H 13 H
THE NOTE
Gabriel pushed his chair back, picked up his pack and drum, and stepped out into the street. He felt around in his pocket, and his fingers touched his ring and the change left over from his meal at the tavern at Springfield.
I have plenty of coppers left and two good legs. There’s no reason why I can’t make it to Boston in less than a week, he thought. He strode out of town as confident as ever. As he left the town, he saw a marker on the road. Worcester, 52 Miles. Gabriel once again began his own patriotic pace, determined to join the cause.
The weather had been nearly perfect ever since the torrential rain earlier in his journey. Now it was getting warmer, almost hot. He took off his jerkin and wrapped it over his drum. The heat would not slow him down.
He stopped to fill his canteen every once in a while, and he still left the road whenever he heard approaching hoof beats. Soon, he thought, I will be at the Cambridge encampment looking for Nathaniel Greene. I’m sure of it.
The next few days passed quickly. As Gabriel passed by the towns on the post road, he saw other men on the road. Some were riding; some, like him, walked in small groups. Palmer, Brookfield, Leicester — farmers mostly. They carried old muskets, axes, swords, hatchets, and knives. The older men did not talk to him. They would stare and sometimes snicker. Some would chide or taunt him. “What’cha looking to do there, sonny, throw that beat-up old drum at the lobsterbacks?” one called out. Gabriel thought it best to just keep to himself.
The fishing had been good in the few streams and ponds he passed. There had certainly been enough to keep him fed, but he was growing tired of fish. Fishing slowed him down, too. He had to stop, find bait, catch a fish, gut it, build a fire, and then cook it. Keeping to himself, he would let his fire burn just long enough to cook the fish he caught. Then, with stars and moon overhead, he would throw his blanket down on the hard ground and try to find a spot comfortable enough for some sleep.
On the fourth day out of Springfield, just beyond Worcester, Gabriel reached a densely wooded area along the road. He stopped to marvel at the enormous trees that grew up along the path. As he stood looking up at a giant sycamore tree, he noticed the sound of water running nearby. Leaving the road, he began weaving his way through the giant tree trunks toward the sound, which was growing louder now. Swatting his way through some underbrush, he finally came to a small river lined with the tall trees, whose branches reached over the water to touch the trees on the other side.
The water offered a refreshing break from the heat, so he set down his things, pulled off his socks and shoes and waded in. He walked out to the middle, where the water reached his knees. Something piqued his interest on just the other side. He waded over to see several bushes hanging close to the river, covered in blue berries. “Whortleberries,” exclaimed Gabriel. He had long since run out of the berries that Malinda had given him from her farm.
He hurriedly splashed back across the river, dumped out his belongings in his pack onto the sandy beach, and took the empty blanket back across the river with him. Soon, he had his blanket nearly overflowing with plump, juicy blue whortleberries.
He took the berries back to the beach, leaned back against a smooth rock, and started popping berries into his mouth one by one. The berries were perfectly sweet. The taste reminded him of the times his mother had baked him whortleberry pies, one of his favorites. He felt the warm sun filtering through the trees and leaned back, continuing to enjoy the berries. The sand was soft, much softer than the hard ground he’d grown used to sleeping on.
Gabriel looked at his belongings dumped into the sand. These few things — his note, knife, flint rock, drum sticks, canteen, fishing line and hook, coins, and the ring in his pocket — were all of his worldly possessions. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Of all these things, he picked up the one that was most precious to him, the note his mother had written him. She had written it shortly after she became ill. She was always so optimistic, thought Gabriel. Even when she wrote the note, it was clear she truly believed she would get better.
He read the note often, not just to bring back memories of his mother, but also because he could never quite figure out what it was that his mother was trying to say. He once thought his mother must have had the fever and wasn’t thinking straight when she wrote it, but her handwriting was clear with not one waver of her pen.
His mother had always loved poetry, which accounted for the poetic style of the note, but as with other poems Gabriel had read, the meaning was foggy and seemed to change from one day to the next. Still, reading it always gave him a strange sense of hope.
So Gabriel laid his back down in the soft sand, held the note up to the glittering green canopy overhead, and read it once more.
To my darling son, Gabriel
You are the light of my life, my joy, my peace, my gift from God. In you flows a river of strength that
