At the green in Boston, we turned right and made for the lower end of town, at last into the yard behind Boston’s First Church, traversed the gravel between the walls, and made for a shabby mercantile and warehouse district centered behind Faneuil Hall. Our aim was an old house, which had been converted into a storefront, though the door of it was battened and nailed shut. In the alley next to it sat a hogshead seeping with tar and treacle, printed with MOLLASS on the side.
Checking for eyes upon us, I stepped down from the wagon, opened the back where the concealed drawer lay, and pulled out my bundles, stacking them against the wall. By reaching into my skirt where a pocket might have hung, I could untie the first pant leg and all the others slithered to the ground. Alice took the two from the farthingale then got quickly back aboard the wagon. I pulled the lid from the molasses keg. It was so tall the top was even with my elbows. First came a four-inch trough filled with reeking, soured molasses. Under it was another trough, also marked molasses, but this one I knew was filled with clay and bore a top drilled full of holes to sop up any leaking of the real molasses. Under that, the opening was lined with tarred cloth and paper and I packed the buff breeches and blue coats with great care into it. As I laid in the sixth coat, pressing it down, Alice began to hum, “Gloomy Winter’s Now Awa’,” and as we had planned, Bertie flicked the reins and the wagon moved forward, carrying them away, leaving me behind. The committeemen vanished between buildings and into shadows. A boy driving a black-skinned nurse or maid on an errand seemed as normal a sight as any could be.
Peering around the corner of the building, I saw three armed Redcoats across the street, talking to each other. One of them looked to be no more than a boy, a lad like my Bertie. He pointed my direction with a finger, then looking at the other men, nodded.
I laid the clay trough into the hogshead, on top of the coats. I put the molasses trough upon it, but it was full; the lid would almost not shut. On the ground were two broken bricks, so I laid them atop the lid. If I had put in the seventh coat it would not have shut, and we would have been found out.
I saw Redcoats halfway across the street so I turned my back to the soldiers, pulled the string from the wrapping of the last coat, and as if it were my own garment laid it over my arm, pulling my cloak over it. As I strolled from the alley and turned to the left, one of the Redcoats pointed at me.
“Ho, there, granny!” a voice called behind me. I quickened my steps. “I say, stop there, old woman!” He had a decided lisp that was hard to understand.
I stopped before the road that led to the front of the hall. I turned. I searched their faces, and decided upon a tactic of indignity combined with innocence and silliness. “Were you addressing me, young man?”
“Yeth! You, granny. We ordered you to th-top.” It was the youngest. He not only had a lisp but had a vile accent, as far removed from nobility as could get. One of the many pressed into service with no other hope of employment, one of the many who just as well made up our rebel army here.
“It is a great thing I am not your grandmother, young man, for if I were I should box your ears. How despicably rude. Good day, gentlemen.” I wheeled around, keeping my cloak about my form with my hands, and stepped off the walking stones, moving around a large, fresh pile left by horses.
One of the older Redcoats quick-stepped in front of me and placed his musket across my path at an angle. “Where are you going, Goodwife? What have you got there? We have orders to question all passers-by.”
“I am not ‘Goodwife.’ I am ‘Widow.’ I have naught to do with you or your questions. Now be off with the three of you before I report you to General Howe. Yes, I see you know him. I have—” At that moment, the youngest man took my shoulder. I could control my face but not my body, and at his touch I wrested myself away from him with a turn that opened my cloak.
“Ho! Wha’ ’ave you there? Why, thith granny ith one of them bath-tardth!” he said. He reached into my cloak and tore the coat from my hands. “We’ve caught a rebel thpy, a traitor against Hith Thovereign Majeth-ty.”
“Give me that,” I said, reverting to a whining tone. “I found it fair and true. It is not yours and I can make many a good covering for my babes with it. Now let it go. You shall get it filthy before I have had a chance to sell the buttons. I found it.”
The third man, who until then had yet to speak, asked, “Where did you find it?”
“It was rolled up natty and squashed into the center of a bush, as if the man who wanted it was coming back but could not carry it into town. You would not want such a thing left there for the use of rebels, would you? No. I thought to myself, I thought, what others have lost is mine to gain, is it not? I am a poor old widow with seven mouths to feed, and I can sell these buttons and cut the rest to clouties for my grandbaby’s bottom.”