Daniel at the Siege of Boston, 1776 Read online

  Stockdale said nothing, only examined the hole in the shoulder of my coat—the one made by a British musket ball—and eyed me suspiciously. Then he turned back to Mr. Henshaw and his cards. I was dismissed.

  I kept my head down and concentrated on doing my work for the remainder of the night. I forgot all about Stockdale and his mistrust until the next morning.

  “Come, boy,” he commanded after breakfast. “I have something I wish you to see.”

  He kept a hand on my shoulder as he led us north on Fish Street. Mother had already replaced my buttons and darned the hole in my coat and I was glad of it. Mayhap the colonel had forgotten about our exchange the night before.

  The morning was a warm one, but a chill passed through me as the colonel relayed a story about a barber who had been caught swimming back to Boston from the Patriot camp yesterday. It had to be my barber—Barber Newell. A few hours had kept me from returning to town with him.

  “What word have you of your father in Connecticut?” the colonel asked.

  His emphasis on Connecticut raised alarm bells. He barely suppressed a smirk.

  “My grandmother continues in ill health,” I stammered. “Father must stay to mind the family business.”

  “I thought the family business was whaling,” the colonel said. “Surely your grandmother doesn’t wield a harpoon.”

  “She . . . she runs a public house,” I said.

  “I imagine the country in the Connecticut colony looks much like the area around Boston,” he said. “I’m sure your father feels like he’s barely left Massachusetts.”

  I could only nod, not trusting my mouth to form words. The colonel’s meaning was clear. He knew my father was among the Patriots. My mind darted from one thought to the next. Were Mother and Sarah and I in danger? Did the colonel know of my spying for the Patriots?

  Dread came over me as we turned toward Copp’s Hill. The colonel aimed to teach me a lesson as surely as he had taught the people of Boston a lesson when he tarred and feathered that peddler last March.

  A man sat on top of a horse with his hands tied in front of him and a noose around his neck. The rope was attached to the strong branch of an oak tree. The horse snorted heavily and danced in place, as if it did not want to perform its ghastly duty.

  “Behold the barber,” the colonel said. He moved his hand to the back of my neck and held me with a tight grip, ensuring that I could not look away.

  Had I arrived in General Washington’s camp a little sooner, I would be sitting on a second horse. I could almost feel the rope about my neck.

  A crowd of soldiers and others jeered at the man. They urged the hangman to hurry, shouting for blood. Mr. Henshaw was one of the loudest. Josiah himself stood next to his father. I hardly recognized him. He was not wearing his customary wig. His blond hair was simply tied in a queue.

  My eyes were drawn back to the tree. The hangman must have asked the barber if he had any final words.

  “Liberty!” he shouted, just before a feed bag was pulled over his head.

  The hangman slapped the horse’s rear and it lurched forward, out from under the barber. His legs dangled and the rope tightened around his throat. I hoped his neck would break with a snap and he would die quickly. He did not. The barber’s legs danced, searching for purchase.

  I tried to twist out of the colonel’s grip, but he grasped me tighter.

  “Do not look away, boy. This is the fate of traitors and spies. You are old enough to know exactly how such men pay for their treason.”

  The barber’s body jerked like a wooden toy. It sickened me. Then he went still and I sickened even more. My breakfast threatened to come up and cover the colonel’s shiny black boots.

  I wished it would. I was angry. Angry at the colonel for making me watch such a thing. Angry at the crowd for treating this death like a sport. Angry at the army—at both armies—for bringing us to war.

  I wanted to scream and shout, but my throat could only produce a shaky groan. It was Josiah Henshaw who came to my rescue.

  “Good show, colonel,” he said before turning to me. “Daniel, did your mother have your hide last night over your buttons?”

  “What?” I asked, too startled to say more.

  “Daniel and I met each other in the street last night and had a game of marbles,” he said to the colonel. “I was about to win at ringer when a group of street thugs set upon us and started a fight. Daniel lost his buttons.”

  His father was at the tavern when I told my story. But was Josiah laying a trap, or giving me a gift? I laughed nervously. “Aye, she was angry, all right,” I said. “But don’t tell her I was fighting, she’d really have my hide then.”

  The colonel’s grip on the back of my neck loosened, but he said nothing.

  Josiah’s eyes bore into mine as if we were having one of our old staring matches. I was too startled to join in the sport.

  “I have to get back to the tavern,” I stammered, backing away from the two of them. “There’s much work to do.” I started down the hill.

  “Daniel?”

  I looked back over my shoulder.

  Josiah tossed something to me. “You forgot this yesterday.”

  I reached out and caught it.

  “Your lucky shooter,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I croaked, and hurried away.

  What was Josiah trying to tell me? I could not ask in front of Colonel Stockdale. For now I only rolled the marble around in my hand, enjoying the way it fit, the perfect weight and size of it. Maybe one day I would play marbles again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Smallpox

  December, 1775

  I woke up many a night in mid-gasp, a nightmare image of the barber’s dangling feet burned into my brain. I did not understand the meaning behind Josiah’s actions that day. Was he a secret Patriot? Or was he setting a trap?

  There were rumors of a Patriot assault. For several nights in October and November the entire British army was ordered to sleep in their clothes. Redcoats paraded through the streets all night long, ready to raise an alarm. I wished and prayed that General Washington would indeed attack, but no assault was forthcoming.

  The rumored British reinforcements never arrived. I never learned why. General Howe seemed as reluctant as General Gage to attack the Patriot camp. It seemed sure that Boston would spend another winter under British command.

  As the cold weather neared, firewood became almost as dear as fresh meat. Much of my time was consumed with the search for wood. I traveled around town picking up anything that would burn. Twice I saw Josiah but ducked into alleys before he could see me. I turned his behavior over and over in my mind, but I couldn’t make any sense of it.

  The Redcoats had taken to dismantling wharves and old buildings for burning. But they weren’t content with destroying our town for wood. The Light Horse Regiment turned Old South Meeting House into a riding school for officers. The very same pulpit that Dr. Warren had stood behind last March was hacked to pieces, along with the pews, for burning. Deacon Hubbard’s beautiful carved pew was removed and turned into a pigsty. Then they carted in dirt and hay before leading in their horses. Even Loyalists were outraged by the insult.

  November and December brought cold and snow. The early winter was uncommonly severe. The wind was like to cut you in half. Old North Meeting House soon became fuel to keep us from freezing. I often thought of Father and General Washington and wondered if the Patriots fared better than we did.

  Then something happened that drove every thought from my mind but one.

  On a freezing morning in December, I stood in front of our fire, trying to warm myself. Sarah sat at the table wrapped in a quilt. Suddenly she threw it off and laid her head down.

  “Hot,” she said. “My head hurts.”

  I placed a cold hand on her forehead and she flinched. She was burning up with fever.

  Mother came downstairs from cleaning the officers’ rooms, and we put Sarah to bed with extra quilts and a
warm brick at her feet. One minute she shivered, the next she complained of being hot. She could not keep her food down, not even the precious egg that Mother somehow found for her.

  We watched and prayed, hoping for the best. But four days later we saw the first sores in her mouth, and soon her whole body was covered in an angry, oozing rash. Smallpox. Mother and I were both safe from the disease, having been inoculated four years ago. The light cases we had then protected us now.

  All of our officers had also had the disease, and so could stay in the tavern. We hung a red flag outside to warn others to stay away. We feared Stockdale would force us to send Sarah to the hospital where there were too many patients and few to care for them. The hospital would surely mean death.

  Mother was all consumed with caring for Sarah. She gave up waiting on the officers. I did my best to fill in. I served cold, salted meat and paid a boy to gather whatever wood he could. Everything we had was used to keep Sarah warm.

  One evening Colonel Stockdale came into the kitchen to complain. I was coming out of Mother and Sarah’s bedroom with linen to be boiled. The colonel stuck his head in the room, took one look at Sarah, and turned on his heel. I steeled myself for the order to send Sarah away. Instead, I learned that Colonel Stockdale had a heart.

  Two hours later our barn was filled with wood and an army doctor arrived to examine the patient. There was nothing he could do. Sarah was too weak to be bled.

  That night I tried to stammer my thanks, but the colonel only waved me off. He never asked after Sarah, but each day found something that might tempt her to eat. An egg, fresh chicken for the stew pot, and even a molasses cake. Sarah only cried when Mother tried to feed it to her.

  She was often out of her mind with fever. Mother was the only one who could soothe her. On the rare occasions when Mother left her bedside, Sarah fretted and cried. My efforts to ease her discomfort were useless. I felt as worthless to Sarah as I was to Father and General Washington.

  I wondered if Father knew of her illness and prayed he did not. He would try to get back to us if he did. Colonel Stockdale would show no mercy if Father was caught, and I had no wish to see Father’s legs dance like the barber’s had.

  After a fortnight the horrible, oozing rash developed scabs, and we rested easier. Sarah had made it through the worst phase of the sickness. She would live. I was relieved to see that she would have just one pockmark on her pretty little face, on the side of her nose.

  On the first day of seventeen hundred and seventy-six I woke to find Mother preparing a breakfast and Sarah sleeping peacefully, with no fever. We were still under siege, but suddenly we had much to be grateful for. My steps were light when I shouldered the yoke and headed for the town pump.

  With the new year, the Patriots had raised a new flag on Prospect Hill. As soon as I could, I ran to the top of Beacon Hill to see it for myself. An officer lent me his spyglass, and I watched the banner flap in the icy wind. There were thirteen red and white stripes. I guessed for the thirteen colonies. In the upper left corner was a small British Union Jack.

  “Do they aim to surrender?” asked a Redcoat.

  “I think not,” said another. “Perhaps they wish to signify the fact that they do not seek independence, like the king said.”

  “The king?” I asked them, handing back the spyglass.

  “King George’s speech to parliament. Newly arrived from England,” the Redcoat told me. “He said the rebels were trying to start an independent empire.”

  “Independent empire,” I repeated, almost to my-self. The colonies had always been a part of England. The Patriots fought for our rights as free Englishmen, not for independence from her.

  The soldier mistook my meaning. “We’ll crush them,” he told me. “We’ll crush them if it takes everything we have.”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t wait to get away and ponder the notion further. Why did we need a king across the ocean? What had parliament ever done for us that we could not do for ourselves? “Independence,” I said again on my walk down the hill. I liked the way the word felt in my mouth.

  “Independence.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Free and Independent States of America

  January, 1776

  The king’s speech was all over town. In it he breathed revenge on the rebels, but promised mercy to those who gave up. There was no mention of restoring our rights. I thought it more likely to stir up talk of independence than to encourage the Patriots to surrender.

  Words in support of independence were passed from hand to hand in a pamphlet called Common Sense a few weeks later. To Colonel Stockdale, it was simply another thing to mock.

  “Common sense,” he sneered, throwing the pamphlet into the fire. “The day this rabble is capable of ruling itself, I’ll be the first one on a ship sailing for home.”

  His officers shouted oaths in agreement, but I found my-self silently repeating one of the phrases I heard him read.

  The free and independent states of America.

  The words moved through me and in me. The notion no longer felt radical, but natural and right. I wished to talk to Father about it. He had often said that King George would come to his senses and restore our rights. But the king had done the opposite. Had Father begun to wish for independence from England instead of peace with her, as I had? Had General Washington?

  I would have to wait to find out. In February the winter turned mild. My hopes for a Patriot attack over the ice were crushed—the bay froze one day and thawed the next. I did not understand why Howe did not attack the Patriots himself. Stockdale groaned about it along with his officers. It was said that Howe believed the entire countryside was against the British, and so he remained in Boston. Mayhap he thought the Patriots would tire and go back to their homes. But as long as Boston had to depend on food and all the other necessities of life arriving by English ship, it seemed to me that the Patriots could hold out longer than the British.

  Patriot seamen captured many a British supply ship, but one made it through and we were able to avoid starvation for another few weeks. Sarah grew stronger day by day, but I worried what would happen when the food ran out.

  It seemed as if nothing would ever change. And then it did. Josiah Henshaw lurked by the town pump early one February morning. There was no escaping him.

  “Daniel, can you meet me behind my father’s shop on Long Wharf this afternoon?” he asked in a whisper.

  I blinked in surprise. “Why?”

  “You will not believe me unless you see it with your own eyes,” he said. “You must come.”

  I stood, balancing the yoke over my shoulders. “I can’t. I have too much work to do.”

  “Please,” he said, his tone desperate.

  Was he laying a trap? “If you will not tell me why, then why should I come?” I pushed past him. Water from my buckets spilled onto the street and his shoes.

  He stepped in front of me again. “Remember what I did for you on Copp’s Hill?” he asked.

  I nodded. Whatever his intentions, I knew I must be grateful to him for saving me from Colonel Stockdale’s suspicions.

  “This is an even greater service,” he insisted. “You must trust me.”

  Trust Josiah Henshaw? I almost snorted.

  “Please, Daniel,” he said again. “You will not be sorry. Upon my word. Upon everything you believe in. You must come.”

  Finally, I agreed.

  “Tell no one,” he whispered. “Do not allow yourself to be seen.”

  I was even more puzzled. “What will happen if I am seen?”

  “All will be lost—for us both.”

  I worried about the meeting all morning long. One minute I decided I would go. The next, I would not. I rolled my lucky shooter in my fingers. I remembered Josiah’s boasts on the day he won it, and the great service he had done for me on the day he returned it. Finally, I decided I would do as he asked—but carefully—ready to run at the first sign of a trap.

  I told
Mother that there were rumors of fresh fish for sale on Long Wharf, and she gave me permission to go. I kissed a napping Sarah good-bye and left.

  I kept to the alleys as best I could, passing only Redcoats on my way. Josiah’s father’s shop was shuttered in the middle of the day, an odd occurrence. Josiah was huddled behind the building. He pulled me to him with a signal to be quiet.

  There was a noise from within. Josiah motioned to me to peer around the corner.

  Master Richardson was leaving the shop with Mr. Henshaw and two British officers! They were laughing.

  Josiah pulled me back just as Master Richardson turned. Had he seen me?

  “Make it look good, gentleman,” the schoolmaster said. “There may be eyes about.”

  The officers each took one of the schoolmaster’s arms as if he was a prisoner. Was he one? Why was he acting so friendly with the enemy?

  “Come. Let us see what Colonel Stockdale thinks of our plan,” Mr. Henshaw said.

  “And how much he’s willing to pay for it,” Master Richardson added.

  One of the officers nodded. “You’ll get your gold. Don’t worry.”

  The small group marched forward, my schoolmaster between the officers.

  I turned to Josiah for an explanation. I was too thunderstruck to voice my questions.

  “Master Richardson meets with my father whenever he can.”

  “Is your father a secret Son of Liberty?” I asked.

  “No.”

  All the breath left my body and I had to hold on to the building for support. If Mr. Henshaw was not on the Patriots’ side, then my schoolmaster was a traitor. I remembered the morning Dr. Church was exposed as a spy—how I had seen the schoolmaster slip out of Church’s back door. Was Master Richardson the reason that Stockdale seemed to know I had visited the Patriot camp? Suddenly it all made sense. But why did Josiah Henshaw reveal this to me?

  Josiah read the question in my eyes. “I am the secret Son of Liberty in my family.”