The Only Woman in the Town, and Other Tales of the American Revolution Read online

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  The Only Woman in the Town

  And Other Tales of the American Revolution

  BY SARAH J. PRICHARD

  Author of the History of Waterbury, 1674-1783

  PUBLISHED BY MELICENT PORTER CHAPTER Daughters of the American Revolution Waterbury, Conn. 1898

  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898 By the MELICENT PORTER CHAPTER Daughters of the American Revolution, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington

  THE OLD PORTER HOUSE. In it were sheltered and cared formany soldiers in the War of the Revolution]

  PREFACE

  The celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the United States atthe city of Philadelphia in 1876, and the exhibit there made of thatnation's wonderful growth and progress, gave a new and remarkableimpulse to the germs of patriotism in American life. The followingtales of the American Revolution--with the exception of the last--werewritten twenty-two years ago, and are the outcome of an interest thenawakened. They all appeared in magazines and other publications ofthat period, from which they have been gathered into this volume, inthe hope that thereby patriotism may grow stronger in the children ofto-day.

  CONTENTS

  PAGE The Only Woman in the Town 9 A Windham Lamb in Boston Town 38 How One Boy Helped the British Troops Out of Boston in 1776 47 Pussy Dean's Beacon Fire 67 David Bushnell and His American Turtle 75 The Birthday of Our Nation 117 The Overthrow of the Statue of King George 127 Sleet and Snow 135 Patty Rutter: The Quaker Doll who slept in Independence Hall 151 Becca Blackstone's Turkeys at Valley Forge 159 How Two Little Stockings Saved Fort Safety 169 A Day and a Night in the Old Porter House 181

  THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE TOWN.

  One hundred years and one ago, in Boston, at ten of the clock oneApril night, a church steeple had been climbed and a lantern hungout.

  At ten, the same night, in mid-river of the Charles, oarsmen two, withpassenger silent and grim, had seen the signal light out-swung, androwed with speed for the Charlestown shore.

  At eleven, the moon was risen, and the grim passenger, Paul Revere,had ridden up the Neck, encountered a foe, who opposed his ride intothe country, and, after a brief delay, had gone on, leaving a Britishofficer lying in a clay pit.

  At midnight, a hundred ears had heard the flying horseman cry, "Up andarm. The Regulars are coming out!"

  You know the story well. You have heard how the wild alarm ran fromvoice to voice and echoed beneath every roof, until the men ofLexington and Concord were stirred and aroused with patriotic fear forthe safety of the public stores that had been committed to theirkeeping.

  You know how, long ere the chill April day began to dawn, they haddrawn, by horse power and by hand power, the cherished stores intosafe hiding-places in the depth of friendly forest-coverts.

  There is one thing about that day that you have _not_ heard and I willtell you now. It is, how one little woman staid in the town ofConcord, whence all the women save her had fled.

  All the houses that were standing then, are very old-fashioned now,but there was one dwelling-place on Concord Common that wasold-fashioned even then! It was the abode of Martha Moulton and "UncleJohn." Just who "Uncle John" was, is not known to the writer, but hewas probably Martha Moulton's uncle. The uncle, it appears by record,was eighty-five years old; while the niece was _only_ three-score andeleven.

  Once and again that morning, a friendly hand had pulled thelatch-string at Martha Moulton's kitchen entrance and offered toconvey herself and treasures away, but, to either proffer, she hadsaid: "No, I must stay until Uncle John gets the cricks out of hisback, if all the British soldiers in the land march into town."

  At last, came Joe Devins, a lad of fifteen years--Joe's two astonishedeyes peered for a moment into Martha Moulton's kitchen, and then eyesand owner dashed into the room, to learn what the sight he there sawcould mean.

  "Whew! Mother Moulton, what are you doing?"

  "I'm getting Uncle John his breakfast to be sure, Joe," she answered."Have _you_ seen so many sights this morning that you don't knowbreakfast, when you see it? Have a care there, for hot fat _will_burn," as she deftly poured the contents of a pan, fresh from thefire, into a dish.

  Hungry Joe had been astir since the first drum had beat to arms at twoof the clock. He gave one glance at the boiling cream and the slicesof crisp pork swimming in it, as he gasped forth the words, "Gettingbreakfast in Concord _this_ morning! _Mother Moulton_, you _must_ becrazy."

  "So they tell me," she said, serenely. "There comes Uncle John!" sheadded, as the clatter of a staff on the stone steps of the stairwayoutrang, for an instant, the cries of hurrying and confusion thatfilled the air of the street.

  "Don't you know, Mother Moulton," Joe went on to say, "that everysingle woman and child have been carried off, where the Britisherswon't find 'em?"

  "I don't believe the king's troops have stirred out of Boston," shereplied, going to the door leading to the stone staircase, to open itfor Uncle John.

  "Don't believe it?" and Joe looked, as he echoed the words, as thoughonly a boy could feel sufficient disgust at such a want of commonsense, in full view of the fact, that Reuben Brown had just broughtthe news that eight men had been killed by the king's Red Coats inLexington, which fact he made haste to impart.

  "I won't believe a word of it," she said, stoutly, "until I see thesoldiers coming."

  "Ah! Hear that!" cried Joe, tossing back his hair and swinging hisarms triumphantly at an airy foe. "You won't have to wait long. _Thatsignal_ is for the minute men. They are going to march out to meet theRed Coats. Wish I was a minute man, this minute."

  Meanwhile, poor Uncle John was getting down the steps of the stairway,with many a grimace and groan. As he touched the floor, Joe, his facebeaming with excitement and enthusiasm, sprang to place a chair forhim at the table, saying, "Good morning," at the same moment.

  "May be," groaned Uncle John, "youngsters _like you may_ think it is agood morning, but _I don't_. Such a din and clatter as the fools havekept up all night long. If I had the power" (and now the poor old manfairly groaned with rage), "I'd make 'em quiet long enough to let anold man get a wink of sleep, when the rheumatism lets go."

  "I'm real sorry for you," said Joe, "but you don't know the news. Theking's troops, from camp, in Boston, are marching right down here, tocarry off all our arms that they can find."

  "Are they?" was the sarcastic rejoinder. "It's the best news I'veheard in a long while. Wish they had my arms, this minute. Theywouldn't carry them a step further than they could help, I know. Runand tell them that mine are ready, Joe."

  "But, Uncle John, wait until after breakfast, you'll want to use themonce more," said Martha Moulton, trying to help him into a chair thatJoe had placed on the white sanded floor.

  Meanwhile, Joe Devins had ears for all the sounds that penetrated thekitchen from out of doors, and he had eyes for the slices ofwell-browned pork and the golden-hued Johnny-cake lying before theglowing coals on the broad hearth.

  A
s the little woman bent to take up the breakfast, Joe, intent ondoing some kindness for her in the way of saving treasures, asked,"Sha'n't I help you, Mother Moulton?"

  "I reckon I am not so old that I can't lift a mite of corn-bread," shereplied with chilling severity.

  "Oh, I didn't mean to lift _that thing_," he made haste to explain,"but to carry off things and hide 'em away, as everybody else has beendoing half the night. I know a first-rate place up in the woods. Usedto be a honey tree, you know, and it's just as hollow as anything.Silver spoons and things would be just as safe in it--" but Joe'swords were interrupted by unusual tumult on the street and he ran offto learn the news, intending to return and get the breakfast that hadbeen offered to him.

  Presently he rushed back to the house with cheeks aflame and eyesablaze with excitement. "They're coming!" he cried. "They're in sightdown by the rocks. They see 'em marching, the men on the hill do!"

  "You don't mean that it's really true that the soldiers are cominghere, _right into our town_!" cried Martha Moulton, rising in hasteand bringing together, with rapid flourishes to right and to left,every fragment of silver on it. Divining her intent, Uncle John stroveto hold fast his individual spoon, but she twitched it withoutceremony out from his rheumatic old fingers, and ran next to theparlor cupboard, wherein lay her movable treasures.

  "What in the world shall I do with them?" she cried, returning withher apron well filled, and borne down by the weight thereof.

  "Give 'em to me," cried Joe. "Here's a basket. Drop 'em in, and I'llrun like a brush-fire through the town and across the old bridge, andhide 'em as safe as a weasel's nap."

  Joe's fingers were creamy; his mouth was half filled with Johnny-cake,and his pocket on the right bulged to its utmost capacity with thesame, as he held forth the basket; but the little woman was afraid totrust him, as she had been afraid to trust her neighbors.

  "No! No!" she replied, to his repeated offers. "I know what I'll do.You, Joe Devins, stay right where you are until I come back, and,don't you even _look_ out of the window."

  "Dear, dear me!" she cried, flushed and anxious when she was out ofsight of Uncle John and Joe. "I _wish_ I'd given 'em to ColonelBarrett when he was here before daylight, only, I _was_ afraid Ishould never get sight of them again."

  She drew off one of her stockings, filled it, tied the opening at thetop with a string--plunged stocking and all into a pail full of waterand proceeded to pour the contents into the well.

  Just as the dark circle had closed over the blue stocking, Joe Devins'face peered down the depths by her side, and his voice sounded out thewords: "O Mother Moulton, the British will search the wells the _very_first thing. Of course, they _expect_ to find things in wells!"

  "Why didn't you tell me before, Joe? but now it is too late."

  "I would, if I had known what you was going to do; they'd been a sightsafer in the honey tree."

  "Yes, and what a fool I've been--flung _my watch_ into the well withthe spoons!"

  "Well, well! Don't stand there, looking!" as she hovered over the highcurb, with her hand on the bucket. "Everybody will know, if you do."

  "Martha! Martha!" shrieked Uncle John's quavering voice from the housedoor.

  "Bless my heart!" she exclaimed, hurrying back over the stones.

  "What's the matter with your heart?" questioned Joe.

  "Nothing. I was thinking of Uncle John's money," she answered.

  "Has he got money?" cried Joe. "I thought he was poor, and you tookcare of him because you were so good!"

  Not one word that Joe uttered did the little woman hear. She wasalready by Uncle John's side and asking him for the key to his strongbox.

  Uncle John's rheumatism was terribly exasperating. "No, I won't giveit to you!" he cried, "and nobody shall have it as long as I am aboveground."

  "Then the soldiers will carry it off," she said.

  "Let 'em!" was his reply, grasping his staff firmly with both handsand gleaming defiance out of his wide, pale eyes. "_You_ won't get thekey, even if they do."

  At this instant, a voice at the doorway shouted the words, "Hide, hideaway somewhere, Mother Moulton, for the Red Coats are in sight thisminute!"

  She heard the warning, and giving one glance at Uncle John, which lookwas answered by another "No, you won't have it," she grasped JoeDevins by the collar of his jacket and thrust him before her up thestaircase so quickly that the boy had no chance to speak, until shereleased her hold, on the second floor, at the entrance to UncleJohn's room.

  The idea of being taken a prisoner in such a manner, and by a woman,too, was too much for the lad's endurance. "Let me go!" he cried, theinstant he could recover his breath. "I won't hide away in yourgarret, like a woman, I won't. I want to see the militia and theminute men fight the troops, I do."

  "Help me first, Joe. Here, quick now! Let's get this box out and upgarret. We'll hide it under the corn and it'll be safe," she coaxed.

  The box was under Uncle John's bed.

  "What's in the old thing anyhow?" questioned Joe, pulling with all hisstrength at it.

  The box, or chest, was painted red, and was bound about by massiveiron bands.

  "I've never seen the inside of it," said Mother Moulton. "It holds thepoor old soul's sole treasure, and I _do_ want to save it for him if Ican."

  They had drawn it with much hard endeavor as far as the garret stairs,but their united strength failed to lift it. "Heave it, now!" criedJoe, and lo! it was up two steps. So they turned it over and over withmany a thudding thump;--every one of which thumps Uncle John heard andbelieved to be strokes upon the box itself to burst it asunder--untilit was fairly shelved on the garret floor.

  In the very midst of the overturnings, a voice from below had beenheard crying out, "Let my box alone! Don't you break it open! If youdo, I'll--I'll--" but, whatever the poor man _meant_ to threaten as apenalty, he could not think of anything half severe enough to say, soleft it uncertain as to the punishment that might be looked for.

  "Poor old soul!" ejaculated the little woman, her soft white curls indisorder and the pink color rising from her cheeks to her fairforehead, as she bent to help Joe drag the box beneath the rafter'sedge.

  "Now, Joe," she said, "we'll heap nubbins over it, and if the soldierswant corn they'll take good ears and never think of touching poornubbins." So they fell to work throwing corn over the red chest, untilit was completely concealed from view.

  Then Joe sprang to the high-up-window ledge in the point of the roofand took one glance out. "Oh, I see them, the Red Coats! 'Strue's Ilive, there go our militia _up the hill_. I thought they was going tostand and defend. Shame on 'em, I say!" Jumping down and crying backto Mother Moulton, "I'm going to stand by the minute men," he wentdown, three steps at a leap, and nearly overturned Uncle John on thestairs, who, with many groans, was trying to get to the defense of hisstrong box.

  "What did you help her for, you scamp?" he demanded of Joe,flourishing his staff unpleasantly near the lad's head.

  "'Cause she asked me to, and couldn't do it alone," returned Joe,dodging the stick and disappearing from the scene at the very momentMartha Moulton encountered Uncle John.

  "Your strong box is safe under nubbins in the garret, unless the houseburns down, and now that you are up here, you had better stay," sheadded soothingly, as she hastened by him to reach the kitchen below.

  Once there, she paused a second or two to take resolution regardingher next act. She knew full well that there was not one second tospare, and yet she stood looking, apparently, into the glowing emberson the hearth. She was flushed and excited, both by the unwonted toiland the coming events. Cobwebs from the rafters had fallen on her hairand homespun dress, and would readily have betrayed her lateoccupation to any discerning soldier of the king.

  A smile broke suddenly over her fair face, displacing for a briefsecond every trace of care. "It's my old weapon, and I must use it,"she said, making a stately courtesy to an imaginary guest, andstraightway disappeared within an adjoining roo
m. With buttoned doorand dropped curtains the little woman made haste to array herself inher finest raiment. In five minutes she reappeared in the kitchen, apicture pleasant to look at. In all New England, there could not be amore beautiful little old lady than Martha Moulton was that day. Herhair was guiltless now of cobwebs, but haloed her face with fluffylittle curls of silvery whiteness, above which, like a crown, was alittle cap of dotted muslin, pure as snow. Her erect figure, not aparticle of the hard-working-day in it now, carried well the folds ofa sheeny, black silk gown, over which she had tied an apron asspotless as the cap.

  As she fastened back her gown and hurried away the signs of thebreakfast she had not eaten, the clear pink tints seemed to come outwith added beauty of coloring in her cheeks, while her hair seemedfairer and whiter than at any moment in her three-score and elevenyears.

  Once more, Joe Devins looked in. As he caught a glimpse of the pictureshe made, he paused to cry out: "All dressed up to meet the robbers!My, how fine you do look! I wouldn't. I'd go and hide behind thenubbins. They'll be here in less than five minutes now," he cried,"and I'm going over the North Bridge to see what's going on there."

  "O Joe, stay, won't you?" she urged, but the lad was gone, and she wasleft alone to meet the foe, comforting herself with the thought,"They'll treat me with more respect if I _look_ respectable, and if I_must_ die, I'll die good-looking in my best clothes, anyhow."

  She threw a few sticks of hickory-wood on the embers and then drew outthe little round stand, on which the family Bible was always lying.Recollecting that the British soldiers probably belonged to the Churchof England, she hurried away to fetch Uncle John's "prayer book."

  "They'll have respect to me, if they find me reading that, I know,"she thought. Having drawn the round stand within sight of the well,and where she could also command a view of the staircase, she sat andwaited for coming events.

  Uncle John was keeping watch of the advancing troops from an upperwindow. "Martha," he called, "you'd better come up. They're close by,now." To tell the truth, Uncle John himself was a little afraid; thatis to say, he hadn't quite courage enough to go down and, perhaps,encounter his own rheumatism and the king's soldiers on the samestairway, and yet, he felt that he must defend Martha as well as hecould.

  The rap of a musket, quick and ringing, on the front door, startledthe little woman from her apparent devotions. She did not move at thecall of anything so profane. It was the custom of the time to have thefront door divided into two parts, the lower half and the upper half.The former was closed and made fast, the upper could be swung open atwill.

  The soldier getting no reply, and doubtless thinking that the housewas deserted, leaped over the chained lower half of the door.

  At the clang of his bayonet against the brass trimmings, MarthaMoulton groaned in spirit, for, if there was any one thing that shedeemed essential to her comfort in this life, it was to keep spotless,speckless and in every way unharmed, the great knocker on her frontdoor.

  "Good, sound English metal, too," she thought, "that an Englishsoldier ought to know how to respect."

  As she heard the tramp of coming feet she only bent the closer overthe Book of Prayer that lay open on her knee. Not one word did sheread or see; she was inwardly trembling and outwardly watching thewell and the staircase. But now, above all other sounds, broke thenoise of Uncle John's staff thrashing the upper step of the staircase,and the shrill, tremulous cry of the old man, defiant, doing hisutmost for the defense of his castle.

  The fingers that lay beneath the book tingled with desire to box theold man's ears, for the policy he was pursuing would be fatal to thetreasure in garret and in well; but she was forced to silence andinactivity.

  As the king's troops, Major Pitcairn at their head, reached the opendoor and saw the old lady, they paused. What could they do but look,for a moment, at the unexpected sight that met their view: a placidold lady in black silk and dotted muslin, with all the sweet solemnityof morning devotion hovering about the tidy apartment and seeming tocentre at the round stand by which she sat,--this pretty woman, withpink and white face surmounted with fleecy little curls and crinklesand wisps of floating whiteness, who looked up to meet their gaze withsuch innocent, prayer-suffused eyes.

  "Good morning, Mother," said Major Pitcairn, raising his hat.

  "Good morning, gentlemen and soldiers," returned Martha Moulton. "Youwill pardon my not meeting you at the door, when you see that I wasoccupied in rendering service to the Lord of all." She reverentlyclosed the book, laid it on the table, and arose, with a statelybearing, to demand their wishes.

  "We're hungry, good woman," spoke the commander, "and your hearth isthe only hospitable one we've seen since we left Boston. With yourgood leave I'll take a bit of this," and he stooped to lift up theJohnny-cake that had been all this while on the hearth.

  "I wish I had something better to offer you," she said, making hasteto fetch plates and knives from the corner-cupboard, and all the whileshe was keeping eye-guard over the well. "I'm afraid the Concordershaven't left much for you to-day," she added, with a soft sigh ofregret, as though she really felt sorry that such brave men and goodsoldiers had fallen on hard times in the ancient town. At the momentshe had brought forth bread and baked beans, and was putting them onthe table, a voice rang into the room, causing every eye to turntoward Uncle John. He had gotten down the stairs without uttering oneaudible groan, and was standing, one step above the floor of the room,brandishing and whirling his staff about in a manner to cause evenrheumatism to flee the place, while at the top of his voice he criedout:

  "Martha Moulton, how _dare_ you _feed_ these--these--monsters--inhuman form?"

  "Don't mind him, gentlemen, _please_ don't," she made haste to say;"he's old, _very_ old; eighty-five, his last birthday, and--a littlehoity-toity at times," pointing deftly with her finger in the regionof the reasoning powers in her own shapely head.

  Summoning Major Pitcairn by an offer of a dish of beans, she contrivedto say, under cover of it:

  "You see, sir, I couldn't go away and leave him; he is almostdistracted with rheumatism, and this excitement to-day will kill him,I'm afraid."

  Advancing toward the staircase with bold and soldierly front, MajorPitcairn said to Uncle John:

  "Stand aside, old man, and we'll hold you harmless."

  "I don't believe you will, you red-trimmed trooper, you," was thereply; and, with a dexterous swing of the wooden staff, he mowed offand down three military hats.

  Before any one had time to speak, Martha Moulton, adroitly stooping,as though to recover Major Pitcairn's hat, which had rolled to herfeet, swung the stairway-door into its place with a resounding bang,and followed up that achievement with a swift turn of two large woodenbuttons, one high up, and the other low down, on the door.

  "There!" she said, "he is safe out of mischief for a while, and yourheads are safe as well. Pardon a poor old man, who does not know whathe is about."

  "He seems to know remarkably well," exclaimed an officer.

  Meanwhile, behind the strong door, Uncle John's wrath knew no bounds.In his frantic endeavors to burst the fastenings of the woodenbuttons, rheumatic cramps seized him and carried the day, leaving himout of the battle.

  Meanwhile, a company of soldiers clustered about the door. The king'shorses were fed within five feet of the great brass knocker,while, within the house, the beautiful little old woman, in herSunday-best-raiment, tried to do the dismal honors of the day to thefoes of her country. Watching her, one would have thought she wasentertaining heroes returned from the achievement of valiantdeeds, whereas, in her own heart, she knew full well that she wasgiving a little, to save much.

  Nothing could exceed the seeming alacrity with which she fetched waterfrom the well for the officers: and, when Major Pitcairn gallantlyordered his men to do the service, the little soul was in alarm; shewas so afraid that "somehow, in some way or another, the blue stockingwould get hitched on to the bucket." She knew that she must to itsrescue, and so she br
avely acknowledged herself to have taken a vow(when, she did not say), to draw all the water that was taken fromthat well.

  "A remnant of witchcraft!" remarked a soldier within hearing.

  "Do I look like a witch?" she demanded.

  "If you do," replied Major Pitcairn, "I admire New England witches,and never would condemn one to be hung, or burned, or--smothered."

  Martha Moulton never wore so brilliant a color on her aged cheeks asat that moment. She felt bitter shame at the ruse she had attempted,but silver spoons were precious, and, to escape the smile that wentaround at Major Pitcairn's words, she was only too glad to go again tothe well and dip slowly the high, over-hanging sweep into the cool,clear, dark depth below.

  During this time the cold, frosty morning spent itself into thebrilliant, shining noon.

  You know what happened at Concord on that 19th of April in the year1775. You have been told the story--how the men of Acton met andresisted the king's troops at the old North Bridge; how brave CaptainDavis and minute-man Hosmer fell; how the sound of their fallingstruck down to the very heart of mother earth, and caused her to sendforth her brave sons to cry "Liberty, or Death!"

  And the rest of the story; the sixty or more barrels of flour that theking's troops found and struck the heads from, leaving the flour incondition to be gathered again at nightfall, the arms and powder thatthey destroyed, the houses they burned; all these, are they notrecorded in every child's history in the land?

  While these things were going on, for a brief while, at mid-day,Martha Moulton found her home deserted. She had not forgotten poor,suffering, irate Uncle John in the regions above, and so, the veryminute she had the chance, she made a strong cup of catnip tea (thereal tea, you know, was brewing in Boston harbor).

  She turned the buttons, and, with a bit of trembling at her heart,such as she had not felt all day, she ventured up the stairs, bearingthe steaming peace-offering before her.

  Uncle John was writhing under the sharp thorns and twinges of his oldenemy, and in no frame of mind to receive any overtures in the shapeof catnip tea; nevertheless, he was watching, as well as he was able,the motions of the enemy. As she drew near, he cried out:

  "Look out this window, and see! Much _good_ all your scheming will do_you_!"

  She obeyed his command to look, and the sight she then saw caused herto let fall the cup of catnip tea and rush down the stairs, wringingher hands as she went, and crying out:

  "Oh, dear! what shall I do? The house will burn and the box up garret.Everything's lost!"

  Major Pitcairn, at that moment, was on the green in front of her door,giving orders.

  Forgetting the dignified part she intended to play; forgettingeverything but the supreme danger that was hovering in mid-air overher home--the old house wherein she had been born, and the only homeshe had ever known--she rushed out upon the green, amid the troops andsurrounded by cavalry, and made her way to Major Pitcairn.

  "The court-house is on fire!" she cried, laying her hand upon thecommander's arm.

  He turned and looked at her. Major Pitcairn had recently learned thatthe task he had been set to do in the provincial towns that day wasnot an easy one; that, when hard pressed and trodden down, thedespised rustics, in homespun dress, could sting even Englishsoldiers; and thus it happened that, when he felt the touch of MotherMoulton's plump little old fingers on his military sleeve, he was notin the pleasant humor that he had been when the same hand hadministered to his hunger in the early morning.

  "Well, what of it? _Let it burn!_ We won't hurt _you_, if you go inthe house and stay there!"

  She turned and glanced up at the court-house. Already flames wereissuing from it. "Go in the house and let it burn, _indeed_!" thoughtshe. "He knows _me_, don't he? Oh, sir! for the love of Heaven won'tyou stop it?" she said, entreatingly.

  "Run in the house, good mother. That is a wise woman," he advised.

  Down in her heart, and as the very outcome of lip and brain she wantedto say, "You needn't 'mother' me, you murderous rascals!" but,remembering everything that was at stake, she crushed her wrath andbuttoned it in as closely as she had Uncle John behind the door in themorning, and again, with swift gentleness, laid her hand on his arm.

  He turned and looked at her. Vexed at her persistence, and extremelyannoyed at intelligence that had just reached him from the NorthBridge, he said, imperiously, "Get away! or you'll be trodden down bythe horses!"

  "I _can't_ go!" she cried, clasping his arm, and fairly clinging to itin her frenzy of excitement. "Oh, stop the fire, quick, quick! or myhouse will burn!"

  "I have no time to put out your fires," he said, carelessly, shakingloose from her hold and turning to meet a messenger with news.

  Poor little woman! What could she do? The wind was rising, and thefire grew. Flame was creeping out in a little blue curl in a newplace, under the rafter's edge, _and nobody cared_. That was whatincreased the pressing misery of it all. It was so unlike a commoncountry alarm, where everybody rushed up and down the streets, crying"Fire! fire! f-i-r-e!" and went hurrying to and fro for pails of waterto help put it out.

  Until that moment the little woman did not know how utterly desertedshe was.

  In very despair, she ran to her house, seized two pails, filled themwith greater haste than she had ever drawn water before, and,regardless of Uncle John's imprecations, carried them forth, one ineither hand, the water dripping carelessly down the side breadths ofher fair silk gown, her silvery curls tossed and tumbled in whiteconfusion, her pleasant face aflame with eagerness, and her clear eyessuffused with tears.

  Thus equipped with facts and feeling, she once more appeared to MajorPitcairn.

  "Have you a mother in old England?" she cried. "If so, for her sake,stop this fire."

  Her words touched his heart.

  "And if I do--?" he answered.

  "_Then your johnny-cake on my hearth won't burn up_," she said, with aquick little smile, adjusting her cap.

  Major Pitcairn laughed, and two soldiers, at his command, seized thepails and made haste to the court-house, followed by many more.

  For awhile the fire seemed victorious, but, by brave effort, it wasfinally overcome, and the court-house saved.

  At a distance Joe Devins had noticed the smoke hovering like a littlecloud, then sailing away still more like a cloud over the town; and hehad made haste to the scene, arriving in time to venture on the roof,and do good service there.

  After the fire was extinguished, he thought of Martha Moulton, and hecould not help feeling a bit guilty at the consciousness that he hadgone off and left her alone.

  Going to the house he found her entertaining the king's troopers withthe best food her humble store afforded.

  She was so charmed with herself, and so utterly well pleased with thesuccess of her pleading, that the little woman's nerves fairlyquivered with jubilation; and best of all, the blue stocking wasstill safe in the well, for had she not watched with her own eyesevery time the bucket was dipped to fetch up water for the fire,having, somehow, got rid of the vow she had taken regarding thedrawing of the water.

  As she saw the lad looking, with surprised countenance, into the roomwhere the feast was going on, a fear crept up her own face and dartedout from her eyes. It was, lest Joe Devins should spoil it all byill-timed words.

  She made haste to meet him, basket in hand.

  "Here, Joe," she said, "fetch me some small wood, there's a goodboy."

  As she gave him the basket she was just in time to stop the rejoinderthat was issuing from his lips.

  In time to intercept his return she was at the wood-pile.

  "Joe," she said, half-abashed before the truth that shone in the boy'seyes--"Joe," she repeated, "you know Major Pitcairn ordered the fireput out, _to please me_, because I begged him so, and, in return, what_can_ I do but give them something to eat? Come and help me."

  "I won't," responded he. "Their hands are red with blood. They'vekilled two men at the bridge."

  "Who's ki
lled?" she asked, trembling, but Joe would not tell her. Hedemanded to know what had been done with Uncle John.

  "He's quiet enough, up-stairs," she replied, with a sudden spasm offeeling that she _had_ neglected Uncle John shamefully; still, withthe day, and the fire and everything, how could she help it? but,really, it did seem strange that he made no noise, with a hundredarmed men coming and going through the house.

  At least, that was what Joe thought, and, having deposited the basketof wood on the threshold of the kitchen door, he departed around thecorner of the house. Presently he had climbed a pear tree, droppedfrom one of its overhanging branches on the lean-to, raised a sash andcrept into the window.

  Slipping off his shoes, heavy with spring mud, he proceeded to searchfor Uncle John. He was not in his own room; he was not in theguest-chamber; he was not in any one of the rooms.

  On the floor, by the window in the hall, looking out upon the green,he found the broken cup and saucer that Martha Moulton had let fall.Having made a second round, in which he investigated every closet andpenetrated into the spaces under beds, Joe thought of the garret.

  Tramp, tramp went the heavy feet on the sanded floors below, drowningevery possible sound from above; nevertheless, as the lad opened thedoor leading into the garret, he whispered cautiously: "Uncle John!Uncle John!"

  All was silent above. Joe went up, and was startled by a groan. He hadto stand a few seconds, to let the darkness grow into light, ere hecould see; and, when he could discern outlines in the dimness, therewas given to him the picture of Uncle John, lying helpless amid andupon the nubbins that had been piled over his strong box.

  "Why, Uncle John, are you dead?" asked Joe, climbing over to hisside.

  "Is the house afire?" was the response.

  "House afire? No! The confounded Red Coats up and put it out."

  "I thought they was going to let me burn to death up here!" groanedUncle John.

  "Can I help you up?" and Joe proffered two strong hands, rather blackwith toil and smoke.

  "No, no! You can't help me. If the house isn't afire, I'll stand ittill the fellows are gone, and then, Joe, you fetch the doctor asquick as you can."

  "_You_ can't get a doctor for love nor money this night, Uncle John.There's too much work to be done in Lexington and Concord to-night forwounded and dying men; and there'll be more of 'em too afore a singleRed Coat sees Boston again. They'll be hunted down every step of theway. They've killed Captain Davis, from Acton."

  "You don't say so!"

  "Yes, they have, and--"

  "I say, Joe Devins, go down and do--do something. There's _my niece_a-feeding the murderers! I'll disown her. She shan't have a penny ofmy pounds, she shan't!"

  Both Joe and Uncle John were compelled to remain in inaction, whilebelow, the weary little woman acted the kind hostess to His Majesty'stroops.

  But now the feast was spent, and the soldiers were summoned to begintheir painful march. Assembled on the green, all was ready, when MajorPitcairn, remembering the little woman who had ministered to hiswants, returned to the house to say farewell.

  'Twas but a step to her door, and but a moment since he had left it,but he found her crying; crying with joy, in the very chair where hehad found her at prayers in the morning.

  "I would like to say good-by," he said; "you've been very kind to meto-day."

  With a quick dash or two of the dotted white apron (spotless nolonger) to her eye, she arose. Major Pitcairn extended his hand, butshe folded her own closely together, and said:

  "I wish you a pleasant journey back to Boston, sir."

  "Will you not shake hands with me before I go?"

  "I can feed the enemy of my country, but shake hands with him,_never_!"

  For the first time that day the little woman's love of country seemedto rise triumphant within her, and drown every impulse to selfishness;or, was it the nearness to safety that she felt? Human conduct is theresult of so many motives that it is sometimes impossible to name thecompound, although on that occasion Martha Moulton labelled it"Patriotism."

  "And yet I put out the fire for you," he said.

  "For your mother's sake, in old England, it was, you remember, sir."

  "I remember," said Major Pitcairn, with a sigh, as he turned away.

  "And for _her_ sake I will shake hands with you," said MarthaMoulton.

  So he turned back, and, across the threshold, in presence of thewaiting troops, the commander of the expedition to Concord and theonly woman in the town shook hands at parting.

  Martha Moulton saw Major Pitcairn mount his horse; heard the ordergiven for the march to begin--the march of which you all have heard.You know what a sorry time the Red Coats had of it in getting back toBoston; how they were fought at every inch of the way, and waylaidfrom behind every convenient tree-trunk, and shot at from tree-tops,and aimed at from upper windows, and besieged from behind stone walls,and, in short, made so miserable and harassed and overworn, that atlast their depleted ranks, with the tongues of the men parched andhanging, were fain to lie down by the road-side and take what camenext, even though it might be death. And then _the dead_ they leftbehind them!

  Ah! there's nothing wholesome to mind or body about war, until long,long after it is over and the earth has had time to hide the blood,and send forth its sweet blooms of Liberty.

  The men of that day are long dead. The same soil holds regulars andminute-men. England, which over-ruled, and the provinces, that put outbrave hands to seize their rights, are good friends to-day, and haveshaken hands over many a threshold of hearty thought and kind deedsince that time.

  The tree of Liberty grows yet, stately and fair, for the men of theRevolution planted it well, and surely, God himself _hath_ given itincrease. So we gather to-day, in this our story, a forget-me-notmore, from the old town of Concord.

  When the troops had marched away, the weary little woman laid asideher silken gown, resumed her homespun dress, and immediately began tothink of getting Uncle John down-stairs again into his easy chair; butit required more aid than she could give, to lift the fallen man. Atlast, Joe Devins summoned returning neighbors, who came to the rescue,and the poor nubbins were left to the rats once more.

  Joe climbed down the well and rescued the blue stocking, with itstreasures unharmed, even to the precious watch, which watch was MarthaMoulton's chief treasure, and one of the very few in the town.

  Martha Moulton was the heroine of the day. The house was besieged byadmiring men and women that night and for two or three daysthereafter; but when, years later, she being older, and poorer, evento want, petitioned the General Court for a reward for the service sherendered in persuading Major Pitcairn to save the court-house fromburning, there was granted to her only fifteen dollars, a poor littlegrant, it is true, but _just enough_ to carry her story down theyears, whereas, but for that, it might never have been wafted up anddown the land, on the wings of this story.