“What are spinning and weaving,” she sighed aloud, “and sewing and baking, beside what men can do?”
But spinning and weaving and baking must be accomplished if the war were to go on and the patriot soldiers be clothed and fed, so she ran quickly into the house, tucked up her sleeves, put on her big apron and began the labours of the day.
Two evenings later, just as the early winter dark had begun, there came marching up the long driveway to the house, a little band of blue-coated soldiers. Their young Lieutenant bore a letter from Stephen, explaining that these men, stationed at Salem, had been sent forward at once, but if there were no immediate disturbance near Andrew Shadwell’s, they were to await the coming of a larger body of troops from Boston. He begged that Clotilde would see to it that the men supped well before they went on to the empty farm-house a mile or two from Hopewell, where it had been arranged that they camp for the night.
There was much hurrying and scurrying, you may be sure, in the getting ready of an abundant meal for so many hungry fighting-men, a great clattering of dishes and stirring of pots. Huge fires roared up every chimney in the house while the men gathered close about the hearths to warm their cold hands and half frozen feet.
“Men say there is surely trouble to come over these rascal Tories,” said the Lieutenant, as he sat in Stephen’s chair at the head of the table and eyed joyfully the smoking platter that Clotilde set down before him. “It is even rumoured that Andrew Shadwell has been petitioning the British Commander to send a company of redcoats to escort him and his friends out of the country. He knows that, as it is, if he tries to escape the whole neighbourhood will be upon him like a nest of hornets. But the English soldiers have too much to do elsewhere, and, influential as our friend Andrew is, I doubt much if they will listen to his plea. Certainly no such measures can be taken for some time.”
When at last the grateful guests, warmed, dry, well fed and greatly cheered in heart, had marched away and the remains of the supper had been cleared from the board, Clotilde bethought her of a task that had been nearly forgotten in the hurry and excitement of the soldiers’ coming. A great bale of woollen cloth, for the making of army coats, was to be sent from Hopewell next day, but her share of the weaving had, in the press of other things, been left unfinished on the loom in Samuel Skerry’s cottage. Only a yard remained to be woven, therefore, she decided, she could slip over to the little house and finish the work that it might be carried to the Town Hall in the morning. Leaving word for Mère Jeanne, who was used to her labouring late in the weaving-room and would not lie awake for her, she wrapped herself in her old cloak and slipped out into the white, silent night.
Old Jason heard the door creak, came hurrying out to remonstrate against her going alone and finally insisted on following her across the fields to the shoemaker’s house. Here he built a great fire on the hearth in the workroom, drew the curtains close and sat down to wait, while Clotilde climbed to the high bench before the loom and presently filled the whole cottage with the monotonous sound of the swinging heddle.
“Jason,” she said at last, seeing that the old man was worn out by the unwonted business of the day and was drowsy and nodding in his chair, “there is no need of your waiting here. I have worked in this place at night a score of times and have come to no harm. Go home and to bed: I have the key of the little side door and will come just so soon as this web is done.”
“Yes, Mistress,” answered Jason, rising obediently, too sleepy either to reason or object. He stumbled out, closing the door behind him, and left Clotilde alone to a silence broken only by the crackling of the fire, the whirring of the shuttle and the creaking of the loom.
“I suppose I should get down and lock the door after him,” she reflected; but just at that moment a knotted thread caught her attention and held it until, presently, she forgot all about the big iron key sticking, unturned, in the lock.