The Boston waterfront seemed deserted by the time Matthew and Abby's longboat touched the foot of a long wharf, lined with sheds and warehouses its entire length, stacked with barrels and bales. The only light was that afforded by the bright snowbanks, although here and there a lantern with a bravely fluttering candle added a drop of yellowish color.
Once they turned inland and began making their way toward the State House in the distance, they had to thread their way between knots of slower-moving Bostonians. Matthew raised his nostrils and sniffed a tangy wreath of smoke, feeling that he must cut quite a figure in his wig, jacket, stockings and, of course, sword. He had to fight off a smile, even as he tried to come up with a plan of action.
Once they arrived at the base of the steps to the State House, he scanned the crowd for a way inside. Abby grabbed his elbow: "Follow me," she whispered. Around the back of the building they went, and before Matthew could stop to worry, Abby grabbed up a cloth hanging over a railing, draped it over one arm, and barged in the servants' entrance.