TRIAL BY FIRE

Doctor Brent was up early that morning on a call to the widow Potter’s, a mile or so down the road from his own house. In fact a very frightened young Potter grandson had come a-tapping on his door quite before dawn and brought him back to the fevered old lady. The doctor exercised his skill, waited for a more favorable sign from the patient and then, near breakfast, got upon his horse and returned slowly toward his own hearth, meditating a little upon the wonderful vitality of these simple-living New England people.

The day promised to be hot. There was in the air that forecast of sultriness not uncommon to June weather, and over in the direction of Boston town the sun hovered below the sea’s edge, striking upward with its blood-red rays. The doctor, rubbing his ruddy cheeks, wondered how Gage and his soldiers enjoyed their forced idleness in the town. His professional instinct led him to emit a small cluck of pity.

“Poor ——,” he murmured, bending in the saddle, “they’ll be sadly needing fresh foods. I doubt not there’s much scurvy and camp disease among them.”

Well, he mused, it was a great deal Gage’s own fault. He had permitted himself to be cooped up and surrounded by a half-organized patriot army. The doctor, whose opinions were staunchly Tory, frowned. He had thought this was going to be a stalemate and that after a time the farmers, collecting their better senses and cooling their rage following the affair of Lexington and Concord, would disperse and go back to their occupations. It was not so. Old Artemas Ward commanded an army of sixteen thousand men, stretched from Charlestown Neck to Dorchester way. And night before last there had been whisperings of a sortie against the British. The air seemed to have grown more charged with desperate possibilities in the forty-eight hours elapsing. It was murmured, too, that the Committee of Safety had come to a bold decision and had given Ward his moving orders. But where and when? From Medford to Roxbury the countryside was in a ferment of anticipation, and the tag ends of rumors and fears came back to the doctor in a most tantalizing and distressing form.

The horse quickened his pace. The doctor emerged from his thoughts and raised his head to perceive a strange sight along the road. It had grown quite light now, and the sun’s top quarter was above the horizon. Ahead of him in the road, raising the dust as they traveled, advanced a group of men. Not in formation, but in ones and twos and small parties; stringing along at greater and lesser intervals as far as the winding highway could be viewed. The doctor’s surprised eyes counted perhaps two score such, and momentarily he noted others straggling out of the farmhouses by the wayside, all setting their faces in the common direction.

What seemed stranger still was the equipment they carried. Each, so far down the road as Doctor Brent could distinguish, had some sort of game or provision pouch thrown over the shoulder. Each had his powder horn and cartridge box. In one hand was the inevitable musket. And as the foremost came upon the amazed doctor he saw that their countenances were almost uniformly patterned. Some seemed dourer than others and some seemed highly excited; he began to distinguish angry voices in the foremost group and mild voices. But all were of a resolved countenance, quite as if they had deliberated upon some course and made their minds in favor of it. Brent drew the horse aside and bent his attention to the first few.

“What’s this?” he demanded. “Where’s the drill to be so early in the morning?”

The conversation, he noticed with a touch of sorrow and wounded pride, ceased as they drew near. They stopped out of respect to his profession, and one or two touched their caps, not deferentially, but more as a courtesy long established and hard to forget. Yet one and all seemed strangely lacking in speech. Presently the first group was joined by others, and they, also, had nothing to offer the wondering Brent. He struck the side of his saddle and swore gruffly.

“Are you tongue-tied? ——, I know you—every mother’s son—as well as I know my name, and yet I can’t get a civil answer! What is all this fuss about? Where is the drill?”

At length one ventured to break the silence.

“Guess it ain’t a drill, Doctor. Other things afoot, maybe.”

“What, then?” asked Brent with a little sinking of heart. He knew that stubborn countenance and that mild speech of old. They would say little but think mightily. And it took a charge of powder to change their minds. “What, then?” he repeated after a long interval.

“Don’t know as I should tell you,” replied the speaker. “Ain’t aimin’ to be short with you, Doctor, but I don’t rightly guess you got a right to know.”

“Mystery—mummery,” retorted Brent, trying to break through the wall. “Are you taking on airs to me, sir?”

After another long and reluctant interval the man replied with the same soft-spoken doggedness.

“Why no, Doctor, that ain’t hardly right to say. But I don’t just guess I got a right to tell or you to know.”

A more reckless spirit had joined them.

“What’s the harm?” he demanded. “It’s daylight now. Guess the job’s been done. I ain’t afraid to tell that ’tarnal leech——”

There was an instant disapproval, and the bold one hushed.

“May be daylight and all that,” said the spokesman, “but it ain’t our part to talk. Leave the officers do that if they’re a mind to. Guess we’re only wasting time here, too.”

He nodded to the doctor and went on, followed by the augmented group.

Brent urged the horse homeward, his serenity ruffled, his pride touched. At short intervals he passed others; one and all they seemed reluctant to meet his eye, though he knew and called each by name. Ever since public opinion had crystallized, months ago, and sides had been taken, his patients and patriot neighbors had withdrawn their confidences from him, though not their ills. But not until now had they appeared so unwilling even to acknowledge him. They turned their faces away or they met his greeting in stony silence or with a muttered word that was no answer at all. And so he went on, gaining no information, but being constantly met with the selfsame rebuff. It only served to whet his curiosity, and at last when he came to his own house and saw Caleb Gorham, an old, infirm friend, hobbling along the road like the rest, he instantly got off his horse and protested.

“By Godfrey, I put you to bed yesterday and told you to stay there. What’s this foolishness?”

But his friend, too, had changed.

“Figger I’ll have to disobey those orders, Isaac.”

And he kept his way, face averted. Brent crossed the yard and took Gorham by the shoulders.

“See here, what in the name of sense is happening? Come in the house.”

“No, Isaac, it wouldn’t look just right for me to be goin’ in your house this partic’lar mornin’.”

Doctor Brent swore again.

“Caleb, I have not been ashamed to cross your doorsill and you shall not be ashamed to cross mine! Come. I’ll have an answer from someone.”

Gorham walked toward the door reluctantly, turning as one of his passing neighbors hailed him in reproof.

“You got other chores to do, Caleb.”

The old man nodded.

“Be there in a minute,” he answered, and entered the doctor’s house.

A small fire had been built in the hearth against the morning chill. The table was set and the cakes were steaming in the platter.

“Better eat with me,” suggested Brent. His wife came out of the pantry and he motioned at the table. “Another plate for Caleb.”

“No,” said Gorham firmly. “Ain’t got time for sociableness.”

“You’ll have time to die, though, if you disobey my orders,” said Brent darkly.

“Guess a man can die when the time comes,” was Gorham’s stout reply.

The weight of his musket was heavy for his old arms, and he leaned the weapon against the door. His fingers were rheumatic and gnarled and his cheeks receded from a thin, long nose. When he spoke it was with a strong nasal quality; his eyes snapped.

“You mustn’t push friendship, Isaac, when it’s times like these. Folks know you and me have been real thick. But a neighbor’s patience ain’t long in war.”

“This township,” retorted Brent, “must take me as I am. Before all this nonsense about taxes and freedom came up they were glad enough to know me and use me. Now they want my service but not my friendship. Well, every man to his opinion. I keep mine, and so long as the folks keep me here to listen to their tales of sickliness, they must bear my politics.”

“Guess we need all the doctors we got,” said Gorham, “or you’d gone packing with the Tory lawyers and parsons. But you been a mighty good doctor. Only in time of war it pays a man to sing low and mind his business. You understand? Folks ain’t in a sociable humor.”

“War?”

The older man looked out of the window with his worn, wistful face and watched his neighbors trooping down the road. He sighed.

“Guess it don’t make any difference now. Daylight’s come and the job finished. Last night Prescott and fifteen hundred men crossed Charlestown Neck and threw up earthworks on Breed’s Hill. We people are goin’ over to help out if a fight comes. Now you see, Isaac?”

Brent turned from his friend and went to the fireplace, his ruddy face losing a measure of its color. For a considerable time he stared at the flames.

“Why,” said he, at last, “has every one avoided telling me this? I can’t do your cause any harm, even if I were inclined.”

“Part of our nature, I guess. It goes against the grain to tell a Tory anything—even a friendly one.”

The last of the fagots in the hearth fell apart with a little flurry. The doctor’s wife came into the room again, saw the two men standing so grimly apart and withdrew silently. Brent struck a fist against the wall.

“Every day you come nearer to open rebellion. And to think there was a time not long ago when men still kept their heads and were at peace. Now I’m a ‘—— Tory leech’ and if it were not because they needed me I’d be run into Boston with the rest. What a state of affairs!”

“You’ve got to break eggs to make a cake,” returned Gorham. “It’s a just cause, and the time’s gone by for talking.”

“But plenty of time for men to be killed and wounded, eh? Listen to me, Caleb. It takes many years to make a man, and but one bullet to dissolve him. Have you hotheads thought of that? I will never believe the country moved deliberately to such a pass. It has all been the work of a few scurvy agitators. Hancock loses a few pounds profit because of the embargo, and lo! he turns in fury. And what does Adams think of Lexington and Concord? Why, it was a bright and glorious morning when he heard firing! No, Caleb, these few agitators have worked the minds of honest men, and now you go to fight, embroiled in an argument not of your own making. An argument that might have been settled peaceably, with a little cool patience. An agitator’s war, and other poor —— must bleed for that folly!”

Gorham picked up his gun.

“It is strange, Isaac, that you know the people so illy. I think you underrate our minds and our temper.” He opened the door and crossed the sill. For a moment he appeared to be framing some other sentence, but in the end he turned his cadaverous face to the doctor and dropped it an inch by way of farewell. Someone called him from the road and, in a few strides, he had joined company and was off toward Charlestown Neck, tramping down the dusty highway.

Brent closed the door and went back to the breakfast table. The cakes were stone cold, but that mattered little. He found no appetite and, after a mouthful, got up and set to traversing the broad kitchen.

“Aye,” he muttered, “it is an agitator’s war. The rest follow like sheep. Presently there’ll be a slaughter, and then it will be a mess. Faugh! Widows crying and the English ministry very ugly. Why can’t they use peaceful means?”

His wife came back.

“The cakes are cold, and you have eaten nothing, Isaac. I’ll make fresh ones.”

“No, I’m not hungry. It’s the cursed bullets I think about. Imagine a man of Gorham’s age and condition shouldering a musket. There’ll be suffering before night, I fear.”

He crossed to the window and looked upon the road. There were fewer men passing his house, but farther away on the main road to Charlestown Neck he saw the dust rolling higher under the feet of the gathering artisans and farmers. It only served to increase his restlessness. He ranged from bookshelf to hearth like one sorely perplexed.

“Who’s to stanch the bleeding, I should like to know?”

Presently he heard his wife moving in the bedroom and afterwards the sound of ripping cloth emerged.

“What’s that?” he called.

The door opened and she stood with her hands holding a table spread.

“I’m tearing linen,” said she.

“Aye, I guess that’s right. They put their faith in me. If the fools will fight, it is part of the bargain I must patch them up.”

And thereupon he clapped his hat to his head and reached for his instrument case. His wife held out the bandage strips she had torn and these he stuffed into the case. For a little while they stood undecided in the center of the room. It was quite as if he were going out on such a call as he had answered a thousand times before.

“You have everything, Isaac?”

“Why, yes, I believe so.”

“Better sit to a bite of breakfast. It may be after dinner before you reach home.”

“Not hungry.”

He paused on the doorsill and groped for a word. It was unusual for him to do this; just as unusual as it was for the woman to stand and wait for him to go. A call was a call and the years had drilled them to the exigencies of a doctor’s life. A silent, tempered couple, given more to work than to affection. And yet the doctor, looking toward the rising dust, seemed puzzled. Finally he flung out an arm.

“Take care of yourself.”

“This is the day for you to visit Missis Hammersley, Isaac.”

“That is not serious. She must wait.” Presently he was on the horse, riding toward Charlestown Neck.

The sun had started downward in the sultry sky when Doctor Brent reached that part of the road which trailed across the narrow Charlestown Neck. Through all of the journey he had passed many men dressed in their workaday clothes, all armed and all trudging onward toward the scene of impending hostilities with that set manner. They were young, they were old. Some walked buoyantly; others communed with themselves. And by and by, after seeing so many, the affair began to take on the cast of deadly earnestness. Brent clucked his tongue.

“There will be bloodshed.”

When he reached the Neck he found troops lying by, as if waiting for a call. One or two companies were marching across, and behind these Brent took his path.

It was no longer peaceful. The British ships had opened fire upon the Neck, and the great balls, falling here and there, created havoc in the orderly ranks. These reinforcing troops were not accustomed to round shot. They broke and sought cover, dodging this way and that. By and by a runner popped over a slope and came onward. He passed the troops and hailed them with a word of advice. He saw Brent on the horse and stopped.

“Man,” said he, wiping the sweat from his face. “I’ve no wish to discourage you, but it’s a sorry place for a mounted man beyond the brow of the hill. You’ll do better afoot and I’ll do better in the saddle, for I’ve got to reach Cambridge in short time.”

“There’s action ahead, then?” queried the doctor, stroking the neck of his animal.

“Within this half hour there’ll be —— poppin’ around the corner, and don’t you forget it,” said the messenger, rolling his eyes.

The doctor meditated briefly. It was not of his mind to render any aid, other than his own professional skill, to these stubborn rebels. And yet it would not do to cut off his nose to spite his face. His horse was a good horse, and he had an affectionate regard for the steed. It would be wise to act on the courier’s suggestion. He dismounted.

“You’d do me a service if, after reaching Cambridge, you would bring the horse back to the Big Oak tavern and tether it there.”

The courier mounted and swung around toward the mainland.

“That I’ll do,” he agreed and galloped away.

“Good enough,” said the doctor, and pursued his way. The advancing companies had spread out on the easy grade of Bunker Hill and were climbing rapidly. The doctor, not used to so much foot work, found himself breathing heavily. Finally he gained the summit to find himself among a few reserve companies. But what interested him most was the striking view that spread below him. On Breed’s Hill, forty feet lower, was the result of Prescott’s night surprise, an irregularly square redoubt commanding the crown of the hill. On the left flank of it was a breastworks and still far to the left and rear, as a sort of insurance against the redoubt’s being enfiladed, a stout line of men was stationed behind a rail fence. It was a formidable picture; a picture that needed but one stroke of the brush for completion. And that was forthcoming. As the doctor scanned the broken land farther toward the sea he caught the glint of bayonets and the bright red of British soldiery. There was a tapping of drums and the piping of fifes born faintly upward. Then one by one the battalions of the British army unrolled before him and started a steady march across the slope toward the provincial stronghold.

“By Godfrey!” exclaimed the doctor.

His heart pounded sluggishly and the ruddy cheeks flamed. Without further ado he started downward, through the scattered ranks of the reserves, aiming for the redoubt. There, he decided, would be the main focus of battle, for there was the key to defense. He broke into a dog trot, stumbled in the tall meadow grass and went the faster.

“By Godfrey!” he repeated.

The British ships were pouring their fire upon the hill and the thunder echoed and re-echoed across the bay. But on this prospective field of struggle only an occasional musket report reached the doctor. He crawled over a fence, arrived at the foot of the Bunker Hill slope and found himself inside the line of breastworks. He climbed a little way and presently arrived outside the tall parapets of the redoubt. He skirted the structure some distance, discovered the one narrow sallyport it boasted and squeezed his way through. He was, at last, in the cockpit of trouble.

It was a small place, not more than fifty feet on a side, with parapets some six feet in height. At present those parapets were closely crowded with the provincials, each man with his piece leveled across the top and trained on the advancing British. At one place a marksman had coolly elected to stand on the parapet and waited for the command to fire. Some of the more eager anticipated this command, and Doctor Brent saw then the vigorous veteran Prescott leap up to the parapet and run around it with his sword drawn. Here and there he knocked up the gun muzzles.

“——!” exclaimed Prescott. “Hold your fire! Watch for the quality of their clothes. Mind, the better the uniform the higher the rank. Watch for the officers and aim low to kick the dust in their eyes. Steady!”

The drums grew clearer, the arpeggio notes of the fifes warbled shriller. Doctor Brent, standing in the center of the redoubt, had no vision of what happened outside the walls. But he could feel the tightening of nerves, hear the hush of men’s voices and note the hunching of shoulders as they took aim. The cannon shot stopped, and in the brief intermission there arrived the voices of the British officers encouraging their men, rallying them to the glory of the regimentals.