Roger Davis, Loyalist

by Frank Baird

"THAT MAN," I SAID, TURNING AND FACING THE 'COLONEL,' WHO SAT PALE AND SHIVERING.

I felt sure that this was the point where my story should close. I had nothing stronger than this. Moved by a certain latent instinct for the dramatic I broke off and sat down.

There was a short, ominous silence—then a great uproar. 'Traitor!' yelled several at once, as they sprang upon the benches, waving their arms wildly.

'Shoot him,' shouted others; 'he let him go purposely.'

But I heard little more, for the individual voices became indistinct in the general chorus of angry shouts that burst from every part of the room. Friends and defenders crowded near the 'Colonel,' and soon the house was divided against itself. Had it not been that two armed guards stood at the door, I think I would have broken for liberty.

Finally, standing upon the table behind which he had sat with so much of badly simulated dignity, the chairman, very red and very hoarse, succeeded in restoring order.

'We have agreed,' he said, 'that this whole matter shall be fully investigated, and justice shall be done. It is certainly unwelcome news to hear that the notorious Hale is still at large. If he has escaped, as this lad declares, if among ourselves there are some who are unworthy of our confidence, it is well that these things be known. Everything will be fully investigated, and'—he roared the words so loudly that they were almost unintelligible—'and justice shall be done to both friend and foe.'

The whole assembly cheered mightily. Then the man on the table spoke again.

'Now in the name,' he said, 'and by authority of the Committee of Safety for the township of Lexington, I adjourn this meeting for one week, and order that this boy Davis and Colonel John Griffin be kept close prisoners till that time.'

I was not taken back to the mine, but was put in a comparatively comfortable prison. That night—a little after midnight—I was aroused by a low tapping on my door. As I drew near this it opened. I stepped out. The brilliant May night was all about me: and it was very still.

Without a word a figure that crouched in the shadow of the door motioned me toward the great black wood that stretched from the edge of the prison yard away up the mountain. I flew off like a bird.

I was free at last, but whether they were friends of the 'Colonel,' or friends of my own, who accomplished my release, I was never able to discover.

Chapter VI

King or People?

The road between Lexington and Cambridge lay well in the valley. But I kept to the hill country. I knew that all the roads must be avoided. I felt sure that I could keep the course, which I knew was easterly, and tramp home by way of the low, timber-crowned ridge of mountains. I set down the danger of getting lost as light compared with that of arrest which might await me on the road in the valley, for I was by no means anxious to return to my former quarters in either mine or prison.

Then I recalled having seen many clearings, and several small farmhouses, dotted along the ridge, all well up toward the top of the wooded slope. I resolved to work my way from one to another of these until I reached home.

It was probably about nine in the morning when I came, somewhat suddenly, upon the first clearing. It afforded a view of the whole valley for miles. Here and there I caught glimpses of the road as it wound round toward Boston.

I stood for some moments looking upon the scene before me. It was all magnificent. The sun was high, warm, and bright, away across the valley. The strong, vigorous life of the New England spring was everywhere; and my three weeks' enforced stay in the cold, damp mine threw all the beauty of the bursting leaves, the greening, distant valley, and the singing birds, into high and clear relief. A new life seemed to pulse in my veins. I was once more free.

As I advanced across the clearing I was struck with the evident remoteness of the place. The valley seemed to be miles away; the woods walled in the place on every side; and yet the soil had been freshly cultivated. Could it be that this was one of the numerous highland farms which I had seen when riding in the valley?

At that moment a dull sound, as of one beating the earth, fell upon my ears. I turned, and close to the edge of the woods, working with a hoe in the black earth among the charred stumps, I saw the stooped figure of a woman. As I looked she stood the hoe by the side of a stump, stepped a little to one side, picked up a small basket, and swung her hand about as though scattering grain. A moment later she was again working rapidly with the large, heavy hoe.

For some time I stood where I was, without moving or speaking. I was still undecided as to what I should do, when I heard the cry of a child. At this the woman dropped her hoe, and turned directly toward me. On seeing me she threw up her hands, and stood for a moment gazing at me. I saw a great terror come into her face, but before I could speak to quiet her fears, she sprang like a wild thing, uttering a piercing shriek as she did so, toward the green hollow that had served for a cradle, and, snatching up a crying infant, she fled away in the direction of the small log house at the north-west corner of the clearing. To this I followed her. Standing outside the closed door I explained my situation, and in less than half an hour I was eating with great relish a homely but substantial breakfast. I had almost finished this before the woman fully threw off restraint and talked freely.

'It was a great fright you gave me at first,' she said. 'I was sure they were comin' to take me off too. It's only two days since a lot of men, who said they were sent by some committee, came to the fiel' an' took away my husband. He told me to try and do what I could at puttin' in the rest of the crop; but the work in the new lan' is hard for a woman.'

She had one child in her arms, and as she spoke, four others trooped into the little room, and taking up positions beside her looked at me curiously.

'We've five little ones,' she said; 'an we were gettin' on nicely till this awful war come. An' it all seemed to come so sudden. Away up here we heard little about it, till after the shootin' begun. Even now I don't know what all the trouble is about. All the neighbours 'bout here were poor, peaceable folk, an' wanted to go on with their croppin'. Some say the King's wrong, that the laws are hard, an' all that, but we never had any reason to complain. An' even if the laws weren't right, wouldn't it have been better to live on peaceably, than to have things as they are now? Look at me left with these five children! What'll they do if their father isn't let come back to them an' the farm?' A look of anxious fear came into the woman's face, as she spoke.

'What was your husband's name?' I asked.

'David—David Elton. My maiden name was Merton. We're married ten years this summer.'

'David Elton,' I repeated; 'is David Elton your husband?'

'He is. Did you ever hear of him?'

'Yes,' I said: 'I have.' Then I told her many things, to which she gave eager attention.

Half an hour later I had said goodbye to Mrs. Elton and her children, and was entering the woods to continue my journey. Taking a glance backward, I saw the woman with the infant in her arms emerge from the little log house, and cross the clearing to the spot where she had been when I first saw her. She placed the child in the green hollow again, took up the basket and scattered some seed about, and the next moment she was digging the grain into the black, ashy earth with her heavy hoe. As I looked, a lump rose in my throat, and I got a new glimpse of the meaning of war.

Late that night I reached home in safety. My mother and sisters were overjoyed at my coming. They spoke much of my changed appearance, and when I saw myself in the mirror I did not wonder. My experience of almost four weeks had told remarkably upon me; still I felt I had obtained valuable information, which might be of service to the King's cause. I had learned and could tell of what was going on in the country; I now knew something of the character and methods of the men who were carrying on the war, and all this I felt much more than made up for the loss of a few pounds of flesh.

But my mind was soon diverted from myself by other thoughts that crowded upon me. 'Have you seen Duncan Hale?' I asked my mother; and, as the words left my lips, I felt a great fear about my heart pulling the blood from my cheeks. The last time I had seen him there was a noosed rope about his neck, with a long, dangling end. The memory of the sight was fearful. But my mother was speaking.

'Duncan,' she said, 'the good friend and noble fellow that he is, has come to us as regularly as possible from Boston. The city is besieged, and he comes at great, personal risk.'

The words afforded me unspeakable relief; I felt my lost colour return.

'What has been happening in Boston lately?' I inquired.

'Some new troops have arrived from England, and the fortifications are being strengthened.'

After some further questions and answers, I detailed my experiences as fully as I thought necessary. My mother was much disappointed at my inability to secure definite information regarding my father's death and resting-place, but both she and my sisters bravely accepted the hard conditions imposed upon us by our great and sudden loss.

From one matter we passed to another, and then another, until, in a little silence that fell, my mother, turning to Caroline, said, 'Bring the paper that officer left yesterday. Roger should see it.'

While our talk had scarce touched the future at all, the document, which was soon in my hands, convinced me that the real crisis for us was still ahead. The paper was addressed to my mother. It opened with a review of supposed grievances, referred to the causes that had led up to the war, and ended with the statement that the house and entire estate would be seized by American soldiers, and appropriated to the use of the army, unless a full and satisfactory declaration of sympathy with the rebel cause were made inside of twelve days.

With the knowledge I possessed of what was taking place in the country, I was not surprised at the contents of the paper. I had seen that events were shaping directly toward this end. But the paper brought the crisis near, and made it real. I laid the document on the table, and for some time, without speaking, looked into my mother's face.

'It has come to this,' I said finally.

'Yes; what are we to do?' she answered. 'Must we give up all and fly, or else declare ourselves opposed to the King? Does it really mean that?'

'That is what it means, mother,' I said. 'That is made very clear. Our property is a valuable one, and, being situated as it is, would afford many advantages to the King's enemies.'

'But they will pay us if they take our place—won't they?' It was my youngest sister Elizabeth who thus innocently spoke.

'No, dear,' my mother answered, with fine composure; 'they will not pay us. They will come with soldiers and drive us away. For the rest of our lives we shall be poor, and shall be forced to work for our living—that is, if we declare for the King.' As she spoke her last words, my mother turned from Elizabeth to me. There was a searching, appealing look in her face. I saw that she had seized the situation correctly; I felt she knew that a decision upon which our entire future depended could not be long delayed.

For many people in the Colonies the question of choice of sides in the great conflict was solved by the nature of things. Most of those engaged in shipping, or in any branch of trade upon which duties had been imposed, the naturally discontented and revolution-loving people, as well as many others, ranged themselves immediately—without consideration of consequences, and evidently without any doubts as to the proper course to be pursued—under the banner of the King's enemies.

On the other hand, there were the officials of the government, the seat of which was in England; there were the many cultured and learned persons whose relatives and whose interests were all in Britain; and there were the more humble, but not less loyal people—many of them among the farmer and working classes—who loved British institutions with a love as strong as the love of life itself. Some of these had fought under English commanders against the French, and their hearts warmed at the name of King—their enthusiasm rose at the sight of England's flag. For these also to decide was easy.

But between the people of these two classes, whose decisions were rendered almost inevitable, there were many who could not so easily and so hastily settle the question of sides in the contest. Many of the more thoughtful did not know on which side the right lay. Many who wished to choose rightly were at a great loss to know what course to pursue.

Probably, of the thousands of families all over the country, who pondered the situation raised by the papers such as my mother had received, none found the problem more difficult and complex than did we. Our feelings; our training and interests; our sense of what was right; our love of England for England's sake, and of the King for the King's sake; all said, and said to each of us, 'Rise and flee, let all go.' But how were we to live? Our property was our support. If our feelings said go, self-interest argued stoutly for remaining. My mother and sisters were defenceless and helpless; I was but a schoolboy. And it was soldiers the King wanted—not refugees.

But the hour had grown very late. We felt that the question was too large for us. I rose and was leaving the library for my room. It was then that my sister Caroline slipped to my side with a book in her hand.

'Prayers,' she said softly, pushing me back toward my seat. 'I have found you the prayer for the day,' she added, 'you must read it as father used to do.'

A rush of emotion, mingled with a feeling of shame at my thoughtless ingratitude toward the Father of all mercies, almost mastered me as I took the book of prayers from my sister's hand. Had God not been good in delivering me? Had not my father prayed? Was not prayer more necessary now than it had ever been in my life?

We all knelt, and I stammered through the beautiful words. They brought to me a feeling of strange relief. Before I slept, in words of my own, I thanked God that He had given me a sister, who, in my weakness, had sent me to Him for strength.

Chapter VII

The Die Cast

The next day was Sunday. As I walked about the hedged garden in the early morning, as I looked away toward Boston and marked the general quiet of the country about, I was surprised that I did not see more evidence of war and disorder. Except some white tents in the distance, and the occasional passing of a supply wagon from the country, there was really nothing to break the Sabbath quiet, or to remind one that the city of Boston was closely invested by thousands of farmer soldiers, and that a great revolution was in progress. When the church bells chimed out sweetly on the beautiful spring air, it seemed harder still to think that the time of peace had really passed.

I left the garden and re-entered the house. At the foot of the stairs I met my sister Caroline.

'You will come with us to church, Roger,' she said. 'Doctor Canfield will be delighted to see you back.'

My mind ran back a little. Would I not be in danger of arrest? The whole country, I knew, was swarming with spies. I thought of the part I had played in saving Duncan Hale, also of my imprisonment and escape. I had not thought of openly showing myself, at least for a little while.

But Caroline was of quite a different mind. 'You will be in no more danger in church than at home,' she argued. 'I have seen many at church lately who I am sure are in favour of the King. Since you left, things have gone on quite as usual; nobody has been molested, and Doctor Canfield has said nothing of the war. Then Roger'—she came nearer to me, and put her hand upon my arm—'should we not go to church to-day, at least, and pray that God might guide us to do what may be best?'

I felt once more rebuked by my sister.

In less than half an hour I was seated, with my mother and two sisters, in the handsome church that had been for years the pride of the town of Cambridge. Not even Boston could boast a finer church building, or a more cultured congregation. Boston was a centre of trade; its narrow and crooked streets; its wharves and many ships; its mixed population; its noise and taverns; its large and busy crowds, had for years stood out in sharp contrast with the quiet and delightful country culture of Cambridge. The educated and the wealthy, particularly those in whom the English instincts were strongest, had, like my father, chosen to live in the country rather than in the city. Thus it was that, when Doctor Canfield entered his pulpit that Sabbath morning, he faced representatives of all that was best and most intellectual in the life of the colony.

On glancing about I noticed that the church was very full. Doctor Canfield's church was not the only one in Cambridge, but as a rule to it came not only all the Episcopalians, but most of the Scottish Presbyterians, who had not, at that time, a church of their own in the town. They had been, mainly, silent people, who had lived quietly, without doing or saying anything that betrayed sympathy with either side. Were these friends of the King? Did the circulating of the papers calling for a declaration of sympathy explain their presence in such large numbers this morning at Doctor Canfield's church?

My mother had told me previously that many of them had been attending our church for some weeks. Had the great sifting and selecting process begun? Had persecution here, as in the country, been making friends for the King? At any rate, as I looked about, I was led to hope that religious differences were likely to be obliterated, or sunk, in loyal zeal for the King's cause.

I was interrupted at this point in my thinking by Doctor Canfield announcing his text. It was, 'Love the brotherhood; fear God; honour the king.'

He repeated the words twice with much deliberation.

A great, strained silence fell upon the vast congregation. I was startled; for a time my breath came short and uncertainly. Had the reserved, hitherto-silent man, made up his mind to declare himself? One great question—the question raised and forced home to each of his hearers by the papers such as my mother had received—filled every mind. But great and pressing as this question was, could it be discussed? I felt sure I knew what Doctor Canfield would say; he was an honest man, and would honestly speak his mind. But was he sure of the temper and sympathies of his hearers that day? Had he counted the cost?

I glanced at my mother, and saw that she was plainly agitated. Even Elizabeth, my sister of but twelve, seemed to realise that a crisis was at hand. Caroline's face was serenely calm. On every countenance that I could see there sat an expression of profound, even painful interest. The silence deepened, and the interest grew, as the minister proceeded. He first briefly discussed the part of his text bearing on love of the brotherhood; then touched briefly, but with earnestness, on the necessity for fearing God, and passed to the third and last part of his subject.

As he approached this, I noticed that a note of emotion had crept into his voice, and some of the colour had slipped down from his face; but he was still very calm, and spoke unbrokenly as he finished his second heading, and then twice repeated the words,

'Honour the King!'

At this point he suddenly stopped. The silence that fell was painfully intense. People leaned forward; here and there heads went down on the pews in front. I felt my heart beat quick and unevenly. But the apparent calmness of Doctor Canfield reassured me.

He did not proceed with his sermon; but, picking up a paper that lay beside the Bible, he slowly opened it, then brought it before the gaze of the people. I recognised the paper at once as being similar to the one received by my mother.

'It is not necessary,' he began, 'that I should read to you, my brethren, the contents of this paper. With what is here written, you are no doubt familiar. This paper has brought before us all a matter of the supremest importance. I have given it the most earnest and careful consideration. In regard to you, my brethren, as to the course you should pursue in this great and lamentable crisis that is now facing our beautiful but unhappy country—concerning you, I have neither suggestions to offer, nor advice to give; but for myself, I feel now constrained, in the presence of God and of this congregation, to say that in the past my sympathies have been, at the present they are, and in the future they shall be, always and only with my true and rightful sovereign, the King of England.'

He said no more. The people before him sat stunned and dumb. Many had known his mind before; many were aware that when he spoke he would speak as he had spoken; and yet, to even these, the declaration came with a shock. Hitherto, he had proclaimed only the gospel; he had stood apart from politics; he had considered himself the pastor of all, not of part, of his people. But there is a time when to be silent is to be false—when to be true one must speak. Doctor Canfield had evidently felt that such a time had come in the New England Colonies of King George, and he had spoken in words that could not be misunderstood.

Slowly the people recovered from the shock. Those who had leaned forward leaned back. All through the church there was a swaying movement as when a harvest field is wind swept. I noticed evidences of relief and joy steal into the faces of many; but on the countenances of others there were unmistakable signs of disappointment and anger. I saw at a glance that a majority—but not all—were for the King.

Doctor Canfield stood as still as a statue. His face had gone very white. Soon through the sound of swaying people, there came to my ears the noise of footsteps. Then a moment later, all over the church, men and women rose and pressed toward the door. A few of the leaders of the church went, old and true Episcopalians, some also of the non-Episcopalians. The faces of many who remained showed signs of struggle and indecision. A few rose and sat down again. Some looked questions at those beside them. In the seat directly in front of us a husband was leaving the seat when his wife drew him back. Not a few in the church wept audibly.

And thus it was throughout all New England, during that Sunday and the days following, that men, many of them in the house of God, silently, suddenly, prayerfully committed themselves to the cause of King or people. They saw themselves under two masters, and painful though the decision was, they felt that they must, for the future, hold to the one, even though it was difficult for them to find it in their hearts to despise the other.

When all had gone who had resolved to go, when quiet had fallen again in the church, the minister, without a word of further comment, announced the National Anthem. The pent-up feelings of the people—and there was yet a large congregation, for fully three-fourths of the worshippers had remained—found freedom and relief in the old familiar words.

Shortly after we reached home that day, through the green of the trees, waving high in front of the rectory, I caught a glimpse of the Union Jack.

Chapter VIII

Off to Nova Scotia

It was several weeks later. My mother, Dr. Canfield, Duncan Hale, and I were sitting in a room in Boston, awaiting our turn for a promised interview with Lord Percy, who was still with the army. The battle of Bunker Hill had been won by the British; but, in spite of this success, General Washington, who arrived in July to take command of the army, had succeeded in drawing his lines uncomfortably close about the city. We, with thousands of others, had been forcibly driven from our beautiful homes in the country, to make quarters for Washington's soldiers. We had been allowed to take nothing away. From all that was most dear to us—from the luxury of a quiet life of culture; from rooms where hung portraits of hero ancestors; from walks and gardens that had become part of our life; from broad, rich fields and firm-set old mansions, with their wide halls and fine Corinthian architecture;—from all these, one day in late June, my sisters, my mother, and myself, had been driven by a mob-like body of rough, jeering men who called themselves patriot soldiers.

True, we might have remained. Indeed, as we passed down the path from our home, my mother was presented with a second paper, the signing of which would have restored to us all that from which we were being driven. She read a few lines, then, tearing the paper into bits, she threw these in the face of the soldier who stood before her. After this, without a single look backward upon our home—on foot, under the blazing June sun—we had hurried away toward the besieged city of Boston. None hindered us; but many jeered as we passed. We had lost much—much upon which we never again looked—but we felt we had gained in this: we were under the flag of the King.

But that was the past. What of the future? This was the question in the mind of each of us that day in Lord Percy's waiting-room, when a servant appeared, and asked us to follow him.

After receiving us all very graciously, his lordship asked us to be seated. I thought I had seldom seen a handsomer man. He was tall, graceful and youthful; his manners were polished, and his language bore all the marks of the utmost culture. He first addressed himself to my mother. After making some kindly references to my late father, and his services in the King's cause, he passed at once to a discussion of what was to be in the future.

'You cannot be unaware, madame,' he said, 'of the deep and sympathetic interest I take in the welfare of yourself and your family. The noble spirit of self-sacrifice manifested by you in voluntarily giving up your lands and home, I consider quite beyond praise; and it is with feelings of the profoundest regret that I feel myself obliged to say that it is quite beyond my power to offer compensation to you in any degree commensurate with your loss. As to the future of the rebellion, nothing definite can be said; for myself, I believe that the arms of the King will finally triumph; but this cannot be hoped for in the immediate future. You cannot remain here; the danger grows daily. What think you of Canada, madame? Or of Nova Scotia, of those wide, peaceful, loyal provinces of His Majesty to the north of us? Many of our people, as you know, have sailed for England—too many, I fear; others have asked to be sent to Canada.'

My mother did not answer for a time. Finally, she said: 'I like America; I was born here; I have now few friends in England, and I am without means.'

At the mention of Canada, I had seen Duncan Hale's face brighten; but he did not speak. A little later, Lord Percy turned to him.

'Tell us,' he said, 'what is said of Nova Scotia in the geographies? Is it really a habitable land?'

Duncan bowed very low.

'Yes, my lord,' he said, 'it is a country in no degree less fruitful than that in which we live. In addition to what is writ in our books of it, I have learned from traders that the soil is rich, that it is a land of delightful summers, of mighty rivers, and of boundless forests. The wealth of its fisheries and mines cannot be estimated; and best of all, your lordship, it is a land undefiled by the feet of traitors.'

The closing words were spoken in such a manner as to show that Duncan Hale was not one of those who had found it difficult to choose between King and people.

Doctor Canfield, who had so far said little, rose and walked to a large map of America that hung upon the wall.

'This is Nova Scotia,' he said, pointing to a large, irregular peninsula. 'Canada is further west, is it not?'