By the Light of Fireflies by Jenni L. Walsh

Author:Jenni L. Walsh [Walsh, Jenni L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781954332126
Publisher: Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing
Published: 2021-11-01T16:00:00+00:00

The time came too quickly for Mr. Crosby to take his spy skills to the City of New York.

“But you’ll return?” I asked him. We were in the sewing room once again. This time, Rebecca was with us. She even had claimed the swivel chair.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Crosby said. “I’ll be back within the month once my mind is dripping with clandestine information.”

Mama entered the room at that exact moment. “Is that so? I’ve no need to hang clothier again so soon. Certainly not with all this snow we’re getting.”

A silence filled the room, a rather awkward one. Rebecca broke it. “What if we signaled in a different way?”

“How?” I asked.

“Well,” Rebecca said, beginning slowly, until a smile quickened on her face. “Remember Mr. Paul Revere? Lanterns were hung as a signal. We can hang two each evening, when safe. But if there are any signs of danger for Mr. Crosby, we’ll light only one.”

“Splendid,” Mr. Crosby said. “And I’ll whistle, like before.”

I twisted my lips. The idea was a good one, but it stung like a hornet in the hen house had gotten me. I so often felt a connection with Mr. Paul Revere as I galloped on Star’s back. An idea inspired by him should’ve come from my brain and my lips, and not my sister’s.

But with Mr. Crosby leaving, there was little time to wallow. On foot, the journey would’ve been a cold one and taken Mr. Crosby a full day of nonstop marching from our part of New York to Manhattan. But, while we were outside saying our good-byes, Papa gave Mr. Crosby extra money to buy a horse over in the town of Pawling. His sore ankle would thank him. That walk would still be mighty cold, but at least it’d take little more than an hour.

“I’ll name her Moon,” he told me, giving Star a good rubbing on his flank. “To go with your Star. When I return, we’ll go for a ride together. How does that sound?”

I beamed. Star did, too. Horses could smile, just as a person could. All teeth and sometimes lots of gums.

Johnny Whitaker came as Mr. Crosby left.

I already had Star saddled.

“Who was that?”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Crosby.”

Papa said if anyone asked about our spy to be honest about his name. And also about who Mr. Crosby was prior to joining our spy ring, minus the spying parts. “When bending the truth,” Papa had said, “It’s always best to stick as close to the facts as possible. Or else you’ll forget what facts you first said if you’re asked again.” So I said, “He’s a shoemaker, goes house to house selling them.”

“Your boots don’t look new,” Johnny Whitaker remarked.

“It’s not as if I’d wear my new ones in all this muck. Really, Johnny Whitaker.”

He laughed.

Then I asked, “What do you think about being a shoemaker?”

“I prefer blacksmithing.”

“Yes,” I began, but then I stopped from adding: but how about for me? Johnny Whitaker would only make fun of me for thinking something through I couldn’t do.

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