Back on the road again, Gabriel was determined to make as much progress as he could. He thought about reaching the militia around Boston and asking for Nathaniel Greene, just as Ben Daniels had told him to. He wondered if the ships in the sound had raised anchor yet. When will they reach Boston Harbor? Or were the soldiers from the ships already on the ground marching against the militia? These thoughts quickened his pace.
Distracted by his thoughts of reaching Boston, he hardly noticed when the pitter-patter of rain began to fall on his head. The rain quickly turned into a downpour. He ran for cover under a large oak tree, but the rain was coming down hard, and the wind was whipping through the tree so much that the oak did little to shelter him. His woolen coat was soaked again. Soon, the approaching night air would become cooler. He knew he was in for a long night. He thought of the fire he had sat by earlier that afternoon, and it warmed his thoughts.
That was it — a fire! Gabriel went to gather some small branches and pine needles. He stacked them in a pile and took his flint rock from his pouch. Then he struck his flint with his knife. Sparks flew, but no fire took hold. He struck again and again, but it was simply too wet. With this rain-soaked wood, he wouldn’t have a fire tonight.
Gabriel leaned back against the base of the oak tree and hung his head. As he did, the cold rain dripped from his black hair onto the ground. He watched it drip, wishing he had stayed in the room the innkeeper offered him. He could be sitting by a warm fire right now, but, instead, he was here in the cold, pouring rain with night falling around him. Uncomfortable as he was, he tried to go to sleep. Dwelling on thoughts of a warm fire would do him no good. Instead, he tried to think about how good his full stomach felt. With the thought of a satisfied belly, he finally fell asleep in the cold rain.
H 7 H
NEW HAVEN
Gabriel awoke cold, stiff, and wet. A gray drizzle filled the sky, and, at first, it was hard for him to tell if it was day or night. With his eyes blurred by the dripping rain, he wiped his sleeve over his face and looked out at the world. He stood and stretched but soon realized stretching would not make him feel any better.
In fact, the more he moved, the worse he felt. He blamed his lack of energy on his side, which still ached from Hannigan’s kick. He grabbed his pack, left the tree, and wandered back out to the road. As he moved, he felt a funny cringe in his throat. Still, he pressed on for most of the day in the continuous cold rain. He had to reach Boston soon.
With no sun, he had no idea what time it was. He felt as if he had been walking forever. Suddenly, he felt really warm. The warmth felt good at first, but then it seemed to zap every ounce of energy left in him. He stopped a moment on the road. As he did, the warmth disappeared and he shook uncontrollably. He was so cold he felt paralyzed. He dropped to the ground and tried to warm himself.
Gabriel realized he was ill. Could he make it back to the innkeeper whose fire he had sat by the day before? No. He would only go forward. He had to press on to get to Boston before the ships.
He pulled himself up off the muddy road and began to walk again. His head began to pound. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but when he shut them, his mind began to spin.
All along his route, he’d wanted to avoid other travelers, until now. He would have rejoiced to see anyone coming up the road with a horse and carriage, but no one came. Gabriel slogged on through the muddy road. He had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. He only hoped that he was headed in the right direction. Not even having the strength to hold up his head, he began to stumble. His drum and pack of belongings hung alongside him, dragging through the mud.
Gabriel’s foot hit a rock or branch in the mud, and he fell. He was so weak, he couldn’t even bring his arm up to help break his fall. As his face hit the mud, he thought for a brief moment how cool it felt. He didn’t think he could get up. He didn’t want to get up. He couldn’t even muster the strength to raise his head out of the mud. Would he end up like his parents, unable to recover from a sudden, overwhelming sickness?
Gabriel stretched out his arm and felt something hard. Was this what he tripped over? He felt it with his hand. It was a stone of some sort. He could feel letters etched in the surface. Was it a gravestone? Had he stumbled into a cemetery? How fitting, he thought.
His curiosity sparked enough strength that he was able to raise his head. Peering through the murky rain and his dangling wet hair, he pulled his eyes closer to the etching in the stone. He made out the writing. N-E-W H-A-V-E-N.
New Haven. That’s just what I need, thought Gabriel, a new haven out of this rain and sickness. He saw some more writing . . . 1 M-I-L-E.
New Haven one mile.
“One mile . . . one mile.” Mumbling the words to himself over and over again, he finally comprehended the meaning of the stone marker he just tripped over. It was a mile
