Will with round, frightened eyes.
“Thomas,” Will’s father barked. “Get a sheet and cut it into strips this wide.” He measured with finger and thumb. “Cut up the whole sheet, and hurry about it.”
He walked over and looked down at Will, his eyes blazing in the whiteness of his taut face. “Don’t try to talk if it hurts too much, son. Was it that Roebaum whelp?”
Will managed a ghost of a nod, then, spoke out suddenly and clearly. “And Alvin Tomes. They were hunting and accidentally stumbled on where I was painting. I never got to lay a hand on Alvin, but I marked up Garf. I marked him good, Pa. As long as he lives, every time he looks in the mirror and sees his nose flattened all over his face, he’ll remember me.”
“Good!” Thomas Bowles said grimly and surprisingly. “That won’t be all he’ll have to remember before this score is settled, I promise you.”
He paced the floor until the sound of running hoofs sent him racing to the front door. “What the devil, Enos? Where is Dr. Ellefson? I told you…”
“The Doctor ain’t comin’, master. He say he got all he can do treatin’ patriots. He say he ain’t got time nor medicine to waste on Tories an’ traitors.”
Will heard a wordless, choking sound and then the slam of the front door. His father came back into the bedroom, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “It seems I must be doctor as well as schoolmaster in these insane times.” His voice had an icy calm that sent a curious shiver down Will’s spine. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, son, but this is bound to hurt some. When you feel like it, go ahead and yell.”
Not a moan or whimper passed Will’s set lips, though he was drenched in perspiration by the time his father finished probing and straightened up. “I think we can relax, Eleanor. Some ribs are undoubtedly cracked but I don’t find any broken and pushed inward to pierce a lung. We’ll wind him as tight as we can in the bandages and he’ll soon be as good as new.”
A half-hour later, wrapped tight from waist to armpits with strips of sheeting, Will was able to sit propped up in reasonable comfort and enjoy a bowl of hot broth. His whole body still throbbed with pain but either the agony was growing more tolerable or he was becoming accustomed to it. He had told the story of the fight, while his father paced the floor, driving a fist into his palm and muttering words Will had never heard him use before.
“Don’t you try to do anything about it, Pa,” Will begged him earnestly. “You can’t do any good and you’d only bring all their hate down on yourself. As long as…” He broke off as something drew his attention to the window beside his bed. He stared into the darkness and then his eyes went wide.
“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
