The Gentle Rebel (8 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

A BOY NAMED LADDIE

Despite the severe cold, Nathan had to push his way through heavy traffic that flooded the square. The bright scarlet coats of British soldiers added a dash of color to the somber old buildings, but he was jostled by chimney sweepers, sawyers, merchants, laddies, priests, carts, horses, oxen, and his ears buzzed with the talk that floated over the square.

He arrived at the British Coffeehouse, which occupied the first floor of a four-story, frame building painted a bilious yellow, and as soon as he pushed his way through the door, he heard his name called: “Winslow! Over here!”

Major John Pitcairn, seated at a small round table near the far wall, had to raise his voice to be heard, for the large room was packed with officers and their guests. Nathan threaded his way across the crowded room, nearly reeling from the scent of pipe smoke, stale whiskey, and unwashed male bodies.

Pitcairn pushed a bottle and a pewter cup toward him, saying, “Cold as the devil out there! Take some of that, my boy—it’ll warm your insides!”

During the two weeks he’d spent at Boston, Nathan had learned how to handle the problem of drink. To say “No” created an instant problem, for almost everyone in the country drank some sort of liquor. Even ministers frequently received part of their pay in the form of kegs of beer, and
all
British officers drank a great deal. At first Nathan had refused, but that action had created such a discomfort on the part of the soldiers that he had learned to take a glass and simply give
the appearance of drinking. He took the glass and sipped at it, but the sharp eyes of Pitcairn caught it, and he smiled. “Haven’t done too much drinking since that night at Howlands’, have you, Nathan?—or before either, I’d venture.”

Nathan scowled and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and finally he looked straight at the major and said, “I made a fool of myself that night, Major!” A flush touched his high cheekbones, and he shook his head, adding, “Shakespeare said ‘God forbid I should put an enemy in my mouth to take away my brain’; I reckon that’s what I did that night.”

“It wasn’t so bad as you remember it, Nathan,” Pitcairn said with a sympathetic smile. “As I think on it, you may have been the most sober man in the house that night! At least three that I know of had to be
carried
out.”

“That’s them and not me!”

“Oh? Well, I wasn’t watching you all the time. Maybe it was something you did with Abigail Howland that’s got you as sensitive as a man without a skin?”

“I won’t listen—!” Nathan half rose from his seat, his face twisted with anger, but looking at Pitcairn’s honest face, he swallowed, sat down, and ducked his head. He drew a figure in the moist surface of the oak table, then looked up and there was a weak grin on his wide lips. “You’re too sharp for me, Major.”

Pitcairn sat there quietly, saying nothing until he refilled his clay pipe. Picking up the candle, he sucked the flame into the bowl until it glowed cherry red, then put it down carefully, a characteristic thing with him. He had learned to like this tall young man with the startling blue eyes, and for the past two weeks had spent several hours with him. He had not pried, but the young man had been open, and he had learned how his family was split by political opinion—Nathan’s parents in Virginia strongly behind the patriot cause, while his Uncle Charles and his family were staunch loyalists. He had something to say to Nathan, and was hesitant.

“Well, you must have done
something
right with the young
woman. You’ve been a pretty frequent guest at her house—and poor Paul must be cursing the day he ever took you there!”

“I—I’m sorry for that—about Paul, I mean.”

“Oh, they weren’t engaged.” Pitcairn shook his head and added, “She’s a real catch, my boy—looks
and
money. But I don’t know if she’d suit your family.”

Nathan shook his head sadly. “You’re right about that. She’s got little use for the rebel cause.”

Pitcairn studied young Winslow, then made a quick decision. “Nathan, I sent for you because there’s something you need to know.”

Pitcairn’s serious air was disturbing. “What is it, Major?”

“It’s about your brother. He’s getting involved with a radical group, and I think you ought to know it.”

“Caleb? But he’s just a boy!”

“That may be, but nonetheless he’s taken up with a young man who works for your uncle—Moses Tyler, he’s called.”

“Why, I know Moses,” Nathan said at once.

“We’ve had our eyes on him for some time. He’s joined to the Sons of Liberty—perhaps you’ve heard of them?”

“Yes, but I thought they were harmless enough.”

A rare anger touched Major Pitcairn’s face, and he said, “Let’s get out of here, Nathan. Too many ears to hear in this place.”

He laid a coin on the table and Nathan followed him outside, both of them pulling their coats high to protect their faces from the bitter cold. “You ever hear of the Boston Massacre, Nathan?”

“Of course.”

“Well, this is where it happened.” Pitcairn waved his hand toward the square. “It was most unfortunate, Nathan. A band of unemployed laborers attacked a British sentry right over there, and a mob collected, throwing oyster shells and snowballs. In the confusion, somebody called out ‘Fire!’ and our men fired. Five men were killed and six were wounded.”

“They shouldn’t have fired on unarmed men, Major.”

“No, certainly not, and a better officer would have prevented that. But it was a great opportunity for Sam Adams and James Otis! They got Paul Revere to do an engraving of the riot—you’ve probably seen it.” A bitter smile touched Pitcairn’s lips and he pointed at the Custom House, which was next to the British Coffeehouse. “Revere put a sign in the engraving on that building. Know what it was?”

“It was BUTCHER’S HALL.” Nathan remembered the engraving well, for copies of it had been carried all over the Colonies. “But that’s not treason, what Adams did.”

“No, but it gave Sam Adams a beginning! And the next thing he did was organize the Boston Tea Party—
that
was a criminal act, Nathan.”

“I suppose so,” Nathan said slowly.

Pitcairn took the arm of the tall young man, his grip like steel, saying, “Nathan, Sam Adams was a business failure, one of those whining, nagging malcontents you want to poke in the nose—but just the sort you’d want on your side in an eye-gouging fight. He’s a burr under the saddle, blast him! Such men breed revolutions, and they don’t give a hang who has to die for it.”

“And you say Caleb’s been going to their meetings?”

They had just turned a corner and a blast of cold air struck them so hard that both men gasped. “See that old red brick building—the one with blue shutters?”

“What about it, Major?”

“That’s Sam Adams’ house—where they meet. The rest are no better, Nathan. Otis was a Massachusetts lawyer who couldn’t handle his liquor. He was a Tory once, then switched over to a Whig position because he saw a dollar to be turned. And there’s John Hancock—and he may be the worst of the lot—though he’s smooth enough!”

“Rich, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, and how did he get that way? By smuggling tea! And that’s why he got in on the tea party in the harbor—his profits were in danger. Nathan, the man’s a criminal, and
sooner or later the Sons of Liberty are all going to dangle from ropes.” Major Pitcairn stopped fifty yards away from the red brick house. “I’d hate for your brother to be one to hang with them, Nathan, and that’s why I’ve told you this.”

Nathan thrust his hand out impulsively, and grasping the officer’s hand, he burst out, “Thank you, Major!”

“Well, well, now you know—but what will you
do
about it, my boy?”

The question struck Nathan hard, for his mind was a total blank as to what could be done. He set his jaw, and there was a fire in his light blue eyes as he said, “I’ll do
something,
Major—and you can bet on that!”

Major Pitcairn gave him a clap on the shoulder, but added a final word: “Our informer tells me they’ll have a meeting tonight. I should try to keep the boy away if possible—but be a little careful, Nathan. These men are revolutionaries—they’d think nothing of snuffing you out! Well, let me know if I can do anything.”

Pitcairn wheeled and marched down the street, a trim, erect military figure, and Nathan moved to the shelter of a tiny inn across from the brick house. He took a seat and ordered a meal as an excuse for his presence. The food was slow in coming, and was badly cooked, but he never noticed. His brain was racing as he tried to think of some way to get Caleb free from trouble. He thought of sending him home, but knew at once that Caleb would never go.
Maybe if I write father—? But he’d probably be proud of Caleb, feeling as he does.

He finished his meal, then realizing he couldn’t stay in the inn until the group met, paid his bill and returned to the street. Snow lay in white stripes everywhere, and the flakes were getting larger. He looked up into the sky, then turned and walked slowly in the direction of the harbor.
I’ll go to the warehouse and stay warm until later—then I’ll do something.

By the time he had covered the distance from the center of town to the waterfront, the snow was coming down as thickly as if some unseen giant were dumping it out of huge
baskets. The flakes were huge, almost the size of a tuppence, and lay in drifts several inches deep along the shopfronts. The temperature had plummeted; by the time he turned off High Street and began walking along the docks, his cheeks were numb and his feet had no sensation as they struck the carpet of white that covered the wharfs.

Nathan moved closer to a long tobacco warehouse to avoid the icy blasts that stung his face. He glanced out at the harbor where the ships seemed to be frozen carcasses—their sharp outlines of masts and spars rounded into smooth curves by the blanket of snow.

But as he glanced out at the fleet, his half-frozen feet struck something. He tried to jerk his hands out of his pockets to catch himself, but he failed and his long body fell headlong into the snow!

“What the devil—!”

He yanked his hands out of his pockets and swept the snow from his face with a forearm. He rolled over and saw what appeared to be a bundle of rags under a white mound, and he lifted his heel to give it a savage kick, for the fall had knocked out his breath and one cheek was bleeding, scraped raw against the rough wood of the wharf.

“What—?” he gave a startled look, then lowered his boot, for he thought he saw a tiny movement beneath the mound. Scrambling to his knees he reached out and brushed the snow away and saw at once that the bundle was alive!

Fear struck him in the belly, and with hands that shook more from nervousness than cold, he tugged at the figure, which seemed to be swathed in some sort of ragged blanket. Pulling it to one side, he could barely make out in the gathering darkness a pale white face, eyes shut tight. “Hey! Wake up!” He shook the small figure, but there was no response.

“Got to find help!” he muttered. He got to his feet and looked wildly around, but he knew there was no doctor in the area.
Got to get him out of this cold!
He stooped and lifted the still figure, and was shocked at how light the lad
was. Then it came to him what to do, and he plunged along through the snow.
The warehouse,
he thought—
it’ll be warm there, and I can send somebody for the doctor!

It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the company warehouse, and his lungs were on fire by the time he stopped, gasping in front of the door. There was no light inside, and he groaned as he saw the heavy padlock in place. Carefully he placed his burden down, extracted his key, then with numbed fingers managed to open the lock. Picking the boy up, he kicked the door open and stumbled inside. Even inside, the cold was bitter, but he made his way through the high-ceilinged area lit by a single lamp to the office at the rear. It was dark, and he felt his way to a small cot used by the foreman for quick naps. He groped along the desk, found the small candle, then ran back to the lantern in the warehouse area to light it. Cupping a hand around it, he hurried back to the office and stood there looking down at the small form he’d brought out of the storm.

Ought to be doing something!
he thought,
but it’s Saturday night.
For an instant he stood there in the cold silence, irresolute, still winded from his run through the storm.

Then he did something that was not customary, an involuntary reaction, something that just welled up in him.
“God, don’t let this lad die!”
he prayed—then he blinked, surprised at what he’d done. Most of his praying was public, a form of rhetoric that he’d mastered by listening to others pray. Solitary prayer he’d given up on years before, for although he knew some—such as his mother—who spent much time praying, his own prayer life was a matter of form.

Then it came again, involuntarily:
“Oh, God! I didn’t bring him here to die! Let him live! Please—let him live!”

Again he was shocked at the emotion that drove his prayer, and at that instant he saw a flicker of an eyelid on the still pale face, and at the same time a moan passed through the lips turned blue by the cold.

“He’s alive! Thank you, God!”
Nathan rejoiced, and the
pressure of fear lifted. He whirled and quickly built a small fire in the fireplace, set a kettle of water over it, then carefully added larger pieces to the fire until it crackled and began to drive the bitter cold out of his hands.

A small sound came from behind him; he turned from the fire to see the lad’s arms moving, and he leaped to the cot. “All right, now, don’t be afraid—you’re all right!”

A pair of eyes, black as pools, suddenly peered up at him, and the blue lips moved painfully. “What—what—?”

“Don’t try to talk, lad,” Nathan said quickly. He stripped off the dirty blanket so thin it was no protection at all, and whipped off his own thick wool coat. Wrapping it around the boy, he noted the thin arms and hollow eyes.
Half starved,
he thought, then said, “I don’t know much about taking care of frozen people, lad. Not much snow down in Virginia.” He smiled as the huge almond-shaped eyes stared at him owlishly, then added, “I heard somewhere that you’re supposed to rub snow on people who are just about frozen, so maybe—?”