SOME QUAKER BOYS OF 1776.
BY C. H. WOODMAN.
IN 1776, the eastern end of Long Island was over-run with the English troops and mercenaries. There was no security to life or property: everything was at the mercy of the wicked Hessians.
At this time there was living on the island, and not far from New York, a Quaker by the name of Pattison. Henry Pattison, the father, was one of the strictest of the sect; of a noble, generous nature, a kind neighbor, and a wise councilor. He was universally loved and revered. He won the name of the Peace-Maker.
He owned a fine farm, and was growing wealthy, when the war came and sad days settled down upon the community.
Mother Pattison was the true type of the Quaker wife and mother. Under her tidy white cap beamed the placid, tender face which is so common among these pure-hearted people, and her skillful advice and winning words of consolation were often heard in the house of the sick and afflicted. Eight sturdy boys, and one little sweet, timid flower of a daughter, blessed this good couple, and made their home one of happiness and love.
Edmund, the oldest son, was a handsome, manly lad of eighteen. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his quiet “thee” and “thou,” beat a fiery and fearless heart that often broke through the mild Quaker training and made him, notwithstanding his peace principles, a leader among his fellows.
One day, as he sat in the barn, quietly enjoying his noonday rest, a British trooper rode up to the door. Seeing Edmund he shouted:
“Come, youngster, make haste and stir yourself. Go and help my driver there unload that cart of timber into the road!”
Now Edmund had just been hard at work loading that wood, to carry it to a neighbor to whom it was sold.
Both wagon and oxen belonged to his father.
“Come, hurry!” said the horseman.
“I shall not do it!” said Edmund.
“What—sirrah!” cried the ruffian, “we shall see who will do it!” and he flourished his sword over the boy’s head, swearing and threatening to cut him down unless he instantly obeyed.
“Seeking for some firm spot of entrance”—PAGE 82.
Edmund stood unflinchingly, fiercely eyeing the enraged soldier.
Just then a little boy, Charles, the son of a neighbor, ran into the house and told Mrs. Pattison that “a Britisher was going to kill her Edmund.” She rushed to the barn, begged the soldier to stop, pleaded with her son to unload the wood and so save his life.
“No fear of death, mother; he dare not touch a hair of my head.”
“Dare not!” The horseman flourished his sword before the lad’s face and swore he would kill him instantly.
“You dare not!” said Edmund firmly; “and I will report you to your master for this.”
The fierce and defiant look really awed the trooper, and he mounted his horse, although he still told the boy he would “cut him into inch pieces.”
Edmund knew that such things were actually done by the soldiers, and he appreciated the man’s terrible rage. He coolly walked across the barn-floor, and armed himself with a huge pitchfork.
“You cowardly rascal!”—the boy’s words came fierce and sharp. “Now take one step towards this floor, and I stab you with my pitchfork.”
The gentle Mrs. Pattison expected to see her boy at once shot down like a dog. She ran to the house, and, meeting her husband, sent him to the rescue.
Friend Pattison rode hastily up, and said calmly to the trooper:
“You have no right to lay a finger upon that boy, who is a non-combatant.”
The man did not move.
Then Farmer Pattison turned toward the road, saying he would ride and call Col. Wurms, who commanded the troops.
Upon this the horseman, thinking it best for him to see his master first, drove the spurs into his horse and galloped away, uttering vows of vengeance.
The little boy who had alarmed Mrs. Pattison was a lad of fourteen,—the son of a neighbor who was in Washington’s army.
Sitting one day under the trees, with the little Pattisons, talking indignantly of the “British thieves,” he saw a light-horseman ride up toward a farm-house just across the pond. He guessed at once what the man was after. He tried to signal the farmer, but in vain.
“They are pressing horses,” cried Charlie; “they always ride that way when stealing horses.”
He thought of his father’s beautiful colt, his own pet.
“Fleetwood shall not go!” said he.
Running as fast as he could to the barn, he leaped on to his back, and started for the woods.
The red-coat saw him, and, putting his spurs into his horse, rising in the saddle and shouting, he tore down the road at headlong speed.
Charlie’s mother rushed to the door. She saw her little son galloping towards the woods with his murderous enemy close upon his heels. Her heart beat fearfully, and she gave one great cry of prayer as her brave little boy dashed into the thick woods, and out of sight, still hotly pursued by the soldier.
The trees were close-set and the branches low. Charlie laid down along the horse’s neck to escape being swept off. He cheered on, with low cries, the wild colt, who stretched himself full length at every leap.
With streaming mane, glaring eyes, distended nostrils, he plunged onward. Charlie heard the dead dry boughs crackling behind, and the snorting of the soldier’s horse, so near was his fierce pursuer. On, on Fleetwood dashed, bearing his little master from one piece of woods to another, till the forest became dense and dark. He had now gained some on the soldier; and, seeing ahead a tangled, marshy thicket, Charlie rode right into its midst.
Here he stood five hours without moving.
The soldier, so much heavier with his horse, dared not venture into the swamp. He rode round and round, seeking for some firm spot of entrance. Sometimes he did come very near; but every time sinking into the wet, springy bog he was obliged to give it up; he could not even get a shot at the boy, the brush was so thick, Fleetwood instinctively still as a mouse, and finally, with loud oaths, he rode off.
But the lad and the colt still stood there hour after hour, not knowing whether they might venture out; but at nightfall his mother, who had been watching all the while, with tears and prayers, saw her dear boy cautiously peeping through the edge of the woods. By signs she let him know that the danger was past, and, riding up to the house, he dismounted. Then, leaning against his beautiful colt, his own bright, golden curls mingling with Fleetwood’s ebon mane, the plucky little fellow told his adventures to the eager group.
The Quaker neighbors in this vicinity had at last been driven, by the outrages of the hostile troops, to use some means of defense. They agreed that, whenever a house should be attacked, the family would fire a gun, which would be answered by firing from other houses, and so the neighborhood become aroused.
But Farmer Pattison so abhorred the use of a gun that he would have none in his house. He procured a conch-shell which, when well blown, could be heard a great way.
One night, while Charlie’s family were all soundly sleeping, and, without, the clear November air was unstirred by a breath of wind, suddenly the grum report of the conch boomed in at the windows and alarmed the whole house.
Wakened so unceremoniously, all thought it was a gun; but no one could tell whence it came. The venerable grandfather knelt in prayer; the sick English officer, staring at the house, ordered his two guards to prepare for defence; the mother sat trembling, while the two little girls, Grace and Marcia, hid their faces in their mother’s night-dress.
But our Charlie was brave. He loaded the old firearm, and, going down to the piazza blazed away, loading and firing, to frighten away the unseen foe. Through the still air could be heard the guns of the neighbors, all aroused to defend their homes.
But no burning building could be seen, nor were there any shouts or noises of conflict.
The alarm subsided, but for the rest of the night the little family sat anxious and waited for the dawn. In the morning they learned the cause of the alarm. It seems that at noon, the day before, the Pattison boys were trying their lungs on the conch, calling the hired men to dinner.
Little Joseph stood by, waiting his turn, but it didn’t come. Dinner was ready, and the shell was put away on the shelf over the kitchen door. The little fellow’s disappointment was great, and that night he dreamed of robbers, of English soldiers and burning houses. He dreamed that he must blow the shell.
Up he jumped, ran down stairs, and through two rooms, still asleep, and, standing in a chair, got the conch from the shelf. Going to the back door he blew it lustily, and aroused the whole family. They rushed down-stairs in great alarm, and there stood the little boy, bareheaded and in his nightgown, while great drops of perspiration stood on his face, from the exertions he had made!