“Tell me about these bells.”
“It came about in an interesting manner,” Revere said, warming to the subject. “Two years ago, the bell on our church — the bell that hung on the famous Old North Church until British troops took the building down for firewood — cracked and could not be rung. There was talk of shipping it to England to be recast, but none of the church leaders wanted to do that. At our meeting, mellowed by some bottles of fine Madeira, I not only agreed to be one of thirty-five contributors to the cost of restoring the bell but also offered to recast it.”
“Had you ever recast a bell before?” Swift asked, sipping his tea and thinking wistfully of that fine Madeira.
“Never,” Paul Revere admitted. “In fact, very few bells have been cast in America. The most famous, of course, is the Liberty Bell. But I knew there was a bell foundry in Abington and I sought help from them. I must admit that that first bell was harsh and shrill, but I am getting better at it. I am even running small advertisements in area newspapers. My goal now is to craft a bell for every steeple in New England.”
“A noble but difficult task. The President tells me you have already run into unexpected problems.”
Revere sighed. “Only in Washington’s mind. Some of these bells weigh up to eight hundred pounds, and as each one is finished now I cart it from the foundry to my own backyard a few blocks away on Charter Street. In the presence of a committee of church deacons and donors, and a group of neighborhood children, I sound the bell for the first time with a hammer. Should the tone be unacceptable, I will buy back the old metal. I must tell you, Mr. Swift, what the bell sounds like is largely a matter of luck. Still, my customers are usually pleased.”
“Then what is the problem?”
He took a sip of tea before responding. “My latest bell, and my largest thus far, is bound for Quebec. A delegation of Canadians will arrive tomorrow to hear it rung for the first time. Somehow the President is concerned their trip might be part of a British plot.”
Swift chuckled at the idea but said, “Perhaps he fears our old nemesis Benedict Arnold may sneak back into the country as part of your Canadian group.”
“In a nation this young, I suppose he must always be vigilant.”
“Certainly Arnold and others have tried to persuade George the Third to launch an attack on us, and the recent harassment of our West Indies shipping trade is troublesome. But from all reports, the British Parliament is loath to undertake any formal action against us.”
“What does President Washington want of you?”
“Only that I remain here until the bell is safely delivered to the Canadians and they depart. He didn’t feel it proper to send the militia—”
“I’m glad of that! Armed guards might give churchmen the wrong impression.”
“You are one of the true heroes of the revolution,” Swift reminded him. “It is always possible that the British might wish to assassinate you.”
Revere laughed at the idea. “I hardly think they’d consider me a threat at my age. If they came again, someone younger than me would have to spread the alarm. But come to my house Thursday, by all means! Another set of ears is invaluable in judging the tone of the bell. We plan to cart it over there around eleven in the morning, and to sound it for the first time at noon.”
“I will be there on Thursday,” Swift promised, “and accompany the bell on its brief journey.” But he couldn’t help wondering what had prompted the President to send him on this mission. Was it simply uneasiness with the Canadian delegation, or something else?
It was years since Alexander Swift had visited Boston, and he was encouraged by the way the city at last was beginning to shake off its postwar decline. Its trade with London and the West Indies had all but collapsed after the Revolution, and both the British and the French harassed the ships that did put to sea. There was talk in Philadelphia of forming a United States Navy to protect the ships, but in that spring of ’94 it was only talk. Still, the ropewalks and foundries and fish markets were busy, and traffic in the port was gradually increasing.
Revere had arranged for Swift to stay with a neighbor, Mrs. Patrick, in her pleasant little house on Charter Street. She proved to be a formidable widow with graying hair and a keen sense of the world around her. “You can call me Betsy,” she informed Swift when he arrived at her house. “Like the flag woman. It’s a very patriotic name.”
“It is indeed,” he agreed. “You must feel a part of history, being a neighbor to Paul Revere.”
“Well, I wasn’t yet his neighbor when he and Dawes made their famous rides. In fact, he still owns the house on North Square, but he rented this one a few years back to be closer to his foundry. He’s a proper sort and Rachel is a dear wife, ten years younger than Paul. They’ve had eight children, though only five survived their infancy. He had eight by his first wife, too, and it killed her.”
Somehow this was more than Swift needed to know. “He’ll be ringing a new bell on Thursday.”
Betsy Patrick sighed. “Paul is a good friend, but those darn bells really have started to annoy me. My dear husband, when he was alive, used to dread each new one. He would hear the cart trundling down Charter Street shortly before noon, and we both knew it was another bell on the way. The children know it, too. They flock around, as do the neighbors. These days he’s turning out the bells so fast there’s at least one a month.”
“Did your husband fight in the war?”
“He was a Minuteman,” she answered proudly. “He fought at Lexington and Concord.”
“The militia was our savior in those early days. People like your husband and Paul Revere and the rest made this nation possible. Certainly you can put up with the single gong of a bell once a month.”
“It’s not a single gong, though. Sometimes the buyers want several strokes to be certain the bell is sound. When I hear them coming now I stay in my house and play the spinet to try to muffle the sound.”
After dinner, Swift insisted Betsy Patrick play a few selections on her spinet. She was quite good, and he listened for nearly an hour before retiring early. He missed his wife and child, as he always did when traveling, but sleep came quickly to him.
Revere had arranged for dinner the following evening with his Canadian guests, and he sent a message inviting Swift to join them. The meal was at the Revere home, with his wife Rachel serving food for the six of them. She was a jovial, smart-looking woman with an oval facial contour that men seemed to admire. Swift thought her nose a bit long, and concluded that she was handsome rather than beautiful. Though some of their children still lived at home, she fed them separately before joining their guests at the table.
They were six in all, the Reveres and Swift, plus three delegates from the church in Quebec. One was a woman, Mrs. Southworth, a pale, attractive lady in her thirties who was introduced as the church’s organist. Then there was Rollo Blake, a parishioner, and the Reverend Douglas Hayes, the church’s rector. Revere introduced Alexander Swift as a personal representative of President Washington, which seemed to impress them immensely.
Swift was seated next to Mrs. Southworth, who wanted to hear all about the President. After a few minutes he managed to shift the conversation to church organs. “Was yours built in Canada?” he asked.
“No, no. The good organs all come from Europe. Ours was brought over on a brig from Germany. We thought it would never arrive. Now our church is almost complete. We lack only Mr. Revere’s bell for our tower.”
“How have you traveled to Boston?” he asked, curious as to the problem of transporting the bell back to Canada.