THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
"What'swrong, 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 hisgun, 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 motherthat 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 couldshe, 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 achance 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, andthey'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 ownfather 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!"
"TOM COWARD, YOU'RE AFRAID!""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. Itwas 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 himselfin 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.
INDIAN JOHN
Indian Johnhad 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 neveruttered. 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 notknow 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 hadtold 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 redmen 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 prayerswere 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 bandedthemselves 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 hugemonsters 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 uponhis 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 adifferent 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 wouldnot 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 motherhad 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 NewBrunswick, 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 himall 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 didnot 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.
THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT
Itwas 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 learnwhat 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'msure 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 hisplan 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 thearmy 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 differencebetween 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 suchgentle 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 permissionfor 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 wayof 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 findanother 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, youknow. 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.