CHAPTER IX
THE REGULARS EMBARK
Early the next morning Don was hard at work washing the windows at the front of the store. He had cleaned them on the inside and was about to start on the outside, when Jud crossed the square and hailed him. Over his shoulder he was carrying two fishing poles.
“Where are you going?” asked Don.
“Up to the mill-pond. I thought maybe you’d come along, so I brought an extra pole.”
“Sure,” said Don; “but I’ll have to finish these windows first.”
“I’ll help you,” Jud replied promptly and, setting down the poles, rolled up his sleeves.
While the two boys were cleaning and polishing the glass Tom Bullard happened to turn into the lane from King Street. It was clear that he had not expected to meet the boys and did not want them to see him; for he had no sooner spied them than he stopped and made as if to turn back; but Jud’s sharp eyes had already caught sight of him. “Here’s the chicken-thief, Don,” he whispered.
Don stopped work to look. It is to Tom’s credit perhaps that he did not turn on his heel then and there. What he did was to lift his chin a trifle and, choosing the opposite side of the street, march past without looking either to the right or to the left. It was really a hard thing to do, for Don and Jud were staring at him and grinning frankly.
“He’s got his head pretty high, hasn’t he?” said Jud in a loud whisper.
“But not high enough to hide that bump above his left eye,” replied Don.
“That’s where Fred’s stick landed,” said Jud. “Just look how high he holds his head—just like a chicken!”
Both boys chuckled, and a moment later they laughed outright when Tom’s foot struck an upraised brick, and he stumbled. At the corner of Water Street, Tom turned and shook his fist.
Jud’s eyes flashed, but Don was silent. “And to think,” he said at last, “that he used to be my best friend!”
“He’s not worth thinking about,” said Jud shortly. “Come on, Don, let’s finish these windows in a hurry. I wonder how the fish are biting?”
But there were other things beside fish to wonder about on that day in early May. The people of Boston knew little enough of what was going on round them. Every other person was wondering how soon the American army would attack the British, and whether the Redcoats would risk going out and fighting in the open. Already there had been skirmishes and they continued to occur off and on throughout the rest of the month; but although the Americans were generally successful, the skirmishes really did not amount to much.
Word had somehow seeped into the beleaguered town that the Continental force consisted of sixteen thousand men and that fortifications were being prepared in Cambridge and along the Mystic River; and it was whispered that men from all the other Colonies as far south as Virginia were flocking to join the army. But Gage’s men scoffed at such reports; and although none of them dared venture outside the town they also scoffed at the idea that they were in a state of siege. A body of undisciplined farmers oppose them, the King’s soldiers? Preposterous!
What the King’s men did not realize was that many of them, especially the officers, had fought in the French wars. Oddly enough the terrible experience of the nineteenth of April was lost upon the over-confident British; they supposed that the men who had fought so valiantly at Concord and Lexington would run like frightened sheep in an encounter in the open.
Numerous things had occurred to exasperate the good people of Boston, but one of the worst was a proclamation that Gage issued; it declared martial law and referred to all who were bearing arms against the King’s men as “rebels and traitors”; but, said the proclamation, if they would lay down their arms all would be pardoned—all, that is, except John Hancock and Samuel Adams.
Toward the end of the month British re-enforcements began to arrive, and on the twenty-fifth the troop-ship Cerebus brought three generals—Howe, Clinton and Burgoyne.
Don and Jud were in the vicinity of the Green Dragon Tavern a few days after the Cerebus arrived. They were looking out over the harbor when Don heard someone call his name, and, turning, he saw one of the sailors who had helped him from the water the day he had saved the Redcoat from drowning.
“Hello, there, young Master Donald,” said the fellow—it was Hank. “There’s the boat out there that brought the three big ones—Howe, Clinton and Elbow-Room Burgoyne. If they’d side-stepped on the gangplank, I don’t doubt you’d have jumped in and saved them.”
Don flushed. “I’m not so sure—now,” he replied. “But tell me, why do you call Burgoyne ‘Elbow-Room’?”
“Why, haven’t you heard that story?” Hank grinned and glanced round to make sure that no Redcoat was within hearing. “You see, it’s like this: As the Cerebus was coming in she met a packet bound for Newport. ‘What news is there?’ Burgoyne shouts to the skipper. ‘The town is surrounded by ten thousand country folk,’ was the reply. At that the general opens his eyes wide. ‘How many regulars are in the town?’ he asks. ‘About five thousand,’ the skipper shouts in reply. Then the general’s eyes open wider than ever, and he cries, ‘What, ten thousand peasants keep five thousand King’s troops shut up! Well, let us get in, and we’ll soon find elbow-room!’”
Both boys laughed heartily, and Hank added, “Elbow-Room Burgoyne it’ll be to the end of his days, now, I suppose.” Hank lowered his voice. “Let me tell you something, my lads,” he said. “There’s going to be a big fight before many days have passed. There must be close to ten thousand Redcoats in the town now, and, mark my words, they’re not going to sit idle, not they. You lads keep your eyes fixed on Dorchester Heights and Bunker’s Hill.”
“How do you know all that?” asked Jud.
The sailor solemnly winked his left eye and stuck his tongue into his left cheek. “The sea-gulls of the air,” he said. “The sea-gulls of the air.”
Whether or not Hank had secret information about the movements and intentions of the British troops, it is a fact that on the evening of the sixteenth of June, while Don and his aunt were sound asleep, events moved swiftly toward a climax. The army in Cambridge, determined on driving the King’s troops from the town, took measures to fortify Bunker Hill, and then almost at the last moment changed the plan and fortified a hill that was somewhat nearer the town. All during the night the Continentals labored at throwing up earthworks; and all the while the stars looked down peacefully, and the British men-of-war floated serenely with the tide, and the British patrols cried “All’s well” at frequent intervals.
At dawn Don and his aunt were wakened by the noise of firing; but by the time they were both down to breakfast the firing had ceased.
“Now what in the world could that have meant?” asked Aunt Martha.
“I’ll find out,” replied Don and ran into the street.
Near the town hall he inquired of a pedestrian what the firing was.
“His Majesty’s ship Lively,” replied the fellow shortly. He was evidently a Tory. “She fired on some earthworks the rebels have thrown up over by Charlestown.”
Don waited to hear no more. While he and his aunt were having breakfast he told her what he had heard. Aunt Martha only sighed. “Who knows,” she said after a long pause, “but what your uncle and Glen are over there at Charlestown?”
During the forenoon the firing resumed. The British, it seems, had brought three or four floating batteries to bear upon the fortifications; but in spite of the heavy bombardment the Continentals continued to work.
The day promised to be hot and sultry. The sun, a bright ball of molten gold, was blazing down on the shingled roofs of the town and was sending up heat waves from the cobblestoned streets. Don left off his top coat and turned in the collar of his shirt.
“You don’t look neat and trim, Donald Alden,” said his aunt as he was about to leave the house.
“It’s too hot, Aunt Martha.”
“You think so perhaps. Well, don’t go far.”
“I’m going to find Jud,” replied Don.
He did not have to go all the way to Hog Alley to find his comrade. Jud, hot and excited, almost ran into him at the foot of School Street. “O Don!” he exclaimed. “There’s going to be an awful time—a battle, sure as you’re alive! I was coming to get you.”
“I know,” said Don. “Everybody’s excited. And did you hear the firing early this morning?”
“Come up to the Common,” said Jud. “The Redcoats are all on parade. They’re going to march off, I think.”
The boys found the Common a scene of intense activity. There seemed to be Redcoats everywhere. Some were in formation; some were hurrying to join their companies that were assembling, and all seemed to be carrying arms and full equipment. The sun flashed on glistening swords and buckles and seemed to turn each bright red coat into a vivid blaze of fire. And overhead the graceful limbs of the great old elms waved gently to and fro like gigantic lacy green fans.
“Look,” said Don, “there’s the 43rd, Harry Hawkins’s regiment.”
“Yes, and there’s Hawkins himself,” replied Jud. “See him—that big fellow?”
Don bit his lips and said nothing. He did not dare put into words the thoughts that had come crowding into his mind at sight of the only Redcoat for whom he had the least affection.
“There’s the grenadiers,” said Jud; “and the new regiment, the 35th and the 49th.”
“Yes, and there are the marines,” added Don. “They all look pretty fine, don’t they?”
“They look fine enough now,” replied Jud, “but just you wait till our men get a shot at them. You know how it was at Lexington and Concord.”
Don knew indeed, and the thought of that memorable day cheered him considerably.
By now most of the troops had assembled, and one regiment already was marching off. The boys hastened to follow along Common Street.
“My, but it’s hot! Whew!” cried Jud. “I’m most melted.”
“I am too,” Don grinned. “I’m glad I don’t have to carry a pack and a musket. Just listen to the firing now!”
Although the sun was high overhead, neither boy thought of being hungry. Down Queen Street they hurried and past the town hall into King Street. People were standing on street corners and watching from doors and windows as the King’s troops swung past over the rough street. Small boys, shouting loudly to one another, were hurrying along beside the splendid, well-disciplined columns; and dogs of all sizes were running here and there, barking shrilly. One little fellow, all black with white spots, ran diagonally through the column and then, turning swiftly, ran back again as if for the sole purpose of showing that he could do it.
The boys saw the regiment march out upon Long Wharf, where boats were waiting to carry them north toward Charlestown. Then they saw another and another regiment swing down King Street and move out upon the wharf.
“Are they all going to embark here?” asked Jud.
“No,” replied a man who was standing near by. “Some of ’em are on the way to North Battery.”
“Come on up there then,” said Don.
When the boys reached the battery most of the British who were embarking at that point were already in the boats.
By now some of the people in the North End had climbed to the roofs of their houses, from which points they would have an unobstructed view of Charlestown across the water and of the men-of-war. As the boys were coming from the North Battery, Jud shouted to a man who was perched astride his gabled roof: “Hey, there, is there room for two more?”
“Come right along if you’re not Tories,” replied the man. “I reckon it wouldn’t be safe for a Tory up here beside me to-day.”
Jud, impetuous by nature, ran to the ladder that was leaning against the house, and Don, naturally cautious but in the excitement forgetful of everything, followed him. In a minute the boys were beside the man—John Short, a saddle-maker—and were looking eagerly across the water.