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a last-minute check. Everything was in order. In a little while the journey would begin.
    As he finished his inspection, William fell in beside him. The brothers nodded to each other without exchanging any words, for there was nothing more to say. The lake trip had been dangerous, but it was behind them. Now, they hoped, the convoy’s worst troubles were over.

9
News and Rumors
    Somewhere across town, church bells began to ring. Finishing his breakfast of biscuits and cheese, Paul listened. That would be King’s Chapel, he decided, over on Tremont Street. Probably a funeral for another smallpox victim. These days the bells tolled often for the dead. The pox was everywhere, striking people without regard for their politics or for history. Tory and Whig, royalist and neutral—everyone was fair game for the deadly sickness.
    Gone away
, moaned the church bells.
Gone away . . . gone away . . . gone away . . .
    Paul gathered the leftovers of his breakfast and put them in a tin box. Nobody in Boston wasted a single bit of food, no matter how small it might be.
    Farewell
, cried the bells.
Farewell . . . farewell . . .
    In the old days, Paul thought, church bells had sounded different. He had loved to hear them calling across the rooftops. Even on sad occasions they rang out strongly, serenely, full of life and hope. Now, it seemed, they we’re always dull and gloomy, as if mourning for a dying city.
    Paul pulled on a jacket, grabbed his cap, and slipped out of the house, locking the door behind him. Crossing Fish Street, he passed a company of redcoats standing at rest. Their muskets slanted carelessly every which way. Sullen and bored, they glared at Paul with cold eyes. The boy looked the other way and tried to appear small and unimportant. He hated the British for making him feel weak and fearful—and despised himself for giving in to those feelings.
    Take care
, warned the bells.
Take care . . . take care . . .
    He walked quickly past Faneuil Hall, once the main public market and now a barracks for Howe’s marines. Partway down Merchant’s Row he turned and walked out on Long Wharf. This great pier, stretching two thousand feet into Boston Harbor, was a wonder of engineering admired all over the colonies. Once it had been a busy meeting place, the center of Boston’s shipping trade. Here, in earlier days, contracts were signed and precious cargoes bought and sold. Along the north side of the wharf were warehouses, shops, and business offices. The south side of the pier had been left free for the docking of sailing ships. Even at low tide, the wharf could handle the biggest schooners on the Atlantic Ocean.
    Today, as usual, the berths were unused, except for a small cutter flying the British flag. The shops and offices were dark and empty. Some of them had been boarded up for safety, but the planks had been torn off long ago and used for fuel—and so had the furniture inside.
    Here and there on the pier, Paul saw small groups of people, their faces worn and their clothes shabby. With Boston trapped in Howe’s blockade, citizens often gathered on the wharf to hear the latest news and rumors. Paul moved among the different groups, searching for a face. His eyes brightened. Near the south end of the pier, he spotted Old Toby sitting against a wooden piling, holding a fishing pole.
    When Toby showed up on Long Wharf it usually meant interesting gossip.
Paul strolled over and sat next to the boatman, his long legs hanging over the platform. Without turning his head, Toby touched his battered, shapeless hat. The hat had once belonged to a ship’s captain, and since Toby was a man of the sea, he felt entitled to wear it. “Morning to you, Master Paul.”
    Paul nodded. “Morning to you, Toby. How are you faring?”
    Toby made a face. “Well enough, thankee. Except for an empty belly.”
    â€œYou might have some luck with your