It was as if one had risen from the dead, when Robert Walden once more
entered the old home. Father, mother, Rachel, all, had thought of him
as lying in a grave unknown,--having given his life for liberty. It
was a joyful home. All the town came to shake hands with him. His
father and mother were older, the gray hairs upon their brows more
plentiful, and sorrow had left its mark on Rachel's face; but her
countenance was beautiful in its cheerful serenity.
A few days at home, and Robert was once more with the army,
commissioned as major upon the staff of General Washington. Colonel
Knox the while was transporting the cannon captured by Ethan Allen at
Ticonderoga across the Berkshire Hills to Cambridge--fifty guns
mounted on sleds, drawn by one hundred oxen.
The commander of the army had not forgotten what Major Walden had said
about the military value of Dorchester Heights. The cannon were placed
in position, but not till winter was nearly over were the preparations
completed for the bombardment of Boston.
When the sun set on the afternoon of March 2d little did Lord Howe
and the ten thousand British soldiers imagine what was about to
happen. Suddenly from the highlands of Roxbury, from Cobble Hill, from
floating batteries in Charles River, cannon-balls were hurled upon the
town. Bombs exploded in the streets; one in a guardhouse, wounding six
soldiers. The redcoats sprang to their guns, to give shot for shot.
Little sleep could the people get, through the long wearisome Saturday
night. During Sunday the lips of the cannon were silent, but with the
coming of night again they thundered. General Howe was wondering what
Mr. Washington was intending to do, not mistrusting there was a long
line of ox-carts loaded with picks and spades, bales of hay, and casks
filled with stones; the teamsters waiting till Major Walden should
give a signal for them to move.
While the cannon were flashing, General Thomas, with two thousand men,
marched across the marshes along Dorchester Bay and up the hill
overlooking the harbor. Major Walden gave the signal, and the farmers
started their teams,--those with picks, and spades, and casks
following the soldiers; those with hay halting on the marsh land,
unloading, and piling the bales in a line so as to screen the passage.
Major Walden, General Rufus Putnam, and Colonel Gridley hastened to
the summit of the hill in advance of the troops. Colonel Gridley
marked the lines for a fortification; the soldiers stacked their arms,
seized picks and spades, and broke the frozen earth. The moon was at
its full. From the hill, the soldiers could look down upon the harbor
and see the warships and great fleet of transports, with masts and
yard-arms outlined in the refulgent light. Robert expected to see a
cannon flash upon the Scarborough, the nearest battleship; but the
sentinel pacing the deck heard no sound of delving pick or shovel.
Walden piloted the carts to the top of the hill, and placed the casks
in such position that they could be set rolling down the steep at a
moment's notice. The soldiers chuckled at the thought of the commotion
they would make in the ranks of the redcoats, were they to make an
assault and suddenly see the casks rolling and tumbling, sweeping all
before them!
General Howe was astonished, when daylight dawned, to see an
embankment of yellow earth crowning the hill overlooking the harbor.
"The rebels have done more in a night than my army would have done in
a month," he said, after looking at the works with his telescope. What
should he do? Mr. Washington's cannon would soon be sending shot and
shell upon the warships, the transports, and the town. The provincials
must be driven from the spot at once; otherwise, there could be no
safety for the fleet, neither for his army. He called his officers
together in council.
"We must drive the rebels just as we did at Bunker Hill, or they will
drive us out of the town. There is nothing else to be done," said
General Clinton.
General Howe agreed with him. A battle must be fought, and the sooner
the better. Every moment saw the fortifications growing stronger. But
what would be the outcome of a battle? Could he embark his army in
boats, land at the foot of the hill, climb the steep ascent, and
drive the rebels with the bayonet? At Bunker Hill there was only a
rabble,--regiments without a commander; but now Mr. Washington was in
command; his troops were in a measure disciplined. That he was
energetic, far-seeing, and calculating, he could not doubt. Had he not
transported heavy cannon across the country from Lake Champlain to
bombard the town? Evidently Mr. Washington was a man who could bide
his time. Such men were not likely to leave anything at haphazard. One
third of those assaulting Bunker Hill had been cut down by the fire of
the rebels. Could he hope for any less a sacrifice of his army in
attacking a more formidable position, with the rebels more securely
intrenched? It was not pleasant to contemplate the possible result,
but an assault must be made.
From the housetop, Berinthia saw boats from the vessels in the harbor,
gathering at Long Wharf. Drums were beating, troops marching. Abraham
Duncan came with the information that four or five thousand men were
to assault the works and drive the provincials pell-mell across the
marshes to Roxbury. At any rate, that was the plan. He was sure it
would be a bloody battle. Possibly, while General Howe was engaged at
Dorchester Heights, Mr. Washington might be doing something else.
Neither General Howe nor any one within the British lines knew just
what the provincial commander had planned,--that the moment the
redcoats began the attack, General Israel Putnam, on Cobble Hill,
between Charlestown and Cambridge, with four thousand men, would leap
into boats, cross the Charles, and land on the Common; that General
Nathanael Greene with a large force would advance from Roxbury, and
together they would grind the British to powder, like corn in a mill.
It was mid-forenoon when Major Walden escorted General Washington
across the marsh land and along the path to Dorchester Heights. The
troops swung their hats and gave a cheer when they saw their commander
ascending the hill. He lifted his hat, and thanked them for having
constructed such strong intrenchments in so short a time.
"It is the fifth of March," he said, "and I am sure you will remember
it is the anniversary of the massacre of the Sons of Liberty."
In Boston drums were beating, regiments marching; but suddenly the
wind, which had blown from the west, changed to the east; and the sea
waves were rolling up the bay, making it impossible for the Somerset,
Scarborough, Boyne, and the other ships, to spread their sails and
take position to bombard the works of the rebels; neither could
General Howe embark the troops upon the dancing boats. The clouds were
hanging low, and rain falling. Not till the wind changed and the sea
calmed could there be a battle; General Howe must wait.
Night came; the rain was still pouring. The provincials wrapped their
overcoats closely around them, kindled fires, ate their bread and
beef, told stories, sang songs, and kept ward and watch through the
dreary hours.
Morning dawned; the wind was still east, and the waves rolling in
from the sea. With gloom upon his brow, General Howe with his
telescope examined the fortifications. Could he hope to capture them?
Doubtful. Exasperating, humiliating, the reflection that Mr.
Washington was in a position to compel him to evacuate the town. Only
a few days before, he had written Lord Dartmouth he was in no danger
from the rebels; he only wished Mr. Washington would have the audacity
to make a movement against him; but now he must pack up and be off,
give up what he had held so long, and confess defeat. What would the
king say? What the people of England? He did not like to think of what
had come. But he must save the army. What of the citizens who had
maintained their loyalty to the king? Should he leave them to the
tender mercies of the exasperated provincials whose homes had been
burned? He could not do that. If Theodore Newville, Nathaniel Coffin,
or any of the thousand or more wealthy citizens were willing to remain
loyal, if they were ready to become aliens and fugitives and exiles,
he must do what he could for them.
* * * * *
"What is it, husband?" Mrs. Newville asked as Mr. Newville entered his
house, and she beheld his countenance, white, haggard, and woe-begone.
"What has happened, father?" Ruth asked, leading him, trembling and
tottering, to his chair.
"It has come," he gasped, resting his elbows on his knees and covering
his face with his hands.
"What has come?" Mrs. Newville inquired.
"The end of the king's authority in this town."
"What do you mean?"
"The army is going, and we have got to go."
"Go where?"
"I don't know; only we have got to leave this home, never to see it
again, and be aliens the rest of our lives," he said, groaning and
sobbing.
"Why must the army go?" Mrs. Newville exclaimed.
"Because General Howe cannot stay. The provincials are in a position
to sink his ships and set the town on fire with their bombs."
"Can't General Howe drive Mr. Washington from the hill just as he did
at Charlestown?"
"He was going to do it yesterday, but the sea wouldn't let him, and
now it is too late."
"He must do it, and I will go and tell him so. Leave our home and
become wanderers and vagabonds? Never!" she cried with flashing eyes.
"It is decided. Orders have been issued. The fear is that the
provincials may open fire upon the fleet and sink the ships before the
army can get away."
"Why didn't General Howe take possession of the hill, and prevent the
provincials from doing it?"
"The Lord knows, and perhaps General Howe does, but I don't. I have
seen for some time what might happen, and now we have it. We have got
to go, and God help us."
Mrs. Newville, overwhelmed, tottered to a chair.
"So this is what Sam Adams and John Hancock have done. I hate them.
But why must we go? Why not stay? We have as good a right to stay as
they. Give up our home? Never! Never!"
With flashing eyes, and teeth set firmly together, she rose, and took
a step or two as if ready to confront a foe.
"We cannot stay," said Mr. Newville. "We have given our allegiance to
the king; I have held office under the crown, and the Great and
General Court will confiscate my estate, and we shall be beggars. More
than that, I probably shall be seized and thrown into jail. There's no
knowing what they will do. Possibly my lifeless body may yet dangle
from the gallows, where murderers have paid the penalty of their
crimes."
Mrs. Newville wrung her hands, and gave way to sobs and moans. Ruth
had stood a silent spectator, but sat down now by her mother, put an
arm around her, and wiped away the tears coursing down her cheeks.
"I haven't told you all," said Mr. Newville. "General Howe threatens
to burn the town if Mr. Washington opens fire upon the ships."
"General Howe threatens that?" exclaimed Mrs. Newville.
"Yes; John Scollay and several of us have asked General Robertson to
intercede with Howe. He has done so, but Howe will make no promise. He
has permitted a flag of truce to go out to Mr. Washington to let him
know if the British are molested he will set the town on fire. If Mr.
Washington is the kind-hearted man they say he is, probably he will
not make an attack. He wants to compel Howe to get out and to have the
town spared. We are not the only ones who will suffer, but everybody
who has stood for the king will have to go or take the consequences
when the provincials march in. They will be implacable in their
retaliation for the burning of Charlestown and Falmouth, and for the
destruction of the Old North Meetinghouse, the desecration of the Old
South, and the pulling down of hundreds of houses. They will
confiscate the property of every one who has adhered to the crown, and
make them beggars, or send them out of the Province, or perhaps do
both. We may as well look the matter squarely in the face, for we have
got to face it."
It was spoken with quivering lips. Several vessels had been designated
on which the friends of the king might embark for Halifax, the only
port near at hand where they could find refuge. He looked around the
room, gazed mournfully at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls,
at the rich mahogany furniture, the mirrors above the mantel
reflecting the scene. In the dining-room was the buffet with its rich
furnishings. Upon the stairs was the clock, its pendulum swinging as
it had swung since the days of his boyhood. Upon the sideboard were
the tea-urns used on many convivial afternoons and evenings. Whichever
way he turned he saw that which had contributed to his ease, comfort,
and happiness. Looking out of the window, he saw the buds were
beginning to swell upon the trees under the genial rays of the sun.
The bluebirds and robins had arrived and were singing in the garden. A
few more days and the grass would be springing fresh and green, the
asparagus throwing up its shoots, the cherry-trees white with blooms,
the lilacs and roses perfuming the air; but never again was he to sit
beneath the vine-clad arbor as he had sat in former years, listening
to Nature's symphony rehearsed by singing birds; never again was he to
see the coming of ecstatic life in bud and blossom. He must bid
farewell forever to all the enchanting scenes, pull up by the roots,
as it were, all cherished things. What should he take? What leave
behind? There would be little room on shipboard for the richly carved
mahogany chairs, sideboard, sofa, portraits of his ancestors. What use
would he have for them in exile? How dispose of them? Who would
purchase them? No one. How would he live in a foreign land? How occupy
his time? His mansion was his own; he was possessor of other houses
and lands, but all would be seized. He could take his silver plate,
his gold and silver coin; not much else.
"Oh dear! oh dear! has it come to this!" Mrs. Newville exclaimed,
"when we might have been far away, having everything heart could
wish!"
She cast a reproachful look upon Ruth.
"Oh, if you had only done as I wanted!"
A gentle hand wiped the tears from the mother's face.
"Mother, dear, the past is gone, never to return. If it were to come
again, bringing Lord Upperton, my answer to him would be as it was. We
will let that pass. I know your every thought has been for my welfare
and happiness. I trust I have not been ungrateful for all you have
done for me and for all you thought to do. I have not seen things as
you have seen them. You have been loyal to King George; you could
hardly do otherwise with father holding an office under the crown. I
have given my sympathies to the provincials, because I believe they
are standing for what is right. My heart has gone out to one who, I
doubt not, is over on yonder hill in arms against the king. I know the
greatness of his love, that he will be always true to me, as I shall
be to him."
The hand was still wiping away the tears; she was sitting between her
father and mother, and laid the other hand upon the father's palm.
"Through these winter nights, dear father and mother, while hearing
the cannon and the bursting shells, I have been looking forward to
this hour which has come at last."
Tears stood in her eyes, and her voice became tremulous.
"We have come to the parting hour. You will go, but I shall
stay,--stay to save the house, so that, by and by, when the heat of
passion has cooled, and the fire of hate is only ashes, when the war
is over and peace has come, as come it will, you can return to the old
home."
"Leave you behind, Ruth!"
"Yes, mother."
"To be insulted and abused by the hateful rebels! Never!"
"I shall not be insulted. I am sure I shall be kindly treated. Do you
think my old friends will do anything to annoy me? Why should they,
when they know that I myself am a rebel? Mr. Sam Adams has always been
my good friend. Have I not sat in his lap in my girlhood? Are not Lucy
Flucker Knox, Dorothy Quincy, and Abigail Smith Adams my friends? Has
not Mr. John Hancock danced with me? Have I done anything that should
cause them to turn against me? Pompey and Phillis will be here to care
for me. And now, dear father, I have one or two requests to make. This
is your house, but I want you to give it to me,--make out a deed and
execute it in my name; and one thing more, I want you to give me a
bill of sale of Pompey and Phillis, so that I shall be absolute
mistress here. When the Colonies, by their valor and the righteousness
of their cause, have become independent of the king, when the last
cannon has been fired, in God's good time you will come back and find
me here in the old home."
Mr. Newville sat in silence a moment, then put his arm around her and
drew her to him.
"Oh Ruth, daughter, you are dearer to me this moment than ever before.
Your clear vision has seen what I have not been able to see,--till
now,--the possible end of this conflict. The provincials are stronger
than I supposed them to be, the disaffection wider, and the king is
weaker than I thought. It never seemed possible that an army of ten
thousand men could be forced to evacuate this town, but so it is, and
I must go. I will not be so selfish as to ask you to go. I know your
love has gone out to Robert Walden. I have no right to ask you to
thrust a sword into your own loving heart. I do not doubt he will
protect you with all the strength of a noble manhood. This house shall
be yours, together with Pompey and Phillis, who will be as dutiful to
you as they have been to your mother and me. You speak of our coming
back, but when we once leave this house we never shall behold it
again; nor shall we ever look again upon your face unless you come
where we may be. Where that will be, God only knows; we shall be
fugitives and wanderers without a home. Your mother and I will not
long need an earthly home. Such a wound as this goes down deep into
our souls, Ruth."
He could say no more, but hid his face in his hands to hide the agony
of a breaking heart.
"Father, have you forgotten who it is that feeds the ravens and cares
for the sparrows? Will He not care for you? Of one thing you may be
sure, so soon as it is possible to do so I shall seek you wherever you
may be: and now we will prepare for your going."
She kissed the tears from his face, cheered the desponding mother, and
began to select whatever would most contribute to their comfort.
* * * * *
Abraham Duncan, as he walked the streets, beheld men with haggard
faces and women wringing their hands and giving way to lamentations.
In their loyalty to the king, they never had dreamed that the
provincials could compel a disciplined army to quit the town. They had
been informed that with the opening of spring the rebels would be
scattered to the winds. In their loyalty they had organized themselves
into militia and received arms from General Howe to fight for King
George. As by a lightning flash all had been changed. Those who had
thus organized knew they would be despised by the provincials and
hardly dealt with; that houses and lands would be seized and sold to
make restitution for the burning of Charlestown and buildings torn
down in Boston. They who had lived in affluence, who had delightful
homes on the slopes of Beacon Hill, must leave them. All dear old
things must be sacrificed and family ties ruthlessly sundered. Fathers
had sons whose sympathies were with the provincials; mothers, other
than Mrs. Newville, had daughters whose true loves were marshaled
under flags floating on Dorchester Heights. Had not Colonel Henry Knox
sighted the cannon which sent the ball whirling towards the early home
of his loving wife, the home where her father and mother and sisters
were still living, which they must leave? The sword drawn on Lexington
Common was severing tender heartstrings.
There was a hurly-burly in the streets,--drums beating, soldiers
marching, a rumbling of cannon and wagons, the removal of furniture.
Eleven hundred men and women were preparing to bid farewell to their
native land and homes.
* * * * *
The final hour came. Pompey had seen the trunks and boxes safely
stowed upon the ship in which Mr. and Mrs. Newville, Nathaniel Coffin,
the king's receiver-general, and Thomas Flucker were to find passage.
With a cane to steady his tottering steps, Mr. Newville took a last
look of the home where his life had been passed; the house in which
his eyes first saw the light; where a mother, many years in her grave,
had caressed him; where a father had guided his toddling steps; the
home to which he had brought his bride in the bloom of a beautiful
maidenhood; where Ruth had come to them as the blessing of God to make
the house resound with prattle and laughter, and fill it with the
sunlight of her presence; make it attractive by her grace and
beauty,--the soul beauty that looked out from loving eyes and became,
as it were, a benediction. He was to go, she to stay. God above would
be her guardian.
Mrs. Newville walked as in a daze from parlor to chamber, from
dining-room to hall and kitchen. Was she awake or dreaming? Must she
leave her home,--the home that had been so blissful, so hospitable?
Was she never again to welcome a guest to that table, never hear the
merry chatter of voices in parlor or garden? Oh, if Sam Adams and John
Hancock had only been content to let things go on as they always had
gone! If Ruth had only accepted Lord Upperton's suit! Why couldn't
she? What ought she to take, what would she most need? What sort of
accommodations would they find at Halifax? Why couldn't Ruth go with
them? It was the questioning of a mind stunned by the sudden stroke;
of a spirit all but crushed by the terrible calamity.
"I have put in everything I could think of that will in any way make
you comfortable, mother dear," said Ruth, mentioning the articles.
"I've put up some jelly and jam for ye, missus," said Phillis.
Berinthia Brandon and Abraham Duncan came to bid them farewell, and to
help Ruth prepare for their departure.
It was Ruth's strong arm that upheld her mother as they slowly walked
the street on their way to the ship. It was a mournful spectacle. Not
they alone, but Mr. Shrimpton and Mary, Nathaniel Coffin and wife and
John, and a hundred of Ruth's acquaintances were on the wharf
preparing to go on board the ships.
"This is what has come from Sam Adams's meddling," said Mr. Shrimpton.
"May the Devil take him and John Hancock. They ought to be hanged, and
I hope King George will yet have a chance to string 'em up--curse 'em!
I'd like to see 'em dangling from the gibbet, and the crows picking
their bones," he said, smiting his fists together, walking to and fro.
He was bidding farewell to home,--to the house in which he was born.
He had farms in the county, wide reaches of woodland, fields, and
pastures. The provincials would confiscate them. In his declining
years all his property was to slip through his fingers, and he was to
totter in penury to his grave.
"I shall enlist in the service of the king and fight 'em," said John
Coffin, who had shown his loyalty by accompanying General Howe to the
battle of Bunker Hill.
"And I hope you'll have a chance to put a bullet through the carcass
of Sam Adams," said Mr. Shrimpton.
It was his daughter's hand that guided him over the gang-plank to the
deck of the Queen Charlotte.
"Let me put this muffler round your neck; the air is chill and you are
shivering," said Mary, gently leading him.
With chattering teeth and curses on his lips for those whom he
regarded as authors of his misfortunes, Abel Shrimpton, led by his
daughter, descended the winding stairs to the cabin of the ship.
"Here are the rugs and shawls, mother, and here is the wolf-skin,
father, to wrap around you," said Ruth.
They were in the stifling cabin, the departing loyalists sitting as in
a daze, stupefied, stunned by the sudden calamity, wondering if it
were not a horrid dream.
To Mary Shrimpton and Ruth Newville it was no phantom, no
hallucination, but a reality, an exigency, demanding calm reflection,
wise judgment, and prompt, decisive action. They had talked it
over,--each in the other's confidence.