Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Page 10

  “How?” I sputtered. “Why?”

  “My father shrugs off their insults,” Josiah said. “He expects the British to win this war and everything to go back to the way it was. He cares only about money. I want more than money. I want liberty.”

  I gaped at him. Was this truly Josiah Henshaw speaking?

  “If the British leave Boston, we’ll leave with them,” he told me. “But Massachusetts is my country. I will find a way to come back.”

  “How long has Master Richardson been a British spy?” I asked.

  “He’s been feeding us secrets almost since the war began—in exchange for money,” Josiah said. “Father recruited him. I helped.”

  I was astonished. Master Richardson had been betraying us for months!

  “Master Richardson brags of his position with General Washington. The Patriots must be warned,” Josiah urged.

  “What is this plan they speak of?”

  “I don’t know,” Josiah said.

  “I must get back to the tavern before they do,” I said.

  Josiah agreed. “Hurry. I’ll try to delay them.”

  We both began to run, staying well behind the group until they turned onto Merchants Row. There was no time for thanks. No time for good-bye. I took to the alleys. Josiah stayed behind the men.

  They were just turning onto Fish Street when I got to the tavern. I saw Josiah approach them but could not stop to watch. Mayhap I was about to leap into a trap, but I had no choice. If Master Richardson was truly a British spy, I must find him out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Stew of Lies

  I slipped into the front door and peered around. Stockdale was in the taproom, reading the Boston News-Letter, a Loyalist newspaper, and drinking a tankard, as was his mid-afternoon habit. He would not discuss a secret plan in so public a place but would bring the men upstairs. If I could get to the attic above his room, I might be able to hear them.

  My heart pounded like a hundred pairs of boots stomping up the stairs, but my footsteps were silent as I made my way into the attic.

  I crept to the chimney flue and prayed their voices would reach my ears. I smelled dust and mice, and pinched my nose so as not to sneeze.

  I heard muffled sounds from below and then boots on the stairs. Moments later, Stockdale strode in, followed by the others.

  I heard the schoolmaster’s voice first. “It’s all here in my report,” he said, handing the papers to the colonel. “Troop levels, artillery positions.”

  “The rebel army—if you can call it that—is in bad shape,” Mr. Henshaw said next. “They’re as tired of this siege as we are. They want to go home. Many are deserting.”

  “We have a plan to end this thing once and for all,” Master Richardson added.

  Colonel Stockdale was silent for some few minutes. I guessed he was reading the report. Then I heard his booming voice. “What of General Washington?” he asked. “Is he tired, too? Does he want to go home?”

  “Washington is a fine military man,” the schoolmaster said. “But finer than the men he commands.”

  I heard Colonel Stockdale snort in disgust.

  Master Richardson’s voice was oily and smug. “One strong blow will send his soldiers scurrying home,” he said.

  Someone pounded on the desk, and then I heard Stockdale’s angry voice again. “Howe will not attack. I’ve urged him and urged him. He will not move. In the meantime we sit and rot in this horrible town.”

  I had to strain to hear Mr. Henshaw’s question. “What if you could do more than urge him?”

  “Your meaning?”

  “What if the Patriots attack Boston?” Master Richardson said next.

  Stockdale laughed. “We would crush them. Surely your General Washington knows that would be suicide.”

  “Washington wants to attack Boston,” Master Richardson told him. “If he believes the British plan a major assault, he will convince his war council to strike first. Your counterattack will destroy the entire rebel army in one blow.”

  “And you believe you can make this happen?” Stockdale asked.

  “If I have proper evidence of a British plan—and money enough to risk my hide—I can force Washington’s hand,” Master Richardson said.

  My own hands were in fists. I wanted to fall through the chimney and give the schoolmaster a pounding. How easily he talked of lying to General Washington. Of the destruction of the entire Patriot army. For money!

  “Washington will attack Boston, and Howe will be forced to counterattack,” Mr. Henshaw added. “You’ll be riding across the countryside by the end of the week. The rebels who don’t run away with their tails between their legs will be hanging from the gallows.”

  I listened to them cook up a stew of lies, making sure it was well spiced.

  Master Richardson was promised a large sum if the plan worked, and a position with Mr. Henshaw after the war. He was to spend the night at Mr. Henshaw’s and “escape” to the rebel camp the next morning with documents that would support his evil deception.

  Finally it sounded as if they were preparing to leave. Then I heard my former schoolmaster ask the colonel one last question.

  “What about the Prescott boy?”

  “I took him to see your barber hang,” the colonel said. “He won’t be carrying any more information to his father, not if he values his neck.”

  “I thought I saw him on Long Wharf.”

  Every one of my muscles tensed. Stockdale answered as they left the room.

  “Shoot him if you must.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Shoot him if you must.”

  Shoot him if you must.”

  The words crashed in my ears. Then I began to think. If the schoolmaster got back to camp and convinced General Washington of his lies, there would be no free and independent states of America. I had to reach Father and General Washington first. But if I was caught, I would surely die.

  I had sworn an oath not to return to the camp, but there was no one in Boston I could trust. I decided I would have to break my vow and go myself. I tried not to remember how close I had come to death the last time I made that journey.

  I listened as Colonel Stockdale and the others clumped down the stairs. All who saw them would believe the schoolmaster’s terrible trick. Some may even take pity on Master Richardson for being a prisoner. Only I knew that soon he would be in General Howe’s office, making a plan to betray us.

  Master Richardson had said he would return to the Patriot’s camp in the morning. I had to get there tonight, before he “escaped” to carry out his treachery.

  I waited until all was quiet below, then left the attic and crept into Stockdale’s room. Master Richardson’s report lay on top of Colonel Stockdale’s table. I slipped it into my waistcoat. A sudden image of the barber’s dangling feet flooded my eyes as vividly as if he were right in front of me. Which death would be more painful—hanging or shooting?

  I could not think about that now. Instead I took a shaky breath, crept down the stairs, and walked through the taproom into the kitchen. Mother was preparing the evening meal.

  “Was your mission a success?” she asked.

  I froze. “My mission?”

  “Fish, Daniel,” she said. “Did you not go out for fish?”

  “Oh, ah, yes . . .” I stammered. “There was none to be had.”

  Suddenly her eyes were sharp, searching my face for signs of danger. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing.”

  She turned back to the meal. “Master Richardson has been taken prisoner,” she said quietly.

  I pretended to be surprised. “Oh?”

  My reaction was not convincing. Mother’s eyes were on my face again. “We must remember him in our prayers.”

  “Colonel Stockdale wants me to run these papers to General Howe.” I pointed to the bulge in my waistcoat and did not meet her gaze.

  “Hurry then,” she said. “Supper’s almost ready
and we’ll soon have a crowd of soldiers yelling for drink.”

  Her voice was thick. Did she know what I was about to do? I hated myself for the worry I would cause her, but I could see no other way.

  A strand of my hair had slipped from its queue. She gently pushed it behind my ear before running her hand down my cheek and chucking me under my chin. “It looks like it might storm.”

  I could only nod, not trusting myself to speak. I checked in on Sarah. She slept peacefully. I took Robin Good-Fellow: A Fairy Tale and slipped it under her pillow. If I did not return, I wanted her to think that I was helping people and having adventures like Robin. She was the best of sisters, and I did not want to cause her any pain.

  I had no plan for making my way to Cambridge. Trying to cross the Neck without a pass would be impossible. The only other way across was by water. I remembered the boat under Hunt’s Wharf and ran there quickly, but it was gone. I would have to make my way on foot.

  It was just coming on dark. I kept to the alleys as best I could and skirted around Mill Pond. As mother had said, it soon began to storm. I shivered as rain turned to sleet and back to rain again.

  At the tip of Barton Point, I strained to see across the Charles River. The dark and the clouds hid it from me, but I knew Lechmere’s Point was across the water. And from there, I could make my way to Cambridge.

  I clutched the papers, wrapped in a piece of leather and hidden in my waistcoat, and carefully stepped onto the ice. I took a few careful steps.

  Crack!

  I slipped and hit the ice. Was that a shot?

  Crack!

  The noise split the night again. It was not a British musket. It was the ice cracking beneath me. I was close to British fortifications. Could they hear it, too?

  The waters were low. If the ice broke I could walk across, but would I survive in the freezing water, even if it was only up to my knees? Or would I freeze to death before I reached the opposite shore?

  I tried to tell myself that it had been a misunderstanding. Master Richardson was only playing with the British on General Washington’s behalf. It was foolishness to risk my life for something the general already knew—indeed must have planned himself.

  Yes. Foolishness. General Washington and the others would only laugh at me. A foolish boy carrying foolish tales. Father would be furious at me for disobeying him and shamed by my claims against the schoolmaster. Tears mixed with rain on my face.

  I turned and started back toward the Boston shore. I would go home to Mother and Sarah. Slip the colonel’s papers back into his room. If I was quick enough, he would never know they were missing. My steps were halting.

  I remembered the time I had seen the schoolmaster leave Dr. Church’s headquarters, and how angry he had been when I let Father know that he had worked for Mr. Henshaw. Josiah’s words—Father recruited him. I helped—came to me again.

  Master Richardson was indeed a traitor, and I was likely the only Patriot besides Josiah who knew. I had to risk my cowardly hide to expose him.

  I turned around again and stepped across the ice. I was almost to the opposite shore when I broke through. Pain shot up my legs as I sunk partway into the freezing water. I could not feel my toes. My teeth chattered so loudly, I was sure I would give myself away. I clutched at my papers. At least they were dry.

  I peered around me. I saw no soldiers on either shore. I slowly put one foot in front of the other, making my way across the icy bay. In time, I was able to walk on ice again. Each time it cracked, I ducked and froze and prayed.

  Finally I was across. I had no more to fear from British muskets, but what about those of General Washington’s soldiers? Those wild men shot first and asked questions second. I crept up the muddy bank and stayed low, then stopped to take off my shoes and stockings and try to warm the life back into my feet. My toes felt as if they would break off like icicles. My frozen legs and feet were wooden and did not want to move.

  The longer I sat on the bank the colder I got. I stood and hobbled forward. A twig broke with a snap and I slipped, falling backward into the mud. I rolled over and crouched in the grass, shaking, sure that I was about to be shot. I waited for the blow, but it didn’t come. At last I was able to breathe. I crawled for a few yards before getting to my feet again.

  I wanted to run. I wanted to howl. Master Richardson was my friend. I trusted him, and he had turned out to be my enemy. But I could do none of those things. I checked to make sure I still had the papers and forced myself to walk slowly. Finally the Patriot sentries came into view. I told them who I was, and that I had to see the general.

  They did not seek out Father, but headed straight for General Washington’s headquarters. I pushed my way past the aide who tried to question me and followed the sound of the general’s voice.

  I stood at the entrance to the dining room. The general sat at the table with a number of men. I recognized some of the military officers. Fine men in fine uniforms. I thought only then of the picture I must have made—wet and frozen and muddy, dripping on the carpet.

  “Daniel Prescott! What is the meaning of this?” The general’s eyes flashed. His anger was a fearsome thing to behold.

  I was too cold and miserable to take notice of the fact that General Washington remembered my name. I shivered so hard I could barely speak. “I have evidence of a traitor,” I said, holding my papers. “And a plot to end the rebellion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Laying a Trap

  Some minutes later, I was wrapped in a blanket with my feet in a tub of warm water. Shivering in front of the fire in the general’s office, I told the men everything that had happened. I began with the moment Josiah Henshaw approached me at the town pump, and ended with the sure fact that Master Richardson was a traitor.

  The Henshaw name raised many questions among the men present. Mr. Henshaw was a well-known supporter of the king.

  “Let’s hear the boy out,” Washington said.

  I told them I had seen the schoolmaster hand papers to someone behind Dr. Church’s house in September, and of Stockdale’s words this afternoon: “Shoot him if you must.”

  Each one of their faces held a look of distrust.

  “The boy’s been misled—or he’s lying,” General Lee said. “Richardson’s been with us since the beginning.”

  “Is it possible you’ve been tricked, Daniel?” General Washington asked me.

  “Did you send Master Richardson to Boston with this plan?” I asked.

  The general shook his head.

  “Then no, I have not been tricked.”

  Someone suggested that the schoolmaster’s room be searched. General Lee went with an aide and two other gentlemen.

  I was left alone with a guard. A soldier brought me hot soup and a piece of bread, but I could not eat it. What if they found nothing in the schoolmaster’s room that would point to his secret activities? What would happen to me?

  Father burst into the room. “Daniel!” His face was stern, angry. He was under guard.

  Like me, he was now suspected of working for the enemy. My actions had put both of us in danger. The British hanged spies. What did the Patriots do?

  I let the tears fall freely while I told Father what had happened to me that day, and how much I wished it not to be true. “But the schoolmaster betrayed us,” I choked out. “Who could I trust? I had to come my-self.”

  He sighed and put a hand on my knee to comfort me. “The truth will come out, Daniel. It always does.”

  A few minutes later, General Washington came back into his office with a sheaf of papers and a codebook. He was angry again, his voice clipped as he ordered the guards to leave us.

  “Daniel’s story is true,” he said. “Mr. Richardson is in league with the enemy.”

  Father’s anger at me had blown away as quickly as the storm. “My son would not make up such a thing.”

  The other officers joined us and soon they devised a trap. The general warned everyone in the room to tell no
one of the schoolmaster’s treachery so that he would not be tipped off on his way to camp.

  “We’ll find a way to use this to our advantage,” he said. “The British think this trap will destroy us. Let’s turn the tables on them.”

  I was hobbling out of the room when Father swooped me up into his arms. It was a relief not to have to stand on my feet, but I felt like a child again. Even so, Old Put patted me on the shoulder as we passed by. “Well done, boy,” he said. “Well done.”

  I shared Father’s quarters that night. Neither of us could sleep with the worry over what would happen next.

  “What will happen to Mother and Sarah?” I asked. “Surely Colonel Stockdale will figure out that I exposed the schoolmaster.”

  “The Redcoats have not yet punished the families of Patriots,” Father said. “From what you have told me, Colonel Stockdale has done much to see Sarah through the pox. Mother and Sarah are safe.”

  I remembered that young Paul Revere, the son of the famous silversmith and Son of Liberty, remained in Boston all these months to protect the family’s home. The British had not harmed him. They would surely not harm Mother and Sarah. It was my last thought before drifting off to sleep, snuggled against Father for warmth.

  By the next morning I could walk again. I was just coming back from the necessary when Master Richardson rushed up the King’s Highway, his clothes disheveled. I ducked behind a bush so he would not see me.

  He presented himself at headquarters and was immediately taken to General Washington. I slipped into a small chamber next to the office and opened the door a crack so I could see and hear the proceedings. Father stood guard outside.

  General Washington sat behind his desk, preparing the General Orders for the day. Old Put stood by the window, and General Lee sat calmly in the corner reading papers that had been found in the schoolmaster’s room. He regarded the schoolmaster curiously and then went back to his task.

  Master Richardson prattled on with much self-importance about sneaking across the Neck to get a fix on Redcoat positions. Then he babbled about his arrest and his escape. “ . . . only just able to get away with my life,” he said breathlessly. “But I have certain intelligence about a plan to break across the Neck and crush us entirely. We must attack first.”