The Die Cast
The next day was Sunday. As I walked about the hedged garden in the
early morning, as I looked away toward Boston and marked the general
quiet of the country about, I was surprised that I did not see more
evidence of war and disorder. Except some white tents in the distance,
and the occasional passing of a supply wagon from the country, there
was really nothing to break the Sabbath quiet, or to remind one that
the city of Boston was closely invested by thousands of farmer
soldiers, and that a great revolution was in progress. When the church
bells chimed out sweetly on the beautiful spring air, it seemed harder
still to think that the time of peace had really passed.
I left the garden and re-entered the house. At the foot of the stairs
I met my sister Caroline.
'You will come with us to church, Roger,' she said. 'Doctor Canfield
will be delighted to see you back.'
My mind ran back a little. Would I not be in danger of arrest? The
whole country, I knew, was swarming with spies. I thought of the part
I had played in saving Duncan Hale, also of my imprisonment and escape.
I had not thought of openly showing myself, at least for a little while.
But Caroline was of quite a different mind. 'You will be in no more
danger in church than at home,' she argued. 'I have seen many at
church lately who I am sure are in favour of the King. Since you left,
things have gone on quite as usual; nobody has been molested, and
Doctor Canfield has said nothing of the war. Then Roger'--she came
nearer to me, and put her hand upon my arm--'should we not go to church
to-day, at least, and pray that God might guide us to do what may be
best?'
I felt once more rebuked by my sister.
In less than half an hour I was seated, with my mother and two sisters,
in the handsome church that had been for years the pride of the town of
Cambridge. Not even Boston could boast a finer church building, or a
more cultured congregation. Boston was a centre of trade; its narrow
and crooked streets; its wharves and many ships; its mixed population;
its noise and taverns; its large and busy crowds, had for years stood
out in sharp contrast with the quiet and delightful country culture of
Cambridge. The educated and the wealthy, particularly those in whom
the English instincts were strongest, had, like my father, chosen to
live in the country rather than in the city. Thus it was that, when
Doctor Canfield entered his pulpit that Sabbath morning, he faced
representatives of all that was best and most intellectual in the life
of the colony.
On glancing about I noticed that the church was very full. Doctor
Canfield's church was not the only one in Cambridge, but as a rule to
it came not only all the Episcopalians, but most of the Scottish
Presbyterians, who had not, at that time, a church of their own in the
town. They had been, mainly, silent people, who had lived quietly,
without doing or saying anything that betrayed sympathy with either
side. Were these friends of the King? Did the circulating of the
papers calling for a declaration of sympathy explain their presence in
such large numbers this morning at Doctor Canfield's church?
My mother had told me previously that many of them had been attending
our church for some weeks. Had the great sifting and selecting process
begun? Had persecution here, as in the country, been making friends
for the King? At any rate, as I looked about, I was led to hope that
religious differences were likely to be obliterated, or sunk, in loyal
zeal for the King's cause.
I was interrupted at this point in my thinking by Doctor Canfield
announcing his text. It was, 'Love the brotherhood; fear God; honour
the king.'
He repeated the words twice with much deliberation.
A great, strained silence fell upon the vast congregation. I was
startled; for a time my breath came short and uncertainly. Had the
reserved, hitherto-silent man, made up his mind to declare himself?
One great question--the question raised and forced home to each of his
hearers by the papers such as my mother had received--filled every
mind. But great and pressing as this question was, could it be
discussed? I felt sure I knew what Doctor Canfield would say; he was
an honest man, and would honestly speak his mind. But was he sure of
the temper and sympathies of his hearers that day? Had he counted the
cost?
I glanced at my mother, and saw that she was plainly agitated. Even
Elizabeth, my sister of but twelve, seemed to realise that a crisis was
at hand. Caroline's face was serenely calm. On every countenance that
I could see there sat an expression of profound, even painful interest.
The silence deepened, and the interest grew, as the minister proceeded.
He first briefly discussed the part of his text bearing on love of the
brotherhood; then touched briefly, but with earnestness, on the
necessity for fearing God, and passed to the third and last part of his
subject.
As he approached this, I noticed that a note of emotion had crept into
his voice, and some of the colour had slipped down from his face; but
he was still very calm, and spoke unbrokenly as he finished his second
heading, and then twice repeated the words,
'Honour the King!'
At this point he suddenly stopped. The silence that fell was painfully
intense. People leaned forward; here and there heads went down on the
pews in front. I felt my heart beat quick and unevenly. But the
apparent calmness of Doctor Canfield reassured me.
He did not proceed with his sermon; but, picking up a paper that lay
beside the Bible, he slowly opened it, then brought it before the gaze
of the people. I recognised the paper at once as being similar to the
one received by my mother.
'It is not necessary,' he began, 'that I should read to you, my
brethren, the contents of this paper. With what is here written, you
are no doubt familiar. This paper has brought before us all a matter
of the supremest importance. I have given it the most earnest and
careful consideration. In regard to you, my brethren, as to the course
you should pursue in this great and lamentable crisis that is now
facing our beautiful but unhappy country--concerning you, I have
neither suggestions to offer, nor advice to give; but for myself, I
feel now constrained, in the presence of God and of this congregation,
to say that in the past my sympathies have been, at the present they
are, and in the future they shall be, always and only with my true and
rightful sovereign, the King of England.'
He said no more. The people before him sat stunned and dumb. Many had
known his mind before; many were aware that when he spoke he would
speak as he had spoken; and yet, to even these, the declaration came
with a shock. Hitherto, he had proclaimed only the gospel; he had
stood apart from politics; he had considered himself the pastor of all,
not of part, of his people. But there is a time when to be silent is
to be false--when to be true one must speak. Doctor Canfield had
evidently felt that such a time had come in the New England Colonies of
King George, and he had spoken in words that could not be misunderstood.
Slowly the people recovered from the shock. Those who had leaned
forward leaned back. All through the church there was a swaying
movement as when a harvest field is wind swept. I noticed evidences of
relief and joy steal into the faces of many; but on the countenances of
others there were unmistakable signs of disappointment and anger. I
saw at a glance that a majority--but not all--were for the King.
Doctor Canfield stood as still as a statue. His face had gone very
white. Soon through the sound of swaying people, there came to my ears
the noise of footsteps. Then a moment later, all over the church, men
and women rose and pressed toward the door. A few of the leaders of
the church went, old and true Episcopalians, some also of the
non-Episcopalians. The faces of many who remained showed signs of
struggle and indecision. A few rose and sat down again. Some looked
questions at those beside them. In the seat directly in front of us a
husband was leaving the seat when his wife drew him back. Not a few in
the church wept audibly.
And thus it was throughout all New England, during that Sunday and the
days following, that men, many of them in the house of God, silently,
suddenly, prayerfully committed themselves to the cause of King or
people. They saw themselves under two masters, and painful though the
decision was, they felt that they must, for the future, hold to the
one, even though it was difficult for them to find it in their hearts
to despise the other.
When all had gone who had resolved to go, when quiet had fallen again
in the church, the minister, without a word of further comment,
announced the National Anthem. The pent-up feelings of the people--and
there was yet a large congregation, for fully three-fourths of the
worshippers had remained--found freedom and relief in the old familiar
words.
Shortly after we reached home that day, through the green of the trees,
waving high in front of the rectory, I caught a glimpse of the Union
Jack.