The citizens gathered in angry crowds. “If,” said they, “we are to be set upon when we have not struck a blow against the crown, what worse can happen to us if we take up arms and fight like men should against tyranny.”
There was no answer to this argument, so the Williamsburgers proceeded to arm themselves with whatever they could find in the way of weapons, and set about drilling upon the village green. It was in the midst of the drill that Tom and Cole found them that evening when they rode down the main street, and very proud the townsfolk seemed to be of it.
“Tell General Gates,” said the stout old burgess to Tom, after finding out where he was from, “that the freemen of Williamsburg are preparing. Let the British make another of their ruffian raids upon the town, and it shall not be like the last. This time, instead of cautious words, they will be greeted by a sleet of lead.”
“Hurrah!” rang lustily from the ranks of the militia. “That they will!”
“Let them show so much as their noses in the town limits again and we’ll send them back to Cornwallis as soundly beaten as ever a pack of prowling curs were yet.”
The speaker was a brawny, sooty man, in a blacksmith’s apron; he carried a great sledge over his shoulder instead of a musket, and seemed in every way capable of doing his part in carrying out the promise. His words were greeted by much laughter and cheers by his comrades, and under cover of this Tom was drawn aside by the stout burgess.
“They are rare good lads, all of them,” spoke the burgess. “They will fight for their rights and their firesides to the last, but they have no one to lead them in whom they have confidence; it is a great pity, but it is so.”
“THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,”
SPOKE THE BURGESS
He shook his head despondently as he said this, and as his eyes traveled along the not very trim ranks of the volunteers, he shook his gray head sadly.