“Wind’s against us, so’s we gonna have to zig and zag our way across,” Solomon says.
I know nothing about sailing, so I have no idea what he’s saying.
“Means we gonna have to go first one way and then t’other. That sail’s gonna jerk side to side. Last thing we need is you in the way. Lie in the bottom and keep your head down. Be good ballast. Keep us from gettin’ blowed over and takin’ a swim, mebbe.”
The wind is so strong Solomon almost can’t get up the sail. I help him hoist and then lie in the row boat’s bottom in a cold quarter-inch of dirty water. The boat’s hard ribs dig into mine.
The wind stretches the sail tight and we run fast. I can hear the rush of water under the hull. Every time the bow cuts into a wave, it’s like getting a cold bath. When a gust of wind heels us over, the river pours over the gunwale.
“Bail!” Solomon yells. “Use your hat.”
My tricorn is a leaky bucket, but better than nothing. We take on a lot of water: at least two inches.
I look across the river to Philadelphia. It seems just as far off as when we started.
“Duck, ya fool!” Solomon yells as the boat slews around and the sail whips across the hull. “Told ya, keep your head down if’n you don’t want to lose it.”
Another gust hits and we heel over again. More water pours in over the side. Then the bow digs deep into another wave and there’s a good four inches.
“Bail! Bail!” Solomon shouts in a voice that makes me afraid.
I look back to see him fighting for control, and losing. Over his shoulder, Camden seems as far away as Philadelphia had been only minutes before.
As we turn, an enormous wave hits. It flips us and throws me down deep into the river. My coat, weskit, and heavy shoes weigh me down and, for a couple of terrifying seconds, I think I’m going to drown. I struggle to shuck off everything except my britches, shirt and stockings, and that helps some. Rising now, I make for the surface, reaching it just as the lack of oxygen forces me to open my mouth and breathe. Gulping air, I try raising myself up to look for Solomon, but waves and whitecaps are all I can see.
I call out his name, but hear nothing back.
I swim for shore, changing strokes every time I tire: crawl to breaststroke to side stroke back to crawl. Finally, I drag myself onto a muddy bank. I’m way down river from Philadelphia, soaked, shivering, and shoeless. But I’m alive. Then I remember Solomon. I stand at river’s edge, calling his name. No answer. My eyes sweep the river, searching for him or his boat. Nothing.
He’s got to be a better swimmer than me, I tell myself. He’s up river, probably. We’ll meet along the way.
I set off for Philadelphia, keeping to the soft sand and mud of the river’s beaches and shallows. The low, gray ceiling gives way to sun and blue sky.
As I walk, I call for Solomon. I never get an answer.
I’ll see him at Mrs. Carver’s, I think. He’ll be there, slurping up a big bowl of pepper pot.
But when I reach the city, I can’t go to the market. The church bells strike 10:00 o’clock. The convention begins in an hour. I have no time to lose. At what is now South Street, I take a diagonal line and zig and zag north and west to get to Robert Morris’s house.
I pound on the door with its great brass knocker; and keep pounding until a black servant in white wig and footman’s livery opens it. He takes one look at me and starts to close it, but I push it back open.
“I must see General Washington. Doctor Franklin sent me.”
The servant laughs.
“Doctor Franklin?” The man’s voice is rich and cultured. “Oh, I hardly think so. Doctor Franklin would never send such a rabble. Leave, now, or I shall call the watch.”
I know I look awful: no shoes, clothes all torn and stained and stinking of the river.
“Please, I know how it looks. But it’s true. Doctor Franklin sent me. I almost drowned crossing the river to get here, which is why I look this way. But the General knows me. He approved my clerking for Doctor Franklin at the convention.”
“You, at the convention? Do you think I am a fool? I am no fool! And you are no clerk. Be gone!”
“I’m telling you, General Washington knows me. I just saw him yesterday. Go tell him Doctor Franklin’s clerk is here with a message for him. Tell him it’s urgent! Go on! There are lives at stake!”
“I will not disturb people at table. Mr. Morris would boil me alive if I interrupted him and his guests for the likes of you. Touch this door again and I shall call the watch.”
The door slams shut in my face.
I stand there, weighing my options. I can try again; and probably get arrested. And even if I do get to see Washington, there is no guarantee he’ll believe me.
Franklin hadn’t given me the right instructions. I can see that now. He should have sent me to the State House first, to find out what was in those barrels. If they are innocent, I won’t have to say a thing. Only if they are dangerous will I need to sound an alarm.
Church bells strike the half-hour: ten-thirty. I haven’t a second to waste.
I walk-jog as fast as my shoe-less feet will let me to the State House. Sentries guard the entrance. They aren’t going to let me in, not with me having been banned, and certainly not the way I look. So I walk down to Walnut, hoping the great wooden doors to the back garden are open.
I’m in luck. Not only are they open, but Joseph Carver is there, cleaning up fallen branches from the storm. I jog over to him.
“What in tarnation happened to you?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“No time to explain,” I say, breathing hard. “Listen, yesterday, some barrels were delivered here. You know what was in them?”
“Yeah. Fine porter ale. From General Washington. His gift to the Assembly for letting the convention use its hall.”
“How do you know it’s really ale?”
“‘Cuz that’s what the man said.”
“Did you check?”
“Now why would I do that? Ain’t my barrels. Ain’t got no business fool’n with ‘em.”
“What if they aren’t from Washington? What if it isn’t porter?”
“Who says it ain’t?”
“Doctor Franklin,” I say, knowing his word carries more weight than mine. “He thinks they could be gunpowder—enough to blow this building and everyone in it to kingdom come.”
“What kinda trick you tryin to play on me? G’wan now! Don’t have time to be listening to your foolishness.”
“It’s no trick. Doctor Franklin sent me here to check it out. I’ve come all the way from New Jersey and I’ve gone through a lot to get here, which is why I look the way I do.”
“Was you with him in that balloon? Saw it fly over yesterday, but didn’t know who was in it ‘til I heard some people say it was Doctor Franklin. He okay? Everyone been wondering where exactly he got blown to.”
“It’s a long story and I don’t have time to explain. I need to check those barrels.”
“What you need and what I can let you do is two different things.”
“I won’t hurt anything, I promise. Come watch me. I just want to open one to make sure there isn’t any danger.”
“Can’t be opened, not without spilling what’s inside.”
“Then how—”
“I could tap one. See what runs out. But if I do and its ale, folks’ll say I was stealing.”
“No, they won’t, not if Franklin’s right.”
“And if he ain’t?”
“Then he’ll take the blame and make sure you don’t get in trouble.”
“I don’t know …”
“Please, Mr. Carver! You could be saving so many lives. And costing so many, if you don’t!”
“Okay. Let’s go. But make it quick.”
He leads me to the two wooden doors with iron hinges that are the hatchway to the cellar under the Assembly Room.
“Where’s the lock?” Carver asks. “I know I locked up when them boys got done their delivery.”
Pulling open the doors, he goes down the stairs, stopping to light a lantern hanging on the wall. From it, he lights a candle which he uses to light several other lanterns as we proceed into the cellar. By their dim glow, I can just make out old tables, chairs, benches, and boxes. Firewood is stacked along a wall running lengthwise under the Assembly Room. Twelve barrels stand in front of that wood.
We don’t need to tap any of them. Someone has already smashed through the end of one. Black powder lies in a mound on the floor and a solid line of powder leads away from the mound. We’d missed it on the way in. Now, I follow it all the way back to the rough, wooden stairs.
It is a fuse. All someone has to do to set it off is open the cellar door, throw in something lit, and run.
Carver still holds his lit candle. Above us, I hear the thud of feet and the creak of floorboards. The delegates are arriving.
“Mister Carver,” I say, as calmly as I can so as not to startle him. “Very carefully, I want you to put out that candle. Don’t blow. Wet your fingers and snuff it. Don’t let anything hot touch the floor. You’re standing in gunpowder.”
“That’s right, don’t move, either of you,” says another voice, jolting me. “I got my guns on you and I ain’t afraid to use ‘em.”
From behind the stairs, a dark mass rises and then steps out into the cellar holding two flintlock pistols, both cocked.
“Lucas!” Carver says. “What you doin’ down here?”
“Nothing I ain’t been paid for, old man—and a nice bit of coin too. Enough to get me out of here and slaving and have my own place, and a woman, mebbe, and live in peace. Ain’t you nor no one else gonna get in the way of that.”
“Okay, take it easy,” I say. Lucas is big and powerful, but he’s also frightened. He talks fast and keeps licking his lips.
“Both of you, go to the back there and sit against the wall. Sit on your hands,” he says.
Carver and I do what he says, except I don’t sit on my hands. I tuck them behind my back, trying to make it look like I’m sitting on them.
That costs me Lucas’s boot in my stomach.
“Better listen, boy,” he rasps. “Old man, take that rope holding up your pants. Tie the boy’s hands behind him. Tight! If it ain’t, I’ll know and give you what I gave him.”
Lucas’s kick hasn’t hurt as much as I’m making it seem. He missed my solar plexus. And I’d learned from Gus how to take a punch. But I act like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.
Just as Carver pulls my arm behind my back, I launch myself at Lucas. Aiming as low as I can, I get my shoulder into his knees, wrap my arms around his calves and drive with everything I have.
The pistols explode with a deafening BAM! BAM! and I freeze, certain the gunpowder is going to blow, which gives Lucas time to regain his balance. He hammers at my back with the butts of both guns, driving me to the floor.
As he turns for the cellar door, I reach out to grab his foot, but I miss. A weight like an anvil crashes into my back as Carver uses me to springboard onto Lucas. The slave catcher pushes him off; then sends him tumbling with an open-handed slap that sounds like the crack of a whip.
Lucas makes for the stairs, but Carver is on him again, this time grabbing him by his belt to pull him back. Lucas lashes out with his foot and I hear Carver’s cry of pain. Lucas is free now. He takes the stairs two at a time and disappears.
“STOP!” a voice commands.
“Halt or we’ll fire!” orders another.
A shot rings out.
I go to Mr. Carver. He is on his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it.
I help him up and start for the door just as a group of sentries rush down the hatch, flintlocks at the ready. Carver and I both raise our hands. The sentries grab both of us and hustle us up the stairs.
“You boys be careful with them guns,” Carver says. “There’s gunpowder all over the floor, and in them barrels too.”
Lucas lies sprawled on the ground several feet from the hatch, clutching his leg. Blood wells from between his fingers.
A crowd of delegates gathers: Roger Sherman, Gouverneur Morris, and James Madison among them. Others stream out the door, including Washington and Hamilton who’d lent their arms to an exhausted looking Benjamin Franklin.
The crowd makes way for them.
“Sergeant of the guard, report!” Washington orders.
“Well, sir, not really sure I can say what happened. Me and my men heard shots coming from what sounded like below. So we came round to this here cellar door and up popped this fella’ at a run with them two pistols in his hands. We told him to stop, but he didn’t. Corporal Anderson here brought him down.”
“Yes? And what have you to say for yourself?” Washington asks Lucas.
He spits in the dirt at the General’s feet.
“I believe I may be able to shed some light on this, General,” Franklin says. “It seems there has been a plot to destroy our convention. Downstairs, in the cellar, I think you’ll find a number of hogsheads filled with gunpowder. Those will need to be removed. And I think it best we discuss the rest of this privately, inside.”
“What is he doing here?” Washington asks, pointing at me. “Doctor, I thought we’d agreed he was no longer to come here.”
“We did. And yes, I sent him here despite that agreement. We learned of these barrels on our balloon flight yesterday afternoon. Unfortunately, the wind took us over into New Jersey—just as you feared, General. We returned as quickly as we could, but when we reached the river, it was too rough for the ferry to cross. Marcus volunteered to sail across in a small boat. Judging from his appearance, I daresay he’s risked his life to warn us of the danger—a danger which he uncovered and brought to my attention. All of us owe him our lives and our thanks.”
Washington looks me up and down with that same perplexed, disconcerted expression I so often seemed to draw from him.
“Franklin, it’s extraordinary!” he says in a low voice so no one else can hear, “Every time I see this boy, I’m reminded of someone I knew long ago.”
Hamilton looks at him sharply. “General, I have had the very same thought,” he murmurs. “But really, it simply could not be.”
“General,” Franklin breaks in quickly, “may I suggest we adjourn the convention for several hours, say until 2:00 o’clock this afternoon, so that the danger can be removed? Then we may proceed with the signing.”
“Excellent plan of action!”
“May I also ask that before we sign, I be allowed to speak? I have something to say I feel the delegates should hear.”
“I’m sure we will all listen most attentively.”
“And finally, in light of all that Marcus has done, might you now lift your ban and allow him to witness the signing of our work?”
“To allow any less would make all of us delegates seem ungrateful,” Washington says to Franklin and then turns to me. “Which, I assure you, young Marcus Santana, we are most decidedly not.”