Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Boston, Massachusetts, Summer 1774
The Lord’s Mysterious Ways
Mr. Wilson’s Proposal
The Seven Stars Tavern
Meeting Henry Moody
The True Story of Mrs. Dill
Queen George
The Burglar
The Fitch Sisters and the Committee
Down at the Docks
Keeping Accounts
The Goal of Every Patriot
Henry’s Studious Countenance
Mr. Davis and the Loud Man
My Time Will Come
Mrs. Paddock Orders a Flip
Mr. Davis Brings a Salmon
They Look Big to Me
Fall 1774
Bringing Books to Armstrong’s
The Difference Between Dogs and Men
My Conversation with Mr. Wilson
The Sands of Time are Running Out
Mr. Monk Plays with Mrs. Thompson
Telling People What’s Right and What’s Wrong
Red Ants and Walnuts
A True Patriot
Winter 1774–75
Mrs. Thompson’s Idle Hands
Mr. Wilson Has a Close Shave
Welcome to the World
What Molly Davis Is Reading
Time
False Friend
Chips for Kindling
Dr. Endicott’s Son
No One Has Seen Henry’s Spectacles
Spring 1775
In Cold Blood
Three Little Girls
Fire Bells
War Is Just Around the Corner
Sending a Boy to Do a Man’s Job
Chaos Reigns
Epilogue
Life in America in 1774
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright
THE LORD’S MYSTERIOUS WAYS
MR. WILSON’S PROPOSAL
THE SEVEN STARS TAVERN
The Lord’s Mysterious Ways
My name is Will.
William Thomas Emerson is my full name, in honor of my papa, only he’s dead now. So is everyone else.
We used to have a farm in Menotomy, a village not far from Boston. My sister, Mama, and Papa, and me had just sat down to supper when it happened. The storm had been brewing all day. The thunder was rolling in and rattling the roof and the lightning crackled so loud and hard I thought the sky would shatter into a thousand pieces and come down all over the house.
They were gone — all of them — just like that. People say I was lucky because I was just stunned when the lightning hit and because I didn’t open my eyes until the next morning.
They say all the plates just melted right onto the table. I can’t tell you if that’s true because I don’t remember much.
I was ten. My birthday was just the week before. Mr. Heath took me for a while till they decided what to do with me now that I had no family. Mr. Heath said that the ways of the Lord are mysterious and that I should never fear throwing myself on His mercy, which didn’t make any sense to me then and doesn’t make much sense to me now. Then he told me I would be bound out to the Marshes. They would take care of me and see to it that I was brought up right and in return I would help Mr. Marsh with the farm work.
They didn’t have any children of their own, the Marshes, that’s why they decided to take me in. At least that’s what Mr. Heath told me. What Mr. Heath didn’t tell me was that Mr. Marsh was a drinking man or that he would beat me till I was black and blue. I guess he didn’t tell me that, Mr. Heath, because he was so busy telling me about the Lord’s mysterious ways.
And Mrs. Marsh wasn’t much of a help. She spent most of her day looking to see if Mr. Marsh was coming and, once he was home, shaking like a leaf. It was not a happy circumstance.
I took it for as long as I could. Two years. Then I couldn’t take it anymore and ran away.
I waited till I could hear Mr. Marsh’s heavy breathing. That meant he was asleep and nothing could wake him. Nothing. I could have marched out of there with a band playing and he wouldn’t have stirred. I took my knife with me, just in case. The one Papa gave me for my birthday.
Mr. Wilson’s Proposal
I walked the trodden path till daybreak, heading, I hoped, for Boston. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew I was being shaken by a serious-looking fellow who was puffing furiously at a red clay pipe that he held tightly clenched in his teeth. He said his name was Wilson. His voice was strong and sharp — it made you take notice. He said he wanted to know why I was sleeping by the side of the road and not home where I belonged. His face was covered with a light coating of dust from the road and for a time I thought maybe I was dreaming.
I told him I didn’t have a home and was going to Boston to find work. He seemed to be giving this a great deal of thought. Finally, he spoke, saying, “That is a miraculous coincidence.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but fortunately he explained — he, too, was on his way to Boston and would be pleased to have me accompany him in his one-horse carriage and, if I were willing, hear a proposal he had.
During the journey Mr. Wilson asked me why I didn’t have a home. I told him what had happened to me up till then, talking as fast as I could because Mr. Wilson kept saying, “Get to the point, get to the point.”
Just as we were about to enter through the town gates we were stopped by two British soldiers who looked inside the carriage and wanted to know who we were and where we came from. Mr. Wilson answered them politely, although the soldiers were rude.
The Seven Stars Tavern
It was thanks to him that I met Mrs. Thompson, who owns the Seven Stars Tavern, which is where I am now. It’s located on the corner of King Street and Pudding Lane.
Mr. Wilson is one of Mrs. Thompson’s boarders. Well, actually, right now he’s her only boarder. His room is the only one on the top floor and the devil help you if you go in without knocking. Mr. Wilson doesn’t like to be disturbed, especially when he’s working on one of his pamphlets or writing an article for the newspaper.
During the trip to Boston all Mr. Wilson told me was that he was sure Mrs. Thompson could use help from a strong boy like me. I’m small for my age, but I am strong. Mr. Wilson was right. Mrs. Thompson could use the help. I could tell that just by looking around. The place was a mess. Chairs turned over this way and that, half-filled glasses and plates of food just sitting there with flies buzzing all around.
It was very late when we arrived and there was no one in the tavern. Mr. Wilson told me to have a seat and not go running off anywhere. He crouched down real low when he said that so he could look directly at me. I was sure his pale blue eyes were going to bore a hole right through my head. Mr. Wilson gives you the feeling he isn’t someone you want to cross. And besides, where was I going to go?
He was gone for a long time so I rested some. When he returned he had Mrs. Thompson with him. She had a kind face, I could see that right off, and she looked tired to the bone. Mr. Wilson said he had explained everything that had happened to me from the night of the storm till now.
Mr. Wilson said I could stay here if I wanted — there was a small room in the cellar and I could sleep there. In return, he said, I would have to help Mrs. Thompson and do all that was asked of me.
I took a quick look at Mrs. Thompson while he was talking. She was listening politely and not showing much of what she was thinking, just wiping her hands on her apron. I said that was agreeable to me and then Mrs. Thompson showed me the room in the cellar.
I
f it wasn’t for Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Thompson, I don’t know what would have become of me. Someday I hope to repay them for their kindness.
MEETING HENRY MOODY
THE TRUE STORY OF MRS. DILL
QUEEN GEORGE
Meeting Henry Moody
I met Henry Moody today. Mr. Wilson sent me to Armstrong’s Book and Printing Shop on Queen Street to pick up some books he ordered. Henry came out of the back and looked me up and down like he was trying to decide if I was worth talking to. I think he decided that I wasn’t. I think he thought he was better than me just because he was a town boy and I was from the country.
Boston is big. There are finely dressed people everywhere you look and the narrow, winding streets are noisy and crowded with traffic. Drivers of the ox-drawn wagons shout and crack their whips. Iron-tired wheels clank loudly on the cobblestones. Carts and chaises race down the twisted alleys and you have to keep a sharp watch while you dodge across. One time a fancy coach drawn by six white horses came within inches of running me down. Near the place where King, Queen, and Cornhill streets meet, that’s the busiest place in town. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t got behind that post in time.
After Henry finished inspecting me, he said, “State your business,” taking off his steel-bound spectacles and cleaning them to show me he had more important things to do than talk to me. I asked if Mr. Armstrong was in. Mr. Wilson hadn’t said anything to me about Henry. He said that Mr. Armstrong was upstairs in the printing shop setting type and getting the paper ready. I told him I had been sent by Mr. Wilson and had come to pick up some books he ordered.
“So you’re the new boy,” he said smartly. “I suppose I am,” I said just as smartly. Then he told me to wait right there while he got the books. When he returned, he said to tell Mr. Wilson that two more were expected next week. I said I would and turned to leave. “Wait,” he said, almost sounding friendly. He said he had heard how Mr. Wilson found me sleeping along the side of the road and how I was going to help Mrs. Thompson with the tavern, now that she was alone. Mr. Thompson left last year. Just picked up and disappeared, leaving Mrs. Thompson to see to the tavern and the baby all by herself. I wondered why he knew so much about me and came right out and asked him. It turns out Mr. Armstrong told him. Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Wilson are good friends, Henry explained. I asked him where he was from — you could tell by the way he talked that he wasn’t from around here. He said he was from Liverpool. That’s in England. And he has been working for Mr. Armstrong for three years. He used to live with his uncle, but that didn’t last. He came here when he was eleven. It took two awful months to cross the sea. He’s fourteen now — two years older than me. He was telling me all this, but you could see that he still thought he was superior — talking to a mere country boy.
Henry asked me if I’d been to the burying grounds at Copp’s Hill in the North End. He was pleased that I hadn’t and wanted me to go with him. It seems to me that Henry has a gruff exterior but underneath he’d like a friend to do things with.
Burying grounds always give me the chills. Henry said they give him the chills, too, but we agreed to go even though it might be scary.
The night was clear, the stars were twinkling and the moon was full. We were lying on our backs, side by side with our heads resting on two headstones, and Henry asked me if I knew who Mrs. Dill was. I did and told him so.
He asked me if I knew the true story of what happened to her when she was younger and I said I didn’t. Then Henry proceeded to tell me the true story of Mrs. Dill.
The True Story of Mrs. Dill
According to Henry, Mrs. Dill was captured by Indians many years ago, when she was just a young girl. The howling heathens, their hair smeared with bear grease and their bodies painted all over, had poured out of the forest in the middle of the night and swooped down on her village. They piled up hay and wood outside the houses and set them all on fire, roasting everyone alive except for her. She was spared because one of the savages wanted her for his bride, even though she was only fourteen and he already had a wife, as it turns out.
He pulled her up onto his horse and made her ride back to their camp, where she had no choice but to marry him.
She waited patiently for the right moment to escape. They forced her to eat dog flesh and follow their heathen habits. After a year the Indians began to think that she had given up all hope of seeing a white man again. After two years they treated her as a member of the tribe and her husband no longer took precautions to prevent her from escaping.
During that time she was befriended by the younger brother of her husband’s other wife. He was now her husband’s sworn secret enemy and offered to help. He had a plan, but it had to wait for the right time. When the time came, she was ready.
The Indian brave gave her poison, which she put in her husband’s drink that night, just before dawn. Once she was certain that the poison had worked, she crept out of their wigwam, stole away from the camp, and made her way on foot back to her village.
I asked Henry how he knew this story and he said Mr. Armstrong had a book in his shop written by Mrs. Dill that tells of her years in captivity and her daring escape. That’s where she gets all her money, Henry said, from the sales of her book. She doesn’t use the name Dill on the book because she’s pretty delicate now and doesn’t want anyone to know about her past. Only Henry and Mr. Armstrong, and now me, know the true story. Not even Mr. Dill knows, according to Henry.
I was just about to ask him how he knew that Mrs. Dill, who doesn’t look to me like she could poison anyone, is the same girl as the girl in the book, when all of a sudden Henry let out a howl that I feared might truly wake the dead. He jumped up and began running around and waving his arm in the air. At first I thought it was an Indian war dance that must have something to do with the story. But it went on for so long I began to fear that there was something wrong and so I decided to see what had Henry in such a state.
It didn’t take long to find out. Slithering away in the moonlight was a good-sized snake that, I figured, must have just taken a chunk out of Henry’s arm.
First things first, I thought, and pulled out one of the headstones we had been leaning on and crushed the snake’s head flatter than a pancake. Then I tried to get Henry to let me have a look at his arm, but he just kept running around in circles, waving his arm in the air and crying out in pain. I had to tackle him and pull him down to the ground so I could get a good look.
Henry is pretty fat and much bigger than me so I had quite a time wrestling him down. But I’m stronger than you would think just by looking at me and once I had him on the ground I was able to hold down his legs with my knees while I looked at his arm.
It was a snake bite all right. You could see that right off. I took out the knife Papa gave me for my birthday and began to cut open the skin around the bite. Once Henry realized what was happening he let out another one of those howls and tried to get up but I wouldn’t let him. I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned down on him with all my weight and asked him if he wanted to see the sun rise in the morning, but he was still looking around for what bit him and only quieted down when I got a stick and held the limp snake up in the air for him to see.
On the way back I made Henry keep his elbow bent and his fingers straight up, just like Papa taught me. When we finally got back to the tavern, Mrs. Thompson applied a plaster of turmeric root and told Henry to make sure he keeps it on.
I told Mrs. Thompson what Henry said about Mrs. Dill and she just laughed and said she couldn’t wait to tell that to Mr. Wilson.
In the morning I had to run back to the cemetery to find Henry’s spectacles, which we left behind in the commotion.
Henry no longer treats me like a simple country boy, and we are good and true friends.
This morning I applied a fresh coat of paint to the swinging sign that hangs outside above the door. It was badly in need of repainting. You could hardly see two of the stars. Mrs. Thompson told me
to check the chains that held the wooden arm because last year a sign over at the Blue Bell Tavern blew down during a fierce winter storm and killed someone who was just walking by.
Sure enough, one of the chains appeared in need of mending. Not wanting to take any chances, I took it over to Mr. Monk’s to have it fixed. Mr. Monk is a blacksmith. He let me work the bellows, although I had to stand on a box to reach the handles.
Mr. Wilson was supposed to have a tooth drawn today but I think he is afraid because of what happened to Mrs. Paddock. Her jaw broke during an attempt to extract a bad tooth. Mrs. Paddock was in constant pain for some weeks.
He has not left his room all day. He hasn’t even come down for his usual midday meal of boiled fish, bread, and ale.
It’s thanks to Mrs. Thompson that my letters are so good. From the first week I arrived she has insisted that I copy her rules of good behavior in a neat, firm hand.
This week’s rules are:
She’s right about that. Sometimes I do talk so fast it’s hard to understand what I am saying. That’s what Mama always said, too.
Queen George
I carefully check Mrs. Thompson’s list of chores to make sure I remember to do everything:
I don’t know how Mrs. Thompson does it. The water in the tub is boiling hot and she just puts her arms in it up to her elbows.
I keep an eye on Becca so she doesn’t go near it. Fortunately, she minds me most of the time. She’s almost two and is getting too big for her baby tender. She wants to walk on her own, although she can’t quite. If you take your eyes off her, she’s gone. Today I saw her just in time or rather heard her just in time. She was blowing her baby whistle and crawling like a crab, heading straight for the kettle of water. She must have climbed out when my head was turned, keeping track of the new puppy from Mr. Nelson. I don’t want her to be scalded.
I wish Mrs. Thompson hadn’t agreed to take one of Mr. Nelson’s puppies in partial payment for his bill. Just because his dog had puppies doesn’t mean we have to have one, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t we have enough to do without that? I would have preferred if Mr. Nelson found some other way to pay off his bill. Bringing us a cake from his bakery, perhaps.
A True Patriot Page 1