Chapter III

Made Prisoner

I had scarcely reached the village, when I learned that I had been quite wrong in supposing that violence was intended by the people.

'It's the funeral,' a man on the fringe of the crowd told me. 'It was here the first of the shootin' was done day before yesterday. The eight of our men who were killed all belonged in this neighbourhood, an' attended this church. They are all to be buried here this afternoon.'

He pointed to a row of eight graves near the church.

'They'll bury first,' he said, 'an' without takin' the coffins into the church. Ye'll see that done among the Tories, but not here. Ye'll be wantin' to hear the sermon, I suppose. Well that's my barn over there. Go an' put up yer horse, for he's lookin' tired.'

I did as I was instructed, and a little later I was wandering about among the people. It was a strangely mixed crowd. There were many farmers dressed as for work in the fields. Others had evidently on 'Sunday clothes.' Women and children, boys and girls, made up a great part of the immense company. Though they could not be distinguished by either their dress or bearing, I soon learned that many of the men had been engaged in the fighting of two days before. These were usually the centre of interested groups of people, who listened with eager attention to the various accounts of the day that marked the opening of the unfortunate war.

Being convinced by this time that I was in no danger, and having seen many others dressed exactly as I was, I pushed my way almost to the centre of a group close to the church. A man with his arm in a sling was speaking.

'It was here at the east end of the meeting-house,' I heard him say, 'that the redcoats first showed themselves. Several of our men were moving about on the green out there, only a few of them being formed in a company, when I heard one of the redcoats shout out, "Disperse, ye rebels!" I think it was an officer who said it. Not one of our men moved. As the order was repeated I brought my gun to my shoulder. Just then an English officer rode out in front of his men, and discharged a pistol into the air. Immediately a lot of soldiers raised their guns and fired towards where we stood. This time nobody was hit; there seemed to be nothing but powder in the guns. Our men did not fire, but after a few minutes other soldiers came up, and without any command from the officers that I could hear, fired into us. We replied this time, but when we saw they were going to surround us, our Captain gave the order and we dispersed. That's my story of the way the fight began, let others say what they will.'

A little later, as I wandered about, I heard quite different accounts, especially as to which side fired first. I could not then, nor have I yet ever been able fully to satisfy myself on this point. But as to the fact that there had been severe fighting, even upon the steps of the church, the numerous bullet holes which I saw left no doubt. It seemed not a little strange to me, that a place of worship should have been the centre around which the storm of battle had raged. And yet I understood later why it had been thus.

The meeting-house, I knew, was the place where all the town, as well as religious, meetings were held. Here it had been agreed to take up arms. Here in the gallery was stored the town's supply of powder. From the windows of the building several soldiers of the King had been shot. I could not help wondering for the moment how all these things could be reconciled with religion. From the appearance and conversation of many of those in the crowd I took them to be men and women of honour, of excellence of character, people who would not willingly violate what they considered to be the laws of God. But this was one of the days I began to learn the meaning of religion as well as of war; and I do not hesitate to confess now, in looking back, that I was quite ignorant of both. My horse had shied fiercely at the dry bloodstains on the road as I came out; I was then quite unmoved, but the dark, irregular marks on the steps of the Lexington meeting-house, have not proved to be things I can easily forget. It was surely a strange place for men to shed each other's blood. But I was interrupted in my thinking by the arrival of the funeral processions at the church. The sight was a singular one. As the mourning friends gathered about the graves, all thought of war seemed swallowed up in grief. It was not like the soldiers' funerals of which I had read. There was no military display, no firing, no flag, nothing to mark the occasion off from the ordinary funeral of the country. There were many who wept; some threw flowers into the graves; but the great mass of the people looked on, and listened to the words of the clergyman with expressions upon their faces that spake other feelings than those of grief. These people were standing by the graves of the first dead of a great war. The greatness and suddenness of the recent events in their midst had stunned them. The quiet country was unused to such scenes. The surroundings were singularly beautiful. The gay note of birds, preparing to nest in the magnificent trees around the meeting-house and belfry, mingled in the solemn hymns sung with tremulous emotion by those at the side of the graves; and the freshness of late April was over all.

How had it all come about? How long would it be before these men would go back to the unsown fields and to their ploughs standing in the furrows? I had formerly moved mainly with those who sympathised with the King; almost in spite of myself as I stood there looking into many honest faces I felt my sympathies being divided. And yet could these people be right? It was something, at least, to die. And some had already died. Were there honest men on both sides? Were both causes right?--the cause of these people and the cause of the King also? But the last sods were being placed upon the graves, and I moved toward the church. I gained an entrance only with difficulty.

Everything about both church and service was quite unlike that to which I had been accustomed. The minister wore no gown; the hymns were unfamiliar to me; there were no responses in the Scripture reading. But I understood this when I recalled that I had heard that almost all who opposed the King in the country around belonged to churches other than the Church of England.

As the minister began to speak I noticed that he lacked the fineness of language with which I was so familiar in Dr. Canfield, but the man's quiet earnestness and direct frankness pleased me much. The part, however of the whole service that surprised me most was the sermon. It contained little reference to the dead, there was no attack upon government and the King, freedom and tyranny of which I had heard so much from others in the crowd were not once named; but the one thought that ran through the entire discourse was the absolute necessity of a saving faith in Jesus Christ.

I had not looked for this. I was quite sure those about me would have preferred a passionate harangue on oppression, or an extravagant eulogy on the fallen; but the minister had not stooped to this. With him, standing in the midst of strife and hatred, one thing seemed important--that men, whether living or dying, should be thoroughly Christian in heart and life.

The sudden and unexpected death of my father may have assisted the preacher in forcing his words home to my heart, but, as I left the building, I felt a new and strange sense of my unfitness to appear suddenly before God. And this question had been pushed into a place of such prominence, so unexpectedly and under such peculiar circumstances, that I could not put it away. Was it true that this matter was the greatest of all? Would a proper answering of this question help me in any way to face the difficulties that were thickening about me? My father was dead. Duncan Hale or my brother could be of no service to me. My mother and sisters were in my keeping. They must not only be protected but supported. And the time had also come when I must take one side or the other.

'There'll be no neutrals allowed about here. It's going to be fight or flee,' I had heard men before the funeral say, as they looked away up the slope toward a second farmer sowing in his field. And yet my course was far from clear. I was young, inexperienced, and alone. Was there really a source of help such as the preacher had indicated? If so, surely I should seek it. If I lived through the war I would need Divine aid; if I did not live--but I put that thought away. I must live. There were my mother and sisters; and I had seen and heard enough to convince me that the King's cause could spare none--not even a boy. I sought out my horse, mounted him, and was soon off for home.

But, as I was leaving the village, I noticed that a marked change had come over the spirit of the people. The coming of evening seemed to blot out completely all memory of the events and sermon of the afternoon. I saw guns everywhere, most of them being long, old-fashioned muskets, used formerly only in the game regions of the mountains. There were many who galloped up shouting, and waving swords made of scythes and reaping hooks. At the beating of a drum the men thus rudely armed gathered for drill upon the green. They were strange-looking soldiers, unused to fighting and to war, but I saw determination in their faces. They had no flag, for the only flag yet in the country was the flag of England; and that waved over the men against whom these were to fight.

Looking backward occasionally I rode away. As I passed the graves, in one of which I had reason to believe my father slept, I noticed that the old man still kept guard. It was not long after this that I came to a wood. The dusk was deepening now, and it was very still. Once I thought I heard the sound of voices in the deep forest to my right; I paused a moment, but the distant hooting of an owl was all I heard.

A little later, as I came opposite a logging road that had been used in winter, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man's voice; then in the deepening dusk that had gathered under the great trees I made out the figure of a man running. He was waving his arms and shouting for me to stop.

But I did not stop. My heart gave a leap into my throat at the thought that I might be captured, and I dug my heels into my horse's sides. He sprang forward; but as he did so I shot a look backward over my shoulder. Instantly, in the clearer light of the highway, I recognised the figure. Any lingering doubt was dispelled the next moment by a voice that brought me almost to a stand. This cry was still in my ears when a man vaulted into the saddle behind me. It was Duncan Hale, with a noosed rope about his neck.

'On, Roger, on,' he shouted, 'or they'll catch us. I knew the horse as you came by, and broke and ran. They were to hang me in five minutes.'

I urged the horse madly forward, at the same time glancing backward. The men had reached the highway and were coming. I felt my small farm horse sway and lose his pace under the double weight. I knew all was over for Duncan if they came up with us. I pushed the reins into his hands.

'They won't hang me,' I said. 'You go on.' Then I slid from the saddle; and the next moment I was standing in the middle of the road facing Duncan's pursuers with both my hands held high in the air.