Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776

by Laurie Calkhoven

  Citizens stood about the town in small clumps, sharing gossip. Redcoats snarled. The people snarled back.

  A man walked up to a soldier and shook a fist in his face. “You’ll get your due now,” he threatened. “You’ll get your due.”

  The soldier only mocked him, but there was a nervous edge to his laughter.

  That afternoon we learned that there was fighting in Concord, too, and the Redcoats were on the run. They were returning to Boston. I ran for the top of Beacon Hill, which afforded a view of Charlestown.

  Just before sunset there was firing in the distance. Charlestown appeared deserted. People must have been hiding in their homes, or perhaps they had already left the town.

  It was nearly dark when I saw long columns of Redcoats marching into Charlestown. Behind them, the sun sank into the hills of Lexington in a fiery red ball. The flash of musket fire twinkled like stars in the gathering darkness. The shots seemed to come out of nowhere, and I thought militiamen must have been hiding behind trees, walls, and houses.

  A cold rain began to fall as the wounded Redcoats were loaded into the longboats and ferried across the Charles River to Boston. I had to run back to the tavern to help Mother and Father, but not before I saw men in bandages limp off the boats. I recalled how strong and sure they seemed just yesterday. How different they looked tonight, broken and bloody.

  All manner of carts and carriages lumbered to the ferry house to carry those wounded who could not walk. Wooden wheels creaked and rattled against the cobblestones. Horses whinnied. People spoke in whispers.

  Father was out when I got back to the tavern. Mother tended bar, her face creased with worry. Colonel Stockdale arrived a couple of hours later. His face and his scarlet coat were covered in dirt and sweat. There was a bandage on his thigh and bloodstains on his white breeches. I wondered how many Massachusetts men he had shot, and my fingers burned to throw a tankard at him.

  He strode up to the bar.

  “Rum, madam,” he said to my mother.

  The officers gathered around him, waiting.

  He raised his glass high. “I curse the English-man who first set foot on this savage land,” he said bitterly.

  Soon the officers were all shouting about how they would pay the people back. The violent acts they described grew more and more deadly with each drink they took. They cheered one another with cries of “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  Father had returned. His jaw was set, his teeth clenched. Like me, he could do nothing in the face of their boasting.

  The Redcoats claimed that the men of Lexington had fired the first shots.

  “Not true,” Father muttered when we were alone. “The British opened fire. The militia only defended themselves and their property.”

  We wondered what would happen next. One thing seemed sure: we were at war.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Under Siege

  May, 1775

  After the battles at Lexington and Concord, it was rumored that militia companies were pouring into the country around Boston. Many of them could be seen from the hills and rooftops of Boston. Within a week we heard that some fifteen thousand men from Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Connecticut, and Rhode Island had formed a new army—the New England army. They trapped the British inside the town, and us along with them. We were under siege.

  General Gage strengthened his fortifications on the Neck. We were cut off from any contact with the country.

  The next days were a tangle of disorder. Dread reigned in Boston. The Patriots feared that Gage would destroy us from within. The Loyalists feared the New England army would destroy us from without. Everyone feared starvation. With both the harbor and the Neck closed, where would our necessaries of life come from?

  “What will we do for food? How will we fill our bellies?” Mother asked.

  “British supply ships will continue to arrive for as long as the Redcoats are in Boston,” Father told us. “The officers will make sure they are well fed even if the regular soldiers are not. Unless they leave the tavern, we will have food and fuel enough to cook for them and for ourselves.”

  “What about everyone else?” I asked. I thought of Timothy Otis and my other friends at school. Could I eat British food while they starved?

  Father grimaced. “I hope Gage has sense enough to let people leave the town.”

  “Should we leave, too, if that is the case?” Mother asked.

  I had never thought of leaving Boston. I knew no other place.

  Father shook his head. “There’s no telling what would happen to the tavern if we left. And how will we earn a living elsewhere?”

  And so we stayed. I did not yet know whether to be happy or sad about that. I feared what the coming months would bring.

  General Gage ordered the citizens to surrender their firearms. Father went to Faneuil Hall and handed over a broken musket, but he kept his other one. It was no longer under the bar, but now hidden underneath a loose floorboard in my room above the kitchen.

  On the Sabbath following the battle, Gage met with the town selectmen and agreed to allow the Patriots to leave the town—as long as they left their weapons and food behind. Once again long lines formed at Faneuil Hall, where people pleaded with and bribed the officers for passes.

  That night Colonel Stockdale had six hams, a basket of eggs, a barrel of flour, and three cackling chickens delivered to the tavern. The chickens were given to Sarah to care for, and she promptly named them Robin Goodfellow, Jacky Juggle, and Billy Bilk, after the characters in a fairy tale I sometimes read to her. I feared what would happen if Colonel Stockdale insisted on chicken for dinner, but at least eggs would be plentiful until then.

  The fleeing Patriots made a strange parade. Sarah and I watched carriages and carts, filled to overflowing, slowly make their way toward the Neck. At first Sarah clapped and waved, enjoying the show. Soon even her bright spirit was darkened by the mood. I gripped her hand too tightly and she pulled it away with a whimper.

  Soldiers rammed their bayonets into featherbeds, searching for hidden food and weapons. A cart was toppled in the search. I wished I could ram a bayonet into the soldiers, overturn them as if they were nothing. Instead I helped the tired-looking woman rescue her household goods from the mud. Then I spotted a schoolmate in the crowd.

  “Timothy!” I yelled.

  “We’re bound for Salem,” he shouted. “I’ll see you when the Sons of Liberty have won the war!”

  I waved good-bye, but could say nothing. I admired his bravery. It would be grand to be able to say such a thing in front of so many Redcoats. My work in the tavern prevented me. I had also seen British anger up close, and I did not have the daring to provoke it.

  By the end of the week, there appeared to be two or three soldiers in the town for every citizen. The streets were strangely empty. Many people had left their doors open in their rush to leave. Some Redcoats and even a few Boston boys freely wandered in and took what they wanted. My days were strange, too. School had been closed as soon as the war began. I busied myself at the tavern. There was work enough to do.

  The British built up fortifications within the town, while we heard rumors that the Patriots did the same on the outside. The New England army set up headquarters in Cambridge.

  The Redcoats drilled all day. By night the officers gambled at cards and dice and made fun of the Patriot troops that surrounded them. In early May I overheard Colonel Stockdale say that four more regiments of soldiers were expected from Halifax any day.

  “Gage will have to stop crying about his lack of soldiers, and drive this rabble from the countryside,” Colonel Stockdale growled.

  I feared for the New England army. Could their bravery and love of liberty stand up to a large force of Redcoats?

  Father had the same question.

  That night I woke to discover him in my room. His candle made great monstrous shadows on the wall as he quietly lifted the floorboard and removed his musket. I followed him down the ladder into the kitchen.<
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  “What—” I started to ask, but he signaled me to be silent.

  The fire was banked for the night. Surely it was not time to start breakfast. Had Father decided to go hunting? Mother was at the table, filling a haversack. Her mouth was set in a grim line, the way it was when I got caught playing marbles on the Sabbath. I noted the items in front of her: mug, canteen, knife, fork, spoon, plate, cartridge box.

  I slumped at the table, resting my head on one hand. Great yawns overtook my body and I shivered.

  “Three o’clock,” I heard the town watchman announce from Fish Street. The familiar phrase “and all is well,” did not follow. It had not followed since the war began.

  I struggled to blink away the fog of sleep.

  Father checked the taproom to make sure it was empty and then laid a hand on my shoulder. “Daniel, I am going to join the army,” he said. “Another battle is expected any day. When England sees how serious we are, parliament will restore our rights. I aim to do my part before it’s all over.”

  Suddenly I was wide awake. What if Father was killed in this battle? He could even be shot for leaving town without a pass.

  Father did not take his eyes from me. Gradually I guessed the meaning in them. He wanted me to go with him. The idea filled me with dread. I didn’t want to leave Mother and Sarah. I did not want to fight in a battle. I was afraid, but how could I disappoint him?

  “I’ll get my things,” I mumbled.

  Mother gasped, but said nothing. The determined jut of her chin and the way she eyeballed Father reminded me of one of Josiah Henshaw’s staring contests.

  “No,” he said to me gently. “I need you to stay here—to help your mother and sister. And Colonel Stockdale still has valuable information that must be passed along.”

  But who would protect us from the Redcoats if Father were not here? How could I possibly keep spying on the colonel without Father to help me, to tell me what to do?

  “But how—” I sputtered. “How can you leave? How can we stay here once they find out?”

  “Colonel Stockdale arranged for a pass,” Father said, showing me a piece of paper. “I told him that my dear mother in Connecticut is dying, and I have to go to her. If I leave now I can reach the encampment by first light.”

  Father’s mother had died before I was born, that I knew. He had been raised up in Connecticut. The son of a whaler, he had become one himself. But Mother wanted a man with two feet on solid ground, as she said, and Father gave up whaling when he married her. That’s why Prescott Tavern’s sign was a blue whale.

  Some of the Sons of Liberty took their business elsewhere when the Redcoats moved in, but we did not suffer the same insults as others. I think many of them suspected our secret work.

  “The New England army needs your sharp eyes and fast feet here in Boston,” Father said.

  I didn’t see how I could continue our work without him. It was the work of a man, not a boy.

  He seemed to read my mind. “You have been very brave,” he said. “Master Richardson remains in town, along with a few other Patriots. Depend on him. He’ll be sure to pass any valuable information along to the new army.”

  My mind flashed back to March the sixth. Father still believed I had acted bravely. If I told him my shameful secret now, would he change his plans? Part of me wanted to, but another part valued his praise too much. “I would rather be fighting at your side,” I lied, staring at the candle.

  “No, Daniel,” he said. “Your duty is here. Honor your mother, and make me proud.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, as he pulled me into a hug.

  In the bedroom off the kitchen he cradled Sarah in his arms for a moment before moving her from her own small bed into the one he shared with Mother. She whimpered and then rolled over, fast asleep again.

  He hugged Mother for a good long time before shouldering his haversack and picking up his musket. He turned to look at each of us one more time before closing the door behind him. In the breeze, the candle flickered and went out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Whale Swims South

  I didn’t know if post could come to us from the Patriot camp, but every day I hoped for a letter from Father. I wanted to know if he had arrived safely, how he spent his days. Did he sleep in a tent? What did he eat? Did he have musket balls enough?

  Two days after he left for the New England army, new British soldiers arrived from Halifax. I worried that the British would mount an attack before Father was ready to defend himself. But no attack was forthcoming. Then I overheard the officers gossiping and, mayhap, I discovered the reason.

  Since the schools had been closed, I no longer saw Master Richardson every day, but we had worked out a signal when I had news for the Patriots. A blacksmith had copied the blue whale from our tavern sign and forged it into a boot scraper we kept outside the front door. It was good and heavy. No one would think to move it—except me.

  I turned the whale north, toward Canada, when I had no news. When I turned the scraper around so the whale was swimming south to the West Indies, I had British secrets to share. That afternoon I turned it around, and early the next morning I went to meet my schoolmaster.

  After building up the kitchen fire, I grabbed our water buckets and headed for the meeting place: the town pump in North Square. Master Richardson’s rooms were in a house nearby. Unfortunately, others in the house could not be trusted, and so we met in public.

  I took my time, enjoying the early morning. The spring sunshine was warm on my face. I took a deep breath of Boston air—salty, fishy, Boston air. There were no Redcoats about at the moment, and I could almost pretend that the town was not under siege. But the pump was near deserted, reminding me of how many citizens had left. I missed the chatter and the gossip of those who used to gather here. The few people who waited for a turn looked pinched and sour.

  Soon Master Richardson stood beside me.

  “Good day, Daniel,” he said, loudly for all around us to hear. “How are things at Prescott’s Tavern?”

  “Very well,” I answered, just as loudly.

  Our conversation was of no importance until I bent over the pump.

  “What news, Daniel?” he asked.

  I lowered my voice. “Three new generals sailed from London on the Cerberus,” I told him. “One by the name of Howe. Stockdale expects Gage to attack the Patriots as soon as they land and he has their advice.”

  Master Richardson only nodded. I knew he passed on everything I told him, but to whom remained a mystery. It was best I did not know. I trusted that the knowledge would eventually reach General Ward’s headquarters in Cambridge. I wondered what Father was doing, and if he was ready for a battle.

  “Have you news for me? News of my father?” I asked.

  “He is well,” Master Richardson said. “I have a letter for you.” He patted his jacket to show me where it was.

  I wanted to rip it from him and read it immediately, I was so excited to have news of Father. But I forced myself to wait until he could slip it to me without anyone noticing. I filled the second bucket and pulled the yoke over my shoulders.

  I wished the Patriots could charge into Boston and drive the British into the sea! The Neck was well guarded by the Redcoats, however, and eight British warships sat in the harbor, ready to fire their cannons. The Patriots could not stand up to such might.

  Master Richardson raised his voice again, drawing me away from my thoughts. “I trust that you continue to practice your hand, now that the schools are closed.”

  “Aye, sir, when I can,” I said.

  “Perhaps I will come see you one day soon.”

  “I would like that, sir.”

  As we moved away from the pump, he lowered his voice again, unraveling the threads on the cuff of his frayed coat. “Do you need help at the tavern now that your father has gone? With food so dear . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.

  The cost of food had doubled, tripled, and then double
d again. Many were hungry. It pained me to tell Master Richardson that we now employed a Redcoat to man the tap in his off-duty hours. Mother and I had discussed hiring the schoolmaster. We knew his purse was already nearly empty, and now his school salary was stopped. But we worried that British tongues would stop wagging freely with the addition of a new barman who wasn’t one of their own.

  Master Richardson’s face turned from hopeful to bitter. He said nothing.

  “Can the army pay you wages?” I asked.

  “My work is secret. And General Ward has no funds,” Master Richardson said, shaking his head. “He hopes the Continental Congress in Philadelphia will bring all thirteen colonies to the cause and take charge of the army, but I am not hopeful. I risk my life daily for their cause, but I think the Sons of Liberty would let me starve.”

  “But the cause is just, is it not? Liberty. Freedom from tyranny,” I said. “I’ve heard you speak of it many times.”

  “Liberty.” He snorted. “What good is liberty if we all die of starvation?”

  We took leave of each other. I tarried to watch the schoolmaster walk toward his rooms, troubled by his words—so troubled that I barely noticed Josiah Henshaw running after him. I ducked out of sight. Josiah Henshaw was the very last person I wished to see when I carried buckets like a servant. It was only later that I wondered what had drawn him from Beacon Hill so early in the morning.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Spy Mission

  Two days after the new generals arrived, we woke at dawn to distant roars and booms of cannon fire. Sarah whimpered in Mother’s arms while we tried to discover the reason. One of General Stockdale’s men informed us that the Patriots and the Redcoats fought over the livestock and the hay on Hog’s and Noddle’s islands in the harbor. We soon became used to cannonading from both sides.

  British General “Gentleman Johnny” Burgoyne had promised to make elbow room in Boston when he learned that mere colonists held the Redcoats in Boston, but Gage still made no move on the Patriot camp outside of town. I waited and wondered.