were rested. Once more they were on the road, not riding directly
homeward, but turning into cross-roads to Jamaica Pond, where the boys
were gliding over the gleaming ice on their skates. They had kindled
fires which lighted up the surrounding objects, the dark foliage of
pines and hemlocks, and the branches of the leafless elms and maples
growing on the banks of the pond.
The full moon was shining in their faces as they rode homeward. The
evening air was crisp, but the hot supper and the merry dance had
warmed their blood. The jingling of the sleigh-bells and their joyous
laughter made the air resonant with music.
At times the horses lagged to a walk, and Robert could let the reins
lie loose and turn his face toward Miss Newville. Her eyes at times
looked up to his. He could feel her arm against his own. The violet
hood leaned towards him as if to find a resting-place. To Robert
Walden and to Ruth Newville alike never had there been such a night,
so full of beauty, so delightful.
The horses came to a standstill at last by the entrance to the
Newville mansion.
"This has been the most enjoyable day of my life," Miss Newville said,
as Robert gave her his hand to assist her from the pung.
"Good-night, all. Thank you, Mr. Walden, for all your kindness," her
parting words.
VIII.
CHRISTOPHER SNIDER.
The night-watchman of the North End of Boston, with overcoat buttoned
to the chin and a muffler around his neck, a fur cap drawn down over
his ears to exclude the biting frost of midwinter, was going his
rounds. He saw no revelers in the streets, nor belated visitors
returning to their homes.
If suitors were calling upon their ladies, the visits were ended long
before the clock on the Old Brick struck the midnight hour. No voice
broke the stillness of the night. The watchman scarcely heard his own
footsteps in the newly fallen snow as he slowly made his way along
Middle Street,[37] with his lantern and staff. He was not expecting to
encounter a burglar, breaking and entering a shop, store, or
residence. He heard the clock strike once more, and was just pursing
his lips to cry, "Two o'clock, and all's well," when he caught a
glimpse of a figure in front of Theophilus Lillie's store.[38] Was it
a burglar? The man was standing stock-still, as if scanning the
premises. The watchman dodged back behind the building on the corner
of the street, hid his lantern, and peered slyly at the thief, who was
still looking at the store. What was the meaning of such mysterious
inaction? The watchman, instead of waiting to catch the culprit in the
act of breaking and entering, stepped softly forward. Grasping his
staff with a firm grip, to give a sudden whack, should the villain
turn upon him,--"What ye 'bout, sir!" he shouted.
[Footnote 37: The section of the present Hanover Street east of
Blackstone Street was called Middle Street.]
[Footnote 38: Mr. Theophilus Lillie was one of the six merchants who
refused to sign the association paper not to import goods from
England, thereby making himself exceedingly obnoxious to the people.
Other merchants had agreed not to make any importation, and had
violated the agreement.]
The burglar did not reply, neither turn his head.
"Is the fellow dead, I wonder--frozen stiff, this bitter night, and
standing still?" the question that flashed through the watchman's
brain.
"Bless my soul! It's Mr. Lillie's head,--his nose, mouth, chin. Looks
just like him. And the post is set in the ground. I'll bet that
carving is Abe Duncan's work. Nobody can carve like him. But what is
it here for? Ah! I see. Lillie has gone back on his agreement not to
import tea. The Sons of Liberty have rigged it up to guy him. Ha, ha!"
The watchman laughed to himself as he examined the figure.
"Well, that's a cute job," he said reflectively. "The ground is frozen
stiff a foot deep. They had to break it with a crowbar, but not a
sound did I hear. Shall I say anything about it? Will not the
selectmen make a fuss if I don't notify 'em at once? But what's the
use of knocking 'em up at two o'clock in the morning? The thing's
done. 'Taint my business to pull it up. The post won't run away. I'll
report what time I found it."
Remembering that he had not cried the hour, he shouted:--
"Two o'clock, all's well!"
He secreted himself in a doorway awhile, to see if any one would
appear, but no one came.
The early risers--the milkmen and bakers' apprentices going their
rounds, shop boys on their way to kindle fires in stores--all stopped
to look at the figure. The news quickly spread. People left their
breakfast-tables to see the joke played on Mr. Lillie. Ebenezer
Richardson, however, could not see the fun of the thing. The
schoolboys called him "Poke Nose" because he was ever ready to poke
into other people's affairs.[39] The officers of the Custom House
employed him to ferret out goods smuggled ashore by merchants, who,
regarding the laws as unjust and oppressive, had no scruples in
circumventing the customs officers. Richardson hated the Sons of
Liberty, and haunted the Green Dragon to spy out their actions.
[Footnote 39: The offensive and unjust laws and acts and ordinances of
the Board of Trade in enforcing the collection of customs dues had
brought about systematic effort to circumvent the Custom House
officials, who employed spies and informers to ferret out fraudulent
transactions. Smuggling was regarded as a virtue, and outwitting the
officials a duty rather than an offense. Ebenezer Richardson, by his
service to the Custom House officials, made himself obnoxious to the
community. An account of the incidents that led to the shooting of
Christopher Snider may be found in the newspapers of March, 1770.]
"This is their work," he said to those around the figure. "It's
outrageous. Mr. Lillie has just as good a right to sell tea as
anything else, without having everybody pointing their fingers at him.
It's an insult. It's disgraceful. Whoever did it ought to be
trounced."
"Charcoal! Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!"
It was the cry of the charcoal-man, turning from Union into Middle
Street.
"I'll get him to run his sled against it and knock it over," said Mr.
Richardson to himself.
Slowly the charcoal vender advanced.
Seeing the post and the group of people around it, he reined in his
old horse and looked at the figure.
"See here," said Mr. Richardson. "Just gee a little and run the nose
of your sled agin it and knock it over, will ye? It's a tarnal
fiendish outrage to set up such a thing in front of a gentleman's
store."
"Do you own the figger?"
"No."
"Do you own the store?"
"No."
"Anybody ax ye to get it knocked down?"
"No; but it's an outrage which honest citizens ought to resent."
"Think so, do ye?"
"Yes, I do; and everybody else ought to, instead of laughing and
chuckling over it."
"That may be, mister, but ye see you don't own it, and may be I'd get
myself into trouble if I were to run my sled agin it purposely. Should
like to oblige ye, neighbor, but guess I'd better not. Charcoal!
Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!" he shouted, jerking the reins for
the old horse to move on.
"Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!"
It was a farmer driving his oxen drawing a load of wood, swinging his
goad-stick, who shouted it. The team came to a standstill by the
figure.
"What's up?" the farmer inquired.
"The Sons of Liberty have perpetrated a rascally trick, by setting
this effigy in front of this gentleman's store," said Mr. Richardson.
"What'd they do that for?"
"'Cause he agreed not to sell tea, and then, finding he'd made a bad
bargain, backed out of it; and now I'd like to have ye hitch yer oxen
to the thing and snake it to Jericho."
"'Fraid I can't 'commodate ye; got to go down to widow Jenkins's with
my wood. Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!" said the farmer, as he started on.
"Rich, why don't ye pull it up yourself," said an apprentice.
"Better get an axe and chop it down, if it's such an eyesore to ye,"
said another.
"Get a crowbar and dig it up. A little exercise will be good for ye,"
said a third.
"Has Lillie engaged ye to get rid of the thing?" another asked.
"Did the Sons of Liberty smuggle it ashore during the night?"
Tom Brandon asked the question, which nettled Mr. Richardson
exceedingly. Possibly the informer could not have said why he was so
zealous for the removal of the effigy. He would not have been willing
to admit that he was seeking to advance himself in the estimation of
Hon. Theodore Newville, commissioner of imposts, and Hon. Nathaniel
Coffin, his majesty's receiver-general. Quite likely he could not have
given any very satisfactory reason for his activity in attempting to
remove the figure. He knew that the selectmen would be obliged to
clear the street of the obstruction, but a display of loyalty to the
king might possibly inure to his benefit. Boys on their way to school
began to chaff the informer.
"Say, Poke Nose; how much are ye going to get for the job?" shouted
one of the boys.
"You mind your own business."
"That's what you don't do."
"Don't ye call me names, you little imp," shouted the informer,
shaking his fist at the boy.
"Poke Nose! Poke Nose! Poke Nose!" the chorus of voices.
"Take that, Poke Nose!" said a boy as he threw a snowball.
Losing his temper, the informer threw a brickbat in return. He was but
one against fifty lads pelting him with snowballs, which knocked off
his hat, struck him in the face, compelling him to flee, the jeering
boys following him to his own home.
Tom Brandon accompanied the boys. He saw the informer raise a window.
There was a flash, a puff of smoke, the report of a gun, a shriek, and
two of the boys were lying upon the ground and their blood spurting
upon the snow. He helped carry them into a house, and then ran for
Doctor Warren. It was but a few steps. The doctor came in haste.
"Samuel Gore is not much injured, but Christopher Snider is mortally
wounded," he said.
Christ Church bells were ringing. Merchants were closing their stores;
blacksmiths leaving their forges; carpenters throwing down their
tools,--everybody hastening with buckets and ladders to put out the
fire, finding instead the blood-stained snow and wounded schoolboys.
"Hang him! Hang him!" shouted the apprentices and journeymen. But the
sheriff had the culprit in his keeping, and the law in its majesty was
guarding him from the violence of the angered people.
"Christopher Snider is dead," said Doctor Warren, as he came from the
house into which the boy had been carried by Tom Brandon and those who
assisted him.
Thenceforth the widow's home in Frog Lane would be desolate, for an
only child was gone.
An exasperated multitude, among others Tom Brandon and Robert Walden,
gathered in Faneuil Hall, Tom as witness, attending the examination of
Ebenezer Richardson,[40] charged with the murder of Christopher
Snider. Upon the platform sat the justices, John Ruddock, Edmund
Quincy, Richard Dana, and Samuel Pemberton, wearing their scarlet
cloaks and white wigs. There was a murmuring of voices.
[Footnote 40: John Ruddock, Edmund Quincy, Richard Dana, and Samuel
Pemberton were the principal magistrates of the town, and unitedly sat
as a court. Richardson was committed to jail, tried, and condemned to
death. As his crime grew from political troubles, Governor Hutchinson
caused his execution to be delayed. He was kept in jail till the
outbreak of the war, when he was set at liberty.]
"I hope the spy will swing for it," Robert heard one citizen say.
"It's downright murder, this shooting of a boy only nine years old,
who hadn't even been teasing Poke Nose," said another.
"This is what comes from customs nabobs trying to enforce wicked
laws," said an old man.
"Yes, and keeps two regiments of lobsters here to insult us."
"That's so," responded Peter Bushwick, whom Robert recognized. "If the
laws were just the people wouldn't smuggle. If there was no smuggling
there wouldn't be any spies, and Ebe Richardson, instead of being a
sneaking informer, would have been earning an honest living. He
wouldn't have been called Poke Nose; there wouldn't have been any
snowballs nor brickbats nor shooting. Ever since I was a little boy
Parliament has been passing laws to cripple us; that's what's brought
on smuggling; that's what keeps the troops here. Ebe Richardson is
part of the system."
There was a louder buzzing as the sheriff entered the hall and made
his way through the crowd with his prisoner, who stood pale and
trembling before the justices while the indictment was read. Witnesses
were sworn and examined, and the sheriff ordered to commit the accused
to the jail for trial.
"No other incident," said Mr. John Adams, "has so stirred the people
as the shooting of this boy. Nothing has so brought to the
consciousness of the community the meaning of the ministerial system.
Instinctively they connect the death of Christopher with the attempt
to enforce the unrighteous laws. Richardson is in the employ of the
government. There is no evidence that Theodore Newville or Nathaniel
Coffin or any of the officers of the customs engaged him to remove the
effigy; he did it on his own account, and must suffer for it, but the
obloquy falls, nevertheless, upon the officers of the crown, and
especially upon the soldiers, who are a constant menace. I fear this
is but the beginning of trouble."
Tom had been called upon to testify as a witness in regard to the
shooting. He had heard the informer ask the peddler of charcoal and
the farmer to run against the effigy with their teams; had seen the
snowballs and brickbat fly, the shooting, and had assisted in caring
for the wounded and summoning Doctor Warren.
"Have you any idea, Tom, who placed the effigy there?" Mrs. Brandon
asked.
"I might have an idea, which might be correct or which might not be. A
supposition isn't testimony. I don't think I'll say anything about
it," said Tom.
"Can you guess who carved it?" Berinthia asked earnestly.
"Anybody can guess, Brinth, but the guess might not be worth anything;
I'll not try."
"You Sons of Liberty don't let out your secrets," Berinthia said.
"If we did they wouldn't be secrets."
Never had there been such a funeral in the town as that of Christopher
Snider. The schools were closed that the scholars might march in
procession. Merchants put up the shutters of their stores; joiners,
carpenters, ropemakers, blacksmiths, all trades and occupations laid
down their tools and made their way to the Liberty-Tree, where the
procession was to form. Mothers flocked to the little cottage in Frog
Lane to weep with a mother bereft of her only child. Tom Brandon and
five other young men were to carry the bier. The newspaper published
by Benjamin Edes expressed the hope that none but friends of freedom
would join in the procession.
Robert made his way to the Liberty Tree at the hour appointed. A great
crowd had assembled. Somebody had nailed a board to the tree, upon
which were painted texts from the Bible:--
"_Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer. He shall
surely be put to death._"
"_Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not pass unpunished._"
The clock was striking three when the bearers brought the coffin from
the home of the mother in Frog Lane to the Liberty Tree. While the
procession was forming Robert had an opportunity to look at the
inscriptions upon the black velvet pall. They were in Latin, but a
gentleman with a kindly face, Master Lovell, translated them to the
people.
"_Latet Anguis in Herba._"
"_Hoeret Lateris lethalis Armada._"
"_Innocentia nusquam in tuta._"
The serpent is lurking in the grass.
The fatal dart is thrown.
Innocence is nowhere safe.
All the bells were tolling. Mothers and maidens along the street were
weeping for the mother following the body of her boy. Old men
uncovered their heads, and bared their snow-white locks to the wintry
air, as the pall-bearers with slow and measured steps moved past them.
Schoolboys, more than six hundred, two by two, hand in hand;
apprentices, journeymen, citizens, three thousand in number;
magistrates, ministers, merchants, lawyers, physicians in chaises and
carriages,--composed the throng bearing the murdered boy to his
burial.
Listen, my Lord Frederick North, to the mournful pealing of the
bells of Boston! Listen, King George, to the tramping of the
schoolmates of Christopher Snider, laying aside their books for
the day to bear witness against your royal policy,--boys now, men ere
long,--protesting with tears to-day, with muskets by and by! Listen,
ye men who have purchased seats in parliament to satisfy your greed!
[Illustration: Lord North.]
The assembled multitude, the tolling bells, the tramping feet, the
emblems of mourning, are the indignant protest of an outraged
community against tyranny and oppression,--the enforcement of law by
the show of force,--by musket, sword, and bayonet. Listen, and take
warning.[41]
[Footnote 41: Historians have made little account of the shooting of
Christopher Snider, but there can be no question that it led directly
to the collision between the ropemakers and soldiers one week later,
resulting in the Massacre of March 5, 1770.]
IX.
THE LOBSTERS AND ROPEMAKERS.
Although March had come, the snow was still deep upon the ground.
Robert and Rachel could prolong their stay in Boston and enjoy the
hospitality of their friends. It was Monday evening the 5th of the
month. Berinthia had invited Ruth Newville to tea.
"The soldiers and the ropemakers are at loggerheads," said Tom, as he
came in and laid aside his coat.
"What is the trouble?" Robert asked.
"It seems that a negro hemp-stretcher, down in Gray's ropewalk[42],
last Friday asked a soldier if he wanted to work, and the redcoat
replied he did. What the ropemaker told him to do wasn't very nice,
and they had a set-to. The soldier got the worst of it, and swore
vengeance. The redcoat went to the barracks, but was soon back again
with eight others, armed with clubs, swearing they'd split the skulls
of the beggars. The ropemakers seized their woolding-sticks, and they
had it hot and heavy, but the lobsters got a licking. You'd better
believe there was a buzzing in the barracks. Pretty soon between
thirty and forty of the hirelings, armed with bayonets, clubs, and
cutlasses, rushed down to the ropewalk. The ropemakers rallied, but
all told they were only fourteen. They showed what stuff they were
made of, though, and proved themselves the better men. They whacked
the lobsters' skulls and drove them."
[Footnote 42: Edward Gray, in 1712, purchased a large tract of land on
the westerly side of Hutchinson's Lane, now Pearl Street, and erected
a ropewalk seven hundred and forty feet long. The large number of
ships built in Boston and other New England towns made it a lucrative
occupation. His son, Harrison Gray, was appointed treasurer of the
Province. He was a loyalist, and took his departure from Boston upon
its evacuation by the British. His property was confiscated to the
state. He proceeded from Halifax to London, where he gave generous
hospitality to his fellow exiles in that city.]
"Good for the ropemakers," said Berinthia, clapping her hands.
Robert saw a lighting up of Miss Newville's eyes, but no word fell
from her lips.
"I fear," said Mr. Brandon, "there will be an outbreak between the
soldiers and the people. Since the funeral of Snider, the soldiers
have been growing more insolent. The long stay of the troops with
nothing to do except the daily drill and parade, and drinking toddy,
has demoralized them. The under-officers are but little better than
the men, spending most of their time in the taverns playing cards.
Discipline is lax. I shall not be surprised at whatever may happen."
Miss Newville and Robert sat down to a game of checkers. He debated
with himself whether or not he would let her win the first game. Would
it be gentlemanly to defeat her? Ought he not to allow her to win? But
almost before he was aware of what had happened she was victor, and he
was making apology for playing so badly. Again the men were set, and
again, although he did his best to win, his men were swept from the
board.
"I see I'm no match for you," he said.
"I am not so sure about that. I saw your mistake. You would soon learn
to correct it," she said with a smile.
Although yet early in the evening, Miss Newville said she must be
going home, as her parents might be concerned for her.
"I trust the soldiers will not molest you," said Mrs. Brandon, bidding
Miss Newville farewell.
"I am sure I shall be safe with Mr. Walden," she replied. There was a
meaning in her eyes which he alone understood, the silent reference to
their first meeting.
The moon was at its full, its silver light gleaming upon the untrodden
snow. There was no need for them to hasten their steps when the night
was so lovely.
"Oh, look, Mr. Walden! see Christ Church!" Miss Newville exclaimed.
"Tower, belfry, turret, and steeple are glazed with frozen sea-mist
and driven snow."
The church loomed before them in the refulgent light, a mass of
shining silver. Above all was the tapering spire and golden vane.
"It is the poetry of nature. Such beauty thrills me. I feel, but
cannot express, my pleasure," she said.
"It is indeed very beautiful," he replied. "The snow, the silver,
gold, light and shade, the steeple tapering to a point, make it a
wonderful picture. Would that you could see on such a night as this
the view from my own home,--upland and valley, meadow and forest,
walls and fences, leafless oaks, elms, and maples in fields and
pastures, pure white and shining like polished silver in the
moonlight, and all the twigs and branches glittering with diamonds. On
such nights, when the crust is hard and firm, we boys and girls pile
ourselves on a sled and go like the wind from the top of the hill in
the pasture down to the meadow, across the intervale, over the river
bank, and out upon the gleaming ice. We wake the echoes with our
laughter and have a jolly time."
"Oh, how I should enjoy it," she said.
Suddenly they heard other voices, and as they turned the corner of the
street came upon a group of men and boys armed with cudgels.
"We'll give it to the lobsters," they heard one say.
"I fear there may be trouble," Robert remarked, recalling the
conversation at the supper-table.
Passing the home of Doctor Warren, they saw a light burning in his
office, and by the shadow on the window curtain knew he was seated at
his writing-desk. Turning from Hanover towards Queen Street, they
found several soldiers in earnest conversation blocking the way.
"I'd like to split the heads of the blackguards," said one,
flourishing a cutlass.
"Will you please allow me to pass?" said Robert.
"When you take off your hat to us," the answer.
"This is the king's highway," said Robert.
He felt Miss Newville's arm clinging more firmly to his own.
"You can pass if your wench gives me a kiss," said the soldier with
the cutlass.
Swiftly Robert's right arm and clenched fist sent the fellow headlong
into the snow. He faced the others a moment, and then with Miss
Newville walked leisurely away. He could feel her heart palpitating
against his arm. He cast a glance behind, but the redcoats were not
following him.
"It seems we are fated to meet ill-bred men," he said.
"Oh, Mr. Walden, how resolute and brave you are!"
"It is not difficult to be courageous when you know you are right."
"But they are so many."
"We are more than they," he replied, smiling.
"More than they! We are only two."
"He who is in the right has all of God's host with him. They knew they
were in the wrong; that made them cowards."
Again he felt the warmth and pressure of her arm, as if she would say,
"I know I shall be safe with you to protect me."
They were passing King's Chapel. Its gray walls never had seemed so
picturesque as on that evening with the moon casting the shadows of
pillar, cornice, roof, and tower upon the pure white snow that had
fallen through the day. Beyond it were the young elms of Long Acre,
twig and limb a mass of glittering diamonds. They stood at last
beneath the portico of her home.
"I have been thinking," she said, "of the strange happenings that have
come to us--how you have been my protector from insult. I cannot
express my gratitude, Mr. Walden."