The Incredible William Bowles. Joseph J. Millard
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. Several were officers in one or another of the Pennsylvania militia regiments. Clearly, none of them had the faintest idea of the apothecary’s private sentiments. If the subject of politics was brought up, he was always so vague and noncommittal that no one could suspect him of bias toward either cause.
But seldom a night passed that Will was not awakened in the small hours by the creaking of the front stairs as mysterious callers crept up and down from Pryne’s quarters. Often he counted as many as twelve visitors who remained until the crack of dawn, talking in barely audible murmurs. There was no doubt in his mind that Samuel Pryne was a key figure in an underground loyalist activity of some kind.
The thought made his spine tingle with excitement. He longed to have some part in whatever was going on, but he was reluctant to broach the subject and Pryne studiously avoided any mention of his nocturnal callers. Clearly he had no intention of involving Will in an enterprise which, he had hinted, was so hazardous that exposure could mean the gallows.
Occasionally, Pryne picked up scraps of news from Frederick County. The Liberty Boys were still waging their campaign of terror against loyalists, but from all accounts Will’s father had not been a victim. It was a sickening shock, however, to hear that of the seven neighbors arrested for high treason, two had been hanged and the others shipped off to prison.
Will had longed to write a letter to his parents, letting them know he was well and safe. Pryne flatly forbade it. “The risk is too great, Will. Strangers or anyone contacting one of the known loyalists is bound to be stopped and searched. In the wrong hands, such a letter could bring endless trouble to all concerned.”
Meanwhile, the onslaught of winter was so remarkably delayed that the war had time to flare up into a new phase. It was one that disheartened the patriots as greatly as it cheered the Tories, or loyalists, as they preferred to be called.
In late November the forces of the British General, Sir William Howe, suddenly crossed the Hudson River from New York. Gobbling up the American forts and magazines, they swept down through New Jersey, driving Washington’s disintegrating army before them. At Newark, two thousand of his militia troops walked out and went home because their ninety-day enlistment term was up. Their cowardly departure left Washington with barely three thousand poorly trained and ill-equipped men between Howe’s victorious forces and Philadelphia.
In the city a mounting panic swept the ranks of the patriots. This was heightened by the swelling tide of sick and wounded Continentals coming in to jam the Pennsylvania Hospital and die like flies.
By December 8 Washington had been pushed back across the Delaware River and the British were occupying Trenton, only thirty-two miles from the capital. The news turned the panic into hysteria. Day and night the streets echoed to the rumble of carts and wagons as terrified patriots loaded up their families and possessions and fled to the south or west.
From the shop window Will watched the exodus with unconcealed delight, gleefully identifying some of the most rabid persecutors of loyalists among the fugitives. When the Continental Congress abruptly adjourned and fled to Baltimore, he could barely contain himself. His eyes danced with joy.
“It’s all over now,” he told Pryne exultantly. “By the week’s end our troops will occupy the capital here and the madness will be at an end. The rebels will come crawling in, as meek as kittens, all vowing they never had a disloyal thought in their lives.”
To his amazement, Pryne refused to share his optimism. “It will be time enough to hoist your victory flag when the enemy has finally surrendered, Will, and that may not be for a long and bloody time. Until you see George Washington carted up High Street without his sword, this rebellion is far from ended.”
“How can you say that?” Will cried. “Washington has met nothing but defeat after defeat. That rabble he calls an army is deserting him in droves. Just look out the window. There go the brave rebels, fleeing like rabbits, with their congress leading the race. Look what happened when General Howe issued his proclamation, offering a full pardon to every rebel who’d come in and sign the oath of allegiance to King George. The brave patriots are pouring into Trenton by the thousands to take his mercy. It is said even some of Washington’s men have slipped in to sign.”
“All true, Will,” Pryne said, “and all pointless. Never underestimate General Washington. Howe did it repeatedly and it has cost him dearly. And don’t confuse a reverse in the field with a defeat, boy. Washington will never be defeated as long