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“Toads are frogs that let themselves go.” – P.D.
“Cousin, I believe it’s high time that I explained my impromptu visit.” Sammy stood before the fireplace in his private study. He held a fire poker in his hands. I get it—sometimes it’s nice to grip something tightly when you’re deep in thought. I was seated in a comfortable chair while Zippy reclined on Sammy’s desk.
“I’m sure it’s an interesting tale, Pritchard.” Sammy stabbed the poker into the hearth, embedding it in a crackling log. He left it there, crookedly sticking out of its target, and turned toward me. “Go on.”
“I want to fight.”
“That can be arranged.” Sammy strode to the wall and pulled a blunderbuss from its fastenings. “Ready when you are. What’s your weapon of choice?”
“Bwahahah!” I slapped my knee and reached over to slap Sammy’s. He stepped out of reach. “I don’t have a quarrel with you, Cousin. How could I be mad at the man who’ll be feeding and housing me for the foreseeable future?”
“What do you mean then?” Sammy punctuated his words by waving the blunderbuss around. As a precaution—you never can tell when those things will go off—Zippy hit the deck.
“Cousin, I’d feel more comfortable if you’d stow your weapon. It appears both old and loaded.” I could hear rattling from the gun barrel.
“It’s not loaded, Pritchard. I’d know if it were loaded.” Sammy turned and threw the blunderbuss onto his desk. The gun discharged, riddling the wainscoting and the neighborhood tabby with buckshot. That cat couldn’t catch a break—first its tumble from the gutter, and then getting blown off the windowsill. Good thing it still had a few lives to go!
“That was a stroke of luck just then, Sammy. What if Zippy’d been napping on that windowsill—or Ann’s grampy?”
“Focus, Pritchard.” Sammy snapped a few times. I joined in, but when I started to harmonize, he left me hanging. “You said you’re here to fight. What do you mean?”
“Like all my colonial comrades, I wish to fight the tyrant whose girth even now compromises the structural integrity of his throne. God save the strawberries and all the rest of the crops and the melons.” Sammy cocked his head and squinted at me. He pursed his lips together so tightly, they almost disappeared from his face. “Zippy, I think he’s having a spell. Quick! Fetch the smelling salts.” Zippy slipped and skidded across the floor but couldn’t gain sufficient traction to move more than a few inches in any direction.
Sammy straightened, strolling to the window. He drew the curtains—in the process, concealing the wounded cat—before walking back to his former place by the fire. He was silent for a little while. “You know that what you ask is treasonous?”
“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”
“Pritchard, do you understand that, once you begin to fight the Crown, you’ll be a changed man? Nothing will ever be the same, not until you’re free from the oppression of the King’s heavy hand.”
“That was beautiful, Sammy. You’re saying I’d be changed? I could do with a new haircut—perhaps, a new wardrobe as well. It doesn’t sound all bad, does it Zippy?” Zippy snorted either in agreement or because she had to sneeze.
Sammy glanced over his shoulder. “You could die.”
“Zippy, I’m leaving you all of my possessions. Where do I sign?”
“Very well, Pritchard. Very well. You’re in.” Sammy tipped over a knickknack on the mantle, revealing a secret compartment in the adjoining bookcase. He reached inside and pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen, placing them on the desk. Sammy pointed to indicate the place I should sign, and sign I did. I didn’t read the document out of principle. It was probably just Ann’s birthday card. After I handed the pen and paper back to Sammy, I reached up and shut my mouth which had hung open in amazement since I first saw the secret compartment open in the bookcase.
“What next, Cousin? I’m ready.” I saluted and picked up the blunderbuss from the desk, giving Zippy a good scare in the process. My mini mule has always been a tad gun-shy.
“The conflict is still brewing, but it will come.”
I took a few moments to think this over. “How about now?”
“Pritchard, you’ll have to be patient. I’m leaving for Boston in a few weeks. I won’t be back for several months. It’s some... business for the firm. You understand. How long were you planning to stay again? Who knows, I could be gone for nearly as long as your visit—or longer. The practice of law is unpredictable like that.”
In that moment, I made up my mind to accompany my dear cousin and friend to Boston. Even in the short time I’d known her, Zippy hadn’t stopped talking about traveling to Boston. At least, that’s sort of what it sounded like when I played back her hee-haws a bit slower in my mind. I decided then and there that I couldn’t deprive my child of such a valuable educational experience. I should add that this event took place in October 1773, so I don’t get too bad of a rap from all the fact-checkers who are sure to dissect this entire story.
Early in December, the day arrived for Sammy to leave his home and travel to Boston. Many tears were shed at Sammy’s sendoff. I wish I’d been there. I suppose that’s not entirely accurate. I was there, but Zippy and I were cramped within one of Sammy’s trunks. I’d devised this plan several weeks before, and my mule and I had spent countless hours fasting for extended periods and forestalling certain... functions. The night before Sammy left, I looked through all of his packed trunks and selected the most trivial one for us to hide in. It was full of books and papers, so I figured it couldn’t have been anything too important. I hid the displaced materials in the cellar.
We could hear some of Sammy’s sendoff from inside the trunk where we lay hidden. “Ann, I’ll miss you and the children. It’s too bad Pritchard isn’t here. I was looking forward to bidding him farewell.” There was a long pause. When Sammy spoke again, his words came quickly, and his breathing was shallow, “You don’t think he’d follow me to Boston, do you?” Here, Ann must have muttered something, but I couldn’t make out anything over Zippy’s labored breathing in the thin air within the trunk.
“Zippy, we’ve been over this,” I whispered. “If you start to get faint, press your mouth up against the keyhole and suck in some fresh air. We’ll have to take turns, but we can pop the trunk lid open when we get to the highway.”
Sammy piped up again, “You’re right, dear. I’m being paranoid. Goodbye, everyone!” The carriage shook as Sammy hopped in, causing our trunk to toss about.
To the accompaniment of Ann’s grandfather’s bugle, the horses began pulling the carriage down the cobbled street. I could hear the lash of the driver’s whip—that, and Zippy’s groans of carriage sickness. “Are you feeling well, Zippy? I can’t see you, but you sound ill.” I opened the trunk lid—I’d cleverly broken off the latch to allow for a hasty exit—just in time for Zippy to pop out her head and spew on an unsuspecting pigeon.
We had no other such incidents until we hit the corduroy road outside Annapolis proper. That’s a sort of road lined with tree trunks cut in half—with the rounded part facing up. Either that, or we survived a minor earthquake. Regardless, I had to hold Zippy’s mouth closed for the duration of the shaking, lest her teeth fall out from excessive chattering.
Each night, the carriage was parked in the stable of some fine hotel where Sammy spent the night. By that point in the evening, Zippy and I were so cramped and sore that we had to throw ourselves against the side of the trunk, knocking it off the back of the carriage in order to get out. We sort of crawled from the trunk and lay there in the dirt, but we had a great time. In those days, our lives were one adventure after the next.
At dawn, Zippy and I grabbed vittles wherever we could find them and hurled the trunk back onto the carriage, packing ourselves inside. Before long, the driver’s whip would crack again, and the carriage lurched forward, resuming its journey. We were almost found out prematurely on a few occasions when Sammy requested that some of his trunks be brought to his chambers, but he never selected the one that Zippy and I were hidden in.
Zippy and I were relieved when the day of our arrival to Boston finally came. I poked my head out of the trunk when Sammy had exited the carriage and gone inside. “Zippy, you should see this.” My mini mule pushed her head out of the trunk. “Boston bears an incredible resemblance to Annapolis. Hold the harpsichord. Zippy, doesn’t that look like Sammy’s house over there?” When I saw the door to Sammy’s home open, I pushed Zippy back into the trunk and slammed the lid.
“I know, Ann. I’m not usually this forgetful. What do you mean you haven’t seen Pritchard or his mule lately?” Sammy sounded concerned, which was very thoughtful of him. “He’s been gone for days? Well, he must have gone home. Goodbye!” Sammy began to whistle and hopped into the carriage.
“I can’t wait to see his reaction when he realizes we’ve been here the whole time, Zippy. I’ll have to see if Sammy can sit for a portrait of it, so I can keep it as a souvenir.”
