“I been raiding the islands with some of Putnam’s men,” he muttered. “But on my way back tonight, I heard a word in Charlestown you ought to know.”
“You got no business raiding islands, nor being in Charlestown,” snapped the colonel, all the warmth and friendliness gone from his voice. “Get back to Captain Moore, and tell him where you been. He’ll deal with you.” He turned away.
Tom nerved himself to step forward and pluck the sleeve of Stark’s new blue uniform.
“Colonel Stark, sir,” he stammered. “You know what I heard in Charlestown? It come straight from a British captain, what I heard.”
The colonel turned toward him again. “What was it?” he demanded.
Tom lowered his voice. No use in alarming the men. “Oh, a very great secret it was, told in confidence to a girl. This captain said that the British mean to move out of Boston before the week’s end. They mean to seize and fortify either Dorchester Heights or Bunker Hill.” He paused expectantly.
John Stark uttered a mirthless ha-ha.
“I know,” he said. “Seems like you be about the forty-first private to come up and tell me that. The word’s spread wide, from here to Jamaica Plain.” Then he shook his head. “Too bad you done what you done. I’d ha’ liked to ha’ recommended a sergeant’s knot o’ red for your shoulder when I sent you back to Captain Moore.”
Chapter Twelve
THUNDER IN THE AIR
The bells were sounding midnight in Medford Steeple, turning Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, when Tom Trask tied his borrowed horse to a nearby fence and lay down beside the dying campfire of his own company. After the rebuke by his colonel and another one next day by Captain Moore, he hardly expected John Stark to send for him within a day or two, but that was what came about.