One afternoon, Stockdale was called to a meeting with General Gage, and then again the next. He and the other officers were clipped and terse in the tavern. They were planning something, that I knew, but what? Mother spotted maps on the colonel’s desk while changing his bed linens, but he came in upon her and rolled them up before she learned their subject.
I thought I must search Stockdale’s rooms when no one was about.
“Don’t do anything foolish, Daniel,” Mother warned me. “No one expects you to risk your life. One Prescott in the line of fire is enough. You be safe.”
Despite her warnings, I thought I must try. Father would not come home until the war was over. What if I could hurry the end of the conflict? I might be a coward when it came to fighting on a battlefield, but the tavern was my home. This was something I could do.
Stockdale was once again called to Gage’s headquarters. The other officers were parading the soldiers on the Common. I took advantage of the empty tavern to search the colonel’s rooms and slipped upstairs without telling Mother of my plans.
I unrolled the parchment on his desk. It was a map of the town of Boston and the lands surrounding the town. To the north was Charlestown peninsula. To the south, Dorchester. Each of these peninsulas had large hills overlooking Boston Harbor and the town. The Patriot army was camped between them, but neither army controlled the hills.
Even I could see that command of those hills would mean command of the surrounding country, including Boston. The whole town could be swept away by the British big guns. From the markings on Stockdale’s map, I guessed that the Redcoats planned to fortify the hills of Charlestown or Dorchester, or both. From there, they could easily scatter the New England army into the countryside, away from Boston, and break the siege.
I was studying the map when I heard the colonel’s voice, commanding some of his officers to join him upstairs. The rooms had been cleaned that morning. I had no reason to be above stairs.
I slipped into the hall. There was no escape. No way to get downstairs without being seen. The door to a room shared by three of the officers was ajar. I dashed behind it and pushed it closed.
Footsteps approached—their pounding on the stairs as loud as cannon fire. I recognized the high, nervous voice of Captain Smythe and the deep rumble of Lieutenant Johnson—two of the men who had taken such pleasure in the tarring and feathering of the peddler some weeks ago. I cringed behind the door and prayed they would not need to enter their own chamber, but only the colonel’s.
One set of footsteps slowed and seemed to hesitate. I imagined a hand on the doorknob and braced myself for the blow that would surely follow my discovery. But the boots continued across the hall. My breath came out in a long sigh when I heard Stockdale slam his own door behind them.
With shaking knees, I crept into the hall. Stockdale’s roar could be heard through the closed door.
“Howe and Burgoyne have finally convinced Grandma to act,” Stockdale said. “Grandma” was what Stockdale called General Gage when he thought no one but his trusted officers were about. “We’ll break this rebellion once and for all.”
I couldn’t make out what the other officers said. Someone shuffled papers.
“We’re to take this hill,” Stockdale said.
Which hill? There was more talk from the other officers. Then another piece of valuable intelligence came though the door in Stockdale’s booming voice.
“June eighteenth.”
I calculated the days. That was ten days hence. Time enough to get word to Master Richardson. Time enough to warn Father and the rest of the Patriots. Time enough for them to be ready. But which hill?
There was movement in the room. I ran down the stairs as if on cat’s feet and laid my signal—turning the boot scraper so that the whale swam toward the West Indies. That night in the taproom I kept my mouth shut and my ears open. I poured the rum a little too freely and soon I was rewarded. Dorchester was on the lips of more than one officer. I believed I knew their full plan.
The next morning, I went to North Square. Master Richardson was not there. Nor was he in his rooms. Had he missed the signal? I went in search of him.
Something drew me to Beacon Hill. I thought I might get a look at the Patriot camp. I wanted to be able to picture Father. To have some notion of what his life was like there. The last time I had been on this hill, I watched wounded Redcoats limp off longboats on their way back from Charlestown.
Today the harbor was quiet, and it was the fancy homes that held my attention. Many of them were deserted, but not the Henshaw home.
I had a notion to watch the house. I slipped into the alley and waited. It wasn’t long before my patience was repaid. Master Richardson appeared with Mr. Henshaw and Josiah.
I followed them. The distance was too great to make out their conversation, but all three looked mighty friendly. I pitied my schoolmaster for having to be pleasant with such as them. How often would he have to bite his tongue to avoid lashing out at their Loyalist remarks? I hoped the information that came his way would be truly valuable.
He took his leave of Mr. Henshaw and Josiah at the bottom of the hill, shaking hands all around. I had meant to speak to the schoolmaster, but hesitated. I couldn’t say why I did not approach Master Richardson then. I hung back as he walked past the tavern. Surely he noticed the boot scraper had been turned.
The next morning, the assistant schoolmaster was at the pump. His wig was newly powdered, and he expressed none of the bitterness of our last meeting. A worry flitted through me like the silver notes of a fife. I wished for Father, for his wise council. Then I reminded myself of the help the schoolmaster had given me on the anniversary of the Boston Massacre, and his many political conversations with Father. Master Richardson was a true friend to the Sons of Liberty.
I told him all.
“Stockdale has maps of Charlestown and Dorchester Heights. The Redcoats will fortify Dorchester Heights on June eighteenth, and mayhap the hills of Charlestown, too.”
The schoolmaster looked grave as I repeated the colonel’s words. “They plan to break the rebellion once and for all,” I told him.
He asked many questions, which I answered as best as I could. Then I asked one of my own.
“Does Josiah Henshaw continue his schooling?”
He drew back, looking around us as if for a set of listening ears. “I tutor young Mr. Henshaw privately,” the schoolmaster told me. “It’s a splendid opportunity.”
I nodded. Mr. Henshaw was a friend to General Gage himself and important intelligence might come the schoolmaster’s way while in that house. But worry ran through me again. Master Richardson knew my father was a Patriot, and all of my secrets, too. What if the Henshaws had discovered the master’s true employment and laid a trap? What if my family got caught in it?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Patriot Camp
June, 1775
It was not long before I had cause to turn the whale again. He swam south to warmer seas to let Master Richardson know I wanted to meet. Only this time, instead of passing secrets to the schoolmaster, I asked him to pass secrets on to me. I was to make my own trip to the Patriot camp!
My aunt Abigail, Mother’s sister, worried us daily about her two sons. Paul was fifteen and John, seventeen. They had disappeared and she was frantic. Mother and I believed that they had swum over to the Patriot camp one night and joined the army. Aunt Abigail was convinced they had been hurt or captured.
She soon learned that one Boston mother had been given a pass to go to the Patriot camp to search for her son. Unwilling to leave her other children, she pressed Mother to allow me to go. I did not think my cousins would come back to Boston on my urging, but knowing with certainty where they were would bring her some relief. I welcomed the chance to visit Father and see the camp.
Aunt Abigail’s pleas were so pitiful that Mother finally consented to the plan. My aunt was just as pitiful with Colonel Stockdale, and he arranged for a pass. I was to ca
rry nothing with me that might aide the rebels, but I could go in search of my cousins.
Master Richardson’s concern for my safety outweighed his pleasure at the idea of my trip. He bid me to rethink the whole notion.
“Colonel Stockdale expects it now,” I said, filling my first bucket. “And there will be no peace in our house until Aunt Abigail has word of John and Paul. I must go.”
He stared into the distance. Worry wrinkled his brow.
I thought to change the subject. “How are things at the Henshaw home?” I asked, bending over the pump.
“They are slow to trust me,” he answered. “I haven’t been able to uncover any information, although Gage himself supped with the family last night.”
I thought mayhap the schoolmaster had other listening ears around Boston in addition to my own, but he had no intelligence for me to take to the Patriot leaders. Instead, he cautioned me again and again not to mention his name in camp.
“I have reason to believe there are British spies about,” he told me.
Master Richardson took his leave, and I walked back to the tavern with the yoke over my shoulders, a full bucket of water on either side.
Early Thursday morning, I saddled our horse Star and set off. I hadn’t been out of Boston since the fighting began and was surprised by the new fortifications at the Neck. As I approached, three soldiers leveled their muskets at me, ready to shoot.
My hands tightened on the reins. Star threw her head back and snorted, sensing my fear. She skittered sideways on the narrow Neck, trying to get away from the soldiers. I forced my hands to loosen their grip and spoke to her in a soothing tone. She was a good horse and generally a calm one, but the constant cannonading from both sides had left her excitable. If she took fright and ran off at a full gallop, I would surely end up with a musket ball in my back.
I dismounted and held her bridle, walking slowly forward as I crooned. The soldiers kept their guns leveled, although I obviously had no weapon of my own. With shaking hands I stretched out my arm to give the guard nearest me my pass. Star danced in place. Her eyes were wide, her ears pinned back. Suddenly I was afraid, too. Would I meet similar guards at the Patriot camp?
The Redcoats examined my pass and waved me through.
Soon I was on a rise overlooking the encampment. It stretched as far as my eye could see, from Roxbury all the way to Cambridge and beyond. How would I ever find Father in such a place?
Boston Harbor had been closed to all but British ships carrying British soldiers for such a long time that I had forgotten how different ordinary colonial men could be. As I rode along, searching for a familiar face, I found all manner of men and all manner of shelter.
There was nothing like the neat military rows of tents that dotted Boston Common or the unvarying dress of the Redcoats. Here everything was higgledy-piggledy. Shelter had been built from whatever the men could find—logs, boards, sailcloth, stones, and even dirt. Many were about to fall over; others had the appearance of a comfortable home long lived in.
The men themselves were topsy-turvy. Few wore uniforms, and it seemed that those who did had each designed their own. I spotted sailors with bandannas tied around their heads, straw hats, beaver caps, and many sweat-stained felt hats.
I finally saw a Boston man and asked after Father. The man pointed me toward Cambridge.
I slowly made my way in that direction, carefully avoiding the necessaries and the cook fires, both of which seemed to be established wherever the men happened to be when the need for one, or the hunger for the other, overcame them.
Finally, near midday, I came upon Cambridge. A militia company from New Hampshire offered to share their meal with me—rabbits roasting on a spit. I had not tasted fresh meat in weeks. My mouth watered, but I couldn’t wait to find Father. I had not seen him for nearly two months.
They teased me for being a Boston man.
“No doubt he’s a firebrand like old Samuel Adams, ready to sever all ties with the king,” one man said.
Others scoffed at the idea. “Cut off all ties with England?” they jeered. “We’re Englishmen!”
I had heard whispered talk of full independence from England, but I could see that even the Patriot soldiers thought such a move was too drastic. We were Englishmen, fighting for our rights as such.
All the soldiers seemed to know that the Redcoats were about to make a bold move, and all promised the war would soon be over. They claimed the people of Massachusetts—indeed all the colonies—would enjoy our rights once again.
Father spied me before I saw him. “Daniel!”
His hair had come loose from its queue and flew behind him as he raced toward me. Star recognized him and began to trot. I held tight to the reins. “Mother and Sarah are well,” I shouted, guessing at the cause of alarm in his voice. “I have a pass to search for my cousins. Aunt Abigail needs to know where they are if she is to have any peace.”
Father patted Star’s nose while he caught his breath. His eyes drank me in, and I could see that they were wet. I had often suspected that Father missed the adventure he found at sea. He loved to entertain the tavern’s customers with wild tales about his whaling days. But I had always counted myself lucky that he had left the sea behind and stayed home with us. I worried when he joined the militia that the adventure of war would steal him from the family. But now I could see that Father had missed me as much as I missed him.
I embraced him, then pulled back, embarrassed to be acting the boy in front of soldiers.
“You’ve grown taller,” Father said.
I threw my shoulders back. “Mother’s altering a pair of your old breeches for when I outgrow my own,” I told him.
“Aye, you’ll be as tall as me soon,” he said.
Father was deeply tanned by spending so much time outdoors, and he was what Mother would call unkempt. His waistcoat was torn, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in all the weeks since he left Boston. His hair was loose about his face, he was badly shaven, and dirt filled every crook and crevice of his person.
He looked down and tried to dust himself off with a laugh. “Mother would have my head, would she not?” he asked.
I nodded. He seemed to enjoy his dirtiness, and my astonishment.
“I was digging an entrenchment,” he said. “Knee-deep I was, when I heard that a boy was in camp, asking after me. I threw my shovel into the air and ran. But tell me the news of home.”
I gave him all the news of Mother and Sarah, and learned that Master Richardson had twice slipped out of Boston to pass along my intelligence.
“You’ve done a fine job, Daniel,” Father told me, his hand on my shoulder.
I nodded, feeling grown up and strong. “I’m proud to help,” I told him. It felt good to do something other than serve British soldiers at the tavern. “What will you do when the Redcoats take Dorchester Heights?” I asked. “Will there be a battle?”
Father shrugged. “That’s not for a lowly soldier to know,” he said cheerfully. “We await orders and hope for the best.”
At the tavern, Father was always in charge and in control. It was hard to believe that he did not know all, but he seemed content with the life of an ordinary soldier. He even stopped to get permission from his captain before taking me to find my cousins. They had joined a company that was camped near Roxbury, and as I suspected, they refused to return to Boston with me.
“Not until King George calls his soldiers home,” John said.
Paul, as he always did, agreed with his brother. “I won’t desert my company, or my brother,” he added. He waved his arm around, indicating the camp. “This will all be over by winter. Tell Mother we’ll see her then.”
Then they wrote a letter on the back of my pass. I wasn’t sure if the Redcoat guards would allow me to bring it to Aunt Abigail, but at least I could tell her that her sons were unharmed.
Father and I agreed that I should spend the night in camp. He was fine company as we made our way back to his tent,
entertaining me with stories of his fellow soldiers. Sometimes, despite the soldiers all around, I even forgot we were at war. At the top of a small rise I could see that the earth had turned green. Apple trees blossomed, bluebirds and brown thrashers sang their songs, and crows darted in and out of furrows of corn that were just beginning to sprout.
When we got back to Father’s company, the men were serious and full of activity.
They were getting ready for battle.
CHAPTER NINE
Preparing for Battle
Father’s company had orders to report to Cambridge Common at six o’clock with one day’s worth of food and drink. His fellow soldiers had spent the afternoon molding musket balls out of chunks of lead.
“How many Redcoats will you be killing?” Father’s captain asked me.
I gulped.
He laughed at my nervousness, but the other men began teasing, urging me to stay and fight.
“You want to be there to help us beat the Redcoats, don’t you, boy?”
“We’ll send them running, like the Patriots did at Concord and Lexington,” another man said.
Father listened with a smile on his face. Did he want me to stay? I didn’t want him to think me a coward.
“I’d like to stay,” I told Father. “I won’t make it back to the Neck by nightfall, and it’s not safe to travel after dark,” I said. “Mother won’t be expecting me before tomorrow evening.”
The men cheered, but worry ate at my stomach. I tried to tell myself that I would not be scared of the fighting with Father at my side.
“Whatever lies ahead isn’t work for a boy,” he answered. “You can stay in Cambridge tonight and go back to Boston in the morning.”
The fear drained out of me and I nodded. If Father said I couldn’t fight, I couldn’t fight. There would be no shame in my leaving.
“We may have need of a messenger,” the captain said. “Someone to run information back to headquarters.”
Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Page 4
