With no idea where he would go or what he would do, Gabriel decided to walk to the one place he’d found some peace in the days after his parents’ deaths. He had spent hours sitting on the edge of the East River, watching the ships come into the docks to have their cargos of tea, glass, furniture, spices, cloth, and all other types of English finery unloaded and then reloaded with cargos of grain, tobacco, and furs. The bustle of the work and the beauty of the ships helped take his mind away from his pain. Before the Lorings had taken him in, he even thought of stowing away on one of the ships anchored in the harbor.
Perhaps now he could sail off and leave his anguish behind. But he knew what could happen to stowaways if they were discovered. They faced a life of hard labor to work off payment for passage, or worse still, a toss over the side rail into the ocean.
He walked toward Queen Street to head south to the docks. With the sun beginning to set, the two- and three-story buildings cast their shadows on the streets. He’d just rounded the corner onto Queen Street when a swarthy-looking boy about his age sidled up alongside him. “You wouldn’t happen to have a copper to spare for a poor boy like myself, would you?”
Gabriel looked at the boy, his clothes tattered and dirty. In contrast, Gabriel’s clean and tidy appearance must have made the boy think he had some wealth. “I don’t have any coppers to spare,” replied Gabriel. As he spoke, he saw another silent, smaller boy slinking along in the shadows.
“What about a piece of bread or cheese?” continued the swarthy boy. “I am a Christian boy, you know. Go to church every Sunday. No ill living for me. Clean as a mountain stream, am I.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel saw the small boy dart from the shadows. Quickly Gabriel tucked his sack full of belongings under his arm and kicked out at the small boy as he flew past him. The kick was enough to send the boy sprawling to the ground. The older boy began to reach for Gabriel’s sack, but before his grubby hands could grab it, Gabriel screamed out as loud as he could, “Pickpockets!”
A woman across the street caught a glimpse of what was going on and also began to scream. The pickpocket boys knew that once the alarm was sounded, their work for the night was over. Soon a constable would appear, and if someone got a good look at their faces, their work as pickpockets might be over for good. They ran down an alley and back into the shadows.
Orphans were drawn to these gangs of pickpockets like flies to honey, not only to earn a living by lifting purses, but also to belong to a family again. As Gabriel watched the boys dash back into the shadows, he saw himself. Was this his destiny — to become a scrawny pickpocket? What would his mother and father say? They would be ashamed, of course, but they couldn’t have known how much he longed to have a family again, even if it was with a gang of thieves.
He looked out at the East River as it came into view and tried to clear his thoughts of pickpockets, holding his sack close to him. The sky began to turn orange with the setting sun, and the river began to glow as if it was on fire. He went to the stony beach where he had found some of his treasures over the past month. The knife and flint rock had floated to shore in a small wooden box, and the flask had just enough air trapped in it for him to find it bobbing a few feet out in the water.
Gabriel sat on a piece of driftwood on the stone-covered beach and looked out over the rippling water. A few lanterns glowed on the boats anchored out in the river. The lights bobbed gently up and down with the gentle waves rolling across the water. As he sat watching the lights, something along the shore caught his eye. The fading sunlight reflected off something in the water. It bobbed up and down, floating toward the shore.
Gabriel stood and took a few steps to the very edge of the water. The river lapped up against the soles of his leather shoes as he peered out over the water. Unsure what this strange object floating in on the tide might be, he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and waded out into the river. The rocks at the bottom hurt Gabriel’s feet, but his mind was focused on grabbing whatever bobbed in front of him. He reached down into the water and pulled upward to reveal a drum with a tangled strap dangling down into the water. The instrument was waterlogged and caked in mud, but he thought it could be salvaged. He was used to salvaging things that others tossed aside.
He leaned down, stuck the drum back in the water, and rubbed his hands over it, loosening the mud caked along the sides and bottom. Picking it back up out of the water, he looked at it proudly. It had a certain shine to it now as he held it up to the glowing sky.
Gabriel walked back over to the log and set the drum down in front of him. The drum skin still seemed tight. He tapped it lightly, and it gave a soggy ring. A drum . . . what could he do with a drum? He could try to sell it, but he wasn’t sure what kind of price it would bring. The demand for drums in New York wasn’t high, not like in Boston, where some ten thousand troops had gathered to drive the hated redcoats from town. The British had sailed their ships into Boston Harbor and taken over the town, driving out any citizens that were not loyal to the crown. Selling the drum in New York might not even buy a single day’s worth of food, but in Boston, some drummer boy would undoubtedly pay well to have his own drum.
Still, even in New York, he’d seen soldiers marching to the cadence of a drum played by a boy about his age. He loved the rolling sound of the drums and how that sound led the soldiers’ every step, perfectly timed to the rhythm. If only he knew how to play the drum, he could be a drummer boy.
A vision came to him. It felt as if a candle had been lit in a dark and lonely space. All the shadows were gone, and a path had opened. He would not sell this drum in New York or even in Boston. This was his drum, and he would learn to play it.
When his parents were alive, he often read books to learn how to do new and interesting things. Maybe he could find a book to teach him how to play the drum. Maybe someone else could teach him. Surely there were other drummer boys around Boston that could help him learn.
Boston was far away, and Gabriel had no horse and very little money. Still, he and his drum belonged there. He felt it. The excitement of this decision was nearly overwhelming. Why couldn’t he journey to Boston to join a militia and fight against the tyrant king? He had good walking legs that carried him all over New York. He wouldn’t have to stow away on a boat or join a family of thieving pickpockets. Nobler work awaited him.
By now, the sun was throwing its last rays of light on the world. It would be dark soon, and he didn’t want to stay a minute longer in the city. His mind was set, and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone to turn him away. With the drum over his shoulder and his meager belongings tied up in a small blanket, he turned away from the East River and began walking.
Gabriel had never been outside New York. He knew that Boston was some two hundred miles north along the Post Road, but other than that, he wasn’t sure how he was going to get to there. Boarding a ship to Boston wouldn’t be possible. He’d read in newspapers that the Royal Navy was more vigilant than ever in Boston’s harbor, since the destruction of the tea on Griffin’s Wharf over a year ago. No merchant ships were allowed to leave or enter the port without special approval by the king. He would have to travel by land to Boston and cross King’s Bridge at the very northern tip of the island of Manhattan.
Gabriel wound his way through the city streets, heading north. He stopped when he came to Cherry Street. Pausing, he couldn’t help but look down the street where his old home stood. He was ready to leave New York, but not before saying goodbye to the last place where he was loved. His father’s old bookstore was only a few buildings down. It was a simple store with room for the Coopers to live above the shop.
After the Lorings took in Gabriel, he sometimes wandered out and stood in front of the building, remembering the happy life he had known there. His father, James, had worked hard as a clerk to a London bookseller before sailing to the colonies with his new bride, Anne-Laurel, in tow. In a matter of months, he was able to open up this bookstore in New York. He was so proud of his shop.
Not long after the Coopers’ arrival in New York, Gabriel was born. Blessed with this one and only child, the following years were good for the Coopers, and James was able to stock his shop with books from France and England. Gabriel learned to read at a young age and spent as much time as he could in his father’s bookstore. Like his father, he loved books. His mother taught him to read and write French, as well. Although he went to school, he learned most of what he knew from his parents and from reading books.
Those afternoons in his father’s bookstore seemed like a distant memory now as he stood in front of the dark windows. When his father and mother died, creditors came and took James Cooper’s books as payment for debts he owed. The bookstore and room above it were taken too. After that, it lay empty and dark.
Now, in the empty street, Gabriel said goodbye to the bookstore and his parents one last time. “Father and Mother, I hope you understand that I cannot stay here and keep an eye on the empty shop anymore. I found a drum in the river today, and I know it may sound strange, but I’m going to go to Boston to be a drummer in a militia. I don’t know how to play yet, but I’ll learn. You always taught me to decide on a path and not stray from it. Well, this is the path I’m choosing. I hope you understand, and I hope to make you proud. I love you always.”
With that, Gabriel turned away. He could no longer hold back his tears. Misty-eyed, he could barely see where he was going as he crossed the Broad Way to reach Lispenard’s meadows. The air was clear and warm for an April night, and the frogs and crickets began their nighttime serenade. He found a large oak tree in the middle of a meadow not far from the dirt road he was on and decided it was as good a place as any to rest for the night. He spread out his blanket and lay down, gazing up at the stars.
A gentle breeze rustled the branches overhead, and as he looked up at the night sky, he wondered how many nights he would have to spend sleeping under the stars before he reached Boston. He figured he could walk twenty miles a day, which meant it would take him at least a couple of weeks to get there. He had shillings to buy food along the way, but he certainly did not have enough to pay for a room every night of his journey. Yes, sleeping under the stars was something he’d have to get used to. As these thoughts drifted through his head, he dozed off and did not wake until the morning light shone upon his face.