after things here. This war will not last always. You will all come
back some time," said Ruth, her abiding faith rising supreme above the
agony of the parting.
"I will care for them," had been the calm reply of Mary.
"Oh, missus! I can't bear to have ye go, you's been good to me always.
I'se packed a luncheon for ye," said Phillis, kneeling upon the floor,
clasping the knees of her departing mistress, crying and sobbing.
"Oh, massa and missus, old Pomp can't tell ye how good ye've been to
him. He'll be good to Miss Ruth. He'll pray for de good Lord to bless
ye, every night, as he always has,"--the benediction of the slave
kneeling by Phillis's side.
Long and tender was the last embrace of the mother and daughter,--of
the father and his beloved child. With tears blinding her eyes, with
tottering steps, Ruth passed across the gang-plank. A sailor drew it
in, and unloosed the cable. The vessel swung with the tide from its
moorings, the jib and mainsail filled with the breeze, and glided
away. The weeping crowd upon its deck saw Ruth standing upon the
wharf, her countenance serene, pure, and peaceful, with tears upon her
face, gazing at the receding ship. Those around her beheld her steady
herself against the post which had held the cable, standing there till
the Queen Charlotte was but a white speck dotting the landscape in the
lower harbor, then walking with faltering steps to her desolate home.
XXIV.
IN THE OLD HOME.
"Here, Miss Ruth, I has a cordial for ye. Drink it, honey," said
Phillis as Ruth sank into a chair.
"Don't be down-hearted, Miss Ruth; old Pomp will take keer of ye."
"I do not doubt it. You and Phillis have always been good to me, and
now I have something to say to both of you. Would you like to be free,
Pompey?"
"Would I like to be free, Miss Ruth?" the negro asked, hardly knowing
what to make of the question.
"Yes, would you like to be free, to own yourself, to come and go as
you please?"
"'Deed I would, Miss Ruth. Massa and missus was always very good to
old Pomp, but 'pears I would like to be myself."
She rose and took Pompey and Phillis by their hands.
"Your old master has given you both to me, and now I give you to
yourselves. You are both free now and forever," said Ruth.
"Free! Miss Ruth! Did you say we is free?"
"Yes, you are no longer slaves; you can go and come, now and always;
you are your own."
"Oh, Miss Ruth, old Pomp never will leave ye, never. Old Pomp free!
'Pears like de New Jerusalem has come," said the negro, sinking upon
his knees, kissing her hand and bathing it with tears.
"Oh, Miss Ruth, honey, I has held ye in my arms when ye was a little
baby, toted ye in de garding when de flowers was bloomin', rocked ye
to sleep when ye was pinin'; I've seen ye grow to be a woman, and now
ye is my missus tellin' me I'm free. I'll cook de chicken and de
johnny-cake for ye till I can't cook no more," said Phillis, clasping
Ruth in her arms, with tears rolling down her cheeks and laughter
bubbling from her lips.
The foresight that had seen the probable departure of the British
troops was forecasting the immediate future; that the interval before
the arrival of General Washington's army would be one of peril, from
vagabonds, camp-followers, and the ragamuffins enlisted by Creen
Brush, commissioned by General Howe to organize a battalion of Tories.
Through the day the British regiments were sullenly taking their
departure. Pompey informed Ruth that the vagabonds had begun to
plunder the stores and break into houses.
"Dey won't git into dis yeer house, honey. I'se got de water b'ilin'
hot in de kitchen for 'em," said Phillis.
Ruth did not doubt a mansion like hers would attract the villains, and
determined to defend herself against all intruders. General Howe was
going on shipboard; no longer would she recognize his authority or
that of any subordinate officer. Years before, her father had been
member of a battalion of horsemen. The pistols he carried then were in
a closet. Pompey brought them, fixed the flints, oiled the locks, and
found a horn of powder, but no bullets.
"Perhaps it is just as well, Pompey, for if I were to have a bullet, I
might kill somebody, and I would not like to do that," she said.
"If ye are goin' to shoot, better shoot to kill, Miss Ruth," said
Pompey.
"I never have fired a pistol, Pompey; how do you do it?"
"I'll show ye, missus," said the negro, putting some powder in the pan
and cocking the pistol.
"Now, Miss Ruth, you jes' pull de trigger and it will flash."
They were in the kitchen. Ruth pointed the weapon toward the fireplace
and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a bang.
"O Lord! Missus!" shouted Phillis, dropping on the floor.
"'Pears, Miss Ruth, like she's been loaded all dese years," said
Pompey, his eyeballs rolling in astonishment.
"It appears I have found out how to fire," said Ruth, laughing. "But
how do you load it?" she asked.
Pompey poured a charge of powder into his hand, emptied it into the
barrel, and rammed it down with a wad of paper.
"We haven't any bullets, but we can use gravel-stones or dried peas or
a tallow candle. I've seen a candle fired right through a board, Miss
Ruth," he said.
"We'll load them with powder now; perhaps we shan't need anything
else," Ruth replied.
In the gathering darkness Phillis saw a redcoat reconnoitring the
grounds. He rapped upon the door leading to the kitchen. She did not
unloose the chain, but opened it sufficiently wide to talk with the
fellow.
"What d'ye want?" she asked.
"I want to come in."
"What d'ye want to come in for?"
"To see if ye have anything belonging to the king. People have seized
the king's property and taken it into their houses."
"We haven't anything belonging to King George."
"Open the door or I'll break it down."
"Go away. Dere can't no lobster come into dis yeer kitchen," said
Phillis, attempting to close the door. But she saw the muzzle of a gun
thrust into the opening. Her hands grasped it. One vigorous pull and
it was hers, and the villain was fleeing.
"I'se got it! I'se got de villin's gun. Wid de pistils, de musket, and
de b'ilin' water we'll fight 'em!" she shouted.
Ruth, keeping watch, saw a squad of men. One of them rattled the
knocker.
"What do you wish?" she asked, raising a window.
"I am commissioned to search for property belonging to the crown."
"Who are you?"
"I am a lieutenant in the command of Colonel Brush."
"I do not recognize your authority, neither that of Colonel Brush nor
General Howe, who has taken his departure."
"I shall be under the necessity of entering by force if you do not
open the door."
"You will do so at your peril."
"Break down the door, men!"
The soldiers pounded with the butts of their muskets, but the panels
did not yield.
"Smash a window!"
A bayonet was thrust through a pane, and the glass rattled to the
ground; the butt of a musket smashed the sash, and a pair of hands
grasped the window-sill. Memory recalled a day when two soldiers
assaulted her; from that hour a redcoat had been hateful. She seized
one of the pistols. Remembering what Pompey had said, she picked the
lighted candle from its socket and thrust it into the weapon. The
ruffian was astride the window-sill. There was a flash, a loud report,
and he dropped with a thud to the ground.
From the balcony came a flood of boiling water upon the astonished
ruffians.
"I'll give it to ye, b'ilin' hot!" shouted Phillis. The ruffians saw
the muzzle of a gun pointed towards them from the window, and the
stalwart form of Pompey as he raised it to take aim. The astonished
villains fled, leaving Ruth, Pompey, and Phillis victors in the
encounter.
* * * * *
Morning dawned fair and beautiful. The robins and bluebirds were
singing in the garden. Ruth heard again the beating of drums, the
blast of bugles. General Washington was entering the town. By his side
rode Major Robert Walden.
What surprise! A white handkerchief was waving from the balcony of the
Newville home. She was there, more beautiful and queenly than ever
before! Not an alien, not an exile, but loyal to liberty, to him! He
must leap from his saddle and clasp her in his arms! No. He must
accompany his great commander in the triumphal entry. That
accomplished, then the unspeakable joy.
* * * * *
There came an evening when the Newville home was aglow with lights,
and Pompey was bowing low to General and Mrs. Washington, Generals
Greene, Putnam, Thomas, to colonels, majors, captains, councilors, the
selectmen of the town, Reverend Doctor Cooper, Colonel Henry and Lucy
Knox, Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, Abraham Duncan, Major Tom
Brandon, Rachel Walden; young ladies in the bloom of maidenhood,
matronly mothers, fathers resolute of countenance,--all rejoicing that
the redcoats were gone.
Down from the chamber, passing the old clock on the stairs, came Major
Robert Walden, in bright, new uniform, and Ruth Newville in satin,
white and pure.
Reverend Doctor Cooper spoke of the bravery of the bridegroom in
battle, the manliness of character that fitted him for fighting the
battle of life. Tears came to many eyes as he pictured the love of a
maiden who rescued her beloved, swept by life's ebbing tide far out
towards a shoreless sea.
They who stood around beheld the countenance of the bride transfigured
as she pronounced the words, "to love, to honor, and cherish him."
Amid the general joy, one heart alone felt a momentary pang. Never
might Rachel whisper such words to him whose last thought had been of
her, who had given his life that liberty might live.
Once more food was to be had from the marketmen around Faneuil
Hall--joints of beef, pigs, sausages, chickens, turkeys, vegetables
and fruit, brought in by the farmers of Braintree, Dedham, and
Roxbury. Fishermen once more could sail down the harbor, drop their
lines for cod and mackerel on the fishing ground beyond the Outer
Brewster, and return to the town without molestation from a meddling
town major.
With joyful countenance and conscious dignity, Pompey perambulated the
market, inspecting what the hucksters had for sale.
"I want de juiciest j'int, de tenderest, fattest turkey, de freshest
eggs right from de nest, 'cause de 'casion is to be Missus Ruth's
weddin' dinner," he said.
Many banquets had Phillis prepared, but never one like the dinner for
Miss Ruth on her wedding day.
"I've roasted de turkey and sparrib for Massa Ginerel Howe and Massa
Ginerel Clinton, but dey ain't of no 'count 'side Massa Major Walden
and Massa Ginerel Washington, 'cause dey drive de redcoats out of
Boston. Miss Ruth fired de pistil and I scaldid dem with de b'ilin'
water. He! he! he!" she laughed.
It was a pleasure to stuff the turkey, to turn the joint of beef
roasting on the spit, mix the plums in the pudding, and mould the
mince pies for Ruth and her friends.
"Miss Ruth told me to go free, and now she's Missus Ruth Walden. He!
he! he!"
The laughter bubbled from her lips.
[Illustration: The Dinner-Party.]
It was a joyful party that sat down to the dinner. The toasts drunk
were not the health of George III. and Sophia Charlotte, but the
health of General George Washington, the Continental Congress, Major
Robert Walden, and, more heartily than any other, long life and
happiness to Ruth Newville Walden.
* * * * *
Years have gone by,--years of sorrow, privation, and suffering to
those who, through their loyalty to King George, and their inability
to discern the signs of the times, have been exiles from the land
that gave them birth, whose property has been seized by the Great and
General Court of Massachusetts. The days are long to Mary Shrimpton in
the little cabin at Halifax. The great estates once owned by her
father are no longer his. Her once beautiful home has been sold to the
highest bidder. Only with her spinning-wheel can she keep the wolf
from the cabin door. Parliament has been talking of doing something
for the refugees in Nova Scotia, but the commoners and lords are three
thousand miles away, and the people of England are groaning under the
burden incurred by the fruitless attempt to subdue the Colonies. The
struggle is over. Lord Cornwallis has surrendered his army to General
Washington at Yorktown, and commissioners are negotiating a peace.
Through the years Abel Shrimpton, unreconciled to life's changes, has
been cursing Samuel Adams and John Hancock for having led the people
to rebel against the king, not seeing that Divine Providence was using
them as instruments to bring about a new era in human affairs. When
the curses are loudest and most vehement, Mary's gentle hand pats his
lips, smooths the gray hairs from the wrinkled brow, and calms his
troubled spirit. Pansies bloom beneath the latticed windows of her
cabin home. Morning-glories twine around it. Swallows twitter their
joy, and build their nests beneath the eves. Motherly hens cluck to
their broods in the dooryard. The fare upon the table within the cabin
is frugal, but there is always a bit of bread or a herring for a
wandering exile. When women pine for their old homes, when
homesickness becomes a disease, it is Mary Shrimpton who cheers the
fainting hearts. As she sits by her wheel, she sings the song sung by
the blind old harper Carolan, who, though long separated from his true
love, yet recognized her by the touch of her gentle hand:--
"True love can ne'er forget.
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one."
Tom Brandon said he would be true to her. The war is over; surely if
living he will come. Though the thick fog at times drifts in from the
sea, shutting out the landscape and all surrounding objects, though
the rain patters on the roof, and the days are dark and dreary, her
face is calm and serene, glorified by a steadfast faith and changeless
love.
The time has been long to the occupants of the cottage across the way.
Though little gold is left in the purse, there is ever room for hungry
refugees at the table of the king's former commissioner of imposts.
The locks beneath his tie wig are whiter than they were, the furrows
on his brow have deepened. Officers of the army and navy in Halifax,
once guests in his home on the slope of Beacon Hill, sometimes call
upon him, but the great world has passed him by. Old friends, fellow
exiles, at times gather at his fireside, talk of other days, and of
what Parliament may possibly do for them.
Time has left its mark upon the face of her who sits by his side. The
soft, brown hair has changed to gray. Plans of other days have not
come to pass. Disappointment and grief have quenched ambitious fire.
Father and mother are separated from a daughter beloved. How could
Ruth ever become a rebel, disloyal to her rightful sovereign? What
possessed her to turn her back upon Lord Upperton, upon the
opportunity to become a peeress of the realm? Oh, the misery that has
come from such waywardness! What has become of her? Will they ever
again see her?
[Illustration: Home of the Exiles.]
* * * * *
With the flag of the new nation--the banner of crimson stripes and
fadeless stars--flying at her masthead, the ship Berinthia Brandon,
Major Tom Brandon owner, comes proudly sailing into Halifax harbor.
The anchor dropped, he makes his way to the vine-clad cabin, listens a
moment by the latticed window to hear a sweet voice singing words that
thrill him.
"Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one."
He lifts the latch. There is a cry of delight, and Mary springs to his
arms.
"I said I would come, and I am here."
"I knew you would, Tom. Ever since a ship arrived bringing the news
from Yorktown that Cornwallis had surrendered, I have been expecting
you."
"How do you do, father?" said Major Tom, holding out his hand to Mr.
Shrimpton.
"I ain't your father," the surly reply.
"But you are to be, as soon as I can find a minister. The past is
past. I've come to take you and Mary to your old home. When it was
sold, I bought it; you are to go back to it and live there. It is to
be our home."
There is astonishment upon the cold, hard face, which relaxes its
sternness; the chin quivers, the lips tremble, tears roll down the
cheeks of the gray-haired exile. Through the years he has nursed his
hate. But there is no sword so sharp, no weapon so keen to pierce the
hardened human heart, as kindness. He has hated Samuel Adams, John
Hancock, and Tom Brandon; and this is Tom's revenge. His old home to
be his own once more! No longer an exile! To sit once more by the old
fireside, through the kindness of him whom he had turned from his
door! His head drops upon his breast; he sobs like a child, but
reaches out his arms to them.
"Take her, Tom. I've hated you, but God bless you; you were right, and
I was wrong."
No longer hard-hearted, cold, and animated by hate, but as a little
child he enters the doorway leading to the Kingdom of Heaven.
* * * * *
A man of stalwart frame, a woman radiant and beautiful, with a little
boy and girl, are standing by the door of the humble home across the
way; fellow-passengers with Major Tom on the Berinthia Brandon. Mr.
Newville opens the door in answer to the knock, to be clasped in the
arms of Ruth. Great the surprise, unspeakable the joy, of father,
mother, and daughter, meeting once more, welcoming a worthy son,
taking prattling grandchildren to their arms.
"We have come for you, and we are all going home together. You will
find everything just as it was when you left," said Ruth.
* * * * *
Once more there were happy homes in Boston,--that upon Copp's Hill,
where Berinthia and Abraham Duncan cared for the father and mother;
that where Tom and Mary Shrimpton-Brandon made the passing days
pleasant to Abel Shrimpton, loyal no longer to King George, but to the
flag of the future republic; and that other home, where Major Robert
Walden and his loving wife, with queenly grace, dispensed unstinted
hospitality, not only to those distinguished among their fellow-men,
but to the poor and needy, impoverished by the long and weary struggle
for independence of the mother land. Abel Shrimpton and Theodore
Newville were no longer exiles, but citizens, acknowledging cheerful
allegiance to the flag of the confederation, through the fealty to
liberty by the Daughters of the Revolution.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.