“As soon as our friend picks up the paper and leaves, I want you to follow him wherever he goes. You mustn’t lose him, Will. No matter where he goes, you must follow him. It is of the utmost importance that we know where he goes with that paper and to whom he gives it. Do you understand, Will?”
I told him I did.
I don’t think I slept at all, for in the morning I was up before first light, waiting in the back room. As soon as I heard someone enter the tavern, I crawled into the space and closed the panel tight before me.
There was no light other than the tiny beam coming through the pinhole, and just as little air. I hoped I didn’t have to stay there too long, because the longer I was in there, the more afraid I was that I would sneeze or cough and give the whole thing away.
I was getting sleepy because it was so dark and quiet, and then I heard voices. Mr. Monk, Dr. Endicott, Mr. Cummings, and Mr. Palmer.
Mr. Wilson hurried everyone along, saying that he had a confidential announcement.
I could see Mr. Palmer through the pinhole. He was standing at the back of the room, next to Dr. Endicott.
Mrs. Thompson rushed in right on schedule and made her announcement. I must say she was quite convincing, and everyone followed her out, including Mr. Palmer, who had not stayed behind as Mr. Wilson had predicted.
Maybe we were wrong about him, I thought. Maybe the meeting in the warehouse with that man just looked suspicious. Everything looks suspicious these days. Maybe there was really nothing to it.
I was about to punch open the panel and leave when Mr. Palmer reappeared. He backed in, keeping an eye out to see if anyone in the barroom was watching him. Once he was in, he wheeled around and surveyed the room, making sure he was alone — for a moment I was certain his eyes were looking right through the pinhole directly into mine and that he knew I was there, hidden behind the wall, spying on him. But then his eyes shifted to the table and he snatched up the paper with his one hand and stuffed it into his pocket and, after glancing once more around the room, was gone.
I was so stunned that all this was happening just as Mr. Wilson said it would that I almost forgot my mission. I kicked out the panel and ran through the barroom and out the side door just in time to see Mr. Palmer disappear down Cornhill, past Water, where the fire was supposed to be, and turn down Milk Street. There was no doubt where he was heading. He was going down Milk Street to the wharf. I took a cutoff down Tanner’s Lane to Hutchinson and followed him to Griffin’s Wharf.
I got there just in time to see him being helped down into a long boat, which was then rowed out into the harbor by British sailors.
I was going to lose him if I just stood there. I couldn’t follow him. I could swim, but the water would be too cold. I wouldn’t last. Soon I would lose sight of him. He would be too far out in the harbor. Then I had a thought. Mr. Williams’s shop on Cow Lane. Cow Lane wasn’t far from Griffin’s Wharf. Maybe I could make it there and back in time.
I had to hope he would understand. I had to hope I could trust him.
I was out of breath when I got there but couldn’t spare any time.
“I need this” was all I could manage. Mrs. Williams looked astonished — fortunately she made no move to stop me. Mr. Williams must have been in the back, as usual, working. I ran all the way back, knowing I could rest once I got to the wharf.
I put the spyglass up to my eye, my heart pounding, fearful I had taken too long, scanning the water for his long boat.
There he was. I had gotten back just in time.
Mr. Palmer’s long boat had pulled up alongside one of the warships in the harbor. I held the spyglass firmly in place and watched his every move as he was helped up the sides of the enormous vessel.
Mr. Wilson made me go over everything that happened and urged me not to leave anything out. Just like the last time. When I finished, he asked me only one question, but I could tell by the look in his eye it was an important one.
“Did you see the name of the ship, Will?”
“I did, sir,” I replied. “It was the Viper, sir.”
Mr. Wilson nodded his head and said, “That’s just where I thought he’d go. Just where I thought he’d go.”
CHIPS FOR KINDLING
DR. ENDICOTT’S SON
NO ONE HAS SEEN HENRY’S SPECTACLES
Chips for Kindling
Mrs. Thompson sent me to Mr. Monk’s to get some chips for kindling.
I decided to take Becca and Queen George with me. I thought they would be good company, for it’s a long walk, and it would be nice for Becca to be out in the snow. I bundled her up from head to foot.
Mr. Monk helped me pile the chips on the sled and offered to go back with us to the tavern. I told him we would be fine, which we were for a while.
Becca insisted on walking, which slowed us down since she doesn’t walk that fast under the best of circumstances and the snow was nearly up to her waist. Queen George spent her time running circles around us and trying to catch snowflakes with great enthusiasm and little result. The confused look she wore, wondering where they had gone to when she had them right in her sights, made Becca and me laugh. But our laughter wasn’t the only sound I heard.
A burly British soldier, singing in a loud voice and half out of his wits, it appeared to me, was coming toward us.
He grabbed me rudely by the arm and ordered me to “halt and reveal what treasure lay hidden under that blanket — muskets for your friends, no doubt,” he said.
I told him they were only chips for kindling, but he said, “Let’s see,” pushed me out of the way and yanked off the blanket. He stared at the pile of chips as if they were the last things in the world he expected to see there.
I took advantage of his bewilderment and picked up Becca, who could tell something was wrong and let me hold her.
Queen George was not so cooperative. She watched the soldier warily and growled low and slow.
She does not like lobsterbacks any more than we do and when one passes by the tavern she heads for the door and sniffs and scratches furiously with her front paws.
We have to keep a close eye on her. Last week Mr. Bacon’s dog was killed by a soldier who claims that the dog was trained to attack redcoats on sight and was baring his teeth at him in preparation. Just ran the poor beast through with a bayonet.
The soldier walked around the sled, eyeing the pile of chips suspiciously and muttering something to himself. I could see the muscles of his jaw twitching and I could smell that he was bold with liquor.
“It must have taken a long time to pile all those chips on that sled,” he said.
“Yes, sir, it did,” I replied as courteously as I could, hoping that would put an end to our conversation. But he started walking around the sled again, muttering to himself all the while, his hands clasped behind his back.
Queen George was up now and so was the hair on the top of her head. I feared she was about to do something. So did the soldier, who was watching her when he wasn’t looking at the sled. I pushed her away with my leg but she returned at once like a big ball on the end of a band.
It was cold and I was starting to shiver. Becca was burrowing into my chest. I wished he’d move on so we could all go home. Then, with no warning, he kicked the sled over with his heavy boot, scattering all the chips into the deep snow.
“Looks like you won’t be getting home for quite a while, doesn’t it, boy?” He laughed and went walking down the street singing in that same loud voice.
I didn’t bother with the chips and put Becca on the sled, holding on to Queen George’s ample neck so she wouldn’t go after the soldier.
We were all tired and cold when we got back to the tavern.
Innocent citizens can hardly walk down the street without being confronted by them. They jab you in the ribs with the butts of their bayonets and then laugh like they’ve heard the best joke. They utter abuse and threats for no reason, causing an uproar wherever they go. They’re as thick as bees.
&nb
sp; Last week Mr. Davenport, the butcher, was tripped by one of them while carrying something and found him-self lying in the mud. The soldiers stood around pointing and ridiculing Mr. Davenport. They stopped when the other butchers in the market came out of their stalls, wiping their hands on their aprons and circling round the soldiers, sharpened cleavers and knives at the ready.
Mr. Davenport said he thought for certain blood would be running with the mud in no time, but a British officer stepped in the middle of the circle and ordered the soldier who tripped Mr. Davenport back to his barracks, thereby restoring order.
But this single gesture is cold comfort compared to the terror that follows in their wake day after day.
Many of the Negro slaves in town are angry now because the soldiers have told them that when they take over they will be rewarded with their freedom. They encourage the Negros to slit their masters’ throats, thereby hastening that day.
That’s how it is now.
Mr. Wilson says it will not be long before something sparks the fuse that will cause our world to explode into a thousand pieces.
Dr. Endicott’s Son
Dr. Endicott has asked his son to leave the house. There was silence Tuesday night following this announcement, everyone realizing that a terrible personal ordeal was taking place.
He said the decision broke his heart, but he saw no other choice in light of his son’s continued loyalty to the Crown and the recent letter in the paper. It was unknown at first who wrote it, since it was signed A True and Faithful Subject of His Majesty, but everyone was talking about it and trying to guess the author.
Dr. Endicott was sent an anonymous note informing him that the person who penned such poison was none other than his own son. Dr. Endicott confronted him with this disturbing accusation and he not only admitted writing the letter but said he was proud of it. No one spoke except for Mr. Palmer, who went on at some length, ending with the suggestion that the king was a fool and like all fools he should have his head cut off. You could tell he was real nervous because he was stuttering even more than usual.
Dr. Endicott’s son has decided to pack up and sail for England. He does not plan to return.
No One Has Seen Henry’s Spectacles
One of the lobsterbacks caught Henry Moody.
He was watching them march down King Street and was standing in a crowd of bully boys from the North End who were yelling and pelting them with snowballs packed with gravel, icicles that hung from the eaves, and chunks of ice from the street. Some of the soldiers tried to slap the snowballs away with shovels but one of the boys from the North End hit a lobsterback in the cheek and cut him so badly he fell to the ice.
The bully boys weren’t afraid of the soldiers because they knew they were under strict orders not to fire back, even in self-defense. But the soldiers charged the crowd and they all ran, and Henry had no choice but to run with them — he knew the soldiers would never sit still long enough for him to explain that he wasn’t with them or that he hadn’t thrown anything.
Henry gave them a good run for a time but he couldn’t run very fast and couldn’t run very long, fat as he is.
One of the soldiers finally trapped him on Mackrell Lane. He struck Henry on the side of his head with the buttend of his bayonet. Henry was dazed and tried to run but there was nowhere to go. The soldier followed him down the alley and hit him again and again until his face was a bloody pulp and he was no longer moving.
Mrs. Thompson says he is hurt very badly.
I went to see Henry Moody today. Mr. Armstrong told Mr. Wilson that the time was short.
When I got there Mrs. Armstrong said that Henry was upstairs sleeping, but that I should go up. He was in the bed with the covers covering everything but his eyes and the top of his head. There were even bruises on the top of his head. He looked tired and scared. He didn’t know who I was at first, even though he was awake and his eyes were open, because he didn’t have his spectacles on. Henry can’t see anything without his spectacles.
“Henry,” I said, although I wasn’t sure he heard me. “It’s me, Will.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out who I was.
“Where are your spectacles?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. It was too much, watching him lie there, enduring this pain and unable to see on top of it all. I had to find his spectacles.
I left without a word of explanation to either Mr. Armstrong, who was sitting in the corner of the room, or to Mrs. Armstrong, who remained downstairs keeping an eye on the shop.
They weren’t on Mackrell Lane, where they found Henry. They were just around the corner, on King Street. That meant he couldn’t see the face of the soldier who had done this to him.
One of the lenses was cracked, but it was a clean crack and would do just fine.
He was sleeping when I got back, so I decided not to wake him. I just sat there with Mr. Armstrong, who had a book in his lap but wasn’t reading it. I wanted to say something to him but remained silent.
Henry coughed and woke himself up with a start, as if struggling to escape from some horrible dream.
“Henry,” I said, “I found your spectacles.”
He turned in my direction but that was all. He didn’t say a word.
I went over to the bed and put the spectacles on his swollen face.
He seemed to want me to come nearer, so I leaned over. He tried to speak but his lips were parched and cracked and he had little strength left. His lips moved, but no sound came forth.
Then I could hear the faintest whisper.
“Will,” he said, “my good and true friend.”
But that was all. It looked like he had gone back to sleep.
I turned to Mr. Armstrong and he motioned for me to leave and wait downstairs.
A few minutes later he came down and told me and Mrs. Armstrong that poor Henry had departed this earth.
IN COLD BLOOD
THREE LITTLE GIRLS
In Cold Blood
Henry Moody was buried today.
His coffin was carried on a sled to the burying grounds on Copp’s Hill — the same one where we first became friends. The runners made an eerie sound on the hard-packed snow. Mrs. Armstrong was unable to attend, caring for the two boys, who miss their tutor dearly, and overcome herself with grief. Mr. Armstrong is in a state of utter despair. Everyone else was there, including Mr. Palmer.
The ground was too hard to dig a grave, and so Henry, in his wooden box, was laid on the ground until it thaws and he can be buried properly. Mr. Paddock etched the word Patriot on the box. Henry would have been proud of that. Mr. Wilson spoke. I have never heard him sound so sad.
“Now their hands are dripping with the blood of childish innocence.”
That was all he said.
It was a terrible day.
Mr. Wilson has not left his room. He writes day and night, sleeping little. He barely touches the food I bring him and we are running low on candles. I am having great difficulty keeping him supplied with these as well as quills for his pen. This morning I mixed the powder and water to make more ink and brought it up with his pint of ale. This seemed to please him, although he did not stop writing, even for a moment.
I brought him a footstove filled with hot coals to help him keep warm and prevent his toes from getting numb. It is quite cold in his room.
Mr. Armstrong ran Mr. Wilson’s article with a black border around it.
Three Little Girls
Yesterday Mrs. Nelson’s three little girls lost their lives due to a most unfortunate accident. Mrs. Nelson ordered some medicine from Mr. Clapham, the apothecary, and the wrong medicine was sent by mistake. No one knows yet where the fault lies.
The three little girls were suffering severely from the throat distemper that has plagued the town recently. Dr. Endicott tried bleeding them but that did nothing to relieve their pain and discomfort, which continued as before. It was the hope that the medicine would provide the answer.
The medicine was administered to the t
hree unfortunate children as soon as it arrived. Much to everyone’s shock all three went into violent convulsions immediately and died within hours. Dr. Endicott was sent for but there was nothing he could do.
Mrs. Nelson is terribly melancholy and Mrs. Thompson is with her.
FIRE BELLS
WAR IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER
SENDING A BOY TO DO A MAN’S JOB
CHAOS REIGNS
Fire Bells
There was a dreadful fire last night near Copp’s Hill. Fire bells rang out through the night. The small wooden houses are so closely crowded together that nearly every one was burned to the ground, even though the firemen arrived on the scene with their pumping engines and worked with great haste.
It was only thanks to their valiant efforts that some of the houses were saved and the fire was prevented from spreading to other parts of town. They used their axes and hooks to tear down dwellings that were already burnt beyond saving in order to save others not yet touched, but in the fire’s path.
Their work was made more difficult by the darkness of the moonless night.
Finally, by dawn, the blaze had died out, thankfully no wind blowing up to rekindle the embers.
Last week ten soldiers, all tied one to the other, were whipped on the Common. Their backs were bared despite the cold, and some, who could not take it, fell to the ground crying out and pleading for mercy.
Mr. Wilson asked me if I knew how to ride. At first I thought he was joking with me. I thought everyone knew how to ride. But as it turns out, Mr. Wilson has never had occasion to learn.
Now, he says, it would be best if he knew how — it might come in handy soon, was how he put it. He asked if I would give him a lesson or two. I agreed and Mr. Monk, who is busy night and day repairing firearms, is going to have Blue, his most surefooted mare, ready for us in the morning. Blue doesn’t look blue — she’s reddish brown — just that she always looks like she’s feeling blue. That’s why Mr. Monk calls her Blue.
A True Patriot Page 6