'Good evening, Johnny Tremain.' The boy had long admired Mr. Revere as the best craftsman in Boston. He had no idea Mr. Revere knew his name. He did not know all the master silversmiths had an eye on him.
'Mr. Revere, I'd like to talk with you.'
'Man to man,' Mr. Revere agreed, opening his shop door, motioning Johnny to follow him.
Johnny's eyes flew about the shop, taking in the fine anvils, the hood upon the annealing furnace, the neat nests of crucibles. It was just such a shop he would himself have when he was man-grown. Not much like Mr. Lapham's.
Although Paul Revere was as busy a man as there was in all Boston, he took everything so easily in his stride (doing the one thing after another) that he never seemed rushed, so now, because an apprentice stopped him on the street and said he wanted to talk to him, he appeared to have all the time in the world.
'Sir,' said Johnny, 'it's a matter of handles.' He took the silver pitcher out of the cloth he had wrapped it in and his own wax model and explained Mr. Hancock's order.
'So you want to talk to me as a silversmith to silversmith, do you?' He had Johnny's wax model in his hands—delicate hands to go with such heavy wrists. 'What does your master say of your work?'
'Mr. Lapham won't even look at it much. But he says it's good enough and I can go ahead and cast tomorrow. I've got to cast tomorrow because it's Saturday and we can't work Sunday, and it must be done Monday at seven. Although my master thinks it's all right, I'm not sure...'
'He is wrong and you are right. Look, you've just copied the handle on the pitcher too slavishly—just enlarged it. Don't you see that your winged woman looks coarse in comparison? I'd have the figures the same size on both pieces—fill in with a scroll. Then, too, your curve is wrong. The basin is so much bigger you cannot use the same curve. Yours looks hunched up and awkward. It's all a matter of proportion.' He took up a piece of paper and a pencil and drew off what he meant with one sure sweep of his hand. 'I'd use a curve more like that—see? This is what I meant when I said I'd add a scroll or two below the figure of the winged woman—not just enlarge her so she looks like a Boston fishwife in comparison to the angel on the pitcher. See?'
'I see.'
The man looked at him a little curiously.
'There was a time,' he said, 'when your own master could have shown you that.'
'Mr. Lapham is ... well ... he's feeble.'
'Not doing very much work these days?'
'Not what you'd call much.' Johnny felt on the defensive. 'Not much fine hollow ware. Plenty of buckles, spoons, and such.'
'How many boys?'
'Three of us, sir.'
'I'd hardly think he'd need three. Now, if he wants to cut down, you tell him from me that I'll buy your unexpired time. I think between us we could make some fine things—you and I.'
The boy flushed. To think the great Paul Revere wanted him!
'Tell your master I'll pay a bit more than is usual for you. Don't let him shunt one of those other boys off on me.'
He stood up. It was time for Johnny to go.
'I couldn't leave the Laphams, sir,' he said as he thanked Mr. Revere. 'If it wasn't for me, nothing would ever get done. They'd just about starve.'
'I see. You're right, of course. But if the old gentleman dies or you ever want a new master, remember my offer. So...' and he turned to shake hands, 'may we meet again.'
2
By Saturday noon, Johnny, following Mr. Revere's advice and his curve, had got the model of the handle exactly right. He could tell with his eyes closed. It felt perfect. He rapidly made a duplicate, for when the molten silver was poured in on the wax, it would melt and float away, so he made a model for each handle.
Now, no matter how long it took him (and if all went well it should not be too long), he must get his handles cast, cleaned, and soldered to the basin itself which Mr. Lapham had made. Of course, on Sunday the shop would be locked up all day, the furnace cold. Mr. Lapham would as always escort his household, dressed in Sunday best, to the Cockerel Church and after that back for a cold dinner. Whether they went again or not to afternoon meeting, the master left for each to decide. He himself always went. Madge and Dorcas usually entertained their beaux. Mrs. Lapham slept. Cilla would take Isannah out along the little beach. Johnny, Dove, and Dusty were apt to steal off for a swim, although Mr. Lapham had no idea of it. He thought they sat quietly at home and that Johnny read the Bible out loud to them.
So Sunday was out. But if he got up at three or four Monday morning, he would have time to clean his work before he took it over to Mr. Hancock at seven.
After Saturday dinner, Mr. Lapham as usual prepared for a snooze, stretched out in the one armchair in the shop, with his basket over his head to keep off the flies. Perhaps Johnny's tyranny during the week had irritated the old gentleman—who never believed it made the least difference to anyone when anything was finished.
'Dove, Dusty,' Johnny was yelling, 'build up the furnace, fetch in charcoal. Hi! you lazy, good-for-nothing dish-mops.'
Dove ran out to the coal house. There was a queer, pleased look on his face when he returned.
'Charcoal all gone, Master Johnny.'
'Gone!'
'Yep. I haven't said anything because you always like to take charge of things like that 'round here.'
'Get a basket! Quick! Run to Mr. Hamblin over on Long Wharf. Try Mrs. Hitchbourn down on Hitchbourn's Wharf. You've got to get charcoal. Hurry!'
Dove did not hurry. It was getting on toward sunset when at last he came back, pushing his big basket on a wheelbarrow.
It was the worst-looking charcoal Johnny had ever seen.
'This isn't what we silversmiths use. This is fourth-rate stuff—fit for iron—maybe. You know that, Dove.'
'Naw. Not me. I don't know anything—see? You're always telling me.'
'I want willow charcoal.'
'You never said so.'
'I'll go myself, but this delay means we'll be working in lamplight and up to midnight. You are the stupidest animal God ever made—if He made you, which I doubt. Why your mother didn't drown you when you were a pup, I can't imagine. Come Lord's day and I have a spare moment, I'm going to give you such a hiding for your infernal low-down skulking tricks, you'll be...'
The basket over Mr. Lapham's head moved. He laid it down.
'Boys,' he said mildly, 'you quarrel all the time.'
Johnny, in angry mouthfuls, told him what he thought about Dove and the charcoal, and threw in a cutting remark about Dusty.
The old master said, 'Dove, I want to speak to Johnny alone.' And then, 'Johnny, I don't want you to be always riding them boys so hard. Dove tries, but he's stupid. Ain't his fault, is it? If God had wanted him bright He would have made him that way. We're all poor worms. You're getting above yourself—like I tried to point out to you. God is going to send you a dire punishment for your pride.'
'Yes, sir.'
'One trouble with you is you haven't been up against any boys as good as yourself—or better, maybe. Because you're the best young one in this shop—or on Hancock's Wharf—you think you're the best one in the world.'
Johnny was so anxious to be on with the work—tediously delayed by Dove's tricks—he hardly listened.
'And, boy, don't you go get all fretted up over what's after all nothing but an order for silver. It's sinful to let yourself go so over mundane things. Now I want you to set quietly and memorize them verses I had you read about pride. Work's over for the day.'
'What?'
'Yep. It always was the old-fashioned way to start Lord's Day at sunset on Saturday and I've decided to re-establish the habit in my house.'
'Mr. Lapham, we've got to work this evening. We've promised Mr. Hancock.'
'I doubt God cares even a little bit whether Mr. Hancock has any silver. It's better to break faith with him, isn't it, than with the Lord?'
Johnny was tired. His head was ringing. His hands shook a little. He walked out of the shop, slamming the d
oor after him, and stormed into the kitchen. He knew Mrs. Lapham did not take much stock in her father-in-law's pious ways. She and all four girls were in the kitchen. Madge was frying corn meal, Dorcas wringing out a cheesecloth. Cilla was setting the table, and Isannah playing with the cat.
Mrs. Lapham looked at him. 'Boy, have you seen a ghost?'
Johnny sat and told his story. He was beyond his customary abusive eloquence.
The girls stared at him with piteous open mouths. Mrs. Lapham's jaw set grimly.
'Dorcas, shut that door. Don't let your grandpa hear. Johnny—how many more work-hours will you need?'
'Seven—maybe. I can get two Monday morning.'
'You shall have them. Sabbath or no Sabbath, that sugar basin is going to be done on time. I'm not letting any old-fashioned, fussy notions upset the best order we've had for ten years. And if Mr. Hancock is pleased, he may come again and again. I can't have my poor, fatherless girls starve just to please Grandpa. Listen now to me.'
Sunday afternoon Mr. Lapham was not only going to the second service, as usual, but there was to be a meeting of the deacons, a cold supper afterward, and a prayer service at the pastor's. 'That's where you get them five hours, Johnny—tomorrow afternoon.'
Johnny knew that working on the Sabbath was against the law as well as against all his religious training. He might very well go to the stocks or to Hell for it, but when Mrs. Lapham said, 'Darest to, Johnny?' he said, 'I darest.'
'Not a word to the old gentleman, mind.'
'Not a word.'
'Girls, if you so much as peep...'
'Oh, no, Ma.'
Dove and Dusty were to be bribed into service by the promise of delivering the basin to Mr. Hancock when done. He always gave money to boys who brought things to the house.
Mrs. Lapham was breathing hard, but she had the matter well in hand. It was settled.
'Isannah,' she said quietly, 'you call Grandpa and the boys in to supper. Cilla, run down cellar and fetch cold ale.'
Her mouth and the folds about it, even her nose and eyes, were like iron.
3
Sunday afternoon and the work went forward with never a hitch. Even Dove and Dusty were good and obedient, although Dove was half-threatening to tell 'old Grandpa' when he got home. Johnny did not care what his master might say—only, please God, the basin were done and Mr. Hancock come again and again with his rich orders. If Mr. Lapham was angry, he could sell Johnny's time to Paul Revere.
The four girls, still dressed in their pretty go-to meeting frocks, watched him with fascinated, admiring eyes. Their mother sent them out-of-doors. Did the smoke from the furnace show from the wharf? From Fish Street? Did they hear any comments?
Having found for himself the proper willow charcoal, Johnny went quickly ahead with his casting. He set his two wax models in wet sand. The furnace was piping hot. His hands were very sure. He was confident he could do the work, yet inside he was keyed up and jumpy.
Mrs. Lapham fussed about him and he ordered her to do simple things.
'Not the draft yet, Mrs. Lapham ... now get to work with the bellows.'
Once he even told her to 'look sharp,' and she took it with a humble 'Yes, Johnny.'
'Now fetch me the crucible.'
She turned to Dove. 'Which one does he want, boy?'
'I'll get her down.'
Dove went to the shelves where the crucibles for melting silver were kept. Johnny did not see Dove standing on a stool, reaching far back and carefully taking out a cracked crucible. Dusty saw him and giggled. He knew the crack in it was so small it was hard even to see. It might stand the heat of the furnace, but the chances were that it would not. That was why Mr. Lapham had put it so far back. Both he and Dove thought it would just about serve Johnny Tremain right—after the insufferable way he had been bossing everybody—if the crucible gave way and the hot silver did spill all over the top of the furnace. It would certainly make Johnny look like a fool, after all his fussing.
Johnny took the cracked crucible in his trusting hands, put in it silver ingots, set it on top of the furnace.
Cilla flew in. 'Ma, there's a man looking at our chimney.'
'How's he dressed?'
'Seafaring man.'
'No seafaring man ever objected to a little Sabbath-breaking. But mind if you see any deacons or constables.'
The work went on.
Isannah sat with the cat in her lap. 'Johnny's going to Hell,' she said firmly. Johnny himself thought this was possible.
He called to Mrs. Lapham to 'look sharp' and put the old silver turnip watch where he could see it. The silver must be run at a certain speed and be allowed to cool for just so long.
Mrs. Lapham was so slavishly eager to help him, he almost felt fond of her. He did not notice Dusty and Dove snickering in a corner.
Some of the beeswax he had used for his models had been left too near the furnace. It had melted and run over the floor. Johnny had been taught to clean up as he went along, but today he was in too much of a hurry to bother.
'Johnny,' cried Mrs. Lapham, 'isn't it time to pour? Look, the silver is melted and begun to wink.' It was true.
He moved forward delicately, his right hand outstretched. The crucible began to settle—collapse, the silver was running over the top of the furnace like spilled milk. Johnny jumped toward it, his right hand still outstretched. Something happened, he never knew exactly what. His feet went out from under him. His hand came down on the top of the furnace.
The burn was so terrible he at first felt no pain, but stood stupidly looking at his hand. For one second, before the metal cooled, the inside of his right hand, from wrist to fingertips, was coated with solid silver. He looked at the back of his hand. It was as always. Then he smelled burned flesh. The room blackened and tipped around him. He heard a roaring in his ears.
When he came to, he was stretched out upon the floor. Dorcas was trying to pour brandy down his throat. Mrs. Lapham had plunged the burned hand into a panful of flour and was yelling at Madge to hurry with her bread poultice.
He saw Cilla's face. It was literally green. 'Ma,' she said, licking her white lips, 'shall I run for Doctor Warren?'
'No—no ... oh, wait, I've got to think. I don't want any of them doctors to know we was breaking Sabbath Day. And we don't need no doctor for just a burn. Cilla, you run down the wharf and you fetch that old midwife, Gran' Hopper. These old women know better than any doctor how to cure things like this. Johnny, how you feel?'
'All right.'
'Hurt yet?'
'Not yet.'
He knew it would later.
4
Johnny lay in the 'birth and death room.' This was hardly more than a closet with a tiny window off the kitchen, used for storage except in times of sickness. His hand had been done up in a linseed poultice. The smell of the linseed was stifling, and now, on the second day, the pain had really begun. His arm throbbed to the shoulder. Gran' Hopper was in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Lapham.
'Mind you keep that poultice wet. Just leave it wrapped up and wet it now and then with lime water. There's more luck than anything else in things like this is. If it don't come along good, I'll make a charm.'
Not many years before, Gran' Hopper would have been hanged for a witch. She had the traditional venerable years, the toothless cackle, the mustache. Nor was she above resorting to charms. But she had had vast experience. No doctor in Boston knew more than she about midwifery and children's diseases. So far she had done as well as any of them, except for one thing. The hand had been allowed to draw together—turn in on itself. It was less painful than if it had been held out flat.
By the fourth day ulceration had set in. This was considered Nature's way of healing an injury. Gran' Hopper gave him laudanum and more laudanum. There followed drowsy days and nights that ran together, a ceaseless roaring in the ears. There was nothing left of him but the pain and the drug.
The fever abated and with it the doses of the drug. Johnny had no
t once looked at his hand since he had stood before the furnace and seen it lined with silver. Gran' Hopper said on the next day she would unwrap it and see, as she cheerfully put it, 'what was left.'
Thus far the pain and the drug and the fever had dulled his mind. He had not thought about the future, for of what use to anyone was a cripple-handed silversmith? But that night Gran' Hopper's words haunted him. Next day she would see 'what was left.'
He was utterly unprepared for the sight of his hand when finally it was unwrapped and lay in the midwife's aproned lap. Mrs. Lapham, Madge, Dorcas, all had crowded into the little birth and death room. Cilla and Isannah were in the kitchen, too frightened to go near him.
'My!' said Madge, 'isn't that funny-looking? The top part, Johnny, looks all right, although a little narrow, but, Johnny, your thumb and palm have grown together.'
This was true. He bent and twisted his fingers. He could not get the thumb to meet the forefinger. Such a hand was completely useless. For the first time he faced the fact that his hand was crippled.
'Oh, let me see!' Dorcas was leaning over him. She gave her most elegant little screech of horror, just like a great lady who has seen a mouse.
'My!' said Mrs. Lapham, 'that's worse than anything I had imagined. Now isn't that a shame! Bright boy like Johnny just ruined. No more good than a horse with sprung knees.'
Johnny did not stay to hear more. That morning he had dressed (with Mrs. Lapham's competent help) for the first time. He got up, stood facing them stiffly, his bad hand jammed into his breeches pocket.
'I'm going out,' he said thickly.
Cilla and Isannah sat close together in a frightened huddle, staring at him, not daring to speak. He said rudely, 'You should have come in too—and seen the fun.'
Cilla gaped at him, tried to say something, but only swallowed.
'You two—sitting there—looking like a couple of fishes.'
He slammed the front door after him. He had always been bad about slamming doors. In the fresh air he felt better. He pretended not to hear Mrs. Lapham calling him from a window to come right back. All Fish Street could hear when Mrs. Lapham called. He paid no heed.
Johnny Tremain Page 4