“No, no,” exclaimed Stephen, “there is no credit due to a man who has been able to accomplish as little as I.”
“It is through your unwearying toil,” insisted the General, “through your preaching of the need of union up and down the highways and byways of America, that this thing has come to pass. To-day an obscure soldier of Virginia takes command of an army where men of his own State, of Pennsylvania and of Maryland are ready to fight side by side with the minute-man of New England. The honour of this achievement, sir, is all yours!”
He drew his shining sword and held it up in grave salute to this great citizen of Massachusetts who stood there in his homespun coat under the shade of the wide elm tree. Out came the swords of all the officers of the General’s staff, while from the men of the army rolled up so great a shout that it might have been heard across the river in beleaguered Boston. There was something like tears in Stephen’s bright eyes as he looked steadily into the grave blue-grey ones of Washington and spoke his answer.
“Whatever small work I may have begun, sir,” he said simply, “I surrender now into far more able hands, to be carried to a glorious end.”
And raising his hat and holding it high above his head, he led the crowd of bystanders in a lusty cheer for General Washington.
Clotilde, standing at his side, was trembling all over with joy and excitement. She was so happy that her Master Sheffield had received the tribute that was so justly due him, she longed so to be a man and able to fight in the splendid cause of liberty. She saw Miles Atherton’s brown face among the lesser officers and flashed him a bright look of admiration and delighted envy. Alas, her share of the struggle must be fought out beside the spinning-wheel and the loom and the blazing kitchen hearth!
She had no chance to speak to Miles, for presently he and his men were told off in columns and marched away toward Boston. The music of the drum and the high, thin fife playing Yankee Doodle died in the distance and there was left only the sound of thudding feet, scuffling in a choking cloud of dust. She longed to watch the last soldier out of sight, but Stephen led her away to the waiting coach.
It was an exciting journey back to Hopewell, through the villages where flags were flying and drums beating and where the people came running out to cheer Master Sheffield as he went by; through stretches of dark forest where the rough roads threw them about in the big, clumsy coach and where there might be King’s soldiers lurking in every thicket. Although Stephen assured her that all the redcoats were shut up in Boston, Clotilde rather hoped than dreaded that the little party might be attacked and nobly rescued, perhaps, by Miles Atherton and the brave men of the Hopewell company. But no such thrilling adventure occurred and the journey was accomplished in safety.
As they were driving through the town next to Hopewell, late in the evening, they passed a huge fire that was burning before the gates of a stately brick house set far back from the road.
“Oh, look, look,” cried Clotilde, “and oh, what a dreadful smell!”