“Fire!” he yelled. “The tobacco barn’s on fire!”
His father whirled and ran out, the children yipping at his heels and their mother following. Will pulled back his covers, gritted his teeth and eased himself gently out of bed. By the time he had worked his trousers on, he could see the lurid reflection of flames on his windowpane. From below came a tumult of voices from the field hands, the clank of the well chain and the clatter of buckets.
When Will finally made his painful way out into the yard, the fire was almost out. Dora, their huge and powerful black cook, was operating the well pulley. As each brimming bucket of water appeared, it was snatched and passed along a line of field hands to his father, who dashed it onto the dwindling blaze. A cloud of mingled smoke and steam was pouring up from the last few palm-sized patches of glowing embers.
His father spied him and called, “You shouldn’t be out of bed, son. But thank heaven you saw the fire when you did. If it had burned through the siding and reached the dry, oily tobacco leaves inside, we’d have lost everything.”
“What started it?” Will asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer.
“That’ll be enough,” his father called to the bucket brigade, and moved to Will’s side. He said grimly, “It was started by a pile of fat pine brush heaped against the outside wall and set alight. It seems I didn’t have to do anything to bring their fervent patriotism down on my head. But the fire was only part of their kindly attentions.” He pointed toward the whitewashed stone of the house.
Two turning tar kettles had been set out and by their dim light Will saw a great, ugly blotch where a bucket of yellow paint had been thrown against the side of the house. He limped toward it, a fierce anger burning up in him at the senseless vandalism.
Beside him, his father said, “There’s one thing about this visitation that puzzles me. Usually these Liberty Boys hang around to enjoy their handiwork and contribute further mischief. Whoever did this scuttled away in a hurry.”
Will was staring at the smears and splotches of paint, a sudden realization raising the hackles on his neck. He opened his mouth to say, “I know the answer, Pa. This wasn’t the work of the Liberty Boys.” Then he clamped his lips tight, the words choked back.
The one who had hurled the paint had gotten his own hands in it. He must have leaned for a moment against the side of the house because a single handprint stood out clear and sharp before Will’s eyes. It was the print of a right hand with part of the third finger missing.
“Come along, Will. It’s high time we were all in bed. I don’t expect any more visitors tonight, but the hands will take turns standing guard until morning. You get back into bed at once, young man. You need your sleep.”
Long after the house fell silent, Will lay rigid and wide awake, staring into the darkness. There was no doubt whatever that tonight’s work was an act of personal vengeance by Garf Roebaum with, of course, the help of his faithful shadow. It was only a beginning. The bully would never forget or forgive the broken nose that would mark him for life. As long as Will was here, his home and everyone in it would be the target for whatever persecutions and torments Garf’s devious mind could invent. But if Will were no longer here…
He levered himself out of bed carefully and found the flint and steel on the night table. He struck a spark into the tinder box, blew it to flame and lit a candle. Drawing a sheet of paper close he dipped his quill and wrote a brief note.
“Dear Ma and Pa; It wasn’t the Liberty Boys set the fire and threw the paint. It was Garf Roebaum, hitting at you to get even with me. He’ll keep on as long as I’m here so I’ve got to go away. I’m sure he’ll let you alone then. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself and I’ll write as soon as this trouble clears up. Tell Tom and John I’m sorry about the paintings. Love to everybody. William Augustus Bowles.”
He sat for a moment, wondering where to go. Baltimore was too handy to Frederick Town. Someone would be sure to recognize him and carry word back to Garf. It had to be some place a lot further away.
He nodded in sudden decision and stood up, wincing at the stabs of pain. Moving more cautiously, he got his clothes and began to dress. The ache in his body was no fiercer than the ache in his throat.
Chapter 4
Nothing in Will’s experience had quite prepared him for the immensity of Philadelphia, capital of the thirteen colonies. He had visited Baltimore with his father and been awed by its bustling crowds and close-packed buildings. But you could drop all of Baltimore into a corner of Philadelphia, turn around once, and have trouble finding it again.
He had heard that the city boasted over forty thousand inhabitants, fifteen thousand more than New York, and he could well believe it. He was certain that before he had gone three blocks along High Street, at least half that number had jostled him, tramped on his feet, or dug elbows into his still tender ribs.
It was Sunday afternoon when he arrived and despite lowering clouds and a raw, wet wind it seemed the entire populace was out to parade its Sabbath finery. A rolling two-way tide of chaises, carriages, carts, and horseback riders filled the street from curb to curb. The narrow sidewalks were a solid mass of strollers of every class and age.
Will stood it as long as he could and then broke out of the crowd onto a quieter side street where he could wander at his own pace and gape at the sights. He was entranced by the shops with their neat white fronts and painted signboards. His artist’s eye took pleasure in block-long row houses of warm red brick, with their dazzling white woodwork, neatly scrubbed doorsteps, and polished brass knobs and knockers.
He walked until early dusk and a fine spit of chill rain in his face reminded him of his own precarious circumstances. In his pack were the remains of some bread and sausage, given him that morning by a kindly farm wife west of the city. In his purse were a single English crown, worth a dollar and eleven cents in Continental hard money, two pistareens or twenty-cent pieces, four half-pistareens that people were beginning to call “dimes,” and a few copper pence. It was hardly enough to placate a stomach that of late seemed always demanding more than he stuffed into it. The luxury of a warm room at an inn, however modest, was beyond his means.
Will looked around and his eyes fell on a livery stable a short way down the opposite side of the street. A very tall, gaunt man was limping back and forth, carrying forkfuls of hay from a covered rick in the yard. Will headed across and waited for the gaunt man to reappear.
“I could do that job for you,” he offered. “All I’d ask is leave to sleep inside out of the rain tonight.”
The other studied him, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. “Might be, might be. You don’t ’pear to be a rum pot nor a pipe smoker who’d burn the place down. Put a hand to the fork and let’s see how you do.”
Will stabbed a forkful of fragrant hay and carried it inside, spreading it along the feed rack in front of the tethered horses. On his third trip to the rick the gaunt man said, “You’re able enough with the pitchfork, though I’m bound to say you don’t act real fond of it.”
“I’m not,” Will admitted. “I hate drudge work, but not half as bad as I hate being wet and cold.”
The stableman laughed. “At least, I can allus say I’ve met one honest lad in my day. You’ll find a pile of good warm horse blankets back by the harness pegs. Just see you fold ’em neat and put ’em back where you found ’em in the morning.”
That night Will slept snug and warm while rain drummed on the roof and the wind whistled around the eaves. He awoke at first light to finish off his bread and sausage and clear out before the stableman could arrive with schemes for additional labor.
The day was clear and nippy, with a brisk wind to dry the rain puddles. The whole city was astir. A steady stream of farm wagons and carts, piled high with fall produce, converged on the open-air market.
All along the street merchants were taking down their shutters