I think it would be better if we didn’t dip her in the tub of cold water every morning.
Everyone fears smallpox, although no red spots have appeared as yet.
Dr. Endicott’s little girl, Susan, was stricken with smallpox and Mrs. Thompson says she had to spend the past year in bed recovering.
The mail came and I brought Mr. Wilson’s up to his room and divided the rest for those who will come by later.
There was a letter for Mrs. Dill. When she came in, I gave it to her and she asked me to read it to her. It was from her sister who lives in Braintree and told of a great tragedy. One of Mrs. Dill’s sister’s children came too close to the fire and her clothing went up in flames and she was badly burnt. She is not expected to last.
Mrs. Dill left the tavern in a state of great distress and Mrs. Paddock went with her.
Since we are coming to the end of the year, Mr. Wilson wants me to make sure all the accounts are properly posted by January 1.
I went over everything with Mrs. Thompson. I like to keep her current.
She was surprised that I take care of it all by myself now. She asked if Mr. Wilson helped me and I told her he doesn’t even look at it anymore, which is the truth. I think she was proud of me, but it’s hard to tell because Mrs. Thompson doesn’t like anyone to see what she’s thinking.
She asked where I learned to figure so well. I told her that Mama taught me to add and subtract by the time I was four and multiply and divide by the time I was five. She said she thought that was a great benefit to me.
Becca is still poorly. Thankfully there is no vomiting or diarrhea. We have not seen any pocks on Becca’s face and her fever has subsided. I gave her some pudding and cream and she ate it all up.
There are rumors of a smallpox epidemic breaking out in the British barracks. Some say they are secretly burying their dead at night so no one will be the wiser. Nobody knows for certain.
Jimmy Carr, Mr. Williams’s apprentice, has run off. Mr. Williams placed a notice in the paper, hoping that he will be returned.
A TRUE PATRIOT
A True Patriot
Last night I went to the burying grounds at Copp’s Hill. The place where Henry got bit by that snake. I hadn’t been back there since that night.
I asked Henry if he wanted to go with me but he said he had to set some type for Mr. Armstrong. I think that was just an excuse and told him so. But he wouldn’t budge, so I went alone.
I’m not quite sure why I went. Sometimes I just like to be scared. To see if I can take it. I don’t like to be afraid of anything.
I didn’t stay long, though. Not because I was scared but because I was cold.
On the way back, I saw that little Negro chimney sweep lurking about. His behavior was most suspicious, so I decided to follow him. I followed him for a few streets and then he stopped and began walking up and down, looking around as if he were expecting someone. I had to wait a long time and I was about to give up and head back to the tavern when I heard someone riding toward us, so I pulled back into the shadows. I couldn’t see who the man was, even when he dismounted, but just as soon as he did, the sweep ran up to him and started speaking excitedly and pointing down the street. They walked in the direction the sweep was pointing and I followed, keeping as far back as I dared, fearing I would lose them if I didn’t stay close. They stopped when they got to the entrance of a boarded-up warehouse.
The man gave the sweep something — a coin, I think — and knocked. The door was opened immediately — whoever was inside had been waiting impatiently for this man.
I couldn’t see who opened the door, but when he stepped out of the doorway to pull the other man inside, I realized that he used his left arm because he had no right arm.
It was Mr. Palmer.
What was Mr. Palmer doing in a warehouse on Fish Street in the North End? Who was the man who came to see him? I wanted to leave right then and go back to the tavern and tell Mr. Wilson everything, but I thought it would be best if I stayed and tried to see what I could see.
Mr. Palmer looked quickly up and down Fish Street to see if he had been observed and, believing he was safe, closed the door.
I approached the warehouse and looked for a place where I might see what was going on inside. There was an opening where a board was missing but it was too high up. I climbed on top of a rain barrel that was standing next to the wall.
There they were, Mr. Palmer and the man who had come on horseback. There was no mistaking Mr. Palmer, even though I couldn’t see anyone’s face clearly. His right arm gave him away.
The two of them were leaning over a table looking at a piece of paper. It looked like the man was lecturing Mr. Palmer. He kept pointing a finger at Mr. Palmer and picking up the paper and showing it to him. It looked like he was pointing to particular words, but I couldn’t see which ones.
The other man was moving like he was agitated and losing his patience rapidly. Suddenly, without any warning, he stormed out of the room and Mr. Palmer hurried after him.
I didn’t know what to do. There was no time. I stood stock-still — not even breathing. I could hear them shouting at each other after they emerged from the warehouse, and then there was silence until I heard the other man gallop off, his horse’s hooves clattering in the stillness of the night.
I waited, wanting to be sure that Mr. Palmer was gone, too.
When I was convinced it was safe, and not a moment before, I prepared to jump off the rain barrel and got the fright of my life. The little Negro sweep was standing there, waiting.
I didn’t know what would happen next and was too afraid to move. Much to my astonishment the sweep reached up to help me down. I grabbed his hand and jumped to the ground. But that wasn’t all. The sweep had, in the same motion, handed me a folded piece of paper. Immediately I knew it was the one the man had shown to Mr. Palmer.
“How did you get this?” I asked, my voice louder than I had intended.
The sweep stood there, motionless and mute, as if to say getting it was enough, talking about it too dangerous. He looked at me with those sad eyes. It was like he was waiting to see if I was paying close attention. “Five,” he whispered, and was gone before I could say, “Five what?”
When I got back to the tavern, I could see by the candlelight under the door that Mr. Wilson was still awake. I knocked but heard nothing. I knocked again and this time heard a gruff, “Enter.”
Mr. Wilson’s head was lost in a cloud of smoke, his pipe clenched tightly in his teeth and an empty ale tankard by his side.
He turned toward me and put down his quill. I knew I had better be brief. Mr. Wilson is always saying, “Be brief, Will, be brief.”
I was brief, so brief that Mr. Wilson made me repeat everything. He wanted to know what the other man looked like, exactly where the warehouse was, and if I was certain it was Mr. Palmer in that room.
“Yes, sir,” I replied without hesitation, both of us knowing it could be no other. There wasn’t a man or woman in Boston Mr. Wilson didn’t know and Mr. Palmer was the only one without a right arm.
Then, abruptly, Mr. Wilson turned his attention to the paper the sweep gave me.
He kept mumbling to himself, “Five, five, five,” over and over. He stared down at the paper for the longest time, as if it would reveal something to him if only he looked long enough and hard enough. I had never seen him like this. I was afraid to move or make a sound.
He took up his quill and began to circle certain words. Then he went back to staring at it.
I couldn’t imagine what he was doing. By now I had read what was written. It was simply a boring business letter from a man in London named Frost.
“That’s it,” Mr. Wilson said, sitting back at last, his blue eyes twinkling in the fading candlelight.
Then I saw what Mr. Wilson saw. It was not a business letter at all. Now that Mr. Wilson had circled every fifth word the real message, hidden within, was clear.
It was a coded message from a Br
itish agent to a spy — Mr. Palmer.
“Good work, Will,” Mr. Wilson said, lighting his pipe. “You are an observant lad and a true patriot.”
MRS. THOMPSON’S IDLE HANDS
MR. WILSON HAS A CLOSE SHAVE
WELCOME TO THE WORLD
WHAT MOLLY DAVIS IS READING
Mrs. Thompson’s Idle Hands
Mrs. Thompson knitted a pair of woolen mittens and a muffler for my birthday. I was so surprised — not only because she remembered it was my birthday, but because she has been knitting every morning for a month now and every time I asked her what she was knitting, she would say, “Just trying to keep my hands from being idle,” which, frankly, didn’t make much sense, since no one would ever accuse Mrs. Thompson of having idle hands, but I figured that was her way of telling me it wasn’t any of my business.
I just said, Thank you, ma’am, but I had more to say than that, I just couldn’t get it out.
Samuel Robbins fell through the ice and drowned. He was only eight. The weather is so warm that Frog Pond had not even frozen over completely.
Mr. Wilson Has a Close Shave
Mrs. Thompson reminded me to bank the fire carefully at night: raking up all the coals and covering them with the ashes so that in the morning I will be able to rekindle the flames without any trouble. If the embers die out overnight, it will be cold in the kitchen in the morning.
Mr. Wilson prefers to do his writing in the kitchen on cold days so he can be near the warmth and light of the fire. I don’t blame him. The kitchen is the most comfortable room in the tavern.
He has been so busy lately. He hardly has time to see to it that he makes a neat appearance. Most of the time his rumpled clothes aren’t even properly arranged. When he goes out, he just throws his tattered gray cloak over his shoulder and jams his hat even tighter.
Mrs. Thompson is always reminding him about this or that and Mr. Wilson just says, “I don’t have time for that now, Elizabeth.”
That’s Mrs. Thompson’s name, Elizabeth. Mr. Wilson’s is Ben.
She really put her foot down yesterday. She ordered him to get a shave and a trim. Mr. Wilson does not powder his hair or wear a wig. He’s a plain and sober man. She even insisted that I go with him to make sure he got there and didn’t “go off on some little adventure.”
After his haircut Mr. Davis left the steaming towel on Mr. Wilson’s face while he sharpened his razor.
I watched him. I can’t wait till I can shave. Mr. Wilson said he didn’t think it would be long now.
On the way home Mr. Wilson said it was a clean, close shave and that he felt refreshed.
He also said, “There aren’t many like Mrs. Thompson, Will, not many at all. We’re two lucky lads, don’t you think?”
I told him I did.
On the way back from Mr. Davis’s we saw the most elegant four-wheeled coach I have ever seen. It must have been Mr. Dudley’s because Henry told me he is one of the richest men in Boston. The coach had a leather top, polished silver mountings and a newly varnished harness, and it was drawn by six white horses. I realized it was the same coach that almost ran me down when I first came to town. I couldn’t see Mr. Dudley himself and Mr. Wilson had already pulled his hat farther down his head and quickened his pace.
When I caught up, I said, “That was Mr. Dudley. Henry said he’s the richest merchant in Boston,” and Mr. Wilson said, “He’s not a merchant, Will, he’s just a thief like all the rest.”
Mr. Wilson was working late and Mrs. Thompson said I should bring some ale up to his room.
He was cutting papers into long strips with a scissors. The strips lay curled up all over the floor covering the tops of his shoes like the freshly fallen snow outside. He said he didn’t want to take the time to go down to the kitchen to burn the papers in the fire and didn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.
Welcome to the World
Mrs. Thompson says I should try and keep Becca in the kitchen now that winter is upon us. This is not as easy as it might sound.
Becca is getting bigger every day, not as rapidly as Queen George and not as big, but she is growing and getting to know what she likes and what she doesn’t like. She doesn’t like being in her high chair anymore. Thinks she’s too old for that. She likes being in the kitchen, but only for a while — then she gets bored and knows everyone’s in the barroom and wants to go in there.
Mr. Monk is her favorite. Mr. Monk is Queen George’s favorite, too. If she’s missing, I know where to go to find her.
Last week Queen George came trotting home, looking as innocent as a newborn calf. She had a note pinned to her collar. It was from Mr. Monk and it said: Don’t bother fixing supper, dined with Mr. Monk, QG.
We found out later that she was not exactly invited but had gotten up when no one was looking and taken Mr. Monk’s supper somewhere and eaten it all herself.
I told Mrs. Thompson that maybe we should make Queen George a turnspit dog. She didn’t even know what a turnspit dog was so I had to explain. We would have Mr. Monk contrive a wheel that was big enough and wide enough for Queen George to walk in. A hot coal would be placed at her feet so that if she stopped walking she would get burnt and the contraption would be attached to a spit that would turn and cook the roast while Queen George walked the wheel.
Mrs. Thompson said I should be ashamed of myself for thinking thoughts like that, and besides, she said, where would we get a roast?
This morning I found Becca hiding behind the pantry playing with something she didn’t want me to see. I was finally able to coax her out and make her show me. It was a pincushion that Mrs. Thompson said Mrs. Dill made for Becca when she was first born. I discovered it before she was able to do any harm and took it away so I could take out the pins. But Becca is an impatient lass and she hollered like a savage until I returned it to her.
The pincushion says: Welcome to the World, Rebecca Thompson, July 4, 1772.
Mr. Monk brought some chestnuts and we roasted them in a long-handled skillet in the fire. They tasted mighty good. I don’t think Becca liked hers, because she spit most of it on the floor.
I have been feeling weak and achy because of the fever that does not seem to want to leave me. Mrs. Thompson gives me brandy and hot water before I go to sleep and brings down the footstove, which provides welcome extra warmth.
If having British soldiers camping right in the middle of town wasn’t enough, they are now being put up in people’s homes. There are three staying with Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, where there is little enough room.
What Molly Davis Is Reading
Henry said Molly Davis came into the shop yesterday. I haven’t seen her since the night Mr. Monk brought his fiddle into the tavern.
She reads a lot, too, just like Henry. They both have a bookish inclination. Henry likes to read more than anything else in the world. It’s no wonder that his spectacles are so thick. Sometimes, he tells me, he stays up most of the night reading.
Henry said Molly bought Clarissa and some drawing paper. He’s going to read Clarissa, too, so he can have something to talk to her about the next time she comes in.
Mr. Armstrong said he could take one of the copies from the lending library. Mr. Armstrong told Henry that it was “admirable” that he wanted to read a book such as Clarissa.
Henry didn’t tell Mr. Armstrong he wanted to read Clarissa just so he could talk to Molly Davis.
My fever is gone, thanks to Mrs. Thompson’s care.
Henry asked me why I have been acting so odd lately. I think he suspects something, but I am sworn to secrecy. I dislike deceiving Henry. I know he can be trusted, but orders are orders.
TIME
FALSE FRIEND
Time
When Mr. Armstrong brought the newspaper this morning, everyone gathered around while he read Mr. Wilson’s article aloud. I watched Mr. Palmer to see if I could detect anything odd in his behavior, but he just sat there listening like the others.
All agreed Mr. Wilson
wields a powerful pen. He chooses his words with great care and seems to pierce right through to the heart of the matter.
False Friend
Mr. Wilson has another assignment for me.
This one is more perilous, he said, pausing to see if I wanted to say anything. I told him I could look after myself.
He took me into the back room and took a panel off the wall, revealing a snug space hidden behind. It was just big enough for a boy my size. Mr. Wilson asked me to see if I could fit in there. I could — it was as if it were built just for me.
“Good, good,” Mr. Wilson muttered to himself, and then, without hesitating, began explaining his plan to me.
“Tomorrow morning there will be a special meeting of the Committee. The usual gentlemen will be in attendance. I will begin by announcing that I have received the militia plans for the defense of the colony and wish to advise everyone of the present military circumstances. While I am speaking, I will be holding a paper conspicuously in my hand.
“At that point Mrs. Thompson will burst into the room, exhibiting great agitation. She will announce that there is a fire on Water Street.
“Everyone, of course, will immediately leave in order to lend a hand, myself included. I will leave the paper on the table.
“If Mr. Palmer is the false friend we think he is, he will not be able to resist taking that piece of paper. Somehow he will manage to remain behind, grab the paper and leave, hoping to appear to be joining the rest of us to fight the fire, but he won’t be. He will be taking the paper somewhere and showing it to someone. I want to know who that someone is, Will. Do you understand?”
“You mean you want me to hide in there, sir?” I asked. Mr. Wilson said he wanted me to hide in there and keep watch through a tiny pinhole.
A True Patriot Page 5