219
“Up and at ’em” again, each time nearer, while flanking parties were working around toward the rear of the redoubts. The enemy behind the breastworks had the advantage both in number and position, and held back the Rangers, who had no bayonets and could not charge successfully.
“Here comes General Wayne’s brigade, now we’ll dislodge ’em,” shouted Zeb in his excitement, and Bunster stood up and cheered.
“We’ll teach ’em that they have to earn their money when they hire out to lick Americans,” cried Rodney.
“What’s the matter with Bunster!” exclaimed Zeb, for their companion staggered and pitched forward in a heap, his hands convulsively clutching the grass.
“They run, they run, at ’em, boys!” and, with this cry in their ears, Rodney and Zeb charged down on the flying enemy.
Bunster lay face down in the field. How he would have yelled and run after the retreating Hessians! He had made his last charge, poor Bunster! Such a genial fellow; such a kindly, helpful soul, with no fear in your heart! You have done as much as the best and bravest of them, and your country can never do as much for you.
At the first opportunity his companions sought him out from among the slain, and laid him in a hastily constructed grave. Zeb’s eyes were wet and tears made furrows among the powder stains on Rodney’s face. Their hearts would be hardened in the days of war to come, for that is one of war’s penalties. What220sympathy they might have would be rather with those writhing and waiting for death.
“Thar’s a heap o’ walkin’ ahead of the Rangers,” was Zeb’s greeting as he returned from a talk with their colonel several days later.
“What is it now?”
“Schuyler an’ Gates are howlin’ fer more men an’ expect Washington to furnish ’em whether he has ’em or not. Burgoyne’s comin’ down Lake Champlain with a horde of red devils at his heels, an’ the country people up that way don’t feel easy about their hair, with the lovely flag of England wavin’ over ’em.”
“I just heard a report that the farmers were taking the field. If they do as well as they did at Bunker Hill, Burgoyne may not have an altogether pleasant summer.”
“Thar’s too many people in this country who want to be independent of everything, even to fightin’ whenever and how they please. It’s time they did something.”
“Certainly they don’t respond very promptly to Washington’s call for troops.”
“This war has got to be won, if it’s won at all, by armies an’ not by a few men shootin’ from behind a stone wall whenever the Britishers march their way.”
“It can’t be said that Morgan’s Rangers don’t respond when called upon.”
“That’s right. The country will remember us after we’re killed. We’ve got a reputation for fighting221already. Two thirds of us ’d rather be at a fight than a feast.”
“You among the number.”
“Not right. I hate war except when I get in a skirmish, an’ then I don’t think about it. I wish the men who bring on war had to do the fightin’.”
Howe, twice foiled in his attempts to outwit Washington, had returned to New York, leaving his antagonist in doubt whether he proposed taking his army up the Hudson to meet Burgoyne or around to Philadelphia by sea. During this period of uncertainty, Morgan’s Rangers marched to Hackensack and back again. They travelled light, each man lugging his provisions, rations of corn meal and a wallet containing dried venison. August 16th they received final orders to march to Peekskill, and there to take boats for Albany to join Gates’ army.
Here at last was something definite, and how the men cheered! Washington was sending his best men to aid Gates because he thought the country needed them at that place. George Washington was a big enough man to forget self and think only of his country. Gates was not, and was to repay his chief for this assistance with treachery.
Rodney never forgot that day when they first came in sight of the beautiful Hudson. He made some remark about the scenery, when the man next him in line exclaimed: “Whew! but I’d like plenty of shade trees in my scenery,” wiping away the perspiration with his sleeve.
222
“Ab, you are in as big a hurry to git thar as any of us,” said another.
“I don’t feel right certain about matters after we do. Thar must be some rattle-headed men in charge up in this country; what with fillin’ ol’ Ty full o’ powder an’ ball an’ then allowin’ the Britishers to climb a hill an’ drive ’em out the fort. Thar sure be some folks as think they’re ginerals by grace o’ good looks an’ lots o’ friends. Then some feller, as knows how, comes along an’ trees ’em,” was Ab’s reply.
A warm welcome awaited the Rangers when they joined the northern army. In fact all along their route they had received admiration and cordial greeting to their hearts’ content. Gates flattered Morgan by arranging that the colonel should receive orders only from the general in command. Quarters were assigned them at Loudon’s Ferry, and here they were joined by Major Dearborn with two hundred and fifty men selected from other regiments. This was pleasing to Morgan, as he and Dearborn had fought the enemy at Quebec, where both had been taken prisoners.
The Rangers welcomed the recruits heartily, and proceeded to get acquainted. In the midst of this Rodney saw a fine looking fellow, of about his own age, clad in the uniform of the Massachusetts militia, run toward Zeb, exclaiming, “I might have known if I could find Colonel Morgan I could find you, in flesh or spirit. How are you, anyway?”
223
“Shades of the Great North, Don, yer face looks good ter me.”
Then, after they had shaken hands and patted each other on the shoulder, literally and metaphorically, Zeb, turning to Rodney, said, “Here’s Donald Lovell, the lad who found me in a Quebec snowdrift an’ saved my life when I was about as fer gone as poor Bunster.”
“Easy, Zeb. I don’t want to tell all you did for me, there isn’t time, but I’m glad to know any one that’s your friend.”
“You two boys make a likely pair. Ye both really do credit to my judgment in pickin’ ye out. How long ye been here, Don?”
“Only a few days. You’ve heard about Stark and the battle at Bennington, of course?”
“We certain have. He gave those Hessians a sound drubbing if reports are correct. He was at Trenton, you know. Was disgruntled, because he didn’t get the promotion he wanted, an’ went home.”
“Lucky he did. He was just the man needed to do that job at Bennington. I went as messenger to Portsmouth and heard John Langdon, the speaker of the New Hampshire assembly, pledge his property to fit out Stark. That’s the kind of statesmen to have.”
“A durned sight better than the majority of those in Congress. Whar is yer Uncle Dick, at home worryin’ about ye?”
Donald laughed, and then his face grew serious as224he said, “No. He joined Stark and I’m the one who is worrying about him.”
“General Arnold played a good trick on St. Leger, when he sent that decoy messenger to him with the cock-and-bull story about the reinforcements marching to Fort Stanwix bein’ thicker than the leaves on the trees,” remarked Zeb.
“And wasn’t that a glorious fight poor old Herkimer’s men made against the Tories and Brandt’s Indians? That must have been terrible, a regular hand-to-hand struggle. Yes, Arnold is here and many think he should have the command.”
“And I’m one o’ the number,” said Zeb, stoutly. “That man has more courage an’ energy than the whole Continental Congress. Look at the way he fought in the Canadian campaign! They tell me, though the British defeated the fleet of boats he built to oppose ’em on the lake, that no man ever led a braver struggle against greater odds and got away without bein’ captured. He was ready to resign before this Burgoyne campaign, an’ I wouldn’t hev blamed him. He doesn’t know how to git along without making enemies, for, when he has anything to do, he goes at it hammer and tongs no matter whose toes he treads on, but he gets it done, by hook or by crook.”
“You know, Zeb, that somehow I never had great liking for him, but he certainly is a brave, resourceful leader. I think he’s the most ambitious man in the service.”
“He’s willing to earn his promotion, which some225of ’em wouldn’t if they knew how. He’s earned it ten times over. The men who can do things are the ones we’ve got to have to win. One thing, this army isn’t goin’ to lack fer men, such as they are, by the way the farmers are comin’ in with their old guns and hay hooks.”
“Such as they are! Zeb, you’re a dyed-in-the-wool Virginian. These New Englanders and New Yorkers coming into camp are of the same mettle as those under Stark and those who died with Herkimer. There are no better men in the world.”
“Reckon ye better make an exception o’ the Rangers. They sent us down here, when we ought to be with Washington, specially to save you people from the Indians.”
“Yes, and the day you started, Stark and his New Hampshire and Massachusetts men, with the help of Seth Warner’s men, won a victory which will result in the defeat of Burgoyne. You Virginians are all right; you have your Washington and Morgan and the Rangers, but don’t cry down the Northern farmers in their homespun. They’ve had to fight for a living from the beginning, and, from Lexington right down through till now, they’ve fought for their country.”
“Except when they’ve left to go home and gather their crops. Soldiers who stay in the field till the war’s over are the kind that is needed.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Rodney, for the conversation had waxed warm, “but, from what Zeb told226me, both Virginia and Massachusetts were needed to pull through the wilderness on the way to Quebec.”
Zeb laughed and said, “I reckon Virginia and Massachusetts will have to hang together if we get the job done.”
“And if we don’t,” added Donald, with a laugh, “they’ll hang separately, as Dr. Franklin said of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.”
227CHAPTER XXVPUT TO THE TEST
“Likely lookin’ men Dearborn’s picked up,” was Zeb’s comment as Major Dearborn marched his recruits past. “Hi, Don. An’ thar’s his uncle. Glad he got through Bennington safe an’ sound. Don was some worried about him. Man an’ boy, ye can’t beat ’em.”
“His uncle is a fine looking man. Those men have bayonets. They ought to be of service. But there’s none like the Rangers, eh, Zeb?”
“Askin’ such questions is waste o’ breath.”
“Well, I hope we’ll soon have a chance to prove it.”
“We’ve been sayin’ the same thing for more’n two weeks. I reckoned we sure would get it two days ago when we occupied Bemis Heights. Hello! What’s doin’?”
“Fall in!”
As though there were magic in the words, those travel-stained riflemen sprang to their places with an eagerness never seen among regular troops.
“The enemy is crossing the Hudson, an’ we’re to make ’em wish they hadn’t,” was the message which ran along the lines. Many a man turned to the next228in line and said in matter of fact tone, “That means fight.”
“There they are,” exclaimed Rodney, as they came in sight of the solid lines of the British army. Under Burgoyne were some of the finest soldiers Europe could produce. They marched in compact lines, moving like weighted machines under their heavy trappings which were gorgeous and imposing.
“They don’t intend to leave any hole for us to wedge in,” said Rodney.
Ah! There opens a way to get at that German regiment. Morgan sees it and the battle is on. It was, however, only a brief skirmish; a few volleys, a few human beings stretched on the ground dead and wounded, a few prisoners. France, across the water, waiting for something decisive, before committing herself to the cause of America, will hear of it and of battles to come. But many more men than were with Morgan that day would be required to stop that British army. On they came and established their camp within two miles of that of the Americans.
Between these armies the land was rough and hilly, part of it covered with forests. Well out in front of the American army Morgan’s corps was stationed.
“If anything happens we’re likely to be the first to know it,” was Rodney’s comment.
“That’s what we’re here for. We’re the whiskers, the feelers o’ the cat that’s set to watch the mouse.”
“A full grown rat, I’d say, by the size.”
“Six to eight thousand, includin’ Tories an’ redskins,229who won’t count when the pinch comes. By the way the country folks are comin’ in with their rifles an’ pitchforks we’re in a fair way to snare the lot.”
“Zeb, you certainly are the most hopeful man I ever knew. Anyhow, if Burgoyne wants to eat his Christmas dinner in New York, he’s got to give us a chance at him soon.”
Evidently Burgoyne arrived at a like conclusion. On the morning of September nineteenth the pickets reported the British advancing. Morgan’s corps was immediately ordered forward to engage the enemy and delay his progress. The gallant Major Morris led one line and Morgan the other, and Morris encountered the enemy first, a picket detachment of about three hundred men. The Rangers charged and drove them, and followed so impetuously on their heels as to run into the main body, and as a result of such recklessness they suffered severely. Morris rode right into the midst of the British, but, wheeling his horse, escaped and rejoined his men, who were now badly scattered. Donald Lovell received a severe wound in his side. His uncle, marching by his side, picked him up as though a child, and across his powerful shoulders carried him back to a place of safety.
Morgan, hearing the firing, was hurrying on to support the other line when, finding it broken and scattered, he is said to have shed tears in his chagrin at what he thought was due to carelessness and meant defeat. Were the Rangers, the pride of the army, to230be shattered in their first encounter after all their boasting? It is not surprising that Morgan felt that his fondest hopes had been recklessly ruined.
But the Rangers had been trained for just such emergencies and, when their colonel blew the “turkey call” on the bone whistle which he carried, and those piercing sounds were heard above the din of battle, his men rallied.
Quickly they formed into line, eager to regain what they had lost. Every man felt that his country and the honour of his corps were at stake, and he was ready to die if necessary. Already the afternoon was half gone, but before night could stop the bloodshed many a man would pay the penalty of a soldier; some of those lithe, bronzed, hardy fellows, throbbing with health and vitality, would not see the sun rise over Bemis Heights on the morrow.
In the forest ahead a little clearing had been made for a small farm, and there the Rangers came upon the advance line of the enemy.
“Now we’ll get it hot!” exclaimed Rodney under his breath, but among them all not a face paled nor a hand grasping a rifle trembled. On, directly at the British, the men ran like deer, except a few detailed to duty as sharpshooters, dodging behind stumps or climbing trees as agile as monkeys. On go the Rangers. Now the British fire into the line and some fall.
Why do they not return the fire? Ah! now their rifles leap to shoulder at close range and every shot231tells! What ghastly gaps are left in the British ranks, and the Rangers are still rushing on like demons, loading as they run! It is too much for those fighting machines accustomed to fight, as they march, with mathematical precision; they turn and run. Back they go to the hill behind, where there are reinforcements waiting with cannon, the riflemen at their heels. Oh, the cruelty of it all, shooting, stabbing, yelling!
Now the British swarm upon the meagre lines of the Rangers and the latter are forced back, literally by weight of numbers. And, as they retreat, a British detachment is sent around to attack them on the flank. They press forward, expecting to crumple up Morgan’s men like tall grain in the hand of the reaper! They will teach those rude fellows a lesson, that Americans can’t stand before the trained soldiers of Europe.
“Here come the New Hampshire boys!”
Stalwart men they were, those men from New Hampshire, led by Cilley and Scammel. Their training in military matters had been meagre, indeed, but they fight, and Morgan’s men rally for another onslaught, and again another, for they will not stop until darkness stops them. Hurrah! now they have the cannon, but the retreating British wisely carry the linstocks with them so the cannon may not be turned against them, and later they are able to recapture them.
Backward and forward, yells of triumph on one side and again on the other. Rodney and Zeb keep together. There is blood on the side of young Allison’s232face, scratched by a bullet, as he would have said, had he known it. “On and at ’em.” Down goes Zeb, his companions in their onward rush leaping aside or over his prostrate body. Rodney saw him fall, but what could he do? If they ever came back he would find him. He doesn’t forget, and, when they come staggering back through the smoke, with the British bayonets behind them, Zeb is carried to the rear.
“You’re lucky it’s no worse, Zeb.”
“That’s what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o’ the scalpin’ knife I’ll fight agin, sure’s yer born!”
“If I’m alive to do it I’ll see that you are taken off the field to-night.”
“I know ye will if the redcoats don’t take the field away from ye. If they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry.”
“They haven’t got it yet. Here we go again,” and, saying this, he joined the mass of running men returning to the charge.
There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why wasn’t he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.
233
As the Rangers retreat, Rodney sees the Indian lying on the ground lift his rifle to shoot. A Ranger knocks it aside, while another aims a blow that would have brained the savage had not Rodney knocked it aside, for he had recognized Conrad!
“Help me to take him,” he cried.
“Kill him an’ leave him,” cried another.
Rodney grasped Conrad by the shoulders and another rifleman, with a growl at such folly, seized him by the heels. So it happened that he was laid by the side of Zeb.
By this time the battle raged along the entire front. American reinforcements were coming up and greater reinforcements were being sent to support the British, and Gates was back in his tent thinking it all a small affair.
With nightfall the two armies lay back like panting wolves, exhausted, and, now that there was time, Rodney made sure that both Zeb and Conrad had their wounds dressed.
“The Rangers won glory to-day and bore the brunt of the fighting. It was hot, though.”
“I reckon you’re correct, Rodney. I felt of it an’ found it so,” was Zeb’s reply.
“It is reported about camp that Gates and Arnold have quarrelled, and Arnold was so mad he resigned and Gates accepted it.”
“That so!” Zeb whistled, and then made a wry face on account of the pain in his leg. “That leaves Arnold in a pickle. ’Taint the height o’ military etiquette234to resign under fire. I wish Arnold was in command, though.”
“You aren’t the only one who wishes it. Well, I must find that Indian or he won’t forgive me for shooting him.”
“Too bad ye can’t shoot straighter.”
“That’s unkind. When you know him you’ll change your mind.”
“Humph!”
Of what happened in the two weeks following this battle, history tells but little, for there was little that was decisive. Burgoyne waited for Clinton to come to his assistance. He did not come. Some of his messages did not get through the lines to Burgoyne. The Americans gradually got control of vantage points between the British and their avenue of retreat to Canada. But these were not dull days for the Rangers. There was scouting and skirmishing in which they bore an active part.
On the afternoon of October seventh Rodney brought in word that the British troops were moving, and Gates quickly ordered Morgan forward to engage them. The latter, as was his custom, had obtained a knowledge of the country and he saw a better plan, which was to lead his men around to a wooded hill on the enemy’s flank and attack from there. This suggestion was approved.
“This will begin the end,” remarked a fellow on Rodney’s right.
“Unless Gates blunders,” remarked another.
235
There before them lay a panorama which might well stir the blood, the finest looking soldiers in the world forming on the plain below.
General Poor’s men were advancing to engage the enemy in front. Now is the moment for Morgan’s men!
How they swept down on those British regulars, loading and shooting as they charged, and every ball finding its mark!
The enemy’s volleys were not those of marksmen and did comparatively little execution. Now Dearborn’s men are charging with the bayonet, and sharpshooters are picking off the British officers. Human beings could not stand under such an onslaught. The enemy’s lines wavered, and then were swept off the field by the soldiers they had ridiculed. What will the King of France think when he hears of this?
Ah! there rides Frazer, gallant soldier, rallying the disheartened British troops. Frazer is a host in himself. If he succeeds, he may turn the tide of battle. What! he reels in his saddle and aides ride to his side and he leaves the field to die a few hours later. Those Rangers back on the hill seldom miss the mark.
The enemy shield themselves behind their entrenchments, and the Americans, flushed with victory, are charging them, and there goes Arnold riding the field like a madman, though Gates has ordered him to remain in camp. It shall not be said he resigned through fear, if he dies for it. But this desperate charge could not succeed, and Morgan’s men turn back and Arnold236is wounded in the same leg that was shot during the attack on Quebec. The British admire bravery and Arnold’s portrait is to decorate shop windows in London for the curious to gape at. Alas for Arnold that the bullet was not better aimed!
At last it is night. The Americans have not been able to deliver the finishing stroke, but the British have learned that their fate is not to be a pleasant one, whatever happens.
These are but glimpses of that eventful struggle. The history of it is another story and a thrilling one.
We may think of Rodney and Zeb exulting as the days passed and they saw the American lines tighten about the hesitating enemy, hesitating only to be lost. Conrad, true to the manners of his adopted people, sat in stolid silence, seeing much and saying nothing, while his wound quickly healed. And there is Gates, so anxious for glory––he thinks now that he may get Washington’s place,––that he is willing to agree that Burgoyne’s soldiers may return to England if only they’ll fight no more against America, and we may imagine the smile on the face of the English general. Nor is it difficult to imagine the dark red of anger in Colonel Morgan’s face when Gates seeks his support for the place of commander-in-chief, and the “old wagoner” curtly tells him that he will have no part in such a scheme, that he will fight under Washington or not fight at all.
Zeb was sufficiently recovered from his wound to be able to see the British troops march past on the day of237the surrender, looking down the ranks of Americans, some trim and soldierly, as were the Continentals, and others clad in homespun or the skins of the forest. And in the ranks filing past in dejection Rodney saw the sneering face of Mogridge. The flower of the British aristocracy, sons of nobility and members of Parliament, had been subalterns under Burgoyne. Mogridge, as ever, had followed in the wake of those having money so that he might live as the leech lives.
“I have got a furlough, and as soon as this wound will let me I’m going to Boston to see the folks.” And at the moment Zeb said this he was carrying, in an inside pocket of his dirty hunting shirt, a letter from Melicite, the fair young French girl whose kindness to him and young Lovell in Quebec had won from him more than mere friendship.[3]
“And I’m going down into Connecticut to find the girl who sewed her name inside my coat,” remarked a militia man standing by; for there were girls who won husbands by this simple little device, stitching their fate into the homespun coats they made for the soldiers.
Rodney turned away, feeling a bit lonely. He would find Conrad.
“Conrad, if I can get you freed will you promise me to live a friend to Americans and, on getting back to your people, will find Louis and bring him to my home in Charlottesville?”
238
For several minutes Conrad made no reply, and then he said: “Yah, I vill.” And so it came about that, when his wound was healed, he turned his face toward his chosen home in the forest.
[3]See “Marching with Morgan.”
See “Marching with Morgan.”
239CHAPTER XXVITRICKED, AND BY HIS FRIEND
Burgoyne, on meeting Colonel Morgan after the surrender, had said to him: “Sir, you command the finest regiment in the world.”
“A feller with ornary jedgment mought reach that ar conclusion with half the experience,” remarked a lank old rifleman, whose peculiar gait had given him the name of “Lopin’ Luther.” Nevertheless, the compliment greatly pleased the Rangers. It could not, however, remedy the injustice done Morgan and his corps by Gates in not making favourable mention of them because the “old wagoner” so sturdily refused to participate in Gates’ scheme to supplant Washington.
“Nawthin’ ter do but keep at it; sun’ll be shinin’ bimeby,” was the terse comment of one of the Rangers, and his was the philosophy which prevailed.
Rodney thought of the Indian saying: “My foot is on the path and the word is onward,” when, on the first of November, orders came to join Washington’s army.
“Now we’ll be under a general as will play fair,” was the way one rifleman expressed the general sentiment,240and they set out on their journey, war-worn and ragged and weary with the arduous campaigning of the previous months.
As they marched away, one of the number sang to improvised music those stirring words written by the Reverend Timothy Dwight, one of the army chaplains:
“Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise,The queen of the world, and the child of the skies.”
Sorry looking Rangers were they when they arrived at Washington’s headquarters; shoes worn out, clothes in tatters. There they found a dwindling army. The battles of the Brandywine and Germantown had been fought in their absence, and the British were in Philadelphia, planning for a hilarious winter. What remained of the American army must exist outside in the cold of a bitter winter and do what they might to keep the enemy where it was and cut off its supplies whenever possible. Those of the Rangers who had suitable clothing were immediately assigned to duty. At Gloucester Point they bore themselves so creditably that Lafayette said of them: “I never saw men so merry, so spirited and so desirous to go on to the enemy....”
Later, at Chestnut Hill, their unerring rifles did such execution that Howe’s soldiers bore a sorry burden back to Philadelphia. There were sad gaps, as well, in the ranks of the Rangers, and among those fatally wounded was the gallant Morris who had charged the line at Bemis Heights.
241
As usual, the Rangers were assigned to outpost duty and scouting. Owing to need of secrecy, many a bitter winter night was passed by Rangers in this work without a camp-fire. These were wretched weeks for Rodney Allison; and there were moments when they seemed worse than the days of his captivity among the Indians. Then he would be reminded that Morgan’s men were noted as well for endurance and fortitude as for courage and skill. It should not be said that the son of David Allison flinched or shirked a duty!
At the close of one cold, gray day spent on guard the officer in charge of the guard said to Rodney: “Can ye keep awake all night? I needn’t ask ye though; ye’ve got to, fer thar be no men left to do the job.”
“I’ll try. What is it?”
“This mornin’ one of our scouts saw a British officer ride to a house ’bout half a mile from here. We sent three Rangers down thar an’ hunted high an’ low, but hide nor hair could they find. I ’low he’s thar an’ to-night he’ll try to git ter Philadelphy. You got ter go down thar an’ stop him. If a word won’t do, try a bullet.”
It was a dismal prospect. The wind was cutting, and Rodney’s clothes were worn thin. The weather was almost too cold for snow, but by night it fell in fine, stinging particles. Out on the road young Allison tramped to and fro to keep warm, occasionally stopping to thresh his arms. Late in the evening he saw someone go to the stable, and soon after a double242team was driven out. The door of the house opened and a woman came out and entered the carriage. There were good-byes spoken in loud tones with no apparent attempt at concealment. Rodney was no coward, but in his heart he was glad that, instead of two men, he had only one and a woman to deal with. The woman might scream but probably wouldn’t shoot.
The driver cracked his whip and the team came down the road at a rattling pace.
“Halt!”
The word rang sharply on the ears of the driver, a black man, and he quickly brought his horses to a standstill.
“Drive back. My orders are to allow no one to leave that house.”
“You surely aren’t making war on women,” said the girl, opening the door of her carriage, and her voice sounded strangely familiar.
“I am making war on no one who obeys orders,” he replied, his rifle levelled at the driver.
“Is that you, Rodney Allison? It is!” Then she laughed, such a merry, rollicking laugh, which the next instant gave place to indignation, as she exclaimed: “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What have I done that I should not be permitted to return to Philadelphia? Am I the man your backwoodsmen searched the house for, do you think? Black Pete does not greatly resemble any British officer I ever saw,” and then she laughed again.243“And I’m not forage, am I? And there’s not a soul but me in this carriage; look for yourself. There, now tell Pete to drive on, please. After all, I’m glad to see you. And send my love to your mother and Naomi, won’t you.”
Rodney hesitated. She was the same imperious, winsome girl who had been his favourite playmate. No, there was no one inside the carriage; he was sure of that. How the men would laugh at him for capturing a negro and a girl! He felt like a ninny and afraid he might look like one.
“Drive on,” he said with all the importance he could command, adding: “I am sorry to delay you, but must obey orders.”
“Good night,” she called back as she rode away. The coachman was plying the whip, and there was a note of triumph in her voice that somehow jarred on Rodney’s nerves.
As he paced back and forth the conviction that he had made a grave mistake grew upon him, though for his life he could not be sure why it might be a mistake. Why need he say anything about the affair? The men would only joke him. Yes, he would tell the whole story and take the responsibility.
“Did ye inspect the inside o’ the nigger as well as the carriage?” was the question sharply asked him by the officer the following day, when it was found that the officer’s horse was gone from the stable, and that every slave on the place had run away the day before, just after the search of the house.
“‘SAY, YOU FELLERS AS HEV BREECHES OUGHT TER BRING US IN A BITE TER EAT.’”
“‘SAY, YOU FELLERS AS HEV BREECHES OUGHT TER BRING US IN A BITE TER EAT.’”
244
Assuming the disguise of a black menial was the last thing he would have suspected a haughty British officer to do!
Oh, but the disappointment was a bitter one! He had expected promotion. Certainly he had earned it. Now, that hope was gone. His blunder was the jest of his comrades, who would call after him: “Nigger in the woodpile, nigger on the box.”
Morgan, troubled with rheumatism, had gone to his home in Winchester for the winter. The army was half starved and poorly clothed, and to make matters worse, it was generally understood that these hardships were due to corruption and incompetency; for there were some in authority, in those days, who were greedy, dishonest and hard-hearted.
Young Allison had occasion to visit the camp at Valley Forge and the sights he saw there never left his memory. Wretchedness and misery were on every side. How did Washington, knowing as he must that these conditions were unnecessary under proper management, how could he hope ever to save the country?
Who was that haggard fellow with bare feet wrapped in rags and little but an old horse blanket to keep out the wintry wind? Angus? Yes, no doubt of it!
“Hi, Rod! Say, you fellers as hev breeches ought ter bring us in a bite ter eat. What’s the good o’ your foragin’ if yer don’t?”
“I haven’t had a mouthful since last night, myself.245How are you, anyway? I don’t see how you men can stay here and bear it.”
“Many of us wouldn’t if we’d the duds ter git away in. It’s a hard road ter Charlottesville fer bare feet.”
“I’m beginning to feel like taking it. When we drive the British out of the Quaker City then we’ll apply for a furlough, eh, Angus?”
“I’d go this minute if I could.”
“I doubt it, Angus. You always were a tenacious fellow.”
“What’s the good o’ stayin’ when Congress won’t provide board an’ clothes? They sure are a shiftless lot.”
“They might easily be improved, it would seem, but we’ve gone too far in this war to turn back now.”
“Starvin’ an’ freezin’ ain’t goin’ ter help ther cause none.”
“Spring will soon be here and we’ll feel better, I hope.”
Spring was approaching, and never again was the American army to suffer as it did that winter at Valley Forge. Those who endured, and lived through it, won such glory as few men achieve.
Colonel Morgan rejoined his command in the spring. The enemy were beginning to show signs of animation. Rumours were about that Howe intended to leave Philadelphia, and then another to the effect that he was to be recalled.
One day a company of Rangers was sent to support Lafayette at Barren Hill, Rodney among the number.246Two British generals were marching their men by different routes from Philadelphia to capture the distinguished Frenchman and his command.
“Here,” thought young Allison, “is my chance,” and he set his face, which had noticeably hardened during the cruel winter. No more would it look with favour on the flattering smiles of a girl; at least Rodney had so resolved.
When the charge was made in characteristic Ranger manner, Allison was in the front line and was the last to turn back, though there were several bullet holes in his clothes. Another charge, and again he was in the lead. A big redcoat was upon him before he could reload. He clubbed his rifle, knocked aside the bayonet thrust and felled his antagonist. Then, when he turned to retreat, it was too late; a flanking party was at his back, and, with several other prisoners, he was driven off to Philadelphia.
Into the Provost Prison on Walnut Street he was huddled along with others. Oh, the squalor of it! The air was foul, the food poor, and the officer in charge, Captain Cunningham, a brutal man, inflamed with drink most of the time.
How his head ached the following morning! At first he attributed it to the foul air, but surely that could not cause every bone in his body to ache, nor the parched, feverish condition of his mouth. Was he, after so long escaping the hazards of camp and battle, to die in a hole like that old prison? That had been the fate of many a man.
247
“Hello, Allison. I’m glad, yet sorry, to find you here.”
Rodney looked up. They had just brought in Lawrence Enderwood. For a few minutes, in the pleasure of companionship, the lad forgot the fever pains, but they would not be forgotten for long.
Enderwood entreated Cunningham to send a doctor, but was gruffly told to mind his business. The next morning Rodney was delirious.
248CHAPTER XXVIIA BLENDED ROSE
For weeks the Quaker City girls had been looking forward with much anticipation and great eagerness to the eighteenth day of May, 1778. On that day there was to be a most wonderful, grand and gorgeous pageant in honour of the Howes.
There was much chirping and fluttering those evenings in the homes of the Shippens, the Chews, the Achmutys, the Redmans, and others. In the midst of all this lived Elizabeth Danesford, and a very lively part of it she was.
Among all the Philadelphia beauties––and none in all this great land or the lands across the seas could excel them––Lisbeth was a peeress. About her shrine could be found as many worshippers as any of the charming queens could boast. Scions of Britain’s aristocracy, favoured with a glimpse from under her dark lashes, forgot their other duties and waited upon her whims. And she, Tory though she was, delighted in seeing the haughty bend the knee to a girl from the Old Dominion.
And that graceful fellow, Andre, who had a knack for rhyme, a little skill with the brush, and could design249a lady’s costume with even better success than he could pen a verse, ah, he was in his seventh heaven! Time enough to sorrow bye and bye when he should step from a cart with a rope about his neck, all because of Benedict Arnold.
There was a triumphal arch erected in honour of Lord Howe, and another in honour of his brother, the general. There were pavilions to build around the arena in which gaily attired knights, mounted on richly caparisoned steeds, were to contend, knights in white and knights in black, and their reward the favours to be bestowed by the fair damsels of the “Blended Rose” or “The Burning Mountain.” And there were men and women no doubt––usually there are––who would have sold their immortal souls rather than have missed an invitation to attend.
Never before had America witnessed such a brave display, the parade of floats upon the river, the fireworks, the tournaments, the dazzling costumes, the sumptuous banquet and the brilliant ball to conclude it all; and then that beautiful Italian name, “Mischianza,” the title by which it should be known to future generations.
The sun was winking at the closed curtains of Lisbeth’s room the next morning as she stood before her mirror for a farewell glance at her splendid attire, and that towering head-dress flashing with jewels over which the hair-dresser had worked long and marvellously. The face was fresh, the beautiful eyes undimmed,250the eyes of a conqueror, flashing as she recalled Lord Howe bending low over her fair hand with unmistakable admiration in his face.
While she thus admired herself, the drums were beating and the soldiers were marching out of the city to capture Lafayette, who, it was thought, would make a suitable decoration for the glory of the Howes. Really they should take away with them something in the way of glory other than memories of an idle winter amid Philadelphia’s hospitality, and of the pomp and beauty of the “Mischianza.” But the poor soldiers came marching back without their prize, while the ladies were yet talking of the fête, their costumes and their conquests. Yet, as we have learned, the soldiers, missing their prize, did bring back a meagre harvest for the maw of the Provost Prison, and of that Rodney Allison was a part.
What of the poor fellow we left moaning in delirium, and Lawrence Enderwood, doing his best to quiet his friend, while he inwardly raged at their jailer’s brutality? He was a very sick lad, as Lawrence could see by the morning light filtering through the dirt of the windows.
“He’ll not last long in this den; they die like flies. I know, for I’ve seen ’em,” said a haggard prisoner, who had entered the prison a hale, lusty man and was now a tottering skeleton.
Helpless to aid his friend, and forced to sit idly by and see him suffer and die, Lawrence Enderwood buried his face in his hands.