the shipwreck. There was also home-made beer and cider with which to swill the breakfast down.

  John looked round the group and thought them fairly typical of those who wanted to start a new life in the Colonies. But of all the crowd with whom he had passed the time of day aboard ship, six people were outstanding. One, for obvious reasons, was the over-large widow, Lady Eawiss; the second was the quiet, modest Jane Hawthorne, the third and fourth were an oddly matched couple: she a great beauty of yesteryear who reminded him in the vaguest possible way of Elizabeth; he a gentlemen of rough-hewn appearance with long dark hair and wild blue eyes. The fifth and sixth were, of course, the pair of beaux who had swum to the island and actually come out alive. Now they were eating, not elegantly but like wolves. And the thought of this made John wonder about the Indian called Blue Wolf who had such an obvious liking for Miss Hawthorne. He considered how that would end if she decided to forge on to Boston.

  Irish Tom was speaking. ‘So I suggest, good people, that you think very carefully about whether you wish to undertake the hazardous journey to Boston or whether you would rather build a life here in these pleasant surroundings.’

  A man spoke up. ‘But what about the tribe who live so close by? Might they not rise up in the night and cut our throats?’

  Rafe, who was sitting with his brother on the edge of the crowd, answered, ‘They are a peace-loving people. Leave them to live their lives quietly – don’t start any of that religious preaching at them – and they will ignore you.’

  One of the two dandies who had swum ashore said, ‘Well, George and I were intending to live in Boston, don’t you know, so that’s where we’ll go. We prefer town life to all this tranquillity, don’t we?’

  ‘Damme, but yes,’ drawled the other, and there was a low murmur amongst the assembled people, clearly in awe of the pair’s upper-crust accents.

  John stated his case. ‘I have business commitments in Boston
so feel duty bound to make the journey on.’

  And indeed he had. In the autumn of the previous year – 1772, to be precise – he had received an unusual letter. It had been from that very town, from a certain Josiah Hallowell, asking him if one of his representatives could make the difficult journey to the Colonies to set about drawing up an agreement between them. It appeared that Josiah’s niece had recently travelled to the Colonies to live, bringing with her a bottle of carbonated water prepared by J. Rawlings of Nassau Street, London. It seemed that Josiah ran the Orange Tree Tavern and wanted to sell the water to his customers, and indeed the letter had arrived at just the right time. John, still mourning the death of his magnificent father, Sir Gabriel Kent, had been looking for something to lift his spirits. At first he had not known whether to take his children with him or not, but in the end had decided that to leave them behind would be both selfish and cruel. They had accompanied him and, thank God, had survived the sinking of their ship.

  The former beauty spoke up in not at all the voice that John had expected and he was immediately drawn back to the present. Instead of enchanting, modulated tones she talked at full pitch, making sure that everyone gathered could hear her.

  ‘I, too, must reach Boston. My husband and I will accompany you.’

  She caught the Apothecary’s eye – and what eyes she had. He thought of violets growing wild and felt that he could hardly look away from their vivid elegance. But Irish Tom, who had obviously become the self-appointed leader during the night’s vigil, was speaking again.

  ‘How do we get boats to the mainland? That’s the problem.’

  The man with hair like sunflower seeds, a braw Scotsman with a glorious Highland accent, said, ‘We’ll have to ask the Indians for canoes.’