Johnny Tremain (35 page)

'Johnny, that hand is not as bad as you think. Burned, wasn't it?'

'Yes.'

'As you stood there holding that gun, it was the first time I've had a good look at it. Was it kept flat while healing?'

'No.'

'I suppose your master called in some old herb woman to care for it?'

'A midwife. Yes.'

'Bah ... these midwives! Any doctor in Boston would have known ... You see, the thumb is pulled about like that, not because of any basic injury, but by scar tissues.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean that if you have the courage I can cut through the scar—free the thumb.'

'My hand good and free once more?'

'I can't promise too much. I don't know whether you can ever go back to your silver work. But not even Paul Revere is going to make much silver for a while.'

'Will it be good enough to hold this gun?'

'I think I can promise you that.'

'The silver can wait. When can you, Doctor Warren? I've got the courage.'

'I'll get some of those men in the taproom to hold your arm still while I operate.'

'No need. I can hold it still myself.'

The Doctor looked at him with compassionate eyes.

'Yes, I believe you can. You go walk about in the fresh air, while I get my instruments ready.'

Johnny stood upon the Green and looked about him. He heard a woman calling, 'Chick, chick, chick.' From a near-by cow shed he heard milk spurting into a pail. A tap of metal on metal: his trained ear told him a gunsmith was at work.

He could smell turned earth and gummy buds. And sweet wood somewhere burning. His nostrils trembled. Almost could they recapture the gunpowder of yesterday. So fair a day now drawing to its close. Green with spring, dreaming of the future yet wet with blood.

This was his land and these his people.

The cow that lowed, the man who milked, the chickens that came running and the woman who called them, the fragrance streaming from the plowed land and the plowman. These he possessed. The skillful hands of the unseen gunsmith were his hands. The old woman throwing stones at crows who cawed and derided her was his old woman—and they his crows. The wood smoke rising from the home-hearths rose from his heart.

He felt nothing could hurt him on this day. Not Rab's death nor the surgeon's knife. He felt free, light, unreal, and utterly alone ... Tomorrow—next day—it would be different, but today is today.

Then far away, but coming nearer and nearer down along Menotomy road, he heard the throb of a drum. Men coming back from Charlestown. He stood, turned his head to listen. The shuffle of feet. A fife began to toot. It was ill-played. Maybe a foolish tune, but Johnny warmed to hear it. For once—once more—Yankee Doodle was going to town.

Everywhere else in the village was silence. The music, small as the chirping of a cricket, filled that silence. Down the road came twenty or thirty tired and ragged men. Some were bloodstained. No uniforms. A curious arsenal of weapons. The long horizontal light of the sinking sun struck into their faces and made them seem much alike. Thin-faced in the manner of Yankee men. High cheek-boned. Unalterably determined. The tired men marched unevenly, but Johnny noticed the swing of the lithe, independent bodies. The set of chin and shoulders. Rab had been like that.

Please God, out of this New England soil such men would forever rise up ready to fight when need came. The one generation after the other.

Close on the heels of the marching men was an old chaise containing their commanding officer. For if you couldn't get to the fight on foot, you went on horseback—and if not on horseback, you went in a chaise.

It was Grandsire Silsbee, with his old gun across his knees.

Johnny started to run to him, to shout, 'Grandsire, Grandsire, you haven't heard yet ... Rab is dead.'

But he knew the old Major wouldn't stop. He had to get his men on to Cambridge and the siege of Boston.

True, Rab had died. Hundreds would die, but not the thing they died for.

'A man can stand up...'

 

THE END

A boxed set containing Newbery Award-winning fiction from Sandpiper

 

TITLES INCLUDE

Number the Stars
by Lois Lowry
The Witch of Blackbird Pond
by Elizabeth George Speare
Island of the Blue Dolphins
by Scott O'Dell
A Single Shard
by Linda Sue Park