to her meeting with Perez, she was merely playing, or in more modern
parlance, “flirting” with him, as a princess might flirt with a
servitor. She had merely allowed his devotion to amuse her idleness. But
now, thanks to the tedium which made any mental distraction welcome, the
complexion of her thoughts concerning the young man suffered a gradual
change. Having no other resource, she gave her fancy _carte blanche_
to amuse her, and what materials could fancy find so effective as the
exciting experiences of the last Autumn? Sitting before the great open
fireplace in the evenings, while her mother dozed in the chimney corner,
and the silence was only broken by the purring of the cat, the crackling
of the fire, the ticking of the clock, and the low noise heard through
the partition, of men talking over their cups with her father in the
back room of the store, she fell into reveries from which she would be
roused by the thick, hot beating of her heart, or wake with cheeks
dyed in blushes at the voice of her mother. And then the long, dreamful
nights. Almost two-thirds of each twenty-four hours in this dark season
belonged to the domain of dreams. What wonder that discretion should
find itself all unable to hold its own against fancy in such a world of
shadows. What wonder that when, after meeting on Sundays she met Perez
as she was stepping into her father's sleigh at the meeting-house door,
she should feel too confused fairly to look him in the face, much as she
had thought all through the week before of that opportunity of meeting
him.
One day it chanced that Mrs. Edwards who was sitting by the window, said
abruptly:
“Here comes that Hamlin fellow.”
Desire sprang up with such an appearance of agitation that her mother
added:
“Don't be scared, child. He won't come in here. It's only into the store
he's coming.”
She naturally presumed that it was terror which occasioned her
daughter's perturbation. What would have been her astonishment if she
could have followed the girl as she presently went up to her room, and
seen her cowering there by the window in the cold for a full half-hour,
so that she might through a rent in the curtain have a glimpse of Perez
as he left the store! I am not sure that I even do right in telling the
reader of this. Indeed her own pride did so revolt against her weakness
that she tingled scarcely less with shame than with cold as she knelt
there. Once or twice she did actually rise up and leave the window, and
start to go downstairs, saying that she was glad she had not seen him
yet, for she could still draw back with some self-respect. But even as
she was thus in the act of retiring, some noise of boots in the store
below suggesting that now he might be going out, brought her hurriedly
back to the window. And when at last he did go, in her eagerness to see
him, she forgot all about her scruples. Her heart sprang into her throat
as she caught sight of him. She could have cried at a fleck in the
miserable glass which spoiled her view. Then when he turned and looked
up, a wave of color rushed all over her face, and she jumped back in
such fear at the thought he might see her, although she was well hidden,
that he had passed out of sight ere she dared look out again. But that
upward glance and the eager look in his eyes consoled her for the loss.
Had he not looked up, she would no doubt have yielded to a revulsion of
self-contempt for her weakness, which would have been a damper on her
growing infatuation. But that glance had made her foolishly, glowingly
elated, and disposed to make light of the reproaches of her pride.
“I suppose you were waiting for that Hamlin fellow to go away, before
coming down,” said her mother as Desire re-entered the living-room. The
girl started and averted her face with a guilty terror, saying faintly,
“What?” How did her mother know? Her fears were relieved, though not her
embarrassment, as her mother added:
“You needn't have been so much frightened, although I really can't blame
you for it, after all you've been through at his hands. Still he would
scarcely dare, with all his impudence, to try to force a way in here.
You would have been quite safe, had you staid downstairs.”
The good lady could not understand why, in spite of this reassurance,
Desire should thereafter persist, as she did, in retiring to her own
room whenever Hamlin came into the store. As the better informed reader
will infer from this fact the girl's infatuation was on the increase.
She had become quite shameless and hardened about using her point of
espionage to see, without being seen, the lover who so occupied her
thoughts. The only events of the slow, dull days for her were now his
visits to the store. She no longer started back when, in going, his
eager glance rose to her window, but panting, yet secure behind her
covert, looked into his eyes and scanned his expression. Sometimes a
quick rush of tears would rob her of her vision as she read in the sad
hunger of those eyes how he longed for a glimpse of her face. But for
very shame's sake she would have pulled the curtains up. It was so
unfair of her, she thought self-reproachfully, to sate her own eyes
while cheating his. She knew well enough that all which brought him to
the store so often was the hope of seeing and speaking with her. And
finally, about the middle of January, she made a desperate resolution
that he should. For several days she managed to occupy her mother's
usual seat by the window commanding the approach to the store, and
finally was rewarded by seeing Hamlin go in. She said nothing at first,
but soon remarked carelessly:
“I wonder if father hasn't got some other dimity in the store.”
“Perhaps. I think not, though,” replied Mrs. Edwards. Desire leaned back
in her chair, stifled a yawn and presently said:
“I believe I'll just run in and ask him before I get any further
on this.” She rose up leisurely, stole a glance at the mirror in
passing--how pale she was--opened the connecting door and went into the
store.
She saw Perez, out of the corner of her eye, the instant she opened the
door. But not taking any notice of him, in fact holding her head very
stiffly, and walking unusually fast, she went across to her father
and asked him about the dimity. Receiving his reply she turned, still
without looking at Perez, and began mechanically to go back. So nervous
and cowardly had she been made by the excessive preoccupation of her
mind with him, that she actually had not the self-possession to carry
out her boldly begun project of speaking to him, now that he was so
near. It seemed as if she were actually afraid of looking at him. But
when he said in a rather hurt tone, “Good afternoon, Miss Edwards,” she
stopped, and turned abruptly toward him and without speaking held out
her hand. He had not ventured to offer his, but he now took hers. Her
face was red enough now, and what he saw in her eyes made him forget
everything else. They stood for several seconds in this intensely
awkward way, speechless, for she had not even answered his greeting.
Squire Edwards, in the act of putting back the roll of dimity on the
shelf, was staring over his shoulder at them, astounded. She knew her
father was looking at them, but she did not care. She felt at that
moment that she did not care who looked on or what happened.
“How cold the weather is!” she said, dreamily.
“Yes, very,” replied Perez.
“I hope it will be warmer, soon, don't you?” she murmered.
Then she seemed to come to herself, slowly withdrew her hand from his,
and walked slowly into the living-room and shut the door, and went
upstairs to her chamber. As soon as Hamlin had gone Edwards came in and
spoke with some indignation of his presumption.
“If he had not let go her hand, I should have taken him by the shoulder
in another second,” he said angrily.
“Whatever made her shake hands with him?” demanded Mrs. Edwards.
“I suppose she thought she had to, or he would be murdering us all. The
girl acted very properly, and would not have noticed him if he had not
stopped her. But by the Providence of God matters now wear a better
look. This fellow is no longer to be greatly feared. The rebels lose
ground daily in town as well as in the county and state, and this Hamlin
is losing control even over his own sort. If he does not leave the
village he will be arrested soon. There is no need that we should humble
ourselves before him any longer.”
All of which was quite true. For while we have been following the dreams
of a fancy-fevered girl, secluded in her snow-bound home among the hills
of Berkshire, the scenes have shifted swiftly in the great drama of the
rebellion, and a total change has come over the condition and prospects
of the revolt. The policy of conciliation pursued by the state
government had borne its fruit, better and more speedy fruit than any
other policy could have borne. Any other would have plunged the state
into bloody war and been of doubtful final issue. The credit for its
adoption is due primarily to the popular form of the government which
made it impossible for the authorities to act save in accordance with
popular sentiment. There was no force save the militia, and for their
use the approval of the two houses of the Legislature was needful. The
conservative and aristocratic Senate might alone have favored a
harsh course, but it could do nothing without the House, which fully
sympathized with the people. The result was a compromise by which the
Legislature at its extra session, ending the middle of November,
passed laws giving the people the most of what they demanded, and then
threatened them with the heavy arm of the law if they did not thereafter
conduct themselves peaceably.
To alleviate the distress from the lack of circulating medium, the
payment of back taxes in certain specified articles other than money
was authorized, and real and personal estate at appraised value was made
legal tender in actions for debt and in satisfaction for executions.
An act was also passed and others were promised reducing the justly
complained of costs of legal processes, and the fee tables of attorneys,
sheriffs, clerks of courts and justices, for, according to the system
then in vogue, most classes of judges were paid by fees from litigating
parties instead of by salary. The complaint against the appropriation
of so large a part of the income from the import and excise taxes to the
payment of interest on the state debt was met by the appropriation
of one-third of those taxes to government expenses. To be sure the
Legislature had refused to provide for the emission of any more paper
money, and this, in the opinion of many, was unpardonable but it had
shown a disposition to make up in some degree for this failure
by passing a law to establish a mint in Boston. These concessions
practically cut the ground out from under the rebellion, and the
practical minded people of the state, reckoning up what they had gained,
wisely concluded that it would not be worth while to go to blows for the
residue, especially as there was every reason to think the Legislature
at the next sitting would complete the work of reform it had so well
begun. A convention of the Hampshire County people at Hadley, on the
second of January, gave formal expression to these views in a resolution
advising all persons to lay aside arms and trust to peaceable petition
for the redress of such grievances as still remained.
Indeed, even if the mass of the people had been less satisfied than
they had reason to be with the Legislature's action, they had had
quite enough of anarchy. The original stopping of the courts and jail
deliveries, had been with their entire approval. But, as might be
expected, the mobs which had done the business had been chiefly
recruited from the idle and shiftless. Each village had furnished its
contingent of tavern loafers, neerdowells, and returned soldiers with
a distaste for industry. These fellows were all prompt to feel their
importance and responsibility as champions of the people, and to a large
extent had taken the domestic police as well as military affairs into
their own hands. Of course it was not long before these self-elected
dictators, began to indulge themselves in unwarrantable liberties with
persons and property, while the vicious and criminal classes generally,
taking advantage of the suspension of law, zealously made their hay
while the sun shone. In fact, whatever course the government had taken,
this state of things had grown so unbearable in many places that an
insurrection within the insurrection, a revolt of the people against the
rebels, must presently have taken place. But as may readily be supposed
these rebel bands, both privates and officers, were by no means in
favor of laying down their arms and thereby relapsing from their present
position of importance and authority to their former state of social
trash, despised by the solid citizens whom now they lorded it over.
Peace, and the social insignificance it involved had no charms for them.
Property for the most part they had none to lose. Largely veterans
of the Revolution, for eight years more used to camp than house, the
vagabond military state was congenial to them and its license sufficient
reward. The course of the Shays' rebellion will not be readily
comprehensible to any who leave out of sight this great multitude of
returned soldiers with which the state was at the time filled, men
generally destitute, unemployed and averse to labor, but inured to war,
eager for its excitements, and moreover feeling themselves aggrieved by
a neglectful and thankless country. And so though the mass of the
people by the early part of winter had grown to be indifferent to
the rebellion, if not actually in sympathy with the government, the
insurgent soldiery still held together wonderfully and in a manner
that would be impossible to understand without taking into account the
peculiar material that composed it. Not a man of the lot took advantage
of the governor's proclamation offering pardon, and instead of being
intimidated by the crushing military force sent against them in January,
the rebel army at the Battle of Springfield the last day of that month
was the largest body of insurgents that had been assembled at any time.
The causes described which had been at work in the lower counties, to
weaken popular sympathy with the insurgents, had simultaneously operated
in Berkshire. The report brought back from Worcester by Abner's men,
with the subsequent action of the Hadley convention in advising the
laying aside of arms, had strengthened the hands of the conservatives
in Stockbridge. The gentlemen of the village who had been so quiet since
Perez' relentless suppression of the Woodbridge rising in September,
found their voices again, and cautiously at first, but more boldly as
they saw the favorable change of popular feeling, began to talk and
reason with their fellow-citizens. If the insurrection had had no other
effect, it had at least taught these somewhat haughty aristocrats the
necessity of a conciliatory tone with the lower classes. The return
home of Theodore Sedgwick in the latter part of December, gave a marked
impulse to the government party, of whom he was at once recognized as
the leader. He had the iron hand of Woodbridge, with a velvet glove of
suavity, which the other lacked. To command seemed natural to him, but
he could persuade with as much dignity as he could command, a gift at
once rare and most needful in the present emergency. He it was who
wore into the village the first white paper cockade which had been
seen there, though within a week after, they were full as plenty as the
hemlock sprigs. The news which came in the early part of January, that
the government had ordered 4,400 militia under General Lincoln to march
into the disaffected counties, and put down the rebellion, produced a
strong impression. People who had thought stopping a court or two no
great matter, and indeed quite an old fashion in Berkshire, were by
no means ready to go to actually fighting the government. But still it
should be noted that the majority of those who took off the green did
not put on the white. The active furtherance of the government interests
was left to a comparatively small party. The mass of the people
contented themselves with withdrawing from open sympathy with the
insurrection, and maintaining a surly neutrality. They were tired of the
rebellion, without being warmly disposed toward the government. Neither
the friends of government nor the insurgents who still withstood them,
could presume too much on the support of this great neutral body, a fact
which prevented them from immediately proceeding to extremities against
each other.
It was fortunate that there was some such check on the animosity of the
two factions. For the bitterness of the still unreconciled insurgents
against the friends of the government was intense. They derided the
white cockade as “the white feather,” denounced its wearers as “Tories,”
every whit as bad as those who took King George's part against the
people, and deserving nothing better than confiscation and hanging.
Outrages committed upon the persons and families of government
sympathizers in outlying settlements were daily reported. Against
Sedgwick especial animosity was felt, but though he was constantly
riding about the county to organize and encourage the government party,
his reputation for indomitable courage, protected him from personal
molestation under circumstances where another man would have been
mobbed. In Stockbridge itself, there were no violent collisions of the
two parties save in the case of the children, terrific snowball fights
raging daily in the streets between the “Shayites” and the “Boston
Army.” Had Perez listened to the counsels of his followers, the exchange
of hard knocks in the village would have been by no means confined to
the children. But he well knew that the change in public opinion which
was undermining the insurrection would only be precipitated by any
violence towards the government party. Many of the men would not hear
reason, however, and his attitude on this point produced angry murmurs.
The men called up his failure to whip the silk stockings in September,
his care for Squire Edwards' interests, and his veto of the plan for
fixing prices on the goods at the store. It was declared that he was
lukewarm to the cause, no better than a silk stocking himself, and that
it would have been better to have had Hubbard for captain. Even Abner
Rathbun, as well as Meshech Little, joined in this schism, which ended
in the desertion of the most of the members of the company Perez had
organized, to join Hubbard up at the iron-works. About the same time,
Israel Goodrich withdrew from the committee of safety. He told Perez
he was sorry to leave him, but the jig was plainly up, and he had his
family to consider. If his farm was confiscated, they'd have to go on
the town. “Arter all, Perez, we've made somethin by't. I hain't sorry I
gone intew it. Them new laws ull be somethin of a lift; an harf a loaf
be considabul better nor no bread.” He advised Perez to get out of the
business as quick as possible. “'Tain't no use kickin agin' the pricks,”
he said. Ezra, who was disgusted at the failure of the Legislature to
print more bills, stuck awhile longer, and then he too withdrew. Peleg
Bidwell and other men who had families or a little property at stake,
rapidly dropped off. They owed it to their wives and children not to get
into trouble, they said, and Perez could not blame them. And so day by
day all through the month of January he saw his power melting away by
a process as silent, irresistible and inevitable as the dissolving of a
snow bank in spring; and he knew that if he lingered much longer in
the village, the constable would come some morning and drag him
ignominiously away to the lockup. It was a desperate position, and yet
he was foolishly, wildly happy. Desire was not indifferent to him. That
awkward meeting in the store, those moments of silent hand-clasp, with
her eyes looking with such bold confession into his, had told him that
the sole end and object of his strange role here in Stockbridge was
gained. She loved him. Little indeed would he have recked that the role
was now at an end; little would he have cared to linger an hour longer
on this scene of his former fantastic fortunes, if but he could have
borne her with him on his flight. How gayly he would have laughed at
his enemies then. If he could but see her now, could but plead with her.
Perhaps he might persuade her. But there was no opportunity. Even as
far back as December, as soon as the rebellion began evidently to wane,
Edwards had began to turn the cold shoulder to him on his visits to the
store. He had put up with insults which had made his cheek burn, merely
because at the store was his only chance of seeing Desire. But Edwards'
tone to him after that meeting with her, had been such that he knew
it was only by violence that he could again force an entrance over the
storekeeper's threshold. The fact was, Edwards, now that the danger was
over, blamed himself for an unnecessary subservience to the insurgent
leader, and his mortified pride expressed itself in a special virulence
toward him. There was then no chance of seeing Desire. She loved him,
but he must fly and leave her. One moment he said to himself that he was
the happiest of men. In the next he cursed himself as the most wretched.
And so alternately smiling and cursing, he wandered about the village
during those last days of January like one daft, too much absorbed in
the inward struggle to be more than half conscious of his danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH
THE BATTLE OF WEST STOCKBRIDGE
One day, three days before the end of January, as Perez, returning from
a walk, approached the guardhouse, he saw that it was in possession of
Deputy Sheriff Seymour and a posse. The rebel garrison of three or four
men only, having made no resistance, had been disarmed and let go.
Perez turned on his heel and went home. That same afternoon about three
o'clock, as he was sitting in the house, his brother Reuben, who
had been on the watch, came in and said that a party of militia were
approaching.
“I've saddled your horse, Perez, and hitched him to the fence. You've
got a good start, but it won't do to wait a minute.” Then Perez rose
up, bade his father and mother and brother good-bye, and went out and
mounted his horse. The militia were visible descending the hill at the
north of the village, several furlongs off. Perez turned his horse in
the opposite direction, and galloped down to the green. He rode up in
front of the store, flung himself from his horse, ran up the steps and
went in. Dr. Partridge was in the store talking to Edwards, and Jonathan
was also there. As Perez burst in, pale, excited, yet determined, the
two gentlemen sprang to their feet and Jonathan edged toward a gun that
stood in the corner. Edwards, as if apprehending his visitor's purpose,
stepped between him and the door of the living-rooms. But Perez' air was
beseeching, not threatening, almost abject, indeed.
“I am flying from the town,” he said. “The hue and cry is out after me.
I beg you to let me have a moment's speech with Miss Desire.”
“You impudent rascal,” cried Edwards. “What do you mean by this. If
you do not instantly go, I will arrest you myself. See my daughter,
forsooth! Get out of here, fellow!” and he made a threatening step
forward, and then fell back again, for though Perez' attitude of appeal
was unchanged, he looked terribly excited and pertinacious.
“Only a word,” he cried, his pleading eyes fixed on the storekeeper's
angry ones. “A sight of her, that's all I ask, sir. You shall stand
between us. Do you think I would harm her? Think, sir, I did not treat
you ill when I was master. I did not deny you what you asked.”
There was something more terrifying in the almost whining appeal of
Perez' voice than the most violent threat could be, so intense was the
repressed emotion it indicated. But as Edwards' forbidding and angry
face plainly indicated that his words were having no effect, this accent
of abjectness suddenly broke off in a tremendous cry:
“Great God, I must see her!”
Edwards was plainly very much frightened, but he did not yield.
“You shall not,” he replied between his teeth. “Jonathan! Dr. Partridge!
Will you see him murder me?”