Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1 Page 16

  Tuesday was ironing day for all goodwives. Inside homes, women dipped hands into open pans of cold water and sprinkled yesterday’s wash stacked high on dining tables. Then they rolled it tightly and packed it in woven baskets to mellow while they built fires in their stoves and set four flatirons on top to be rotated when the ironing began. Smoke from chimneys all over Boston rose to be caught away by the wind. A thin mist of rain settled in to turn faces clammy and make the cobblestones slick.

  No one paid much attention to Tom Sievers. Not crazy Tom, who smelled foul in his ragged clothes, and carried an ancient knife and tomahawk beneath his threadbare coat, and mumbled through an eight-day beard stubble to a figment named Elizabeth. He was a curiosity that wandered the streets of Boston, to be ignored when possible, greeted when necessary, and allowed to go and come as he would. To see him standing hunch-shouldered across the street from the British military compound in the early hours of a Tuesday morning brought little more than a glance and a head shake from Bostonians and British soldiers alike.

  An hour later, no one noticed or cared when he stopped moving and his head jerked forward slightly as his eyes tracked a rather small man dressed in civilian clothes. The man crossed the street half a block away and walked quickly to a sentry post, past the sentries, who did not challenge him, through the gate, and into the compound. He worked his way through the press of soldiers going to or coming from their duty, turned on the brick path to the command building, spoke to the guards at the big shiny doors with the black-lettered sign above, “COMMAND HEADQUARTERS. GEN. THOS. GAGE. MASSACHUSETTS PROVINCIAL GOVERNOR,” and they let him pass unrestricted.

  Tom wiped his sleeve across his mouth and ambled across the street, slowing to let a mounted rider leading a sorrel mare pass on his way to the farrier. On the British side of the street, he walked towards the sentries at the nearest gate, and they watched his approach with expressions that were a mix of tolerance and disgust. He stopped at the gate, peering inside at the big double doors of Gage’s headquarters building.

  One of the sentries looked at him. “’Ere, you can’t stand there gawkin’ through the gate like ’at. Keep movin’ on up the street, g’vnor.”

  Tom said nothing and did not move.

  “Move along, I say,” the sentry repeated, his voice stiffening. “Move or I’ll have to stick you with this ’ere bayonet!” He shook his musket.

  Tom’s hand slipped under his coat.

  The sentry grinned and spoke to his companion at the other side of the gate. “D’you see? I believe the old coot would make a fight of it, I do. ’E’s reachin’ fer that knife, or maybe the tomahawk ’e carries under that bloody coat.”

  His companion remained at attention, rifle slung. “Don’t be provokin’ trouble without reason. We got enough as it is. ’E’s harmless. Leave ’im be.”

  Still grinning, the sentry swung his rifle strap back over his shoulder and resumed his disciplined stance at attention. “Just ’avin’ a bit o’ fun to break the blinkin’ boredom.”

  Tom’s arm dropped from inside his coat and he remained as he was, on the sidewalk, watching the doors into Gage’s building.

  Inside, General Gage sat at his desk in his high-ceilinged office, hunched forward on his forearms, intense in his third reading of the five-page report of Colonel Norse. He started at the unexpected knock on his door, raised his head and sighed, and called, “Enter.”

  His orderly stood at rigid attention. “Sir. You ’ave a visitor.”

  Gage’s eyebrows arched, and he slowly straightened in his great leather-covered chair. There was but one man allowed to see General Gage at any time without giving his name. “Show him in.”

  “Yes, suh!” The orderly did an about-face with heels clicking and said, “You may see the general!”

  Amos Ingersol quickly entered the door and walked to the chair facing Gage’s desk. The tap of his heels on the hard floor echoed slightly in the cavernous room while the door closed behind him. Small, hawk-faced, with beady, nervous eyes and nervous movements, Ingersol removed his hat and stopped opposite Gage.

  “Be seated,” Gage said. “Were you followed?”

  “I think not. I took detours.”

  “What brings you here?” Gage’s face was clouded.

  “Information about the affair at the South Church last night.”

  “Yes. I have the report. Is there something else?”

  “Yes.” The man leaned forward, eyes bright with the glow of self-importance. “The seven muskets were there, all made by John Dunson of the Committee of Safety.”

  Gage pursed his mouth. “I know who John Dunson is. Why didn’t Colonel Norse find them?”

  “They were hidden.” The man waited, savoring his power to force the general, governor of the colony of Massachusetts, to take the inferior position of asking questions.

  Gage controlled his resentment. “Where?”

  “In the well.”

  “Sunk?”

  “Not sunk.”

  “Then how?”

  “Wrapped in oilskins and lowered on a rope.”

  Gage leaned slightly forward. “Colonel Norse reports his soldiers looked in the well.”

  “They were gone before your soldiers arrived.”

  “How did they know we were coming?”

  “They didn’t. The reverend was fearful because of other searches. He got them out as soon it was dark enough.”

  “To whom?”

  “Benjamin Telford.”

  “Isn’t he a captain in the provincial militia?”

  “That he is.”

  Gage waited, but could not control his impatience. “Go on, go on.”

  “The colonials are planning to petition for redress for the search of the church, and if their terms are not met, they plan to stop payment of all taxes until they’ve held out enough to meet their demands. And they’re going to require punishment for the soldiers who put Mr. Olmsted under armed guard while he was questioned.”

  Gage snorted and slammed his clenched fist banging on the desktop. “Stop paying taxes, will they! That will last until we seize their businesses and livestock to pay them! And as for Olmsted, he refused to answer questions, and brought it on himself. The colonel was absolutely justified in everything he did.”

  “They’ve started on their petition. The full Committee of Safety, including Adams and Hancock, will sign it and deliver it here this week. They plan to bring some of the militia with them.”

  Gage recoiled. “Armed militia coming here?”

  “I don’t know if they’ll be armed.”

  Gage rose to his feet, paced to the rear bank of windows to stare out at the stone wall for a moment, then came back to his desk and remained standing. “If Adams and Hancock sign it, will they also come to deliver it?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Was there anything else of importance?”

  “Yes!” Ingersol leaned forward, buoyant with the knowledge that his next revelation to Gage would shake him. “They know you have been informed about their arms and supplies stored at Concord.”

  Stunned, Gage spun, then settled into his chair. “How do they know?”

  “I presume an informer.”

  For long moments Gage searched his memory for any conversation, any person with access to his office that could have given the information to the colonials. There was no one. “It did not come from this office,” he said emphatically. “Did anyone learn it from you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Gage pondered for a moment, then suddenly stood and leaned forward, palms flat on his desktop. “Do they plan to move the cannon and munitions away from Concord?”

  Ingersol shook his head. “I was not told.”

  Gage’s voice rang. “It is absolutely critical that I know. The entire campaign depends on those stores being at Concord!” He sat back down and quickly scrawled the critical questions on an unsigned paper, and thrust it towards Ingersol. “Deliver that at once and re
turn with the answer in writing as soon as you can. Bring that back with you.”

  Ingersol stood, surprised. Rarely did Gage trust him with messages in his own handwriting. He folded the paper, inserted it inside the sweatband of his hat, and quickly walked out the door, while Gage slumped back into his chair and for long moments studied the closed door, unseeing. Then he grasped his quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote rapidly for several seconds before he called, “Orderly.”

  The door opened instantly. “Yes, suh!”

  “Have these officers report here in an hour.”

  “Yes, suh!”

  Outside, Ingersol trotted through the nearest gate into the street, slowed to a rapid walk, and continued west, working his way through the morning buggy and foot traffic. He did not notice the thin, shabby man at the next sentry gate turn to watch him go, and then fall in behind, moving unnoticed, turning the same corners, fading into the crowd, always behind him dogging his trail. Ingersol stepped into Welty’s tavern, and emerged five minutes later to stand beside the door while he studied the faces and the movement of the crowd, then crossed the street and hurried west two blocks, then back north. He disappeared into Reichmann’s sausage shop, then reappeared back into the sunshine with a small wrapped package in his hand, and again stood near the door while he turned his head slowly, missing nothing before he resumed his rapid pace.

  Ten minutes later he passed the South Church, continued down two blocks, and walked through the open doorway into Ferguson’s bakery. Tom stopped and leaned casually against an oak tree, nearly hidden while he watched and waited.

  Three minutes later Enid Ferguson walked into the street, turned, and hurried south with half a dozen loaves of hot bread covered in her basket. Ingersol was not to be seen. Tom studied Enid as she hurried south, face downcast, working her way through the street traffic. Suddenly he straightened and his eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed. He looked back at the bakery and waited to see if Ingersol would reappear, and when he did not, Tom turned on his heel and started after Enid at a trot. He saw her pass the Dunson home, watching the sidewalk as she hurried, and he held his distance while she continued.

  To the northeast, at the British military compound, Gage flinched at the sudden rap at his door, settled, and called, “Enter.”

  “Suh! The officers have arrived as requested.”

  Gage took a deep breath and released it. “Show them in.” He stood as they filed in, splendid in their red tunics and crossed white belts and white trousers, hats clamped under left arms, gold epaulets of rank glistening on their shoulders. Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith. Major John Pitcairn. Brigadier Hugh Percy. Lieutenant Frederick Mackenzie.

  They saluted, Gage returned the salute, and they stood at rigid attention, staring past him at the back wall.

  “Be seated, gentlemen.” He pursed his mouth for a moment while they drew up chairs and sat, spines rigid, shoulders square. He stared into their eyes for a moment before he spoke.

  “You’re aware of the preparations made the night of April fifteenth for a sudden movement of our troops to accomplish an undisclosed mission. It appears it may be imminent, and you will be involved.”

  He paused, and in the hush each officer shifted on his chair, startled by the abrupt announcement and the sobering realization they would be among the officers charged with command. They instantly recovered their composure and remained silent, waiting.

  “I would appreciate your frank response to two vital questions.”

  Again they shifted and waited, wide-eyed and silent.

  “How many of their militia and minutemen do you expect they could muster on, say, twelve hours’ notice?”

  Smith glanced at Pitcairn as they both made instant speculations on the reason for the question.

  “Where? between here and Concord?” Smith asked, probing.

  “Yes.”

  Smith’s breath came short. Concord! He’s finally going after their arms, and maybe Adams and Hancock too! Finally! He took a deep breath and continued. “Armed militia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps four or five thousand.”

  Pitcairn pursed his mouth for a moment and nodded concurrence.

  Mackenzie shook his head. “Closer to eight thousand. Maybe ten.”

  “So many?” Gage asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Yes. In the streets right now are minutemen from Mystic, Cambridge, Menotomy, Charlestown, Lexington, Meriam’s Corner, Concord, waiting for word our troops are marching. They can gather close to ten thousand armed militia within hours of the time our troop formations leave the compound.”

  “Only if they know about it,” Gage interjected and raised a pointed finger, “and that is the key. They must not know.” He paused, and his eyes swept those of the officers, driving the message home. Then he continued. “The second question. Should shooting start, what quality of fighting force do you expect from the colonials?”

  Smith shrugged. “Moderate, maybe even weak. Their leaders have fought Indians but never a disciplined army. Most of the militiamen have never been in battle, and they have seldom trained or drilled. I expect them to be a ragged lot that will present little trouble to a trained army.”

  Percy leaned slightly forward. “Begging the colonel’s pardon, I disagree. True, their leaders have little experience and the men have never faced an army in battle, but they are a sly bunch, and mean. They’ll fight us like they fought Indians—from hiding. And do not underestimate them. I have personally observed squirrels decapitated at seventy yards, and a running deer dropped at two hundred by a colonial musket.”

  Gage stared hard at his hands, fingers interlaced on his desktop for a moment. “Major Pitcairn? Do you have an opinion?”

  Pitcairn shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps six thousand mili-tiamen. If we move quickly and with authority, we will be in and out before they can mount any meaningful resistance.”

  “Very good, gentlemen. This conference is to be kept in absolute confidence. Do not leave your quarters until you hear further from me. You are dismissed.”

  Passing through the outer door into the light of a sun breaking through thinning clouds, Smith walked shoulder to shoulder with Pitcairn. “If Concord is involved, something’s happened.”

  Pitcairn nodded his head. “Maybe Norse was too harsh at the church.”

  “Whatever it was has started things moving, fast.”

  They walked on to the officers’ quarters in silence, laboring with the quiet, overpowering conviction that all the prologue and politics were past. They were hurtling towards a shooting war with an enemy, the strength and number of which they could only guess.

  At that moment, halfway across the bustling city of Boston, Tom Sievers’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement as he watched Enid Ferguson, half a block ahead and on the far side of the street, waiting on the doorstep of the home of Doctor Henry Thorpe. Five minutes earlier she had walked through the gate and up to the front door of the large, two-storied, whitewashed brick home, and her knock had been greeted by one of the children, who turned back into the house. Ten seconds later Henry Thorpe had appeared in the doorway, accepted her bread, and turned back into the house, leaving the door open while Enid waited. For five full minutes she stood on the doorstep, silent and nervous, before Henry Thorpe again appeared in the doorway and handed her what appeared to be money. She counted it, tucked it into the purse in the bread basket, curtsied slightly and thanked him, and walked hurriedly back out the gate and turned north, back towards the bakery, her ankle-length skirt moving with her long stride. The rain stopped and the clouds broke and disappeared, and the warm sun raised wisps of steam in the streets.

  From across the street Tom followed her, hanging back, watching intently. She looked neither right nor left until she reached the bakery door, where she stopped and turned, and for long moments her eyes darted up and down the street before she disappeared through the door frame.

  Across the street, Tom leaned aimlessly against a
tree and mumbled to the passersby, who eyed him as they walked on without comment. The sun settled towards the line where earth meets sky west of the city, and still Tom waited, watching everyone who entered the bakery and came out. Ingersol did not appear. Lamps began to glow behind shaded windows, and then the last of the customers left the bakery and Enid Ferguson closed and locked the door and turned the sign.

  For a time Tom stared unseeing at the cobblestone street in the lengthening evening shadows, face clouded while he struggled for a conclusion that would not come. Then he shook his head and started north and east at a trot, towards the high-walled military compound. Dusk had settled before he crossed the street and stopped, peering through the black iron bars of the great gate while two sentries studied him.

  “Crazy Tom,” one said. “’E’s ’armless.” They ignored him.

  Purple shadows of night crept and shaded windows in the officers’ quarters began to glow as lamps were lighted inside. Street traffic thinned.

  A barked command from Tom’s right brought his head around, eyes squinting to see in the darkness.

  “’Alt and identify yerself!”

  Forty yards farther down the high, thick wall, at the next gate, Tom made out the forms of two sentries facing a small man who was not in uniform. Tom jerked erect and he caught his breath. I got ahead of him! I didn’t wait long enough at the bakery, and I got ahead of him!

  Tom watched as the small man showed something to the sentries and they turned the large brass key in the lock and gave him entrance. Ten seconds later, through the gate bars, Tom picked up the small form trotting across the compound and watched as he stopped at the door to the headquarters building and banged with his clenched fist. The door opened and the irregular rectangle of yellow lamplight flooded outward, and Tom saw the face clearly as the small man darted inside.