drink, all wearing sprigs of hemlock in their hats, came pouring up
the steps and filled the store, those who could not enter thronging the
piazza and grinning in at the windows. Edwards and the other gentlemen
stood at bay at the back end of the store, in front of the liquor
hogsheads. Their bearing was that of men who expected personal violence,
but in a justifiable agitation did not forget their personal dignity.
But the expression on the face of Abner, who was the leader of the gang,
was less one of exasperation than of sardonic humor.
“Good mornin,” he said.
“Good morning, Abner,” replied Edwards, propitiatingly.
“It's a good mornin and it's good news ez is come to taown. I s'pose ye
hearn it a' ready. I thort so. Ye look ez ef ye hed. But we didn' come
tew talk 'baout that. Thar wuz a leetle misunderstandin yisdy 'baout
selling aout David. He ain't nothin but a skunk of a Baptis, an ef Iry
hed put him in the stocks or licked him 'twould a sarved him right. But
ye see some of the boys hev got a noshin agin heven any more fellers
sole aout fer debt, an we've been a explainin our idee to Iry this
mornin. I callate he's got it through his head, Iry hez. Ye see ef
neighbors be gonter live together peaceable they've jess got ter
unnerstan each other. What do yew s'pose Iry said? He said Squire thar
tole him to sell David aout. In course we didn' b'leeve that. Squire
ain't no gol darned fool, ez that would make him aout ter be. He knowd
the men ez stopped the courts las' week wouldn' be afeard o' stoppin a
sherriff. He knows the folks be in arnest 'baout hevin an eend on sewin
an sellin an sendin tew jail. Squire knows, an ye all know that thar'll
be fightin fore thar's any more sellin.”
Abner had grown excited as he spoke, and the peculiar twinkle in his eye
had given place to a wrathy glare as he uttered the last words, but this
passed, and it was with his former sardonic grin that he added:
“But Iry didn' save his hide by tryin tew lay it orf ontew Squire an I
guess he won't try no more sellin aout right away, not ef Goramity tole
him tew.”
“Yer gab's runnin away with yer. Git to yer p'int, Abner,” said Peleg
Bidwell.
“Lemme 'lone I'm comin 'roun,” replied Abner. “Ye wuz over't the sale
yisdy, warn't ye, Squire?” he said, addressing Edwards.
“Yes, Abner.”
“Wal, ye see, when we come tew put back David's folks intew the haouse
his woman missed the clock, and somebody said ez haow ye'd took et.”
“I bid it in,” said Edwards.
“I s'pose ye clean furgut t'wuz the on'y clock she hed,” suggested
Abner with a bland air of accounting for the other's conduct on the most
favorable supposition.
Edwards, making no reply save to grow rather red, Abner continued:
“In course ye furgut it, that's what I tole the fellers, for ye wouldn't
go and take the on'y clock a poor man hed wen ye've got a plenty, 'nless
ye furgut. Ye see we knowed ye'd wanter send it right back soon ez ye
thort o' that, and so we jess called in for't, callaten tew save ye the
trouble.”
“But--but I bought it,” stammered Edwards.
“Sartin, sartin,” said Abner. “Jess what I sed, ye bought it caze ye
clean furgut it wuz David's on'y one, an he poor an yew rich. Crypus!
Squire, ye hain't got no call tew explain it tew us. Ye see we knows
yer ways Squire. We knows how apt ye be tew furgit jiss that way. We kin
make allowances fer ye.”
Edwards' forehead was crimson.
“There's the clock,” he said, pointing to it where it lay on the
counter. Abner took it up and put it under his arm, saying:
“David 'll be 'bliged to ye, Squire, when I tell him how cheerful ye
sent it back. Some o' the fellers,” he pursued with an affectation of a
confidential tone, “some o' the fellers said mebbe ye wouldn't send it
back cheerful. They said ye'd got no more compassion fer the poor than a
flint stun. They said, them fellers did, that ye'd never in yer life
let up on a man as owed ye, an would take a feller's last drop o' blood
sooner'n lose a penny debt. They said, them fellers did, that yer hands,
wite ez they looks, wuz red with the blood o' them that ye'd sent to die
in jail.”
Abner's voice had risen to a tremendous crescendo of indignation, and he
seemed on the point of quite forgetting his ironical affectation,
when, with an effort which added to the effect, he checked himself and
resuming his former tone and grin, he added:
“I argyed with them fellers ez said them things bout ye. I tole em haow
it couldn't be so, caze ye wuz a deakin, an hed family prayers, and
could pray mos' ez long ez parson. But I couldn't do nothin with em,
they wuz so sot. Wy them fellers akchilly said ye took this ere clock a
knowin that it wuz David's on'y one, wen ye hed a plenty o' yer own tew.
Jess think o' that Squire. What a hoggish old hunks they took ye fer,
didn't they, naow?” Edwards glared at his tormentor with a countenance
red and white with speechless rage, but Abner appeared as unconscious
of anything peculiar in his manner as he did of the snickers of the men
behind him. Having concluded his remarks he blandly bade the gentlemen
good morning and left the store, followed by his gang, the suppressed
risibilities of the party finding expression in long continued and
uproarious laughter, as soon as they reached the outer air. After
leaving the store they called on all the gentlemen who had bidden in
anything at yesterday's sale, one after another, and reclaimed every
article and returned it to David.
If any of the court party had flattered themselves that this mob, like
that of the week before, would, after making an uproar for a day or
two, disappear and leave the community in quiet, they were destined
to disappointment. The popular exasperation and apprehension which the
Squire's ill-starred attempt to regain authority had produced, gave to
the elements of anarchy in the village a new cohesive force and impulse,
while, thanks to the news of the spread and success of the rebellion
elsewhere, the lawless were encouraged by entire confidence of impunity.
From this day, in fact, it might be said that anarchy was organized in
the village.
There were two main elements in the mob. One, the most dangerous, and
the real element of strength in it, was composed of a score or two of
men whom the stoppage of the courts had come too late to help. Their
property all gone, they had been reduced to the condition of loafers,
without stake in the community. Having no farms of their own to work on,
and the demand for laborers being limited, they had nothing to do
all day but to lounge around the tavern, drinking when they could get
drinks, sneering at the silk stockings, and debating how further to
discomfit them. The other element of the mob, the most mischievous,
although not so seriously formidable, was composed of boys and
half-grown youths, who less out of malice against the court party, than
out of mere love of frolic, availed themselves to the utmost of the
opportunity to play off pranks on the richer class of citizens. Bands of
them ranged the streets from twilight till midnight, robbing orchards,
building bonfires out of fences, opening barns and letting the cows into
the gardens, stealing the horses for midnight races, afterwards leaving
them to find their way home as they could, tying strings across the
streets to trip wayfarers up, stoning windows, and generally making life
a burden for their victims by an ingenious variety of petty outrages.
Nor were the persons even of the unpopular class always spared. In the
daytime it was tolerably safe for one of them to go abroad, but after
dark, let him beware of unripe apples and overripe eggs. For the most
part the silk stockings kept their houses in the evening, as much for
their own protection as for that of their families, and the more prudent
of them sat in the dark until bedtime, owing to the fact that lighted
windows were a favorite mark with the boys.
The mob had dubbed itself “The Regulators,” a title well enough
deserved, indeed, by the extent to which they undertook to reorganize
the property interests of the community. For the theory of the
reclamation of property carried out in the case of the goods of David
Joy, by no means stopped there. It was presently given an ex-post facto
application, and made to cover articles of property which had changed
hands at Sheriff's sales not only since but also previous to the
stoppage of the courts. Wherever, in fact, a horse or a cart, a harness,
a yoke of oxen or a piece of furniture had passed from the ownership of
a poor man to the possession of a rich man and one of the court party,
the original owner now reclaimed it, if so disposed, and so effectual
was the mob terrorism in the village that such a claim was, generally,
with better or worse grace yielded to.
Nor was the application of this doctrine of the restitution of all
things even confined to personal property. Many of the richer class of
citizens occupied houses acquired by harsh foreclosures since the dearth
of circulating medium had placed debtors at the mercy of creditors.
A few questions as to when they were thinking of moving out, with an
intimation that the neighbors were ready to assist them, if it appeared
necessary, was generally hint enough to secure a prompt vacating of
the premises, though now and then when the occupants were unusually
obstinate and refused to “take a joke” there were rather rough
proceedings. Among those thus ejected was Solomon Gleason, the
schoolmaster, who had been living in the house which George Fennel had
formerly owned. In this case, however, the house remained vacant, George
being too sick to be moved.
When Friday night came round again, there was a tremendous carouse at
the tavern, in the midst of which Widow Bingham, rendered desperate by
the demands for rum, demands which she did not dare to refuse for fear
of provoking the mob to gut her establishment, finally exclaimed:
“Why don' ye go over't the store an let Squire Edwards stan treat
awhile? What's the use o' making me dew it all? He's got better likker
nor I hev an more on't, an he ain't a poor lone widder nuther, without
noboddy ter stan up fer her,” and the widow pointed her appeal by
beginning to cry, which, as she was a buxom well-favored woman, made a
decided impression on the crowd.
Abner, who was drunk as a king, instantly declared that “By the
everlastin Jehu” he'd break the head o' the “fuss dum Nimshi” that
asked for another drink, which brought the potations of the company to a
sudden check. Presently Meshech Little observed:
“Come long fellersh, lesh go t' the store. Whosh fraid? I ain't.” There
was a chorus of thick-tongued protestations of equal valor, and the
crowd reeled out after Meshech. Abner was left alone with the widow.
“I'm reel beholden to ye Abner Rathbun, fer stannin up fer me,” said she
warmly, “an Seliny Bingham ain't one tew ferget a favor nuther.”
“I'd a smashed the snout o' the fuss one on em ez assed fer more. I'd a
knocked his lights outer him, I don' keer who twuz,” declared Abner, his
valor still further inflamed by the gratitude which sparkled from the
widow's fine eyes.
“Lemme mix ye a leetle rum 'n sugar, Abner. It'll dew ye good,” said the
widow. “I hope ye didn' take none o' that to yerself what I said tew the
res' on em. I'm sure I don' grudge ye a drop ye've ever hed, caze I know
ye be a nice stiddy man, an I feels safer like wen ye be raoun. Thar
naow, jess try that an see ef it's mixed right.”
Abner did try that, and more subsequently and sweet smiles and honeyed
words therewith, the upshot of all which was the tacit conclusion that
evening of a treaty of alliance, the tacitly understood conditions being
that Abner should stand by the widow and see she was not put upon, in
return for which the widow would see that he was not left thirsty, and
if this understanding was sealed with a kiss snatched by one of the
contracting parties as the other leaned too far over the bar with the
fourth tumbler of rum and sugar, why it was all the more likely to
be faithfully observed. That the widow was a fine woman Abner had
previously observed, but any natural feeling which this observation
might have excited had been kept in check by the consciousness of a long
unsettled score. The woman was merged in the landlady, the sex in the
creditor. Seeing that there is no more ecstatic experience known to the
soul than the melting of awe into a tenderer sentiment, it will not be
wondered at that Abner lingered over his twofold inebriation till at
nine o'clock the widow said that she must really shut up the tavern.
His surprise was great on passing the store to see it still lit up, and
a crowd of men inside, while from the apartments occupied by the Edwards
family came the tinkling of Desire's piano. Going in, he found the store
filled with drunken men, and the back room crowded with drinkers, whom
young Jonathan Edwards was serving with liquor, while the Squire was
walking about with a worn and anxious face, seeing that there was
no stealing of his goods. As he saw Abner he said, making a pitiable
attempt to affect a little dignity:
“I've been treating the men to a little liquor, but it's rather late,
and I should like to get them out. You have some control over them, I
believe. May I ask you to send them out?”
In the pressure of the present emergency, the poor man appeared to have
forgotten the insults which Abner had heaped upon him a few days before,
and Abner himself, who was in high good humor, and really felt almost
sorry for the proud man before him, replied:
“Sartin, Sartin. I'll git em aout, but what's the peeanner agoin fer?”
“The men thought they would like to hear it, and my daughter was kind
enough to play a little for them,” said Edwards, his face flushing
again, even after the mortifications of the evening, at the necessity of
thus confessing his powerlessness to resist the most insulting demands
of the rabble.
Abner passed through the door in the back room of the store, which
opened into the living-room, a richly carpeted apartment, with fine
oaken furniture imported from England. The parlor beyond was even more
expensively furnished and decorated. Flat on his back, in the middle of
the parlor carpet, was stretched Meshech Little, dead drunk. In nearly
every chair was a barefooted, coatless lout, drunk and snoring with his
hat over his eyes, and his legs stretched out, or vacantly staring with
open mouth at Desire, who, with a face like ashes and the air of an
automaton, was playing the piano.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH
PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS
On the day following, which was Saturday, at about three o'clock in
the afternoon, Perez Hamlin was at work in the yard behind the house,
shoeing his horse in preparation for the start west the next week. Horse
shoeing was an accomplishment he had acquired in the army, and he had no
shillings to waste in hiring others to do anything he could do himself.
As he let the last hoof out from between his knees, and stood up, he saw
Israel Goodrich and Ezra Phelps coming across the yard toward him. Ezra
wore his working suit, sprinkled with the meal dust of his gristmill,
and Israel had on a long blue-woolen farmer's smock, reaching to his
knees, and carried in his hand a hickory-handled whip with a long lash,
indicating that he had come in his cart, which he had presumably left
hitched to the rail fence in front of the house. After breaking ground
by a few comments on the points of Perez' horse, Israel opened the
subject of the visit, as follows:
“Ye see, Perez, I wuz over't Mill-Holler arter a grist o' buckwheat, an
me 'n Ezry got ter talkin baout the way things wuz goin in the village.
I s'pose ye've hearn o' the goins on.”
“Very little, indeed,” said Perez. “I have scarcely been out of the yard
this week, I've been hard at work. But I've heard considerable racket
nights.”
“Wal,” said Israel, “the long an short on't is the fellers be raisin the
old Harry, an it's time somebody said whoa. I've been a talkin tew Abner
baout it, an so's Ezry, but Abner ain't the same feller he wuz. He's
tight mos' o' the time naow, an he says he don' keer a darn haow bad
they treats the silk stockins. Turn abaout's fair play, he says, an he
on'y larfed w'en I tole him some o' the mischief the fellers wuz up tew.
An you said, Ezry, he talked jess so to yew.”
“Sartin, he did,” said Ezra. “Ye see,” he continued to Perez, “me an
Isr'el be men o' prop'ty, an we jined the folks agin' the courts caze we
seen they wuz bein 'bused. Thar warn't no sense in makin folks pay debts
w'en ther warn't no money in cirk'lashun to pay em. 'Twuz jess like
makin them ere chil'ren of Isr'el make bricks 'thout no straw. I allers
said, an I allers will say,” and the glitter that came into Ezra's eye
indicated that he felt the inspiring bound of his hobby beneath him,
“ef govment makes folks pay ther debts, govment's baoun ter see they hez
sunthin tew pay em with. I callate that's plain ez a pike-staff. An it's
jess so with taxes. Ef govment--”
“Sartin, sartin,” interrupted Israel, quietly choking him off, “but less
stick tew what we wuz a sayin, Ezry. Things be a goin tew fur, ye see,
Perez. We tuk part with the poor folks w'en they wuz bein 'bused, but
I declar' for't 't looks though we'd hefter take part with the silk
stockins pootty soon, at the rate things be agoin. It's a reg'lar
see-saw. Fust the rich folks eend wuz up too fur, and naow et's t'other
way.”
“They be a burnin fences ev'ry night,” said Ezra, “an they'll have the
hull town afire one o' these days. I don' b'lieve in destroyin prop'ty.
Thar ain't no sense in that. That air Paul Hubbard's wuss 'n Abner.
Abner he jess larfs an don' keer, but Paul he's thet riled agin the silk
stockins that he seems farly crazy. He's daown from the iron-works with
his gang ev'ry night, eggin on the fellers tew burn fences, an stone
houses, an he wuz akchilly tryin tew git the boys tew tar and feather
Squire, t'uther night. They didn't quite dasst dew that, but thar ain't
no tellin what they'll come tew yit.”
“Ye see, Perez,” said Israel, at last getting to the point, “we callate
yew mout dew suthin to kinder stop em ef ye'd take a holt. Abner 'l hear
ter ye, an all on em would. I don' see's nobody else in taown kin dew
nothin. Ezry an me wuz a talkin baout ye overt' the mill, an Ezry says,
'Le's gwover ter see him.' I says, 'Git right inter my cart, an we'll
go,' an so here we be.”
“I can't very well mix in, you see,” replied Perez, “for I'm going to
leave town for good the first of the week.”
“Whar be ye goin?”
“I'm going to take father and mother and Reuben over the York line, to
New Lebanon, and then I'm going on to the Chenango purchase to clear a
farm and settle with them.”
“Sho! I wanter know,” exclaimed Israel, scratching his head. “Wal, I
swow,” he added, thoughtfully, “I don't blame ye a mite, arter all. This
ere state o' Massachusetts Bay, ain't no place fer a poor man, sence the
war, an ye'll find lots o' Stockbridge folks outter Chenango. They's a
lot moved out thar.”
“Ef I war ten year younger I'd go long with ye,” said Ezra, “darned ef I
wouldn't. I callate thar muss be a right good chance fer a gristmill out
thar.”
“Wal, Ezry,” said Israel, after a pause, “I don' see but wat we've hed
our trouble fer nothin, an I declar I dunno wat's gonter be did. The
silk stockins be a tryin tew fetch back the ole times, an the people
be a raisin Cain, an wat's a gonter come on't Goramity on'y knows. Come
'long, Ezry,” and the two old men went sorrowfully away.
It seems that Israel and Ezra were not the only persons in Stockbridge
whose minds turned to Perez as the only available force which could
restrain the mob, and end the reign of lawlessness in the village.
Scarcely had those worthies departed when Dr. Partridge rode around into
the back yard and approached the young man.
“I come to you,” he said, without any preliminary beating about the
bush, “as the recognized leader of the people in this insurrection, to
demand of you, as an honest fellow, that you do something to stop the
outrages of your gang.”
“If I was their leader the other day, I am so no longer,” replied Perez,
coldly. “They are not my followers. It is none of my business what they
do.”
“Yes, it is,” said Dr. Partridge, sharply. “You can't throw off the
responsibility that way. But for you, the rebellion here in Stockbridge
would never have gained headway. You can't drop the business now and
wash your hands of it.”
“I don't care to wash my hands of it,” replied Perez, sternly. “I don't
know what the men have done of late for I have stayed at home, but no
doubt the men who suffer from their doings, deserve it all, and more
too. Even if I were to stay in Stockbridge, I see no reason why I should
interfere. The people have a right to avenge their wrongs. But I am
going away the coming week. My only concern in the rebellion was the
release of my brother, and now I propose to take him and my father and
mother out of this accursed Commonwealth, and leave you whose oppression
and cruelties have provoked the rebellion, to deal with it.”
“Do you consider that an honorable course, Captain Hamlin?” The young
man's face flushed, and he answered angrily:
“Shall I stay here to protect men who the moment they are able will
throw my brother into jail and send me to the gallows? Have you, sir,
the assurance to tell me that is my duty?”
The doctor for a moment found it difficult to reply to this, and Perez
went on, with increasing bitterness:
“You have sown the wind, you are reaping the whirlwind. Why should I
interfere? You have had no pity on the poor, why should they have pity
on you? Instead of having the face to ask me to stay here and protect
you, rather be thankful that I am willing to go and leave unavenged the
wrongs which my father's family has suffered at your hands. Be careful
how you hinder my going.” The doctor, apparently inferring from the
bitter tone of the young man, and the hard, steely gleam in his blue
eyes, that perhaps there was something to be considered in his last
words turned his horse's head, without a word, and went away like the
two envoys who had preceded him.
The doctor was disappointed. Without knowing much of Perez, he had
gained a strong impression from what little he had seen of him, that
he was of a frank, impulsive temperament, sudden and fierce in quarrel,
perhaps, but incapable of a brooding revengefulness, and most unlikely
to cherish continued animosity toward enemies who were at his mercy. And
as I would not have the reader do the young man injustice in his mind, I
hasten to say that the doctor's view of his character was not far out
of the way. The hard complacency with which he just now regarded the
calamities of the gentlemen of the town, had its origin in the constant
and bitter brooding of the week past over Desire's treatment of him. The
sense of being looked down on by her, as a fine lady, and his respectful
passion despised, had been teaching him the past few days a bitterness
of caste jealousy, which had never before been known to his genial
temper. He was trying to forget his love for her, in hatred for her
class. He was getting to feel toward the silk stockings a little as Paul
Hubbard did.
Probably one of this generation of New Englanders, who could have been
placed in Stockbridge the day following, would have deemed it a very
quiet Sabbath indeed. But what, by our lax modern standards seem
very venial sins of Sabbath-breaking, if indeed any such sins be now
recognized at all, to that generation were heinous and heaven-daring.
The conduct of certain reckless individuals that Sabbath, did more to
shock the public mind than perhaps anything that had hitherto occurred
in the course of the revolt. For instance, divers young men were
seen openly walking about the streets with their sweethearts during
meeting-time, laughing and talking in a noisy manner, and evidently bent
merely on pleasure. It was credibly reported that one man, without any
attempt at concealment, rode down to Great Barrington to make a visit
of recreation upon his friends. Several other persons, presumably for
similar profane purposes, walked out to Lee and Lenox furnaces, to the
prodigious scandal of the dwellers along those roads. As if this were
not enough iniquity for one day, there were whispers that Abner Rathbun
and Meshech Little had gone a fishing. This rumor was not, indeed, fully
substantiated, but the mere fact that it found circulation and some to
credit it, is in itself striking evidence of the agitated and abnormal
condition of the public mind.