“When will we hear it rung?” she asked.
“There is no time like the present.” So saying, Revere picked up the hammer and swung it at the bell. It gave off a deep mellow tone that brought a smile to Mrs. Southworth’s face.
“A fine sound, don’t you think?” she asked Reverend Hayes.
“Glorious! I only wish Rollo were here to experience this moment.”
Revere reached the hammer inside the bell and struck it about where the clapper would hit. The sound seemed to resonate even more. “That should bring your worshipers in,” he said.
The minister smiled. “We’ll take it,” he said, shaking Revere’s hand.
“But how will we get it back home without Mr. Blake to drive the wagon?” Mrs. Southworth wondered.
At Revere’s side, John Rossiter cleared his throat. “If Mr. Revere allows it, I could drive that wagon up to Quebec for you. I know how to handle a good team of horses. I can trail my own mount behind the wagon and ride him back.”
Reverend Hayes seemed to sigh with relief. “Mr. Revere, if you would allow it, this would be of great help to us. Managing a team of horses pulling a heavy load such a long distance might be more than I could handle.”
Revere thought about it. “Today is Thursday. Best to stay overnight and get a good morning start. Three days up would be Monday, three days back would be Thursday.”
“Or Wednesday night,” his assistant replied. “A lone horse and rider will make better time than a heavily loaded wagon with three passengers.”
“Very well,” Revere agreed. “But be careful. I cannot afford to lose you.”
His workmen transferred the bell to Blake’s wagon, and arrangements were made to wrap his body in protective sailcloth for the journey home. It was agreed that the travelers would spend one more night in Boston before starting out. “Perhaps it is fitting that Rollo accompany Mr. Revere’s bell to its new home,” Mrs. Southworth commented.
When they were alone, Swift asked Revere if he had contacted Washington about selling the bell to the Quebec church. “I sent him a message, but he had no problem with it,” Revere said.
Yet the whole thing bothered Swift. Later that night, back at Mrs. Patrick’s, he asked her about Revere’s yard. “That fence wouldn’t keep anyone out if they wanted to get in. Are there ever any prowlers over there?”
“Once in a while. Just last night I saw a couple of people from my bedroom window, moving around in the dark. The moon wasn’t bright enough to see who they were. Neighborhood kids, I suppose. I called out from the window and shooed them away.”
“Was it always like that, or just since Mr. Revere rented the house?”
“My husband died in ’ninety. It was quieter in those days. Our neighbors were an elderly couple who went to bed at dusk every night. The place is livelier with Mr. Revere and his family and I don’t resent that. He’s a great national hero.”
After supper, she played the spinet for a time, filling the house with the rousing sound of “Yankee Doodle.” Swift applauded at the end. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that played on a spinet,” he told her.
“It’s one of my favorites.” She closed the keyboard and stood up. “I’m going to bed now. I don’t like to disturb the neighbors by playing after dark. I’ll have breakfast for you in the morning.”
“I regret being such a bother. I promise to be gone by tomorrow night.”
“You’re no bother at all. It’s good having a man around the house for a few days.”
After she’d gone up to her room, Swift sat by the lamplight for some time. Rollo Blake’s murderer, seemingly invisible to their eyes, must have had a motive. He rejected the idea that a youngster might have fired a pistol at the bell and hit Blake by mistake. Blake was an occasional visitor to the city and might have made enemies. If that was the case, he should check out the Pig and Whistle, the local pub where he’d been seen.
The streets were not quite dark when he left Betsy Patrick’s house, strolling along Charter Street toward the pub. He passed the fish market, and ahead he could see the glow of lamps in the pub window. There were a half-dozen customers at the bar. He ordered a beer, and when the bartender brought it he said, “I hear somebody shot Rollo Blake. Did you know him?”
He wiped up some of the spilled beer. “Not by name. They tell me he came here when he was in town.”
Swift glanced at the other customers. “Any of his friends here now?”
The bartender called down to the end. “Smitty, you knew that Blake chap, didn’t you?”
A young man with long blond hair, who appeared to be in his early twenties, answered. “I had a beer with him last night. Who wants to know?”
Swift moved down the bar to his side. “I’m Alexander Swift. I was there when he was shot this noon.”
“Don’t know anything about that, just what people are saying.”
“How about his wagon?”
Smitty shrugged and said nothing. He wasn’t the talkative sort. Swift finished his beer in silence. He was about to leave when the youth spoke up. “Why’d you ask that?”
“What?”
“About the wagon.”
“They’re not able to get it back to Quebec without Blake. I understand one of Paul Revere’s assistants will be driving it up.”
“They looking to hire a driver? Plenty of young gents around here could use the money. Me, for one.”
“I believe it’s been taken care of, Smitty.”
Swift left him at the bar and went out into the night street. A few people were on the sidewalk, but they ignored him. The city had once had a reputation for street fighting and even now as he hurried back to Betsy Patrick’s house he could not help but imagine he was being followed.
All seemed quiet at the Patrick and Revere houses, but he could see that the gate to the Revere yard was ajar. He entered, using the moonlight to guide him to Blake’s wagon. The heavy bell was in place for the return trip, and in the morning a team of fresh horses would be brought from the stable. Swift felt around the bell and the wagon itself, finally dropping to his knees to examine the underside of the wagon. Something was there, something —
The intruder was upon him before he heard a sound, wrestling him flat on the ground and striking his shoulder with some sort of club. They rolled over in the dirt, with Swift aware only that he was fighting a younger, stronger man who wanted to harm him. The attacker managed to straddle him and Swift turned his head as the club descended again, just missing him. He unseated the man and toppled him to the ground, following up on his momentary advantage to wrestle the club from him. The assailant scurried away in the dark, spiderlike, and Swift had only a quick glimpse of him in a sudden beam of moonlight as he got to his feet and ran.
He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Gerber, the tall lad who’d been at the scene of Blake’s killing earlier.
Swift took a deep breath and went back under the wagon, keeping the confiscated club handy for defense. There were four wooden barrels strapped to the underside, but without a light he could not identify what they were. Frustrated, he returned to the house and lit one of Betsy Patrick’s candles. Checking the yard and street to make certain his would-be assailant had not come back, Swift ducked under the wagon once more and held the candle up to the barrels. He saw the words Poudre a Canon and froze. It was a full five seconds before he had the wits to blow out the candle flame.
Rachel Revere came to the door in response to his knocking. She carried an oil lamp and was obviously frightened to be awakened in the middle of the night. Swift apologized and told her he must speak to her husband at once.