_ Mr. Bordley's sloop took Mr. Swain to Gordon's Pride in May, and placed
him in the big room overlooking the widening river. There he would lie
all day long, staring through the leaves at the water, or listening to
the sweet music of his daughter's voice as she read from the pompous
prints of the time. Gentlemen continued to come to the plantation,
for the barrister's wisdom was sorely missed at the councils. One day,
as I rode in from the field, I found Colonel Lloyd just arrived from
Philadelphia, sipping sangaree on the lawn and mopping himself with his
handkerchief. His jolly face was troubled. He waved his hand at me.
"Well, Richard," says he, "we children are to have our first whipping.
At least one of us. And the rest are resolved to defy our parent."
"Boston, Mr. Lloyd?" I asked.
"Yes, Boston," he replied; "her port is closed, and we are forbid any
intercourse with her until she comes to her senses. And her citizens
must receive his gracious Majesty's troopers into their houses. And if
a man kill one of them by any chance, he is to go to England to be tried.
And there is more quite as bad."
"'Tis bad enough!" I cried, flinging myself down. And Patty gave me a
glass in silence.
"Ay, but you must hear all," said he; "our masters are of a mind to do
the thing thoroughly. Canada is given some score of privileges. Her
French Roman Catholics, whom we fought not long since, are thrown a sop,
and those vast territories between the lakes and the Ohio and Mississippi
are given to Quebec as a price for her fidelity. And so, if the worst
comes to worst, George's regiments will have a place to land against us."
Such was the news, and though we were some hundreds of miles from
Massachusetts, we felt their cause as our own. There was no need
of the appeal which came by smoking horses from Philadelphia, for the
indignation of our people was roused to the highest pitch. Now Mr. Swain
had to take to his bed from the excitement.
This is not a history, my dears, as I have said. And time is growing
short. I shall pass over that dreary summer of '74. It required no very
keen eye to see the breakers ahead, and Mr. Bordley's advice to provide
against seven years of famine did not go unheeded. War was the last
thing we desired. We should have been satisfied with so little, we
colonies! And would have voted the duties ten times over had our rights
been respected. Should any of you doubt this, you have but to read the
"Address to the King" of our Congress, then sitting in Philadelphia. The
quarrel was so petty, and so easy of mending, that you of this generation
may wonder why it was allowed to run. I have tried to tell you that the
head of a stubborn, selfish, and wilful monarch blocked the way to
reconciliation. King George the Third is alone to blame for that hatred
of race against race which already hath done so much evil. And I pray
God that a great historian may arise whose pen will reveal the truth,
and reconcile at length those who are, and should be, brothers.
By October, that most beautiful month of all the year in Maryland, we
were again in Annapolis: One balmy day 'twas a Friday, I believe, and a
gold and blue haze hung over the Severn--Mr. Chase called in Gloucester
Street to give the barrister news of the Congress, which he had lately
left. As he came down the stairs he paused for a word with me in the
library, and remarked sadly upon Mr. Swain's condition. "He looks like
a dying man, Richard," said he, "and we can ill afford to lose him."
Even as we sat talking in subdued tones, the noise of a distant commotion
arose. We had scarce started to our feet, Mr. Chase and I, when the
brass knocker resounded, and Mr. Hammond was let in. His wig was awry,
and his face was flushed.
"I thought to find you here," he said to Mr. Chase. "The Anne Arundel
Committee is to meet at once, and we desire to have you with us."
Perceiving our blank faces, he added: "The 'Peggy Stewart' is in this
morning with over a ton of tea aboard, consigned to the Williams's."
The two jumped into a chaise, and I followed afoot, stopped at every
corner by some excited acquaintance; so that I had the whole story, and
more, ere I reached Church Street. The way was blocked before the
committee rooms, and 'twas said that the merchants, Messrs. Williams,
and Captain Jackson of the brig, were within, pleading their cause.
Presently the news leaked abroad that Mr. Anthony Stewart, the brig's
owner, had himself paid the duty on the detested plant. Some hundreds
of people were elbowing each other in the street, for the most part quiet
and anxious, until Mr. Hammond appeared and whispered to a man at the
door. In all my life before I had never heard the hum of an angry crowd.
The sound had something ominous in it, like the first meanings of a wind
that is to break off great trees at their trunks. Then some one shouted:
"To Hanover Street! To Hanover Street! We'll have him tarred and
feathered before the sun is down!" The voice sounded strangely like
Weld's. They charged at this cry like a herd of mad buffalo, the weaker
ones trampled under foot or thrust against the wall. The windows of Mr.
Aikman's shop were shattered. I ran with the leaders, my stature and
strength standing me in good stead more than once, and as we twisted into
Northwest Street I took a glance at the mob behind me, and great was my
anxiety at not being able to descry one responsible person.
Mr. Stewart's house stood, and stands to-day, amid trim gardens, in plain
sight of the Severn. Arriving there, the crowd massed in front of it,
some of the boldest pressing in at the gate and spreading over the circle
of lawn enclosed by the driveway. They began to shout hoarsely, with
what voices they had left, for Mr. Stewart to come out, calling him names
not to be spoken, and swearing they would show him how traitors were to
be served. I understood then the terror of numbers, and shuddered. A
chandler, a bold and violent man, whose leather was covered with grease,
already had his foot on the steps, when the frightened servants slammed
the door in his face, and closed the lower windows. In vain I strained
my eyes for some one who might have authority with them. They began to
pick up stones, though none were thrown.
Suddenly a figure appeared at an upper window,--a thin and wasted woman
dressed in white, with sad, sweet features. It was Mrs. Stewart.
Without flinching she looked down upon the upturned faces; but a mob of
that kind has no pity. Their leaders were the worst class in our
province, being mostly convicts who had served their terms of indenture.
They continued to call sullenly for "the traitor." Then the house door
opened, and the master himself appeared. He was pale and nervous, and
no wonder; and his voice shook as he strove to make himself heard. His
words were drowned immediately by shouts of "Seize him! Seize the d--d
traitor!" "A pot and a coat of hot tar!"
Those who were nearest started forward, and I with them. With me 'twas
the decision of an instant. I beat the chandler up the steps, and took
stand in front of the merchant, and I called out to them to fall back.
To my astonishment they halted. The skirts of the crowd were now come to
the foot of the little porch. I faced them with my hand on Mr. Stewart's
arm, without a thought of what to do next, and expecting violence. There
was a second's hush. Then some one cried out:
"Three cheers for Richard Carvel!"
They gave them with a will that dumfounded me.
"My friends," said I, when I had got my wits, "this is neither the
justice nor the moderation for which our province is noted. You have
elected your committee of your free wills, and they have claims before
you."
"Ay, ay, the committee!" they shouted. "Mr. Carvel is right. Take him
to the Committee!"
Mr. Stewart raised his hand.
"My friends," he began, as I had done, "when you have learned the
truth, you will not be so hasty to blame me for an offence of which I am
innocent. The tea was not for me. The brig was in a leaky and dangerous
state and had fifty souls aboard her. I paid the duty out of humanity--"
He had come so far, when they stopped him.
"Oh, a vile Tory!" they shouted. "He is conniving with the Council.
'Twas put up between them." And they followed this with another volley
of hard names, until I feared that his chance was gone.
"You would best go before the Committee, Mr. Stewart," I said.
"I will go with Mr. Carvel, my friends," he cried at once. And he
invited me into the house whilst he ordered his coach. I preferred to
remain outside.
I asked them if they would trust me with Mr. Stewart to Church Street.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Carvel, we know you," said several. "He has good cause to
hate Tories," called another, with a laugh. I knew the voice.
"For shame, Weld," I cried. And I saw McNeir, who was a stanch friend of
mine, give him a cuff to send him spinning.
To my vast satisfaction they melted away, save only a few of the idlest
spirits, who hung about the gate, and cheered as we drove off. Mr.
Stewart was very nervous, and profuse in his gratitude. I replied that
I had acted only as would have any other responsible citizen. On the way
he told me enough of his case to convince me that there was much to be
said on his side, but I thought it the better part of wisdom not to
commit myself. The street in front of the committee rooms was empty, and
I was informed that a town meeting had been called immediately at the
theatre in West Street. And I advised Mr. Stewart to attend. But
through anxiety or anger, or both, he was determined not to go, and drove
back to his house without me.
I had got as far as St. Anne's, halfway to the theatre, when it suddenly
struck me that Mr. Swain must be waiting for news. With a twinge I
remembered what Mr. Chase had said about the barrister's condition, and I
hurried back to Gloucester Street, much to the surprise of those I met on
their way to the meeting. I was greatly relieved, when I arrived, to
find Patty on the porch. I knew she had never been there were her father
worse. After a word with her and her mother, I went up the stairs.
It was the hour for the barrister's nap. But he was awake, lying back
on the pillows, with his eyes half closed. He was looking out into the
garden, which was part orchard, now beginning to shrivel and to brown
with the first touch of frosts.
"That is you, Richard?" he inquired, without moving. "What is going
forward to-day?"
I toned down the news, so as not to excite him, and left out the
occurrence in Hanover Street. He listened with his accustomed interest,
but when I had done he asked no questions, and lay for a long time
silent. Then he begged me to bring my chair nearer.
"Richard,--my son," said he, with an evident effort, "I have never
thanked you for your devotion to me and mine through the best years of
your life. It shall not go unrewarded, my lad."
It seemed as if my heart stood still with the presage of what was to
come.
"May God reward you, sir!" I said.
"I have wished to speak to you," he continued, "and I may not have
another chance. I have arranged with Mr. Carroll, the barrister, to take
your cause against your uncle, so that you will lose nothing when I am
gone. And you will see, in my table in the library, that I have left my
property in your hands, with every confidence in your integrity, and
ability to care for my family, even as I should have done."
I could not speak at once. A lump rose in my throat, for I had come to
look upon him as a father. His honest dealings, his charity, of which
the world knew nothing, and his plain and unassuming ways had inspired
in me a kind of worship. I answered, as steadily as I might:
"I believe I am too inexperienced for such a responsibility, Mr. Swain.
Would it not be better that Mr. Bordley or Mr. Lloyd should act?"
"No, no," he said; "I am not a man to do things unadvisedly, or to let
affection get the better of my judgment, where others dear to me are
concerned. I know you, Richard Carvel. Scarce an action of yours has
escaped my eye, though I have said nothing. You have been through the
fire, and are of the kind which comes out untouched. You will have Judge
Bordley's advice, and Mr. Carroll's. And they are too busy with the
affairs of the province to be burdened as my executors. But," he added a
little more strongly, "if what I fear is coming, Mr. Bordley will take
the trust in your absence. If we have war, Richard, you will not be
content to remain at home, nor would I wish it."
I did not reply.
"You will do what I ask?" he said.
"I would refuse you nothing, Mr. Swain," I answered. "But I have heavy
misgivings."
He sighed. "And now, if it were not for Tom, I might die content," he
said.
If it were not for Tom! The full burden of the trust began to dawn upon
me then. Presently I heard him speaking, but in so low a voice that I
hardly caught the words.
"In our youth, Richard," he was saying, "the wrath of the Almighty is
but so many words to most of us. When I was little more than a lad, I
committed a sin of which I tremble now to think. And I was the fool to
imagine, when I amended my life, that God had forgotten. His punishment
is no heavier than I deserve. But He alone knows what He has made me
suffer."
I felt that I had no right to be there.
"That is why I have paid Tom's debts," he continued; "I cannot cast off
my son. I have reasoned, implored, and appealed in vain. He is like
Reuben,--his resolutions melt in an hour. And I have pondered day and
night what is to be done for him."
"Is he to have his portion?" I asked. Indeed, the thought of the
responsibility of Tom Swain overwhelmed me.
"Yes, he is to have it," cried Mr. Swain, with a violence to bring on a
fit of coughing. "Were I to leave it in trust for a time, he would have
it mortgaged within a year. He is to have his portion, but not a penny
additional."
He lay for a long time breathing deeply, I watching him. Then, as he
reached out and took my hand, I knew by some instinct what was to come.
I summoned all my self-command to meet his eye. I knew that the
malicious and unthinking gossip of the town had reached him, and
that he had received it in the simple faith of his hopes.
"One thing more, my lad," he said, "the dearest wish of all--that you
will marry Patty. She is a good girl, Richard. And I have thought,"
he added with hesitation, "I have thought that she loves you, though her
lips have never opened on that subject."
So the blow fell. I turned away, for to save my life the words would not
come. He missed the reason of my silence.
"I understand and honour your scruples," he went on. His kindness was
like a knife.
"No, I have had none, Mr. Swain," I exclaimed. For I would not be
thought a hypocrite.
There I stopped. A light step sounded in the hall, and Patty came in
upon us. Her colour at once betrayed her understanding. To my infinite
relief her father dropped my fingers, and asked cheerily if there was any
news from the town meeting.
On the following Wednesday, with her flag flying and her sails set, the
Peggy Stewart was run ashore on Windmill Point. She rose, a sacrifice to
Liberty, in smoke to heaven, before the assembled patriots of our city.
That very night a dear friend to Liberty passed away. He failed so
suddenly that Patty had no time to call for aid, and when the mother had
been carried in, his spirit was flown. We laid him high on the hill
above the creek, in the new lot he had bought and fenced around. The
stone remains:
HERE LIETH
HENRY SWAIN, BARRISTER.
BORN MAY 13, 1730 (O.S.);
DIED OCTOBER 19, 1774.
Fidus Amicis atque Patrice.
The simple inscription, which speaks volumes to those who knew him, was
cut after the Revolution. He was buried with the honours of a statesman,
which he would have been had God spared him to serve the New Country
which was born so soon after his death.
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