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By the time Dex found his way back to the inn a light summer rain had begun to fall but still he lingered across the street, watchful for the thugs that had attacked him and uncertain of what to do next. When it began to rain harder, he finally crossed the street and followed an older gentleman into the inn. Once inside and down the steps, he stood against the wall looking around the room in the vain hope of seeing a familiar face. After a few moments, he sat at an empty table and, mindful of his limited funds, ordered a biscuit and a glass of milk when the bar maid came by.
Dex ate slowly, wanting to stretch his time at the table, but nobody bothered him after the food was gone so he lingered, racking his brain for a plan. Deep in thought, he did not immediately notice the woman who came to stand at the table.
“I ken ye for the lad in the company of Alan Davis last night.”
Dex jumped. “I... yes, I'm Dexter Stockford. You brought our supper...”
“I'm Betty,” the woman said. “Mister Davis was greatly distressed when ye did not return. He spent much of the night searching in the streets.”
Dex thought Betty sounded disapproving. “I was knocked out and kidnapped,” he said. “I was hit on the head and tied up in a dark shack and I didn't walk up until after the ship was gone. I...I...” Dex met Betty's hard glare as his words ran down, willing her to believe him but certain that she did not.
“Sure and...” she began and then stopped, craning her neck to see the back of Dex's head. “Oh, my, sure and that's blood on your collar.” She reached and felt the lump on his head and her eyes softened. “Come to the back and let me tend to that.”
An hour later Dex stood in second floor office telling his story again, this time to an older well-dressed woman Betty had introduced as Mrs. Shibles, the owner of the Emerald Inn. Mrs. Shibles had a rather stern, no-nonsense countenance but she listened silently as Dex related everything that had happened since he and Alan Davis had come ashore the night before as well as his story of how he came to be on the White Shark. When he finished, she eyed the bandage on his head, pursing her lips thoughtfully.
“Alan Davis and Jacob Campbell are friends to me and to those I call friends,” she said at last. “If they have taken you into their company then I suppose I can do no less.” With the decision make, she spoke quickly. “If you're willing to work for your keep, you can sleep above the stable and take your meals with the inn staff. I've no doubt it will be easier work than you found aboard ship, but I'll oblige you to keep a civil tongue to my patrons and speak to no one of their comings and goings. Is that understood?”
Dex nodded. “I understand and I promise I'll work hard,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I would expect you'll see the White Shark again in a few weeks’ time,” Mrs. Shibles said. “Until then, Betty will take you to Old Ben in the back and you will perform the chores he sets for you.”
Dex would indeed find the work at the Emerald Inn easier than that aboard ship. Old Ben proved to be a cheerful octogenarian, rail thin and totally bald with twinkling blue eyes, who seemed to be the inn's manager. After giving Dex a tour of the Inn, he showed him to a small sleeping loft above the stables and explained his duties. “You'll report to the cook at first cock-crow,” he said, “and do whatever she asks of you. You may serve tables during the day, especially at supper, and you may be called to run errands for the Missus or for our guests. At day's end, make sure every wood box is filled before you retire.” He eyed Dex's seaman's garb. “Beyond that,” he said, “keep yourself neat, quiet and clean and do not speak to anyone outside the inn of any business you see conducted here.” Ben paused and glance around the loft as if to ensure they were alone and his tone became more serious. “It may happen,” he said, “that you will hear mention of ‘The Sons of Liberty’ or be asked about the meetings in the back rooms. If so, take no notice, make no answer and ask no questions. The discussions that take place in this house are not for outside ears and that name is not to pass your lips. Do you understand?”
Dex nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, trying to remember where he had heard the term 'Sons of Liberty'.
“Good. Now, you look hungry and in sore need of rest. Go tell the cook to feed you and then get you to sleep.”
Later, just before he drifted off, Dex wondered briefly at everyone's concern for secrecy. Then he remembered where, and when, he was and his eyes widened as he remembered Mister Connery talking about the Sons of Liberty in history class. 'They were the radical underground of their time, the secrete leaders of the Revolution,' Mister Connery had said, 'the real fathers of our country.'
Chapter 11
From the start, Dex enjoyed his stay at the Emerald Inn. The work he was called upon to do was not hard and his co-workers were a cheerful lot who seemed to enjoy each others' company. He was shocked to learn that most of the colored staff were slaves and others, like Betty, were bound to Mrs. Shibles by several years of indentured servitude, but he soon came to ignore the issue in the inn's congenial atmosphere and informal working conditions. Even the customers were, for the most part, soft spoken and genial. Dex's fear that he would encounter the men who had abducted him faded as he realized that the Emerald Inn did not cater to their sort. While beer, ale and wine flowed freely at the Emerald Inn, drunken behavior was rare and Dex soon found himself taking pains with his appearance in imitation of the inn's generally well-dressed clientele. At his first opportunity, he purchased a new pair of pants and two shirts, and he took to wearing his lengthening hair pulled back in a neat ponytail tied off with a bit of ribbon. Betty became a friend and mentor as she guided him through his duties and regaled him with tales of her native Ireland. In quiet moments, his thoughts still turned to home and friends and family, but he was becoming increasingly comfortable with the simple demands of this new life in a quieter time.
Most days, Dex had a couple of hours of free time after the noon meal. Usually he spent it on the waterfront, watching for the White Shark, or learning his way around the city by running errands for Mrs. Shibles and some of the gentlemen who used the inn's back rooms for private meetings. Dex, soon realized that most of those meetings involved strategies for evading the hated British customs officials who prowled the harbor in their small cutters, levying heavy import taxes on necessities such as paint, nails, tea and scores of other everyday needs. He had even developed a nodding acquaintance with Sam Adams who seemed to serve as a spokesman for the businessmen who attended the meetings which Dex realized were actually councils which, in just a few short years, would lead to the Revolutionary War.
Many of the errands Dex ran consisted of carrying letters from Adams or his friends to the Captains of the American merchant ships that frequented Boston harbor. Although Dex asked all he met for news of the White Shark, the days passed slowly into weeks and July slipped into August with no word of the ship or her crew.
One evening, as Dex was taking a break from his kitchen duties, Sam Adams motioned him to where he sat at a table.
“Dex, this is Will Bamford,” he said nodding towards the table's other occupant. “He is in need of assistance with his duties and we thought you may be able to help.”
Bamford was a nondescript man with shaggy brown hair atop a pleasant round face. His worn clothing and calloused hands bespoke a life of hard labor and he had the outdoor look of the many farmers who plied their goods in the city. Dex had seen him before with Adams and other men who met at the inn.
Dex knew that the inn's backroom and the men who met there, was a focal point of the coming revolution and he instantly understood that the duties Adams spoke of were secret revolutionary activities.
As Dex shook the proffered hand and eased into a chair, Adams continued. “We in the colonies depend on foreign goods and trade for our very livelihoods. For many years, that meant an almost exclusive trade with England, but in recent years, British taxes and customs duties have risen to the extent that we can no longer suffer that yoke. The businessmen of Bo
ston have agreed to an embargo on British goods which means we have to turn to other trade partners willing to help us avoid the financial burden. That, of course, angers the Crown and the British customs officials are vigilant against what they term smuggling activities.”
Bamford explained bluntly. “We will no longer buy British goods, nor pay their damn taxes on goods we buy elsewhere.”
Adams continued, “We have had to resort to smuggling the goods we need through other ports, and that is not all bad because the profits from those shipments aid in our resistance to King George's tyranny rather than pay his taxes. The customs men have left the City proper and have headquartered themselves in Castle Williams. From there they employ spies on the docks and agents in small cutters to harass our commerce. Unfortunately, it seems they now also have an informant within our very ranks as even our shipments to other ports are being intercepted with increasing frequency. It is Will's work to learn their stratagems and keep track of their movements that we may better avoid them, but he and his men are well known and cannot close with their quarry.”
Bamford leaned forward. “Your face is unknown and your youth would not raise suspicion if you were to move among them.”
“Our thought is to put you aboard one of the supply boats that bring fresh food to the castle several days a week,” Adams said. “You would but have to keep your eyes and ears open and tell us each night what you have learned of their numbers and movements.”
Dex frowned. “I'd like to,” he said, “I want to help but I promised to work for Missus Shibles, and I...”
Adams held up his hand, but spoke quietly. “I will speak to Missus Shibles. She supports the cause of liberty, and its sons, and I expect she will gladly suffer the occasional loss of your services.”
Dex grinned. “Then, sure,” he said excitedly. “I can do it. It sounds like fun and I want to help.”
Adams frowned. “Make no mistake, Master Dexter,” he said, “this is not ‘fun’. You may endanger not only yourself, but all of us you have met and all we work towards if they discover your purpose. Discretion is all; you must speak to no one of this venture and do nothing to arouse anyone's suspicion. If asked, simply say you have found employment on the docks.”
Bamford leaned forward and tapped a horny finger on the table. “A careless word might well mean prison, or worse, for no few good men. I would have your word on your silence.”
Dex gulped. “I promise,” he said. “I can keep my mouth shut.”
Adams nodded. “So be it,” he said. “Now, sleep on the proposal and we shall meet again in the morning.” With that, he and Bamford rose from the table and Dex was left alone with his thoughts.
Early the following morning, Will Bamford appeared in the kitchen as Dex was finishing his breakfast. “Have you decided,” he asked economically.
“Yes, I'm ready to start,” said Dex.
They left the Emerald Inn and turned eastward towards the sea. A brisk ten minute walk brought them to a large wharf where a few men were busy loading crates of produce and meat onto an ugly barge-like boat with a flat deck and stubby mast at the bow.
Bamford introduced Dex to the boat's captain a small, darkly weathered man named Abner, and gave him his final instructions. “Do as Abner bids and always appear no more than a face in the crowd. I will be here upon your return.”
For the next hour, Dex trudged up and down the dock from wagon to boat carrying crates of vegetables and cloth-wrapped slabs of meat. When the loading was done, he manned an oar as the four-man crew muscled the awkward craft away from the dock, and when the tiny sail was finally run up to catch the feeble off-shore breeze, he was content to sprawl at the base of the mast and study the busy harbor.
The little supply boat passed under the stern of HMS Romney, the gigantic fifty-gun British warship which had been sent to Boston in May at the request of Charles Paxton, the senior British customs agent. The1767 Townshend Revenue Act had caused shortages of everyday necessities such as salt, tea, paint and glass, and in the face of rising citizen unrest and protest, he had called for help and he and his staff had fled, taking their families to the island safety of Castle Williams. Even the Romney's sailors and marines had not calmed matters enough to allow their return to the city and the island fort, once intended to protect Boston from naval aggression, had become a British community. To make matters worse, the Romney's Captain, James Corner, was short of men and had begun an aggressive press gang policy in the city, further enraging the populace. Beyond the Romney, several smaller British warships and transports lay at anchor amid a flotilla of coastal transports, fishing boats and the occasional pleasure craft.
As they neared Castle Island, Abner came forward and crouched beside Dex. “At the dock,” he said, “there will be soldiers standing guard as we unload. Pay them no mind, they are not looking for you and we've taken pains to establish a friendly standing with them.”
The breeze pushed the supply boat towards a rough wooden jetty on the north side of the island and soon Dex was looking up at the thick granite walls, their tops studded with shadowed gun ports with an enormous British flag flying from the highest point. As the boat grated against the jetty, a file of six British soldiers marched down the hill from the fort and took up positions on either side of the landing. Dex resisted the impulse to hide his face as the officer in charge walked out onto the jetty and stood looking down into the supply boat. “Good day, Master Abner,” he said. “God willing you have some fresh peaches aboard today.”
Abner frowned. “Alas, Lieutenant, fresh peaches are in short supply in the city.” He hesitated, grinning at the officer's disappointed look, and then reached down and produced a cloth sack from below the gunwale. “‘T’was only this small amount to be had,” he said with a wink, “I trust you will see to their proper dispersal?”
The officer laughed and extended a hand to help Abner onto the jetty.
While Abner and the Lieutenant stood talking in the shade of a scrawny tree, Dex grabbed a crate of apples and followed the other crew members as they lugged their cargo up a small grade and through an arched tunnel in the wall of the fort.
Once inside, Dex could see that the fort was built in the form of a huge pentagon with tall guard towers at each of the five corners. There was a walkway all around the inside of the walls near the top with huge black cannons positioned every ten feet. The packed-dirt parade ground was at least a hundred feet across with wooden buildings backed up against the foot of the wall. One of these buildings proved to be a supply room where a gruff sergeant carefully checked each item of cargo. As Dex trudged back and forth, he noticed civilians, women and children as well as men, inside the fort, many of them engaged in everyday tasks such as tending small garden patches, splitting wood and washing clothes in wooden tubs. He saw pigs rooting in a pen, goats in another and chickens pecking contentedly in the dirt, and he began to relax as he realized that, at least for now, Castle Island was more of a village than a military camp.
When the unloading was finished, Abner declared that they would wait for the turn of the tide before returning to shore. As the crew sprawled in the shadow of the wall, Dex mustered his courage and approached the Officer who was beginning to lead his men back into the fort.
“Sir,” Dex started, “would it be alright to go up on the wall? I've never been here before and I'd like to see the view from up there.”
The lieutenant considered Dex dispassionately for a moment. “I guess a brief turn around the wall would not be amiss.” he said. “Stay out of the buildings and mind you're back before your master must leave.”
“Yes sir.” Dex bobbed his head and trotted back into the fort. He located a stairway up the inside of the wall and climbed to the top where he found he had a fine view of the entire north side of the harbor as well as the city itself, hazy beneath a shroud of dirty gray wood smoke. He quickly identified the Old North Church spire and beyond that, to the northwest, a low rolling elevation which he suddenly realized m
ust be Bunker Hill. Shaken with a strong sense of the history displayed before him, Dex closed his eyes as he struggled to keep his grip on reality. 'This is real,' he told himself, 'but so am I and so is my time and somehow I'm going to get back.'
After a few moments, Dex regained his composure and began to walk around the top of the wall. The fort covered most of the island, but as Dex got to the southern side, he could see several boats tied up at a wooden dock in a small cove. He tried to memorize their features as he surmised that they were the boats the customs agents used to intercept incoming ships, but they all looked much the same; sixteen to twenty foot cutters with two oarlocks on each side and a tiller and rudder at the stern. All were colored the same shade of dingy off-white, and they bore no lettering or markings that he could see.
An hour later, Dex sat at the bow of the supply boat as it made its way back across the harbor disappointed with the total lack of information he would carry back to Will Bamford. Spying was a lot more complicated than he had imagined.
Chapter 12
The next day, and again two days after that, Dex made the journey to Castle Williams with Abner and his crew. Always careful to appear disinterested in the activity around him, he managed to find a little time on each visit to explore the fort. Prowling the top of the wall on the third trip, he found a stairway that ran down inside the wall leading to a passageway behind the rooms in the base of the wall. As he made his cautious way down the dark stone steps, he heard voices drifting up from below.
“Why must we wait,” said one voice. “We have enough to live like royalty for the rest of our lives and every day the danger increases.”
“Yes, but the Dutchman won't arrive for at least a fortnight and with this new information I've a chance to lighten the King's coffers even more before the final accounting is done.”
“As long as we're away well before then; Jamaica will not be far enough if they find us out before the shipment arrives in England.”
Bystander in Time Page 6
