Sunday, January 1, 1775

When Uncle William proclaimed that the New Year had begun, Faith announced that I had gotten taller, even as my voice had become lower. “Are you going to change every year?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” I said, but I liked the idea of being bigger.

As it happened, the winter began mild, which meant the Charles River never froze. But shops and businesses were closing. Food was harder to get and more expensive. If you wanted to get out of Boston, and more people did, the army required you to go by way of the Neck. So many people were leaving that General Gage issued an order: you needed a pass to get out. At the Green Dragon, it was said that Gage did this because he wanted Boston rebels to be held hostage. If all the Whigs left Boston, he feared that the rebels would attack.

Curious as well as anxious, I went and watched the goings. As people left, soldiers checked passes. Wagons, carts, and saddlebags were stuffed with possessions—furniture, clothing, and pots. Everything was inspected. No guns or munitions were allowed out.

I also watched as a stream of Loyalists continued to come into town, and I tried to listen as they gave reasons for their arrival. Many said they were officials appointed by General Gage, such as magistrates and judges, and had been threatened by radicals. Others had tales like ours: they were victims of rebel violence. Some said they feared such attacks or the approaching war.

I watched to see if any Tullbury people arrived. I saw none. I confess I was disappointed.

The passing of people was mostly like a great shuffling of cards: this Loyalist card into Boston, this rebel card beyond.

When would the game be played?

Monday, January 9, 1775

There was an unusual gathering at the Green Dragon. Some twenty or so men joined in, but instead of meeting on the first floor as usual, they went up to the second and sat about a long table, Mr. Revere presiding.

Jolla and I served food and drink. That meant we were going up and down the steps and heard only bits and pieces of the talk.

Realizing it was a secret meeting, but wanting to know more, we agreed to alternate our serving so we might best learn what was said. When the people left, Jolla and I tried to put together the pieces of what we’d heard.

We determined that these men had formed themselves into a special committee charged with keeping a closer watch on British army movements. They were sure something important was going to happen soon, and their surveillance was to be achieved by going out on two-man patrols day and night, no matter the weather. Then they would share what they had observed, reporting to Doctor Warren, Doctor Church, or Mr. Hancock.

“They must think,” I told Jolla, “that the army is planning on something big.”

“They’re watching so they can stop it.” Then he added, “If they can.”

Tuesday, January 10, 1775

As I walked to work in the morning, I saw a tar and feathering in the middle of Boston. It happened near what was called the Old South Meeting House on Milk Street.

Someone—a man told me it was a rebel named Tom Ditson—had tried to buy a gun from a British soldier. He was caught by redcoats, and as I watched (part of a large crowd of onlookers), he was tarred and feathered, abused for being a rebel.

This tar and feathering was done by English soldiers, not radicals. It gave me a thought I’d never had before: The more people believe a thing, the crueler they are defending it.

Wednesday, January 18, 1775

The queen’s birthday. The fleet batteries fired a royal salute. I saw no one else celebrate. It meant nothing to me.

In the past, Father had brought such occasions as royal birthdays to our attention. He had always called himself an Englishman, never an American.

Which am I? I still had no ready answer.

When I arrived that morning at the Green Dragon, I saw right away that Jolla was troubled. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

We went out back. “The place I’ve been living in is an old house on Gravel Street,” he said. I had asked where he lived before, but he had always avoided giving specifics.

“There’s a basement where I’ve had room to sleep for a couple of years. The owners have fled town. Now the empty house has been taken over by British officers. They’ve told me to get out. Said, ‘We don’t want Blacks in our house.’”

“What are you going to do?”

“No choice. I have to move.”

“Where?”

“Think I could stay at your place? Just a corner for sleep. I have a straw mattress.”

“I’ll ask my Uncle William,” I said.

“Could you do it fast? I have to get out by tomorrow.”

That night when I walked in, Mother and Uncle William were sitting up by candlelight before a low fire, she on a high-backed settle working on her embroidery, he in a chair reading the Post-Boy newspaper.

We exchanged a few words about the day, after which I said, “I have a good friend at the Green Dragon. We work together. He’s a bit older than me and lives alone. But he’s been pushed out of his place because British officers have taken over the house. Can he move in here?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Please, sir, he has no place to go.”

“Where are his parents?” Mother asked.

“He has none.”

Uncle William said, “What’s his name?”

“Jolla, sir. Jolla Freeman.”

“An African?”

“Born in Boston.”

“A slave?” asked Mother.

“He’s free.”

Uncle William was rolling his hands, pulling at his fingers.

“How good a friend is he?” was Mother’s question.

“The best I have in Boston. I trust him,” I found myself saying. And I knew it was true.

“You are a loyal one,” said Uncle William.

No one spoke further until Uncle William said, “If he’s working at the Green Dragon, I suppose he can pay some rent.”

“I think so,” I returned, though I wasn’t sure. I added, “He and I can share my space.”

The two adults looked at each other across the room. Uncle William went through his alphabet of gestures.

“It’s fine with me,” said Mother.

“And me,” agreed Uncle William. “But,” he added, “he needs to pay rent. And he must sleep in the basement.”

“Why?”

“Because” was all Uncle William said, though he might as well have said, “Black.”

Thursday, January 19, 1775

The next morning when I entered the Green Dragon, I saw Jolla’s eyes—full of a question—turn to me.

I threw out a smile and called, “All fine.”

He returned my grin.

“But the basement,” I added.

He shrugged. “That’s where I am now.”

After work, we went to Jolla’s living place on Gravel Street, close to the Mill Pond. It was, in fact, a large, elegant brick house, with a fine entrance. We went around to the back and got in by way of a cellar door and stone steps that led down.

The air was cold, and by the light of a small candle Jolla had brought, I saw that the dirt floor was damp, the ceiling low. There were no windows. It smelled of mold. In one corner, Jolla had tried to make a decent place. A straw sack mattress was on the ground. Two folded blankets. There was a small wooden box in which the things he owned were stowed.

I looked around. “Where did you eat?” I asked.

“At the tavern. This is my sleeping spot.”

“How did you find it?”

“A friend of mine was enslaved to the people who owned the house. He arranged for me to live here. I paid a small amount.”

“Where is your friend now?”

“I don’t know. When the householders left, they took him with them.”

“No idea where?”

“None. Then the officers moved in.”

We carried his box and mattress to the Hog Alley house, where I introduced Jolla to the family. They were welcoming enough, though Faith somewhat standoffish.

The entryway to our basement was at the back of the house. I had never gone down there before. It was fusty-smelling, the floor hard-packed earth. Ceiling beams were so low that Jolla had to bend when he was standing.

He looked around, said nothing, and set his box of things down on the ground. I laid out the mattress. “Like my other place,” he said.

“It is,” I said, feeling embarrassed. Then I said, “I’ll be back.”

I returned to my own space and gathered my things, including my straw mattress. I brought it all to the basement.

“What are you doing?” asked Jolla.

“Moving in. That all right with you?”

He offered up a smile.

From that time on, Jolla lived in our house.

Wanting to be sure Uncle William didn’t change his mind, I took the tip monies I earned at the Dragon and added them to what Jolla paid for rent.

“Good money makes a good contract,” said Uncle William as he pocketed the extra coins.

His words bound me that much tighter to the tavern and what I was paid by Captain Brown to do there.

Friday, January 20, 1775

The Green Dragon was abuzz with news that the rebels had hauled away some hundred barrels of army gunpowder. No one was sure how they got it.

“Doesn’t matter how,” said Jolla. “What matters is when they use it.”

Monday, January 23, 1775

There were more and more fistfights and multi-person brawls on the streets. The English soldiers—their numbers increasing—seemed to always find their way into these clashes. From what I could see, they often began them. General Gage tried to dampen the outbursts by warning his soldiers he would punish them if they engaged in public disputes. I doubted he would succeed. So did Jolla.

It was the same at the Green Dragon. Arguments among patrons had never been louder, angrier. People were tense, waiting for something to explode. I was weary of adults arguing, throwing constant insults back and forth. Each side accused the other of being traitors to an Englishman’s rights and liberties. Both accused the other side of tyranny. Their words were so similar, if I hadn’t known the people speaking, it would have been hard to say who was Whig, who was Tory.

As far as I was concerned, both were right and wrong. It made my head hurt.

Tuesday, January 24, 1775

Jolla said, “Here’s news that might please you.”

“What?”

“The township of Marshfield—”

“Where’s that?”

“Maybe twenty miles south of Boston. I guess there are lots of Loyalists there. Must be the only place in Massachusetts. They asked General Gage to defend them. He’s sent troops. Maybe you should go,” he said with a grin.

Irritated, I said, “I’d rather stay here.”

“And do what? What do you want?” He was pushing me again, almost taunting me to make up my mind and declare myself.

Instead, I answered, “To find out what I am.”

Friday, January 27, 1775

Smallpox was discovered at the house of someone named John Bartlet. A tailor on Cold Lane. The illness brought on high fevers, red rashes, vomiting, and great fatigue. Then came eruptions—almost like pebbles on the skin—which burst and became scabbed. Those that survived the disease were permanently scarred.

I had already felt I was surrounded by enemies. Now a new and unseen one was added: the disease. Since it was easy to catch, sick soldiers were confined. Sick citizens were forced out of town. Many died. There was said to be a way to avoid it—inoculation—but many were afraid of that. You had to be cautious as to where you went, never truly knowing where contagion lurked or who carried the sickness. It increased the feeling that there were enemies both without and within the town.

Thursday, February 2, 1775

The Green Dragon was in a state of seething excitement. The official announcement had come across the sea: the London Parliament declared Massachusetts to be in a state of rebellion.

“How does that make things different than they already are?” I asked Jolla.

“Don’t know,” he replied.

When we got home, we asked Uncle William.

“I suppose it means that from now on if anyone in Massachusetts—like Mr. Hancock or Mr. Adams—goes against the king and government, they will be arrested for being traitors, taken to England, given a trial, and found guilty.”

“What’ll happen next?” I asked.

“They’ll be hanged.”

I could only imagine such a terrible event. Boston would explode. Riots. Burnings. Violent clashes with the army. We would have to leave.

And go where? We had no other home.

But for all my visions of chaos, since nothing happened, we stayed where we were.

Tuesday, February 21, 1775

At the Green Dragon, I overheard a troubling conversation wherein I learned that the Massachusetts congress, which was claiming to be the new government of the province, had decided to create an army of fifteen thousand.

I felt obliged to report to Captain Brown.

I took along that note that Captain Brown had given me when we were getting the powder in Charlestown—the pass that gave me permission to see him—and went to Province House. When I presented it, I was waved on through.

After I told the captain my news, he said, “We’ve already heard that information from other sources. It’s important, but I doubt the rebels can raise such an army.”

“But, sir, what about all the people during the Powder Alarm who—”

“Noah, I assure you, it doesn’t matter if they do raise an army. When we act, we shall brush the rebels away with ease. Still, I’m glad you came. I was going to call you in. Tomorrow I want you to join me and DeBérniere at the Neck for more marches through the country. I need to inspect the roads going west.”

“Please, sir, may I ask why?”

He smiled and said, “Armies always need to know the terrain. Be here in the morning. Dress warmly. It may be cold.”

Knowing it was more planning for war, I was reluctant to go. But again, I felt I had no choice if I wanted to collect my salary. Then I realized I’d lose my tips, the extra money I gave to Uncle William.

“Sir,” I said, “I’m happy to go, but I’ll lose some money.”

“How so?”

“Patrons leave me extras. My house depends on it.”

“How much?”

“As much as five shillings a week.”

“I’ll see that it’s paid,” said the captain.

And it was.

Wednesday, February 22, 1775

The next morning when I met Captain Brown and DeBérniere, they were dressed in plain brown clothing, wide-brimmed hats, and old boots. True spies.

We left town by way of Roxbury and continued beyond it. I walked behind the two, carrying their packs. We wandered the main roads, paths, even cow lanes. Along the way, Brown and DeBérniere were always conferring and writing things down in a little book the ensign carried.

All that week, Captain Brown, DeBérniere, and I went about, in and out of Boston, going on the main road as far west as Concord. I had hopes we would go a little farther, to Tullbury, that I might see Mercy. It didn’t happen.

I wondered if my sister ever thought of me. If she was well. For my part, I was finally able to acknowledge to myself how fond of her I was. Did she feel the same toward me? I missed her. I didn’t enjoy talking to Faith. She was too young. In any case, she preferred chattering with Uncle William. As for Mother, ever since she had said what she did about Father, we were shy with each other.

“Think for yourself,” Mother had said.

I kept trying.

Wednesday, March 1, 1775

The Boston Sons of Liberty had urged citizens not to buy British goods. Now the new Massachusetts rebel government issued an order that all engage in a boycott. My sense was that many people followed those instructions. The closing of the port had meant that British goods, from books to boots, grew scarce. The shops that featured such English products suffered much decline in sales and closed. Scarcity was everywhere. The fewer shops there were, the higher prices went up.

Saturday, March 4, 1775

The Boston Gazette reported that rebel leaders met with General Gage at Province House. The newspaper claimed that he told them that if so much as one British soldier was killed by rebel militiamen, he would have the Royal Navy bombard coastal towns and burn them down. Admiral Graves, he said, was eager to do it. I saw for myself that the Royal Navy ships were placed to do great damage.

I asked Jolla what he would do if a bombardment began.

“Hide,” he said.

“Where?”

He shrugged.

From then on, as I went about Boston, I began to view it in a new way: Where was the best place to hide? To look upon the world is one thing. To look upon the world in search of a hiding place requires different eyes.

Saturday, March 18, 1775

A rumor flew about Boston that a huge quantity of cartridges and musket balls had been stolen from the English army. No one offered facts, but most people believed it.

When I asked Jolla about it, all he did was make that gesture, a loud clapping of hands. I understood his meaning all too well. War was coming.

Monday, March 20, 1775

Captain Brown called upon me to join him and DeBérniere for yet another survey of the country west of Boston.

Before we left, Captain Brown said, “General Gage has asked me to determine all possible routes, fast routes, to Concord.”

“Fast for whom, sir?” I asked.

DeBérniere said, “Our army regulars.”

We set off through the towns of Roxbury, Brookline, Weston, Lincoln, and Lexington, DeBérniere always taking notes.

At our farthest foray, Concord, we stopped at an elegant home, which belonged to a man named Mr. Richard Bliss. He welcomed Captain Brown and provided him with all kinds of information about the rebels in town. He said that the local militia was well organized. He also told Captain Brown where cannons, gunpowder, and shot were hidden in Concord.

That made me think of Abner Hosmer, Mercy’s husband. I recalled he had been part of the Concord militia. Should I warn her—and therefore him—that Captain Brown knew about hidden military stores? What if the army seized them as they had in Charlestown? Would Abner be called up? I remembered thinking how he and I might meet in a battle. I wanted nothing to do with that now. Rather, I kept wondering if I should warn Mercy about what could happen.

Mr. Bliss gave a fine dinner to Brown and DeBérniere. Of course, I ate in the kitchen. When we returned to Boston, Mr. Bliss came with us. From his talk, it appeared he was leaving Concord forever. I heard him say, “It’s become too perilous for me.”

“He was smart to leave town,” Jolla said to me when I reported all that happened. “Sounds like there’s going to be troubles there.”

I kept thinking of how close Tullbury was to Concord. Would Mercy be safer in Boston too?

Thursday, March 23, 1775

Lord Percy—who commanded all the soldiers in Boston—took some thousand troops out of town through the Neck. I watched them march from the Commons, drums beating and fifes twittering, birdlike. There was great excitement in town. Where were they going? For what purpose?

In fact, nothing happened. At the end of the day, they marched back. People at the Green Dragon said it was merely a display of force.

Jolla and I tried to put into words our feelings about what we had seen and heard. We decided there was a great storm of war drawing closer. The sensation was akin to dark, churning clouds, sudden gusts of wind, flashes of lightning, bringing a different smell to the air.

Does war, I wondered, have a smell?

When I asked that aloud, Jolla told me about how ravens follow armies into battle.

“Why?”

“They seem to predict that there will be dead bodies. And they eat them. Starting with the eyes.”

Walking to the Dragon in the morning, I spied a raven sitting on a pole. It let out a loud caw. Was it watching me? My eyes? I tried to tell myself that seeing the raven was a coincidence. Nonetheless, it made me queasy.

Tuesday, April 4, 1775

One year after Father was killed. His death at the hands of rebels still filled me with bitter sadness.

Monday, April 10, 1775

At the Green Dragon, I heard Doctor Warren tell Mr. Revere that Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock had left town and were hiding in either Concord or Lexington.

“Wonder what made them go now,” mused Jolla when I told him.

I said, “Someone said they feared arrest.”

“You going to tell Captain Brown where they are?” Jolla asked me.

Before I could reply, he said, “If you were to tell him, and he was unaware, and those two got caught, and rebels knew it was you that informed him, how long do you think you’d live?”

“Not long.”

“Well . . . ?”

“Captain Brown told me that if those two were arrested, the whole rebellion would end.”

“You really believe that? How many people went to Cambridge because of that powder business?”

“Thousands.”

“Think all those people would stop being rebels because of those two men?”

He began to walk away from me.

“What would you do?” I called after him.

“It’s your war. Not mine.”

The whereabouts of Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock was important information. I recalled thinking Mr. Adams had been my chief enemy. But I had come to know the truth: many opposed Great Britain, and they did so for many reasons.

I was afraid not to tell Captain Brown about Hancock and Adams but equally scared to tell him. What if I informed him and his reaction led to something like what happened when I spoke about the Charlestown powder? Not wanting to cause another crisis, I decided I wouldn’t share what I knew. I further reminded myself he had said he used other spies.

You’ve stopped being loyal, I told myself.

When we got home, Mother told me with great delight that she had received a letter from Mercy. She gave it to me to read. It was a long letter, but in summary it said:

Mercy was with child. She hoped she’d have a girl. She asked Mother to come and be with her during her groaning time, when she would have her child. She was happy with Abner. He was now a minuteman, mustering with the Concord militia, which had grown much bigger. Mercy further wrote that if the family wanted to come back to Tullbury, she would welcome us in the old house, which had been a wedding gift to Abner from his father. It was fine with Abner if we returned.

Reading Mercy’s words, I could almost hear my sister’s voice, and it made me wish I could see her again. But I recalled Faith’s birth, how frightening that time was, how Mother almost died. Learning that Mercy was with child threw me into fraught worry.

“Will you go to her?” I asked Mother.

“I’ll think on it,” she said. “I confess I miss our house and the comforts of Tullbury, but my feelings about her husband are complicated.”

I said, “How do you think Lawyer Hosmer feels about Mercy?”

Mother had no answer.

That night, in the basement, Jolla asked me if I had made up my mind about talking to Captain Brown about Concord.

I told him I had decided not to but then said, “Remember I told you about my older sister?”

“The one named Mercy?”

“That’s her. She married a rebel. He’s in the militia in my old town. Close to Concord.”

“And?”

“If the troops march to Concord and try to catch Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock, the militia, with my brother-in-law, might be there to protect them. I don’t like him, but my sister is with child. I wonder if I should go to her and tell her it would be better if she could persuade him not to leave home. Or get them to come to Boston.”

“Might be good,” agreed Jolla.

I kept thinking of going but always found an excuse not to. If I went, I might lose my pay at the Green Dragon. Should I tell Mother what I was considering? Once out of the town, would I be able to get back in? Should I take the chance? What if something happened to me? What if something happened to Mercy?

While I debated these questions, I held back.

Tuesday, April 11, 1775

There was more and more talk at the tavern that a big event was about to occur. The British navy ship Somerset positioned herself to block the ferry to Charlestown. That was new. Should I warn Mother that something was about to take place? It was clear that if she was going to Mercy, she needed to go soon. Should I go with her?

Friday, April 14, 1775

A man rushed into the Green Dragon and announced that the Nautilus, a Royal Navy warship, was entering the bay. Her speed of entry suggested she bore important news. Perhaps she carried new orders from London.

I hurried over to tell Jolla.

“Go find out if she has news,” he said.

I ran out along Long Wharf in time to see the Nautilus splash down her anchor. The news of her arrival had spread so fast that I joined a large crowd that had gathered to learn what was unfolding. British officers, some of whom I recognized as part of General Gage’s staff, were in attendance—clearly the ship’s coming was significant.

As I looked on, a longboat was lowered. The six men at the oars pulled hard for the wharf. Once the boat reached it, a soldier in the uniform of lieutenant came ashore quickly. He held a large packet in his hands—the same kind that Uncle William used for carrying letters. I saw a big red seal on it.

The lieutenant was surrounded by General Gage’s officers and hurried away. I, with many others, followed. They brought the man straight to Province House and he disappeared inside. I was tempted to follow, but having left Captain Brown’s pass at home, I was unable to. Instead, I returned to the tavern to tell Jolla what I had seen.

“Some new orders or laws from London,” suggested Jolla. “It won’t be good.”

That was the general notion at the Green Dragon. It might well have been new instructions, but no one at the tavern was sure what they were.

Saturday, April 15, 1775

I heard Mr. Revere tell Doctor Warren that two companies of British soldiers were taken off regular duty. “They must be planning an action,” he said. He promised that his committee would increase its patrols. I also heard him say they needed to keep Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock safe.

Monday, April 17, 1775

In the morning, Jolla and I went down to the Commons. We saw two Royal Navy ships anchored in the Charles River with some twenty longboats clustered around them. That was unusual.

When we got to the Green Dragon, it was being claimed that British troops were about to march to Concord, sixteen miles west, to seize powder, as well as Misters Hancock and Adams. It was said like a known fact. This information, so people claimed, had been provided by a Mr. Jasper, a gunsmith, who said he heard it from a British officer (a sergeant) who had brought in his gun for repair.

Then a stableman who worked at Province House came to the tavern and announced he had heard the same thing: troops were going to Concord. Since the man had been drinking, no one knew if it was true. Still, most people believed it.

All I could think about was Mercy.

Tuesday, April 18, 1775

Throughout the day, the tavern churned with talk about what the British were doing or not doing. Most people believed they were going to march to Concord, seek out hidden guns and powder, and arrest Hancock and Adams and send them to London for trial. In short, all kinds of dire things were predicted. For my part, I kept fretting about what troops in Concord would mean. Would Abner be there? Would there be fighting? Would it reach Tullbury? Would Mercy be safe?

That night, under a thick moon, Jolla and I walked home from the Green Dragon. We passed the night watch twice, which was unusual, but knowing us, they let us be.

As we turned onto Hog Alley, looking toward the Commons, we saw many lit lamps along the far side. They appeared to be on the banks of the Charles River.

Curious, and without needing to say anything to each other, we started across the Commons, but pulled up short when we realized we were seeing a large troop of milling redcoats. In the moonlight, their upright bayonets reminded me of picket fences.

When we drew as close as we dared, we saw soldiers getting into longboats. Their uniforms told me they were grenadiers and light infantry, the army’s best.

A few of those boats, loaded with standing soldiers, had already pushed away from shore and were being rowed across the river to the Cambridge side, a mile away. There was little noise beyond the shuffling of feet, the swishing of oars in water.

“They are going to Concord,” Jolla said.

Seeing all those troops in motion brought a jarring halt to my seesawing thoughts about Mercy and Abner and whether I should alert them about the British army marching on Concord.

“My sister,” I said. “I have to warn her. Tell her to keep her husband home and stay safe.” Jolla and I ran back across the Commons.

As we rushed along, I noticed that the Christ Church had two lights in its tall steeple. That, I thought, is odd.

Reaching the house, Jolla said, “How are you going to get to your sister?”

“I’ll try to cross the river with those troops. I can move along with them. Should be safe.”

“They’ll never let you.”

“I thought of a way,” I said as we hurried inside.

“How?”

“Show you.”

We went to our basement. I sparked a candle, fished around my rumpled clothing, and found that pass Captain Brown had given me months before. I handed it to Jolla. He read it, then gave it back.

I said, “I’ll show it to the soldiers and say I’m going to join Captain Brown. They’ll let me.”

“What if he isn’t there?”

“Doesn’t matter. Once I sneak over the river with the troops, I can get to Tullbury on my own.”

“Risky. Want me to go with you?”

“I wish. But the pass is just for me. Don’t tell my mother where I’ve gone.”

Jolla said, “Be careful. Good luck.”

Clutching Captain Brown’s pass in my hand, I tore out of the house and headed back to the Commons.

It was about ten thirty when I approached the riverside, and the crowd of troops had not yet all boarded longboats. Awaiting orders to get on, the men, standing with their companies, were quiet. Officers were giving few commands. Off to one side were their horses. I heard the animals’ blow-breathing, the stamp of their hooves, and now and again a nicker. A light breeze flowed out of the southwest and carried the smell of sweat, gun iron, and the horses. In the sky, the brightest light came from the moon. I was able to make out dark clouds drifting by, indifferent to what was happening below.

Once among the soldiers, I, anxious and fearful, wasn’t so sure of myself. But to get to Tullbury, I had to cross the river, and I saw no way to do so quickly other than with the troops. A few soldiers gave me questioning looks, but no one said anything.

As far as I could see, there were two officers in charge. They were on horseback. “Who are they?” I asked the soldier I happened to be standing next to.

“Major Pitcairn. Lieutenant Colonel Smith.”

I knew their names. They were important men.

Making myself move, I slipped forward, pass in hand, until I stood on the riverbank with some soldiers. Longboats were being rowed across, while others approached. I tried to appear casual, though I was anything but. I avoided looking into faces, fearing I’d give myself away.

When orders were shouted out, a group of soldiers moved forward, stepped into the shallow water, then climbed into a boat. Tense, I shuffled along, praying I’d not be uncovered and sent away. Then, just as I was about to get into a boat, a sergeant holding a lamp up stretched out his arm and blocked my way.

“What are you doing here, boy?”

I had my speech ready: “Please, sir, I’m supposed to join Captain Brown. I have a pass.” I held it out. The sergeant put his lantern over the paper and quickly scanned the words.

“Where’s this Captain Brown?” he demanded.

I pointed out over the river. “On that boat that just left.”

The sergeant darted a quick look. In a hurry, he thrust the pass back into my hand. “All right. Step fast. Come on. Come on,” he called to the soldiers behind me. “Move along. Quick.”

I climbed into the boat, sailors lending a hand.

(I would learn later that General Gage forbade anyone who was not a soldier to leave town.)

When about twelve soldiers were in the boat, all standing, holding their muskets upright, we were pushed into deeper water. Sailors gathered up the oars and began to row. Their splash was steady, the water calm, as we skirted the mid-river British warships.

Reaching the other side, the boat lay so deep from the soldiers’ weight, it was unable to draw close to the shore. That meant the men (and I) had to jump out and wade knee-deep in the water to get to the land.

I had gotten across.

Wednesday, April 19, 1775

But once I was on the Cambridge side—one of the officers called the place Lechmere Point—I realized it was so dark that I’d be unable to find my way on my own. I needed to stay with the troops until daylight came, when I could dash ahead. I remained, then, among the waiting soldiers, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, listening as men, who were as wet and as cold as I, muttered and cursed.

The soldiers, crowded close together, stood on a dark, muddy road. It seemed to take forever for all the longboats to go back across and return with the rest of the troops. Each boat made two trips to bring the regulars, plus a third trip to fetch the officers’ horses and supplies.

While we lingered, there were more questioning looks in my direction, but there was enough crowding and confusion that no one bothered with me. On my part, I kept moving between the soldiers and held my face blank, my pass in my shirt pocket ready for inspection. I could only hope I’d meet with no difficulty.

It was cold and frustrating to wait, but as I stood there, I had the thought: When I get to Tullbury, what if I meet the men who killed my father and beat me? I worked to push such fears away, telling myself I must concentrate only on reaching Mercy.

When all the soldiers and supplies were ferried over the river, new orders were called. Everyone moved forward, crossing a deep inlet. This time the water was waist-high, which meant the soldiers had to hold their muskets above their heads. I went along. Are you sure you want to do this? I kept asking myself. My constant answer: I must warn Mercy. Make sure she’s safe. Keep Abner home.

Once we passed that inlet, supplies were distributed to the soldiers. Each redcoat received ammunition. Some of the men counted their cartridges. Others stuffed them in their pouches. Hunks of bread and pieces of salt pork, a day’s ration, were also distributed. When they saw what had been given to them, many soldiers threw the food away in disgust.

It must have been near two a.m. when the troops formed into a huge column and began to head west. The Black drummers in their yellow jackets led the way, beating their drums just loudly enough to help the soldiers march in unison. I counted the thumps, perhaps a hundred a minute. I supposed the soldiers, moving to that beat, would be able to cover about four miles an hour on that dirt road, making a steady tramp-tramp, tramp-tramp.

I put myself at the tail end of the column, mingling with the supply haulers—who were not in uniform—and trying, as before, to keep out of the way. No one seemed to care that I was there. My thoughts kept going to Mercy. I began to think about and enjoy what she would say when she saw me at her door. What I hoped for most was that seeing me would make her happy and that we could speak freely to each other.

I so wanted to talk to her about what Mother said about Father. It had continued to bother me. Had Mother ever said anything of the same to Mercy? Did Mercy agree? I had little doubt she would give me some advice. I was in need of it.

As the soldiers marched, no one spoke. All I heard were tramping feet, horses nickering, and the soft, steady beat of the drums. Now there was enough moonlight to notice trees on both sides of the road. And I could make out low stone walls and behind them what I supposed were farm fields. Houses. We must have made enough noise, because as we passed by, lights flared within buildings. And on the dark hills beyond, I noticed what appeared to be beacon fires. It became clear to me, as it must have been to the soldiers, that people knew about our passing. It didn’t seem to matter. We kept going. I looked back to see if any ravens were following. If any were, it was too dark to see them, though once, I was sure I heard flapping wings close by. It sent a shiver down my back.

Some of the soldiers began to sing:

“Yankee Doodle came to town

For to buy a firelock.

We will tar and feather him

And so we will John Hancock.”

“Quiet,” barked an officer.

The singing ceased. The sole sounds were the steady tramp of feet and the low rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat of the drums. The monotonous beat gave me the peculiar sensation that I was walking in my sleep, that this was a dream. But I knew it wasn’t.

An hour’s march brought us to a cluster of houses.

“Menotomy,” I heard someone murmur. The name of a town.

Once, twice, I saw people emerge from houses. The light behind them made the figures appear black. They stood still, perhaps to gaze at us, then disappeared, no doubt alarmed by what they saw, a parade of shadows. I wondered if they guessed what was happening.

The march pressed on, along with the tramp of feet and the constant beat of the drums.

I wished Jolla were with me.

The first glow of dawn brought a sound from far ahead: the beating of other drums. I heard a soldier mutter, “They know we’re coming.”

I told myself this was the moment to dash ahead, but after bolting out ten steps, I knew I could not maintain the pace. It was less effort to keep pace with the soldiers, as if I were tied to them. Then, too, especially with other drums drawing nearer, it might be safer to stay close to the army. What if the soldiers thought I was going ahead to warn the rebel militia?

With the sound of those approaching drums, there was a change in the rhythm of the redcoats’ marching. It became quicker, sharper. The English drums seemed to rattle faster and louder. I think the soldiers wanted to get to whatever was about to happen.

My heart beat more rapidly too.

Rat-ta-tat. Rat-ta-tat.

Invisible birds began to chirp. They seemed to come from another world.

From farther ahead came the sharp ringing of what I supposed were church bells, sounding an alarm. That clanging was soon followed by gunshots. I hoped they were only alarms.

Dawn came slowly. Though the light was muted and hazy, the countryside seemed to be teeming with unseen people who knew what was happening. I heard the sound of someone running, and now and again a shout. I also sensed a rising tension among the soldiers, along with whispers—perhaps prayers, perhaps curses—and swifter breathing.

Rat-ta-tat. Rat-ta-tat.

The bells continued their harsh clanging.

Wanting to see what was happening and frustrated by the slow, if steady, movement of the troops, I jumped to the side of the road and pushed forward until I was near the head of the column. No one seemed to notice or care what I did so long as I traveled with them.

Rat-ta-tat. Rat-ta-tat.

A blue-gray dawn spread across the eastern sky. From the warm earth a white mist eddied up. The growing light revealed a town, its few buildings scattered. I recognized it as one of the places we had passed through on our way to Boston: Lexington.

Quite suddenly, the church bells stopped ringing, bringing an eerie hush. The only noise I heard was the trudging of boots as the column of soldiers continued to steadily advance.

Rat-ta-tat. Rat-ta-tat.

Fifes began to play, a shrill, squeaky sound like swords scraping one against another, causing a cold shiver to slide down my spine.

The road split in two, the forks going around what looked to be a three-story meetinghouse, from which resumed the clanging of bells, harsh, metallic, and angry.

The dawn grew brighter.

Behind that meetinghouse, I could see a green, the common. On it, I began to make out a ragged line of some seventy men. Even in the dull light, I could tell they were not in uniforms but were wearing dark coats, loose shirts, floppy-brimmed hats, and boots. Powder horns were slung by cords over shoulders. Every one of them held a musket or rifle. They were rebel militiamen.

Off to one side of the common, a clutch of people was standing, watching what was happening. For the most part, they were women and a few children. No one was talking.

The British officers shouted orders, after which the troops halted to load their guns. I had seen them practice on the Boston Commons, so I knew how fast they could do it. I heard clicks and snaps, the pounding of balls into gun barrels.

No sooner were muskets primed than there were more shouted orders, causing the soldiers to split into three groups, one going to the right fork, one to the left. The third moved forward onto the green in double-quick time, heading straight for the militiamen. Their guns, with bayonets, were thrust forward.

I stood at some distance watching, almost afraid to breathe.

As the British soldiers advanced, the militiamen began to back away. To my eyes, they appeared to be dispersing. It made no difference to the British. They continued to press steadily forward until they were about two hundred feet from the militia.

At that moment, a single shot boomed.

Where it came from, where it was aimed, I had no idea. But no sooner did it fly than the British troops lurched forward a few more yards, halted, put guns to shoulders, and began to fire at the militia, a thunderously rapid and repeating bang-bang. Billowing clouds floated up, filling the air with an acrid stench. The smoke drifted to where I and the Lexington citizens were watching from the side. It made my eyes smart. I heard someone moan as well as a whispered “Dear God.”

It was then that Major Pitcairn appeared on his horse and shouted orders so that his troops formed into a battle line. He whirled about and shouted at the militia: “Lay down your arms and disperse, you damned rebels!”

I thought they were moving back.

The next moment, there was another volley of shots from the British. Then, as one, the regulars gave a loud shout, lowered their bayonets, and charged straight at the militia. A couple of the militiamen fired, but most scrambled to get out of the way of the redcoats’ charge, an assault that included haphazard shooting and wild stabbing with bayonets.

It was terrible to see. People around me groaned. Sobbed.

The smoke cleared. The rebels—who had stopped shooting—were fleeing to higher land.

Militiamen, perhaps seven or eight, lay upon the common, dead. Other men were on the ground, writhing in the agony of their wounds. I saw no redcoats down. Cartridge paper littered the common, like a field of small spring flowers.

The British officers shouted more orders. A drumroll sounded. The regulars halted, reassembled into lines, and let forth a victory cheer: “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” they cried, pointing their guns into the air and firing off a ragged volley.

Even as I stood there, numb with fright, the British troops, summoned by drumrolls and shouted orders, re-formed into a column and continued to march on toward Concord, their drums beating, their fifes shrieking. As they moved away, the meetinghouse bell began to ring again. Now, I was sure, it was tolling deaths. I was afraid to move.

The sounds of British drums and fifes began to fade. Knowing the Lexington militia had been called out, I feared the same thing would happen to the Concord minutemen, of which Abner might be one. My head filled with a single thought: I must reach Mercy! With that, I tore down the road, catching up with the English regulars as they moved toward Concord.

The English soldiers continued marching, moving faster than before. Though it was an effort to keep up, I managed to stay alongside, but it was hard to do so. With my side aching, I knew I would not be able to reach Concord before they did.

Daylight increased. The air was warm, sweet. We passed more stone fences. Farm fields. Houses. Behind us, bells kept ringing, sounding desperate. Birds flew by, high and fast.

I saw Lieutenant Colonel Smith on his large horse, leading the way. By his side, also on a horse, was another soldier. It was DeBérniere. All that wandering and mapping we had done: he was guiding the whole movement. It gave me a peculiar feeling, that I was somehow connected to all that was happening. Captain Brown must be here. I didn’t see him.

Short of breath, I struggled to match the soldiers’ pace. My head hurt, fogged with shock and exhaustion. No longer thinking rationally, I clung to the notion that I must get to Tullbury. To Mercy. I was not sure I could.

It took more than an hour to march from Lexington to Concord. By then it was full daylight. I had pushed myself as hard as I could, but I knew I was too late. As the British reached the town, which lay between two hills, some two hundred rebel militiamen emerged out of the village, their own drums and fifes playing. They came from the west and were heading right for the redcoats. They all carried guns.

Belatedly realizing how many British soldiers were coming toward them, the militiamen halted, wheeled about, and started going back in the direction from which they had come.

It was bizarre. For a while, the two opposing armies were marching in the same direction, one in front of the other, their music-making a squawking muddle midst the jagged thumps of jarring drums.

We had reached Concord.

As I watched, detachments of British troops went off into Concord itself, perhaps looking for Adams and Hancock. Or guns and powder. Another group, maybe a hundred soldiers, continued forward, following the militiamen. Since that was the direction I needed to go, I went along.

I realized where they were all heading: the North Bridge that spanned the Concord River. On the far side of it was a hill, the summit crowded with militiamen. The marching rebels, the ones that had come out of the town, now crossed the bridge and went to the higher ground where the other rebels stood. The two groups melded and were joined by more. Overall, there were perhaps four hundred militiamen.

The hundred or so redcoats meanwhile reached the bridge, crossed it, and then halted. They must have seen what I did—the militia, now in far greater numbers than the soldiers, was moving down toward the bridge, toward them.

I stood where I was, realizing that the only way for me to go forward to Tullbury was over that bridge. But it was blocked by the British and, coming at them, the advancing militia.

The British began to back off the bridge. Some of the soldiers started to pull up bridge planks but quickly abandoned the effort and hurried to catch up with the retreating troops.

On the far side, the militia drew closer.

A British officer leaped on a horse and went off in a gallop toward town. I wondered if he was going to get more troops, but when I looked back, I didn’t see any coming. What I did see was smoke rising from Concord. Is the town burning?

At their end of the bridge, the redcoats halted and lined up in four columns; the front rows knelt, while others stood at their backs, guns to shoulders. I heard the words “Fire! Fire!”

The redcoats fired several volleys at the advancing militia.

In return, from the militia side, someone shouted, “Fire, fellow soldiers, for God’s sake, fire!” The militiamen began to shoot at the British. Flashes of flame poked out of billowing puffs of stenchy smoke. The continuous crash-crash of shooting guns was deafening.

To my astonishment, the redcoats spun about and began to retreat in great disorder, running back toward the town, leaving two dead soldiers by the bridge.

Though the militia followed, the shooting stopped.

All that I witnessed happened in a matter of minutes. When it was over, and the smoke eddied away, I saw that I would now be able to get over the bridge. The British were retreating fast. The militiamen pursued them.

Still determined to reach Mercy, I ran to the empty bridge, went by the dead British soldiers, and raced over. Only then did I realize two militiamen lay on the ground, partially blocking my way. They were unmoving, bleeding. I would have to pass right by them. Frightened, I halted and drew closer. That’s when I saw that one of the men was Abner Hosmer, Mercy’s husband.

Horrified, I stopped and looked down at him.

Young and big, Abner lay there, face contorted in a grimace, mouth agape, eyes wide open but blank, no sense of strength about him at all. Though he was not moving, blood leaked through his torn jacket, making its walnut color turn darker. From a jagged hole in his chest, blood trickled down and pooled onto the earth next to a musket that must have been his. As I stood there, scared, not knowing what to do, his blood sank into the earth and disappeared.

On shaky knees, I knelt, shoved the hair away from my eyes, and sought some sense of life in Abner. I found none. No movement of his chest. No sound of breath.

I gazed into his face. The most frightening thing was that he did not look back. His face gave nothing nor asked anything. I had no doubt his soul had fled. It was terrifying.

As I looked on, knowing he was dead, the fingers on his left hand twitched. I reached out and touched them. The hand was warm. I plucked at those fingers. They lifted. Dropped.

I had hated Abner. Had considered him an enemy. All the same, I was filled with chest-squeezing grief. What had happened was awful. To him. To Mercy. I must tell her, I thought. I was right to come. I was too late to save Abner, but I could still bring Mercy to safety, to Mother’s help in Boston.

Incapable of moving, I continued to kneel where I was, the weight of the grief pressing me down. Then I sensed other people had crossed the bridge and were standing around me.

A woman’s voice said, “Do you know him, boy?”

I nodded.

“Who is it?”

“Abner . . . Abner Hosmer.”

“Hosmer? Connected to Mr. Hosmer, the lawyer?”

I nodded again.

“From Tullbury?”

I don’t recall if I answered. I may have nodded.

“He anything to you?”

“Brother-in-law.”

Someone said, “Awful soldiers.”

A light hand touched my shoulder to give comfort. From a distance, I could hear guns shooting. The thought came into my head: They’re still fighting.

Giving voice to my thought, a woman said, “The battle is continuing.”

“God help us,” said another.

My mouth was dry. My eyes stung. That thought kept coming. I must tell Mercy. I must get her to safety.

I looked up. Any number of people were standing around me. The adults were gazing at me. The children were looking at Abner. Others were standing around the second fallen man.

I felt a hand under my left arm, pulling. With help, I came to my feet. I never stopped looking down at Abner.

A woman leaned close to my ear and said, “Did you say you came from Tullbury?”

I answered something. I don’t know what.

“Have a horse?” asked another.

I shook my head.

“You’ll want to take him home, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“To your sister?”

A nod.

“Any way to get him there?”

I shook my head again.

Another voice said, “I’ve got a wagon. Horse. You can borrow them. Bring them back.”

The world seemed to be twisting around me. Dizzy, I dropped to kneel on the ground next to Abner’s body. I don’t know why, but I reached out and touched his blood. It was wet, sticky, and warm. I turned away and vomited.

Feeling weak, I wiped my mouth, then tried to spit out the bitter taste. My breath came in gulps. I wanted to move but was unable to. I was frightened. After a moment, I somehow said, “I need help.”

Another touch to my shoulder. “Stay right here. I’ll bring my wagon around.”

I did as told, remaining where I was, wiping bile from my lips. From a great distance, I heard shooting. I wondered what was happening. More people were being killed.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, waiting, wondering: What can I say to Mercy?

At some point, I heard the jangle of harness and the thump of horse hooves on the wooden bridge. I looked around. A wagon and horse had come over. A woman and a boy sat in the seat. When the woman jumped down from the wagon, the boy remained, the reins held in his small hands. A too-big brimmed hat sat on his head. His legs were short, so he was unable to reach the toe board with his muddy bare feet.

Someone helped me stand.

“Let’s get him in,” the woman said to me.

A few of the women and I lifted Abner up. His arms dangled. Struggling, we maneuvered his heavy body into the wagon so that he lay on some old hay. I kept wishing his staring eyes were closed. He’s dead, I kept thinking, but I found it hard to believe.

The woman turned to me. “What’s your name?”

“Noah.”

“Noah what?”

“Cope.”

“The pastor? The one who was killed?”

I nodded, waiting for a further remark. It didn’t come. Instead, the woman helped me climb into the seat next to the boy.

“Now, Noah,” the woman said to me, “this is my son. Peter. Peter Grotten. His father went off with the militia. May God keep him. After you get to Tullbury, Peter will return the wagon to me. Are you hearing me, Noah?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Tell your sister it will be avenged.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

A voice said, “Wait. His gun.”

Someone put Abner’s musket in the wagon alongside his body.

Peter, the boy, said nothing. He was very pale, his jaw clenched. I’m not sure he even looked at me.

“Now go on, Peter,” his mother said. “Tullbury. Straight on.” The boy jiggled the reins. Horse and wagon began to move forward with a jerk. If I hadn’t been holding on, I might have fallen off. Head bowed, eyes stinging, I wasn’t seeing the road, only what I had witnessed: the shooting, the shouting, the confusion, and Abner, dead.

I felt sick. What will I say to Mercy?

In all the time it took us to go to Tullbury, the boy never said one word to me. Nor did I speak to him. I kept watching the road or turning around to look at Abner’s body. I felt a sadness, deep grief mingled with confused thoughts. Even as I knew I had hated Abner, I regretted wishing him dead. God keep his soul. He did me no harm. I wronged him. And what will Mercy do?

Going toward Concord—the opposite direction we were heading—were many armed militiamen.

“What news?” they kept calling. “What’s happened?”

“A battle. A lot killed,” I returned. “Others wounded.”

“We’ll get them.”

By “them,” I knew they meant the British.

Does that include me?

As we approached Tullbury, a cut of fear passed through me. Would I be seen, noticed? Attacked? That woman in Concord knew my father’s name, knew what happened, but said nothing ill. All the same, Mr. Harwood’s words filled my head: “Come see how we deal with Loyalists, boy.”

We moved forward. I didn’t see any Tullbury Sons of Liberty on the road. Maybe they all—like Abner—had gone to Concord. I gripped my seat board tighter. Stop thinking of yourself. Get to Mercy. She needs you.

We entered Tullbury, traveling on its sole road, passing its modest houses. Though it all appeared familiar and unaltered, it also seemed smaller, emptier. I saw a couple of people but didn’t recognize them, nor did they pay any mind to me.

We reached my old home. “Here,” I said to the boy.

The boy pulled up on the reins. Horse and wagon stopped. It was very quiet, though I heard some twittering birds. I sat there, gazing at the house in which I had been raised. Had lived. It looked old and drab. I noticed that the front steps had been repaired. By Abner, I assumed.

I continued to sit on the wagon. The boy waited patiently, silently. I kept thinking, What will I say to Mercy? The redcoats killed her husband. The rebels killed her father.

Before I did anything, the door opened. Mercy stood there, one hand resting on her large belly. Her face seemed much older, and her dark eyes looked at me with disbelief.

“Noah?” she said, as if unsure it was me. It was odd how she spoke. One word, “Noah,” but of two parts. The first part spoken up, hopeful, the second half drooped, sensing something bad.

“What is it?” she said. “What’s happened?”

I lifted a hand in a weak, empty gesture. All I could say was “Abner.”

“What about him?”

My lack of words or my look must have conveyed something, because she put a hand to the door frame to steady herself.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“Abner,” I said again.

She came down the two wooden steps, then stopped. “Is . . . is he hurt?”

I couldn’t speak.

“How bad?” she asked, not coming closer.

“He was killed,” I forced myself to say. “Over at Concord.”

She stood there, staring at me. “Abner?” she said, as if not comprehending my words.

I think I nodded.

Her body sagged.

After a moment of awful silence, she straightened somewhat, then moved toward the wagon. Once there, she paused, put her hand on the sideboard to keep herself standing, looked over and in. Her face seemed frozen.

As she continued to look at Abner, she whispered, “What happened?”

“There was a fight in Concord. At the North Bridge,” I said. “The redcoats . . . shot him.”

She remained standing there, her eyes on Abner’s corpse. After a long moment, I heard her say, “Noah, I need your help.”

Women neighbors appeared.

We carried Abner into the house. The moment I stepped inside, I recognized the distinct, familiar smell of home, a woody sweetness I’m sure I had never consciously noticed before. It was like the visitation of a spirit, gone almost before it came.

Mercy laid Abner out where Father’s body had lain before him. Someone—I don’t know who—told me to go to Lawyer Hosmer’s house to say what happened, which I did, running the whole way. When I knocked on the door, out of breath, the same woman who had let us in when Mother and I had gone there appeared at the door now. I wished I knew her name.

“Yes?” she said.

I gave her the news. She stared at me, her mouth open in shock.

“Master Abner? Killed?” she asked.

I bobbed my head.

She continued to gaze at me until, without another word, she softly shut the door. I heard the latch click. It seemed very loud.

I headed back toward home. As I did, I passed Father’s church. After a moment’s hesitation, I went into the graveyard. Since no stone had been erected on Father’s grave, I was uncertain where he lay. When I thought I found the spot, grass and weeds had grown over it. It had been a year since his death.

I stood over what I hoped was his place for I don’t know how long, trying to find what to say, trying to untangle my emotions. What came into my head was Forgive me, but it took moments to know what it was I wanted him to forgive. Then I knew, and the notion frightened me: it was that I no longer believed in his ways or his words, no longer shared his faith in England.

I continued on to my old home. The wagon and the boy were still there. When I got inside the house, I found neighborhood women surrounding Mercy. I was glad they were there. How different than when Father died. One, two of them even nodded to me. No smiles.

Mercy was sitting in a chair, hands clasped over her belly. Her face seemed to show—I hardly knew the word—desolation, but also deep quietude. The only thing that moved were her glistening, blinking eyes, as if trying to heed her statement of a year ago: “I don’t intend to cry anymore. Feelings are a hindrance.”

“Noah,” she said.

The surrounding women moved away. I went forward and knelt. Mercy leaned close to my face. “Go back to Boston and tell Mother to come.” Then she took my hand and placed it on her stomach. There was movement.

Flustered, I said, “Come back with me. You’ll be safer in Boston.”

She shook her head. “That’s nonsense. Mother needs to come here.”

“Will Mr. Hosmer let you stay?”

“Noah, I’m Abner’s widow,” she said with her old sharpness. “This is my house. I’m not leaving. This is where I live. Now, please. Do as I ask. I can manage until she comes. Just bring Mother here as fast as you can.”

“Mercy, I—”

She pushed me away. “Noah, you must do as I say. Go. Hurry.”

As her words sank in, I stood up and moved further off. My hopes for a reunion and being as we had been before were as dead as Mercy’s husband. “All right,” I managed to mutter, upset with myself for being incapable of saying and doing more.

I left the house. The boy in the wagon barely looked at me. I climbed up to the seat and said, “We can go back to Concord.”

The boy said nothing. Clucking at his horse, he turned the creaky wagon around. As we started off, I looked back at the house, Mercy’s house. Though it was me that was leaving, I felt abandoned.

On the way back, the boy spoke to me no more than when we had come. Once, twice, I sensed he stole glances at me, but nothing more. I was unable to talk to him. Look at him. One moment I was mad at Mercy for sending me away. Next, I wished that I had told her how much I cared and didn’t want her to suffer.

I thought of the neighbors gathered around Mercy. I had been glad to see them, but why had they been so kind to Mercy now, but not when Father was killed? Was it because Abner was a rebel? Was not a life a life?

I hated Tullbury.

All the while, I felt the need to go home. With that sensation, I understood Boston had become my home. Or maybe, I thought with anger, I have no home.

There were many minutemen on the road, all heading in the same direction we were. They left their homes to fight, I thought. I left my home not to fight.

It was afternoon when we reached Concord. The boy brought the wagon to a stop. “I live there,” he said, pointing. It was the first thing he had said to me.

I climbed out. “Thank you,” I said, and took a step away.

“Sir,” he called out, “you forgot your gun.”

Abner’s musket. I should have left it with Mercy, but now I had to take it up.

“Thank you,” I said again, and added, “I hope your father is all right.”

He looked at me, and I think he nodded. Only then did I notice tear stains on his cheeks.

“I’m sure he will be fine,” I said, wishing it to be true.

I started off, musket in hand. Belatedly, I realized that no one had ever called me “sir” before. It made me feel odd.

Concord was full of militiamen. As more continued to arrive, others were going off toward Boston. I went along with them, in their steady, solemn march. I had come to Concord with one army. I would go back to Boston with another. I tried to determine how much time I had been on the road. It seemed forever.

I looked up. Gray storm clouds were high in the western sky, driving a tree-flicking breeze. The smell of rain was ripe. I kept thinking of Mercy, and of how many women died during childbirth.

“Please, God,” I murmured, “let her live.”

It was the first prayer I had said in a long time.

I continued in the direction of Boston, the same road my family had taken a year ago. It had been empty then. Now it was crowded with men, almost all of them carrying muskets, as I was.

I passed houses pockmarked with bullet holes. Another house was charred, a curl of smoke rising slowly. It wasn’t long before I saw bodies on the side of the road. For the most part, they were British soldiers, looking lifeless the way Abner had. I saw far fewer dead militiamen. I recalled the gunshots I had heard after I left Concord. The fighting must have gone on, and it appeared the redcoats had suffered greatly. It was ghastly. I felt despondent. Deeply weary. My eyes stung. My side ached. I was hungry. All I wanted was to get to Boston.

There were some people attending the bodies that lay along the road. Family, friends, or foes were carting away corpses; I wasn’t sure who was who. Many things had astonished me that day, but that the British troops had been so mauled by the American militias was among the most stunning.

I lumbered on. My shoulders ached. So did my legs. I kept seeing the dead, even as more and more militiamen were moving east. Into my head came a prayer that Father had taught us, made us memorize. It came as no ancient text, no voice from some other world or book, but rather as a description of the place and moment where I was: “As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.” Psalm 23:4.

I was sure I was walking through that valley of death, but I did fear evil. Nor was I comforted. Instead, I felt alone. I kept thinking, I want Mercy to live. And I continued to tell myself: You have one thing to do—tell Mother that Mercy needs her.

My labored pace reminded me of how I had walked after Father’s funeral.

To reach Boston, I had to walk sixteen miles in semidarkness, the dark broken by the lanterns militiamen carried. It was like a march of fireflies. Though I had been awake for two days, I kept on. I am sure that at some point, even as I walked, I fell asleep. When I woke with a start, I had no idea how long I’d slept or where I was, save that I was still on the road, still walking. No doubt it helped me that I was never truly on my own. And the sleepwalking revived my strength somewhat.

As during the Charlestown Powder Alarm, news of Lexington and Concord had spread a great distance. Countless militiamen were going in the same direction as I was, toward Boston. I heard them talk to one another. Most were from places in Massachusetts. But they also came from Connecticut and Rhode Island. In days to come—so it was said—they would arrive from all over New England.

As I walked along, the men were constantly discussing what had happened, speaking of it as a massacre, the butchery of the militia by English troops. Sometimes they described what I had seen, sometimes not. The number of troops was increased or decreased depending on what moment was described. All agreed that the British had started it and must be brought down. Boston taken. No one asked me what I thought. They all assumed I was joining them.

“Good for you for being here,” one of them said to me, as did others when they learned I’d been at the battle. “With boys like you, we’ll beat them back.”

As the saying goes, I bit my tongue.

It began to rain, a meager dribble. I kept walking, unable to go fast, unable to stop, feeling a damp and cold fatigue. My legs seemed to work on their own.

Abner’s musket grew heavy in my hands. More than once, I thought to throw it away but somehow felt I had a duty to keep it. In any case, I didn’t think the men with whom I walked would have allowed me to get rid of it.

I kept hearing the words “With boys like you, we’ll beat them back.” I kept asking myself, Who is them? Is it me? Which side am I on?

At one point, without thinking, I put my free hand in my pocket and felt my pass from Captain Brown. I realized that if these militiamen found it on me, they might consider me a spy and shoot me. I was about to destroy it when I realized that I’d need it to get through the Boston Neck fortifications. That’s to say, depending on who saw it, it would bring my safe passage or my death. How could one paper hold such opposite things?

I squashed it down to the bottom of my pocket and tried to walk faster, but I managed only to plod on.

Thursday, April 20, 1775

It must have been three in the morning when I reached Roxbury, where I found an encampment of a few hundred militiamen. They were guarding the road to the Neck in case the British came out. As I attempted to walk through, I was stopped, surrounded, and questioned. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going?”

I told them I had been in Tullbury to see my sister and that I was going home to fetch my mother when I came upon Lexington and Concord.

“In the battle?”

Not knowing what else to do, and wanting to get through, I nodded. As soon as I did, I was required to relate what I saw. The men listened with rapt attention and treated me with respect, as though I had achieved distinction.

Someone pointed at the musket I carried, asking, “That gun of yours fire at the British?”

Suspecting that Abner had fired it, I shrugged, which they took as great modesty.

One man touched the wooden stock. “For luck,” he said.

“You’re a Massachusetts hero,” a man said. He made a pretend punch to my chest.

I was not going to argue. It was too complicated—and likely unwise to do so.

Another said, “We’ve got a whole army camped in Cambridge. Going to get Boston.”

When they released me, I had to sneak away to walk alone over the Neck toward Boston. With the bay to either side of me, I was crossing a bridge from one world to another.

As I approached the enlarged British defenses that guarded Boston, I was aware that I had Abner’s gun in my hand. I didn’t want the redcoats at the fortification to misjudge me. Despite its heavy weight, I held the gun up over my head with both hands so there would be no thought that I intended to use it.

“Halt.”

I had come to the Neck defenses.

The questions shouted out to me were the same as I had been asked before: “Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going?”

I told them I had gone out of Boston with the troops.

“Who were you with?”

“Captain Brown. Fifth Foot.”

“Can you prove it?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the much-wrinkled pass that Captain Brown had given me.

“My pass,” I called out, burnishing it aloft.

“Bring it here. Slowly.”

I did as told. A lieutenant holding a lamp snatched the note out of my hand and studied it. It must have satisfied him because he waved me on. No sooner did I cross through than I was surrounded by soldiers who wanted to know what had happened at Lexington and Concord.

Once more I recited what I had seen.

When I was done, someone said, “You’re an English hero.”

They let me by.

I went straight to Hog Alley. When I got there, instead of going inside our house, I felt compelled to go on to the Commons, where I had first embarked. There were four redcoats standing guard at the edge of the Charles River.

I looked across to the Cambridge side. What I saw was a vast number of low-burning campfires.

“Who are they?” I asked one of the soldiers.

“The Americans.”

I returned to Uncle William’s house. It was without light, so I supposed all were asleep. I crept into the basement. Jolla was slumbering.

I placed Abner’s gun upright in a corner and lay down, my thoughts crowded by images of all I had seen, everything that had happened. What I saw most were faces. Abner’s face. Mercy’s face. Faces of the marching soldiers. The face of the boy who drove the wagon to Tullbury and back. The faces of the dead who lay on the road. Midst them all, I saw Father’s face as he stood among his Sons of Liberty tormentors. There were so many enraged, fearful, and dead faces. I felt numb.

Though I thought I would never sleep, I did. But then, sleep is death’s rehearsal, and I had seen enough of it to imitate it well.

When I woke later in the morning, Jolla was sitting against the wall, waiting for me to open my eyes. I no sooner did than he asked, “What happened?”

Muzzy with deep fatigue and full of aches from my forty-mile walk, I told him about the march through Lexington and Concord, the fighting.

He listened in silence and then said, “Did you see your sister?”

I nodded. “Her husband was killed. My brother-in-law. He was with the militia at Concord.”

“Who killed him?”

“Redcoats.”

“How?”

I told him what I knew, including that I had gone on to my sister in Tullbury and what she said. “She’s going to have her baby. She needs my mother to come.”

I recounted the many dead I saw when I walked back. “I think the redcoats were beaten badly.”

“What about rebel losses?”

“I saw a few bodies by the road. Less than the British. Jolla, when I came in last night, I saw a huge number of campfires out across the river.”

“Rebels,” he said.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Don’t know. On the street, I heard someone say there are thousands.”

“Are they planning to attack?”

“Probably. Have you spoken to your mother? About your sister?”

“Not yet. When I tell her Mercy asked for her, I’m sure she’ll want to go to Tullbury. If she asks me to come with her, I’ll need to go.”

Jolla said nothing.

I went to find Mother.

As I walked into the front room, Mother was squatting before the hearth, cooking. At the sound of my step, she stood and spun around. “Where have you been?”

“Tullbury.”

“Tullbury!” she cried. “Did you see Mercy?”

Fearful of speaking, I stood there.

She must have read the misery in my face. “Tell me,” she demanded.

“Abner was killed.”

“Abner?” she gasped. “What happened?”

I told her.

“Does Mercy know?”

“I brought Abner’s body to her. To Tullbury.”

She stared at me, hands clasped tightly over her chest. “Dear Lord . . .” she whispered. “Is she all right?”

“She’s shortly to have her child. Said to tell you she needs you to go to her. Soon as you can.”

Mother closed her eyes and remained motionless, saying nothing. Faith came into the room. And Jolla. So did Uncle William. No one spoke. Everyone watched Mother. Opening her eyes, she found a chair and backed down into it. She was staring at nothing.

“What’s the matter?” said Faith.

I said, “Abner was killed.”

“Killed! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“How?”

“Faith,” called Mother, “come here.”

Faith went to Mother. Though she embraced my sister, Mother gazed at me. Was she thinking about how she almost died when Faith was born? Father’s death? Looking over Faith’s head, she said to me, “Tell them what happened.”

Once more, I related the events of Lexington and Concord, telling them how I went to Tullbury and how Abner must have been shot. Mother listened, her face full of pain. Faith clung tightly to her. Uncle William, quite pale, stood by and worked his hands. Jolla, silent, looked on but said nothing.

When I had finished talking, I remained standing before Mother. No one spoke. Then Mother said, “I have to go to Mercy.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said, because I knew I should.

Mother said, “I’ll need a cart. Or a horse.”

“I’ll get one,” I said, glad to do something.

“I have a friend at a stable,” Jolla offered.

“Please,” Mother managed to say. “Go, now.”

Then Uncle William asked, “What is the rebel army doing?”

“Sitting in Cambridge,” Jolla said.

“A siege?” asked Uncle William. “An attack?”

“No one knows.”

Jolla and I walked from the house together.

“What about the Dragon?” I said.

“It can wait.”

Boston was in turmoil, a kicked-over beehive. A parade of people headed for the Neck, leaving Boston as fast as possible. They were in carriages, carts, on horses, or walking. I saw someone push a barrow filled with furniture. Infants were in arms. Older children—some crying—were being dragged along by elders’ hands.

Such departures had been going on for so long I’d thought everyone who wanted to go had already left. It was startling to see so many more fleeing. The reason was clear enough. The news on the street was that the British army had suffered a calamitous defeat as thousands of rebels had chased them from Concord to Boston. Now, it was said, the rebel militias had surrounded Boston and would attack at any moment.

From what Jolla and I gathered, as the British had retreated from Concord, they had been attacked by the rebels all along the sixteen-mile route. The carnage had been halted only when Lord Percy came out of Boston with troops and cannons.

We heard the numbers: 73 redcoats killed, 173 wounded, 26 missing. We had no idea if this was accurate. Nothing was said about how many rebels were killed or wounded. No one knew. People were saying that the American troops surrounding Boston numbered fifteen, twenty thousand. And they would not disperse. We also learned that as soon as the news came into town, British troops had been rushed to all of Boston’s vital points to strengthen defenses.

Jolla and I heard the talk, exchanging looks when someone said something important.

“Not good,” he said when we had heard enough. “We better get to the stable.”

The stable was on Flounder Lane. Jolla’s friend—an elderly freeman who worked there—was quick to say, “A horse? You won’t find any for hire or sale in town. Too many people herding out.”

We tried a few more places, but what Jolla’s friend had said proved true. The only way to get out of town was on foot.

Thwarted, we agreed that Jolla would go on to the Green Dragon and learn what was happening. I’d go home, tell my mother what we had discovered, then join him at the tavern.

“Don’t leave town without telling me,” he said.

“Promise.”

In the time it took me to gather news and return home, I don’t think my mother moved from her seat in that chair. Faith was still with her, as was Uncle William.

I stood before them. “Everyone is fearful that the rebels will attack soon,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s true, but you need to get out fast. People are leaving in droves. You’ll have to walk to Tullbury.”

Mother remained silent.

It was Uncle William who asked, “No other way?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Can you ask your friends at Province House?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “I’ll go right now,” I said, and started off. Halfway there, I reached into my pocket, only to realize that when I had returned the night before, my pass to see Captain Brown hadn’t been given back to me. But I told myself that since I’d been to Province House so often to see the captain, I’d be recognized and let in.

As I approached army headquarters, I saw a crowd of soldiers, both regulars and officers, gathered about the front doors. Their dejection was obvious. When I mingled among them, the talk was of how many men the British had lost. Though it was much the same numbers I had heard before, there was also talk about how poorly the expedition had been planned. How inept General Gage was. The slothfulness of Lieutenant Colonel Smith. The fortunate arrival of Lord Percy.

I also heard officers talking about how the militiamen attacked the British in what they said was a cowardly fashion, from behind trees, walls, and fences, how they refused to fight in a civilized manner, which is to say, in lines. “They fight the way savages do.” It was said with contempt, suggesting the militiamen had cheated.

At the same time, I overheard phrases such as “I never thought they’d fight.” And “They’re not the weaklings we thought they’d be.” Someone said, “Let’s pray General Gage has sent for more troops.”

But what I discovered beyond all else was disbelief that the rout came at the hands of such a simple-minded people. “The Americans” was said with scorn. Nonetheless, there was one fact that was clear: the unbeatable British army had been beaten. Though I had seen it myself, it was hard to take in all that it implied.

I went up to the front doors, which, as usual, were guarded by two red-coated regulars, one of whom I had seen many times.

“Please, sir,” I said to him. “I think you know me. I have to see Captain Brown, but I’ve lost my pass.”

“Ah, boy, I’m afraid I have to tell you: right before Menotomy, on the retreat, as Lord Percy reached the troops, Captain Brown was killed.”

The news came upon me with dreadful force. Finding it hard to stand, I sat on the stone steps outside Province House. In my thoughts, I could see the captain as he had been, stocky, in his trim uniform with green lapels, his look serious. I remembered his kindnesses to me. Sitting there, I started to cry softly, wiping away tears. I felt ill. No one paid me any mind.

Surrounded by regulars and officers, I wondered if they had known Captain Brown. Did they care what happened to him? I remembered he had a son in England. When would he learn of his father’s death? When would his wife? What if they never learned? Where would Captain Brown be buried? Here or in England? What would happen to his sword? Where was DeBérniere? He had been, I knew, in Concord. Was he, too, killed? I thought of the boy who had taken me to Tullbury. What had happened to his father? How many had died?

Only after a while did I begin to wonder what Captain Brown’s death meant for me. Did I still have a job at the Green Dragon? A wage?

I looked about. The eyes of the soldiers around me were full of unease. Something Father had told me jumped into my head: “The English empire,” he had said, “is the greatest in the world. Being invincible, it will protect us. You can be loyal to that.”

It had not protected my father. Or Abner. Or Captain Brown. I knew it could not protect me. Deeply shaken, I found it was hard to accept it all, and could comprehend only that everything had changed.

But even as I sat there, I told myself: It’s me who has to protect my family. Mercy needs help. Perhaps Tullbury is safer than Boston after all.

I made my way to the Dragon.

The tavern was crowded. Of course, Mr. Adams, Mr. Hancock, and Doctors Warren and Church weren’t there. Had they been caught? I wondered. As for tavern talk, it was all about what was called the massacre at Lexington and the British army’s devastating retreat from Concord. Many spoke of leaving town. They were also sharing a sense of triumph over the English army. In time, I would learn that Hancock and Adams had not been captured.

Jolla came up to me. “You look sick.”

“Captain Brown was killed.”

“When?”

“On the retreat. Jolla, I have to find a way to get my mother and sister out of Boston.”

He said, “The army is issuing passes in Faneul Hall that will let you go. They want ordinary citizens out of the way.”

I hurried off.

At Faneuil Hall, before its narrow end, a large trestle table had been set up. A British captain was standing behind it, while two seated lieutenants were filling in the forms—exit passes—for a lengthy line of people. Regulars were standing on guard.

The line was made up of all sorts of people, working men, gentlemen, and women, as well as people looking like beggars. Sullen, impatient, and tense, what they had in common was distress and frustration.

It took an hour for me to reach the table.

“What is your name? Who are you, and what do you wish to do?”

“Sir, my name is Noah Cope. I’m fourteen. I wish to make an application for my mother, my sister, and me. We want to go back to our home in Tullbury.”

“Where’s that?”

“West of Concord.”

The soldier grimaced at the name but drew up a sheet of paper from his pile. It was a printed form with blank spaces. Then he paused. “Why are you going?”

“My other sister, in Tullbury, is with child. She needs my mother to be with her.”

He picked up a quill pen, dipped it into a bottle of ink, and said, “What’s your mother’s name?”

“Clemency Cope, sir.”

He filled in the form, sprinkled sand on it, shook it out, and handed the paper to me.

Boston April 20, 1775, Permit Clemency Cope, together with her family, consisting altogether of Three persons, and effects, to pass out of Boston between sunrise and sunset by order of His Excellency the Governor. No arms nor ammunition can pass.

Paper in hand, I headed back to Hog Alley. Boston’s narrow, crooked streets were filled with people rushing around in distress. There was a constant banging of hammers as windows were boarded up. In fear of looters, people were also padlocking doors. A gross stench filled the air as house garbage and night soil were dumped onto the streets.

There were more redcoats on the streets than I had ever seen before. They were dashing around doing who knew what. Others, in columns, were marching in quick time with guns and bayonets, going, I supposed, to points of defense.

When I stepped into the house, Mother, Faith, and Uncle William were doing no more than sitting close together, waiting for me.

“Did you make it to Province House?” Uncle William demanded as soon as I walked in.

“Yes, sir,” I said, choosing not to mention Captain Brown. “But I had to go to Faneuil Hall. The army is issuing passes for those who wish to leave.”

“Were you able to get one?” asked Mother.

I held up the pass.

“For the whole family?” Uncle William said. He reached out and snatched the paper from my hand, studied it, and looked at me. His lower lip was trembling. “It says . . . it says it’s for three persons.”

“My family, sir.”

“But . . . but . . . what about me?” he whimpered, looking old and frail. “These are perilous times. Am I not family?”

“Yes, you are!” cried Faith.

My heart sank: I had left out Uncle William. But what burst upon my mind was that I didn’t want to go back to Tullbury. Mercy had made it clear: she needed Mother, not me. And those neighbors who had flocked about Abner but who’d had not one word to say about Father. What kind of reception would they give me? Tullbury as I knew it was full of bad memories. Simultaneously, Uncle William, who had no connection to the town, save us, wanted to go. Would not his presence afford Mother and Faith any protection on the road they needed?

In any case, as all this tumbled through my mind, I was sure I could get my own pass in a few days and follow if I chose to.

So it was that I answered Uncle William by saying, “The three includes you, sir. I’ll come later.”

Contradicting his own pleas, Uncle William said, “But I’ve received word that deserted houses will be turned into barracks for regulars or officers’ homes. How can I leave? They’ll destroy my home.”

Again, wishing to ease his fears, I said, “Jolla and I will look after your house until I can get away, sir. Which will be soon,” I added with what I hoped was a reassuring look toward Mother. I was trying to take care of them all.

“Bless you,” Uncle William murmured. Much relieved, he shuffled off to his desk.

“Are the Sons of Liberty coming here?” Faith asked in a trembling voice.

“No,” I said.

To me, Mother said, “Will you really follow after us?”

“As soon as I can get another pass,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. “At most, one or two days.”

Mother said, “I sent Faith out for food. Noah, she didn’t find any.”

“The tavern will feed me,” I said to placate her. “Please, Mercy needs you to come now.”

We filled two cloth bags with such things as they required and might carry, clothing, and the family Bible. As we worked, Uncle William filled my ears with what I must do to take care of his house: closing shutters, locking doors. A long list. I barely listened. Then he handed me the key and showed me where to hide it behind a loose board at one side of the house. “I’m depending on you.” I also saw him slyly gather money into a small bag and stuff it into his coat pocket.

All that done—hardly an hour’s work—we left the house. I went with them to the fortifications on the Neck, carrying one of the sacks.

Once there, we joined a lengthy line of people clutching passes. Faces were tense as everyone constantly checked back and forward, worried they were about to be attacked. They carried all manner of things, bags, boxes, bundles. That said, by the side of the street, objects had already been discarded as too heavy, awkward, or perhaps not wanted.

Though there were many soldiers examining passes and scrutinizing what people were taking, the line moved forward slowly. Some people, their expressions distraught, were turned back. It was impossible to know why, but it added to the distress and tension of those waiting in line. As I stood there, I saw guns seized. The next day we heard that more than two thousand weapons were collected.

“How long will it take us to get home?” Faith asked as we inched forward.

I noticed she said “home.”

She was clutching one of the bulky bags in her arms, even as she held Uncle William’s hand, though I was not sure who was leading whom.

“With my bad walking,” said Uncle William, “it will take three or four days unless I get a ride.”

“Can we get one?” pleaded Faith. He gave no answer.

Mother turned to me. “Noah, promise me again that you’ll come as soon as you can.”

“I’ll be there in two days. Maybe I’ll catch up with you.” Then, remembering, I said to her: “When I was in Tullbury, I visited Father’s grave.”

“Is it all right?”

“It’s overgrown.”

“If there’s no stone, it will vanish.”

Everything has already vanished, I thought to say but didn’t.

Having run out of words, we waited in silence.

It took some two hours to reach the front of the line. All the while I stayed with my family, working hard not to show my impatience with the slow leave-taking.

Faith grew irritable. I held her sack. “Why is it taking so long?” she kept asking Uncle William.

He sighed. “These are perilous times,” he told her.

“What is ‘perilous’?”

“Frightful.”

When we reached the soldiers at the fortification gate, Mother showed the pass. After all that waiting, the soldiers barely examined it, and their search through what my family carried was cursory. Then the three of them, Mother, Faith, and Uncle William, were pushed forward. At the last moment, Faith turned around, dropped her bag, ran to me, and gave me a hug, then scurried back to Uncle William.

Mother called to me: “Come as fast as you can.”

I waved.

For as long as possible, I watched as the three of them moved through the fortifications. Mother gave a final glance back. Then she turned and disappeared midst the crowd. Faith, too, was gone. So was Uncle William.

I stood there for a moment and then headed into town.

Now that they were safely out of Boston, my tension greatly eased. I recalled having had the same feelings of relief when we had come into town. But as I walked along the jammed, filthy streets, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone.