Chapter XXIV: In the Old Home 374 (11)

"The rebels have done more in a night than my army would have done in a month," he said, after looking at the works with his telescope. What should he do? Mr. Washington's cannon would soon be sending shot and shell upon the warships, the transports, and the town. The provincials must be driven from the spot at once; otherwise, there could be no safety for the fleet, neither for his army. He called his officers together in council.

"We must drive the rebels just as we did at Bunker Hill, or they will drive us out of the town. There is nothing else to be done," said General Clinton.

General Howe agreed with him. A battle must be fought, and the sooner the better. Every moment saw the fortifications growing stronger. But what would be the outcome of a battle? Could he embark his army in boats, land at the foot of the hill, climb the steep ascent, and drive the rebels with the bayonet? At Bunker Hill there was only a rabble,--regiments without a commander; but now Mr. Washington was in command; his troops were in a measure disciplined. That he was energetic, far-seeing, and calculating, he could not doubt. Had he not transported heavy cannon across the country from Lake Champlain to bombard the town? Evidently Mr. Washington was a man who could bide his time. Such men were not likely to leave anything at haphazard. One third of those assaulting Bunker Hill had been cut down by the fire of the rebels. Could he hope for any less a sacrifice of his army in attacking a more formidable position, with the rebels more securely intrenched? It was not pleasant to contemplate the possible result, but an assault must be made.

From the housetop, Berinthia saw boats from the vessels in the harbor, gathering at Long Wharf. Drums were beating, troops marching. Abraham Duncan came with the information that four or five thousand men were to assault the works and drive the provincials pell-mell across the marshes to Roxbury. At any rate, that was the plan. He was sure it would be a bloody battle. Possibly, while General Howe was engaged at Dorchester Heights, Mr. Washington might be doing something else.

Neither General Howe nor any one within the British lines knew just what the provincial commander had planned,--that the moment the redcoats began the attack, General Israel Putnam, on Cobble Hill, between Charlestown and Cambridge, with four thousand men, would leap into boats, cross the Charles, and land on the Common; that General Nathanael Greene with a large force would advance from Roxbury, and together they would grind the British to powder, like corn in a mill.

It was mid-forenoon when Major Walden escorted General Washington across the marsh land and along the path to Dorchester Heights. The troops swung their hats and gave a cheer when they saw their commander ascending the hill. He lifted his hat, and thanked them for having constructed such strong intrenchments in so short a time.

"It is the fifth of March," he said, "and I am sure you will remember it is the anniversary of the massacre of the Sons of Liberty."

In Boston drums were beating, regiments marching; but suddenly the wind, which had blown from the west, changed to the east; and the sea waves were rolling up the bay, making it impossible for the Somerset, Scarborough, Boyne, and the other ships, to spread their sails and take position to bombard the works of the rebels; neither could General Howe embark the troops upon the dancing boats. The clouds were hanging low, and rain falling. Not till the wind changed and the sea calmed could there be a battle; General Howe must wait.

Night came; the rain was still pouring. The provincials wrapped their overcoats closely around them, kindled fires, ate their bread and beef, told stories, sang songs, and kept ward and watch through the dreary hours.

Morning dawned; the wind was still east, and the waves rolling in from the sea. With gloom upon his brow, General Howe with his telescope examined the fortifications. Could he hope to capture them? Doubtful. Exasperating, humiliating, the reflection that Mr. Washington was in a position to compel him to evacuate the town. Only a few days before, he had written Lord Dartmouth he was in no danger from the rebels; he only wished Mr. Washington would have the audacity to make a movement against him; but now he must pack up and be off, give up what he had held so long, and confess defeat. What would the king say? What the people of England? He did not like to think of what had come. But he must save the army. What of the citizens who had maintained their loyalty to the king? Should he leave them to the tender mercies of the exasperated provincials whose homes had been burned? He could not do that. If Theodore Newville, Nathaniel Coffin, or any of the thousand or more wealthy citizens were willing to remain loyal, if they were ready to become aliens and fugitives and exiles, he must do what he could for them.

* * * * *

"What is it, husband?" Mrs. Newville asked as Mr. Newville entered his house, and she beheld his countenance, white, haggard, and woe-begone.

"What has happened, father?" Ruth asked, leading him, trembling and tottering, to his chair.

"It has come," he gasped, resting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with his hands.

"What has come?" Mrs. Newville inquired.

"The end of the king's authority in this town."

"What do you mean?"

"The army is going, and we have got to go."

"Go where?"

"I don't know; only we have got to leave this home, never to see it again, and be aliens the rest of our lives," he said, groaning and sobbing.

"Why must the army go?" Mrs. Newville exclaimed.

"Because General Howe cannot stay. The provincials are in a position to sink his ships and set the town on fire with their bombs."

"Can't General Howe drive Mr. Washington from the hill just as he did at Charlestown?"

"He was going to do it yesterday, but the sea wouldn't let him, and now it is too late."

"He must do it, and I will go and tell him so. Leave our home and become wanderers and vagabonds? Never!" she cried with flashing eyes.

"It is decided. Orders have been issued. The fear is that the provincials may open fire upon the fleet and sink the ships before the army can get away."

"Why didn't General Howe take possession of the hill, and prevent the provincials from doing it?"

"The Lord knows, and perhaps General Howe does, but I don't. I have seen for some time what might happen, and now we have it. We have got to go, and God help us."

Mrs. Newville, overwhelmed, tottered to a chair.

"So this is what Sam Adams and John Hancock have done. I hate them. But why must we go? Why not stay? We have as good a right to stay as they. Give up our home? Never! Never!"

With flashing eyes, and teeth set firmly together, she rose, and took a step or two as if ready to confront a foe.

"We cannot stay," said Mr. Newville. "We have given our allegiance to the king; I have held office under the crown, and the Great and General Court will confiscate my estate, and we shall be beggars. More than that, I probably shall be seized and thrown into jail. There's no knowing what they will do. Possibly my lifeless body may yet dangle from the gallows, where murderers have paid the penalty of their crimes."

Mrs. Newville wrung her hands, and gave way to sobs and moans. Ruth had stood a silent spectator, but sat down now by her mother, put an arm around her, and wiped away the tears coursing down her cheeks.

"I haven't told you all," said Mr. Newville. "General Howe threatens to burn the town if Mr. Washington opens fire upon the ships."

"General Howe threatens that?" exclaimed Mrs. Newville.

"Yes; John Scollay and several of us have asked General Robertson to intercede with Howe. He has done so, but Howe will make no promise. He has permitted a flag of truce to go out to Mr. Washington to let him know if the British are molested he will set the town on fire. If Mr. Washington is the kind-hearted man they say he is, probably he will not make an attack. He wants to compel Howe to get out and to have the town spared. We are not the only ones who will suffer, but everybody who has stood for the king will have to go or take the consequences when the provincials march in. They will be implacable in their retaliation for the burning of Charlestown and Falmouth, and for the destruction of the Old North Meetinghouse, the desecration of the Old South, and the pulling down of hundreds of houses. They will confiscate the property of every one who has adhered to the crown, and make them beggars, or send them out of the Province, or perhaps do both. We may as well look the matter squarely in the face, for we have got to face it."

It was spoken with quivering lips. Several vessels had been designated on which the friends of the king might embark for Halifax, the only port near at hand where they could find refuge. He looked around the room, gazed mournfully at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls, at the rich mahogany furniture, the mirrors above the mantel reflecting the scene. In the dining-room was the buffet with its rich furnishings. Upon the stairs was the clock, its pendulum swinging as it had swung since the days of his boyhood. Upon the sideboard were the tea-urns used on many convivial afternoons and evenings. Whichever way he turned he saw that which had contributed to his ease, comfort, and happiness. Looking out of the window, he saw the buds were beginning to swell upon the trees under the genial rays of the sun. The bluebirds and robins had arrived and were singing in the garden. A few more days and the grass would be springing fresh and green, the asparagus throwing up its shoots, the cherry-trees white with blooms, the lilacs and roses perfuming the air; but never again was he to sit beneath the vine-clad arbor as he had sat in former years, listening to Nature's symphony rehearsed by singing birds; never again was he to see the coming of ecstatic life in bud and blossom. He must bid farewell forever to all the enchanting scenes, pull up by the roots, as it were, all cherished things. What should he take? What leave behind? There would be little room on shipboard for the richly carved mahogany chairs, sideboard, sofa, portraits of his ancestors. What use would he have for them in exile? How dispose of them? Who would purchase them? No one. How would he live in a foreign land? How occupy his time? His mansion was his own; he was possessor of other houses and lands, but all would be seized. He could take his silver plate, his gold and silver coin; not much else.

"Oh dear! oh dear! has it come to this!" Mrs. Newville exclaimed, "when we might have been far away, having everything heart could wish!"

She cast a reproachful look upon Ruth.

"Oh, if you had only done as I wanted!"

A gentle hand wiped the tears from the mother's face.

"Mother, dear, the past is gone, never to return. If it were to come again, bringing Lord Upperton, my answer to him would be as it was. We will let that pass. I know your every thought has been for my welfare and happiness. I trust I have not been ungrateful for all you have done for me and for all you thought to do. I have not seen things as you have seen them. You have been loyal to King George; you could hardly do otherwise with father holding an office under the crown. I have given my sympathies to the provincials, because I believe they are standing for what is right. My heart has gone out to one who, I doubt not, is over on yonder hill in arms against the king. I know the greatness of his love, that he will be always true to me, as I shall be to him."

The hand was still wiping away the tears; she was sitting between her father and mother, and laid the other hand upon the father's palm.

"Through these winter nights, dear father and mother, while hearing the cannon and the bursting shells, I have been looking forward to this hour which has come at last."

Tears stood in her eyes, and her voice became tremulous.

"We have come to the parting hour. You will go, but I shall stay,--stay to save the house, so that, by and by, when the heat of passion has cooled, and the fire of hate is only ashes, when the war is over and peace has come, as come it will, you can return to the old home."

"Leave you behind, Ruth!"

"Yes, mother."

"To be insulted and abused by the hateful rebels! Never!"

"I shall not be insulted. I am sure I shall be kindly treated. Do you think my old friends will do anything to annoy me? Why should they, when they know that I myself am a rebel? Mr. Sam Adams has always been my good friend. Have I not sat in his lap in my girlhood? Are not Lucy Flucker Knox, Dorothy Quincy, and Abigail Smith Adams my friends? Has not Mr. John Hancock danced with me? Have I done anything that should cause them to turn against me? Pompey and Phillis will be here to care for me. And now, dear father, I have one or two requests to make. This is your house, but I want you to give it to me,--make out a deed and execute it in my name; and one thing more, I want you to give me a bill of sale of Pompey and Phillis, so that I shall be absolute mistress here. When the Colonies, by their valor and the righteousness of their cause, have become independent of the king, when the last cannon has been fired, in God's good time you will come back and find me here in the old home."

Mr. Newville sat in silence a moment, then put his arm around her and drew her to him.

"Oh Ruth, daughter, you are dearer to me this moment than ever before. Your clear vision has seen what I have not been able to see,--till now,--the possible end of this conflict. The provincials are stronger than I supposed them to be, the disaffection wider, and the king is weaker than I thought. It never seemed possible that an army of ten thousand men could be forced to evacuate this town, but so it is, and I must go. I will not be so selfish as to ask you to go. I know your love has gone out to Robert Walden. I have no right to ask you to thrust a sword into your own loving heart. I do not doubt he will protect you with all the strength of a noble manhood. This house shall be yours, together with Pompey and Phillis, who will be as dutiful to you as they have been to your mother and me. You speak of our coming back, but when we once leave this house we never shall behold it again; nor shall we ever look again upon your face unless you come where we may be. Where that will be, God only knows; we shall be fugitives and wanderers without a home. Your mother and I will not long need an earthly home. Such a wound as this goes down deep into our souls, Ruth."

He could say no more, but hid his face in his hands to hide the agony of a breaking heart.

"Father, have you forgotten who it is that feeds the ravens and cares for the sparrows? Will He not care for you? Of one thing you may be sure, so soon as it is possible to do so I shall seek you wherever you may be: and now we will prepare for your going."

She kissed the tears from his face, cheered the desponding mother, and began to select whatever would most contribute to their comfort.

* * * * *

Abraham Duncan, as he walked the streets, beheld men with haggard faces and women wringing their hands and giving way to lamentations. In their loyalty to the king, they never had dreamed that the provincials could compel a disciplined army to quit the town. They had been informed that with the opening of spring the rebels would be scattered to the winds. In their loyalty they had organized themselves into militia and received arms from General Howe to fight for King George. As by a lightning flash all had been changed. Those who had thus organized knew they would be despised by the provincials and hardly dealt with; that houses and lands would be seized and sold to make restitution for the burning of Charlestown and buildings torn down in Boston. They who had lived in affluence, who had delightful homes on the slopes of Beacon Hill, must leave them. All dear old things must be sacrificed and family ties ruthlessly sundered. Fathers had sons whose sympathies were with the provincials; mothers, other than Mrs. Newville, had daughters whose true loves were marshaled under flags floating on Dorchester Heights. Had not Colonel Henry Knox sighted the cannon which sent the ball whirling towards the early home of his loving wife, the home where her father and mother and sisters were still living, which they must leave? The sword drawn on Lexington Common was severing tender heartstrings.

There was a hurly-burly in the streets,--drums beating, soldiers marching, a rumbling of cannon and wagons, the removal of furniture. Eleven hundred men and women were preparing to bid farewell to their native land and homes.

* * * * *

The final hour came. Pompey had seen the trunks and boxes safely stowed upon the ship in which Mr. and Mrs. Newville, Nathaniel Coffin, the king's receiver-general, and Thomas Flucker were to find passage. With a cane to steady his tottering steps, Mr. Newville took a last look of the home where his life had been passed; the house in which his eyes first saw the light; where a mother, many years in her grave, had caressed him; where a father had guided his toddling steps; the home to which he had brought his bride in the bloom of a beautiful maidenhood; where Ruth had come to them as the blessing of God to make the house resound with prattle and laughter, and fill it with the sunlight of her presence; make it attractive by her grace and beauty,--the soul beauty that looked out from loving eyes and became, as it were, a benediction. He was to go, she to stay. God above would be her guardian.

Mrs. Newville walked as in a daze from parlor to chamber, from dining-room to hall and kitchen. Was she awake or dreaming? Must she leave her home,--the home that had been so blissful, so hospitable? Was she never again to welcome a guest to that table, never hear the merry chatter of voices in parlor or garden? Oh, if Sam Adams and John Hancock had only been content to let things go on as they always had gone! If Ruth had only accepted Lord Upperton's suit! Why couldn't she? What ought she to take, what would she most need? What sort of accommodations would they find at Halifax? Why couldn't Ruth go with them? It was the questioning of a mind stunned by the sudden stroke; of a spirit all but crushed by the terrible calamity.

"I have put in everything I could think of that will in any way make you comfortable, mother dear," said Ruth, mentioning the articles.

"I've put up some jelly and jam for ye, missus," said Phillis.

Berinthia Brandon and Abraham Duncan came to bid them farewell, and to help Ruth prepare for their departure.

It was Ruth's strong arm that upheld her mother as they slowly walked the street on their way to the ship. It was a mournful spectacle. Not they alone, but Mr. Shrimpton and Mary, Nathaniel Coffin and wife and John, and a hundred of Ruth's acquaintances were on the wharf preparing to go on board the ships.

"This is what has come from Sam Adams's meddling," said Mr. Shrimpton. "May the Devil take him and John Hancock. They ought to be hanged, and I hope King George will yet have a chance to string 'em up--curse 'em! I'd like to see 'em dangling from the gibbet, and the crows picking their bones," he said, smiting his fists together, walking to and fro.

He was bidding farewell to home,--to the house in which he was born. He had farms in the county, wide reaches of woodland, fields, and pastures. The provincials would confiscate them. In his declining years all his property was to slip through his fingers, and he was to totter in penury to his grave.

"I shall enlist in the service of the king and fight 'em," said John Coffin, who had shown his loyalty by accompanying General Howe to the battle of Bunker Hill.

"And I hope you'll have a chance to put a bullet through the carcass of Sam Adams," said Mr. Shrimpton.

It was his daughter's hand that guided him over the gang-plank to the deck of the Queen Charlotte.

"Let me put this muffler round your neck; the air is chill and you are shivering," said Mary, gently leading him.

With chattering teeth and curses on his lips for those whom he regarded as authors of his misfortunes, Abel Shrimpton, led by his daughter, descended the winding stairs to the cabin of the ship.

"Here are the rugs and shawls, mother, and here is the wolf-skin, father, to wrap around you," said Ruth.

They were in the stifling cabin, the departing loyalists sitting as in a daze, stupefied, stunned by the sudden calamity, wondering if it were not a horrid dream.

To Mary Shrimpton and Ruth Newville it was no phantom, no hallucination, but a reality, an exigency, demanding calm reflection, wise judgment, and prompt, decisive action. They had talked it over,--each in the other's confidence.

"You must go and I will stay; you will care for them all; I will look after things here. This war will not last always. You will all come back some time," said Ruth, her abiding faith rising supreme above the agony of the parting.

"I will care for them," had been the calm reply of Mary.

"Oh, missus! I can't bear to have ye go, you's been good to me always. I'se packed a luncheon for ye," said Phillis, kneeling upon the floor, clasping the knees of her departing mistress, crying and sobbing.

"Oh, massa and missus, old Pomp can't tell ye how good ye've been to him. He'll be good to Miss Ruth. He'll pray for de good Lord to bless ye, every night, as he always has,"--the benediction of the slave kneeling by Phillis's side.

Long and tender was the last embrace of the mother and daughter,--of the father and his beloved child. With tears blinding her eyes, with tottering steps, Ruth passed across the gang-plank. A sailor drew it in, and unloosed the cable. The vessel swung with the tide from its moorings, the jib and mainsail filled with the breeze, and glided away. The weeping crowd upon its deck saw Ruth standing upon the wharf, her countenance serene, pure, and peaceful, with tears upon her face, gazing at the receding ship. Those around her beheld her steady herself against the post which had held the cable, standing there till the Queen Charlotte was but a white speck dotting the landscape in the lower harbor, then walking with faltering steps to her desolate home.

XXIV.

IN THE OLD HOME.

"Here, Miss Ruth, I has a cordial for ye. Drink it, honey," said Phillis as Ruth sank into a chair.

"Don't be down-hearted, Miss Ruth; old Pomp will take keer of ye."

"I do not doubt it. You and Phillis have always been good to me, and now I have something to say to both of you. Would you like to be free, Pompey?"

"Would I like to be free, Miss Ruth?" the negro asked, hardly knowing what to make of the question.

"Yes, would you like to be free, to own yourself, to come and go as you please?"

"'Deed I would, Miss Ruth. Massa and missus was always very good to old Pomp, but 'pears I would like to be myself."

She rose and took Pompey and Phillis by their hands.

"Your old master has given you both to me, and now I give you to yourselves. You are both free now and forever," said Ruth.

"Free! Miss Ruth! Did you say we is free?"

"Yes, you are no longer slaves; you can go and come, now and always; you are your own."

"Oh, Miss Ruth, old Pomp never will leave ye, never. Old Pomp free! 'Pears like de New Jerusalem has come," said the negro, sinking upon his knees, kissing her hand and bathing it with tears.

"Oh, Miss Ruth, honey, I has held ye in my arms when ye was a little baby, toted ye in de garding when de flowers was bloomin', rocked ye to sleep when ye was pinin'; I've seen ye grow to be a woman, and now ye is my missus tellin' me I'm free. I'll cook de chicken and de johnny-cake for ye till I can't cook no more," said Phillis, clasping Ruth in her arms, with tears rolling down her cheeks and laughter bubbling from her lips.

The foresight that had seen the probable departure of the British troops was forecasting the immediate future; that the interval before the arrival of General Washington's army would be one of peril, from vagabonds, camp-followers, and the ragamuffins enlisted by Creen Brush, commissioned by General Howe to organize a battalion of Tories. Through the day the British regiments were sullenly taking their departure. Pompey informed Ruth that the vagabonds had begun to plunder the stores and break into houses.

"Dey won't git into dis yeer house, honey. I'se got de water b'ilin' hot in de kitchen for 'em," said Phillis.

Ruth did not doubt a mansion like hers would attract the villains, and determined to defend herself against all intruders. General Howe was going on shipboard; no longer would she recognize his authority or that of any subordinate officer. Years before, her father had been member of a battalion of horsemen. The pistols he carried then were in a closet. Pompey brought them, fixed the flints, oiled the locks, and found a horn of powder, but no bullets.

"Perhaps it is just as well, Pompey, for if I were to have a bullet, I might kill somebody, and I would not like to do that," she said.

"If ye are goin' to shoot, better shoot to kill, Miss Ruth," said Pompey.

"I never have fired a pistol, Pompey; how do you do it?"

"I'll show ye, missus," said the negro, putting some powder in the pan and cocking the pistol.

"Now, Miss Ruth, you jes' pull de trigger and it will flash."

They were in the kitchen. Ruth pointed the weapon toward the fireplace and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a bang.

"O Lord! Missus!" shouted Phillis, dropping on the floor.

"'Pears, Miss Ruth, like she's been loaded all dese years," said Pompey, his eyeballs rolling in astonishment.

"It appears I have found out how to fire," said Ruth, laughing. "But how do you load it?" she asked.

Pompey poured a charge of powder into his hand, emptied it into the barrel, and rammed it down with a wad of paper.

"We haven't any bullets, but we can use gravel-stones or dried peas or a tallow candle. I've seen a candle fired right through a board, Miss Ruth," he said.

"We'll load them with powder now; perhaps we shan't need anything else," Ruth replied.

In the gathering darkness Phillis saw a redcoat reconnoitring the grounds. He rapped upon the door leading to the kitchen. She did not unloose the chain, but opened it sufficiently wide to talk with the fellow.

"What d'ye want?" she asked.

"I want to come in."

"What d'ye want to come in for?"

"To see if ye have anything belonging to the king. People have seized the king's property and taken it into their houses."

"We haven't anything belonging to King George."

"Open the door or I'll break it down."

"Go away. Dere can't no lobster come into dis yeer kitchen," said Phillis, attempting to close the door. But she saw the muzzle of a gun thrust into the opening. Her hands grasped it. One vigorous pull and it was hers, and the villain was fleeing.

"I'se got it! I'se got de villin's gun. Wid de pistils, de musket, and de b'ilin' water we'll fight 'em!" she shouted.

Ruth, keeping watch, saw a squad of men. One of them rattled the knocker.

"What do you wish?" she asked, raising a window.

"I am commissioned to search for property belonging to the crown."

"Who are you?"

"I am a lieutenant in the command of Colonel Brush."

"I do not recognize your authority, neither that of Colonel Brush nor General Howe, who has taken his departure."

"I shall be under the necessity of entering by force if you do not open the door."

"You will do so at your peril."

"Break down the door, men!"

The soldiers pounded with the butts of their muskets, but the panels did not yield.

"Smash a window!"

A bayonet was thrust through a pane, and the glass rattled to the ground; the butt of a musket smashed the sash, and a pair of hands grasped the window-sill. Memory recalled a day when two soldiers assaulted her; from that hour a redcoat had been hateful. She seized one of the pistols. Remembering what Pompey had said, she picked the lighted candle from its socket and thrust it into the weapon. The ruffian was astride the window-sill. There was a flash, a loud report, and he dropped with a thud to the ground.

From the balcony came a flood of boiling water upon the astonished ruffians.

"I'll give it to ye, b'ilin' hot!" shouted Phillis. The ruffians saw the muzzle of a gun pointed towards them from the window, and the stalwart form of Pompey as he raised it to take aim. The astonished villains fled, leaving Ruth, Pompey, and Phillis victors in the encounter.

* * * * *

Morning dawned fair and beautiful. The robins and bluebirds were singing in the garden. Ruth heard again the beating of drums, the blast of bugles. General Washington was entering the town. By his side rode Major Robert Walden.

What surprise! A white handkerchief was waving from the balcony of the Newville home. She was there, more beautiful and queenly than ever before! Not an alien, not an exile, but loyal to liberty, to him! He must leap from his saddle and clasp her in his arms! No. He must accompany his great commander in the triumphal entry. That accomplished, then the unspeakable joy.

* * * * *

There came an evening when the Newville home was aglow with lights, and Pompey was bowing low to General and Mrs. Washington, Generals Greene, Putnam, Thomas, to colonels, majors, captains, councilors, the selectmen of the town, Reverend Doctor Cooper, Colonel Henry and Lucy Knox, Captain and Mrs. Brandon, Berinthia, Abraham Duncan, Major Tom Brandon, Rachel Walden; young ladies in the bloom of maidenhood, matronly mothers, fathers resolute of countenance,--all rejoicing that the redcoats were gone.

Down from the chamber, passing the old clock on the stairs, came Major Robert Walden, in bright, new uniform, and Ruth Newville in satin, white and pure.

Reverend Doctor Cooper spoke of the bravery of the bridegroom in battle, the manliness of character that fitted him for fighting the battle of life. Tears came to many eyes as he pictured the love of a maiden who rescued her beloved, swept by life's ebbing tide far out towards a shoreless sea.

They who stood around beheld the countenance of the bride transfigured as she pronounced the words, "to love, to honor, and cherish him."

Amid the general joy, one heart alone felt a momentary pang. Never might Rachel whisper such words to him whose last thought had been of her, who had given his life that liberty might live.

Once more food was to be had from the marketmen around Faneuil Hall--joints of beef, pigs, sausages, chickens, turkeys, vegetables and fruit, brought in by the farmers of Braintree, Dedham, and Roxbury. Fishermen once more could sail down the harbor, drop their lines for cod and mackerel on the fishing ground beyond the Outer Brewster, and return to the town without molestation from a meddling town major.

With joyful countenance and conscious dignity, Pompey perambulated the market, inspecting what the hucksters had for sale.

"I want de juiciest j'int, de tenderest, fattest turkey, de freshest eggs right from de nest, 'cause de 'casion is to be Missus Ruth's weddin' dinner," he said.

Many banquets had Phillis prepared, but never one like the dinner for Miss Ruth on her wedding day.

"I've roasted de turkey and sparrib for Massa Ginerel Howe and Massa Ginerel Clinton, but dey ain't of no 'count 'side Massa Major Walden and Massa Ginerel Washington, 'cause dey drive de redcoats out of Boston. Miss Ruth fired de pistil and I scaldid dem with de b'ilin' water. He! he! he!" she laughed.

It was a pleasure to stuff the turkey, to turn the joint of beef roasting on the spit, mix the plums in the pudding, and mould the mince pies for Ruth and her friends.

"Miss Ruth told me to go free, and now she's Missus Ruth Walden. He! he! he!"

The laughter bubbled from her lips.

It was a joyful party that sat down to the dinner. The toasts drunk were not the health of George III. and Sophia Charlotte, but the health of General George Washington, the Continental Congress, Major Robert Walden, and, more heartily than any other, long life and happiness to Ruth Newville Walden.

* * * * *

Years have gone by,--years of sorrow, privation, and suffering to those who, through their loyalty to King George, and their inability to discern the signs of the times, have been exiles from the land that gave them birth, whose property has been seized by the Great and General Court of Massachusetts. The days are long to Mary Shrimpton in the little cabin at Halifax. The great estates once owned by her father are no longer his. Her once beautiful home has been sold to the highest bidder. Only with her spinning-wheel can she keep the wolf from the cabin door. Parliament has been talking of doing something for the refugees in Nova Scotia, but the commoners and lords are three thousand miles away, and the people of England are groaning under the burden incurred by the fruitless attempt to subdue the Colonies. The struggle is over. Lord Cornwallis has surrendered his army to General Washington at Yorktown, and commissioners are negotiating a peace. Through the years Abel Shrimpton, unreconciled to life's changes, has been cursing Samuel Adams and John Hancock for having led the people to rebel against the king, not seeing that Divine Providence was using them as instruments to bring about a new era in human affairs. When the curses are loudest and most vehement, Mary's gentle hand pats his lips, smooths the gray hairs from the wrinkled brow, and calms his troubled spirit. Pansies bloom beneath the latticed windows of her cabin home. Morning-glories twine around it. Swallows twitter their joy, and build their nests beneath the eves. Motherly hens cluck to their broods in the dooryard. The fare upon the table within the cabin is frugal, but there is always a bit of bread or a herring for a wandering exile. When women pine for their old homes, when homesickness becomes a disease, it is Mary Shrimpton who cheers the fainting hearts. As she sits by her wheel, she sings the song sung by the blind old harper Carolan, who, though long separated from his true love, yet recognized her by the touch of her gentle hand:--

"True love can ne'er forget.
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one."

Tom Brandon said he would be true to her. The war is over; surely if living he will come. Though the thick fog at times drifts in from the sea, shutting out the landscape and all surrounding objects, though the rain patters on the roof, and the days are dark and dreary, her face is calm and serene, glorified by a steadfast faith and changeless love.

The time has been long to the occupants of the cottage across the way. Though little gold is left in the purse, there is ever room for hungry refugees at the table of the king's former commissioner of imposts. The locks beneath his tie wig are whiter than they were, the furrows on his brow have deepened. Officers of the army and navy in Halifax, once guests in his home on the slope of Beacon Hill, sometimes call upon him, but the great world has passed him by. Old friends, fellow exiles, at times gather at his fireside, talk of other days, and of what Parliament may possibly do for them.

Time has left its mark upon the face of her who sits by his side. The soft, brown hair has changed to gray. Plans of other days have not come to pass. Disappointment and grief have quenched ambitious fire. Father and mother are separated from a daughter beloved. How could Ruth ever become a rebel, disloyal to her rightful sovereign? What possessed her to turn her back upon Lord Upperton, upon the opportunity to become a peeress of the realm? Oh, the misery that has come from such waywardness! What has become of her? Will they ever again see her?

* * * * *

With the flag of the new nation--the banner of crimson stripes and fadeless stars--flying at her masthead, the ship Berinthia Brandon, Major Tom Brandon owner, comes proudly sailing into Halifax harbor. The anchor dropped, he makes his way to the vine-clad cabin, listens a moment by the latticed window to hear a sweet voice singing words that thrill him.

"Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one."

He lifts the latch. There is a cry of delight, and Mary springs to his arms.

"I said I would come, and I am here."

"I knew you would, Tom. Ever since a ship arrived bringing the news from Yorktown that Cornwallis had surrendered, I have been expecting you."

"How do you do, father?" said Major Tom, holding out his hand to Mr. Shrimpton.

"I ain't your father," the surly reply.

"But you are to be, as soon as I can find a minister. The past is past. I've come to take you and Mary to your old home. When it was sold, I bought it; you are to go back to it and live there. It is to be our home."

There is astonishment upon the cold, hard face, which relaxes its sternness; the chin quivers, the lips tremble, tears roll down the cheeks of the gray-haired exile. Through the years he has nursed his hate. But there is no sword so sharp, no weapon so keen to pierce the hardened human heart, as kindness. He has hated Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Tom Brandon; and this is Tom's revenge. His old home to be his own once more! No longer an exile! To sit once more by the old fireside, through the kindness of him whom he had turned from his door! His head drops upon his breast; he sobs like a child, but reaches out his arms to them.

"Take her, Tom. I've hated you, but God bless you; you were right, and I was wrong."

No longer hard-hearted, cold, and animated by hate, but as a little child he enters the doorway leading to the Kingdom of Heaven.

* * * * *

A man of stalwart frame, a woman radiant and beautiful, with a little boy and girl, are standing by the door of the humble home across the way; fellow-passengers with Major Tom on the Berinthia Brandon. Mr. Newville opens the door in answer to the knock, to be clasped in the arms of Ruth. Great the surprise, unspeakable the joy, of father, mother, and daughter, meeting once more, welcoming a worthy son, taking prattling grandchildren to their arms.

"We have come for you, and we are all going home together. You will find everything just as it was when you left," said Ruth.

* * * * *

Once more there were happy homes in Boston,--that upon Copp's Hill, where Berinthia and Abraham Duncan cared for the father and mother; that where Tom and Mary Shrimpton-Brandon made the passing days pleasant to Abel Shrimpton, loyal no longer to King George, but to the flag of the future republic; and that other home, where Major Robert Walden and his loving wife, with queenly grace, dispensed unstinted hospitality, not only to those distinguished among their fellow-men, but to the poor and needy, impoverished by the long and weary struggle for independence of the mother land. Abel Shrimpton and Theodore Newville were no longer exiles, but citizens, acknowledging cheerful allegiance to the flag of the confederation, through the fealty to liberty by the Daughters of the Revolution.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.