Child’s Stillhouse was more like the Roxbury Tavern than a harbor grog shop. Although the ceilings were low, it was well-lit with candles and the fireplace was large and warming. It was crowded with benches and tables, it smelled of stale beer, the serving women looked more like whores than country maids, but Will saw none of that. The man with the bulbous nose led him to a crowded table, and like a horse breeder presenting his prize stud for examination, introduced Will to his friend, Christian Brackett.
Brackett studied Will for a minute before standing up. He was taller than Will, big-boned and more muscular, with a broad face and hooded dark eyes. A rough wool scarf hung loosely around his neck. He took Will’s hand in his and after shaking it, pulled him on to a hastily vacated chair on his left. The man with the bulbous nose, now introduced simply as Tom, squeezed in next to Will. Brackett wrapped one large callused hand around the mug handle and put his left arm around Will’s shoulder.
“So,” he said, studying Will’s face. “You are John Stoner’s little brother.” It was more of a statement than a question. “He changed his name you know. From Johan to John. Said it sounded more English.” Tom laughed, although Will did not understand what was funny. “There is a family resemblance,” Brackett continued. “John, of course, was a bit more refined and better dressed than you are. No offense of course,” he said, squeezing Will’s shoulder and smiling.
“You have seen my brother. Where? How is he? How can I find him?” Will’s questions tumbled out.
“Patience. All in due time, lad. First, I have some questions for you.”
Will was puzzled. “For me. I am more than willing to be of any assistance.”
“Hear that,” Brackett said to the men at the table. “He is more than willing to assist us.” A few of the men snickered.
“Look around the room, Will, and tell me what you see.”
Will had not taken any notice before. He swiveled in the chair. Hanging above the bar was an ornate coat of arms, painted on what appeared to be a broken carriage door. The rectangular table they were sitting at was made of mahogany and cherry with intricate filigree carvings around the tabletop. A few of the chairs had fabric seats, now stained with beer, and matched the long table. A large portrait in an ornate gilded frame hung askew from a peg across the room. From around the edges, shards of broken glass stuck out like stubs of broken teeth. The painting was of some wealthy, elegantly dressed English gentleman, his hunting dogs at his feet, standing with one foot on a large dead stag, Someone had thrown a knife at the painting. The blade had struck him in the crotch and the handle remained protruded between his legs.
“Well,” Will said slowly, uncertain of the purpose of the question. “This does not look like any other tavern I have ever been in. The furniture and decorations appear to me to have been taken from elsewhere.”
Brackett let out a deep laugh. “Do you hear that, men” he said loudly. “Will Stoner thinks our stillhouse has been furnished with the property of others?” The room was silent as the men waited to see what Brackett would do. He laughed again. “It has been, Will. Taken from the homes of the bloody bastard Tories who thought they were better than us.” He glanced around the room.
“One more question, Will,” Brackett said amiably. “You ask him, Tom,” he gestured with his chin.
“Yes, Christian. I will ask him. Will,” Tom said a bit too eagerly. “Do you know a man named Timothy Ruggles? Brigadier General Timothy Ruggles?” 3
Will felt Brackett’s large left hand tighten on his shoulder before Brackett hit him full force with his right fist on his cheekbone slightly below his eye. The blow knocked him off his chair. Stunned, he lay on the floor as Brackett bent down and hit him again on the back of his head. He grunted in pain as a booted foot connected with his kidney. He vomited. Strong hands dragged him from under the table, and he was kicked from all sides. His right eye was swollen closed and his left, pressed to the floor, had a limited view. Funny, he thought groggily, as he tasted his own blood oozing from his mouth. These table legs don’t match the carvings on the other table. A chair smashed down on his shoulders. He wondered if his collarbone was broken. As he lay there on the floor, in his own blood and vomit, the blows and kicks continued. I am truly going to die here by drowning in my own fluids, he thought. And Elisabeth’s scarf is sopping with my vomit. How will I ever get it clean? No need, a voice in his brain said. You are never going to see her again anyway. He groaned as another kick landed on his side.
He was grabbed by his collar and propped up against the wall. Brackett leaned down and pulled Will’s head up by his hair.
“Now, you fucking Tory asshole. You will be sorry you came back. We are going to tar and feather you and parade you in front of every warehouse and shop in the harbor that your bastard of a brother and the rest of his buggering Loyal American Associators looted and plundered. Then we are going to cart your whore-mongering ass to the stump of the Liberty Tree and leave your carcass to rot where all can see.” He hit Will across the face backhanded. If that didn’t break my nose, it must have relocated it, Will thought. “Your prick of a brother worked with Crean Brush and his sorry sons of bitches. Terrorizing people. Stealing. Smashing windows.” Each statement of Johan’s offenses was accentuated by Brackett banging Will’s head against the wall.
“Why did you come?” Brackett shouted at him. “After your brother left. Was it to spy on us?” He slapped Will’s face hard. “Or was it to light the powder and shells those fucking Redcoats left behind?” The last question was punctuated by another blow, this one a fist to his forehead. His head hit the wall and he almost passed out.
“He was seen near the coal warehouse,” a voice said. “Yes, but I was there to help, Will thought.
“Get some boards,” he heard Brackett say but it sounded far away. “Some of you run ahead and build the fire under the tar vats.” That would be helpful, Will thought. Wouldn’t want the tar to be cold on such a frigid night.
What is wrong with my hearing, he thought. Everything sounds distant. He tried to raise a hand to his ear. It felt as though it was on fire. He couldn’t move the arm on the same side as his ear. And it was too much of an effort to try and use his other one and reach across. I must crawl away from here, Will thought. Before they come back. But they haven’t left, the voice inside his head said. Maybe if you explain who you are, they will let you go. Yes, he would do that. But he couldn’t speak. The only sound he made was a gurgle before he vomited again. I should have taken declamation like Colonel Knox or Lieutenant Hadley, he thought.
He was lifted to his feet. “Drag him by the armpits. You do not want bloody Tory vomit on you.” That was Brackett’s voice, Will thought. He tried to raise his head so he could see out of his left eye. It was dark out. There were men with torches on the street in front of the still house. The light of the flames blinded him. Well, so much for seeing, he thought. He felt the planks shoved roughly between his legs as he was lifted up. He tried to stay upright but kept falling to one side or the other. Each time provoked a sharp pain in his chest. Must have broken ribs, he thought.
“Shit. We are going to have to build the Tory prince a fucking sedan chair.” Brackett again, Will thought, as he was dumped on the cobblestones. His head struck the ground. When he came to, he was strapped to a board behind his back with the long planks between his legs. They were carrying him somewhere, the torches on his left side bobbing up and down. Nothing but blackness on his right side. Ah yes, he remembered. His eye was swollen shut. I hope I see again with it, he thought. No need, the inside voice said again. You’ll be dead. Nothing to see from either eye. He heard a roar of voices, shouting about tarring and feathering, calling him a Tory bastard and Loyalist prick. Not the way he anticipated being received in Boston. Didn’t anyone recognize him as the one on Big Red, pulling the twelve-pounder? Big Red. What would happen to him? Who would take care of him. Not to worry, the inside voice said. The gunners will keep him. He’s a good artillery horse now. That
is true, Will thought. I trained him myself.
Still strapped to the upright, he was dropped onto the stones. He groaned from the pain in his ribs. As he tipped over on his side, he noticed that it was Elisabeth’s scarf binding his chest to the board behind his back. Not how she intended it to be used, he thought, lying on his left side in a puddle of frigid, muddy water.
“Prop him up, strip him down and pour the tar on the bloody little bastard.” Brackett again. Better to close his eyes. He didn’t want the tar to burn them. One eye is already closed. They did it for you, his inner voice said, as first his coat and then his shirt were roughly torn off. Right, he thought. I only have to concentrate on closing the left eye. I should be able to manage that. He felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.
In the distance, which seemed to Will miles away from where he was, he heard a pistol shot. He tipped over, still tied to his board, shivering on the cold cobblestones, his teeth chattering, his bare skin freezing to the icy wet street. He was aware everything had stopped, the rough hands pulling his clothes off, the men off somewhere nearby with the vat of tar and the brushes, the vengeful crowd milling about cursing him. He heard voices speaking, more likely shouting but he could not make out any words. He recognized Brackett’s voice, angry and defiant. His good eye, his left one, stared at a wet stone and beyond that, booted feet standing in place. He closed his eye and almost drifted off, hearing deep in the groggy mists of his mind a familiar call, “Marblehead Mariners to me.” He almost sobbed out- loud, “Here, over here, I’m over here on the ground,” but no sound emerged from his broken lips. When he was gently lifted up, he moaned in pain. He was slung over someone’s broad shoulders and carried away, each step sending a jolt of sparks to his brain from every part of his body. He felt a cloak thrown over his bare back and opened his one good eye to see his own wrists clasped by the hands of the man carrying him. They were black. Adam, he whispered to himself. Will you really take me fishing before I die? He stopped fighting to remain aware and accepted unconsciousness as welcome relief to his unbearable pain.
When he awoke, Will’s first thought was he had died and was already in heaven. Or, at least, somewhere bright, airy and warm. He moved and felt the pain course through his body. If he were in heaven, he reasoned, he would have been healed without pain. So he was still on this earth. He could only see out of his left eye. He tried to move his head and winced. He lay still and let his good eye roam around the room. Sunlight flooded through two windows, their lace curtains tied back, one facing a street, the other an alley. In a fireplace on the far left wall, the logs were slowly burning, casting off welcome heat and warmth. He was lying in a bed under a flowered quilt. Gingerly, he moved the fingers of his left hand and felt the linen beneath. His fingers brushed against a nightshirt he was wearing. His chest felt tight and his right arm was immobilized. When he moved one leg, a lightning bolt of pain shot up his back. The same happened when he tried to move his arm to feel his face. He licked his lips, feeling the split skin with his tongue, and sank back against the pillow, exhausted by all of his efforts.
He must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eye again, it was dark and the room was lit by candles. And there was an angel in a chair next to the bed. She had long brown hair, which fell in curls on to her shoulders. Her complexion was fair, her face petite with delicately arched eyebrows, a pert little nose and a beautifully dimpled chin. She was concentrating on her embroidery and was unaware he was awake. He studied her with his one eye. She sat straight in the chair, a light blue shawl around her shoulders covering a sturdy white linen dress. She looked vaguely familiar although Will was certain he had never met her. He felt as if he were spying on her, taking advantage of her being unaware he was awake. He closed his left eye, shifted under the covers, groaned and opened his eye again. She looked at him with concern and sympathy.
“Would you like some water?” Her voice was soft and clear. He recognized the Boston accent. So she was from the town. He nodded and watched as best he could as she walked to a side table and poured water from a pitcher into a china cup. She sat so lightly on the bed, it was as if she were a feather, he thought. He tried to sit up and this time genuinely groaned in pain. She tilted the cup to his lips, and he sipped a few swallows. He signaled he was done by barely shaking his head.
“How long have I been here?” His words were hoarse and came slowly, as if they had to be forced through a narrow opening. If he hadn’t known he had spoken, he wouldn’t have recognized his own voice. He was surprised the effort to speak cost him so much of his strength.
“You have been here two full days, not counting the night my brother brought you home.” She smiled at him. “Wait. I will fetch him for you.” He turned his head to watch her leave the room. She moves so gracefully he thought, closing his eye and sighing.
“Priscilla. You told me Will was awake,” Lieutenant Hadley said peering down at him. Will opened one eye, smiled at Hadley and immediately winced from the pain in his cheek around his right eye.
“I am,” he whispered. I have a half-sister named Priscilla, he thought. She must be seven by now. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember what she looked like, other than that she had been small and a quiet serious child.
With Hadley standing next to his sister, Will could see the family resemblance. They both had the same bright, inquisitive brown eyes and curly hair. Strange how the high cheekbones on Hadley made him look more masculine, while Priscilla’s made her appear more feminine, even regal.
“Dr. Thaxter said if you are going to be a regular patient of his, he will have to start charging you,” Hadley said, sitting down on the bed. His weight caused Will to shift slightly, and he winced again.
“Now, brother. Be gentle.” Hadley sprang up in consternation, causing the bed to move. Will groaned again. Priscilla motioned sternly to a chair on the left side of the bed. Duly chastised by his sister, Hadley pulled it closer and sat down. Will turned his head slowly and grinned.
“Tell me what. . .”
“It seems your brother was quite the well-known Tory in Boston. One of Crean Brush’s favorites,” Hadley said, raising his eyebrows. “And a member of the Loyal American Associators as well.” Will noted he was freshly shaven. The brass buttons of his clean jacket sparkled in the candlelight.
“General Howe’s orders were to confiscate all linens and woolen goods so as to deny them to our army,” he continued. “After breaking into people’s homes and giving worthless receipts for the goods taken, your brother John, together with the Associators, took anything else they wanted. Most of it went to Brush, that slimy New York Tory, as if we did not have enough of our own homegrown variety,” he muttered. “Of course, his minions lined their own pockets as well.”
Will closed his eye and sighed. He tried to picture Johan when he had last seen him. How many years ago had it been? Johan leaving the farm, sometime in the early fall, after the hay had been cut, baled and stored, waving goodbye from the wagon seat. As brothers growing up, they had wrestled and fought, kept secrets and told each other lies. They had their own secret signals to protect them from their father’s temper and each one felt for the other when their father singled one of them out for a beating. All those brotherly ties gone, broken by John’s misconduct. No, it was more than misconduct, Will corrected himself. He acted criminally, against innocent people. Relatives and friends of Will’s friends.
“Where is he now?” Will asked, licking his lips.
“All we know is that he was among the Loyalists who fled Boston under General Howe’s protection. There were almost two thousand of them, including Mrs. Knox’s entire family,” he added. “You knew her father was Secretary of the Province.” Will nodded.
“They lay off King’s Road below Castle Island for a few days before putting to sea with the fleet. Their destination is most likely Nova Scotia. Halifax, I suppose. Like the verse in the song Nat brought us,” he said smiling. “After that, General Washington anticipates th
e fleet and troops will attack the port of New York.”
“You are tiring him, brother,” Priscilla said, putting her hand on Hadley’s arm. Will shook his head and compressed his lips to stifle another groan.
“Priscilla is right, as always. Besides, the Colonel is hosting a dinner for his officers tonight. His first one in Boston since liberation. He is in a fine fettle. We have recovered more than one hundred and forty cannons, some of large caliber. The trunnions have been knocked off some. The British spiked others. The Colonel is confident they can be repaired. He is planning to expand the Regiment. Unfortunately,” he said, “we still suffer from an extreme shortage of reliable powder.”
Will tried to smile but imagined it was more of a grimace.
“You are continuing to tire him,” Priscilla said, “with your military information. He needs rest and quiet, not an inventory of arms. Go. Go to your Colonel’s dinner.”
Hadley stood up to leave. “The good news, Will, is that Dr. Thaxter opines you will recover. You are young, he said, and the young heal quickly. Still, you have taken a brutal beating and it will definitely be awhile before you are up and about. Rest, gather your strength and we can talk more another time.”
“Convey my best to the Colonel and Mrs. Knox,” he managed to say softly.
After Hadley departed, Priscilla spoon-fed him some beef broth. He finished the cup and shook his head when she asked him if he wanted more.
Cannons for the Cause Page 28
