The Boy Patriot Part 1

The Boy Patriot.

by Edward Sylvester Ellis.

CHAPTER I.

FAIRPORT.

Were you ever on the coast of Maine? If so, you know how the rocky sh.o.r.es stretch out now and then clear into the ocean, and fret the salt waves till they are all in a foam. Old Ocean is not to be so set at defiance and have his rightful territory wrung from him, without taking his revenge after his own fas.h.i.+on. Far up into the land he sends his arms, and crooks and bends and makes his way amid the rocks, and finally falls asleep in some quiet harbor, where the tall pines stand by the sh.o.r.e to sing him a lullaby.

In just such a spot as this the town we shall call Fairport was built.

Axe in one hand and Bible in the other, stern settlers here found a home. Strong hard-featured sons, and fair rosy-cheeked daughters made glad the rude cabins that were soon scattered along the sh.o.r.e. The axe was plied in the woods, and the needle by the fireside, and yet grim Poverty was ever shaking her fist in the very faces of the settlers, and whispering sad things of what the uncertain future might have in store for them.

Cheerily they bore the hards.h.i.+ps of the present hour, and a deaf ear they turned to all such whispers. Yet those settlers were sensible, matter-of-fact men; and it was soon plain to them, that healthful as were the breezes that made so rosy the cheeks of their daughters, Fairport was not the very best site in the world for a settlement, at least if its people were to depend on the thin and rocky soil won from the forest, which scarcely produced the bare necessaries of life.

Was Fairport given up in despair? No, no. Her settlers were not the men to be so daunted and foiled. If the land was unkindly, they could take to the water; and so they did, to a man. Some were off to the Newfoundland Banks, tossing about the codfish, and piling them up into stacks that were more profitable than any hay of their own raising. Some were on board swift vessels, doing a good share of the carrying trade between the West Indies and the New England cities. Some were seeking the whale far in the northern seas; while others, less enterprising, were content to fish nearer home for all sorts of eatable dwellers in the sea, from halibut to herring.

Now a new day had begun for Fairport. The original cabins began to tower in the air or encroach on the submissive gardens, as building after building was added by the prosperous owners. Miniature villas, with a wealth of useless piazzas, appeared in the neighborhood of the town, and substantial wharves bordered one side of the quiet harbor, and gave a welcome to the s.h.i.+pping that seemed to grow and cl.u.s.ter there like the trees of a forest.

Fairport had pa.s.sed the struggles of its early youth when our story begins, though there were gray-haired citizens yet within its borders who could tell how the bears had once looked in at their cabin windows, and the pine-trees had stood thick in what was now the main street of the rising town.

CHAPTER II.

THE YOUNG ORATOR.

The boys of Fairport were an amphibious set, who could live on land truly, but were happiest when in or near the water. To fish and swim, row, trim the sail, and guide the rudder, were accomplishments they all could boast. A bold, hardy, merry set they were; and but for the schoolmaster's rod and the teaching of their pious mothers, might have been as ignorant as oysters and merciless as the sharks. Master Penrose had whipped into most of them the elements of a plain English education, and gentle mothers had power to soften and rule these rough boys, when perhaps a stronger hand would have failed.

Master Penrose always gave a full holiday on Sat.u.r.day. Then the wharves were sure to swarm with the mischievous little chaps, all eager to carry out some favorite plan for amus.e.m.e.nt, in which old Ocean was sure to be engaged as a play-fellow. Poor indeed was the lad who had not a fish-hook and line with which to try his skill. The very youngest had his tiny boat to be launched, while his elders were planning sailing-parties, or jumping and leaping in the water like so many dolphins.

Boys like to have a leader, some one they look up to as superior to the rest, and capable of deciding knotty questions, and "going ahead" in all times of doubt and difficulty. Blair Robertson occupied this position among the youngsters of Fairport. He had lawfully won this place among his fellows and "achieved greatness," by being the best scholar at the academy, as well as the boldest swimmer, most skilful fisherman, and most experienced sailor among all the boys for miles along the coast. It was Blair Robertson's boast that he belonged to the nineteenth century, and grew old with it. It was doubtful whether the bold lad considered this age of progress as honored by his playing his part in its drama, or whether he claimed a reflected glory, as having been born at the very dawn of that century which promised so much for the thronging millions of our world.

Be that as it may, Joe Robertson the pilot and Margaret his wife rejoiced, in the year 1800, over their first and only child. Thirteen years had swept by, and the honest couple were now as proud of that brave, strong boy as they had been of their baby, and with better reason.

Troublous times had come upon their native land. War had been declared with England. All Fairport was ablaze at the idea of American seamen being forced to serve on English s.h.i.+ps, and of decks whose timber grew in the free forests of Maine or North Carolina, being trodden by the unscrupulous feet of British officers with insolent search-warrants in their hands.

Blair Robertson had his own views on these subjects--views which we find him giving forth to his devoted followers one sunny Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

Blair was mounted on a sugar hogshead which stood in front of one of the warehouses on the wharf. From this place of eminence he looked down on a constantly increasing crowd of youthful listeners. A half hour before, a row of little legs had been hanging over the side of the wharf, while their owners were intent upon certain corks and lines that danced or quivered amid the waves below. Now the lines were made fast to stone and log, while the small fishermen stood agape to listen to the fluent orator.

This was but the nucleus of the gathering crowd. Every boy who came near the eager circle must of course stop to find out what was going on; and it was with no little pride that Blair beheld the dozens of faces soon upturned to his.

Blair might have remembered that if there had been but a dead dog in the centre of the group, there would have been an equal gathering and pus.h.i.+ng to know the cause of the meeting; but he, like many an older speaker, was willing to attribute to his eloquence what might have had even a humbler cause.

"Our rights invaded; a man's s.h.i.+p no longer his castle; the free American forced to forsake his stars and stripes! The foot of the Briton pollutes our decks. His tyrannical arm takes captive our fathers, and dooms them to a servitude of which the world knows no equal. Shall we submit? We will not submit. We have protested. We have declared war to the death. Has Fairport a voice in this matter? Where are those whom we love best? Where but upon the wide sea, a prey to our remorseless enemy. Where is _your_ father, and _yours_, and _yours_, and _mine_?"

said Blair, making his appeal personal as he pointed to the sailors'

sons. "This insolence must be checked. We must rebuke the proud Briton on the very scene of his abominations. We must triumph over him on the tossing ocean, and teach him that America, not Britannia, rules the waves. Would that we all stood on some staunch s.h.i.+p, to do battle with our young right-arms. Then should Englishmen cringe before us; then would we doom to sudden destruction their boasted admirals and flimsy fleets. Down with the Englis.h.!.+ down with the Englis.h.!.+"

Blair stamped emphatically on his hollow throne, until it rang again.

"Down with the Englis.h.!.+" echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.

At this moment a short, stout lad came round a neighboring corner. On his arm he carried a large basket of clean linen, with which he now tried to elbow his way through the crowd.

"An English boy! Shame that he should show his face among us," said Blair in his excitement.

"We'll give him a taste of salt water," said two or three of the oldest boys as they seized the stranger roughly by the shoulders. "We'll teach him to mend his manners."

"Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play," shouted Blair; but Blair was no longer the object of attention.

The English boy, in spite of his struggles, was hurried to the edge of the wharf, and pushed relentlessly over the brink.

A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket of clothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, the stranger sank like a heavy load--rose, and then sank again.

"He can't swim; he can't swim. He'll be drowned!" burst from the lips of the spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.

Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of the wharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as he for the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair was diving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished from sight.

There was a moment of breathless silence, then a deafening cheer, as Blair reappeared with the drowning boy in his arms.

There were hands enough outstretched to aid him in laying his burden on the sh.o.r.e. "Help me carry him, boys, straight to our house. Mother will know what to do for him," said Blair, speaking very quickly.

It was but a few steps down a neighboring street to Joe Robertson's pleasant home.

Blair did not fear to take in the dripping boy and lay him on his mother's best bed. He knew that mother's joy was to minister to the distressed and succor the unfortunate.

The water was soon pouring from the mouth, nose, and ears of the unconscious lad. Then he was rubbed and wrapped round with hot flannels, while Mrs. Robertson's own hands forced his lungs to work, until they again took their natural movement.

Not a word was asked as to how the accident had happened, until, out of danger, the rescued boy was in a sweet sleep.

The eager crowd who had followed Blair and his charge had vanished, and the mother sat alone with her son. Blair's dripping garments had been exchanged for another suit, but in the midst of the late confusion his mother's eye had silently and gratefully marked upon him the signs that to him the English boy owed his life.

"You saved him, my son. G.o.d be thanked. I may well be proud of my boy,"

said the mother earnestly and fondly.

A sudden flush of shame crimsoned the cheeks of Blair Robertson. "Oh, mother, it was all my fault," he exclaimed. "If he had died--Oh, if he had died, that pale struggling face would have haunted me to my grave. I had been making one of my speeches to the boys, and it pleased me to see how I could rouse them. I had just shouted 'Down with the Englis.h.!.+' and made them join me, when poor Hal came round the corner. n.o.body would have noticed him if I had gone right on; but I pointed him out, and angry as they were, I could not stop them before they had thrown him into the water. They thought he could swim, I dare say; but I knew he couldn't. Oh, mother, what I suffered, thinking he might drown before I could reach him. But he's safe now. You think he'll get well, don't you, mother?"

"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Robertson, trembling with deep feeling.

"G.o.d's mercy has been great to you, my boy. May you learn this day a solemn lesson. You have a powerful influence over your companions. You know it, and I am afraid it has only fed your pride, not prompted you to usefulness. Is it real love for your country that leads you to these speeches; or is it a desire to see how you can rouse the pa.s.sions of your listeners, and force them to do your bidding? For every talent we must give an account, and surely for none more strictly than the power to prompt men to good or evil. I believe you love your country, my boy.

You love our dear country, or I would blush to own you as my son. But I fear you have as yet but a poor idea what it is to be a true patriot."

"A true patriot, mother? I think I know what that means. One who loves his country, and would cheerfully die for her," said Blair with enthusiasm.

"You might even love your country and die for her, and yet be no _true_ patriot," said the mother. "You might be her disgrace, and the cause of her afflictions, while you shed for her your heart's blood."