Daughters of the Revolution and Their Times

by Charles Carleton Coffin

  XXIII.

  SUNDERING OF HEARTSTRINGS.

  It was as if one had risen from the dead, when Robert Walden once moreentered the old home. Father, mother, Rachel, all, had thought of himas lying in a grave unknown,--having given his life for liberty. Itwas a joyful home. All the town came to shake hands with him. Hisfather and mother were older, the gray hairs upon their brows moreplentiful, and sorrow had left its mark on Rachel's face; but hercountenance was beautiful in its cheerful serenity.

  A few days at home, and Robert was once more with the army,commissioned as major upon the staff of General Washington. ColonelKnox the while was transporting the cannon captured by Ethan Allen atTiconderoga across the Berkshire Hills to Cambridge--fifty gunsmounted on sleds, drawn by one hundred oxen.

  The commander of the army had not forgotten what Major Walden had saidabout the military value of Dorchester Heights. The cannon were placedin position, but not till winter was nearly over were the preparationscompleted for the bombardment of Boston.

  When the sun set on the afternoon of March 2d little did Lord Howeand the ten thousand British soldiers imagine what was about tohappen. Suddenly from the highlands of Roxbury, from Cobble Hill, fromfloating batteries in Charles River, cannon-balls were hurled upon thetown. Bombs exploded in the streets; one in a guardhouse, wounding sixsoldiers. The redcoats sprang to their guns, to give shot for shot.Little sleep could the people get, through the long wearisome Saturdaynight. During Sunday the lips of the cannon were silent, but with thecoming of night again they thundered. General Howe was wondering whatMr. Washington was intending to do, not mistrusting there was a longline of ox-carts loaded with picks and spades, bales of hay, and casksfilled with stones; the teamsters waiting till Major Walden shouldgive a signal for them to move.

  While the cannon were flashing, General Thomas, with two thousand men,marched across the marshes along Dorchester Bay and up the hilloverlooking the harbor. Major Walden gave the signal, and the farmersstarted their teams,--those with picks, and spades, and casksfollowing the soldiers; those with hay halting on the marsh land,unloading, and piling the bales in a line so as to screen the passage.Major Walden, General Rufus Putnam, and Colonel Gridley hastened tothe summit of the hill in advance of the troops. Colonel Gridleymarked the lines for a fortification; the soldiers stacked their arms,seized picks and spades, and broke the frozen earth. The moon was atits full. From the hill, the soldiers could look down upon the harborand see the warships and great fleet of transports, with masts andyard-arms outlined in the refulgent light. Robert expected to see acannon flash upon the Scarborough, the nearest battleship; but thesentinel pacing the deck heard no sound of delving pick or shovel.Walden piloted the carts to the top of the hill, and placed the casksin such position that they could be set rolling down the steep at amoment's notice. The soldiers chuckled at the thought of the commotionthey would make in the ranks of the redcoats, were they to make anassault and suddenly see the casks rolling and tumbling, sweeping allbefore them!

  General Howe was astonished, when daylight dawned, to see anembankment of yellow earth crowning the hill overlooking the harbor.

  "The rebels have done more in a night than my army would have done ina month," he said, after looking at the works with his telescope. Whatshould he do? Mr. Washington's cannon would soon be sending shot andshell upon the warships, the transports, and the town. The provincialsmust be driven from the spot at once; otherwise, there could be nosafety for the fleet, neither for his army. He called his officerstogether in council.

  "We must drive the rebels just as we did at Bunker Hill, or they willdrive us out of the town. There is nothing else to be done," saidGeneral Clinton.

  General Howe agreed with him. A battle must be fought, and the soonerthe better. Every moment saw the fortifications growing stronger. Butwhat would be the outcome of a battle? Could he embark his army inboats, land at the foot of the hill, climb the steep ascent, anddrive the rebels with the bayonet? At Bunker Hill there was only arabble,--regiments without a commander; but now Mr. Washington was incommand; his troops were in a measure disciplined. That he wasenergetic, far-seeing, and calculating, he could not doubt. Had he nottransported heavy cannon across the country from Lake Champlain tobombard the town? Evidently Mr. Washington was a man who could bidehis time. Such men were not likely to leave anything at haphazard. Onethird of those assaulting Bunker Hill had been cut down by the fire ofthe rebels. Could he hope for any less a sacrifice of his army inattacking a more formidable position, with the rebels more securelyintrenched? It was not pleasant to contemplate the possible result,but an assault must be made.

  From the housetop, Berinthia saw boats from the vessels in the harbor,gathering at Long Wharf. Drums were beating, troops marching. AbrahamDuncan came with the information that four or five thousand men wereto assault the works and drive the provincials pell-mell across themarshes to Roxbury. At any rate, that was the plan. He was sure itwould be a bloody battle. Possibly, while General Howe was engaged atDorchester Heights, Mr. Washington might be doing something else.

  Neither General Howe nor any one within the British lines knew justwhat the provincial commander had planned,--that the moment theredcoats began the attack, General Israel Putnam, on Cobble Hill,between Charlestown and Cambridge, with four thousand men, would leapinto boats, cross the Charles, and land on the Common; that GeneralNathanael Greene with a large force would advance from Roxbury, andtogether they would grind the British to powder, like corn in a mill.

  It was mid-forenoon when Major Walden escorted General Washingtonacross the marsh land and along the path to Dorchester Heights. Thetroops swung their hats and gave a cheer when they saw their commanderascending the hill. He lifted his hat, and thanked them for havingconstructed such strong intrenchments in so short a time.

  "It is the fifth of March," he said, "and I am sure you will rememberit is the anniversary of the massacre of the Sons of Liberty."

  In Boston drums were beating, regiments marching; but suddenly thewind, which had blown from the west, changed to the east; and the seawaves were rolling up the bay, making it impossible for the Somerset,Scarborough, Boyne, and the other ships, to spread their sails andtake position to bombard the works of the rebels; neither couldGeneral Howe embark the troops upon the dancing boats. The clouds werehanging low, and rain falling. Not till the wind changed and the seacalmed could there be a battle; General Howe must wait.

  Night came; the rain was still pouring. The provincials wrapped theirovercoats closely around them, kindled fires, ate their bread andbeef, told stories, sang songs, and kept ward and watch through thedreary hours.

  Morning dawned; the wind was still east, and the waves rolling infrom the sea. With gloom upon his brow, General Howe with histelescope examined the fortifications. Could he hope to capture them?Doubtful. Exasperating, humiliating, the reflection that Mr.Washington was in a position to compel him to evacuate the town. Onlya few days before, he had written Lord Dartmouth he was in no dangerfrom the rebels; he only wished Mr. Washington would have the audacityto make a movement against him; but now he must pack up and be off,give up what he had held so long, and confess defeat. What would theking say? What the people of England? He did not like to think of whathad come. But he must save the army. What of the citizens who hadmaintained their loyalty to the king? Should he leave them to thetender mercies of the exasperated provincials whose homes had beenburned? He could not do that. If Theodore Newville, Nathaniel Coffin,or any of the thousand or more wealthy citizens were willing to remainloyal, if they were ready to become aliens and fugitives and exiles,he must do what he could for them.

  * * * * *

  "What is it, husband?" Mrs. Newville asked as Mr. Newville entered hishouse, and she beheld his countenance, white, haggard, and woe-begone.

  "What has happened, father?" Ruth asked, leading him, trembling andtottering, to his chair.

  "It has come," he gasped, resting his elbows on his knees and cove
ringhis face with his hands.

  "What has come?" Mrs. Newville inquired.

  "The end of the king's authority in this town."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The army is going, and we have got to go."

  "Go where?"

  "I don't know; only we have got to leave this home, never to see itagain, and be aliens the rest of our lives," he said, groaning andsobbing.

  "Why must the army go?" Mrs. Newville exclaimed.

  "Because General Howe cannot stay. The provincials are in a positionto sink his ships and set the town on fire with their bombs."

  "Can't General Howe drive Mr. Washington from the hill just as he didat Charlestown?"

  "He was going to do it yesterday, but the sea wouldn't let him, andnow it is too late."

  "He must do it, and I will go and tell him so. Leave our home andbecome wanderers and vagabonds? Never!" she cried with flashing eyes.

  "It is decided. Orders have been issued. The fear is that theprovincials may open fire upon the fleet and sink the ships before thearmy can get away."

  "Why didn't General Howe take possession of the hill, and prevent theprovincials from doing it?"

  "The Lord knows, and perhaps General Howe does, but I don't. I haveseen for some time what might happen, and now we have it. We have gotto go, and God help us."

  Mrs. Newville, overwhelmed, tottered to a chair.

  "So this is what Sam Adams and John Hancock have done. I hate them.But why must we go? Why not stay? We have as good a right to stay asthey. Give up our home? Never! Never!"

  With flashing eyes, and teeth set firmly together, she rose, and tooka step or two as if ready to confront a foe.

  "We cannot stay," said Mr. Newville. "We have given our allegiance tothe king; I have held office under the crown, and the Great andGeneral Court will confiscate my estate, and we shall be beggars. Morethan that, I probably shall be seized and thrown into jail. There's noknowing what they will do. Possibly my lifeless body may yet danglefrom the gallows, where murderers have paid the penalty of theircrimes."

  Mrs. Newville wrung her hands, and gave way to sobs and moans. Ruthhad stood a silent spectator, but sat down now by her mother, put anarm around her, and wiped away the tears coursing down her cheeks.

  "I haven't told you all," said Mr. Newville. "General Howe threatensto burn the town if Mr. Washington opens fire upon the ships."

  "General Howe threatens that?" exclaimed Mrs. Newville.

  "Yes; John Scollay and several of us have asked General Robertson tointercede with Howe. He has done so, but Howe will make no promise. Hehas permitted a flag of truce to go out to Mr. Washington to let himknow if the British are molested he will set the town on fire. If Mr.Washington is the kind-hearted man they say he is, probably he willnot make an attack. He wants to compel Howe to get out and to have thetown spared. We are not the only ones who will suffer, but everybodywho has stood for the king will have to go or take the consequenceswhen the provincials march in. They will be implacable in theirretaliation for the burning of Charlestown and Falmouth, and for thedestruction of the Old North Meetinghouse, the desecration of the OldSouth, and the pulling down of hundreds of houses. They willconfiscate the property of every one who has adhered to the crown, andmake them beggars, or send them out of the Province, or perhaps doboth. We may as well look the matter squarely in the face, for we havegot to face it."

  It was spoken with quivering lips. Several vessels had been designatedon which the friends of the king might embark for Halifax, the onlyport near at hand where they could find refuge. He looked around theroom, gazed mournfully at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls,at the rich mahogany furniture, the mirrors above the mantelreflecting the scene. In the dining-room was the buffet with its richfurnishings. Upon the stairs was the clock, its pendulum swinging asit had swung since the days of his boyhood. Upon the sideboard werethe tea-urns used on many convivial afternoons and evenings. Whicheverway he turned he saw that which had contributed to his ease, comfort,and happiness. Looking out of the window, he saw the buds werebeginning to swell upon the trees under the genial rays of the sun.The bluebirds and robins had arrived and were singing in the garden. Afew more days and the grass would be springing fresh and green, theasparagus throwing up its shoots, the cherry-trees white with blooms,the lilacs and roses perfuming the air; but never again was he to sitbeneath the vine-clad arbor as he had sat in former years, listeningto Nature's symphony rehearsed by singing birds; never again was he tosee the coming of ecstatic life in bud and blossom. He must bidfarewell forever to all the enchanting scenes, pull up by the roots,as it were, all cherished things. What should he take? What leavebehind? There would be little room on shipboard for the richly carvedmahogany chairs, sideboard, sofa, portraits of his ancestors. What usewould he have for them in exile? How dispose of them? Who wouldpurchase them? No one. How would he live in a foreign land? How occupyhis time? His mansion was his own; he was possessor of other housesand lands, but all would be seized. He could take his silver plate,his gold and silver coin; not much else.

  "Oh dear! oh dear! has it come to this!" Mrs. Newville exclaimed,"when we might have been far away, having everything heart couldwish!"

  She cast a reproachful look upon Ruth.

  "Oh, if you had only done as I wanted!"

  A gentle hand wiped the tears from the mother's face.

  "Mother, dear, the past is gone, never to return. If it were to comeagain, bringing Lord Upperton, my answer to him would be as it was. Wewill let that pass. I know your every thought has been for my welfareand happiness. I trust I have not been ungrateful for all you havedone for me and for all you thought to do. I have not seen things asyou have seen them. You have been loyal to King George; you couldhardly do otherwise with father holding an office under the crown. Ihave given my sympathies to the provincials, because I believe theyare standing for what is right. My heart has gone out to one who, Idoubt not, is over on yonder hill in arms against the king. I know thegreatness of his love, that he will be always true to me, as I shallbe to him."

  The hand was still wiping away the tears; she was sitting between herfather and mother, and laid the other hand upon the father's palm.

  "Through these winter nights, dear father and mother, while hearingthe cannon and the bursting shells, I have been looking forward tothis hour which has come at last."

  Tears stood in her eyes, and her voice became tremulous.

  "We have come to the parting hour. You will go, but I shallstay,--stay to save the house, so that, by and by, when the heat ofpassion has cooled, and the fire of hate is only ashes, when the waris over and peace has come, as come it will, you can return to the oldhome."

  "Leave you behind, Ruth!"

  "Yes, mother."

  "To be insulted and abused by the hateful rebels! Never!"

  "I shall not be insulted. I am sure I shall be kindly treated. Do youthink my old friends will do anything to annoy me? Why should they,when they know that I myself am a rebel? Mr. Sam Adams has always beenmy good friend. Have I not sat in his lap in my girlhood? Are not LucyFlucker Knox, Dorothy Quincy, and Abigail Smith Adams my friends? Hasnot Mr. John Hancock danced with me? Have I done anything that shouldcause them to turn against me? Pompey and Phillis will be here to carefor me. And now, dear father, I have one or two requests to make. Thisis your house, but I want you to give it to me,--make out a deed andexecute it in my name; and one thing more, I want you to give me abill of sale of Pompey and Phillis, so that I shall be absolutemistress here. When the Colonies, by their valor and the righteousnessof their cause, have become independent of the king, when the lastcannon has been fired, in God's good time you will come back and findme here in the old home."

  Mr. Newville sat in silence a moment, then put his arm around her anddrew her to him.

  "Oh Ruth, daughter, you are dearer to me this moment than ever before.Your clear vision has seen what I have not been able to see,--tillnow,--the possible end of this conflict. The provinc
ials are strongerthan I supposed them to be, the disaffection wider, and the king isweaker than I thought. It never seemed possible that an army of tenthousand men could be forced to evacuate this town, but so it is, andI must go. I will not be so selfish as to ask you to go. I know yourlove has gone out to Robert Walden. I have no right to ask you tothrust a sword into your own loving heart. I do not doubt he willprotect you with all the strength of a noble manhood. This house shallbe yours, together with Pompey and Phillis, who will be as dutiful toyou as they have been to your mother and me. You speak of our comingback, but when we once leave this house we never shall behold itagain; nor shall we ever look again upon your face unless you comewhere we may be. Where that will be, God only knows; we shall befugitives and wanderers without a home. Your mother and I will notlong need an earthly home. Such a wound as this goes down deep intoour souls, Ruth."

  He could say no more, but hid his face in his hands to hide the agonyof a breaking heart.

  "Father, have you forgotten who it is that feeds the ravens and caresfor the sparrows? Will He not care for you? Of one thing you may besure, so soon as it is possible to do so I shall seek you wherever youmay be: and now we will prepare for your going."

  She kissed the tears from his face, cheered the desponding mother, andbegan to select whatever would most contribute to their comfort.

  * * * * *

  Abraham Duncan, as he walked the streets, beheld men with haggardfaces and women wringing their hands and giving way to lamentations.In their loyalty to the king, they never had dreamed that theprovincials could compel a disciplined army to quit the town. They hadbeen informed that with the opening of spring the rebels would bescattered to the winds. In their loyalty they had organized themselvesinto militia and received arms from General Howe to fight for KingGeorge. As by a lightning flash all had been changed. Those who hadthus organized knew they would be despised by the provincials andhardly dealt with; that houses and lands would be seized and sold tomake restitution for the burning of Charlestown and buildings torndown in Boston. They who had lived in affluence, who had delightfulhomes on the slopes of Beacon Hill, must leave them. All dear oldthings must be sacrificed and family ties ruthlessly sundered. Fathershad sons whose sympathies were with the provincials; mothers, otherthan Mrs. Newville, had daughters whose true loves were marshaledunder flags floating on Dorchester Heights. Had not Colonel Henry Knoxsighted the cannon which sent the ball whirling towards the early homeof his loving wife, the home where her father and mother and sisterswere still living, which they must leave? The sword drawn on LexingtonCommon was severing tender heartstrings.

  There was a hurly-burly in the streets,--drums beating, soldiersmarching, a rumbling of cannon and wagons, the removal of furniture.Eleven hundred men and women were preparing to bid farewell to theirnative land and homes.

  * * * * *

  The final hour came. Pompey had seen the trunks and boxes safelystowed upon the ship in which Mr. and Mrs. Newville, Nathaniel Coffin,the king's receiver-general, and Thomas Flucker were to find passage.With a cane to steady his tottering steps, Mr. Newville took a lastlook of the home where his life had been passed; the house in whichhis eyes first saw the light; where a mother, many years in her grave,had caressed him; where a father had guided his toddling steps; thehome to which he had brought his bride in the bloom of a beautifulmaidenhood; where Ruth had come to them as the blessing of God to makethe house resound with prattle and laughter, and fill it with thesunlight of her presence; make it attractive by her grace andbeauty,--the soul beauty that looked out from loving eyes and became,as it were, a benediction. He was to go, she to stay. God above wouldbe her guardian.

  Mrs. Newville walked as in a daze from parlor to chamber, fromdining-room to hall and kitchen. Was she awake or dreaming? Must sheleave her home,--the home that had been so blissful, so hospitable?Was she never again to welcome a guest to that table, never hear themerry chatter of voices in parlor or garden? Oh, if Sam Adams and JohnHancock had only been content to let things go on as they always hadgone! If Ruth had only accepted Lord Upperton's suit! Why couldn'tshe? What ought she to take, what would she most need? What sort ofaccommodations would they find at Halifax? Why couldn't Ruth go withthem? It was the questioning of a mind stunned by the sudden stroke;of a spirit all but crushed by the terrible calamity.

  "I have put in everything I could think of that will in any way makeyou comfortable, mother dear," said Ruth, mentioning the articles.

  "I've put up some jelly and jam for ye, missus," said Phillis.

  Berinthia Brandon and Abraham Duncan came to bid them farewell, and tohelp Ruth prepare for their departure.

  It was Ruth's strong arm that upheld her mother as they slowly walkedthe street on their way to the ship. It was a mournful spectacle. Notthey alone, but Mr. Shrimpton and Mary, Nathaniel Coffin and wife andJohn, and a hundred of Ruth's acquaintances were on the wharfpreparing to go on board the ships.

  "This is what has come from Sam Adams's meddling," said Mr. Shrimpton."May the Devil take him and John Hancock. They ought to be hanged, andI hope King George will yet have a chance to string 'em up--curse 'em!I'd like to see 'em dangling from the gibbet, and the crows pickingtheir bones," he said, smiting his fists together, walking to and fro.

  He was bidding farewell to home,--to the house in which he was born.He had farms in the county, wide reaches of woodland, fields, andpastures. The provincials would confiscate them. In his decliningyears all his property was to slip through his fingers, and he was tototter in penury to his grave.

  "I shall enlist in the service of the king and fight 'em," said JohnCoffin, who had shown his loyalty by accompanying General Howe to thebattle of Bunker Hill.

  "And I hope you'll have a chance to put a bullet through the carcassof Sam Adams," said Mr. Shrimpton.

  It was his daughter's hand that guided him over the gang-plank to thedeck of the Queen Charlotte.

  "Let me put this muffler round your neck; the air is chill and you areshivering," said Mary, gently leading him.

  With chattering teeth and curses on his lips for those whom heregarded as authors of his misfortunes, Abel Shrimpton, led by hisdaughter, descended the winding stairs to the cabin of the ship.

  "Here are the rugs and shawls, mother, and here is the wolf-skin,father, to wrap around you," said Ruth.

  They were in the stifling cabin, the departing loyalists sitting as ina daze, stupefied, stunned by the sudden calamity, wondering if itwere not a horrid dream.

  To Mary Shrimpton and Ruth Newville it was no phantom, nohallucination, but a reality, an exigency, demanding calm reflection,wise judgment, and prompt, decisive action. They had talked itover,--each in the other's confidence.

  "You must go and I will stay; you will care for them all; I will lookafter things here. This war will not last always. You will all comeback some time," said Ruth, her abiding faith rising supreme above theagony of the parting.

  "I will care for them," had been the calm reply of Mary.

  "Oh, missus! I can't bear to have ye go, you's been good to me always.I'se packed a luncheon for ye," said Phillis, kneeling upon the floor,clasping the knees of her departing mistress, crying and sobbing.

  "Oh, massa and missus, old Pomp can't tell ye how good ye've been tohim. He'll be good to Miss Ruth. He'll pray for de good Lord to blessye, every night, as he always has,"--the benediction of the slavekneeling by Phillis's side.

  Long and tender was the last embrace of the mother and daughter,--ofthe father and his beloved child. With tears blinding her eyes, withtottering steps, Ruth passed across the gang-plank. A sailor drew itin, and unloosed the cable. The vessel swung with the tide from itsmoorings, the jib and mainsail filled with the breeze, and glidedaway. The weeping crowd upon its deck saw Ruth standing upon thewharf, her countenance serene, pure, and peaceful, with tears upon herface, gazing at the receding ship. Those around her beheld her steadyherself against the post which had
held the cable, standing there tillthe Queen Charlotte was but a white speck dotting the landscape in thelower harbor, then walking with faltering steps to her desolate home.

  XXIV.

  IN THE OLD HOME.

  "Here, Miss Ruth, I has a cordial for ye. Drink it, honey," saidPhillis as Ruth sank into a chair.

  "Don't be down-hearted, Miss Ruth; old Pomp will take keer of ye."

  "I do not doubt it. You and Phillis have always been good to me, andnow I have something to say to both of you. Would you like to be free,Pompey?"

  "Would I like to be free, Miss Ruth?" the negro asked, hardly knowingwhat to make of the question.

  "Yes, would you like to be free, to own yourself, to come and go asyou please?"

  "'Deed I would, Miss Ruth. Massa and missus was always very good toold Pomp, but 'pears I would like to be myself."

  She rose and took Pompey and Phillis by their hands.

  "Your old master has given you both to me, and now I give you toyourselves. You are both free now and forever," said Ruth.

  "Free! Miss Ruth! Did you say we is free?"

  "Yes, you are no longer slaves; you can go and come, now and always;you are your own."

  "Oh, Miss Ruth, old Pomp never will leave ye, never. Old Pomp free!'Pears like de New Jerusalem has come," said the negro, sinking uponhis knees, kissing her hand and bathing it with tears.

  "Oh, Miss Ruth, honey, I has held ye in my arms when ye was a littlebaby, toted ye in de garding when de flowers was bloomin', rocked yeto sleep when ye was pinin'; I've seen ye grow to be a woman, and nowye is my missus tellin' me I'm free. I'll cook de chicken and dejohnny-cake for ye till I can't cook no more," said Phillis, claspingRuth in her arms, with tears rolling down her cheeks and laughterbubbling from her lips.

  The foresight that had seen the probable departure of the Britishtroops was forecasting the immediate future; that the interval beforethe arrival of General Washington's army would be one of peril, fromvagabonds, camp-followers, and the ragamuffins enlisted by CreenBrush, commissioned by General Howe to organize a battalion of Tories.Through the day the British regiments were sullenly taking theirdeparture. Pompey informed Ruth that the vagabonds had begun toplunder the stores and break into houses.

  "Dey won't git into dis yeer house, honey. I'se got de water b'ilin'hot in de kitchen for 'em," said Phillis.

  Ruth did not doubt a mansion like hers would attract the villains, anddetermined to defend herself against all intruders. General Howe wasgoing on shipboard; no longer would she recognize his authority orthat of any subordinate officer. Years before, her father had beenmember of a battalion of horsemen. The pistols he carried then were ina closet. Pompey brought them, fixed the flints, oiled the locks, andfound a horn of powder, but no bullets.

  "Perhaps it is just as well, Pompey, for if I were to have a bullet, Imight kill somebody, and I would not like to do that," she said.

  "If ye are goin' to shoot, better shoot to kill, Miss Ruth," saidPompey.

  "I never have fired a pistol, Pompey; how do you do it?"

  "I'll show ye, missus," said the negro, putting some powder in the panand cocking the pistol.

  "Now, Miss Ruth, you jes' pull de trigger and it will flash."

  They were in the kitchen. Ruth pointed the weapon toward the fireplaceand pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a bang.

  "O Lord! Missus!" shouted Phillis, dropping on the floor.

  "'Pears, Miss Ruth, like she's been loaded all dese years," saidPompey, his eyeballs rolling in astonishment.

  "It appears I have found out how to fire," said Ruth, laughing. "Buthow do you load it?" she asked.

  Pompey poured a charge of powder into his hand, emptied it into thebarrel, and rammed it down with a wad of paper.

  "We haven't any bullets, but we can use gravel-stones or dried peas ora tallow candle. I've seen a candle fired right through a board, MissRuth," he said.

  "We'll load them with powder now; perhaps we shan't need anythingelse," Ruth replied.

  In the gathering darkness Phillis saw a redcoat reconnoitring thegrounds. He rapped upon the door leading to the kitchen. She did notunloose the chain, but opened it sufficiently wide to talk with thefellow.

  "What d'ye want?" she asked.

  "I want to come in."

  "What d'ye want to come in for?"

  "To see if ye have anything belonging to the king. People have seizedthe king's property and taken it into their houses."

  "We haven't anything belonging to King George."

  "Open the door or I'll break it down."

  "Go away. Dere can't no lobster come into dis yeer kitchen," saidPhillis, attempting to close the door. But she saw the muzzle of a gunthrust into the opening. Her hands grasped it. One vigorous pull andit was hers, and the villain was fleeing.

  "I'se got it! I'se got de villin's gun. Wid de pistils, de musket, andde b'ilin' water we'll fight 'em!" she shouted.

  Ruth, keeping watch, saw a squad of men. One of them rattled theknocker.

  "What do you wish?" she asked, raising a window.

  "I am commissioned to search for property belonging to the crown."

  "Who are you?"

  "I am a lieutenant in the command of Colonel Brush."

  "I do not recognize your authority, neither that of Colonel Brush norGeneral Howe, who has taken his departure."

  "I shall be under the necessity of entering by force if you do notopen the door."

  "You will do so at your peril."

  "Break down the door, men!"

  The soldiers pounded with the butts of their muskets, but the panelsdid not yield.

  "Smash a window!"

  A bayonet was thrust through a pane, and the glass rattled to theground; the butt of a musket smashed the sash, and a pair of handsgrasped the window-sill. Memory recalled a day when two soldiersassaulted her; from that hour a redcoat had been hateful. She seizedone of the pistols. Remembering what Pompey had said, she picked thelighted candle from its socket and thrust it into the weapon. Theruffian was astride the window-sill. There was a flash, a loud report,and he dropped with a thud to the ground.

  From the balcony came a flood of boiling water upon the astonishedruffians.

  "I'll give it to ye, b'ilin' hot!" shouted Phillis. The ruffians sawthe muzzle of a gun pointed towards them from the window, and thestalwart form of Pompey as he raised it to take aim. The astonishedvillains fled, leaving Ruth, Pompey, and Phillis victors in theencounter.

  * * * * *

  Morning dawned fair and beautiful. The robins and bluebirds weresinging in the garden. Ruth heard again the beating of drums, theblast of bugles. General Washington was entering the town. By his siderode Major Robert Walden.

  What surprise! A white handkerchief was waving from the balcony of theNewville home. She was there, more beautiful and queenly than everbefore! Not an alien, not an exile, but loyal to liberty, to him! Hemust leap from his saddle and clasp her in his arms! No. He mustaccompany his great commander in the triumphal entry. Thataccomplished, then the unspeakable joy.

  * * * * *

  There came an evening when the Newville home was aglow with lights,and Pompey was bowing low to General and Mrs. Washington, GeneralsGreene, Putnam, Thomas, to colonels, majors, captains, councilors, theselectmen of the town, Reverend Doctor Cooper, Colonel Henry and LucyKnox, Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, Abraham Duncan, Major TomBrandon, Rachel Walden; young ladies in the bloom of maidenhood,matronly mothers, fathers resolute of countenance,--all rejoicing thatthe redcoats were gone.

  Down from the chamber, passing the old clock on the stairs, came MajorRobert Walden, in bright, new uniform, and Ruth Newville in satin,white and pure.

  Reverend Doctor Cooper spoke of the bravery of the bridegroom inbattle, the manliness of character that fitted him for fighting thebattle of life. Tears came to many eyes as he pictured the love of amaiden who rescued her beloved, swept by life's ebbing tide f
ar outtowards a shoreless sea.

  They who stood around beheld the countenance of the bride transfiguredas she pronounced the words, "to love, to honor, and cherish him."

  Amid the general joy, one heart alone felt a momentary pang. Nevermight Rachel whisper such words to him whose last thought had been ofher, who had given his life that liberty might live.

  Once more food was to be had from the marketmen around FaneuilHall--joints of beef, pigs, sausages, chickens, turkeys, vegetablesand fruit, brought in by the farmers of Braintree, Dedham, andRoxbury. Fishermen once more could sail down the harbor, drop theirlines for cod and mackerel on the fishing ground beyond the OuterBrewster, and return to the town without molestation from a meddlingtown major.

  With joyful countenance and conscious dignity, Pompey perambulated themarket, inspecting what the hucksters had for sale.

  "I want de juiciest j'int, de tenderest, fattest turkey, de freshesteggs right from de nest, 'cause de 'casion is to be Missus Ruth'sweddin' dinner," he said.

  Many banquets had Phillis prepared, but never one like the dinner forMiss Ruth on her wedding day.

  "I've roasted de turkey and sparrib for Massa Ginerel Howe and MassaGinerel Clinton, but dey ain't of no 'count 'side Massa Major Waldenand Massa Ginerel Washington, 'cause dey drive de redcoats out ofBoston. Miss Ruth fired de pistil and I scaldid dem with de b'ilin'water. He! he! he!" she laughed.

  It was a pleasure to stuff the turkey, to turn the joint of beefroasting on the spit, mix the plums in the pudding, and mould themince pies for Ruth and her friends.

  "Miss Ruth told me to go free, and now she's Missus Ruth Walden. He!he! he!"

  The laughter bubbled from her lips.

  The Dinner-Party.]

  It was a joyful party that sat down to the dinner. The toasts drunkwere not the health of George III. and Sophia Charlotte, but thehealth of General George Washington, the Continental Congress, MajorRobert Walden, and, more heartily than any other, long life andhappiness to Ruth Newville Walden.

  * * * * *

  Years have gone by,--years of sorrow, privation, and suffering tothose who, through their loyalty to King George, and their inabilityto discern the signs of the times, have been exiles from the landthat gave them birth, whose property has been seized by the Great andGeneral Court of Massachusetts. The days are long to Mary Shrimpton inthe little cabin at Halifax. The great estates once owned by herfather are no longer his. Her once beautiful home has been sold to thehighest bidder. Only with her spinning-wheel can she keep the wolffrom the cabin door. Parliament has been talking of doing somethingfor the refugees in Nova Scotia, but the commoners and lords are threethousand miles away, and the people of England are groaning under theburden incurred by the fruitless attempt to subdue the Colonies. Thestruggle is over. Lord Cornwallis has surrendered his army to GeneralWashington at Yorktown, and commissioners are negotiating a peace.Through the years Abel Shrimpton, unreconciled to life's changes, hasbeen cursing Samuel Adams and John Hancock for having led the peopleto rebel against the king, not seeing that Divine Providence was usingthem as instruments to bring about a new era in human affairs. Whenthe curses are loudest and most vehement, Mary's gentle hand pats hislips, smooths the gray hairs from the wrinkled brow, and calms histroubled spirit. Pansies bloom beneath the latticed windows of hercabin home. Morning-glories twine around it. Swallows twitter theirjoy, and build their nests beneath the eves. Motherly hens cluck totheir broods in the dooryard. The fare upon the table within the cabinis frugal, but there is always a bit of bread or a herring for awandering exile. When women pine for their old homes, whenhomesickness becomes a disease, it is Mary Shrimpton who cheers thefainting hearts. As she sits by her wheel, she sings the song sung bythe blind old harper Carolan, who, though long separated from his truelove, yet recognized her by the touch of her gentle hand:--

  "True love can ne'er forget. Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one."

  Tom Brandon said he would be true to her. The war is over; surely ifliving he will come. Though the thick fog at times drifts in from thesea, shutting out the landscape and all surrounding objects, thoughthe rain patters on the roof, and the days are dark and dreary, herface is calm and serene, glorified by a steadfast faith and changelesslove.

  The time has been long to the occupants of the cottage across the way.Though little gold is left in the purse, there is ever room for hungryrefugees at the table of the king's former commissioner of imposts.The locks beneath his tie wig are whiter than they were, the furrowson his brow have deepened. Officers of the army and navy in Halifax,once guests in his home on the slope of Beacon Hill, sometimes callupon him, but the great world has passed him by. Old friends, fellowexiles, at times gather at his fireside, talk of other days, and ofwhat Parliament may possibly do for them.

  Time has left its mark upon the face of her who sits by his side. Thesoft, brown hair has changed to gray. Plans of other days have notcome to pass. Disappointment and grief have quenched ambitious fire.Father and mother are separated from a daughter beloved. How couldRuth ever become a rebel, disloyal to her rightful sovereign? Whatpossessed her to turn her back upon Lord Upperton, upon theopportunity to become a peeress of the realm? Oh, the misery that hascome from such waywardness! What has become of her? Will they everagain see her?

  Home of the Exiles.]

  * * * * *

  With the flag of the new nation--the banner of crimson stripes andfadeless stars--flying at her masthead, the ship Berinthia Brandon,Major Tom Brandon owner, comes proudly sailing into Halifax harbor.The anchor dropped, he makes his way to the vine-clad cabin, listens amoment by the latticed window to hear a sweet voice singing words thatthrill him.

  "Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one."

  He lifts the latch. There is a cry of delight, and Mary springs to hisarms.

  "I said I would come, and I am here."

  "I knew you would, Tom. Ever since a ship arrived bringing the newsfrom Yorktown that Cornwallis had surrendered, I have been expectingyou."

  "How do you do, father?" said Major Tom, holding out his hand to Mr.Shrimpton.

  "I ain't your father," the surly reply.

  "But you are to be, as soon as I can find a minister. The past ispast. I've come to take you and Mary to your old home. When it wassold, I bought it; you are to go back to it and live there. It is tobe our home."

  There is astonishment upon the cold, hard face, which relaxes itssternness; the chin quivers, the lips tremble, tears roll down thecheeks of the gray-haired exile. Through the years he has nursed hishate. But there is no sword so sharp, no weapon so keen to pierce thehardened human heart, as kindness. He has hated Samuel Adams, JohnHancock, and Tom Brandon; and this is Tom's revenge. His old home tobe his own once more! No longer an exile! To sit once more by the oldfireside, through the kindness of him whom he had turned from hisdoor! His head drops upon his breast; he sobs like a child, butreaches out his arms to them.

  "Take her, Tom. I've hated you, but God bless you; you were right, andI was wrong."

  No longer hard-hearted, cold, and animated by hate, but as a littlechild he enters the doorway leading to the Kingdom of Heaven.

  * * * * *

  A man of stalwart frame, a woman radiant and beautiful, with a littleboy and girl, are standing by the door of the humble home across theway; fellow-passengers with Major Tom on the Berinthia Brandon. Mr.Newville opens the door in answer to the knock, to be clasped in thearms of Ruth. Great the surprise, unspeakable the joy, of father,mother, and daughter, meeting once more, welcoming a worthy son,taking prattling grandchildren to their arms.

  "We have come for you, and we are all going home together. You willfind everything just as it was when you left," said Ruth.

  * * * * *

  Once more there were happy homes in Boston,--that upon Copp's Hill,where Berinthia an
d Abraham Duncan cared for the father and mother;that where Tom and Mary Shrimpton-Brandon made the passing dayspleasant to Abel Shrimpton, loyal no longer to King George, but to theflag of the future republic; and that other home, where Major RobertWalden and his loving wife, with queenly grace, dispensed unstintedhospitality, not only to those distinguished among their fellow-men,but to the poor and needy, impoverished by the long and weary strugglefor independence of the mother land. Abel Shrimpton and TheodoreNewville were no longer exiles, but citizens, acknowledging cheerfulallegiance to the flag of the confederation, through the fealty toliberty by the Daughters of the Revolution.

  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.