THE LIBERTY TREE
By the end of July both the people of Boston and the King’s soldiers
were beginning to feel the ill effects of the siege. One of the main
troubles was the food. Civilian and soldier alike were obliged to eat
much salt fish and meat--so much in fact that sickness and fever broke
out, especially in the army. Don and his aunt were rather better off
than most folks, for at the beginning of the trouble the store had been
well stocked, and, moreover, Aunt Martha now had money with which to
buy fresh eggs and vegetables.
With the increasing discontent owing to improper food individual
Redcoats became more arrogant toward the townsfolk, whom they far
outnumbered. There were fewer than seven thousand inhabitants; whereas,
the troops and their dependents numbered close to fourteen thousand.
“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Martha, “how is it ever going to end? How much
longer are we to live this way, insulted and persecuted on every hand?”
“It seems that every time they have a skirmish with Washington’s men,”
said Don, “they take their spite out on us. Well, just you wait, Aunt
Martha; General Washington will show them he means business. He can’t
do it now because his army isn’t ready; he has to train his men. And
besides, he needs more powder and cannon and----”
“Why, Donald, where do you learn all these things?”
“Oh, Jud and I hear folks talking. Sometimes we hear when we’re
pretending not to. Jud says that’s the thing to do.”
Aunt Martha smiled and shook her head.
“We were down on Essex Street yesterday near the Liberty Tree,” Don
continued, “and heard some Tories and Redcoats talking. One of the
Tories said, ‘These stubborn rebels’--meaning us, Aunt Martha,--‘think
they’ll do wonders now that they’ve appointed a Virginian head of their
upstart army; but they’re wrong; if great Cæsar himself were head of
that army he couldn’t make ’em stand up and fight!’
“Then one of the soldiers--I thought at first it was Harry Hawkins,
but it wasn’t--faced around quick and said, ‘Were you at Lexin’ton or
Bunker’s Hill?’
“‘No,’ the Tory replied.
“‘Well, then,’ said the Redcoat, ‘what do you know about it? I was at
Lexin’ton, and I was over at Charlestown last June, and I _know_ they
can fight. I hate ’em just as much as you do, my friend,’ he said,
‘but I respect them too. They can fight. If they’d had lots of powder,
we’d never have taken that hill. And another thing, I know this man
Washington. I should say I do! I was with Braddock. And when Washington
gets his army trained and has plenty of ammunition I tell you we’re
a-going to have a fight on our hands, and don’t you forget it!’”
“What did the Tory say?” asked Aunt Martha.
“He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged his shoulders and turned
away. That’s how a Tory is, Aunt Martha; he’ll talk a lot and let the
Redcoats do the fighting.”
Certainly the Tories had much to talk about. It must have given them
much satisfaction to see their neighbors imprisoned on false charges.
Mr. Lovell, the schoolmaster, charged with being a spy, was confined
for sixty-five days. John Gill, a close friend of Don’s uncle, was
imprisoned for twenty-nine days for printing what had displeased
General Gage.
But even numerous vexations and wrongs of that sort were not enough to
satisfy the Tories. They themselves were suffering from the siege, and
they wanted to punish the whole people of Boston, who they said were
the cause of their suffering. Just what a malicious form of punishment
they chose Don and Jud were soon to learn.
Early one morning the two boys were on their way to Coffin’s Field to
get bait for fishing. Each was lightly dressed, and both were hurrying
along briskly. The sun was pushing its way up warm and bright and
seemed to promise a good day. They had come down Newbury Street and
were turning into Essex when Jud pointed to the Liberty Tree, a great
elm that stood on the southeast corner. “That’s what I call the finest
tree that ever grew,” he said.
“It surely is pretty,” replied Don; “just look how dainty and green
the leaves are, and how the limbs curve way up and hang over like long
ferns. Yes, I’d say an elm is about the finest tree that ever grew.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the appearance of it so much,” Jud replied,
“though it surely is a beauty. I was thinking rather of what it means.
It stands for Liberty. Don’t you remember how, whenever there used to
be trouble with King George, folks would flock to the tree?”
“They do still, for that matter.”
“Well, yes, but I was thinking of one night when I was just a little
fellow. I don’t remember just what had happened--the repeal of a stamp
law maybe--anyway Ma took me to the tree, and there it was covered with
lanterns and a big flag flying from the pole in the centre up there,
and everybody was laughing and singing and ringing bells. Oh, it surely
was fine!”
Still talking about the tree, the boys went on down Essex Street and
a few minutes later were at Coffin’s Field. Jud led the way to a far
corner of it, where they began to dig.
For almost three-quarters of an hour they worked, turning over great
clods of earth; but grub worms, which they particularly wanted, were
scarce.
“How many have we got?” asked Don.
Jud counted them. “Only fourteen,” he replied. “Let’s try over there
behind that pig-pen.”
The ground behind the pig-pen proved somewhat better, and at last, with
a fair supply of worms, the boys started back along Essex Street.
They were perhaps half-way to Newbury Street when they heard
loud talking and boisterous laughter. A minute later they saw a
crowd--mostly soldiers and Tories--at the corner.
Suddenly the two boys stopped short. Don grasped Jud’s arm and in a
choking voice cried, “See what they’ve done!”
Jud was speechless; his lips moved, but he made no sound. There in
front of them, the centre of a boorish mob, lay the Liberty Tree!
It had been cut down near the base. The delicate leaves and slender
twigs were being trampled underfoot as Tories and Redcoats moved here
and there, laughing, shouting and swearing. Great limbs that once had
swayed so gracefully in the breeze were scattered about along the
street; deep white gashes showed where the cruel axe had bitten into
them. And the odor of green wood filled the moist warm air.
“J-Jud!” cried Don.
But Jud did not utter a word. His ruddy face was pale, and his cheeks
seemed suddenly hollow.
“Well, what do you think of your fine tree now?” said a mocking voice.
Both boys turned and confronted--Tom Bullard.
“You dirty, sneaking chicken-thief!” cried Jud and would have hurled
himself against the Tory if Don had not held him.
“Now, none of that,” said Tom and retreated a step or two. Then he
turned and walked away, whistling.
“See here,” said a bystander, “I guess you boys feel as bad as I do
about it, but don’t be hotheads. They’re too many for us.”
“How did it happen?” asked Don unsteadily.
“Job Williams, the Tory, led the mob,” replied the man. “And a mob
it surely was. Such a lot of swearing and yelling--it’s good you
missed it. Redcoats and Tories alike swarmed up the tree like so many
thick-lipped gorillas. But it wasn’t all fine for them. Just before you
came one of the soldiers in the topmost branches missed his hold and
fell. I saw him fall; he was killed!”
“Good!” cried Jud, clenching his fists.
“That’s just what I said.” The man smiled. “They carted him off a few
minutes ago. It was the hand of Providence that did it, my lads, and
the hand of Providence will account for many more of them before long.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Don. “It makes me sick to look. Just hear
’em yelling.”
Each boy picked up a twig from the street, and, thrusting it into his
pocket, hurried up Newbury Street toward Hog Alley.
There was no fishing for Don or for Jud that day. What they had seen in
the morning had taken away all their desire for sport. And Aunt Martha
felt quite as bad about the destruction of the tree as the boys did.
“If there’s one thing I can’t abide,” she said, “it’s spite work.”
The Liberty Tree yielded the soldiers fourteen cords of wood, but they
had paid dearly for it. Other trees also were cut down for the sake of
the wood, and before winter set in the Common had lost many of its fine
old elms.
September passed, and with the turning of the leaves Don longed to go
forth into the woods. “Say, Aunt Martha,” he remarked one day, “I never
knew that the town was so small. There’s no place to go without seeing
Redcoats. I’d like to go off somewhere in the woods.”
“Have patience, Donald. Maybe if you wait, some day the whole continent
will be free for you to come and go in as you please.”
“Do you think the Colonies will be independent, Aunt Martha? Do you
really want them to be?”
“Yes. I think it, and I hope it.” Aunt Martha’s lips were set in a
straight line, as they had been when she had told her husband that she
would not leave her home for the sake of a Redcoat.
Don was about to make some reply when he spied Jud outside the window;
he was hurrying up the street, and there was an eager look in his eyes.
“Hello, Jud,” Don greeted him as he opened the door. “What’s the news?”
“Good news,” Jud replied breathlessly. “I’ve heard that old Gage is
going back to England. How glad I am!”
“Say, where did you hear that?” asked Don.
“Over near Faneuil Hall. I was listening again.” Jud grinned.
“Who’s to take his place?” asked Aunt Martha.
“Don’t know yet. But won’t it be fine to see old Gage go? He’s caused
enough trouble for half a dozen men.”
The news proved to be true enough. On the tenth of October, General
Gage sailed for England, never to return. Lord Howe, who had commanded
the British in the assault at Charlestown, took Gage’s place. He was
popular with the troops, but with the suffering townsfolk he was a poor
substitute for the unpopular Gage. The proclamations that he issued
were irritating at best; he seemed to think only of the safety and
comfort of his soldiers.
One of his first acts was to erect new fortifications. Then he
requisitioned private dwellings and some of the meeting-houses for the
use of his men.