Molly, The Drummer Boy A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION

A Word Before Beginning

Molly was an odd name for a boy, you will say, especially for a soldier boy, and a brave one at that. But before you can understand, you will have to read my story. When you have finished I feel quite sure that you will do what I did after reading the bit of old history; give a hearty thought of thanks to the brave drummer, who, during the war of the Revolution, passed like a gleam of brightness, fun—and alas! sadness through the scenes of war and bloodshed; winning the friendship of all, the esteem and consideration of General Washington himself, and lastly a page or so in history. From the past I lead you forth, oh! hero of long ago, and present you to the hero and heroine lovers of to-day, feeling sure that a warm welcome awaits you.

CHAPTER I. HOW DEBBY LOST HER FATHER.

Before there was a Molly, there was a Debby Mason, and with her we must deal first.

One July morning, over a hundred years ago there stood in a forlorn room of a log house in Plymouth, a tall, severe looking woman in rich apparel, and a ragged desperate child of fourteen. On the floor in a drunken stupor, lay a man.

“See, lass,” said the woman, “there lies thy father quite drunk. Look at thyself; in rags thou art, and shamefully neglected.”

“But I love my father!” Debby blazed forth, “and when he awakens who, pray, is to care for him if I go away?”

“But I tell thee, child, he hath joined this wild crew who are headed for Boston, and thou wilt be turned on the town.”

“’Tis a lie!” screamed the girl, “he did not know when he promised. He would not leave me, but even if he did he would come back, he always does!”

Mrs. Lane paused, not knowing how further to explain the truth to the wild child.

“Lass, hear me, for thy mother’s sake I am trying to save thee. I never knew her story, but she was a lady. In meeting, thy case hath been considered, thy father is no longer to be tolerated in the town, he must go, and I have taken thy care upon myself.”

8Debby stared in bewilderment, then slowly the truth dawned upon her.

Old Thomas Martin had been ordered from the town, and poor Jack bound out to Elder Morris. It was quite plain, her father was to go also, out into that somewhere of silence and absence, and she was bound out to Mrs. Lane like a slave; she, proud, free Debby Mason!

“I won’t go with you!” she shrieked, “I’ll go with father! He loves me, and, and beside I promised mother!”

Just then the man upon the floor stirred and roused; after many exertions he sat up. One look at his little daughter and Mrs. Lane steadied him.

“Good morning!” he smiled foolishly; “I’m afraid I’ve taken a drop too much again. Debby, child, don’t take on so, I’m going away so that I won’t disgrace you any more. There’s going to be trouble sure as you live, and I’m going to fight. If I come back, lass, I’ll be a man.”

He arose clumsily and stood before the woman and girl with downcast eyes. Debby grew white to the lips.

It was true then. He was going away. After all she had borne and suffered for his sake, he was turning his back upon her, leaving her to fare as she might. Little poor Debby knew of patriotism, or the new talk of war and a republic; she had not even that hope to help her bear this blow.

Just then, down the street came a straggling company of men and boys headed by a drum and fife. As they drew near Mason stood straighter and taking from the wall a rusty gun, staggered to the door. Mrs. Lane drew Debby back.

“Come on, Mason,” called the men; “if they don’t want you in Plymouth, you’ll soon be wanted out yonder. There’s plenty of room in Boston for men like you and us.”

Mason reeled on. Debby could not let him slip from her without 9one more struggle. She broke away from Mrs. Lane and ran after the swaying figure.

“Father!” she cried, “take me with you! I love you! I love you! Remember what mother said!”

The man stood still, sobered for a moment by that magic name.

“Lass,” he whispered putting his arms about her, “all they said in the meeting was true. I’m going to be a man, so help me God for her sake and yours—or I won’t come back!”

“Come on Billy!” yelled the crowd, “Deb can do without you!”

Clinging to her father poor Debby’s rage and despair rose. She shook her fist at the laughing mob.

“You’re a mad lot!” she cried, “the whole town is mad to take my father from me. I curse you all! I curse you every one for what you have done!”

The men laughed loudly.

“Bring your drum, Deb, and come along,” called one. “You need not part with the old man. You’re as good as a lad any day, and a better fighter I swear than your daddy. Come on and drum us to victory.”

Debby stooped and picked up a stone, then flung it into the crowd. An oath came from the man hit and in the excitement Mason, with bowed head joined the yelling rabble.

“Shame on thee, lass!” cried Mrs. Lane laying firm hands on the sobbing girl, “who would ever think thy mother was a lady? The town hath done well to try and save thy soul and body. Thou art possessed of a devil. Follow me!”

The door of the wretched home was closed. Nothing mattered any more. Meekly enough Debby followed her rescuer up the hill to the white house on the top. Poor Debby! in the neat 10home, with plenty to eat and decent clothing she was absolutely miserable.

Since her mother had died five years before she had led a wild uncared-for existence. Among her father’s rude companions she had shared food and drink, when there was any, and had gone hungry and cold without complaint when times were hard.

In Mrs. Lane’s well ordered life and home, she was a worse outcast than amid the poverty and shame. There she had at least the love of the poor wretched father who, when he was sober, remembered the past, and lavished affection upon her. With Mrs. Lane she was watched, distrusted and whipped for misdeeds, and under the new order of things her soul and body were in a very bad way indeed. With a burning longing she fretted in silence for news of her father, but how could she hope, in Mrs. Lane’s loyal home, to hear of the doings of the wild rebels who were defying their King and his laws?

It mattered little to Debby whether her father was Whig or Tory, no matter what he was she hungered for him day and night.

There was one other thing Debby hungered for, that was her drum; it had been her one childish toy, the treasure of lonely years.

She had always longed to be a boy, and her drum was the concession her father had made to her desire.

Upon it he had taught her to beat so clearly and in time, that she had become famous among his boon companions.

But there was no place in Mrs. Lane’s house for such an unmaidenly thing, and to save it from destruction, Debby had hidden it behind the old home in a bit of woodland. Thither she sometimes ran when life pressed hard, and with muffled sticks, beat frantically upon the blessed comfort.

11During the year which dragged drearily away after Mr. Mason left the town, Debby learned to do some useful things in her new home, and she grew straight and tall and strong; but her heart was hard and bitter. Strange as it seemed though, in all her misery in the prim existence, she remembered her mother clearer than ever before, and snatches of old talk and scenes came sharply to her mind.

It had not always been such a sad life as Debby had last known with her father. Once the home was neat and cosy, and dimly an old story,—a story never finished, floated through the girl’s mind.

“Some day, child, when thou art older,” it was the mother who had spoken, “I will tell thee of my home. Perhaps we’ll write a letter, they may like to see thee, little lass. Try to be a lady, dear, then they will not be ashamed of thee.” Things grew confused as Debby tried to think, but there was one night that was ever clear. It was the last night of the clean happy life. “Be a lady, Debby child, and whatever happens stay with father like a good maid. Save him, dear, he was a fine man once. He will tell thee the rest of the story some day.”

How vividly Debby remembered clinging to the poor mother and sobbing out the promise to stay with father. After that scene all was confusion and misery. The untold story was never finished or asked for. Uncared-for and neglected poor Debby became an outcast among decent children, and the butt of the reckless ones.

And so it had gone from bad to worse until the town had ordered Bill Mason from the village of his adoption, and had bound Debby to Mrs. Lane for five years.

CHAPTER II. DEBBY TAKES HER OWN WAY.

“Deborah?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Hast thou aired thy bed and prayed in private, earnestly seeking forgiveness for thy sins of yesterday?” Mrs. Lane came down the long hall and eyed with disapproval the girl sitting idly on the top step of the porch.

A sullen look passed over Debby’s face. “I’ve aired my bed,” answered she.

“And humbly besought pardon for thy sins?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Why not, Deborah?”

“Because I haven’t been sinning.”

“Child, thy soul is in danger of eternal punishment!”

“I don’t care.” Debby had suffered so much in various forms during her short life, that the subject had ceased to interest her.

She never trembled as did the well cared for little Puritans, over Elder Morris’ prayers. His lurid descriptions rather charmed her. There seemed no doubt in Plymouth but that Bill Mason was doomed, and where her father went, Debby wanted to go too, consequently no threat could touch her.

At the hard words Mrs. Lane grew more rigid. “For thy mother’s sake I have sought to save thee,” she said, “I have even tried to trace her family for I believe they were of better stock than thy vagabond father, but I fear me, lass, that thou 13art an evil hearted wench. Neither hell fire or earthly love can move thee. Mistress Knowles hath told me that over and again thou art seen with Jack Martin; thou art a shameless one!”

“Jack was my only friend when all the other boys and girls turned on me, ’tis not like I’d forget Jack.” There was a dangerous flash in Debby’s eyes.

“I forbid thee ever speaking to the rascal again. Dost hear?”

“Yes.”

“Wilt thou obey?”

“No.” A cruel blow almost threw Debby from the porch. She gathered herself up and turned a set, white face to her mistress.

“Now go to thy room, Deborah, for the love of thy soul have I chastised thee. After evening prayers to-night I will come to thy room. If thou art repentant, I will overlook thy insolence, but mark my words, dost thou repeat the offence, girl, I will lay the rod across thy shoulders, until I have conquered thy spirit. During the day,” she added, “think of thy mother, and of how she would have grieved o’er thee.”

Debby had had a hasty answer ready for Mrs. Lane, but the last words quieted her. Silently she shuffled to her room on the second floor far to the back of the house. Closing the door she sank down near the window and began to think in real earnest. The day wore wearily away. Strong, energetic Debby chafed under the enforced idleness. She thought of her mother, and hot stinging tears filled her eyes.

Here was her chance to be decent and respectable slipping from her, while she was growing worse and worse. She thought of her father away somewhere—where, she knew not, though she had pleaded with Jack Martin to try and find out. What was the poor, weak father doing?

Perhaps he was dead, and she would never see him again! 14That thought always made her strong young body quiver. Bits of strange talk, always hushed when she drew near, came to her now in those long hours of imprisonment. Rumors of a battle at Lexington where the farmers had dared face the King’s men. It had never occurred to Debby before, but perhaps her father was among those brave men. Or, perhaps, he had been at the later battle of Bunker Hill, and had fallen fighting in the unequal struggle, as so many other rebels had who dared to resist King George.

Debby hated the King for no better reason than because Mrs. Lane worshipped him. If she had only been a boy she would have fought against him simply to spite her mistress.

The tall clock on the stairs, after plodding through the weary day, at last struck seven, and the early gloaming began to settle o’er the little town of Plymouth.

From below the droning voice of Mrs. Lane arose, leading the evening devotions. How Debby loathed that service. In half an hour Mrs. Lane would mount the stair, rod in hand, to settle her account with the imprisoned sinner, and in half an hour, at a certain woods of which Debby knew, that rascal Jack Martin would be in waiting with any possible knowledge he might have gleaned of her father, and in return be given a lesson on the drum. Jack had warlike aspirations and Debby was fitting him to take his place, with her drum, to serve where her sex prohibited her going. Poor limited Debby; no one ever knew what the sacrifice meant to her.

As the hour struck she rose restlessly. Of course she must meet Jack, but she did not care to encounter the eyes of Mistress Knowles, who, if she ever sought forgiveness for her own sins, did so when all Plymouth slept.

Suddenly the girl started up, her strong rosy face full of fun. Why had she not thought of it before?

15She ran to the closet and mounted a short ladder; from the space between the ceiling and the roof she dragged down a bundle and flung it upon the bedroom floor. Then she worked rapidly.

The bundle consisted of a suit of boy’s clothes made of rough fustian. It represented all the money earned and given since she had lived with Mrs. Lane.

Jack Martin had procured the outfit, never asking a question about the strange purchase, though at the time he was consumed with curiosity.

For a month it had lain in its hiding place, having been brought forth once or twice at midnight, and donned in silence, that Debby might know the unholy joy of making believe she was a boy.

She now dropped her trim gown and skirts upon the floor, and drew on the rough suit. Up went the curly brown hair under a three cornered hat, and lo! in the soft gloaming stood as sturdy and brave a lad as one need wish to see.

“And now!” laughed Miss Debby doubling her fists at an unseen foe, “come on you old cat of a Mistress Knowles, there is another rascal in town to-night who would like nothing better than to close your eyes for a week or so!”

CHAPTER III. ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF DEBBY.

It was no great thing for Debby to clamber from her bedroom window to the ground below. She had done it more than once with her skirts on; in this approved apparel anything seemed possible, anything but being a lady. That hope was done with forever. She had crossed the line now. Before her lay—she hardly knew what—but the thought chased the fun from her face.

Ah! Debby, misguided little maid, as you turned your back on what your dead mother had wished you to be, she was perhaps nearer to you than ever before. With tears filling her dark eyes, the girl fled along. Down the long hill and across the meadow which lay behind the old deserted log house and divided it from the woodland. And there at the edge of the woods stood Jack Martin awaiting his belated comrade.

He saw the boy approaching and was filled with alarm at the sight. If Debby came now how were they to get out of the scrape?

“Hello!” he shouted to the oncoming stranger, “whither away so fast?”

“On the King’s business,” panted the boy as he drew near.

Jack gasped.

“Your name?” he faltered, “and pray what business have you with me?”

Molly. “It was no great thing to clamber to the ground below.”

18“Robert Shirtliffe is my name, gaby, and I arrest you in the name of King George the Third as a traitor to your country and for trying to corrupt the mind of one Mistress Deborah Mason, a young and innocent maid!”

“My God!” gasped Jack, and sank upon the Autumn leaves at his feet.

Then such a peal of laughter rent the air that the birds stirred in their nests.

“Oh! you coward!” panted Debby. “A gallant soldier you would make. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could arrest and carry you off like a sack of meal. I vow I’ve a mind to give you no more lessons on the drum. ’Twould be just making it possible for you to fall into prison. A drummer boy, indeed, Jack Martin. Better don my gown Sir Babykin, and let me go in your place!”

Jack had arisen in his anger and chagrin and now stood glowering before Debby.

“Shame on you, Debby Mason!” he cried, “a bold jade you are and a disgrace to the village!” Then eyeing her closer he added, “but a fine, handsome lad you look, girl. I doubt if your own father would know you. But I have half a mind not to tell you the news to pay you for this unmannerly prank.”

“And I,” mimicked Debby, “have half a mind to tell the meeting of your bravery.”

“I’ve taught you to read, Deb, when the schools shut their doors on you,” Jack was capitulating, “and I’ve brought you the news. Beside,” with a resumption of his airs, “if you tell on me, how can you explain your own share in the business?”

This reduced Debby to her proper place at once. “I’ll not tell, Jack, but what is the news? By your face I know you have heard much.”

“Wait until you hear Deb. The battle of Lexington has made every man brave. Thousands of men joined the army at once and rushed on to Boston. They’ll drive every Britisher into the 19harbor!” Jack’s voice shook with excitement, “Yes; every King’s dog of them shall die. But”—his eagerness waned—“there has been another battle since. The report of our men winning at Bunker Hill was wrong. But it was a glorious fight. On, on came the British with bayonets pointed, not one of our men flinched; when they came near enough they gave them volley upon volley. I tell you, Deb, every rusty gun spoke true that day!”

“Oh!” gasped the girl, “oh! if I were only a boy. Go on, Jack, go on!”

“Well, they fought until their powder was all gone. Not a man fled; when they could fire no more they used their guns for clubs, and rushed upon the foe!”

Jack’s tones grew shriller as his feelings rose. “They were driven back, but they fought as they went, and they died with their faces toward the enemy!”

“All of them?” panted Debby.

“No.” Jack half moaned, “they are behind entrenchments at Prospect Hill. They have been there all Summer, but Deb, George Washington has been made General of the army, and he’s coming to get our men out!”

“George Washington?” cried Debby, “why Mrs. Lane says he is the worst man she knows. I heard her tell Mistress Knowles.”

Jack laughed, “Wait, lass, he’ll drive the British before him. Elder Morris has had a letter from Abner Andrews. ’Twas a wonderful letter. I listened at the door to hear it read when they thought I was feeding the cattle.”

“Why, Jack.” Debby interrupted, “Abner Andrews went away when father went; does he—speak—of—father?” The question came slowly, it seemed to mean life or death to her. In the twilight Debby saw the excitement and flush die from Jack’s face.

20“Tell me everything, Jack Martin,” she groaned, “don’t you hide a single thing.”

“He was in Abner’s regiment,” whispered Jack. “He was wounded at Lexington, but not much. He doesn’t drink now, Deb, and he thinks of you a lot. Old Morris wasn’t going to let you know for he is afraid of Mrs. Lane; and there was something in the letter about wishing he’d told you the rest of a story for fear something might happen to him.”

“Did he?” Debby braced herself against the tree, and in the dusk Jack, and all familiar things were blotted out.

“Did—he—say—that? And—he—thinks—of—me—and he does not—drink—any—more? Oh! father!”