Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Page 6

  “It’s dark,” he said.

  I kneeled next to him.

  He slumped over and fell into me. Dead.

  I pushed him off and jumped to my feet. The cider and meat pie rushed up from my stomach and splattered the ground. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to be quit of war. Quit of blood. Quit of death.

  There was just enough time to get to Boston before dark. I did not mind Father. I did not look for wounded to cart to the hospital. I unhitched the cart and left the dead man where he lay; I turned Star around and flew through Cambridge. Star was unflagging as we galloped through Brookline and Roxbury, refusing to stop and share news of the battle. I said as little as possible to the guards at the American lines—Father had secured me a pass the day before—and raced toward Boston Neck and home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Those cursed rebels, they would not flinch.”

  I let Star take the lead, and she was as happy to run from the war as I was. She was in a full lather when we reached the Redcoat fortifications at the town gate. I handed over the pass with shaking hands.

  The sentries were not the same as the ones I had encountered when I left Boston. It was a wonder to me that only three days had passed. The time felt much longer.

  One sentry ran his eyes up and down my person, taking in the dirt on my breeches. My coat covered the blood on my shirt, but not that on my hands. I tried to hide it, but it was too late. Why had I not thought to stop and wash?

  “Get down,” he ordered.

  Star commenced to snort and dance. I did as the guard said, trying to soothe the horse at the same time.

  Two sentries held their muskets on me while the third searched my person.

  Once the soldiers satisfied themselves that I carried no guns or powder, they turned their attention to me.

  “Where did the blood come from?” one of them asked. “Were you among the fighting?”

  “I came upon a wounded man on the side of the road. I tried to help him.” My brain formed a picture of the soldier I had watched crumple over to his death. “But he died.” I could only whisper the last words.

  My horror was real enough for them. Their leader, a sergeant, patted my shoulder. As he did I heard the paper I carried in my waistcoat rustle. I had forgotten about the other pass—the Patriot pass. If the guards found it would they arrest me? Star sensed my fear. Her neck stiffened and she began to dance again, but the sentry only handed me my coat and waved me through.

  I rode Star through Boston. Wounded Redcoats limped in the streets. Smoke continued to rise over Charlestown. All around were tight clumps of Loyalists and soldiers gossiping about the day. I had no wish to listen to stories. I imagined their disgust if they learned of my shameful behavior. People on both sides of the war had the right to call me a coward. How many wounded struggled alone while I ran away? I wanted to shut them out. To be safe in Mother’s kitchen, or to curl up next to her in bed the way I did when I was Sarah’s age.

  First there was work to be done. I stopped to wash the blood off my hands so as not to alarm Mother and Sarah. There was naught I could do about my shirt except make sure my coat covered the stains.

  My heart jumped in my chest when I came to our tavern. The wooden sign with its blue whale creaked in the breeze, and the front door stood open to let in the early evening air. I bedded Star down in the stable, giving her extra oats and hay, despite the grumbling of the soldier who took care of Colonel Stockdale’s and the other officers’ horses. Star had worked hard, and it had been a long time since I was able to reward her with a carrot or an apple.

  Sarah heard me and ran out into the yard. “There was a bad-dle,” she said. “Big, big booms!”

  Concern filled her little face. I could hardly remember a time before soldiers. She had known nothing else in her short life. It was me she turned to when the boom of the cannon scared her. And I hadn’t been there. I had failed everyone today.

  “I heard them,” I told her, shaking off my dark thoughts. “I was very afraid. And you weren’t there to pet me and tell me to be brave.”

  That drew a smile from her. Then I remembered the maple sugar candy one of Father’s friends had given to me in camp. It was in my pocket.

  “Do you know any little girls who might like some maple sugar candy?”

  “Me! Me!” She hopped like a bunny, giggling.

  “I think, mayhap, I have some in my pockets.”

  She squealed with delight when she found her prize.

  Mother stood at the back door watching us, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes were bright, and she looked tired and scared. I hadn’t given a thought to how worried Mother would be. Tears filled my own eyes. I wanted to throw myself in her arms and cry out my whole story.

  I could not.

  Aunt Abigail suddenly appeared behind Mother and started to wail. “Where are my boys? Where are my boys?”

  “Safe,” I told her. “They did not take part in the battle, but they would not return with me.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. She was quiet long enough to allow Mother to ask a question.

  “And the Andersons in Salem, did you see them?” she asked.

  That was code for Father. I nodded. “I did. They are well. They miss their friends in Boston.”

  Mother’s face crumpled a bit, but she was mindful of Colonel Stockdale’s soldier in the stable. “I was worried about all of you today. There was fighting in Charlestown and beyond.”

  My eyes locked on hers. I wanted to tell her what I had done and what I had seen. I wanted the comfort she would give, and even the scolding that would surely come when she discovered I had put myself in harm’s way. But to tell her would only bring her more worry.

  Mother pulled at the hem of my shirt, and then opened my jacket. Her knees buckled when she saw the blood. Aunt Abigail screamed.

  “I came across an injured man on the side of the road and tried to help him. But I stayed clear of the fighting,” I lied. “So did the Andersons.”

  Mother’s eyes jumped from me to Sarah and back to me. “I am glad of that,” she said weakly.

  I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t want to frighten Sarah, or alert anyone about the tavern that I had been among the fighting.

  Sarah threw herself at me again, searching for more candy. She was rewarded with one last piece.

  When I had left the Patriots, they were disheartened by their defeat. But I quickly learned that the British were just as discouraged. The officers who gathered in the tavern were glum indeed. The Redcoats might have possession of Bunker’s Hill, but the price they paid for the land in British lives was much too high.

  I wished I could use that information to mock them, to get back at Stockdale and the others for all the times they had scoffed at the Patriots. The army they called ridiculous had sent them running down Breed’s Hill—twice!—and had only been defeated in the end because they ran out of gunpowder. The might of the British army could not stand against strong New England men.

  A cascade of bleeding Redcoats had crossed the Charles River back into Boston, and the slopes of Breed’s Hill were covered with the graves of slain Englishmen. It was said that General Howe’s entire staff was killed or wounded.

  Our own Captain Smythe and Lieutenant Johnson would not return from the battle.

  Many of the wounded who had been ferried back to Boston died. The next day I passed more dead men in the streets than live ones. At every corner I came upon a funeral march or an auction for the property of one officer or another. The chapel bells rang almost all day for Redcoats who had died from their wounds. It was so melancholy that General Gage put a stop to the tolling of the bells for funerals.

  I wondered how many of the Patriot wounded had died before they made it back to Cambridge. Could I have saved one soldier? Two?

  Colonel Stockdale survived. He walked into the tavern after camping on the hill for two nights, his breeches splattered with blood, and ordered a glass of rum.

/>   “Those cursed rebels, they would not flinch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Salt Pork and Beans

  July, 1775

  As soon as I could, I turned the boot scraper around to signal a meeting with Master Richardson. I had no intelligence to share, but I wanted Father to know that I had arrived home safely.

  I waited at the pump the next morning, and the next. I thought perhaps he was on a mission to the Patriot camp, but on Wednesday afternoon I spied the schoolmaster in front of the Province House, General Gage’s home and headquarters. He was in the company of Mr. Henshaw and some officers. I wondered why his tutoring duties would bring him into such close contact with the Redcoats, and his countenance gave me a momentary worry. He appeared happy to be among them. Then he saw me and gave me a nod and wink. No doubt he was gathering important information for the Patriots.

  The next morning, he came.

  “Mr. Henshaw keeps me very busy,” Master Richardson explained. “I continue to tutor Josiah, and act as secretary to Mr. Henshaw himself.”

  “Are you learning much of value?” I asked.

  He nodded, but said no more. He was also silent when I asked him how he was able to slip in and out of Boston so easily.

  “It’s not safe for you to know,” he told me.

  As soon as he learned that I had been at Bunker’s Hill for the fighting, however, he peppered me with questions.

  I had tried not to let my mind settle on the battle and what I had done afterward. Some visited the Patriot soldiers who had been taken prisoner by the Redcoats during the battle, but I was too ashamed. At night when I went to bed, pictures flitted across my brain. I would see Dr. Warren fall, or hear Old Put yell for powder, or feel the weight of the dead soldier as he slumped into me. A deep shame burned in my stomach when I remembered running away.

  The images flooded back with Master Richardson’s questions. I set down my yoke and buckets. My story poured out of me like water from the pump. I told him of the dirt and the noise, the fear and the confusion.

  The schoolmaster was a careful listener. He put a hand on my shoulder to comfort me, and I found myself confessing that I had run away with Star when there were wounded who needed my aid. It helped me somewhat to talk, but Master Richardson quickly moved to more practical matters. He had many questions I could not answer.

  He wanted to know about the Patriots’ stores of powder and their guns. He asked for my opinion of Colonel Prescott and General Putnam, and of how they had fared under the stress of battle. Most of all, he wanted information about the Patriots’ spy network.

  “There are others who provide intelligence. It’s said that General Gage has a mole in his very office. Have you heard any names?” he asked.

  I could not satisfy his curiosity, and I found his questions peculiar. Was it not Master Richardson who had made clear to me the value of keeping such things secret? Then he explained himself.

  “I will soon go to camp, but I may not return—not until we drive these wretched Redcoats from Boston. There are some who suspect where my true loyalties lie,” he said. “I will have to find another to convey your intelligence to General Ward.”

  He lifted the yoke and helped me balance it on my shoulders. “I will come to you before I leave and give you the name of a man you can trust,” he promised.

  I walked away slowly, careful not to spill my water buckets. I had taken great comfort in the fact that my schoolmaster was close by. I wondered if I would have the courage to continue my work without him. Could I trust someone else?

  The first person I saw upon leaving the schoolmaster was one in whom I could not trust, of that I had no doubt. Josiah Henshaw marched down the street rattling on a drum.

  “Prescott!” he yelled, “don’t you have a black boy to tote your water?”

  I glared at him. My father didn’t hold with slavery and neither did I.

  “Mayhap my father will employ you,” he snickered. “One of our slaves has run off to join the rebels and we have need of a simpleton.”

  “There’s much work to do at the tavern,” I said, pushing past him. “I have no time for children’s games.” I eyed his drum with a sneer.

  “I’m only teasing,” he said. “And this isn’t a toy. I’m a soldier.” He threw his shoulders back and drummed a quick parade step. “Loyal volunteers have formed a company in case the rebels attack, and Father signed me up to be a drummer. We’ll drive them out of Massachusetts in no time. We’re to drill every day.”

  “What of your lessons with Master Richardson?” I asked.

  “Hah! I finished with lessons the day those rebel fools started this war,” he said. “As soon as we’ve ended it, I’m to go into business with my father. No more schooling and games for me.”

  I knew him to be lying. Master Richardson continued his lessons with Josiah. He told me so. I could not let on what I knew. Nor could I tell Josiah that the Patriots would be the victors, not the Redcoats. I look my leave of him and continued on my way.

  Master Richardson slipped out of Boston two weeks later. He gave me the name of a barber—a Mr. Newell—who was said to travel back and forth from camp to town.

  The war remained at a standstill, with cannonading and small skirmishes, but no more battles. Colonel Stockdale and others wanted to attack the Patriots, but “Grandma Gage” waited for reinforcements from England. The siege of Boston continued.

  In midsummer we learned that the Continental Congress in Philadelphia had appointed a new commander for the army. George Washington, from the Virginia colony, was said to have fought at Gage’s side in the war with the French and the Indians. Now Washington would fight against Gage.

  The Redcoats in our tavern heaped indignities upon the people of Boston, and all Mother and I could do was stand by in silence and keep serving them.

  One hot summer evening our hired soldier could not be with us. Mother and I had run back and forth with plates of food, but the meal was finally over and I manned the tap while Mother cleaned up. As usual, the soldiers played at their cards and dice, while others sang drinking songs.

  One of them stood and minced across the floor. “I’m Dr. Warren,” he said in a high womanly voice, “and I’ll lead my rebel soldiers to—” Suddenly he fell to the floor as if he were dead.

  The men pounded the tables in approval. Stockdale roared with laughter.

  Others joined the man in his playacting. Some took off their coats and cowered and whimpered, begging for their lives. “Long live the king!” one of them cried. “And please save my sorry rebellious hide.” Redcoats pretended to be about to stab them with bayonets.

  Stockdale’s big meaty fist hammered against his table. “Kill the sorry cowards! Kill them!” he chanted.

  One soldier pretended to be a Patriot and begged for his life. “Please, I’ve been led astray,” he moaned. “I’m a king’s man now.”

  “Kill the rebel! Kill the rebel!” Stockdale shouted with a grin.

  I watched the spittle fly from his lip and gripped a tankard. How I wanted to throw it at him. How dare they mock the death of a great man like Dr. Warren? How dare they portray the Patriot soldiers as sniveling cowards? I had seen them at Breed’s Hill, and they fought bravely until the end.

  I forced myself to fill the tankard and set it on the bar. The charade was over in a moment. Soon they were back at their cards and dice. Those who were not otherwise engaged bawled a drinking song.

  At least when they were in the tavern they could not bring harm to others. As the siege continued, law-abiding Patriots were thrown in jail and kept there for silly offenses. Liberty Tree—the grand old elm where the Sons of Liberty had met and plotted—was chopped down for firewood.

  It seemed as if half the town had smallpox, a nasty disease that killed most who came down with it and left the rest pitted with horrible scars. Food continued to be dear, even food for Star. I was forced to sell her to an officer for a few coins.

  “She’ll do for an exercise
horse,” he said with a sneer.

  I patted Star’s neck and buried my face in it so that she would not feel the insult. Then I reluctantly handed over the reins. I heard her whinny as I walked away, but I could not bear to look back at her. Tears streamed down my face as I trudged home.

  In August, a notice was posted saying those who wished to leave Boston could apply for permission at the Province House. Mother and I whispered about it. She and I had both been inoculated with the smallpox, but Sarah had not. We were desperate to protect her. Aunt Abigail intended to take her family to our cousins in Marblehead.

  “Perhaps we should go with her,” Mother said.

  It was decided I should seek Father’s advice. Two days later, I boarded one of the few fishing boats with a pass to leave the town. The pass was for four men, but only three would be fishing. I would disembark to visit the Patriot camp.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wild Men and General Washington

  August, 1775

  The fishing boat captain rowed to shore near the road to Lynn. It was just after dawn. “Be back by four o’clock or it will be all our heads,” he warned me. His pass was for four fishermen. He could not return with less.

  I set off on a slow, steady run to Cambridge. The day quickly became hot and sticky, but I dared not take off my coat for fear I’d lose it. Mother had replaced my buttons with cloth-covered coins for Father. I crossed the Mystic at a spot where the water was low and felt some relief from the heat. There was a time when I could take a swim on a hot summer day without worry. Now I had too much work to do in the tavern, or a mission to fulfill like today. I wondered if I would ever have such freedom again.

  I came to Winter Hill and was suddenly ordered to halt by three men who appeared as if by witch-craft. From their clothing I took them to be Indians, but their skin was white. All three of them wore fringed deerskin shirts and had tomahawks tied to their belts.