Over a dozen neighborhood children milled around them, at a safe distance precisely calculated, like blue jays teasing a cat. “Bloody-backs, bloody-backs,” chanted Shimrath Walton, and shied a knob of pig dung at the smaller of the men: not the first such missile, to judge by the state of the boy’s hands and the man’s uniform. The little soldier’s face turned as red as his coat and he took a stride toward the offenders, but they scattered, shrieking with laughter, only to reform a few yards away. “Lobsters for sale!”

“Sure now, what’ll your Ma say, you chuckin’ your lunch about like that?” retorted the taller soldier, which got a laugh from the children in return.

“Shimrath,” said Abigail sharply, “come here this moment. You, too, Jed,” she added, picking out the leader of the little band, and before she could single out a third, her own Nabby and Johnny darted out of the alley that ran beside the house:

“Ma, the redcoats have come to arrest Papa—”

“We tried to stop them.” Nabby flung plump arms around Abigail’s waist and held her desperately tight. “We tried—”

“Are they still in there?”

Both children nodded. Nabby was a silent girl, even at eight years of age worrisomely withdrawn. Her composure shattered, she looked like she’d been weeping: She adored her father. All Johnny’s blunt-spoken sarcasm seemed to have deserted him as well.

“Nabby.” Abigail bent down to her daughter to whisper, “You run at once to Mr. Revere’s shop—Johnny, you go with her”—Johnny would never tolerate seeing his sister dispatched on an errand if he were not given one as well, and never mind that he was barely out of dresses—“and tell Mr. Revere that soldiers are here—How many are there?”

“These two and an officer inside,” reported Johnny promptly. “He’s from the Provost Marshal.” In addition to studying Latin and the beginnings of Greek under his father’s eye, the pale, fair-haired boy had lately become the neighborhood expert on the facing-colors and insignia of the regiment stationed on Castle Island.

“Tell Mr. Revere that. He’ll know what to do. Shimrath, run tell Mr. Sam Adams. He may be at his house again and he may still be at Mrs. Malvern’s house in Tillet’s Yard—Jed, you go to Tillet’s Yard. I’ll hold them here.”

The children bolted in all directions. The shorter guard, not having been privy to Abigail’s murmured instructions, grunted, “Thank you, m’am. Those brats are a nuisance, no error.” The taller—a young man with a snub nose and wide-set blue eyes—regarded Abigail worriedly as she moved toward the mouth of the little alley that led to the yard behind.