A third time, his shin hit something hard. Pain shot up his leg. He collapsed onto the wet ground, landing on some fallen branches that pushed into his gut.
Frightened but alive, he listened for the river, but all he could hear was the pelting rain through the trees. He thought of the warm bed he had at the Fleming’s farm. Malinda’s smile. He started to cry. He did not move again.
H 14 H
THE TELLING
OF THE TREASURE
Gabriel woke to birds singing overhead. His clothes were still soaked, reminding him of what had happened the night before. The sun was already high in the sky, and the air was still, humid, and heavy. He rose. His drum was still strapped around his back and swung to his side. It was dented and waterlogged but appeared to still be playable. He went to lift the strap over his head, but his hand was still grasping something. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the object that his fingers ached. He held up his hand to his face and saw he was holding his knife. His knife! He had saved his knife. He nearly drowned, but he saved his knife. He lifted the drum strap the rest of the way off his shoulder and sat back down.
He took an inventory of what he had lost. His drumsticks must surely have been swept away. The current would also have carried away the flint rock, canteen, and fishing line. And his coin pouch . . . it would be gone. Without coppers, how could he get food to eat? Gabriel put his head between his hands and gave his thick wet hair a yank.
AHHHHH!” he shouted in frustration, his voice echoing through the trees. “How could I let this happen? How could I be so foolish, sleeping next to a river in a downpour?”
With the torrent gone, Gabriel slogged back through the thick underbrush in his soggy shoes until he came to the water. He found himself conjuring up hateful thoughts against the river that had taken his coins and his flint. What did a river need with coppers and a flint, anyway? The water was still covering the sandy beach, but it was not nearly as deep or swift as it was the night before.
He stepped down into the water. It was murky. All he could do was bend over and feel around for any sign of the coin pouch. Not feeling anything, he knew if the raging river had been strong enough to sweep him off his feet, it surely had the strength to sweep away his coins. The pouch was gone, and nothing could bring it back. Gabriel kicked at the water and stood for a moment looking out over the flowing river. It didn’t know or care that he had lost so much. It just flowed along as if nothing had happened.
Gabriel sloshed back out of the water and returned to his drum and knife. As he walked, he felt around in his pockets. His most precious possessions were still there. His ring. His mother’s note, safe and amazingly dry from being wrapped in wax paper. And he had kept a few shillings out of his pouch that were still in his pocket. “Well,” said Gabriel, “what’s done is done. I can’t go back and change what happened.” Still, he felt foolish for having chosen to sleep so close to a shallow streambed.
He would reach Marlborough before nightfall. Along with having no coins other than the few shillings he had in his pocket, Gabriel had no food and would soon be growing hungry. He stuck his knife carefully between his ankle and his shoe, pulled the drum strap back over his shoulder, and walked back toward the road.
It was nightfall by the time he reached town. A few lights blazed from a tavern window on the main road. He had four coppers to buy enough food to make it to Cambridge. He dried off on his walk from Worcester, but he still must have looked ragged: everyone in the tavern turned to look at him as he stepped through the door.
“Come in, come in,” sang a bright-faced man holding a pewter mug in each hand. Everyone returned to their business as Gabriel looked for a seat. The tavern was packed. There was only one empty chair at a table where a strange old man with a scruffy beard already sat. Gabriel tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help noticing that the man had a large, wide scar that went across his entire face all the way up to his ear, which seemed to have been cut half off.
The bright-faced man set down the mugs at a wooden table surrounded by laughing men. He turned with a chortle and walked over to Gabriel. “Now, what can I bring this fine young man?” he asked, peering down into Gabriel’s eyes.
“All I have is four coppers for food. Bread and dried meat would be best, as I want to return to the road yet tonight. I’m off to join the patriots,” He hoped the bright-faced man would take pity and perhaps give him more to eat.
“Very well, very well . . . I’ll give you a bit of fresh bread and meat for your meal tonight, and I’ve got some cooking bread and some scrap meat I’ll pack up for you.”
“The lad needs a drink, Mr. Fletcher,” said the strange man sitting across from Gabriel in a gruff voice. “Bring him a mug of cider, on me.”
“Very well, Mr. Tew.” The bright-faced Fletcher turned to the bar.
Gabriel nodded to the stranger sitting across from him. “Thank you, sir,” The man merely stared at him. He tried not to stare back at the large scar.
The two sat in silence. Mr. Fletcher returned to Gabriel with food and a mug. He was famished, but before he could take a bite, the stranger raised his mug to him without saying
