In the best parlor of the “Patriot Arms,” the principal tavern of the village, a remarkably tall and scraggy-looking officer, in the uniform of a Continental General, was standing before the fire, with one foot on the huge andiron, looking shrewdly at our friend, Adrian Schuyler, who stood before him, still shackled.
The scraggy officer had very broad shoulders, and huge hands and feet, but the flesh seemed to have been forgotten in the formation of his powerful frame. He had a tall, narrow forehead, and a very stern, shrewd-looking face of a Scotch cast of feature, with high cheek bones, and very sharp black eyes. His nose and chin were both long, the latter very firm withal. His manner was remarkably sharp and abrupt. The nervous energy of the man seemed to be ever overflowing in impatience and fiery ardor. Such was Brigadier-General—afterwards Major-General—John Stark, the first leader of militia during the Revolutionary War.
“Well, sir,” he said, as Schuyler concluded his relation, “I’m very sorry that the rascals stole your commission, but your face is sufficient. I believe your story. What does Schuyler want me to do?”
“To join him at Bemis’ Hights, General,” said the Hussar, with equal business-like promptness.
“Well, sir, I’ll see him hanged first,” said Stark, with a snap of his teeth.
Adrian hardly knew what to say to the eccentric brigadier, as he stood there, nodding his head as if to confirm his words.
“General,” he began, “if any unfortunate accident deprives me of credit—if you don’t believe I am properly authorized—”
“I told you I did, young man,” said Stark, with all his old abruptness. “You’re enough like Phil Schuyler to let me see you’re his cousin.”
“Then, General, what am I to understand?”
“That I’ll see them all hanged first.”