“That was well done,” came the clear and deep voice again.
“It was nothing, Your Excellency — nothing compared to what this young man did to save the life of Artemas Greenwood.”
The man with the deep clear voice chuckled, “Excellency! That’s what you call me now, is it? I must admit, I’m not quite used to that title. General Washington will do when we are out in the field together.”
“I will try to remember, sir, but having been placed in command over all the troops around Boston, ‘Your Excellency’ is what Joseph Reed told us to call you.”
“Yes, yes, I know . . . I know. And Reed is a good aide; yet, the burden of this undertaking is already heavy enough. I don’t know whether to call John Adams a friend or the devil for convincing Congress I should be commander over this rabble of men that thinks itself an army.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Your Excellency — I mean . . . General. There are plenty of men with ambitious spirits, hungry for power, who would give anything to be called the supreme commander of our army.”
“Yes, I know you are right. I do cherish this honor, but with honor comes an enormous responsibility. You surely realize this. How are we to drive the regulars from Boston? We have no navy, these militias are disorganized, and many of these men are sick, wounded, or have little ammunition. Franklin even suggested we arm them with arrow and bow. And we have precious few cannon. I would be lying if I didn’t tell you my heart is overwhelmed sometimes, and its only desire is to return to Mount Vernon, the hills of Virginia, and Martha.”
Artemas responded, his voice sounding a bit stronger, “Well, General Washington, we must convince the men at Cambridge you are the man who can drive Howe’s redcoats from Boston. I believe it, and soon everyone will.”
Gabriel stirred a little. He had heard everything and, at first, thought it was a dream. Could it really be he was in the presence of the commander over all the troops at Cambridge? This was the general that Charlie the innkeeper spoke of back in Springfield. This man would surely know where to find Nathaniel Greene.
Gabriel was afraid to fully wake, for fear the voices would vanish and he would be left alone again in these terrible woods. His vision had returned, and he saw the fading sunlight, bright against three shadowy figures next to him. Looking into the sun, squinting his eyes, he caught glimpse of the men before him. They were handsome in their finely tailored uniforms. Blue-tailed coats faced in buff, with gold epaulettes. He sat up. He was in the presence of officers who certainly could take him to camp near Cambridge, where he could look for Nathaniel Greene.
“Well, it looks like our young hero is awake,” came the voice of the man they called His Excellency, General Washington.
“Well, young man, do you feel up for a ride?” asked the rider Artemas had called Nate. “We’d like to get back to camp before it’s too late, and we’ll likely be needing to drop you off at your home. I’m sure your Ma’s worried sick about you.”
Nate’s words about dropping him off at home surprised Gabriel. These men didn’t know how far he’d come to join the militia. But why should they? To them, he was just a boy who happened to be along the river when this militiaman named Artemas Greenwood came rolling down the current. It struck him as a little funny that everyone along his travels knew where he was heading, but now that he was finally at his journey’s end, these soldiers didn’t recognize what he was up to.
“Can you tell us where your folks are, lad? I can put you on the back of my horse and have you home lickity split,” said Nate, trying to work a response out of Gabriel.
Gabriel responded, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I haven’t got a home, sir.”
“Well, I certainly understand that,” said General Washington. “We all feel like we’re homeless, being so far away from our families. Tell me now, though, where are your mother and father, son?”
“I don’t have a mother or father, sir,” replied Gabriel.
With this, the three men looked at each other with surprised expressions on their faces. “I’m sorry,” said the general. “could you please repeat that, son?”
“My mother and father died of the pox a little over a year ago. We had a home, but it got sold to pay off debts. My mother was from France and my father from England. I don’t have any living relatives,” said Gabriel plainly.
“Where did you come from, then?” asked Nate.
“New York, sir.” replied Gabriel.
“Good Lord!” came a shout from Artemas.
“New York?” all three men questioned at once in disbelief. “How did you get here?”
“I walked,” said Gabriel.
Washington cleared his throat and began, “Young man, I must be blunt with you. I find this story very hard to believe. You are how old?”
“I’m twelve, sir . . . almost thirteen.”
“What is your name, son?” questioned Washington.
“Gabriel Cooper, sir.”
“Can you please explain why you have walked nearly two hundred and fifty miles, all the way from New York to Cambridge?” asked Washington.
“I . . . well, sir, I wanted to join the militia. I thought I could be a drummer boy,” replied Gabriel.
“That would explain this, then,” said General Washington, reaching down beside him and
