Molly, The Drummer Boy: A Story of the Revolution

Molly was an odd name for a boy, you will say, especially for a soldier boy, and a brave one at that. But before you can understand, you will have to read my story. When you have finished I feel quite sure that you will do what I did after reading the bit of old history; give a hearty thought of thanks to the brave drummer, who, during the war of the Revolution, passed like a gleam of brightness, fun—and alas! sadness through the scenes of war and bloodshed; winning the friendship of all, the esteem and consideration of General Washington himself, and lastly a page or so in history. From the past I lead you forth, oh! hero of long ago, and present you to the hero and heroine lovers of to-day, feeling sure that a warm welcome awaits you. Before there was a Molly, there was a Debby Mason, and with her we must deal first.

One July morning, over a hundred years ago there stood in a forlorn room of a log house in Plymouth, a tall, severe looking woman in rich apparel, and a ragged desperate child of fourteen. On the floor in a drunken stupor, lay a man.

“See, lass,” said the woman, “there lies thy father quite drunk. Look at thyself; in rags thou art, and shamefully neglected.”

“But I love my father!” Debby blazed forth, “and when he awakens who, pray, is to care for him if I go away?”

“But I tell thee, child, he hath joined this wild crew who are headed for Boston, and thou wilt be turned on the town.”

“’Tis a lie!” screamed the girl, “he did not know when he promised. He would not leave me, but even if he did he would come back, he always does!”

Mrs. Lane paused, not knowing how further to explain the truth to the wild child.

“Lass, hear me, for thy mother’s sake I am trying to save thee. I never knew her story, but she was a lady. In meeting, thy case hath been considered, thy father is no longer to be tolerated in the town, he must go, and I have taken thy care upon myself.”

Debby stared in bewilderment, then slowly the truth dawned upon her.

Old Thomas Martin had been ordered from the town, and poor Jack bound out to Elder Morris. It was quite plain, her father was to go also, out into that somewhere of silence and absence, and she was bound out to Mrs. Lane like a slave; she, proud, free Debby Mason!

“I won’t go with you!” she shrieked, “I’ll go with father! He loves me, and, and beside I promised mother!”

Just then the man upon the floor stirred and roused; after many exertions he sat up. One look at his little daughter and Mrs. Lane steadied him.

“Good morning!” he smiled foolishly; “I’m afraid I’ve taken a drop too much again. Debby, child, don’t take on so, I’m going away so that I won’t disgrace you any more. There’s going to be trouble sure as you live, and I’m going to fight. If I come back, lass, I’ll be a man.”

He arose clumsily and stood before the woman and girl with downcast eyes. Debby grew white to the lips.

It was true then. He was going away. After all she had borne and suffered for his sake, he was turning his back upon her, leaving her to fare as she might. Little poor Debby knew of patriotism, or the new talk of war and a republic; she had not even that hope to help her bear this blow.

Just then, down the street came a straggling company of men and boys headed by a drum and fife. As they drew near Mason stood straighter and taking from the wall a rusty gun, staggered to the door. Mrs. Lane drew Debby back.

“Come on, Mason,” called the men; “if they don’t want you in Plymouth, you’ll soon be wanted out yonder. There’s plenty of room in Boston for men like you and us.”

Mason reeled on. Debby could not let him slip from her without one more struggle. She broke away from Mrs. Lane and ran after the swaying figure.