Johnny Tremain (26 page)

'Johnny boy,' she called, 'You help me hang up these here sheets and I'll give you a sweet.'

'What's up?' he whispered as soon as he had helped carry out the heavy basket of wash.

'Last night, just before bedtime, Colonel Smith, he sent for me 'cause he says I sent up a shirt as wasn't his. And dat dere Lieutenant Stranger, he was standin' by de fireplace thankin' his colonel for permission to go on de "little business." He was lookin' real happy like young folks do as have been allowed to attend a party.'

'But a little business might be anything.'

'Yes. But Stranger. He likes fightin' real good. He ain't no cardboard soldier like some of these British boys. And he whistled happy as a robin as he went to his own room, and he sat up for an hour more writin' letters and tearin' 'em up and writin' again. And this mornin' he sent one off to Miss Lavinia Lyte by Dove. But dese scraps of paper I got in my pocket are his trials and errors. I can't read. And he did tear 'em up. But here dey are.'

'Lydia, give me your pocket.'

She unpinned the little calico bag from her waistband. Johnny stuffed it inside his jacket and ran back to the printing office.

It took no time to put together two letters which Stranger had written and discarded. First he had written Miss Lavinia—Johnny knew he was dancing attendance on her—a rude note bluntly declining her invitation to a frolic which on the fifteenth of December would follow a military concert. Today was the twelfth.

'Evidently,' said Rab, 'he explained too little in his first letter and too much in his next. So he tore them both up and tried a third time.'

Rab, Mr. Lorne, and Johnny all had their heads over the drawing board where the second letter was pieced together and spread out. The first part was missing and he had never finished it.

 

...as Lovelace said so long ago, 'I could not love thee, dear, so much loved I not honour more.' 'Tis honour only, my dear, my very dear Miss Lyte, which forces me to decline your most gracious invitation for the fifteenth of December. The honour of a soldier and eyes, even brighter than your brilliant orbs, the bright eyes of danger, call me forth. To you alone I will confide that on that night I shall be sixty miles north of here, for we must have all our forts sufficiently strengthened so as...

 

Then he had stopped.

'Sixty miles,' said Mr. Lorne. 'That's Portsmouth. Fort William and Mary. They have only a handful of men on duty there and a vast store of powder and ball.'

'No wonder,' Rab was saying, 'Stranger tore that letter up. It certainly let the cat out of the bag. Where you off to, Johnny?'

'I'm off to Paul Revere,' Johnny yelled over his shoulder.

He had not stopped for overcoat or mittens. From the lowering December sky handfuls of snowflakes were falling, but as soon as they came to earth they turned to ice. It was a bleak, bad, dangerous day for the long ride north.

Ten minutes after Johnny told him the news, Revere was in the saddle buttoning his fur-lined surtout to his ears. His wife had so recently borne him another child she was still abed. She rapped on a window-pane and Johnny ran to her. 'He forgot this,' she said and handed him the hasty scrawl she had had the wit to write. In it Paul Revere was begged by a make-believe relative in Ipswich to come in all haste. His grandmother was on her deathbed. Johnny had to laugh. The British soldiers at the Neck were asking more and more questions of any known Whig, and sometimes, for a whim, would refuse to let him pass and often again delay the trip. Mrs. Revere's letter would allay their suspicions.

That night, over icy roads and through howling winds, Paul Revere rode the sixty miles. Even before the British got into their transports, word had come back to Boston that the King's fort at Portsmouth had been seized and His Majesty's military stores stolen by the rebellious Americans.

Cilla reported to Johnny that Lieutenant Stranger did, indeed, attend Miss Lavinia's handsome frolic and a more gloomy young man she had never seen.

Even in the old days of the Lapham shop Dove would have been Johnny's friend if Johnny would have had it. The enmity between them was the younger, and smarter, boy's fault. As soon as Johnny began to cultivate Dove, he was surprised at the response. Dove had always been lonely and he still was. The Yankee boys threw bad words and oyster shells at him because he worked for the British. The British horse boys badgered him. Lieutenant Stranger thought he was the stupidest, laziest pig he had ever met, and told him so at least once a day. Colonel Smith was not above knocking him down if his horses were ill-cared for. But Johnny's feelings toward Dove had changed. Dove was garrulous, indolent, complaining, and boastful, but it hurt Johnny when the other boys bullied him and his masters beat him. He was like a man who owns a dull, mean dog. He may punish it himself, but resents it if anyone else punishes it. For better or worse Dove was now his own private property.

Once a day, twice a day, and sometimes three times in one day, Dove would sneak over to the
Observer's
office. Here for a few minutes he could get away from the swearing and cuffing of his superiors and the malice of the grooms. By Rab and Johnny's standards they were often rude to him; by his own they 'treated him fine.' At least he was allowed to slump into a chair, complain, boast, and eat. It was hard to watch Dove swilling their meager food, but the way to his heart seemed to be through his stomach. What they had they shared with him.

Although badly treated by the British and kindly by the two Yankee boys, Dove had become violently pro-British—at least, when talking to Rab and Johnny. He considered himself part of the British army and was always bragging about what 'we' were going to do to rebels.

'Yep. We're going to march right out of here,' he was saying one day. 'And we'll kill every rebel we meet. Skin 'em. Cut off their heads.

'And here in Boston, just as soon as old Gage gives the signal, we're goin' ter string up every rebel. Hundreds of 'em. Yep.'

Johnny yawned. He could not help it.

The yawn may have irritated his guest.

'Oh, they know all about you. You haven't been given any riding to do for them of late, have you?'

True enough, although Johnny had not found out one thing of genuine value by the letter-carrying he had done for British officers, it had been a good contact and he needed money. He had been sorry to find that he was no longer employed.

'It was I that warned 'em. I told 'em and told 'em that that Johnny Tremain was a rebel of the deepest double-dye.' So Dove had gone out of his way, had he, to be mean?

'Oh, you!...Blat, blat, blat. Talk, talk, talk.'

'I know what's my duty to report and what's my duty to keep mum about. Take military secrets. I don't tell them.'

As soon as he had arrived, he had walked over to the cupboard where the boys kept their food, and helped himself. As he talked, the crumbs came dribbling out of the corner of his loose mouth.

'For instance,' he went on, 'you didn't know, did you, that last December Lieutenant Stranger almost went on an expedition to Portsmouth? I knew he was planning to go, but I knew enough not to say anything to you about it. I can keep a secret all right.'

Thanks to Lydia they had known about this. But they had had no idea that Dove, too, had known at the time.

'That's no secret now. But it is a secret where old Gage will strike next. You'd like to know, wouldn't you? I could tell you if I had the mind to. Why don't you give me something to drink?'

Rab and Johnny exchanged a glance. Johnny poured him a tankard of ale. Maybe he knew more than they thought. But would the mild ale loosen his tongue?

'You wait a moment, Dove, I'll be right back.' Johnny ran through the back yard to the Afric Queen. He knew Colonel Smith had told Lydia that one of his young gentlemen was prone to solitary tippling. If ever she found a bottle of brandy in his chamber, she was to take it. He did not say where she was to take it to. Lydia took away the young gentleman's bottle in the morning when she made his bed, but was not above reselling it to him in the evening. Johnny came back, a brandy bottle in his hand.

'Now this,' he promised, 'will pick up that flat ale something fine.' He poured in so generous an amount that Dove's white lashes quivered with anticipation.

'You certainly are a good guy. My, that's great. That's the stuff. Well, as I was saying. Here it is March. That's spring. Armies don't stay cooped up in springtime. They march out and fight'—he hiccoughed for the first time—' fight battles. And the battle we are going to fight—fight this springtime—me and the rest of the boys! Well, I warn you. If I was you I'd not wait. I'd start running and not stop until I came to the Berkshires.'

'I don't believe they'll move the army all the way out to the Berkshires.'

'Who said anything about the army going to the Berkshires? There are no military stores there. And King's commanded old Grandma Gage to confee—confass—confiscu-late all rebel stores. His Majesty is real mad. Got his royal dander up. He thinks Gage is scared 'cause he don't take action against the rebellion.'

'Gage already has tried three times to seize our supplies. Charlestown, Salem, and Portsmouth. Once he did, and twice we were too quick for him. He doesn't know where our things are hidden.'

'Don't he? Don't he?'

Johnny filled his tankard again with the horrifying concoction.

Dove belched with satisfaction.

'They've got maps. Maps in map cases. They've got Worcester and Concord marked in red. They know where to go all right. Don't you wish you knew just how many active troops there are in Boston now?'

'How many?'

Dove's figure was wildly inaccurate. It looked as though they had wasted their ale and Lydia's brandy.

Dove was getting maudlin. There were tears in his eyes as he told them how much he loved them. 'Best friends 'ever had,' he mumbled. 'Best boy-zz in world,' and he suddenly struck out at the British. 'They're mean guys,' he cried angrily. 'I'm goin' to the Berkshires with you two. I'm not a-goin' to stay here in Boston nursemaiding them there horses. Dig a hole. Get in hole. Pull hole in after me. Keep safe till war's over. Boy-zz, boy-zz,' he cried in alcoholic despair, 'you come with me. I can't stand for you ter hang ... I can't!' And he burst into tears.

'Pull yourself together,' Rab ordered sternly. He was less easy-going about some things than Johnny.

'Sure I'll pull—I'll pull right outer here.' He got unsteadily to his feet. 'I'm goin' tell that Stranger I quit. Goin' to throw a currycomb in Colonel Swishe's fash ... I'm goin' to...'

'Oh, hold on there. No you're not, Dove,' said Rab, blocking the door. 'You're going to sit down, see? And cool off.'

It would never do to let Dove return to the inn in such a state. He'd get fired. The boys had overcooked their own goose.

It took them half an hour to quiet Dove. Over and over they explained to him what a fine job he had and what a glory it was to be part of the British army. Finally Dove began to subside. He was getting sleepy.

'Well, it don't make any difference. I'll get fired anyhow. Stranger told me get the Colonel's horses all shined up good. Told me get Nan around saddled by four somshing, maybe by four-thirty.' He leaned back and slept.

'Looks like I'll have to do his work for him,' muttered Johnny. 'We can't let him get fired. It's four now. Oh, that swill-pig, that louse...'

He ran for the stable. Before this he had often helped Dove with his work.

The Colonel had two horses: the heavy yellow charger called Sandy he had brought with him from England and the light pacing mare Lieutenant Stranger had picked out for him after he had decided Goblin wouldn't suit. Nan, this second horse, had easier gaits than the old war-horse. The Colonel much preferred her for hacking about Boston, but she was not yet well trained for drums and volleys. The Colonel, a poor horseman, never risked his dignity on her when he went out with his troops. Then he rode Sandy.

Nan was beautiful and affectionate: Sandy, sweet-tempered, old, and wise. Johnny liked them both. As Dove slept, Johnny worked and whistled.

At four-thirty he had Nan saddled and led her to the mounting block in front of the inn. The fat colonel could not mount or dismount from the ground.

'Take her back, boy,' Lieutenant Stranger told him. 'Colonel Smith is bilious.' Then he noticed it was Johnny, not Dove, and his handsome face brightened. He asked no questions.

'Look you,' he said, 'run fetch your horse and I'll take Nan. I want to show you how to jump.'

Stranger had already told him of the hurdles at the foot of the Common. Johnny had wistfully watched red-coated officers schooling their horses over them. He had not dared try them himself. He was afraid they would order him away. But no one would order away any friend Stranger cared to bring with him.

Although the very young officer was proud and class-conscious enough when they met indoors at the Lytes' or Afric Queen, once both were in their saddles they were equals. He was an ardent teacher who had at last met a pupil worth bothering with. Or rather two pupils, for at the end of the first lesson he said Goblin was the finest natural jumper he had ever seen. Johnny knew he longed to own him himself. He could, any moment, by merely saying 'commandeer.' And Johnny knew he never would say it.

From that day he and Johnny spent hours together jumping or exercising horses. Johnny almost worshiped him for his skill and almost loved him, because, ever and anon, he looked so much like Rab; but still it was only where horses were concerned they were equals. Indoors he was rigidly a British officer and a 'gentleman' and Johnny an inferior. This shifting about puzzled Johnny. It did not seem to puzzle the British officer at all.

Now Johnny did not ride all over the countryside on Fridays and Saturdays, to get back late and tired, taking the last ferry from Charlestown home to Boston Saturday night. First, there was no ferry, and, second, the guards at the town gate were too curious. They would demand to see what was in his dispatch bag and after looking at the papers dump them in the mud. They would pretend it was an accident, but it was not. Uncle Lorne arranged with one of the Silsbees of Lexington to smuggle out the papers in his farm wagon when he came in every week to market.