“We might be able to sell it,” Don suggested hopefully. Then he added, “If we could only get it to the army in Cambridge!”
But Aunt Martha only smiled and shook her head. “Don,” she said, “would you rather be in Cambridge, or perhaps with your cousin in Concord, than here?”
“I want to be with you,” Don replied firmly and then wondered at the look of quick relief that came over his aunt’s face.
The next day he learned the reason for it. General Gage had agreed to allow those families who wished to leave the town to go in safety. But Aunt Martha had not changed her mind. In spite of the supplications of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and in spite of the risks that she ran in remaining, she would not leave the little house in which she had been born and had lived most of her life. If she was stubborn, it was stubbornness of a defiant, heroic sort, and those who knew her respected her for it, though some called her a “foolish woman.”
As a result of General Gage’s permission hundreds of families did leave the town—a circumstance that greatly alarmed the Tories, who believed that as long as there were women and children in the town the Continentals would not attack. So at last the general withdrew his permission, and the town settled down to wait and to watch.
Though there was no longer any school for Don to attend he found plenty of things to keep him busy. He helped his aunt about the store in the daytime and sat and talked with her at night. And the conversation always was of his uncle and of Glen Drake and the army, of which they knew little enough. Then always before they went to bed Aunt Martha would spread the old thumb-worn Bible on her knees and read a chapter aloud.
Frequently of an afternoon Don would take Sailor and go for a long walk as he used to do. One bright warm day early in May the two were on their way home from a long jaunt, and were walking along between the elms on Common Street, when Don observed a group of Redcoats some distance in front of him. “Here, Sailor,” he called, but the terrier paid no heed and ran on ahead.
When Don was within a few yards of the group he recognized two familiar figures—Tom Bullard, who as aide to General Ruggles of the Tories, now wore a white sash round his left sleeve, and Harry Hawkins, the Redcoat, whose life Don had saved. The two were laughing and talking together.
“Here’s one of the young rebels,” cried Tom as Don drew near. “And here’s his rebel dog. Get out of here, you pup.”
Don made no answer but spoke sharply to Sailor, and the dog trotted to his side.