Boston, Massachusetts
July 3, 1791
“Tell me it is not true.” Samuel Adams stood ramrod straight, staring at the closed door of his guest room.
“It is.”
If Adams harbored any doubts about the gravity of the situation, Revere’s wan face and trembling hands drove it home. The silversmith collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Adams drew up a chair opposite him.
“What happened?”
Revere spread his fingers and looked between them at Adams. “The carriage had just pulled up in front of your house. A shot rang out and he slumped forward. He never uttered a sound.” He sat up and rested his hands in his lap. “They heard a second shot, but it must have missed. His guards chased after the assassin while we brought him inside.”
Adams had heard the shots, but never dreamed what they meant. “Where was he hit?” Adams realized he was holding his breath while he awaited the reply.
“The base of his skull. It is a grievous wound.”
Adams let his breath out all in a rush. A cold certainty filled him. “Is there any hope?”
Revere shook his head. “I don’t think so. He was still talking as we carried him in, but I’ve never seen anyone survive such a wound.”
“What shall we do? Our union is weak. This could shatter us.”
Revere raised his palms in a gesture of defeat.
They waited in silence for the physician. There was so much Adams wanted to say, but the words would not come. Finally, John Hart stepped out of the room and closed the door gently behind him.
A highly respected surgeon who had served admirably in the Revolution, there was no one Adams trusted more in this situation. Hart began to speak, but choked on his works. Adams and Revere looked away to permit him a moment to compose himself.
“I have done what I can for him,” Hart finally managed.
“And?” Adams already knew what Hart’s reply would be, but he felt compelled to ask.
“I fear he will not last the night.”
Adams kept an iron grip on his emotions. There would be time later to grieve. Right now, he needed full command of his faculties. He turned to Revere. “Gather the others. The old meeting place at midnight.”
Revere, rendered mute by despair, clasped hands with Hart and Adams, and hastily departed.
“You may see him if you wish.” Hart sounded exhausted, or perhaps it was despair that rendered his voice weak as a newborn babe’s. “He is awake, though I’m not certain he is aware of his surroundings.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
Adams saw Hart to the door, then returned to the sick room. He paused, his hand hovering above the doorknob, and steeled himself. Of all the trials he had faced for the cause of freedom, nothing had prepared him for this.
“May God help us,” he whispered. His hand shaking, he opened the door and stepped inside.