The tale of a Tory maid, a Patriot youth, and a kettle of scarlet dye.
In 1774-5, previous to the outbreak of the Revolution, the Callendars
were Royalists, and General Gage’s young British officers, one of whom
was related to the Callendars, frequently rode out from Boston to call
at the hospitable country-house. It was Polly Callendar whom they went
to see; her beauty and vivacious wit were the theme of many toasts.
And up to the evening of this story Polly was as disdainful of the
“minute-men” as was her mother.
At about noon of that day Madam Callendar was summoned to the bedside
of Elizabeth Ballard, a kinswoman living near Natick. She had left her
brick oven full of the week’s baking, and had set a large brass kettle,
filled with redwood dye, on the crane in the great fireplace. Madam
Callendar’s parting directions to Polly had been not only to watch the
oven, but to stir the boiling redwood.
Numerous skeins and hanks of woolen yarn, spun during the previous
winter, were immersed in it, and the last warning from Polly’s mother
was: “Redwood must never be hurried, Polly. Stir often, lass. Press
the hanks down hard with your clothes-stick, and then drop in a little
of this powdered alum to set the scarlet.”
So through the long, foggy afternoon it was Polly Callendar’s homely
task to watch the oven and tend the “scarlet kettle.” But with evening
came an unexpected diversion. A knock was heard at the outer door; and
when old Rastus, the negro servant, had opened it, a tall young man,
in provincial garb, inquired how far it was to Boston and what was the
road. Learning that the distance was still considerable, he entreated
hospitality, saying that having ridden since dawn, he was both tired
and wet. Polly at first demurred, but in the end, moved by his plight
and persuaded somewhat by his respectful manners and handsome face, she
sent Rastus to stable the horse.
She spread a plentiful supper before the wayfarer; and then, because
his appearance pleased her, she brewed for him some of her mother’s
cherished tea, and poured it into one of the delicate china teacups
that had come from England.
But the young man ate in silence, notwithstanding these attentions.
Truth to say, he was ill at ease. He was on his way to join the
minute-men, and he was bringing with him a hundred pounds that had been
contributed by the “patriot committee” of his native town. He feared
that in some way the redcoats had been given a hint of his mission.
Mounted men had stared hard at him that day, and he had thought it
wise to avoid a troop patrolling the roads. And now, despite the
quality of his supper, he paused to listen anxiously whenever horses’
hoofs or voices were heard without. Polly, noticing his uneasiness and
marking his blue colonial home-spun, drew her own inferences.
Of a sudden the young man took note of the kettle and its scarlet
contents.
“That is a bright dye which you have there, mistress,” he remarked.
“Are you fond of so high a color?”
“In good truth, sir, and why not?” replied Polly. “Have you fault to
find with it?”
“I would be but a churl, an I did,” answered the guest gallantly,
“since it is scarcely more pink than the cheeks of my fair hostess.
“The redcoats must feel flattered at your preference,” he added.
“And is it not the hue that all loyal subjects should prefer?” queried
Polly demurely.
“Nay, but I will not gainsay you, mistress,” replied the young man.
“And yet,” he added, “it is a color soon to fade under our American
sun.”
“But not from the hearts of the king’s loyal subjects,” retorted
Polly. “This is no rebel household, sir. My kinsmen, who were here but
yesterday, wear the scarlet and are the king’s loyal servants.” And
saying this she observed her guest closely and saw that he winced.
“Beyond doubt he is one of the patriots,” she thought. “But such a
handsome youth! Moreover, he is most courteous, and his voice and ways
are more gentle and respectful than those of Cousin Charles.”
As for the stranger, his heart sank afresh. “I will pay for my supper
and get on,” he thought. “I shall be safer abroad in the darkness than
here.” And he rose to take leave as gently as he might, but at that
moment the tramp of horses was again heard; and this time they did not
pass, but pulled up before the house door.
“My kinsmen, it is very like,” said Polly, smiling. “They wear sharp
swords, sir.” Then, as she noted the hunted look which the young man
cast about the room, her light and taunting manner changed. “Is it that
you would not like to meet them, sir?” she asked, in a low tone.
As she spoke there came an imperative rap at the outer door, and a cry
of “Open in the king’s name!”
“For heaven’s sake, mistress, show me some way out,” cried the
stranger. “It is less that I fear their swords, but I am on a mission
of importance.”
“Open, madam! Open, Polly! It is I, your Cousin Charles; and they say
there is a rascally rebel here!” cried the voice outside. “But we have
the house surrounded.”
Polly had turned toward a rear door, but hearing these last words,
darted to the centre of the room again. For an instant she was at
a loss. Then her eyes fell on the door of her mother’s storeroom,
a closet beside the large chimney, which it was Madam Callendar’s
practice always to keep locked; but in the haste of departing that day
she had forgotten to take the key.
“Here, sir,” Polly whispered. “Quick, be quick!” and she unlocked the
door, half pushed the man within and hastily turning the key again, put
it in her pocket.
“Open! Open!” cried the voices outside. “Open in the king’s name!” and
the raps were repeated.
“Coming, good sirs, coming,” cried Polly. Then her eye fell on the
young patriot’s greatcoat lying across the back of a chair. If seen,
that would betray all. She snatched it up and plunged it into the great
kettle of scarlet dye. Then throwing the door open and courtesying
low, as was the custom of those days, she cried: “Good-evening, Cousin
Charles. Welcome, good gentlemen. My mother has gone to Natick for the
day. Ne’theless you are right welcome.”
“Ay!” grumbled the young officer. “After my knuckles are skinned with
knocking. But prithee, Polly, have you seen naught of this insolent
knave?”
“Indeed, Cousin Charles, this is but a sorry jest!” exclaimed Polly
Callendar. “Since when has my family been aught but loyal to the king?”
“True,” assented the Briton. “Yet the rascal may be lurking about.”
“Enter, then, and see for yourselves,” cried Polly. “My mother would
earnestly desire you to purge her house of rebels!”
They came noisily in--while the young patriot’s heart beat fast--they
peered into nooks and corners, and presently ascended to the attic.
“Do not forget the cellar!” cried Polly gaily, opening the door and
handing her cousin a lighted candle. “Perchance the knave is hiding in
some bin or box.”
The quest there proved as fruitless as in the chambers; but on emerging
one of the party noted the closed door by the chimney and tried it.
“Why locked?” he exclaimed. “The key, fair mistress.”
“For that you will do well to ask my mother,” replied Polly carelessly.
“The closet is my mother’s keeping-room; and it is ever her custom to
carry the key in her pocket.”
“True,” remarked her cousin, who knew the ways of the household. “The
rogue will hardly have got into madam’s keeping-room. Doubtless he has
slipped away.”
“If ever he were here,” flashed back Polly. “But beyond doubt, good
cousin and gentlemen, you must be hungry after your hard ride. Will you
not partake of our cheer?”
Nothing loath, the young redcoats gathered about the supper-table,
where for an hour or more Polly maintained the reputation of the house
for loyalty and good entertainment. In truth, the soldiers were slow
to depart, and would hardly have gone by nine o’clock had not Polly
adroitly reminded her kinsmen that the “Knave” they were pursuing would
surely get clear away. Thereupon they took leave and rode off with
much laughter.
But fearful lest they might return, Polly waited long listening, and
not until old Rastus had come in to bar the outer door for the night
and close the shutters would she release her prisoner.
“Come forth, sir,” she at last commanded, with assumed austerity. “What
have we here? A rebel, I fear me, from all I am told.”
“But one profoundly grateful to his preserver,” replied the young man;
and to old Rastus’s great astonishment he took Mistress Polly’s hand
and gallantly kissed the tips of her fingers, albeit they were tinged
with scarlet from her dye.
“Methinks, sir, it but ill becomes me to accept such thanks from one
who confesses his disloyalty to King George,” Polly replied, still with
seeming severity, “and whose name I do not even know. But since you are
here, prithee take seat before the fire. For of necessity, sir, I have
made a good Royalist of you, so far as your greatcoat covers you. See!”
And with the clothes-stick she lifted the coat out of the kettle. “Not
Cousin Charles’s own is a brighter scarlet!”
The stranger burst into a hearty laugh.
“Good faith, I had not thought to wear a scarlet coat!” he exclaimed.
“Yet, sir, it may stand you in good stead as you ride into Boston
to-morrow,” replied Polly. “It was of that I thought as I dipped it.
And now let us powder a little alum in the mortar to set the hue. I
would not have thy loyalty wash out, sir, in the first shower that
falls on you.”
As a consequence, one young patriot found himself powdering alum to dye
his own coat scarlet. And midnight came and passed as he and Polly sat
in front of the great brass kettle, and old Rastus nodded in the corner.
Beyond doubt they became better acquainted in this time; and Polly
certainly learned the stranger’s name, for as the tall old clock in the
corner struck one, she said, “It is now time to wring thy coat, John
Fenderson.”
When wrung, it had still to be dried; and Polly put it for an hour into
the warm brick oven.
Somewhat puckered from the dye, the garment still required pressing
out; and to heat a sad-iron and accomplish this occupied yet another
hour. The old clock struck three.
“Truly, John Fenderson, making a king’s man of thee has been a long
task!” exclaimed Polly, as at last she held up the scarlet coat for
inspection. “Don it, sir! I would even desire to mark the effect.”
And what John Fenderson would not have done at the king’s command
he appears now to have done without hesitation at Polly Callendar’s
request. For between these two young people the grievous differences of
Tory and Patriot had already been dispelled--in the dyeing of a coat
before a fireplace.
“Good luck, John Fenderson, in thy brave coat,” said Polly at four
o’clock, as the young man took leave, after she had given him
breakfast. “May the color hold,” she added. “But if it fades----”
“I shall come back to you,” said John.
“Ah, but it will grieve me when I hear that thou art to be hanged for a
rebel!” cried Polly from the door.
“Nay, Mistress Polly, I should have but to send for thee to teach me
how to dye!” replied John Fenderson.
So he rode away, and had cause to be thankful for the disguise the coat
offered him; for while riding through Newton a little before noon, he
was hailed by three redcoats, two of whom raised their muskets; but the
third held them back, saying, “Nay, by his coat he must be one of our
men.”
There is much reason to believe that Mistress Polly’s loyalty to King
George was ever afterward open to question. At any rate, the records of
John Fenderson’s native town show that he married in 1779, and that the
bride’s name was Polly Callendar.