[Illustration: The rider gasped, “Where is your father, Faith?”]
BROTHER JONATHAN
BY
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH
AUTHOR OF
IN THE DAYS OF AUDUBON, IN THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN,
IN THE DAYS OF JEFFERSON, ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1903
Copyright, 1903
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1903_
PREFACE
The writer has heretofore produced in the vein of fiction, after the
manner of the Mühlbach interpretations, several books which were
anecdotal narratives of the crises in the lives of public men. While
they were fiction, they largely confided to the reader what was truth
and what the conveyance of fiction for the sake of narrative form.
It was the purpose of such a book to picture by folk-lore and local
stories the early life of the man.
The folk-lore of a period usually interprets the man of the period
in a very atmospheric way. Jonathan Trumbull, Washington’s “Brother
Jonathan,” who had a part in helping to save the American army in
nearly every crisis of the Revolutionary War, and who gave the
popular name to the nation, led a remarkable life, and came to be
held by Washington as “among the first of the patriots.” The book is
a folk-lore narrative, with a thread of fiction, and seeks to picture
a period that was decisive in American history, and the home and
neighborhood of one of the most delightful characters that America
has ever known――the Roger de Coverley of colonial life and American
knighthood; very human, but very noble, always true; the fine old
American gentleman――“Brother Jonathan.”
It has been said that a story of the life of Jonathan Trumbull would
furnish material for pen-pictures of the most heroic episodes of the
Revolutionary War, and bring to light much secret history of the
times when Lebanon, Conn., was in a sense the hidden capital of the
political and military councils that influenced the greatest events
of the American struggle for liberty. The view is in part true, and a
son of Governor Trumbull so felt that force of the situation that he
painted the scenes of which he first gained a knowledge in his father’s
farmhouse, beginning the work in that plain old home on the sanded
floor.
From Governor Trumbull’s war office, which is still standing at
Lebanon, went the post-riders whose secret messages determined some of
the great events of the war. Thence went forth recruits for the army in
times of peril, as from the forests; thence supplies for the army in
famine, thence droves of cattle, through wilderness ways.
Governor Trumbull was the heart of every need in those terrible days of
sacrifice.
His wife, Faith Trumbull, a descendant of the Pilgrim Pastor Robinson
of Leyden, was a heroic woman to whom the Daughters of the Revolution
should erect a monument. The picture which we present of her in the
cloak of Rochambeau is historically true.
The eminent people who visited the secret town of the war during the
great Revolutionary events were many, and their influence had decisive
results.
Look at some of the names of these visitors: Washington, Lafayette,
Samuel Adams, Putnam, Jefferson, Franklin, Sullivan, John Jay, Count
Rochambeau, Admiral Tiernay, Duke of Lauzun, Marquis de Castellax, and
the officers of Count Rochambeau and many others.
The post-riders from Governor Trumbull’s plain farmhouse on Lebanon
Hill (called Lebanon from its cedars) represented the secret service of
the war.
When the influence of this capital among the Connecticut hills became
known, Governor Trumbull’s person was in danger. A secret and perhaps
self-appointed guard watched the wilderness roads to his war office.
One of these, were he living, might interpret events of the hidden
history of the struggle for liberty in a very dramatic way.
Such an interpreter for the purpose of historic fiction we have made in
Dennis O’Hay, a jolly Irishman of a liberty-loving heart.
In a brief fiction for young people we can only illustrate how
interesting a larger study of this subject of the secret service of the
Revolution at this place might be made. We shall be glad if we can so
interest the young reader in the topic as to lead him to follow it in
solid historic reading in his maturer years.
HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.――TWO QUEER MEN MEET 1
II.――THE JOLLY FARMER OF WINDHAM HILLS AND HIS
FLOCK OF SHEEP 20
III.――THE FIRST OF PATRIOTS AT HOME 30
IV.――“OUT YOU GO” 44
V.――THE WAR OFFICE IN THE CEDARS――AN INDIAN
TALE――INCIDENTS 58
VI.――THE DECISIVE DAY OF BROTHER JONATHAN’S LIFE 79
VII.――WASHINGTON SPEAKS A NAME WHICH NAMES THE
REPUBLIC 104
VIII.――PETER NIMBLE AND DENNIS IN THE ALARM-POST 123
IX.――A MAN WITH A CANE――“OFF WITH YOUR HAT” 135
X.――BEACONS 156
XI.――THE SECRET OF LAFAYETTE 170
XII.――LAFAYETTE TELLS HIS SECRET 187
XIII.――THE BUGLES BLOW 199
XIV.――A DAUGHTER OF THE PILGRIMS 215
XV.――“CORNWALLIS IS TAKEN!” 237
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
The rider gasped, “Where is your father, Faith?” _Frontispiece_
The surrender of Burgoyne 51
“Brother Jonathan’s” war office and residence in Lebanon,
Connecticut 60
The battle of Bunker Hill 129
Jonathan Trumbull 154
Madam Faith Trumbull contributing her scarlet cloak to the
soldiers of the Revolution 223
BROTHER JONATHAN
CHAPTER I
TWO QUEER MEN MEET
Dennis O’Hay, a young Irishman, and a shipwrecked mariner, had been
landed at Norwich, Conn., by a schooner which had come into the Thames
from Long Island Sound. A lusty, hearty, clear-souled sailor was
Dennis; the sun seemed to shine through him, so open to all people was
his free and transparent nature.
“The top of the morning to everybody,” he used to say, which feeling of
universal brotherhood was quite in harmony with the new country he had
unexpectedly found, but of which he had heard much at sea.
Dennis looked around him for some person to whom he might go for advice
in the strange country to which he had been brought. He did not have to
look far, for the town was not large, but presently a man whose very
gait bespoke importance, came walking, or rather marching, down the
street. Dennis went up to him.
“An’ it is somebody in particular you must be,” said Dennis. “You seem
to me like some high officer that has lost his regiment, cornet, horse,
drum-major, and all; no, I beg your pardon. I mean――well, I mean that
you seem to me like one who might be more than you are; I beg your
pardon again; you look like a magistrate in these new parts.”
“And who are you with your blundering honesty, my friend? You are
evidently new to these parts?”
“And it is an Irishman that I am.”
“The Lord forbid, but I am an Englishman.”
“Then we are half brothers.”
“The Lord forbid. What brings you here?”
“Storms, storms, and it is a shipwrecked mariner that I am. And I am as
poor as a coot, and you have ruffles, and laces, and buckles, but you
have a bit of heart. I can see that in your face. Your blood don’t flow
through a muscle. Have you been long in these parts?”
“Longer than I wish to have been. This is the land of blue-laws, as you
will find.”
“And it is nothing that I know of the color of the laws, whether
they be blue, or red, or white. Can you tell me of some one to whom
a shipwrecked sailor could go for a roof to shelter him, and some
friendly advice? You may be the very man?”
“No, no, no. I am not your man. My name is Peters, Samuel Peters, and
I am loyal to my king and my own country, and here the people’s hearts
are turning away from both. I am one too many here. But there is one
man in these parts to whom every one in trouble goes for advice. If a
goose were to break her leg she would go to him to set it. The very
hens go and cackle before his door. Children carry him arbutuses and
white lady’s-slippers in the spring, and wild grapes in the fall, and
the very Indians double up _so_ when they pass his house on the way
to school. His house is in the perpendicular style of architecture, I
think. Close by it is a store where they talk Latin and Greek on the
grist barrels, and they tell such stories there as one never heard
before. He settles all the church and colony troubles, which are many,
doctors the sick, and keeps unfaculized people, as they call the poor
here, from becoming an expense to the town. He looks solemn, and wears
_dignified_ clothes, but he has a heart for everybody; the very dogs
run after him in the street, and the little Indian children do the
same. He is a kind of Solomon. What other people don’t know, he does.
But he has a suspicious eye for me.”
“That is my man, sure,” said Dennis. “Children and dogs know what is
in the human heart. What may that man’s name be? Tell me that, and you
will be doing me a favor, your Honor.”
“His name is Jonathan Trumbull. They call him ‘Brother Jonathan,’
because he helps everybody, hinders nobody, and tries to make broken-up
people over new.”
“And where does he live, your Honor?”
“At a place called Lebanon, there are so many cedars there. I do not
go to see him, because I did so once, but while he smiled on every one
else, he scowled _this way_ on me, as if he thought that I was not all
that I ought to be. He is a magistrate, and everybody in the colony
knows him. He marries people, and goes to the funerals of people who go
to heaven.”
“That is my man. What are the blue-laws?”
“One of the blue-laws reads that married people must live together or
go to jail. If a man and woman who were not married were to go to _him_
to settle a dispute, he would say to them――‘Join your right hands.’
When he rises up to speak in church, the earth stands still, and the
hour glass stops, and the sun on the dial. But he has no use for me.”
“That is my man, sure,” said Dennis. “Trumbull, Trumbull, but it was
his ship on which I sailed from Derry, and that was lost.”
“He has lost two ships before. It is strange that a man whose
meal-chest is open to all should be so unfortunate. It don’t seem to
accord with the laws of Providence. I sometimes doubt that he is as
good as all the people think him to be.”
“But the fruits of life are not money-making, your Honor. A man’s
influence on others is the fruit of life, and what he is and does. A
man is worth just what his soul is worth, and not less or more. He is
the man that I am after, for sure. How does one get to his house?”
“The open road from Norwich leads straight by his house, all the way
to Boston, through Windham County, where lately the frogs had a great
battle, and _millions_ of them were slain.”
Dennis opened his eyes.
“Faix?”
“Faix, stranger. Yes, yes; I have just written an account of the
battle, to be published in England. After the frogs had a battle, the
caterpillars had another, and then the hills at a place called Moodus
began to rumble and quake, and become colicky and cough. This is a
strange country.
“But these things,” he added, “are of little account in comparison to
the fact that the heart of the people is turning against the laws that
the good king and his minister make for the welfare of the colony. They
allow the people here to be one with the home government by bearing a
part of the taxes. And the people’s hearts are becoming alien. I do not
wonder that frogs fight, and caterpillars, and that the hills groan and
shake and upset milk-pans, and make the maids run they know not where.”
“I must seek that man they call ‘Brother Jonathan.’ Something in me
says I must. That way? Well, Dennis O’Hay will start now; it is a sorry
story that I will have to tell him, but it is a true heart I will have
to take to him.”
“I am going back to England,” said Mr. Peters.
“Well, good-by is it to you,” said Dennis, and the young Irishman set
his face toward Lebanon of the cedars, on the road from Boston to
Philadelphia by way of New York. He stopped by the way to talk with the
people he met about the warlike times, and things happening at Boston
town.
His mind was filled with wonder at what he heard. What a curious man
the same Brother Jonathan might be! Who were the Indian children? What
was the story of the battle of the frogs, and of the caterpillars; what
was the cause of the coughing mountains at Moodus; why did Brother
Jonathan, a man of such great heart, scowl at the same Mr. Peters, and
who was this same Mr. Peters?
Dennis took off his hat as he went on toward Lebanon, turning over in
his mind these questions. He swung his hat as he went along, and the
blue jays peeked at him and laughed, and the conquiddles (bobolinks)
seemed to catch the wonder in his mind, and to fly off to the hazel
coverts. Rabbits stood up in the highway, then shook their paws and ran
into the berry bushes by the brooks.
Everything seemed strange, as he hurried on, picking berries when he
stopped to rest.
At noon the sun glared; fishing hawks, or ospreys, wheeled in the air,
screaming. A bear, with her cubs, stopped at the turn of the way. The
bear stood up. Dennis stood still.
The bear looked at Dennis, and Dennis at the bear. Then the bear seemed
to speak to the cubs, and she and her family bounded into the cedars.
This was not Londonderry. Everything was fresh, shining and new. At
night the air was full of the wings of birds, as the morning had been
of songs of birds.
The sun of the long day fell at last, and the twilight shone red behind
the gray rocks, oaks and cedars.
Dennis sat down on the pine needles.
“It is a sorry tale that I will have to tell Brother Jonathan
to-morrow,” said he. “It will hurt my heart to hurt his heart.”
Then the whippoorwills began to sing, and Dennis fell asleep under the
moon and stars.
If the reader would know more about Mr. Peters, Samuel Peters, let him
consult any colonial library, and he will find there a collection of
stories of early Connecticut, such as would tend to make one run home
after dark. The same Mr. Peters was an Episcopal clergyman, who did not
like the Connecticut main or the “blue-laws.”[1]
[1] See Appendix for some of Rev. Samuel Peters’ queer stories.
Dennis came to the farming town on the hills among the green cedars; he
banged on the door of the Governor’s house with his hard knuckles, in
real Irish vigor.
The Governor’s wife answered the startling knock.
“And faith it is a shipwrecked sailor. I am from the north of ould
Ireland, it is now, and would you be after a man of all work, or any
work? There is lots of days of work now in these two fists, lady, and
that you may well believe.” He bowed three times.
“The Governor is away from home,” said my lady. “He has gone to New
Haven by the sea. What is your name?”
“My name is Dennis O’Hay, an honest name as ever there was in Ireland
of the north countrie, and I am an honest man.”
“You look it, my good friend. You have an honest face, but there is
fire in it.”
“And there are times, lady, when the coals should burn on the hearth of
the heart, and flame up into one’s cheeks and eyes. A storm is coming,
lady, a land storm; there are hawks in the air. I would serve you well,
lady. It is a true heart that you have. I can see it in your face,
lady.”
“And what can you do, Dennis O’Hay? You were bred to the sea.”
“And it is little that I can not do, that any man can do with his two
fists. You have brains up here among the hills, lady, but there may
come a day that you will need fists as well as brains, and wits more
than all, for I am a peaceable man; I can work, and I could suffer or
die for such people as you all seem to be up here. The heart of Dennis
O’Hay is full of this new cause for liberty. I could throw up my hat
over the sun for that cause, lady. I would enlist in that cause, and
drag the guns to the battle-field like a packhorse. Oh, I am full of
America, honest now, and no blarney.”
“I do not meddle with my husband’s affairs, but I can not turn you
away from these doors. How could I send away any man who is willing
to enlist for a cause like ours? Dennis O’Hay, go to the tavern over
there, and ask for a meal in the name of Faith Trumbull. Then come back
here and I will give you the keys to the store in the war office, for I
can trust you with the keys, and when my goodman comes back I will send
him to you.”
“Lady, this is the time to say a word to you. Ask about me among the
other sailors, if they come here, so that you may know that I have
lived an honest life. Does not your goodman need a guard?”
“I had never thought of such a thing.”
“You are sending soldiers and food and cattle to the camps, I hear; who
knows what General Gage might be led to do? They have secret guards in
foreign parts, men of the ‘secret service,’ as they call them. Lady,
there are things that come to one, down from the skies, or up from the
soul. It is all like the ‘pattern on the mount of vision’ that they
preach about. A voice within me has been saying, ‘Go and work for the
Governor among the hills, and watch out for him.’ But you must test me
first, lady. I would keep _you_ from harm; there is nothing that should
ever stand between these two fists of Dennis O’Hay and such as you. But
that day will come. I will go to the tavern now, and God and all the
saints bless you, and your goodman forever, and make a great nation of
this green land of America, and keep the same Dennis O’Hay, which I am
that, in the way of his duty.”
The tavern, which became an historic inn, where some of the most
notable people of America and of France were entertained during the
days of the Revolution, stood at a little distance from the Governor’s
house. Dennis O’Hay went there so elated that he tossed his sailor’s
hat into the air.
“It is little that I would not do for a lady like that,” he said. “The
sea tossed me here on purpose. Night, thou mayest have my service;
watch me, ye stars! Liberty, thou mayest have my blood; call me, ye
fife and drum. Let me but get at the heart of the Governor, and his
life and home shall be secure from all harm under the clear eye of
Dennis O’Hay. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! and it is here I am in America!”
The landlord stood in the door.
“And who are you, my friend?”
“Dennis, your Honor.”
“And what brings you here?”
“Not the ship; for the ship went down. What brings me here? My two
legs――no――――”
He paused, and looked reverent.
“The Hand Unseen. I came to enlist in the struggles for the freedom of
America. Give me a bite in the name of the lady down the road.”
“My whole table is at your service, my friend. I like your spirit. We
need you here.”
“And here I am――how I got here I do not know, but I _am_ here, and my
name is Dennis O’Hay.”
He waited long for the return of the Governor to the war office, or
country store, looking out of the window over the tops of the green
hills.
“An’ faix, I do believe,” he said at last, “I minds me that this is the
day when the world stands still. But, O my eyes, what is it that you
see now?”
A light form of a little one came out of the door of the Governor’s
house and walked to the war office. It was a girl, beautiful in figure,
with a sensitive face, full of sympathy and benevolence.
She opened the door.
“My name is Faith,” said she. “I am Mr. Trumbull’s daughter. I keep
store sometimes when my father, the Governor, is away late. I thought I
would open the store this afternoon. Customers are likely to come, near
nightfall.”
“I would help you tend store,” said Dennis O’Hay, “if I only knew how.
It is not handy at a bargain that I would be now, and barter people, if
you call them that here, would all get the best of me. But I may be
able to do such things some day.”
He looked out of the window, and suddenly exclaimed――“Look!”
A man on a noble horse was coming, flying as it seemed, down the
Lebanon road from the Windham County hills. His horse leaped into the
air at times, as full of high spirit, and dashed up to the store.
Faith, the beautiful girl, went to the door.
The rider gasped――“Where is your father, Faith?”
“He is gone to New Haven, Mr. Putnam.”
“I want to see him at once; there is secret news from Boston. But I
must see him. I must not leave here until he returns. I will go over to
the tavern and wait.”
Dennis came out and stood in front of the store.
“Stranger,” said the rider, “and who are you? You do not look like a
farmer.”
“Who am I? I am myself, sure, a foreigner among foreigners, Dennis
O’Hay, a castaway, from the north of Ireland.”
“And what brings you here?”
“I came to enlist,” said Dennis.
“You will be wanted,” said Mr. Putnam. “You have shoulders as broad as
Atlas, who carried the world on his back.”
“The world on his back? What did he walk upon?”
“That is a question too much,” said the rider. “I’ll leave my horse in
your hands, Dennis O’Hay, and go to the tavern and see what I can find
out about the Governor’s movements there.”
He strode across the green.
The sun was going down, sending up red and golden lances, as it were,
over the dark shades of the cedars. On the hills lay great farms half
in glittering sunlight, half in dark shadows.
“Have you any thought when the Governor will return?” asked the rider
of the tavern-keeper.
“No, Israel, I have not――but I hear that there is important news from
Boston――that it is suspected that the British are about to make a move
to capture the stores of American powder at Concord. The Governor, I
mind me, knows something about the secrets of powder hiding, but of
that I can not be sure.”
“Great events are at hand,” said Putnam. “I can feel them in the air.
I had the same feeling before the northern campaign. I must stay here
until the Governor arrives.”
“You shall have the best the tavern affords,” said the innkeeper.
The sun went down blazing on the hills, seeming like a far gate of
heaven, as its semicircular splendors filled the sky. Then came the
hour of shadows with the advent of the early stars, and then the grand
procession of the night march of the hosts of heaven that looks bright
indeed over the dark cedars.
The air was silent, as though the world were dead. The taverners
listened long in front of the tavern for the sound of horses’ feet on
the Lebanon road.
“Will the Governor come alone?” asked Dennis O’Hay of Israel Putnam,
the rider.
“Yes, my sailor friend; who is there to harm him?”
“But there will be danger. There ought to be a guard on the Lebanon
road. Did not the Governor save the powder, ammunition, and stores, in
the northern war? So they said at Norwich. Some day General Gage will
put a long eyes on him.”
“Silence!”
The taverners went into the tavern and sat down in the common room.
“I will wait until midnight before I go to my room. My message to the
Governor must be delivered as soon as he returns.”
The public room was lighted with candles, and a fire was kindled on the
hearth. It was spring, but a hearth fire had a cheerful glow even then.
The taverners talked of the military events around Boston town, then
told stories of adventure. Dennis came from the store, and sat down
with the rest.
“Mr. Putnam,” said one of them, “the story of your hunting the she-wolf
is told in all the houses of the new towns, but we have never heard it
from yourself. The clock weights sink low, and we wish to keep awake.
Tell us about that wily wolf, and how you felt when your eyes met hers
in the cave.”
THE WITCH-WOLF
“I never boast of the happenings of my life,” said Israel Putnam. “It
is my nature to dash and do, and I but give point to the plans of
others. That is nothing to boast of. Put on cedar wood and I will tell
the tale of that cunning animal, a ‘witch-wolf,’ as some call her, as
well as I can. The people at the taverns often ask me to kill time for
them in that way.
“I came to Pomfret in 1749. For some years I was a busy man, toiling
early and late, as you may know. I raised a house and barn; some of
you were at the raising. I chopped down trees, made fences, planted
apple-trees, sowed and reaped.
“My farm grew. I had a growing herd of cattle, but my pride was in my
flock of sheep.
“One morning, as I went out to the hill meadows, I found that some of
my finest sheep had disappeared. I called them, and I wandered the
woods searching for them, but they were not to be found. Then a herdman
came to me and said that he had found blood and wool in one place, and
sheep bones in another, and that he felt sure that the missing sheep
had been destroyed by powerful wolves.
“In a few days other sheep were missing. Day by day passed, and I lost
in a few months a great number of sheep.
“One morning I went out to the sheepfolds, and found that some animal
had killed a whole flock of sheep.
“‘It is a she-wolf that is the destroyer’ said a herdman, ‘a witch-wolf,
it may be. Would you dare to attack her?’
“My brain was fired. There lay my sheep killed without a purpose, by
some animal in which had grown a thirst for blood.
“‘Yes, yes――’ said I, ‘wolf or demon, whatever it be, I will give my
feet no rest until I hold its tongue in my own hands, and that I will
do. I have force in my head, and iron in my hands. Call the neighbors
together and let us have a wolf hunt.’
“The neighbors were called together, and the conch shell was blown. We
tracked the wolf and got sight of her. She was no witch, but a long,
gaunt, powerful she-wolf, a great frame of bones, with a sneaking head
and evil eyes.
“We pursued her, but she was gone. She seemed to vanish. ‘She is a
witch,’ said the herdman. ‘She is no witch,’ said I, ‘and if she were,
it is my duty to put her out of existence, and I will!’
“We hunted her again and again, but she was too cunning for us. She
disappeared. She would be absent during the summer, but in the fall she
would return, and bring her summer whelps with her. She fed her brood
not only on my flocks but on those of the farms of the country around.
We gathered new bands to hunt her; the people rose in arms against
her――against that one cunning animal.――Put cedar wood on the fire.
“I formed a new plan. We would hunt her continuously, two at a time.
“She lost a part of one foot in a steel trap at last. Then the people
came to know that she was no witch. We could track her now by the mark
of the three feet in the snow. She limped, and her three sound feet
could not make the quick shifts that her four feet had made of old.
“One day we set out on a continuous hunt. We followed her from our
farms away to the Connecticut River. Then the three-footed animal came
back again, and we followed her back to the farms.
“But the bloodhounds now knew her and had got scent of her, and they
led us to a den in the woods. This den was only about three miles from
my house. She may have hidden in it many times before.
“We gathered before the den, and lighted straw and pushed it into the
den to drive her out. But she did not appear.
“Then we put sulphur on the straw and forced it into the den, so that
it might fill the cavern with the fumes. But the three-footed wolf did
not come out of the den. The cave might be a large one; it might have
an opening out some other way.
“We called a huge dog, and bade him to enter the cave. He dove down
through the opening. Presently we heard him cry; he soon backed out of
the opening, bleeding. The wolf was in the cave.
“Another dog, and another were forced to enter the cave, both returning
whining and bleeding. Neither smoke nor dogs were able to destroy that
animal that had made herself a terror of the country round.
“I called my negro herder.
“‘Sam,’ said I, ‘you go into the cave and end that animal.’
“‘Not for a thousand pounds, nor for all the sheep on the hills of the
Lord. What would become of Sam? Look at the dogs’ noses. Would you send
me where no dog could go?’
“‘Then I shall go myself,’ said I, for nothing can stop me from
anything when my resolution has gathered force; there are times when I
must lighten.
“I took off my coat and prepared to go down into the cave. My neighbors
held me back. I took a torch, and plunged down the entrance to the
cave, head first, with the torch blazing.
“Had I made the effort with a gun, the wolf might have rushed at me,
but she crouched and sidled back before the fire.
“The entrance was slippery, but my will forced me on.
“I could rise up at last. The cave was silent; the darkness might be
felt. I doubt that any human being had ever entered the place before.
“I walked slowly, then turning aside my torch, peered into the thick
darkness.
“Two fierce eyes, like balls of fire, confronted me. The she-wolf was
there, waiting for some advantage, but cowed by the torch.
“Presently I heard a growl and a gnashing of teeth.
“I had drawn into the cave a rope tied around my body, so that I might
be drawn out by my neighbors if I should need help. I gave the signal
to pull me out. I understood the situation.
“I was drawn up in such a way that my upper clothing was pulled over
my body, and my flesh was torn. I grasped my gun and crawled back
again.――Put more cedar wood on the fire.
“I saw the eyes of the wolf again. I heard her snap and growl. I
leveled my gun.
“_Bang!_ The noise seemed to deafen me. The smoke filled the cave.
“I gave a signal to my neighbors to draw me out. I listened at the
mouth of the cave. All was silent. The smoke must have found vent. I
went into the cave again.
“It was silent.
“I found the body of the wolf. It was stiff and was growing cold. I
took hold of her ears and gave a signal to those outside to draw me out.
“As I was drawn from the mouth of the cave I dragged the wolf after me.
“Then my friends set up a great shout. My eyes had met those of the
she-wolf but once, then there was living fire in them, terrible but
pitiful. Hark――what is that?”
There was a sound of horses’ feet.
“The Governor is coming,” said one of the taverners.
Israel Putnam ran out to meet him, and spoke to him a few words.
“Let us go to the war office at once, and shut the door and be by
ourselves,” said the Governor.
They hurried to the war office, and the Governor shut the door, not to
open it again until morning.
Dennis O’Hay went back to the tavern, and wondered and wondered.
“Faix, and this is a quare country, and no mistake,” said he. What
would the Governor say to him?
Would he be the first to tell him that the ship had gone down?
He talked with taverners about the subject.
“I must break the news, gently like,” he said. “I would hate to hurt
his heart.”
“He has lost ships before,” said one.
“His losses have made him a poor man,” said another. “But he marches
right on in the way of duty, as though he owned the stars.”
Dennis fell asleep on the settle, wondering, and he must have dreamed
wonderful dreams.