Chapter 8

With story and jest the company enjoyed the banquet and then were rowed to the shore, all shaking hands with Berinthia and congratulating her upon the successful launching of the vessel bearing her name.

"What can we do to round out the day for you, dear?"

It was Miss Newville addressing Berinthia.

"I don't know; what can we?" was the reply.

"How would you like a sleigh-ride?" Robert asked.

"Delightful!" exclaimed Miss Newville.

"Jenny and the colt are rested, and if you don't mind riding in a pung, I shall be pleased to take a little spin out of town."

"Oh, it will be so charming! I would rather go in a pung than in a sleigh; it is more romantic," Miss Newville said.

It was quickly arranged. Robert went to the Green Dragon, put new straw in the pung, and was soon back with the team. They were eight in number and quickly seated themselves. It was natural that Berinthia and Abraham Duncan, who had put his heart into his work while carving her features, should sit side by side, and that Tom Brandon and Mary Shrimpton should desire to be tucked under the same bearskin. It was a pleasure to Roger Stanley to ask Miss Walden to keep him company.

"They have decided, Mr. Walden, that we shall sit together," Miss Newville said as she stepped into the pung.

"I shall regard it an honor to have your company," was the reply.

When all were ready, the horses set the sleigh-bells jingling. Farmers plodding home from the market gave them the road, and smiled as they listened to the merry laughter. They went at a brisk trot over the Neck leading to Roxbury, and turned to the left, taking the Dorchester road. At times the horses came to a walk, but at a chirrup from Robert quickened their pace, the colt throwing snowballs into Miss Newville's face.

"You must excuse him, Miss Newville; he is young, and has not learned to be polite," Robert said, apologizing for the animal.

They gained the highlands of Dorchester, from whence they could overlook the harbor and its islands, and see the lighthouse rising from its rocky foundation, with the white surf breaking around it. A ship which had left Charles River with the ebbing tide had reached Nantasket Roads, and was spreading its sails for a voyage across the sea.

"So the Berinthia will soon be sailing," said Miss Newville, "and we shall all want to keep track of her; and whenever we read of her coming and going we shall all recall this delightful day, made so enjoyable for us this morning by Berinthia and so charming this afternoon by your kindness."

She turned her face towards Robert. The afternoon sun was illumining her countenance. He had seen in Mr. Henchman's bookstall a beautiful picture of a Madonna. Mr. Knox told him it was a steel engraving from a picture painted by the great artist Raphael, and Robert wondered if the countenance was any more lovely than that which looked up to him at the moment.

They were riding towards the Milton Hills. The woodman's axe had left untouched the oaks, elms, maples, and birches; they were leafless in midwinter, but the pines and hemlocks were green and beautiful upon its rocky sides. The purple sky, changing into gold along the western horizon, the white robe of winter upon hill and dale, the windows of farmhouses reflecting the setting sun, made the view and landscape of marvelous beauty. Descending the hill, they came to the winding Neponset River, and rode along its banks beneath overhanging elms. The bending limbs, though leafless, were beautiful in their outlines against the sky. Turning westward, they reached the great road leading from Boston to Providence.

"We might go to Dedham, but I think we had better turn back towards Roxbury, let the horses rest a bit at the Greyhound Tavern, and have supper,"[35] said Tom, who was well acquainted with the road.

[Footnote 35: The Greyhound was a much frequented tavern in Roxbury, with the figure of a greyhound upon its sign. It was in this tavern that the repeal of the Stamp Act was celebrated, 1767. Convivial parties were courteously entertained by the accommodating landlord.]

The sun had gone down when they whirled up to the tavern, whose swinging sign was ornamented with a rude picture of a greyhound. A bright fire was blazing in the parlor. They laid aside their outer garments and warmed themselves by its ruddy glow. The keen, fresh air had sharpened their appetites for supper. Chloe and Samson, cook and table-waiter, served them with beefsteak hot from the gridiron, swimming in butter; potatoes roasted in the ashes; shortcake steaming hot from the Dutch oven.

"Shall I brew Bohea, Hyson, or Hyperion[36] tea," the landlady asked, beginning with Miss Newville and glancing at each in turn.

[Footnote 36: Strawberry and other domestic teas were called by the high-sounding name, Hyperion.]

"I will take Hyperion," Miss Newville replied, with a tact and grace that made her dearer than ever to Berinthia, and to them all, knowing as they did that Bohea and Hyson were still served in her own home.

Supper over, they returned to the parlor, where the bright flame on the hearth was setting their shadows to dancing on the walls. The feet of Mary Shrimpton were keeping time to the ticking of the clock.

"Why can't we have a dance?" she asked.

"Why not?" all responded.

"I'll see if we can find Uncle Brutus," said Tom.

Uncle Brutus was the white-haired old negro who did chores about the tavern.

"Yes, massa, I can play a jig, quickstep, minuet, and reel. De ladies and genmen say I can play de fiddle right smart," Brutus responded, rolling his eyes and showing his well-preserved white teeth.

"If de ladies and genmen will wait a little till old Brutus can make himself 'spectable, he'll make de fiddle sing."

While the old negro was getting ready to entertain them with his violin, they proposed conundrums and riddles and narrated stories.

There came at length a gentle rap on the door, and Brutus, with high standing collar, wearing a cast-off coat given him by his master, his round-bowed spectacles on the tip of his nose, entered the room, bowing very low. He took his stand in one corner and tuned his violin. The chairs and light-stand were removed to the hall.

"De ladies and genmen will please choose pardners for de minuet," said Brutus.

The choosing had been already done; the partners were as they had been. After the minuet came the reel and quickstep, danced with grace and due decorum.

The hour quickly flew. The horses had finished their provender and were rested. Once more they were on the road, not riding directly homeward, but turning into cross-roads to Jamaica Pond, where the boys were gliding over the gleaming ice on their skates. They had kindled fires which lighted up the surrounding objects, the dark foliage of pines and hemlocks, and the branches of the leafless elms and maples growing on the banks of the pond.

The full moon was shining in their faces as they rode homeward. The evening air was crisp, but the hot supper and the merry dance had warmed their blood. The jingling of the sleigh-bells and their joyous laughter made the air resonant with music.

At times the horses lagged to a walk, and Robert could let the reins lie loose and turn his face toward Miss Newville. Her eyes at times looked up to his. He could feel her arm against his own. The violet hood leaned towards him as if to find a resting-place. To Robert Walden and to Ruth Newville alike never had there been such a night, so full of beauty, so delightful.

The horses came to a standstill at last by the entrance to the Newville mansion.

"This has been the most enjoyable day of my life," Miss Newville said, as Robert gave her his hand to assist her from the pung.

"Good-night, all. Thank you, Mr. Walden, for all your kindness," her parting words.

VIII.

CHRISTOPHER SNIDER.

The night-watchman of the North End of Boston, with overcoat buttoned to the chin and a muffler around his neck, a fur cap drawn down over his ears to exclude the biting frost of midwinter, was going his rounds. He saw no revelers in the streets, nor belated visitors returning to their homes.

If suitors were calling upon their ladies, the visits were ended long before the clock on the Old Brick struck the midnight hour. No voice broke the stillness of the night. The watchman scarcely heard his own footsteps in the newly fallen snow as he slowly made his way along Middle Street,[37] with his lantern and staff. He was not expecting to encounter a burglar, breaking and entering a shop, store, or residence. He heard the clock strike once more, and was just pursing his lips to cry, "Two o'clock, and all's well," when he caught a glimpse of a figure in front of Theophilus Lillie's store.[38] Was it a burglar? The man was standing stock-still, as if scanning the premises. The watchman dodged back behind the building on the corner of the street, hid his lantern, and peered slyly at the thief, who was still looking at the store. What was the meaning of such mysterious inaction? The watchman, instead of waiting to catch the culprit in the act of breaking and entering, stepped softly forward. Grasping his staff with a firm grip, to give a sudden whack, should the villain turn upon him,--"What ye 'bout, sir!" he shouted.

[Footnote 37: The section of the present Hanover Street east of Blackstone Street was called Middle Street.]

[Footnote 38: Mr. Theophilus Lillie was one of the six merchants who refused to sign the association paper not to import goods from England, thereby making himself exceedingly obnoxious to the people. Other merchants had agreed not to make any importation, and had violated the agreement.]

The burglar did not reply, neither turn his head.

"Is the fellow dead, I wonder--frozen stiff, this bitter night, and standing still?" the question that flashed through the watchman's brain.

"Bless my soul! It's Mr. Lillie's head,--his nose, mouth, chin. Looks just like him. And the post is set in the ground. I'll bet that carving is Abe Duncan's work. Nobody can carve like him. But what is it here for? Ah! I see. Lillie has gone back on his agreement not to import tea. The Sons of Liberty have rigged it up to guy him. Ha, ha!"

The watchman laughed to himself as he examined the figure.

"Well, that's a cute job," he said reflectively. "The ground is frozen stiff a foot deep. They had to break it with a crowbar, but not a sound did I hear. Shall I say anything about it? Will not the selectmen make a fuss if I don't notify 'em at once? But what's the use of knocking 'em up at two o'clock in the morning? The thing's done. 'Taint my business to pull it up. The post won't run away. I'll report what time I found it."

Remembering that he had not cried the hour, he shouted:--

"Two o'clock, all's well!"

He secreted himself in a doorway awhile, to see if any one would appear, but no one came.

The early risers--the milkmen and bakers' apprentices going their rounds, shop boys on their way to kindle fires in stores--all stopped to look at the figure. The news quickly spread. People left their breakfast-tables to see the joke played on Mr. Lillie. Ebenezer Richardson, however, could not see the fun of the thing. The schoolboys called him "Poke Nose" because he was ever ready to poke into other people's affairs.[39] The officers of the Custom House employed him to ferret out goods smuggled ashore by merchants, who, regarding the laws as unjust and oppressive, had no scruples in circumventing the customs officers. Richardson hated the Sons of Liberty, and haunted the Green Dragon to spy out their actions.

[Footnote 39: The offensive and unjust laws and acts and ordinances of the Board of Trade in enforcing the collection of customs dues had brought about systematic effort to circumvent the Custom House officials, who employed spies and informers to ferret out fraudulent transactions. Smuggling was regarded as a virtue, and outwitting the officials a duty rather than an offense. Ebenezer Richardson, by his service to the Custom House officials, made himself obnoxious to the community. An account of the incidents that led to the shooting of Christopher Snider may be found in the newspapers of March, 1770.]

"This is their work," he said to those around the figure. "It's outrageous. Mr. Lillie has just as good a right to sell tea as anything else, without having everybody pointing their fingers at him. It's an insult. It's disgraceful. Whoever did it ought to be trounced."

"Charcoal! Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!"

It was the cry of the charcoal-man, turning from Union into Middle Street.

"I'll get him to run his sled against it and knock it over," said Mr. Richardson to himself.

Slowly the charcoal vender advanced.

Seeing the post and the group of people around it, he reined in his old horse and looked at the figure.

"See here," said Mr. Richardson. "Just gee a little and run the nose of your sled agin it and knock it over, will ye? It's a tarnal fiendish outrage to set up such a thing in front of a gentleman's store."

"Do you own the figger?"

"No."

"Do you own the store?"

"No."

"Anybody ax ye to get it knocked down?"

"No; but it's an outrage which honest citizens ought to resent."

"Think so, do ye?"

"Yes, I do; and everybody else ought to, instead of laughing and chuckling over it."

"That may be, mister, but ye see you don't own it, and may be I'd get myself into trouble if I were to run my sled agin it purposely. Should like to oblige ye, neighbor, but guess I'd better not. Charcoal! Charcoal! Hard and soft charcoal!" he shouted, jerking the reins for the old horse to move on.

"Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!"

It was a farmer driving his oxen drawing a load of wood, swinging his goad-stick, who shouted it. The team came to a standstill by the figure.

"What's up?" the farmer inquired.

"The Sons of Liberty have perpetrated a rascally trick, by setting this effigy in front of this gentleman's store," said Mr. Richardson.

"What'd they do that for?"

"'Cause he agreed not to sell tea, and then, finding he'd made a bad bargain, backed out of it; and now I'd like to have ye hitch yer oxen to the thing and snake it to Jericho."

"'Fraid I can't 'commodate ye; got to go down to widow Jenkins's with my wood. Gee, Buck! Haw, Barry!" said the farmer, as he started on.

"Rich, why don't ye pull it up yourself," said an apprentice.

"Better get an axe and chop it down, if it's such an eyesore to ye," said another.

"Get a crowbar and dig it up. A little exercise will be good for ye," said a third.

"Has Lillie engaged ye to get rid of the thing?" another asked.

"Did the Sons of Liberty smuggle it ashore during the night?"

Tom Brandon asked the question, which nettled Mr. Richardson exceedingly. Possibly the informer could not have said why he was so zealous for the removal of the effigy. He would not have been willing to admit that he was seeking to advance himself in the estimation of Hon. Theodore Newville, commissioner of imposts, and Hon. Nathaniel Coffin, his majesty's receiver-general. Quite likely he could not have given any very satisfactory reason for his activity in attempting to remove the figure. He knew that the selectmen would be obliged to clear the street of the obstruction, but a display of loyalty to the king might possibly inure to his benefit. Boys on their way to school began to chaff the informer.

"Say, Poke Nose; how much are ye going to get for the job?" shouted one of the boys.

"You mind your own business."

"That's what you don't do."

"Don't ye call me names, you little imp," shouted the informer, shaking his fist at the boy.

"Poke Nose! Poke Nose! Poke Nose!" the chorus of voices.

"Take that, Poke Nose!" said a boy as he threw a snowball.

Losing his temper, the informer threw a brickbat in return. He was but one against fifty lads pelting him with snowballs, which knocked off his hat, struck him in the face, compelling him to flee, the jeering boys following him to his own home.

Tom Brandon accompanied the boys. He saw the informer raise a window. There was a flash, a puff of smoke, the report of a gun, a shriek, and two of the boys were lying upon the ground and their blood spurting upon the snow. He helped carry them into a house, and then ran for Doctor Warren. It was but a few steps. The doctor came in haste.

"Samuel Gore is not much injured, but Christopher Snider is mortally wounded," he said.

Christ Church bells were ringing. Merchants were closing their stores; blacksmiths leaving their forges; carpenters throwing down their tools,--everybody hastening with buckets and ladders to put out the fire, finding instead the blood-stained snow and wounded schoolboys.

"Hang him! Hang him!" shouted the apprentices and journeymen. But the sheriff had the culprit in his keeping, and the law in its majesty was guarding him from the violence of the angered people.

"Christopher Snider is dead," said Doctor Warren, as he came from the house into which the boy had been carried by Tom Brandon and those who assisted him.

Thenceforth the widow's home in Frog Lane would be desolate, for an only child was gone.

An exasperated multitude, among others Tom Brandon and Robert Walden, gathered in Faneuil Hall, Tom as witness, attending the examination of Ebenezer Richardson,[40] charged with the murder of Christopher Snider. Upon the platform sat the justices, John Ruddock, Edmund Quincy, Richard Dana, and Samuel Pemberton, wearing their scarlet cloaks and white wigs. There was a murmuring of voices.

[Footnote 40: John Ruddock, Edmund Quincy, Richard Dana, and Samuel Pemberton were the principal magistrates of the town, and unitedly sat as a court. Richardson was committed to jail, tried, and condemned to death. As his crime grew from political troubles, Governor Hutchinson caused his execution to be delayed. He was kept in jail till the outbreak of the war, when he was set at liberty.]

"I hope the spy will swing for it," Robert heard one citizen say.

"It's downright murder, this shooting of a boy only nine years old, who hadn't even been teasing Poke Nose," said another.

"This is what comes from customs nabobs trying to enforce wicked laws," said an old man.

"Yes, and keeps two regiments of lobsters here to insult us."

"That's so," responded Peter Bushwick, whom Robert recognized. "If the laws were just the people wouldn't smuggle. If there was no smuggling there wouldn't be any spies, and Ebe Richardson, instead of being a sneaking informer, would have been earning an honest living. He wouldn't have been called Poke Nose; there wouldn't have been any snowballs nor brickbats nor shooting. Ever since I was a little boy Parliament has been passing laws to cripple us; that's what's brought on smuggling; that's what keeps the troops here. Ebe Richardson is part of the system."

There was a louder buzzing as the sheriff entered the hall and made his way through the crowd with his prisoner, who stood pale and trembling before the justices while the indictment was read. Witnesses were sworn and examined, and the sheriff ordered to commit the accused to the jail for trial.

"No other incident," said Mr. John Adams, "has so stirred the people as the shooting of this boy. Nothing has so brought to the consciousness of the community the meaning of the ministerial system. Instinctively they connect the death of Christopher with the attempt to enforce the unrighteous laws. Richardson is in the employ of the government. There is no evidence that Theodore Newville or Nathaniel Coffin or any of the officers of the customs engaged him to remove the effigy; he did it on his own account, and must suffer for it, but the obloquy falls, nevertheless, upon the officers of the crown, and especially upon the soldiers, who are a constant menace. I fear this is but the beginning of trouble."

Tom had been called upon to testify as a witness in regard to the shooting. He had heard the informer ask the peddler of charcoal and the farmer to run against the effigy with their teams; had seen the snowballs and brickbat fly, the shooting, and had assisted in caring for the wounded and summoning Doctor Warren.

"Have you any idea, Tom, who placed the effigy there?" Mrs. Brandon asked.

"I might have an idea, which might be correct or which might not be. A supposition isn't testimony. I don't think I'll say anything about it," said Tom.

"Can you guess who carved it?" Berinthia asked earnestly.

"Anybody can guess, Brinth, but the guess might not be worth anything; I'll not try."

"You Sons of Liberty don't let out your secrets," Berinthia said.

"If we did they wouldn't be secrets."

Never had there been such a funeral in the town as that of Christopher Snider. The schools were closed that the scholars might march in procession. Merchants put up the shutters of their stores; joiners, carpenters, ropemakers, blacksmiths, all trades and occupations laid down their tools and made their way to the Liberty-Tree, where the procession was to form. Mothers flocked to the little cottage in Frog Lane to weep with a mother bereft of her only child. Tom Brandon and five other young men were to carry the bier. The newspaper published by Benjamin Edes expressed the hope that none but friends of freedom would join in the procession.

Robert made his way to the Liberty Tree at the hour appointed. A great crowd had assembled. Somebody had nailed a board to the tree, upon which were painted texts from the Bible:--

"_Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer. He shall surely be put to death._"

"_Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not pass unpunished._"

The clock was striking three when the bearers brought the coffin from the home of the mother in Frog Lane to the Liberty Tree. While the procession was forming Robert had an opportunity to look at the inscriptions upon the black velvet pall. They were in Latin, but a gentleman with a kindly face, Master Lovell, translated them to the people.

"_Latet Anguis in Herba._" "_Hoeret Lateris lethalis Armada._" "_Innocentia nusquam in tuta._"

The serpent is lurking in the grass. The fatal dart is thrown. Innocence is nowhere safe.

All the bells were tolling. Mothers and maidens along the street were weeping for the mother following the body of her boy. Old men uncovered their heads, and bared their snow-white locks to the wintry air, as the pall-bearers with slow and measured steps moved past them. Schoolboys, more than six hundred, two by two, hand in hand; apprentices, journeymen, citizens, three thousand in number; magistrates, ministers, merchants, lawyers, physicians in chaises and carriages,--composed the throng bearing the murdered boy to his burial.

Listen, my Lord Frederick North, to the mournful pealing of the bells of Boston! Listen, King George, to the tramping of the schoolmates of Christopher Snider, laying aside their books for the day to bear witness against your royal policy,--boys now, men ere long,--protesting with tears to-day, with muskets by and by! Listen, ye men who have purchased seats in parliament to satisfy your greed!

The assembled multitude, the tolling bells, the tramping feet, the emblems of mourning, are the indignant protest of an outraged community against tyranny and oppression,--the enforcement of law by the show of force,--by musket, sword, and bayonet. Listen, and take warning.[41]

[Footnote 41: Historians have made little account of the shooting of Christopher Snider, but there can be no question that it led directly to the collision between the ropemakers and soldiers one week later, resulting in the Massacre of March 5, 1770.]

IX.

THE LOBSTERS AND ROPEMAKERS.

Although March had come, the snow was still deep upon the ground. Robert and Rachel could prolong their stay in Boston and enjoy the hospitality of their friends. It was Monday evening the 5th of the month. Berinthia had invited Ruth Newville to tea.