In the morning, when it’s first light, I go over the account book so I can be ready when Mr. Wilson needs me to do it on my own.
THE GOAL OF EVERY PATRIOT
HENRY’S STUDIOUS COUNTENANCE
MR. DAVIS AND THE LOUD MAN
The Goal of Every Patriot
Mr. Wilson took me with him to Mr. Davis’s. Mr. Davis fought in the French and Indian War. He is good with a knife or a gun. Last year he killed a bear two miles outside of Boston. He is a man who can be counted on in a pinch, Mr. Wilson says.
Mr. Davis provided to the patriot cause flints, muskets, powder horns, and lead balls, which he casts in the kitchen.
“It must be the goal of every patriot to be certain his bullet finds the target,” Mr. Wilson said. By “target” he means the British soldiers. If it comes to fighting, Mr. Wilson said, fire at the ones with the reddest coats because they are the officers and it’s best that they die first.
I can hit a bull’s-eye pretty regularly but my rate of firing is not as good. “Better to be sure than quick,” Mr. Wilson said. Mr. Davis said I handled myself real good. I told him I used to go rabbit hunting with Papa in the woods back of the barn.
Henry’s Studious Countenance
Henry likes being Mr. Armstrong’s apprentice. He was fortunate, he said. If not for Mr. Armstrong he doesn’t know what would have become of him.
When Henry’s ship docked, Mr. Armstrong was one of the last to come on board to see who was being offered for sale. Henry had already been passed over by the others because he looked so ill from the two-month ocean voyage. He says that Mr. Armstrong picked him because he was sorry for him. Henry says Mr. Armstrong laughs every time he tells him that’s what he thought. He told Henry that the reason he picked him was because he had such a “studious countenance,” which he does, in large part because of his spectacles. Henry tutors Samuel and Nathaniel, Mr. Armstrong’s twin boys. He takes his responsibilities with the boys quite seriously. They’re only eight but already Henry has them on the road to scholarly studies. Mr. Armstrong told him how pleased he is but Henry still thinks Mr. Armstrong took him because he was sorry for him. Once Henry convinces himself of something, there’s no use trying to change his mind.
After Henry and Mr. Armstrong agreed on his length of service — six years — Mr. Armstrong paid the captain the money for passage Henry owed. Henry had no choice but to come here after his uncle threw him on the cold mercies of the world. Of course, he had no money of his own because his uncle refused to forward him any.
Mrs. Armstrong provides him with sufficient meat, drink and clothes, and Mr. Armstrong is teaching him how to arrange the books on the shelves according to category: the classics, military books, spelling and schoolbooks, almanacs, and pamphlets.
Henry said he is also learning printing. Every Friday he is busy all day helping Mr. Armstrong set the type so the paper can be ready on Monday. This week’s edition is four full pages long, Henry said proudly.
He’s a clever boy, Henry.
Spent most of the day whitewashing the tavern walls. It is tedious work but Mrs. Thompson is right, it does look nice. I think it is a good sign. That means we won’t be moving.
Becca will soon be walking on her own. She’s getting too big for her go-cart. As soon as I put her in it she gets fidgety and won’t rest until I take her out.
One thing I wish Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t make me do is dip Becca in the barrel of cold water every morning. I know it’s good for her but she howls like a savage until I stop. I don’t think she likes it much.
Mrs. Thompson said I was doing a good job with Becca. She said that you usually can’t count on boys to be good with babies. She asked me where I learned to care for a child so well. I told her my sister was born when I was five and I helped Mama care for her right from the start.
I didn’t tell Mrs. Thompson that my sister’s name was Becca, too.
Mr. Davis and the Loud Man
Mr. Davis was sitting with Dr. Endicott and Mr. Monk, as usual. Another man who I had never seen before joined them. I didn’t take much notice at first because I was so busy helping Mrs. Thompson, who had her hands full tending bar. It must be that everyone’s so thirsty because of the heat.
The man I had never seen before was doing all of the talking and the more he talked the thirstier he got, and the more he drank the louder he talked. Mr. Davis was just listening, leaning back so his chair was balanced on the hind two legs and just staring at the man, slowly drinking his ale, just like he always does.
I could see that Mr. Davis was getting hotter by the word. I don’t think the loud man realized that Mr. Davis was staring at him and he just went right on talking in this loud, booming voice that you could hear even above the chatter and clatter that is all about.
Then, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw something flash in the flickering candlelight, and the next thing I knew the loud man was lying on the floor, his shirt and breeches drenched in blood, clutching his stomach and groaning dismally.
Dr. Endicott and Mr. Monk jumped to their feet and carried him out the door and down to Dr. Endicott’s office.
Mr. Davis didn’t say a thing. He just sat back down, cleaned his knife blade on his pants, put it back in his boot, and asked politely as ever if he could trouble me for another ale, which I brought him in the wink of an eye.
When Mr. Monk returned, he said that the man didn’t look like he was hurt too bad, although he did lose a lot of blood. Dr. Endicott guessed he would probably make it. Mr. Monk said that the man was distempered with drink and the next time perhaps he would do his drinking at the British Coffee House with the other loyalists.
I don’t know what the loud man said to Mr. Davis that got him so angry, and I don’t like spreading rumors, but I overheard Mrs. Paddock saying that the man said something about Molly, Mr. Davis’s daughter. Of course everyone has seen Molly with that British soldier. The one that works at the warehouse when he’s off duty. But no one is foolish enough to say anything to Mr. Davis about it. Mr. Davis looks after Molly like a mother hen, especially since Mrs. Davis died.
Mr. Davis was back the next night drinking his ale slow as ever and sitting with Dr. Endicott and Mr. Monk same as if nothing had happened.
MY TIME WILL COME
MRS. PADDOCK ORDERS A FLIP
MR. DAVIS BRINGS A SALMON
THEY LOOK BIG TO ME
My Time Will Come
Mr. Wilson is always so busy writing his articles, working on his pamphlets and meeting with the Committee.
I told him I wanted to help and he said I already was by helping Mrs. Thompson.
I told him I was hoping to be called upon for something a little more important than keeping the account book and one eye on Becca and one on Queen George’s ever more frequent comings and goings.
This gave Mr. Wilson a good laugh. Mr. Wilson is a serious man but he still likes a good laugh now and again.
“Be patient, son,” he said. “Your time will come, perhaps sooner than you’d like.”
Then he paused, clasped his hands together like he was about to pray, and bent his head down till his lips touched the tips of his fingers. I have learned that is always a sign that Mr. Wilson is giving something the utmost concentration and that it is best not to interrupt him, so I remained silently where I stood.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I do have a little job for you, Will.”
He gave me a handbill he had written urging the British soldiers to desert. Some, Mr. Wilson said, desert just as soon as they get here, thirty in the first two weeks, but the others have to be convinced. He asked me to take it to Mr. Armstrong and wait while he prints them.
It was late and I feared Mr. Armstrong would be asleep. Mr. Wilson told me to wake him up and tell him to make a quick job of it. He warned me, however, to be careful on the way back and to not let any lobsterbacks see me with the handbills. If they do, they might get angry. The British are eager to catch anyone who suggests they dese
rt.
Mrs. Paddock Orders a Flip
Mrs. Paddock is getting fatter by the day. Her face is so red I keep thinking I’ll hear an explosion any time now and learn the sad news that she has finally burst into pieces.
She smells, too. If you ask me, it’s from the oil she uses to make the powder stick on her hair. It’s a mystery to me how she gets it to stand so high.
She always calls me “boy” no matter how many times I tell her my name is Will. William Thomas Emerson, I tell her, but it doesn’t do any good. She said that William Thomas Emerson is a distinguished name and I was right to be proud of it.
She was in her favorite seat, the one by the window, talking to Mrs. Dill. Last week there was someone sitting there when she and Mrs. Dill came in and she just walked right up to him and asked him to be so kind as to take another chair. That’s her in a nutshell.
I was trying to pretend she wasn’t there, but she hooked my arm as I walked past her. “Be a darling boy and bring me my flip,” she said. I’ve decided not to waste anymore time trying to get her to use my rightful name. Some people don’t listen to a thing you say no matter how many times you say it and Mrs. Paddock is surely one of them. Mrs. Thompson says Mrs. Paddock’s just a step away from a good-for-nothing — she’s good for little.
She asked if I was sure I knew how to prepare a flip properly.
I wasn’t certain but I didn’t tell her that. I told her that I was. She said to make sure there was plenty of rum and that the poker was sufficiently hot before I stuck it in so that it bubbled and foamed real good.
I had to ask Mrs. Thompson to show me one more time. I watched closely and tried to remember everything: two thirds beer, egg, some molasses, dried pumpkin, and rum. I made sure the poker was real hot before I stuck it in and then I stirred it till it was thick. I don’t know why people want to drink something that tastes like burnt iron.
The tankard of flip is so big that it is the only thing I can carry to the table for fear of spilling some. I had to come back to the barroom for Mrs. Dill’s cider.
Mrs. Paddock and Mrs. Dill were having one of their more spirited conversations. They’re quite a pair. Mrs. Dill’s as thin as Mrs. Paddock’s fat and as quiet as she’s not. I suppose they’re company for each other because Mrs. Dill is such a good listener and Mrs. Paddock such a good talker.
Ever since Henry told me that story I keep looking at Mrs. Dill to see if I can see anything. Sometimes she catches me looking, and I wonder if she knows why.
I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, although I tried as hard as I could to lean over each time I passed their table.
Poor Mr. Paddock sat in the corner looking over his bills and carefully reading the newspaper with a worried look on his face. I think he keeps rereading the newspaper because he’s afraid he might miss something important. These days he just might. There’s something happening every time you turn around.
Henry said that Mr. Paddock came down with a nervous fever some years ago. He was subject to the most violent fits and was teetering on the edge of madness when he was bound and taken to a farm outside of Boston. He was locked in an attic until his disordered mind finally found some peace. Although he’s still demented, Henry said he’s not dangerous. He waits patiently for Mr. Nelson to come so that they can begin their evening chess game.
I never ask Mr. Paddock for money because Mrs. Thompson says he has fallen on hard times and cannot meet his obligations. She’s sure he’ll pay just as soon as he can. Mr. Paddock’s a carpenter and, according to Henry, a good one. He’s fixing one of our chairs.
He fell asleep again tonight. Every time Mrs. Paddock wakes him to take him home he says the same thing to her: “Mrs. Thompson serves the best rum in Boston, Mary, make no mistake. The best.” He always says it just that way, no matter how much he drinks and no matter how long he sleeps. He never changes a word.
Mr. Palmer was playing darts with Mr. Williams. He has to throw with his left arm because he has no right arm.
Henry says he knows what happened. He says that when Mr. Palmer was a boy a great boulder rolled on top of his right arm and crushed it till it was as thin as paper. His father had to cut it off with a handsaw and use a red-hot tong to stop the bleeding, which was considerable. He saved the boy’s life but the arm was gone forever. I asked Henry how he knew this and he said that Mr. Armstrong told him. Sometimes, though, he doesn’t separate what’s true from what’s fanciful. That’s why I like to be with Henry. He sees things differently from most people. I told him he ought to write some of these stories down, but he just laughed and said that would be a waste of time.
Mr. Davis Brings a Salmon
Mr. Davis brought a freshly caught salmon, which Mrs. Thompson cooked for supper with corn and peas. He also brought Molly.
I tried to watch my table manners because Mrs. Thompson has recently remarked on them. “They could stand some improvement,” according to her.
She taught me to: break off my bread and not just bite into it; wipe my knife before putting it in the salt and lay it down with the blade resting on the right-hand side of the plate; not eat so vastly and make less noise.
Unfortunately, I made the mistake of letting Queen George lick my spoon clean. Mrs. Thompson scolded me so that all assembled could hear.
My face was glowing like a furnace because Molly was laughing, which she said was because of the satisfied look on Queen George’s furry face, but I’m not certain that was the true reason for her merriment.
They Look Big to Me
There was another serious fracas last night between the North End boys and the lobsterbacks. The soldiers were off duty acting rude and boisterous like they usually do and one of the North End boys grabbed a cobblestone and got one of them right behind the ear. The soldiers started throwing back and one thing led to another.
Boston looks more like a military garrison than a town with each passing day. There are more of them than there are of us. They drill all day long. You can hear the sound of the fife and drum for miles and the large wooden wheels of their field guns make a horrible racket on the cobblestone streets. The lobsterbacks jostle you when they walk past and, if you’re not careful, they’ll poke you in the ribs with the butt ends of their bayonets just for a laugh. At night, they are often heated with liquor.
They are much taller than we are, although Mr. Wilson says it is only because of their hats. Perhaps that is true but I watch them strutting down our streets in their bright red coats, their bayonets glinting in the morning sun, and they look big to me. “You couldn’t ask for a better target,” Mr. Wilson says.
The new British general has them strengthening the defenses around town and at the Neck, where they are building a fort. They fear the patriots in the countryside will soon attack. They use Negro slaves to do all the hard work. No one will work for them. Mr. Paddock and the other carpenters won’t help them build their barracks on the Common, even though they need the work and no lumber is being allowed in. Others refuse to sell them tools, blankets, or goods of any kind.
Me, Henry and Jimmy Carr went down to the Common, where the lobsterbacks’ white tents are pitched. They are camped all over, forcing the poor cows to look elsewhere for proper grazing. Still others are on Fort Hill and the Neck. We watched them take target practice and not one of them could hit the figures that stood stock-still before them. I could readily imagine how bad it would be if they were moving. Mr. Wilson’s right — they’ll be no match for patriot marksmen. Jimmy Carr yelled to one of the soldiers that he knew someone who could shoot the seeds out of an apple thrown into the air before it hit the ground, meaning Mr. Davis. The lobsterback laughed and told Jimmy to produce such a man. Jimmy said he would return before evening.
Later I told Mr. Davis but he didn’t think it was so funny. He was not pleased that we were taunting the soldiers. “Someone’s gonna get hurt, if this doesn’t stop,” he said.
BRINGING BOOKS TO ARMSTRONG’S
THE DIFFEREN
CE BETWEEN DOGS AND MEN
MY CONVERSATION WITH MR. WILSON
THE SANDS OF TIME ARE RUNNING OUT
Bringing Books to Armstrong’s
Mr. Wilson gave me some books to bring back to Armstrong’s and a list of others I am to return with. He reminded me to be sure to give the books only to Mr. Armstrong and no one else. “Not even your friend Henry,” he said.
Henry thinks there is a note secreted in one of the books. A note written in milk so that the writing is invisible — that’s what Henry thinks. The last time I brought some over, Henry wanted to look for the note, but I wouldn’t let him. If Mr. Wilson wanted me to read a note, he would have said so. Henry said Mr. Armstrong now sleeps with a firearm by his side.
On the way I stopped at Nelson’s Bakery on Crooked Lane. Mrs. Nelson gave me a plum cake, which I ate right off, and some rock candy, which I stuffed into my pockets for later. I was careful to thank Mrs. Nelson politely, just as Mrs. Thompson taught me. I am not sure if she heard me, however, she was so busy looking after her three little girls.
Mr. Armstrong was there when I arrived, but not Henry. He had gone to see Mr. Paddock about some shelves he was making for the shop. Mr. Paddock brought the chair he was mending back yesterday. He did a fine job and I have credited his account accordingly. He has also promised to build a table and a corner cupboard for the pantry. Then his bill will be paid in full. Mrs. Thompson is pleased because the table is sorely needed and we do not have any money to pay for one. Frankly, I think we did better with Mr. Paddock than we did with Mr. Bacon’s beaver hats.
A True Patriot Page 3