“you'd better let off your muskets, so there may be no accidents. Fire
in the air,” and thus with a ringing salvo, that echoed and reechoed
among the hills and was answered with acclamations from the multitude
in the village, the Stockbridge battalion, with the girl riding at its
head, entered Great Barrington, and breaking ranks, mingled with the
crowd.
“Bully, we be jess in time to see the fun,” cried Obadiah delightedly,
as the courthouse bell rang out, thereby announcing that the justices
had left their lodgings to proceed to the courthouse and open court.
“I declar for't,” exclaimed Jabez, “I wonder ef they be gonter try tew
hole court 'n spite o' all that crowd. Thar they be sure's rates.”
And, indeed, as he spoke, the door of the residence of Justice Dwight
opened, and High Sheriff Israel Dickinson, followed by Justice Dwight
and the three other justices of the quorum, issued therefrom, and took
up their march directly toward the courthouse, seemingly oblivious of
the surging mass of a thousand men, which barred their way.
The sheriff advanced with a goose step, carrying his wand of office, and
the justices strode in Indian file behind him. They were dressed in fine
black suits, with black silk hose, silver buckles on their shoes, fine
white ruffled shirts, and ponderous cocked hats upon their heavily
powdered wigs. Their chests were well thrown out, their chins were
held in air, their lips were judicially pursed, and their eyes were
contemplatively fixed on vacancy, as if they had never for a moment
admitted the possibility that any impediment might be offered to their
progress. It must be admitted that their bearing worthily represented
the prestige of ancient authority and moral majesty of law. Nor did
the mob fail to render the tribute of an involuntary admiration to this
imposing and apparently invincible advance. It had evidently been taken
for granted that the mere assemblying and riotous attitude of so great
a multitude, bristling with muskets and bludgeons, would suffice to
prevent the justices from making any attempt to hold court. It was
with a certain awe, and a silence interrupted only by murmurs of
astonishment, that the people now awaited their approach. Perhaps had
the throng been less dense, it might have justified the serene and
haughty confidence of the justices, by opening a path for them. But
however disposed the first ranks might have been to give way, they could
not by reason of the pressure from behind, and on every side.
Still the sheriff continued to advance, with as much apparent confidence
of opening a way as if his wand were the veritable rod wherewith Moses
parted the Red Sea, until he almost trod on the toes of the shrinking
first rank. But there he was fain to pause. Moral force cannot penetrate
a purely physical obstacle.
And when the sheriff stopped, the justices marching behind him also
stopped. Not indeed that their honors so far forgot their dignity as to
appear to take direct cognizance of the vulgar and irregular impediment
before them. It was the sheriff's business to clear the way for them.
And although Justice Dwight's face was purple with indignation, he, as
well as his associates, continued to look away into vacancy, suffering
not their eyes to catch any of the glances of the people before them.
“Make way! Make way for the honorable justices of the Court of Common
Pleas of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts!” cried the sheriff, in loud,
imperative tones.
A dead silence of several moments followed, in which the rattling of a
farmer's cart, far down the street, as it brought in a belated load of
insurgents from Sheffield, was distinctly audible. Then somebody in the
back part of the crowd, impressed with a certain ludicrousness in
the situation, tittered. Somebody else tittered, then a number, and
presently a hoarse haw haw of derision, growing momentarily louder, and
soon after mingled with yells, hoots and catcalls, burst forth from a
thousand throats. The prestige of the honorable justices of the Court of
Common Pleas, was gone.
A moment still they hesitated. Then the sheriff turned and said
something to them in a low voice, and they forthwith faced about and
deliberately marched back toward their lodgings. In this retrograde
movement the sheriff acted as rear guard, and he had not gone above a
dozen steps, before a rotten egg burst on one shoulder of his fine new
coat, and as he wheeled around an apple took him in the stomach, and at
the same moment the cocked hat of Justice Goodrich of Pittsfield,
was knocked off with a stone. His honor did not apparently think it
expedient to stop just then to pick it up, and Obadiah Weeks, leaping
forward, made it a prey, and instantly elevated it on a pole, amid
roars of derisive laughter. The retreat of the justices had indeed so
emboldened the more ruffianly and irresponsible element of the crowd,
many of whom were drunk, that it was just as well for the bodily safety
of their honors that the distance to their lodgings was no greater. As
it was, stones were flying fast, and the mob was close on the heels of
the sheriff when the house was gained, and as he attempted to shut the
door after him, there was a rush of men, bent on entering with him. He
knocked down the first, but would have been instantly overpowered
and trampled on, had not Perez Hamlin, followed by Abner, Peleg, Abe
Konkapot and half a dozen other Stockbridge men, shouldered their way
through the crowd, and come to his relief. Where then had Perez been,
meantime?
CHAPTER NINTH
JUDGE DWIGHT'S SIGNATURE
As soon as the Stockbridge battalion had arrived on the green at Great
Barrington, and broken ranks, Perez had directed Abner to pass the word
to all who had friends in the jail, and presently a party of forty or
fifty men was following him, as he led the way toward that building,
accompanied by Prudence, who had not dismounted. The rest of them could
attend to the stopping of the court. His concern was with the rescue of
his brother. But he had not traversed over half the distance when the
cry arose:
“They're stoning the judges!”
Thus recalled to his responsibilities as leader of at least a part of
the mob, he had turned, and followed by a dozen men, had hurried back to
the rescue, arriving in the nick of time. Standing in the open door of
the house to which the justices had retired, the rescued sheriff just
behind him in the hall, he called out:
“Stand back! Stand back! What more do you want, men? The court is
stopped.”
But the people murmured. The Great Barrington men did not know Perez,
and were not ready to accept his dictation.
“We've stopped court to-day, sartin,” said one, “but wot's to hender
they're holden of it to-morrer, or ez soon's we be gone, an hevin every
one on us in jail?”
“What do you want, then?” asked Perez.
“We want some sartainty baout it.”
“They've got tew 'gree not ter hold no more courts till the laws be
changed,” were replies that seemed to voice the sentiments of the crowd.
“Leave it to me, and I'll get you what you want,” said Perez, and he
went down the corridor to the kitchen at the back of the house, where
the sheriff had told him he would find the justices. Although the room
had been apparently chosen because it was the farthest removed from
the public, the mob had already found out their retreat, and a nose
was flattened against each pane of the windows. Tall men peered in over
short men's shoulders, and cudgels were displayed in a way not at all
reassuring to the inmates.
Their honors by no means wore the unruffled and remotely superior aspect
of a few minutes before. It must be frankly confessed, as regards the
honorable Justices Goodrich of Pittsfield, Barker of Cheshire, and
Whiting of Great Barrington, that they looked decidedly scared, as in
fact, they had some right to be. It might have been supposed, indeed,
that the valor of the entire quorum had gone into its fourth member,
Justice Elijah Dwight, who, at the moment Perez entered the room,
was being withheld by the combined strength of his agonized wife and
daughter from sallying forth with a rusty Queen's arm to defend his
mansion. His wig was disarranged with the struggle, and the powder
shaken from it streaked a countenance, scholarly enough in repose no
doubt, but just now purple with the three-fold wrath of one outraged in
the combined characters of householder, host, and magistrate.
“Your honors,” said Perez, “the people will not be satisfied without
your written promise to hold no more courts till their grievances are
redressed. I will do what I can to protect you, but my power is slight.”
“Who is this fellow who speaks for the rabble?” demanded Dwight.
“My name is Hamlin.”
“You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear. Do you know you have
incurred the penalties of high treason?” exclaimed the justice.
“This is not the first time I have incurred those penalties in behalf
of my oppressed countrymen, as that same uniform shows,” retorted the
other. “But it is not now a question of the penalties I have incurred,
but how are you to escape the wrath of the people,” he continued
sharply.
“I shall live to see you hung, drawn and quartered for treason, you
rascal,” roared Dwight.
“Nay, sir. Do but think this man holds your life in his hands. Entreat
him civilly,” expostulated Madam Dwight.
“He means not so, sir,” she added, turning to Perez.
“The fellers wanter know why in time that ere 'greement ain't signed. We
can't keep em back much longer,” Abner cried, rushing to the door of the
kitchen a moment, and hurrying back to his post.
“Where are writing materials?” asked Justice Goodrich, nervously, as a
stone broke through one of the window panes and fell on the table.
“I will bring them,” said the young lady, Dwight's daughter.
“Do make haste, Miss,” urged Justice Barker. “The mob is even now
forcing an entrance.”
“I forbid you to bring them. Remain here,” thundered Dwight.
The girl paused, irresolute, pale and terrified.
“Go, Eliza,” said her mother. “Disobey your father and save his life.”
She went, and in a moment returned with the articles. Perez wrote two
lines, and read them.
“'We promise not to act under our commissions until the grievances of
which the people complain are redressed.' Now sign that, and quickly, or
it will be too late.”
“Do you order us to sign?” said Barker, apparently willing to find in
this appearance of duress an excuse for yielding.
“Not at all,” replied Perez. “If you think you can make better terms
with the people for yourselves, you are welcome to try. I should judge
from the racket that they're on the point of coming in.”
There was a hoarse howl from without, and Justices Goodrich, Barker and
Whiting simultaneously grabbed for the pen. Their names were affixed in
a trice.
“Will your honor sign?” said Perez to Dwight, who stood before the
fireplace, silently regarding the proceedings. His first ebullition of
rage had passed, and he appeared entirely calm.
“My associates may do as they please,” he replied with dignity, “but
it shall never be said that Elijah Dwight surrendered to a mob the
commission which he received from his excellency, the governor, and
their honors, the councillors of the Commonwealth.”
“I admire your courage, sir, but I cannot answer for the consequences of
your refusal,” said Perez.
“For my sake sign, sir,” urged Madam Dwight.
“Oh, sign, papa. They will kill you,” cried Eliza.
“Methinks, it is but proper prudence, to seem to yield for the time
being,” said Goodrich.
“'Tis no more than the justices at Northampton have done,” added Barker.
“I need not remind your honor that a pledge given under duress, is not
binding,” said Whiting.
But Dwight waved them away, saying merely, “I know my duty.”
Suddenly Eliza Dwight stepped to the table and wrote something at the
bottom of the agreement, and giving the paper to Perez said something to
him in a low voice. But her father's keen eye had noted the act, and he
said angrily:
“Child, have you dared to write my name?”
“Nay, father, I have not,” replied the girl.
Even as she spoke there were confused cries, heavy falls, and a rush
in the hall, and instantly the room was filled with men, their faces
flushed with excitement and drink. The guard had been overpowered.
“Whar's that paper?”
“Hain't they signed?”
“We'll make ye sign, dum quick.”
“We're a gonter tie ye up an give it to ye on the bare back.”
“We'll give ye a dose o' yer own med'cin.”
“I don' wanter hurt ye, sis, but ye muss git aout o' the way,” said a
burly fellow to Eliza, who, with her mother, had thrown herself between
the mob and Justice Dwight, his undaunted aspect appearing to excite the
special animosity of the rabble. The other three justices were huddled
in the furthest corner.
“It's all right, men, it's all right. No need of any more words. Here's
the paper,” said Perez, authoritatively. A man caught it from his hand
and gave it to another, saying,
“Here, Pete, ye kin read. Wot does it say?” Pete took the document in
both hands, grasping it with unnecessary firmness, as if he depended
in some degree on physical force to overcome the difficulties of
decipherment, and proceeded slowly and with tremendous frowns to spell
it out.
“We-promise-not-to-ak--under--our-c--o--m,--commishins
until-the--g--r--i--e--grievunces,”--
“Wot be them?” demanded one of the crowd.
“That means taxes, 'n loryers, 'n debts, 'n all that. I've hearn the
word afore,” exclaimed another. “G'long Pete.”
“Grievunces,” proceeded the reader, “of-wich-the-people-complain.”
“That's so.”
“That's dern good. In course we complains.”
“Is that writ so, Pete?”
“G'long, Pete, that ere's good.”
“Complains,” began the reader again.
“Go back tew the beginnin Pete, I los' the hang on't.”
“Yes, go back a leetle, Pete. It be mos'z long ez a sermon.”
“Shell I begin tew the beginnin?”
“Yes, begin tew the beginnin agin, so's we'll all on us git the hang.”
“We--promise--not-tew-ak--under--our-commishins,
until--the--g--r--grievunces--of--wich--the--people--complain,
are--r--e--d--r--redressed.”
“Wot's redressed?”
“That's same ez 'bolished.”
“Here be the names,” pursued Pete.
“Charles Goodrich.”
“He's the feller ez loss his hat.”
“William Whiting.”
“James Barker.”
“Elijah Dwight.”
“It's false,” exclaimed Dwight, “my name's not there!”
But few, if any, heard or heeded his words, for at the moment Pete
pronounced the last name, Perez shouted:
“Now, men, we've done this job, let's go to the jail and let out the
debtors, come on,” and suiting action to word he rushed out, and was
followed pell-mell by the yelling crowd, all their truculent enthusiasm
instantly diverted into this new channel.
The four justices, and the wife and daughter of Dwight, alone remained
in the room. Even the people who had been staring in, with their noses
flattened against the window panes, had rushed away to the new point of
interest. Dwight stood steadfastly looking at his daughter, with a stern
and Rhadamanthine gaze, in which, nevertheless, grief and reproachful
surprise, not less than indignation, were expressed. The girl shrinking
behind her mother, seemed more in terror than when the mob had burst
into the room.
“And so my daughter has disobeyed her father, has told him a lie, and
has disgraced him,” said the justice, slowly and calmly, but in tones
that bore a crushing weight of reproof. “Add, sir, at least, that she
has also saved his life,” interposed one of the other justices.
“Oh, don't talk to me so, papa,” cried the girl sobbing. “I didn't write
your name, papa, I truly didn't.”
“Do not add to your sin, by denials, my daughter. Did the fellow not
read my name?” Dwight regarded her as he said this, as if he were
somewhat disgusted at such persistent falsehood, and the others looked a
little as if their sympathy with the girl had received a slight shock.
“But, papa, won't you believe me,” sobbed the girl, clinging to her
mother as not daring to approach him to whom she appealed. “I only wrote
my own name.”
“Your name, Eliza, but he read mine.”
“Yes, but the pen was bad, you see, and my name looks so like yours,
when it's writ carelessly, and the 'a' is a little quirked, and I
wrote it carelessly, papa. Please forgive me. I didn't want to have you
killed, and I quirked the 'a' a little.”
The Rhadamanthine frown on Dwight's face yielded to a very composite
expression, a look in which chagrin, tenderness, and a barely
perceptible trace of amusement mingled. The girl instantly had her arms
around his neck, and was crying violently on his shoulder, though she
knew she was forgiven. He put his hand a moment gently on her head, and
then unloosed her arms, saying, dryly,
“That will do, dear, go to your mother now. I shall see that you have
better instruction in writing.”
That was the only rebuke he ever gave her.
CHAPTER TENTH
GREAT GOINGS ON AT BARRINGTON CONTINUED
When Perez and the men who with him were in the act of advancing on the
jail, were so suddenly recalled by the cry that the people were stoning
the judges, Prudence had been left quite alone, sitting on Perez' horse
in the middle of the street. She had no clear idea what all this crowd
and commotion in the village was about, nor even what the Stockbridge
men had come down for in such martial array. She only knew that Mrs.
Hamlin's son, the captain with the sword, had said he would bring her
to her father, and now that he had run off taking all the other men with
him, she knew not what to do or which way to turn. To her, thus perched
up on the big horse, confused and scared by the tumult, approached
a tall, sallow, gaunt old woman, in a huge green sunbonnet, and a
butternut gown of coarsest homespun. Her features were strongly marked,
but their expression was not unkindly, though just now troubled and
anxious.
“I guess I've seen yew tew meetin,” she said to Prudence. “Ain't you
Fennell's gal?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, “I come daown to see father.” Prudence,
although she had profited by having lived at service in the Woodbridge
family, where she heard good English spoken, had frequent lapses into
the popular dialect.
“I'm Mis Poor. Zadkiel Poor's my husban'. He's in jail over thar long
with yer dad. He's kinder ailin, an I fetched daown some roots 'n yarbs
as uster dew him a sight o' good, w'en he was ter hum. I thort mebbe I
mout git to see him. Him as keeps jail lets folks in sometimes, I hearn
tell.”
“Do you know where the jail is?” asked the girl.
“It's that ere haouse over thar. It's in with the tavern.”
“Let's go and ask the jailer if he'll let us in,” suggested Prudence.
“I wuz gonter wait an' git Isr'el Goodrich tew go long an kinder speak
fer me, ef I could,” said Mrs. Poor. “He's considabul thought on by
folks roun' here, and he's a neighbor o' ourn, an real kind, Isr'el
Goodrich is. But I don' see him nowhar roun', an mebbe we mout's well go
right along, an not wait no longer.”
And so the two women went on toward the jail, and Prudence dismounted
before the door of the tavern end, and tied the horse.
“I callate they muss keep the folks in that ere ell part, with the row
o' leetle winders,” said Mrs. Poor. She spoke in a hushed voice, as
one speaks near a tomb. The girl was quite pale, and she stared with
a scared fascination at the wall behind which her father was shut up.
Timidly the women entered the open door. Both Bement and his wife were
in the barroom.
“What dew ye want?” demanded the latter, sharply.
Mrs. Poor curtsied very low, and smiled a vague, abject smile of
propitiation.
“If ye please, marm, I'm Mis Poor. He's in this ere jail fer debt. He's
kinder pulin like, Zadkiel is, an I jess fetched daown some yarbs fer
him. He's been uster takin on em, an they doos him good, specially the
sassafras. An I thort mebbe, marm, I mout git tew see him, bein ez he
ain't a well man, an never wuz sence I married him, twenty-five year
agone come nex' Thanksgivin.”
“And I want to see father, if you please, marm. My father's George
Fennell. Is he very sick marm?” added Prudence eagerly, seeing that Mrs.
Poor was forgetting her.
“I don' keer who ye be, an ye needn' waste no time o' tellin me,”
replied Mrs. Bement, her pretty blue eyes as hard as steel. “Ye couldn't
go intew that jail not ef ye wuz Gin'ral Washington. I ain't goin ter
hev no women folks a bawlin an a blubberin roun' this ere jail's long's
_my_ husban' keeps it, an that's flat.
“I won't cry a bit, if you'll only let me see father,” pleaded Prudence,
two great tears gathering in her eyes, even as she spoke, and testifying
to the value of her promise. “And--and I'll scrub the floor for you,
too. It needs it, and I'm a good scrubber, Mrs. Woodbridge says I am.”
“I'd take it kind of ye, I would,” said Mrs. Poor, “ef ye'd let me in
jess fer a minit. He'd set store by seein of me, an I could give him the
yarbs. He ain't a well man, an never wuz, Zadkiel ain't. Ye needn't let
the gal in. It don' matter 's much about her, an gals is cryin things.
I'll scrub yer floor better'n she ever kin, an come to look it doos
kinder need it,” and she turned her agonized eyes a moment upon the
floor in affected critical inspection.
“Cephas, see that crowd comin. What do they mean? Put them women out.
G'long there, git out, quick! Shut the door, Cephas. Put up the bar.
What ever's comin to us?”
Well might Mrs. Bement say so, for the sight that had caught her eyes
as she stood confronting the women and the open door, was no less an one
than a mass of nearly a thousand men and boys, bristling with clubs and
guns, rushing directly toward the jail.
Scarcely had the women been thrust out, and the white-faced Bement
dropped the bar into its sockets across the middle of the door, than
there was a rushing, tramping sound before the house, like the noise
of many waters, and a great hubbub of hoarse voices. Then came a heavy
blow, as if with the hilt of a sword against the door, and a loud voiced
called,
“Open, and be quick about it!”
“Don't do it, Cephas, the house is stout, and mebbe help'll come,” said
Mrs. Bement, although she trembled.
But Cephas, though generally like clay in the hands of his wife, was
at this instant dominated by a terror greater than his fear of her. He
lifted the bar from the sockets, and was instantly sent staggering back
against the wall as the door burst open. The room was instantly filled
to its utmost capacity with men, who dropped the butts of their muskets
on the floor with a jar that made the bottles in the bar clink in
concert.
Bement who had managed to get behind the bar, stood there with a face
like ashes, his flabby cheeks relaxed with terror so they hung like
dewlaps. He evidently expected nothing better than to be butchered
without mercy on the spot.
“Good morning, Mr. Bement,” said Perez, as coolly as if he had just
dropped in for a glass of flip.
“Good morning sir,” faintly articulated the landlord.
“You remember me, perhaps. I took dinner here, and visited by brother in
the jail last Saturday. I should like to see him again. Will you be kind
enough to hand me the keys, there behind you?” Bement stared as if dazed
at Perez, looked around at the crowd of men, and then looked back at
Perez again, and still stood gaping.
“Did ye hear the cap'n?” shouted Abner in a voice of thunder. Bement
gave a start of terror, and involuntarily turned to take the bunch of
keys down from the nail. But by the time he had turned, the keys were no
longer there.
It had been easy to see from the first, that Mrs. Bement was made of
quite different stuff from her husband. As she stood by his side behind
the bar, although she was tremulous with excitement, the look with which
she had faced the crowd was rather vixenish than frightened. There was
a vicious sparkle in her eyes, and the color of her cheeks was
concentrated in two small spots, one under each cheek bone. Just as her
husband, succumbing to the inevitable, was turning to take the keys from
their nail and deliver them over, she quietly reached behind him, and
snatched them. Then, with a deft motion opening the top of her gown
a little, she dropped them into her bosom, and looked at Perez with a
defiant expression, as much as to say, “Now I should like to see you get
them.”