In the morning, Gabriel took a bite of the dried meat and biscuit that Herbert had given him the night before, drank a sip of water from a nearby stream, and rolled up his meager belongings into his blanket. He slung the pack and his drum over his back and set off on the road toward King’s Bridge. To leave the island, he would need to pass the village of Harlem, then onto King’s Bridge. He’d heard of men traveling to and from King’s Bridge in a day, so he figured he’d reach the bridge by noon.
After his second rest of the day, however, he realized that his twenty miles a day might be overly optimistic. Fearing that Reverend Loring would try to find him and force him to return, he left the road whenever he heard approaching hoof beats. He thought it best to avoid other travelers until he got over King’s Bridge. But constantly darting off the road made for a slow journey’s start. Before he knew it, the sun was already on its downward path, and he had just passed Harlem.
Finally, Gabriel saw a few buildings ahead, scattered around a bridge that crossed the Harlem River. The road had become increasingly rugged and uphill, and by the time he had reached the scattered buildings, he was so worn out that he didn’t care who saw him. As he walked down the road, he saw that one of the buildings had a sign hanging out front: “King’s Bridge Tavern.”
Gabriel was hungry and tired. He slowly opened the door to the tavern to see what he could find. He stepped through the door and saw a bar and several tables scattered around the room. Behind the bar was a dark-haired man with a billowed shirt and white linen smock. Men dressed in simple hunting shirts and trousers sat around many of the tables. Others were dressed up, with waistcoats, breeches, and wigs.
A hard-looking man in a faded red jacket sat at the end opposite the door. A bayoneted musket leaned against his table. At first, Gabriel thought he might be one of the king’s soldiers, but as he looked more closely at his clothing, it became clear he was not wearing a real uniform. One other smaller man sat at the same table. He had dark pudgy rings under his eyes and was dressed in a shabby, brown ditto suit. He eyed Gabriel with his dark eyes as he sipped from his cup of ale. Then he gave a nudge to the muscular man in the faded red jacket and whispered something in his ear. The two strangers stared at Gabriel and his drum.
Gabriel quickly ducked in along the wall by the barkeep, trying to avoid the prying eyes of these strange men. He covered his drum with his outer coat, sat down at the bar, and tried to look relaxed, despite the quickening pace of his heart. Who were these men who seemed so interested in him and his drum? He pulled out his coin pouch from the rolled-up blanket and reached up to the black-haired barkeep.
“Could I get some meat and bread, please, sir?”
“You got coppers, laddie?” asked the gruff man.
“Yes, sir. I have some coins,” said Gabriel.
“That’ll be six coppers if you want a mug of cider with it.”
Six coppers! Gabriel worked for a whole week for that much. If this was what meals cost, he’d be out of coppers well before reaching Boston.
Gabriel began to reach into his coin pouch to pull out the coppers, when someone’s hand grabbed his shoulder. He turned, half expecting to see the hard man in the red jacket standing beside him.
Instead, he saw a tall man dressed in country clothes leaned up against the bar. “Six coppers for a slice of meat and bread, Henry? Your prices must have gone up in a hurry. As I recall, I’ve been coming in here and ordering meat, bread, and a mug of cider for close to five years, and last time I ordered such a meal, it cost me two coppers. Come to think of it, that’s what I’m eating and drinking now, and I’ll be a horned toad if that meat, bread, and mug of cider didn’t cost me two coppers. Now, unless you’re planning to give this young man a bottle of your finest Madeira wine with his dinner, I think you best charge this here patriotic lad a fair price. Don’t cha’ know he’s clearly headed north to join our troops in the cause of liberty and justice.”
Speechless, Gabriel looked up at this man. Did he know Gabriel somehow?
The man behind the bar glared at the farmer. “And what if I have a different charge for you than I have for strangers traveling through this here tavern?”
“Well then,” said the farmer. “I will just have to let your loyalist guest Bradford Grimm know what you think about the King’s taxes on your tavern and how much you hated having to house the king’s soldiers without getting any pay for their food and lodging. He’s sitting right over there in the faded red jacket. I’m sure he would enjoy finding another patriot traitor to crucify.”
“Now, Ben, don’t ya go doing that. You know what Grimm does to those he don’t think is loyal to the King. We all know he and his gang of loyalist lackeys burnt down old man Newton’s tavern. They’re worse than the lobsterbacks, if you ask me. He and that rat Hannigan sit at that table, just waiting for a reason to pounce on some poor patriot. I don’t like it one bit, but I can’t do a thing about it. Now, I was just having a bit o’ fun with the lad here. I was going to charge him two coppers for his meal all along. Sit down o’er there,” said the man, “and I’ll bring it out to ya, boy.”
Gabriel handed over some coins out of his pouch. The man behind the counter gave him some change, and he stuck it in his pocket. Carefully picking up his covered drum and satchel, he walked to a table across the room, Grimm’s eyes following him the whole way. He thought about running out the door right then and there, but that would only draw more attention.
Instead, he tried to pretend like he didn’t notice Grimm watching his every move. He put his coin pouch back into his rolled-up blanket and set his drum down on the floor beside him. He took a seat, thinking the farmer who helped him would come introduce himself, but the farmer continued to lean against the bar, not even glancing his way.
After a short while, the barkeep brought out a slice of meat, bread, and a mug of cider. Gabriel dug in. He was famished from all the walking he had done that day. Although the meat was a bit dry and the bread was less than fresh, he didn’t care. He needed the nourishment.
When he was nearly finished, the table of farmers got up to head out the door, but the one who had helped him didn’t leave. He shook hands with his friends at the door, then walked over to Gabriel’s table and pulled up a chair.
The farmer just sat without saying a word. Finally, Gabriel broke the awkward silence. “How do you know that I am headed north to join the militia at Boston? Do you know me from somewhere?”
“I know where you’re headed and what you’re up to because I’m not blind,” said the farmer. “My name is Ben Daniels. I farm not far from here. As far as me knowing where you’re headed, you have a drum with you, do you not?”
“Yes,” replied Gabriel.
“You got mud on your shoes, having walked north all day from New York, have you not? Getting ready to cross the bridge, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” replied Gabriel again.
“And north of here lies Massachusetts, where there has been fighting at Lexington and Concord, and where a militia has been gathering to drive the redcoats out of Boston?”
“Yes . . . yes,” said Gabriel.
“And boys your age have dreams about leading troops into a glorious battle victory, beating your drum as the soldiers march along to the beat?”
“Yes, that’s all true, but I still don’t know how you figured all that out from just looking at me,” said Gabriel.
“I told you I’m not blind,” chuckled Ben. “The one thing I don’t know is where your ma and pa are and why they’re letting such a young lad take off to fight the enemy.”
Gabriel swallowed hard. “My mother and father both died of small pox last year. They only lived a month after getting sick, dying within a week of each other. I got a touch of the pox but never took ill the way they did.”
“I feared as much,” Ben responded with a solemn nod. “The good Lord says for us to help widows and orphans, so I have a few things to say to you. Listen up.” Ben pulled his chair up closer to the table. “Now, you have a long way to go to get to Boston, and you have a lot to learn about being wise to your surroundings. I would let you have a horse of mine if I had one to spare, but I’m afraid I don’t. But I will give you what I do have, and that is my advice, as long as you’re willing to sit here and listen to an old farmer.”
“I will gladly listen, sir,” said Gabriel.
“First things first, what is your name?” asked Ben.
“Gabriel Cooper.”
“Well, Master Cooper, you know all about what happened at Lexington and Concord only just a few weeks ago?”
Not wanting to appear unknowing, Gabriel stuttered, “Of . . . of course.” In truth, he knew very little about what had happened. The newspapers in New York had stories about shots being fired, leading to a skirmish. Patriot papers wrote of blood having been spilled in the name of liberty. Tory papers downplayed the events, exclaiming the success, bravery, and honor of the King’s troops.
Ben looked at him intently. “I said I would give you advice, and here is the first piece. When someone is willing to tell you something that you do not know much about, listen. Even if you are the smartest person in the world, you pretend to be dumb as rock and listen. You are bound to learn something. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” replied Gabriel.
“Now we will try this again. Do you know all about what happened at Lexington and Concord?” asked Ben.
“No, sir,” said Gabriel.
“Much better, my boy,” replied Ben as he slapped the table. “Mind you now, all that I’m about to tell you comes straight from my brother Jacob’s mouth. He’s a blacksmith and a militiaman who has a house in the town of Lexington. It all started late at night when my brother was out taking care of a newborn calf. He heard someone on horseback shouting, ‘The regulars are coming out!’ Turns out it was a man by the name of Revere who spread the word through the Massachusetts countryside. All those militiamen knew to grab their muskets and protect their homes. Old General Gage thought he would be able to walk right in and capture Sam Adams, Hancock, and all the other Sons of Liberty without a fight. Well, he was wrong, by golly. The lobsterbacks got a fight, all right, and decided they best leave Misters Adams and Hancock alone and head on to Concord where the patriots had a supply of weapons and ammunition. Do you understand?” asked Ben.
Gabriel thought for a second. He had heard of Sam Adams and John Hancock and knew the Sons of Liberty spoke for the rights of patriots. He had read in a newspaper that the king was furious and had declared Massachusetts in open rebellion. The king had charged Adams and Hancock with high treason and called for their arrest. But Gabriel had never heard of Revere. “Who is Mr. Revere, and how did he know the regulars were marching out of Boston?”
“Mr. Revere — Paul’s his first name — lived in Boston. He figured that one day the soldiers were bound to leave Boston neck to capture Sam Adams and John Hancock, up in Lexington. He also heard that the redcoats were going to capture the militia’s supply of guns and ammunition. So Revere, along with a few others, formed a plan to alert the militia throughout the Massachusetts countryside as to when the regulars were on the march.”
“How did they get out of Boston without the regulars knowing?” By now Gabriel was mesmerized by Ben’s telling of the events.
“Well, now,” responded Ben, “getting out of Boston was no small feat. One man rode out at night just before the sentries sealed off the neck. Revere, himself, rowed ashore to Charles Town, right between two of His Majesty’s ships. Had the redcoats in those ships seen Revere sneaking across the river that time of night . . . well, he might not have made his ride.”
“I’m glad he was able to sneak past the ships and get out of Boston,” Gabriel responded.
“As am I,” said Ben. “They won the race out of Boston against the British. General Gage’s columns did not leave until a couple of hours after these brave riders had warned the militiamen. About seven hundred regulars marched all night. They reached Lexington Green at about the time the sun was coming up. When they got to the town, right there in front of them at the far edge of the green, stood the militiamen, including my brother, Jacob, guns in hand and standing proud. We should all be proud of these men, Gabriel. My brother and seventy-six men on the Green up against seven hundred of His Majesty’s finest. Those patriots stood their ground. What a sight that would have been . . .” said Ben, trailing off in a trance.
Through Ben’s words, Gabriel could feel the tension and excitement those militiamen must have experienced. To think, he had not even crossed the King’s Bridge yet, and he was already in the presence of the brother of a patriot who had fought the redcoats. “What happened next?” he asked, anxiously waiting to hear more.
“Right, right,” said Ben, “What happened next? Well, the redcoats did not turn away, and neither did the militia. A shot was fired. My brother did not know which side fired it, but after those men heard it, they all started blasting away. The Lexington militia couldn’t hold their ground against so many soldiers, so they had to give way. But that doesn’t mean they gave up the fight. Many of those men, including my brother, followed the king’s soldiers all along their march to Concord. After the regulars met heavy fire from the militia in Concord, they turned around to head back to Boston. By then, the men in surrounding towns heard about what was happening and gathered to make the lobsterbacks sorry for firing lead at their friends and neighbors. They chased them back to Boston. Many a redcoat dropped to the ground. It was a bloody day, Gabriel . . .” Ben’s voice trailed off to silence.
Gabriel sat quietly, waiting for Ben to speak.
“Well, now, Master Cooper, let me tell you this: War is full of blood and misery. But, you know, there are some things worth fighting for, and freedom is one of them. If we had let those troops march through the Massachusetts countryside, capture Sam and John, and then destroy barns and homes that are rightfully ours, we would be living in fear. And living in fear is . . . well, it’s no way to live. We paid the price in blood to make those lobsterbacks think twice about parading about the countryside.”
Gabriel knew what Ben was saying. He remembered what it felt like when the soldiers stayed in their bookstore, all by order of the king. A few years ago, he also witnessed a group of the king’s soldiers barge into William Darby’s print shop near the Cooper’s bookstore and tear apart Mr. Darby’s printing press all because he was suspected of distributing papers denouncing the king and calling him a tyrant. He watched poor Mr. Darby plead with the lieutenant, asking him to identify who falsely accused him. The officer only drew his sword and threatened to run him through. Gabriel’s father tried to help Mr. Darby repair the presses, but they were a total loss. Mr. Darby’s livelihood was ruined. He left New York to work on his brother’s farm in West Jersey. Gabriel’s mother cried when Mr. Darby loaded his cart of his belongings and said his goodbyes to his friends. Gabriel never forgot how angry he was about the way good Mr. Darby was treated that day by that officer.
“Gabriel, mark my words: as long as there are redcoats over here, armed and ready for battle, there will be fear and oppression,” stated Ben. “That is why all the militias are gathered around Boston right now, trying to hold those redcoats to the city. Those militiamen will not leave until the redcoats do.”
“Then I know that is where I belong,” said Gabriel.
Ben looked quietly at Gabriel, his eyes fixed on him. “I don’t know you well, Gabriel Cooper, but I would guess there is more to your story than just a boy running away because he wants to see how a battle looks. You seem to have some wisdom beyond your young years. I am not sure where that comes from in such a young lad, but don’t lose it.”
“It comes from my parents,” answered Gabriel. “They taught me.”
“If you don’t mind, tell me a little more about your ma and pa.”
Gabriel smiled. “My mother, Anne, was born in France. When she was nineteen, her family visited London, and that’s where she met my father, James. As you probably can guess, my mother didn’t return to France with her parents. She and my father fell in love and were married. They saved their money and left England to start a new life in New York.”
“And do you speak French?” asked Ben.
“Oui, monsieur. Je parle Fancais. My mother taught me,” answered Gabriel.
Ben chuckled. “Well then, I am impressed. Use whatever skills it takes for you to reach Boston.” Ben leaned across the table and patted him on the hand.
In that moment, Gabriel thought of how his father used to reach across the dinner table and pat him on the hand while talking to him. A small tear came to his eye. He quickly grabbed his hand away from Ben and wiped the tear that he could now feel tracing down his cheek.
“Well,” stuttered Gabriel abruptly, “I had better get going. I have a long way to go, and I want to cross King’s Bridge before it gets too late.”
Just as he began to stand, the front door of the tavern flew open. Two men stood on either side of a teenage boy a few years older than him. The boy had a large cut across his forehead, and his right eye was filled in with swollen purpled flesh. They dragged the battered boy between them, knocking over several chairs and a table as they brought him before the chiseled face of Bradford Grimm. The entire tavern fell silent as Grimm stood from his table. “What do we have here?”
The two lanky young men holding the boy by the arms stood proudly. The one on the left held his pointed nose in the air and spoke in a nasally tone. “We found him handing out treasonous pamphlets on the north side of the city. He claims he was just doing it to earn a few coppers and that he cannot read. He claims not to know what the pamphlets say.”
With that, the boy spluttered out his plea, “It’s true, sir. I swear it’s true. I ain’t had no teaching on readin’ and writin’. Oh, please, sir, I ain’t got no ma or pa. I just was looking to earn a little coin, that’s all. That’s all, I swear, I swear.”
Grimm slapped the boy across the face. Blood spattered on the table, and the boy began to whimper in pain. “Enough!” shouted Grimm with an air of pompous authority. “I do not believe for a second that you had no knowledge of what you were doing. Give me one of your pamphlets.”
Gabriel’s was furious. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do to Grimm, but he had to do something. These loyalists were beating an innocent boy, who was obviously nothing more than an ignorant street urchin. Gabriel began to stand, but Ben quickly pulled him back down and subtly shook his head, mouthing the word, “No.”
The squat, toad-like man with the dark pudgy eyes ripped off the boy’s coat and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of papers and gave one to Grimm. Grimm scanned over the paper and then looked around the tavern, transfixing his eyes on every occupant as if he were a stage actor about to deliver the most important lines of a performance. “I read to you now the words of Alexander Hamilton, a known traitor to the crown: ‘No man has any moral power to deprive another of his life, limbs, property or liberty; nor the least authority to command, or exact obedience from him; Our King and his Parliament are subversive of our natural liberty,’” he read with growing anger, “‘because an authority is assumed over us, which we by no means assent to! For such authority can never exist while we have no part in the making of the laws that are to bind us!’”
Grimm slammed the pamphlet down on the table. “Treason against the king! Treason, I say!” He continued his gaze around the tavern. “Who among you supports this unnatural rebellion — this rejection of God’s will? Who believes that we are to live without the king’s authority over us? Who is willing to stand for this unholy division that leads us down the road to anarchy, to disorder, to chaos, to treason?”
Gabriel was about to boldly step from the table and confront Grimm. It was no different than standing up against Reverend Loring. Ben’s eyes went wide, and he whispered, “Do not move a muscle. He will kill you.”
Ben’s words froze Gabriel. Kill him? Would this man really kill him?
Gabriel stood motionless as Bradford Grimm continued. “This is the New York that I know. You are the people who are loyal to the king. We are the ones that must help to crush this rebellion.”
Grimm lowered his head, as if his performance was complete. Then he grabbed the boy standing weakly in front of him. With his massive hand, he took the boy’s chin and forced his wobbly head up. “Tell me, boy, who is printing these pamphlets containing the words of a known traitor?”
The boy cowered, clearly expecting another blow. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know,” he sobbed.
Grimm leaned over and yanked the bayonet from his musket. He took its gleaming point and held it next to the boy’s throat. “I will ask this one more time. Who is printing these pamphlets?”
Gabriel could no longer hold himself back. He pushed his chair back and grabbed it firmly in his hands. He was about to fling it at Grimm, when, suddenly, the boy croaked out an answer. “Cavendish. The man where I got the pamphlets . . . his name is Cavendish. He has a store in the city. That’s all I know, I swear.”
Grimm let the bayonet fall away from the boy’s throat. As he did, Gabriel released his grip on the chair. Grimm reattached his bayonet and then raised his musket in the air. “You will take us to this Cavendish. Who will go with me to weed out this rebel?”
Grimm’s men whooped around him and. A few other men in the tavern joined the mob and stormed out of the tavern. Gabriel sat at the table, his heart still racing. Ben must have sensed Gabriel’s shock and anger. He spoke in a soothing voice. “I know you wanted to help, but it would not have done any good. Bradford Grimm is a twisted man. There was nothing we could have done to help that boy.”
Gabriel swallowed hard. “Will they let him live?”
Ben nodded. “I suspect they will, for now. But I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that traitors are hanged.”
Gabriel didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He just sat in silence trying to comprehend all that had happened.
Ben went up to the tavern keeper, said something to the man, and passed him what looked to be some coins. He returned to the table and told Gabriel, “There is a room upstairs for you here tonight. You need a good night’s rest before you set out from Manhattan Island.”
“But —”
“But nothing, son. You listen to me. Your journey will be long and full of peril. What you saw here tonight is just a taste of the turmoil that is about to begin. You are among friends here. You need your rest. Now, you get on upstairs.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Gabriel in disbelief.
“No need to thank me. A couple more important things, though, before I leave,” said Ben. “First, there are likely to be loyalists just like Bradford Grimm along the Post Road between King’s Bridge and Boston. When you hear hoof beats approaching, you best get off the side of the road and into the grass or bushes. If they find a young lad toting a drum, they’re not likely to believe you’re just out for a Sunday stroll. They’ll know where you’re headed and with whom you’re aiming to join.”
“I had been doing this when I first started out, since I was still so close to New York. I will continue to do so, if you think it a good idea.”
“That I do. Second, I know your ma and pa and the good Lord tell you not to lie, but there are times when a lie can serve a higher and nobler cause. There’s nothing wrong with telling a lie to save your hide, lad, so that you might reach Boston and serve this fight for freedom well. Does that make sense to you, son?”
Gabriel had never really given any thought to having to lie. His parents had always been honest people. He had heard the Reverend Loring teach that lying lips were an abomination to the Lord. But the Bible also said not to murder one another, and certainly men had to die at the hand of another man in battle. With these thoughts swimming in his mind, he muttered, “I guess it makes sense.”
“Well, I don’t expect you to understand things that philosophers and theologians have struggled to understand for centuries. Now, there is one more important thing I need to tell you before I leave. There’s someone you need to find when you reach the militia camps around Boston. Ask for a man named Nathaniel Greene. He’s a cousin of mine from Rhode Island, and he’s as cunning as wild turkey, strong as an ox, and courageous as a lion. My brother writes that Nathaniel has his own band of militia — Rhode Islanders — and is headed up to help with things in Boston. You find him and tell him that Ben Daniels sent you to him. Knowing Nathaniel, he’s liable to want some kind of proof that you know me. You tell him that you know he didn’t catch that thirty-pound cod fish out in the bay with his line and bait. Crazy thing jumped in our rowboat. We told everyone in town that he caught it. We were just boys and didn’t think any harm would come of it, but it’s something I’m sure he’s never forgotten.”
“I will find him, and I will tell him,” said Gabriel, a smile beginning to break out across his face.
“That a boy. The codfish story is sure to catch his attention. Now, I better get going, young Master Cooper. The missus is probably wondering if I got lost.” Ben stood up, put a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, and patted him on the back. “You’ll be a fine soldier, Gabriel Cooper, but I don’t think you’ll have much use for that drum of yours.”
Gabriel gave Ben a puzzled look and said, “I’m not sure what you mean, but I do thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“I don’t believe there are many things in this life that happen just by chance,” replied Ben. “And our meeting tonight surely was not one of them.” Then he turned and headed out the door into the night.
Keeping his drum concealed under his coat, Gabriel headed up to his room for the night. As he lay alone in his bed, he thought about Bradford Grimm. Feelings of anger and fear swam in his head. He was angry that loyalists like Grimm could inflict so much pain and loss and then turn around and claim they were carrying out God’s will for the glory of the king. He felt sick to his stomach just thinking about it.
Despite his rage, he was scared. Opposing loyalists — and the king’s soldiers, for that matter — could mean death. He had never really thought about the danger he placed himself in just by carrying a drum to Boston, but he could see the danger now.
He thought for a brief moment about going back. It wasn’t too late. He could drop the drum anywhere and head back. But head back to what? There was nothing for him in New York — nothing but painful memories and the detestable Lorings.
He had no choice but to continue, and with his drum in tow. Despite what Ben said about him not needing it, Gabriel believed it was central to his plan. Without his drum, he had no hope of ever finding a militia that would want to take him on as a recruit. He was too young and too inexperienced.
He blew out his candle and tried to empty his head of the hundreds of thoughts bouncing around inside. Finally sleep came.