The Drum of Destiny

by Chris Stevenson

  He leaned down, stuck the drum back in the water, and rubbed his hands over it, loosening the mud caked along the sides and bottom. Picking it back up out of the water, he looked at it proudly. It had a certain shine to it now as he held it up to the glowing sky.

  Gabriel walked back over to the log and set the drum down in front of him. The drum skin still seemed tight. He tapped it lightly, and it gave a soggy ring. A drum . . . what could he do with a drum? He could try to sell it, but he wasn’t sure what kind of price it would bring. The demand for drums in New York wasn’t high, not like in Boston, where some ten thousand troops had gathered to drive the hated redcoats from town. The British had sailed their ships into Boston Harbor and taken over the town, driving out any citizens that were not loyal to the crown. Selling the drum in New York might not even buy a single day’s worth of food, but in Boston, some drummer boy would undoubtedly pay well to have his own drum.

  Still, even in New York, he’d seen soldiers marching to the cadence of a drum played by a boy about his age. He loved the rolling sound of the drums and how that sound led the soldiers’ every step, perfectly timed to the rhythm. If only he knew how to play the drum, he could be a drummer boy.

  A vision came to him. It felt as if a candle had been lit in a dark and lonely space. All the shadows were gone, and a path had opened. He would not sell this drum in New York or even in Boston. This was his drum, and he would learn to play it.

  When his parents were alive, he often read books to learn how to do new and interesting things. Maybe he could find a book to teach him how to play the drum. Maybe someone else could teach him. Surely there were other drummer boys around Boston that could help him learn.

  Boston was far away, and Gabriel had no horse and very little money. Still, he and his drum belonged there. He felt it. The excitement of this decision was nearly overwhelming. Why couldn’t he journey to Boston to join a militia and fight against the tyrant king? He had good walking legs that carried him all over New York. He wouldn’t have to stow away on a boat or join a family of thieving pickpockets. Nobler work awaited him.

  By now, the sun was throwing its last rays of light on the world. It would be dark soon, and he didn’t want to stay a minute longer in the city. His mind was set, and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone to turn him away. With the drum over his shoulder and his meager belongings tied up in a small blanket, he turned away from the East River and began walking.

  Gabriel had never been outside New York. He knew that Boston was some two hundred miles north along the Post Road, but other than that, he wasn’t sure how he was going to get to there. Boarding a ship to Boston wouldn’t be possible. He’d read in newspapers that the Royal Navy was more vigilant than ever in Boston’s harbor, since the destruction of the tea on Griffin’s Wharf over a year ago. No merchant ships were allowed to leave or enter the port without special approval by the king. He would have to travel by land to Boston and cross King’s Bridge at the very northern tip of the island of Manhattan.

  Gabriel wound his way through the city streets, heading north. He stopped when he came to Cherry Street. Pausing, he couldn’t help but look down the street where his old home stood. He was ready to leave New York, but not before saying goodbye to the last place where he was loved. His father’s old bookstore was only a few buildings down. It was a simple store with room for the Coopers to live above the shop.

  After the Lorings took in Gabriel, he sometimes wandered out and stood in front of the building, remembering the happy life he had known there. His father, James, had worked hard as a clerk to a London bookseller before sailing to the colonies with his new bride, Anne-Laurel, in tow. In a matter of months, he was able to open up this bookstore in New York. He was so proud of his shop.

  Not long after the Coopers’ arrival in New York, Gabriel was born. Blessed with this one and only child, the following years were good for the Coopers, and James was able to stock his shop with books from France and England. Gabriel learned to read at a young age and spent as much time as he could in his father’s bookstore. Like his father, he loved books. His mother taught him to read and write French, as well. Although he went to school, he learned most of what he knew from his parents and from reading books.

  Those afternoons in his father’s bookstore seemed like a distant memory now as he stood in front of the dark windows. When his father and mother died, creditors came and took James Cooper’s books as payment for debts he owed. The bookstore and room above it were taken too. After that, it lay empty and dark.

  Now, in the empty street, Gabriel said goodbye to the bookstore and his parents one last time. “Father and Mother, I hope you understand that I cannot stay here and keep an eye on the empty shop anymore. I found a drum in the river today, and I know it may sound strange, but I’m going to go to Boston to be a drummer in a militia. I don’t know how to play yet, but I’ll learn. You always taught me to decide on a path and not stray from it. Well, this is the path I’m choosing. I hope you understand, and I hope to make you proud. I love you always.”

  With that, Gabriel turned away. He could no longer hold back his tears. Misty-eyed, he could barely see where he was going as he crossed the Broad Way to reach Lispenard’s meadows. The air was clear and warm for an April night, and the frogs and crickets began their nighttime serenade. He found a large oak tree in the middle of a meadow not far from the dirt road he was on and decided it was as good a place as any to rest for the night. He spread out his blanket and lay down, gazing up at the stars.

  A gentle breeze rustled the branches overhead, and as he looked up at the night sky, he wondered how many nights he would have to spend sleeping under the stars before he reached Boston. He figured he could walk twenty miles a day, which meant it would take him at least a couple of weeks to get there. He had shillings to buy food along the way, but he certainly did not have enough to pay for a room every night of his journey. Yes, sleeping under the stars was something he’d have to get used to. As these thoughts drifted through his head, he dozed off and did not wake until the morning light shone upon his face.

  H 3 H

  BEN’S ADVICE

  In the morning, Gabriel took a bite of the dried meat and biscuit that Herbert had given him the night before, drank a sip of water from a nearby stream, and rolled up his meager belongings into his blanket. He slung the pack and his drum over his back and set off on the road toward King’s Bridge. To leave the island, he would need to pass the village of Harlem, then onto King’s Bridge. He’d heard of men traveling to and from King’s Bridge in a day, so he figured he’d reach the bridge by noon.

  After his second rest of the day, however, he realized that his twenty miles a day might be overly optimistic. Fearing that Reverend Loring would try to find him and force him to return, he left the road whenever he heard approaching hoof beats. He thought it best to avoid other travelers until he got over King’s Bridge. But constantly darting off the road made for a slow journey’s start. Before he knew it, the sun was already on its downward path, and he had just passed Harlem.

  Finally, Gabriel saw a few buildings ahead, scattered around a bridge that crossed the Harlem River. The road had become increasingly rugged and uphill, and by the time he had reached the scattered buildings, he was so worn out that he didn’t care who saw him. As he walked down the road, he saw that one of the buildings had a sign hanging out front: “King’s Bridge Tavern.”

  Gabriel was hungry and tired. He slowly opened the door to the tavern to see what he could find. He stepped through the door and saw a bar and several tables scattered around the room. Behind the bar was a dark-haired man with a billowed shirt and white linen smock. Men dressed in simple hunting shirts and trousers sat around many of the tables. Others were dressed up, with waistcoats, breeches, and wigs.

  A hard-looking man in a faded red jacket sat at the end opposite the door. A bayoneted musket leaned against his table. At first, Gabriel thought he might be one of the king’s soldiers, but as he looked more
closely at his clothing, it became clear he was not wearing a real uniform. One other smaller man sat at the same table. He had dark pudgy rings under his eyes and was dressed in a shabby, brown ditto suit. He eyed Gabriel with his dark eyes as he sipped from his cup of ale. Then he gave a nudge to the muscular man in the faded red jacket and whispered something in his ear. The two strangers stared at Gabriel and his drum.

  Gabriel quickly ducked in along the wall by the barkeep, trying to avoid the prying eyes of these strange men. He covered his drum with his outer coat, sat down at the bar, and tried to look relaxed, despite the quickening pace of his heart. Who were these men who seemed so interested in him and his drum? He pulled out his coin pouch from the rolled-up blanket and reached up to the black-haired barkeep.

  “Could I get some meat and bread, please, sir?”

  “You got coppers, laddie?” asked the gruff man.

  “Yes, sir. I have some coins,” said Gabriel.

  “That’ll be six coppers if you want a mug of cider with it.”

  Six coppers! Gabriel worked for a whole week for that much. If this was what meals cost, he’d be out of coppers well before reaching Boston.

  Gabriel began to reach into his coin pouch to pull out the coppers, when someone’s hand grabbed his shoulder. He turned, half expecting to see the hard man in the red jacket standing beside him.

  Instead, he saw a tall man dressed in country clothes leaned up against the bar. “Six coppers for a slice of meat and bread, Henry? Your prices must have gone up in a hurry. As I recall, I’ve been coming in here and ordering meat, bread, and a mug of cider for close to five years, and last time I ordered such a meal, it cost me two coppers. Come to think of it, that’s what I’m eating and drinking now, and I’ll be a horned toad if that meat, bread, and mug of cider didn’t cost me two coppers. Now, unless you’re planning to give this young man a bottle of your finest Madeira wine with his dinner, I think you best charge this here patriotic lad a fair price. Don’t cha’ know he’s clearly headed north to join our troops in the cause of liberty and justice.”

  Speechless, Gabriel looked up at this man. Did he know Gabriel somehow?

  The man behind the bar glared at the farmer. “And what if I have a different charge for you than I have for strangers traveling through this here tavern?”

  “Well then,” said the farmer. “I will just have to let your loyalist guest Bradford Grimm know what you think about the King’s taxes on your tavern and how much you hated having to house the king’s soldiers without getting any pay for their food and lodging. He’s sitting right over there in the faded red jacket. I’m sure he would enjoy finding another patriot traitor to crucify.”

  “Now, Ben, don’t ya go doing that. You know what Grimm does to those he don’t think is loyal to the King. We all know he and his gang of loyalist lackeys burnt down old man Newton’s tavern. They’re worse than the lobsterbacks, if you ask me. He and that rat Hannigan sit at that table, just waiting for a reason to pounce on some poor patriot. I don’t like it one bit, but I can’t do a thing about it. Now, I was just having a bit o’ fun with the lad here. I was going to charge him two coppers for his meal all along. Sit down o’er there,” said the man, “and I’ll bring it out to ya, boy.”

  Gabriel handed over some coins out of his pouch. The man behind the counter gave him some change, and he stuck it in his pocket. Carefully picking up his covered drum and satchel, he walked to a table across the room, Grimm’s eyes following him the whole way. He thought about running out the door right then and there, but that would only draw more attention.

  Instead, he tried to pretend like he didn’t notice Grimm watching his every move. He put his coin pouch back into his rolled-up blanket and set his drum down on the floor beside him. He took a seat, thinking the farmer who helped him would come introduce himself, but the farmer continued to lean against the bar, not even glancing his way.

  After a short while, the barkeep brought out a slice of meat, bread, and a mug of cider. Gabriel dug in. He was famished from all the walking he had done that day. Although the meat was a bit dry and the bread was less than fresh, he didn’t care. He needed the nourishment.

  When he was nearly finished, the table of farmers got up to head out the door, but the one who had helped him didn’t leave. He shook hands with his friends at the door, then walked over to Gabriel’s table and pulled up a chair.

  The farmer just sat without saying a word. Finally, Gabriel broke the awkward silence. “How do you know that I am headed north to join the militia at Boston? Do you know me from somewhere?”

  “I know where you’re headed and what you’re up to because I’m not blind,” said the farmer. “My name is Ben Daniels. I farm not far from here. As far as me knowing where you’re headed, you have a drum with you, do you not?”

  “Yes,” replied Gabriel.

  “You got mud on your shoes, having walked north all day from New York, have you not? Getting ready to cross the bridge, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” replied Gabriel again.

  “And north of here lies Massachusetts, where there has been fighting at Lexington and Concord, and where a militia has been gathering to drive the redcoats out of Boston?”

  “Yes . . . yes,” said Gabriel.

  “And boys your age have dreams about leading troops into a glorious battle victory, beating your drum as the soldiers march along to the beat?”

  “Yes, that’s all true, but I still don’t know how you figured all that out from just looking at me,” said Gabriel.

  “I told you I’m not blind,” chuckled Ben. “The one thing I don’t know is where your ma and pa are and why they’re letting such a young lad take off to fight the enemy.”

  Gabriel swallowed hard. “My mother and father both died of small pox last year. They only lived a month after getting sick, dying within a week of each other. I got a touch of the pox but never took ill the way they did.”

  “I feared as much,” Ben responded with a solemn nod. “The good Lord says for us to help widows and orphans, so I have a few things to say to you. Listen up.” Ben pulled his chair up closer to the table. “Now, you have a long way to go to get to Boston, and you have a lot to learn about being wise to your surroundings. I would let you have a horse of mine if I had one to spare, but I’m afraid I don’t. But I will give you what I do have, and that is my advice, as long as you’re willing to sit here and listen to an old farmer.”

  “I will gladly listen, sir,” said Gabriel.

  “First things first, what is your name?” asked Ben.

  “Gabriel Cooper.”

  “Well, Master Cooper, you know all about what happened at Lexington and Concord only just a few weeks ago?”

  Not wanting to appear unknowing, Gabriel stuttered, “Of . . . of course.” In truth, he knew very little about what had happened. The newspapers in New York had stories about shots being fired, leading to a skirmish. Patriot papers wrote of blood having been spilled in the name of liberty. Tory papers downplayed the events, exclaiming the success, bravery, and honor of the King’s troops.

  Ben looked at him intently. “I said I would give you advice, and here is the first piece. When someone is willing to tell you something that you do not know much about, listen. Even if you are the smartest person in the world, you pretend to be dumb as rock and listen. You are bound to learn something. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” replied Gabriel.

  “Now we will try this again. Do you know all about what happened at Lexington and Concord?” asked Ben.

  “No, sir,” said Gabriel.

  “Much better, my boy,” replied Ben as he slapped the table. “Mind you now, all that I’m about to tell you comes straight from my brother Jacob’s mouth. He’s a blacksmith and a militiaman who has a house in the town of Lexington. It all started late at night when my brother was out taking care of a newborn calf. He heard someone on horseback shouting, ‘The regulars are coming out!’ Turns out it was a man by the name of Revere
who spread the word through the Massachusetts countryside. All those militiamen knew to grab their muskets and protect their homes. Old General Gage thought he would be able to walk right in and capture Sam Adams, Hancock, and all the other Sons of Liberty without a fight. Well, he was wrong, by golly. The lobsterbacks got a fight, all right, and decided they best leave Misters Adams and Hancock alone and head on to Concord where the patriots had a supply of weapons and ammunition. Do you understand?” asked Ben.

  Gabriel thought for a second. He had heard of Sam Adams and John Hancock and knew the Sons of Liberty spoke for the rights of patriots. He had read in a newspaper that the king was furious and had declared Massachusetts in open rebellion. The king had charged Adams and Hancock with high treason and called for their arrest. But Gabriel had never heard of Revere. “Who is Mr. Revere, and how did he know the regulars were marching out of Boston?”

  “Mr. Revere — Paul’s his first name — lived in Boston. He figured that one day the soldiers were bound to leave Boston neck to capture Sam Adams and John Hancock, up in Lexington. He also heard that the redcoats were going to capture the militia’s supply of guns and ammunition. So Revere, along with a few others, formed a plan to alert the militia throughout the Massachusetts countryside as to when the regulars were on the march.”

  “How did they get out of Boston without the regulars knowing?” By now Gabriel was mesmerized by Ben’s telling of the events.

  “Well, now,” responded Ben, “getting out of Boston was no small feat. One man rode out at night just before the sentries sealed off the neck. Revere, himself, rowed ashore to Charles Town, right between two of His Majesty’s ships. Had the redcoats in those ships seen Revere sneaking across the river that time of night . . . well, he might not have made his ride.”