The wife of Governor Trumbull guarded her family when the Governor was absent on official duties at Hartford.
The family now were like so many listeners—to get tidings from the war was their life, and anxiety filled their faces as messengers from Boston, Providence, New London, and Hartford, and the great powder-mills and ordnance works of hidden Salisbury came to them.
One evening, when the Governor was away, a messenger came to the green, and stopped before the tavern. It was dark and rainy.
“It is the shepherd-boy!” said Faith Trumbull, standing in the door, with a lantern in her hand. “He has returned from Valley Forge. I almost shut my heart against the news. His face is white.”
The boy came to the house and Madam Trumbull received him by laying her hand on his shoulders.
Dennis came running in.
“You, my boy Nimble? You made a quick journey.”
The family sat down by the broad, open fire. Their anxiety was shown by their silence.
“Well,” said madam, “the time has come to speak. What news?”
“Oh, could you see,” said the shepherd-boy, “shoeless men, foodless men—snow and blood. When the men move, the snow lies red behind them. Oh, it makes my heart sick to tell it. I would think that the stars would look down in pity.”