The Drum of Destiny

by Chris Stevenson

  He wished he could show off his catch to someone, but he was alone. Nevertheless, he held his fish up high as if to show the world what fine work his fishing line and hook had accomplished. It seemed to Gabriel that the chorus of chirping and croaking frogs grew a bit louder, as if to say, “Well done, ribbit . . . croak, congratulations.”

  He looked around the pond as the last sliver of sun sank below the sky and said with a loud and official voice, “Thank you, thank you all.”

  He lowered the fish back down between his knees and pulled the hook from its mouth. Wrapping his line and hook around his pole, he waded back through the reeds to the bank of the pond. He found a flat rock not far from shore, set his catch down, and went to collected some firewood.

  He gathered some paper-thin bark from a nearby birch tree and nestled it down into a bundle of twigs. Pulling the flint rock from his bag, he laid it next to the birch-bark and struck the flat edge of his knife on the flint. Immediately, a gush of red sparks sprung from the flint onto the bark. They smoldered, but the wood did not catch fire. He struck his knife again, and this time, as soon as the sparks landed on the bark, he leaned down and gave a gentle blow. The sparks began to glow and smoke, and then the bark burst into flames. Gabriel continued blowing slowly and evenly, carefully applying the twigs onto the growing flames. After he had a good flame going with the twigs, he started adding larger pieces of wood he had gathered. Soon he had a blazing fire.

  He sat there for a moment and marveled at his fire. He had seen his father start a fire in the hearth in his old home in New York a hundred times. He himself had even started many, but this fire was different. It was all his own, and its warmth would cook the fish he had caught. A sense of pride like he’d never felt before welled up inside him. He gave a whoop of excitement and sprang up to prepare his fish for the fire.

  He cut off the fish’s head and tail and gutted it. Then he took a sturdy stick and whittled down the end to make a point. He stuck the point of the stick in where the head had been and out through the tail end. Taking the stick over to the fire, he carefully held the fish over the flames. The fish sizzled over the open flames and soon succulent juice began dripping over the fire. The smell of the cooking meat made Gabriel’s mouth water. This was going to be a feast.

  He did not leave the fish on the flames too long, partly because he did not want to overcook it and partly because he was so hungry. The scales had begun to crinkle and turn black from the heat, so he removed the fish from the fire and carefully rested it on the flat rock. He took out his knife and cut open the fish. The flaky, juicy meat fell off the bones. He grabbed the pieces and began stuffing them into his mouth. The fish tasted so good, he decided to try to slow down so he could enjoy it longer. He wasn’t sure when he’d be able to enjoy such a delicacy again. He spoke a silent thank-you to Mr. Fleming for giving him the fishing line and hook.

  The night had completely overtaken the pond now, and Gabriel sat by the fire, finishing off the last morsels of fish. Hot coals glowed red and white in the fire. The flames danced, sending sparks drifting up into the clear night sky. He lay on his back and watched the sparks, trying to see how high they would go before disappearing into the blackness. They always vanished, leaving nothing but the stars glittering in the sky.

  Gabriel often wondered about the stars. Why had God put them in the sky? How far away were they? What made them shine? What made them twinkle? He had read some science books in his father’s shop, but nothing about stars.

  “You can learn from these.” His father’s voice rang in his mind. He missed his father . . . and then his mother . . . and then Malinda. With these thoughts of stars drifting through his head, he fell asleep, the frogs now chirping a song of peace and contentment.

  H 12 H

  THE BATTLE

  BEGINS

  Over the next several days Gabriel covered many miles. His strength and resolve were renewed.

  Having left New York in April, it was mid-June when he crossed the river into Springfield. He strolled into town in the late afternoon. The town’s main street was abuzz with activity. It seemed a bit unusual to him. Why would the town be so busy at this hour? he wondered.

  Several men rode in on their horses and dismounted. The townsfolk swarmed around them, so Gabriel walked closer to see what the commotion was about. With so many people crowded tightly together, he couldn’t hear what the men were saying. He turned and walked away toward a modest wooden building with a sign out front that said, “Tavern.” When he turned back once more, he saw the riders mount their saddles and gallop off. He peered into the crowd, still trying to figure out what was going on, but he was too far away.

  He walked over to the storefront of the tavern and went inside. The room was empty except for a stout, round man standing behind the bar. Gabriel set his things down in a corner and walked over to the man standing at a large wooden table. “I’d like something to eat, sir, and I have coin,” he said.

  “Sure, anything you like, young man. I’ve got a fine piece of venison on the fire, and I’ll throw in a drink for free. I’m just glad to have someone here to talk with about the news in Boston. All the town has been clamoring for news and talking at the post office. I haven’t had but a handful of customers all day. Charlie’s my name. What’s yours?” asked the round-faced man.

  “I am Gabriel. What news?”

  “What news? Where have you been, lad? Why, the whole town is talking about it.”

  “No, I haven’t heard, I . . . I’ve been away. What news?” Gabriel asked. Thoughts were flashing through his mind of the warships he had seen. Had they reached Boston? Had they blasted their cannons at the militia?

  “Well, a couple of nights ago,” Charlie began, “the men of the village militias moved out onto Charlestown Peninsula, just a stone’s throw from the city of Boston itself. They dug trenches and made walls of dirt, all in the middle of the night. With the rising sun, the King’s troops saw what the militias had done but, by then, they were already dug in. Some Royal Navy ships spotted them, and they tried blasting their cannon at the men, but the militia had dug their trenches on top of a hill. Breeds Hill is what they call it. The Navy couldn’t get their cannon raised up high enough from the ships to reach the top of the hill. I guess they blasted away most of the morning, but they didn’t harm a hair on a single militiaman.”

  “How do you know all this?” interrupted Gabriel in disbelief.

  “I know it ’cause I heard it from Zachariah Smith. He’s a farmer just east of here, and he heard it directly from a soldier on horseback sent to round up any surrounding militia.”

  “What then? Tell me more. What then of the patriots?”

  Charlie continued, “Well them lobsterbacks just couldn’t stand having our farmers and fishermen taking ground so close to Boston so, about mid-morning, the navy started pounding the heights in Charlestown, and their flashy officers started to gather up a couple thousand more of their soldiers to take that hill. My guess is they figured they could just walk right up the hill, thinking they’d just scare the militiamen out of their trenches and send them running home.”

  Charlie stepped away from the table and walked toward the fire, where he removed a piece of venison for Gabriel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “About forgot I was supposed to be feeding you.” At the moment, though, Gabriel didn’t care about a piece of venison. He was completely focused on finding out what happened on Breeds Hill. The round-faced man stepped away from the table again and reached up on a shelf to pull down a mug. “And I about forgot to give you that drink I promised.” He reached down below the table, pulled up a bottle, and emptied it into the mug. Gabriel didn’t know what it was, nor did he care.

  “Please, sir . . . tell me more,” Gabriel’s voice was full of anticipation.

  “The story! Ah, yes, the story. Don’t worry now. Where was I?”

  Gabriel responded impatiently. “The hill — you said the king’s troops marched on Breeds Hill,”

 
“The hill, oh yes. The generals didn’t think we’d fight. I guess they didn’t learn anything from Lexington and Concord. Well, the militia boys had their muskets blastin’ all afternoon, and Generals Howe and Clinton and all those fancy uniforms haven’t been able to take the hill yet. Mind you now, this all happened yesterday, and not a word to say otherwise,” said Charlie with a smile beaming across his face.

  Gabriel should have been delighted by the news, but he was discouraged. He was missing out. He pictured himself on top of the hill with the other patriots, his drum in his hand, beating a rhythmic cadence to encourage the militias to hold off the soldiers marching up the hill. He had walked close to two hundred miles, and now his chance to fight could be gone. What if this would be the battle that sent the troops out of Boston and changed the way King George treated the colonies? Surely, thought Gabriel, things would change from here on out. He wondered if there would even be any other battles, or would this fight be it?

  He looked down and began to eat the venison the tavern keeper had set before him.

  “What’s the matter,” asked Charlie. “What’s that frown on your face, lad? You aren’t from one those loyalist families, are you?”

  “No. No, I’m not. It’s just that —”

  He couldn’t finish his sentence. The abrupt entrance of a man who came bustling over to Charlie interrupted him. He recognized the man from the crowd outside.

  “Charlie, Charlie,” he quickly shouted. “They ran out . . . it’s over . . . had to fall back.”

  “Hold it, slow down, Paul,” said Charlie, trying to calm the man. “Who ran out, and who fell back?”

  “No . . . no, you don’t understand,” said Paul, still upset. “The militia ran out of ammunition. They had to fall back off of Breeds Hill . . . retreated to another hill. One of the messengers from the militia just rode into town to tell the news. Said they abandoned the peninsula to the lobsterbacks and fell back to save headquarters at Cambridge.”

  “God help us,” muttered Charlie. “How many men hurt?”

  “Over a hundred. There’s plenty of dead and wounded on both sides, though. Word is our provincials stood their ground as best they could. The regulars just marched right up against the redoubt twice and were repelled. On the third advance, they forced our boys back. The messenger said it was the bloodiest battle anyone’s ever seen. I am off to Cambridge with the others. There’s been a general call to arms!”

  Gabriel was both thrilled and terrified, all at once. There may still be fighting. There may still be a place for him in the militia. But there may also be death and destruction. He had known this in the back of his mind all along, but now it was real. Despite these butterflies in his stomach, he knew he could overcome his fears. He had been doing just that ever since his parents died. With as much boldness as he could muster, he asked Paul, “If you are going to help in the fight, can I go with you?”

  Paul smirked. “You got a gun?”

  “No,” replied Gabriel. “I have a drum, though.”

  “Where I’m going, we need men with guns, not boys with drums. Go back home to the farm, and tell your pa to get his gun. You can help by staying put and helping your ma with the chores.”

  This stranger could not have known how these words cut at Gabriel like a knife, but they did just that. They had cut deeply, and Gabriel was angry.

  He was tired of being told to go back home, and he was tired of being reminded he didn’t have a father or a mother.

  He’d just walked over one hundred and forty miles, and this stranger wanted him to go home?

  Without another thought, he let his anger fly. “I HAVE NO HOME! I HAVE NO FARM! I HAVE NO FATHER! I WALKED ALL THE WAY FROM NEW YORK, AND I WILL MAKE IT TO BOSTON! I WILL FIGHT! I WILL . . . I WILL!”

  A shocked expression appeared on both the barkeep’s and the stranger’s faces. Paul spoke first. “Easy, lad . . . easy. Nobody said you had to stay here. I’m sure they can find a place for a drummer boy, especially since they got some fancy general from Virginia coming up here to take over. Chances are he’ll want some order to things, and every regiment will need a drummer boy.”

  “Then let me go with —” Gabriel started but was interrupted.

  Charlie the barkeep held up a hand. “You mean to tell me they’re gonna let some southerner take over the New England militias?” Now Charlie was the angry one, with his face reddened and wrinkled. “They’re gonna replace Israel Putnam, good Old Put, as commander of our New England men? And what about Colonel Prescott and Major Warren? Why, Dr. Warren was among the best men at Lexington and Concord.”

  Paul shook his head, a look of remorse on his face. “They say Dr. Warren was killed in the battle — shot, bayoneted, and tossed in the ditch by those dirty redcoats. As for what this fellow from Virginia means to do, I’m not sure, but he’ll have a hard time getting New Englanders to listen to him. That’s for sure.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Not Dr. Warren. There’s none braver or smarter. What a shame. And to think some Virginian is going to come up here and try to match the likes of men like Joseph Warren. It’ll never happen.”

  Although Gabriel’s temper had cooled, his determination to reach Boston had not. It might be good for him to know more about this Virginian. Maybe he could find a place for him in the militia. “Where is this general from Virginia now? Is he here in Springfield? What’s his name?”

  Paul answered. “Name’s Washington . . . George Washington. I couldn’t say for sure where he is at the moment but, last I heard, he was traveling by carriage up from New York. Should be in the main camp at Cambridge any day now.”

  “Then I am coming with you,” said Gabriel firmly. “That’s where you said you’re headed, to Cambridge.”

  Paul gave a look of regret and sympathy, and Gabriel guessed what was coming. “I cannot take you with me. I am on a single horse packed with supplies. I do not have room for you and your drum. I’m sorry, but that is the way of things. Perhaps if you start out on the road, you will find another rider who has more room than I.”

  Gabriel expected nothing less. He remembered Malinda’s words when Benedict Arnold had left him behind. You left New York knowing how you would get to Boston. You would walk. Nothing had changed for Gabriel. He would walk, and he would walk right now. He was tired of Charlie and Paul’s chatter. He paid his bill, shoved the rest of the venison in his pack, and left Springfield, bound and determined to reach Cambridge before the fighting was over.

  H 13 H

  THE NOTE

  Gabriel pushed his chair back, picked up his pack and drum, and stepped out into the street. He felt around in his pocket, and his fingers touched his ring and the change left over from his meal at the tavern at Springfield.

  I have plenty of coppers left and two good legs. There’s no reason why I can’t make it to Boston in less than a week, he thought. He strode out of town as confident as ever. As he left the town, he saw a marker on the road. Worcester, 52 Miles. Gabriel once again began his own patriotic pace, determined to join the cause.

  The weather had been nearly perfect ever since the torrential rain earlier in his journey. Now it was getting warmer, almost hot. He took off his jerkin and wrapped it over his drum. The heat would not slow him down.

  He stopped to fill his canteen every once in a while, and he still left the road whenever he heard approaching hoof beats. Soon, he thought, I will be at the Cambridge encampment looking for Nathaniel Greene. I’m sure of it.

  The next few days passed quickly. As Gabriel passed by the towns on the post road, he saw other men on the road. Some were riding; some, like him, walked in small groups. Palmer, Brookfield, Leicester — farmers mostly. They carried old muskets, axes, swords, hatchets, and knives. The older men did not talk to him. They would stare and sometimes snicker. Some would chide or taunt him. “What’cha looking to do there, sonny, throw that beat-up old drum at the lobsterbacks?” one called out. Gabriel thought it best to just keep to himself.

 
The fishing had been good in the few streams and ponds he passed. There had certainly been enough to keep him fed, but he was growing tired of fish. Fishing slowed him down, too. He had to stop, find bait, catch a fish, gut it, build a fire, and then cook it. Keeping to himself, he would let his fire burn just long enough to cook the fish he caught. Then, with stars and moon overhead, he would throw his blanket down on the hard ground and try to find a spot comfortable enough for some sleep.

  On the fourth day out of Springfield, just beyond Worcester, Gabriel reached a densely wooded area along the road. He stopped to marvel at the enormous trees that grew up along the path. As he stood looking up at a giant sycamore tree, he noticed the sound of water running nearby. Leaving the road, he began weaving his way through the giant tree trunks toward the sound, which was growing louder now. Swatting his way through some underbrush, he finally came to a small river lined with the tall trees, whose branches reached over the water to touch the trees on the other side.

  The water offered a refreshing break from the heat, so he set down his things, pulled off his socks and shoes and waded in. He walked out to the middle, where the water reached his knees. Something piqued his interest on just the other side. He waded over to see several bushes hanging close to the river, covered in blue berries. “Whortleberries,” exclaimed Gabriel. He had long since run out of the berries that Malinda had given him from her farm.

  He hurriedly splashed back across the river, dumped out his belongings in his pack onto the sandy beach, and took the empty blanket back across the river with him. Soon, he had his blanket nearly overflowing with plump, juicy blue whortleberries.

  He took the berries back to the beach, leaned back against a smooth rock, and started popping berries into his mouth one by one. The berries were perfectly sweet. The taste reminded him of the times his mother had baked him whortleberry pies, one of his favorites. He felt the warm sun filtering through the trees and leaned back, continuing to enjoy the berries. The sand was soft, much softer than the hard ground he’d grown used to sleeping on.