He felt a sense of pride. Now he had something to fight for and return to.
He held his head higher and began to march his pace. He soon found his way back to the Boston Post Road and arrived in the town of New Haven shortly after. He walked down the street as the town was beginning to bustle with activity. As he walked past Benedict Arnold’s drugstore, he wondered where Arnold and his men were at that moment, still feeling betrayed about being left behind.
When he reached the edge of town, he saw a stone marker: “Hartford 39 miles”. Feeling strong and refreshed, he told himself he could reach Hartford in two days. He had the provisions from the Flemings to eat along the way, and the weather was good.
But just beyond the New Haven’s West Rock, he needed to rest. The fever, he thought, had taken its toll on his stamina. Perhaps reaching Hartford would take longer than two days. He would have to temper his pace.
During one of his breaks along the side of the road, Gabriel’s thoughts turned to the warships he had seen atop the hill, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of urgency to reach Boston. The battle for Boston would be over by the time he got there, and then what? He was doing the best he could. He had to keep up his strength. Finding the Flemings had been by providence alone. He couldn’t take the chance of falling ill again. Whatever the circumstance, Ben Daniels had told him to find and report to Nathanial Greene. That was his duty.
Fortunately, as the days passed, there was very little traffic on the road. Still, there were many loyalists along the route that would not be sympathetic to his journey. He had discovered that firsthand in his meetings with Bradford Grimm. The possibility of receiving a good thrashing, or worse yet, being strung up from a tree, was very real if a loyalist got a hold of him. He also knew other orphaned boys had been forced to join His Majesty’s troops. Despite the risks, he was more determined than ever to reach the militia. He had come such a long way. Neither the Lorings, nor loyalists, nor illness had stopped him. It was on to Boston to serve his country.
Malinda had packed a good amount of food for his journey. After the end of each long day of walking, Gabriel would sit down and eat a bite. Lying down to sleep when the stars came out, he would be back up and ready to move with the rising of the sun.
Almost a week had passed since he left the Fleming’s farm, and yet he still had some dried meats, hardtack, and whortleberries left in his pack. Every time he sat down to have a bite to eat and a drink from his canteen, he thought of Malinda and the rest of her family. The food brought back fond memories of the Flemings, which comforted him on his lonely journey.
He reached the town of Hartford almost six full days after he left the Flemings. His food supply was running a little low. As he passed through town, he would keep an eye out for any food he might collect as he journeyed on, but he would not stop. Over the past two days, he’d been able to walk for over three hours before needing a rest, and he seemed to cover more ground. He walked through the side streets of the town, avoiding the busy shops that lined the main thoroughfare, and quickly reached the north side of town.
It was afternoon now, and Gabriel stood in front of a stone marker along the side of the road that read, “Springfield 32 Miles”. “Massachusetts,” he whispered to himself. He had chosen the northern-most branch of the post road, since it was the shortest path to Massachusetts. He may still be many miles from Boston, but at least he would soon be standing on Massachusetts soil. This was a colony filled with patriots, ready and willing to fight, and he was almost there. Excited by the thought of being one step closer to Massachusetts, he pressed on with a new vigor. He walked briskly, and soon, Hartford was out of sight.
Gabriel entered a wooded area where the road wound around huge oak trees. The sun was lowering itself into the western sky, and he could hear the chorus of chirping tree frogs beginning to fill the air. He listened closely and heard the low barking sound of a bullfrog. Then he heard another and another low, gravelly croak. The scratchy sound of the deep-throated bullfrogs gave him an idea. Where there were bullfrogs, there was bound to be a pond, and where there was a pond, there was bound to be fish. He could picture a pond just off the road, with flies and bugs skimming the water and huge fish jumping out to eat them, splashing back into the pond and sending ripples through the water.
Gabriel left the road, being careful to remember which way he was heading. He followed the sound of the frogs, and he soon found a clearing with a nice-sized pond lined with reeds and bulrush. “This will do nicely,” he said to himself. He rolled up his pants to his knees and waded out to pluck a strong reed from the muddy ground. He then waded back over to solid ground and cut the narrow end of the reed off with his knife. He took the fine point of his knife and put a small hole through the end of the reed. Unrolling his pack, he took out his fishing line and carefully threaded it through the hole in the reed, tying a
