Chapter 12 February 1772
February made me more restless than ever. Chris had died in February, and when the fateful month came again, I found myself longing more than ever to don Charles' old clothes, and take on my past existence as Jemmy.
Charles knew this. Mayhap we'd be on our way to a social in his carriage, and I would glance longingly down a side street, remembering Chris, and the life I had with him. There was nothing a woman could do in this great conflict, except "the woman's job". I did not know what that meant, except sitting home cooking and cleaning, doing nothing to help the cause.
"Abby, what do you want to do? Run messages like you used to?" asked Charles, frustrated with my moping around, pining for what he couldn't understand. He didn't understand what it was like to be idle, watching people fight a battle that you wanted to be part of. Charles had always fought what battles he wanted to, and let no one prevent him. And yet here he was, preventing me from fighting my battles.
"Yes, Charles. That's what I want to do." I said, staring at him head-on, defying him for the first time.
"You can't, Abby. It just isn't proper, and I won't allow it."
"All right," I said softly. "If I can't do that, then what can I do?" I asked him, wishing he would understand, but knowing he wouldn't. "I can't just sit around like this! I'll go mad if I don't do something! Don't you understand, Charles? While you're out there attending your meetings, making plans to strike against the British, I sit sewing and listening to nonsensical gossip with shallow girls, who don't even understand what this turmoil is all about!" I talked quickly, and collapsed onto the settee, exhausted and disheartened. Then I rose, and began to walk towards the door. "No, I don't suppose you do. How could you understand something you've never experienced?" I asked, as I opened the door, and walked outside.
I was about to close it when Charles spoke. "I do understand, Abby" he said, and I could tell I had hurt him. There was more sorrow in his eyes than usual, and he looked so much more tired than I had ever seen him. "I fought in the French and Indian War. Did you ever know that? Captain Atkins wouldn't let me go, but I went anyway, after a year of sitting at home, wanting to go out and fight. When I returned from war, I was not welcome at home, but nor did I want to be. I threw away everything, to fight for England, who I now fight against. Do you see what I'm saying, Abby? I didn't know my heart, or my place. I threw everything away, for a fight that wasn't mine. Whether or not this dispute between the Mother Country and us is your fight, you cannot discard your family and place, simply because you want to. You are a woman. Yes, Abby, a woman. You're no longer a little girl, and it's time you realized it. With that comes advantages, and disadvantages. You must learn to accept both."
I knew he was right. That I must embrace my womanhood, and take both sides of it. But why did I still feel like so much a girl? And what were the advantages of which he spoke? All I could see is sitting at home idle, unable to do anything at all of importance. Why could I not abandon my family, when I hated them so much?
Charles had assured me that no one in Boston knew of my other existence, Jemmy, who ran messages for them before Chris was killed. While I was not ashamed of Jemmy, I desperately wanted these men, who I looked up to so much, to approve of me, a thing that I knew I could never gain if they were aware of my younger existence.
Once in a while, Charles said they wondered where Jemmy was, and if he was all right. I myself often wondered this. What had happened to Jemmy? Did he still exist, and was he all right? Or had he never existed at all, except as a figment of my imagination.
"Do you think the redcoats will come and shut us down, Sam?" John Hancock asked, referring to the Committee of Correspondence, which Sam Adams had revived not 6 months back, and the British government had discovered just recently.
"They can certainly try," replied the great Sam Adams. "But they won't succeed." He said, sipping his wine indifferently, as we sat at the Warrens' table, celebrating the return of a former member of the Long Room.
Thomas Melville was a young man of twenty years of age, just recently returned from Harvard. He had been a member of the Patriot societies for a year or so, when he decided to finish his schooling, before the war started, and it was too late. Although he had only lived in Boston for a year before he left, Thomas Melville had become widely known. He was known for his youthful passion, and overpowering charisma. Many said his speeches competed with those of James Otis himself, and that his presence of mind and person could convert even General Gage to the side of the Whigs.
"But they can still arrest you, as well as the other members of the committee." I put in, marveling at my own boldness. All eyes were upon me now, with mixed expressions of amazement, humor, and shock. Charles cast a long, reprimanding look at me, as I tried to ignore him. Mr. Melville began to laugh, and feigned a sudden fit of coughing.
"That is quite true, Miss Atkins," said Mr. Adams. "But they would not be able to hold us for more than a month or so, until a fair trial was given, and we were released."
Partly to spite Charles, and partly because I wished to, I spoke again. "Mayhap they would not give you a fair trial." I said, looking at Charles out of the corner of my eyes. "If they can take away others of our rights, why not the right to a fair trial as well?" Charles choked on his wine. It serves him right. I thought.
"That is a chance that I, and the other members of the committee must be willing to take," said Mr. Adams, obviously finished with his conversation with me. However, I knew that Charles was in no way finished with me, and that I would receive a stern lecture on the way home. I also knew that Thomas Melville was still silently laughing, and continued to amusedly glance at me throughout the dinner.
"Abby, I do not approve of how you contradicted Sam Adams this evening." Here came the lecture. We were on our way back to Miss Mather's, and Charles simply could not resist reprimanding me. He enjoyed it fully, this new responsibility he had as an older brother. In all actuality, the only power he held over me was the threat that he would tell my parents everything about me, which I knew he would never do. Nonetheless, I generally obeyed him out of love and respect. "You were completely rude, and it mustn't happen again."
"I was not rude, Charles," I said, glaring at him defiantly. "You did not approve that I spoke in the first place. The fact of the matter is, that women are not supposed to speak of politics in polite company, and I did." Charles knew I was right, and remained silent, thinking of a way to convince me, and himself, that this last statement was not true.
"What would you have me do, Abby?" Charles said softly. "Change the rules of conduct in the presence of polite company?" Now it was Charles' turn, to ask me what to do, for the first time since we had met.
"No, Charles," I said. "I only ask that you do not require me to abide by them." But we both knew that he could not do that. If I wanted to remain in the company of his friends, I must not offend them, which meant following those rules of gender, which I so fervently abhorred.
We both remained silent for a long while, until I spoke, suddenly remembering another peculiar event during the dinner. "Are you and Thomas Melville good friends?" I asked, looking at him skeptically.
"Yes," Charles replied. "We are very good friends. I perhaps know him better than any other member of the Long Room." Now he looked at me questioningly, wanting to know why I was inquiring.
"No doubt you wrote to him while he was in Harvard," I said, accusing him of an unknown crime. He sensed my allegation, and became defensive.
"Of course I wrote to him," he retorted edgily. "We corresponded frequently." I stared fixedly at him, as if to say I know what you did, now admit it. But what did he do? Thomas Melville had looked at me funnily all evening, and I wanted to know why. "What did you tell him about me?" I asked, now hinting at what I was indicting him of.
"I told him that you were a courageous little piece, and that you had a great deal of continually overwhelming spirit." Charles tired of the conversation, and stared intently out the window of the carriage. Well, I thought perhaps Thomas Melville is just odd.