He wore a light blue uniform coat faced in brown, white deerskin breeches, knee boots, and had a naval cutlass hanging from a thick brown belt. His wide-brimmed hat was made of felt, and it shadowed a broad, stubborn face that was creased in thought. “You making that list, boy?” he demanded brusquely. “Yes, sir,” the boy answered. He was twelve, the son of Josiah Flint who ruled the armory from his high-backed, well-padded chair that had been dragged from the office and set beside the trestle table where the boy made his list. Flint liked to sit in the yard when the weather allowed so he could keep an eye on the comings and goings in his domain. “Drag chains,” Revere said, “sponges, searchers, relievers, am I going too fast?” “Relievers,” the boy muttered, dipping his pen into the inkwell. “Hot today,” Josiah Flint grumbled from the depths of his chair. “It’s summer,” Revere said, “and it should be hot. Rammers, boy, and wad hooks. Spikes, tompions, linstocks, vent-covers.
