Among others who volunteered for this duty, was Lambert, the eldest son of Nicholas Stemberg, a lad of fifteen or sixteen years. He was stationed by the side of one of those structures called barracks, so often seen in a new country, consisting of a thatch supported on four posts over a stack of wheat or hay. The youth was proud of his trust, desiring nothing more earnestly than to meet with the Captain and take him prisoner. During the afternoon, a violent thunder-storm arose, and to shelter himself from its inclemencies, the young sentry climbed to the top of the stack, where, to his astonishment, he found the loyal fugitive snugly ensconced. Presenting his musket to his breast, he informed him that his orders were to take him, dead or alive—and he must surrender or be shot. The Captain, whose courage and lofty bearing had left him simultaneously with the appearance of Woodbake, begged hard for his life, and besought the young patriot to allow him to escape; for, if taken prisoner, he would be hung by the militia men to the first tree, without shrift or absolution. Stemberg replied that his orders were imperative, and he dared not disobey them. But Mann implored for mercy in such piteous tones—reminding him that he was a neighbor, had never done him harm, had ever been kind to him, &c., &c.—that a violent struggle took place in the breast of the young soldier between his duty and his sympathy. He could not shoot him in cold blood, and he would not surrender; so, to compromise the matter with himself, he proposed to fire his musket in token of alarm, that others might come and take his prisoner. This was earnestly objected to by the Captain, who saw the struggle going on in his captor's breast, and determined to take advantage of it. Watching his opportunity, therefore, when his attention was removed from him, and a violent clap of thunder covered his movement, he slipped off the stack, and sliding down one of the posts, made a rapid retreat for the mountains. Stemberg, as in duty bound, fired his musket at him, but was not sorry that his shot was fruitless. The report soon brought others to the spot, and after hearing the story of the tender-hearted sentinel, they immediately started in pursuit of the fugitive, who had many narrow escapes, but finally eluded their vigilance and hid himself in the fastnesses of the hills, where he remained for two weeks. He was induced, at the end of that time, to surrender, upon the condition that he should not suffer personal injury. He was taken to Albany, where he was kept a close prisoner until the end of the war, when he again returned to his estate, and, becoming a firm Republican, ended his days there.
Those who think young Stemberg's neighborly feelings made him too lenient toward the humiliated loyalist, will be better pleased with the following record of the resolute manner in which another lad captured and controlled a couple of desperadoes.
On a fine May morning, 1780, as the family of Sheriff Firman, of Freehold county, New Jersey, was at breakfast, a breathless soldier burst into the room, stating that as he and another were conducting to the court-house two men, taken up on suspicion at Colt's Neck, they had knocked down his comrade, seized his musket, and escaped. The Sheriff, on hearing this relation, mounted his horse and galloped to the court-house to alarm the guard. His son, Tunis, a lad of about seventeen, small of his age, seized a musket, loaded only with small shot to kill blackbirds in the cornfields, and, putting on a cartridge-box, sent his little brother up stairs for the bayonet, and then, forgetting to wait for it, hurried off alone in pursuit.
After running in a westerly direction about a mile, he discovered the men sitting on a fence, who, perceiving him, ran into a swamp. As the morning was warm, he hastily pulled off his shoes and coat, and darted in after them, keeping close after them for over a mile, when they got out of the swamp, and climbed into separate trees. As he came up one of them discharged at him the musket taken from the guard. The ball whistled over his head. Feeling for his bayonet, he discovered that it was still with his little brother. He then pointed his gun at the man with the musket, but deemed it imprudent to fire, reflecting that, even if he killed him, his comrade could easily match such a stripling as himself. He compelled the man to throw down the musket by threatening him with instant death if he did not comply. Then, loading the fusee from his cartridge-box, he forced his prisoners down from the trees, and, armed with his two loaded muskets, drove them toward the court-house, careful, however, to keep them far apart, to prevent conversation. Passing by a spring, they requested permission to drink.
"No!" replied the courageous boy, understanding their design, "you can do without it as well as myself; you shall have some by-and-by."
Soon after, his father, at the head of a party of soldiers, galloped past in the road within a short distance. Tunis hallooed, but the clattering of their horses' hoofs drowned his voice. At length he reached the village, and lodged his prisoners in the county prison.
It was subsequently discovered that these men were brothers, from near Philadelphia; that they had robbed and murdered a Mr. Boyd, a collector of taxes in Chester county, and, when taken, were on their way to join the British. As they had been apprehended on suspicion merely of being refugees, no definite charge could be brought against them. A few days later, Sheriff Firman saw an advertisement in a Philadelphia paper, describing them, with the facts above mentioned, and a reward of twenty thousand dollars (Continental money,) offered for their apprehension. He, accompanied by his son, took them on there, where they were tried and executed. On entering Philadelphia, young Tunis was carried through the streets in triumph upon the shoulders of the military. In the latter part of the war this young man became very active, and was the special favorite of General David Firman.
Not solitary are the incidents of boyish heroism on record; and yet how far the larger number must have passed unnoticed, in the midst of the trials and excitements of those troublous Revolutionary times. Children catch the fire which burns in the parent heart; and where the father rushes eagerly to the salvation of his country, and the mother—concealing her sadness and fears, puts on a hopeful countenance, speaking the ennobling sentiments of patriotism—it may well be credited that the boys were not cowards. We have some very interesting recollections of that period preserved in the private Diary of the wife of a Revolutionary officer, who, while her husband served his country on the battle-field, remained with her father, who was a clergyman of the Church of England, at their little parsonage on Long Island, and whose daily jottings down of events and emotions, just as they were seen and felt, make her simple pictures full of the power of reality. When we read them we feel as if that time were before us, and those actors still lived. Long Island, after the memorable retreat of Gen. Washington, on the morning of the 30th of August, 1776, remained in the hands of the enemy, and was the scene of many distressing outrages and calamities of all kinds—pillage, insult, robbery, the destruction of farm implements, the impressment of men and horses, with the horrors of a prowling hired soldiery, and frequent murders, being among the dark list. Speaking of the spirit of the boys of those days, leads us to quote from the lady's Diary:
"Wednesday, Nov. 24th, 1776.—Yesterday my indignation was aroused to a high degree. I was sitting in the end of the porch, my father at my side, and little Mary, with your letter in her hands, pretending to read it, when a loud cry startled us. It seemed to come from Pattison's, our nearest neighbor. Charles went over, returned, and gave us this account of the affair. It appears that Edmund Pattison was enjoying his noon rest quietly in the barn (he is a noble-looking lad of eighteen, tall, athletic, and of a high spirit,) when a light-horseman rode up to the door.
"'Youngster,' said he, 'make haste and bestir yourself. Go and assist that driver of the two yoke of oxen there to unload his cart of timber into the road.'