A MAN WITH A CANE――“OFF WITH YOUR HAT”
Dennis O’Hay, who had created for the cause the alarm-post in the
cedars, learned all the ways and byways of the Connecticut colonies,
and the ways leading to and out of Boston. He was, as we have said,
a giant in form, and his usual salutation――“The top of the morning
to everybody,” or “The top of the morning to everybody on this green
earth”――won the hearts of people, and as much by the tone in which it
was spoken as by the whole-hearted expression itself. He came to be
known as the Irish giant of the hill country.
He traveled much in the secret service from Lebanon to Plainfield and
Providence, which was a part of the turnpike road to Norwich. The
children and dogs seemed to know him, and the very geese along the way
to salute him with honks of wonder quite uncommon.
He greeted titled people and laborers in the same common way, and he
one day said to the Governor:
“If I were to meet General Prescott himself, I would not take off my
hat to him unless he met me civil.”
Who was General Prescott? Not the patriot hero of Bunker Hill. He was
a British general that had been sent to Rhode Island, and had made
himself a terror there. The women, children, dogs, and perhaps the
farmhouse geese, ran _from_ him when he appeared; even the Rhode Island
Quakers moved aside when he was seen in a highway.
He carried a cane.
When he met a person in the highway he used to say:
“Off with your hat! Don’t you know who I am?”
If the person so accosted did not doff his hat, the pompous General
gave the hat a vigorous whack with his stout cane, and the wearer’s
head rung, and the latter did not soon again forget his manners.
He once met an aged Quaker on the way――and these incidents are largely
traditional――who approached him respectfully, after the usual way, with
his broad-brimmed hat covering his curly locks.
“Yea, verily, one day outshines another, and to goodly people this is a
goodly world.”
“Who are you?” said the testy General.
“A servant of the Lord, as I hope.”
“A servant of the Lord? Off with your hat! Haven’t you any reverence
for me, nor the Lord either? Don’t you know who _I_ am?”
“Nay, nay, softly; speak not thus, my friend.”
“Off with your hat!” said the irate General. “None of your yea says and
nay says in my presence.”
“I never unhat or unbonnet, my friend, in the presence of any man. I
could not do it if I were to meet the King himself.”
The General grew red in the face.
“There, you Pharisee, take that,” and here he applied his cane to the
good Quaker’s hat, “and that, and _that_, and THAT!”
The Quaker strode away, and would need a new hat when next he went
abroad on the highway of the orchards and gardens.
General Prescott, while at Newport, desired to have a sidewalk in front
of his house, so he ordered all of his neighbors’ door-stones to be
removed for the purpose.
He was a petty tyrant, and he liked nothing so much as to make the
people――“rebels,” as he called them――feel his power. He would order
any one whom he disliked to be sent to the military prison without
assigning any reason.
He once sent a greatly respected citizen to prison and forbade that the
latter should have any verbal communication with his friends or family.
The wife of the prisoner used to send him notes in loaves of bread.
One day she appeared before Prescott, and desired him to allow her to
make one visit to her husband.
“Who do you think I am?” said the General, or words in this spirit.
“Instead of allowing you to visit him, I will have him hanged before
the end of the week.”
Under the petty tyranny of Prescott no one seemed safe on the island.
The stories of Prescott’s insults to worthy people roused the spirit of
Dennis.
“An’ sure it is, now,” he said to the Governor, “if I were to meet
that big-feeling Britisher, I would make him take off his own hat. Look
at me now.”
Dennis stretched himself up to a height of nearly seven feet.
“If he sassed me back, I’d give him one box on the ear with this shovel
of a hand, and he would never speak one word after he felt its swoop;
and it will be a sorry day if he ever says ‘Off with your hat’ to me,
now!”
He repeated these things to Peter on the green.
Dennis had met a man in Providence by the name of Barton――Colonel
Barton. This man was a native of Warren, R. I., and the son of a
thrifty farmer who owned a beautiful estate on Touisset Neck. The farm
and the family burying-ground are still to be seen there, much as they
were in the Revolutionary days. The place is now owned by Elmer Cole.
Barton was a brave, bold man. He conceived a plan to capture the
tyrannical Prescott and humiliate the testy Britisher. For this
enterprise he desired to enlist strong, fearless, seafaring men.
He had met Dennis and had said to himself that he must have the rugged
Irishman’s assistance.
He met Dennis again one day in Providence.
“Dennis O’Hay, can you keep a secret?”
“Sure I can, if anybody. Dennis O’Hay would not betray a secret if the
earth were to quake and the heavens were all to come tumbling down,
sure as you are living――never that would Dennis O’Hay.”
“Then close your mouth and open your ears. I have a plan to capture
General Prescott.”
“An’ I am with ye. I’ll like to make that man feel the wake of my two
fists, and he wouldn’t dare to cane me after that.”
“I want to secure twenty men or more that I can trust, seafaring men.
You must be one of them,” he continued.
“I plan to go down to Warwick Neck, and to go over to the island with
my picked men in the night on whale-boats. The General and his guard
are at the Overing House on the north end of the island, down by the
sea.
“I plan to pass through the British fleet in the night with muffled
oars, to land near Prescott’s headquarters, and――――”
“Whoop!” said Dennis rudely, “to carry him off before he has time to
put on his clothes. You hand him over to me, and I would get him back
down to the boats as easy as a chicken-hawk with a chicken. He would
not even ask me to take off my hat. Put me down as one of the picked
men.”
“You will meet me at the wharf on Warwick Neck on the afternoon of July
10th.”
“That I will. You are a brave man and have the spirit of the times.
That man will know what are the rights of men if I ever get him between
these two fists. What did Providence make these hands for?”
Dennis opened them and swung them around like a windmill.
Dennis hurried back to Lebanon. He found the Governor there, and said:
“I am going on an adventure with Colonel Barton; and when I return
perhaps I will bring a stranger with me. Mum is the word, your Honor.”
“Barton, who is he?” asked the Governor.
“A man with a stout heart, who can see in the dark.”
“Go, Dennis, I have confidence in you.”
Then Dennis went to Peter. He did not tell him the plot, not all of it,
but he said:
“I am going to attempt something that will tip over the world. I
want you to watch for my coming back. I will signal to you from the
Plainfield Hills, and when you see the signal, run to the Governor and
say: ‘They’ve got him!’ Oh, Peter, it is a foine lad that you are now.”
Dennis slapped both hands on his knees, and laughed in a strange way.
When the evening of the 10th of July came and Warwick Point, with its
green sea meadows and great trees, faded in the long cloudy twilight,
off the new wharfage lay three whale-boats, strong ribbed, and ample
enough to hold immense storage of blubber.
In the shadows of the waving trees were Colonel Barton and some forty
men. The old ballad says:
’Twas on that dark and stormy night,
The winds and waves did roar,
Bold Barton then with twenty men
Went down upon the shore.
There were more than twenty men who gathered at Warwick Point on that
eventful evening.
It had been a windy day, a July storm, and the bay, usually so blue and
placid, was ruffled.
Dennis was on hand at the appointed hour.
“This is a good night for our enterprise,” said Barton. “This is a
night of darkness, and it favors us; let it be one of silence.”
“Aye, aye,” said Dennis. “Oh, General Prescott, how I long to fold you
in my arms and give you a pat, pat on your face!”
“Stop your joking,” said Barton. “We face serious work now.”
Darkness fell on the waters. The men were mostly sailors, or used to
seafaring life.
They heard the boom of the sunset gun from the British war-ships lying
between them and Rhode Island.
The boats started toward Rhode Island in the darkness with silent men
and muffled oars.
They passed between the ships that were guarding the British camp.
“All is well,” called a sentinel on one of the ships whose lights
glimmered in the mist.
“Much you know about it,” said Dennis.
“Silence!” said Barton, as the oars dipped in the waters in which lay
the cloud.
As silent as sea-birds and as unseen as birds in the cloud the boats
passed on and reached the shores of Rhode Island, beyond the two
islands of Prudence and Patience.
There were lights in the Overing House. They glimmered in the mist
through the wet and dripping trees.
The clouds were breaking and the moon was rolling through them.
Barton summoned to him four trusty men. Among them was the giant
Dennis, and a powerful negro called Sile Sisson.
This party stole through the side ways to the house.
A guard was there.
“Halt and give the countersign!” said the sentinel.
“We need no countersign,” said the leader. “Are there any deserters
here?”
The sentinel was thrown off his guard.
Suddenly he found his gun wrenched from him, and he himself, poor man,
in the hands of the giant Dennis. He was greatly astonished.
Colonel Barton entered the house, and found Mr. Overton, a Quaker,
reading in one of the lower rooms.
“Is General Prescott here?” asked Colonel Barton.
The Quaker’s eyes rounded.
“He has retired.”
“Where is his room?”
“At the head of the stairs.”
Colonel Barton ascended the stairs and stood before Prescott’s door.
He gave a startling rap.
There was no response.
He tried the door. It was locked. He endeavored to force open the door,
but it was firm.
“I will open the door,” said the giant negro. “Stand back.”
His head was like a battering ram. He drew back, bent forward, and
struck the door with the top of his head.
Crash!
An old gentleman jumped out of bed, all astonished and excited.
“Thieves! help!” cried the terrified man; but the sentry was in charge
of Dennis.
Colonel Barton laid his hand on General Prescott’s shoulder.
“General Prescott, you are my prisoner, and you must go immediately to
my boats.”
“The dragon I am! Give me time to dress.”
“No, you can have no time to dress. I will take your clothes with you;
march right on, just as you are.”
The proud General was pushed down-stairs, greatly to the amazement of
the good Quaker, Mr. Overton, and was led out into fields which were
full of briers, partly naked as he was. He was so filled with terror
that he did not greatly mind the briers. He was hurried over the rough
ways, gasping and trembling, and found himself on a whale-boat, with
two other boats near him. The three boats moved away.
“All is well!” said the sentinels on the ships.
The noon of night passed, the clouds scudding over the moon; and the
silent boats, amid the British assurances that all was well, landed
near Providence, and horses with couriers ran hither and thither to
carry the news that Colonel Barton had captured General Prescott.
It was decided to send Prescott to Washington’s headquarters, and he
would pass through Lebanon.
Dennis rode swiftly toward Lebanon to tell the people the great news.
He raised the signal at Plainfield, and Peter ran to the Governor’s
office.
“Raree show! raree show!” shouted Dennis as he entered the town, and
met the open-mouthed people on the green. “Let the heavens rejoice and
the earth be glad, and all good people shout now. Colonel Barton has
captured General Prescott, and they are bringing him here!”
General Prescott, with his spirit unbroken, was brought to Lebanon. The
carriage in which he was held as a prisoner rolled up to the door of
the old Alden Tavern, and Prescott was led into the office.
“I must have something to eat,” said Prescott.
The good woman of the tavern bustled about, and brought out her
bean-pot and set it down on the dining-table. She had stewed corn, too,
and of the two one might make the old-time luxury called succotash.
The beans and corn steamed, and the good woman, loyal as she was, was
glad that she could present so fine a supper to such a notable man.
But General Prescott had been used to the dining-halls of castles.
“Do you call that a supper?” said he angrily. “It is not fit for hogs
to eat. Take it away!”
Dennis had come upon the scene.
“Take it away!” demanded Prescott haughtily.
“I’ll take you away for insulting my wife,” said the tavern-keeper.
“Dennis, take down the cowhide and I will make this Britisher dance.”
The tavern-keeper applied the cowhide to the leaping General as an
old-fashioned schoolmaster might have used a birch switch on an unruly
boy.
It was a terrible chastisement that the General received, and he
always remembered it. One day, in the course of the war, after he
had been exchanged for General Lee, he met a man who looked like the
tavern-keeper, and he shrunk back in alarm and said: “Oh, but I thought
that was the man who cowhided me.”
These incidents are mainly true, and have but a thread of fiction.
Dennis became a local hero among the friends of Brother Jonathan, and
took his place as the keeper of the alarm-post again.
“Dennis,” said the Governor to him one day, “our hearts are one; I can
trust you anywhere. I will have important service for you some day.
When there shall come some great emergency, I will know whom I can
trust. General Washington trusts me, and I can trust you.”
What a compliment! Dennis threw up his arms, and leaped.
“I feel as though I could shake the heavens now. After General
Washington, you, and after you――hurrah for Dennis O’Hay! I wish my old
mother in Ireland could hear that, now. You shall never trust the heart
of Dennis O’Hay to your sorrow. These times make men, and one does not
get acquainted with himself until he is tried.”
Dennis had grown. He felt that something noble in the secret service
awaited him. If he could not make himself famous, he could be a cause
of success in others. That he would be, and this sense of manhood
filled his ambition.
“It is only a matter of time,” he said, “between Shakespeare and the
King and Dennis O’Hay. We will all go into oblivion at last, like the
kings of the pyramids of Egypt. It is only what we do that lasts.”
So our shipwrecked mariner and rustic philosopher night after night
mounted the stairs to the outlook window, and saw the stars rise and
set, and was glad that he was living.
He shared his life with the shepherd-boy. He lived outside of himself,
as it were――all did then.
Dennis often joined the story-tellers on the Alden green and in the
war-office store. At the store the wayfarers bartered in a curious way:
they swapped stories. The drovers were a pack of clever story-tellers,
but also the wayfarers from the sea.
Dennis O’Hay, who had been used to the docks of Belfast, Liverpool, and
London, saw some strange sights on his rides to secure stores for the
army, and saltpeter among the hill towns.
One cold March day he stopped before the fence of a hillside farmhouse,
and his eye rested upon the most curious object that he had ever beheld
in his life. It seemed to be a sheep dressed in man’s clothing, eating
old sprouts from cabbage stumps.
He sat on his horse and watched the man, or sheepman, as the case might
be.
“Ye saints and sinners,” said he, “and did any one ever see the like
o’ that before? Not a man in sheep’s clothing, but a sheep in a man’s
clothing, browsing on last year’s second growth of cabbage. I must call
at the door and find out the meaning o’ that.”
He called to the sheep:
“You there, baa, baa, baa!”
The sheep in his jacket answered him, “Baa-baa,” and came running to
the gate as if to welcome him.
Dennis dismounted and pulled the strap of the door.
The sheep followed him to the door, and when the latter was opened,
announced the arrival of a stranger by a baa.
A tall, elderly man stood at the door, dressed in a new woolen suit. He
had a high neck-stock, and bowed in a very stately way. He had manners.
“An’ I am out on business for the Governor,” said Dennis.
“You are welcome,” said the tall man. “Any one in the service of the
Governor is welcome to my home, and to the best of my scanty fare.” He
bowed again.
Dennis walked in, so did the sheep, with many baas.
“Take a place before the fire,” said the tall old man. “I feel the
snows of age falling upon me,” he continued. “The sun and the light of
the moon will soon be darkened to me, and the clouds already return
after the rain.
“The keepers of the house tremble,” here he lifted his hands, which
shook with a slight palsy; “and the grinders cease because they
are few,” here he pointed to his almost toothless gums; “and those
that look out of the windows be darkened,” here he took a pair of
spectacles from his eyes. He talked almost wholly in scriptural
language.
The sheltered sheep said baa, and dropped down before the fire. Dennis
knew not what to say, but uttered a yum, when the tall man broke out
again: “The sound of the grinding is low, and I fear when I walk on the
places that are high, and the grasshopper is a burden. Yes, my friend,
the silver cord will soon be loosed, and the golden bowl broken and
the pitcher at the fountain and wheel at the cistern. You find me a
reed shaken by the wind, a trembling old man; but I have never seen the
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. I am at your service;
my house, such as it is, is yours.” He bowed, and turned around and
bowed.
“I am out and about collecting saltpeter,” said Dennis, “and all that
I ask is to warm myself by your fire, except, except――well, that shorn
sheep puzzles my wits. Pardon me, I beg a thousand pardons if I seem
uncivil, but why is it dressed up in that way?”
“I will explain and enlighten your curiosity, my friendly traveler. The
sheep has on my old clothing, and I have on his.”
He continued: “I am the teacher here, and my pay is small, and the war
taxes take all I can save. My old clothes became very worn, as you can
see there, and I had to maintain my dignity. I am a graduate of Yale,
and so I exchanged clothing with my one sheep.
“My noble wife brought it about; she is at her wheel now. Let me call
her and introduce her.”
He opened a door to a room where a wheel was whirling and buzzing like
a northern wind.
“May, my dear!”
May appeared. The withered man bowed, holding his right hand in air on
a level with his forehead. May made a courtesy.
“Behold a virtuous woman,” said the tall man, with manners. “Her price
is above rubies.
“The heart of her husband does safely trust in her, that he shall have
no need of spoil.
“She seeketh wool and flax.”
Here the sheep seemed to be in a familiar atmosphere, and responded in
his one word, baa.
“She layeth hands on the spindle, and holds the distaff. Her household
are clothed in scarlet. Her children rise up and call her blessed, and
her husband praiseth her.”
Dennis had seen many parts of the world, but he had never been
introduced to any one in that way before.
The old man added, much to the wonder and amusement of his guest:
“I sheared the sheep and _she_ carded the wool, and she spun the wool
and wove it into strong cloth, and dyed the cloth, and here I am
clothed against the storm. You see what a wife I have got.”
“And what a sheep you have got, too,” said Dennis. “But may the Lord
protect you both. You have a heart to let the sheep warm himself by
your fire, and that is why you give me a place here.”
“And now, wife,” said the tall man, “place the best that you have on
the table for the stranger. ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.’”
“But, my dear consort, we have only one cake left for us two.”
“Well, give that to him, and we will go supperless to Him who owns the
cattle upon a thousand hills. He is riding in the cause of liberty, and
needs the cake more than we. God will give us the white stone and the
hidden manna, and to serve the patriots we have gone supperless before.”
Queer as it may seem, this story pictures the time. This man plowed
with a cow, but treated the animal as if she was a member of the
household; men and animals suffered together then in those hard,
sturdy, and glorious old New England days.
“This is a queer country,” said Dennis, “but what men it makes! What
will they be when they are free!”
But now came the disastrous battle of Long Island. New York was taken,
and the fall winds began to blow.
There was sadness in every true American’s heart. England was
rejoicing, and felt secure in the rising success of her arms.
Washington appealed to Trumbull. A former appeal had come in
spring-time, when Putnam left his plow in the furrow.
The appeal now came in harvest-time. What were the farmers to do?
“The wives and boys and old men will harvest the crops,” was the public
answer. “Save Washington _again_, Brother Jonathan!”
It was in 1777. Disaster had again befallen the American army, and Lord
Howe was on the sea.
Where was the British commander going? Some thought to the Hudson
River, some to Philadelphia. No patriot could know.
Washington was in great distress and perplexity.
Putnam commanded Philadelphia. In this crisis a young man presented
himself to General Putnam.
“I am a patriot at heart,” he said, “but have been with Lord Howe. I
have been commanded by Lord Howe to bear a letter to General Burgoyne,
but, true to the American cause, I have brought the letter to you.”
The letter was, or seemed to be, in the handwriting of Lord Howe. It
was sent to Washington. It informed Burgoyne that the fleet was about
to proceed against Boston.
“The letter is a feint,” said Washington. But he read into it the real
design of Lord Howe, which was to proceed against him, and he was
thrown by it into the greatest perplexity.
He must have more troops, and at once. He consulted Putnam, and said:
“I want you to send an express to Governor Trumbull at once. Tell
him to send the State militia without delay. He will not fail me.”
He added: “Connecticut can not be in more danger than this. Governor
Trumbull will, I trust, be sensible to this. I must appeal again to
Brother Jonathan.”
These were nearly Washington’s own words to Connecticut Putnam, of the
fearless heart.
Putnam sent a courier to Connecticut, a man on a winged horse, as it
were, who “flew” as Dennis had done.
“If you ever rode, ride now,” was the probable order. “If we ever had
need of Brother Jonathan, it is now.”
Still Brother Jonathan, whose heart was like a hammer and head like a
castle. This courier was destined to startle indeed the people of the
cedars.
The American army was in dire distress and Lord Howe was on the sea!
Brother Jonathan! He had grown now in reputation so that the hearts
of the people beyond his own State were his. If he could save the
situation he would indeed be the first of patriots.
The messenger came, and said: “I am sent to you from Washington.”
The Governor turned to the courier:
“Go to the tavern; take your horse and yourself, and say to your chief,
‘It shall be done!’”
What was it that should be done?
The Council of Safety assembled in the back store.
“Washington waits another regiment,” said one of the members in the
back store.
“Yes, so it seems,” said another. “Every point seems to be threatened.”
“We may find it hard to raise another regiment,” said a third member.
“One,” said the Governor, “one regiment? We must raise NINE! We can do
it.”
“Will the men descend from the sky?” questioned one. “We can not create
men.”
“He can who thinks he can,” said the Governor. “Nine regiments he
needs, and nine regiments he shall have. Shall he not?”
“Yes,” said all, “if you can find the men.”
“I can find the men. Dennis?”
There was no response.
The shell was blown. The latch-string bobbed.
“Dennis, Washington must have NINE regiments for the defense of New
York. That means work for you. Go to the towns――fly! Tell the selectmen
that Washington wants men. He has sent his appeal to me; he has put
confidence in my heart, notwithstanding my weak hands. He shall not
appeal in vain. Go, Dennis; these days are to live again. I feel the
divinity of the times; I must act, though I myself am nothing. Go to
Norwich, Hartford, New Haven――fly, Dennis, fly!”
“I am not a bird, your Honor.”
“Yes, Dennis, you are. Fly!” That word was the order now.
Then the Governor talked with the Committee of Safety in the back store
until midnight.
The candles went out, and the men slept there.
The nine regiments of three hundred and fifty men each were raised.
Men were few in old Windham County now. “Gone to the war,” answered
many inquiries.
The women led the teams to the field; the old men, old women, and the
boys went to the husk-heap and husked corn. The boys learned to use the
threshing flails and winnowing sieves in the barns with open doors.
The young and old filled the potato bins in the cellar and stored the
apples there. They banked the houses with thatch.
Governor Trumbull was now at the full age when the vital powers ripen,
and when many men begin to abate their activities. But he seemed to
forget his age; he was never so active as now.
[Illustration: Jonathan Trumbull.]
Washington noted this activity of age with wonder, and he wrote to him:
“I observe with great pleasure that you have ordered the remaining
regiments of militia that can be spared from the immediate defense of
the seacoast to march toward New York with all expedition. I can not
sufficiently express my thanks.” To which Brother Jonathan replied:
“When your Excellency was pleased to request the militia of our State
to be sent forward with all possible expedition to reenforce the army
at New York, no time was lost to expedite the march; and I am happy to
find the spirit and zeal that appeared in the people of this State, to
yield every assistance in their power in the present critical situation
of our affairs. The season, indeed, was most unfavorable for so many
of our farmers and laborers to leave home. Many had not even secured
their harvest; the greater part had secured but a small part even of
their hay, and the preparation of the crop of winter’s grain for the
ensuing year was totally omitted; but they, the most of them, left all
to afford their help in protecting and defending their just rights and
liberties against the attempt of a numerous army sent to invade them.
The suddenness of the requisition, the haste and expedition required
in the raising, equipping, and marching such a number of men after the
large drafts before made on this State, engrossed all our time and
attention.”
The people forgot themselves for the cause. When Washington and
Trumbull made a call upon them for help it was like Moses and Aaron.
They did not argue or question; they hurried to the village greens,
there to receive their orders as from the Deity.
That autumn the Governor issued a wonderful proclamation for a day of
fasting and prayer.
The bell rang; the people assembled. Trumbull always attended church,
and the chair in which he used to sit is still shown in Lebanon. The
people followed his example. They felt that what was best for them
would be best for their children, and that whether they left them rich
estates or not, they must bequeath them liberty and the examples of
virtue. So they lived _mightily_ in “Brother Jonathan’s day.”