"Ye know of him?" she countered, added, "That big run-down house at the
next corner. What would ye of Master Adams, Charles?"
"Never mind, honey," he told her but his thoughts were humming. Sam
Adams, of course--here was his opportunity, not only to survive in Old
Boston, but to do it creditably in Deborah's eyes. Surely the so-called
father of the Revolution would not be able to refuse the aid of a man
who knew the course of the future.
* * * * *
Anxiety struck him. He said, "You aren't a supporter of the Court Party
are you, Debby?"
Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she said, "Nay, not yet--but unless
certain folk cease plaguing me in the name of the Colony I shall become
so in self-defence."
"Don't switch," he assured her, relieved.
They walked the streets of the Old Town, down Belcher's Lane and the
Battery March, whence they could see scarlet-coated soldiers at frigid
sentry duty atop the Fort ramparts. They warmed chilling bodies with
boiled beef and bacon and steaming buttered Medford rum at Stratton's
tavern just off King Street, then on to the Province House toward
Beacon Hill.
Look at the palladian gable of that small but stately structure, at the
gilded lion and unicorn that adorned its cornices, Justin reflected
it looked scarcely younger than when he had paused on his way home in
the dusk to survey it a scant sixteen hours--or rather a hundred and
ninety-two years--away. If anything, in his own era, it was rather
better kept up.
Then they rambled back along Rawson's Lane to Milk Street and Deborah's
house, which by daylight proved to be a stoutly comfortable dwelling
in obvious good repair. To his surprise Deborah bade him enter. He
followed her inside, said, "How are you going to explain me, honey?"
"I'm not," she replied with a flicker of dimple. "There's no soul here
but ourselves."
He pulled her close and for a few blissful moments they embraced. Then,
again, Deborah pushed him away. He looked at her, said, "What's wrong?"
"Ye must leave quickly," she replied. "I have something to attend to
and with ye around I cannot."
"Is it your mission from Ortine?" he asked her.
"If that were all," she replied, "I'd willingly defy Ortine and all
the de'ils in hell for ye, Darling Charles--but there is far too much
involved."
He argued but to no avail, reluctantly took his leave. By a steeple
clock he saw that the afternoon was still young. He might as well, he
thought, put his time along to good use. So he made his way directly to
the ramshackle doorway of Sam Adams' ramshackled old house.
An immense shaggy Irishman, his face pitted by the universal pockmarks
of the era, opened the door to his knock. His free fist was clenched
about the handle of a large pewter mug and his accents were slurred as
he said, "What have we here?"
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Adams," Justin said.
The giant roared, "_Sam!_ A peasant to see ye--with the voice of a man
fro' the moon!"
There was a murmur from within and Justin entered a house whose
interior looked as threadbare and ramshackled as its facade. He
was taken to a disorderly looking study where a tall red-faced
genial-looking man, whose coat was glossy with gravy stains, regarded
Justin not unpleasantly and said, "Ye wish to see me?"
"I do," replied Justin, his knees weak. Glancing at the glowering
Irishman behind him, he added, "On a matter of some confidence, Mr.
Adams."
Adams glanced at his companion and said, "I doubt me much that this
honest-looking stranger wishes me ill. Outside, Will."
Memory rang another gong within Justin's head. Will--that could mean
only Will Molineux, tough rugged South End mob leader and soon-to-be
captain of the town's Liberty Boys, a vital lower-bracket cog in the
machinery that ultimately set up revolt against the Crown in Boston.
"Now, Master...?" said Adams inquiringly.
"Justin--Charles Justin," he said. "I must ask you to accept some of
my story on its face--otherwise I fear you will find it incredible.
However, I think I may be of use to you."
"I'll be glad to hear ye out--if ye take not too long," said Adams,
indicating the papers on his desk.
Justin decided to plunge directly into his proposition. He said, "To
what use would you be able to put a man who could foretell the future
in your behalf?"
Adams' face became hard as flint. He said, "I know not who ye be or
whence ye come--but I ha' not the time to sit and listen to such
childish prattle."
"Please, Mr. Adams--I shan't take long," Justin put in desperately.
"I'm a Bostonian like yourself but I come from a different time--from
two centuries in the future to be exact."
Something in the sincerity of his plea won Justin a reprieve. "Very
well, Master--Justin--if that be ye'r name. Ye'r accent is odd enough
to account for such a story--not that I credit ye with truth for a
moment. Since ye know so much of what ye term _ye'r_ past, mayhap ye
can tell me something of mine own."
Justin said, "You and your father made the first open attacks on the
Crown, following the return of Louisburg to France in seventeen
forty-six after its capture by Massachusetts men. You have run through
a fine inheritance and are incapable of conducting any sort of
business because your interest lies in politics. You graduated several
notches higher in your class in Harvard than your young cousin John of
Braintree.
"At the moment you are seeking some means of renewing the fight against
the Crown. You are in the process of organizing the North and South End
mobs of Boston to that purpose, uniting them into a controllable body
that will obey your commands. Will Molineux, in the next room, is one
of your chief aides...."
"Thus far ye have told me nothing that is not common knowledge." But
Adams frowned slightly as he spoke.
"Is it generally known how well you have organized the mobs, Mr.
Adams?" said Justin. "Is it generally known that you are counting,
perhaps at this very moment, upon the enforcement of Writs of
Assistance to re-rouse the opposition to the Crown that has lain
dormant so long?
"Is it generally known that your opposition to the mother country
is based upon a snubbing you received from a British officer in an
ale-house fifteen years ago?"
"Enough, young man," said Adams. "Ye are either what ye say ye are--in
which case ye'r a wizard--or ye'r a spy sent here by my enemies to
muddle me with poor advice. Ye know too much about me and I know too
little about ye. Now get out!"
There was no mistaking the anger in those genial brown eyes as Adams
rose to his feet. All at once Justin realised he was going to call
Molineux, have him chased out of town, perhaps beaten. After all, there
was no police force in the Boston of 1761.
Moving quickly he picked up a heavy paperweight, evidently once an
Indian axe-head, that lay atop a stack of foolscap on the desk, and
struck Adams on the head with it before he could call for help. The
oft-called Father of the Revolution fell forward across his desk.
Justin bolted.
Molineux, who had been facing a front window in the other room turned
and made a menacing move. "In there!" cried Justin. "Mr. Adams has
fainted. I'll get help."
Feeling like an errant coward, Justin fled.