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by John T. McIntyre
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Title: The Young Continentals at Monmouth
Author: John T. McIntyre
Illustrator: Ralph L. Boyer
Release Date: December 30, 2021 [eBook #67055]
Language: English
Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by the
Library of Congress)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT
MONMOUTH ***
[Illustration: “_WILL YOU HAVE SUPPER?_”]
The Young
Continentals
at Monmouth
_by_
John T. M^cIntyre
_Author of_
“The Young Continentals at Lexington”
“The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill”
“The Young Continentals at Trenton”
[Illustration]
Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.
_The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia_
_MCMXII_
COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
Introduction
Four sturdy young members of the Continental Army are the chief
characters in this story. Ben Cooper and Nat Brewster were from
Pennsylvania. Ezra Prentiss and his twin brother George were from
Massachusetts. “The Young Continentals at Lexington,” the first book of
the series, was chiefly concerned with the adventures of Nat Brewster,
although all of the four had a part in the stirring events in and
around Boston at the beginning of the struggle for the independence of
the American Colonies. They were all employed as couriers attached to
headquarters, and carried messages for Warren and Putnam, and later for
the great general-in-chief, Washington. The second story, “The Young
Continentals at Bunker Hill,” told of the part played by Ezra Prentiss,
assisted by his friends, and the third story, “The Young Continentals
at Trenton,” described some of the good services rendered by George
Prentiss. This book tells the story of Ben Cooper at Princeton and
in the dark period of Brandywine and Valley Forge, and ends with
the victory at Monmouth, when Washington overcame not only his open
enemies, but “they of his own household.”
All four books are true pictures of the days when even boys showed
that they could be good patriots, and set an example of loyal, modest,
faithful service that thousands of American boys are still glad to
follow.
Contents
I. TELLS HOW MR. TOBIAS HAWKINS MADE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF
MR. SAMUEL LIVINGSTONE 9
II. IN WHICH MR. HAWKINS UTTERS A THREAT 22
III. SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER STARTED UPON A MISSION IN THE
EARLY DAWN 46
IV. HOW GOOD NEWS CAME TO TRENTON 65
V. IN WHICH AN ARMY CREPT AWAY IN THE NIGHT AND
FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF PRINCETON 78
VI. TELLS HOW BEN COOPER ENCOUNTERED THE MAN WITH THE
YELLOW SMILE 95
VII. IN WHICH THE HOSTLER SEES TWO SHADOWS IN THE ROAD 110
VIII. SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER WENT FORTH INTO THE NIGHT
AND WHAT DISCOVERY HE MADE BY THE WAYSIDE 124
IX. DEALS WITH THE ARRIVAL OF GILBERT MOTIER, MARQUIS
DE LAFAYETTE 140
X. SHOWS HOW THE FIGHT AT BRANDYWINE WAS LOST, AND
HOW BEN BORE THE TIDINGS TO PHILADELPHIA 159
XI. TELLS HOW BEN COOPER LISTENED TO SOME ASTONISHING
REVELATIONS 177
XII. HOW STORM-STAYED GUESTS CAME TO THE INN AT RISING SUN 191
XIII. SHOWS THE BARGAIN THAT WAS STRUCK BY TOBIAS HAWKINS
AND HIS FRIEND 209
XIV. HOW BEN AND PADDY BURK MADE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE OF
DANGER 223
XV. TELLS OF MUCH FIGHTING, AND ALSO HOW JOHNSON QUINSEY
MADE HIS APPEARANCE 231
XVI. IN WHICH BEN MEETS A STRANGER AND HEARS OF THE INN
WITH THE GREEN LIGHT 251
XVII. HOW BEN AND HIS FRIEND PAUSED AT “THE CROSSED KEYS” 267
XVIII. SHOWS HOW MOLLY HAYES AND A KETTLE OF SCALDING
WATER PLAY THEIR PARTS 278
XIX. IN WHICH BEN RECEIVES A LETTER AND RIDES TOWARD YORK 293
XX. TELLS HOW LAFAYETTE ASTONISHED GENERAL GATES 308
XXI. IN WHICH THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH IS LOST AND WON 321
Illustrations
PAGE
“WILL YOU HAVE SUPPER?” _Frontispiece_
“THIS IS YOUR FRIEND ROBERT MORRIS” 54
“YOU SAW SOMETHING, THEN?” 119
LAFAYETTE WAS FACE TO FACE WITH WASHINGTON 156
THE MEN SHRANK A LITTLE 213
“I AM WANTED AT HEADQUARTERS” 252
“BRAVO, MOLLY PITCHER” 326
The Young Continentals
at Monmouth
CHAPTER I
TELLS HOW MR. TOBIAS HAWKINS MADE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. SAMUEL
LIVINGSTONE
“Do you know what to-morrow will be, Ben Cooper?”
The speaker was a dwarfish looking lad whose big head and upstanding
crest of hair gave him a most curious appearance.
“To-morrow,” replied the second boy, promptly, “will be New Year’s day.”
The dwarf shifted his leather belt so that his huge service pistol
might hang more comfortably; and his voice, when he spoke again,
contained a note of complaint.
“It will be that, to be sure; but it will also be just one week since
Washington crossed the Delaware and beat the Hessians.”
The eyes of the other boy sparkled.
“Ah, that was the night,” he cried. “There, indeed, was sport,
excitement and glory.”
The dwarf shook his large head.
“For you and for Nat and the others,” protested he. “But not for
me. While you were all having your fill of fighting, I was away in
Philadelphia, riding here and there, at the beck and call of a parcel
of excited committeemen.”
Ben Cooper’s good-natured face was all a-wrinkle with smiles.
“Don’t worry, Porcupine,” he said. “The war is not over as yet, by a
good deal. They say Cornwallis is on his way across the Jerseys, and as
he’s the best fighter the British have, we may expect plenty of warm
work still.”
It was late in the afternoon; the pale wintry sun was dipping slowly
toward the cluster of peaked roofs which marked the location of
Philadelphia; the snow-packed road with its topping of ice went
stretching ahead like a gleaming serpent.
“We will reach there before sundown,” said Ben, his eye upon the
housetops as though marking the sun’s position. “And I trust that we
find Mr. Morris at home, for I fancy that the general’s dispatches are
somewhat urgent.”
“The general’s dispatches to Mr. Robert Morris are always urgent,” said
the Porcupine. “I have carried more than one of them, and I know. And
I have carried them for other officers and gentlemen in and out of the
army.”
“Merchant Morris seems a most important person,” smiled Ben.
The Porcupine brushed his crest of hair more stiffly erect than ever.
“Is it any wonder that he is?” said he. “I don’t know much about the
ways of people of quality, but I do know that without Master Morris
there would be little money with which to feed and pay the troops.”
“He is very rich, I hear.”
“I have heard so too. And then, again, I have heard that he has not
much more than enough.”
Ben nodded.
“But,” said he, “he has the power to raise funds. He seems to know by
instinct the way to hidden hordes. And somehow, he knows the magic
word which causes the hoarders to unlock the treasure chests. Congress,
I think, has much to thank Merchant Morris for.”
Ben touched his horse with the spur, and it responded instantly. It
was a clean built animal whose small head and slim, powerful legs
indicated Arab blood. The Porcupine’s mount was a tall, raw-boned
beast, sway-backed and with a wicked eye; but it evidently had bottom,
for with a long, awkward stride it easily kept him at the side of his
friend.
As they entered the suburbs, the drifted road gave way to the clearer
streets; and when they entered the city proper, they found Second
Street bare of snow, but with stones ice-coated and glistening.
“Front Street will not be so bad,” spoke Ben; “there is never so much
traffic there, and the snow will still be untrodden.”
They turned Sassafras Street and into Front; and when nearing Arch
they caught the gleam of arms and uniforms, and saw the townspeople
scurrying along as though attracted by something unusual. When they
reached the market-place at the foot of High Street, the two boys
saw the reason for this. Along Front Street was drawn a force of
Continental troops, and under their watchful eyes was a rabble of
unshaven, tattered, dispirited looking men to the number of several
thousands.
“Hello,” spoke the Porcupine, surprisedly, as he looked over the heads
of the crowd from the back of his tall steed; “and who are these?”
“Our friends, the Hessians, captured at Trenton,” replied Ben Cooper.
“I heard that the greater part of them were being sent westward to
Lancaster or York for safe keeping. And they seem to have just reached
Philadelphia.”
The ragged wretches stood in long lines, gazing stupidly at their
captors and at the curious throngs. And that these could be the
mercenaries who had spread terror through the Jerseys seemed impossible.
A perky looking little man, standing upon tiptoe to get a glimpse of
the captives, exclaimed in a high-pitched, astonished voice:
“And are these really the hirelings of whom we have heard so much!
Why, they look like common vagabonds.”
A plethoric gentleman in a huge waistcoat and steel buckles seemed to
grow even more expansive with indignation.
“The idea,” he panted. “The bare idea of such vermin spreading fear
through an entire state. And the idea of our statesmen and our generals
and our soldiers permitting it.”
The perky man nodded and settled back upon his heels.
“What you say, sir, is proper and correct,” agreed he. “I am quite
amazed that such a condition of affairs has been permitted to continue
for so long.”
“A lot of scurvy ruffians,” stated the plethoric gentleman, wrathfully.
“A gathering of mean, low fellows without a shred of ambition, or the
slightest appearance of manly bearing. You do well, sir,” to the perky
gentleman, “to be amazed. No such thing would have been permitted in
any other nation under the sun.”
Ben glanced at the Porcupine, and his good-humoured eyes were filled
with laughter.
“It is easy to see,” said he, “that neither of our friends here has
been where the Hessians ranged with their muskets in their hands.
These,” and he nodded toward the wretched array of foreigners, “do
present an uncommonly ill-favored appearance; but properly uniformed,
officered and armed, they were as formidable troops as were in all of
Howe’s army.”
Close at the elbow of the plethoric gentleman stood a tall man with
prominent features and great square shoulders. He was richly dressed
and carried himself with the air of a person of consequence.
“Sir,” said he to the stout man, “what you have just said I agree with
as heartily as our friend here,” bowing to the perky man. “It is a
shame and a scandal that our army should have allowed these wretched
Dutchmen to hold them so long in check. To be sure,” and he gestured
with one hand in a scornful fashion, “they have been beaten and taken.
But it should have happened long ago. It should have been done promptly
and out of hand. It would seem to me,” confidentially, “that our
military leaders are not all that they should be.”
“Sir,” said the other, “you have expressed my sentiments precisely. I
could not have spoken them in more fitting terms. Our officers are not
what they should be. They are far from it, as they have proven a dozen
times, since the fighting began at New York.”
“Congress is at fault,” spoke the perky man. “They should see to it
that we are provided with competent gentlemen to conduct our military
enterprises.”
The plethoric gentleman seemed to agree with this statement
unqualifiedly. But the tall man shook his head.
“Congress,” said he, “is a much harassed body. It has a great deal to
do, and no great amount of experience to guide it. But for the greater
part it does very well indeed. There are gentlemen belonging to it,”
with a lowered tone, and a series of knowing nods, “who would readily
replace a certain person if they could.”
The plethoric one contented himself with puffing his cheeks and
assuming a look of much sagacity. It was the perky man who spoke.
“I have heard,” said he, his head at one side, like that of an
inquisitive bird, “that Washington is not greatly in favor with some of
the members of Congress. Of course,” and the inquisitive cock of the
head grew more pronounced, “it is he you mean.”
But the tall man closed his lips tightly, and shook his head after the
manner of one who disliked committing himself. It was the stout man who
spoke.
“The naming of names,” said he, with heavy wisdom, “is sometimes to
be avoided; and this is one of the times. Gentlemen can carry on an
intelligent conversation without placing themselves on record in
matters of delicacy; and in this way important matters can be kept from
becoming things of common gossip.”
Properly rebuked, the perky man gave his attention once more to the
captive mercenaries, while the speaker continued, addressing the tall
man, in a guarded tone:
“It is a matter of wonderment with me how people can have so little
consideration as to discuss private matters of state in the hearing
of every Tom, Dick and Harry. It is an almost criminal propensity,
believe me, sir; and I always discountenance it when I have the
opportunity.”
The other nodded, with gravity.
“It is a common failing,” said he, “and I have little doubt but what it
has occasioned more trouble in the public’s affairs than any of us have
any knowledge of. And I am glad indeed to meet with a gentleman who is
so careful of the general weal; it is a rare occasion, sir; more’s the
pity.”
The large man took out a silver snuff-box, his great face growing more
mottled than originally; offering the box to the other, he said in a
tone of much gratification:
“Sir, I should be exceedingly pleased with your acquaintance.”
The tall man took a pinch of the proffered snuff; and as he dusted the
remaining grains from his finger-tips, he made reply:
“Sir, you are very good. My name is Hawkins--Tobias Hawkins--and I am
lately arrived from Savannah, in Georgia, where I have some shipping
enterprises.”
“I thank you,” said the plethoric man, with ponderous politeness.
He took a companionable pinch, restored the box to one of the huge
pockets of his waistcoat, and went on: “I am Samuel Livingstone,
merchant and trader in West India goods. And it gives me much pleasure,
Master Hawkins, to know you.”
The two had fallen into a most earnest conversation upon the condition
of trade and public affairs when a drum began to tap, and the long
lines of American troops and bedraggled Germans fell into column; then
at the word of command they went marching away southward.
As the crowd dispersed, Ben Cooper did not immediately turn his horse’s
head up High Street, as the Porcupine evidently expected him to do;
instead, he sat motionless in his saddle watching the retreating
forms of Messrs. Samuel Livingstone and Tobias Hawkins. When he did
finally give his rein a shake as a signal to his mount, the curious,
speculative expression upon his face did not lessen. And as he turned
into Second Street once more, he said:
“Do you know, that was a rather queer thing.”
The Porcupine had noticed his manner, but had made no comment; now,
however, he asked:
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the conduct of Mr. Tobias Hawkins, as he called himself. Did you
notice him?”
The dwarf nodded.
“And rather a wide-awake sort, I thought him,” said he. “But I did not
see anything queer in him. Very even, and much like a gentleman.”
But Ben shook his head.
“I don’t mean in that respect. He appeared to be all you say, but at
the same time there was a something----” he paused as though uncertain
for a moment, then went on with thoughtful face. “To all appearance his
meeting with Merchant Livingstone was pure accident.”
The Porcupine opened his eyes wide.
“What?” demanded he. “And was it not so?”
“I think not,” replied Ben. “Rather, I am inclined to believe that it
was a cunningly devised plan. I scarcely know what makes me think so,
but Hawkins purposed making acquaintance of Mr. Livingstone before he
spoke to him; and so expertly did he contrive matters that he’s made it
appear that it was Mr. Livingstone who sought him.”
“Why, it may be so,” said the dwarf. “These traders have very curious
ways, I’ve heard. But, in any event, it makes no difference. We are not
at all interested in their doings.”
“I don’t know,” said young Cooper, gravely. “If the matter which Mr.
Hawkins has in mind is commercial, of course we are not; but,” and he
turned his head as though to get a fresh sight of the gentlemen in
question, “if it is something else, perhaps it may turn out that we
are.”
CHAPTER II
IN WHICH MR. HAWKINS UTTERS A THREAT
The Porcupine was still turning over the odd remarks of his companion,
when they pulled up at that famous hostelry of Revolutionary days,
“The City Tavern.” In the inn yard, Ben, looking down from his saddle,
inquired of a hostler who had come to take their mounts:
“Can you tell me where Mr. Robert Morris lives?”
“Do you mean the merchant, Morris?” asked the man.
“Yes.”
“You will find his house on Chestnut Street, near to Seventh,” directed
the man.
They dismounted, and saw to it that their horses would be cleaned, fed
and bedded; after this they went into the tavern and bespoke lodgings
for themselves.
“And will you have supper also, gentlemen?” smiled the landlord.
“Piping hot it will be, the very sort for a damp, chilly evening like
this. Taken in a snug, warm room, I can conceive of nothing more
inviting.”
Ben laughed. He and the landlord were old acquaintances, and the lad
knew his ways.
“Why,” spoke Ben, “if your supper and your rooms were only half as
enticing as your manner of speaking of them, they would be the most
desired things in all Philadelphia. However, we will put both of them
to the test in a very little while. I have a message to deliver, and
then we shall try whether or no you can prove what you say.”
In a very short time Ben, having left the Porcupine behind, arrived
at the house of Robert Morris and sounded the heavy brass knocker. A
thin-shouldered woman in a white cap came to the door and replied to
his questions.
“No,” she said, “Mr. Morris is not at home. Indeed, he will not be home
until late, by all accounts, for I’ve heard it said that he’ll sup
to-night at one of the taverns with some friends.”
“My business is important,” said Ben. “Can you tell me at which of the
taverns he will be?”
But the woman shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I am sorry, young gentleman, but I cannot.”
Ben considered for a moment.
“Will you oblige me with a pen full of ink and a slip of paper?” he
asked.
Thereupon the woman invited him to walk in; in the wide hall he was
provided with the desired articles, and so wrote a few lines explaining
who he was and the nature of his errand. The note he gave to the woman.
“I shall return between this and midnight,” he said. “Mr. Morris will,
no doubt, have returned by then.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the woman, earnestly. “He will be sure to be
home by then. And I will give him your message as soon as he comes.”
The evening was a brisk one; the moon was coming up clearly, the air
was tingling with cold, and the lad’s spurs jangled upon the flags as
he stepped buoyantly along.
“This is the sort of weather that makes one feel like undertaking some
enterprise,” he told himself, his spirits rising with every step he
took. “If it is the same in the neighborhood of Trenton, I should not
be surprised to shortly hear that the general has set out again upon
another venture against the British.”
He stepped jauntily into the coffee room of the tavern; the candles
were lighted, the curtains were drawn at the small paned windows and
a heap of logs crackled in a huge fireplace. Before this sat the
Porcupine upon a stool, his short legs crossed one upon another and
deeply engaged in a conversation with--of all persons in the world--Mr.
Tobias Hawkins.
Mr. Hawkins stood with one foot upon the fender, and one elbow upon
the mantel; he looked very stalwart and very handsome as he gazed
laughingly down at the dwarf, and seemed very much amused at something
which the latter had said.
“And so,” remarked he, to the high admiration of some serving maids,
and other attachés of the inn, “you are a patriot, are you?”
“I am,” replied the Porcupine, as cool as you please, “and I try to
act up to the way I think.”
“Excellent!” cried Mr. Hawkins. “Excellent, indeed! A patriot who tries
to put his opinions into acts! Why, this is a prodigy! If all patriots
were of your kidney, my fine fellow, belike we’d have more deeds than
words.” He ran his fingers through his coarse, luxuriant hair, and his
eye challenged the mirth of a few guests supping at the round tables.
“But come,” he added, “let us hear what form your actions took.”
“What other form could they take but good blows?” quoth the Porcupine,
sagely. “What other form would be understood in these times but hard
knocks?”
The mirth of Hawkins filled the room; the titters of the servant maids
and the grins of the waiters showed their entertainment; broad smiles
were on the faces of the guests who had heard the dwarf’s words.
“And do you mean to tell me that you delivered the good blows you speak
of?” demanded Hawkins. “And the hard knocks? Surely, the foe must have
trembled when he saw you preparing for the fight.”
“If inches won battles, then the British would never lose one,” stated
the Porcupine, calmly. “Their beef-eaters are each as big as two men.”
With a comical gesture he hitched his belt about and brought the huge
pistol which he still carried into plain view. “The little fellow can
shoot as straight as the big one,” he added; “and, sometimes, better.”
“Ah,” said Tobias Hawkins, and he stared with interest at the weapon,
which he now apparently noted for the first time. “I see.” There was a
pause during which he examined the dwarf with amused unbelief; then he
inquired: “And where, may I be permitted to ask, has the excellence of
your aim been called into play?”
“At Lexington,” replied the Porcupine, with never a wrinkle of his
countenance; “also at Bunker Hill; and again in some less important
affairs about the town of Boston.”
There was something about the simplicity of this answer that drove
the smiles from the faces turned toward the speaker. The unbelieving
amusement in the face of Hawkins, however, remained.
“I see,” said he, “that you are a person who has seen service. Mayhap,
you were also a partaker in the matter at Trenton, a few weeks ago.”
“I had no such good luck,” replied the Porcupine, moodily. “By all
right I should have been there; but some folks need a great deal of
scurrying to keep them at rest, and so I must be riding here and there
for them, delivering letters filled with nothing when I might have been
of some real service beyond the river.”
There was no laughter or grinning at this; even Hawkins seemed to have
concluded that he had exhausted the dwarf’s humorous possibilities, for
he yawned and said:
“Ah, well, you take yourself seriously enough, I’ll say that for you,
my lad. But, then, it is as well that you do so, for you’ll find as you
progress through life that others will not go far out of their way to
do the like.” And with this the man turned away, calling to the host:
“Landlord, have not my friends arrived?”
“No, Mr. Hawkins, not yet, sir. It is a trifle early, I think. You said
eight o’clock, and it is not much after seven.”
Hawkins looked at a huge silver watch and replaced it in his pocket
with a frown. Ben noticed this with a smile.
“Some,” thought the lad, “to have noted him a few moments ago, would
have fancied him a chap of rare wit and good nature. But it was only
while trying to hold up another to ridicule. Now that the point of his
wit has been turned, he is ill-tempered enough.”
Hawkins paced the floor of the coffee room impatiently. Ben and the
Porcupine ordered and ate their supper at a table near the fire.
“A beefsteak pie,” remarked the dwarf, “is a dish not to be ill
considered. I know of nothing that affords a hungry stomach more
satisfaction.”
Ben watched the blaze dart up the huge throat of the chimney; the logs
crackled and the fire roared; the boy stretched his booted legs out
toward it with a sigh.
“After a long day on the road,” said he, “the fire is as good as the
food. And,” with a glance around, “the room is as satisfying as either.”
It was some little time since they had sat down to their meal, and
quite a number of persons had come and gone. So when Ben cast his eyes
about it is not at all surprising that he should notice some of the
newcomers. Suddenly he sat erect.
“Hello!” said he.
“What now?” asked the Porcupine.
“I see that one of Mr. Hawkins’ friends has arrived.”
The dwarf screwed his head around so that he might see; and when he had
done so he whistled lowly.
“Merchant Livingstone!” said he. “So they are to sup together.”
“Friend Hawkins does not lag in the matter of clinching his
friendships,” smiled Ben. “Look at him. One would fancy that he’d been
in touch with the other all his life.”
The two mentioned were seated at a table no great distance away; their
heads were bent close together, and Hawkins was speaking earnestly and
in a rather lowered voice.
“Of course,” he said, “it would not do, as I already remarked to-day,
to speak too openly upon certain subjects. But they can be discussed
guardedly and with circumspection, and so do no general harm.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Livingstone, eagerly. “I understand and
thoroughly appreciate your standpoint. But,” and his head went nearer
to that of his new friend, “are there actually steps being taken to--to
oust, so to speak--a certain person?”
Hawkins waved one large, well-kept hand.
“My dear sir,” said he, “it is entirely too early to expect such
definite things as ‘steps’ in the matter. At most, it is but under
consideration.”
“Ah, I see.” Mr. Livingstone nodded his head wisely. “No steps have
been taken, but the matter is being considered.” There was a pause of a
few moments, then he added with a resumption of his former eagerness:
“Can you tell me, is the thing being well considered?”
Hawkins shook his head gravely.
“That is all I can say at this time. The matter came to me quite in the
way of an accident, and I passed my word as a gentleman to keep silent
regarding it.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Merchant Livingstone, hastily. “And
quite right, too, sir. It were best that the utmost privacy be
exercised in such things.”
The speaker sat staring ponderously, straight before him, his great
face solemn and approving. There was a silence between them and it was
Hawkins who finally broke it.
“You were to have a friend to sup with you, were you not?”
“Two of them,” answered Livingstone. “That is why I so strongly urged
you to come. I desired you to meet them, for they are persons of
consequence in Philadelphia--yes, and in the nation, too, for the
matter of that.”
Hawkins nodded, but said nothing. Ben watching him, curiously, saw an
expectant look in his eyes.
“However,” continued Merchant Livingstone, “only one of them will
attend. But he is a fine fellow, and I’m sure you will be delighted
with him.”
“Who is it?” asked Hawkins.
At this moment there was a clatter of crockery at the far side of the
coffee room, one of the waiters having met with a mishap. Ben could not
catch the name spoken by the fat merchant, but Hawkins apparently heard
it, for his face lit up suddenly; and for an instant the boy felt sure
there was exultation in his eyes.
“Why,” said the man, and his tones showed only mild interest, “I am
quite charmed. I did not expect to meet so famous a personage during my
stay in your city.”
“I have many friends, both in commercial and public life,” said the fat
merchant, complacently. “And before you leave for the South I shall
take much pleasure in presenting you to them.”
Here followed a great deal of talk regarding Mr. Livingstone’s friends;
Ben, as he idly listened, noted that now and then the interest of
Hawkins was aroused at the mention of certain names; but for the most
part the man made no sign.
All this time the Porcupine, who sat with his back to the two men,
had been studying Ben. And when he noted a flagging of the latter’s
interest, he spoke.
“It seems to me,” said he, “that you have been mightily taken by those
two.”
Ben smiled good-humoredly; and yet there was a grave expression in his
eyes.
“By one of them only,” he corrected.
“And that is Master Hawkins,” said the dwarf.
Ben nodded.
“But why?” asked the other, curiously. “Have you ever seen him before
to-day? What has he done that you should be so interested in him?”
Ben made no reply for a few moments; and when he did speak his voice
was low and troubled.
“I don’t know just why I am so interested in him,” he replied. “I have
never seen him before to-day; and it is not anything which he has done
which attracts me; it is,” vaguely, “what he may be about to do.”
The Porcupine looked astonished.
“What he may be about to do,” repeated he. “Well, now we have a dealing
in mysteries, indeed! And what do you think he may be about to do?”
But Ben Cooper shook his head.
“I don’t know. It is not definite enough for me to give it a name. I
have a sort of presentiment that harm is to come through him; that is
all I can make out of it.”
The dwarf sat in silence, trying to understand this. He brushed his
stiff crest of hair more erect, wrinkled his brows and stared at his
friend; but, apparently, he could make nothing of it all. And while he
was so engaged a somewhat stout man, with a round face and shrewd eyes,
came into the coffee room. It was the landlord who hastened forward to
relieve him of his cloak and three-cornered hat.
“Hah!” said the round-faced man as he stamped upon the hearth to warm
his feet, “it keeps cold, landlord.” He unwound a great length of
woolen comforter from about his neck and then rubbed his hands briskly
together before the blaze. “But then, what else would we have for a New
Year’s Eve?”
Seemingly the gentleman was the one whom Merchant Livingstone expected,
for that honest man greeted him warmly and presented Hawkins. Again in
the whirl of words did Ben lose the name.
“I am right glad to meet Master Hawkins,” said the newcomer. “I do not
recollect any one in Savannah of the name with whom my firm has had
dealings; but then,” with a laugh, “I do not profess to recall them
all.”
“We have never had the pleasure of any transactions with your house,
sir,” said Tobias Hawkins, smoothly. “Our trade is mostly importations
from the islands, and gulf points. Spanish goods, and Portuguese, too,
we import in foreign bottoms, for such are largely demanded by the
ports along the gulf and south coast.”
Their supper was served to them, and the three fell to with hearty
appetites; but the meal had not progressed far when Master Livingstone
again fell to talking politics.
“I cannot express my gratification,” he said, “at seeing so excellent
a patriot as our friend Hawkins coming from so youthful a province
as Georgia. It shows, it seems to me, that the spark of patriotism
is wide-spread; and this being the case, it cannot but help gaining
headway as time goes on.”
The round-faced gentleman nodded.
“That,” said he, “is my own way of looking at it. And patriotism alone
is what will keep the war against tyranny moving. It will fill the
ranks of the army, it will provide money to pay the troops, it will
keep competent commanders in the field.”
Master Livingstone glanced at Tobias Hawkins, and that gentleman nodded
his head and pursed up his lips. What he meant by this was an enigma,
but to the mind of the fat merchant, it was simple enough.
“Ah,” said that worthy, “in that last remark you put your finger upon
the vital point of this struggle, sir. Pure patriotism alone will
supply competent commanders to lead our troops. But the patriots should
be careful. They should make sure that the commanders fixed upon are
competent.”
For a moment there was a silence; then the round-faced man said:
“There is a tang to your voice, Neighbor Livingstone, that would lead
one to suppose that you doubt the ability of the army’s leaders.”
For a moment the other merchant stammered; his great face became
mottled with agitation; and when he finally found his tongue, he said:
“Of course, I have no military skill, and do not profess to be a judge
of these matters. But there are many who are complaining; and there
are not a few who openly say that we should have a change.”
The other nodded, and settled his napkin more comfortably under his
chin.
“A change?” said he. “Oh, yes, there are a great many who are crying
for that. But who are they, sir? Answer me.” He glanced at the other
two as though challenging them to reply. Livingstone in turn glanced at
Hawkins, and as that gentleman gave no sign, he, also, remained mute.
The speaker tasted delicately of the dish before him, then pointing his
fork at the silent twain, proceeded:
“Since you don’t seem able to answer, I will do so for you. The
thing had its beginning with a parcel of knaves who thought to line
their pockets out of the public funds; and later they were joined by
disappointed officers whose preferment had been discountenanced by
General Washington because he knew them for what they were.”
Master Livingstone coughed apologetically; it were as though he
disliked controverting his guest, but felt compelled by facts to do so.
“There is, perhaps, some truth in what you say,” said he. “But then,
there are many persons who belong to neither of the classes you
mention, who believe the present commander-in-chief to be unfit.”
The other made no reply to this, merely gesturing his impatience with
such people. His silence seemed to encourage Merchant Livingstone, who
went on:
“Now, look the thing candidly in the face, my dear sir, and tell me
if you don’t think these good folk have some cause for believing as
they do. There is the campaign about New York. It is notorious that it
was sadly bungled. Long Island would have been won by any far-seeing
officer; the affairs on the river and above New York would have proven
matters of little effort to many a man who is held idle here in the
city. The flight across the Jerseys----”
But at this the round-faced man lost all patience. He tore his napkin
from about his neck and dashed it down upon the table.
“The flight across the Jerseys is precisely on a footing with all the
other things you have mentioned or can mention. With a handful of
badly armed men, Washington fell back before a disciplined army; at
every halting place he sent appeals for help, and though he was in
the most desperate danger, no aid was given him; though he crossed the
entire state, not a hundred militia answered his call.” Here the angry
gentleman got upon his feet and glared at his adversary. “Did they
expect him to give battle with his bare hands? A commission is not all
that an officer requires, sir. He cannot wave it in the face of the
enemy and expect them to be seized with fright. He must be given men,
sir--men and money; and unless he is given them, what rational person
can expect anything but defeat and retreat?”
That Mr. Samuel Livingstone was astounded at this outburst was evident.
He lifted one fat hand in protest, and said with much emotion:
“My good friend, don’t be violent, I beg! I did not think to offend
you, but to merely repeat some things which could not help but reach my
ear.”
“It does not set well upon a man of your years and station,
Livingstone, to repeat common gossip. What has been said to the
discredit of General Washington has been said behind his back. Not
one of his detractors has had the courage to speak openly and
specifically--that is, not one whom he would think it worth while to
controvert. The whole matter is a rascally one, sir, and every worthy
person should frown upon it.”
“I meant to give you no offense,” said Master Livingstone.
“And you have not. What I say is said as a citizen, my friend; and I
have no personal feeling in the matter whatever.”
However, when the speaker sat down once more, Ben Cooper noted that
his manner was not at all as even as it had been formerly. Apparently
he was no lukewarm friend of the commander-in-chief of the American
forces, and felt the insinuations leveled against that gentleman much
more keenly than he cared to admit.
Livingstone spoke but little after this; his friend’s reception of his
views had so abashed him that he seemed to prefer to keep silent. But
with Hawkins it was different. With smooth insinuation he entered into
the matter under discussion; he stated no views, but seemed somewhat
eager as to the views of others. Ben listened with attention; now and
then he noted the man’s eye lift in his direction, but as the glances
seemed merely passing ones he gave them no heed. After a time the
Porcupine spoke.
“Master Hawkins seems very inquisitive,” remarked he, shrewdly. “Mark
you, how he asks questions.”
“And, also, mark you, whom the questions hinge upon,” said Ben, with
meaning.
Intently the dwarf listened, all the time seeming much interested in
the remnants of the beefsteak pie. At last he looked up at Ben, his
brows lifted and his mouth drawn to one side, knowingly.
“He wants to know about the people who are speaking ill of General
Washington--especially about those officers who think themselves
ill-treated.” There was a silence, and as Ben said nothing, the dwarf
asked: “I wonder why?”
“I, too, wonder why,” said Ben, and there was that same speculative
look in his face which the Porcupine had noted more than once since
their first sight of Tobias Hawkins on the outskirts of the throng
which had watched the captive Hessians.
After Mr. Livingstone and his guests had done with their supper,
they sat for some time and talked. Hawkins’ part in this was still
questioning; and always, as the Porcupine had shrewdly noted, questions
concerning those who bore General Washington ill will. The clock struck
ten as the round-faced man arose.
“I had not thought it so late. You will excuse me, Livingstone, and
you, Mr. Hawkins, for leaving you so abruptly. But my time is much
taken up these nights; I have much correspondence thrust upon me, and
many books to put in order before I sleep.”
So saying he called for his cloak, his comforter and three-cornered
hat; and shaking hands with his companions he hurried out into the
cold streets. It was no great while after this before Hawkins and
Livingstone also made up their minds to go; the former stood before
the cheerfully blazing fire as he drew on his greatcoat and adjusted
his hat; then with his hands upon his hips he turned and stared Ben
straight in the eye.
“I trust, young sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me
when next we chance to meet.”
Ben was taken by surprise; but he contrived to present a cool front and
make reply:
“I have a habit of remembering faces, sir. And yours,” inspecting the
man with much calmness, “is one not readily forgotten.”
The man favored him with a smile which was not altogether pleasant to
see. The good humor of the early evening was now completely gone; his
strong features were harsh and hawk-like.
“Perhaps,” sneered he, “you, like our young friend here, have been to
the wars.” As the boy made no reply, he went on: “Perhaps a person with
good sight might have seen you also at Bunker Hill.”
“It is possible,” smiled Ben. “There were a great many there.” He
looked steadfastly into the man’s face and continued, intending the
saying merely as a jest and that he should not be thought backward with
an answer: “And who knows, sir, but that one with even less excellent
vision might have noted you there?”
The effect of this upon the man was startling. For an instant he glared
like a tiger and his powerful hands clinched.
“Master Hawkins!” cried Samuel Livingstone, alarmed.
The man’s countenance cleared like magic; with a wide gesture he burst
into a great laugh.
“Don’t mind me, sir,” cautioned he. “I will have my jest at even
the most unseemly of times. But come, I’ll not detain you with my
clowning.” And with that he took the merchant by the arm and started
jovially for the door. But upon reaching it he turned and addressed
himself to Ben once more.
“I ask your pardon, my lad, for the liberty taken in presuming to have
a laugh at your expense. Perhaps,” and there was a covert meaning in
both his voice and eyes, “we shall meet at some other time. And, if it
should so chance, trust me to remember you, even if you should, after
all, forget me.”
And with that the door closed upon both him and the merchant, and Ben
and the Porcupine sat looking into each other’s faces.
CHAPTER III
SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER STARTED UPON A MISSION IN THE EARLY DAWN
For a brief space after the departure of Tobias Hawkins and Merchant
Livingstone, Ben Cooper and the Porcupine continued to look inquiringly
at each other.
“Well?” said the dwarf, at last.
“Well?” returned Ben, in the same tone, and with that they burst into a
laugh.
“An odd fish,” commented the Porcupine, crossing one short leg over the
other and nodding his head. “An odd fish, indeed. And he seemed to have
some sort of a hidden meaning behind his words as he went out.”
“A threat,” said Ben, thoughtfully; “undoubtedly a threat. He seemed to
object to my watching him as I did.”
“And the way he started, and the rage he flew into when you joked him
about also being at Bunker Hill. It was peculiar.”
“And if he was there--and I am, somehow, now inclined so think he
was--why does he desire to keep it hidden? All whom I have met who took
part in that fight have been proud of it. Indeed, most have made it
a boast.” Ben paused for a moment, deep in thought; then he suddenly
leaped up.
“What is it?” cried the Porcupine, all alert, and also rising.
But seeing that he was attracting attention, Ben resumed his seat.
“Sit down,” said he, calmly enough. And when the dwarf had done so, he
leaned across the table and continued in a low-pitched voice: “Master
Hawkins was present at the Bunker Hill fight. My watching him so
intently, and my later jest have convinced him that I saw him there.”
“But,” said the Porcupine, not understanding, “he seemed afraid. Why
should he fear you seeing him there?”
“There is only one reason in the world,” replied Ben Cooper, and his
voice sank lower than ever, “and that is that he was upon the side of
the enemy.”
The Porcupine sank back into his chair; his lips formed a circle, and
he blew out his breath hissingly. Then with one finger he pointed at
Ben and said:
“You’re right. You’re exactly right. It couldn’t be anything else. He
belongs to Howe’s army, and he’s here for no good.”
But Ben was silent; he too, so it appeared, was convinced that the
man’s presence in the city had an evil meaning. And the Porcupine, as
he watched his comrade, felt sure that its possible intent suggested
itself to him. Ben stared into the fire, his chin in his hands, and the
dwarf heard him mutter:
“No, no! Such a thing is almost impossible. It might enter the minds
of the enemy to attempt it; but it could not be carried out, for no
American would lend himself to it.”
It was some little time before Ben aroused himself.
“I had almost forgotten Master Morris and the dispatch,” said he as
he looked at the coffee room clock. “You get to bed, Porcupine, for
there’s no knowing how long I shall be gone.”
He pulled on his heavy coat, and felt of his inner pockets to be sure
that his message was safe; then with a parting word to the dwarf,
he left the inn. The streets were very quiet at that hour; the stars
looked cold and far away; the stones rang under his spurred heel.
There was a light burning behind a curtain in the Morris house.
“He’s home, I think,” said the lad, “and perhaps sitting up, awaiting
my return.”
Ben ascended the high stone steps and sounded the knocker gently. There
was a pause, then a step was heard in the hall, a bar fell, a chain
rattled and the door swung open. To his great astonishment, Ben saw
standing before him, a lighted candle above his head, the gentleman who
had supped with Livingstone and Hawkins at the inn.
“I desire to see Master Robert Morris,” said the lad.
The other inspected him closely.
“Did you, by any chance, call here earlier in the evening?” he asked.
“I did, and left a note saying that I would return.”
The door was held open to its fullest extent.
“Come in.”
Ben Cooper entered the hall; the other then closed the door and led
the way to an apartment where several candles burned in long silver
candlesticks upon a writing table.
“I reached home only a short time ago,” said the gentleman, after they
had become seated, “and was startled to find myself the cause of delay.
The general’s dispatches are usually urgent.”
Ben took out a folded paper sealed in several places.
“You are Mr. Robert Morris?” he asked.
“I am,” replied the gentleman.
Upon receiving the paper he at once broke the seal, and drawing one of
the candles nearer, proceeded to read. When he reached the end of the
message, his lips were compressed and a troubled expression appeared in
his eyes.
“I was afraid it was something like this,” he said, shaking his head.
“The wants of the army are urgent, I know, but money is very difficult
to get just now.” He looked at Ben and tapped the edge of the refolded
paper upon the writing table. “It is a matter of wonderment what
becomes of the hard money at times,” he went on. “When it is the most
urgently needed, it is the scarcest.”
“That,” said Ben, “I think may be said about most things.”
The financier of the Revolution smiled.
“Why,” said he, “that’s true enough. But money is the worst of all. Let
me see.” The speaker pulled open a drawer and took out a book. “What
were the last moneys I sent to the general?” He turned page after page,
running his finger down each.
“Here it is,” pausing at an entry. “There were four hundred and ten
Spanish dollars, two crowns, ten shillings and sixpence English, and
one French half-crown.” He closed the ledger and sat regarding it with
nodding head. “A small sum, indeed, to supply a general in the field;
it could not go far.” He was silent for a space; then he opened the
message once more, and reread what Washington had written. “This time
such a pittance will not answer. The call is more urgent; a large sum
must be had. But,” and his chin sank upon his breast, “where shall I
ask for it? Where has my credit not been tried?”
For a long time he sat buried in thought, apparently oblivious of the
boy’s presence. Finally he arose and began pacing up and down the
apartment, his hands behind him and his brows puckered thoughtfully.
One, two, three hours were struck upon the great bell in the State
House tower; Ben was nodding in the comfortable chair which had been
given him; the financier, with muttering lips and mind concentrated
upon the problem before him, continued his pacing. At three o’clock
he sat down and began to go through documents, books and files; with
a blunt quill he scratched notes upon a slip of paper. It was past
four o’clock when he pushed the mass from him and arose; twice had he
replaced the candles, and the last were now guttering and flickering in
the sockets of their supports. Mr. Morris was putting on his cloak when
his eyes fell upon the relaxed form of the drowsy youth.
“My poor lad,” he said, astonishment and then amusement showing in his
face, “I had really forgotten all about you. It is too bad of me, but
I was so taken up by these affairs of mine that everything else was
completely shut out.”
Ben rubbed his eyes.
“I was told to await an answer,” he said; “and believe me, sir, I have
passed a much longer and less comfortable time often enough and upon
less important business.”
“You are very good to say so,” replied the merchant. He took up his
hat, and in the act of placing it upon his head, a thought seemed to
occur to him. “Perhaps,” he added, “you are not even yet too fatigued
to prolong your share in this matter.”
“Sir,” replied Ben Cooper, arising and lifting a hand, military
fashion, “I am ready and willing to give what time you require to it.”
“Very good,” said Mr. Morris, nodding his head in a satisfied way. “You
have the making of an excellent soldier in you, sir.”
After settling the long comforter about his neck, the merchant went to
a low chest of drawers and took from it a pistol.
“I trust you are armed,” said he, as he examined this. Without a word
Ben showed the pistol and short hanger which he wore buttoned under his
greatcoat. “Good,” said Mr. Morris. “If I have fortune attending me,
I shall have a large sum in hard money before very long; and it will
be as well to be prepared to defend it against highwaymen, if any be
abroad.”
Without any clear understanding of the nature of this errand, Ben
Cooper followed the comfortable looking Mr. Morris into the street; the
dawn was paling the sky in the direction of the Delaware, and the air
had a penetrating chill which made him shiver. Not very far did they go
before Mr. Morris ascended a pair of steps and beat a tattoo upon the
knocker.
“You will be a much astonished man, Jethro Sharpless,” chuckled the
merchant, “and there will be many like you before the dawn comes up on
the New Year.”
In reply to the vigorous rapping upon the door, a window went up, a
head popped out and a complaining voice demanded:
“Who is it that comes at such an hour as this? Be off with thee or I
will summon the watch and have thee taken to the lock-up.”
“Is that you, Jethro Sharpless?” asked Merchant Morris. “This is your
friend Robert Morris, who bids you come down as soon as you may and
hear what news is come from the Jerseys.”
[Illustration: “_THIS IS YOUR FRIEND ROBERT MORRIS_”]
There was an exclamation above, and the window closed hastily. The
announcement by Mr. Morris was in a clear, round voice and in the
quiet of the early morning it carried surprisingly. From across the way
an anxious voice called:
“What news is it that you bring, Neighbor Morris? Good or bad?”
“Ah, did my knocking awaken you, Robert Chaney? Arouse you, then!” Mr.
Morris had his face toward the place where the voice had sounded.
Apparently the rat-tat-tat upon the door of Friend Sharpless had
brought others out of their warm beds to learn what was going forward.
At any rate there came a full half dozen voices from as many different
points, all charged with suspense:
“What say you, Morris? What is it?”
“Has a battle been fought?”
“Has Cornwallis crossed a state so soon?”
“How went the fight?”
“Did our troops give a good account of themselves?”
But Robert Morris offered them scant satisfaction.
“You will have to gather round about, my good friends, before I relieve
myself of my budget. I have news of the first importance--news that
must come home to every real friend of the cause.” Here the door of the
Sharpless house opened, and the nightcapped householder showed himself,
candle in hand. “You will find me in the parlor of Jethro Sharpless;
and any of you, who care to hear what General Washington himself says,
will gather there at once.”
In the parlor, Mr. Sharpless, who was a tall, bony man, with scraggy,
gray brows, placed his brass candlestick upon the table and looked at
the two who had so disturbed his sleep.
“News from the Jerseys,” said he, his scraggy brows drawn together with
anxiety. “And what has been toward, Friend Morris? Has there been a
swording and a bickering with the guns? Or has the army retreated once
more?”
Mr. Morris took a seat at one corner of a settle, crossed his legs and
balanced his three-cornered hat in his hands.
“I fancy,” said he, quietly, “there will be a number of your neighbors
here in a few moments, Friend Sharpless; so, perhaps, we had better
save the news until they arrive.”
With as good a grace as may be, the householder set about waiting; and
in no great while Mr. Morris was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.
“Come now, the news,” was demanded of him.
“Never say it was anything but a victory,” said a second.
“Trenton has but whetted our appetite,” declared another. “Americans
can beat the British as readily as they can the Hessians, so let’s to
the news of how they did it.”
Merchant Morris regarded them with his shrewd eyes. He knew every man
of them; they were persons of means and circumstance; none in the
entire city more capable than they when matters of credit or ready
money were discussed.
“So,” spoke Mr. Morris, carefully, “you desire a victory, do you, my
friends? Very good. Not one of you is more desirous of it than I. And
no one more willing to point out to you how it can be gotten than I.”
“What,” demanded Friend Sharpless, “has there not been a fight won,
then?”
“A fight won!” replied Robert Morris, scornfully. “A fight won! And
with what, pray?” He looked from one to the other of them. “Would
you ask a man to dig and give him no spade? Would you require a man
to build and provide him with no bricks? You would not! You are all
too shrewd for that--too well acquainted with the wisdom of practical
things. But still you would have a general win battles without an army;
you would have him face the ice of winter without shoes or blankets for
his scanty force; you would have him keep the field in all the rigor of
the season with no medical help for his sick; you would have him front
a powerful foe with only a few muskets and artillery of the poorest.”
To this there was no answer, save a look of gloom from each of the
circle. Robert Morris went on:
“You have the cause and you have the general. Put the power into
the general’s hands, and the cause is won.” There was a pause, and
the speaker drew out the dispatch which Ben Cooper had brought from
Trenton. “It is, perhaps, in your minds,” proceeded the financier, “as
to what form this paper is to take. My reply is simple. Funds! Hard
money! I do not expect you to fill the empty treasure chest. Merely
cover its bottom and it will suffice for a time.”
“Times,” spoke one with a shake of the head, “are hard.”
“Ready money is difficult to come by,” added another.
“The war has ruined trade,” bemoaned another. “A gold or silver coin is
a rarity nowadays.”
“Here,” said Robert Morris, apparently paying no heed to their
complaints, “is the letter of His Excellency.” He read the lines with
proper emphasis and clearness, and as he was refolding the sheet
continued: “You see, sirs, it is a rather large sum that is required;
but consider, also, that the need of it is much larger still. A crisis
has been reached in the country’s affairs that must be met with
swiftness and generosity; if it is not, then never look for a sign of
peace until all the sources of supply whatsoever have been drained.
By lending a part to the cause at this time, you may save the whole,
eventually.”
He placed the dispatch in his pocket and sat awaiting a response.
There was a long silence: each man seemed to prefer that his neighbor
speak first. There was none of the eagerness of real patriotism which
once impelled men to rush to the defense of their native land; their
manners were more like those of gloomy pessimists who foresaw nothing
but disaster and whose remembrance of self impelled them to think only
of what might be saved from the ruins of their cause. Keen-eyed Robert
Morris perceived this at once; it was nothing more, apparently, than he
had expected; but like the courageous man that he was, he continued to
strive, even in the face of defeat.
Picture after picture was drawn by him of what would befall should
the army not receive the required money; he left nothing to the
imagination; Washington would be driven beyond the western mountains;
Philadelphia would fall; taxation would hang upon them like a chain
upon a felon.
But his eloquence failed to move them; their heavy faces ringed about
him unbelievingly; the doubt in their hearts seemed to fill the room.
At length Morris arose.
“Well,” said he, “I cannot remain to reason with you longer, friends.
The money must be had swiftly, if it’s to do any good; so I must call
upon some one more promising before it is too late. Should any of you
chance to alter your minds,” he added, pausing at the door, “you know
where I live. I shall be very glad, indeed, to see you.”
With Ben Cooper at his side he left the house of Jethro Sharpless, and
proceeded to another house at no great distance; but with no better
fortune. Then began a hurried round from house to house, a hammering
at knockers and a rousing of quiet citizens from their beds. Excuses,
apologies and promises were many.
“But no hard money,” said the financier to Ben. “Nothing that will help
an army desperately circumstanced for arms and clothing and food.”
The dawn had passed, and the streets were well peopled by those
starting upon the early duties of the day when Robert Morris with empty
hands and haggard face gave up the hopeless task.
“I am ashamed of my fellow townsmen,” he said. “They are without a
particle of that daring necessary to bring a cause to the point where
success may be had.”
Side by side he and Ben walked back toward the Morris house; the
merchant’s head was bent, his moody eyes were upon the ground.
“I will write a letter to the general which you will be good enough to
carry,” he said. “Perhaps in a few days I shall be more fortunate in
my appeals for help, and will say so in the letter; if you are asked
any questions, it will be as well, perhaps, if you place the matter in
as hopeful a light as you can. It will not do to allow any definite
discouragement to gain circulation at this----”
Here Merchant Morris was interrupted by a quiet voice saying:
“Good-morning, Friend Morris; thou art early upon thy affairs to-day.”
It was a tall, quiet-faced Quaker, wrapped in a gray woolen shawl, and
with his broad-brimmed hat pulled well down.
“It is a pressing matter, though no more my own than yours, friend,
which compels me to be early astir,” replied Morris.
“Ah,” said the Quaker. “Some affair of Congress, or the army.”
“A most active necessity,” said Morris. He drew off his gloves, took
out Washington’s letter and read it aloud once more. When he had
concluded, he added: “You see, it was not a thing to be dandled over.”
The tall Quaker nodded.
“As thou sayest, friend, a most pressing business, indeed.” He looked
at Merchant Morris for a moment with quiet eyes. “What sum does General
Washington mention?” he asked.
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“It is a great deal.” Again came the pause; then he continued in the
same unruffled voice, “Friend Robert, what security canst thou offer
against a loan of such size?”
“My note and my honor,” promptly.
The Quaker smiled and nodded.
“More no man could ask,” said he. “Thou shalt have it, but,” with
a wave of the hand, “thou must allow me one day to gather the sum
together, since it must be in coin.”
“Friend,” said Robert Morris, delightedly, “I am greatly beholden to
you.”
“By this evening, then,” said the other, as he started on his way, “you
may expect it.”
When he had gone, Ben Cooper fell in silently by the side of Mr.
Morris. Already the latter was planning the next step.
“You rode from Trenton yesterday,” he said, “and because of me have
had no sleep during the night. It would be too much to ask you to take
horse again this morning.”
“If it is necessary,” spoke Ben, “you need only give me the word.”
“Excellent! Then, if that is your spirit, I say to you that it is
necessary. What is the earliest hour you can reach the camp?”
“By sundown.”
“Very well. I will not detain you to write a letter. Merely say to the
general that fifty thousand dollars will be on its way to him in a
swift carriage by the time your message is delivered.”
Seeing that there was no more to be said, Ben saluted the financier,
military fashion, and started at a brisk pace for the City Tavern.
Within an hour both he and the Porcupine had breakfasted and were in
the saddle, headed for Washington’s camp on the upper Delaware.
CHAPTER IV
HOW GOOD NEWS CAME TO TRENTON
The two young riders clung to the western side of the river upon the
return journey; it is true that panic, after the disaster at Trenton,
had cleared the stations below of the Hessians, but Ben knew that a
British army would soon be on its way to attempt to drive Washington
back, and he did not feel at all sure that the enemy were not in
possession of Burlington and Bordentown once more.
Some distance above Bristol they detected a small party of horsemen on
the road ahead, and approached slowly, their pistols ready at hand. But
the sharp eyes of Ben Cooper soon made out the party, and he gave a
laugh of satisfaction.
“It’s Nat and the two Prentiss boys,” he said. “Out on a scout, I
suppose.”
The three youths mentioned had recognized them about the same time, and
now came on with shouts of greeting.
“What news?” asked Ben of the most stalwart of the three, a lad with
bronzed face and keen eye.
“The army has recrossed the river,” replied Nat Brewster. “The last of
them went over early to-day.”
“What of the enemy?” demanded the Porcupine, still fingering his huge
pistol.
The boys all laughed at his belligerent attitude.
“They are on the way to meet us,” replied Ezra Prentiss. “We heard
something of it before we left camp. They say that Lord Cornwallis was
just about to take ship for England when the word of the taking of
Trenton reached General Howe; and now he is back in the Jerseys at the
head of their force once more.”
“News was brought in that the enemy have gathered all their scattered
forces at Princeton,” said George Prentiss, twin brother to Ezra.
“Cornwallis brought with him a strong reinforcement of picked troops,
and with those of Grant there are some eight thousand of them ready to
march if they have not already started.”
The three youths had been on the other side of the river seeking traces
of the enemy from that direction, but finding none had crossed the
stream upon a flatboat, thinking to fall in with Ben, as they had done.
All five now started north having made up their minds to cross the
river at the point where the troops had effected their latest passage.
The Prentiss twins rode on ahead, while Ben Cooper and his stalwart
cousin, Nat Brewster, followed some little distance behind. A great
deal of news had made its way into the American camp during Ben’s two
days’ absence, through scouts, spies and deserting Hessians, and Nat
knew that the other would be eager to hear it all.
“They are pressing[1] wagons on every hand,” said young Brewster; “when
we left, we heard that their advance pickets were very near to Trenton.”
“What is thought of the situation at headquarters?” asked Ben.
“From a word here and a word there, I gather that they are rather
anxious. The winning of Trenton, however, has roused the Jerseys at
last, and the militia is beginning to rise. Cadwallader and Mifflin
have been ordered in with their commands and should reach camp to-day.
The general seems to have made up his mind to fight, but it looks to me
that he will now have to do so whether he would or no, for the enemy is
before and the river is behind. And this time he must not retreat, for
to do that would dishearten the Jerseymen and the country as well.”
The boys reached Washington’s camp shortly after dark, and Ben
instantly presented himself at headquarters. As he stood, saluting in
an outer room, a smart young officer demanded his business.
“To see the general.”
“Your business,” said the young officer, curtly.
“A message from Mr. Robert Morris, at Philadelphia,” said Ben.
“I will take it to the general,” the other informed him.
“My message is by word of mouth,” said Ben, “and is, perhaps, of an
urgent and private nature.”
“Wait here,” said the young officer as he arose. He spent but a very
few moments in the inner room; and when he returned he was as curt and
businesslike as before.
“You are to go in,” said he, and one finger indicated the door.
When Ben entered the room where Washington sat, he found him engaged
with two other officers. These were Mifflin and Cadwallader, leaders of
Pennsylvania militia, who had but a few hours before arrived in camp
with their combined force, approaching four thousand men.
“I am grateful to you, gentlemen,” the commander-in-chief was saying.
“It is not always,” a trifle bitterly, “that my desires are so promptly
answered.”
“We are under your directions,” said General Mifflin, coldly; “and we
trust that we know some of the duties that devolve upon under officers.”
General Cadwallader glanced at his brother officer as though the tone,
the words and the manner were not agreeable to him.
“I got your orders at Crosswicks--joined Mifflin accordingly, and
set out.” The tone and manner here were eager, soldier-like, and
respectful. “I hope, general, you have some good fighting to offer us.”
Washington paid no attention to the attitude of Mifflin; to Cadwallader
he replied:
“It is more than likely that there will be a clash in a day or two that
will put a decided point upon the affairs of the states; and if it’s
fighting you seek, general,” with a smile, “I think we can please you.”
“I could not get across the river to be of assistance to you a week
ago,” said Cadwallader, “and have since been prevented by lack of
enemies from being of service. Pennsylvania wants her troops in action,
and I am only too eager to try them under fire in an engagement of
consequence.”
There was a great deal passed upon both sides; but through it all
General Mifflin said nothing, sitting coldly erect with a face of stony
indifference. At length General Washington noticed the lad in the
doorway, his hand still raised in the gesture of salute.
“Ah, Cooper,” said he, concerned; “I had let you slip my mind. Pomroy
just now told me that you had returned.” Then, leaning over his table,
eagerly, “What letters do you bring me?”
“None, sir,” replied the boy. “Master Morris bade me tell you what he
had to say.”
A shadow crossed the grave face of the commander-in-chief; evidently
this, to his mind, promised no good.
“Go on,” he said.
“I told Master Morris that I should reach camp by sundown to-day; and
he said that I was to inform you that, by then, a swift carriage would
be on its way, bearing fifty thousand dollars for the use of the army.”
The cloud passed from General Washington’s face like magic; a look of
great satisfaction replaced it.
“Excellent!” he said. “I felt sure,” to the other officers, “that
Morris would not fail me, if it were at all possible to procure the
money.”
“The nation is indeed fortunate to have the services of so able a man
in the capacity in which he is serving,” said Cadwallader. “In the
matter of finance, Morris is little short of a wizard.” After a few
more questions, Ben was told that was all, and retired.
At once he sought out his friends, where they sat about a fire
preparing their supper along with some others. And during their meal
there was much gossip exchanged.
“Cornwallis will be upon us to-morrow,” said a young sergeant of horse,
who was of the party. “We have all day been catching sight of light
bodies thrown out in advance.”
“I have heard that Howe himself has landed a couple of regiments at
Amboy and is on the march,” spoke another.
“Well, let him come,” said a youthful artilleryman; “the more of them,
the greater chance we will have at them with the shells. To reach us
they must cross the Assanpink Creek a little below there; the stone
bridge is narrow, and the water is deep and our guns are so planted as
to sweep it from end to end.”
Some few hours were spent in pleasant fashion, chatting and discussing
the prospects of the coming fight. Later Nat and Ben found themselves
without the lines of sparkling fires; a little distance away they could
hear the sentries pacing up and down, and now and then the rattle
of a piece of artillery wheeling into place would reach their ears.
Somehow, as the thought of the approaching battle grew upon them, they
had become graver, and so fell into a talk concerning family things and
interests which had nothing in common with their friends; and so they
had arisen and strolled away.
The night was a quiet one; the city of Trenton lay before them like
some gloomy, crouching thing awaiting its fate on the morrow; had
not their military experience told them that their pickets lay all
about them with masked fires, they would have fancied the countryside
deserted. Ben had just been speaking feelingly of his father, whom he
had not had time to call upon while in Philadelphia, and they stood
leaning against the tongue of an empty baggage wagon, deep in the
softer reflections which home and home things bring uppermost. Then
they were aroused by the sound of voices and footsteps, and the flash
of a tinder box showed them two men standing at the door of a small
house which the boys in the semi-darkness had not before noted.
“Ah, I can see it now,” said one of them. “The step is broken, and I
have missed a nasty fall more than once.”
The flash died out almost instantly, and the two men stood in the
shadows for a moment in silence. Then the second one spoke:
“The whole matter has reached an acute pass, General Mifflin; a great
many of our citizens demand to know the facts, and I thought that
perhaps----”
The cold voice of Mifflin interrupted:
“But why have you selected me as the one best calculated to give you
information? I have not been with the main command; and the fact is, I
know nothing, except by hearsay.”
“But you know the man; you were with him at the first, were you not?”
“I was an aide when he first was made what he is. But the candid fact
is that I was never attracted by him, and therefore gave him little
attention, save in the way of duty.”
Again there was a silence; then the other spoke once more:
“I am sorry that this is the case. I had hoped that you would be
of much assistance to us in coming to a proper knowledge of the
situation.”
“I can tell you nothing that any one could not tell you,” insisted
Mifflin.
“What are the prospects for an immediate action?” asked the second man,
after a moment.
“So far as I can learn--excellent.”
“And what are the chances for success?”
“As good as ever. Strangely enough, our army is still possessed of the
fighting spirit, in spite of their wretched condition.”
“Ah!” The voice of the other had an eager note deep in it, which
attracted the instant attention of Ben Cooper. “I had heard that they
were not well conditioned or provided for. Also I hear that the general
has found it not at all easy to come by supplies of money.”
“No doubt all have heard such rumors,” said Mifflin; “I, too, have met
with them. But as to money being hard to procure, I am not sure. While
I was with Washington only a short time ago, the news came that fifty
thousand dollars in coin was on its way.”
“Here?” asked the other.
“Here, to be sure,” replied Mifflin.
“Ah!” said the man, and again the eager note in his voice attracted Ben
Cooper, “that is interesting.”
“Washington seemed to find it so,” replied Mifflin, drily. Then he
added: “And now, sir, if you will pardon me, I think I shall try and
get some sleep. I have had a hard day and by all appearance to-morrow
will be much harder.”
Thereupon the other, apparently not at all satisfied, judging from his
tone, bade the general good-night; Mifflin entered his headquarters,
where a light at once appeared, while the other man strode away into
the darkness.
Nat Brewster was the first to speak.
“That,” said he, “was a queer sort of thing. I don’t quite understand
it.” Pondering a moment, he added: “Evidently this man who was with
General Mifflin had come on an errand concerning the strength or
weakness of a certain person.”
“And that person,” said Ben Cooper, without hesitation, “is none other
than General Washington.”
“Right,” said Nat; “the general it is.”
“But,” and there was a mystified quality in Ben’s voice and manner,
“while that interests me, still there is something which attracts me
still more.”
“And what is that?”
“I should like to know who that man is.” Ben pointed in the direction
taken by Mifflin’s late companion, and Nat understood at once.
“So?” said he. “And why are you so much interested in him?”
“Somehow,” said Ben, “while he talked I seemed to recognize his
voice--not so much its general quality, as a note that came into it now
and then. It told of a sort of eagerness--a desire to learn something,
which I seem strangely familiar with. And oddly enough, it strikes me
that it was not so long ago that I heard it. It seems as though----”
Here he paused, and through the semi-darkness his hand reached out and
grasped Nat’s arm tightly. “I know who it was,” he said. “It was a man
whom I met at the City Tavern in Philadelphia only last night--a man of
the name of Tobias Hawkins!”
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH AN ARMY CREPT AWAY IN THE NIGHT AND FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF
PRINCETON
Having had no proper rest on the previous night, Ben slept well on that
night of the first of January; early in the morning, however, he was up
and had snatched his breakfast and was in the saddle.
Washington had selected a position for his main body on the east side
of the Assanpink and, as the young artilleryman had said the night
before, the batteries were so planted as to sweep the stone bridge over
that stream, and the fords. Word came in by Ezra and George Prentiss,
who had taken horse in the small hours of the morning, that the main
body of Lord Cornwallis was advancing. At once strong parties were sent
out under General Greene; these met and engaged advance parties of
British, or hung upon the flanks of the main body like terriers, and so
greatly impeded their progress.
It was noon, therefore, when Cornwallis reached the north bank of the
Shabbakong, where he halted for a time; then he crossed to the other
side, when the light parties of Americans once more began to worry him
with their rifle fire. Made angry by this, the British charged into
the woods and dislodged their annoyers; afterward they pushed on with
little or no interference until they reached the high ground outside
Trenton. Here Colonel Hand’s body of riflemen poured out such a warm
greeting that the British were for the time checked. But in a little
while orders were sent to Hand to fall back, as the ground was not
thought to be one upon which the struggle could be undertaken with
advantage.
When the riflemen retreated upon the main body of the American force,
it was almost sunset; in a fury at being so delayed, Cornwallis rushed
his troops through the town of Trenton, formed them into columns and
attempted to cross the Assanpink by the stone bridge and the fords.
But a storm of bullets and solid shot drove him back; again and again
the gallant Briton hurled his force at the crossings, but each time
the batteries sent them reeling back. Washington, mounted upon his
white horse, was stationed at the American end of the bridge giving his
orders in person; and each time the enemy was repulsed the lines of his
soldiers roared their approval.
During all this time the British cannon were by no means silent; they
thundered and smoked and hurled their missiles with all the skill of
their handlers, but with little damage to the Americans. Then, as the
night had closed in, Cornwallis hushed their anger, ceased his attempts
to cross the creek, and went into camp.
Ben Cooper and his friends stood watching the fires of the enemy
gleaming in the darkness.
“Put off until another day,” said Ben, soberly.
“I thought, by the way it began, that we’d know victory or defeat by
this,” remarked George Prentiss.
“How long do you think we’ll be able to hold them?” asked Nat Brewster
of Ezra Prentiss.
“Cornwallis is a general of resource and enterprise,” replied Ezra.
“To-day he has tried a direct forcing of our front; to-morrow he will
adopt different measures.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Ben Cooper, still more soberly than
before. “And that means that he’ll begin flanking movements and other
things in which his veteran troops will have a tremendous advantage
over our untrained militia.”
To guard against a surprise, or to be ready to receive the enemy in the
early morning should he wait so long before attacking, the Americans
kept their weapons beside them. Washington patrolled his camp with care
and anxiety; it was a night of terrible suspense; never before since
the beginning of the war had the Americans risked so much upon the
outcome of a single struggle; defeat meant annihilation.
The commander-in-chief, accompanied by a few officers, paused in his
rounds at no great distance from where the boys stood. Sitting erect in
his saddle, he examined the fires of Cornwallis with speculative eye.
“They sleep as though feeling their prey secure,” said General Greene.
“Our discipline is not great enough to hold him back,” said Washington,
his gaze still upon the watch-fires of the enemy; “a front to front
engagement is out of the question.”
The boys saw Greene turn a look upon his fellow officers; it was
plain that, from this, he expected something more. And he was not
disappointed.
“By this time,” said General Washington, in a quiet way and with the
manner of a man who is weighing something of vital import, “the greater
part of the enemy must be on its way to Trenton, to assist in crushing
us.”
“I think there is scarcely any doubt of that,” answered Greene. “We
have given my Lord Cornwallis a taste of our mettle lately, and he’ll
not trifle with us, you may depend.”
“They will be drawn from Princeton,” said Washington, “in detachments
of no great strength. If encountered, a competent force could beat them
in detail. And then Brunswick, where all their baggage and stores lie,
would be left practically undefended.”
General Greene drew in his breath sharply; the other officers stirred
in their saddles, their eyes gleaming expectantly in the firelight.
Washington, who had made no sign that he had noted the proximity of his
young riders, now surprised them by suddenly facing them.
“Prentiss,” said he, singling out Ezra; and the latter at once advanced
to the side of the great white horse. The commander-in-chief said:
“When you brought in your information as to the movements of the enemy,
this morning, did you not say that a force was left behind a little way
out of Trenton, as a rear guard?”
“About six miles, or half-way to Princeton, general,” answered Ezra
promptly. “It is under command of General Leslie; I saw him plainly.”
“And they were on the direct road between Trenton and Princeton?”
“Yes, general.”
“That will be all.”
Ezra fell back to his friends; the commander turned to his officers.
“There is another way to Princeton--a more circuitous one, known as the
Quaker Road,” said Washington. “Do you think, Mercer,” to the Virginian
officer who was in the group, “that a movement could be successfully
made in that direction?”
“I am sure of it,” declared General Mercer, enthusiastically. “A quick
march, a blow when they least expect it at Princeton, destroy what
baggage they’ve left there--and then a rush upon Brunswick, where we
can deal them a blow that will cripple them.”
There was a chorus of voices raised in praise of the proposition. But
Washington’s hand went up.
“First,” said he, “we will discuss the matter in detail. And as your
quarters are the nearest, Mercer,” to his friend, “we will go there.”
At once the party of general officers turned their horses’ heads toward
the house where Mercer was lodged. What took place there the lads never
knew, but that the plan which Washington had so sketched was finally
agreed upon in detail was evident before an hour had passed.
Swiftly the order was given; the teamsters and the baggage were soon
silently on their way to Burlington. Intrenching tools were brought
forward with great bustle, and numbers of men were set vigorously to
work near the bridge and each ford, throwing up earthworks. With much
clatter and loud talking this work went forward in the hearing of the
British sentinels across the creek. Camp-fires were kept burning, and
from time to time guards were relieved in such a manner that the enemy
could not help being aware of it.
And while this was going forward, the main body of the army noiselessly
slipped away toward Princeton. The progress was slow at first, because
the roads were soft; but suddenly the direction of the wind altered,
the cold became intense, and the wagon way froze to the hardness of
iron.
The orders were that the men left behind to deceive the enemy were to
continue on the Assanpink until daybreak, when they were to abandon
their pretense and hasten after the army. General Mercer commanded the
advance party along the Quaker Road which, being new and encumbered
with stumps, made slow traveling.
It was about sunrise when the army reached the bridge at Stony Brook,
three miles from Princeton. Ben Cooper and his friends, who were
detailed with Mercer’s advance party, heard that officer say to one of
his aides:
“We should have been entering the town by this. I’m afraid that
daylight will expose our movements.”
Mercer, under orders, took up his course along the brook; Washington
led the main body into a by-road which his guides claimed was a short
cut into Princeton. It was Mercer’s intent to seize or destroy a bridge
on the main road, so as to prevent the flight of the British when
Washington attacked them.
Along trailed Mercer, following the stream, and away marched Washington
by the side road; they had gone some little way toward their objective
points, and still the enemy had not perceived them. However, before
Mercer reached the bridge, the British 17th, under Colonel Mawhood,
crossed it on the way to Trenton, where they had been ordered. The
glitter of the rifle barrels of Mercer’s men attracted the attention
of some one in the 17th, and Mawhood was instantly on the alert. It
was impossible for the British to make out the full strength of the
Americans, owing to the thick woods; but probably the British leader
fancied them a detachment flying from a possible defeat at Trenton; and
so made up his mind to capture them.
Swift riders were sent spurring back to Princeton to inform two
additional regiments, also under marching orders, of the condition
of affairs; once these were on the ground, so Mawhood reasoned, the
Americans could be surrounded.
The van of Mercer’s brigade was nearing the desired bridge when Ben
Cooper, riding ahead, made out the scarlet of the British through
the naked trees. Instantly his holster pistol was out and he had
fired a shot of warning; whirling about his mount he dashed back to
the companions he had left a little while before. The alarm shot had
startled the American officers into instant action; Mercer galloped up
and at once saw the task before him. Like a trained soldier he glanced
about for a natural advantage; some high ground to the right attracted
him and he ordered his men to make for it. The regiment of Mawhood
noted the vantage point about the same time and also rushed to occupy
it.
But the Americans were the first to reach the high ground and formed
behind a hedge fence. Their rifles at once opened upon the British,
who returned the fire with deadly accuracy. Mercer’s horse was killed
under him, and several of his officers fell. A confusion struck the
American troops, and, noting this, with comprehensive eye, Mawhood met
the situation like a master.
“With bayonet--charge!” he commanded.
With leveled muskets, each bayonet-tipped, the British 17th rushed up
the sides of the elevation.
“Meet them, lads,” shouted the brave Mercer, who had freed himself from
his dead horse and was now upon his feet, sword in hand. “Club your
pieces! Meet them like men!”
But the clubbed muskets were of little use against the bristling steel
of the onrushing veterans; at the first onset the Americans broke;
Mercer tried to rally them, but was struck down; with flashing blade he
arose and defended himself--but was pierced by a half dozen bayonets,
and the rush of the enemy passed over his brave body.
To the crest of the hill charged the 17th, cheered on by Mawhood and
his officers; once there they came to a sudden halt, however, for they
saw a heavy body of troops emerging from the woods and advancing toward
them.
This was a regiment of Pennsylvania militia which had been sent forward
by Washington upon the first volley from Mercer’s brigade.
“Give them the artillery,” directed the businesslike Mawhood, as he
watched the Pennsylvanians pushing upon him.
In a moment the pieces of cannon which he carried with him were brought
into play, and in the face of their heavy discharge, the Americans,
who were but recruits, halted and began to waver. For a moment the
situation was strong with peril, and then Nat Brewster, who stood with
the Prentiss twins, Ben and some score of the hardier spirits, behind a
fringe of trees, loading and firing like machines, suddenly uttered a
shout of joy.
“It’s not over yet,” said he, pointing to the brow of a neighboring
hill. There stood a great white horse and upon it was a powerful, erect
rider, who surveyed the situation with eagle glance.
“It’s General Washington!” shouted Ben Cooper.
As he spoke the commander-in-chief dashed down the side of the hill,
the white charger moving like the wind; with voice ringing with
confidence, he called up Mercer’s broken force.
“Turn and at them, my brave fellows. Shall it be said that you ran with
arms in your hands?”
Here and there a man paused; and no sooner had he done so than some
others joined him; in a few moments the breathless officers were
reforming them into lines and gasping out words of encouragement.
Through a flight of bullets, Washington swept up and down, giving
orders, shouting encouragement, waving his sword in circles of light.
Never was there a plainer mark for the stray bullet which usually
brings greatness down; but, as Providence willed, none found it then.
The Pennsylvanians, wavering under the cannon shot of Mawhood, saw
this act of daring on the part of their chief, and steadied instantly.
A battery of artillery now opened upon the British from a hilltop,
and the grape-shot began to cut them down. And, as though this were
not enough, a Virginia regiment broke from out the woods and charged
furiously upon them.
Almost in a single moment Mawhood was plunged from the height of
success to a situation of desperate danger. But he was skilful and
brave, and not the sort to fail in any kind of action; with high
courage he drove his men at the ring that had all but closed him in and
fought his way back to the Trenton road.
Washington, as he dashed to and fro, as much endangered by the fire of
his own men as that of the British, witnessed this gallant effort of
Mawhood’s with admiration; nevertheless he sent a detachment of the
Pennsylvanians in pursuit with directions to break down the bridge upon
their return, in order that General Leslie, of Cornwallis’ rear guard,
might be delayed should he advance to attack them before their task was
done.
While this sharp encounter was in progress, another British regiment,
the 55th, was met nearer Princeton by the American general St. Clair;
a steep ravine was the scene of this struggle, which was brief but
desperate; the British broke and fled across the fields toward
Brunswick; seeing them in flight, the remaining regiment, which had not
come up in time to be of assistance to their fellows, also broke; a
part of them hurried in the direction of Brunswick, but a strong body
threw themselves into the college building at Princeton and began a
stubborn resistance.
They were firing from windows and from protected parts of the roof
when Ben Cooper, bearing a dispatch from Washington to St. Clair, rode
up. As St. Clair tore open the dispatch, he said grimly to one of his
colonels:
“Bring up the guns; we’ll try if this student body can stand before a
row of such schoolmasters.”
The artillery wheeled into place and began hurling their shot into the
college. It took but a few moments of this to bring the cry for quarter
from within. The doors were flung open, and the Americans rushed into
the building, where the British had thrown down their arms.
But some of them, apparently, had not agreed to giving up so readily;
and as the victors rushed in at one end, they dashed for the windows
at the other, leaped through and went racing away. A party was
dispatched in pursuit, but later returned with only a handful; the
others had escaped in the woods.
Washington pursued the routed regiments as far as Kingston; here, with
his officers, he held a council of war. It was decided that the men
were too worn out to push on to Brunswick with any speed, and that
Cornwallis would be upon them before they could reach there. The word
was therefore given, and the army, destroying bridges behind them,
marched away toward the wooded and frowning heights about Morristown.
And as they went, Ben Cooper rode at the side of Nat Brewster, his face
thoughtful and his manner strangely still. At length Nat noticed it.
“What has happened?” he asked, anxiously.
“Nothing,” replied Ben. “That is,” he added, “nothing as yet. But I
fear that something--a something that neither you nor I can put hands
upon--will happen, and perhaps at no distant time.”
Nat looked at him in surprise.
“I don’t understand,” said he.
“Nor I, if it comes to that,” returned Ben. Then after a short pause,
he inquired: “Do you recall my saying, last night, that I fancied I
heard, in conversation with General Mifflin, the voice of a stranger
whom I had encountered in Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Ben, and there was an odd foreboding in his tone, “this
morning, at one of the windows of Princeton College, while the British
were escaping, I thought I saw his face.”
CHAPTER VI
TELLS HOW BEN COOPER ENCOUNTERED THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW SMILE
Before retiring on the night before, Lord Cornwallis had looked at the
lines of American camp-fires and listened to the sound of the mattocks
and spades at the east end of the bridge.
“In the morning,” said my lord, using the language of the English
huntsman, “I will bag the fox.”
At daylight, however, the thunder of cannon from the direction of
Princeton awoke him from his sleep; once without he saw the dying
watch-fires and deserted camp of the Americans.
“They are gone,” said his general, Grant, in a tone which was one of
mixed wonder and rage. “They have escaped us.”
Again came the roar of guns from along the Princeton road.
“Harken to that,” said Cornwallis, bitterly. “They have probably not
only escaped us, but are making a rush upon Brunswick to capture our
stores.”
With the celerity of trained soldiers, the British veterans got under
way, and at top speed, with their officers urging them on, they marched
toward Princeton. The Pennsylvania militia had ceased their pursuit and
were engaged in destroying the bridge at Stony Brook; it was partly
down when the cannon of Cornwallis drove them away; then, unable to
pass by way of the bridge, the British, horse, foot and artillery,
plunged into the cold water and gained the other side.
But the delay at the bridge permitted the Americans to draw a long and
safe distance away; and seeing that there was no hope of overtaking
them, Cornwallis pushed on to Brunswick, thankful at least that his
stores were safe.
The American troops were still on the march toward the hills when Ben
was summoned by an ensign to report to the commander-in-chief. Riding
through a press of officers, his right hand at the salute, the boy
reached the side of Washington.
“Is your mount fresh enough to make a second journey to Philadelphia?”
asked the commander.
“Yes, general.”
“I have another message for Mr. Robert Morris; and as there is no time
to write it, you must carry it as you carried his to me.”
Ben saluted.
“The money which he was to dispatch on the night of the first has been
delayed, so Master Morris states in a letter received but now. Say to
him that the utmost care must be exercised in the transportation of the
coin, because of the unsettled state of the roads; say that I desire
him to have a guard accompany the carriage, and instruct the person in
charge to make for Morristown and not Trenton.”
There were some minor additions to this; and upon receiving the order,
Ben wheeled his horse and rode back to his friends.
“Back to Philadelphia,” he announced, “and at once.”
They gathered around him and offered advice as to the most trustworthy
way of making his journey. It was no child’s task to cover the ground
between their present situation and the river, as they well knew. Ben
shook each of them by the hand and bid them good-bye; then taking a
rough by-road which ran almost directly toward the Delaware, he spurred
forward upon his mission.
It was almost noon and the January sun sparkled upon the snow-covered
fields; lower and redder it fell in the west until at length, when he
sighted the ice-packed Delaware, the long shadows were stealing along
the fringes of woods and upon the eastern slopes of the hills.
The cold which had so fortunately followed the veering of the wind upon
the night before, freezing the soft road under the feet of the American
troops, had here served a like purpose. The river was a solid mass
and, after a little examination, Ben had no hesitation in venturing
his horse upon it; the footing was strong every step of the way and he
arrived upon the far side without any trouble.
“That was a piece of rare fortune,” muttered Ben, as he sat in the
saddle and looked back at the long stretch of gray ice; “indeed, it was
by far the most uncertain part of the journey.”
With a brief stop upon the river bank to rest his horse he rode forward
upon the way to Bristol, and pulled up at the inn at that place some
time after dark. There was a cheery light streaming through the inn
windows; the sparks that flew from the chimney told of a roaring fire,
and the scent of most excellent cooking crept out of the keyholes and
under the doors. After his horse had been seen to, Ben was about to
enter, when the hostler, a pale little man, with scant light hair, and
mild eyes, said rather hesitatingly:
“These be rather uncertain times upon the road, sir.”
“Ay, and every other place,” answered Ben, with a smile.
The pale little hostler shook his head.
“But the road is the worst of all, I think,” said he. “For, you see,
sir,” in explanation, “the road is most frequented--especially a road
like this. And being a great deal frequented,” ominously, “a great many
desperate characters are to be found upon it.”
Ben looked at him; there was something in the mild face which held his
attention.
“Ah, yes,” said the lad, “desperate characters. In wild times like
these there are many such, no doubt.”
“You may say so, young gentleman, you may say so, indeed. We are in
fair terror of some of them, at times. They come here and do as they
please; and if we say but a word they threaten our lives.” He paused
and one hand stroked the horse’s neck for a moment; then he added:
“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to go in there,” with a nod toward the inn
door, “if you knew that one of that sort was within.”
Ben smiled good-naturedly.
“Why,” said he, “I confess, friend, that I have no great liking for
such persons. But as my business at this time brings me in contact with
more or less ungentle conduct, I don’t suppose that I need put myself
about because of a trifle additional.”
He nodded, still smiling, to the little man, and lifting the
latch entered the inn. As he had noted, the room was filled with
candle-light; a great fire of billets crackled and blazed in the
fireplace; and the smell of savory dishes being prepared in copper
saucepans came with added distinctness to his nostrils. Ben’s round
face, fresh colored cheeks and merry eyes always made him liked
wherever he went, and as he stood stamping the snow from his boots in
the doorway, he said to the buxom landlady:
“A good-evening to you, mistress; I hope your cooking is as good as it
smells, for I am well toward being famished.”
He knocked some clogging particles from his heels with the stock of
his riding whip; and as he was doing so, he noted with surprise that
his cheery greeting was not replied to. He had stopped at the inn upon
frequent occasions, and was known to the landlady; never before had she
failed to bid him welcome.
So glancing up, he was about to say something more, when he noticed
that her face was pale, and that she was trembling with anger.
“And so, landlady,” said a voice, “I may have no supper, eh?”
“You may have supper, sir,” said the woman. “You have but to conduct
yourself in a fitting manner.”
The person whom she addressed was a huge, loose-jointed fellow with
long black hair as straight as that of an Indian, and attired in a
soiled traveling costume. He had sharp, ratty black eyes and a wide,
thin-lipped mouth. His grin at the landlady’s words showed a row of
yellowed teeth.
“Conduct myself in a fitting manner,” said he; “why, mistress, you
asking that is like demanding that the fire be warm or the breeze be
cool. I always so conduct myself.”
“That you do it now is all I ask,” said the landlady.
“Then serve my supper, which I see upon the coals; it seems to be done
to a nicety, and I am rarely hungry.”
“Again I tell you that these,” and the landlady pointed to the
saucepans bubbling away in the fireplace, “belong to those who came
before you. It is the rule of the inn to serve its patrons in turn; and
I do not intend to break my rules at this late day.”
“But I assure you, good mistress, that I am one who has very little
respect for rules of whatsoever description,” said the man. “A supper I
want, and a supper I will have, and that speedily.”
“It is a young lady, I tell you,” said the hostess; “and with her is a
weak old man, her father.”
“Young ladies have no business upon the road in these times,” said the
fellow, his yellowed teeth well displayed. “And as for weak old men,
better for them if they stopped at home at all times.”
Ben crossed the room and stood by the fireplace, his back to the blaze;
the night was cold, and the heat was comforting.
“Better, indeed,” said the landlady, “when they must be interfered with
by such as you.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” said the man, and his yellow smile
grew particularly evil; his narrow eyes sparkled with anger, and his
great, bony hands grasped the arms of his chair.
“There are few, if any, that can say that I ever treated them
uncivilly,” maintained the landlady, “and if my words are at all
severe, it is your own fault.”
“We have had a-plenty of words,” growled the man; “a-plenty, good lady,
and we’ll have no more. A supper I want at once, and a supper I will
have, so have some of your kitchen folk serve it to me, or upon my
soul I will serve it myself!”
As the landlady said nothing, the man with the yellow teeth arose; and
as he did so a door leading to an inner room opened and a young girl
appeared.
“My father is quite comfortable now,” she said to the landlady. “Thanks
to your kindness in so looking after us,” she added, with a grateful
look and smile. “He says he would like to eat something if it is quite
ready; and that is a very encouraging sign, indeed.”
“His supper is just right,” said the landlady, her lips set firmly
together, as she gave the insistent guest a defiant look. She had
crossed about half the room when he stepped before her. To avoid him
she moved aside; then his huge hand closed upon her arm; and startled,
she uttered a smothered shriek. At this there came a feeble answering
cry; in the doorway where the girl had appeared, stood a tottering old
gentleman in a dressing gown and supporting himself by means of a stick.
“Daughter,” he cried, “Betsy, my dear!”
“Here, father,” and the girl ran to him.
“I thought I heard you cry out,” said the old man. “And I came to your
assistance.”
The man with the yellow smile laughed loudly at this.
“Good for you, old rooster,” said he, highly entertained. “You are
a game one, but over old to be of use. And now, mistress,” to the
landlady, “will you out of my way while I see to my boiled mutton?”
He gave her a fling at which she cried out once more. The old man
tottered forward, his stick grasped in one quavering hand. But his dim
old eyes flashed for all his feebleness, and he cried out bravely:
“What, sir! and would you lift a hand to a woman?”
The man showed his yellow teeth, much as a dog might have done.
“Old sir,” he warned, “meddle not where you have no acquaintance.
As for the woman, I’d never laid a hand on her had she not been so
stubborn.”
“He’d eat your supper, sir, that’s what he’d do,” sobbed the landlady.
“The hungry wretch cares for no one.”
“Right there, mistress,” jeered the man. “I do not, indeed. And to
show that I do not, here’s for the saucepans, for I can withstand the
temptations of their smell no longer.”
With that he strode, with mouth agrin, toward the fireplace; the old
man waved his stick feebly but was thrust aside with no gentle hand;
and then the fellow came face to face with Ben Cooper.
Pale-faced landladies, slim young girls and tottering old men seemed
of the sort that had no power to stop him; and now he leered at the
round-faced stripling with the fresh cheeks of a schoolboy.
“Ah, you are there, are you, my lad?” said he, with enjoyment plain in
his voice.
Ben looked at him quietly and nodded.
“Yes,” said he; “here I am, and here I have been for some time.
Indeed,” thoughtfully, “I think I came during the first discussion with
regard to the rights of the earlier patron.”
“Ah, did you so!” The man waved him aside with one huge hand. “Well,
you have been there long enough. Stand aside.”
But the lad did not move; a wicked look came into the ratty eyes, and
again the huge hand waved him away.
“Belike you’ll have me do more than wave with the hand,” said the man.
“I’ll give you a moment to choose.”
Ben at once stepped aside, giving the ruffian a clear way to the
fireplace. With the yellow grin wide upon his face, the man stooped
to lift the bubbling saucepans from the fire. But before he could so
much as touch them, something beat a sharp rat-tat-tat upon his head;
leaping up, he found Ben regarding him calmly, a pistol in his hand.
“You seem in haste, sir,” said the boy, as he trifled with the lock of
his weapon carelessly. “It may be that the use of a pistol barrel to
drive an idea into your head is not to your liking.”
For an instant the man was taken aback, but he quickly recovered his
poise.
“So they have taken to entrusting children with firearms?” sneered he.
“It is a thing of which I can’t say I approve; and so, lad, I bid you
to put that toy down, or I shall be compelled to assume your father’s
place, and take a cudgel to you.”
“It’s a cold night,” said the youth, “but I fancy that you can bear the
cold much better than we can your company.” The pistol barrel indicated
the door. “So go at once, and let us have no further waste of words.”
The man saw that his attitude of disbelief in the boy would be of no
use; and so with an evil look, he crossed the floor and threw open the
door. Then he halted.
“This is not the first time that I’ve seen you,” he said. “I make no
mistake in you, because you were carefully pointed out to me by a
gentleman who has,” here the yellow smile was most manifest, “your
future much in mind.”
“That,” said Ben, quietly, “is very thoughtful of him.”
The man nodded.
“Ay; and he’ll continue to be thoughtful, unless I am much mistaken
in him. He is a man who, when he once becomes interested in any one,
seldom lets him slip his mind. And in your case,” the man gestured
admiringly, “he has gone so far as to provide against his forgetting.
He has desired me to also remember you; and you may depend,” with a
laugh that made the good landlady shudder, “that no matter what he may
do, I shall not forget.”
And with that the door slapped to, and the man was gone.
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH THE HOSTLER SEES TWO SHADOWS IN THE ROAD
There was a complete silence for a moment after the man had gone; then
the landlady spoke.
“Well, of all the knaves that ever turned a decent inn topsyturvy, that
one is the worst.”
The old gentleman approached Ben, his stick thumping the floor with
each step.
“Young sir,” said he, in his piping voice, “I am thankful to you for
the service you have rendered us.”
Ben nodded his head and smiled in his usual good-natured way.
“Why,” said he, “it is but a trifling thing to get rid of a rascal of
that stripe. They seldom have the courage they seem to have.”
“Nevertheless,” and the old man held up his thin hand in protest, “he
was a formidable villain enough. I thank you, and my daughter thanks
you.”
Here the girl came forward a step or two.
“I do thank you,” she said, sweetly; “I was in great fear of the man,
for he seemed capable of anything.” Then as she saw Ben was of a mind
to still make light of the matter, she added, laughingly, “Well, at any
rate you have saved our boiled mutton and the rest of the things; and
even though you persist in refusing our thanks, perhaps you will not
refuse to accept a part of our supper.”
“Now, my dear, that was well thought of,” quavered the old gentleman,
very well pleased. “No doubt, young sir,” to Ben, “you have ridden a
long way and are both worn and hungry.”
“I can answer ‘yes’ to the latter part,” laughed Ben, as he helped the
landlady to set aside the saucepans, “but I am not over tired, as I
have ridden but from Princeton.”
“From Princeton, did you say?” The old gentleman was very eager. “Then,
perhaps, you came by way of Trenton and saw the army encamped?”
Ben shook his head.
“No,” said he, “I avoided Trenton as much as I could. Lord Cornwallis
is not in great good humor just now, and I did not care to fall into
the hands of any of his people.”
The old gentleman grasped the arm of a chair, and then sat down.
“Cornwallis in Trenton! Surely you are mistaken,” he said. “Why,
General Washington is there.”
“He was there,” corrected Ben, “but now he is at Morristown.”
“There has been a battle!” cried the girl. “And we have been defeated.”
The old man tried to rise out of the chair but fell back.
“No, no,” he said. “That cannot be. If there was a battle, we were
victorious!”
“In that you are right,” said Ben.
Thereupon, he related what had happened; the three listened breathless;
and when he had done, they were filled with delight.
“Oh, it’s glorious!” cried the girl, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
“Now, will the Hessians murder honest people in their beds!” said the
landlady, her chin up and her arms akimbo. “We’ll match them yet, never
fear.”
The old gentleman reached out until his hand rested upon the boy’s
sleeve.
“You are of the army?” he asked, very quietly.
“Yes,” replied Ben, “a courier and scout attached to the service of
General Washington.”
“There are so many young officers,” said the old man, “that it is not
likely that you have met with Lieutenant Claflin.”
Ben pondered a moment.
“He is in General Cadwallader’s brigade,” spoke the girl, her tone now
as low as that of her father. “A fair-haired young man, not over large,
but strong.”
“Claflin,” said Ben, thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, I recall him; he seems to
be much thought of by General Cadwallader. I saw them riding side by
side in the midst of the Pennsylvanians to-day.”
“After the battle?” The question was asked by the old gentleman and his
daughter at the same instant.
“Why, yes, to be sure. The army was then well beyond Kingston, making
for the hills.”
The old man cast his eyes upward, fervently; the girl put her arms
about his neck.
“There, there,” she murmured, “what did I tell you? He is safe;
perfectly safe.”
After a few moments the old gentleman looked at the boy, who was
talking in low tones with the landlady.
“He is my only son,” he explained, “and I have been much put out by
thoughts of his safety. Indeed, I am now on my way to the camp. I felt
that there must soon be a battle, and I desired to see him once more.”
They talked, while the landlady laid the table at the fire with her
whitest linen and most shining delft.
“My name is Joseph Claflin,” said the old man. “I once manufactured
iron-mongery of many kinds, but am long since retired.”
Ben glanced at him, surprised.
“Not the Joseph Claflin whose foundry is still on the Wissahickon, just
above Weiss’s Mill?” said he.
“Hah, you know the place then?”
“I ought to, sir, seeing that I was born at no great distance from it.
My name is Cooper, and my father’s place is near to the Mennonite
Meeting House.”
“Attorney Cooper’s son! Are you, indeed? Let me shake your hand.” The
old hands grasped the young ones in a quavering grip. “Why, I have
known him these many years; yes, I knew him when he was not greatly
older than yourself.”
And so when they sat down to the smoking supper by the crackling fire
they had many topics in common for discussion. The Claflins now resided
in the city proper; but they knew Germantown still, and, so it seemed,
frequently visited there.
“But,” said Mr. Claflin, “you must call upon us when you get to
Philadelphia and have some spare time; our house is on Sassafras
Street, not far from Crown, and you will be warmly welcome there at any
time.”
Miss Betsy Claflin added her invitation to that of her father.
“Perhaps, after the rough life of the camp, we can make you comfortable
if even for only a few hours,” she said. “So please do not fail, if you
have the chance, to drop in on us when you are in the city.”
They talked for a long time after supper, and then Mr. Claflin and his
daughter took their candles and retired to their rooms.
“I shall see you, of course, in the morning,” said the old gentleman,
as they were going. “We will be astir early, for we desire to start as
soon as may be on the way to the camp.”
After they had retired, Ben sat for a time chatting with the landlady.
Then, thinking to go to bed himself, he arose.
“I shall see to my nag,” said he, “and then get some sleep while I may.”
“As to the horse,” replied the hostess, “you may rest easy about him.
The hostler, while he isn’t of much use when hectoring fellows make
trouble in the inn, is an excellent hand with the cattle; I never had a
better.”
Nevertheless, Ben went to the barn, and there, in the ill light of a
lantern suspended from the rafters, he saw the small hostler seated
upon a heap of grain sacks, reading an old newspaper. At sight of the
lad, the man folded his paper carefully and laid it away. For some
little time he sat regarding Ben, as the latter patted his horse and
rearranged its bed; then he spoke.
“He was a rare bad fellow, wasn’t he?”
Ben turned and looked at him questioningly, for the man with the yellow
smile had vanished from his mind.
“Whom do you mean?” he asked.
“Why,” said the hostler, his mild eyes wide open, “he that was within
there a while ago.”
“Oh, yes.” Ben laughed. “I suppose he was as bad as may be. But it all
depends upon how you take them. You see it turned out that he’ll do no
more harm to-night.”
The other shook his head.
“I am not so sure of that,” said he. “There is more goes on of a night
on the road than an honest body generally knows of.”
Ben stood leaning against his nag, looking at the hostler. The dim rays
of light fell upon the man with weird effect; his pale skin, light eyes
and reddish hair gave him a most peculiar look.
“It takes them as are familiar with the ways of the road after dark to
understand it,” said the hostler, with a shake of the head. “No one
else can do it. Strange things happen when night shuts everything else
out. Deeds are done that would make one shudder in the sunlight.”
“You are one, I take it--from your talk, who is acquainted with the
road after nightfall,” said Ben.
The man nodded.
“I am,” he replied. “I am, though I don’t just know why I should be, as
I have no liking for such things and am afraid of them.”
“We are not always master of the things that come to us,” said the lad.
“Perhaps it is not best that we should be.”
“It may be so,” said the hostler. “But I for one cannot understand it.
If I were big of body and had an enterprising mind, I might be able to
come to hand grips with some of the people I take note of. But, as it
stands, I am neither, and so must content myself with listening and
looking and shaking my head.”
“How does one come to be acquainted with the road after dark?” asked
Ben, curiously. “I have traveled it many times at all hours, and the
night hours have seemed much the same as the others to me, except that
the going was more difficult.”
“The secret of the night road does not come to one who travels it
merely,” said the hostler, wisely. “No, no. To get at the heart of it,
one must study it, one must lie by its side, staring at it; one must
listen to the slightest murmur that stirs it, the smallest thing, the
faintest whisper, the tiniest throb of life. He must have eyes that can
pierce the darkness and ears that can catch sounds a great way off. And
not only must he do all this, but he must be able to understand what he
sees and hears and feels.”
[Illustration: “_YOU SAW SOMETHING THEN?_”]
The speaker arose from the grain sacks, went to the barn window and
looked cautiously out. Then he came close to Ben, and continued in a
low voice:
“If I had not been able to do all this, how could I have understood
what I saw to-night as I came from the mill, a mile beyond the turnpike
road?”
“You saw something, then?” said Ben. The lad thought the man, from his
queer words, must be slightly demented; but, for all, there was an
earnestness about him which compelled attention.
“I not only saw, but I heard,” said the hostler in the same low tone.
“You see, the miller holds some grain belonging to the inn to be
ground when wanted. And so to-night, after you had driven the bully
away, I went to the mill to tell the miller that we’d need more rye on
the morrow. I had not reached the main road on the way back, when I
saw a thin shadow moving in the lighter shadows of the road; and as I
stopped to watch it, I saw a second shadow move out and join the first.”
The man paused here, and one of his hands touched Ben upon the arm.
“It was here that my knowledge of the night road was of service. One
who knew naught of its secrets would have seen nothing of this, or if
they had chanced to see, would have considered it of no moment. But I
understood--the shadows could be nothing less than men--men who had met
together for some purpose which, perhaps, was not of the best.
“And so,” proceeded the hostler, “knowing this, I must know more. They
had paused, had the shadows, and it was an easy matter to approach
them. There they stood by the roadside, close together, and their
voices came clearly to my ears.
“‘And,’ said one of them, ‘you thought it well to keep me prowling up
and down in the cold while you had your supper?’
“‘It was no fault of my own,’ said the second. ‘I hurried the best I
could. Indeed, if I had waited until they cooked a supper for me, I
would have waited until midnight. As it was, I tried to come by that
belonging to another, knowing you’d be awaiting me; and I failed even
in that.’”
Ben drew in a breath long with interest; the speaker went on:
“The other man laughed. ‘And so you have come out upon the venture with
an empty stomach?’ said he.
“‘I have,’ replied the other, ‘and all because of a particular friend
of yours who entered the inn while I was negotiating the meal.’ At this
saying the other seemed puzzled; and the man had to enlighten him. ‘A
close friend of yours,’ said he, ‘and one of whom you spoke with some
interest to me not many hours ago.’”
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, softly. “And what did he say to that?”
“He was fair astonished, it seemed to me. I saw the shadows spring
apart, and I saw a movement as though the man had taken out a firearm.
“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘and so he is there! Well, that is a stroke of good
fortune that I did not expect. Back you go to this inn, and I with you;
we’ll see to this friend of mine at once.’”
“An earnest fellow,” said Ben, quietly. “He would be about his business
without delay.”
“But the other checked him,” spoke the hostler; “it would seem that
there was other and more pressing work toward. ‘Don’t forget,’ said he,
‘that the hours are passing; and while we are meddling about an inn,
wasting time with a boy, the carriage may pass.’”
“The carriage?” said Ben Cooper, and a startled look came into his face.
“‘The carriage may pass,’ were his words,” said the hostler. “And
without another instant’s delay the two started off toward the main
road, and I saw nothing more of them.”
Ben remained looking at the man for a space; then he asked:
“You don’t know what direction they took, then, when they reached the
main road?”
“I lost sight of them in the by-road,” said the hostler; “but,” with
some pride, “I can tell you which way they took for all that. My ears
made out that they took to the southward.”
“A carriage from the direction of Philadelphia,” muttered the boy as
he crossed the yard to the inn with hasty steps. “And being waited for
by a gentleman who is much interested in having harm befall myself. I
think,” as he pushed open the door, “this is a matter which will bear
some little examination.”
CHAPTER VIII
SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER WENT FORTH INTO THE NIGHT AND WHAT DISCOVERY HE
MADE BY THE WAYSIDE
Ben Cooper had left his holster pistols slung from the back of a chair
in the public room; so now when he strode in, took them up and looked
at their locks and primings, the good landlady of the inn opened her
eyes.
“What now?” she asked. “Has anything gone wrong?”
“Not yet,” answered Ben; “but,” smiling, “there is no knowing,
according to your hostler, what will befall on the road after night.”
“Pay no attention to what he says upon that point!” exclaimed the
woman. “He is fair mad about it. If he can get any one to listen to his
talk about the road, especially the road after dark, he’s happy. Pay no
attention to him.”
“It so chances,” said Ben, “that I am much struck by something which he
has said, and have the curiosity to look further into it.” He placed
the pistols in his belt, and provided himself with ammunition. “I
shall, perhaps, be gone some time. If I return after you are all abed,
I will not arouse you, so have no fear upon that score. There is hay in
the barn loft, I know, and I can make myself comfortable enough in that
for a few hours.”
The landlady was still expostulating when he departed, and as he walked
down the ice-bound road, he heard her calling shrilly to the hostler.
“He’s in for a rare, good drubbing,” laughed Ben, to himself. “The
hostess is a famous scold when she is herself, as I’ve often heard.”
The night was dark and bitterly cold, and the lad drew his greatcoat
well about him, and plunged his hands deep into his pockets.
“By all appearances, the carriage is to be met hereabouts,” he mused,
as he stumbled along. “As they have no horses, it seems reasonable to
think that this is so. Therefore, I must be as cautious as I can, for
there is no telling where these two worthies may be lurking.”
The wind lifted as he went along and soon he felt damp particles of
snow upon his face.
“A storm,” said Ben. “I trust it will not block the road, if it prove
that I must go on to Philadelphia.”
The fall increased; and the wind took up the flakes, whirling them
about madly. In a very short time the night began to lighten, for the
snow clung to the trees and bush and so mantled the earth as to make
things rather plain to be seen.
“I must be more careful than ever now,” Ben told himself, his eyes
sharply ahead. “If they should chance to be hiding near the road I am
sure to be observed.”
To prevent this he left the road and began making his way through
a thin growth of tall pines. The ground was thick with a carpet of
needles, over which lay the light snow, so his footsteps were soft and
cat-like. Suddenly ahead there loomed a sort of barrier of boughs, and
from behind it came the faint sparkle of fire.
With increased caution the boy advanced, and as he drew near to the
boughs, he caught the murmur of a voice. The sound continued, and Ben
fancied that it must be some persons engaged in conversation; but upon
approaching the sound he was astonished to discover that it was some
one singing.
“Oh, ye Irish lads of fair renown,
Come listen unto me,
And I’ll relate a bitter fate
That happened on the sea.
It was in the dark December
Upon the Baltic coast----”
Just what happened upon the Baltic coast is something of a mystery,
for at that point the singing broke off and a voice was raised in
lamentation.
“Oh, by this and by that,” it said, “is there ne’er a stick of dry wood
in all America to keep a poor gossoon from freezing to the marrow?
Faith, here I am with sorra the coat to me back, and the wind whistlin’
a jig tune about me two ears. Oh, worra, worra, why didn’t they leave
me stop at home in Ireland where I was happy, and not bring me to this
place to fight the poor people who only ax the right to live dacently.”
In a little flare cast by the fire, Ben saw a round-headed, well-built
lad, with a shock of sandy hair and an honest, comical-looking face.
He was grubbing among the brush for something to add to his fire, but
apparently all that was not frozen to the ground was wet by the snow,
and he was meeting with but poor success. However, in spite of this,
and with his teeth chattering, he began to sing once more.
“’Twas in the hills of Wicklow
First I saw the light of day,
And, my father’s cabin round,
I, as a child, did play.
Until one morning in the spring----”
What occurred on this particular morning must take its place beside the
episode of the Baltic coast; for once more did the singer stop, and
break forth into complaining:
“’S’cure to the dry chip is there anywhere. Oh, then must I get my
death, entirely, in a strange place and with people all about who think
me a thief of the world because I fought on the side of the Sassanach?
Bless us and save us! It’s rather fight against them I would, any time,
than for them.”
At this point Ben stepped around the barrier of boughs and into the
circle of light cast by the fire. The sandy-haired youth leaped up and
seized a cudgel which was lying beside him; whirling it about his head,
he cried boldly enough:
“Stop where you are, or by this and by that, you’ll have this lump of a
stick clattering about the head of you!”
Ben stood smilingly regarding him.
“How did you make your way all the distance without being found out?”
The other, seeing that, at least, no immediate attack was meditated,
lowered his bludgeon.
“What’s that you say?” he demanded.
“I ask you, how did you get so far from Trenton without being
discovered?”
“From Trenton, is it?” cautiously. “And, sure, who told you I come from
Trenton?”
“The clothes you wear,” said Ben, as he sat down upon a log. “You threw
the coat away because it was red; but the other things tell just as
plainly that you are a British soldier.”
Here the cudgel was grasped firmly once more, and the sandy-haired lad
took a step forward.
“Is it me that you call such a name?” demanded he. “Is it Paddy Burk
that you call by so disgraceful a title? True for you, I did wear the
red coat, and true again that I threw it in a ditch--because I hated
it. But never was I a British soldier. I was an Irish boy compelled to
wear a British soldier’s clothes, but never for a minute was I anything
less.”
“You are a deserter, then,” said Ben.
“I left them just as honestly as they enlisted me. There was I at home,
a raw boy, knowing nothing and listening to the tales the dragoon
sergeant told of foreign parts. And when he handed me the ‘shilling,’
I took it thinking he only meant to be generous with me, and never
dreaming that it made me a redcoat.”
“I’ve heard that they do such things,” said Ben.
“And then off they took me,” lamented Paddy Burk. “Off they took me to
a big town and put me on board a ship with dozens more like me, and
over we came to America as British soldiers--a thing we never thought
to be.”
“You were with the army of Cornwallis, I suppose,” said Ben.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I was with him till he reached the place
where they tried to cross the bridge, and the Americans drove them
back. It was yesterday, I think. Then I got a good chance and took leg
bail for it across the river on the ice. And,” with feeling, “here I
am wandering about with never a bite nor sup since then; and it’s fair
weak with the hunger I am.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Ben Cooper spoke.
“You don’t like the British service, then?”
“Like it!” The sandy-haired lad gripped his cudgel in both hands.
“Sure, and how could any one with Irish blood in his veins like it?”
“Perhaps,” said Ben, “you’d prefer that of America.”
The cudgel was lowered and an interested look appeared upon the face of
the boy.
“Now that,” said he, “is a different thing. I would have tried to find
General Washington’s army, but I was afeered to go back across the
river.” He stared at Ben, anxiously. “Maybe now it’s yourself that
could tell me how to find it.”
“Well,” said Ben, “one of the first things that should be done in your
case is to get you warm and provide you with some food. Then we can
think of the rest.”
The face of the Irish boy brightened up wonderfully.
“Arrah, then it’s the great lad ye are!” he cried, with admiration.
“Sure, a bite to eat and a fire with a trifle of heat in it would be as
welcome as the sun in the morning.”
“But,” proceeded Ben, “before I can do anything else, I must first see
to a matter of great importance. As for you,” and he pointed in the
direction of the road, “take that way until you come to an inn, less
than a mile away. Say to the landlady that----”
Here the other interrupted him.
“Ah, sure, it would make no matter what I’d say to her. It would be all
the same, faith. She’d up with the broom and drive me away from the
door for a vagabond.”
“But----” said Ben, and again he was interrupted.
“Wherever you do be going,” said Paddy Burk, “let me go with you; and
when we come to a place where there’s a bit of comfort to be had,
sure, then, you can speak for me yourself.”
Seeing that the lad was fixed in his belief that no one would receive
him if his plea were unsupported, Ben’s mind was instantly made up.
“Come, then,” said he, arising, “and make yourself ready for a little
adventure.”
“Ah,” said Paddy Burk, and he passed his hand lovingly over the length
of his stout club, “that would be another name for a ‘ruction,’ I’m
thinking. Well, by this and by that, when there’s such to the fore, no
one ever saw Paddy Burk stand back and look on.”
Ben laughed.
“Perhaps, Paddy,” said he, “you’ll get your fill of ‘ructions,’ as you
call them; for there is something ahead which promises well in that
direction.”
In a few moments they had put out the fire and were trudging away under
the trees, the wind whirling the snow about their faces and into their
eyes. Ben kept his bearings and never allowed himself to get far from
the road; indeed, he skirted it very closely, his companion trudging
along at his side.
Suddenly the latter said:
“Whist! What is that beyant there? Is it a house, I dunno, or is it
somebody carrying a light?”
At almost the same moment Ben had perceived the dim spark through the
falling snow.
“It is moving,” said he, “and that shows that it is a light that is
being carried.” They paused for a time and watched the spark.
“It is slowly growing brighter,” commented Ben, “and that proves that
it is coming toward us.”
A little more observation showed that the light must be upon the road.
“Many’s the time I’ve seen the lights coming on that way on the night
before market day at Ballysampson,” said Paddy Burk. “They’d move a
weeny bit this way, and a small bit that way, according to the turns in
the road, and all the time they’d be a-blinking like a one-eyed dragon
out of a fairy book.”
Ben, with a sharp intaking of the breath, drew out his pistols. The
other perceived the action in the dim light thrown up by the snow.
“Ah, ha,” said he, “and so here is where the ruction starts. Well,”
with a brisk whirl of his cudgel, “the sooner the better, for a trifle
of exercise would warm me, so it would.”
“The first point I must warn you on is to keep silence,” said Ben, one
hand uplifted. “A wagon or carriage is expected at any time, bearing
matters of moment for the American camp. I have reason to think that it
is to be stopped near here.”
“And you think,” said Paddy Burk, in a whisper, “that this, with the
light, may be the carriage?”
“I do,” replied Ben Cooper. “But come, let us make our way to the
roadside.”
They turned at a sharp angle and started for the road; and as they
reached it there came a sudden shout; a pistol shot rang out, and the
moving lamp came to a stand far down the snowy road.
With the pistols gripped in his hands, Ben ran forward; as he neared
the halted vehicle, he saw a man climbing down from a high seat, and
another holding a pistol at his head. In the snow lay a dark, huddled
form, and over it stood a man in a long greatcoat, his hands stuffed
into his pockets.
“Have mercy, good folk,” whined the man, climbing down from the
driver’s seat. “Take pity upon one who never did you harm.”
The man with the pistol answered with a brutal kick, at which the other
howled loudly.
“Now hold your tongue, or you’ll get worse than that,” said the man
with the pistol.
“The money is here--safe in the bags,” cried the coward. “Don’t harm me
and I will show you where to find it.”
He was creeping toward the carriage once more when Ben Cooper’s first
pistol exploded, and missed. The man who had kicked the driver whirled
about savagely, but the second pistol laid him low; then the youth
dropped both empty weapons in the road and leaped for the man in the
greatcoat.
This person, however, stepped back, so as to avoid the full force of
the rush; then he lifted an empty pistol which he held in his hand, and
dropped it skilfully upon the boy’s head. Ben staggered beneath the
shock of the blow; the pistol lifted to repeat, but the lad, shaken
though he was, dodged, and in another instant had seized the other
round the body.
The man in the greatcoat was powerfully made, and did not hesitate to
grapple with his foe; but in spite of his great strength he found in
the boy a supple, eel-like quality that made him difficult to master.
Then to make matters worse for him, he stumbled over the prostrate form
in the road and went down with the boy upon him. In an instant Ben had
planted a knee in his chest, and gripped him about the throat.
All this had taken but a moment; and as Ben clung to his antagonist he
felt a glow of triumph. But in this he was premature, for just then
the man who had gone down under his pistol shot arose to his feet, the
blood streaming from a wound in his scalp, and lurched toward the boy.
It would have gone hard with the latter had not fortune favored him
that night. Cramped by the cold and weakened by hunger, Paddy Burk had
labored along a score or more paces in the rear. But now, as the newly
arisen man was dragging Ben Cooper from the one he held pinned to the
ground, the Irish lad was upon him with a whoop; the cudgel twirled
gaily and the man dropped to the road once more.
“Up on the seat with you,” directed Paddy, glaring at the driver.
But the speaker’s face looked so distorted in the dim lantern light
that the driver was stricken with fear and could not move.
“Then I’ll up for you,” said Paddy, promptly. “Inside with you,” to
Ben, who stood still dazed from the blow he had received; “and as for
you,” pointing his bludgeon at the man with the greatcoat, who was
scrambling out of the snow, “keep your distance, or by this and by
that, I’ll give you a taste of the stick that you’ll not like.”
With that he leaped upon the seat of the vehicle, and grasped the
reins; Ben, after a bewildered glance within that showed him a heap of
canvas bags snugly tucked away in a corner, stumbled in and dropped
upon a seat. Then with a yell at the now plunging horses, the Irish lad
waved his cudgel above his head.
“Away with you, my beauties,” he cried; “sure it is mesilf that will
give you a loose rein all the way to General Washington’s camp if need
be.”
And so away they tore with their precious load, the lantern swaying
madly, the carriage pitching from side to side.
CHAPTER IX
DEALS WITH THE ARRIVAL OF GILBERT MOTIER, MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE
The dawn was well past when Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk dashed up before
the Freemasons Tavern at Morristown in the carriage containing the
fifty thousand dollars in silver and gold coin sent by Robert Morris.
Word was at once carried to the commander-in-chief by the officer in
charge; then the bags were carried into the building and placed safely
under guard.
General Washington was at breakfast some hours later when Ben and the
Irish lad were sent in, in response to his request. He received Ben
kindly and thanked him with the utmost warmth for his gallant conduct.
The lad, when given the opportunity, told Paddy Burk’s story as to how
he was impressed into the British army, of his desertion, and of his
rare courage in the rescue of the money bags.
“If it had not been for him, Your Excellency,” said young Cooper, “all
that I attempted would have gone for nothing. He’s one of the bravest
fellows I ever saw, and,” eagerly, “he would like to join with us
against the British.”
Paddy’s hand went to his forelock by way of salute.
“It’s not like as if I were playing the traitor to them, your honor,”
he said. “For sorra the one of them had any right to me; they got me by
deception, and if I made away from them by the same means, small blame
to me.”
The commander smiled.
“Do you desire to join with us?” he asked.
“I do, if you please, your honor--that is, if I can join the troop that
Misther Cooper is with, sir.”
“I dare say it can be arranged,” smiled the general. “You seem to be of
the character needed for a scout and courier.” He turned to an officer
near by. “Attend to this, Harrison, if you please.”
The general’s secretary accordingly led the Irish lad out of the inn;
and before long he was duly added to the scouts in the service of
headquarters. Nat Brewster, Ezra and George Prentiss and the Porcupine
took to their new comrade at once; and his shrewd sayings, comical
manners and quaint songs added to the good feeling the more they saw of
him.
After this there were no large movements for a long time; Washington
established posts completely across the Jerseys, connecting with the
forts on the Hudson highlands. The temporary halting place proved to
be just the spot for a winter quarters, and being almost equally near
to Amboy, Brunswick and Newark, was a most excellent place from which
to carry on a system of forays, raids and other harassing movements;
the hills and dense forests afforded an almost complete protection from
counter attacks of a serious nature.
Slowly the winter wore on; brilliant exploits marked it from time to
time; the American troops became a terror to the British, who were not
only driven out of the Jerseys, but were compelled to keep to one or
two very narrowly defined districts.
The British government was making vast preparations for the coming
campaign in the spring, however. More Hessians were being brought
to take the place of those captured at Trenton. Burgoyne was coming
to head a powerful army which was to invade the country from Canada;
General Howe and his brother, the admiral, were formulating a scheme
which would give them Philadelphia, while Sir Henry Clinton spent the
time planning an ascent of the Hudson and a blow at the Highland forts.
If these latter could be taken and the stronghold at West Point passed,
Clinton could join his army to that of Burgoyne and so split the
struggling states in two, neither part of which could lend help to the
other.
When Howe began to show signs of life, Washington broke up his camp at
Morristown, and took up a position at Middlebrook, where he would be
more in touch with the movements of that leader. Once Howe tried to
engulf Sullivan at Princeton; again he endeavored to tempt Washington
to try a general engagement. But in neither of these did he succeed,
and so he began to plan once more with the admiral for the taking of
Philadelphia.
During this period Ben Cooper saw quite a little of Philadelphia life.
The business of the army frequently took him there, and often he had
permission to spend some little time.
Distinguished foreigners, attracted by the struggle for independence,
were pouring into the city; public and social circles were besieged
by them; demands, highly preposterous for the most part, were made by
heretofore unknown persons for commissions; men who had not been of
higher grade than captain in the armies of Europe now treated with
contempt any suggestion save that which carried with it the rank, at
least, of general of brigade.
During the early summer Ben was enjoying a fortnight’s leave of absence
with his father at Germantown; and one day he received a letter from
Miss Betsy Claflin. He had met the Claflins frequently since the night
at the inn at Burlington, and had become very intimate with them all.
“We are to give a very grand dinner at the City Tavern,” wrote Betsy,
“and we are to have such a number of distinguished people present that
I shall be dreadfully frightened, I know. And so I shall need all my
friends to give me courage, and feel sure that I can count upon you for
one.”
There was a great deal more to the note, telling him the names of the
notables who were to grace the feast, not the least among whom was
Washington himself. The time set was but a few nights off, and Miss
Betsy apologized for the lateness of the invitation because: “I had
not known but that you were with the army, otherwise this would have
reached you much sooner.”
The City Tavern was the fashionable place of the city at that day, and
many splendid affairs were held between its walls; and so, when the
night arrived, Ben spent a great deal of time over his toilet, and made
his way with much magnificence to the inn. It was brilliantly lighted;
there appeared to be candles everywhere; beautifully gowned ladies and
men in striking uniforms, or the courtly dress of the period, filled
the rooms.
Ben was warmly greeted by Lieutenant Claflin, Betsy’s brother, by that
young lady herself and by their father.
“Hah, you young rascal,” quavered the old gentleman, as he clung to
Ben’s hand. “I’ve just been talking to General Greene, and I begin to
find out about you. Why have you not told me of your reputation as
a fire-eater, sir; why have I not heard before of these exploits of
yourself and your friends?”
Ben laughed.
“Oh, General Greene likes his little joke, sir,” remonstrated he. “He
loves to make much of these little matters of experience.”
“Ah, you rogue, you can’t deceive me. You are a hero, sir, that’s what
you are. And not only General Greene tells me so, but others as well.”
Here Miss Betsy and some other young ladies took Ben in charge and
stationing themselves in an excellent place for observation, began to
point out all the noted figures of the day, who were as yet unknown to
the camp. A handsome, rather reckless-looking man of middle size and
carrying himself with a swaggering, dragoon-like air, attracted the
attention of the lad in a very few moments.
“And who is that?” he inquired.
“It’s Colonel Conway,” replied one of the girls. “He was born in
Ireland, but has lived most of his life in France.”
“A very gallant and capable officer, I have heard,” remarked another.
“He may be all you say, but I don’t care for him,” spoke a third.
“There is something about him which is repelling.”
“Some of the members of Congress do not find him so,” said Betsy
Claflin, wisely. “He has only been in the country a short time, but
already there is quite a movement in his favor. I have heard it said
that there are some who think of raising him at once to an important
command.”
The young lady who had first spoken now turned a cautious look about to
note if any one were paying attention whom she did not take into her
confidence. Her voice was very low and her manner profoundly secret as
she said:
“Pray don’t breathe a word of this to a living soul, for I had it
privately and in strict confidence. Congress was to make Colonel Conway
a brigadier, but General Washington interfered, and said that he
thought him an unsafe man and scarcely to be trusted with an important
command.”
There was an astonished buzz at this, and then an outbreak of
low-voiced chatter. During this Ben was observing Conway; he, too, felt
repelled by the man’s swaggering, arrogant manner, though he had not
yet overheard a word he said. Suddenly, as he watched he saw a tall man
with powerful features approach the Irish-Frenchman; they greeted each
other eagerly, and as they did so Ben watched the tall man with eyes
full of interested recognition. After a moment or two of watching he
turned to Betsy.
“And who is that, so closely engaged with Colonel Conway?”
Betsy glanced at the person indicated.
“That is a gentleman from the South,” she said. “Savannah, I think, is
his town; and he has been attracted by the Congress and other things,
perhaps, in the city most of the winter. He is a great friend of Samuel
Livingstone, the merchant. They have known each other a great while, or
at least I think I’ve heard it so said. His name is Tobias Hawkins.”
Ben regarded Tobias Hawkins for a moment more.
“Master Samuel Livingstone vouched for the gentleman, eh?” he said,
musingly.
Betsy looked at him in surprise.
“Why, yes,” she said. “And why not, seeing that they are such old
friends?”
“Ah, why not, indeed?” said Ben.
For a long time he sat with moody face; this was unusual for him, for
cheerfulness was his leading characteristic. The girls strove to arouse
him, but he would emerge from his abstraction only for a moment at a
time; the next would see him with folded arms staring at the floor, or
regarding Master Hawkins with fixed and speculative eye.
Later in the evening he was chatting with Lieutenant Claflin, and some
others, when he noted a tall, fine-looking officer go by; and at his
side was Tobias Hawkins, smiling and genial, and apparently relating
some witticism--for the officer, as they passed, laughed gaily.
“Gates is a handsome fellow,” said a civilian youth to one of the young
officers in the group. “And a good-humored one, I think.”
The young officer grimaced.
“I have served under him,” he said. “And I found him good-humored if
one played the jester to him. With the sun shining, give me Gates; but
with an overcast sky, I would prefer some more stable person.”
The young civilian looked astonished.
“Why,” said he, “is it possible that General Gates is not thought
highly of in the army? I take from your tone that you meant that,” in
hurried explanation.
“I did mean it,” smiled the youthful officer. “Gates has the military
knowledge--no one can deny that--but,” and the speaker tapped his
forehead with one finger, “it is here that he is deficient. He has not
the judgment, the depth, that ability to apply his knowledge which
makes the general.”
Lieutenant Claflin laughed, as did some others.
“Oh, come now, Hungerford,” said Claflin, “don’t be so severe upon the
general. Remember, he has been engaged in military service of one sort
or another for only thirty years, while you have worn a sword for as
long a time as six months.”
Again there was a laugh, and young Hungerford flushed.
“As for that,” said he, frankly enough, “I am not passing personal
judgment upon General Gates. I am merely stating what I know are
the opinions of men of experience. Why, General Washington himself
holds him in no high esteem, for some time ago when Gates asked for a
brigade, he refused to give it to him, there being others in whom he
had more faith.”
Ben’s eyes followed the handsome figure of Gates and that of Tobias
Hawkins; and once more the moody look came into his face.
“What can it mean?” he asked himself. “What is this man’s purpose?
He has pushed himself into the good graces of a rather simple-minded
merchant, and so has gained entry into the society of the city. And
what I noted on the first night at this very inn has since been
verified. For some reason he then was eager to know the names of those
opposed to General Washington, and since then all those with whom I
have seen him upon intimate terms are of that stripe. First, there was
Mifflin, who is noted for his dislike of the general, then there is
Conway, and now Gates.” The boy looked down the long room at the two
men and his thoughts went on: “He has some reason. His desire must be
to----”
Here he was interrupted by a general movement toward the room where
the dinner was to be served, and he found himself paired with a
dark-haired, bright-eyed girl whose English pronunciation proved her to
be of French birth. At the table this young lady proved to be a most
diverting companion. She knew every one and the history of every one.
“I am at great pains to acquire information,” she smilingly told Ben.
“For, you see, I am keeping a journal in which I write down every scrap
of intelligence. In years to come it will be a highly-prized book; even
scholars will go to it when they desire a true picture of these days.”
Listening to her chatter pleased Ben Cooper, and soon all thought of
Tobias Hawkins had passed out of his mind. Almost across the table from
them were a number of foreigners who had come to America in search of
military preferment. One of these was manifestly of German extraction,
a grave-faced man of middle age; another was a handsome lad of about
Ben’s own years. The latter was laughing gaily with those near him and
talking in English, but with a decided French accent.
“That,” said Ben, “is a countryman of yours.”
His companion shrugged her shoulders, helplessly.
“One sees so many countrymen of mine these days, that it might be
thought Congress intended to officer the American army from France,”
she said. “And some of them--oh, what preposterous fellows they are! So
much pretense, so much vainglory. It is really ridiculous.”
Ben had his eyes upon the engaging countenance of the French lad across
the table.
“That one, at least,” said he, “has none of those things.”
The girl nodded her agreement of this.
“He is very well, indeed,” she said. “I have met him, and my father has
told me his family history.”
Just then the young Frenchman burst out in his imperfect English:
“But such a wonderful country--so beautiful a land. It is well to
fight that such a country should be free. I am lost in admiration of
it.”
“But, sir,” laughingly protested one of the ladies, “you have been here
a very short time, and you can have seen but little of it.”
“Ah, madame, there you are mistaken,” cried the lad, delightedly. “I
have seen nine hundred miles of it, my friends and I. Nine hundred
miles did we ride from Georgetown in South Carolina, where my ship
reached port. Nine hundred miles through a glorious country; and the
sight of it day after day, madame, made me more determined than ever to
join your army and help fight for it.”
“You say you know his name and history,” said Ben Cooper to the girl at
his side. “Who and what is he?”
“He was born in Cavanac, Auvergne, France,” said the young lady with
affected solemnity, “and he is now just nineteen years of age. His name
is----” she paused and affected great concern. “Do you care to hear his
full name?” she asked.
“Full and complete, so that I may know the worst at once,” smiled Ben.
“Very well, then. It is Marie Jean Paul Roch Yves Gilbert Motier,
Marquis de Lafayette. He is enormously rich, has been a captain of
dragoons, and has made very great sacrifices at home in France that he
might come here and offer his sword to Congress.”
Ben regarded the young Frenchman with increased attention.
“Why,” said the American boy, “here is a generous and unselfish spirit,
indeed. To leave a great fortune, honors, no doubt----”
“All that the French king could confer upon one so young,” put in the
girl. “But no, he would have none of it. He had heard of the struggle
here, and asked Mr. Franklin at Paris for service. After the defeat of
Long Island the Americans had no credit in Europe; no one believed in
them, it seems, and so Mr. Franklin could secure no ship to carry the
French boy and his friends.
“‘We are sorry,’ said Franklin, ‘but you will have to await our better
fortune.’
“But not so! He could not wait. He bought a ship of his own and set
sail; and here he is, offering himself to Congress, to fight the
British.”
After dinner the young Marquis and Ben Cooper were presented to each
other, and when the French lad learned that Ben was upon active service
with Washington he was delighted.
“You cannot understand,” said he, “how we admire this general of yours
in Europe. The great Frederic of Prussia says that his strategy stamps
him as the world’s greatest soldier.”
The two were still deeply engaged, Ben relating some camp anecdotes of
the commander-in-chief, to Lafayette’s vast admiration, when there was
a stir, a rustle, a hum of voices, a crowding to the front; but neither
of the young men paid any attention; until, after a little, the voice
of old Mr. Claflin said:
“What, Marquis, I thought you were wild to meet our general. And here
he is and you have not even so much as a look for him.”
Turning, his face alight, the next moment Lafayette was face to face
with Washington for the first time, and listening to the calm, steady
voice which he was afterward to hear so often in the press of battle.
[Illustration: _LAFAYETTE WAS FACE TO FACE WITH WASHINGTON_]
Soon there was quite a throng about the two. The fame of the young
nobleman, who so loved freedom that he would give up all that most
men covet in order that he might cross a sea and strike a blow for a
stranger race, was all about the city. For the most part the foreigners
who offered themselves were professional soldiers who sought the power
and emoluments of rank. But here was one wholly different; he already
had rank and fortune; he desired only to serve.
The admiration of Washington was plainly visible; he applauded this
youth for his unselfishness; he loved him from the first for his high
heart and noble generosity.
But on the outskirts of the throng there was a little group in which
no sympathy for the meeting seemed to find a place. In this party Ben
saw the cold face of General Mifflin, the vain, handsome countenance
of General Gates, and the reckless, selfish one of Colonel Conway.
These three gazed at the little scene before them with eyes totally
unresponsive; they whispered, exchanged looks of unbelief and smiles
which scarcely concealed the sneers behind them. These things alone
aroused Ben Cooper’s resentment; but there was a chill at his heart, a
feeling of vague fear, as he saw the satisfaction upon the face of the
man in the rear of the three. And that man was Master Tobias Hawkins.
CHAPTER X
SHOWS HOW THE FIGHT AT BRANDYWINE WAS LOST, AND HOW BEN BORE THE
TIDINGS TO PHILADELPHIA
Having made up his mind that nothing could be gained by seeking to draw
Washington into a trap, General Howe finally decided upon a plan and
embarked his troops. What he would do was a matter for speculation in
the American army; every one wondered where the next blow would fall.
Thinking that Philadelphia must be the point aimed at, Washington
once more crossed the Delaware and took up a position at Germantown.
While here the tidings came that the British troop ships had entered
Chesapeake Bay, and that Howe’s army would disembark at the head of the
Elk River.
At this news the Tories in Philadelphia became overbold, and thinking
to put them down by a display of power, Washington on the way southward
marched his array through Front and along Chestnut Streets with bands
playing and colors flying. There were some twelve thousand of them,
while the British, whom they were advancing to check, numbered almost
twenty thousand, with powerful artillery.
The Americans marched to Wilmington, and there entered camp upon some
heights near to the Christiana and the Brandywine. Heavy parties were
sent forward to come in touch with the enemy and harass his advance as
much as possible. Howe landed his force at a point seventy miles from
Philadelphia, and almost at once took up his line of march. The militia
and other parties sent out by Washington rendered this progress much
slower than it would otherwise have been, and in this way the American
commander was given an opportunity to reconnoiter the roads and passes
and fords.
“It looks,” said George Prentiss to Ben, “as though the general had
made up his mind to risk a battle in the open.”
“He must, if he is to fight at all, I think,” said Ben. “And that he
must fight is settled. Philadelphia, the city where Congress meets,
must not be allowed to fall without a blow.”
“Right,” spoke Nat Brewster. “That would never do, as I look at it.
Everything must be risked at this point; to desert the city, now that
the enemy are approaching it, would be to lose its confidence forever.”
Talk of this sort ran through the American force, showing that the
rank and file understood the position in which their officers stood.
And the position was a most critical one. The great bulk of the army
was made up of raw men, the militia of New Jersey, Pennsylvania and
Delaware; and in no way was the American force to be compared to the
British--neither in number, equipment nor discipline.
At White Clay Creek, General Maxwell’s sharpshooters encountered the
British vanguard, and a spirited fight took place, the sharpshooters
falling back, but the invaders meeting with much the greater loss. At
first Washington selected a position on the east of Red Clay Creek, on
the Philadelphia road; but he discovered the intention of Sir William
Howe to pass the Brandywine, gain the heights to the north of the
stream and so cut him off from Philadelphia; the American army was put
in motion during the night and took possession of this point.
There were several crossings of the Brandywine and the best of them
was in direct line with the enemy’s advance. This was called Chadd’s
Ford, and here Washington stationed the main body of his army under
Wayne, Weedon and Muhlenberg. Maxwell’s riflemen were also placed at
this point, and Wayne’s and Proctor’s artillery were placed upon a
hill commanding the ford. The right wing was in the care of General
Sullivan, Sterling and Stephen, while the left, mainly militia, was
commanded by General Armstrong.
What seemed to be the main body of the enemy began an advance on
Chadd’s Ford early on the morning of September 11th. Washington
rode along the ranks cheering his men and being cheered in return.
The reports of the rifles of Maxwell’s men soon began to be heard
across the Brandywine; after a long time spent in skirmishing, the
sharpshooters themselves were driven across the stream. The enemy did
not attempt to follow, but their artillery opened, and the American
guns answered promptly.
While this was going on a rider from General Sullivan’s command dashed
up to headquarters bearing the news that a heavy body of troops under
Howe was pushing along the Lancaster road with the intent to cross at
one of the upper fords and turn the American right flank. Instantly
a party of riders were sent to ascertain the truth of this; then the
Americans determined to cross the creek and attack those before them,
word being sent to both wings to do likewise. But just as the movement
was begun, word came by a militia major that there was no enemy in the
quarter Howe was reported to be in, and instantly Washington halted the
troops once more. Horsemen were scurrying backward and forward--all was
in suspense. Finally a resident of the section, Squire Cheyney, came
galloping up, breathless, and with horse covered with foam; he had come
upon the main body of the British as they were hurrying along on the
east side of the stream; they had fired upon him, but he had succeeded
in reaching the American lines unhurt.
“You must move, General Washington,” he cried, “or you will be
surrounded.”
The horsemen, sent out earlier, now returned, confirming this. The
British main body, under Cornwallis, was sweeping down upon the right
wing. Without hesitation, Washington’s orders were given. Sullivan
was to attack the invaders, Sterling’s and Stephen’s brigades were to
support him. Wayne was to hold Chadd’s Ford and see to it that the
German Knyphausen did not cross, while General Greene was to hold his
command ready to dash in wherever needed.
Sullivan followed his orders, but the time which had elapsed between
the warning and the orders reaching him enabled Cornwallis to select
his own ground. Taken at a complete disadvantage, the Americans broke
on each wing; the center stood firm, but receiving the concentrated
fire of the enemy, it, too, gave way. The young Lafayette, who had
begged permission to go where the fight would be thickest, seeing
that the pursuing British became entangled in the wood, leaped from
his horse and made a gallant attempt to rally the broken division of
Sullivan.
“He proves true under the guns of the enemy,” spoke Nat Brewster,
admiringly.
Ben Cooper paused and wiped away the perspiration which streamed from
his face.
“I knew he would, the first time I----” Suddenly he stopped and uttered
a cry; then both he and Nat drove spurs to their horses and raced
forward.
As Lafayette strove with the disorganized rabble of fleeing militia, a
mass of British suddenly appeared, emerging from the wood; their pieces
sent a volley into the fugitives, and at the discharge Lafayette fell.
Side by side Ben Cooper and the stalwart Nat Brewster swept forward;
as they neared the young Frenchman they opened a trifle, then bending
simultaneously, their horses slowing, they lifted him from the ground,
swung him across Nat’s horse--turned in the very teeth of the oncoming
British, and sped away.
Washington came up with fresh troops, and the Americans made a stand
upon a hill near Dilworth; but again they were driven back with much
loss.
Knyphausen, hearing the heavy firing, which was his signal to move in
earnest, made a rush to cross Chadd’s Ford. Wayne’s and Proctor’s
artillery began to sound and Maxwell’s riflemen picked off the advance.
General Greene was also preparing to oppose the oncoming German, when
Ezra Prentiss rode up with orders from the commander-in-chief that he
come to the aid of the right wing, which was in desperate peril.
Without the waste of a moment the division of Greene was put into
motion and never was there more rapid marching. It is said that the
brigade covered the distance of five miles in less than fifty minutes.
But, for all his gallant effort, he was too late to prevent defeat.
However, he was well in time to cover the retreat; with his field
pieces well planted he kept up a steady fire; again and again his ranks
opened to allow the blocks of fugitives to pass to the rear. It was a
spot selected by Washington the day before as an excellent one for a
stand should the army be driven from its first position, and right well
did it prove his judgment.
Cornwallis, flushed with success, came on with the exultation of a
victor; he had seen the Americans running away, and thought in the
pursuit to deal them a fatal blow. But Greene with his guns, and
Muhlenberg’s and Weedon’s brigades met them fairly and drove them
back repeatedly. Finally the British became so exhausted that Greene
saw his opportunity and drew off his men in an orderly manner; and so
threatening were his guns, so desperate the aspect of his grim ranks
that the enemy did not make any effort at pursuit. Wayne also had kept
his opponents back at the ford; and he, too, now drew off his force in
such perfect order that Knyphausen did not dare to follow.
With the Chester road so well covered as to prevent any calamity,
Washington, after a consultation with his generals, wrote a dispatch
giving a full account of the day’s fortunes and misfortunes, knowing
well that a horde of panic-stricken runaways would soon burst into
Philadelphia and spread the news of utter rout.
“Ride with all speed and deliver this to Mr. Hancock,” said the
general, upon handing the dispatch to Ben Cooper. “And do what you can
to stem the tide of false reports that will be going about.” Then as
Ben saluted and gathered up his reins, the commander-in-chief added
anxiously, to General Greene, “I trust no disorder arises in the city;
there are, as you know, many who would willingly take advantage of so
rich an opportunity.”
As Ben sped along the Chester road, his horse pushed its way, in
places, through dense masses of retreating soldiers; the broken
fragments of the army, also field pieces and baggage wagons were
flowing along in one disorganized stream, all making for Philadelphia.
At Chester, some dozen miles north of the scene of battle, was a good
sized stream which the fugitives would have to cross to reach the city.
Here young Lafayette placed a strong guard at the bridge and refused to
permit any one to cross unless properly armed with an order from some
one in authority.
With his leg swathed in bandages showing where the bullet had struck
him, the youthful Frenchman sat his horse with much difficulty.
However, sit him he did, and gave his orders like one born to the work,
never betraying a sign of pain. He recognized Ben at once as he came up
and replied to his salute, and inquired anxiously as to the complexion
of things at Dilworth.
“General Greene held them until the danger was past,” replied Ben,
cheerfully. “And it looks now as though the situation were well in
hand.”
“Ah, yes,” Lafayette said. “With us there was fortune at any rate. We
lost the battle, but,” and he gestured eloquently, “we are saved from
utter ruin; and another day we can fight again.”
Ben pushed on at top speed; all along the road he found wagons loaded
with household goods and such like, with excited men, white-faced women
and crying children trudging at their sides. The news of the defeat had
reached them, also the report that Washington’s army had been cut to
pieces and was flying in complete rout before the British. The lad did
his best to steady the men by crying out to them that Washington was
holding Howe in check.
As he passed into the city he found much the same state of things;
all day the citizens had gathered in the streets and public squares,
listening to the roar of the cannon which came plainly to their ears;
and now the fleeing families grew more numerous; terror seemed to be in
every face. The throngs recognized Ben in a moment as being one from
the battle-field; they closed around him demanding tidings.
“What news?” called one.
“How goes the fight?” demanded another.
“What’s left of the army?” questioned a third.
“How soon will the British be here?” cried another.
Ben waved a hand to them--the hand which held his dispatches.
“Make way,” he cried out, repeatedly. “Make way for the messenger to
Congress.”
“The battle! the battle!” chorused the populace. “What news from the
army?”
“The army was driven back----” A groan interrupted the boy. He
continued: “But the British were repulsed at last. The army is safe!”
The more hardy spirits found comfort in this last; but the greater part
lost none of their fear; the steady stream of fleeing families still
passed along the streets; men rushed hither and thither, preparing to
depart, women sobbed and gathered their children about them.
“To the mountains,” was the cry. “To the mountains!”
Ben leaped from his horse at the State House door; but upon inquiry he
learned that Congress was not sitting as he had expected it to be in
such a crisis. It had held a session that evening and decided to quit
the city; the next meeting of the body was to be held at Lancaster.
“But,” said the custodian, “a number of the members are now at Clark’s
Inn, just across the way; and I feel sure that you’ll find Mr. Hancock
there, also.”
Clark’s Inn was a quaint and ancient place, almost as old as the city
itself; the doors stood wide and the light streamed out upon the
stone-paved walk. Within, all was hubbub; the day’s misfortunes were,
of course, the chief topic, but the decision of Congress to quit the
city was almost as much discussed.
“What do I call it, sir?” were the first words that come to Ben’s ears
as he entered the inn. “What do I call it, do you say? Why, I call it
cowardice, sir, rank cowardice.”
The speaker was the stout Master Samuel Livingstone, whom Ben had met
with several times before. His face was mottled with excitement, and
one fat hand beat the table before him.
“Not cowardice, perhaps,” said the person to whom he addressed himself.
“Not cowardice, exactly, but rather unseemly haste.”
“It is cowardice, sir!” maintained Master Livingstone. “It is just
that, and nothing less! Was it not Congress who brought us all to the
point of resistance to the king? Was it not, I ask of you? And now
that we have resisted to the extent of all we have, what does Congress
do?” He paused, and his great face glowered at the man to whom he
was speaking. “It deserts us! No sooner does it hear of the enemy’s
approach to the city than it deserts us. The moment that the slightest
chance of danger to itself appears, it flies.”
Here the other man held up a warning finger; bending across the table
he said something in a low tone. Master Livingstone grew a little
paler in color; his manner took on a trace of anxiety.
“Hah!” said he, as his eyes went about the room, alarmed. “Yes, yes,
you are right. Perhaps I had best not go too far. I did not know,” in a
still lower tone, “that our friends voted for the removal to Lancaster.”
In a quiet corner, Ben found John Hancock and some friends soberly
talking over the momentous happenings of the day. The elegant Hancock
received the boy with the rather distant formality for which he was
known; and the dispatches were read at once.
“Somewhat too late,” said he, coldly, after reading the hasty lines to
his friends. “This matter of there being no immediate danger will have
to be acted upon at Lancaster.”
There was a slight laugh at this, for the remark was evidently intended
as a witticism.
“At a little distance inland,” spoke one of the party, also a member
of the Congress, “we can be assured of safety. For even our present
commanders will scarcely allow the enemy to penetrate that far.”
“Washington,” said Mr. Hancock, “has not failed altogether. He has
given us victories. Remember, sir, with the means at his hand he
cannot win all the time. It is too much to require of any general.”
“But action is not too much to require of a general; it is not too much
to ask the commander of an army that he have some enterprise; that he
take the initiative occasionally, that he do not always wait until the
enemy advances upon him before he makes a show of fighting.”
“Right! Right!” came a number of voices. “Quite right!”
But another member, and apparently a supporter of Washington, here
spoke out.
“I think,” said he, “you have not properly considered what Mr. Hancock
meant when he mentioned ‘the means at his hand.’” The speaker tapped
the table edge with the tip of one finger and proceeded: “When one
considers the slender supply of soldiers which present themselves for
service, one might wonder very properly where an army sufficiently
powerful to cope with England is coming from. And even the small force
which our general gathers only remains with him a short time. The term
of enlistment is so short that scarcely has a regiment reached a fair
state of discipline than it disbands--and in this constant recruiting
and training, the personnel of the army never reaches any but a most
indifferent state. And, then, the money with which the force is to be
maintained!” here the member looked about him and smiled. “What must
keep Washington going for weeks would not cover the requirements of
Howe for days. The supplies are seldom of sufficient quantity to fill
the needs of our soldiers; the men go barefoot in the ranks; the able
men lack the arms to fight with, and the sick men have not the medicine
to make them well.”
At this there arose a chorus of approval and protest; the gathered
members and their friends entered into the case with spirit and heat,
and in the clamor that followed Ben heard little more. Having had
nothing to eat since early morning, the lad, for the first time, began
to feel a trifle faint; until this the excitement had sustained him,
but the need of food was now strongly brought to his mind. So seating
himself in a quiet nook near to a window at the front of the house
he ordered a dish of eggs with bacon and well browned bread and other
comforting things. The window was raised a few inches.
When these were placed before him, he fell to with relish and will,
paying little attention to the high talk going on all about him.
Outside the inn door were several benches where patrons of the place
were accustomed to sit in pleasant weather, and as Ben gazed idly out
through the window at his elbow he found himself looking at the back of
one of these, which was so placed; and over the top of it he saw the
crown of a hat.
“Some sensible person who quietly takes the air in spite of the cold
weather,” said Ben. “All this clatter and complaining is not worth
listening to, he thinks, and so he will have none of it.”
He had about reached this conclusion, when he saw a tall figure turn
in from the street toward the inn door. At a glance the lad recognized
Tobias Hawkins; the next moment the man upon the bench had arisen to
greet the newcomer, and he, in turn, Ben knew, even in the indifferent
light and though his back was turned, as the man with the yellow smile.
CHAPTER XI
TELLS HOW BEN COOPER LISTENED TO SOME ASTONISHING REVELATIONS
From the manner of the men, it was evident that the coming of Tobias
Hawkins was no surprise to his friend. Indeed, the latter had been,
it was evident, patiently awaiting him; and now the eagerness in his
manner showed plainly that he attached some importance to the arrival.
“I had about given up all hope of you,” said the man with the yellow
smile, his first words showing the truth of the lad’s discernment.
“I said I would reach here as soon after nine o’clock as I could. To
be sure, it is somewhat after that; but I could not finish my business
earlier.”
“The hour at which it is finished,” said the other, “does not greatly
matter. The question is, how did you succeed?”
Tobias Hawkins laughed and in the sound of that laugh Ben caught
something like triumph.
“Success,” said the man, “is so easily won, that there is no credit in
it. But let us go inside where we can talk quietly.”
“It would be much better if we remained where we are,” said the other,
looking about. “The inn is filled with madmen, I think. They can do
nothing but rave over the defeat of Washington and the flight of
Congress.”
Hawkins, after a cautious glance about, seated himself upon the bench.
A small cedar in a tub concealed the window at which Ben sat; the boy
could see only the crowns of the two hats over the high back of the
bench, but the delighted sound that came from Hawkins told him that the
man was chuckling.
“Washington’s defeat,” repeated Hawkins; “ah, what a relief that was!
It altered things all about me. Trenton and Princeton and the affairs
in the Jerseys had set me a task that I sometimes despaired of, Sugden;
but this one defeat brought all the complainings to the top again. The
victories were forgotten; the commander had lost a battle, therefore
the commander was incompetent.”
“A rare good general, this Washington, I think,” said Sugden. “A
careful fighter and one that will last long--if they allow him?”
There was a laugh with this last, a mocking sort of laugh which
indicated the speaker’s disbelief in the possibility.
“With the goodness or the badness of Mr. Washington as an officer, we
personally have nothing to do,” said Hawkins. “We are paid to excite
disbelief in him; our duty is to have him supplanted by a weaker man,
so let us be about that, and bother with nothing else.”
Ben felt his heart throb heavily at this, and the blood beat about his
temples and roared in his ears. Here at last was the thing which he
had thought for so long, put plainly into words. There was a movement
on foot to displace Washington as head of the army; fearing that its
forces would not be equal to the task of subduing the aroused colonies,
the British government had set about undermining the one man whose
genius they feared in the field.
“A conspiracy,” breathed Ben. “A conspiracy conducted by this man
Hawkins!”
Now better than ever did the lad understand the actions of Tobias
Hawkins. As he thought over all the man’s doings and sayings he fancied
that they all centered in the one purpose.
“On New Year’s Eve, when I first saw him, he was but newly come to
Philadelphia to begin his plotting; and that faultfinding old fellow,
Livingstone, was just the sort of man he needed to enable him to make
a fair start; Hawkins knew that he was well connected, and much too
stupid to ever suspect that he was being used.”
The conspirators’ eagerness that same night to learn from Mr. Morris
the names of those persons who were not upon good terms officially with
Washington once more returned to the boy.
“He has found out the greater part of them by now, I suppose,” thought
Ben. “There is the adventurer Conway, the vain General Gates, and the
rather calculating Mifflin; he keeps the company of all three, and each
of them is an enemy of Washington.”
The man’s threat that night returned to Ben.
“He feared that I had discovered his identity,” he mused. “And he
thought to stop my revealing what I knew. This man whom he calls Sugden
as much as said so when I encountered him at Bristol. And the attempt
to rob the carriage of the money sacks sent by Master Morris, for I now
feel sure that Hawkins was the other party to that, was but another way
of seeking the embarrassment of General Washington.”
Hawkins was still chuckling over what were apparently pleasing
thoughts. For a time the man with the yellow smile said nothing, but as
the other seemed in no hurry to impart what he knew, he grew impatient.
“Come,” he said, “let us know what you have to tell.”
There was a pause, the chuckling ceased, and then Hawkins spoke.
“There was a time only last fall when I considered this work upon
which we are now engaged as impossible. It was Admiral Howe who first
mentioned it to me, I think, and I openly scouted it. Then Sir Henry
Clinton broached it, and at last General Howe. Each of them fancied it,
and each of them told me plainly that it was quite in my way.”
Sugden grunted.
“They were right there; everything in the line of underground effort is
in your way. I never saw any one who took more naturally to subterfuge,
wriggling through keyholes, and the gaining of men’s confidence for his
own ends.”
Tobias Hawkins laughed. This, so it seemed, he regarded as flattery.
“You are disposed to think rather well of any little talent that I may
possess, my friend,” he said. “But I paid no attention to either of the
military or naval heroes,” he proceeded; “their sort are seldom very
keen in matters that do not have to do with the movements of fleets or
divisions. However, when Lord George Germain wrote to me, begging me to
undertake the task--and mentioning a handsome sum which the government
would be disposed to pay me should I succeed--I began to seriously turn
the matter over in my mind.”
“Ah, yes, the money,” said Sugden. “Germain knew how to interest you.”
Again Tobias Hawkins laughed, in no way put out by the other man’s
candor.
“I can always be appealed to by way of my purse,” he confessed. “I find
that it’s much the better way when all’s said and done. To risk all for
the honor of one’s flag is well enough, perhaps, for some; but to mix a
few gold pieces with the honor makes it ring better to others.”
“Different minds have different fancies,” admitted the man with the
yellow smile. “But tell me, what ever made them hit upon the removal of
Washington from command as the best means of weakening the movement for
independence?”
“They knew the man, and they knew that such as he must sooner or later
clash with the petty people who were about him. Some of the newer
members of Congress are small men; Washington is a giant; and mean
natures always come to hate one superior to them. Could I gain the
confidence of the small men in Congress, thought Lord George Germain, I
would have taken a long step toward success.”
“Excellent!” said Sugden, approvingly. “Most excellent!”
“Then,” went on Tobias Hawkins, “upon my own part I knew that there
would be a certain amount of dissatisfaction in the army. Every
captain would want to be a colonel, and every colonel a general of
brigade. These dissatisfied ones I decided to select as my friends.”
The nature of the man’s plan appalled the young American; and yet he
could not help but admire its cold-blooded perfection.
“And there are enough of that sort in the army for all intents,” said
Sugden. “It did not take me long to learn that all who put on a uniform
did not do so through love of country. Gates, they say,” and Sugden
sniggered, “is the very man to bring victory to the American arms.”
“There is a thing,” said Hawkins, “which fits most excellently into
my plan. Gates is a weak man, all but mad with vanity, and jealous in
every fiber of his being of Washington. With much hard work I have
centered upon him the favor of all in Congress who are opposed to the
present commander.”
“But they are not aware, I’ll wager, that it was your hand that bent
them so,” said the other.
“They do not dream of it; each thinks the idea began with himself, and
I,” with a laugh, “am careful enough to allow them to go on thinking
so.”
“Now as to this foreign adventurer, Conway,” said Sugden; “he seems to
have advanced in favor very rapidly.”
“The opposition to Washington took him up because he dislikes
Washington; they are struck with admiration of his military talents.
I control him by the only means which could control him. He fancies,
through my hints, that Gates is but a figurehead, and when the time
comes to choose Washington’s successor, that he, himself, will be the
man.”
“Better and better,” commented the other, his tongue clicking in
admiration. “You have lost none of your cunning, I see.”
“You have heard of the change that has been made in the commissariat of
the army, I suppose?”
“Why, yes, something, I think.”
“It has been taken from the hands of those friendly to Washington.
Delays will ensue, and that will insure a poorly fed, badly clothed and
scantily cared-for following. With such a rabble, he can do nothing.
The result will be the growth of the cry ‘Give us Gates; he can save
the country!’”
“Clever,” admired the other; “very clever, upon my word!”
“It is lucky for us that Gates has succeeded Schuyler in the north,”
said Hawkins. “Schuyler has borne the brunt of the fighting up there,
and when he had so placed the pieces as to assure success, he was
removed from command, and the favorite sent in his place to reap the
fruits of his labor.”
“It is well planned,” said Sugden. “I cannot see what is to prevent the
entire movement for liberty, as they call it, from falling like a house
of cards.”
Ben Cooper had listened to this conversation with blood that was slowly
heating to a point where an outbreak of some sort must come. He did
not stop to reason as to what was best to do, as Nat Brewster or some
others of his friends would have done; but when the impulse came, he
threw up the sash, placed his hands upon the window sill and vaulted
through. Stalking round the end of the bench he suddenly confronted the
two conspirators.
“Perhaps, Master Tobias Hawkins,” said he, “the fall of the cause
against which you have worked so very expertly will not come as easily
as you think. General Washington is not without friends; and look to
yourself that it is not you, instead of he, that will come to grief.”
For a moment the two men were too astounded to speak. The position of
the bench upon which they sat, so they had apparently thought, and
the low tones which they had used, made it impossible that they be
overheard. The window behind them had escaped their attention entirely.
But Hawkins recovered himself readily enough and regarded the indignant
lad, a sneer upon his face.
“Ah, we meet again,” said he, in a low, savage tone. “It would seem
that in the end we must become more or less intimate.”
“Perhaps much more than you will care for,” said Ben Cooper. “Your
intentions and your accomplishments will make you none too popular with
Congress, the army or the public.”
“And so,” said Tobias Hawkins, slowly, “you would make known what you
have heard.”
“At the first opportunity,” said Ben, hotly.
“Perhaps,” said Hawkins, and a disagreeable smile crept across his
face, “it would be best for you to raise a hue and cry now. There are
many persons of importance in the inn; call them, charge me with what
you like!” His head bent toward the boy and one finger waved at him
mockingly. “But who, think you, would believe what you have said?”
Ben stared at the man, the truth of what he said coming like a shock.
“I am a gentleman of consequence in the community,” smiled Tobias
Hawkins, disagreeably, “and you are a wild youngster whose word is not
to be too largely credited. I have friends in the Congress, in the
army, in civil life. Everything that I have done,” and the smile grew
still more disagreeable, “has been done openly and for the good of the
country.”
“But your reasons,” flared the boy, “your reasons have been to----”
“Can you prove that?” questioned Hawkins.
“You yourself have said it,” returned Ben.
The man laughed, and his companion joined him.
“I deny that I said it,” spoke Hawkins. “And now what do you say?”
Nonplused, Ben stood for a moment, not knowing what answer to make.
Hawkins was right. Ben could prove no wrong intention behind anything
the man had done. To have plotted against Washington was no crime. Many
men in public life were doing the same thing openly, every day. Now
that it was too late, Ben saw that he had been too impulsive in making
known his presence; but though defeated, he made up his mind to have a
final fling at any rate.
“You are right,” said he, evenly enough, now that he realized the
weakness of his position. “Just now I can do nothing--in that way.”
“Ah, you see that, do you?” laughed the man.
“I do,” replied Ben. “But there is one thing which you, seemingly, do
not see.”
“And what is that?” asked Tobias Hawkins.
“The nature of the punishment awaiting known enemies found within the
lines,” said the boy, composedly.
There was a moment’s silence; then Hawkins, with a shifting in his bold
eyes which was not there a little before, said:
“I don’t quite understand.”
“It is difficult,” said Ben, “to recall a face seen in the press of
battle, more especially when that battle took place so long ago, as
did, we will say, Bunker Hill. But, sometimes, it can be done; and
frequently more than one person can recall the face. So, in your
proceedings, Master Hawkins, do not be overbold, I warn you. When one
knows a thing, as I know it, there are many ways of bringing about a
desired end.”
And with that the boy turned about and entered the inn, leaving the two
men staring after him.
CHAPTER XII
HOW STORM-STAYED GUESTS CAME TO THE INN AT RISING SUN
After leaving the two conspirators on the bench before Clark’s Inn, Ben
Cooper entered the building, sought the landlord and paid his score.
“Then you do not mean to stop here to-night,” said the host, who knew
him.
“No,” answered Ben. “It will, perhaps, be the last time I shall have
to pass with my father in many days, and I think I shall ride out to
Germantown and spend the night there.”
His horse, which had been placed in the inn stable, was brought out;
Ben mounted and struck out north, meaning finally to turn into the
Germantown road. He entered this some distance beyond the city limits;
the night was moonlit, but there was a haze hanging over everything
which waved from tree and bush, in the light breeze, like long, gauzy
streamers of white. He had gone quite some distance on his way when
at length he made out a peculiar sound, a steady rising and falling,
of which he for a long time could make nothing. Finally, however, he
understood, and laughed.
“It’s some one singing,” he said.
The sound was behind him, and coming through the waving banners of
mist, edge-lit in the moonlight, it produced a weird effect. He drew in
his horse, after a time, in order to hear the better; away in his mind
was the impression that he had heard the music somewhere before.
Nearer and nearer drew the singer, the fall of hoofs now mingled with
the song; listening, Ben at last recalled the mournful melody.
“It is one of the songs sung by Paddy Burk on the night I met him by
the Bristol road.”
Then amid the clatter of oncoming hoofs the words of the song became
plain.
“Oh, ye Irish lads of fair renown,
Come listen unto me;
And I’ll relate a bitter fate
That happened on the sea;
It was in the dark December
Upon the Baltic coast----”
Here the singer’s horse stumbled, and the song came to an abrupt
termination. Then a voice was lifted in protest.
“Arrah, what kind of a beast are you, at all, at all! Faith, you go
stumbling along like a porpoise in wooden shoes. Lift up your feet,
you good-for-nothing villain, or it’s the whip I’ll be taking to you,
though I’ve never done it before.”
Amazed, Ben called out:
“What, Paddy Burk!”
The horse and rider came to an abrupt stand.
“Who is that taking me name into his mouth?” demanded the rider, his
hand upon his pistol. “I see you there, but I can’t make you out.”
“It’s Ben Cooper,” answered the lad.
Instantly the other touched his mount, and it trotted forward.
“Arrah, now, here’s a meeting, indeed,” cried Paddy, with a rollicking
laugh. “I knew you were somewhere ahead of me, but sorra the sight did
I hope to have of you to-night.”
“But how did you come here?” asked Ben, puzzled. “You are about the
last person in the world I expected to see on the Germantown road
to-night.”
“Why, then,” spoke Paddy, humorously, “it’s meself that did not expect
to be here, either. But you see,” as their nags cantered ahead side by
side, “I were sent on to Philadelphia, too, with dispatches; I asked
for you at the inn across from the State House and was told that you
had started for your home.
“‘Well,’ says I to myself, ‘you’ve only been there once, Paddy, my lad,
but sure, I think you can find the way even at night, for never was
there a place where you were made more welcome.’”
“It’s a lonely way, and I’m glad indeed to have your company,” said
Ben, for he and the Irish boy had become the best of friends during the
months of their acquaintance. There was no more merry soul in all the
American force than Paddy; also, he was a daring rider and tireless.
In the many fights in the Jerseys he had shown himself fearless and
resourceful. During the day at Brandywine he had been with Sterling’s
brigade, in the thick of the early onset, as Ben learned as they rode
along.
“It was a great day, entirely,” declared Paddy, “and sorry was I that
we couldn’t win it. But,” hopefully, “there are other days coming, and
our day is among them, somewhere, I’m sure.”
After a little they fell into silence, and the Irish boy began to take
note of the road.
“Why,” said he, “it is a lonely place, sure enough. A while ago, as I
were coming along, I felt a bit down in the mouth, and that is why I
took to the singing.”
“If it hadn’t been for that, I’d not have recognized you,” said Ben.
“Sure, then, that is lucky enough. But,” and Paddy looked back over his
shoulder, “it’s not all good fortune me singing brought me to-night.
Faith, a while ago it nearly got me a knock on the head.”
“How was that?” asked Ben.
“As I just said, I felt a bit down in the mouth, and so started a few
bars of ‘Tatter Jack Walsh’ by way of a lilt. Never a bit of attention
I was paying to anything, but looked straight between my horse’s ears
as they stuck up before me, when lo! and behold you, I hears a voice
almost at my ear, and suddenly sees a horseman riding on each side of
me.”
“What then?” said Ben, with interest.
“My hand makes a move for the pistol in my holster, but before I could
reach it one of the men says:
“‘Keep hands off that. No harm’s meant you.’ Then turning to the other
he says: ‘I told you that a screech-owl like this would not be he.’
“Then says the other:
“‘No harm’s done in making sure. This is the road he’d take, and he’s
somewhere ahead.’
“‘Hush!’ says the other, and he made as though to clap his hand over
the mouth of the one that spoke. ‘Hush. Not another word!’”
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, and his eyes also went back over his shoulder.
“And what did you do then?”
“I put spurs to my horse,” replied Paddy, “and made away from their
companionship as hard as I could. And I promised myself as I came along
that I’d warn the person they were after if I came up with him.”
“Then, Paddy, you’ve kept your promise, for unless I am greatly
mistaken, I am that person.”
Paddy uttered a surprised exclamation.
“Now then, look at that,” said he. “Faith, it’s a thick head I have
entirely not to think of it myself. And so,” with great concern in his
voice, “it’s you they are riding to overtake?”
“I suppose,” said Ben, evading this question, “that you did not gain a
very good view of them?”
“I did not,” admitted the Irish lad, “for it were a part of the road
which were overhung by great trees, and sorra a ray of moonlight fell
upon them. But both of them were of good size, I could see that, and
they sat their horses like men used to the work.”
In a very little while the two lads reached a section not far from
Germantown known as Rising Sun; and it was here that Ben’s horse,
having been hard pressed all the day, suddenly showed symptoms of
lameness. At a little public house, which showed a glint of light in
one of the windows, they dismounted, and Paddy thundered at the door.
After a few moments it opened and a man came out, holding a light above
his head. He was a small man with a lean, crafty face and sharp eyes.
“What’s wanted?” he asked in an angry tone. “What’s this knocking,
sirs, at this time of night?”
“My horse has gone lame,” said Ben. “I want to leave him here to be
cared for, and engage another to finish my journey to Germantown.”
“You may leave your horse if you care to,” said the man. “But as for
giving you one to replace it, that is more than we can do. We have but
one, and that’s in the city to-night, gone with a load of vegetables.”
“What shall we do?” said Ben to his companion. “I can’t torture my good
beast by forcing him further.”
“There seems to be sorra the thing to do but stop here,” said Paddy
Burk, “and make the best of it.”
Ben also felt that nothing else remained to do; but somehow he had a
feeling that it would not be well. The idea of the two riders somewhere
along the road came to him unpleasantly.
“But,” he thought, trying to shake the feeling off, “there is more
to be feared afoot in the open road than there is in an honest public
house.”
He must have spoken the last few words aloud, for the sharp-faced man
held up the lantern until the rays fell full upon the lad’s face.
“Do you question the inn, sir?” he demanded, bristling. “It has had an
honest name these many years. Drovers, farmers and all those going into
and coming from the city have had bed and board here; and never was
there one to say that a wrong was done him.”
“I say nothing against your house, good man,” said Ben. “For anything
to the contrary I know, it may be the most perfect of inns.”
He gave his horse to the man, who led it to the barn. Ben and Paddy
followed, and after stripping the saddle from the animal examined the
leg. Finding that the strain was nothing serious, they rubbed it well,
bound it and saw that both beasts were fed. Then they went into the inn.
It was a shabby sort of place, dusty and ill kept; but they were so
situated that they could do nothing but make the best of it.
“What shall I get the gentlemen for their suppers?” inquired a huge,
red-faced woman as she came rolling from an inner room. “We have some
excellent ham, and some fowls well worth the price we ask for them. Try
a pair, roasted, sirs; they are that tender and young that they’ll melt
in your mouths.”
But both boys had eaten their evening meal, and said so.
“If you can give us beds, that’s all we’ll trouble you for,” said Ben.
There was some grumbling at this between the man and woman; but finally
the former lighted a candle and nodded for the lads to follow him.
“But take care of the stairs,” he said, as they ascended a crazy flight
of them; “they are somewhat old and worn, and we would not have an
accident happen for the world.”
“Why, then,” spoke Paddy Burk, as he felt, with no little trepidation,
the stairs tremble under his feet, “if you are as nervous about it as
all that, it’s queer that you don’t repair them.”
The man grinned at him over his lean shoulder.
“They don’t belong to me,” he said. “We are tenants of this place, and
the owner should make the repairs.”
They reached the second floor through a trap-door and found themselves
in a low ceilinged room with cobwebs hanging from the rafters and the
window-panes smutted and broken. Two beds of straw were upon the floor
in opposite corners, and the boys looked at them askance. However, they
were accustomed to much worse in the camp, and so said nothing.
“I’ll leave the candle with you,” said the man as he stood upon the
shaky stairs, his head and shoulders protruding through the trap. “We
rise early in the morning,” he continued, “and I suppose you’ll want to
make an early start.”
“Yes,” said Ben, “and if you do not hear us moving about, landlord,
arouse us.”
The man said that he would, lowered the trap-door and disappeared.
“If my horse is not able to travel in the morning,” said Ben to Paddy,
as they prepared for bed in the dim candle-light, “I’ll have to go on
to my father’s and get another.”
“That will require us to be stirring early then, if we expect to get
back to camp at any reasonable hour.”
Ben shook his head.
“I’m afraid the ride back will be much shorter than you think.”
“What! Do you suppose----”
“That the army is going to fall back? Yes. And,” with a sigh, “it may
continue to fall back.”
As Ben stretched himself upon the pallet, his mind was busy with the
consequences that would attend these constant retreats. The hands of
Washington’s enemies would be strengthened; should Gates meet with
a success in the north, he would stand before the unthinking as the
shining military light of the nation, and Congress might go to the
length of placing him at the head of the army. The boy’s knowledge
of military tactics was necessarily limited, but he was aware of the
almost certain fatality that would attach to this action. The powerful
intellect and unshaken fortitude of Washington replaced by the petty
vanity of Gates meant but one thing.
“Destruction,” muttered Ben. “Such a man as General Gates could not
sustain a series of disasters. He would collapse under discouragement,
and the army would melt away.”
Here Paddy blew out the candle, and crawled into bed. As he lay there,
a single spot of light upon the ceiling attracted his attention.
“What’s that?” said he, and arose upon one elbow. Ben did likewise, and
both stared at the spot of light. Then they noticed a thin beam coming
up through the floor.
“It’s a hole,” said Paddy Burk. “They still have a light below stairs,
and it’s shining through.”
As they settled back to sleep, the first heavy drops of a rainfall
set in. The pattering upon the shingles lulled them into that drowsy
state which comes before deep slumber. Through the dim avenues of this,
Ben had a consciousness that the rain had greatly increased and the
wind had lifted, and after a little he became aware that some one was
stirring without in the road. But in his dreamy condition the sounds
seemed far away. Voices were heard, but as though they were the voices
of persons in the distance. But the loud closing of a door aroused him
to a more wakeful condition; heavy footfalls were heard below, and a
voice spoke sharply to the landlord.
“I tell you, gentlemen,” said the latter, “I have no more room. The
house is a small one, and----”
“Well, you’ll have to accommodate us somehow, Master Host,” said a
voice which brought Ben to a sitting position. “There is no other place
but the ‘Waggon’ at Germantown, and that’s too far in this weather. And
to return to the city is out of the question.”
“We have but the one room for guests, sir,” stated the landlord. “That
has but two beds and they both are occupied.”
“I told you that it would be better to continue,” said another voice,
and at the sound of this Ben arose. “We still had a fair chance to come
up with him, and----”
“That will do,” said the first voice. “A still tongue would be best
suited to the occasion.”
Stepping softly across the floor Ben reached the place where the beam
of light shot upward; through the crevice in the planks he had a good
view of the public room below.
There in the center of the floor stood Tobias Hawkins, a riding whip in
his hand; and against the chimneypiece leaned the long, bony form of
the man with the yellow smile.
It was the work of an instant to awaken Paddy Burk. The Irish boy was
one of those who come out of a sleep keen and alert; and he listened
quietly as Ben whispered to him the necessary particulars as to the men
below.
“Arrah, then,” said Paddy, with a yawn, “they are the two bla’guards,
entirely.” He crept with Ben to the hole in the floor and surveyed
the two below with great interest. “And so they are the villains who
stopped the carriage with the money in it,” he whispered. “And to
think,” astonished, “that it’d be the same two whom I met to-night.
Sure the world is a small place, after all.”
“Put our horses up, anyhow,” said Tobias Hawkins to the landlord.
“And after you’ve seen them well and fed and littered, awaken these
travelers and inquire of them if they’d not share their room with two
gentlemen seeking shelter for the night.”
“Why, as for the matter of that,” said the landlord, as though the idea
appealed to him, “perhaps we might do something in that way, sirs. You
see, the two travelers are but boys, and they may be prevailed upon
to----”
But the two men stopped him with uplifted hands and forward steps.
“Boys?” said Sugden.
“What sort of boys?” asked Hawkins.
“Why, well-grown lads, perhaps of eighteen,” replied the sharp-faced
landlord. “They were on their way north on the road when one of their
horses went lame--not that of the Irish one, but the other.”
“The Irish one,” said Tobias Hawkins. “Ah!”
The two watchers above saw him exchange glances with his companion, and
they were glances full of meaning.
“We met the Irish lad on the road,” said Sugden, “but, as it chanced,
he was alone.”
“From their words in the barn, though they spoke little, I drew that
the Irish one had overtaken the other on the road.”
“As like as not,” said Tobias Hawkins. Then he asked: “Did you
perchance ask their names?”
“I did not, but it may be that my wife did.” He went to a door in the
rear and opening it called lowly: “Did you inquire of the two up-stairs
what their names were?”
The voice of the woman replied:
“No. But one of them I’ve seen before. He’s the son of Lawyer Cooper
who lives at Germantown.”
“Ah, yes,” said Tobias Hawkins, as the landlord closed the door.
“Do you know him, sir?” asked the landlord, curiously.
“Very slightly,” said Hawkins, and the watchers saw the evil smile
which he gave his friend. “Very slightly; but I am much interested in
him, nevertheless.”
“Shall I go up and see if they will share the room with you?”
“Not yet. Put our horses away.” Hawkins surveyed the man closely;
apparently he saw something in the lean face and sharp eyes which
pleased him, for he laughed, and continued: “When you return we shall
discuss their being disturbed or no.”
And when the man left the room, the two sat down by the table upon
which burned the candle; the eyes of both were turned in the direction
of the room above, and both shook with silent laughter that was not
pleasant to see.
CHAPTER XIII
SHOWS THE BARGAIN THAT WAS STRUCK BY TOBIAS HAWKINS AND HIS FRIEND
As Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk looked down through the crevice in the
floor, the two men drew together across the table and began to speak in
tones so low that the boys were unable to hear their words.
“Faith, they look like grinning imps, so they do,” commented the Irish
lad in a whisper. “Sorra another pair like them did I ever see.”
For some little time did the two continue to speak; then the landlord’s
entrance interrupted them.
“Now, gentlemen, I am at your bidding in any way that I can serve you,”
said he.
Tobias Hawkins regarded him fixedly for a short time, then he spoke.
“You have not a very large place here.”
“We would have a larger if we could,” said the man, surlily.
“But sometimes small places are very well patronized,” and Hawkins
looked about the dingy public room, plainly disbelieving that such was
the case here.
“The small places you have in mind,” spoke the lean-faced landlord,
“are very much unlike this one, then. We have not enough patronage to
hire a hostler, even though we are on a highroad to the city.”
“And the villain told us that he were patronized by all,” whispered
Paddy Burk, indignantly. “Faith, I thought it strange that he could get
so many into one cobwebby room.”
Ben pressed his arm for silence, for Hawkins was speaking.
“You will pardon the liberty I take,” said the man, “but I would not
say that you were very well off.”
“If you did say so,” spoke the landlord, “you would be saying what had
never a grain of truth in it.”
Hawkins laughed; never for a moment did his hard eyes leave the face of
the other.
“It is seldom, I suppose,” he went on, “that any one comes along who
gives you the opportunity to lay something by.”
“They never come,” declared the man, sourly. “For the most part, our
patrons are like those two,” and his finger pointed upward. “Nothing
but a lodging; not a crumb did they eat between them.”
Hawkins clicked his tongue as though greatly in sympathy with the host.
“You can make no great progress at that rate,” said he.
“A man might stay a beggar all his life if he depended upon such
trade,” spoke Sugden.
Surprised at so much sympathy, the man began to make a detailed
statement of his complaint, and was still more surprised that he was
listened to. When he had done, Hawkins spoke again.
“So it goes,” said he. “Seldom, indeed, do we get justice done us. Now
you,” cocking a knowing eye at the landlord, “are a fellow who might
make a trifle in other ways beside innkeeping. The wonder is that you
have not tried.”
“Stuck here in this place, what can I do? And nothing ever comes this
way that has any money attached to it.”
Hawkins shook his head.
“Perhaps you are wrong there,” said he. “I dare venture that many a
time there’s been a goodly sum, only awaiting the earning of it, right
here in this very room.”
“Them as had it kept it mighty close, then,” said the landlord.
“It may not have been that. Who knows but that it was you who closed
your eyes to the chance? Why, for all you can see, there may be as much
as you’d earn in a six-month, here to-night, at your hand.”
For a moment there was silence; the lean claw of the landlord stroked
his chin and his small, sharp eyes looked into those of Tobias Hawkins.
“Maybe I don’t take your meaning, sir,” said he, “and then, maybe I do.
But I will say this for myself: If there is such a sum here to-night
that I can be in the way of earning, why, I’m the man for it.”
“Excellent,” approved Hawkins. “I fancied to hear some such answer from
you.” He got upon his feet and advanced, switching his boot-leg with
his riding whip, to the chimneypiece where the landlord stood. “You
look to be a fellow of good courage--one not easily frightened.”
The man’s hand now left his chin, and his glance was swift.
[Illustration: _THE MAN SHRANK A LITTLE_]
“Now,” said he, “I think I begin to understand you. This money, sir, is
how much?”
“Thirty English sovereigns.”
The landlord’s eyes glistened in the candle-light.
“It’s a good sum, in the common way of speaking,” he said. “But,
perhaps,” shrewdly, “none too good for the work to be done.”
Hawkins bent forward and whispered in his ear; then his finger pointed
upward, as though indicating something in the room above. The man
shrank a little, and his face seemed to blanch. But his gaze remained
fixed steadily upon Hawkins.
“Ah!” said he, with a deep drawn breath, “so it is that!”
“To a man of easy manner and confidence in himself,” said Hawkins, “the
thing is no great matter. The like is done often enough, I dare be
sworn. So what harm if an odd case or two be added?”
“To such as that,” said the landlord, and the lean hand was again
caressing the pointed chin, “there is risk attached.”
“Risk!” Both Hawkins and Sugden jeered at the bare notion of such a
thing. “Surely,” continued the former, “you do not fear two----”
But the landlord stopped him.
“Not that, mayhap,” said he, “though the two are more than ordinarily
well armed.”
“Ah, well,” sneered Hawkins, “I see you are not the man for the money,
after all.”
“Wait!” The landlord held up a hand. “Just one moment, sirs. What,” and
his lean face was thrust forward, “would you have me do with the two
lads?”
“Deliver them up to us--nothing more.”
“Ah!” The landlord showed vast relief. “That is a matter of some
difference. However, my wife is here; if you’ll but give me a moment
I’ll speak to her.”
He crossed to the inner door and called his wife by name.
“There is some trifling matter of business toward,” said he. “The
gentlemen have money to pay, if we will but set ourselves to earn it.”
The huge woman rolled from the inner room with ponderous slowness.
“Money, did you say?” she inquired, with a sharp greed in her tone.
“How much, and what’s to do?”
There was a moment’s silence; then the landlord spoke slowly.
“The sum is thirty sovereigns--golden sovereigns,” his lips smacking
the last words as though the taste of the yellow metal was upon his
tongue.
“To be sure, golden ones, if they are sovereigns at all, idiot. Who
ever heard of sovereigns of any lesser metal?”
Hawkins laughed at this.
“They will be easily earned,” said he. “And we will pay, money down,
the instant the thing is over with.”
“What’s to do?” asked the woman once more.
“The gentlemen are friends to the two lads up-stairs,” said the
landlord. “And they desire that they shall be given into their charge.”
“If we are to earn the gold so easily as that,” said the woman,
eagerly, “there they sleep above. Take them and welcome.”
“Perhaps it will not be quite so easy as you think,” said Sugden.
“They, more than likely, will object to accompanying us.”
“What!” cried the woman, with a laugh, “would they so stand in the way
of our earning a trifle of money? That would be uncivil of them.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hawkins, “they would object.”
The great red face of the woman became overspread with a grin.
“It may be,” she said, “that they will not care to make their
objections very strong. We have a way with us--if you do not forbid
it--of persuading those who do not fall in with our desires.”
“Rest assured,” said Hawkins, “that we forbid nothing.”
“Ah!” The huge body of the woman seemed to quiver like a jelly as
she chuckled. “I understand you completely, now.” She turned to her
husband. “We are forbidden nothing,” she said. “Perhaps we can come
upon them much as we----”
“Be still,” said the landlord, in a low, warning tone.
But the woman only chuckled the more.
“Do you think you can make the gentlemen believe we have never
undertaken any such little matters as this before?” she said. Then
turning to Hawkins, she said, “But now that I understand you, sir, I
see that thirty sovereigns would be too little for what you expect. Be
a generous gentleman and make it fifty. Times are hard, and a thing of
this sort is both dangerous and difficult.”
“Do what I ask, and fifty sovereigns are yours,” said Hawkins.
“Spoken like the open-handed gentleman I took you for,” cried the
landlord’s wife, delightedly. “And now,” to her husband, “let us set
to to earn this prize. Do you go first, and I’ll follow after with the
light.”
“No light,” said the man sulkily, as though he did not relish being
ordered about. “A light would waken them.”
He took a number of straps down from a peg behind a door where they
hung among some odds and ends of harness. From another place he took a
short, heavy, mace-like weapon, at sight of which the woman resumed her
chuckling and shaking.
“Ah, that is the gentle persuader,” she said. “Many’s the time I’ve
silenced an over-noisy patron with it. Its reasoning is short and
sharp, my good sirs, and no one who makes its acquaintance remains
unconvinced.”
“Enough of your clacking,” said the landlord, sharply. “Let us set
about our work.”
The two lads expected to see them ascend the rickety staircase; but
in this they were wrong; for after a few brief sentences to the two
guests, the landlord and his wife disappeared through the doorway
leading to the inner room.
“Well,” whispered Ben to his companion, “what do you think of this?”
“Sure, and it’s past thinking about it I am,” said Paddy Burk. “Never
in the whole of me life did I see or hear such a lot of complete
blackguards.”
“They will be here in a moment or two,” said Ben. “How shall we receive
them?”
Paddy chuckled.
“Arrah,” said he, “it’ll be no great task to upset the landlord and his
fat wife, even though they have a bludgeon with them.”
“Don’t forget,” answered Ben, “that there remain the two down-stairs.
If the landlord fails they will not long be idle.”
“Right,” agreed Paddy. “But, sure, we have no call to be afeered of
them, either. Let them come, and it’s a warm reception we will try and
give them.”
Then they waited in silence for further developments. Ben listened
intently for the approach of the pair who were stealing upon them from
somewhere in the darkness. The lad had noticed no doors in the room,
save the one in the floor, and was puzzled to know just how they were
to be approached.
However, both he and Paddy Burk drew on their clothing while they
waited; and when this was done, an idea struck Ben.
“We’d better have a light ready, so that we may get a sight of them
when they arrive,” said he.
“But that would throw us wide open to a shot from hiding,” protested
Paddy.
“We’ll arrange that,” spoke Ben.
With his tinder and flint carefully muffled he soon had a light; then
with a burning candle screened behind a coat in such a way that the
only illumination was thrown upon the far wall, they renewed their
waiting.
It was some time before they caught any sound; and when it came it
was apparently from without. The rain was still falling briskly;
occasionally the thunder pealed and the sheets of pale lightning flared
across the broken panes. Paddy Burk, whose ear also detected the
movement outside, whispered:
“Faith, it’s a ducking they are willing to take, to come at us.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Ben in the same low tone. “Here we are
on the second floor, and yet the sounds are seemingly just outside the
rear windows. I’m going to find out about it.”
He crept softly across the room to the point where he knew the rear
windows to be. Then he carefully lifted his head and peered out. In
a few moments the lightning flared again, giving him a glimpse of a
rain-drenched roof which was almost even with the sill; and stealing
across this toward the windows at one of which he stood, was the
sharp-faced landlord; through an open door in the roof the huge,
red-faced woman struggled clumsily. At sight of these Ben retreated to
where Paddy crouched in the shadow.
“They are coming,” he whispered.
In a very few moments they heard a creaking at one of the windows, and
then a long pause. It were as though the person without had caught
sight of the dimmed light of the screened candle and was carefully
examining it. Apparently satisfied, however, the creaking at the window
resumed; a gust of damp air showed that a sash had been thrust open.
Then a sound of another sort told them that some one had slid into the
room.
Softly, slowly and carefully, footsteps advanced in the darkness;
and when, in Ben’s judgment, the intruder had reached the center of
the floor, his waiting hand drew aside the coat and the candle-light
streamed about.
There stood the landlord, arrested in his next step by the
disconcerting illumination; in his hand he held the bludgeon with which
he had purposed to stun the expectedly sleeping boys; and framed in the
open window was the huge, red face of his wife.
Seeing that he was detected, the landlord leaped forward with a snarl;
but with a single blow of his pistol butt, Ben Cooper struck him down.
At sight of her husband’s fall, the woman burst into a dreadful screech
of rage; and in the midst of this the boys heard the sudden rush of
feet below them; and the creaking and groaning of the infirm staircase
told them that Tobias Hawkins and the man with the yellow smile were
leaping upward.
CHAPTER XIV
HOW BEN AND PADDY BURK MADE AWAY FROM THE HOUSE OF DANGER
When Ben Cooper heard the two men come plunging up the crazy old
stairs, his active brain at once began to cast about for a means of
defense. The landlord was struggling to his feet, the blow, perhaps,
having been a glancing one.
“Open the trap,” cried Ben.
Though he did not understand why, Paddy instantly did as he was bidden.
And as he was doing so Ben grasped the landlord. The man struck out
wildly, but the lad was behind him and held him fast.
“Down with him,” said Ben, swiftly.
And Paddy, now grasping the idea, also seized the man; with a heave
they raised him from his feet. The woman shrieked and strove to climb
in at the window; then the landlord shot through the trap-door full
upon the oncoming men on the stairs. And this latter structure,
infirm as it was, could not bear the sudden shock of the impact; with
a splintering crash the supports gave way; stairway and men went down
amid a cloud of dust, and a chorus of startled shouts.
Paddy Burk, as he clapped to the trap-door, laughed gleefully.
“Why, then,” said he, “he never made such a hasty going down-stairs of
it in his life before. And the other two were fair surprised at his
haste, by the looks of their faces when he met them.”
“You villains,” wheezed the woman, who, seeing that success was
impossible, had ceased her efforts to enter by the window. “You have
killed him.”
“Arrah, that would be the unlucky thing, entirely,” commented Paddy.
“Sure, the like of him were intended for the gallows, and it’s a shame,
so it is, that it should be cheated of him.”
While the woman was panting forth some sort of an answer to this, a
gust of wind extinguished the candle, and under cover of the darkness
they heard her withdraw across the roof, and go groaning through the
scuttle. Now that their own light was out, that which came through
the crevice in the floor was plain once more; and acting upon the same
impulse, both boys looked down into the room below.
From the heap of débris formed by the collapsed stairway, the three men
were just arising, and their voices were raised in bitter exclamations
against those who had been the cause of their mishaps.
“They were awake,” declared the landlord as he rubbed his hurts and
limped about. “They overheard what we were saying and were waiting for
me.”
“You’re a numskull!” stormed Tobias Hawkins. “Why did you not say that
there was some chance of their hearing us?”
“How was I to know that they were not asleep?” groaned the man. “Oh, my
head, my head!”
“It’s a thousand pities that he didn’t break your head,” growled
Sugden, trying to remove the traces of the fall from his clothes. “But
come,” his eyes glowing evilly, “show us the way you reached them; this
time they’ll not come off first best, I promise you.”
The boys, as they watched, saw the man take out a heavy pistol.
“This way to the ladder that leads to the loft,” said the landlord,
pointing to the inner door; “then to the roof itself, and----”
“Enough of that!” here broke in Tobias Hawkins. The watchers saw him
gesture upward with one hand, as though warning them that if the lads
had heard what they had planned previously, they would be likely to do
so again. Then the man began speaking in a low tone which neither Ben
nor Paddy could catch distinctly. While he talked the landlord secured
a short-barreled musket from a closet, and Sugden examined his pistol
with attention. A great deal of Hawkins’ low-voiced talk seemed to be
the asking of questions; the landlord answered with much gesturing and
pointing. And while this was in progress the huge landlady come rolling
in, and with great spirit and panting eagerness entered into whatever
plans were being made.
“As I look at her,” said Paddy Burk, “faith, I see not a one of them
who’s more anxious to do us harm than she is.”
“They all seem determined enough to me,” said Ben, dryly. “And I think
it’s time for us to take some steps to meet them. It will be no great
while now before we have that short musket and those pistols looking in
our faces.”
Once more the candle was lighted and the two boys looked about the room
carefully. There were six windows in all; two of these overlooked the
roof in the rear from which the landlord had entered; two were at the
front with the porch roof directly underneath.
“They can come upon us as easily from the front as the rear,” said
Ben. “These two windows on the side,” going to them, candle in hand,
“overlook the yard which we crossed in going to the barn.”
Paddy Burk peered out at one of these.
“It’s not much of a drop to the ground,” said he, recklessly.
“There is a stone pavement which might serve to cripple us,” said Ben.
“Now these,” and he bent forward, “might help us to avoid an injury.”
So saying he picked up a number of long straps from the floor. They
were the same that the landlord had brought, apparently with a view to
trussing them up; and when he had fallen under the pistol butt he had
dropped them.
“The luck,” quoth Paddy, “is with us to-night. Sure, here we are with
the way of escape placed at our hands by the very blackguard that would
be the first to send a shot after us.”
Carefully knotting the straps together, they fastened one end to a
rafter, the other they dropped out at a window; then they collected
their belongings and prepared to depart. After they had extinguished
the candle, they stood for a moment, listening; there were careful
footsteps below and the sound of a door opening and closing.
“They are making ready,” said Ben, in a whisper.
With his pistol in one hand Paddy crept out at the window and slid down
the leather rope. A moment later and Ben had followed him, and again
they stood listening. From the front came a faint scrambling noise, and
Ben grasped his friend’s arm.
“There’s some one climbing the porch,” he whispered. “Some one will
also make for the rear windows----”
“And would draw our attention--if we were here,” interrupted the astute
Paddy. “And while we were watching, or fighting with them, those from
the front would jump in on us.”
In the barn they quickly found their horses, and led them out. To
prevent possible pursuit and a shot in the dark, Ben also brought out
the horses ridden by Hawkins and Sugden. One of these he saddled for
himself, intending to lead his own lamed animal; then they mounted.
As they did so, there came a sudden crash from the upper story of the
inn. Looking up they could make out nothing, for the night was thick.
“They have burst in the windows at the back,” said Ben.
And at that instant, as though to prove that he had judged correctly a
few moments before, there came a second crash. There was a jingle of
glass upon the tavern porch, a shout and the sound of stamping feet.
Then a light flared up in the windows through one of which they had
just passed.
“Suppose,” said Paddy, always ready for an adventure or a lark, “that
we give them some small idea as to where we are.”
Then, actuated by a common impulse, they drew their pistols and sent
a crashing volley through the lighted squares of glass above. As the
windows splintered before the discharge, a chorus of startled cries
arose, and then with shouts of laughter at their parting jest, the two
boys clapped spurs to their horses and went galloping away through the
rain.
CHAPTER XV
TELLS OF MUCH FIGHTING AND ALSO HOW JOHNSON QUINSEY MADE HIS APPEARANCE
General Lord Howe had demonstrated on many occasions since he had taken
command of the king’s army that he was a man of small enterprise;
more than once had his failure to follow up an advantage permitted
Washington’s force to recuperate after receiving a staggering blow.
After Brandywine the same thing occurred. Howe, instead of pursuing
the flying Americans as a commander of proper spirit would have done,
camped upon the field of battle, remaining there two days.
Washington retreated through Darby, and crossed the Schuylkill to
Germantown, where his army had a brief rest. Then, with the idea that
Philadelphia must not fall even though Congress had deserted it, he
made up his mind to advance once more and offer battle to the British.
Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk had rejoined the army before it crossed the
river; and now, when it began to move once more, were among the light
horse which had been sent on in advance. During the stop at Germantown,
Ben had gathered his friends in their tent and told them in detail
of the conversation which he had heard at Clark’s Inn between Tobias
Hawkins and his companion. They all listened with great attention and
interest, and when he had finished Ezra Prentiss said:
“So this is the explanation of it. I knew there was envy of Washington
among some of the other officers, and I heard that there was jealousy
of him, in a certain faction of Congress. But the reason for these
coming together and making a common cause against him, I had not known
until now.”
“They would risk ruining the country in order to further their own
ends,” ejaculated George Prentiss, indignantly. “With the same breath
that they vote starvation to a faithful army, they declare themselves
patriots.”
“What a change a few years can make in men,” bemoaned Ben. “The first
Congress was made up of giants who had nothing but freedom from
tyranny in their minds, while this present one is composed, so it would
seem, of some of the smallest spirits in the land.”
Nat Brewster, always the most thoughtful of the four, had not said a
great deal; but that night he sought out General Greene and to him
imparted Ben’s story. The grave-faced Rhode Islander listened with
every evidence of interest.
“Whom did you say overheard this talk?” he inquired when Nat had
finished.
“Cooper.”
“Ah! Then we can rely upon the report.” There was a short silence; then
the general said: “I will bring the matter to the attention of the
commander-in-chief. In the meantime, do you keep silent regarding it
and warn your friends to do likewise.”
However, though Ben expected to be summoned to headquarters, nothing
developed that the boys could see. Notwithstanding this, he felt that
below the surface of things a change must be taking place--that the
commander and his trusted friends were forewarned, and would now be
better prepared to cope with the insidious danger creeping upon the
states.
As he marched south once more, Washington left a body of Pennsylvania
militia to guard the city; a number of other detachments held the
various fords of the Schuylkill; orders were given to unmoor the
floating bridge at the south road; every boat upon the west bank was
taken to the east, and so an attack was guarded against from this
direction. Down the Lancaster road pushed the Americans, horse, foot
and artillery, the intention being to outflank the enemy. Howe’s
scouts, however, brought him news of this movement, and he at once
proceeded to dispose his army so that he might in turn outflank the
Americans. About a score of miles from Philadelphia at a place called
Warren’s Tavern, the two armies came face to face; but before more
than a scattering fire could be exchanged, a deluge of rain descended,
so wetting the ammunition of the patriots that the attack had to be
abandoned.
Along the streaming roads and under a ceaseless downpour the army once
more took up its march of retreat. At Warwick Furnace, which stood
near French Creek, a halt was made, and the chilled soldiers given a
chance to dry themselves and their ammunition. From this place General
Wayne set off with his division to endeavor to form a junction with
some Maryland troops which were known to be somewhere in the rear of
the British. Two nights later, while hanging upon the left of the
enemy, Wayne was surprised by a powerful party under General Gray. Into
the camp of the unsuspecting Americans plunged the British, firing no
shot, but trusting to the bayonet for their work of death. In this
fight three hundred of Mad Anthony’s men were killed, and the remainder
fled.
And it was only a short time after this that Howe marched toward
Reading as though to seize the American stores gathered in that town.
Upon the opposite side of the river Washington kept him in sight. Some
two-score miles above Philadelphia, the British made an unexpected
move in the night. A swift countermarch, a crossing of a ford, and
next morning he was between Washington and the city, which he now
proceeded to occupy without resistance. There was a parade of troops
through Philadelphia--the second within a few weeks--but how vast was
the difference between the two. The first was that of an unkempt,
semi-rabble, unshaven, ragged, badly armed, and with little training;
the second was brilliant with gorgeously uniformed officers, shining
with brass and gleaming with steel; the disciplined troops marched
in steady, solid columns; powerful batteries trailed at the heels of
great English horses; dragoons, mounted upon fiery chargers, pranced
along in seemingly endless ranks. Little wonder if those true to the
cause remaining in Philadelphia were shaken with doubt at this splendid
display of British power; the Tories were exultant; the patriots looked
on with brooding eyes, defiant still, but with despair in their hearts.
Everywhere the detractors of the commander-in-chief of the American
army were busy; in the streets and public places of the city, and the
towns round about; in the country roads when men met, and in inns where
travelers foregathered, the bitter venom of petty spirits was heard,
the brutal criticism of minds uninformed upon the points at issue was
loud and long.
“We provide him with an army, and he uses it to race the roads with,”
would be the cry of one.
“He has trained it to run from the British, and not to fight them,”
declares another.
“Give us a general who has a knowledge of the country’s needs,”
implores a third. “Washington will remain without striking a blow for
so long that we shall be too weak, finally, to ever strike it.”
“Give us Gates as a leader,” proclaimed the friends of that general,
“and the country will be saved.”
“Lee would be the man,” cried still another faction who held that
general in much esteem. “If Lee were only not a prisoner of the
British.”
And so it went, seeming to gather strength each day. Statesmen spoke
publicly of the weakness, as they styled it, of Washington; and urged
their fellow members in Congress to depose him.
“He has shown his unfitness to command the nation’s forces from the
beginning,” they said. “But in nothing has it been more openly shown
than in the campaign just closing. He has wasted a month in fruitless
marching and countermarching.”
To all but those who had the entire field of action in mind, this
last seemed true. But to the few who knew the broad purpose of the
great general it was the charge of gross ignorance. A month had been
used, indeed, but it had not been wasted. Away in northern New York
the powerful army of Burgoyne had slowly moved southward, driving the
Americans before it through the wilderness. Day after day the patriots
had fallen back before the allied British, Hessians and Indians, and
day after day they drew them further from their base. It had been the
understanding between Howe and Burgoyne that the former was to make a
rush upon Philadelphia, take it and then send a huge reinforcement to
the aid of the latter. But Washington understood this and kept Howe so
busily engaged that he could not afford to send any of his force to
form the junction with his fellow general; and now, because of this
failure, Burgoyne was facing a mass of New York and New England troops
with every prospect of defeat.
“It is shameful!” declared young Lafayette, in his broken English. “It
is unjust and unfair! They do not understand, and yet they will not
hold their peace.”
As far as could be seen, all this clamor had no effect on Washington;
he calmly looked over the prospects before him, disdaining the petty
natures which threw themselves in his way; and before long he saw an
opportunity to strike a blow which might undo all that Howe had gained.
Ben Cooper and George Prentiss rode into the American camp on the
Skippack Creek one afternoon early in October. They had come upon news
of an important movement and were in haste to bring it to headquarters.
“A large body of the enemy have been sent against the Delaware River
forts,” was their report; “and another, almost as large, is conveying
provisions; the camp at Germantown is none too strongly manned.”
That very night the army was under arms and advancing upon Germantown,
where Howe was encamped; Philadelphia, some miles away, was in charge
of Cornwallis and another force. Four columns streamed through the
October dusk along as many roads; two were to attack the enemy’s
center, the others were to leap upon either flank.
At dawn on the fourth of October, the onset was made; the columns
consisting of Sullivan’s, Wayne’s and Conway’s commands plunged at the
enemy as the pickets sounded the alarm. A battalion of infantry and
Musgrave’s veteran regiment felt the lead and steel of Mad Anthony’s
men, who burned to avenge their defeat at Paoli; back went the British
unable to steady themselves against the shock. But Musgrave threw
himself and a few hundred men into Chew House, barricaded the doors
and windows and prepared for defense. Musket and grape-shot tore holes
in the British, still retreating in spite of the pleadings of General
Howe, who had sprung from his bed when he heard the confusion of the
flight.
But instead of leaving a small force to cope with Musgrave and his
improvised fortress and following Howe, the American column came to
a stand and spent the greater part of a half hour in the endeavor to
take it. This delay gave the British time to collect themselves; and
when the Americans did finally press on, they met with a determined
resistance; also a dense fog settled upon everything and they could not
recognize friend from foe; different detachments would come upon each
other and begin a destructive fire which would do great harm before
either learned the other’s true quality. And finally, when a cannonade
away in the rear was opened upon Musgrave’s men in Chew House, the
division under Wayne became panic stricken, thinking an enemy had
gotten behind them. Headlong they fled, and in their flight encountered
another brigade in the fog under the American general, Stephens, who
took them for an attacking enemy, and also began to retreat. Then
confusion sprang up everywhere, until seeing that it was useless to
continue an enterprise so stricken with disorder, Washington, who had
been in the heaviest of the fight, ordered a retreat, and the army
disappeared in the fog with the cavalry, under the soldier-like Count
Pulaski, covering its rear.
This spirited, but apparently unsuccessful dash upon the enemy was
followed by excellent results. It taught the British that they could
not be sure of their ground for a day at a time and so restricted their
operations to a limited area about the city. But the enemies of the
commander-in-chief did not, of course, take this view of the matter;
it was a new repulse, they said, and their clamor for his removal grew
louder than before.
A few days later, the Hudson River forts, Clinton and Montgomery,
fell before the wily attack of the enemy; then Fort Constitution was
abandoned, and the great waterway was open to the enemy as far as
Albany. But Clinton neglected to take advantage of this opportunity to
go to the aid of the fated Burgoyne; the result was that, on October
17th, that general gave up his sword to Gates at Saratoga.
When this later news filtered through to the American camp it added
fuel to the fires already so fiercely burning.
“There will scarcely be any holding them now,” said Ben Cooper, as he
discussed the matter with his friends. “Gates will be a national hero,
and the cries for him will be redoubled.”
“They say that General Gates is so inflated by his success that
he deemed it beneath him to make a report of his victory to the
commander-in-chief.”
“His victory, did you say, young gentleman?” spoke a heavy voice almost
at the boy’s elbow. “The victory of General Gates? Well, well----” and
here the words were lost in a laugh.
The army of Washington was at this time occupying a strong position
among the wooded heights at Whitemarsh, some distance from
Philadelphia; the afternoon was cold and the boys were clustered about
a camp-fire in the shelter of a hill. At sound of the words and the
jeering laugh that followed them, they turned curiously, and saw a
short, stocky man in horseman’s dress, standing near by. And as they
turned he nodded his head good-naturedly and moved nearer to the fire.
“If it does not inconvenience you,” he said, “I’ll share a bit of the
blaze with you, for I’ve had a cold, long ride, and I’m fair chilled
through.”
The lads made room for him willingly enough; he seated himself upon a
log and spread his strong, short-fingered hands out to the black-tipped
jets of light that leaped from the green wood.
“The victory of General Gates, says you!” Again the man laughed and
again he nodded his head. “Ah, yes, yes, that’s what it will be called;
but, between us all, and in confidence, mind you, Gates had no more to
do with the beating of Burgoyne than either one of you.”
“You mean,” said Ben Cooper, “that Schuyler prepared the way--roused
the countryside--bore the hardships that went before and all that.”
The man nodded.
“I see you understand that part of it, and, believe me, young
gentlemen, it’s true as gospel. Schuyler wore his heart out trying
to get men to stand to the cause; he worked night and day breaking
the British strength bit by bit, and when it was all ready for him to
strike, Congress removes him and sends Gates.”
“And it is because of this,” said Nat Brewster, “that you say Gates
had no more to do with it than either of us.”
“That would be enough, indeed,” answered the man in the riding dress.
“But, as it happens, it is not at all the chief reason for what I say.
We of the army of the north hated to see General Schuyler go, but if we
had received a fighter in his place we would not have cared so much.”
Ezra Prentiss regarded the speaker with interest.
“So,” said he, “you are of the northern army.”
“I am,” said the man. “My name is Johnson Quinsey, and I come from the
neighborhood of Fort Edward. It may interest you all to know,” and
again his good-natured smile went from one to another about the fire,
“that I am the courier who brought General Gates’ report to Congress.”
There was a stir among his young listeners, and George Prentiss asked:
“Then, perhaps, you took part in the Saratoga fight?”
“That I did,” replied the courier, his hands held out to the blaze,
“that I did, young gentleman, and a tolerable fight it was. But Gates
you hear of, only--Gates! Gates! they cry wherever I go. But it’s
naught but the plain truth when I repeat it; Gates had no more to do
with the victory than either of you.”
“But he directed the course of battle,” said Nat Brewster.
But Johnson Quinsey held up one hand.
“It’s a sore thing to say against an American leader,” spoke he, “but
he might as well--aye, much better--have stopped at home. Schuyler,
like the honest high soul that he is, took him by the hand when he
came--never a thought of jealousy had he in his mind for the man who
was taking his place. But Gates, when he held a council of war, invited
some inconsequential officers to take part; and General Schuyler was
ignored.”
A murmur went around among the boys.
“And when the fight began at Bemis Heights did our General Gates lead
his men? No! such dangers he left to others. Like a fine gentleman he
took his ease in his camp, well removed from the field. Arnold had to
beg permission to begin the battle.”
“A brilliant officer that General Arnold,” said Nat, admiringly, and
Johnson Quinsey nodded.
“There is none more able or daring in the whole army. A hard man he is,
with a cruel eye and the temper of a fiend; but he wins battles that
for others would be defeats. As it stands, he is the real victor of
Saratoga, if you must pick any single man.”
There was a short silence; then the man went on:
“The first fight shattered Burgoyne’s force badly. Arnold had been in
the thick of it, and knew this, and when morning came he once more
besought Gates to let him advance. But Gates would not. He felt that he
had a victory in his hands and his little spirit was vexed at what he
thought interference. You should have seen him swell like a turkey cock
and rear his head. His empty vanity maddened the other; I was close by
and saw the red rage in Arnold’s eyes. In a fury he demanded a pass
to go to General Washington’s camp; and, afraid of his genius, Gates
gladly gave it to him.”
“But he did not use it?”
“No; I suppose calmer thought told him that it would not look well to
leave the army in the face of the enemy, so he remained, though his
command was given to General Lincoln. For two weeks he fretted and
fumed, and for two weeks Gates preened himself like an empty-headed
dandy. And when the second battle was raging, Arnold, burning to show
his zeal and display the wrongs that had been done him, suddenly
emerged from his tent, leaped upon a horse and dashed toward the
place where the roar of the guns told him the engagement was the most
desperate.”
Here Johnson Quinsey grimaced and laughed.
“They say,” he proceeded, “that Gates, as before, taking his ease in
camp while others did the fighting, saw Arnold dash away, and filled
with alarm, sent an aide speeding after him to forbid his taking part
in the battle.”
“But the aide did not overtake him, I’ll warrant you,” said George
Prentiss, his eyes shining.
“He might as well have pursued the wind; Arnold rode his great brown
horse ‘Warren,’ and in a little while was careering through a sleet
of bullets from friend and foe to reach his old command. In quiet
times in camp General Arnold is no gentle officer; but in the fight
his men think him unbeatable. So when they saw him, though he had
no right to command them, they shouted for joy; he threw himself at
their head and led them like a band of demons at the enemy. Nothing
could stand before him; he raged up and down the field like a madman,
the British and Hessians flying before his plunging brigade as though
its very aspect struck terror to their hearts. Rushing up to the very
muzzles of the Hessians’ muskets at a stockade, he drove them out, but
fell with a shattered leg. And,” here Johnson Quinsey laughed grimly,
“General Gates’ messenger came up to him, as his men were bearing him
to the rear in a litter. But it was too late to do any harm. Arnold had
already won the battle.”
For quite some time the boys sat discussing the surrender of Burgoyne;
then a trooper came up, calling:
“Cooper! Cooper! To report to headquarters at once!”
Ben arose.
“It’ll be a cold night for the saddle,” smiled he, “but then, we can’t
choose our weather.”
He had departed, with a wave of his hand, and had proceeded some
hundred yards or more upon his way, when he heard a step in the snow at
his side; and glancing up, he recognized the courier, Johnson Quinsey.
“Your pardon,” said the man, and in the rays of a near-by camp-fire,
Ben noted an intent expression upon his face. “I heard you answer to
the name of Cooper?”
“That,” said Ben, “is my name.”
“Benjamin Cooper?” The man’s head bent a trifle nearer, as though to
show the increase of his interest.
“The same,” answered the boy.
There was a brief pause, then the man said:
“It is odd how chance guides one’s footsteps, at times. When I
approached that fire where you sat I had no thought of meeting with
you, and yet it was the hope of seeing you, alone, that brought me to
this encampment.”
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH BEN MEETS A STRANGER AND HEARS OF THE INN WITH THE GREEN LIGHT
For a space after Johnson Quinsey spoke these surprising words, Ben
remained looking at him, steadily, but in silence. At length he spoke:
“I am honored, indeed, Master Quinsey, to know that I am considered
worthy of the trouble it must have cost you to get here.”
Johnson Quinsey waved his hand.
“Let us not start with any misunderstanding,” said he, with engaging
candor. “The fact is, I did not know that such a person as yourself
existed before two days ago. Another thing, it is a matter of business,
and not yourself that brings me; so you see there is no great honor
attached to the matter.”
Ben laughed; there was something about the courier’s blunt way of
speech which he liked.
“Why, as to that,” said the boy, “of course I am vastly disappointed.
But we’ll pass that by and come to the business without any parleying.
I am wanted at headquarters.”
Johnson Quinsey smacked his boot-leg smartly with his thick-stocked
whip.
“For a lad,” said he, “you have a clever knack of promptness. I noted
that when you answered the call, and I was pleased with it.” He stood
gazing at the boy, reflectively. “But,” he resumed, musingly, “I had
no notion when I first heard your name that it was that of such a
stripling.”
“The stripling stage,” said Ben, good-humoredly, “will pass if given
time, Master Quinsey. And remember,” smiling, “that years alone do not
give wisdom.”
“Well do I know that, young gentleman,” said the other; “well indeed
do I know it. I have seen them who are three times your years, and not
once have they been spoken of as I have heard you spoken of.”
[Illustration: “_I AM SUMMONED TO HEADQUARTERS_”]
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, “it’s a grave pleasure to be well spoken of by
distant friends. Walk along with me to headquarters.”
“Ay, that it is,” and the tone of the man’s voice was slightly
mocking. “That it is, my lad. But what if you should hear that you
were ill spoken of, and that the distant ones were not friends?”
“In that case,” said Ben, promptly enough, “I should say that it were
all one. To have enemies speak evil of one is to show that one is at
least worthy of their ill will.”
“If all that I’ve heard,” said Johnson Quinsey, “be taken at its face
value, you are ill thought of, indeed, in certain circles. But,” and
the man’s face grew grave and his tone lost its lightness, “it was not
mere ill speaking only that I marked. They fear you; and where such as
they fear, there is danger.”
“For the person feared?” said Ben.
“Exactly. And their arms are long, young gentleman, and their clutch
is strong. They are not ones to be despised, these enemies of yours at
York.”
“At York!” said Ben. The Congress was now meeting there. His eyes took
on a glint that the other noted immediately. It was that sparkle which
comes with expectation.
“No less a place,” said Johnson Quinsey. Then regarding the boy
steadfastly, he continued: “It may be that you could, if you so
desired, name one or more of these.”
“I fancy that I could name one at least,” said Ben. “And, perhaps,”
returning the man’s look, quietly, “there might be two whom I could
select.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps there might,” said Johnson Quinsey, encouragingly.
“And to venture so far----”
“Tobias Hawkins,” spoke Ben.
“Excellent,” approved the man. “Once more.”
“A long man with an evil smile; his name is Sugden.”
“Better than ever,” applauded Johnson Quinsey. “It is something indeed
to know two such as these, especially,” with a nod of the head, “when
they hold such thoughts as I’ve heard them express of you.”
“But,” said Ben, “there were some others, I believe, judging from your
tone.”
“A very few, but quite select enough to please any one,” said the
man. “You have no need to feel ashamed of the quality of the enemies
you have made. A member of Congress or two, a colonel much thought of
in certain circles, and some gentlemen of note who are not openly
connected with the affairs of the nation.”
“They honor me too much,” said Ben. “But,” in another tone, “as you
know, I am summoned to headquarters, and must not delay. At another
time I will see you and speak with you on this subject.”
“Another time may not come for many a day,” said the man. “And then,
doubtless, it would be too late. What I have to say must be said now if
it’s to do you any good, for I ride north at daylight to rejoin Gates.”
Ben looked at the speaker inquiringly; the man’s aspect was grave;
indeed, he had all the appearance of one who bore sober tidings. After
a little space, Johnson Quinsey resumed:
“To relate in detail all that has come to my knowledge would take
more time than you now can give, and, perhaps, would be of no benefit
either. So, then, I will tell you what I must tell, in a very few
words.” He laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “These men fear you
for the things that you know, and to which you alone can testify.
There is a plot which is intended to place you in their power. What it
is I do not know. But its workings will be secret, and the lure will be
one totally unexpected by you.”
“There are many such just now,” said Ben, bitterly. “Indeed, Master
Quinsey, those given to plotting seem to exceed those willing to fight.”
“Do you know any one of the name of Seaforth?” asked Johnson Quinsey.
“I do,” said Ben. “A young fellow of my own age, and a courier much
used by headquarters.”
“Ah, I see!” The man looked at him with sober eyes. “Well, Master
Cooper, take care of this young Seaforth, for he is somehow engaged
with your enemies. Another thing: Do the words ‘Crossed keys’ suggest
anything to you?”
Ben shook his head.
“In some way they, also, are to play their parts, though just how is
more than I can say. However, young gentleman, beware of Seaforth and
of anything having to do with ‘crossed keys.’ More than that I cannot
tell you, and in parting I can only wish you luck.”
Ben grasped the courier’s outstretched hand.
“I thank you,” he said, gratefully. “I understand very well that harm
is meditated, for these men have attempted such before; but how they
propose to set about it this time is more than I can imagine. However,
Master Quinsey, I will keep Seaforth in mind and also the ‘crossed
keys.’ Perhaps they will be the beginning of a clearer understanding.”
“I trust that it shall prove so,” said the rider; “and now, good-bye.”
With another hand-grasp the two parted, one walking off among the
camp-fires, the other making his way toward headquarters.
Once at the latter place, Ben was greeted by a businesslike aide.
“Cooper,” said he, “we are instructed to send a brace of couriers for
special service at York. The man asked for is now absent, and I intend
sending you in his place. The choice of a second horseman is left to
him for some reason, and this privilege I will pass on to you. So
select your man; your orders will be given you when you are ready to
depart.”
“To-night?” asked Ben, his hand at a salute.
“At once,” replied the officer, briefly.
In a half hour Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk were standing on the cold
porch at headquarters, while their horses stamped in the snow. The
bareheaded aide from the open doorway spoke to Ben:
“You are to report to the secretary of Congress; what service you are
to render he will be able to say.”
With that Ben and his friend saluted and mounted; then they sent their
nags at a canter along the darkening road.
“It’s no night to be taken away from a comfortable fire,” shivered the
Irish lad as he drew up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down
to protect him from the keen wind.
“Adventures are to be had at night, Paddy,” laughed Ben. “Don’t forget
that.”
“Why, then,” said the other, “it’s the truth you speak, so it is. A
ruction is a fine thing at any time; but at night--especially on a
dark, cold night--there seems to be more enjoyment in it.”
The horses’ hoofs beat steadily upon the frost-bound road; mile after
mile they put behind them; the few houses to be met by the way were
dark; their inhabitants seemed deep in sleep.
“Faith,” said Paddy, after a long silence, “it’s a queer thing entirely
to have a couple of gossoons ride all the way from Whitemarsh to York
to, maybe, carry a parcel of letters somewhere else. Could they get no
ready lads at their hands, sure?”
“Special service of some sort,” said Ben. “It can be nothing of any
great haste, however, for it will take some little time for us to get
there.”
They clung to the Lancaster road, and as raiding bodies of British
were frequently seen upon this highway, the boys kept a watchful eye,
and saw to it that their pistols were ready to hand. As the night wore
on, it grew, if anything, colder; the road seemed deserted save for
themselves.
Ben had made up his mind to this, when suddenly he chanced to notice,
some little distance to one side, a flicker of light. He was about to
remark on its queerness when Paddy spoke:
“Hello! Is it a light I see there?”
“It is,” said Ben.
“Why, then,” spoke Paddy, “it’s queer conduct it do be having, so it
is. Do you mind the little jumps it gives, as though it were trying to
call out to us?”
Ben’s eyes were upon the light as his companion spoke, and he felt that
Paddy had described the idea conveyed by the light exactly. It moved in
short, rapid circles for a moment; then it would wave to and fro, and
up and down.
“If it had a voice it would call to us,” said Ben with a laugh. “I
never saw anything so mutely eloquent. It must be a signal of some
sort.”
“The British!” whispered Paddy, his hand going to his pistol.
“It may be,” said Ben. “And then it may not be.” He slipped from his
horse and handed his bridle to Paddy.
“Is it going over there you are?” asked the latter, surprise in his
tone.
“Yes,” said Ben. “It seems to me that this is something that should be
looked into.”
Then telling Paddy to remain where he was until he called, Ben made
his way through the darkness toward the light. This had now grown
still and burned with a steadiness that showed that it was a lamp of
some sort. Carefully Ben picked his way along a sort of cow path that
branched off from the road, and in a very few minutes he came upon a
huge fallen tree, against the trunk of which leaned a man holding a
lantern in his hand. As Ben advanced toward him the man held up the
light and chuckled.
“I thought you were not going to stop,” said he. “But I see you were on
the lookout.”
“He who goes about with closed eyes on nights like these,” spoke Ben,
“will be like to run into danger.”
“Dangers there be, and plenty,” said the man. He placed his lantern
upon the fallen tree and took a few steps up and down, swinging his
arms. And as he stepped there came a sharp, clicking sound; glancing
down Ben saw that the man wore a wooden leg, the top of which was shod
with iron. “Danger there be and plenty,” repeated the man with the
wooden leg. “And that you’d find, sir, if you really went all the way
to York.”
Ben glanced sharply at the man.
“And what,” asked he, “makes you think that I might be on my way there?”
The man paused in his walk and turned a face upon the lad, all agrin in
the lamplight.
“Let us not discuss the how or why of things,” said he. “It is for us
to do as we are bidden and question nothing, Master Seaforth.”
Again Ben’s eyes went to the man’s face with more than usual sharpness.
“Seaforth!” was what shot through his mind. “That is the name of the
man whom Johnson Quinsey bid me beware of, only a few hours ago.”
To the other, however, he said:
“You have made something of a mistake, I think, sir. My name is not
Seaforth.”
The iron-shod point of the timber leg rang sharply upon the frozen
ground. The owner of it waved his hand after the fashion of a man who
concerns himself with nothing which does not immediately bear upon him.
“You were sent as a courier to York, were you not?” asked he.
Ben nodded.
“And you selected a certain one to accompany you, as requested?”
“Yes,” answered the boy.
“Then let your name be what you will,” said the one-legged man. “I have
nothing to do with your likes and dislikes in such things. I was to
meet you here, and I was to signal you. And then I was to see that your
companion was not within ear-shot, after which I was to tell you that
your stopping place shows a green light over the door. Once inside you
are to ask for Master Bleekwood. He will tell you the rest.”
For a time Ben stood looking at the man; a score of questions were
in his mind, but a natural caution even in the midst of his surprise
prevented the asking of them. However, he ventured one:
“Why were not these instructions given me before I started?”
Again the man grinned; also he took his lantern as though about to move
on.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you were not to be trusted. It sometimes happens,
as you must know, if you are a person of any wide experience, that
it does not do to make too complete a revelation of one’s plans at
first--even to those whom we know the best.” He waved his lantern at
Ben. “A good-night--or morning whichever it may be--to you, young sir.
It’s over cold to be standing in the open. November nights are not like
those of August.” He stumped away a short distance, then turned and
placed his hand to his mouth that his voice might carry only in the
direction he desired. “Remember, there is to be a green light showing
over the door; and you are to ask for Master Bleekwood.”
Again he waved the lantern, and again he turned and went his way, the
iron tip of the wooden leg ringing against the frozen ground.
In a few moments Ben had reached his horse and mounted; and in a few
more he had imparted to Paddy what had passed. He had already informed
the Irish lad concerning his conversation with Johnson Quinsey, and at
this new cropping up of the name of Seaforth, Paddy was surprised.
“It’s queer enough,” he said, as they rode along, “to have one so
quickly follow upon the heels of the other. ‘Beware of a man named
Seaforth,’ says one man; and ‘Your name is Seaforth,’ says the other,
for all the world as though he were expecting this same person.”
“Which he was, in point of fact,” said Ben. “He said he was sent to
signal him, to say to him, privately, that he was to stop at a house
which showed a green light above the door.”
For an hour they rode steadily, discussing with interest this queer new
turn of events.
“Green is an excellent color for a light,” quoth Paddy, sagely, “but in
this case, faith, it’s little enough I like it. It’s better for you if
you take warning by what Master Quinsey said.”
“He said nothing about green lights,” smiled Ben.
“He would if he had thought of it,” maintained Paddy.
And at his last word he noted Ben draw up close beside him and felt his
grip upon his arm.
“Look--directly ahead,” said Ben. “What do you see?”
“An inn,” said Paddy.
“There is a light above the door,” and Ben’s grip tightened. “What
color is it?”
“Green!” answered Paddy Burk, and he sat straight up in his saddle.
CHAPTER XVII
HOW BEN AND HIS FRIEND PAUSED AT “THE CROSSED KEYS”
For a space Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk sat their horses in the cold
road, and stared at the house which showed the green light.
“Well,” said Ben, “there it is! At least our one-legged friend was no
dealer in untruths.”
Paddy wagged his head.
“No,” said he, “he was not. But sorra the one of me would trust much to
him for all. I didn’t see him, to be sure, but for all that, I take him
to be a blackguard.”
“It may be,” said Ben, “that he is that, and perhaps worse than that.
But,” and there was a note in the boy’s voice which his companion had
come to know, “I rather fancy that there is considerable interest
behind what he said; and perhaps we should not pass this place by
without giving it a glance.”
“There it is, then,” said Paddy. “There it is before you. So take your
glance and let us be off.”
“A glance at the inside,” smiled Ben. “There may be something under
that green light which we should know about.”
But Paddy Burk shook his head.
“Better leave it alone,” spoke he.
“What,” said Ben, in a tone of banter, “do you at last pass by a chance
for a ‘ruction’?”
“Faith, then,” and Paddy slipped from his horse, “at a hint like that,
it’s not for my father’s son to hang back. Come along, then; I’m with
you to the end of it, whatever it brings us to.”
But now it was Ben who showed the greatest caution. As he, too,
dismounted, he said:
“It will be best, perhaps, for us to tie our horses at the roadside.”
“Arrah, but you have the fine head on you, so you have,” admired Paddy.
“A good notion it is, for sorra the one of us knows how soon or how
suddenly we’ll be wanting them.”
Accordingly the two horses were made fast to a tree near at hand; then
the lads advanced toward the house with the green light.
It was a low stone structure with broad, small paned windows and a huge
sloping porch. Directly over the door burned a lantern of green glass,
and through the windows streamed the yellow illumination of candles. As
they stepped upon the porch, the murmur of many voices came to their
ears.
“They have a most excellent patronage for a place so situated,” spoke
Paddy Burk, after a glance through one of the windows. “Sure a body
would think a tavern upon a road like this would be lonely enough.”
Ben lifted the great wrought-iron latch and opened the door. The place
was filled with a babble of voices; a knot of men sat at each table
eating and drinking and talking loudly; a huge fire of logs blazed and
roared in the chimney place; there was a bustle of serving men and
women, and over all, the fat landlord beamed smilingly.
“A cold night, sir,” said this worthy, to Ben, with a little bow, “a
cold night for the road, young gentleman.”
“Cold enough,” replied Ben, cheerily. “And your excellent fire is none
amiss, landlord.”
“Bless you,” smiled the host, “you are not the first to find that out
to-night, by a good bit, sir.”
“Quite a company,” said Ben, and as he spoke he surveyed the gathering
curiously.
“Quite, sir,” answered the other, well pleased. “It taxes us to serve
them all; but we are being paid for it in coin, so what matters a
trifle of labor? At times like these when the Americans come down on us
we are usually paid in notes,” and the landlord made a wry face. “And
when it’s the British, they do not bother to pay at all.”
There was a short silence, then Ben said in a low voice:
“Perhaps, sir, you might have the acquaintance of a Master Bleekwood.”
The expression upon the host’s face changed instantly from one of
careless good humor to one of acute interest.
“Ah, so it is you, then,” he said. “I am most pleased to see you,
indeed.” Then lifting his voice he called, before Ben could prevent
him:
“Master Bleekwood, a gentleman desires the favor of a word with you,
sir.”
At the far end of the room a man in a brown velvet coat arose. He was
tall and thin and had cadaverous cheeks and long hair, tied in the back
and faintly powdered. He approached with hasty, nervous steps.
“Sir,” said he to Ben, “I am pleased to see you.”
Nothing behindhand, the lad replied:
“And I am glad to see you, Master Bleekwood. Indeed, I have had quite a
deal of interest in you from the moment I first heard your name.”
“That,” said the man in the brown velvet coat, “is exceedingly kind
of you.” His eyes went nervously about, as though he feared his words
might be overheard. “But,” resumed he, “let us find a more secluded
place; it is exceedingly annoying that there should be so many here
just now.”
“How does it happen so?” asked Ben, as they went down the room, and
took seats at a table which had been occupied by Master Bleekwood alone.
“People interested in our matters going to York to attend Congress,”
nodded the other.
“Ah,” said Ben, wisely.
“I see you understand,” said Bleekwood. Then, after a glance over the
company, he went on: “It will be no great while, now, before we have
the movement upon a most excellent footing. And when that is finally
accomplished, the object of our labors will be accomplished shortly
after.”
“No doubt,” said Ben, with the same air of knowledge. “Not the
slightest doubt in the world.”
The cadaverous Master Bleekwood coughed behind his hand.
“I am quite pleased to find you so very confident,” said he. “I am
delighted, in fact. You see,” and he bent confidentially toward Ben, “I
am not at all the sort of person to be engaged in this matter--least of
all the matter of to-night. My nerves are not of the strongest, and the
condition of things is quite a pressure upon them.”
“I can understand that very well,” said Ben, groping in the dark,
but determined to go as far as he might in the matter. “These are
troublous times in more ways than one.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Master Bleekwood. “Indeed, yes, sir.” His eyes
wandered back to the spot where he had greeted Ben, and he added: “That
is--ah--your friend, I take it?”
Ben glanced in the same direction as his companion and saw Paddy
engaged in what seemed a most interesting conversation with the
landlord.
“Yes,” replied Ben, nodding, “that is my friend.”
“He seems over young for one who has caused so much unrest,” complained
Master Bleekwood. “But,” as he shook his head sadly, “one cannot go by
ages in these strange times. Why, they say Lafayette himself is not yet
twenty.”
“No more than that, at the most,” spoke Ben.
“And to think that one so youthful must have so much power invested in
his personality,” sighed the melancholy Bleekwood. “It’s a most strange
thing, sir, most strange.”
“Lafayette, you mean, of course,” said Ben.
“Eh? Oh, no, no! Your--ah--friend, yonder. He has told what he knows,
to be sure; but that matters little. What is to be guarded against is
his testimony, should any slip ever be made and the entire matter come
to a--well--ah--public hearing.”
“I see,” said Ben.
“Master Hawkins is a most careful gentleman,” spoke Bleekwood.
“Master Tobias Hawkins!”
“Yes. He is extraordinarily careful. He says the small things are the
ones which usually wreck the largest enterprises.”
“Perhaps there is much wisdom in that,” spoke the lad, now more alert
than ever.
“I dare say there is. But Master Hawkins finds many impediments in
his path. Congress, or a part of it, is anxious enough to dispossess
the commander-in-chief. But there are some steps which it will not
countenance, and which must not be brought to its notice.”
“To be sure,” said the lad. “That I supposed taken for granted. The
present affair now is----” he paused, questioningly.
“Is one of them? Why, yes.” Master Bleekwood seemed very much troubled.
“It is of that sort, I understand.” He paused a moment, and then once
more leaned toward Ben, confidentially. “And this being the case, I am
convinced that it should not have been entrusted to me.”
“Perhaps not,” said Ben.
“A person with stronger nerves, now,” said Master Bleekwood, “would
have been a more fitting selection. It has sometimes occurred to me
that I would scarcely be prepared to cope with a sudden emergency.”
For the first time Ben’s attention was caught by something in the man’s
tone--a lurking something which did not at all agree with his words.
Without appearing to do so, Ben looked more closely into the face
of the other. Its drawn thinness, he now saw, was not the result of
disease. The jaw was square and powerful; the eyes, which had seemed
sunken, he now noted were merely overshadowed by more than usually high
cheek bones.
“The coping with sudden emergencies is scarcely my best quality,” said
the man, still in low-voiced confidence. “I am hardly what would be
called a man of action.”
Lurking in the eyes of the speaker as he said this was a glint of
mockery, which did not escape the boy. And, as he caught it, the
suspicion at once flashed through his mind:
“Is he playing with me? Is all that he has said mere pretense?”
But Bleekwood proceeded:
“It was Master Sugden who approached me first. He seemed to fancy me
for the task, for some reason.
“‘A young gentleman of the name of Seaforth will ride the road to York
on such and such a night,’ said he to me. ‘And there will bear him
company another young gentleman of the name of Cooper.’”
Ben started at this, but covered the fact by making a pretense of
turning slightly in his chair. Bleekwood went on:
“‘The matter is one to be kept secret,’ said Sugden to me, ‘for there
are foolish prejudices abroad as to certain things. The youth Seaforth
you may trust to do his share of what’s going forward. And you will
meet him and the--ah--other, at the Crossed Keys.’”
“The Crossed Keys!” echoed Ben, his eyes opening wide.
“Why, to be sure,” said the other. “The Crossed Keys Inn--where we sit
at the present moment.”
CHAPTER XVIII
SHOWS HOW MOLLY HAYES AND A KETTLE OF SCALDING WATER PLAY THEIR PARTS
For a moment Ben Cooper was so startled that he could not speak, and
his astonishment was as plain in his face as in his manner. It was
perhaps fortunate for him that a turmoil in the room took Bleekwood’s
attention from him, otherwise he would have undoubtedly attracted that
person’s attention in a way that he would not have cared to do.
The turmoil grew louder, high voices became higher; the inn people were
clustering about in a fright; but still Ben gave it no attention. His
brain was so busy with some truths which had just dawned upon him, and
for the time he knew nothing else.
“Beware of a man named Seaforth, and of the Crossed Keys,” had been the
warning of Johnson Quinsey. And within a very few hours afterward the
lad had been mistaken for Seaforth, had been directed to a place which
turned out to be an inn called the “Crossed Keys,” and Bleekwood, the
man whom Seaforth was apparently to meet, had mistaken Paddy Burk for
Ben himself.
“Now let me get it clear in my mind,” was the boy’s thought. “There is
some sort of a plan against me by Hawkins and his confederates; a part
of this was heard in some chance way by Johnson Quinsey. This scout,
Seaforth, is a friend to the enemies of General Washington; and he was
the man sent for to ride to York to-night; of that I am confident.
One other was to bear him company; he was to have the selection of
that other, and I am convinced that it was to have been I. But, as
it chanced, he was gone when his orders came; and by a still greater
chance, I was selected in his place. And, now, here I am face to face
with the agent of the plotters, if not one of them; and he, not knowing
Seaforth except by name, thinks I am he. And poor Paddy, who stands so
innocently beyond there, is placed in the danger that should be mine.”
But his attention was drawn from Paddy at that instant by an increase
in the disturbance before mentioned. All eyes were turned in the
direction of the uproar, and well they might, for never before was
there so much noise by one person. It was a gigantic young man with
an inflamed face and a reckless air; he seemed possessed by alternate
spirits of destruction, mirth and combat. First he would lift a heavy
oaken chair and dash it to pieces against the stout walls; then, as
though highly amused at his own performance, he would burst into a
gale of laughter; and a moment later, his humor changing, he would
brandish his enormous fists in the faces of those nearest him and dare
them to grapple or fisticuff with him. But all declined the invitation
with much promptness, at which the young giant resumed his work of
destruction once more.
Finally, unable to bear it longer, the landlord approached.
“What’s this, sir?” demanded he with an air of assurance, which he,
perhaps, was far from feeling. “Must you break up my furnishing, young
gentleman? Has a madness come upon you that you should do the like?
Have done, sir; have done at once.”
The young giant glared at him; here at length, so it seemed, was one
who would oppose him.
“Ah, so you are there, are you, mine host of the Crossed Keys?” cried
he, delighted at the prospect of having some one at whom to level his
humor and perhaps receive his blows. “And so you object to my amusing
myself, eh?”
“I object to your destroying my property, sir,” said the host. “It is
a wanton injustice to do such a thing in a peaceable house. Have done,
sir. The damage already here will cost a pretty penny!”
“What, would so brawny a fellow as yourself cry out about an
injustice?” demanded the giant. “Would you prefer to make a complaint
of the tongue rather than one of the hand? Surely a fist like that of
yours was made for brisker work than you do. Come then,” and here he
shattered another chair upon the oaken floor. “You will do something to
prevent the like again, I’m sure.”
“I am not given to the bandying of blows,” said the landlord, who for
all his bulk was soft and ill conditioned. “It is not my trade, sir; I
ask you if you be a gentleman to cease your mad behavior.”
And with this mild admonition, the host, seeing his obstreperous guest
advancing toward him, retreated down the room in the direction of the
table at which sat Ben Cooper and Master Bleekwood. The latter turned
nervously to the boy, and said:
“One always meets with conduct such as this in a crowded inn. It is
most unseemly and objectionable; and its effect upon my weakened
nervous state is ill, indeed.”
As the landlord’s retreat was a trifle hasty, the advance of the giant
did not come up with him; he had entered the kitchen and closed the
door by the time his pursuer had covered half the distance, and so the
huge young man leaned against a table and held forth as to cowardice.
“He who will not risk his great carcass in defense of his property is a
poltroon,” delivered he, loudly. “If any were to do the like by me, I’d
fight him if I had but one leg to stand on.”
As it chanced the table against which he leaned was that of Bleekwood
and Ben; and as he continued to volley forth, the former touched him
upon the arm and ventured mildly:
“I ask your pardon, sir, but if you have no very serious objections
would you select another leaning place?” And as the giant turned and
glared down at him, he hastily continued as though in explanation: “You
see, your present attitude is somewhat interfering with my comfort, and
as I am a person of no very robust health I must look to it that my
comfort is not taken from me.”
“Ah,” said the giant, “and so you must look to your comfort, must you?
Well, Mr. Longshanks, I’ll see what I can do to aid you in that.” And
with that he stretched out one huge hand, gripped Master Bleekwood and
dragged him to his feet. “Your comfort must not be interfered with, do
you say, my gentleman?” demanded the giant. “Ah, well, let us see what
can be done to add to it, for one like you should be coddled, indeed.”
“Sir,” spoke Master Bleekwood, not making a move in his captor’s grasp,
“this is most undignified. Release your grasp upon my shoulder, I beg
of you.”
“Not until you have asked my pardon upon your knees,” said the giant.
“I feel, good sir, that I have been most grossly insulted, and if this
is not----”
Suddenly Master Bleekwood’s whole aspect changed; with a tremendous
wrench he freed himself from the grasp of the other, and with a
deftness that could only have been gained by long experience, he spun
about and planted a half dozen short, powerful blows upon the man’s
face. With the blood streaming from mouth and nose, and roaring with
pain, the young giant steadied himself for a rush. But before he could
make a move a door behind him opened, and a strong girl with red hair
and a freckled, good-looking face stepped into the room.
“Gintlemen, gintlemen!” she cried, with a brogue as thick as Paddy
Burk’s own, “will you give over your noise? Sure, how in the world can
a poor wounded officer on his way home to his ould father get a wink of
sleep if you go on like this? Is it a bedlam instead of a decent inn
that we’ve got into?” Then her quick, bright eye noting that the giant
was responsible for most of the turmoil, she marched sturdily to his
side. “Young gintleman,” she continued, “will you close your mouth and
give over your great talk? Is it do harm by your noise to a soldier,
who got his hurts in his country’s cause, you’d be doing?”
The young man turned his inflamed face upon her.
“Take yourself off, you kitchen wench,” he growled. “Hold your tongue,
while I grind the bones of yon pretty gentleman.”
But the freckle-faced lass was not to be daunted by a savage tone of
voice.
“Is it me you call a kitchen wench?” she demanded, her arms akimbo.
“And I’m to hold my tongue as well, am I? Well, sir, I’ll not do that,
but,” and with a swift movement she suited the action to the words,
“I’ll take hold of your ear for you, you villain of the world.”
Taken aback, the giant glowered.
“Let go, you virago!” he shouted.
“Sit down!” ordered she, shoving him into a chair. “And stay there!
Faith, it’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be, to be after raising
such a pother about the place. Keep quiet now, for if it’s again I
have to come out to you, it’s the back of my hand I’ll give you, so it
is.”
And with that and a whisk of her short skirts she was gone. And as she
departed the landlord reappeared armed with a stout staff and backed by
a number of his ablest waiters and hostlers, also armed. But the blows
of Master Bleekwood, and the fearless front of the Irish girl had had
their effect upon the giant, for he kept his chair quietly enough; what
remained of his humor was vented in a low muttering, the purport of
which was not intelligible.
And after things were fairly quiet once more, Ben Cooper spoke to
Bleekwood.
“It were a thousand pities, sir, that your health is not what it should
be. Otherwise you would be able to resent such affronts as that fellow
put upon you.”
The lad spoke drily; there was a suspicion of mockery in his eyes.
“Why, as for that,” said the man, “I have often thought that health is
a thing greatly to be desired. But it is a boon not meant for me, that
I sadly fear. If I were possessed of it, I might be able to do some
little thing to protect myself; but as it is----” and he shook his head
and sighed.
This, then, was a favorite pose of the melancholy Bleekwood; he desired
to seem backward in any matter requiring physical effort, and a nervous
weakling in things calling for courage.
“But,” thought the lad who sat near him, “he is a pretty fighter
enough. Indeed, I would say that it would go extremely hard with any
but the best who faced him.”
“It were well that I could provide myself with a half dozen strong
fellows to-night, so that there might be no missing the point of our
efforts,” said Bleekwood.
“Ah; and so there are some others?” said Ben.
“To be sure. It would require one much more stalwart than I to venture
upon a matter of this sort, alone. No, no! I can plan and I can direct
others as to what to do; but to engage in the matter in other ways--no!”
“Master Hawkins is not here, by any chance?” said Ben, with a studied
carelessness.
The cadaverous one shook his head.
“No,” said he, “he remains at York.”
“And Master Sugden?”
“He is also there. Ah,” regretfully, “they have the skilled portions
of the work to do, and while I try not to envy them, I cannot help a
slight feeling somewhat akin to it. The Marquis,” in a dreamy sort of
way, “makes a splendid companion.”
“The Marquis?” questioned Ben.
“The Marquis de Lafayette, that is.” Master Bleekwood clasped his
hands behind his head and fixed his eyes upon the ceiling; and his
aspect was that of one who sees pleasant things. “A splendid companion,
indeed,” he went on. “So much of the spirit of youth, so much dash and
enterprise and the desire for adventure and experience.”
“He is with Tobias Hawkins, then?--and Master Sugden?”
“At York,” replied Bleekwood. “At York. The Marquis is no idiot. He has
been here long enough to see how matters stand. Youth seeks success,
not failure. And Washington is not the winning general.”
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper.
His eyes went about the room, seeking Paddy; but the Irish lad was
nowhere to be seen. Indeed, now that he thought about the matter, he
had not seen his friend since a few moments before the now subdued
giant had begun his destruction of the furniture.
“I don’t see my friend,” said he to the man opposite him.
Bleekwood took his eyes from the ceiling. “There were one or two of
my fellows close at hand a few minutes ago, and I signaled them that
he was the person they were waiting for. I rather think,” languidly
glancing here and there, “that they have managed to draw him away
somewhere.”
With the full knowledge strong upon him as to what this meant, Ben
Cooper was startled. But he did not permit it to be seen.
“You were speaking of the Marquis,” said he, insinuatingly. “But, to be
candid, I do not see just why he should be bothered about. He is but a
boy--he has no experience as a soldier. If Master Hawkins desires to
attract officers from Washington’s army, why does he not make an effort
upon Greene, or Sterling, or Wayne?”
But Bleekwood waved one long, thin hand.
“Greene and Wayne and Sterling are all very well,” said he. “Most
excellent generals, every one. But we are not seeking generals, my dear
sir. No, no! far from it. We have generals a-plenty. What is required
is the influence that will count across the sea.”
“Across the sea?” said Ben.
“In France, to be more explicit. Master Silas Dean and Master Benjamin
Franklin have done much to arouse interest there in the American cause.
And now that a great victory has been won at Saratoga, France will see
her way clear to taking definite steps in the matter. If the French
king sends over a fleet and an army, which he will now no doubt do, his
stated preference to Congress as to what leader his commander shall
deal with will have a powerful bearing upon Congress.”
“And Master Hawkins thinks that to win Lafayette to his side will turn
the favor of France toward General Gates?”
“He has some such notion--and a most excellent one it is, I think.”
“But the Marquis is not in the king’s good graces. He ran away here to
America against the king’s wishes.”
“The king was forced to forbid his going because of political reasons.
But, secretly, he was delighted when he made safely away; for France
desired some one to overlook conditions here and speak the truth
concerning them. Another thing, the gallant conduct of the Marquis in
sacrificing everything to take up the cause of liberty aroused great
enthusiasm in Paris. They rave over him; the queen and the other great
ladies sent him offerings of their admiration. Lafayette is but a lad,
it’s true,” spoke Bleekwood, “but that faction which holds his support
will have a heavy advantage.”
“Master Hawkins is a far-seeing man,” said Ben, thoughtfully. “There
are few points in the game that escape him.”
“There are none,” claimed the cadaverous Bleekwood, in high admiration.
“He misses nothing.”
And no sooner had these words been uttered than there again came a
great noise from somewhere within the inn. Voices were lifted, steel
clashed upon steel, and footsteps rushed to and fro. Thoughts of Paddy
came to Ben, and he leaped up, drawing his pistol. But the shouts
changed in tone, the blows ceased; but the rushing footsteps increased;
then a door was flung open and a half dozen rough looking fellows,
swords in hand, came pouring into the public room, cries of fear
upon their lips. Behind them, her blue eyes shining with indignation
and bearing a huge kettle of scalding water in her hands, was the
red-haired Irish lass who had subdued the roystering giant a short time
before.
“Out with you, you thieves,” cried this redoubtable person; “out upon
you! Is it kill a decent boy you’d be doing? Out of my reach now,
or I’ll scald the dirty hides off every one of you. Arrah, don’t be
threatening me now, for sorra the bit is Molly Hayes afraid of your
bodkins, you blackguards. Go along now, or I’ll dash every drop I have
here into your ugly faces.”
And as she stood there in the doorway, the steaming vessel held aloft,
fronting the scowling men, Ben, to his great relief, saw peering over
her shoulder the grinning face of Paddy Burk.
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH BEN RECEIVES A LETTER AND RIDES TOWARDS YORK
For a moment it seemed as though the group of ruffians might take heart
and fly at Molly Hayes, despite the scalding reception it was in her
power to give them. But before they could fully make up their minds,
the landlord and his fellows hurried up.
“What’s to do now?” demanded the worthy host, bewildered at this fresh
outbreak. “Is the house never to be at rest? How, sirs,” to the men,
“with your swords out--and at a woman. For shame! And you, mistress,”
to the girl, “will nothing do but flourishing one of my coppers in the
faces of my guests?”
“Your guests!” The girl put the vessel upon the floor, and wiped her
arms with her apron. “And pretty guests they are for any one to have
around about them.” She pointed to the room which she had just left.
“Upon a bed there is the lieutenant, as you know, and there I sits
by his side, giving him his medicine and his small bite to eat. And
then open bursts the window like a thunderbolt and into the room they
leaped, their swords in their hands, like a lot of robbers.”
“We’d never have bothered you if it hadn’t been for him,” and one of
the men pointed at Paddy, who still stood all agrin behind the girl.
“Take shame for you, a parcel of thieves, each with a sword in his
fist, all after the life of one poor boy. No wonder he jumped through
the window into the room to get away from you, and small blame to him.”
But diplomatically the landlord, without any inquiries into the cause
of the outbreak, soothed everybody; the result was that the men put up
their weapons and grumblingly took seats at a table far down the room,
while Molly Hayes and Paddy Burk disappeared into the room from which
they had emerged a few moments before.
The cadaverous Master Bleekwood had regarded this scene with scornful
eyes.
“The clumsy rascals,” he now said to Ben, “they have ruined their
chances. I might have expected such.” He arose to his feet. “Do you,”
said he, “try and quiet any suspicions which your friend may have; I
will have a quiet word with these fellows of mine.”
Ben sat at the table trying to collect his thoughts which had been
badly scattered by the events of the last few moments; then, more by
chance than anything else, he saw the door which had closed in Paddy
Burk open a trifle and a hand beckon him into the room beyond. He went
to the door and passed through; Paddy Burk immediately closed it behind
him.
“Why, then,” said Paddy, and his face had lost none of the grin of a
short time before, “why, then, this is the great night entirely. Did
you have a fair view of it all?”
“Yes, I think so,” replied Ben. “But, tell me, how did it come about?”
“As I were standing watching the landlord and the rampaging fellow a
while back,” said Paddy, “a gossoon comes up to me and begins a bit of
a discussion. I’ll never know how it came about, but soon we were head
over ears in a quarrel; and then he invited me to the outside where we
could settle the matter without further words. Out I goes with him,
behind the inn; but sorra a blow was struck before the rest of them
made at me. So I slipped open the window nearest me and dove in with
the lot of them after me. The rest, I think, you know already.”
“And a-plenty it is to know, faith,” said the voice of Molly Hayes.
“Sure, it’s fair ashamed of myself I am for making such a botheration
as I have to-night. But a body must not allow himself to be imposed
upon. And above all, the lieutenant must not be disturbed.”
As the girl spoke Ben for the first time saw a pale young man, with
a bandage about his head, propped up on a sort of couch. There was
something familiar in his aspect, but Ben did not recognize him until
he spoke.
“What,” said he, “and have I changed so much, Cooper, that you do not
remember me?”
“Lieutenant Claflin!” Ben advanced and took the wasted hand held out to
him. “Why, can it be you, indeed?”
“All that’s left of me,” said Lieutenant Claflin with a wan smile. “I
happened to have been sent to the neighborhood of the Highland forts
some little time ago; and on the day the British made their attack, I
was at Fort Clinton.”
“Were you badly hurt?” asked Ben.
“It could have been worse,” said Claflin. “But it was bad enough as it
was. However, I am now on the mend, and Molly, here, is taking me home.”
“Home?” Ben looked puzzled.
“Ah, yes, of course, you have not heard; but since the army of Lord
Howe has been in the possession of Philadelphia, my father has changed
his place of residence to the town of York.”
“Many have done the like,” said Ben Cooper. “My own father has been
forced from his house at Germantown and is now at Reading.” They
discussed the situation for a time and then Ben said: “You must have
suffered great hardship in the long journey across the Jerseys.”
“Not so much as you might think,” replied Lieutenant Claflin with a
laugh. “Here’s Molly, wife to a fine fellow who is a sergeant in the
artillery, Hayes by name; and she’s stood between me and all the hard
knocks I would otherwise have had.”
“Arrah, then, sir,” said Molly Hayes, “is it leaving you to die I’d be
doing? And you with the young sister and old father you’ve so often
told me about! Anybody could see by the way you speak of them, sir,
that it’s the world they think of you; and if you’d a-died what would
they have done at all, at all?”
“Sure enough, Molly,” said young Claflin, soberly; “sure enough. Well,
they will have you to thank when we get to York.”
“It’s little enough they have to thank me for!” protested Molly. “Sure,
anybody would have done the like.”
“Well, nobody but you made any attempt at it,” said Claflin. “You must
know,” and the speaker turned to Ben, “that Molly is a great girl.”
“So I should think,” laughed Ben, “after the few exhibitions of her
prowess which I have witnessed to-night.”
Molly laughed and flushed at this.
“Arrah, don’t be judging me from that, young gintleman,” she pleaded.
“No, indeed,” smiled Claflin, “subduing a bully and putting to flight
a crew of murderous wretches like those a while ago are scarcely
performances that will do her complete justice. Now at Fort Clinton,
for example----”
“Hush, lieutenant,” commanded young Mistress Hayes. But he never heard
her.
“When the enemy had hemmed us in so that there was scarce time for the
hindmost to make safely away, who remembered that there was a loaded
cannon left unfired? Who was it that went back, in the peril of her
very life, applied the match and discharged it in their very faces
as they came rushing on, shouting in triumph? Who but Molly Hayes,
herself?”
“The lieutenant is a kind-hearted young man,” Molly explained to Ben.
“And he do be always giving more credit to people than is their due.”
“I can plainly see that you’re more than an ordinary person, Mistress
Hayes,” smiled Ben, “and so I will not take even your own word against
yourself.”
And so laughing and chatting they passed a half hour; at the end of
this time Paddy Burk and Molly Hayes and Ben and Lieutenant Claflin
became immersed in more momentous things.
“My father,” the young officer had said, “does a great deal of
entertaining, even at York.”
This remark was brought out in his insisting that Ben make them a visit
while in the town. And instantly upon hearing it, Ben’s face took on an
expression of much seriousness.
“In Philadelphia,” said he, “all the notables flocked to your father’s
entertainments.”
The lieutenant laughed.
“And they do so at York, if what I hear be so,” said he.
From that moment Ben grew more and more thoughtful; it were as though
he were revolving an important something in his mind. After a little
the lieutenant noticed this.
“Hello,” said he. “What is it?”
“I was just thinking,” answered Ben, “of a small chain of incidents
which happened to-night, and also of some larger things, which took
place some time ago, but which are intimately connected with them.”
“I see.”
“And,” proceeded Ben Cooper, “I have been wondering if----”
“If--what?” inquired Claflin, as he paused.
“I scarcely think you will understand unless I tell you all that has
happened,” said Ben. “So if you will listen----”
“Go on,” directed the young lieutenant.
So with that Ben began the story of Tobias Hawkins at the point where
that gentleman’s path had first crossed his own; step by step he
followed it until he reached the doings of that very night. And when he
had done the lieutenant drew a deep breath.
“Well,” said he, in amazement, “this is indeed a tale.”
“It is not done even yet,” said Ben.
“I can see that,” replied the other. “I can see that readily enough.”
“The story of Tobias Hawkins is not yet finished,” said Ben. “Nor will
it ever be, to the satisfaction of true believers in liberty, at any
rate--until several links are added to the chain by a hand other than
his own.”
“You have some sort of a plan,” cried the other, sitting more upright
upon his couch. “What is it?”
“Listen,” said Ben. And so, with their heads close together and their
voices pitched low, they sat for the better part of another hour. And
when they had finished, Lieutenant Claflin grasped Ben’s hand.
“I’ll do what I can,” declared he. “And my father and sister will do
the same. If success to your plan can be won by effort upon our parts,
depend upon it that we will do our best.”
“That is all I ask,” said Ben.
After a few moments more the latter arose.
“We must make haste,” said he. “Paddy and I are on our way to York now,
and must lose no more time. However, I will see you before a great
while.”
And so with good-byes for the injured lieutenant and his nurse, Ben and
the Irish lad made their way out by a rear door.
“It will be just as well,” said Ben, “if we avoid the attention of
Master Bleekwood and his friends. Our way is a long one, and we’ll be
the better for not having an enemy in our rear.”
Their horses were found where they had tied them; they mounted silently
and proceeded upon their way. Nothing further was encountered upon the
road; and after a wearying ride they finally reached York to learn that
their services were not in demand.
“A curt reception,” said Ben, thoughtfully.
“It have a queer look, so it have,” said Paddy, scratching his head.
“In that it agrees with many other things which we have encountered of
late,” spoke Ben Cooper. “And it agrees entirely with the idea I formed
some time back regarding this summons.”
“You mean----”
“That we were never really wanted--here. It was Seaforth and I who were
wanted, at the Crossed Keys--Seaforth the decoy, and I the victim.”
As soon as they were sufficiently rested they returned to the American
camp, and made their report. However, Ben said nothing as to what had
happened upon the road, and warned Paddy to do likewise.
Not long after this the forts which guarded the passage of the Delaware
fell before the assault of the British. A pressure was brought upon
Washington to attack Philadelphia, which he resisted with all his might.
“Shall the army of the north alone win victories?” was the cry. “Can
we not strike even a blow with the army of the Schuylkill? Give us a
general who will fight.”
With at least outward calm, Washington faced this fresh outburst
against him. He knew that the British defenses were too powerful to
be taken at that time, and he refused to dash his small force against
their bristling lines.
“It would mean only destruction,” said he, and the greater part of his
officers agreed with him.
His enemies, always at work, about this time succeeded in altering
the form of the Board of War--and most significant of all, General
Gates was made president of it. Mifflin was also one of the five who
composed the board, which had the direction of military affairs in its
hands; and it was plain to be seen that these two were intended to
be the master spirits of the war. At once the board began its work.
Two inspector-generals were appointed; and one of these was Conway,
who was given the rank of major-general, in the teeth of Washington’s
plainly expressed opinion as to the man’s unfitness.
Seeing that nothing was to be gained by keeping the field in the dead
of winter, Washington now prepared to hut his army at Valley Forge,
about twenty miles from Philadelphia. At once another cry burst upon
him.
“Why have we raised and officered an army?” was the burden of this
complaint. “Its purpose is to protect us from our enemies. And to do
this it should keep the field.”
The brave heart of the commander-in-chief burned in his breast at
this; his gallant fellows were without shoes, blankets or clothing to
protect them from the icy winds. Their tents were thin and gave them
little shelter; and to ask men so circumstanced to keep the field
was heartless and inhuman. So in spite of the storm of protest, the
ragged army took up its gloomy march through the snow to Valley Forge.
Cold, bitter weather was upon them; the naked feet of many left bloody
footprints in the snow. And yet, while this suffering was being
undergone, great quantities of clothing, shoes and woolen stockings
were lying at intervals along distant roadsides, rotting for want of
teams, supplied by those in charge of such things, to cart them where
they were held in such pressing need. Washington’s enemies were now in
charge of such supplies, and this was another blow leveled at him--a
blow calculated to break his high heart and cause him to throw up his
commission.
Inch by inch the plotters had forced General Schuyler from his command
in the north; successful there, they were now using the same methods
upon Washington. But through it all he stood unflinching and unmoved
save by the suffering of his soldiers. The depths of the conspirators’
meanness was equaled only by the depths of his courage; the obstacles
erected in his path, the pitfalls dug for his feet were meant for one
whose patience and patriotism could be measured. But in a splendid soul
like that of General Washington, these virtues are unmeasured; and so
he passed on serene and unmoved, his calm eyes fixed steadily upon the
future.
It was while the naked army shivered in the midst of that most rigorous
of winters at Valley Forge that Ben Cooper one day received a letter.
It read:
“Come at once. Everything now ready.”
A glance at the signature showed that it was “Claflin”; then instantly
he went to headquarters and requested leave to visit York at once. As
the young rider was possessed of the confidence of those in command,
this was granted without delay. Immediately his horse was saddled and
eagerly mounted; and away he went over the winter road.
CHAPTER XX
TELLS HOW LAFAYETTE ASTONISHED GENERAL GATES
The Claflins occupied a fine old house overhung by giant elms; and in
the drawing-room of this Ben was greeted by Lieutenant Claflin and his
father.
“Pray you sit down and take the chill of the road out of your bones,”
said the old gentleman, placing a chair for the boy.
A fine fire of billets was roaring away in the fireplace; Ben sat down
with the others, and in a very few moments their talk was all of the
subject nearest their hearts.
“Such villainy!” said old Mr. Claflin. “I never dreamed of such.”
“They have approached the point of it, at least,” said the lieutenant.
“As you told me that night at the Crossed Keys, an attempt is to be
made to draw young Lafayette away from General Washington.”
“You have learned something of this definitely, then?” asked Ben,
eagerly.
“Yes. According to your plan I have used all my time since being here
in convincing them that I am not averse to their views, and----”
Old Mr. Claflin gestured his distaste.
“I would there had been another way of doing this,” said he. “I have no
liking for double dealing in any form.”
“Nor I,” said the young lieutenant. “But to deceive them was perhaps
the only way to success.”
“Without a doubt,” said Ben. “Such men as these refuse to fight in the
open, or in such a manner that one can deal them a hearty blow. One
must adopt their own methods if they are to be fought at all.”
“I suppose you are right,” sighed old Mr. Claflin. “Fight fire with
fire.”
“They have come to consider us as sharing their views,” spoke the
lieutenant, “and have grown less and less averse to speaking their
minds before us.”
“The house is alive with them,” said old Mr. Claflin. “And never such a
crew of sordid conspirators did I encounter anywhere. They mask their
desires, to be sure, behind a pretense that what they advocate is for
the country’s good. But,” with a gesture of contempt, “not for a moment
do they lose sight of their own personal ends.”
“Lafayette has been offered an independent command,” said Lieutenant
Claflin. “An expedition is to be organized against Canada; if he will
accept he is to be placed at the head of it, with General Conway second
in command. According to their plans, the latter, by his superior
experience and natural military talents, would soon assume the real
command.”
“I see.”
“This is supposed to have two results. The Marquis will be drawn
away from the immediate influence of Washington, and the favor shown
him by those opposed to the commander-in-chief will bind him to them
permanently.”
Ben sat with his chin resting in his hand, his eyes staring into the
fire.
“A separate command,” said he, musingly. “And not only that, but
a command that is to be pushed forward to immediate conquest. The
conquering of Canada has been the ambition of many of our generals.
And to have an opportunity of doing what so fearless and able a soldier
as Arnold failed to do, is a very great temptation.”
“You think, then,” quavered Mr. Claflin, “that Lafayette will not be
strong enough to resist?”
Ben shook his head.
“No,” said he, “I think just the reverse of that.”
Lieutenant Claflin looked at Ben keenly.
“From your manner I would say that you know something that we do not
know,” said he.
Ben did not reply to this, but continued:
“If it were preferment Lafayette sought, he would have remained at
home, for there all the honors he could desire were at his hand. No;
his ambition is much higher than mere personal advantage; and the
command of an army will not tempt him.”
“He is to meet them here,” said the young lieutenant. “They are to have
a dinner, a private dinner--and then they are to spread their net.”
“When is this to be?”
“To-night,” said the other. “Lafayette is already arrived in York, I
understand.”
“It will be like the meeting of a band of low conspirators,” said old
Mr. Claflin, thumping the stick, which he always carried, upon the
floor. “If I could, I would take them all, and pitch them into the
road.”
Lieutenant Claflin laughed.
“Patience, father, patience. That, though perhaps in another form, may
come later.”
That day and the next passed, not without great anxiety to the
Claflins. The possible winning away of Lafayette from Washington and
the consequent bestowal of the expected favor of France upon his
enemies was a matter of great consequence to them, for they, indeed,
had the welfare of the nation at heart. But Ben Cooper did not join in
their nervous talk; he remained very calm and thoughtful, though as the
time for the meeting of the conspirators drew nearer, he displayed an
eagerness that was noticeable.
Old Mr. Claflin looked at the long table with its spotless napery,
shining china and fine old silver plate; the candles burned in high
candlesticks at regular intervals, and a chair was placed for each
expected guest.
“There is one for you,” said he to Ben. “I thought you’d like to hear
what goes forward.”
“No, no,” spoke Lieutenant Claflin, hastily. “That would be impossible;
how could we explain the presence of a stranger at such a time as this?”
“Far easier to explain the presence of a stranger than to explain
mine,” laughed Ben. “You forget that my very good friends, Tobias
Hawkins and Master Sugden, are both to be here. What would they say did
they perceive me seated opposite them?”
Mr. Claflin struck his hands together.
“Why,” said he in comical vexation, “I had forgotten that entirely. To
be sure! What could I have been thinking of? You are, really, the very
last person in the world whom they should find here.”
However, the old gentleman had got it into his head that Ben should
be a witness to the proceedings; and realizing that he could not show
himself, he set about contriving a secret means of his seeing and
hearing what took place. There was a small apartment adjoining the
supper and reception rooms; and over the communicating doors of each
there was a narrow transom. These the old gentleman had opened and a
thin curtain was drawn across them, making them the best possible place
of observation.
Ben was at once placed in this room, and with a book and a candle by
the fire, began to while away the time. No great space elapsed before
the knocker sounded, telling him that some of the guests had arrived.
At once he put out his candle, and sat in the semi-darkness beside the
fire, waiting.
Several persons were shown into the reception room, and as the door
closed behind the man servant who had admitted them, their voices came
plainly to the ears of the waiting lad.
“Br-r-r-r! A cold enough night, Sugden.”
“For all intents and purposes. But the season is none too cold for
Price to make his way here from Phila----”
“Hush! It will be just as well not to speak too loudly of such things.”
Ben noiselessly arose, mounted a chair, and peered through the
curtains at the transom. The two men stood before the fire, and their
voices were pitched in a low key.
“It must have been something of importance to bring him all this
distance in such weather,” suggested Sugden.
“Howe has made a most excellent stroke,” said Hawkins. Then, though Ben
listened eagerly, the voice sank so low as to be almost unintelligible.
“General Charles Lee is to be exchanged.”
“What,” said Sugden, “at this time? Surely not. Why, he is regarded as
a military genius by the rebels.”
Hawkins laughed lowly.
“He is regarded so--yes. But is he really such? Howe does not think so,
at any rate.”
“If the Americans but believe in him, that will be enough to give them
heart. It should be Howe’s plan to keep them plunged in their present
discouragement as deeply as possible.”
Again Tobias Hawkins laughed.
“Perhaps,” said he, “General Howe has a more complete plan than you
think. What would you say----” here he bent forward and whispered a
few words in Sugden’s ear.
“What!” almost cried the latter gentleman. “Is it possible?”
“Price tells me that it is a fact.”
“Why, then, in that case, we can even lose in the little affair of
to-night, and still do no great harm.”
“In the face of this news,” smiled Tobias Hawkins, “the armies of
France can support the armies of Washington if they see fit. It will
make little or no difference. But for all that, let us make doubly
sure, and win over this young Frenchman, now that we have him so nearly
in our hands. I have found, by long experience, that it is not good
policy to miss a single point, even though one apparently does not need
it.”
The conversation continued, but in so low a key as to escape Ben’s ear.
However, in a short time the other guests began to arrive, and when
Lafayette, bubbling over with boyish good nature, finally put in an
appearance, they entered the supper room and were soon doing the most
complete justice to Mr. Claflin’s supper.
“A better cook,” declared General Conway, “none could find in all
Pennsylvania.”
“There is a scarcity of cooks in your country, to be sure,” said
Lafayette, smilingly to General Gates. “But our good host,” bowing to
that gentleman, “seems to have found one, at least.”
“After the camp, gentlemen,” said Mr. Claflin, “the food has an
unaccustomed relish, that is all.”
An hour passed in laughter, toasting, jest and feasting. Young
Lafayette seemed vastly delighted with everything; and more than once
Ben, through the transom curtains, saw Conway and Gates exchange
meaning smiles. Then by degrees the conversation assumed a more sober
hue; the army, its condition and prospects became the subject.
“Gentlemen,” said General Gates, at length, “since Congress saw fit
to appoint me the head of the Board of War, I have conceived, as you
all know, a project which, if it can be carried out successfully, will
strike terror to the hearts of our enemies and at one blow put them at
the defense. I refer to the conquest of Canada.”
A storm of approval greeted this.
“Gates! Gates!” was the cry. “A toast! A toast!”
But the general stayed them.
“We required a commander for this enterprise,” said he; “a commander of
spirit, of dash and judgment. We looked about for such a one, and we
had not far to look.”
Again came the clatter of approval; but once more Gates stopped them.
“There was but one such officer at hand,” said the general, continuing,
“and to him the command was offered. I believe in encouraging
genius--though to repress it seems more the practice in this army. Too
long has this brilliant young soldier of whom I speak,” and his gaze
went to Lafayette, “been held in the background. Knowing the past as
some of us do,” here his eyes went to Mifflin and Conway, “we realize
the chagrin that must now fill the breast of one who seeks to keep all
the glory for himself.”
A thin hiss ran from lip to lip at this picture of official
selfishness. Gates proceeded:
“The offer of the command of the Canadian expedition was made the
Marquis de Lafayette. And we now ask him whether he accepts or no.”
Lafayette arose.
“I do accept,” he said. “I accept with the utmost gratitude. The
command is a most important one, and I shall do my utmost to bring it
to success.”
There was a chorus of cheers; the conspirators gathered about him,
offering their congratulations.
“A toast!” cried a voice. “Gates! Gates! A toast.”
This time a number of others took up the cry.
“A toast, Marquis, a toast!” they demanded.
All eyes went from Lafayette to Gates. It was plain that the latter was
the person to be toasted; and he stood smilingly expectant. Lafayette
lifted his hand.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I see by the clock that the time which I had
to give this delightful occasion is more than passed. I must make the
first stage of the journey back to Valley Forge before daybreak.”
“A toast! A toast!” cried the others.
“Very well,” said Lafayette. “Charge your glasses, since you insist.”
With a shout this was done; and all stood with eyes upon the youthful
Frenchman.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I give you the commander-in-chief of the
American army--General Washington!”
A silence--pall-like and complete, fell upon all; if a writing in
letters of fire had appeared upon the wall their surprise could not
have been more great. For a moment Lafayette stood regarding them,
contempt plain in his eyes; then he placed his glass upon the table,
and said to Gates:
“General, I am yours to command whenever my services are needed.”
And with a formal salute, he turned and stalked from the room, leaving
them speechless with surprise.
CHAPTER XXI
IN WHICH THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH IS LOST AND WON
The winter at Valley Forge was one of untold suffering. When stout old
Baron Steuben, one of Frederick the Great’s general officers, first saw
the army of shoeless, naked and hungry men, he threw up his hands.
“Nefer,” he cried, in his broken English, “haf I seen such before!
Nefer! If an army was half so wretched in Europe they would run
away--noddings could hold them.”
But in time things grew more bearable. Little by little the higher
souls in Congress made their way against the spirit of intrigue. The
enemies of Washington, after their failure with Lafayette, relaxed
their efforts. Mifflin resigned his post as head of the commissariat
and Washington’s tried friend, General Greene, succeeded him. Food and
clothing began to be fairly plentiful; the spirits of the troops rose
accordingly.
Baron Steuben also succeeded Conway as inspector-general, and his
constant labors on the drill ground soon began to bear fruit. From
a wretched rabble, the regiments began to take on the aspect of
discipline and training.
Gates also suddenly fell to some degree in the favor of his friends
in Congress; and once more he was directed to journey north and take
command of the army in that region.
The surrender of Burgoyne had been the cause of the French cabinet’s
concluding a treaty of alliance with the United States, and this in
turn had been the means of strengthening Washington’s hands in the
manner mentioned above.
“It looks,” said Ezra Prentiss, “as though the conspiracy were dead.”
“With Gates, Conway and Mifflin all declining in favor,” spoke his
brother, George, “it has that appearance, surely.”
Nat Brewster was also of a similar opinion; but Ben was not so sure.
Only a little while before, General Charles Lee, for some time a
prisoner in the hands of the British, had been exchanged for the
English General Prescott, and when he saw this brilliant and erratic
soldier warmly greeted by Washington and his officers, Ben’s heart
somehow grew heavy with fear for the future.
What if Conway and Mifflin and Gates were out of favor? They
were merely instruments in the hands of the British, through the
machinations of Tobias Hawkins.
“And Hawkins is still able to plot,” mused Ben. “And that he is
somewhere plotting and laying his snares is sure, for he is not the
one to give up.” He paused for a little, staring straight before him,
his mind in that curious state when it seems to have stopped working,
retaining a single picture of a single thing. Then his thoughts began
to flow again.
“And that conversation between Hawkins and Sugden at Claflin’s that
night! I would that I had heard more of it. They seemed to expect
something from the exchange of General Lee. What, I wonder? Can it
be possible that----” but this led to thoughts that could not be
entertained, and so he banished the matter from his mind.
A council of war held in the camp early in May had concluded that no
blow was to be attempted against the British until some opportunity
presented itself that would insure success. Then Howe was recalled and
Sir Henry Clinton took command of the British army at Philadelphia; and
not long after this signs were shown of an intention to evacuate the
city.
New York was thought to be the point aimed at; Washington sent some
brigades into the Jerseys to break bridges and otherwise harass
Clinton, should this be the case, but the main body of his army
remained in waiting to make sure of his enemy’s movements.
It was on the eighteenth of June that the British began their movement
to a point below Philadelphia; from there they crossed the Delaware
into New Jersey. Immediately upon hearing this, Washington broke up his
camp at Valley Forge; sent Arnold, whose wounded leg did not permit
his taking the field, with a strong force to occupy the city, and then
pushed forward in pursuit of the enemy.
The Americans crossed the Delaware a little later, not far from the
point where they had crossed to attack the Hessians a year and a half
before. Clinton was so slow in his movements that Washington suspected
him of desiring to get the American force into the level country, then,
by a rapid march, gain the heights, and so take them at a disadvantage.
Another council of war was held; General Lee was for holding aloof
and merely annoying the enemy by detachments. As his military skill
was highly regarded, he gained a majority of the officers to his way
of thinking; and the command went forth that this style of warfare be
begun. However, it was not at all in favor with the rank and file, and
though they obeyed their officers readily enough, they were not at all
backward in their criticisms.
“Are we a parcel of old women that we should be afraid to get near
enough to the enemy to come to hand grasps with him?” asked a
stalwart sergeant of artillery. “Ah, I wish, Molly,” to a red-haired,
freckle-faced young woman, “that they had had you in the council
instead of General Lee.”
“Why, then,” said Molly, whom Ben, who sat near by, at once recognized
as the Molly Hayes he had seen perform so creditably at the Crossed
Keys, “if I had it’s after old Clinton we’d a-been long ago. Sure it’s
in the arms of our lads to give him and his redcoats a trouncing, so it
is, and I’m for giving it to them while we have the chance.”
“Bravo, Molly Pitcher,” cried a soldier. “Good for you.”
“I’m obliged to you for agreeing with me,” said Molly, dropping the
speaker a satirical courtesy. “But I’d thank you, soldier, not to call
me out of my name, which is Molly Hayes, and not Molly Pitcher.”
“Your pitcher, Molly,” stated her husband, the sergeant of artillery,
“is welcome enough when the lads are thirsty and you bring it to them
full of cool water. So what harm if they do name you after it? It’s
proud you should be.”
“Sorra the bit do I mind it,” said Molly to Ben, a little later. “But
it becomes a lady not to allow them too much familiarity, so it do.”
[Illustration: “_BRAVO, MOLLY PITCHER!_”]
Generals Wayne, Greene and Lafayette had all been of the same opinion
as to the proper means of distressing the enemy. In spite of the
confidently expressed opinions of Lee they believed that the rear
of the British should be attacked by a heavy force, while the main
army should be held ready to give general battle. Washington held the
same opinion and shortly afterward set about carrying it out. He was
no longer in doubt as to Clinton’s route; the British were on the road
through Freehold, meaning to embark at Sandy Hook.
As Lee was opposed to all attack, Washington, at Lafayette’s eager
solicitation, gave command of the advance to that gallant young man.
“But,” said the commander-in-chief, “the command is rightfully Lee’s.
However, if he has no objection, you may have it.”
Ben carried the request to General Lee. The latter’s face when he read
the message was a study to the speculative eyes of the boy.
“Imbeciles!” muttered Lee, who was noted for his bluntness of speech as
well as oddities of character. “But let them have their way.”
He wrote a reply stating that he willingly relinquished command of the
advance. Ben placed this in his belt, saluted and darted out to his
horse. But he had barely gathered up the reins when he heard the ring
of hoofs almost beside him, and glancing around he saw the strong face
of Tobias Hawkins.
For a moment the man looked into the boy’s face; and the boy returned
the gaze steadily.
“Ah,” said Hawkins, at last, “so I see you here, Master Cooper.”
Ben nodded, smilingly.
“Are you surprised? Surely you knew that your plans at Rising Sun and
at the Crossed Keys both failed.”
A sour smile crossed the man’s face, but his hard eyes did not smile.
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said he. “But, then, you are
difficult to understand at best. However,” and there was a low menace
in his tone, “I may come to understand you yet. And, mayhap, the
understanding is not far away.”
Ben saluted smilingly, shook his rein and galloped away; but at some
little distance he turned in his saddle and looked back. Hawkins had
dismounted before General Lee’s tent and was at that moment upon the
point of entering. At this the lad caught his breath sharply. The
suspicions aroused by the words he had heard pass between Hawkins and
Sugden at Claflin’s returned to him with a rush.
“What if, after all, it should be so?” was his thought.
“What if----” but here another thought occurred to him. “It makes no
difference just now, at any rate,” he continued. “General Lafayette is
to have command of the advance.”
He delivered Lee’s message at headquarters in all haste; but the
delighted young Frenchman had scarcely rushed away to assume his post
than a horseman dismounted before the tent of the commander-in-chief
and was shown in. Ben was lingering about under instructions to wait,
as there would probably be work for him; and he heard the rider
announce:
“From General Lee.”
Washington at once broke the seal; and as he read the paper, a cloud
overspread his face, his heavy brows came together in a frown, and he
turned to General Greene.
“Lee has altered his mind,” said he.
“You don’t mean that he now wants the command, after it’s given to
another?” asked the astonished Greene.
“Just so.”
At this a quick shock seemed to strike at Ben Cooper’s heart. If
General Lee was a traitor--and the words of Hawkins made him think so
in spite of himself--what an opportunity this was to play into the
hands of the British; what an opportunity it was to deal the cause of
liberty a blow from which it might never recover.
“It may be,” was the lad’s instant thought, “that Hawkins has had
something to do with this change of mind on the part of General Lee.
Irritated that his advice was not being followed, the general, who
is notoriously testy, agreed to having Lafayette in command of the
advance. But no sooner had I gone with this answer, than Hawkins
arrived and pointed out that this course was a mistake for one in the
pay of the British government, and so instantly Lee altered his mind.”
“This situation,” said General Washington, “is a most perplexing one.
I do not see how I can agree to Lee’s altered fancy without grievously
wounding the feelings of Lafayette.”
But it developed that this could be done without any difficulty. A
sudden altering of Clinton’s plans, which threw the weight of British
power into the rear under Cornwallis, made it necessary for General
Washington to send a reinforcement to his advance. The brigades of
Varnum and Scott were sent under the headship of General Lee, and he,
being senior officer, was in this way placed in command of the whole
advance.
That night the British encamped near Monmouth Court House, while the
Americans under Lee lay at Englishtown, five miles away. Washington and
the main body were three miles to the rear of the advance.
At sundown Washington rode forward; his practiced eye told him that
the British position was an awkward one to attack; but if they were
allowed to proceed a dozen miles further their position would be
stronger still, for the heights of Middletown would greatly favor them.
In consequence he made up his mind to attack at dawn. His orders were
given to Lee in the presence of officers.
“Make your disposition for an attack,” said Washington. “Keep your men
lying on their arms; be ready for action at the shortest notice.”
The commander-in-chief then rode back to the main body, and during
the remainder of the night was busy with preparations for the coming
struggle. At sunrise, Ben Cooper, who had remained during the night
with the advance, brought news that the British were in motion. By
another rider General Washington sent a command to Lee to advance and
attack, saying that he was coming on rapidly to support him. Then the
main army was ordered to discard its blankets, knapsacks and other
heavy equipment so that its progress should not be retarded.
The Hessian commander, Knyphausen, had charge of the British advance,
which included all the baggage. And in the early morning while he
slowly made his way into the valley between Monmouth and Middletown,
Clinton with the fighting men held the camp on the heights of Freehold.
This body did not move from the latter position until after eight
in the morning, when they also took up the line of march through
Middletown.
It was a region covered by wood and morass, and General Lee had no
great opportunity to reconnoiter the enemy; seeing Clinton’s army on
its march, he told his officers it was only a detachment. Ordering
Wayne with a body of infantry and a few pieces of artillery to skirmish
in the rear, he set out with the remainder of his force to, as he said,
head the detachment off. At the same time he sent a rider to Washington
telling him of the movement and adding that he was confident of success.
The army under Washington was making excellent time; as they reached
Freehold church a cannon boomed in the distance, telling them that the
fight had opened. At once the command was given to quicken the advance.
Washington, with his officers grouped about him, was giving his final
instructions. Ben Cooper and the other young riders were within call,
ready and eager to bear any messages that might need sending. The
commander-in-chief had just finished his orders to Greene who was to
push on with a division along a side road and so flank the enemy, when
a farmer mounted upon a plough horse rode up, wild-eyed and scarcely
able to speak.
“They are retreating!” he cried.
“Who?” demanded some one.
“Our army; and the British are after them!”
Washington, who stood by the side of his great white horse, turned an
angry face upon the man.
“What, sir,” demanded he, “do you dare bring us a false report at such
a time?”
“I’m telling the truth!” gasped the man, his hands tossing in protest.
“See, there; he’ll tell you the same.”
As he spoke he pointed to a small man in an American uniform, who held
a fife in his hand, and had at that moment dashed breathlessly up.
“All’s lost,” he said. “We’ve been driven back.”
A swift command, and the fifer was in the custody of Nat Brewster and
Ezra Prentiss.
“Don’t let him speak to any one,” was the order. “He might spread a
panic among the men.”
Washington mounted, and the officers spurred forward. In a little
while a scattering of running men were met upon the road; then small
bodies. Finally complete commands were encountered. Some officers were
now ordered forward to find out the meaning of the thing; dashing past
Freehold Meeting House, Washington came upon Grayson’s and Patton’s
regiments in full retreat and badly disordered. Then came other
commands.
“Sir,” demanded Washington of Colonel Shreve, who rode at the head of
his own regiment, “is the entire advance party falling back?”
Colonel Shreve smiled significantly.
“General, I believe it is. And under the orders of General Lee.”
“And,” declared Major Howard of the same command, “I never saw the
like. It’s cowardice.”
“We are running from a shadow,” cried another officer, hotly. “The most
of us never even caught sight of the enemy.”
Though he had been close to Washington since the opening of the war,
Ben Cooper had never seen him angry until now. As the remainder of the
advance now came up, the commander-in-chief rode up to General Lee, who
came with it.
“General Lee, what is the meaning of this?” cried Washington, his face
white with fury.
Lee flushed and seemed unable to answer.
“Can you not speak?” demanded Washington. “I desire to know the meaning
of this disorder and confusion!”
Lee’s naturally irascible nature here asserted itself, and he made a
stinging reply.
“You asked for the command, sir,” said Washington. “Why did you do so
unless you desired to fight the enemy?”
For an instant it was upon Ben Cooper’s tongue to ride forward and tell
what he knew.
“But no, no,” he said to himself. “I know but little, and am sure of
nothing. I had best be silent.”
Though he was deeply exasperated at the conduct of General Lee,
Washington did not lose sight of the fact that the enemy were close
upon him.
“They are only fifteen minutes away,” reported George Prentiss who,
from a height, had been observing them.
The place where Washington had stopped the retreat, as it happened, was
highly favorable for a stand. With eagle glance, Washington saw this,
and the command was posted upon a hill, the only approach to which
was over a narrow causeway. To the left of this eminence, Stewart and
Ramsey’s batteries were planted in a woody covert. Upon another hill,
there were two guns stationed under Colonel Oswald. With all the hurry
and excitement of the moment, the different bodies of troops moved with
the precision of machines.
When all was ready Washington once more rode up to Lee.
“Will you retain this command, sir?” he asked.
“It is all one to me, sir, where I command,” replied Lee.
“I shall expect you to take proper measures for checking the enemy,”
said Washington.
“Your orders shall be obeyed,” returned Lee. “I shall be the last to
leave the ground.”
The guns from the woods on the left and from the hilltop had begun to
speak, and the British were brought to a halt. Washington rode back and
brought on the main body, which he formed upon a hill with thick woods
at its back and a swamp to the front. Sterling had the left wing and
Greene the right.
This time the command of Lee fought stubbornly. Then, at last, he was
obliged to fall back, which he did in an orderly manner upon the left.
Ben was with Greene’s division upon the right, having been sent there
with some orders. From this position he saw the batteries of General
Sterling open upon the British and force them back; there was a pause,
then the enemy came driving upon the position of Greene. But here the
artillery of Knox met them with its thunder. In the face of it the
invaders came on; smoke was ascending in choking clouds, but through
it the red coats and gleaming brass and steel of the British could be
seen. Their musket balls pattered among the artillerymen like rain, and
suddenly Ben saw a stalwart sergeant throw up his hands and fall. There
was a shriek; a figure with streaming red hair rushed to his side and
sank to her knees beside him.
“It’s Sergeant Hayes that’s down,” reported one of the men.
“Take him to the rear,” was the order.
“I’m not badly hurt, Molly,” said Hayes to his wife. “So don’t cry
about me.”
“You are sure?” said she.
“It’s only a scratch,” said the sergeant with a smile as he was placed
on a litter.
“Another man, there, to Hayes’ place,” came the order.
As she stood watching the litter being borne to the rear Molly Hayes
heard these words.
“What!” she cried, whirling about, “another man to that gun!” pointing
to the piece at which her husband had fallen. “Faith, then, there’s no
need of it. That big-throated roarer is one of the family, so it is,
and if one of us isn’t able to attend to it, the other must.”
And with that she seized a ramrod and thrust it into the smoking maw
of the cannon; as brave as the bravest she worked away amid the musket
shot of the British, never heeding them as they came plunging upon the
battery.
“What a virago!” Ben heard a voice say some little distance in his
rear, and turning swiftly in his saddle he recognized Tobias Hawkins.
“I wish there were more like her,” spoke the officer to whom the remark
had been addressed. “And now, sir, let me again request you to go to
the rear.”
“I am sorry to have intruded,” said Tobias Hawkins, as he turned his
horse’s head. “The fact is that I have a message of an important and
private nature for an officer whom I expected to see here.”
Here the British fell back before the deadly fire of Knox’s guns; and
Ben Cooper as he turned away had a last vision of Molly Hayes, her mass
of red hair tossing in the wind, wildly cheering with the men; then the
boy rode after Tobias Hawkins.
As it chanced the man had taken a direction across a stretch which had
been only a short time ago swept by the fire of General Wayne’s command
which lay concealed in an orchard not far away. Before it was a command
of British being drawn up as though preparing to make an attack. Ben
glanced here and there, but there was no sign of the Americans.
“They must have retreated,” thought the boy.
Hearing the hoof-beats in his rear, Hawkins turned; and an evil smile
overspread his face at sight of Ben.
“Once more,” said he, “it is you.”
“It is,” smiled Ben. “I saw you back there by Knox’s battery, and heard
what you said regarding a private message for a friend.”
“Ah,” said Tobias Hawkins, “you did?”
“I did,” nodded the boy, “and I rode after you to say that if the
friend is General Lee you will find him somewhere on the left, as I saw
him----”
He had just gotten this far when Hawkins drew a pistol and lifted it.
But just then a sheeted volley leaped from the orchard and he sank to
the ground. And as he did so, Ben Cooper’s horse reared and plunged;
the lad fell from the saddle and lay like one dead, while over him
swept the charging division of Monckton with leveled bayonets to
dislodge the command of General Wayne.
* * * * *
It was well toward noon next day when Ben Cooper was able to get upon
his feet; and then, surrounded by his anxious friends, he made his way
to the scene of yesterday’s mishap.
“Wayne must have been waiting for the British,” said Ezra. “And as they
charged just as you got in line, you had to take your chance. It’s
lucky you weren’t killed.”
Ben touched the bandage around his head and smiled.
“Did Wayne drive them back?” he asked.
“He did. And before much else could be done, darkness came on. We were
all under arms at daybreak; but the enemy had gone--ran away in the
night.”
“Ran away!” Ben smiled once more. “From now on he’ll be used to that.
With the armies and fleets of France to aid him, General Washington
will give him plenty of practice.”
“What’s that?” asked the Porcupine, his eyes upon a small group beside
a gun.
There stood a cheering, laughing cluster of young officers; then there
was Molly Hayes in the midst of them, standing at salute, while before
her was General Washington himself. The boys approached through the
lines of men who, with litters, were bearing off the dead from the
field, and were just in time to hear the commander-in-chief say:
“Your bravery, Mistress Hayes, was equal to that of any man in the
army. You served your gun gallantly, and in the name of Congress I
thank you. My only regret is that I can do nothing more.”
“You can, general, asthore,” cried a voice from the rear, a voice which
Ben at once recognized as that of Paddy Burk. “Now that her husband is
wounded, make her a sergeant in his place.”
The grave-faced commander-in-chief smiled at the suggestion.
“An excellent notion; and from this time on, Mistress Hayes, you are a
sergeant in the service of the United States, with the pay of such and
all the other things that such rank demands.”
There was a chorus of cheers at this, and Molly Hayes, with cheeks
stained crimson and eyes shining, once more saluted with proper
military stiffness. And just then a litter holding a body came up and
Ben, as he stepped aside to permit its passage, had a view of the face.
“She earned it,” said Nat Brewster, who had heard the story of Molly’s
courage. “And she’s deserved all she’s got.”
Ben turned away from the litter, and a shudder ran through him. But,
though he closed his eyes, he could not shut out the cold, white, dead
face of Tobias Hawkins.
“There are more than she who have received what they deserved,” said
he, in a low voice.
Other Stories in this Series are:
THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT LEXINGTON
THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT BUNKER HILL
THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT TRENTON
FOOTNOTE:
[1] “Pressing wagons”--taking those of the New Jersey farmers for the
use of the British army.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Superscripted text is preceded by a carat character: M^cIntyre.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT
MONMOUTH ***
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