was born backstage.” He paused, staring into the middle distance.
“My parents were both carried off by the pox in ’sixty-three. Benny and the rest of the troupe have taken care of me ever since.”
Shad looked at him soberly for a moment. Then he said: “Makes us alike in a way, Nat. I never even knew my folks. Senecas got ’em when I was a babe. Senecas brought me up, part way. I’m blood brother to the Laurel Ridgers; that’s a tribe down in Pennsylvany.”
Shad, Nat discovered, hadn’t been boasting when he’d said he was a friend of George Washington’s. Nat was interested; everyone had heard of the famous militia colonel. Everyone seemed to like him too: patriot, loyalist, even the English held him in great respect.
“Shucks yes,” Shad said. “Me’n’ Georgie started the French’n’ Injun War together, down in Jumonville’s Glen. Then we fought together at Fort Necessity a month later. And the next year we come back with Braddock——”
“You were at Braddock’s massacre, Shad?” Nat marveled.
The huge fellow nodded, his face grim.
“Yeah. Me’n’ Georgie—we took our lickin’ there.”
Nat could see that the old battle was still a sore spot with Shad, so he switched away from it. “What have you been doing in Boston?”
Shad became animated. “Well, I tolt the Committee I wanted to stick around till something busted open, and Sam Adams and Hancock and that Dr. Warren said they’d fix me up. So they put me to work under this here Revere fella. You know Paul? Well, he’s got a batch a fellas workin’ for him—agents, they’re called. And I’m one of ’em! We mosey around town and we listen and look, and what we hear’n’ see we tote back to Revere and he passes it on to Warren, who passes it on to Adams and Hancock.”
“I see,” Nat said. “Revere is a sort of clearing house for military information. But look, Shad, I’ve heard some pretty mean tales told about Adams and Hancock. What kind of men are they, really?”
Shad pawed at his beefy face. “What have you heard—that Hancock’s a smuggler?”
“Well, it’s true enough, isn’t it? He was convicted, and the court placed a one hundred thousand pound fine on him. And the Loyalists say that if he can’t overthrow the King’s government, he’ll be tossed into quod; that it’s a case of rebellion or prison for him.”
Shad nodded. “Yes, and I suppose you heard about Adams too, eh? How he was made tax collector of Boston, and got kicked out of his job because he couldn’t account for ten thousand pounds he’d supposedly collected?”
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
Shad shrugged. “Natty, when you’re my age you’ll understand that people ain’t never what they are believed to be, that the best of us make mistakes. Sure, Hancock was a smuggler. Just like half the folk along the Eastern coast. And why? ’Cause there ain’t no other way to beat the import and export taxes that fat old King is forever placin’ on us, that’s why. Free trade, that’s all we want! But that fatboy king won’t give it to us.
“And Adams? Well, in the last ten years Adams must have held twenty jobs; and he’s lost every one of ’em. All right, so the Loyalists call him a thief; but out of those twenty jobs what does he have for it? Nothing. He’s as broke as you or me. Where’s all the money he’s supposed to have stolt?” He hunched forward on his stool.
“I’ll tell you, Natty. I wouldn’t give a hoot in Hades if Hancock was the biggest smuggler and Adams the greatest thief in America! That ain’t what’s important about those men. The important thing is that they got the guts to speak their minds out when they see that something is wrong. And people listen to them! Because they got that certain something that draws folks to ’em like a magnet. Folks need a leader, Nat; they always have. Folks need somebody to stir ’em up. And that’s what Adams and Hancock are—rabble-rousers. And if they can talk peawits like you’n’ me into fightin’ for our independence, then I say let ’em go to it!”
Nat looked at his new friend speculatively.
“Shad, is that why you’re willing to fight for independence—because an Adams or a Hancock talked you into it?”
Shad pawed at his face and glanced at his sweaty reflection in the makeup mirror, almost with a look of embarrassment.
“Well, no, it ain’t. But then I ain’t like most folk. Most folk warn’t with me’n’ Georgie when we fought for our land agin the French’n’ Injuns. I got a stake in this here land, Natty. I lost friends because of it. Their blood is in it, like tap roots. Ain’t no European king gonna take that away from me!”
Nat looked at himself in the mirror, thinking: I wish I could have been there with him. I wish I’d had friends like that.
Nat had a cot in the dressing room, and Shad said that was all right: he’d sleep on the floor with a blanket, because, by grab, he’d slept on much worse in his time. So they blew out the fish-oil burning lamp and settled down for the night. But not for long.
About midnight they heard the alley door slam and then the tramp of boots coming backstage toward the dressing room. Nat sat up and struck a tinder and got one of the lamps going again.
Ralston Morbes, slim and elegant in tight-fitting black, stood in the doorway with his walking stick, surveying them with cold, hostile eyes. He was a weakly, handsome man with about as much warmth and friendliness as an iceberg. He liked to affect the airs of a romantic man of mystery.
“So,” he said to Nat acidly, “you finally found a way to accomplish your purpose, eh?”
“What are you talking about, Ral?”
“You know well what I’m talking about! I’ve just come from seeing that prize nitwit Benny at the inn. He says I’m through. He says this fat bumpkin here is replacing me. And he says I have you to thank for it, as the bumpkin is your friend.”
Shad sat up and blinked at Ralston like a sleepy baby. Then he rubbed his eyes and looked again. Ralston returned the look frigidly.
“Did he say fat bumpkin?” Shad asked Nat.
“Yes. Listen, Ral, what happened between you and Benny has nothing to do with me. I merely brought my friend here tonight and——”
“Save your lame excuses, Towne,” Ralston snapped. “I’m not in the slightest interested. I don’t need this tuppence job! I don’t need any of you. Pack of ungrateful rebels; I should have washed my hands of you long ago. I have my own friends!”
“Are you sure he said fat bumpkin?” Shad persisted.
“Yes,” Nat said distractedly. “Ral, if you’d——”
“That’s what I thought he said,” Shad muttered. “I just wanted to make sure, because it makes a difference.” He rubbed at his moist face and blew out his breath and hauled himself up from the floor.
Ralston struck a sophisticated pose, leaning negligently on his stick. He studied Shad with arctic distaste.
Shad hulked toward him. “You’re a mighty pretty man,” he commented.
