by Ron Carter
“Sit down,” John said, and turned back to the table. Margaret followed and wrapped her robe tightly and sat down, arms folded tightly across her chest. Matthew sat down and John waited until his eyes had adjusted.
“We learned some things tonight that you need to know.” He paused to search for words to make it easy, and there were none.
Matthew interrupted. “Something’s wrong.”
John nodded and raised his eyes to Matthew’s. “Yes. We found out who’s been giving information to Gage.” He paused, hating the words. “It’s Henry Thorpe.”
Matthew’s face went dead. No one moved. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock on the heavy oak mantel.
“That’s impossible,” Matthew said under his breath.
Margaret reached to grasp his arm. “Matthew, it will be all right.”
John continued. “The sheriff’s on his way now to arrest him on a colonial warrant, along with Enid Ferguson from the bakery.”
“Enid?”
“And a man named Ingersol.”
John watched the shock in Matthew’s eyes turn to pain and suddenly they widened. “Does Kathleen know?”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ve got to go over there! Someone has to be there!” He started to rise.
John grabbed his forearm. “Think through it first.”
“What do you mean, think through it?”
“I doubt any of Thorpe’s family knows about it. The charge is treason, and there’s no worse crime. Will they want anyone there for that?”
Margaret cut in. “Of course Kathleen will.”
Matthew continued. “Kathleen will need me.”
John cut him off. “You’re the last one she’ll want to see.”
Matthew shook his head and his eyes glowed defiantly. “You’re wrong. I’ve got to go.”
“Matthew, think! The shame of it will nearly kill both Phoebe and Kathleen. They won’t want anyone around while they suffer that humiliation. Think past your own need to what’s best for them.”
Matthew started back for his bedroom to change clothes and John called, “There’s more. The British crossed the Back Bay a while ago with a large force. Revere went north, Dawes went south, to raise the militia. I think this is the beginning of some sort of confrontation with the British. I’m going to Concord.”
Matthew stopped short and slowly turned back. “The British? Concord? There could be trouble.”
“Yes, there could be. You need to make up your mind about it.”
Matthew shook his head. “I only know I’ve got to see Kathleen.” He turned on his heel and disappeared in the dark hallway.
John turned to Margaret and exhaled a weary breath. “Too much too fast. This thing with Henry—none of us were ready.” He shook his head. “Matthew will have to do it his own way.” He pointed to the pantry. “I’ll need a little bread and meat and cheese wrapped in something, and some clean cotton rags. Nothing else. I’ll change clothes and get the musket.”
In his bedroom John lighted a lamp and knelt beside an old leather trunk in one corner. He loosened the buckles on the broad leather straps and threw them back, lifted the lid and tilted it back against the wall, and raised the lamp to look.
On top were pillowcases and bedsheets, with matching delicate, beautiful needlework, and napkins and tablecloths of fine linen, with matching hand-sewn designs, for the dowries of Brigitte and Priscilla. He gently lifted them aside. Beneath were two packages wrapped in parchment and string. He lifted them out and laid them on the bed and loosened the strings.
Inside the smaller package were knee-length moccasins, hand-sewn and double soled from the hide of a bull moose. John lifted them and touched the bead-and-quill design carefully stitched with deer sinew before he laid them back on their wrapper. The larger package held a soft tanned deer-hide hunting shirt with bead-and-quill work at the cuffs and collar. He carefully refolded the shirt and tied the package and put it back into the trunk, with the parchment from the moccasins, and kept the moccasins out. He replaced the beautiful linens, closed and rebuckled the trunk lid, then turned to the closet. He picked a loose-fitting deep gray woolen shirt and dark woolen trousers. He changed into the shirt and trousers and then into the moccasins, wrapped to his knees, stiff with age. He pushed his square-toed shoes into the closet and strode out down the hall to the pantry. Three minutes later he walked out and laid his musket, leather bullet pouch, and powder horn on the large table. Matthew was near the front door, shrugging into his coat.
Margaret’s eyes were locked onto the musket.
Matthew paused to stare at John’s moccasins. “Where did you get them?”
“Made them.”
“When?”
“About twenty-five years ago.”
“Snowshoe men?”
“Yes. They’re easier for traveling distances.” Matthew buttoned his coat.
“When you’ve seen Kathleen, what’s your plan?”
“It depends on what happens over there.”
“Do you plan to come to Concord?”
Matthew shrugged. “If she needs me, no.”
“If she doesn’t?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret turned her face to John and broke in. “He’s staying!”
John studied Margaret’s face and saw the dead look, the fear, the hopelessness in her blue eyes, and his heart rose in his throat. He swallowed and started to speak, but said nothing. He turned back to Matthew and eyed his white shirt. “If you decide to go, you might want to change to a darker shirt. A white shirt will draw fire in a crowd. The British are fools for having those white belts crossed over their hearts, and gold on their officers’ shoulders.”
Margaret turned from him and slumped into a chair at the table, and suddenly she leaned forward and put her head on her arms and began to sob. John could stand no more. Gently he knelt beside her chair and pulled her head into his shoulder and wrapped her inside his arms while she wept uncontrollably. He waited until the sobbing stopped and then pulled up a chair and motioned to Matthew, who sat down at the table with them.
“Margaret, please listen to me. I will do all in my power to make you understand. Things are happening that are much more than the colonies breaking from the British. A spirit is moving over this land, a sense that there is a hand guiding us. There is a design, a plan higher than any of us knows.”
A strange feeling crept from nowhere.
“In the church yesterday, with Silas and the others, we all felt it. It was a power beyond anything I’ve ever known. It ran against all good sense, but none of us could deny it. It settled into our hearts and our minds as nothing ever did before, and we knew what we had to do.”
He paused. Margaret was staring at him as though she had never seen him before. The spirit that had crept in only moments before had reached inside her.
John continued. “I don’t know where it will end, but I don’t need to know. It is enough that I know we must do this thing, by treaty if we can, by blood if we cannot. I don’t want to die. But if I must, I will, and I know in my soul that if that happens, you will be all right, you and the children. Don’t ask me how I know. Only that I do know.”
Matthew was hardly breathing. Margaret stared, gripped by a power that reached deep, and she knew John had spoken the truth. He had to go, and she had to let him.
John finished. “I can’t add more. I can only pray you will understand.”
Margaret stood and threw her arms about him and clutched him to her desperately. Tears came welling down her cheeks, and they clung to each other silently until the tears stopped.
John stepped back and Margaret spoke quietly. “You have to go.” With a bursting heart she held him again until the trembling stopped. Then she stepped back and wiped the tears away. “I have the food and bandages ready, there in the pouch.” She pointed to a leather bag with a shoulder strap on the table.
Matthew released held breath and stared, astonished at what
he had seen and felt, unable to form words, and then he turned and wordlessly opened the door and walked out into the shadows.
John turned to Margaret. “I’ll be a minute.”
He picked a lamp from the table and started for the archway into the bedroom wing, and Margaret grasped his hand and walked with him. He stopped at the door to Brigitte’s bedroom, Margaret took the lamp, and John silently entered. His moccasins made no sound as he walked to Brigitte’s bed and knelt. The dim yellow lamplight caught the long lashes, the heart-shaped face, and the few damp curls of hair on her forehead. Memories came flooding. The tiny babe reaching to grasp his finger—her first steps—her first and second lisped words, mama, dada—the impish toddler underfoot—six years old, dropping a bowl of eggs—two missing front teeth—school—the overnight change to a young lady—an emerging beauty—a copy of her mother—the muskets at the church.
Tenderly John leaned to brush his kiss on her forehead and she stirred. He silently walked out and down the hall to Caleb’s room to kneel beside the bed.
The peaceful, sleeping face belied the turmoil inside Caleb, caught in the awkward, uncertain stage beyond the child but not yet the man. In the face John saw the man that would be. Strong chin, thoughtful eyes, high cheekbones, prominent nose. He would be a good husband, good father, good leader. John touched the soft cheek and rose and walked to the bedroom where Adam and Prissy slept on opposite sides of the room.
Inside he knelt by Prissy. She stirred and her eyes opened in the soft shadows. “Father? Is that you?”
“It’s me. Go back to sleep.” He kissed her on the cheek and he felt the soft warmth of her breath. She smiled and pulled her quilt higher, and her large blue eyes closed in the warm, safe security of his presence.
John knelt beside Adam, and in his heart he heard the childish, worshipful exclamation, “And did you see Father? Picked William up like he was nothing! Picked him up and made him be good!” John leaned to kiss the thatch of hair, then rose and walked back into the hall with Margaret. He closed the door, and they strode back into the parlor together.
“If Matthew decides to come, tell him to bring at least sixty musket balls and eighty patches. Be sure his powder horn’s full and that he has four extra flints.”
He slipped the shoulder straps of his own bullet bag and powder horn over his shoulder and then the small food pouch. He turned to Margaret. “Listen carefully. If Tom comes here, tell him I took the north way, across the Charles, up past Charlestown. At Winter Hill I’ll go west, cross-country to Menotomy, and take the main road on to Lexington and then Concord. Can you remember?”
“Yes.”
“If Matthew comes, tell him.”
“I will. How will you cross the river?”
“Borrow a rowboat. Maybe from John Pulling.”
John picked up his musket, and Margaret watched him slip the leather straps of his powder horn and bullet pouch, then the food and bandage bag, over his shoulders. He drew her to him with his free arm and looked into her face for long moments, memorizing, and then he kissed her. “I should be back within one day. God bless you.”
He walked out into the light of the nearly full moon, and Margaret stood framed in the door until he was out of sight, working his way north in the narrow cobblestone streets of Boston City.
______
Notes
The warning to Lexington and Concord that the British were coming the night of April 18, 1775, was delivered by two messengers: William Dawes, Jr., and Paul Revere. Joseph Warren sent Dawes first, to travel south across the Neck and then turn back northwest to Lexington and on to Concord. Minutes later, when Revere arrived at the Warren home, as a matter of being certain the message would get through if either Dawes or Revere was captured, Warren sent Revere north to cross the Charles River in Revere’s own boat, then take a horse provided by John Larkin and ride to Lexington and Concord. Warren specifically ordered both men to deliver the message to Sam Adams and John Hancock, at the home of the Reverend Jonas Clarke at Lexington, so they could avoid capture by the British. (See French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, beginning with p. 75.)
Revere had previously arranged for three men to help give the prearranged lantern signal from the Old North Church tower, namely, Robert Newman, John Pulling, and Thomas Bernard. They were to meet at the home of Robert Newman, on the corner of Salem and Sheafe Streets, across the street from the church, where Newman was the sexton and Pulling was a vestryman, each of whom had keys into the church. British soldiers who rented rooms from Newman caused a minor problem, which Newman resolved by going to his second-floor room and dropping to the ground, where Pulling and Bernard were waiting and where Revere found them. Acting on Revere’s orders, the three of them crossed the street to the church, where Bernard stood watch while Pulling and Newman climbed to the top of the old steeple and gave the signal with two lamps Newman had found and hidden in the church. As they finished their mission and were ready to leave, a British patrol happened by, and the three men escaped through a back window in the church. (See Fischer, Paul Revere’s Ride, beginning on p. 99.)
The boat used for Revere’s ride across the Charles River was his own; however, he had arranged for two friends to help, one a boat maker named Joshua Bentley, the other, Thomas Richardson. The incident in which they obtain the undergarments of an unnamed woman, from the second floor of a home near the wharf where the boat was hidden, is viewed with some suspicion by historians; however, it is part of the Boston folklore surrounding the famous incidents of that night, and therefore included in the novel. It was Bentley and Richardson who rowed the boat, with the oars wrapped in the woman’s undergarments to silence them in the oarlocks. The boat docked at the Charlestown ferry wharf, where the men were met by William Conant, who had been watching for the signal from the Old North Church tower and who had arranged for Revere to ride the powerful mare, Brown Beauty, owned by John Larkin, deacon of the Charlestown First Congregational Church. (See Fischer, Paul Revere’s Ride, beginning on p. 103.)
In the same time frame, William Dawes knew he had to pass through the barricades at the Neck, which were guarded by British sentries. In all probability he masqueraded as a simple miller, which he had done previously with success, with a half sack of oats tied to his saddle, to persuade the British soldiers he was harmless. (See French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, p. 78.)
The disorganized confusion of the landing of the British column at Lechmere Point after crossing the Back Bay is chronicled briefly in French, The Day of Concord and Lexington, pp. 100–101.
Wednesday, April 19, 1775
Chapter IX
* * *
Phoebe Thorpe rose on one elbow, eyes wide in the dark. Silver moonlight framed the window curtain, and she looked and listened, unsure what had awakened her. The pounding came again at the front door, loud and incessant, and she grasped Henry’s shoulder. He rolled in the bed to look at her as his brain registered the sound of the fist on the front door.
“Who’s at the door?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It woke me.”
Quickly Henry slipped into his robe and heavy felt slippers, ran his fingers through his hair, and lighted a lamp. A minute later he walked to the front door, turned the heavy brass key in the lock, and swung it open. He held the lamp high as he peered out, trying to focus. “Who’s . . . Sheriff Samuels! What’s happened?” The lamplight caught the faces of the two deputies standing behind the sheriff.
“Henry Thorpe, I am required to serve this warrant on you for your arrest.”
Thorpe gaped and stood riveted while his mind reeled. “You’re what?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest. I am required to serve it and take you to jail to be held for arraignment and trial.” Samuels stood firm, face expressionless, the folded paper in his hand.
Thorpe stammered, “David, this utter nonsense! You don’t come around at three o’clock in the morning making light of an arrest! Why are you here?”
&nb
sp; “Mr. Thorpe, this is a warrant for your arrest. You will come peacefully or we will have to take you by force.”
Thorpe’s head shifted forward, his eyes incredulous. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Preposterous!” Henry exclaimed. “Is the warrant British or colonial? I demand to see it.”
“The colony of Massachusetts.” David Samuels handed him the paper, and Thorpe fumbled it open with hands that trembled in outrage.
“Spying?” he blurted. “Arrested for spying?”
“Yes. Get dressed if you wish. We’ll wait.”
“Henry, what in the world is all the shouting . . .” Phoebe stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sheriff Samuels. “Sheriff! What’s wrong? Is it the British?” She stood with her robe wrapped tightly about her, still wearing her nightcap.
Samuels dropped his eyes and shifted his feet. “No, ma’am. You will need to talk with your husband.”
Phoebe’s hand shot to her mouth and she hurried to Henry’s side. “Henry?”
“Mother, what’s the commotion?” Kathleen walked up behind Phoebe barefooted, her robe wrapped tightly, with her long hair braided down her back in a single french braid.
Henry’s eyes were on fire as he shoved the warrant within inches of Samuels’s face. “Who obtained this warrant?” he thundered.
“Magistrate McMann.”
“I can see who signed it! Who swore on their oath to facts that obtained it?”
Phoebe gasped. “Warrant! Warrant for whom? For what?”
Kathleen’s voice came too high, too loud. “An arrest warrant?” She pushed her mother aside and fronted Samuels.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For whom?”
“Ask your father.”
“Answer my question,” Thorpe raged at Samuels. “Who obtained this warrant?”
Samuels raised his eyes to Thorpe’s. “I do not issue warrants. I serve them.”
“Is that warrant for the arrest of my father?” Kathleen planted her feet and locked Samuels with her glare.
