'I'll bet she was.'
'Yes, Miss Lavinia just about had a fit.'
'What was Isannah doing? Throwing up?'
'I had just washed her hair,' Cilla said dreamily, 'and the sun was on it.'
'Oh, I see,' said Johnny sourly.
'And Isannah was walking back and forth reciting some poetry to herself. Acting it out. Something about Captain Kidd and how he sailed. Old Stumpy Joe, the one-legged sailor-man, taught it to her. Miss Lavinia stood there watching Isannah, and she looked more like something cut out of stone than a human being.'
'She can't help it,' said Johnny, who liked to run her down. 'She was born that way. Go on.'
'She just turned her head like that and said to Ma through her teeth—like this, "Ma'am, I'm taking that child with me." Ma first said she wouldn't, and then she said she couldn't stand between Isannah and such an opportunity. And Isannah said she wouldn't go without me. So it was fixed this way. I'm signed up to work in the kitchen, or help Miss Lavinia dress, or anything, for a year, and Isannah is thrown in for nothing—because she is so young and has a delicate stomach. We are both living with the Lytes.'
'Do you like her?'
'Sometimes—well, yes.'
'Well, I think she's disagreeable.' He hoped Cilla would contradict him, but she did not.
'So now I'll be going back. She only gave me the afternoon off. I thought I'd tell you not to look for me around North Square any more.'
Johnny felt guilty. 'I do leave a paper at the Lytes' every Thursday...'
Cilla said nothing, but looked at him out of the corners of her eyes.
'Couldn't I see you sometime—maybe?'
'I don't know. You might ask Mrs. Bessie, the cook. She's sort of a friend of mine. So goodbye, I'll be going on.'
Cilla had changed so much Johnny felt confused. One thing was certain. She wasn't going to hang around and wait for him either on street corners or at back doors—and then not have him show up.
'Goodbye, Cilla, I'll see you soon.'
But Rab did not say goodbye. He did not even ask her if he might walk home with her to Beacon Hill. He simply went, and Johnny was mad. If anyone walked home with Cilla, it should be himself, or Rab might have said, 'Come on, Johnny, we'll both walk over to the Lytes' with Cilla.' But he'd forgive Rab for intruding himself. He'd cook him up a mess of eggs for supper. It would take about fifteen minutes to go to the Lytes', fifteen minutes to get back. He built the fire and cooked the eggs. He cooked them and cooked them. At last, in disgust, he took them off and ate them, every now and then going down to consult the shop clock. Rab was gone for exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes. Nor did he miss the eggs Johnny had eaten. He had been very well fed by Mrs. Bessie in the Lyte kitchen, and he thought Cilla was a grand kid.
He had had a good time. You could see it in his eyes, and whenever he looked at Johnny's long face he looked ready to laugh.
3
Now the only regularity in Johnny's life was the great effort he made to see Cilla every Thursday and the care he gave to Goblin. But when he went to the Afric Queen, he was going into enemy territory. The tavern had been taken over bodily by British officers, chief among whom was Colonel Francis Smith. Goblin was the only horse in the stable that did not belong to a British officer, for the landlord had sent his to the country, fearing they would either be commandeered by the occupying troops or that he could not get hay for them. About the stables, British orderlies, officers, servants, and small British horse boys, the servants of the servants, were always congregating. Johnny paid little heed to them. They all knew that he rode for the Observer—but they also knew that he often rode for their own officers.
Sometimes they picked on him. And once, when things got too bad and he felt he had to fight it out with the worst bully, the other boys, all his enemies, stood about demanding fair play, saying, 'Well fought, Yankee,' and 'That's neat,' when he beat the bully. He had rather thought the whole gang would be on him the second he got the bully down; instead they merely respected him. So he made out better than he could have expected, until one day he found that Colonel Smith had a new horse boy. The one he had brought over with him had run away, so he had told his orderly-officer to find a new one—and that boy was Dove. Johnny saw him grinning sheepishly at him, hoping they might be friends—they, the only two local boys at the stable.
'You...' Johnny muttered out of the corner of his mouth, 'you trash, you milk pudding, you cottage cheese, slug ... so you're not above going to work, for them, are you?'
'Honest, Johnny, I gotter eat. Old Tweedie fired me.'
An orderly stuck his head in the stable. 'Boy,' he said to Johnny, 'Colonel Smith has a letter to go to Milton. Please go to the parlor and see him or Lieutenant Stranger about it.'
A slow, gat-toothed grin spread over Dove's face.
'Looks like you work for them, too?'
'Looks like,' said Johnny fiercely.
He saw the Colonel, went home for his boots and spurs, then took out Goblin and saddled him. One of the English boys had got Dove down and was twisting his arm, making him swear allegiance to his Britannic Majesty, gracious George the Third. Dove was swearing fast enough and protesting that was the way he really felt. All rebels should be hung. Johnny had a queer feeling at the pit of his stomach. He wanted to go to his rescue. He had to make himself remember that he hated Dove.
'But that fellow over there'—Dove was pointing to Johnny—' is really on the other side and...' Johnny left Dove to his fate.
It was a crisp, fresh day for summer, the first respite after a week of unendurable heat. Goblin felt fine. He came sidling out of the stable, dancing and playing. Johnny let him move about—get the kinks out of him. He loved the horse. He loved the admiration he saw on every face—grooms dropping curry-combs, officers looking out of windows and talking to each other and nodding toward Goblin, chambermaids, rich Tory gentlemen—all stopped to stare when Goblin played.
Although he mostly kept his eyes on Goblin's wickedly flattened ears (it is the only way you can tell which way a horse will jump next), he did notice a thick, red face at the parlor window, Colonel Smith, and he heard his booming voice.
'Boy ... one moment.' Doubtless he had changed his mind about that letter for Milton.
Lieutenant Stranger, his orderly-officer, was coming out of the parlor. He had on no hat, his spurs were in his hand. He was a dark, young fellow, not much older than Rab, and something in both his color and carriage had always made Johnny think of Rab.
'That's quite a horse you have there.'
'He's all right.'
'Well, we sort of hate to see a damned Yankee on top of a good horse like that. How much will you take?'
'He belongs to my master, Mr. Lorne.'
'Colonel Smith,' he called to the stiff, red face at the window, 'this horse belongs to Lorne, the printer. Boston Observer, you know. We can commandeer him all right.'
'You fix a proper price.'
'So, boy, how much will your master take for him?'
'He's not for sale.'
'Oh, he isn't, is he? You know damned little about the rights of His Majesty's armed forces. You get off and I'll try him around the block and see how I think he would suit Colonel Smith.' He knelt and buckled on his spurs.
The handsome black washerwoman of the inn, Lydia, came out carrying a hamper of wet clothes. Johnny had an idea.
'All right, Lieutenant Stranger,' he said politely.
'Put the stirrups down a couple of notches. Now, hand me my gloves. I'll be back in ten minutes.'
Goblin was watching out of the corner of his crystalline blue eyes. Not for months had anyone but Johnny Tremain been on his back.
But the Lieutenant mounted confidently, picked up the reins and held them exactly as Goblin liked. The horse moved quietly out of the inn yard. Colonel Smith's face disappeared from the parlor window.
'Lydia,' said Johnny, as he strolled over to the washerwoman, 'I'll help you with those clothes.'
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She gave him a dazzling smile. 'Mah land, Johnny-boy, I could do with a bit of help. Them Britishers expect a clean sheet every week and seems like a clean shirt every day.'
Johnny gravely pinned a couple of shirts on the line, his mouth, like Lydia's, full of wooden clothespins. The ruffled shirts began snapping smartly in the breeze.
'Sheets?'
'We've got seventeen officers staying with us. We got sheets by the dozen.'
'Look, Lydia, you lend me a sheet for just a few moments. If I get it dirty, I'll wash it, and besides, I'll hang up every sheet in your basket.'
'Boy, I don't know what you're up to. And I suspect no good.'
'You'll do as I say?'
'If it's that Lieutenant Stranger what's took your horse away from you, I'll do plenty.'
'He wants to commandeer Goblin for his Colonel.'
'Whee! Don't know commandeer, but it sounds dreadful cruel to me.'
'It is a way you cook things,' said Johnny soberly.
'My land, boy, don't you let them cook that pretty horse of yours.'
'I'll cook them first. Now, look. We've got to stand fairly near to the driveway, like this. You get on that end of the sheet and I on this and we'll let her fill up with wind ... Wait, he's coming back. So ... now let go, Lydia, quick! Let go!'
The sheet bellied out like a sail when Lydia let go. Goblin, quickly recognizing Stranger's skill and good-will, had behaved admirably. The Lieutenant thought he'd advise his Colonel to pay a pretty fancy price for such a choice beast. Colonel Smith, a timid horseman, liked showy mounts. This one was showy all right, with his strange, pale coat and mane and tail like mahogany. He was young and high-strung. Stranger believed he himself would have to ride him for the next month to get him gentle enough for his superior. But his gaits were like dancing. Let me see, he was thinking ... I'll offer Lorne...
And then the whole earth blew up from under him and hit him a terrific blow on his seat. There was a splash as well. He had landed in a mud puddle. The horse was disappearing into the stable. He got up, ruefully looked at his white breeches, shrugged, and walked over to where Johnny was diligently pinning up sheets. Both he and Lydia had their backs discreetly turned.
'Well?' he said to Johnny belligerently.
'Yes, sir?'
'I'd already noticed your horse worries a bit over blown paper in the streets—things like that. I suppose you know that, too?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Take those damned clothespins out of your mouth and turn around and answer me.'
Once the clothespins were out of his mouth, it was hard not to laugh.
'Answer you what, sir?'
'You flapped that sheet on purpose—just for the fun of seeing me sit in a puddle and...'
'And to keep my horse out of the army.'
'Oh, you ...' said Stranger, pretending to be angry, but Johnny knew that at heart he was not.
Colonel Smith's great red face once more appeared.
'How'd he ride, Lieutenant? Gad, sir, what? Where's the horse, sir? What have you been mucking about in?'
'Mud puddles, sir. I fell off.' He made no effort to excuse himself.
'Beast vicious, eh?'
'No, sir. Just a mite jumpy. No good for army work nor even just hacking about Boston.'
'But that damned boy—how does he manage?'
'It's his horse, sir.'
'Thanks, Lieutenant, you can look elsewhere for me.' The head went in.
Stranger was stretching himself lightly.
'I'll drink my beer standing up for a few days,' he said to no one in particular. Then, as an afterthought, 'Beer ... Hi, kitchen,' he yelled, in the arrogant way Johnny noticed the young officers always called for service. 'Two tankards of beer—out here in the yard.'
He turned to Johnny. 'What's your horse's name?'
'Goblin.'
'We'll drink to Goblin. Pot-boy, give that tankard to this young man. You know, of course, there's no real cure for a horse that shies as badly as that?'
'I've been told he'll never be gentle.'
'If he was as good as he looks, I'd hate to guess what he'd be worth. As it is, I'd not give fifteen shillings for him—except'—and he smiled suddenly—' for myself to ride. Have you schooled him in jumping?'
'No, we're not fancy riders over here.'
'At the foot of the Common you'll find a series of hurdles we've put up. If happens you are over there sometime when I am, I'll show you a bit.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Does he still throw you sometimes?'
'Sometimes. I'd have gone off fast enough when that sheet let loose.'
'That sheet! Ha, ha. That was a trick. That was good. That was fine. Hi, you black wench ... you finish this beer for me and take the tankards back to the kitchen.' And off he stalked, still chuckling to himself.
Beginning with that day when Goblin had tumbled Lieutenant Stranger in the mud, Johnny had no more trouble with the British stable boys. When it became hard for him to get the oats and hay for Goblin, they told him he might use theirs.
But Dove, who was always swearing allegiance to England, and Johnny knew that he honestly was a Tory, was the butt of all their jokes. Dove clung to Johnny like a drowning man and Johnny did protect him. He could not help himself. So Dove began oozing into his life. He spent most of his free time at the Observer's office and was always complaining, always gorging himself on the scarce food, and bored both Johnny and Rab. But Rab said, and Johnny knew this was true, sometime the British would not stay tamely shut up in Boston. Sometime they'd strike out and seize the military supplies they knew the provincials were collecting. A colonel's horse boy might very well know a day or so, or even a few hours, before a colonel marched. It was up to Johnny to keep in touch with Dove. It was all right for Rab to talk. Rab was training with the armed forces. But what could Johnny do? Not much, it seemed to him, except be bored to death for his country.
4
As he came back from Milton, riding the long lonely stretch of the Neck, with the gallows and the town gates still before him, Johnny realized how long ago it was that he had burned his hand, and how he had hated Dove when he found out the part he had played in that accident. How he had sworn to get even with him (the lying hypocrite—telling old Mr. Lapham that all he had meant to do was to teach a pious lesson). Now, as he saw Dove daily about the Afric Queen, he could hardly remember this feeling of hatred, his oaths of vengeance. Seemingly hatred and desire for revenge do not last long. He had made new friends. The old world of the Lapham shop and house was gone. Yet he remembered old Mr. Lapham, who had died that spring, with more affection than when he had been serving under him. Even Mrs. Lapham now did not seem so bad. Poor woman, how she had struggled and worked for that good, plentiful food, the clean shirts her boys had worn, the scrubbed floors, polished brass! No, she had never been the ogress he had thought her a year ago. There never had been a single day when she had not been the first up in the morning. He, like a child, had thought this was because she liked to get up. Now he realized that there must have been many a day when she was as anxious to lie abed as Dove himself. He remembered when there was no money to buy meat and how she would go from stall to stall until she found a butcher who would accept payment by a new clasp on his pocketbook, or a fishwife who would exchange a basket of salt herrings for a black mourning ring. Her bartering and bickering had then seemed small-minded to him; now he was enough older to realize how valiantly she had fought for those under her care.
True, Madge would make another of those big-fisted, hearty women—but women can be worse than that. He thought with some pity of Dorcas and her craving for elegance. Was she never—no, not once—to eat off china—always nothing but pewter? Poor girl—she'd not live too high with Frizel, Junior. But Johnny wished her well.
Priscilla Lapham. Ever since Rab had taken her home and left Johnny to eat six fried eggs by himself, he had felt differently about Cilla. She had been his best friend during the years he
worked at the Laphams'. And then for some months she had been a drag on him. He had not bothered much with her. Overnight that had changed. He was always looking forward to Thursdays and the seed cakes and the half-hour sitting out under the fruit trees with Cilla. And sometimes he would see Miss Lavinia Lyte. Then Johnny would hold his breath a moment and enjoy the chill that went up his spine.
His feelings for Isannah had changed too—and not for the better. It would break Cilla's heart if the little girl did not live up to her lovely face. But Johnny had not liked it that last Thursday when he had been sitting on the back stoop with Cilla and Miss Lavinia had driven up in her smart whiskey with a redcoat beside her and Isannah wedged in between. It could not be possible Isannah had not seen him. But she had glanced at him—and then looked away.
Johnny rode through the town gates, telling his business to the British sentries there, then went first to report to Paul Revere. A family of Tories in Milton wished to move into Boston and had written Colonel Smith about this move. Although a great many of the Whig families were moving out of the town, a great many Tories, frightened by the rough treatment they were getting in the inland towns, were moving in to be under the protection of the British troops. Then—as he had been thinking about the Laphams all the way over from Roxbury—Johnny decided to stop in and see them. He had not been in this house once since Mrs. Lapham and Mr. Tweedie had been so ready to cast him off for the sake of Mr. Lyte's patronage.
The squeak-pig was alone in the shop. He had not so much as one boy to help him with his fires or to sweep his shop. He liked to work alone. Johnny saw that he was mending the silver hilt of a British officer's sword.
'What are you doing here?' he muttered crossly at Johnny.
Johnny took off his spurs and showed the silversmith a broken rowel. 'I want you to fix that for me, this afternoon—Mr. Silversmith.'
'Yes, sir ... yes, indeed.' Once Johdidnnny was a patron, the past was forgiven him. 'If you'll take a chair, it shall be mended in fifteen minutes.'
Johnny couldn't help it. He said proudly. 'In ten minutes, Mr. Silversmith.'