CHAPTER XIX

October had come, with an unusual glory of late wild-flowers and

reddened leaves.

The soldiers were still quartered upon the Neck, and owing to the many

collisions between them and the townspeople, the Governor had seen fit

to augment the force. Several times the citizens had almost determined

to march to the Neck and exterminate the entire body of Britishers; but

wiser counsels prevailed, and no attack was made.

Governor Gage had issued a proclamation forbidding the assembling of

the legislature which had been called to meet at Salem upon the fifth

of the month. But notwithstanding this interdiction it had convened

upon the appointed day, and resolved itself into a Provincial Congress.

Azar Orne, Jeremiah Lee, and Elbridge Gerry were the delegates

representing Marblehead, and they took a prominent part in the

proceedings. A number of important matters were discussed and acted

upon, and a committee was appointed for "Observation and Prevention,"

and with instructions to "co-operate with other towns in the Province

for preventing any of the inhabitants, so disposed, from supplying the

English troops with labor, lumber, bricks, spars, or any other material

whatsoever, except such as humanity requires."

The loyalists in the town were still zealous in the King's cause, and

would not be silenced. And they entreated their neighbors and friends

to recede, before it became too late, from the position they had taken.

But the only reply of the patriots was, "Death rather than submission!"

And they went on making provision for the organization of an army of

their own.

Companies of "Minute Men" were enlisted, and these were disciplined and

equipped. A compensation of two shillings per day was to be allowed

each private; and to sergeants, drummers, fifers, and clerks, three

shillings each. First and second lieutenants were to receive four

shillings sixpence, and captains, five shillings. Pay was to be

allowed for but three days in each week, although a service of four

hours a day was required.

The town house was now filled--as were also most of the warehouses and

other buildings--with the stored goods of Boston merchants, who were

suffering from the operation of the Port Bill, which had closed that

harbor to their business. And owing to this, as also by reason of the

greater advantage afforded for securing privacy, the townsmen now held

their meetings at the old tavern on Front Street, which faced the

water, thus giving a good opportunity for observing the movements of

the enemy upon the Neck.

John Glover, one of the town's foremost men, and a stanch patriot,

lived near here; and he was now at the head of the regiment in which

were John Devereux and Hugh Knollys,--the former being second

lieutenant in the company of which Nicholson Broughton was captain, and

in whose ranks Hugh was serving as a private.

Soon after his return from Boston, Broughton had closed his own house,

deeming it too much exposed to the enemy for the safety of his

daughter, who was compelled during his many absences to remain there

alone with the servants; and Mary had gone with them to the house of a

married aunt--Mistress Horton--living in a more retired portion of the

town, away from the water.

He had consented, in response to the urging of his prospective

son-in-law, that the wedding should take place before the winter was

over. And thus it was that Mary, being busy with preparations for the

event, left Dorothy much to herself,--more, perhaps, than was well for

her at this particular time.

Aunt Penine had departed upon the day her brother-in-law fixed; but

under Aunt Lettice's mild guidance, coupled with Tyntie's efficient

rule, the household went on fully as well as before,--better, indeed,

in many respects, for there was no opposing will to make discord.

The tory Jameson still remained under an unburned roof, despite the

mutterings against him; and he continued to entertain the redcoats with

lavish hospitality.

Several times, during trips to and from the Knollys house, Dorothy,

escorted by Hugh or her brother--sometimes by both--or by old Leet, had

encountered the young officer. But nothing more than a bow and smile

had passed between them since the morning he had turned so haughtily

from her father's presence.

It was about the middle of the month, and the shutters of all the

windows were opened wide to let in the flood of autumn sunshine as the

family sat at breakfast; and the silver service in front of Aunt

Lettice glinted like little winking eyes where it caught the golden

flood.

Her delicate white hands had poured out the sweetened hot milk and

water which she and 'Bitha drank in lieu of tea, while her

brother-in-law, busy with looking over a copy of the "Salem Gazette"

brought by his son the night before, was letting his coffee cool.

Jack himself, after a hastily despatched breakfast, had already gone

into the town, where he had matters of importance to look after, not

the least of them being to dine at the Hortons' with Mary and her

father; and he would not return until late in the evening.

Dorothy had little to say, seeming to be busy with her own thoughts;

but she could not help smiling as little 'Bitha murmured softly, "Oh,

grandame, I am all full of glory by now, for I caught a lot of sunshine

on my spoon and swallowed it."

"And you'll be full of a mess, child, if you stir your porridge about

in such reckless fashion," said Aunt Lettice, smiling as her eyes met

Dorothy's.

"Dot," her father now asked suddenly, lifting his eyes from the paper,

"when did you last see old Ruth Lecrow?"

Dorothy started, and her big eyes turned to him with a troubled look as

she answered, "It is all of a month since I saw her."

The girl's conscience smote her, as never before had she neglected for

so long a time to go and see the faithful carer of her own motherless

infancy, or else send needful provision for her impoverished old age.

"A month!" her father repeated. "How is that, my child?" Then with a

searching, anxious look into her downcast face, he said more gently:

"You had best take Leet, and go to Ruth this very morning. The air and

sun be fine enough to bring back the roses to your cheeks. I am

thinking that you stop within doors too much o' late."

Before Dorothy could reply, Aunt Lettice reminded him that Leet was to

meet Jack in the town that morning.

"Then I will walk, father," the girl said, "and take Pashar."

With this she arose from the table and was about to leave the room,

when 'Bitha put in a petition that she might accompany her.

"No, 'Bitha," interposed her grandmother, "you made such a froach[1] of

your sampler yesterday that you have it all to do over again this

morning, as you promised me." She spoke with gentle firmness, and the

child hung her head in silence.

[1] Spoiled work.

"Never mind, 'Bitha," Dorothy said soothingly, as she touched the small

blonde head,--"mayhap we can have Leet take us to see Mistress Knollys

this afternoon."

"I'd sooner go on the water, Dot," the child suggested timidly. Then

turning to the head of the house, she asked: "Cannot we go out in one

of the boats, Uncle Joseph? We've not been on the water for a long

time." And the blue eyes were lifted pleadingly to the old gentleman,

who had just set down his emptied cup.

"Nay, my child," he answered, "that you must not; and for the same

reason that none have been for so long a time. None o' ye must go nigh

the boats until the redcoats be gone from the Neck."

"When will they go?" asked 'Bitha, pouting a little. "They have

spoiled our good times for long past. We cannot go anywhere as we

used."

"Nor can others older than you, my child," he said with an unmirthful

smile, as he arose from the table. "The soldiers are a pest in the

town, little one. But till the King sees fit to call them off, or we

find a way to make them go, you must be content to stop nigh the house,

and away from the boats." Then he added teasingly, as he put his hand

upon her head, "The redcoats may carry you off, if you put yourself in

their way."

'Bitha shook off his hand as she gave her small head a belligerent

toss. "If they tried to do that, Uncle Joseph, I'd push them over the

rocks, as Mary Broughton did that redcoat we met in the cave. And oh,

Dot,"--turning to her--"that 'minds me that the other day when I was

with Leet and Trent, down in the ten-acre lot, that same redcoat was

there, sitting in the door of the shed, with his horse standing nigh.

And when he saw us coming, he hurried away. And Trent said 't was

lucky no sheep were within the shed for him to steal."

"He is a gentleman, 'Bitha, and would no more steal my father's sheep

than would you or I!"

Dorothy's voice was full of indignation, and the child's eyes opened

wide at its unusual sharpness. But this, as well as her heightened

color, her father and Aunt Lettice ascribed to embarrassment at being

reminded of her exploit of the past summer.

All the outside world lay flooded in the warm golden sunshine that

blunted the cold edge of the wind rushing from the north, where sullen

cloud-banks were piling up in a way to threaten a change of weather

before night. The sea lay a floor of molten silver and burnished

steel, and the crows called incessantly from the woods.

Dorothy chose to take a short cut across the fields to old Ruth's

abode; and while skirting the ten-acre lot, she cast a furtive glance

toward the large shed, as if expecting to see a scarlet coat in the

doorway.

But only the homespun-clad form of Trent was there, letting out a large

flock of sheep, who came gambolling about him, and then dispersed over

the dry brown grass, where a bright green patch showed here and there.

"'T was queer, Mist'ess Dor'thy, dat we nebber foun' de two cows dat

strayed so long 'go, don't ye t'ink?" inquired Pashar, who followed

close behind her with a big basket on his arm.

Dorothy, intent upon her own affairs, did not reply, and the boy went

on: "Trent say now dat he b'leebe de redcoats stole 'em, fo' sure."

"How could that be," she asked sharply, "when the cows were missing

before any soldiers came down here?"

"I dunno, Mist'ess--on'y dat's what Trent say, an' what we all b'leebe."

Here Dorothy was startled by a wild, shrill yell from the boy, and

turned quickly to see the cause of it. The sheep had discovered a

broken place in the fence, and were trooping through it en masse; and

if once out of the field, there was nothing to bar their way to

Riverhead Beach.

Trent had already started in pursuit, but it was easy to see that many

of the flock would be on the other side of the fence before he could

stop them.

"Give me the basket," Dorothy said to the negro boy, "and go to help

Trent. Then come to Ruth's after me."

She had scarcely spoken when he, giving her the basket, uttered another

wild yell and was off, speeding after the wayward sheep. He was soon

alongside Trent, who had stopped to put some bars across the opening,

at which the few detained animals were now poking with eager noses.

But these scattered quickly when Pashar, with renewed shouts, charged

through them and vaulted the fence, to dash away on the other side with

a speed that quickly carried him out of sight.

Pursuing her way alone, Dorothy soon reached the Salem road, which she

crossed, climbing the stone walls on either side, and was again in a

narrow strip of pasture land ending in a wood, where the stillness was

broken only by the squirrels chattering overhead as though in fear of

the intruder.

The sun sent its rays here and there across the paths that led in

different directions, all of them carpeted with needles from the tall

pine-trees standing amid the oaks and chestnuts; and the one Dorothy

pursued brought her soon to the summit of a small hill, where it took a

sharp turn, and then ran directly to a small, hut-like dwelling, about

the door of which grew a honeysuckle vine.

In front of the house was what in the summer had been a flower-garden;

everything about it was neat, and the tiny panes of glass in the

unshuttered windows were spotlessly bright.

Dorothy did not wait to knock, but opened the door, and was within the

living-room of the house, there being no hall. It was wide, and

low-ceilinged, with clumsy beams set upright against the walls,

bedimmed with age and smoke. Directly opposite the entrance was the

open hearth, back of which a sluggish fire was burning; and kneeling in

front of the logs was a girl of fourteen, working with a clumsy pair of

bellows to blow it into a brisker flame.

She was so engrossed in her task as not to hear the door open, but

started quickly as Dorothy said, "Good-day, Abbie; how is your granny

this morning?"

"Oh, Mistress Dorothy, how you scared me!" the girl cried, springing to

her feet, and showing, as she turned her head, a preternaturally old

and worried face.

"Where is Ruth?" inquired the smiling intruder, who now put down the

heavy basket, and began to remove her cloak, whose hood had somewhat

disarranged the curls over which it was drawn.

"Granny be in bed yet, for her rheumatiz be in her legs to-day, she

says. An' she was worritin' over ye, for fear ye might be ill. She

was sayin' last evenin' that I was to go over and inquire."

Perfectly at home in the little house, Dorothy went straight to her old

nurse's bedroom, to find her propped up in bed, knitting, and with an

open Bible lying beside her on the snow-white counterpane.

"Oh, my lamb!" she exclaimed joyfully, catching sight of the sunny

face, that was soon bending over her, while the dim old eyes devoured

its every feature. "But I am glad to see ye, for I feared ye were ill,

for sure. An' what a lot o' sweet fresh ye bring about! It must be a

fine day outside. Ah," with a deep sigh, "if I could only get about as

I used to, my lamb!" The old woman's voice faltered, and the moisture

was showing in her eyes.

"You will be well again, Ruth, when the winter gets fairly set,"

Dorothy said cheerfully. "'T is the seasons changing that always make

you feel poorly."

"Mayhap, mayhap," sighed the old woman. "But it seems only yesterday I

was runnin' about, a girl like ye, with no thought of ache or pain; an'

but another yesterday when I had ye, a little babe, in my arms. An'

here I be now, a crippled, useless old body, with only a poor

granddaughter, who has to do for me what I ought to be doin' for her.

An' here ye be, a fine grown young woman, ready to be married."

Dorothy's laugh rang through the small room. "Not I, Ruth. I shall

always live with my father. And I am sure Abbie is glad to do all she

can for you." This last was with a kindly glance at the girl, who had

that moment slipped into the room to see if she might be wanted for

anything.

She turned to Dorothy with a gratified look on her wan face, and said

with an attempt at heartiness: "Yes, Mistress Dorothy, that I am. Only

she be forever frettin', like I was the worst o' granddaughters to her."

The old woman smiled at this, as she permitted the girl to raise her

shoulders a little, and shake up the pillows before leaving the room.

As soon as she was gone, Dorothy said, "I brought you a basket of

things I hoped you wanted; and I'll not stop so long away from you

another time."

"Aye, my lamb, but ye have stayed away a sore long time. But now that

ye're a young lady, ye've pleasanter folk to talk to than your old

nurse."

"Now, Ruth," Dorothy threatened playfully, "if you talk to me in that

fashion, I'll go straight home again."

The old eyes were turned upon her wistfully, while the knotted fingers

nervously handled the knitting-needles. Then Ruth said, "Moll Pitcher

was here yesterday to see me."

"Was she? What did she say?" asked Dorothy, all in the same breath;

for she took the keenest interest in Moll and her talk.

"I made her talk to me o' ye, my lamb. An' I was sorry for it

afterwards; for what she said kept me wakeful most o' the night. She

did not want to tell me, either; but I made her."

"But what did she say?" Dorothy repeated eagerly. "Tell me just what

she said, Ruth."

The old woman hesitated, as though unwilling to reply. Then her

restless fingers became quiet, and she said slowly and earnestly: "She

told me that your fate was about ye now, fast an' firm, an' that no one

could change it. An' she said your future days were tied about with a

scarlet color."

"Oh, Ruth," Dorothy said at once, "she must mean that war is coming to

us." She was entirely free from any self-consciousness, and her eyes

looked with earnest surprise into the solemn old face lying back upon

the pillows. But her color deepened as Ruth added still more

impressively: "Nay, my lamb, she told me o' war times to come, beside.

But she meant that a redcoat would steal your heart away; an' she said

that naught could change it,--that his heart was set to ye as the

flowers to the sunshine,--that ye held him to wind about your little

finger, as I wind my wool. An' she said that sorrow, deep sorrow,

would come to ye with it."

Tears were now dropping down the withered cheeks, and Dorothy thought

her own were coming from sympathy with the grief of her old nurse. For

a moment--only a moment--she felt frightened and almost helpless, even

turning to glance quickly over her shoulder at the door of the outer

room, as if to see if the redcoat were already in pursuit of her.

Then her own dauntless spirit asserted itself once more, and she

laughed with joyous disbelief.

"Nonsense, Ruth,--nothing but nonsense! And don't you be fretting, and

making yourself unhappy over something that can never happen."

"Moll always speaks truth, they say," the old woman insisted, wiping

her wet cheeks with the half-knit stocking. "But we'll see what time

will bring to ye, my lamb. Moll is a good woman. She gave me some

herbs for my ailment, an' was most kind to me. She stopped all night,

an' went on this morning, for her father be dead, an' she have gone to

Lynn to 'bide."

"Well, I hope she'll stop there forever, before she comes to make you

fret again over such silly tales. You must use the herbs, Ruth, and

get well, so that you can dance at Jack's wedding. You know he and

Mary Broughton will be married near Christmas-tide."

Ruth looked fondly at the girl. "I'd much sooner dance at your own, my

lamb, if ye married the right man."

Dorothy laughed. "Can you tell me where to find him, Ruth,--did Moll

tell you where he was?"

"Aye, that she did," was the quick reply. "An' she told me much I'd

best keep to myself. Only the part I told ye worrited me, an' so I had

to open my heart to ye. But I'll tell ye this,--keep all the redcoats

away from ye, my lamb; shun 'em as ye would snakes, an' trust only to

the true hearts nigh home. There be Master Hugh Knollys--he be most

fit for ye."

Dorothy laughed again. "Hugh Knollys," she repeated. "Why, Ruth, he

is almost like my own brother. You must never speak of such a thing to

any one; for if it came to his ears I'd surely die of shame. I marry

Hugh Knollys! Why, Ruth, you must be crazy."

"Ye might do far worse, my lamb." The old woman did not smile, and her

lips narrowed primly, as though she did not relish having the girl make

a jest of the matter lying so close to her own heart.

"Well, worse or better, I am in no hurry to be married off, Ruth; and

so don't you have any such thought of me." And Dorothy shook her curly

head threateningly.