Roger Davis, Loyalist

by Frank Baird

'But they will pay us if they take our place—won't they?' It was my youngest sister Elizabeth who thus innocently spoke.

'No, dear,' my mother answered, with fine composure; 'they will not pay us. They will come with soldiers and drive us away. For the rest of our lives we shall be poor, and shall be forced to work for our living—that is, if we declare for the King.' As she spoke her last words, my mother turned from Elizabeth to me. There was a searching, appealing look in her face. I saw that she had seized the situation correctly; I felt she knew that a decision upon which our entire future depended could not be long delayed.

For many people in the Colonies the question of choice of sides in the great conflict was solved by the nature of things. Most of those engaged in shipping, or in any branch of trade upon which duties had been imposed, the naturally discontented and revolution-loving people, as well as many others, ranged themselves immediately—without consideration of consequences, and evidently without any doubts as to the proper course to be pursued—under the banner of the King's enemies.

On the other hand, there were the officials of the government, the seat of which was in England; there were the many cultured and learned persons whose relatives and whose interests were all in Britain; and there were the more humble, but not less loyal people—many of them among the farmer and working classes—who loved British institutions with a love as strong as the love of life itself. Some of these had fought under English commanders against the French, and their hearts warmed at the name of King—their enthusiasm rose at the sight of England's flag. For these also to decide was easy.

But between the people of these two classes, whose decisions were rendered almost inevitable, there were many who could not so easily and so hastily settle the question of sides in the contest. Many of the more thoughtful did not know on which side the right lay. Many who wished to choose rightly were at a great loss to know what course to pursue.

Probably, of the thousands of families all over the country, who pondered the situation raised by the papers such as my mother had received, none found the problem more difficult and complex than did we. Our feelings; our training and interests; our sense of what was right; our love of England for England's sake, and of the King for the King's sake; all said, and said to each of us, 'Rise and flee, let all go.' But how were we to live? Our property was our support. If our feelings said go, self-interest argued stoutly for remaining. My mother and sisters were defenceless and helpless; I was but a schoolboy. And it was soldiers the King wanted—not refugees.

But the hour had grown very late. We felt that the question was too large for us. I rose and was leaving the library for my room. It was then that my sister Caroline slipped to my side with a book in her hand.

'Prayers,' she said softly, pushing me back toward my seat. 'I have found you the prayer for the day,' she added, 'you must read it as father used to do.'

A rush of emotion, mingled with a feeling of shame at my thoughtless ingratitude toward the Father of all mercies, almost mastered me as I took the book of prayers from my sister's hand. Had God not been good in delivering me? Had not my father prayed? Was not prayer more necessary now than it had ever been in my life?

We all knelt, and I stammered through the beautiful words. They brought to me a feeling of strange relief. Before I slept, in words of my own, I thanked God that He had given me a sister, who, in my weakness, had sent me to Him for strength.