Gabriel awoke cold, stiff, and wet. A gray drizzle filled the sky, and, at first, it was hard for him to tell if it was day or night. With his eyes blurred by the dripping rain, he wiped his sleeve over his face and looked out at the world. He stood and stretched but soon realized stretching would not make him feel any better.
In fact, the more he moved, the worse he felt. He blamed his lack of energy on his side, which still ached from Hannigan’s kick. He grabbed his pack, left the tree, and wandered back out to the road. As he moved, he felt a funny cringe in his throat. Still, he pressed on for most of the day in the continuous cold rain. He had to reach Boston soon.
With no sun, he had no idea what time it was. He felt as if he had been walking forever. Suddenly, he felt really warm. The warmth felt good at first, but then it seemed to zap every ounce of energy left in him. He stopped a moment on the road. As he did, the warmth disappeared and he shook uncontrollably. He was so cold he felt paralyzed. He dropped to the ground and tried to warm himself.
Gabriel realized he was ill. Could he make it back to the innkeeper whose fire he had sat by the day before? No. He would only go forward. He had to press on to get to Boston before the ships.
He pulled himself up off the muddy road and began to walk again. His head began to pound. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but when he shut them, his mind began to spin.
All along his route, he’d wanted to avoid other travelers, until now. He would have rejoiced to see anyone coming up the road with a horse and carriage, but no one came. Gabriel slogged on through the muddy road. He had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. He only hoped that he was headed in the right direction. Not even having the strength to hold up his head, he began to stumble. His drum and pack of belongings hung alongside him, dragging through the mud.
Gabriel’s foot hit a rock or branch in the mud, and he fell. He was so weak, he couldn’t even bring his arm up to help break his fall. As his face hit the mud, he thought for a brief moment how cool it felt. He didn’t think he could get up. He didn’t want to get up. He couldn’t even muster the strength to raise his head out of the mud. Would he end up like his parents, unable to recover from a sudden, overwhelming sickness?
Gabriel stretched out his arm and felt something hard. Was this what he tripped over? He felt it with his hand. It was a stone of some sort. He could feel letters etched in the surface. Was it a gravestone? Had he stumbled into a cemetery? How fitting, he thought.
His curiosity sparked enough strength that he was able to raise his head. Peering through the murky rain and his dangling wet hair, he pulled his eyes closer to the etching in the stone. He made out the writing. N-E-W H-A-V-E-N.
New Haven. That’s just what I need, thought Gabriel, a new haven out of this rain and sickness. He saw some more writing . . . 1 M-I-L-E.
New Haven one mile.
“One mile . . . one mile.” Mumbling the words to himself over and over again, he finally comprehended the meaning of the stone marker he just tripped over. It was a mile marker along the Boston Post Road, and it was only one mile to the town of New Haven, Connecticut.
Only one mile. I can’t give up when I’m so close. Gabriel slowly pulled himself up. He grasped hold of the marker to pull himself to his feet, tugged at his drum and pack, and stumbled back onto the road. Through all this, the rain continued, but it didn’t matter to him. He could have been walking through the bottom of the ocean or the driest of deserts. He only had one thing in mind: making it one more mile.
With blurred vision, Gabriel walked on senselessly. He thought he heard something up ahead. It sounded like voices, but he was unsure of anything now. Then he saw the blurry rain-soaked vision of a building ahead. A house? He careened up to the door and knocked once with every last ounce of strength he could muster. He slid down alongside the door and waited. As he slid down, he prayed the person who answered the door would not be a loyalist. He shut his eyes and leaned against the door.
He felt his head begin to fall as the door opened. Helplessly, he fell across the doorstep. He looked up, only able to open his blurry eyes halfway, seeing what looked like a girl standing over him.
“Oh my!” she gasped. The girl dragged him into the house and shut the door to keep out the wind and the rain. Gabriel was barely conscious now. He tried to speak, but he could not form the words.
“Constance,” the girl shouted to a smaller girl, “Stoke the fire. We need to warm this boy up.” Out of the corner of his half-open eyes, Gabriel saw a small girl run over to the fire. A few years younger than Gabriel, she had dark black hair that came down to her shoulders. She threw some pieces of wood on the fire and poked it with an iron rod.
Flames soon began to jump up, and Constance declared, “Malinda, the fire’s going now.” Both girls pulled Gabriel up to a chair that was close to the hearth. Next, they pulled off his coat and took off his shoes. Although Gabriel was grateful, this kind attention did nothing to increase his strength. Malinda, the older of the two girls, placed her hand on his forehead. She, too, had dark black hair, but it flowed down longer than her sister’s. He was able to see her dark eyes and her skin, tanned by the sun. She wore a simple linen dress and appeared to be as tall as Gabriel. “By the grace of the good Lord, this boy is burning up with fever,” Malinda said. “Father won’t be back until dark, but this boy needs help now.”
“We could go fetch the druggist,” said Constance.
“Yes, Mr. Arnold. With Doctor Brown gone to Boston, he’ll have to do. He’ll be able to give the boy some medicine,” replied Malinda. “Constance, put your cloak on, and run to Mr. Arnold’s shop. I do hope he is there. You know how he travels about.”
“Yes. I will run as fast as I can.” Constance pulled on her woolen cloak and ran through the door at full speed.
Even though Gabriel was seated next to the fire, he was still shivering and too weak to speak. He gazed into the flames of the fire — orange, red, and then blue — then closed his eyes. The flames continued to dance in his mind as he began to dream. Bradford Grimm was now standing before him. Grimm, instead of Malinda and Constance, had opened the door for Gabriel. In place of his faded red jacket, he was now arrayed in the bright red colors of the king’s own soldiers. The fire glinted and gleamed off his uniform’s brass buttons and silver trimmings.
He picked Gabriel up, shook him, and threw him across the room. Gabriel lay curled on the floor when his parents suddenly appeared through the door. Grimm rushed at them. Gabriel tried to warn his parents, but he could not speak. Grimm knocked his parents down and drew some rope from his jacket. He tied their hands and feet and forced them to stand against a wall. He took his musket from his shoulder and raised it at his parents.
All Gabriel could see was Grimm’s bayonet, with its shiny glow of sharpened steel gleaming at the end of the musket. Grimm drew it closer and closer to his parents. Then, suddenly, a British ship came bursting through the door, blasting its cannons. The whole room was shaking.
“Boy, boy . . . BOY! Can you hear me?”
Gabriel looked up, expecting to see a room filled with cannon smoke but, instead, saw the face of the girl who had let him in. He was able to nod his head once.
“Constance has returned with Mr. Arnold. He has brought you some medicine.”
A finely dressed man stood beside Gabriel and looked him over. “Boy, I’m going to need you to drink something. I’ll tell you now, it will not taste good. If you spit it out, I will not give you more. Without this medicine you will remain very ill and may die. Do you understand me?”
Gabriel nodded slightly.
“Malinda, do you have any wine for me to mix with the quinine medicine?” asked Mr. Arnold. “I could mix it with water, but it has such a horribly bitter taste that masking it with some wine usually helps it go down.”
“Yes,” replied Malinda. “I will run to the cellar and fetch some.”
Malinda returned with a bottle of wine and a cup. Mr. Arnold took the bottle and poured some of the wine into the cup. Then, pulling a small paper envelope from his pocket, Mr. Arnold used his knife to cut a small slit and tapped the envelope three times on the edge of the cup. A fine white powder fell through the slit and into the cup. “A spoon to stir this, please,” Mr. Arnold requested.
Constance returned with a spoon and, with a few stirs, the mixture was ready. “Help prop his head up, girls. It is very important he drinks all of this.” Mr. Arnold held the cup to Gabriel’s lips. “Remember what I said. Down the hatch, all of it.”
The quinine and wine slowly dribbled into Gabriel’s mouth. As weak as he was, he immediately felt the urge to spew this bitter drink from his mouth. But he sent the mixture to the back of his throat, trying to keep it from touching his tongue, and swallowed until the whole cup was gone.
“Well done, my boy, well done,” exclaimed Mr. Arnold. “A tough one, girls. I give good odds he will recover from the fever if he is able to stomach that much quinine without spilling a drop.” Mr. Arnold looked at Malinda and Constance. “Wherever did this boy come from?”
“We do not know,” responded Malinda. “There was just a knock on the door, and he fell in when I opened it. He had these things with him.” Malinda pointed to Gabriel’s sack and drum, which were placed in the corner.
Mr. Arnold looked at the drum. “I have my guesses, at least, about where this boy is headed and what he wishes to do when he gets there.”
At that moment, the door to the house opened. Malinda and Constance ran to the man standing at the door, himself rather wet, and hugged him.
“Oh, Father, come sit down by the fire. We have so much to tell you.”
The girls’ father stepped inside and said stiffly, “Why, Mr. Benedict Arnold, I didn’t expect to see you here. Is someone sick?”
“Well, yes. Young Constance came to the apothecary and said a boy had come by with a horrible fever and you were gone. She needed me to give him some medicine straight away.”
The girls’ father stepped toward the fire and saw Gabriel in the chair.
“I gave him some quinine. He is a strong lad. Took it all down. He has been toting a drum around. I do not know this for a fact, but I would guess he is a drummer boy, probably trying to join up with the militia gathering around Boston. He must have walked some distance. He certainly has been out in the cold rain for the past couple of days.”
“A drummer boy?” questioned the girls’ father. “Well, God bless the lad. We will do our best to help him recover.”
“I will leave this packet of quinine. Give him two doses a day. The girls saw me mix it. Just do the same as I did, Malinda.”
Constance and Malinda nodded at Benedict Arnold.
Their father stepped to the table and laid down three dead rabbits. “Rabbit stew!” exclaimed Constance. “Can Mr. Arnold stay for dinner, Father?”
Her father looked awkwardly at Constance and then at Arnold, but before he could say anything, Arnold broke the uncomfortable silence. “No, no, thank you, Constance. I have to get back to the store. There is much to get done before my own departure to aid in our fight against the king. I have word from General Israel Putnam that I am to organize our Connecticut men to go to Boston.”
“Maybe if the boy recovers quickly, you can take him with your Connecticut men,” said Malinda.
“That may be, but what if your father wants to keep the boy here to help in the fields this spring? Besides, he is a rather handsome-looking chap, don’t you think?” Arnold gave a wink and a smile to Malinda, which made her blush. “I will consider taking him with me. No doubt that I probably have another week’s worth of preparation and will certainly stop by to check in on the lad before I go.”
With that, Benedict Arnold put on his coat and hat, gave a short bow to the girls, and stepped to the door. “Good evening,” he said as he gently pulled the door shut behind him. The girls’ father turned and looked at them with thoughtful eyes. “There goes a man full of ambition. Ambition which I pray will be used wholeheartedly to fight the redcoats.”