He grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Sally Rose ain’t geared right now to travel far. Who was the man? Oh—I bet I know—that redcoat she took such a notion to.”
“Yes, it was Gerry. Captain Gerald Malory of the Twenty-third. I did see him, and he warned me. He told us to get out of Charlestown, for the British are about to strike.”
Tom leaned forward. “When?” he demanded. “Where?”
“Any night now. By the end of the week, surely. Here, or in Dorchester. Gerry wasn’t sure. But if it should be Bunker Hill—”
“Bunker Hill would be a right handy site for them to hold,” muttered Tom. “We thought they was about ready to go. But before this we had no real word.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he laid his hand over hers. Then he stood up.
“Guess I better make for camp,” he said. “This is important information you got here. I’ll carry the news straight to Stark. He’ll be the man to tell. He’ll know what steps to take. You was smart, Kitty, to tell me. May make a big difference—to both sides. Don’t suppose you’ve got a horse about?”
“Indeed we have,” cried Kitty, relieved that she had told her disturbing secret and eager to be of further help, if that were possible. “There are two horses in the barn that belong to Uncle Moses Chase. Sally Rose and I brought them from Newburyport. Gran says they’re eating their heads off, but she hasn’t sent them home. But they’re only plow horses.”
“Kind I’m best used to. Like the gun, I’ll see you get it back some day.” He stroked the blunderbuss that now accompanied him everywhere. “Don’t know when I’ll see you again Kitty. Not here, likely. If the British are aiming to come this way, you folks will have to go.”
“Oh, we will. Just as soon as I can talk to Gran and Sally Rose. Back to Newburyport, perhaps. Why don’t you come to see us there?”