“But it will be salt beef and hardtack that will keep them from it. The colonial lines and earthworks so hedge them in that they’ll never get a scrap of fresh meat or measure of vegetables.”
“But what of our own people who are closed up in the town along with the enemy?” questioned Nat, gravely. “If the British are in want of palatable things, can we be sure that the townspeople have sufficient food of any sort?”
“You’re right,” said Ezra, thoughtfully. He leaned his head upon his hands and stared at the floor. Nat watched him for some time and then said:
“Your grandfather is not in Cambridge?”
“No,” replied Ezra, “in Boston.”
There was another pause; then Nat spoke:
“But, then, I don’t think you need trouble for him.” He placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Forgive me for saying it, but your grandfather will not be likely to come to harm.”
“Not from the British, no,” Ezra’s voice was bitter and low. “But from the patriot people of Boston, yes.” He paused a moment and looked into the frank, friendly face of the youth from Wyoming. “You understand how it is with me. And there are many like me. In the war that has just begun, there will be countless families divided like mine has been.”
“Take heart,” said Nat Brewster. “One can hardly expect an old man, and one born on British soil in the bargain, to be other than a friend to the King. There are some who have greater cause for regret than you. They say that the New Hampshire Colonel Stark’s very brother has gone over to the British.”
“It is not altogether my grandfather’s being an enemy to the colonies that troubles me,” said Ezra. “He is a very old man and can do no great harm. But he has made himself hated by the people. And if they are, by any chance, starving in Boston, there will one day come an outbreak; and it is not against the soldiery that vengeance will be directed. It will be against such bitter-spoken partisans as Seth Prentiss.”