Mr. Armstrong took the books and the list and said he wouldn’t be long. He went into the back room. I looked around at the books and the magazines. I like looking around Mr. Armstrong’s but not as much as I like looking at all the things in Mr. Williams’s shop.
Another brawl broke out yesterday between the lobsterbacks and some sailors down at the Long Wharf. Later that same night the same bunch of soldiers, inflamed with rum and wine, smashed the new street lamps.
Mr. Wilson is still sleeping. He didn’t rise yesterday until eight o’clock — a lazy hour. He has just returned on the stage. He complained all day about the journey, which he said was most uncomfortable and tedious. Mr. Wilson likes to be at home and is not one for traveling. He said he was coated with dust from head to toe because he refused to pay extra to ride in the coach and had to ride on top. The inn they stopped at along the way was crowded with travelers, so he was forced to share a bed with one of his companions — something he dislikes.
Mrs. Thompson told him he shouldn’t complain because it’s much warmer and safer to have someone share your bed. Mr. Wilson didn’t seem to agree.
Everyone is talking about the soldier.
Two days ago the British recaptured a deserter. They marched him before a firing squad. A chaplain walked beside him, reading psalms aloud while a lone drummer beat his drum. After they shot him, the officer placed a white shroud over him and made the soldiers walk past his lifeless body, now lying in a pool of blood. This was done so that they might think twice before deserting themselves.
The Fitch sisters are gone. Their shop is closed and no one is there.
The Difference Between Dogs and Men
Mrs. Thompson hurt her wrist badly. She was down in the cellar getting some cider and she tripped over Queen George, who was not supposed to be down there. No one knew she was in the cellar — we thought she was out somewhere. She must have snuck in. Queen George’s as fast as a cat and as quiet as a mouse even though she’s already bigger than Becca.
Mrs. Thompson fell over her and, it is feared, fractured a bone. Thankfully it is not poking through her skin.
It is hard to see down in the cellar because the tiny windows let in little light and even that is blocked by the floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with cartons and crates.
Dr. Endicott explained his plan for a remedy and cautioned that it might be painful. He offered Mrs. Thompson something but she preferred not to cloud her mind and asked him to proceed without further discussion.
Dr. Endicott gripped Mrs. Thompson’s arm and forced her swollen hand this way and that, causing a sound like the breaking of twigs in a dry forest to be heard. Mrs. Thompson’s face gave no indication of the great discomfort she must have been feeling, other than a fixed set to the jaw and a paleness of complexion unlike her usual rosy glow.
After some hours of intense suffering, Mrs. Thompson lay down for a rest while I watched Becca and the tavern. Queen George insisted on lying beside her on the bed and would not be persuaded otherwise.
“Dogs are faithful, Will. It’s men who are not,” she said before she slept.
A British soldier drowned at Rowe’s Wharf yesterday morning. He was on sentry duty and a little girl crawled off the end of the pier and fell in. She was going under and her mother was shrieking, “Help, help my little girl, my little girl,” so the soldier jumped in and saved her but had no strength left to save himself and lost his life in the process.
The little Negro sweep came by today to clean the chimney. He’s always singing that same sad song and looking at me with those same sad eyes. This time I was sure he had something he wanted to tell me. But just when I thought he was about to speak up, he turned away like he’d thought better of it.
He started up singing his song again while he swept the soot up into his blanket and didn’t even glance at me once before he carted it away.
Mrs. Thompson wants to make sure he does a good job because sooty chimneys have caused many fires in recent years.
After many days Mrs. Thompson’s wrist is nearly mended. We had my penmanship lesson today and she says that I am improving. Keeping my journal has helped but I didn’t want to say anything about that to her, especially after my conversation last night with Mr. Wilson.
My Conversation with Mr. Wilson
Mr. Wilson said that it was most important not to tell anyone about our talk or anything that has to do with the activities of the Committee — not even Mrs. Thompson or Henry. He could see what I was thinking. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Henry or Mrs. Thompson, just that at times like these, trust carries a dear price and you must err on the side of caution. The less said the better, Mr. Wilson warned, and I agree.
He said that he has observed me carefully since I came to work at the tavern. He said he thought I was a boy who could be trusted. A boy who could be counted on in a pinch.
He is aware that I can hear everything that goes on during the Tuesday night meetings and he knows that I have never betrayed him.
I asked him how he knew this and he laughed. “There is no need to go into details,” he said. Certain things had been discussed at the meeting purely to test me. To see if I was a true patriot.
He asked, “Are you ready for your first assignment, William Thomas Emerson?”
“I am, sir,” I replied.
The Sands of Time Are Running Out
Tomorrow night I am to help a British soldier desert. This on the heels of the most recent execution on the Common. Mr. Wilson could see I was thinking about that and he said I didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to. I could wait, he said, for another assignment. I told him I didn’t want to wait.
He’ll be taken from the British barracks on the Common to the corner of Frog Lane and Orange Street at precisely nine o’clock.
The patriot accompanying the soldier, Mr. Wilson explained, is someone I can trust. All I have to do is walk up to them and say, “The sands of time are running out,” and if everything is going according to plan, they will counter by saying, “It’s time to choose and not to doubt,” and hand the soldier over to me.
Mr. Wilson asked me if I could remember, and to show him, I repeated it.
He took a map out of his pocket, unfolded it, placed it on the table, and flattened it out. He motioned for me to come sit beside him on the bench and pulled the candle closer. He showed me the corner where I was to meet the soldier and the other man and then, with his finger, he followed the route I should take to get from there to the Charles River, where a boat would be waiting. He cautioned that I not stray from the route. The Committee had chosen it because they considered it the safest.
He said it was good that I was familiar with Boston’s narrow and twisted streets because they can lead nowhere and come out where you’d least expect them to. I assured him that I have been down every alley and taken every cutoff in Boston. “I know you have,” Mr. Wilson said.
I am to take a change of clothes for the soldier and some cloth to muffle the thole pins, which hold the oars, lest their jangling give us away. I am to accompany him as far as the boat and no farther. The soldier knows how to get to Cambridge, Mr. Wilson said. People will be waiting there who will see to it that he is taken care of.
Mr. Wilson asked if I would be willing to do all that. I said I was, and he asked if I was scared and I said I wasn’t.
Then Mr. Wilson looked at me with that squinty-eyed look he gets when he thinks something is even more important than usual. “I don’t guess you are, Will, I don’t guess you are,” he said.
I thought we were done but we weren’t. Although Mr. Wilson is a man of few words he had more to say.
“This is an exremely important assignment, Will. It would be important if it was just a British soldier who believed in our cause and wished not to fight against us in our upcoming struggle. But this soldier is more than that. He possesses special knowledge about military training, and once you help him get to Cambridge, he will be taken from there to teach our patriots pro
per military methods and maneuvers. By helping him now, you will be saving many lives in the future.”
Yesterday couldn’t go by quickly enough. At night I just lay there waiting. I left noiselessly, as I didn’t know if Mrs. Thompson was aware of my mission.
I must have been early. When I got to the corner no one was there. I decided to wait across the street, where I backed into the darkness of a deserted doorway.
After only a few minutes I heard the church clock chime nine times. Then two people came down Frog Lane, right toward me, their footsteps echoing louder and louder in the stillness. They were almost on top of me and then they were past me. They stopped and stood right where Mr. Wilson said they would and waited. A short man and a taller one, who must have been the soldier.
I went over everything Mr. Wilson had said and walked toward them, stopping before I got too close.
“The sands of time are running out,” I said, barely above a whisper. The short man replied, “It’s time to choose and not to doubt.”
I was so startled I couldn’t move. It was a girl. “It’s time to choose and not to doubt,” she repeated, seeing that I was making no move to come closer. I was rooted to the spot.
It was Molly Davis, Mr. Davis’s daughter, and, I now realized, standing next to her was the British soldier the loud man had been talking about. I came closer. It was Molly. She turned to the soldier but said nothing and was gone, leaving the two of us facing each other.
“Come with me,” I said, hoping to sound older than I looked. It didn’t work, though. The soldier asked me how old I was. Twelve, I told him. He said nothing as we followed the route that I now knew by heart, staying close to the buildings.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, surprising both of us. It was something I had been thinking about but had no intention of asking. The words just jumped out before I realized what I was saying.
The soldier stopped, turned, and put his hands on my shoulders. He asked if I wanted the truth or just a string of sweet-sounding words. “The truth,” I answered although I wasn’t at all certain.
“The truth,” the soldier said, “is that I get paid little, eat poorly, and am punished frequently and severely.
“But,” he said, gripping my shoulders tighter and bringing his face so close I could smell him. “I wouldn’t desert if it were for that alone.” Then he stopped and looked at me, like he was making some kind of important judgment, his steady gray-eyed gaze sending shivers up and down my spine.
“The real truth is that the most important decision a man can make in his whole life is what he is willing to die for,” and then he took his hands off my shoulders and said we’d better get where we were going.
As we continued along, we saw no one and encountered no difficulties.
The boat was just where Mr. Wilson had said it would be.
I kept it steady while the soldier stepped in. I handed him the bundle of clothes, stuffed the cloths into the thole pins and fought back the urge to ask him just one more question.
The soldier sat down cautiously, took the oars, and, aided by a shove from my boot, rowed away from the shore toward Cambridge.
I stood there longer than I should have, straining to see the soldier in the little rowboat long after he had disappeared into the inky blackness. Even after I could no longer see him, I could still hear the soft splash as the oars entered the water. And then there was nothing.
MR. MONK PLAYS WITH MRS. THOMPSON
TELLING PEOPLE WHAT’S RIGHT AND WHAT’S WRONG
RED ANTS AND WALNUTS
Mr. Monk Plays with Mrs. Thompson
Mr. Monk came in with his fiddle last night and he and Mrs. Thompson played some duets. I had no idea Mrs. Thompson could play the flute so nicely.
We had quite a crowd before the evening was over. People kept coming in all night long, hearing the music as they passed. The tavern was filled.
I didn’t think I could keep up while Mrs. Thompson was playing, but Mr. Wilson tended bar and Mr. Davis and Molly brought drinks to the tables.
Everyone was laughing uproariously as they were all well supplied with strong drink. Mr. Paddock drank more than his share, slid under the table, and was fast asleep most of the evening. There was so much smoke you couldn’t see from one end of the barroom to the other.
A couple of sailors joined the fun. You could tell they were sailors because of the way they swung their arms when they walked. One of them was as dizzy as a goose.
Mr. Palmer offered a number of patriotic toasts, insisting on going around the room and clinking glasses with everyone.
The noise was so great that Becca woke, and she usually sleeps undisturbed. Mrs. Paddock and Mrs. Dill played with her nearly the whole night, so that was one less thing I had to be concerned about.
It was the first time I saw Mr. Wilson all week. He was away again, although no one knows where, not even Mrs. Thompson. Henry thinks he went to Lexington for a secret meeting.
Mr. Wilson didn’t say anything special to me. Just treated me the same as usual. I think he did that so no one would know that we work together now.
I tried not to look at Molly, which is difficult even under ordinary circumstances. I had so little time that even if I wanted to look I dared not. Once, while Mr. Monk was playing with Mrs. Thompson, I saw her standing near the barroom. She turned away when she realized I was looking at her.
Telling People What’s Right and What’s Wrong
Henry is reading Robinson Crusoe now. He reads more books in a week than most read in a year. Sometimes he stays up all night. When Henry is doing something, he concentrates real hard. Like when he teaches the Armstrong boys, or helps Mr. Armstrong get the paper ready for Monday.
He tells me all the things he’s learning from Mr. Armstrong. They’re like two peas in a pod. They even have the same pear shape — that’s what Mr. Wilson says, although he always says it with a laugh and never when either of them is around.
According to Henry, Mr. Armstrong learned everything he knows from reading and Henry says that’s how he’s going to educate himself.
I asked Henry what he would like to do when his service to Mr. Armstrong is up. He said he would like to buy lots of land so he could live in peace. Henry likes books more than he likes people, although there are exceptions — Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, for instance. There isn’t anything Henry wouldn’t do for them. And me. I’ll tell you this, if Henry Moody likes you, there isn’t a more steadfast friend to be found. But, in general, he prefers to keep to himself. Maybe that’s why we’re such good friends — because we’re so different.
I’m not like Henry.
I’m not sure what I want to do but I am resolved to live in a busy place like Boston. I like living where there’s plenty of people around all the time and there’s always something to do.
I think if I had to say right now, I’d say I’d wish to be like Mr. Wilson and spend my days writing about important things and telling people what’s right and what’s wrong.
The talk with Henry got me to thinking. I saw Mr. Wilson later and asked if he had advice for someone who wanted to be a fine writer like him, and he said that the most important thing to remember is to never use two words when one will do. I can’t wait till I am no longer a boy and can write like Mr. Wilson. The faster the better.
Red Ants and Walnuts
I helped Mrs. Thompson peel some apples Monday for a pie, and then we discovered that there was no more butter so I had to run to Mrs. Paddock’s. Mrs. Thompson said to be sure Mrs. Paddock writes it down so we can repay her when we can.
I asked her about the red ants.
We have red ants now, which we can thank Queen George for.
King George has provided us with a plague of red coats and now Queen George has given us red ants — for it’s her food they have come in search of.
They are all over the kitchen and it is impossible to get rid of them.
Mrs. Paddock told me I should try pouring boiling water on
them, which I have, to little effect. I advised her of this and she said she wasn’t surprised since they are quite combative.
Her next recommendation was brushing mercurous chloride where I see them coming and going. If that fails, she said, I should put walnuts in the closet.
I couldn’t imagine why a plate of walnuts would help me, as I did not recognize walnuts as possessing any poisonous qualities, but Mrs. Paddock explained that red ants just can’t resist walnuts. According to her, it’s their favorite food. “So,” she said, “as soon as they all climb up on the plate, just pick it up and fling them into the fire and that will be the end of that.”
Mr. Wilson looks tired. His face has grown thin in recent weeks and his cheeks look hollow. He dresses with even less care than usual. He eats little and sleeps hardly at all. Lately he has been having his dinner in his tiny room, and when I come for it, it is still where I left it, untouched.
At night I can hear him walking around. He’s always scribbling away with his quill flying across the pages. If I stand quietly outside his door, I can hear the unceasing scratching of his pen. In the mornings he asks for more candles. No matter how many I give him, it isn’t enough.
He writes by moonlight if the moon is full. I am usually the first to arise, but now, when I get up to begin the day’s chores, I find him already in the barroom working by the window, sitting in Mrs. Paddock’s chair. He says he wants to catch the early-morning light. He says he has much work to do and time is running short. He says he must work when there is light.
Becca has a fever and Mrs. Thompson is most worried, as we all are. It has come upon her suddenly. One day she was her laughing, jolly self and now she just lies there. Even Queen George’s face-licking fails to provoke the usual giggles.
A True Patriot Page 4