“State your business,” one of them demanded. He eyed me from behind a musket such as I had never seen—it had a long, skinny barrel.
I raised my hands to show them I was unarmed and prayed they would not shoot. “Dan-Dan-Daniel Prescott,” I stuttered. “I’m . . . I’m going to see my father at Cambridge—a soldier.”
The men lowered their guns and after many questions gave me leave to go.
Now I was spooked by every shadow, and I jumped when a squirrel crossed my path. But I made it to Cambridge without any further assaults on my person.
The camp was much changed. It had more of a military look about it. The men’s uniforms were still a mixture of this and that, but they marched more smartly.
There were more flags about than there had been when I was here last. Many companies flew the British Union Jack. I also saw the New England pine tree flag with the motto AN APPEAL TO HEAVEN. Other banners stated what the men fought for—LIBERTY. And I spotted more than one flag with a rattlesnake coiled and ready to strike over the words DON’T TREAD ON ME.
As soon as the wind blew from the west I could tell where the necessaries were, but they were no longer scattered about higgledy-piggledy. I went to the area where Father’s company had been camped, only to find another in its place.
I asked where they were. There was such a flurry of response, each man talking over the next, that I could not make it out. Later I learned that the men were from New York, and that all New Yorkers talk loudly and all together, breaking in on you whenever they have a notion. Finally a captain from Rhode Island came to my aid with language I could understand and pointed me to Cambridge.
“They’ve been taken up by His Excellency—General Washington,” he told me.
“General Washington?” I asked.
“They’re guards at headquarters. His Excellency needs men he can trust about him.” I beamed with pride. Father was a man General Washington trusted! I found him outside the general’s headquarters, his musket at the ready. My stomach lurched when I saw him. What if he had heard about my cowardly behavior after the battle? Was he ashamed of me? Would he want to see me? Then Father turned. His eyes drank me in like cold water on a hot summer’s day, and I felt my heart squeeze.
Remembering the alarm on his face the last time I visited, I was quick to inform him that all was well. He did not ask me about what happened after the battle, and I held my tongue. Instead I shared Mother’s concerns, and asked about leaving Boston.
“We have fever here in camp,” Father said when I told him about the smallpox in town. “It’s begun to spread to the countryside. Sarah will be in just as much danger outside the town—perhaps more.”
My heart sank at his answer. I didn’t know until that moment how weary I was of life in Boston. “We don’t know when food will become scarce again,” I told him. “I am happy that the Patriots have been able to capture so many British supply ships, but the people of Boston will starve along with the Redcoats.”
“Colonel Stockdale isn’t such a blackguard that he’ll let you starve,” Father said. “But his men will plunder the tavern if you leave. We would have nothing to return to after the war.”
“Will it end soon, do you think?” I asked him.
He nodded. “General Washington is a fine military man. It won’t be too much longer before we drive the British out—or King George agrees to grant our demands.”
I wondered if the Patriots had the strength to attack the British. I was about to ask Father when Old Put emerged from the house General Washington used as his headquarters.
“Powder!” he yelled. “If not for this want of powder.”
A man I took to be General Washington stood behind him with a grave expression. He was tall and of strong build, with a handsome face and intelligent eyes. He wore a proper uniform with a sash and a saber at his side. He looked grand. His eyes fell to me. “Is this the young spy I’ve been hearing about, Prescott?” he asked.
“Aye, sir,” Father answered.
I heard the pride in Father’s voice. I straightened my shoulders and stretched as tall as I possibly could.
“How did you get to us today?” he asked.
“A fishing boat, sir. We landed near the road to Lynn, and I ran from there.”
“Do you return to Boston today?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you’re serving ale and rum, do you ever talk to the officers?”
“Sometimes, sir,” I said, growing alarmed. Did the general think I was a spy for the Redcoats? “I have to.”
“That’s fine, of course you must.” He nodded thoughtfully and commenced to walk away with Old Put. Then he stopped and turned to me again. “The next time you have the opportunity, can you share a rumor about our powder?”
“Your gunpowder?”
“Yes.” A slow smile spread across General Washington’s face. “Tell the British that you heard we have so much gunpowder, eighteen hundred barrels worth, that we don’t know what to do with it all. Can you do that, Daniel?”
“Yes, sir!” I said.
“Thank you, Daniel.”
Father put his hand on my shoulder, and we watched the general walk away.
“Do you still want to leave Boston?” Father asked.
“No,” I told him. “Not if I can help the general.”
I was still marveling at the general’s kindness when I sensed someone come up behind us. I turned to find Master Richardson looking puzzled. He had a quill in his hand and his fingers were ink stained. I thought my schoolmaster would be pleased to see me, but like Father, his first thought was one of concern.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re supposed to pass your information to barber Newell, not come yourself.”
“I needed to speak to Father,” I said.
“And a good thing he came. General Washington has a mission for Daniel,” Father said.
The schoolmaster was plainly curious. “A mission?”
I nodded, but I thought it best not to share my secret. Nor did Father. We were ill at ease in the silence.
“Master Richardson is a secretary to Dr. Church,” Father said.
I babbled, pleased to have something to fill the silence. “It must be more enjoyable than working for Mr. Henshaw and tutoring Josiah,” I said.
“Mr. Henshaw?” Father asked.
The schoolmaster stiffened. His knuckles were white where he gripped the quill. “I worked for the Henshaws before I left Boston. I saw an opportunity to help our cause and put food in my stomach, and I took it.” He turned to me. “Will you be able to carry out your mission, Daniel? I recall that you sometimes have had trouble with that.”
My face burned. Master Richardson knew of two instances when I had behaved like a coward. Had he told Father? Would he tell General Washington?
“I’m sure Daniel will do his best,” Father said.
Father’s watch ended then and his relief arrived, putting an end to our awkward meeting.
Suddenly it was time for me to leave. Father quickly removed the cloth-covered coins that served as my buttons. There was no time to replace the coins with buttonmolds, but who would notice missing buttons on a boy’s coat? Father walked me as far as Prospect Hill. Along the way he explained the strange men I had met that morning.
“Backwoodsmen from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Hunters,” he said. “They’re a curious, wild lot. They live off the land. Those rifles carry bullets farther than any musket I’ve ever seen, and they have expert aim.”
“Whose side are they on?” I asked.
Father chuckled. “Their own, mostly, but they’re Patriots.” He continued with a warning. “Don’t run if you see them again, or you’ll surely end up with a bullet in your back.”
I assured him I would not. I had to bid farewell before I could ask him about my schoolmaster’s odd behavior. I also wondered when I would see Father again. But foremost on my mind was the fear of running into more of those woodsmen.<
br />
“Give Mother and Sarah my love,” he said.
I promised I would.
“And don’t forget your mission.”
I smiled. “Wait until Grandma Gage hears about the powder,” I said. “He might leave Boston without any fight at all.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Mission for the General
I walked all the way to the spot where I was to meet the fishing boat without coming upon any more wild men. I arrived before my time, and my wait was a lengthy one. When the sun in the sky indicated that it was well past four o’clock, I began to fret. What if they forgot me and I had to find another way back to Boston? I waited and waited. At last they came.
The fishing had been good. The boat’s hold was full of cod and mackerel. I was given some of each to bring back to the tavern. Mother roasted one whole fish just for the colonel. I was happy enough with the watery fish stew and the fish pies that would last the rest of us for many days. I was more interested in carrying out my mission for General Washington. I hoped I could make up for my cowardly behavior at Breed’s Hill.
The next night and the one after, Colonel Stockdale dined out. Finally he ate at home. Our hired soldier was not in, so I manned the tap.
“Ale, sir?” I asked him.
“Rum,” he grunted.
The colonel was in a foul mood, but no more than usual. I often avoided speaking to him, but today I would try to draw him out the way Father used to.
“How goes the war?” I asked.
He only grunted.
I grabbed a rag and wiped imaginary spills. “Do you think General Gage will force the rebels away before winter? It’ll be a hungry one if not,” I said, trying to be conversational.
Stockdale downed his rum and banged on the bar to signal he wanted more.
I tried again. “The rebels are well armed, I believe.”
“The rebels are farmers and fisherman. Their weapons are as preposterous as they are,” Stockdale spat. “And yet Gage waits for reinforcements.” He shook his head, clearly believing that the wait was unnecessary. “One strong blow is all we need. We’ll conquer them sure. If Gage won’t, Howe will.”
My ears perked up. Was Gage leaving? I kept my head down and said nothing, hoping the colonel would continue his complaints. He did not.
“I’ve heard that the rebels have an awful lot of gunpowder.” I shook my head. “But it’s just a rumor, not worth mentioning.”
“Mention it, boy.”
“Some say the Patriots just had a big shipment of powder—eighteen hundred barrels worth,” I said. “They don’t know what to do with it all.”
Stockdale glared at me. “Patriots? You mean rebels, don’t you, boy?”
I stood at attention. Had I just ruined everything with my careless slip of the tongue? “Rebels, sir,” I stammered.
He finished his rum without another word and left the tavern, slamming the door behind him. He walked in the direction of the Province House—General Gage’s headquarters.
I could only hope he believed me.
A few days later, I had my answer. At the pump Thursday morning the gossip was all about the gunpowder. Only now the rumor had grown. Some said that the rebels had three thousand barrels—enough to wipe out the entire British army.
My buckets full, I shouldered my yoke and walked toward the tavern. A couple of Redcoats came toward me, laughing so hard they fell into each other. Drunk, I thought, and up all night. Then I saw the object of their laughter.
A company of Loyalists marched down the street, getting ready to drill on the Common. A few such companies had been formed to help defend the town should the rebels attack. The drummer tripped on the cobblestones, sending the Redcoats into new gales of laughter.
The drummer looked up, his face burning with shame and anger. It was Josiah.
The Redcoats rewarded him with more laughter. These men were on the same side as they were, and still the British made sport of them.
Josiah’s eyes locked on mine. My presence must have made his humiliation even worse. He pressed his lips together and raised his hands. He had a tight grip on the drumsticks and aimed to throw them at the Redcoats’ heads.
I dropped my bucket. The noise it made caught Josiah’s attention, and I shook my head no.
Josiah let out a breath and lowered his arms.
He marched on with the militia, his eyes on the cobblestones. A choir of laughing soldiers marched behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Be careful, Prescott, with that war of yours.”
August, 1775
The town remained quiet, with no major cannonading from either side. Sarah learned to sleep through all but the loudest and longest bursts of fire. Summer gave way to early autumn and took the worst of the heat with it. I dreamed of crisp fall apples and juicy pears, but of course there were none to be had.
I heard that some in town were dining on rats. The sickness continued, but none in our tavern had the pox.
In the middle of September a British supply ship made it to Boston without being captured by the Patriots. It had every kind of provision, and we were immediately more cheerful. I took Sarah to Long Wharf to watch the unloading. All of Boston seemed to be in attendance, cheering as each crate and barrel was unloaded.
Live chickens, sheep, and lambs, and even cows were driven from the ship. Barrels and barrels of good things to eat. Seagulls swooped overhead, searching for bits and pieces of food. A sailor threw a potato at a boy, and he held it as if it were gold.
I remembered a time when all of Boston’s wharves were like this. Full of ships loading and unloading. Merchant ships with holds full to bursting. Ships from the West Indies that brought us lemons and pimientos, rum and sugar. Fancy clothes from England. I hoped one day we would see such again. Boston was a grand town then.
I wondered if Father had good things to eat. The farmers in the countryside were treating the soldiers well. I hoped they had enough food.
Sarah ran to the crates of chickens and peered through the slats, searching for Robin Goodfellow and Jacky Juggle. She never made the connection between the missing chickens and the stew pot.
The chickens’ cackles sent her into gales of laughter. Her joy at such a simple thing brought happiness to everyone near. A sailor from the ship handed her a carrot, and she immediately tried to feed it to the chickens. When they snapped at it with their beaks she laughed all the more.
Josiah Henshaw sauntered up to us. His drum hung about his neck. “What will you do with that carrot?”
“Feed my chickens,” Sarah said.
“Sarah, chickens don’t eat carrots,” I told her. “But perhaps we can find Star and feed it to her.”
“Will you let me use it to bang my drum?” Josiah asked, holding up a drumstick. “I’ve lost one of my sticks.”
Sarah giggled and made a dull bang on his drum with the carrot.
Josiah took it from her and began to beat a lively tune. His playing was better than the last time I saw him. So was his mood. But why had he sought us out?
“Sarah try?” she asked.
Josiah smiled and put the drum around her neck, tying a loose knot in the strap so that the instrument would not hang to her ankles. Together we watched her bang out a tune for the chickens.
“Sing, chickens,” she commanded.
We laughed as the chickens commenced to cackle.
“I’m surprised you haven’t taken up the drum for one of the Loyalist militias,” Josiah said to me. “We’re sure to learn of any British plans before the rest of the town.”
Was Josiah recruiting drummers and fifers for the Loyalist militias? Was he trying to trick me with talk of British plans? “My work at the tavern keeps me too busy,” I said.
He gave me a serious look. “Yes, you have a war of your own, don’t you?”
I fought to keep my face expressionless, but I felt my eyes widen with surprise.
“I’ve never heard of such a war as this one,” he
continued. “People change sides with each change in the weather. A body has to be very careful when it comes to trusting another—even longtime friends.”
Still, I said nothing. I did not understand his meaning, and I feared giving myself away.
“Come, Sarah, I need my drum,” Josiah told her. “My soldiers don’t march properly without it.”
Sarah let him take it from around her neck and held out his drumstick along with the carrot.
“I found my stick!” He pulled the other drumstick out of his pocket. “But I thank you kindly for the use of your carrot.” He bowed solemnly and Sarah giggled.
I was not surprised he had his stick all along. He had not joined us for the use of a carrot, but what did he want with this talk of trust?
He turned to me again. “Be careful, Prescott, with that war of yours.”
I grabbed Sarah’s hand and held it tight. Did Josiah know about my secret activities? Was I in danger? Was Sarah? I hurried home, dragging Sarah as fast as her little legs would go. I looked over my shoulder at every turn expecting soldiers to pounce at any moment. Even home did not bring relief. It was full of the enemy.
Each day and night I waited to be arrested. Nothing happened. Colonel Stockdale and the other officers continued to act in the same manner as they always had toward me. They called me boy and ordered me about and complained when the food was not to their liking. Their demands for rum and ale were no more bad mannered than before.
Whatever Josiah Henshaw thought he knew, I guessed that he had not shared it with the British. In time I relaxed.
A couple of weeks later the Cerberus arrived again from London. Colonel Stockdale discussed the news it brought with the officers while they waited for Mother’s good dinner. A saddle of mutton—the last of the recent bounty—cooked on the hearth. Our hired soldier manned the tap. I had no reason to be in the dining room until it was time to serve the meal, and so waited behind the door, straining to hear.
Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Page 7
