The Incredible William Bowles. Joseph J. Millard

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      It was Sunday afternoon when he arrived and despite lowering clouds and a raw, wet wind it seemed the entire populace was out to parade its Sabbath finery. A rolling two-way tide of chaises, carriages, carts, and horseback riders filled the street from curb to curb. The narrow sidewalks were a solid mass of strollers of every class and age.

      Will stood it as long as he could and then broke out of the crowd onto a quieter side street where he could wander at his own pace and gape at the sights. He was entranced by the shops with their neat white fronts and painted signboards. His artist’s eye took pleasure in block-long row houses of warm red brick, with their dazzling white woodwork, neatly scrubbed doorsteps, and polished brass knobs and knockers.

      He walked until early dusk and a fine spit of chill rain in his face reminded him of his own precarious circumstances. In his pack were the remains of some bread and sausage, given him that morning by a kindly farm wife west of the city. In his purse were a single English crown, worth a dollar and eleven cents in Continental hard money, two pistareens or twenty-cent pieces, four half-pistareens that people were beginning to call “dimes,” and a few copper pence. It was hardly enough to placate a stomach that of late seemed always demanding more than he stuffed into it. The luxury of a warm room at an inn, however modest, was beyond his means.

      Will looked around and his eyes fell on a livery stable a short way down the opposite side of the street. A very tall, gaunt man was limping back and forth, carrying forkfuls of hay from a covered rick in the yard. Will headed across and waited for the gaunt man to reappear.

      “I could do that job for you,” he offered. “All I’d ask is leave to sleep inside out of the rain tonight.”

      The other studied him, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. “Might be, might be. You don’t ’pear to be a rum pot nor a pipe smoker who’d burn the place down. Put a hand to the fork and let’s see how you do.”

      Will stabbed a forkful of fragrant hay and carried it inside, spreading it along the feed rack in front of the tethered horses. On his third trip to the rick the gaunt man said, “You’re able enough with the pitchfork, though I’m bound to say you don’t act real fond of it.”

      “I’m not,” Will admitted. “I hate drudge work, but not half as bad as I hate being wet and cold.”

      The stableman laughed. “At least, I can allus say I’ve met one honest lad in my day. You’ll find a pile of good warm horse blankets back by the harness pegs. Just see you fold ’em neat and put ’em back where you found ’em in the morning.”

      That night Will slept snug and warm while rain drummed on the roof and the wind whistled around the eaves. He awoke at first light to finish off his bread and sausage and clear out before the stableman could arrive with schemes for additional labor.

      The day was clear and nippy, with a brisk wind to dry the rain puddles. The whole city was astir. A steady stream of farm wagons and carts, piled high with fall produce, converged on the open-air market.

      All along the street merchants were taking down their shutters and sweeping shops and sidewalks.

      Will moved slowly along the street, stopping at every likely shop to ask for work. The results were not encouraging. It seemed everyone in Philadelphia had a long catalog of complaints ready to be poured out in a whiny, self-pitying voice.

      Hard money was dear and Continental shinplasters not worth the paper they were printed on. Goods were scarce and prices soaring. Common salt was fetching twenty-five shillings a bushel when any at all was to be had. The British had captured New York and any day now could win the war by trapping and annihilating Washington’s dwindling handful of ragged Continentals.

      Will concealed his elation at the war news and moved on, bitterly contemplating a dark and hungry future. His one hope was to somehow hold out until that English victory could restore the country to law and order once more. Then he could return home and resume the pleasant life that had been so violently interrupted by the insane rage for independence.

      He was so lost in his dark reverie that it was a full minute before he became aware of the rising tumult up ahead. Suddenly it burst upon his senses, a frenzied, wordless, inhuman howling that seemed to pour from a thousand throats. He jerked up his head and froze in his steps, gaping at an astounding sight.

      Midway in the next block a great, surging mass of people was marching toward him, filling the street from curb to curb. As they marched their voices rose and fell over and over in a wild, keening chorus. Now he could distinguish the words of their wailing chant.

      “Ride, Tory, ride! Ride, Tory, ride!”

      It was the first time Will had ever heard the voice of a mob in full cry and the sheer animal quality of it froze his blood. It made him think of the great wolf packs that often howled from the slopes of the Catoctins on winter nights. The Liberty Boys who horsewhipped Ben Peabody and his sons and then burned his henhouse must have sounded like this pack.

      All up and down the street people were bursting from shops and homes to line the curbs and gape excitedly at the spectacle. A number, caught up in the frenzy, added their shrill yelps to the mounting din.

      As the crowd drew near, Will could see the victim of their animosity. In the midst of the mob was a high, slat-sided farm cart, being pulled and pushed by eager hands. A portly man of advanced years stood alone in the cart, gripping the side to maintain his balance.

      His wig was askew, the knot over one ear, exposing a strip of bald head and a fringe of white hair. His clothing was of fine quality but sadly disheveled, his stock torn loose, the buttons of his waistcoat hanging by threads. There was a dark, ugly bruise on one florid cheek and a slash on his right arm that had spilled blood down his sleeve and across an ample paunch.

      A murmur ran through the crowd around Will. “It’s old Doctor Hensley, and high time. A carting is just what he has been needing to put a civil tongue in his head.”

      Suddenly, above the yelling of the mob, Will could hear the old man’s voice roaring, “Go to hell, the whole pack of ye! God save the King, and damnation to all rebels!”

      Will’s first feeling of pity gave way to a fierce surge of admiration for that gallant and stubborn defiance. Then a hot, helpless anger swept over him. He stood rigid, his fists clenched, his face black with rage, in the midst of the howling, jostling horde.

      Abruptly a hand closed like a vise on his arm and a voice growled in his ear, “Come with me, young man—at once!”

      He whirled. The man clutching his arm was above middle age and perhaps an inch shorter than Will’s five feet ten. He had a well-groomed, well-fed appearance, with plump pink cheeks and a little round pot belly straining the buttons of his flowered waistcoat. He gave Will’s arm an urgent twitch and hissed, “Don’t just stand there gaping, boy. This is for your own good. Come inside here, quickly.”

      Before Will could collect his wits, he found himself being tugged through a white door into a small, shadowy room. A large stone mortar and pestle on a counter and rows of white glass jars showed that he was in an apothecary’s shop. The acrid stench of ammonia mingled with the scent of herbs and spices.

      The plump man slammed the door and put his back against it, staring at Will. “Boy, did you ever see a man tarred and feathered and ridden on a rail?”

      “No,” Will said angrily, finding his voice, “and I don’t see what that has to do…”

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