The Boys of Old Monmouth: A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778

by Everett T. Tomlinson

Then, too, all the kindness he had received at the hands of Benzeor's wife and of the girls came back to him. It was true that this had been largely of a negative character, but in times like these through which the troubled lad was then passing, even that was not forgotten. He had toiled early and late, and knew that he had given more than a full equivalent for the scanty food and rough clothing he had received. But after all, Benzeor's home had been all the home he had ever known, and he was not unmindful of the benefits he had received.

His soul now, however, was in a state of turmoil. The words he had overheard had proved conclusively that Benzeor was a changed man, and as Tom thought of the project which Fenton had presented, and into which his foster father had entered with apparent eagerness, his own indignation increased. The long waiting was past now, and the time for action, the time of which he had dreamed and thought so much of late, had come at last.

He removed the bed-clothing and sat up on the side of the bed, listening intently. Benzeor had ceased to move about in his room, and the sounds which now came indicated clearly that he was asleep. Against the little window the rain was still beating, and the darkness was so intense in the room that Tom could not distinguish any object.

For several minutes he continued in his position, undecided whether he had better make the attempt to depart from the house by the way of the stairs, or through the window in his room. If he should select the former, the stairs would be sure to creak under his feet; and then, too, there would be the bars which must be drawn from the door. There were too many possibilities of detection to make that method of departure the desirable one.

If he should go through the window, all he would have to do would be to drop upon the woodpile directly beneath,—a pile which Tom knew was there, for he himself had drawn and cut the wood only a few days before this time. He decided to use the window.

Stepping slowly and carefully, he approached and quietly raised the sash. As he looked out into the night, the farm buildings could be seen, and yonder was the road he was to seek.

Hesitating no longer, the resolute boy crawled through the open window, and then, clinging for a moment to the sash with his hands, dropped upon the woodpile below. There was a noise as the wood rolled from under him, but, quickly rising, he ran to the long lane which led out to the road, and then stopped to learn whether his departure had been discovered or not.

The silence was unbroken. The outlines of the rude little house stood out in the darkness, the rain was falling steadily, and the heavy clouds hung low over the earth. Not even the dog had been disturbed, and with a lighter heart Tom turned and ran down the lane and was soon in the road.

The mud was now thick and heavy, and he found his progress difficult. But as he had not far to go, he ran steadily on, and soon came within sight of Little Peter's house. There was no light to be seen within it, and he was not at all certain that his friend had returned.

He approached and stood beneath the window of the boy's room, which, like his own, was over the kitchen. Then he gave the low whistle which they both had used as a "call." At first there was no response, and when he had given it two or three times he concluded that his friend had not returned from his work as the lookout in the tree by the mouth of the Navesink. Nothing then remained to be done but to rouse the family, for Tom was determined, and was well aware that what he planned to do must be done quickly.