Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch (30 page)

“I have to admit, I don't like a fellow with a gun aboard my boat,” he said to Proctor. “You won't be able to take it with you on the other boat nohow.”

“It's unloaded,” Proctor replied, and showed him. “I'll leave it in the boat when we make the transfer.”

Danvers accepted this and led them down to the water's edge, which smelled green and fishy. A white slash appeared in the predawn sky, and a seagull screeched overhead as they climbed aboard a little one-mast boat. Danvers pushed it offshore, splashing knee-deep in the water before climbing aboard. Though he rolled awkwardly when he walked on dry land, he was perfectly in balance the minute they set off. His legs barely moved except to keep him steady, but his upper body coiled rope, raised anchor, and hoisted sail, reminding Proctor of the way his father used to work in the barn.

In moments they were away from shore and gliding into the harbor among all the other boats. A British man-of-war sat just offshore of Charlestown, with the gentle rise of the hill outlined against the sky behind it. Dozens of other ships were anchored around Boston.

Proctor felt better as soon as they left land. The constant
sickness in his stomach lifted, and he didn't feel as wobbly. He turned at Deborah to tell her, but her boyish, Arthurlike face disturbed him; he looked away as fast as he had from the skeletal militiamen.

“There seem to be a lot of British ships,” she said.

Danvers blew out a cloud of smoke and shifted the stem to the corner of his mouth so he could speak around it. “Troopships have been arriving from Britain the past few weeks, bringing thousands of soldiers. Any day now, I expect they'll march out to teach the militia a lesson.”

Proctor recalled what Thomas Rucke had told him about the city of London compared with Boston, how it was hundreds of times larger, and he wondered if there was any limit to the number of troops they could send.

By sunrise, they sailed around the north end of Boston with its great steepled church, past the hay fields of Noodle Island, and beyond the mudflats that surrounded some of the other harbor islands. They saw more British men-of-war, at anchor like sleeping dogs. Through the morning they bobbed on the water, drifting east into the sound, amid a diverse collection of fishing boats and cargo ships. The rocking motion of the boat lulled Proctor to sleep, and for the first time in days, he slept without nightmares.

Deborah shook him awake. Her face was green with seasickness. Fishing boats were coming back to harbor with their catch. Clouds of gulls dived toward the decks, stealing guts and cast-offs.

Danvers steered toward a two-master with
Laughing Jenny
painted on its prow.

“'Hoy, there,” Danvers called. “Two to board.”

The captain was a young broad-chested man, with a trim beard, a clean upper lip, and bloody hands. Without a word, he stepped away, checking the horizon, looking at other ships through his glass, then beckoned two of his crew.

“What are you waiting for?” he barked at Proctor and Deborah when they sat waiting.

Deborah handed the coins over to Danvers, who held them up to examine them. He tucked one into his vest pocket and handed the other back to her. “Give it to the cap'n.” He pulled a packet of letters from inside his jacket. “Would you mind handing these over to him as well?”

Proctor snatched the packet from Danvers's hand before Deborah could take it, wanting to see if any were addressed to Mr. Rucke. Then he clambered up the side of the boat, slipping as soon as he put his foot over the side. There were stacks of cod on the bottom of the craft, and the deck was slimed with the guttings. He reached over to help Deborah, and the captain gave him an odd look—of course, he thought it was another young man and not a woman. She remembered herself better than Proctor, and ignored his proffered aid. She made it on to the deck and stood there while two men climbed down into Danvers's boat and pushed off.

Proctor pulled out the letters to peek at their addresses. But the captain stepped beside him, holding his hand out. Except for lacking the pipe and about twenty years, he was the spitting image of Danvers.

Proctor smacked the packet of letters into his empty palm. So much for that plan.

“We'll pay you the money once we're safely in Boston,” Deborah said. Her voice was almost a squeak.

The captain folded back the corners of the letters, examining their addresses; he grunted something that might be consent, or might be disinterest, before tucking the letters away inside his own coat. “Have either of you been cod fishing before?”

“No,” Proctor said. Deborah opened her mouth to speak, but, overcome by the rocking of the boat and the stench of the fish, shook her head instead.

“You're of no use to me then, so stay over there, out of the way, until we get into dock.”

They went aft and sat on a locker. The one remaining crewman grumbled about the workload until the captain told him
to stow it. The sailor, a swarthy fellow with a black goatee and a slight French accent, glared at them as if he could force their help through shame or discomfort.

But they refused that bait, and he worked alone, cursing from time to time in French, gutting the rest of the cod and stacking them in the center of the boat. Gulls dived at them constantly. The French sailor laughed when Proctor kept ducking them. Deborah was too ill to notice. After a while, she leaned against Proctor just to prop herself up. He put a clumsy arm around her.

“Your little brother hasn't been sailing before?” the captain asked from the spot where he steered the ship.

Proctor looked at him blankly a moment, then shook his head. The captain laughed at that, looked at her, then laughed some more.

Deborah's jaw set. She scooted away from Proctor, holding herself upright even if she was too sick to speak.

They approached the harbor. Now that it was daylight, Proctor saw a hundred ships, all flying the Union Jack. It was an odd sensation, to see the red, white, and blue banner and think that it might no longer be his flag. He'd always felt a stronger connection to Massachusetts than to En gland. But until now he'd had the dual sense of being part of something local and also part of something larger. If the rebellion succeeded, he wondered if he would ever feel part of something so powerful again.

The shadow of Boston formed a hedge of peaked rooftops in the distance. The waves grew choppy as they passed among the wake of larger ships, and Deborah ran to the side of the boat and leaned over.

“We're coming into the dock, if you can just hang on,” the captain said.

She gripped the gunwale until her knuckles were white. The ship sailed past one large wharf and then another larger one, both crowded with British merchant ships. As they sailed south, they passed a series of smaller docks and
wharves until they rounded Fort Hill and the captain aimed for one of the smaller wharves. The captain and the cursing Frenchman ran back and forth to steer the craft into position, where it slammed hard against the pier. The crewman jumped over the side with a rope and began tying off while Deborah staggered to starboard. Her vomit splashed into the water below while Proctor ran to her side.

“Wot, someone sick?” a voice said roughly.

Proctor looked up as one of the British dock inspectors thumped onto the deck.

The captain shrugged and handed over his papers. “My nephew—brought him aboard as a favor to my wife's sister, but he's been useless. You want to take him? We had to do all the work ourselves.”

The inspector, who walked stiffly, started toward Deborah, who stepped away from the side and made a quick gesture toward the dock while murmuring a prayer. The inspector stopped.

The captain picked up a slab of the finest cod, twenty pounds of meat or more, and said, “Would you mind holding on to this for me?”

The inspector tucked the papers back into the captain's jacket. “And how am I supposed to hold that?”

The captain grabbed a piece of sailcloth to wrap it in. The inspector stood over him as he wrapped it.

“You should be careful,” he warned. “The rebels have been trying to secret spies into the city. If we catch any, we'll make an example of them and anyone who helped them.”

“If I see any, I'll call for the city watch.”

The inspector grunted in reply, took his fish, and climbed back onto the dock. A fish merchant with two boys rolling barrows came down the wharf and argued with the Frenchman about unloading their catch.

Deborah wiped her mouth, not quite as pale as before, and pulled out the second coin to give to the captain.

“You owe me the price of that fish as well,” he said.

She swallowed and reached for her purse. But Proctor took her elbow and steered her toward the side of the ship. “I left payment for it in Elihu's boat,” he said. “You can collect it from him.”

He led her down the wooden planks. The water that lapped against the piers was filled with dead fish and trash and sewage. The British inspector was already aboard another fishing boat, using his staff to poke among its catch while the captain argued loudly with him over British policy in the siege.

When they came to dry land once again, Proctor hesitated before stepping onto it. He closed his eyes and put one foot forward. Nothing.

“What ever was affecting me,” he said, “I think the water washed it away.”

“Good,” she said weakly.

Now that he was no longer nauseous, no longer tense with worry about betrayal, he felt hungry. “We'll go to my aunt's lodgings and spend the night there. She'll have something to eat,” he said.

“I … I don't want anything to eat right now.” She clamped her hand over her mouth as she said it.

She stumbled away from him until she found a stoop to sit on outside a barrel maker's shed. He went to comfort her, but she waved him away.

“It's getting dark,” he said. “We need to find my aunt's lodgings.”

Swallowing hard, she forced herself back to her feet. “Where does she live?”

“The big wharf we passed is Hancock's, which connects King Street. She lives above a wig maker's shop on Pudding Lane, just off King Street. If we head that way, I know I can find it.”

“Can you find me fresh water first?”

“Yeah, I'm thirsty too.”

He could see Fort Hill rising on their right, so he led her
away from the water and into the city. He thought he might be able to find a well or even a rain barrel outside someone's house, but a ropeyard ran the length of the first street he chose. The long open grounds smelled of pitch. A handful of men were still at work; one of them stood by the street tapping a hickory bat against his palm. Everyone seemed on edge. Feeling like one of the spies the inspector had warned about, Proctor decided not to speak to anyone.

Despite what he'd told Deborah, he didn't know the southern end of Boston at all. So he led her from street to street, peering around houses, looking for a public square with a well, like the north square he was familiar with from his previous visits. Instead, they saw several open pastures, some with cattle. He finally led her to a trough at the edge of one of the pastures, and they scooped water from it, drinking with their hands.

“This looks like Orange Street,” he said when they were refreshed. “I think it leads toward King.”

Deborah looked at the darkening sky. “We better hurry,” she said.

He could tell they were headed the right way now. The streets were narrower and dense with buildings. As they wandered from street to street, looking for a landmark Proctor recognized, a shutter banged open above them. A bareheaded man in a nightdress leaned from his second-story window. “It's after curfew—I'll call the watch on you, you damned troublemakers.”

They hurried away as he yelled after them, cursing all apprentices and boys with loose morals.

After that, they moved from shadow to shadow, dashing across the streets, staying out of sight. They didn't dare allow themselves to be caught after dark without papers.

Proctor thought they were close to King Street because he could faintly smell the peculiar mix of odors—fish, tobacco, tea, and rum—that defined the wharf when a voice shouted one street over.

He dodged into a doorway, pulling Deborah after him. At the corner closest to them a light appeared, then two lights. It was the night watch, two men in long coats and broad-brimmed hats, carrying heavy staves and lanterns.

“Nine fifty pee em,” the first voice said, and the second added, “And the wind is blowing from the north.”

They held the light up to the doorways as they passed, stopping to check the lock on a small bakery directly across the street.

Proctor's hand searched all his pockets, looking for sand, for dust, for anything he could use as a focus for a quick spell. His heart began to pound as he realized he had nothing.

Deborah lifted her head to him and silently mouthed a warning:
We can't be caught
.

He answered her with a small nod. Too much was at stake. They would have to outrun the men if they approached. He braced himself to knock them down.

Instead, the watchmen stared in the window at the counter with its baked goods and talked about coming back for fresh bread when the baker opened shop in the morning. The thought of warm bread made Proctor's stomach growl, loud as a shop dog, but they didn't hear it and moved on. They turned the corner, and Proctor heard, distantly, “Nine fifty-five—”

Deborah's fist, closed on the hem of his jacket, finally relaxed. Proctor whispered to her. “I think I recognize that bakery—we're just around the corner from my aunt's.”

When they rounded the next street and turned down an alley, Proctor's heart leapt. He not only recognized her lodging but saw a light burning in her window, despite the late hour.

“Come on,” he said, taking Deborah by the hand.

He tapped lightly at the door.

It cracked open instantly, and his aunt's thin face peered out at him. “Proctor,” she said, hardly sounding surprised. “Well, come in.”

She stepped back, holding the door open so they could enter. Proctor watched the street while Deborah entered first, then he slipped inside and shut the door behind them.