I was soon surrounded by a group of about a dozen panting, angry men. They made no attempts to conceal their rage. I was seized by several of them at once, violently shaken, and was asked so many questions all at once that, for a time, I was afforded a pretext for not answering any of them.
Finally quiet was restored. When the last man of the party had come up, they formed a ring about me on the road. Every moment the shadows of night were deepening, but I could clearly see that the fire of revenge burned hot in every face. Nor did I wonder at this. Duncan's escape had been so unexpected. They were as lions cheated of their prey. Almost at the moment when their savage passion for sport of the cruellest kind conceivable was to be gratified, their intended victim had suddenly slipped through their fingers. The thought of what I had been able to do filled me with a kind of fearlessness that prevented me from shrinking, as the circle of angry men narrowed about me, I felt I was at their mercy; I might be in great danger; I had been the means of thwarting them; but a thrill of pride went through me at the thought that I had been able to save the life of my dead father's dearest friend.
The leader of the party was a tall, rough, awkward-looking man of perhaps forty-five. I heard one of the men call him 'Colonel.' He stepped into the ring and brought a huge pistol to the level of my forehead.
'What's yer name?' he roared.
'Roger Davis,' I said.
'Where 're ye from?
'Cambridge.'
'Who sent ye out here?'
'I came out this morning, of my own accord, to hear the truth about what took place at Lexington the day before yesterday. I was not sent by any one.'
'The truth boy, or——' He showed the mouth of the pistol so near to my face that I could have blown my breath into the muzzle—'the truth, boy, or I'll blow——'
'I am not accustomed to speaking lies,' I broke in suddenly, with some spirit and much warmth. 'I belong to no party, and I would have you understand that you may yet have to answer for obstructing the King's highway. I bid you stand out of my path, that I may proceed on my journey.'
A great chorus of scornful laughter greeted my words. But I was spared further questions at any rate. The circle opened on one side—the side next to Lexington—and I was ordered to march. As I stepped out of the group, I heard the click of several pistols being made ready for action.
We had not gone far, when I learned from the conversation which I could not but hear, that the men behind me held sharply differing views as to what should be done.
'We were instructed by the committee to hang him,' I heard one say; 'and this we did not do. We let him escape. I for one am opposed to going back to Lexington. The committee have had their eye on Hale for some months; and they considered that Providence had put him into their hands this morning. They will be, I assure you, in no pleasant mood, when they hear he is again at large, having obtained much valuable information. And to think that there wasn't a single pistol ready when he started.'
'Perhaps the committee will turn on us—have us arrested,' put in another. 'An' hanged for neglectin' to fulfil orders,' said a third, whom I had not before heard speaking. The strife and difference grew, until many high, hot words were being spoken.
'Twasn't my fault that he escaped,' said one. 'Twas,' roared another. 'You was nearest to him.'
Then the lie was passed; and a moment later nothing but the violent intervention of 'the Colonel' could have prevented both blows and shots.
Finally a halt was decided upon. It was agreed that I was to be kept a prisoner: that two of the party were to convey me to the village and hand me over to the proper authorities, while 'the Colonel' boldly declared that he, in order to simplify matters, would inform the committee that the spy Hale had been hanged according to instructions. As I afterwards plodded on through the darkness with the tramp, tramp, of my two guards sounding in my ears behind me, I wondered that twelve men who had been reared in the King's Province of Massachusetts could have consented to such a lying proposal without protest.
After a journey that seemed doubly long owing to my hunger and weariness, we came to the village, and I was immediately handed over to an official. Though it was very dark, he put a heavy bandage over my eyes; then, with the men who had brought me following, I was led by a very rough path through a field, and across a brook. But I said nothing. It was not a time for words.
Finally we came to a stand. I could hear the sound as of heavy timbers being removed and thrown down. Then there was the noise of the sliding back of a door. In a few moments I was led into what seemed to be the mouth of a cave. The air was damp, and I detected at once a close, unpleasant odour.
It was not long before my eyes were unbandaged and I was permitted to look about. The place seemed to have been dug out of solid rock; water dripped from one side of the roof; there was no floor but the natural rock. In one corner, supported on four stones, lay an old door. I looked a moment at this, and then turned to the faces of three men who stood about me. They were each eyeing me keenly. One of the faces I felt sure I had seen—but where? The single lantern carried by the jailer threw only a faint and imperfect light on the faces and on everything about me; still I suddenly became certain that one of the two men who stood before me was the man who had sprung into the room of our house in pursuit of Duncan Hale. He looked at me very critically. Then on a signal from him the jailer lifted the lantern and held it close, so that a better light fell upon my face. The next moment all the men suddenly withdrew. I heard the heavy timbers being thrown against the closed door; a few words that sounded like oaths fell on my ears, and then there was the tramp, tramp, of the men's feet as they receded from the place. This sound gradually shaded into silence, and I was left alone, the first prisoner of the great war.
For a time,—for a great, long time,—I stood immovable, where the men had left me, in the centre of my dungeon, for a dungeon it really seemed. What was to become of me? Had they put me here to starve? I was hungry up to the point of faintness, for since early morning I had been riding or walking almost continuously, and had eaten food but once. The feeling of exhaustion growing upon me, I moved toward the place where I remembered having seen the door resting on the four stones. I found this and sat down.
All was dark about me. There was no sound but the occasional drip, drip of the water from the rock above. The damp, cold air of the place chilled me to the bone. It was certainly a strange place into which I had been forced. Had it been a prison, I would have been content. But the name 'prison' was much too dignified for my place of confinement. I had visited a prison once with my father; I was familiar with the quarters in which animals were housed; but I had never seen anything like this. From my surroundings my mind finally wandered to other things. I thought of Duncan Hale. Had he really escaped? If so, my case might not yet be utterly hopeless, for I knew that Duncan, having free access to Lord Percy, would at once make known my capture. But had Duncan reached the British lines? Might he not have been recaptured?
Then there were my mother and my helpless sisters. Would they know of my being carried off? It was difficult to think they would, unless Duncan had galloped directly home to tell them; and this I was quite sure he would not risk doing. My mother was probably anxiously waiting for my coming every moment. As matters looked at present, she must wait long.
From this my mind passed to thinking upon consequences that might follow from my having been recognised by the man who had brought me to this place. If he knew me; if it were revealed that Duncan and my father had both been doing much, for many months past, towards securing information regarding the smuggling expeditions of many of the so-called 'patriot' merchants; if it were learned that my brother was in the King's service;—indeed, I felt that if any or all of these facts became known, the chances of my being set at liberty would be small.
During my experience on the road I had heard, in connection with the case of Duncan Hale, much said of 'the committee.' I wondered what this was. Were there not courts of justice in the land? By what authority had any committee the right to pronounce sentence of death on any man? Was the country not still the King's, and was it not still under the King's laws? But in spite of the hotness of my indignation, the dripping of the water by my side, and the frightful dampness and cold of the place, with no covering over me, and with no pillow but my arm, I finally slept upon the hard door.
When I awoke, I was surprised to find that, owing to a rain having set in, the entire floor of the place was flooded almost to the edge of my board bed, and that almost every part of the roof of my strange prison dripped cold, muddy water. Light enough crept in about the door to reveal to me the fact that I was in neither a dungeon nor cave, but in an old mine. In spite of the cold and dampness of the place, I felt refreshed by my sleep. I sat up, and almost at the same time I heard a sound as of the removal of the heavy timbers about the door. This was soon opened, and through it was pushed a large, dirty-looking wooden bowl, and the door closed the next moment. I heard the timbers being replaced, and then, as on the preceding night, the sound of the footsteps died away in the distance.
Hunger mastered my feelings of resentment, and I drew the bowl toward me. Floating in a kind of slate-coloured liquid, which may have been intended for soup, I found two large balls or dumplings of offensive beef rolled in dark and mouldy flour; but with the appetite of a bear, I ate and drank almost the entire contents of the bowl.
The day passed; then another and another. I had read many stories of captures and imprisonments, but in none of them could I find a parallel for my own unhappy situation. With unvarying regularity at morning and evening the same foul-smelling, unwashed bowl, filled with food that varied only in degrees of offensiveness, was handed in to me. The life and the food and the home of many beasts would have been a relief and a joy to me. And what was my crime? I was a mere boy. I had never spoken word nor lifted hand on either side. True, I had saved the life of a man from the hands of a mob; and was I to drag out my life in a dark, dripping, unhealthy cave for that?
It was well on in the third week of my bitter experience, just as I had found it almost impossible to hope for deliverance, that, one afternoon, I heard the sound of loud voices approaching. As the door was being opened, I heard the voice of a man protesting loudly. He was saying—
'I tell you again, I am on no side. I am an honest farmer, and wish to go back to my farm from which you dragged me. I am neither Whig nor Tory; I will not fight on the side of either King or people. I must work my farm, and support my wife and children.'
As he spoke the last words, he was rudely pushed into the mine, where his feet splashed some of the muddy water upon my face. A moment later, and without a word from those outside, the door was closed, and the timbers were replaced against it.
I did not speak. For a time the man evidently considered himself alone. It was several minutes before—his eyes having become adjusted to the partial darkness—he discovered me. His jaw dropped, his hands went up, and I noticed some of the warm colour slip out of his face. He drew sharply back, and gazed at me in undisguised amazement for some moments. A little later the look of wonder shaded into one of sympathy.
'How long have you been here?' he said.
'Almost three weeks,' I told him.
'They've been usin' ye bad, haven't they?'
He came nearer and looked at me more closely than before. I tapped on the door with my foot.
'This is my bed,' I said. 'The food is plain, to say the least.'
Looking at my face, he said, 'It must be.'
All the time he had been standing at the lower side of the mine, where the water was well up about his ankles. When I told him the rock was almost dry where I was, he came and stood beside me. There was a sincere, honest look in the fellow's homely face, and when he asked me how I came to be there, I told him my story without keeping anything back.
'What has been takin' place outside?' I asked, when I had finished.
'What has been takin' place outside,' he repeated in a voice that rose almost to a shriek. 'What hasn't been takin' place? Have ye not heard?'
I assured him that I had heard nothing since the day of the funerals at Lexington.
'The day I sowed my oats,' he exclaimed; 'the very day, I mind it well. It was just after that they began scourin' the country. I lived three miles from here well back on my own small farm. Myself an' several of my neighbours had never taken any part in the disputes that were makin' so much trouble in Boston. It didn't concern us. We were poor, with families to keep, an' had no time to bother findin' out whether the King was right or wrong. We were gettin' a livin', an' were happy. The day o' the shootin', as well as the day o' the buryin', I went on with my farmin'.
'The time they come for me I was in my fiel' as usual. "We've come from the committee," they said. "What committee?" says I. "Oh," one o' them broke in,—he was a Boston chap, not one o' our peaceable farmers,—"Oh," says he, "is that all ye know about the affairs o' yer country? We're authorised by the Committee of Safety to visit every man in this county, and tell him he must either fight or flee."
'"Feth, a' I'll do neether," I said, an' whipped up my horses.
'They went off, an' I seen no more o' them till this mornin', when they come again—an'—well, here I am.'
I had listened with a sort of greedy interest to every syllable. 'Were there many in your settlement who refused to take up arms?' I asked.
'Bout half o' us at first; but when they begun the burnin', the shearin' an' paintin' o' the cattle an' horses; the smashin' o' windows, an' the threatenin' with tar and feathers, of course a number got frightened, an' said they'd fight.
'Then in our settlement the way they used old man Williams scared a lot. These men who said they'd been sent by the Committee o' Safety, seized the old man one night, fastened all the doors an' closed the chimney-top, and then smoked the ol' fellow so badly that it isn't known yet whether he'll live or die. My own daughter was pelted with rotten eggs—and by men, mind you, by men.'
His voice rose here almost to a scream, and I saw that great anger burned in his face.
'That's what's been goin' on all over this whole country for the last three weeks; an' that's not hearsay; I've seen it. It's cruel, it's wicked, it's persecution, an' how can it be any less wrong because it's done by the "Sons o' Liberty," as they call themselves? Fine liberty that tears a man away from his wife an' children, an' farm, an' lands him in a place like this.'
There was a note of bitter scorn in the closing words.
'These cruelties will make friends for the King, won't they?' I said.
'They will,' he said with emphasis; 'they've done that already.'
In answer to further questions I learned that my fellow prisoner's name was David Elton; that he had been a farmer all his life, and that his great hope was to return soon to his farm and family, which he claimed never needed him more than in this spring season of the year, when crops had to be put in. Of Boston and what was happening there he knew nothing, except that the siege was still going on.
We spent the night, both of us sleeping as best we could, on the door. The next morning we were blindfolded and led away. After a half-hour's walk we found ourselves in the presence of one of the numerous Committees of Safety.
These had, I learned afterwards, been organised all over the country as soon as the mobs of the wilder sort, described by David Elton, had driven away the lawful magistrates and judges who had held their offices under the King. These committees were made up of the most bitter partisans, and yet they were supposed to take the place of the King's courts of justice. The committees were approved by the Provincial Congress, and given absolute power over all matters civil as well as military. Thus, during the first weeks of the war, did the control of the entire country pass into the hands of the King's enemies, who were not slow to avail themselves of the fruits of even mob violence. The advantage gained through these committees was immense, as by their proclamation all neutrals and opponents of the revolution were designated rebels and enemies of authority and their country.
It was before one of these committees that my fellow prisoner and I were called. It was plain from the beginning that everything was against us. The man who occupied the chair was not a farmer, I noticed. I concluded at once that he, and at least half of the committee of twelve, were residents of Boston. This fact I was quite sure would not increase our chances of acquittal. I had often heard my father express his confidence in the farmer people of the country, but his opinion of many Boston merchants, whose sense of honour had been dulled by years of trading in smuggled goods, was far from high.
As I looked about the room I soon recognised that there were many other prisoners in addition to ourselves. I listened eagerly as one after another was put upon the stand and questioned. It soon appeared to me that most of the men were neutrals who, like David Elton, had been taken forcibly from their farms because they had refused to take up arms. A few boldly declared for the King; some promised to fight; many wavered. These latter, as a rule, were given a time limit, in which to decide finally, and were let go. The Loyalists were sent back to jail. David Elton, when called, stoutly refused to declare himself. He protested that he was a farmer, a man of peace, who had a large family to support, and he was determined to go back to his farm. He was handed over to a guard, then hurried away. Almost before the sound of his loud, shrill voice, raised high in protest, was out of my ears, I heard my own name sharply called by the court.
When I went forward I noticed a look of deepened interest on the faces of both committee and spectators. My case was not like those of the other prisoners, who were practically all farmers of the community. As I faced the crowd of onlookers I noticed that two men suddenly and quietly left the room. The chairman of the committee followed them sharply with his eye, a few others turned to look, but the great majority steadily and critically scrutinised myself. The murmur in the building fell to silence.
'Your name?' was the first question asked of me.
I gave it, also my age and place of residence.
'Will you now relate fully and concisely all that has taken place in your life since the morning of April twentieth?' This question was put by the man who was acting as judge.
I had spoken but a few words when a member of the committee rose, and addressing the chairman, asked to be excused. While I had not been positive of the face, since the light had been uncertain when I saw the man before, the first words he spoke dispelled all doubt. I knew the man. He was the person whom I had heard addressed as 'Colonel,' on the night Duncan escaped and I was made prisoner.
A chorus of protests broke from both committeemen and spectators. Instantly I understood. This was the man whom I had heard declare he would tell that Duncan Hale had been hanged. As a reward for his supposed services he had been chosen a member of the Committee of Safety!
During the parley that followed I was able to turn over the situation in my mind. The men who had gone out had evidently been members of the party which Duncan had eluded, and they had feared my story. What would I do? The 'Colonel' feared it also. Would telling the whole truth help or harm me? I did not care to go back to the mine, and I felt that I should proceed with the utmost caution. The mere promise to fight, I had learned from the cases of others that day, meant freedom. Would not this simplify matters? Should I not here under the circumstances be justified in making a promise that I did not intend to keep. I was sure the truth, if told, would make trouble for the 'Colonel'; but would it not make corresponding trouble for myself by showing my sympathy with Duncan Hale, who was hated as were few men of the King's party? Finally, I resolved to hazard the whole truth.
The uproar in the court ended in the 'Colonel' not being allowed to go, and I was ordered to proceed.
Knowing I had but one thing of importance to say, I spent little time in leading up to it. I said I had taken no part in the dispute: that I rode out to Lexington simply to learn the truth. I spoke of meeting the body of troops, and of seeing the old man at the graves; I referred briefly to the burial, even to the sermon—all this to stamp my story as unmistakably true—then I plunged into the scene on the road to Boston and told of Duncan's escape. 'And that man there,'—I said, turning and facing the 'Colonel,' who sat pale and shivering,—'that man there declared in the presence of all the others in the party, that he would go to the village and tell the committee that Duncan Hale had been hanged.'
"THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,' WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING."THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,' WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING.
"THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,' WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING."THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,' WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING.
I felt sure that this was the point where my story should close. I had nothing stronger than this. Moved by a certain latent instinct for the dramatic I broke off and sat down.
There was a short, ominous silence—then a great uproar. 'Traitor!' yelled several at once, as they sprang upon the benches, waving their arms wildly.
'Shoot him,' shouted others; 'he let him go purposely.'
But I heard little more, for the individual voices became indistinct in the general chorus of angry shouts that burst from every part of the room. Friends and defenders crowded near the 'Colonel,' and soon the house was divided against itself. Had it not been that two armed guards stood at the door, I think I would have broken for liberty.
Finally, standing upon the table behind which he had sat with so much of badly simulated dignity, the chairman, very red and very hoarse, succeeded in restoring order.
'We have agreed,' he said, 'that this whole matter shall be fully investigated, and justice shall be done. It is certainly unwelcome news to hear that the notorious Hale is still at large. If he has escaped, as this lad declares, if among ourselves there are some who are unworthy of our confidence, it is well that these things be known. Everything will be fully investigated, and'—he roared the words so loudly that they were almost unintelligible—'and justice shall be done to both friend and foe.'
The whole assembly cheered mightily. Then the man on the table spoke again.
'Now in the name,' he said, 'and by authority of the Committee of Safety for the township of Lexington, I adjourn this meeting for one week, and order that this boy Davis and Colonel John Griffin be kept close prisoners till that time.'
I was not taken back to the mine, but was put in a comparatively comfortable prison. That night—a little after midnight—I was aroused by a low tapping on my door. As I drew near this it opened. I stepped out. The brilliant May night was all about me: and it was very still.
Without a word a figure that crouched in the shadow of the door motioned me toward the great black wood that stretched from the edge of the prison yard away up the mountain. I flew off like a bird.
I was free at last, but whether they were friends of the 'Colonel,' or friends of my own, who accomplished my release, I was never able to discover.
The road between Lexington and Cambridge lay well in the valley. But I kept to the hill country. I knew that all the roads must be avoided. I felt sure that I could keep the course, which I knew was easterly, and tramp home by way of the low, timber-crowned ridge of mountains. I set down the danger of getting lost as light compared with that of arrest which might await me on the road in the valley, for I was by no means anxious to return to my former quarters in either mine or prison.
Then I recalled having seen many clearings, and several small farmhouses, dotted along the ridge, all well up toward the top of the wooded slope. I resolved to work my way from one to another of these until I reached home.
It was probably about nine in the morning when I came, somewhat suddenly, upon the first clearing. It afforded a view of the whole valley for miles. Here and there I caught glimpses of the road as it wound round toward Boston.
I stood for some moments looking upon the scene before me. It was all magnificent. The sun was high, warm, and bright, away across the valley. The strong, vigorous life of the New England spring was everywhere; and my three weeks' enforced stay in the cold, damp mine threw all the beauty of the bursting leaves, the greening, distant valley, and the singing birds, into high and clear relief. A new life seemed to pulse in my veins. I was once more free.
As I advanced across the clearing I was struck with the evident remoteness of the place. The valley seemed to be miles away; the woods walled in the place on every side; and yet the soil had been freshly cultivated. Could it be that this was one of the numerous highland farms which I had seen when riding in the valley?
At that moment a dull sound, as of one beating the earth, fell upon my ears. I turned, and close to the edge of the woods, working with a hoe in the black earth among the charred stumps, I saw the stooped figure of a woman. As I looked she stood the hoe by the side of a stump, stepped a little to one side, picked up a small basket, and swung her hand about as though scattering grain. A moment later she was again working rapidly with the large, heavy hoe.
For some time I stood where I was, without moving or speaking. I was still undecided as to what I should do, when I heard the cry of a child. At this the woman dropped her hoe, and turned directly toward me. On seeing me she threw up her hands, and stood for a moment gazing at me. I saw a great terror come into her face, but before I could speak to quiet her fears, she sprang like a wild thing, uttering a piercing shriek as she did so, toward the green hollow that had served for a cradle, and, snatching up a crying infant, she fled away in the direction of the small log house at the north-west corner of the clearing. To this I followed her. Standing outside the closed door I explained my situation, and in less than half an hour I was eating with great relish a homely but substantial breakfast. I had almost finished this before the woman fully threw off restraint and talked freely.
'It was a great fright you gave me at first,' she said. 'I was sure they were comin' to take me off too. It's only two days since a lot of men, who said they were sent by some committee, came to the fiel' an' took away my husband. He told me to try and do what I could at puttin' in the rest of the crop; but the work in the new lan' is hard for a woman.'
She had one child in her arms, and as she spoke, four others trooped into the little room, and taking up positions beside her looked at me curiously.
'We've five little ones,' she said; 'an we were gettin' on nicely till this awful war come. An' it all seemed to come so sudden. Away up here we heard little about it, till after the shootin' begun. Even now I don't know what all the trouble is about. All the neighbours 'bout here were poor, peaceable folk, an' wanted to go on with their croppin'. Some say the King's wrong, that the laws are hard, an' all that, but we never had any reason to complain. An' even if the laws weren't right, wouldn't it have been better to live on peaceably, than to have things as they are now? Look at me left with these five children! What'll they do if their father isn't let come back to them an' the farm?' A look of anxious fear came into the woman's face, as she spoke.
'What was your husband's name?' I asked.
'David—David Elton. My maiden name was Merton. We're married ten years this summer.'
'David Elton,' I repeated; 'is David Elton your husband?'
'He is. Did you ever hear of him?'
'Yes,' I said: 'I have.' Then I told her many things, to which she gave eager attention.
Half an hour later I had said goodbye to Mrs. Elton and her children, and was entering the woods to continue my journey. Taking a glance backward, I saw the woman with the infant in her arms emerge from the little log house, and cross the clearing to the spot where she had been when I first saw her. She placed the child in the green hollow again, took up the basket and scattered some seed about, and the next moment she was digging the grain into the black, ashy earth with her heavy hoe. As I looked, a lump rose in my throat, and I got a new glimpse of the meaning of war.
Late that night I reached home in safety. My mother and sisters were overjoyed at my coming. They spoke much of my changed appearance, and when I saw myself in the mirror I did not wonder. My experience of almost four weeks had told remarkably upon me; still I felt I had obtained valuable information, which might be of service to the King's cause. I had learned and could tell of what was going on in the country; I now knew something of the character and methods of the men who were carrying on the war, and all this I felt much more than made up for the loss of a few pounds of flesh.
But my mind was soon diverted from myself by other thoughts that crowded upon me. 'Have you seen Duncan Hale?' I asked my mother; and, as the words left my lips, I felt a great fear about my heart pulling the blood from my cheeks. The last time I had seen him there was a noosed rope about his neck, with a long, dangling end. The memory of the sight was fearful. But my mother was speaking.
'Duncan,' she said, 'the good friend and noble fellow that he is, has come to us as regularly as possible from Boston. The city is besieged, and he comes at great, personal risk.'
The words afforded me unspeakable relief; I felt my lost colour return.
'What has been happening in Boston lately?' I inquired.
'Some new troops have arrived from England, and the fortifications are being strengthened.'
After some further questions and answers, I detailed my experiences as fully as I thought necessary. My mother was much disappointed at my inability to secure definite information regarding my father's death and resting-place, but both she and my sisters bravely accepted the hard conditions imposed upon us by our great and sudden loss.
From one matter we passed to another, and then another, until, in a little silence that fell, my mother, turning to Caroline, said, 'Bring the paper that officer left yesterday. Roger should see it.'
While our talk had scarce touched the future at all, the document, which was soon in my hands, convinced me that the real crisis for us was still ahead. The paper was addressed to my mother. It opened with a review of supposed grievances, referred to the causes that had led up to the war, and ended with the statement that the house and entire estate would be seized by American soldiers, and appropriated to the use of the army, unless a full and satisfactory declaration of sympathy with the rebel cause were made inside of twelve days.
With the knowledge I possessed of what was taking place in the country, I was not surprised at the contents of the paper. I had seen that events were shaping directly toward this end. But the paper brought the crisis near, and made it real. I laid the document on the table, and for some time, without speaking, looked into my mother's face.
'It has come to this,' I said finally.
'Yes; what are we to do?' she answered. 'Must we give up all and fly, or else declare ourselves opposed to the King? Does it really mean that?'
'That is what it means, mother,' I said. 'That is made very clear. Our property is a valuable one, and, being situated as it is, would afford many advantages to the King's enemies.'
'But they will pay us if they take our place—won't they?' It was my youngest sister Elizabeth who thus innocently spoke.
'No, dear,' my mother answered, with fine composure; 'they will not pay us. They will come with soldiers and drive us away. For the rest of our lives we shall be poor, and shall be forced to work for our living—that is, if we declare for the King.' As she spoke her last words, my mother turned from Elizabeth to me. There was a searching, appealing look in her face. I saw that she had seized the situation correctly; I felt she knew that a decision upon which our entire future depended could not be long delayed.
For many people in the Colonies the question of choice of sides in the great conflict was solved by the nature of things. Most of those engaged in shipping, or in any branch of trade upon which duties had been imposed, the naturally discontented and revolution-loving people, as well as many others, ranged themselves immediately—without consideration of consequences, and evidently without any doubts as to the proper course to be pursued—under the banner of the King's enemies.
On the other hand, there were the officials of the government, the seat of which was in England; there were the many cultured and learned persons whose relatives and whose interests were all in Britain; and there were the more humble, but not less loyal people—many of them among the farmer and working classes—who loved British institutions with a love as strong as the love of life itself. Some of these had fought under English commanders against the French, and their hearts warmed at the name of King—their enthusiasm rose at the sight of England's flag. For these also to decide was easy.
But between the people of these two classes, whose decisions were rendered almost inevitable, there were many who could not so easily and so hastily settle the question of sides in the contest. Many of the more thoughtful did not know on which side the right lay. Many who wished to choose rightly were at a great loss to know what course to pursue.
Probably, of the thousands of families all over the country, who pondered the situation raised by the papers such as my mother had received, none found the problem more difficult and complex than did we. Our feelings; our training and interests; our sense of what was right; our love of England for England's sake, and of the King for the King's sake; all said, and said to each of us, 'Rise and flee, let all go.' But how were we to live? Our property was our support. If our feelings said go, self-interest argued stoutly for remaining. My mother and sisters were defenceless and helpless; I was but a schoolboy. And it was soldiers the King wanted—not refugees.
But the hour had grown very late. We felt that the question was too large for us. I rose and was leaving the library for my room. It was then that my sister Caroline slipped to my side with a book in her hand.
'Prayers,' she said softly, pushing me back toward my seat. 'I have found you the prayer for the day,' she added, 'you must read it as father used to do.'
A rush of emotion, mingled with a feeling of shame at my thoughtless ingratitude toward the Father of all mercies, almost mastered me as I took the book of prayers from my sister's hand. Had God not been good in delivering me? Had not my father prayed? Was not prayer more necessary now than it had ever been in my life?
We all knelt, and I stammered through the beautiful words. They brought to me a feeling of strange relief. Before I slept, in words of my own, I thanked God that He had given me a sister, who, in my weakness, had sent me to Him for strength.
The next day was Sunday. As I walked about the hedged garden in the early morning, as I looked away toward Boston and marked the general quiet of the country about, I was surprised that I did not see more evidence of war and disorder. Except some white tents in the distance, and the occasional passing of a supply wagon from the country, there was really nothing to break the Sabbath quiet, or to remind one that the city of Boston was closely invested by thousands of farmer soldiers, and that a great revolution was in progress. When the church bells chimed out sweetly on the beautiful spring air, it seemed harder still to think that the time of peace had really passed.
I left the garden and re-entered the house. At the foot of the stairs I met my sister Caroline.
'You will come with us to church, Roger,' she said. 'Doctor Canfield will be delighted to see you back.'
My mind ran back a little. Would I not be in danger of arrest? The whole country, I knew, was swarming with spies. I thought of the part I had played in saving Duncan Hale, also of my imprisonment and escape. I had not thought of openly showing myself, at least for a little while.
But Caroline was of quite a different mind. 'You will be in no more danger in church than at home,' she argued. 'I have seen many at church lately who I am sure are in favour of the King. Since you left, things have gone on quite as usual; nobody has been molested, and Doctor Canfield has said nothing of the war. Then Roger'—she came nearer to me, and put her hand upon my arm—'should we not go to church to-day, at least, and pray that God might guide us to do what may be best?'
I felt once more rebuked by my sister.
In less than half an hour I was seated, with my mother and two sisters, in the handsome church that had been for years the pride of the town of Cambridge. Not even Boston could boast a finer church building, or a more cultured congregation. Boston was a centre of trade; its narrow and crooked streets; its wharves and many ships; its mixed population; its noise and taverns; its large and busy crowds, had for years stood out in sharp contrast with the quiet and delightful country culture of Cambridge. The educated and the wealthy, particularly those in whom the English instincts were strongest, had, like my father, chosen to live in the country rather than in the city. Thus it was that, when Doctor Canfield entered his pulpit that Sabbath morning, he faced representatives of all that was best and most intellectual in the life of the colony.
On glancing about I noticed that the church was very full. Doctor Canfield's church was not the only one in Cambridge, but as a rule to it came not only all the Episcopalians, but most of the Scottish Presbyterians, who had not, at that time, a church of their own in the town. They had been, mainly, silent people, who had lived quietly, without doing or saying anything that betrayed sympathy with either side. Were these friends of the King? Did the circulating of the papers calling for a declaration of sympathy explain their presence in such large numbers this morning at Doctor Canfield's church?
My mother had told me previously that many of them had been attending our church for some weeks. Had the great sifting and selecting process begun? Had persecution here, as in the country, been making friends for the King? At any rate, as I looked about, I was led to hope that religious differences were likely to be obliterated, or sunk, in loyal zeal for the King's cause.
I was interrupted at this point in my thinking by Doctor Canfield announcing his text. It was, 'Love the brotherhood; fear God; honour the king.'
He repeated the words twice with much deliberation.
A great, strained silence fell upon the vast congregation. I was startled; for a time my breath came short and uncertainly. Had the reserved, hitherto-silent man, made up his mind to declare himself? One great question—the question raised and forced home to each of his hearers by the papers such as my mother had received—filled every mind. But great and pressing as this question was, could it be discussed? I felt sure I knew what Doctor Canfield would say; he was an honest man, and would honestly speak his mind. But was he sure of the temper and sympathies of his hearers that day? Had he counted the cost?
I glanced at my mother, and saw that she was plainly agitated. Even Elizabeth, my sister of but twelve, seemed to realise that a crisis was at hand. Caroline's face was serenely calm. On every countenance that I could see there sat an expression of profound, even painful interest. The silence deepened, and the interest grew, as the minister proceeded. He first briefly discussed the part of his text bearing on love of the brotherhood; then touched briefly, but with earnestness, on the necessity for fearing God, and passed to the third and last part of his subject.
As he approached this, I noticed that a note of emotion had crept into his voice, and some of the colour had slipped down from his face; but he was still very calm, and spoke unbrokenly as he finished his second heading, and then twice repeated the words,
'Honour the King!'
At this point he suddenly stopped. The silence that fell was painfully intense. People leaned forward; here and there heads went down on the pews in front. I felt my heart beat quick and unevenly. But the apparent calmness of Doctor Canfield reassured me.
He did not proceed with his sermon; but, picking up a paper that lay beside the Bible, he slowly opened it, then brought it before the gaze of the people. I recognised the paper at once as being similar to the one received by my mother.
'It is not necessary,' he began, 'that I should read to you, my brethren, the contents of this paper. With what is here written, you are no doubt familiar. This paper has brought before us all a matter of the supremest importance. I have given it the most earnest and careful consideration. In regard to you, my brethren, as to the course you should pursue in this great and lamentable crisis that is now facing our beautiful but unhappy country—concerning you, I have neither suggestions to offer, nor advice to give; but for myself, I feel now constrained, in the presence of God and of this congregation, to say that in the past my sympathies have been, at the present they are, and in the future they shall be, always and only with my true and rightful sovereign, the King of England.'
He said no more. The people before him sat stunned and dumb. Many had known his mind before; many were aware that when he spoke he would speak as he had spoken; and yet, to even these, the declaration came with a shock. Hitherto, he had proclaimed only the gospel; he had stood apart from politics; he had considered himself the pastor of all, not of part, of his people. But there is a time when to be silent is to be false—when to be true one must speak. Doctor Canfield had evidently felt that such a time had come in the New England Colonies of King George, and he had spoken in words that could not be misunderstood.
Slowly the people recovered from the shock. Those who had leaned forward leaned back. All through the church there was a swaying movement as when a harvest field is wind swept. I noticed evidences of relief and joy steal into the faces of many; but on the countenances of others there were unmistakable signs of disappointment and anger. I saw at a glance that a majority—but not all—were for the King.
Doctor Canfield stood as still as a statue. His face had gone very white. Soon through the sound of swaying people, there came to my ears the noise of footsteps. Then a moment later, all over the church, men and women rose and pressed toward the door. A few of the leaders of the church went, old and true Episcopalians, some also of the non-Episcopalians. The faces of many who remained showed signs of struggle and indecision. A few rose and sat down again. Some looked questions at those beside them. In the seat directly in front of us a husband was leaving the seat when his wife drew him back. Not a few in the church wept audibly.
And thus it was throughout all New England, during that Sunday and the days following, that men, many of them in the house of God, silently, suddenly, prayerfully committed themselves to the cause of King or people. They saw themselves under two masters, and painful though the decision was, they felt that they must, for the future, hold to the one, even though it was difficult for them to find it in their hearts to despise the other.
When all had gone who had resolved to go, when quiet had fallen again in the church, the minister, without a word of further comment, announced the National Anthem. The pent-up feelings of the people—and there was yet a large congregation, for fully three-fourths of the worshippers had remained—found freedom and relief in the old familiar words.
Shortly after we reached home that day, through the green of the trees, waving high in front of the rectory, I caught a glimpse of the Union Jack.