Chapter SixFUN WHILE IT LASTED
Theyoung man sat on the steps of the tavern by Ipswich Green and stared about him; at the old brown roofs with yellow moss growing on their seaward sides, at the little rocky river that flowed like liquid amber under its stone bridge, at the steepled church on the rocky hill. Shadows lay long in the deserted streets of Ipswich, and far to the west the sun was going down.
The young man wore a rough woolen shirt and homespun breeches. He had a cleft chin, deep blue eyes, and black curly hair. He looked uncommonly pleased about something.
The landlord came to the open doorway behind him and stood there, peering into the dusk. He was a short plump man with a lame leg and a worried expression.
“Not a sign o’ the British yet, be there, lad?” he asked anxiously.
The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Could be they’ve turned aside and gone another way,” he said in a lilting tone. “Well, I guess I’ll be taking the road myself, while there’s a bit o’ the daylight left. How far did you tell me it was to Newburyport, sir?”
The landlord shifted his feet uneasily. “It’s a piece of a journey yet, and the roads will doubtless be clogged with fleeing folk, if one’s to judge by the rout that streamed out of here; likewise the half o’ Beverly tagging through. Why not stay the night? I’ll give ye free lodging. It’ll mean there’s one able-bodied man in town, besides a handful of petticoat folk.”
Again the young man shrugged his shoulders. “Well enough, if ’twill please you—and supper be included in the offer.” He got to his feet and stood there smiling.
“Come in, lad, come in,” cried the landlord in relieved tones. “Come, and I’ll give ye supper, such as ’tis. Cook’s run off to the hills like all the rest, but my daughter Nanny’s here, and Nanny can do. Come and bring your box, if ye will. Where’d ye say ye be from? Have ye traveled far?”
The young man stooped and lifted a small leather chest bound with iron. Deep in the lid was burned the name “G. Malory.” It was a peculiarity of his that although he often played other men’s parts and wore other men’s clothing, he would never abandon his own name.
“Barnstaple,” he said. “Gerry Malory of Barnstaple, shoemaker.”
“Barnstable? Down Cape Cod, ain’t it? A fair ways from here.”
“Yes, Barnstaple’s a fair ways off,” said the young man.
Together they stepped into the dark smoky taproom. It was deserted except for a little maid, scarce more than a child, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen.
The landlord went to the hearth and stirred the dwindling fire. “What’s in the pot, Nanny?” he asked.
“Dandelions,” said Nanny pertly. “Dandelion greens and a ham bone. But the ham bone don’t smell like it should, Father.”
“Warm up the chowder then,” he ordered, and turned to his guest. “Are ye handy with firearms, Gerry?”
“I’ve a pistol in my chest here, among my shoemaker’s tools. Guess I know what to do with it.”
“No, no,” cried the landlord impatiently. “I got no faith in such pop guns. I mean a man-sized weapon. Son Rob took my musket to Cambridge, but there’s a fowling piece hung up on the kitchen wall. I don’t see as well to aim as I did once. Who was it spread the word about town? Did ye happen to hear?”
The shoemaker shook his head. “I couldn’t say, sir. As I told you before, I was just passing through here on my way to Newburyport to see a girl, when all at once a great stir began, and folks went rushing to the green. Somebody shouted that the British had landed at Ipswich Bar and were cutting and slashing all before them. Next thing I knew, the wagons started rolling out of town, and everyone took to the highway, afoot and on horseback. I watched them for awhile, and then came here to catch my breath and maybe have a bite of supper.”
Again the landlord went to the door and peered nervously into the thickening night. “Not a light in town,” he said. “Folk that hasn’t fled away be keeping their houses dark, ’twould seem. Do ye mind if I don’t light up, lad? Can ye see by the glow o’ the fire?”
“’Tis no trick to find a mouth the size of mine,” said the young man gallantly. Then as Nanny put a steaming bowl on the table in front of him, his nostrils quivered. “Did the ham smell stronger than this, my lady?” he asked her.
“Yes,” said Nanny flatly, stepping back into the kitchen.
He sat down on a bench, picked up a ladle, and tasted the chowder gingerly.
“None for me, Nanny,” called her father. “I be that worried about the British, I wouldn’t relish victuals none.”
“Right, sir,” said Gerry, putting down the ladle. “It comes to me that I, too, am worried about the British. Still, a piece of bread now—it need not have butter—I could eat it dry.”
“Slice up a loaf of bread, Nanny,” called the landlord.
Nanny’s thin piping voice came back from the kitchen. “The bread’s moldy. All that wasn’t, we sent to Cambridge.”
Gerry Malory sighed resignedly. “Well, perhaps a glass of milk then—unless all the cows have fled away. Nothing stronger. I must keep a clear head on me.”
The landlord himself brought a pitcher of milk and poured two glasses full.
“Be ye just up from the Cape, Gerry? And did ye come by Cambridge? We’ve had no news from there since the word o’ Concord Fight come through.”
The young man shook his head. “I haven’t been near Cambridge, and it’s a long time since I went Barnstaple way.”
“Where ye been, then?”
“Oh—round Charlestown most of the time, I guess. You know Job Townsend’s tavern there?”
“Job Townsend? Keeps the Bay and Beagle, don’t he? In Crooked Lane near Harvard Street. I knowed him when he was your age. Too bad. He lost his wife young. Got a right pretty daughter, I’ve heard. Sally Rose, or something like.”
“Yes, he’s got a pretty daughter,” said Gerry Malory, draining his glass. “I been around the Bay and Beagle some.”
“I don’t get down that way much myself,” said the landlord thoughtfully. “What’s the news thereabout? Do they think the British’ll fight? And if they do....”
The young man shook his head solemnly. “You got no chance against the British,” he said.
The landlord looked up sharply. “Ye say ‘you’ and not ‘we,’” he protested. “Does that mean Barnstable don’t intend to join against the cruel laws o’ the King? That they be notwith the rest o’ Massachusetts? The Hampshire towns be with us, and I hear that so be the west and south, New York and Virginia, too.”
“Oh no, no, I do not mean that at all,” cried the young shoemaker. “’Twas a slip of the tongue. Of course Barnstable—on Cape Cod—will join cause with you. I only mean that the outlook is dark, sir, dark, for those who would fan the flames of rebellion in America.”
He put down his empty glass and leaned forward, his hands clenched before him on the table. “How canwedefend a thousand miles of seacoast with only a few scattered towns, against a great battle fleet of three hundred ships and armed men? We can scarce put thirty thousand soldiers in the field. England has one hundred and fifty thousand, and can summon more. We lack guns, ammunition, money, and trade. More than that, we lack the tradition of love of country, a tradition that will make the meanest man fight and die bravely. For a thousand years men have been giving their lives for England. What man has ever given his life for America before?”
“Sounds like you been listening to some Tory make speeches, lad. Happens there was a few gave their lives at Concord and Lexington the day before yesterday,” retorted the landlord. “There’s a first time for everything, Gerry.” His voice was milder than the milk in his half-empty glass, but his eyes held a sharp look, a look of question. Suddenly his face went white.
“Lord in heaven, I’ll fetch the gun for ye! Here they come!” he cried, dashing from the room, tripping over a footstool unseen in the light of the fire.
Gerry Malory lifted his head. He heard a shouting in the road, the creak of wagons rumbling along. He, too, got up, went to the door, and stared out into the soft April night. The moon had not yet risen, but as he turned to look to thenorth he could see swaying lights and shadowy figures, moving painfully slow, but drawing closer. He waited, silent, to see what would emerge out of the dark.
As the cavalcade became more sharply visible, he saw that it consisted of three oxcarts piled with boxes, kegs, and baskets, escorted by some half dozen men. The oxen lumbered along wearily, and the men seemed weary, too, as they plodded at the side. They were not young men, but grayish and old and frail, except for a thin-faced lad with tow-colored hair and an ancient gun gripped casually in his right hand. The wagons drew to a halt in front of the tavern, one man stayed with the oxen, and the others came forward eagerly, seeking refreshment.
Gerry stepped back into the taproom and turned to face the landlord who rushed out of the kitchen with a badly rusted gun held in front of him. “No British,” he said reassuringly. “Just some teamsters who want to wet their whistles, I expect.” He retired to the shadows near the great chimney, found a stool there, and sat down.
The landlord bustled forward to welcome the visitors. In a few moments they were seated at the table, and Nanny was helping her father to set out food and drink, greens, ham bone, chowder, and all.
“Not a fit man amongst us,” sighed the oldster with a face like a russet apple and a scar across his forehead. “I fought in too many wars already. But once we get these stores to Cambridge, likely I’ll stay there and enlist for one more.”
“Don’t know how we’d ha’ got this far, if this Hampshire lad hadn’t o’ertaken us,” said another. He turned to the thin-faced youth who was eating chowder, the old blunderbuss leaning against the table close to his elbow. “We was sure glad to see you, Tom Trask, when our cart broke down the other side of Rowley last night. A proper wheelwright you turned out to be.”
Tom Trask did not look up from his chowder. “Be a wheelwright when I have to,” he muttered, “or most any other sort of thing.”
“Tell me, lads,” questioned the landlord eagerly, “did ye see aught of the British that’s supposed to be marching on us, cutting and slashing all before?”
“We heard the rumor, o’ course,” went on the russet-cheeked man, “and saw the rout go past. Didn’t trouble us none. We kept on our way. Word’s gone about now, that there be doubts the British ever was nearer than Boston. Truth to tell, sir, I surmise we been made fools of.”
The landlord made a clucking sound with his thin lips. Tom Trask was staring hard at the small iron-bound leather box on the table in front of him.
“Who’s that there belong to?” he asked suddenly.
“That—oh, that belongs to Gerry Malory over in the corner. Gerry’s a shoemaker from Barnstable—on his way to Newburyport to see a girl.” The landlord’s voice was gay and jovial in his relief, now that he had no further cause to fear the British. After all, he had not fled away at the false rumor. He had not been made a fool of. He strutted a little as he walked about the room, filling the glasses, replenishing the fire. When his shame-faced neighbors came straggling back, he’d be able to indulge himself in a boast or two. Then suddenly he pricked up his ears. The tow-headed lad from New Hampshire Colony was speaking. He held the leather chest in his hands, turning it about.
“‘G. Malory,’ it says here. And Landlord says G.’s for Gerry. Gerry Malory—going to Newburyport to see a girl.” He sounded thoughtful.
The landlord noticed that the young shoemaker from Barnstable had edged his stool further back into the shadows. He said no word.
“Seems to me,” went on Tom Trask, “I might know what girl he’s going to see. A peacock-proud girl named Sally Rose, I wouldn’t wonder. Seems to me I heard o’ Gerry Malory.”
His voice deepened, and there was a sharp edge to it that caught the attention of everyone in the room and made them listen.
“That’s her!” cried the landlord excitedly. “Sally Rose! Job Townsend’s daughter! He said he hung around the Bay and Beagle some!”
Still the young man in the shadows did not speak.
“The Gerry Malory I heard of,” went on Tom Trask, “was said to be a captain in the Twenty-third. That’d mean he’s a British officer.” He waited accusingly.
The landlord slapped his thigh. “Well, pickle my brains in rum!” he cried. “I think ye be right, lad. He was talking like a Britisher just before ye got here. Saying times was dark for us, and no man would give his life for America. Out o’ that corner, sir, and answer the charge! Be ye a lobsterback come in disguise among us?”
Then indeed Gerry Malory stepped forward. “You’ve mistaken yourselves,” he said easily. “There may be a man with the same name as mine in the ranks of the British. I doubt that I be the first Gerald Malory since the world was made. I doubt if I be the last. I be a shoemaker of Barnstable, loyal as any man here.”
“Loyal to what?” demanded Tom Trask. Then he bent down, pulled off one crude cowhide boot, and held it out. “Here. I got a hole clear through my sole leather tramping these rocky roads of Essex County. If you be a shoemaker, prove it! Cobble my boot!”
Gerry Malory took the boot in his hands and examined it. Then he shook his head. “’Tis scarce worth fixing, my good man,” he said condescendingly. “Get yourself a newpair when you arrive in Cambridge. That is the best advice I can give you.”
“You lie,” said Tom Trask steadily. “I can fix it myself, if you’re unable. All I ask you to do is prove you be a shoemaker.”
The teamsters, the landlord, even Nanny, were staring in silence at the two young men. Gerry Malory studied the boot in his hand. He frowned. “Well enough,” he said. He opened the small chest and fumbled inside it, took out a wooden last, hammer, and awl, a packet of pegs and nails. “Ah, this should do it,” he murmured judiciously. He selected a strip of leather and tried to fit it over the ragged hole Tom had pointed out.
All eyes were upon him. No lips made any comment. He gripped the boot with one hand under the instep. He fitted the leather over the hole with the other hand. Then he stood there, conscious suddenly that he had no third hand to set the nails in place, no fourth hand to wield the hammer. He put the boot down and started all over again.
But his face was growing hot and his fingers even more clumsy. Suddenly he ceased his efforts. “I am sorry,” he said. “I forgot my most needful tool. You must wait until you get to Cambridge, unless you can find another cobbler.”
Tom Trask stood up. He held the old gun lightly in his hand. “Your most needful tool is there,” he said, “but you don’t know enough to know it. Put the boot on the last, you should have. That would ha’ held it firm, and left your hands free to get on with your cobbling. Right enough, we’ll go to Cambridge, and we’ll take you along as our prisoner, Captain Malory o’ the Twenty-third. All the world can see you’re no shoemaker. Johnny Stark will know what to do with you. Landlord, have you a length of rope, or better, a few links of chain, about the place? For safety, we’ll tie him up now.”
Gerry Malory, of Barnstaple in English Devon, bit his lip and stared around him somewhat wildly. That cursed Yankee with the gun that looked as if it came out of Noah’s ark stood between him and the open doorway. He doubted if it would shoot, but even if it didn’t, its owner looked like no easy man to handle. And the Yankee had his friends about him.
While he hesitated, two old men ambled forward and bound his wrists together with a heavy length of clanking chain. Then they stepped back, and the whole company continued to stare at him.
“Captain,” said Tom Trask thoughtfully, “I be not so sure as I was that you come this way to see a girl. Likely you did, but likely, too, you might ha’ spread the false report that the British was upon us. It might ha’ been a word o’ yours that sent us flying over hills far and wide as if the devil was after. A fool’s prank, maybe—maybe a smart trick to spread confusion amongst us.”
Suddenly Gerry Malory remembered the scenes of the afternoon: lean spinsters rocking along like giraffes in the animal garden on Tower Hill, fat men waddling off, their faces red and their eyes popping with panic. He laughed aloud and looked down at his hands bound stiffly in front of him.
“In either case, it was fun while it lasted,” he said.