“You shall not cut down our tree.”
The King’s officer shrugged his shoulders.
“You can say what you will,” he observed, “and sure it is that you in the Colonies permit yourselves to speak words that no one would dare utter in England. Nevertheless, your tree must go, and shall be cut down to-morrow, since the ship that is to carry it is already loading. For all your stubbornness you cannot resist King George.”
The soldier turned away and strode off down the road, leaving Stephen choking with sudden helpless rage. He snatched up a stone and was preparing to throw it with all his force, but in the end let it drop to the ground. It would be easy enough to strike that broad, red-coated back, but of what avail were such a blow? The crowned head of King George the First was the mark at which he really sought to aim, but that, alas, was far beyond the reach of a little lad in New England. With a long sigh he turned away and set off toward the village to consult with his best friend, John Thorndyke.
Whether Gilbert Sheffield, had he known what danger threatened King James’ Tree, would have resisted the law and bade the officer begone, cannot be known. When Stephen came home later, ready to tell his father the dire news, he found that a messenger had come in hot haste and that Master Sheffield had ridden off with him to join his ship in Boston. So there was an end of help from that source! Three times Stephen opened his lips to tell his mother of what was about to occur and three times closed them firmly again. Suppose she should forbid his making resistance, then what was there to be done? For Stephen was thoroughly resolved that resistance should be made.
All the next morning he circled uneasily about that portion of the garden where stood King James’ Tree, but it was not until almost noon that the enemy reappeared. He could see them coming in a great cloud of dust, the stout Sergeant mounted on horseback, this time with two stalwart men who carried axes, walking at his side.
“A plague on this August weather,” Branderby cried, as he drew up his horse in the shade. “I am nigh to death with toiling up and down the steep streets of this town. I have ridden a hundred miles back and forth, I do believe, seeking two axemen to do this task, since my own men are not to be spared from loading the ship. It seems that none could work to-day save these fellows, who dwell far beyond the village.”
Stephen could not forbear grinning at these words, but strove to hide the smile behind his hand. He and young John Thorndyke had spread the news broadcast the night before, so that, although none were willing to help him in his resistance to the law, every man was ready with an excuse when summoned to cut down Master Simon’s tree.
“Now,” cried the Sergeant to his men, “let us have no more delay. Come, fellows, ply your axes.” Both of the men hung back and the older of them spoke determinedly.
“Nay,” he said, “you did not tell us that this was the tree we were to cut. All of the town knows of this great pine and of Master Simon who planted it. Not for a score of gold pieces would I lay axe to its trunk. So here is the money you gave us; we have altered our minds and will do no work for you this day.”