Filigree let Frances run on ahead. He turned back toward the shipyard and the loyalist dogs.
He couldn’t let them follow Frances. If they did, they’d find Mr. Revere. They’d start up a yapping that could wake King George himself across the ocean. Redcoats would come running.
He dashed into the shipyard and waited. He could see a half-built ship, a schooner, looming up on a frame. It looked like a giant’s wooden skeleton. A foxhound stepped from the shadows beneath it.
“Hello, Queenie,” Filigree said.
The leader of the loyalist dogs stood very still. Her tail curved high above her. “Why, look who’s here,” she said. “If it isn’t that little turncoat, Pudding.” She didn’t snarl, like Jove might have. She sounded cool and calm. Which was much worse.
Her pack marched out of the darkness at the edges of the shipyard. They formed two straight lines behind Queenie. Filigree recognized a tall poodle named Chaucer, and Biscuit and Gravy, twin terriers. Half a dozen other dogs—setters, mastiffs, collies—stood with them. They were all perfectly washed and combed and trimmed. But they were tough. And they were all bigger than Filigree.
“Forward!” ordered Queenie. The pack stalked toward Filigree in formation. They crossed the big square of ground where the boats were built. They surrounded him beneath the moonlight.
“He’s not Pudding anymore,” Biscuit said. “He has a new name now.”
“What is it?” Gravy laughed. “Custard?”
Filigree growled. He loved his name. Frances had given it to him.
“It’s Filigree,” Queenie said. “Because he belongs to that traitor silversmith. The spy Paul Revere. You know what we do to traitors and spies, don’t you, Filigree?”
The entire pack lowered their heads and growled.
“We dump them in the river,” Chaucer woofed.
Filigree couldn’t let them get to the river and see Mr. Revere!
What would Jove do? He would stop them!
Earlier, in the fight with the Redcoats, Filigree’s aim had been off. This time, he’d do better.
“You just try it!” he woofed.
He hurled himself at Queenie as hard as he could.
It felt like hitting a brick wall. He fell. Before he could get back up, Biscuit shoved him with his muzzle. Filigree rolled over twice. He jumped on Biscuit’s back. Gravy knocked him off.
“Take the little traitor prisoner!” barked Queenie. “To the river!” The loyalist pack closed in on Filigree. A big collie picked him up by the scruff of his neck. Filigree struggled as hard as he could. It did no good.
Then Filigree heard loud barking and paws running up the street. Rosie, Scout, and the other patriot dogs raced into the shipyard. They jumped on the loyalists.
“We heard Queenie!” Scout growled.
“We told you to stay out of our way!” Rosie barked. She butted at the collie until he dropped Filigree. “We have better things to do tonight than rescue you!”
“I don’t need rescuing!” Filigree barked, even though it wasn’t true.
He watched Rosie chase Chaucer back under the skeleton ship. Scout and a large hound struggled with Queenie. Filigree scrambled toward them.
“Get out of here!” cried Scout. “You can’t do any good!” Filigree wanted to sink into the ground.
“I’m staying to fight!” he woofed.
But he couldn’t. Frances needed him to help her watch over Mr. Revere. He had to go to her, no matter what the patriot pack thought of him.
It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but Filigree ran from the shipyard. The sounds of the fight got farther away. He saw a small dark shape moving down Lynn Street toward him. Frances was coming back for him. He ran to meet her.
“There you are!” Frances panted. “I saw Papa go down Freeman’s wharf!”
All along the river, wharves stuck out into the water. Filigree and Frances raced toward one of them. At the end of it, Mr. Revere moved like a dark ghost. As they watched, he jumped down under the wharf.
“He must have a boat hidden!” Frances whispered.
Filigree’s nose twitched.
Gunpowder. Damp wool.
Three Redcoats rounded the corner and marched down the wharf—right toward Mr. Revere.
