Daughters of the Revolution and Their Times Part 52

"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 b.u.t.ts of their muskets, but the panels did not yield.

"Smash a window!"

A bayonet was thrust through a pane, and the gla.s.s rattled to the ground; the b.u.t.t of a musket smashed the sash, and a pair of hands grasped the window-sill. Memory recalled a day when two soldiers a.s.saulted 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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. Was.h.i.+ngton, 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, pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.eless sea.

They who stood around beheld the countenance of the bride transfigured as she p.r.o.nounced 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 Ma.s.sa Ginerel Howe and Ma.s.sa Ginerel Clinton, but dey ain't of no 'count 'side Ma.s.sa Major Walden and Ma.s.sa Ginerel Was.h.i.+ngton, '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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Dinner-Party.]

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 Was.h.i.+ngton, 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 Ma.s.sachusetts. 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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 Hanc.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s. 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?

[Ill.u.s.tration: Home of the Exiles.]

With the flag of the new nation--the banner of crimson stripes and fadeless stars--flying at her masthead, the s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p 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."