"Abigail! Come down here this instant!" Mama wanted to see me again. Somehow I was not surprised. After having spoken rudely to the British Officer who had visited
earlier this afternoon, I quickly retreated to Charles' room, hoping that Mama
would forget her anger after a while. She didn't.
"I'm coming, Mama," I said
reluctantly, sure that my violent death was soon to come. I took one last look at my Patriot brother's
books, the ones that had taught him to think for himself-something I was
becoming more and more sure was forbidden in this household. I cautiously opened the door, and locked it
behind me.
I arrived in the Parlor to find an
infuriated Mama, sitting bolt upright in her favorite chair. "Where have you been all day? Hiding in your room, no doubt. I am very disappointed in your treatment of
Earl Percy. He came to pay a friendly
call, and you were quite rude. If I
didn't know better, I'd say you were following in your brother Charles'
footsteps," she said slowly, waiting to see my reaction. I was quite taken aback. This was the first time I had ever heard her
utter his name aloud. It was as if she knew
I had seen him not a few weeks ago.
"Well you needn't look so surprised," she said, a
look of amused satisfaction coming over her face. "I know you are aware of his existence. I also know, that whenever you wish to hide from me, you go to
his room. I am not blind, Abigail, as
much as you might wish me to be. Do you
find it interesting in there?" she asked, smiling with that wicked smirk she
always had, when she knew she had beaten me. "Answer me. I don't have all
day."
"Yes, Mama," I said sweetly. "His books are most interesting, and as much
as I know he must have done something very awful, he is my brother, and I am
very curious about him." I prayed she would forgive me if she believed that I
innocently wished to know about my brother. However, it was not a sister's curiosity that drove me. It was intrigue. I felt a strong sense of endearment towards my brother, if for
only one reason: Mama hated him more than she hated me.
"As much as you wish to know about
your brother, everything about him is a bad influence on you," Mama looked at
me sternly, hating me more than ever, and knowing that I knew more about
Charles than I let on. "You stole the
key to his room, didn't you? Give it back, Abigail."
I said I had left it in his room, and went upstairs
to get it. I took one last look around
Charles' room, my sanctuary. Those
books, which I could now recite as if each one was the Bible itself. The clothes, of which I had one suit in my
own room. The trunk where he must have
kept his good suit of clothes, and the letters he had received from persons
whose correspondence he valued.
I looked out the window, seeing for the last time
the Boston waterfront, just as my brother must have seen it so many countless
times. I felt a tear roll down my
cheek, but quickly brushed it away. I
had never known Charles, but through this room I had begun to understand
him. I did not remember when he left,
but closing the door to his room, I felt as if I were losing him all over
again. I slowly descended the stairs,
and gave the key to Mama.
I acted as sweetly as I could to her, but she
noticed my tearstained face, and showed her disapproval fervently. Could she hate Charles this ardently, simply
based on his political views? Somehow I
guessed that it was not only his views which angered her, but his actions.
Her anger came over her suddenly, as if she had just
realized I had been hiding in Charles' room. I covered my face with my arms, as her switch came down upon me,
stinging my back again and again. She
hit me over and over, until she was too exhausted to continue, and left me
quivering on the parlor floor.
How I wished that Charles hadn't left! That he were here to defend me, to sooth me,
my Patriot brother, who at this very moment was fighting for the freedom of the
colonies.
Freedom. The word
spread through me, sending a tingle up my spine. Freedom from oppression, from condescension. The right to do what a person thinks is
right, to think however one wishes, and not be beaten for it.
Suddenly I
understood that the "dispute over taxation" had nothing to do with
taxation. It had to do with those
fundamental rights, which all people should possess. And that people like Paul Revere, John Hancock, and Joseph Warren
were fighting for as I lay sobbing on the floor.
That people such as Sam Adams and James Otis, and my
brother Charles were trying to gain, not only for themselves, but also for
their little sisters, who they had forgotten they even had.
Well I guess it's time the little sisters did
something too, I thought. I'm not going to
sit around here and let my Mama beat me, while my older brother fights for
everyone. There must be something I can
do.
I went up to my room, where my one set of boy's
clothing still remained, and quickly pulled on the breeches, and put on the
coarse wool shirt, with my brother's initials on the cuff, and pushed my hair
up into the hat. The shoes, which were
too large for me, I stuffed with newspaper, and put on the homespun jacket over
my shirt. Why my brother had owned such
poor clothing was beyond me, but I was glad to have such an inconspicuous
disguise. Cautiously, I snuck out of
the house, making certain that no one saw me.
I could have been my brother John, but he was much
stouter than I., and I was much too short to be Tim, both of who were allowed
to come and go at will, because Mama knew they were doing something as good
citizens of England. Even if Mama did
trust me to be a good Loyalist, she would never let me leave the house, not
even to see my friend Susan, whose family was a staunch Loyalist family as well.
I ran like a deer running from a pack of lions, not
knowing where each road was taking me. I eventually found myself face to face with Chris Snieder. I'd intended to see him tomorrow, but today
would be good enough.
"That's the second time you've bumped inta me!" he
said, a look of amazed humor across his face. "Is the bloody loc ness monster after you, or is runnin your
hobby?" He was obviously happy to see
me, although a bit taken aback. We
looked at each other a moment, his brown eyes peering into my piercing green
ones.
"I think it's time I told you about myself, Chris,"
I said slowly. "Then maybe you'll
understand why I'm always running." So
I told him about my family, and about my brother Charles. He just stood there listening, as if he'd
heard stuff a lot more interesting than what I was telling him. Until then I'd not told him my last name,
and when I did, his eyes widened for what seemed like the hundredth time since
I'd met him.
"So if your name is Abigail Atkins," he said, still
amazed beyond words. "That'd make your
brother Charles Atkins, right?"
"That's right. What of it?" I asked, praying that Chris wouldn't want me to meet
him.
"What of it? He's a bloody hero! Everybody
knows Charles Atkins," he said, looking at me in a new way, as if I was now
some sort of goddess because I was the sister of Charles Atkins, and at the
same time I was completely ignorant and deprived, because I knew nothing about
my own brother. I knew nothing about
him, because my mother never spoke of him, and beat me when she found I'd been
in his room. "You've gotta meet him!"
he said, suddenly very excited. "Well
come on!" he said, impatiently gesturing me to follow him.
"Wait! Chris, you don't understand," I said, looking pleadingly at him, praying
that he would understand why I couldn't meet my own brother. "My family's Tory. I'm a Patriot. But I'm
also a girl. Girls can't do anything
for the cause, and if I met my brother, he'd find out who I was sooner or
later, and I wouldn't be able to do anything any more," he looked at me with
bewildered incredulity, and was silent for what seemed like an age.
Finally, he spoke. "What were you plannin ta do anyway? Ta get into their societies you gotta come from Harvard, which, by the
way, your brother did. Were you plannin
on runnin messages and callin them soldiers bloodybacks? That en't safe for you," he said, and now it
was my turn to widen my eyes, and stare at him in disbelief.
"It's true. You've got strong spirit, but you en't got the body strength ta
match. Whaddya think'd happen if one o
them bloodybacks found out you was a girl? Even I can't match 'em. The only
way I'm safe is by doin' nuthin ta make 'em mad enuf ta attack me."
He continued as I still stood speechless, not
expecting to hear such a thing from him. Chris, who had been so accepting when he found out what I was, who could
have told the whole of Boston that I'd been masquerading about in boy's
clothing. I felt betrayed, but I knew
that no matter how Chris felt, he also understood me, and would do anything to
keep my identity secret if that was what I wanted.
I'd thought he admired me, and I could see now that
he did, but there were other ways he felt about me, too. Feelings that went beyond friendship, and
that I could only hope did not constitute love. He's smitten with you, Abby, I thought, but I feverishly
hoped that my thoughts were wrong.
"All right, Chris, I'll meet him, but
not as his sister. I'll meet him as
your friend Jemmy, who has started running messages for the leading Whigs," I
said, as I could see the concern sweeping over my friend's face. He shook his head, and I could hear him
thinking of how much my brother would disapprove if he found out, and how
concerned he was about me.
"Well okay, but doncha blame me when one o them lobsters
comes onta you," he said, his head still shaking with concern. At that moment, a British soldier walked
by. "Hey bloodyback!" Chris yelled, as
he threw a snowball at him. "Go back to
England!"
I looked into his haggard brown eyes with my
piercing green ones, and I could swear he flinched. "Your brother wouldn't like this, but he'd sure be proud o
you. He always said his family was a
bunch o cowards, and he'd be glad ta know that one o them isn't," he said,
staring back at me.