We Hold These Truths

by Andrew Clements

  “Did I say the mill wheel was in the basement? Because I meant to say that it was in the sub-basement.”

  “The school has two basements?” Ben asked. “Because the building plans we studied in the library only showed one.”

  “Not many folks know about the lower level.”

  “How do you get to it?”

  Tom had answered slowly. “Well . . . I don’t really know. I never went down there, never needed to. Seems to me that Roger said the entrance was somewhere near the big boilers . . . or maybe it was along the east wall. . . . I guess you’ll have to hunt around a bit.”

  That conversation with Tom had happened around six p.m., and it wasn’t until after nine on Sunday night that he and Jill and Robert had worked out the plan for recruiting more kids to help inside the school.

  As all this ran through his mind, Ben suddenly saw something with perfect clarity, and it seemed so obvious that he felt totally stupid—for about the hundredth time. On a gold coin, Captain Oakes had written, MY SCHOOL WILL ALWAYS BELONG TO THE CHILDREN, but who did he entrust the coin to? A grown-up, the first janitor. And then, on the copper plate he and Jill had found hidden behind the floor molding, it had said, WE THE CHILDREN WILL ALWAYS BE THE KEEPERS OF THE SCHOOL—and that statement had been signed by three kids. But it wasn’t children who had built the school, or hidden the safeguards, or paid the taxes to keep the school working for the past two centuries—all that had been done by grown-ups!

  But . . . how come the captain got those three kids involved at the start, back in 1791? Or . . . was it even the captain who had made that decision? Maybe John Vining, the carpenter, had been the one who decided to recruit his son and two other kids. . . .

  Thinking about all of it made Ben’s head spin—or was that just the heat again? Anyway, if he and Jill and Robert plus all the rest of the crew could keep the school from being demolished, there would be plenty of time to do more research and try to answer all the questions. Because history was never simple.

  The bell clanged—sixth period was over.

  It was time to stop thinking about history. It was time to go and make some. Because if Mrs. Hinman, the newest grown-up Keeper, could execute her part of today’s plan, he and Jill and Robert were about to launch a pretty bold mission.

  To find this hidden tide mill, they had to get into the sub-basement—but first they would have to get down to the basement. And to get into the basement they were going to have to walk right through the middle of enemy headquarters—the janitor’s workroom.

  CHAPTER 7

  Outlet

  Three minutes after the final bell, Robert sent a text to the cell phones of all seven of the new kids: Can you tell me where Lyman or Wally is? It was the first test of their communication system—the disposable cell phones Tom Benton had bought at Target on Sunday night.

  Almost instantly, five of the new recruits replied. Two said, No. But the other three had good information: Marin and Gina reported that Lyman was on the first floor, standing near the south stairwell, and Gabe had spotted Wally, also on the ground floor, sweeping the floors near the north stairwell.

  Ben smiled. The Glennley goons were on the lookout for the three kids who had skipped gym class. Lyman and Wally had started using walkie-talkies to coordinate, and they had placed themselves so they could observe all four of the first-floor hallways of the old building.

  Thinking like a general now, Ben said, “We’ve got to get Lyman to move out of position so we can get to the janitor’s room.”

  Mrs. Hinman smiled and said, “I’ll have him right here inside this room in five minutes or less, guaranteed!”

  She walked over and clicked the intercom button on the wall by her door.

  “Yes? May I help you?” It was Mrs. Hendon, the school secretary. The old speaker below the clock made her voice sound fuzzy.

  Mrs. Hinman replied, “Hi, Rita, I know this is a terrible time of day for you, but I need some help. Could you send Jerry up here? He checked out the electrical circuits in my classroom this afternoon, and now the outlet I need to run my digital projector is dead. I’ve got to have it working first period tomorrow—or maybe he could just bring me a heavy extension cord. But I’m worried about the outlet. I keep thinking that I hear some sort of noise, like maybe some kind of crackling or something. I think he’d better come right away, if you can reach him.”

  “Sounds serious, June—I’ll get him up there as soon as possible!”

  “Thanks, and could you buzz me back when he’s on his way?”

  “Sure will!”

  And Mrs. Hendon was gone.

  “That’s great!” Jill said. “And that stuff about the noise was genius!”

  Robert frowned. “Well, I think it was pretty stu—”

  Ben saw Gerritt suddenly remember that he was talking to a teacher.

  He blushed a little, then said, “What I meant to say is, it might have been a good idea to explain a little before you started saying all that, Mrs. Hinman. Because Lyman just tested the outlets, and they work, and when he finds out that they still work, it’s going to make him suspicious . . . is the only problem I see.”

  Mrs. Hinman didn’t seem to hear him. She was on the move, shoving desks this way and that, clearing an area near the center of the room.

  She pointed. “Jill and Robert, would you grab that small table and bring it here? Just set the globe on the floor in the corner. And, Ben, get the projector from the cabinet back there to the left of the coat closet.”

  After the table was placed, she said, “Robert, pull down that screen behind my desk. . . . Good.”

  Robert wasn’t used to being ignored. “Um . . . Mrs. Hinman? About the outlet . . .”

  Ben said, “I don’t see the projector back here.”

  “Did I say the left cabinet? I meant the right one—I’m always doing that!”

  Ben found it and carried it to the table.

  Robert said, “Mrs. Hinman, I really think the outlet thing could be a problem. Maybe we should . . .”

  The intercom speaker crackled, followed by a soft clang—a recording of the ship’s bell that hung in the school office.

  Mrs. Hendon said, “June? Jerry’s on his way, should be there in just a few minutes.”

  “Great, Rita. Thanks a lot!”

  The speaker clicked off, and Mrs. Hinman motioned to Robert.

  “Here, take a look.” She pointed just below the projector table, and Ben saw a square brass plate on the floor, set just below the surface of the wood. In the center of the plate there was a single round electrical outlet.

  She looked at Robert and winked. “That’s the outlet Mr. Lyman is going to try to fix—and it hasn’t worked for about seven years. Now, you three better get out of here. I’ll text you when our helpful janitor is good and busy!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Running the Blockade

  When he stepped out of room thirty-four with Jill and Robert, Ben felt like he was sailing into enemy waters. Lyman and Wally had been working hard to establish control of the whole building, and they were getting good at it.

  The plan for the next five minutes was simple: The three of them were going to hang out in the west hallway opposite from Mrs. Hinman’s room and wait until Lyman was busy. Then they’d sneak down the south stairs to the first-floor hallway, turn left, walk about fifty feet, and take another left into the janitor’s room. Then it was a straight shot down into the basement.

  Ben’s phone buzzed—a text on his ghost phone. He looked at it, and said, “It’s Gina—Lyman just came out of the janitor’s room, and he’s headed for the south stairwell!”

  Jill grabbed her phone too. “This is from Gabe—Wally’s coming upstairs too, north stairwell!”

  Ben looked around. He’d thought that Wally would stay at his sentry post on the first floor—they had to hide!

  “Quick,” Robert said, “this way!” And he dashed for the stairwell—the south one.

  “No!” Jill gas
ped. “Lyman’s coming up!”

  Robert kept moving. “Yes, up to the third floor. So we need to get down and then out onto the second floor before he sees us, NOW!”

  Kids were still hurrying down the south stairwell toward the buses, and there was plenty of yelling and talking. The noise of three more kids running downstairs didn’t stand out, but that didn’t make Ben feel any less scared. If Lyman spotted them, this day would be a total loss.

  Following Robert and Jill, he made it to the second-floor landing, then to the door.

  “Hey!” Lyman yelled.

  Ben jumped and then stopped, his fingers still on the crash-bar.

  “Slow down there, young fella!”

  Lyman was below, yelling at someone else.

  Ben scrambled through the doorway, and Jill grabbed his arm and pulled him around the corner to the right.

  “This way,” she whispered, “in case Wally comes onto this floor—I’ve got Gabe tailing him!”

  They sped away, and Ben thought he heard Lyman’s heavy footsteps . . . but the second-floor door didn’t open, and he began breathing again.

  He put on a burst of speed and reached the southwest corner of the hallway in seconds.

  “Mr. Pratt—stop right there, please.”

  It was a man’s voice, but Ben didn’t look to see who it was. He didn’t have to. There was only one teacher who called him Mr. Pratt.

  He turned and smiled. Sweat trickled down his forehead and he wiped it away, trying to look unflustered. And obviously failing.

  “Oh—hi, Mr. Collins.”

  The science teacher stood in his doorway. The afternoon sunshine framed him, making his white shirt look almost orange.

  “Ah-ha—and I see we have Miss Acton and Mr. Gerritt here as well: three students running in my hallway.” He paused, scrunching up his mouth. “A hypothesis: You’re late for buses. . . . No, wrong direction for that. Or perhaps playing tag . . . No, much too warm. Could this be an attack of sheer, uncontrollable, last-week-of-school insanity? Yes, that’s the one I’ll go with. . . . Am I correct?”

  Ben hesitated, and Gerritt stepped in—which still happened a little too often.

  “Almost, sir—we just got a little too enthusiastic! We’re working on an extra-credit assignment for social studies.”

  Mr. Collins frowned and narrowed his eyes at Robert. “And you have empirical evidence to support this wild assertion?”

  Ben smiled. It was two smart guys, trying to out-geek each other. Funny, except they didn’t have time for this.

  But Gerritt was just getting warmed up. He grinned as he spoke. “Yes, indeed. We have visually tangible and measurable evidence, Mr. Collins: three chemically tinted polygons of compressed organic matter issued by competent authorities, complete with manually applied symbols composed of graphite and assorted polymer compounds. Here . . .”

  It took Ben a second to figure out that Gerritt was talking about their yellow hall passes—the ones Mrs. Hinman and the school librarian had signed. He and Jill followed Robert’s lead and held out their slips for inspection.

  From the corner of his eye, Ben saw Jill glance down at her phone.

  The teacher cleared his throat to reply to Robert, but Jill spoke first, softly, as if she was sharing a secret.

  “Um, Mr. Collins, could we all step into your room a second? Like right now? We’ve got to ask you a few questions, important questions. About our project. Right now.”

  Ben didn’t get it until Jill actually pushed him straight toward Mr. Collins, who had no choice but to back up into his room. Jill had to be reacting to news about Wally—he must be getting closer!

  Jill grabbed Robert and pushed him into the room too, then pulled the door shut.

  Out in the hall Ben heard the footsteps coming, heavier and slower than Lyman’s, also more rapid—Wally was at least a foot shorter.

  Jill heard the footsteps too.

  She steered everyone toward the back of the room, toward a place where Wally couldn’t see them unless he actually stepped inside. She talked softly as she moved them away from the door. “Back there . . . um, on that lab table? Have you ever noticed . . . the valves for the Bunsen burners? They’re . . . made of brass, and, look . . . they’re stamped with a name . . . no, it’s a city—Columbus, Ohio. Do you have any idea when these were installed—in the history of the school?”

  For just a second, Mr. Collins looked at Jill as if she needed a brain transplant. But she kept her face completely serious, completely sincere. So, the science teacher tried to answer her question.

  “Yes . . . well, um . . . judging from the metal work—because that’s a brass casting and not a stamped fixture—I’d estimated that this piping was installed sometime just after 1900. I know for a fact that Robert Bunsen’s design for a laboratory heat source was in wide use by the 1860s or so, but a school like this one wouldn’t have installed them until much later. And now, of course, the gas is all disconnected, because we don’t need burners for the middle-grade science curriculum. That kind of compounding and combinatory experimentation doesn’t begin in most public school districts until the eighth grade. Does . . . does that answer your question?”

  Ben knew the answer to that—Wally’s footsteps had passed the room, so the danger was past.

  Jill nodded. “Yes, that’s great, Mr. Collins. I’ve always wondered about that—about that part of the history of the school.”

  “Hmm . . . that’s interesting,” he said.

  And again Ben saw that same puzzled look on the guy’s face.

  “Well, thanks,” said Jill. “We’ve got to go now—a lot more research for our project. And we won’t run in the halls any more, right, guys?”

  “Absolutely,” Ben said. “No more running.”

  The second they were alone in the hallway again, Ben texted their spy network: Any sign of Wally?

  Gabe replied, and Ben relayed the info.

  “Wally’s in the library now—let’s move!”

  Back to the south stairwell, down to the first floor, then a quick fifty paces to the left. The janitor’s room door was open, but there was hallway traffic, kids and teachers.

  Ben went to the drinking fountain across the hall, and Jill and Robert got in line behind him. When the coast was clear, they all slipped into the workroom.

  Ben walked straight to the red door, just to the right of the long workbench. It was unlocked. In fact, there was a sign above the knob that read FIRE DOOR—DO NOT LOCK. The other sign on the door was framed with yellow-and-black stripes. CAUTION: STEPS DOWN.

  Ben whispered, “Get out your headlamps—ready?”

  He pulled the door open, and Jill and Robert followed him into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 9

  This Way Down

  At least it’s cooler down here!

  In the dim light at the bottom of the steps Ben could see the huge granite blocks that formed the outer foundation of the building. Everywhere else, it was dark. They had come down nine steps to the basement floor, and the glow filtering from the small window in the door didn’t reach very far into the blackness.

  Ben clicked his LED headlamp on to low power, and it threw out a narrow shaft of white light. As he looked around, the beam jumped from one unfamiliar object to another. Jill and Robert also turned their lights on, and the beams began poking about randomly. He felt like the area was mostly open, but he wasn’t able to get much sense of the whole space.

  “Hey, guys,” he called in a loud whisper, “let’s stay together and try to map things out a little. We’ve got to get our bearings. Hey—listen!”

  The school’s bell was ringing above them—four clangs, which meant the last bus was leaving. It reminded Ben of a channel bell buoy on a foggy day, muffled and distant. He heard footsteps above them too, on the hallway floor. But again, the sounds seemed faint and far away.

  In the quietness, they all heard something else, off in the darkness—little rustlings and scurryings.

 
; “Rats!” squeaked Jill. “Why do we always have to hang out with the rats!”

  Ben had to smile. It took a lot to get Jill flustered, and he sort of enjoyed it.

  He said, “The ancestors of those rats might have sailed here from England with Captain Oakes’s ancestors. They’ve got just as much right to be here as we do.”

  Robert said, “How fascinating. And don’t forget that rat rhymes with Pratt.”

  Another wisecrack, but Ben ignored Gerritt and pulled out a pencil and the clipboard he’d used during social studies. “We know the janitor’s room is on the south side of the school, so if I stand here with the doorway on my right, it means I’m facing east—toward the ocean.”

  On a blank piece of paper he drew a large rectangle, and then marked a directional letter on each side—E, N, W, S.

  “Okay,” he said, “so let’s walk to the east wall and work our way around to the left from there. Tom said he thought the entrance to the sub-basement was near the boilers—but I don’t really know what we’re looking for.”

  Ben stood still, drawing evenly spaced little squares to indicate the placement of the massive wooden posts that supported the building above them.

  “C’mon, move it, Pratt,” said Robert. “You don’t have to create a masterpiece.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ben said, but he stayed hunched over his clipboard.

  “Here’s a chimney,” Jill said. “A big one. And some kind of iron furnace.”

  Ben guessed that the brick chimney was about twenty feet from the southeast corner of the basement. It measured at least four feet on each side, and the brickwork rested on four large granite blocks. Bending over to shine his light directly at the floor, he was surprised to see the surface wasn’t concrete—more like a mix of sand and dirt and crushed seashells, packed tight and flat.

  Robert said, “I think I’d call that thing a stove instead of a furnace—looks like it burned wood. Yeah . . . see? White ashes—definitely a jumbo-size woodstove.”