I was free at last, but whether they were friends of the 'Colonel,' or friends of my own, who accomplished my release, I was never able to discover.

Chapter VI

King or People?

The road between Lexington and Cambridge lay well in the valley. But I kept to the hill country. I knew that all the roads must be avoided.

I felt sure that I could keep the course, which I knew was easterly, and tramp home by way of the low, timber-crowned ridge of mountains. I set down the danger of getting lost as light compared with that of arrest which might await me on the road in the valley, for I was by no means anxious to return to my former quarters in either mine or prison.

Then I recalled having seen many clearings, and several small farmhouses, dotted along the ridge, all well up toward the top of the wooded slope. I resolved to work my way from one to another of these until I reached home.

It was probably about nine in the morning when I came, somewhat suddenly, upon the first clearing. It afforded a view of the whole valley for miles. Here and there I caught glimpses of the road as it wound round toward Boston.

I stood for some moments looking upon the scene before me. It was all magnificent. The sun was high, warm, and bright, away across the valley. The strong, vigorous life of the New England spring was everywhere; and my three weeks' enforced stay in the cold, damp mine threw all the beauty of the bursting leaves, the greening, distant valley, and the singing birds, into high and clear relief. A new life seemed to pulse in my veins. I was once more free.

As I advanced across the clearing I was struck with the evident remoteness of the place. The valley seemed to be miles away; the woods walled in the place on every side; and yet the soil had been freshly cultivated. Could it be that this was one of the numerous highland farms which I had seen when riding in the valley?

At that moment a dull sound, as of one beating the earth, fell upon my ears. I turned, and close to the edge of the woods, working with a hoe in the black earth among the charred stumps, I saw the stooped figure of a woman. As I looked she stood the hoe by the side of a stump, stepped a little to one side, picked up a small basket, and swung her hand about as though scattering grain. A moment later she was again working rapidly with the large, heavy hoe.

For some time I stood where I was, without moving or speaking. I was still undecided as to what I should do, when I heard the cry of a child. At this the woman dropped her hoe, and turned directly toward me. On seeing me she threw up her hands, and stood for a moment gazing at me. I saw a great terror come into her face, but before I could speak to quiet her fears, she sprang like a wild thing, uttering a piercing shriek as she did so, toward the green hollow that had served for a cradle, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up a crying infant, she fled away in the direction of the small log house at the north-west corner of the clearing. To this I followed her. Standing outside the closed door I explained my situation, and in less than half an hour I was eating with great relish a homely but substantial breakfast. I had almost finished this before the woman fully threw off restraint and talked freely.

'It was a great fright you gave me at first,' she said. 'I was sure they were comin' to take me off too. It's only two days since a lot of men, who said they were sent by some committee, came to the fiel' an'

took away my husband. He told me to try and do what I could at puttin'

in the rest of the crop; but the work in the new lan' is hard for a woman.'

She had one child in her arms, and as she spoke, four others trooped into the little room, and taking up positions beside her looked at me curiously.

'We've five little ones,' she said; 'an we were gettin' on nicely till this awful war come. An' it all seemed to come so sudden. Away up here we heard little about it, till after the shootin' begun. Even now I don't know what all the trouble is about. All the neighbours 'bout here were poor, peaceable folk, an' wanted to go on with their croppin'. Some say the King's wrong, that the laws are hard, an' all that, but we never had any reason to complain. An' even if the laws weren't right, wouldn't it have been better to live on peaceably, than to have things as they are now? Look at me left with these five children! What'll they do if their father isn't let come back to them an' the farm?' A look of anxious fear came into the woman's face, as she spoke.

'What was your husband's name?' I asked.

'David--David Elton. My maiden name was Merton. We're married ten years this summer.'

'David Elton,' I repeated; 'is David Elton your husband?'

'He is. Did you ever hear of him?'

'Yes,' I said: 'I have.' Then I told her many things, to which she gave eager attention.

Half an hour later I had said goodbye to Mrs. Elton and her children, and was entering the woods to continue my journey. Taking a glance backward, I saw the woman with the infant in her arms emerge from the little log house, and cross the clearing to the spot where she had been when I first saw her. She placed the child in the green hollow again, took up the basket and scattered some seed about, and the next moment she was digging the grain into the black, ashy earth with her heavy hoe. As I looked, a lump rose in my throat, and I got a new glimpse of the meaning of war.

Late that night I reached home in safety. My mother and sisters were overjoyed at my coming. They spoke much of my changed appearance, and when I saw myself in the mirror I did not wonder. My experience of almost four weeks had told remarkably upon me; still I felt I had obtained valuable information, which might be of service to the King's cause. I had learned and could tell of what was going on in the country; I now knew something of the character and methods of the men who were carrying on the war, and all this I felt much more than made up for the loss of a few pounds of flesh.

But my mind was soon diverted from myself by other thoughts that crowded upon me. 'Have you seen Duncan Hale?' I asked my mother; and, as the words left my lips, I felt a great fear about my heart pulling the blood from my cheeks. The last time I had seen him there was a noosed rope about his neck, with a long, dangling end. The memory of the sight was fearful. But my mother was speaking.

'Duncan,' she said, 'the good friend and n.o.ble fellow that he is, has come to us as regularly as possible from Boston. The city is besieged, and he comes at great, personal risk.'

The words afforded me unspeakable relief; I felt my lost colour return.

'What has been happening in Boston lately?' I inquired.

'Some new troops have arrived from England, and the fortifications are being strengthened.'

After some further questions and answers, I detailed my experiences as fully as I thought necessary. My mother was much disappointed at my inability to secure definite information regarding my father's death and resting-place, but both she and my sisters bravely accepted the hard conditions imposed upon us by our great and sudden loss.

From one matter we pa.s.sed to another, and then another, until, in a little silence that fell, my mother, turning to Caroline, said, 'Bring the paper that officer left yesterday. Roger should see it.'

While our talk had scarce touched the future at all, the doc.u.ment, which was soon in my hands, convinced me that the real crisis for us was still ahead. The paper was addressed to my mother. It opened with a review of supposed grievances, referred to the causes that had led up to the war, and ended with the statement that the house and entire estate would be seized by American soldiers, and appropriated to the use of the army, unless a full and satisfactory declaration of sympathy with the rebel cause were made inside of twelve days.

With the knowledge I possessed of what was taking place in the country, I was not surprised at the contents of the paper. I had seen that events were shaping directly toward this end. But the paper brought the crisis near, and made it real. I laid the doc.u.ment on the table, and for some time, without speaking, looked into my mother's face.

'It has come to this,' I said finally.

'Yes; what are we to do?' she answered. 'Must we give up all and fly, or else declare ourselves opposed to the King? Does it really mean that?'

'That is what it means, mother,' I said. 'That is made very clear.

Our property is a valuable one, and, being situated as it is, would afford many advantages to the King's enemies.'

'But they will pay us if they take our place--won't they?' It was my youngest sister Elizabeth who thus innocently spoke.

'No, dear,' my mother answered, with fine composure; 'they will not pay us. They will come with soldiers and drive us away. For the rest of our lives we shall be poor, and shall be forced to work for our living--that is, if we declare for the King.' As she spoke her last words, my mother turned from Elizabeth to me. There was a searching, appealing look in her face. I saw that she had seized the situation correctly; I felt she knew that a decision upon which our entire future depended could not be long delayed.

For many people in the Colonies the question of choice of sides in the great conflict was solved by the nature of things. Most of those engaged in shipping, or in any branch of trade upon which duties had been imposed, the naturally discontented and revolution-loving people, as well as many others, ranged themselves immediately--without consideration of consequences, and evidently without any doubts as to the proper course to be pursued--under the banner of the King's enemies.

On the other hand, there were the officials of the government, the seat of which was in England; there were the many cultured and learned persons whose relatives and whose interests were all in Britain; and there were the more humble, but not less loyal people--many of them among the farmer and working cla.s.ses--who loved British inst.i.tutions with a love as strong as the love of life itself. Some of these had fought under English commanders against the French, and their hearts warmed at the name of King--their enthusiasm rose at the sight of England's flag. For these also to decide was easy.

But between the people of these two cla.s.ses, whose decisions were rendered almost inevitable, there were many who could not so easily and so hastily settle the question of sides in the contest. Many of the more thoughtful did not know on which side the right lay. Many who wished to choose rightly were at a great loss to know what course to pursue.

Probably, of the thousands of families all over the country, who pondered the situation raised by the papers such as my mother had received, none found the problem more difficult and complex than did we. Our feelings; our training and interests; our sense of what was right; our love of England for England's sake, and of the King for the King's sake; all said, and said to each of us, 'Rise and flee, let all go.' But how were we to live? Our property was our support. If our feelings said go, self-interest argued stoutly for remaining. My mother and sisters were defenceless and helpless; I was but a schoolboy. And it was soldiers the King wanted--not refugees.

But the hour had grown very late. We felt that the question was too large for us. I rose and was leaving the library for my room. It was then that my sister Caroline slipped to my side with a book in her hand.

'Prayers,' she said softly, pushing me back toward my seat. 'I have found you the prayer for the day,' she added, 'you must read it as father used to do.'

A rush of emotion, mingled with a feeling of shame at my thoughtless ingrat.i.tude toward the Father of all mercies, almost mastered me as I took the book of prayers from my sister's hand. Had G.o.d not been good in delivering me? Had not my father prayed? Was not prayer more necessary now than it had ever been in my life?

We all knelt, and I stammered through the beautiful words. They brought to me a feeling of strange relief. Before I slept, in words of my own, I thanked G.o.d that He had given me a sister, who, in my weakness, had sent me to Him for strength.

Chapter VII

The Die Cast

The next day was Sunday. As I walked about the hedged garden in the early morning, as I looked away toward Boston and marked the general quiet of the country about, I was surprised that I did not see more evidence of war and disorder. Except some white tents in the distance, and the occasional pa.s.sing of a supply wagon from the country, there was really nothing to break the Sabbath quiet, or to remind one that the city of Boston was closely invested by thousands of farmer soldiers, and that a great revolution was in progress. When the church bells chimed out sweetly on the beautiful spring air, it seemed harder still to think that the time of peace had really pa.s.sed.