A half-mile below I perceived, far back of the shore, a few redcoats. Annoyed no little,—for here I meant to land,—I turned the boat, still hidden by the tall reeds, and soon drew up the skiff at Bartram’s, where, taking gun and snapsack, I went up the slope. I found Mr. William Bartram standing under a fine cypress his father had fetched as a slip from Florida in 1731. He was used to see me on the river, but looked at my odd costume with as much curiosity as the sergeant had done. He told me his father had died but ten days before, for which I felt sorry, since, except by Friends, who had disowned the good botanist, he was held in general esteem. I hastily but frankly told Mr. Bartram my errand. He said: “Come to the house. A company or two has just now passed to relieve the lower fort.”
After I had a glass of milk, and good store of bread and butter, I asked him to accept my gun, and that he would do me the kindness to return the skiff, and with it to forward a note, for the writing of which Mrs. Bartram gave me quill and paper.
I wrote:
“Mr. Hugh Wynne presents his compliments to Mr. Montresor, and returns
his skiff. He desires Mr. Montresor to accept two brace of ducks, and
begs to express his sincere thanks for the pass, which enabled Mr. Wynne
to make with comfort his way to the army. Mr. Wynne trusts at some time
to be able to show his gratitude for this favour, and meanwhile he
remains Mr. Montresor’s obedient, humble servant.
“October 1, 1777.
“Mr. Wynne’s most particular compliments to Mr. Andre. It proved easier
to escape than Mr. Andre thought.”
I could not help smiling to think of the good colonel’s face when he should read this letter. I glanced at the arms over the fireplace, thanked the good people warmly, and, as I went out, looked back at the familiar words old John Bartram set over the door in 1770:
‘T is God alone, Almighty Lord,
The Holy One by me adored.
It seemed the last of home and its associations. I turned away, passed through the grounds, which extended up to the Darby road, and, after a careful look about me, moved rapidly southward. Here and there were farm-houses between spurs of the broken forest which, with its many farms, stretched far to westward. I met no one.
I knew there was a picket at the Blue Bell Inn, and so, before nearing it, I struck into a woodland, and, avoiding the farms, kept to the northwest until I came on to a road which I saw at once to be Gray’s Lane. Unused to guiding myself by compass, I had again gotten dangerously near to the river. I pushed up the lane to the west, and after half an hour came upon a small hamlet, where I saw an open forge and a sturdy smith at work. In a moment I recognised my old master, Lowry, the farrier. I asked the way across-country to the Schuylkill. He stood a little, resting on his hammer, not in the least remembering me. He said it was difficult. I must take certain country lanes until I got into the Lancaster road, and so on.
I did not wish to get into the main highway, where foragers or outlying parties might see fit to be too curious. I said at last, “Dost not thou know thy old prentice, Hugh Wynne?”
I felt sure of my man, as he had been one of the Sons of Liberty, and had fallen out with Friends in consequence, so that I did not hesitate to relate my whole story. He was pleased to see me, and bade me enter and see his wife. As we stood consulting, a man cried out at the door: