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

by Everett T. Tomlinson · English · Gutenberg #34864 · 481,066 chars · public domain (US)

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

Author: Everett T. Tomlinson


        
Release date: January 6, 2011 [eBook #34864]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH: A STORY OF WASHINGTON'S CAMPAIGN IN NEW JERSEY IN 1778 ***




Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net








[Illustration: "WHAT ABOUT THE BOY?" (page 13)]





THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH

A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778

BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON

_Author of "Washington's Young Aids," "Guarding the Border," "The Boys
with Old Hickory," "Ward Hill at Weston," etc., etc._

[Illustration: The Riverside Press]

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press,
Cambridge




          COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON
          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                     PAGE
         I. OLD MONMOUTH                           1
        II. TOM INVESTIGATES                      15
       III. THE MEETING ON THE RIVER              27
        IV. BENZEOR'S VISITOR                     40
         V. THE MESSENGER                         53
        VI. IN THE TEN-ACRE LOT                   67
       VII. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS               82
      VIII. INDIAN JOHN                           96
        IX. THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT                 112
         X. THE STORY OF THE MISCHIANZA          126
        XI. TO REFUGEE TOWN                      141
       XII. BATHSHEBA'S FEAST                    156
      XIII. WITH THE REDCOATS                    169
       XIV. THE WAY TO CRANBERRY                 182
        XV. THE BOAT ON THE BAR                  195
       XVI. TED WILSON'S VICTIM                  208
      XVII. A FRUITLESS CHASE                    221
     XVIII. A RARE BEAST                         233
       XIX. THE RELEASE OF BENZEOR               246
        XX. THE FLEET OF BARGES                  259
       XXI. THE RIDE WITH THE LIEUTENANT         272
      XXII. A SOLDIER WOMAN                      286
     XXIII. AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY               298
      XXIV. THE ABODE OF INDIAN JOHN             310
      XXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT FIGHT      323
      XXVI. THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH               336
     XXVII. THE RETURN TO BENZEOR'S HOUSE        349
    XXVIII. THE RIDE TO THE MILL                 364
      XXIX. AFTER THE BATTLE                     377
       XXX. TOM COWARD'S PATIENT                 390
      XXXI. AMONG THE PINES                      403
     XXXII. CONCLUSION                           416




THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH




CHAPTER I

OLD MONMOUTH


OLD Monmouth is an expression dear to the heart of every native-born
Jerseyman. The occasional visitor seeking health among its whispering
pines, or relaxation in the sultry summer days along its shore, where
the roll of the breakers and the boundless sweep of the ocean combine to
form one of the most sublime marine views on all the Atlantic seaboard,
may admire the fertile farmlands and prosperous villages as much as the
man to the manor born, but he never speaks of "Old" Monmouth.

Nor will he fully understand what the purebred Jerseyman means when he
uses the term, for to the stranger the word will smack of length of
days, and of the venerable position which Monmouth holds among the
counties of the State.

Monmouth is old, it is true, and was among the first of the portions of
New Jersey to be settled by the Woapsiel Lennape, the name which the
Indians first gave to the white people from across the sea, or by the
Schwonnack,--"the salt people,"--as the Delawares afterwards called
them. But the true Jerseyman is not thinking alone of the age of
Monmouth when he uses the word "Old." To him it is a term of affection
also, used it may be as schoolboys or college mates use it when they
address one another as "old fellow," though but a few years may have
passed over their heads.

The new-comer or the stranger may speak of Fair Monmouth, and think he
is giving all the honor due to the beautiful region, but his failure to
use the proper adjective will at once betray his foreign birth and his
ignorance of the position which the county holds in the affections of
all true Jerseymen.

Still, Monmouth is old in the sense in which the summer visitor uses the
word. Here and there in the county an antiquated house is standing
to-day, which if it were endowed with the power of speech could tell of
stirring sights it had seen more than a century ago. Redcoats, fleeing
from the wrath of the angry Washington and his Jersey Blues, marched
swiftly past on their way to the Highlands and the refuge of New York.
Fierce contests between neighbors, who had taken opposite sides in the
struggle of the colonies for freedom from the yoke of the mother
country, or step-mother country, as some not inappropriately termed her
in these days, occurred in the presence of these ancient
dwelling-places, and sometimes within their very walls. Many, too, would
be the stories of the deeds of tories, and refugees, and pine robbers
contending with stanch and sturdy whigs. Up the many winding streams,
boat-loads of sailors made their way from the gunboat or privateer
anchored off the shore, to burn the salt works of the hardy pioneers, or
lay waste their lands as they searched for plunder or for forage.

The forked trees along the shore, in whose branches the lookouts were
concealed as they swept the ocean for miles watching for the appearance
of the hostile boat, were standing until recent years. In their last
days broken, it is true, and almost destroyed by the winter storms and
their weight of long years, still they stood as the few remaining tokens
of that century when our fathers contended for "their lives, their
fortunes, and their sacred honor." At last the pathos and weakness of
old age prevailed, and to-day there remains scarcely a vestige of those
ancient landmarks.

Perhaps if the boys and girls of New Jersey had been as mindful of those
old trees as the Cambridge lads and lassies have been of the spreading
elm beneath whose branches the noble-hearted Washington assumed the
command of the little American army, some of them might still be
standing; but as it is, the most of them have crumbled and fallen and
disappeared as completely as have the men who sought the shelter of
their branches in the trying times of '78.

So, too, for many years stood the famous tree from whose limbs the noble
patriot, Captain Huddy, was hanged,--as dastardly a deed as was
committed by either side in that struggle which tried the souls of our
fathers. But the trees are gone, and only a few quaint houses and
venerable landmarks and heirlooms remain of those things which witnessed
the contests, and deeds high or base, of that far-away time.

The lofty monument on the old battle-ground of Monmouth is surmounted by
the figure of a man whose face is shaded by his hand, as if he were
still striving to obtain a glimpse of the redcoats in the darkness as
they hastened to gain the Highlands and the refuge of the waiting boats
which were to bear them away to the safety of the great city. But it is
itself essentially modern, and only in its brief records, carved by
patriotic hands upon its sides, and in its figure of the granite soldier
standing upon its summit, does its suggestiveness lie. It looks down
upon a thriving village and out upon the lands of thrifty and prosperous
farmers, and there is nothing in all the vision to remind one that the
soil was ever stained by the blood of soldiers clad in uniforms of
scarlet, or of buff and blue.

And yet, as fierce a struggle as our country ever knew occurred within
the region. Women toiled in the fields while their husbands and sons
fought, or even gave up their lives to drive away their oppressors. Yes,
even in the battles some of the women found places, and Captain Molly
Pitcher was only one among many who had a share in the actual struggle
of the Revolution. Houses were doubly barred at night against the
attacks of prowling bands of refugees or pine robbers, and many times
were defended by the patriotic women themselves. Spies crept in among
them, and evil men who owned no allegiance to either side seized the
opportunity to prey alike upon friend and foe. At times it almost seemed
as if the words spoken many centuries ago were then fulfilled, and that
"a man was set at variance against his father, and the daughter against
her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and that
a man's foes were they of his own household."

But with all the suffering and bloodshed there were many heroes and
heroines, and even the boys and girls were not without a share in the
struggles of the times which tried men's souls. The houses in which they
dwelt may have disappeared and given place to far more imposing
structures; their very names may no longer be recalled; but, after all,
they displayed many qualities which the world ought not willingly to
permit to die, and the heritage which they have bequeathed to us will
lose nothing of its value if we go back in our thoughts and strive to
comprehend more clearly the price which our fathers paid for the land we
love.

In the early summer of 1778, while the feelings of the Monmouth people
had been deeply stirred,--and indeed the patriots of the county had
been among the foremost to pass resolutions and be enrolled among the
defenders of the new nation,--there had not as yet come the intense
excitement which followed the advance of General Clinton's army from
Philadelphia. The long winter at Valley Forge had at last come to an
end, and when the British moved out from the city,--for holding it
longer seemed to be useless,--Washington had led his troops into the
town almost as soon as the enemy departed. Nor was that all, for he
quickly decided to follow after the departing general, and overtake and
give him battle before Clinton could lead his men across the Jerseys.

The American commander knew that his own forces numbered nearly as many
as those the British general had; and as, in spite of the dreadful
sufferings of the winter, his men were in far better condition than they
had ever been before,--thanks to the tireless energy of Baron
Steuben,--he resolved to depart from Philadelphia and follow after the
British.

Clinton had sent the recently enrolled tories to New York by water, and
as there were some three thousand of these alone, he soon decided that
his troops must go by land.

Accordingly, the journey was begun, but the Continentals, going a little
farther to the north than the line of Clinton's march, planned to gain a
position in advance of the enemy by the rapidity of their movements, and
then, turning about in their course, fall upon the redcoats face to face
and offer them battle in some advantageous place.

The baggage wagons of Clinton stretched out in a long line of twelve
miles as they followed after the army, and in other ways the British
leader was somewhat embarrassed. Consequently, when he learned of
Washington's plan, he quickly decided to change the direction of his
march, and, by passing through "Old Monmouth," lead his army to the
Navesink Highlands and there have them all embark for New York.

Washington had first offered the command of his advance forces to young
Lafayette, but he was somewhat perplexed by the return of General Lee to
his army, and knew not just what to do.

Lee had been captured a little more than a year before this time,
through his own carelessness, near Morristown, and we may be sure that
Washington was not greatly troubled by the loss. Lee had steadily
opposed him, and was plotting to secure his position for himself.
However, the British general Prescott, whose capture by the Americans
had been effected in a manner not unlike that in which Lee himself had
been taken, had been exchanged, and Lee once more returned to the
American army.

He was still the same Lee, sensitive, jealous, and suspected of being in
league with Howe, who recently had sailed away for England to explain to
Parliament the causes of his failures in the preceding year.

Much as he disliked to make the change, Lee's return compelled
Washington to recognize his presence, and after some tactful efforts he
removed Lafayette and gave Lee his position as leader of the advanced
forces. Lee had bitterly opposed the project of following Clinton, and
steadily objected to the march across the Jerseys.

Washington, however, was firm in his determination, and the march was
soon begun; but the lack of confidence which he felt in General Lee must
have sadly increased the troubles of the great commander, already beset
by perils of so many kinds. Whether he was mistaken in his estimate of
the man, we shall learn in the course of this story.

Such then was the general condition of affairs as the summer of 1778
drew on. Those of the people of Old Monmouth who were at home heard
occasional rumors of the advance of the two armies, but few of them had
any thought of the stirring scenes which were to be enacted in their
midst before the summer was ended.

It was now late in June. The summer had been unusually warm, and the men
and boys, as well as the women, who were at home had labored busily in
the fields, in the hope of an early as well as an abundant harvest. For
those who cared to avail themselves of them, the markets in New York
provided a ready place for the sale of their produce, and not only the
tories, but some of the men whose sympathies as yet had not led them
openly to declare their preferences for either side, or who perhaps
cared more for the prices they were likely to receive in New York for
the results of their labors than they did for liberty or any such
abstract quality, were not averse to loading up the boats, which many of
the farmers near the shore owned, and sailing away for the city.

Down the lower bay one such boat was swiftly making its way one
afternoon in June, 1778. On board were four men, three of whom
evidently were in middle life, but the fourth was a sturdy lad about
seventeen years of age, and it was plain that he was not in full
sympathy with his companions. He took but little part in the
conversation, and the expression upon his face frequently betrayed the
feelings in his heart. The three men with him apparently did not give
him much thought or attention, and evidently were too well satisfied
with the results of their expedition to waste any time in questioning
the lad as to the cause of his silence.

"There's the old tree now," said one of the men as they came within
sight of the landmark. "If nothing has gone wrong, we'll soon be in the
Navesink."

"Yes, and back at work again," grumbled another. "For my part I think
Fenton and Davenport and the rest of the pine robbers have the easiest
time of all. They swoop down upon some whig farmer, and all they have to
do is to take what he has worked out. I don't see why it isn't all fair
enough in war."

"If it wasn't for that skull of Fagan, with that pipe stuck in its
mouth, nailed up on the tree over there beyond the Court House, I'd go
in myself," said the first speaker. "The grin on it is almost more than
I can bear."

"That'll do to frighten women and children with," said the third man,
who had been silent for a time. "Fagan got a little too bold, that was
the trouble with him. He carried it a little too far. I happen to know
that there are some men who know enough to put a finger in, and not get
it burned either."

"Perhaps you've done a little yourself in that line, Benzeor Osburn?"
queried the last speaker. "I've thought sometimes you could tell some
tales if you wanted to."

"And who knows but I might?" replied Benzeor. "I may be able to keep my
place from being confiscated and sold, the way my brother's was two
years ago, but that may not mean either that I don't know what's to my
own advantage when I see it. You'd do the same, wouldn't you, Jacob
Vannote?"

"That I would," replied Jacob, "and so would Barzilla Giberson here,
too. All we want is that some good man like you, Benzeor, should tell us
how to do it."

"I can tell you," said Benzeor quietly. "I've made up my mind that I've
held off just as long as I am going to. I'm going in, and if you have a
mind to join, I'll let you in, too."

"Tell us about it," said Jacob eagerly. "What about the boy?" he added
in a low voice, glancing toward the fourth member of the party as he
spoke.

"What? Tom Coward? He's a coward by name as well as by nature. You
haven't anything to fear from him. He's been in my home since he was
five year old. He won't make any trouble."

Nevertheless, the speaker lowered his voice, and for a long time the
trio conversed eagerly upon the new topic. So intent were they that not
one of them noted the flush upon the lad's face at the brutal reference
to him, nor saw the look of determination which came a little later in
its place.

Apparently Tom was not giving any attention to the men with him in the
swift sailing boat. He retained his seat near the bow, and seemed to be
interested only in the waves before him. A brisk wind was blowing, and
the waters betrayed the tokens of a coming storm.

The boat was pitching more and more as it sped on, and Tom watched the
rolling waves, many of them capped with white and rising steadily
higher and higher. The darker hues gave place to a lighter green as they
rose, and the increasing roughness seemed to reflect somewhat the
feelings in his own heart.

Far away in the distance stretched the long sandy beach of the Hook,
becoming more and more distinct as the boat drew nearer. The gulls were
flying low, and the weird cries of the sea-birds were heard on every
side.

Suddenly Tom stood upright, and, after gazing intently for a moment at
some object on the shore, turned to his companions and said,--

"Some one's up in the tree, and the signal's out, too."

The men instantly ceased from their conversation, and peered intently at
the tree in the distance.

Evidently the sight was not altogether pleasing, for with an exclamation
of anger Benzeor Osburn, who was holding the tiller, quickly changed the
course of the boat, and started back in the direction from which they
had come.




CHAPTER II

TOM INVESTIGATES


THERE were many exclamations of impatience heard in the boat as Benzeor
changed her course, and the helmsman himself appeared to be the most
impatient of all. A drizzling rain was now falling and there were many
signs apparent that a stormy night was approaching.

"I wish I knew just what the warning was for," muttered Benzeor. "Fine
night this, to be prowling around the bay in!"

"There was no mistake about the sign, though," replied Jacob. "There's
something wrong, or we shouldn't have seen the white flag. That means
there's something going on up the Navesink."

"All the more reason for going home then!" said Benzeor. "Who was on the
lookout to-day? Does any one know?"

"Yes, 't was Peter Van Mater," said Tom, who up to this time had taken
no part in the conversation. "He told me yesterday that he was to be in
the tree to-day."

"What! Little Peter?" demanded Benzeor quickly.

"Yes," replied Tom. "I saw him out by their cornfield yesterday. He was
there driving away the crows and blackbirds."

"Little" Peter was so called to distinguish him from his father who bore
the same name; and although his son, a well-grown young fellow of
eighteen, towered more than a half head above "Big" Peter now, the
distinctive names given several years before this time still clung to
them both.

The Van Mater place joined the Osburn farm, and for years Tom and Little
Peter had been the best of friends. On those rare occasions when a brief
break in the arduous labors on the farms had come, together they had
gone crabbing, or had sailed down to Barnegat, where the sea-fowl
gathered in great flocks when the proper seasons came.

Tom's heart had gone out to Little Peter as it had not to any other
person. Peter's round face shone with an expression of good nature which
nothing but the mention of a tory or a pine robber seemed to be able to
ruffle. A reference to either of them never failed to arouse the dormant
anger of the lad, and with all the intensity of his quiet and strong
nature he hated both. For the Van Maters, even to the mother and the
girls, were patriots of the strongest kind, and now Big Peter was away
in Washington's army and had left his eldest son and namesake to protect
the family and manage the farm in his absence.

And Little Peter had accepted the task with an outward assent that
deceived even his own father. Only to Tom had he mentioned his true
feelings, and expressed his determination to buy up his time, so that
he, too, might be enrolled in the patriot army.

Tom Coward well knew that the words expressed Little Peter's feelings
and desires rather than his purpose, for he was satisfied that nothing
would induce his friend to desert his mother and the children in their
time of need. But he had fully sympathized with Peter in his desire to
buy up his time, and there were special reasons why the words meant much
more to him than they did to his friend.

About a decade before this time, when one of the numerous "September
gales" was raging along the Jersey shore, a great crowd had assembled on
the beach watching the efforts of a schooner they could see, about a
mile out on the ocean, to weather the storm. All day long the crowd had
remained there, powerless to aid the stricken people on board the
storm-tossed boat, for this was long before the time of the life-saving
crews and their noble work along the coast.

Late in the afternoon on that eventful day, when the storm had abated
somewhat, although the waves, like moving mountains of water, still came
thundering in upon the beach, a boat had been manned and started forth
to the aid of the people in their peril; but before the brave band could
gain the schooner, she had foundered and gone to the bottom.

The men who had gone forth to the rescue had been about to return to the
shore, when they thought they saw something floating over the boisterous
waves toward them. When a second glance was obtained they started
swiftly toward the object, and, as they drew near, saw a huge cotton
bale with a woman and a little lad strapped upon it. At last, after some
desperate efforts, the bodies were rescued, but that of the woman was
lifeless and that of the lad was nearly so.

The rough men had brought both ashore, and, after some labor on the part
of the women in the assembly, the lad had been restored, but the woman
was beyond all earthly aid. Upon some of the clothing of the rescued boy
the name Coward had been found, and "Tom" was improvised, for that would
do as well as any other for the name of a stranger lad whose home and
parents were to be, as the people of Old Monmouth thought, forever
wrapped in mystery.

Tom Coward had been the sole survivor of the wreck. For days some
portions of the ill-fated schooner and its cargo were washed ashore, but
no clue was ever found as to her name or destination.

What to do with the rescued lad then became the perplexing problem among
the simple folk of Monmouth, and it was at last solved by "binding him
out" to Benzeor Osburn, which simply meant that Tom was to live with the
man who had taken him until he was twenty-one years of age, and in
return for the home he received he was to give his labor and life until
that eventful day should arrive when he, too, would become a man.

The lad had gone, for he had no voice in the matter, and all the home he
had ever known had been with Benzeor and his family. Only a faint
recollection of the wreck remained in his mind, but he had heard the
story many times and thought much over it in secret. Often had he
visited the unmarked grave in the churchyard, where he was informed that
all that was mortal of his mother lay resting. But her name and face
were both alike unknown to him. In his dreams, or when he had been
working alone in some of the distant fields, it would almost seem to him
that something of another existence would rise before him, or that he
could almost see the face of a gracious woman bending low over him whom
he could call "mother."

Who he might be he could not determine. Who he was, was a matter much
more easily settled, for all knew him as the "bound boy" of Benzeor
Osburn; and while some of the country people might occasionally think of
him as the little lad, who years before had been rescued from a sinking
schooner, they seldom referred to it, and the past had been crowded out
by the present. But Tom Coward had not entirely forgotten.

Benzeor had received him into his home the more readily because, as he
expressed it, "all of his boys had been born girls," and he felt the
need of the aid and presence of a boy about the place. And Benzeor in
his way had not been unkind to the stranger lad, or at least not
intentionally so, but the labor on the farms in those days had been
severe, and he was a man to whom money had been the one thing needful.
He did not spare himself, and certainly he had no thought of sparing
those who were dependent upon him; and, as a natural consequence,
neither the girls nor Tom, and much less the overworked, spiritless
little mother of the family, found much to relieve the monotonous round
of labor on the farm.

At first, Tom had not complained and had accepted all as a matter of
course, but of late his heart had rebelled against his lot more and
more. It was not that he did not appreciate the rough kindness which was
extended to him, especially by the patient, uncomplaining mother and the
two girls, Sarah and Mercy, who were nearest his own age. But certain
undefined longings kept rising in his soul, he knew not how, and the
increasing eagerness of Benzeor "to make his place pay" had apparently
driven all else from the mind of his foster father.

Perhaps more than any of these things, his interviews with his friend
Little Peter had stirred his soul, for Peter had longings, too, and, as
has been said, had even declared his intention "to buy up his own time."
That he was a son in his own home, and was surrounded by the love of
father and mother, had not made the purpose in Peter's heart appear in
the least strange or unusual, for the custom was not unknown among those
sturdy forefathers of ours. When they had cared for a boy in his infancy
and helpless years, it was considered as no more than a just return that
the years of early manhood, which would naturally be of value to the
fathers in their labors on the farms, should belong not to the son but
to the father. So whenever a well-grown boy felt that he would like to
start in for himself, it was not unusual for him to offer, or to promise
to pay as soon as he could earn the money, the amount which was
considered as a fair equivalent for the value of his services in the few
years before he became "of age," and could enter upon his own career.

In those days the obligation of the child to his father was emphasized.
In our own time the obligation of the father to his child is considered
the more important, and all that love and devotion can offer are laid at
the feet of the children.

Perhaps justice lies somewhere between these two extremes, and no one of
us desires to return to the harsher methods of those earlier years; but
certainly the children who are so fortunate as to be born in these more
fortunate times have some need of recalling the words of one who, long
before the trying days of the Revolution, exhorted all to "honor their
fathers and mothers."

Be that as it may, Tom Coward thought much and long over his friend
Peter's project, and even went so far at one time as to hint to Benzeor
that he would not be averse to entering into some such arrangement with
him. But Benzeor's indignation, and the grief with which Sarah heard of
the proposal, had silenced him, and he had not referred to the matter
again.

None the less, however, did it remain in his thoughts, and of late the
suspicion with which he had come to regard many of Benzeor's actions had
increased his feeling of discontent, for Tom's sympathies were all with
the colonies in their struggle.

Many a time had he and Peter talked over the matter, and the eagerness
of one to serve in the army was fully shared by the other. But Benzeor's
patriotism seemed all to be dormant, and as the troubles increased, his
zeal to make money steadily increased also. At times he would be absent
from home for days together, and more than once Tom had been awakened
in the night by the sound of strange voices heard in conversation with
Benzeor in the room beneath that in which he was sleeping.

Thoughts of all these things had been in Tom's mind throughout that
voyage to New York, and they, as well as his youthfulness, served to
explain the silence he had maintained since he had set sail. He had
known, however, that Peter was to serve as the lookout that day, and
when he volunteered the information it was the first time he had spoken
aloud for a half hour.

The rain now was steadily increasing, and the uneasiness of the men on
board the little boat became more marked. They were far from the tree by
this time, and no one appeared to know just what plan to follow.

"If I was alone, I'd take all the risks," said Benzeor at last.

"You needn't stop on our account," replied Jacob. "I don't believe
there's much danger in starting up the river, any way, for my part.
Little Peter may not have seen anything to amount to much. If you want
to chance it, go ahead."

"We don't just know what's ahead of us," said Barzilla uneasily. "It
may be nothing, and then again it may not be. I wish there was some way
of finding out before we risk too much."

"Why not land farther down the shore and let Tom go up and see?" said
Jacob. "If Little Peter's gone, it will mean the danger's gone, too, and
if he hasn't, why Tom here can find out for us and report; though for my
part I'm not afraid to go up the river as it is. It's too dark for any
one to see us, or it will be soon."

"That's a good suggestion," said Benzeor quickly, as he brought the boat
about. "We'll land down the shore and let Tom go up for us. You're not
too much of a 'coward' to do that, are you Tom?"

"I'll go," said Tom quietly, although his cheeks flushed with anger at
Benzeor's antiquated and brutal pun. He had heard it many times, but
never without feeling angry, although he well knew that Benzeor spoke
the words lightly.

With the change in the course the wind seemed to increase. The spray was
dashed into their faces, and the men were soon drenched. The sail had
been shortened, but the little boat dashed ahead with ever increasing
speed.

"It's a rough night outside," said Benzeor, when at last he gained the
desired point on the shore. "It's lucky for us we're inside the Hook.
Now then, Tom!" he added. "Bestir yourself, lad, and come back soon."

Tom leaped ashore and ran swiftly along the beach toward the tree. He
was familiar with its location and knew that he could find it in the
darkest night. The rain beat upon him and the darkness momentarily
increased, but the wind was with him, and in a brief time he recognized
the dim outlines of the tree.

Then ceasing to run, he began to approach more cautiously. He was not
positive that Peter was there now, for some one might have taken his
place. Certainly caution was the better part in any event.

He stopped and whistled the half dozen notes which he and Peter used as
a call. He waited a moment, but as no answer was heard he advanced a
little nearer and whistled again.

"That you, Tom?" came from some one in the tree.

"Yes," replied Tom.

In a moment Peter dropped from his position, and began to explain to his
friend the cause of the display of the signal of danger.




CHAPTER III

THE MEETING ON THE RIVER


"I'VE been here since noon," began Peter, "but it seems more like a
whole day to me. I've listened to the calls of the sea-birds and heard
the roar of the storm which I knew was coming, till it almost seemed to
me I couldn't bear it any longer. I'm glad you've come, for I've got a
chance to stretch now, and the sound of a voice will help to quiet my
nerves again."

"I didn't know you had any nerves," replied Tom. "But we can't stand
here in this storm talking about such things. Benzeor sent me over to
find out what you meant by hanging out the white flag. You haven't seen
anything suspicious, have you?"

"I have that," said Peter eagerly. "I was beginning to think that my
coming here was all a piece of foolishness, when along about four
o'clock--leastwise I should think it was about that time, though I
didn't have any dial anywhere about to mark the time for me--what
should I see but a whaleboat making for the river? You had better
believe I forgot all about the time and everything else but the boat
then, for I didn't know but some more of the Greens were coming up the
Navesink on another trip such as they made the other day."

Peter referred to an expedition which a band of several hundred tories
from New Jersey, commonly known as the "Greens," had made a few weeks
before this time. They had set forth from New York and had made a visit
to some of their former neighbors and friends, and the tokens of their
affection which they had left behind them had chiefly consisted of the
ashes of burned homes and empty barns. The raid had been a cruel one,
and its object apparently was more for devastation than for plunder, and
many of the good people of Red Bank and Middletown and the adjoining
towns had good cause to remember it so long as they lived. The numbers
of the invaders had rendered them safe from all attacks, and the wanton
destruction they wrought before they returned to New York had been the
chief reason for keeping a watch stationed in the old tree every day
since their visit. And Peter had received strict orders not to depart
from his place of observation, if he saw anything suspicious, until he
was satisfied that all danger was past. And Peter was faithful, that was
well known, or he would not have been selected for the duty that day.

"Well," resumed Peter, "I watched the boat till it went out of sight up
the river. There were seven men on board of her, six of 'em pulling at
the oars and the seventh steering. No more boats followed her, and I
shouldn't have been suspicious if I hadn't thought I recognized the man
who was steering."

"Who was he?"

"He looked to me a good deal like Fenton."

"What? The pine robber?"

"Yes, though of course I may have been mistaken. I never saw him but
once and that was when he was a blacksmith over by the Court House
before the war. My father had sent me over there to have one of the
horses shod at his shop. I don't know that I should have remembered him
if it hadn't been for something he did that day. I saw him take a
half-inch bar of iron and bend it almost double with his hands. That
made a great impression upon me, for I didn't believe there was another
man in the colony who could do that."

"Probably not," replied Tom. "But what made you think this was one of
Fenton's whaleboats?"

"Nothing but Fenton himself. Of course I've heard of the stories of what
he's been doing since he became a pine robber. His gang is one of the
worst, you know, and the minute I set my two eyes on him I suspected it
was Fenton himself."

"Why didn't you get word up the river as soon as you saw him?"

"They've got watchers farther up, and that's their business. Besides, I
didn't care to have him double me up the way he did that iron bar. Then,
my business was to stay here and give the warning to anybody that might
be going up the stream, you see. That's why I waved the flag when I saw
you coming."

"And they haven't come back yet?" inquired Tom eagerly.

"No. That's what I'm waiting for. There isn't any fun in hanging out
here in the wet, I can tell you. Just as soon as I can see that
whaleboat coming out into the bay again I'm done."

"All right, Peter, I'll go right back and report to Benzeor. Maybe he'll
take you on board and carry you home."

"Not unless I see the whaleboat again," said Peter doggedly as he
prepared to climb to his seat in the tree again.

Tom hurriedly departed and started to return with his message to the
waiting Benzeor and his men, who he knew would be becoming impatient by
this time. As he ran along the beach the storm smote him full in the
face, but in spite of the driving rain the night was not very dark. The
moon was near the full and gave sufficient light to enable him to see
far out over the tossing waters. He could even discern the outlines of
the little boat far up the shore, and as he ran swiftly forward he was
thinking of the report he was to make to the waiting Benzeor, and his
thoughts were not entirely pleasing.

Fenton's deeds had become notorious in Old Monmouth. At the head of his
brutal band, composed of men as desperate and reckless as he, he had
pillaged and plundered throughout the county during the preceding year,
and up to this time no one had been found strong enough to put a stop to
his evil deeds. Any unprotected farmhouse was liable to receive one of
his visits, and such a visit was seldom made without profit to the
outlaws, for such in fact they were, and with their ill-gotten gains
they hastened away to store them in their hiding-places among the pines.

Nor was Fenton's band the only one which had its headquarters in that
lonely and unfrequented region known in Old Monmouth as the "Pines."
West, Disbrow, Fagan, Davenport, and many others of the lawless men, had
engaged in similar occupations, and all had their hiding-places in the
same wild spot, and in a measure protected and aided one another.

Up to this time Fagan had been the only one to suffer the well-deserved
penalty of his crimes, and in the preceding winter a band of two hundred
of the desperate patriots had assembled and driven the famous, or rather
infamous, outlaw to bay. At last he had been taken, and the infuriated
men, mindful not only of the sufferings of their own families at his
hands, but also of their possible future sufferings as well, had
measured out a stern justice to the man, and with their own hands had
hanged him from the long limb of a tree which stood by the side of the
road which led from Monmouth Court House[1] to Trenton. Afterwards some
of the patriots who had suffered most from his evil deeds had severed
the skull from the body and nailed it to the tree, and then, placing the
pipe between the grinning jaws, had left the uncanny sight as a warning
to all who might be disposed to follow in the footsteps of the outlaw.

For a few weeks the suffering patriots found relief, but only for a few
weeks.

Despite the terrible warning, the other bands of pine robbers soon
renewed their labors, and now in the early summer of '78 the region was
suffering more from the marauding bands than ever had been known before.

It was all a part of the horrors of war. Sometimes, when we read of the
brave deeds which have made famous some of the men who had a share in
the struggle, we are prone to think only of the heroism displayed. And
there was many a true hero in that and in every other war which our
country has waged. We are never to forget that; but there was another
side which has, to a large extent, passed from the memory of the present
generation. The loss of property and of life, the sufferings of the
women and children in the lonely homes, the barbarity and cruelty of
evil men who, freed from the restraint of law in a time when the worst
passions of men were aroused, gave free rein to their avarice and all
that was bad in them, have frequently been ignored or forgotten. The
glory of war or the pride in true heroism cannot entirely atone for the
sufferings that were only too common in the scattered homes or lonely
places.

And Fenton's band was one of the worst. From their strongholds among the
pines, into which few men had the hardihood to enter, they would set
forth on horseback some dark night, and the tale they might have told
upon their return was ever one of blood and sorrow. People tortured
until in their agony they were compelled to yield up their scanty
savings, raids upon the flocks and herds already becoming far too small
for the necessities of their owners, burning houses, and men and women
deliberately shot by the outlaws, were only a few among the many results
of their raids.

Not the least of the evils was the knowledge that among the people of
Monmouth there were some who, while they might not openly be known as
members of the bands, still gave the desired information to the leaders
as to the places where possessions were secreted, or of the times when
the patriots were aroused and it was best for the "Barons of the Pines,"
as some termed them, to remain in hiding among the tall dark trees.
Professedly, the outlaws acknowledged no allegiance to either side in
the struggle, but somehow it had come to pass that a stanch whig was
liable to suffer far more from their depredations than his tory
neighbor, and as a natural consequence the feeling between neighbors and
those who had been friends was becoming more and more strained and
bitter.

Thoughts of these things were passing rapidly through Tom's mind as he
ran swiftly on through the storm to rejoin his companions. Fenton? Yes,
he had heard of him too many times not to recognize his name and to feel
well assured that a visit from him in such a night could promise little
good for any of the patriots dwelling near the Navesink.

"Well, what is it, Tom?" said Benzeor, as the panting lad rejoined them.
"Is it Little Peter on the lookout? He must have seen a ghost to have
warned us to stay out here in the bay in such a night as this. I'm wet
to the skin."

"It's Fenton," replied Tom huskily, for he had not yet recovered his
breath. "Peter said he saw him and six of his men go up the Navesink
about four o'clock."

"Fenton?" said Jacob quickly. "Then we're in for a night of it. We don't
want to fall into the hands of that pine robber when our pockets are as
well lined as they are to-night."

"I'm not so sure about that," replied Benzeor slowly. "There's ten
chances to one that they won't come back before morning, and if they do
they won't be likely to find us in such a storm as this."

As he spoke a fresh gust swept the rain directly into their faces. The
storm certainly was increasing, and the prospect of spending a night in
the bay was dreary enough to cause the most stout-hearted to hesitate.
And it may have been that other thoughts than that of the storm
influenced Benzeor.

At any rate he gruffly responded, "You can do as you please, but I'm
going up the Navesink. If you're afraid, you can stay here or start out
across the country on foot. You'll have to speak quick if you go with
me, for I'm off."

Benzeor turned and grasped the bow of his boat to push her off the
beach upon which she had grounded. Before he had succeeded, however,
Jacob spoke up quickly and said, "We're with you, Benzeor. If you can
stand it, we can."

"Get aboard then, every one of you!" said Benzeor gruffly.

Tom and Barzilla quickly took their places in the stern, while Benzeor,
with the aid of Jacob, soon sent the boat out from the shore.

The sail was soon rigged and shortened, and the little party then
started for the narrow mouth of the Navesink. The boat rolled and
pitched in the storm, but Benzeor had her well in hand, and soon steered
into the more quiet waters of the river. Tom could see the tree as they
passed, and was positive that Peter could also see them, but no hail was
given, and the point was soon left far behind them.

Then up the narrower waters of the river the boat sped on in her course,
but not a word was spoken by any of those on board. The storm was still
raging and Benzeor's attention was largely occupied in managing his
craft, and the others were busied with thoughts which perhaps they did
not care to express.

Tom was decidedly anxious. A meeting with Fenton and his band was
something of which he was fearful, and as they sped on his fears
increased each moment. Benzeor's apparent indifference had not deceived
him, and deep in his heart there was a lurking suspicion that perhaps he
might be able to account for it, if he felt so disposed.

However, he too was silent, and a half hour had passed and as yet no
signs of danger had appeared. Benzeor was steering as close inshore as
the wind permitted, and Tom was beginning to hope that they would
succeed in making their way up the river without being discovered.

Suddenly Jacob, who was seated in the bow and was keeping a constant
lookout ahead, shouted, "Port! Port your helm, Benzeor! Quick! Quick!"

Benzeor instantly heeded the warning, but his quick movement barely
served to enable them to pass a boat which loomed up in the darkness. It
was a whaleboat, and with a sinking heart Tom saw that there were six
men rowing, while a seventh was seated in the stern and was serving as
helmsman.

Instantly Peter's words flashed into his mind, and he knew that they had
barely escaped a collision with the very boat which the lookout had
discovered making its way up the Navesink late in the afternoon. The
party could be none other than that of Fenton and his outlaw band.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Freehold.




CHAPTER IV

BENZEOR'S VISITOR


"HOLD on there! Hold on, I say! Stop, or we'll shoot!"

The words were shouted by some one in the whaleboat, and Benzeor
evidently was about to heed the sharp command. He quickly changed the
course of the boat, and as the shortened sail flapped in the wind as the
little craft came about, the whaleboat came alongside and some one
reached forth with a boat-hook, and the progress was instantly stayed.

Tom's heart was beating rapidly in his excitement. A wild impulse to
leap into the river seized him, but before he could leave his position
in the bow, two of the other crew clambered on board, and he knew that
an attempt to escape would now be useless. Doubtless the men were armed,
and the darkness was not deep enough to conceal him from their sight.
His only hope now depended upon the actions of the men and the course
which Benzeor should decide to follow.

The sail was instantly lowered in obedience to the sharp command of the
men who had boarded the boat, and, in great fear, the lad waited for the
purpose of their captors to be declared. He drew back in his position in
the bow, hoping to escape the notice of all on board, as he saw that
Benzeor had arisen from his seat and stood facing the men.

"Who are you? What ye out in a night like this for? Whose boat is this?"
exclaimed the one who appeared to be the leader.

"Is that you, Fenton?" replied Benzeor in a low voice.

"Ho, it's Benzeor Osburn!" exclaimed the man, peering intently into the
face before him as he spoke. "I thought it was strange we didn't find
you in your house. We waited an hour as we agreed to, but when you
didn't put in an appearance, we thought we'd start back. Where ye been,
Benzeor? What's up now?"

"I'd been back home in time if it hadn't been for the storm and an alarm
we had back in the bay. I think ye'd better go back with me now, Fenton.
I've got some facts that may interest you, and we can't talk them over
here."

"Who are these men with you?" inquired Fenton suspiciously.

"Oh, they're all right. I'll vouch for them, every one," replied
Benzeor. "You haven't anything to fear from any of my friends. Come up
to my house and I'll tell ye all about it."

Fenton hesitated a moment before he replied, and Tom peered intently at
the man of whom he had already heard so many tales. He could see his
great form, although he could not distinguish the features of his face
in the darkness. His deep voice and gruff manner had not tended to allay
the lad's fears, and now Benzeor's words and actions filled his heart
with a new alarm. Was Benzeor about to cast in his lot with Fenton? His
words betrayed the fact of their previous acquaintance, and all the
recent suspicious actions of his foster father came back to him. No one
in the party had yet spoken, except Benzeor and Fenton, but the recent
conversation on board the boat, much of which Tom had overheard,
convinced the troubled lad that no very strong protest would be made
against any proposal that Benzeor might feel disposed to make.

"I'm rather of the opinion," said Fenton roughly, "that it's about time
you went home with me. I don't know who these fellows on board here are,
and I don't care. You're the one I'm after, Benzeor, and it seems to me
the time's come for you to join us or quit. You've been shilly-shallying
long enough."

"Hush! Don't speak so loud!" replied Benzeor anxiously.

Fenton laughed outright at Benzeor's evident alarm, and, turning to his
companions in the whaleboat, said, "I think we'd better take the boat
along with us. We can land this crew anywhere along the shore, or we can
sink 'em in the river, just which you please. It's too much of a storm
for us to be hanging around here on the Navesink."

"Fenton," said Benzeor, rising and stepping up to the side of the
outlaw, "you'd better do as I say. I've got something to tell ye, and
it's worth hearing, too."

A low conversation followed between the two men which Tom, with all his
efforts, was not able to hear. The result of it, however, quickly became
apparent when Fenton turned to his companions and said, "It's all right,
boys. You go on without me, and I'll join you to-morrow. I'm going up
to Benzeor's now."

The boat-hook was quickly withdrawn at his command, and the sound of the
oars of the departing boat soon ceased to be heard.

The sail of Benzeor's boat was then hoisted again, and once more the
little party, increased now by the addition of Fenton, began to make
their way up the Navesink. Though the rain was steadily falling, the
wind was favoring, and the boat, handled by the skillful Benzeor, held
steadily to its way. The low shores could be seen in the distance on
either side, and an occasional light betrayed the location of some
lonely farmhouse, whose occupants in the confidence begotten of the
storm had ventured to sit up till a later hour than was customary in
those days.

Not a word was spoken on board the boat, and Fenton had taken a position
near Tom from which he did not move. All were drenched, but a summer
rain was something which none of them minded in such a time as that.

When an hour had passed, Benzeor ran his boat closer inshore and in a
few moments landed. Then turning to his companions he said, "Come over
to my house to-morrow, Jacob, and I'll give you and Barzilla your
shares of the money."

"We'll go with you now," replied Jacob, evidently not desiring to put
off the day of reckoning too long, a desire in which Barzilla also
shared.

"No, I can't fix it up to-night. You can take the bag, though, if you
want to, and bring me my share to-morrow."

Benzeor's confidence in his fellows served the desired purpose, and
Jacob and Barzilla speedily departed, taking with them the little bag of
gold which had been received as the price of the produce they had taken
to New York.

"Tom, you look out for the boat," called Benzeor, as he and Fenton
started towards the little house whose outlines could be discerned in
the distance.

Tom obeyed, and as he worked over the little boat, looking well to all
the details, his thoughts were far more busy than his hands. The changes
which he had noted in Benzeor of late seemed almost to have reached
their climax. Was the man intending now to go with Fenton? All his
recent absences from home came up before the lad's mind, and the strange
visitors he had received there of late were not forgotten. What was it
Benzeor was planning to do? He was not much like the man he had been a
few years before this time, and as Tom thought over all the changes, he
was troubled more and more.

He knew that Sarah had not been unaware of what was going on, for many a
time had they talked it all over together. Sarah had remained a
steadfast champion of her father, but Tom had not failed to see that she
was none the less troubled by his strange actions. His grasping
disposition had become more and more apparent of late, and while he had
never in the presence of his family referred to anything he had in his
mind to do against the patriots, his very silence in such times was more
threatening than any words he could utter. But Sarah had steadily
refused to believe that her father would desert the cause for which at
the outbreak of the war he had professed the most ardent attachment;
still, it was impossible for her not to discover, what Tom for a long
time had seen, that he was strangely silent of late.

The change in Benzeor Osburn had been so gradual as to deceive many of
his friends and neighbors. All had known his "closeness," as the country
people termed his love of money, but few of them had thought it would
ever lead him into the position in which the man at that time really
stood.

Benzeor in '76 had been among the loudest in his expressions of loyalty
to the cause of the colonies, and had been foremost in blaming his own
brother for his "toryism." His brother's property had been confiscated,
but Benzeor's had been left unmolested, so confident had all the whigs
been in the sincerity of his expressions. And at the time Benzeor had
meant what he said, and said what he meant. But never for a moment had
he dreamed that the struggle would be such a long-continued one as it
had proved to be, nor had he thought that patriotism would affect his
own possessions. All that would be done would be to make a strong
protest against the unjust taxation, for Benzeor had hated taxes as he
did few things in this world, and then a compromise would be effected,
which would permit the colonists to go on with their occupations, and
the mother country would soon see that it was not to her own advantage
to drive her rebellious children too far.

The first shock had come to him when the Continental Congress had
declared the country to be a free and independent nation. That was
going too far, Benzeor thought, and so he freely expressed himself; but
still hoping that a compromise of some kind would be made, and that his
own possessions would not be disturbed, he had uttered no further
protests, though his voice ceased to be heard in favor of the rebellion.

As further events betrayed the weakness of the patriot cause, and he had
found that patriotism was likely to prove a somewhat expensive virtue,
his feelings had undergone a still more decided change. At first he had
entered into one or two secret projects by which he had succeeded in
enriching his own pockets, and the success had so affected him that as
his patriotism decreased his hopes of gains correspondingly increased;
and soon from deeds for which he tried to justify himself, he had been
gradually drawn into others which even his own seared conscience
proclaimed to be wrong. In some of the latter he had come into contact
with the outlaws of Fenton's class, and his association with them had
soon banished the feeling of disgust he had formerly cherished for them,
until it had even come to pass that Fenton himself was a not unwelcome
guest in his own home.

At first the visits had been made secretly, and the promises of rich
harvests to be reaped, as the result of their evil deeds, had appealed
to Benzeor more strongly than even he himself was aware. The lawless
times, the constant turmoils, the bitterness between those who had
recently been the warmest of friends, the ease with which raids were
made, and the apparent impossibility of detection, had all combined to
arouse the avaricious Benzeor more and more; and now not very much was
needed to draw him still farther within the toils of Fenton and his
band.

Not all of these things were apparent to Tom when at last he left the
boat and started towards the house, but he had seen sufficient to make
him suspicious of Benzeor, and he was as perplexed as he was troubled.
All his own feelings had gone out more and more to the patriot cause,
and more than once had he been sadly tempted to depart from his home
without waiting for the formality of buying up his time, and he had even
gone so far as to suggest to Sarah several times what he had it in his
mind to do. Sarah's grief, however, and the confidence which she still
professed to feel in her father, as well as the dislike in his own heart
to do anything which bore any resemblance to stealing,--for so the
troubled lad regarded the taking of time which did not really belong to
him as the bound boy of Benzeor Osburn,--had hitherto held him back. How
long such feelings would continue to sway him Tom could not decide when
at last he lifted the latch and entered the kitchen.

Benzeor and his guest were seated before the fire which had been started
in the wide and open fireplace, and were drying their wet clothing as
they conversed eagerly together.

As Tom came in, Benzeor glanced up hastily and said, "You can go to bed,
Tom. You must be wet and tired, and there is a lot of work to be done
to-morrow." Benzeor's voice was not unkind, but Tom did not fail to see
that his presence was not desired. He quickly lighted a candle with a
splinter which he thrust into the fire and held until it was in a flame,
and then went up the low stairway to his room directly over the kitchen
in which the men were seated.

As he entered the room he noted the gleam which came through the open
space near the rude chimney, and, placing the candle on the low table,
he advanced and peered down at the men. He could see both plainly, and,
after observing them for a moment, he was about to turn away and take
off his dripping clothing, when he suddenly stopped. He had overheard a
word which caused his heart to beat much more rapidly, and in a moment
he was upon his knees striving to hear what more would be said.

He remained in the same position for an hour, and at last arose only
when Fenton opened the door and went out into the darkness. Then Benzeor
closed and barred the door, and started directly up the stairway.

Instantly Tom blew out his candle and leaped into bed, all wet and muddy
as he was, and drew the bedclothes close up around his face.

Benzeor came slowly on and then stopped before the door of Tom's room.
The lad was trembling in his excitement, for he well knew that if the
man should enter and discover that he had not removed his clothing
before going to bed, his suspicions would at once be aroused. And above
all things Benzeor's suspicion at that time was what Tom most desired to
lull.

There were wild thoughts in Tom's mind of leaping from the bed and,
rushing past the man, making a break for the outside. Perhaps the man
might not enter, however, and, trembling with fear and excitement, Tom
waited.

It seemed to him that a long time had elapsed, and still no sound
outside the door could be heard. Had Benzeor gone on? The light of his
candle which still shone through the cracks disproved that. What could
he then be doing?

Tom tried to conjecture what must be going on on the stairway, but the
silence was still unbroken. The minutes were like hours to the
frightened lad. It seemed to him as if the beatings of his heart must be
heard throughout the house.

His suspense was soon ended--when Benzeor lifted the latch and Tom felt
the light of the candle streaming in full upon his face.




CHAPTER V

THE MESSENGER


FOR a moment Tom closed his eyes and waited for the words which he
expected and feared to hear. His body was trembling and all his strength
was required to prevent his teeth from chattering. If Benzeor should
enter the room Tom knew that at once his predicament would be
discovered, and in the present state of his foster father's feelings he
was aware that he could expect no mercy at his hands.

He heard no footstep, but he felt that the light of the candle was still
shining upon his face and knew that Benzeor had not departed. At last,
unable to bear the suspense longer, he opened his eyes, for he felt that
he must see what was going on in the room. There stood Benzeor in the
doorway holding the candle with one hand, and intently regarding the
apparently sleeping boy before him.

"I'll be down directly," said Tom drowsily, as if he were just awaking.
"I didn't know it was time to get up. I'll be with you in a minute."

"It isn't time to get up," replied Benzeor slowly. "I'm just going to
bed. I stopped to see if you were all right. Have you been asleep long?"

"I--I don't know. Is there anything wrong?" Tom still kept the
bedclothes drawn tightly about his face, and although he was feigning
that he had been sleeping, he was in a state of terror. If Benzeor
should approach the bed he well knew what would follow.

"No, there's nothing wrong," replied Benzeor. "I just wanted to see if
you were all right. It's been a hard trip, and there's much work to be
done to-morrow."

Tom closed his eyes and did not continue the conversation, hoping that
the man would feel satisfied and leave him to himself. Nor was he
disappointed, for Benzeor soon withdrew and closed the door behind him.

Tom could hear him as he stumbled about in the adjoining room, preparing
for bed. Frightened as the lad had been, he had not failed to notice the
expression upon Benzeor's face. It seemed to him that fear and
recklessness were combined there, and that in the recent decision which
the man had made, he had bidden farewell to everything good in his
nature.

Benzeor had not been without his good qualities. Even then, in spite of
his alarm, Tom recalled his rough kindnesses, and thought how much
better in many ways his foster father had treated him than had some of
the true fathers treated their own sons, for the times were rough and
the one thing which was demanded of all the growing boys was implicit
obedience to their elders. And this obedience had been ofttimes
compelled by no gentle means. The use of the strap upon boys who were as
large as their fathers was not unknown, and no one ever thought of
resenting the harsh treatment. But Benzeor had seldom struck him. Tom
almost wished that he had, for it would make the carrying out of the
project he had already formed much easier.

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.

Approaching the kitchen door he rapped loudly upon it. Twice had he
repeated the summons before a window was raised, and some one looking
out upon him called, "Who's there? Is that you, Peter?"

"No, it's not Peter. It's Tom Coward, and I want to get in. I've got
something to tell you."

"I'll be down in a moment," said Peter's mother, for Tom had recognized
the voice as her's.

Tom soon heard the heavy bars withdrawn, and in a brief time the door
was opened, and then closed and carefully barred behind him.

"What's wrong, Tom?" inquired the woman anxiously. "Has anything
happened to Peter?"

"I don't think so," replied Tom. "He was all right when I left him a few
hours ago down by the Hook. But what I want to know now is whether
you've had any word from his father?"

"Not a word, except that it's reported the army's on the march again.
Why do you ask?"

"I don't know that I ought to tell you," replied Tom hesitatingly, "but
the truth of the matter is that I happened to hear that he was coming
home."

"You've heard something more than that, Tom Coward," said the woman now
thoroughly alarmed. "I know you've heard more, or you wouldn't have come
over here at this time of night and in such a storm. What is it? What is
it?"

Tom perceived that he had gone too far to retreat now, and so he began
his story. He did not go into all the details, for as yet he did not
desire to implicate Benzeor, at least in the eyes of all his neighbors.

"The way of it is this," began Tom hesitatingly. "I happened to be
to-night where I overheard the talk between two men, and one of 'em was
Fenton, the pine robber."

Tom could perceive the expression of alarm which swept over the face of
the woman, who was still standing before him. Apparently ignoring it,
however, he went on. "It seems that both of the armies are on the march
across Jersey, and that Washington has halted over by Hopewell. Somehow,
Fenton had got word that your husband was coming home for a day, and
he's fixed up a plan to trap and take him."

"I haven't heard a word," said the woman slowly. "When was he coming?"

"To-morrow."

"And Fenton knows of it?"

"Yes. And he knows something more, too, or at least he pretends to. I
heard him say that you had some money hidden in an old sock, which you'd
stored away in the garret."

Tom saw the woman start at his words, and knew then that Fenton's
statement had been correct, although he could not conjecture how the
pine robber had received his information. Little Peter's mother was a
resolute woman, but even the stoutest heart might well be alarmed to
hear that Fenton was aware of such possessions.

"Have you any idea when Little Peter will come home?"

"No. It's too bad to keep him out in such a night. And we need him here
now."

"I'll wait till he comes," said Tom quietly. "There's no danger
to-night, but I want to see him, and I don't think you'll object to my
staying, will you?"

"No," said the woman eagerly. "Oh, what times these are! My husband has
been in the army more than a year, and the end hasn't come yet. What
will become of us? What shall we do? Tom," she added suddenly, "what was
Fenton going to do with him if he caught him?"

"Take him and send him to New York. You know there's a reward for every
prisoner taken. But he hasn't got him yet."

"No, that's so; and what's more he won't either, if it can be prevented.
Have you told Benzeor about it? Hark! There's some one at the door now!"

The woman was not mistaken, for a low tapping on the kitchen door could
be distinctly heard. For a moment neither spoke, but they could not
conceal their fears from each other. Just then a stronger gust of wind
drove the rain with added force against the windows. The sound of the
storm seemed to increase the fear of those within the house. Perhaps
Fenton himself had even then come; or, as was more probable, Tom
thought, his own departure had been discovered, and Benzeor had come for
him. As between the two, Tom decidedly preferred to meet Fenton at that
time.

Again the low rapping was heard, and Tom knew that some response must be
made. "I'll open the door. Maybe it's Little Peter come back," he
whispered.

"No, it isn't Peter. He wouldn't come in that way."

"I'll find out who it is," replied Tom more resolutely, although his
heart was oppressed by a great fear. His hands were trembling, and he
almost expected that the moment he drew back the bars a rush against the
door would be made.

"You stand ready to push against the door," he said as he grasped the
bar. Slowly he drew it back, and standing away from the slight opening
called out, "Who's there?"

No reply was heard, and the wind which swept through the open space
quickly extinguished the candle, leaving them both in total darkness.
For a moment Tom thought they were being attacked, and he instantly
slammed the door back, and shot the bar into its place.

The rapping upon the door was quickly repeated, and the voice of some
one outside could be heard. "Don't light the candle again," whispered
Tom. "It'll let them see what's inside here. Who's out there?" he called
in louder tones. "Who's there? You'll have to tell who you are, or we
shan't let you in. Who is it?"

Another rap was the only reply, and Tom was almost decided not to heed
the summons longer, but to leave the callers, whoever they might be, out
there in the storm.

"I'll go upstairs and look out of the window," whispered Peter's mother;
and, creeping softly out of the room, she soon made her way up the
stairway to the room overhead from which she had replied to Tom's own
summons a few minutes before.

Tom waited and listened. The rapping was not repeated, and no sound
could be heard outside the door. What could it all mean? Had the
marauders gone around to some of the windows? These were barred by heavy
inside shutters, and no light could be seen to reveal the presence of
any one. The darkness in the room was intense, and Tom almost thought he
could feel it. He was breathing hard in his excitement, but he had not
left his position by the door.

Soon he heard the sound of the woman returning down the stairway. He
waited breathlessly, and she soon rejoined him.

"I can't see but one man," she whispered. "He's right there in front of
the door."

"Is it Benzeor?"

"I couldn't see. You'd better open the door and let him in. We can
handle one."

Tom did not feel so positive about that, but bidding her light the
candle, he again drew back the bar. "Come in! Come in! Quick!" he
called.

Some one pushed past him, and the door was instantly closed and barred
again.

The candle was not yet lighted, and in the darkness he felt as if some
one were about to grasp him. He could almost feel hands upon him now. He
stepped farther back from the door, and waited in breathless suspense
for the candle to be lighted.

After several attempts, the woman succeeded in igniting a splinter from
the embers in the ashes on the fireplace, and the beams of the lighted
candle quickly dispelled the darkness.

"It's Indian John!" said Tom with a great sigh of relief as he saw the
man before him.

The visitor was a strange appearing being, clad in the leggings and
moccasins of his race, while over his shoulders he wore a faded coat
which once had done duty for some Continental soldier. His dark eyes
burned as if they had caught a reflection from the sputtering candle,
but with a countenance unmoved he gazed quietly at his companions in the
room.

"Oh, John, what a fright you gave us!" said the woman at last. "What
brings you here on a night like this?"

The Indian made no reply, save to draw a letter from the pocket of the
dripping, faded coat, and quietly held it forth to the woman.




CHAPTER VI

IN THE TEN-ACRE LOT


LITTLE Peter's mother instantly grasped the letter, and seating herself
by the table, and drawing the candle nearer, at once began to read. Tom
watched her eagerly, but she did not speak, and the expression upon her
face did not betray any of the emotions in her heart.

The Indian still stood motionless in the position he had taken when he
first entered the room, and except for the occasional turning of his
dark eyes from the boy to the woman, so far as appearances went he might
have been a statue. The rain still dashed against the windows, and the
sounds of the wind outside showed that the storm was unabated. The
flickering candle served to intensify the darkness, and the alarm which
Tom had felt had not entirely departed.

The woman read the letter all through carefully, and then, without a
word of explanation, began to read it again. Tom hardly knew what to
do. He had given her his warning, and whether she would care for his
further services he could not determine. He did not feel like
interrupting her, and yet he feared that his presence now might not be
altogether welcome, for he had no means of knowing what the message was,
or who had sent it.

His uncertainty was quickly dispelled, however, as the woman laid the
letter upon the table, and turning to him said, "You were right, Tom.
Peter is coming home; but how you found it out, I cannot even guess."

Tom did not feel at liberty to enlighten her upon the subject beyond
what he had told her already, for he was sadly troubled about Benzeor
and his relations with Fenton. Doubtless Benzeor was implicated, but
matters had not yet gone so far that he felt he was at liberty to betray
his foster father to the neighbors.

"Yes," resumed the woman, "Peter is coming home, but only for a day or
two."

"Where is he? What does he say of the army?" inquired Tom.

"Washington is at Hopewell, as you said, Tom. When he found out that
Clinton really intended to march across Jersey, he detached General
Maxwell's brigade and some of the militia to obstruct and bother the
British, and Peter was in the militia, you know. They were to keep close
to the redcoats, and by their skirmishes keep them from going too fast,
and so give Washington a chance to pass them, and then, when the place
he wanted was found, turn about and fight. When the army crossed the
Delaware at Coryell's Ferry, Washington sent Colonel Morgan with six
hundred of the riflemen to reinforce Maxwell, and with the rest of his
men he set out to march toward Princeton."

"I thought you said he was at Hopewell now," said Tom.

"So he is, Peter writes, but Hopewell isn't but a few miles from
Princeton, you know, and he decided to stop there and give his army a
good rest. Peter writes that all the men now think that Clinton is
marching so slowly on purpose, and that his plan is to let the Americans
go on into the lower country and then gain the right of our army by a
quick march and get possession of the higher ground on the right of our
men. Peter writes that that is what all the Continentals think Clinton
is trying to do, and so General Washington has halted at Hopewell.
That's only five miles from Princeton, you see, and he is going to stay
there a few days so that he can give his men a good rest before any
engagement takes place; and he can find out what Clinton's plans are,
too."

"And while the army is waiting there, Big Peter thinks he'll run up home
for a day, does he?" said Tom.

"Yes, that's just it. He's sent me word of his coming by Indian John,
here. But you must have been delayed John," she said, turning to the
Indian as she spoke.

"Heap wet," said the Indian quietly.

"When does he say he expects to be here?" inquired Tom.

"To-morrow; no, to-day, for it must be long past midnight now. I
shouldn't be surprised to see him any time."

"Well I've given you my message, and you'll know what to do now. I think
perhaps I'd better be going back home, that is, unless there's something
you think I can do to help you."

"No, there's nothing more now, Tom. Little Peter will soon be here, and
with him and Indian John in the house, I don't think we shall have much
to fear. It was good of you to come, Tom. I shall never forget you, and
I know that Peter will not, either. I am sadly troubled, but I think it
will be all right."

"Good-night, then," said Tom.

"Good-night, and thank you again for all your trouble and kindness."

Tom drew back the bar, and, opening the door, passed out into the night,
little dreaming that he had looked upon the face of Little Peter's
mother for the last time.

As he ran along the lonesome road, he could see that the clouds were
breaking, and in low masses were swept by the wind across the sky. The
rain had almost ceased now, but the air was damp and heavy and strangely
oppressive. Perhaps it was the oppressiveness which affected Tom more
than the excitement through which he had just passed, for the lad was
much depressed as he came nearer to Benzeor's house. All the
conversation he had overheard between the men came back to him, and he
almost wished that he had not left Peter's mother alone with Indian John
and the children. His feeling of obligation to Benzeor had mostly
departed now, and as he recalled the plots of his foster father his
heart was hot within him. He even thought of going over to the Court
House and reporting the matter to Sheriff Forman that very night; but
the hope that Benzeor still might not join Fenton in the evil project
they had formed deterred him, and as he just then obtained a glimpse of
the house which for more than ten years had been the only home he had
ever known, his mind was recalled to his own immediate plans. At least
he had given Peter's mother the warning, and if Fenton's band should
make the proposed visit, in any event she would be prepared to receive
them.

At first Tom thought he would not return to his room, but would pass the
night in the barn; still the fear that Benzeor might discover his
absence, and be led to suspect its cause, quickly presented itself, and
the troubled lad decided to go back to his accustomed place.

Carefully he climbed up on the woodpile, and grasping the sill drew
himself up and passed through the open window. He stood for a moment in
the room and listened intently. Not a sound could be heard, and even the
long drawn-out snores with which Benzeor had been wont to proclaim to
the household the fact that he had entered the land of dreams were
silent now. He waited several moments, and as the silence was still
unbroken he proceeded carefully to remove his wet clothing, and climbed
into his high bed.

For the first time then he realized how thoroughly tired he was. The bed
had never been more grateful to him, and a heavy sigh of relief escaped
his lips. He heard the crowing of the cocks and knew that the morning
could not be far away now.

Not even the exciting events of the day, or the treacherous project of
Benzeor, or his anxiety for the safety of Little Peter's father, now
availed to keep the wearied lad awake.

How long he slept he did not know, but it was broad daylight when he
opened his eyes. Some one was pounding upon his door, and with a
confused thought that Fenton was besieging the house, or that Washington
had begun an attack upon Clinton's forces, he quickly sat up in the bed
and listened.

The summons was repeated, and Tom at once realized where he was and what
was expected of him. There was no mistaking Benzeor's rude method of
proclaiming the presence of the morning, and if he had had any doubts,
they would have been quickly dispelled by the words which followed.

"Come, Tom, get up! It's high time we were at work again!"

"I'll be down in a minute," replied Tom as he leaped out of bed and
hastily dressed.

While he was engaged in that occupation he tried desperately to collect
his thoughts and think of some way out of the troubles which he feared
were sure to come that day. Should he tell Benzeor plainly that he could
no longer remain under his roof? Ought he to tell him what he had
overheard the night before? Had the time come for him to declare himself
and to take the open stand which he had for a long time secretly planned
to do? Thoughts of Sarah and the toiling, careworn little mother of the
household presented themselves before his troubled mind, and the longer
he thought, the more perplexed he became.

The problem was not solved when he passed down the stairs and went out
of the house to the barrel which stood beneath the corner of the eaves.
He took the rude wooden bowl and filled it with water, and desperately
tried to arrive at some conclusion as he bathed his flushed face.

The family were already seated at the breakfast-table, and the sounds of
Benzeor's gruff voice could be distinctly heard through the open
windows. The hens with their broods were moving about the yard, and the
dog came and rubbed against his leg as the lad dried his face and hands
on the rough towel that was hanging near the water barrel. The storm had
passed, and the summer sun was shining clear and strong now.

As he lifted his eyes and looked out over Benzeor's fertile lands, only
a vision of peace and restfulness could be seen on every side. It was
all so different from the storm which was in his own soul that Tom
almost groaned aloud as he turned to enter the kitchen and take his
accustomed place at the table.

As he entered the room, Benzeor said, "You're late this morning, lad,
but I thought I would let you sleep, you had such a hard day of it
yesterday. But there's no trip to New York this morning, and not likely
to be one again soon."

Benzeor's manner was not unkind, and as Tom glanced at him he wondered
whether the man was in any wise suspicious of him or not. Apparently he
was not, but without making any reply Tom seated himself and quietly
decided to wait until they were alone before he spoke of what was in his
mind.

"Tom," said Benzeor after a brief silence, "I want you to go over to the
ten-acre lot to-day. The ground's wet, but the corn there needs hoeing,
and we can't wait."

The "ten-acre lot" was on the border of Benzeor's possessions, and was
nearly a mile distant from the house. On all sides it was bordered by
woods, and was as lonely a place as could be found in all the region.

"Are you going, too?" inquired Tom, with an apparent indifference he was
far from feeling.

"No. I've got to go in another direction to-day. I may not be back at
night either, though I can't say as to that. You'd better take your
dinner, too, Tom, and I'll leave one of the muskets for you. You can
load it up with bird-shot and keep the blackbirds and crows away.
They're raising the mischief this year, and corn's going to be worth
money this fall, if I'm not greatly mistaken."

Tom made no reply, although his heart was beating a little more rapidly
than usual. Benzeor's absence from home promised little good, and the
words which he had overheard the night before came back now with
redoubled force. Where was Benzeor going? And why did he send him to
work in the distant field, when he was positive that some of the corn
nearer the house was in far greater need of hoeing than that in the
ten-acre lot?

However, he did not voice his questions, and immediately after the
breakfast was over Benzeor mounted his horse and departed up the road,
going in the opposite direction to that which led to Little Peter's
house.

Tom went up into the unfinished room in which Benzeor kept his guns and
ammunition, but instead of taking the musket to which the man had
referred, he selected a rifle, and loaded it with a ball instead of the
bird-shot as Benzeor had directed. Just why he did this Tom could not
have explained even to himself, but somehow there was the feeling in his
heart that he might need to be prepared to deal with larger game that
day than the thieving blackbirds or the noisy crows.

"I've got your dinner all ready, Tom," said Sarah, as the boy came back
with his gun into the kitchen. "Why, you've got the rifle!" she added in
surprise, as she noted the weapon he had in his hands. "There's nothing
wrong, is there?" she said anxiously.

"I hope not. I don't know. I thought I'd take this gun," replied Tom in
some confusion.

Sarah said nothing more, but Tom knew from her manner that she was
alarmed. He would have been glad to quiet her fears, but the anxiety in
his own heart rendered him somewhat embarrassed, and without saying
anything more he shouldered his gun, and picking up the little pail, or
"blicky," as the country people termed it, having adopted the Dutch word
whether they themselves were Dutch or not, he set forth on his walk to
the distant ten-acre lot.

He stopped in the barn long enough to select a hoe, and then with the
added implement resumed his journey across the fields. When he came to
the borders of the woods through which he was to pass, he turned and
looked back at the house.

Sarah was still standing in the doorway, and as she saw Tom stop she
waved at him the sunbonnet which she was holding in one hand by the
strings. Tom waved his "blicky" by way of a return, and then entered the
woods, which shut out the view of all that lay behind him.

The birds were flitting about in the trees and filling the air with
their songs. The squirrels darted along the branches, stopping only
occasionally to chatter at the intruder. High over all he could see a
fish-hawk and his mate circling in the air, and Tom knew that their nest
was not far away, and doubtless they were watching him to see that he
did no harm to their little ones, which by this time must be well grown.

As he came near to a marshy little pond which lay in the centre of an
open place in the woods, he stopped for a moment when he heard the angry
notes of a ground thrush near by. He soon saw that the bird was engaged
in a fierce contest with a water snake which had crawled up the bank and
doubtless had been endeavoring to make his breakfast upon the
fledgelings in the nest he had discovered.

Tom watched the contest for a moment, and then advanced to the aid of
the bird, which was beating the ground with her wings, and occasionally
darting swiftly at her foe. His approach was instantly seen by the
snake, which quickly abandoned the contest, and, squirming down the
bank, slid into the stagnant water; but Tom could still see the head
which was lifted above the water, and the glittering little eyes were
intently watching his movements, although the rest of the long slimy
body was concealed in the pond.

"That's just like Benzeor," said Tom aloud, as he dropped his pail, and
picking up a stone threw it savagely at the head he could see a few
yards out from the bank.

The head instantly disappeared, and Tom turned to watch the bird, which
now was hopping about in the bushes, uttering harsh little notes of
relief.

"You're all right now, old lady," said Tom. "Go back and tend to your
babies. I only wish I could serve every crawling thing the way I served
your enemy."

He soon arrived at the end of his journey, and, placing his gun within
easy reach, began his task for the day. Why he had put off his
conversation with Benzeor he could not explain. But the energy with
which he began his work served to afford a measure of relief for his
pent-up feelings, and when the noon hour at last came he had done far
more work than a morning often witnessed.

Once he had stopped suddenly when he thought he heard the report of a
gun in the distance. The sound had twice been repeated, but it seemed to
be muffled and far away, and as he resumed his labor he tried to
persuade himself that it was only Little Peter firing at the blackbirds
or the thieving crows.

The reports had made him anxious, however, and when he had stopped for
dinner he had kept his gun near him all the time. The silence served to
increase his feeling of loneliness. On every side stood the forests; and
the great trees, which had never as yet felt the stroke of the axe, were
companions without sympathy.

With a feeling of desperation Tom soon resumed his labors. The sun
passed over his head and began to sink below the tops of the taller
trees. He had stopped for a moment to wipe his dripping face and gain a
brief rest, when he was startled by the sight of some one emerging from
the forest.

He gazed for a moment intently at the new-comer, and soon recognized
Sarah. What was the trouble? Her dress had been torn by the bushes, her
hair had become loose and was streaming down her back. But her
disheveled appearance was not the worst, for as Tom dropped his hoe and
ran across the lot to meet her, he saw that her eyes were filled with an
expression of terror, and her face betrayed the wild alarm which seemed
to possess the swiftly running girl.




CHAPTER VII

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS


"WHAT'S wrong, Sarah? What is it? What is it?" said Tom excitedly, as he
drew near the almost breathless girl. "Has anything happened at the
house?"

"Oh, Tom!" was all that Sarah at first could say. The reaction from her
excitement and the swift pace at which she had been running had come,
and the frightened girl burst into a flood of tears.

Tom looked on in helpless amazement. Sarah was usually such a strong and
self-contained girl that her present distress was all the more
perplexing. He looked at her a moment, feeling how utterly unable he was
to comprehend the state of her feelings and how helpless he was to aid
or comfort her. Benzeor might be faced; and even Fenton, in spite of the
fear with which Tom regarded him, might be met; but a weeping girl was
entirely outside the realm of all his previous experiences, and he stood
leaning upon his gun, eager to do something to aid Sarah, and feeling a
deep sympathy for her as he silently watched her.

Perhaps his silence was the very best aid he could offer, for in a brief
time the resolute Sarah gained control of herself, and lifting her
tear-stained face to that of the troubled lad by her side she said, "Oh
Tom, they've killed Little Peter's mother!"

"What!" exclaimed Tom in amazement. "Killed her? You can't mean it! Who
killed her?"

"Yes, they shot her, and have carried off his father, too."

"I don't understand, Sarah," said Tom more quietly. "Tell me about it."

"Little Peter came over to our house just a little while ago to leave
the children, and he told us all about it. It seems, he was the lookout
yesterday down by the Hook and didn't get home till it was almost light
this morning.

"He said he went up to his room and laid down upon his bed, and must
have gone to sleep, but he was waked up by the sound of the voices of
men in the house. He jumped out of bed and listened, and pretty soon he
heard one of them tell his mother that she must hand over the money she
had hidden in a stocking up in the garret, and tell where his father
was.

"She refused to do either, and then Little Peter hurriedly dressed and
ran down the stairs, but some of the men just grabbed him and held him
fast so that he couldn't do anything to help his mother. He said the men
all had masks on their faces except Fenton, for he thinks it was
Fenton's band that did the work, and he was sure he recognized the
blacksmith."

"No doubt about that!" exclaimed Tom. "What did they do then?"

"They held his mother while some of them ran up into the garret, and
pretty soon one of them came back with the stocking. They made quite a
time over that, and Little Peter thought they wouldn't do anything more,
but it seems they didn't find as much money in the stocking as they
expected. Little Peter explained it to me by saying that his mother had
divided it, and had hidden a part in the garden back of the house and
left only a part in the stocking.

"For a little time they didn't suspect that, but wanted to know where
her husband was. Of course she didn't tell them. How could she, when he
wasn't there? Well, they searched the place high and low. They tore open
the feather beds, and broke down the walls in two or three places, but
they couldn't find Peter. Then they went out into the barns and searched
them, but not a trace of him could they find. They must have been pretty
angry by that time, for when they came back to the house they told her
they knew there must be more money than they had found in the stocking,
and she must tell them where it was.

"Just then one of the children called out that she knew where it was for
she had seen her mother dig a hole in the ground and put a bag of money
in it. Two of the men then took the child out into the garden and tried
to make her show them the place where the money was, but she must either
have forgotten or else did not know, for the men came back into the
house more angry than before, and told her mother that she must go with
them and show them the place.

"Of course she refused, and then Fenton raised his gun and told her he'd
give her till he could count five, to tell. She didn't say a word, and
when the blacksmith had counted four he stopped a minute to give her a
chance to speak. He waited, and as she only shook her head the outlaw
pulled the trigger and shot her in the breast."

"And killed her?" inquired Tom in a low voice.

"Yes, killed her. The bullet must have struck her heart, for Little
Peter said she fell dead. They threw the body on the bed and then they
turned upon Little Peter. He said he thought his turn had come then, but
at that very minute the guard they had stationed down by the road came
running into the house, and going up to Fenton whispered something in
his ear.

"Little Peter didn't know what it was, he said, but in a minute Fenton
turned to his men and gave them some directions, and they all stopped
and went out of the house, that is, all except two, who were looking
after Little Peter and the children.

"In almost no time Little Peter heard some one coming up the lane on
horseback and stop right before the kitchen door. He heard him jump off
from the horse, and after a pause of a minute the men all made a rush
out of the house. Pretty soon they came back, and Little Peter saw that
his own father was a prisoner in their hands.

"He said his father took on fearfully when he saw his wife dead, and
what the men had been doing, but in a minute they bound him hand and
foot, and put a gag in his mouth, and then he was as helpless as a baby
in their hands.

"Little Peter said he didn't know what was coming next. He thought
they'd torture him or his father into telling where the money was, or
would set fire to the house; but before they could do anything the guard
came running into the house again and called out that some one was
coming.

"They only stopped long enough to tie Little Peter to the post of the
very bed on which his mother was lying dead, and then they made a break
out of the house and took their horses and were off down the lane in no
time."

"How did you hear about it? How did Little Peter get away?" said Tom
slowly.

"Why, in a few minutes Indian John came into the house, and he set
Little Peter free. 'Twas lucky for him that he did, for Fenton might
have come back, you see."

"And Little Peter came over to your house with the children, then?"

"Yes, he brought them all over, and they're at our house now. But, oh
Tom, it's dreadful! dreadful! I'm so afraid they'll come to our place
next, and so I ran out here to get you. Come Tom! Come right away! They
may be there now!"

Tom hesitated, not knowing just what to do. He was only a boy, and knew
that alone he could do nothing against Fenton and his band. But the
appeal of Sarah and the unprotected condition of the children and her
mother moved him strongly, and his first impulse was to return with the
frightened girl.

"Sarah," said he abruptly, "where is your father?"

"Why, you know he went away this morning, and he hasn't come back yet.
He said he might not be back before to-morrow morning. We're all alone,
Tom, and you must come right away. Oh, it's awful!" And Sarah buried her
face in her hands again as she spoke.

It was almost upon Tom's lips to tell her what he knew of Benzeor. But
the misery of the weeping girl before him was even stronger than the
impression produced by the sad tale she had just related, and he could
not quite bring himself up to the point of telling her what he
suspected,--that her own father had been connected with the attack upon
Little Peter's home. But he had decided now as to the course of action
he must follow.

"Sarah," said he gently, "there isn't the least danger in the world that
your house will be attacked. I can't tell you how I know, but I know
it's so."

"But we're all alone, Tom! I don't know what you mean! We're as likely
to be attacked as any one. You must go back with me! We must go right
away, for they may be there now! Poor mother, she was so frightened that
she didn't want me to leave and come over here for you! Come! We must go
right back now!"

"Sarah, I'm never going into that house again. You can tell your father
that I've slept for the last time under his roof."

"Not going back with me?" said Sarah aghast, and looking up in surprise
as she spoke. "Not going back?" she repeated, as if she did not fully
understand what Tom had said.

"No, I'm not going back," said Tom firmly. "You know I've been thinking
a good while of leaving, and after what you've just told me I know the
time has come."

The color slowly faded from Sarah's face and a different expression came
into her eyes. Even her alarm was apparently forgotten for the moment,
and as Tom looked at her, her eyes seemed to snap and a sneer replaced
the look of sorrow.

"Tom Coward, you're afraid!" she said; "that's what's the trouble with
you. You're afraid, that's what you are! You'd rather leave mother and
me alone there with the children than run any risks of meeting the
blacksmith! I wouldn't have believed it, but my father was right. You're
a coward by nature as well as by name."

"Sarah"--began Tom, his face flushing at the words of the angry girl.

"Don't 'Sarah' me! I know you now! I never could have believed it,
never! But I've heard you with my own ears, and now I know it's true!
You're afraid! You're a coward, that's just what you are! Oh, you're
well named, you are! Very well, sir, it shall be as you say. Perhaps we
shall be better off without you than we would with you, for it would
only make another child for us to look after if you should come back!
I'll go back home and face Fenton and every one of his band myself! I'm
afraid, but I'm no coward!"

[Illustration: "TOM COWARD, YOU'RE AFRAID!"]

Turning abruptly away, after giving Tom a glance which he never forgot,
she started resolutely and swiftly back along the pathway which she had
followed in her flight to the ten-acre lot.

Tom looked after her in helpless amazement. Never before had he heard
such an outburst from the gentle and even-tempered Sarah, who had been
the leading spirit in Benzeor's household. The children had gone to her
with their troubles rather than to their mother, and Sarah had never
failed to have a word of comfort or of help for every one. Even Benzeor
himself had come to depend upon her judgment in many of his affairs, and
she had been as patient and gentle with him as she had been with the
troubled little ones.

And to Tom she had been the one true friend he had ever known. Somehow
she had always understood him, and from the days of their early
childhood it had always been a matter of pride to him that he was her
acknowledged champion and protector. Many a time, when he was a sturdy
little lad, had he taken her part against the tormenting boys in the
school. For her he had carved quaint and strange looking dolls out of
horse-chestnuts, and the childish Sarah had never failed to receive
them with many expressions of pleasure, and had lavished a wealth of
affection upon them which was almost as pleasing to Tom as to the little
mother herself. For her he had gathered the chestnuts in the autumn and
the bright colored flowers in the springtime; and when, with the passing
of the years, there had come to them both new feelings and new
interests, he still had shared with her all those dimly perceived
ambitions and longings which are ever present in the boyish heart when
it arrives at that position where it can look out upon the time when the
boy is to become a man.

Perhaps Tom had enjoyed her sympathy and interest the more because of
the loneliness of his own position. But Sarah never by word or act had
caused him to feel that he was only Benzeor Osburn's "bound boy," and
not truly one of the household.

Tom was thinking of some of these things as he watched the departing
girl, and, forgetting for the moment all the anger and shame which her
last words had aroused, he called aloud after her.

"Sarah! Sarah!" he shouted. "Wait a minute! Come back! Come back!"

Sarah apparently did not hear him, or heed him if she heard, and without
once turning her head or looking behind her soon disappeared in the
forest.

An impulse to follow her seized Tom, and he even ran a few steps after
her, but quickly stopped. How could he explain himself to her without
informing upon Benzeor? And then her sorrow would be harder for him to
bear than her present anger, hard as that was. No; all he could do was
to remain silent for the time, and trust that in the future some
explanation might be made which should set him aright once more in the
estimation of the best friend the homeless boy had ever known.

The departure of Sarah left him face to face with the perplexing problem
of what he was now to do. To return to Benzeor's house was impossible;
but where should he go?

Tom stood for several minutes in deep thought. There was no home which
would now be open to him except Little Peter's, and that had been
wrecked by the dreadful deeds of Fenton and his followers. Washington's
army he had heard was at Hopewell, and that was at least forty miles
away. It was to the army he had ultimately hoped to go, and perhaps the
present was the very time to which he had been looking forward so long.

The longer he thought about it the more strongly was he impressed with
the conviction that his best plan would be to try to make his way to
Hopewell, or to the place to which the army might have moved by this
time. It was true he was without provisions, and he knew of no place in
which he would be likely to obtain any, or in which he might find a
resting-place for a night. Of the long journey he thought but little,
for a walk even of forty miles had no terrors for him.

Tom decided to start for Washington's army, but first he must stop at
Little Peter's and learn what his friend's plans were to be, and offer
him such aid as it lay within his power to give.

The decision once made, Tom picked up his rifle, which now he somehow
had come to regard as his own property, and started through the forest
toward the distant road.

When at last he gained it and started towards Little Peter's home, he
was startled as he saw some one running down the road, and his first
impulse was to conceal himself in the forest and wait for the stranger
to pass; but his fears were relieved when he recognized the long lope of
the runner, and then knew that his old friend Indian John was
approaching.




CHAPTER VIII

INDIAN JOHN


INDIAN JOHN had for years been a frequent visitor in the home of
Benzeor, as he had in many of the other homes of the region. He was an
old man now,--how old no one knew, perhaps not even Indian John
himself,--but he had lingered about old Monmouth long after the
Schwonnack had taken possession of the lands and his own tribe had
gradually relinquished their homes and mostly withdrawn from the region.

For months together he would disappear, and no one would know whither he
had gone, although it was thought that he was on a visit to some of his
kindred, who had withdrawn farther into the interior of the country; but
he would soon return and resume his wandering life. At such times,
Indian John would be restless and uneasy. Perhaps then he realized more
fully the loss of the homes of his ancestors, and his heart would be
filled with thoughts he never uttered. He continued to be friendly with
the settlers, and though he never refused to accept the food which
almost every housewife was willing to give him, he had never been
willing to pass a night under a roof. It was commonly reported that he
used a cave in the woods not far away as his abode, but he never had
welcomed any one there, nor had any one ever seen the aged Indian in the
place. Still the report was believed, and "Indian John's cave" was a
well-known name among the boys of Old Monmouth.

Between Tom and the lonely warrior there had been a very strong feeling
of sympathy, although not even Tom himself was able to explain it. It
had come about, however, as the result of an accidental meeting between
them a few years previous to this time. Tom had gone down to the shore
one day when a storm had been raging, and the great breakers had been
rolling in upon the beach.

As the lad had walked on over the sand, he had been surprised to see the
figure of a man in the distance, standing motionless, and evidently
watching the tumult of the angry waters. He had not changed from his
position as Tom approached, and the lad did not know that his presence
was even recognized by the Indian, who seemed to be absorbed in his
reflections as he looked out over the tossing waves.

Tom had gone on and at last touched the Indian upon the shoulder. Indian
John had then slowly turned his head, and Tom knew that his presence had
been perceived, but for a moment neither had spoken.

Then the aged warrior, with a gesture toward the ocean, had said, "Boy
no home. Warrior no home. Brothers."

It was the first time Tom had known that Indian John was aware of his
own early history, and his heart had been deeply touched by the sympathy
of the red man.

"Boy no home. Warrior no home. Both like waves. Driven here. Driven
there. No rest. No home. Storm there. Storm here," said the Indian
laying his hand upon his bosom as he spoke.

From that time, although Indian John never referred to his loneliness
again, a strong bond of sympathy had existed between the two, and every
time Tom had seen the old man, he thought of his quiet eloquence in the
presence of that storm which they both had witnessed from the shore.

And Indian John had been kind and thoughtful to all the white children
of the region. He had made bows for the boys, and taught them their use,
and as their skill had increased, his pride was as marked, although it
had not been as demonstrative, as that of the youthful warriors
themselves. He had taught them how to make and set their traps for the
foxes and the rabbits, and how to catch the eels in the river.
Apparently his happiest hours had been those which he passed with his
young companions.

Highly as the boys had prized the lessons he had given them, still more
did they prize the marvelous tales which Indian John could tell. To them
he told what the waves were saying when they came rolling in upon the
sandy shore. He knew what the tall trees were whispering when the wind
swept through their branches and brought the leaves into contact with
one another. The hoarse calls of the wild geese, when they passed high
overhead on their long journeys in the spring and autumn, were all known
to Indian John, and the screams of the eagles and the fish-hawks were
all in a language which he clearly understood.

He knew, also, all the tales his fathers had told him of the first
appearance of the Woapsiel Lennape in Old Monmouth, when, in the spring
of 1524, John de Verrazano, in his good ship The Dolphin, had entered
Sandy Hook, and had soon after written a long letter to King Francis the
First of France, and had given a full account of the marvelous
adventures which had befallen him, and the no less marvelous country he
had discovered. He had heard, also, of the visit, in the summer of 1609,
which Sir Henry Hudson had made in The Half Moon, and how that one of
his crew had fallen as the first victim of the rage of the Indians at
the invasion of their lands.

The tale which Tom had always enjoyed most, however, was that of the
origin of the troublesome little pests which, in the warm days of the
summer, were the torment of the people, for Jersey mosquitoes were not
unknown in those far-off times of the Revolution.

It seemed that ages before this time, indeed away back in the days
before John de Verrazano or Henry Hudson had come, or even the memory of
the oldest warriors could run, the Great Spirit had permitted two huge
monsters to appear and prey upon the red men of Monmouth as a penalty
for some crime they had committed, a crime the nature of which Indian
John did not know, or, if he knew, he never explained.

In size these monsters were larger than any house. They had long slender
legs which held their huge bodies higher in the air than the tallest
trees could have done. They also had immense wings, which, although they
were as fine in texture as the finest silk, were so large and strong
that when the huge monsters used them they created such a breeze that
even the strongest trees of the forest fell before them.

Their most distinguishing characteristic, however, was an immense
"bill," which was as long as the tallest pine-tree and as sharp and
delicate in its point as that of the smallest needle. With this they
wrought incalculable destruction and suffering among the helpless
people. The largest man served only as a single "bite," and the bodies
of little children seemed only to whet the appetite of these savage
monsters.

The helpless warriors knew not what to do. They sacrificed, and prayed,
and besought the Great Spirit to free them from their tormentors, but
all was without avail. Their prayers were unanswered, and the Great
Spirit was not appeased.

No man could describe the destruction wrought by the huge tormentors.
Whole tribes disappeared before them, and it soon came to pass that the
warriors dared not venture forth in search of food for their starving
little ones, who were kept concealed in dens and caves of the earth.
Watchers were stationed to give warning of the approach of the monsters,
for their great bodies cast shadows upon the earth like those of the
low-passing clouds on a summer day, and long before they appeared in the
sky the cry of the watchman sent all within the sound of his voice to
their places of refuge under the ground. Not even then were they always
safe, for the monsters could bore into the ground with their bills, and
often brought to the surface the body of a man, who struggled and kicked
much after the fashion of a frog impaled on the beak of some long-legged
heron. The torments of the people increased. The women neglected their
fields, and the warriors remained in their hiding-places, while the
frightened children cried for food.

At last, rendered desperate by their sufferings, the warriors of the
entire region banded themselves together, and one day fell upon the
monsters as they were lying asleep in a valley which their immense
bodies almost filled.

The carnage was frightful to behold. All day long the contest was waged,
and the multitudes of men that fell could not be counted up for numbers.
But at last the red men were victorious, and when the few remaining
warriors left the field of battle, their enemies lay stretched upon the
valley, dead.

Great was the rejoicing among the people. They came forth from their
hiding-places, and their feastings and songs of victory were continued
for two entire days. The land was freed from its tormentors, and peace
and prosperity would now return, or so at least they thought.

Great was the astonishment and sorrow of Indian John's forefathers when,
upon the third day, they discovered that their troubles were not ended.
As decay had begun to work upon the dead bodies of the mammoth
mosquitoes, little particles became loosened, and as they were lifted
into the air by the summer wind, each tiny and separate atom became
endowed with life and received a body in shape exactly like that of the
huge monsters themselves, only they were exceedingly small in size. Day
after day clouds of these tiny torments were borne away by the breezes
from the valley of the dead, and, filled with a burning desire to avenge
the death of their parents, they fell upon the unprotected people.

From these there had been no relief. The camp-fires of the warriors did
not avail, and although the men went valiantly forth to give them
battle, their efforts were all futile, and from that day until the
present time the Jersey mosquito has remained a foe to the red man and
the white, and ever consumed by the one purpose, to avenge the death of
the parents, who had fallen years ago in their battle with the
red-skinned warriors of Old Monmouth.

To Indian John this story of the origin of the pests of New Jersey had
been eminently satisfactory, and never by word or deed had he shown that
he had the slightest doubt of the accuracy of the tradition which had
come down to him through many generations. Tom at first had received the
account with all the implicit faith of an ardent admirer of Indian John,
and his first rude shock had come when Benzeor had laughed aloud upon
his relating the story with all seriousness one morning at the
breakfast-table. With the passing of the years other doubts as to the
entire reliability of some of Indian John's stories had crept into his
mind. Alas that it should be so with us all! But his strong regard for
the old warrior had never ceased, and Tom's heart was glad that morning
when he recognized the new-comer as his long-time friend.

"Where have you been, John?" he said, as the Indian approached.

"See Peter."

"Have you seen him?" said Tom eagerly. "Where is he? Has he got away?"

"How?" replied the Indian quickly; and Tom at once perceived from the
expression upon his face that he was aware of some but not of all the
recent events in Peter's home.

As he related the story which Sarah had told him, Indian John made no
reply, although his eyes seemed to blaze as he listened to Tom's words.
He then explained that he had left the house soon after Tom had departed
on the preceding night, to intercept Big Peter on the road and give to
him the warning which his wife had bidden him to carry. But Peter must
have returned by a different route from that which he had been expected
to use, and as a natural result Indian John had not seen him, the
warning word had not been given, and Big Peter had returned to learn of
the sad death of his wife and to be carried away a prisoner by Fenton
and his brutal band.

"I don't know just what to do now, John," said Tom. "I want to go and
join the army. You have been there, and perhaps you would like to go
back with me."

Indian John had been with the soldiers in Washington's army, but he made
no reply to Tom's words, and indeed the lad was not certain that he had
heard, for he stood looking upon the ground and evidently was thinking
deeply.

"Where Little Peter now?" said the Indian abruptly, looking up at Tom as
he spoke.

"I don't know. Fenton didn't take him with him, though I don't know why
he didn't."

"Little Peter home," said the Indian decidedly. "Go see Little Peter."

Tom hesitated. He, too, had longed to go to his friend, not only to
express his sympathy but also to learn what his plans were to be, for he
knew that Little Peter would not remain in his home now. Indeed, he
could not, if he would, after such a scene as that which he had
witnessed there. But Tom's mind was filled with thoughts of Benzeor, and
a meeting with him certainly was not very desirable at that time.

"Go see Little Peter," said the Indian again, starting on up the road as
he spoke.

"All right, I'll go with you," replied Tom, as he joined his companion.

Little Peter's house was not far away, and he would not lose much time
in going there. It was almost night now, and if his friend should be at
home they might be able to devise some plan by which they could act
together. Besides all that, Tom was more than glad to have an
opportunity to express his sympathy for his friend in his sorrow.

They soon came within sight of the house, and both stopped when they saw
a little group of people near the garden. Tom knew at once what their
presence meant, for they were near the spot where two of the members of
the family had been buried. He had seen the rude wooden headstones which
marked their graves many times before this.

The few neighbors who had assembled to perform the last rites for Little
Peter's mother had just returned to the house as Tom and Indian John
approached. Tom at once went to his friend, and the warm grasp of the
hand was all he could give. Not one of the children save Little Peter
was there, and the hurried duties had been hastily performed by kind,
though rough hands.

The two boys withdrew from the house, and after an awkward silence Tom
said in a low voice, "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to leave the children at Benzeor's house. He has been very
kind, or rather Sarah has, Tom. And then I'm going to start for Refugee
Town; I think father may be there."

"Refugee Town?" said Tom in surprise. "Do you think that will be safe?"

Tom well knew the place. It was a spot on the outer beach of the Hook,
where some of the more desperate refugees, tories and negroes, had
assembled. A few huts and tents served as their dwelling-places, and the
men were supposed to be in league with the men on board the boats which
the British had stationed near by, for a part of Howe's fleet was
already anchored there, waiting for the coming of Clinton's men.
Clinton's original plan had been to march across Jersey to New
Brunswick, there embark his men on the Raritan, and sail away for New
York; but the rapid march of Washington had caused him to abandon the
project, and word had been sent for the fleet to be ready for him when
he should arrive at the Highlands.

Refugee Town had become a familiar name within the past few weeks.

"No, it isn't safe exactly, but I've got to do something for father. If
he's taken to New York and shut up in the sugar-house I'll go with him;
and if he's still there at the Town I may be able to do something,
though I don't know what," said Little Peter sadly.

"But there are the children," protested Tom. "What'll become of them?"

"They're at Benzeor's, and they'll be all right. You'll help look after
them, won't you?"

"I've left Benzeor's."

"Left Benzeor's? What for?"

"I'm going to join the army. It's time I was doing my share."

Tom gave no other reason. He knew the children would be safe at
Benzeor's, and with what Little Peter then had it in his mind to do it
would perhaps be unwise to tell him all he knew. However, he intended
to tell him all, and that soon.

"Going to join the army?" repeated Little Peter, as if he did not
comprehend the words.

"Yes; you know I've been thinking of it a long time, and now that
they're on the march, and coming this way, I've made up my mind that my
turn has come. I didn't know but you would want to go, too, now."

"I'd like to, but I can't. I've got this other matter on hand. Come into
the house, Tom, and spend the night with me. You can start in the
morning as well as now, and besides it's almost dark. You can't go in
the night."

Tom hesitated, but finally consented, and with his friend went into the
house which so recently had been the scene of the greatest sorrow which
had ever entered Little Peter's life.

Indian John followed them, but after his custom refused to remain,
although he promised to return early in the morning. One of the women of
the neighborhood had stayed to look after Little Peter's immediate
wants, but as soon as her duties were done she departed for her own home
with an eagerness she could not entirely conceal. And Tom did not blame
her, for he himself was not without fear when at last Little Peter
closed the doors for the night, and, after having slipped the heavy bars
into their places, the two boys sought their bed in the low room over
the kitchen.




CHAPTER IX

THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT


IT was long before daylight when the boys were stirring on the morning
which followed the events recorded in the preceding chapter. No one had
disturbed them, and with the return of the day their courage was
somewhat revived. Tom, however, had decided to start at once for the
army, which he knew from Indian John's words was not many miles away. He
was thoroughly familiar with all the roads in the county, for he had
ridden over them many times in company with Benzeor, or when he had been
sent on errands to the more remote regions by his foster father, and
consequently had no fears of losing his way.

Little Peter did not urge his friend to accompany him on his expedition
to Refugee Town, for he was aware of the perils that were likely to
beset him on his journey. He would not listen to any of the protests of
Tom, for he was fully determined to learn what had become of his
father, and even share his experiences if the occasion demanded. And Tom
could not find it in his heart to blame Little Peter, hopeless as he
considered all his efforts likely to be. Perhaps he would do the same
thing if his own father had been carried away by the pine robbers, and
he found himself conjecturing how it was a boy would feel in such
circumstances as those in which his friend had been placed. The feeling
was one of which he knew nothing by experience, and his own loneliness
seemed to press upon him with a heavier weight.

However, he still said nothing to Little Peter concerning Benzeor's
recent actions, for he was well assured that his friend's younger
brothers and sisters could be in no place where they would so easily
escape all further troubles for the present as in his foster father's
house; and then all of Little Peter's plans would be changed at once if
he knew the part which his neighbor had taken in the tragedy which had
recently occurred.

"Perhaps Indian John will go with me," said Little Peter. "He'll be a
great help if he'll go."

"That he will," replied Tom, "and I'm sure he'll be glad to go with
you. I should like to go myself."

"That's all right, Tom; I know you would, but you couldn't do any good,
and might only get into trouble yourself. Perhaps I'll be with you in a
day or two, if I don't hear anything about my father down by Refugee
Town,--that is, if Benzeor is willing for the children to stay in his
house. I'll have to look after them, you see, for it's likely I'll have
to be father and mother, as well as big brother, now," he added sadly.

"I know, I know," said Tom; "but I'm hoping you'll have good luck, and
if the army really is coming here, it may be that you'll get some help
from the Continentals if you need it then. Good-by, Peter."

"Good-by, Tom," replied his friend.

Tom placed some bread in his pockets, and then started forth on his
journey. Somewhere off towards Hopewell the American army must be,
according to all the reports which had come, and to that place he must
make his way. The time for which he had been waiting at last had come,
and with a lighter heart than he had known for days the lad began his
journey.

The summer morning was clear and warm. The birds were flitting about in
the trees and filling the air with their songs. In spite of the heat,
there was a delicious freshness in the early morning air, and as he
walked rapidly forward he soon came to feel a sense of exhilaration
which not even the loss and grief of his boy friend could entirely
banish.

By the time the sun rose red and full in the east, he had placed several
miles between him and Little Peter's home, but with unabated zeal he
steadily pushed onward, resolved to make the best possible use of the
early hours before the more intense heat of the day should come.

By the middle of the forenoon more than ten miles had been left behind
him, but he was beginning to feel the effects of his exertions. His face
was flushed and streaming with perspiration. The rough road was hot and
dusty, for only a single day had been required to dry out all the
vestiges of the recent storm. He was beginning to feel somewhat tired,
and was about to stop for a brief rest by the roadside, when he saw some
one approaching on horseback.

He quickly drew back among the trees which grew close to the road,
thereby hoping to escape all notice by the stranger; but his plan was
quickly changed when he discovered, as the horseman came nearer, that he
was clad in the uniform of the Continental army. His relief was greater
when he recognized the man as the son of one of Benzeor's neighbors, who
more than a year before this time had enlisted and had passed the
preceding winter in Valley Forge.

He quickly resolved to hail the man as he passed, and accordingly
stepped out into the road and waved his arms as a signal for the
horseman to stop. The man quickly heeded, and as he drew the rein and
checked his horse he peered down at the lad by the roadside, and Tom's
fears were instantly relieved when he perceived that he had been
recognized.

"Why, Tom Coward, what are you doing here? Nothing wrong over home, is
there?"

"Yes, there is;" and Tom at once proceeded to give young Lieutenant
Gordon an account of all that had occurred in the past three days.

"That's bad," said the lieutenant slowly, patting his horse's dripping
neck as he spoke. "That's bad. I wish I could take a company and go over
there this minute. I can't, though; it's out of the question. But the
army will be here shortly now, and there may be a chance to give these
pine robbers a dose then. Where are you going now, Tom?"

"I thought I'd start for the army," replied Tom. "I've no other place to
go to, and I've been waiting to join it a long time."

The lieutenant smiled at the lad's words as he replied, "That's all
right. You're a well-grown fellow, and I doubt not they'll find a place
somewhere for you in the Jersey militia. There are younger fellows than
you there."

"So I hear," replied Tom eagerly. "Indian John told me the army was over
by Hopewell, and had halted there, so I thought I'd put straight for
that place."

"There isn't very much of the militia there now," said the lieutenant.
"They're mostly regulars at Hopewell, and I doubt not have started from
there before this."

"Where are the militia then?" said Tom quickly. "I've got a rifle here,
and if I'm to join them I want to know where they are."

"That would be a little difficult to say just at present, my lad,"
replied the lieutenant, assuming a more fatherly air than the
difference between their years would seem to warrant. "That would be a
little difficult to say."

As Tom plainly showed his disappointment, the young officer continued:
"You see it's this way, Tom. It was early in the morning of the 18th
when the last of General Clinton's forces marched out of the city of
Philadelphia. They went by the way of Gloucester Point, about three
miles below Camden, and then the entire force, with Knyphausen and his
Hessians in advance, marched over to Haddonfield and halted there. We
had means up at Valley Forge of finding out what was going on, and
before they were fairly out of Philadelphia some of our scouting parties
and light horse were in the city, and they gathered in about sixty or
seventy prisoners and were back again at the Forge with the men and the
news. By three o'clock that same day General Lee's division had started,
and by five o'clock General Wayne's had gone, too. They lost no time
over there, I can tell you."

"But I don't understand," said Tom. "Where are the militia, and what are
you doing here?"

"That's what I'm explaining to you," replied the lieutenant. "Well, at
five o'clock the next morning,--that was the 19th of June, you
know,--Washington had the rest of the army on the march for Coryell's
Ferry; but the roads were so heavy--for we've been having some great
rains this month--that the divisions which had been sent out didn't
cross the Delaware until Saturday morning, and the main body till
Monday. And all this time the British were mighty careful, let me tell
you. They thought Washington was after their baggage-wagons and stores,
you see. Clinton and his main body moved out of Haddonfield on Friday,
but he left Knyphausen and his Dutch butchers, as well as two brigades
of the regulars behind him, while he marched eight miles up to Evesham
and went into camp there. He wanted to keep his train of baggage-wagons
well protected, you see, for the militia were doing all sorts of
mischief. You wanted to know where they were. Well, that's where they
were."

"They're away down at Haddonfield, then, are they?"

"No, no. But they'd been sent out to bother the British, you see, and
try to hold them back by skirmishes and a few such gentle deeds. They
were tearing up bridges and firing at the regulars from the woods, and
doing all sorts of things. Why, when Clinton was marching from
Haddonfield to Evesham, General Leslie, who was in command of his
advanced guard, fell in with a party of these very militia I'm telling
you about. Leslie hid some of his men in a rye-field, and they saw
Captain Jonathan Beesley. He was a captain in the Cumberland County
militia, you know, and had been in the army two years,--yes, and he was
one of the best men we ever had, too, let me tell you. Well, Leslie's
men saw Beesley and a couple of his officers reconnoitring in advance of
their companies, and they fired on them. Captain Beesley was wounded,
and of course they took him prisoner and carried him with them into
camp. They tried to get him to own up what Washington's plans were, but
Captain Beesley just stopped them by saying they wouldn't get a word out
of him. And they didn't; but the next day the poor fellow died from his
wounds. They'd taken him into Hinchman Haines's house, you see, and that
was where he died. I understand that they buried him there with the
honors of war, and I understand, too, that they've given permission for
the body to be taken up and placed in the Friends' burying-ground down
at Haddonfield. It may have been done before this, for all that I know.
Captain Beesley was a good man. The redcoats couldn't do too much for
him."

"But where are the militia now? That's what I want to know."

"And that's what I'm trying to tell you. This is too hot to be standing
out here in the road. Let's go into the shade. I've got time enough, and
it may be a bit safer there, too."

The lieutenant led his horse a short distance into the woods, and,
slipping the bridle-rein over his head, he permitted him to graze, while
he himself resumed his story.

"At four o'clock the next morning,--that was Saturday, the
20th,--Clinton took up the line of march, but he only went seven miles,
as far as Mount Holly, and there he halted till Monday. On Sunday,
Knyphausen joined him, having marched by the way of Moorestown. The next
morning they all marched on to Black Horse and halted again, but at five
o'clock Tuesday morning they were up and at it once more. They divided
their forces there a bit, Leslie going by the way of Bordentown,
Clinton keeping on along the road to Crosswicks, while Grant and the
Dutch butchers brought up the rear and served as a kind of guard for the
baggage-train. All this was only yesterday, the 23d, you see."

"But where are the militia now?" protested Tom. "They are the ones I
want to join, not the British. You keep telling me about them. What I
want is the other side."

"Listen, then, and you shall hear. Yesterday General Dickinson, with the
Jersey militia, was right there in Bordentown."

"What! when the British came up?"

"Yes, when the British came up, that is, when Leslie's division did. Not
all of the militia were there, though. A good many had been withdrawn
and posted where they could do the most good. There weren't very many
left in Bordentown, but when they found out that Leslie was almost upon
them, they made up their minds in very short order that the climate
there was not the best in the world, so they cleared out and left. But
before they went they left a few slight tokens of their regard. They
pulled up the planks of the bridge there over Crosswicks Creek, and
raised the draw so that Leslie had to find another crossing-place.
Before they did that they tried to fix up the bridge, but they were
fired upon, and I understand that four were killed and quite a large
number were wounded.

"Clinton, too, wasn't finding his road all covered over with roses
either. About five hundred of our men met him as he came up nearer to
Crosswicks, and they thought they were ready, but they weren't anything
of the kind. They had cut down a lot of trees and stretched them across
the road, but that didn't stop the British. They came on just as if they
didn't mind marching over such little things as trees, and there was a
little skirmish there, and two or three of the redcoats were killed. One
of their officers was shot and they took him up to a house near by, and
left him there. Of course the Americans couldn't stand there long, but
they didn't run very far.

"Well, the British divisions joined then and started on again. They came
to another bridge and our men had it all fixed so that they could just
let it fall by one or two strokes of an axe. They had one or two little
cannons there, too."

"Who did? The British?"

"No, our men. You know Sam Clevenger, don't you? Well, he stood there
on the bridge with his axe in his hands when the British came in sight.
He'd cut the sleepers almost through, and when he saw the redcoats
coming, he lifted his axe, and the third time he struck down went the
bridge and all. Then Clevenger started to run, but the British fired at
him and he fell dead. They'd shot him in the back of the head. Our men
then fired their cannon once or twice, but all they hit was the Friends'
meeting-house. Of course the British didn't mind that, and then our men
pulled back and left. That was only yesterday. I shouldn't be surprised
if the British were over here by Allentown or Imlaystown now, or it may
be both."

"What! not more than ten or fifteen miles away?" said Tom excitedly.

"That's what I say. And they'll be nearer, too, before they're farther
off, let me tell you."

"Why? How? What do you mean?"

"They'll never go to Brunswick or Amboy, for Washington's right in front
of them, and ready to head them off. They'll just have to come this way
or go back, and that they won't do, for 'Britons never retrograde.'
That's one of their pet words, you know. Isn't that what John Burgoyne
said, too?"

"I don't know anything about that," said Tom. "Then General Washington
has been using a part of the militia and a part of the regulars to
bother Clinton and keep him from getting to Brunswick or Amboy, has he?"

"Yes, that's just it."

"Well, I shan't have very far to go, then, to join them now."

"Oh, you're not going to join them. You're coming with me. You're just
such a lad as I have been looking for, and you can help me, if I'm not
greatly mistaken."

As Tom made no reply except to look up in surprise, the young officer at
once began to explain to him the nature of the task to which he had
referred.




CHAPTER X

THE STORY OF THE MISCHIANZA


"I'VE been sent out, as a good many others have been, to look up the
bridges over the creeks" (the young officer called them "runs," as many
of the Jerseymen did then, and still do for the matter of that) "and
find out the lay of the land. As I happened to be born in Old Monmouth,
and lived here till I was a man grown, it was naturally thought I'd be
pretty well informed, so you see I was selected for this special work. I
don't know that I object to it, but I'd rather be back with my men."

"And that's what you've been doing, is it?" said Tom.

"Yes, I've been in that work ever since the British started out from
Philadelphia. I've kept just a little ahead of the men all the way, and
have gone back every night to report, and then the next day they'd
follow all my plans. You see I've got a map of every road in the county
here," and as he spoke the young lieutenant drew from his pocket a
paper on which had been traced every road and every little stream in the
region, while the places where bridges were to be found were indicated
by red marks.

"Whew!" he added, throwing back his coat. "Isn't it warm! I don't
believe there's been a summer like this in years. We've had showers and
thunder-storms almost every day. The air now feels as if we'd get
another one pretty soon, too."

The air was exceedingly sultry, and a strange stillness seemed to be
resting over all. Not a leaf was stirring, and as Tom looked up through
the tops of the trees the bright blue of the sky appeared to be more
intense than ever he had seen it before. Here and there separate masses
of heavy clouds could be seen, which, with the sunlight streaming
through them, glistened almost like silver. He knew the signs well.
There was the appearance of a coming shower.

"It's too hot to go on," said the young lieutenant. "I'm almost afraid
to take my horse out in such heat. I've got the most of my work for the
day done, though, and I thought that perhaps you might be able to help
me out, Tom. You must know every bridge in this part of the country.
Now you go over this map with me, and tell me if the places are marked
right. I've been gone so long I'm not sure of myself, but you ought to
know. It'll save me a trip in this broiling sun, if you can help me."

Tom took the map and looked over it carefully. He was thoroughly
familiar with the roads and streams, as the lieutenant had intimated,
and in a brief time he had given him all the information he possessed.

"There," said the lieutenant at last, folding the paper and restoring it
to his pocket again, "that helps me out. I'd been over most of the way,
and the two or three places you have told me about finishes the whole
thing. I'm ready to go back and report. I think I'll take a bite,
though, before I start, and wait and see what the weather is likely to
be."

Going to his saddle-bags the young officer brought out the dinner which
he carried with him. "Sometimes I stop at some farmhouse and get
something to eat," he explained, "but it isn't always safe to trust to
that, you see, so I always go provided. I want you to join me, Tom.
It'll seem almost like old times."

The horse had been tied to one of the trees, and, as the lieutenant
seated himself upon the ground, Tom gladly joined him. He was tired and
hungry, and the piece of bread which he had in his own pocket would
keep, and, as he was aware that he might find further use for it, he was
the more willing to accept the invitation which had been given him. For
a few minutes neither spoke, for they both seemed to be intent upon the
immediate duty.

As soon, however, as the first pangs of his hunger were relieved Tom
said, "I never understood just why it was that the British left
Philadelphia. They'd been there all winter, and after holding the city
so long I never could understand why it was that they abandoned it
without even a skirmish. What did they do it for?"

"Why, the way of it was this," replied the lieutenant, taking an
unusually large bite of the bread he was holding in his hand, as he
spoke. "You see, we'd been trying for a long time to get up some kind of
a treaty with France. Ben Franklin, and I don't know who all, had been
over there trying to work it up, and at last the Frenchmen agreed. Our
Congress ratified the treaty on the 4th of last May, and that
completely changed the plans of the redcoats."

"I don't see just how that could do it," replied Tom, somewhat puzzled.

"Why it really means a declaration of war by the French against the
British. I don't believe the Frenchmen care very much for us, barring
young Lafayette and a few others of his kind, but they hate the British,
and took this way to get even with them. It's expected that they'll send
a fleet over here, and of course the redcoats have got to be ready to
meet it,--that is, if they can. Well, Philadelphia doesn't amount to
very much any way in war times. It isn't very easy to get into it, so
the British there thought they'd better get out and go over to New York,
which was a good deal more likely to be threatened by the French fleets.
That's the cause of the change, my lad."

"I should think the redcoats would feel like giving up, now that the
French are going to join us."

The young officer laughed as he replied: "That's just where you're
mistaken, my young friend. They don't feel that way after they've sent
so many armies over here and have spent so much money in discovering
us, you see. And then, too, they don't object to getting a few taxes and
such like things out of us, either. I've a dim suspicion that the
Frenchmen may have just a bit of a dream that they may get back some of
the country that dropped out of their hands during the French and Indian
war. But, however that may be, we're glad to have their help now, for we
need it badly enough, and will have to let the future take care of
itself."

"I don't see that any one can blame the British for wanting to hold on
to us. They have spent a lot of money, and lots of their soldiers have
been killed in the wars with the Indians and the Frenchmen."

"Oh no, we don't blame them," laughed the lieutenant. "We don't blame
them. It's all natural enough for them to want to hold on to us, but how
about ourselves? What about the Stamp Act and the tea tax? What about
all their oppression and the way they've treated us? They seem to forget
that we're men of like passions with themselves. Oh, it's all natural
enough for them to want to keep a good hold on us, but it's just as
natural for us to object to being held on to. And, Tom, such things as
have happened lately, too! Why, this story about Little Peter's mother
is only one of a thousand here in Jersey. I've been pretty much all over
the colony--the state, I mean--and it's the same story everywhere. It's
just plundering, and robbing, and worse. And then to bring over here
those Dutch butchers,--that's the worst of it all! To think of hiring
those butchers! Why, it just makes my blood boil to think of it! And
against us, too, who are their own blood relatives! That's more than
human nature can stand!"

Tom felt the contagion of the young lieutenant's enthusiasm, but he made
no reply, and his companion continued, "The redcoats had a great time
when they cleared out of Philadelphia. I was there and saw it myself."

"You were there? I thought you were up at Valley Forge all winter!"

"So I was, when I wasn't in Philadelphia. I had to go there sometimes,
but I never wore my uniform then. Oh no, I didn't think it was very
becoming to my peculiar style of beauty, so I always left it behind me."

"What were you, a spy?"

"That isn't what we call it," replied the young officer, lowering his
voice and glancing quickly about him at Tom's words, "Never mind what I
was, but I was there and that's enough. I'm telling you now about the
time the redcoats had when Sir William Howe gave over the command to Sir
Henry Clinton. His officers got it up as a kind of a farewell, you see.
They called it the Mischianza."

"What's that? I don't understand."

"What, the Mischianza? Oh, that's an Italian word, and means a 'mix up'
or a 'medley,' or some such thing; I don't know just what. But I'm
telling you now what it was, and what they did. It commenced with a kind
of a regatta which they'd arranged in three divisions. Up the river in
front came the Ferret galley, and on board were some of the general
officers and their ladies. Then came the Centre galley,--that was called
the Hussar,--and carried both the Howes and Clinton and their suites,
along with a lot of ladies. Behind came the Cornwallis galley, in which
were Knyphausen and some of the British generals, and, of course, a lot
of ladies.

"Well, sir, they looked fine, I can tell you, for I was in the crowd
which watched the affair from the shore, and I saw every bit of it. On
each quarter of the galleys there were five flatboats, all lined with
green, and having lots of people on board. Then, in front of the
galleys, were three more flatboats, and a band of music was on board of
each, and they could play, too, let me tell you, if they were redcoats.
Six rowed along each flank, and they were all dressed up in bright
colors, and so were the ships and the transport boats, which made a line
all the way down to the city. All the wharves were crowded and the
people were just wild. The boats started out from Knight's wharf--that's
away up in the northern part of the city, you know--and rowed all the
way down to Market wharf. There they rested on their oars, the bands
played 'God save the King,' the people shouted and sang, and I couldn't
help feeling something of the excitement, though I hate the very sight
of a redcoat.

"Well, they landed at the Old Fort, and the bands were still playing,
and the Roebuck fired seventeen guns and then the Vigilant fired
seventeen more. The grenadiers had been drawn up in a double file on
shore, and the company then marched up between the lines. They had
horsemen there, too, and what with the bright dresses of the ladies and
the bright favors of blue and white ribbons on the breasts of the
managers, who moved in front of the procession, and the uniforms and
all, it was a great sight. I should have thought Lord Howe would almost
have been sorry he was going to leave.

"The avenue led up to a big lawn, which was all fixed up with arches and
rows of benches, rising one above another, where the ladies were to be
seated; and then they had some tilts and tournaments, something as they
used to have in old England. There were young ladies there, too, lots of
them, and they were all dressed up in Turkish costumes, and such like.

"Pretty soon the trumpets sounded, and then a band of knights, dressed
in red and white silk, on horses all decked out in the same colors,
advanced. Lord Cathcart was the chief, and he had squires to carry his
lances and others to carry his shield, and two black slaves with silver
clasps on their bare necks and arms held his stirrups. The band then
marched around the square and saluted the ladies, and then the herald,
after a great flourish of trumpets, declared the ladies of the Blended
Rose were ahead of all others.

"When the challenge had been given the third time, some other heralds
and a trumpeter came in, along with a lot of knights dressed up in black
and orange, and after going through a lot of motions and the bands had
played, the herald proclaimed that the Knights of the Burning Mountain
were prepared to contest the claim of the others. Then the gauntlet was
thrown down and picked up, and the encounter began.

"After they had met four times, the two leaders, Lord Cathcart and
Captain Watson, advanced and began a contest between themselves. After
they had kept it up a little while, the marshal of the field rushed in
between them, and declared the ladies were all right on either side, and
commanded the men to stop. Then bands filed off in different directions,
playing lively tunes and saluting the ladies as they marched.

"Then the whole company marched through great arches to the garden, and
then up into the hall, which had been painted up to resemble Sienna
marble. They had a faro table in that room and one great cornucopia all
filled with flowers and fruit, and another one empty. Then they went to
the ballroom, which was all painted in pale blue, and there were
festoons of flowers, and I don't know what all. I never saw anything
like it before. There were eighty-five big mirrors in the room, and they
were all fixed out with ribbons and flowers, and as they sent back the
light from the branches of waxlights, it made the room look bright
enough, I can tell you. On that same floor they had four drawing-rooms,
where they got their refreshments, and these rooms were all decorated
and lighted up, too.

"They kept up the dancing till ten, and then the fireworks began and the
windows were all thrown open. I remember that the first of the fireworks
was a great bouquet of rockets,--but that was only one, and they kept it
up till twelve o'clock.

"When midnight came, the great folding doors, which had been all covered
over with flowers so that no one knew they were there, were thrown open,
and there was a great room all decorated and lighted up, most too
wonderful to tell about; and there, too, was a great table, which they
said had twelve hundred dishes on it--just think of that, will you?--and
four hundred and thirty people could sit down to the table at the same
time.

"They had supper then, and when they had finished that part of the
programme the herald and trumpeters entered and proclaimed the health of
the king and the royal family. Of course all the people there responded,
and then there was a toast for the knights, and the ladies, and lots of
others, and there was a great flourish of trumpets as each toast was
announced.

"Then they all went back to the ballroom and began to dance again. They
kept it up till four o'clock, and I don't know how much later, for I
left then."

"And you saw it all?" said Tom slowly.

"Yes, almost every bit of it; 'twas a great sight, too. The like of it
has never been seen before on this side of the water, and never will be
again, I'm thinking. By the way, Tom, I heard a man there called by your
name. It was Captain Coward, I think--though it may have been colonel or
judge; I don't just recollect."

"I'm sorry for him."

"You needn't be. Just show that the name's of no account. But I've got
to start now. I wish I could take you with me, but I can't. I'll see you
soon, though, so good luck to you till we meet again."

"But it's raining," said Tom quickly, as the patter of the falling
drops could be heard on the leaves.

"Can't stop for that; I'm due at five o'clock, rain or no rain. Good-by
to you, Tom, and thank you for your help. You've saved me a hard ride in
such a day as this!"

The young lieutenant was gone, and Tom waited for the shower to pass.
The rain continued only a few minutes, but left the air still more
sultry than it had been before, and walking became much more difficult.

However, Tom started on as soon as the rain ceased, and kept steadily to
his work until the sun was low in the heavens. His thoughts had been
withdrawn, in a measure, from the camp at Hopewell, and he was thinking
of the description which the young lieutenant had given of the
Mischianza, and the brilliant scene which it must have presented. What
could the poor and desperate Continentals do against men who had feasts
like that? And Captain, or Colonel, Coward, who was he? Tom found
himself thinking of the man, and wondering how he came to have the name.

He turned the bend in the road and saw a band of soldiers marching
directly toward him, and not far away. Startled by the sight, he
stopped a moment and gazed intently at them, striving to discover
whether they wore red coats or buff; but they were covered with dust and
he could not decide.

He quickly realized that he must act, and he had just turned about,
prepared to run back in the road, when he heard several shots fired at
the approaching men from the woods by the roadside.

The band instantly halted and prepared to defend themselves. Without
waiting to watch the contest, he once more turned to run, when he
obtained a glimpse of men behind him, partially concealed among the
trees and standing with their guns raised to their shoulders, and with
their attention fixed upon the advancing soldiers.

Were the men friends or foes? Tom could not determine; and, trembling
with fear and excitement, he stopped. He was between the opposing bands,
while off on his right it was evident that other men were concealed.
Thoughts of the Mischianza and of the captain with the unfortunate name
were all gone now. He could not advance; he dared not retreat.




CHAPTER XI

TO REFUGEE TOWN


WHEN Little Peter reentered the lonely house after his friend Tom
departed, the full sense of his own sorrow for the first time swept over
him. Up to this time the necessity of action had prevented him from
fully realizing his loss. The death of his mother, the capture of his
father, the provision he was compelled to make at once for his younger
brothers and sisters, had so absorbed his thoughts that he had had but
little time to dwell upon his own sorrow.

With the departure of Tom, however, there came the reaction, and for a
few moments the heartbroken lad was almost overcome. The very silence
was oppressive. The only sound he could hear was the loud and regular
ticking of the tall clock which stood in one corner of the kitchen. How
proud his mother had always felt of that ancient timepiece! Many a time
had she told him of its history and the pride with which she had
received it from her own father, when as a young bride she had first
entered the new house which henceforth was to be hers. To Peter, it
almost seemed as if the stately clock had been a member of the family,
and its voice was almost human to him. On the summer afternoons, when he
was a little fellow and his mother had been busied in her household
duties, he had often stretched himself upon the sanded floor, and,
resting his face upon his hands, with eager eyes had gazed up into the
face of the old timepiece and listened to the swing of its long
pendulum, which for him had had a language all its own.

And now in the light of the early morning the old clock still stood in
the corner and regularly ticked off the passing hours, as if it were
unmindful of all the sad scenes to which it had recently been a witness.
And yet to Peter it almost seemed, too, as if there was a tone of
sadness after all in the monotonous tickings that day. Perhaps the old
clock was striving to express its sympathy for the sorrowing boy, but
not even its sympathy must be permitted to interfere with its duty in
marking the passage of the swiftly flying minutes.

The few antiquated chairs were standing just as they had stood when his
mother had been there. The brass-rimmed mirror, the one ornament of the
room, which hung over the low mantelpiece, reflected the scene before
it, but in all the picture one figure was wanting and would be
forevermore. Overcome by the full knowledge of his loss, Little Peter
bowed his head upon his hands and leaned low upon the table, and burst
into a flood of tears--the first he had shed since the sad event had
occurred. Indian John was forgotten, the few chores about the place were
ignored, and for a time the heartbroken lad gave way to his sorrow for
the loss of his mother, upon whose face he never was to look again.

How long he remained in that attitude he did not know, but he was
recalled to the necessities of the present by the sound of footsteps
outside the door. His first thought was that Indian John had returned,
and he hastily rose to greet him; but quickly he perceived that the
new-comer was not his Indian friend, but Barzilla Giberson, one of his
nearest neighbors. If Little Peter had looked carefully into his
neighbor's face, he would doubtless have noticed that the man was
evidently somewhat troubled, and apparently was not overjoyed at the
prospect of an interview; but the lad was too busied with his own
thoughts and sorrows to bestow a critical examination upon a neighbor's
countenance, and Barzilla's evident uneasiness, therefore, was all
passed by unnoticed.

"Good-morrow to you, Little Peter," said Barzilla. "The women folks
wanted me to come over and say to you that you were welcome to make your
home with them, if you so chose."

"Thank you, Barzilla," replied Peter. "If I were going to stay here I
should be glad to do that, but I'm going away this morning."

"Sho! Ye don't say so! Where ye goin', if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"I'm going to look up my father."

"Where ye goin' to look him up?" said Barzilla, somewhat uneasily.

"I'm going down to Refugee Town first. I don't know what I'll do if I
don't find him there."

"Ye won't find him there," said Barzilla quickly. "In course I don't
know where he is," he hastily added, "but I don't b'lieve ye'll find him
there; and, besides, that's no place for a lad like you to go to alone,
for I take it ye're goin' alone?"

"Yes, I'm going alone," replied Peter, to whom Barzilla's anxiety was
not apparent.

"In course it isn't for me to say what ye shall do and what ye shan't,
but I don't believe a trip there will do ye any good. Ye've got to
remember that other folks has suffered, too. Yer marm isn't the only one
that's been shot, and yer pop isn't the only man that's been carried off
by the British."

"It wasn't the British that carried my father away," said Peter quickly.

"'Twan't the British? Who was it then, I'd like to know?"

"'Twas Fenton and his band, that's who it was."

"Sho! I can't believe that! I reckon ye're mistaken, Peter. It must 'a'
been the redcoats."

"It was Fenton," repeated Peter decidedly.

"I can't b'lieve it," said Barzilla, rising as he spoke. "I can't
b'lieve it. However, Peter, we'll look after yer place. The women folks
or I will do the chores for ye, while ye're gone. It's only neighborly,
ye know, and what's friends good for if they can't help in a time like
this?"

"Thank you," said Peter quietly. "There isn't much to be done, but if
you'll look after what there is, I shall be glad. The children are at
Benzeor's house, you know."

"So I hear. So I hear. Well, they're in good hands; ye can rest easy
about that. Well, I must be a-goin'. Ye still think ye'd better go down
to Refugee Town, do ye?"

"Yes."

"Well, good luck to ye. Good luck to ye. We'll look after the place,"
called Barzilla as he departed.

If Peter had gone to the door, he would have discovered that Barzilla
had not departed to go to his own house, but that after he had entered
the road he had turned quickly and started in the direction in which the
Navesink lay. But as Peter did not rise from his seat, he missed all
that, and, besides, in all probability he would only have been puzzled
by his neighbor's actions and unable to account for the haste with which
he had made the change.

Peter prepared his breakfast, and then waited for the coming of Indian
John. The minutes passed, but the Indian did not put in an appearance,
and the lad began to suspect that he would not return. At last, when the
sun had appeared, his suspicions passed into certainty, and, resolving
to wait for him no longer, he closed the house and started resolutely
on the path which led down to the bank of the Navesink, where he kept
his little skiff concealed.

He soon arrived at the familiar place, and, after taking his oars from
their hiding-place on the bank, pushed the little boat out into the
stream and began to row. The heat of the morning soon began to make
itself felt, but Peter did not cease from his labors. He was thinking of
his father and where he might then be. He was hoping that he would be
retained and sent to New York as a prisoner, for Little Peter was well
aware of the value of the reward which was offered for every prisoner
taken; but Fenton, eager as he was for money, was not likely to incur
any unnecessary risk for himself by keeping any one near him who might
prove to be a source of danger. And Little Peter knew that his father,
especially after the recent events, was not likely to be quiet. Of what
might then occur, the lad hardly dared to think. He only knew that what
he was to do must be done quickly, if it was to avail, and he rowed on
and on without once stopping for rest.

He had covered about half the distance he was to go, when he heard a
hail from down the river. Hastily turning about at the unexpected
summons, he saw a little cat-boat slowly coming up the river, and now
not many yards away.

"It's Benzeor Osburn," said Peter to himself, as he obtained a glimpse
of the man at the helm. "But who's that with him? It's Jacob Van Note.
Yes, and that's Barzilla Giberson, too. What in the world"--

His meditations were interrupted by Benzeor's hail, "Where ye bound this
mornin', Little Peter? There's to be no lookout to-day, is there?"

"I haven't heard of any," replied Peter, looking at Barzilla and
striving to understand how it was that the man who had so recently left
his house could now be with Benzeor sailing up the Navesink.

"I came down here after I left you," said Barzilla, as if he felt that
he must reply to the question expressed in Peter's manner, "and I fell
in with Benzeor, so I stopped and came back to tell him all about the
doin's that have been goin' on since he went away. Benzeor's been gone
from home two days and more, ye know."

"Has he?" replied Peter. "No. I didn't know. Benzeor, the children are
at your house. Sarah said I could leave them there and she'd look after
them. If it isn't all right, I'll take them away as soon as I come
back."

"It's all right. In course it's all right. Barzilla here has been
tellin' me about your troubles. It's hard, Peter, but then ye know that
lots of people have been served the same way. 'Misery loves company,' ye
know."

As Peter made no reply, Benzeor quickly began to talk again, too quickly
the lad might have perceived, if he had not been so filled with his own
thoughts that all else seemed to escape his observation. "Barzilla tells
me as how ye're goin' down to Refugee Town to look up yer pop. Is that
so?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm tellin' ye it won't do any good. He isn't there--leastwise,
that is, I don't believe he's there. In course I don't know anything
about it, but it stands to reason he isn't. Ye'd better let me take yer
skiff in tow, as I've done with Barzilla's, and come along back with
us."

"I think I'll go on. If I don't find him there I can report to Captain
Dennis. Perhaps he'll be able to help me a bit, if it's not too late."

Captain Dennis was in command of the local militia, and he and his men
already had had several skirmishes with the pine robbers. Indeed, the
militia had been enrolled with the very purpose of protecting the
scattered homes from the inroads of the outlaws and refugees. Thus far,
however, their efforts had not met with a very marked success.

Peter did not observe the scowl which crept over Benzeor's face at the
mention of the name of Captain Dennis. "Have it your own way then," said
the man gruffly. "They say there's no fool like an old fool, but for
downright foolishness give me the young fool every time. I'm tellin' ye
that ye won't find yer pop down at Refugee Town, but ye'll have to find
it out for yerself, I suppose."

Surprised as Peter was at the abrupt change in Benzeor's manner, his own
purpose was not changed, and without replying he picked up his oars and
began to row again. He could see the men in earnest conversation as he
drew away from them, but it had not yet entered his thoughts that
anything could be wrong with them. He was puzzled to account for
Barzilla's unexpected presence, but his offer to look after his home in
his absence was still fresh in his mind, and left no room for suspicion.

As for Benzeor, Little Peter knew that he was considered as a strange
man,--"odd," the country people termed it,--and he gave little heed to
him or his words. His one purpose now was to go to Refugee Town. He had
but little fear of meeting the men who had assembled there, although he
knew they were all desperate and reckless. They would not harm him, he
thought, and it was possible that he might find his father there, or
learn of his whereabouts. Just what he would do if he should find him,
he did not know. In any event, he would be with him again, and if he was
to be sent as a prisoner to the sugar-house in New York, or to the
Whitby or the Jersey, at least his captivity might be shared.

Accordingly, Little Peter rowed steadily forward and in the course of an
hour arrived at the mouth of the Navesink. Then he landed and hauled his
skiff up on the shore, striving to conceal it among the bushes which
grew there. It was only a mile now across the sandy strip to the shore
of the ocean, and the lad began to walk rapidly. Refugee Town was not
far away, and the end of his journey would soon be gained.

The heat of the sun was now intense. Across the sands he could see
eddies in the heated air, and he felt as if he were breathing the blasts
from an oven. His face was streaming with perspiration, while the touch
of the sand beneath his feet seemed almost as if it would blister them.

He soon arrived at a place from which he could look out upon the ocean,
and it was with a sigh of relief he felt its first cool breath upon his
face. Refugee Town now was not far away, so he began to run.

He stopped as he saw two gunboats riding at anchor about a quarter of a
mile out from the shore. What could it all mean? They were British
vessels, their flags disclosed that; but what was their purpose in
casting their anchors there?

He was upon the beach now, and stopped for a moment to gaze at the
graceful vessels. He thought he could almost make out the figures of the
sailors on the deck. And a little boat was just approaching the larger
of the gunboats. Doubtless it had been ashore and was now returning.

"How!"

Peter turned suddenly as he heard the exclamation, and saw Indian John
standing before him. His alarm subsided as he recognized his friend, and
he said reprovingly, "I thought you were going to go with me this
morning, John. Why didn't you?"

"John been. Go to 'Gee Town. No fader there."

"What, my father isn't there? Are you sure, John?"

The Indian made no reply, evidently considering his first words
sufficient. He was gazing intently at the boats in the distance, and
Little Peter almost unconsciously turned and followed his look. At first
he could discover nothing to indicate what had interested his companion;
but he soon saw that the little boat, which he had thought was returning
to the gunboat, was coming to the shore. Startled by the sight, he was
about to inquire of John whether he knew anything concerning the
vessels, when he heard a shout.

At a distance of a hundred yards up the beach he saw a motley crowd
approaching. Negroes and poorly clad men were among them, and the
appearance of all revealed that they were doubtless from Refugee Town.

Their own presence was discovered at the same time, and a shout greeted
them.

"Come!" said Indian John quickly; and in an instant Little Peter obeyed,
and both were running swiftly over the sand along the beach.

Their flight was greeted by another shout from the men behind them, and
one or two guns were discharged, but the bullets passed harmlessly over
the heads of the fugitives. One glance, however, showed Peter that some
of the men had started in pursuit.

"They're after us, John!" he said in a low voice to his companion.

Instantly increasing their efforts, they sped swiftly on in their
flight, but the shouts, which were now redoubled, betrayed that the
pursuit had not been abandoned. On and on ran pursuers and pursued,
while at intervals a gun was discharged and the calls and shouts could
be distinctly heard.

[Illustration: "THEY'RE AFTER US, JOHN!"]

For a half mile the flight had continued, and Peter was beginning to
feel that he could go no farther. The hot air of the summer morning, the
burning sand beneath his feet, as well as the weariness arising from his
previous exertions, combined to sap his strength. His breath was coming
in gasps now, and down his face the perspiration was pouring in
streams. He felt that he could go no farther.

Another glance behind him showed that the men had not abandoned the
pursuit. A half dozen of them were still running swiftly along the
beach, and to Little Peter it seemed as if they were gaining upon him.




CHAPTER XII

BATHSHEBA'S FEAST


INDIAN JOHN had been slightly changing the direction in which they were
running, although Little Peter had not perceived the change. At first
they had kept close to the water's edge, and at times the creeping tide
had rolled up to their feet. As his companion had gradually drawn closer
to the higher ridge which extended somewhat farther back from the beach,
Peter had thought nothing of the slight divergence, except that the
Indian was desirous of keeping a little farther from the water.

Along this ridge in advance of him, Peter saw that thick bushes and
stunted trees were growing, and he thought of the possibility of finding
some hiding-place there; but he was hardly prepared for the change which
Indian John then made. They had just passed a bend in the ridge which
shut out the view of their pursuers, and come to a little gully which
the winter storms had in the course of many years cut deep into the
bank. Here Indian John turned sharply, and, bidding his companion follow
him, turned directly into the woods, which extended from the shore far
back into the adjoining country.

Little Peter instantly followed, but they had not gone many yards before
they came suddenly upon a wigwam in the midst of the forest. Indian John
stopped, and, after a few hurried words with the Indian who was standing
near and who had silently watched the approaching fugitives, beckoned
for Peter to follow him, and both entered the conical shaped dwelling
and threw themselves upon the ground.

The lad was so thankful for the respite, and was so nearly exhausted by
his efforts, that for a time he said nothing, being only too glad of an
opportunity to rest. Every moment he expected to hear the voices of
their pursuers, and more than once was on the point of starting forth
from the hut and resuming his flight, so certain was he that the men had
discovered the hiding-place.

After a time he was positive that he was not deceived. He could hear the
voices of men in conversation with the Indians, and all of his fears
returned. His companion placed his hand upon the arm of the trembling
lad, and Peter waited, listening intently, and fearful every moment that
some one would enter the hut and summon them to come forth.

The conversation lasted several minutes, and then abruptly ceased. Peter
could not determine whether the strangers had departed or not; but he
waited anxiously and did not speak.

The moments slowly passed and his suspense increased. It seemed to him
that he must escape from the place in which he was concealed. The very
air was strangely oppressive, and the ignorance as to what was going on
outside the wigwam increased the anxiety of the frightened boy.

He did not know where he was, nor who were the people whose abode Indian
John had so unceremoniously entered. No voice within or without the hut
could now be heard, and the silence itself added to his alarm.

He could see that Indian John was seated upon the ground with his head
resting upon his knees. He had not moved nor changed his position since
they had entered. Motionless as a statue he remained seated, as if he
were utterly unmindful of all about him.

"John!" whispered Little Peter at last.

The Indian raised his head and looked at his companion, but did not
speak.

"John, don't you think we'd better start on again?"

Indian John still made no reply, and his head dropped again upon his
knees. Peter then perceived that his companion intended neither to speak
nor to depart, and that he must wait in silence for him to explain his
purpose, or to act.

The impatient lad endeavored to possess his soul in patience, but as the
moments passed his anxiety and fear increased. The uncertainty, he
thought, was even more difficult to be borne than was the pursuit
itself, for action of some kind was then possible, while this waiting in
silence was almost unbearable. Not a sound could now be heard. The very
birds were silent under the burning heat of the noontime, and the
grating notes of the crickets had ceased.

At last it seemed to him he could bear it no longer, and he was about to
arise and go forth from the hut, regardless of consequences, when some
one entered and spoke a few words in an unknown tongue to Indian John.

"Come," said the Indian gently, standing erect as he spoke; and Little
Peter at once followed him out into the open air.

He glanced quickly about him, but no one was to be seen except three
Indians, one of whom was a man, and the others, two women. Little Peter
instantly recognized them as Moluss, or "Charlie" Moluss, as many of the
whites called him, and his wife and her sister.

The two women were busily engaged in preparing the contents of a small
iron vessel, which was hanging from a stick supported by two forked
branches, driven into the ground, and beneath which a brisk fire was
burning.

One of the women was feeding the fire, while the other was stirring the
contents of the hanging pot. A savory odor greeted Little Peter's
nostrils, and as soon as he perceived that he was in no immediate danger
he realized that he was hungry; and, with the passing of his alarm,
there came an eager interest in the occupation of the two women before
him.

Little Peter had seen the trio many times before this. They had their
home with others of their tribe in a little settlement several miles
back in the interior. This settlement was commonly known as Edgepelick,
or Edge Pillock, and to it the Indians had gradually withdrawn after
they had disposed of their lands, for the good people of Old Monmouth
were as scrupulous as their New England cousins in not taking the lands
from the dusky owners without giving a so-called equivalent for them.

It is true that this "equivalent" sometimes was a barrel of cider, or a
piece of bright-colored cloth; but perhaps the Indians thought that was
better than nothing, and as their lands were certain to be taken from
them, even such an equivalent as that which was offered was not to be
despised, and so they had submitted to the unequal exchange. At all
events, the exchanges had been made, and in the summer of 1778, many of
the Indian families were dwelling in Edge Pillock, and there continued
to reside until the year 1802, when the men who had driven such shrewd
bargains with them caused them all to be removed to Oneida Lake, in the
neighboring State of New York.

Charlie Moluss, with his wife and her sister, had been frequent visitors
in Little Peter's home, and he knew them almost as well as he did Indian
John. Somehow, they had not been content to abide continuously in Edge
Pillock, and at least twice each year came down to the shore, where they
erected a wigwam, and while Moluss fished and gathered oysters and
clams, the women made baskets and sold them among the scattered homes of
the settlers. Doubtless this, then, was their annual visit, thought
Little Peter, and their abiding place had been known to Indian John, who
had sought its shelter as a place of refuge from their pursuers. And
Little Peter was quite content, at least for the present, and his
feeling of relief was not diminished by the savory odor which now arose
from the iron vessel.

Charlie Moluss's wife was a strikingly handsome Indian woman, and was
known as Bathsheba, which the irreverent settlers had shortened into
"Bath," as they had her sister's name into "Suke."

Bathsheba was considered as an Indian queen, and the respect which the
Indians showed her was, to a certain extent, shared by the white people,
especially by the Quakers. She was regarded as a highly intelligent
woman, and the most prominent people of the region were always glad to
welcome her to their homes.

Little Peter thought of all these things as he seated himself upon the
ground beside the two men, who were, apparently, as deeply interested in
the occupation of the women as was he, himself. The work went steadily
on, and, while Peter found that his hunger was increasing, he
nevertheless listened to what Indian John told him of Moluss's success
in turning their pursuers back to their camp at Refugee Town. Some of
them had followed the fugitives as far as the wigwam, but had turned
away after the Indian had professed his inability to give them the
information they desired, and, doubtless, before this time, were safely
back in "'Gee Town," as Indian John termed their little settlement by
the Hook.

Just why they had been pursued Indian John could not explain, but he had
connected it in some way with the appearance of the boat off the shore,
and Little Peter was not inclined to differ from his conclusion. He was
satisfied now that his father was not to be found in Refugee Town, and
he had decided to go farther down the shore to the place where he
thought he would be likely to find Captain Dennis, or some of the local
militia who had been stationed near to protect the salt works and
strive to hold back the pine robbers, many of whom had their places of
concealment not far away.

Just at present, however, the thought of his dinner was uppermost in his
mind. He eagerly watched Bathsheba and her sister in their work, and,
from their movements, he concluded that his waiting time was soon to
end. One of the women entered the wigwam and brought out several small
wooden bowls. Into these she dipped some of the steaming contents of the
iron vessel, placing each bowl upon the ground when it had been filled.

A word from Bathsheba caused Moluss to arise, and, approaching the fire,
he took one of the bowls in both hands and then seated himself upon the
ground and proceeded to blow with his breath upon the soup, preparatory
to drinking it.

His example was speedily followed by Indian John and Little Peter, who
took their bowls and seated themselves beside Moluss on the ground. An
expression of deep satisfaction was manifest upon the faces of the two
men, while the women, apparently proud of their success in the culinary
art, looked on with evident pleasure. Little Peter also raised the bowl
in his hands and blew upon it.

"Good!" said Moluss, taking a long draught. "Good hop! Hop good!"

"Good!" muttered Indian John, following his friend's example. "Good hop!
Good hop!"

"What?" said Little Peter suddenly, placing his bowl again on the ground
before him as he spoke. "What was that you said, John?"

"Good! Good hop," replied the Indian, with evident satisfaction.

"You don't mean to say that hop-toads are in this soup, do you?"

"Um!" replied Indian John, with a grunt of pleasure. "Good! Little
hop-hop! John like um! Good hop! John like um little hop-hop!" And,
suiting the action to the word, he proceeded to take a deeper draught of
the savory mixture.

All of Little Peter's hunger, however, had disappeared. He quickly arose
from his seat, and, with an expression of disgust upon his face, which
he could not entirely repress, prepared to pass the group and go into
the forest.

A loud laugh greeted his action, and as he passed Moluss, the Indian
held forth his bowl, and said, "Peter like um hop-hop? Good! Moluss like
um hop-hop! John like um hop-hop! Squaw like um hop-hop! All like um
hop-hop! All like um hop-hop! Peter like um, too?"

Little Peter was not to be tempted, and the broad grin upon the faces of
the women, as well as the loud laugh of the men which followed him as he
turned into the forest, did not tend to overcome his feeling of disgust.
How was it possible that they could be willing to eat such filthy
creatures as hop-toads? Little Peter was all in ignorance of some of the
dainty viands which, under high-sounding names, are served up in our
modern restaurants, and so, as a matter of course, could draw no
comparison between the tastes of the rude, uncivilized savages and those
of the more highly cultivated men of our own times. Perhaps he would not
have compared them if he had been possessed of the prophet's foresight.
He knew, however, that his own hunger had disappeared, and as he walked
on he found many excuses for his uncivilized friends. They were welcome
to their own customs, but they must not expect him to join them in their
feasts.

He had gone so far from the wigwam by this time that he thought the
repast, which had so highly delighted his friends, would be ended by
the time he could walk back. Accordingly, he reversed his steps, but as
he walked on his own pressing problem returned in full force.

His father was not to be found in Refugee Town, of that he felt certain;
for, while Indian John had not said much, he knew him so well that he
was satisfied he had known whereof he had spoken.

Where, then, could he be? It was currently reported that Fenton's band
had a place in the lower part of the county, to which they carried their
booty and from which they started forth on their raids. It was just
possible that his father had been taken there by the outlaws in their
flight, but he would not long be retained there. Fenton knew what
American prisoners were worth in the New York market, and, doubtless, he
would find some means by which he could send him there. And the pine
robber would act soon, too, for with the approach of the armies, there
would be many opportunities for his own special work, and he would not
long be hampered by the presence of a single prisoner, whose value would
be slight compared with that of the plunder he might secure.

Little Peter decided that what he was to do he must do quickly. He
would start at once for the place where Captain Dennis's men were said
to be, and place the entire matter in their hands. The captain was a man
whose bravery was well known in Old Monmouth, and he was ever ready to
aid the scattered settlers.

Captain Dennis would surely help him, too, Peter thought, and, with his
heart somewhat lightened, he began to walk more rapidly. He would return
to the wigwam and inform Indian John of his decision. If John would go
with him, he would be glad of his aid, but, whether he went or not, the
lad felt that his own problem was, in a measure, already solved.

"Little Peter, is that you?"

The startled lad looked up quickly at the unexpected summons, and saw,
standing directly in his pathway, nine men. Each had a musket in his
hands, but they wore no uniforms, and for a moment Little Peter could
not determine whether they were friends or foes.




CHAPTER XIII

WITH THE REDCOATS


THE fear in Tom Coward's heart, when he discovered that he was between
the lines of the soldiers, made him almost desperate. The men before him
already had raised their guns, and at any moment he expected to hear
their report. When he had glanced behind him he had seen that the men
there were also prepared to shoot, and he was in a position where he was
likely to receive the discharges of both sides.

Along by the side of the road was a deep ditch, which had been worn by
the spring floods. Just at present there was no water in it, and Tom
instantly threw himself upon the ground, and, still grasping his gun,
rolled toward the place. As he slipped over the side he heard the
discharge of the guns, and his heart almost stood still in his terror.
The bullets, however, had all gone over his head, and the lad was
unharmed, although he was so frightened that even the thoughts of his
own personal safety were almost driven from his mind.

Shouts and calls followed the discharge of the guns, and then there was
a rush of men past the place in which he was lying. From the direction
from which the men had come, Tom concluded that those who were behind
him had fled, and that the others were in swift pursuit of them. He did
not dare to raise his head, nor try to obtain a glimpse of the
combatants, but lay still in his hiding-place, hoping that in the
excitement his presence would not be discovered. The shouts continued,
but as they sounded farther and farther away, the trembling lad
concluded that pursuers and pursued must have turned the bend in the
road. If they kept on, he would soon be able to crawl forth from the
ditch, he thought, and in the woods would find some place in which he
might remain until all the immediate danger had passed.

Still, he did not yet dare to leave his hiding-place, and, as the
moments passed, his own fears and anxiety were not allayed. His face and
hands were covered with the mud which had clung to them when he had slid
into the ditch. The mosquitoes gathered about him, and, do what he
would, he could not drive off the tormenting little pests. The
sultriness which had followed the brief storm was almost unbearable, and
Tom felt as if he could not have selected a worse place in which to
conceal himself. There had not been much of any "selecting" about it, he
grimly thought, for he had crawled into the first shelter that presented
itself. A place in the muddy ditch was to be preferred to one in the
middle of the road, and between two contending bands of soldiers. Here
the bullets were not likely to find him, at least for the present, and
his only hope depended upon the possibility of his presence not having
been heeded. Perhaps the soldiers in either band had been so intent upon
watching what the others would do, that a frightened lad between their
lines would not be discovered.

This hope was not strong enough to induce him to leave his shelter, and
he decided to remain in the ditch until he was satisfied that all danger
was past. The moments dragged on, and the silence which had followed the
brief contest was unbroken. The heat was becoming more and more intense,
and Tom felt that he could not remain much longer in his present
position. Still, he waited and listened, but the sound of the cawing
crows was all that he could hear. He counted off the minutes, and when
what he judged must be an hour had passed, he concluded to remain there
no longer. The men had not been heard in all that time, and doubtless
must have disappeared from the immediate vicinity.

The sight of the men had shown Tom that he was nearer the army than he
had supposed. For a moment the thought of his former eager desire to
join it came into his mind, and when he contrasted his feelings then
with those he now had, his present position seemed almost ludicrous.
Bespattered with mud, hiding in a ditch by the roadside, in constant
fear of the return of the men, he certainly did not present the
appearance of a very brave young soldier. Even Tom smiled as he thought
of all this, but he was wiser than he had been a few days before this
time, and the sound of guns was not exactly like that of which he had
dreamed.

Tom Coward was not lacking in bravery, however, but the position in
which he had found himself certainly was a trying one, and perhaps the
boldest of us might have done no better had we been caught in his
predicament.

The time had now come, he thought, when it must be safe for him to
venture out upon the road again, and, grasping his gun, he prepared to
climb out of the ditch, when he suddenly paused as he thought he heard
the sound of voices once more.

Yes, there could be no mistake about it; the men were approaching from
the direction in which both bands had disappeared.

He crouched lower and waited for them to pass. If they were foes, it
certainly would be wiser, as well as safer, for him not to attract their
attention; and if they were friends he was hardly in a condition to
present himself before them.

The men were coming nearer, and were almost opposite his hiding-place
now. The lad's excitement returned, and he leaned harder against the
muddy bank. It seemed to him as if the loud beatings of his heart would
betray him.

The band had halted, and were within a few feet of the ditch. What could
it mean? Had his hiding-place been discovered? He crouched still lower,
and did not once look up. He clutched his gun in his hands as if he
thought he could lean upon that. The suspense was intense, and almost
unbearable.

"Hello! Here's some one in the ditch!"

Tom's heart sank, and, as he glanced hastily upward, he saw a redcoated
soldier peering down at him. The end had come, and all his efforts to
conceal himself had been in vain.

"The fellow's alive," exclaimed the soldier in surprise. "Come up out of
that and give an account of yourself!"

Tom obeyed, and, crawling up the bank, stood facing the men. There were
thirty-five or forty of them, and, as he saw that they were clad in the
British uniform, he realized that he was in the presence of the enemy.
The suspense, at least, was ended now, and, as he glanced at the
soldiers, in spite of the fact that he was well aware of his danger,
much of his alarm had disappeared, for Tom Coward was not unlike others
in being stronger to face the actual condition than the uncertainty
which is connected with the approach of perils.

The men glanced curiously at him a moment and then burst into a loud
laugh. The troubled boy at first could not discover the cause of their
merriment, but as he glanced at his hands and saw that they were covered
with the mud which was not yet dry, he realized that doubtless his face
and clothing were in the same condition. And Tom's appearance was not
very prepossessing at that moment. His hat was gone, his face was so
completely covered with mud that any one would have had difficulty in
deciding whether he was white or black, and his bearing was far from
being bold.

The laughter of the men continued until an officer approached and said,
"Who are you? What were you hiding for?"

Tom hesitated a moment, and then replied, "I was trying to keep out of
the way of your bullets."

Again the soldiers laughed, and the officer said, "You didn't differ
very much from the other fellows in the band, although they took to the
woods and you to the ditch."

"What band?"

"Why, those men of Dickinson's we've just driven away. You don't mean to
say that you didn't belong to them?"

"I didn't belong to any band," said Tom slowly. "I was just coming
across the country, and when I stepped out into the road I found I was
right between you and the other fellows. I crawled into the ditch, for I
was afraid that both of you would hit me."

"Quite right, my lad, quite right. But how does it happen that you carry
a rifle? The most of the Yankees are glad enough to get muskets, and
here you are traveling round the country with a rifle. I'm afraid your
story won't do, my lad. We'll have to take you along with us, and let
you tell your story to the colonel."

Tom perceived that any further protest on his part would be useless,
and, as the word to advance was at once given, he obediently took his
place in the ranks and marched on with the men.

The heat was so intense that they were compelled to halt frequently for
rests. A few of the men evidently were Hessians, and their high
jack-boots, their heavy fur hats, as well as the short broadswords they
carried, in addition to the short guns or carbines which were slung over
their shoulders, seemed sadly out of place under the burning heat of the
summer day. Tom did not know how the British officers had protested
against the customs of their allies, so unsuitable in the country in
which they were fighting; but the men from Hesse were obstinate, and,
firmly believing that the equipment which had been good enough for them
in the old country would certainly be good enough in the new, clung to
the uncomfortable garments and unwieldy arms, unmindful alike of the
jeers of their comrades in arms and the danger they incurred by the use
of them.

In the course of two hours the band arrived at a little camp in command
of a man whom the leader addressed as Colonel Simcoe. Tom was at once
summoned by him and taken into the presence of the colonel, or
lieutenant-colonel, as he then really was.

"What have you here?" inquired the colonel, glancing at Tom as he spoke.

"We picked this fellow out of a ditch back here. We had a little brush
with a band of Dickinson's men, but they didn't wait for us. We chased
them a mile or two up the road; but the day was so warm, and as the
rebels took to the woods, we soon gave it up and came back. We found
this fellow on our return. He claims he doesn't belong to the rebels;
but as we found that he carried a rifle, we thought best to bring him
into camp with us. We didn't know but he might be able to give you some
of the information you wanted just now."

"You did right, lieutenant. I'll talk with him later. Now tell me what
you learned. Did you hear anything more about Washington? How are the
roads and the bridges?"

"The rebels have been tearing up the bridges, and Dickinson has a good
many of the militia scattered along in the woods. I rather suspect they
are planning to serve us as the countrymen served Lord Percy up at
Lexington."

"I fancy we shall be able to put a stop to that, though your report is
much like that which I have found out myself. Did you hear anything more
of Washington?"

"I couldn't get a word out of anybody. I don't believe he's moved from
the position he held yesterday, though."

For several minutes the men conversed, and when at last the younger
officer departed, Colonel Simcoe turned to Tom and said, "Now, my lad,
I'll listen to your story."

"I haven't any story," replied Tom. "I was coming through the woods back
here, and when I stepped out into the road I found myself right between
the two bands, and as I was afraid I'd be caught by the fire of both of
them, I crawled into the ditch to be out of the way. That's why I'm
covered with this dirt," he added apologetically.

"You don't need any one to confirm your words as to that," said the
colonel, smiling slightly, as he spoke, at Tom's appearance. "Now what I
want to know is who you are and what you were doing with a rifle? Few
people here carry rifles, I find."

Tom hesitated a moment, not knowing just what to say in reply to the
question. The colonel was watching him intently, and the lad felt that
he must say something. "I live back here," he said at last. "I've lived
in Old Monmouth all my life. I'd started out from home to go to--to--to
some of my friends, and, as I told you, I got caught between the lines."

"How about the rifle?"

"My father had the other guns and I had to take that. The last thing he
told me was to take a gun and scare the blackbirds and crows from the
ten-acre lot."

"Is your father a loyalist?"

"Yes."

"That's good; and now if you can answer my questions, perhaps I'll be
inclined to let you go. You say you've lived here all your life. Do you
know all the roads and bridges? Could you find your way anywhere in the
county?"

"Yes, sir; I think I could."

"Tell me about the bridges. Have many of them been torn up?"

Tom did not know, but he thought of his meeting with young Lieutenant
Gordon that morning, and boldly answered, "Yes, sir."

"How does it happen that your good father and the other loyalists permit
that?"

"My father's not at home, and there are too many of the pa--of the
rebels."

"I thought you told me your father sent you out with your gun," said the
colonel quickly. "How is that? How could he send you if he wasn't at
home?"

"He sent me before he left," replied Tom, his voice trembling in spite
of his efforts to control it.

"Do you know where Washington is?" inquired the colonel abruptly.

"I hear he's up by Hopewell. I don't know." Tom might have added that he
would be glad to learn, but his wish was not expressed.

"That's right. He _is_ at Hopewell. Is there any talk about his plans?
Have you heard of any rumors among the rebels as to what he plans to
do?"

"Yes, sir. I hear he is planning to fall on Clinton's baggage train."

"Sir Henry Clinton, you mean, I suppose," said the colonel sharply. "Do
you think you could find your way from here to Cranberry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know every road?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then, I shall expect you to go with a party to-night and
show them the way."

"But," protested Tom, "I thought you said I could go if I answered your
questions."

"You'll have to stay now. Your father's a good loyalist, you say, and
he'll not object to his son's remaining here for a day or two and
serving as a guide. I'll see that you have some supper and are ready to
start before it's dark."

Tom left the colonel's presence, and with a heavy heart turned to look
about the little camp.




CHAPTER XIV

THE WAY TO CRANBERRY


IT was late in the evening when Tom started from Colonel Simcoe's camp
in company with the lieutenant, whose name he had learned was Ward, and
the band of six men. A hearty supper had greatly refreshed the weary
lad, and although he was aware that his companions were not without
suspicions of him, he still had hopes that he would be able to convince
them of his knowledge of the country roads, and then could leave them.
His efforts to convince the colonel that he was merely a country lad,
who had taken no part in the hostilities, had not been without a measure
of success, and if they met with no mishap on the road, doubtless they
would be willing for him to depart.

As to leading the little band into Cranberry, Tom had not the slightest
objection to that, for it would be going directly toward the place where
Washington's army lay, and every step was one nearer the men whom he was
most eager to join.

The entire party were mounted, and a horse was also provided for Tom. To
be sure, the steed was not a remarkable one, yet, as the lad looked him
over before he mounted, he was satisfied that riding would be much
easier than walking, and of walking Tom had had sufficient, he thought,
on that hot June morning.

"Now, my lad," said Lieutenant Ward, as the party prepared to move, "if
y

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