Mr. Fleming said, “Sit down, Gabriel. We wanted to send you off with a proper breakfast. We don’t want you being hungry on the march, right girls?”
Malinda and Constance turned and smiled. “It’ll be ready in just a minute.”
Even though Gabriel had been told to sit down, he helped pass out the plates and poured everyone a glass of milk, which must have just come from the Fleming cow, because it was still warm. Then Gabriel sat as Malinda and Constance brought over the food from the fire.
“Help yourself to the maple syrup. There’s plenty where that came from,” said Mr. Fleming. “The girls and I have some thirty maple trees tapped on the farm, and we had a good spring for collecting the sap. The weather was just warm enough to get the sap running.”
Gabriel poured the syrup over the golden brown cakes on his plate and took a bite, when a knock rang out on the Fleming’s door. His heart jumped with excitement. The knock had to be from Captain Arnold.
He stood up with his back straight and his chin high, ready to show Arnold he had returned to full health. Mr. Fleming went to the door and opened it. The man at the door was not Benedict Arnold.
“Good morning, John, won’t you come in and have a bite to eat? The girls have cooked a wonderful breakfast,” said Mr. Fleming in a welcoming voice.
“No, no, can’t. Got too much to do at the post office in town. You know the mail’s picked up something fierce since all those militiamen left to surround Boston. Some of ’em must send a letter a day back to loved ones,” replied the man, still standing at the door. “Got this special note, supposed to be delivered to the young chap you got staying here with you. Good of Mr. Arnold to deliver that life-saving medicine on such a horribly stormy day. Arnold’s a man this town is going to greatly miss while he’s away heading up the militia in Boston town. Now, no time to spare. Gotta get back to town before the morning satchel of mail gets in. Have a good day.” And with that, the rambling man turned and left. Mr. Fleming stood at the door waving, a white piece of folded paper flapping in his hand.
Mr. Fleming turned back to the table, looked at the paper, and handed it to Gabriel. “It doesn’t say who it’s from. I wonder who could be sending you a letter here.”
Gabriel was wondering the same, himself. He held the paper lightly between his fingers, unsure whether he actually wanted to open it. What if somehow the Lorings had found out where he had gone and were now urging him to return to New York? What if it was from Herbert Loring, the only person in the Loring household Gabriel liked? Maybe the letter was from Ben Daniels, the farmer he met at King’s Bridge, with some type of warning.
“Don’t just sit there, open it!” shouted Malinda from across the table.
Startled out of his daydream about whom the letter could be from, Gabriel slid his finger under the wax seal and slowly lifted the folded flap of paper. He gently unfolded the paper and flattened it onto the table. “Well, go on, read it!” exclaimed Malinda.
Gabriel cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
Dear Gabriel Cooper,
Late yesterday I received word from the militia commanders surrounding Boston that my services were urgently needed on a secret mission of great importance. It was requested I gather my Connecticut militiamen as soon as possible and begin the march. This will be a rugged march over difficult terrain and will ultimately conclude in a very dangerous undertaking. The march is much more difficult than traveling the road to Boston, and so it is with deepest regrets that I must inform you that you will not be able to accompany my militiamen and myself on this journey. This is so, given the uncertain state of your health. We cannot be slowed down for any reason.
By the time you are reading this letter, my men and I will have already set out. The life of a true soldier, such as I, is full of perils. It is not for the weak, such as yourself. Return to New York or stay with the Flemings. They are a good God-fearing family who I know would treat you well. I must now close, time is short and the night is already growing old. My glorious calling to victory awaits.
Your servant,
Colonel Benedict Arnold
Gabriel set the letter down on the table. He could not face Malinda, Constance, or Mr. Fleming. He didn’t want them to tell him they were sorry or ask him what he was going to do now. He wanted to be alone, so he got up from the table without saying a word, opened the door, and ran out into the gathering morning light. He walked past the barn and down to the pond where Malinda had plucked the reeds for drumsticks the day before. He sat next to the bank. A few tree frogs were still chirping, not yet realizing the morning sun had risen. As he sat there, he began to wonder why he ever left New York. Doubts filled his mind, then anger. Why had Benedict Arnold not taken him along? Why would he tell Gabriel to go back to New York? Didn’t he realize Gabriel knew that, by joining the militia, there was a chance he would face battle and possible death?
After the surge of anger, the doubts returned. He liked the Flemings. He could be happy here. What business did a twelve-year-old boy have going off to fight, anyway? And that drum —
