all about back roads the British could foller to surprise Gin’ral Washington. So after we done our duty on this place, we took Pryne out for the hangin’ he’d earned. Well, sir, we thought he ought to have a nice new hangin’ suit of tar and feathers first. We was just fittin’ him out proper in it when he give a funny little choking noise and keeled over, dead as a doornail. Some says his rotten heart give out and others think he swallered some of his own medicine, but either way it was good riddance. Then it seemed a pity to leave a good rope hangin’ empty so I come back to see if mebbe some of his friends might not show up to take his place on it.”
* * * *
Afterward, Will had no clear recollection of how he got away from the gaunt man and out into the rain-swept night. He remembered only endless hours of tramping the black streets with tears on his face and a consuming rage in his heart. The one clear thought in his mind was, “They’ll pay for this night. They’ll pay again and again and again. I hate Americans, and I’ll go on hating them and hurting them every chance I get to my dying day.”
Toward morning the rain stopped and the day broke gray and heavy. Around eleven o’clock Will stood with the silent crowd and watched Cornwallis march the first contingent of three thousand occupation troops in on Second Street. They marched to thudding drums and squealing fifes and the ear-splitting wail of bagpipes leading the Forty-second Highlanders.
Behind them came the rumbling artillery, to be parked hub to hub around the State House. The artillerymen bivouacked inside and the Highlanders pitched tents in every empty space around. Shortly afterward, squads of soldiers fanned out to chalk house numbers on every door in the city.
Will watched it all with dull eyes that saw no meaning. His senses were locked in a private world of shock and grief and rage where sights and sounds could not penetrate. How or if he ate and slept in the next few days he never knew.
The morning following the occupation, Will witnessed a thunderous half-hour artillery duel with the same dull incomprehension. Early in the day two Continental warships, the thirty-two-gun frigate Delaware and the eighteen-gun sloop of war Province, moved up the river to bombard newly erected British batteries along the waterfront. Cannon balls bounded up the streets, clanging on the pavement, and one house was hit but no one was hurt.
The batteries responded fiercely. In maneuvering, the Delaware ran solidly aground and was so savagely pounded that she caught fire and Admiral Alexander was forced to strike his colors. Not even that victory could penetrate Will’s daze to stir a feeling of elation.
Around him the city groaned and swelled at its seams as Howe pulled in another eight thousand troops from Germantown and from camps south of town. So many tents were flung up around the barracks at Callowhill and New Market that for years after the region was known as Camptown. Five thousand more men were crowded into the old French and Indian war barracks on Front, Second, and Third Streets.
It was as simple a thing as a poster, tacked to a wall of the Old London Coffeehouse, that snapped Will out of his shock and lifted the cloud from his senses. He noticed the poster in passing, stopped, read, and suddenly it was as if a door had opened to let him step through and back into the world of the living.
“Teucro duce nil desperandum,” read the first line. Will struggled for a moment with the Latin phrase, then gave it up. The remainder of the announcement was clear enough and to the point.
First Battalion of PENNSYLVANIA LOYALISTS, commanded by His Excellency Sir WILLIAM HOWE, K.B.
ALL INTREPID ABLE-BODIED
HEROES
WHO are willing to serve His MAJESTY KING GEORGE the Third, in defence of their Country, Laws and Constitution, against the arbitrary Usurpations of a tyrannical Congress, have now not only an Opportunity of manifesting their Spirit, by assisting in reducing to Obedience their too-long deluded Countrymen, but also of acquiring the polite Accomplishments of a Soldier, by serving only two Years, or during the present Rebellion in America.
Such spirited Fellows, who are willing to engage, will be rewarded at the End of the War, besides their Laurels, with 50 Acres of Land, where every gallant Hero may retire and enjoy his Bottle and Lass.
Each Volunteer will receive, as a Bounty, FIVE DOLLARS, besides Arms, Cloathing and Accoutrements, and every other Requisite proper to accommodate a Gentleman Soldier, by applying to Lieutenant Colonel ALLEN, or at Captain KEARNY’S Rendezvous, at PATRICK TONRY’S, three Doors above Market-street, in Second-street.
Staring at the poster, it came to Will that here was his perfect opportunity to strike back at those who had driven him from his home and taken the life of a rare friend. The address given was one block up High and three doors to the right. He swung around and set off with a brisk, determined stride.
Patrick Tonry’s small tavern was crowded and noisy and thick with smoke. The rich smell of a roast turning on the spit made Will’s empty stomach groan and his mouth water. A beefy man in a stained apron was basting the roast, the fat spitting and sizzling as it dripped onto the coals.
Will stepped over. “Where could I find a Captain Kearny?”
“In that far corner,” the beefy man said, nodding across the room. “Feller sittin’ alone with a stack of papers.”
Will threaded his way through the crowd. Most of the men wore the distinctive red coats of the British infantry, but here and there he saw the blue uniforms of Hessian mercenaries and the green of the Jägers, the elite light infantry.
Captain Kearny sat at a small table, moodily twisting a half-drained tankard of ale and staring at a pile of printed forms. He was a stocky man with a pleasant ruddy face and hair turning silver under the edges of his powdered wig. He glanced up as Will approached and his face lightened.
“Don’t tell me you’ve come to join up, young fellow? Bless me, I was beginning to lose hope. Sit down, boy.” He pulled the stack of forms closer, dipped his quill and looked questioningly at Will. “You look sound in wind and limb, I’d say. Name?”
“William Augustus Bowles.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen,” Will said, and held his breath until he saw the figure written without question.
“Your home in Philadelphia or the country?”
“It’s Frederick County, Maryland.”
“Oh, the devil!” Kearny said, and threw down the quill so hard that ink spattered across the sheet. “I might have known. You’re not for me, William. I’m signing only Pennsylvania lads, more’s the pity.
But Colonel James Chalmers is forming a Maryland Loyalist Corps.” He raised his voice. “Oh, Colonel! Colonel Chalmers! Here’s a likely looking one for your new outfit.”
A youthful-looking officer in a uniform shortcoat of bright green got up from a nearby table and came over, studying Will as he approached. Kearny squinted at his spattered sheet. “Name’s William Augustus Bowles, age sixteen, home Frederick County, Colonel.”
“Good, good. What brought you here, William? The five-dollar bounty or an urge to fight?”
“To fight,” Will said through his teeth: “I’ve got personal reasons for wanting to hurt the rebels as hard and as often as I can. A hundred of their measly hides wouldn’t pay back for what they’ve done to me and mine.”
“You’ll
