Filigree slid down to the bottom of the saddlebag. Brown Beauty landed on all four hooves and began to trot.
He stuck his nose out from under the flap. He felt Brown Beauty go from the jolt-jolt-jolt of trotting to the smooth flow of a gallop. She ran faster than Filigree had ever moved before.
The scents of the town flew back and forth under Filigree’s nose. River water. Pigs. Chickens. Smoke from dying hearth fires.
Mr. Revere turned Brown Beauty onto Charlestown Common. Filigree smelled marsh grass and mud.
Then he sniffed it. Gunpowder and wool.
Redcoats. Mr. Revere was riding straight toward them.
“Brown Beauty!” Filigree woofed softly. “Stop!”
She didn’t hear him. Her hooves kept pounding against the dirt. Filigree threw himself against the saddlebag, trying to make it slam against Brown Beauty’s side. Nothing happened.
He pushed his head out of the saddlebag, then wriggled his front paws and chest through. Just then, Brown Beauty leaped over a fallen branch and Filigree almost bounced out. He held on for his life.
They were getting closer to the Redcoats. There was only one thing to do.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” he barked.
Brown Beauty flicked back her ears. Mr. Revere looked down. He saw Filigree.
“What the . . . ?” he spluttered.
He pulled up on Brown Beauty’s reins and she stopped.
“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. How did you get here? I TOLD YOU TO GO HOME.” Mr. Revere was whispering, but he was so angry, it was worse than shouting. He shook his finger at Filigree, and Filigree wanted to cry. His tail fell between his legs, and his ears went flat against his head.
But he couldn’t take the time to cry now. He strained in the direction the scent was coming from. It was up ahead, under a cluster of trees.
He whimpered a tiny whimper, trying to be as quiet as he could. Frantically he pointed with his nose. A dark shadow moved, just a little, under one of the birch trees. There were two Redcoats sitting on horseback, hiding under the branches.
Mr. Revere saw. His eyes widened.
He turned and galloped.
The Redcoats had seen him. They kicked their horses into a gallop. One was coming straight for Brown Beauty. The other raced ahead onto the road. He was trying to head off Mr. Revere!
But Mr. Revere was the best rider in Boston, and Brown Beauty was the fastest horse in Massachusetts. Mr. Revere cut across the road toward a hedge. Brown Beauty jumped it. The Redcoat’s horse tried to follow, but he wouldn’t jump the hedge. The soldier ahead on the road tried to catch up, but Brown Beauty was too fast for him. The soldier gave up the chase and turned back.
“Scruffy Yankee rebel!” his horse shouted at Brown Beauty.
“You just wish you were as fast as she is!” Filigree woofed back.
Brown Beauty whinnied a laugh. “No snobby Redcoat could ever catch me!” she taunted. She sped up. Filigree felt the wind stream past his ears. He knew they were in danger. But he couldn’t help enjoying himself.
When they had gotten farther away from the soldiers, Mr. Revere slowed Brown Beauty to a walk. He whistled low through his teeth. “I never would have seen them in time. I would have ridden straight into them.” He looked down at Filigree. Filigree peeked anxiously out of the saddlebag. Was Mr. Revere still angry with him?
“You sensed them before I did, didn’t you? Or smelled them? Good dog,” he murmured. He scooped Filigree out of the saddlebag. He put him into his own leather bag, the one he wore across his chest. “You let me know right away, now,” he said, “if you smell any more of them.”
Filigree’s tail thumped against Mr. Revere’s chest.
They galloped on. But soon Mr. Revere signaled Brown Beauty to slow down again. Filigree was puzzled.
“Are we at Lexington already?” he asked Brown Beauty.
“You don’t know anything, do you?” the horse answered.
Mr. Revere turned onto a narrow dirt path that led to a small farmhouse. He leaped off Brown Beauty and knocked on the door.
A woman opened it. Mr. Revere said quietly, “The Regulars are coming out. Have you got someone to ride to Sudbury to alert their militia? We need all of our Minutemen to get to Concord.”
The woman nodded. “Our boy Jed’s ready and waiting.”
Now Filigree understood. “He’s trying to get more people to ride to Concord!” he said to Brown Beauty.
“Glad you’re catching up,” Brown Beauty snorted.
“Quiet, now,” the woman whispered to Mr. Revere. “The Fenwicks across the road are loyal to the crown. Too many families around here are loyalists.”
As Mr. Revere walked back to Brown Beauty, Filigree saw him glance uneasily across the road.
“I have an idea,” he said to Filigree. “Do exactly what I say.”
From then on, when they stopped at a house, Mr. Revere didn’t knock. Instead he lifted Filigree from his bag and whispered, “Speak.” Filigree barked softly until someone in the house woke up and came to the door. Then Mr. Revere leaned in to whisper to them, “The Regulars are coming out,” and slipped quietly away.
One farmer leaned over to scratch Filigree’s ears. “That’s clever,” he muttered. “Loyalists might wonder what was up if they heard a knock on their neighbor’s door in the middle of the night. No one is going to think about a quiet bark or two.”
“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Brown Beauty grumbled to Filigree as they galloped away.
They rode on, warning patriots along the way. Finally they crossed Lexington Common in the darkness.
“We did it, boy,” Mr. Revere said low.
Filigree felt warm all over. His fur was no longer damp, but it wasn’t that. It was a glow that started deep inside him. Now he knew, for certain, that he was helping Mr. Revere and the patriots. “There it is,” Mr. Revere murmured. “Reverend Clarke’s house. Time to wake up Adams and Hancock.”
He spurred Brown Beauty forward.