“Fire boats!” Granny tried to laugh, but there was no merriment in the noise she made. It sounded like a cackle. “And what do you think to do with fire boats, pray?”
“Why, what do most folk do with fire? Burn something. Maybe one o’ the British schooners, or men-o’-war, even. Maybe burn Boston, for all I know. Whatever our orders say.”
“You can’t burn Boston,” retorted Granny severely. “Boston don’t belong to the British soldiery. Houses and shops and all belongs to Americans, as good as you be. True, they’ve most of them fled from it now, but they’ll be back some day—when this fuss is over, and God send that happen right soon. Now whatever is that drum a-beating for?” She held up her head and listened. “I’ve heard fife and drum music enough to last me a long time.”
“You’ll hear more of it before you hear less, Ma’am,” muttered Timothy.
Dick hurried to the door and stared up the road that led to the Neck, from which the sound came. Kitty went to stand beside him.
“Are you really going back to be with the Army, Dick?” she asked, in one of the brief pauses between the slow beats of the drum.
Dick cleared his throat. “Seems like I have to,” he murmured. “Would it matter to you, Kit, if I—” His voice broke off, and his hand just brushed her shoulder.
“Oh Kitty! Kitty!” cried Sally Rose as she came flying down the street, her bright hair loose on her shoulders and her cheeks flushed with excitement. “They’re bringing the prisoners! There’s going to be an exchange! Perhaps Gerry will be in it!”
She dropped down on the broad doorstone and sat there, trying to get back her breath.
“How do you know?” asked Dick quickly. He was not looking at Sally Rose, but up the winding street that led to Charlestown Neck and the towns beyond it on the mainland.