“I wish I could stay and help. Especially after all you’ve done for me,” said Gabriel.
“I know you do, Gabriel” said Malinda, smiling, “but you have a calling that’s more important than just being a farm boy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with just being a farm boy,” he said firmly. “I would be honored to stay here and help your father.”
“Oh, you might be happy for a while, but then you would wonder why you didn’t go to Boston. I can see that in your eyes.”
“What do you mean you can see in my eyes? There’s not much there other than a little bit of blue,” responded Gabriel smartly.
“Don’t you know, the eyes are the mirror to a person’s soul?” said Malinda.
“And what exactly do my eyes tell you?” questioned Gabriel in disbelief.
“They don’t speak in words, but I can tell they’re full of ambition and strength. And I know you’ve walked all this way by yourself from New York. You have a vision for your life that’s more than this simple farm can offer.”
Gabriel didn’t have an answer for Malinda, partly because she was right. Something inside him told him his path in life was not to be a farm boy. He didn’t know what exactly that path was, but he knew his job was to find it. He and Malinda walked along in silence, strolling by the small pond that sat close to the barn.
Malinda finally broke the silence as they walked, “Gabriel, I know you have your drum, but where are the drumsticks? I would love to hear you play before you leave.”
“I don’t have any drumsticks.”
“Then how do you play?” asked Malinda.
All of a sudden, Gabriel felt small and embarrassed. He looked at Malinda and confessed. “Actually, I don’t know how to play . . . yet! I don’t know how to play yet. But I will learn.”
“Well, what are you going to do? Mr. Arnold thinks you’re a drummer boy. I imagine he’s expecting you to play and keep beat while his militiamen march to Boston.”
Gabriel stopped walking. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I found the drum in the river, and I thought it the only way I would be allowed to join the militia. But I’ve never played a drum in my life. I don’t have any sticks, and I don’t have anyone to teach me.” He stopped. He knew he was getting carried away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He slouched and looked down at his feet.
Malinda looked at him, turned her head slowly to the pond, and then smiled and exclaimed, “I know!” She took off, running to the bank of the pond where tall reeds stood in shallow water. The next thing Gabriel knew, Malinda was wading into the water.
“What are you doing?” he asked, chasing after her. “Are you looking for frogs, or what?”
Malinda didn’t respond. As Gabriel reached the bank, she was working on pulling out a couple of the sturdy river cane reeds. These were the same kind of reeds often used as arrow shafts. She finally pulled two reeds from the water, their muddy roots still dripping. “Come on,” she said.
Next thing Gabriel knew, Malinda was sprinting back toward the house. By the time he caught up with her, she had her father’s axe in her hand. She laid one of the reeds down on a piece of wood and let the axe fall, cutting the reed off smoothly so it was about a foot long. She did the same to the other reed and then handed the pair to Gabriel. He stood there, looking puzzled at the reeds.
“Drumsticks,” Malinda said brightly. “Hurry up and go get your drum.”
Gabriel went inside, picked up his drum, and brought it back out into the warm sunshine. He put the sling for the drum around his neck and then slowly set one of the reeds down onto the surface of the drum. It gave a quick clean pum sound. “Hit it harder,” said Malinda. “Haven’t you ever seen someone beat a drum?”
He hit the drum harder, trying to create a rolling rum-pum-pum-pum sound, but it just sounded like a bunch of racket. Constance might as well be beating pots and pans in the kitchen with a wooden spoon, he thought as he struggled with the drum.
“Try it again,” said Malinda. “Things like this take practice.”
Gabriel tried, but he couldn’t get it right. He could barely keep a simple beat on the drum. His frustration grew.
“Well, no matter,” Malinda said with a smile. “You’ll get it figured out. At least you have a pair of drumsticks now.”
Gabriel smiled back, but he wasn’t too sure having a pair of drumsticks was a good thing, after all. Captain Arnold and his militia would likely be leaving for Boston tomorrow, and the man might ask him to play. The thought filled him with both joy and fear. Any man marching along to the beat of his drum would have to drop his gun and cover his ears. And who could know what kind of effect his clambering rhythm would have on the horses? They may rear up and buck off their riders.
Benedict Arnold would quickly conclude he was no drummer boy. Gabriel would have no excuse other than to claim his sickness had somehow affected his playing ability. For all Gabriel knew, that may be true.
Hopefully Captain Arnold’s militia already has a drummer boy, thought Gabriel. One that can teach me how to play.
“I’d better get back inside and help Constance with supper, and you’d better go back in and lay down a bit,” said Malinda, starting up toward the house. “You need to look as fit as you can if Mr. Arnold is going to take you with him to Boston tomorrow.”
Just the thought of marching along with Captain Arnold’s men on the way to Boston filled his heart with joy, and for the moment, he forgot he didn’t know how to play the drum. He stuffed the drumsticks in his back pocket, and before Malinda could turn to run up to the house, he caught her by the arm.
“Thank you,” he said. “I needed those drumsticks, and you were clever enough to find a way to make them.” He looked at Malinda’s eyes and remembered what she had told him about the eyes being the mirror to the soul. He realized then he’d heard that saying before. He suddenly wanted to know where Malinda had heard it. “Where did you get that bit about the eyes being the mirror to the soul?”
“My mother read it to me from a book. I can’t remember the name of it, but it’s something I’ve always remembered, because it’s true.”
Gabriel looked away as a memory of his own mother suddenly overwhelmed him, “The eyes are the mirror to the soul . . . Les yeux sont le miroir de l’ame.”
“What did you say?” asked Malinda.
“My mother was French. She spoke to me in French and taught me to read and write in French, too. I knew I had heard that saying before, but I didn’t remember until you told me about your mother reading to you. My mother told it to me a long time ago. So long I had almost forgotten. Thank you for reminding me.”
“I love those kind of memories of my mother, too,” said Malinda. She turned and hugged Gabriel. “Don’t ever forget them.”
Gabriel and Malinda both turned to head back into the house. Mr. Fleming came in shortly afterward and made Gabriel lie down in bed. He did as he was told, even though he felt like running into town to show Benedict Arnold he was well. He felt like it was Christmas Eve! He was so excited about the next day, he could hardly get to sleep. Finally, he managed to drift off by thinking of the march. One last night in the comfort of the Fleming home.
Gabriel awoke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon filling the Fleming farmhouse. He pulled the quilt back, stepped out of bed, and quickly got dressed. He wanted to leave no doubt in the mind of Captain Arnold he was fit enough to march to Boston. He would be dressed and ready to go by the time Arnold arrived.
Gabriel walked into the small kitchen where Malinda and Constance were cooking over the fire in the fireplace. Bacon was in one cast iron skillet, and some pancakes were cooking in another. Spotting a glass jar of maple syrup on the table, he knew he was in for a treat.
Mr. Fleming said, “Sit down, Gabriel. We wanted to send you off with a proper breakfast. We don’t want you being hungry on the march, right girls?”
&nb
sp; Malinda and Constance turned and smiled. “It’ll be ready in just a minute.”
Even though Gabriel had been told to sit down, he helped pass out the plates and poured everyone a glass of milk, which must have just come from the Fleming cow, because it was still warm. Then Gabriel sat as Malinda and Constance brought over the food from the fire.
“Help yourself to the maple syrup. There’s plenty where that came from,” said Mr. Fleming. “The girls and I have some thirty maple trees tapped on the farm, and we had a good spring for collecting the sap. The weather was just warm enough to get the sap running.”
Gabriel poured the syrup over the golden brown cakes on his plate and took a bite, when a knock rang out on the Fleming’s door. His heart jumped with excitement. The knock had to be from Captain Arnold.
He stood up with his back straight and his chin high, ready to show Arnold he had returned to full health. Mr. Fleming went to the door and opened it. The man at the door was not Benedict Arnold.
“Good morning, John, won’t you come in and have a bite to eat? The girls have cooked a wonderful breakfast,” said Mr. Fleming in a welcoming voice.
“No, no, can’t. Got too much to do at the post office in town. You know the mail’s picked up something fierce since all those militiamen left to surround Boston. Some of ’em must send a letter a day back to loved ones,” replied the man, still standing at the door. “Got this special note, supposed to be delivered to the young chap you got staying here with you. Good of Mr. Arnold to deliver that life-saving medicine on such a horribly stormy day. Arnold’s a man this town is going to greatly miss while he’s away heading up the militia in Boston town. Now, no time to spare. Gotta get back to town before the morning satchel of mail gets in. Have a good day.” And with that, the rambling man turned and left. Mr. Fleming stood at the door waving, a white piece of folded paper flapping in his hand.
Mr. Fleming turned back to the table, looked at the paper, and handed it to Gabriel. “It doesn’t say who it’s from. I wonder who could be sending you a letter here.”
Gabriel was wondering the same, himself. He held the paper lightly between his fingers, unsure whether he actually wanted to open it. What if somehow the Lorings had found out where he had gone and were now urging him to return to New York? What if it was from Herbert Loring, the only person in the Loring household Gabriel liked? Maybe the letter was from Ben Daniels, the farmer he met at King’s Bridge, with some type of warning.
“Don’t just sit there, open it!” shouted Malinda from across the table.
Startled out of his daydream about whom the letter could be from, Gabriel slid his finger under the wax seal and slowly lifted the folded flap of paper. He gently unfolded the paper and flattened it onto the table. “Well, go on, read it!” exclaimed Malinda.
Gabriel cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
Dear Gabriel Cooper,
Late yesterday I received word from the militia commanders surrounding Boston that my services were urgently needed on a secret mission of great importance. It was requested I gather my Connecticut militiamen as soon as possible and begin the march. This will be a rugged march over difficult terrain and will ultimately conclude in a very dangerous undertaking. The march is much more difficult than traveling the road to Boston, and so it is with deepest regrets that I must inform you that you will not be able to accompany my militiamen and myself on this journey. This is so, given the uncertain state of your health. We cannot be slowed down for any reason.
By the time you are reading this letter, my men and I will have already set out. The life of a true soldier, such as I, is full of perils. It is not for the weak, such as yourself. Return to New York or stay with the Flemings. They are a good God-fearing family who I know would treat you well. I must now close, time is short and the night is already growing old. My glorious calling to victory awaits.
Your servant,
Colonel Benedict Arnold
Gabriel set the letter down on the table. He could not face Malinda, Constance, or Mr. Fleming. He didn’t want them to tell him they were sorry or ask him what he was going to do now. He wanted to be alone, so he got up from the table without saying a word, opened the door, and ran out into the gathering morning light. He walked past the barn and down to the pond where Malinda had plucked the reeds for drumsticks the day before. He sat next to the bank. A few tree frogs were still chirping, not yet realizing the morning sun had risen. As he sat there, he began to wonder why he ever left New York. Doubts filled his mind, then anger. Why had Benedict Arnold not taken him along? Why would he tell Gabriel to go back to New York? Didn’t he realize Gabriel knew that, by joining the militia, there was a chance he would face battle and possible death?
After the surge of anger, the doubts returned. He liked the Flemings. He could be happy here. What business did a twelve-year-old boy have going off to fight, anyway? And that drum — he didn’t even know how to play the thing. Even if he made it to Boston, the militiamen there would probably laugh at him after they heard him try to play. They would laugh until he felt like crying and running away, and then where would he go?
Gabriel felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Malinda sat down next to him. “You’ve been out here by yourself for quite a while,” she said. “I thought I would come find you, just to make sure you are all right.”
“Well, I’m not all right,” he said. “I’m angry and confused and . . . and . . .”
“You’re not going to listen to what Mr. Arnold put in that letter, are you?” replied Malinda.
“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel.
“You are not about to go back to New York or stay here with us on the farm. Don’t let Mr. Arnold confuse you.”
“And why shouldn’t I let him confuse me? It’s not like I really know what I’m doing here in the first place.”
“Don’t say that, Gabriel. You do know what you’re doing here. I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t listen to Mr. Arnold. He looks after one person in this life, and that’s himself. Oh, he may have moments of what appear to be compassion — for example, bringing over that quinine when you had such a high fever — but he only does that to look important in the eyes of others. You noticed how the post master who brought the letter to you this morning knew right where to find you. He knew you had been sick and that Mr. Arnold had delivered the quinine to save your life. I guarantee Mr. Arnold made sure the whole town of New Haven knew what he had done to save a poor, helpless boy.”
Gabriel interrupted, “Malinda, you shouldn’t say such harsh things about Captain — I mean, Colonel — Arnold. He saved my life.”
“I should say such harsh things, and I will,” retorted Malinda. “I’m respectful of Mr. Arnold to his face only because I have to be. You just ask my father what happened between him and Mr. Arnold a few years ago. He will tell you of Benedict Arnold’s selfish motives. The building in New Haven where Mr. Arnold has his drug store . . . well, it should have belonged to my father.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Gabriel
“Father knew how difficult farming could be and was looking to open up a store that sold farm equipment and seed, so he could stop working full-time in the fields. Farming was exceptionally hard for Father, since he had no sons to help him. He asked around town if any buildings may be coming up for sale. A man named Mr. Tanner told Father he would sell a building he owned along Main Street. Father was surprised by the quick response and even more surprised by the low price Mr. Tanner was asking for the building. Mr. Tanner said he would sell it to Father only if he had all of the money in hand. Father said he would get the money but asked that Mr. Tanner not tell anyone else about the building being for sale. Father went and sold some of his best farmland to raise the rest of the money needed. It only took him a couple of weeks before he had it all. He was so excited.
Gabriel looked confused, “What does this have to do with Colonel Arnold?”
“I am getting to that part, just be patient,” responded
Malinda. “Two days before he took his money to Mr. Tanner, Father spoke with Benedict Arnold, who had stopped by to deliver some medicine for Mother. He told Mr. Arnold about his plans to open up a farm store and said Mr. Tanner was asking a very fair price for the building. Benedict promised Father he wouldn’t tell anyone about his plans since the deal wasn’t completed yet. Father took the money from his lock box the next day and went to hand it all to Mr. Tanner. Mr. Tanner told him he was sorry, but the building was already sold. He said Benedict Arnold had come by earlier that morning and offered Mr. Tanner more money than he was asking for the building and threw in a lifetime supply of whatever medicines he may need. Mr. Tanner swore he hadn’t told anyone about the building being for sale, but he couldn’t refuse Mr. Arnold’s offer. Mr. Arnold, that selfish brute, bought the building right out from under Father. He opened up his drugstore in the building and never told anyone what he did to Father.”
“That’s horrible. Why was your father so nice to Colonel Arnold when he came by the house?” asked Gabriel.
“Father says it was just business and that it was his own stupid fault for flapping his jaw about buying the building from Mr. Tanner for a fair price. Mind you, he’s certainly not Mr. Arnold’s best friend. Did you notice he didn’t jump at the chance to have Mr. Arnold stay for dinner the other night? Still, even if Father had felt harshly toward Mr. Arnold, he would have forgiven him by now. Father has told me more than once the Bible tells us to forgive seventy times seven. He usually tells me that when Constance has done something mean, like breaking one of my doll’s arms off.”
“Was your father able to buy back his farmland?” questioned Gabriel.
“No, and no other buildings have come up for sale that Father could afford. We grow just enough food for ourselves, and Father hires himself out to work at other people’s farms or at the sawmill.” She looked at Gabriel squarely. “Do you see now why I tell you not to listen to Benedict Arnold?”
The Drum of Destiny Page 7