only indication he gave that he had recognized the other's huffy and
bristling manner.
“Your opinion, Sir,” he replied, with undiminished affability, “tends to
relieve my apprehensions. I trust the event will justify it.
“And how does Miss Desire, this evening?” he added, saluting with doffed
hat and a courtly bow, a young lady who had just come up, with the
apparent intention of going in at the Woodbridge gate.
“I do but indifferent well, Sir. As well as a damsel may do in a world
where gentlemen keep not their promises,” she answered, with a curtsey,
so saucily deep, that the crisp crimson silk of her skirt rustled on the
ground.
“Nay, but tell me the caitiff's name, and let me be myself your knight,
fair mistress, to redress your wrongs.”
“Nay, 'tis yourself, Sir. Did you not promise you would come and hear me
play my piano, when it came from Boston, and I have it a week already?”
“And I did not know it. Yes, now I bethink myself, Mrs. Sedgwick spoke
thereof, but this convention has left me not a moment. But damsels are
not political; no doubt you have heard nothing of the convention.”
“Oh, yes; 'tis that all the poor want to be rich, and to hang all the
lawyers. I've heard. 'Tis a fine scheme.”
“No doubt the piano is most excellent in sound.”
“It goes middling well, but already I weary me of my bargain.”
“Are you then in trade, Miss Desire?”
“A little. Papa said if I would not tease him to let me go to New York
this winter, he would have me a piano. I know not what came over me that
I consented. I shall go into a decline ere spring. The ugly dress and
the cowlike faces of the people, make me sick at heart, and give me bad
dreams, and the horses neigh in better English than the farmers
talk. Alack, 'tis a dreary place for a damsel! But, no doubt, I have
interrupted some weighty discussion. I bid you good even, Sir,” and,
once more curtsying, the girl went up the path to the house, much to her
uncle Jahleel's relief, who had no taste for badinage, and wanted to get
on to the store, whither, presently he was on his way, while Sedgwick's
carriage rolled off toward Boston.
About a mile out of Stockbridge, the carriage passed two men standing by
the roadside, earnestly talking. These men were Perez Hamlin and Abner
Rathbun.
“You remember the Ice-hole,” said Perez, referring to an extraordinary
cleft or chasm, of great depth, and extremely difficult and perilous of
access, situated near the top of Little Mountain, a short distance from
Stockbridge.
“Yes,” said Abner, “I rekullec it, well. I guess you an I, Perez, air
abaout the on'y fellers in taown, ez hev been clean through it.”
“My plan is this,” said Perez. “Kidnap Deacon Nash, carry him up to the
Ice-hole, and keep him there till he makes out a release for Reub, then
just carry down the paper to jail, get Reub out, and across the York
State line, and send back word to Stockbridge where to find the deacon.”
“But what'll we dew, ourselves?”
“Of course we shall have to stay in York. Why shouldn't we? There's no
chance for a poor man here. The chances are that we should both be in
jail for debt before spring.”
“But what be I a goin to dew with my little Bijah? He's all I've got,
but I can't leave him.”
“My father and mother will take care of him, and bring him with em to
York State, for I'm goin to get them right over there as soon as they're
sold out. There's a chance for poor folks west; there's no chance here.”
“Perez, thar's my fist. By gosh I'm with ye.”
“Abner, it's a risky business, and you haven't got the call I've got,
being as Reub isn't your brother. I'm asking a good deal of you Abner.”
“Don' ye say nothin more baout it,” said Abner, violently shaking the
hand he still held, while he reassuringly clapped Perez on the back.
“Dew ye rekullec that time tew Stillwater, when ye pulled them tew
Britishers orfer me? Fer common doin's I don' callate ez two fellers is
more'n my fair share in a scrimmage, but ye see my arm wuz busted, an if
ye hadn't come along jess wen ye did, I callate the buryin squad would a
cussed some on caount of my size, that evenin.
“But gosh all hemlock, Perez, I dunno wat makes me speak o' that naow.
It wouldn' make no odds ef I'd never sot eyes onter ye afore. I'd help
eny feller, 'bout sech a job es this ere, jess fer the fun on't. Risky!
Yes it's risky; that's the fun. I hain't hed my blood fairly flowin
afore, sence the war. It doos me more good nor a box o' pills.
Jerewsalem, how riled deacon'll be!”
The two young men walked slowly back to the village, earnestly
discussing the details of their daring enterprise, and turning up the
lane, leading to the Hamlin house, paused, still conversing, at the
gate. As they stood there, the house door opened, and a young girl came
out, and approached them, while Mrs. Hamlin, standing in the door, said:
“Perez, this is Prudence Fennell, George Fennell's girl. She heard you
had seen her father, and came to ask you about him.”
The girl came near to Perez, and looked up at him with a questioning
face, in which anxiety was struggling with timidity. She was a rosy
cheeked lass, of about sixteen, well grown for her age, and dressed in
coarse woolen homespun, while beneath her short skirt, appeared a pair
of heavy shoes, which evidently bore very little relation to the
shape of the feet within them. Her eyes were gray and frank, and the
childishness, which the rest of her face was outgrowing, still lingered
in the pout of her lips.
“Is my father much sick, sir?”
“He is very sick,” said Perez.
The pitifulness of his tone, no doubt, more than his words, betrayed
the truth to her fearful heart, for all the color ran down out of
her cheeks, and he seemed to see nothing of her face, save two great
terrified eyes, which piteously beseeched a merciful reply, even while
they demanded the uttermost truth.
“Is he going to die?”
Perez felt a strong tugging at his heart strings, in which, for the
moment, he forgot his own personal trouble.
“I don't know, my child,” he replied, very gently.
“Oh, he's going to die. I know he's going to die,” she cried, still
looking through her welling eyes a moment, to see if he would not
contradict her intuition, and then, as he looked on the ground, making
no reply, she turned away, and walked slowly down the lane sobbing as
she went.
“Abner, we must manage somehow to get George out too.”
“Poor little gal, so we must Perez. We'll kidnap Schoolmaster Gleason
'long with deacon. But it's a pootty big job, Perez, two o' them and
on'y two o' us.”
“I'm afraid we're trying more than we can do, Abner. If we try too much,
we shall fail entirely. I don't know. I don't know. There's the whole
jail full, and one ought to come out as well as another. All have got
friends that feel as bad as we do.” He reflected a moment. “By the Lord,
we'll try it, Abner. Poor little girl. It's a desperate game, anyway,
and we might as well play for high stakes.”
Abner went down the lane to the green, and Perez went into the house,
and sat down in the dark to ponder the new difficulties with which
the idea of also liberating Fennell complicated their first plan. Bold
soldier as he was, practiced in the school of Marion and Sumter, in the
surprises and strategems of partisan warfare, he was forced to admit
that if their project had been hazardous before, this new feature made
it almost foolhardy. In great perplexity he had finally determined to
go to bed, hoping that the refreshment of morning would bring a clearer
head and more sanguine mood, when there was a knock on the door. It was
Abner looking very much excited.
“Come out! Come out! Crypus! Come out, I've got news.”
“What is it?” said Perez eagerly, stepping forth into the darkness.
“That wuz a pootty leetle plan o' yourn, Perez.”
“Yes, yes.”
Abner, he knew had not come to tell him that, for his voice trembled
with suppressed excitement, and the grip of his hand on his shoulder was
convulsive.
“P'raps we could a kerried it aout, an p'raps we should a kerflummuxed.
Ye've got grit an I've got size,” pursued Abner. “Twuz wuth tryin on.
I'm kinder sorry we ain't a gonter try it.”
“What the devil do you mean, Abner? not going to try it?”
“No, Perez, we ain't goin tew try it, leastways, not the same plan we
callated, an we ain't a goin tew try it alone,” and he leaned over and
hissed in Perez' ear:
“The hull caounty o' Berkshire 's a gonter help us.”
Perez looked at him with horror. He was not drunk; he must be going
crazy.
“What do you mean, Abner?” he said soothingly.
“Ye think I don' know wat I be a talkin baout, don' ye, Perez? Wal,
jess hole on a minit. A feller hez jess got in, a ridin 'xpress from
Northampton, to fetch word that the people in Hampshire has riz, and
stopped the courts. Fifteen hundred men, with Captain Dan Shays tew
ther head, stopped em. Leastways, they sent word to the jedges that
they kinder wisht they wouldn't hole no more courts till the laws wuz
changed, and the jedges, they concluded that the 'dvice o' so many
fellers with guns, wuz wuth suthin, so they 'journed.”
“That means rebellion, Abner.”
“In course it doos. An it means the Lord ain't quite dead yit. That's
wat it means.”
“But what's that got to do with Reub and George?”
“Dew with em, why, man alive, don' ye unnerstan? Don' ye callate
Berkshire folks haz got ez much grit ez the Hampshire fellers, an don'
ye callate we haz ez much call to hev a grudge agin courts? Ye orter
been daown tew the tavern tew see haow the fellers cut up wen the news
come. T'was like a match dropping intew a powder bar'l. Tuesday's court
day tew Barrington, an ef thar ain't more'n a thousand men on han with
clubs an guns, tew stop that air court, wy, call me a skunk. An wen
that air court's stopped, that air jail's a comin open, or it's a comin
daown, one o' the tew naow.”
CHAPTER SIXTH
PEREZ DEFINES HIS POSITION
We who live in these days, when press and telegraph may be said to
have almost rendered the tongue a superfluous member, quite fail to
appreciate the rapidity with which intelligence was formerly transmitted
from mouth to mouth. Virgil's description of hundred tongued Rumor
appeared by no means so poetical an exaggeration to our ancestors as it
does to us. Although the express, bearing the news of the Northampton
uprising did not reach Stockbridge tavern a minute before half-past
seven in the evening, there were very few families in the village or the
outlying farmhouses, which had not heard it ere bedtime, an hour and a
half later. And by the middle of the following forenoon there was in
all Southern Berkshire, only here and there a family, off on a lonely
hillside, or in a hidden valley, in which it was not the subject of
debate.
In Stockbridge, that morning, what few industries still supported a
languishing existence in spite of the hard times, were wholly suspended.
The farmer left his rowen to lie in the field and take the chances of
the weather, the miller gave his mill-stream a holiday, the carpenter
left the house half-shingled with rain threatening, and the painter his
brush in the pot, to collect on the street corners with their neighbors
and discuss the portentous aspect of affairs. And even where there was
little or no discussion, to stand silently in groups was something. Thus
merely to be in company was, to these excited men, a necessity and
a satisfaction, for so does the electricity of a common excitement
magnetize human beings, that they have an attraction for one another,
and are drawn together by a force not felt at other times. There were
not less than three hundred men, a quarter of the entire population
of the town, on and about Stockbridge Green at ten o'clock that Monday
morning, twice as many as had assembled to hear the news from the
convention the Saturday preceding.
The great want of the people, for the most part, tongue-tied farmers,
seemed to be to hear talk, to have something said, and wherever a few
brisk words gave promise of a lively dialogue, the speakers were at once
surrounded by a dense throng of listeners. The thirsting eagerness
with which they turned their open mouths toward each one as he began to
speak, in the hope that he would express to themselves some one of the
ideas formlessly astir in their own stolid minds, was pathetic
testimony to the depth to which the iron of poverty, debt, judicial and
governmental oppression had entered their souls. They had thought little
and vaguely, but they had felt much and keenly, and it was evident
the man who could voice their feelings, however partially, however
perversely, and for his own ends, would be master of their actions.
Abner was not present, having gone at an early hour over to Lenox
furnaces, where he was acquainted, to carry the news from Northampton,
if it should not have arrived there, and notify the workmen that there
would be goings-on at Barrington, Tuesday, and they were expected to be
on hand. Paul Hubbard, also, had not come down from West Stockbridge,
although the news had reached that place last night. But from the
disposition of the man, there could be no question that he was busily
at work moulding his particular myrmidons, the iron-workers, into good
insurrectionary material. There was no doubt that he would have them
down to Barrington on time, whoever else was there.
In the dearth of any further details of the Northampton uprising,
the talk among the crowd on Stockbridge Green turned largely upon
reminiscences and anecdotes of the disturbances at the same place,
and at Hatfield four or five years previous. Ezra Phelps, who had
been concerned in them, having subsequently removed from Hatfield to
Stockbridge, enjoyed by virtue of that fact an oracular eminence, and
as he stood under the shadow of the buttonwood tree before the tavern,
relating his experiences, the people hung upon his lips.
“Parson Ely,” he explained, “Parson Sam'l Ely wuz kinder tew the head on
us. He wuz a nice sorter man, I tell yew. He wuz the on'y parson I ever
seen ez hed any flesh in his heart for poor folks, 'nless it be some o'
them ere Methody an Baptis preachers ez hez come in sence the war, an
I callate they ain' reglar parsons nuther. Leastways, thuther parsons,
they turned Parson Ely aout o' the min'stry daown to Somers whar he wuz,
fer a tellin the poor folks they didn' git their rights. Times wuz hard
four or five year ago, though they warn't so all-fired hard ez they be
naow. Taxes wuz high 'nuff, an money wuz dretful skurce, an thar wuz
lots o' lawin an suein o' poor folks. But gosh, ef we'd a known haow
much wuss all them things wuz a going tew git, we sh'd a said we wuz
well orf. But ye see we warn't so uster bein starved an cheated an
jailed an knocked roun' then's we be sence, an so we wuz kinder desprit,
an a slew on us come daown from Hatfield tew Northampton an stopped the
court, wen t'wuz gonter set in the spring o' '82. I callate we went tew
work baout the same ez Dan Shays an them fellers did las' week. Wal,
arter we'd did the job an gone hum agin, Sheriff Porter up an nabbed the
parson, an chucked him inter jail. He was long with us ye see, though
he warn't no more tew blame nor any of us. Wal, ye see, we callated
t'wouldn't be ezzackly fa'r tew let parson git intew trouble fer
befriendin on us, an so baout 300 on us went daown tew Northampton agin,
and broke open the jail an tuk parson aout. The sheriff didn' hev nothin
tew say wen we wuz thar, but ez soon ez we'd gone hum, he up an took
three o' the parson's frens as lived to Northampton an chucked em inter
jail fer tew hold ez sorter hostiges. He callated he'd hev a ring in the
parson's nose that ere way, so's he wouldn' dass dew nothin. Thar warn't
no law nor no reason in sech doins, but 'twuz plantin time, leastways
gittin on tew it, and he callated the farmers wouldn' leave ther farms,
not fer nothin. But he mistook. Ye see we wuz fightin mad. Baout 500 on
us tuk our guns an made tracks fer Northampton. Sheriff he'd got more'n
a thousan milishy tew defend the jail, but the milishy didn' wanter
fight, an we did, an that made a sight o' odds, fer wen we stopped night
tew the taown an sent word that ef he didn' let them fellers aout o'
jail we'd come an take em aout, he let em aout dum quick.”
“Wat did they do nex?” inquired Obadiah Weeks, as Ezra paused with the
appearance of having made an end of his narration.
“That wuz the eend on't,” said Ezra. “By that time govment seen the
people wuz in arnest, an quit foolin. Ginral Court passed a law pardnin
all on us fer wat we'd done. They allers pardons fellers, ye see, wen
ther's tew many on em tew lick, govment doos, an pooty soon arter they
passed that ere tender law fer tew help poor folks ez hed debts so's
prop'ty could be offered tew a far valiation instid o' cash.”
“That air law wuz repealed sence,” said Peleg. “Ef we hed it naow, mebbe
we could git 'long spite o' ther being no money a cirkilatin.”
“In course it wuz repealed,” said Israel. “They on'y passed it caze they
wuz scairt o' the people. The loryers an rich folks got it repealed soon
ez ever they dasted. Gosh, govment don' keer nothin fer wat poor folks
wants, 'nless they gits up riots. That's the on'y way they kin git laws
changed, 's fur 's I see. Ain't that 'bout so Peleg?”
“Ye ain't fur outer the way, Isr'el. We hain't got no money, an they
don' keer wat we says, but when we takes hole, an doos sumthin they
wakes up a leetle. We can't make em hear us, but by jocks, we kin make
em feel us,” and Peleg pointed the sentiment with that cornerwise nod of
the head, which is the rustic gesture of emphasis. “I callate ye've hit
the nail on the head, Peleg,” said a grizzled farmer. “We poor folks hez
to git our rights by our hands, same ez we gits our livin.”
But at this moment, a sudden hush fell upon the group, and from the
general direction of the eyes, it was evidently the approach of Perez
Hamlin, as he crossed the green toward the tavern, which was the
cause thereof. Although Perez had arrived in town only at dusk on the
preceding Saturday, and excepting his Sunday evening stroll with Abner,
had kept within doors, the tongue of rumor had not only notified pretty
much the entire community of his arrival, but had adorned that bare fact
with a profuse embroidery of conjecture, as to his recent experiences,
present estate, and intentions for the future.
An absence of nine years had, however, made him personally a stranger to
most of the people. The young men had been mere lads when he went away,
while of the elders, many were dead, or removed. As he approached the
group around Ezra, he recognized but few of the faces, all of which were
turned upon him with a common expression of curious scrutiny. There was
Meshech Little. Him he shook hands with, and also with Peleg, and Israel
Goodrich. Ezra had come to the village since his day.
“Surely this is Abe Konkapot,” he said, extending his hand to a fine
looking Indian. “Why Abe, I heard the Stockbridges had moved out to York
State.”
“You hear true,” responded the smiling Indian. “Heap go. Some stay. No
want to go.”
“Widder Nimham's gal Lu, could tell ye 'bout why Abe don' want ter go, I
guess,” observed Obadiah Weeks, who directed the remark, however, not
so much to Perez as to some of the half-grown young men, from whom it
elicited a responsive snicker at Abe's expense.
Indeed, after the exchange of the first greetings, it became apparent
that Perez' presence was a damper on the conversation. The simple fact
was, the people did not recognize him as one of them. It was not that
his dress, although a uniform, was better or costlier than theirs. The
blue stockings were threadbare, and had been often mended, and the coat,
of the same hue, was pitiably white in the seams, while the original
buff of the waistcoat and knee breeches had faded to a whitey brown.
But the erect soldierly carriage of the wearer, and that neatness and
trimness in details, which military experience renders habitual, made
this frayed and time-stained uniform seem almost elegant, as compared
with the clothes that hung slouchily upon the men around him. Their
faces were rough, and unshaven, their hair unkempt, their feet bare,
or covered with dusty shoes, and they had generally left their coats
at home. Perez was clean shaven, his shoes, although they barely held
together, were neatly brushed, and the steel buckles polished, while his
hair was gathered back over his ears, and tied with a black ribbon in a
queue behind, in the manner of gentlemen. But Israel Goodrich and Ezra
also wore their hair in this manner, while shoes and clean shaved faces
were occasional indulgences with every bumpkin who stood around. It was
not then alone any details of dress, but a certain distinction in
air and bearing about Perez, which had struck them. The discipline
of military responsibility, and the officer's constant necessity of
maintaining an aspect of authority and dignity, before his men, had left
refining marks upon his face, which distinguished it as a different
sort from the countenances about him with their expressions of pathetic
stolidity, or boorish shrewdness. In a word, although they knew old
Elnathan Hamlin to be one of themselves, they instinctively felt that
this son of his had become a gentleman.
At any time this consciousness would have produced constraint, and
checked spontaneous conversation, but now, just at the moment when the
demarcation of classes was taking the character of open hostility, it
produced a sentiment of repulsion and enmity. His place was on the other
side; not with the people, but with the gentlemen, the lawyers, the
parsons, and the judges. Why did he come spying among them?
Perez, without guessing the reason of it, began to be conscious of
the unsympathetic atmosphere, and was about moving away, when Israel
Goodrich remarked, with the air of wishing to avoid an appearance of
churlishness.
“Lessee, Perez, ye've been gone nigh onter nine year. Ye muss find some
changes in the taown.”
Israel, as a man of more considerable social importance than the most
of those who stood around, and being moreover, old enough to be Perez'
father, had been less affected by the impulse of class jealousy than the
others.
“I've been home only one day, Mr. Goodrich,” said Perez quietly, “but
I've noticed some changes already. When I went away, every man in town
had a farm of his own. As far as I've seen since I've been back, a few
rich men have got pretty near all the farms now, and the men who used to
own em, are glad of a chance to work on em as hired hands.”
Such a sentiment, expressed by one of themselves, would have called
forth a shower of confirmatory ejaculations, but the people stared at
Perez in mere astonishment, the dead silence of surprise, at hearing
such a strong statement of their grievances, from one whose appearance
and manner seemed to identify him with the anti-popular, or gentleman's
side. So far as this feeling of bewilderment took any more definite
form, it evidently inclined to suspicion, rather than confidence. Was he
mocking them? Was he trying to entrap them? Even Israel looked sharply
at him, and his next remark, after quite a silence, was on another
subject.
“I s'pose ye know ez haow they've set the niggers free.”
“Yes,” replied Perez, “I heard of that when I was away, but I didn't
know the reason why they'd set em free, till I got home.”
“What dew ye callate 's the reason?”
“I see they've made slaves of the poor folks, and don't need the niggers
any more,” replied Perez, as quietly as if he were making the most
casual remark.
But still the people stared at him and looked questioningly at each
other, so bereft of magnetic force is language, though it express our
inmost convictions, when we do not believe that the heart of the speaker
beats in sympathy with what he says.
“I don' quite git yer idee. Haow dew ye make out that air 'bout poor
folks bein slaves?” said Ezra Phelps dryly.
It was evident that any man who thought he was going to get at the real
feelings of these rustics without first gaining their confidence, little
understood the shrewd caution of the race.