Johnny Tremain (20 page)

'Four o'clock! I must be getting back. I was told to pick up a pair of gloves on Queen Street and be back at five.'

She got up, tied a flowered bonnet on her head, and started for the door.

'Wait ... Cilla, you haven't told me any news.' He had forgotten how recently her news had bored him.

'That's right. I've just told Rab. Johnny, I won't be able to meet you regularly any more. Things have changed.'

'How so? Your mother mad?'

'No ... that is, yes, she is mad, but about something else. She's mad because Dorcas really did have the guts to run off and marry Frizel, Junior, just as soon as Mr. Tweedie declared for her.'

'Dorcas isn't going to get much of that elegance she was always out after from Frizel, Junior.'

'No, but she doesn't care.' The young girl's voice softened. 'She says when you really are in love, you don't care much about anything—except him.'

Johnny, remembering the gawky, callow, but upstanding young leather-dresser of Fish Street, was surprised that anyone could value him so highly.

'She ran off with Frizel, Junior, just as soon as Mr. Tweedie came out and said he preferred her to Madge. But what put Ma right through the roof was when he said he was in no hurry. He didn't mind passing up Madge and waiting for me.'

'You!'
cried Johnny hotly; 'that old man—if he is a man! Why, he must be about forty. Cilla, you're lying to me if you say anybody's talking of marrying you.'

'I was fifteen last month. And you were fifteen way back in January.'

'I'd not stopped to think. Rab, did you hear that? I'm only a year younger than you are now.'

Rab grinned. 'I was seventeen last week.' Johnny thought that was like Rab—slipping off by himself, getting ahead of you and then grinning at you out of the corner of his mouth.

'Mother didn't like it—Mr. Tweedie stalling like that. Then one thing happened after another.'

'For instance?'

'Ever since—well, last fall—the Lytes have been giving us work to do. Mr. Tweedie is clever—although so queer. A couple of weeks ago Miss Lyte came in. She wanted her arms, that old rising sun, engraved on the top of her riding whip. So she stands about and I stand about and Mr. Tweedie and Ma. The shop door was open into the back yard ... and Isannah was standing about too, in the back yard.'

'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.

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.'

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.'