“So I mean to be,� said De Witt Clinton cheerily, and then, heading the little group, he followed out the route he had proposed. Ere long the barriers were safely passed, Cousin Ned was two York sixpences out of pocket, and the young people stood within the British lines.
“And now, where may we find your grandfather, little one?� Cousin Ned inquired, as they halted on the Broad Way beneath one of the tall poplars that lined that old-time street.
The little Phillipse could not well reply. The noise and confusion that filled the city had well-nigh turned his head. For what with the departing English troops, the disconsolate loyalist refugees hurrying for transportation to distant English ports, and the zealous citizens who were making great preparations to welcome the incoming soldiers of the Congress, the streets of the little city were full of bustle and excitement. The boy said his grandfather might be at the fort; he might be at the King’s Arms Tavern, near Stone Street; he might be—he would be—hunting for him.
So Master Clinton suggested: “Let’s go down to Mr. Day’s tavern here in Murray Street. He knows me, and, if he can, will find Colonel Phillipse for us.� Down into Murray Street therefore they turned, and, near the road to Greenwich, saw the tavern—a long, low-roofed house, gable end to the street—around which an excited crowd surged and shouted.
“Why, look there,� Master Clinton cried; “look there; and the king’s men not yet gone!� and, following the direction of his finger, they saw with surprise the stars and stripes, the flag of the new republic, floating from the pole before the tavern.
“Huzza!� they shouted with the rest, but the “little lord� said, somewhat contemptuously, “Why, ’tis the rebel flag—or so my grandfather calls it.�
“Rebel no longer, little one,� said Cousin Ned, “as even your good grandfather must now admit. But surely,� he added anxiously, “Mr. Day will get himself in trouble by raising his flag before our troops come in.�
An angry shout now rose from the throng around the flag-staff, and as the fringe of small boys scattered and ran in haste, young Livingston caught one of them by the arm. “What’s the trouble, lad?� he asked.
“Let go!� said the boy, struggling to free himself. “You’d better scatter, too, or Cunningham will catch you. He’s ordered down Day’s flag and says he’ll clear the crowd.�
They all knew who Cunningham was—the cruel and vindictive British provost-marshal; the starver of American prisoners and the terror of American children. “Come away, quick,� said Cousin Ned. But though they drew off at first, curiosity was too strong, and they were soon in the crowd again.