Freedom

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“Tell me it is not true.” Samuel Adams stood ramrod straight, staring at the closed door of his guest room.

“It is.”

If Adams harbored any doubts about the gravity of the situation, Revere’s wan face and trembling hands drove it home. The silversmith collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Adams drew up a chair opposite him.

“What happened?”

Revere spread his fingers and looked between them at Adams. “The carriage had just pulled up in front of your house. A shot rang out and he slumped forward. He never uttered a sound.” He sat up and rested his hands in his lap. “They heard a second shot, but it must have missed. His guards chased after the assassin while we brought him inside.”

Adams had heard the shots, but never dreamed what they meant. “Where was he hit?” Adams realized he was holding his breath while he awaited the reply.

“The base of his skull. It is a grievous wound.”

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