My Name is Resolute (78 page)

“Tell him I got somewhat for him. It has been a long time in coming. Tell him I will wait for him.”

“You have the wrong house, sir,” I called, then rushed within and barred the door.

To my surprise, I heard the wagon rumbling away. I ran to the stairs and went up, to the room where our children had slept. The window faced the road. I opened it and hung a white napkin from it as the men in the wagon disappeared down the road.

Later, when Cullah, Brendan, and Bertie came home and I was preparing the table for our supper, I told Cullah about the visitors. Rosalyn sat in silence. Cullah grew quiet, but I recognized it as the quiet he assumed when he felt most threatened. “I know no David Cross,” he said.

After our son and his family had retired and we lay in bed, Cullah said, “He asked for Jacob Lamont, then Eadan Lamont?” He rubbed his wounded hand with the opposite one. “Did you offer him food or drink? Did he beg any?”

“No. Cullah? How far back goes your name MacLammond? The man knew you and Jacob, I could see. He had no white ribbon or feather. He made no repeat of our signs, in fact, he did not even doff his hat from politeness. What is there in your name, husband, that you have never told me?”

“Nothing, wife. You know the truth. I was a lad when we left Scotland under the name Lamont. Perhaps he is but a friend too stiff in his speech to convince you to let him in the door. It would not be the first person you have turned away for rudeness.”

“You do not believe that any more than I.”

He was quiet. Then he said, “If aught happens to me, I have given a friend a letter to your brother, in hopes that he will be able to preserve you. I have made a testament and willed you the farm but you cannot work it enough to pay the taxes. If you must, prevail upon Brendan or Gwenny to live with them. Benjamin should be able to make some living in about five years. Of course, Dolly may marry and be able to take you in. Though I think she will never marry.”

“Who is this friend who has your letter?”

“Young John Hancock.”

“I wish he would marry our Dolly. Gwyneth was quite turned by him once.”

“Too late. Married in England and just returned here.”

“Do you think he is loyal to the Crown?”

“I think he is loyal to his purse. But he deals with your brother often enough. August Talbot is now captain of Hancock’s sloop, the
Liberty
. It is running Dutch goods and British tea enough for the whole province.”

Moonlight gave a pale blue gleam to his profile. “Running stolen goods?”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t think that of your own brother? No, no. Not stolen. Smuggled in without taxes. Most of the town of Boston covets his presence at their tables. He is become a heroic figure.”

“And what of this Mr. Cross?”

“I don’t know him.” He rolled over and cradled me in his arms. “Wife, I ask you not to worry about him. I will see to the fellow. He has either got the wrong man, or he thinks he may take some advantage of us. I am satisfied with that explanation for I am not a man to be taken advantage of.”

“I ask you for your honest answer and you tell me not to worry.”

I heard him swallow. “I have been honest with you, Resolute. I was but a boy when I was sentenced to hang alongside Pa. We escaped. We survived getting here. Changed our names. No one could know me by that old name. No one could charge me with rebellion against the king for that king is long dead. This king, this king troubles me a great deal, but I have done my grumbling in secret except for attending town meetings. Let us speak no more of it tonight.”

“And learning to shoot a musket from John Parker, well and aye. It troubles me that ‘cross’ was our secret word, and that he gave it as his name.”

“You will have it out, will you not?”

I said, “I will.”

“I will not work at the shop till I find an answer for you. Will that please you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you sleep then?”

“I may. We must change our secret word. If he has it, and is using it and it is not his name, I could be fooled by it. Let us use ‘birch tree’ instead.”

“Well and aye. ‘Birch’ it is. Sure you would not rather have ‘walnut’? ‘Elm’?”

I placed my hand upon his shoulder and left it there. “Do not laugh at me, Eadan. It gives me such pleasure to speak your true name. It fills me with fear to hear it from a stranger.”

“Wife, I tell you, you needn’t fear. I am here. And you were right, I have lost a bit of finger but I can still wield a sword.” He chuckled. “Either sort.”

“What? Oh. Oh, that.”

“It’s been a while, but I remember how it’s done. I feel young tonight. We call ourselves the Sons of Liberty, and thinking of myself as a son makes me feel like a colt.”

“A colt. Well and aye. You are a fine one, Eadan. We are old. We should not.”

“Once, you said that we should not for we were too young.”

“Too unmarried, you mean.”

“I offered you a bundling board. I seem to remember you preferred it not.”

“Because, husband, did you not guess my meaning? Were you so foolish as to think I might trust a bit of board to keep us apart?” I felt brazen. “Did you not know I burned with lust for you? Perhaps we are not so old, even now,” I said.

I awoke in the morning with the slight ache of body that the act of love often left me. The sun had spread from the tops of the trees across the fields in striping that ran counter to the plowed rows, so like a woven pattern. Chickens in the yard made gentle noises. I looked out and saw Alice in a warm cloak heading toward the barn with the milking pail. Wrens and finches chirruped and flapped at the berries on a bush next to the kitchen window. From across the field at Gwenny’s house, cows lowed, expecting milking. My hair was long enough to brush against my knees, and I held it back as I knelt to bring the kettle to the table. As I filled the kettle from the water bucket, Cullah arose and came behind me, his familiar smell, familiar touch, so natural that I did not stop my action but moved as if we were one. He wrapped me with his arms, his two hands crossing and each taking one of my breasts, giving a light squeeze through my shift. I murmured, “Think not that I am so easily had again, sir knight.”

“My princess,” he said. Cullah kissed the back of my head. “I am but a poor—”

His words were stopped short by a shout from outside.

“Eadan Lamont! Come forth! In the name of His Majesty, King George the Third, you are under arrest.” The voice drowned in a thunder of horses and the rattle of their riders’ sabers against boots.

Steady tramping of foot soldiers filled in the rest of my terror. “Cullah! Hide. Go for the barn through the back stairs.”

“Get my sword,” he said, fastening the button on his pants. “And my pistol.”

“No. I shall send them away. Pretend you are not here, Eadan. Hide and live.”

“I’ll not hide in my own house. I’ll not hide behind my wife and my wee daughter.” He threw wide the kitchen door, taking a meat cleaver from its hook.

I stood in the doorway. “Cullah!” I shouted. Then I screamed it.

Cullah stood in the yard. Seven soldiers in uniform pointed muskets fixed with bayonets at his midsection. Three officers on horseback stayed upon their mounts behind the foot soldiers. Behind them, a wagon, the driver that man known to us as David Cross. I could see the wagon was now loaded with things, but I could not make out the nature of the things. It looked as if they had taken down a household of furniture. I bit at my rolled fist and held to the door frame.

Cullah said, “What do you men want here?”

One of the men on horseback said, “You are under arrest, Eadan Lamont. Put down that axe and surrender.”

“Arrest for what?”

“Put down the axe.”

Cullah slipped into the guise of nonchalance I had so often seen him use. He shrugged. “This is no axe,” he said. “It is but a kitchen tool. If it were an axe, you men might be in danger of me throwing it. Put down your muskets, men. There is not any reason to try to seem so threatening.” Then he spoke to the man on the wagon seat. “You there! David Hardesty! I know you. Ah, you were my friend a month ago. Yesterday you came to threaten my wife, an innocent British citizen. What have you in the wagon?”

The British officer snarled, “Quiet, you!” He pulled a paper from his coat pocket and began to read. “… sundry acts of rebellion against His Majesty … as a treasonous act have with others ransacked, fired, and destroyed the home of the Provincial Governor of Massachusetts … and are known to this plaintiff to be an escaped, condemned prisoner of the Crown come under cover to this colony…”

My knees lost strength. From beyond, I saw Roland and Gwyneth coming this way, hurrying, their children behind them, except for the smallest, still sleeping in his crib. Still unaware of the world that had dawned this beautiful day.

Cullah shouted over the man, “You have riffled my shop! I recognize that chest, those gears of my tools. You’ve torn my saw and wheel asunder, you fool! It cannot be rebuilt. What need have you of it? You will answer for this, Hardesty. You were there! You were there! What did they pay you, Hardesty? Did it take thirty pieces of silver?”

“Be quiet and listen to the charges,” one of the foot soldiers said.

“Put down my tools, you British cur!” Cullah shouted. “I will not be quiet. You have nothing to charge me if you charge not the man beside you. I say, Corporal!”

“Major,” the man replied. “You men have witnessed it, he refused to hear the charges. Take him.”

“Cullah,” I cried.

One of the soldiers aimed his musket at me.

Faster than I realized what was happening, Cullah threw the cleaver. He threw it so straight and true it lodged in the arm of the soldier while the man’s finger was still reaching for the flash pan. The other soldiers lunged at Cullah. Cullah fought but briefly, for they pummeled him to the ground in such a way that I was surprised later that he survived, and would not except they did not stab him with their bayonets. I wanted to run to him, but I could not move to him for they enclosed him, using the butts of their weapons on him.

“Get him in the wagon,” the officer said.

They dragged him, unconscious, to his feet. Cullah awoke. Raging, screaming curses in English and Scots, my Cullah struggled and fought, his meaty arms soon stripped bare of his linen shirt until bleeding, beaten, they tied him in the wagon bed behind the pile of goods from his shop, all the furniture yet to be delivered, all the tools they could tear from the walls and carry from the racks. The major gave a command. The soldiers got their wounded comrade, tied his arm with a kerchief, and helped him into the cart beside Cullah.

It began to roll away. “Cullah!” I cried. Gwyneth and Roland uttered cries, too. The wagon moved. Cullah roared in anger, blood coursing down his face, smeared with dirt and grit, his body lashed to the sides of the wagon like an animal. Fury filled my soul. Screams filled my mouth. The foot soldiers followed the wagon keeping up their terrible rhythmic tramping. “Cullah!” I screamed. I ran after the wagon, following them.

“Resolute! Stay back. Stay there, Resolute!” Cullah called. “Find Brendan!”

On a command from the officer, three of the foot soldiers stopped, turned, and aimed their muskets at me. I ran straight toward them. They had not loaded the pans. They could not yet shoot. I kept on. But they braced themselves and the bayonets gave them a reach far beyond a man with a knife. I stopped. We stood there while the wagon rumbled away, farther down the road toward Boston.

“Where are you taking him?” I begged. “Tell me where!”

The man who’d given orders said, “To be tried. It will either be a judge at the royal administration or back to London. It’s his lordship’s choice.”

“Who? Whose choice is it?”

“Lord Wallace Spencer. He’s who made the charge against him.”

“Wallace?” My word drifted away into silence. Then all I could hear was the grinding wheel of the wagon, crushing gravel beneath the iron wheel rims. Cullah’s head nodded forward as if he’d lost consciousness again.

The soldiers turned and trotted to catch up with their fellows. I ran behind them. I ran until my breath would not come, crying Cullah’s name, screaming my heart out, until I felt something burst in my throat. I tasted blood. I could not keep up. The horses and the men outpaced me and the wagon got smaller and smaller until it rounded a corner and I could see it no longer. I cried out once more and fell on my face in the road. I lay there for many minutes, breathing in the dust, sobbing into the rocks and grass and filth from years of horses. I had no shoes. I had no wrapper on. Blood dripped from my lips.

Gwenny rushed upon me with a cloak and wrapped it around. I watched, dull-witted, as if they would turn round and return. Gwenny brushed grass from my hair. “Ma?” I could hear. Someone called again, “Ma?”

CHAPTER 35

October 1767

On Sunday next, I sat between Alice and Dolly, listening to Reverend Clarke, myself still unable to speak. My throat ruptured and bled anew if I spoke. Rather than Bible texts, he used my husband as an example of our rights being trampled by a Crown that had no feeling for its own people. He read aloud the Declaratory Act, which proclaimed that “in all cases whatsoever, Parliament had taken away the rights of all British Citizens to an open trial by jury.” At the end of the reading of the act, the last paragraph said that anyone arrested for any suspicion named upon them would be transported to the Vice-Admiralty Court in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and tried by a single judge in the employ of the Crown. There would be no defense, no witnesses called, only a reading of the charge and judgment by a Crown appointee. No longer were colonists to hire their judges. The Crown owned them, and rewarded them for the fines they levied. Reverend Clarke said, “If we can no longer control the hiring of those whom we see fit to judge us of our wrongs, we have lost the rights of free British citizenry granted by the Magna Charta.”

Those around me were enraged on our behalf. They patted my hands, said soothing words. But that did not bring Cullah home. Several of the men who were in the practice of law offered to write letters to Parliament, and to those I agreed. “I will pay you,” I offered, though they all declined to accept my money. At home, I wept. I wandered through the house, calling his name, crying out. Dorothy feared I had gone mad, I believed. Perhaps Alice did, too. I cared not. I could not lie down for blood from my throat choked me. I was mad. Mad with fear and anger. Raging, yet mute, for my throat, said Dr. Warren, might never heal.