So when the city felt the punishment heavy upon her, and the poor starved and the rich suffered, and the hot sun poured down on the empty rotting wharves, the farmers of Massachusetts Bay brought their harvests by land to the famine-stricken city, and sister colonies sent generously of their best with the watchword: “Stand fast, Boston! A King’s anger 371 is a little thing, but human rights shall not perish until we perish, every one!”
It was sunset as we turned into the Roxbury road, with the salt wind blowing the marsh-reeds and ruffling the shallow waters of the harbour to the north and east. It was ebb-tide; beyond the eastern bog, far out in the yellow shallows, the harbour channel ran in a darker streak, glittering under the red blaze of sunset.
Wet marshes spread away to the north; the wind was heavy with the salty stench of mud-flats uncovered at low-water, and all alive with sea-fowl hovering. Northeast the steeples of Boston rose, blood-red in the setting sun; distant windows flashed fire; weather-vanes turned to jets of flame.
The red glow enveloped the road over which we travelled, now in company with scores of other vehicles, all bound for Boston — coaches, flies, chaises, wagons, farm wains — all moving slowly as though the head of the column had been checked by something which we could not yet see.
I rode forward to where Jack Mount was sitting on the box of the chaise, and he motioned me to his side.
“We’re close to Boston Neck,” he said. “Tommy Gage has been making some forts ahead of us since I last smelled the mud-flats yonder.”
I rode on slowly, passing along the stalled line of vehicles, until, just ahead, I caught a glimpse of an earthwork flying the British flag. The red banner stood straight out in the sea-wind, rippling, and snapping like a whip when the breeze freshened. Under it a sentry moved, bayonet glittering as he turned, paced on, turned again, only to retrace his endless path on the brown rampart of earth.
I shall never forget that first coming to Boston, and the first glimpse of the round city, set there in the sea with only a narrow thread of land to fasten it to the continent which had made the city’s cause its own. Nor shall I forget my first sight of the city’s landward gate, closed by British earthworks, patrolled by British bayonets, with the red standard flying in the setting sun.
The Providence coach was standing in the road to my left, the six horses stamping restlessly, the outside passengers shivering in the harbour wind, while the red-nosed coachman muttered 372 and complained and craned his short bull-neck to see what was blocking the highway ahead.
“It’s them darned cannon,” he explained to everybody who cared to listen; “they’re a-haulin’ some more twenty-four pounders into the right bastion. Ding it! My horses are ketchin’ cold an’ bots an’ ring-bone while we set here in a free land waitin’ his Majesty’s pleasure!”
“The cannon will come handy — some day,” called out a passenger from the Philadelphia coach, stalled just behind.
“You’d better get your cannon out of the south battery before you lay plans to steal these!” retorted a soldier, derisively, making his way towards the city between the tangle of wheels and horses which almost choked the road.
“We’ll get ’em yet, young red-belly!” shouted a fat farmer, cracking his whip for emphasis. His horses started, and he pulled them in, shouting: “Whoa, lass! Whoa, dandy! Don’t shy at a redcoat; he can’t harm ye!”
“Gad!” burst out an old gentleman on the Roxbury coach, “is this rebel impudence to be endured?”
A chorus of protestations broke from the tops of neighbouring coaches, but the sturdy old gentleman shook his cane, defying every Yankee within hearing, while the protests around grew to angry shouts and cries of: “Enough! Tar the Tory! Pitch the old fool into the mud!”
In the midst of the bawling and uproar the line of vehicles ahead suddenly started, and those behind moved on, rumbling over the planked road with creaking wheels and thunder of a hundred hoofs, drowning the voices of disputing Whig and Tory.
I looked up at the passengers as the huge mail-coaches with their four, six, or eight horses rumbled past. Many of the people glanced somewhat curiously down at me, smiling to see a forest-runner mounted on so fine a horse as Warlock. And I was proud to sit the saddle under their gaze, not minding the quips and jests directed at me from above; though, when once a mealy faced post-boy shouted at me, I fetched him a cuff on the ear which nigh unseated him, and drew a roar of laughter from the people near.
The Philadelphia coach with passengers from Maryland and Virginia came swaying up, horses dancing, guard standing 373 by the boot, and sounding his long coaching-horn — a gallant equipage, with its blue gear and claret body showing through a skin of half-dry mud.
I glanced up at the outside travellers, thinking I might know some face among them, yet not expecting it. There were no familiar faces. I wheeled my horse to watch the coach go by, glancing idly at the window where a young girl leaned out, sucking a China orange. Our eyes met for a moment; the girl dropped the orange and stared at me; I also eyed her sharply, certain that I had seen her somewhere in the world before this. The coach passed. I sat on my horse, looking after it, cudgelling my wits to remember that red-cheeked, buxom lass, who seemed to know me, too.
Then, as our chaise rattled by, with the post-boys urging the horses, and Jack Mount on the box, it came to me in a flash that the girl was the thief-taker’s daughter from Fort Pitt.
I rode up beside Mount and told him in a low voice that Billy Bishop’s buxom lass was ahead of us in the Philadelphia coach, and that he had best keep his wits and eyes cleared for Billy Bishop himself.
He shrugged his shoulders, not answering, but I noticed he was alert enough now, unconsciously fingering his rifle, while his quick eyes roamed restlessly as the chaise passed in between the British earthworks on the Neck.
Truly this Captain-General Thomas Gage, whom the King of England loved so well, had cut Boston from the land as neatly as his royal master had cut it from the sea.
The Roxbury road ran through a narrow passage between two bastions of earth, surrounded with a heavy abatis and trous de loup. In the left bastion I could see magazines and guard-houses, and beyond it, near the shore, a small square redoubt, a block-house, and a battery of six cannon. In the right bastion there was a guard-house, and beyond that a block-house on the shore of the mud-flats, while farther out in the shallow water lay a floating battery.
Our chaise rolled in through the earthworks and down a causeway surrounded by water. This was Boston Neck, a strip of made land not wider than a high-road, and blocked 374 at the northern extremity by a solid military work of stone and earth, bristling with cannon.
The gate guards eyed us sullenly as we drove into the city and up a long, dusty road called Orange Street. We continued to Newbury Street, to Marlborough Street, Mount directing us, thence through Cornhill to Queen Street, where we drew up at a very elegant mansion.
Dismounting, I took Mrs. Hamilton from the carriage, and she unmasked, for the fire was dying out in the western heavens.
“If,” she began slowly, “I should bid you to supper at my house, would you hurt me with refusal, Michael?”
“Is this your house?” I asked, in surprise.
“Yes — my late husband’s. Will you come?”
I explained that I cared not to leave Mount, and that also we must seek a tavern as soon as might be, for we had much business on the morrow which could not wait.
She listened, with a faintly mocking air, then thanked me for my escort, thanked Mount for his share in providing me as her escort by stopping her carriage, and finally curtseyed, saying in a low voice: “Your charming Miss Warren is doubtless impatient. Pray believe me that I wish you joy of your conquest.”
I thought she meant it, and it touched me. But when I stepped to her door-yard to conduct her, she turned on me like a flash, and I saw her eyes all wet and brilliant, and her teeth crushing her under-lip.
“For a charming journey in my own company, I thank
you,” she said; “for your conceit and your insufferable airs, I will find a remedy — remember that! My humiliation under your own roof is not forgotten, Mr. Cardigan, and it shall not be forgotten until you pay me dearly!”
Astonished at her bitterness, I found not a word to answer. A man-servant in purple livery opened the door. Mrs. Hamilton turned to me with perfect composure, returning my bow with the smile of an angel, and tripped lightly into her house.
The post-chaise had driven off into the mews when I returned to the street, but Jack Mount was waiting for me, patting Warlock, whose beautiful head had swung around to watch for my coming.
“Well, Jack?” I asked, wearily.
“The ‘Wild Goose Tavern’ is ours,” he said— “good cheer and company to match it.”
I walked out into the paved street, leading Warlock. Mount swaggered along beside me, squaring his broad shoulders whenever we passed a soldier, and whistling lustily “Tryon County Men,” till the stony streets rang with the melody.
We now crossed into Treamount Street, passed Valley Acre on our right into Sudbury Street, then northwest through Hilliers Lane, crossing Cambridge Street to Green Lane, and west again along Green Lane to the corner of Chambers Street, where it becomes Wiltshire Street and runs due north.
There was enough of daylight left for me to see that we were not in an aristocratic neighbourhood. Warehouses, ship-chandlers, rope-walks, and scrap-iron shops lined the streets, interspersed with vacant, barren plots of ground, rarely surrounded by wooden fences.
The warehouses and shops were closed and all the shutters and doors fast bolted. There was not a soul abroad in the streets, not a light to be seen save from one long, low building standing midway between Chambers and Wiltshire Streets — an ancient, discoloured, rambling structure, with a weather-vane atop, and a long, pillared porch in front, from which hung a bush of sea-weed, and a red sign-board depicting a creature which doubtless was intended for a wild goose.
“Lord, Jack!” I said, “Shemuel’s ‘Bear and Cubs’ appeared preferable to your ‘Wild Goose’ yonder. I’m minded to seek other quarters.”
“Never trust to the looks o’ things,” he laughed. “God made woodchucks to live on the ground, but they climb trees, too, sometimes. Do I think on the hog-pen when I eat a crisped rasher? Nenny, lad. Come on to the cleanest tap-room in Boston town and forget that the shutters yonder need new hinges!”
I led Warlock into the mews to a clean, well-aired stable, where an ostler bedded and groomed him, and shook out as pretty a handful of grain as I had seen since I left Johnson Hall.
Then Mount and I went into the tavern, where half a dozen sober citizens in string-wigs sat, silently smoking clay pipes with stems full three feet long.
“Good-evening, the company!” said Mount, pleasantly.
The men repeated his salutation, and looked at us sleepily over their pipes.
“God save our country, gentlemen,” said Mount, standing still in the centre of the room.
“His mercy shall endure,” replied a young man, quietly removing the pipe from between his teeth. “What of the Thirteen Sisters?”
“They sew that we may reap,” said Mount, slowly, and sat down, motioning me to take a chair in the circle.
The men looked at us curiously, but in silence, although their sleepy, guarded air had disappeared.
After a moment Mount asked if there was anything new.
“Yes,” replied the young man who had spoken before; “the Lawyers’ and Merchants’ Club met at Cooper’s in Brattle Square last night to receive instructions from the Committee of Safety. I do not know what new measures have been taken, but whatever they may be we are assured that they will be accepted and imitated by every town in Massachusetts Bay.”
“Who were present?” asked Mount, curiously.
“The full committee, Jim Bowdoin, Sam Adams, John Adams, John Hancock, Will Phelps, Doctor Warren, and Joseph Quincy. Paul Revere called a meeting at the “Green Dragon” the same night, and the Mechanics’ Club sent invitations to the North End Caucus, the South End Caucus, and the Middle District, to consider the arrival of British transports from Quebec with the Tenth and Fifty-second regiments.”
“What! more troops?” exclaimed Mount, in amazement.
“How long have you been absent from Boston?” asked the young man.
“Since April,” replied Mount.
“Would you care to hear a few facts that have occurred since April, gentlemen?” asked the young man, courteously including me in his invitation. Mount called the tap-boy and commanded cakes and ale for the company, with a harmless 377 swagger; and when the tankards were brought we all drank a silent but significant toast to the dark city outside our windows.
The young man who had acted as spokesman for his company now produced a small leather book, which he said was a diary. Pipes were filled, lips wet in the tankards once more, and then the young man, who said his name was Thomas Newell, opened his little note-book and read rapidly:
1774, May 18. — Man-o’-war Lively arrived with Gen. Gage. Town meeting called. A. sent Paul Revere to York and Philadelphia. H. very anxious.
May 17. — Gage supersedes Hutchinson as Governor. S. A. has no hopes.
June 1. — Three transports here with redcoats. Thirteen Sisters notified.
June 14. — The Fourth Regiment (King’s Own) landed at the Long Wharf and marched to the Common. No riot.
June 15, a.m. — Stores on Long Wharf closed. Forty-third Regiment landed. We are already surrounded by a fleet and army, the harbour is shut, all navigation forbidden, not a sail to be seen except war-ships.
July 1. — Admiral Graves arrived with fleet from London, also transports with Fifth and Thirty-eighth Regiments.
July 2. — Artillery landed with eight brass cannon. Camped on Common. S. A. notified Thirteen Sisters.
July 4. — Thirty-eighth Regiment landed at Hancock’s Wharf, with a company of artillery, great quantity of ordnance, stores, etc., three companies of the Royal Irish Regiment, called the Eighteenth Foot, and the whole of the Forty-seventh Regiment. Also bringing news that the Tenth and Fifty-second Regiments would arrive in a few days! S. A. sent riders to York and Philadelphia. Much hunger in town. Many young children dying.
Newell paused, glanced over the pages again, then shut the little book and placed it in his breast-pocket.
Mount sat grim and silent, twisting the scarlet thrums on his sleeves; the others, with painful, abstracted faces, stared at vacancy through the mounting smoke from their long clay pipes.
Presently the landlord came in, glanced silently around, saluted Mount with a quiet bow, paid his respects to me in a similar manner, and whispered that we might sup at our pleasure in the “Square Room” above.
So, with a salute to the company, we rose and left the tap-room to the silent smokers of the long pipes.
The so-called “Square Room” of the “Wild Goose Tavern” was a low, wainscoted chamber, set with small deep windows. It was an ancient room, built in the fashion of a hundred years ago, more heavily wrought than we build in these days; and although the floor-beams had settled in places, and the flooring sagged and rose in little hillocks, yet the place suggested great solidity and strength. Nor was it to be wondered at, for this portion of the tavern had at one time been a detached block-house pierced for musketry, and the long loopholes were still there above the wainscoting.
Spite of its age and fortified allure, the “Square Room” was cheerful under its candle-light and illuminated sconces. Rows of framed pictures hung along the walls, the subjects representing coaching scenes in England and also many beautiful scenes from the sporting life of country gentlemen.
Relics of the hunting field also adorned the walls, trophies of fox-masks, with brush and pads, groups of hunting-horns, whips, and spurs, with here and there an ancient matchlock set on the wall, flanked by duelling-pistols, powder-horns, and Scottish dirks.
The furniture was of light oak, yet ve
ry clumsy and old-fashioned, being worn shiny like polished Chinese carvings. Pipe-racks of oak were screwed into the wainscoting under long shelves, well stored with pewters, glass tankards, punch-bowls, and tobacco-jars.
There were a few small square tables scattered along the walls, but the centre of the room was taken up with a long table, some three dozen chairs placed, and as many covers spread for guests.
To this long, tenantless table our host conducted us, seating us with a silent civility most noteworthy, and in sharp contrast to the majority of landlords, who do sicken their guests with obsequious babble.
“Well, Clay,” said Mount, hitching his heavy chair closer to the white cloth, “I left brother Jim in good spirits at Pitt.”
The landlord bowed, and seemed gratified to hear it.
“You should know,” said Mount, turning to me, “that our host is Barclay Rolfe, brother to Jim Rolfe, of the ‘Virginia Arms’ in Fort Pitt.” And to the landlord he said, “Mr. Cardigan, late ward of Sir William Johnson, but one of us.”
“I owe your brother much,” said I, “more than a bill for a chaise and four. Possibly you have heard from him concerning that same chaise?”
“I have heard through Saul Shemuel,” he said, gravely. “I guess my brother was tickled to death to help you out of that pickle, Mr. Cardigan.”
“He shall not lose by it either,” said I. “My solicitor, Peter Weaver, of Albany, has sent your brother full recompense for the carriage and animals.”
The elder Rolfe thanked me very simply, then excused himself to go to the kitchen where our dinner should now be ready.
It was truly a noble dinner of samp soup, roast pork, beans, a boiled cod, most toothsome and sweetly salt, and a great wild goose, roasted brown, with onion and sage dressing, and an aroma which filled the room like heavenly incense.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 121