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[Illustration:
_Molly—Frontispiece._
MOLLY.]
MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY
A Story of the Revolution
by
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
Original Half-Tone Illustrations by Curtis Wager-Smith
Slowly the mist o’er the meadow was creeping,
Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun,
When from his couch, while his children were sleeping,
Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.—_Holmes._
Philadelphia
Henry Altemus Company
Copyright, 1900, by
Henry Altemus Company.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
A Word Before Beginning
Molly was an odd name for a boy, you will say, especially for a soldier
boy, and a brave one at that. But before you can understand, you will
have to read my story. When you have finished I feel quite sure that you
will do what I did after reading the bit of old history; give a hearty
thought of thanks to the brave drummer, who, during the war of the
Revolution, passed like a gleam of brightness, fun—and alas! sadness
through the scenes of war and bloodshed; winning the friendship of all,
the esteem and consideration of General Washington himself, and lastly a
page or so in history. From the past I lead you forth, oh! hero of long
ago, and present you to the hero and heroine lovers of to-day, feeling
sure that a warm welcome awaits you.
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK.
[Illustration]
MOLLY,
THE DRUMMER BOY
CHAPTER I.
HOW DEBBY LOST HER FATHER.
Before there was a Molly, there was a Debby Mason, and with her we must
deal first.
One July morning, over a hundred years ago there stood in a forlorn room
of a log house in Plymouth, a tall, severe looking woman in rich
apparel, and a ragged desperate child of fourteen. On the floor in a
drunken stupor, lay a man.
“See, lass,” said the woman, “there lies thy father quite drunk. Look at
thyself; in rags thou art, and shamefully neglected.”
“But I love my father!” Debby blazed forth, “and when he awakens who,
pray, is to care for him if I go away?”
“But I tell thee, child, he hath joined this wild crew who are headed
for Boston, and thou wilt be turned on the town.”
“’Tis a lie!” screamed the girl, “he did not know when he promised. He
would not leave me, but even if he did he would come back, he always
does!”
Mrs. Lane paused, not knowing how further to explain the truth to the
wild child.
“Lass, hear me, for thy mother’s sake I am trying to save thee. I never
knew her story, but she was a lady. In meeting, thy case hath been
considered, thy father is no longer to be tolerated in the town, he must
go, and I have taken thy care upon myself.”
Debby stared in bewilderment, then slowly the truth dawned upon her.
Old Thomas Martin had been ordered from the town, and poor Jack bound
out to Elder Morris. It was quite plain, her father was to go also, out
into that somewhere of silence and absence, and she was bound out to
Mrs. Lane like a slave; she, proud, free Debby Mason!
“I won’t go with you!” she shrieked, “I’ll go with father! He loves me,
and, and beside I promised mother!”
Just then the man upon the floor stirred and roused; after many
exertions he sat up. One look at his little daughter and Mrs. Lane
steadied him.
“Good morning!” he smiled foolishly; “I’m afraid I’ve taken a drop too
much again. Debby, child, don’t take on so, I’m going away so that I
won’t disgrace you any more. There’s going to be trouble sure as you
live, and I’m going to fight. If I come back, lass, I’ll be a man.”
He arose clumsily and stood before the woman and girl with downcast
eyes. Debby grew white to the lips.
It was true then. He was going away. After all she had borne and
suffered for his sake, he was turning his back upon her, leaving her to
fare as she might. Little poor Debby knew of patriotism, or the new talk
of war and a republic; she had not even that hope to help her bear this
blow.
Just then, down the street came a straggling company of men and boys
headed by a drum and fife. As they drew near Mason stood straighter and
taking from the wall a rusty gun, staggered to the door. Mrs. Lane drew
Debby back.
“Come on, Mason,” called the men; “if they don’t want you in Plymouth,
you’ll soon be wanted out yonder. There’s plenty of room in Boston for
men like you and us.”
Mason reeled on. Debby could not let him slip from her without one more
struggle. She broke away from Mrs. Lane and ran after the swaying
figure.
“Father!” she cried, “take me with you! I love you! I love you! Remember
what mother said!”
The man stood still, sobered for a moment by that magic name.
“Lass,” he whispered putting his arms about her, “all they said in the
meeting was true. I’m going to be a man, so help me God for her sake and
yours—or I won’t come back!”
“Come on Billy!” yelled the crowd, “Deb can do without you!”
Clinging to her father poor Debby’s rage and despair rose. She shook her
fist at the laughing mob.
“You’re a mad lot!” she cried, “the whole town is mad to take my father
from me. I curse you all! I curse you every one for what you have done!”
The men laughed loudly.
“Bring your drum, Deb, and come along,” called one. “You need not part
with the old man. You’re as good as a lad any day, and a better fighter
I swear than your daddy. Come on and drum us to victory.”
Debby stooped and picked up a stone, then flung it into the crowd. An
oath came from the man hit and in the excitement Mason, with bowed head
joined the yelling rabble.
“Shame on thee, lass!” cried Mrs. Lane laying firm hands on the sobbing
girl, “who would ever think thy mother was a lady? The town hath done
well to try and save thy soul and body. Thou art possessed of a devil.
Follow me!”
The door of the wretched home was closed. Nothing mattered any more.
Meekly enough Debby followed her rescuer up the hill to the white house
on the top. Poor Debby! in the neat home, with plenty to eat and decent
clothing she was absolutely miserable.
Since her mother had died five years before she had led a wild
uncared-for existence. Among her father’s rude companions she had shared
food and drink, when there was any, and had gone hungry and cold without
complaint when times were hard.
In Mrs. Lane’s well ordered life and home, she was a worse outcast than
amid the poverty and shame. There she had at least the love of the poor
wretched father who, when he was sober, remembered the past, and
lavished affection upon her. With Mrs. Lane she was watched, distrusted
and whipped for misdeeds, and under the new order of things her soul and
body were in a very bad way indeed. With a burning longing she fretted
in silence for news of her father, but how could she hope, in Mrs.
Lane’s loyal home, to hear of the doings of the wild rebels who were
defying their King and his laws?
It mattered little to Debby whether her father was Whig or Tory, no
matter what he was she hungered for him day and night.
There was one other thing Debby hungered for, that was her drum; it had
been her one childish toy, the treasure of lonely years.
She had always longed to be a boy, and her drum was the concession her
father had made to her desire.
Upon it he had taught her to beat so clearly and in time, that she had
become famous among his boon companions.
But there was no place in Mrs. Lane’s house for such an unmaidenly
thing, and to save it from destruction, Debby had hidden it behind the
old home in a bit of woodland. Thither she sometimes ran when life
pressed hard, and with muffled sticks, beat frantically upon the blessed
comfort.
During the year which dragged drearily away after Mr. Mason left the
town, Debby learned to do some useful things in her new home, and she
grew straight and tall and strong; but her heart was hard and bitter.
Strange as it seemed though, in all her misery in the prim existence,
she remembered her mother clearer than ever before, and snatches of old
talk and scenes came sharply to her mind.
It had not always been such a sad life as Debby had last known with her
father. Once the home was neat and cosy, and dimly an old story,—a story
never finished, floated through the girl’s mind.
“Some day, child, when thou art older,” it was the mother who had
spoken, “I will tell thee of my home. Perhaps we’ll write a letter, they
may like to see thee, little lass. Try to be a lady, dear, then they
will not be ashamed of thee.” Things grew confused as Debby tried to
think, but there was one night that was ever clear. It was the last
night of the clean happy life. “Be a lady, Debby child, and whatever
happens stay with father like a good maid. Save him, dear, he was a fine
man once. He will tell thee the rest of the story some day.”
How vividly Debby remembered clinging to the poor mother and sobbing out
the promise to stay with father. After that scene all was confusion and
misery. The untold story was never finished or asked for. Uncared-for
and neglected poor Debby became an outcast among decent children, and
the butt of the reckless ones.
And so it had gone from bad to worse until the town had ordered Bill
Mason from the village of his adoption, and had bound Debby to Mrs. Lane
for five years.