Cilla never lifted her eyes as she put down her brush and very deliberately picked up a hair ribbon (the Laphams couldn't afford such luxuries, but somehow Cilla always managed to keep her little sister in hair ribbons). Very carefully she began to tie the child's halo of pale curls. She spoke to Isannah in so low a voice it was almost a whisper.
'There goes that wonderful Johnny Tremain.'
Isannah took her cue, already so excited she was jumping up and down.
'Johnny worth-his-weight-in-gold Tremain.'
'If you don't think he is wonderful—ask him, Isannah.'
'Oh, just how wonderful are you, Johnny?'
Johnny said nothing, stood there and grinned.
The two youngest Laphams were always insulting him, not only about how smart he was, but how smart he thought he was. He didn't care. Every now and then they would say something that irritated him and then together they would shout, 'Johnny's mad.'
As an apprentice he was little more than a slave until he had served his master seven years. He had no wages. The very clothes upon his back belonged to his master, but he did not, as he himself said, 'take much.'
There were only four real rooms in the Lapham house, the two bedrooms on the second floor, the kitchen and the workshop on the first. Johnny paused in the lower entry. In the kitchen he could see his formidable mistress bent double over the hearth. Madge, in time, would look like her mother, but at eighteen she was handsome in a coarse-grained, red-faced, thick-waisted way. Dorcas was sixteen, built like Madge, but not so loud-voiced, nor as roughly good-natured. Poor Dorcas thirsted for elegance. She would rub flour on her face, trying to look pale, like the fashionable ladies she saw on the street. She wore her clothes so tight (hoping to look ethereal), she looked apoplectic. How they all had laughed when her stays burst in the middle of meeting with a loud pop! She did not call her mother 'Ma,' but 'Mother,' or 'Respected Mother'; and in her efforts to avoid the rough, easy speech of her associates on Hancock's Wharf she talked (when she remembered it) in a painfully prissy, proper way.
Johnny thought Madge pretty bad, and Dorcas even worse. But he was philosophical about them. He wouldn't mind having them for sisters. They certainly were good hard workers—except when Dorcas tried too hard to be elegant.
It had already been decided that when he grew up to be a really great silversmith (as Mr. Lapham said he would), he was to marry Cilla and together they would inherit Grandpa's silver business. Cilla was just his age. This idea seemed only mildly offensive to both of them. Johnny had no particular objections. Smart apprentices were always getting ahead by marrying into their masters' families. He had been flattered when Mrs. Lapham had told him that he might marry one of her girls. Of course, Madge and Dorcas (they were fine, big buxom girls) would make better wives. But didn't he think they were a little old for him? True, Cilla was just a mite spindly—but she was coming along fine. Isannah was so weakly it didn't seem worth making any plans for her maturity. So it was to be Cilla.
Johnny had often heard Mrs. Lapham say that Isannah was hardly worth the bother she was to raise. The little girl, her beautiful brown eyes wide with interest, never seemed to mind these remarks of her mother, but they made Cilla cry. Cilla loved Isannah. She was proud when people stopped her on the street and said, 'Is that little angel your sister?' She did not mind that there were so many things Isannah could not 'keep down'—like pork gravy, mince pies, new beer. If Isannah got wet, she had a cold—if a cold, a fever.
First Johnny, with a customary 'Look sharp,' got the sulky Dove and his buckets headed for North Square. Then he took the key to the shop out of his pocket as though he owned it. Dusty, good and quiet as a mouse, followed him.
'Look sharp, Dusty,' Johnny said. 'Get the annealing furnace going. Get to the coal house. Fetch in charcoal. You'll have to do it by yourself. I want to get this buckle mended before breakfast.'
Already the day's bustle had begun up and down the wharf: A man was crying fish. Sailors were heave-hoing at their ropes. A woman was yelling that her son had fallen into the water. A parrot said distinctly, 'King Hancock.'
Johnny could smell hemp and spices, tar and salt water, the sun drying fish. He liked his wharf. He sat at his own bench, before him the innumerable tools of his trade. The tools fitted into his strong, thin hands: his hands fitted the tools. Mr. Lapham was always telling him to give God thanks who had seen fit to make him so good an artisan—not to take it out in lording it over the other boys. That was one of the things Johnny 'did not let bother him much.'
Dove came back, his thick lower lip thrust out. The water had slopped over his breeches, down his legs.
'Mrs. Lapham does not want you in the kitchen?'—Johnny did not even look up from his buckle.
'Naw.'
'Well, then, this spoon you finished yesterday afternoon has to be melted down—made over. You beat it to the wrong gauge.'
'Did Mr. Lapham say 'twas wrong?'
'No, but it is. It is supposed to match this spoon. Look at it.'
Dove looked. There was no argument.
'So get out a crucible. 'Soon as Dusty's got the furnace going, you melt it down and try again.'
I'd like to get you in a crucible, thought Dove, and melt you down. I'd beat you to the proper gauge ... Two years younger than me and look at him!
It was Isannah who ran in to tell them that Grandpa was in his chair and breakfast was on the table. The soft brown eyes combined oddly with the flying fair hair. She did look rather like a little angel, Johnny thought—just as people were always telling Cilla on the street—and so graceful. She seemed to float about rather than run.
No one, to see her, would ever guess the number of things she couldn't keep down.
2
Mr. Lapham, as befitted his venerable years and his dignity as master of the house, sat in an armchair at the head of the table. He was a peaceful, kind, remote old man. Although his daughter-in-law was always nagging him to collect bills, finish work when promised, and discipline his apprentices, nothing she said seemed to touch him. He did not even bother to listen.
His dull, groping eyes lingered kindly over his boys as they trooped in for breakfast.
'Good morning, Dove, Dusty. Good morning, Johnny.'
'Good morning, sir.'
He took his time blessing the meal. He was a deacon at the Cockerel Church and very pious.
Breakfast was good, although no more than a poor artisan could afford—milk and ale, gruel, sausages, and corn bread. Everything was plentiful and well cooked. The kitchen was as clean or cleaner than many of those in the great houses. Every member of the household had a clean shirt or petticoat. Mrs. Lapham was a great manager, but she cared nothing for genteel manners and was the first to laugh at Dorcas's 'If it please you, Mother—just a touch more maple syrup for me.' 'Gimme that there syrup pitcher' was good enough for her.
When the meal was over, Mr. Lapham told Madge to hand him the family Bible.
'Johnny, I'm going to ask you to read to us today.'
Of the three boys, only Johnny read easily and well. His mother had lived long enough to see to that. Dove stumbled shamefully. Dusty usually had the first chapter of Genesis, so that by reading the same thing over and over he might eventually learn.
Madge and Dorcas never cared even to try to read. Mrs. Lapham could not so much as write her name. 'Book larning,' she declared, 'scalded no pigs.' Cilla was so anxious to learn (and teach Isannah) that whenever Johnny read she leaned over the book and shaped the words to herself as he said them. They sat beside each other at table. To help her Johnny always kept a finger on the lines as he read.
Johnny now opened the book, keeping it between himself and Cilla.
'Where, sir, shall I read?'
Mr. Lapham's selections for his boys were sometimes designed to point out some fault in a member of his household, especially in the reader. Dove was always being asked to read about sluggards and going to ants.
Johnny was told where t
o begin in Leviticus.
'Ye shall make you no idols nor graven image, neither rear you up a standing image ...' (What was old master driving at? Couldn't a silversmith put a dragon's snout on a chocolate pot?)
Soon the surging roll of the words, the pleasure of the sound of his voice coming so clearly out of his mouth, made him stop looking for possible object lessons in the text. Cilla was leaning over him, breathing hard in her efforts to keep up. Mrs. Lapham sat agape. Soon she'd be saying it was just like having a preacher live with them to hear Johnny Tremain read Holy Writ.
'Finish with the nineteenth verse.'
'... And I will break the pride of your power; and I will make your heaven as iron, and your earth as brass.'
'Turn to Proverbs eleven, second verse.'
'When pride cometh, then cometh shame: but with the lowly is wisdom.'
'Proverbs sixteen, eighteenth.'
'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.'
'Now close the book. Stand up and expound to us all the meaning of God's Word.'
Johnny stood up. His skin was thin and he could feel himself flush. So the old gentleman was after him for his pride again, was he?
'It is all another way of saying—God's way of saying—that pride goeth before a fall.'
'Yes, and why?'
'Because God doesn't like pride.' Johnny sounded sulky.
'Do you think God would like you?'
'Not especially.'
Dusty was the first to snicker.
'What does God like?'
'Humble people,' said Johnny wrathfully. 'He sends punishments to people who are too proud.'
'Now, Johnny, I want you to raise your right hand and repeat after me, "I, Johnny Tremain..." '
'I, Johnny Tremain...'
'Swear from this day onward...'
'Swear from this day onward...'
'To walk more humbly and modestly before God and man.'
'To walk more humbly and modestly before God and man.'
'Just because some folks are not so smart' (the old master gave Dove and Dusty a pitying glance), 'it's no reason why other folks should go around rubbing their noses in their own stupidities.'
Either Dove or Dusty kicked Johnny under the table. Madge and Dorcas were giggling. Mrs. Lapham was already scraping the trenchers clean, getting on with her work. She did not hold much by Grandpa's soul-searchings.
The master, followed by Dove and Dusty, left for the shop.
Johnny heard Cilla give an exaggeratedly pious sigh. He stopped.
'When the meek inherit the earth,' she said, 'I doubt Johnny gets as much as one divot of sod.'
This was too much for Johnny. He turned on the little girls.
When they do!' he stormed. 'Cill, you can just about keep your mouth shut until then.'
'You know you did look pretty funny standing up there, and saying all those humble things Grandpa told you to.'
Isannah was almost jumping out of her pinafore in glee.
'Johnny's mad,' she chanted. 'Johnny's mad.'
'Yes,' murmured Cilla, looking at him critically, 'you're right, baby dear. His ears are red. That always means he's mad.'
'Johnny's ears are red,' squealed Isannah.
Johnny stalked out of the kitchen as stiff-legged as a fighting tom-cat. His ears were scarlet.
3
He decided to do nothing that would lay him open to such criticism for at least a morning, but he couldn't help it. First, if he had not jumped on Dusty, the furnace would have gone out. Then he had to explain to his master how badly Dove had done the spoon. Although he tried to sound humble, he was soon behaving perfectly naturally, standing over Mr. Lapham with his notebook in his hand, reading off exactly how those spoons had been ordered.
Mr. Lapham was a fine craftsman. His weakness was that he never wrote down what was ordered or even listened very carefully. If a patron ordered a sauceboat, he would get a fine one—perhaps a month after it had been promised. Sometimes it weighed a little more, sometimes a little less, than it was supposed to. Sometimes it had splayed feet when a gadroon edge had been asked for. Mrs. Lapham herself had told Johnny he must always be on hand and write down exactly what the order was. This was necessary, but it did seem cheeky to see the fourteen-year-old boy standing there, telling his master what he was supposed to do.
Johnny, having started everybody off on his work (even Mr. Lapham), decided to go to the coal house and see if he should order more charcoal. It was such things Mr. Lapham never thought about until too late.
There were two basketfuls of charcoal and at least half another scattered over the floor. That was the other boys' fault. Johnny himself was too valuable to carry charcoal. He started to yell for Dusty, thought better of it, and went to work arranging the dirty stuff himself.
When he was a master craftsman, he wasn't going to buy charcoal by the basket. He was going to own his own willows—say, out in Milton. That would save—say, twopence a basket. In a year—he began to figure. And he wouldn't take just any boy whose father or mother wanted him to be a silversmith. He'd pick and choose. He saw himself sitting at his bench, his shop crowded with boys with mothers, boys with fathers, all begging to be allowed to work for him. He'd not talk to the parents—only to the boys. What church did they go to? King's Chapel? All right. Describe to me at least one piece of silver you see used every Lord's Supper. If they could not answer that, he'd know they hadn't got silver in their blood. But how could he find which boys had nice hands...?
'Johnny!' It was Madge's voice that pulled him out of his reverie.
He wiped his black hands on his leather breeches and stepped out into the sunlight of the tiny back yard.
'What is it, my girl?' He often thus arrogantly addressed his master's granddaughters—really his own mistresses.
'Ma sent me. Johnny, it's Mr. Hancock himself. He's in the shop ordering something. Stand by and listen or Grandpa will get it wrong.'
Dorcas next flung herself upon him, too excited to be elegant.
'Johnny, hurry, hurry! It's Mr. Hancock. He's ordering a sugar basin. Can't you go faster? Shake a leg.'
Isannah was jumping about him like a wild thing.
'Help, help!' she shrieked.
But it was Cilla who thought to offer him her clean apron for a towel as he washed off the charcoal at the yard pump.
Oh, but he must hurry! And there was Mrs. Lapham tapping at him from the kitchen window. Slowly he approached the house, the girls chattering about him.
Close to the shop door was a tiny African holding a slender gray horse by the bridle. Johnny noted the Hancock arms on the door of the gig. He felt so good he could not help saying to the black child, 'Mind that horse doesn't trample our flowers.'
There were no flowers in the Laphams' yard.
'Oh, no, sir,' said little Jehu, rolling his eyes. He thought, from the attention this boy was receiving from his escorting ladies, he must be a boy of consequence.
Johnny slipped into the shop so quietly that Mr. Hancock did not even look up. It was he who owned this great wharf, the warehouses, many of the fine ships tied up along it. He owned sail lofts and shops, and also dwelling houses standing at the head of the wharf. He owned the Lapham house. He was the richest man in New England. Such a wealthy patron might lift the Laphams from poverty to affluence.
Mr. Hancock was comfortably seated in the one armchair which was kept in the shop for patrons. (When I'm master, thought Johnny, there are going to be two armchairs—and I'll sit in one.)
Unobtrusively Johnny got his notebook and pencil. Dove and Dusty were paralyzed into complete inaction. 'Do something,' Johnny muttered to them, determined his master's shop should look busy. Dusty could not take his eyes off the green velvet coat, sprigged white waistcoat, silver buttons and buckles on the great man, but he picked up a soldering iron and nervously dropped it.
'...and to be done next Monday—a week from today,' Mr. Hancock was saying. 'I want it as
a birthday present to my venerable Aunt Lydia Hancock. This is the creamer of the set. Only this morning a clumsy maid melted the sugar basin. I want you to make me a new one. I want it about so high ... so broad...' Johnny glanced at the delicate, lace-ruffled, gesturing hands, guessed the inches, and wrote it down.
Mr. Lapham was looking down at his own gnarled fingers. He nodded and said nothing. He did not even glance at the cream pitcher as Mr. Hancock set it down on a workbench. Johnny's hard, delicate hands, so curiously strong and mature for his age, reached quickly to touch the beautiful thing. It was almost as much by touch as by sight he judged fine silver. It was indeed old-fashioned, more elaborate than the present mode. The garlands on it were rounded out in repoussé work. Mr. Lapham would have to do the repousséing. Johnny hadn't been taught that. He looked at the handle. A sugar basin would have to have two such handles and they would be larger than the one on the creamer. He'd shape it in wax, make a mold. He had cast hundreds of small things since he had gone to work for Mr. Lapham, but nothing so intricate and beautiful as the woman with folded wings whose body formed the handle. He thought he had never seen anything quite so enchanting as this pitcher. It must have been the work of one of the great smiths of forty or fifty years ago. Although he had not intended to address Mr. Hancock, he had said, before he thought, 'John Coney, sir?'
Mr. Hancock turned to him. He had a handsome face, a little worn, as though either his health was bad or he did not sleep well.
'Look at the mark, boy.'
Johnny turned it over, expecting to see the familiar rabbit of the great Mr. Coney. Instead, there was a pellet, and 'L,' and a pellet.
'Your master made that creamer—forty years ago. He made the entire set.'
'You made it!' He had never guessed there had been a time when Mr. Lapham could do such beautiful work.
At last Mr. Lapham raised his protuberant eyes. 'I remember when your uncle, Mr. Thomas Hancock, sir, ordered that set. "Make it big, and make it handsome," he said, "bigger and handsomer than anything in Boston. As big and handsome as my lady is. Make it as rich as I am." '
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