But she had done it, and instantly Meshech Little with three or four
followers burst into the room, wearing the green insignia of rebellion
in their caps and carrying muskets with bayonets fixed.
“Why didn' ye open that ar door, afore?” demanded Meshech, angrily.
“What do you want?” asked Mrs. Edwards tremblingly confronting him.
“Wat dew we want ole woman?” replied Meshech. “Wal, we want most
evrything, but I guess we kin help oursels. Hey boys?”
“Callate we kin make aout tew,” echoed one of his followers, not a
Stockbridge man, and then as his eye caught Desire, as she stood pale
and beautiful, with wild eyes and disheveled hair, by her mother, he
made a dive at her saying: “Guess I'll take a kiss tew begin with.”
“Let the gal 'lone,” said Meshech, catching him by the shoulder. “Hands
orfen her. She's the Duke's doxy, an he'll run ye through the body ef ye
tech her.”
“Gosh, she hain't, though, is she?” said the fellow, refraining from
further demonstration but regarding her admiringly. “I hearn baout she.
Likely lookin gal, tew, hain't she? On'y leetle tew black, mebbe.”
“Did'n ye know, ye dern fool, it's along o' her the Duke sent us here,
tew see nobuddy took nothin till he could come raoun?” said Meshech.
“But I callate the on'y way to keep other fellers from takin anything
tidday is ter take it yerself. We'll hev suthin tew drink, anyhaow.
Hello, ole cock,” he added as Edwards, coming up from down cellar,
entered the room. “Ye be jess'n time. Come on, give us some rum,” and
neither daring nor able to make resistance, the storekeeper was hustled
into the store. Keziah's sweetheart had remained behind. In the midst
of their mutual endearments, she had found opportunity to whisper to him
something, of which Mrs. Edwards caught the words, “cellar, nuff tew buy
us a farm an a haouse,” and guessed the drift. As Keziah and her young
man, who responded to her suggestion with alacrity, were moving toward
the cellar door, Mrs. Edwards barred their way. The fellow was about to
lay hands on her, when one of the drinkers, coming back from the store,
yelled: “Look out, thar's the cap'n,” and Perez entered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH
SOME REAL FIGHTING
At sight of his commander the soldier who had been about to lay hands
on Mrs. Edwards to thrust her out of his path to the cellar, giving over
his design, slunk into the store to join his comrades there, and was
followed by the faithful Keziah. Mrs. Edwards, who had faced the ruffian
only in the courage of desperation, sank trembling upon a settle, and
the children throwing themselves upon her, bawled in concert. Without
bestowing so much as a glance on any other object in the room Perez
crossed it to where Desire stood, and taking her nerveless hand in both
his, devoured her face with glowing eyes. She did not flush or show any
confusion; neither did she try to get away. She stood as if fascinated,
unresponsive but unresisting.
“Were you frightened?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied in a mechanical tone corresponding with her
appearance.
“Didn't you know I was here? I told you I would come back for you, and I
have come. You have been sick. I heard of it. Are you well now?”
“Yes.”
“Reuben told me you came on foot through the snow to bring word so he
might warn me the night before the Lee battle. Was it that made you
sick?”
“Yes.”
“What is that, Desire? What do you mean about sending him warning?”
cried Mrs. Edwards amazedly. Desire made no reply but Perez did:
“It is thanks to her I was not caught in my bed by your men that
morning. It is thanks to her I am not in jail today, disgraced by the
lash and waiting for the hangman. Oh my dear, how glad I am to owe it
to you,” and he caught the end of one of the long strands of jetty hair
that fell down her neck and touched it to his lips.
“You are crazy, fellow!” cried Mrs. Edwards, and starting forward and
grasping Desire by the arm she demanded, “What does this wild talk mean?
There is no truth in it, is there?”
“Yes,” said the girl in the same dead, mechanical voice, without turning
her eyes to her mother or even raising them.
Mrs. Edwards opened her mouth, but no sound came forth. Her astonishment
was too utter. Meanwhile Perez had passed his arm about Desire's waist
as if to claim her on her own acknowledgement. Stung by the sight of her
daughter in the very arms of the rebel captain, Mrs. Edwards found her
voice once more, righteous indignation overcoming her first unmingled
consternation.
“Out upon you for a shameless hussy. Oh, that a daughter of mine should
come to this! Do you dare tell me you love this scoundrel?”
“No,” answered the girl.
“What?” faltered Perez, his arm involuntarily dropping from her waist.
For all reply she rushed to her mother and threw herself on her bosom,
sobbing hysterically. For once at least in their lives Mrs. Edwards'
and Perez Hamlin's eyes met with an expression of perfect sympathy, the
sympathy of a common bewilderment. Then Mrs. Edwards tried to loosen
Desire's convulsive clasp about her neck, but the girl held her tightly,
crying:
“Oh, don't, mother, don't.”
For several moments Perez stood motionless just where Desire had left
him, looking after her stupefied. The pupils of his eyes alternately
dilated and contracted, his mouth opened and closed; he passed his hand
over his forehead. Then he went up to her and stood over her as she
clung to her mother, but seemed no more decided as to what he could do
or say further.
But just then there was a diversion. Meshech and his followers who had
passed through from the living-room into the store in search of rum had
thrown open the outside door, and a gang of their comrades had poured in
to assist in the onset upon the liquor barrels. The spigots had all been
set running, or knocked out entirely, and yet comparatively little of
the fiery fluid was wasted, so many mugs, hats, caps, and all sorts of
receptacles were extended to catch the flow. Some who could not find
any sort of a vessel, actually lay under the stream and let it pour
into their mouths, or lapped it up as it ran on the floor. Meanwhile
the store was being depleted of other than the drinkable property. The
contents of the shelves and boxes were littered on the floor, and the
rebels were busy swapping their old hats, boots and mittens for new
ones, or filling their pockets with tobacco, tea or sugar, while some of
the more foresighted were making piles of selected goods to carry away.
But whatever might be the momentary occupation of the marauders, all
were drunk, excessively yet buoyantly drunk, drunk with that peculiarly
penetrating and tenacious intoxication which results from drinking in
the morning on an empty stomach, a time when liquor seems to pervade all
the interstices of the system and lap each particular fibre and tissue
in a special and independent intoxication on its own account. Several
fellows, including Meshech, had been standing for a few moments in the
door leading from the store into the living-room, grinningly observing
the little drama which the reader has been following. As Desire broke
away from Perez and rushed to her mother, Meshech exclaimed:
“Wy in time did'n yer hole ontew her, Cap'n? I'd like ter seen her git
away from me.”
“Or me nuther,” seconded the fellow next him.
Perez paid no heed to this remonstrance, and probably did not hear it at
all, but Mrs. Edwards looked up. In her bewilderment and distress over
Desire the thought of her husband and Jonathan had been driven from her
mind. The sight of Meshech recalled it.
“What have you done with my husband?” she demanded anxiously.
“He's all right. He an the young cub be jess a gonter take a leetle walk
with us fellers 'cross the border,” replied Meschech jocularly.
“What are you going to take them away for? What are you going to do to
them?” cried Mrs. Edwards.
“Oh, ye need'n be skeert,” Meshech reassured her. “He'll hev good
kumpny. Squire Woodbridge an Ginral Ashley an Doctor Sergeant, Cap'n
Jones an schoolmaster Gleason, an a slew more o' the silk stockins be a
goin' tew.”
“Are you going to murder them?” exclaimed the frantic woman.
“Wal,” drawled Meshech, “that depends. Ef govment hangs any o' our
fellers wat they've got in jail, we're gonter hang yewr husban' an the
res' on em, sure's taxes. Ef none o' aourn ain't hurt, we shan't hurt
none o' yourn. We take em fer kinder hostiges, ye see, ole lady.”
“Where have you got my husband? I must go to him. God help us!”
ejaculated Mrs. Edwards; and loosing herself from her daughter, now in
turn forgotten in anxiety for husband and son, the poor woman hurried
past Meshech through the confused store and so out of the house.
At the same moment the drum at the tavern began to beat the recall to
the plundering parties of insurgents scattered over the village, and the
men poured out of the store.
Save for the presence of the smaller children and the negro servants
cowering in a corner, Desire and Perez were left alone in the room.
With no refuge to fly to, she stood where her mother had left her, just
before Perez, with face averted, trembling, motionless, like a timid
bird which seeing no escape struggles no longer, but waits for its
captor's hand to close upon it. But in his nonplused, piteously
perplexed face, you would have vainly looked for the hardened and
remorseless expression appropriate to his part. The roll of the rebel
drum kept on.
“See here, Cap'n,” said Abner Rathbun, suddenly appearing at the outside
door of the living-room, “we've got the hostiges together, an we'd
better be a gittin along, for the 'larm's gone ter Pittsfield an all
roun' an we'll hev the milishy ontew us in no time. An besides that the
fellers tew the tavern be a gittin so drunk, some on em can't walk a'
ready.”
Aroused by Abner's insistent words, Perez took Desire's hand, and said
desperately:
“Won't you come, my darling? You shall have a woman to go with you, and
we'll be married as soon as we're over the border. I know it's sudden,
but you see I can't wait, and I thought you liked me a little. Won't you
come, now?”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! I don't want to,” she said, shuddering and drawing her
hand away.
Abner was silent a moment, and then he broke out vehemently:
“Look a' here, Cap'n, we hain't got no time fer soft sawder naow, with
the milishy a comin daown on us. I kin hear em a drummin up ter Lee
a'ready, an every jiffey we stay means a man's life an hangin fer them
as is tuk. Ye've hed fuss nuff 'long o' that gal fust and last, an this
ain't no time fer ye ter put up with any more o' her tantrums.”
“She don't want to come, Abner. She don't like me and I thought she
did,” said Perez, turning his eyes from the girl to Abner, with an
expression of despairing, appealing helplessness, almost childlike.
“Nonsense,” replied Abner, with contemptuous impatience. “She likes ye,
or she'd never a sent ye that warnin. Akshins speaks louder'n words.
She's kinder flustered an dunno her own mind, that's all. Gals don't,
genally. Ye'd be a darnation fool ter let her slip through yer fingers
naow, arter riskin yer neck an all aour necks in this ere job jess ter
git a holt of her, an a settin sech store by her ez ye allers hev.
Take a fool's advice, Cap'n. Don' waste no more talk, but jess grab her
kinder soft like, an fetch her aout ter the sleigh, willy nilly. She'll
come roun' in less 'n an hour, an thank ye for't. Gals allers does. They
likes a masterful man. There, that's the talk. Fetch her right along.”
As the last words indicated, Perez, apparently decided by Abner's words,
had thrown his arm about Desire's waist and drawing her to him and half
lifting her from her feet had begun with gentle force to bear her away.
She made no violent resistance which indeed would have been quite vain
in his powerful clasp, but burst into tears, crying poignantly:
“Oh, don't! Please! Please don't! Don't! Oh, don't!” Had there been a
trace of defiance or of indignant pride in her tone, it would have been
easy for him to carry out his attempt. But of the proud, high-spirited
Desire Edwards there was no hint in the tear-glazed eyes turned up to
his in wild dismay. She was but a frightened girl quite broken up with
terror.
And yet if the thought of leaving her had been dreadful before, now the
pressure of his arm upon her pliant waist, the delicious sensation
of her weight, made it maddening, and thrilled him with all sorts of
reckless impulses. Still clasping her, he whispered hoarsely, “I love
you, I love you,” as if that mighty word left nothing further needed as
excuse or explanation for his conduct. “Let me go, then, if you love me.
Let me go,” she cried, frantically, catching at his plea and turning it
against him.
“Ef ye let her go, ye'll never set eyes on her agin, Cap'n,” said Abner.
“I can't. I can't. Have pity on me,” groaned Perez. “I can't let you
go.”
“Oh, for pity's sake, do! If you loved me, you would. Oh, you would,”
she cried again. He took her by the shoulders and held her away from
him, and looked long at her. There was something in his eyes which awed
her so that she quite forgot her former terror. Then he dropped his
hands to his side, and turned away as if he would leave her without
another word. But half way to the door he turned again and said huskily:
“You know I love you now. You believe it, don't you?”
“Yes,” she answered in a small, scared voice, and without another word
he went out. As he went out, Mrs. Edwards, who had been standing in the
open doorway of the store a silent spectator of the last scene, came
forward, and at sight of her Desire started from the motionless attitude
in which she had remained, and cried out, pressing her hands to her
bosom:
“Oh, mother, mother, I wish he'd taken me. He feels so bad.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Edwards, in a soothing, sensible voice.
“That would have been a pretty piece of business indeed. You're all
upset, and don't know what you're saying, and no wonder, either, with
no breakfast and all this coil. There, there, mother's little girl,” and
she drew her daughter's head down on her shoulder and stroked her hair
till the nervous trembling and sobbing ceased, and raising her head she
asked:
“Where are father and Jonathan?”
“Hush! I gave one of the rebels my silver shoe-buckles, and he turned
his back while Mrs. Bingham hid them in the closet behind the chimney at
the tavern. They're safe.”
The rebel column having only awaited the arrival of Perez and Abner,
at once set off at quick step on the road to Great Barrington, the
prisoners, thirty or forty in number, marching in the center. Perez rode
behind, looking neither to the right hand or the left, and taking heed
of nothing, and Abner seeing his condition, tacitly assumed command.
Two or three fellows, too utterly drunk to walk, had been perforce left
behind on the tavern floor, destined to be ignominiously dragged off
to the lockup by the citizens before the rebel force was fairly out
of sight. Two or three others nearly as drunk as those who were left
behind, but more fortunate in having friends, by dint of leaning heavily
upon a man on either side, were enabled to march. But the pace was
rapid, and at the first or second steep hill these wretches had to be
left behind unless their friends were to be sacrificed with them. There
was no danger of their freezing to death by the wayside. The pursuing
militia would come along soon enough to prevent that, never fear.
Nor were these poor chaps the only sort of burdens that were speedily
rejected by their bearers. As the rebels marched out of Stockbridge,
nearly every man was loaded with miscellaneous plunder. Some carried
bags of flour, or flitches of bacon, some an armful of muskets, others
bundles of cloth or clothing, hanks of yarn, a string of boots and
shoes, a churn, an iron pot, a pair of bellows, a pair of brass
andirons, while one even led a calf by a halter. Some, luckier than
their fellows, carried bags from which was audible the clink of
silverware. Squire Woodbridge, lagging a little, was poked in the back
by his own gold-headed cane to remind him to mend his pace, while Dr.
Sergeant, as a special favor from one of the rebels whose wife he had
once attended, was permitted to take a drink out of his own demijohn
of rum. In their eagerness to carry away all they could, the rebels
had forgotten that loads which they could barely hold up when standing
still, would prove quite too heavy to march under, and accordingly
before the band had got out of the village the road began to be littered
with the more bulky articles of property. At the foot of the first
hill there was a big pile of them, and two miles out of Stockbridge
the rebels were reduced once more to light marching order, and not much
richer than when they entered the village an hour or two before. Besides
the hostages, they had under their escort several sleighs containing
old men, women and children, the families of members of the band, or
of sympathizers with the rebellion, who were taking this opportunity
to elude their creditors and escape out of bondage across the New York
border. As the rebels crossed Muddy Brook, just before entering Great
Barrington, Abner Rathbun came up to Perez and said: “I don' see yer
father'n mother nowhar in the sleighs.”
“My father and mother?” repeated Perez vacantly.
“Yes,” rejoined Abner. “Ye know ye wuz a gonter bring em back ter York
with ye, but I don' see em nowhar.” Perez stared at Abner, and then
glanced vaguely at the row of sleighs in the line.
“I must have forgotten about them,” he finally said.
As the rebels entered Great Barrington, a company of militia was drawn
up as if to defend the tavern-jail, but upon the approach of the rebels,
who were decidedly more numerous, they retired rapidly on the road to
Sheffield. Halting in front of the building, a guard was left with the
prisoners, and then the rebels swarmed into the tavern, with the double
purpose of emptying the jail of debtors, and filling themselves with
Cephas Bement's rum, for the hard tramp from Stockbridge had sobered
them and given them fresh thirst. Perez did not go in, but sat on his
horse in the road. Presently Abner came out with a very sober face and
slowly approached him. He looked around.
“What are we stopping here for, Abner?” he asked, a little peevishly.
“Wy, it's the caounty jail, ye know, an we're lettin aout the debtors.
Reub's in here, ye know.”
“So he is; I'd forgotten,” replied Perez, and then after a pause, “Why
don't he come out?”
“Cap'n,” said Abner, taking off his cap and looking at it, as he
fingered it. “I've got kinder tough news fer ye. Reub's dead. He died
this mornin. I thort mebbe ye'd like ter see him.”
“Is he in there?”
“Yes.”
Perez got off his horse, and went in at the door, Abner leading the way.
In the barroom of the tavern there was a crowd of drinking, carousing
men, and among them a number of the white-faced debtors, already drunk
with the bumpers their deliverers were pouring down their throats.
Bement was not visible, but as Abner and Perez entered the jail, they
saw Mrs. Bement in the corridor. She was not making any fuss or
trouble at all over the breaking of the jail this time. With apparent
complaisance she was promptly opening cells, or answering questions in
response to the demands of Meshech Little and some companions. But there
was a vicious glint in her pretty blue eyes, and she was softly singing
the lugubrious hymn, beginning with the significant words,
Ye living men, come view the ground
Where ye shall shortly lie.
Abner pushed open the door of one of the cells that had been already
opened, and went in, Perez following. He knelt by the body of his
brother, and Abner turned his back. It was the same cell in which Perez
had found Reuben and George Fennell, six months before. Several minutes
passed, and neither moved. The drum began to beat without, summoning the
men to resume their march.
“Cap'n,” said Abner, “we'll hev ter go. We can't do the poor chap no
good by stayin, an they can't do him no more harm.”
Then Perez rose up, and leaned on Abner's shoulder, looking down on
the patient face of the dead. The first tears gathered in his eyes, and
trickled down, and he said: “I never was fair to Reub. I never allowed
enough for his losin Jemima. I was harder on him than I should have
been.”
“Ye warn't noways hard on him, Perez. Ye wuz a good brother tew him.
I never hearn o' no feller hevin a better brother nor he hed in yew,”
protested Abner, in much distress.
Perez shook his head.
“I was hard on him. I never allowed as I'd ought for his losin his girl.
I'd a been kinder to him if I'd known. Ye must a thought I was hard
an unfeelin, Reub, dear, often's the time, but I didn't know, I didn't
know. We'll go now, if you want, Abner.”
The rebels had not left Stockbridge a moment too soon. Captain Stoddard
was rallying his company before they had got out of the village, and
messengers had been sent to Lee, Lenox, Pittsfield, Great Barrington,
Egremont and Sheffield, to rouse the people. Within an hour or two after
the rebels had marched south, the Stockbridge and Lenox companies were
in pursuit. Among the messengers to Great Barrington, was Peleg Bidwell.
For Peleg, since he had bought his safety by such a shameful surrender,
was embittered above all against those of his former comrades who had
been too brave to yield. And having brought word to Great Barrington, he
took his place in the ranks of the militia of that town, and though the
men among whom he stood, eyed him askance, knowing his record, not one
of them was really so eager to empty his gun into the bosom of the rebel
band as Peleg Bidwell.
As previously stated, the Great Barrington company, in which Peleg
carried a musket, had retired toward Sheffield, when the rebels entered
the former town. At Sheffield they were joined by the large company of
that populous settlement, and Colonel Ashley of the same village, taking
command of the combined forces, ordered a march on Great Barrington, to
meet the rebels. Now Great Barrington is but four or five miles from
the New York border, while Sheffield is about six, and as many south of
Great Barrington, the road between the two towns running nearly parallel
to the state line. There was nothing to hinder the rebels, after they
had gained their main objects, the capture of hostages and the release
of the debtors, from turning west from Great Barrington, and placing
themselves in an hour's march across the town of Egremont, beyond the
reach of the militia, in neutral territory. Becoming apprehensive that
this would be their course, Colonel Ashley, instead of keeping on the
road from Sheffield to Great Barrington, presently left it and marched
his men along a back road running northwest toward the state line in a
direction that would intercept the rebels if they struck across Egremont
to New York.
He adopted, however, the precaution of leaving a party at the junction
of the main road with the road he took, so that if after all instead
of retreating westward the rebels had boldly kept on the main road to
Sheffield word might be sent after him. It so happened that this was
just what the rebels had done. Not having the fear of the Sheffield
company before their eyes, instead of trying to escape to New York by
the shortest cut, they had kept on toward Sheffield, marching south by
the main road. And not only this, but when they came to the junction of
the main road with that which Colonel Ashley had taken, and learned by
capturing the guard what plan the Colonel had devised, they became so
enraged that instead of keeping on to Sheffield and leaving the militia
to finish their wild goose chase, they turned into the back road after
them, and so the hunters became the hunted. In this way it happened that
while the militia were pressing on at full speed, breathlessly debating
their chances of heading off the flying rebels, “bang,” “bang,” came a
volley in their rear, and from the stragglers who had been fired upon
arose a cry, “The Shayites are after us.”