CHAPTER XXXV
"Dorothy, speak, – what is it?" her brother demanded. "Hugh?" and he turned questioningly, as Dorothy threw herself into his arms.
"He called me a British spy," she sobbed, "and tried to shoot me!"
He held her closer, while he listened to Hugh and Captain Southorn as they told him of all that had passed.
It appeared that Hugh, returning through the woods from his mission to the outposts, had found a horse tied not far away from where they were now standing. This struck him as something unusual; and looking about, he noticed that the bushes were trampled and broken in a direction which seemed to lead toward Washington's headquarters.
Suspecting a possible spy, he had cautiously followed the plainly marked way, and soon caught sight of a man dodging about, as if not wishing to be seen, and so intent upon watching something in front of him as to be quite unconscious of Hugh's approach.
Stealing as close as possible, Hugh stood silent, now aware that the man's attention was centred upon the regular pathway through the wood.
Presently he saw him raise his gun, and feared it might be Washington himself at whom he was aiming; for he knew the Commander-in-Chief was to be abroad that morning, and he made no doubt that this was some emissary of the enemy bent upon murdering him.
Thinking only of this, Hugh had thrown himself upon the man, but too late to prevent the discharge of the gun, although he succeeded in diverting its aim.
"And saved her life!" exclaimed Captain Southorn and John Devereux together.
Hugh uttered no word until Dorothy turned to him suddenly and took his hand, while she looked up at him in a way that needed no speech.
"Never mind, Dot," he said huskily. "You gave him a fine lesson, just such as he deserved, and it does me good to think of it. Only, I'd like to have done it myself."
She blushed, and dropped his hand, stealing a sidewise glance at her husband, who was looking at Hugh and herself.
Jack was now about to speak; but Hugh started quickly, exclaiming, "This will never do; I am forgetting my duty, and must hurry on and make my report."
"One second, Hugh," said Jack; "I have something to say to you."
They walked along together, conversing in low tones, while Dorothy, with a nervous little laugh, said to her husband, "Are you afraid of me, now that you see the temper I possess?"
"Nay, little one," he answered, drawing closer to her and taking her hand. "You did nothing more than the circumstances richly provoked. And," with a teasing laugh, "I do not forget a certain day, in another wood, when my own cheek felt the weight of this same dainty hand's displeasure."
She looked a bit uncomfortable, and he hastened to add, "And I felt afterward that I, too, received but my just deserts for my presumption."
"I always wondered," she said, now smilingly, "what you could think of a young lady who would rig herself up in her brother's raiment, to roam about at night; and who would so far forget herself as to slap a gentleman in the face, – and one of His Majesty's officers at that."
He laughed. "Then you must know, sweet wife," he answered, as she stood looking down, stirring the leaves with her boot tip, "that I only loved you the better, if possible, for it all. It showed you to possess a brave heart and daring spirit, such as are ever the most loyal to the man a true woman loves. But for all those same acts of yours, I'd not have dared to do as I did; but I felt that no other course would lead you to follow the feeling I was sure I read in your eyes."
John Devereux, who had gone out to the roadway with Hugh, now called to them.
"Come, both of you," he said; "it is time to be off."
"This must be our real good-by, little one." Captain Southorn glanced about them, and then put his arm around Dorothy. "We shall both be leaving shortly, and I cannot say good-by properly with a lot of other folk about. Ah," with a shudder, and holding her up to his breast, "when I think of what might have happened, had not your friend Hugh come upon the scene, it makes it all the harder for me to let you go again."
"But there is no danger now," she said courageously; "the man is a prisoner. But whatever could have put such a crazy idea into his head?" she asked indignantly.
"Did you never see him before?" her husband inquired.
"Yes, at the Gray Horse Inn;" but her brother's voice, now calling rather impatiently, cut short her story.
"And will you come when I send word?" Captain Southorn asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Well, thank God it will be but a few days until then," he said, giving her a parting kiss. "So for now, my wife, – my own little wife, adieu!"
As they were taking their way to the house, Jack looked at his watch and scowled a little as he saw the lateness of the hour. Then he turned to Dorothy, and inquired, as her husband had done, in regard to her knowledge of Farmer Gilbert.
She told of all that Mary and herself had seen of him at the inn; and her brother's quick perceptions put the facts together while he listened.
They found gathered before the house an unusual number of men, in animated conversation; but as the three figures approached, they all became silent, glancing at the new-comers in a way to indicate that the recent occurrence had formed the subject of their discussion.
Some of them now strolled away, while those who remained – all of them connected with the headquarters – drew aside to let Lieutenant Devereux and his companions pass.
"Do you know if Sergeant Knollys is within, Harris?" Jack inquired, addressing one of them.
"Yes, I am quite sure you will find him inside."
Turning to another of the men, Jack bade him have the horses brought at once, and order the escort to be ready for immediate departure.
"We shall have to hasten, Dot," he said hurriedly, as they went along the hall. "And," addressing her husband, "Captain Southorn, I must now turn you over to Captain Ireson."
"Then I am not like to see you again," said the young Englishman, as he extended his hand.
"No, I should have gone to Boston with you, to escort Captain Pickett on his return, but I have orders to see my small sister safely to the house and care of our neighbor, Mistress Knollys."
"And when are we to meet again?"
He spoke earnestly, almost with emotion, for he had come to have a strong affection for this handsome, high-spirited young Colonist, whose face and manner so resembled Dorothy's.
"Who can say?" asked Jack, sadly, as the two stood with clasped hands, looking fixedly at one another.
"Well, God grant that it be before long, and when our countries are at peace," exclaimed Southorn.
"Amen to that," answered Jack. "And," in a voice that trembled, "you will always be good to – " The sentence was left unfinished, while his arm stole about his sister's shoulders.
"As God is my witness, – always," was the solemn reply.
"And now, Dot," said her brother, with a contented sigh, and speaking in a more cheerful tone, as if now throwing off all his misgivings, "you must bid Captain Southorn farewell for a few days, and we will get under way. But first I have to go with him and report to Captain Ireson."
She held out both hands to her husband, who bent over and pressed them to his lips.
"You will surely come when I send?" he asked softly.
She nodded, looking up at him through her tears.
In half an hour the party of soldiers, with Dorothy and her brother, took the way to Dorchester, Hugh appearing at the last moment to say farewell, as his duty called him in another direction. And it was not long before a smaller party, bearing a flag of truce, set out with Captain Southorn, to effect his exchange for Captain Pickett.
The following day Farmer Gilbert was brought before General Washington, who listened gravely to his attempted justification. Then, after a stern rebuke, so lucid and emphatic as to enlighten the man's dull wits, now made somewhat clearer by his confinement and enforced abstinence, he was permitted to go his way.
A week after this, little Mistress Southorn was escorted to the British lines and handed over to her waiting husband; and a few days later, a transport sailed, taking back to England some disabled officers and soldiers, as well as a small number of royalists, who were forced to leave the country for the one whose cause they espoused too openly.
Dorothy was standing by the ship's rail, alone, her husband having left her for a few minutes. She was busy watching the stir and bustle of departure, when she recognized, in a seeming farmer who had come aboard with poultry, the pedler, Johnnie Strings.
The sight of his shrewd face and keen little eyes brought to her mingled feelings of pleasure and alarm, and, wondering what his mission could be, she hurried toward him.
"Oh, Johnnie, is it safe for you to be here?" she exclaimed, as she grasped his hand.
"Sh-h, sweet mistress!" he said cautiously. "I won't be safe if ye sing out in such fashion. Jest ye get that scared look off yer face, while we talk nat'ral like, for the sake o' them as stands 'round. Ye see I was the only one that could risk comin', an' I'm to carry back the last news o' ye. But oh, Mistress Dorothy," and his voice took a note of expostulation, "however had ye the heart to do it? But o' course we all know 't was not really yer own doin', arter all. I tell ye, mistress, that mornin' at the Sachem's Cave saw the beginnin' of a sight o' mischief."
She passed this by without comment, smiling at him kindly while she gave him many parting messages for those at Dorchester, and for Aunt Lettice and little 'Bitha, and all at the old house.
The pedler promised to deliver them, and then looking into her face, he sighed mournfully.
"Aye, but 't is thankful I am, mistress, that yer old father ne'er lived to see this day."
"Oh, Johnnie, don't say that – how can you?" she cried impulsively.
He saw the pained expression his words had brought, and added hastily, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, "There, there, sweet mistress, don't take my foolish words to heart, for my own is so sore this day over all that's come to pass, an' that ye should be goin' away like this, that I scarce know jest what I be sayin'."
Before Dorothy could reply, she saw her husband approaching; and Johnnie, seeing him as well, turned to go.
"Won't you wait and speak to him?" she asked, a little shyly.
"No, no, Mistress Dorothy," was his emphatic answer, – "don't ye ask that o' me. I could n't stummick it – not I. God keep ye, sweet mistress, an' bring ye back to this land some day, when we 've driven out all the d – d redcoats."
With this characteristic blessing, the pedler hastened away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the barrels and casks piled about the wharf.
A few hours later, Dorothy stood with her husband's arm about her, watching through gathering tears the land draw away, – watching it grow dim and shadowy, to fade at last from sight, while all about them lay the purple sea, sparkling under the rays of the late afternoon sun.
Her eyes lingered longest upon the spot in the hazy distance near where she knew lay the beloved old home.
"How far – how far away it is now," she murmured.
"What, little one?" her husband asked softly.
"I was thinking of my old home," she answered, surprised to have spoken her thought aloud. "And," looking about with a shiver, "it seems so far – so lonely all about us here."
"Are you frightened or unhappy?" he asked, drawing her still closer to him.
She looked up with brave, loyal eyes, and answered, as had her ancestress, Anne Devereux, when she and her young husband were about to seek a new home in a strange, far-off land, —
"No – not so long as we be together."
Hugh Knollys fell – a Major in the Massachusetts line – during one of the closing engagements of the war, and his mother did not long survive him.
John Devereux passed through the conflict unharmed, and returned to the farm, where he and Mary lived long and happily, with their children growing up about them.
They had each summer as their guests an Englishman and his wife – a little, girl-like woman, whom every one adored – who crossed the sea to pay them long visits. Sometimes the pleasant days found this Englishman seated in the Sachem's Cave, his eyes wandering off over the sea; and with him often would be Mary Broughton's eldest son, and first-born – Jack, who had his Aunt Dorothy's curling locks and dark eyes.
The favorite story at such times, and one never tired of by either the man or child, was that telling how in the great war his mother had frightened a young English soldier so that he fell over the rocks, and how, soon after this, a certain brave little maid had hurled the burning lanterns from these same rocks, to save her brother and his companions from danger.
The youngster had first heard of all this from Johnnie Strings, – to the day of his death a crippled pensioner on the Devereux farm – who never seemed to realize that the war was over, and who had expressed marked disapproval when 'Bitha, now tall and stately, had, following her Cousin Dorothy's example, and quite regardless of her own long-ago avowals, given her heart and hand to the nephew of this same British soldier.
With this must end my story of the old town. But there is another story, – that of its fisher and sailor soldiers, and it is told in the deeds they have wrought.
These form a goodly part of the foundation upon which rests the mighty fabric of our nation. Their story is one of true, brave hearts; and it is told in a voice that will be heard until the earth itself shall have passed away.
It was the men of Marblehead who stepped forward that bitter winter's night on the banks of the Delaware, when Washington and his little army looked with dismayed eyes upon the powerful current sweeping before them, and which must be crossed, despite the great masses of ice that threatened destruction to whosoever should venture upon its roaring flood. They were the men who responded to his demand when he turned from the menacing dangers of the river and asked, "Who of you will lead on, and put us upon the other side?"
The monument that commemorates the success at Trenton is no less a tribute to the unflinching courage and sturdiness of the fishermen of Marblehead, who made that victory possible.
And, as there, so stands their record during all the days of the Revolutionary struggle. Wherever they were – on land or water – in the attack they led, in the retreat they covered; and through all their deeds shone the ardent patriotism, the calm bravery, the unflinching devotion, that made them ever faithful in the performance of duty.
"When anything is done,
People see not the patient doing of it,
Nor think how great would be the loss to man
If it had not been done. As in a building
Stone rests on stone, and, wanting a foundation,
All would be wanting; so in human life,
Each action rests on the foregone event
That made it possible, but is forgotten,
And buried in the earth."
When the dawn of peace came, nowhere was it hailed with more exultant joy than in Marblehead.
Nowhere in all the land had there been such sacrifices made as by the people of this little town by the sea. Many of those who had been wealthy were now reduced to poverty, – their commerce was ruined, their blood had been poured out like water.
But for all this there was no complaining by those who were left, no upbraiding sorrow for those who would never return. There was only joy that the struggle was ended, and independence achieved for themselves and the nation they had helped to create. And down the long vista of years between their day and our own, the hallowed memory of their loyalty shines out as do the lights of the old town over the night sea, whose waves sing for its heroes a fitting requiem.