Freedom

by David Wood

  “And the journal?” Jillian asked.

  “That one was tricky. If you want John Adams’ journal, that’s easy to find. Sam’s, not so much. In fact, the only reference I found was the story of something he said on his deathbed. A slave overheard it, and the tale was passed down through her family. According to her, a few days before his death, she came into his room to empty his chamber pot. They were alone, and he whispered her name. It was one of his rare moments of lucidity, so she hurried to his bedside. He grabbed hold of her with surprising strength and said, “Journal. The secret. Trumbull preserved.”

  “John Trumbull? The portrait artist?” Dane frowned. John Trumbull was a painter best known for his Revolutionary War portraits, particularly his Declaration of Independence painting. “If he preserved the secret, it must have been in a painting.”

  “There is a Trumbull portrait of Adams inside Faneuil Hall,” Jillian offered. “It was painted shortly before his death.”

  “I suppose we could wait until the place opens and check it out, but I’d rather not. I’d like to stay ahead of the Sons of the Republic, just in case they’re on our trail.” Dane turned to Jillian. “You don’t happen to have another secret passageway up your sleeve?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Jimmy handed him a sheet of paper. “I’m way ahead of you.”

  Dane looked at it and smiled.

  “Jimmy, I owe you another bottle of scotch.”

  “What is it?” Bones asked.

  “A warren of old tunnels runs beneath the Freedom Trail. Most are dead-ends, running only a few meters before reaching points where the ceiling has collapsed, sealing it off from the rest of the passageways. One stretch, however, is intact, and it runs right beneath Faneuil Hall. At least, it was when the trail markers were installed on the Freedom Trail.”

  “It will get us inside?”

  “It will, according to the source I found. It’s a secret a few blue hairs from the Paul Revere Heritage group were trying to keep to themselves.”

  “How do we get in?” Bones brimmed with pent-up energy, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers.

  “The markers along the Freedom Trail all look the same: a ring of oak leaves encircling the words The Freedom Trail-Boston and this symbol in the middle.” He tapped an image on the paper Dane held. “In one spot, the marker covers a manhole leading down into the passageway.”

  “Where?” Jillian had half-risen from her chair.

  “That, I couldn’t find out, but there’s a subtle difference in that particular marker. If you look closely, it has lines like this on it.” He indicated a second image, and Dane held it up so Bones and Jillian could get a better look.

  “The crossed circle,” Jillian breathed. She sprang from her seat and hugged Jimmy, who gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen.” Bones stood, his eyes brimming with eagerness. “Let’s find a creepy old tunnel.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “So,” Jillian said, “now we take a tour of the Freedom Trail, right?”

  Dane adjusted the backpack in which he carried one of the lanterns. Jillian carried the other in her own pack. “Yep, let’s start with Faneuil Hall.”

  “It’s this way,” she replied, turning and walking toward the right-hand side of City Hall.

  Without looking both ways, they crossed Congress Street at a trot, not worrying about cars smashing into them at quarter past three in the morning. They entered the plaza and made a beeline for the historic building.

  “Think the doors are locked?” Bones asked.

  “More than likely.” Jillian looked the building up and down. “And I wouldn’t consider breaking any windows, either: this is the most heavily secure historic building in the city. The cops would be on us so fast that we wouldn’t be able to blink. We need Jimmy’s secret passageway.”

  “Here’s the marker.” Dane flicked on his Maglite and shone it on the gleaming disc. “No crossed circle. Where do you want to try next?”

  Jillian pulled out her father’s map of the Freedom Trail and unfolded it. “Give me some light.” She ran her finger along the red line to the next stop. “Paul Revere’s House.”

  They headed down narrow, cobblestoned Marshall Street and past the Hand Tavern, which Jillian told them had opened in 1765 and claimed to be the oldest tavern in America, standing dark on the left-hand side. The winding red line took them through the garlic-scented air of the North End.

  “We’re in North Square Park,” Jillian said. “The Revere House is over here.”

  Here, the red-bricked path was outlined in gray, marking the trail. The bricks rose up into a wall bisected by a gray hexagonal building with a pitched roof. They passed through a swinging gate and inspected the Revere House up close.

  The remains of the house were flush against the tall brick building adjacent to it. The uneven brick surface of the courtyard surrounded a wood-and-glass case that held a bronze bell. A wrought iron staircase hung off the back side of the house, and flower gardens sprung up here and there, offsetting the monotonous red with greens, whites and yellows, all washed out in the pale moonlight.

  Dane kept the flashlight moving until he found the marker. No cross. The tunnel wasn’t here.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Bones sounded incredulous. “We walked all that way for a five-second scan?”

  “There’s nothing here.” Dane indicated the marker.

  “All right, let’s move along.” Bones turned and headed for the exits.

  “A little brusque. Is he okay?” Jillian asked.

  “I’m sure he is. He’s obviously serious about solving this mystery. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so focused on something that wasn’t a combat situation.”

  They caught up with Bones just outside the gate.

  “Which way?” Bones asked.

  They followed the long bricked pathway past stately oaks that looked old enough to have witnessed the first shots of the Revolution. They came to a halt in front of a tall, dark shape. Dane moved his flashlight about until it came to rest on a long face.

  “I think I know what this is.” Bones brought his own light to bear.

  A fifteen-foot-high statue with a smooth granite base loomed before them-- Paul Revere mounted on his horse. They stared at the statue for several moments. There was dignity in Revere’s face, and a sense of the gravity of the task he undertook on that cold April night. Dane felt a touch of that same feeling. Here they were, three ordinary people on a mission, much like the one Revere undertook when he kicked his horse into motion and sent him speeding across the Charles River toward Lexington and Concord. Dane reached out and ran his fingers across the cool, granite surface, transfixed by the moment.

  “Hey, Maddock, I think I found the marker.”

  That got Dane’s attention. He joined Bones, who knelt a few feet away from the statue. Sure enough, they could just make out the cross pattern behind the ornate engravings.

  “This has to be it.” He and Bones put down their lights and set to work. Dane strained with the effort, every muscle in his arms, back, and neck tensed as he poured all of his strength into working the cover loose until, finally, it broke free. They slid the metal disc aside and shone their lights into the hole, revealing rusted iron rungs descending to a brick passageway.

  Dane tested the weight of the first rung, found it to be solid, and led the way down. Jillian followed, and then Bones climbed in, pausing to replace the marker over the hole before climbing the rest of the way down. Taking a moment to get their bearings, they set off in a Southwesterly direction.

  “By car, it’s a little over half-a mile to Faneuil Hall,” Jillian said, “but if this tunnel is a straight shot, it should be even less.”

  Dane resisted the urge to jog, even run. All around them were signs that time was catching up to this passageway: missing bricks, leaning walls, sagging sectio
ns of ceiling, and collapsed side tunnels.

  “Nobody sneeze.” Bones echoed Dane’s thoughts. “I don’t want to end up like the Wicked Witch.”

  They paused at the first side passage that had not collapsed.

  “What do you think?” Dane shone his light into the darkness. “Based on how fast we’ve been walking, I’d say we’re a little less than half a mile.”

  “Let’s check it out.” Bones took the lead, still eyeing the ceiling suspiciously.

  The tunnel ended at a set of crumbling stone steps. Dane mounted them with trepidation, and felt the mortar crunch under his feet with every step. They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door on iron hinges. He took hold of the knob and took a deep breath.

  “Here goes nothing.” He turned the knob and pulled. The door gave an inch, then, with a loud crack, broke free of its hinges. Dane suddenly found himself holding up a six foot tall door. “Here.” He handed it to Bones. “Find something to do with this.”

  The doorway opened into a dusty crawlspace, its floor cluttered with broken crates and moldering burlap bags. At the far end, a smaller, sturdier door led to a little-used storage room. From there, they mounted a staircase that led up to the main floor.

  “This is it,” Jillian whispered. “The Great Hall of Peter Faneuil’s marketplace. Better known as Faneuil Hall.”

  Dane directed his beam out into the room and started when he saw George Washington staring back at him.

  “Why, hello General. Fancy meeting you here.” Bones strode into the room and gave the bust of America’s first president a noogie.

  Washington’s wasn’t the only sculpture in the hall. Looking at the alcoves set in the baby blue walls, Dane recognized John Quincy Adams, Frederick Douglas, Lucy Stone, Daniel Webster, and Samuel Adams. Moving past them, he played his light across the walls, scanning the portraits that hung in gilded frames.

  “Anybody see Adams? We’ve got to make this quick. The last thing we need is for someone to drive by and see our lights through the window.”

  “Here he is!” Jillian’s voice trembled with excitement, pointing to a spot behind where Dane stood.

  Dane turned and looked. The statesman, clad all in red, stood before a bookcase. He clutched a sheaf of papers and seemed to look down on them with a hint of disapproval.

  “He looks more laid-back on the beer bottles,” Bones observed.

  “That’s because it’s not Sam Adams on the beer; it’s Paul Revere.” Dane saw the confused expression on Bones’ face and went on. “They were originally going to call it Paul Revere Beer, but the name Sam Adams tested better with consumers. They’d already designed the label and, as you pointed out, Paul Revere’s is a friendlier face. So, there you have it.”

  “That’s jacked-up. I’m going to write somebody a letter when we get back to base. I’ve been drinking under false pretenses.”

  “How about we look for the hidden message and argue about beer labels later?” Jillian moved in close and scrutinized the portrait. “Looks like a regular painting to me.”

  “Maybe on the back?” Bones tipped the bottom of the painting and peered behind it. “Nothing.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Dane moved two steps closer and cocked his head. “There’s something there.”

  Bones and Jillian moved back to stand beside him.

  “I don’t see anything.” Bones scratched his chin.

  “Most of the individual portraits from this time period have dull backgrounds—usually shades of a single color, but not this one. Look at the spine of each book. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

  After a moment’s pause, Jillian and Bones spoke on top of one another.

  “I see it!”

  “Whoa, dude!”

  “Each spine has one of the symbols from our list. Jillian, you’ve got the key?”

  She reached into her backpack and took out a notebook in which she’d copied down the key to the cipher: letters and numbers in one column, the corresponding symbols in the other. “I’m going to need a minute to figure this out. You guys keep an eye on the street.”

  Dane and Bones extinguished their lights and moved to either side of the hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a clear view of the street. His heart pounding out a rhythmic beat and cold sweat dripping down his neck, Dane peered up and down the street while Jillian puzzled out the clue in the painting. Twice, she had to hurriedly douse her light when Dane spotted headlights in the distance. A police car approached. That was not what they needed right now.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, Jillian cried out in triumph. “I’ve got it!”

  “What does it say?” Dane hurried over to see what she had written.

  “The secret lies with the five martyrs.”

  “Oh, that helps.” Bones exhaled sharply. “History’s filled with martyrs, and we have to figure out which five he gave chunks of his journal to?”

  “This is Boston,” Jillian said. “And we’re talking about the American Revolution.”

  “Hold on.” Dane’s momentary disappointment had vanished, replaced by an almost manic excitement. “Aren’t the five victims of the Boston Massacre buried together?”

  “Yes!” Jillian nodded vigorously. “And the grave is right here on the Freedom Trail!”

  “I think we’d better find it quick.” Bones stared out the window. “Because I think somebody just spotted us.”

  They followed his line of sight and spotted the same police officer who had questioned Dane and Bones after Andrews’ accident. He strode along Congress Street toward Faneuil Hall, his eyes locked on the window where Dane and his friends stood.

  “O’Meara,” Dane breathed. “Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 14

  They hurried back through the basement area and down into the underground passageway. Dane felt confident that O’Meara, if he had even seen them, had no chance of finding them down here. By the time they made their way back to the entrance at the foot of the Revere Monument, however, he had a new worry.

  “What happens if he sees us climbing out of the passageway? We don’t know where he’s patrolling.”

  “We’ll have to risk it,” Bones said. “I’ll go first. If he sees me, I’ll draw him off. I can outrun him no problem.”

  “Are you sure?” A few days ago, Dane wouldn’t have cared if Bones got himself arrested or not, but now he realized he’d come to like the guy, and even rely on his solid presence. “Maxie won’t like it if you get arrested.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run from the cops. I’ll lose him and meet you two at the graveyard. Where is it?”

  “The Granary Burying Ground. Unfortunately, it’s a mile or so back the way we came. We’ll have to take the roundabout way and hope we don’t meet up with O’Meara.”

  As they made their way toward the burying ground, Jillian filled them in on its history. Founded in 1660, the Granary Burying Ground was the final resting place of many notable patriots, including Paul Revere, three signers of the Declaration of Independence, and the victims of the Boston Massacre.

  As they passed beneath the imposing gateway, Dane recognized the sturdy columns and large, ornate entablature as Egyptian Revival architecture. He noted the winged hourglasses carved into it, as well as the many skeletons and winged skulls engraved in the weathered headstones. He looked at the macabre images and felt as if he’d been transported to another time and place. Strange, such a creepy old cemetery would be located in the middle of a bustling, modern city.

  They wound through the silent cemetery, keeping an eye out for O’Meara, or any other unwelcome observers, until Jillian called them to a halt.

  “The grave is right here.” She looked around, making sure they were alone, then flicked on her light.

  Dane had expected an elaborate tomb, but only a simple headstone marked the victims’ resting place. It read:

  The Remains of

  SAMUEL GRAY

  SAMUEL MAVERICK

&nb
sp; JAMES CALDWELL

  CRISPUS ATTUCKS

  and

  PATRICK CARR

  Victims of the Boston Massacre

  March 5, 1770

  “I thought it would be bigger,” Bones said. “What now? Find a shovel and start digging?”

  “I don’t know.” Dane circled the grave marker, looking it over, and then shone his light across the ground. “Wait! Check this out.” His light shone on an old foot marker. Unlike its counterparts on the surrounding graves, this one was large, with a thick, brass plaque attached to the weathered stone. It bore no writing, only single image.

  “It’s the crossed circle again!” Jillian whispered. “I think this is it!”

  Dane thought so too, but didn’t want to jinx them by saying so.

  “Listen, how about you two find a place out of sight to wait for me? Three people with flashlights, huddled around a grave in the middle of the night could draw attention. Give me a minute to get my night vision back and I’ll be good to go.”

  Jillian started to protest, but Bones took her by the elbow and steered her away into the darkness.

  Dane took out his Swiss army knife and set to work on the screws that held the plaque in place. They didn’t budge. More than two centuries of exposure to the elements had frozen them solid. He tried prying the plaque loose with one of his knife blades. It gave a little—enough for him to see a hollowed-out space behind it. Encouraged, he kept working, but made no further progress. Minutes flew and Dane grew increasingly frustrated. Finally, in a fit of pique, he ran to the nearby fence, wrenched off one of the ornamental top spikes, wedged it beneath the edge of the plate, and used a rock to hammer it in until the plate broke free.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bones called softly. “Trying to wake the dead?”

  “I had to. I’m done now.”

  “Hurry up. With our luck, O’Meara’s right around the corner.”

  Cupping his Maglite to hide its beam, Dane shone it into the hollowed-out section of the foot stone, revealing a hinged, metal door with four numbered tumblers. A Colonial combination lock!