The boy waked his sleeping companions. They seized their rifles and all went nearer the road.
Out of the darkness misshapen objects could just be discerned, and the guttural voices of several Hessians could be heard. Then a light glimmered as one of the approaching party drew an old horn lantern from under his cloak. Two others, by aid of the light, clambered into the pen, leaving outside the one with the lantern and the fourth holding the horse.
The next moment a pig squealed. The vandals were sticking them with their bayonets.
“Follow me,” whispered Zeb, running forward and tilting the cart tongue in the air, dumping the load of hay into the pen, and burying human and other hogs in the mire underneath.
“Surrender!” Zeb cried, thrusting the muzzle of his rifle under the nose of the fellow holding the lantern, while Rodney and Bunster disarmed the Hessian with the horse. Then Zeb quickly tied their hands behind their backs, and, telling Rodney to guard them and shoot them down if they moved hand or foot, he 216 and Bunster turned their attention to the commotion in the pig pen.
From under the hay there issued grunts and squeals and German oaths. Sorry looking hirelings were those two Hessians when they crawled out into the light. Wisps of hay clung to their well greased pigtail queues and their hated uniforms, blue coats and yellow waistcoats, were daubed with muck.
“Pass out yer guns, an’ take this fork an’ pitch out the hay,” was Zeb’s order, which the dazed prisoners attempted to obey, when the farmer, calling out the window, said, “I’ll look out fer that.”
“Better let him, Zeb,” said Rodney. “If we stay here too long we may have more Hessians than we need.”
“Good advice, ye townsman of the immortal Jefferson. Forward march.”