boldly into the Judge’s eyes.
“Noble words!” Weamish exclaimed. And, turning again to Aimée: “You were saying, Marquise?”
Aimée sighed. “We believe—that is to say, Governor Gage believes—that Colonel Mayhew and his nephew have both been secretly approached to play a considerable part in the siege of Boston and beyond.”
“No wonder. The Mayhews, as I intimated just now, are considerable men in Nantucket.”
“That is precisely why I am ordered to proceed with caution. Before risking a popular uprising, I must have proof, proof, proof that they are plotting to escape from the island. We hope that the rumors are false. My mission here is to take accurate soundings and to instruct you accordingly. Fortunately, if I may repeat myself, as Frenchwomen we are thought to be the Yankees’ natural allies and Britain’s natural enemies. As such, it will be easy for me to make friends with the Mayhew gentlemen, and many others. Living quietly at the inn—what is it called again?”
“Swain’s Inn, mamma,” said Madeleine.
“Thank you, my dear. There we shall find occasion to chat with the natives, place a few questions, distribute a trifle of coins, and meet the Mayhews themselves. As the old one’s a widower, and the young one a bachelor, both are sure to be found in a tap room. I expect to have all the facts within a week. Our story will be a simple one. My daughter has not been well. Witness her pallor. New York in summertime is stifling. Our physician has recommended a cure of fresh ocean air, and we have complied. Naturally we have begun by paying our respects to the chief magistrate of the island, but that call is to be understood as purely formal. We must hint left and right at our sympathy with the Whigs and keep our distance from yourself and other Tories.”
“This is a disappointment for me,” said Weamish, looking at Madeleine. “You land on this poor island of ours—diffusing the radiance of Versailles—music in the gardens—ridottos—rank and fashion—and now you dash all my hopes by telling me that we must be strangers.”
“I have not been at Versailles since 1758, my dear Judge, the year my husband, may God have mercy on his soul, took his regiment to Canada.”
“You followed him.”
“Of course. I am a Fapignac!”
“Ah!” cried Weamish, looking meaningfully again at Madeleine. “Poor child!”
“Poor child indeed,” said Aimée; “at the age of three she was fatherless in Canada.”
“The horrors of war.”
“The Marquis was carried off by the cold weather.”
Madeleine was gazing deep into her cup.
“Bitter, bitter,” said the Judge. “What can I possibly do to comfort you during your stay? Needless to say, I would have offered you my house.”
“True American courtesy, Judge Weamish. But the neutral ground of Swain’s Inn, where we have been shown fairly comfortable apartments, will be a more favorable place for my mission.”
“Confortable enough for our islanders, I daresay,” said Weamish. “But, my dear ladies, you cannot conceive what it is for a man of breeding to live among whale-men, Quakers, farmers—with never a ball, a concert, or a play to relieve the tedium. I am—if I may take the liberty of mentioning it—the grandson of a governor.”
“Governor Saltonstall, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“I am told that your mother, Mrs. Weamish, is presently in Boston.”
“To my sorrow, she is. Nursing her sister and her brother-in-law, both refugees from Cambridge, and sadly come down since their flight.”
“What is the news from Boston? We have been on board our wretched vessel since Saturday.”
It was the Judge’s turn to take the upper hand. “Ah Marquise,” he exclaimed, “I am in a position to give you news of capital importance. A magnificent victory at Charlestown.”
“Under Gage’s command?” cried Aimée happily though only vaguely aware of where the place was.
“Indirectly, madam. He dispatched General Howe across the bay to give chase to the villains who had occupied the hills overlooking Boston. Their leader, a firebrand named Joseph Warren, was left dead on the field, and the Whiggish dogs were driven from the peninsula licking their desperate wounds.”
“I pray they can still be reconciled,” said Madeleine. “Your country is so beautiful—so plentiful—I feel that God has meant it for peace.”
“They shall have peace shortly, mademoiselle,” was the Judge’s reply. “Our generals are making ready to sweep the province clear of rebels. They are a loose collection of shallow rascals, all brave enough behind their fences, but routed by the first volley of our muskets. They cannot enlist respectable officers—ah, you said so yourself, Marquise. This is June. We shall have peace before winter, I assure you.”
“Good. Now let me speak of Sergeant Alexander Cuff.”
“Reliable, I hope!” exclaimed the Judge.
“Undoubtedly. I must meet with him as soon as possible. I have a letter for him as well. You and he must be the only persons on the island privy to my mission. May we meet again in this very place tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the morning—I, you, and the Sergeant?
“Of course.”
“I shall pretend to be strolling as a newcome visitor would, and knock at your door, or ring the doorbell, when I see no one in the street. I am leaving it to you, sir, to advise the sergeant.
Just as they were all rising from their chairs, a series of strong knocks at the front door was heard, the door was opened, and Jenny came hastily into the parlor. “Begging your pardon,” she cried, curtseying, “but there’s Mr. Mayhew, the young one, in the hall, wanting urgently to see you, Mr. Weamish.”
“Splendid!” cried Aimée; “have him come in. What luck!”
“Yes, madam,” said Jenny. A moment later, Nicholas Mayhew appeared, tall, lean, hale and resolute. He seemed to bring with him, from the outside, a wave of fresh air. “Judge Weamish,” he said, doffing his hat (the Mayhews wore their own hair, slightly powdered), “where is our mail? I know you are entertaining distinguished visitors; I took note of their vehicle; pray accept my sincerest apologies.” And here he bowed and addressed himself to the ladies. “I am Nicholas Mayhew, gentle ladies, often called Young Nick, my bad temper was given me by the devil, I was not consulted.” And he swiveled again to the Judge. “Sir: myself and my uncle are expecting important commercial letters from the mainland. Three weeks have gone by without a single message. Today the New York packet arrives.” Now again to the women: “And by the way, allow me to report that I happened to see your trunks safely delivered at Swain’s Inn.” Then back to Weamish. “Today, I repeat, the packet from New York puts in. Several sacks of mail emerge from the captain’s cabin. Your constable George Hackbutt removes them. Now sir: I make no accusations, but I demand of you, as chief magistrate of this island, whether orders have been issued to seize, withhold, or destroy our mail, merely because it is universally known that a Mayhew, of whom by the way we know next to nothing, is sitting presently
