indomitable air.
“Please forgive me for it,” he said, not jestingly or lightly, but in
deepest earnest, with a look almost of tears in his eyes. She wondered
she had never before noticed what beautiful blue eyes they were. She
rather liked the sensation of having him look at her so.
“Won't you stop me if I try to go again?” she demanded, with an
audacious impulse. But she repented her boldness as the passion leaped
back into his eyes, and hers fell before it.
“I can't say that,” he said. “God knows I will stop you so long as
I have power, and when I can no longer stop you, the wheels of your
carriage shall pass over my body. I will not let you go.”
It was strange that the desperate resolution and the inexorable set of
his jaws, which, as he had made a similar declaration on the night of
her recapture, had caused her heart to sink, now produced a sensation of
rather pleasant excitement. Instead of blanching with fear or revolting
in defiance, she replied, with a bewitching air of mock terror:
“Dear me, what a terrible fellow!” and, with a toss of the head, went
on her way, leaving him puzzling his heavy masculine wits over the fact
that she no longer seemed a particle afraid of him.
The Laurel Hill walk, as I observed before, was an old favorite with
Desire, and in her present frame of mind it seemed no sufficient reason
to forsake it, that after this she often met Perez there. It is a
pleasant excitement, playing with lions or other formidable things.
Especially when one has long been in terror of them, the newly gained
sense of fearlessness is highly exhilarating. Desire enjoyed playing
with her lion, calming and exciting him, making his eyes now half fill
with tears, and now flash with passion. The romantic novelty of the
situation, which might have terrified a more timid maiden, began to
be its most attractive feature to her. Besides, he was really very
good-looking, come to observe him closely. How foolish it had been of
her to be so frightened of him at first! The recollection of her former
terror actually amused her; as if it were not easy enough to manage such
a fellow. She had not been in such high spirits for a long time. She
began to think that instead of being a hateful, terrible, revolting
tragedy, the rebellion was rather jolly, providentially adapted,
apparently, for the amusement of young ladies doomed to pass the winter
in dismal country towns. One day her mother, commenting on the fact that
the patrol and pass system of the insurgents had been somewhat relaxed,
suggested that Desire might go to Pittsfield. But she said she did not
care to go now. The fact was she preferred to play with her lion, though
she did not mention that reason to her mother. When from time to time
she heard of the fear and apprehension with which the gentlemen's
families in town regarded Perez, she even owned to being a little
complacent over the fact that this lawless dictator was her humble
adorer. She finally went so far as occasionally to ask him as a favor to
have this or that done about the village. It was such fun to feel that
through him she could govern the community. One afternoon, being in
a particularly gracious mood, she took a pink ribbon from her neck,
knotted it about the hilt of his sword as an ornament.
The hillside path among the laurel thickets where they so often
chanced to meet, was a lonely spot, beyond the reach of spectators or
eavesdroppers; but, while their meetings were thus secret, nothing could
be more discreet than the way she managed them. She kept him so well in
hand that he did not even dare to speak of the love of which his whole
manner was eloquent. Since she had ceased to fear him, he had ceased
to be at all fear-inspiring. The rude lover whose lawless attempts
had formerly put her in such fear, was now respectful to the point of
reverence, and almost timid in his fear of offending her. The least
sign of anything like tenderness on her part sufficed to stir him with a
passion of humility which in turn touched her more deeply sometimes than
she would have liked to admit. Now that she had come to see how the poor
fellow loved her, she could not cherish the least anger with him for
what he had done to her.
Sometimes she led him on to speak of himself and his present position,
and he would tell her of his dream and hope, in this present period of
anarchy to make himself a name. She was somewhat impressed by his
talk, though she would not tell him so. She had heard enough political
discussion at her father's and uncle's tables to know that the future
political constitution and government of the colonies were wholly
unsettled, and that even a royal and aristocratic form, with Washington,
or some foreign princeling, at the head, was advocated by many.
Especially here in Massachusetts, just now, almost anything was
possible. And so when he said one day, “They call me Duke of Stockbridge
in jest, but it may be in earnest yet,” she did not laugh, but owned to
herself that the tall, handsome fellow would look every inch a duke, if
he only had some better clothes. She did not let him tell her in so many
words that the motive of his ambition was to win her, but she knew it
well enough, and the thought did not excite her indignation, though she
knew it ought to.
The nearest she would let him come to talking love to her, was to talk
of their childhood and how he had adored her then. Her own remembrance
of those days of budding girlhood was dim, but he seemed to remember
everything about her, and she could but be touched as he reminded her of
scores of little incidents and scenes and words which had quite escaped
her memory. The doting tenderness which his tone sometimes took on as
he dwelt on these reminiscences, made her heart beat rather fast, and in
her embarrassment she had some ado to make light of the subject.
But now Indian Summer, by whose grace the warm weather had been extended
nearly through November, came abruptly to a close. New England weather
was as barbarous in its sudden changes then as now. One day was warm and
pleasant, the next a foot of snow covered the ground and the next after
that the thermometer, had there been one at that date in Berkshire,
would have recorded zero. The Sunday before Thanksgiving was bitterly
cold, “tejus weather” in the farmer's phrase. There was of course no
stove or other heater in the meeting-house and the temperature within
differed very slightly from that without, a circumstance aggravated by
the fact that furs were as yet almost unknown in the wardrobes even
of the wealthiest of the people. A small tippet of Desire's, sent from
England, was the only thing of the kind in Stockbridge. Parson West wore
his gown and bands outside an overcoat and turned his notes with thick
woolen mittens, now and then giving a brisk rub to his ears. Like so
many clouds of incense rose the breath of the auditors, as they shivered
on their hard board seats. The wintry wind blew in gusts through the
plentifully broken window panes--for glass was as brittle then as now
and costlier to replace,--and every now and then sifted a whiff of
snow down the backs of the sitters in the gallery. Fathers and mothers
essayed to still their little one's chattering teeth by taking them in
their laps and holding them tight, and where a woman was provided with
the luxury of a foot-stove or hot-stone, children were squatted round
it in the bottom of the pew quarreling with each other to get their
tingling toes upon it. A dreadful sound of coughing rose from the
audience, mingled with sneezing from such as were now first taking their
all-winter colds and diversified from time to time by the wail of some
child too miserable and desperate to have any fear of the parental
knuckles before its face.
Struggling with these noises and sometimes wholly lost to those in the
back part of the house, when some tremendous gust of wind shook and
strained the building, the voice of Parson West flowed on and on. He
was demonstrating that seeing it was evident some souls would be lost
it must be for the glory of God that they should be lost, and such being
the case all true saints must and should rejoice in the fact, and praise
God for it. But in order that their approval of the Divine decree
in this matter should be genuine and sincere it must be purely
disinterested, and therefore they must be willing, if God in his
inscrutable wisdom should so will, to be themselves among the lost and
forever to hate and blaspheme him in hell, because thus would his glory
be served. The parson warmly urged that all who believed themselves
to have been born again, should constantly inquire of their own souls
whether they were so resigned, for if they did not feel that they were,
it was to be feared they were still dead in trespasses and sins.
The sermon ended, the parson proceeded to read the annual Thanksgiving
Day proclamation of the governor. To this magic formula, which annually
evoked from the great brick oven stuffed turkey, chicken pie, mince pie
and plum pudding galore, the children listened with faces of mingled awe
and delight, forgetful of their aching toes. The mothers smiled at the
children, while the sheepish grins and glances exchanged between the
youth and maidens in their opposite galleries, showed them not unmindful
of the usual Thanksgiving ball, and, generally speaking, it is to be
feared the thoughts of the congregation were quite diverted, for the
time being, from the spiritual exercise suggested by the parson. But
now the people lift faces of surprise to the pulpit, for instead of the
benediction the parson begins to read yet another proclamation. It is
no less than an offer by His Excellency, the Governor and the honorable
Council, of pardon to those concerned in the late risings against the
courts provided they take the oath of allegiance to the state before the
first of January, with the warning that all not availing themselves
in time of this offer will be subject to arrest without bail at the
governor's discretion, under the recent act suspending the Habeas
corpus. Added to which is a recital of the special act of the
Legislature, that all persons who do not at once disperse upon reading
of the riot act are to receive thirty-nine lashes and one year's
imprisonment, with thirty-nine more lashes at the end of each three
months of that period.
There was little enough Thanksgiving look on the people's faces by the
time the parson had made an end, and it is to be feared that in many a
heart the echo of the closing formula, “God save the Commonwealth,” was
something like “May the devil take it.”
“Pardon fer wot I sh'd like ter know,” blurted out Abner on the
meeting-house steps. “I dunno nothin baout the res' on ye, but I hain't
done nothin I'm shamed on.”
And Israel Goodrich, too, said: “Ef he's gonter go ter pardinin us for
lettin them poor dyin critters outer jail tew Barrington t'other day,
he's jess got the shoe onter the wrong foot. It's them as put em in
needs the pardinin cordin tew my noshin.”
“An I guess we don' want no pardon fer stoppin courts nuther. Ef the
Lord pardons us fer not hangin the jedges an lawyers, it'll be more'n I
look fer,” observed Peleg Bidwell.
“Here comes the Duke,” said another. “Wat dew yew say ter this ere
proclamashin, Cap'n?”
Perez laughed.
“The more paper government wastes on proclamations, the less it'll have
left for cartridges,” he replied.
There was a laugh at this, but it was rather grim sort of talk, and a
good many of the farmers got into their sleighs and drove away with very
sober faces.
“It is the beginning of the end,” said Squire Edwards, in high good
humor, as he sat in his parlor that evening. “From my seat I could see
the people. They were like frightened sheep. The rebellion is knocked
on the head. The governor won't have to call out a soldier. You see the
scoundrels have bad consciences, and that makes cowards of them. This
Hamlin here will be running away to save his neck in a week, mark my
words.”
“I don't believe he is a coward, father, I don't believe he'll run
away,” said Desire, explosively, and then quickly rose from the chair
and turned her back, and looked out the window into the darkness.
“What do you know about him, child?” said her father, in surprise.
“I don't think he seems like one,” said Desire, still with her back
turned. And then she added, more quietly: “You know he was a captain in
the army, and was in battles.”
“I don't know it; nobody knows it. He says so, that's all,” replied
Edwards, laughing contemptuously. “All we know about it is, he wears
an old uniform. He might have picked it up in a gutter, or stolen it
anywhere. General Pepoon thinks he stole it, and I shouldn't wonder.”
“It's a lie, a wicked lie!” cried the girl, whirling around, and
confronting her father, with blazing cheeks and eyes.
She had been in a ferment ever since she had heard the proclamation read
that afternoon at meeting, and her father's words had added the last
aggravation to the already explosive state of her nerves. Squire Edwards
looked dumbfounded, and Mrs. Edwards cried in astonishment:
“Desire, child, what's all this?”
But before the girl could speak, there was an effectual diversion.
Jonathan came rushing in from outdoors, crying:
“They're burning the governor!”
“What!” gasped his father.
“They've stuffed some clothes with straw, so's to look like a man, and
put that hat of Justice Goodrich they fetched back from Barrington, on
top and they're burning it for Governor Bowdoin, on the hill,” cried
Jonathan. “See there! You can see it from the window. See the light!”
Sure enough, on the summit of Laurel Hill the light of a big bonfire
shone like a beacon.
“It's just where they burned Benedict Arnold's effigy in the war,”
continued Jonathan. “There's more'n a hundred men up there. They're
awful mad with the governor. There was some powder put in the straw, and
when the fire came to't, it blew up, and the people laughed. But Cap'n
Hamlin said 'twas a pity to waste the powder. They might need it all
before this business was through with. And then they cheered again. He
meant there'd be fighting, father.”
In the new excitement there was no thought of resuming the conversation
which Jonathan's advent had broken off so opportunely for Desire, and
the latter was able without further challenge to escape to her own room.
Scarcely had she reached it when there was a sound of fife and drum, and
presently a hundred men or more with hemlock in their hats came marching
by on their way from Laurel Hill, and Perez Hamlin was riding ahead.
They were singing in rude chorus one of the popular songs of the late
war, or rather of the stamp act agitation preceding it:
“With the beasts of the wood, we will ramble for food,
And lodge in wild deserts and caves;
And live as poor Job on the skirts of the globe,
Before we'll submit to be slaves, brave boys,
Before we'll submit to be slaves.”
Such was the rebels' response to the governor's proclamation of mingled
mercy and threats. Desire had thrown open her window at the sound of the
music, and, carried away with excitement, as Perez looked up and bowed,
she waved her handkerchief to him. Yes, Desire Edwards actually waved
her handkerchief to the captain of the mob. In the shining winter
night her act was plainly seen by the passing men, and her parents and
brother, who having first blown out the candle, were looking out from
the lower windows, were astonished beyond measure to hear the ringing
cheer which the passing throng sent up. Then Desire cried a little and
went to bed feeling very reckless.
Squire Edwards had clearly been mistaken in thinking that the
proclamation had made an end of the rebellion. Its first effect had been
rather intimidating, no doubt, but upon reflection the insurgents found
that they were more mad than scared. It was indeed just opposition
enough to exasperate those who were fully committed and stimulate to
more vigorous demonstrations; and an express from Shays having summoned
a Berkshire contingent to join in a big military demonstration at
Worcester, fifty armed men under Abner marched from Stockbridge
Thanksgiving Day amid an excitement scarcely equalled since the day when
Jahleel Woodbridge's minute men had left for Bennington. But the
return of the party about the middle of December, threw a damper on the
enthusiasm. The demonstration at Worcester had been indeed a brilliant
success in some respects. One thousand well armed men headed by Shays
himself with a full staff of officers and a band of music had held
the town for several days in full military occupation, overawing the
militia, preventing the sitting of the courts, and even threatening to
march on Boston. But on the other hand the temper of the population
had been lukewarm and often hostile. The soldiers had been half starved
through the refusal to supply provisions and nearly frozen. Some indeed
had died. In coming back a number of the Berkshire men had been arrested
and maltreated in Northampton. Formidable military preparations were
being made by the government, and parties of Boston cavalry were
scouring the eastern counties and had taken several insurgent leaders
prisoners, who would probably be hung. The men had been demoralized
by the spread of a well substantiated report that Shays had offered to
desert to the other side if he could be assured of pardon. In the lower
counties indeed all the talk was of pardon and terms of submission. The
white paper cockade which had been adopted in contradistinction to the
hemlock as the badge of the government party, predominated in many of
the towns through which Abner's party had passed.
“That air proclamashin 's kinder skeert em more'n did us Berkshire
folks.” Abner explained to a crowd at the tavern. “They all wanter be
on the hangman's side wen it comes tew the hangin. They hain't got the
pluck of a weasel, them fellers daown east hain't. This ere war'll hev
tew be fit aout in this ere caounty, I guess, ef wuss comes to wuss.”
“They've got a slew o' men daown Bosting way,” said a farmer. “I callate
we couldn' hole aout agin' em long ef it come tew fightin, an they
should reely tackle us.”
“I dunno baout that nuther,” declared Abner with a cornerwise nod of the
head. “Thar be plenty o' pesky places long the road wen it gits up intew
the mountings an is narrer and windin like. I wouldn' ass fer more'n
a kumpny tew stop a regiment in them places. I wuz talkin tew the Duke
baout that tidday. He says the hull caounty's a reglar fort, an ef the
folks 'll hang tewgether it can't be tuk by the hull res' o' the state.
We kin hole aout jist like the Green Mounting boys did agin the Yorkers
an licked em tew, and got shet of em an be indypendent tidday, by gol,
same ez Berkshire orter be.”
“Trew's Gospel Abner,” averred Israel Goodrich, “thar ain't no use o'
the two eends o' the state tryin tew git on tewgether. They hain't never
made aout tew gree, an I guess they never would nuther ef they tried it
a hundred year more. Darn it, the folks is differn folks daown east o'
Worcester. River folks is more like us but git daown east o' Worcester,
an I hain't no opinyun on em.”
“Yer right thar Isr'el,” said Abner with heartiness, “I can't bear
Bosting fellers no more'n I kin a skunk, and I kin tell em baout ez fer
orf. I dunno wat tiz baout em, but I can't git up no more feller feelin
fer em nor I kin fer Britishers. Seems though they wern't ezzackly
human, though I s'pose they be, but darn em anyhaow.”
“I callate thar's suthin in the mountain air changes men,” said Peleg,
“fer it's sartain we be more like the Green Mounting boys in aour
noshins an ways an we be like the Bosting chaps.”
“I'd be in favor o' jinin onter Vairmount, an mebbe that'll be the
upshot on't all,” observed Ezra Phelps. “Ye see Vairmount hain't a
belongin tew the cussed Continental federashin, an it hain't got none o'
them big debts ez is hangin round the necks o' the thirteen states,
and so we sh'd git rid o' the biggis part o' our taxes all kerslap.
Vairmount is an indypendent kentry, an I callate we'd better jine. Ef
they'd a made aout with that air noshin folks hed a spell ago, baout
raisin up a new state, made aout o' Hampshire caounty an a track o' land
tew the northard, 'twould a been jess the sorter thing fer us Berkshire
fellers to a hitched on tew.”
“I never hearn nothin baout that idea” said Peleg.
“I s'pose ye hain't,” replied Ezra. “I wuz livin in Hampshire them
times, an so I wuz right in the way o' the talk. They wuz gonter call
the state New Connecticut. But the idee never come ter nothin. The war
come on an folks hed other fish ter fry.”
But Israel declared that he was not in favor of joining on to anything.
Berkshire was big enough state for him, and he did not want to see any
better times than along from '74 to '80, when Berkshire would take no
orders from Boston.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD
SNOW-BOUND
All through the first half of December one heavy snow storm had followed
another. The roads about Stockbridge were often blocked for days
together. In the village the work of digging paths along the sidewalks,
between the widely-parted houses, was quite too great to be so much as
thought of, and the only way of getting about was in sleighs, or wading
mid-leg deep. Of course, for the women, this meant virtual imprisonment
to the house, save on the occasion of the Sunday drive to meeting. In
these days, even the disciplinary tedium of a convict's imprisonment is
relieved by supplies of reading matter gathered by benevolent societies.
But for the imprisoned women of whom I write there was not even this
recreation. Printing had, indeed, been invented some hundreds of years,
but it can scarcely be said that books had been as yet, and especially
the kinds of books that ladies care to read. A bible, concordance, and
perhaps a commentary, with maybe three or four other grave volumes,
formed the limit of the average library in wealthy Berkshire families of
that day.
It is needless to say then, that Desire's time hung very heavy on her
hands, despite the utmost alleviations which embroidery, piano-playing,
and cakemaking could afford. For her, isolated by social superiority,
and just now, more than ever, separated from intercourse with the lower
classes by reason of the present political animosities, there was
no participation in the sports which made the season lively for the
farmers' daughters. The moonlight sledding and skating expeditions, the
promiscuously packed and uproarious sleighing-parties, the candy-pulls
and “bees” of one sort and another, and all the other robust and not
over-decorous social recreations in which the rural youth and maidens of
that day delighted, were not for the storekeeper's fastidious daughter.
The gentlemen's families in town did, indeed, afford a more refined
and correspondingly duller social circle, but naturally enough in the
present state of politics, there was very little thought of jollity in
that quarter.
And so, as I said, it was very dull for Desire, in fact terribly dull.
The only outside distraction all through the livelong day was the
occasional passage of a team in the road, and her mother, too, usually
occupied the chair at the only window commanding the road. And when the
aching dullness of the day was over, and the candles were lit for the
evening, and the little ones had been sent to bed, there was nothing for
her but to sit in the chimney corner, and look at the blazing logs and
brood and brood, till, at bedtime her father and Jonathan came in from
the store. Then her mother woke up, and there was a little talk, but
after that yawned the long dead night--sleep, sleep, nothing but sleep
for a heart and brain that cried out for occupation.