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  THE BOY PATRIOT.

  by

  EDWARD SYLVESTER ELLIS,

  The Author of"The Blue Flag," "Cheerily, Cheerily," Etc.

  "HE WILL BLESS THEM THAT FEAR THE LORD, BOTH SMALL ANDGREAT."

  Published by theAmerican Tract Society,150 Nassau-Street, New York.

  The character of Blair Robertson, the Fairport boy, will not have beensketched in vain, if it prompt one young American to such a heartyserving of God as will make him a blessing to our dear native land. Wehave laid the scene of our story fifty years ago, but we trust that itslessons will be none the less appropriate to the present day.

  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by theAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, in the Clerk's Office of the DistrictCourt of the Southern District of the State of New York.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER I.

  Fairport 5

  CHAPTER II.

  The young Orator 9

  CHAPTER III.

  The English Boy 25

  CHAPTER IV.

  The Patriot's Work 36

  CHAPTER V.

  Blair's Company 44

  CHAPTER VI.

  A Pilot 65

  CHAPTER VII.

  No! 62

  CHAPTER VIII.

  The Storm 69

  CHAPTER IX

  A Reward 74

  CHAPTER X.

  A New Deck 80

  CHAPTER XI.

  "Mum" 86

  CHAPTER XII.

  The First Effort 95

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Temptation 105

  CHAPTER XIV.

  "Derry Duck" 113

  CHAPTER XV.

  A Letter 128

  CHAPTER XVI.

  A Marvel 134

  CHAPTER XVII.

  The Conflict 144

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Wages 152

  CHAPTER XIX.

  Home 160

  CHAPTER XX.

  Sacred Joy 170

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Conclusion 174

  THE BOY PATRIOT.

  CHAPTER I.

  FAIRPORT.

  Were you ever on the coast of Maine? If so, you know how the rockyshores stretch out now and then clear into the ocean, and fret the saltwaves till they are all in a foam. Old Ocean is not to be so set atdefiance and have his rightful territory wrung from him, without takinghis revenge after his own fashion. Far up into the land he sends hisarms, and crooks and bends and makes his way amid the rocks, and finallyfalls asleep in some quiet harbor, where the tall pines stand by theshore 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 ahome. Strong hard-featured sons, and fair rosy-cheeked daughters madeglad the rude cabins that were soon scattered along the shore. The axewas plied in the woods, and the needle by the fireside, and yet grimPoverty was ever shaking her fist in the very faces of the settlers, andwhispering sad things of what the uncertain future might have in storefor them.

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

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

  Now a new day had begun for Fairport. The original cabins began totower in the air or encroach on the submissive gardens, as buildingafter building was added by the prosperous owners. Miniature villas,with a wealth of useless piazzas, appeared in the neighborhood of thetown, and substantial wharves bordered one side of the quiet harbor, andgave a welcome to the shipping that seemed to grow and cluster therelike the trees of a forest.

  Fairport had passed the struggles of its early youth when our storybegins, though there were gray-haired citizens yet within its borderswho 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 ofthe rising town.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE YOUNG ORATOR.

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

  Master Penrose always gave a full holiday on Saturday. Then the wharveswere sure to swarm with the mischievous little chaps, all eager to carryout some favorite plan for amusement, in which old Ocean was sure to beengaged as a play-fellow. Poor indeed was the lad who had not afish-hook and line with which to try his skill. The very youngest hadhis tiny boat to be launched, while his elders were planningsailing-parties, or jumping and leaping in the water like so manydolphins.

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

  Be that as it may, Joe Robertson t
he pilot and Margaret his wiferejoiced, in the year 1800, over their first and only child. Thirteenyears had swept by, and the honest couple were now as proud of thatbrave, strong boy as they had been of their baby, and with betterreason.

  Troublous times had come upon their native land. War had been declaredwith England. All Fairport was ablaze at the idea of American seamenbeing forced to serve on English ships, and of decks whose timber grewin the free forests of Maine or North Carolina, being trodden by theunscrupulous feet of British officers with insolent search-warrants intheir hands.

  Blair Robertson had his own views on these subjects--views which we findhim giving forth to his devoted followers one sunny Saturday afternoon.

  Blair was mounted on a sugar hogshead which stood in front of one of thewarehouses on the wharf. From this place of eminence he looked down on aconstantly increasing crowd of youthful listeners. A half hour before, arow of little legs had been hanging over the side of the wharf, whiletheir owners were intent upon certain corks and lines that danced orquivered amid the waves below. Now the lines were made fast to stone andlog, while the small fishermen stood agape to listen to the fluentorator.

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

  Blair might have remembered that if there had been but a dead dog in thecentre of the group, there would have been an equal gathering andpushing to know the cause of the meeting; but he, like many an olderspeaker, was willing to attribute to his eloquence what might have hadeven a humbler cause.

  "Our rights invaded; a man's ship no longer his castle; the freeAmerican forced to forsake his stars and stripes! The foot of theBriton pollutes our decks. His tyrannical arm takes captive our fathers,and dooms them to a servitude of which the world knows no equal. Shallwe submit? We will not submit. We have protested. We have declared warto the death. Has Fairport a voice in this matter? Where are those whomwe love best? Where but upon the wide sea, a prey to our remorselessenemy. 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 Britonon the very scene of his abominations. We must triumph over him on thetossing ocean, and teach him that America, not Britannia, rules thewaves. Would that we all stood on some staunch ship, to do battle withour young right-arms. Then should Englishmen cringe before us; thenwould we doom to sudden destruction their boasted admirals and flimsyfleets. Down with the English! down with the English!"

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

  "Down with the English!" echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.

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

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

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

  "Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play," shouted Blair; but Blair was nolonger the object of attention.

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

  A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket ofclothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, thestranger 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 ofthe spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.

  Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of thewharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as hefor the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair wasdiving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished fromsight.

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

  There were hands enough outstretched to aid him in laying his burden onthe shore. "Help me carry him, boys, straight to our house. Mother willknow what to do for him," said Blair, speaking very quickly.

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

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

  The water was soon pouring from the mouth, nose, and ears of theunconscious lad. Then he was rubbed and wrapped round with hotflannels, 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 ofdanger, the rescued boy was in a sweet sleep.

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

  "You saved him, my son. God 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 hehad died, that pale struggling face would have haunted me to my grave. Ihad been making one of my speeches to the boys, and it pleased me to seehow I could rouse them. I had just shouted 'Down with the English!' andmade them join me, when poor Hal came round the corner. Nobody wouldhave noticed him if I had gone right on; but I pointed him out, andangry as they were, I could not stop them before they had thrown himinto the water. They thought he could swim, I dare say; but I knew hecouldn't. Oh, mother, what I suffered, thinking he might drown before Icould 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."God's mercy has been great to you, my boy. May you learn this day asolemn lesson. You have a powerful influence over your companions. Youknow it, and I am afraid it has only fed your pride, not prompted you tousefulness. Is it real love for your country that leads you to thesespeeches; or is it a desire to see how you can rouse the passions ofyour listeners, and force them to do your bidding? For every talent wemust give an account, and surely for none more strictly than the powerto 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 Ifear 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 loveshis country, and would cheerfully die for her," said Blair withenthusiasm.

  "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 ofher afflictions, while you shed for her your heart's blood."

  "I don't understand you," said the boy thoughtfully.

  "Perhaps Korah and his company thought themselves patriots when theyrebelled against the power of Moses and Aaron. They doubtless moved thepeople by cunning speeches about their own short-lived honor; yet theybrought destruction on themselves and a plague upon Israel. There isnothing more plain in the Bible than God's great regard to therighteousness or wickedness of _individual_ men. Suppose that there hadbeen found ten righteous men in Sodom, for whose sake that wicked citywould have been spared its awful doom. Humble and obscure they mighthave been; but would not they, who brought such a blessing down on theneighborhood where they dwelt, be worthy of the name of patriots? Myson, if you were willing to lay down your life for your country, and yetwere guilty of the foul sin of swearing, and taught all around you toblaspheme, would you not be laying up wrat
h against your native land,though you fought with the bravery of an Alexander? These are times tothink on these things, my boy, if we really love our country. No manliveth unto himself. His home, his state, his country is in a degreeblessed or cursed for his sake. Dear Blair, you cannot be a true patriotwithout God's grace to help you rule your heart, guard your lips, andpurify your life. May you this day begin, for your own sake as well asfor that of your country, to serve the God of our fathers. He hasmercifully spared you the bitter self-reproach to which you might havebeen doomed. Go in repentance to his footstool, and he will abundantlypardon. Resolve henceforward to walk humbly before him, trusting in hisgrace and striving to do his will, and you shall count this day the mostblessed of your life."

  Mrs. Robertson put her arm round the tall, strong boy at her side. Heyielded to her touch, as if he had been a little child. Side by sidethey knelt, while the mother poured out such a prayer as can only flowfrom the lips of a Christian mother pleading for her only son.

  Blair Robertson spent that long Saturday evening alone in his room. Thatwas indeed to be the beginning of days to him. He was no longer to be aself-willed seeker of his own pleasure and honor. He was "bought with aprice," and was henceforward to be a servant of the King of kings.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE ENGLISH BOY.

  No loving friends came to inquire after the fate of Hal Hutchings, theEnglish boy. His efforts to save his basket of clean linen had been asvain as his struggles to free himself from the hands of his persecutors.The garments that had been starched and ironed with such scrupulous carewere scattered along the wharf, and trampled under the feet of thethoughtless young mob. The old washerwoman on whose errand Hal had beensent forth, was too indignant at the destruction which had befallen herhandiwork, to give one kindly thought to the poor boy who had sohonorably striven to spare her the misfortune over which she lamented sodolorously. Her Sunday thoughts strayed far more frequently to thedingy, stained garments soaking in her back kitchen, than to HalHutchings, quietly lying in Mrs. Robertson's best bedroom.