Forth to the war marched the men of New England, lighthearted every one of them and thinking, as did Miles, that the siege of Boston was to be a merry affair.
“We will be back in three months,” they said to their wives as they bade them good-bye. “We will drive those redcoats into the sea and convince King George of what stuff we really are made. Then it will all be over.”
So down the roads came pouring a motley stream of volunteers, clad in hunting shirts and homespun, armed, for the most part, with the strangest weapons, flintlock muskets a hundred years old, clumsy, ancient blunderbusses and homemade pikes. All of the would-be soldiers knew how to shoot, but very few, how to march or drill; and nearly every one of them desired to be an officer. Who was to be found who could change this earnest-hearted but many-minded rabble into an army? That was the question on everybody’s tongue.
To the women of New England, however, the war seemed a greater and a graver thing, for it is easier to feel misgiving when you sit at home alone. What mattered to any one of them how short the struggle was if the goodman of that particular house never came home again? Yet there was little time for brooding since, if the war was to go on, the women must do their part. The army must somehow be given clothes to wear and food to eat, and out of the households of America must all such garments and provisions come. Down from the garrets were brought the big spinning-wheels that had long been laid away, and loud was their song as they began to whirr like swarming bees; the looms creaked, the scissors snipped, needles flew in and out and the ovens glowed all day long, for every one who was not at the war was toiling for the army.
Among all these busy ones, Clotilde and Mother Jeanne and the company of servants in the big house did their full share. Stephen, meanwhile, prowled up and down the narrow bounds of the garden and frowned and shook his head over the letters that came to him from Philadelphia, where the Congress was sitting. Such endless arguments, disagreements and downright quarrels were occupying them while the precious days passed! The lesson of acting together seemed a hard one for the Colonies to learn.
“If you could but be here!” was the burden of nearly every letter that came, although they who wrote and he who read both knew that such a thing was impossible. The long perilous journey to Philadelphia was utterly out of the question for a man of advancing years and such frail health as Stephen’s. Gladly would he have taken all risks had there been any hope, even in his own mind, that he could reach Pennsylvania with strength enough left to be of any use. Not even he could think so, however.
Mother Jeanne, provoked out of her usual respectful silence, observed grimly, when she heard the journey suggested:
“Monsieur must believe that a dead man would be a welcome addition to that great assembly.”
One journey, however, he did take and Clotilde with him, for which, although he was ill afterwards, neither of them could ever be made to express regret. It was early in July that they travelled up to Cambridge to see the review of troops before the army’s new leader, Colonel George Washington, out of Virginia. After the review was over and Clotilde had gazed her fill at the marching soldiers who were beginning at last, in form and discipline to resemble an army, and at the tall splendid figure that had ridden up and down the lines, she was amazed to see the General turn, come toward them and dismount a few paces off Stephen, leaning on his cane, had stepped forward to render his duty to the Commander-in-Chief, but General Washington was too quick for him, and advanced to take his hand before he could speak.
“I came to offer my respects to you, not to receive yours,” said he, “to salute the man who, above all others, has made possible what we see to-day.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Stephen, “there is no credit due to a man who has been able to accomplish as little as I.”
“It is through your unwearying toil,” insisted the General, “through your preaching of the need of union up and down the highways and byways of America, that this thing has come to pass. To-day an obscure soldier of Virginia takes command of an army where men of his own State, of Pennsylvania and of Maryland are ready to fight side by side with the minute-man of New England. The honour of this achievement, sir, is all yours!”
He drew his shining sword and held it up in grave salute to this great citizen of Massachusetts who stood there in his homespun coat under the shade of the wide elm tree. Out came the swords of all the officers of the General’s staff, while from the men of the army rolled up so great a shout that it might have been heard across the river in beleaguered Boston. There was something like tears in Stephen’s bright eyes as he looked steadily into the grave blue-grey ones of Washington and spoke his answer.
“Whatever small work I may have begun, sir,” he said simply, “I surrender now into far more able hands, to be carried to a glorious end.”
And raising his hat and holding it high above his head, he led the crowd of bystanders in a lusty cheer for General Washington.
Clotilde, standing at his side, was trembling all over with joy and excitement. She was so happy that her Master Sheffield had received the tribute that was so justly due him, she longed so to be a man and able to fight in the splendid cause of liberty. She saw Miles Atherton’s brown face among the lesser officers and flashed him a bright look of admiration and delighted envy. Alas, her share of the struggle must be fought out beside the spinning-wheel and the loom and the blazing kitchen hearth!
She had no chance to speak to Miles, for presently he and his men were told off in columns and marched away toward Boston. The music of the drum and the high, thin fife playing Yankee Doodle died in the distance and there was left only the sound of thudding feet, scuffling in a choking cloud of dust. She longed to watch the last soldier out of sight, but Stephen led her away to the waiting coach.
It was an exciting journey back to Hopewell, through the villages where flags were flying and drums beating and where the people came running out to cheer Master Sheffield as he went by; through stretches of dark forest where the rough roads threw them about in the big, clumsy coach and where there might be King’s soldiers lurking in every thicket. Although Stephen assured her that all the redcoats were shut up in Boston, Clotilde rather hoped than dreaded that the little party might be attacked and nobly rescued, perhaps, by Miles Atherton and the brave men of the Hopewell company. But no such thrilling adventure occurred and the journey was accomplished in safety.
As they were driving through the town next to Hopewell, late in the evening, they passed a huge fire that was burning before the gates of a stately brick house set far back from the road.
“Oh, look, look,” cried Clotilde, “and oh, what a dreadful smell!”
Surely it was a fearful odour that rose from the bonfire fed by a score of hurrying black figures. Baskets full of evil-smelling sulphur were being emptied into the flames so that clouds of suffocating smoke rolled toward the house and penetrated the doors and windows, tightly closed as they were.
He drew his shining sword and held it up.
“That is the abode of Andrew Shadwell,” Stephen told her. “He is a Tory and a sympathiser with the English, so, rich and influential as he is, his fellow townsmen are visiting him with dire punishment.”
Cries of “Blow up the fire!” “Smoke him out, the traitorous Loyalist!” were going up as the coach rumbled past, Clotilde burying her small nose in her kerchief as she went by.
“No one need tell me that the spirit of the intolerant old Puritans is quite perished from the earth,” laughed Stephen, as they finally passed the place and were able to breathe again. “Andrew Shadwell must be a sorry man this night that he voiced his opinions so loudly.”
There began, after this journey, the endless, breathless waiting while Boston held out in spite of the long siege and while all watched patiently for the time when the British should be starved into surrender. Now and then, bodies of the King’s troops broke through the circle of besiegers and made desperate sallies into the surrounding country for food and supplies, of which the city began to be sadly in want. Or sometimes an English ship would land a handful of redcoats here or there upon the coast, who would make a dash through a town or two, burn a few houses and hurry back to the safety of their vessel. Otherwise, there was little news or excitement through the long summer, and the hum of the spinning-wheels and the thump, thump of the busy looms sounded peacefully from every open cottage door.
But the peace of Hopewell was not to remain unbroken. There was one night when October had come, when the corn and wheat and oats had been gathered in, when the yellow pumpkins and rosy apples were ready for harvesting, that Clotilde became aware of a commotion in the fields beyond their garden. There were moving lights, voices and the sound of tramping feet in the hard yellow stubble. A few minutes later, Miles Atherton, thinner and browner for his months of soldier’s service, but the same earnest-eyed, little-speaking Miles, came in at the wide-open door.
“I must speak with Master Sheffield,” he said briefly to Clotilde, although his face shone with excitement.
“Come in, lad,” said Stephen, who was standing by the study door. “What can it be that brings you here? I see by your face that it is something unusual that is on foot.”
“It is,” replied Miles in troubled tones. “There is a company of redcoats who have slipped out of Boston and have so far eluded us who were sent out to capture them. They have never before ventured so far as this, but they are growing desperate in the city and they know that the whole countryside, up this way, is full of well-stored barns from the abundant harvest. This raid is made by a troop of soldiers greater in number than we had at first thought, so we have sent for reinforcements and are to make a stand near Hopewell and hold them until help comes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Stephen quickly and a little impatiently, for this amount of information from Miles came very slowly. “I understand. And where is the fight to be?”
“Why,” Miles went on, his voice becoming more anxious and worried, “we could make our stand to the south of your grounds here, but the situation is not good and we would run the risk of losing all, since we are greatly outnumbered. Master Sheffield, you must order out your coach and come with us.”
“But why?” questioned Stephen in surprise, and “Why, why?” gasped Clotilde.
“Because there is great danger,” cried Miles, “great danger to you all in biding here. We fear that one purpose of this r............