from all parts of the house, as the people passing out of their pews met
and greeted each other in the aisles. The afternoon service came in an
hour and a half, and only those went home who lived close at hand or
could easily make the distances in their carriages. These took with
them such friends and acquaintances as they might invite. Others of the
congregation spent the brief nooning in the “noon-house,” a shed near
by, erected for this purpose. There, or on the meeting-house steps, or
maybe seated near by on the grass and using the stumps of felled trees,
with which it was studded, for tables, they discussed the sermon as a
relish to their lunches of doughnuts, cheese, pie and gingerbread. To
converse on any other than religious subjects on the Sabbath, was a sin
and a scandal which exposed the offender to church discipline, but in a
public emergency like the present, when rebellion was rampant throughout
the county, it was impossible that political affairs should not
preoccupy the most pious minds. Talk of them the people must and did,
of the stopping of the courts, the breaking of the jails, of Squire
Woodbridge and Perez Hamlin, of the news from the other counties, and
of what would next take place, but it was amusing to see the ingenious
manner by which the speakers contrived to compound with their
consciences and prevent scandal by giving a pious twist and a Sabbatical
intonation to their sentences.
Among the younger people, as might be expected, there was less of this
affectation. They were all discussing with eager interest something
which had just happened.
“Wal, all I say is I don't want to be a lady if it makes folks so crewel
an so deceitful as that,” said Submit Goodrich, a black-eyed, bright
cheeked wench, old Israel's youngest daughter. “To think o' her
pretendin not to know him, right afore all the folks, and she on her
knees to him a cryin only four days ago. I don't care if she is Squire
Edwards' gal, I hain't got no opinyun o' such doin's.”
Most of the girls agreed with Submit, but some of the young men were
inclined to laugh at Perez, saying it was good enough for him, and that
he who was nothing more than a farmer like the rest of them was served
right for trying to push in among the big folks.
“I s'pose she's dretful riled to think it's all 'round bout her goin
over to the Hamlins las' week an she thort she'd jess let folks see she
was as proud as ever. Land! How red he was! I felt reel bad for him, and
such a nice bow ez he made, jess like any gentleman!”
“I callate Jerushy wouldn't a been so hard on him,” jealously snickered
a young farmer sitting by the young woman who last spoke.
“No, I wouldn't,” she said, turning sharply to him. “I s'pose ye thort
I wasn't no judge o' hansome men, cause I let you keep kumpny with me.”
There was nothing more from that quarter.
But what is it they are talking about anyway? Why, simply this: In
front of the meeting-house, as they came out from the service, Perez met
Desire face to face. All the people were standing around, talking and
waiting to see the great folks get into their carriages to drive home.
Naturally, everybody looked with special interest to see the meeting of
these two whose names gossip had so constantly coupled during the
week. Jonathan was with Desire, and looked fiercely at Perez, but his
fierceness was quite wasted. Perez did not see him. He took off his hat
and bowed to her with an air of the most profound respect. She gave not
the faintest sign of recognition, even to the dropping of an eyelid. The
people had stopped talking and were staring. The blood rushed to Perez'
forehead.
“Good day, Miss Edwards,” he said, firmly and distinctly, yet
respectfully, his hat still in his hand. Jonathan, in his indignation,
was as red as he, but Desire could not have appeared more unconscious
of being addressed had she been stone deaf as well as blind. In a moment
more she had passed on and entered the carriage, and the people were
left with something to talk about. Now, Captain Perez Hamlin had gone
to meeting that morning as much in love with Desire Edwards as four
days thinking of little else save a fair face and charming form might be
expected to leave a susceptible young man, particularly when the manly
passion is but the resurrection of an unforgotten love of boyhood. He
walked home somewhat more angry with the same young woman than he could
remember ever having been with anybody. If a benevolent fairy had asked
him his dearest wish just then, it would have been that Desire Edwards
might be transformed into a young gentleman for about five minutes, in
order that he might impart to him the confoundedest thrashing that a
young gentleman ever experienced, nor did even the consciousness that no
such transformation was possible, prevent his fingers from tingling with
a most ungallant aspiration to box her small ears till they were as red
as his own face had been at the moment she cut him so coolly. For he
was a very proud man, was Captain Perez Hamlin, with a soldier's
sensitiveness to personal affronts, and none of that mean opinion of
himself and his position in society which helped the farmers around to
bear with equanimity the snubs of those they regarded as their natural
superiors.
The father and mother had fortunately driven on before the scene took
place, and so at least he was spared the added exasperation of being
condoled with on arriving at home. Prudence had stayed to the afternoon
service. Toward twilight, as he was walking to and fro behind the barn,
and indulging an extremely unsanctified frame of mind, she came to him
and blurted out, breathlessly:
“All the girls think she was mean and wicked, and I'll never do any more
work for her or Mis Woodbridge either,” and before he could answer she
had run back into the house with burning cheeks. He had seen that her
eyes were also full of tears. It was clear she had been struggling hard
between the pity which prompted her to tender some form of consolation,
and her fear of speaking to him.
The dreamy habit of the mind induced by love in its first stage, often
extends to the point of overspreading all the realities of life and
the circumstances of the individual, with a glamour, which for the time
being, disguises the hard and rigid outlines of fact. The painful shock
which had so sharply ended Perez' brief delusion, that Desire might
possibly accept his devotion, had at the same time roused him to a
recognition of the critical position of himself and his father's family.
What business had he or they lingering here in Stockbridge? Yesterday,
in the vague unpractical way in which hopeful lovers do all their
thinking he had thought they might remain indefinitely. Now he saw that
it would be tempting Providence to postpone any further the carrying out
of his original plan, of moving with them to New York State. The present
insurrection might last a longer or shorter time, but there was no
reason to think it would result in remedying the already desperate
financial condition of the family. The house was to have been sold
the past week, and doubtless would be as soon as affairs were a little
quieter. Reuben was, moreover, liable to re-arrest and imprisonment on
his old debt, and as for himself, he knew that his life was forfeit to
the gallows for the part he had taken in the rebellion.
Once across the state line, however, they would be as safe as in Europe,
for the present Union of the states was not yet formed, and the loose
and nerveless bond of the old Federation, then in its last stage of
decrepitude, left the states practically foreign countries to each
other. His idea was then to get the family over into New York without
delay, with such remnants of the farm stock as could be got together,
and leaving them for the winter at New Lebanon, just the other side the
border, to go on himself, meanwhile, to the western part of the state,
to secure a farm in the new tracts being already opened up in that rich
region, and rapidly filling with settlers. For the populating of the
west, and New York was then the west, has gone on by successive waves
of emigration, set in motion by periodical epochs of financial and
industrial distress in the Atlantic states, and the first of these
impulses, the hard times following the Revolution, was already sending
thousands to seek new homes toward the setting sun.
Busy with preparations for the start, he kept close at home during the
entire week following. Only once or twice did he even go down street,
and then on some errand. Obadiah dropped around frequently and looked
on as he worked, evidently having something on his mind. One twilight as
Perez was cutting wood for the evening fire, the young man came into the
back yard and opened conversation in this wise:
“Guess it's gonter rain.”
“Looks a little like it,” Perez assented.
Obadiah was silent a space, and ground the heel of his bare foot into
the dirt.
“D'you know what's good fer warts?” he finally asked. Perez said he did
not. After a pause, Obadiah remarked critically:
“Them bricks roun' the top o' the chimly be kinder loose, bean't they?”
They were, and Perez freely admitted as much. Obadiah looked around for
some other topic of conversation, but apparently finding none, he picked
up a stone and asked with affected carelessness, as he jerked it toward
the barn:
“Be ye a gonter take George Fennell 'long with ye?”
“No,” said Perez. “He will not live long, I fear, and he can't be moved.
I suppose some of the people will take him and Prudence in, when we go.”
Obadiah said nothing, but from the change which instantly came over
his manner, it was evident that the information obtained with such
superfluous diplomacy was a prodigious relief to his mind. The
officiousness with which he urged a handful of chestnuts on Perez, and
even offered to carry in the wood for him, might moreover be construed
as indicating a desire to make amends to him for unjust suspicions
secretly cherished. As for asking Prudence directly whether she was
expecting to go away, that would have been a piece of hardihood of which
the bashful youth was quite incapable. If he could not have ascertained
her intentions otherwise than by such a desperate measure, he would
have waited till the Hamlins set out, and then been on hand to see for
himself whether she went or not.
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH
AN AUCTION SALE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
Squire Woodbridge had not failed to detect the first signs of decrease
in the ebullition of the popular mind after the revolt of Tuesday, and
when by Friday and Saturday the mob had apparently quite disappeared,
and the village had returned to its normal condition, he assured himself
that the rebellion was all over, and it only remained for him and his
colleagues cautiously to get hold of the reins again, and then--then for
the whip. For, the similitude under which the Squire oftenest thought
of the people of Stockbridge was that of a team of horses which he was
driving. There had been a little runaway, and he had been pitched out on
his head. Let him once get his grip on the lines again, and the whip in
his hand, and there should be some fine dancing among the leaders, or
his name was not Jahleel Woodbridge, Esquire, and the whipping post on
the green was nothing but a rosebush.
He was in a hurry for two reasons to get the reins in his hands again.
In the first place, for the very natural and obvious reason that he
grudged every moment of immunity from punishment enjoyed by men who had
put him to such an open shame. The other and less obvious reason was the
expected return of Squire Sedgwick from Boston. Sedgwick had been gone
a week. He might be absent a week or two weeks more, but he might return
any day. One thing was evident to Jahleel Woodbridge. Before this man
returned, of whose growing and rival influence he had already so much
reason to be jealous, he must have put an end to anarchy in Stockbridge,
and once more stand at the head of its government. Sedgwick had warned
him of the explosive state of popular feeling: he had resented that
warning, and the event had proved his rival right. The only thing now
left him was to show Sedgwick that if he had not been able to foresee
the rebellion, he had been able to suppress it. Nevertheless he would
proceed cautiously.
The red flag of the sheriff had for some weeks waved from the gable end
of a small house on the main street, owned by a Baptist cobbler,
one David Joy. There were quite a number of Baptists among the Welsh
iron-workers at West Stockbridge, and some Methodists, but none of
either heresy save David in Stockbridge, which, with this exception was,
as a parish, a Congregational lamb without blemish. No wonder then that
David was a thorn in the side to the authorities of the church, nor was
he less despised by the common people. There was not a drunken loafer in
town who did not pride himself upon the fact that, though he might be
a drunkard, he was at least no Baptist, but belonged to the “Standing
Order.” Meshech Little, himself, who believed and practiced the doctrine
of total immersion in rum, had no charity for one who believed in total
immersion in water.
The date which had been set for the sale of David's goods and house,
chanced to be the very Monday following the Sunday with whose religious
services and other events the previous chapters have been concerned. It
seemed to Squire Woodbridge that David's case would be an excellent one
with which to inaugurate once more the reign of law. Owing to the social
isolation and unpopularity of the man, the proceedings against him would
be likely to excite very little sympathy or agitation of any kind, and
having thus got the machinery of the law once more into operation,
it would be easy enough to proceed thereafter, without fear or favor,
against all classes of debtors and evil-doers in the good old way.
Moreover, it had long been the intention of those having the interest
of Zion at heart to “freeze out” David by this very process, and to that
end considerable sanctified shrewdness had been expended in getting him
into debt. So that by enforcing the sale in his case, two birds would,
so to speak, be killed with one stone, and the political and spiritual
interests of the parish be coincidently furthered, making it altogether
an undertaking on which the blessing of Heaven might be reasonably
looked for.
At three o'clock in the afternoon the sale took place. Everything worked
as the Squire had expected. It being the general popular supposition
that there were to be no more sheriffs' sales, there were no persons
present at the auction save the officers of the law and the gentlemen
who were to bid. Only here and there an astonished face peered out of a
window at the proceedings, and a knot of loafers, who had been boozing
away the afternoon, stood staring in the door of the tavern. That was
all. There was no crowd, and no attempt at interruption. But the news
that a man had been sold out for debt spread fast, and by sunset,
when the men and boys came home from their farm-work or mechanical
occupations, numerous groups of excited talkers had gathered in the
streets. There was a very full meeting that night at the tavern.
“I declar for't,” said Israel Goodrich, with an air of mingled
disappointment and wrath, “I be reel put aout, an disappinted like. I
dunno what tew make on't. I callated the trouble wuz all over, an times
wuz gonter be good and folks live kinder neighbourly 'thout no more
suein an jailin, an sellin aout, same ez long from '74 tew '80. I
reckoned sure nuff them times wuz come 'round agin, an here they've gone
an kicked the pot over, an the fat's in the fire agin, bad's ever.”
“Darn em. Gosh darn em, I say,” exclaimed Abner. “Didn't they git our
idee what we wuz arter wen we stopped the courts? Did they think we wuz
a foolin baout it? That's what I want some feller tew tell me. Did they
think we wuz a foolin?”
Abner's usually good humoured face was darkly flushed, and there was an
ugly gleam in his eye as he spoke.
“We wuz so quiet like las' week, they callated we'd jess hed our fling
an got over it. I guess that wuz haow it wuz,” said Peleg Bidwell.
“Did they think we'd been five year a gittin our dander up an would git
over it in a week?” demanded Abner, glaring round. “If t'wuz caze we wuz
tew quiet, we'll make racket nuff to suit em arter this, hey, boys?
If racket's the ony thing they kin understan, they shall hev a plenty
on't.”
“Israel thought it wuz kingdom come already,” said Paul Hubbard, who
had hurried down from the iron-works with a gang of his myrmidons, on
receipt of the news. “He thought the silk stockings was goin to give
right in as sweet as sugar. Not by a darned sight. No sir. They ain't
going to let go so easy. They ain't none o' that sort. They mean to have
the old times back again, and they'll have em back, too, unless you wake
up and show em you're in earnest.”
“Not yit awhile, by the everlastin Jocks,” shouted Abner. “Ef thar's
any vartue in gunpowder them times shan't come back,” and there was an
answering yell that shook the room.
“That's the talk, Abner. Give us yer paw,” said Paul, delighted to
find the people working up to his own pitch of bitter and unrelenting
animosity against the gentlemen. “That's the talk, but it'll take more'n
talk. Look here men, three out of four of you have done enough already
to get a dozen lashes on his bare back, if the silk stockings get on top
again. It's all in a nutshell. If we don't keep them under they'll keep
us under. We've just got to take hold and raise the devil with them.
If we don't give them the devil, they'll give us the devil. Take your
choice. It's one or the other.”
There was a chorus of exclamations.
“That's so.” “By gosh we're in for't, an we might's well go ahead.”
“Ye're right, Paul.” “We'll git aout the hoss-fiddles an give em some
mewsic.” “We'll raise devil nuff fer em ter night.” “Come on fellers.”
“Les give em a bonfire.”
There was a general movement of the men out of the barroom, all talking
together, clamorously suggesting plans, or merely, as in the case of the
younger men and boys, venting their excitement in hoots and catcalls.
It was a close dark night, obscure enough to make cowards brave, and the
crowd that surged out of the tavern were by no means cowards, but angry
and resolute men, whose exasperation at the action of the authorities,
was sharpened and pointed by well-founded apprehensions of the personal
consequences to themselves which that action threatened if not resisted.
Some one's suggestion that they should begin by putting David Joy and
his family back into their house, was received with acclamation and they
were forthwith fetched from a neighboring shed, under which they had
encamped for the night, and without much ceremony thrust into their
former residence and ordered to stay there. For though in this case
David happened to be identified with their own cause, it went against
their grain to help a Baptist.
“Now, boys, les go an see Iry Seymour,” said Abner, and with a yell, the
crowd rushed off in the direction of the deputy sheriff's house.
Their blood was up, and it was perhaps well for that official that he
did not wait to be interviewed. As the crowd surged up before the house,
a man's figure was seen dimly flitting across the field behind, having
apparently emerged from the back door. There was a yell “There goes
Iry,” and half the mob took after him, but, thanks to the darkness, the
nimble-footed sheriff made good his escape, and his pursuers presently
returned, breathless, but in high good humor over the novel sport,
protesting that they laughed so hard they couldn't run.
The only other important demonstration by the mob that evening, was the
tearing up of the fence in front of Squire Woodbridge's house and the
construction of an immense bonfire in the street out of the fragments,
the conflagration proceeding to the accompaniment of an obligato on the
horse-fiddles.
So it came to pass that, as sometimes happens in such cases, Squire
Woodbridge's first attempt to get the reins of the runaway team into
his hands, had the effect of startling the horses into a more headlong
gallop than ever.
If the events of the night, superadded to the armed revolt of the
week before, left any doubt in the most sanguine mind that the present
disturbances were no mere local and trifling irritations, but a general
rebellion, the news which was in the village early the following
morning, must have dispelled it. This news was that the week before, an
armed mob of several hundred had stopped the courts at their meeting
in Worcester and forced an adjournment for two months; that the entire
state, except the district close around Boston, was in a ferment; that
the people were everywhere arming and drilling and fully determined
that no more courts should sit till the distresses of the times had
been remedied. As yet the state authorities had taken no action looking
toward the suppression of the insurrection, in which, indeed, the great
majority of the population appeared actively or sympathetically engaged.
The messenger reported that in the lower counties a sprig of hemlock in
the hat, had been adopted as the badge of the insurgents, and that the
towns through which he had ridden seemed to have fairly turned green, so
universally did men, women and children wear the hemlock. The news had
not been an hour in Stockbridge before every person on the streets had a
bit of hemlock in their hat or hair. I say every person upon the street,
for those who belonged to the anti-popular or court party, took good
care to keep within doors that morning.
“I'm glad to see the hemlock, agin,” said Israel Goodrich. “The old pine
tree flag wuz a good flag to fight under. There wuz good blood spilt
under it in the old colony days. Thar wuz better times in this 'ere
province o' Massachusetts Bay, under the pine tree flag, than this dum
Continental striped rag hez ever fetched, or ever will, I reckon.”
The dismay which the news of the extent and apparent irresistibleness
of the rebellion produced among those attached to the court party in
Stockbridge, corresponded to the exultation to which the people gave
themselves up. Nor did the populace lose any time in giving expression
to their bolder temper by overt acts. About nine o'clock in the morning,
Deputy Sheriff Seymour, who had not ventured to return to his house,
was found concealed in the corn-bin of a barn near the burying-ground.
A crowd instantly collected and dragged the terrified man from his
concealment. Some one yelled:
“Ride him on a rail,” and the suggestion finding an echo in the popular
breast, a three-cornered fence rail was thrust between his legs, and
lifted on men's shoulders. Astride of this sharp-backed steed, holding
on with his hands for dear life, lest he should fall off and break his
neck, he was carried, through the main streets of the village, followed
by a howling crowd, and pelted with apples by the boys, while the
windows of the houses along the way were full of laughing women. Having
graced the popular holiday by this involuntary exhibition of himself,
Seymour was let go without suffering any further violence, the crowd
appearing boisterously jocose rather than embittered in temper. Master
Hopkins, a young man who had recently entered Squire Sedgwick's office
to study law, was next pounced upon, having indiscreetly ventured on the
street, and treated to a similar free ride, which was protracted until
the youth purchased surcease by consenting to wear a sprig of hemlock in
his hat.
About the middle of the forenoon Squire Woodbridge, Deacon Nash, Dr.
Partridge, with Squire Edwards and several other gentlemen were sitting
in the back room of the store. It was a gloomy council. Woodbridge
quaffed his glass of rum in short, quick unenjoying gulps, and said not
a word. The others from time to time dropped a phrase or two expressive
of the worst apprehensions as to what the mob might do, and entire
discouragement as to the possibility of doing anything to restrain them.
Suddenly, young Jonathan Edwards, who was in the outer room tending
store, cried out:
“Father, the mob is coming. Shall I shut the door?”
Squire Edwards cried “Yes,” and hastily went out to assist, but Dr.
Partridge, with more presence of mind than the others seemed to possess
at that moment, laid his hand on the storekeeper's arm, saying:
“Better not shut the door. They will tear the house down if you do.
Resistance is out of the question.”