The Young Continentals at Lexington

Nat Brewster settled his stalwart frame back against the coach house wall and, wrinkling his brows, regarded his cousin attentively.

“It’s very likely you’re right,” said he at length. “The expectation of such a thing would act just about that way upon every one—even to children and others who did not understand.” Then he stretched out his long legs and snapped the lock of his rifle with his strong brown fingers. “If war does come,” he went on, “I hope it comes quickly, while the colonies are aroused to answer the call. The whole of the north country is ready; and from reports, the south and coast colonies are also.”

There was a silence for a moment; then Ben asked:

“Do you think, if it came to blows, the colonies would dare defy the king?”

“They’ve done it before now,” replied Nat. “Charles II tried oppression and his commissioners were soundly beaten and shipped back to England to him. James II patterned by his brother in this, and his governor was first imprisoned and then banished. If the colonies were bold enough to do these things when they were weak, they’ll do others like them, now that they’re stronger.”

As Nat finished speaking there came a clattering of hoofs and the rumble of wheels upon a side road. Then a strong voice called:

“Who-o-e-e!”

The boys looked in the direction of the sound and saw a light spring cart drawn by four wiry little horses. A pockmarked man with fiery red hair sat upon the seat; and in his hands he held a sealed letter.

“Hello,” called he, in his loud voice. “Come get this, some one. I can’t leave these critters. If I did, they’d try to climb over the barn.”

Ben arose and hurried to the fence.

“Something for us, Tom?” he asked.

“Something for you,” replied the pockmarked man. “Was given to me at the City Tavern last night.”

As he spoke the carter tossed the letter to Ben, who deftly caught it; then he went on:

“I stopped there to get some things which came in on the Baltimore coach for Mr. Pendergast, above here. There’s a lot of Massachusetts Bay people stopping there; and one young fellow comes up to me:

“‘I hear you carry goods up Germantown way,’ says he.

“‘I do,’ says I.

“‘Do you know the Cooper place?’ says he.

“‘As well as I do my own,’ I says.

“‘Here’s a letter then,’ he says. ‘And I’d like it delivered with despatch.’

“And with that he gives me a half crown and the message, and tells me to keep the one and give you the other.” The carter grinned across at Ben good humoredly and added: “Anything you want carried toward Whitemarsh?”

“I think not, Tom,” replied Ben.

“Good-day to you,” said the man. He tightened the reins; the wiry little horses sprang forward against their collars and the cart went whirling away in a cloud of dust.

All the time the man was speaking Ben Cooper’s face wore an expression of astonished impatience. The astonishment was caused by a glance at the handwriting upon the letter, the impatience by the carter’s monologue. But now that the man had gone, the lad broke the seal and his eyes ran over the few lines of writing which the sheet contained. Then he turned and dashed back toward the spot where he had left Nat.

“You’ll never guess what it is,” cried he, breathlessly. Then, without pausing for a reply, he added, “Ezra Prentiss, of whom I’ve told you so much, is in Philadelphia.”

“In Philadelphia?” echoed Nat.

“Listen to what he says.” Unfolding the letter, Ben read:

“Mr. John and Samuel Adams!” said Nat when his cousin had finished. “They are the brothers who have spoken so boldly and openly against the king. It seems to me, Ben, that your friend keeps very famous company.”

“He’s a great patriot, you see,” explained Ben. “Even while he was at school here several years ago, he used to tell us of the happenings at Boston and how the citizens defied the government.”

“But I think you said his father was an Englishman.”

“His grandfather. His father is dead. He never seemed to care to go deeply into his family history; but he told me this: Some years before his father’s death, there was some sort of an outbreak—against the Stamp Act, I think. Ezra’s father sided with the townspeople. But the grandfather was a Tory. A bitter quarrel was the result and they afterward no longer saw or spoke to each other.”

“I suppose there is a great deal of that,” said Nat. “And if it comes to war, it will be worse.”

They had now risen and walked toward the house. Down the path along which Ben had ridden in entering they saw Mr. Cooper pacing to and fro, with bent head.

“That talk he had with old Stephen Comegies has upset his nerves,” said Ben. “Politics always has that effect upon him.”

As they walked up the step and into the wide hall he related to his cousin what had happened.

“I see,” said Nat, thoughtfully. “That is what has fixed your impression of war.” He looked at Ben steadfastly for a moment. “Tell me again: What was it he said before he left?”

“As near as I can remember,” said Ben, “he said: ‘It’s easy to call a pack of rebels together, but not always so easy to actually get them together.’”

“And you say he seemed to have a sort of—well—a look, while he said it.”

“It was a satisfaction to him. I could see that.”

“And then he bid your father not to say he was taken unawares, eh?”

“Just as he was going,” said Ben. He looked into Nat’s bronzed, thoughtful face and was surprised at its expression. “Why, you don’t think he really meant anything, do you?” he asked.

Nat shook his head.

“I don’t know. Sometimes crabbed old men delight in making meaningless threats. This may be one of them.”

He hung up his rifle upon a rack in the hall and sat down in a broad seat at the door. The beautiful suburb with its broad fields, white roads and stately houses was stretched out before him.

“Are there many Tories hereabouts?” he asked, after a space.

Ben nodded.

“Yes,” he replied, “a great many. And it’s the same way in the city. With a very few exceptions, it is only those who actually suffer by the heavy taxes who are aroused and speak against the government.”

“The people of consequence, as you might call them, are then mostly Tories?”

Again Ben nodded.

“And they are proud of it,” said he. “Though I must say I can’t understand what they have to pride themselves on.” He pointed across some prosperous grain fields; behind a clump of heavy, thick-growing trees could be seen the outlines of a rather fine looking house. “That’s Cliveden, where the Chews live,” he continued. “The Tories meet there now and then and protest about the growing disloyalty to the king.”

For a long time Nat Brewster sat gazing straight ahead and pondering. Ben watched him curiously for awhile, then as his cousin said nothing more, remarked:

“I think after Molly’s rested I’ll ride into town and see Ezra. He must be a regular mail-bag for news. Will you come along, Nat?”

“I think not,” replied the other.

“I’ve often spoken to him about you,” persisted Ben. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

“Another time will do just as well. I hardly feel like going in to town to-day.”

“Very well,” and Ben turned away. “Some other time then. But you must know Ezra before he leaves. You’ll like him.”

After Ben had gone, Nat clasped his hands about his knees and continued to gaze across the fields toward Cliveden. The August sun was warm and the insects buzzed lazily about in it, their wings a-glitter. The level, fertile country was new to Nat; up north in the Wyoming valley the rugged hills crowded one upon the other; the grim, defiant forests circled the settlements; the stony earth fought stubbornly against the plow.

His mother had been Mr. Cooper’s sister; she had met and married Nat’s father and had gone with him into the wilderness to make a home. But both were now dead. Nat, whose mother had carefully taught him, had served two terms as master in a log schoolhouse. But the work did not altogether please him; and when his uncle sent for him to take him into his office, he had gladly grasped the opportunity.

Even in the far Wyoming valley, the growing discontent was felt; but the boy had no notion that matters were so grave until he arrived at Philadelphia and found neighbors arrayed against each other and representatives of the colonies scheduled to meet and pass solemn resolutions protesting against England’s unfair laws.

He ran over all his old impressions and his new ones as well, as he sat in the wide doorway of the Cooper house. And through all his thoughts the saying of old Stephen Comegies kept recurring.

“‘It’s easy to call rebels together,’” he repeated, following Ben’s version of the saying as well as he could. “‘But it’s not always so easy to get them together.’”

The boy’s thick black brows came together in a frown and his locked fingers gripped his knees closely.

“I don’t like that,” he murmured. “It has a bad sound. It may have been the angry, empty words of a partisan—and then again, it may not. It would be a good thing to have it looked into, I think, if it were possible.”

And so this is why Nat Brewster waited and lounged about for hours after his cousin had ridden gaily away into the city; and it is also why, just as the evening shadows were deepening into darkness, he started across the fields toward Chew House.