A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER X.
TROUBLOUS TIMES.
The little camp-fire at which Colonel Hewes and some of the officers were sitting was just outside the line of heavy fortifications which the Americans had thrown up some weeks previously.
Colonel Hewes, as soon as he heard George's answer, welcomed the young soldier heartily, and, searching in the saddle-bags that were lying on the ground, he secured some bread and a slice of ham, which George accepted, as he had not tasted food since early in the morning.
For two days nothing was done, but at last Washington's plans were perfected, and under the cover of a heavy fog nine thousand men were ferried across to the city of New York. As George was about to embark with the body of discouraged stragglers in one of the small boats impressed for the service, he heard a familiar voice beside him.
Carter Hewes! He started suddenly. There he stood. A cape was over his shoulder, his left arm was in a sling.
"Oh, Carter, are you wounded?" he exclaimed, before the other had noticed who it was that called to him.
"George, dear friend, you've escaped?" answered Carter, wheeling. Then he noticed the anxious glance. "Merely a scratch," he went on. "Come over with my company, at least what is left of them—it's been bad work. What! a Lieutenant! Hurrah! I told you so."
The soldiers crowded into the flat-boat, and soon the two friends were drifting across the river.
"Your father's proposal has gone to the Convention," said George.
"That relieves me," said Carter. "It is a pet scheme of his, and it was dreadful careless of me to forget and carry it in my pocket. See; do you remember this?" He held out the note-book.
"Why, it's mine!" cried George. "Where did you get it?"
Questions and answers followed in quick succession, and the young officers seemed to forget that they were retreating with a defeated army.
As soon as they had landed they made their way past the Fly Market, near the river.
"It looks as if a plague were in town," thought George to himself. He had just finished relating the incidents that led to his sudden promotion, and had listened to Carter's tale of the adventures in the strange house.
Carter was leaning on his arm as they went up the street, and suddenly he stopped. "Take a good look at this man, here on the right. Who is he?" he asked.
As George turned he saw in the group of spectators a strange figure leaning on a stick. His clothes were ragged, and his hat flopped about his ears; a patch was over his left eye, but despite all this the young Lieutenant recognized him in an instant.
"That's my old schoolmaster, Jabez Anderson. The Tory-hunters haven't found him, evidently," he said, quietly, "and I certainly shall not betray him. Though he's rabid for the crown."
"It seems to me that I have met him some place," returned Carter. "But, come to think, he resembles a portrait I've seen and can't place for the life of me."
What Carter was thinking of was a reflection in an old gilt-framed mirror, although he did not know it.
"He's an odd fish," said George, as they stepped forward again, "and used to give us long lectures on our duty to the King, and all in his own way, for he told minutely the grievances of the colonies, and then admonished us to be steadfast. I often even then felt like taking up cudgels on the opposite side of the question. I owe him no ill-will."
As he spoke he looked in his companion's face. "You are suffering, dear friend," he said. "We must find some place to rest."
"It's nothing. I shall be right in a few days," murmured Carter.
George noticed that he was pale, however, and that during the last half-hour or so he leaned heavily on his arm.
"Courage; I know of just the place," he said.
"We won't be left quietly here very long," responded Carter. "Howe has us on the hip, I fear me. Let me sit down on this step a minute."
"Mr. Frothingham! Mr. Frothingham!" called a voice just at this juncture.
George looked around. There stood Mrs. Mack.
"Thank Dame Fortune," said George to his companion, "here's my old landlady; she will look after us, I'll warrant."
He stepped over to where the honest woman stood. She spoke before he had time to say a word.
"I hev somethin' fer ye to the house, sir," she said; "and shure you lift a foine suit of clothes."
George's heart bounded. He needed clothes badly enough, but had no recollection of having left anything but an old worn coat.
"Won't yez be after comin' ter the house!" continued the woman. "I ken git you a bite to ate, and you kin stay there. Shure ye look that tired."
George easily got permission from his Captain, and dropped out of the ranks. With the help of the widow he succeeded in getting Carter at last tucked away in a great soft bed, where he immediately went to sleep. The last thing he said was, "George, this is the house they took me to, only I had the little room upstairs." George stole away, intending to ask an explanation from the good Irish woman, and solve the mystery.
"Whisper," said Mrs. Mack, taking her old boarder by the arm before he could begin his questioning. "I was on the look fer ye. Here!"
What was George's surprise, and even consternation, when Mrs. Mack handed him an envelope. He opened it. It was heavy with gold coin—English guineas, bright and clinking.
"Where did they come from? Where? Where?" he exclaimed.
"Shure I don't know, sir," said Mrs. Mack. "They wus lift here by a little old man who wus deaf and dumb."
George was puzzled.
"They are shure fer you, sir," she said, "bekase he described you."
"And if he was deaf and dumb, how could he describe me?"
The good woman appeared confused. "And shure, sir, wid signs," she answered. "Oh, I will git the suit of clothes."
She disappeared, but came back immediately. Again was the young soldier almost frightened. He never owned a coat like that, and surely never possessed such a fine pair of buckskin breeches; but there they were.
"Some mistake," said George, looking at the yellow facings, the large brass buttons, and the Lieutenant's shoulder-knots. "I won't take them until I know where they came from," said he, decidedly.
Now may the Recording Angel forgive the good washer-woman, for he must have put down against her name that day a fib of the straightest, whitest kind.
"I made thim fer ye," she said, unblushingly. "If all the army was dressed as foine as that the Ridcoats would take off their hats to ye."
The fact was Mrs. Mack may have referred to the lace trimmings when she said that she had made them, for that was all that she had contributed.
Aunt Clarissa must have relented! At last it dawned on the young soldier. Why had he not written to her? He resolved to do so at once. If he could find some way of sending her the letter.
In a few days Carter was able to move, and Colonel Hewes—who had been ordered to New Jersey to help his cousin mould cannon-balls—took him with him out to the estate. Mrs. Mack had acknowledged the fact that the wounded lad had been her guest before, under certain mysterious circumstances. But she could not or would not explain the method or means of his previous arrival, insisting that he was brought to her by two "dark men" whose language she could not understand.
Two days after Carter's departure George was leaning against the side of a little brick guard-house—he was officer of the guard—his thoughts far away, busy with the good old times, when he saw down the street some one crossing from a path that led along the common. His heart beat quickly. He would know that shuffling gait, that was yet so strong, amongst a thousand. In half a minute his long young legs were striding in the direction of the retreating figure, and in another he had grasped the man by both shoulders and swung him sharply against a tall board fence.
"Cato, you old rascal!" he exclaimed, shaking his shoulders back and forth roughly, though the tears of joy had gathered in his eyes.
"Why, Mas'r George," came the answer with a jerky emphasis. "How y-y-youse growed, and I done guess you pritty strong too, but you needn't try for to p-prove it no more."
It was not until this that George remembered that he must have changed somewhat, and that he did not know really how strong he had become, for it only seemed yesterday that the old man had been able to lay him across his knee, or carry him by the slack of his little homespun coat.
"Cato," he said, "how are you all at home?"
"Dat's what I's come to tell you, young mas'r," said the old darky. "Dere's a peck of trubble over yander, and I's got a letter fer you from Mistis Grace."
George took the crumpled paper and read it hastily. How she must have changed—his little sister—to write and think such thoughts as these! For the letter told how she prayed every night that he would come back safe and sound, and that the great General Washington would whip the British and drive them from the country. "Aunt Clarissa would not let me write to you," concluded the letter, "and does not know that Cato has gone to look for you. Good-by, dear, dear George.
"From your little Rebel Sister,
"Grace."
"God bless her sweet heart!" said Lieutenant Frothingham, and he paused for a minute. Oh, it seemed so long ago, and William, his dear brother, was in England, and could not understand.
"Cato," he said, suddenly, breaking away from his train of thought, for the old darky had not spoken, "did you bring any money for me some time ago and leave it with Mrs. Mack?"
"No, sah, 'fo' de Lawd, I didn', Mas'r George, but I's got some now," he said, hurriedly, diving into the capacious pockets of his flapping waistcoat. He brought out a worn leather wallet. It contained two gold pieces and a half-handful of silver. "It's yours, sah," he said.
George looked at him earnestly. "Did Mistress Frothingham send it to me?" he asked.
The old darky shifted uneasily. "Yes, sah," he said, faintly.
"Cato, you're telling me a lie," said George, once more laying his hand on the colored man's shoulder. "I don't need the money, and you know that it is yours. I am rich now, Cato." He jingled the gold coins in his own pocket.
The old darky had not replied, but a huge tear rolled down his face.
"T'ank God for dat, honey," he said. "Old Cato didn't know." Then, as if to change the subject, he went on more cheerfully. "Cunel Hewes's cousin is runnin' de big works, sah. Dey is moulding a big chain over dere—biggest you ever seed. Dey done goin' to tro it 'cross de Hudson Ribber to keep dem Redcoat boats from goin' up. He's makin' cannon-balls. I reckon he'd like to use yo' foundry."
"Well, what's to prevent him?" said George.
"'Deed ol' miss' won't let 'im," responded Cato, seriously. "She'd fight 'em toof and nail."
George smiled. "Have you heard her speak of me?" he asked.
"No, Mas'r George," said the old negro, shaking his head. "I heered her tell Mistis Grace dat—dat—"
"Well?" said George.
"Dat you wus dead to her, you 'n' massa."
A drum rolled down the street, and some ragged soldiers were seen leading some thin, unkempt horses from the stable across the way. Two non-commissioned officers came out of the little house before which Cato and his young master had been standing. One was buckling on his heavy leather belt.
"Orders to march, I reckon," he said to his companion. George acknowledged the salute they gave him, and the old darky removed his hat and bowed.
"Wus dat Gineral Washington?" he asked, in an awed whisper, looking at the burly figure of the first speaker, who had a great lump of cheese in his hand, which he was endeavoring to slip into the pocket of his coat.
"No, Cato," said George; "that was a sergeant of artillery."
He was scribbling a few lines, addressed to his sister, on a bit of rough paper. He thrust it into Cato's hands. "Good-by, old friend," he said, and placed his arm about the faithful darky's shoulder and gave him a squeeze, as he had often done in the good old days.
"I's not goin' back," said Cato, shaking his head. "I's goin' wid you as yo' body-sarvant."
"You can't," said George. "Prithee do you think that a Lieutenant is allowed a servant?"
"I don't know," said the old darky. "I spec you'll be a gineral 'fore very long."
"No, no, Cato, you must go back," said his young master. "Good-by—good-by."
He turned quickly and ran off toward the guard-house. Where could the gold have come from? It was puzzling.
Cato looked after him, and placing the note in the crown of his big hat, walked slowly away.
An orderly met the young Lieutenant at the door. "Your presence is requested at headquarters, sir," he said, and hurried off.
The city was going to be abandoned, and to George Frothingham was given the important charge of conducting the precious powder train through the lanes and by-ways of Manhattan Island to the new position Washington had taken at Harlem Heights.
LUMBERING VANS TRUNDLED AND JOLTED ALONG WITH THE REAR-GUARD.
At noon the caravan was ready to start. Besides the lumbering vans, two brass field-pieces trundled and jolted along with the rear-guard. George knew well the best route to take, and gave the orders to push ahead up the old "King's Highway"—the post-road to Boston.
At a street corner as they passed were standing some soldiers of one of the commands that had not received marching orders. Running out into the street, one of the men touched a tall private on the elbow. It was Thomas, the former porter in Mr. Wyeth's office. He held in his hand a buckskin bag of bullets.
"Brother Ralston," he said, "here are some leaden pills. Shoot straight with them." Then he noticed George, and saluted. Pouring something out in his hand, he came up close. "Slip them into your pocket for a keepsake, Mr. Frothingham," he said. "They are some of those that were moulded out of the statue of King George himself."
George took them, and remembered the time when he and his brother had looked at this same statue when they had that first unhappy parting with Carter Hewes three years before. How differently had things terminated. He smiled sadly to himself as he slipped the new shining bullets into the pocket of his coat.
As they trudged along through the hot sun and the dust, a young officer, scarcely nineteen, galloped up and down the line, hurrying on those in the rear, and keeping the column well together to prevent straggling. He did not shout his orders, but talked in a low, intense voice; his movements were quick and nervous, but his graceful figure sat erect on his horse, and he seemed to take in everything with a rapid glance of his handsome deep-set eyes. George saw at once that it was his friend who had lent him his first Lieutenant's uniform, and whose name he had forgotten to ask. Chagrined, he thought that he could only explain that the wet had ruined everything, and the gay coat had been discarded.
"Who is he, that he should assume such airs?" said one of the slouching rear-guard that had been swelled by stragglers from various commands in advance, for the young officer had hastened him on by giving him a sharp dig in the shoulder with his foot as he rode up the line.
"'Tis young Aaron Burr," was the response.
"Humph! the young coxcomb!" had exclaimed the first soldier.
"Coxcomb, perhaps, but a game one, I'll warrant you," had come the answer.
The last time the proud young officer had ridden down the line, his tired horse dotted and blotched with foam, he had caught sight of the young Lieutenant, and had ridden up to him.
"Well met, comrade Frothingham!" he said, with a fascinating smile. "Take charge of these lazybones. Stop their mouths, and make them use their legs."
He cut with apparent playfulness at the shoulder of one of the belated ones nearest to him.
The blow stung, nevertheless, but the man only cringed, and hastened on like a jaded horse, frightened to further exertion. George looked at his face carefully. It was the pale youth with the fishy eyes who had been a clerk in Mr. Wyeth's employ with him. They had cordially disliked each other.
It was good that the rear-guard had hastened, for scarcely had they crossed to the heights at Harlem, where Washington was waiting, when the British appeared from east and west. A battery of Yankee artillery—the two brass pieces—had taken possession of a little knoll, and they roared alternately and held the victors in check. George placed his force along the slope, and took command of the battery. At the sound of the guns and the smell of the white sulphurous smoke our young hero's heart once more began to beat with that strange unaccountable excitement. As he faced his men about, he noticed private Ralston kneel down behind a stump, and soon the bullets made from King George's statue were singing across the meadow. The pursuit stopped at the bottom of the hill.
That night George and his weary companions rested in the hay of a small barn on the hill-side that overlooked the beautiful village of Bloomingdale.
He was too tired to sleep, and his thoughts ran rampant. What must William think of him? What was his brother doing? Why could not he see the right side? Oh, the bitterness of it! When would it end? Perhaps one of those bullets whose sound he now knew so well would settle things for good and all. If only William were here by him!
"Look back at the city!—look!" said a voice from the hay.
Far to the southward great red tongues of flame were leaping against the sky; billows of smoke swept up and caught the reflection of the flames, and sparks filled the air and danced out over the river. The city was on fire.
As George watched the conflagration from the window of the hay-mow, which was now crowded with excited soldiers, some men on horseback passed by beneath him.
"There's a warm reception for them," said a short thick-set man with a round chubby face. His voice had a cheery sound.
"I don't think that it was fired by our directions, General Putnam," came the answer.
"Probably it was done by the British themselves. They're not above it. Gadzooks, it is a grand sight!" said the short man, "and many a Tory heart is thumping with fear against its Tory ribs, I'll warrant ye." There came a pause, and then the speaker added, "What was the name of the lad who saved the powder train?"
"Aaron Burr," was the answer.
"No, not he—the young Lieutenant, I mean—the one who brought the news from Staten Island?"
"His name has slipped me," replied the second officer, "but I heard the General himself speak well of him."
George's heart gave a great leap, and then he murmured a prayer that he might never fail to deserve such commendation. For well-earned praise is balm to wounds and strengthening to the soul and spirit of the soldier, be he young or old, great general or humble private in the ranks.