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“There’s nothing for us but to go ahead,” said Rodney, passing one of his two pistols over to Lawrence.
“I’m with you to the finish,” replied the latter, his face very grim and determined.
“Halt!” cried one of the marauders, who waved a sword as if to enforce his authority.
“Get out of the way. We are on our own business!” cried Rodney.
The second marauder lifted his pistol, but Rodney anticipated him with a quick shot which brought the man’s arm down, while the pistol clattered to the road.
“That’s a lucky shot,” thought the boy.
His companion was not so lucky; he had fired and missed his opponent, who rode forward with drawn sword evidently resolved on cutting him down.
Rodney seized his pistol by the barrel and hurled it straight for the trooper’s head and hit the mark squarely, the man pitching out of his saddle like a log! Not in vain had been those hours the boy had spent with Conrad learning to throw the tomahawk.
“I’ll buy you the finest pistols in Norfolk if we ever get there,” said Lawrence, thus expressing the gratitude he felt.
Having distanced their pursuers, the remainder of their journey was without incident; but from report of conditions in Norfolk, where Dunmore had seized Mr. Holt’s printing press and was enforcing martial law so far as he could, they decided it was not a safe place for them to visit and turned aside to join the volunteers190they heard were approaching under command of Colonel Woodford, who had done such good service at Hampton.
Dunmore also had heard of the approach of the Culpeper men, and resolved to keep them at a distance from Norfolk.
Knowing that they would have to cross what was known as Great Bridge, about nine miles from Norfolk, he forwarded troops under Captains Fordyce and Leslie to check the Virginians at the bridge.
The British had thrown up earthworks at the Norfolk end of the bridge when the Americans arrived. The latter built an entrenchment at their end of the bridge. Lieutenant Travis with nearly one hundred men occupied this, while Woodford, with the remainder of the Virginian forces, was stationed at a church about four hundred yards distant, when the British came across the bridge to make an attack. The British fired as they approached, while their two field pieces in the rear kept up a cannonade.
Travis ordered his men to withhold their fire until the enemy should almost reach the entrenchments. Captain Fordyce took this to mean that the Americans had deserted the breastworks and waved his hat in anticipation of victory. Then the Americans, who had been lying down, rose and poured a deadly fire into the ranks of the enemy, and Fordyce was among the first to fall.
Captain Leslie now came to the support of Fordyce’s men, and Colonel Woodford led his men forward to191support Travis, while Colonel Stevens led a body of men, with whom were Enderwood and Allison, to attack the British on the flank.
For a few minutes the skirmish was hot. The British fought doggedly, as many believed what Dunmore had told them, that if captured the Virginians would scalp them. Rodney received a light flesh wound, but most of the Americans escaped uninjured, while several of the enemy were killed.
All this seems very tame in the telling, but to those who took part in the engagement it was most exciting and the Americans were jubilant, for they had met the British troops and driven them!
For several days reinforcements poured in from the different parts of Virginia, and five days later Colonel Woodford marched his men to Norfolk.
Lord Dunmore decided he could not oppose him, so withdrew aboard his ships.
“Here are the pistols,” said Lawrence the next day, presenting Rodney with a handsome pair with silver mounted handles.
“Thank you; they are beauties. I hope you bought a brace of them for yourself as well. You are likely to need them.”
The following day both left for their homes, parting the best of friends and planning to meet again.
As for Dunmore, his career in America was drawing to a close, though he was able to do more mischief.
Provisions getting scarce, and the riflemen in the city annoying the British, he sent word that unless192this firing was stopped and provisions furnished he would burn the town. His threat was defied and, on another ship joining Dunmore, he sent a force ashore to start a conflagration. In this way much of the thriving town of nearly six thousand inhabitants was burned; what buildings escaped were burned later by the Americans to prevent their occupation by the British.
Later, Dunmore left and established barracks on Gwyn’s Island in Chesapeake Bay, whence he was driven the following July by that grim old fighter, General Andrew Lewis, who had wanted to fight him out on the Pickaway Plains, during the Indian war.
When Rodney reached Charlottesville he found his mother sick with fever. Without hesitation he gave up his employment and remained to care for her. For many months she was almost helpless.
The change from the excitement of his previous occupation to the monotony of home––Angus had joined the army––sorely tried Rodney’s patience.
The previous summer Morgan had marched his riflemen to Boston and soon it was reported that, under Benedict Arnold, he had gone by way of the Kennebec River, to attack Quebec. Since then nothing had been learned of him and his gallant men.
General Washington was trying to make an army out of the mob of patriots he found awaiting him outside Boston, but as yet it did not appear that any headway was being made toward dislodging the British from the town.
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Spring came and with it report of the evacuation of Boston; then news of the defeat of the Americans in Canada. Morgan had been captured and was a prisoner within the walls of Quebec. Later, tidings came of Washington’s march on New York.
May 6, 1776, one hundred and thirty of the representative men of the Old Dominion, in convention assembled, declared that the king and Parliament had disregarded the constitution of the colony, which accordingly was free to exercise such independence as it might be able to maintain. Nine days later they instructed the colony’s delegates in the Continental Congress to vote for independence, and the flag of England fluttered down from the capitol building. By doing these things every one of them exposed his neck to the British halter; but they were virile men, who had arrived at the parting of the ways.
A few weeks later the Declaration of Independence, written by Thomas Jefferson, was proclaimed throughout the land amid great rejoicing. Then the country settled down to its grim task. What a task it was! Many times it seemed that the poor, thinly populated land might endure no longer. England was a very powerful foe, feared throughout the world. Not all Americans were patriots. Some were Tories on principle, others for gain. Very many were selfish and not a few corrupt; but enough so loved their country and independence as to endure and struggle unto the glorious end.
194CHAPTER XXIIRODNEY’S SACRIFICE AND HIS MOTHER’S
One midsummer day Rodney Allison walked along the dusty road. He did not carry his head erect as usual but seemed to be pondering over some problem.
He was a “strapping,” fine looking lad, almost a man grown, and in experience already a man. He stopped before a little gate opening into a pasture and gave three shrill whistles. Over the top of a ridge two pointed ears appeared, poised for an instant, and then their owner galloped into view.
“What a beauty you are, Nat,” said the boy, as if talking to himself, stretching out his hand to stroke the silky nose that was thrust over the fence.
The two standing together formed a picture to afford delight so long as the eye shall admire grace, breeding and power. The boy’s figure was erect, his wavy hair hanging gracefully to his broad shoulders. His face, while not handsome, was clear cut, resolute and showed lines of character not usually graven in the face of one as young. His dark gray eyes always195looked at one steadily. Now they were darker than usual and had in them the shadow of trouble.
“Nat, how would you like to change masters?”
The colt nuzzled the boy’s face and then his pockets, in one of which he found the nubbin of corn he sought.
“You rascal, all you care about having is a good commissary. You won’t miss me, will you? Oh, no! I’d thought we’d go to the war together. We would have something worth fighting for, a free country, where a man wouldn’t need to have dukes for uncles in order to be of some consequence in the world. We would show ’em, you and I, that horses and boys raised in this country are as good as the best; but that can’t be. You are too good a horse to drag the plow on this poor little farm. You shall have one of the greatest men in this great land for a master, while I will stay away from the war and both of us may save our precious skins and perhaps be British subjects in the end.”
Nat’s purplish eyes seemed full of comprehension, as he mumbled the lad’s hand with his lips.
“Horses seem to know more of some things than they really do, and know more of some other things than they seem to; how’s that for horse sense, Nathaniel Bacon Allison?”
Nat blinked, but shed no tears. Rodney blinked and his eyes were wet. The boy opened the gate and the colt followed him to the stable, where he was saddled and ridden to Monticello.
196
As Rodney left the manager of Mr. Jefferson’s estate he said: “I only ask that you say to Mr. Jefferson, I sell the colt with the understanding that I may buy him back if I ever get the money.”
“I’ll do it, an’ you won’t need it in writin’ so long as Mr. Jefferson lives.”
What a long, dusty, gloomy road was that over which the boy walked back to his home!
“What has become of Nat?” his mother asked, a few days later. “I haven’t seen him lately.”
“He was too valuable a horse for me to own and I sold him to Mr. Jefferson. I can have the privilege of buying him back,” and Rodney turned away, afraid to trust himself to say more.
The crops that fall were successful and the neighbours told the boy he would surely make a good farmer. He worked early and late and grew strong; whereas his mother, watching him with sad eyes, became weaker.
When Mrs. Allison was absorbed in thought the old coloured woman would stand looking with anxious face at her mistress. One day she said, “Missus, yo’ jes’ done git well. Dat’s no mo’n doin’ what’s right by Marse Rodney, ah reckon.”
Mrs. Allison looked up into the kindly old face of the coloured woman, and a wan smile was on her lips as she replied, “Mam, you are a woman of good sense, and, God willing, I will get well.” From that day she began to improve.
Angus being away, Rodney had little diversion.
197
His chief pastime now was target practice with the rifle. The old Indian had chosen wisely when he purchased the rifle, and the boy became very proficient in marksmanship. One day when he had made a fine shot he turned and found his mother and the two servants watching him.
“I hadn’t an idea you were such a fine shot, Rodney,” said his mother.
“Scolding Squaw hasn’t an equal in the whole county of Albemarle, mother.”
“Lan’ sakes, an’ what heathen mought she be?” asked Mam.
“She was once the rifle of a noted chief of the Wyandottes, and when she speaks a deadly silence follows,” replied the boy, laughing.
“Marse Rodney will be wantin’ ter jine de riflemen, I specs,” remarked Thello.
Mam, noting her mistress’ face, hastened to say, “Reckon de riflemen done froze up in Canada las’ winter. Dey won’t be rantin’ down in ol’ Virginny fer one right smart spell.”
That year, 1776, there were no steel rails laid nor copper wires strung to carry the news, yet it was surprising how quickly tidings of victory and defeat spread over the country.
Charlottesville was a very small town out near the shadows of the Blue Ridge mountains, yet its people, not many weeks after the events occurred, had heard how Donald McDonald had led the Scotch Tories of North Carolina against the rifles of the Whigs and how198the rifles proved more powerful than the Scottish broadswords; then had come the joyful news that Commodore Parker and his forty ships had sailed away from Charleston, South Carolina, which they had come to capture as though the doing of it were the pastime of a summer’s holiday. Between them and the town they had found a little island and on it a small fort built of soft palmetto logs bedded in sand and defended by a few daring men under the gallant Moultrie. These brave fellows could shoot cannon as straight as could the North Carolina Whigs their rifles. Later, even among the hamlets along the frontier, the cheers rang out when it was learned that Congress had finally approved the Declaration of Independence, and aid was now expected from France!
Not all the news was encouraging. Washington had known that, unless granted men and supplies, he could not hold New York against the British. Congress had insisted that he make the attempt, but gave him no assistance. He had failed, and barely kept the greater part of the American army out of British clutches. The king had succeeded in hiring Hessians, some twenty thousand of them, to fight England’s battles in America, with the promise of all the loot they could secure. France was very slow in granting aid, uncertain as yet how much resistance America might be able to make. The attempt to capture Quebec had failed, and the Americans were chased out of Canada. Washington had been unable to keep an effective army together as Congress would provide only for short199terms of enlistment, and little money or supplies for the troops. Men who had shouted for freedom were now despondent, and some of them were going over to the enemy, which occupied New York and most of New Jersey and had concluded the war was about ended.
In September Morgan came back from Quebec, but under parole. He had been offered great inducements to fight with England, but scorned them as an insult to his manhood. If he could be released from parole he would do loyal service for his country. Arnold had fought desperately around Lake Champlain with the remnants of the troops driven from Canada, but the odds against him were too great. Washington, alone, was the nucleus around which the hopes of America centred, but he could accomplish little except to hold positions between the British and Philadelphia.
Winter came on and the situation grew worse. Congress became frightened and made ludicrous haste to vote all sorts of assistance to Washington, after it was too late for him to use it for striking an effective blow.
It was evident that Rodney brooded over the long series of failures, but he still stoutly insisted, “It’s not Washington’s fault, I know.”
When, just after New Year’s, 1777, report came that Washington, with his ragged troops, had crossed the Delaware amid the floating ice, and marched almost barefooted to Trenton in a howling snowstorm, and there had defeated the Hessians, Rodney fairly200shouted in his joy, “I knew he’d do it, I knew he’d do it!”
About a month later, Angus came home. He was a sorry looking Angus, what with a severe wound, and his ragged regimentals, and his feet bound up in rags. But he was a very important Angus, withal, for had he not crossed the Delaware with Washington; had he not left bloody footprints on the snowy road to Trenton; had he not charged down King Street, swept by the northeast gale and British lead, and driven the brutal Hessians as chaff is swept before the wind? He was, to the village folk, the returned conqueror, and much they made of him, the Allisons with the others. He no longer envied Rodney mounted on Nat riding over the country with all the importance of a special messenger, and it is to be hoped that Rodney did not envy him, now that conditions seemed reversed. To young Allison’s credit be it said that, if in his heart lay a smouldering spark of envy, it did not show itself.
When Angus was able to go about, he frequently visited the Allison home, and revelled in narrations of his experiences. He, like the common people generally, regarded Washington as an idol. He delighted in descriptions of the appearance of his beloved general at the crossing of the Delaware; again at the battle of Princeton, when Washington had ridden out directly between the lines of the British and the wavering Americans he sought to encourage, sitting like a statue on his big horse, while the bullets of friends and foes flew about him, and then riding away201unscathed, as though by a miracle. The lad’s enthusiasm made it all seem very real, even when he told how, one winter morning, the general walked about among his men while wearing a strip of red flannel tied about his throat because of a cold, and picked up with one hand a piece of heavy baggage, that would have burdened both arms of an ordinary man, and lightly tossed it on top of a baggage wagon.
“He had but twenty-four hundred men to capture Trenton, an’ all the other generals who were to help him failed. I was right close to him when the messenger rode up to tell him Cadwalader couldn’t git across the river, an’ I heard him say ‘I am determined to cross the river and attack Trenton in the morning.’ I tell ye thar was no fellers who heard him but would hev follered him on their knees, bein’ they couldn’t hev used their feet.”
“The British thought the war ended before they lost Trenton, I hear,” said Mrs. Allison, her eyes shining, for one of her ancestors had ridden with Nathaniel Bacon, the Virginian rebel, when there was British tyranny in the Old Dominion.
“No doubt of it; why, all of us in the army reckoned how the war couldn’t last much longer. We hadn’t rations nor clothes; the men were goin’ home when their time was up an’ wouldn’t enlist again. We heard that Cornwallis was goin’ home to tell the king how he’d licked us, an’ old Howe was gamblin’ an’ guzzlin’ in New York, spendin’ his prize money like water. Oh, they thought they had us licked for sure!202Long’s Washington lives they can’t lick us nohow, though they’ve got over thirty thousand men an’ plenty o’ money, an’ we with neither. But the soldiers are ’lowin’ as how France will help us. Benjamin Franklin is over there an’ they say he has a way o’ gittin’ what he goes after.”
“I believe it was Doctor Franklin’s ‘Poor Richard’ who said, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ We’ve got to rely on ourselves,” Mrs. Allison said, as if speaking to herself, but all the while looking at Rodney.
He did not notice this, for he sat gazing into the fire, saying little, though no word of Angus escaped him. Finally, looking up and addressing his mother, he said, “Wasn’t it Mr. Mason who said he did not wish to survive the liberties of his country?”
“I think so,” she replied, adding, “but we say things in time of excitement which are pretty hard to live up to,” and turned away.
Rodney had secured quite profitable employment that winter. His mother’s health had improved, and the lad could hear the clatter of her loom through the open window one warm morning in early March when a passing horseman brought the news that “Dan Morgan was having hard work to raise a body of riflemen.” He had been appointed a colonel the previous fall, and, as soon as he was released from his parole, began to enlist men to go to the assistance of Washington at Morristown.
The man talked loudly, and the noise of the loom203ceased while Mrs. Allison listened. After supper that evening she said, “I hear that Colonel Morgan, of whom you have told me so much, is enlisting men.”
“Yes, mother, and there is no finer man for a leader than he, unless it is Washington.”
“I’ve thought, since Angus came home, that you were wishing you might enter the service.”
Rodney looked up quickly. “Why, if I could get away I’d like to go, but I––my duty is at home.”
“I am well, now,” she said, “and affairs are in such condition I think we can care for them.”
“But––er––no, I ought not to.”
“My boy, you have my permission, indeed I’m not sure but it is your duty to give your service, your young life perhaps, to the cause of liberty.”
Rodney sprang up, his face aflame with eagerness. “Do you mean it, mother?”
“Some one must fight our battles if we are to win. Your father is not here to go to the front, as he would have done had he lived, and––and I feel sure he would like to have the house of Allison represented in a cause he had so much at heart, and I’m afraid I should make a poor soldier, Rodney.”
“Mother, you are braver than any soldier who ever went to war!”
And so it happened that the following Monday, dressed in the homespun of his mother’s loom and carrying the rifle he had taken from the lodge of the Wyandotte chieftain, Rodney Allison left for Winchester to join Morgan’s command.
204CHAPTER XXIIIIN THE THICK OF IT
“Can ye shoot straight an’ often, travel light, starve an’ yet fight on an empty stomach?”
“I’ve had some experience at that sort of thing, Colonel Morgan, and think I can be of service in your command.”
“Where have I seen you? Yer face looks familiar. I have it, your name is Allison an’ you were the little feller as showed me the way to the rear of the redskins the day they ambushed Wood out in the Ohio country. Want ye, I reckon I do! I want five hundred like ye.”
And thus it was that Rodney found welcome when he presented himself to Morgan at Winchester, and the welcome was so hearty that it helped put the boy on friendly footing with his fellows at the start.
The march to Morristown was not very pleasant owing to the bad condition of the roads. On the way recruits joined them so that on the first of April, when they reached Washington’s headquarters, they numbered about one hundred and eighty men, considerably less than the five hundred wanted.
One of the recruits who joined them on the march was a young man whose reception by Morgan attracted205general attention, it was so cordial. He was a straight, sinewy fellow with shrewd, kindly gray eyes and “sandy” hair. He was clad like a frontiersman and the moment the colonel saw him he exclaimed, “By all that’s good an’ glorious, Zeb, I’ve seen ye in my dreams followin’ me up the ladder at the barrier, but I never expected to see ye in the flesh again. Where’s yer Fidus––what’s his name, that Lovell boy?”[1]
“I left him in Boston after the evacuation, an’ haven’t heard from him since. How are you?”
“Never so well in my life. Prison fare up in old Quebec agreed with me, I reckon. Boys,” he said, turning to a knot of his men who had gathered about, “this man Zeb, an’ a Boston boy, brought up the rear on that march to Quebec. It was the hardest thing I ever did when I detailed ’em for the duty. How they got through alive I never could understand. And young Allison, here, is a chap as was with me fightin’ Indians out in the Ohio country. I wish all the boys who’ve marched with me could fall into the ranks to-day; we’d keep right on to New York an’ capture Howe, bag an’ baggage.”
“When we take New York,” laughed Zeb, “we’ll need more men than Congress ever has got together, I’m thinkin’. I was there when Washington tried to hold it, because Congress an’ the country expected him to do the impossible. But, Colonel, I will say as how if you led the way, thar’d not be one of ’em, as ever206marched with Morgan, who wouldn’t be at yer back.”
“Good! I like that kind of talk. Meanwhile we’ll get the kinks out of our legs marching to Morristown.”
“So you are an Injun fighter,” remarked Zeb to Rodney, as they fell into line side by side.
“Scarcely that,” replied Rodney, flushing with pleasure as he thought of the introduction by his colonel. “I’ve been made prisoner by them, lived with them for a time and ran away from ’em, doing a little fighting by the way.”
“Anyhow, the colonel appears to like ye, an’ that’s a recommendation not to be sneezed at.”
“I hope I can keep his good will. I never saw a man whose men were more loyal.”
“He’s a lion in a fight, asks no man to go whar he won’t go himself. And he knows what the boys are thinkin’ about, an’ just how to manage ’em.”
“I was told that on the march to the Scioto one of his men disobeyed orders, in fact had been disgruntled for some time, and that Morgan walked up to him and said, ‘Come with me a minute.’ They went into the woods together and, when they came back, the man had a black eye and looked as though he’d stolen a sheep; but ever after he didn’t have to be told twice to do a thing.”
Zeb laughed, saying, “That sort of treatment was what that kind of man could understand. But Morgan never allowed one of his men to be flogged.”
“He was terribly flogged once himself.”
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“Yes, but he was too much of a man for that to break him, though the ordinary man who’s been whipped seems to lose his self respect and his courage, an’ Morgan won’t allow it in his command.”
By the time Morgan’s men arrived at Morristown, Zeb and Rodney were the best of friends, and the latter had heard the story of the expedition to Quebec,[2]of Donald Lovell and what a fine lad he was, until he hoped that Zeb’s wish, that they meet him, might be granted.
It was a very small army which Morgan found at Morristown. Of the sixteen regiments Congress had requested the colonies to furnish (Congress could do little but request), not over six hundred men had arrived. The next two months were passed in recruiting the army and getting it into condition, a very trying time to the many impatient spirits in Morgan’s command, and doubtless very trying also to their commander, who always chafed under any sort of inaction. What with target practice and drilling, all were kept out of mischief, however, and Rodney found that as a marksman he could “hold his own” with the best.
Zeb, who had become his daily companion, received in May a letter from his old friend, Donald Lovell, who wrote that he had fully recovered from a wound he had received in the battle on Long Island the year before, and hoped soon to get back into the service.
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A corps, called Morgan’s Rangers, was made up of men picked from the various regiments, five hundred in all. There were, among them, Virginians, Pennsylvania “Dutchmen,” men from the Carolinas, men from the frontier and Yankees. Skill in the use of the rifle was a necessary qualification for membership. They were a fine lot of men for the perilous duties to which they were to be assigned.
The corps was divided into eight companies, the captains of which were: Cobel, Posey, Knox, Long, Swearingen, Parr, Boone, and Henderson, all men selected by Morgan.
The organization of this corps was completed on June 13th, on which day it was ordered by Washington to watch for the approach of British scouting parties, for it was learned that Howe was to begin active operations. The American headquarters had now been changed to Middlebrook. That very day two divisions of the British forces, one under Cornwallis and the other under DeHeister, set out from New Brunswick for the purpose of engaging Washington, confident that, with a little more fighting, they would crush the revolution.
The Rangers had their first glimpse of the British under Cornwallis when the latter reached Somerset Court House, and, for several days, there was sharp skirmishing with scouting parties.
Rodney and Zeb were stationed one afternoon on one of the roads as pickets, when a company of the British were discovered approaching. The pickets’209orders were to fire and fall back on the main body, unless it should be thought possible, in case of a small number of the enemy, to report their presence and secure force enough to cut them off. This was the view taken both by Zeb and his companion, so they ran back to report.
A squad of the Rangers was hurried forward to meet the enemy, with instructions to get between them and their main army, and make them prisoners. Before this could be accomplished the British came upon them. The enemy outnumbered the Rangers two to one, yet the latter would have charged them but for orders to halt and fire. So quickly was the order obeyed that the crack of their rifles rang out together with the British officer’s command to fire. The British fired blindly into the smoke, whereas the riflemen had taken quick, accurate aim. But one among the Rangers was hit, and that was Rodney, he receiving a slight flesh wound in the left arm.
“I thought a bee had stung me,” he said, later, when Zeb discovered the blood on his friend’s sleeve.
The enemy, being uncertain as to the number of the Rangers, fell back in good order, carrying their dead with them. They were pursued by the Rangers until a larger body met them, when the Americans retreated.
Skirmishes like this were of daily occurrence, and Cornwallis, finding that Washington was not disposed to accommodate him by rashly engaging in battle under disadvantageous conditions, retreated to New Brunswick, with the Rangers dogging his flanks.
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Quite a number of deserters were picked up. Benjamin Franklin had devised a shrewd scheme for encouraging desertions. Learning the brand of tobacco specially liked by the Hessians, he had offers concealed in packages of this tobacco, which was distributed where the Hessians would get them. These hired troops had no love for the cause for which they were fighting, and many of them had little for the tyranny with which they were treated when at home in Germany. When they read these offers, printed in German, of money and land, they were sorely tempted to change masters, especially if they did not happen to be of those who loved fighting for the privilege it gave them to loot and ravage.
How the country people, all the Americans, indeed, except the Tories, despised and dreaded the Hessian! In fact he was no more brutal than many of the British, but he was trained to loot and thus was held in disrepute. On several occasions he had bayoneted the American soldier after the latter had surrendered.
“Why didn’t our men serve ’em a like turn at Trenton?” was a question some had asked.
Zeb well expressed the matter once when the subject was being discussed around the camp-fire.
“I reckon that job at Trenton was most complete. Thar’s nothing about it to be ashamed of, an’ everything to be proud of. If we’d butchered the pig-stickers when they were whinin’ on their knees it wouldn’t hev looked well in history.”
“There comes a detachment of ’em now!” exclaimed211Rodney, the following morning. He and Zeb were doing picket duty. The latter gave the call, and several Rangers ran up. A half mile down the road the Hessians came marching on in close order till they arrived at some farm buildings when they were seen to break ranks.
“Let ’em have it!” cried Zeb, bringing his long rifle to his shoulder. Then, loading as he ran, he called, “Come on, boys, let’s get to closer range.”
Other Rangers, hearing the firing, came running after them. In doing this they not only obeyed orders, but most of them gratified their own desire to get into a skirmish with the enemy at every opportunity.
Soon the bullets were singing anything but a cheerful song about the ears of the Hessians, who began to reform their ranks and returned the fire. After several of them had fallen in their tracks, the remainder retreated, bearing off their dead and wounded, pursued by the Rangers clear to the enemy’s lines, when they, too, were compelled by overwhelming numbers to retreat.
As they passed the farm on the way back, “Do-as-much Bunster,” a Pennsylvania Dutchman, exclaimed, “Dey vas not alretty till Christmas for roast pig to vait, I tink.”
“Reckon your thinker is workin’ this mornin’,” was Zeb’s reply as he turned aside to look over into a pen beside the road where a fine litter of white pigs lay cuddled about the old sow.
“You fellers hev earned one o’ them beauties,” said212the farmer, coming out of his barn and proceeding to slaughter one of the innocents without evident compunction.
“Do as much for you zumtime,” said Bunster, whereat all laughed. That was what the Dutchman always said when any one did him a favour. He was as good as his word, too, which not only gave him his nickname but made him one of the most popular men in his company.
He was both fat and jolly, as Dutchmen should be, but not always are. His blue eyes twinkled with good humour and shrewdness, and his eagerness showed that he was fond of roast pig.
How good it tasted though cooked, as it had to be, under unfavourable conditions over a camp-fire, and without proper utensils. There was, however, a look of contentment on the faces of those who partook of the feast that afternoon, and sat around on the warm ground licking their fingers.
“Let’s see,” said Zeb, “Bunster and I and Rodney are off duty to-night.”
“Yah, and I tink I zum sleep get.”
“One of those Hesse-Cassel ruffians swaps even for one good American, and there’s a lot of our boys rottin’ in the prison hulks in New York harbour to-night.”
“Which is one way of saying we should capture a few Hessians for a pastime; hey, Do-as-much Bunster?” and Rodney thrust a forefinger into Bunster’s fat ribs. The Dutchman squealed and leaped to his213feet, for he was so ticklish that one, wishing to see him squirm, only had to point a finger at him.
“That farmer is certain sure a good one, though he is too lazy to take his pigs in out of danger. I hate to see him lose ’em. Besides he has a big rick o’ hay right nigh that pig pen an’ it looked like a good place to sleep. What d’ye say, boys, if we tote ourselves down thar this evenin’?”
“Zum place to sleep, yah?”
“I’m not sleepy yet, but I am ready to go,” replied Rodney, so they set out.
They crossed the fields, some of which were new mown and fragrant. The sun was setting after a hot day. The swallows skimmed over the field.
“Swallers flyin’ low, sign o’ rain,” said Zeb.
“Needn’t lay it on the swallows when the clouds are piling up as they are this evening. We’ll want a roof to the hay rick before morning, I think,” was Rodney’s reply.
They found the farmer doing his chores. His smile was a trifle apprehensive as he said, “That pig tasted so good ye come back fer more?”
“We be no hogs. We reckoned as how the fellers as didn’t git roast pig might come back and try it this evenin’.”
“Hope ye don’t intend fightin’ round here. My wife Nancy is dretful nervous.”
“My kind and tremulous friend, do ye want the pig-stickers ter git yer pigs? We ’lowed as how we might stay here an’ save yer next winter’s pork.214’Sposin’ you explain it to Nancy. We’ll not allow any one to hurt her, if we can help it.”
This seemed to satisfy the farmer; but he took fresh alarm when Zeb went along to a two-wheeled ox-cart, piled high with hay and backed against the pen. As Zeb raised the tongue, and told Bunster to put a stick under it, the farmer called excitedly, “Look out! Ye’ll tip it into the pig pen; that load is too heavy behind, anyhow.”
“Hay mought be good fer some kind o’ hogs,” which enigmatic remark by Zeb called forth no response from the farmer, who bade them good night and went into the house.
“I’ll stand guard the first part or we’ll draw lots, as you wish,” said Rodney.
It was decided to draw lots, but Rodney, drawing the shortest straw, had his wish to stand guard the first part of the night for, though tired, he was not sleepy.
His companions threw themselves down on the hay at the foot of the rick and soon, by their regular breathing, he knew they slept. Sleep was a luxury with the Rangers in those days of continuous scout duty. Rodney’s nerves were high strung and no sound escaped him. He heard the rustle of a toad in the grass at his feet. An occasional mosquito hummed about his ears. His mind wandered away to that little Indian village he had known. In his imagination he could hear the crooning song of the squaws about the camp-fires, the shrill cries of the whip-poor-will.215He thought of the old Indian chief, whose savage hands had so often grasped the rifle the boy now held. Had Ahneota lived he doubtless would be encouraging the red men in aid of the British, and would not hesitate to torture women and children as well as men. How he hated the whites!
Hark! What was that sound? Surely the clink of the iron shoe of a horse on a stone in the road!
The boy waked his sleeping companions. They seized their rifles and all went nearer the road.
Out of the darkness misshapen objects could just be discerned, and the guttural voices of several Hessians could be heard. Then a light glimmered as one of the approaching party drew an old horn lantern from under his cloak. Two others, by aid of the light, clambered into the pen, leaving outside the one with the lantern and the fourth holding the horse.
The next moment a pig squealed. The vandals were sticking them with their bayonets.
“Follow me,” whispered Zeb, running forward and tilting the cart tongue in the air, dumping the load of hay into the pen, and burying human and other hogs in the mire underneath.
“Surrender!” Zeb cried, thrusting the muzzle of his rifle under the nose of the fellow holding the lantern, while Rodney and Bunster disarmed the Hessian with the horse. Then Zeb quickly tied their hands behind their backs, and, telling Rodney to guard them and shoot them down if they moved hand or foot, he216and Bunster turned their attention to the commotion in the pig pen.
From under the hay there issued grunts and squeals and German oaths. Sorry looking hirelings were those two Hessians when they crawled out into the light. Wisps of hay clung to their well greased pigtail queues and their hated uniforms, blue coats and yellow waistcoats, were daubed with muck.
“Pass out yer guns, an’ take this fork an’ pitch out the hay,” was Zeb’s order, which the dazed prisoners attempted to obey, when the farmer, calling out the window, said, “I’ll look out fer that.”
“Better let him, Zeb,” said Rodney. “If we stay here too long we may have more Hessians than we need.”
“Good advice, ye townsman of the immortal Jefferson. Forward march.”
[1]See “Marching with Morgan.”
See “Marching with Morgan.”
[2]The chief incident in “Marching with Morgan,” in which Zeb and young Donald Lovell are the leading characters.
The chief incident in “Marching with Morgan,” in which Zeb and young Donald Lovell are the leading characters.
217CHAPTER XXIVTHE RANGERS SENT AGAINST BURGOYNE
England proposed to snuff out the rebellion that summer of 1777: so she sent all the troops she could spare and hire, also bribes to secure the services of the Indians. England must win, though the savages kill and torture every man, woman and child on the frontier.
General Burgoyne must leave the writing of plays for a time and lead an army from Canada down to New York, and then Philadelphia was to be captured and the Continental Congress sent a-packing.
Howe is said to have thought the Burgoyne plan unwise, for he knew something about war, though frequently too indolent to put his knowledge into practice. This beautiful month of June he had his army down in New Jersey, watching for a chance to outwit Washington and seize Philadelphia.
After the first failure, he abandoned New Brunswick and marched his troops back to New York. Here was an opportunity for Morgan’s Rangers. They followed Howe’s army like a swarm of angry hornets. When too annoying, the British would turn and drive them back, but, as soon as the march was resumed,218they would return and again sting the rear of the column into desperation.
When the Rangers first came in contact with the retreating British the latter were crossing a bridge. Here was a fine opportunity for Morgan’s men, and they used it to the fullest extent. Their bullets laid many a poor Hessian in the dust, for the aim of the riflemen was quick and accurate, whereas that of the British was mechanical.
“Ah! Another bee has stung that arm. The redcoats intend to get it, I believe,” suddenly cried Rodney.
“Does yer arm feel numb?” asked Zeb.
“No, I guess it’s just a scratch. Anyhow I’m going to use it while I may.”
No, our two comrades lost no time examining trifling wounds, while British bullets whistled about their ears. On the contrary, they were loading and firing as rapidly as possible, and the perspiration was streaming down their powder-blackened faces, for the day was hot.
“They are going to support the column; look out for a volley. Git down here, lie low,” and, suiting action to word, Zeb threw himself on the grass.
A body of Hessians had wheeled about and posted themselves behind some temporary breastworks, which had been thrown up that morning. “Up and at ’em,” was the word, and the Rangers ran forward and threw themselves on the ground so that most of the volley from the enemy passed over their heads.