Adams.”
“Did you now?” Adams was a stern man, slovenly in his personal habits and not given to light talk. He had a harsh way about him that kept most people at a distance, but there was a friendly light in his brown eyes as he looked at the boy. He put a hand on the thin shoulder, a most uncharacteristic gesture for him—and the first time any man had ever done such a thing to Moses. His shoulder seemed to burn under the weight of the hand; then Adams had nodded and said quietly, “When the trouble comes, Moses, it’ll be boys like you, not old men like me, who’ll have to make it work. Old men can make speeches, but it’ll be you who’ll have to look down a musket at a British soldier. And I think you’ll be up to it!”
From that time on, Adams had always noticed the boy in small ways, and once had encouraged him to keep his eye out for any young fellow who might make a good Son of Liberty.
Looking around the crowded room, Moses leaned over and whispered “That’s him, Caleb, that’s Mr. Adams! And that’s Mr. Revere with him.”
“The silversmith? I’ve heard of him. Who’s that coming in?”
“That’s Dr. Warren. He’s a real big shot in Boston.”
Adams had turned from his talk with Revere, and seeing the two, came over and said, “Brought a guest, did you, Moses?”
Moses beamed, proud to be noticed. “Yes, sir! This is my friend Caleb Winslow.”
Adams gave Caleb a straight look, then asked directly, “You’re interested in our group, Mr. Winslow?”
“Well, I don’t live in Boston, Mr. Adams, but I sure would be if I lived here.”
“Where’s your home?”
“I come from Virginia.”
Revere had come up to listen. He was a full-faced man, with a heavy lower lip and sharp black eyes. “Virginia? Well, welcome to Boston!” He shook Caleb’s hand and asked idly, “Don’t suppose you know Colonel Washington?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, my father knows him pretty well.” Caleb tried to keep his tone casual as he said, “My father was a scout with him and Braddock.”
“Indeed!” Revere said, and he exchanged a quick glance with Adams, who looked more closely at Caleb. “Your name is Winslow? Any relation to Charles Winslow?”
“My uncle, sir.” Caleb saw a dark look cross the faces of both men, and added hastily, “My father is his half brother—but they don’t agree on politics.”
“I see.” Revere was rubbing his chin, a thought nibbling at him. Then he looked up with a smile and said, “Why, I’ve got it now! It was a few years ago, but I met your father—and your grandfather, as well.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes, I remember it now quite well. Your grandfather had come to Franklin to get a book printed, and I was in the shop. Matter of fact, I did the engraving for the frontispiece. It was quite a book—” He turned to Adams and said, “Here’s a real American for us, Sam! This boy is a descendant of Gilbert Winslow from the Mayflower. You must have read that book of his; it was a bestseller for Franklin.”
Adams stared at Caleb. “I am impressed, very much so.”
“Wait now!” Revere said, and again struggled to remember; then it came. “Isn’t your father a metal worker like myself?”
“He’s a fine gunsmith, Mr. Revere.”
“Ah, now, that’s what I’d like to hear!” Adams’ face was alive with interest, and he began to throw questions rapidly. In ten minutes Adams had his life history, the fact that he himself was a good gunsmith and that his family was strong for the cause. Finally he looked around and said, “Well, we must have more of your time, Mr. Winslow. I think you have a place in the Sons of Liberty.”
“Why, that’s kind of you, Mr. Adams,” Caleb said. His heart was beating fast, and he was lightheaded. Me—a friend of Sam Adams and Paul Revere! Just wait until I tell Father about this! He’ll let me stay in Boston, I’ll bet!
The meeting began soon, but Caleb heard little of it. He was too
“Did you now?” Adams was a stern man, slovenly in his personal habits and not given to light talk. He had a harsh way about him that kept most people at a distance, but there was a friendly light in his brown eyes as he looked at the boy. He put a hand on the thin shoulder, a most uncharacteristic gesture for him—and the first time any man had ever done such a thing to Moses. His shoulder seemed to burn under the weight of the hand; then Adams had nodded and said quietly, “When the trouble comes, Moses, it’ll be boys like you, not old men like me, who’ll have to make it work. Old men can make speeches, but it’ll be you who’ll have to look down a musket at a British soldier. And I think you’ll be up to it!”
From that time on, Adams had always noticed the boy in small ways, and once had encouraged him to keep his eye out for any young fellow who might make a good Son of Liberty.
Looking around the crowded room, Moses leaned over and whispered “That’s him, Caleb, that’s Mr. Adams! And that’s Mr. Revere with him.”
“The silversmith? I’ve heard of him. Who’s that coming in?”
“That’s Dr. Warren. He’s a real big shot in Boston.”
Adams had turned from his talk with Revere, and seeing the two, came over and said, “Brought a guest, did you, Moses?”
Moses beamed, proud to be noticed. “Yes, sir! This is my friend Caleb Winslow.”
Adams gave Caleb a straight look, then asked directly, “You’re interested in our group, Mr. Winslow?”
“Well, I don’t live in Boston, Mr. Adams, but I sure would be if I lived here.”
“Where’s your home?”
“I come from Virginia.”
Revere had come up to listen. He was a full-faced man, with a heavy lower lip and sharp black eyes. “Virginia? Well, welcome to Boston!” He shook Caleb’s hand and asked idly, “Don’t suppose you know Colonel Washington?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, my father knows him pretty well.” Caleb tried to keep his tone casual as he said, “My father was a scout with him and Braddock.”
“Indeed!” Revere said, and he exchanged a quick glance with Adams, who looked more closely at Caleb. “Your name is Winslow? Any relation to Charles Winslow?”
“My uncle, sir.” Caleb saw a dark look cross the faces of both men, and added hastily, “My father is his half brother—but they don’t agree on politics.”
“I see.” Revere was rubbing his chin, a thought nibbling at him. Then he looked up with a smile and said, “Why, I’ve got it now! It was a few years ago, but I met your father—and your grandfather, as well.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes, I remember it now quite well. Your grandfather had come to Franklin to get a book printed, and I was in the shop. Matter of fact, I did the engraving for the frontispiece. It was quite a book—” He turned to Adams and said, “Here’s a real American for us, Sam! This boy is a descendant of Gilbert Winslow from the Mayflower. You must have read that book of his; it was a bestseller for Franklin.”
Adams stared at Caleb. “I am impressed, very much so.”
“Wait now!” Revere said, and again struggled to remember; then it came. “Isn’t your father a metal worker like myself?”
“He’s a fine gunsmith, Mr. Revere.”
“Ah, now, that’s what I’d like to hear!” Adams’ face was alive with interest, and he began to throw questions rapidly. In ten minutes Adams had his life history, the fact that he himself was a good gunsmith and that his family was strong for the cause. Finally he looked around and said, “Well, we must have more of your time, Mr. Winslow. I think you have a place in the Sons of Liberty.”
“Why, that’s kind of you, Mr. Adams,” Caleb said. His heart was beating fast, and he was lightheaded. Me—a friend of Sam Adams and Paul Revere! Just wait until I tell Father about this! He’ll let me stay in Boston, I’ll bet!
The meeting began soon, but Caleb heard little of it. He was too
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