Chapter XIII
They had borne all unmoved; disease and death,The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil;That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land,The home of liberty. Shall those sons nowBarter the rich inheritance?
They had borne all unmoved; disease and death,The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil;That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land,The home of liberty. Shall those sons nowBarter the rich inheritance?
They had borne all unmoved; disease and death,The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil;That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land,The home of liberty. Shall those sons nowBarter the rich inheritance?
They had borne all unmoved; disease and death,
The pangs of famine, hard and weary toil;
That, to their sons, they might bequeath a land,
The home of liberty. Shall those sons now
Barter the rich inheritance?
Some days had passed after the conversation which closed the last chapter. A cold stormy evening found our little family without visitors and prepared, as they drew around the table, which displayed a goodly collection of needlework, etc., to listen to Herbert as he read from a manuscript provided by Mrs. Wilson for the entertainment of the evening.
Years have passed away and the events of the War of the American Revolution are mingling with the obscurity of the past, the glorious achievement of our liberty has opened a new era in our history, “old things are done away,” but the imagination delights to linger around the scenes of what seems now “olden times”; scenes of peril and distress, but, over whose remembrance a deep interest, a magical charm, is thrown by the knowledge that our kindred and friends bore important parts in the drama, and that the closing act was the freedom of our country. Many were the events of deep and thrilling interest which are now buried in oblivion, or known only to those immediately concerned. The reminiscences which are the subject of these remarks may be wanting in that intense interest, but as being a delineation of the times, of their manners and feelings, and true, in all their main incidents, they may claim some share of attention. It was towards the latter part of May, 1775, but a short time before the memorable battle of Bunker Hill, that a horseman, wearied and worn with travel, exposed to the rays of the burning sun, on a day of uncommon heat for the season, and whose horse seemed sinking with fatigue, turned into a shady lane, leading from the more public road to a small cluster of buildings, in the comparatively thinly settled town of Malden, about four miles from Boston. As he entered the pleasant shade, formed by the apple trees which skirted the road, he permitted the tired animal to slacken its pace, first casting an anxious and inquiring glance about him. Apparently seeing no immediate cause for fear, he continued to ride slowly; removed his hat, and wiping his warm and dustybrow, appeared to breathe more freely. His dress was that of a gentleman, and his countenance, though pale and disturbed, was intelligent and open. After pursuing this pace for about half a mile, the cool and pleasant sound of running water directed his attention to a watering place, at the side of the road, and the renewed spirit of the steed, and his evident wish to taste the luxury, induced his master to dismount, and lead him to the fountain. At this moment a small dog springing up, and barking vehemently, he perceived a woman seated upon a bank near. He started, for his looks and manner had indicated that he sought concealment, and, aiming a blow at the waspish little animal, was preparing to remount his horse. “Come back, Faith,” said the woman, sharply, then, as the dog slunk back to her feet, she continued, in an apologetic tone: “He can’t do much harm, sir; he has seen his best days; only he might frighten the beast, though, to be sure, he looks too tired to mind a trifle.” “Do you live in this neighborhood?” said the traveler, permitting his horse to graze the green herbage around the watering place. “Just over the edge of yonder hill,” said she, “but it’s something of a walk, and I’ve nobody now to do my errands since John has gone.” “Do you know Capt. B.’s family? Is he at home?” “Know the family! That’s what I do; at home? No; bless your heart, no; at home! indeed, you’ll find no able-bodied men at home now, more especially the Captain. Where is he? Did you say? That’s what I don’t know. Sent on some service or other; left every thing, sir, family, land, cattle, and all at loose ends, for the sake of his country; for the matter of that, old Sam Lynde, who has lost one leg, and is nearly seventy, is the only man left behind; and he would be glad to go; I can tell you. The country is all in arms, sir, it’s as much as ever the reg’lars over in Boston can get any food to eat, or wood to burn.” Without waiting to hear more the questioner turned his horse. “Well,” said she, in a low soliloquy, as he rode away, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was a Tory, for his face didn’t brighten a bit when I told him how alive and stirring our people were; I’ll warrant Faithful mistrusted him, or he wouldn’t have been so spiteful.” So saying she rose, and passing through a stile, into a path which led through a meadow, bent her course in the direction she had indicated as her home.
Meanwhile, the rider had pursued his way; as he passed he regarded the objects around him with much interest and, when he arrived at a spring of water at the side of the road, about a mile from the last stopping place, he rested his horse upon the little stone bridge which crossed the stream proceeding from the spring. Gazing earnestly upon the pleasant spot, overshadowed by tall trees, a train of sad, not unpleasant, reflections passedthrough his mind. Who, that after long years of absence, has revisited the spot where his infancy and childhood had passed in the bosom of affection, but can sympathize with such reflections? The well remembered perfume of the mint and sweet herbs which grew around the never-failing spring in rich profusion revived in his memory the playful hours of youth; he could, in imagination, see the never-to-be-forgotten form of his mother, as she came down the avenue which led to the house, to watch the sports of her children, could retrace the pleasant smile and beaming glance of her eye as she witnessed their little feats of skill and strength, and hear her kindly voice warn them of danger; and a mild but grave face of his father, as he would sometimes join them, and, leaning over the balustrade of the little bridge, would address to them some remark of affectionate interest, was present to his mind, as if but a day had intervened. Where were now those kind guardians, where the happy group which had then mingled in sweet communion? The grave had closed over the first, and time, absence and civil dissension had separated the last. As these thoughts saddened his heart, tears filled his eyes, but the heavy roll of cannon from some ship in the harbor aroused him from his reverie and, turning from the spot which had awakened these memories, he passed up the avenue we have referred to, to the mansion of his birth, and now the residence of the family of his brother. All was quiet around, except, at intervals, the merry laugh or gleeful shout of childish mirth echoed from the green lawn, where he saw three little beings pursuing their happy sport. “The children of my brother,” he thought, but they were too far for him to distinguish them particularly. Alighting and approaching the door, he saw an elderly female seated and engaged in knitting. As he drew near she looked up, and, after scanning his countenance attentively a few moments, she rose hastily, dropped her work, and ejaculated: “Mercy upon me, Mr. Nathaniel! Is it you?” “It is indeed myself, Prudy; how has it happened that, after so many years, you have not forgotten me?” “There is not one of your family I shall forget while I have reason,” said she, “but the news reached us that you had sailed for England and I never thought to see you again.” “I am now on my way to Boston, to embark in the first vessel that leaves the harbor for the home of my ancestors, but I am escaping from enemies, my good Prudy, enemies to me and, as I believe, to their lawful king. Will you afford refreshment to one whom you no doubt believe to be a traitor to his country?” “You should not talk so, Mr. Nathaniel; you are in your brother’s house, though, may be, if he were here, he would look upon you with a frowning brow; yet his wife will not, I am sure, and Iwill but let her know you are here before I take care of you and your horse.” She then led the way into the house and, showing him into an apartment, she left him alone. How well remembered was the prospect from those windows! The pleasant green that sloped from the house, the old pear trees at the foot of the declivity, while, in the distance, but directly opposite, lay the town of Boston, with its tall spires, and the harbor, with its masts. There was the clump of walnut trees where he had gathered nuts and, near by, the old apple tree which had obtained the name of “mother’s tree,” because it bore an apple which was her favorite fruit, and even as he gazed, the old bell of Brattle Street Church, with its deep tone, struck its well remembered chime. There is something in the breath of spring that especially revives the memory of the past and it was with many a sweet and sad recollection that the wanderer lingered near the window and turned reluctantly at the opening of the door. The wife of his brother greeted him with affectionate kindness and her sympathy and soothing words cheered his heart. In answer to her wish that he could stay with them, could enter into the feelings of his countrymen and aid them in their exertions for freedom from unjust exactions, he said: “It is in vain, dear Hester, to think of it; though I may feel as you do, that our king has been misled by evil counsellors; that he has imposed harsh restrictions upon these colonies, and, by these means, alienated the affections of the people, still, in my opinion, my allegiance is due to him and to him it must be paid. Other influences have contributed to strengthen my early attachment to the English government; since I last saw you I have been betrothed to the daughter of a British officer, most amiable and beloved, and have had my hopes and anticipations blasted by her death. Her country must still be mine; but I have been almost a martyr to my loyalty, for I have been seized as a Tory, accused, though most unjustly, of transmitting intelligence to the royal army, immured in close confinement, and, though not harshly treated, yet debarred from communication with my friends. The hours spent in such solitude were dreary enough, uncheered by sympathy or affection, though not abandoned by hope, for I still trusted in the exertions of those who, I was confident, would use their utmost endeavors for my release. I was not mistaken in my expectations, for two days ago, as I paced my gloomy apartment in solitary musing, the door was unlocked and a person entered who had a few times officiated as my jailor. He performed some trifling offices and, as he retired, left the door ajar, casting, as I thought, a significant glance at me. I followed at some distance, but, losing sight of him at the foot of the stairs, I passedout at the door; and, seeing a horse, prepared for a journey, fastened to the railing, I mounted without any hesitation, concluding, I have no doubt rightly, that the means of escape were thus provided by friends. I have scarcely allowed myself rest or refreshment, being fearful of pursuit, and, by changing horses, I have at last arrived so near the place of my destination, which is Boston, from whence, as soon as possible, I shall embark for England; for I can not join against my countrymen in this contest. You will sympathize with me in this resolution, my dear sister?” “Yes,” said she, “but you are exhausted and must stay here until you are refreshed.” “No,” he said, “if I can elude the Argus vigilance of your excited populace I shall be in Boston tonight and, besides, I must not subject your good husband to the mortification of knowing that his Tory brother has obtained an asylum under his roof. I know too well his uncompromising zeal in behalf of the colonies and his determined animosity to those whom he considers their enemies.” Prudy now entered and placed upon the table the refreshments she had prepared, with many excuses for what she termed the homely fare; but the fine fish, the fresh, though coarse, bread, and sweet butter needed no apology and were duly appreciated by the way-worn traveler. To renew what she called his exhausted spirits she had prepared what was, at that time, a luxury, a cup of tea, and, as he inhaled the perfume so grateful to the wearied frame, he smiled at the good woman and said: “How is this, Prudy, are you not too much of a patriot to use this prohibited beverage, and in the house, too, of one of the most determined rebels against his king?” The color mounted in the cheeks of the faithful domestic as she prepared to make an energetic defence, but her mistress replied, with a ready smile: “Nay, brother, you must not quarrel with your physician, or the medicine, though it be contraband. Your brother, being far away, is not responsible for the misdemeanors of the two lonely inhabitants of his deserted home. And, truly, this cheering herb is now only used as a medicine. We join heart and hand, however, with our brave countrymen in deprecating the tyrannical laws which have deprived us of many comforts, besides, this more especially,” she said, and the tears glittered in her eyes, “of the society of those nearest and dearest to our hearts.” “God grant, dear Hester, that this most unnatural war may soon cease, for, if continued, misery and extermination will be the fate of these flourishing colonies.” “We hope for better things, brother, the united exertions of so many true and noble hearts as are scattered through the country, with the help of God, in a just cause, will effect miracles.” Three beautiful little girls now appeared at the door and, being told by their mother to approach,received the caresses of their uncle. The eldest was a bright and beautiful child of nine years, full of life and animation; the second a mild, sedate and quiet little creature of five, and the youngest a fair, rosy and plump little one of two, whose every step was a bound and whose joyous laugh exhilarated the listener. “You are happy, Hester, in this little group; they are very lovely and health and light-hearted pleasure is expressed in every motion.” The praise of these objects of her affection brought a bright glow of satisfaction to her cheeks. “Ah,” said she, “if their father was but with us; while danger and death surround him we can not be happy.” The tears that again filled her eyes at this recollection dimmed the flush of affection and Prudy, who was most devotedly attached to her, said, with some indignation: “Shame upon the tyrant who has cast such a shadow over our happy homes! I must say what I think, Mr. Nathaniel, if he is your king. What business had he to interfere with our rights, and to impose taxes upon us to support his unjust wars and wicked extravagance?” “He has had bad advisers, Prudy, and the time will come when he will be advised of this.” “Too late for his good,” said she. “Our people would not have known their strength, perhaps, but when they once find it out they will no longer live subjects to England.” “Perhaps you are right,” said he, “and when these cruel difficulties are all settled, my good friend, we will yet hope to meet and discuss these questions amicably. I must now leave you, my kind sister, with my prayer that the blessing of Heaven may rest upon you and your dear family; and you, Prudy, you, who watched over my youth, and was ever kind and affectionate to the wayward boy”—his voice faltered—“if I never meet you again on earth, may we meet in Heaven!” The good woman now sobbed aloud as he shook her hand, and no less affectionate was the farewell upon the part of the mother and her little family. “You will let us hear of your safety, dear brother, before you leave the country?” “If I possibly can; I am not, however, without serious fears of being apprehended this side of Boston.” At this moment an energetic but cracked voice was heard, singing the chorus to one of the patriotic songs of the day:
“So, one and all, my merry boys,Be up, and bravely doing;We’ll drive the British o’er the seas,And fairly prove their ruin.”
“So, one and all, my merry boys,Be up, and bravely doing;We’ll drive the British o’er the seas,And fairly prove their ruin.”
“So, one and all, my merry boys,Be up, and bravely doing;We’ll drive the British o’er the seas,And fairly prove their ruin.”
“So, one and all, my merry boys,
Be up, and bravely doing;
We’ll drive the British o’er the seas,
And fairly prove their ruin.”
“There,” said Prudy, hastily wiping her eyes; “there’s old Sam Lynde, going with the market cart, over to Charlestown;now, if we could but make him think you were sent by your brother, he never would suspect you to be a Tory, and then you might go safely.” She went out in haste and they soon heard her voice at the door conferring with the old man: “People are so suspicious now, you know, Sam,” said she, “that he might be stopped and hindered, when it is of so much importance that he should be there by sundown.” “I’ll see to it; I’ll see to it,” said he, as he adjusted his basket, and mounted the vehicle with difficulty. “Well, wait a minute,” said she, and, returning, she told them, what they had already gathered, that it would be expedient for him to proceed immediately under the auspices of the old gardener. With a most affectionate but sad adieu they parted, fearing what proved but too true, that they should never meet again on earth. This was but one of the many parting scenes of that eventful period; that season of civil war, for it truly deserved that name, though three thousand miles of wide ocean lay between the contending nations. Families were divided, father against son and brother against brother; kindred ties were severed and the heavy cloud of domestic dissension hung over this once peaceful country. But, confident in a just cause, a band of noble spirits joined in a holy league to resist oppression, to rise above the crushing hand of tyrannical power, and force their way to freedom. It was a glorious resolution and gloriously did it triumph.
The soft breeze of evening, laden with the sweets of spring, stole over the fading landscape, the light tinkle of some solitary cow-bell and the shrill and monotonous notes of the frogs alone breaking the stillness immediately around the anxious listeners who were awaiting the return of the old market man, which, they hoped, would relieve their suspense as to the safety of the fugitive. But, notwithstanding the calm repose of this scene was undisturbed, the busy sounds of life were heard in the distance, for, though the road to Boston by the highway was four miles, yet the distance across the marshes, which lay opposite the house, was but little over a mile, and the roll of the drum, with other martial sounds, was distinctly heard. Sad and depressing the thought that weighed upon the mind of the mistress of the mansion; her little ones were at rest and all was quiet around, but how long would it remain so? Her husband was far away, the time of his return uncertain, if, indeed, he would ever again return. The enemy were becoming more and more incensed at the insults and aggressions of the colonists, who, in their turn, were burning with indignation at the tyranny of the regular troops, as they were called, and each day produced some new cause of hatred and defiance on both sides. Scarcely a ray of hope lightedthe deep gloom of the future and, though striving to resign herself and her all into the hands of Almighty Love, her heart throbbed with anxious fears. The good Prudy sat near, plying her knitting needles, which, in those days of simplicity, before the inventions of modern times rendered their use obsolete, or, at least unfashionable, were indispensable accompaniments of the female; and, with the earnest freedom and interest which her long residence in the family warranted, endeavored to wile away the melancholy which shaded the brow of her mistress. “It seems but a few days,” said she, “since they were all children and I, though not quite so young, as blithe and happy, for never had a poor orphan ever found a happier home than I had. I was treated as one of the family and as long as I live I shall cleave to it. The sight of Mr. Nathaniel has brought old times to my mind and I can not abide the thought that the son of his father is a Tory, but he never had the firm judgment of his brother. Trust in the Lord, my mistress, and all will be right, let what may happen. It is a great lesson to learn but, once learned, it serves us all the rest of our lives. I much wonder old Sam is so long coming; he is not gone, usually, more than two hours.” “He is old and infirm, Prudy, and we need not wonder if we do not see him before morning; but we will watch some time longer.” And, changing the conversation, they conferred upon their household affairs and domestic matters in which the kind handmaid took an affectionate interest. Another hour passed and, becoming convinced that something had occurred to prevent the return of the old man, they retired to rest.
“Would it have been better, mother,” said Elizabeth, “if the colonies had been contented to remain under the English government? When I hear of these sad times of war, I am almost tempted to wish they had continued in quiet subjection.” “The exactions and encroachments of the parent country,” said Mrs. Wilson, “were too flagrant; the colonists would have dishonored their ancestors had they borne unmoved the tyranny of the English ministry, but it was long before they could divest themselves of the feeling of dependence upon England, the home of their fathers, and break the tie which had bound them to their laws and institutions. They submitted to many petty abuses and extortions, they petitioned and remonstrated for the redress of more palpable ones, and it was not until a series of gross insults and unpardonable neglect of every appeal to the justice of the king and his ministers had aroused the indignation of the people of these States to a pitch that could not be controlled that they had recourse to arms as a last resort.”
“And the result showed,” said Herbert, “that the God of justice was upon their side, and fought their battles, for, surely, there was never a more apparently hopeless cause than that of the united colonies, against their powerful oppressor.”
“Here is a young hero,” said Susan, turning to Charles, “who would have joined heart and hand with his countrymen. I wish you had marked how he winced at your unpatriotic question, Elizabeth.”
“Notwithstanding which question,” said Herbert, “I am very sure if our gentle sister had lived in those days she would have assisted energetically in melting the weights of the old clock for bullets, or any other measure deemed necessary by the fair enthusiasts of those trying times.”
“I am very sure, dear brother, however much I might deprecate the war, and its train of evils, the comforts of those dear to me would have been uppermost in my thoughts.” After cheerful conversation, they separated for the night.