the western horizon. It was past four o'clock before the lines were
ready. Once more the guns of the fleet hurled solid shot and shells
upon the redoubt. Captain Brandon, looking from his housetop down upon
the guns almost beneath him, saw a gunner ramming an inflammable shell
into the cannon. The shell, with smoking torch, screamed across the
river, aimed not at the bank of yellow earth on Bunker Hill, but at
the houses in Charlestown.
"They intend to burn the village," he said.
Soon flames were bursting from window, doorway, and roof. The wind,
blowing from the south, carried sparks and cinders to the adjoining
houses, glowing in the summer heat. A wail of horror from the people
rent the air.
"That is mean, cruel, wicked, dastardly!" exclaimed Ruth, with
flashing eyes. "It's inhuman. I shall hate the man who has ordered
it."[72]
[Footnote 72: The only defense of the British for the destruction of
Charlestown is the assertion that the advancing troops were fired upon
by provincials secreted in one of the houses on the outskirts of the
town.]
Through the previous stages of the conflict no word of approval or
disapproval had escaped her lips.
"Ruth! Ruth! Don't say that!" Mr. Newville cried, astonished by such
an outburst of indignation.
"If General Gage were here I would say it to his face. What have those
people done that their homes should be destroyed? They are not
fighting the battle. Does he think that by burning the town he will
frighten those men in the redoubt into submission? Were I one of them,
I would die before I would surrender."
Her eyes were flashing. In her earnestness she had removed her hat.
The gentle breeze was fanning her heated brow. She stood erect, a
queen in her dignity and beauty. Never had Mr. and Mrs. Newville
dreamed that there was such pent-up fire in her soul, such energy,
fearlessness, and instinctive comprehension of justice and right.
Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, and all around gazed upon her
wonderingly and with admiration.
The fire was sweeping on,--leaping from building to building, licking
up houses, stables, and workshop, reaching the meetinghouse, kindling
the shingles on its roof, the clapboards upon its walls, bursting from
doors and windows, climbing the spire to the gilded vane, burning till
beams and timbers gave way; then came the crash,--a single stroke of
the bell tolling as it were a requiem.
Under the cloud from the burning town the scarlet lines once more
advanced,--not towards the screen of hay, but in the direction of the
redoubt. With the glass Ruth saw the manly figure she had seen before,
seemingly receiving instructions from his superior officer, and
running towards the threatened point of attack. The scarlet lines
were mounting the breastwork. Men were firing in each other's faces;
thrusting with the bayonet. She could see a stalwart provincial in his
shirt-sleeves beat out the brains of a Britisher with the butt of his
musket, and the next moment go down with a bayonet through his heart.
The manly figure was in the thick of the melee,--a half dozen redcoats
rushing upon him. His sword was flashing in the sunlight as he parried
their bayonets, keeping them at bay. Guns flashed, and the white
powder-cloud shut out the scene. When it cleared, he had gone down,
and the redcoats were swinging their hats. Their shout of victory came
across the waters. Those around saw Ruth clasp her hand upon her
heart.
"They are beaten, and he is shot!" she cried, sinking into Berinthia's
arms.
"Who's shot?" her mother asked. There was no answer from the quivering
lips.
"The excitement is too much for her," said Mrs. Newville, as they bore
her to Berinthia's chamber.
XX.
WHEN THE TIDE WAS GOING OUT.
Tom Brandon, lying upon the green grass where the provincials had
halted after the retreat, recalled the events of the day with his
fellow soldiers, especially the last struggle. He had fired away his
powder, as had many others. He had no bayonet, and could only defend
himself with the butt of his gun. He remembered how bravely Doctor
Warren behaved, telling the men to keep cool; how he took bandages
from his pockets, and bound up the wounds of those disabled at the
beginning; how a Britisher shot him down and stabbed him with a
bayonet. As for himself, he hardly knew what he did, except to fight
till almost the last of his comrades left the redoubt, when he leaped
over the breastwork, and walked towards the British, approaching the
western side as if to give himself up, then turned and ran as fast as
he could, with the bullets whizzing past him.[73] He wondered if
Lieutenant Walden had escaped unharmed. He walked a little way to
Colonel Stark's regiment to inquire.
[Footnote 73: The experience of Tom Brandon was that of Eliakim Walker
of Tewksbury, Mass., as narrated by him to the author:--
"I had fired away nearly all my powder before the last attack. I fired
and was reloading my gun, when I heard a hurrah behind me. I looked
round and saw the redcoats leaping over the breastwork. I saw a man
beat out the brains of a Britisher with the butt of his gun; the next
moment they stabbed him. Seeing I couldn't get out that way, I jumped
over the breastwork and ran towards Pigot's men, a rod or two, then
turned and ran as fast as I could the other way. The bullets whizzed
past me, or struck the ground around me. I reached a rail fence, and
pitched over it. A bullet struck a rail at the moment. I fell on the
other side, laid still till I got my breath, then up and legged it
again, and got away."]
"I fear," said Captain Daniel Moore, "that Lieutenant Walden has been
killed. During the day he took a conspicuous part. He was sent by
General Ward to summon us from Medford. He carried several messages
from Colonel Stark to Prescott and Putnam, and was with the men of his
company at times. He was with us just before the last assault, and
hastened towards the redoubt a moment before the redcoats swarmed over
it. I fear the worst, for he was very brave."
The people of Boston never had beheld such a scene as that of the day
following the battle. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, but its rays
fell upon the smouldering ruins of once happy homes; upon dying and
dead soldiers; upon men groaning in agony as they were transported
across the Charles to houses taken for hospitals. The wounded
rebels--thirty-six in number--were laid upon the bare floor of the
jail. They were to be treated as felons, and given prison fare.
Although the genial rays of the sun shone into the spacious apartments
of the Province House, they gave no comfort to Thomas Gage,
commander-in-chief of his majesty's forces in the Colonies. He was
chagrined over the outcome of the battle, the losses sustained. His
own officers were criticising the plan of attack. The soldiers said he
had slaughtered their comrades. The people were condemning him for
having burned Charlestown. He was conscious that he had gone down in
the estimation of those who had given him loyal support. He knew that
his military reputation had suffered an eclipse. Women were denouncing
him as cruel and inhuman. The conviction came to General Gage that he
was shut up in Boston, and that any attempt upon the position of the
rebels at that point, or upon the hills beyond Charlestown, would
result in disaster.
It was cheering news to Tom Brandon and all the soldiers of the
provincial army, a few days later, to learn that Congress, sitting in
Philadelphia, had selected George Washington of Virginia to command
them. His coming was evidence that all the Colonies had united to
resist the aggressions of the king. He fought bravely to drive the
French from the valley of the Ohio, and saved the army in the battle
near Fort Du Quesne. General Gage had been with him in that
engagement, but now they would command opposing armies.
It was a beautiful summer morning, the 3d of July, when the regiments
in Cambridge and some of the troops from Roxbury assembled on the
Common at Cambridge to receive General Washington. Tom Brandon saw a
tall, broad-shouldered man, sitting erect on a white horse, wearing a
blue uniform trimmed with buff, accompanied by General Putnam, General
Ward, and a large number of officers, ride out from General Ward's
headquarters and take position under a great elm-tree.
"Attention, the army!" shouted General Ward.
The officers repeated it, and every soldier stood erect.
"Salute your commander, Major-General George Washington!"
[Illustration: Where Washington assumed Command.]
The soldiers presented arms, the fifes began to play, the drums to
rattle. General Washington lifted his hat, bowed right and left, drew
his sword from its scabbard, and rode along the line. The soldiers saw
dignity, decision, and energy, yet calmness, in all his movements.
They knew he had a great plantation on the bank of the Potomac River
in Virginia; that he could live at ease and enjoy life in hunting and
fishing at his own pleasure, but he had left all at the call of
Congress to take command of the army. His coming gave them confidence
and made them more than ever determined to drive the redcoats out of
Boston. They kept such a strict guard that the British could not
obtain fresh provisions, neither could the inhabitants of the town. In
the home of Captain Brandon, the only meat to be had was the salt pork
and beef in the cellar, or the flounders caught by Mark Antony,
fishing from the wharves.
Even General Gage could have no great variety of food. In contrast to
this, Tom Brandon and his fellow soldiers were living luxuriously,
having fresh beef three times a week, with flour, peas, beans, rice,
potatoes, onions, cabbages, turnips, beets, spruce beer, and grog, and
plenty of tobacco.
Tom took his turn standing guard, and found pleasure in chaffing the
lobsters on picket, telling them what he had for dinner. A thought
came to him,--to write a letter and hire a redcoat to take it to his
father. He wrote about the battle; how he saw the family on the roof
of the house, from the redoubt, just before it began; how he escaped;
how Robert Walden went down in the thick of the fight and probably had
been buried with the others somewhere on Bunker Hill. The Britisher
gladly agreed to take the letter to Copp's Hill for the plug of
tobacco which Tom gave him.
Mark Antony, the following afternoon, wondered what the soldier who
was rattling the knocker on the front door might want.
"Here's a letter for your master, Captain Brandon. One of the rebs
gave it to me. Maybe it's from his son," said the soldier.
"A letter from Massa Tom," shouted the negro, dancing into the
sitting-room.
Captain Brandon thanked the soldier, and told Mark Antony to mix a
toddy for him.
It was gratifying to know that Tom was safe, but sad the information
that Lieutenant Walden was numbered among the killed.
* * * * *
The fair brow of Ruth Newville through the summer months had been
growing whiter day by day.
"I fear she is not well," said Mr. Newville.
"The battle, the burning of Charlestown,--the terrible spectacle was
too much for her nerves," Mrs. Newville replied.
"Ought we not to call in the doctor?"
"No, she is not sick; you know how sympathetic she is. Don't you
remember what she said when she saw the town in flames,--even speaking
disrespectfully of General Gage, and swooning when the king's troops
won the victory. The burning of so many houses has unstrung her
nerves. I trust she will soon get over it. Since the battle she has
spent most of her time in her chamber and has pleaded indisposition
when gentlemen, especially officers, have called."
"Miss Ruth wants you to come up de stairs to her chamber," said
Pompey, when Berinthia called at the Newville home to show her the
letter Tom had written.
"So you have heard from Tom?"
"Yes, and he says that Robert Walden was killed at the very last of
the battle."
"It is as I said. I saw him go down and their feet trample him in the
dust!"
"Was it Robert you saw?"
"Yes. With the telescope I had seen him all through the battle,
walking unharmed where the bullets were flying thickest."
"You did not tell us you saw him."
"No. I did not want to alarm you."
"And you saw him when he was killed?"
"I saw his sword flashing in the sunlight as the men in scarlet closed
around him. A half dozen were thrusting with their bayonets, and yet
he kept them at bay till they shot him."
Tears had wet her pillow, but none glistened on her eyelids now.
Through the sleepless hours she had seen the stars go down beneath the
western horizon; in like manner something bright and shining had gone
out of her life. The stars would reappear; but that which had made it
beautiful to live never would return. The words "I love you" would
never be spoken by a voice forever silent.
Berinthia kissed the tremulous lips.
"I see it now, Ruth, dear; you loved him."
"Yes, I loved him. He was so noble and true, how could I help it? He
never said he loved me, and yet I think down deep in his heart he had
a place for me. I never have confessed it before, not even to myself.
I say it to you, because I should die if I could not have some one to
whom I could tell my sorrow. Let it be our secret, ours alone."
Through the sultry days of August the streets were silent, except the
beating of drums as other regiments arrived, or as soldiers dying from
wounds or disease were borne to their burial. The distress of the
people could but increase. The provincials wounded in the battle were
still held as felons in the jail. They were dying very fast. It was a
spirited letter which the British commander received from General
Washington, informing him that unless the prisoners were treated more
humanely, British prisoners would be dealt with accordingly.[74]
[Footnote 74: Reverend Andrew Eliot, minister of the New North Church,
remained in Boston. The following is from a letter to Samuel Eliot
under date of September 6, 1776: "I am at length allowed to visit the
prisoners. They are only eleven out of thirty." _Proceedings Mass.
Hist. Soc._ vol. xvi.]
Many times Abraham Duncan asked permission to see the prisoners
confined in the jail, that he might minister to their needs and do
something for their comfort and welfare, but as often had he been
refused by the gruff red-coated sergeant in charge. Once more, after
learning what General Washington had done, he asked permission,
received a pass from the provost-marshal, and was admitted. He saw the
floor was covered with prostrate forms, men with sunken eyes,
emaciated hands, a few with old quilts beneath them, others upon the
bare planks. There were festering wounds and cheeks hot with the flush
of fever. Some of the sufferers gazed upon him wonderingly, others
heeded not his coming. One, whose uniform was still soiled with the
dust of the battlefield, lay with closed eyes, minding not his
presence.
"His wound has about healed, but he is going with fever. He was
fine-looking when brought here the day after the battle, but he is
about done for. After to-morrow we shall have one less to exchange
with Mr. Washington," said the sergeant.
Abraham stooped and parted the matted beard from the fevered lips, and
laid back the tangled hair from the brow. The eyes wearily opened,
gazed languidly, then wonderingly.
"Do you know me?"
The words were faintly spoken.
"Know you! What, Robert Walden!"
There was not strength in the arm sufficient to lift the weary hand.
Abraham grasped it, looked one moment at the closing eyes, and
hastened from the room. Breathless with running, he reached the
Brandon home, telling the story.
"We must have him brought here instantly; he must not die there," said
Mr. Brandon, who accompanied Abraham to the jail, only to find that
the sergeant in charge could not permit the removal. Sadly they
returned.
"I must tell Ruth about it," said Berinthia, putting on her bonnet and
hastening from the house.
Ruth was sitting in her chamber. A strange, yet sweet peace had come
into her soul. The heart that had struggled so sorely was at rest. She
was repeating to herself the words spoken by the world's best friend,
"My peace I leave you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you."
The summer birds were no longer singing; the swallows had gone. The
melocotoons were no longer upon the trees, neither the early pears and
ripening apples; the soldiers had plucked them. Her father's face was
growing grave; her mother's step less elastic. There was sorrow and
desolation around her, and yet she was happy. She saw Berinthia
walking up the path.
"Come right up," the cheerful invitation from the chamber window.
"Oh, Ruth, I've something to tell you. He's alive!"
"Who?"
"Robert--a prisoner in the jail."
She told the story; he was still breathing, but dying. Her father had
been to get him, but no prisoner could be removed without an order
from General Gage.
"We will go to the Province House," said Ruth quietly, rising and
putting on her bonnet.
Her calmness, the manifest quiet, the business-like procedure of Ruth,
amazed Berinthia. They hastened to the governor's home. General Gage
received them courteously. He was pleased to welcome Miss Newville to
the Province House, and recalled with pleasure the evening when he had
the honor to escort her to her father's hospitable table.
"I have a favor to ask," said Ruth, "which I am sure your excellency
will be pleased to grant. One of your prisoners, Lieutenant Robert
Walden, in the jail, is a cousin of my friend Miss Brandon. I learn
that he is far gone with fever and seemingly has not many hours to
live, and I have come to ask if you will kindly permit his removal to
her home?"
"Most certainly, my dear Miss Newville; it gives me pleasure to do
this little office for you and your friend," he replied.
General Gage touched a bell and a sergeant entered the apartment.
"Sergeant, take two men of the guard, with a bier, and accompany these
ladies to the jail to remove one of the sick prisoners, as they shall
direct. See to it that the man is gently handled. Here is the order of
delivery for the officer in charge."
"You are very kind, General, and I thank you not only for Miss
Brandon, but for myself," said Ruth.
Never before had the people living along Hanover Street seen such a
spectacle as that a few minutes later,--a sergeant in advance, two
soldiers bearing a rebel officer, worn and wasted by disease, his life
ebbing away, and two ladies looking anxiously to see if the flickering
life would last a little longer.
In Tom's chamber the soiled uniform was removed, the matted hair laid
back, the parched lips moistened, the unconscious invalid clothed in
linen white and clean. A doctor came, bowed his ear to Robert's breast
to catch the beating of the heart, and moistened the parched lips.
"Fever has burned him up. The tide is nearly out. It is only a
question of a few hours," he said.
Through the night, Ruth, sitting by his bedside, in the calm and
stillness, heard the clock strike the passing hours. At times she
heard, through the open windows, the faint ripple of the surf rolling
in from the restless sea. Soon for him the waves of life would break
upon a shoreless ocean. It was her hand that fanned him; that wiped
the death-damp from his forehead; dropped the refreshing cordial on
his tongue; held the mirror to his nostrils to ascertain if still,
perchance, he breathed. The tides of the ocean had reached their
farthest ebb and were setting towards the flood once more, bringing
sweet and refreshing odors from the ever-heaving sea. The night winds
were drying the dampness from the marble brow. Day was dawning, its
amber light flowing along the horizon. The fluttering heart was
beating more strongly; more deep the breathing.
"Oh, 'Rinthia! He isn't going; he's coming back. God has heard my
prayer," said Ruth.
The sun was rising, and its rays streaming into the chamber. The
closed eyes slowly opened and gazed wonderingly. Where was he? What
the meaning of this flood of light? No longer straggling beams through
iron-grated windows, no longer the bare floor and earth-polluted
garments, but linen white and clean. Was it an angel bending over
him,--whose eyes of love and infinite tenderness looked into his own?
Was it one of the seraphim that pressed her lips to his, that dropped
tears upon his cheeks? Were there tears in Heaven? Surely this must be
Paradise! The eyes closed, the vision faded, but the angel still was
fanning the fevered cheeks.
As shone the face of Moses, the lawgiver of Israel, when he descended
from the Mount of God, so the countenance of Ruth Newville was
illuminated by a divine radiance when once more she entered her home.
During the night she had been transfigured.
"What has happened, daughter?" her father asked.
"Where have you been? what is it?" the exclamation of the mother,
gazing with wonder and amazement upon the face of her child.
"Sit down, please, and I will tell you. I must go back to the
beginning. Do you remember a day, six years ago, one September
afternoon, when I came into the house greatly agitated? and when you
asked, as you have now, what had happened, I would not make reply?"
"Yes, Ruth, and you have been a mystery to me ever since that
afternoon," said Mrs. Newville.
"I would not tell you then that I had been insulted by ruffian
soldiers, that a stranger had rescued me from their clutches, for I
knew it would trouble you. Who the gentleman was I did not know. I
only saw he was noble and manly. I thanked him and hastened away.
Right after that we had our last garden party, to which 'Rinthia
brought her cousin, Mr. Walden, when I discovered it was he who
rescued me."
"Mr. Walden!" Mrs. Newville exclaimed.
"A noble young man! I always liked his appearance," said Mr. Newville.
"Why didn't you tell us about it, Ruth, so we could have shown him
some attention?" Mrs. Newville asked.
"It is not too late to do it now, mother."
She told the story, that he was a lieutenant, a prisoner, wounded,
hovering between life and death; how she had brought about his removal
from the jail to the Brandon home, watched over him during the night,
wondering if the next moment would not be the last; that just before
sunrise the tide had turned and he was going to live.
"You saving him! Wonderful!" Mrs. Newville exclaimed.
"It is just like you, daughter," said the father, clasping his arms
around her and kissing her lips.
"I will go and help care for him, even if he is a rebel," said Mrs.
Newville.
"Ruth, daughter," said the father, when they were alone, "did you keep
that to yourself because you thought it would trouble us to hear that
the soldiers of King George were vile ruffians?"
"Yes, father; I knew your loyalty to the king, and I would not disturb
it. I did not want to pain you. And do you wonder I have hated the
sight of a redcoat ever since? But, father dear, it was not the
assault of the villains that led me to sympathize with the
provincials, as you know I have done, but the conviction that they
were in the right and the king and his ministers in the wrong. I can
understand why you and mother do not see the conflict as I see it.
Your high sense of honor, your oath of allegiance to the king, your
position as an official, have made you loyal and true to King George,
and you cannot see the side espoused by the people. This attempt of
the ministry and king to subdue them by force of arms, by burning
their houses, by treating them as felons, as they have Robert Walden,
thrusting them into jail, allowing them to die uncared for, will fail;
justice and right are on their side. I know it pains you, father dear,
to have me say this, but I could not, even for the sake of pleasing
you, be false to myself."
"I would not have you be false to yourself, my child, but always true
to your convictions, no matter what may happen." He drew her to him
and tenderly caressed her.
"I see it now, daughter. For a long while I have not been able to
comprehend you, but it is plain at last."
They sat in silence, her head pillowed on his breast, his arm around
her.
"Ruth, daughter, I suspect you have not told me all; you need not
unfold anything you may choose to keep to yourself, but I can
understand that a very tender feeling may have sprung up between Mr.
Walden and yourself."
"He never has said that he loved me. You would not have me ask him if
he does, would you, father dear?" she said playfully, patting his lips
with her fingers.
"I understand, daughter. Things of the heart are sacred and not to be
talked about," he replied, kissing her once more and feeling as never
before the greatness and richness of the treasure he had in her.