The Drum of Destiny

by Chris Stevenson

  Gabriel nodded his head. He truly felt sorry for Malinda and her family. The thought of marching with Colonel Arnold now seemed repulsive. “I’m sorry about what happened to your father, Malinda,” he said, “but I still don’t know how I’m supposed to get to Boston now that I’ve been left behind.”

  “Nothing has changed about how you are going to get to Boston, Gabriel,” Malinda said softly. “You left New York knowing how you would get there. You would walk. That hasn’t changed. The fleeting hope you could join up with Mr. Arnold’s militiamen before you reached Boston doesn’t change anything.”

  He knew this was true. “You sure must want me to leave, because you’re doing a good job persuading me I should continue on my journey to Boston.”

  “I don’t want you to leave, Gabriel. I’ve only known you for a short time, but you are already a dear friend, and I want you to stay a close friend to me even if you are going to be off fighting in Boston.”

  “I will stay a close friend to you no matter where I am.”

  “Then you will go on?” asked Malinda.

  “Yes, I will go.”

  Malinda took Gabriel’s hand. “And I will pray for your safe return”.

  H 10 H

  A GIFT

  Gabriel headed back up to the house with Malinda. Mr. Fleming was already out splitting wood. He put down his axe and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve as they approached.

  “Constance, could you go fetch me a pail of water, please?” asked Mr. Fleming.

  Sweat dripped down from Mr. Fleming’s face as the tall, lanky man sat down on a stump and let out a sigh. “Gabriel, life is full of people who let you down and circumstances that turn out to disappoint you. I’ve had a few of both in my life, but there’s one thing you have to remember . . . be true to yourself. Don’t let others discourage you from taking the path chosen for your life. You are the only one who can know that path. Find it, and then hold on to it with all of your heart.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Gabriel, “but the hard part is figuring out what path you are supposed to be on.”

  Mr. Fleming chuckled, stood up, and picked up his axe to resume his chopping. He said in a ringing tone, “And this above all, to thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou can’st not then be false to any man.”

  Gabriel looked with surprise at Mr. Fleming. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “You’ll find Shakespeare’s play Hamlet on my bookshelf inside the house, along with other plays and poems he’s written.”

  Gabriel nodded, “Hamlet. I knew I had heard that quote before. My mother and father took me to see it when I was little. I mostly remember being scared of the ghost. I have been frightened by the thought of spirits ever since.”

  “Shakespeare did like to frighten his audience on occasion.” Mr. Fleming laughed. “But he always seemed to wind a great many truths into his tales. I hope what I told you makes sense, Gabriel. You may take all the time you need to reach a decision about whether you will return to New York, stay here, or travel on. I only ask that your choice be definite and that, once you’ve decided, you’ll not waiver.”

  “I’ve already decided I’ll continue on to Boston, sir,” replied Gabriel.

  Mr. Fleming took a step toward Gabriel, patted him on the back, and then grabbed his shoulders, giving a firm squeeze. “Well done, Gabriel. Don’t lose heart. When will you depart?”

  “I’m afraid if I stay too long, I’ll be tempted to change my mind. I’ll head out in the morning,” said Gabriel. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. Somehow, saying them aloud to Mr. Fleming suddenly made leaving real.

  “Very good, son. That will give us time to prepare another farewell meal and pack up some food to take with you,” said Mr. Fleming with a broad smile.

  Mr. Fleming was true to his word. He left that afternoon and returned with three plump quail. The hunting was still good in the hills near New Haven, and he was obviously a good shot. Gabriel wished he could stay and have Mr. Fleming teach him how to shoot, but he already said he was leaving. In the morning, he would be gone.

  He tried to shake this thought from his mind by helping Mr. Fleming pluck the quails’ feathers and then mount them on a spit. Malinda and Constance took turns turning the spit gently over the fire in the hearth. The succulent juices from the birds dripped slowly onto the flames, and a wonderful smell filled the small cabin. Malinda and Constance made cornbread and tea to go with the quail. The meal was quite possibly the best one Gabriel could remember. The quail was the juiciest and most tender meat he’d ever eaten. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any better, Malinda left the table to return with an apple cobbler she’d made.

  “I was just getting ready to say the only thing this meal was missing is dessert, but I’d have spoken too soon,” said Mr. Fleming, now sniffing the sweet aroma filling the air, “That, Malinda dear, looks delicious, and I suggest we not delay in finding out exactly how delicious it really is.”

  Malinda set the desert down on the table and dished up a steaming portion for everyone. Gabriel ate the dessert, savoring every bite, remembering how hungry he’d been earlier in his journey. Then, as the last bits of apple cobbler were dished out, Mr. Fleming left the table for a moment and returned holding something behind his back. “Gabriel, in addition to this fine meal and the food we have already packed for you, I have something else.”

  “Make him guess, Papa!” shouted Constance.

  “Guess? Oh yes, very well,” responded Mr. Fleming. “Gabriel, what do you think is hidden behind my back?”

  Gabriel had no idea what was hidden behind Mr. Fleming’s back and had to think for a few moments before he cried out, “A new knife?”

  “No, guess again,” said Mr. Fleming.

  “A hatchet.”

  “No again, but it is somewhat of a cross between a tool and a weapon.”

  Constance was beaming with glee with the progression of the guessing game. She always loved to make people guess, sometimes over the silliest things.

  A cross between a tool and a weapon, thought Gabriel. “A trap for catching animals,” shouted Gabriel.

  “I’ll consider that close enough.” Mr. Fleming held out a fishing hook and some fishing line.

  Gabriel took the hook and line from him. “Thank you. I’m sure to catch some big fish with this.”

  “There are plenty of streams and ponds on the road that runs north of here to Hartford and on into Massachusetts. You should find the fishing good — at least good enough to keep you from going hungry,” said Mr. Fleming. “Now then, why don’t we all enjoy a little music before we turn in.”

  Mr. Fleming went to his bedroom and returned with a fiddle and bow. Gabriel sat back in the large rocking chair in front of the fire and listened to the songs flowing from the fiddle. He recognized some of the songs, like “Yankee Doodle,” but he’d never heard many of them. Malinda and Constance rose to dance, when Mr. Fleming began to play a minuet. They motioned for Gabriel to get up and join them, but he just shook his head.

  “Come now,” said Malinda. “We’ll teach you if you don’t know how.”

  After finally being pulled from his chair by Malinda and Constance, Gabriel found himself trying to mimic a courteous bow and then several steps to the right and several steps to the left. In the process of trying to watch Malinda’s feet instead of his own, his legs became tangled, and he toppled over, falling to the floor. Malinda and Constance laughed and pulled him back to his feet. His face turned two shades of red, but he tried to follow the steps again. None too soon, the song ended, and Gabriel quickly plopped back down into the rocking chair.

  “What elegant dancers you all are,” said Mr. Fleming, clapping his hands. Then he picked up his fiddle once more. “One last song, and then it’s off to bed.” Notes began to pour from the fiddle, entrancing Gabriel with a mournfully sweet song. Mr. Fleming sang no words, yet the notes seemed to speak to Gabriel all
the same. The melody went on softly until he found himself being gently shaken by Malinda. “Gabriel, Gabriel, you fell asleep. It’s time for bed.”

  “Oh, yes, I must have just dozed off.” Gabriel rose slowly from the chair and half-walked, half-stumbled to the bed. He crawled in and quickly fell asleep. As he did, he thought to himself how hard it would be to leave this place come morning.

  H 11 H

  LEAVING

  It was time to leave, and Gabriel knew it. Standing just outside the door to the cabin, the morning sun shone brightly. He had eaten a filling breakfast, but there hadn’t been much conversation at the breakfast table. In a way, he was glad, hoping it would somehow make it easier to leave the Fleming farm.

  “Now then,” said Malinda, handing him his sack, “I sewed up the tear in your blanket, folded it up as a pack, and filled it with dried beef, biscuits, and a few bits of maple sugar I’ve been saving. Father found an old canteen that I filled with some tea. All of your belongings are in there, including a beautiful ring and a piece of paper. I’m not sure what the piece of paper is, but I saw it had writing on it.”

  “That is a note from my mother,” replied Gabriel.

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it,” said Malinda.

  “It would have been alright if you had. Maybe you would know what its meaning is more than I do. At least I know you understand why I keep it.”

  “Yes, I do understand, Gabriel,” said Malinda, handing over the pack. “Don’t forget your drum and these fine drumsticks we made.”

  “I can’t forget that,” he said. He picked up his drum and stuffed the sticks down into his pack. He took his special ring out and stuck it into his pocket where he always kept it, and then tied up the sack, slinging it over his back.

  Gabriel stood in the sunlight that filtered softly down in front of the cabin. He looked at Malinda, Constance, and Mr. Fleming and was unable to move.

  He felt a wet streak begin to move slowly down his cheek. Next thing he knew, he had thrown off his pack and drum and run to Malinda and Constance, giving each of them a hug. Next came Mr. Fleming, who grabbed him with his strong arms and gave him such a tight hug he thought he might suffocate. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he stammered, “You’ll write, won’t you? I’m not sure exactly where I’ll be, but I’ve been told to find a Nathaniel Greene when I get to Boston. I think he’s in charge of the Rhode Island militia. I want to know all that is going on around the farm, just as if I were here.”

  “I will write you often, don’t worry, Gabriel,” said Malinda.

  Gabriel picked up his pack and drum again. He stood looking at the three people who saved his life, nursed him back to health, and helped him remember what it was like to have a real family again. He struggled to move his feet. At this moment, every inch of him felt like staying. Still, he began to turn away from them.

  Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, he was some distance away when he decided to look back. Down by the small house, he saw the three of them still standing there, waving. He fought back tears and walked on back to the road that would take him to Boston.

  Gabriel tried to distance himself from Malinda and the Fleming farm as quickly as he could, for fear he would go running back. Leaving her was even harder than he imagined, and yet he remembered her words to him: I want you to stay a close friend to me even if you are going to be off fighting in Boston.

  He felt a sense of pride. Now he had something to fight for and return to.

  He held his head higher and began to march his pace. He soon found his way back to the Boston Post Road and arrived in the town of New Haven shortly after. He walked down the street as the town was beginning to bustle with activity. As he walked past Benedict Arnold’s drugstore, he wondered where Arnold and his men were at that moment, still feeling betrayed about being left behind.

  When he reached the edge of town, he saw a stone marker: “Hartford 39 miles”. Feeling strong and refreshed, he told himself he could reach Hartford in two days. He had the provisions from the Flemings to eat along the way, and the weather was good.

  But just beyond the New Haven’s West Rock, he needed to rest. The fever, he thought, had taken its toll on his stamina. Perhaps reaching Hartford would take longer than two days. He would have to temper his pace.

  During one of his breaks along the side of the road, Gabriel’s thoughts turned to the warships he had seen atop the hill, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of urgency to reach Boston. The battle for Boston would be over by the time he got there, and then what? He was doing the best he could. He had to keep up his strength. Finding the Flemings had been by providence alone. He couldn’t take the chance of falling ill again. Whatever the circumstance, Ben Daniels had told him to find and report to Nathanial Greene. That was his duty.

  Fortunately, as the days passed, there was very little traffic on the road. Still, there were many loyalists along the route that would not be sympathetic to his journey. He had discovered that firsthand in his meetings with Bradford Grimm. The possibility of receiving a good thrashing, or worse yet, being strung up from a tree, was very real if a loyalist got a hold of him. He also knew other orphaned boys had been forced to join His Majesty’s troops. Despite the risks, he was more determined than ever to reach the militia. He had come such a long way. Neither the Lorings, nor loyalists, nor illness had stopped him. It was on to Boston to serve his country.

  Malinda had packed a good amount of food for his journey. After the end of each long day of walking, Gabriel would sit down and eat a bite. Lying down to sleep when the stars came out, he would be back up and ready to move with the rising of the sun.

  Almost a week had passed since he left the Fleming’s farm, and yet he still had some dried meats, hardtack, and whortleberries left in his pack. Every time he sat down to have a bite to eat and a drink from his canteen, he thought of Malinda and the rest of her family. The food brought back fond memories of the Flemings, which comforted him on his lonely journey.

  He reached the town of Hartford almost six full days after he left the Flemings. His food supply was running a little low. As he passed through town, he would keep an eye out for any food he might collect as he journeyed on, but he would not stop. Over the past two days, he’d been able to walk for over three hours before needing a rest, and he seemed to cover more ground. He walked through the side streets of the town, avoiding the busy shops that lined the main thoroughfare, and quickly reached the north side of town.

  It was afternoon now, and Gabriel stood in front of a stone marker along the side of the road that read, “Springfield 32 Miles”. “Massachusetts,” he whispered to himself. He had chosen the northern-most branch of the post road, since it was the shortest path to Massachusetts. He may still be many miles from Boston, but at least he would soon be standing on Massachusetts soil. This was a colony filled with patriots, ready and willing to fight, and he was almost there. Excited by the thought of being one step closer to Massachusetts, he pressed on with a new vigor. He walked briskly, and soon, Hartford was out of sight.

  Gabriel entered a wooded area where the road wound around huge oak trees. The sun was lowering itself into the western sky, and he could hear the chorus of chirping tree frogs beginning to fill the air. He listened closely and heard the low barking sound of a bullfrog. Then he heard another and another low, gravelly croak. The scratchy sound of the deep-throated bullfrogs gave him an idea. Where there were bullfrogs, there was bound to be a pond, and where there was a pond, there was bound to be fish. He could picture a pond just off the road, with flies and bugs skimming the water and huge fish jumping out to eat them, splashing back into the pond and sending ripples through the water.

  Gabriel left the road, being careful to remember which way he was heading. He followed the sound of the frogs, and he soon found a clearing with a nice-sized pond lined with reeds and bulrush. “This will do nicely,” he said to himself. He rolled up his pants to his knees and waded out to pluck a strong reed f
rom the muddy ground. He then waded back over to solid ground and cut the narrow end of the reed off with his knife. He took the fine point of his knife and put a small hole through the end of the reed. Unrolling his pack, he took out his fishing line and carefully threaded it through the hole in the reed, tying a hook at the end of the gut. He took a nearby rock and began to pry up some of the soft dirt along the side of the pond. Before long, he had several huge wriggling worms, one of which he threaded onto his hook.

  Armed with his newly formed fishing pole in hand, Gabriel stepped back out through the reeds and stood where the water was about knee deep. Holding the line and hook gathered up in his hand, he threw it out away from the reeds. It plunked into the water, and he stood silently, waiting for his line to move.

  The pond was just as Gabriel had imagined. The hot sun sinking in the sky seemed to signal the fish to begin their feeding frenzy on all sorts of bugs that flitted over the pond. He saw fish after fish jump and splash, but not one seemed to be interested in his line. “Patience . . . patience,” he muttered to himself. The sun was sinking fast, and he knew he was running out of time. He slowly pulled his line out of the water to cast it once again to his farthest reach.

  No sooner had he thrown his line back than something strong grabbed his hook and gave a mighty tug. The reed began to slip out of Gabriel’s hand. He quickly grabbed it with his other hand and gave a jerk to set the hook. His catch remained on the line and began struggling even more. He wrapped the line around the end of his pole to reel in a large fish. He struggled with his prey but, finally, a large green and silver fish lay flopping at his feet.

  He stuck the end of his pole down into the soft mud below the water and, with both hands, reached down to pick up the fish. Its cold and slimy scales tried to wriggle free. As he picked it up, he tried to guess its weight. It had to be close to ten pounds and looked to be some type of bass.