“Well, maybe,” said Short, “but I’m a-thinking it’s a pretty costly victory for old King George.”
And so it proved to be. The town of Boston wore a gloomy aspect during the next few days. The King’s troops, who had looked so fine on parade on the morning of the battle, went about dispiritedly and muttered among themselves at the awful price that they had paid for the hill.
When Don reached home late that evening the sound of cannon was still ringing in his ears—indeed the guns did not cease firing until the next afternoon. He told his aunt what he had seen, but omitted a good deal out of sympathy for her feelings. But though Aunt Martha had not seen so much as her nephew she seemed to know quite as much about what had happened as he did; and all her anxiety, all her thoughts were for her husband and for Glen Drake.
Almost all of the next day, which was Sunday, she spent in reading the Bible; nor would she permit her nephew to stir from the house. “I want you with me, Donald,” she said. “Something tells me that your uncle was in the battle, and something tells me that everything did not go just right.”
“But, Aunt Martha, you can’t be sure,” said Don. “I’m just going to suppose that he was there and didn’t get a scratch.”
Although Aunt Martha did not reply her eyes said plainly that she wished she could think as her nephew did.
To relieve the depressed and disgruntled Redcoats the Tories took upon themselves the work of patrolling the streets at night. Every evening forty-nine of them went on duty, and once Don saw Tom Bullard, dressed in a green uniform, hurrying importantly along Cornhill apparently with a message from his chief, General Ruggles. That was the same evening after General Gage had issued another proclamation calling upon the townspeople again to turn over to him any firearms that they still possessed.
“Aunt Martha,” said Don, “you know there’s some powder among that stuff in the cellar. Do you suppose we’d better turn that in?”
“No,” replied his aunt firmly. “Only to have the Redcoats use it against our own men! Never! If the cellar were full of swords and muskets, I’d not say a word about them to anyone who wears a red coat. Maybe some day that powder will be useful in the hands of those who really deserve it.”
It was now nearing the end of June, but not a word, not the slightest hint concerning the fate of either David Hollis or Glen Drake had reached Aunt Martha’s ears. Together Don and his aunt had visited the hospitals where both Americans and British wounded soldiers were being cared for; yet not a thing could they find out. Instead of feeling encouraged, however, Aunt Martha became more and more worried, and oddly enough Don soon began to feel much as she did.