“Nonsense, William, what was our war of the Revolution?” put in Mr. Hopkins.
“It was the Revolution. We are not yet free, if indignity can be offered us which we must accept silently.”
“Ah, Masther Joe, dear,” whined Winnie, “ye let thim steal me bhy.” Joseph Hopkins, a tall young fellow, sunburnt and stalwart, looked down at her with kindly eyes. “Indeed, Winnie, I did my best to save him and two others, but it was no use.”
“Tell us about it, Cousin Joe,” said Lettice.
“I have told the tale more than once, cousin, but since you and Winnie will likely give me no peace till I tell it again, I’ll spin you my yarn. We were just turning into the bay, after having had to go out of our way to escape from the clutches of more than one British cruiser, when we saw a sail which gave us chase, and though the Delight was in her own waters, our pursuers were within gunshot in a short time. Then they demanded to search us for deserters. At first I refused, as I knew father would have me do; but we were scarcely prepared to fight a ship of the size of the enemy, and discretion being the better part of valor, and to save a whole skin for the majority of my crew, at last it seemed best to submit to the demand. So poor Patrick, Johnny Carter, as good an Eastern-shoreman as ever lived, and Dick Bump, who never saw the plank of a British ship before, were carried off. Every mother’s son of them was born on American soil, and they were claimed as British subjects. It is an outrage! But trust to Pat, Mrs. Flynn, he’ll be with us again before long, or my name’s not Joe Hopkins. I saw Uncle Edward in Boston, mother,” he went on to say, “and he promised to come on with the next ship.”
Leaving Mrs. Flynn somewhat comforted, the others took their way again to the front steps, where the men plunged into a discussion of the questions of the day, and Lettice, who cared little for letters-of-marque and general reprisals, sat watching the passers-by, once in a while putting a question when the talk became particularly exciting.
She had come up from the Eastern shore of Maryland but a few months before, and had hardly yet become accustomed to life in a big city, having always lived upon the plantation now managed by her eldest brother. The marriage of this big brother had eventually brought about the change which made of Lettice a city girl, for her father concluded to join his brother in Baltimore, and Lettice must perforce accompany him. It was not altogether a happy arrangement for the girl; her uncle’s wife was a New England woman, and did not understand her husband’s light-hearted little niece, over whom she was disposed to exert an authority which Lettice, if she had been less sweet-tempered, would have resented. Then, too, Aunt Martha did not like negro servants, and Lettice knew no others. Nevertheless, she made friends with old Mrs. Flynn, who reigned over the kitchen, and the other maids did not count, she told her father.
She sat on the step, her thoughts travelling to her old home. How pleasant it must be there this hot night, she reflected, with the bay in sight, and the moon shining down upon it. She would like to be dashing down the long level road upon her pretty bay mare, and after a while to come in and find Mammy waiting for her with some cooling drink, and Lutie ready to undress her. She wished Aunt Martha would let her have Lutie, or she wished her father would let her keep house for him and have the old servants about her. Perhaps he would in another year, for she would be seventeen then.
She was aroused from her revery by her father saying: “War? yes, war say I. Joe, I told you, didn’t I, of our meeting at Fountain Inn, and of our resolutions upon the subject? ‘No alternative between war and degradation’ we decided.”
“Oh, father,” put in Lettice, “is there really to be war? I thought it was only talk.”