COUSIN BETSEY ANNE
Every door in Hopewell flew open wide to offer shelter to Master
Sheffield now that he was homeless, but it was Samuel Skerry’s little
cottage that, in the end, became his abode. It had been rebuilt three
years before, for use when the great house was over-filled with guests,
and it was now warm, cosy and comfortable, although a trifle narrow in
its limits.
“A man had best abide under his own roof,” Stephen had said when Mother
Jeanne pointed out to him the discomforts of living through the winter
in so small a place. So there they dwelt, Stephen, Clotilde, Mère Jeanne
and black Jason, while the other servants were lodged in the village.
Little by little, they learned the story of how the house and garden had
been destroyed. It was plain that the soldiers had acted upon
well-understood orders for they had stopped but a few moments, had given
no time to robbery or pillage but, once convinced that Stephen was not
there, had set fire to the house and stayed only to see that it was well
ablaze. They had seemed to know, also, that the garden was the love and
pride of its owner, for they had piled straw among the flowerbeds and
about the hedges and trees, had laid the torch to this inflammable fuel
and then had marched on again, leaving the whole place a mass of
drifting smoke and evil, licking flames. Only the memory of Stephen’s
stern command as he drove through the town had kept the people of
Hopewell from falling upon the destroyers and giving them battle there
in the streets.
“As it was, we could only turn our energy to the saving of your gear,”
said one of the narrators, a lean old man who lived, in abject poverty,
at the outskirts of the village and who, by Stephen’s charity alone, was
kept from starving. “We rescued what we could, and with a right good
will, but we would rather have been dealing out death to those rascally
heathen-speaking soldiers of King George.”
“And if you had,” commented Stephen, “there would have been fifty houses
burned instead of one, and many a goodwife to-day mourning the loss of
her husband or her son, rather than one man grieving for his house and
garden.”
“I came so quickly when I saw the smoke,” resumed the old fellow, “that
not all of the soldiers were yet gone. One company, it seemed, had
marched behind the rest and only came up when the house was all ablaze.
The young officer who led them seemed sorely angered at what the
Hessians had done; I heard him say hotly to his superior in command,
“‘Such wanton destruction is a sin and a shame, sir.’
“I verily believe he would have set his own men to putting out the fire
had they not been commanded to go forward at once. I was made bold by
seeing that there was one kind heart amongst them and called after,
‘Never fear, sir, we will care for our good Master’s property,’ and he
turned and waved his hat to me as he galloped away. I went up to look at
the prisoners when they were marched into Hopewell next day, but he was
not with them. I thank Heaven that he was the single one that escaped.”
“You did well,” said Stephen. “I hear from all sides how much you and
your comrades saved.”
“There is not a house in Hopewell,” replied the man, “that has not
within it somewhat that belongs to you, linen, portraits, silver—all
that we could carry we bore away. I sought to save your great Bible
which lay just inside the door, but it was all in flames when I seized
it. I had only a glimpse of an open page and upon it a black figure with
outstretched arms, and then the whole crumbled to ashes.”
“So there is a fitting end to Jeremiah Macrae,” said Stephen, “one that
would have pleased the old Puritans most mightily. Now we need never
again think of that evil prophecy of his.”
“I saved something further,” went on the man, “for at my house I have—”
“Hush,” whispered Stephen, as Clotilde came up the path toward the
cottage door, her head drooping, her eyes upon the ground. “We will talk
of that matter no more. The little maid grieves so sorely over the loss
of the house and garden that I like not to speak of it before her. What
you have you must keep for a space, since here we have no room for aught
beside our immediate needs. So do you guard my rescued property until I
ask for it.”
So the old man went away, shaking his head sadly over the listless
greeting that Clotilde bestowed upon him when they met at the door. It
was true indeed that she thought of little else but Master Sheffield’s
loss and grieved so, that all the people of Hopewell who knew and loved
her looked after her in despair when she passed by.
“The maid is fair sick with her sorrow,” they said to each other. “One
would think she were of Master Simon’s own blood, so stricken is she.”
Although Clotilde was not of Master Simon’s race and kindred, she loved
his memory as dearly as though she were. There was not one story of the
staunch old Puritan and his brave children and grandchildren that she
had not heard Stephen tell a dozen times. And now to see perish that
precious work of Master Simon’s own hands, the garden that had bloomed
through four generations—it was seemingly a greater grief than she could
bear. Gone was the bed of blazing tulips that every year renewed the
memory of that first coming of the Indian ambassadors, gone were the
rows of herbs that had soothed and healed so many ills, burned to a few
blackened twigs was the huge hawthorn bush that Master Simon had grown
from a tiny slip brought from England. Roses, hollyhocks, lilies, fair
maids of France, all had their stories and all were dead. More than once
Clotilde had slipped out, in the dusk of the autumn twilight, laid her
cheek against the charred bark of the linden tree and sobbed out her
grief alone.
“It was all the fault of that wicked Scotch minister,” she burst out one
day to Stephen. “That his prophecy has been fulfilled and the garden
destroyed and even his likeness burned, makes me think that he was, as
people used to say, in league with the Devil!”
“No,” returned Stephen quietly, “he was a man trying to do good
according to his own lights and he spoke with shrewd good sense,
although perchance he knew it not. Such a person as Master Simon, who
dared to stand against narrow public opinion when he knew himself to be
right, who taught his children and his grandchildren to do the same, did
he run so little risk of bringing danger upon himself and upon that
which he left behind him? Master Simon loved freedom and justice, so do
all of us who are of his blood, so do the children of those bold
Puritans who lighted the fire of a new liberty upon our shores. It is
that same fire, my child, that has burned through four generations, and
has spread over our whole land. If, upon its way, it has scorched our
hearts, and has robbed us of what we loved, let us not cry out, but
rather blow the bellows and keep the flame bright so that our sacrifice
may not be in vain.”
Clotilde pondered his answer long and found it both wise and comforting.
Meanwhile the slow siege of Boston dragged on, and people began to say
that the war would be begun and ended in a contest between General Howe
and General Washington as to which one could wait the more patiently.
News leaked out that supplies were becoming woefully few in the city,
now that Washington had drawn his lines more firmly and no more bands of
marauding redcoats had been able to break through. As the cold weather
came on, the activity of the busy housewives was redoubled in the effort
to keep well supplied the shivering soldiers of the Continental Army.
Clotilde stood at her spinning-wheel, or sat all day at the loom that
had been left in Samuel Skerry’s workshop ever since the time of the
bold Puritan weaver who had built the house. Here she laboured from dawn
to dark, while Stephen, when he was not writing in his own tiny room,
would sit near her in the big armchair, sometimes reading to her to make
the toilsome hours pass more quickly. He himself was very busy in these
days, however, for many a messenger clattered up to the door, and many
important documents went in and out of the little house or were locked
away in the cupboard where Skerry had hidden his gold. Stephen had had
the little windows protected with iron crossbars and heavy locks put
upon both the doors, so that no pilfering fingers should break in to
steal the state secrets of the new country. There were many important
meetings in the room upstairs, while Clotilde sat alone below, whirring
her busy wheel, looking out through the little barred windows at the
falling snow, and dreaming of Master Simon’s garden when it was green
and fair. Now and then a scribbled letter from Miles would reach her,
but as the boy was sparing of written words, he gave her little news of
himself. The first real tidings of him she received when David Thurston
brought a letter for Stephen and stayed to consume, with great delight,
one of Mother Jeanne’s hot mutton pies.
“You can tell Master Sheffield when he comes in,” he said, for Stephen
was out and did not return while the man was there, “that David Thurston
has taken his advice and is doing his own part as a fighting man instead
of sitting by the fire telling of what he would do were he King George.
It is sometimes a weary and a hungry task, this siege of Boston, but all
of the Hopewell lads are doing their share bravely. Our young Miles
Atherton is a Captain now: heard you of the deed he did just before
Christmas?”
“No,” exclaimed Clotilde. “What was it?”
“He is, indeed, a wonder of daring,” Thurston answered, “for he ventured
into Boston in a huckster’s garb and brought forth his cousin, Betsey
Anne Temple, and her daughter. Lone women they were, the older one ill,
and both suffering much from the hardships of the siege. Miles has leave
to visit Hopewell soon, so he will perhaps tell you the tale of his
adventure himself, but, being so modest, he will not let you see how
bold a stroke it was.”
After the man had gone, Clotilde stood dreaming beside her wheel,
forgetting to wind the spindle or take up another roll of wool. She was
proud of brave Miles, proud that he should risk himself on such a
chivalrous errand, and a little envious still that he should do such
things and she must bide at home. She longed to see him and tell him how
well she thought he had done. It was not until she heard Stephen’s slow
footstep on the path outside that she remembered herself and her task,
and fell to whirling her wheel around as swiftly as though it had wings.
Some days later she heard the story from Miles himself, who came
whistling up the path to knock at the door of Master Sheffield’s new
abode. Stephen, sitting in the big armchair, rose to greet him cordially
and bade him take his place on the settle on the opposite side of the
fire. Clotilde was just coming in from the kitchen as Stephen was
saying:
“These are brave accounts that we hear of you and your gallant rescue of
your Cousin Betsey Anne. We are all proud of you, lad.”
The girl could not, at that moment, see Miles’ face, but she noticed
that his ears turned suddenly the colour of flame and she heard him
mutter,
“I would that people did not make so much of so small a thing!”
“Nay, but it was no small deed,” insisted Stephen, “and the risk was
really great, as we all know. There is no hope of success in your effort
to make light of what you did, the grateful tongue of your Cousin Betsey
drowns all you can say.”
“It is so,” answered the boy with a sigh. “Did you ever know a woman so
feeble of body, yet so untiring of speech? I sometimes think it is small
wonder that the British were so willing to let her pass.”
“For shame, Miles,” laughed Clotilde, coming at this moment round the
corner of Stephen’s great chair. “You do a gallant deed and then seek to
spoil it by such ungallant words.”
Miles’ face lighted happily as he rose to greet her, but dropped once
more into gloom as he sat down again. For a few moments he remained
silent, gazing into the fire, and then burst out into hurried and
determined speech.
“You cannot know, Master Sheffield,” he said, “how terrible it is to be
praised by all for a deed whose memory brings me only rage and shame.
People call me brave when really I have done nothing save to prove that
I am the greatest and most blundering fool in General Washington’s army.
I came hither with the firm determination that you, at least, and
Clotilde, should know the truth of this adventure, since to you alone I
can speak freely. Ah, I could beat my head against the wall when I think
of what a booby I have been.”
“Tell on, boy,” directed Stephen, smiling, “but allow us to reserve
judgment until we know all.”
He leaned back in his chair, pulling at his long tobacco pipe while
Clotilde bent forward in hers, with her hands clasped tightly in her
lap. Miles drew a long sigh of relief, and began.
“My mother had spoken and written to me, more than once, of the plight
of her cousins who were alone and helpless in Boston and in great
distress. The British have been allowing the women and the
non-combatants to go forth, but held back all the able-bodied men, so
these two were free to go but, the mother being ill and the daughter
timid, the task of passing the lines alone seemed more than they could
undertake. The matter of coming to them looked hopeless for a time, but
in the end was simple enough. Certain market gardeners, living on the
outskirts of Boston but within the besieged circle, still sell their
wares in the town, and most welcome they are. One of these gardeners is
David Thurston’s brother, and, although the man himself is with our
army, his wife is carrying on the business to keep herself and the
children from starving. To this house, therefore, I stole in the night,
was given the clothes of the gardener’s boy and, in broad daylight,
drove into the town, mounted on a load of turnips and cabbages. Faith,
soldiers and civilians alike were so glad to see aught that they could
eat, that they had no eyes for the lad who brought it.”
“It was something of an undertaking,” commented Stephen. “You ran the
risk of being arrested as a spy, which is no pleasant fate.”
“I think you dared most nobly,” cried Clotilde, her eyes bright with
eagerness to hear the rest of the story, “and oh, what fun it must have
been to go through the streets crying turnips and cabbages!”
“Ay, it was for a time,” said the boy, “and my first mark of stupidity
was that I delayed my errand merely to enjoy myself and loitered about
far too long, watching the swaggering, red-coated soldiers and the
Hessians drilling on the Common. Presently, however, there passed a man
in a Captain’s uniform who looked at me so long and keenly that I
whipped up my horses, turned the nearest corner and drove rattling down
the street to Cousin Betsey’s house.
“The two women were so overjoyed and so astonished at seeing me that,
for a space, I thought they would never let themselves be rescued, so
busy were they weeping for gladness that I had come and for terror lest
I should not get safely away again. But at last, when it began to grow
dark, we made the sick woman comfortable on a mattress in the wagon,
packed in as much of their household stuff as we dared carry, and set
off.
“We had not yet passed the edge of the town, however, when Cousin Betsey
set up a great wailing that her bead purse, that had belonged to, I know
not how many grandmothers, and that contained five gold pieces, had, in
the hurry of departure, been left behind for British soldiers to make
way with, a thought far too terrible to endure. So, in my growing folly,
I must needs give the reins into Cousin Eliza’s hands and tell her to
drive on slowly while I slipped back to fetch the purse. Of course I
knew well that the risk to our safety was greater than the worth of the
money, but, to tell you the honest truth, I had begun to feel that
Cousin Betsey’s tireless tongue was a travelling companion hard to bear
with, and was glad of any excuse to be away from it for a little.
Besides, great oaf that I was, I began to feel that my unaided wit was a
match for the whole British Army.”
Stephen chuckled and then laughed aloud.
“Go on quickly with the tale,” he said, as Miles paused, perhaps spent
with such unaccustomed flow of speech. “I am anxious to know what
occurred next. It must have been a grievous happening, to make you
shower yourself with such hard names.”
“I reached the house safely enough,” went on the unhappy story-teller,
“and found the purse upon the table. I opened it to see if the contents
were safe and discovered at the bottom, besides the gold, a tiny
embroidered copy of General Washington’s new flag, with its union jack
in the corner and its thirteen stripes of red and white. Cousin Betsey,
loyal soul, had heard of our new banner and had made this one to carry
always with her. As I stood with it in my hand, I remembered passing a
building used for soldiers’ barracks where there was no guard outside
and where there was a great sound of revelling and roistering coming
from within. So I thought, like a clever lad, how excellent it would be
to pin this flag on the outside of the door and write beneath, ‘With the
compliments of General Washington’s Army.’ I turned Cousin Betsey’s
workbox upside down to find a piece of chalk and set off in high glee.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Clotilde, “how I should like to have seen the faces of
the soldiers when they found it!”
“The face to see was mine,” said Miles ruefully, “when, just as I was
scrawling my impertinent message, a hand fell upon my arm and a voice
said:
“‘Put that flaunting banner in your pocket, man, and come with me.’
“I turned and recognised the same officer who had looked at me so long
and earnestly near the Common. I thought of knocking him down and making
a run for it, but such an act would have brought a whole regiment about
my ears in a moment, so I could only grind my teeth and submit. He
slipped his arm firmly through mine and led me to a house near by, where
he unlocked the door and led me upstairs to his room. There he bade me
sit down and himself stood looking at me long and in silence. Had his
expression been a mocking one, I vow so great was my rage that I would
have sought to slay him on the spot, but he looked only grave and
thoughtful. Strange it is, Master Sheffield, but it flashed across my
mind that his face was somehow familiar and that, in a certain way, he
was like you.”
“Like me?” repeated Stephen in amazement, and then laughed again.
“Surely I would make a fine figure for a British soldier!”
“He was like you, whatever you may say,” Miles affirmed stoutly, “his
eyes were yours to the very life. We say in Hopewell ‘There is no blue
like Sheffield blue,’ for the colour and fire of your eyes and your
mother’s and your sister’s are things of which we often speak.”
Stephen glanced up quickly at the portrait hanging above the mantel, one
of the very few of his rescued possessions that he had brought to the
cottage. The picture was of Master Simon, painted before he left
England; it showed a dreamy-faced boy with those same wide, grave blue
eyes. Margeret Bardwell had had them, and Amos and Alisoun, but none of
them quite so like Master Simon’s as were Stephen’s.
“It is curious,” he said at last, “but go on with your tale. If we pause
to talk of the colour of eyes we will never come to the end of your
adventure.”
“When the officer spoke at length,” Miles continued, “his words knocked
all the wind from the sails of my silly vanity.
“‘I have been watching you,’ he said, ‘ever since you stopped by the
Common, and I had no difficulty in recognising you as an officer in the
Continental Army. It was not the first time we had met, however. Do you
recollect a night raid last October, when your men made a stand north of
Hopewell to the great discomfiture of the soldiers of King George?’
“‘What,’ I cried, ‘are you the officer that escaped?’ He nodded. ‘Then,’
I went on, further rage swelling in my heart, ‘you must have had a hand
in the burning of that house and garden!’
“‘I am glad to say, that was no work of mine,’ he answered; ‘my division
did not join the rest until that ugly task was done. The Commander’s
orders in the matter were strict and definite but had they been issued
to me I fear I would have made some trouble over obeying them. That is
not the question now, however. Here are you, a soldier out of uniform,
within the enemy’s lines, and that means hanging as a spy. What were you
doing here beyond decorating His Majesty’s barracks with the rebel
flag?’
“I explained my errand briefly and cursed the bragging folly that had
been my undoing. He interrupted my hot words, however, before I had gone
far on that subject.
“‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘how, when I escaped from that battle where
your forces fought to so much greater advantage than ours, there was a
certain officer of the rebel army who snatched a gun from one of his
men, slipped down a path that he knew and was waiting for me, with rifle
in rest, at the turn of the road?’
“‘Yes,’ I stammered, ‘I remember.’
“‘And do you recollect how he took careful aim as I galloped by and then
suddenly flung up his weapon and saluted me instead of firing? I
remember it well, even to the man’s face, for although it was a hurried
moment, one notes clearly the countenance of an enemy who is about to
take one’s life. I was thinking of it when I saw that same officer in
huckster’s clothes, standing by the Common. And I am thinking of it
still’—and here he opened the door—‘when I bid that man go free now, to
follow Cousin Betsey, who wants his protection more than King George
wants his life.’
“I tried to gasp out my thanks, but was too much amazed to speak the
half of what I felt. I had thought no one knew of my chance to slay the
escaping officer and of my having, at the last moment, no heart to take
the life of so brave a man. His face had been partly hidden by his
flying cloak and I should not have known him again.
“‘Waste no more time,’ he said, cutting short my stammering thanks;
‘there are two unprotected women out yonder on the lonely road. Take my
grey horse that stands before the door; when you have caught up with
your wagon you can turn him loose and he will come home again alone. So
go on your way, but I warn you, stay not this time to leave love-tokens
for the British Army.’
“You may be sure that I lost no time in carrying out his directions and
that Cousin Betsey received her purse in safety. Her complaints and her
description of the terrors she had felt over my being gone so long,
lasted us for many miles. The sentries permitted us to pass with earnest
recommendations that I come soon again with another load of provisions,
and before morning we were safe within our own lines. Cousin Betsey has
been spreading through all the country, it seems to me, the tale of our
escape and of my heroism, as she calls it. And I must needs be silent
under all these praises, for to tell of my real adventures would mean to
tell also how I failed in my duty as a soldier and did not capture a
fleeing enemy. Ah, but my heart is lighter, now that some one knows how
miserably I bungled the whole affair.”
Stephen arose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and came over to put
his hand on Miles’ shoulder.
“You do well to bemoan your heedless folly,” he said, “for you risked
much and for very little. None the less you did a brave deed in saving
those two women, but, since your Cousin Betsey sings your praises so
loudly, I will leave the task of doing you justice, to her. And think
not that you failed in your duty when you hesitated to slay a brave man;
there is no wrong in an act of plain humanity. I think that we acquit
you of those woeful charges against yourself. Eh, Clotilde, do we not?”
And most completely and heartily did Clotilde agree that Miles was the
most noble soldier in the whole patriot army.
“One satisfaction I did have,” Miles said more cheerfully. “When
Christmas came and my mother sent me a great hamper of good things, I
dared the passage to the house of David Thurston’s brother again, and
sent by his boy a fine ham and a large, fat goose as an aid to that
officer’s holiday dinner. I knew not his name, but I could give the lad
directions for finding the place where my friend lodged. And to the
goose’s leg I fastened a paper that said, ‘With the compliments of
General Washington’s Army.’”
“Do you think that he received it?” asked Clotilde.
Miles grinned.
“I know he did,” was his answer, “for, two days after, there was put
into my hand a packet containing a toy wooden gallows, such as children
use for the hanging in a Punch and Judy show. And to it was fastened a
paper saying, ‘With the compliments of King George the Third.’”