by Pam Berkman
To Mehran, Brenna, Max, Caspian, and Mom and Dad.
—P. B.
To my family, friends, and all the dogs. And to Mom; you’re here in every word I write.
—D. H.
Dedicated to my very own family historian, Aunt Shirley. With love.
—C. P.
1
The Smallest Dog in Boston
April 18, 1775, Boston, Massachusetts Filigree smelled danger and raced toward it. He flattened his ears against his head and stretched his short legs as far as he could. This was his chance. He leaped over a cobblestone as big as his head and dodged the wheels of a vegetable cart. He might be the smallest dog in Boston, but he was ready to fight for freedom.
The street was wet and slippery with drizzle. Filigree dashed past a group of children throwing rotten eggs at British soldiers and laughing.
He rounded the corner onto Back Street. There he slid to a stop, panting. The fight had already begun.
It looked like every dog in Boston was there. Jove, the huge Newfoundland, had cornered two British soldiers against a wall. Jove belonged to the patriot leader Samuel Adams. His head was as big as a pumpkin and his neck was as thick as a bull’s. Dark shaggy fur covered his powerful chest.
His pack of patriot dogs surrounded him. Scout the spaniel stood with his front paws on the taller soldier’s shoes. Rosie, a scruffy mutt, pulled on the smaller soldier’s coat. All the other dogs yowled and snapped.
For the last ten years, many of the people of Boston had been angry about England controlling them. They called themselves patriots. But King George wouldn’t even let them have a say about the laws they had to follow. Or the taxes they had to pay. Nearly two years ago, the patriots had thrown boxes and boxes of British tea into Boston Harbor because of the taxes on it. Patriots called that the Boston Tea Party.
After that, Jove decided the patriot dogs should stand up to the British too. They stole the soldiers’ food, chased them when they were marching, and woke them up by howling in the middle of the night. Rosie once ran off with a whole leg of lamb meant for a general’s dinner. Scout carried secret messages tied to his collar. Jove stood watch outside patriot meetings.
Filigree had been ready to do his part, even if he was only a five-pound Pomeranian. After all, he belonged to nine-year-old Frances Revere. She was the daughter of the patriot Paul Revere. And Filigree was a patriot now too. He had good reason to be.
“Reporting for duty, sir,” he’d told Jove the first time he’d seen him in North Square. But Jove had laughed. “You’re not even a real dog. More like a dormouse,” he’d said. “The Redcoats won’t even know you’re there.”
The patriots called the British soldiers “Redcoats” or “Lobsterbacks” because red was the human name for the color of their uniforms.
“A little pup like you could never make a difference,” Jove had grunted.
His words had hit Filigree like a slap.
“Yes I can!” he’d barked. “And I’m not a pup!”
But Jove had just turned away. He’d started telling two sheepdogs how to pull tent pegs out of the ground to make the British army tents fall down.
Now, on Back Street, Rosie and Scout crouched low. They pulled their lips back to snarl at the soldiers.
Jove stepped forward and looked straight into the taller soldier’s eyes. In dog language, that was a challenge to a fight. The fur on Filigree’s back stood up.
The tall Redcoat raised the heavy wooden stock of his musket above Jove’s head. He was going to dash Jove’s brains out!
“No!” Filigree yapped. If anything happened to Jove, who would lead the patriot pack? The Redcoats weren’t allowed to hurt children, but they had killed dogs. The needle-sharp bayonet on the end of the Redcoat’s gun caught the light of the setting sun. It glittered hard as silver ice.
Fear squeezed Filigree’s chest. But he couldn’t let the pack down. He charged toward Jove and the soldiers.
He took a running leap. He meant to land in front of the big dog and distract the Redcoat. But his jump didn’t carry him quite as far as he wanted. He flew right into Jove’s face.
Jove wasn’t expecting a flying dog to hit him on the muzzle. He jumped back in surprise. The Redcoats saw their chance and ran.
The shorter one called over his shoulder, “General Gage will hang your masters when he catches them at their next Sons of Liberty meeting!” General Gage was the leader of the British troops in Boston.
“Wait until tonight!” the tall Lobsterback joined in. “They’ll get what’s coming to them!”
Rosie, Scout, and the other dogs pelted after them. Jove didn’t follow. He was too busy staring at Filigree in amazement.
The pack came panting back.
“They went inside a building,” Rosie said. “We couldn’t catch ’em.”
“But we sure showed those Lobsterbacks whose street this is!” Filigree barked.
Jove was still staring at him. Filigree stood as tall as he could. His nose was lined up with Jove’s knee. He wagged his tail in triumph. He had saved Jove! He waited for the big dog to thank him.
Jove growled and showed his sharp, sharp teeth. “Fool!” he barked. “You ruined everything!”
2
A Useless Dormouse
“Useless dormouse!” Rosie rumbled.
“Lapdog,” Scout growled. He sat down in disgust.
Fool! Lapdog! The words stung Filigree’s ears. “That Redcoat was going to pound your head in!” he yipped at Jove.
“I knew exactly where his musket was!” Jove thundered. “And I knew how to dodge it! As soon as he tried to hit me, I would’ve knocked him over on his backside. He wouldn’t have been able to march for a month!” He gave a huff. “True patriots do what they can, when they can! You wouldn’t understand. Everyone knows you used to belong to a loyalist!”
Filigree flinched. It was true. He used to live with Mrs. Amelia Banks. She was married to a wealthy merchant. Like many rich colonists, she was loyal to King George in England. She had always been good to Filigree. He had slept on a silk pillow right next to her.
And he had lost her because of the Redcoats and King George.
Filigree’s spine stiffened and so did his tail. He wouldn’t let anyone say he wasn’t a patriot.
“I’m just as much a patriot as you are, Jove Adams!” he barked. “Mr. Revere is a Son of Liberty just like Mr. Adams! He’s the best spy in Boston. And—”
Jove’s large paw came down on top of him.
“My whole plan ruined by a little runt who could fit into a sugar bowl!” Jove muttered. “Stay home and leave the fighting to the real dogs and the real patriots.”
Filigree wanted to tell Jove he was a real dog, but he couldn’t breathe under Jove’s paw. If he could get a breath in, he would also tell Jove that he knew nothing was more important than freedom.
The day Filigree became a patriot was the hardest day of his life.
The British had wanted to punish the patriots for the Boston Tea Party. They closed Boston Harbor. They said that the people who governed the colony of Massachusetts Bay had to be appointed by them. British soldiers barged into colonists’ homes whenever they wanted. And the people of Boston could only have town meetings once a year.
Mrs. Banks hadn’t liked that. “I don’t see what’s wrong with people meeting together, Pudding,” she had said. “Pudding” was Filigree’s name back then.
So Mrs. Banks had let some patriots visit her house. “I’m sure King George didn’t mean they can’t talk in my sitting room,” she told Filigree.
But it turned out that was exactly what King George meant.
The Redcoats stormed the house. The pat
riots barely got out in time. Mr. Banks was so angry, he said Mrs. Banks had to go back to England to live with his sister.
The very next morning he put her in a carriage that would take her to a ship at Plymouth Harbor.
“You’re not taking that ball of fluff with you!” Mr. Banks said when he saw Filigree. “My sister hates dogs.”
He wrenched Filigree away from Mrs. Banks and dumped him on the ground.
Mrs. Banks shouted. Filigree barked. He leaped with all of his might, but he couldn’t jump back into the carriage. “Wait!” Filigree cried. But the carriage rattled out of sight.
“All she did was let people talk in her house!” Filigree howled. He howled and howled until his voice was gone. It’s not right for one group of people to tell another group what to do like that! he thought.
He lay down in the middle of the street with his head on his paws. He didn’t care what happened to him anymore.
The sun was high when a pair of boots stopped in front of him.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Banks’s dog,” said a rich voice. It was Mr. Revere, one of the patriots who had been at Mrs. Banks’s house.
“My little girl Frances is sick,” he said. “She’s had rheumatic fever. I think you just might cheer her up.” He put Filigree into his big coat pocket.
It didn’t matter to Filigree. He whimpered all the way to the Revere home at 19 North Square and up the stairs to the room Frances shared with two of her sisters. He didn’t realize his fluffy white tail stuck out of Mr. Revere’s pocket like a feather.
“Papa!” he heard a hoarse voice cry. “Did you bring me a bird?”
“No, Frances,” Mr. Revere answered. “Not a bird.” He drew Filigree out of his pocket. Filigree saw a girl sitting up in bed. Her face was pale and she was thinner than the other children he had met.
Her dark eyes sparkled. “He’s perfect!”
Filigree couldn’t help himself. He wagged his tail, just a bit.
Mr. Revere sat on the bed.
“This little dog has just lost someone he loved,” Mr. Revere said. “He’s going to be sad for a while. I want you two to watch over each other. You’re still not strong, Frances.”
“I am too.” Frances pulled Filigree into her arms.
Mr. Revere whispered in Filigree’s ear, “Take care of my girl. I’m trusting you now, boy. Don’t let me down.”
No one had ever asked Filigree to take care of anyone before.
And Mrs. Banks would want him to help a little girl, wouldn’t she? Filigree licked Frances’s cheek.
I’ll take care of her, he snuffled even though he knew Mr. Revere couldn’t understand him.
And he would make sure the British could never take anyone away from him—or anyone else—ever again.
But all Jove and the pack cared about was that Mrs. Banks had once been loyal to King George.
Jove stepped off Filigree. He looked over his pack. “Time to get to work, patriots!” he barked.
“Should I head to the British camp?” asked Scout. “Find out what they’re up to?”
Jove woofed a yes. “Rosie,” he ordered, “I saw some barrels being carried into the mess tent. Must be ale for the soldiers to drink. Push over as many as you can and see if you can knock some holes into them.”
“What about me?” Filigree wheezed. He was still getting his breath back from being under Jove. But he wasn’t going to give up. Ever. “I can . . . I can . . .”
“There’s nothing you can do,” muttered Jove.
Rosie sighed. “Just stay out of our way, Dormouse.”
Filigree had never felt so small.
“What about you, sir?” piped up Scout.
“I have other duties,” Jove answered. His chest swelled. “Mr. Adams is in Lexington with Mr. Hancock. Got to get a ride there across Boston Neck. Patriot business tonight.”
He and the pack trotted away.
Filigree stood alone on Back Street. The sun was almost down.
He’d had his chance. He’d failed. He’d never be part of the patriot pack.
3
The Revere House
The last rays of the April sun didn’t warm Filigree. When a squadron of Redcoats marched down the street toward their camp on Boston Common, he didn’t even bother to growl at them.
Behind them, the pack of dogs who were loyal to the British marched in formation. They had been Filigree’s friends once. He pretended not to see them. But he couldn’t help hearing them.
“Traitor,” muttered their leader, Queenie, as she passed him. She was a strong, solid foxhound. Then she barked, “L-e-e-eft turn!” The pack headed around the corner toward Boston Common and the British camp.
Filigree’s tail drooped as he returned to the Revere home. There was a tiny hole cut in the door just for him. He wriggled through it.
There were good smells coming from the kitchen in the cellar. Filigree’s mouth watered. Jove’s insults still hurt, but he was hungry. He followed the smells down the stairs.
Frances’s older sisters, Deborah and Sarah, were cooking pork and hasty pudding for dinner. The meat sizzled and spat on the stove. Sarah tossed Filigree a piece. He leaped and caught it. The fatty, salty flavor cheered him up a little.
Then he spotted the Reveres’ house cat, Anvil. She curled on the kitchen floor like a round black rug. She was between Filigree and his water bowl.
“Trouble with the patriot pack again?” she mewed.
“No,” Filigree said. “I saved Jove.”
“That’s not what I heard.” Anvil always seemed to find out about things.
“At least I try to help,” Filigree growled. “You just lie there.”
Anvil yawned and stretched so she took up more of the floor.
Filigree walked the long way around her to his bowl. He lapped up his water. “I did save Jove’s life,” he mumbled. “He couldn’t have dodged that gun.”
He padded up the stairs and into the big front room to find Frances.
He couldn’t see where she was, but he could smell her. She smelled like vanilla and herbs. Her father was sitting with Dr. Warren at a table in the corner. Dr. Warren was Frances’s doctor, but Filigree knew he was also one of the patriot leaders. The two men bent over a piece of paper and whispered. Filigree heard the words “ride” and “lanterns” and “patrols,” and something about General Gage.
Paul Revere looked up at Filigree. “She’s upstairs in her room, boy,” he said.
No, she’s not, Filigree thought.
There was a big armchair near the winding staircase. Filigree trotted over and crawled under it. Frances was sitting cross-legged behind the chair. It was her favorite spy-on-the-family place. She was mushed up against the wall. Her dark eyes were fierce. What’s wrong? Filigree wondered.
When no one was looking, Frances picked up Filigree and tiptoed upstairs with him in her arms. He could feel her heart beating fast against him.
None of her sisters was in the bedroom. Frances plunked down on the edge of her bed. Filigree settled into her lap.
Anvil jumped up beside them.
“I was here first!” Filigree barked.
“I was in this house when you were still eating crumpets and tea cakes with the loyalists,” Anvil hissed.
Filigree would have answered back, but he could tell Frances was upset.
“I heard them talking,” Frances said. “General Gage won’t put up with the patriots anymore. He’s going to send the Redcoats to Lexington to arrest Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock.” What?! Filigree stood up in her lap. “Dr. Warren just doesn’t know when,” Frances went on. “He told Papa to be ready to ride to warn them when the time comes. Deborah says General Gage will hang Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock if he catches them. But what if he catches Papa instead and hangs him?”
Anvil crowded into Frances’s lap. Filigree shoved the cat with his shoulder. It didn’t do any good.
“If Mr. Revere knows what’s good for him,” Anvil meowed, “he’ll stay home.”
/> “They wouldn’t really hang him, would they?” Filigree asked. He hated to ask Anvil anything, but he needed to know.
“No one is supposed to help the patriots,” Anvil said. “And nobody’s allowed out after dark.”
Filigree knew about that. It was called a “curfew.” It meant that anyone out at night could be arrested.
Frances stood up, tumbling Filigree and Anvil onto the bed. “I won’t just sit around and wait!” She paced back and forth between the beds.
The family still treated Frances like she was sick. Mr. Revere said she had to have her supper in bed and stay in the house almost all the time. Only Filigree knew that Frances sneaked out to run and play catch with him and was getting stronger every day.
Frances sat down on the bed, crossed her arms, and lay down with a thump. “I’m not going to lose Papa, too,” she said. It had been less than two years since her mother died. Filigree knew that Frances still missed her every day.
Anvil jumped off the bed and stalked away.
“Where are you going?” Filigree demanded. “We have to figure out what to do.”
“I’m going to catch mice,” Anvil answered. “That’s my job.”
“Useless cat rug,” Filigree said. He climbed onto Frances’s pillow and curled up beside her.
Filigree opened his eyes. He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep. Moonlight streamed in through the window. Frances and her sisters were all sleeping. It must be very late.
He realized what had woken him. He could hear the firm tread of Mr. Revere downstairs. He nudged Frances.
“What is it, Filigree?” Frances murmured sleepily. Then, “Yes. Yes, I hear Papa.”
Then came the sound of voices and of a door opening and closing.
“Why is Papa going out after dark?” Frances whispered.
Especially tonight, Filigree thought. Jove had said something important was happening. So had the Redcoats.