After Nat had left, Will raised his right hand and flexed the fingers, practicing the motions he would need for writing. His arm was stiff and his right elbow ached, but he knew he could hold a quill. After dinner he started mentally composing his letter to Elisabeth and felt better for it.
The next morning, Isaiah helped him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Together, Will accomplished three firsts since being brought to the house: he walked around the room with assistance, he sat in a chair, and he used the chamber pot. By afternoon, he was back in bed, propped up by two pillows and anxious to do something. He was at a stopping point in his letter to Elisabeth. He had composed the part about the entry into Boston and his impressions of the city. He was unsure of what to say about Johan. He certainly was not going to write anything about the beating and his rescue. And he had nothing more to tell her since he had done nothing but lie in bed and recuperate.
He heard horses and a carriage stop in the street and the sound of women’s voices in the hall. After the briefest of pauses, Mrs. Knox waddled into the room, bundled up against the cold in a long coat with a cloak around her shoulders. She was accompanied by Priscilla and another young lady. Lucy was extremely pregnant. Her face was slightly fuller since he had last seen her, and she exuded the radiance and glow of expectant motherhood. She stood at the side of the bed, smiling down at him. From his prone position, Will had little choice but to stare at her protruding belly. He shifted his position as best he could so that he could see her face. Her shock at his appearance was evident.
“Will Stoner. I am pleased to see you are for the most part in one piece,” she said with her distinct English accent. “Harry assures me Dr. Thaxter is confident you will be fully mended.”
“Thank you ma’am for coming,” Will said in a hoarse voice.
“Now, Will. Remember the dinner we had in Cambridge. I feel frumpy and unglamorous as it is with my condition. Do not go adding years to my age by addressing me as ma’am.” Priscilla offered her the chair and she gratefully accepted, billowing out over it like a hauled-in sail.
“I hope you are not in any discomfort,” Will said, politely, still unable to call the Colonel’s wife by her given name.
“Our baby is due within the next few weeks,” she said, patting her stomach under her dark grey cloak. “I expect to travel with Harry as he has been ordered to examine the coastal defenses of Rhode Island and Connecticut. He will be with me when our first child is born.” She seemed lost in thought. “Although it would be comforting to have Dr. Thaxter in attendance, should I remain in Boston.”
Will nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Goodness, I have forgotten my manners. Will, this is Anna Holmes, the lovely young bride of Lieutenant Nathaniel Holmes.”
Will smiled at Anna. She was slightly shorter than Priscilla, which made her shorter than Nat. She had taken off her bonnet and her straight light brown hair was tied in one braid, which she wore fetchingly over one shoulder. Her skin was very pale and fair, almost translucent. With her wide brown eyes and delicate figure, she reminded Will of a doe or young fawn.
“I cannot tell you how much Nat spoke of you during our journey to bring the cannons to Cambridge.”
“And I cannot tell you how much Nat spoke of you since his arrival,” she responded vivaciously with a smile. “I felt I knew you before we met.”
“I looked better when Nat spoke of me than now,” he said ruefully.
“You will be well again, soon enough” Lucy said confidently. “Now, I have brought you, at my Harry’s direction, the latest broadsides and a few sheets of writing paper. I am led to believe, from our last conversation,” Mrs. Knox said coyly, “there is a certain young lady awaiting your letters.”
Mrs. Hadley came and invited the ladies to the dining room for herbal tea, the patriotic substitute for British teas. Mrs. Knox was tiring. Nevertheless, she made the effort to bend over him and kiss him on the forehead simultaneously patting him gently on his cheek. “Come see Harry, when you are up and about. I know he would enjoy such a visit. He is so busy these days with military matters. And he worries about my condition, the poor dear,” she said.
Will tried to read the broadsides with one eye. He read all of the bold type, but became frustrated with the small print and put them away. When Isaiah came later in the day, Will felt strong enough to walk around the small room and stand for a while in front of the fireplace. “I would like to walk more, perhaps in the hall or kitchen, but I am not dressed,” he said to Isaiah.
“I doubt the ladies would mind,” Isaiah replied, guiding Will to a chair. He knelt down and eased Will’s worn boots over his bare feet. Will winced as Isaiah pulled him up, but he followed him out of the room, his boots scraping across the wooden floors. It felt good simply to be able to move about.
He shuffled behind Isaiah toward the sounds of women’s voices at the back of the house, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders for warmth against the draft in the corridor. He walked cautiously so as not to bump into the furniture despite being unable to see on his right side. The kitchen had a low ceiling with a brick fireplace at the back wall. Pots hung from hooks over the flames. Mrs. Hadley and Priscilla were seated at the table, sewing. Will wrapped the blanket more closely around him, conscious of his bare legs sticking out from under the nightshirt.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Hadley said cheerily. “It is good to see you up and about.”
“I am indebted to you and the Lieutenant for letting me stay here.” He lowered himself gingerly on a bench near the fireplace on the right, so he could see the two women with his good eye.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hadley replied.
“We were hoping to surprise you,” Priscilla said, holding up a pair of brown pants. “These were my brother’s before he joined the artillery. I am shortening them for you. My mother has taken in one of Sam’s jackets. There are two shirts yet to be done.” Mrs. Hadley held up a shirt she was sewing.
“My clothes?” Will asked turning his head to see Isaiah.
“All torn or gone,” Isaiah replied. “Nothing worth keeping except for the boots you have on.”
“Colonel Knox gave me them,” he said. “And a scarf? A dark blue one? And a red one. Are they also lost?”
“When you were brought here, you were wrapped in a cape, with nary a shirt nor coat upon your back,” Isaiah said. “There were no scarves.” He looked to the ladies for confirmation.
“Were the scarves out of the ordinary?” Priscilla asked.
“The red one was made by my mother when I was a young boy. She has since died. The other was given to me by the young lady Mrs. Knox referred to,” Will said quietly. “It was dark blue and reminded me of her.”
“Then you will have to write and ask her for another,” Mrs. Hadley said. “Most young ladies enjoy making scarves for men they are fond of.” She looked at her daughter. Priscilla blushed, smiled prettily and concentrated on sewing the pant leg on her lap.
In his mind, Elisabeth was now Priscilla, sitting in the kitchen making a scarf for him. Did Elisabeth even knit? He didn’t know. There was so much about her he didn’t know. Lulled by the warmth from the hearth, and tired from his first real exercise, he thought back to the moment on the east bank of the Hudson when Elisabeth had given him her scarf. Lost in the memory, he didn’t hear Mrs. Hadley speaking to him.
“Will?” Isaiah said loudly. “Mrs. Hadley asked if you would stand. She wants to measure the shirt.” Will mumbled an apology and stood, clasping the blanket tightly to his chest with both hands. Mrs. Hadley laughed. “No need to be so modest,” she chortled. “I have had children of my own. Besides, you do have on a nightshirt.” Cautiously, Will let one arm fall to his side, holding the blanket more firmly with his other. She measured the sleeve length and clucked approvingly. “The tails are long but maybe you will grow and the extra fabric will add more warmth,” she said.
He ate his dinner with Mrs. Hadley, Priscilla and Isaiah at the tabl
e in the kitchen, instead of being fed in his bed as an invalid. He mopped the remains of the beef broth from the bowl with a piece of bread.
“Samuel ate just like that when he was hungry,” Mrs. Hadley said, beaming at him.
Isaiah walked him back to his room and bathed his right eye with warm water. After he had left, Will lay snug and stretched his legs under the quilt. Instead of revising his letter to Elisabeth, he marshaled his arguments to Colonel Knox. The Colonel was a man of his word. He had promised George Stoner he would send his son and the team of eight horses, wagons and sleds back to Scholarie. It would be a matter of honor for him. Try as he would, Will could not overcome this point. A bargain is a bargain, the Colonel would say. He fell asleep unable to resolve the matter.
Chapter 13 - The New Private Will walked reluctantly down Common Street toward the harbor. He ignored the passerbys staring at his still bruised and battered face. The swelling had receded and his right eye had opened again. As far as he could tell, his vision was unaffected. He had finally seen an image of himself in Mrs. Hadley’s looking glass. It was the look of a ruffian. If it were not for his clothes, meaning Samuel’s, clean and of much better quality than the ones he had lost, the people he passed might have given him a wider berth. He was conscious of the cold, and pulled the collar of his cape up around the back of his neck and Sam’s old slouch hat down lower. He missed the wool scarf around his throat.
It was now more than ten days since he had been beaten, almost the end of March. His ribs ached but he was no longer brought up short by sharp pains every time he took a deep breath or moved suddenly. Will had decided, although he had no desire to go anywhere near the wharves, to make a personal pilgrimage of sorts before meeting with Colonel Knox.
He had asked Isaiah about the Liberty Tree, where Brackett had threatened to leave him, tarred and feathered. It had been a large American Elm, Isaiah said, where he and other patriots in Boston had met, rallied and condemned the various oppressive acts of the British.
“When they imposed their bloody Stamp Tax in ’65, I was a young bookbinder, just starting out in the trade. Merriam was still apprenticed at the tannery where my master binder bought his leather for binding. Thomas and I were among those who hung two tax collectors in effigy” he explained hastily, “from the Liberty Tree.” He smiled at the memory and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We called it a ‘knowledge tax’ in those days. It was the Crown’s attempt to restrict what we, as free Englishmen, could read and write. Oh, Merriam and I were young hotbloods back then.”
“And what would you call yourselves now? ” Will had asked, without thinking.
Isaiah had paused a long time. “Sober patriots and tradesmen,” Isaiah answered thoughtfully, “with families who depend upon us. We are not demonstrating against the Crown’s representatives anymore. We are in armed rebellion and fighting against the King’s Army, which is treason.” He looked grimly at Will. “Punishable by hanging.”
Will easily found the intersection of Essex and Orange Streets. There was a large round stump in an open field, already weathered from half a year’s exposure. When the Redcoats occupied the town, Isaiah told him, the Loyal American Associators had chopped it down and used it for firewood. /1 Further down the hill Will could see the wharves. He thought Merriam’s Tannery was also nearby. He shuddered both from the chill wind and his proximity to Child’s Wharf. Ignoring the others on the street, he stared at the stump, a bare two feet above the frozen ground. Will imagined his brother taking part, wielding an axe to the cheers of his newfound friends in the Loyal Associators. Johan had been good with an axe, although Will, with his longer arms and broader shoulders, had developed into a better woodsman.
Well, Will said to himself, glancing at the stump one more time. This Stoner is no Tory. If the Colonel talks to me about honor, our family honor requires me, regardless of my father’s attachment to money, and my brother’s support of the King, to assist a cause I have come to believe in. I must offset the actions of my brother and rebalance the scales, he thought to himself. Resolutely, he turned his back on the wharves and walked up Essex toward the Commons.
Colonel Knox’s headquarters had belonged to Dr. Amos Fairweather, a prominent Tory physician. It was located beyond Beacon Hill, an imposing three story brick building on a narrow street facing Mill Pond. Beyond that, lay the ruins of Charlestown.
Will was ushered into a small anteroom, occupied by two clerks who were busily copying orders and dispatches. He sat down on the only empty chair in the room and ignored the clerks’ curious stares. Another larger room was filled with officers of all ranks, waiting impatiently for an audience with Knox. The Colonel had made the front parlor into his office and, although the thick wooden doors were closed, Will could hear his booming voice from within. One of the clerks glanced at Will and shrugged, as if to say that the Colonel is incapable of speaking softly. If the clerk had asked, Will would have said he well knew it, having been with the Colonel on the Hudson, in the Berkshires and on the Heights.
Initially, on the trek across New York and Massachusetts, it had been the Colonel who had educated Will by speaking eloquently of the justice of the patriots’ cause. Since arriving in Cambridge, Will realized it was men like Nat and Hadley, Merriam, Adam, Solomon, Jeremiah, and now Isaiah who had shown him what risks they were willing to take, what sacrifices they would make and hardships they would endure to oppose British tyranny. If Providence had thrust him into contact with such men, he must take advantage of it. He would have to trust he would find the proper words to express himself and convince Colonel Knox not to send him back to Albany.
From the anteroom, Will could see the central stairwell leading up to the living quarters. The woodwork of the banister was so intricate Will had trouble believing it had been made by human hands. The first three posts were the same, a round acorn shaped carving at the bottom, topped by a solid cylinder with a spiral pattern, another acorn, with the banister resting on the carved cap of the acorn. The fourth post, and every fourth one thereafter, was a marvel of airy spiral. In place of the solid cylinder, a highly burnished wooden coil corkscrewed between the two carved acorns as if it had been pulled from them as a thread.
By late afternoon, the crowd of officers had dwindled to a few. Will became nervous about his meeting with the Colonel, still unsure of what he would say. The Colonel’s brother emerged through the double doors. He recognized Will and smiled broadly.
“Master Stoner,” he said, elongating the syllables. “It has been a long time.” He shook Will’s hand and held it while he tilted his head to examine Will’s face. “Bruised in body but not in soul, I hope.”
“No, sir,” was all could think of to respond.
“My brother is finishing with his meetings. All these Captains and Majors to deal with, wanting to be in the Regiment. You know the Regiment is expanding.”
Will nodded. “I had heard so from Lieutenant Hadley.”
“Not expanding exactly. It would be more accurate to say we are recruiting up to our designated strength.” Billy gestured to the stairwell. “Come upstairs to the Colonel’s private office. I know he wants to talk with you.”
As they mounted the stairs, Will could not resist running his fingers along one of the intricately carved posts, tracing the clever pattern of the acorn shell and the smooth spiral of the wood.
“Elegant, isn’t it?” Billy said. “I knew this doctor. Indeed, he treated Henry when the fowling piece exploded in his hand.” He shook his head sadly. “And now he has fled his home, his town, his neighbors, to who knows where, afraid for his safety as a Tory in patriotic Boston.” 2
“He has due reason to be concerned,” Will replied. “I was beaten and almost tarred and feathered for merely being the brother of a Tory.”
Billy nodded. “There is a difference however,” he said, pausing at the landing. “Your brother was a newcomer and directly involved in terrorizing decent citizens. Dr. Fairweather was from an old established Boston fam
ily and well respected by one and all. We will miss him and his learned practice of medicine.”
He thought people like Brackett, and others who avoided military service and preferred to loot Tory homes, would consider the good doctor’s property fair game. They would not be deterred by the doctor’s pedigree or his past contributions to the well-being of the citizenry.
It was as if Billy had heard his thoughts. “Will, I was as eager as the next man to return to liberated Boston. But it is not the same place as I left. People are mean-spirited, divided and suspicious of one another. Neighbors, nay even relatives are on opposite sides.” He sighed. “There is no longer the grace of living which characterized this city. It is inhabited by the ghosts of those who fled and it will be marked by the empty hearths of those who serve our cause.”
“Such as you and the Colonel,” Will said softly.
“And many more. Boston will become a town of old men, women and children until this struggle is over.”
And men like Brackett, Will thought angrily.
Billy led him to a room on the second level at the back of the house, knocked and opened the door. Colonel Knox was seated at a desk with neat stacks of paper on one side, writing in a large notebook.
“Will, my lad. How good to see you.” He rose ponderously from his chair, came around the desk and grasped Will’s outstretched hand in both of his, shaking it warmly. “Lucy gave me an honest account of how terrible you appeared when she visited. I must say, whatever you think, seeing you in person is an improvement over her description.”
“You look well,” Will said. The Colonel had taken off his blue uniform which lay on a chair, the white cloth lining facing up. His unbuttoned waistcoat showed he had not lost any weight since Will and Nat had dined with him.
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