Johnny Tremain (9 page)

Johnny found one does not step into a great merchant's counting house and see the merchant as easily as one steps into a shop and sees the master artisan. Although he had made up his mind that he would begin his conversation with Mr. Hancock by explaining he had a burned hand, he did not see any reason why he should explain to the clerk who stopped him in the outer office. All he said was that he wanted work.

The clerk asked him if he could read and write.

He said he could.

The thin, weak-eyed gentleman gave him a mortgage and told him to read that. This he read well.

Then Mr. Hancock, who had been sitting alone over his little hearth fire in the back office, came out. He had been attracted by the quality of the boy's voice, for, although Johnny often spoke in the rougher, slurring manner of Hancock's Wharf, in reading he reverted to the cleaner speech his mother had taught him.

Mr. Hancock did not recognize him as the apprentice of Mr. Lapham who had rashly promised a sugar basin in time for his Aunt Lydia's birthday. And then the old man had been forced at the last to admit he could not do it.

'Add this, my lad,' he said, handing Johnny an invoice he held in his hand.

Johnny added easily. He was given a few more simple sums which he did in his head.

The clerk and merchant exchanged glances.

Mr. Hancock said: 'If your handwriting is as good as your reading and ciphering, I promise you a place right here in my counting house. I've been put to it to find just the right boy. Your writing...'

'I've been taught to write.' But Johnny was suddenly frightened.

The clerk put a piece of paper before him and inked a pen.

'Write John Hancock, Esquire.'

Johnny stubbornly stared at the paper. At last he had found a place where he wanted to be. And he knew that ever and again boys who started working for great merchants became great merchants themselves. Surely, surely, if only he tried hard enough he could do it. He could write for the length of just 'John Hancock, Esquire.' His hand shot out of his pocket, grasped the pen. The letters were as clumsy as though written with a left hand.

The clerk laughed. 'Mr. Hancock, I've never seen worse writing.'

The merchant said, 'My boy, you must have been rattled. Surely you can do better than that.'

Johnny stared at his miserable scratches. 'God help me,' he whispered. 'It is the best I can do.'

'Why, the lad has a crippled hand—look, Mr. Hancock.'

Mr. Hancock quickly averted his fine eyes.

'Run away, boy, run away. You knew you could not do the work and yet you came and took up my valuable time and...'

'But I thought maybe you could ship me as a cabin boy.'

'And carry the captain's grog? And be brisk and useful to him? No, no, my captains want whole boys. So now—go away ... please.'

Johnny wandered off. 'I burned my hand making you a silver basin ... Now, it is "go away, please." '

He flung himself down in the shadow of a sail loft, for the late September day was warm as summer. He could hear the tap of shipwright's hammers, the creak of wooden wheels, a boatswain's whistle. Everywhere boys and men were at work. Only he was idle.

He saw picking his way delicately around barrels of molasses, bales, ox teams, a familiar, fantastic figure. It was Mr. Hancock's little black slave, Jehu. He was looking from side to side. When he saw Johnny, he went to him and said like a parrot, 'My master, Mr. John Hancock, Esquire, has commanded me to give this purse to the poor work-boy in the broken shoes who just left his counting house, and to tell him that he wishes him well.'

Johnny took the purse. It was heavy. That much copper would provide him with food for days. He opened it. It was not copper, but silver. John Hancock had not been able to look at the crippled hand—nor could he help but make this handsome present.

The thought of Lavinia Lyte gorging herself to death (if it pleased her) on fine foods had started the gastric juices in his stomach an hour ago. He had had no breakfast and for supper the night before only one salt alewife and a mug of milk. It was noontime and he craved food—not the mere coarse bread, cheese, ale, and apples which had always made up the large part of his diet, but rare and interesting things such as he had smelled cooking in rich people's houses and the best taverns, but had never tasted.

First he tormented his hunger by going from one tavern kitchen to the next to see which smelled the best. At the Bunch of Grapes a maid was basting a roast of beef. A spicy pudding was bubbling on the hearth. At the King's Coffee House a suckling pig was so crisp and brown it was fairly bursting. He almost drooled at this pig, but walked on. And everywhere he smelled chocolate and coffee. He had never in his life tasted either. He stopped in the kitchen of the Afric Queen. What he saw there made him feel he had swallowed a small live kitten, but he could almost enjoy these pangs, for in his pocket was Mr. Hancock's silver. Any minute he could assuage that kitten. And so to the Cromwell Head and back again to Union Street. His mind was made up. He would dine at the Afric Queen. For here he had seen maids roasting innumerable small squabs, each stuffed with fragrant dressing and wrapped in bacon. And he had seen pastries—apple, mince, pumpkin, plum tarts—coming out of the brick oven. The crust on them was an inch thick and so short and flaky it looked like scorched tissue paper.

'Well, kitten,' he said contentedly to his stomach as he took his seat humbly in the kitchen where grooms and such were fed while their betters ate in the dining rooms, 'you're going to have more than a saucer of milk today. How'd you like, say, five of those little squabs?'

But when he began to give his order to the serving maid, she giggled and ran off for the landlady.

'Now, boy,' this lady said to him firmly, 'you just show me the color of your money.'

Satisfied, she grunted, and told the maid to serve 'the little master.' This young girl was hardly older than Cilla. She could not help laughing at the things he ordered. The five little squabs, three of each kind of pastry, a wreath of jellied eels (because she said it was a specialty of the house), a tipsy parson—white bread tied into little knots, buttered and baked. And a pot of coffee and another of chocolate. When Johnny saw a dish being prepared in the kitchen for some diner in the other room, he would call for 'some of that,' and she giggled again and fetched it for him.

There was only one disappointment. The smell of coffee had always attracted him. He was disappointed at the bitter taste. The chocolate, however, was even better than he had dared to hope.

But when he came to pay, he was chagrined to find so much of his money had gone to fill and overfill his stomach. The kitten was no longer gnawing inside him, trying to get out. In fact, it was no longer a kitten. 'I feel as if I had swallowed a Newfoundland dog and it had died on me.'

What a fool he had been! He thought suddenly of Rab: that Rab wouldn't have let himself go so; and for the first time, standing in the cobbled stable yard behind the inn, he realized that the back of the little building he saw beyond the Afric Queen stables was the printing shop of the
Boston Observer
on Salt Lane. He wanted to cross through the back yards—go to see that Rab—but thought better of it. Not until he came as a friend and equal—not as a beggar. No.

He decided he would buy himself some shoes. His own flapped as he walked. His toes showed, but he hadn't liked it when Jehu had referred to him as 'a boy with broken shoes.'

As he left the cobbler's, his new shoes squeaking on his feet, he saw a peddler pushing a barrow of limes up Cornhill.

'Fine lemons and limes—lemons and limes.'

There was nothing in the world Isannah so craved as limes and Mrs. Lapham could not buy them for her. They were too dear. But sometimes sailors from the Indies or storekeepers would give her one—because she was so beautiful and would hug and kiss anyone who gave her a lime.

Johnny filled the pockets of his jacket and breeches with limes.

Now for Cilla. He could not buy her a gray pony, a gold necklace, nor a little sailboat. He went to a stationer's. There he found a book with the most wonderful pictures of Calvinistic martyrs, dying horrible but prayerful deaths. He glanced at the text. With his help she would soon be able to read it. Next he bought pastel crayons, but he passionately regretted all those squabs. He had no money left to get her drawing paper.

His new shoes fitted to a nicety. If the Newfoundland dog was a heavier tenant in his stomach than the kitten, it was more restful. His pockets were full of fine gifts. He whistled as he walked, and entered the Lapham kitchen ready to tell of his adventure with Mr. Hancock.

The womenfolk had spent all day paring apples, threading them on strings preparing to dry them for the winter. Even Mrs. Lapham looked tired. The lazy apprentice bursting in, happy for the first time in two months, irritated her. Then she saw his new shoes.

'Johnny Tremain,' she cried, 'what have you been up to?'

'What?'

'You wicked, wicked boy! Oh, I declare, you are going to bring disgrace on us all.'

He did not understand.

'Them shoes!' she roared. 'You never got them honestly. You've taken to thieving. I'm going to tell your master. He'll call a constable and then see if you darest not tell where you stole them. You've just gone from worse to worse. You're going to get whipped for this—set in the stocks. You're going to jail. You'll end up on the gallows.'

He let her scold, shake her wattles at him. As she flounced out of the room, Madge and Dorcas saw their chance to escape for a moment. All afternoon Frizel, Junior, the leather-dresser, had been standing outside on the street waiting for one or the other to come out. Frizel, Junior, was an accepted suitor, but no one knew whether it was Madge or Dorcas he was after. Mrs. Lapham didn't know. The girls didn't know. Frizel, Junior, himself did not seem to know. Both Madge and Dorcas were now wild to get out and after him. It looked as though whichever one was not Mrs. Frizel would end up Mrs. Tweedie.

Johnny stood before Cilla and Isannah, who had huddled together in a corner of the settle like frightened little animals as their mother accused Johnny of theft. He smiled and they smiled. He was so happy about his gifts that he forgot his misfortunes.

Cilla said happily, 'I know you didn't steal.'

'Of course not. Look, girl ... I've got crayons for you.' He put them on the table.

'For me?'

'And a book with pictures. Now, Cil, the printing is so easy I think you can almost teach yourself to read.'

'Oh, Johnny, look,
look
at that funny little man. See, he's got tiny little buttons on his coat. Oh, I never thought to own a book with pictures.'

He began fishing limes out of his frayed pockets. Isannah jumped about him like a puppy. 'Limes, limes!' she cried. They began to fall on the floor, rolling in all directions. All three children went down after them. Cilla was almost happier over Isannah's pleasure than her own. Johnny was happiest of all. For the first time he completely forgot his crippled hand. It was all as if nothing had happened and he and Cilla and Isannah were all one again.

He was pretending not to give the limes to the little girl. He was going to put them back in his pockets. But she knew they were for her. She wrapped herself about him, hugging him, kissing the front of his shirt (this was as far as she could reach). He started to pick her up in his arms, hold her over his head until she said, 'Please pretty.'

Suddenly Isannah's delighted cries changed to hysterical screams.

'Don't touch me! Don't touch me with that dreadful hand!'

Johnny stopped. It was the worst thing anyone had said to him. He stood like stone, his hand thrust back into his pocket. Cilla froze too—half under the kitchen table, a lime in her hand.

'Oh,
Isannah!
How could you?'

The nervous child went on screaming. 'Go away, Johnny, go away! I hate your hand.' Cilla slapped her and she burst into tears.

So he went away.

Now he was sure that what they all felt Isannah had been young enough to say. He felt his heart was broken. Once again he started to walk until he was so tired he could not think. The long, late-September night had already begun before he reached the town gates on the Neck. Beyond him, in the semi-darkness, running across mud flats, was the one road which connected Boston with the mainland. And here the gallows—on which Mrs. Lapham promised him to end. He turned back from the lonely place. The gallows and the graves of suicides frightened him a little. He wandered about through the salt marshes at the foot of the Common, circling until he came out on Beacon Hill. There he sat in an orchard for quite a while. It was either Mr. Lyte's or Mr. Hancock's, for the houses stood side by side. He saw the glitter of candles throughout the great mansions, guests coming and going, heard the music of a spinet. Isannah's words rang in his ears. He who had struggled hard never to cry now wished that he could. Then he walked off into sparsely settled West Boston. Behind the pesthouse by lantern light men were digging a hurried grave. He left West Boston and, skirting dirty Mill Cove, came at last into his own North Boston. On Hull Street he heard the staves of the town watch and the feet of the watchmen clumping on cobbles. By law no apprentice was allowed out so late. He slipped into Copp's Hill graveyard to hide until they were gone.

'One o'clock and a warm fair night,' called the watch.

It was indeed warm and fair and no hardship to spend such a night out under the moon and stars. Around about him everywhere lay the dead worthies of Boston. Their slate stones stood shoulder to shoulder. This was the highest land in Boston, next only to Beacon Hill.

Here, close to Hull Street, his mother was buried in an unmarked grave. He had not forgotten where and flung himself down beside the spot. Then he began to cry. He had not been able to cry before. It was as if Isannah's words had broken down the last strength in him. He cried half for himself and half because he knew how sorry his mother would be for him if she knew. I can't do decent work. I can't ever be a silversmith—not even a watchmaker. My friends don't want me to touch them with my dreadful hand.