The Gentle Rebel (21 page)

“Sir, it might be best if you just
tell
me instead of writing it down. That’s the way Mr. Winslow’s sending his information.”

He stared at her, then commented skeptically, “Some of what Adams needs to know is technical. You might forget it.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Knox.”

He laughed, slapped his meaty thigh with his good hand, then got up and as he walked to a map on a large table, said, “By Harry, I like a man who knows what he can do! Come here.” He waited until Laddie stood beside him, then pointed down at the map. “Here’s Boston, and here’s where the Redcoats are massed, and right
here
is where the Rhode Islanders are located, and here . . .”

He talked steadily for ten minutes, identifying the location of various units and then he turned and fixed his bright eyes on her. “Now, let’s have that, Laddie Smith!”

Laddie easily rattled off the locations of units, and Knox’s face glowed with pleasure. “Why, by Harry, that’s one hundred percent!” He paused, and seeing something in Laddie’s face, asked quickly, “What’s the matter?”

“Well, sir, this map—it’s not accurate.”

“What?”

“It’s out of proportion, Mr. Knox—and look, here, it doesn’t show the road leading to Dorchester Heights—and this area is
not
flat, but is the highest point in the vicinity.” Laddie had done a great deal of work on maps of that area before her father had died, and now she moved quickly, pointing out flaw after flaw in the map. She was so intent on what she was saying that she didn’t see the glint of interest in Knox’s moon face; finally she said, “Really, sir, you ought to get a better map.”

She looked up into the blue-green eyes of the fat man, and flushed, but he said, “I take it you know quite a bit about maps, Laddie?”

“Oh—not really . . . !” Laddie grew flustered, but it was too late.

“Is it possible you’ve done some map-making yourself?”

“Just—just a bit, sir.”

“I see.” He sat there looking at her, then suddenly heaved
his bulk up and said, “Sit down here, if you will, Laddie—I want you to write something for me.”

She was surprised, but obeyed, and he dictated a few lines having to do with a book that he wished to order from London. He waited until she had finished, then reached out and took the paper. He glanced at it, then nodded and said, “Fine penmanship. My own writing is worse than you can imagine.” He suddenly got up, and after rummaging through several shelves, came back and handed her three books. “Something for you to read in your spare time in Philadelphia.”

Laddie sat there confused, looking at the books, all of which were dull-looking texts on military matters. Knox gave a hearty laugh. “All booksellers are a little odd, Laddie Smith. Pay me no mind. Well, let me give you a written note for Sam Adams. Lord, I’d like to be in Philadelphia! There’s going to be fireworks there for sure! When you get back, will you drop by and give me a report, young fellow?”

“Yes, sir, I will.” Laddie got up, and after Knox gave her a sealed packet, she left and hurried to catch the post carriage that made the trip to Philadelphia.

The Second Continental Congress had degenerated into something of a dogfight, and Laddie, who expected to see solemn and dignified proceedings from the cream of American life, sat through several days of the turmoil in shocked silence. She had made a quick trip, and had found Sam Adams with little trouble, but he had been up to his ears in the raging debate and had time only to get a brief report. He read the note from Knox, then hurriedly said, “Stick close, Smith. There’ll be a time for what you’ve brought—and I don’t want to have to waste time looking for you when that time comes. Knox says you write a good hand—I need a clerk, so stay handy.” He had rushed off, but in the days that followed, often he had her write messages, sometimes delivering them to other committeemen.

She found a tiny room, and spent her nights reading the
books Knox had given her. They were all on the use of cannon and artillery, and she waded through them dutifully, becoming mildly interested in the one that discussed the difficulties of moving guns from one place to another; she liked this one, for it had to do with maps and terrains, but she would much have preferred some lighter reading.

The days stretched out, became a week, and still the debate raged, it seemed nothing would ever be settled. One evening, just as dusk was falling, she walked to her old neighborhood and stood in the gathering darkness staring at the old shop. The sign that had read SILAS SAMPSON—CARTOGRAPHER was gone, and the new one said AARON SAMPSON—MAPS. Her heart leaped into her throat when, as she stood watching, a bulky form emerged and she recognized her uncle. The fear that swept over her grew as he crossed the street, and she almost ran in a blind panic when she realized that he would pass right by her!

It was dusk, but there was still light enough for him to see her face, and as he came close, he did give her a searching glance—and with a voice that shook a little, Laddie said, “Good evening to you.”

Sampson didn’t answer, but his small eyes met hers, and for one terrible second she thought that all was over, that he had seen through her disguise—but relief flooded her as he gave a grunt and passed on down the street.

Thank God!
she breathed, and turned to enter the small inn down the street. She was apprehensive, for she had been slightly acquainted with the owners, and there was some risk. But as she took a seat, Mrs. Cowens merely glanced at her and said, “Yes, sir, what’ll you be having?”

Laddie ordered a meal, then lingered over a pot of tea, and as she had hoped, Mrs. Cowens proved to be as loquacious as ever. She was a bright-eyed woman, big in bulk and a notorious gossip. It was not difficult for Laddie to get her started, and soon she led her into the area that most interested her.
“I need a map of the area—don’t suppose there’s a cartographer close by?”

Mrs. Cowens soon gave a complete history of the Sampsons, including a detailed account of the disappearance of Miss Julie Sampson. “Ah—now there’s something odd about that!

“I make no accusations, mind you—” She winked lewdly at Laddie, and went on to describe how the girl’s father had died, and the brother had come to take over. “He’s not as pleasant as the old man! But it was clear he’d got it in his head to marry the girl—’cause it was a good business, and she was a pretty little thing.”

“You say she disappeared?” Laddie took a sip of tea and said in a disinterested fashion, “Maybe she just wanted to live somewhere else.”

“Not likely, mister!” Mrs. Cowens sniffed. “She run off—that’s wot she done! Why, didn’t ’e offer a reward and didn’t ’e have posters sent all over the country offerin’ a reward for the gal?”

“Well, I guess he’s given up by now.”

“That ’e ain’t, sir, for as Emily Shultz—she does Sampson’s cleanin’—Emily says he’s got to get hold of the girl ’cause he’s in some kind of legal trouble over the business, and ’e needs her name on some sort of paper. Emily, she says Sampson raves like a crazy man and swears he’ll get that gal if ’e has to turn every colony upside down!”

Laddie had heard enough, so she made her escape, and for long hours she walked the streets filled with a black despair. She finally went to her room, but slept fitfully, and the next day her eyes were gritty as she sat through the meeting.

Late that afternoon, however, the drama picked up. Washington had sat in the meeting day after day, dressed in a buff and blue uniform. Laddie had stared at him curiously, a tall, tall man, long-faced and wrapped in a deep mantle of silence. His silence was something almost physical and alive, while
others raved and John Adams roared, “Oh, the imbeciles! The fools, with all their talk!”

One of the delegates sitting in front of Laddie asked another sitting beside him, “Who is he?”

“Well, nobody important. Name’s Washington. He’s a farmer from Virginia.”

“Well, he
looks
important,” the other said.

“He’s rich—maybe as rich as Hancock.”

“He never speaks?”

“No.”

“Maybe he’s got nothing to say?”

Later in the day, Sam Adams motioned to Laddie. He was talking to his cousin John, and he paused long enough to dictate a note; then as Laddie was writing it, Sam Adams asked, “How much is this Washington worth?”

“Got as much money as any man in America,” John Adams said.

Sam gave him a sharp look, then said, “He’s the one I want.”

“Commander in chief? Hancock wants it like he wants heaven!”

Sam grinned at his cousin. “You want it, too, don’t you, John?”

“Yes—but I can’t wear a uniform.”

“We’ve got to have somebody from the South, John—you know that!”

They both knew it, for the New England delegations were safe, but southerners would not follow a leader from that area. The two men talked about it at length; then Laddie heard John Adams say, “All right, Sam, I’ll nominate him.”

“Hancock will blow up!”

“He’ll have to go along.”

Late that afternoon, John Adams rose and talked about qualifications needed for a commander in chief. Most of the delegates thought he was speaking for Hancock, and Hancock himself was flushed and looked around the room with a smile.

Then Adams said, “Gentlemen, the qualifications are high, but we must not make a mistake in this matter. Do we have such a man? I say that we do, and I nominate George Washington of Virginia!”

Hancock’s face turned pale, and Washington got up and left the room without a word.

And that had been it.

Washington was elected, and the country had a new leader.

Laddie was anxious to return to Boston, for there had been a flock of rumors about the wire-tight tensions of that city, but Adams had said, “I want Washington to hear your report.” Two days later Laddie was startled as Sam Adams grabbed her arm and whispered, “Come along—Washington wants to hear what you’ve brought.”

She followed him, her nervousness rising, and then she entered the large room where Washington sat at a desk flanked by two men. She recognized them as General Charles Lee and General Philip Schuyler.

“General, this is Laddie Smith,” Adams said, then stepped back.

Washington looked up, and Laddie saw lines of fatigue on his craggy face, and his voice was raspy as he said, “What’s the situation there, Mr. Smith?”

Laddie gave him the information from Nathan, and he looked interested at once. He said nothing, but when she had finished, he nodded and said, “Tell Mr. Winslow we appreciate his help.”

The interview was over, but Laddie swallowed and said quickly, “General, Mr. Knox gave me some information on the location of troops around Boston.”

“Henry Knox?” Washington’s face broke into a smile, and he said, “I might have expected it.” He looked at the thin, ugly man who was half-listening to the report, and said, “You must get to know Henry Knox, General Lee.”

“Who is he?” Lee was an Englishman, had served in Europe and was reputed to be an excellent soldier.

“A bookseller from Boston,” Washington smiled. “But he’s studied gunnery out of his books—knows more about cannon than any man in America, I’d guess. I’m going to commission him and put him in charge of our artillery.” Then he reached his hand out and said, “I’ll take the report, Mr. Smith.”

“Well, it’s not in writing, General. Mr. Knox thought it might be safer that way. But I can give it to you orally.”

“Sloppy work!” Lee sighed in disgust.

Washington said quickly, “Give me your report,” and Laddie quickly outlined the position of the British, their numbers and their officers. Then she did the same with the American troops, and as she finished, Washington shot a knowing look at Schuyler, saying evenly, “We must hurry, General. I can’t for the life of me imagine why General Gage hasn’t hit our people!”

“He won’t wait much longer—and our men there need you,” Schuyler nodded. “We’ve got to make an army out of them quickly.”

Washington turned to Laddie and said, “That’s very complete, Mr. Smith. We are in your debt.”

Adams motioned to Laddie, and when they were outside, he said, “Get back to Boston. Tell Knox what’s happened, and tell Winslow to try to find out something about what Gage may do!” Then he put his hand out, a rare smile on his face. “You did well, my boy—very well!”

Laddie hurried away and was on the coach out of Philadelphia three hours later, pleased that it was over and she could go back to Boston. It shocked her to realize how the simple thought of seeing Nathan sent such a thrill of pleasure through her, and she shook her head angrily as the coach rolled along.
Don’t think like that—you’re nothing to him!

Washington assembled a staff hurriedly, and on June 21 he set forth, accompanied by Lee and Schuyler and a brilliant escort. Crowds cheered them in every village as they passed through, but they had not ridden over twenty miles when they
were met by a messenger on a lathered, wind-blown horse, who cried out his news: “General—there’s been a battle!”

“Where?” Washington rose in his stirrups, and his face grew flushed.

“Place called Bunker Hill outside of Boston!”

Washington was a huge figure on his white horse, and he asked in an intense voice: “Did the militia fight?”

“Yes, General—like wildcats!”

Washington abruptly looked up to the blue sky, and half raised his hands. Suddenly he clapped them together in a vigorous gesture and cried out in a voice packed with emotion:

“Then the liberties of the country are safe!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES!”

When Laddie returned to Boston, she found the reports of activity had not been exaggerated—for the city swarmed with British regulars. The newly landed generals—Sir William Howe, Henry Clinton, and handsome John Burgoyne—had come to settle the business of rebellion.

Nathan had picked her up in a bear hug when she had come into the warehouse to find him, saying, “Laddie! Bless God! you’re back!” When he put her down, he laughed at her rosy face. “Sorry, Laddie. I guess no young fellow likes to be hugged by a big ugly chap like me, does he now?”