Squire Pemberton, we doubt not, is very anxious to find out certain persons connected with some irregular proceedings in and around his house on the evening of Monday, April 16th. Fidelity to the truth of history compels us to narrate these proceedings in our humble volume; but we should exceedingly regret thereby to get any of our friends into a scrape by informing the squire that they were active participants in the scenes of that eventful night, or to say any thing which would enable him, a lawyer, to trace out the authors of the mischief through these pages. Therefore we cannot say where Pinchbrook is, or even give a hint which would enable our readers to fix definitely its locality.
Pinchbrook is a town of about three thousand inhabitants, engaged, as the school books would say, in agriculture, manufactures, commerce, and the fisheries, which, rendered into still plainer English, means that some of the people are farmers; that wooden pails, mackerel kegs, boots and shoes, are made; that the inhabitants buy groceries, and sell fish, kegs, pails, and similar wares; and that there are about twenty vessels owned in the place, the principal part of which are fishermen.
We have not the agricultural and commercial statistics of the place at hand; but the larger territorial part of the town was devoted to the farming interest, and was rather sparsely populated, while the principal village, called Pinchbrook Harbor, was more densely peopled, contained two stores, four churches, one wharf, a blacksmith shop, and several shoe and bucket manufactories.
We are willing to acknowledge that Pinchbrook is rather a singular name. The antiquarians have not yet had an opportunity to determine its origin; but our private opinion is that the word is a corruption of Punch-brook. Perhaps, at some remote period in the history of the town, before the Sons of Temperance obtained a foothold in the place, a villainous mixture, known to topers under the general appellation of “punch,” may have been largely consumed by the Pinchbrookers. Though not a very aged person ourself, we have heard allusions to festive occasions where, metaphorically, the punch was said to “flow in streams.” Possibly, from “streams” came “brooks,”—hence, “Punchbrook,”—which, under the strange mutations of time, has become “Pinchbrook.” But we are not learned in these matters, and we hope that nothing we have said will bias the minds of antiquarians, and prevent them from devoting that attention to the origin of the word which its importance demands.
The Somers family, which we have already partially introduced, occupied a small cottage not quite a mile from Pinchbrook Harbor. Captain Somers, the head of the family, had been, and was still, for aught his wife and children knew, master of the schooner Gazelle. To purchase this vessel, he had heavily mortgaged his house and lands in Pinchbrook to Squire Pemberton. But his voyages had not been uniformly successful, though the captain believed that his earthly possessions, after discharging all his liabilities, would amount to about five thousand dollars.
The mortgage note would become due in June, and Captain Somers had been making a strong effort to realize upon his property, so as to enable him to pay off the obligation at maturity. Captain Somers had a brother who was familiarly known in the family as uncle Wyman. He had spent his life, from the age of eighteen, in the South, and at the time of which we write, he was a merchant in Norfolk.
Captain Somers and his brother had been interested together in certain mercantile transactions, and uncle Wyman being the business man, had the proceeds of these ventures in his own hands.
On the 10th of April, only two days before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, Captain Somers had sailed in the Gazelle, with an assorted cargo, for Norfolk. Before leaving home he had assured his wife that he should not return without effecting a settlement with Wyman, who had postponed it so many times, that the honest sailor began to fear his brother did not mean to deal justly with him. Nothing had been heard of the Gazelle since her departure from Boston.
Uncle Wyman was known to be a northern man with southern principles, while his brother, though not in the habit of saying much about politics, was fully committed on the side of the government, and was willing to sustain the President in the use of all the coercion that might be necessary to enforce obedience to the laws. The threatening aspect of affairs at the South had made Captain Somers more than ever anxious to have his accounts adjusted, as all his earthly possessions, except the schooner, were in the hands of his brother; and the fact that uncle Wyman was so strong an advocate of Southern rights, had caused him to make the declaration that he would not return without a settlement.
The financial affairs of the Somers family, therefore, were not in a very prosperous condition, and the solvency of the house depended entirely upon the adjustment with uncle Wyman. The mortgage note which Squire Pemberton held would be due in June, and as the creditor was not an indulgent man, there was a prospect that even the little cottage and the little farm might be wrested from them.
The family at home consisted of Mrs. Somers and three children. The two oldest daughters were married to two honest, hard-working fishermen at the Harbor. Thomas and John were twins, sixteen years of age. The former had a place in one of the stores at the village, and the latter occasionally went a fishing trip with his brothers-in-law. Both of the boys had been brought up to work, and there was need enough now that they should contribute what they could to the support of the family. The youngest child, Jane, was but eleven years of age, and went to school. Mrs. Somers’s brother, a feeble old man, a soldier in the war of 1812, and a pensioner of the government, had been a member of the family for twenty years; and was familiarly known in town as “Gran’ther Green.”
Having thus made our readers acquainted with Pinchbrook and the Somers family, we are prepared to continue our story.
Thomas and John walked down to the Harbor together after dinner. The latter had listened with interest and approbation to his brother’s account of the “Battle of Pinchbrook,” as he facetiously called it; and perhaps he thought Thomas might need his assistance before he reached the store, for Fred and his father would not probably be willing to let the matter rest where they had left it.
We are sorry not to be able to approve all the acts of the hero of this volume; but John, without asking our opinion, fully indorsed the action of his brother.
“Fred is a traitor, and so is his father,” said he, as they passed out at the front gate of the little cottage.
“That’s so, Jack; and it made my blood boil to hear them talk,” replied Thomas. “And I couldn’t help calling things by their right names.”
“Bully for you, Tom!” added John, as he turned round, and glanced at the house to assure himself they were out of the hearing of their mother. “Between you and me, Tom, there will be music in Pinchbrook to-night.”
He lowered his voice, and spoke in tones big with mystery and heavy with importance.
“What do you mean?” asked Thomas, his interest excited by the words and manner of his brother.
“There is fun ahead.”
“Tell me what it’s all about.”
“You won’t say a word—will you?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“Not to mother, I mean, most of all.”
“Certainly not.”
“Squire Pemberton has been talking too loud for his own good.”
“I know that; he was in the store this forenoon, and Jeff Davis himself is no bigger traitor than he is.”
“Some of the people are going to make him a call to-night.”
“What for?”
“What do you suppose? Can’t you see through a millstone, Tom, when there is a hole in it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You can come with us if you like, and then you will know all about it,” added John, mysteriously.
“But what are you going to do?”
“We are going to make him hoist the American flag on his house, or hang it out of his window.”
“Well, suppose he won’t.”
“Then we’ll hang him where the flag ought to be. We’ll pull the house down over his head.”
“I’m with you, Jack,” replied Thomas, with enthusiasm.
“We won’t have a traitor in Pinchbrook. If we can’t cure him, we’ll ride him on a rail out of the town.”
“I don’t know as you and I ought to get into this scrape,” added Thomas, thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
“You know the squire has a mortgage on our house, and he may get ugly.”
“Let him, if he likes. I’m not going to tolerate a traitor because he has a mortgage on my father’s house. Besides, that is a fair business transaction; the squire gets his interest.”
“Mother is afraid of him, as she is of the evil spirit.”
“Women are always timid,” said John, sagely.
“By George! there comes the very man himself!” exclaimed Thomas, as he discovered a horse and chaise slowly approaching.
“So it is; that old chaise looks rather the worse for the wear. It looks as though it had been through the wars.”
The vehicle did bear very evident marks of hard usage. One of the shafts was broken, the dasher wrenched off, and the top stove in. The horse was covered with mud, and limped badly from the effects of his fall. The broken shaft and the harness were now plentifully adorned with ropes and old straps. In fact, the catastrophe had utterly ruined all claim which the chaise ever might have had to be considered a “hahnsome kerridge.”
“There’ll be fun nearer home, I reckon,” said John, as he obtained his first view of the sour visage of the squire.
“Can’t help it,” added Thomas.
“Keep a stiff upper lip, Tom.”
“I intend to do so.”
“Don’t say a word about to-night, Tom.”
“Of course not.”
When the chaise had approached near enough to enable the squire to recognize the author of his misfortunes, he stopped the horse, and got out of the vehicle, with the whip in his hand.
“Now, you young scoundrel, I will teach you to insult me and my son, and destroy my property. Stay in the chaise, Fred, and hold the horse,” he added to his son.
But there was not much need of holding the horse now, for he was too lame to run fast or far. Thomas and John came to a halt; and if the squire had been a prudent man, he might have seen by the flash of their eyes, that he was about to engage in an unsafe operation.
“I am going to horsewhip you within an inch of your life, you villain, you!” roared the squire, brandishing the whip.
“No, you are not,” replied Thomas, coolly.
“If you drop the weight of that lash on my brother, I’ll smash your head,” added John.
The squire paused, and glanced at the wiry form of the young sailor. Better thoughts, or at least wiser ones, came to his aid.
“I can bring you to your senses in another way,” said he, dropping his whip, and getting into the chaise again. “You will hear from me before the week is out.”
“Let him go; don’t say a word, Tom,” added John.
“He will prosecute me, I suppose he means by that.”
“Let him prosecute and be hanged! I’ll bet by to-morrow morning he will think better of it. At any rate, he will find out what the people of Pinchbrook think of him.”
The boys resumed their walk, and soon reached the store, where they found the group of idlers, that always frequent shops in the country, busily engaged in discussing the affair in which Thomas had been the principal actor. As the boys entered, the hero of the Pinchbrook Battle was saluted with a volley of applause, and his conduct fully approved and commended, for a copperhead in that day was an abomination to the people.
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