Not since the soldiers had come to Boston had Johnny removed his hat when the British flag went by except once when it had been knocked off his head by a soldier. He started to remove it now—for the first time and doubtless the last. Thought better of it—It was too late. He knew the shooting had begun.
The sword in Earl Percy's hand flashed. There was a command which was instantly picked up and repeated and echoed and repeated again. The regimental drummers struck up. The artillery horses threw their weight against their collars. Wagoners cracked their whips and the scarlet dragon swung forward, sluggishly at first, heading for the town gates. Thousands of separate feet merged into only one gigantic pair. Left, right, left, right. The earth shook to their rhythm. Johnny watched them pass. Every button was sewed on. Every buckle in place. Every cartridge box held exactly thirty-six cartridges. Every musket had a bayonet, and there was not one old fowling piece among them. Every horse had four new shoes. It was a magnificent sight, but Johnny felt a little sick.
What chance—what shadow of a chance—had those poor, untrained, half-armed farmers at Concord? O God, be with us now. But even as he prayed, he kept an eye out for the regimental markings on the men's uniforms. It was the Fourth, the Twenty-Third, and the Forty-Seventh who were being sent out, plus five hundred marines, plus a small artillery train, and a few baggage wagons. Twelve hundred for a guess.
The drums throbbed. The heavy dragon marched on its thousands of feet, and now above the drums came the shrilling of the fifes. They played a tune they always played when they wished to insult Yankees. For once more Yankee Doodle was going to town on a spanking stallion, with that forlorn feather in his cap, asking those unmilitary questions.
Poor Yankee Doodle. Whatever could he do against this great scarlet dragon?
3
The hundreds gathered to see the departure of the brigade stood about gazing at the empty space they had occupied. Far away, growing faint and fainter, came wafting back the last sound of the tune they played. A man, standing by Johnny with clenched hands and head thrust down and out like a bull's, said thickly, 'They go out by "Yankee Doodle," but they'll dance to it before night.'
Johnny saw a group of women, and they were nodding their heads, whispering a prophecy, 'Before night they'll be dancing.' This catch-phrase was everywhere. It did not seem to have gone from mouth to mouth, but from mind to mind.
Old Meeting struck nine. Earl Percy and his laggard brigade were gone.
This day, this unreal day, in which Boston waited hour upon hour for news—any news, good or bad—was well begun. Suddenly, people were saying, 'Have you heard? At sunrise this morning over at Lexington the British fired on us.' No one seemed to know where this rumor had started, but it was everywhere.
Although half of Gage's forces had left town for the battlefield, there were more officers than usual hanging about the streets and taverns. And their faces were so bland and they reassured the people so glibly that not a shot had been fired, not a person killed and begged all and sundry so smoothly to keep calm and go to their shops or their homes, Johnny was confident that the British as well as the inhabitants had heard now that the war had begun.
And by noon little bands of soldiers appeared on the streets going quickly from house to house. Too late General Gage had given orders that the leaders of the opposition should be arrested. But the leaders were all gone. The angry, frustrated soldiers might scare Sam Adams's black handmaiden out of her wits. They could break John Hancock's fence. But these gentlemen had quietly left Boston a month before. They stormed into Joseph Warren's house. He was gone. And so was Paul Revere. Not one of the principal leaders was left. And seemingly no rebel printers. Isaiah Thomas's shop was empty. He and his press had left the night before. At Edes and Gill's, where the Boston Gazette was published, they did grab young Peter Edes. His father and press had been smuggled out to Watertown.
Robert Newman, suspected of having hung the lanterns in Christ's Church the night before, was thrown into jail, and John Pulling, merely suspected of having helped, was forced to hide in his grandmother's wine butt. Paul Revere's cousin was in jail. And every minute the temper of the soldiers was growing shorter and a queer feeling of jubilation was apparent among the people. You couldn't see, you couldn't guess, why they began feeling so confident. Confidence was in the air.
As soon as Johnny heard that arresting parties were on the streets, he sent a message to Uncle Lorne. Uncle had best make himself scarce. Soon after, having stood about the jail and noted exactly who was put in it, he himself headed for Salt Lane. There was not a person on the street, but at every window he saw a face. The lane itself had changed. He glanced about him and saw what was wrong. There was no little man in a blue coat observing Boston through a spyglass. The familiar sign had been torn down, stamped to kindling. The door of the shop was shattered. He went in. The presses were broken. The type pied. Upstairs his and Rab's bed had been ripped open by bayonets. Frightened, he ran across the street.
Aunt Jenifer sat in her kitchen. Half in her lap and half on the floor was an enormous feather bed. She was peacefully sticking on it a new ticking. The only unusual thing was the great number of feathers this deft housewife had carelessly spilled over her kitchen floor.
Rabbit, enchanted with these new toys, was constantly picking up a feather, putting it in his hair, and saying, 'Yankee-do.'
'They've been here?' asked Johnny.
'Yes. Are they gone?'
'Not one in sight.'
'We got your message just as they were turning down Salt Lane.'
The feather bed began to heave on the floor.
'You can come out now,' Aunt Jenifer whispered to it.
Out of the bottom rolled Uncle Lorne, choked with feathers and looking more bird than human. Rabbit shrieked, 'Da, Da.' He evidently thought his father much improved. Still trembling, for Uncle Lorne was a timid man, he kissed his wife and hugged his child.
'It was all I could think of,' Aunt Jenifer said to Johnny. 'Mr. Lorne just stood here and said he wasn't afraid to die. We could hear the men marching down the street ... it was terrible. So I just popped him in and went on sewing.'
'Were the soldiers rough?'
'Rough? They were furious.'
'Good,' said Johnny grimly. 'That means they are really scared. Something pretty awful has happened to all those men Gage has sent out. Some of the officers may know already, but the men have guessed it, and they are running about with uniforms unbuttoned and yelling, "If they want a war, we'll give it to 'em. And they won't pay taxes? We'll collect in blood." '
'You don't say! Are you sure the fight's going for us?'
'Pretty sure. I was down by the ferry slip and saw a British major coming over from Charlestown. Well, he had a civilian coat over his uniform—sort of disguised—and he tore off the boat and he ran for the Province House. He'd come to tell Gage Colonel Smith's and Percy's men are getting licked.'
'Boy, you're jumping at conclusions.'
'Not I. I saw his face. It was just done in and tied up with disgust. His uniform was a mess. His feelings had been hurt. People who have been winning battles don't go around with faces like that, but British officers who have been beaten by "peasants" and "yokels" do.'
'Oh, Johnny, I do like to hear you talk like that. But I'm not counting much on one man's face. Where you off to?'
'Beacon Hill. I've an idea that major got back to Gage to tell him one thing. The British are going to try to get to Charlestown, just the way he did, and under protection of the Somerset's guns. They won't back-track the way they came. Too dangerous. If I've guessed it right, before long from Beacon Hill we'll be able to see them—running, and our men after them.'
'Johnny, here's half a mince pie for you. You're a real smart boy.'
Uncle Lorne came back from the bedroom where he, with Rabbit's help, had been picking off feathers. 'Even if they hang me,' he said in a proud tremolo, 'I will feel I have not lived in vain.' He was still pretty scared.
Out on the street, Johnny met officers yelling at their men, trying to get them back into their barracks, striking at them even with the flat of their swords. You couldn't say the British regulars lacked fight. All they could talk about was how many skulking cowards and damned rebels they were going to kill. In one day all was changed in Boston.
On both sides the gloves were off and the hands underneath were bloody. War had begun.
The pastures and orchards back of Beacon Hill were crowded, and all eyes turned northward. Johnny was not the only person who had guessed that Percy would not attempt to get the remains of Smith's troops and his own brigade back through Cambridge, but only to Charlestown, where they could be protected by the Somerset's guns.
Then Johnny saw running down Cambridge road through the bushes on Charlestown Common a scurry of red ants. Had he really seen them or imagined them? But all about him people were exclaiming, 'Look, there they are!'
Those red ants were British soldiers.
To his left the last moment of sunset light was dying. The day had been amazingly warm, but with night a fresh breeze came up off the ocean. Lights began to glimmer in Charlestown and on warships. Seemingly there was nothing more to be seen from Beacon Hill. Silently people turned to go to their houses.
'Look!' Johnny cried.
You could see the flash of musket fire, too far away to be heard. Fireflies swarming, hardly more than that.
4
Getting two thousand men (or what was left of them, for gossip was saying they had been 'well chewed') into boats and back to Boston would create just the confusion Doctor Warren had promised. But it would not be easy for Johnny to slip over. The soldiers were cross and frightened. He would wait a little until they were more relaxed. Say about midnight. Before him, lighted from top to bottom, he saw the Lytes' house and he remembered Pumpkin's uniform. Dressed in that, he might slip aboard in the confusion.
He went to the Lytes'. In front of the house he saw wagons and carts and men loading them with furniture, chests, trunks, boxes—even old portraits. The Lytes were moving and by night and in a hurry. He went to the kitchen door.
Mrs. Bessie, who certainly ought to have been superintending this moving, was sitting idly in the kitchen—doing nothing. Cilla sat beside her. She was doing nothing.
Mrs. Bessie jerked her thumb toward the front of the house.
'Scared,' she said. 'They are all going to London until this insurrection, as they call it, is over. The Unicorn leaves at dawn tomorrow. Gage has given permission.'
'Cilla,' said Johnny, 'don't you go with them.'
'Never. We all had a terrible fight this afternoon when word first came that us Yankees had beaten them hollow. All the other servants are Tories and are going with them. But Mrs. Bessie and I are Whigs, and we are not going with them. In the end Mr. Lyte said he was glad we are Whigs because he will leave us here to look after his property. Gage has promised nothing up here will be touched.'
'But they don't want us around. Can't bear the sight of us,' Mrs. Bessie said smugly. 'The very sight of a good Whig makes them furious. Mr. Lyte did have another fit—just a little one. Miss Lavinia is afraid, if she doesn't get her papa right out of town and off to London, he'll die. She always did like London better than Boston anyway. They are leaving tonight, and fast.'
'What's Isannah going to do?'
'Izzy?' Mrs. Bessie's lips curled. 'She'll go with them.'
'She will not,' said Cilla. 'Miss Lavinia has gone down to Hancock's Wharf to ask Ma to let her take her. But Ma couldn't give her away—just as though she was a kitten.'
Miss Lavinia was standing in the doorway from the dining room to the kitchen. She had on a black cloak with the hood to it over her head. She stood a moment looking about and said nothing.
Johnny was on his feet. He knew he would never forget her—never. Even when he was an old man he would remember Lavinia Lyte standing, framed in that doorway, saying nothing. Her eyes were angry and tired. The chisel mark was deep between the low-sweeping black brows. He had never seen her look so worn and old and never been more aware of her beauty.
'Isannah is going with me,' she said at last. 'Your mother, Cilla, has too many kittens.'
'Miss Lavinia,' said Cilla, 'you can't do that.'
'Can't? Your mother signed the paper—and you're a wicked girl to stand in the way of your sister's good fortune.'
A little diffidently Isannah herself emerged from behind the lady's great dark skirts.
'Isannah,' said Cilla gently, 'you can't go off and leave me like this. It's no matter what Mother says. Look, dear, if you go to London, maybe you will never come back. Isannah ... don't go away ... from me.'
Lavinia was smiling under her dark hood.
'I will leave the decision entirely to her. She shall be perfectly free to choose between us. Precious, would you rather go with me to London and be a great lady and wear silks and jewels and ride in coaches, or stay here and be just another poor working girl?' And then, to make the choice doubly hard for the child, she added a little maliciously, 'Which do you love most, Cilla or me?'
Still Isannah said nothing. But even in her silence Johnny could detect something of her desire for drama. At the moment silence was more dramatic than anything she could say. Izzy is no good, thought Johnny. She'll go.
Cilla was standing quietly, well away from the child. She was too proud to make any further appeal to her. Perhaps like Johnny she knew what the answer would be.
'Well,' said Lavinia, 'I haven't got all day. Which do you love the most?'
Isannah began to cry. It was perfectly natural crying. Not even Johnny could believe it was done for effect.
'I don't know,' she sobbed.
'Which would you rather be, a common person like your sister or a fine lady?'
'Fine lady,' she sniffled, and went on dreamily, 'and I'll have a gray pony and a pony cart. I've got the gold locket already.' Her hand went to her throat. Next she'd be saying she wanted a little sailboat. Even now she was only reflecting old desires of Cilla's. Isannah never could think up anything for herself.
'Yes, dear, you will—when I am Lady Pryor-Morton and you my little protégée.' She explained to the others: 'I've been betrothed to marry my lord ever since I last came back from London. Papa is a very sick man. He could never live through a civil war over here. Never. He doesn't want to leave all his property to the mob—but what does it matter? My lord is so rich—this miserable house, our ships, shops, are nothing to him. And my lord never liked it that my papa was in trade. Until now Papa would not give up his trade—nor could I bear to leave him.'
She turned to Cilla, 'And I promise you, I will be in a position to give your sister the best care and training.'
'Training,' said Johnny. 'What's she going to be trained for?'
'Isannah shall be an actress. I would have been myself—but my station in life prevented me. And then, I am too tall. And, besides, I can't act. Isannah shall be the toast of London. You'll be proud someday. Even over here in this dreary wilderness you shall hear her name and boast that once you knew her.'
Mrs. Bessie said smartly, 'I'd welcome the day I was proud to know that Izzy.'
Cilla was not taking the parting as hard as Johnny would have expected. Now he knew that she had been through the worst of it months before when first the two sisters had come to the Lytes'. She had lost Isannah long ago.
'Now, Cilla,' said Miss Lavinia, 'I want you to have some time alone with Isannah. You've been a good girl, Cilla—better than Isannah—but happens she is what I fancy. Now go with her and help her pack her duds.'
Cilla said nothing, but curtsied and went upstairs with Isannah who was once more sobbing.
'You, too,' said Lavinia irritably to Mrs. Bessie. 'You leave me. For I must talk to Johnny alone.'
Mrs. Bessie heaved herself up out of her comfortable chair and shut the door after her.
The young woman sat at last and murmured, more to herself than to Johnny: '
I must talk to you, Jonathan Lyte Tremain.'
Johnny raised his eyes in amazement.
'I wanted to tell you before we left. First of all, Papa never meant to trick you out of your cup. He honestly thought it was an attempt at swindle. I mean that someone here in Boston stole the cup and then found a boy to pretend to be a long-lost relative—and used the cup as proof. Your mother did leave Boston with one of those cups. Papa did not mention that fact in court. There really were five! He implied no more than four ever came to this country.'
'He didn't imply it,' said Johnny. 'He swore it in court.'
'Oh, well—what of it? Let me talk.
'You see, he never knew that his niece, Vinny Lyte, had a child. He had it from your father's family that both she and her husband died of cholera almost as soon as they reached Marseilles. You see, your father was a naval surgeon, a prisoner of war while here in Boston. Oh, nothing very much,' she added scornfully, 'no great fortune or title. And Vinny Lyte fell in love with him. He was everywhere in society that year, although a prisoner of war, and, of course, the Lytes wouldn't hear of a marriage. He a Frenchman and a Catholic. And they told her if she ran off with him she would be cut off and she was never, never to return.'
'But she did?'
'Vinny was so wild she went right ahead. A ship's captain married them. Then his family, of course, would have none of her, she being a heretic. And then he died. They sent word to Papa—your grandfather was dead—that both had died. But his family sent Vinny to a convent—hoping the sisters would convert her, and there—three months after your father died—you were born. You were born in a convent in the south of France. Odd, isn't it?'
Johnny Tremain Page 23