'Almost three thousand; and there are many more to follow during the summer. It is well your grant is secured. The whole river front will be taken before fall, I hear. A new province is likely to be formed here north of the bay also. Halifax will be too far away when it comes to arranging the details of grants for all these people. See,' he said, waving his hand toward the many tents the people were putting up, 'we've a city already.'
It was only a few days after the landing of the Loyalists at St. John, that I set off for Halifax on one of Mr. Simonds' lime-laden schooners. The weather proved remarkably fine, and on the third day after sailing we were discharging our cargo in Halifax, where I discovered much interest manifested in what had been taking place north of the bay.
I found my mother particularly happy over having received a letter from my brother, who had joined the King's troops before my father's death. We had not heard from him for almost two years. He had learned of our flight to Nova Scotia from an officer who had returned to New York from Halifax.
My sisters were overjoyed when I told them that our new house would be ready for us—I had left the building of it largely to David Elton—on our arrival. They were very anxious to be off; and off we soon were. After an uneventful voyage we reached the St. John in safety.
During the two weeks of my absence many changes had taken place. There were scores of new buildings in process of erection. Everybody seemed happy and hopeful. The look of disappointment I had formerly seen on so many faces had completely disappeared. Duncan Hale was happy in the promise of a large new school building; Doctor Canfield already had the foundation of a Church well under way. Back on the hill slopes there were already numerous little gaps in the green of the forest. Vessels from New England were bringing in new Loyalists almost daily.
These invariably told the same sad stories of reckless cruelty. The end of the war and the declaration of peace had roused many to barbarities unheard of during the conflict. On the way up the river to my farm with my mother and sisters, I talked with an old man on the deck of the little schooner.
'The mobs,' he said, 'were bad enough at the beginning of the war, but weeks after peace was declared soldiers were found wreaking vengeance on our helpless people. I saw my own son, whose only crime was that he had fought for the King, tarred and feathered. As I sailed out of the harbour of Charleston—it is true, every word of it, as God is above me—I saw on looking backward the bodies of twenty-four Loyalists swinging from a row of gibbets on a single wharf. And there, too,'—his voice broke and tears came freely then, covering his face as if to hide the awful scene, he sobbed out, 'there, too, I had a son.'
No one spoke. I recalled the narrow escape of Duncan Hale, and could believe it all.
'They say General Washington was opposed to these cruelties,' the old man added after a time, raising his head.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a paper. 'Here is a copy of part of a letter written by him. It fell into the hands of one of our officers. The hand and signature were Washington's, so there can be no mistake. Read this, young man,' he said, thrusting the paper toward me. I opened it and read:—