[Illustration: “YOU NEEDN’T BE AFRAID OF THIS TEA; NOBODY’S PAID A TAX
  ON IT.”]




  A PATRIOT LAD
  OF OLD BOSTON

  BY
  RUSSELL GORDON CARTER
  Author of the Bob Hanson Books

  [Illustration]

  Illustrated by HENRY PITZ

  THE PENN PUBLISHING
  COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
  1923




  COPYRIGHT
  1923 BY
  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY

  [Illustration]

  A Patriot Lad of Old Boston

  Manufacturing
  Plant
  Camden, N. J.

  Made in the U. S. A.




INTRODUCTION


The story of Don Alden is the story of Boston during the British
occupation. Like the sturdy out-of-doors boy of to-day, Don was fond of
hunting and fishing and trapping; it is of little wonder therefore that
Glen Drake, the old trapper from the North, formed an instant liking
for him.

But from the moment that the Port Bill went into effect--yes, and
before that unfortunate event--there were other things than hunting and
fishing to think about. Don’s aunt, a heroic, kindly woman of old New
England, refused to leave her home in Pudding Lane, even though the
town seemed likely to become a battle ground. And Don was not the boy
to forsake his aunt in time of need.

How he helped her during the period of occupation; how he acted
when his best friend cast his lot with the Tories; what he did when
he suddenly found that he could save the life of one of the hated
Redcoats; and what happened at the end when Crean Brush’s Tories
forced their way into the house--those events and many others only go
to prove that heroism is not limited by age.

There were other things also to test the courage of a lad like Don--the
Battles of Concord and Lexington and of Bunker Hill, the felling of
the Liberty Tree, and the many small annoyances that both Tories
and Redcoats committed to make life a little more miserable for the
suffering townsfolk. But he met them all in such a way as to deserve
the words of praise from the one man whom he admired more than any
other--General Washington.

Boston in the days of the Revolution resembled Boston of to-day in one
noticeable respect: many of the streets were narrow and crooked and
bore the names that they bear at present. But the differences between
the old town and the new are many and astonishing. In Revolutionary
days mud flats, which were exposed at low water, lay where South Boston
and the Back Bay are now situated; near where the present North Station
stands there used to be a broad placid mill-pond that extended down
almost to Hanover Street; and to the south, where to-day many broad
streets and avenues cross one another over a wide space, there used to
be a very narrow strip of land known as the Neck--to have cut it would
have made of the town an island. Such in brief was the Boston of Donald
Alden and of his friends.

If Don is a fictitious hero he is at least typical of many another
patriot lad who, too young to serve a great cause under arms, did serve
it nevertheless as best he could. How he cared for his Aunt Martha
throughout the long trying months of British occupation and in the
end foiled Crean Brush’s Tories and performed a service for General
Washington makes a story that is well within the beaten paths of
history.

The facts of history, taken alone, are likely to seem cold and
colorless; regarded from the point of view of a hero in whom we are
interested, and whose life they are affecting, they glow with warmth
and romance. If readers who follow the adventures of Don find that
at the end of the story the Tea Party, Bunker Hill, Lexington and
Concord and other important events of history are a little more real to
them than they were at first, I shall be content. That is one of the
purposes of the book. The other, and perhaps the more important, is
simply to provide an interesting story of a boy--a Patriot Lad of Old
Boston.

                                                             THE AUTHOR.




CONTENTS


     I. TEA AND SALT WATER                 11

    II. DON FINDS A NEW FRIEND             24

   III. A REDCOAT GETS WET                 36

    IV. A TRIP TO CONCORD                  49

     V. THE REGULARS COME OUT              62

    VI. ACROSS THE FLATS                   77

   VII. JUD APPLETON                       92

  VIII. THE BOYS SET A TRAP               105

    IX. THE REGULARS EMBARK               116

     X. FROM A HOUSETOP                   128

    XI. THE LIBERTY TREE                  142

   XII. A BLUSTERING SERGEANT-MAJOR       152

  XIII. A FARCE IS INTERRUPTED            162

   XIV. A BROKEN LOCK                     173

    XV. MARCH WINDS BLOW                  184

   XVI. CREAN BRUSH’S MEN                 194

  XVII. DON MEETS GENERAL WASHINGTON      207




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                      PAGE

  “YOU NEEDN’T BE AFRAID OF THIS TEA;
  NOBODY’S PAID A TAX ON IT.”               _Frontispiece_

  HE LIFTED HIS HEAD CAUTIOUSLY AND BEGAN TO COUNT      72

  “WHO LIVES HERE BESIDE YOURSELF, YOUNG SIRE?”        154




[Illustration]




A Patriot Lad of Old Boston




CHAPTER I

TEA AND SALT WATER


A pink and golden sunset was flaming across Boston Common. It was one
of the prettiest sunsets of the whole winter of 1773; but on that day,
the sixteenth of December, few persons were in the mood to stop and
admire it. For trouble had come to town.

In the Old South Meeting-House at the corner of Marlborough and Milk
Streets the largest and perhaps the most important town-meeting in the
history of Boston was in session. The hall was filled to overflowing,
and those who had been unable to gain admittance lingered in the
streets and tried to learn from their neighbors what was going on
inside.

On the outskirts of the crowd in Milk Street two boys were talking
earnestly. “This is a bad piece of business,” said one in a low voice.
“What right have we to protest against the King’s sending tea to his
colonies? We’re his loyal subjects, aren’t we?”

His companion, an alert-looking boy with blue eyes, did not reply
at once; but his eyes flashed as he glanced restlessly now at the
meeting-house, now at the persons round him, many of whom he knew. At
last he said, “Of course we’re loyal, but we’re not represented in
Parliament; for that reason we shouldn’t be taxed. The protest is not
against the tea but against the tax that the King has put on it. At
least that’s what my Uncle Dave says.”

“Now see here, Don,” replied the boy who had spoken first, “there’s
going to be trouble just as sure as you’re born. Take my advice and
don’t pick the wrong side.” He lowered his voice. “Keep away from
trouble-makers. Men like Sam Adams inside there are a disgrace to
the town; and anyway they can’t accomplish anything. There are three
shiploads of tea at Griffin’s Wharf; it will be landed to-night, and
before many days have passed, you and I will be drinking it--as we
should. Don’t be a fool, Don!”

Donald Alden lifted his chin a trifle. “I don’t intend to be a fool,
Tom,” he replied slowly.

His companion, Tom Bullard, the son of one of the wealthiest men in
town, seemed pleased with the remark, though he certainly was not
pleased with what was going on about him. From time to time he scowled
as the sound of hand-clapping came from within the meeting-house, or
as he overheard some snatch of conversation close by. “Cap’n Rotch,” a
tall, rugged-faced man was saying to his neighbor, “has gone with some
others to Milton to ask the governor for a clearance.”

“Old Hutchinson will never give it to them,” was the quick reply. “He’s
as bad as King George.”

“Well, then, if he doesn’t, you watch out and see what happens.” With
that advice the tall man smiled in a peculiar way and a few minutes
later left his companion.

Meanwhile the crowd had increased to almost twice the size it had been
when Don and Tom had joined it. Don guessed that there were between
six and seven thousand people inside the meeting-house and in the
streets close by it, and he was astonished at the quiet nature of the
gathering. Although everyone around him seemed uneasy and excited,
yet they talked in ordinary tones of voice. Occasionally a small boy
would shout as he chased another in play, but for the most part even
the small boys were content to wait quietly and see what was about to
happen; for it seemed that something must happen soon.

Almost all of the pink and gold had faded from the sky, and a light
breeze was swaying some of the signs over the doors of the shops on
Milk Street and making them creak. There were lights flashing in many
of the windows; and inside the Old South Meeting candles were burning.

Don and Tom edged as near as they could to the door, which was
partly open. They could hear someone speaking, though the words were
indistinct; they could see the heads and shoulders of some of the
listeners; they could see grotesque shadows flit about the walls and
ceiling as somebody moved in front of the flickering candles. It was
long past supper-time, but few persons seemed to have any thought for
food.

“I’m cold,” said Tom, “and hungry too. Aren’t you, Don?”

“No,” replied Don.

He lifted his hands to loosen his collar; they were trembling but not
with cold. Something must happen soon, he thought.

Somewhere a bell was tolling, and the tones seemed to shiver in the
chill air. Half an hour dragged by, slowly. And then there was a sudden
commotion near the door of the church, and the buzz of conversation
rose to a higher pitch. “It’s Rotch!” exclaimed someone. “It’s Rotch,”
said another; “and Governor Hutchinson has refused clearance.”

The crowd pressed closer to the door. Don could see people moving
about inside the meeting-house. Then he saw somebody at the far end of
the hall lift his hand, and he barely distinguished the words: “This
meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”

An instant later there was a shout from someone on the little porch
of the church, and then the startling sound of war-whoops rang in
Marlborough Street. In a moment the people in the church began to pour
out of the door. In Milk Street, near Bishop’s Alley, Don spied half a
dozen figures clothed in blankets and wearing feathered head-dresses;
their faces were copper-colored, and all of them carried hatchets or
axes. Where they had come from no one seemed to have any clear idea,
but as they started down the street others joined them; and the crowd
followed.

“Where are you going, Don?” Tom asked sharply as his companion turned
to join the throng in Milk Street.

“He’s going to have a look at the King’s tea, aren’t you, my lad?” said
a voice near by.

“Come on along,” cried Don.

But Tom seized his companion’s arm and held him. “Don, are you crazy?”
he demanded. “Keep out of this; it’s trouble; that’s what it is----”

Don jerked his arm free and ran ahead; soon he was lost to Tom in
the crowd. At Long Lane he caught a glimpse of bobbing head-dresses.
He started to run as best he could. Once he stumbled and fell to his
knees, but somebody helped him quickly to his feet. “No time to stumble
now,” said the stranger, whoever he was.

A few moments later those at the head of the throng turned sharply to
the right, and as they stumbled over the cobblestones down a narrow
street Don observed that the moon was shining. In and out among the
streets the throng went, past Cow Lane, past Belcher’s Lane and
straight toward Griffin’s Wharf. Everyone was excited, and yet there
was a certain order about the whole movement.

“Remember what Rowe said in meeting?” remarked a florid-faced man whom
Don recognized as a grocer from King Street. “‘Who knows how tea will
mingle with salt water?’ Well, I guess we’ll all know pretty quick.”

Don felt his heart take a sudden leap. So they were going to throw
the tea overboard! These were no Indians; they were Colonists, all of
them! He thought he even recognized one of the leaders as the tall,
rugged-faced man in the crowd who had advised his companions to wait
and see what would happen if the governor refused the clearance.

Once on the wharf, the first thing the men did was to post guards, and
then Don noticed that all of the little copper-colored band had pistols
as well as hatchets and axes. The _Dartmouth_ was the first ship to be
boarded; someone demanded that the hatches be opened, and the sailors
complied with the demand at once; there was no resistance. In a moment
square chests with strange markings were being lifted to the deck.
Again Don observed that everything was being done in an orderly manner.

It was a night that he should long remember. The tide was low, and the
three Indiamen with their high sides and ornamented sterns reminded
him of huge dragons lying beside the wharf in the moonlight. He saw
chest after chest broken open with axes and hatchets and then tumbled
overboard into the water; he heard the low voices of the men as they
worked--they seemed to be talking in Indian dialect, though he knew
that it was not genuine, for now and again he would catch a word or two
of English.

For a while Don leaned against one of the great warehouses and tried to
guess who the “Indians” were; at one time he counted as many as fifteen
of them, but he could not be sure that there were not more; for at
least a hundred persons were on the wharf, helping to get rid of the
tea. Some of the chests that they tossed overboard lodged on the mud
flats that were out of water, but young men and boys waded in and broke
them into pieces and pushed them off. It was fascinating to watch the
destruction.

Don remained near the warehouse for perhaps three hours; and not until
the last chest had been tossed from the _Eleanor_ and the _Beaver_,
the other two tea vessels, did he realize that he was hungry; he had
entirely forgotten that he had missed his supper.

Taking one last glance at the pieces of broken chests, which the
turning tide was now carrying out into the harbor, he set forth toward
home. At the head of Atkinson Street he heard someone call his name,
and, turning, he saw Tom Bullard close behind him. “Oh, Don, wait a
minute.”

Don paused. “I can’t wait very long,” he said and grinned. “My Aunt
Martha won’t be very well pleased with me as it is.”

“See here, Don,” began Tom abruptly, “I know where you’ve come from,
and I know what’s happened down at the wharf. I know also that those
men weren’t Indians. The thing I want to ask you is, what do you think
of it?”

“Why,” replied Don slowly, “I’m afraid it won’t please you, Tom, if
I tell. I think we--that is, the Indians,--did the proper thing in
throwing the tea overboard.”

Tom stiffened. “So you’re a young rebel,” he said. “A young rebel!
Well, I thought so all along. I’m through with you from now on.”

“I’m sorry, Tom; we’ve been good friends.”

“Well, I’m not sorry,” replied Tom, turning part way round. “A young
rebel!” he repeated, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Well, look
out for trouble, that’s all.” And he crossed the street.

Don bit his lips. He had lost an old friend; Tom was a Tory. Well, he
was not astonished; but he had hoped that their friendship might last
through their differences.

He felt somewhat depressed as he made his way along the crooked streets
to his aunt’s little house in Pudding Lane. No light was burning in the
store at the front where his aunt sold groceries and odds and ends of
a household nature to eke out the income of his Uncle David, who was
employed at MacNeal’s rope yard on Hutchinson Street. He entered the
small sitting-room at the back of the house. “Hello, Aunt Martha,” he
said cheerfully.

“Donald Alden, for goodness’ sake, where have you been?” Aunt Martha
Hollis dropped the stocking that she had been knitting and adjusted her
spectacles.

“Well, first I went up to the town-meeting.”

“Did you see your Uncle David there?”

“No, ma’am; there was an awful big crowd. I’m pretty hungry, Aunt
Martha.”

“What happened at the meeting?”

“Well, there was a lot of talking, and then just as it broke up, a band
of Indians--that is, a band of men with tomahawks and feathers and
colored faces--appeared in Milk Street and started down to Griffin’s
Wharf and--is there any pie, Aunt Martha?”

“Donald, go on!” said his aunt, whose fingers had begun to tremble
violently.

“They boarded the three tea ships and tossed all the tea into the
water. My, you should have seen them! Then they went home. Aunt Martha,
I certainly am hungry.”

“Was--was anybody hurt, Donald?”

“Oh, no, ma’am--except one man whom I didn’t know; a chest of tea fell
on him. Another man tried to put some of the tea into his pockets, but
I guess he was more scared than hurt.”

Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and rose from her chair. In a few
minutes she had placed some cold meat and potatoes and a large slice
of apple pie on the table. “Now don’t eat too fast,” she cautioned her
nephew. Then she seated herself again, but she did not go on with her
knitting.

She was a little woman with blue eyes and silvery hair parted in the
middle. She was naturally of a light-hearted disposition, though
perhaps somewhat overly zealous for the welfare of her only nephew,
whom she had taken to live with her eight years ago on the death of
both his parents. Now her eyes were gravely thoughtful as she watched
him eating.

“This is mighty good pie, Aunt Martha.”

“Well, eat it slowly, then, for that’s all you can have.”

Don grinned and held up his empty plate, and a moment later his aunt
went to the kitchen and returned with another piece. As she was setting
it on the table, the door opened, and David Hollis entered. He nodded
and smiled at his nephew and then strode quickly into the kitchen,
where Don heard him washing his hands and face. Then Don heard his aunt
and uncle talking in subdued voices. When they entered the sitting-room
again Aunt Martha carried more meat and potatoes, which she placed on
the table.

Uncle David, big and broad and hearty, sat down opposite his nephew.
“So you were at the wharf this evening?” he inquired. “Did you see
the--the Indians?”

“I saw feathers and tomahawks and painted faces,” replied Don, and
Uncle David laughed and quickly lowered his hands to his lap, but not
before his nephew had caught a glimpse of dark red paint round the
finger-nails.

“It was a bold thing that the Mohawks did,” said Uncle David. “Don’t
ever forget, Donald, that the men who tossed that tea overboard were
Indians.”

Don nodded and, turning to his aunt, said, “This is awfully good pie,
Aunt Martha. Maybe there’s another piece----”

“Donald! Of course not!” Nevertheless, Aunt Martha went again to the
kitchen cupboard.




CHAPTER II

DON FINDS A NEW FRIEND


During the next few days the destruction of the King’s tea was the main
topic of conversation in and round Boston. Moreover, bells were rung
in celebration of the event, and some persons said frankly that they
believed the act to be a stroke toward independence. David Hollis said
so one day at the dinner-table.

When he had gone out Aunt Martha turned to her nephew. “Donald,” she
said, “your uncle is a good man, a brave man, and he is usually right;
but, oh, I do hope that this time he is wrong. Do you realize what it
will mean if the Colonies declare their independence of England?”

“It will mean fighting,” Don replied.

“Yes, it will mean--war.” Aunt Martha’s voice trembled. “War between us
and our own kinsmen with whom we have been close friends for so long.”

Don thought of Tom Bullard, but he said nothing.

“I do hope that things will be settled peaceably before long,” said his
aunt.

Not many days had passed before the inhabitants of Boston learned that
tea ships that had tried to land cargoes at New York and at Charleston
had fared no better than the three Indiamen at Boston. And again the
people of Boston rejoiced, for they were sure that they had done right
in destroying the tea.

For a while Don found things very quiet at the little house in Pudding
Lane. He went regularly to the Latin School in School Street and after
hours frequently helped his aunt to look after the store. He saw Tom
Bullard almost every day, but Tom had not a word to say to his former
close friend.

One day shortly after Christmas the two boys met unexpectedly near
Tom’s house in Hanover Street. Don stopped short. “Say, Tom,” he said,
“don’t you think we might be friends again even if we can’t agree on
all things?”

“I don’t care to be friendly--with you,” replied Tom shortly.

“Oh, all right, then,” said Don.

For several minutes he was indignant and angry; then he decided that
the best thing for him to do would be to forget the quarrel, and from
that moment he did not allow it to worry him.

The winter dragged on slowly. January passed, and February came and
went. There had been plenty of sledding on the Common; and there were
numerous ponds and swamps, where Don tried his new upturned skates that
his Uncle David had given him on his birthday.

March was drawing to a close when Don unexpectedly found a new friend.
It was Sunday evening, and Aunt Martha and Uncle David and Don were
seated in front of a roaring fire on the hearth, when two loud knocks
sounded at the door. Before Uncle David could get to his feet it swung
open, and a short heavy-set man dressed in deerskin entered.

“Glen Drake!” exclaimed Uncle David. “By the stars, what in the world
brings you out of the woods?”

“Oh, I just meandered down,” replied the other, clasping the
outstretched hand. “Thought maybe you’d be glad to see me.”

“Glad? I surely am! Here--you know Aunt Martha.” Glen Drake shook hands
with Don’s aunt. “And here--this is my nephew Donald.”

Don felt the bones in his hand fairly grate as the man pressed it.

“Draw up a chair, Glen,” said Uncle David.

But Glen Drake had crossed to the door and slipped outside. In a moment
he was back, carrying a large bundle in both arms. “A little present
for Aunt Martha,” he said and dropped it on the floor in the centre of
the room. “There’s a silver fox among ’em.”

“Furs!” cried Don.

“Why, Glen Drake,” began Aunt Martha, “you don’t mean to say----”

“Best year I ever had,” said Glen and, kneeling, cut the thong that
bound the bundle.

Don’s eyes seemed fairly to be popping from his head as he watched the
old trapper lift pelt after pelt from the closely-packed pile. There
must have easily been several thousand dollars’ worth there on the
floor. Perhaps one-fourth of the pelts were muskrat; the rest were
beaver, otter, mink, martin, sable, ermine and finally the trapper’s
greatest prize--a silver fox.

“You don’t mean to say----” Aunt Martha began again. “Why, you surely
don’t intend to give me all these!”

At that the old trapper threw back his head and laughed for fully half
a minute. “All!” he exclaimed. “Why, bless your heart, Aunt Martha,
you should have seen the catch I made. This isn’t one-fifth--no, not
one-tenth!”

He seated himself in front of the fire and began to fill his pipe.
“Never saw so much fur in my life,” he said.

“Where have you been?” Uncle David asked.

“Up Quebec way and beyond.”

While the two men were talking, Don not only listened eagerly, but
studied the visitor closely. He was a short man with broad sloping
shoulders and a pair of long heavy arms. His musket, which he had
carried in when he went to get the furs, lay beside his coonskin cap on
the floor. Though the weapon lay several feet from him, Don was sure
that the man could get it in a fraction of a second, if he needed it
badly; for he had crossed the floor with the quick noiseless tread of
a cat. Now he was lying back in his chair, and his deep-set black eyes
seemed to sparkle and burn in the moving light of the fire. His face
was like dark tanned leather drawn over high cheek bones; his hair was
long and jet black. His pipe seemed twice the size of Uncle David’s
when it was in his mouth, but when the trapper’s sinewy hand closed
over the bowl it seemed very small. Glen Drake was just the sort of man
to catch a boy’s fancy.

All evening Don sat enthralled, listening to the stories the man told
of the north, and Aunt Martha had to use all her power of persuasion to
send her nephew off to bed. “No more pie for a week, Donald, unless you
go this instant,” she said at last.

“You like pie, Don?” asked the trapper. “Well, so do I. And I like boys
also, and since I hope to be here for some little time maybe you and I
can get to be real friendly.”

“I--I surely hope so!” said Don and turned reluctantly toward the
stairs.

He did not go to sleep at once; his room was directly above the
sitting-room, and he could hear his uncle and Glen Drake talking until
late into the night.

The month that followed was a delightful one for Don. After school
hours he and the old trapper would often cross the Neck and go for a
long walk through Cambridge and far beyond. The backbone of winter
was broken; spring was well along, and the birds had returned from the
south. Glen knew them all, by sight and by sound, and he was willing
and even eager to teach his companion; he taught him also the habits
of the fur-bearing animals and the best ways to trap them; he taught
him how to fish the streams, the baits to use and the various outdoor
methods of cooking the fish they landed.

“I declare,” said Glen one evening in May when they were returning with
a fine mess of fish, “you’re the quickest boy to learn a thing ever I
knew. I’m as proud of ye as if you were my own son.”

Don felt a thrill pass over him; he had not expected such praise as
that. “I hope I can learn a lot more,” he said.

But that was the last trip the two made into the country together for a
long time. On arriving at the house in Pudding Lane, they found Uncle
David pacing nervously back and forth across the floor.

“What’s the matter, Dave?” asked Glen.

“Matter enough; haven’t you heard?” Uncle David paused. Then he said
with a note of anger in his voice: “I was sure all along that the King
would take some means of revenge for the affair of the tea, but it’s
worse than I’d suspected. He’s going to close the port.”

Glen Drake whistled softly. Don paused at the foot of the stairs.

“Military governor is coming first,” continued Uncle David, “and troops
later--Redcoats!”

“That won’t help the town,” said the trapper.

“You’re right; and it won’t help me; I’ve got a good supply of
merchandise in the cellar--cloth mostly and a little powder. Bought it
last week from the captain of the _Sea Breeze_ and offered it right off
to a friend of mine in Carolina, but can’t send it till I hear from him
and know whether he wants it. By that time, though, I’m afraid there
won’t be any ships sailing.”

“Sell it here in town,” suggested Glen.

“Can’t do it; my offer was as good as a promise.”

“Send it overland, then, though that would be more expensive, wouldn’t
it?”

“Yes, it would be; there wouldn’t be any profit left.”

But during the stress of the next few days Uncle David quite forgot
about his merchandise. Captain-General Thomas Gage had arrived in a
ship from England; and on the seventeenth of May he landed at Long
Wharf and as military governor was received with ceremony. On the first
of June, amid the tolling of bells and fasting and prayer on the part
of most of the good people of Boston, the Port Bill went into effect. A
few days later Governor Hutchinson sailed for England.

Uncle David was moody and preoccupied. He and Glen spent much of their
time in the North End, and Don could not help wondering what they were
doing there. He and the trapper had become such close friends that he
missed his old companion greatly. “Where do they go every evening?” he
asked his aunt.

“You must not ask too many questions, Donald,” Aunt Martha replied.

“Well,” said Don, “how long will the port be closed?”

“I don’t know. All I can say is that it is a wicked measure; I declare
it is!”

Aunt Martha’s words soon proved to be only too true. Hundreds of
vessels, prevented from sailing by the British fleet, lay idle at the
wharfs. Hundreds of persons walked the streets, out of work; and many
of the very poor people were without bread. Day by day the town seemed
to grow a little more miserable. And still Aunt Martha hoped that there
would be a peaceful settlement between the Colonies and the mother
country. Uncle David and Glen Drake said very little except when they
thought they were quite alone.

Don went frequently to the Common, where Redcoats were encamped; in the
course of the summer the number of them increased. Barracks had been
erected, and cannon had been placed at various points of vantage. It
looked as if the British were preparing for a long stay.

Once Don overheard a conversation between two of the soldiers that made
his blood boil. He was waiting for a school chum near the Province
House, which General Gage was occupying as headquarters, when two
Redcoats turned the corner at Rawson’s Lane and stopped near him.
“We’ll teach these people how to behave in the future,” said one.

“It’s pretty hard for them,” remarked the other, “having all their
trade cut off and having a lot of their liberties taken from them.”

“Hard!” exclaimed the first speaker. “It’s meant to be hard. Everything
is done purposely to vex them. They talk of liberty; we’ll show ’em
what liberty means. Maybe when they feel the pinch of starvation
they’ll come to understand. Maybe they’ll need powder and ball to make
them behave, but they’ll behave in the end!”

Don turned away, and from that moment he hoped that a time would come
when the people of the Colonies would rise and drive the hated soldiers
from the town. If he were only a little older! If he could only do
something!

That evening when he returned to Pudding Lane he found the table set
for only two persons. “Why, Aunt Martha,” he said, “where are Uncle
Dave and Glen?”

“They’ve gone on a trip southward. They won’t return for perhaps a week
or two.”

“Oh,” said Don, “did they go to see about the consignment of goods in
the cellar?”

“They could see about that,” Aunt Martha replied slowly.

As a matter of fact, the two men had gone on a special trip to New
York. For some time they, together with such men as Paul Revere, a
silversmith in the North End, William Dawes and others had been meeting
in secret at the Green Dragon Tavern; they were part of the Committee
of Correspondence, and their object was to watch the British, learn all
they could about them--where they kept their guns and powder, how many
there were of them at various points--and to convey the information to
the other Colonies. Uncle David had ceased work at the rope yard, and
if Aunt Martha had known all the details of his doings at the Green
Dragon she might have worried even more than she did. His mission now
was, among other matters, to inform the Committee of Correspondence at
New York of the arrival of a fresh regiment of Redcoats.




CHAPTER III

A REDCOAT GETS WET


In the absence of Glen Drake, Don had formed the habit of going down to
the wharves and watching the great ships that lay in forced idleness.
The boys that he knew were divided sharply between Whigs and Tories,
though most of them were Whigs like himself. So far he had found no one
with whom he could be as intimate as he had been with Tom Bullard; so
he spent much of his time alone.

On the first day of September, Don was on his way to the water-front
when he observed an excited group of sailors and townsmen on the
opposite side of the street; they were talking loudly and making
violent gestures with their hands. He crossed just in time to hear one
of the sailors say: “I was down at Long Wharf and saw them go early
this morning--more than two hundred Redcoats in thirteen boats!”

“And they went to Winter Hill,” exclaimed another, “broke open the
powder house and carried off two hundred and fifty half-barrels! And a
second detachment went to Cambridge and brought back two field-pieces
that belong to the militia. Thieving Redcoats! It’s high time Congress
took some measures to oust ’em!”

“Have patience, Jim,” said a third. “Our time will come, see if it
doesn’t.”

“Patience! We’ve shown too much of it already.”

Before Don reached home the news of the raids had spread all over town.
People were discussing it on the street corners and in public meeting,
and many persons were of a mind to organize at once and recapture as
much of the stores as possible.

The Powder Alarm, as it was called, spread rapidly. Messengers from the
Committees of Correspondence carried the news to the other Colonies,
and the whole country soon blazed with indignation; as a result
Lieutenant Governor Oliver and other important officers of the Crown
were forced to resign. General Gage began at once to fortify Boston
Neck, and then the flame of indignation blazed brighter.

In the midst of the excitement Uncle David and Glen Drake returned with
the information that all the people of the other Colonies had “all
their eyes turned on Boston.” “We’ll have to open hostilities before
long,” Don’s uncle declared. “Human nature can bear just so much--then
look out!”

“O David!” cried Aunt Martha. “You seem to be anxious for bloodshed.
You do indeed!”

“I’m anxious for justice,” replied Uncle David.

“Ye can torment a critter just so far, Aunt Martha,” said Glen; “then
it’ll turn and fight. I don’t care what it is--mink, otter or even a
poor little muskrat. And when it does fight it fights like fury. It’s
not only human nature, but the nature of every living critter.”

Aunt Martha was silent, and Don, observing the old trapper’s powerful
fingers as he tightened the lacing in one of his boots, secretly wished
that he were old enough to carry a musket in one of the companies of
militia.

Two days later the two men were off on separate missions to the west
and south, and again Don was left alone with his aunt.

One Saturday afternoon late in September he took a long walk with his
dog, a young terrier that a sailor on one of the ships at Woodman’s
Wharf had given him in exchange for three cakes of maple sugar and a
set of dominoes. Up past the Faneuil Hall the two went, past the Green
Dragon Tavern and along to the shipyard at Hudson’s Point, the dog
tugging eagerly at his leash, and Don holding him back.

For a while Don stood in Lynn Street, looking across the water at
Charlestown and enjoying the cold wind that was sweeping in from the
east. So far he had not found a name for the dog, and he was walking
along thoughtfully when he caught sight of a red-coated figure standing
at the approach to Ruck’s Wharf and talking with--why, it was Tom
Bullard! Don stopped short and then turned to watch the tide, which was
sweeping round the point. What was Tom doing, talking with a Redcoat?
On second thought Don realized that Tories and Redcoats had only too
much in common these days. He was on the point of resuming his walk
when he heard someone shout at the end of the wharf, and, turning, he
saw a man in a small sloop holding something upraised in his hand. Tom
and the soldier started toward the sloop, laughing. Then Don observed
that it was a bottle that the man in the boat was holding. “Tom’s found
bad company, I’m afraid,” he thought and again resumed his walk.

On coming opposite the end of the wharf, he observed that Tom had gone
aboard the sloop; he had crossed on a narrow plank stretched between
the boat and the dock. The soldier, a tall, well-built fellow, had
started across at a swinging gait. He had passed the middle and was
only a few feet from the sloop when, apparently, the narrow plank
tilted sidewise. “Look out!” Don heard Tom shout.

The soldier threw out both arms, balanced uncertainly for several
seconds, took two short quick steps and then slipped. Don saw the man’s
hat fly off and go sailing in the wind. The next instant the soldier
struck the water with a tremendous splash.

Tom Bullard stood with open mouth, looking down at the black water that
had closed over the head of the soldier. The man with the bottle ran to
get a rope, but by the time he reached the gunwale again the soldier
reappeared a dozen yards from the bow, uttered a gurgling shout and
sank even as the man on board made his cast.

Don’s fingers had tightened round the leash; his eyes were wide, and
his breath came quickly. Then, letting go the leash, he ran to the
edge of the wharf. He paused and in two swift movements tore off his
jacket; then he felt a stab of doubt. What was he thinking of? Save
a Redcoat! He thought of his uncle and of Glen Drake; he thought of
all the wrongs the town was suffering at the hands of the King’s
soldiers--their insolent conduct on the streets, their hatred of the
townsfolk. Then he thought of his aunt. That thought settled it. As the
tide swept the man to the surface for the third time, Don jumped.

The water was like ice. He strangled as a wave struck him in the face
just as his head came to the surface. He caught a glimpse of a dark
red mass of cloth a dozen yards at his left; it seemed rapidly to be
taking on the color of the water round it. Kicking with all his might,
he struck out toward it, swinging his arms with short, quick strokes.
Everything was confusion--air, sky, water. A great weight seemed to
be pressing against his chest. Then one foot struck something hard.
In an instant he had turned and plunged downward. All was water now,
black, cold and sinister. His fingers closed on something soft--it
might be seaweed. He struggled upward. His lungs seemed on the point
of bursting. Upward, upward--then a rush of air and light. A bundle of
sodden red cloth came up beside him.

“Grab the wharf!” someone shouted.

But Don did not hear. He took a stroke with his free hand, and at that
moment a length of heavy rope whipped down across his arm. Seizing it,
he held on. Then he saw that the tide had carried him and his burden
against the piling of the next wharf.

“Hold him a moment longer,” said a voice, and then three red-faced
sailors lowered themselves like monkeys, and two of them lifted the
soldier out of the water. The third caught Don by the back of his shirt
and pulled him upward.

On the splintery planks of the wharf, Don blinked his eyes and looked
about him. A group of men were carrying the Redcoat into a warehouse.

“How do you feel, my lad?” asked the sailor who had pulled Don from the
water.

“C-C-Cold.”

“That’s right, stand up. You did a plucky thing. Too bad the fellow was
a Redcoat.”

“Is--is he alive?”

“Oh, yes; he’ll stand parade to-morrow all right. I’m sorry for that.
How I hate ’em!”

Don caught a glimpse of Tom Bullard entering the warehouse. Then a low,
plaintive cry sounded behind him, and, looking over the edge of the
wharf, he saw his terrier in the water. “My pup!” exclaimed Don. “Get
him somebody, please!”

A good-sized group of persons had gathered round the boy by that time,
and the sailor and two other men hastened to rescue the dog. Once on
the wharf, the terrier ran to his young master and began to leap up on
him.

“Get the boy to a warm place,” said a lanky fisherman and grasped Don
by one arm.

The sailor who had pulled him from the water placed himself on the
other side, and together the three of them started down the street at a
rapid pace. Soon Don felt a warm glow all over his body; nevertheless
his teeth were chattering, and with each puff of strong wind he
shivered.

“Wish it had been old Gage instead of a common Redcoat,” the sailor was
saying.

“Same here,” replied his companion. “You’d have pushed him under when
you pulled the lad out, wouldn’t you, Hank?”

“You’re right, I would have done just that.”

Down one street and into another the three hurried and then paused in
front of a tavern with a swinging sign-board that bore the grotesque
figure of a green dragon. “Here’s Revere’s place,” said the sailor. “In
we go.”

Don soon found himself seated in front of a blazing wood-fire in a
large room. It was the first time he had ever entered the Green Dragon
Tavern. He glanced round the low-ceilinged room--at the long table, at
the rows of pewter on the walls, at the dozen or more chairs with shiny
rounded backs. Then he moved as close to the fire as he could with
safety, and soon steam was rising from his shoes and stockings. The dog
curled up on the hearth and blinked now at the boy, now at the blazing
logs.

Hank left the room and returned a few minutes later with a bowl of
broth and a cup of strong tea. “You needn’t be afraid of this tea, my
lad,” he said and grinned. “Nobody’s paid a tax on it.” He winked at
the fisherman. “See if you can find some dry clothes about the place,
John.”

Don finished the broth and was sipping the hot tea when a big,
rugged-faced man strode into the room, and Don recognized Paul Revere.

“This is the boy,” said John.

“H’m,” said Revere. “David Hollis’s nephew, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Don.

“They tell me you saved a Redcoat.”

“I did, sir,” replied Don. “He couldn’t swim.”

“What’ll your uncle say to that?” The man smiled.

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Indeed the question had occurred to Don
several times before. What would Glen Drake say? Don felt his face grow
hot; he thought he ought to say something more. “I--wouldn’t pick a
Redcoat to save--if I had my choice,” he added.

Revere laughed heartily. “No, I don’t believe you would,” he said.
“Well, I’ll have some clothes for you in a trice. Put ’em on in the
other room; you can return ’em to-morrow or next day.”

Half an hour later Don said good-bye to Hank and John and set forth
toward the house in Pudding Lane. Twilight was coming on, but Don was
not sorry for that. He thought of the miserable figure that he must
present to passers-by. The coat he wore was several sizes too large
for him; he had turned up the sleeves three times, and still they
reached to his knuckles. The trousers were so big that he felt as if he
were walking in a burlap bag. The hat, which was his own, was wet and
misshapen. And at his heels trotted a wet, shivering terrier; no leash
was necessary now.

What would his aunt say? And then he happened to remember that the day
was Saturday. “Why, I declare,” he said to himself. “Uncle Dave and
Glen are expected home to-night.”

He quickened his steps as he crossed the cobblestones on King Street.
He was thinking of just how he should begin his story, but suddenly in
the midst of his thoughts he stopped and looked at the pup. “I believe
I’ve found a name for you!” he said.

The pup wagged his tail.

“I can’t call you Redcoat or soldier, but since it was a sailor I got
you of, and a sailor that pulled both of us out of the water, I’m going
to call you--Sailor!”

The pup’s tail wagged more vigorously, as if he were content with the
name.

Don reached his aunt’s house; there was a light in the store; he
entered and passed through to the sitting-room. Uncle David and Glen
evidently had been home for some little while, for they were both
seated comfortably beside a candle, reading the _Massachusetts Spy_ and
the _Boston Gazette_. They looked up as Don entered, and Aunt Martha,
who had just come from the kitchen, dropped a plateful of doughnuts and
gave a little cry.

“Where you been, Don, to get such clothes as those?” asked Glen.

“Donald Alden, I couldn’t believe it was you,” said Aunt Martha. “How
you frightened me!”

“Scarecrow come to town,” said David Hollis.

Don helped to pick up the doughnuts, adding as he held the last one,
“This one’s dirty, Aunt Martha; I’ll eat it.” Then he told what had
happened to him on his afternoon walk, and Uncle David’s face glowed
while he listened, though Don could not tell whether it was with
satisfaction or with anger. “Did I do what was right, Uncle Dave?” he
asked when he had concluded the narrative.

David Hollis did not reply at once, but Aunt Martha said quickly, “You
did, Donald; but, my dear boy, what a risk you took! Don’t ever do
such a thing again--that is,” she hastened to add, “don’t do it unless
you have to.” The good lady seemed to be having a hard time adjusting
her spectacles.

“Yes,” said Uncle David at last, “your Aunt Martha is right, Don.” He
laughed and added, “You did right, but don’t do it again unless you
have to.”

Glen Drake nodded and bent over the _Gazette_.




CHAPTER IV

A TRIP TO CONCORD


The next day was Sunday, a bleak, damp day that most of the good people
of Boston were content to spend indoors. Snow was falling in large wet
flakes that melted almost as soon as they struck the sidewalks. The
great elms on the Common tossed their gaunt black branches in the wind;
and on the water-front the flakes of snow whirled downward among the
spars of the idle shipping and vanished into the black water.

In Pudding Lane, Aunt Martha and the two men had finished dinner, and
Don was munching his fourth doughnut, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Now who can that be?” asked Don’s aunt.

Uncle David opened the door and disclosed a tall, well-built man in the
bright uniform of a British soldier. “Good day to you, sir,” said the
Redcoat and took off his hat.

“Good day to you.” David Hollis’s tone was by no means hospitable.

“You have a boy--a boy who is called Donald--Donald Alden, I think.”

Uncle David nodded. “Be so kind as to step inside. The day is bleak.”

The soldier crossed the threshold, and David Hollis closed the door and
stood stiffly with his hand on the latch. Glen Drake had stopped in
the act of filling his pipe. Aunt Martha’s lips were pursed, and her
eyes were wide open. For a moment or two no one spoke. Then the soldier
looked at Don, who had hastily swallowed the last of the doughnut.
“This boy,” he said, “saved my life yesterday. I should be a most
ungrateful man if I allowed the act to pass without a word. Be sure
that I am grateful. Harry Hawkins is my name, private in His Majesty’s
43rd Regiment. If I can be of any service to you, Master Donald,” he
added with a smile, “I shall be indebted to you until I have performed
it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Don replied. “I had no hope of reward when I plunged
from the dock.”

The man smiled faintly and turned as if to go.

“You and your fellows might act with a little more consideration for
folks who wish only to be left alone in justice,” said Uncle David.

“I am a soldier; I obey my King,” the man replied and stepped to the
door. “I wish you all good day.”

David Hollis closed the door behind him.

“I like that fellow for three things,” said Glen Drake abruptly. “He’s
grateful to Don here, as he should be; he didn’t offer the lad money
for saving his life; and he said what he had to say and then made
tracks.”

Aunt Martha nodded and sighed, but Uncle David kept a stubborn silence.

As for Don, he admitted afterward to his aunt that he liked the looks
of Harry Hawkins better than he liked the looks of any Redcoat he had
ever seen, and that he was really glad that he had been able to save
the man’s life. “I like him far better than I like a Tory,” he added
with considerable spirit.

Indeed a good many people were far more bitter against the Tories than
they were against the Redcoats, who after all had behaved pretty well
under somewhat trying conditions. By now, the middle of November, there
were eleven regiments of Redcoats, most of which were grouped on and
round the Common; there was also artillery; and the following month
five hundred marines landed from the _Asia_. Earl Percy was in command
of the army, and a formidable looking force it was, on parade.

But the Colonies also had an army. Uncle David and Glen Drake, on
returning from their frequent journeys, brought much news of what was
happening outside the town. The conviction was fast becoming general
that force and force alone could settle the whole matter; and to that
end Alarm List Companies of Minute-Men were being formed in the various
towns, and supplies and ammunition were being collected and stored for
future use. “By Hector,” Glen remarked on one occasion, “right out
here in Danvers the deacon of the parish is captain of the Minute-Men,
and the minister is his lieutenant! Donald, if you were only a mite
older--but then again maybe it’s best that you’re not.”

By the first of the new year the force of Redcoats in Boston had
increased to approximately thirty-five hundred; and, moreover, General
Timothy Ruggles, the leader of the Tories, was doing his best to aid
the soldiers in every possible way. Tom Bullard, it seems, was acting
as a kind of aide to the general and had accompanied him several times
on missions to the Tory town of Marshfield.

“I tell you, Don,” said Glen one day, “watching this trouble is a whole
lot like watching a forest fire. It started with only a few sparks,
like the Stamp Act, you might say; now it’s burning faster and faster
every minute. It won’t be long before it blazes up bright, and then
it’ll have to burn itself out.”

“How soon is it likely to blaze up?”

“Mighty soon, I’m a-thinking.”

Glen’s estimate was correct. In March the people of Boston saw a marked
change in the behavior of the troops. On the fifth of the month, which
was the anniversary of the Boston Massacre, the address that Dr. Warren
made was hissed by perhaps twoscore of officers who had attended the
Old South just for that purpose. And on the sixteenth, a day of fasting
and prayer, soldiers of the King’s Own Regiment acted in a way that
filled Aunt Martha with indignation.

She and Don had gone to church early. Shortly before the service began,
old Mrs. Lancaster, who lived across the way in Pudding Lane, came in
and remarked that soldiers were pitching their tents outside. A few
minutes later, in the midst of the service, the sounds of fife and drum
came from the street. The minister stopped his sermon and looked round
him.

Aunt Martha bit her lips, and two bright pink spots showed on her
cheeks. “This is scandalous!” she exclaimed.

“It’s downright wicked!” said old Mrs. Lancaster.

The minister went on with the service, raising his voice to make
himself heard; but Don, and doubtless many others, had little thought
for what was being said inside the church.

At the end of the service many of the people hurried past the soldiers
on their way home; but others stood and watched with indignant glances.

That event was only one of many other irritations that followed and
inflamed the hearts of the townsfolk.

“Aunt Martha, war has got to come,” said Don.

“Don’t speak of it, Donald,” she replied, and Don glanced once at his
aunt’s face and wished that he had held his tongue in the first place;
his aunt’s eyes were red and moist.

“All that cloth and powder is still in the cellar, isn’t it?” he asked
a while later.

“Yes, Donald; and your uncle intends to keep it there until he can find
a satisfactory way of getting it out, though what with all the trouble
that surrounds us, I do believe that he doesn’t often give it a thought
any more.”

“Seems too bad not to sell it,” said Don.

“Yes, I’ve said so myself, but he always nods and says, ‘Yes, that’s
right,’ and then his mind goes wandering off on--on other matters.”

David Hollis, and indeed all the members of the Committees of
Correspondence, had many matters to keep them busy. A close watch was
being kept on the troops in town. It was known that Gage had sent two
officers in disguise to make maps of the roads that led to Boston; and
rumor had it that he intended to send a strong force to Concord to
capture supplies that the patriots had stored there.

The month of March dragged past with war-like preparations on both
sides. Many of the townsfolk, realizing that open hostilities must
begin soon, had moved into the country. Samuel Adams and John Hancock
had gone to Lexington, where they were staying with the Rev. Jonas
Clark. David Hollis and Glen Drake had both made several trips to the
town with messages for them.

One day early in April, David Hollis took his wife aside out of hearing
of his nephew. “Martha,” he said in a low voice, “I want you to leave
the house for a while. There’s going to be trouble, and Boston will be
no safe place for you.”

Aunt Martha’s chin lifted a trifle. “And, pray, where should I go?” she
asked.

“To Cousin Deborah’s in Concord.”

“I shall not go!” Aunt Martha replied.

“But she has already prepared for you; I told her you’d come.”

“You had no right to say that.”

“But, Martha, listen to reason. I say there will be trouble--I know it!
And it’s coming soon. Need I speak plainer than that?”

“No, David, you need not. I understand. Yet I intend to remain right
here in our home.”

David Hollis threw out his hands and turned away. Then with another
gesture he said, “Martha Hollis, you are a foolish woman. I--I command
you to go; it is for your own good.”

Aunt Martha’s blue eyes flashed behind her spectacles. “And I refuse
to obey. My place is here, and here is where I stay.” Then with a
sudden flash of anger she exclaimed, “I’d like to see any Redcoats
drive me from my own home!”

David Hollis turned toward the fire and snapped his fingers several
times. “It’s too bad,” he said. “Stubbornness is not a virtue.”

“You have it!”

Uncle David made no reply.

“You tell Cousin Deborah that I’m sorry she has gone to any trouble
about me.”

“I don’t expect to go that way very soon.”

“Then Glen can see her.”

“Glen has gone--elsewhere.”

Aunt Martha was thoughtful. “Well,” she said at last, “as you say, it
is too bad, but, David, my mind is made up.”

“How would it be to send Donald? Seems to me it might be a good
vacation for him. He’s an able lad, and I know that he’d be glad to
make the trip. He could ride almost as far as Lexington with Harry
Henderson. Cousin Deborah would be glad to have him for overnight.”

“Dear me!” said Aunt Martha. “I can’t allow it.”

But in the end she yielded, and that evening Don heard the news with
glee. “Your cousin is a nervous, exact kind of person,” his aunt told
him, “and I want you to tell her everything that I say.”

“But what is it?” asked Don.

“Tell her that I am very sorry she has gone to any trouble on my
account, but that I cannot with a clear conscience visit with her at
this time. Say also that when your uncle promised for me he had not
consulted me and therefore did not know all the facts.”

“She’ll want to know the facts,” said Don, grinning. “I’m kind of
curious myself, Aunt Martha.”

“Donald!”

But Don’s grin was irresistible, and his aunt smiled. “Never mind,” she
said. “And you’ll hurry home, won’t you?”

“I surely will, Aunt Martha.”

The next morning, the sixteenth of April, Don set out with Harry
Henderson, a raw-boned young fellow with red hair and a short growth of
red stubble on his face. The soldiers had just finished standing parade
on the Common when Don and Harry rattled by in the cart; Harry’s light
blue eyes narrowed as he watched them moving in little groups to their
barracks.

“Good morning to you, young sir,” said a cheerful voice.

Don, looking up, saw Harry Hawkins. “Good morning to you, sir,” he
replied.

Harry Henderson looked at his companion narrowly. “Friend of yours?” he
asked.

“Well, no, not exactly,” replied the boy.

“Friend of your uncle’s maybe?” Harry was grinning impudently now, and
Don’s cheeks were red.

“No; here’s how it is----” And Don gave a brief account of how he had
happened to meet the Redcoat.

“Well,” said Harry dryly, “I should think he might say good morning to
you.”

They passed the Common and finally turned into Orange Street and,
after some delay, drove past the fortifications on the Neck. “Clear of
’em b’gosh!” said Harry, cracking his whip. “We’ll reach Lexin’ton by
mid-afternoon if old Dan here doesn’t bust a leg.”

But Harry had not reckoned on horseshoes. Shortly before they reached
Medford, old Dan lost a shoe, and the circumstance caused a delay of
two hours. Then later Dan shied at a barking dog and snapped one of the
shafts. As a result Harry and Don did not reach Lexington until almost
ten o’clock.

“You’ve got to stay right here with me,” said Harry, “It’s too late for
you to reach Concord. I know your cousin, and she wouldn’t be at all
pleased to have you wake her at midnight--not she!” He laughed.

So Don remained at Lexington overnight and the next morning set out on
foot for Concord. He reached his cousin’s house just before noon.

Cousin Deborah was a tall strong-looking woman with black hair, black
eyes and a nose that was overly large. She had once been a school
teacher and, as David Hollis used to say, had never lost the look.
“Where’s your Aunt Martha?” were her first words to Don.

“She decided she couldn’t come.”

“But Uncle David told me----”

Then followed the inevitable questions that a person like Cousin
Deborah would be sure to ask, and Don wriggled under each of them. But
after all, Cousin Deborah was good-hearted, and deep within her she
knew that she would have done the same as Don’s aunt was doing, if she
had been in similar circumstances--though she would not acknowledge
it now. “Your aunt always did have a broad streak of will,” she said
severely. “Now I want you to spend several days with me, Donald.”

“Aunt Martha told me to hurry back.”

“That means you can stay to-night and to-morrow night,” Cousin Deborah
decided. “I’ll have dinner in a few moments, and then I want you to
tell me all the things that have happened in Boston.”

In spite of his cousin’s questions, which were many and varied, Don
managed to enjoy himself while he was at Concord. On the second day he
met a boy of his own age, and the two fished all morning from the North
Bridge. In the afternoon they went on a long tramp into the woods along
the stream.

At night Don was tired out and was glad when his cousin finally snuffed
the candles and led the way up-stairs. He was asleep shortly after his
head struck the pillow.

That night proved to be one of the most eventful in the history of the
Colonies.




CHAPTER V

THE REGULARS COME OUT


While Don was asleep, breathing the damp, fragrant air that blew over
the rolling hills and fields round Concord, his friend, Paul Revere,
was being rowed cautiously from the vicinity of Hudson’s Point toward
Charlestown. It was then near half-past ten o’clock.

Revere, muffled in a long cloak, sat in the stern of the small boat
and glanced now at his two companions--Thomas Richardson and Joshua
Bentley--and now at the British man-of-war, _Somerset_, only a few
rods off. The tide was at young flood, and the moon was rising. The
night seemed all black and silver--black shadows ahead where the town
of Charlestown lay, black shadows behind that shrouded the wharfs and
shipyards of the North End, and silver shimmering splashes on the
uneasy water and on the sleek spars of the _Somerset_.

The sound of talking came from the direction of the man-of-war and was
followed by a burst of laughter that reverberated musically in the
cool night air. Revere blew on his hands to warm them. The little boat
drew nearer, nearer to Charlestown; now he could see the vague outlines
of wharfs and houses. Several times he glanced over his shoulder
in the direction of a solitary yellow light that gleamed in the
black-and-silver night high among the shadows on the Boston side,--a
light that burned steadily in the belfry of the Old North Meeting-House
behind Corps Hill as a signal that the British were on their way by
land to attack the Colonists.

“Here we are,” said one of the rowers, shipping his muffled oar and
partly turning in his seat.

A few minutes later the boat swung against a wharf, and the two men
at the oars held it steady while Revere stepped out. A brief word or
two and he was on his way up the dock. In the town he soon met a group
of patriots, one of whom, Richard Devens, got a horse for him. Revere
lost no time in mounting and setting off to warn the countryside of the
coming of the Redcoats.

He had not gone far beyond Charlestown Neck, however, when he almost
rode into two British officers who were waiting in the shadows beneath
a tree. One of them rode out into the middle of the path; the other
charged full at the American. Like a flash Revere turned his horse and
galloped back toward the Neck and then pushed for the Medford road. The
Redcoat, unfamiliar with the ground, had ridden into a clay pit, and
before he could get his horse free Revere was safely out of his reach.

At Medford he roused the captain of the Minute-Men; and from there to
Lexington he stopped at almost every house along the road and summoned
the inmates from their beds. It was close to midnight when he reached
Lexington. Riding to the house of the Rev. Jonas Clark, where Hancock
and Adams were staying, he found eight men on guard in command of a
sergeant.

“Don’t make so much noise!” cried the fellow as Revere clattered up to
the gate.

“Noise!” repeated Revere in a hoarse voice. “You’ll have noise enough
here before long--the regulars are coming out!”

At that moment a window opened, and Hancock thrust his head out. “Come
in, Revere!” he said. “We’re not afraid of _you_!”

Revere dismounted and hurried inside. In a few words he told his story,
that the British were on their way either to capture Hancock and Adams
or to destroy the military stores at Concord. While he was talking,
William Dawes, who also had set out to warn the people, clattered up to
the door.

After he and Revere had had something to eat and to drink they started
for Concord and were joined by a Dr. Prescott, whom Don had seen once
or twice in company with his uncle. With Revere in the lead the party
rode on at a rapid pace.

About half-way to Concord, while Prescott and Dawes were rousing the
people in a house near the road, Revere spied two horsemen ahead.
Turning in his saddle, he shouted to his companions, and at that moment
two more horsemen appeared.

Prescott came riding forward in answer to the shout, and he and Revere
tried to get past the men, all of whom were British officers. But the
four of them were armed, and they forced the Americans into a pasture.
Prescott at once urged his horse into a gallop, jumped a stone wall
and, riding in headlong flight, was soon safe on his way to Concord.
Revere urged his horse toward a near-by wood, but just before he
reached it six British officers rode out, and he was a prisoner.

“Are you an express?” demanded one of them.

“Yes,” replied Revere and with a smile added: “Gentlemen, you have
missed your aim. I left Boston after your troops had landed at
Lechemere Point, and if I had not been certain that the people, to the
distance of fifty miles into the country, had been notified of your
movements I would have risked one shot before you should have taken me.”

For a moment no one spoke; it was clear that the Redcoats were taken
aback. Then followed more questions, all of which Revere answered
truthfully and without hesitating. Finally they ordered their prisoner
to mount, and all rode slowly toward Lexington. They were not far from
the meeting-house when the crash of musketry shook the night air.

For an instant the major who was in command of the party thought they
had been fired on. Then he remarked to the officer beside him, “It’s
the militia.”

The officer laughed shortly and glanced at their prisoner. Then the
party halted, and the British took Revere’s horse. The major asked
him how far it was to Cambridge and, on being told, left the prisoner
standing in the field and with the rest of the party rode toward the
meeting-house.

A few minutes later Revere crossed the old burying-ground and entered
the town. He soon found Hancock and Adams again and told them what had
happened, and they concluded to take refuge in the town of Woburn.
Revere went with them. He had done his duty.

Perhaps it was a vague feeling of impending danger, perhaps it was the
mere twitter of a bird outside his window--at any rate Don awoke with
a start. All was darkness in the room. A light, cool wind stirred the
branches of the great elm at the side of the house; he could hear the
twigs rubbing gently against the rough shingles. He had no idea what
time it was; it must be after midnight, he thought; but somehow he was
not sleepy. He raised his head a trifle. Down-stairs a door slammed;
that seemed strange. Now someone was talking. “I wonder----” he said to
himself and then sat bolt upright in bed.

The church bell had begun to ring at a furious rate. Clang, clang!
Clang--clang! Don thought he had never before heard a bell ring so
harshly or so unevenly. He jumped out of bed and began to dress. Clang!
Clang! What in the world could be the matter? He could hear shouts
now and the sound of hastening footsteps. In his excitement he got
the wrong arm into his shirt. Clang! Clang--clang! He found his shoes
at last and with trembling fingers got them on his feet. He unlatched
the door and started carefully down the winding stairs. It seemed as
if there were a hundred steps to those creaking old stairs. Twice he
almost missed his footing--and all the while the bell continued to
clash and ring and tremble.

In the sitting-room a single candle was burning. Don got a glimpse of
his cousin Deborah, hastily dressed and still wearing her nightcap; she
was standing at the door, and his Cousin Eben, with a musket in his
hand and a powder horn over his shoulder, was saying good-bye. Don saw
him kiss his wife. Then the door opened, the candle flickered, and he
was gone.

“Cousin Deborah, what’s wrong?” cried Don.

“The regulars are coming!” And then Cousin Deborah burst into tears.

Don bit his lips; he had never thought of his cousin as being capable
of tears.

They did not last long. A few movements of her handkerchief and Cousin
Deborah seemed like herself again. “Donald,” she said, “they have begun
it, and the good Lord is always on the side of the right. Now I want
you to go back to bed and get your rest.”

“Are you going back to bed, Cousin Deborah?”

“No; there will be no sleep for me this night.”

“Then I shall remain up also,” replied Don.

Cousin Deborah made no protest but went to the stove and poked the fire.

The bell had ceased ringing now. The town of Concord was wide awake.

While Don and his cousin were eating a hastily prepared breakfast the
Minute-Men and the militia assembled on the parade ground near the
meeting-house. Meanwhile other patriots were hard at work transporting
the military stores to a place of safety.

Dawn was breaking, and the mist was rising from the river when Don and
his cousin finally got up from the table. “Now, Donald,” said Cousin
Deborah, “I’ve been thinking all along of your Aunt Martha and blaming
myself for my selfishness in having you stay here with me for so long.
I’d give most anything if you were back there with her. And yet----”
She paused frowning.

“Oh, I can get back all right,” said Don confidently.

“How?”

“Why, by keeping off the roads as much as possible. I know the country
pretty well.”

“You’re a bright lad, Donald,” said Cousin Deborah. “You’re a bright
lad; and I don’t know but what you’d better start. Your aunt needs you
more than I do. But oh, Donald, you’ll be cautious!”

“I don’t think I ought to leave you here alone.”

“Drat the boy!” exclaimed his cousin and then smiled. “Bless you,
Donald,” she added, “I’ll be safe enough. I shall go to Mrs. Barton’s
until things are quiet again. Now go and get yourself ready.”

Don needed only a few moments in which to get his things together. Then
he walked with his cousin as far as Mrs. Barton’s house, which was
situated some distance beyond the North Bridge, bade her good-bye and
started back. It was growing lighter every minute now, and the birds
were singing in all the trees. On the road he met a Minute-Man who was
hurrying in the opposite direction, and asked him the news.

“Regulars fired on our boys at Lexin’ton,” replied the fellow as he
hurried past. Over his shoulder he shouted, “Killed six of ’em--war’s
begun!”

Don said not a word in reply, but stood stock still in the road. For
some reason a great lump had come into his throat, and he thought of
his Aunt Martha. He must get to her as quickly as possible.

As he came near the North Bridge he saw the Provincial troops--the
Minute-Men and the militia of the town and detachments of Minute-Men
from some of the outlying towns; and all the while fresh soldiers were
hurrying to swell the numbers. The British, he soon learned, were on
their way to Concord, and several companies of Provincials had gone out
to meet them.

Don left the town and struck off into the open country several hundred
yards from the Lexington road. After a few minutes of rapid walking he
saw the detachment of Americans coming back. He quickened his pace and
finally broke into a run.

He had gone something more than a mile and a half when he suddenly
stopped and threw himself on the ground. There on the road, marching
steadily in the direction of Concord, was a large force of regulars. He
could see the flash of metal and the bright red of their coats. For a
while he lay there, panting. Then at last, spying a great rock with a
hollow just behind it, he crept toward it and waited.

The long column advanced slowly. Now Don could hear the crunch of
their feet on the hard road. He lifted his head cautiously and began
to count; there must easily be a thousand Redcoats. The crunching grew
louder as the head of the column came almost opposite to him. Now he
could hear the rattle of equipment and the occasional jangling of a
sword.

[Illustration: HE LIFTED HIS HEAD CAUTIOUSLY AND BEGAN TO COUNT.]

It was some time before the rear of the column had passed. He waited
until it was perhaps a quarter of a mile up the road and then got to
his feet. He ought not to have much trouble in reaching Boston if he
started at once. He was about to resume his journey when a fresh
thought came to him. Ought he to go without knowing what was to happen
to the town of Concord--and to his Cousin Deborah? For at least five
minutes he struggled with the question. “No, I oughtn’t!” he declared
at last and, turning suddenly, began to retrace his steps.

It was close to seven o’clock when the regulars, in two columns,
marched into Concord and sent a party over the North Bridge into the
country. Don found a clump of spruces growing on a hillside and climbed
into the lower branches of one of them. From that position he could see
the scattered houses and the two bridges, though the distance was too
great for him to be able to distinguish features or even the outlines
of anybody in the town.

Part of the King’s force seemed to have disbanded, and later when Don
heard the ring of axes he suspected that they were destroying the
stores that had not been carried away. “Well,” he thought, “they won’t
be able to destroy much.”

But when he distinguished blue smoke curling upward from several places
near the centre of the town he almost lost his grip on the branch to
which he was clinging. One of them was the court-house! Where was the
militia? Where were the Minute-Men? He made out the peaked roof of his
cousin’s house and the great elm standing beside it, and observed with
some satisfaction that no Redcoats were close to it. Then a while later
he saw the thread of smoke above the court-house grow thinner, and at
last it disappeared altogether.

Don held his position in the tree for more than an hour. He ground his
teeth as he saw a detachment of soldiers leave the town and cut down
the liberty pole on the side of the hill. Where were the Minute-Men and
the militia?

The main body of the regulars was well inside the town. At the South
Bridge there was a small party on guard, and at the North Bridge was
another party of about one hundred. Don was so much occupied with
watching the Redcoats that he had failed to observe a long double
column of Provincials coming down the hill beyond the North Bridge;
they were moving at a fast walk and carried their guns at the trail.

At first glance he thought there were no more than a hundred of them,
but as he watched he was forced to conclude that there were at least
three hundred. He pulled himself farther out on the limb and waited.

The detachment of regulars, who were on the far side of the bridge,
hastily retired across it and prepared for an attack. When the
Provincials were a few rods distant the Redcoats opened fire, then
waited and fired again, and Don saw two men fall. Then he saw a
succession of bright flashes and heard the crash of arms as the
Provincials returned the fire. Several of the enemy fell. Then there
was more firing, and in a few minutes the British left the bridge and
ran in great haste toward the main body, a detachment from which was
on the way to meet them. The Provincials pursued the regulars over the
bridge and then divided; one party climbed the hill to the east, and
the other returned to the high grounds.

Don found himself trembling all over; he felt sick and dizzy. With
much difficulty he reached the ground, where he lay for a few minutes.
On getting to his feet, he saw the Redcoats who had first crossed the
North Bridge returning. In the town there seemed to be much confusion;
the sun glanced on red coats and polished trimmings as men hurried here
and there.

Don would not trust himself to climb the tree again, but threw himself
on the ground at the foot of it. He would rest for a while and then
set out on his long journey back to Boston, fairly confident that
his cousin had not been harmed. He had not slept a wink since some
time between one and two o’clock in the morning; now it was after ten
o’clock. So when his head began to nod he did not try very hard to
fight off sleep.




CHAPTER VI

ACROSS THE FLATS


Don was wakened by the sound of firing. He sat up and rubbed his
eyes; then, looking at the sun, he guessed that twelve o’clock had
passed. He could see nothing of the Redcoats; nor could he see smoke
anywhere inside the town. From the east came the sound of firing that
had wakened him, and men with muskets were hurrying across fields in
that direction. For a moment he thought of returning to his Cousin
Deborah’s; then he decided to push for Boston as fast as he could.

Half running, half walking, he made his way in a southeasterly
direction in order to avoid the main road. Once he wondered whether the
Redcoat Harry Hawkins was with this expedition of British troops, but
somehow the thought was painful, and he turned his mind to other things.

For some time he had been climbing a rocky hillside; now, on reaching
the crest, he got his last glimpse of the skirmish. The British were in
the road just outside of Lexington, and, far off as Don was, he could
see plainly that they were having a hard time of it. He could see the
flash of sabres as if the officers were urging their men to advance.
One officer was prancing here and there on a spirited black horse, as
if he had lost control of the animal. Then Don saw part of the King’s
troops open fire and saw a dozen or more muskets flash in reply along
an old stone wall on the opposite side of the road. Before he heard the
reports of them he saw the black horse fall. Another glance and he saw
a company of Minute-Men crossing a distant field at a rapid pace. The
sight of a battle going on almost under his nose, the sound of guns,
the smell of powder, all seemed to hold him spell-bound, and only the
thought of his Aunt Martha alone in the little house in Pudding Lane
caused him to turn and hurry on his way.

Soon he was out of hearing of the firing, but from time to time he saw
detachments of Minute-Men and militia marching to the east. Once he
stopped at a solitary farmhouse and asked for something to eat. A woman
who was alone except for a little girl of nine or ten years gave him
bread and cheese and then prepared a small bundle of the food for him
to take along.

Don told her what he had seen at Concord and at Lexington, and her
lips quivered; but she smiled at him. “Such a day!” she exclaimed. “My
husband and my three brothers have gone. It seems that all the men from
the village have gone. I have heard that the town of Dedham is almost
empty; even the company of gray-haired old veterans of the French Wars
has gone. Such a day! Be careful, my boy, and return to your aunt as
soon as possible.”

Don thanked her for her kindness as he was leaving the house, and
soon he was hurrying on his way toward Boston. From Glen Drake he had
learned many of the secrets of woodcraft and had little trouble in
making his way through the thickets in the vicinity of Fresh Pond.
But mishaps will sometimes overtake the best of woodsmen. As Don was
descending a slope on the western side of the pond he stepped on a
loose stone, which turned under his weight and sent him crashing
headlong to the bottom. He lay there with teeth set and both hands
clenched; a sharp pain was throbbing and pounding in his right ankle.
Little drops of perspiration stood out like beads on his forehead.

For several minutes he lay there; then as the pain decreased in
violence he sat up. But later when he rose he found that he dared not
put any weight at all on his right foot. Here was a predicament! There
was not a house in sight; he was a long way from the nearest road; and
night was coming on.

He tried to climb the slope down which he had slid, but the effort only
sent sharp pains shooting up his leg. Even when he crawled for only
a dozen yards or so on his hands and knees the pain would force him
to stop; it seemed that he could not move without giving the ankle a
painful wrench. Several times he shouted for help, but he had little
hope that anybody would be in that vicinity to hear him. So at last he
dragged himself to a little cove that was overgrown with birches and
willows; there he loosened his shoe and rubbed his swollen ankle.

“Well,” he said to himself, “I’ve got to stay here all night, and I
haven’t a thing except my knife and----” He interrupted himself with an
exclamation; his knife was not in his pocket. Then he remembered that
he had left it at his Cousin Deborah’s.

The missing knife made his situation even more desperate than he had
supposed it was. With a knife he might have fashioned a bow such as he
had once seen Glen Drake use for lighting a fire; as it was, he should
have to keep warm as best he could.

The first thing he did was to choose a convenient hollow that was
protected at the back by the hill and on the sides by birches and the
willows. Then, breaking off a quantity of branches, he fashioned a rude
but effective windbreak for the front. By the time he had finished
doing that work it was twilight, and a cool wind was blowing across the
pond.

Don opened the package of food that the good lady at the farmhouse had
given him. There were bread and cheese and three small ginger cakes;
and when he had eaten half the food and put the rest by till morning
he felt a good deal better. Pulling his coat up round his neck, he
snuggled down on the light branches with which he had carpeted the
floor of his bower and prepared to wait for morning.

All light had faded from the sky, and the wind was rising steadily.
Loose twigs all round him tapped incessantly against one another in
tune with the wind. Don shivered and forgot the dull pain in his ankle.

Out in the pond and down close to the shore on both sides of the cove
he could hear strange little splashes, and in the thickets behind him
a pair of owls were calling every now and then. If it had not been for
thoughts of Aunt Martha, Don might really have enjoyed his experience.
He did not doubt that he should be able to walk in the morning, and he
rather liked being out alone as Glen Drake had been many, many times.

Once he dozed off and awoke some time later, feeling cold and hungry.
The twigs were tapping all about him; somewhere far to the south a
hound was baying mournfully; and in front of him the moon had covered
the pond with a silvery sheen.

Again Don dozed off, and then awoke with a violent start. Somebody--or
something--was moving about in the underbrush on the slope above him.
Then a stone rattled down and bounded into the water. Startled at the
loud splash it made, Don gave an involuntary exclamation. An instant
later he heard someone call his name.

“O Don!” the call was repeated.

Don sat up. “Who is it?” he shouted in reply.

“Yer safe and sound? Praise be for that!”

“Glen!” cried Don, pulling himself upward.

In a moment the old trapper was at the foot of the slope, and Don was
explaining the accident that had befallen him.

“Well, yer a plucky lad,” said Glen. “I tracked ye all the way from
Concord, and when I found you was headin’ fer Fresh Pond I began to
have my fears. Here, now, let me take ye on my back, and we’ll talk as
we go along.”

Don was a sturdy boy and unusually solid for his age, but Glen Drake
lifted him to his back as if he had been no more than a child; Don
could feel the muscles in the old trapper’s shoulders play up and down
as Glen climbed the slope easily and walked quite as well as if it had
been daylight.

“What happened to the Redcoats, Glen?” asked Don.

“They got licked,” Glen replied promptly. “They ran most all the way
from Lexin’ton, and some of ’em fell and lay still with their tongues
a-hanging out; they were that tired. They lost a lot of men, Don, and
serves ’em right. Our boys kept a-coming from all directions--and
most of ’em know how to shoot too! I tell you, if a second force of
the King’s men hadn’t come out, not one of the Redcoats that tried to
burn Concord would have got back alive. Now they’re sewed up tight in
Boston; we’ve got an army watchin’ the town, and it’s growing every
minute.”

“How’s Aunt Martha, and how am I ever going to get back to her?”

“Your Aunt Martha is all right--at least, she was the last I saw her.
As to how you’re a-goin’ to get back, I can’t say for certain. But I’ll
get you back somehow; you trust me for that.”

“Where’s Uncle David?”

“He’s at Cambridge with the army. I’m sort of with the army myself,
though I don’t guess I’ll ever do much drillin’.” Glen Drake chuckled.
“Morning’s a-coming, Don; morning’s a-coming, and we’re at war!”

Don thought of his Aunt Martha, alone in Pudding Lane.

All the while Glen had been tramping with long strides in the direction
of the main part of Cambridge. Only once did he pause, and then it was
to fill his pipe. At last he turned into a lane at the right of the
road and approached a small house that overlooked the river. By that
time dawn was well on the way.

Don observed two or three soldiers at the side of the house; they were
cooking bacon over a small fire. “Hi, there!” shouted one. “I see you
found your boy.”

“Yes, I found him,” replied Glen. “Where’s Dave Hollis?”

“He hasn’t come in yet.”

Glen carried Don into the house, spoke a few words to a woman who was
preparing the morning meal and then, at her bidding, climbed the stairs.

By the time the rays of the sun were slanting down on the river Don was
asleep deep within the feathery softness of a huge four-posted bed. The
woman down-stairs had given him a delicious breakfast, and after he had
eaten it the old trapper had rubbed his injured ankle with some potent,
vile-smelling ointment that he said would cure anything from rheumatism
to nose-bleed.

Near the middle of the afternoon Don awoke and a little to his
astonishment saw his Uncle David sitting beside Glen at one side of the
bed. “Uncle Dave!” he cried.

In a moment David Hollis had clasped his nephew’s hands in his own.
“You’ve had a hard time, Donald, my boy,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“All right, except for my ankle; I gave it a bad twist when I fell.”

“Yes; Glen has told me. I hope you’ll be able to walk soon.” David
Hollis looked at his nephew anxiously.

“In two or three days maybe,” said the trapper.

Don groaned. “Not until then?” he asked. “Meanwhile Aunt Martha is all
alone.”

“Yes, and she needs you, Donald.” David Hollis was plainly worried.
“The worst of it is,” he continued, “that the King’s soldiers have
fortified the Neck and are mighty watchful. There’s no way of getting
in or out.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Glen. “The back harbor’s dry at low water,
you know.”

David Hollis looked doubtful. “It’d be too great a risk to try and
cross that way,” he said. “If anything should happen, I’d never forgive
myself.”

“Now, listen here,” said Glen; “I promised the boy I’d get him back,
and, by thunder, I’m a man of my word. A dark night, a little fog, and
nothing’s easier.”

Don’s uncle said nothing for several minutes. At last he grasped the
old trapper’s hand. “Glen,” he said, “I’ve never yet known you to fail
in an undertaking. May you succeed in this. I see no other way.”

The next day was Friday, and thanks to the trapper’s ointment Don was
able to walk a very little. In the evening his uncle came to talk with
him again. “I probably shan’t see you again for some time,” he said.
“My company is leaving Cambridge. When you see your Aunt Martha I
want you to say this to her: tell her first of all that I’m safe and
well and that she needn’t worry. Second, tell her that at the first
opportunity I want her to leave the town; it’s the height of folly to
remain. And, Donald”--David Hollis spoke in a low voice,--“tell her I
love her. And now, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you!”

That was the last that Don saw of his uncle for many, many weeks. The
next day he and the trapper went for a short walk among the narrow,
twisting streets of the town. Soldiers were quartered in many of the
houses, and people were talking of others that were soon to arrive.
One man remarked that as a result of the British attack on Concord and
Lexington an army of twenty thousand Provincials had arisen almost
overnight. There was much brave talk of attacking the King’s troops in
Boston and of driving them headlong into the sea.

By Tuesday, Don’s ankle was strong again, but he had to walk with great
care. Then early one foggy morning Glen Drake announced that the time
had come to cross the flats.

The two had a hot supper together down in the kitchen, and an hour or
so later they started toward the river.

Glen led the way and in spite of the heavy fog and the darkness stepped
boldly yet as silently as a cat. They had gone beyond the last fringe
of dwelling houses when the trapper put the end of a buckskin thong
into Don’s hand. “Keep tight hold,” he whispered, “and don’t talk.”

Don thought he had never seen a blacker night--blackness and fog
overhead, blackness and fog all round them, with here and there a dim
yellow light. Several times, at the sound of footsteps, Glen paused to
let a Provincial sentry pass unseen ahead of them. Once they turned
sharply to the left and walked for almost half an hour over uneven
grassy land. Then they turned to the right, and soon Don felt his feet
sink into cool mud. Glen put his mouth close to the boy’s ear and
whispered, “How’s the ankle?”

“All right, Glen,” Don replied softly.

They pressed forward slowly. Sometimes reeds and cattails swept against
their hands; sometimes they seemed to be walking on firm sand. The fog,
cold and oppressive, was blowing in from the east and seemed to deaden
all sounds, even the quash, quash of their feet. Don’s fingers were
like ice as he clung to the thong. He had no idea in what direction
he was going, but he had confidence in his sturdy guide. Then a bell
tolled somewhere ahead, and a few minutes later he heard a horse neigh
loudly.

A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour. Finally they were among
more cattails. Glen led the way cautiously among them and at last
climbed a gentle slope. They had reached the Boston side.

They were making their way upward, when a stick cracked close at hand,
and a sharp voice rang out: “Halt! Who’s there?”

Don felt Glen’s arm go around his shoulders, and in a twinkling the two
were flat on their faces.

“Who’s there?” came the voice of the sentry again.

Don felt his heart pounding at his ribs and the trapper’s great arm
pressing downward on him like a heavy weight. He heard the sentry
advance and knew that Glen had reached into his belt for something.

Crunch, crunch sounded the footsteps, each louder than the last one.
Glen had drawn back his arm and was gathering himself for a spring,
when the footsteps ceased. A moment later the two heard them begin
again, but now they were growing fainter and fainter.

Glen got softly to his feet and pulled Don upward. Together they
hurried forward and did not stop till they reached a clump of trees by
the side of what appeared to be a path.

“Do you know where you are?” whispered Glen.

“No,” replied Don.

“Well, this is Cambridge Street. You’ll have to follow it alone. Go
carefully, and if you meet anyone--well, don’t let ’em see you; that’ll
be best. And now, good-bye, Don. Take good care of your Aunt Martha.”

They shook hands in the darkness, and a moment later Don was alone.




CHAPTER VII

JUD APPLETON


Luck seemed to walk hand in hand with Don after Glen Drake had vanished
into the darkness. The boy set out at once along Cambridge Street,
walking slowly, pausing frequently, and keeping well at the side of
the road, where the shadows were thickest. When he came within sight
of the first house he stopped to consider, but the sudden barking of
a dog caused him to turn abruptly into the field at the right. He
crossed George Street and skirted Beacon Hill. Near Valley Acre he came
unexpectedly on a large overhanging rock with two scrub pines growing
in front of it; the spot was so sheltered and so fragrant and dry with
pine needles that he decided to remain there till dawn.

Aunt Martha was an early riser, and it was well that she was, for
shortly before six o’clock the knocker rose and fell heavily three
times on the door. She left her stove and hastened to answer the
knocks. The next moment she was perhaps the most astonished woman in
Boston. “Why--why, Donald!” she cried, and then caught her nephew in
her arms.

Don had the breath almost crushed from his body, and the little
prepared speech of greeting that he had had all ready seemed to have
fled from his memory. “Aunt Martha,” he gasped. “I didn’t know--you
were so--so strong!”

“Now,” said his aunt, releasing him at last, “tell me everything,
Donald,--everything!”

Hungry as Don was, he made no mention of food but sat down in the low
white rocker beside the window and began with the thing that was most
vivid in his mind--the skirmish at Concord.

And all the while that he talked, Aunt Martha sat pale and rigid in the
chair beside him. Only once were her eyes moist, and that was when Don
gave her the last of his uncle’s three messages; but she said nothing
and merely nodded for him to continue.

“Well, I guess that’s all,” said Don at last. “You know, Aunt Martha,
I’d have been home long ago except for my ankle.”

“I know, Donald; and I’m thankful, I hope. It might have been worse.
And now let me get you something to eat. Oh, Donald, you’ll never know
how glad I am to have you with me again.”

It was a long while before Aunt Martha ceased to ask questions; and
then it was Don’s turn. A great change, he learned, had come over the
town even in the few days that he had been away from it. It was in a
state of siege, cut off from the outside world, and food was scarce
among the poor. There were suffering and distress; many persons,
like Aunt Martha, had relatives and friends in the Continental army
and thought with dread and apprehension of what might happen if the
besiegers should attack.

“I don’t know what’s to become of us, truly I don’t,” said Aunt Martha.
“With your uncle and Glen with the army, it’s most too much to bear.
Fortunately, though, we shall not lack for food; the store’s well
stocked.”

“And that stuff in the cellar, is it still there?” asked Don.

“Yes, and it’s likely to remain.”

“We might be able to sell it,” Don suggested hopefully. Then he added,
“If we could only get it to the army in Cambridge!”

But Aunt Martha only smiled and shook her head. “Don,” she said, “would
you rather be in Cambridge, or perhaps with your cousin in Concord,
than here?”

“I want to be with you,” Don replied firmly and then wondered at the
look of quick relief that came over his aunt’s face.

The next day he learned the reason for it. General Gage had agreed to
allow those families who wished to leave the town to go in safety. But
Aunt Martha had not changed her mind. In spite of the supplications
of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and in spite of the risks that
she ran in remaining, she would not leave the little house in which
she had been born and had lived most of her life. If she was stubborn,
it was stubbornness of a defiant, heroic sort, and those who knew her
respected her for it, though some called her a “foolish woman.”

As a result of General Gage’s permission hundreds of families did
leave the town--a circumstance that greatly alarmed the Tories, who
believed that as long as there were women and children in the town the
Continentals would not attack. So at last the general withdrew his
permission, and the town settled down to wait and to watch.

Though there was no longer any school for Don to attend he found
plenty of things to keep him busy. He helped his aunt about the
store in the daytime and sat and talked with her at night. And the
conversation always was of his uncle and of Glen Drake and the army, of
which they knew little enough. Then always before they went to bed Aunt
Martha would spread the old thumb-worn Bible on her knees and read a
chapter aloud.

Frequently of an afternoon Don would take Sailor and go for a long
walk as he used to do. One bright warm day early in May the two were
on their way home from a long jaunt, and were walking along between
the elms on Common Street, when Don observed a group of Redcoats some
distance in front of him. “Here, Sailor,” he called, but the terrier
paid no heed and ran on ahead.

When Don was within a few yards of the group he recognized two familiar
figures--Tom Bullard, who as aide to General Ruggles of the Tories,
now wore a white sash round his left sleeve, and Harry Hawkins, the
Redcoat, whose life Don had saved. The two were laughing and talking
together.

“Here’s one of the young rebels,” cried Tom as Don drew near. “And
here’s his rebel dog. Get out of here, you pup.”

Don made no answer but spoke sharply to Sailor, and the dog trotted to
his side.

“Good day to you, young sire,” said Hawkins pleasantly.

“Good day,” replied Don, and then colored as he observed a boy of
perhaps his own age who happened to be passing with a fishing pole over
his shoulder.

“Do you know him, Hawkins?” inquired Tom in astonishment and then as
Sailor left Don’s side and started back toward the group he added
angrily: “Git, you pup, git!”

But Sailor was all friendliness as he trotted toward the soldiers.

“Come here, Sailor!” ordered Don, stopping and snapping his fingers.

But at that instant Tom’s foot shot out and, striking the terrier in
the chest, lifted him into the air. With a loud yelp the dog landed on
his back and then, scrambling to his feet, ran to Don and stood beside
him, trembling.

“I’ll learn a rebel dog a trick or two,” cried Tom. “And before
long----”

But Tom never finished the sentence. Before Don could take more than
two steps forward, and before any of the soldiers could interfere, the
boy whom Don had just passed dropped his fishing pole, and, lowering
his head, rushed at Tom. One of his fists struck the Tory squarely in
the mouth and sent him reeling; the other struck him on the ear and
sent him crashing to the ground.

Tom was a big boy and very active. In a moment he was on his feet and
had closed with his opponent, who was easily twenty pounds the lighter.

“Fight!” cried a Redcoat. “Clear the way there!”

But there was no fight; at least it lasted only until Harry Hawkins
could spring forward and pull the two apart. “Stop it!” he cried and
pushed Tom’s assailant away. “And you,” he said sharply to Tom, “get
along and be quick about it! I thought better than that of you!”

“Why, Hawkins----”

“Never mind that; you deserve a licking, and if the boy hadn’t been
smaller than you, I’d have stood and watched you take it. Kick a dog!
You ought to be kicked, yourself!”

Tom Bullard’s mouth opened and closed. He gulped several times and
then turned for sympathy to the other soldiers; but they were laughing
at him. With low mutterings he picked up his hat and strode abruptly
off across the Common. The soldiers, still laughing, started toward the
tented area.

Don gathered Sailor in his arms and walked to where the boy was
standing; he had shouldered his fishing pole and was blowing on the
knuckles of his right hand.

He was a boy very much like Don in general appearance--sturdy, active
and alert-looking. His hair was of a reddish brown, and his eyes, dark
and sparkling, seemed to flash with little points of fire. As Don
approached him, a smile played about the corners of his rather large
mouth.

Don extended his hand, and the boy grasped it. “I want to thank you,”
said Don, “for thrashing Tom Bullard. My name is Donald Alden; I live
in Pudding Lane.”

The boy grinned. “Mine’s Jud Appleton.” He patted the head of the
terrier. “Nice looking dog you have. When that big Tory kicked him
I couldn’t help sailing into him. He’d have licked me, though, if
it hadn’t been for the Redcoat. My, but didn’t he talk hot to him
afterward!”

The two boys laughed heartily. “You surely hit him hard,” said Don.

“Did I?” said Jud. “Well, not hard enough, I reckon. Anybody who’d kick
a dog--my, how I hate ’em! I hate Redcoats too, and Tories worse--and
when a Tory kicks a dog I just boil over.”

The boy’s eyes were flashing again, and his fists were tightly
clenched. Don felt an instant liking for him.

“Say,” said Jud quickly, “do you know that Redcoat? I saw him speak to
you.”

“Well, yes,” Don replied and colored again. “You see, I--I saved him
from drowning once.”

“From drowning!”

“Yes; that is--it was before Concord.”

“Oh, I see.” Jud seemed somewhat relieved. “Do you know the Tory?”

“We used to be good friends once. His name is Tom Bullard.”

“Oh, yes; so you said. Say, come on along home with me, won’t you? I
live just down here in Hog Alley. I’ve got the finest bunch of kittens
you ever saw.”

“You like kittens?”

“I like all kinds of animals,” Jud replied gravely.

That was enough for Don, and he accompanied his new friend past West
Street and along toward the alley.

“It’s no fun, living so close to the Common these days,” said Jud. “All
you see is Redcoats. And how I hate ’em! My father and my two brothers
are in the army, and I only wish I could be there too. A drummer boy is
what I’d like to be.”

“So would I,” replied Don. “I was up at Concord and saw the fight----”

“Did you!” cried Jud. “Tell me about it. And how did you ever get back?”

By the time Don had told him something of the skirmish and of Glen
Drake and his Uncle David the two boys were at Jud’s house. A poor,
miserable-looking, one-story little place it was, with a cracked
weather-worn door and a window on either side that looked out across
the road on a large triangular field covered with clover and dandelions.

“That’s our cow over there,” said Jud, “and those are our chickens. We
had twenty-six, but we lost four the other night. Ma thinks a skunk
got ’em, but I think it was Redcoats.”

He led the way to a shed behind the house, and a moment later Don was
looking at six fluffy black and white kittens nestled in the folds of
a burlap bag. As he bent over them the mother cat came running from a
corner of the shed, and he started backward. Sailor backed away and sat
down; he had suffered enough for one day.

“She won’t hurt you,” said Jud, laughing. “Will you, puss?” He played
with the kittens for several minutes, stroking and calling each by name
while the mother cat sat by and watched contentedly. “They’re pretty
well grown now and about ready to shift for themselves. That’s a good
dog of yours to sit there like that. I had a hard time to keep my dog
away from them at first. Say, wouldn’t you like to have one? Ma says I
can’t keep ’em all.”

“Yes, I would,” replied Don. “We haven’t any, and a cat might be good
company for my aunt.”

“Well, here’s a nice one,” and Jud lifted one of the kittens that was
all black except for one white foot. “See, she has one white shoe on;
she lost the others.”

“I’ll call it Whitefoot, then,” said Don and laughed.

“Judson, are you home?” came a woman’s voice from the house.

“Just got home, Ma.”

“Well, come here; we lost two more chickens last night.”

“Thunder!” exclaimed Jud in a low voice.

“Yes, two more,” repeated Mrs. Appleton, appearing at the door of the
shed. “I counted them just now, and there’s only twenty. Oh!” she
exclaimed at sight of Don.

“This is Don Alden,” said Jud; “he lives up in Puddin’ Lane.”

Don found Jud’s mother a pleasant, talkative little woman who in some
ways reminded him of his aunt, though she was not so old. When Jud had
explained to her about their adventure with Tom Bullard and about Don’s
trip to Concord she insisted that he stay and have something to eat
with them.

Later as Don was about to set out with his new pet, Jud whispered to
him: “I’m going to stay up to-night and catch that chicken-thief. I
wish you could be here with me. Can’t you come back?”

“I don’t know,” Don replied doubtfully. “I’d like to, but there’s my
aunt, you know; I don’t like to leave her alone. Have you got a gun or
anything?”

“No; but I’ve got a hickory club, and I can throw a stone pretty
straight.”

“I’d like to sit up with you,” said Don.




CHAPTER VIII

THE BOYS SET A TRAP


The next day was fair and warm, but on the following day the wind
changed, and the drab, suffering town of Boston was shrouded in a thick
blanket of fog. Don rolled over in bed and stretched and yawned.

“Donald,” came the voice of his aunt, “it’s high time you were down
here to breakfast. You’re awake, ’cause I hear the bed a-creaking. Come
on now; Mrs. Lancaster is coming to-day.”

Don lay and blinked for a moment; then he sprang out of bed. If Mrs.
Lancaster were coming, probably she would stay all night--she usually
did. Don had almost given up hope of going to Jud’s and of sitting up
with him to catch the skunk or whatever was stealing his chickens; but
now, if Mrs. Lancaster were coming, he would not mind leaving his aunt
for a while in the evening.

At breakfast Aunt Martha said that her visitor would remain overnight;
and when Don had told her what he wanted to do she objected at first,
as he knew she would, and then consented after he had promised her to
keep far away from any skunk that might come after Jud’s chickens.

At evening when Don set out for Hog Alley the fog was still heavy.
The houses on the opposite side of Pudding Lane, which was one of the
narrowest streets in town, could hardly be seen. And on the Common even
the scarlet-coated soldiers were almost invisible at a distance of
twenty yards.

“I don’t know but what Ma was right,” said Jud when Don reached the
shabby little house in Hog Alley. “There was a skunk round here last
night--a big fellow too, from the smell of him. But I had the hen-house
locked tight and all the chickens inside; so he didn’t get a one. I was
wishing you’d been here though--are you going to stay to-night?”

“For a while, if you want me.”

“I surely do!” Jud was very positive about it. There was no doubt that,
even on such short acquaintance, he liked Don quite as well as Don
liked him. “Well, I’ve got a plan,” he said eagerly. “I want you to
tell me what you think of it.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Don.

“Well, come around to the chicken yard and I’ll explain,” said Jud.
“Now here,” he said a few moments later, “you see our chicken yard has
a high fence and a small gate at the far end.”

“I see,” said Don; “the gate opens out and latches on the outside.”

“Yes, and it’s a strong latch too. Well, I thought we could leave the
gate open and attach a long rope to it and run it through the fence on
this side and back to the wagon shed here, where you and I could wait.
Then if Mr. Skunk comes along and enters the yard, all we’ll have to do
is to pull the gate shut and we’ll have him. Of course he won’t be able
to hurt the chicks ’cause they’ll be locked tight in the hen-house.
What do you think of the idea, Don?”

“Mighty good; but what’ll we do with the skunk when we catch it?”

“Oh, Fred Ferguson next door will kill it for us in the morning.”

“And what if it shouldn’t be a skunk? What if it should be a Redcoat?”

Jud laughed. “I guess we shan’t catch a Redcoat,” he replied. “I hate
’em so much I guess I was unfair the other day. It’s a skunk all
right; you’ll see.”

“I hope so,” said Don. “We’d be in a nice fix if we caught a Redcoat.”

“Let’s set our trap,” said Jud. “The first thing is to find enough
rope.”

The boys at once began to search the wagon shed, and by the time they
had found enough lengths, had fastened them to one another and had
tied one end of the improvised rope to the gate of the chicken yard,
darkness had set in in earnest. Carrying the other end of the rope
across the yard and passing it between the wires of the fence, they
retired with it to the door of the wagon shed to wait.

“Just a moment,” said Jud and crossed the yard to the house.

When he returned he carried with him a pan of cornbread and two large
apples. “This is going to be fun,” he said. “It’s like being out in the
woods, trapping.”

“It is a little,” Don agreed; and then he told Jud more about Glen
Drake and about the trips that the old trapper and he had made
together. “You’ll have to come to the house sometime when he’s there,”
he said.

“I’d like to,” said Jud, “but if he’s with the army, it’ll be a long
time before he can come to Boston again.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Don. “If Glen wanted to come very much he’d
come, and the King’s men would never catch him either!”

For a while the boys sat silent, munching cornbread and apples in the
doorway of the old shed. All round them was darkness, damp and chill.
Up on Common Street a wagon creaked past; the driver, whoever he was,
was singing a boisterous song. After a while he passed out of hearing;
and only the occasional challenge of a sentry far across the Common
broke the stillness.

Don’s head was beginning to nod; but Jud, rope in hand, was wide awake.
“Not asleep, are you, Don?” he whispered.

“What? Oh, yes.” Don shook his head from side to side several times.
“Guess I was asleep. Wonder what time it is?”

“Don’t know; I’ve been listening for a bell.”

“It won’t do to fall asleep,” muttered Don.

But in a few minutes his head was on his chest, and his shoulder was
resting comfortably against the side of the doorway.

Half an hour passed, and at the end of it Jud was nodding between
sleep and wakefulness. Suddenly he felt a slight tug on the rope in
his hands. With a start he sat bolt upright, and the next instant the
chickens in the hen-house began to cackle furiously.

“Don! Don!” whispered Jud and seized his friend by the shoulder.

“What!” Don was wide awake in a flash.

But before Jud could reply something struck the fence. Jud gave a
mighty heave on the rope, and as the gate came shut with a harsh bang
both boys heard someone exclaim aloud.

“A Redcoat!” gasped Jud. “What shall we do?”

“Quick, call somebody!” cried Don, springing to his feet.

Both boys raised their voices and then rushed toward the house. The
chickens were making a terrible noise now; and Jud’s dog, which he had
tied at the back of the wagon shed, was barking at the top of his voice.

Whoever was in the chicken yard was having a hard time getting out.
Don, standing at the corner of the house, could hear the fellow
pounding furiously at the gate and shaking it with all his might.

In the midst of the commotion a window opened in the house next door,
and then a light gleamed within. “There’s Fred Ferguson,” said Jud. “O
Fred, O Fred!” he shouted. “Come quick!”

“Judson, Judson, what on earth is the matter?” It was the voice of Mrs.
Appleton.

Jud did not reply, for at that moment Fred Ferguson, partly dressed and
carrying a lighted candle, which he was shading with his hand, appeared
on the back doorstep of the Ferguson house. He was a big raw-boned
young fellow, and both boys noticed that he was carrying a heavy stick
under one arm. “What’s wrong?” he shouted and advanced toward the fence.

“Somebody’s in our chicken yard,” replied Jud. “Come on, Don,” he
added, and the boys hurried toward Fred.

“Open the gate and let me out of this!” came a voice out of the fog,
and Don started.

The fence shook violently, and the dog and the chickens increased their
clamor.

“Open the gate, I say!”

“Leave off shaking that fence,” cried Fred. “Who are you, and what are
you doing in there? Leave off shaking that gate, I tell you--if you
break it, I’ll whale ye!”

“Open up, then!”

“Come here, you boys, and tell me who it is,” said Fred and held the
candle above his head.

Both boys got a brief glimpse of the person within the yard, and Jud
said quickly, “’Tain’t a Redcoat.”

“No; ’tain’t a Redcoat,” said Fred. “Now come here,” he said in a loud
voice. “Come here and let me see ye, and tell me what you’re a-doing in
there.”

“Open that gate and stand aside--or--or, by thunder, I’ll shoot!”

“Judson! Come here!” cried his mother from the doorway. “Donald, you
too!”

There was a moment of silence, and then Fred said evenly: “I’ll risk a
shot from a chicken-thief.”

With those words he unlatched the gate and threw it open. “Now come
here and let’s see what kind of a person ye are,” he said and waited
with club poised in one hand.

“Let me hold the candle,” said Don.

He was advancing to take it when the fellow in the yard made a sudden
rush. Don saw Fred’s club descend and heard it strike something hard.
Then Fred went over backward, but just before the candle went out Don
had a glimpse of the intruder’s face as the fellow rushed past and
vanished into the darkness. It was Tom Bullard!

“Tarnation!” exclaimed Fred, getting to his feet. “Can’t see a thing.
He’s gone, blast him! What a tormented fool I was to let him rush me
like that!”

The quick footsteps of the thief were becoming fainter and fainter in
the distance. Then they ceased abruptly.

“Who was it, Fred?” asked Jud.

“Don’t know.” Fred was angry with himself and spoke sharply. “Didn’t
get much of a look at him and wouldn’t know him again if I saw him.
Well, he won’t come back; that’s certain.”

“Judson, didn’t I call you?”

“Yes’m. Don, where are you? Come into the house for a minute.”

“No; I’d best be going,” replied Don quickly.

But before he went he whispered to Jud: “Do you know who the fellow
was? It was Tom Bullard!”

“Tom Bullard! The fellow who kicked your dog?”

“Yes; I’m sure of it; I saw his face just before the candle went out.”

Jud whistled softly.

“Judson Greenleaf Appleton, if you don’t come into the house right
straight this minute----”

“Good night, Jud,” said Don and hurried out into the alley.

A bell was striking the hour of ten o’clock as Don reached Marlborough
Street. Almost no one was abroad at that late hour, and only here and
there a light gleamed soft and yellow through the heavy fog. He passed
the Old South Meeting-House and a few minutes later was in Pudding Lane.

Mrs. Lancaster and Aunt Martha were just preparing to go to bed, when
Don entered, out of breath and red of face.

“Well, Donald,” said his aunt, “I was thinking it was high time you
returned.”

“Did you catch your skunk?” inquired Mrs. Lancaster.

Don could not help grinning. “Well, yes; I guess we did.”

“You guess!” Aunt Martha was mildly astonished. “Just what do you mean,
Donald?”

“It wasn’t a real skunk that was after Jud Appleton’s chickens,” Don
replied. “It was Tom Bullard.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed both ladies.

And Don hastened to explain what had happened while he was gone.

“Wasn’t I just a-saying,” said Mrs. Lancaster when Don had finished,
“wasn’t I just a-saying, Martha, that you can’t trust a Tory out of
your sight? Wasn’t I, now?”

“You were, Hannah.”

“And Tom Bullard--well, I always said he was a bad one.”

And Don was thinking the same thing as he climbed the stairs to bed a
few minutes later.




CHAPTER IX

THE REGULARS EMBARK


Early the next morning Don was hard at work washing the windows at the
front of the store. He had cleaned them on the inside and was about to
start on the outside, when Jud crossed the square and hailed him. Over
his shoulder he was carrying two fishing poles.

“Where are you going?” asked Don.

“Up to the mill-pond. I thought maybe you’d come along, so I brought an
extra pole.”

“Sure,” said Don; “but I’ll have to finish these windows first.”

“I’ll help you,” Jud replied promptly and, setting down the poles,
rolled up his sleeves.

While the two boys were cleaning and polishing the glass Tom Bullard
happened to turn into the lane from King Street. It was clear that he
had not expected to meet the boys and did not want them to see him;
for he had no sooner spied them than he stopped and made as if to turn
back; but Jud’s sharp eyes had already caught sight of him. “Here’s
the chicken-thief, Don,” he whispered.

Don stopped work to look. It is to Tom’s credit perhaps that he did
not turn on his heel then and there. What he did was to lift his chin
a trifle and, choosing the opposite side of the street, march past
without looking either to the right or to the left. It was really a
hard thing to do, for Don and Jud were staring at him and grinning
frankly.

“He’s got his head pretty high, hasn’t he?” said Jud in a loud whisper.

“But not high enough to hide that bump above his left eye,” replied Don.

“That’s where Fred’s stick landed,” said Jud. “Just look how high he
holds his head--just like a chicken!”

Both boys chuckled, and a moment later they laughed outright when Tom’s
foot struck an upraised brick, and he stumbled. At the corner of Water
Street, Tom turned and shook his fist.

Jud’s eyes flashed, but Don was silent. “And to think,” he said at
last, “that he used to be my best friend!”

“He’s not worth thinking about,” said Jud shortly. “Come on, Don, let’s
finish these windows in a hurry. I wonder how the fish are biting?”

But there were other things beside fish to wonder about on that day in
early May. The people of Boston knew little enough of what was going on
round them. Every other person was wondering how soon the American army
would attack the British, and whether the Redcoats would risk going out
and fighting in the open. Already there had been skirmishes and they
continued to occur off and on throughout the rest of the month; but
although the Americans were generally successful, the skirmishes really
did not amount to much.

Word had somehow seeped into the beleaguered town that the Continental
force consisted of sixteen thousand men and that fortifications were
being prepared in Cambridge and along the Mystic River; and it was
whispered that men from all the other Colonies as far south as Virginia
were flocking to join the army. But Gage’s men scoffed at such reports;
and although none of them dared venture outside the town they also
scoffed at the idea that they were in a state of siege. A body of
undisciplined farmers oppose them, the King’s soldiers? Preposterous!

What the King’s men did not realize was that many of them, especially
the officers, had fought in the French wars. Oddly enough the terrible
experience of the nineteenth of April was lost upon the over-confident
British; they supposed that the men who had fought so valiantly at
Concord and Lexington would run like frightened sheep in an encounter
in the open.

Numerous things had occurred to exasperate the good people of Boston,
but one of the worst was a proclamation that Gage issued; it declared
martial law and referred to all who were bearing arms against the
King’s men as “rebels and traitors”; but, said the proclamation, if
they would lay down their arms all would be pardoned--all, that is,
except John Hancock and Samuel Adams.

Toward the end of the month British re-enforcements began to arrive,
and on the twenty-fifth the troop-ship _Cerebus_ brought three
generals--Howe, Clinton and Burgoyne.

Don and Jud were in the vicinity of the Green Dragon Tavern a few days
after the _Cerebus_ arrived. They were looking out over the harbor
when Don heard someone call his name, and, turning, he saw one of the
sailors who had helped him from the water the day he had saved the
Redcoat from drowning.

“Hello, there, young Master Donald,” said the fellow--it was Hank.
“There’s the boat out there that brought the three big ones--Howe,
Clinton and Elbow-Room Burgoyne. If they’d side-stepped on the
gangplank, I don’t doubt you’d have jumped in and saved them.”

Don flushed. “I’m not so sure--now,” he replied. “But tell me, why do
you call Burgoyne ‘Elbow-Room’?”

“Why, haven’t you heard that story?” Hank grinned and glanced round to
make sure that no Redcoat was within hearing. “You see, it’s like this:
As the _Cerebus_ was coming in she met a packet bound for Newport.
‘What news is there?’ Burgoyne shouts to the skipper. ‘The town is
surrounded by ten thousand country folk,’ was the reply. At that the
general opens his eyes wide. ‘How many regulars are in the town?’ he
asks. ‘About five thousand,’ the skipper shouts in reply. Then the
general’s eyes open wider than ever, and he cries, ‘What, ten thousand
peasants keep five thousand King’s troops shut up! Well, let us get in,
and we’ll soon find elbow-room!’”

Both boys laughed heartily, and Hank added, “Elbow-Room Burgoyne
it’ll be to the end of his days, now, I suppose.” Hank lowered his
voice. “Let me tell you something, my lads,” he said. “There’s going
to be a big fight before many days have passed. There must be close
to ten thousand Redcoats in the town now, and, mark my words, they’re
not going to sit idle, not they. You lads keep your eyes fixed on
Dorchester Heights and Bunker’s Hill.”

“How do you know all that?” asked Jud.

The sailor solemnly winked his left eye and stuck his tongue into his
left cheek. “The sea-gulls of the air,” he said. “The sea-gulls of the
air.”

Whether or not Hank had secret information about the movements and
intentions of the British troops, it is a fact that on the evening
of the sixteenth of June, while Don and his aunt were sound asleep,
events moved swiftly toward a climax. The army in Cambridge, determined
on driving the King’s troops from the town, took measures to fortify
Bunker Hill, and then almost at the last moment changed the plan and
fortified a hill that was somewhat nearer the town. All during the
night the Continentals labored at throwing up earthworks; and all the
while the stars looked down peacefully, and the British men-of-war
floated serenely with the tide, and the British patrols cried “All’s
well” at frequent intervals.

At dawn Don and his aunt were wakened by the noise of firing; but by
the time they were both down to breakfast the firing had ceased.

“Now what in the world could that have meant?” asked Aunt Martha.

“I’ll find out,” replied Don and ran into the street.

Near the town hall he inquired of a pedestrian what the firing was.

“His Majesty’s ship _Lively_,” replied the fellow shortly. He was
evidently a Tory. “She fired on some earthworks the rebels have thrown
up over by Charlestown.”

Don waited to hear no more. While he and his aunt were having breakfast
he told her what he had heard. Aunt Martha only sighed. “Who knows,”
she said after a long pause, “but what your uncle and Glen are over
there at Charlestown?”

During the forenoon the firing resumed. The British, it seems,
had brought three or four floating batteries to bear upon the
fortifications; but in spite of the heavy bombardment the Continentals
continued to work.

The day promised to be hot and sultry. The sun, a bright ball of molten
gold, was blazing down on the shingled roofs of the town and was
sending up heat waves from the cobblestoned streets. Don left off his
top coat and turned in the collar of his shirt.

“You don’t look neat and trim, Donald Alden,” said his aunt as he was
about to leave the house.

“It’s too hot, Aunt Martha.”

“You think so perhaps. Well, don’t go far.”

“I’m going to find Jud,” replied Don.

He did not have to go all the way to Hog Alley to find his comrade.
Jud, hot and excited, almost ran into him at the foot of School Street.
“O Don!” he exclaimed. “There’s going to be an awful time--a battle,
sure as you’re alive! I was coming to get you.”

“I know,” said Don. “Everybody’s excited. And did you hear the firing
early this morning?”

“Come up to the Common,” said Jud. “The Redcoats are all on parade.
They’re going to march off, I think.”

The boys found the Common a scene of intense activity. There seemed
to be Redcoats everywhere. Some were in formation; some were hurrying
to join their companies that were assembling, and all seemed to be
carrying arms and full equipment. The sun flashed on glistening swords
and buckles and seemed to turn each bright red coat into a vivid blaze
of fire. And overhead the graceful limbs of the great old elms waved
gently to and fro like gigantic lacy green fans.

“Look,” said Don, “there’s the 43rd, Harry Hawkins’s regiment.”

“Yes, and there’s Hawkins himself,” replied Jud. “See him--that big
fellow?”

Don bit his lips and said nothing. He did not dare put into words the
thoughts that had come crowding into his mind at sight of the only
Redcoat for whom he had the least affection.

“There’s the grenadiers,” said Jud; “and the new regiment, the 35th and
the 49th.”

“Yes, and there are the marines,” added Don. “They all look pretty
fine, don’t they?”

“They look fine enough now,” replied Jud, “but just you wait till our
men get a shot at them. You know how it was at Lexington and Concord.”

Don knew indeed, and the thought of that memorable day cheered him
considerably.

By now most of the troops had assembled, and one regiment already was
marching off. The boys hastened to follow along Common Street.

“My, but it’s hot! Whew!” cried Jud. “I’m most melted.”

“I am too,” Don grinned. “I’m glad I don’t have to carry a pack and a
musket. Just listen to the firing now!”

Although the sun was high overhead, neither boy thought of being
hungry. Down Queen Street they hurried and past the town hall into King
Street. People were standing on street corners and watching from doors
and windows as the King’s troops swung past over the rough street.
Small boys, shouting loudly to one another, were hurrying along beside
the splendid, well-disciplined columns; and dogs of all sizes were
running here and there, barking shrilly. One little fellow, all black
with white spots, ran diagonally through the column and then, turning
swiftly, ran back again as if for the sole purpose of showing that he
could do it.

The boys saw the regiment march out upon Long Wharf, where boats were
waiting to carry them north toward Charlestown. Then they saw another
and another regiment swing down King Street and move out upon the wharf.

“Are they all going to embark here?” asked Jud.

“No,” replied a man who was standing near by. “Some of ’em are on the
way to North Battery.”

“Come on up there then,” said Don.

When the boys reached the battery most of the British who were
embarking at that point were already in the boats.

By now some of the people in the North End had climbed to the roofs of
their houses, from which points they would have an unobstructed view of
Charlestown across the water and of the men-of-war. As the boys were
coming from the North Battery, Jud shouted to a man who was perched
astride his gabled roof: “Hey, there, is there room for two more?”

“Come right along if you’re not Tories,” replied the man. “I reckon it
wouldn’t be safe for a Tory up here beside me to-day.”

Jud, impetuous by nature, ran to the ladder that was leaning against
the house, and Don, naturally cautious but in the excitement forgetful
of everything, followed him. In a minute the boys were beside the
man--John Short, a saddle-maker--and were looking eagerly across the
water.




CHAPTER X

FROM A HOUSETOP


The two boys and their patriotic friend, the saddle-maker, saw the
barges loaded with red-clad soldiers steering for the point northeast
of Charlestown and later saw the barges return for more troops. Close
in toward the Charlestown shore they could see the men-of-war _Falcon_,
_Lively_, _Somerset_ and _Symmetry_, and all were firing at the little
redoubt on the hill beyond the town.

“Who’s that walking along the top of the fort there?” Don asked
suddenly.

“Whoever he is, he’d better keep down,” said Jud.

“I can’t be sure at this distance,” replied the saddle-maker, “but from
the size and appearance of him I’d say he was Colonel Prescott.”

Afterward the boys learned that the man was Colonel Prescott and that
his apparent disregard for the fire of the British was for the purpose
of heartening the men within the fort.

About mid-afternoon all the fire from the men-of-war and the British
batteries seemed to concentrate on the little fort.

“There they go!” cried Short. “The attack’s begun.”

The regulars were advancing in two divisions; one division moved
straight up the hill toward the fort; the other moved toward the
fortifications beyond the hill--which could not be seen from the roof.
Burdened with heavy equipment, and with the hot sun blazing down on
their heads, the British walked slowly over the uneven ground. When
they had gone some distance they opened fire and continued to fire as
they advanced. A few scattering shots from the hill answered them.

“Our men are withholding their fire till it’ll count,” said Short. “A
wise thing to do.”

“Well, I wish they’d hurry and fire,” said Jud. “Just see how close the
Redcoats are to the fort!”

The stretch of green and brown field between the redoubt and the front
line of advancing regulars was growing smaller and smaller. From beyond
the hill came a rattling roar of muskets and of field-pieces. Then came
a heavy volley from the fort.

“Look! Look!” cried Short and in his excitement almost let go his hold.

The regulars returned the fire, and then amid the rattling, crackling
hail of musket balls the ranks wavered and then broke. Down the hill
haphazard the trained troops of King George retreated; but they left
many of their number behind on the slope.

Meanwhile shells that had fallen inside Charlestown had set many of
the wooden buildings on fire, and the flames were spreading with great
rapidity. Blue smoke was curling upward from the spires of the public
buildings to mingle with the deeper blue of the sky. Little tongues of
yellow flame were licking the sides and roofs of many of the smaller
houses. In a few minutes the crash of falling beams mingled with the
roar and rattle of cannon and musket.

The regulars rallied and advanced again, but they could not go far
in the face of the terrible fire that poured down upon them. As at
Lexington, Don could see red-coated officers urging and threatening
their men with brightly gleaming swords, but it was of no use. Again
the lines broke, and the King’s troops retreated, this time in greater
disorder than the first.

“They’re brave men; I’ll say that for them,” said Short.

Don and Jud thought so too, but neither said a word; the terrible
spectacle seemed to have taken away their power to speak.

It was a long time before the Redcoats rallied and advanced for the
third time.

“They’ve left off their knapsacks this trip,” said Short. “They’ll do
better, I’m thinking.”

It was only too true, for the gallant Americans had used most of their
ammunition. They met the attack bravely, and then the fire from the
fort suddenly slackened. In a few minutes the regulars were at the
walls. Then a great cloud of dust rose above the works as the defenders
reluctantly gave way. The British, who were on three sides of the
redoubt, rushed forward and, swarming over the walls, sent up a great
cheer, which came faintly across the water. Then they opened fire on
the retreating Continentals.

The boys could see little groups of soldiers beyond on the slopes of
Bunker Hill, but by now the dust was so thick that they could hardly
distinguish which side the men belonged to. Intermittent firing
continued for some time, and the warm air was saturated with the
pungent odor of powder.

“Victory for the Redcoats,” said Jud in a choking voice, and Don nodded
in agreement. There was such a lump in his throat that he would not
trust himself to speak.

“Well, maybe,” said Short, “but I’m a-thinking it’s a pretty costly
victory for old King George.”

And so it proved to be. The town of Boston wore a gloomy aspect during
the next few days. The King’s troops, who had looked so fine on parade
on the morning of the battle, went about dispiritedly and muttered
among themselves at the awful price that they had paid for the hill.

When Don reached home late that evening the sound of cannon was still
ringing in his ears--indeed the guns did not cease firing until the
next afternoon. He told his aunt what he had seen, but omitted a good
deal out of sympathy for her feelings. But though Aunt Martha had not
seen so much as her nephew she seemed to know quite as much about what
had happened as he did; and all her anxiety, all her thoughts were for
her husband and for Glen Drake.

Almost all of the next day, which was Sunday, she spent in reading the
Bible; nor would she permit her nephew to stir from the house. “I want
you with me, Donald,” she said. “Something tells me that your uncle was
in the battle, and something tells me that everything did not go just
right.”

“But, Aunt Martha, you can’t be sure,” said Don. “I’m just going to
suppose that he was there and didn’t get a scratch.”

Although Aunt Martha did not reply her eyes said plainly that she
wished she could think as her nephew did.

To relieve the depressed and disgruntled Redcoats the Tories took upon
themselves the work of patrolling the streets at night. Every evening
forty-nine of them went on duty, and once Don saw Tom Bullard, dressed
in a green uniform, hurrying importantly along Cornhill apparently with
a message from his chief, General Ruggles. That was the same evening
after General Gage had issued another proclamation calling upon the
townspeople again to turn over to him any firearms that they still
possessed.

“Aunt Martha,” said Don, “you know there’s some powder among that stuff
in the cellar. Do you suppose we’d better turn that in?”

“No,” replied his aunt firmly. “Only to have the Redcoats use it
against our own men! Never! If the cellar were full of swords and
muskets, I’d not say a word about them to anyone who wears a red coat.
Maybe some day that powder will be useful in the hands of those who
really deserve it.”

It was now nearing the end of June, but not a word, not the slightest
hint concerning the fate of either David Hollis or Glen Drake had
reached Aunt Martha’s ears. Together Don and his aunt had visited the
hospitals where both Americans and British wounded soldiers were being
cared for; yet not a thing could they find out. Instead of feeling
encouraged, however, Aunt Martha became more and more worried, and
oddly enough Don soon began to feel much as she did.

One bit of information of quite a different sort did, however, seep
into the beleaguered town. Rumor had it that a valiant soldier from
Virginia--Col. George Washington--was coming to Cambridge to take
command of the entire Continental army. Don heard the news from Jud,
who in turn had heard it from a storekeeper in Orange Street.

“Col. George Washington--why, he was with Braddock and saved what
remained of the British army after the French and Indians had ambushed
them.” Don’s eyes were wide with admiration. “When’s he coming, Jud?
Say, he’s a great man!”

“He’s one of the finest soldiers there ever was,” said Jud. “He’ll make
things hum when he arrives. Give him an army and he won’t be long in
driving the Redcoats into the sea!”

“When’s he coming?” Don asked again.

“Oh, in a few days, so they say. I heard that he’s already on his way
and that Congress had made him commander-in-chief just a day or so
before the fight over Charlestown way.”

“I’d surely like to see him,” said Don. “Glen Drake knows him and has
fought beside him. He says he’s the finest looking man he ever saw.”

“Have you heard anything of Glen or your uncle?”

Don immediately became grave. “Not a word, Jud,” he replied.

The first two weeks in July came and passed, and it was known
definitely that General Washington had reached Cambridge and had taken
command of the army beneath a large spreading elm tree.

Still no word came concerning David Hollis. Aunt Martha went
mechanically about her housework and had got into the habit of reading
much and of talking little. Other people who had relatives in the
Continental army had managed to get word of them--somehow; but David
Hollis and his friend, the trapper,--it seemed at times almost as if
they never had existed.

The friendship between David and Jud seemed to grow stronger each day,
and the boys spent most of their time together. One evening, Jud, in
response to an invitation from Aunt Martha, came to spend the afternoon
and night at the house in Pudding Lane. The boys had intended to go
fishing that afternoon, but unfortunately rain began to fall around
noon and increased to a steady, violent downpour as the afternoon wore
on.

By five o’clock it was so dark that Aunt Martha had to light a candle
in order to see to read. Rain was still falling, and with it came a
heavy fog that swept like smoke through the narrow streets.

“It’s good we didn’t so fishing,” said Jud. “This is a regular
northeast storm. Probably it will last for two or three days.”

“Yes, and it’s growing cold,” said Aunt Martha. “Donald, I think we’d
better have a fire.”

Between the two of them the boys soon had a cheerful, crackling fire on
the hearth; and by the light of it Aunt Martha became more like her old
self. During supper she laughed frequently with the boys, especially
when Jud told of his many pets. And afterward she played fox and geese
with them. “I declare, Jud,” she said, “I’m glad you came.”

The evening passed swiftly and pleasantly, though outside the wind was
howling and sending the heavy drops of rain spattering against the
windows.

Don and Jud had finished their last game, and Aunt Martha was looking
at them inquiringly, when suddenly the knocker on the door rose and
fell.

“Oh!” cried Aunt Martha, startled.

“Now who can that be?” said Don and went to the door.

He opened it a crack and then stepped backward in astonishment as a man
pushed his way inside and hastily closed the door behind him.

“Glen--Glen!” cried Aunt Martha and fairly flew to meet the visitor.

Don was too much surprised to speak. He only looked on dumbly as the
old trapper caught his aunt’s hands and drew her swiftly into the
shadows away from the window.

“Glen,” said Aunt Martha, “only one thing could bring you
here--David----”

“Is well,” replied the trapper and sat down in one of the chairs. “He’s
been sick, Martha--he was wounded at Bunker’s Hill--but he’s doing
well. There’s no cause for worry.”

Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and sank into a chair beside him.

“Don, my boy, how are you?” asked Glen. “I see you’re taking good care
of your aunt. And this----” He glanced at Jud searchingly for a moment.

“This is Jud Appleton,” said Aunt Martha. “Don’s close companion and as
loyal as any of us.”

Jud winced under the trapper’s grip and from that moment would have
followed his lead anywhere.

“I told you he’d come if he wanted to,” whispered Don.

Though Glen was naturally a man of few words he did most of the talking
during the two hours that he remained at the house in Pudding Lane. He
had crossed from Cambridge under cover of rain and darkness and would
return the same way. David Hollis, he said, had received a ball through
the shoulder during the third assault of the Redcoats on the hill and
was now at Cambridge, where he would probably remain until he was fully
recovered; then he would rejoin his company.

Glen had had two reasons for coming, it seemed; one was to acquaint
Aunt Martha with the exact condition of her husband; the other was to
bring money, which both he and David Hollis feared she was sorely in
need of.

For perhaps half an hour he and Aunt Martha talked in low whispers.
Then he raised his voice and spoke of events that had happened
concerning the Continental army, and both boys bent forward eagerly to
listen.

“You boys just ought to see Cambridge,” he said. “Soldiers
everywhere--fine-looking fellows from up north, dark, handsome boys
from the South. I tell you it’s a sight to see them on parade. And
tents--hundreds of ’em of all sorts. Those of the Rhode Islanders are
all canvas, but the others--why, they’re part sailcloth and part wood,
and some are mostly mud and branches. And fortifications all over;
Boston Neck and Charlestown Neck are sealed tight, you might say.”

Glen paused and filled his pipe. “It’s a funny thing,” he continued;
“not many years ago the settlers faced their fortifications the
opposite way to protect their homes against the Injuns; now it’s an
enemy from the east they’ve got to protect themselves against.”

“And have you seen Colonel Washington?” asked Jud.

“Seen him! I should say so!” The old trapper’s face lighted up, and his
eyes gleamed in the shadows. “There’s not a better officer alive. He’s
what you call an officer and a gentleman, and he looks the part every
inch when he’s on his big horse. He wears a blue uniform faced with
buff and a black cockade in his hat--but you ought to see him. I’m no
hand at describing.”

Glen had another talk alone with Aunt Martha before he finally shook
everyone by the hand, bade them keep up their spirits and then,
muffling his face with the collar of his coat, slipped noiselessly out
into the night.

“Now, you boys, to bed with you,” said Aunt Martha. “And don’t lie
awake, talking.”

But her good advice was given in vain; the boys lay awake until long
into the night, talking of the wily old trapper who somehow had entered
the town right under the Redcoats’ nose without their knowing it.

“I told you he’d come if he wanted to,” Don repeated exultantly.

“Yes, and he’ll get back easily too,” said Jud. “I’d pity any Redcoat
who tried to stop him.”

“So would I,” said Don, thinking of how Glen had acted on the evening
when they had crossed the flats together and had met the British sentry.

“Are you boys asleep?” came the voice of Aunt Martha.

Only the echoes answered her question.




CHAPTER XI

THE LIBERTY TREE


By the end of July both the people of Boston and the King’s soldiers
were beginning to feel the ill effects of the siege. One of the main
troubles was the food. Civilian and soldier alike were obliged to eat
much salt fish and meat--so much in fact that sickness and fever broke
out, especially in the army. Don and his aunt were rather better off
than most folks, for at the beginning of the trouble the store had been
well stocked, and, moreover, Aunt Martha now had money with which to
buy fresh eggs and vegetables.

With the increasing discontent owing to improper food individual
Redcoats became more arrogant toward the townsfolk, whom they far
outnumbered. There were fewer than seven thousand inhabitants; whereas,
the troops and their dependents numbered close to fourteen thousand.

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Martha, “how is it ever going to end? How much
longer are we to live this way, insulted and persecuted on every hand?”

“It seems that every time they have a skirmish with Washington’s men,”
said Don, “they take their spite out on us. Well, just you wait, Aunt
Martha; General Washington will show them he means business. He can’t
do it now because his army isn’t ready; he has to train his men. And
besides, he needs more powder and cannon and----”

“Why, Donald, where do you learn all these things?”

“Oh, Jud and I hear folks talking. Sometimes we hear when we’re
pretending not to. Jud says that’s the thing to do.”

Aunt Martha smiled and shook her head.

“We were down on Essex Street yesterday near the Liberty Tree,” Don
continued, “and heard some Tories and Redcoats talking. One of the
Tories said, ‘These stubborn rebels’--meaning us, Aunt Martha,--‘think
they’ll do wonders now that they’ve appointed a Virginian head of their
upstart army; but they’re wrong; if great Cæsar himself were head of
that army he couldn’t make ’em stand up and fight!’

“Then one of the soldiers--I thought at first it was Harry Hawkins,
but it wasn’t--faced around quick and said, ‘Were you at Lexin’ton or
Bunker’s Hill?’

“‘No,’ the Tory replied.

“‘Well, then,’ said the Redcoat, ‘what do you know about it? I was at
Lexin’ton, and I was over at Charlestown last June, and I _know_ they
can fight. I hate ’em just as much as you do, my friend,’ he said,
‘but I respect them too. They can fight. If they’d had lots of powder,
we’d never have taken that hill. And another thing, I know this man
Washington. I should say I do! I was with Braddock. And when Washington
gets his army trained and has plenty of ammunition I tell you we’re
a-going to have a fight on our hands, and don’t you forget it!’”

“What did the Tory say?” asked Aunt Martha.

“He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged his shoulders and turned
away. That’s how a Tory is, Aunt Martha; he’ll talk a lot and let the
Redcoats do the fighting.”

Certainly the Tories had much to talk about. It must have given them
much satisfaction to see their neighbors imprisoned on false charges.
Mr. Lovell, the schoolmaster, charged with being a spy, was confined
for sixty-five days. John Gill, a close friend of Don’s uncle, was
imprisoned for twenty-nine days for printing what had displeased
General Gage.

But even numerous vexations and wrongs of that sort were not enough to
satisfy the Tories. They themselves were suffering from the siege, and
they wanted to punish the whole people of Boston, who they said were
the cause of their suffering. Just what a malicious form of punishment
they chose Don and Jud were soon to learn.

Early one morning the two boys were on their way to Coffin’s Field to
get bait for fishing. Each was lightly dressed, and both were hurrying
along briskly. The sun was pushing its way up warm and bright and
seemed to promise a good day. They had come down Newbury Street and
were turning into Essex when Jud pointed to the Liberty Tree, a great
elm that stood on the southeast corner. “That’s what I call the finest
tree that ever grew,” he said.

“It surely is pretty,” replied Don; “just look how dainty and green
the leaves are, and how the limbs curve way up and hang over like long
ferns. Yes, I’d say an elm is about the finest tree that ever grew.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the appearance of it so much,” Jud replied,
“though it surely is a beauty. I was thinking rather of what it means.
It stands for Liberty. Don’t you remember how, whenever there used to
be trouble with King George, folks would flock to the tree?”

“They do still, for that matter.”

“Well, yes, but I was thinking of one night when I was just a little
fellow. I don’t remember just what had happened--the repeal of a stamp
law maybe--anyway Ma took me to the tree, and there it was covered with
lanterns and a big flag flying from the pole in the centre up there,
and everybody was laughing and singing and ringing bells. Oh, it surely
was fine!”

Still talking about the tree, the boys went on down Essex Street and
a few minutes later were at Coffin’s Field. Jud led the way to a far
corner of it, where they began to dig.

For almost three-quarters of an hour they worked, turning over great
clods of earth; but grub worms, which they particularly wanted, were
scarce.

“How many have we got?” asked Don.

Jud counted them. “Only fourteen,” he replied. “Let’s try over there
behind that pig-pen.”

The ground behind the pig-pen proved somewhat better, and at last, with
a fair supply of worms, the boys started back along Essex Street.

They were perhaps half-way to Newbury Street when they heard
loud talking and boisterous laughter. A minute later they saw a
crowd--mostly soldiers and Tories--at the corner.

Suddenly the two boys stopped short. Don grasped Jud’s arm and in a
choking voice cried, “See what they’ve done!”

Jud was speechless; his lips moved, but he made no sound. There in
front of them, the centre of a boorish mob, lay the Liberty Tree!
It had been cut down near the base. The delicate leaves and slender
twigs were being trampled underfoot as Tories and Redcoats moved here
and there, laughing, shouting and swearing. Great limbs that once had
swayed so gracefully in the breeze were scattered about along the
street; deep white gashes showed where the cruel axe had bitten into
them. And the odor of green wood filled the moist warm air.

“J-Jud!” cried Don.

But Jud did not utter a word. His ruddy face was pale, and his cheeks
seemed suddenly hollow.

“Well, what do you think of your fine tree now?” said a mocking voice.

Both boys turned and confronted--Tom Bullard.

“You dirty, sneaking chicken-thief!” cried Jud and would have hurled
himself against the Tory if Don had not held him.

“Now, none of that,” said Tom and retreated a step or two. Then he
turned and walked away, whistling.

“See here,” said a bystander, “I guess you boys feel as bad as I do
about it, but don’t be hotheads. They’re too many for us.”

“How did it happen?” asked Don unsteadily.

“Job Williams, the Tory, led the mob,” replied the man. “And a mob
it surely was. Such a lot of swearing and yelling--it’s good you
missed it. Redcoats and Tories alike swarmed up the tree like so many
thick-lipped gorillas. But it wasn’t all fine for them. Just before you
came one of the soldiers in the topmost branches missed his hold and
fell. I saw him fall; he was killed!”

“Good!” cried Jud, clenching his fists.

“That’s just what I said.” The man smiled. “They carted him off a few
minutes ago. It was the hand of Providence that did it, my lads, and
the hand of Providence will account for many more of them before long.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Don. “It makes me sick to look. Just hear
’em yelling.”

Each boy picked up a twig from the street, and, thrusting it into his
pocket, hurried up Newbury Street toward Hog Alley.

There was no fishing for Don or for Jud that day. What they had seen in
the morning had taken away all their desire for sport. And Aunt Martha
felt quite as bad about the destruction of the tree as the boys did.
“If there’s one thing I can’t abide,” she said, “it’s spite work.”

The Liberty Tree yielded the soldiers fourteen cords of wood, but they
had paid dearly for it. Other trees also were cut down for the sake of
the wood, and before winter set in the Common had lost many of its fine
old elms.

September passed, and with the turning of the leaves Don longed to go
forth into the woods. “Say, Aunt Martha,” he remarked one day, “I never
knew that the town was so small. There’s no place to go without seeing
Redcoats. I’d like to go off somewhere in the woods.”

“Have patience, Donald. Maybe if you wait, some day the whole continent
will be free for you to come and go in as you please.”

“Do you think the Colonies will be independent, Aunt Martha? Do you
really want them to be?”

“Yes. I think it, and I hope it.” Aunt Martha’s lips were set in a
straight line, as they had been when she had told her husband that she
would not leave her home for the sake of a Redcoat.

Don was about to make some reply when he spied Jud outside the window;
he was hurrying up the street, and there was an eager look in his eyes.

“Hello, Jud,” Don greeted him as he opened the door. “What’s the news?”

“Good news,” Jud replied breathlessly. “I’ve heard that old Gage is
going back to England. How glad I am!”

“Say, where did you hear that?” asked Don.

“Over near Faneuil Hall. I was listening again.” Jud grinned.

“Who’s to take his place?” asked Aunt Martha.

“Don’t know yet. But won’t it be fine to see old Gage go? He’s caused
enough trouble for half a dozen men.”

The news proved to be true enough. On the tenth of October, General
Gage sailed for England, never to return. Lord Howe, who had commanded
the British in the assault at Charlestown, took Gage’s place. He was
popular with the troops, but with the suffering townsfolk he was a poor
substitute for the unpopular Gage. The proclamations that he issued
were irritating at best; he seemed to think only of the safety and
comfort of his soldiers.

One of his first acts was to erect new fortifications. Then he
requisitioned private dwellings and some of the meeting-houses for the
use of his men.




CHAPTER XII

A BLUSTERING SERGEANT-MAJOR


“Donald, someone’s at the door. Hurry and answer it.” Aunt Martha’s
voice sounded from her nephew’s room up-stairs, which she was sweeping.

Knock, knock--_knock_!

“He’s pretty anxious to make us hear,” said Don as he crossed the floor
of the living-room.

Knock!

Don opened the door and looked full into the face of a red-haired,
red-coated British sergeant-major, who at once inserted his foot and
pushed his way inside the room. “Who lives here besides yourself, young
sire?” he demanded.

Don stared at him and thought he had never seen such an ugly-looking
fellow. He was big and broad and flabby, and the only thing about
him that was not red, it seemed, were his eyes, which were a pale,
washed-out blue.

“Don’t stand there and stare!” the sergeant-major bellowed. “Tell me
who lives here.”

“My Aunt Martha Hollis and I and my uncle David, who’s with the
Continental army just at present,” replied Don.

The soldier snorted and then hurried to face Aunt Martha, who had come
down-stairs. “Is that right?” he asked in a surly but milder voice.

“My nephew has told you the truth,” Aunt Martha replied with dignity.

“How many rooms are in the house?”

“The living-room and three rooms up-stairs.”

The sergeant-major produced a piece of paper. “Show me to the rooms
up-stairs,” he said and walked toward the stairway.

“Why do you wish to see them?” asked Aunt Martha, somewhat alarmed and
bewildered.

The soldier made no reply but mounted the steps. Don followed him
closely. After a brief inspection of the rooms they came down, and the
soldier wrote something on the slip of paper. “You’ll have two men to
billet,” he said. “So you’d better fix up that big room at the front.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Aunt Martha said indignantly.

The man’s red face became redder than ever; he started to say
something, then checked himself and laughed. “Two men,” he repeated
and strode toward the door and slammed it behind him.

“O Donald!” cried Aunt Martha. “If your uncle were only here!”

Don clenched his fists. “Two Redcoats to live with us all winter!” he
exclaimed. “That’s what it means, Aunt Martha.”

“Oh, dear,” said his aunt and sat down by the window. “Two--two
Redcoats to track in mud and dirt and scratch and tear things with
their heavy shoes----”

“Now, don’t worry, Aunt Martha,” Don interrupted her. “Maybe it won’t
be so bad, having them here. And maybe before long General Washington
will have his army ready to drive all of them out of the town.”

Aunt Martha soon recovered her spirits and set about making ready for
the two unwelcome guests. “I suppose if they insist on having the big
front room, we’ll have to give it to them,” she said. “I don’t see any
other way out of it.”

[Illustration: “WHO LIVES HERE BESIDE YOURSELF, YOUNG SIRE?”]

Nevertheless, she spent most of the day in cleaning the spare bedroom,
and when Don looked at it that afternoon he could not help smiling.
“You’ve made it the best-looking room in the house,” he said. “Maybe
they’ll prefer it to the big room.”

“That’s just what I had in mind,” his aunt replied and smiled.

“Oh, say!” exclaimed Don, and his face suddenly became pale. “All that
stuff in the cellar--what if they should discover it!”

Aunt Martha shared her nephew’s agitation, and she bit her lips in
perplexity. “I haven’t thought of that,” she said. “We’ll just have to
run our chances and see that the door is kept locked always.”

“We’d surely find ourselves in hot water if they happened to learn that
it’s there,” said Don. “Oh, how I hate ’em all!” he cried impulsively.

The next morning when the two soldiers came with all their equipment
Don and his aunt got a surprise that for Don at least was not
altogether unpleasant. One of the Redcoats was Private Harry Hawkins!

He nodded and smiled at Don as he and his comrade entered the house and
were shown up-stairs.

The man who was with him, a short, dark-haired fellow, stopped at the
door of Aunt Martha’s room. “This is it, Hawkins,” he said. “The big
room on the front, the sergeant-major said, and a fine room it is.
We’re in luck, you and I.”

Hawkins looked at Aunt Martha and, observing the troubled expression in
her eyes, said, “Is this the room you want us to occupy?”

“No, it isn’t,” she replied. “That’s my room, and the one across the
hall is my nephew’s. Next to his is the room I’d hoped you would
occupy--since it seems you’ve got to occupy a room of some sort.”

“That’s the room we’ll have, then,” said Hawkins promptly and carried
his equipment into it.

But his companion did not follow him; he stood looking into the big
room.

“Come on, Snell,” said Hawkins, laughing. “The other room is plenty big
enough. Anyone would think you were six feet, five, instead of five
feet, six.”

Grumbling, the fellow turned away reluctantly and entered the room that
Aunt Martha had made ready for them.

Both Don and his aunt gave Hawkins a look of thanks and then went
down-stairs. For some time they sat in silence and listened to the
scuffling of feet on the floor above them. Then Don said in a low
voice: “It might have been worse, mightn’t it?”

His aunt nodded. “I suppose it might,” she admitted. “One of them seems
a gentlemanly fellow.”

Fortunately, Hawkins and Snell were in the house very little during the
daytime. They would rise early and hurry off to eat mess with their
company; then they might return for a few minutes only to hurry out
to the parade grounds. Usually they were away somewhere during the
afternoon and evening. On the whole they were not much bother; it was
the mere fact that Aunt Martha had to have them that irritated her most.

Jud’s mother also had suffered. Jud told Don about it one evening
at Aunt Martha’s. “We’ve got only one,” he said, “but he’s a
sergeant-major--big and fat and red-faced and uglier than a mud fence!”

“With blue eyes and a red nose?” asked Don.

“Yes, little mean eyes that somehow make me think of buttermilk.”

“Probably it’s the sergeant-major who came to us,” said Don.

“Probably it is,” added his aunt dryly. “I don’t see how there could
be two men quite so ugly as he.”

“Well, he’s a billeting sergeant,” said Jud, “and his name is Bluster.”

“Huh,” said Don. “He’s well named.”

“Just listen to that wind outside,” said Aunt Martha; “that’s blustery
enough too!”

The wind had been blustery and sharp for several days, and almost
before the boys realized it winter had set in in dead earnest. And
with the cold came increased suffering. Fuel was scarce, and the army
had hard work getting it. But they did get it, nevertheless, and the
way they went about it added another grievance to the long list that
the townsfolk held against them. Buildings were torn down--usually
they were the poorest structures, but not always--fences disappeared
overnight, and gates that had creaked on their hinges one day were
missing the next morning.

In December the town presented its most deplorable aspect. Hostile
cannon glowered in position on hill and thoroughfare, and insolent
soldiers such as Sergeant-Major Bluster and Private Snell sat about
hearthstones where once happy families had been wont to gather. Food
as well as fuel was extremely scarce, and prices were so high that
more than one person was driven to steal. Faneuil Hall had been turned
into a playhouse for the amusement of the Redcoats, and in it the fine
spirit of the people, their intense desire for peace and liberty and
fair treatment, were turned into ridicule. Even when snow fell and
covered the suffering town in a soft white blanket, and few soldiers
were on the streets to jostle and mock pedestrians, the guns on Beacon
Hill boomed forth as if to remind them that Howe and the King’s troops
still held sway.

Hundreds of persons, too poor longer to support themselves, had
obtained Howe’s permission to depart in boats to Point Shirley,
whence they made their way into the country--homeless, penniless and
miserable. But still Aunt Martha’s will would not allow her to yield.
“No--no,” she declared more than once, “I’ll not go! The good Lord
knows how I long to be with David, but I know that he is being well
cared for. Glen gave me his word, and he is a man I’d trust to the ends
of the earth.”

Mrs. Lancaster, who happened to be calling, only shook her head.

“Yes, I know you think I’m stubborn,” Don’s aunt continued. “Perhaps I
am, but I intend to remain right here in my own home, and that’s an
end of it.”

One day in January, Don and Jud went to Aunt Martha with a request that
Don be permitted, as Jud said, to “go some place” the following evening.

“Where do you want to go, Don?” she asked.

“Down to Faneuil Hall,” Don said quickly. “There’s something or other
going on there, and we’d like to see it.”

“There’ll be music,” added Jud.

“British music,” said Aunt Martha.

“Well, yes, but it may sound all right.”

Aunt Martha frowned.

“Oh, say, Aunt Martha,” exclaimed Don, laughing, “we won’t become
Tories--honest. It’s mighty dull here these days, and we want to see
what’s going on. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

If Aunt Martha was stubborn she seldom showed it where her nephew was
concerned, and this time was no exception to the rule. She yielded to
him--whereas the whole force of General Howe only made her the more
resolute!

“Good for you, Aunt Martha,” said Jud--he had got into the habit of
calling her “aunt,” and she seemed rather pleased with him for doing
it.

“I picked up some information to-day,” he added. “Our privateers
have been doing some great things on the high seas. They’ve captured
hundreds of the King’s vessels.”

“I’ve heard of Captain Manly,” said Aunt Martha.

“Well, there are lots besides Captain Manly,” Jud replied. “And another
thing--our men have chosen a flag; it’s called the Union Flag of the
Thirteen Stripes--one stripe for each Colony, you see. They raised it
the first day of the year.”

“My, my, Judson. Where you and Donald learn all these things is a
mystery to me.”

“Well, you see,” replied the resourceful Jud, “if we go to Faneuil Hall
to-morrow night we’ll probably learn more, hey, Don?”

But at that moment Snell and Hawkins entered, and the conversation
ceased.




CHAPTER XIII

A FARCE IS INTERRUPTED


Dusk had fallen over the town when Don and Jud, warmly clad in heavy
coats and mufflers, made their way toward Faneuil Hall. Others were
walking in the same direction--mostly officers, who stepped with the
firmness and confidence that marked an officer of the King. The night
was cold and dark, and few lights gleamed as they once had gleamed,
cheerily, in the windows of the shops along King Street and Merchant’s
Row; yet there was cheery conversation. The boys could hear laughing
and congenial talking among the hurrying throngs.

“I just feel like laughing good and hard to-night,” they heard one man
say.

“Yes, and I too,” another agreed. “There’s been little enough to laugh
at ever since we landed in this town.”

“Well, you’ll laugh to-night, or I’m a Dutchman,” said a third.
“There’s to be a farce called the Blockade of Boston. Funny! I thought
I’d laugh myself sick the first time I heard it rehearsed. I tell you
the officers who wrote it--let’s see; who was it now? Well, never mind;
they certainly wrote a funny play. Just wait till you catch sight of
General Washington!”

Jud scowled in the darkness. “Remember, Don,” he whispered, “we’ll have
to keep a firm hold on our tempers.”

Don laughed. “I’ll keep a firm hold of mine, Jud; but I’m not so sure
about you. You’re hot-headed, you know.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Jud. “He who laughs last, you know----”

“But say,” Don interrupted him, “you haven’t told me yet how we’re
going to get inside the place.”

“That’s so,” replied Jud and thrust his elbow knowingly into his
companion’s ribs. “This will get us inside, I think,” and he drew
something small and shiny from his pocket and handed it to Don.

“A silver snuff-box,” said Don, looking at it with some wonder.

“Yes; it’s Sergeant-Major Bluster’s. He couldn’t seem to find it
to-day. Funny, too, ’cause if he’d asked me, I could have told him
right where it was all the time--in my pocket. Do you understand now?”

Don did not understand and said so emphatically.

Jud laughed good-naturedly. “You’re pretty dull sometimes,” he said
frankly. “Just you let me do the talking and we’ll be inside Faneuil
Hall in three shakes.”

“You’ve been doing most of the talking.” Don could not resist the
thrust. “So go ahead and finish.”

“All right; now here we are.”

The boys had reached the hall, which was well lighted and partly filled
with troops. Don and Jud stood to one side of the door and watched the
men as they came singly and in groups and vanished inside the great
building. There were ladies too, most of them young, and all escorted
by gallant officers. Jud kept a sharp lookout toward the door.

At last Don, a bit impatient at the delay, asked, “How much longer are
we going to wait?”

“Just a few minutes, I think. I’m waiting for fat Bluster--ah, here he
comes, isn’t it?”

“You’re right,” said Don. “Look at the gait, will you?”

Bluster strode pompously to the door, nodded curtly to one of the
soldiers who was on duty there and passed into the hall.

“Come on,” said Don.

“No; just a few minutes longer. Can’t you wait?”

“Say, Jud, you’re a mystery to me to-night,” said Don. “I don’t know
what under the sun you’re trying to do. I don’t think you know,
yourself!”

“Who’s doing all the talking now?” inquired Jud with a grin.

For almost ten minutes the boys waited in the cold. Then Jud led the
way to the door. The soldier on duty at once blocked the passage.
“Scat, you youngsters,” he said.

Jud surely had his temper well in hand that night. “We’re looking for a
sergeant-major,” he said, smiling. “We’ve got to see him, for we have
something important that belongs to him.”

“What is it?”

Jud was embarrassed--at least, he showed every sign of being
embarrassed. “It’s--it’s just a little thing with a lady’s name
engraved on it.”

The soldier laughed. “Do you think you could find him in there?”

“Between the two of us I think we could,” Jud replied promptly.

“Well, be quick about it then.”

The boys were as quick as a flash.

“Young Tories,” the soldier said to a bystander as they entered the
building.

Jud turned abruptly, but Don grasped his arm and pulled him along.
“Don’t be a hothead,” he whispered.

It was only luck that made Jud spy Bluster a few moments later in the
crowded hall. The sergeant-major was sitting on a chair at the extreme
right of the hall. His hat was on the floor beneath the chair, and he
was leaning back with his arms folded across his chest.

More than one Redcoat looked inquiringly at the boys as they walked
round the chairs and benches, and thought no doubt that they were the
sons of some prominent Tory who had brought them with him. As Jud was
passing behind Bluster’s chair he dropped his hat and, in picking it
up, succeeded in laying the ornamental snuff-box on the hat of the
soldier--a circumstance that puzzled the fellow till the end of his
days.

After that the boys found a secluded corner where they stood, in the
shadows, and waited for the play to begin. In front of them were
Redcoats, talking and laughing and smoking. There were a great many
ladies, all of whom had come to laugh at the expense of the townsfolk
of Boston and of the Continental army outside the town. Fans were
moving lightly to and fro, though there was no need of fans in the cold
building; scabbards and buckles were clacking against the wooden seats;
and the lights round the small stage jarred and flickered as couples
moved in front of them to their seats.

Don and Jud said little, but their eyes and ears were alert. At last
the music started, and some time later the curtain on the stage was
hauled up. There were to be two plays that evening, the first of which
was called “The Busy Body.” The boys watched the actors, all of whom
were Redcoats, and thought the thing rather dull and stupid. But the
audience seemed to enjoy it; there were frequent bursts of applause and
a good deal of laughter.

“Huh,” said Jud as the curtain went down for the last time. “I guess
you have to be a Redcoat or a Tory to like a thing like that.”

“Look,” whispered Don. “Bluster’s found his snuff-box.”

“Sure enough!”

It was all that the boys could do to keep from laughing as they watched
the big sergeant-major. He had found his snuff-box indeed. In the
uncertain light his face was ruddier than ever, and his little eyes
seemed to be popping from his head as he turned first to one side,
then to the other. He looked at the little box; he looked at his hat;
he looked at his cuffs as if the thing might have been hidden there.
Perhaps he thought he had suddenly become a magician. Then he looked at
the ceiling, as if to find the person--or the bird--that had succeeded
in dropping it so that it had landed on his hat beneath his chair. But
even a magician or a bird could not have done that!

He was still looking at the ceiling when the lights were dimmed, and
the curtain was hauled up again. “The Blockade of Boston,” which was
to be played next, was a farce in which the character who represented
General Washington was supposed to stride awkwardly upon the stage,
wearing a long rusty sword and a wig that was many sizes too large for
him; behind him walked his servant, an uncouth country boy with a rusty
gun. But the audience was not to laugh at the antics of the two that
night.

The curtain had been up only a few moments when the noise of firing
sounded from a distance, and then a red-coated sergeant burst into the
hall and exclaimed:

“The Yankees are attacking our works on Bunker’s Hill!”

Startling as the announcement was, it carried only a ripple of mild
excitement; for no doubt many of the audience supposed that the
sergeant’s words were part of the farce that was to be played. “A good
beginning anyway,” a lieutenant who was sitting in front of the boys
said to his neighbor and laughed heartily.

At that moment a general who was seated close to the stage sprang to
his feet. “Look,” whispered Don. “There’s Howe himself. I didn’t notice
him before.”

“Officers to your posts!” cried the general in a ringing voice.

Then there was excitement enough for anyone. To the two boys it
seemed as if the whole audience rose and started for the doors at the
same instant. Women were screaming and several had already fainted.
Chairs and benches were being overturned--one chair overturned with
Sergeant-Major Bluster in it. Scabbards were clashing and men were
shouting hoarse commands.

“Let’s get out of here!” whispered Jud.

“All right; but wait till the rest have gone; we’d be killed in that
mob.”

“What a glorious ending to the ‘Blockade of Boston’!” Jud exulted.
“Couldn’t be better, could it?”

In the excitement some of the lights round the stage were blown out,
and then the place was so dark that you could hardly distinguish faces.

And in the street it was still darker. The boys were among the last to
leave the hall, and as they stepped outside they could hear the rattle
of small arms and the sound of cheering away to the north.

“It’s an attack on the town,” whispered Jud excitedly. “That’s just
what it is--a big attack!”

But, positive as Jud was, he was wrong, as both boys found out later.
General Putnam had sent a party of perhaps two hundred Continentals
under the command of Major Knowlton to destroy fourteen houses along
Mill Street in Charlestown and to capture the British guards who were
stationed in them. Through a mistake some of the houses were fired
too soon, and the flames gave the alarm to the enemy on Bunker Hill.
But the daring attempt was by no means unsuccessful. Major Knowlton
succeeded in burning eight of the houses and in capturing five
prisoners. Washington himself was well pleased with the venture.

But the thing that pleased Don and Jud most was the untimely ending of
the night’s entertainment. No one thought of returning to the hall.

“Here comes Bluster,” said Jud, stepping into a doorway on King Street
to let the Redcoat pass. “I don’t want him to see me.”

When the sergeant-major had passed, the boys made their way hurriedly
to Don’s house in Pudding Lane, which they reached shortly before
eleven o’clock.

“Well,” said Aunt Martha, “did you hear anything of interest at the
hall?”

“Did we?” repeated Don. “You tell what happened, Jud!”

And Jud told her, not omitting the incident of the snuff-box. And
when he had finished, Don thought his aunt laughed more heartily than
she had laughed since the blockade began. “I’m glad you boys went,”
she said. “I’m glad you could see the fine officers discomfited. They
deserve it for the way some of them have acted.”

Jud was suddenly thoughtful. “What in the world will I tell fat Bluster
if he ever asks me about the snuff-box?” he inquired.

“Tell him the truth, Judson,” said Aunt Martha. “But don’t tell him
unless he asks you,” she added with a smile.

“I’ll tell you what to tell him,” said Don. “Tell him that the last
time he used snuff he sneezed and blew the box over the Old South
Meeting-House, and that when it came down it landed right on top of his
hat.”

“Donald!” exclaimed his aunt. “Now you boys scat to bed--quick!”

“That’s the second time we’ve been scatted to-night,” said Jud as he
followed Don up-stairs.




CHAPTER XIV

A BROKEN LOCK


For many days the townsfolk and the soldiers talked of the performance
that the Continental assault on Charlestown had interrupted. Don and
Jud joked about it frequently, but they were always careful that
neither Hawkins nor Snell should overhear them.

If all the Redcoats had been like Hawkins, the good people of Boston
would have had little to complain of. He was always courteous and
considerate; he seemed to spend as little time as possible in the
house and kept to his room even on the coldest nights. The fellow was
undoubtedly a fine soldier and as loyal to his King as any of them
were, and secretly both Don and Jud admired him for it. He seemed to
have a genuine affection for Don, though he rarely spoke more than a
few words at a time to the boy.

Snell, on the other hand, was surly and quick-tempered and an ugly
person to have about the house. He was inquisitive also. Once Aunt
Martha found him trying to unlock the door to the cellar, and though he
desisted at sight of her, the circumstance troubled her. It troubled
Don too, but there was something that troubled him more than that.
Snell had formed an acquaintance with Tom Bullard, and the two spent
much time together.

“I tell you,” Don said to Jud one evening in February, “I don’t like
it one bit, the way those two are together so much. Tom Bullard
hates us like poison--I know that’s why he tried to steal your ma’s
chickens--and I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to make us
uncomfortable somehow.”

“But he can’t do anything, can he? You and your aunt have complied with
all the town regulations, haven’t you?”

Don did not reply at once. “Well, maybe,” he said at last.

But Jud was not easily put off. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you something sometime,” said Don. “Not now, though.”

Don might not have told his companion his secret at all if it had not
been for an unfortunate event that occurred toward the end of the
month. One Saturday when Aunt Martha had been at the home of a sick
neighbor almost all morning Don entered the house in Pudding Lane and
to his consternation found Snell coming up from the cellar with an
armful of wood. The broken lock lying on the floor told how the man had
entered.

For several moments the two stood confronting each other; Don’s face
was flaming, and his heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs.
Snell, a bit discomfited, soon recovered his poise. “It’s cold in
here,” he said; “I suspected all along that you had wood in the cellar.”

“There’s wood out in the back shed too,” replied Don in a voice that
trembled slightly. “Why didn’t you use that?”

Snell evidently thought no reply was necessary. He crossed the floor
and tossed several sticks upon the fire.

“Why didn’t you use the wood in the shed?” repeated Don in a louder
voice.

Snell looked at the boy tolerantly. “Now see here, young sire,” he said
slowly. “It won’t do for you to ask too many questions. I will say,
though, that if the wood in the shed had not been wet, I might not have
gone to the cellar. Now let that be an end of it. Understand?”

Don was silent and bit his lips. How long had the fellow been down
cellar? Had he seen the merchandise and the powder that belonged to his
uncle? Or had he known that they were there in the first place? Or had
he gone down merely to fetch dry wood? Over and over Don asked himself
the questions without being able to answer them.

He glanced slyly at the Redcoat as he sat in front of the fire,
toasting his fingers. The man was smiling to himself--a faint,
inscrutable smile that told nothing. The fellow might be smiling
because he had discovered the stuff, or he might be smiling merely
because of the discomfiture that he knew he had caused the boy. Don
could not tell which answer was right.

At any rate he was glad that Snell was not in the house when Aunt
Martha entered two hours later. If Snell had been there he would have
learned just exactly what she thought of him and of his inquisitive
visit to the cellar.

Hawkins, however, did enter while Don and his aunt were discussing the
matter. “What is wrong?” he asked, glancing from one to the other and
then at the broken lock, which Don was trying to fix.

“Your comrade,” replied Aunt Martha steadily, “has seen fit to force
his way into the cellar to get wood with which to replenish the fire.
Our fire-wood is in the back shed, and he knows it.”

Hawkins frowned and then, taking the lock from Don’s hands, examined it.

“There is a great deal of wood in the back shed, as you know,”
continued Don’s aunt, “and I know that it is not all wet as he says it
is.”

“Just so,” said Hawkins and placed the lock on the table. “Just so.”
And he went abruptly to his room.

“There,” said Aunt Martha. “What did I say? They’re all alike, these
Redcoats.”

Later Snell returned, and while Don was helping his aunt to prepare the
supper the two heard the sound of voices from up-stairs. Louder and
louder they became until it was quite plain that the two soldiers were
disagreeing over something.

Suddenly the voices ceased, and the ceiling jarred with a heavy crash.

“O Donald! What are they doing?”

Steps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later Hawkins, red of face,
entered the room. “I’d like a basin of hot water, if you please,” he
said.

Aunt Martha hastened to get it for him, and presently he returned with
it to the room. He was down again in a few minutes and went out into
the street.

Don and his aunt had finished supper when Hawkins again entered the
house. “Here, my lad,” he said and put a small package into Don’s hand.
“No,” he added, smiling, “it’s something that you can very well accept.
Don’t thank me for it.” And he hurried up-stairs.

Don opened the package; it contained a new lock similar to the one that
Snell had broken.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Martha. “Donald, I believe I wronged
that man.”

When Snell came down-stairs the following morning he made for the door
without delay, but, quick as he was, Aunt Martha observed that he
carried the marks of his encounter with Hawkins; one eye was partly
discolored, and his cheek was swollen.

Later in the morning Don fixed the new lock in place and then hurried
off to find Jud and tell him what had happened.

The day was warm for a day in late February; indeed the winter, which
had begun with severe weather, had proved to be mild after all. The two
boys directed their steps toward Walmer’s wharf at the foot of Beech
Street, where they sat down in the sunlight with their backs against
one of the deserted warehouses.

“We’ll be safe here,” said Don; “no one is likely to overhear what I’ve
got to tell you, Jud.”

Jud leaned forward eagerly, and neither boy observed a third person,
who had followed them at some distance and who now took a position just
within hearing round the corner of the silent warehouse.

“Go on and tell it,” said Jud. “You’ve got me all curious.”

“Well, in our cellar----” began Don, and the hidden figure near the
corner of the building slunk a step nearer. “In our cellar there’s
quantities and quantities of linen and cloth and some powder----” And
Don told of the purchase that his uncle had made before the blockade.

When he had finished that part of his story Jud whistled softly.
“My, but that’s risky business, keeping it there,” he said. “Just
suppose----”

Don put his hand on his friend’s arm. “Not so loud,” he whispered.
“And, Jud, I know you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone--not even to
your mother.”

“Of course not.”

Don glanced round cautiously. The old wharf apparently was quite
deserted except for themselves. The sun was shining brightly on the
water; the wind, blowing across the rough planks, was rattling the
loose shingles on a small fisherman’s shack beside the big warehouse.

“Now for some reason,” Don continued, “Snell, the Redcoat, broke into
our cellar yesterday, and that’s why I’m telling you this; I’m afraid
he knows what’s down there, and I want you to help me if you can.”

Jud’s eyes snapped as he listened to his comrade’s story of how Snell
had broken the lock on the cellar door.

As a matter of fact Snell had not known of what was in the cellar;
it was curiosity more than anything else that had prompted him to
break the lock. But it would not be long before he knew just what was
hidden away beneath the little house in Pudding Lane, for before Don
had finished his story the figure that had been listening so intently
at the corner of the warehouse drew back and walked quickly in the
direction of Beech Street. He had not gone far, however, before he
turned on his heel and strode carelessly toward the wharf.

A few minutes later the boys spied Tom Bullard walking toward them;
his hands were in his pockets, and he seemed wrapped in thought. “Oh!”
he exclaimed as if catching sight of them for the first time. “Didn’t
expect to find anybody here.”

“Huh,” said Jud and turned his back.

Tom walked to the edge of the dock and, smiling to himself, stood for
some time, looking at the sparkling waters. Then he turned and strode
back toward Beech Street.

Don glanced at his companion. “It’s lucky he didn’t hear anything,” he
said.

“If he had,” Jud replied with emphasis, “I’d have pushed him into the
water. What do you suppose he was doing down here anyway?”

“Oh, just snoopin’ around,” replied Don easily. “Since he’s become a
sort of aide to old Ruggles he’s been doing it, you know.”

The boys continued to talk in low tones for some time. It was pleasant
there on the dock in the morning sunlight.

Once Tom Bullard was out of their sight, he started to run. He ran
up Beech Street to Shea’s Lane and from there made his way to Common
Street. Out on the Common some of the companies were drilling, but Tom
did not pause to look at them. He crossed the Mall and then at a fast
walk went here and there among the troops.

It took him almost half an hour to find the person he was looking for,
and when he did find him at last he was so excited that he could hardly
talk. “Snell--Snell,” he began, “I’ve got--something--to--to----”

“Toot, toot!” said Snell, taking his arm. “Get your breath before you
tell it.”

Tom got his breath, enough of it anyway to tell the Redcoat what he had
overheard at the warehouse. Then Snell was almost as much excited as
Tom was. He rubbed his swollen face thoughtfully.

“Powder in the cellar of that house!” he exclaimed. “Powder and fine
cloth, and I like a fool was down there and didn’t even see it! You’re
sure of it, Bullard?”

“I should say I am,” Tom replied. “Didn’t I hear of it with my own
ears?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“That’s for the two of us to decide together,” replied Tom. “There’s no
hurry, you know. We want to do it in the best way.”

“Yes; in the best way.” Snell touched his fingers lightly to his
discolored eye. “In the best way,” he repeated.




CHAPTER XV

MARCH WINDS BLOW


It was clear that Snell’s idea of the “best way” to punish Don and his
aunt was a way that would also punish Hawkins, with whom Snell was now
on the bitterest of hostile terms; the two soldiers neither spoke nor
so much as glanced at each other. But whatever Snell’s plan was, he and
Tom were slow in carrying it out.

No doubt they were busy with other things, for the month of March began
in a way that promised to keep the Redcoats and the Tories occupied for
some little time. On the night of the second the Continental batteries
opened fire on the town.

Don and his Aunt Martha were in bed when the firing began. For a long
while they lay listening to the crash, crash of the shells, which
seemed to be landing somewhere on the Common. They heard Snell and
Hawkins descend the stairs and pass out into the street; then Aunt
Martha went to her nephew’s room. “Donald, my boy,” she said, “what can
it mean?”

“It means that General Washington is preparing to drive out old Howe
and his men,” Don replied confidently.

Don was nearer right than his aunt supposed. The two following nights
the bombardment was repeated; it seemed that every gun in all the
forts, both friendly and hostile, was crashing forth and illuminating
the sky every few seconds.

And on the next morning, the fifth of March and the anniversary of
the Boston Massacre, the whole town--and especially the British
high-command--opened their eyes wide with amazement. Strong
fortifications had sprung up, as if by magic, on Dorchester Heights.
Grim black guns were pointing at the town; grim black guns threatened
the British fleet, which lay at anchor out in the harbor.

Later in the morning Jud came hurrying into Pudding Lane and entered
the house; he was trembling with excitement. “The time’s come!” he
cried. “Have you seen Dorchester Heights? The Redcoats have either got
to attack the Heights the way they did Bunker’s Hill, or they’ve got to
clear out. I hope they attack!”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Aunt Martha.

“It’s true,” declared Jud, “everything I’ve told you. The Tories are
scared silly!”

“Have you seen Tom Bullard?” asked Don.

“Yes; I passed him on the way. He didn’t seem scared, though--maybe
he’s just too stupid. He shook his fist at me, and he said, ‘You’d
better keep away from Pudding Lane if you know what’s good for you.’”

“What did he mean?” asked Aunt Martha.

“Nothing, I guess,” said Don. “He likes to talk, that’s all.”

Throughout the rest of the day the town was a place of keen excitement.
Howe, it seems, had decided to accept Washington’s challenge and attack
the Heights. He was a brave man, and his own honor as well as the
honor of England was at stake; he did not mean to yield weakly to a
band of “rebels.” He ordered twenty-four hundred men to embark at once
in transports; under the command of Lord Percy, they were to land at
Castle William, from which place they were to attack Dorchester Heights
when night fell.

Don and Jud saw the Redcoats assemble for the attack and then march
off. They saw Hawkins, tall, erect, well-composed and confident;
they saw Snell marching in another rank--and he seemed anything but
confident.

By noon virtually everyone in Boston and the vicinity expected to see
a terrible battle. It seemed inevitable, for both sides were preparing
for it. While the British were mustering for the attack on Dorchester
Heights, Washington was preparing to attack the British lines in
Boston. A fine detachment of four thousand troops were on parade in
Cambridge; under the command of Generals Putnam, Greene and Sullivan
they were all ready to embark in boats at the mouth of the river. And,
as at Bunker Hill, people had taken up points of vantage on the tops of
houses and on some of the near-by hills.

But somewhat to the disappointment of Don and Jud the two armies were
not to meet. In the afternoon the wind blew furiously, and a wild
destructive surf crashed and pounded on the shores; no boat could
possibly land with safety in such a storm. Great limbs cracked and
crashed on the Common, and boards and shingles were torn from many of
the houses. The two boys, hurrying along Long Acre, narrowly missed
being struck with a pile of stones that came tumbling from a chimney
on a house near Rawson’s Lane.

“Say, that was close, wasn’t it?” exclaimed Jud. “A little more, Don,
and you and I might have been killed.”

Don laughed. “Come on, Jud, and let’s get home. Just look how dark it’s
getting! It’s going to rain too.”

That evening the rain came down in torrents, and the wind continued to
blow with unabated fury. And the next day, the sixth, found the waves
in the harbor high and confused. Both armies waited; and Washington’s
men strengthened their fortifications.

The next day Howe found himself in a critical and perplexing situation.
His army was at the mercy of the Continental batteries, and the fleet
was unable to ride in safety in the harbor. To remain in Boston would
be to expose his men to the greatest danger; to withdraw would be to
lose much valuable property. But Howe was first of all a soldier, and
after a hurried council he determined to withdraw to save his army.
Preparations began at once.

“They’re going, Aunt Martha!” cried Don, bursting in upon his aunt.
“The Redcoats are going to leave the town!”

“And what will they do to the town before they go? O Donald, what will
they do?”

“I don’t know,” replied Don thoughtfully. “They could do a lot of bad
things, I suppose, but, Aunt Martha, I don’t think they’ll do anything
very bad. I tell you it won’t be well for them if they set fire to any
buildings.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of most of all,” said his aunt.

Many other persons besides Aunt Martha were worried about the fate of
Boston. In the Continental army itself there was many a soldier who
wondered what would become of his home and of his relatives who had
refused to leave the town.

After a little group of prominent citizens had sent a petition to
Washington, begging him to take no measures that would injure the town,
the two armies reached a tacit understanding that the British might
embark without the Continentals molesting them. Nevertheless, the
American army held itself in readiness to act in case the enemy did any
damage.

Meanwhile, Washington was strengthening his defenses round the town.
On the evening of the ninth he sent a strong detachment to plant a
battery on Nook’s Hill to threaten the fleet; but the British learned
of his purpose, and almost all night Don and his aunt lay awake and
listened to the roar of cannon.

The next day Howe issued a printed proclamation that almost caused Aunt
Martha to lose heart. Don and Jud brought her word of it.

“All linen and woolen goods have to be turned over to Crean Brush, the
Tory,” whispered Don--for Snell was up-stairs. “Old Howe knows there’s
stuff hidden in the town that our men can use. That’s why he wants it.”

Aunt Martha glanced involuntarily at the door to the cellar. “We’d best
give it up, Donald,” she said. “I’d hoped we could keep it, but I see
now that we can’t. Oh, what a foolish woman I was!”

“No, Aunt Martha--no!” Don’s voice trembled in spite of himself.
“Nobody knows we have the stuff, and the Redcoats can’t possibly search
every cellar.”

“Don is right, Aunt Martha,” whispered Jud. “Don’t you turn it over to
them!”

“But if they come and search----” Aunt Martha checked herself
suddenly, for Snell was coming down the stairs.

Without looking to right or left, the Redcoat crossed the room and went
out on the street.

“Did he hear us?” asked Don’s aunt.

“Not likely,” replied Jud. “Now don’t you say one word about that stuff
in the cellar.”

Aunt Martha shook her head in uncertainty, but she finally decided to
do as the boys had advised.

The next day Crean Brush began his work of searching for hidden
supplies. Stores were broken into, and goods of all sorts were carried
off in violation of strict orders that Howe had issued. Lawless bands
of soldiers, sailors, marines and Tories went from house to house and
took what pleased them. And while they were doing that, the army was
transporting its equipment to the water-front to be shipped aboard the
vessels.

All day Don and his aunt remained in the house, anxiously expecting
every minute to hear the sound of Crean Brush’s men outside. Jud did
not put in an appearance until after dark, and then he remained only
for a few moments to say that a searching party had come to his house
but had found nothing. “If they had,” he added, “Ma and I would have
been as surprised as they, I guess.”

Don and his aunt laughed. Before Jud went away he got Don to one side.
“Say, Don,” he whispered, “you’ve got powder in the cellar along with
that other stuff, haven’t you?”

“Yes, a little,” Don replied.

“Well,” said Jud, “if I were you I’d move it somewhere else.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, at the rate Crean Brush and his gangs are going they’re pretty
sure to reach your house sooner or later; and if they search it and
find that powder--well, I don’t know what they won’t do.”

“I guess they’ll do enough even if they just find the cloth and stuff,”
said Don. “So it seems to me I might as well leave it all together.”

“No, Don; do as I tell you!” Jud’s voice was low and excited.

Don laughed. “I never knew you to be so cautious before, Jud.”

But Jud seized his friend’s arm. “Take my advice for once and do it,”
he urged. “I’ll help you move it now if you like.”

“No, not now,” replied Don. “Maybe later.”

“All right, then.” And Jud hurried out into the night.




CHAPTER XVI

CREAN BRUSH’S MEN


Don said nothing to his aunt about the powder in the cellar. Indeed
after Jud had gone he thought little of it and of the advice his
companion had given. Don and his aunt waited until Snell and Hawkins
had gone up-stairs, and then Aunt Martha said:

“Well, Donald, I think we’re almost at the end of the story.”

“What story?” asked Don.

Aunt Martha smiled. “I merely meant,” she replied, “that in a few more
days we’ll be all through with our suffering--or else there will be
more suffering, far more terrible than some of us can bear perhaps.”

“You’re still afraid they’ll burn the town?”

“I can’t get it off my mind. Just look at Charlestown across the water.
What a snug little place to live in it used to be--and just see it now!”

Don was silent for a few moments. “Everything has gone pretty well so
far,” he said at last.

“And maybe before long we’ll see Uncle David and Glen.”

“O Donald, I’ve prayed for it!”

“I certainly wish that one or the other were here now.” Don was
thinking of Crean Brush and of his lawless men.

“Ah, yes. Well, we’d best go to bed now. Another night--another night.”

“Yes, and before you know it General Washington will be here, and the
Redcoats will be on the water.”

Up-stairs in his room, Don lay for some time listening to the sound
of firing that seemed to come from the direction of Noddles Island.
The night was dark, and a strong wind was blowing against the little
windows. From across the hall came the sounds of snoring and of
heavy breathing; apparently both Snell and Hawkins were asleep.
Don closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow; but the position
was uncomfortable, and he turned on his side. That position also
uncomfortable, and he turned on his other side. Then his foot began to
itch, then his back, then his neck. He could not sleep.

At last he sat up in bed. Now he could hear the regular breathing of
his aunt; no doubt she was exhausted with the day’s worry. Once more
he tried to get to sleep, but it was of no use. He raised himself on
his elbow. “Now what in thunder ails me?” he thought.

There was something--something that somebody had said. What was it?
The next instant he thought of Jud and of what he had said about the
powder. “That’s it!” he said to himself. “What if Crean Brush and his
men should find it in the cellar and, drunk as some of them were likely
to be, touch a light to it!”

The thought made him spring part way out of bed. Aunt Martha was still
breathing regularly. That was enough for Don to make up his mind.

He began softly to dress. The house was cold, and he shivered as he
put on his shirt and his trousers. In a few minutes he was all dressed
except for his shoes. Then he made his way cautiously to the head of
the stairs. Once he stepped on a loose, squeaky board and heard his
aunt turn and sigh; but she did not waken. Neither did either of the
soldiers.

Down the steep stairs Don went on all fours. In the kitchen he found
the candlestick, but he did not light it until he had opened the door
to the cellar. Half-way down the old steps he paused, undecided
whether to go the rest of the way. Then he took another step, but it
required courage. The flickering light of the candle sent grotesque,
ghostlike shadows dancing along the walls, like great unearthly black
vultures.

He wondered whether he were doing right and then wished that Jud were
with him. But, taking a fresh grip on himself, he went the rest of the
way.

Trembling with nervousness, he set the candle on a box and looked about
him. All around lay the goods that David Hollis had bought in a hasty
moment--large bales and small bales piled side by side and on top of
one another. With shaking fingers Don examined them, going quickly from
one to another. Then suddenly he came upon the powder; there were one
small keg and seven canvas bags of it lying close to the foot of the
steps.

He lifted the keg and then lifted one of the bags; the keg was much the
heavier. “Now what shall I do with the stuff?” he wondered.

For a few moments he stood in deep thought. The old cellar was cold and
damp, and a draft from somewhere was stirring the flame of the candle.
“I know,” he said at last and bent over the keg again.

With an effort he lifted it and started up the stairs. In a moment or
two he no longer felt cold. It was no easy task to get that heavy keg
up the stairs. From step to step he half rolled, half lifted it, and
in a few minutes he was sweating with the exertion. Another thing that
made the work hard was that he did not dare make any noise.

At last he got the keg to the top, and then after a brief rest he
carried it through the room to the back shed, the door to which had
only a latch. There he found another candle, and lighting it, set it on
the floor. Five minutes later he had the keg hidden well at the back of
the woodpile.

Then he returned for the bags. One at a time he carried them--all seven
of them--up the steps and stowed them close to the keg. Having covered
them well with the wood and having snuffed both candles, he returned to
his room and began hastily to undress. He was congratulating himself on
not having disturbed anyone when he heard the voice of his aunt:

“Donald, are you awake?”

Don paused in the act of removing his shirt. He did not reply at once.

“Donald!”

“Uh-hm,” said Don.

“There--you _are_ awake!”

“Didn’t you hear a noise down-stairs a few minutes ago?”

“Noise? H’m--what noise?” Don was in bed by this time and had the
covers well round his head.

He heard his aunt sigh heavily. How could her nephew sleep so soundly?
The good woman was really sorry that she had wakened him!

It was not long before Don was asleep indeed. Nor did he waken when
Snell and Hawkins descended the stairs in the morning. Aunt Martha had
to call him four times before he roused and crawled sleepily from his
bed.

“My goodness,” said his aunt as she was putting the breakfast on the
table, “you’re surely a sleepyhead this morning, Donald Alden. Ah,
well, you’re a growing boy, and you need your rest.”

Don grinned up at her. “You have a speck on your specs, Aunt Martha.”

“Donald!”

“A speck of dust on your spectacles, Aunt Martha.”

His aunt hastily removed the speck with the corner of her apron. “Now
just see that candle,” she said. “I thought it was just yesterday that
I put a fresh one in the stick--but see how short it is now!”

Don examined the candle with great care, as if to find out what had
become of the rest of it. “Why, it seems that----” he began and then
sprang to his feet.

From the street came the sound of shouting and of heavy footsteps on
the cobblestones.

“O Donald, they’ve come. It’s--it’s----”

“Now, you be easy, Aunt Martha,” Don interrupted her.

Though he spoke calmly he was anything but calm in his mind. He went
to the door, and just as he reached it someone pounded heavily on the
outside.

“Open the door, Donald,” said Aunt Martha, “or they’ll beat it down.”

Don flung the door open and to his great astonishment looked full into
the leering face of Tom Bullard. Beside him were three of Crean Brush’s
men, and behind them, grinning insolently, was the Redcoat Snell. In a
moment all were inside, and Snell was striding toward the door to the
cellar. “We’ll find something this time, boys!” he said exultantly.

“Gentlemen, what is it you wish?” It was the voice of Aunt Martha, and
Don, glancing at her as she stood slight but well poised beside the
fireplace, thought she looked fully ten years younger.

There was something in her voice that made everyone turn and look at
her. “A-hem,” began one of the Tories--a big fellow who obviously was
the leader. “A-hem, we’ve come to search your house.”

“Yes,” said Snell, “we’ve come to get that powder which you’ve got in
the cellar.” With his bayonet he began to pry at the lock on the cellar
door.

Aunt Martha looked helplessly at her nephew. Tom Bullard, standing
near the door, made a sneering remark to the Tory beside him, and Don
clenched his fists and started for him. But he had taken only two steps
when he checked himself and turned to the leader. “You’ve no right in
that cellar!” he cried. “You’ve no right in this house!”

“Hold your young tongue,” said the Tory sharply. “There’s powder in
this cellar, and we know it. That’s what we want, and that’s what we’re
a-goin’ to get.”

“There’s not a grain of powder in the cellar,” Don replied.

Aunt Martha’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment; never in her life had
she known her nephew to tell an untruth, even in fun.

“No powder?” repeated the Tory. “Well, now that’s curious--very
curious--because both these fellows say there is.” He indicated Snell
and Tom.

“I’ll stake my life on it,” said Tom, stepping forward and throwing out
his chest.

“And I’ll stake mine,” said Snell.

“Well, hurry up and get that lock off, and we’ll soon see,” said the
leader.

Snell inserted the bayonet and gave a wrench. Don was thinking, not of
the powder, but of the bales of cloth at the foot of the stairs. In a
few minutes they would find them, and then things would go hard with
him and his aunt. Well, he had done his best, but what wouldn’t he have
done to keep them out of the cellar altogether!

“Blasted lock!” muttered Snell and gave another fierce wrench; there
was a sharp crack, and his bayonet was in two pieces.

Infuriated, the Redcoat hacked away with the short end that was in his
hand, and in a few moments the lock clattered to the floor. He had
opened the door and was about to go down when a sharp command behind
him made him turn as if he had seen a ghost.

“Snell, you hound, what does this mean!” Harry Hawkins, gun in hand,
crossed the threshold; he had just returned from the drill grounds.

Snell’s face had gone suddenly white, and he only stood and looked.

“It means,” said the leader, “that we’re about to get some ammunition
that these rebels have hidden in the cellar.”

“It’s not true, sir!” cried Don, turning to Hawkins. “It’s not true.
There is no ammunition in the cellar--not a speck!”

Hawkins looked steadily at Aunt Martha. “That is true, I suppose?” he
inquired.

“My nephew has never told a lie in his life, and, sir, he--he is
telling the truth now. There is no ammunition in the cellar.”

“They’re both lying----” Tom Bullard stopped as abruptly as he had
begun as Hawkins whirled and faced him.

For a long moment no one spoke; then Aunt Martha addressed Hawkins:
“These men have taken it upon themselves to enter my house unbidden.
Five men against one boy and a woman! They have no right here----”

“Oh, enough of that!” cried the leader and strode toward the cellar
door.

“Halt where you are!” exclaimed Hawkins, and as the Tory hesitated the
soldier raised his gun a few inches. “Let me see your orders.”

“Orders! Orders to search a rebel’s house?”

“Now, see here,”--Hawkins’s voice was hard and cold, and his eyes were
like points of fire--“this thing has gone about as far as I want to see
it go. I’ll stand sponsor for the boy and the woman--and I’ve got a
good reason for doing it. Now, my friends, you’ll oblige me by leaving
the house----”

“Why--why, you don’t mean to say----” began the leader.

“At once,” finished Hawkins and tapped the stock of his musket.

Tom Bullard was already outside the door, but Snell and the three
Tories did not move. Whereupon Hawkins stepped swiftly to the cellar
door and, slamming it shut, quickly drew his bayonet and affixed it to
the end of his piece.

“By heaven, you’ll hear of this!” cried the leader and backed slowly
across the room. “I promise you I’ll see you in the guard-house before
nightfall!”

“And,” added another, “we’ll be here again, and we’ll bring Brush,
himself, along.”

Hawkins made no answer but followed the three across the room and,
when they had gone out, held the door open for Snell, who lost no
time in joining them. The sudden turn of affairs had left the fellow
speechless, for he had expected to find the powder and then to accuse
Hawkins of knowing that it was hidden in the cellar.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Don a few moments later, “it’s true, what I told
you, every word of it, but, oh----”

“Say no more,” interrupted Hawkins, smiling. “Say no more. I don’t
doubt your word; and if I had I should have stopped them, Tories
as they are. But had they been the King’s men, I should not have
interfered in any circumstances.”

“But you’ve rendered us a great service----” Aunt Martha began.

“It is nothing compared with the service your nephew once rendered me.
I owe him my life, and I trust that sometime we may meet again--in
better days.” Hawkins turned and walked to the stairs.

Later in the afternoon Don explained to his aunt what he had done with
the powder the night before, and a look of relief came into her tired
eyes. “I knew there must be some explanation,” she said simply. “And,”
she added, smiling slightly, “that accounts for the noise I heard last
night and for the shortness of the candle.”

“Do you suppose they’ll return?” asked Don.

“I’m afraid so,” his aunt replied.




CHAPTER XVII

DON MEETS GENERAL WASHINGTON


Crean Brush’s men did not return to the house in Pudding Lane; they had
more than enough to do in the excitement of the withdrawal. Nor did
Snell give any further trouble; no doubt the fellow feared the strong
arm of Hawkins.

On the sixteenth of the month both Redcoats carried all their equipment
from the house and did not return. All that Hawkins said as he left the
room was “Better days, young sire; better days, my good woman.”

“Ah, yes, let us hope for them,” replied Aunt Martha.

Don only smiled, and Hawkins, as he closed the door, smiled in return.
That was the last that Don ever saw of him during the war.

The following day, which was Sunday, the Redcoats began to embark; and
not only the soldiers left the town, but the Tories also. Don and Jud
caught a glimpse of Tom Bullard and his father carrying some of their
household effects down King Street. The faces of both Tories showed
anger and mortification.

“Come on,” whispered Jud, “let’s get ahead of ’em and then turn and
give ’em a yell. We’ll never see them again.”

“No, Jud,” Don replied, “I’m just a little sorry for them. Oh, yes, I
know Tom’s acted mean, but just think what’s happening to him and his
father; they’re going to Halifax, so I’ve heard, and all they can take
along is just that little bit of stuff they’re carrying. Their fine
house up on Hanover Street is lost, and they’ll never get it again,
because they daren’t ever return.”

Jud did not reply but glanced at his companion sidewise. And so the
two boys stood and watched their enemy until he and his father had
disappeared among the throngs of Redcoats and Tories at the foot of the
street.

The last boatload of soldiers and refugees had not been long away from
the shore when the Continental soldiers entered the town by way of the
Neck and by boats across the river. The boys spied one of the first
patrols on the southern end of the Common and hastened toward them.

“I want to find out first of all about Uncle Dave and Glen,” Don said
to Jud.

But none of the men in the patrol knew either of the two men. Kindly
fellows they were, all of them, and they laughed and joked with the
boys and with one another as they marched along toward the Mall.

“Say!” exclaimed Jud when they had gone past. “I’m so glad to see those
buff and blue uniforms I can hardly say how I feel. I feel as if I’d
burst!”

“Me, too,” said Don, “except that I almost feel like--well, like when
you’re so happy it makes the tears come into your eyes. Look, here come
some more of our men!”

Probably most of the good people of Boston felt as Don and Jud felt;
certainly there were many who shed tears of joy as they stood in their
doorways and watched the various detachments of Continentals arriving.
There was good reason for the tears, for the people who shed them had
suffered like martyrs during long months of privation, insult and
oppression--to say nothing of disease, for smallpox had broken out in
the poorer parts of the town.

The first words that greeted Don as he entered his aunt’s house were,
“Donald, my boy, did--did you see your uncle?”

“No, Aunt Martha. I asked at least a score of our men about him, but
none of them seemed to know him. But, O Aunt Martha, ain’t it fine! The
Redcoats are gone!”

“When I’ve seen your uncle I shall rejoice,” his aunt replied and
turned quickly away.

One thing that annoyed Don the following day was that he failed to see
General Washington, who had entered the town and had dined with Mr.
James Bowdoin at the home of Mr. Erving, both of whom were friends of
Don’s uncle. Nor did Don see Washington the next day, for the general
had returned to Cambridge.

On Wednesday, the twentieth, the main body of the Continental troops
entered the town, with flags flying and drums beating.

“Watch out for my uncle and for Glen Drake,” Don said to Jud as the
two boys stood on a crowded street corner waiting for the head of the
column to appear.

“Yes, and you keep your eyes open for my father and for my brothers.”

From far off came the sound of drums and fifes. The crowd at the
corner, mostly boys and women, moved uneasily. “It’s Yankee Doodle
they’re playing,” whispered Jud. “Say, doesn’t that sound good!”

“It surely does!” agreed Don.

In a few minutes the regular tramp, tramp of marching feet reached the
ears of the eager little group.

“Here they are!”

A cavalcade of horses, white, black and chestnut, had turned a corner.
Behind them came the foot soldiers, resplendent in buff and blue, ruddy
of face, keen of eye.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” Don and Jud swung their caps high into the air.
“Hurrah!” cried the rest of the little group.

But for the most part the main body of Continentals were greeted with
few cheers. The people of the besieged town had suffered too much under
Howe and the British; most of the inhabitants remained at doors and
windows and were content to wave their hands.

“There he is!” cried Jud.

“Who? Who?”

“General Washington! See, there on the big horse! Don, just look
how----”

But Don was not listening. All his attention was given to the man who
sat with such ease and dignity on the big horse. Never had he seen
anyone who looked so thoroughly like his ideal of a soldier. Tall and
well-proportioned, the general looked truly noble and majestic. His
coat was blue with buff facings, and on each shoulder he wore a rich
epaulette. His under dress was buff, and he wore a black cockade in his
hat. At his side hung an elegant small-sword.

The cavalcade swung past, and the two boys turned to each other at the
same time. “Jinks!” exclaimed Jud. “Wasn’t he fine!”

“Fine!” echoed Don and with a deep sigh turned again to view the troops.

Several ranks of foot soldiers had already passed, but the boys sharply
scrutinized those who were approaching. Company after company swung
past. Then Jud suddenly spied his father and the next instant one of
his brothers. Both recognized him and smiled as they passed. A few
minutes later he spied the other brother.

Don was worried; not a man had he seen who looked in the least like his
uncle or Glen. Company after company, regiment after regiment, marched
by, and somehow Don felt his lips beginning to quiver.

“It’s too bad, Don,” said Jud. “I’d hoped we’d see Glen and your uncle
right off. Here’s the end of the column. Maybe they’ll come later.”

Don made no answer; he was wondering how he could tell his aunt that
Uncle David had not entered with the troops. He bit his under lip.
Maybe his uncle’s wound had not healed. Maybe----

“I’ll see you later, Don,” Jud was saying. “Won’t Ma be glad when I
tell her!”

Don made his way dejectedly to the little house in Pudding Lane. He
could just picture his aunt’s face when he told her the news. He opened
the door and with head down stepped inside; the next instant, when he
lifted his eyes, he could hardly believe what he saw. There, standing
beside his aunt near the fireplace, resplendent in a captain’s uniform
was--David Hollis! His arm was round Aunt Martha’s waist, and she was
laughing and crying both at the same time. And there in one corner of
the room, looking almost as he had looked when Don had first seen him,
was Glen Drake!

“Donald, my lad!”

Don felt the breath almost squeezed from his body, for his uncle was
a big man. And then he felt the bones in his hand crunch as the old
trapper greeted him.

“Oh, this seems almost too good to be true!” Aunt Martha was saying.

For the next fifteen minutes questions and answers followed one another
in quick succession. Then at last Don asked gravely: “Uncle David,
where did you come from? I never saw you in the column.”

David Hollis laughed heartily. “I saw you, though; my company led the
column. But you were so interested in our general that you didn’t have
eyes for anybody else.”

“Never mind, Don,” said Glen; “he’s a fine man to look at, the general
is.”

“What a hard time you’ve had here!” said Uncle David. “Your aunt has
been telling me. My boy, I’m proud of you for the way you’ve acted and
especially for the way you kept the Redcoats from getting that stuff in
the cellar.”

“Yes, Don, you sure played the fox that time,” said Glen. “And now that
the Redcoats have gone, I’m thinking you and I and that other boy will
be able to do a little trapping in the woods together.”

“Now, David,” said Aunt Martha, “what are we going to do with the stuff
in the cellar? I don’t want it to remain there; truly I don’t.”

David Hollis laughed and turned to his nephew. “It’s yours, Donald,” he
said; “you’ve earned the right to it, I think; do with it as you wish.
Perhaps you can sell it.”

“Me--sell it!” exclaimed Don.

“It’s yours. My friend in the South doesn’t want it.”

“With all that cloth you won’t have to worry about breeches now for the
rest of your life, Don,” said Glen grinning.

Don did not reply; he was thinking hard.

The next morning while Glen and his uncle were with the troops he
entered the cellar and spent almost an hour making a list of the
supplies that were there. Then he hurried up-stairs and went out into
the street.

Half an hour later he was standing in front of a lieutenant in a large
hallway. “I’d like very much to see General Washington,” he said.

“Indeed,” said the lieutenant; “and what may be your business?”

“I have something to give him.”

“Indeed. You don’t look as if you had much to give.” The lieutenant
smiled good-naturedly. “I’m sorry to have to turn you away, but the
general is a busy man these days.”

Don fell back a pace and looked around him.

“I’m sorry----” the lieutenant was saying, when a door opened, and a
tall figure stepped into the hall.

Like a flash the lieutenant and several other officers who were
standing near by snapped to attention. It was Washington himself that
was walking quietly toward the entrance. Don gulped once, and then
before he knew what he was doing he had exclaimed:

“Sir--General Washington!”

The general turned, and Don pulled his slip of paper from his pocket
and handed it to him. “This is a list of goods that were in our cellar
all during the occupation,” he said. “My uncle, Capt. David Hollis,
gave them to me for keeping the Redcoats from getting them. I want to
give them to our army.”

Washington glanced at the paper--he seemed to read everything on it in
a single glance--and then turned to the boy. “The army will be very
grateful to have these supplies,” he said. “I thank you, my boy. You
are a true patriot.”

Don colored to the roots of his hair as he watched the general hand
the paper to the lieutenant and then turn and smile and pass into the
street.

“Donald!” cried Aunt Martha as Don burst noisily into the room. “What’s
the matter?”

“I gave the supplies to Washington!” cried Don. “I saw him, Aunt
Martha, and he said the army would be glad to get them. You know they
need stuff for uniforms, and especially powder.”

“Good for you, Donald! It’s the best thing you could have done with
them.”

“And, Aunt Martha, he said I was a true patriot!”

“You are, Donald; you’ve helped the cause.”

In another minute Don was, closely followed by Sailor, on his way to
Hog Alley to tell Jud the news. His eyes were bright, and his face
was flushed as he ran along the streets, which now were filled with
Continental uniforms. He had done something to help his country at last.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.