Over the next few weeks, I met Chris
whenever I was able to escape my home. I accompanied him on his errands, and eventually I received some of my
own. We delivered messages for some of
Boston's leading Whigs, such as Drs Joseph Warren and Benjamin Church, and Paul
Revere.
Our most frequent stop seemed to be
the shop of the Boston Gazette. This was the Edes and Gill printing office, located behind the old State
House on Dassett Alley. Chris' friends
often accompanied him, all trying to spit across the alley, as a gifted man
could do. They often wondered why I did
not join in, but Chris would gallantly change the subject. When the time came to enter the shop,
however, only Chris and I were allowed inside. And Chris had been hard put to convince them of my trustworthiness.
Above the shop a 'long room' was
situated. In this room, members of the
Long Room Club met in secret, keeping no record of their proceedings, for they
were much too close to treason. This
secret Whig society, started in 1762, was one of the first anti-British
societies.
Chris and I were instructed to
memorize the members of the Long Room, and alert them of meetings using a
secret code. Nowhere did an official
record of the members exist. And we
could only hope that neither did an unofficial record.
I never considered the politics of
these men, merely that they needed messages delivered, and that meeting them
was much more interesting than sitting at home sewing, with the family that so
obviously hated me.
Of course, that family hated me even more when it
became a constant occurrence that I would disappear for long periods of time,
without permission to even leave the house. When I returned home I would receive a raging lecture, often followed by
the switch. My father would try to lock
me in my room, but my faithful friend Chris had also taught me how to climb out
of windows, and when one day I found myself tied to a chair, I used the knife
he had given me to cut my bonds. Chris
had, of course, given me the knife to "protec ya from the bloodybacks", but I
soon found other uses for it.
"Abby, one of them fine British Officers called
today," Mamma said, while walking about the room in agony, flailing her arms in
every direction. "I had to tell him
that you were visiting your friend Susan. Imagine the scandal, should anyone find out how often you have been
disappearing these days. I can hardly
imagine what you have been doing! Nor
can I imagine the reaction of my friends, should they find out. And I do not care if you are sewing for the
British soldiers! You cannot disappear
like this!" She continued in a
frenzy, and contained me in the parlor until my father returned. It was late in the day, and I did not see
the need to escape, as it was too late for even a young boy to be out.
When my Father returned home, he was also enraged
that I had disappeared yet again. "I
cannot believe you, Abigail," he exclaimed, outraged. His egg-like head turned bright red, as he grabbed my wrist and
dragged me into my room. "Have you no
consideration for the reputation of this family?" Of course it is all about the family, isn't it? And he would have much rather that I were
not even a part of that family.
As I sat in my room, I wished I could climb out of
my window, and never return. But I saw
the impracticality of this plot, and decided to wait until my parents had
calmed down, perhaps a few days, before I ventured to see Chris again. I consoled myself with thoughts of the day
when I would run away for good, and forget the dreadful existence of my
snobbish family.
Almost a week passed before I was able to escape my
prison-like home, and in that time I pined for the back alleys and streets of
Boston, and the bustling wharfs and markets. As I listened to pompous Loyalists and British Officers drawl on about
how this disturbance over taxation was simply a stage, and the silly "rebels"
would get over it after a while.
I was infuriated! Get over it? How could we get
over these ugly, old British, who were trying to control our everyday
life? But I immediately checked myself:
You, too, I told myself are
British, and unless you'd like to run away on a boat to France, you always will
be. And while I ran errands for the
"rebels", I still did not consider myself to be one of them.
When I finally escaped from the watchful eye of my
Mama, she was sewing with one of her haughty friends, who found me a simple,
annoying girl. At first I had been
required to sew with them, but they soon found me so enraging that I was
required to leave, much to my delight.
In my scurry to escape, I nearly ran into the street
in my ladies' clothing, but fortunately I remembered myself, and donned my
disguise before leaving the house.
Once on North Street, I turned left, and continued
until North Street changed to Middle Street, then turning right on Union
Street. I passed through Dock Square,
still bustling with activity. Once
through, I paused at the Old State House, then continued behind it, to Dassett
Alley.
The street was abandoned, as it usually was. Occasionally Chris' friends would accompany
him to the shop of the Boston Gazette, but obviously Chris had not come
here yet today. I leaned against the
side of a building, and awaited his daily visit to the shop.
I did not have to wait long, and nor was I surprised
by the great noise that accompanied Chris in his wake. A crowd of boys entered the alley, talking
loudly and laughing even more loudly. When my presence was noticed, they were suddenly silent.
"Jemmy!" cried Chris' friend, John. "Where ya bin? We were begginin' ta think them bloodybacks had got you!" There was a general nodding of heads, and I
was suddenly encircled by this group of boys, being clapped on the back, and
all wanting to know what had happened that should keep me away from them for a whole
week.
I explained to them that I had been visiting a
cousin in Lexington, and while they wondered why I had not told them of it in
advance, they were satisfied. Chris and
I then entered into the small shop of Edes and Gill, ready for our next
assignment.
Benjamin Edes, printer and great Patriot, typically
ran the shop. He was a short, roly-poly
man, with small spectacles and a balding head of brown hair.
"Hello Chris. Jemmy," said a voice from the corner of the shop. It was Mr. Edes' son, Peter. Peter Edes was a tall young man at the age
of 16. He had dark brown hair, and deep
brown eyes. Like his father, Peter was
always pleasant and friendly. He ran
the shop with practiced ease, and knew the business of printing (and of treason
against King George) near as well as Mr. Edes himself. "My Father's not in right now. But he wonders if you could deliver these to
Royall Tyler," he said, handing Chris a few papers along with a coin. Chris took these, and we turned to leave the
shop.
"Jemmy," Peter said, and I turned to face him. "Could you help me with the presses while Chris
is gone?" I nodded, and walked towards the back of the shop. Chris seemed more than a little miffed of
being denied of his companion, but I pretended not to notice. He eventually left to deliver his
message.
I liked Peter very much, and we got along quite
well. I felt lucky to be one of the few
people to have his father's trust. But
more than that, I knew that no matter how much my mother, or even people like
Paul Revere and John Adams, felt that people like Chris were "rabble", they
were the legs upon which society stood, and were just as decent as any
book-learned and rich merchant. People
like Benjamin and Peter Edes knew this as well, and I respected them much for
that. Peter often regarded me a little
puzzled, as if there were something very queer about me that he could not put
his finger on. I wanted very much to
get to know him better, but was often very shy around him because I knew that
the more I got to know him the more likely he would be to find me out.
I helped with the printing, often keeping my eyes
demurely on the ground, as a lady should. But wait-I was not a lady, and had to keep that in mind, as Peter was
becoming very suspicious of my strange behavior. "You needn't be so scared," he exclaimed suddenly, almost
exasperated. "It's not as if I plan to cut you up into little pieces and use
your skin to print the paper on!" After
that things went much smoother, and gradually over the weeks Peter and I became
good friends. He understood that for
some reason Chris did not want me running errands on my own, and found it a
waste to send the both of us on errands together, so oftentimes I helped at the
printing shop instead.
I did walk home on my own that day, smelling the
salt air of the wharves, and enjoying my new friendship and freedom.