Thomas Gage, governor, commanding his majesty’s forces in America, was sitting in the Province House, greatly disturbed in mind. The expedition to Concord had not resulted as he expected. The troops had marched out bravely, destroyed a few barrels of flour, disabled half a dozen old cannon, burned some carriage wheels, but had returned to Boston on the run like a flock of sheep worried by dogs. The Tories had informed him that a couple of regiments could march from one end of the continent to the other, but the events of the preceding day were opening his eyes to a far different state of affairs. Till within a few hours the country had been at peace: farmers following the plow; blacksmiths hammering iron; carpenters pushing the plane. All had changed. Thousands were under arms, gathering at Cambridge and Roxbury. The Colonies were aflame,—not only Massachusetts, but New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Connecticut. The troops which marched to Concord so proudly were back in Boston,—not all: twenty-three had been killed, two hundred wounded and missing. Eighteen of the officers had been killed or wounded. Governor Gage could not gainsay the fact that the citizens were victors. They had followed the troops to Charlestown till nightfall, like a swarm of angry hornets. A great army was closing around him, cutting off his supplies. No more fresh beef or mutton would be for sale in the market; no teams would bring potatoes and cabbages for the soldiers. What would King George say? What would the ministry think? What would they do? How would the people of England regard his administration of affairs? The unexpected had happened. He had not dreamed of such an uprising. What course should he pursue? All Boston was in commotion. People were packing their goods on carts, loading them on boats to flee from the town. Women were wringing their hands, children crying, fathers walking the streets with careworn faces, not knowing whither to go or what to do. Officers were gathering at the Province House awaiting orders and talking of what had happened, and smarting under the thought that the retreat had been a flight and almost a panic. It was a humiliating reflection that disciplined soldiers had been put upon the run by a rabble of countrymen. Earl Percy, after a sleepless night, weary and travel-worn, was gladly welcomed by Governor Gage. He told the story of the retreat.

“If it had not been, your excellency, for my timely arrival, I fear few of Lieutenant-Colonel Smith’s troops would have escaped, as they were completely exhausted, their ammunition gone, and the men upon the run. I am free to say that I was completely astonished. I formed my brigade in hollow square, and his men threw themselves on the ground with their tongues lolling from their mouths,” he said.

“It is plain that you marched none too soon,” the governor replied.

“I cannot account for such a sudden uprising. I saw very few rebels. There were no organized bodies of rebels to be seen,—not more than twenty or thirty in a group; but they were all around us, firing from fences, rocks, trees, ditches, houses. If we charged and drove them, they were back again the moment we resumed our march. I must admit they were brave and persistent. They were like so many wasps,” said the earl.

“I learn,” said the governor, “that several thousand armed men have already gathered at Cambridge and Roxbury. A loyal citizen informs me they have been arriving through the night in great numbers. It seems probable that we are to be hemmed in by the provincials for the present, and must make preparations accordingly.”

Fast and far the alarm had gone. Twenty-four hours and it was one hundred miles away, and Robert Walden of Rumford with bullet-pouch, powder-horn, and musket was on his way, as were Colonel John Stark, Captain Daniel Moore of Derryfield, and hundreds of others in New Hampshire, Israel Putnam, Thomas Knowlton of Connecticut, and their fellow-citizens, all animated by one thought,—to resist the armed aggressions of the myrmidons of the king. There was a brave heart behind Rachel’s quivering lips when she pressed them to Robert’s.

“Roger is sure to be there. Tell him I think of him every night before I go to sleep.” Little did they know that he was being borne to his last resting-place on the banks of the winding river.

Robert was glad to learn when he reached Medford that John Stark was to be colonel of the New Hampshire troops.

Tom Brandon was working day and night to help people obtain passes from General Gage and leave the town. More than five thousand closed their houses and took their departure.[66] The governor would not allow any one to take their guns or swords, or anything which would in any way contribute to the success of the provincials.

The soldiers from Rumford, having unbounded confidence in Robert Walden, elected him lieutenant. When General Artemus Ward, commanding the troops at Cambridge, asked Colonel Stark if he had a trustworthy young man whom he could recommend to execute an important order, Lieutenant Walden was selected and directed to report at general headquarters. He was kindly received and informed he was to negotiate with the British for an exchange of prisoners.

Mounted upon his horse, Lieutenant Walden rode to Charlestown Neck, and from thence to the top of Bunker Hill to obtain a view of Boston and the harbor. He saw the warships were swinging at anchor in the stream. Across the river were the silent streets of the besieged town. He could distinguish the home of Captain Brandon, and the Green Dragon Tavern,—its doors closed. It was not these buildings, however, that most interested him, but a mansion on the slope of Beacon Hill, with its surrounding grounds,—the Newville home. The window of Miss Newville’s chamber was open, the curtain drawn aside. His spy-glass made it seem very near. How would she greet him were they to meet again? Would she be changed by the changing circumstances? Would she, daughter of a loyalist, deign to notice him, a rebel? Blessed vision! A figure in white appeared at the window. It was she for whom he could lay down his life, if need be. Oh, if he could but reach out his hand to her,—hear once more the voice that had thrilled him in the past! She stood by the window, looking upon the flowers blooming in the garden. The vision was but for a moment, for the window was soon closed and the curtain drawn. He descended the hill, rode through the village to the ferry landing, displaying a white flag. It was answered by the waving of another on the deck of the Lively warship. Then a boat brought a lieutenant of the fleet to the shore.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the curt question of the Britisher.

“I am commissioned by the commander-in-chief of the provincial army to ask if it will be agreeable to General Gage to make an exchange of prisoners?”

“The rebel army, you mean.”

“I said provincial, but if it suits you any better to think of the Americans as rebels, I will not object. We are rebels against tyranny and oppression, as I trust we always shall be. We have several officers of the king’s troops in our hands, and you have some of our men. If an exchange is desired by General Gage, I am empowered to arrange the details,” Robert said with calm dignity.

The Britisher bowed, and the boat pulled back to the ship, returning again after a time with an officer commissioned to make arrangements for the transfer.

The sun was nearing the hour of noon, three days later, when Lieutenant Walden, accompanied by General Putnam, Doctor Warren, and a detail of soldiers, conducted the British officers and men to the ferry landing, meeting Major Moncrief and other British officers, with the provincial prisoners in their keeping. The British soldiers, with tears upon their faces, thanked Doctor Warren for the kind treatment they had received. The Americans had no thanks to give for what they had received on the strawless floor of the jail, the prison fare for food. Lieutenant Walden had engaged a dinner in the tavern. The landlord set forth his choicest wine. Putnam and Moncrief, being old acquaintances, chatted of the days at Ticonderoga while partaking of the viands and quaffing glasses of madeira.

“While the white flag is waving we will not let our differences mar the pleasure of the hour,” said Doctor Warren, who delighted the company with his wit. Dinner over, there was a shaking of hands, expressions of personal good-will, and courteous salutes. With the furling of the white flag they were enemies once more.

Ships were arriving from England bringing General William Howe, General Henry Clinton, and General John Burgoyne, with several thousand troops to carry on the war. Every morning Miss Newville heard the drums beating the reveille and in the evening the tattoo. Many officers called at the hospitable home of Honorable Theodore Newville to enjoy the society of his charming daughter, who received them with grace and dignity.

With no fresh provisions in the market, the dinners given by Mr. Newville to the generals Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne was not so elaborate as that to Lord Upperton, but more appetizing than those on shipboard while crossing the Atlantic. It was a pleasure to General Howe to escort Miss Newville to the dining-room, sit by her side, and listen to a voice that charmed him by its purity and sweetness. A lady so highly endowed, and with such grace of manner, would adorn any home,—even the drawing-room of her majesty the queen.

The home of Mrs. Martha Duncan, with its shrubbery and garden neatly kept, was selected by General Howe as a residence. He hoped it would not greatly inconvenience her; he would gladly remunerate her for any trouble he might make. It would be a pleasure to have her for a hostess. His own servant would attend to his personal wants.

“Of course, mother,” said Abraham, “we cannot prevent him from taking possession of our home; we may as well make the best of it, accept the inevitable, and spoil the Egyptians if we can. He seems to be a gentleman, a man of honor, and will, doubtless, pay us well. Besides, possibly we may learn something that can be turned to good account, if we keep our eyes and ears open, and our wits about us.”

“It will be only a plain table, my lord, I can provide. Since the provincials have closed around us, the market has been bare of provisions,” said Mrs. Duncan.

“I am aware of it, madam, but I doubt not you will be able to furnish appetizing food, possibly a joint of roast mutton from the flocks of sheep accessible to us on the islands in the harbor, a fresh mackerel or cod. We are not yet shut in from the sea, and possibly we may soon have free access to the surrounding country, for I hear there is much discontent among the provincials, and their numbers are rapidly melting away, now that the first excitement is over,” responded Lord Howe.

“Possibly I may be able to provide early vegetables,—lettuce, dandelions, greens, asparagus, and water-cresses, my lord, if you will allow my negro servant, Cato, to pass the patrol to Charlestown,” said Mrs. Duncan.

“I will give him such permission,” he replied, writing a pass, directing the sentinels along the wharves, and the marine patrol in the harbor, to pass the negro servant, Cato.

Not only Cato, but Mrs. Duncan and her son, Abraham, ship-carver and artist, were attentive to the wants of General Howe, receiving shining guineas in return. It was a pleasure to the British commander, just arrived from England, to talk with a young gentleman so well informed and of such attainments as the son of his hostess.

“I dare say, Mr. Duncan, you are quite well acquainted with the country around Boston?” said his lordship.

“I have been up the Charles and Mystic by boat many times, my lord, and visited Cambridge to enjoy the festivities of Class Day, and the orations of graduates at Commencement. I have rambled the Roxbury fields and pastures for strawberries, and am pretty well acquainted with the various localities.”

General Howe spread out a map and asked many questions in regard to the surrounding hills, valleys, woods, and cleared lands. He was surprised to see how well Mr. Duncan could sketch them in with his pencil upon the map which Ensign De Berniere had drawn. Lord Howe introduced him to Generals Pigot and Clinton, who were pleased with the intelligent replies to their questions.

There came a day in June when Abraham heard General Howe say to the other commanders that the Charlestown Hills ought to be occupied at once, for fear the rebels might seize them. Were they to do so, Boston might be bombarded, and the ships driven from their anchorage.

“Doctor Warren and General Ward ought to know that,” Abraham said to himself.

There were only a few words in the letter which Abraham Duncan tucked under the cuff of Cato’s coat-sleeve the next morning, when he stepped into his boat to cross the river and gather young asparagus and water-cresses for General Howe’s dinner. Cato was directed to hand the slip of paper to Deacon Larkin’s negro, Jim, who would know what to do with it.

Faithful and true to their kind-hearted masters were Cato and Jim, passing the letter from hand to hand, till it reached Doctor Joseph Warren in consultation with General Artemus Ward and the committee of safety in Cambridge.

“Bunker’s Hill is to be occupied at once.”[67]

That was all, except an ink blot.

“It is authentic,—from a trustworthy Son of Liberty,” said Doctor Warren.

“It has no signature,” said General Ward.

“Therefore is not treasonable. Besides, it does not state who is to occupy Bunker’s Hill,—the British or ourselves,” the doctor replied.

“How do you know it is genuine—from the writing?”

“No; the hand is disguised. Nevertheless, I know the writer. He informs me that the British intend to take possession of Charlestown Heights.”[68]

“Are you sure it is authentic information?”

“I have no doubt of it. The writer is in position to learn what they intend to do. He is a very quiet man, but has his eyes and ears open. It is not the first time he has shown his devotion to our cause. You say he has not signed it; true he has not written his name, not even the initials, yet his signature is upon the sheet,—the insignificant ink-blot. It would not be accepted as testimony in a court-martial, but it is sufficient for me,” said Doctor Warren.

With the letter came a copy of a proclamation issued by General Gage. No longer were the selectmen of any towns in the Province of Massachusetts to have anything to say. Martial law was to supersede civil authority. The provincial soldiers were rebels and traitors who must lay down their arms at once and go home, if they would hope for pardon; but there was no pardon for Samuel Adams and John Hancock, who must pay the extreme penalty of the law for inciting the people to rebel against their kind and lenient king.

“We ask no favor of King George; he began the war, we will end it,” said the soldiers as they read the proclamation.