“Aha!”
“Because as I said it’s near the window what break when you was stamp distributor.”
“What of it?”
“I better fix that window. I talk too much.”
That the Indian was hugely though slyly enjoying himself escaped the good judge, who now slammed the desk and knocked over a small British flag set in a silver base.
“Don’t go near that window! Finish what you were about to say!”
“Yes, sir. I figure the moment I come in, I says to myself, by cod, Mamack, it must be the same Spirit which done it in sixty-six. Spirit, he smashed like he was trying to tell you, ‘Watch out, Judge Weamish, the people don’t have forgotten!’”
Mamack uttered these words in his best sepulchral tone.
“Spirit be damned!” Weamish now trembled and blustered at the same time. “Rogues and rascals! They will not forgive a man for carrying out British law.”
By this time a squad of Redcoats was nearing the house, and Weamish took comfort in the drum’s rat-tat-tat.
“Thank God for Sergeant Cuff!” he said. “Thirty-odd Redcoats will suffice to curb these Sons of Liberty.”
“We don’t see so many soldiers since the French War,” said Mamack, who now brought out his most innocent tone. “How long they purposing to stay, Judge?”
But this time he was disappointed. “Forever, damn it!” Weamish replied. “Go mend that window!”
“Yes, Judge,” and he began to work, while Weamish went to another window, and opened it to wave at the Redcoats in the street below. There were ten of them, led by Sergeant Cuff himself, a tough-jawed man in his fifties, carrying a sword hanging from his shoulder and a pistol wedged into his belt. He had halted his men just beneath the window. It was evidently the Sergeant’s wish to greet the Judge.
“Proud looking lads!” shouted the Judge down into the street. Mamack also peered out the broken window.
The street was wide enough to allow for a little complimentary drill with musket and bayonet, to the sound of drum and fife, honoring the Judge, whom the Sergeant saluted by taking off his cocked hat and waving his sword, while shouting commands. A horse-drawn cart rumbling by, driven by a pair of disapproving Quakers, gave the soldiers a squeeze, but Weamish waved, Cuff saluted, and Mamack thought he would try again when drill and drum were over and the detachment marched away.
“What’s your opinion, Judge? They going to hold down the harbor? Put a few fellows in jail? Take our ships away from us?”
“We’ll see,” said Weamish smugly, and he could not help adding (because one does sometimes boast even to an underling), “Sergeant Cuff has orders from Colonel Montague at Boston to make no move without my consent.”
Mamack let out a whistle. “One day, Spirit tell me and tell me sure, one day you going to be Royal Duke in London. Mark Mamack’s words, your mummy, she be the proudest lady from here to Boston.”
Weamish inspected Mamack’s work. “I see you’re almost done. Good.”
Now, catching sight of a gentleman on horseback trotting down Main Street at leisure, he opened the intact window again and called out.
“Mr. Applegate, do dismount and pay me a visit. There’s a cup of chocolate for you if you don’t mind finding me in my morning négligé.”
John Applegate, a wealthy Tory landowner from Concord, was on the island for what he hopefully called a “short visit” with his relatives the Rotch family, his property, perhaps his life, having been threatened at home by the Rebels. His wife (they had no children) had remained in timorous charge at Concord.
Looking up from his saddle, he replied to the Judge’s invitation, “Thank you, my friend, but I’ve no wish to intrude on preparations for your elegant visitors.”
“What elegant visitors, Mr. Applegate? This is Joshua Mamack, a common laborer.”
“Mamack indeed!” cried Applegate with a laugh. “I mean the two ladies who came ashore from the New York packet this morning.”
“I know nothing about it! Two ladies? I beg you, sir, do come up for a moment and explain.”
“I will,” replied Applegate, dismounting and tying up his horse. Jenny had already opened the door, and he climbed the stairs into the library.
“Sit down, sir, sit down; two ladies? I’m dumbfounded.”
“Well then, I am the bringer of good tidings, or so I hope. I was at the wharves early this morning, hoping the Boston gazettes had arrived. Colonel Mayhew and his sparkish nephew were overseeing the unloading of I do not know what merchandise, while two ladies, most elegant ladies—and I have seen some in Boston—all frills and ribbons—came ashore, escorted with many a flourish by the captain himself—Frobish by name, I know him well. I heard them babble to each other in French. A gig was waiting for them, though ’tis only fifty paces to Swain’s Inn. A mighty load of luggage was loaded into a cart, and off they all drove. I do not think that the Mayhews saw them. But to the point. Frobish told me that the older of the two ladies had asked for directions to the house of Judge Thomas Weamish. They will undoubtedly be calling on you before long.”
“I’m speechless!” cried Weamish. “Allow me, sir, if I may—”
“Oh, I’m off!” said Applegate with a chuckle, “but I’ll stop by this evening for news.” A minute later he was on his horse again.
“Jenny! Jenny!” Weamish shouted over the landing, “Two French ladies are calling on me! Come up at once!”
The excitement was understandable. The chronicles of Nantucket do not report any previous visits to the island by Frenchwomen, elegant or otherwise.
Jenny came up the stairs.
“Hurry down again and tidy the parlor! French ladies! Perhaps they speak no English.”
“The parlor is always tidy, Mr. Weamish.,” said Jenny peevishly.
“Well, prepare a collation. And use the silver, not the china. Hurry while I dress. And let me not hear any farmhand familiarities when they come.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Weamish,” said Jenny even more peevishly, as she descended the steps. About to rush into his dressing room, Weamish became aware of Mamack again, who had been watching rather more attentively than attending to his work.
“That will do for the day, Mamack,” cried the Judge. “Go down to the kitchen, have Cook give you something to eat and drink, and come back tomorrow.”
Without waiting for a reply, Weamish dashed into his dressing room. His clothes and wig had been laid out as usual by Jenny, and it did not take him long to dress and scent himself—a little more generously, perhaps, than usual. Mamack had disappeared by the time Weamish returned to his desk, where he busied himself, or tried to busy himself, with some legal papers.
After a while, he heard a carriage approach his house and stop at the door. He peeked down through the window as two women descended from the chaise, which was being driven by old Moses. The elder of the two knocked at the door. As Weamish gave himself a final preening, he heard Jenny, fussy and flustered, invite the ladies into the parlor. Then she called her master, who took hold of his dignity coming down the stairs as he entered the parlor, closing the door behind him.
“Allow me to welcome you in my house,” he said; “I am Judge Thomas Weamish.”
“And I am Aimée de Tourville,” said the lady, raising her head. “This is my daughter Madeleine. I hope you will forgive this unannounced intrusion. I have come to you from the inn without changing, because the matter is urgent.”
Madame