The Trial and Escape
I did not speak. For a time the man evidently considered himself
alone. It was several minutes before--his eyes having become adjusted
to the partial darkness--he discovered me. His jaw dropped, his hands
went up, and I noticed some of the warm colour slip out of his face.
He drew sharply back, and gazed at me in undisguised amazement for some
moments. A little later the look of wonder shaded into one of sympathy.
'How long have you been here?' he said.
'Almost three weeks,' I told him.
'They've been usin' ye bad, haven't they?'
He came nearer and looked at me more closely than before. I tapped on
the door with my foot.
'This is my bed,' I said. 'The food is plain, to say the least.'
Looking at my face, he said, 'It must be.'
All the time he had been standing at the lower side of the mine, where
the water was well up about his ankles. When I told him the rock was
almost dry where I was, he came and stood beside me. There was a
sincere, honest look in the fellow's homely face, and when he asked me
how I came to be there, I told him my story without keeping anything
back.
'What has been takin' place outside?' I asked, when I had finished.
'What has been takin' place outside,' he repeated in a voice that rose
almost to a shriek. 'What hasn't been takin' place? Have ye not
heard?'
I assured him that I had heard nothing since the day of the funerals at
Lexington.
'The day I sowed my oats,' he exclaimed; 'the very day, I mind it well.
It was just after that they began scourin' the country. I lived three
miles from here well back on my own small farm. Myself an' several of
my neighbours had never taken any part in the disputes that were makin'
so much trouble in Boston. It didn't concern us. We were poor, with
families to keep, an' had no time to bother findin' out whether the
King was right or wrong. We were gettin' a livin', an' were happy.
The day o' the shootin', as well as the day o' the buryin', I went on
with my farmin'.
'The time they come for me I was in my fiel' as usual. "We've come
from the committee," they said. "What committee?" says I. "Oh," one
o' them broke in,--he was a Boston chap, not one o' our peaceable
farmers,--"Oh," says he, "is that all ye know about the affairs o' yer
country? We're authorised by the Committee of Safety to visit every
man in this county, and tell him he must either fight or flee."
'"Feth, a' I'll do neether," I said, an' whipped up my horses.
'They went off, an' I seen no more o' them till this mornin', when they
come again--an'--well, here I am.'
I had listened with a sort of greedy interest to every syllable. 'Were
there many in your settlement who refused to take up arms?' I asked.
'Bout half o' us at first; but when they begun the burnin', the
shearin' an' paintin' o' the cattle an' horses; the smashin' o'
windows, an' the threatenin' with tar and feathers, of course a number
got frightened, an' said they'd fight.
'Then in our settlement the way they used old man Williams scared a
lot. These men who said they'd been sent by the Committee o' Safety,
seized the old man one night, fastened all the doors an' closed the
chimney-top, and then smoked the ol' fellow so badly that it isn't
known yet whether he'll live or die. My own daughter was pelted with
rotten eggs--and by men, mind you, by men.'
His voice rose here almost to a scream, and I saw that great anger
burned in his face.
'That's what's been goin' on all over this whole country for the last
three weeks; an' that's not hearsay; I've seen it. It's cruel, it's
wicked, it's persecution, an' how can it be any less wrong because it's
done by the "Sons o' Liberty," as they call themselves? Fine liberty
that tears a man away from his wife an' children, an' farm, an' lands
him in a place like this.'
There was a note of bitter scorn in the closing words.
'These cruelties will make friends for the King, won't they?' I said.
'They will,' he said with emphasis; 'they've done that already.'
In answer to further questions I learned that my fellow prisoner's name
was David Elton; that he had been a farmer all his life, and that his
great hope was to return soon to his farm and family, which he claimed
never needed him more than in this spring season of the year, when
crops had to be put in. Of Boston and what was happening there he knew
nothing, except that the siege was still going on.
We spent the night, both of us sleeping as best we could, on the door.
The next morning we were blindfolded and led away. After a half-hour's
walk we found ourselves in the presence of one of the numerous
Committees of Safety.
These had, I learned afterwards, been organised all over the country as
soon as the mobs of the wilder sort, described by David Elton, had
driven away the lawful magistrates and judges who had held their
offices under the King. These committees were made up of the most
bitter partisans, and yet they were supposed to take the place of the
King's courts of justice. The committees were approved by the
Provincial Congress, and given absolute power over all matters civil as
well as military. Thus, during the first weeks of the war, did the
control of the entire country pass into the hands of the King's
enemies, who were not slow to avail themselves of the fruits of even
mob violence. The advantage gained through these committees was
immense, as by their proclamation all neutrals and opponents of the
revolution were designated rebels and enemies of authority and their
country.
It was before one of these committees that my fellow prisoner and I
were called. It was plain from the beginning that everything was
against us. The man who occupied the chair was not a farmer, I
noticed. I concluded at once that he, and at least half of the
committee of twelve, were residents of Boston. This fact I was quite
sure would not increase our chances of acquittal. I had often heard my
father express his confidence in the farmer people of the country, but
his opinion of many Boston merchants, whose sense of honour had been
dulled by years of trading in smuggled goods, was far from high.
As I looked about the room I soon recognised that there were many other
prisoners in addition to ourselves. I listened eagerly as one after
another was put upon the stand and questioned. It soon appeared to me
that most of the men were neutrals who, like David Elton, had been
taken forcibly from their farms because they had refused to take up
arms. A few boldly declared for the King; some promised to fight; many
wavered. These latter, as a rule, were given a time limit, in which to
decide finally, and were let go. The Loyalists were sent back to jail.
David Elton, when called, stoutly refused to declare himself. He
protested that he was a farmer, a man of peace, who had a large family
to support, and he was determined to go back to his farm. He was
handed over to a guard, then hurried away. Almost before the sound of
his loud, shrill voice, raised high in protest, was out of my ears, I
heard my own name sharply called by the court.
When I went forward I noticed a look of deepened interest on the faces
of both committee and spectators. My case was not like those of the
other prisoners, who were practically all farmers of the community. As
I faced the crowd of onlookers I noticed that two men suddenly and
quietly left the room. The chairman of the committee followed them
sharply with his eye, a few others turned to look, but the great
majority steadily and critically scrutinised myself. The murmur in the
building fell to silence.
'Your name?' was the first question asked of me.
I gave it, also my age and place of residence.
'Will you now relate fully and concisely all that has taken place in
your life since the morning of April twentieth?' This question was put
by the man who was acting as judge.
I had spoken but a few words when a member of the committee rose, and
addressing the chairman, asked to be excused. While I had not been
positive of the face, since the light had been uncertain when I saw the
man before, the first words he spoke dispelled all doubt. I knew the
man. He was the person whom I had heard addressed as 'Colonel,' on the
night Duncan escaped and I was made prisoner.
A chorus of protests broke from both committeemen and spectators.
Instantly I understood. This was the man whom I had heard declare he
would tell that Duncan Hale had been hanged. As a reward for his
supposed services he had been chosen a member of the Committee of
Safety!
During the parley that followed I was able to turn over the situation
in my mind. The men who had gone out had evidently been members of the
party which Duncan had eluded, and they had feared my story. What
would I do? The 'Colonel' feared it also. Would telling the whole
truth help or harm me? I did not care to go back to the mine, and I
felt that I should proceed with the utmost caution. The mere promise
to fight, I had learned from the cases of others that day, meant
freedom. Would not this simplify matters? Should I not here under the
circumstances be justified in making a promise that I did not intend to
keep. I was sure the truth, if told, would make trouble for the
'Colonel'; but would it not make corresponding trouble for myself by
showing my sympathy with Duncan Hale, who was hated as were few men of
the King's party? Finally, I resolved to hazard the whole truth.
The uproar in the court ended in the 'Colonel' not being allowed to go,
and I was ordered to proceed.
Knowing I had but one thing of importance to say, I spent little time
in leading up to it. I said I had taken no part in the dispute: that I
rode out to Lexington simply to learn the truth. I spoke of meeting
the body of troops, and of seeing the old man at the graves; I referred
briefly to the burial, even to the sermon--all this to stamp my story
as unmistakably true--then I plunged into the scene on the road to
Boston and told of Duncan's escape. 'And that man there,'--I said,
turning and facing the 'Colonel,' who sat pale and shivering,--'that
man there declared in the presence of all the others in the party, that
he would go to the village and tell the committee that Duncan Hale had
been hanged.'
[Illustration: "THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,'
WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING.]
I felt sure that this was the point where my story should close. I had
nothing stronger than this. Moved by a certain latent instinct for the
dramatic I broke off and sat down.
There was a short, ominous silence--then a great uproar. 'Traitor!'
yelled several at once, as they sprang upon the benches, waving their
arms wildly.
'Shoot him,' shouted others; 'he let him go purposely.'
But I heard little more, for the individual voices became indistinct in
the general chorus of angry shouts that burst from every part of the
room. Friends and defenders crowded near the 'Colonel,' and soon the
house was divided against itself. Had it not been that two armed
guards stood at the door, I think I would have broken for liberty.
Finally, standing upon the table behind which he had sat with so much
of badly simulated dignity, the chairman, very red and very hoarse,
succeeded in restoring order.
'We have agreed,' he said, 'that this whole matter shall be fully
investigated, and justice shall be done. It is certainly unwelcome
news to hear that the notorious Hale is still at large. If he has
escaped, as this lad declares, if among ourselves there are some who
are unworthy of our confidence, it is well that these things be known.
Everything will be fully investigated, and'--he roared the words so
loudly that they were almost unintelligible--'and justice shall be done
to both friend and foe.'
The whole assembly cheered mightily. Then the man on the table spoke
again.
'Now in the name,' he said, 'and by authority of the Committee of
Safety for the township of Lexington, I adjourn this meeting for one
week, and order that this boy Davis and Colonel John Griffin be kept
close prisoners till that time.'
I was not taken back to the mine, but was put in a comparatively
comfortable prison. That night--a little after midnight--I was aroused
by a low tapping on my door. As I drew near this it opened. I stepped
out. The brilliant May night was all about me: and it was very still.
Without a word a figure that crouched in the shadow of the door
motioned me toward the great black wood that stretched from the edge of
the prison yard away up the mountain. I flew off like a bird.
I was free at last, but whether they were friends of the 'Colonel,' or
friends of my own, who accomplished my release, I was never able to
discover.