The minister did not smile. "But the Lord was on David's side," he answered, gravely. "Today he seems to have deserted His People."

Down the street came a man whose white hairs might have marked him as aged had not his bright eyes and resolute bearing spoken of undying youth. He paused a moment at the gate, bowing to the Rabbi with all the formal courtliness of his day.

"Good _Shabbas_, Mr. Gomez," said the minister. "You are on your way to the synagogue?"

"Yes. Perhaps it may be the last service we will have in _Shearith Israel_ before the cursed British guns blow our roof about our ears,"

answered the older man. "Alas, Mr. Seixas, when you were elected our Rabbi but a year ago, I predicted a long and fruitful term of service for you in our midst. But now--" a hopeless shrug completed the sentence.

"Believe me, I shall not fail in my duty as long as I serve the congregation of _Shearith Israel_," answered the young Rabbi, rather stiffly.

"I know--I know." The white head nodded gloomily. "You will do what you can as a priest, but this war must be won by men. I have lived almost seventy years, Mr. Seixas, and have always sought to be a good Jew and hold up the hands of those who served the Lord, as I know you strive to do. And in times of peace, a man of your learning and purity of heart is a worthy leader. But in these times that try men's souls, we need not priests, but men," he repeated and walked slowly away.

"What did he mean, Mr. Seixas?" asked David as the old man disappeared down the street. His eager little ears had taken in every word of the conversation; but he had not dared to ask questions while his elders were conversing, and had remained silent as a well-bred lad of his day was taught to do. "Does he mean we shouldn't have rabbis and ministers when there's a war?"

The rabbi shook his head. "Not exactly that, David. But perhaps he wishes that today we had fighting priests like the old Maccabees, those men who went to battle with swords in their hands, prayers in their hearts. And old Mr. Gomez is a fit descendant of those heroes,"

he cried with sudden warmth. "Old as he is, he offered to form a company of soldiers for service and enlist himself. When he was told that he was too old to take the field, he said: 'I could stop a bullet as well as a younger man.' It is such a spirit that wins wars, David."

"That's splendid!" exclaimed the boy. "I know how he feels--just sitting around New York and waiting for the British to come and rule over us! If I were only old enough to go and fight, too! I wish,"

wistfully, "I were grown up like you. Then I wouldn't have to be here today, waiting to go to the synagogue with Grandmother. I'd be with Frank and General Washington and be fighting for my country."

The minister's cheeks flushed; he winced as though the boy's innocent words had hurt him deeply. When he spoke it seemed that he was almost thinking aloud; that he had forgotten his young companion on the other side of the hedge.

"How can I lay aside my clergyman's cloak for the soldier's uniform?"

he asked, slowly. "And how can I leave my bride of a year--perhaps never to return to her? And my people--I have not been with them any longer: surely, my duty is to them; to guide and lead them in this time of danger and uncertainty. Otherwise I would be like a shepherd who rushes off to fight the robbers of the mountains, while his flocks are torn by wolves that ravage close at hand."

He spoke as though he were reciting the words of a speech already written and learned by rote, thought David, half-wondering if the minister weren't learning his sermon for that morning. For how could the boy know that Mr. Seixas had again and again repeated to himself the very arguments he was now uttering aloud for the first time.

Suddenly the young man who had stood like one in a dream, leaning upon the gate, his eyes looking far way, turned toward him and smiled almost in apology.

"Have you wondered at my words, little David?" he asked, almost lightly. "Ah, in days like these, one says many strange and unheard-of things. I have tried to refrain from speaking, for now mere words are idle and of little worth. But when I think of my New York--the city in which I was born and reared--in the hands of the British, I must speak, or my heart would choke me." His hand tugged at the linen stock about his throat. "G.o.d of Israel," he muttered, "in these dark days, give Thy servant light to see Thy ways--and strength to follow them."

David, feeling strangely awkward at hearing his rabbi pray, save in the pulpit, looked longingly at the house, hoping that his grandmother would come out and end the discussion which was becoming a little difficult for him. But he knew how long it always took her to don her Sabbath silk and long gold chain and earrings, and resigned himself to listen, should the Rev. Mr. Seixas care to talk to him further.

For a few moments there was silence between them. Then the rabbi turned to David again and continued to speak to him as though he were really grown up, and not a little boy who had studied Hebrew and history with him all winter.

"I am not afraid to go into battle," he said quietly, "but I feel that it will take far more bravery to fight for our country right here at home. I must be on hand to cheer and comfort my people; to teach those who lose their dear ones on the battlefield to look to our G.o.d for consolation; to teach those who stay at home to do their part too, even if it be but knitting and baking dainties for our soldiers. That will be easy," he mused, "but how can I endure living here under British rule, feeling myself a slave among a slave people?" He threw back his head, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. "Our people have wandered, many of them, from Spain to Holland, from Holland to this blessed land, to be free; how can I, a leader in Israel, bow down to the sons of Belial who will come among us!" His hands clenched the wickets of the gate; he breathed hard and was silent.

As he spoke in ringing tones, an almost forgotten picture flashed before David's eyes. He was listening again to the rabbi's story of the days when the Romans besieged Jerusalem and laid it waste and took the people captive. He remembered how Mr. Seixas had glowed with pride when he told of those ancient Jews--"Fighters all, David, who could not live as slaves."

"Mr. Seixas," asked David, suddenly, "in the old days when the Romans burned the Temple and everything, what did the rabbis do? Did they fight like Bar Kochba and the other generals?"

With a visible effort, the rabbi wrenched himself back to the present.

"The Romans"--he repeated, vaguely. "What did the rabbis do?" Again his voice thrilled with pride as it had done when he had first told the child the story of Bar Kochba's rebellion. "They were brave men, David; priests and warriors. Rabbi Akiba did the thing I must try to do--kept the fighters brave and loyal; and when he could do no more, he died as bravely as the bravest soldier of them all."

"But there was one rabbi who didn't die," insisted David. "I forget his name, but I liked him better than all the others because he got the best of the Romans. Don't you know--he pretended he was dead and had his pupils take him to the Emperor in a coffin, that the guards wouldn't stop them when they pa.s.sed the gates. And when the Emperor asked him what he wanted, he said 'Just let me build a school and I won't trouble anybody! What was his name, Mr. Seixas?"

"You are thinking of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai," answered his teacher, slowly. "You are right--he did 'get the best of the Romans,' as you say. He would have died rather than breathe the air of a Roman court like Josephus; instead he continued to fight the enemy of his people; he handed down to his disciples the sword with which they were to fight through the centuries."

"What sword?" asked David, puzzled.

"Not a real sword; the study of our Law, our Torah. He opened a school at Jabneh, you remember, and there he taught his scholars to be good Jews, even though Jerusalem was destroyed." His eyes widened and again he seemed to be looking far away. "Jerusalem was destroyed, even as the city of my hope will be taken from me. But Rabbi ben Zakkai escaped to Jabneh and continued the battle there!" He spoke almost in a whisper and a strange light glowed in his face. "Have you been sent to teach me the truth, David? Truly, 'out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained truth.'"

Mistress Seixas appeared at the doorway, a bright-faced young woman, pretty in her Sabbath finery of gay silk mantle and flowered bonnet.

"I am all ready, Gershom," she told her husband as she came down the path.

"And I am ready, too, Elkallah," he answered so gravely that David felt he meant much more than the simple words implied.

David, as a boy who was not yet _Bar Mitzvah_, sat beside his grandmother in the _Shearith Israel_ synagogue that bright September morning, while the drums beat in the streets and the frightened citizens buzzed excitedly in knots upon the street corners, this man contending that the British would be defeated before they even crossed the Sound, his neighbor declaring that on the morrow the redcoats would surely be encamped in the city. Within the synagogue, the Jewish citizens of New York continued to hold their Sabbath services. A goodly a.s.sembly they were; Jews of proud blood from Spain and Portugal, descendants of the early settlers in New Amsterdam, when the city of New York was still in the hand of the Dutch; a sprinkling of _Ashken.a.z.im_, German and Polish Jews, who at that time were too few in number to have a congregation of their own. There were many children and young people there, pupils and graduates of the religious school the congregation had founded almost fifty years before for the teaching of Hebrew, modern languages and the common branches. While among the men sat st.u.r.dy patriots, Samuel Judah, Hayem Levy, Jacob Mosez and others whose names had appeared on the Non-importation agreement in 1769, when they with their gentile neighbors had dared to protest against the tyranny of Great Britain. Benjamin Seixas was there, too, one of the first Jews to become an officer in the American Army and several other Jewish soldiers in their uniforms of buff and blue sat nearby; while directly before him, his alert face thrust forward, sat old Mr. Gomez, drinking in every word of the sermon the young rabbi delivered after the Sabbath services were over; an English sermon, destined to make Jewish history in America.

At first Rabbi Seixas spoke quietly enough, reviewing for his people the causes which had led up to the break between the mother country, England, and her colonies. He spoke of the tyranny of the king and his slavish Parliament, the unjust taxes, the quartering of troops upon a law-abiding and peace-loving people. With quiet bitterness, he repeated the old story of the children of Israel who demanded that their prophet Samuel set a king over them, and of the prophet's warning that only evil would come to a people who served a king instead of the Lord of Hosts. "And today," went on Mr. Seixas, "today, we the people of the Thirteen Colonies have a king over us far more tyrannical and unjust than the oriental monarch Samuel painted of old. To this day have I been silent, breathing no word against this Pharaoh of Egypt, for the mission of Israel has ever been peace, and next to G.o.d we have been loyal to the masters He has set over us. But in times like these we are serving Him best by defying those who rule in His name, but know not His laws of mercy and of justice. The time has come at last for us to enter the Valley of Decision. Where will you stand now, my people, when the redcoats thunder at our gates?

Shall we bow before Pharaoh? Nay, the same G.o.d who rescued our fathers from the Pharaoh of Egypt will rescue us and all who call upon Him, from this new tyrant who would bend our necks and fetter us like very slaves."

There was a solemn hush in the synagogue, broken only by the murmur of the pa.s.sing crowds outside, the distant roll of drums. For the first time that morning David was glad he had not been allowed to run off to see the soldiers. This was not an every-week sort of sermon about keeping the Sabbath or about some dead kings with long, hard names; the rabbi no longer seemed just a quiet man in a dark coat who had a great many books and knew everything and taught him Hebrew and history. Instead, he appeared like those splendid fighting priests he had mentioned that morning, a man who talked to G.o.d--and held a sword in his hand while he prayed.

For a moment Mr. Seixas stood before his congregation, looking down into the tense, upturned faces, yet past them, as though his eyes saw visions no other man there might see. Perhaps he was thinking of what a great step he had just taken; how his words had outlawed him forever in the sight of the English king; had made him an exile from the dear city of his birth. Again his hands clutched at his stock and he breathed with difficulty, but only for a moment. For his eyes met those of his young wife, Elkallah, and he smiled to rea.s.sure her and give her comfort. When he spoke again, his voice was low and clear, but as strong as a trumpet call in battle.

"Tonight, perhaps; surely, tomorrow, the British will have entered our city--but they will not find me here. For I will not serve the Lord in a sanctuary from which Freedom has departed. I will leave the city and seek for a place of refuge where the soldiers of the colonies fight for freedom. And, my people, I ask you in the words of Mattathias, that warrior priest of other days--'Those who are on the Lord's side follow me!'"

Again a long silence, then an uproar from every side. "He speaks truly! It is slavery if we remain!" "I cannot leave my property to be confiscated by the Crown." "The British will never take the city."

"They will be here by sunrise." And suddenly little David's shrill voice ringing above the others, although he never realized until hours afterwards, when he was reprimanded by his grandmother, that he had dared to speak out with all the older and wiser members of the congregation:

"O Mr. Seixas, please take me along, too! I don't want to live in New York any more if the redcoats are here."

"And I will follow you," cried another voice, "although my fortune be forfeit and my land be seized by the king."

"And I--and I," rang out from every corner of the synagogue.

Some were silent, those who were to remain behind, and as Tories, know the friendship of the invaders. But the greater part of the worshippers, those whose ancestors like the Pilgrim Fathers had come to these sh.o.r.es to seek freedom before G.o.d, responded to their rabbi's call like true soldiers about their standard bearer.

"All that the Lord hath laid upon us, that will we do," cried out a very old man, rising to his feet and trembling with age as he spoke.

"My eyes are dim, but He will not close them in death until they behold the rising of the sun of freedom upon these blessed sh.o.r.es."

He spoke like an ancient prophet and a hush like death fell upon the people. Slowly, like a man in a dream, Rabbi Seixas walked to the Ark and took from it the Scrolls of the Law; with the eyes of a man who sees visions he clasped the Torah to his breast and spoke: "When Jerusalem was destroyed, Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai rebuilt a spiritual Jerusalem in the little town of Jabneh where the faithful ones sat at his feet and learned the Law. I will not leave our precious Torah behind me to be used by those who remain here to serve King George instead of the King of Israel. Some time, some place G.o.d will establish a refuge for His faithful ones and there will we worship Him as free men." He spoke with a great hope in his heart, although at that moment he never dreamed how during the darkest days of the Revolution he would be allowed to labor and serve in Philadelphia until he should return to New York in triumph to witness the inauguration of George Washington as president of the United States.

At a word from the minister, the _Shammas_ (s.e.xton) and several members of the congregation quietly removed the velvet curtains from the Ark, taking the silver pointer, the _Ner Tamid_ (perpetual light), all the sacred symbols which had made their worship beautiful for Sabbath after Sabbath during the years of security and peace. The congregation sat motionless, like people in a dream. Laying the Torah aside, Mr. Seixas came forward, his hands raised in blessing. His voice was tremulous with tears as he spoke: "_Yevorekhekha Adonai we-yishm'rekha. Yaer Adonai panov eilekha wi'chunekha. Yisa Adonai panov eilekha weyasem lekha shalom._" (The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.)

Then, the Scroll again close to his heart, he pa.s.sed among the silent worshippers out into the warm September sunshine.

One by one the people followed him as he stood before the synagogue where he had hoped to serve so many useful years. His face was grave, but his voice was firm, his bearing unafraid. His young wife, Elkallah, stood proudly beside him. Though threatened with exile, she held her head like a queen. From the synagogue came old Mistress Phillips, leaning upon David's arm. "We will miss you sorely, Mr.

Seixas," she said, sadly, "both as rabbi and as neighbor. I--ah, I am too old to leave the city where I was born. But perhaps I will send David to his cousins in Philadelphia."

"But I won't stay there," cried the boy, his cheeks flaming with excitement. "I'm going to be a soldier--just like the Maccabees." He raised flashing eyes to his teacher's face and something that he saw there made the happiness die out of his own. Boy that he was, he realized the ache in the rabbi's heart at leaving his work and his friends behind him.

"I'm sorry you have to go, Mr. Seixas," he said simply.

The young minister turned his somber eyes back toward the synagogue which he had entered a year before, his heart burning with great hopes for the future. Now, with the Torah in his arms, his congregation scattered, he felt himself a fugitive on the face of the earth. He looked about him at the older folk like Mistress Phillips whose dying bedside he might never comfort, at the little children he could no longer teach. Lastly he looked down into the tearful eyes of his young bride--a bride of a year, with exile and hardship before her. Then he straightened his shoulders and spoke bravely.

"Some day," said Rabbi Seixas, "I will return to serve our G.o.d in a city that He has made free."