A MESSAGE FROM MASTER SIMON
In her laughter over Miles’ hearty disgust with himself, Clotilde, for a
little time after his visit, forgot to grieve over the ruined garden.
But when Spring came and there were no bright daffodils nodding by the
gate, when the covering snow melted and showed once more the charred
wreckage of the burned house, when the hedges displayed only a few green
twigs coming up from the roots, and the linden tree, long after the
whole green country was in abundant leaf and blossom, still stood a
blackened skeleton against the sky, then her grief awoke afresh.
In the kitchen garden, the apple trees and the row of beehives beneath
them had by chance been spared. Yet to see the apple trees blooming
alone in a black and desert waste, to watch the bees flying about in
bewilderment, looking for flowers that had once yielded such generous
honey, was worse, almost, than to have had all perish together. Clotilde
had need, through these days, of all her courage and of all Stephen’s
shrewdly comforting sayings, to keep up even a show of cheerfulness.
Two great events, however, the Spring brought, which were of equal and
joyful importance to the people of Hopewell. One was the abrupt
departure from Boston of General Howe and all his soldiers, British and
German. Early in March they had embarked upon their war vessels, had
hoisted sail and cleared the port of Boston with loudly expressed hopes
that they would never be so unlucky as to see it again. Many of those
wise prophets who are always ready to tell any one who will listen, just
what things are going to happen, protested loudly that the war was over
and began to criticise General Washington for not sending his soldier
boys home. But, strange to say, this eagerly offered advice seemed to
fall unheeded upon the Commander’s ears and the Continental forces still
remained under arms waiting for the next move.
The other event was the rebuilding of Master Stephen Sheffield’s house.
By an odd chance of war that brings about so many unexpected happenings,
the same hands that had burned it down were busied in building it up
again. Many of the Hessian prisoners taken the same night of the burning
had been quartered all winter in the Hopewell jail, much to their own
discomfort and that of every one else. The village place of
imprisonment, very little used of late, was now fairly bursting with the
captives of war. The officers had been exchanged, but the German
privates remained, a sore responsibility, although it must be owned that
they were patient, tractable and showed no eagerness to escape. Those
who had them under guard were glad to put their charges to work, while
the prisoners themselves were delighted to labour in the open air at a
trade in which many of them were skilled. Mustered into the army of some
small German ruler, enrolled against their will, bewildered but yet
obedient, they had been hired out to fight an enemy of which few of them
had ever heard. After fighting that foe conscientiously, thoroughly and
to the best of their ability, they were quite as willing, when so
ordered, to labour for their captors with the same silent, heavy
industry.
Stephen, during his stay in England, had learned to speak German, a
language used about the court as much as English. When he went among the
toiling workmen and spoke to them in their own tongue, it was pleasant
to see the stolid faces light up, to see the men’s eyes grow brighter
and their hands become more nimble in their enthusiasm to labour for the
“gnädige Herr.”
In July, when the bells in the town pealed out the thrilling tidings
that Congress, in the face of reverses and threatened defeat, had dared
to declare the Colonies, “free and independent,” amid the cheers of
Hopewell there went up many a sturdy German voice. Once it was explained
to them what the great news meant, there was no cap tossed higher than
theirs and no cheer more earnest than their deep, resounding “Hoch!”
“For,” as one of them explained to Stephen, “it is the first time we
have dwelt in a country where men dared speak out what they feel,
therefore why should we, though we be prisoners, fail to cry our joy
with the rest of you?”
And Stephen had smiled and cordially shaken the German’s great rough
hand.
There was no lack of material for the new dwelling, since that was amply
supplied by the ships sent out to raid upon the English commerce. Among
them was the Mistress Margeret, built by public subscription and bearing
the famous mainmast made from King James’ Tree. These raiders had
brought in more than one brick-laden vessel, carrying its cargo to some
Tory planter of Georgia or Carolina, who had planned a new dwelling with
no thought of a long-lasting war. The loads of bricks, of tall, white,
fluted pillars, carved mantels and door-lintels were sold at auction in
the seaport towns of New England and many of them bought by Stephen’s
agents. Some wealthy Loyalist of the South, no doubt, looked long and
anxiously out to sea that year, wondering why the duly ordered material
for his new house never came to port and little guessing that, far off
in New England, there was rising upon the site of Master Simon’s rough
little cottage and Roger Bardwell’s big white-painted house, a mansion
such as had never been seen in that neighbourhood before.
Had this rebuilding meant the outpouring of money needed for other
things, Stephen would have lived to the end of the war, and longer, in
Samuel Skerry’s little cottage. But material, as has been said, was
abundant, and many a poor man, beside the Hessians, stood sorely in need
of work. Mother Jeanne frowned often over Stephen’s threadbare coat and
rusty hat, but she could persuade him to spend no single penny upon
himself, when all of New England was in want.
“Monsieur pays those idle workmen twice too much,” she would storm, for
she had become a privileged character in the household and was suffered
to speak her mind with blunt directness when her feelings became too
much for her. “He is of such a poverty himself as to his clothes, that,
were it not for his gold-headed cane, no one could tell which was master
and which was man!”
“Our coats are of a like shabbiness, I own,” Stephen would return,
untroubled, “but there is one further difference; the man needs the
money at this moment and the master does not.”
Day by day, therefore, the house went up. The big white stone steps were
the same that Roger Bardwell had had put in place, and the wide chimney
was that one that Master Simon had built for his first dwelling, but
beyond these all was to be new, the walls this time being built of
clear-hued mellow brick instead of wood.
“When the house is done,” Stephen said to Clotilde, “and all this
tramping to and fro is at an end, we will turn our labour to the garden
and see what we can make of that,” but at this she only shook her head
sadly.
“It will never be the same,” she sighed. “There are no ship-loads of
shrubs and flowers coming from England and those that Master Simon
planted have perished forever.”
“Be not too sure of that,” Stephen answered with a smile, but Clotilde
refused to look at the matter hopefully.
By autumn the dwelling was ready for occupation and a splendid half-new,
half-familiar place it seemed. Stephen had bought only such material as
the ship-owners had to sell and had spent only such money, in the
building, as would help his fellow townsmen. Therefore the house was
only half finished, with carving and panelling in one apartment and bare
rafters in another, with rough wooden shutters where windows should have
been and walls of unsmoothed boards in many of the bedrooms. The big
drawing-room was completed, however, with its white cupboards and
panelling and long casement windows opening to the east. In the hall a
great carved staircase with a white balustrade and mahogany handrail
wound up to the second floor. The round window on the landing encircled,
like a frame, a far view of rocky capes, scattered islands and broad,
blue sea. Here Clotilde loved to kneel upon the cushioned seat and watch
for hours the whirling gulls, the blue October sky and the sunlight on
white, swiftly-moving sails.
When the word went forth that Master Sheffield’s house was at last
completed, the doors of Hopewell opened and out came, in long and
straggling procession, those household treasures that the friendly souls
of the town had risked their lives in rescuing. There were framed
pictures, from the huge, heavy portraits down to the little sampler over
which Margeret Radpath had pricked her fingers on the very day that
first she laid eyes upon Roger Bardwell. There were the old bits of
pewter that had belonged to Mistress Radpath when she was a bride, there
was the bowl that was Samuel Skerry’s unwilling marriage gift, there was
the wonderful silver service given to Stephen when on his mission to
England. There were rolls of homespun linen sheets, Stephen’s own
armchair, and Clotilde’s little polished spinning-wheel. Much, of
course, had perished in the flames, but so much had been saved that
Stephen, Clotilde and Mother Jeanne could only wonder, rejoice and
forget what was gone beyond recall. Last of all there stumped up to the
door—where the silver knocker set by Paul Revere once more shone
resplendent—that same old man who had told Stephen the tale of the
burning. Fumbling in his pocket, he brought forth a velvet case which he
put into Clotilde’s hand.
“Since I am so old and awkward, there was little I could save,” he said,
“but I spied a cupboard standing open and this within, so I carried it
home to be kept safe for you and Master Sheffield. This whole long
winter, when there was little fire on my hearth and starvation waiting,
seemingly, only just around the corner, I used to get out this treasure
and warm myself at the glow of the jewels. And it is proud I am to have
something to bring to you when all the others are carrying their
offerings hither!”
Clotilde snapped open the cover and found within the diamond star that
had been given by the King of France to Stephen and by him to her. She
had often thought of it, but always as lost beyond hope of recovery, so
she gave, now, a glad cry of surprise and ran to show Master Sheffield
that her greatest treasure had come back to her. The man would accept no
thanks, nor consider it any merit that, in the midst of such dire
poverty, his honesty had never been tempted by the shining stones.
“There would have been a curse on me, and a well deserved one,” he said,
“had I even thought of keeping for myself that which belongs to you who
have been so good to me.”
A great feast took place in Stephen’s house, a housewarming where all of
Hopewell was made welcome. The occasion, although it should have been
one of rejoicing, for was not Master Sheffield safe and sound in his own
house again, was tinged with gloom, since the British had taken
possession of New York and General Washington’s army was in retreat
through New Jersey. Louder and louder were growing the criticisms of
Washington, while many wiseacres were saying openly that he had not the
ability for a Commander-in-Chief, and that Benedict Arnold should have
been the man. Others, too, there were who said just as loudly that the
war was over and the victory with the English, the same prophets who,
six months ago, had wished to disband the army, since America was safe.
At the end of the evening, when the feasting was over and the guests
were ready to go, Stephen Sheffield, standing upon the stairway above
the heads of all the people, made a speech that many of those who heard
forgot not to their dying day. He spoke first of the thanks that he owed
them all, and, though his words were few, they were so simple and
earnest that every one who had done him a service felt more than
worthily repaid.
“But with my thanks,” he said, “is coupled a request, for I must ask you
for a service greater than any you have yet done me. I beg that you
speak no further ill of that heavy-hearted man who leads our armies, who
with troops deserting, money lacking, food and clothing scarce and with
winter close upon him, never admits defeat, and will still lead his men
to victory. Not because he is merely a friend of mine do I ask you to
abstain from evil-speaking of him in my house, but because he is the
friend of all of you, fighting for you—and you—and you,” here certain of
the guests hung their heads for, with unerring finger Stephen had
pointed to the worst offenders, “and will you, by your idle words make
his task heavier?”
It was a sober company that said good night and filed out through the
great doorway. A dozen, at least, of the men present had been in
Washington’s army, but, having enlisted for only a few months, had come
home at the end of that time, vowing that they would risk their lives no
longer in a hopeless cause. Among this number was David Thurston,
although he had better excuse than the others, since his feeble old
mother, who dwelt in Hopewell, was in sore need of his support and aid.
Early the next morning, before it was yet light, there was a tapping at
the silver knocker and Clotilde, slipping down with a candle in her
hand, opened the door and found David Thurston on the steps. It was a
raw, cold November dawn with gusts of rain and a sharp, merciless wind.
Yet there stood David and, on the driveway below, mounted on shivering
horses, were twelve village lads, muffled in their high-collared
homespun coats and fur caps.
“Tell the master when he awakes,” said David hurriedly, “that we are off
to the wars again, to fight for General Washington, since his need is so
great. Say that when we heard Master Sheffield’s words and saw him grown
old and broken in this struggle for Liberty, we were ashamed to sit warm
and comfortable at home and let others win our battles for us. And,
Mistress Clotilde,” he added, his voice breaking, “will you look to my
poor old mother now and again? I doubt that she will be here when I
return, for we are not coming back until every redcoat has been swept
from America.”
He pressed her hand in a rough, trembling clasp of farewell, strode down
the steps, mounted his horse and, followed by the others, rode away into
the face of the whistling, sleety wind. Among the group that pressed
forward with bent shoulders and bowed heads, Clotilde recognised the
broad backs of three of the German prisoners, who had given up their
chance of exchange and return to their own homes, and were now to fight,
for the first time in their lives perhaps, on a side of their own
choosing.
November passed, and December, with still the depressing news of retreat
and ever retreat before the overwhelming numbers of the British.
Clotilde long remembered that dreary Christmas night when the wind
shrieked down Master Simon’s chimney and banged and shook at the heavy
wooden shutters, while she, Stephen and Mother Jeanne huddled about the
fire and tried to smile at Stephen’s merry stories and cheerful talk.
All three of their hearts were so heavy with thoughts of the struggling
army, of freezing soldiers crouching over camp fires, of the desperate
struggle against almost hopeless odds, that it was Stephen alone who
managed to speak confidently and to see in the blazing fire pictures of
hope, victory and peace at last.
On New Year’s day came the tidings of that marvellous crossing of the
Delaware and the capture of Trenton. People brightened then and began to
speak more cheerily. Strange to say, it was only Stephen who shook his
head over the news.
“A General who must take such fearful risks as that,” he said, “is
plainly in such dire necessity that he must win, or lose all. May Heaven
help him!”
On an afternoon in April came a messenger, covered to his eyes with
splashings of mud, clay and gravel, and bearing a letter from General
Washington to Stephen.
“Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York and New England have combined to
decorate them,” he said, displaying his great jack boots, “but there was
naught of bad roads or hidden enemies could stay me on an errand that,
so His Excellency said, was desperate in its need for haste. Things have
come to a fearful pass with the army!”
Stephen, however, although he read the letter carefully, seemed in no
hurry with his reply.
“See that the man is well cared for,” he directed Clotilde. “It is too
late for him to set forth again to-day, so let him lodge here and
receive my answer in the morning.”
There was something in his voice, as he spoke, that made Clotilde start
and turn, a note of dull, despairing weariness such as she had never
before heard from him. She ran to him and put her hand on his arm.
“What is it, oh, what is it, Master Sheffield?” she cried.
“You may read the letter, child,” he said, handing it to her, although
with fingers that trembled. “And do my bidding, see that the messenger
is fed and rested and treated well. As for me, I must be alone a little;
the letter calls for an answer in haste, but I know not—I know not what
to say!”
Quickly Clotilde ran to do as Stephen directed and to see that the
travel-worn rider was comfortably bestowed in the chimney corner with a
hot meal before him. Not until then did she creep to her own room and
open the letter. It was short and in General Washington’s own hand.
“For the love of God and of our Country,” it ran, “send me help if you
are able. My army is dwindling daily, and, without new recruits—not a
mere handful, nor a few hundreds, but thousands—the cause of Liberty is
lost. Many have left whose terms of enlistment were up, hundreds more
have deserted on account of the lack of food, of clothing and of the pay
that Congress does not send. That I should call upon you, who are
already spent with doing so much, is only the proof of my desperate
need. If there is aid in the world, it lies with you alone.”
Clotilde stood staring blankly out of the window, the letter clutched in
her hand. General Washington confessing that he was at the end of his
resources, Master Sheffield finally giving way to despair and owning
that he knew not what to do! Could there be fuller proof that all was at
an end? So the war was lost then: the sacrifice of Master Simon’s
garden, all the suffering, all the bloodshed, all had been in vain! What
a black, black world it was.
She slipped on her blue cloak, drew up its hood and ran downstairs and
out-of-doors. As she passed the study, she saw Stephen sitting in his
armchair, his face bowed in his hands; she heard something like a groan
sound through the hall as she softly closed the outer door. Once she had
been accustomed to look for help and comfort in the garden, but now it
was only a dreary waste that made her even more sick at heart, as she
hurried across it and out through the white gate. Beyond the village,
among the tall, silent trees of the forest, perhaps she could find a
little peace and soothe her whirling wits into forming some plan to help
her dear Master Sheffield.
She trudged down the rough country lane, the high Spring wind ruffling
her hair and finally blowing back the hood of her cloak. The way was
muddy and full of little rippling pools, where she could see reflected
the blue sky and sailing white clouds. The hedges were budding and the
grass on the sunny banks growing green, and a meadow lark, perched upon
a gate post swelled his yellow breast and sang a song that was all for
her. In spite of herself, she began to be a little comforted and to feel
some of the gladness of the growing world, although heavy trouble still
lay like lead upon her heart.
Leaving the lane, where it skirted the wood, she plunged into the forest
itself. The dead leaves and old, withered brambles were almost knee deep
and were soaking wet, sharp twigs reached out and caught her hair and
hood with crooked fingers. But the wind still blew gaily among the
treetops and swaying anemones and blue-eyed hepaticas smiled up
cheerfully at her as she passed along.
Only by chance was it that her eye caught a distant glimpse of flaunting
yellow, so bright that it drew her attention even from those absorbing
thoughts of Stephen, General Washington and Miles. The little clearing
that she was about to pass showed, there at her right, such a gleam of
brilliant colour as no wild Spring flowers ever could display. In spite
of her preoccupation, she was obliged to turn aside and see what it
could be. Bending back the bushes, she peeped into a little glade, and
caught her breath with delight and wonder at what she saw.
At the foot of a high, dark, granite boulder, and all down the slope of
woodland grass that dipped toward her, grew a mass of yellow daffodils.
How could they have come there, by what means had they escaped from
civilisation and bloomed here in such joyous, reckless profusion? Their
yellow heads rocked and curtseyed in the wind, their eager faces were
turned to the sunshine that, at the very moment of her coming, looked
out from behind a cloud and transformed the yellow petals into gleaming
gold. Suddenly Clotilde dropped upon her knees and flung her arms about
the nearest clump.
“You darlings,” she cried, “you darlings, you are from Master Simon’s
garden!”
There could, indeed, be no other explanation for the flowers. She knew
well that Master Simon, when he had more plants than he and his
neighbours needed, often set them out by wayside springs or in nooks and
corners of the wood where they were seen through the years only by the
peering Indians or the wild wood animals. But surely it must have been a
hundred years ago that he, with spade and basket full of nodding yellow
flowers or tight-jacketed brown bulbs, had come to set out this little
garden that was to grow and spread and fill the glade with sunshine long
after he was dead. Wars had raged past them, three generations had come
and gone, Indians and wild things had disappeared, forever, from these
forest hills, but still the flowers bloomed and faded and bloomed again,
silent proof that the work of such hands and hearts as Master Simon’s
never died. Clotilde, with a joyous laugh, began quickly to gather great
sheafs of the daffodils and to pile them high in her apron.
Meanwhile Stephen had sat long in motionless silence but at last raised
his head from his hands and looked hopelessly about him. Slowly he
reached to take up his pen, dipped it in the ink and then sat staring at
the blank white paper before him.
“To His Excellency, General George Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the
Continental Armies,” he wrote at last, and then paused long again.
“Can I tell him,” he finally said aloud, “can I say that the struggle is
over and America can do no more? Two years have we fought bravely, but
can a handful of scattered Colonies hope longer to resist a mighty
Empire? Ah, God knows, God knows!”
With a long, dreary sigh he dipped his pen in the ink again and began to
write.
Suddenly a far door flew open with a bang, feet came running down the
hall, his study door burst open and in came Clotilde. Her apron and her
arms were full of golden flowers that spilled from her hands, dropped
over table and floor, were tumbled upon Stephen’s knees and, so it
seemed, filled the whole room with yellow sunshine.
“See, Master Sheffield,” she cried, “they are for you—from Master
Simon!”
Stephen passed a trembling hand across his forehead.
“From Master Simon?” he repeated, bewildered. “My child, what can you
mean?”
With much incoherence and several beginnings at the wrong end, Clotilde
managed to explain how she had been walking in the wood, lonely,
sorrowful and in utter despair, how she had come upon the flowers and
how she had felt as though a friendly hand had been stretched out across
the hundred years to cheer and comfort her. Stephen listened wondering.
“Master Simon!” he said at last in a shaking voice. “To think that in
this dark hour I had forgot Master Simon and his roofs of gold!”
As he still sat, looking silently at the yellow blossoms, Clotilde
stooped to lift a paper from the floor.
“Oh, dear,” she said ruefully, “here is your letter that I swept down
with the flowers and see, it is all blotted and wet through my
carelessness!”
“Never mind,” returned Stephen, sitting bolt upright, and taking his pen
again, “bring me another sheet for I have a different message to write
now. Send that man of General Washington’s to me for I will despatch him
to-day after all. And do you, my child, and Mother Jeanne, pack my
clothes and bid Jason and Michael to make ready for a journey.”
“A journey,” faltered Clotilde, “a journey in this wild, wet Spring
weather?”
“Yes, a journey,” he repeated firmly. “I am going forth to gather men
for General Washington’s army.”
“Oh, no, no!” cried the girl in alarm, but she went to do his bidding,
nevertheless.
A few minutes later, Mother Jeanne, with her gravest face and most
severe manner came bustling in.
“What is this of Monsieur’s journey?” she said. “It must have been that
I did not hear aright. It will cost Monsieur his life, and that is a
life we cannot spare.”
“Woman,” replied Stephen with a sternness so new that Mère Jeanne was
utterly taken aback and stood staring at him open-mouthed. “So far
America has given to this war but what she could spare, now we must all
give more than that. Go I must, and I will look to you and to Clotilde
to take care of the poor of Hopewell until I shall come back.”
Mother Jeanne hesitated a moment, then dropped a curtsey as her brown
face wrinkled into a proud smile.
“Monsieur may rely on us to do our duty,” she said.