It had been nearly midnight of the preceding evening, when Reuben wearily and slowly making his way along the dark and difficult road, reached Lee, and was directed at the rebel outposts to the house of Mrs. Perry as the place which Perez occupied as a headquarters. Although it was so late, the rebel commander, too full of anxious and brooding thoughts to sleep, was still sitting before the smouldering fire in the kitchen chimney when Reuben staggered in.
“Reub,” he cried, starting up as he recognized his brother, “what’s the matter? Has anything happened at home?”
“Nothing bad. I’ve brought you news. Have you got some rum? I’m pretty tired.”
Perez found a demijohn, poured out a mug, and watched his brother with anxious eyes as he gulped it down. Presently, a little color came back to his white face, and he said:
“Now I feel better. It was a hard road. I felt like giving out once or twice. But I’m all right now.”
“What made you come, Reub? You’re not strong yet. It might have killed you.”
“I had to, Perez. It was life or death for you. The army at Stockbridge are going to surprise you at sunrise. I came to warn you. Desire Edwards brought us word.”
“What!” exclaimed Perez, his face aglow. “She brought you word? Do you mean that?”
“Jess hole on, and I’ll tell you how it was,” said Reub, with a manner almost as full of enthusiasm as his brother’s. “It was nigh bedtime, and we were setting afore the fire a talking ’bout you, and a hopin you’d get over the line into York; when the door opened, an in come Desire Edwards, all dressed up in a shiny gaown, an her hair fixed, an everything like as to a weddin. I tell yew, Perez, my eyes stood out some. An afore we could say nothing, we wuz so flustered, she up an says as haow she hearn them ossifers tew her haouse tellin haow they wuz gonter s’prise ye in the mornin, an so she come ter tell us, thinkin we mout git word ter ye.”
“Did she say that, Reub? Did she say those words? Did she say that about me? Are you sure?” interrupted Perez, in a hushed tone of incredulous ecstasy, as he nervously gripped his brother’s shoulder.
“Them wuz her words, nigh es I kin reckullec,” replied Reub, “an that ’bout yew she said for sartin. She said we wuz ter sen’ word ter ye, so’s ye mout git away, an then she guv me the countersign for ter say tew the sentries, so’s I could git by ter fetch ye word.”
“To think of her doing all that for me, Reub. I can’t believe it. It’s too much. Because you see, Reub, if she’d take all that trouble for me, it shows–it shows–I think it must be she”–he hesitated, and finally gulped out–“cares for me, Reub,” and his eyes filled with tears.
“Ye may say so, for sartin, Perez,” replied his brother with sympathetic enthusiasm. “A gal wouldn’ dew what she did for no feller, unless she sat store by him, naow. It’s a sign fer sure.”
“Reub,” said Perez, in a voice uneven with suppressed emotion, “now I know she cares for me that much, I don’t mind a snap of the finger what happens to me. If they came to hang me this minute, I should laugh in their faces,” and he sprang up and paced to and fro, with fixed eyes and a set smile, and then, still wearing the same look came back and sat down by his brother, and said: “I sort of hoped she cared for me before, but it seemed most too much to believe. You don’t know how I feel, Reub. You can’t think, nohow.”
“Yes I can,” said Reuben, quietly; “I guess ye feel suthin ez I uster baout Jemimy, sorter light inside an so pleased like ye don’t keer a copper ef ye live or die. Yes, I know mor’n ye think I dew baout the feelin’s a feller hez long o’ women, on’y ye see it didn’t come ter nothin with Jemimy, fer wen my fust crop failed, an I was tuk for debt, Peleg got her arter all.”
“I didn’t think ’bout Jemimy, Reub,” said Perez, softly. In the affluence of his own happiness, he was overwhelmed with compassion for his brother. He was stricken by the patient look upon his pale face. “Never mind, Reub,” he said. “Don’t be downhearted. You and me ‘ll stand by each other, an mebbe it’ll be made up to ye some time,” and he laid his arm tenderly on the other’s shoulder.
“I on’y spoke on’t ’cause o’ what ye said ’bout my not under-standin,” said Reuben, excusing himself for having made a demand on the other’s compassion. “She never guv me no sech reasin ter think she set store by me ez ye’ve hed ter night ‘long o’ Desire Edwards. I wuzn’t a comparin on us, nohow.”
There was a space of silence finally disturbed by a noise of boots in an adjoining room and presently Abner Rathbun stumped out. Abner had escaped at the West Stockbridge rout and having made his way to Perez, at Lee, had been forgiven his desertion by the latter and made his chief lieutenant and adviser.
“Hello, Reub,” he exclaimed. “Whar’d ye drop from? Heard so much talkin, callated suthin must a happened, an turned out ter see what it wuz. Fetched any news, hev ye Reub? Spit it aout. Guess it muss be pooty good, or the cap’n would’n be lookin so darned pleased.”
“The news I fetched is that the army in Stockbridge is going to attack you to-morrow at dawn.”
Abner’s jaw fell. He looked from Reuben to Perez, whose face as he gazed absently at the coals on the hearth still wore the smile which had attracted his attention. This seemed to decide him, for as he turned again to Reub, he said, shrewdly:
“Yew can’t fool me with no gum-game o’ that sort. I guess Perez wouldn’t be grinnin that ar way ef he callated we wuz gonter be all chawed up afore mornin.”
“Reuben tells the truth. They are going to attack us in the morning,” said Perez, looking up. Abner stared at him a moment, and then demanded half-sullen, half-puzzled:
“Wal, Cap’n, wat dew ye see tew larf at in that? Derned ef I see nothin funny.”
“Your glum mug would be enough to laugh at if there was nothing else Abner,” said Perez, getting up and gayly slapping the giant on the shoulder.
“I s’pose ye must hev got some plan in yer head fer gittin the best on em,” suggested Abner, at last, evidently racking his brains to suggest a hypothesis to explain his commander’s untimely levity.
“No, Abner,” replied Perez, “I have not thought of any plan yet. What do you think about the business?”
“I’m afeard thar ain’t no dependin on the men fer a scrimmage. I callate they’ll scatter ez soon’s the news gits raound that the white feathers be comin, ‘thout even waitin fer em tew git in sight,” was Abner’s gloomy response.
“I shouldn’t be at all surprised if they did. I don’t believe there’s a dozen in the lot we could depend on,” said Perez cheerfully.
“Wat’s the matter with ye, Cap’n,” burst out Abner, in desperation. “I can’t make aout wat’s come over ye. Ye talk ‘s though ye didn’ keer a Bungtaown copper wether we fit or run, or stayed an got hung, but jess set thar a grinnin tew yerself ez if ye’d loss yer wits.”
Perez laughed again, but checking himself, replied: “I s’pose I do seem a little queer, Abner, but you mustn’t mind that. I hope I haven’t lost my wits quite. Let’s see, now,” he went on in a businesslike tone, with the air of one abruptly enforcing a new direction upon his thoughts. “We could get up the men and retreat to the mountains by morning, but two-thirds would desert before we’d marched two miles, and slink away home, and the worst of it is the poor chaps would be arrested and abused when they got home.”
“That’s sartin so, Cap’n,” said Abner, his anxiety for Perez’ sanity evidently diminishing.
“It’s a shame to retreat, too, with such a position to defend. Why, Abner, just look at it. The snow is three to four feet deep in the fields and woods, and the enemy can only come in on the road. That road is just like a causeway through a swamp or a bridge. They can’t go off it without snowshoes. With half a company that I could depend on, I’d defend it against a regiment. If I wanted breastworks all I’ve got to do is to dig paths in the snow. I could hold Lee till the snow melts or till they took it by zig-zags and parallels through the drifts. But there’s no use talking about any such thing, for there’s no fight left in the men, not a bit. If they had ever so little grit left, we might hold out long enough at least to get some sort of fair terms, but, Lord they haven’t. They’ll just run like sheep.”
“Ef we on’y hed a cannon naow, ef ‘twan’t but a three-pounder!” said Abner, pathetically. “We could jess sot it in the middle of the road, and all creation couldn’t get intew Lee. Yew an I could stop em alone then. Gosh naow wat wouldn’t I give fer a cannon the size o’ Mis Perry’s yarn-beam thar. Ef the white feathers seen a gun the size o’ that p’inted at em an a feller behind it with a hot coal, I callate they’d be durn glad tew ‘gree tew a fa’r settlement. But Lordomassy, gosh knows we hain’t got no cannon, and we can’t make one.”
“I don’t know about that, Abner,” replied Perez, deliberately. His glance had followed Abner’s to the loom standing in the back of the kitchen, and as he answered his lieutenant he was fixedly regarding the very yarn-beam to which the other had alluded, a round, smooth, dark colored wooden roller, five or six feet long and eight or ten inches through.
But perhaps it will be better to let Dr. Partridge tell the rest of the story as he related it nearly three weeks later for the amusement of Desire during her convalescence from the cold and fever through which he had brought her.
“It was pitch dark when we left Stockbridge,” said the doctor, “and allowing a good hour for the march owing to the state of the road, the General calculated we should reach Lee about dawn and catch the rascals taking their beauty sleep. It was excessively cold and our fingers began to grow numb very soon, and if anybody touched the iron part of his gun without the mittens he would leave a piece of skin behind. But you see we had just heard of General Lincoln’s thirty-mile night march from Hadley to Petersham in even worse weather, and for the credit of Berkshire, we had to keep on if we froze to death. We met nobody until we were within half a mile of Lee. Then we overhauled one of the rebel sentries, and captured him, though not till he had let off his gun. Then we heard the drum beating in the town. There was nothing to do but to hurry on as fast as we could. And so we did for about ten minutes more when somebody said, ‘There they are.’ Sure enough, about twenty rods off, where the road enters the village was a black mass of men occupying its entire breadth with a man on horseback in front whom I took for Hamlin. We kept on a little longer and then the General ordered us to halt, and Squire Woodbridge rode forward within easy speaking distance of the rebels and began to read the riot act. But he had no sooner begun than Hamlin made a gesture, and a drum struck up lustily among the rebels, drowning the Squire’s voice. Nevertheless he made an end of the reading so that we might proceed legally and thereupon the General ordered the men to fix bayonets and gave the order to march. Then it seemed that the rebels were about to retire, for their line fell back a little and already our men had given a cheer when a sharp-eyed fellow in the front rank sang out:
“‘They’ve got a cannon!’ And when we looked, sure enough the slight falling back of the rebels we had noted, had only been to uncover a piece of artillery which was planted squarely in the middle of the road, pointing directly at us. A man with a smoking brazier of coals stood by the breech, and another, whom by his size I took to be Abner Rathbun, with a pair of tongs held a bright coal which he had taken from it. It being yet rather dark, though close on sunrise, we could plainly see the redness of the coal the fellow held in the tongs above the touchhole of the gun, and ticklish near, it seemed, I can say. I know not to this day, and others say the same, whether any one gave the order to halt or not, but it is certain we stopped square, nor were those behind at all disposed to push forward such as were in front, for there is this about cannon balls that is different from musket balls. The front rank serves the rear rank as a shield from the bullets, but the cannon ball plows the whole length of the file and kills those behind as readily as those before. And, moreover, we had as soon expected to see the devil in horns and tail leading the rebels, as this cannon, for no one supposed there was a piece of artillery in all Berkshire. You must know the place we were in, was, moreover, as bad as could be; for we could only march by the road, by reason of the deep snow on either hand, which was like walls shutting us in, and leaving room for no more than eight men to go abreast. If the cannon were loaded with a ball, it must needs cut a swathe like a scythe from the first man to the last, and if it were loaded with small balls, all of us who were near the front must needs go down at once. The General asked counsel of us who were riding with him at the front what had best be done, whereupon Squire Sedgwick advised that half a dozen of us with horses should put spurs to them and dash suddenly upon the cannon and take it. ‘Ten to one,’ he said, ‘the rascal with the tongs will not dare touch off the gun, and if he does, why, ’tis but one shot.’ But this seemed to us all a foolhardy thing; for, though there were but one shot, who could tell whom it might hit? It might be one of us as well as another. Your uncle Jahleel, as it seemed, lest any should deem Squire Sedgwick braver than he, declared that he was ready, but the others of us, by no means fell in with the notion and General Patterson said flatly that he was responsible for all our lives and would permit no such madness. And then, as no one had any other plan to propose, we were in a quandary, and I noted that each one had his eyes, as it were, fastened immovably upon the cannon and the glowing coal which the fellow held in the tongs. For, in order to keep it clear of ash, he kept waving it to and fro, and once or twice when he brought it perilously close to the touchhole, I give you my word I began to think in a moment of all the things I had done in my life. And I remember, too, that if one of us was speaking when the fellow made as if he would touch off the gun, there was an interruption of a moment in his speech, ere he went on again. It must be that not only civilians like myself, but men of war also do find a certain discomposing effect in the stare of a cannon. Meanwhile the wind drew through the narrow path wherein we stood, with vehemence, and, whereas we had barely kept our blood in motion by our laboring through the snow, now that we stood still, we seemed freezing. Our horses shivered and set their ears back with the cold, but it was notable how quietly the men stood packed in the road behind us, though they must have been well nigh frost-bitten. No doubt they were absorbed in watching the fellow swinging the coal as we were. But if we did not advance, we must retreat, that was plain. We could not stay where we were. It was, I fancy, because no one could bring himself to propose such an ignoble issue to our enterprise, that we were for a little space all dumb.
“Then it was when the General could no longer have put off giving the order to right about march, that Hamlin tied a white rag to his sword and rode toward us holding it aloft. When he had come about half way, he cried out:
“‘Will your commander and Dr. Partridge, if he be among you, ride out to meet me? I would have a parley.’
“Why he pitched on me I know not, save that, wanting a witness, he chose me as being a little more friendly to him than most of the Stockbridge gentlemen. When we had ridden forward, he saluted us with great cordiality and good humor, as if forsooth, instead of being within an ace of murdering us all, he had but been trying us with a jest.
“‘I see,’ said he to the general, ‘that your fellows like not the look of my artillery, and I blame them not, for it will be a nasty business in that narrow lane if we have to let drive, as assuredly we shall do if you come another foot further. But it may be we can settle our difference without bloodshed. My men have fled together to me to be protected from arrest and prosecution, for what they have heretofore done, not because they intend further to attack the government. I will agree that they shall disperse and go quietly to their homes, provided you give me your word that they shall not be arrested or injured by your men, and will promise to use your utmost influence to secure them from any arrest hereafter, and that at any rate they shall have trial before a jury of their neighbors.’
“The General is a shrewd bargainer, I make no doubt, for though I knew he was delighted out of measure to find any honorable escape from the predicament in which we were, he pulled a long face, and after some thought, said that he would grant the conditions, provided the rebels also surrendered their arms, and took the oath of allegiance to the state. At this Hamlin laughed a little.
“‘I see, sir, we are but wasting time,’ he said, with a mighty indifferent air. ‘You have got the boot on the wrong foot. It is we who are granting you terms, not you us. You may thank your stars I don’t require your men to surrender their arms. Look you, sir, my men will not give up their guns, or take any oath but go as free as yours, with your promise of protection hereafter. If you agree to those terms, you may come into Lee, and we will disperse. If not let us lose no more time waiting, but have at it.’
“It was something to make one’s blood run cold, to hear the fellow talk so quietly about murdering us. The General hemmed and hawed a little, and made a show of talking aside with me, and presently said that to avoid shedding the blood of the misguided men on the other side, he would consent to the terms, but he added, the artillery must at any rate be surrendered.
“‘It is private property,’ said Hamlin.
“‘It is forfeited to its owner by its use against the government,’ replied the General sturdily.
“‘I will not stickle for the gun,’ said Hamlin, ‘but will leave you to settle that with the owner,’ and, as he spoke, he looked as if he were inwardly amused over something.
“Thereupon we separated. The announcement of the terms was received by our men with a cheer, for they had made up their minds that there was nothing before them but a march back to Stockbridge in the face of the wind and to meet the ridicule of the populace. As we now approached the cannon at quick-step Abner Rathbun came around and stood in front of it, so we did not see it till we were close upon it. He was grinning from ear to ear. The road just behind was packed with rebels all likewise on the broad grin, as if at some prodigious jest. As we came up Hamlin said to the General:
“‘Sir, I now deliver over to you the artillery, that is if you can settle it with Mrs. Perry. Abner stand aside.’
“Rathbun did so and what we saw was a yarn-beam mounted on a pair of oxcart wheels with the tongue of the cart resting on the ground behind.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH
THE RESTORATION
As was remarked in the last chapter, it was some three weeks after the famous encounter at Lee that Dr. Partridge entertained Desire one afternoon with the account of the affair which I have transcribed for the information of my readers. The interval between the night before the Lee expedition, when she had taken her sickness, and the sunny afternoon of expiring February, when she sat listening to the doctor’s story, had for her been only a blank of sickness, but in the community around, it had been a time of anxiety, of embitterment, and of critical change. The gay and brilliant court, of which she had for a brief period been the center, had long ago vanished. Hamlin’s band at Lee had been the last considerable force of rebels embodied in Southern Berkshire, and a few days after its dispersal the companies from other towns left Stockbridge to return home, leaving the protection of the village to the home company. Close on this followed the arrival at Pittsfield of General Lincoln with a body of troops called into Berkshire by the invitation of General Patterson, to the disgust of some gentlemen who thought the county quite capable of attending to its own affairs. These forces had completed the pacification of Northern Berkshire, where, among the mountain fastnesses rebel bands had till then maintained themselves, so that now the entire county was subdued and the insurrection, so far as concerned any overt manifestation, was at an end. In Stockbridge Tax-collector Williams once more went his rounds. Deputy Sheriff Seymour’s red flag floated again from the gable ends of the houses whence the mob had torn it last September, foreclosure sales were made, processes were served, debtors taken to jail, and the almost forgotten sound of the lash was once more heard on the green of Saturday afternoons as the constable executed Squire Woodbridge’s sentences at the reerected whipping-post and stocks. Sedgwick’s return to Boston to his seat in the Legislature early in February, had left Woodbridge to resume unimpeded his ancient autocracy in the village, and with as many grudges as that gentleman had to pay off, it may well be supposed the constable had no sinecure. The victims of justice were almost exclusively those who had been concerned in the late rebellion. For although the various amnesties, as well as the express stipulations under which a large number had surrendered, protected most of the insurgents from penalties for their political crimes, still misdemeanors and petty offenses against property and persons during the late disturbances were chargeable against most of them, and tried before a magistrate whom, like Woodbridge, they had mobbed. A charge was as good as a proof.
Nor if they appealed to a jury, was their chance much better, for the Legislature coming together again in February, had excluded former rebels from the jury box for three years, binding them to keep the peace for the same time, and depriving them of the elective franchise in all forms for a year, while on the other hand complete indemnity was granted to the friends of government for all offences against property or persons, which they might have committed in suppressing the rebellion. Without here controverting the necessity of these measures, it is easy to realize the state of hopeless discouragement to which they reduced the class exposed to their effect. Originally driven into the rebellion by the pressure of a poverty which made them the virtual serfs of the gentlemen, they now found themselves not only forced to resume their former position in that respect, but were in addition, deprived of the ordinary civil rights and guarantees of citizens. In desperation many fled over the border into New York and Connecticut, and joined bands of similar refugees which were camped there. Others, weaker spirited, or bound by ties they could not or would not break, remained at home, seeking to propitiate their masters by a contrite and circumspect demeanor, or sullenly enduring whatever was put upon them. A large number prepared to emigrate to homes in the West as soon as spring opened the roads.
Of the chief abettors of Perez, the fortunes may be briefly told. Jabez Flint had sold all he had and escaped to Nova Scotia to join one of the numerous colonies of deported Tories which had been formed there. Jabez was down on his luck.
“I’ve hed enough o’ rebellin,” he declared. “I’ve tried both sides on’t. In the fust rebellion I wuz agin’ the rebels, an the rebels licked. This ere time I tuk sides agin’ the govment, an the govment hez licked. I’m like a feller ez is fust kicked behind an then in the stummick. I be done on both sides, like a pancake.”
Israel Goodrich and Ezra Phelps, being excepted from the amnesties as members of the rebel committee, had only escaped jailing because, as men of some substance they had been able to give large bonds to await the further disposition of the Boston government.
“I didn’ mind so much ’bout that,” said Israel, “but what come kinder tough on me wuz a seein them poor white-livered pulin chaps tew my house tuk back ter jail.”
For the debtors whom the mob had released from Great Barrington jail, including those to whom Israel had given asylum, had now been recaptured and returned to the charge of Cephas Bement and his pretty wife. Reuben Hamlin had been taken with the rest, though his stay in jail this time did not promise to be a long one, for he had overdone his feeble strength in that night walk through the snow to Lee, and since then had declined rapidly. He was so far gone that it would scarcely have been thought worth while to take him to jail if he could have remained at home. But as the sheriff had now sold the Hamlin house at auction, and Elnathan and his wife had been separated and boarded out as paupers, this was out of the question.
There was one man in Stockbridge, however, who was more to be pitied than Reuben. Peleg Bidwell found himself at the end of the rebellion as at the opening of it, the debtor and thrall of Solomon Gleason, save that his debt was greater, his means of paying it even less, while by his insolent bearing toward Solomon during the rebellion, he had made him not only his creditor but his enemy. The jail yawned before Peleg, and of the jail he, as well as the people generally, had acquired a new horror since the day when the mob had brought to light the secrets of that habitation of cruelty. He felt that, come what might, he could not go to a jail. And he did not. But his pretty wife stayed at home and avoided her former acquaintances, and those who saw her said she was pale and acted queer, and Peleg went about with a hangdog look, and Solomon Gleason was a frequent caller, and the women of the neighborhood whispered together.
Abner Rathbun and Meshech Little had fled across the border, and Abe Konkapot would have done so but for the fact that he could not leave his sweetheart Lu to be secured by his rival and brother, Jake. Jake, having out of enmity to his brother sided with the government party, was now in favor with the powers that were, and more preferred than ever by Lu’s mother. But Abe knew the girl liked him rather the better, and did not let himself be discouraged. Jake, observing that he made little progress in spite of his advantages, laid a plot against his brother. The latter had acquired in the army a tendency to use profane language in moments of excitement, and it was of this weakness that Jake took advantage. Picking an opportunity when there were witnesses, he provoked Abe to wrath, and having made him swear profusely, went straightway to Squire Woodbridge and complained of him for blasphemy. Abe was promptly arrested and brought before the magistrate. The Squire, not unwilling to get a handle against so bad a rebel, observed that it was high time for the authorities to make a head against the tide of blasphemy which had swept over the state since the war, and to advertise to the rabble that the statute against profanity was not a dead letter and thereupon sentenced Abe to ten lashes at the whipping-post, to be at once laid on, it chancing to be a Saturday afternoon. While Abe, frantic with rage, was struggling with the constable and his assistants, Jake ran away to the Widow Nimham’s cottage and asking Lu to go to walk, managed to bring her across the green in time to see the sentence carried into execution. Jake had understood what he was about. There were no doubt white girls in Stockbridge who might have married a lover whom they had seen publicly whipped, but for Lu, with an Indian’s intense sensitiveness to a personal indignity, it would have been impossible. Abe needed no one to tell him that. As he was unbound and walked away from the post, his blood-shotten eyes had taken her in standing there with Jake. He did not even make an effort to see her afterwards and next Sunday Jake’s and Lu’s banns were called in meeting. Abe had been drunk pretty much all the time since, lying about the tavern floor. Widow Bingham said she hadn’t a heart to refuse him rum, and in truth the poor fellow’s manhood was so completely broken down, that he must have been a resolute teetotaler, indeed, who would not have deemed it an act of common humanity to help him temporarily to forget himself.
Such then are the events that were taking place in the community about her while Desire was lying on her sick bed, or making her first appearances as a convalescent downstairs. Only faint and occasional echoes of them had reached her ears. She had been told, indeed, that the rebellion was now all over and peace and order restored, but of the details and incidents of the process she knew nothing. To be precise it was during the latter part of the afternoon of the twenty-sixth day of February, that Dr. Partridge was entertaining her as aforesaid with his humorous version of the Lee affair. The Dr. and Mrs. Partridge had come to tea, and to spend the evening, and just here, lest any modern housewife should object that it is not a New England country practice to invite company on washing-day, I would mention that in those days of inexhaustible stores of linen, washing-day rarely came over once a fortnight. After tea in the evening the Doctor and Squire Edwards sat talking politics over their snuff-boxes, while Mrs. Partridge and Mrs. Edwards discussed the difficulty of getting good help, now that the negroes were beginning to feel the oats of their new liberty, and the farmers’ daughters, since the war and the talk about liberty and equality, thought themselves as good as their betters. Now that the insurrection had still further stirred up their jealousy of gentlefolk, it was to be expected that they would be quite past getting on with at all, and for all Mrs. Edwards could see, ladies must make up their minds to do their own work pretty soon.
Desire sat in an armchair, her hands folded in her lap, musingly gazing into the glowing bed of coals upon the hearth, and listening half absently to the talk about her. She had been twice to meeting the day before, and considered herself as now quite well, but she had not disused the invalid’s privilege of sitting silent in company.
“I marvel,” said Squire Edwards, contemplatively tapping his snuff-box, “at the working of Providence, when I consider that so lately the Commonwealth, and especially this county, was in turmoil, the rebels having everything their own way, and we scarcely daring to call our souls our own, and behold them now scattered, fled over the border, in prison, or disarmed and trembling, and the authority of law and the courts everywhere established.”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “we have reason to be thankful indeed, and yet I cannot help compassionating the honester among the rebels. It is the pity of an uprising like this, that while one must needs sympathize with the want and suffering of the rebels, it is impossible to condemn too strongly the mad plans they urge as remedies. Ezra Phelps was telling me the other day, that their idea, had they succeeded, was to cause so many bills to be printed and scattered abroad, that the poorest could get enough to pay all their debts and taxes. Some were for repudiating public and private debts altogether, but Ezra said that this would not be honest. He was in favor of printing bills enough so everything could be paid. I tried to show him that one plan was as dishonest as the other; that they might just as well refuse payment, as pay in worthless bits of printed paper, and that the morality of the two schemes being the same, that of refusing outright the payment of dues, was preferable practically, because at least, it would not further derange trade by putting a debased and valueless currency in circulation. But I fear he did not see it at all, if he even gave me credit for sincerity, and yet he is an honest, well-meaning chap, and more intelligent than the common run of the rebels.”
“That is the trouble nowadays,” said Edwards, “these numskulls must needs have matters of government explained to them, and pass their own judgment on public affairs. And when they cannot understand them, then forsooth comes a rebellion. I think none can deny seeing in these late troubles the first fruits of those pestilent notions of equality, whereof we heard so much from certain quarters, during the late war of independence. I would that Mr. Jefferson and some of the other writers of pestilent democratic rhetoric might have been here in the state the past winter, to see the outcome of their preaching.”
“It may yet prove,” said Dr. Partridge, “that these troubles are to work providentially to incline the people of this state to favor a closer union with the rest of the continent for mutual protection, if the forthcoming convention at Philadelphia shall devise a practicable scheme. By reason of the preponderant strength of our Commonwealth we have deemed ourselves less in need of such a union than are our sister colonies, but this recent experience must teach us that even we are not strong enough to stand alone.”
“You are right there, sir,” said Edwards. “It is plain that if we keep on as we are, Massachusetts will ere long split into as many states as we have counties, or at least into several. What have these troubles been but a revolt of the western counties against the eastern, and had we gentlemen gone with the rebels, the state would have been by this time divided, and you know well,” here Edwards’ voice became confidential, “we have in the main, no great cause to be beholden to the Bostonians. They treat our western counties as if they were but provinces.”
Desire’s attention had lapsed as the gentlemen’s talk got into the political depths, but some time after it was again aroused by hearing the mention of Perez Hamlin’s name. The doctor was saying:
“They say he is lurking just over the York border at Lebanon. There are four or five score ruffians with him, who breathe out threatenings and slaughter against us Stockbridge people but I think we need lose no sleep on that account for the knaves will scarcely care to risk their necks on Massachusetts soil.”
“It is possible,” said Edwards, “that they may make some descents on Egremont or Sheffield or other points just across the line, but they will never venture so far inland as Stockbridge for fear of being cut off, and if they do our militia is quite able for them. What mischief they can do safely they will do, but nothing else for they are arrant cowards when all’s said.”
The talk of the gentlemen branched off upon other topics, but Desire did not follow it further, finding in what had just been said quite enough to engross her thoughts. Of course there could be no real danger that Hamlin would venture a visit to Stockbridge, since both her father and the doctor scouted the idea; but there was in the mere suggestion enough to be very agitating. To avoid the possibility of a meeting with Hamlin, as well as to acquit her conscience of a goading conviction of unfairness to him, she had already once risked compromising herself by sending that midnight warning to Lee, nor did she grudge the three weeks’ sickness it cost her, seeing it had succeeded. Nor was the idea of meeting him any less terrifying now. The result of her experiences in the last few months had been that all her old self-reliance was gone. When she recalled what she had done and felt, and imagined what she might have gone on to do, she owned in all humility that she could no longer take care of herself or answer for herself. Desire Edwards was after all capable of being as big a fool as any other girl. Especially at the thought of meeting Hamlin again, this sense of insecurity became actual panic. It was not that she feared her heart. She was not conscious of loving him but of dreading him. Her imagination invested him with some strange, irrestible magnetic power over her, the magnetism of a tremendous passion, against which, demoralized by the memory of her former weakness, she could not guarantee herself. And the upshot was that just because she chanced to overhear that reference to Perez in the gentlemen’s talk, she lay awake nervous and miserable for several hours after going to bed that night. In fact she had finally to take herself seriously to task about the folly of scaring herself to death about such a purely fanciful danger, before she could go to sleep.
She woke hours after with a stifled scream, for her mother was standing in the door of the room, half dressed, the candle she held revealing a pale and frightened face, while the words Desire heard were:
“Quick, get up and dress, or you’ll be murdered in bed! An army of Shayites is in the village.”
“Four o’clock in the morning courage,” that steadiness of nerve which is not shaken when, suddenly roused from the relaxation and soft languor of sleep, one is called to face pressing, deadly, and undreamed of peril in the weird and chilling hour before dawn, was described by Napoleon as a most rare quality among soldiers, and such being the case it is hardly to be looked for among women. With chattering teeth and random motions, half-distraught with incoherent terrors, Desire made a hasty, incomplete toilet in the dark of her freezing bedroom, and ran downstairs. In the living-room she found her mother and the smaller children with the negro servants and Keziah Pixley, the white domestic. Downstairs in the cellar her father and Jonathan were at work burying the silver and other valuables, that having been the first thought when a fugitive from the tavern where the rebels had first halted, brought the alarm. There were no candles lit in the living-room lest their light should attract marauders, and the faint light of the just breaking dawn made the faces seem yet paler and ghastlier with fear than they were. From the street without could be heard the noise of a drum, shouts, and now and then musket shots, and having scraped away the thick frost from one of the panes, Desire could see parties of men with muskets going about and persons running across the green as if for their lives. As she looked she saw a party fire their muskets after one of these fugitives, who straightway came back and gave himself up. In the room it was bitterly cold, for though the ashes had been raked off the coals no wood had been put on lest the smoke from the chimney should draw attention.
The colored servants were in a state of abject terror, but the white “help” made no attempt to conceal her exultation. They were her friends the Shayites, and her sweetheart she declared was among them. He’d sent her a hint that they were coming, she volubly declared, and yesterday when Mrs. Edwards was “so high ‘n mighty with her a makin her sweep the kitchen twicet over she was goodamiter tell her ez haow she’d see the time she’d wisht she’d a kep the right side on her.”
“I’ve always tried to do right by you Keziah. I don’t think you have any call to be revengeful,” said the poor lady, trembling.
“Mebbe I hain’t and mebbe I hev,” shrilled Keziah, tossing her head disdainfully. “I guess I know them ez loves me from them ez don’t. I s’pose ye think I dunno wat yer husbun an Jonathan be a buryin daown stairs.”
“I’m sure you won’t betray us, Keziah,” said Mrs. Edwards. “You’ve had a good place with us, Keziah. And there’s that dimity dress of mine. It’s quite good yet. You could have it made over for you.”
“Oh yes,” replied Keziah, scornfully. “It’s all well nuff ter talk bout givin some o’ yer things away wen yer likely to lose em all.”
With that, turning her back upon her terrified mistress, with the air of a queen refusing a petition, she patronizingly assured Desire that she had met with more favor in her eyes than her mother, and she would accordingly protect her. “Though,” she added, “I guess ye won’t need my helpin for Cap’n Hamlin ‘ll see nobuddy teches ye cept hisself.”
“Is he here?” gasped Desire, her dismay suddenly magnified into utter panic.
“Fer sartain, my sweetheart ez sent me word ‘s under him,” replied Keziah.
A noise of voices and tramp of feet at the outside door interrupted her. The marauders had come. The door was barred and this having been tested, there was a hail of gunstock blows upon it with orders to open and blasphemous threats as to the consequences of refusal. There was a dead silence within, but for Mrs. Edwards’ hollow whisper, “Don’t open.” With staring eyes and mouths apart the terrified women and children looked at one another motionless, barely daring to breathe. But as the volley of blows and threats was renewed with access of violence, Keziah exclaimed:
“Ef they hain’t yeur frens they be mine, an I hain’t gonter see em kep aout in the cold no longer fer nobuddy,” and she went to the door and took hold of the bar.
“Don’t you do it,” gasped Mrs. Edwards springing forward to arrest her. But she had done it, and instantly Meshech Little with three or four followers burst into the room, wearing the green insignia of rebellion in their caps and carrying muskets with bayonets fixed.
“Why didn’ ye open that ar door, afore?” demanded Meshech, angrily.
“What do you want?” asked Mrs. Edwards tremblingly confronting him.
“Wat dew we want ole woman?” replied Meshech. “Wal, we want most evrything, but I guess we kin help oursels. Hey boys?”
“Callate we kin make aout tew,” echoed one of his followers, not a Stockbridge man, and then as his eye caught Desire, as she stood pale and beautiful, with wild eyes and disheveled hair, by her mother, he made a dive at her saying: “Guess I’ll take a kiss tew begin with.”
“Let the gal ‘lone,” said Meshech, catching him by the shoulder. “Hands orfen her. She’s the Duke’s doxy, an he’ll run ye through the body ef ye tech her.”
“Gosh, she hain’t, though, is she?” said the fellow, refraining from further demonstration but regarding her admiringly. “I hearn baout she. Likely lookin gal, tew, hain’t she? On’y leetle tew black, mebbe.”
“Did’n ye know, ye dern fool, it’s along o’ her the Duke sent us here, tew see nobuddy took nothin till he could come raoun?” said Meshech. “But I callate the on’y way to keep other fellers from takin anything tidday is ter take it yerself. We’ll hev suthin tew drink, anyhaow. Hello, ole cock,” he added as Edwards, coming up from down cellar, entered the room. “Ye be jess’n time. Come on, give us some rum,” and neither daring nor able to make resistance, the storekeeper was hustled into the store. Keziah’s sweetheart had remained behind. In the midst of their mutual endearments, she had found opportunity to whisper to him something, of which Mrs. Edwards caught the words, “cellar, nuff tew buy us a farm an a haouse,” and guessed the drift. As Keziah and her young man, who responded to her suggestion with alacrity, were moving toward the cellar door, Mrs. Edwards barred their way. The fellow was about to lay hands on her, when one of the drinkers, coming back from the store, yelled: “Look out, thar’s the cap’n,” and Perez entered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH
SOME REAL FIGHTING
At sight of his commander the soldier who had been about to lay hands on Mrs. Edwards to thrust her out of his path to the cellar, giving over his design, slunk into the store to join his comrades there, and was followed by the faithful Keziah. Mrs. Edwards, who had faced the ruffian only in the courage of desperation, sank trembling upon a settle, and the children throwing themselves upon her, bawled in concert. Without bestowing so much as a glance on any other object in the room Perez crossed it to where Desire stood, and taking her nerveless hand in both his, devoured her face with glowing eyes. She did not flush or show any confusion; neither did she try to get away. She stood as if fascinated, unresponsive but unresisting.
“Were you frightened?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied in a mechanical tone corresponding with her appearance.
“Didn’t you know I was here? I told you I would come back for you, and I have come. You have been sick. I heard of it. Are you well now?”
“Yes.”
“Reuben told me you came on foot through the snow to bring word so he might warn me the night before the Lee battle. Was it that made you sick?”
“Yes.”
“What is that, Desire? What do you mean about sending him warning?” cried Mrs. Edwards amazedly. Desire made no reply but Perez did:
“It is thanks to her I was not caught in my bed by your men that morning. It is thanks to her I am not in jail today, disgraced by the lash and waiting for the hangman. Oh my dear, how glad I am to owe it to you,” and he caught the end of one of the long strands of jetty hair that fell down her neck and touched it to his lips.
“You are crazy, fellow!” cried Mrs. Edwards, and starting forward and grasping Desire by the arm she demanded, “What does this wild talk mean? There is no truth in it, is there?”
“Yes,” said the girl in the same dead, mechanical voice, without turning her eyes to her mother or even raising them.
Mrs. Edwards opened her mouth, but no sound came forth. Her astonishment was too utter. Meanwhile Perez had passed his arm about Desire’s waist as if to claim her on her own acknowledgement. Stung by the sight of her daughter in the very arms of the rebel captain, Mrs. Edwards found her voice once more, righteous indignation overcoming her first unmingled consternation.
“Out upon you for a shameless hussy. Oh, that a daughter of mine should come to this! Do you dare tell me you love this scoundrel?”
“No,” answered the girl.
“What?” faltered Perez, his arm involuntarily dropping from her waist.
For all reply she rushed to her mother and threw herself on her bosom, sobbing hysterically. For once at least in their lives Mrs. Edwards’ and Perez Hamlin’s eyes met with an expression of perfect sympathy, the sympathy of a common bewilderment. Then Mrs. Edwards tried to loosen Desire’s convulsive clasp about her neck, but the girl held her tightly, crying:
“Oh, don’t, mother, don’t.”
For several moments Perez stood motionless just where Desire had left him, looking after her stupefied. The pupils of his eyes alternately dilated and contracted, his mouth opened and closed; he passed his hand over his forehead. Then he went up to her and stood over her as she clung to her mother, but seemed no more decided as to what he could do or say further.
But just then there was a diversion. Meshech and his followers who had passed through from the living-room into the store in search of rum had thrown open the outside door, and a gang of their comrades had poured in to assist in the onset upon the liquor barrels. The spigots had all been set running, or knocked out entirely, and yet comparatively little of the fiery fluid was wasted, so many mugs, hats, caps, and all sorts of receptacles were extended to catch the flow. Some who could not find any sort of a vessel, actually lay under the stream and let it pour into their mouths, or lapped it up as it ran on the floor. Meanwhile the store was being depleted of other than the drinkable property. The contents of the shelves and boxes were littered on the floor, and the rebels were busy swapping their old hats, boots and mittens for new ones, or filling their pockets with tobacco, tea or sugar, while some of the more foresighted were making piles of selected goods to carry away. But whatever might be the momentary occupation of the marauders, all were drunk, excessively yet buoyantly drunk, drunk with that peculiarly penetrating and tenacious intoxication which results from drinking in the morning on an empty stomach, a time when liquor seems to pervade all the interstices of the system and lap each particular fibre and tissue in a special and independent intoxication on its own account. Several fellows, including Meshech, had been standing for a few moments in the door leading from the store into the living-room, grinningly observing the little drama which the reader has been following. As Desire broke away from Perez and rushed to her mother, Meshech exclaimed:
“Wy in time did’n yer hole ontew her, Cap’n? I’d like ter seen her git away from me.”
“Or me nuther,” seconded the fellow next him.
Perez paid no heed to this remonstrance, and probably did not hear it at all, but Mrs. Edwards looked up. In her bewilderment and distress over Desire the thought of her husband and Jonathan had been driven from her mind. The sight of Meshech recalled it.
“What have you done with my husband?” she demanded anxiously.
“He’s all right. He an the young cub be jess a gonter take a leetle walk with us fellers ‘cross the border,” replied Meschech jocularly.
“What are you going to take them away for? What are you going to do to them?” cried Mrs. Edwards.
“Oh, ye need’n be skeert,” Meshech reassured her. “He’ll hev good kumpny. Squire Woodbridge an Ginral Ashley an Doctor Sergeant, Cap’n Jones an schoolmaster Gleason, an a slew more o’ the silk stockins be a goin’ tew.”
“Are you going to murder them?” exclaimed the frantic woman.
“Wal,” drawled Meshech, “that depends. Ef govment hangs any o’ our fellers wat they’ve got in jail, we’re gonter hang yewr husban’ an the res’ on em, sure’s taxes. Ef none o’ aourn ain’t hurt, we shan’t hurt none o’ yourn. We take em fer kinder hostiges, ye see, ole lady.”
“Where have you got my husband? I must go to him. God help us!” ejaculated Mrs. Edwards; and loosing herself from her daughter, now in turn forgotten in anxiety for husband and son, the poor woman hurried past Meshech through the confused store and so out of the house.
At the same moment the drum at the tavern began to beat the recall to the plundering parties of insurgents scattered over the village, and the men poured out of the store.
Save for the presence of the smaller children and the negro servants cowering in a corner, Desire and Perez were left alone in the room. With no refuge to fly to, she stood where her mother had left her, just before Perez, with face averted, trembling, motionless, like a timid bird which seeing no escape struggles no longer, but waits for its captor’s hand to close upon it. But in his nonplused, piteously perplexed face, you would have vainly looked for the hardened and remorseless expression appropriate to his part. The roll of the rebel drum kept on.
“See here, Cap’n,” said Abner Rathbun, suddenly appearing at the outside door of the living-room, “we’ve got the hostiges together, an we’d better be a gittin along, for the ‘larm’s gone ter Pittsfield an all roun’ an we’ll hev the milishy ontew us in no time. An besides that the fellers tew the tavern be a gittin so drunk, some on em can’t walk a’ ready.”
Aroused by Abner’s insistent words, Perez took Desire’s hand, and said desperately:
“Won’t you come, my darling? You shall have a woman to go with you, and we’ll be married as soon as we’re over the border. I know it’s sudden, but you see I can’t wait, and I thought you liked me a little. Won’t you come, now?”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! I don’t want to,” she said, shuddering and drawing her hand away.
Abner was silent a moment, and then he broke out vehemently:
“Look a’ here, Cap’n, we hain’t got no time fer soft sawder naow, with the milishy a comin daown on us. I kin hear em a drummin up ter Lee a’ready, an every jiffey we stay means a man’s life an hangin fer them as is tuk. Ye’ve hed fuss nuff ‘long o’ that gal fust and last, an this ain’t no time fer ye ter put up with any more o’ her tantrums.”
“She don’t want to come, Abner. She don’t like me and I thought she did,” said Perez, turning his eyes from the girl to Abner, with an expression of despairing, appealing helplessness, almost childlike.
“Nonsense,” replied Abner, with contemptuous impatience. “She likes ye, or she’d never a sent ye that warnin. Akshins speaks louder’n words. She’s kinder flustered an dunno her own mind, that’s all. Gals don’t, genally. Ye’d be a darnation fool ter let her slip through yer fingers naow, arter riskin yer neck an all aour necks in this ere job jess ter git a holt of her, an a settin sech store by her ez ye allers hev. Take a fool’s advice, Cap’n. Don’ waste no more talk, but jess grab her kinder soft like, an fetch her aout ter the sleigh, willy nilly. She’ll come roun’ in less ‘n an hour, an thank ye for’t. Gals allers does. They likes a masterful man. There, that’s the talk. Fetch her right along.”
As the last words indicated, Perez, apparently decided by Abner’s words, had thrown his arm about Desire’s waist and drawing her to him and half lifting her from her feet had begun with gentle force to bear her away. She made no violent resistance which indeed would have been quite vain in his powerful clasp, but burst into tears, crying poignantly:
“Oh, don’t! Please! Please don’t! Don’t! Oh, don’t!” Had there been a trace of defiance or of indignant pride in her tone, it would have been easy for him to carry out his attempt. But of the proud, high-spirited Desire Edwards there was no hint in the tear-glazed eyes turned up to his in wild dismay. She was but a frightened girl quite broken up with terror.
And yet if the thought of leaving her had been dreadful before, now the pressure of his arm upon her pliant waist, the delicious sensation of her weight, made it maddening, and thrilled him with all sorts of reckless impulses. Still clasping her, he whispered hoarsely, “I love you, I love you,” as if that mighty word left nothing further needed as excuse or explanation for his conduct. “Let me go, then, if you love me. Let me go,” she cried, frantically, catching at his plea and turning it against him.
“Ef ye let her go, ye’ll never set eyes on her agin, Cap’n,” said Abner.
“I can’t. I can’t. Have pity on me,” groaned Perez. “I can’t let you go.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, do! If you loved me, you would. Oh, you would,” she cried again. He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, and looked long at her. There was something in his eyes which awed her so that she quite forgot her former terror. Then he dropped his hands to his side, and turned away as if he would leave her without another word. But half way to the door he turned again and said huskily:
“You know I love you now. You believe it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she answered in a small, scared voice, and without another word he went out. As he went out, Mrs. Edwards, who had been standing in the open doorway of the store a silent spectator of the last scene, came forward, and at sight of her Desire started from the motionless attitude in which she had remained, and cried out, pressing her hands to her bosom:
“Oh, mother, mother, I wish he’d taken me. He feels so bad.”
“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Edwards, in a soothing, sensible voice. “That would have been a pretty piece of business indeed. You’re all upset, and don’t know what you’re saying, and no wonder, either, with no breakfast and all this coil. There, there, mother’s little girl,” and she drew her daughter’s head down on her shoulder and stroked her hair till the nervous trembling and sobbing ceased, and raising her head she asked:
“Where are father and Jonathan?”
“Hush! I gave one of the rebels my silver shoe-buckles, and he turned his back while Mrs. Bingham hid them in the closet behind the chimney at the tavern. They’re safe.”
The rebel column having only awaited the arrival of Perez and Abner, at once set off at quick step on the road to Great Barrington, the prisoners, thirty or forty in number, marching in the center. Perez rode behind, looking neither to the right hand or the left, and taking heed of nothing, and Abner seeing his condition, tacitly assumed command. Two or three fellows, too utterly drunk to walk, had been perforce left behind on the tavern floor, destined to be ignominiously dragged off to the lockup by the citizens before the rebel force was fairly out of sight. Two or three others nearly as drunk as those who were left behind, but more fortunate in having friends, by dint of leaning heavily upon a man on either side, were enabled to march. But the pace was rapid, and at the first or second steep hill these wretches had to be left behind unless their friends were to be sacrificed with them. There was no danger of their freezing to death by the wayside. The pursuing militia would come along soon enough to prevent that, never fear.
Nor were these poor chaps the only sort of burdens that were speedily rejected by their bearers. As the rebels marched out of Stockbridge, nearly every man was loaded with miscellaneous plunder. Some carried bags of flour, or flitches of bacon, some an armful of muskets, others bundles of cloth or clothing, hanks of yarn, a string of boots and shoes, a churn, an iron pot, a pair of bellows, a pair of brass andirons, while one even led a calf by a halter. Some, luckier than their fellows, carried bags from which was audible the clink of silverware. Squire Woodbridge, lagging a little, was poked in the back by his own gold-headed cane to remind him to mend his pace, while Dr. Sergeant, as a special favor from one of the rebels whose wife he had once attended, was permitted to take a drink out of his own demijohn of rum. In their eagerness to carry away all they could, the rebels had forgotten that loads which they could barely hold up when standing still, would prove quite too heavy to march under, and accordingly before the band had got out of the village the road began to be littered with the more bulky articles of property. At the foot of the first hill there was a big pile of them, and two miles out of Stockbridge the rebels were reduced once more to light marching order, and not much richer than when they entered the village an hour or two before. Besides the hostages, they had under their escort several sleighs containing old men, women and children, the families of members of the band, or of sympathizers with the rebellion, who were taking this opportunity to elude their creditors and escape out of bondage across the New York border. As the rebels crossed Muddy Brook, just before entering Great Barrington, Abner Rathbun came up to Perez and said: “I don’ see yer father’n mother nowhar in the sleighs.”
“My father and mother?” repeated Perez vacantly.
“Yes,” rejoined Abner. “Ye know ye wuz a gonter bring em back ter York with ye, but I don’ see em nowhar.” Perez stared at Abner, and then glanced vaguely at the row of sleighs in the line.
“I must have forgotten about them,” he finally said.
As the rebels entered Great Barrington, a company of militia was drawn up as if to defend the tavern-jail, but upon the approach of the rebels, who were decidedly more numerous, they retired rapidly on the road to Sheffield. Halting in front of the building, a guard was left with the prisoners, and then the rebels swarmed into the tavern, with the double purpose of emptying the jail of debtors, and filling themselves with Cephas Bement’s rum, for the hard tramp from Stockbridge had sobered them and given them fresh thirst. Perez did not go in, but sat on his horse in the road. Presently Abner came out with a very sober face and slowly approached him. He looked around.
“What are we stopping here for, Abner?” he asked, a little peevishly.
“Wy, it’s the caounty jail, ye know, an we’re lettin aout the debtors. Reub’s in here, ye know.”
“So he is; I’d forgotten,” replied Perez, and then after a pause, “Why don’t he come out?”
“Cap’n,” said Abner, taking off his cap and looking at it, as he fingered it. “I’ve got kinder tough news fer ye. Reub’s dead. He died this mornin. I thort mebbe ye’d like ter see him.”
“Is he in there?”
“Yes.”
Perez got off his horse, and went in at the door, Abner leading the way. In the barroom of the tavern there was a crowd of drinking, carousing men, and among them a number of the white-faced debtors, already drunk with the bumpers their deliverers were pouring down their throats. Bement was not visible, but as Abner and Perez entered the jail, they saw Mrs. Bement in the corridor. She was not making any fuss or trouble at all over the breaking of the jail this time. With apparent complaisance she was promptly opening cells, or answering questions in response to the demands of Meshech Little and some companions. But there was a vicious glint in her pretty blue eyes, and she was softly singing the lugubrious hymn, beginning with the significant words,
Ye living men, come view the ground Where ye shall shortly lie.
Abner pushed open the door of one of the cells that had been already opened, and went in, Perez following. He knelt by the body of his brother, and Abner turned his back. It was the same cell in which Perez had found Reuben and George Fennell, six months before. Several minutes passed, and neither moved. The drum began to beat without, summoning the men to resume their march.
“Cap’n,” said Abner, “we’ll hev ter go. We can’t do the poor chap no good by stayin, an they can’t do him no more harm.”
Then Perez rose up, and leaned on Abner’s shoulder, looking down on the patient face of the dead. The first tears gathered in his eyes, and trickled down, and he said: “I never was fair to Reub. I never allowed enough for his losin Jemima. I was harder on him than I should have been.”
“Ye warn’t noways hard on him, Perez. Ye wuz a good brother tew him. I never hearn o’ no feller hevin a better brother nor he hed in yew,” protested Abner, in much distress.
Perez shook his head.
“I was hard on him. I never allowed as I’d ought for his losin his girl. I’d a been kinder to him if I’d known. Ye must a thought I was hard an unfeelin, Reub, dear, often’s the time, but I didn’t know, I didn’t know. We’ll go now, if you want, Abner.”
The rebels had not left Stockbridge a moment too soon. Captain Stoddard was rallying his company before they had got out of the village, and messengers had been sent to Lee, Lenox, Pittsfield, Great Barrington, Egremont and Sheffield, to rouse the people. Within an hour or two after the rebels had marched south, the Stockbridge and Lenox companies were in pursuit. Among the messengers to Great Barrington, was Peleg Bidwell. For Peleg, since he had bought his safety by such a shameful surrender, was embittered above all against those of his former comrades who had been too brave to yield. And having brought word to Great Barrington, he took his place in the ranks of the militia of that town, and though the men among whom he stood, eyed him askance, knowing his record, not one of them was really so eager to empty his gun into the bosom of the rebel band as Peleg Bidwell.
As previously stated, the Great Barrington company, in which Peleg carried a musket, had retired toward Sheffield, when the rebels entered the former town. At Sheffield they were joined by the large company of that populous settlement, and Colonel Ashley of the same village, taking command of the combined forces, ordered a march on Great Barrington, to meet the rebels. Now Great Barrington is but four or five miles from the New York border, while Sheffield is about six, and as many south of Great Barrington, the road between the two towns running nearly parallel to the state line. There was nothing to hinder the rebels, after they had gained their main objects, the capture of hostages and the release of the debtors, from turning west from Great Barrington, and placing themselves in an hour’s march across the town of Egremont, beyond the reach of the militia, in neutral territory. Becoming apprehensive that this would be their course, Colonel Ashley, instead of keeping on the road from Sheffield to Great Barrington, presently left it and marched his men along a back road running northwest toward the state line in a direction that would intercept the rebels if they struck across Egremont to New York.
He adopted, however, the precaution of leaving a party at the junction of the main road with the road he took, so that if after all instead of retreating westward the rebels had boldly kept on the main road to Sheffield word might be sent after him. It so happened that this was just what the rebels had done. Not having the fear of the Sheffield company before their eyes, instead of trying to escape to New York by the shortest cut, they had kept on toward Sheffield, marching south by the main road. And not only this, but when they came to the junction of the main road with that which Colonel Ashley had taken, and learned by capturing the guard what plan the Colonel had devised, they became so enraged that instead of keeping on to Sheffield and leaving the militia to finish their wild goose chase, they turned into the back road after them, and so the hunters became the hunted. In this way it happened that while the militia were pressing on at full speed, breathlessly debating their chances of heading off the flying rebels, “bang,” “bang,” came a volley in their rear, and from the stragglers who had been fired upon arose a cry, “The Shayites are after us.”
It is greatly to the credit of the militia officers that the result of this surprise was not a hopeless panic among their men. As it was, for several minutes utter confusion reigned. Then one of the companies took to the woods on the right, the other entering the woods on the left, and marching back they presently came in sight of their pursuers, still pushing on pell-mell in the road. The militia now had every advantage, and Colonel Ashley ordered them to open fire. But the men hesitated. There, intermingled with the rebels, their very lineaments plainly to be seen, were the prisoners, the first gentlemen of Stockbridge and of the county. To pour a volley in upon the rebels would endanger the lives of the prisoners as much as those of the enemy. Meanwhile the rebels themselves were rapidly deploying and opening fire. The militia were in danger of losing all their advantage, of being shot down defenseless, of perhaps losing the day, all owing to the presence of the prisoners in the enemy’s ranks. Again Colonel Ashley gave the order to fire. Again not a man obeyed.
“We can’t kill our friends,” said an officer.
“God have mercy on their souls, but pour in your fire!” roared the commander, and the volley was given. The prisoners broke from the ranks of the enemy and ran; the firing became general. For five or ten minutes a brisk engagement was kept up, and then the rebels broke and fled in every direction. The Stockbridge and Lenox companies after having followed the rebels through Great Barrington and on toward Sheffield had also turned in after them on the back road, and coming up behind in the nick of time had attacked their rear and caused their panic.
Only two of the militia had been wounded, one mortally. One also of the prisoners had proved in need of Colonel Ashley’s invocation. Solomon Gleason had fallen dead at the first volley from his friends. It was generally supposed that his death was the result of a chance shot, but Peleg Bidwell was never heard to express any opinion on the subject, and Peleg was a very good marksman.
As the smoke of the last shot floated up among the tops of the gloomy pines along the road, some thirty killed and wounded rebels lay on the trampled and blood-stained snow. Abner Rathbun, mortally wounded, writhed at the foot of a tree, and near by lay Perez Hamlin quite dead.