X. 'Disperse, Ye Rebels!'
THE fourteenth of April, 1775.
General Gage had sent out spies, dressed as Yankee men looking for work. The spies came back on this day. All the colonels were at the Province House with General Gage listening to their reports. Joseph Warren knew this, and so did Paul Revere, even Johnny Tremain. It was easy enough to find out that spies had returned, were reporting to the commanding officer—but what had they reported? This was not known.
The fifteenth of April.
This fell upon Saturday. At every regimental headquarters the same general orders were posted, signed by Gage himself. All the grenadier and light infantry companies were to be taken off duty until further orders. They were to be taught some new evolutions.
Johnny himself read these orders posted in the lower hall at the Afric Queen. One man was grumbling, 'New evolutions. What was Grandma Gage thinking about?' But Lieutenant Stranger as he read whistled and laughed. 'That,' he said, 'looks like something—at last.'
Each regiment had two companies picked and trained for special duty. The light infantry were the most active and cleverest men in each regiment. Lieutenant Stranger was a light infantry officer. These men were lightly armed and did scout and flanking work. In the grenadier companies you found tall, brisk, powerful fellows, hard-fighting men, always ready to attack.
If you have eleven regiments and pick off from each its two best companies, it adds up to about seven hundred men.
All day one could feel something was afoot. Johnny read it on Colonel Smith's florid face. He was stepping across the Queen's stable yard very briskly and remembering to pull in his paunch. There was ardor in his eye. Was it martial ardor?
Lieutenant Stranger was so happy over something he gave Dove threepence.
Spring had come unreasonably early this year. In the yard of the Afric Queen, peach trees were already in blossom. Stranger was so happy something was bound to happen. Over on the Common Johnny found Earl Percy's regiment unlimbering, polishing two cannons. The soldiers were forming a queue about a grindstone sharpening their bayonets. What of it? They were always doing things like that. Did all this mean something or nothing?
He went to Mr. Revere's, whose wife told him to look for him at Doctor Warren's. The two friends sat in the surgery making their plans and listening to reports that were coming from all directions. Seemingly the excitement among the officers, the preparations among the soldiers, had been noticed by at least a dozen others. But where were they going? Who would command them? No one knew. Possibly only Gage himself although before the start was actually made he would have to tell his officers.
All that day the British transports had been readying their landing boats. This might mean men would be taken aboard, move off down the coast (as Salem had been invaded two months before), or that they were standing by merely to ferry the men across the Charles River, land them in Charlestown or Cambridge. The work on the boats suggested that the men would not march out through the town gates. And yet ... Gage might have ordered this work done merely to confuse the people of Boston. Blind them to his real direction. The talk at Doctor Warren's went on into the night.
Johnny relaxed on a sofa in the surgery as the men talked. He was ready to run wherever sent, find out any fact for them. It was past midnight. He would not have known he had been asleep except that he had been dreaming. He had been hard at work down on Hancock's Wharf boiling lobsters—he and John Hancock and Sam Adams. The lobsters had men's eyes with long lashes and squirmed and looked up piteously. Hancock would avert his sensitive face to their distress, 'Go away, please' (but he kept pushing them under with his gold-headed cane). Sam Adams would rub his palms and chuckle.
Johnny woke up and realized that only Revere and Warren were still in the room and they were talking about Hancock and Adams. These two gentlemen had left Boston in March. They were representatives at the Provincial Congress at Concord. The British had forbidden the General Court to meet, but the Massachusetts men had merely changed the name of their legislative body and gone on sitting. But did the British know that both these firebrands were staying at the Clarks' out in Lexington?
'It will do no harm to warn them,' Revere was saying, getting to his feet. 'I'll row over to Charlestown tonight, go to Lexington, and tell them a sizable force may soon move. They had best hide themselves for the next few days.'
'And get word to Concord. The cannons and stores had best be hidden.'
'Of course.'
'Tell them we here in Boston have the situation well in hand. The second the troops move—either on foot or into those boats—we will send them warning in time to get the Minute Men into the field. I'd give a good deal to know which way they are going.'
'But suppose none of us can get out? Gage knows we'd send word—if we could. He may guard the town so well it will be impossible.'
Johnny was still half awake. He yawned and settled back to think of those lobsters. With eyes like men ... long lashes ... tears on their lashes...
Revere was pulling on his gloves.
'...Colonel Conant in Charlestown. I'll tell him to watch the spire of Christ's Church. You can see it well from Charlestown. If the British go out over the Neck, we will show one lantern. If in the boats—two. And come Hell or high water I'll do my best to get out and tell exactly what's acting. But I may get caught on my way over. Another man should also be ready to try to get out through the gates.'
They talked of various men and finally pitched upon Billy Dawes. He could impersonate anybody—from a British general to a drunken farmer. This might help him get through the gates.
As Paul Revere with Johnny at his heels left Warren's a man emerged from the darkness, laid a hand on Revere's arm. In the little light Johnny recognized the rolling black eye, poetic negligence of dress. It was Doctor Church.
'Paul,' he whispered, 'what's afoot?'
'Nothing,' said Revere shortly and went on walking.
'The British preparing to march?'
'Why don't you ask them?'
The queer man drifted away. Johnny was surprised that Revere would tell Church nothing, for he was in the very inner circle. Seemingly Revere himself was surprised by his sudden caution. 'But I can't trust that fellow ... never have, never will.'
2
The sixteenth of April.
All over Boston bells were calling everyone to church. As though they had not a care in the world the British officers crowded into the Episcopal churches and army chaplains held services for the soldiers in the barracks. Paul Revere was over on the mainland carrying out his mission. Boston looked so usual and so unconcerned, Johnny began to wonder if they all had not made mountains of molehills, imagined an expedition when none was intended. But Rab was so certain the time was close at hand that he told Johnny that he himself was leaving Boston for good. There would be fighting before the week was out and he intended to be in it. Now he must report at Lexington.
Johnny took this news badly. He could not endure that Rab should leave him: desert him.
'But as soon as the first shot is fired, no man of military age can possibly get out of Boston. They'll see to it. It's now or never.'
He did not seem to feel any grief at abandoning Johnny, who sat disconsolately on his bed watching Rab. The older boy was cutting himself a final piece of bread and cheese. How many hundreds of times Johnny had seen those strong white teeth tearing at coarse bread. Rab had been eating bread and cheese all through their first meeting—and that was long ago. It seemed he'd be eating bread and cheese to the end. There was a sick qualm at the pit of Johnny's stomach. He couldn't eat bread and cheese, and it irritated him that Rab could.
The older boy was glowing with good health, good spirits. He was eighteen, six feet tall and a grown man. He looked it as he moved about the low attic, stuffing his pockets with extra stockings. Rolling up a shirt in a checkered handkerchief. He is leaving me—and he doesn't care—thought Johnny.
'Perhaps I'll go too,' he offe
red, hoping Rab would say, 'I'd give everything I've got—even my musket—if you could come,' or merely, 'Fine, come along.'
'No, you can't,' said Rab. 'You've got your work to do right here in town. You stick around with your fat friend Dove. Gosh, I'm glad I'll never have to listen to Dove again. But you'll have a fine time with Dove, while I...'
'You know I cannot stomach Dove.'
'No? I thought he and you were getting on fine together.'
'And there's not one reason why I can't leave for Lexington too, except you don't want me.'
He knew this was not true, but he could not help badgering Rab, trying to make him say, 'I'll miss you as much as you'll miss me.'
Rab laughed at him. He was going to leave and he wasn't going to be 'slopped over.' Johnny was gazing at him sullenly. Rab took the extra stockings from his pocket, untied his handkerchief, and added them to his shirt and other necessities.
'You want to go,' Johnny accused him.
'Yes.'
'Well, then—go!'
'I'm going fast's I'm able.'
Oh, Rab, Rab! Have you ever seen those little eyes at the end of a musket? Rab, don't you go. Don't you go!
Rab was singing under his breath. It was the song of the Lin-colnshire Poacher that Mr. Revere had taught Johnny and Johnny had taught Rab. There was something about Rab's singing, low, a little husky and not too accurate, that always moved Johnny. It was a part of that secret fire which came out in fighting, taking chances—and dancing with girls! The excitement glowed in Rab's eyes now. He was going into danger. He was going to fight—and the thought made some dark part of him happy.
Johnny wanted to tell him about those eyes, but instead he said, 'I guess you really want to get out to Lexington—and do some more dancing.'
'Here's hoping.'
From then on Johnny said nothing, sitting glumly on his bed, his head bowed. Then Rab came over to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
'Goodbye, Johnny. I'm off.'
Johnny did not look up.
'You're a bold fellow, Johnny Tremain.' He was laughing.
Johnny heard Rab's feet going down the ladder. The door of the shop closed after him. He ran to look out the window. Rab was standing outside the Lorne house shaking hands with his uncle, saying goodbye like a grown man. Now he was bending down to kiss Aunt Jenifer—not at all like a small boy kissing an aunt. He picked up Rabbit, who could toddle about, and kissed him, too. Then half-running, he passed lightly up Salt Lane and out of sight.
One moment too late, Johnny ran out into the alley. He couldn't let Rab go like that. He had not even said good luck, God be with you. Why ... he might not ever see Rab again. He went back to his garret and flung himself on his bed. He half-wished he might cry and was half-glad he was too old for tears.
Today there was no sound from the shops and wharves. No cry of chimney sweep, oysterman, knife-grinder. The town was whist and still, for it was Sunday. As Johnny lay upon his bed, the church bells began to call for afternoon service. They babbled softly as one old friend to another. Christ's Church and Cockerel, Old South, Old Meeting, Hollis, King's Chapel. He knew every one. He had heard them clanging furiously for fire, crying fiercely to call out the Sons of Liberty. He had heard them toll for the dead, rejoice when some unpopular act had been repealed, and shudder with bronze rage at tyranny. They had wakened him in the morning and sent him to bed at night, but he never loved them more than on Lord's Days when their golden clamor seemed to open the blue vaults of Heaven itself. You could almost see the angels bending down to earth—even to rowdy old Boston. 'Peace, peace,' the soft bells said. 'We are at peace...'
Suddenly close by, over at the Afric Queen, the British drumsticks fell. The fifes struck up 'too-too—tootlety-too.' Even on Sunday they were out drilling. So were other men—even on Sunday. For instance, over in Lexington.
The sixteenth of April drew to a close.
Monday was a quiet day. Lieutenant Stranger looked very solemn. Maybe there was not to be an expedition after all.
3
The eighteenth of April.
By afternoon the sergeants were going about the town, rounding up the grenadier and light infantry companies, telling them (in whispers) to report at moonrise at the bottom of the Common 'equipped for an expedition.'
The sergeants would tap their red noses with their fingers and bid the men be 'whist,' but it was common knowledge in the barracks and on the streets that seven hundred men would march that night.
This very night—come darkness—the men would move, but in what direction? And who would be in charge of the expedition? Surely not more than one of the colonels would be sent.
Johnny, who had his own colonel to watch, Colonel Smith, hardly left the Afric Queen all day and helped the pot-boy serve drinks to the officers in the dining room. A young officer sitting with Stranger did say, as he stirred his brandy-and-water with his thumb, that he hoped before long thus to stir Yankee blood—and what of that? Colonel Smith did have an army chaplain to dine with him that day. Did that mean he was suddenly getting religious, as people are said to before they go into danger?
Of one thing Johnny was sure. Dove knew much less than he did. Dove was so thick-witted he had no idea anything unusual was afoot. He honestly believed that the grenadiers and light infantry were merely going to be taught 'new evolutions.' As usual, Dove was too wrapped in his own woes to think much of what was happening about him.
By five Johnny thought he would leave the Queen and report to Paul Revere that he had discovered nothing new. First one more glance at Dove.
For once he found him hard at work, his lower lip stuck out, his whitish pig-lashes wet. He was polishing a saddle.
'That guy,' he complained, 'hit me for nothing. He said I was to get to work on his campaign saddle.'
'Who's he?'
'Colonel Smith, of course.'
'Did you do as he told you?'
'I tried. I didn't know he had two saddles. So I went to work on the usual one. I shined it until you can see your face in it. And he takes it out of my hands and hit me on the head with it. Says I'm a stupid lout not to know the difference between a parade saddle and a campaign saddle. How'd I know? Why, he's been over here about a year and that campaign saddle hasn't ever been unpacked. I had to get it from Lieutenant Stranger. How'd I know?'
Johnny said nothing. He realized he had heard something which conceivably might be important. Careful ... careful ... don't you say anything to scare him.
'Where's your polish? I'll help with the stirrups.'
The instant Johnny went to work, Dove as usual lay back on the hay.
'One of the stirrups wrapped 'round my head. Cut my ear. It bled something fierce.'
Johnny was studying the saddle on his knees. It was of heavy black leather, brass (not silver) mountings. Three girths instead of two. All sorts of hooks and straps for attaching map cases, spyglasses, flasks, kits of all sorts.
Colonel Smith is going on a campaign. But perhaps not. He might merely be riding down to New York.
He leaned back on his heels. 'Say, what if you and I took time out to eat supper? The Queen's cook has promised me a good dinner, because I helped them at table this afternoon. Roast goose. I'll fix it so you can get in on it, too.'
'Oh, for goodness' sake—no.'
'It's past five o'clock. Colonel can't be going anywhere tonight.'
'Oh, for land's sake, Johnny, he says I'm to show him that saddle by six sharp, and if he don't like its looks he's going to cut me to mincemeat. He's always saying things like that. He's the...'
Johnny did not listen to what Colonel Smith was. He was thinking.
'Well, after that—when Colonel Smith has settled down to play whist. Can you get off?'
'Tonight isn't like any other night. He told me to bring Sandy around for him, fed and clean and saddled with this old campaign saddle by eight o'clock tonight...'
Colonel Smith is going on a long journey. Starting tonight at eight. It
might be a campaign. He had an idea.
'I should think if the Colonel was making a long trip he'd take Nan, she's so light and easy to ride ... if he has far to go.'
'He does like her better—she don't jounce his fat so. He always rides her 'round Boston. But only yesterday he had Lieutenant Stranger take her over to the Common when the men were drilling. Stranger says she still is squirmy when she hears drums and shooting. I heard him say so.'
'Oh.' Drums and shooting. This was not to be a peaceful ride to, say, New York. His cloth whipped over the black saddle leather. He spat on it and rubbed even harder. The one thing he must not say was the wrong thing. Nothing was better than the wrong thing. So for a while he said nothing.
'Sandy's good as gold, but he's an old horse and a little stiff. His front left leg won't last forever.'
'Colonel Smith didn't say he was going off on him forever.'
This did not help much. But Dove went on:
'He and the horse doctor and Lieutenant. Stranger were all looking at him just this morning. The horse doctor said old Sandy could do thirty miles easy. And Stranger said, no, he wouldn't swear you could get Nan on and off a boat without her fussing.'
So ... the campaign would start around eight that night. The Colonel's horse would be put on and off a boat. There would be a risk at least of drums and shooting. They were not going farther than thirty miles. Those men who thought the target of the expedition was going to be Lexington and Concord were right. And it would be Colonel Smith who would go in command.
All Johnny's hidden excitement went into his polishing. The brass mountings turned to gold. The black leather to satin.
'There! You take that in and show your Colonel!'
But he would wait one moment more, Dove might have something more to say when he came back after he had seen the Colonel.
Johnny went into Goblin's stall, but the horse pretended not to know him, and put back his ears and nipped at him.