“Captain Woodburn!” exclaimed the clear, animated voice of one coming out of the door of the honored tavern before described, in the village of Manchester, as the person thus addressed, who had just arrived with those escorting the prisoners, was describing the capture to a crowd gathered round him in the yard—“Captain Woodburn, your most obedient! I am glad my patience in waiting for your arrival is rewarded by the good news which Powell, our landlord here, has just told us you bring. But come, sir, a word in your ear, if you please.”
Woodburn turned and confronted the bright and smiling countenance of Ira Allen, who was beckoning him from the crowd.
“Certainly, Mr. Allen; but why honor me with that appellation?” responded the former, stepping aside with the ardent young secretary.
“Because I have the warrant for so doing in my pocket—a captain's commission for you, my dear sir, if you will believe me.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, we have done something in the council at last worth talking about—voted to raise a regiment of Rangers forthwith, and appointed all the commissioned officers, Samuel Herrick heading the list as colonel.”
“A gallant fellow, who will honor the post. But how about the means of paying and supporting such a force? You lately held taxing the people, without their consent, too bold a measure, I thought.”
“We did, but have nevertheless adopted a bolder one.”
“What is it?”
“Decreed the confiscation of the estates of the tories, appointed the necessary officers to execute the decree, and despatched messengers to them with commissions, instructions, and with orders to put the machine immediately into motion. By to-morrow nigh many of those on our black list will—”