CHAPTER X.
The little mountain town of Derryfield[1]was full of the sounds of the drum and fife, while companies of tall, raw-boned countrymen, some with uniforms, more without, but all bearing arms and belts, were marching to and fro in the streets, and on the green, to the lively notes of “Yankee Doodle.”
In the best parlor of the “Patriot Arms,” the principal tavern of the village, a remarkably tall and scraggy-looking officer, in the uniform of a Continental General, was standing before the fire, with one foot on the huge andiron, looking shrewdly at our friend, Adrian Schuyler, who stood before him, still shackled.
The scraggy officer had very broad shoulders, and huge hands and feet, but the flesh seemed to have been forgotten in the formation of his powerful frame. He had a tall, narrowforehead, and a very stern, shrewd-looking face of a Scotch cast of feature, with high cheek bones, and very sharp black eyes. His nose and chin were both long, the latter very firm withal. His manner was remarkably sharp and abrupt. The nervous energy of the man seemed to be ever overflowing in impatience and fiery ardor. Such was Brigadier-General—afterwards Major-General—John Stark, the first leader of militia during the Revolutionary War.
“Well, sir,” he said, as Schuyler concluded his relation, “I’m very sorry that the rascals stole your commission, but your face is sufficient. I believe your story. What does Schuyler want me to do?”
“To join him at Bemis’ Hights, General,” said the Hussar, with equal business-like promptness.
“Well, sir, I’ll see him hanged first,” said Stark, with a snap of his teeth.
Adrian hardly knew what to say to the eccentric brigadier, as he stood there, nodding his head as if to confirm his words.
“General,” he began, “if any unfortunate accident deprives me of credit—if you don’t believe I am properly authorized—”
“I told you I did, young man,” said Stark, with all his old abruptness. “You’re enough like Phil Schuyler to let me see you’re his cousin.”
“Then, General, what am I to understand?”
“That I’ll see them all hanged first.”
And the iron brigadier compressed his teeth like a vise.
Adrian Schuyler began to wax indignant. Without even waiting for a smith to file off his irons, he had ridden to Derryfield, turning loose the black horse, as he had been bidden. Seeking General Stark in the town, in his equivocal guise, he had been arrested by the patrol, and brought in as a prisoner, when he had told his whole story without reserve.
The presence of his gray charger—which had been captured, the night before, around the General’s quarters—confirmed the truth of part of his statement, while Stark’s clear penetration told him that the handsome, open face of Schuyler was not that of a traitor. Being so fully believed, theGeneral’s brusque answer to his message vexed and surprised him beyond measure.
“General Stark,” he began, indignantly, “do you call that a proper answer to the lawful orders of a man like General Schuyler? Are you aware—”
Stark interrupted him in his gruff, abrupt manner:
“Keep cool, young man. I know Phil better than you. He’s a good man—a sight too good to be hustled from pillar to post by those asses of Congressmen. They shan’t hustleme. I hold my commission from New-Hampshire, and intend to stay here.”
“And do you mean to say, General Stark,” asked the hussar, fiercely, “that I am to go back and report to General Schuyler that you refuse to come to his aid, when the enemy are pressing him hard, and you have three thousand men under your orders?”
Stark turned his head to the young man.
“You can tell him and any one else,” he said emphatically, “that John Stark’s a man, not a post. They can send me all the orders they like, and I’ll see them hanged before I obey them.”
Adrian Schuyler was now completely indignant, but he remained calm. With quiet dignity, he said:
“General Stark, I have only one request to make of you, in that case.”
“Umph—umph! What is it?” grunted Stark, gruffly.
“Allow your men to restore me my horse, which I see at your quarters, and let me ride back to my chief.”
“Umph—umph! Very good, very good. Have your irons off first, eh?”
“No, sir,” cried Adrian, fiercely; “not a favor from you but my own charger. I would sooner die than accept aught else from a man who deserted his country in the hour of trial.”
“Umph—umph! Gritty lad—gritty lad—like your pluck, by jingo—keep cool—better have a smith and a dinner, eh? Look faint—musthave dinner.”
This was indeed true, for Adrian had not touched food for twenty-four hours. He was too angry, however, to accept the offer and turned away to the door, when Stark’s sharp, metallic voice asked:
“Well, youngster, what are you going to tell Phil, if you get there alive?”
“That you refuse to fight,” said Adrian, angrily.
“Oh, no, no—not a bit of it,” said Stark, in his quick manner; “not by a big sight, youngster. You stay with me, and I’ll show you as much fighting as any man wants, in two days.”
Adrian paused, irresolute. There was something in the voice of Stark that sounded as if he was mocking him.
“What do you mean, General?” he asked sullenly. “If you are playing with me, allow me to say that it is in bad taste to an officer in my position, who has incurred danger to reach you.”
The eccentric General changed his manner immediately. He came up to Schuyler and forced him, with rough kindness, into a chair by the table.
“You sit there,” he said gruffly. “I want to talk turkey to you.”
Then he rung a bell, and as the orderly entered, he gruffly ordered up the “nearest smith and a good dinner.” The orderly did not seem to be amazed at the singular order. He was an old dragoon, who had once been a ranger of Stark’s company in the French and Indian war. He saluted, and wheeled swiftly about, departing without a word.
“Now, see here, captain,” began the eccentric General, as the door closed, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m going to keep you here, because I know you can’t get back to your General now. Burgoyne has a body of his infernal dragoons on the road here, and to-night I march to meet them. I’ll not put myself under the orders of Congress—that’s flat. They’ve cheated Arnold and me out of our fairly-won commissions, and my State has granted what they refuse. I’m going to whip these British and Hessian dragoons out of their boots, on my own hook, and if Congress don’t like it, they can lump it. That’s flat, too. When I’ve whipped the enemy, you can carry the news to Phil, if you please, and I shall be glad of your help. What do you say now?”
Adrian had been silent during this singular address, which was spoken in short jerks, the General stumping round the room all the time.
When he had finished, the hussar answered:
“I say you’re a strange man, General; but I’ll stay with you, if you like. At all events, I can help you, till the road’s clear.”
Stark laughed in his abrupt manner, and clapped the other on the shoulder, saying:
“You’re the right grit, lad, and if I don’t show you a few English flags, the day after to-morrow, it’s because Molly Stark will be a widow.”
The door opened, and in clamped a big country blacksmith, with his basket of tools, while his blue coat, brass scales, and tall hat-plume showed that he had just come in from “training.”
“Hang it, Zeke, we don’t want to shoe a horse here,” said Stark, grinning. “This gentleman has been unfortunate enough to fall into British hands, and they’ve ornamented him with bracelets. File them off, so he can dine with me.”
“That’s me, Gineral,” said the smith, affably. “Ef I don’t hev them irons off in five minutes, you kin take my hat.”
He was as good as his word, filing away at the irons with great vigor, and when the tavern waiter entered with a large tray, some five minutes later, Adrian Schuyler was rubbing his released wrists with a sense of gratitude, while the smith, who had been cheerfully whistling over his task, and replying affably to his General’s dry jokes, had just picked up his basket to leave.
Adrian Schuyler, who was used to the formal discipline of the great Frederick’s army, was wonderfully amused at the free and easy ways of the General of militia, who behaved like an easy-going old father among his uncouth soldiers. He had yet to learn that in that singular man, John Stark, were concentrated the only qualities that enable a man to drive up raw militia to the cannon’s mouth, with the steadiness of veterans.