9

MIDMORNING, THE DAY cool and bright, I set out to see the printers. Many soldiers were on the streets. Missing were traders, mechanics, vendors, and clergy. And mind, the city had more than two hundred churches. Children were scarce. Citizens were dazed and wary and appeared to keep their distance one from another.

What a contrast to the British soldiers. They strode about like the loud, boisterous victors they were, devils of fear and disorder. They repeatedly made ill-mannered remarks to civilians, to women more than men. Hoping to avoid their indelicacy, I worked to look the other way.

I went first to Mr. Rivington’s shop at the other end of Wall Street, where he had his press. He also sold books and medicines, like Bateman’s Golden Spirit of Scurvy Grass, which Mother once made me take, and Dr. Ryan’s Incomparable Worm-Destroying Sugar Plumbs, which, thankfully, she did not. The place was closed, but a man who was loitering about told me Mr. Rivington was yet in London, where he had fled from the Sons of Liberty some time ago.

I walked on to Hanover Square, in the southern part of town, the wealthy ward. Though called a square, it was in fact, triangular. Right off Queen Street, it had fine houses, both wood and brick, along with shops, business establishments, and taverns. Fortunately, it was untouched by the fire.

Mr. Gaine had a three-story building, with a sign depicting a Bible and a crown, his mark. He and his family lived above, while the lower floor was where he had his press, which produced his newspaper, the Mercury.

I walked in. The smell of printer’s ink, a mix of varnish and lampblack, filled the air. Mr. Gaine published books and sold goods ranging from dice boxes and paper to reading glasses, lead pencils, medicines, plus many small items of general utility. One wall bore samples of the blank legal forms that he also printed: mortgages, deeds, invoices, and the like. Another wall had upper and lower cases of type—with many small compartments. From ceiling rafters, sheets of damp paper hung in readiness for printing.

The room was centered by the large wooden press with its stone form for holding the type, the crank that rolled the paper forward, and the screw and lever, which pressed type to paper.

On the floor was a boy on his hands and knees.

As I watched, he picked up some bits and put them in a small leathern bucket that was by his side. His fingertips were black. When he paid no mind to me, I finally said, “Good day.”

The boy took note of me, sat back on his legs, and touched a finger to his forehead, leaving a black mark. “James Penny,” he informed me. I took him to be about ten years of age, with a round, smudged face and curly brown hair. He wore no shoes.

“Is Mr. Gaine here?” I asked.

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“Over to Jersey.”

“Has he fled?”

The boy studied me before answering, as if trying to decide what to say. The thought came: No one knows whom to trust. When he spoke, it was only to say, “I suppose he’ll be back.”

“When?”

“Soon, maybe. Not sure. Who are you? What do you want?”

“My father is Mr. Calderwood. He does copy work for Mr. Gaine.”

“The Mercury is being published by Mr. Serle these days. Lord Howe’s man.”

I said, “My father sends his respects and says he’s prepared to work for your master again.”

“Want me to tell Mr. Serle?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

“And if Mr. Gaine gets back, I’ll tell him.”

The “if” word again.

“Good day,” the servant boy murmured, and turned back to the floor.

I said, “What are you doing?”

“Picking up type. Got all dumped. Always happening.”

“Good day,” I said again, and retreated.

Not sure what my parents would make of the disappointing news about Mr. Gaine and Mr. Rivington, I set off for home, going along Willard Street.

I had not gone far when I heard the tramp of feet. Turning, I saw, hedged in by armed British soldiers, a parade of ragged men. A fair number had bandages wrapped about heads or arms, some of which bore brown stains of old blood. To a man, they had disconsolate looks and did not walk so much as shuffle. I recognized a few as citizens of the town who had been active among the radicals. One I think was William’s friend.

In front of this procession marched the same portly, red-haired officer I had seen leading Captain Hale to his death. Just to see him made me fear that these prisoners were to suffer the same fate as Captain Hale.

Though I searched for my brother among the men, he was not to be found. I did wonder if anyone had news of him but was sure I’d not be allowed to exchange words.

I turned to a gentleman who, like me, had paused to watch.

“Where are they being taken?” I said.

“Off to the new jail, the Bridewell, I suspect. That’s the provost, Cunningham, in the lead.”

I glanced about nervously. “What will happen to them?”

“The prisoners? No notion,” said the man, without much sympathy, I thought.

My heart heavy, I watched the wretched men go by. Behind them, I saw two additional British officers. In utter contrast to the prisoners, they were dressed with care, in scarlet coats with blue facings, sash and sword. They wore high busbies. The two were talking to each other with animation and laughing.

As I looked on, I noticed a prisoner who struggled somewhat behind the others. One of the officers also saw him. He drew his sword—which made me recoil—and with the flat of it, struck the man on his backside, shouting, “Move on, rebel!”

Even as he hit the defenseless prisoner, he laughed. I detested him with all my heart.

When the prisoners continued to march northward, the young officer did not follow. Instead, he glanced at a piece of paper he had in hand, saluted his fellow officer, then turned west down Maiden Lane.

Though it vexed me greatly that this cruel fellow was going in the same direction I must go, there was nothing for it but to follow. Not wishing to be near, I kept back and waited for him to turn off in some other direction.

Alas, he continued to walk the same way as I, going straight until he reached Broadway. There he paused, consulted his paper, and moved toward our house. When I saw him knock upon our door, it came to me like summer thunder: this cruel British soldier must be our boarder.