With chattering teeth and curses on his lips for those whom he regarded as authors of his misfortunes, Abel Shrimpton, led by his daughter, descended the winding stairs to the cabin of the ship.
“Here are the rugs and shawls, mother, and here is the wolf-skin, father, to wrap around you,” said Ruth.
They were in the stifling cabin, the departing loyalists sitting as in a daze, stupefied, stunned by the sudden calamity, wondering if it were not a horrid dream.
To Mary Shrimpton and Ruth Newville it was no phantom, no hallucination, but a reality, an exigency, demanding calm reflection, wise judgment, and prompt, decisive action. They had talked it over,—each in the other’s confidence.
“You must go and I will stay; you will care for them all; I will look after things here. This war will not last always. You will all come back some time,” said Ruth, her abiding faith rising supreme above the agony of the parting.
“I will care for them,” had been the calm reply of Mary.
“Oh, missus! I can’t bear to have ye go, you’s been good to me always. I’se packed a luncheon for ye,” said Phillis, kneeling upon the floor, clasping the knees of her departing mistress, crying and sobbing.
“Oh, massa and missus, old Pomp can’t tell ye how good ye’ve been to him. He’ll be good to Miss Ruth. He’ll pray for de good Lord to bless ye, every night, as he always has,”—the benediction of the slave kneeling by Phillis’s side.
Long and tender was the last embrace of the mother and daughter,—of the father and his beloved child. With tears blinding her eyes, with tottering steps, Ruth passed across the gang-plank. A sailor drew it in, and unloosed the cable. The vessel swung with the tide from its moorings, the jib and mainsail filled with the breeze, and glided away. The weeping crowd upon its deck saw Ruth standing upon the wharf, her countenance serene, pure, and peaceful, with tears upon her face, gazing at the receding ship. Those around her beheld her steady herself against the post which had held the cable, standing there till the Queen Charlotte was but a white speck dotting the landscape in the lower harbor, then walking with faltering steps to her desolate home.