THE FIRST BLOW FOR AMERICAN LIBERTY[E]

THE FIRST BLOW FOR AMERICAN LIBERTY[E]

(A STORY OF THE BUNKER HILL POWDER)

By Emma W. Demeritt

Two little New Hampshire boys play a part in the patriots’ capture of a quantity of King George’s powder, and this very same powder was afterward used to fight the redcoats at the Battle of Bunker Hill.

TONY sat on a bench in the corner of the great stone fireplace watching the big logs as they sang and crackled and the flames leaped upward filling the room with a cheerful glow. Now and then he turned his head and glanced at a tall woman who was bustling about, getting supper ready.

“Aunt Mercy?”

No answer.

“Aunt Mercy,” he said, a little louder.

But his aunt did not reply. She probably did not hear the boy so occupied was she with her thoughts. Her usually pleasant face wore an anxious look and several times Tony fancied from the movements of her lips that she was speaking to herself.

“Oh, dear!” he thought. “I wonder what it is that has made Aunt Mercy so sober for the last day or two! She doesn’t answer me when I speak. She hardly notices Larry and me, and it’s just the same with Uncle Eben. They whisper together, and some of the neighbors have been here, and they have all been shut up in a room together, and they all look so solemn! I only hope that dreadful war isn’t going to come that they talk about.”

“Tony,” said his aunt, as she took two shining pewter platters from the dresser and placed them on the table, “have you or Larry come across my spectacles anywhere?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, perhaps I left them at meeting last Sunday. Never mind. I want you to go up garret and bring me that big bunch of herbs hanging by the east window.”

Tony glanced toward the kitchen window and was relieved to find it was still quite light. He was always shy of the old, open garret even in the daytime. He never liked to play there as well as his brother Larry and the other boys. The long rows of cloaks and coats and gowns swinging from their pegs in the dimly lighted space under the rafters had a look that made him feel as if they might spring out at him as he passed.

And there were certain other things there which helped to increase Tony’s dread of the garret. There were an old chest in the corner containing the uniform of Tony’s great uncle who had served as captain in the early French and Indian wars, and a rusty sword and tomahawk hanging from a nail in the huge beam overhead. The sword had two or three suggestive notches in the long blade, and on the wooden handle of the tomahawk which had once belonged to a ferocious Indian chief were several suspicious-looking brown stains. Larry liked to handle these relics, but the mere sight of them always sent shivers creeping down Tony’s back.

“Make haste, Tony, and bring the herbs before it grows any darker,” continued his aunt. “I never like to go up garret with a light; it’s dangerous business. I am worried and nervous, and I want a bowl of hot herb tea.”

Tony stopped, his thumb on the latch. “What is it that worries you so?” he asked in his sweet, sympathetic voice.

“A thousand things, child, you wouldn’t understand if I told you—the dread of what’s coming—the loss of property and friends—life itself perhaps. But we’ll hope for the best. The king may yet repent and try to do what is right by us. But we don’t know—we don’t know.”

It was the December of 1774, five months before Lexington, the first battle of the American Revolution. Throughout the colonies there was a growing feeling of uneasiness and indignation. The colonists were too much attached to the mother country to wish for war. Morning and night they prayed that God would show them some peaceful way out of the trouble. But the king had taken away so many of their rights and laid taxes so heavy and unjust upon them that it began to look as if the only thing to do was to fight him. The people of New Hampshire, where Larry and Tony lived, were especially excited and alarmed, for they were so near Boston that they sympathized heartily with that much-wronged city which seemed to have been singled out as a mark for special spite.

Tony passed through the cold hall and upstairs, and opening the garret door stumbled hastily to the top step. As he reached the landing his heart gave a sudden thump. He fancied he heard a noise. He stood listening, but there was not a sound. “I guess it was the branches of the big elm scraping against the roof,” he thought. Mustering his courage he darted by the row of clothes and was just reaching up for the herbs when a figure suddenly stepped from behind the chimney.

“Oh!” gasped the frightened boy, stumbling back over the big chest and bumping his head with a clatter against the dreaded sword and tomahawk. Larry’s arm raised him to his feet and Larry’s bright face bent over him.

“Why, Tony! how little it takes to scare you! I was up here and heard some one coming and thought it one of the men and that I’d have some fun with him. See!” and Larry took down the rusty tomahawk and gave a whoop that made the rafters ring, and flourished the old relic in a way that caused Tony’s curly hair to stand on end. “This isn’t such a terrible thing, after all—it can’t hurt you.”

He got the herbs for his young brother and as he did so, happened to look out of the window. “Whew!” he whistled softly, “there are two men going into the meeting-house. And how queerly they act, looking all around as if they were afraid some one would see them.”

“Oh, Larry! can’t you run up and see if Aunt Mercy’s spectacles are in the pew? She thinks she left them there last Sunday.”

“All right! you take the herbs downstairs and I will.”

On his return to the kitchen Tony found that his aunt had left the room, and he sat down in the chimney corner to wait for supper. In a few moments the door opened, and Larry stood before him, his eyes flashing, his cheeks flushed.

“Did you get the spectacles, Larry?”

“Spectacles! I haven’t even thought of them. Listen, Tony! I have a secret—a great secret. After I left you I hurried up to the meeting-house and as I stepped inside the entry I thought I heard a queer noise, as if some one were digging. So I opened the door softly and peeped in—and there—as sure as you are alive, I saw two men digging a great, deep hole under the pulpit. They were talking so low I couldn’t hear more than half they said. But I made out that uncle and Captain Sullivan and some others are going to meet there to-night and go off in boats on some wonderful expedition. And, Tony, I am going to find out what it is. We’ll go to our room as usual after supper, but instead of going to bed, we’ll creep downstairs and go up to the meeting-house and hide inside, and wait there.”

“But will it be right to listen, Larry?” asked Tony gravely. “You know Aunt Mercy says ‘Eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.’”

“But this isn’t eavesdropping, Tony. Listening is a mean trick. But this is different. Uncle is going into danger of some sort and I ought to learn what it is. I can’t believe that is wrong.”

Tony finally consented, thinking he would rather watch with Larry in the church than stay in his room at home alone in the dark.

When Aunt Mercy returned, she filled the big iron pot with water, hung it on the crane and swung it over the blazing logs. “We are going to have pudding and milk for supper,” she said, “and we won’t wait for your uncle; he’s away, and may not be back until late into the night.”

At these words Larry glanced significantly at Tony and gave a wise little nod.

With the going down of the sun the cold rapidly increased. The night was clear and frosty. In front of the little wooden meeting-house on Durham Hill stood the two brothers shivering with cold and excitement. “Whew!” exclaimed Larry, pulling his cap down over his ears, “it’s a sharp night, Tony. Come farther this way; the meeting-house will keep off the wind.”

“Shall we have to wait long, Larry?” asked Tony.

Larry glanced at the moon just rising above the treetops. “I think it’s past the time now. Oh, I wonder what it is they are going to do.”

“P’raps they are going to cross the ocean and take the king prisoner. I don’t think he treats us very well nowadays,” said Tony plaintively.

Larry laughed. “I guess they won’t go quite as far as that. Oh, Tony! if I were a man, they would take me. It’s so provoking to be only a boy. I’m just big enough to want to be of some use, but not old enough to be trusted.” He drew Tony back in the shelter of the church and waited with his eyes fixed on the flowing Piscataqua which swept around the base of the hill on which they stood, and at the next turn widened into the broad expanse known as “The Great Bay.”

It was upon the banks of this river that some of the bloodiest scenes of the early Indian wars had been enacted. Again and again had its shores resounded with warwhoops as the red men under cover of night rowed their canoes up to the infant settlements of New Hampshire and spared neither man, woman, nor child in the slaughter which followed. Across the river, in full view of the meeting-house, was a log fort known as the “Old Block House” which had served on many occasions as a refuge for the early settlers and enabled them to keep their savage foes at bay.

“It’s cold—and—lonesome out here,” said Tony with a shiver, glancing involuntarily at the “Block House.”

“You don’t mean to say you’re afraid of the Block House, Tony! Why, you are always glad of a chance to play there, afternoons.”

“Yes—but that was in the daytime. Out here in the dark I don’t like to think of the people who have been killed there.”

“Tony! If we come to blows with England you won’t make a very good soldier. Now I’d like no better fun than to be in the Block House with a lot of screeching Indians outside. But we mustn’t talk so loud—and remember—if we hear the least noise we are to scamper into the meeting-house and hide.”

The moon climbed higher and higher in the heavens, and soon there came to the ears of the watchers by the church the plash of oars. Larry bent forward, and his keen eyes detected a small black speck on the surface of the river. At the same time the sound of rapid footsteps was heard, and the two boys hastily entered the church and stumbling through the dark entry felt their way along the aisle and crouched down in one of the pews.

Meantime, a man closely wrapped in a military cloak had taken their place in front of the church and stood looking out on the water. He, too, saw the dark object. Raising his fingers to his lips he gave a shrill whistle, which was promptly answered from the river, and in a short time eleven men, armed with muskets, came creeping stealthily up the hill, single file.

“We are late, Captain Sullivan,” called out a gay voice, “but His Majesty has several devoted subjects hereabouts, and we did not dare venture within range of their prying eyes until after dark.”

“Peace, Scammel, or that merry voice of yours will be starting some of these same good folks from their firesides,” returned Sullivan. “My trusty men!” there was a triumphant ring in his voice as he greeted them each by name—“Captain Winborn Adams, Eleazer Bennett, Ebenezer Thompson, John Demeritt, Alpheus Chesley, Jonathan Chesley, John Spenser, Micah Davis, Isaac Small, Benjamin Small, Alexander Scammel—thank God! not one of you is missing. And now, is everything ready yonder?” He pointed to the church.

“See for yourself, Captain,” answered one of the men; and opening the door he paused to light a lantern which stood in the little entry. The eleven men followed him, their heavy boots clattering on the bare floor—down the aisle, to the pulpit. Here he stopped, and held the lantern high above his head. By the dim light they saw the deep pit, the loosened boards, and the pile of earth standing ready for filling in again.

“’Tis well planned,” said the Captain, nodding approvingly. “It is the last place the British will think of searching for their lost powder. When Paul Revere came riding in hot haste into Portsmouth town last night, bearing despatches from the Massachusetts Committee of Safety saying the king had ordered the seizure of all the powder and arms in the provinces, and that two of Gage’s regiments were on their way to garrison Portsmouth and Fort William and Mary here in Piscataqua harbor, I made up my mind that what was done must be done quickly. For if England forces us to fight—and it looks that way now—’twere well to have something to fight with.”

“In good sooth, Captain Sullivan,” returned Scammel, “we should have to fight with the butt-end of our muskets, for powder and bullets are as scarce as roses at Christmas.”

Sullivan continued: “I made up my mind that if I could get a few trusty men to join me I would make a dash for the fort on my own responsibility, for the possession of that powder means everything to us. But I do not want one of you to stir a foot unless you have counted the cost. This is a deliberate assault on a royal fortress, and it exposes every one of us to the penalty for high treason. If any man shrinks, let him turn back now before it is too late.”

“We have counted the cost,” answered John Demeritt, “and we are ready.”

“Follow me, then,” cried Sullivan, “and may God speed the right!”

At that instant Tony, who was doubled up under the seat like a jackknife, had a cramp in his leg, and in trying to move his foot hit a wooden stool—and over it went with a loud crash, causing the utmost confusion. The men began searching the church while Larry’s uncle rushed around shouting savagely: “A spy! A spy! Seize him! Take him, dead or alive!”

“It’s only us—Larry and me,” piped Tony, frightened almost out of his wits by his uncle’s fury. “We wanted to find out what was going on. And won’t you please take Larry with you? He is so brave and wants to fight so much.”

“Go home, boys, and to bed, both of you!” ordered Larry’s uncle. “I’ll settle with you for this to-morrow. Do not look so disturbed, Captain Sullivan—I’ll answer for their secrecy.”

“Oh, uncle! Oh, Captain Sullivan!” begged Larry in an eager, excited tone, “do let me go. I know I can help in some way. I want to be of some use, and I’m not afraid any more than you are.”

Sullivan was touched by the boy’s earnestness. “We cannot take you, my boy. It would not be prudent—but you can help if you really wish it—there is a way.” He turned and whispered with some of the men. “We may need a pair of oxen to cart the powder. We ought not to bury it all in one place.”

“If the lad will have the oxen and some straw ready for us in yonder barn, I’ll cart the powder wherever you say,” said John Demeritt. “I’ll bury it in my own cellar if you can think of no better place.”

Sullivan noted the disappointment in Larry’s answer. “We are trusting much to you, my boy,” he said gravely; “and remember, Larry, if you want to be a soldier you must first learn to obey. Now go take your little brother home, and then have the team ready for us by the time yonder bright star reaches that line of woods by the Block House.”

When the boys left, the men quickened their pace almost to a run in order to keep up with the Captain as he strode down-hill to the “gondola.”

“Gondola” was the name given by the colonists to the broad, flat-bottomed scows used on the Piscataqua in the transportation of stone and other heavy material.

The members of the little party quietly took the places assigned them, and the scow swung off into the middle of the river and moved slowly down-stream. The only sounds to be heard were the moaning of the wind through the bare forests and the measured dip of oars. The trip was made for the most part in silence, the men bending eagerly over the oars too much engrossed with their thoughts to indulge in idle chat. As the scow approached Portsmouth and the lights of the town glimmered in the distance, Sullivan ordered the men to row slowly.

“If discovered now,” said he, “all is lost.”

In a few moments they rounded a little headland and found awaiting them in the cove beyond two gondolas and a small boat containing in all some eighteen men. These were under the leadership of Captain Pickering.

“Let us be off!” exclaimed Sullivan impatiently. “We must cross Portsmouth harbor before the moon shows her face again.”

They pulled out into the middle of the stream in the momentary darkness, and by the time the clouds had drifted away from the moon the little fleet was within a rod of the island on which stood Fort William and Mary. All was dark and still within, and the only sound outside was the wash of the waves on the narrow beach. After a whispered consultation the men disembarked at a signal from Sullivan. Wading through the icy water they arranged themselves in line at the rear of the fort, while Pickering with three others crept cautiously in the shadow of the wall and disappeared behind one of the bastions. In a moment more a sentinel’s challenge rang out sharp and clear: “Who goes there? Stand, and give the countersign!”

Pickering seized the soldier’s gun and grasped him by the throat. “Not a word more or you are a dead man,” he whispered.

The men then made their way to the commandant’s room. He looked up as Sullivan and Pickering entered, but his smile of recognition changed to a blank stare as the former said with much agitation: “Captain Cochran, you are our prisoner. Your little garrison has surrendered. You had better follow its example!”

Cochran glanced at the resolute faces of his captors, then tendered his sword. He was left in charge of two of the men while the rest of the party proceeded to break open the magazine. In the course of an hour and a half the powder was safe in the gondolas and the little band left the fort and began the hard task of rowing up-stream. Absolute silence was maintained, and when they finally landed at the foot of meeting-house hill and found Larry with the oxen awaiting them, they took off their heavy, nailed shoes lest a spark from them should set fire to the powder.

By dawn Larry was back in his room telling the wonderful story to Tony. One half of the king’s powder was buried deep beneath the pulpit of the meeting-house, and John Demeritt, with the other half snugly hidden under a load of straw, was on the road to Madbury driving along his oxen as unconcernedly as if nothing had happened.

The next day Governor Wentworth issued a proclamation, declaring all those who took part in the capture of Fort William and Mary guilty of high treason. Four months later the news from Lexington and Concord spread from the White Hills of New Hampshire to the pine forests of the Carolinas arousing the people to a renewed determination to defend with their lives—their rights and liberties.

Major Sullivan, accompanied by his faithful little band, started at once for the scene of action. Indeed the New Hampshire troops were among the earliest at the front, for Bancroft tells us “the ferries on the Merrimack were crowded with the men of New Hampshire,” and that “they finally paraded on Cambridge Common having run rather than walked the entire distance.”

Captain John Demeritt, after reserving a portion of the powder for the use of his own company, brought out the remainder from his cellar and once more concealing it beneath a load of straw carted it with his ox team all the way to the headquarters of the American Army at Cambridge. He arrived in time to have it sent out to the troops at Bunker Hill, and a local historian tells us that it was stated on the best authority, that had not the powder arrived at so opportune a moment the fate of the day would have been far different. It was with this powder that the New Hampshire troops with two regiments from Connecticut guarded the flank at Bunker Hill, twice driving back the British. And it was with the same powder that they held the enemy at bay until Prescott’s little band had left the redoubt and then they retreated in good order through a galling fire.