Free Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Page A

pistols into his breeches and got out the king’s commission. He wished Fitz-Simmons had not forced him to break the seal. It had carried more weight sealed and full of mystery.
    “Tell them—” Prudence began.
    “Quiet, you. I have the king’s commission.”
    “Art thou too proud to listen to a woman?” Peter asked.
    It was too dark to see the Indian’s face, but he sounded weaker. He’d stumbled earlier getting into the coach, and when James had steadied him, Peter’s hand had been damp and clammy. Sweat steamed on his forehead. He was now wrapped in two blankets but was still shivering and cold, compared to Prudence’s warmth.
    “Tell them you received a signal from Charlestown across the bay,” Prudence said. “They sometimes flash messages when they need help. Then show them the commission and refuse to provide details, except to say that Charlestown needs you.”
    Outside, the men at the gates shouted an aggressive challenge to the driver. Woory shouted back, told them his master would be out shortly.
    “That’s a clever lie,” James told Prudence.
    “May the Lord forgive me.”
    “I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s a compliment.”
    “That makes me feel even more wretched,” she said.
    He allowed a smile at her labored innocence. The lie had come easily to her lips, as had the one that got her into the coach in the first place. He was more certain now that she’d attempted to deceive him.
    James got out, not so anxious about drawing his pistols as he had been. And a good thing too. The men in the squat tower held out a pole from the window with a lamp on the end so they could get a better look at him, but otherwise they stayed well protected behind their stone wall. One of them had a musket, which he aimed down at James. There would be no winning a shootout with these two.
    So he followed Prudence’s advice. When they asked exactly what kind of signal he’d received, he refused to answer but held up the king’s commission and said he needed to get to Charlestown. They had apparently heard of him already and didn’t come down to inspect it. He put it away.
    “Why not send a boat across?” one of the men asked. “You’d get there in half the time.”
    “In this wind? I tried to hire a boat, but nobody would risk the swells at this hour, and on the Sabbath too.”
    “Goodman Woory, is this true?”
    “I know nothing but what this man tells me,” Woory said with a grunt. “’Tis the king’s emergency, he says, and I seen his papers. Couldn’t very well blame the wind and waves to keep me indoors. Heaven knows I don’t care to ride on the Sabbath, but what choice did I have?”
    Woory had balked, it was true, but only until James shoveled silver into his paw. Then he was off to the stables like a hound after a rabbit.
    It went back and forth with more pointless arguing, but neither of the guards took notice of the occasional clanking still to be heard in the direction of the town. James wouldn’t be able to relax until they got well clear of Boston, but he no longer expected to be shot down.
    At last the guards came down to unlock and open the gates. The moment they were open, James hopped back inside, and Woory had the horses moving down the darkened highway. The gates closed behind them, severing the last light of town, and soon they were clomping across the Neck, then onto the mainland by what little light was cast by the lanterns. Inside, James dropped the curtain for warmth, plunging them into darkness.
    “Now, where did a Godly woman such as yourself learn to lie so prettily?” James said to Prudence.
    “Pray don’t remind me,” she said. “I know it was wrong to deceive those men.”
    “I’m talking about the lie you told to get yourself onto the coach.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve been lied to in Paris and London. Faced French spies and assassins sent by the Vatican. Did you think a devout Puritan from Boston could deceive me so easily?” When she