Poison to Purge Melancholy

Author:Elena Santangelo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, fiction, midnight, ink, pat, montello
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2006-08-31T16:00:00+00:00

“Do not let your Children and Servants run

too much abroad at Nights.”

—December page of Nathaniel Whittemore’s 1719 Almanac

December 24, 1783—The Streets of Williamsburg

Young Tom and I retrieved the handbarrow and brought it to Mr. Prentis’s yard without further delay. In our absence, the others had settled upon a plan of action.

“Alex and I will dispose of the costumes,” Sam said as he removed his black breeches, “and we’ll hide the firearms and powder in the Carson tin shop, where all will be at hand for our customary Christmas volley at dawn. Then we shall carry our guns inside with no one the wiser.”

The tin shop was a small wooden building standing at the edge of the Carson yard. During the war a storm had changed the course of a neighboring creek and the shop now sat on the brink of marshland, and so had remained vacant. The stain of spring floods marked its walls.

“The rest of you,” Sam concluded, “will follow our original scheme and proceed to Mrs. Vobe’s tavern, where we shall join you as soon as we may.”

I agreed, though I yearned to bring Tom home straightway. Still, ’twas better that the boy be prepared to answer his mother’s queries about his first taste of rum punch. Also, if I did not return to the Eagle, no doubt the lads we’d met earlier would spread rumor of a liaison between myself and the Widow Carson. I wished to avoid that, if only to prevent such rumors from reaching Elizabeth’s ear, along with reports of false errands to retrieve piecework.

Sam and Alex made a quick job of their part—precisely the time it took me to instruct Tom how to sip at his half-gill of punch, to nip thrice at my own gill, and to play five repeats of “Successful Campaign.” Their work was perhaps too quick, for when they entered the crowded oaken room of the Eagle, Sam’s shoes, stockings, and the knees of his breeches were wet through and caked with mud.

“Gentlemen,” he announced with his usual bravado, “I must claim a place by the fire. As you see, I’ve had a dispute with a puddle.”

“Puddle?” said Mr. Draper, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The James River, more like.” To which the assembly added such comments as “Bit cold for a swim,” and “A woman’s to blame, I’ll warrant.”

Only Mr. Hockaday gave serious thought to the matter, saying, “’Tis dangerous to cut across the marshes these dark nights. The water’s high, with all the rain this last month.” But Mr. Hockaday, to my relief, was ignored in favor of jest.

They made room for Sam at the hearth, and were encouraging him to remove his stockings lest he court a chill, when who should come into the room, and straight to my side, but Lynch.

Sam took the situation in hand. “Sergeant Lynch! Good of the captain to let you come tonight and toast the Yule with us. Call for the boy, lads. More punch is needed.”

“I’m on the captain’s business.

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