The Incredible William Bowles. Joseph J. Millard
everyone in Philadelphia had a long catalog of complaints ready to be poured out in a whiny, self-pitying voice.
Hard money was dear and Continental shinplasters not worth the paper they were printed on. Goods were scarce and prices soaring. Common salt was fetching twenty-five shillings a bushel when any at all was to be had. The British had captured New York and any day now could win the war by trapping and annihilating Washington’s dwindling handful of ragged Continentals.
Will concealed his elation at the war news and moved on, bitterly contemplating a dark and hungry future. His one hope was to somehow hold out until that English victory could restore the country to law and order once more. Then he could return home and resume the pleasant life that had been so violently interrupted by the insane rage for independence.
He was so lost in his dark reverie that it was a full minute before he became aware of the rising tumult up ahead. Suddenly it burst upon his senses, a frenzied, wordless, inhuman howling that seemed to pour from a thousand throats. He jerked up his head and froze in his steps, gaping at an astounding sight.
Midway in the next block a great, surging mass of people was marching toward him, filling the street from curb to curb. As they marched their voices rose and fell over and over in a wild, keening chorus. Now he could distinguish the words of their wailing chant.
“Ride, Tory, ride! Ride, Tory, ride!”
It was the first time Will had ever heard the voice of a mob in full cry and the sheer animal quality of it froze his blood. It made him think of the great wolf packs that often howled from the slopes of the Catoctins on winter nights. The Liberty Boys who horsewhipped Ben Peabody and his sons and then burned his henhouse must have sounded like this pack.
All up and down the street people were bursting from shops and homes to line the curbs and gape excitedly at the spectacle. A number, caught up in the frenzy, added their shrill yelps to the mounting din.
As the crowd drew near, Will could see the victim of their animosity. In the midst of the mob was a high, slat-sided farm cart, being pulled and pushed by eager hands. A portly man of advanced years stood alone in the cart, gripping the side to maintain his balance.
His wig was askew, the knot over one ear, exposing a strip of bald head and a fringe of white hair. His clothing was of fine quality but sadly disheveled, his stock torn loose, the buttons of his waistcoat hanging by threads. There was a dark, ugly bruise on one florid cheek and a slash on his right arm that had spilled blood down his sleeve and across an ample paunch.
A murmur ran through the crowd around Will. “It’s old Doctor Hensley, and high time. A carting is just what he has been needing to put a civil tongue in his head.”
Suddenly, above the yelling of the mob, Will could hear the old man’s voice roaring, “Go to hell, the whole pack of ye! God save the King, and damnation to all rebels!”
Will’s first feeling of pity gave way to a fierce surge of admiration for that gallant and stubborn defiance. Then a hot, helpless anger swept over him. He stood rigid, his fists clenched, his face black with rage, in the midst of the howling, jostling horde.
Abruptly a hand closed like a vise on his arm and a voice growled in his ear, “Come with me, young man—at once!”
He whirled. The man clutching his arm was above middle age and perhaps an inch shorter than Will’s five feet ten. He had a well-groomed, well-fed appearance, with plump pink cheeks and a little round pot belly straining the buttons of his flowered waistcoat. He gave Will’s arm an urgent twitch and hissed, “Don’t just stand there gaping, boy. This is for your own good. Come inside here, quickly.”
Before Will could collect his wits, he found himself being tugged through a white door into a small, shadowy room. A large stone mortar and pestle on a counter and rows of white glass jars showed that he was in an apothecary’s shop. The acrid stench of ammonia mingled with the scent of herbs and spices.
The plump man slammed the door and put his back against it, staring at Will. “Boy, did you ever see a man tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail?”
“No,” Will said angrily, finding his voice, “and I don’t see what that has to do…”
“Well, I have,” the other interrupted harshly. “Most folk think it nothing but a harmless sport and a salutary lesson to those whose opinions differ from theirs. They’ve never seen a man 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