“I want to find out first of all about Uncle Dave and Glen,” Don said to Jud.
But none of the men in the patrol knew either of the two men. Kindly fellows they were, all of them, and they laughed and joked with the boys and with one another as they marched along toward the Mall.
“Say!” exclaimed Jud when they had gone past. “I’m so glad to see those buff and blue uniforms I can hardly say how I feel. I feel as if I’d burst!”
“Me, too,” said Don, “except that I almost feel like—well, like when you’re so happy it makes the tears come into your eyes. Look, here come some more of our men!”
Probably most of the good people of Boston felt as Don and Jud felt; certainly there were many who shed tears of joy as they stood in their doorways and watched the various detachments of Continentals arriving. There was good reason for the tears, for the people who shed them had suffered like martyrs during long months of privation, insult and oppression—to say nothing of disease, for smallpox had broken out in the poorer parts of the town.
The first words that greeted Don as he entered his aunt’s house were, “Donald, my boy, did—did you see your uncle?”
“No, Aunt Martha. I asked at least a score of our men about him, but none of them seemed to know him. But, O Aunt Martha, ain’t it fine! The Redcoats are gone!”
“When I’ve seen your uncle I shall rejoice,” his aunt replied and turned quickly away.
One thing that annoyed Don the following day was that he failed to see General Washington, who had entered the town and had dined with Mr. James Bowdoin at the home of Mr. Erving, both of whom were friends of Don’s uncle. Nor did Don see Washington the next day, for the general had returned to Cambridge.
On Wednesday, the twentieth, the main body of the Continental troops entered the town, with flags flying and drums beating.