PUSSY DEAN'S BEACON FIRE.
March 17, 1776.
A hundred years ago the winds of March were blowing.
To-day the same winds rush by the stone memorials and sweep across thelow mounds that securely cover the men and the women that then werealive to chill blast and stirring event. Even the lads who gathered atsound of drum and fife on village green, wishing, as they saw thetroopers march, that they were men, and the little girls who hungabout father's neck because he was going off to war, who watched thepost-riders on their course, wishing that they knew the news hecarried, are no longer with us.
For nearly two years Boston had been the lost town of the people. Ithad been taken from the children by an unkind father and given tostrangers. You have been told how British ships came and closed herharbor, so that food and raiment could not enter. You know how grandlythe younger sister towns behaved toward stately, hungry Boston; howthey marched up the narrow neck of land that holds back the town fromthe sea, each and every one bearing gifts to the beloved town, untilthere came the sad and fatal day wherein British military lines turnedback the tide of offerings and closed the gate of entrance.
Then it was that friends began to gather across the rivers that woundtheir waters around Boston. Presently an army grew up and stationeditself with leaders and banners and forts.
Summer came. The army waited through all the long warm days. Thesummer went; the leaves fell; the chill winds and the cold sea-fogswound into and out of the poor little tents and struck the brave menwho, having no tents, tried to be strong and endure.
Every child knows, or ought to know, the story of that winter; how dayby day, all over New England, men were striving to gather firearms andpowder wherewith to take back from the foe poor Boston. But, alas,there was not powder enough in all the land to do it.
The long, wearying winter had done its worst for the prisonedinhabitants within the town; and, truly, it had tried and pinched thewaiting friends who stood at the gates.
At last, in March, in the night, the brave helpers climbed the hills,built on them smaller hills, and by the light of the morning were ableto look over into the town--at which the patriots were glad and theBritish commander frightened.
A little after nine of the clock on Sunday morning, the 17th ofMarch, 1776, three Narragansett ponies stood before GeneralWashington's headquarters at Cambridge.
"Go with all possible speed to Governor Trumbull," said Washington,delivering despatches to a well-known and trusted messenger, whoinstantly mounted one of the ponies in waiting--Sweeping Wind byname--and rode away, with many a sharp and inquiring glance back atcity and river and camp.
It was four of the clock in the afternoon, and the messenger had notpaused since he set forth, longer than to give Sweeping Wind water todrink, when, on the highway in the distance, he saw a red cloakfluttering and flying before him.
It was Pussy Dean who wore the cloak. She was fifteen, fair andlovely, brave and patriotic as any soldier in the land.
At first she was angry at the law by which she was denied a new cloakthat winter, made of English fabric, but when wrapped in the covetedbroadcloth of scarlet belonging to her mother she was more thanreconciled.
On this Sunday Pussy had been at the meeting-house on the hill, twomiles from home, at both morning and afternoon service, and afterwardhad lingered a little to gather up bits of news from camp and town totake home to her mother, and so it had happened that she was quitealone on the highway.
Pussy chanced to look back to the summit of the hill down which shehad walked, and she saw the express coming.
"Now," she thought, "if I could only stop him! I wonder if I can't.I'll try, and then," swinging her silken bag, "I shall have news tocarry home, the very latest, too."
As she swung the bag she suddenly remembered that she had somethingwithin it to offer the rider.
"Of course I can," she went on saying to herself. "Post-riders arealways hungry, and it's lucky for him that I didn't have to eat mydinner myself, to-day. Now, if I only had a basketful of clover headsor roses for that pony, I'd find out all about Boston while it waseating."
The only roses within sight were blooming on Pussy Dean's two cheeksas Sweeping Wind came clattering his shoes against the frozen ground.He would have gone straight on had a scarlet cloak not been planted,like a fluttering standard, full in his pathway.
The rider gave the pony the slightest possible check, since he feltsure that no red-coated soldier lurked behind the red cloak.
"Take something to eat, won't you?" accosted Pussy, rather glowing infeature and agitated in voice by her own daring.
Meanwhile the rider had given Sweeping Wind a second intimation tostand, which he obeyed, and sniffed at Pussy's cloak and cheeks andsilken bag as she held it forth to the rider, saying naively, "I wentto meeting and was invited to luncheon, and so didn't eat mine." Shespoke swiftly, as though she knew she must not detain him.
He answered with a smile and a "Thank you," took the bag, and rewardedher by saying, "The British are getting out of Boston, bag andbaggage."
"And where are you going?" demanded Pussy, determined not to go homewith but half the story if she could help it.
"To Governor Trumbull with the good news and a demand for two thousandmen to save New York," he cried back, having gone on. His words wereentangled with a mouthful of gingerbread or mince-pie to such anextent that it was a full minute before Pussy understood their import,and then she could only say over and over to herself, as she hastenedon, "Father will be here, father will come home, and we'll have thegood old times back again."
But notwithstanding her hope and a country's wish, the good old timeswere not at hand.
Pussy reached home and told the story. Baby went down plump into thewooden cradle at the first note of it, and set up a tune of rejoicingin his own fashion which no one regarded. Brother Benjamin, agedthirteen, whistled furiously, regardless of the honors of the day.Sammy, who was ten, clapped his hands and knocked his heels together,first in joy, and then began to fear lest the war should be overbefore he grew big enough to be in it.
"Mother," said Pussy, a few minutes later, "let Benny come with me totell Mr. Gale about it; may he?"
Pussy laid aside her Sunday bonnet, tied a straw hat over her earswith a silk kerchief to keep out the wind, and in three minutes gotBenny into the highway.
"See here, Ben, I'm going to light a fire on Baldhead to tell all thefolks together about it, and I want you to help me; quick, before itgets dark."
"You can't gather fagots," responded Ben.
Yes, she could, and would, and did, while Benny went to the housenearest to Baldhead to ask for some fire in a kettle.
The two worked with such vigor and will that the first gathering ofdarkness saw the light of the beacon-flame burst forth, and the greatMarch wind blew it into fiercest glow. Every eye that saw the firethere knew that it had been kindled with a purpose, and many feet fromhouse and hamlet set forth to learn the cause.
While Pussy and Ben were yet adding fagots to the fire, they heard avoice crying out: "The young rascals shall be punished soundly forthis," and ere Pussy had time to explain or expostulate, a strong manhad Ben in his grasp.
"Stop that, sir!" cried the girl, rushing to the rescue with a burningfagot that she had seized from the fire, and shaking it full in theassailant's face.
By the light of it, the man saw Pussy and she saw him; and then bothbegan to laugh, while Ben rubbed his ears and wondered whether theywere both on his head.
"It means," spoke the girl, waving the still flaming brand towardthe east, "that the British left Boston this morning, and thatGeneral"--(just here a dozen men were at the fire. Pussy raisedher voice and continued)--"Washington wants you all, every one ofyou, to march straight to Governor Trumbull, and he'll tell youwhat to do next."
"If that's the case," said the responsible man of the constantly-increasinggroup after questioning Pussy, "we'd better summon the militia by theringing of the bell," and off
they went in the direction of the village,while Pussy and Ben went home.
The next day saw fifty men, well armed, and provisioned for threedays, on the road to Lebanon. They marched into town and into the nowfamous war-office of Governor Trumbull, to his pleased surprise.
"Who sent you?" asked the governor, for it was not yet six hours sincethe demand on the nearest town had been made.
"Who sent us?" echoed the lieutenant, looking confused and at a lossto explain, and finally answering truthfully, he said: "It was ayoung girl, your excellency. She lit a beacon fire on a hill and gavethe command that we report to you."
A laugh ran around the sides of the old war-office. The messenger whohad ridden from Cambridge sat upon the counter pressing his spurs intothe wood and heard it all.
"And who commissioned the girl as a recruiting officer?" questionedthe governor.
"I'm afraid," said the messenger, "I am the guilty party. I met ayoung patriot in scarlet cloak who asked my news, and, I told her."
"Where is the girl's father?" demanded Governor Trumbull.
"He is with the army, at Cambridge," was the response.
"And his name?"
"Reuben Dean."
A scratch or two of the quill pen was heard on the open paper. It wasfolded, sealed, and handed to the ready horseman, with the words:"Reuben Dean; he is mentioned for promotion."
The words, as they were spoken by Governor Trumbull, were caught upand gathered into a mighty cheer, for every man of their number knewthat Reuben Dean was worthy of promotion, even had his daughter notgained it for him by her services as recruiting officer.
The Only Woman in the Town, and Other Tales of the American Revolution Page 4
