Rabble on a Hill. Robert Edmond Alter

fight on in the event of a war between the British and the Americans.”

      Warren removed his pipe from his mouth and leaned forward.

      “And the answer?”

      Jessie shook his head. “As I say, I’m a little vague—but it looks as though the Abenakis think they’ll fight for the British.”

      The men around Jessie straightened up slowly. No one said anything for a moment. Then Billy Dawes yawned and stretched and said: “Which probably means we’ll have both Seneca and Abenaki against us if we have to fight the redcoats.” It didn’t seem to bother him much.

      But the possibility obviously bothered the rest of them a great deal; especially Shad, who had fought Indians all his life.

      Jessie looked at Nat. “Perhaps we’d better take charge of this message,” he suggested. And Warren roused himself, saying:

      “Yes. It wouldn’t be advantageous for us if that message were to fall into the wrong hands.”

      “I don’t understand, sir,” Nat said.

      Warren tapped at his lower teeth with the stem of his pipe.

      “Simply this: it would jeopardize our cause if the Senecas were to learn that the Abenakis were ready and willing to fight us. It would probably influence the Senecas into taking the same step.”

      “But they’re bound to learn sooner or later.”

      Warren smiled a small reticent smile. “As you say, Nat—later, in this case, will suit us far better than sooner.”

      Nat hesitated, conscious of their eyes upon him. Then he tucked in his mouth and reached for the birchbark.

      “I’ll see that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. But—I think I’d better keep it. You see, I gave my promise I would.”

      They seemed to understand that. A promise to a dying man was considered a sacred thing.

      “Just be very, very careful with it, Nat,” Jessie warned.

      “Don’t worry, Jess,” Shad said heavily. “If anybody tries to get it away from him, I’ll bust their arm for ’em.”

      The meeting seemed to have reached its conclusion. The Committeemen were knocking out their pipes and arising from the table, and Ed Norton went for the slush lamp to light their way upstairs.

      “By the by, Nat,” Dr. Warren said, touching Nat’s arm with his pipestem. “How would you like to join our group? I believe Paul could always use another man. Correct, Paul?”

      “Right, Doctor. Can’t get enough of ’em. Right now information’s our biggest weapon.”

      Again Nat hesitated. Now—still a part of the inexorable pattern—he was faced with the decision. He met Warren’s steady gaze.

      “Doctor, do you think it will come to fighting—war?”

      Warren looked down at his pipe, speculatively, as though he half thought to discover something more than just dead ashes in the bowl.

      “Yes,” he said finally, “I believe it will.” Then he looked up at Nat. “Are you afraid of fighting, Nat? Of being killed?”

      “Yes, sir, I sure am,” Nat said candidly.

      Warren smiled quietly. “So am I, frankly. I don’t mind dying, but I’m deathly afraid of being killed.”

      “How’s that, Doc?” Shad looked bewildered.

      “To die of sickness or old age, of natural causes, holds no horror for me,” Warren explained. “But to be killed by a bayonet or a musket ball . . . ” He shrugged, and knocked out his pipe in the palm of his hand.

      “But if it comes to fighting,” Nat prompted, “you’ll still go through with it?”

      “Yes, I will, Nat,” the doctor said simply.

      Nat nodded. “All right, Doctor. So will I.”

      4

      THEY BOTH KNEW THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT DEATH

      Shad was in a fever to get away from the theater right after the show the following night. He barely bothered to remove the grease paint from his face, saying:

      “Something’s up, don’t ask me what. But Harvey Allen just sent word that Warren wants me quicker than a starvin’ man wants a meal!”

      “Well, what about me?” Nat wanted to know.

      Shad was already to the door. “Beats me, Natty. But if I was you, I’d scoot over to Jessie’s just as soon as you finished here. See you!”

      Nat cleaned himself, switched to his street clothes, grabbed his hat, and hurried from the dressing room. He bumped into Benny in the wings. The manager was toting a fat bag of clinking coins, and he started cooing ecstatically like a mother over her first-born.

      “A fortune, Nathaniel, dear lad! A veritable fortune! Remind me to consider doubling your wages and presenting a bonus to Shad—some day.”

      “All right, Benny. I’m in a hurry now. See you tomorrow.”

      He’d never been more wrong in his life. A sergeant from the Fourth (King’s Own) Regiment was tacking a fresh proclamation onto the billboard in front of the theater. The date it bore was April 18, 1775.

      Ed Norton let him into the warehouse. The old fellow was so excited he kept plucking at Nat’s sleeve all the way down the corridor.

      “What’s up, Ed?”

      “Big doings. The regulars are going out!”

      “Out? You mean out of Boston? To where?”

      “Concord, you idiot! Where else?”

      “Well, what’s about Concord?”

      “Gunpowder!” Ed cried. “That’s what about Concord! For months our boys have been raiding the King’s stores, and they’ve made a military depository in Concord. Why, child, Concord’s full of cartridge paper, flints, musket balls, bombs, fuses, spades, kettles, billhooks, swords, and powder!”

      “And Gage knows it?”

      “Bless you, to be sure he does! His Tory spies know everything. And what’s more, he aims to get it! And I mean tonight!”

      Nat left old Ed at the door and started down the steps on his own, only to have to step aside as a nameless stranger came hurrying up the stairs. The man gave him a quick sideways look and a fleeting grin in passing.

      “Some excitement, eh bucko?”

      “I reckon,” Nat agreed. And then the man was gone and Nat went downstairs.

      Billy Dawes and Dr. Warren were alone for the moment, both standing, bending over the table, studying a map. Billy looked up and grinned.

      “Hear the news, Nat-o?”

      “Yes. Is it true?”

      Warren reached for his pipe absently, still staring at the map.

      “Very true. One of Paul’s men, Jasper, a gunsmith, heard about the intended movement this afternoon from a British sergeant. Gage planned to make this a secret expedition—but there’s one thing no general has ever been able to do, and that’s keep a soldier’s mouth shut.”

      “Colonel Smith of the Tenth Foot, and Major Pitcairn of the marines are taking the grenadier and light infantry companies,” Billy said. “We figure there’ll be about seven hundred men in the detachment.”

      You had to hand it to Revere’s agents, Nat marveled. They really kept their eyes and ears cocked.

      And later, much later, he had to marvel at the vagaries of history. Somehow, in legends, Revere was to emerge as the