by Ann Hood
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Hours passed.
The frantic voices of the men struggling to put out the fire mixed with the cries of babies and the sounds of the crackling flames and wood splitting. The smoke grew darker and thicker. Maisie watched, mesmerized, as the men worked, continuously filling the buckets with water and passing them up, up the large ship’s ropes to the deck. Alexander stayed in his position about midway on the rope, hanging on until a bucket reached him, then somehow taking the bucket and passing it to the man above him while still clutching the rope. Soot and cinders covered his face and hair and hands and clothes. But the men seemed not to notice. They just kept working to get the fire under control.
Eventually Felix sat down, pressed close against the others across the deck. Beside him, a woman prayed softly. He leaned against her slightly, letting her words wash over him and comfort him as he drifted into a fitful sleep. He woke with a start, looking around confused.
Then he saw that the fire still raged. The men still struggled to put it out. And his sister still stood watching them. Dawn streaked beautiful colors across the sky. Lavenders and pinks that looked blurry in the smoky air around him, but somehow pretty just the same. He could still see the crescent moon and Venus twinkling beside it. Alexander had shown him that just the other night when they sat up here looking at the stars. Felix had thought the bright light twinkling next to the moon was a star, too. No, no, Alexander had told him. She’s a planet. Venus.
The woman who had prayed during the night now handed Felix a bowl.
“Sip some broth,” she told him in an accent he couldn’t recognize.
The bowl, brought from below by one of the sailors, was being passed from person to person. Usually Felix refused to share cups or spoons or anything with strangers. But cold and hungry, he took the bowl gratefully and sipped. The broth tasted delicious, like chicken soup without any of the veggies or noodles. He wanted to drink it down but knew it was meant for everyone.
Felix passed it to the next person. Then, like everybody else, he waited.
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That afternoon, word spread across the deck that the bucket brigade had almost completely put out the fire. The passengers, all of them stinking of smoke and trembling with fear, let out a whoop of thanks. Still, the men had to continue with their bucket brigade for several more hours before the captain appeared before the crowd. His cheeks had turned bright red from the heat of the fire, and his face was smeared black with soot. He looked exhausted but joyful.
“All of you can return to your cabins and thank the lord for rescuing the Thunderbolt.”
“Amen!” the crowd said in unison.
“I think, sir,” a young, pretty woman said, “we should thank the men who saved us as well.”
This time the crowd’s “Amen” was even louder.
The passengers began to disperse, moving slowly below. But Felix waited for his sister.
She finally appeared with Alexander. His shirt had ripped, and he was filthy with soot. But he grinned when he saw Felix.
“We didn’t sink,” he said.
“Thanks to you,” Maisie told Alexander.
“Not just me,” he said, even though his tone was boastful.
“What if there’s another fire?” Felix asked. “How did this one even start?”
“Probably in the kitchen,” Alexander said. “But there’s no way to know for sure.”
“All I want to do is sleep until we get to Boston,” Maisie said.
Alexander’s smile faded.
“Let’s hope that the Thunderbolt can complete the journey with this much damage,” he said.
Felix looked past his sister and Alexander. The Thunderbolt was a charred mess. Water poured onto the deck from holes left by the fire. Beyond, the Atlantic Ocean stretched, seemingly forever. After all this time at sea, Boston still seemed as far away as it had the day he and Maisie sneaked onto the ship.
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On October 25, three weeks after it left Saint Croix, the Thunderbolt finally limped into Long Wharf in Boston Harbor.
Once Alexander got his trunk off the ship and he and Maisie and Felix were walking down the gangway, Maisie asked him, “Now where do we get the stagecoach to New York?”
Alexander laughed. “The next one isn’t for five days,” he said without slowing down.
“Five days!” Felix moaned. Ahead of him he saw crowds and hills, gorgeous fall foliage, and dozens of soldiers dressed in scarlet-red coats carrying muskets and bayonets and looking fierce. “What are we going to do here for five whole days?”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do,” Alexander said. “But I need to find the Boston Gazette. Reverend Knox had me write a plea for help for hurricane recovery on Saint Croix, and I need to convince them to publish it.”
They stood in the port city now, and for the first time, Alexander paused to take in his surroundings. He blinked once. Then again as if he couldn’t believe what he saw.
“The leaves,” he managed to say. “They’re . . . they’re red! And yellow! And . . . orange!”
Maisie laughed. “It’s autumn,” she explained. “The leaves turn from green to all of these colors.”
“Every autumn?” he said.
“Yup.”
“Why?” he asked, stunned.
“Photosynthesis,” Maisie said proudly. She didn’t know how to write poetry. She didn’t like to read. But she loved math and science. Last year, she’d won first place in her school’s science fair. She’d made a volcano that erupted and written a report on magma and Mount Saint Helens.
“Putting together with light,” Alexander said. “Photosynthesis.”
“Kind of,” Maisie said, nodding. “It’s the way plants turn water and carbon dioxide into oxygen and sugar. During winter, there’s not enough light or water for photosynthesis, so the trees live off the food they stored during the summer and the green chlorophyll disappears from the leaves, showing us yellow and orange color.” She could go on forever about photosynthesis, but Felix looked so bored she stopped.
Alexander, however, had put down his trunk while Maisie talked and looked at her, impressed.
“How did you figure that out?” he asked.
“She always gets an A in science,” Felix said.
“Well,” Alexander said, returning his gaze to the trees in the distance, “this photosynthesis is remarkable.”
From out of nowhere came the sound of angry voices. In no time, a huge crowd of men marched past them, fists in the air, shouting.
“There must be a thousand men marching,” Alexander said in wonderment.
He stopped a young boy running after the crowd.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“They’re on their way to Faneuil Hall,” the boy said, excited. “Haven’t you seen the letters in the Gazette?”
“We’ve just arrived,” Alexander explained.
“There’s been trouble these past weeks,” the boy said.
He was eager to keep moving toward Faneuil Hall, and seeing this, Alexander began to follow the mob, Maisie and Alexander at his side.
“With the British?” Alexander asked.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said. “Even after they repealed the stamp tax, they keep adding new ones. On glass and paper and tea. The merchants are boycotting everything that comes from Britain. So now they’re saying we can’t choose our own governors or judges, and they’ve sent them over here to make sure we don’t cause any more trouble.”
He pointed to the harbor they were passing, where enormous British warships stood watch.
From all of the side streets, more and more people joined the angry protestors.
“They’ve even opened a custom’s house here,” the boy said. “If I were th
at inspector, I’d run as fast as I could. This crowd intends to catch him and tar and feather him.”
Alexander Hamilton stood straighter as if it could increase his small stature.
“Well, Maisie and Felix,” he said, “it appears we’ve arrived in Boston at just the right time.”
Maisie nodded, keeping up with Alexander step for step, pulling herself up straight and tall.
But Felix gladly stayed in their shadows. He did not want to see someone tarred and feathered, that was for sure. He thought of those Redcoats and their angry faces. The revolution was coming, he knew that for certain. He just hoped it didn’t start today.
Looking for Bethune Street
For five days, Alexander, Maisie, and Felix walked the streets of Boston, watching the British Redcoats march across the Boston Common and the colonists protest British rule. They read pamphlets pasted to tavern walls arguing for independence. Alexander’s excitement over the political situation combined with his burning desire to get to New York made Maisie believe even more that he was the person they were sent to find. But what did the coin mean? How would that affect his future?
Felix wasn’t so sure. In his grumpier, homesick moments, he worried that Maisie was following Alexander just because she had a crush on him. It was too easy for her to lose sight of more important things, like getting back home to Newport and seeing their mother again. “I am positive he’s the one,” she insisted when Felix told her they should just try to get back. “No one else has come forward, have they?” she said.
The Boston to New York stagecoach left twice a week and took seven days. Reluctantly, Alexander bought tickets for Maisie and Felix, too. Maisie had been right: He took pity on them, maybe because he had been orphaned and homeless himself. The ticket included lodging in taverns along the way. The best part of the stagecoach ride along the bumpy Post Road was those taverns where they stopped each night. The taverns all had big fireplaces with roaring fires burning in them, low ceilings, and long wooden tables. They always seemed to be crowded. Men drank beer and hard cider and passionately debated taxes and duties the British placed on items. Felix thought he could sit and listen to them all night as they explored the pros and cons of separating from British rule.
As he ate big slabs of homemade bread toasted with melted Havarti cheese or large wedges of pork pie, always followed by spice cake topped with cream, Felix wondered what life would have been like if the colonists had not fought the British. Listening to the debates swirling around him, he realized how close he came to being a British citizen. How close they all came to never having a United States at all.
Inside the stagecoach were heavy, scratchy blankets that Maisie and Felix huddled under. In all, the stagecoach held eight passengers, all of them grown men except for Maisie, Felix, and Alexander. The leaves had started to fall from the trees, and every night there was frost. The week on the road, though boring and uncomfortable, lulled her. Every now and then, she would sigh and tell Felix that she wished something exciting would happen, but overall she was content to stare out the window at the beautiful Connecticut landscape. And to sneak glances at Alexander Hamilton, who had become by now a full-fledged crush.
Sitting across from him in the stagecoach, she watched the ways his eyes shone when he talked to the other passengers. Even though he was thin and short, he had the confidence of someone as tall as a skyscraper. His energy and curiosity seemed endless. He wanted to know exactly where they were, what lay ahead, how the other people felt about British rule. He commented with such intelligence that Maisie fell under a spell listening to him.
When the stagecoach driver stuck his head in the carriage after a stop one morning and announced they would arrive on Manhattan Island by noon, Maisie grew sad that the journey was ending. Not that Alexander paid her much attention. She tried to add her opinion to the conversations, but she could see that he considered her a little girl. More than once she found herself wishing she were at least thirteen because it sounded so much better than twelve.
Felix was surprised how his sister hung on every word Alexander had to say about everything. When their old school held a mock presidential election, Maisie never cast her vote. Who cares? she’d said. It’s only make-believe! Now here she was asking questions about King George and trying to put in her two cents about it all. Felix sighed watching her watch Alexander. All they had to do was give him that coin, find Bethune Street, and then get back to Newport. He was more than ready for his own bed.
The stagecoach slowed as it entered Manhattan, and Felix peered out the window. This was Manhattan, but it did not look at all familiar. The streets were lined with trees, and a small brick church stood at the end of one. A large grassy area with an even larger flagpole in the middle reminded Felix of Boston Common, where they had watched John Hancock march in the parade last week. But he knew there was no such place in New York City.
He nudged his sister. “Where are we?” he whispered.
Maisie stared out the window, too, puzzled. “In Tribeca, I think.”
Tribeca was where city hall and the courthouse stood. And where their father’s studio used to be, off North Moore Street. It felt weird to be in Manhattan and not see any of these familiar landmarks.
The man sitting beside Alexander pointed out the window.
“That’s Liberty Pole,” he said, “sitting on Bowling Green. The Redcoats tried to blow her up a few years back, but she refused to go down. You heard of the Battle of Golden Hill?”
“No,” Maisie answered, even though he wasn’t talking to her.
The man ignored her and kept talking to Alexander. “The Sons of Liberty went at it in the wheat field up the street with a few dozen British soldiers. A lot of men were hurt that night,” he said sadly. “These are dangerous times, young man.”
The stagecoach came to a stop.
“Where to now?” Maisie asked Alexander.
He looked surprised. “Don’t you have family here?” he asked as he climbed down.
Maisie shook her head. “Our father is out of the country and our mother’s in Newport. Remember?”
Alexander studied Maisie and Felix for a moment. “I’ve been happy to help you both out,” he said. “And happy for the company. But I’m new here, and I have to forge my way alone.” He patted his breast pocket. “I have letters of recommendation from Reverend Knox and Mr. Kortright and Mr. Cruger. I can’t very well show up on their friends’ doorsteps with two children in tow.”
“I’m practically thirteen!” Maisie said.
Alexander smiled sympathetically. “Even so,” he said, “you two are on your own now.”
They watched him hoist his trunk and approach the ticket man.
“Could you direct me to this address?” he asked, holding out a piece of paper.
“Ah!” the man said. “Kortwright and Company. Come and I’ll point the way.”
Maisie and Felix stood, staring in disbelief as Alexander Hamilton walked around the corner and disappeared from their sight.
For a few minutes, they did not speak or move. Then Maisie turned to her brother, her eyes flashing with anger.
“Who needs Alexander Hamilton?” she said. “We’re New Yorkers. We can find Bethune Street without him.”
She didn’t wait for Felix to answer. Instead, she just started walking north, muttering, “I hate Alexander Hamilton. I hate him!”
As usual, Felix ran to catch up with her. The streets grew more crowded with men in powdered wigs and long coats. Felix tried to get his bearings, but nothing looked familiar at all. They passed John Street. Then William Street. The crowds thinned and soon the streets gave way to hills and trees.
“Maisie,” Felix said. “What if there isn’t a Bethune Street yet?”
She paused.
“There has to be,” she said.
But the to
ne in her voice let him know that she had the same worry as he did. No Bethune Street. No apartment. No Alexander Hamilton. Maybe no way back home.
Maisie stared at the Hudson River, which stretched out in front of her and Felix. She had decided that the best way to find Bethune Street wasn’t through the woods that covered what she knew as Chinatown and SoHo, but to walk west and follow the river. Their old apartment was on the corner of Bethune Street and Greenwich Street, two blocks from the Hudson River. If they followed the river north, Maisie felt certain she could figure out where Bethune Street was. Even though their actual apartment building wouldn’t be there, it would be exciting to see what was there instead.
The waterfront was busy with sailors and merchants, the harbor lined with ships. But as they headed north, once again the land became hilly and wooded and the crowds vanished.
“Maisie,” Felix said, “if there’s no Chinatown and no SoHo, I don’t think there’s going to be a Greenwich Village, either.”
He was tired of walking. Unlike the bike paths and walking paths that lined the river when they lived in New York, the banks of the Hudson River in 1772 were muddy and empty. Felix worried that Native Americans might live in these woods, and that they might not be too friendly to trespassers.
“But if we can find where it should be,” Maisie said, “then maybe we can travel forward enough years to be back where we want to be.”
Felix stopped walking and looked at his sister’s desperate face.
“Oh, Maisie,” he said, “is that what you’ve been thinking?”
Maisie nodded. “If we want it bad enough, I think it can work.”
“But what about the coin? And what about Alexander Hamilton?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
Slowly, they continued up the bank, climbing over rocks and pushing through ferns and low hanging tree limbs.
Finally Felix said, “I don’t want you to be disappointed, but I think we can’t go back unless we give that coin to Alexander. If we can find him again.”