LIGHTING THE FIREBRAND
Forth to the war marched the men of New England, lighthearted every one
of them and thinking, as did Miles, that the siege of Boston was to be a
merry affair.
“We will be back in three months,” they said to their wives as they bade
them good-bye. “We will drive those redcoats into the sea and convince
King George of what stuff we really are made. Then it will all be over.”
So down the roads came pouring a motley stream of volunteers, clad in
hunting shirts and homespun, armed, for the most part, with the
strangest weapons, flintlock muskets a hundred years old, clumsy,
ancient blunderbusses and homemade pikes. All of the would-be soldiers
knew how to shoot, but very few, how to march or drill; and nearly every
one of them desired to be an officer. Who was to be found who could
change this earnest-hearted but many-minded rabble into an army? That
was the question on everybody’s tongue.
To the women of New England, however, the war seemed a greater and a
graver thing, for it is easier to feel misgiving when you sit at home
alone. What mattered to any one of them how short the struggle was if
the goodman of that particular house never came home again? Yet there
was little time for brooding since, if the war was to go on, the women
must do their part. The army must somehow be given clothes to wear and
food to eat, and out of the households of America must all such garments
and provisions come. Down from the garrets were brought the big
spinning-wheels that had long been laid away, and loud was their song as
they began to whirr like swarming bees; the looms creaked, the scissors
snipped, needles flew in and out and the ovens glowed all day long, for
every one who was not at the war was toiling for the army.
Among all these busy ones, Clotilde and Mother Jeanne and the company of
servants in the big house did their full share. Stephen, meanwhile,
prowled up and down the narrow bounds of the garden and frowned and
shook his head over the letters that came to him from Philadelphia,
where the Congress was sitting. Such endless arguments, disagreements
and downright quarrels were occupying them while the precious days
passed! The lesson of acting together seemed a hard one for the Colonies
to learn.
“If you could but be here!” was the burden of nearly every letter that
came, although they who wrote and he who read both knew that such a
thing was impossible. The long perilous journey to Philadelphia was
utterly out of the question for a man of advancing years and such frail
health as Stephen’s. Gladly would he have taken all risks had there been
any hope, even in his own mind, that he could reach Pennsylvania with
strength enough left to be of any use. Not even he could think so,
however.
Mother Jeanne, provoked out of her usual respectful silence, observed
grimly, when she heard the journey suggested:
“Monsieur must believe that a dead man would be a welcome addition to
that great assembly.”
One journey, however, he did take and Clotilde with him, for which,
although he was ill afterwards, neither of them could ever be made to
express regret. It was early in July that they travelled up to Cambridge
to see the review of troops before the army’s new leader, Colonel George
Washington, out of Virginia. After the review was over and Clotilde had
gazed her fill at the marching soldiers who were beginning at last, in
form and discipline to resemble an army, and at the tall splendid figure
that had ridden up and down the lines, she was amazed to see the General
turn, come toward them and dismount a few paces off Stephen, leaning on
his cane, had stepped forward to render his duty to the
Commander-in-Chief, but General Washington was too quick for him, and
advanced to take his hand before he could speak.
“I came to offer my respects to you, not to receive yours,” said he, “to
salute the man who, above all others, has made possible what we see
to-day.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Stephen, “there is no credit due to a man who has
been able to accomplish as little as I.”
“It is through your unwearying toil,” insisted the General, “through
your preaching of the need of union up and down the highways and byways
of America, that this thing has come to pass. To-day an obscure soldier
of Virginia takes command of an army where men of his own State, of
Pennsylvania and of Maryland are ready to fight side by side with the
minute-man of New England. The honour of this achievement, sir, is all
yours!”
He drew his shining sword and held it up in grave salute to this great
citizen of Massachusetts who stood there in his homespun coat under the
shade of the wide elm tree. Out came the swords of all the officers of
the General’s staff, while from the men of the army rolled up so great a
shout that it might have been heard across the river in beleaguered
Boston. There was something like tears in Stephen’s bright eyes as he
looked steadily into the grave blue-grey ones of Washington and spoke
his answer.
“Whatever small work I may have begun, sir,” he said simply, “I
surrender now into far more able hands, to be carried to a glorious
end.”
And raising his hat and holding it high above his head, he led the crowd
of bystanders in a lusty cheer for General Washington.
Clotilde, standing at his side, was trembling all over with joy and
excitement. She was so happy that her Master Sheffield had received the
tribute that was so justly due him, she longed so to be a man and able
to fight in the splendid cause of liberty. She saw Miles Atherton’s
brown face among the lesser officers and flashed him a bright look of
admiration and delighted envy. Alas, her share of the struggle must be
fought out beside the spinning-wheel and the loom and the blazing
kitchen hearth!
She had no chance to speak to Miles, for presently he and his men were
told off in columns and marched away toward Boston. The music of the
drum and the high, thin fife playing Yankee Doodle died in the distance
and there was left only the sound of thudding feet, scuffling in a
choking cloud of dust. She longed to watch the last soldier out of
sight, but Stephen led her away to the waiting coach.
It was an exciting journey back to Hopewell, through the villages where
flags were flying and drums beating and where the people came running
out to cheer Master Sheffield as he went by; through stretches of dark
forest where the rough roads threw them about in the big, clumsy coach
and where there might be King’s soldiers lurking in every thicket.
Although Stephen assured her that all the redcoats were shut up in
Boston, Clotilde rather hoped than dreaded that the little party might
be attacked and nobly rescued, perhaps, by Miles Atherton and the brave
men of the Hopewell company. But no such thrilling adventure occurred
and the journey was accomplished in safety.
As they were driving through the town next to Hopewell, late in the
evening, they passed a huge fire that was burning before the gates of a
stately brick house set far back from the road.
“Oh, look, look,” cried Clotilde, “and oh, what a dreadful smell!”
Surely it was a fearful odour that rose from the bonfire fed by a score
of hurrying black figures. Baskets full of evil-smelling sulphur were
being emptied into the flames so that clouds of suffocating smoke rolled
toward the house and penetrated the doors and windows, tightly closed as
they were.
[Illustration: He drew his shining sword and held it up.]
“That is the abode of Andrew Shadwell,” Stephen told her. “He is a Tory
and a sympathiser with the English, so, rich and influential as he is,
his fellow townsmen are visiting him with dire punishment.”
Cries of “Blow up the fire!” “Smoke him out, the traitorous Loyalist!”
were going up as the coach rumbled past, Clotilde burying her small nose
in her kerchief as she went by.
“No one need tell me that the spirit of the intolerant old Puritans is
quite perished from the earth,” laughed Stephen, as they finally passed
the place and were able to breathe again. “Andrew Shadwell must be a
sorry man this night that he voiced his opinions so loudly.”
There began, after this journey, the endless, breathless waiting while
Boston held out in spite of the long siege and while all watched
patiently for the time when the British should be starved into
surrender. Now and then, bodies of the King’s troops broke through the
circle of besiegers and made desperate sallies into the surrounding
country for food and supplies, of which the city began to be sadly in
want. Or sometimes an English ship would land a handful of redcoats here
or there upon the coast, who would make a dash through a town or two,
burn a few houses and hurry back to the safety of their vessel.
Otherwise, there was little news or excitement through the long summer,
and the hum of the spinning-wheels and the thump, thump of the busy
looms sounded peacefully from every open cottage door.
But the peace of Hopewell was not to remain unbroken. There was one
night when October had come, when the corn and wheat and oats had been
gathered in, when the yellow pumpkins and rosy apples were ready for
harvesting, that Clotilde became aware of a commotion in the fields
beyond their garden. There were moving lights, voices and the sound of
tramping feet in the hard yellow stubble. A few minutes later, Miles
Atherton, thinner and browner for his months of soldier’s service, but
the same earnest-eyed, little-speaking Miles, came in at the wide-open
door.
“I must speak with Master Sheffield,” he said briefly to Clotilde,
although his face shone with excitement.
“Come in, lad,” said Stephen, who was standing by the study door. “What
can it be that brings you here? I see by your face that it is something
unusual that is on foot.”
“It is,” replied Miles in troubled tones. “There is a company of
redcoats who have slipped out of Boston and have so far eluded us who
were sent out to capture them. They have never before ventured so far as
this, but they are growing desperate in the city and they know that the
whole countryside, up this way, is full of well-stored barns from the
abundant harvest. This raid is made by a troop of soldiers greater in
number than we had at first thought, so we have sent for reinforcements
and are to make a stand near Hopewell and hold them until help comes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Stephen quickly and a little impatiently, for this
amount of information from Miles came very slowly. “I understand. And
where is the fight to be?”
“Why,” Miles went on, his voice becoming more anxious and worried, “we
could make our stand to the south of your grounds here, but the
situation is not good and we would run the risk of losing all, since we
are greatly outnumbered. Master Sheffield, you must order out your coach
and come with us.”
“But why?” questioned Stephen in surprise, and “Why, why?” gasped
Clotilde.
“Because there is great danger,” cried Miles, “great danger to you all
in biding here. We fear that one purpose of this raid is to accomplish
Master Sheffield’s arrest. You are spoken of among the English as one of
the leaders of the rebellion, and therefore we are certain that it is
the order for your capture that has brought the redcoats so far. Could
we make a stand here and protect you, most surely we would, but the
country is too open and the way too clear. We would, every one of us,
willingly give our lives to save you, but common sense tells plainly
that a battle here would be to no purpose and you would be taken in the
end. So do make haste, the men are hot upon our heels.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Stephen. “There is no ghost of danger. I have,
indeed, had letters from the British authorities that lead me to believe
that they love me not, but I am not so great a man for them to take such
trouble to accomplish my capture. Come, Clotilde, tell this foolish lad
that his friendship for us has made him over anxious.”
But Clotilde, for once, forsook his side and joined her voice to Miles’
arguments. That stout soldier, after laying forth his plan to march
through Hopewell and the next village and make a stand on North Hill, a
spot so favourable that they could be certain of holding fast until help
arrived, firmly maintained that he would not stir one step without
Master Sheffield and neither would his men.
“Well, well,” sighed Stephen at last, “an old man must give in to
importunate children. To give battle here would, as I see, merely waste
lives that the country needs and might also lead to the slaying of
innocent towns-folk and the burning of houses. So, if you will not go on
without me, I must needs come too. Clotilde, go tell Jason to order out
the coach.”
Preparations were so hurried that there was no time for useless
bewailing. Some of the silver was hidden, some of the linen locked away,
but nothing of real service could be accomplished. As Clotilde ran
through the hall, pulling her cloak about her, she saw that the great
Bible had been brought out of the study and was lying on the table. Mère
Jeanne had felt that it would be wicked to leave it behind, but had been
obliged in the end to put it down hastily, as it was too heavy a burden
to carry far. The breeze from the open door had fluttered over the pages
so that, as Clotilde stopped to blow out the last of the candles burning
upon the table, she saw staring up from the open page the dark
terrifying face that stood to her for Jeremiah Macrae.
“Oh, no,” she cried aloud in terror, as though his words had actually
sounded in her ears. “Not that! Not that!” And she ran out swiftly,
leaving the book still open on the table.
Mother Jeanne and one or two of the older servants came with them, the
rest sought shelter in the village, so that the house was left
unprotected and all alone. Clotilde, looking back through the coach
window, could see the kitchen firelight still shining through the
vine-hung casement and could feel her hot tears flowing at the thought
of rude hands battering at the door of that beloved dwelling and clumsy
feet trampling the flowers that still bloomed bravely in the garden.
Then, as a turn in the road hid the house from sight, she laid her head
against Mother Jeanne’s shoulder and wept bitterly.
She seemed to remember afterward only brief snatches of that strange
night’s ride, first their passing through the town of Hopewell and
Stephen’s leaning from the coach window to bid the people stay quiet in
their houses and leave the fighting to be done by Captain Atherton’s
soldiers. Then, after bumping down the road at a hurried gallop, they
drove through the next town where, before a gate, Andrew Shadwell sat on
a great black horse.
“Ha, Stephen Sheffield,” he called, “it was you who rode by me in your
pride some months ago, but now, when you pass again, you are fleeing
from your enemies and my friends. In a week you will be begging me to
intercede for you with the King’s officers. Your time is over, man!”
The last words could scarcely be heard as the big coach rattled down the
road, while Stephen smiled grimly and made no reply. Mother Jeanne,
between hysterical sobs, was crying out in voluble French that the ride
would kill Monsieur Sheffield and that they might as well have remained
at home to be murdered comfortably in their beds. At this Clotilde sat
up, dried her eyes and fell to comforting her, that Stephen might have,
at least, some peace and quiet on this sad journey. The stars began to
show in a misty sky and, by the pale light she could see that they were
slowly mounting a long, steep hill. Here they waited for a time until
the soldiers, who had dropped behind, could catch up with them. Miles
came to the coach window to tell them that this was the point he had
chosen to make his stand and that they were to drive on for three miles
to a little inn that would give them shelter.
“Should there be danger, I will send a messenger to bid you flee
farther,” he said, “but for that, I am sure, there will be no need. The
enemy is pushing on, hot foot, to capture you and us, and will fall
headlong into our hands.”
He dropped behind once more, and the big coach rumbled and jolted on
into the dark. Up the long hill it crawled, then paused again to rest
the horses for a moment on the summit before it went over the crest and
plunged into the sheltered valley beyond. Looking back, Clotilde thought
she could see a far, red glow in the sky that faded even as she watched,
and died down so quickly that she did not speak of it. After that things
seemed to become confused in the darkness, it seemed only a moment
before they arrived at the inn, where the sleepy, blinking landlord came
out to lead them inside. They heard a sound of far-off firing as they
dismounted from the coach.
Inside, with the fire rebuilt and the settles pulled forward to the
blaze, she and Mère Jeanne sat facing Stephen and waited, so it seemed,
for something like a hundred years. Although she thought that it would
be wicked to sleep when they were in such trouble and Miles in such
grave danger, still she dozed against Mother Jeanne’s shoulder, woke and
fell asleep again, this time so soundly that she never knew when they
laid her down, covered her with a cloak and let her slumber quietly the
whole night through. She sat up with a start, however, when, just as day
broke, there was a loud knocking at the door and Miles burst in, ruddy,
excited and triumphant.
“The victory is ours!” he cried. “We held them stoutly until the other
troops came up to help us, and the whole band of King George’s men had
to surrender. There are six English officers prisoners, looking as
though they would rather stab themselves than be taken by a handful of
backwoods patriots and there are, I know not how many German privates,
hired by King George to fight his rebels for him.”
“And so you have them all?” said Stephen; “that is indeed well done!”
“There was one officer that escaped,” admitted Miles, “for he alone
would not surrender, and with dare-devil courage broke through the
troops behind him, on his big grey horse and got clean away. But we have
all the rest and our losses are most miraculously few.”
“Did they—did they stop to do harm to our dwelling?” inquired Clotilde
falteringly, almost afraid to learn the truth.
“That I do not know,” Miles answered, “although I have asked many times.
The officers will not tell and the Hessians cannot, since they speak no
English. Poor things, they seem to have small objection to being
prisoners.”
It was full daylight when they set out on their homeward journey, a
dull, raw day, threatening rain. Stephen, leaning back among the
cushions of the coach, slept at last, but looking so white and spent
that Clotilde and Mère Jeanne gazed at each other in anxious dismay. The
way seemed very long, over the hill, past their meeting-place with
Andrew Shadwell and out into the open country again. The townspeople
came out in such throngs to stare at the Hessian prisoners, who were
marching behind, that progress was hampered and the coach, finally
drawing away from the soldiers, went forward alone.
They were passing a narrow crossroad, Stephen asleep, Mother Jeanne
nodding and Clotilde staring idly through the window, when she was
suddenly startled by the thunder of flying hoofs. A man mounted upon a
tall grey horse went by at a headlong gallop, passing so near that the
girl could see his face plainly, even to the shape of his square jaw
and, almost, the colour of his eyes. Beneath his flying cloak she caught
a glimpse of scarlet uniform.
“It must be the officer who would not surrender,” she cried softly.
“Perhaps Andrew Shadwell hid him but was afraid to shelter him longer.
Oh, I wonder if he will escape in the end.”
There was no one to stop him now, except old black Jason on the box, who
seemed to have no desire for such a task, so the man swept by unhindered
and soon dwindled to a flying speck far off down the road.
It was strange how closely she had seen his face, and stranger still the
feeling she had that it was somehow familiar. In vain she searched her
memory, she could think of no place nor time when she could have seen
such a man before. She pondered much over this curious thought of hers
and only forgot it when the big coach rolled into the streets of
Hopewell.
People came running out of their houses to stop the horses, peep inside
and see if their well-loved Master Sheffield was really safe. There was
a queer, subdued look upon all the friendly faces, a look speaking of
news too grievous to tell. It frightened Clotilde and made her wish that
the coach would hurry and bring them safely home. The same feeling,
also, seemed to have seized old Jason on the box, for, instead of going
round by the tree-bordered avenue, he took the nearest way, rattled down
the lane at a great pace and drew up with a jerk before the little gate.
Clotilde opened the door and got out stiffly. She looked before her,
then rubbed her eyes and looked again with a sickening feeling of having
come unexpectedly upon a place that she had never seen before. This
great open space inside the gate was surely not the place where they
lived! But still, there was the little white gate, and there across the
field was Samuel Skerry’s cottage where she and Mother Jeanne had once
dwelt.
“We have come down the wrong street,” she cried to Jason on the box, but
he, in silence, only shook his head, the tears running down his black
wrinkled face. The real truth began to dawn upon her, very slowly.
Stephen Sheffield stepped out of the coach and, leaning on her arm, made
his way, without speaking, through the gate and across what had once
been the garden. Only a tall stone chimney, standing upright in the
midst of a heap of smoking embers, showed where the great white house
had stood. The fire that had consumed it had swept across the lawns,
burning flowers and hedges and the dry, frost-killed grass. Of Master
Simon’s garden there was nothing left save the littered gravel paths,
the blackened linden tree and the stone-based sundial upon which the
watery autumn sunlight was faintly marking the hour of noon.