From Kingdom to Colony
by Mary Devereux · English · Gutenberg #34232 · 546,144 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: From Kingdom to Colony
Author: Mary Devereux
Illustrator: Henry Sandham
Release date: November 7, 2010 [eBook #34232]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34232
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM KINGDOM TO COLONY ***
Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Dorothy Devereux Southorn with George Washington]
FROM
KINGDOM TO COLONY
BY
MARY DEVEREUX
_ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY SANDHAM_
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1904
_Copyright, 1899,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
PRESSWORK BY
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
TO
MY FATHER
_OF WHOM IT IS INSCRIBED_
"EMINENT IN LIFE AND NOBLE IN HEART, LOVING
TO MEN AND LOYAL TO CHRIST, HE WAS A BLESSING
TO THE WORLD AND AN HONOR TO THE CHURCH"
From Kingdom to Colony
PROLOGUE
When William, Duke of Normandy, invaded England in 1066, and achieved
for himself the title of "Conqueror," one of those who accompanied him
was Robert D'Evreux, younger son of Walter, Earl of Rosmar, feudal
owner and ruler of the town of his name in Normandy.
After the battle of Hastings, in which William won so great a victory,
he, wishing to honor the memory of the noblemen and knights by whose
aid it had been accomplished, placed their names upon a roll which was
suspended in a stately pile, called "Battle Abbey," erected by him upon
the field of battle.
In the several exemplifications of "Battle Abbey Roll," as it was
termed, the name of Robert D'Evreux is variously expressed as
"Daveros," "Deverous," "Conte Devreux," and "Counte Devereux."
It was the close of an early May day in 1639. Charles I. was reigning
monarch of England, and the Scotch Covenanters were disturbing his
kingdom's peace.
Against these malcontents Charles had sent his army, and Robert
Devereux, only son of the beheaded favorite of Elizabeth, and now third
Earl of Essex, had been made Lieutenant-General, he having already, by
his resolution and activity no less than by his personal courage, done
good service to the King and won much honor for himself.
On this May day, in Warwick, far from all scenes of war or rumors from
court, Bromwich Castle, the home of Sir Walter Devereux,
Baronet--cousin and present heir of the King's unmarried
Lieutenant-General--lifted its turrets, about whose clinging ivy the
late afternoon sunshine played golden and warm.
It was a huge pile, massively irregular in architecture, and its thick
walls bore traces of those times when a Baron of England was a power in
the land,--monarch of his domain, and chief of his own people.
A rugged old tower was its keep, flanked by four symmetrical turrets,
and crowned by a battlement overlooking the whole country around.
About these clung ivy in a thousand thick wreaths; and here and there,
where it was not, the centuries had woven a fantastic tracery of moss,
green as the ivy itself, and delicate as frost-work.
What had been the moat was now but a pleasant grassy hollow, carpeted
thickly with golden cowslips and fragrant violets, their growing lipped
by a tiny stream of purest water.
The castle was surrounded almost to its walls by the forest of ancient
oaks, spreading in all directions, and becoming denser and more wild as
it stretched miles away. And here were the deer, numerous and fat,
that well supplied the larder for Sir Walter's board, or cooled their
sides amid the rankly growing brake and ferns, where naught troubled
the intense silence of the dusky aisles save the whir of the pheasant,
or the foot of the hare, light as the leaf dropping from the green arch
overhead.
Sir Walter was in the forest this day, and with him were his three
goodly sons, besides several retainers. The notes of the horn had come
faintly to the castle now and again, as they pursued the chase; and up
in her apartments Anne, the seventeen-year-old wife of Sir Walter's
youngest son, sat watching for a first glimpse of the returning
huntsmen.
Upon her knees lay an open volume, bound in white vellum, and with
clasps of pearl. It was richly illuminated, every page presenting a
picture gorgeous with color, and it was a carefully narrated story of
travel and adventure in that far-away country across the ocean for
which she and her young husband were soon to set sail.
She paused over one of the illustrations, and gazed at it long and
earnestly, while her agate-gray eyes grew wide, and became filled with
consternation. It was the picture of an Indian chief, in all the
formidable toggery of war dress and paint; and his fierceness of mien
brought to her young heart a hitherto unknown dread and terror.
The golden of the sun was turning to rose, when a clatter of hoofs and
the sound of men's voices drew her eyes toward the courtyard below.
Resting her dimpled arms upon the rough stone of the window-ledge, she
leaned over and smiled down into the upturned face of her
twenty-two-year-old husband, whose dark eyes sought her casement ere he
dismounted from his tired horse, which the esquire at its head had now
little need to hold. He waved his hand to her, while a bright smile
illumined his grave face, and she responded by blowing him a kiss from
the tips of her taper fingers.
The old Baronet, who had been the first to dismount, looked up as well,
and shook his hunting spear at her.
"Ah, rogue!" he called out. "Wait till I catch thee! With never a
kiss to spare thy old father!"
Her fresh young laugh rang out gayly as she retorted, "But I have many
an one, if you choose, good sir, as surely you wot right well."
"'T is a dear child,--a sweet lass, Jack," the old man said to his
youngest son as the two entered the castle side by side. "My heart
misgives me at thought of her going to the far-off heathen country,
amongst savages and wild beasts; for, alack, who can tell what may
befall there?"
Behind them followed Leicester, Sir Walter's eldest son, and beside him
was young Will,--in his boyhood a page, and now the heir's special
esquire. Walter, the next son, came after them, and then the retainers.
These latter bore the deer slain that afternoon,--a famous buck, with
great spreading antlers; and the hounds were close by, sniffing about
the carcass with repressed excitement.
The three sons of Sir Walter Devereux were much alike in coloring and
stature, being tall and stalwart, with broad shoulders, deep chests,
and martial bearing. Their faces were dark, with regular features and
full rounded foreheads, and the narrow, strongly marked eyebrows arched
over unusually large dark eyes.
But the eyes of these three young men were totally different in
expression. Those of Leicester were apt to glow with over-haughtiness;
for albeit proof was not lacking to show that he had done kind deeds
and was a loyal friend and subject as well as a valiant soldier, he was
feared, rather than liked, by his subordinates.
Walter's eyes bespoke his true nature,--a rollicking one. Indeed an
enemy of "Wat" Devereux were a hard matter to find.
But, favorite though he was, his younger brother, John, went far beyond
him in this respect. His was a quiet nature, much given to
contemplation; one that drew the best from all hearts about him. He
had been his mother's idol; and his face was the last her dying eyes
sought three years before, as he sat, pale and silent, by her bedside,
calmly and prayerfully awaiting her end. He it was to whom the old
Baronet always opened his heart, when the elder son's haughty reserve
perplexed or hurt him, or Walter's recklessness brought trouble.
Up in the dusking turret room, on the cushions by the open casement,
John Devereux now sat, dressed for the evening meal.
Putting his strong arm about Anne, he drew her head to his shoulder,
and laughed when she showed him the picture that had so affrighted her,
while she confided to him her fears lest some such demon should work
evil upon him in that strange land in which they were about to find a
new home.
"Nay, sweetheart," he said earnestly, "never would I think to take thee
to such perils. There be few, if any, such Indians in the country
where we shall abide. These writings treat of long-ago days, when
goodly English hearts were few on that shore. 'T is changed now; and
albeit somewhat rougher than here in our father's castle, 't is every
whit as safe. And think, sweetheart," he added proudly, "we shall be
the head of our name in this new land,--the same as our brother
Leicester here, in old England."
She clung to him silently, while he stroked her soft hair and bent his
handsome head to see her face, now smiling, and looking more reassured.
"Art thou still fearful, little one?" he asked presently.
She lifted her face to look into his eyes, and clasped her arms about
his neck.
"Fearful?" she repeated. "Nay, not I, so long as thou art with me."
He drew her head against his breast, and a brooding peace fell upon
them, broken only by the cawing of the rooks circling about the tower,
or the melancholy notes of the ringdoves ensconced amid the ivy on the
ancient turrets.
Across the broad Atlantic, on the rocky shore of Marblehead, the May
sun had been shining as golden and warm as in old England; and the new
home, although lacking the renown which age and legend had brought to
every stone of Bromwich Castle, was enveloped by the glory that comes
from the love of pure, brave hearts and God-fearing lives.
Facing the open sea along a portion of the shore of what is now known
as Devereux and Clifton, lay the acres--forest and meadow land--of
which John Devereux was owner. The house--a low, rambling stone
building, of somewhat pretentious size for those days, and fitted with
stout oaken doors and shutters--stood in a small clearing.
Only a few yards away were the sheds for cattle, placed thus near for
greater protection against thieving Indians, as well as the pilfering
pirates who at rare intervals swept along the coast and descended upon
the unwary settler, in quest of food or booty.
The virgin forest rose all about, save to the southwest, where the
fields were planted to the extent of several acres; and beyond these
the forest came again, stretching away to the site of the present town
of Marblehead, more than a mile off.
In front of the house was a small open space where the trees had been
cut away and the undergrowth removed, that a glimpse might be obtained
of the sea; and the land, sloping to the sands, ended in a noble sweep
of beach.
A mile or more to the south and southwest, by Forest River, dwelt the
Indians, their wigwams not so many as a few years before; for want and
pestilence had sadly weakened the once proud Naumkegs.
Their chief, the renowned Nanepashemet, was now dead; and the present
ruler, his widow, the "Squaw Sachem," was, like her tribe, too greatly
broken by the vicissitudes of fate to resist the encroachments of the
whites. And her only surviving son, Weenepauweekin, or, as the
settlers called him, "George," was either indifferent, or else too wise
to risk incurring further trouble for his tribe by assuming other than
an amicable attitude toward his white neighbors.
And thus it was that between the settlers and the Naumkegs all was at
peace.
The wife of Weenepauweekin, Ahawayet by name, was well known to Anne
Devereux and her husband; and both she and her daughter, a girl of
seventeen, were frequent visitors at the house of the "English Chief,"
as John Devereux was called by the Indians.
In her own gentle, coaxing way, Anne had undertaken to instruct
Ahawayet in the Christian faith, and hoped to impress also the wayward,
wild-eyed daughter, Joane, who would sometimes come from her dignified
playing with the children of the "English Chief" to crouch by her
mother, and listen to these teachings.
When the news of Sir Walter's death had come across the sea, tears
gathered in Anne's eyes as she raised them to those of her sad-faced
husband.
"I cannot but think," she said, "on Sir Walter's face, as we saw it
fade away while we stood on the ship's deck that morn, with the tears
streaming down his cheeks like I never saw them come from a man's eyes
before."
"Aye," her husband added, "he was a dear, good father, and a friend as
well. God grant that we and them that come after us do naught to bring
reproach or sorrow to the name he hath worn, as have so many before
him, with pride, and right good dignity."
The sun was sinking fast, and the odor of the forest growths was
beginning to mingle with the tang of the sea.
The voices of men and women busy about the cattle and milking were
making a cheerful sound of life and bustle from the sheds and
outhouses; and on the low-roofed porch in front of the house door,
overhung with drooping vines, John Devereux's three sons, Humphrey,
John, and Robert, were busy at play.
But they were not too busy to pause now and then to send searching
glances into the forest in quest of their father, whom they all united
in adoring as the wisest and greatest of created beings.
Humphrey, the eldest, was looking forward proudly to his ninth
birthday, now almost at hand, when he was to have the promise fulfilled
of being permitted to go along with his father to hunt in the forest,
or out on the sea, to fish.
Near them sat their mother, stouter and more matronly than the slender
Anne of ten years ago. The aforetime dainty hands were not guiltless
of toil stains, and the dark hair was now gathered beneath a snowy
mobcap, with only here and there a short, wayward curl stealing out to
trail across her brow or touch her pretty ears.
A sudden shout from the boys announced their father's appearance, as he
came out of the woods and across the clearing, and with him Noah, the
darkey servant, well loaded with game.
"Thou hast had a most successful hunt!" exclaimed Anne, smiling a
bright welcome into her husband's fond eyes, while the children's small
hands clung to him, and tiny brown fingers were poked into the mouths
of dead rabbits, or tweaked their whiskers to see if they were really
dead, or tried to pull open the beaks and eyes of slain birds.
"Aye," was his laughing reply, as he gently freed himself from the
little clinging hands; "and I have found more in the forest than game
alone, in that I have a most ferocious appetite,--one I trust thou wilt
have a plenty to satisfy."
"Give the game to David," said Anne, as a younger and smaller edition
of Noah approached, "and come thou within and see, for the supper hath
been ready this half hour."
An hour later the children were all safely in Nodland, and husband and
wife were sitting either side the fireplace, where the burning wood was
pleasant to feel, for a chill had crept into the air. But the outer
door was open, and through it came the hoarse notes of the frogs down
in the swampy lands, mingled with the roar of the surf along the
near-by shore.
They sat in silence, each content with the other's nearness, as they
watched the leaping flames, which made the only light in the room. And
this was reflected in a thousand scintillating sparks from the brass
fire-dogs that upheld the logs, and in the handles of the shovels and
tongs, scrubbed and polished with all the power of arm possessed by
Shubar, the Indian wife of old Noah.
Suddenly a lithe, girlish form slipped through the half-open door,
coming with a tread as noiseless as the leaping shadows about the far
corners of the room, and Joane, the Squaw Sachem's granddaughter,
glided to the hearth and stood between John Devereux and his wife.
So accustomed were they to such things that neither of them was
startled, but kindly bade her welcome.
Crouching on the hearth, she turned her dusky face and glittering eyes
toward John Devereux, and said quietly and in a low voice, "Strange
boat--big boat in harbor, English Chief."
He looked troubled, and Anne glanced at him apprehensively, while Joane
continued, now speaking more rapidly, "Gran'mudder sent me tell better
keep door shut--better get gun."
"Thou dost mean that the Squaw Sachem sent thee to tell there be
danger?" John Devereux asked, half rising from his chair, and looking
toward the door. "She thinks they mean evil?"
"Don't know how answer. English Chief talk too fast--ask too many
questions all same time. Go slow--then Joane hear right--tell him
right." And she smiled up into his face while she touched the slender
forefinger of her left hand with the fingers of the right, as if
waiting to enumerate his questions.
"Thy grandmother sent thee?"
The girl nodded, and touched a second finger.
"She thinks the men on the ship may do us harm?"
"Say don't like looks--got bad black faces," replied Joane, scowling as
though to illustrate her meaning.
"Have any of them come ashore yet?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes--so many," holding up seven brown fingers, "come 'shore. Get
water to drink--then go back to ship when sun shines. But no go 'way
yet--no mean to go. Tell gran'mudder want somethin' eat. Take our
corn, and pay no money."
"Pirates!" John Devereux exclaimed, now starting to his feet, while he
looked at his wife, whose face paled.
He hurried across the room, bolted and barred the stout door, and
examined the window fastenings, the Indian girl still crouching by the
hearth and watching him placidly, as if a pirate raid were a matter of
small moment.
But her sparkling eyes, and the heaving bosom agitating the many bead
necklaces hanging from throat to waist, betrayed her.
"See thou to the children, sweetheart, and warn the maids," John
Devereux said to his wife, as he took down his gun and examined it
carefully, "while I go to the men and see that the cattle be safe, and
the back of the house made secure."
"Good!" exclaimed Joane, with quick approval. "English Chief no
sleep--heap good. Give Joane gun, too."
"Had thou not best return to the wigwam, Joane, and to the Squaw
Sachem?" inquired Anne, pausing as she was about to leave the room.
"What go for?" the girl demanded, while her eyes flashed with fierce
intensity. "No good go--can fight here--fight good, too. Joane stay
and fight by English Chief and his 'Singing Bird,'"--this being the
name given by the Naumkegs to Anne, on account of her musical voice.
Knowing that nothing would turn Joane when once her ideas were fixed,
and knowing too that her skill with the bow and gun was equal to that
of any warrior, Anne was silent,--grateful indeed for any addition to
the slender force at hand for defence.
There were in all but nine men, servants and laborers,--two of them
white, and the others either Africans or Indians; but they were all,
saving old Noah, young, stalwart, and fearless.
John Devereux posted these men in the outbuildings and sheds, as cattle
were generally the spoil sought by the marauders when they visited the
coast. And when assigning them their positions, he warned them, should
they find themselves in danger of being overpowered, to give a signal
and retreat to the house, where a side-door would be opened for their
entrance. Then, having left with them a plentiful supply of
ammunition, he went within to mount guard over his wife and babies.
He had five guns wherewith to arm his household, without counting his
own piece, and every woman in his service was acquainted with their
use. Even Anne herself had, under his own tuition, become no mean
markswoman.
Within doors he found the women greatly excited, and fluttering about
aimlessly; but a few quiet words soon brought order amongst them, and
with it a return of their courage. Then, having accomplished this, he
went once more through the house, from the rooms downstairs to the
low-ceilinged sleeping apartments above, and satisfied himself that all
was secure.
In the nursery he found his wife looking at the little boys, who were
lying on two great bags of ticking, stuffed with the feathers of wild
geese, and placed on the floor, in lieu of bedsteads.
They were sleeping soundly, oblivious of the alarm about the house; and
standing beside his wife, his arm around her waist, John Devereux
looked down at them.
On one of the pallets lay Humphrey, his strong young arms outstretched,
and his chest--broad for his years, and finely developed---showing
white as alabaster where the simple linen garment was rarely buttoned
by his impatient fingers.
On the other were the two younger boys; and Robert, the gentlest of the
three, with his father's own winsome nature, lay with his head half
pillowed against his brother John's shoulder.
"What a blessed thing is childhood, and ignorance of danger!" murmured
Anne, looking at her husband.
"Aye," he said softly, as they turned away. "So may we know no fear of
dangers that threaten, sweet wife, while we trust to Him who watcheth
us,--who 'slumbers not, nor sleeps.'"
And as she had answered him ten years before, so she said to him now,
"So long as we be together, I have no fear."
A long and shrill sound now broke the silence. It was the blowing of
the conch shell suspended in front of the outer door; and it announced
a visitor seeking admission.
Surprised at this, and alarmed as well, husband and wife hurried to the
front room below stairs, where they found Joane still crouched upon the
hearth. Her bow, now unslung, lay close at hand, and she was examining
with pleased curiosity the clumsy blunderbuss resting across her
knees,--one that John, at her earnest request, had intrusted to her.
"No enemy--make heap too much noise," was her sententious remark, as
she looked up from her inspection of the weapon.
"Mayhap they but do that to disarm us," John replied, as he went
cautiously toward the door.
He knew there was no way, except from the beach, for any one to
approach the house unseen by his faithful outposts. And he had
reckoned upon no attack coming from that quarter, as there was no
sailing breeze. Then, again, the pirates would be more likely to come
from the direction of the forest, hoping to effect a greater surprise
than if they came from the water.
The wailing cry of the conch shell pierced the air for the second time,
to echo again in falling cadences that died away in the woods and over
the sea.
Placing his lips to the loophole near the door, John Devereux now
demanded to know who was outside.
A nasal, whining voice replied; and although the words were
indistinguishable, their sound caused the Indian girl to laugh
scornfully.
She said nothing, however, but springing quickly to her feet, sped to
the small opening. Then, before her purpose could be understood, she
thrust the muzzle of the blunderbuss through the aperture.
"Hold, Joane!" commanded John, as he caught her arm. "What is't thou
wouldst do,--kill, perchance, an innocent man? Put the gun down,
child, until I challenge again, and know for a surety who it be.
Methinks the voice hath a familiar sound."
Joane obeyed him, still smiling maliciously as she said: "Only want
give him heap big scare. Him big 'fraid--him coward."
"'T is Parson Legg!" exclaimed Anne, now recalling the piping voice,
and enlightened by Joane's contemptuous words.
Her husband opened the door, and a slim, weazen-faced, bandy-legged
little man stepped hastily within, his eyes, small and keen as those of
a ferret, blinking from the sudden passing out of darkness into light.
"Good e'en to thee, Parson Legg; thou art late abroad," said Anne,
coming forward. She did not smile, nor was there aught of welcome in
her voice or manner.
But this lack of cordiality was not felt by the unexpected visitor, for
he doffed his steeple-crowned hat, which, like the rest of his apparel,
was much the worse for wear, and responded briskly, "Good e'en,
Mistress Anne, an' the same to you, neighbor John; I hope the Lord's
blessin' is upon all within this abode. Ah, who have ye here?" and he
peered down at Joane, who had resumed her place before the fire, her
back turned squarely toward Parson Legg as he stood in the centre of
the room.
He came closer to her, but for all the notice she vouchsafed of his
words or presence she might have been one of the brass fire-dogs
upholding the blazing logs.
"'T is the Squaw Sachem's granddaughter, Joane," replied John Devereux,
turning from the door, which he had refastened.
"Aye, so it be," said the little man; "one o' the unregenerate heathen,
upon whom, if they turn not from their idolatrous ways, shall descend
smitings sore from the Lord. Hip an' thigh shall they be smitten, and
their places shall know them no more."
"Joane hath no idols, good sir, that I know on," said his host, as he
came forward and offered the visitor a seat, and then took one himself
by the door. "She seemeth ever ready to heed the words of my good
wife, and our babes could not have a more gentle playfellow."
Anne had seated herself near Joane, by the fire; and she looked with no
very friendly eyes at the Parson, as she said, "Think you not, good
sir, it were better to chide the 'unregenerate heathen,' as you call
them, with more gentleness?"
His little eyes narrowed into yet meaner lines as he fixed them upon
her face. Then leaning forward to lay a finger upon the gun that again
lay across Joane's knees, he answered, "It would seem but poor excuse
to prate o' gentleness to one who at unseemly hours and seasons goeth
about with death-dealin' weapons, seekin' whom she may devour."
The Indian girl still sat immovable; a statue could not have appeared
more bereft of hearing or speech. But to Anne's face there came a look
of fine scorn, which softened however into almost a smile as she
glanced at her husband.
"Joane came to warn us of danger," John said quietly. "She tells us
there is a strange ship in harbor, and we be now armed to guard against
pirates,--for such they promise to be."
Parson Legg sprang to his feet as though stung by a passing insect.
"Pirates!" he repeated, in a shrill cry of alarm. "Pirates,--say ye
so? I heard naught o' such matter. I was in the woods hereabout all
the afternoon, readin' the psalmody, an' makin' joyful melody unto the
Lord, till darkness o'ertook me, an' I bethought myself to make my way
to this abode, neighbor John, as peradventure thou an' Mistress Anne,
thy wife, would give me food an' shelter in the Lord's name till
mornin'."
Parson Legg was only an itinerant preacher, having long striven, but
without avail, to be accepted by the colonists as successor to their
late beloved pastor, the Reverend Hugh Peters, who had gone to England
some years before to act as their agent, and was likely to remain there
for some time to come, being now a chaplain in the army of Cromwell.
But Legg was entirely unfitted, both by birth and education, for the
position to which he aspired. He was selfish and irritable, with a
grasping, worldly nature, despite his outward show of humility and
sanctity, and was regarded by the colonists with suspicion and illy
concealed dislike, while the Indians held him in positive hatred.
Since the summer day, two years before, when he had come upon Joane in
the forest, attired in the manly habiliments of her tribe,--this being
only for greater convenience while hunting--and had hurled at her young
head anathemas such as fairly smelled of brimstone, it had been open
war between the two; and the very sight of one to the other was like
that of a plump kitten to a lively terrier.
Anne had by this time set forth a meal upon the table, and
notwithstanding his recent fright, Parson Legg's little eyes glistened
voraciously as he drew up his chair, while he smacked his thin lips
more as would a sturdy yeoman, than like a meek and lowly follower of
the creed which crucifies the flesh and its appetites.
John still kept his seat by the door, his keen ears listening intently
for any unusual sound without, while Parson Legg crunched away at the
venison and corn bread,--doing this with more gusto than was pleasant
for either eye or ear.
Anne had left the room, motioning to Joane to follow her, and an
intense silence seemed to lie about the house, save as it was broken by
the sputtering of the fire upon the hearth and the sound of Parson
Legg's gastronomic vocalism, and now and then the subdued murmur of
women's voices from one of the rooms in the rear.
A sudden roar of firearms, followed by wild yells and cries without,
shattered the peaceful brooding of the place, and caused Parson Legg to
spring wildly from his chair.
"The heathen are upon us!" he gasped, his articulation being somewhat
impeded by the presence of a huge piece of venison in his mouth. "The
heathen are come upon us with riotin' an' slaughter! John--John
Devereux, hide me, I beseech thee,--hide me from their vengeance. I am
a man o' peace, an' the sight o' bloodshed is somethin' I could ne'er
abide."
John paid no attention to the terrified little man, but springing up
with an impetuosity that sent his chair flying across the room, stood
erect and scowling, his face turned toward the sounds of strife, and
his strong fingers gripping his gun.
"Anne--wife--where art thou?" he cried, as the din increased, and more
shots were fired.
"Here." And she quietly entered the room, her face pale, but perfectly
calm. "The noise hath awakened the little boys, but I have left Shubar
with them, and promised to return shortly."
"Where is Joane?" her husband asked quickly.
"With Shubar and the boys."
"Good; for then there be one gun near, to assure the little ones."
He had been nervously fingering the hammer of his own piece, and while
speaking he crossed the room and took a position near that side of the
house from whence came the sound of firearms.
Anne remained by the hearth, watching him closely, her tightly clenched
hands being all that told of the agitation within.
"Are the little ones much affrighted?" he asked.
"No," she said, still in her calm, sweet fashion; "they do not seem to
be--that is, not much. Humphrey begged that he might have a gun, and
Robert sat quiet, looking at me with eyes so like your own as he asked,
'Art fearful, mother? Father will ne'er let them hurt us.'"
John Devereux smiled proudly, for the moment forgetting the din about
them.
"And John," he asked,--"what said our second son?"
"He seemeth most affrighted of all," she replied. "He wept at first,
and hid his face in my gown; but he was calm when I came away. Thou
knowest, John, that the lad hath not been well since the fever, last
fall."
"Aye, true,--poor little Jack!" the father said. And he now wondered
what might have happened outside, for there was a ceasing of the uproar.
He listened intently a moment. "Methinks, sweetheart, I'd best go
outside and see what this silence doth mean. Thou'lt not be fearful if
I leave the house awhile?"
She grew still paler, but only shook her head. Then she asked
suddenly, "Where be Parson Legg?"
Husband and wife looked about the room, and then at one another.
"He was here when the firing began," said John, finding it difficult
not to smile as he recalled the scene.
"But wherever can he have gone?" persisted Anne.
"Hiding somewhere, I warrant me," was her husband's reply. "He is an
arrant--"
His words were drowned by the roar of a blunderbuss, coming apparently
from just over their heads, and this was followed a moment later by a
wild yell of triumph from outside.
It was from John's men, and he started to open the door. But before he
could do this there arose such a clamor in the nursery above that he
and Anne, forgetful of all else, sped up the stairway.
Old Shubar's voice came to them raised in shrill cries, echoed by those
of the boys,--only that Humphrey and Robert seemed to speak more from
indignation than fright.
Wondering what it could all mean, they hurried into the room, where an
absurd sight met their alarmed eyes.
In one corner, beside Humphrey's pallet, stood Shubar, still uttering
the wild shrieks they had heard, and huddling about her were the three
boys,--John clinging to her gown, while Humphrey and Robert, both
facing about, were shouting at a strange figure that burrowed
frantically into the pallet occupying the opposite corner of the
chamber.
"Shubar says 't is a witch," cried Robert. "Take thy gun and slay her
before she bring evil upon us."
"Be quiet, my son," said his father, scarcely able to repress his
laughter, for at the sound of his voice Parson Legg's weazened face,
all blanched by fear, was lifted from out the pillows, and a pair of
terror-stricken eyes peered over his shoulder.
He had been lying face downward, partially covered by the bedclothes,
under which he was still trying to conceal himself; and his
steeple-crowned hat, now a shapeless wreck, was pulled down over his
ears, as if to shut out more effectually the sounds of strife that had
well-nigh bereft him of reason.
"It would seem thou canst preach far better, Parson Legg, than defend
thyself from the enemy," John Devereux said rather grimly, looking down
with unconcealed contempt upon the little coward, while Anne busied
herself in reassuring the children and quieting Shubar's angry
mutterings.
"Even so, neighbor John, even so," answered the Parson, in no wise
disconcerted at the sarcasm of the other's words and tone, and making
no movement to emerge from his retreat. "As I told thee below, I am a
man o' peace, an' I like not the sound o' war an' the sight o'
bloodshed. But what doth this silence portend?--are the enemy
routed,--are they vanquished, an' put down, smitten hip an' thigh, an'
put to flight by thy brave followers?"
His anxious queries met with no reply, for John Devereux, who was
standing upon the threshold of the room, had become conscious of a
sharp current of air blowing upon his cheek. It told him that the
scuttle was open overhead, and turning about, he darted swiftly up the
ladder.
He was soon upon the roof, and here he stood a few moments and looked
keenly about.
The voices of his men came to him from the ground below. They had left
their concealment, and the lightness of their tones told him that all
danger was past.
As his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, the dim starlight
revealed to him the outlines of a form crouching behind the great
chimney not far away.
"Joane!" he called softly, suspecting who it might be.
She arose and came to him, and he heard her laughing to herself.
"What camest thou up here for?" he demanded, speaking quite sharply.
"Joane shoot pirate captain," she answered, still laughing. "Heap
scare 'em--no know where shot come from--all run away to ship."
And so it proved. The marauders, having received a very different
reception from the one they had expected, were utterly discomfited when
an unseen enemy--in the person of Joane and her blunderbuss--scattered
a mighty charge of slugs and bullets in their midst. Their leader was
struck in the arm, and fearing they had fallen into an ambuscade from
which it would be difficult to escape, he shouted to his men that he
was wounded, and bade them fly to the ship.
This was the last of the raids that had so annoyed the colonists, and
thenceforth they were free from such molestation.
John Devereux's days passed on, full of peace and pleasantness, until
he died at a ripe old age, respected and loved by all his
fellow-townsmen, and mourned deeply by the faithful wife who did not
long survive him.
The boys lived to man's estate, were married, and had children of their
own. But Humphrey and John died in their father's lifetime; and so it
was that Robert, the second son, became the heir.
CHAPTER I
Marblehead, and July, in the year of our Lord 1774.
In the harbor (now known as Great Bay) the water lay, a smooth,
glistening floor of amethystine hue, shut in protectively by the
"Neck," thrust out like a strong arm between it and the rougher sea
beyond, stretching, purple and endless, to the rim of the cloudless
horizon.
To the north and northwest lay the islands, the nearer ones sharply
outlined in trees and verdure, but showing here and there a grayness of
beach or boulder, like the bald spot among some good man's otherwise
plentiful locks.
Looking eastward, Cat Island was closest of all to the mainland, the
charred ruins upon it showing sharply in the brilliant afternoon
sunshine; and here, amid the desolation, a few of the blackened timbers
still remained upright, like arms lifted in protest against the
vengeance visited upon the hospital a short time before by the
well-meant zeal of the infuriated townsfolk.
In August of the previous year, during an epidemic of smallpox, a
meeting was called in the townhouse, and Elbridge Gerry, John Glover,
Azor Orne, and Jonathan Glover petitioned that a hospital be built on
Cat Island, for the treatment of smallpox patients, or else that the
town permit certain individuals to do this at their own expense.
The town refused to build the hospital, but gave permission to the
individuals to construct one, provided the adjoining town of Salem gave
its consent; it being also stipulated that the hospital should be so
regulated as to shield the inhabitants of Marblehead from any "danger
of infection" therefrom.
The necessary approval having been obtained from Salem, preparations
were made in September for erecting the hospital.
By this time some of the people of Marblehead had become impressed with
the fear that by the establishing of the hospital the dread disease
would become a prevailing pest amongst them. Their terror made them
unreasonable, and they now fiercely opposed the scheme to which they
had once given their consent, and demanded that the work be abandoned;
but the proprietors, filled with indignation at what they considered
rank injustice, persisted in carrying out their worthy project to
completion.
In October the hospital was finished, and placed in charge of an
eminent physician from Portsmouth, who had attained a wide reputation
for his success in the treatment of smallpox. Several hundred patients
came under his care, with gratifying results. But a few had died, and
this fact brought about bitter and active hostility from the
malcontents. They demanded that the place be abandoned at once; and
threats of violence began to be made.
The feeling gained in strength and intensity, until at length the
proprietors gave up the contest. And then, to assure themselves that
the hospital should not be reopened, a party of the townspeople,
closely disguised, crossed to Cat Island one night in the following
January, and left the buildings in flames.
But now these summer weeks found the town excited and tumultuous over
still graver matters. The British government had found it
impracticable to enforce the duty upon tea, and resorting to
subterfuge, adopted a compromise whereby the East India Company,
hitherto the greatest losers by the diminution of its exports from
Great Britain, was authorized to send its goods to all places free of
duty.
Although the tea would now become cheaper for the colonists, they were
not deceived by this new ministerial plan. And when the news was
received that the East India Company had freighted ships with tea
consigned to its colonial agents, meetings were held to devise measures
to prevent the sale or unloading of the tea within the province.
The agents, when waited upon by the committee chosen for that purpose
in Boston, refused flatly to promise that the tea should not be
unloaded or sold by them; and they were forthwith publicly stigmatized
as enemies to their country, and resolutions were adopted providing
that they, and all such, should be dealt with accordingly.
In December, 1773, the historical "Tea Party" took place in Boston
harbor; and in the following spring Governor Hutchinson resigned, and
General Thomas Gage was appointed in his stead.
Bill after bill was passed in Parliament and sanctioned by the King,
having in view but the single object of bringing the people of
Massachusetts to terms. The quartering of English troops in Boston was
made legal. Town meetings were prohibited except by special permission
from the Governor. And finally the infamous "Port Bill" was passed,
which removed the seat of government to Salem, and closed the port of
Boston to commerce.
In July subscriptions were being solicited by order of the town of
Marblehead for the relief of the poor of Boston, who were suffering
from the operation of the "Port Bill," and all the buildings which
could be utilized, even to the town-house, were placed at the disposal
of the merchants, for the storage of their goods.
In defiance of Parliament, whose act had practically suppressed all
town meetings, the people of Marblehead continued to assemble and
express their views, and discuss the grave questions then agitating the
entire country. The very air of the sea seemed to murmur of war and
the rumors of war; and the hearts of thinking men and women were heavy
with forebodings of the struggle they felt to be imminent.
But the little town was lying brooding and peaceful this July
afternoon. Its wooded hills to the west sent shadows across the grassy
meadows and slopes, rising and falling to meet the sand-beaches, or
ending in the headlands of granite that made sightly outlooks from
which to scan the sea for threatening ships.
Under the pines that made shadows along the way, a horseman was going
leisurely along the road leading to the Fountain Inn.
To his left lay level meadow lands, rising into hills as they neared
the inn, the old Burial Hill--the town's God's Acre--being highest of
all. To his right, the green fields and marshes stretched unbroken to
the sea, save for here and there a clump of bushes and tangled vines,
or a thicket of wild roses. The road before him ended in two branches,
one leading to the rising ground on the right, where stood the Fountain
Inn, while to the left it terminated in a sandy beach, before which
stretched the peaceful waters of Little Harbor, now whitened with the
sails of East Indian commerce, and the craft belonging to the fishing
fleets that plied their yearly trade to the "Banks" and to Boston.
No large ship could come nigh the shore in Little Harbor; whereas in
the deep bay lying between the Neck and the town, the enemy's vessels
might anchor by the land itself. And here the townsfolk kept a most
active lookout, which left the hills and beaches of Little Harbor
almost deserted.
CHAPTER II
The bridle was lying slack upon the neck of the horse, who picked his
way carefully along the road, his hoofs now clicking over the stony
highway, now falling noiselessly upon the brown pine needles. And the
occasional clatter of his shoes, or the busy chatter of a squirrel high
up in a tree, were the only sounds to interrupt the musings of the
stalwart rider, whose head was bowed, and whose eyes strayed moodily
about.
He was dark and tall, well knit, and of powerful build, yet lithe and
graceful. The wandering breeze whipped out stray curling locks about
his ears and temples from the mass of dark hair done up in a queue.
The broad-brimmed riding-hat was pulled well down over his strongly
marked brows, and the smooth-shaven face betrayed the compressed lips
of the large but finely formed mouth.
A flash of something white speeding across the road a few yards in
front of him caused the dark eyes to open wide, and brought his musings
to a sudden end.
Across the marshes to the left he caught a glimpse of twinkling feet,
encased in low steel-buckled shoes that seemed to be bearing away from
him a fleeting cloud of white drapery.
It was a female, with her so-called "cut" (a dress-skirt so narrow and
straight as to make rapid movement very difficult) thrown up over her
head and shoulders, as she went over the grass toward the beach at the
side of the road facing the Neck.
Recognizing her at once, the horseman called out, "Dorothy!" and
spurred his horse out of the road and across the marsh.
As though hearing him, she paused, and without lowering the "cut,"
turned to look over her shoulder.
The wind, catching her dress, blew the white folds aside, showing a
roguish face, and one bearing a strong family resemblance to the man in
pursuit. But her features were small and delicate, while his, although
not lacking in refinement, were far bolder in strength of outline.
She had the same dark eyes, set far apart under delicate but firmly
marked brows,--the same swart curling lashes, and riotous locks.
But here the likeness ceased; for while his face was grave, and full of
a set purpose and resolution, hers was almost babyish, and full of
witchery, with a peachy bloom coming and going in the rounded cheeks.
She was panting a little from her running, and now stood, waiting for
him to speak, her red lips parted in a mocking smile that showed two
rows of little teeth, white as the meat of a hazel-nut.
"What mischief have you been up to, you little rogue, and why are you
running away from me?" he asked. He spoke with quiet good nature, but
looked down at her with an elder brother's reproof showing in his face.
She did not answer, but only glanced up at him from the sheltering
folds of the skirt, billowing about her face like a cloud, while the
horse, recognizing a loved playmate, whinnied, and bowed his head to
her shoulder as if mutely begging a caress.
"You have been to see Moll Pitcher again," the young man asserted; "and
you know our father would be angry that you should do it. And 't is
very wrong, Dorothy, in these times, that you should be over in this
part of the town alone."
Her brother called her so rarely by her full name that a change from
the caressing "Dot" to the solemn-sounding "Dorothy" was a sure mark of
his displeasure.
The smile died from her face, and her eyes fell. But she looked
mutinous, as she raised a small hand to stroke the horse's nose.
"I did not come alone, Jack," she explained. "Leet rowed me over, and
Pashar came with us; and I had little 'Bitha, too."
"An old darkey, who sits dozing in the boat, half a mile away from you,
with his twelve-year-old grandson, and little Tabitha! These make a
fine protection, truly, had you met with soldiers or other troublesome
people," he said with some sarcasm. "Do you not know there was a new
vessel, filled with British soldiers, went into Salem harbor
yesterday--and belike they are roaming about the country to-day?" He
switched his riding-boot as he spoke, scowling as though the mention of
the matter had awakened vengeful thoughts.
"Hugh Knollys has but just ridden over from Salem; and he said they
were all housed there, along with the Governor," the girl said eagerly,
glad to find something to say in her defence, as well as to turn the
current of her brother's thoughts.
"Hugh Knollys!" he repeated. "Has he been at our house this day?"
"No-o," she answered hesitatingly. "We met him just now as we came out
of Moll's. He is at the Fountain Inn."
"We," he said, a smile showing about the corners of his lips. "Are you
His Gracious Majesty, Dot, that you speak of yourself as 'We'?"
At the sound of her baby name, all the brightness returned to her face,
and glancing up at him, she whispered mischievously, "Look in the
thicket behind you."
He turned to send a keen glance into the clump of bushes and vines
growing some dozen yards closer to the road he had just left; and there
he caught a glimpse of pale blue--like female raiment--showing amid the
foliage.
Wheeling his horse quickly, he rode toward it; and what he now saw was
a tall, blonde girl of eighteen or thereabouts, who arose slowly from
where she had been hiding, and came forward with a dignity that savored
of defiance, although there seemed to be a smile lurking in the corners
of her mouth.
Her gypsy hat hung by its blue ribbons on one white rounded arm, bared
to the elbow, as the fashion of her sleeve left it. The neck of her
pale blue gown was low cut; but a small cape of the same material was
over it,--crossed, fichu-wise, on her bosom, and then carried under the
arms, to be knotted at the back.
Her round white throat rose out of the sheer blue drapery in fine,
strong lines, to support a regal head, crowned with a glory of pale
brown hair, now bared to the sun, and glinting as though golden
sparkles were caught in its silky meshes.
As she approached, the rider held up his horse, and sat motionless,
staring at her, while a merry peal of laughter, silvery as chiming
bells, broke from sixteen-year-old Dorothy.
"Mary Broughton!" the young man exclaimed at length, as he looked
wonderingly at the fair-haired girl.
She paused a yard away and swept him a mocking courtesy as she
said,--and her musical voice was of the quality we are told is "good in
woman,"--"Aye; at your service, Master John Devereux."
"Then you have been with our madcap here?" he asked, now finding his
tongue more readily.
"All the afternoon--an it please you, sir," she replied in the same
tone of playful irony.
"It does please me," he said, now with a smile, "for it was much better
than had Dot been alone, as I supposed at first. But think you it is
safe for you two girls to come wandering over here by yourselves?" And
in the look of his dark eyes, in the very tone of his voice, there was
something different,--more caressing than had been found even for his
small sister, who had now drawn close to them.
Mary Broughton slipped her arm through Dorothy's, and the mockery left
her face.
"I suppose not," she answered frankly. "But, to tell the truth, I had
not thought of such a thing until you mentioned it. We've not met a
soul, save Hugh Knollys, who was riding into the inn yard as we came
from Moll Pitcher's."
"And so you have been to consult Moll's oracle?" the young man said
banteringly.
The white lids fell over the honest blue eyes that had been looking
straight up into his own. The girl seemed greatly embarrassed, and her
color deepened, while Dorothy only giggled, and slyly pinched the arm
upon which her slender fingers were resting.
Mary gave her a quick glance of reproof. Then she raised her eyes and
said hesitatingly, "We heard she was down from Lynn, on a visit to her
father."
"You girls are bewitched with Moll Pitcher and her prophecies," he
exclaimed with a laugh.
"Ah--but she tells such wonderful things," began Dorothy, impetuously.
But Mary Broughton laid a small white hand over the red lips and
glanced warningly at her companion.
"What did she tell?" the young man asked. But now Dorothy only smiled,
and shook her head.
"Come, Dorothy," Mary said, "we had best get back to the boat." And
she turned to go; but the younger girl hung back.
"Are you going to a meeting at the inn, Jack?" she inquired, looking at
her brother.
"Little girls must not ask questions," he answered, yet smiling at her
lovingly. "But do you hasten to the boat, and get home, Dot, you and
Mary. It troubles me that you should be about here. Hurry home,
now,--there's a good little girl." But he looked at both of them as he
spoke.
"Shall you be home by evening?" his sister asked, keeping her face
toward him as she backed away, obliged to move in the direction of the
beach; for Mary, still holding her arm, was walking along.
He nodded and smiled; then riding back to the highway, wheeled his
horse and stopped to watch the two figures making their hurried way
across the marsh. But his eyes rested longest upon one of them, tall
and regal, her blonde head showing golden in the waning light, the
vivid green of the marshes and the deep purple of the sea making a
defining background for the beauty of the woman to whom John Devereux
had given his lifelong love.
CHAPTER III
"Oh, Mary, there is Johnnie Strings!" exclaimed Dorothy, as they drew
near shore, where lay the rowboat, beached on the sand, with Leet, the
faithful old darkey, sitting close by, awaiting the pleasure of his
adored young mistress.
Near him a little girl of seven was gathering pebbles, her heavy blonde
braids touching the tawny sand whenever she stooped in her search. And
crouched by his grandfather Leet was the boy Pashar, looking like an
animated inkspot upon the brightness all about. His white eyeballs and
teeth showed sharply by contrast with their onyx-like settings, as he
sat with his thick lips agape, literally drinking in the words of the
redoubtable Johnnie Strings, a wiry, sharp-faced little man, whose
garments resembled the dry, faded tints of the autumn woods.
Johnnie, with his pedler's pack, stored with a seemingly unlimited
variety of wares, was a well-known and welcome visitor to every
housewife in town. He lived when at home (which was rarely) in a
hut-like abode up among the rocks of Skinner's Head; and the highway
between Boston and Gloucester was tramped by him many times during the
year.
He owned a raw-boned nag of milk-white hue, and rejoicing in the name
of Lavinia Amelia; and these two, with a yellow cur, constituted the
entire _menage_ of the Strings household.
Johnnie, like Topsy, must have "just growed," for aught anyone ever
knew of a parent Strings. The one item of information possessed by his
acquaintances was that his name was not Johnnie Strings at all, but
"Stand-fast-on-high Stringer,"--an indication that he must have
received his baptism at Puritanical hands.
Either "Stand-fast-on-high" became more unregenerate as his infancy was
left behind, or else his associates had no great taste for Biblical
terms as applied to every-day use; for his real name had long since
become vulgarized to the common earthiness of "Johnnie," and "Stringer"
had been reduced to "Strings."
He now sat upon his pack--a smaller one than he usually carried--and
was saying to Leet, "Now that there be so cantankerous a lot o' them
pesky King's soldiers 'bout us, there's no sayin' what day or night
they won't overrun the hull country, from the Governor's house at
Salem, clean over here to the sea; an' every man will be wise, that
owns cattle, to sleep with one eye an' ear open, an' a gun within
reach."
"What are you saying, Johnnie Strings?" called out Dorothy, as she and
Mary came up. "Are you trying to frighten old Leet into fits?"
The little pedler sprang to his feet and snatched off his battered
wreck of a hat, showing a scant lot of carroty hair, gathered tightly
into a rusty black ribbon at the nape of his weather-beaten neck.
"Only sayin' God's truth, sweet mistress," he answered, bowing and
scraping with elaborate politeness. "I've just come from over Salem
way; an' yesterday evenin' ye could scarcely see the ground for the red
spots that covered it. There were three ship-loads came in yesterday,
to add to the ungodly lot o' soldiers already there."
Mary looked troubled, but Dorothy only laughed. And little 'Bitha,
abandoning her search for shells and pebbles, pressed closely against
her cousin, looking up out of a pair of frightened eyes, blue as
forget-me-nots, as she asked, "Does Johnnie say the soldiers are coming
after us, Dot?"
Dorothy checked herself in what she was about to say, and bent to
reassure the little one, putting an arm about her neck to draw the
golden head still closer to her.
"What are they come down from Boston for, Johnnie?" Mary asked; "do you
know?"
He cocked his head aslant, and resumed his hat, screwing up one eye in
a fashion most impudent in any man but himself, as he looked at her
with a cunning leer. Then he said: "There's no harm to come from 'em
yet. But soldiers be a lawless lot, if they get turned loose to look
after we folk 'bout the coast here, as is like to be the case now. An'
so I was just meanin' to hint to ye that 'twould be as well to stop
nigher home, after this day."
Old Leet, who had listened with a stolid face to all this, was now
pushing the boat into the water, while Pashar stood gaping at the
pedler, until ordered gruffly by his grandsire to stand ready to hold
the craft.
"Have you knowledge that they are coming down here?" inquired Mary,
speaking more insistently than before.
"We-l-l, yes, I have," he admitted with a drawl, and was about to add
something more, when Dorothy, who had deposited 'Bitha in the boat, and
was now getting in to take her own place in the stern, said to him,
"Come with us, Johnnie, and we'll take you home, as we pass quite close
to your"--hesitating a second--"your house."
"No, thank ye, mistress," he replied, grinning proudly at the dignity
she had bestowed upon his humble abode. "I've that will take me up to
Dame Chine, at the Fountain Inn, an' I should be there this very
minute, an' not chatterin' here. But I was tired, an' when I came
along an' saw old Leet, sat down to rest a bit."
"When are you intending to fetch that pink ribbon you promised me weeks
ago, and the lace for Aunt Lettice?" demanded Dorothy, as Mary
Broughton stepped over the intervening seats, past Leet, at the oars,
with small 'Bitha alongside him, and took her place beside her friend.
"I've both in my pack, up at the hut; I'll bring 'em to the house this
week, ye may depend on it," answered Johnnie, as Pashar pushed off the
boat, springing nimbly in as the keel left the sand.
"If you do not, I'll never buy another thing from you so long as I
live," the girl called back, with a wilful toss of her head, as Leet
pulled away with strong, rapid strokes.
"'T is all wrong for two pretty ones like them to be roamin' 'round in
such fashion," said Johnnie to himself, as he stooped to take up his
pack. Then suddenly, as if remembering something, he turned to the
shore and called out, "Shall ye find Master John at home, think ye,
Mistress Dorothy?"
Her voice came back silvery clear over the distance of water lying
between them. "No; he is up at the Fountain Inn."
"Ah, as I thought," the pedler muttered, with a meaning smile. "I'll
just be in the nick o' time."
"What think you it all means, Mary?" Dorothy asked, the two sitting
close together in the boat.
"What _all_ means?" echoed Mary, in an absent-minded way, her head
turned toward the shore they were leaving, where on the higher land the
far-away windows of the Fountain Inn were showing like glimmering stars
in the light of the setting sun.
"Why," Dorothy explained, smiling at Mary's abstraction, "all these
soldiers coming down here? And Johnnie acts and talks as if he could
tell something important, if he chose."
"You know, Dot, we are like to have serious trouble,--perhaps a war
with the mother country."
"And all because of a parcel of old tea!" exclaimed Dorothy, with great
scorn.
Mary now turned her face in the direction the boat was going, and
smiled faintly. "The tea is really what has brought matters to a
head," she said. "But there is more in it than that alone, from what
I've heard my father say. And there is much about it that we girls
cannot rightly understand, or talk about very wisely. Only, I hope
there will be no war. War is such a terrible thing," she added with a
shudder, "and you know what Moll told us. I almost wish we had not
gone to see her to-day."
"I am not a bit sorry we went," said Dorothy, stoutly. "I am glad.
What did she say,--something about a big black cloud full of lightnings
and muttering thunder, coming from across the sea, to spread over the
land and darken it? Was n't that it?"
"Yes, and much more. Do you think she was asleep as she talked to us,
Dot? She looked so strangely, and yet her eyes were wide open all the
time."
"Tyntie does the same thing at times. She says it's 'trance.' But
Aunt Penine always puts me out of the kitchen when Tyntie gets that
way, and so I don't know whether she talks or not. I mean to try and
find out, if I can, the next time Tyntie gets into such a state."
"Nothing seems strange for Indians to do or to be," Mary said musingly;
"but I never heard of such things amongst white people."
"Oh, yes, you did," Dorothy answered quickly. "Whatever are you
thinking of, not to remember about the witches? 'T is said they could
foretell to a certainty of future happenings. I wish I'd lived in
those days, although it could not have been pleasant to see folks
hanged for such knowledge. As for Moll Pitcher,--I guess she might
have been treated as was old Mammie Redd."
CHAPTER IV
There was a long silence, broken at last by Mary saying, "Perhaps what
some folk say of Moll is true,--that it is an evil gift she has. And
yet she has a sweet face and gentle manner."
"I wonder if 't is truth, what they say of old Dimond, her father,"
said Dorothy, her chin supported in one soft palm, while her eyes
looked off over the water, motionless almost as the seaweed growing on
the scarred rocks along the shore, left bare by the low tide.
"What is that?" Mary asked.
"Why, that whenever there was a dark, stormy night, with a gale
threatening the ships at sea, he would go up on Burial Hill, and beat
about amongst the grass, to save the crews from shipwreck."
Mary laughed. "What an idea!" she exclaimed. "How could beating the
ground about the dead benefit or protect the living, who are surely in
the keeping of Him who makes the tempests?"
"I don't know," was Dorothy's simple answer. "Only that is what I've
heard, ever since I was a child. And such talk always took my fancy."
"Well, old Dimond doesn't look now as if he could have strength to beat
the ground, or anything else. Poor old man, he is very feeble, and I
should say 't is a happy thing for him that Moll can come down from
Lynn now and then, to attend him."
"Yes," Dorothy assented. Then, with a lively change of tone and
manner, "'T was odd, Mary, for her to say that when you left her door
you were to see your true-love riding to meet you on horseback."
Mary started, and without answering, turned her head away, while the
blood rushed to her lovely face.
"Which was he, sweetheart?" Dorothy persisted teasingly, bending her
head so as to bring her smiling face directly under the down-dropped
blue eyes, and then laughing outright at the confusion she saw there.
"Which one was it?" she repeated. "You know Hugh Knollys rode down the
road directly toward you, and then--"
But Mary's white hand was over the laughing lips and silenced them.
"If your father should hear you talking in such fashion, Dot, I feel
sure he would be displeased with me for having gone with you to see
Moll." Mary made an effort to look and speak naturally, but her eyes
were very bright and her face was still deeply flushed.
Dorothy smiled, and shook her curly head wilfully. "Not he," she said
with decision; "leastway, not for long. He is stern enough, at times,
to others; but he can never be severe with me."
"Ah, Dot, but you are surely a spoiled child," said Mary, with a fond
glance at the winsome face.
Dorothy shrugged her small shoulders. "So Aunt Penine is always
saying; but all the aunts in the world could never come 'twixt my
father and me."
Little 'Bitha, who had been crooning softly to herself, and
improvising, after a fashion of her own,--
"The sea is blue, blue, blue,
The sea is blue, and I love the sea,"
suddenly cried out, "Oh, Dot, look, look! What an ugly fish!"
They all looked, and saw a dead dogfish, its cruel teeth showing in the
gaping jaws, go bobbing by, entangled in a mesh of floating seaweed.
"Him look like dead nigger," said Pashar, as he flung a pebble at it.
Old Leet scowled over his shoulder at his lively descendant.
"Dere'll be anudder, an' real true, dead nigger ter keep him company,
ef ye don't sit still, an' quit grampussin' 'bout de boat," he growled;
and. Pashar became very quiet.
They were now drawing in nearer to the shore, where the strip of
sand-beach lay down below the rocky headland, upon the highest point of
which stood Spray House, the home of Nicholson Broughton and his
daughter Mary.
The house--a low, rambling building, with gabled roof--was perched upon
the highest of a series of greenstone and syenite ledges, whose natural
jaggedness had no need to be strengthened by art to render them a safe
bulwark against the encroaching seas, when the storms flashed blinding
mists and glittering spray about the diamond-paned windows.
These looked off over the open water, and past the point of land
intervening between Great Bay and Marblehead Rock. Upon the latter was
an odd beacon,--being a discarded pulpit from one of the Boston
churches, whence, after hearing much of the noise and commotion of men,
it had been transferred to this barren rock, there to listen to the
ceaseless tumult of the battling sea.
Inland from Spray House stood the many great warehouses; and back of
these stretched the pasture-lands, breaking here and there into rough
hills, showing fields of golden splendor, where the wood-wax, or
"dyer's weed," was growing in luxuriant wildness.
Several small boats were drawn up on the beach; and anchored a little
way out, and directly opposite the front windows of Spray House, were
two goodly-sized schooners, and a brig, their topmasts now touched by
the fiery gold of sunset.
"I wish you were coming home with me, Mary," said Dorothy, as Leet ran
the boat's nose into the shingle, and Pashar leaped out to hold the
stern.
"I wish so, too. But you know it will not be many days before father
goes up to Boston, and he said I should abide with you until he
returned."
"That will be fine," said Dorothy, her face aglow with pleasure, as
Mary, after dropping a light kiss upon her check, arose to leave the
boat. "Only, if I were you, I should coax him to let me go to Boston."
"I did ask him; but he goes on public matters, he said, and was like to
have a quick and a rough trip." Mary was now standing upon the beach.
"Well, be he gone a long or a short time, we shall all be very happy to
have you with us. That you know, surely." And Dorothy kissed her hand
to her friend, as Leet pulled out again into the water and rowed toward
the upper end of the bay, while Mary took her way across the beach to
the thread-like path leading up to the plateau that formed the back
dooryard of Spray House.
In the yard was Joe, the darkey serving-man, busy cutting more wood to
increase the already generous pile stored in the building near by,
while Agnes, his niece, was in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal.
In the long, low, oak-panelled "living-room" of the house, its windows
facing the water, Mary found her father. He was standing--a tall,
finely built man, nearly fifty--gazing through an open window. His
sturdy legs were well apart, as with hands in his trousers' pockets he
was jingling his keys and loose coin in a restless sort of way, while
he hummed to himself.
Mary entered so softly, or else his thoughts were so absorbing, that he
did not notice her until she stood close beside him and slipped a hand
within his arm. Then he started, and the scowl left his brow as he
turned the frank, blue-gray eyes, so like her own, down upon her
upturned, smiling face.
"Ha, Pigsney!" he exclaimed, now smiling himself. "And have you had a
pleasant water-trip?" He looked at her lovingly, while he caressed the
blonde head that just reached to his broad shoulder.
"Yes," she replied hurriedly. "And I met Johnnie Strings, who has but
just come from over Salem way. He says there are quantities of
soldiers there, and that they are like to come this way and spread all
over the town."
"You speak of them, sweetheart, as if they might be another epidemic of
smallpox," he said grimly, "And so they are, so they are, if not indeed
something worse." And the scowl came back to his face as he looked off
over the water at his brig and schooners.
"But what does it all mean, father?" Mary asked anxiously. "Think you
they will meet with opposition should they actually come down here?
Oh, it would be dreadful to have any fighting right here in our streets
and before our very doors." The girl trembled, and her cheeks paled.
"Nay, nay, lass," and he patted her shoulder reassuringly; "cross no
bridges until you come to them." Then he added rather impatiently,
"What does Johnnie Strings mean by telling such tales to affright
women-folk?"
"We--Dorothy Devereux and I--met him, and we made him talk. But he did
not seem to want to tell us all he knew about it."
"And quite right," said her father, smiling again. "Lord pity the man
who is fool enough to tell women--and girls, at that--all he knows of
such matters, in days like these."
Mary looked up at him a little reproachfully, but he only bent and
kissed her, as he said, now quite gravely: "I've much on my mind this
night, my child, and I have to ask if you can be ready soon after
supper to drive with me to the house of neighbor Devereux, and to stop
there a few days with Dorothy. I have certain matters to talk over
with him, and will pass the night there; and before daylight I must be
on my way to Boston."
CHAPTER V
On Riverhead Beach, at the extreme southwest end, the Devereux family
kept sundry boats, for greater convenience in reaching the town proper,
without going around the Neck, by the open seaway; and some distance
from the boat-house was their home, the way being along the shore and
across the thriftily planted acres and through the woodland.
The same low stone house it was that had withstood the pirates' raid
over one hundred years before. But the forests were now gone, although
a noble wood still partially environed it. And beyond this were
sloping hills and grassy meadows, through which ran a stream of pure,
sweet water, wandering on through the dusk of the woods until it found
the sea.
Here fed the flocks and herds of Joseph Devereux, the grandson of John
and Anne.
There had been some additions to the original building, but these were
low and rambling, like the older portion. And before it, broader of
expanse and to the vision than in the early days, stretched the sea, a
far-reaching floor of glass or foam, to melt away in the pearly dimness
of the horizon.
The hush of lingering twilight was over the place, and now and then the
note of a thrush or robin thrilled sweet on the golden-tissued air.
But from the vine-draped door of the low stone dairy came sounds less
inviting, uttered by Aunt Penine, the widowed sister-in-law and
housekeeper of Joseph Devereux, as she goaded her maids at their
evening work.
In sharp contrast with her, both as to person and manner, was her
invalid sister Lettice, who was sitting on the porch before the open
door, with little 'Bitha, her orphaned grandchild, hanging lovingly
about her.
Opposite these sat Joseph Devereux, smoking his evening pipe; and
crouched on the stone step, her curly head resting against his knee,
was Dorothy, now gentle and subdued.
There was an irresistible charm about the girl's wilfulness that
blended perfectly with the sacred innocence of her childish nature.
She was impetuous, laughter-loving, and somewhat spoiled; but she was
possessed of a high spirit, strong courage, and a pure, tender heart.
Her father's idol and chief companion she had always been since, in his
sixtieth-odd year, she was laid in his strong arms,--vigorous as those
of a man half his own age. And he was looking into her baby face, so
like his own, when he heard that she was all he had left of his
faithful wife.
He had lost many children; and such sorrow, softening still more a
never hard heart, had made him dotingly fond of those left to him,--his
twenty-seven-year-old son John and the wilful Dot.
The girl's education had been beyond that of most maids in those times,
as had also that of her only friend, Mary Broughton; and for much the
same reason. Both girls had been carefully trained by their fathers;
and Aunt Penine, at Nicholson Broughton's request, had taught Mary
housewifery in all its branches, at the same time she was undertaking
the like portion of her niece's education.
But this was an art in which Mary far exceeded Dot; and Aunt Penine
lectured her niece unceasingly, while seeming to find nothing but
praise for Mary's efforts.
It was pretty sure to be something of this sort: "Dorothy, Dorothy!
Ye'll ne'er be a good butter-maker; ye beat it so, the grain will be
broke. Why cannot ye take it this way?" and Aunt Penine would show
her. "See how fine Mary does it! Ye have too hot a hand."
Dot would give her head a toss, and remind her aunt that it was not she
herself who had the fashioning of her small hand, nor the regulating of
its temperature. And then Aunt Penine would be very sure to go to her
brother-in-law with complainings of his daughter's disrespectful
tongue, and it would end in Dot being persuaded by her father to beg
Aunt Penine's pardon, which she would do in a meek tone, but with a
suspicious sparkle in her eyes. And after that she was very likely to
be found at the stables, saddling her own mare, Brown Bess, for a wild
gallop off over the country.
Aunt Penine was one who never seemed to remember that she had ever been
young herself; and this made her all the more unbending in her
disapproval of Dorothy's flow of spirits, and of the indulgence shown
her by her father.
She was now coming across the grass from the dairy,--a tall, lithe
figure, from which all the roundness of youth (had she ever possessed
anything so weak) had given way to the spareness of middle age. Her
hair, still plentiful, was of a dull, lustreless black; her complexion
sallow, with paler cheeks, somewhat fallen in; and she had a pair of
small gray eyes that seemed like twinkling lights set either side a
very long, sharp nose.
Her gown was now pinned up around her like that of a fishwife; a white
cap surmounted her severe head, and her brown arms were bare above the
elbows, where she had rolled her sleeves. She well knew that her
brother-in-law in no wise approved of her going about in such a
fashion; but this was only an added reason for her doing so.
There was a silken rustling of doves' wings, as the flock scattered
from in front of her on the grass, where, obedient to Dorothy's call,
they had come like a cloud from the dove-cote perched high on a pole
near by.
"Joseph," she cried, sending her shrill voice ahead of her as she
walked along, "do you know that the last two new Devonshires have
either strayed or been stolen?"
"So Trent told me." He spoke very calmly, letting several seconds
intervene between question and answer, puffing his pipe meanwhile,
while the fingers of one hand rested amongst the curly, fragrant locks
lying against his knee.
"Told you! Then why, under the canopy, did n't ye tell _me_?" she
demanded, as she now stood on the stone flagging in front of the
veranda, her arms akimbo, while she peered at him with her little
twinkling eyes.
He looked at her gravely, and as if thinking, but made no reply.
Her eyes fell, and she seemed embarrassed, for she said in a lower
tone, and by way of explanation: "Because, you see, Joseph, I cannot
look after the pans o' milk properly, if I know not how many cows there
be to draw from. There was less milk by twenty pans, this e'en; and I
was suspecting the new maid we've taken from over Oakum Bay way of
making off with it for her own folk, when Pashar came in and said he
was to go with Trent, to hunt for the missing Devonshires. And that
was the first I'd heard of any strayed cattle."
"And even had they not been missing, Penine, you had no right to think
such evil o' the stranger," Joseph Devereux said reprovingly. "'T is a
queer fashion, it seems to me, for a Christian woman to be so ready as
you ever seem to be for thinking harsh things o' folk you may happen
not to know well. Strangers are no more like to do evil than friends,
say I."
He now handed his pipe to Dot, who rapped the ashes out on the ground
and returned it to him. He thanked the girl with the same courtesy he
would have shown an utter stranger, while Aunt Penine, looking very
much subdued, turned about and went back to the dairy.
Joseph Devereux was still a handsome man, with a dark, intellectual
face, framed in a halo of silvery hair, worn long, as was the fashion,
and confined by a black ribbon. About his throat was wrapped snowy
linen lawn, fine as a cobweb, and woven on his own hand-looms by the
women of his house, as was also that of the much ruffled shirt showing
from the front of a buff waistcoat, gold-buttoned.
The same color was repeated in his top-boots, that came up to meet the
breeches of dark cloth, fastened at the knee with steel buckles.
His tall figure was but slightly bowed; and there was a mixture of
haughtiness and softness in his manner, very far removed from
provincial brusqueness, and belonging rather to the days and
surrounding of his ancestors than to the time in which he lived.
John, his son, was a more youthful picture of the father, but with a
freer display of temper,--this due, perhaps, to his fewer years. But
father and son were known alike for kindly and generous deeds, and as
possessing a high ideal of truth and justice.
CHAPTER VI
"Do you suppose, Joseph, that Jack will have had his supper?"
Aunt Lettice asked the question a little anxiously, as she drew about
her shoulders the soft shawl that little 'Bitha's impetuous clasping
had somewhat disarranged.
"Aye; I think the lad is sure to have taken it at the inn." His voice
was very gentle, as it always was when he addressed her.
"There he is!" shouted 'Bitha. And she darted down the steps to wave
frantic arms at two horsemen coming up the wooded way to the house,
while Dot lifted her head from her father's knee, as he now sat more
erect in his chair.
"Have a care, 'Bitha, or we may run you down," called out John
Devereux, laughingly. And at this the little maiden made haste to
speed back to the porch.
It was Hugh Knollys who accompanied him,--a stalwart, broad-chested
young fellow of twenty-five or six, with blunt features and a not
over-handsome face. But for all this he had an irresistible magnetism
for those who knew him; and no one could ever associate evil or untruth
with his frank, keen-glancing gray eyes and clean-cut, smiling lips.
"Good-evening, Hugh, and welcome," said Joseph Devereux, rising to
extend a friendly hand as the young man came up the steps.
Hugh removed his hat and nodded to Dorothy, glancing at her askance as
she arose and with a demure greeting passed him and went to her
brother, who was now giving some orders to old Leet.
"Jack," she whispered imploringly, under cover of the talk going on in
the porch,--"Jack, tell me, please, that you will not speak to father
of Mary and me seeing Moll Pitcher this afternoon."
He looked at her smilingly, and then took her chin in his fingers and
gave her head a gentle shake, in a way he had of doing.
"If I do as you ask, will you promise not to go over to that part of
the town again without telling me first, and then not to go unless I
say you may?"
"Yes, yes," she answered eagerly.
"Well, then, 't is a bargain." With this he put an arm around her, and
they turned toward the house.
"Did Mary go home?" he asked, as they walked slowly along.
"Yes; but she is coming soon to stop with us, as her father is to go to
Boston on business of some sort."
"He is like to go this very night," the young man said.
"This very night!" Dorothy echoed. "Why, then, Mary might have come
home with me, as I wished. But how do you know that, Jack?"
"Never mind now," was his evasive answer. "You will hear all about it
later."
They were now at the porch, and his father, who had been conversing
earnestly with young Knollys, said: "Hugh tells me that ye both had
supper at the inn. So come within, Jack,--come, both o' ye, and let us
talk over certain matters of importance. Hugh will stop with us for
the night; and, Dot, do you go and tell your Aunt Penine, so that his
room may be prepared." And leading the way, the old gentleman went
inside, followed by his son and their guest.
"Grandame," asked 'Bitha, as Dorothy arose and went in quest of Aunt
Penine, "what did Hugh Knollys mean by his talk to Uncle Joseph just
now, of the King's soldiers at Salem?" The child spoke in an awed
voice, drawing closer to the old lady, and looking up at her with
startled eyes.
Aunt Lettice tried to give her delicate features a properly severe cast
as she answered, "Hush, 'Bitha! you should not listen to matters not
meant for your hearing."
"But I've heard it before, grandame," 'Bitha persisted. "Johnnie
Strings said the same thing, this afternoon, to Dot and Mary Broughton.
He said the soldiers were coming all over here, clear to the shore, and
that we best have guns ready to shoot them."
Aunt Lettice's expression had now become really severe, for she still
had the old-time reverence for King and Parliament dwelling in her
heart.
"Johnnie Strings is seditious and rebellious, to speak so of His
Gracious Majesty's army," she said with marked disapproval; "and he
shall sell no more of his wares to me, if he goes about the country
talking in such fashion. But you must have mistaken his meaning,
child."
But 'Bitha shook her small head wilfully, in a way to remind one of her
cousin Dorothy, and took herself off to the charms of the kitchen
regions, where old Tyntie was ever ready to listen to her prattle, and
tell her charming tales when work was out of the way.
And this is how 'Bitha came to know that the bright green spots showing
here and there in the meadows were the rings made by the dancing feet
of the Star-sisters, when they came down in a great ball of light from
their home in the sky, striking the ball about as they danced, and
causing it to give forth most ravishing music.
And Tyntie told her, also, that the flitting will-o'-the-wisp lights
that showed on dark nights over the farthest away marsh-lands were the
wandering souls of Indian warriors, watching to keep little children
from getting lost or frightened; that the cry of the whippoorwill was
the lament of Munomene-Keesis, the Spirit of the Moon, over
dead-and-gone warriors vanquished by the white men; that the wild winds
coming from the sea were Pawatchecanawas, breathing threatenings for
bad men and their ships; and that the frogs hopping about in the cool
dusk were all little Iiche, with a magic jewel in their ugly heads.
All this was imparted as they sat out on the great stumps of hewn-down
trees, while the twilight gathered and the stars came out in the vault
overhead, and the two were at a safe distance from Aunt Penine's
practical bustling and sharp tongue.
For Aunt Penine ruled the household with a veritable "rod of iron;" and
her courtly and calm-voiced brother-in-law was the only mortal to whom
she had ever been known to show deference of manner or speech.
She had gone within, and the maids with her. The dairy was closed for
the night, and Dorothy had returned to the porch, where she was now
seated in her father's favorite chair.
"Aunt Lettice," she said presently, "what think you all these queer
things mean? Mary Broughton said we might have a war; and there seems
a great lot for the men folk to be having meetings over, and secret
talk about."
"I know no more than you, Dorothy, but I wish it was all over, and that
I might have my tea once more; I miss it sadly."
"Why," exclaimed Dorothy, looking greatly surprised, "there is tea in
the house, Aunt Lettice! I thought it was not made for you because you
did not care for it."
"Indeed I do care for it very much," said the little old lady; and she
sighed wistfully. "But Penine said there was to be no more tea, as
your father had forbidden it."
"Well, some one is drinking it," Dorothy asserted with positiveness,
"for I found a small potful of tea in the store-closet this very
morning."
"Are you sure, my dear?" Aunt Lettice asked wonderingly.
"Of course I am sure, for I smelled it; and as I detest the odor, I
looked to see what it came from. And I know as well that there is a
big canful of tea there, for I caught the lace of my sleeve on the lid
last Sabbath day, as I reached to get the sugar to put on 'Bitha's
bread. Aunt Penine must know it is there."
"Penine is very fond of her tea." Aunt Lettice sighed again, and this
time rather suggestively.
"Well," said Dorothy, her fiery spirit all aglow, "if she be such a pig
as to make it for herself when she lets you have none, I shall find
out, and tell my father of her doings."
"My dear, my dear, you should not speak so," the gentle old lady
protested, but with only feeble remonstrance. It was evident that
Dorothy's words had put the matter in a new light.
"Now, Aunt Lettice," continued Dorothy, as she straightened her small
figure in the chair, "you know that Aunt Penine often treats you with
hard-hearted selfishness, and then next minute she will be reading her
good books and trying to look pious. I never want to be her sort of
good,--never! And while I live, she shall not treat you so any more.
I shall tell father to ask her about the tea, I warrant you."
Before Aunt Lettice could reply to this impetuous speech, a coach drove
up, its lamps showing like glow-worms in the gathering dusk. In it
were Nicholson Broughton and Mary; and Dorothy rushed down the steps to
welcome her friend as though they had been parted for weeks.
While the new-comers were alighting, Leet came up to show the coachman
the way to the stables; and then the two girls went directly to the
porch, while Broughton himself tarried to give some low-spoken orders
to his servant.
The sound of the carriage wheels had brought John Devereux quickly to
the porch, while his father and Hugh Knollys followed after, the
younger man walking slowly, in deference to the slight lameness of his
host.
"Ah, neighbor Broughton, you are just the man we were wishing for.
Heartily welcome!" And Joseph Devereux clasped the other man's hand,
while John turned away with his sister and Mary Broughton.
They were joined a moment later by Hugh Knollys; and John Devereux, as
though suspecting a possible rival, watched keenly his blunt, honest
face as he took the small hand Mary extended. But there was naught in
Hugh's look to alarm him, nor in the quiet greeting Mary gave his
friend.
Dorothy now drew his attention. "Jack," she asked earnestly, "did you
warn Hugh not to speak aught of this afternoon?" But Hugh answered her
question by a slight laugh, accompanied by a comprehending nod.
"Oh, Dot," said Mary, with gentle reproach, "you should not deceive
your father in this way."
Dorothy raised her head as though she had been struck, and drew herself
up to the full limit of her small stature.
"Indeed, Mary, I intend to do no such thing," she replied almost
aggressively. "'T is only that I wish to tell him all about it myself,
and in my own fashion."
Here her father's voice broke in. "Come, John,--come, Hugh,--come
inside, with neighbor Broughton and me. We will get our matters
settled as soon as may be, while the girls visit with Aunt Lettice.
But ye must all come within; 't is getting much too damp and cold to
stop longer out o' the house."
He drove them in before him and closed the door, shutting out the roar
of the surf along the shore, as it mingled with the shrilling of the
dry-voiced insects in the grasses and woods.
CHAPTER VII
It was the dining-room of the house wherein the four men sat in earnest
consultation; and now that they were alone, their faces were grave to
solemnity.
The oak-ceiled and wainscoted room was filled with lurking shadows in
the far corners, where the light from the candles did not penetrate;
and the inside shutters of stout oak were closed and bolted over the
one great window, along which ran a deep cushioned seat.
Joseph Devereux sat by the mahogany table, whose black polish reflected
the lights, mirror-like, and--but more dully--the yellow brass of the
candlesticks. His elbow was resting upon the smooth wood, his hand
supporting his head; and in the light of the candle burning near, his
face looked unusually stern.
His son sat opposite, his face mostly in shadow, as he lay back in his
chair and thrummed the table with his slender brown fingers.
At either side sat Nicholson Broughton and Hugh Knollys, the former
looking stern and troubled as he smoked his long pipe, while the
younger man's face held but little of its usual light-hearted
expression. His hands were thrust deep in his breeches' pockets, and
he whistled softly now and then in an absent-minded way.
"Aye, 't is a grave state of affairs, Broughton," Joseph Devereux was
saying. "I love not oppression, nor tyrannical dealing. And yet,
think you that ever was a petty tyrant overthrown, and the instruments
of his punishment could always escape a pricking o' the conscience,
that made it not easy for them to look back upon their own share in his
downfall? Shall the time come, I wonder, when we must question the
truth o' this inspiration we are now acting under as a town and as a
country?"
"Nay, say I,--never!" exclaimed Broughton, with fiery ardor. "Being
human, we must all feel sympathy for suffering, be it in enemy or
friend. But our land is lost, and we nothing better than slaves, did
we longer submit to the tyranny of the mother country. As God bade
Moses of old lead the children of Israel from the bondage and cruel
injustice of Pharaoh, so we should feel that He now bids us, as men
with a country, and as fathers with families to cherish and protect, to
rise up and assert our manhood, and to assure our freedom, even though
it be by as fierce a war as ever was waged."
"And war there's bound to be!" It was Hugh Knollys who said this, and
he seemed to look more cheery at the thought.
Joseph Devereux glanced at him sharply, and then turned to his son.
"You say, Jack," he asked, "that Strings said the Governor was to order
a body o' soldiers down to the Neck?"
"Yes, sir--and that right away."
At this, Nicholson Broughton spoke up, looking at his host.
"As I was saying to you awhile back, neighbor Devereux, the committee
ordered to Boston, to decide upon delegates, must get a start from town
before the redcoats get into quarters upon the Neck, or there may be
trouble which it were as well to avoid. This was decided upon when we
met at the Fountain Inn, this afternoon; and 't was agreed that all who
go from here should take the road to Boston before to-morrow's dawn.
John and Hugh, here, reckon on going along with us, to meet Brattle in
Boston, for he has sent word that he is to sail the day after to-morrow
with a shipload of supplies ordered down by the Governor for the
soldiery at Salem. This will be a fine opportunity for smuggling down
the firearms and powder which have been hid so long in Boston, waiting
the chance for safe conveyance here."
Before Joseph Devereux could speak, his son broke in eagerly: "Hugh and
I will come down with Brattle, and we'll lie off at anchor, as near our
own shore as may be. Some one must be ready to give us the signal from
the land; and if all is safe, we can put the guns and powder ashore and
hide them. This will be the safest plan, for about Great Bay the
soldiers will be on the lookout for anything unwonted; and in Little
Harbor it will be as bad, for they will have their eyes wide open to
keep a sharp watch upon the Fountain Inn, and all about it--be it on
land or water."
"You say truly, Jack," his father assented, "But whom can we trust to
give the signal? Ah," with a sigh, "if only I had back a few of my own
lost years, or was not so lame!"
"Brains can serve one's land, friend Devereux, as well, oftentimes
better, than arms," said Broughton, looking at his host's massive head
and intelligent features. "We all have our appointed work to do, and
no man is more capable than you of doing his share."
"I pray it maybe so," was the reply. "But, be it much or little, all I
have and am are at the service of our cause."
"Why not let Dorothy be the one to give the signal?" asked Hugh
Knollys, as from a sudden inspiration.
"Just the one," said John Devereux, looking over at his father. "She
fears nothing, and can be relied upon in such a matter."
The old gentleman seemed a bit reluctant, and sat silent for a few
moments. Then speaking to his son, he said: "Call the child in. This
is no time to hold back one's hand from the doing of aught that be
needful to help the cause of our land."
It was not many minutes before Dorothy came into the room behind her
brother; and her eyes opened wider than ever as their quick glance took
in the solemn conclave about the table.
Her father stretched out an inviting hand. "Come here, Dot," he said
smilingly. "Do not look so frightened, my baby." And he patted her
small hand in a loving way as he drew her close beside him.
"No," added Hugh mischievously, his face having now regained its usual
jollity, "we are not going to eat you, Dorothy."
She deigned him no reply, not even a glance, but stood silently beside
her father, while she looked questioningly into her brother's face.
He explained in a few words the matter in hand; and the flash of her
eyes, together with the smile that touched the upturned corners of her
mouth, told how greatly to her liking was the duty to which she had
been assigned.
Jack had scarce finished speaking, when there was an interruption, in
the person of Aunt Penine, who entered bearing a tray, upon which were
tumblers and a bowl of steaming punch.
She shot a glance of marked disapproval at Dorothy; then, as she placed
the tray upon the table in front of her brother-in-law, she said in a
tone of acidity, "Were it not better, think you, Joseph, that the girl
went into the other room and stopped with Lettice and Mary Broughton?"
Dorothy turned her eyes defiantly upon the elder woman, her soft brows
suggesting the frown that came to her father's face as he said with
grave severity: "The child is here, Penine, because I sent for her.
Let the punch be as it is--and leave us, please."
She tossed her head belligerently, and without speaking took her
departure, casting a far from friendly look at the others.
"I strongly suspect, father," said John, as he rose and crossed the
room to close the door his aunt, either by accident or intent, had left
ajar, "that we'd best have a care how we let Aunt Penine hear aught of
our affairs. Her sympathies are very sure to be with the other side,
if the struggle comes to blows."
"I will see to Penine," his father answered quietly. "Do you go on
instructing Dot as to what she is to do."
His son bowed, and turned once more to the girl.
"And so, Dot, as I've said already, you must reckon surely upon the
vessel lying off the beach in a straight line with the Sachem's Cave,
on Friday night, at about eleven o'clock. And this being Monday, will
give four days, which will be time enough to allow for all that's to be
done. But you must watch, child, even if it prove later in the night,
or even in the morning, before we arrive. And when you see a light
showing, then disappearing, then two lights, and then three, you must
answer from the shore if all be well, and 't is safe to land, by
showing two lights, and then letting them burn for us to steer by.
Mount as high as you can to the uppermost level above the cave, so that
we may get a good view of your signal. Can you keep all this in that
small head of yours?" And he smiled at her, as though some happy
outing were being planned.
She nodded quickly, but with a grave face; then, after a moment's
hesitation, she asked, "May I tell Mary?"
Her brother's eyes dropped, as Hugh Knollys flashed a laughing glance
upon him. But her father replied at once: "Aye, it were best to do so.
And if neighbor Broughton has no objections, it were more prudent that
she should be your companion."
"Not I!" responded Broughton heartily, raising to his lips the glass of
punch his host had been dispensing from the bowl in front of him. "But
be over-careful, Dorothy, as to who may be about to overhear what you
say to her. And"--his voice growing very grave--"may God keep you
both, for two brave, right-hearted girls."
"Amen!" said Joseph Devereux. And he lifted his glass to the others,
as though pledging them and the great cause they all had so devoutly at
heart.
CHAPTER VIII
When Dorothy left the dining-room, it was by a door opposite that by
which Aunt Penine had made her angry exit,--one leading to the
storerooms and kitchen.
The one through which Dorothy went opened directly upon a small
platform, whose flight of three steps descended into the main hall,
which was part of the original building, and was now lighted dimly by a
ship's lantern swinging from the low dark-wood ceiling, or
"planchement."
A pair of handsome antlers were fixed against the wall about midway
down the passage, and underneath these was a long mahogany table, piled
with a miscellaneous collection of whips, hats, and riding-gloves.
Directly opposite hung the family arms, placed there more than a
hundred years before by the hands of John Devereux, the "Emigrant," as
he was called. They were: Arg., a fesse, gu., in chief three torteaux.
Crest;--out of a ducal coronet, or, a talbots head, arg., eared, gu.
And the motto was "Basis Virtutum Constantia."
Other than this the long, wide hall was bare of furnishing.
Dorothy came out with her usual impetuous rush, and closing the door
quickly behind her, was startled by seeing a form rise, as it seemed,
from the platform, and then, as if retreating hastily, stumble and fall
down the steps.
The girl looked with astonishment, and saw Aunt Penine prostrate upon
the floor of the hall, her upturned face pale and distorted, as with
pain.
It was quite evident that she had been eavesdropping; and Dorothy
remained at the head of the steps regarding her scornfully for a
moment, before asking if she were hurt.
"Yes, I have done somewhat to my ankle, drat it!" gasped the sufferer,
but in a low voice, as if fearful of attracting the attention of those
on the other side of the door.
"Shall I call Jack?" Dorothy inquired, a faint smile of sarcasm
touching her lips; and she made a movement as though to reopen the door.
"No, no,--oh no!" exclaimed Aunt Penine in great alarm, as she
endeavored to regain her feet.
This she at length succeeded in doing, and stood with one hand against
the wall, while she groaned, but in a suppressed way.
Just then Mary Broughton came from a room farther down the hall, where
she had been delighting Aunt Lettice with soft melodies drawn from the
spinet, upon which both she and Dorothy were skilful performers.
"What is it--is anything amiss?" she asked quickly, coming up to Aunt
Penine, and laying a hand on her trembling shoulder.
But Aunt Penine only continued to groan dismally, while her niece, with
a laugh she did not try to hide, now came down the steps.
"Aunt Penine was evidently anxious to be of my father's council," she
said to Mary; "and I chanced to open the door too quickly for her, so
that she slipped down the steps and has twisted her ankle."
Her aunt straightened herself and glanced angrily at the girl, who only
laughed again, while Mary Broughton stood regarding her with a puzzled
look.
"Shall I help you to your room, Aunt Penine?" Dorothy asked with
elaborate politeness, holding out her arm.
"No," snapped her aunt. "I wish no assistance from you, whose sharp
tongue seems ever ready with insult for your elders. Mary will help
me; and ye may find Tyntie, and send her to my room." With this she
hobbled away, leaning heavily upon Mary, who looked back reproachfully
at Dorothy.
But Dot only laughed again, as she turned and went to a door at the end
of the hall which communicated with a side passage leading to the
servants' quarters; then, having summoned Tyntie, she came back and
seated herself upon a lower step of the main staircase to await Mary's
coming.
Her friend's first words were full of reproof. "Oh, Dot, how could you
seem so heartless?" she said. "You should see Aunt Penine's foot; 't
is swollen fearfully, and her ankle is discolored."
"If you but knew how it came about, Mary, perhaps you'd be less ready
to scold me," Dorothy replied, making room on the step. "There are
weighty matters being talked of in the dining-room yonder, and I was to
tell you what Jack took me in for. Aunt Penine came in with the punch
while I was there, and she tried to have me sent away. She was angry
that father would not do this, but bade her mind her business and let
me alone. When I opened the door just now, she was trying to listen to
what they were saying, and I came out so suddenly as to frighten her,
so that she stumbled and hurt herself. I am sorry she is hurt; but if
it had befallen me, she'd have been ready enough to say I'd but
received my just deserts."
"Why should she try to listen at the door?" asked Mary with surprise,
as she twisted one of Dorothy's short curls about her slender fingers.
But Dorothy gave her head an unruly toss, to release the curl, as she
had ever a dislike for being fondled or touched in any way, unless it
were by her father or brother.
"There is really to be a war, and that soon," she replied. "The
soldiers, they say, are coming down to the Neck in a few days--perhaps
even to-morrow; and the people propose--and rightly, too--to fight
them, if needs be, should they try to interfere with our doings. Aunt
Penine sides with the English, I take it from what I've heard her say;
and I know for a surety she has been slyly making tea to drink, for all
that father has forbidden it. He and Aunt Lettice miss their tea as
much as ever she does herself, and yet they have never touched a drop.
I intend to tell him to-morrow that I know of a canful of tea in the
store-closet. I was talking with Aunt Lettice about it when you came
this evening. She supposed there was not a grain of it in the house,
and I am sure father has been thinking the same. Aunt Penine is
deceitful and disloyal to him--and so I shall tell him, if I live,
to-morrow morning."
"Whatever did she expect to hear, that she did so mean and dishonorable
a thing as to listen at the keyhole?" Mary spoke musingly, a fine
scorn now touching her lips, and it was clear that her sympathy for the
afflicted one was greatly dampened.
"Perhaps she intends to play spy, as she disapproves so entirely of the
feeling the townsfolk all have. Spies are well paid, so I've heard;
and Aunt Penine would do anything for money." Dorothy's eyes flashed,
and she stared straight ahead, pulling at her front locks in an
absent-minded way, as though she were speculating over all the mischief
her aunt might have in view.
"She may mean nothing, after all, Dot," Mary said, after a moment's
thought. "It may be that she was only curious to know why you were
admitted to the room, while she and all the rest of us were kept out.
Still, if I were you, I'd tell my father of her listening."
"Indeed I shall," was the emphatic reply, "and of the tea as well. I
have a notion she got it all from Robert Jameson. You know what they
tell of him; and he and Aunt Penine seem to have a deal to say to one
another these days. She has sent Pashar to him with notes ever so many
times, as I know; and Pashar seems to have more silver nowadays than
father gives him, for he has, more than once, brought 'Bitha sweets
from the store."
Mary nodded significantly at the mention of Robert Jameson's name. He
was the nearest neighbor of Joseph Devereux, and had come to be
regarded with distrust--enmity, indeed--by most of his former
associates.
He was a widower of some wealth, and had no family; and Aunt Penine had
long been suspected of cherishing a desire to entrap him into a second
matrimony.
A few months before, an exceedingly complimentary, almost fulsome,
address to Hutchinson, the recent Governor, had appeared in the columns
of a newspaper known as the "Essex Gazette," to which were attached the
names of some residents of the town, Jameson's amongst them. It
endorsed all that had been said in praise of his administration, and of
his aiming only at the public good; and it asserted that such was the
opinion of all thinking and dispassionate citizens.
This manifest untruth had raised a storm of indignation. A town
meeting was held, and a committee appointed, with instructions to
inform the signers of this false and malicious statement that they
would be exonerated only by making a public retraction of all
sentiments contained therein; and that upon refusing to do this, they
would be denounced as enemies of the province, desiring to insult both
branches of the legislature, and to affront the town.
Jameson had been one of the few who refused to comply with the
committee's demand; and he had since been shunned as an enemy to the
cause, and looked upon with suspicion and distrust.
CHAPTER IX
The household was astir early the next morning to set the travellers on
their road with a warm meal and a parting word; and despite the absence
of Aunt Penine, all the domestic machinery moved as smoothly as usual.
There could still be seen a few stars, not yet blotted out by the
pearly haze, shot with palest blue, that the dawn was putting in front
of them.
Over the sea hung a curtain-like gathering of fog, and the air was
heavy with the odors from the wood and fern, brought forth by the damp.
Nicholson Broughton, having borrowed a saddle from his host, had
decided to pursue the remainder of his journey on horseback; and he,
with his two younger companions, was now about to set forth.
Mary stood near her father's horse, while he gave her some parting
words of encouragement.
"Now bear in mind, Pigsney, all I have said, and never fail to keep a
watchful eye and stout heart. All at the house will go well until my
return; and do you abide here, safe and close, with our good friends.
Be sure to keep away from the town, and whether the Britishers come to
the Neck or no, you will be safe."
She promised all this, and turned away as he rode off, waving a
farewell to his host, who stood within the porch, with Aunt Lettice and
little 'Bitha alongside him.
Hugh Knollys followed, with a gay good-by to all, while John Devereux,
who had been talking with Dorothy, now vaulted into his saddle.
As he was about to start, Mary Broughton passed along in her slow walk
to the house. She turned, and their eyes met in a look that told of a
mutual understanding. But she flushed a little, while he only smiled,
doffing his hat as he rode slowly past her down the driveway.
Dorothy was waiting, close to her father, on the porch.
"Don't you wish you were a man, Mary," she said, as her friend came up
the steps, "so that you could ride away to do battle for our rights,
instead of being only a woman, to stop at home and wonder and worry
over matters, while the baking and churning must be done day after day?"
Her father smiled at this, and pinched Dorothy's cheek; then a sadness
came to his face as he looked at her.
"To be a woman does not always mean the doing of over-much baking or
housework," said Mary, with a meaning smile, her cheeks fresher and her
blue eyes brighter, like the flowers, from the pure morning air.
Joseph Devereux nodded an assent. "If you and Mary," he said to
Dorothy, "were to ride to Boston this day, who would there be to do
what you are entrusted with the doing on? Mark ye, my daughter," and
he bent a grave look upon her bright face, "women, as well as men, have
high and holy duties to perform,--aye, indeed, some of them even
higher. Where would come the nerve and hope for the proper ambition o'
men's minds, were there no mothers and wives and--sweethearts, to make
their lives worth the living, and their homes worth fighting for,--yes,
and their country so much more worth saving from oppression. Nay, my
baby, what would become o' your old father, if he had not a little maid
to console him, when his only son must needs face risks and dangers?"
Dorothy did not answer, but her face softened, and her arm stole up
about his neck.
"Dot," said Mary, presently, "do not forget the matter we talked of
last evening,--that your father was to know."
"And pray, what is that?" the old gentleman asked briskly.
"Come into the library, father, with Mary and me, and we will tell
you." And slipping her hand around his arm, she started to lead him
in. Mary was about to follow, when he turned to her and held out his
other arm. With an answering smile she placed her hand within it, and
all three went inside.
Aunt Lettice had gone off to her own apartments, taking 'Bitha for her
usual morning instructing, and so they were not likely to be disturbed.
As soon as her father was seated, Dorothy, standing by the window,
burst forth with her accustomed vehemence.
"I want to tell you, father," she exclaimed, "that I am sure Aunt
Penine is a loyalist!"
"Chut, chut!" he replied reprovingly. But he smiled, used as he was to
the differences betwixt his daughter and her exacting relative.
"I have good reason for what I say," Dorothy insisted; "and Mary can
tell you so, as well."
"Well, child, first tell me all about it, and do not begin by misnaming
any one," her father said gently.
She told him in a few rapid words,--first, what had happened the
evening before, and ending by a detailed account of finding the tea in
the store-closet.
Her father was scowling ominously by the time the story was finished;
and he sat in silence for a few moments, his head bent, as though
considering what she had told him. Then he said: "I thank you, my
child, for what you have told me. I must speak with Penine o' these
matters, and that right away. Do you go, Dot, and tell her I wish to
talk with her, and must do so as soon as she can see me in her room."
"Why not let Mary go?" Dorothy suggested. "Aunt Penine likes Mary, and
she does not like me--nor I her." And she looked quite belligerent.
"I will be glad to go, if you say so," Mary offered, rising from her
chair.
"Well, well," he said, "it matters little to me who goes; only I must
see her at once. And thank you, Mary, child, if you will kindly tell
her so."
As soon as Mary left the room, Dorothy came over to her father's chair
and perched herself upon one of its oaken arms.
"And now there is another thing I wish to tell you," she said, "and I'd
best do it now."
He put an arm about her and smiled up into her troubled face.
"Well, well," he said playfully, while he smoothed her curls, "what a
wise little head it has grown to be all on a sudden! We shall be
hearing soon that Mistress Dorothy Devereux has been invited by the
great men o' the town--Lee and Orne and Gerry, and the rest o' them--to
be present at their next meeting, and instruct them on matters they wot
not on, despite their age and wisdom."
She would not smile at his badinage, but went on soberly to warn him of
what she suspected between her Aunt Penine and their ostracized
neighbor, Jameson,--telling him also of the unusual amount of coin
being spent by the boy, Pashar, whom she had seen carrying notes for
her aunt.
The smile left her father's face as he listened to this, and he shook
his head gravely. And when she finished, he said, as though to
himself, "'T is the enemies in one's own household that are ever the
most dangerous." Then rising, he added, "Come with me, Dot, while I
speak first to Tyntie."
The old Indian woman had been devoted to the interests of the family
since forty years before, when Joseph Devereux found her--a beaten,
half-starved child of ten--living with her drunken father in a wretched
hut on the outskirts of the town, and brought her to his own house for
his wife to rear and instruct. And because of her idolatrous love for
her benefactor and his family, she had endured patiently the exacting
tyranny of Aunt Penine, whom she detested.
Her tall, spare figure was now moving about her domain with a curious
dignity inseparable from her Indian birth; but she paused in what she
was doing the moment her master and his daughter appeared at the door,
and remained facing them in respectful silence.
She was alone, the men having gone off to their duties about the farm,
and the maids to the dairy, or to the housework above stairs.
"I desire to ask you, Tyntie," her master began, addressing her with
the same grave courtesy he would have used in speaking to the best-born
lady in the land, "if, since I forbade the making or using o' tea in my
house, any has been brewed?"
"Yes, master," she answered without any hesitancy; and a sly look, as
of revenge, crept into her black eyes.
"How dared ye do such a thing?" he demanded, his face severe with
indignation.
"I never did it," was her laconic reply.
"Then who did? I command ye to make a clean breast o' the matter."
And he struck his stick peremptorily upon the floor, while Dorothy,
awed by the unusual anger showing in his voice and bearing, drew a
little away from him.
"It was Mistress Penine brewed the tea, for her own drinking." And
Tyntie showed actual pleasure in being thus enabled to expose her
oppressor.
"And how often hath this happened since I gave strict orders that none
should be had or drunk in this house o' mine?"
"'Most every day; and sometimes more than once in the day."
"And how were you guarding your master's interests, to permit such
secret goings on under his roof, without giving him warning?"
The tears rose to Tyntie's eyes and stood sparkling there; but her
voice was firm as she replied, "It was not for me to know that Mistress
Penine was doing anything wrongful, nor for me, a servant, to come to
you, my master, with evil reports o' your own kinsfolk."
She spoke slowly and with calm dignity, and her words softened the
white wrath from the old man's face.
He bent his head for a moment, as though pondering deeply; then he
looked at her and said in a very different tone: "You are a
right-minded, faithful servant, Tyntie, and I must tell you I am sorry
to have spoken as I did a moment agone. But from this day henceforth,
bear in mind that should you ever see aught being done under my roof
that you've heard me forbid, 't is your bounden duty to come and inform
me freely o' such matter."
"Yes, master." Tyntie now wiped her eyes, and looked very much
comforted.
"Now," he asked, his voice growing stern once more, "know you where
aught o' the forbidden stuff be kept, or if there still be any in the
house?"
Tyntie went silently to the store-closet and fetched a sizable can of
burnished copper. This she opened and held toward her master and young
mistress, who saw that it was nearly half filled with the prohibited
tea.
Joseph Devereux scowled fiercely as he beheld this tangible evidence of
Penine's bad faith and selfishness.
"Do you take that in your own hands, Tyntie, as soon as may be," he
said; "or no--take it this instant, down to the beach, and throw it,
can and all, into the water. And see to it that you make mention o'
this matter to no one."
Then turning slowly, he took his way again to the front of the house,
Dorothy following in silence, and feeling unwontedly awed by the
apprehension of the storm she felt was about to break; for it was a
rare matter indeed for Aunt Penine to be the one entirely at fault in
anything.
CHAPTER X
Dorothy saw Mary Broughton on the porch outside and was about to join
her, when Mary turned and called out, "Aunt Penine is waiting to see
your father."
At this Dorothy retraced her steps to the library, where she had left
her father sitting in moody silence, tracing with his stick invisible
writings upon the floor, the iron ferule making angry clickings against
the oaken polish.
He made no reply to the message she gave him; so, after pausing a
moment, she said again that her aunt was awaiting him.
"Yes, yes, child; I hear ye," he replied almost impatiently, and as
though not wishing to be disturbed.
Dorothy said nothing more, but went out and joined Mary, who was
waiting on the porch; and, arm in arm, they strolled out into the
sunshiny morning.
They had gone but a little way when Dorothy's sharp eyes spied Pashar
coming from a side door of the house. His black hand held something
white, which he was thrusting into the pocket of his jacket.
She called to him sharply, and he turned his head in her direction,
while his eyes rolled restlessly. But he made no movement to come to
her, and stood motionless, as though awaiting her orders.
"Come here!" she called peremptorily; but still he hesitated.
"Do you come here this instant, Pashar, as I bid you," she commanded,
now taking a few steps toward him.
At this he came forward, but in a halting way, and at length stood
before her, looking very ill at ease.
"Give me that letter," Dorothy demanded, extending her hand for it.
"Mist'ess Penine done say--" he began in a hesitating, remonstrative
fashion; but Dorothy cut him short.
"Give me that letter," she repeated, stamping her small foot, "or
you'll be sorry!"
Trained like a dumb beast to obedience, the negro boy fumbled in his
pocket and took out a folded paper which he handed to his imperious
young mistress.
"What'll I say ter Massa Jameson when I sees him?" he asked
tremblingly, as Dorothy's little white fingers closed over the letter.
"He'll lay his ridin'-whip 'bout my shoulders, if I goes ter him now."
"My father will surely lay _his_ riding-whip about your shoulders, if
you go near Jameson again. I'll see to it myself that you get whipped,
if you dare do such a thing," exclaimed Dorothy; and the angry flashing
of her dark eyes bore witness to her sincerity.
"Now," she added, "go about your work,--whatever you have to do. And
mind, don't you dare stir a step--no matter who bids you--to Jameson's
place; else you will get into trouble that will make you wish you had
obeyed me."
With this she turned back with Mary in the direction of the house.
"Ye won't have me whipped, will ye, mist'ess?" Pashar whimpered, as he
looked after her. "Mist'ess Penine--she tole me I was ter go. An',
'sides, I gets money from Massa Jameson for ev'ry letter I fetches him."
"I'll see presently about your getting whipped," was Dorothy's
uncomforting reply, as she glanced over her shoulder at the trembling
boy.
The two girls walked quickly toward the house, while Pashar betook
himself off with a very downcast air, digging his black fists into his
eyes as if he felt only too certain of being punished for his
wrongdoing.
Joseph Devereux was ascending the stairway, bound for his
sister-in-law's room, when the two girls came in from outside. Dorothy
called quickly, and speeding after him, placed the letter in his hand,
as he paused and turned to face her.
In a low voice she acquainted him with what she had taken upon herself
to do, adding, "I was fearful of what she might have told him, if
perchance she overheard anything last night of the gunpowder and arms."
"Wise, trusty little maid," he said, a slow smile touching the gloom of
his set face. "You have acted rightly and with great discretion, Dot.
And now I will see what Penine has to say o' the matters that look so
grave, as we see them."
Pausing at her closed door, on the left-hand side of the upper passage,
he knocked, and then entered, as her querulous voice, now somewhat
subdued, bade him.
Penine was lying back on a settle, a bright-hued patchwork of silk
thrown over her spare form; and her eyes showed traces of recent tears.
Her brother-in-law seated himself in an arm-chair near her, his face
grave to sternness, as he bent a piercing look upon her troubled face.
She cast a furtive glance at the paper he still held in his hand; then
her eyes fell, and she began to pluck nervously at the edge of the
covering, while her face became filled with an expression of guilty
embarrassment.
"Penine," he began, in a voice quite low, but full of severity, "these
be times when, as you well know, it behooves a householder to look most
carefully to the doings of those about him. He must see to it that all
appearance, as well as doing, o' wrong be most strictly avoided. And
so I have come to ask you, as one o' my own household, how is it that
you have been brewing tea for yourself, after all that's been done and
said; and how 't is that you have such a supply of the stuff in my
house?"
Penine flushed angrily, and tried to look him in the eyes, while her
lips half parted, as though to make some retort. Then she seemed to
alter her mind, for she remained silent, her eyes falling guiltily
before his stern, searching gaze.
"Do not seek to hide your fault by another one--o' falsehood," he
warned her, more sternly than before. "I know what I am accusing you
of to be the truth,--more's the pity. And it surprises and grieves me
that a woman o' such years as you should set a pernicious example to
those who, younger and inferior in station to yourself, look to you for
a proper code of action for their following."
"What harm is it, I would like to know," she burst out, but weakly,
"that I should drink my tea, if I like?"
"The harm you do is to defy your country's law, and make me seem
disloyal and false to my word of honor," he replied with increasing
sternness. "And this you have no right to do, while you abide under my
roof."
"My country's law is the law of His Gracious Majesty," she answered,
plucking up a little spirit, but yet unable to meet his dark, angry
eyes, "and I have never heard that he forbade his loyal subjects all
the tea they could pay for and drink."
"Do ye mean me to understand that ye set yourself up as the enemy o'
your townsfolk and kindred?" he demanded, his voice rising. "I've
suspected as much since I had knowledge o' the fact o' your sending
notes to Robert Jameson."
"You have no right to talk to me so, Joseph," she said, with a whimper,
terrified at the angry lighting of his face, now ablaze with wrath.
"And ye have no right to act in a manner that makes it possible for me
to presume to. If things be not so black against ye as they surely
look, take this note that ye sent my servant with just now, to be
delivered to our country's avowed enemy, and read every word aloud to
me."
He held the letter toward her; but she made such an eager clutch for it
that a sudden impulse led him to change his mind, and he drew back his
hand.
"No," he said, "on second thought, 't is best that ye give me permit to
read it myself, aloud."
"No, no!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly; and the unmistakable
terror in her voice and eyes confirmed him in his determination to see
for himself the contents of the letter.
"I have to beg your pardon, Penine," he said with formal courtesy, "for
seeming to do a most ungallant act; but your manner only proves to me
what is my duty."
With this he deliberately broke the seal and ran his eyes over the
paper, while Penine cast one terrified glance at him, and then fell
back, silent and cowering, her ashy face covered by her trembling hands.
She had written Jameson of the intended landing of the arms and powder.
And Joseph Devereux knew she had done so with a view to having him send
word of the matter to the Governor, hoping in this way to win honor and
reward for the man she expected to lure into speedy wedlock.
He read the letter once more, and then sat silent, as though pondering
over all her selfish treachery and disloyalty. And while he was thus
musing, the clock on the mantel ticked with painful loudness, and some
flies crawling about the panes of the closed windows buzzed angrily.
When at length he spoke, his wrath seemed to have given place to pity,
mingled with utter contempt.
"I can scarce credit, Penine," he said slowly, all trace of anger gone
from his voice, "that you should have realized to the full all you were
doing when you took such a step,--that you were bringing the British
guns down to slay my son, an' like as not my innocent little maid; a
fate which now, thank God, has been kept from them."
His voice had become husky, and he paused to clear his throat. Then he
resumed, speaking in the same deliberate manner: "Because o' their
deliverance from death I will try and forgive what you have tried to
do; but I must not forget it, lest another such thing befall. And now,
until you be able to travel, you shall be made comfortable here. But
so soon as your ankle can be used, then you shall go to your brother,
in Lynn, for no roof o' mine shall harbor secret enemies to my country.
And," now with more sternness, "I warn you, that should you seek to
hold converse or communication of any sort with this man Jameson while
you are in my house, I shall report the matter to the town committee,
and leave them to settle with you."
He arose from his chair, and without another glance in her direction
went out of the room, leaving Penine in tears.
CHAPTER XI
The days intervening until Friday passed without event, and the
household affairs went on much as before, Tyntie proving herself fully
capable of replacing Aunt Penine as head of the domestic regime.
That lady kept her room, seeing no one except Tyntie and one of the
younger maids. She had refused all overtures extended by her niece and
Mary Broughton; and so, by the advice of the head of the house, they
left her to herself.
Even Aunt Lettice was refused admittance by her sister, and refrained
from seeking it a second time after being informed by Joseph Devereux
of the recent occurrences.
The gentle old lady now went about the house in a sad, subdued fashion,
secretly debating as to whether she would decide against King or
Colony, but carefully keeping her thoughts from being known to others.
Johnnie Strings had kept his word to Dorothy, and brought the ribbon
and lace. Aunt Lettice had paid him for the goods she purchased,
making no response when he said, as he strapped his pack, "The
Britishers be quartered on the Neck, ma'am,--landed there this very
mornin'. The reg'lars,--they came down by ships from Salem; an' a
troop o' dragoons be ridin' over to join 'em."
It was Mary Broughton who asked, "What are they come there for,
Johnnie,--do you know?"
"Any one can guess, mistress, I take it," he replied significantly,
busying himself with the buckles.
"And what do you guess, Johnnie?" asked Dorothy, who was examining a
sampler 'Bitha was working, which was to announce,--
"Tabitha Hollis is my name,
New England is my nation,
Marblehead is my dwelling-place,
And Christ is my Salvation."
Johnnie Strings finished his work with the straps and buckles; then
raising himself from the floor, he said jocosely: "Now, Mistress
Dorothy, surely ye don't care to burden your mind with matters o'
state. Whatever they be come down for, 't is a true fact that the
redcoats be on the Neck,--a hundred or more of 'em. An' as I was
tellin' ye but t'other day, ye'd best keep at home till they be called
away again."
This was Thursday; and Friday morning the two girls, with 'Bitha, were
down in the Sachem's Cave, a small opening that ran, chasm-like, into
the rocks a few feet above the level of the sea, with a natural roof
projecting over it.
Within was a sandy floor,--whether or not the work of man, none living
could say. It was studded with shells, placed there by childish hands,
and the cave had served as playhouse for many generations of boys and
girls.
The opening was hung about with a lace-like weed, wherein some drops of
water were now sparkling in the morning sunshine; and beyond,
stretching away to the horizon, could be seen the sea.
The waves creeping in against the shore broke with gentle plashings as
they touched the rocky base of the headlands; a wonderful serenity lay
over the face of the earth, and all between the land and horizon seemed
a blank and dreaming space of water.
"We are sure to have a fine night," Dorothy had just said, as she
looked out at the sea and sky.
"H-m-m," murmured Mary, warningly, and with a quick glance at 'Bitha,
who seemed to be poring intently over a small book she had taken from
her pocket.
"What are you reading, 'Bitha?" Dorothy asked; and the little girl came
close beside her.
It was Aunt Lettice's "Church Book;" and on the titlepage was:--
"A NEW VERSION OF
the
PSALMS
of
DAVID,
fitted to the Tunes ufed in the Churches:
With feveral Hymns
Out of the
Old and New Teftaments.
By John Barnard,
Paftor of a Church in Marblehead."
In the back part of the book was the music of several tunes such as
were used at that time in the churches; and amongst them was one known
as
"Marblehead."
[Illustration: music score]
* Copied literally from publication "printed by J. Draper for T.
Leverett in Cornhill 1752."
Good Parson Barnard had years since been laid away in his grave on the
old Burial Hill, which rose higher than all the land about, as though
Nature were seeking to lift as near as might be to the skies the dead
committed to her care.
The quaint child seemed to delight in pondering over these hymns, many
of which were past her comprehending; and the long s, so like an f, led
her to make many curious blunders when trying to repeat the words,--a
thing she was always proud to be asked to do.
Once she had insisted upon being told why it was that saints must have
"fits;" and it appeared that she had misread the long s in the
sentence, "The Saints that fit above."
Her greatest favorite, and the one she often read, was:--
"My Heart, like Grafs that's fmit with heat
Withers, that I forget to eat;
By reafon of my conftant Groans
I am reduced to fkin and Bones.
I'm like the Pelican, and Owl,
That lonely in the Deferts ftroll;
As mournful fparrows percht alone
On the Houfe Top, I walk and moan."
"Tell me, cousin,--what sort o' bottles does God have?" she now asked,
as Dorothy glanced at the book held against her knee.
"'Bitha!" Mary exclaimed reprovingly, while Dorothy stared at the
child, and began to laugh.
'Bitha could never endure to be laughed at; and being very fond of Mary
Broughton, she did not relish her disapproval. And so at this double
attack upon her sensibilities, she looked hurt and a bit angry.
"If," she demanded, "'t is wicked to say that God has bottles, what
does the Church Book say so for?" And she pointed to the open page.
"Whatever does the child mean?" asked Dorothy of Mary, as she took the
book into her own hands.
"There,--right there!" was 'Bitha's triumphant retort. "Read for
yourself!" And she trailed a small finger along the lines,--
"Thou hast a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my Tears."
"There!" the child repeated. "You see 't is so. Why should God keep
bottles in Heaven,--and what sort would He keep?"
"I think you will know more about such things when you grow older," was
Dorothy's irresponsive answer; and she handed the book to Mary, while
her dancing eyes glinted with topaz hues caught from the sunshine
without.
"You are an odd child, 'Bitha," Mary said, smiling in spite of herself
as she read the lines.
"That is what I am always told when I ask about anything," the little
girl pouted.
Before any reply could be made to this general accusation a shadow
darkened the opening of the cave, and looking up, all three sprang to
their feet with exclamations of dismay.
A vivid gleam of scarlet shut away the daylight, and a pair of sea-blue
eyes, set in an olive-hued face, were looking at them with much
curiosity.
The two older girls stood speechless, facing the intruder, whose gaze
wandered with respectful curiosity over the regal form and gold-brown
hair of the one, whose mouth was decidedly scornful, as were also her
steady blue eyes, which regarded him fearlessly, despite her quaking
heart.
Then the new-comer's eyes turned to the smaller figure; and a flash of
admiration came into them as his hand stole to his head and removed its
covering, while he said with unmistakable courtesy, "Do not be alarmed,
I beg of you,--I mean no harm."
"What do you want?" Mary Broughton demanded, seeming in no wise
softened by his gentle bearing.
"Only your good-will," he replied, with a smile that showed beautiful
teeth.
She flashed a scornful glance in return.
"Good will!" she repeated. "That is something we have not in our power
to give one who wears a coat the color of yours." She spoke defiantly,
looking the young man squarely in the face.
"Such words, uttered by such lips, almost make me coward enough to
regret the color," he said good-naturedly, and as though determined not
to take offence.
With this he took a step or two inside the cave; and small 'Bitha,
dismayed at the near approach of the scarlet-clad form, clung tightly
to Dorothy's gown, pressing her face into its folds.
"Speak him fair, Mary," Dorothy whispered, apprehending possible danger
from her friend's want of discretion.
But Mary did not hear, or else she did not care to heed, for she said:
"Neither your raiment, nor aught that concerns you, can matter to us.
This is our property you are trespassing upon; and I bid you begone,
this moment."
"You are surely lacking in courtesy, mistress," he replied, still
smilingly.
The words were addressed to Mary, but his glowing eyes were fixed upon
Dorothy, who was still standing with her arms about 'Bitha. The color
was coming and going in her cheeks, and something in the big eyes told
him that a smile was not far away.
"We have no courtesy for British soldiers," was Mary's haughty answer
to his imputation; and there was an angry tapping of her foot upon the
shell floor.
He shrugged his shoulders, and turning more directly away from Mary,
now spoke to Dorothy.
"I was only wandering about the shore," he declared, looking at her as
though pleading for her good-will, "and hearing voices as I stood on
the rocks above, I made bold to find out from whence they came."
Mary had not taken her eyes from his face, and now she was quick to
answer him.
"Well," she said, before Dorothy could speak, "having found where the
voices came from, you'd best go on about your own affairs and leave us
to ours."
"And what if I refuse?" he asked quickly, a flash coming from his eyes
as though she had at length nettled him.
"I should try to tumble you over the rocks at your back," she answered
with sudden anger; and she stepped toward him as if to carry out her
threat.
He moved back hastily, and then, missing his footing on the slippery
granite, fell over backwards down the rocks.
Dorothy's shriek was echoed shrilly by little 'Bitha, while Mary stood
as though transfixed, looking at the opening through which the young
man had disappeared.
Dorothy was the first to find her voice. "Mary," she cried in
terrified reproach, "you have made him fall into the water, and perhaps
he will drown. Whatever shall we do?"
Mary did not reply, but speeding to the entrance of the cave, looked
out over the uneven ledges.
The Britisher was lying, apparently unconscious, only a short distance
below her, his shoulders caught in a deep seam of the rocks, while the
rest of his body lay along a narrow ledge a few feet lower.
"There he is," she said, turning a white face to Dorothy,--"lying there
in the rocks."
Putting 'Bitha aside, Dorothy came and looked down.
"See the blood on his face!" she exclaimed wildly. "'T is coming from
a cut on the side of his head. Oh, Mary, I'm afraid you have killed
him!"
Mary started to reply; but Dorothy had already sprung past her through
the mouth of the cave, and was flying down the rocks to where the
wounded man lay.
Tearing the silken kerchief from about her neck, she knelt beside him
and endeavored to wipe the blood from his face, while Mary watched her
in silence from above, with 'Bitha clinging to her, and crying softly.
"I must have some water, Mary," said Dorothy, who saw that the blood
came from a cut in the side of the young man's head, "and I want
another kerchief. Throw down yours."
Mary, without replying, tossed down her own kerchief, but without
removing her eyes from the white face beneath her.
Dorothy ran to the sand-beach near by, and, having dabbled her bloody
kerchief in the water, hurried back; then laying it folded upon the
wound, she bound it fast with the one Mary had thrown her, lifting the
sufferer's head as she did this, and holding one of his broad shoulders
against her knee, while her nimble fingers deftly tied the knots.
Scarcely had she finished when she was startled, but no less relieved,
to hear a long, quivering sigh come from his lips; and her color
deepened as she looked into his face and met his opening eyes gazing
wonderingly into her own. Then they wandered over her bared neck and
throat, only to return to her eyes, dwelling there with a look that
made her voice tremble as she said, "We are sorry you are hurt, sir; I
hope it is nothing serious."
He made no reply, and, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Do you feel
able to stand on your feet?"
Still he did not answer, but gave her that same intent, questioning
look, as if gazing through and beyond the depths of the eyes above him.
As she stammeringly repeated her inquiry, he sighed heavily, and seemed
to shake his dreaming senses awake, for, raising himself a little, he
passed his shapely brown hand over his bandaged head, and laughed,
albeit not very mirthfully.
"The other fair young dame must be rejoiced at my mishap," he said,
"but--I thank you for your care. I seem to have done something to my
head, for it feels like a burning coal." And he touched the bandage
over the wound.
"It is the salt water, getting into the cut," Dorothy explained, as he
rose slowly and stood before her. "I am very sorry it is so painful;
but it will stop the bleeding."
"As it was you who placed it there, I like it to burn," he said in a
tone to reach her ears alone. "But I'll not forget, even when the pain
ceases." And he looked down into her face in a way that made her eyes
droop.
"I regret very much, sir, that you were injured," said Mary Broughton,
her voice coming from over his head.
He glanced up at her and bowed mockingly. Then stooping to regain his
hat, he said, bending his eyes on Dorothy, "Tell me the name I am to
remember you by."
She did not answer; and he stood looking at her as though awaiting her
pleasure.
"That can be no matter," she said at last, and in a very low voice.
"Ah, but it is--a very great matter," he exclaimed eagerly, laying a
hand on her arm, as she turned away to climb up to the cavern.
Some inward force seemed to be impelling her, and scarcely aware of
what she was saying, she murmured her own name, and he repeated it
after her.
This brought a still deeper color to her cheeks; but as if remembering
all she had so strangely forgotten in the presence of this enemy of her
country, she pushed away his detaining hand, and passed quickly up the
rocks to where Mary was standing.
The young man said nothing more, but looked up at the two; then lifting
his hat, he turned and walked slowly away.
CHAPTER XII
He had scarcely gone when the two girls made haste to leave the cave
and return to the house.
"'T is most unfortunate for us, Dot, that he found the cave, or that
all this should befall," said Mary, as they went down the rocks. "You
know what we have to do to-night; and it may make our work dangerous,
now that he has been here."
A soft whistle interrupted Dorothy's reply; and looking up, they saw
the lean visage of Johnnie Strings, who was perched upon the rocks
above the cave they had just left.
Having attracted their attention, the pedler made haste to join them.
"Well, I snum!" he exclaimed. "Mistress Mary, whatever was the
Britisher seekin' about here, an' talkin' about? What ailed his head,
all tied up, like 't was hurt?"
"He said he heard us talking, and came to see who it was," small 'Bitha
took it upon herself to explain, "and Mary Broughton pushed him down
the rocks."
Johnnie began to laugh, but Dorothy turned to the child and said,
"'Bitha, you know that it is not true, for he stepped backward himself,
and fell over."
"Yes; but 't was Mary made him," 'Bitha insisted. "And, 'though I was
sorry to have him hurt, I was glad Mary made him go away."
"Were you there all the time, Johnnie Strings, and never came nigh to
help us?" demanded Mary, indignantly. They were now walking along
together, for Johnnie seemed inclined to accompany them to the house.
"Nay, nay, mistress," he declared emphatically, but still grinning, as
though vastly pleased. "But I should say ye needed no help from me to
frighten away redcoats. I only came up as I heard Mistress Dorothy say
you'd made him fall into the water. Then I sat an' watched her tie up
his head,--more 's the pity; for belike he'll only use it to hatch more
deviltry for his soldiers to carry out hereabouts."
"Do you know who he is?" inquired Dorothy, her face taking on a little
more color.
"Yes, mistress,--he is a dragoon. I saw him over at Salem t' other
day. They call him Cornet Southorn; an' I only hope he don't get to
know my face too well." Johnnie winked as he said this, and his voice
had a note of mystery.
"I don't believe he would ever harm us," said Dorothy, paying no
attention to the pedler's anxiety concerning himself.
Johnnie's eyes fastened upon her glowing face with a look of surprise
as he remarked grimly, "He's a Britisher, an' our sworn enemy."
On the porch of the house they found Joseph Devereux, who listened with
frowning brows while the girls told him of their adventure.
"Go within, child, to the grandame," he bade 'Bitha, when they had
finished; and as soon as she was gone he said to the pedler, "Now,
Strings, you may, or may not, know aught o' the work in hand for the
night."
The pedler nodded understandingly. "Me an' Lavinia Amelia jogged a bit
o' the mornin' down road with the party from here, an' I was reckonin'
to offer my help, should it be needed. I was on my way this very
mornin' to tell ye that Master Broughton an' the rest thought I'd
better have some of our own men 'round hereabouts, handy for the powder
party to-night."
"'T is best that you do so, as matters have turned out. And 't is
wiser that you be trusted to give the signals to the 'Pearl,' for a
safe landing o' the stuff, and that Mary and Dorothy be left out o' the
matter altogether. 'T is no work for women to risk, with the British
soldiery skulking about the place."
The day passed without event, save that a number of men--mostly brawny,
weather-beaten sailors--came to the house, to go away again after a
private converse with Joseph Devereux.
Johnnie Strings was about the place all day,--now wandering down to the
beach to look out over the wide expanse of ocean, as he whittled
unceasingly at a bit of stick and whistled softly to himself, or else
sitting on the steps of the porch, telling wonderful stories to 'Bitha.
But wherever he was, or what doing, his keen little eyes were always
roving here and there, as though on the lookout for something
unexpected.
It was evident that he was nervous and ill at ease; and this, for
Johnnie Strings, was a new thing.
Toward sunset he arose from the porch steps and gave a great sigh, as
of relief that the day was ended. Then, without a word to any one, he
tramped off in the direction of the Neck.
"'T is as well," he muttered to himself, "to see what the devils be
doin', an' if they be like to suspect what is goin' on about 'em."
The sunset was of marvellous beauty. It was as if all the golds,
purples, and scarlets of the hour had been pounded to a fine dust, and
this was rolling in from over the ocean in one great opaline mist.
The waves, curling in to break upon the sands of Riverhead Beach,
seemed to be pouring out flames and sparks; while the quieter waters of
Great Bay, on the other side of the causeway, looked as though shot
through with long, luminous rays of light, that slanted athwart the
mists of prismatic coloring, to withdraw swiftly now and again, like
search-lights seeking to probe the clear water to its uttermost depths.
But the far-off eastern horizon held aloof from all this glory. It
stood out like a wall of pearl and cold gray, with no sail showing
against it to Johnnie Strings' sharp eyes, as he took his way across
the narrow strip of causeway that left the Devereux estate behind, and
led to the Neck and the enemy's camp.
The pedler knew nothing of the passion called love, else he would never
have been so lacking in shrewdness as to formulate the scheme now
working in his mind. And this, notwithstanding the suspicion that had
shot through his wide-awake brain at the way he had seen Cornet
Southorn looking into the downcast face of Dorothy Devereux, and had
noted later her words in his defence.
His present idea--and one that had been gathering force all day--was to
see the young officer, and while pretending to have come solely to
inquire as to his injury, to so lead the talk as to impress upon his
mind the needlessness of watching the Devereux place or household,
which he should be made to understand consisted only of the women-folk
and one enfeebled old gentleman,--the son being away in Boston.
And now, as he neared the enemy's quarters, he chuckled to himself at
the cleverness of his scheme.
The British troops had taken possession of the entire Neck, occupying
several large warehouses standing near the end, and appropriating even
the buildings used by the lighthouse-keeper and his wife, who, with her
two children and as many of her most precious possessions as she could
carry, had gone across the bay to abide with friends in the town.
Johnnie Strings knew this, and gritted his teeth in silent rage as he
saw a group of redcoats standing around a fire where they were cooking
some of the good woman's chickens for their evening meal.
They hailed him good-naturedly, and invited him to join them, several
of the soldiers recognizing him as one from whom they had purchased
certain things necessary for their comfort.
But he declined their offer, and pulling his hat well over his
forehead, the better to conceal his features, went on beyond to another
group, and demanded to be taken to the presence of Cornet Southorn,
speaking in a way to imply that he had an important message for that
officer.
He was ushered at once into the front room of the lighthouse-keeper's
abode, where, upon a settle drawn near the window overlooking Great
Bay, sat the personage he desired to see.
The young man's head was still bandaged, and the table before him with
food and dishes upon it was evidence of his having supped alone; this
confirming what Johnnie Strings had suspected,--that the soldiers upon
the Neck were at present under the charge of Cornet Southorn.
Captain Shandon, who should have been there,--an elegant fop, high in
favor with the Governor,--was sure to avoid any rough service, such as
this, preferring to remain until the last moment in Salem, where better
fare, both as to food and wines, to say naught of the gentler sex, was
to be had.
Johnnie Strings stood in the shadow, without removing his hat, as
Cornet Southorn demanded pleasantly enough to know his business.
"I came to see how your head was doin' at this hour o' the day, young
sir," the pedler answered in an obsequious tone.
As the last two words came from his lips, the officer scowled. He was
only five-and-twenty, and looked still younger; and he was boyish
enough to resent any familiarity grounded upon his seeming youth.
"Have a care, old man, as to how you address His Majesty's officers,"
he said with some severity, accompanied by a pompousness illy in
keeping with his frank, boyish face.
"I meant no harm, Cornet Southorn," the pedler replied in an apologetic
way. "I saw ye over at Salem t' other day, when I was peddlin' my
wares there; an' I've been all day at the house o' Mistress Dorothy
Devereux, the young lady who tied up your hurt head this mornin'. And
so"--here Johnnie smiled knowingly--"I came to see if ye were any the
worse for your fall, which might have been a bit o' bad luck, had not
the ledge caught ye an' held ye from slippin' into the sea."
The young man's manner changed at once.
"Did Mistress Dorothy Devereux send you to inquire?" he asked eagerly.
"She send me?" said the pedler cautiously, and lowering his voice.
"Lawks! 't is well her old father don't hear ye; 'though sure he be
that feeble he's good for little but tongue fight, an' the only son be
away to Boston for this many a day. An' that," he went on to say
quickly, seeing that the young man was about to speak, "is one reason
why 't is well for me to be about the place till the brother cares to
come home, with all those women-folk there, an' no man but the old
father, who is feeble, as I've said. An' 't is not very safe for them,
who be easily frighted by strange men comin' 'round, 'specially
soldiers."
This was a long speech for Johnnie to make, and he watched narrowly its
effect upon the young officer. This was soon apparent, for he said at
once, "You have done well to tell me of this, and I'll see to it that
none of my men cause any annoyance to the ladies."
He fell so neatly into the trap that Johnnie Strings could scarcely
keep from laughing outright; but all he said was--and very meekly: "Ye
be most kind, sir, an' I'll tell Mistress Dorothy what ye say. An'
I'll tell her as well that your head be none the worse for its thumpin'
on the rocks." With this he backed toward the door.
"No, no," said Southorn, "my head is all right. But come back, won't
you,--come and have something to drink before you go?" And he pounded
vigorously on the table.
But Johnnie declined, with many thanks, asserting that he never drank
anything,--a statement fully in accord with his fictitious story
concerning the Devereux household. But he reckoned upon having
accomplished his purpose, and so bowed himself out, just as a red-faced
orderly appeared in response to his officer's summons.
"Never mind, Kief," said the latter, as the soldier stood stiffly in
the doorway awaiting his orders. "I don't need you now." Then, as the
man saluted and turned to go, he asked, "Who is that fellow who just
left? Do you know?"
"Johnnie Strings, sir, the pedler; 'most everybody knows 'im 'twixt
Boston town and Gloucester."
"Ah, yes, I've heard of him before. That is all, Kief; you may go."
As soon as he was alone, Kyrle Southorn, Cornet in His Majesty's
Dragoons, bethought himself of how strangely lacking he had been in
proper dignity during his brief interview with this humble pedler; and
a feeling of sharp anger beset him for a moment as he took himself to
task for his unofficerlike demeanor and manner of speech.
Then came a mental picture of the distracting face he had seen that
same morning; he seemed to be looking once more into the girl's eyes,
and feeling the soft touch of her little hands about his head.
He recalled all this, and gave utterance to a queer, short laugh, as
though in the effort to excuse his folly.
"Either that girl has bewitched me," he muttered, lying back in his
chair, "or else the cut in my head has been making me addlepated all
day." And he let his gaze wander out through the window, where the
dusk was coming fast, blotting out the fort and town like a dark veil,
pierced here and there by the dimly twinkling lights showing from the
houses.
"I wonder if she sent the fellow?" his thoughts ran on. "She told me
she was sorry for my being hurt, and she looked it. But the other--the
fair one--she was a tartar." And he laughed again at the recollection
of Mary Broughton's angry blue eyes and dauntless bearing.
"From what I've seen of these folk," he said, now half aloud, "it will
be no easy matter to suppress their meetings and make them obey His
Majesty's laws. They seem not to know what fear or submission may
mean." Then, after pondering a few minutes, "I wonder if it would not
be a wise thing for me to call upon this man Devereux, as he is so old
and feeble, and assure him and his women-folk that I will see to it
they be not molested--annoyed in any way? I might see her again,--I
might come to know her; and this would be very pleasant." And now his
thoughts trailed away into rosy musings.
If Johnnie Strings had not added fresh fuel to the fire already kindled
in the breast of the impetuous young Englishman by Dorothy's sweet face
and pitying eyes,--had he not made it burn more fiercely by giving him
reason to believe that she had sent to inquire for his welfare,--he
might not have thought to carry out his present impulse.
He was seized by a strong desire to see for himself the place where she
dwelt,--to look upon her surroundings,--to make more perfect the
picture already in his mind, by adding to it the scenes amid which her
daily life was passed.
Such was the young man's desire; and his was a nature whose longing was
likely to manifest itself by acts, and more especially now, in the very
first heart affair of his life.
As soon as the guards were posted and the countersign given out, he
discarded his uniform for a fisherman's rough coat, and put on a large
slouch hat, which covered his head, bandage and all. And thus attired,
he set forth alone to visit the scene of his morning's adventure, and
to investigate its surroundings.
CHAPTER XIII
The night was clear, bright, and starlit, with not a wreath of vapor
drifting. The rising wind moaned through the woods about the Devereux
homestead, that loomed, a dark mass, and silent as a deserted house.
From the shore below came the hoarse roar of the tumbling water, to
mingle with the wailing murmur of the wind; and now and then could be
heard, clear-cut and eerie, the cry of a screech-owl from the woods.
As evening closed in, Joseph Devereux had ordered that no lights be
shown about the house, lest they might attract the attention of any
straggling soldiers; and he felt assured that this warning would be
sufficient to intimidate the women into the greatest caution.
As for the men, they were all, even old Leet, out with the party
watching at the "Black Hole,"--a bit of the sea shut in by a wood that
bordered a wide sweep of meadow known as the "Raccoon Lot." It was
here that the expected powder and arms were to be concealed by burying
them in the earth, after being wrapped in oilskin coverings.
Johnnie Strings had gone alone to the Sachem's Cave, ready to give the
signal.
The cave was somewhat farther down the shore, and a light shown above
it could be plainly seen from the open sea.
The rising wind piped softly about the closed window where Mary
Broughton was sitting in the starlight, absorbed in her own anxious
thoughts, until aroused by something unusual in Dorothy's appearance
and manner of moving about. The girl was at the farther side of the
unlit room, and Mary asked her what she was doing.
A low laugh was the only answer; and upon the question being repeated,
Dorothy came to the window, and Mary saw that she was clad in a
complete suit of boy's clothes.
The unexpected transition was so startling that for a moment she could
not speak, but sat looking at Dorothy in amazement.
"Oh, Dot," she then exclaimed, "you should take shame to yourself for
doing such a thing!"
She could see, even in the gloom, the wilful toss of Dorothy's head,
whose curls were let down and tied back with a ribbon, thus completing
the masculine disguise.
"Whatever are you thinking about, to play such pranks at a time like
this?" Mary demanded reproachfully.
"That is just it, Mary," Dorothy replied. She seemed in no wise
abashed, but spoke with perfect seriousness. "I do it because of the
time, and of what is going to happen to-night. Father said 't was not
safe for us to go abroad, because we wore petticoats. Now here is this
old suit Jack outgrew years ago, and I've always kept it to masquerade
in; but to-night it will serve me in a more serious matter. I cannot
stop in the house; I am too anxious about Jack. I want to see him and
the others get ashore in safety; and I've no fear but, dressed in this
way, it will be easy for me to do so."
"But you must not," Mary protested. "How can you dare to think of such
a thing? Suppose some of the men should recognize you,--and they will
be keeping a sharp lookout for strangers--what would your father say?"
And she began to have thoughts of seeing him, and so frustrating this
wild scheme.
"I tell you I must go, and will go, Mary; so do not try to prevent me.
I know every inch of ground hereabouts, and can easily keep out of the
way, even should any one try to hinder me. Why will you not go with
me?"
Dorothy spoke quietly, but very earnestly; and as she finished, she
placed both her hands on Mary's shoulders, as though to compel her
consent.
Mary hesitated. There was in her own heart a like desire to that of
the younger girl; she, too, wished to get out of doors, and see all
that should take place. But she held herself to be more prudent than
the impulsive Dorothy, and so for a time she demurred with her
inclination.
But it was only for a time. Dorothy's impetuous arguments fairly swept
her off her balance, as usually happened with any one who was fond of
the girl; and Mary agreed to be her companion.
It was some minutes after this when the two stole noiselessly down the
back stairway and let themselves out of the door opening toward the
sheds at the rear of the house. As Dorothy locked it on the outside
and put the key in her pocket, she whispered: "We might have bribed
Tyntie to let us out, but 't is as well not to risk getting her into
trouble. I shall tell father all about it to-morrow, and I know of a
certainty he'll not be angry. To be sure, he may scold me a little;
but"--with a low laugh--"I can soon kiss him into good humor again."
"Don't you think, Dot, it is rather of a shame,--the way you do things,
and then tell your father afterwards?" Mary asked as they walked along.
"Assuredly not," was the ready answer, "else I might not get so many
chances to 'do things,' as you call it. I never do aught that is
really wrong; I love my father far too dearly for that. But I am
young, and he is old; and that, I suppose, is why we do not think alike
about all matters. He has often said I ought to have been a boy, and I
agree with him; though I dare say I shall be a proper enough old maid
some day. Only," with a laugh, "I cannot quite imagine such a thing."
"No," said Mary, looking into Dorothy's eyes, bright as the stars that
were now being shut away by the branches of the trees in the woods they
were entering; "no--nor I. But we'd best stop our chattering and use
our eyes and ears. Heavens! what's that?" And she clutched Dot's arm
in sudden fright as a wild cry rang out directly over their heads.
"Pooh!" said Dorothy, with a laugh, "'t is but an old hoot-owl. If
you'd been in the woods as much as I, you'd not be frightened so
easily."
They came to a halt at the edge of the timber growth overlooking the
rock peak above the Sachem's Cave, and crouched among the bushes to
watch for the light, keeping a lookout as well upon the sea, for the
first signal from the ship.
And there they remained, listening to the incessant crying of the
insects in the grass and the rustling of the wind in the trees
overhead, these being mingled with the never-ceasing sound of the sea,
as the breakers of the incoming tide flung themselves against the
boulders with a quavering roar that seemed to pulse the air like great
heart-throbs.
Presently Mary whispered, "Why not let us go and stop beside Johnnie
Strings?" Then quickly, "Oh, I forgot--the way you are dressed would
make it imprudent."
"I should not care very much for Johnnie Strings," Dorothy began; but
Mary said hastily,--
"Oh, no, Dot, 'twould never do."
A long silence ensued, broken at length by Mary saying in a tone of
alarm, "Oh, Dot, whatever would we do, if your father went to speak to
you for somewhat, and should not find us in the house at this late
hour?"
"No fear of such a thing," was the confident reply. "He has made sure
long since that I am abed and asleep."
It was half-past ten of the clock when the two girls left the house;
and so they reckoned it must be now several minutes after the next hour.
"Suppose it should be far into the night before the ship comes in
sight," Mary suggested, for she was beginning to feel cramped and
uncomfortable. "Let's not wait for so long a time as that."
"No, we will not," Dorothy assented with a yawn. But the next moment
she was all alive, with her small fingers holding Mary's arm in a tight
clutch as she whispered excitedly: "Look, Mary--there it is! There was
one light, and 't is gone. Now there are the two; and there comes the
third, as Jack said."
The girls arose and stood erect in eager interest, looking out over the
water, where, several hundred yards from shore, the lights gleamed and
then disappeared. And now their eyes, accustomed to the gloom,
discerned a slim blackness, as of a man's form, appear on the highest
point of rocks above the cave; and then a soft glow of tremulous light
illumined the darkness.
While they watched this, they were startled to see a taller figure
spring from the shadows, and a second later the two seemed to melt into
one enlarged blur, as if they were struggling.
Quick as thought the boyish form beside Mary broke from the bushes and
sped with flying steps toward the peak.
"Dot--Dot--come back!" cried Mary, regardless now of who might hear
her. "Whatever are you thinking to do?"
A low but clear reply came to her from over Dorothy's shoulder.
"The lanterns--they must be put out, else Jack may be hurt!"
On, on, she flew, with no fear of the peril into which she might be
rushing,--with no heed of her unmaidenly garb. Her mind held but the
one thought,--that the lanterns must be extinguished, for danger
threatened her brother and his companions if they should seek to land
unwarned.
So absorbed were the men in their fierce wrestling that neither of them
saw nor heard the slight figure that came straight up to them, and
then, dashing at the lanterns, sent them flying into the water beneath.
Then the larger of the two, catching sight of the intruder, relaxed his
hold on the other; and Johnnie Strings, with a derisive whoop, twisted
his wiry little body from the slackened grip and sped down the rocks
and away into the night.
"You young rascal, what does all this mean?" demanded Southorn, for he
it was; and seizing the boyish shoulder firmly, he shook the slender
form.
Dorothy, although greatly overcome by agitation now that her brave deed
was accomplished, thought she recognized the voice that addressed her
so roughly, and was silent from embarrassment.
"Are you dumb?" the Englishman asked angrily, shaking her again.
"Speak up, you young rebel, or I may try what a salt-water bath will do
for the unlocking of your stubborn tongue."
"Stop shaking me, you great--brute," Dorothy gasped indignantly. "Have
you no--manners?"
At sound of the soft-toned voice, Southorn seemed to feel that he was
dealing with no yokel, as he had supposed; and now, peering closely, he
saw that the head of his prisoner was finely shaped, and the features
refined and delicate.
"If you object to rough treatment, my young friend," he said a little
more gently, "you should not put your nose into such doings as these."
But he still kept a firm hold of the arm and shoulder, as though to
stifle any idea of escape.
"I should say 't was you who deserved rough usage,--coming onto my
father's land at this hour, and putting your nose into business that
can in no wise concern you." Dorothy had by this time fully recovered
her composure, and being certain as to the completeness of her
disguise, spoke with saucy assurance.
"Your father's land!" exclaimed the young man, in evident surprise.
"Pray, who is your father?"
"A gentleman who has no great taste for stranger folk prowling about
his estate." She gave her arm and shoulder a slight twitch, as though
to loosen them from his hold. But this he would not have, although his
voice had a still milder sound as he asked, "Is your name Devereux?"
"And whether it is or not," she answered, "pray tell me what matters it
to you?"
"It matters this to me," he said quickly: "that if it is, then I'll let
you off, and will go on my way, although I don't quite like the looks
of the doings I've seen on this rock, and out there on the water."
"By the Holy Poker!" Dorothy exclaimed, bent upon keeping up the part
she had assumed. "But you talk as if you were the Lord High Cockalorum
himself! Who are you, to say what you do and do not like here, on my
father's premises?"
"Never mind who I am. Perhaps I can make more trouble for your father
and his household than you are able to understand. But answer what I
have asked, and you'll not be sorry."
Dorothy could not fail to note the earnestness with which he spoke, nor
the intent look she felt rather than saw in the dim light. But she met
all this with a mocking air and tone as she said, "Since you make it so
worth my while to be kind to my neighbors, how know you but I might see
fit to tell you an untruth, and say my name was Devereux, when it may
be Robinson, or anything else?"
"If this is your father's estate, then your name must be Devereux,"
Southorn asserted; "for the place is owned by one Joseph Devereux, as I
have been told. So there's an end to your telling me anything
misleading. And now answer me this,--know you the one who is called
Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"
Dot waited a moment before answering. A new scheme had sprung into her
quick-witted brain,--one that promised an effective means of getting
rid of his embarrassing presence, this being likely to interfere
seriously with the landing of the arms and powder, were that still in
contemplation.
She was wondering, too, what had become of Mary Broughton, and what she
was doing all this time.
"Answer me," the young Britisher repeated sharply, "do you know her?"
And he gave a shake to the arm he still held.
"You seem over-fond of shaking folk, sir," she remonstrated. "I wish
you'd let go my arm." And she pulled it impatiently.
"I will let it go at once, if you'll only tell me what I wish to know."
"And what may that be?" she asked, with an innocent _sang-froid_ that
plainly angered him.
"You are a saucy boy," he said impatiently. "You remember well enough
what I asked you. Do you know Mistress Dorothy Devereux?"
"Aye," was the quick reply; "I know her as well as you know your own
face that you see in the glass every day." She stood rubbing the arm
he had now released, and upon which his grip had been unpleasantly firm.
"Ah--then she is your sister." He had moved so as to stand directly in
front of the slight figure, whose head reached but half-way up his own
broad chest.
She looked at him for a second and then burst into laughter.
"I know you now," she said. "You must be the Britisher she told of
this morning,--the one who came here, and whom Mary Broughton
frightened so badly that he fell over and cut his head." And again the
mocking laugh came from her ready lips.
"I don't believe your sister told you any such untruth," said the
irritated young man. "I missed my footing, and fell; that was all. I
meant no rudeness, although the lady you name--Mary Broughton, did you
call her?--seemed not to believe me."
"Mary has but little taste for a redcoat," was the dry retort.
"And judging from your own tone, you share her taste," he said, now
quite good-naturedly, for he found himself taking a strong liking to
this bright, free-speaking lad.
"I? Oh, I don't know," was the careless answer. "Do you not think I
am somewhat too young to have much of an opinion upon such matters?"
He smiled, but without replying. Then Dot came closer to him and said
in a low voice, "At any rate, I am good-natured enough to say I can
show you something that you, being His Majesty's officer, had best know
about."
"What is it?" the young man asked. He was now looking around for his
hat, which, together with the bandage about his head, had fallen off
during his struggle with the pedler.
Dorothy's sharp eyes were the first to catch sight of these; and she
picked them up and handed them to him, noting with an odd feeling that
he placed the bandage inside his coat and over his heart.
"It is something you may or may not care to see," she replied. "Only
I'll warrant you'll be sorry if another reports it first; for I shall
show it to the next Britisher who comes this way."
"Very well," he said; "let me see it."
Without further parley, and suspecting a nest of concealed firearms, or
something of the like, he followed her down the rocks, going with slow
caution, while she went more rapidly and soon stood below, waiting for
him. And then, side by side, they set off inland.
Dorothy, skirting as closely as was prudent the woods where she
reckoned Mary was still hiding, took care to remark to her companion,
in a voice loud enough to reach her friend's ears, that it would not
take over ten minutes to reach their destination, and that then he had
best go his own way.
CHAPTER XIV
Mary Broughton was where Dorothy suspected her to be; and standing well
back among the deeper shadows, she had been straining her eyes to see
all that took place on the rocky platform above the cave.
She marvelled greatly at the lengthy converse Dorothy seemed to be
holding with the stranger, after Johnnie Strings disappeared over the
side of the rocks in the direction of Riverhead Beach; and she had
started out of the wood, half determined to go and meet the younger
girl, when she saw her leaving the peak.
A prudent afterthought led her to draw back again when she saw the two
forms swallowed up in the deeper darkness lying at the base of the
rocks. Then, hearing steps coming toward her hiding-place, she was on
the point of calling out, when Dorothy's words came to her ears, and
she remained silent, but still wondering what scheme her friend was
pursuing, and who was the stranger with whom she seemed to be upon such
excellent terms.
Then came the impulse that she had better find her way to the Black
Hole, and tell the waiting party of what had happened; and acting upon
this, she set out at once.
She had not gone very far when there came to her the sound of tramping
feet; and hastening to get out of the more open part of the wood, she
drew aside amongst the denser growth.
She now heard a low-pitched voice singing a snatch of an old song,
trolling it off in a rollicking fashion that bespoke the youth of the
singer,--
"We hunters who follow the chase, the chase,
Ride ever with care a race, a race.
We care not, we reck not--"
Here the song was silenced by another voice which Mary recognized as
that of Doak, an old fisherman, who growled: "Belay that 'ere pipin',
Bait. Hev ye no sense, thet ye risk callin' down the reg'lars on us
with such a roarin'?"
They were now quite near; and slipping out of the bushes, Mary called
out, "Doak, is that you?"
"Who be it?" he demanded quickly, while all the other men came to a
halt.
"It is I--Mary Broughton. Don't stop to question me, but listen to
what I have to tell you."
She told them in the briefest possible way of what had happened. And
in doing this, she deemed it wiser to tell them of Dorothy's disguise,
being fearful of what might befall the girl should the men chance to
meet her,--more especially as they would now be on the lookout for the
stranger, who was doubtless an ill wisher to their scheme.
Doak chuckled mightily over it all, particularly at Mary's description
of Dorothy kicking the lanterns off the rock; and several of the other
men gave hoarse utterance to their admiration.
"Ev'ry natur' be fitted for its own app'inted work," remarked old Doak,
dogmatically. "If Mistress Dorothy had not allers been darin', by the
natur' o' things, she'd never a ketched holt o' the right rope so true
an' quick as she hev this night,--God bless her!"
Here a younger voice broke in impatiently with, "But, Doak, we ought
n't to stand here chatterin' like this."
"True, true, Tommy Harris," the old man replied good-naturedly. "But,"
turning to Mary, "what shall ye do, Mistress Mary? Hed n't ye best let
one o' the boys tek ye to the house? Ye see we be goin' down to the
shore to Master John an' the rest of 'em, as was 'greed we should as
soon as we saw the 'Pearl' show her light."
Mary said she preferred to go with them. But the old man shook his
head, and his companions began to move onward.
"D'ye think 'twould be wise, mistress?" he asked gravely. "Ye see we
don't know jest what sort o' work we may find cut out for
us,--'specially if the man ye saw throttlin' Johnnie Strings were a
British spy, as belike he were, pretty sure." Then he added
impatiently, "I wonder where in tarnation Johnnie hev gone to, thet he
did n't cut back to tell us?"
"And I am wondering where Dorothy has gone," said Mary, with much
anxiety.
"I rather guess ye need hev no fear for her, mistress," Doak made haste
to reply. "She be wide awake, I'll bet my head, where'er she be."
"But it seems so strange a thing that she should go off in such
fashion," Mary said, by no means satisfied with the old man's confident
words.
"She went 'cause she wanted to go; an' she wanted to go 'cause she saw
work cut out to do, I warrant ye," declared Doak, with whom the girl
had always been a great favorite, since the days he used to take her
and Mary Broughton on fishing excursions in his boat. "But as to ye,
mistress--"
"It is this way, Doak," she said, interrupting him: "you see I cannot
get into the house until I find Dorothy; for she has the key of the
only door by which I could enter, except I disturbed every one."
"If ye did thet, Mistress Mary, the father would find out all 'bout the
prankin', eh?" And he chuckled knowingly.
"And so 't is best," she went on, paying no attention to him, "that I
go along with you until we can see Master John; and he will know what
to do."
"Very well, Mistress Mary," Doak said; "come 'long o' me, an' 't will
go hard with any man as seeks to molest ye,--though, from what Johnnie
Strings told me o' what ye did to the spyin' Britisher this mornin'--"
Here he stopped short, both in speech and walking,--for they had been
hurrying to overtake the others, now well in advance--and slapping his
thigh, exclaimed: "I hev it, I hev it! What a blind old fool I be, not
to hev thought o' thet afore! 'T were sure to be the same devil, or
some one he sent, thet ye saw fightin' with Johnnie Strings."
"Do you think so?" asked Mary, surprised that the thought had not
occurred to her before. "Whatever should make him come back there at
this hour of the night?"
"Spyin', mistress, spyin', as 't is the only business he an' his
soldiers be sent down to do hereabouts. Who can say how many of 'em be
lyin' 'round this minute, to jump on us?"
Mary glanced about apprehensively, and moved a little closer to the
sturdy fisherman's side.
They were now out of the woods, and could discern vaguely in the open
field before them the dark forms grouped near the shore, awaiting some
signal or sign that might bespeak the expected boats.
Mary and Doak joined the others, and they all stood in silence,
watching the black water, now streaked with a narrow bar of sullen red
from the eastern sky, where, out of a wild-looking cloud-bank, the moon
was just lifting a full, clear disk.
"Can ye see aught?" muttered one stalwart fellow to his nearest
neighbor,--the two standing near Mary and old Doak.
"Not I," was the low reply. "Mayhap they won't come at all now, since
seein' the lanterns go out."
"Whate'er be ye thinkin' on?" chimed in Doak. "Cap'n Brattle hev
brought the stuff down, fast 'nough; an' he won't be for carryin' it
over to Salem, under the Gov'nor's nose. 'T is to be brought here; an'
here, an' nowhere else, hev they got to land it. They'll only be more
on the lookout now--thet's all. They know us to be here, an' all they
hev to do be to get to us. An' get to us they will, 'though the meadow
be grass-grown with redcoats, an' the King hisself 'mongst 'em."
"D--n the King and all his redcoats!" came hoarsely from another man;
and then the talk was stopped by a faint sound from the water.
Doak commanded the men to keep perfectly silent, for only the keenest
alertness could catch what the wind now brought to them. It was the
faintest imaginable noise of working oars; and it sent a shudder, like
a great sigh, through the waiting group.
Mary Broughton felt her pulses thrill as the sound became more
distinct; and she glanced nervously about, and back of her,--at the
dark woods on the one hand, the frowning rock-piles on the other, and
at the sweep of clear meadows in the rear.
"Draw aside, Mistress Mary, do ye now, please," Doak urged, laying his
hand upon her arm. "Get over there close by the rocks. For if so be
there comes any surprise from the Britishers, 'twill surely be from the
back of us, here; an' in such case ye'll be safe an' clear from 'em, or
from flyin' bullets, if ye get behind the rocks."
She felt the wisdom of this advice, and silently complied, while he
went forward to the men, now drawn down close to the water's edge.
The next moment he sent a likely-to-be-understood signal out over the
water. It was the curlew's cry, which he imitated perfectly; and while
it rang out softly, it was clear and penetrating.
There was a second of silence, save for the wind, and the rippling of
the waves upon the shingle; then came a like cry from out the darkness,
and seeming nearer than had the sound of the oars.
"Now, then, lads, face 'bout, an' watch afore ye!" Doak commanded, his
voice now strong with excitement; and pushing through them until he
reached the very edge of the water, he sent back another call,--loud,
clear, and fearless in its sound.
The other men, with faces turned inland, stood with listening ears and
keen eyes, each gripping his gun, ready to repel the onslaught of any
lurking enemy that might be awaiting a favorable moment to swoop down
upon them.
Following close upon Doak's second call there came the unmistakable
sound of rapidly working oars. Then a sizable lump of dark shadow
showed, speeding toward the beach, and soon defining its shape into
that of a large rowboat.
Crouched closely against the rocks, and listening with checked
breathing, Mary Broughton almost cried aloud as a step startled her.
Then looking intently at the form drawing near, she recognized it, and
said quickly, with a deep sigh of relief, "Oh, Dorothy!"
"Yes, Mary--is that you?" The speaker came closer and asked eagerly,
"Are those our own men down there on the shore, and was it the boat
they were signalling with the curlew's cry?"
"Yes, and the boat is nigh in. But whatever have you been up to, Dot,
and who was the man you went off with, and where is he now?"
To this fusillade of questions Dorothy only replied with a laugh. Then
she asked in turn, "Where is Johnnie Strings?"
"No one knows," Mary answered. "'T is old Doak down there with the
men." And she added with a little impatience, "But why don't you tell
me, Dot--what has become of that man?"
Dorothy laughed once more. "I have been locking him away, out of
mischief; and now he's as safe as if he had stopped where he belonged,
instead of coming to prowl about here at this hour of the night. It
was the Britisher, Mary,--the same one who gave us such a turn this
morning. He mistook me for my own brother, and I improved the chance
to lead him away by the nose."
"But how?" Mary asked in astonishment. "What do you mean by all this,
and what have you done with him?"
"I made him think that I could show him somewhat of importance to his
cause; and so I lured him up into father's new cattle-shed, in the
ten-acre lot, and I bolted him in there safely enough, unless he should
manage to break the bar that holds the door. I could not lock it, for
Trent has the key; but I should think the bar was strong enough to hold
the door--at least until the arms be safely landed and stowed away."
"Then he was all alone?" Mary inquired, still too full of anxiety to
make any present comment upon Dot's exploit.
"Yes, all alone."
"What did he say to you?"
"Say!" Dorothy exclaimed with a little laugh. "Oh, he said a good many
things. He spoke most glibly of Mistress Dorothy Devereux; and he told
me that if I'd say my name was the same as hers, he'd go away, and not
inspect more closely the goings on he had overseen, and which he
admitted were not to his liking."
"Dot!" And Mary's tone was distinctly reproachful.
"Well," almost defiantly, "he did say all that, and more too."
"But," asked Mary, "did he not find you out--that you were a girl
masquerading in boy's apparel?"
"Not he," with another laugh. "And I trust he never will, after the
hoydenish manner of speech I thought it best to use in keeping up my
character. He took me for a young brother of Mistress Dorothy
Devereux, I tell you."
"Yes," Mary said musingly, as if to herself, "and I pray no harm may
come of it."
"Harm!" Dorothy exclaimed, quick in her own justification. "What harm
can come of it? I take it as a most lucky thing that I was able to get
him out of the way. Had I not done so, then you might have had
something to say about harm."
"He would have been taken prisoner by our men, had he stayed about
here," Mary asserted confidently, "and would have been shot, had he
made any disturbance. And that would have been just what he deserved."
Her usually gentle voice sounded unnaturally hard.
"Oh, Mary," her friend cried, regardless of who might be within
hearing, "how can you speak so harshly--and he such a handsome young
gallant?"
"What is it to us, whether he be handsome or ill-favored?" was Mary's
sharp retort. "What interest have you in him?"
"I should be sorry if he were hurt." And Dorothy's tone was almost
tender by comparison with that of her companion.
"Shame on you, Dot!" Mary said in a low voice, but quite fiercely.
"How can you talk so, and he a hateful Britisher?"
But before Dorothy could reply, the sound of a boat's keel grating on
the sand turned their thoughts to different matters.
"They are in!" exclaimed Dot, exultantly. "And safe!"
"Aye--safe so far," Mary murmured. She was still uncomfortable, and
suspicious of some danger lurking in the darkness about them.
CHAPTER XV
The men were gathered around the boat, shutting it away from the two
girls; and the moon's light, now grown silvery, was touching the group
in a way to make all their movements visible.
"Mary," said Dorothy, "do you go to the beach and ask Jack to come here
to me. I must tell him somewhat; and then let us go to the house."
And Mary, nothing loath, complied at once.
A few of the men were rapidly removing the arms and powder, which were
well wrapped in oilskins; and two sailors from the "Pearl" were
waiting, ready to pull out again the instant the cargo was landed.
Another boat, similarly laden, was approaching the beach; and near it,
in a dory by himself, was the missing pedler.
Upon escaping from Southorn, he had betaken himself to the causeway,
dragged one of the Devereux dories across from Riverhead Beach to the
open sea on the other side, and then set out to find the incoming boats
and report the recent occurrence.
This he had done successfully; and John Devereux, now standing among
the men and conversing, with Doak, knew nearly all there was to be
told, while Hugh Knollys was coming in with the second boatload.
So intent was the young man upon what was going on about him that he
did not see Mary until she had spoken to him; but at sound of her low
voice he turned quickly and came toward her.
There was sufficient light for her to see the eager gladness in his
face as he stood before her, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the
curling locks blowing riotously about his brows.
"Mary," was all he said; but his voice was filled with something she
had never heard there before.
"Dorothy wishes to speak with you at once," she replied, the faint
light giving her courage to keep her eyes upraised to his, for his
voice and manner made her heart tremulous.
He drew her hand within his arm, and as they turned away from the shore
his other hand stole up and clasped the small soft fingers that rested
so lightly upon his sleeve; and he felt them tremble as his own closed
more tightly about them.
"Mary," he said once more, and she lifted her face to meet the eyes she
felt were bent upon it.
His face was shadowed by his hat-brim; but she could feel his heart
beating against the arm he pressed closely to his side, and she could
hear how hard and fast he was breathing.
Making no answer, she only looked at him, until without a word he bent
his head and kissed her.
"Why, John!" and her voice was well-nigh choked by mingled
embarrassment and joy. "Dorothy will see you."
"Aye," he said stoutly; "and I hope she may, and all else in the world
see me doing a like thing many times."
They had now come to a halt, and he said impetuously: "I cannot wait
another minute, sweetheart, to tell you that I love you; only you
surely knew it long ago. But what I do not know, and must know at
once, is whether my love is returned."
Her only answer was, "Dorothy is near,--just behind these rocks; come
and speak to her first."
"Not one step will I go until you tell me what I ask," he declared
firmly. "I have spoken to your father; and I have his consent and
blessing, if you will listen to me. So," pleadingly, "tell me,
Mary--sweetheart; tell me, do you love me well enough to be my wife?"
A softly breathed "Yes" stole to his ears as Mary bent her head down on
his arm. But he raised the glowing face in his hands, and looked a
long moment at what he saw revealed by the faint light of the stars.
Then, with a fervent "Thank God!" he bent once more, and laid his lips
on hers; and without another word they passed quickly over the few
yards to the rock-pile, where a boyish figure stood whistling.
John Devereux started back and exclaimed, "Where is Dorothy? I thought
she was here."
"I _am_ here, Jack, awaiting your pleasure," a saucy voice replied; and
Mary felt her cheeks burn, for something in Dorothy's tone told her
that her own precious secret was known.
"Dorothy, what is the meaning of all this?" her brother asked, giving
her the full name, and trying to speak with severity. All that Johnnie
Strings had told him was of a boy tossing the lanterns over the rocks,
as indeed the pedler supposed to be the fact.
"See here, Jack," she said earnestly, "don't scold me now. You can do
it just as well to-morrow, and Mary and I wish to get to the house.
But before I go I must tell you there is a certain gentleman locked in
the new shed, in the ten-acre lot; and when the powder and arms are
safe, you had best get him out."
"Who put him there?" he asked in amazement.
"I did," was the answer.
"You, Dot--what for?"
"To keep him from finding out what you had rather he did not know.
Only you must promise not to let him be hurt, and that you will release
him as soon as you unfasten the door."
"Who is he--do you know?" And he did not speak so good-naturedly as
his sister would have liked.
"He is a redcoat,--one of the soldiers quartered over on the Neck,"
said Mary Broughton, now speaking for the first time. "He came upon
Dot and me at the Sachem's Cave this morning, and he has been prowling
about the place to-night. 'T was he who surprised Johnnie Strings, and
caused Dot to put out the signal-lights."
Mary spoke with animation, almost anger, for she felt a bit indignant
at Dorothy's apparent lack of what she herself considered to be a
proper view of the affair.
"Aha," muttered her lover, his voice full of sharp suspicion. "Did
this man hold much converse with you this morning, Mary?"
"No, very little," she replied uneasily; and Dorothy added with a
laugh,--
"I fancy he had a bit more than he enjoyed."
"Johnnie Strings told me of your frightening a Britisher so that he
nearly tumbled into the sea," John said, speaking in an approving way.
"And so this is the same fellow, is he? But how comes it, Dot, that
you found the chance to lock him away?"
"'T is a long story," his sister replied, with a touch of petulance,
"and Mary and I must get back to the house. Only,"--and her voice
softened again--"won't you promise me, Jack, that you will not permit
him to be injured? I could never sleep again if I thought I was the
cause of any ill befalling him."
She was almost in tears; and knowing this, her brother hastened to say,
"There, there, Dot! You've too tender a heart, child. But your mind
may rest easy, for I myself will let the man out as soon as 't is
prudent to do so. He shall go his way for this once, but I'll not
promise as to what may befall should he see fit to repeat such a bit of
business."
The moon was rising higher, and its light becoming clearer and more
silvery. The boats were unloaded, and the sailors were pulling them
back to the ship, when the girls saw Hugh Knollys coming toward them
from the beach; and at sight of him they turned to flee.
"I must go to the house with you two, Mary;" and John Devereux laid a
detaining hand upon her arm, bidding Dorothy wait a moment.
"No need for that," she said quickly, fearing that Hugh might accompany
them; "we are not afraid."
But John called out to Knollys,--speaking very carefully, for it still
seemed as though each rock or bush might be concealing a spying
enemy--asking him to go to the Black Hole in charge of the men, as he
himself must first hurry to the house, to rejoin them later.
Hugh turned back, and the three took their way through the woods,
Dorothy keeping ahead and the others walking closely together just
behind her.
"Mary," John said presently, and his voice was tremulous as a woman's,
"I can scarcely believe it."
"Hush!" she whispered warningly.
But pressing her hand, he said, "Dot knows all about it." And he
laughed softly, while Mary's cheeks burned, and she was silent.
Then he added: "You see, I have been under such a strain, so filled
with anxious thoughts, that I well-nigh lost my senses when I landed on
the beach, and knew you were near me, and heard your voice. Then,
afterwards, I was so shocked by Dot's prank when I came upon her by the
rocks, that it is just coming to me what the child has done. It was a
brave deed; and but for her doing it, who can say what might have
happened--brave little girl!"
The slight figure was too far ahead of their lagging footsteps to be
reached by his words. Indeed they could not see her at all through the
gloom of the woods, although they could hear now and again her light
footfall, or the cracking of a twig as she stepped upon it.
"She thinks you are displeased with her prank," Mary said, "and I'm
sure she feels very unhappy about it."
"She shall not feel so very long," he replied heartily.
They found her waiting for them at the back door of the house, ready to
put the key into the lock. But before she could do this her brother
put his arms about her and kissed her fondly.
"Brave little girl!" he whispered. "'T is you who have saved the arms
and powder for the town."
To his amazement she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing and
trembling like a child.
"Why, Dot, whatever is it?" he asked anxiously, lowering his voice so
as not to arouse the inmates of the house.
"She is suffering from a reaction, I think," Mary said softly; "but it
will soon pass away."
But Dorothy was of too dauntless a spirit for her brother to be content
with this explanation; and holding her close in his arms, he went on
assuring her that he was not displeased, but that she had done a brave
act, and that every one would say the same if the news of it should get
abroad.
"You must hush your sobs," he said, "and go within, and to bed, where
you should have been hours ago. I will find Hugh Knollys, and we'll go
together and release your prisoner."
All this, whispered in her ear while her face was buried over his
heart, quieted her at last; and she drew herself away from him as she
said with a hysterical little laugh, "Think of the picture I am making
for Mary,--a big boy crying in your arms!"
"You should have been a boy, Dot," he whispered, while she was opening
the door; "you've a heart brave enough to do credit to any man."
"And, pray, may not women lay claim to having brave hearts?" queried
Mary Broughton, with dignified coquetry.
"Aye, most truly; I should say you and Dot had proved that already.
And now, good-night, sweetheart." And to Mary's consternation, he
leaned over and kissed her, hurrying away as she hastily followed
Dorothy into the house.
No word was spoken as the two girls felt their way cautiously through
the pitchy darkness to their rooms above stairs.
The two apartments communicated; and the front windows of each
overlooked the meadow lands and woods, together with a far-reaching
expanse of the sea.
Aunt Penine's, as well as Aunt Lettice's and little 'Bitha's, rooms
were in the wing of the house, on the opposite side; while those of
Joseph Devereux were far to the front, and looked out directly upon the
grounds and wooded land that ran down to the beach, where the water
stretched away to the horizon.
They went directly to Dorothy's chamber; and it was so bright with the
moonlight now pouring through the unshuttered windows that they needed
no candle.
As soon as the door was closed, Mary said, "Dorothy, I have somewhat to
tell you." And she put her arms lovingly about the boyish form, while
the solemn tenderness of her tone bespoke what she had to reveal.
"You've no need to tell," replied Dorothy, speaking in a way to so
disconcert Mary that she said uneasily,--
"Oh, Dot, I thought you'd be glad it was so."
At this, Dorothy threw her arms impulsively around the other girl's
neck.
"I am glad, Mary," she exclaimed; "I am very, very glad. Only, I knew
long ago that you and Jack loved one another." Then, as she hugged her
closer, "But you won't love me less for what has befallen?"
Her voice sounded as though the tears were coming again.
Mary tightened her hold upon the slight form, and kissed the upturned
face upon which the moonbeams were resting.
"Love you less, Dot?" she declared; "it only makes me love you far more
than before; and I have always loved you very dearly, as you well know."
"And I want to be loved, Mary! I feel so lonely!" And now she was
crying once more.
"Why, Dot," Mary asked, almost in alarm, "whatever ails you, crying
twice in the one evening? I scarce know what to think of you."
"I wish I could see my father," Dorothy sobbed; "I wish I could see him
this minute. He always knows me and understands me, no matter what I
do or say."
"You are just worn out, poor child," said Mary, in a soothing, motherly
fashion; "and no wonder, with all you've gone through this night. And
now," she added with decision, "I shall put you straight to bed, this
very minute. I want to go myself, but cannot until you become quiet."
With this she began tugging at the fastenings of the unfamiliar
garments; and Dorothy, despite her tears, commenced to laugh, but in a
nervous, unnatural way.
"Never mind," she said; "I will do all that, Mary, for I understand it
better than you. And," straightening herself, "I'll stop crying. I
never knew I could be such a fool."
Long after Mary was sleeping, Dorothy was still lying awake listening
for her brother's return. She knew she would hear him, for his room
was just across the hall, opposite her own.
As she nestled among the lavender-scented pillows, visions would keep
coming to her of the handsome face she had seen that morning, and again
that very night. The purple-hued eyes, edged so thickly with swart
curling lashes, seemed to be looking into her own, as when she held his
wounded head pillowed against her knee, while his voice yet thrilled in
her ears as had never any man's before.
And then came the realization that this man was her country's avowed
enemy,--a hated Britisher!
Her conscience smote her as she thought of the trick she had played
him, recalling how trustingly he had entered the dark shed, and how
silent he had been at first, when she slammed the door and shot the
wooden bar across. Then how fiercely he had seemed to fling his broad
shoulders against the door of his prison, making her fear that he would
be able to come forth and visit his wrath upon the audacious young
rebel who had served him such a trick.
But she could find some comfort in thinking of how she had stolen back,
and called him by name, at which the blows became stilled; and of how
she had then told him to have no fear for his safety, as in a short
time he would be released, to go where he pleased.
Mary, did she but know all these thoughts, would be angry, and call her
unfaithful to the cause. And Jack, and her father--what would her
father say to her?
She had never in her life feared him. But now a quaking dread beset
her as to what the morrow might bring from him of censure and
displeasure. And at this she began to cry again--softly, but bitterly.
Whether the girl knew it or not, her nerves had by this time become
strained to the uttermost; and sleep, the blessed healer that comes so
readily to the young and healthful, was beginning to woo her away from
all her troubles, when a slight noise startled her into new wakefulness.
Listening intently, she heard her brother enter his room; and she heard
him say something to their father, who was passing on toward his own
apartments.
Rising hastily, Dorothy thrust her little bare feet into some wool
slippers and drew a bed-gown over her night-dress; then she stole
softly across the passage to her brother's room.
The door was ajar; and after tapping gently, she put up her small hands
to shield her eyes from the glare of the candle he held, as he came to
answer her summons, looking wonderingly out to see who it might be.
"Dorothy!" he exclaimed, as he saw the little yellow-robed figure, and
the rumpled curls and drooping face. Then, stretching out his hand, he
drew her within the room and closed the door.
"Dot, why are you not asleep at this hour? You will surely make
yourself ill." He crossed over to a small table and set down the heavy
silver candlestick, the light flaring in his weary, but always handsome
face, now looking all the darker from contrast with his snowy
linen--for he was in his shirt-sleeves.
He came to her once more; and as she did not speak, he took her hands
from before her face and held them lovingly. "What is it, child--what
is troubling you?"
"Mary has told me, Jack, and I wanted to tell you that I am glad." And
two great tears stole from her long lashes and ran down the rounded
cheeks, whose bloom was paler than he had ever seen it.
"And is that the face you wear, Dot, when you are joyful?" he asked
gently, but with a smile. "What is it, child?" he urged, as she did
not speak. "I am so happy to-night, and I cannot bear to see you in
tears; it hurts me."
"Ah, no, Jack," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't
want to hurt you."
He held her fast, and laid his cheek against her own, as he said
softly: "Is it that you are
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