suffocated by hot tar, or joggled on a sharp rail until he’s too split apart to ever stand or walk straight again.”
“All right,” Will shouted, “but I can’t see that’s any reason to grab a stranger’s arm and drag him in here. If you have an idea of trying to sell me some of your nostrums…”
“The only thing I’m trying to sell you, young fellow, is a lick of sense. Couldn’t you see that mob out there is in an ugly mood? Carting poor old Doc Hensley is only a warm-up for what they’d like to do. And there you stand, just begging to be the sacrificial lamb on their precious altar of liberty. Why boy, you had hatred and disgust written all over your face for anyone to read. If one of that pack had so much as glanced your way, you’d be headed for the tar barrel and fence rail right now. That is, if you weren’t dangling from my new lamp post instead.”
Will gaped at him, feeling his indignation drain away. “You’re dead right about what I was feeling, but I guess I was just too mad to think straight. I guess I owe you plenty of thanks, Mister…?”
“Pryne. Samuel Pryne, apothecary and doctor of sorts, your obedient servant. And you?”
“William Augustus Bowles, though plain Will is enough.”
They shook hands solemnly. “Where from, Will?”
Will hesitated briefly. “Er—Frederick County, Maryland.”
Pryne’s blue eyes sharpened. “How old are you, boy?”
Will’s mouth flew open. “This is Monday, the second day of November, isn’t it? Then today is my thirteenth birthday and I’d clean forgot it.”
“Thirteen?” Pryne was genuinely startled. “Why, I’d take you for sixteen, at least, or going on seventeen. I suppose it’s your height, partly, and that sober, grown-up way you have of looking and talking. Only thirteen, eh? Then I’ll wager you’ve run away from home.”
Will’s first impulse was to deny the charge and invent some plausible story to explain his presence alone so far from home. But Pryne’s warm friendliness and genuine concern had a curiously disarming effect. Suddenly Will found himself pouring out the whole story of the mounting troubles and his reason for leaving home. Pryne listened attentively, nodding and pushing his lips in and out.
“I’d say you did the right thing to leave home, Will,” he said when the story was done. “And a brave thing it was, too, since the life of a gentleman planter is hardly preparation for making your own way in a harsh and hostile world. But the point is, what will you do now?”
“I don’t know,” Will confessed. “I guess about anything I can find to earn me food and shelter.” He hesitated, then burst out, “Mr. Pryne, couldn’t I stay and work for you? You wouldn’t have to pay me wages. All I’d want is a scrap to eat and a blanket on the floor. I could run errands and help you. I already know how to grind and make infusions, from mixing my own paints. I’m real handy with brushes. I could paint you a fine new signboard or refurbish an old one like new, and even do a fine likeness of you.”
“Well, now,” Pryne said, pursing his lips and scrubbing his chin briskly with the ball of his thumb, “such a thought had already crossed my mind, Will, though I’ve managed nicely without help in better times than these. Suppose we give it a try for a few days, anyhow, and see how matters work out.”
Will had to fight down an urge to yell for sheer joy. “I won’t be bothersome to you, I promise, Mr. Pryne. Just tell me what you want me to do first.”
“First,” Pryne said in a dry voice, “I want you to come into the back room while I cut away those bandages your father put on you. You’ve passed the need for them by now, and I hope you’ll not be offended if I say all that tramping in the hot sun and sleeping on the damp ground has made ’em what you might call a little bit overripe.”
With the offending linen cut away, Will found that except for a lingering soreness his ribs were practically healed. As he scrubbed with strong yellow soap, Pryne perched on a high stool and studied him thoughtfully.
“You may not look thirteen, Will, but I’ll wager there’s a thirteen-year-old appetite inside that lengthening frame. As soon as you’re done, we’ll go to my quarters above and sample a pot of stew that’s been simmering since daybreak. When my Rebecca passed on some years ago, I had perforce to become my own cook. If I do say so myself, I believe I’ve mastered the art rather well.” He chuckled and patted his paunch. “You may have noticed that I’ve not been gaunted by my own fare.”
Before Will could answer, the shop door opened and closed and heavy steps hurried across the floor. A tall, well-dressed man burst into the back room.
“Sam, the word just arrived from General Howe’s headquarters. You’re to have guides and scouts ready…” He suddenly caught sight of Will. The words choked off and his face lost its color.
“No harm done, Adam,” Pryne said. “This is Will Bowles, who will be helping me here in the shop. Those scars you see are the work of our mutual friends, so I am sure you can rely on his discretion. Nonetheless, if you will excuse us for a moment, Will, we’ll finish our talk up front.”
The soft murmur of their voices went on for a time, then the front door opened and closed. Pryne came back as Will was buttoning a clean shirt from his pack.
“We’ll go up the back stairs, Will. I’ve belled the front door so we can hear if anyone enters. Come along, and bring your appetite. Nothing flatters a cook like a hearty eater.”
He opened a side door and led the way up a narrow staircase into a neat, sunny kitchen. An iron pot was simmering on the hearth, filling the room with the rich smell of savory stew. Pryne set out bowls and spoons and a loaf of crusty bread to break for sopping. He made no reference to his recent caller and Will kept a discreet silence.
When Will had eaten until he could hold no more, Pryne chuckled. “You have flattered the cook most nobly, my boy. Now, I’ve been giving thought to your sleeping quarters. I believe it best to make up a comfortable bed for you down in the back room. Not that there isn’t room up here, but the fact is, Will”—the blue eyes shifted evasively—“I’m apt to have frequent callers at odd hours of the night and I wouldn’t want your sleep disturbed by our talk.”
“I understand, sir,” Will said.
“Yes,” Pryne said, and his gaze was suddenly direct and appraising. “I am quite sure you do, Will. And I am equally sure you’ll keep such matters to yourself. I sincerely hope so, since the skin of my throat is extremely sensitive to rope burn.”
Chapter 5
The weeks sped by with Will busier than he had ever been before in his life. He ran errands, waited on customers, folded endless packets of powders, pounded up bushels of roots and herbs with mortar and pestle. He washed and filled bottles, measured ingredients for Pryne. As his skill and knowledge grew, he was permitted to mix simple remedies and blend salves. Before winter set in, he made several excursions to the country to collect roots, leaves, bark, and berries to be compounded into medicines.
Will’s bed in the back room was comfortable and always warm, since Pryne kept the Franklin stove burning all night to keep his stock of medicines from freezing. In the meantime, Will was learning a great deal indirectly about his employer and benefactor.
A great many of Pryne’s best customers were highly placed patriots.
