“I can be at Albany before daylight,” the lad said, and with a bow to the commander and a whispered “good-by” to his father, he left the room, but General Schuyler followed him.
“You will stop at our home, Phil?” the father said when they were out of the building.
“Yes, for a few minutes.”
“Then assure your mother that my removal from command was due to no fault of mine; that I hold enmity toward no one, and shall remain here to do my full duty to our country.”
“I can tell her that, and also give her proof that you were removed through the scheming of the enemy,” the boy answered, and then, as they walked along, he told his father that of which Alexander Turnbull, the spy, had boasted.
General Schuyler listened with the deepest interest, and when Philip had concluded, exclaimed reverently:
“I thank the good Lord that He permitted you to overhear those statements, my son. I did not dream that the Tories of this region were back of the movement to oust me. No greater compliment could have been paid, and I can now bear the seeming disgrace with more fortitude. In time the world will know the truth, of that I am confident.”
“So am I,” the younger officer replied, laying his hand in his father’s “and I can only hope to imitate the unselfish devotion to the Cause which you, sir, are showing in an experience when many men would falter in, if not wholly abandon, their efforts.”
Before nine o’clock Philip, accompanied by his three friends, all well mounted and well armed, rode rapidly toward Albany. Two hours before sunrise they had arrived at the town, and at one of the finest estates on its outskirts drew rein. Phil, dismounting, pounded heavily on the lodge gate with the stock of his rifle. Soon a voice cried:
“Who’s there?”