Johnny Tremain (13 page)

'Oh, forget it,' said Johnny rudely. That Isannah was just about getting above herself.

During dinner it seemed to Rab that Johnny planned to go back to the Laphams to sleep, and to Cilla that he was moving in with Rab. But Johnny decided to sponge on neither—not until he had a job, and something a lot better than delivering papers for Uncle Lorne. He had noticed the number of boys who came and went about the Queen's stable.

The wind was howling up from the sea, beating the waves against the wharves. It was a fine fall, the days crisp and full of sparkle, but the nights, from now on, would be too cold in the open, although warm enough hidden away in the stable, with hay or a horse blanket to cover one and the warm animals giving off heat.

He slept in the stable that night and on the next day did find a sea captain who would—in spite of the bad hand—take him on as a cabin boy. Johnny did not like the captain, the ship, nor the voyage. It was going to Halifax and the cold turn the weather had taken and his insufficient clothing made him desire a trip to the tropic Sugar Isles above all else. But all seemed settled until the shipmaster casually told him he must furnish his own blankets, oilskins, sea boots, warm pea jacket. Johnny had no money to buy such things.

Having no safe place now to leave his cup, he had tied the strings of the flannel bag to his belt. It struck at him as he walked. The luckiest thing he had ever done was to disobey his mother and show this cup to Cilla last July. Now he would disobey her again and sell it.

There were many silversmiths who would have bought it, but the cup was so old-fashioned he could not expect from them more than its value in old silver. However, Mr. Lyte, owning the matching cups, would pay a very good price. So once more he went to that merchant's counting house on Long Wharf.

It was the same as before, except 'Cousin Sewall' was not there. The grasshoppery old clerks were bent over their ledgers. Neither moved as Johnny slipped quietly past them and entered the inner office.

Mr. Lyte looked up from his papers. There was a glimmer almost of hatred in the sliding black eyes as he recognized Johnny. Mr. Justice had humiliated him publicly, and the story had gone quickly around the wharves, among his friends.

He spoke very quietly. 'Well?'

'Look. I have no money. No food. Only the clothes I stand in. I've no choice. This cup is worth about four pounds if I sold it for old silver. I'm a silversmith and I know. But to you, because it matches your others, it is worth about four times as much. Give me twenty pounds and you can have it.'

Through the melted tallow on his face there was a faint flush of blood. Although his voice was suave enough, Johnny knew he was furious.

'I've never yet bought stolen goods. I'm not going to begin now—not even with my own.'

Johnny put the cup back in its bag, but before he could tie the strings to his belt Mr. Lyte's long fingers had reached out and taken it.

'If you will give me back my property,' Johnny said politely, 'I'll take it to Mr. Revere or Mr. Burt. Four pounds is all I really need.'

'Now wait a moment, young man. You
know
you stole it. Make a clean breast of the matter and I will not be too hard on you. Justice Dana was a fool to be taken in by those lying girls.'

'I didn't steal it. That was settled for all time, in court.'

Once on his feet Mr. Lyte moved quickly enough. He was at the door, blocking Johnny's escape.

'Hadden and Barton,' he said.

The old clerks came scurrying in, their pens in their hands.

'Sewall's still down the wharf seeing about molasses? Very well. We can do what's to be done better without that puppy. Now Hadden and Barton ... here's a boy ... that Johnny Tremain. You've heard tell...?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Shut and lock that door. He's not so sunk in poverty and vice but to have a glimmer of conscience.'

'No, sir.'

'And so two days after Mr. Dana found him innocent of stealing my cup he comes to me privately, confesses the theft, and wishes to return it to me.'

'Indeed! Very noble of him, sir.'

'Mr. Hadden and
Mr.
Barton, you are witnesses of his repentance and
voluntary
return of my stolen property.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Give me my twenty pounds.' Johnny was breathing hard.

'You thick-witted, little wharf-rat. Go whistle for it. I've two respectable witnesses who will go into court and swear that whatever I say is true. Do you think any court in Boston, even Dana's, would listen to you and your wretched girls if I and my clerks said contrary-wise? You daring to suggest you are my kin!'

Johnny saw he was trapped. 'I'll get that cup back,' he said through white lips. 'You thief...'

'Hadden, look in the street. See if Captain Bull is still about. Fetch him.'

'If anyone is hung for stealing cups, it will not be me. Wharf-rat, am I? You gallows bird.'

'Threatening my life, is he? Now I'm not going to be too hard on you. Ah-ha-ha-ha. As long as you had the decency to admit your theft. Having a bad time getting work since you burned your hand, eh? Well, my Captain Bull is taking the
Unicorn
to Guadalupe on ebb tide. Maybe you'd like to settle in Guadalupe? Boston is getting a little crowded. More opportunity in Guadalupe for
lying, thieving, scurvy knaves!

Hadden came back with Captain Bull. Johnny gave the captain one startled glance. He was an enormously powerful man, with a neck as big as Johnny's waist and huge hands hanging down to his knees. Each hand looked as large as a bunch of bananas. The courtly bow he attempted at his employer only made him seem more the baboon, but this formality gave Johnny one split second. He shot out of the inner office before Captain Bull had recovered from his bow. Hadden flung up his bony arms trying to stop him, but went down like a bunch of fagots.

Johnny kept on running up Long Wharf and the short length of King Street. He dove down Crooked Lane into Dock Square, knocked over a basket of feathers a woman was selling, for a moment was mixed up in a drove of squealing pigs, but he knew where he was going and shot down Union Street. Salt Lane at last, and the little man observing Boston so genially through his spyglass. Then he stopped, looked behind him. The street was empty. No Captain Bull. Baboons could not run that fast.

Rab was not in the shop. Only Uncle Lorne.

'Do you still want a horse boy?' He was breathing so hard he could hardly speak.

'Why, yes,' said startled Mr. Lorne, 'sometime—but there's no such a hurry. We've been hiring a boy from the Afric Queen for a month and...'

'Will I do?'

Mr. Lorne went to the window opening on the shop's back yard. Rab was out there brewing up a kettle of printer's ink. The Webb twins were learning how and fetching fagots for him.

'Rab,
Rab,'
his uncle called to him, 'here's that Johnny back again. Will he do for a rider?'

'Yes.' Rab's voice, cool, haunting, drifted back on a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke from the yard.

'Very well, Johnny. Of course you know how to ride?'

'I've never been on a horse in my life.'

'Well, I'm afraid now, really...'

'I can learn.'

'Rab!'

'What?'

'Can that Johnny Tremain learn to ride a horse?'

'Yes.'

'All right, boy. You sit down and catch your breath and I'll explain. This isn't a full-time job and I can't do more than sleep you, bait you, and clothe you. But you'll have the first four days of the week to pick up money for yourself, or to go on with your learning (if any). I've got a fine library. If Rab says so, you can sleep in the loft above this shop with him. If he'd rather go on alone, my wife will put you up across the way. The
Observer
is out every Thursday and the papers are delivered to the Boston subscribers on that day. You can do it faster on horseback, but on foot if you'd rather. That takes most of the day. Then next day, Friday, you start about five in the morning, and you ride through Dorchester, Roxbury, Brookline, Milton, and so on—Rab will draw you a map—leaving a certain number of papers at various inns. The subscribers go fetch them themselves. So late Friday or early Saturday you cross the Charles and go through Cambridge, Watertown, Waltham, Lexington, and so on, and last is Charlestown. From there you cross back into Boston on the ferry Saturday night.'

Rab came in with a kettleful of the warm, black, syrupy ink. There was not a smootch on his white shirt or leather apron. The Webbs were black as imps from Hell.

'Rab,' said his uncle, 'where's Johnny to sleep?'

'With me, of course.'

'Well, you show him where. But first take him over to the Queen's stables and show him that horse you bought. If ever you made a bad bargain, it was when you gave money for that Goblin. But you take the afternoon off and give Johnny a lesson in equitation—show him how to fall off without getting hurt. He'll need it if he's going to ride that devil...'

Johnny's new life had begun.

'What's the matter with Goblin?' Johnny asked, a little nervously. 'Mr. Lorne doesn't seem to hold by him much.'

'Well,' saiad Rab mildly, 'if you can ride Goblin you can really ride. After him anything will seem easy. But that's a good way to learn. Now remember, Johnny, there's not such a lot to riding except getting along with your horse. Horses are timid animals at heart, but Goblin's the most timid of all.'

'Has he been treated badly?'

'Yes—whipped because he's so timid. I got interested in him out in Lexington where my folks live. He had four owners in one year. Each time he was sold, he went for half price. The last owner practically gave him to me. He's not mean, nor a bully. He's as sweet and gentle an animal as you'll ever find. A piece of paper blowing in the street might make any horse shy—and he's ashamed of himself next moment. But Goblin doesn't ever stop to see what it is. He thinks maybe it's a little white dog about to bite his heels and he jumps out of his skin and
leaves.
Sometimes it takes half an hour to quiet him again. As for clothes on the line, they aren't just shirts and petticoats. He thinks they are white hippogriffs big enough to carry horses off in their talons. From his point of view the only sensible thing is to get moving, and he moves pretty fast. Now what you've got to do is to get his confidence so completely he'll know you'll never let anything hurt him—you can't do that by whipping him. Then he'll go through Hell, a laundry yard from his point of view, for you.'

'But I don't know how to ride.'

'It's about like dancing ... keeping rhythm. You'll learn right off. Of course you'll be scared, but just remember this: no matter how scared you are, he's more so.' They were entering the Afric Queen's stable.

'The horse boy who has been riding him for us has made him worse and worse. If I had time I could get his confidence and cure him—somewhat. Nobody could make him safe and steady. Now you just look at him. Isn't he a beauty?'

Rab had gone into one of the many stalls and backed out a tall, slender horse, so pale he was almost white, but flecked all over with tiny brown marks. The mane and tail were a rich, blackish mahogany. His eyes were glassy blue.

Rab said: 'I never saw a horse his color before. His sire was Yankee Hero, a white horse, fastest horse I ever saw run. Narragansett breed. We could no more afford to own one of Yankee Hero's sons than we could the Lytes' coach unless there was
some
little thing wrong with him. Eh, Goblin?'

The beautiful, wild, timid thing breathed softly, caressingly at Rab, but at the same time the queer, crystalline eyes watched Johnny as though sure that this was a boy who ate horses.

'Now you put on a bridle like this—see? And when winter comes, don't ever put a cold bit in a horse's mouth. Breathe on it first. The saddle blanket—steady, steady, Goblin—it won't hurt you. And then the saddle. Now you lead him out in the yard. You hold the reins like this—left hand
always
and the thumb on the upper side, but down on the reins. And you put your left foot in the stirrup. If you get on from the right side and get kicked, it serves you right. There, see how easy? On and off just like that. You hold him a second.'

Rab went into the tavern, and when he came back he had permission to take out the landlady's genteel nag. With Johnny on the nag and Rab on Goblin, they went to the Common. Here were acres upon acres of meadow and cow pasture, hard ground cleared for the drilling of militia. The sun and the wind swept through them. Trees were turned to scarlet, gold, beefy red: blueberry bushes to crimson. Through one patch a white cow was plodding, seemingly up to her belly in blood. The cold, wild air was like wine in the veins. And across the vast, blue sky, white clouds hurried before the wind like sheep before invisible wolves.

'Easy, easy,' cried Rab. 'Easy does it.' Goblin had been cavorting, blowing through his nostrils, begging to be let out. Rab kept him at a close canter. The landlady's sorrel flung himself after him. Now and then Rab would glance behind to see how Johnny was making out.

'Not so stiff ... give more. I said keep your
thumb
up.' Then they would stop a moment, Rab making Johnny mount and dismount. 'Trot him from that stump yonder, back again to me.'

Once again both in the saddle, and he was setting a faster pace. The two horses tore across the packed earth of the drill ground, and for the first time in his life Johnny heard that wonderful music—galloping hoofs on hard earth.

At the end, when Goblin had got most of the play out of him, they changed horses. Actually Goblin's gaits were so smooth he seemed easier than the sorrel.

Johnny felt he had learned a lot in his first lesson. A few more and he would have had no fear of Goblin. But there were no more lessons. Rab was too busy. He was teaching Johnny to ride as he did everything else—with a minimum expenditure of his own energy. Every day Johnny led Goblin to the Common, for it was quite a long time before he dared ride him through the narrow, crowded streets. And he sat in his manger and talked to him.