Complete weird tales of.., p.150
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 150
“If I or my friends be cowards, I do not know it,” added Monroe, simply. “It is not well to boast, Nathan, for God alone knows what a man may do in battle; yet I myself have been in battle, and was afraid, too, but never ran. I carried England’s flag once. It is not well that she foul her own nest.”
“I have never smelled powder; have you, sir?” said Harrington, turning to me.
“Not to boast of,” I replied.
“Mount says you conducted most gallantly under fire,” said Monroe, smiling.
“No more gallantly than did all at Cresap’s fort,” said I, annoyed. “We were behind ramparts and dreaded nothing save an arrow or two.”
“But you had some warm work with certain Tories, too,” began Monroe— “one Walter Butler, I believe.”
“How did you hear of that?” I asked, in astonishment.
“Benny Prince brought the news,” he replied. “Where he heard it I do not know, but it is noised abroad that you laid no kind hands on Walter Butler and Lord Dunmore. Nay, sir, you should not be surprised. We have our agents everywhere, listening, watching, noting all facts and rumours for those whom I need not name. We know, for instance, that Walter Butler has travelled north in a litter. We know that Dunmore scarce dare show his head in Virginia for the shame you put upon him and the growing hatred of the people he governs. We know that Sir John Johnson is fortifying Johnson Hall and gathering hordes of savages and Tories in Tryon County. Ay, Mr. Cardigan, we know, too, that the son of your father will fight to the death for the cause which his honour demands that he embrace.”
“My father died for his King,” I said, slowly.
“And mine, too,” said Monroe; “but were he not with God to-day, I know where he would be found.”
Others began to join our group. Mount, who had been conversing with a handsome and very fashionably dressed young man, approached our table with his companion, and presented me to him.
I had, of course, heard more or less of John Hancock, but had pictured him as an elderly man, sober of costume and stern and gray. Therefore my first meeting with John Hancock was a disappointment. He was young, handsome, decidedly vain, though quite free from affectation of speech or gesture. He appeared to lack that gravity of deportment and deliberation which characterized the company around us; gestures and words were at times impetuous if not whimsical; 385 he appeared not too free from an egotism which, I thought, tinged all he said, so that, somehow, his words lost a trifle of the weight they deserved to carry.
His style of dress was not to my taste, savouring of the French, I thought. He wore an apple-green coat, white silk stockings, very large silver buckles on his pumps, smallclothes of silver-net tied at the knees with pea-green ribbons, which fell to his ankles, and much expensive lace at his throat and cuffs.
His hair was frizzled and powdered, and worn in a French club with black ribbon, and the hair on his temples was loaded with pomatum and rolled twice.
He certainly was most civil to me, mentioning his pleasure that Captain Cardigan’s son should embrace the patriots’ cause, and inquiring most respectfully concerning the last moments of Sir William Johnson, a man, he said, for whom he had entertained the highest possible respect and admiration.
Our conversation was of short duration, Mr. Hancock being addressed and solicited by so many who had business with him in his capacity of delegate from the secret club at the “Green Dragon Tavern.”
I learned from the hints dropped that Boston was literally crowded with clubs, some open, some secret, but all organized to discuss politics, and pledged to combat the acts of the British Parliament to the bitter end.
Many clubs were formed among the Boston mechanics, of which the Mechanics’ Society or Club was the centre. The Boston mechanics, I learned, were the earliest and most constant supporters of the patriot cause. Neither threats, temptations, Tory arguments, nor loyalist bribes could shake their fidelity; and they were the people, too, who had most to lose when the city was closed to commerce. Starvation faced them; troops thickened in Boston; but the mechanics remained true. And although, when in dire need, to sustain their wives and little ones, they thoughtlessly started work on the new barracks, at a word of warning and explanation from the Committee of Safety, they left their work in a body, to the rage and chagrin of General Gage and every soldier and Tory in Boston.
I further learned that the patriots carried on their political action not only by clubs and through the newspapers, but also by public meetings in defiance of Governor Gage.
All men know that we Americans have inherited the right of public meeting. But when the “regulating act” came from England to prohibit that right, it missed fire, for though it did forbid such meeting unless authorized by Governor Gage, it did not provide for adjourning meetings already in progress. Therefore the assemblies in all the provincial towns had begun meetings in anticipation of the 1st of August, the date set for their prohibition, and the meetings were carried over that date, and kept alive day after day by not being officially declared adjourned.
It was useless for Gage to fume; he had no authority under the law to adjourn them.
In Boston the people flocked in crowds to Faneuil Hall and the Old South Church, where Samuel Adams, James Otis, and Josiah Quincy were the orators. And the government, in secret dread, watched the people thronging around these fiery orators, whose theme was liberty and equal rights for all.
The Committees of Donation and of Correspondence were most active. The former was organized to distribute relief to the poor in the stricken city; the latter was formed to keep all patriots in all of the thirteen colonies in touch with each other, and to observe the approach of the great current which was surely bearing war upon the waves that formed its crest.
This Committee of Correspondence was the great executive of our party. It watched unceasingly: it received information from all the societies, clubs, town assemblies, caucuses, and local committees. It distributed all information, all warnings, all rumours, not only from America, but also, through its agents, from abroad.
Many of its members were also members of the “Green Dragon.” John Hancock was such a member, and therefore his presence here at the “Wild Goose” was perhaps significant.
That he was about to address the company was apparent, for everybody had now taken chairs and formed a semi-circle around Mr. Hancock, who stood leaning against the great 387 centre-table, coolly taking snuff, and glancing over a written sheet of paper which he held in his left hand.
“It may be,” he said, “a trifle premature to discuss here in open meeting those measures of resistance contemplated and now under discussion in the Committee of Correspondence, the Provincial Congress, and the Continental Congress.
“It is sufficient, therefore, for the moment, that you should know that Virginia and South Carolina are at last aroused to the necessity of taking thought for their local defences. I may also add that my Lord Dunmore’s government increases in rigour and also in disfavour.
“The Committee of Correspondence has received word direct from Mr. Patrick Henry that he regards the cause of peace as already lost, and urges us to rely on Virginia, at least, for loyal support in whatever measures we may deem necessary to maintain our manhood in the face of all the world.”
A murmur of applause swept like a whisper through the room, hushed immediately by cautious gestures and glances at the street outside, which might harbour a spy in its heavy gloom and impenetrable, brooding shadows.
“There is a certain document embodying a proposed declaration,” continued Hancock, “which, although at present merely under discussion, I expect to see one day printed, completed, and framed, and hung in every home in these thirteen colonies. You may perhaps imagine what document I refer to, and doubtless many of you sitting here are not yet prepared for that supreme step forward in our manifest destiny. Neither, I may say, are many who have the framing of that declaration under discussion. Time alone will show that future of which I, for one, am so certain.
“I am not here to discuss with you the proposed declaration in question, which is not even yet existent save in the hearts of those who have dared to dream of it.
“I am here to submit to you a list of crimes against our colony of Massachusetts Bay, committed or contemplated by the King of England.”
He unrolled his bit of paper, took a fresh pinch of scented snuff, and read, somewhat carelessly:
“The history of the present King of Great Britain:
“He refuses his assent to necessary laws for the public good.
“He forbids his Governors to pass laws of immediate importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent be obtained; and when so suspended he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
“He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual with intent to fatigue, discourage, and annoy the members of such bodies.
“He has repeatedly dissolved representative houses for opposing his invasions of the people’s rights.
“He obstructs the administration of justice.
“He makes judges dependent on his will alone for tenure of office and payment of salaries.
“He has created a multitude of new offices and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people.
“He keeps among us, in times of peace, standing armies, without consent of our legislature.
“He renders his military independent of and superior to civil power.
“He protects these troops, by mock trials, from punishment for murders committed on the inhabitants of this province.
“He has cut off our trade with the whole world.
“He taxes us without our consent.
“He deprives us of the benefits of trial by jury.
“He transports us beyond the seas for trial for pretended offences.
“He takes away our charters, abolishes our laws, suspends our legislatures.”
Hancock looked up, still holding the paper unrolled.
“Why,” he said, lightly, “this is no King, but a Cæsar amid his prætorians! Faith, I have been reading some history of the tyrants — surely not the history of our beloved monarch, George the Third!”
There was a grim silence. Hancock’s manner changed. He folded the paper, placed it in the bosom of his white waistcoat, and turned soberly to the rows of silent, seated men.
“Yesterday,” he said, “a carpenter was arrested for stealing bread for his little children. May I request, gentlemen, that you send a delegate to the committee which will wait upon the Governor to-morrow to intercede for the starving man?”
Then, with a brief inclination, he turned and left the room ere anybody was aware of his purpose.
The effect of his unexpected appeal was as dramatic as his sudden exit. With one impulse the company rose, grave, pale, tight-lipped; little groups formed on the floor; few words passed; but Hancock had done his work, and every alarm company in Massachusetts would know, ere many hours, that they were to fight one day, not for their honour, but to prevent the King of England from driving them to dishonour, so that their children might not die of want before their eyes.
It was not an orator’s effort that Hancock had accomplished; it was a mere statement of a truth, yet so skilfully timed and so dramatic in execution that it was worth months of oratory before the vast audiences of Faneuil Hall. For he had startled the representatives of hundreds of villages, and set them thinking on that which was closest to them — the danger to the welfare of their own households. Such danger makes panthers of men.
If Hancock was theatrical at moments, the end justified the means; if he was an egotist, he risked his wealth for principle; if he was a dandy, he had the bravery of the true dandy, which clothes all garments with a spotless, shining robe, and covers the face of vanity under a laurelled helmet.
It was late when the servant returned from Mr. Foxcroft, with a curt note from that gentleman, promising to receive me at one o’clock in the afternoon of the day following.
As I stood twisting the letter in my fingers, and staring out into the black city which perhaps sheltered the woman I loved somewhere amid its shadows, Jack Mount came up, peering through the window with restless eyes.
“Cade has never returned to this tavern,” he said, gloomily. “No one here has either seen or heard of him since he and I left last April for Cresap’s camp.”
CHAPTER XXIII
LIKE A RED lamp the sun swung above the smoky east, its round, inflamed lens peering through the smother beneath which Boston lay, blanketed by the thick vapours of the bay.
From my window I could distinguish the shadowy ship-yards close by. Northeast, across Green Lane, lay the Mill Pond, sheeted in mist, separated from the bay by an indented causeway.
On Corps Hill the paling signal-fires went out, one by one; a green light twinkled aloft in the dusky tangle of a war-ship’s rigging; the smoky beacon in its iron basket flared, sank, glimmered, and went out.
Across the street, through the white mist lifting, spectral warehouses loomed, every shutter locked, iron gates dripping rust.
Jack Mount came in, and sat down on the edge of the bed with a silent nod of greeting, clasping his large hands between his knees.
“I have been thinking of that damned thief-taker,” he said, yawning. “If he’s tracked me from Pitt he’s a good dog, and his wife should cast a prime dropper some day.”
A servant brought us a bowl of stirabout and some rusks and salted codfish, and we breakfasted there in my chamber, scarcely speaking. Instead of exultation at my nearness to Silver Heels, a foreboding had weighed on me since first I unclosed my eyes. The depression deepened as I sat brooding by the window where the white sea-fog rolled against the sweating panes. Mount ate in silence; I could scarcely swallow any food. Presently I pushed away my plate, drew paper and ink before me, and fell to composing a letter. From the tap-room below a boy came to bring us our morning cups, and we washed the salty tang from our throats. Mount 391 lighted his yard of clay and lay back, puffing smoke at the smeared window-panes. I wrote slowly, drinking at intervals.
The morning draught refreshed us; and when at length sunshine broke out over the bay, something of our dormant spirits stirred to greet it.
“How silent is the world outside,” said I, listening to the sea-birds’ mewing, and mending my quill with my hunting-knife.
“Misery breeds silence,” he said.
“Are men starving here around us?” I asked, trying to realize what I had heard.
“Ay, and dying of it. The sun yonder no longer signals breakfast for Boston. Better finish your fish while you may.”
He pulled slowly at his pipe. “If I am right,” he drawled, “it would be close to mid-day now in England — the King’s dinner-hour. His Majesty should be greasing his chin with hot goose-gravy.”
His blue eyes began to shine; the long pipe-stem snapped short between forefinger and thumb; the smoking bowl dropped, and he set his moccasined heel upon it, grinding clay and fire into the stone floor. I watched him for a moment, and then resumed my writing.
“God save the King,” he sneered, “and smear his maw thick with good fat meat! Let the rebel babes o’ Boston die snivelling at their rebel mothers’ dried-up breasts! It’s a merry life, Cardigan. I dreamed last night a naked skeleton rode through Boston streets a-beating a jolly ringadoon on his bones:
“‘Yankee doodle came to town
A-riding on a pony—’
But the pony was all bones, too, like the Pale Horse, and sat Death astride, beating ever the same mad march:
“‘Yankee doodle — doodle — do!
Yankee doodle — dandy!’
’Twas the bay wind shaking the weather-vane — nothing more, lad. Come, shall we steer au large?”
“I must first send my letter,” said I; and began to re-read it:
Boston, October 29, 1774.
“To Mistress Felicity Warren:
“Dear, dear Silver Heels, — Being cured of my hurts and having done with Johnson Hall and my dishonourable kinsman, Sir John Johnson, Bart: I now take my pen in hand to acquaint you that I know all, how that through the mercy of Providence you have been reunited with your honrd parents, long supposed to have been with God, their name and quality I know not nor doubt that it is most honourable. I did think to receive a letter from you ere I left the Hall, yet none came, so I insulted Sir John and took Warlock who is mine of a right and I am come to Boston to pay my respects to yr honrd parents and to acquaint them that I mean to wed you as I love you my honrd cozzen but feel no happiness in as much as a deathly fear hath possessed me for some hours that I am never again to see you, this same haunting dread that all may not be well with you does not subdue and chill those ardent sentiments which of a truth burn as hotly now as they burned that sweet noonday at Roanoke Plain.
“I further acquaint you that my solicitor, Mr. Peter Weaver of Albany, hath news that my uncle, Sir Terence Cardigan, Bart, is at a low ebb of life being close to his Maker through much wine and excesses, and hath sent for me, but I would not stir a peg till I have found you dear Silver Heels to ask you if you do still love that foolish lad who will soon be Sir Michael Cardigan to the world but ever the same Micky to you, though if war comes to us I doubt not that my title and estate will be confiscated in as much as I shall embrace the cause of the colonies and do what harm I may to the soldiers of our King.
“My sweet Silver Heels, this letter is to be delivered to yr solicitor Mr. Thomas Foxcroft and by him instantly into your own hands, there being nothing in it not honourable and proper. I strive in vain to shake off the depression which so weighs down my heart that it is heavy with the dread that all may not be well with you, for I do distrust Sir John his word, and I do despise him heartily and deem it strange that he did conduct you to Boston under pretence of a business affair which he has since refused to discuss with me.
“Dear maid, if yr honourable parents will permit, I shall this day venture to present myself and formally demand your hand in that sweet alliance which even death cannot end but must perforce render immortal for all time.
