Orphans were drawn to these gangs of pickpockets like flies to honey, not only to earn a living by lifting purses, but also to belong to a family again. As Gabriel watched the boys dash back into the shadows, he saw himself. Was this his destiny — to become a scrawny pickpocket? What would his mother and father say? They would be ashamed, of course, but they couldn’t have known how much he longed to have a family again, even if it was with a gang of thieves.
He looked out at the East River as it came into view and tried to clear his thoughts of pickpockets, holding his sack close to him. The sky began to turn orange with the setting sun, and the river began to glow as if it was on fire. He went to the stony beach where he had found some of his treasures over the past month. The knife and flint rock had floated to shore in a small wooden box, and the flask had just enough air trapped in it for him to find it bobbing a few feet out in the water.
Gabriel sat on a piece of driftwood on the stone-covered beach and looked out over the rippling water. A few lanterns glowed on the boats anchored out in the river. The lights bobbed gently up and down with the gentle waves rolling across the water. As he sat watching the lights, something along the shore caught his eye. The fading sunlight reflected off something in the water. It bobbed up and down, floating toward the shore.
Gabriel stood and took a few steps to the very edge of the water. The river lapped up against the soles of his leather shoes as he peered out over the water. Unsure what this strange object floating in on the tide might be, he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and waded out into the river. The rocks at the bottom hurt Gabriel’s feet, but his mind was focused on grabbing whatever bobbed in front of him. He reached down into the water and pulled upward to reveal a drum with a tangled strap dangling down into the water. The instrument was waterlogged and caked in mud, but he thought it could be salvaged. He was used to salvaging things that others tossed aside.
He leaned down, stuck the drum back in the water, and rubbed his hands over it, loosening the mud caked along the sides and bottom. Picking it back up out of the water, he looked at it proudly. It had a certain shine to it now as he held it up to the glowing sky.
Gabriel walked back over to the log and set the drum down in front of him. The drum skin still seemed tight. He tapped it lightly, and it gave a soggy ring. A drum . . . what could he do with a drum? He could try to sell it, but he wasn’t sure what kind of price it would bring. The demand for drums in New York wasn’t high, not like in Boston, where some ten thousand troops had gathered to drive the hated redcoats from town. The British had sailed their ships into Boston Harbor and taken over the town, driving out any citizens that were not loyal to the crown. Selling the drum in New York might not even buy a single day’s worth of food, but in Boston, some drummer boy would undoubtedly pay well to have his own drum.
Still, even in New York, he’d seen soldiers marching to the cadence of a drum played by a boy about his age. He loved the rolling sound of the drums and how that sound led the soldiers’ every step, perfectly timed to the rhythm. If only he knew how to play the drum, he could be a drummer boy.
A vision came to him. It felt as if a candle had been lit in a dark and lonely space. All the shadows were gone, and a path had opened. He would not sell this drum in New York or even in Boston. This was his drum, and he would learn to play it.
When his parents were alive, he often read books to learn how to do new and interesting things. Maybe he could find a book to teach him how to play the drum. Maybe someone else could teach him. Surely there were other drummer boys around Boston that could help him learn.
Boston was far away, and Gabriel had no horse and very little money. Still, he and his drum belonged there. He felt it. The excitement of this decision was nearly overwhelming. Why couldn’t he journey to Boston to join a militia and fight against the tyrant king? He had good walking legs that carried him all over New York. He wouldn’t have to stow away on a boat or join a family of thieving pickpockets. Nobler work awaited him.
By now, the sun was throwing its last rays of light on the world. It would be dark soon, and he didn’t want to stay a minute longer in the city. His mind was set, and he wouldn’t let anything or anyone to turn him away. With the drum over his shoulder and his meager belongings tied up in a small blanket, he turned away from the East River and began walking.
Gabriel had never been outside New York. He knew that Boston was some two hundred miles north along the Post Road, but other than that, he wasn’t sure how he was going to get to there. Boarding a ship to Boston wouldn’t be possible. He’d read in newspapers that the Royal Navy was more vigilant than ever in Boston’s harbor, since the destruction of the tea on Griffin’s Wharf over a year ago. No merchant ships were allowed to leave or enter the port without special approval by the king. He would
