The Gentle Rebel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I mean that we are caught in this city, Paul. We are a good force here, but our scouts tell us that we are surrounded by thousands of men from all 13 Colonies. New Hampshire has sent a force under Colonel John Stark—and I can tell you now, he’s a good soldier! Then there’s Israel Putnam with 3,000 men from Connecticut, as well as Benedict Arnold and Nathan Greene, just to mention a few. South Carolina has voted to raise 2 infantry regiments of 750 men each and a squadron of 450 mounted rangers—and the list goes on and on! ”

  “Oh, Major, these troops aren’t trained!”

  “No, thank God—but all that it takes is one man who knows how to whip an army together—and when that happens, we’re in for a fight!”

  “Come, Major!” Abigail said, and she smiled at him, adding, “What you need is more wine and some fun.”

  She pulled him away, leaving Paul alone. For the next half hour, Pitcairn did enjoy himself, for with such a beautiful woman, how could it be otherwise? Then she left him, and he moved back into the secluded area, taking a chair and watching the dancers sail by across the polished floor.

  He was about to rouse himself and leave when a voice said, “Hello, John.”

  “Nathan!” Pitcairn rose at once as he looked up to see Nathan Winslow in front of him. “I didn’t know you were in Boston.”

  “Just got back.”

  Pitcairn felt more uncomfortable than he ever had in his life. There was nothing of anger in Nathan’s face, but neither was there the open friendliness that had been there before Lexington. There was a stubborn streak of honesty in the officer, and he went right to the issue. “Nathan, it does so little good—but I’ve grieved over the death of your brother. It was a foolish thing—so useless!”

  Nathan gave Pitcairn a steady look, then shook his head, “I know it wasn’t your fault, John. I bear you no ill will.”

  “That’s like you, Nathan,” Pitcairn said with some relief. Then he asked, “What will you do?”

  “Go back to work, I suppose.” The question, Nathan realized, meant more than that. So it begins, he thought suddenly. A spy can never forget what he is—not for one second! He added idly, “I suppose you’ve been busy?”

  “Too true!” Pitcairn said ruefully. “I can’t say that I understand General Gage!”

  “How’s that, John?”

  “Why, a child can see what’s happening! We’re living in a state of siege, and it’s just a matter of time until we have to do something about that army that’s taking shape out there!” The major shook his head sadly, then added, “But the general just sits there, hoping it will all go away!”

  Washington needs to know that! Nathan thought, then was saddened by the knowledge that John Pitcairn had spoken freely, as he would to a trusted friend. Didn’t take me long to learn how to use my friends—guess that’s what a spy’s life is like!

  “Nathan!”

  He turned quickly and found Abigail coming toward him, her hands outstretched.

  “You’re back!”

  “Just this minute, Abigail,” he said, and taking her hands he kissed one of them, which brought a smile to her full lips. She appeared to have no memory of the scene at New York, or more likely she had chosen to forget it. “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve been forlorn without you, Nathan,” she pouted. “Now, come and dance with me! I’ve got so much to talk to you about!”

  As they moved onto the floor, Paul Winslow came up to stand beside Pitcairn. He watched them silently, then said, “I’m surprised he came back.”

  “Are you? Why is that?”

  “Because he’s a Winslow!” The words were spoken with bitterness, and Paul smiled as Major Pitcairn stared at him in surprise. “Don’t let him fool you, Major.”

  “Fool me? In what way, Paul”

  “He may smile and seem to be your friend—but he’ll never forget that it was you who killed his brother.”

  “Why, I—!”

  “Oh, I realize you didn’t fire the shot.” Paul shrugged. “But Nathan won’t be able to make that distinction. It was a British bullet that killed Caleb, and he’ll never forget it.”

  “But he’s always been very unsympathetic to the rebel cause.”

  “That was because the conflict hadn’t hurt him—but that’s not true now.”

  “Oh, I think Nathan will show good judgment,” Pitcairn protested uneasily.

  “No, he won’t!” The words leaped out, and Paul shook his head as he went on: “My father says that his brother Adam—that’s Nathan’s father—is the most stubborn man in the world, that he always was. And I think Nathan is his father all over again. You’ve hurt him—and I tell you flat out, John, you’d better not trust him!”

  Pitcairn shook his head. “You’re just saying all this because of Abigail, Paul. You’re jealous and the girl has blinded you. Nathan Winslow is an honorable man.”

  “Oh, he is! And he thinks right now that his honor demands satisfaction for the blood of his brother. You can say what you please, Major, but I tell you that Nathan Winslow will never forget that day at Lexington!”

  Pitcairn looked across the room, taking in the tall form of Nathan and the open face. Then he shook his head, saying, “He’ll grieve for his brother—but in the end he’ll do the wise thing.”

  “Winslows don’t do the wise thing,” Paul said as he turned to leave. “That’s our record, I’m afraid.”

  It’s all so different! Nathan thought. Abigail’s face was framed in his vision, and the soft pressure of her body made his senses tingle, but he thought grimly: She’s so beautiful—but if she knew what was in my heart, she’d leave me right now!

  The music played on, and he held Abigail, danced, and smiled. But the thought came to him, clear as print on the page: Sooner or later, this will end—all of it!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A NEW COMMANDER

  The Boston Grenadier Corps, Laddie decided, was not particularly expert in drill; on the contrary, they handled their muskets rather clumsily, and the command “ To the rear, march” on the part of the large drill master produced instant confusion. Several of the men wheeled at once—and ran head-on into those behind them, who plowed ahead heedless of the command.

  “You clumsy dolts!” The drill master was over six feet tall, and he thrust his imposing bulk through the confusion, shoving men around as if they were made of straw. He lashed at them with a high tenor voice that carried like a trumpet, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their parentage. At last he thrust his chin toward a man standing to one side. “Williams, keep them at it for an hour!”

  Laddie followed him as he stomped away from the small field where the drill continued. “Mr. Knox?” He stopped abruptly and peered down impatiently. “Mr. Adams asked me to give you this.”

  “Adams?” Knox opened the envelope, and while he scanned the note, Laddie examined him curiously. He wore a splendid uniform, consisting of snowy white breeches, an emerald green coat with golden epaulets, and high-topped black boots that glistened in the sun. His face was full; a double chin lapped over the white scarf, and his bulk filled out the uniform like a sausage in its skin. He weighed almost three hundred pounds, but like many fat men, he was graceful and very quick in his movements. His heavy face was not dull, but dominated by a pair of sparkling blue-green eyes and a mobile mouth. He wore a white silk scarf around his left hand, which was apparently crippled in some way.

  Laddie found herself the target of a penetrating gaze, and remembered what Sam Adams had said of the man: He’s a fat man and a bookworm—but don’t let him fool you. Henry Knox has got a mind like a steel trap, and if any man in the Colonies knows more about cannon and ordnance, nobody’s found out about it.

  “Come along, Smith. Got to wash the taste of that drill out of my mouth.” He proceeded along the narrow streets so rapidly that Laddie had to practically run to keep up with him, and he kept up a lively conversation. “You ever see such clumsy cows? Can’t walk across the street without fallin
g down! They look good, though, don’t they now? Every man of ’em’s got to be five feet ten—that’s the rule. Got a bunch of pretty uniforms, but my Lord, if they had to fight, they’d probably kill as many of each other as they would of the enemy!”

  He led the way down twisting streets lined with tiny shops, and Laddie caught a glimpse of a sign that said METAL-WORK—PAUL REVERE over a large white building. “In here!” Knox said, and wheeled to pass under a sign that read NEW LONDON BOOKSTORE—HENRY KNOX, OWNER. He waded past a jumble of shelves and tables stuffed with flutes, wallpaper, telescopes, bread baskets, patent medicines—and books crammed into every inch of space.

  “Go get your supper, Mullins,” he said, sending an elderly clerk shuffling through the shop and out the door. “Now, young fellow,” he said, shoving a chair toward Laddie, and settling down at a large desk, “you’re going to Philadelphia, Adams says?”

  “Yes, sir,” Laddie answered. “Mr. Adams sent word for me to come and bring him some—information.” She hesitated slightly, for she was still uncomfortable with the task that had been thrust upon her. Adams had gone to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia suddenly, but in a message to Nathan he had instructed: Send Smith here with all information. Don’t come yourself. See Henry Knox for what he may have.

  Nathan had stared at the brief note, then after reading it to Laddie, said, “He’s a foxy one! Blasted note could fall into the hands of Gage himself and he’d be no wiser! So, I stay here, and you go with what we’ve got so far.” To all protests, he had said, “I think they’re watching me pretty close, Laddie, but no one would suspect you. And we won’t put anything in writing; we’ll put it in that sharp brain of yours!”

  He had tousled her hair, flashed a quick smile, then begun drilling her on what information he had gleaned. Finally he had given her some money, saying, “Go see Knox—and be careful, Laddie! Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” She had thrust her hand out, and he had taken it, then instead of releasing it, had held it, opening it to look at her palm. “Mighty small hand you’ve got—like a scholar’s hand should be.” He had looked at her and she’d known instinctively he was thinking of Caleb, for he said, “I’ve lost too much, Laddie—you take care!”

  Now she sat there as Knox stared at her, pondering her with a sharp glance. “Now, we’re alone—what’s this about?” He sat there and listened while Laddie haltingly explained what she was to do.

  Finally when she had finished, he pulled the silk scarf from his left hand, and Laddie saw it was missing two fingers. “Shot them off while I was hunting,” he said idly, then looked up and said, “Well, my boy, you’re young for such a job, but if Adams vouches for you, I’ll not say nay. I’ll write out what I’d like to pass along, and—”

  “Sir, it might be best if you just tell me instead of writing it down. That’s the way Mr. Winslow’s sending his information.”

  He stared at her, then commented skeptically, “Some of what Adams needs to know is technical. You might forget it.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Knox.”

  He laughed, slapped his meaty thigh with his good hand, then got up and as he walked to a map on a large table, said, “By Harry, I like a man who knows what he can do! Come here.” He waited until Laddie stood beside him, then pointed down at the map. “Here’s Boston, and here’s where the Redcoats are massed, and right here is where the Rhode Islanders are located, and here . . .”

  He talked steadily for ten minutes, identifying the location of various units and then he turned and fixed his bright eyes on her. “Now, let’s have that, Laddie Smith!”

  Laddie easily rattled off the locations of units, and Knox’s face glowed with pleasure. “Why, by Harry, that’s one hundred percent!” He paused, and seeing something in Laddie’s face, asked quickly, “What’s the matter?”

  “Well, sir, this map—it’s not accurate.”

  “What?”

  “It’s out of proportion, Mr. Knox—and look, here, it doesn’t show the road leading to Dorchester Heights—and this area is not flat, but is the highest point in the vicinity.” Laddie had done a great deal of work on maps of that area before her father had died, and now she moved quickly, pointing out flaw after flaw in the map. She was so intent on what she was saying that she didn’t see the glint of interest in Knox’s moon face; finally she said, “Really, sir, you ought to get a better map.”

  She looked up into the blue-green eyes of the fat man, and flushed, but he said, “I take it you know quite a bit about maps, Laddie?”

  “Oh—not really . . . !” Laddie grew flustered, but it was too late.

  “Is it possible you’ve done some map-making yourself?”

  “Just—just a bit, sir.”

  “I see.” He sat there looking at her, then suddenly heaved his bulk up and said, “Sit down here, if you will, Laddie—I want you to write something for me.”

  She was surprised, but obeyed, and he dictated a few lines having to do with a book that he wished to order from London. He waited until she had finished, then reached out and took the paper. He glanced at it, then nodded and said, “Fine penmanship. My own writing is worse than you can imagine.” He suddenly got up, and after rummaging through several shelves, came back and handed her three books. “Something for you to read in your spare time in Philadelphia.”

  Laddie sat there confused, looking at the books, all of which were dull-looking texts on military matters. Knox gave a hearty laugh. “All booksellers are a little odd, Laddie Smith. Pay me no mind. Well, let me give you a written note for Sam Adams. Lord, I’d like to be in Philadelphia! There’s going to be fireworks there for sure! When you get back, will you drop by and give me a report, young fellow?”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” Laddie got up, and after Knox gave her a sealed packet, she left and hurried to catch the post carriage that made the trip to Philadelphia.

  * * *

  The Second Continental Congress had degenerated into something of a dogfight, and Laddie, who expected to see solemn and dignified proceedings from the cream of American life, sat through several days of the turmoil in shocked silence. She had made a quick trip, and had found Sam Adams with little trouble, but he had been up to his ears in the raging debate and had time only to get a brief report. He read the note from Knox, then hurriedly said, “Stick close, Smith. There’ll be a time for what you’ve brought—and I don’t want to have to waste time looking for you when that time comes. Knox says you write a good hand—I need a clerk, so stay handy.” He had rushed off, but in the days that followed, often he had her write messages, sometimes delivering them to other committeemen.

  She found a tiny room, and spent her nights reading the books Knox had given her. They were all on the use of cannon and artillery, and she waded through them dutifully, becoming mildly interested in the one that discussed the difficulties of moving guns from one place to another; she liked this one, for it had to do with maps and terrains, but she would much have preferred some lighter reading.

  The days stretched out, became a week, and still the debate raged, it seemed nothing would ever be settled. One evening, just as dusk was falling, she walked to her old neighborhood and stood in the gathering darkness staring at the old shop. The sign that had read SILAS SAMPSON—CARTOGRAPHER was gone, and the new one said AARON SAMPSON—MAPS. Her heart leaped into her throat when, as she stood watching, a bulky form emerged and she recognized her uncle. The fear that swept over her grew as he crossed the street, and she almost ran in a blind panic when she realized that he would pass right by her!

  It was dusk, but there was still light enough for him to see her face, and as he came close, he did give her a searching glance—and with a voice that shook a little, Laddie said, “Good evening to you.”

  Sampson didn’t answer, but his small eyes met hers, and for one terrible second she thought that all was over, that he had seen through her disguise—but relief flooded her as he gave a grunt and passed on down the street.

&n
bsp; Thank God! she breathed, and turned to enter the small inn down the street. She was apprehensive, for she had been slightly acquainted with the owners, and there was some risk. But as she took a seat, Mrs. Cowens merely glanced at her and said, “Yes, sir, what’ll you be having?”

  Laddie ordered a meal, then lingered over a pot of tea, and as she had hoped, Mrs. Cowens proved to be as loquacious as ever. She was a bright-eyed woman, big in bulk and a notorious gossip. It was not difficult for Laddie to get her started, and soon she led her into the area that most interested her. “I need a map of the area—don’t suppose there’s a cartographer close by?”

  Mrs. Cowens soon gave a complete history of the Sampsons, including a detailed account of the disappearance of Miss Julie Sampson. “Ah—now there’s something odd about that!

  “I make no accusations, mind you—” She winked lewdly at Laddie, and went on to describe how the girl’s father had died, and the brother had come to take over. “He’s not as pleasant as the old man! But it was clear he’d got it in his head to marry the girl—’cause it was a good business, and she was a pretty little thing.”

  “You say she disappeared?” Laddie took a sip of tea and said in a disinterested fashion, “Maybe she just wanted to live somewhere else.”

  “Not likely, mister!” Mrs. Cowens sniffed. “She run off—that’s wot she done! Why, didn’t ’e offer a reward and didn’t ’e have posters sent all over the country offerin’ a reward for the gal?”

  “Well, I guess he’s given up by now.”

  “That ’e ain’t, sir, for as Emily Shultz—she does Sampson’s cleanin’—Emily says he’s got to get hold of the girl ’cause he’s in some kind of legal trouble over the business, and ’e needs her name on some sort of paper. Emily, she says Sampson raves like a crazy man and swears he’ll get that gal if ’e has to turn every colony upside down!”

  Laddie had heard enough, so she made her escape, and for long hours she walked the streets filled with a black despair. She finally went to her room, but slept fitfully, and the next day her eyes were gritty as she sat through the meeting.