The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  Blair might have remembered that if there had been but a dead dog in the centre of the group, there would have been an equal gathering and pushing to know the cause of the meeting; but he, like many an older speaker, was willing to attribute to his eloquence what might have had even a humbler cause.

  “Our rights invaded; a man’s ship no longer his castle; the free American forced to forsake his stars and stripes! The foot of the Briton pollutes our decks. His tyrannical arm takes captive our fathers, and dooms them to a servitude of which the world knows no equal. Shall we submit? We will not submit. We have protested. We have declared war to the death. Has Fairport a voice in this matter? Where are those whom we love best? Where but upon the wide sea, a prey to our remorseless enemy. Where is your father, and yours, and yours, and mine?” said Blair, making his appeal personal as he pointed to the sailors’ sons. “This insolence must be checked. We must rebuke the proud Briton on the very scene of his abominations. We must triumph over him on the tossing ocean, and teach him that America, not Britannia, rules the waves. Would that we all stood on some staunch ship, to do battle with our young right-arms. Then should Englishmen cringe before us; then would we doom to sudden destruction their boasted admirals and flimsy fleets. Down with the English! down with the English!”

  Blair stamped emphatically on his hollow throne, until it rang again.

  “Down with the English!” echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.

  At this moment a short, stout lad came round a neighboring corner. On his arm he carried a large basket of clean linen, with which he now tried to elbow his way through the crowd.

  “An English boy! Shame that he should show his face among us,” said Blair in his excitement.

  “We’ll give him a taste of salt water,” said two or three of the oldest boys as they seized the stranger roughly by the shoulders. “We’ll teach him to mend his manners.”

  “Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play,” shouted Blair; but Blair was no longer the object of attention.

  The English boy, in spite of his struggles, was hurried to the edge of the wharf, and pushed relentlessly over the brink.

  A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket of clothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, the stranger sank like a heavy load—rose, and then sank again.

  “He can’t swim; he can’t swim. He’ll be drowned!” burst from the lips of the spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.

  Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of the wharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as he for the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair was diving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished from sight.

  There was a moment of breathless silence, then a deafening cheer, as Blair reappeared with the drowning boy in his arms.

  There were hands enough outstretched to aid him in laying his burden on the shore. “Help me carry him, boys, straight to our house. Mother will know what to do for him,” said Blair, speaking very quickly.

  It was but a few steps down a neighboring street to Joe Robertson’s pleasant home.

  Blair did not fear to take in the dripping boy and lay him on his mother’s best bed. He knew that mother’s joy was to minister to the distressed and succor the unfortunate.

  The water was soon pouring from the mouth, nose, and ears of the unconscious lad. Then he was rubbed and wrapped round with hot flannels, while Mrs. Robertson’s own hands forced his lungs to work, until they again took their natural movement.

  Not a word was asked as to how the accident had happened, until, out of danger, the rescued boy was in a sweet sleep.

  The eager crowd who had followed Blair and his charge had vanished, and the mother sat alone with her son. Blair’s dripping garments had been exchanged for another suit, but in the midst of the late confusion his mother’s eye had silently and gratefully marked upon him the signs that to him the English boy owed his life.

  “You saved him, my son. God be thanked. I may well be proud of my boy,” said the mother earnestly and fondly.

  A sudden flush of shame crimsoned the cheeks of Blair Robertson. “Oh, mother, it was all my fault,” he exclaimed. “If he had died—Oh, if he had died, that pale struggling face would have haunted me to my grave. I had been making one of my speeches to the boys, and it pleased me to see how I could rouse them. I had just shouted ‘Down with the English!’ and made them join me, when poor Hal came round the corner. Nobody would have noticed him if I had gone right on; but I pointed him out, and angry as they were, I could not stop them before they had thrown him into the water. They thought he could swim, I dare say; but I knew he couldn’t. Oh, mother, what I suffered, thinking he might drown before I could reach him. But he’s safe now. You think he’ll get well, don’t you, mother?”

  “Yes, my child,” said Mrs. Robertson, trembling with deep feeling. “God’s mercy has been great to you, my boy. May you learn this day a solemn lesson. You have a powerful influence over your companions. You know it, and I am afraid it has only fed your pride, not prompted you to usefulness. Is it real love for your country that leads you to these speeches; or is it a desire to see how you can rouse the passions of your listeners, and force them to do your bidding? For every talent we must give an account, and surely for none more strictly than the power to prompt men to good or evil. I believe you love your country, my boy. You love our dear country, or I would blush to own you as my son. But I fear you have as yet but a poor idea what it is to be a true patriot.”

  “A true patriot, mother? I think I know what that means. One who loves his country, and would cheerfully die for her,” said Blair with enthusiasm.

  “You might even love your country and die for her, and yet be no true patriot,” said the mother. “You might be her disgrace, and the cause of her afflictions, while you shed for her your heart’s blood.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said the boy thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps Korah and his company thought themselves patriots when they rebelled against the power of Moses and Aaron. They doubtless moved the people by cunning speeches about their own short-lived honor; yet they brought destruction on themselves and a plague upon Israel. There is nothing more plain in the Bible than God’s great regard to the righteousness or wickedness of individual men. Suppose that there had been found ten righteous men in Sodom, for whose sake that wicked city would have been spared its awful doom. Humble and obscure they might have been; but would not they, who brought such a blessing down on the neighborhood where they dwelt, be worthy of the name of patriots? My son, if you were willing to lay down your life for your country, and yet were guilty of the foul sin of swearing, and taught all around you to blaspheme, would you not be laying up wrath against your native land, though you fought with the bravery of an Alexander? These are times to think on these things, my boy, if we really love our country. No man liveth unto himself. His home, his state, his country is in a degree blessed or cursed for his sake. Dear Blair, you cannot be a true patriot without God’s grace to help you rule your heart, guard your lips, and purify your life. May you this day begin, for your own sake as well as for that of your country, to serve the God of our fathers. He has mercifully spared you the bitter self-reproach to which you might have been doomed. Go in repentance to his footstool, and he will abundantly pardon. Resolve henceforward to walk humbly before him, trusting in his grace and striving to do his will, and you shall count this day the most blessed of your life.”

  Mrs. Robertson put her arm round the tall, strong boy at her side. He yielded to her touch, as if he had been a little child. Side by side they knelt, while the mother poured out such a prayer as can only flow from the lips of a Christian mother pleading for her only son.

  Blair Robertson spent that long Saturday evening alone in his room. That was indeed to be the beginning of days to him. He was no longer to be a self-willed seeker of his own pleasure and honor. He was “boug
ht with a price,” and was henceforward to be a servant of the King of kings.

  CHAPTER III

  The English Boy

  No loving friends came to inquire after the fate of Hal Hutchings, the English boy. His efforts to save his basket of clean linen had been as vain as his struggles to free himself from the hands of his persecutors. The garments that had been starched and ironed with such scrupulous care were scattered along the wharf, and trampled under the feet of the thoughtless young mob. The old washerwoman on whose errand Hal had been sent forth, was too indignant at the destruction which had befallen her handiwork, to give one kindly thought to the poor boy who had so honorably striven to spare her the misfortune over which she lamented so dolorously. Her Sunday thoughts strayed far more frequently to the dingy, stained garments soaking in her back kitchen, than to Hal Hutchings, quietly lying in Mrs. Robertson’s best bedroom.

  “I wonder no one comes to inquire after him. Has he no friends, Blair?” said Mrs. Robertson as evening was drawing on.

  “I dare say not, mother. I never saw him with anybody. He does errands round town, and has been sleeping at Mrs. McKinstry’s, the washerwoman’s. He didn’t take his meals there, I know, for I’ve seen him eating bread and cheese in some corner just when other folks were sitting down to dinner. They call him ‘Hal the English boy;’ but I guess nobody knows much about him.”

  “A stranger in a strange land,” said Mrs. Robertson thoughtfully; and then she rose up and went into the room where Hal was still lying.

  Blair took up his Bible. How precious that Bible seemed to him now—the light for his feet, the lamp for his path. With reverence he turned the sacred pages until he found the fifty-first psalm, which he read with solemn earnestness, making its humble petitions truly his own.

  While Blair was thus employed, Mrs. Robertson was talking in her own kindly way to the stranger.

  “So you are an English boy, Hal,” she said. “That will not keep me from loving you, for you know the Bible says we must ‘love our enemies;’ but I don’t believe you are such a very dangerous enemy, after all.” Her pleasant smile was like sunshine to the heart of the lonely boy, and his reserve melted away before it.

  “I’m Hinglish, because I was born in Hingland,” said the boy. “I couldn’t help that; and I couldn’t blame my father and mother for it neither, for I never knowed them. I’ve been an orphan always. But I’m an American, because I chose this for my country, and I worked my passage over here, and I haven’t begged from anybody.”

  “I’m glad you want to be an American,” said Mrs. Robertson gently; “it is a great privilege. But there is something more to do for every boy who wants to be an American citizen, than just landing in this country and earning his own living, and then by and by voting for our rulers.”

  Hal opened his large pale blue eyes in confused expectation, and was silent.

  Mrs. Robertson was not easily discouraged, and she went on. “You would think it very rude, Hal, if I were to invite a poor stranger to my house to dinner, and he should jump and laugh while I was asking God’s blessing before eating; and then toss the plates about, breaking my dishes and scattering the food over my clean floor. You would think the least he could do would be to be civil, and keep the rules of my house while he was in it.”

  “Such a chap as that ought to have the door showed him right straight,” said Hal warmly.

  “Well, my boy, this is what I mean: When we welcome strangers to our free country, which our fathers fought for and gave their blood to win, we expect those strangers to fall in with our ways, and not disturb the peace and order of the pleasant home they have come to. Is not that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am; and I haven’t disturbed anybody’s peace nor order,” said Hal with another blank look of the blue eyes.

  “No, and I do not believe you ever will; but I have not done yet. A free people, to be a safe people, must be a Christian people. Are you a Christian boy, Hal?” The question was asked with deep seriousness.

  “I a’n’t a heathen,” said Hal in surprise.

  “No, you don’t bow down to a wooden idol, or worship snakes and bulls, as some heathen people do. But are you trying to serve God in all you think and do and say? Have you asked him to forgive you all your sins, for the sake of his dear Son; and do you believe he has forgiven you, and taken you to be his own dear child?”

  “I never had anybody talk to me so before,” said Hal with a confused look; “but I take it, I a’n’t what you call a Christian.”

  “I dare say you do not understand me very well,” said Mrs. Robertson. “God can make these things plain to you. Close your eyes, and I will kneel down here and ask him to teach you to know and love his holy will.”

  Hal had been at church many times in his life, and looked curiously on at the whole proceeding, as at a “show.” Now for the first time he heard prayer made for him, for poor Hal Hutchings, to the great God of heaven. He gathered but little of the burden of the prayer; yet his first remark after Mrs. Robertson resumed her seat beside him was a proof that he appreciated the sincerity of her interest in him.

  “You are very kind, ma’am,” he said. “I’d like to be such an American as you. I take it you are the best sort, not like them boys on the wharf.”

  “Those boys are very sorry for their mischief by this time,” said Mrs. Robertson. “My own son would gladly do any thing for you. He says he never shall forget what he suffered when he thought you might be drowned in consequence of his folly. But I think he has learned a lesson he will never forget. He has seen how far wrong he might go if he followed his own foolish ways. I trust he will hereafter be a faithful, humble child of God.”

  “He pulled me out of the water,” said Hal warmly. “He’s true grit. I’d go to the death for him.”

  “He will be very glad to have you for a faithful friend,” said Mrs. Robertson; “but look, you must not teach him any thing bad, or tempt him to do wrong. He is my only child, and my dearest wish is to see him a noble, pure, Christian man.”

  “I wont teach him any ’arm as I knows to be ’arm,” said Hal, putting out his hand to ratify the bargain.

  It was a rough, hard hand, but Mrs. Robertson took it kindly as she answered, “God help you to keep your promise, Hal;” and so their interview closed.

  When Monday morning came, Hal Hutchings was up and dressed almost as early as Mrs. Robertson herself. Into the kitchen he walked, hearing the good lady’s voice in that direction. “I’m going now,” he said, “and I just looked in to bid you good-by.”

  “Stop and take breakfast with us, wont you, Hal? You shall not go away hungry.”

  Some crisp cakes of codfish and potatoes were getting the last coat of brown in a frying-pan over the fire, and a huge loaf of Boston “brown bread” was on the table near at hand.

  “I wouldn’t mind a slice of that bread and one of them cakes, if you would let me sit down here and eat ’em,” said Hal.

  Mrs. Robertson understood the boy’s unwillingness to take a meal with strangers who had been raised in habits of greater refinement than his own. She kindly made a place for him where he was, and he soon rendered it evident that bashfulness had not taken away his appetite. “I don’t want you to leave us,” said Mrs. Robertson. “I should like to have you stay here until we can find something for you to do. I want to teach you to be a good Christian boy, the right kind of an American.”

  “I don’t want to be beholden to anybody,” said Hal with decision. “I worked my way over, and I haven’t begged a penny since I came. I don’t mean to, unless I’m starving. Mrs. McKinstry has let me her little room. I’ve paid for it for this month, and I don’t mean to lose my money. But I like your teaching, ma’am. It takes hold of me different from any thing I ever heard before.”

  “Come in on Sunday evenings then, Hal. I am always at home then, and I should love dearly to teach you, and help you to be a good boy. Will you come?” said Mrs. Robertson.

  “I will, ma’am, I
will,” said Hal; and making a rude attempt at a bow, he took his leave.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Patriot’s Work

  Mrs. Robertson and her son were sitting at their pleasant breakfast-table together.

  “Blair,” said the mother, “you want to be a patriot. Here is some work for you to do for your country. We must try to make a good American citizen out of Hal, and a good Christian at the same time. The poor fellow is deeply grateful to you, and you will have a powerful influence over him.”

  “I can’t bear the English,” said Blair warmly. “I don’t like any foreigners, for that matter. It don’t seem to me they are the right stuff to make American citizens out of. Give me the native-born Yankee, free and independent from his cradle upwards. That’s my way of thinking.”

  Blair stood up as he spoke, and waved his knife in a manner more emphatic than elegant. A speech, one of his favorite speeches, seemed imminent. Blair did love to hear himself talk.

  “My son, our question in life is not what we like, but what is duty. I think the laws of the kingdom of heaven should be the guide to every lover of his country. The voice of our Saviour is, ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.’ ‘The Spirit and the bride say, Come; and let him that heareth say, Come.’ Every true Christian echoes the saying of St. Paul, ‘I would to God that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost and altogether such as I am, except these bonds.’ So it should be with every favored citizen of our happy land. We should welcome the oppressed of every clime, and strive to make them worthy partakers of the blessings we enjoy. I do not like to hear you say you hate any nation. We are all of one blood, made in God’s image.”

  “Dear mother,” said Blair, “you are right; you are always right. How thankful I ought to be to have such a guide, and such a help in keeping my new resolutions. I want to do my duty even when it is hard for me. You shall see what a friend I will be to Hal. I mean to go out as soon as I have done breakfast, and see if I can look him up some steady work. I heard Old Jock say on Saturday he wanted a strong boy to help him handle his nets. I’ll try to get the place for Hal.”