Part 4

"Take us with you," said a thousand Royalists of the town; and he took them, bag and baggage, to wander up and down the earth.

Over on Bunker Breed's Hill wooden sentinels did duty when the British soldiers left and for full two hours after; and then two brave Yankees guessed the men were wooden, and marched in to take possession just nine months from the day they bade it good-by, because they had no powder with which to "tune" their guns.

Over on Cambridge Common marched, impatient as ever, General Putnam, with his four thousand followers, ready to cross the River Charles and walk once more the city streets of the good old town. On all the hills were gathered men, women and children to see the British troops depart.

Jeremy Jagger was up before the dawn on that sweetest of Sunday mornings in March, and he reached the Roxbury lines just as General Ward was ready to put his arms about Boston's Neck. The lad took his place with the five hundred men and walked by Ensign Richards' side, as he proudly bore the standard up to the gates, which Ebenezer Learned "unbarred and opened." Once within the lines, Jeremy, unmindful of the crow's feet strewn over the way, made haste through lane and street to his old home on Beacon Hill. "Could that be his mother looking out at him through the window-pane?" he thought, as he drew near.

She saw him. She knew him. But what could it mean that she did not open the door to let him in; that she waved him away? It could not be that she, his own mother, had turned Tory, that her face was grown so red and angry at the sight of her son.

Jeremy banged away at the door. There was no answer.

At last he heard the lifting of a sash, a head, muffled carefully, appeared from the highest window in the house, and a voice (the lad knew whose it was) said: "Go, Jeremy! Go away out of Boston as fast as you can. I'll come to you as soon as it is safe."

"Why, mother, what's the matter?" cried the boy.

"Small pox! I've had it. Everybody has it. Go!"

"Good-by," cried Jeremy, running out of Boston as fast as any British soldier of them all and a good deal more frightened. He burst into Aunt Hannah's house with the news that he had been to Boston, that the soldiers were all gone, that he had seen his mother, that she had the small-pox and sent him off in a hurry.

"Tut! tut!" she cried. "It's wicked to tell lies, Jeremy Jagger."

"I'm not telling lies. Every word is true. Please give me something to eat."

But Aunt Hannah did not wait to give the lad food, nor even to speak the prayer of thanksgiving that went like incense from her heart. She went into the barn-yard and threw corn on the barn-floor, to which the hens and turkeys made haste. Closing the door, she summoned Jeremy to kill the largest and best of them.

That Sunday afternoon the brick oven glowed with fervent heat, the white, fat offerings went in, and the golden-brown turkeys and chickens came out; and as each, in turn, was pronounced "done," Aunt Hannah repeated the words: "Hungry! hungry! hungry! Hungry all winter!"

The big clothes-basket was full of lint for wounds that now never should be made. Gladly she tossed out the fluffy mass, and packed within it every dainty the house contained.

It was nearly sunset when Aunt Hannah and Jeremy started forth, with the basket between them, to Mr. Wooster's house, hoping that he would carry it in his wagon up to Boston. He was not at home.

"Get out the cart," said Aunt Hannah to Jeremy, when they learned no help was to be obtained. She sat by the roadside watching the basket until the cart arrived.

"I'm going with you," she said, after the basket was in; she climbed to the seat beside the lad, and off they started for Boston.

It was dark when they reached the lines, and no passes granted, the officers said, to go in that night.

"But I've food for the hungry," said Aunt Hannah, in her sweetest voice, from the darkness of the cart, "and folks are hungry in the night as well as in the day."

She deftly threw aside the cover from the basket and took out a chicken, which she held forth to the man, saying: "Take it. It's good."

He hesitated a moment, then seized it eagerly.

"I know you," spoke up Jeremy, at this juncture. "You went up the Neck with us this morning. I saw you."

"Then you are the boy who got first into Boston this morning, are you, sir?"

"I believe I did, sir."

"Go on."

The oxen went on.

"Now, Jeremy, down with you and wait here for me. You haven't had small-pox," said Aunt Hannah.

"But the oxen won't mind you," said Jeremy.

Aunt Hannah was troubled. She never had driven oxen.

At the moment who should appear but Mr. Wooster. He gladly offered to take the basket and deliver it at Mrs. Jagger's door.

"Don't go in, mind! Mother's had small-pox," called Jeremy, as he started.

"I'm tired," gasped Aunt Hannah, who had done baking enough for a small army that day, as she sat down to rest on the broad seat of the cart, and the two started for home. The soldier at the gate scarcely heeded them as they went out, for roasted chicken "tasted so good."

"I'm so glad the British are out of Boston," said Aunt Hannah, as she touched home soil again and went wearily up the walk to the little dark house.

"And so am I," said Jeremy to the oxen, as he turned them in for the night; "only if I'd had my way, they wouldn't have gone without one good fair fight. You've done your duty, anyhow," he added, soothingly, with a parting stroke to the honest laborer who went in last, "and you deserve well of your country, too, for like Gen. Washington, you have served without hope of reward. The thing I like best about the man is that he don't work for money. I don't want my sixpence a day for cutting willows; and--I won't--take it." And he didn't take it, consoling himself with the reflection "that he would be like Gen. Washington in one thing, anyhow."

PUSSY DEAN'S BEACON FIRE.

March 17, 1776.

A hundred years ago the winds of March were blowing.

To-day the same winds rush by the stone memorials and sweep across the low mounds that securely cover the men and the women that then were alive to chill blast and stirring event. Even the lads who gathered at sound of drum and fife on village green, wishing, as they saw the troopers march, that they were men, and the little girls who hung about father's neck because he was going off to war, who watched the post-riders on their course, wishing that they knew the news he carried, are no longer with us.

For nearly two years Boston had been the lost town of the people. It had been taken from the children by an unkind father and given to strangers. You have been told how British ships came and closed her harbor, so that food and raiment could not enter. You know how grandly the younger sister towns behaved toward stately, hungry Boston; how they marched up the narrow neck of land that holds back the town from the sea, each and every one bearing gifts to the beloved town, until there came the sad and fatal day wherein British military lines turned back the tide of offerings and closed the gate of entrance.

Then it was that friends began to gather across the rivers that wound their waters around Boston. Presently an army grew up and stationed itself with leaders and banners and forts.

Summer came. The army waited through all the long warm days. The summer went; the leaves fell; the chill winds and the cold sea-fogs wound into and out of the poor little tents and struck the brave men who, having no tents, tried to be strong and endure.

Every child knows, or ought to know, the story of that winter; how day by day, all over New England, men were striving to gather firearms and powder wherewith to take back from the foe poor Boston. But, alas, there was not powder enough in all the land to do it.

The long, wearying winter had done its worst for the prisoned inhabitants within the town; and, truly, it had tried and pinched the waiting friends who stood at the gates.

At last, in March, in the night, the brave helpers climbed the hills, built on them smaller hills, and by the light of the morning were able to look over into the town--at which the patriots were glad and the British commander frightened.

A little after nine of the clock on Sunday morning, the 17th of March, 1776, three Narragansett ponies stood before General Washington's headquarters at Cambridge.

"Go with all possible speed to Governor Trumbull," said Washington, delivering despatches to a well-known and trusted messenger, who instantly mounted one of the ponies in waiting--Sweeping Wind by name--and rode away, with many a sharp and inquiring glance back at city and river and camp.

It was four of the clock in the afternoon, and the messenger had not paused since he set forth, longer than to give Sweeping Wind water to drink, when, on the highway in the distance, he saw a red cloak fluttering and flying before him.

It was Pussy Dean who wore the cloak. She was fifteen, fair and lovely, brave and patriotic as any soldier in the land.

At first she was angry at the law by which she was denied a new cloak that winter, made of English fabric, but when wrapped in the coveted broadcloth of scarlet belonging to her mother she was more than reconciled.

On this Sunday Pussy had been at the meeting-house on the hill, two miles from home, at both morning and afternoon service, and afterward had lingered a little to gather up bits of news from camp and town to take home to her mother, and so it had happened that she was quite alone on the highway.

Pussy chanced to look back to the summit of the hill down which she had walked, and she saw the express coming.

"Now," she thought, "if I could only stop him! I wonder if I can't. I'll try, and then," swinging her silken bag, "I shall have news to carry home, the very latest, too."

As she swung the bag she suddenly remembered that she had something within it to offer the rider.

"Of course I can," she went on saying to herself. "Post-riders are always hungry, and it's lucky for him that I didn't have to eat my dinner myself, to-day. Now, if I only had a basketful of clover heads or roses for that pony, I'd find out all about Boston while it was eating."

The only roses within sight were blooming on Pussy Dean's two cheeks as Sweeping Wind came clattering his shoes against the frozen ground. He would have gone straight on had a scarlet cloak not been planted, like a fluttering standard, full in his pathway.

The rider gave the pony the slightest possible check, since he felt sure that no red-coated soldier lurked behind the red cloak.

"Take something to eat, won't you?" accosted Pussy, rather glowing in feature and agitated in voice by her own daring.

Meanwhile the rider had given Sweeping Wind a second intimation to stand, which he obeyed, and sniffed at Pussy's cloak and cheeks and silken bag as she held it forth to the rider, saying naively, "I went to meeting and was invited to luncheon, and so didn't eat mine." She spoke swiftly, as though she knew she must not detain him.

He answered with a smile and a "Thank you," took the bag, and rewarded her by saying, "The British are getting out of Boston, bag and baggage."

"And where are you going?" demanded Pussy, determined not to go home with but half the story if she could help it.

"To Governor Trumbull with the good news and a demand for two thousand men to save New York," he cried back, having gone on. His words were entangled with a mouthful of gingerbread or mince-pie to such an extent that it was a full minute before Pussy understood their import, and then she could only say over and over to herself, as she hastened on, "Father will be here, father will come home, and we'll have the good old times back again."

But notwithstanding her hope and a country's wish, the good old times were not at hand.

Pussy reached home and told the story. Baby went down plump into the wooden cradle at the first note of it, and set up a tune of rejoicing in his own fashion which no one regarded. Brother Benjamin, aged thirteen, whistled furiously, regardless of the honors of the day. Sammy, who was ten, clapped his hands and knocked his heels together, first in joy, and then began to fear lest the war should be over before he grew big enough to be in it.

"Mother," said Pussy, a few minutes later, "let Benny come with me to tell Mr. Gale about it; may he?"

Pussy laid aside her Sunday bonnet, tied a straw hat over her ears with a silk kerchief to keep out the wind, and in three minutes got Benny into the highway.

"See here, Ben, I'm going to light a fire on Baldhead to tell all the folks together about it, and I want you to help me; quick, before it gets dark."

"You can't gather fagots," responded Ben.

Yes, she could, and would, and did, while Benny went to the house nearest to Baldhead to ask for some fire in a kettle.

The two worked with such vigor and will that the first gathering of darkness saw the light of the beacon-flame burst forth, and the great March wind blew it into fiercest glow. Every eye that saw the fire there knew that it had been kindled with a purpose, and many feet from house and hamlet set forth to learn the cause.

While Pussy and Ben were yet adding fagots to the fire, they heard a voice crying out: "The young rascals shall be punished soundly for this," and ere Pussy had time to explain or expostulate, a strong man had Ben in his grasp.

"Stop that, sir!" cried the girl, rushing to the rescue with a burning fagot that she had seized from the fire, and shaking it full in the assailant's face.

By the light of it, the man saw Pussy and she saw him; and then both began to laugh, while Ben rubbed his ears and wondered whether they were both on his head.

"It means," spoke the girl, waving the still flaming brand toward the east, "that the British left Boston this morning, and that General"--(just here a dozen men were at the fire. Pussy raised her voice and continued)--"Washington wants you all, every one of you, to march straight to Governor Trumbull, and he'll tell you what to do next."

"If that's the case," said the responsible man of the constantly-increasing group after questioning Pussy, "we'd better summon the militia by the ringing of the bell," and off they went in the direction of the village, while Pussy and Ben went home.

The next day saw fifty men, well armed, and provisioned for three days, on the road to Lebanon. They marched into town and into the now famous war-office of Governor Trumbull, to his pleased surprise.

"Who sent you?" asked the governor, for it was not yet six hours since the demand on the nearest town had been made.

"Who sent us?" echoed the lieutenant, looking confused and at a loss to explain, and finally answering truthfully, he said: "It was a young girl, your excellency. She lit a beacon fire on a hill and gave the command that we report to you."

A laugh ran around the sides of the old war-office. The messenger who had ridden from Cambridge sat upon the counter pressing his spurs into the wood and heard it all.

"And who commissioned the girl as a recruiting officer?" questioned the governor.

"I'm afraid," said the messenger, "I am the guilty party. I met a young patriot in scarlet cloak who asked my news, and, I told her."

"Where is the girl's father?" demanded Governor Trumbull.

"He is with the army, at Cambridge," was the response.

"And his name?"

"Reuben Dean."

A scratch or two of the quill pen was heard on the open paper. It was folded, sealed, and handed to the ready horseman, with the words: "Reuben Dean; he is mentioned for promotion."

The words, as they were spoken by Governor Trumbull, were caught up and gathered into a mighty cheer, for every man of their number knew that Reuben Dean was worthy of promotion, even had his daughter not gained it for him by her services as recruiting officer.

DAVID BUSHNELL AND HIS AMERICAN TURTLE.

THE FIRST SUBMARINE BOAT INVENTED.

"David!" cried a voice stern and commanding, from a house-door one morning, as the young man who owned the name was taking a short cut "across lots" in the direction of Pautapoug.

"Sir!" cried the youth in response to the call, and pausing as nearly as he could, and at the same time keep his feet from sinking into the marshy soil.

"Where are you going?" was the response.

"To Pautapoug, to see Uriah Hayden, sir."

"You'd better hire out at ship-building with him. Your college learning's of no earthly use in these days," said the father of David Bushnell, returning from the door, and sinking slowly down into his high-backed chair.

Then spoke up a sweet-voiced woman from the kitchen fire-side, where she had that moment been hanging an iron pot on the crane:

"Have a little patience, father (Mrs. Bushnell always called her husband, father), David is only looking about to see what to do. It's hardly four weeks since he was graduated."

"True enough; but where can you find an idle man in all Saybrook town? and you know as well as I do that it makes men despise college-learning to see folks idle. I'd rather, for my part, David _did_ go to work on the ship Uriah Hayden is building. I wish I knew what he's gone over there for to-day."

A funny smile crept into the curves of Mrs. Bushnell's lips, but her husband did not notice it.

Mr. Bushnell moved uneasily in his chair, as he sat leaning forward, both hands clasped about a hickory stick, and his chin resting on the knob at its top. Presently he said:

"Anna, I fear David is getting into bad habits. He used to talk a good deal. Now he sits with his eyes on the floor, and his forehead in wrinkles, and I'm _sure_ I've heard him moving about more than one night lately, after all honest folks were in bed."

"Father, you must remember that you've been very sick, and fever gives one queer notions sometimes. I shouldn't wonder one bit if you dreamed you heard something, when 'twas only the rats behind the wainscot."

"Rats don't step like a grown man in his stocking-feet, nor make the rafters creak, either."

Madam Bushnell appeared to be investigating the contents of the pot hanging on the crane, and perhaps the heat of the blazing wood was sufficient to account for the burning of her cheeks. She cooled them a moment later by going down cellar after cider, a mug of which she offered to her husband, proposing the while that he should have his chair out of doors, and sit under the sycamore tree by the river-bank. When he assented, and she had seen him safely in the chair, she made haste to David's bed-room.

Since Mr. Bushnell's illness began, no one had ascended to the chamber except herself and her son.

On two shelves hanging against the wall were the books that he had brought home with him from Yale College, just four weeks ago.

A table was drawn near to the one window in the room. On it were bits of wood, with iron scraps, fragments of glass and copper. In fact, the same thing to-day would suggest boat-building to the mother of any lad finding them among her boy's playthings. To this mother they suggested nothing beyond the fact that David was engaged in something which he wished to keep a profound secret.

He had not told her so. It had not been necessary. She had divined it and kept silence, having all a mother's confidence in, and hope of, her son's success in life.

As she surveyed the place, she thought:

"There is nothing here, even if he (meaning her husband) should take it into his head to come up and look about."

Meanwhile young David had crossed the Pochaug River, and was half the way to Pautapoug.

All this happened more than a thousand moons ago, when all the land was aroused and astir, and David Bushnell was not in the least surprised to meet, at the ship-yard of Uriah Hayden, Jonathan Trumbull, Governor of Connecticut.

This man was everywhere, seeing to everything, in that year. Whatever his country needed, or Commander-in-chief Washington ordered from the camp at Cambridge, was forthcoming.

A ship had been demanded of Connecticut, and so Governor Trumbull had come down from Lebanon to look with his own eyes at the huge ribs of oak, thereafter to sail the seas as "The Oliver Cromwell."

The self-same oaken ribs had intense interest for young David Bushnell. Uriah Hayden had promised to sell to him all the pieces of ship-timber that should be left, and while the governor and the builder planned, he went about gathering together fragments.

"Better take enough to build a boat that will carry a seine. 'T won't cost you a mite more, and might serve you a good turn to have a sizable craft in a heavy sea some day," said Mr. Hayden.

Now David Bushnell had been wishing that he had some good and sufficient reason to give Mr. Hayden for wanting the stuff at all, and here he had given it to him.

"That's true," spoke up David, "but how am I to get all this over to Pochaug?"

"Don't get it over at all, until it's ready to row down the Connecticut, and around the Sound. You're welcome to build your boat at the yard, and, now and then, there will be odd minutes that the men can help you on with it."

David thanked Mr. Hayden, grew cheerful of heart over the prospect of owning a boat of his own, and went merrily back to the village of Pochaug.

Two weeks later David's boat was ready for sea. It was launched into the Connecticut from the ways on which the "Oliver Cromwell" grew, was named Lady Fenwick, and, when water-tight, was rowed down the river, past Saybrook and Tomb Hill, and so into the Long Island Sound.

When its owner and navigator went by Tomb Hill, he removed his hat, and bowed reverently. He thought with respect and admiration of the occupant of the sandstone tomb on its height, the Lady Fenwick who had slept there one hundred and thirty years.

With blistered palms and burning fingers David Bushnell pushed his boat with pride up the Pochaug River, and tied it to a stake at the bridge just beyond the sycamore tree, near his father's door.

"I'll fetch father and mother out to see it," he thought, "when the moon gets up a little higher."

With boyish pride he looked down at the work of his hands from the river-bank, and went in to get his supper.

"David!" called Mr. Bushnell, having heard his steps in the entry-way.

"Here I am, father," returned the young man, appearing within the room, and speaking in a cheerful tone.

"Don't you think you have wasted about time enough?"

The voice was high-wrought and nervous in the extreme. He, poor man, had been that afternoon thinking the matter over in a convalescent's weak manner of looking upon the act of another man.

David Bushnell, smiling still, and taking out a large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, and looking at it, replied:

"I haven't wasted one moment, father. The tide was against me, but I've rowed around from Pautapoug ship-yard to the sycamore tree out here since two o'clock."

"_You_ row a boat!" cried Mr. Bushnell, with lofty disdain.

"Why, father, you have not a very good opinion of your son, have you?" questioned the son. "Come, though, and see what he has been doing. Come, mother," as Mrs. Bushnell entered, bearing David's supper in her hands.

She put it down. Mr. Bushnell pulled himself upright with a groan or two, and suffered David to assist him by the support of his arm as they went out.

"Why, you tremble as though you had the palsy," said the father.

"It's nothing. I'm not used to pulling so long at the oar," said the son.

When they came to the bank, the full moon shone athwart the little boat rocking on the stream.

"What's that?" exclaimed both parents.

"That is the Lady Fenwick. I've been building the boat myself. You advised me, father, to go to ship-building one morning--do you remember? I took your advice, and began at the bottom of the ladder."

"_You_ built that boat with your own hands, you say?"

"With my own hands, sir."

"In two weeks' time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And rowed it all the way down the river, and up the Pochaug?"

"Yes, sir."