Death at the Boston Tea Party Read online

  ‘In short, they had murdered the wretched fellow,’ said Julian in a casual voice.

  ‘Were they blackguards?’ John asked.

  ‘Every last one of ’em.’

  The story progressed. Julian was taken to an Indian village where he was stripped naked and tied to a pole while all the young bucks danced around him chanting. This wild behaviour stopped at midnight when a beautiful Indian girl had crept out of her wigwam, cut him loose and rushed into the forest with him on the condition that he make love to her.

  ‘And did you?’ asked John, thinking the tale tall but possible.

  ‘Naturally. One should never refuse a lady. Gracious man, you must know that.’

  ‘Well, it depends on the circumstances …’

  ‘Circumstances rubbish! I always accede to their every whim.’

  ‘Even when she’s skin and bone, sour-faced and seventy?’

  ‘Even then.’

  The Apothecary laughed out loud, considering that Julian was growing more outrageous with every passing minute but glad indeed to have become reacquainted with this fantastic rogue. As they both drank more – a raw, kicking rum – the story continued but John lost the thread. According to Julian he had married the chief’s daughter, led an Indian hunting party into the forest and tramped across the frozen lakes in snow shoes, then escaped and returned to civilization. On the way he had wrestled a bear and had his wounds treated by a magic man, and had slept with a willing widow who had given him her late husband’s clothes. It was all too unbelievable but, knowing Julian, might just have a hint of truth about it.

  The two men rolled home in the darkness, singing a patriotic song, and somebody opened a window above and hurled the contents of a chamber pot in their direction. After this they quietened down, crept into their various lodging houses and fell into a sleep aided greatly by alcoholic beverage.

  The next morning saw the final trek to Boston begin.

  SIX

  The whole party was present as they glimpsed the gallows, which stood outside the gates of Boston town. The children halted, round-eyed, small hands creeping up to feel an adult’s reassuring grasp. Lady Eawiss was preparing to faint but had a hissed, ‘Courage, Madam, for God’s sake,’ from Lady Conway, who stood looking untidily beautiful, flanked by Jake, whose blue eyes held a hostile hardness for Julian Wychwood, loitering on her other side and clearly admiring the lady.

  Rose Rawlings made a little sound and took the hands of her two brothers, who looked at the rotting corpses with wonderment. Matthew’s three country kinder stood silently – Dickon having shaken off his fever – though the little girl, Anna, hid behind her father’s great legs. Suicide graves and those of criminals stood round the place of execution, marked out by little heaps of stones. It was a dismal and depressing sight, and when the sudden silence was broken by the roar of a bull which stood in a nearby field, surveying them with a bloody eye, the party almost ran to the town gate.

  This consisted of two arches, through the larger of which passed horsemen, wagons and herds of cattle. Through the other pedestrians walked. The entire area was called Boston Neck and was the only way of entering the city, the rest of it being surrounded by water. John found that they were standing in Orange Street which ran before them, though the name of the thoroughfare changed from time to time.

  ‘It’s quite a small town,’ said Jake, his accent notably Irish.

  ‘It’s the biggest that I’ve seen since we got here,’ answered Tom.

  ‘La,’ remarked Tracey, ‘it’s nothing compared with London.’

  ‘I’d keep this kind of talk quiet if I were you. Remember that the people who live here are Bostonians and might not take those thoughts too kindly.’

  ‘But the British sent troops here nearly five years ago.’

  ‘That is precisely my point. How would you like it if London had an invading force in residence?’

  The road upon which they were travelling ended at the State House, a magnificent building with a wide and elevated staircase leading to the main entrance, above which stood a balcony from which proclamations may be made. Above this again was another gracious, high-windowed floor, all culminating in a tall open square tower topped with a weather vane. As a symbol of being a British colony, a crowned lion rampant stood with a unicorn opposite at the corners of the roof.

  ‘I call that a magnificent sight, so I do,’ said Irish Tom, while everyone else, surprisingly including Lady Eawiss, let out small noises of appreciation.

  They turned right and before their eyes Boston Harbour appeared, beautiful and sparkling, the road they were walking carrying on out to sea for half a mile in the longest wharf that John had ever seen. Large ships were moored there and he felt an enormous energy pulse through him, heard high, flirty whistles, the peals of bells from the streets, saw sailors scurrying about like ants and all the shouts and yells of tradespeople that told him this small city was teeming with life. Furthermore, Boston smelled. Of people, of fish, the bursting ocean, the sweet and lovely aroma of wood smoke.

  Rose tugged his hand. ‘I like this place, Papa.’

  John ruffled her curls. ‘So do I, sweetheart.’

  Initial exploring done, the party found themselves lodging houses, Lady Eawiss going to the grandest, Matthew to the cheapest and John to the cleanest. They had all borrowed substantially from the old dame who was charging them five per cent interest on their various loans. Jake O’Farrell had suggested to her, quite straight-faced, that she should set up a bank and become a merchant, and had been quite surprised when she had looked thoughtful and her eyes had narrowed to gimlets.

  John and his family had dined at two o’clock at The Bunch of Grapes. Jasper and James, in their tattered clothes, behaved very well. Rose had kept her eyes down, the trouble being that she was served by an attractive young waiter, aged about seventeen, clearly the helping hand of the house.

  ‘Are you visitors to Boston, Sir?’ he had asked John.

  His voice was quite surprising, not quite English but with a certain flat pronunciation of vowel sounds.

  ‘Yes, after a lot of adventures, we are.’

  ‘Well, if you want anyone to show you round I’d be quite willing to act as your guide.’ He made this remark directly to Rose who sat dumbly gazing at the tablecloth. For the very first time the Apothecary devoted his entire attention to his daughter. She must be rising thirteen and would soon be starting her courses, by which means the mysterious moon showed its influence over a woman’s body. Or perhaps she already had and was having to deal with that enormous change without a mother to speak to. Or had Jane Hawthorne taken over and guided and explained to Rose what she must do and what it all meant? He suddenly felt ashamed of himself for being such a poor, uncaring father. Yet it wasn’t as if he didn’t love her. It was simply that his thoughts had been elsewhere, concentrating on all the external things rather than on family matters. But this sudden blushing at the small attention of a seventeen-year-old lad had plunged John Rawlings into deep thought. He was silent for a moment, then looked up.

  ‘Thank you. Most kind. We may well take you up on your offer. But first of all you might be good enough to tell me where I can find the Orange Tree Tavern.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Hallowell’s place. Such a shame about him, Sir.’

  A feeling of dread hit the pit of John’s stomach. ‘Why? What’s happened to him?’

  The boy’s eager to please expression changed to one of such mournful mien that the twins giggled quietly.

  ‘He died, Sir. About two months ago.’

  John felt startled, his only contact in Boston suddenly swept away.

  At last Rose looked up. ‘What are you going to do, Papa?’

  John glanced from his daughter to the boy, who stood, clearly anxious, awaiting further instructions.

  ‘I’m not sure at the moment. But I’d like some directions as to how to get to the Orange Tree Tavern, if you would be so obliging.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir. It’s
in the North End of Boston, a step or two from here. If you can wait until we close I can show you the way.’

  John, who had taken a liking to the tawny-headed youngster, answered, ‘Tonight at six of the clock would suit me well. I can take my small boys home and put them to bed, then meet you outside.’

  ‘Will you be coming, Miss?’ the boy asked Rose politely.

  Rose’s glance fluttered to contemplation of the tablecloth once more.

  John was much amused. ‘I’m sure she’d love to see more of Boston, wouldn’t you, my dear?’ he asked, very straight-faced.

  ‘I will come if I am not too tired,’ she replied with sudden spirit, and John was pleased at her reaction.

  On the way home she urged John into a milliner and begged him to buy her a new feathered hat. He considered that it made her look older but then with a wry grin thought that this was probably the general idea. Silently raising his eyes to heaven, he paid for it with money borrowed from the grande dame, Eawiss, at the same time thanking the quirk of destiny that had brought him and his family, to say nothing of his many and varied friends, through the ordeal of the shipwreck and given him the ability to take his young daughter into a milliners to buy her a bit of frippery headwear.

  At six o’clock he met the young man, who introduced himself as Tristram, standing at the pre-arranged meeting place. Rose, who had recovered some of her former composure, dropped him a little curtsey and said, ‘Good evening, Master …?’

  ‘Snow, Ma’am. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

  ‘Rose Rawlings. My father is John of the same surname.’

  Tristram bowed, fairly elegantly, and John thought that his parents must have been reasonably well-educated people.

  ‘Tell me, how do you come to be here?’ he asked.

  ‘My grandpapa was French and came to Boston when he was a boy of thirteen. He was apprenticed to a doctor, just running errands and general dogsbodying. But he worked hard, eventually went to Harvard and came back to serve out the rest of his time with the doctor, assisting him with minor cases. Eventually he set up on his own and was called Doctor Snow – his real name was Neige but he changed it so as to be easier for the patients. He’s still alive and I live with him in the north of town.’

  ‘And your parents?’ asked John.

  ‘They both died of smallpox. Boston had an epidemic of it when I was still in my cradle. My grandpa worked night and day to save them but even he couldn’t do it. Then my grandma caught it as well but she survived. Anyway, it’s just me and my grandpa now. It’s quite a mannish household but for Minnie.’

  ‘Minnie?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Our black slave. But she’s more like my mama. She’s big and jolly and she nursed me right from the start. I think she’s the most wonderful woman. She’s going to stay with us for the rest of her life.’

  ‘And who are you apprenticed to?’ John enquired.

  ‘I’m not officially. I work for Doctor Joseph Warren. He’s one of the younger doctors hereabouts. But he’s a fine physician and he does a great deal of good.’

  ‘Does he have an apothecary?’ John asked, only half seriously.

  ‘Yes, he has – why do you ask?’

  ‘Because that was my profession when I lived in London.’

  ‘Really? I am sure he would be most interested to meet you. Will you come and have dinner with us one day – and Miss Rose too, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured John. Louder, he said, ‘We should be delighted. Perhaps you would confirm the date and time with Doctor Warren first.’

  They had drawn abreast of a very impressive building as they walked along, and John stopped in his tracks to admire it.

  ‘My word, Boston has some fine public places,’ he said. ‘What is this one?’

  Tristram looked at the hall with pride, standing rather closer to Rose than was necessary, John thought with a slightly raised eyebrow.

  ‘It is called the Faneuil Hall, named after Peter Faneuil, a local and very successful businessman who had it built. However, it was gutted by fire in 1761 and the repairs were paid for by public lottery.’

  ‘Is it a theatre?’ John asked, a picture of Coralie Clive flashing through his mind.

  Tristram lowered his voice. ‘There is a law against theatre in Boston. They say that plays generally tend to increase immorality, impiety and a contempt for religion.’

  ‘Good God!’

  Tristram grinned. ‘But there are one or two people who have set up in barns and put on shows for the enjoyment of the population.’

  ‘And they don’t get caught?’

  ‘Not very often.’

  They walked on, passing a house near the Faneuil Hall, which Tristram pointed out as being that of Doctor Warren.

  ‘That is where I work but it is all very subdued in there at the moment. Mrs Warren suffers with her health, you know, so I am afraid our dinner engagement will have to be delayed.’

  ‘What is the trouble?’

  The boy looked doubtful. ‘I don’t really know. She’s just had a baby and she seems to be finding it hard to recover. But she has no actual illness.’

  ‘Powdered Autumn Gentian might be helpful.’

  ‘I can hardly suggest anything, Sir. It would not be my place.’

  Rose spoke up. ‘I think that is silly of you. I would not be backward if she were my employer’s wife. Doctor or no doctor.’

  ‘John said, ‘Come now, Rose—’

  But Tristram interrupted. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll mention it tomorrow.’

  They crossed the bridge running over the Mill Stream and found themselves in the North End of Boston. It was a strange mixture of elegant houses and those of the artisans, the vast majority of whose homes were built on land behind those of the grander folk. This had led to a spider’s web of alleyways and twittens, some only wide enough for people to walk along in single file. When these walkways were roofed over the usage to which they were put defied belief. Sanitation was appalling, as the privies ran into the wells. Add the death tolls from fever and frequent fires and one would have thought that this was not a pleasant place to live. And yet there was a cheerfulness about the North End that came out in the people that John passed as he went along. Women with baskets over their arms bobbed him a brief curtsey and a man in a blue cloak flourished his hat. There was a truly neighbourly atmosphere.

  They paraded as far as Charter Street, where John decided that they had had enough and should think about returning to their lodgings. He had drawn ahead of the two young people and, when he turned his head to speak to them, saw them laughing and being jolly together. He smiled.

  ‘Tristram, will you escort Miss Rose back to her lodgings? I want to look for some friends of mine.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir. Will you be able to find your way back?’

  ‘Very easily. Please guard my daughter well. She is a precious girl and needs treating with reverence.’

  He said this last with a fine show of hypocrisy, remembering his own early years and his longing for his master’s female servants – or at least those of them young enough to give him a good run up to the top of the house where their bedrooms were concealed. With a somewhat sad shake of his head he entered the Orange Tree, which Tristram had pointed out to him. From within came the goodly smell of rum and the sounds of laughter.

  It took less than a minute to see that several of his friends had foregathered there. Sir Julian Wychwood was seated at a table, intent on sharping cards as usual, Jake O’Farrell was telling a mighty story which had almost the entire gathering in hysterics, stout-hearted Matthew was laughing heartily and Lady Conway, the only woman in the tavern, was talking earnestly with a tallish man, beautifully dressed, whose very light blue eyes sparkled and gleamed in the light thrown by the inn’s many candles. John stood silently for a moment, surveying the scene, then he walked up to Her Ladyship and swept a bow. ‘Good evening, Milady.’

  She turned with a start, not having noticed
him come in. ‘Gracious, you made me jump. How are you, Mr Rawlings? I did not expect to find you in this part of town. May I introduce you to my friend, Doctor Joseph Warren?’

  It struck John as odd that she should have made a friend so quickly, so soon after their arrival, but he said nothing, bowing before the stranger, who bowed in return. He was a good-looking man, there could be no doubt of that, his face lively and enthusiastic, allowing a rapid change of expressions, his eyes lighting up with a certain boyish charm whenever he spoke.

  ‘Doctor Warren,’ John said, ‘I feel that I know you already, Sir. I have just spent the afternoon with your young employee. He was kind enough to guide my daughter and myself around the town.’

  ‘Ah, you must mean young Tristram Snow. He had the day off today. I’m glad he made himself useful.’

  ‘He was indeed, Sir.’

  There was an undeniable warmth about Joseph Warren. In particular, the Apothecary noticed his hands, long fingered and incredibly clean, the moons on his nails white and perfect. Yet John felt that those outstanding blue eyes – laughing and relaxed at the moment – might hold a hint of fanaticism behind their mild exterior. But the man was speaking.

  ‘I must not be out late. My wife is very frail at the moment, alas.’

  John looked saddened but made no comment, feeling that to do so would be to reveal young Snow’s confidence.

  ‘How many children have you now?’ Lady Conway asked.

  ‘Four, Demelza. I fear the fourth pregnancy was too much for poor Elizabeth. She is very weakened by it and cannot seem to pull round.’

  John was astounded – not by the story of Mrs Warren’s post-natal struggles but by the fact that the young doctor knew Lady Conway’s Christian name. In all the months they had travelled together he had never heard it mentioned, Jake calling his wife Ella, presumably as a shortening. Now he said, ‘Forgive me, but have you two met before?’