The New Land Part 3

Slowly the soldiers broke ranks, the dullest man among them touched and awed as though he had attended a new church and had consecrated himself to her service. For a moment Isaac Franks forgot his jeering comrade and his own threats; he walked to his quarters, head high in the air, eyes looking far away, as boy-like he dreamed of the days when a grateful commonwealth would "reward his merit and advance him to the highest honors of a free country." He walked on air, painting the future in the bright colors known only to seventeen, forgetful of the world about him, until he was recalled to earth by a mocking laugh and the question: "Still want to fight, Jew soldier?"

Franks stiffened and turned to face his tormentor, his face hot with anger. "Yes, I'll fight you this minute," he answered so loudly that several soldiers pa.s.sing by overhead his words and stopped to see the fun. "And thank you for reminding me, Durgan."

He pulled off his coat with a deliberate calm he was far from feeling at that moment, for he knew only too well that his opponent was vastly superior to him in strength and perhaps in experience as well. But Isaac did not hesitate in spite of the goodnatured advice of big Bob MacDonald who stepped up at that moment: "Let him alone, son--you can't whip him and it's no use to try."

But Tim had already taken off his coat and stood leering down upon Isaac who felt that he could never retreat now; that he would always despise himself as a coward, a traitor to the heroes of his race.

Setting his teeth for the drubbing he felt certain he would receive, he struck out blindly. Then he felt a hand grip his arm so tightly that he winced with pain, and looking up, saw that General Was.h.i.+ngton stood beside him.

"Well, men?" the commander's voice was very stern. "Have you nothing better to do than spend your time brawling like a couple of tavern roisterers? Give me a good and sufficient reason for such behaviour or I'll have you both tied up and flogged to teach you to act like gentlemen and soldiers of the American Army."

His quiet eyes scanned the flushed, angry faces of the two lads. He turned sharply to Franks. "I am waiting!" he said.

For a moment Isaac wavered. He had heard enough of Was.h.i.+ngton's sense of justice to realize that if the chief knew his reason for challenging Durgan he might escape with a slight reprimand, or even a word of praise for defending his race. But only for a moment. A gentleman and a soldier in the American Army, young Franks decided, did not tell tales. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, your excellency," he answered, respectfully, "but I cannot tell you the reason of our quarrel since it concerns only ourselves."

Tim Durgan, who had waited for Isaac's accusation with a mocking smile about his mouth, gave an incredulous whistle. The despised "Jew soldier" was a man after all, who would risk undeserved punishment rather than betray a comrade, no matter how much he hated him. In his sudden admiration for the boy he forgot his awe of General Was.h.i.+ngton and burst out before he was granted permission to speak.

"I'll tell you, Excellency," he cried, warmly. "I've been plaguing and tormenting the lad and for no fault of his own. I never saw a Jew in my whole life before I joined the army, but I'd heard tales of them; cowards and afraid of their own shadows. And I teased the boy, never knowing he'd mind, and when he did I just kept on to spite him. And when he threatened to fight me, I wanted to laugh, for you can see for yourself, Excellency, that I'm taller and broader than he and could toss him about if I'd a mind to. But he wasn't afraid and if you hadn't come up, he'd have tried to fight me all the same." He paused for breath, smiling broadly, and held out his hand to Franks. "It's all my fault, Your Excellency, and I'm willing to take what I ought to for it, but first let me shake hands with him and tell him such a game c.o.c.k ought to've been born an Irishman and no mistake."

The general smiled as the two clasped hands. Then: "I am sorry I was disorderly, Your Excellency," apologized Franks. "I would have tried to forget a personal insult but I could not stand by and allow my people to be slandered. But I know now that he did not understand."

"It takes a long time for some of us to understand, my boy," answered the general slowly, and, so thought Isaac, a little sadly, too. "But some day, G.o.d grant it, we will all understand the words you both have heard today and America will know no distinction of race, creed or station--only the worth that makes a man." He turned suddenly to Tim Durgan. "You come of a fighting breed, my man," he said warmly, "and just now when you confessed your fault you showed true courage. I need fighters as strong as your Irish ancestors; learn to fight only for our country and forget your petty quarrels and prejudices." He placed a kindly hand on Isaac's shoulder. "And a boy who is as loyal a Jew as you, must be a loyal American. I hope you will always carry yourself as honorably as you did today. What is your name, my lad?"

"Isaac Franks, sir," answered the boy, flus.h.i.+ng beneath his commander's praise.

"Isaac Franks of this city?"

"Yes, sir. I have always lived in New York and I enlisted here."

"Then you must be the boy of whom Colonel Lescher spoke to me. He said that you were so eager to serve that you even bought your own uniform and field equipment. I expect to hear from you again." He was about to pa.s.s on, then paused to add kindly: "And since this is a holiday afternoon, why not spend it abroad instead of wrangling here. Now,"

with a slight smile, "my Hebrew David and my Irish Jonathan, be off with you; and hereafter keep your blows for the British," he added, half jestingly, as he walked off, leaving the two lads staring somewhat sheepishly at each other as they strolled a little apart from the others.

Tim was the first to speak. "It was great of you not to tell when he asked you," he said warmly. "And if I can ever make up to you for what I said about Jews--" which proves that Tim Durgan never made a foe or a friend by halves.

"We'll forget all about that," answered Franks lightly. "But we've wasted a good part of the afternoon already. Let's take a long walk and drink to our friends.h.i.+p in some good brown ale. I know a tavern near Bowling Green where there's always jolly company and a full measure for a men in uniform."

Chatting idly together, the two began their walk through the camp, pa.s.sing rapidly down the crowded streets. There was a great stir in the city, for the storm clouds of hate against the British ruler which had been gathering for so many months had suddenly burst at the news of the signing of the Declaration at Philadelphia, and the air was heavy with protests of loyalty to the new government, and threats against King George. So when Tim and Isaac reached Bowling Green it was an excited crowd that they found there, gathered about the leaden statue of King George III; men and half-grown boys, with here and there a soldier enjoying his half-holiday.

"One would think the British were already here," Tim growled goodnaturedly. "If these merchants would stop cackling together like the hens in my father's poultry yard at home, and shoulder a gun, we'd drive Master George's tin soldiers and the Hessians back across the water so quick they'd hardly know they'd been here at all."

From the confused murmur of many voices came one rumbling cry which the boys caught and smiled to hear: "Down with King George! We are free men. Down with King George!"

A thin little man in a black coat elbowed his way to the base of the statue from which vantage point he tried to address the crowd.

"Friends," he quavered, as the uproar died, the idle mob ever ready for some new amus.e.m.e.nt, "friends, don't be too rash. Look before you leap. We are only a handful of untrained farmers and merchants. The armies of King George----"

But before he could speak further, the crowd suddenly broke lose with: "Another cursed Tory! He is in the King's hire!--Drag him down!--Hang him to a tree to teach other Tories and traitors to hold their tongues!"

The suggestion was like a fire brand to dry timber. Before the two soldiers on the outskirts of the crowd could fully realized what had happened, a stout apprentice lad in a leather ap.r.o.n had procured a rope which another brawny fellow flung around the Tory's neck. He tried to plead for mercy but his voice was silenced by the howling of the mob, so desperate in its rage against the king that they sought blind vengeance on their victim for daring to speak in his behalf.

Isaac started forward, his face white and tense. "Come, Tim," he cried, "We must make them set him free."

The Irishman shrugged. "A Tory more or less! Let them hang him and welcome."

Isaac Franks did not answer. He only pushed his way through the mob, the crowd giving place to his uniform. He knew he could do nothing against them single-handed; yet he felt that he could not let this innocent man die. And, curiously enough, he thought less of the Tory's fate than the shame that would fall upon the people of his native city, if they committed such a crime in their reckless fury. He neared the front where several older and cooler citizens stood trying in vain to persuade the angry patriots to release the Tory. Then a splendid thought flashed through his quick mind, and springing lightly upon the leaden statue, he cried in a ringing voice: "I come from General Was.h.i.+ngton."

The magic name hushed the angry crowd. They waited eagerly for the boy's words.

"I serve the general of the American Army," continued Franks, "and I am as loyal as any of you, for I carry a gun to defend my country while you do nothing but cackle, cackle like the hens in a poultry yard." The crowd, quick to respond to every suggestion, laughed goodhumoredly at Tim's mocking description which was now standing his friend in good stead. "And you have as much brains as the hens in a poultry yard," continued the boy, following his advantage, "for instead of pulling out the roots of your trouble, you attack this poor fool who never saw King George and is not even one of his soldiers."

He leaned down and half pulled the rope from the Tory's neck. "He is not worthy the honor of hanging. Use your good rope to haul down the statue of his Gracious Majesty, King George III--which has c.u.mbered our city too long. And melt the lead into bullets which the soldiers of General Was.h.i.+ngton will use against any Briton who dares to enter our New York."

A roar of applause broke from the crowd. "Down with King George!" they cried as a dozen eager hands pulled the rope from the frightened Tory's neck and flung it about the statue. The Tory, only too glad to make his escape, crept away unnoticed in the crowd, already intent upon pulling the leaden effigy to the ground. They tugged as one man, that howling, maddened mob until with a great crash the deposed statue of the hated British king lay upon the ground. Then: "Bullets" was the cry, "bullets for our soldiers," as, laughing and shouting, the citizens of New York dragged the statue away to be melted into bullets for colonial rifles.

Isaac Franks looked longingly after them. But he knew that it would soon be time for "taps" and he dared not be late. With a little sigh, he turned his face toward the camp, where, under General Was.h.i.+ngton, he hoped to learn to become a good soldier of the Republic.

THE LAST SERVICE

_The Story of a Rabbi Who Lived in New York When it Was Captured by the British in 1776._

A Sabbath hush brooded over the garden of the Rev. Mr. Gershom Mendes Seixas, minister of New York's one synagogue, _Shearith Israel_. The tall pink and white hollyhocks that bordered the prim paths nodded languidly in the warm September breeze. From the trees came the twitter of sparrows, now low and conversational, now high and shrill, "just like people in the synagogue," thought little David Phillips, as he strolled in his grandmother's garden on the other side of the hedge. And if David had pulled aside the white curtains of the Rabbi's study windows, he would have seen that the same Sabbath peace filled the low-ceilinged room, the walls covered with books, most of them rather forbidding in their musty, leather bindings. A peaceful, restful room on the Jewish rest day; but, boy as he was, David would have seen at a glance that Rabbi Seixas was not at peace with himself.

A keen-eyed, quick-moving young man of about thirty, he paced restlessly up and down between the bookshelves, his hands clasped behind his back, his brows knit in thought. Several times he glanced at the tall clock his father had brought from Lisbon; it would soon be time for him to go to the synagogue; but what message had he to give his people?

Down the quiet street came the roll of drums, and David rushed to the gate, wis.h.i.+ng with all his heart that he might follow the soldiers.

But he knew that his grandmother expected him to take her to the synagogue, and he did not dare to leave the garden; instead he stood kicking holes in the path with his s.h.i.+ning Sabbath boots which at that moment he hated with all his might, just as he hated the ruffles of fine linen that his grandmother had painfully st.i.tched for him with her loving, rheumatic old fingers, and his Sabbath suit in which he was never allowed to romp or play. And at that moment, with the British actually knocking at New York's front door, one could hardly blame a small boy for growing impatient at the restrictions of a doting old grandmother, no matter how much she might indulge the orphan grandson whom his dying father had left in her charge the year before. If he were only a man, thought David, longingly; only old enough to be with General Was.h.i.+ngton's troops across the river. But a ten-year-old boy, who couldn't even play the drum like Frank Morris, the apprentice lad who had run away to join the army, couldn't serve his country any better than a feeble old lady like Grandma or a minister like the rabbi next door.

The roll of drums had startled the rabbi as well as his young neighbor and he now appeared in his garden, walking with swift, nervous steps to the gate. At first, he did not seem to see David; only stared down the road with wide, eager eyes, his hands gripping the rails of the gate until his knuckles showed hard and white; then, as the drums grew fainter, his shoulders relaxed a little, he sighed deeply, and, turning toward David, nodded kindly, even smiling, as though he had no deeper thought in his mind than giving his young friend a Sabbath greeting.

"Good _Shabbas_," said the rabbi. "I see you're all ready for service, my lad."

"Yes, sir. I'm just waiting for Grandmother." From far off came the last sound of the drums. "Did you hear the drums, sir? I wonder whether more of our troops are coming to the city."

The minister's face darkened. "Rather the American troops are leaving it, I fear," he answered gravely. "Mr. Levy who came by early this morning told me that four British s.h.i.+ps have already pa.s.sed up North River, and that there are about the same number anch.o.r.ed in Turtle Bay. They may make a landing at any time--and if they do----" he smiled somewhat grimly, "well, I fear, my lad, that we will be living in a British province."

But David had heard too much from his cousins in Philadelphia of the glorious doings of a few months before, the Declaration of Independence signed in July, the ringing of the great Liberty Bell.

And he answered as st.u.r.dily as any other boy of 1776 might have done: "No, sir. The British may take the city, but no true-born American will submit to their rule."

Rabbi Seixas smiled a little at his fire. "But what will you do, David? They are already at our gates. From what I have heard not even General Was.h.i.+ngton, lying across the river with his troops, can stay the British now. General Howe will hold a tight rein over the city and we must learn to bow our shoulders to the yoke."

David stiffened his small shoulders stubbornly as though he actually stood before the hated English officer. "The good people of Boston,"

he began, proudly, "were not afraid of the redcoats--" then stopped, for his older companion did not have to remind him of the fate of the Boston citizens shot down on the public common by the soldiers of King George.

"Ah, little David," said the minister, sadly, reading his thoughts, "we will be just as powerless before our foe as our ancestors were before the Philistines."

A merry twinkle sparkled in David's eyes; he was a bright little fellow and he had not studied Hebrew and Jewish history all the long winter with the Rev. Mr. Seixas without learning a few lessons very helpful in time of need. "Didn't David and his sling frighten the whole Philistine army away?" he asked, mischievously.