Characters Mentioned
Barnes, Henry – Marlborough loyalist
Bigelow, Captain – Marlborough militiaman
Browne, Captain John – 10th Regiment. One of three spies sent to Worcester and Concord
Curtis, Dr. Samuel – leader of the Marlborough committee of correspondence
De Berniere, Ensign Henry – 10th Regiment, spy, scout for Colonel Smith
Gage, General Thomas – military governor and commanding general of British forces stationed in Boston
Howe, Corporal John – servant of Captain Brown. Spy
Jones, Issac – Weston tavern owner
Jones, Issac – Worcester tavern owner
Swain, Private – Captain Brown’s deserter drummer boy
Map
Chapter 3, “Guests to Entertain,” Section 1
Citing the consequences of abandoning their mission, De Berniere had swayed again Browne’s thinking. The thought of being passed over for promotion; of being branded by junior and senior officers as shy, irresolute, insufficient; of being forced, conceivably, to leave the Army had convinced De Berniere that they had to risk a second attempt. Making the decision to return to Worcester had not reduced, however, the ensign’s angst. He had new uncertainties that were distressing him.
They were probably damned, regardless! That he had not told Browne! The less he gave the depleted captain reason to question, to make decisions unilaterally, the better for both.
There stood Browne, De Berniere’s imperious, fifteen stone anchor weight, obtuseness’s brother, gazing out the window, witnessing the harbingers of a great storm: massing clouds, the rumble of thunder, blasts of wind bowing their windowpane.
Rain, snow, sleet were not the greatest of De Berniere’s concerns. Two situational difficulties weighed far heavier.
Except for the recalcitrant innkeeper, Isaac Jones, De Berniere knew of no one in Worcester who supported the Crown. It was incumbent, therefore, that he and Browne make the cowardly innkeeper serve! Loyalty. Sacrifice. “Your safety is secondary, sir. We must call upon your courage, your devotion, your fidelity to King and Country.” Or, because that loyalty had caused him grievous injury, “Punish them, Mr. Jones. What better way to punish them for what they have done to you, sir, than to apprise General Gage of what they attempt to protect!”
Beneath their window a mongrel dog, its fur rippling and flattening, stepped gingerly over icy wagon ruts. Its ears lifted. Something cast from a downstairs window had landed four feet in front of the dog's front paws. The dog munched on it.
De Berniere turned away.
He could, decidedly would cajole Jones; but more than likely he would have to bully the man. De Berniere frowned at the road, frowned at the gray-nosed mongrel. The problem was that forced information could easily be false information. Providing General Gage bad intelligence would destroy his career!
Persuading Jones presupposed the surmounting of their second difficulty, their safe arrival! They would have to pass through Marlborough, where, he was convinced, militiamen had awaited the arrival of three British spies. Despite what he had told Browne’s servant, could they realistically assume that, three days having elapsed, the Marlborough town leaders had ended their vigil?
Experiencing mild abdominal discomfort, De Berniere accompanied Captain Browne downstairs for an early lunch. When the snowfall, which had begun before noon, relented at 2 p.m., like criminals escorted to the gibbet, De Berniere and Browne stepped onto the Weston/Sudbury road. Twenty minutes later they were in trouble.
What had begun as a light snowfall was now a full-blown snowstorm. Gusts of wind staggered them. Icy particles pelted their faces, leggings, and coats. Their heavy, buckled shoes soon carried balls of frozen mud, which they scraped off every so often on road-side fence rails. Sixteen miles to walk, De Berniere calculated. Each foot up, each down, circulate the blood, don’t stop. He began to count. One left finger down every ten steps. Two thousand steps, one mile.
It occurred to him that the storm might work to their benefit. Whomever they might pass would not see British officers in questionable disguise but two snow-covered travelers. Who would take singular notice?
They passed through Sudbury, then over a causeway across a great swamp. Only when they were within three miles of Marlborough did they see their first traveler. They did not hear his approach. Not until he had ridden past did they notice him, and then, only briefly, their heads lowered against the wind.
Seconds later, feeling Browne's pushing hand, De Berniere saw that the traveler had stopped. His horse, blasted from behind, side-stepped and bridled. The traveler signaled for them to halt.
“What is your destination?” he commanded. Not receiving an answer, he repeated the question.
“Marlborough!” Captain Browne shouted. “To see a friend!”
The man stared at Browne, then De Berniere.
“Bad weather for it!”
“The storm caught us!” De Berniere said. He kicked the debris-laden sole of his right shoe against his other shoe.
“A local man knows when a 'northeaster' is comin'! From where do you travel?!”
“Boston!”
The traveler smirked. “They in Boston also know a 'northeaster'!”
Neither De Berniere nor Browne answered. De Berniere feigned indifference. “I didn’t think the weather would be this bad,” he said truthfully, ending the awkward silence.
Another pause. The surly rider continued to stare.
“We shall see our friend soon enough!” De Berniere added. “In about three miles, I conceive.”
The man frowned, deeply. The horse bridled; he pulled its reins toward his chest. Stooping, he asked, “Is it true … that you are British officers?”
De Berniere's chest pounded. His cheekbones tingled. Yet he kept his eyes fastened.
“No!” Captain Browne shouted, more loudly than what the wind required. “We live in Boston, I said!”
“We promised our friend in Marlborough that we would see him, today!” De Berniere glared at the provincial. “It doesn’t matter what you think!” His angry response surprised him. He determined the reason. Not having accepted his explanation, the man had dishonored him.
Another silence. The horseman maintained his scrutiny. They, powerless to control his questioning, waited.
How would he answer if the man asked for the name of their “friend”? De Berniere recognized. He had forgotten who it was in Marlborough that the Weston innkeeper had recommended. The Loyalist’s name was written on a torn piece of paper deep inside his right coat pocket.
Pulling his reins sideways, the provincial turned his horse around. Putting boot heels to flesh, he rode off into the gusting snow.
De Berniere and Browne resumed their tussle with the storm.
“We are in grave danger!” Browne declared.
“I realize that, sir!”
“Our speech is not in character with our appearance!”
“I do not believe Howe could have helped us!”
“Howe be damned! That rider will spread an alarm against us, and we walk into it!”
“Where else are we to walk except back to Weston?! Can we do that now?!”
“Do you see a farmhouse?! This snow blinds me!”
“I have seen nothing! We will see nothing until we reach Marlborough!”
“You realize what they will do to us! Once this storm is over, they’ll display us on their bloody common! Exhibit us, De Berniere! Sweat us!”
“Or tar and feather us, Captain! Force us thus the entire way to Boston!”
Thereafter chagrined, striving to appear resolute, they did not speak.
About to remove his right glove to retrieve the piece of paper, De Berniere recalled the Loyalist’s name. Henry Barnes. The Weston innkeeper, Isaac Jones, had told them that the Tory was a wealthy applejack distiller and merchant, a man of commercial importance. De Berniere and Browne had intended to pass through Marlborough separately fifteen minutes apart. Due to the storm and the near certainty that they would soon be arrested, they would now have to seek refuge at the merchant’s residence. If they were lucky, the storm having abated, they would strike off separately for Worcester early the following morning. All was predicated on the fanciful notion that they could ask a bystander, out in the storm, to direct them to Barnes’s residence without suffering immediate, harmful consequence! Who would be so bold as to station themselves by the road in such a fierce storm? Forewarned of their proximity, militiamen!
Madness.
Reaching the outskirts of the town, they passed two buildings and saw directly ahead a large white empty space surrounded by skeletal trees. Here is the village common, De Berniere concluded. Eight or nine onlookers were watching in front of what had to be the town’s meeting house. De Berniere saw no firearms. Where were the militiamen? Out of sight? Waiting? Why were these particular townsmen attending? To witness his and Browne’s arrest!
A squat, burly man wearing an apron stepped in front of them. Browne, two steps ahead of De Berniere, commenced to stare the provincial down.
“Where d'you be going in this storm, master?!” the man questioned. Flakes of snow eddied past him.
“Pray direct us to the house of Mr. Henry Barnes,” Captain Browne responded haughtily. De Berniere winced.
Raising his broad chin, the man pointed toward bare-limbed trees and a barely discernable house. Shielding his eyes with a gloved hand, Browne stepped off. De Berniere followed. Ten seconds later De Berniere looked back. His thick legs spread wide, his stout arms folded across his chest, the aproned man returned De Berniere’s stare.
Approaching the house, De Berniere saw two figures scurry away.
Henry Barnes immediately opened his door.
“You needn't explain who you are,” Barnes interrupted as they began their apology. “Every person in this town knows who you are. Monday night a party of liberty men had planned a welcome for you. Captain Bigelow did see you previously on the road.”
The silent horseman that had stared at them three days ago, De Berniere concluded.
“Is there a safe tavern for us here?” Captain Browne asked.
“No.”
“Any place?” De Berniere asked.
“Not one!”
Browne's harried look matched De Berniere’s.
“This town is violent, gentlemen. Consider my house but a temporary sanctuary.” Again De Berniere nodded. “Did you speak to anyone within the town?”
“A burly man wearing an apron. He stopped us,” Brown answered. “He directed us to your house.”
The merchant's ruddy face paled.
“A man of importance, I conjecture,” De Berniere responded.
“A leading militiaman of this town.” Henry Barnes tightened his face, pressed together opposite fingertips. “He hates anything British. So much so that he harbors a deserter. A drummer boy named Swain.”
“God’s wounds!”
De Berniere looked at Browne's astonished expression.
“Did you … say 'Swain'?!”
“I did.” The Tory merchant frowned. “Of what matter is it to you?”
Browne pivoted. Lips issuing silent words, he glared. Wide-legged, he rocked.
De Berniere looked for someplace to sit. Limb-enervating, thought-destroying fatigue had vanquished him. “Temporary sanctuary,” he had heard Barnes say. God’s love, he wanted everything -- hot food, good liquor, a snapping fire!
“What is it?” the Loyalist asked. Browne had faced about. De Berniere observed the Captain’s twisted mouth.
“Until less than a month ago, this ‘Swain,’ Private Swain, was my drummer boy!”
Barnes inhaled, then grimaced.
De Berniere’s mindfulness returned.
Had the drummer boy accompanied his protector out into the cold?! While the aproned man had spoken to them, had Swain recognized Browne?
Barnes opened the front door, just as quickly closed it. “You can’t be seen again,” he declared. “You must leave before dawn even if the storm continues! Let us hope Swain remained indoors. Let us hope your enemies hold greater import to their physical comfort!”
De Berniere removed his coat. Happenstance. Coincidence. His machinations had availed him nothing. Holding the dripping garment in his right hand, he shook his head.
Barnes walked to the doorway of the adjacent room. Beckoning them to follow, he said, “You’ll find a good fire in my study. Take off your clothing. I will bring you robes.”
A heavy knock on the front door stopped them.
“I saw nothing just now,” Barnes whispered.
De Berniere followed Browne out of the foyer. Barnes pointed to the wall that separated the entryway from his drawing room. Behind it, listening for voices, they heard initially the raw wind.
“Hello, Barnes,” a voice insulted. “I've come to pay you a friendly visit.”
“Doctor Curtis, how kind of you. We haven't spoken in two years.” A pause. “But I beg that you excuse me. I have guests to entertain.”
Another pause. “Who are your father's guests, my dear?” the first voice said, this time without malice.
De Berniere was startled by a child's voice. “Papa said it's not my business to know.” Polite but emphatic. Notwithstanding his alarm, De Berniere smiled.
The sound of the storm silenced, Barnes entered the drawing room. “He is off to the Meeting House.”
“Who is he?” Browne rubbed his left eye vigorously.
“Doctor Samuel Curtis. A leader of the local Committee of Correspondence.”
Barnes directed them into his study, where he advised them to spread their clothing on the hearth’s bricks.
“You realize now you must leave much sooner,” he said, returning, the robes folded over his right forearm. “I think it best that we change our plans. You will not have time to wear these.”
“The militiamen will be arriving,” De Berniere responded.
“I’m certain of it.” He looked at their clothing, steam starting to rise from the fabric. “You’d better clothe yourselves, now, however wet they may be. Then come into the next room. You have arrived just after dinner. You may have time yet for a steaming meal. Let us hope.”
His soaked clothing adhering to his skin, De Berniere eased his body down upon one of the dining table’s cushioned chairs. Smelling the roasted venison, he felt conjointly the release of tension and absence of volition. So this is resignation. This is capitulation, he thought. There is nothing, nothing whatsoever that I can achieve, save appease my appetite.
He was ravenously hungry. Making eye contact with his host, he smiled. A sumptuous, final meal, he thought. Intending to enjoy every morsel, he reached for a bread roll.
“Sir! Sir!”
The animated servant commanded the passageway between the foyer and dining room. Barnes rose instantly from his chair.
“Sir, many men! From the Meeting House! They carry muskets!” Snow was embedded in the man’s hair, layered on the shoulders of his coat.
“How many?!” Barnes asked.
“Maybe, … twenty!”
“Be gone!” Barnes ordered. They rose from the table. “Hurry!”
“I’ll attempt to delay them,” he said as they pulled on their coats.
Having snatched four bread rolls off the table setting, De Berniere and Browne followed Barnes’s servant out a back door into a yard. The servant pointed at what appeared to be stables, were stables. The two officers hurried past them, hurried across a snow-laden field, scrambled over a whitened rail fence.
Discovering a country lane a half mile away, the wind at their backs, the cold seeping through their coats, fearfully, miserably, they fled.
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