TELLS WHY NAT BREWSTER WALKED TOWARD CLIVEDEN IN THE DARK
Nat Brewster settled his stalwart frame back against the coach house
wall and, wrinkling his brows, regarded his cousin attentively.
“It’s very likely you’re right,” said he at length. “The expectation
of such a thing would act just about that way upon every one--even to
children and others who did not understand.” Then he stretched out
his long legs and snapped the lock of his rifle with his strong brown
fingers. “If war does come,” he went on, “I hope it comes quickly,
while the colonies are aroused to answer the call. The whole of the
north country is ready; and from reports, the south and coast colonies
are also.”
There was a silence for a moment; then Ben asked:
“Do you think, if it came to blows, the colonies would dare defy the
king?”
“They’ve done it before now,” replied Nat. “Charles II tried oppression
and his commissioners were soundly beaten and shipped back to England
to him. James II patterned by his brother in this, and his governor was
first imprisoned and then banished. If the colonies were bold enough to
do these things when they were weak, they’ll do others like them, now
that they’re stronger.”
As Nat finished speaking there came a clattering of hoofs and the
rumble of wheels upon a side road. Then a strong voice called:
“Who-o-e-e!”
The boys looked in the direction of the sound and saw a light spring
cart drawn by four wiry little horses. A pockmarked man with fiery red
hair sat upon the seat; and in his hands he held a sealed letter.
“Hello,” called he, in his loud voice. “Come get this, some one. I
can’t leave these critters. If I did, they’d try to climb over the
barn.”
Ben arose and hurried to the fence.
“Something for us, Tom?” he asked.
“Something for you,” replied the pockmarked man. “Was given to me at
the City Tavern last night.”
As he spoke the carter tossed the letter to Ben, who deftly caught it;
then he went on:
“I stopped there to get some things which came in on the Baltimore
coach for Mr. Pendergast, above here. There’s a lot of Massachusetts
Bay people stopping there; and one young fellow comes up to me:
“‘I hear you carry goods up Germantown way,’ says he.
“‘I do,’ says I.
“‘Do you know the Cooper place?’ says he.
“‘As well as I do my own,’ I says.
“‘Here’s a letter then,’ he says. ‘And I’d like it delivered with
despatch.’
“And with that he gives me a half crown and the message, and tells me
to keep the one and give you the other.” The carter grinned across
at Ben good humoredly and added: “Anything you want carried toward
Whitemarsh?”
“I think not, Tom,” replied Ben.
“Good-day to you,” said the man. He tightened the reins; the wiry
little horses sprang forward against their collars and the cart went
whirling away in a cloud of dust.
All the time the man was speaking Ben Cooper’s face wore an expression
of astonished impatience. The astonishment was caused by a glance
at the handwriting upon the letter, the impatience by the carter’s
monologue. But now that the man had gone, the lad broke the seal and
his eyes ran over the few lines of writing which the sheet contained.
Then he turned and dashed back toward the spot where he had left Nat.
“You’ll never guess what it is,” cried he, breathlessly. Then, without
pausing for a reply, he added, “Ezra Prentiss, of whom I’ve told you so
much, is in Philadelphia.”
“In Philadelphia?” echoed Nat.
“Listen to what he says.” Unfolding the letter, Ben read:
“_City Tavern, Aug. 23._
“MY DEAR BEN:--
“I know this will astonish you. I’ve come south with Mr. Samuel Adams
and his brother John, of both of whom you’ve no doubt heard. They are
here to attend the Congress which is soon to meet at the Carpenter’s
Hall. As you might guess, they were in a great hurry as they came
into the town and I had no chance to call upon you. We will be
staying in the City Tavern; come in if you can. In any event I will
come to Germantown in a few days.
“Sincerely, your friend,
“EZRA PRENTISS.”
“Mr. John and Samuel Adams!” said Nat when his cousin had finished.
“They are the brothers who have spoken so boldly and openly against the
king. It seems to me, Ben, that your friend keeps very famous company.”
“He’s a great patriot, you see,” explained Ben. “Even while he was at
school here several years ago, he used to tell us of the happenings at
Boston and how the citizens defied the government.”
“But I think you said his father was an Englishman.”
“His grandfather. His father is dead. He never seemed to care to go
deeply into his family history; but he told me this: Some years before
his father’s death, there was some sort of an outbreak--against the
Stamp Act, I think. Ezra’s father sided with the townspeople. But
the grandfather was a Tory. A bitter quarrel was the result and they
afterward no longer saw or spoke to each other.”
“I suppose there is a great deal of that,” said Nat. “And if it comes
to war, it will be worse.”
They had now risen and walked toward the house. Down the path along
which Ben had ridden in entering they saw Mr. Cooper pacing to and fro,
with bent head.
“That talk he had with old Stephen Comegies has upset his nerves,” said
Ben. “Politics always has that effect upon him.”
As they walked up the step and into the wide hall he related to his
cousin what had happened.
“I see,” said Nat, thoughtfully. “That is what has fixed your
impression of war.” He looked at Ben steadfastly for a moment. “Tell me
again: What was it he said before he left?”
“As near as I can remember,” said Ben, “he said: ‘It’s easy to _call_ a
pack of rebels together, but not always so easy to actually _get_ them
together.’”
“And you say he seemed to have a sort of--well--a look, while he said
it.”
“It was a satisfaction to him. I could see that.”
“And then he bid your father not to say he was taken unawares, eh?”
“Just as he was going,” said Ben. He looked into Nat’s bronzed,
thoughtful face and was surprised at its expression. “Why, you don’t
think he really meant anything, do you?” he asked.
Nat shook his head.
“I don’t know. Sometimes crabbed old men delight in making meaningless
threats. This may be one of them.”
He hung up his rifle upon a rack in the hall and sat down in a broad
seat at the door. The beautiful suburb with its broad fields, white
roads and stately houses was stretched out before him.
“Are there many Tories hereabouts?” he asked, after a space.
Ben nodded.
“Yes,” he replied, “a great many. And it’s the same way in the city.
With a very few exceptions, it is only those who actually suffer by
the heavy taxes who are aroused and speak against the government.”
“The people of consequence, as you might call them, are then mostly
Tories?”
Again Ben nodded.
“And they are proud of it,” said he. “Though I must say I can’t
understand what they have to pride themselves on.” He pointed across
some prosperous grain fields; behind a clump of heavy, thick-growing
trees could be seen the outlines of a rather fine looking house.
“That’s Cliveden, where the Chews live,” he continued. “The Tories meet
there now and then and protest about the growing disloyalty to the
king.”
For a long time Nat Brewster sat gazing straight ahead and pondering.
Ben watched him curiously for awhile, then as his cousin said nothing
more, remarked:
“I think after Molly’s rested I’ll ride into town and see Ezra. He must
be a regular mail-bag for news. Will you come along, Nat?”
“I think not,” replied the other.
“I’ve often spoken to him about you,” persisted Ben. “He’ll be glad to
see you.”
“Another time will do just as well. I hardly feel like going in to town
to-day.”
“Very well,” and Ben turned away. “Some other time then. But you must
know Ezra before he leaves. You’ll like him.”
After Ben had gone, Nat clasped his hands about his knees and continued
to gaze across the fields toward Cliveden. The August sun was warm
and the insects buzzed lazily about in it, their wings a-glitter. The
level, fertile country was new to Nat; up north in the Wyoming valley
the rugged hills crowded one upon the other; the grim, defiant forests
circled the settlements; the stony earth fought stubbornly against the
plow.
His mother had been Mr. Cooper’s sister; she had met and married Nat’s
father and had gone with him into the wilderness to make a home. But
both were now dead. Nat, whose mother had carefully taught him, had
served two terms as master in a log schoolhouse. But the work did not
altogether please him; and when his uncle sent for him to take him into
his office, he had gladly grasped the opportunity.
Even in the far Wyoming valley, the growing discontent was felt; but
the boy had no notion that matters were so grave until he arrived
at Philadelphia and found neighbors arrayed against each other and
representatives of the colonies scheduled to meet and pass solemn
resolutions protesting against England’s unfair laws.
He ran over all his old impressions and his new ones as well, as he sat
in the wide doorway of the Cooper house. And through all his thoughts
the saying of old Stephen Comegies kept recurring.
“‘It’s easy to call rebels together,’” he repeated, following Ben’s
version of the saying as well as he could. “‘But it’s not always so
easy to get them together.’”
The boy’s thick black brows came together in a frown and his locked
fingers gripped his knees closely.
“I don’t like that,” he murmured. “It has a bad sound. It may have
been the angry, empty words of a partisan--and then again, it may not.
It would be a good thing to have it looked into, I think, if it were
possible.”
And so this is why Nat Brewster waited and lounged about for hours
after his cousin had ridden gaily away into the city; and it is also
why, just as the evening shadows were deepening into darkness, he
started across the fields toward Chew House.