_How the Wanderer Came to Rhode Island._
It was bitter cold. The icy wind howling through the forest caught up
the snow and whirled it in great eddies against the trees. Reuben
Mendoza, staggering through the blinding snowflakes, hugged his little
son Benjamin closer to his heart, and prayed desperately that the
storm might cease or that he might soon come to a place of refuge. His
own limbs were aching with fatigue and cold. He had eaten nothing
since early morning and was faint with hunger. Wearied and heartsick,
he would have been glad to lie down upon the ground, to sink into
sleep, perhaps a painless death, with the snow drifting above him; but
he knew that he must struggle on for the sake of the child he was
warming in his bosom.
Suddenly Benjamin, half asleep and numb with the cold, stirred a
little and complained drowsily that he was hungry. His father paused
for a moment and pressed his lean, bearded face against the child's
rosy cheeks. "Be patient, little one," he comforted him, "for soon we
shall find a lodging for the night. Surely, no one would turn even a
Jew away in a storm like this."
Again he plodded on, footsore and discouraged. The wind lashed him
like a whip, and, when he raised his head, the snow cut across his
forehead like stripes of fire. His lips moving almost mechanically in
prayer, Reuben faltered through the storm, until at last utterly
exhausted he stumbled to the ground. He tried to gain his feet again,
for he thought he saw a light glimmering through the trees; but he was
too tired to go farther. Why should he try to reach that light, he
asked himself, as he dreamily stretched his tired limbs in the snow.
But he felt little Benjamin moving beneath his cloak, and with one
last effort he crawled through the drifts, clinging to the trees as he
moved. A few moments later he found himself before a little shack. A
single tallow candle shone through the window and cast a path of light
before his weary feet. Reuben lurched forward against the door; it
opened beneath his weight and he fell within the hut. He had a dim
vision of two men bending over him; some one was taking little
Benjamin from his arms; then the warm darkness wrapped him about like
a cloak, and he knew nothing more.
* * * * *
When Reuben opened his eyes, he found that he was resting upon a couch
of skins in one corner of the hut. It was a poor place; the walls were
bare, and through their chinks snows drifted upon the frozen earthen
floor. Beside the pallet there was no furniture in the room save a
roughly hewn table and several chairs. Near the table sat two men, the
one dressed in rich garments, a sword at his side; the other clothed
in dull gray, with a broad white collar and a plain beaver hat. This
man held little Benjamin on his knee and stroked his dark curls as
the child drank greedily from the steaming cup which the kind-eyed
stranger held to his lips.
Reuben sat up among the skins and noticed in surprise that his hosts
had removed his wet garments and replaced them with a long, warm cloak
of bearskin. What manner of men were these, he asked himself, who
treated a Jewish wanderer so kindly? As he advanced timidly toward the
table, the man in gray turned to him and held out his hand.
"_Shalom_," he said smiling.
Reuben took his hand, astonished to hear the tongue of his fathers in
the wilderness of the American forests. "_Shalom aleichem_," he
faltered. "But you are not a Jew."
The other shook his head and answered him in English, a language
Reuben had learned from the trading Englishmen and adventurers he had
met while in South America. "No, but I am a minister and have studied
the Hebrew tongue. And I love its greeting of 'Peace.' Would that my
people were lovers of peace, even as your's have been for so long."
Benjamin ran to his father. "Father," he cried, "the good gentleman
gave me warm milk to drink and bread to eat and this fine cloak to
wear," and he proudly smoothed the robe wrapped about his chilled
limbs.
The man in gray motioned Reuben to sit beside the table and placed
food and drink before him. Half-famished, Reuben ate and drank, almost
fearing that it would disappear as a feast sometimes does in a dream.
For surely he was dreaming: when in all his wretched wandering life,
had people not of his own religion given him food and shelter and
received him with gentle words?
His host sat upon the couch, holding Benjamin upon his knee. Now and
then he spoke to the dark, haughty man who sat watching everything
lazily from beneath his half-closed lids. Twice he asked Reuben
whether he desired more food or drink. At last when the guest had
satisfied his hunger, the host asked him from what place he had come
and to what spot he meant to journey when the storm was over.
"I know not," answered the Jew. "My father's family was driven from
Spain. They fled to Brazil, and later settled in Cayenne, where among
our brethren from Holland we found a resting place until the French
destroyed our homes and drove us forth to be wanderers on the face of
the earth. When this child's mother died, I longed to go to a far
country where I might forget my grief a little and begin life anew. So
I took my son and came here with other voyagers to your colony of New
Amsterdam. But there they gave me no welcome, because I was a
Jew;--even in this new country some there are who hate the children of
Jacob." He leaned forward, his thin face alight with a wistful hope.
"But there they told me of a new colony in the far wilderness,--a
colony where men of every race, of every creed, were welcome. Far off
in the swamps and forests, they said, a man named Roger Williams had
established a refuge for all those who were persecuted and despised,
and had proclaimed that no man would be troubled there for the sake of
his religion, that each inhabitant might worship the God of his
fathers in peace. So I took my staff again and my burden upon my back
and my little child within my arms, and set out for this place where
my son might grow up a free man, and not be called upon to forsake the
faith for which we suffered in Spain."
The man in the velvet coat leaned across the table and spoke to Reuben
in Spanish. "I, too, came from Spain," he said, "and I, too, came as a
refugee; yea, with a price upon my head, for I had been denounced to
the officers of the Inquisition and was doomed to die. Yet I am a good
Catholic and loyal, and did not deserve their hatred. Those who are
not of my faith in this new land mistrust and despise me; but here, in
the colony of Rhode Island, I may follow the religion of my fathers,
and Roger Williams has given me his hand in brotherhood."
The quiet man rose and again held out his hand to the Jewish wanderer.
"And now I give my hand to you," he said, heartily. "My colony of
Rhode Island has need of men strong enough to die--yes, and to
live--for the faith they will be allowed to follow here in peace and
in safety."
But Reuben had caught his hand and pressed it to his heart. "You are
Roger Williams, the friend of the oppressed," he said brokenly.
"Yes," answered Williams, "and this day have you found a refuge with
me and my people." A look of solemn hope lighted his gentle eyes.
"'Tis but a lonely spot in the wilderness, and we are few in number;
but some day this wide land will be a refuge to the oppressed of every
nation, and all those who are persecuted and despised will find a home
within its borders."
Little by little, the winds outside ceased to drive the snow against
the trees; the branches no longer tossed and creaked in the gale; a
great white hush seemed to bless the quiet earth. The Spaniard who had
walked to the window blew out the taper and pointed toward the rosy
clouds. "Dawn is breaking," he said softly, and, bowing reverently
above his rosary, began to tell the beads as he recited his morning
prayer. Williams took a large Bible from the shelf above the couch,
opened it, and, having read his morning psalm, covered his face with
his hands as he knelt beside his chair to pray. With a great joy
warming his heart, Reuben, no longer a wanderer on the face of the
earth, put his arm about his son, and drew him to the window that he
might look upon the land that his children's children and those who
came after them were to inherit as their home. Then he drew his faded,
tattered _talith_ (shawl worn in prayer) from his pack, put it about
his shoulders, and, facing the glowing east, the home land of his
fathers, he praised the God of Israel who had brought him to this
place of refuge. "_Ma tobu oholekha_" ("How goodly are thy tents"),
prayed Reuben, and he sobbed like a child.
"DOWN WITH KING GEORGE!"
_How Isaac Franks, of the American Army, first heard the
Declaration of Independence._
The news had spread like wild-fire that day in early July, 1776.
Although there was not one of the American recruits stationed in New
York under General Washington's command who had not heard something of
the great happenings in Philadelphia a few days before, every soldier
felt his heart beat faster under his buff and blue coat at the thought
that he, too, would hear the Declaration of Independence read before
the army. They stood waiting in their ranks, the first army of the
Republic: raw farmers like those who fell at Lexington, bronzed
backwoodsmen whose rifles had brought more than one lurking red-skin
or savage forest beast to earth, with here and there a student, fresh
from his books, or a merchant who had left his desk to fight for his
country. And today they were to hear, stated simply and eloquently for
all time, for what principles they fought.
In the ranks stood a slender, dark-browed boy of about seventeen. The
muster roll gave his name as Isaac Franks, the simple record holding
no promise of the day when the Jewish boy, a distinguished veteran of
the Revolution, should entertain President Washington as his guest.
Today young Franks stood undistinguished among the other eager
patriots and the future president was only the leader of an army of
untrained "rebels", knowing full well that a traitor's death awaited
him if his campaign against the British proved unsuccessful.
"I wish the general would come that we might hear the document and be
dismissed," remarked Franks to the soldier who stood at his side; a
tall, raw-boned youth about his own age. "This hot sun is enough to
melt granite and we have been assembled for almost two hours."
The other, also wearied and over-heated, looked him over with a sneer.
"A fine soldier with your complaints!" was his jeering comment. "I
wonder to see a Jew in our ranks, but you'll not cumber us long, I'm
thinking. You Jews are fit only for trading and money lending--not
fighting. You'll melt away quickly enough in the heat of your first
battle."
"Listen to me, Tim Durgan," retorted Franks, quietly enough, but with
a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "I've endured your sneering ever
since I came to camp and I'm growing weary of it, too. I didn't know
why you wouldn't be friends with me, when I've never done anything to
offend you; but if it's because I'm a Jew--"
"I want no Hebrew coward for a friend of mine," was the surly answer.
"You can call me a coward as much as you like--I'll show you you're
wrong when we face the redcoats. But you're not going to insult my
people--understand?"
Tim laughed contemptuously. "How are you going to stop me?" He looked
down at Isaac who was a full head shorter than himself and of
slighter build. "Going to fight me?"
At that moment the long lines of buff and blue straightened as one man
and a murmur of "the General" passed down the ranks. Franks, the angry
flush slowly dying from his cheeks, straightened his shoulders and
gazed straight ahead; but he was not too intent on the arrival of
General Washington to fling a fierce aside to his tormentor: "That's
just what I intend to do if you don't take it back--fight you until
you do!"
But a moment later all private hates and insults were forgotten as the
boy looked toward the general, his soul in his eyes. Seated upon his
great horse, the sun streaming upon his noble, powdered head and broad
shoulders, the commander of the American Army looked what he later
proved himself to be--an uncrowned king of men. A long, vibrating
cheer rose from the soldiers' throats; then died away as Washington
raised his hand for silence.
The young officer who rode beside him unrolled a piece of paper he
carried, and read in a loud, clear voice the words which today every
school boy knows or should know by heart. But the boys and men,
pledged to fight and die for their country, heard them for the first
time that day and thrilled at the rolling sentences of the Declaration
of Independence, which declared them free forever from the rule of the
British tyrant, King George III.
"We hold these truths to be self-evident," the noble words rang forth
to the listening soldiers, "That all men are created equal; that they
are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that
among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." An
answering thrill awoke in every heart. Isaac Franks felt his lashes
wet with sudden tears. The son of a nation of exiles, Jews driven from
land to land from the days the Romans ploughed the place where once
their Temple stood, he could appreciate the blessings of a home land
where even the despised Jew might know the meaning of equality and
liberty and justice. Then he thought of the taunts of his comrade and
his face hardened; but only for a moment was he depressed. In
America--the land which had pledged itself to grant equal
opportunities to all men--his was the opportunity to show what the Jew
was worth. He would teach Tim and his fellows that the descendants of
David and the Maccabees were soldiers worthy of their ancestors.
Smiling a little grimly, he turned his face again toward the young
officer and listened with stirring pulses to the charges brought
against the British king; boy that he was, he realized that he and his
companions were fighting not the English people, but a servile
Parliament and an unworthy ruler who, according to the Declaration,
was indeed a "tyrant unfit to be the ruler of a free people." How he
wished that King George himself would cross the ocean to frighten the
colonists into submission; he would much rather meet him in battle
than any of his overdressed officers or those wretched Hessians, sold
by their ruler like so much cattle to do battle for a country in which
they had no interest. Well, anyhow, Isaac told himself resolutely, he
would do his best to defeat the redcoats--but he would teach Tim
Durgan a well-needed lesson first!
"And for the support of this declaration," ended the reader, "with a
firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually
pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."
Silence at first--then a mighty shout from the assembled soldiers. The
air rang with cries of "With our lives--With our honor!" as the men of
the new Republic pledged themselves to fight for the faith she had
just declared to the world. Isaac Franks looked toward Washington; the
Virginian sat leaning forward slightly in his saddle. His usually
calm, almost cold face was working with emotion; his lips moved as
though he were about to address his men. Then he leaned toward the
officer who had read the Declaration and murmured something in a low
tone. The latter turned to the army.
"The general hopes," the clear tones rang forth, "that this important
event will serve as an incentive to every officer and soldier to act
with fidelity and courage, as knowing that now the peace and safety of
the country depend, under God, solely on the success of our arms and
that he is in the service of a state possessed of sufficient power to
reward his merit and advance him to the highest honors of a free
country."
Slowly the soldiers broke ranks, the dullest man among them touched
and awed as though he had attended a new church and had consecrated
himself to her service. For a moment Isaac Franks forgot his jeering
comrade and his own threats; he walked to his quarters, head high in
the air, eyes looking far away, as boy-like he dreamed of the days
when a grateful commonwealth would "reward his merit and advance him
to the highest honors of a free country." He walked on air, painting
the future in the bright colors known only to seventeen, forgetful of
the world about him, until he was recalled to earth by a mocking laugh
and the question: "Still want to fight, Jew soldier?"
Franks stiffened and turned to face his tormentor, his face hot with
anger. "Yes, I'll fight you this minute," he answered so loudly that
several soldiers passing by overhead his words and stopped to see the
fun. "And thank you for reminding me, Durgan."
He pulled off his coat with a deliberate calm he was far from feeling
at that moment, for he knew only too well that his opponent was vastly
superior to him in strength and perhaps in experience as well. But
Isaac did not hesitate in spite of the goodnatured advice of big Bob
MacDonald who stepped up at that moment: "Let him alone, son--you
can't whip him and it's no use to try."
But Tim had already taken off his coat and stood leering down upon
Isaac who felt that he could never retreat now; that he would always
despise himself as a coward, a traitor to the heroes of his race.
Setting his teeth for the drubbing he felt certain he would receive,
he struck out blindly. Then he felt a hand grip his arm so tightly
that he winced with pain, and looking up, saw that General Washington
stood beside him.
"Well, men?" the commander's voice was very stern. "Have you nothing
better to do than spend your time brawling like a couple of tavern
roisterers? Give me a good and sufficient reason for such behaviour or
I'll have you both tied up and flogged to teach you to act like
gentlemen and soldiers of the American Army."
His quiet eyes scanned the flushed, angry faces of the two lads. He
turned sharply to Franks. "I am waiting!" he said.
For a moment Isaac wavered. He had heard enough of Washington's sense
of justice to realize that if the chief knew his reason for
challenging Durgan he might escape with a slight reprimand, or even a
word of praise for defending his race. But only for a moment. A
gentleman and a soldier in the American Army, young Franks decided,
did not tell tales. He shook his head.
"I am sorry, your excellency," he answered, respectfully, "but I
cannot tell you the reason of our quarrel since it concerns only
ourselves."
Tim Durgan, who had waited for Isaac's accusation with a mocking smile
about his mouth, gave an incredulous whistle. The despised "Jew
soldier" was a man after all, who would risk undeserved punishment
rather than betray a comrade, no matter how much he hated him. In his
sudden admiration for the boy he forgot his awe of General Washington
and burst out before he was granted permission to speak.
"I'll tell you, Excellency," he cried, warmly. "I've been plaguing and
tormenting the lad and for no fault of his own. I never saw a Jew in
my whole life before I joined the army, but I'd heard tales of them;
cowards and afraid of their own shadows. And I teased the boy, never
knowing he'd mind, and when he did I just kept on to spite him. And
when he threatened to fight me, I wanted to laugh, for you can see for
yourself, Excellency, that I'm taller and broader than he and could
toss him about if I'd a mind to. But he wasn't afraid and if you
hadn't come up, he'd have tried to fight me all the same." He paused
for breath, smiling broadly, and held out his hand to Franks. "It's
all my fault, Your Excellency, and I'm willing to take what I ought to
for it, but first let me shake hands with him and tell him such a game
cock ought to've been born an Irishman and no mistake."
The general smiled as the two clasped hands. Then: "I am sorry I was
disorderly, Your Excellency," apologized Franks. "I would have tried
to forget a personal insult but I could not stand by and allow my
people to be slandered. But I know now that he did not understand."
"It takes a long time for some of us to understand, my boy," answered
the general slowly, and, so thought Isaac, a little sadly, too. "But
some day, God grant it, we will all understand the words you both have
heard today and America will know no distinction of race, creed or
station--only the worth that makes a man." He turned suddenly to Tim
Durgan. "You come of a fighting breed, my man," he said warmly, "and
just now when you confessed your fault you showed true courage. I need
fighters as strong as your Irish ancestors; learn to fight only for
our country and forget your petty quarrels and prejudices." He placed
a kindly hand on Isaac's shoulder. "And a boy who is as loyal a Jew as
you, must be a loyal American. I hope you will always carry yourself
as honorably as you did today. What is your name, my lad?"
"Isaac Franks, sir," answered the boy, flushing beneath his
commander's praise.
"Isaac Franks of this city?"
"Yes, sir. I have always lived in New York and I enlisted here."
"Then you must be the boy of whom Colonel Lescher spoke to me. He said
that you were so eager to serve that you even bought your own uniform
and field equipment. I expect to hear from you again." He was about to
pass on, then paused to add kindly: "And since this is a holiday
afternoon, why not spend it abroad instead of wrangling here. Now,"
with a slight smile, "my Hebrew David and my Irish Jonathan, be off
with you; and hereafter keep your blows for the British," he added,
half jestingly, as he walked off, leaving the two lads staring
somewhat sheepishly at each other as they strolled a little apart from
the others.
Tim was the first to speak. "It was great of you not to tell when he
asked you," he said warmly. "And if I can ever make up to you for what
I said about Jews--" which proves that Tim Durgan never made a foe or
a friend by halves.
"We'll forget all about that," answered Franks lightly. "But we've
wasted a good part of the afternoon already. Let's take a long walk
and drink to our friendship in some good brown ale. I know a tavern
near Bowling Green where there's always jolly company and a full
measure for a men in uniform."
Chatting idly together, the two began their walk through the camp,
passing rapidly down the crowded streets. There was a great stir in
the city, for the storm clouds of hate against the British ruler which
had been gathering for so many months had suddenly burst at the news
of the signing of the Declaration at Philadelphia, and the air was
heavy with protests of loyalty to the new government, and threats
against King George. So when Tim and Isaac reached Bowling Green it
was an excited crowd that they found there, gathered about the leaden
statue of King George III; men and half-grown boys, with here and
there a soldier enjoying his half-holiday.
"One would think the British were already here," Tim growled
goodnaturedly. "If these merchants would stop cackling together like
the hens in my father's poultry yard at home, and shoulder a gun, we'd
drive Master George's tin soldiers and the Hessians back across the
water so quick they'd hardly know they'd been here at all."
From the confused murmur of many voices came one rumbling cry which
the boys caught and smiled to hear: "Down with King George! We are
free men. Down with King George!"
A thin little man in a black coat elbowed his way to the base of the
statue from which vantage point he tried to address the crowd.
"Friends," he quavered, as the uproar died, the idle mob ever ready
for some new amusement, "friends, don't be too rash. Look before you
leap. We are only a handful of untrained farmers and merchants. The
armies of King George----"
But before he could speak further, the crowd suddenly broke lose with:
"Another cursed Tory! He is in the King's hire!--Drag him down!--Hang
him to a tree to teach other Tories and traitors to hold their
tongues!"
The suggestion was like a fire brand to dry timber. Before the two
soldiers on the outskirts of the crowd could fully realized what had
happened, a stout apprentice lad in a leather apron had procured a
rope which another brawny fellow flung around the Tory's neck. He
tried to plead for mercy but his voice was silenced by the howling of
the mob, so desperate in its rage against the king that they sought
blind vengeance on their victim for daring to speak in his behalf.
Isaac started forward, his face white and tense. "Come, Tim," he
cried, "We must make them set him free."
The Irishman shrugged. "A Tory more or less! Let them hang him and
welcome."
Isaac Franks did not answer. He only pushed his way through the mob,
the crowd giving place to his uniform. He knew he could do nothing
against them single-handed; yet he felt that he could not let this
innocent man die. And, curiously enough, he thought less of the Tory's
fate than the shame that would fall upon the people of his native
city, if they committed such a crime in their reckless fury. He neared
the front where several older and cooler citizens stood trying in vain
to persuade the angry patriots to release the Tory. Then a splendid
thought flashed through his quick mind, and springing lightly upon the
leaden statue, he cried in a ringing voice: "I come from General
Washington."
The magic name hushed the angry crowd. They waited eagerly for the
boy's words.
"I serve the general of the American Army," continued Franks, "and I
am as loyal as any of you, for I carry a gun to defend my country
while you do nothing but cackle, cackle like the hens in a poultry
yard." The crowd, quick to respond to every suggestion, laughed
goodhumoredly at Tim's mocking description which was now standing his
friend in good stead. "And you have as much brains as the hens in a
poultry yard," continued the boy, following his advantage, "for
instead of pulling out the roots of your trouble, you attack this poor
fool who never saw King George and is not even one of his soldiers."
He leaned down and half pulled the rope from the Tory's neck. "He is
not worthy the honor of hanging. Use your good rope to haul down the
statue of his Gracious Majesty, King George III--which has cumbered
our city too long. And melt the lead into bullets which the soldiers
of General Washington will use against any Briton who dares to enter
our New York."
A roar of applause broke from the crowd. "Down with King George!" they
cried as a dozen eager hands pulled the rope from the frightened
Tory's neck and flung it about the statue. The Tory, only too glad to
make his escape, crept away unnoticed in the crowd, already intent
upon pulling the leaden effigy to the ground. They tugged as one man,
that howling, maddened mob until with a great crash the deposed statue
of the hated British king lay upon the ground. Then: "Bullets" was the
cry, "bullets for our soldiers," as, laughing and shouting, the
citizens of New York dragged the statue away to be melted into bullets
for colonial rifles.
Isaac Franks looked longingly after them. But he knew that it would
soon be time for "taps" and he dared not be late. With a little sigh,
he turned his face toward the camp, where, under General Washington,
he hoped to learn to become a good soldier of the Republic.