Medford Historical Society Papers, Volume 30.

Characters.

Mercy. Aged twelve Nieces of Abigail and Edward Brooks.

Mrs. Putnam. A neighbor. (Husband was killed at Lexington.)

Abigail Brooks.

Rev. Edward Brooks. Her husband.

Lieutenant Gould. Of the ‘King's Own.’

Two farmer lads.

Mrs. Putnam. Good day, Mistress Nancy. Tell your aunt I must e'en go home to make ready the supper, it grows late.

Nancy. Of a surety, Mrs. Putnam, and thank you vastly for your assistance. 'T has been a busy day indeed, and sorely troubled would Aunt Abigail have been to do without your help—you and the other good neighbors.

Mrs. Putnam. Sartin sure! Never in all my born days did I expect to see so many men-folks to onct. [p. 41]

Nancy. And such monstrous hungry ones, too! 'Twas fortunate indeed that kind Aunt Abigail had treasured that chocolate for all these years. Naught could be too good for our brave patriots.

Mrs. Putnam. Poor fellows! Sorry I can't stay to help ye red up the clutter, but husband, he oughter be gittina back 'most any minute now. Started off stroke oa noon, he did, ana my nice biled dinner jest dished up, ready on tha table! Men is sartingly set, once they take a notion, Miss Nancy, ana he'd took a notion they's goina to be fightina today! Sez I ‘'Taint nothina but another oa them false alarms, ana if you let my nice dumplin's get all sogged up for tha want of eatina you won't get no more in a hurry,’ sez I. ‘I'm goina ta eat powder 'n balls fer my dinner today, or else give them some,’ sez he, jest like that, and gave me a strange look, ana off lie legged it, carryina tha ole flintlock he'd used in the Cannedy campaign. Sixty-three year old if a day, ana yet he must be mixina in! We're all strong for libbity, Mistress Nancy, you ana your folks ana me ana my folks.

Nancy. Yes, Mrs. Putnam, we're all High Liberty Men together, come what may.

Mrs. Putnam (really going). Tha ain't no one more willina to give fer the cause 'n what I be, but when it comes to wastina extry good dumplin's—ana anybuddy knows they don't reheat nohow—（Her last words heard off stage after her exit. Nancy comes to table.)

Nancy (with a disapproving glance). Indeed, my lad, 'twould be rude to hurry you, but—

lad. Yes, ma'am, I know I'd orter be movina long, but this yere choc'late sartingly do warm up the gizzard! Never tasted none before. Must be scurse!

Mercy. Didn't I tell you so, forsooth?

Nancy. Naught can be too good for those who hurry to their country's call today.

lad. That's so, ma'am, ana I'd orter be hurryina too. (Rises, grasping his gun.) Come on, ole bullet-eater. This here ole piece oa mine, marm, she's been in the Cannedy campaign—twenty year ago it wor, 'fore ever I wuz born. Dad carried 'er, ana he said she wor the prime kicker in tha hull reg'ment. Said she'd knock a man clean down quicker'n ere a baulky mule could. Fact! Nary man in tha hull reg'ment could handle 'er but th' ole sir. (Seats himself.)

Mercy (politely). And belike you can shoot it as well as your sire?

lad. Wall, ye see it's this way, young miss, tha ole gun would work's good's ever she did if she only hadn't lost'er hammer. Gol durn it! I had one promised, a surenuff dandy, off one oa the regulars to Boston town. But whaa do ye 'spose I seen when I went to fetch it?

Mercy. Prithee, what?

lad. Seed a young lad a-ridina on a rail—tar'n feathers, I did! Sed he'd been caught buying a gun off tha red coats. Ana so, by hickory, I made meself scurse! (Gloomily.) But how tha nation can we git 'um? Ana we're 'bleeged by law to have 'um. We are!

Mercy. Will it go off without a hammer?

lad. Wall, no— “t won't go off exactly, but 't might scare a redcoat. Well, ladies, my respex to ye. I'll e'en hurry along. (Lounges out.) Nancy. Every other man in the province, I warrant, is already there. He must be the last.

Mercy. The last and the laziest. And now, belike, our task is ended. (Sinks upon settle.) [p. 42]

Nancy. What a day! 'Tis the first time I've sat down since cock-crow.

Mercy. Came the messenger at cock-crow, Nancy? Alack, I fear me I was still asleep!

Nancy. Cock-crow? 'Twas not so very long after the stroke of midnight. I heard the thud of galloping hoofs, dogs barking at Cousin Caleb's, then all the men of the family rushing up and down the road. Didn't you hear that?

Mercy. Oh, Gemini! I must have slept right through it all. First I knew, Aunt Abigail was out in the road calling to us to come over and help with the chocolate.

Nancy. Oh, fie, simpleton! That was hours later. Didn't you hear father and Uncle Edward waking the boys? Didn't you hear old Pompey catching Dolly and Whiteface out in the pasture? Nor father riding for dear life up the road to Symmes corner to spread the alarm and join the Reading company?

Mercy. Not a sound did I hear! Oh, tell on, tell on! What happened then?

Nancy. And then, in the pale light just before dawning, came minutemen, streaming along the high road toward Menotomy—little bands of them all running, squads a-marching, all breathless with haste and excitement.

Mercy. And then, and then?

Nancy. Then, later, the men from miles away, hurrying, hurrying—for hours they'd had no food but still they hurried on! And trailing them, more weary still, came little groups of two or three together—

Mercy. And then Aunt Abigail bethought her of the chocolate.

Nancy. The chocolate, and us to serve the hungry ones. And here we be, still faithful to our duty.

Mercy. Good sooth, it has been stirring! The most exciting day of all my life. I do adore minutemen!

Nancy. But in such odd array? Shirt-sleeves, no uniforms, panting, unshorn, no hats, hair flying in the wind?

Mercy. Did Uncle Edward look like that when he set forth this morning?

Nancy. Nay, nay! In truth he looked the gentleman he is, ana 'twere he went to meeting, except for the musket slung across his shoulder. He rode our own gray mare, had on his very best full-bottomed wig, if you'll believe it, the one he wears whene'er he fills the pulpit for good old Parson Turrell in the new church. He galloped off like mad, trying to overtake Cousin Caleb and the Medford minutemen. (Abigail appears in the doorway.)

Abigail. . . Plenty of chocolate still in the pot, girls?

Nancy. Not very much, though we have thinned it out with milk. That last leisurely lad was naught but a bottomless pit.

Mercy. And now, Aunt Abigail, the excitement's all over.

Abigail. You know they may be coming home—

” most any minute now—tired and hungry.

Nancy. And our supplies near gone!

Abigail. We must have more.

Mercy. Shall I run over home? Perchance mother can spare us yet another loaf from yesterday's baking.

Abigail. Yes, child, run. And if there be a horse still left, have Pomp [p. 43] fetch us more bread-or crackers — from Master Ebenezer Hall's bakery—if so be they have baked on this distressful day. (Exit Mercy.)

Nancy. Now to coax up our fire—scarce any wood left. Can't Peter-

Abigail. Where under the canopy is Peter?

Nancy. He's gone away up through the trap door, into the upper attic. He thinks he can see our road where it curves into Menotomy.

Abigail. Nonsense! He can't possibly see beyond the Weirs.

Nancy. Peter's pretty good at seeing, Aunt Abigail. （Steps out and calls up to Peter.) Oh, Peter! Can you see aught yet? What can you see!

Peter's voice from above. Oh, I can see everything! Lucky the leaves aren't out yet! (Mercy entering drops loaves in a hurry.)

Mercy. O, Peter, what can you see?

Peter. I see the road, way beyond the river. And, way beyond that I'm almost sure I see smoke. Oh, such lots of smoke, there must be a big fire! Not so very far off. I hear something—guns and guns.

Mercy. Hush, listen! I believe I can hear it too. (Hops up and down excitedly as distant cannon become unmistakable.)

Peter. O, mother, was that cannon? I begin to feel afraid. And the musket shots sound nearer and ever nearer. They must be coming this way! O, mother, what if they really should?

Abigail. Nonsense, Peter! Look again. Look near the bridge and see if you can't see your father coming. (Alarmed, in spite of herself.)

Peter. I see something—something bright, shining in the sun—way over in Menotomy. O, mother, it must be the regulars!

Nancy. He's in the fight, Aunt Abigail!

Abigail. He's a minister of the gospel, child, he never would be in the fight.

Nancy. But he carried his musket. (More shots and cannon.)

Mercy. Well, somebody's in the fight, anyway, just hear how they rattle! O, Peter, can't you see anything more?

Peter. That big one, that makes me feel afraid, surely is a cannon-must be a real battle. Oh! I see someone—he was hidden before—just crossing the bridge, coming this way.

Abigail. O, Peter, who is it? (In unison.)

Nancy. Who is it? (In unison.)

Mercy. Who is it, Peter? (In unison.)

Peter. Only a boy, with a gun, crawling along slowly.

Abigail. Don't let him pass by. Run, girls, out to the road and bring him in. He surely must have news. (Girls run out. Faint suggestion of a drum and fife. Abigail cuts bread, etc.—pause.)

Abigail. Look again now, Peter, are you quite sure you can't see your father anywhere?

Peter. No, mother, but oh! don't you hear the drums and fifes of the redcoats now? And the sun on their bayonets seems almost like flashes of lightning! I am not afraid any more. Oh, I wish I was there!

girls' Voices Outside. O, Aunt Abigail, he's seen the fighting I It's going on now. (They enter, carrying the boy's knapsack and talking eagerly to him. Boy limps.)

boy, to Abigail. Yes, marm, and they're on the run, thank God! Abigail (incredulous). Not the grenadiers? [p. 44]

boy. Yes, the grenadiers—all the way from Concord bridge—running like hares.

Abigail. Pray heaven no one has been hurt!

boy. Hurt! They say eight of our men were killed in Lexington and more in Concord, and hundreds and hundreds of the king's troops, so they say. I only hope it's true.

Abigail. You say they are retreating? Not coming down our road to Medford?

boy (taking off his boot). No, making for Boston town as fast as e'er God lets them, our men hot on their tracks and taking pot shots from any cover they can get. Swarming in on their rear guard—mess of human hornets! (Gesticulating with his boot in hand.) The whole country-side's roused. No, marm, they wouldn't add a mile to that journey! (Takes food offered by the girls.) Not even to make a call on these here hospitable young ladies, they wouldn't.

Mercy. Do have more hot chocolate. It's really milk now, and not so very hot.

boy (his mouth full). It's the very best vittles that ever I et. First I've seen since sun-up. When I was doina my chores the alarm bells rung. I followed the Danvers minutemen.

Nancy. You've walked all the way from Danvers town?

boy. Well, I walked when I didn't run. If 'twarnt for these shoes so tarnation small I could run yit. I'd ought to, too, Cap'n (adjusts shoe) give me a message to deliver. (He hobbles.) Git there sometime, I s'pose. Haf to be going. (Starts.)

Abigail. One moment, my lad. Have you by any fortunate chance seen or heard aught of the Reverend Edward Brooks, my husband, this woeful day?

boy. Really—don't know him, but more'n likely he's escaped safe enough. Wal, there, marm (a thought strikes him), seems like I did hear as how a spent bullet 'd hit some very ancient like ole gen'leman over this way—

Abigail. He's not an elderly man.

boy. What's he look like?

Abigail. Tall and dignified, clerical dress, full-bottomed wig, rode a gray mare.

boy. Oh, him! Why, marm, he's a good un! Right in the thick oa things over to Menotomy. He's all right!

Abigail. Heaven be praised! He's still alive, then. Would he were safe at home again! (The boy goes out. The girls look up towards Peter.)

Nancy. What now, Peter?

Peter. Oh, the guns are well-nigh silent, I fear the fight is over. Hold! Horsemen—three, four, and men on foot. A gray horse—looks like Dolly.

Abigail. It must be your father, at last!

Peter. No, a rider in a red coat—bright red, like the king's troops.

Abigail. What does it mean?

Peter. Oh, I do see father! He's walking, and leading Dolly—they're almost here!

distant men's Voices (getting nearer, singing).

Yankee Doodle came to town,
Riding on a pony—

Nancy. Seem to be in good spirits!

Voices.

Heels they stuck way out behind
Legs were long and bony—ee—ee.

voice. Don't sing any more about heels, fellers, might hurt the poor gentleman's feelings.

another. Haw, haw! Yes, that's so! Heels seems to be his'ns tender p'nt! (Guffaws.)

Rev. Edward (outside). Thank you for your assistance, neighbors. Without it, assuredly, our friend's life would have been sacrificed. Take the mare, Pomp, and give her a good rubbing down. And now, Leftenant—

Voices. Three cheers for Parson! Hurray! Hurray! Hurray! Goodby!

Abigail. Thanks be to Providence! (They enter. The lieutenant, with his foot done up in huge white wrappings, is leaning heavily on Mr. Brooks' shoulder.)

Abigail. My dear husband! You are safe!

Rev. Edward. Yes, wife, and I have brought you a guest, Leftenant Gould of the King's Own. My nieces, Leftenant.

Lt. Gould (with a ceremonious bow). Your servant, madam—ladies. (Al three courtesy.)

Abigail. But you are wounded! (They assist him into the chair. Nancy takes charge.)

Nancy. Quick, Mercy, child! A pillow for his head, he faints! Perchance a footstool will ease his wound!

Mercy (running into house). Isn't he just too beau-u-tiful!

Abigail (to Edward). What is the meaning of this? A British officer?

Rev. Edward. Shot in the heel at Concord bridge. The Lord has delivered our enemy into our hands this day, and we must be merciful unto him.

Nancy (to the lieutenant). Oh, sir! (She puts one arm around his drooping neck. Re-enter Mercy, who adjusts footstool.)

Abigail (to Edward). Tell me, what hath chanced?

Rev. Edward. Patriots have been killed at Lexington and Concord, how many I know not, but the whole country is roused. Even now they are pursuing the British back to Boston and inflicting terrible slaughter. Only the arrival of Earl Percy with re-enforcements has saved them from total annihilation. That which we have so dreadfully expected has come to pass.

Abigail. War?

Rev. Edward. Yes, wife, and we must be ready to give our all in the cause of liberty.

Lt. Gould (rousing with a shudder). Mr. Brooks, this is a most fateful day! Is it possible that your people understand what they do in resisting the lawful authority of their king, and attacking in armed force his troops? It is mutiny, insurrection, rebellion, and must be punished as such, and my heart bleeds for your people.

Rev. Edward. The outcome of today, Leftenant Gould, is in the hand of God, and only our grandchildren to the tenth generation may know whether this day's deeds be good—or ill.