THE RIDE TO THE MILL
Theearly morning had not yet gone when Little Peter started on his journey to the mill. He knew the place well, for many a time had he gone there for his father. It was an antiquated structure beside a pond, which had been formed by a dam built across the very brook near which he and Indian John had passed the preceding night.
The work at the mill had been somewhat interrupted since the outbreak of the war, but the increasing necessities of the people of Old Monmouth had led the miller to resume his labors, and Sarah had informed Little Peter that he would surely find him in his accustomed place.
At times, the road led through the woods, and the boy could almost touch the bushes that grew close to the sandy roadway on either side. His view was somewhat obstructed by these,—and that fact, together with the unbroken stillness that rested overall, combined to make Little Peter watchful, and somewhat fearful as well.
The sunlight flickered through the treetops and cast fantastic shadows on the ground. The horses did not increase their speed above a slow trot, for the heat was oppressive and the sandy road was heavy; and, eager as Little Peter was to be back again at Benzeor's house, he had not the heart to urge on the toiling beasts. The mill was not more than three miles from the place from which he had started, and at the pace at which the horses were then going the lad thought he would be back in less than two hours.
He had covered about half of the way to the mill when his horses, with a sudden snort of fear, darted to one side of the roadway. Little Peter quickly drew the reins tight, and stood up to discover the cause of the alarm.
Two men stepped from the bushes into the road, and as they grasped the horses by their bits the lad at once recognized them as Barzilla Giberson and Jacob Vannote.
"We thought you were Benzeor," exclaimed Barzilla, as he discovered who the driver was.
"I've got his horses," replied Little Peter.
"So I see. What are you doing with them?"
"Going to the mill. You know the children are at Benzeor's house, and Sarah wanted me to go for some meal. She said there was none in the house and her father wasn't likely to be home in time to get it, so I came for it."
"Where's your father?"
"He's been sent to New York."
"So I've heard. Little Peter, do you know who made the attack on your house?"
"It was Fenton's gang, I'm sure."
"So am I, and I ought to know, for I was there myself."
"You there?" exclaimed Little Peter. He did not refer to the suspicions he had entertained concerning the very men who then stood before him; but he had never expected them to declare their actions so boldly. The alarm which he had felt, when the two men had suddenly presented themselves in the road, was greatly increased now, and for a moment he glanced quickly about as if he were seeking some avenue of escape.
"Yes, we were there," resumed Barzilla, apparently ignoring the lad's alarm. "I didn't know but you knew it, and I've feltmean enough about it, too. We didn't have anything to do with what happened there," he hastily added; "but the truth is, we thought it was about time some kind of a stop was put to the doings of the pine robbers,—so Jacob, here, and I pretended to go in with them. Of course we didn't like the work, but we hoped we could learn enough about their plans to trap them. And we've almost succeeded. We've been as busy as you have, my lad, and pretty soon we hope the murderers of your mother will be run to cover."
Little Peter had never thought of the scheme which Barzilla mentioned, and at first he did not know whether to believe him or not. Certainly appearances were against him, but he was in no position to dispute the statement.
"Is that what Benzeor was doing, too?" he inquired.
"Benzeor? Benzeor Osburn? Don't you know what he had to do"—
"Hold on, Barzilla," interrupted Jacob. "Little Peter doesn't know about him, or he wouldn't let the children stay there."
"Why? What do you mean? Aren't the children safe there?" said Peter quickly.
"Safe? They couldn't be safer if they were in China, or some other heathing land," said Barzilla. "Even Benzeor's horses are safe. There isn't such a team as that left in Old Monmouth," he added, "and if his beasts aren't touched, I don't think you need to worry very much about the young ones."
"I don't understand," said Little Peter.
"You don't need to," said Jacob quickly, "You've got enough to worry about, my boy, without bothering your head over Barzilla's words. He talks too much, anyway. You just go on and get the meal for Sarah; that's all you need to think about now."
"Yes, but Little Peter ought to know a bit more," said Barzilla doggedly. "The truth is that we've run some of Fenton's gang into these very woods. There are several of us scouring the region, and it's only fair to tell you that you may run across some of 'em if you keep on. For my part I advise you to turn back and not go to the mill at all. It isn't safe."
"Nobody'll touch him. Let him go on," said Jacob. "The children will have to be fed, and he might as well get the meal. He's safe enough."
"He can do as he pleases," muttered Barzilla.
Little Peter was perplexed, for the actions and words of the men were sadly confusing. Tom had reported to him some of their previous conversations, and his own suspicions, as we know, had been aroused. If Barzilla spoke truly now, he was in no slight danger himself, while the very decided difference of opinion between the two men tended to increase his confusion.
"I'm goin' to tell you some more," said Jacob. "Last night some of Fenton's gang went over to Mr. Farr's. You know the old man, don't you?"
"You mean Thomas Farr, the old man who lives with his wife and daughter over on the road to Imlaystown?"
"That's the very man. Well, Lew Fenton and some of his gang went over there about midnight, and attacked the house. There wasn't any one in it but the old man and his wife and their daughter, and you know she's old enough to have arrived at years of discretion, to put it mildly. The old people barricaded the doors with logs of wood just as soon as they discovered who the men were.
"The pine robbers tried to break the door down with some fence rails, but when thatfailed, they fired a volley of bullets right through the door. One ball broke the leg of the old man, but still they wouldn't let the pine robbers in. Then the villains went around to the back door and succeeded in smashing that in. They stuck a bayonet into the old man, who was helpless on the floor, and then they murdered his wife right before his eyes. One of the men struck the daughter with the butt of his gun, but, although she was pretty badly hurt, she managed to get out of the house.
"Fenton's gang didn't wait to plunder the place, but, as they were afraid she'd raise an alarm, they all cleared out. 'Twas mighty lucky for them that they did, for there was a lot of us near by. You see we'd seen Benzeor"—
"Hold on, Jacob. That's enough. Now, Peter, you see what's going on, and it's my opinion that some of Fenton's gang, and maybe Fenton himself, are in these very woods. That's why I advised ye not to go on. Now you can do jest as ye like, for you've got pretty much the whole story."
"I think you'll be all right," said Jacob. "It's only a little way up to the mill, and the children need that meal. I should go ifI was in your place, and if I didn't have to keep watch here, I'd go with ye myself."
"I'll go," said Little Peter quietly.
"Good luck to ye, then," said Barzilla. "We'll see you here when you come back."
Little Peter picked up the reins and at once started, leaving the two men behind him, who remained standing in the road, and watched him until he disappeared from sight. The lad's feelings, however, had undergone a very decided change. He was convinced that the story concerning the aged Thomas Farr was true, and he was also persuaded that his suspicions of Jacob and Barzilla were unjust.
Every tree now might be the hiding-place of Fenton, or some of his band. Each moment he expected to see some one step forth into the road before him and stop his horses. The very silence in the woods served to increase his alarm. He quickened the speed of the horses, and soon they were wet with foam, as they toiled on through the heavy sand. The cry of a bird, or the chattering of a squirrel, caused the excited lad to glance fearfully in the direction from which the sound came. To his excited imagination the woods were filled with his enemies, and more thanonce a fallen tree or a broken branch took on the outlines of a man.
It was with a feeling of intense relief that at last he saw the crumbling old mill before him. The sound of the water, as it dropped from the dam to the bed of the brook below, was like music in his ears; and when he discovered the miller himself standing in the doorway, he again increased the speed of his horses, and soon halted before the mill.
"I've come for Benzeor Osburn's grist," he said, as he leaped from his seat to the ground.
"They must be pretty hungry over there, from the looks of your horses."
"They are. Has any one been here this morning?"
"Not a soul. There's no work now, with all this fighting going on. Have you heard anything from the soldiers?"
"Not much, only that both the armies must be near here now."
There was nothing, however, in the presence of the old mill to indicate that war's rude alarms were to be heard anywhere in the region. The monotonous sound of the falling water, the dull hum of the big wheel, the little garden which the miller had plantednear his log house close by, the dog lying asleep on the doorsill, the little urchins playing in the waters of the brook, the hens fluttering in the roadway and covering themselves with dust,—all seemed to declare that only peace and quiet were to be found in the region.
And yet, only a few miles away two great armies had assembled, and, on the morrow the summer air would resound with the booming of cannon, and many a buffcoat and redcoat would be left lying side by side upon the plains of Old Monmouth, never again to be mindful of the struggle, or hear or heed the calls of their officers as they led the men into battle.
At that very time, if the words of Barzilla Giberson were true, the woods, which extended between the mill and the main road, concealed some of the hated pine robbers, as well as outraged patriots who were searching for their enemies.
The wagon was soon loaded, the miller's share of the grist having first been set aside, and Little Peter climbed up on the seat and grasped the reins, as he prepared to start again.
"You'd better be careful," said LittlePeter. "I'm told some of the pine robbers are hiding in these woods."
"I'm not afraid," laughed the miller. "I never harmed them and they won't harm me."
The lad related the story of the attack upon the house of Thomas Farr, but still the miller to all appearances was not deeply impressed.
"I haven't any money and they've nothing to gain by disturbing me. I grind my grists just the same, whether it's a king or Congress that rules over me, and I don't care much, for my part, which it is. I don't bother my head about such things. All I want is good water and plenty of corn, and I'm happy all the day long."
Little Peter had given his warning, so he said no more, but bidding the miller good-day, he spoke to his horses and at once departed.
His load was heavier now than when he had come, and consequently he was compelled to let his horses walk. Even then the sweltering beasts labored heavily under the intense heat, and he was compelled to stop frequently and permit them to rest in some cool and shady spot.
His own fears had not departed, however, but every turn of the heavy wheels brought him nearer to the main road, and once there he thought he would be safe. Already one of the three miles had been left behind him, and he was about to start on, after the brief rest he had given the horses, when he was startled by the sound of something breaking through the bushes that lined the road in front of him.
Tremblingly he waited a moment, gazing with frightened face at the place in the road where the man, or animal, or whatever it was, would first appear. His suspense was not relieved when a horse and rider broke through the bushes and stopped only a few yards in advance of him.
Little Peter's face was deadly pale when he instantly recognized the man as none other than Lewis Fenton himself. He noted the great size, the broad shoulders, the powerful arms, for the pine robber was riding without a coat, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled back, disclosing the great bunches of muscles; but more than all else the brutal face terrified him.
Before he could speak or move, Fenton leaped to the ground, and leaving his horse by the roadside approached the wagon.
"How now, young man? Give an account of yourself. Where you going? Who are you? As I live, if it isn't Little Peter Van Mater!" he added in evident astonishment.
As he spoke, he grasped the frightened lad by the shoulder and dragged him to the ground. Then the brutal, cowardly man struck him two savage blows. The sight of the woods and even of the pine robber faded from Little Peter's eyes, and the unconscious boy dropped heavily upon the sand. Even then Fenton was not satisfied, for again and again he kicked the body, apparently not yet convinced that life was extinct.
But Little Peter suffered no pain. With sightless eyes, his blood-stained face looked up at the blue sky above the treetops, but neither the passing clouds nor the further actions of the brutal pine robber were heeded by the lad.
AFTER THE BATTLE
Tom Coward, as we know, had been selected to serve as one of the guides of the American army. The roads were not so numerous as to cause any fear of serious trouble from confusion; but boys and young men from the region were nevertheless assigned to this duty, and in some instances were said to have been so greatly excited as to have failed in finding the way themselves. To this cause some assigned the failure of Morgan's dragoons to enter the battle; but doubtless there were other causes as well which prevented that terrible band of riflemen from having a share in the struggle.
Tom had been reserved to move with the troops that were under the command of General Washington himself, and that followed the division which General Lee had failed to lead into battle. Frightened as the lad was, he still noted keenly all that was occurring about him, and had been as highly excited asany over the interview which took place between Washington and Lee when the latter was retreating. The impressions he there received were those which the people of Old Monmouth ever after retained concerning Charles Lee, for he was remembered, not for his experiences abroad or for his successes in the south, but as the man who had been the traitor in the battle.
When the engagement began, Tom's duties as guide were ended, but as no one gave him any instructions, he was driven from one band of men to another, and while he still retained the rifle which he had taken when he had departed from Benzeor's house, he had not made any use of it.
For a time he remained within sight of the young lieutenant, and they were together when in the early part of the battle Captain Molly had done the deed which has caused her name to be remembered until this day. Molly had marched with her husband, and as the advanced batteries opened fire upon each other the intrepid woman had been running back and forth between the men and a little spring, which was near by, bringing water to her husband and his companions. Her task was no light one in the heat of that day.
As she had started to return from one of her visits to the spring, she turned just in time to see her husband fall as he was advancing to his post, for he was a cannoneer, as we already know. Molly hastily ran to his assistance, but she at once perceived that he was dead. She heard an officer order the cannon to be moved from its position, but instantly controlling her grief, she declared her purpose to take her husband's place. Amidst the cheers of the men she did so, and so bravely and well did she perform the duty, that after the battle was ended General Greene himself presented her to the great commander and related the story of her bravery. Washington added his words of praise and bestowed upon her a lieutenant's commission. The men received the news with loud cheers, and then themselves bestowed upon "Molly Pitcher" the title of "Captain Molly," and as Captain Molly she was known thereafter.
Another story, told afterwards by the Frenchmen, reflected great credit upon General Clinton, and perhaps in a measure atoned for the action of that commander in wantonly burning so many of the houses in Old Monmouth. An American officer with abouttwenty of his men advanced under the English batteries to observe their position. The redcoats opened fire, and the officer's aid-de-camp fell at his side. The men, who were dragoons, instantly turned and fled,—that is, all save the officer, who, although he was directly under the fire of the cannon, calmly dismounted and advanced to discover whether the fallen man was dead or not, or whether the wound had been mortal. Quickly discovering that the man was dead, the American officer, visibly weeping, turned and remounted his horse and slowly rejoined his comrades. The officer was the young Marquis de Lafayette, and his white charger had been recognized by General Clinton, who himself ordered his men not to fire, and doubtless thereby saved the life of the brave young nobleman. It was long cherished as the one deed of mercy in the midst of a campaign and battle which left its marks of suffering and sorrow on every side.
An instance of the other side of the British commander's character came to Tom's attention not long afterwards, when he heard of the misfortune of an old lady seventy years of age, in whose house General Clinton made his headquarters. The British officer,noticing that his hostess had caused all of her better furniture and valuables to be removed, informed her that she need have had no fears for the safety of her possessions, for he himself would protect her and them, and urged her to have them brought back again. As the old lady expressed her fears and objected, he repeated his assurances so strongly that she yielded and sent a man with a wagon to the place in which they had been concealed.
When the wagon-load arrived in front of her door, she in person applied to the British commander for a guard; but the permission was refused and, not even giving her a change of dress for herself or her aged husband, the goods were at once confiscated, and the old lady was compelled to give up her bedroom and sleep with the negro women upon the floor of the kitchen.
Among the congregation which had assembled at the "new church" to watch the battle was one man who, instead of joining his friends upon the roof or steeple, took his seat upon one of the gravestones. Not long afterwards, a cannon-ball came speeding in that direction, and struck the unfortunate man.
The congregation upon the roof did not wait for the customary benediction to be pronounced, we may be sure, and while the most of them hastily dispersed, a few remained to carry the wounded man into the "meeting-house," where he died within a few minutes, and the stains of his blood remained for many years upon the floor. It was within six feet of the west end of this same "new church" that the body of the unfortunate British Colonel Monckton, over which the contending forces had such a desperate struggle, was buried.
Within the vicinity of Monmouth Court House many houses and farm buildings were set on fire and burned by the redcoats, some of whom openly declared that there was no hope of conquering the rebels until "they had burned every house and killed every man, woman, and child." Just how they expected to conquerafterthey had burned the buildings and slain the people is not clear to us to-day; but doubtless the expression and the purpose alike were born of the fury of the battle, and was only one among many of the results of war, which even in its mildest forms appeals to all that is bad in men. And as the campaign in Old Monmouthpresented none of the milder forms of war, such deeds, terrible as they were, were not unnatural.
Nor were they all confined to one side, for the men in buff and blue were as much aroused as the men in scarlet, and, while naturally the anecdotes and incidents of the battle are largely those of the cruel deeds of the redcoats, doubtless if all things had been recorded, we should have found that many of those brave ancestors of ours were not entirely guiltless of similar deeds.
An unusual story was that of Captain Cook of the Virginia Corps, who was shot through the lungs. He was carried into a room in a near-by house and ordered by the surgeon not to speak. A brother officer came into the room and tenderly asked of the wounded man whether anything could be done for him. Captain Cook, in spite of his sufferings, was mindful of the surgeon's words and made no reply. Mistaking the cause of the silence, his friend departed from the house and reported to Washington that Captain Cook was dead, and then the commander ordered a coffin to be placed under the window of the room in which the brave captain was supposed to be lying dead. But Captain Cook wasnot dead, nor did he die until many years afterwards, and lived to visit several times the good people in Old Monmouth, who had tenderly ministered to his wants until he was able to rejoin the army.
After the battle, many of the dead were found beneath the shade of trees, or beside the little streams to which they had crawled for shelter or for water; and many of these had perished, not from wounds, but from their labors in the intense heat of the day. Several houses at Monmouth Court House were filled with the wounded after the battle, and every room in the Court House itself was likewise filled. The suffering soldiers lay upon the straw which had been scattered over the floors, and the groans and cries of the wounded and the moanings of the dying resounded together. The faces of many were so blackened that their dearest friends did not recognize them, and as fast as they died their bodies were taken and buried in pits, which were only slightly covered by the sand.
A similar service was rendered for the enemy's dead, and among them was found a sergeant of dragoons whose immense body had been a familiar sight to both armies, for the man was said to have been the tallest soldierever seen in all the struggle of the Revolution, and to have measured seven feet and four inches in height.
So, side by side, or in neighboring graves, the nameless bodies of friends and foes were left for their last long sleep. The roar of the cannon, the shouts of the men, the calls of the officers, the bitter feelings of the awful war were never to disturb or arouse them again. They had done their part, and done it well; but the land for which they struggled could never mark their resting-places, nor perhaps recall the names of all. But the heroes whose names we praise would never have been honored except for the part the faithful and brave, but nameless and forgotten, heroes took. In honoring the one class, let us never forget to pay a tribute of honor and of praise to the unknown and forgotten heroes of Old Monmouth.
The loss of the Americans in the battle had been three hundred and sixty-two. That of the British, while it was reported to have been four hundred and sixteen, was doubtless much greater, for the Americans buried no less than two hundred and forty-five of the redcoats, and had no means of knowing how many had been carried away. Washingtonhimself believed the loss to have been as great as twelve hundred.
Who were the victors on the plains of Old Monmouth? What were the effects of the campaign upon the fortunes of the struggling States? Most American writers have claimed that the victory belonged to the Continentals because they had driven the British from the field, while many British writers have claimed that it was a drawn battle.
Certainly, Washington must have felt bitterly disappointed, for he had hoped to defeat the enemy and capture their baggage and stores. His failure to do so was not due to the British, but to the treachery of Charles Lee. Had Lee carried out the orders given him, there can be little doubt to-day that the battle of Monmouth would have aided in putting an end to the war long before peace came.
We are not concerned by what might have been the result, however, but by what was the result. Clinton succeeded in withdrawing his troops and saving his baggage train, and with both soon after embarked (June 30) upon the ships which Lord Howe had been keeping in waiting off Sandy Hook, and thereby gained the safety of New York.But his men were greatly disheartened, and came to regard the despised "rebels" in an entirely new light. Indeed, within a week more than two thousand deserted, the most of whom were Hessians, and the confidence of those who remained was sadly broken. While it is a current saying that "nothing succeeds like success," it is also evident that nothing fails like failure, and this was as true in those trying days of the Revolution as it is to-day, and General Clinton soon found it to be so.
Upon the Americans, the moral effect of the campaign and battle was more needed than the material effect. Valley Forge was passed now, Philadelphia had been abandoned by the British, and the Americans had found upon the plains of Old Monmouth, as they had at Trenton and Princeton, that their men were not inferior to their enemies, while their officers were among the best the world had known. The opponents and enemies of Washington, and they were many at the time both within and without Congress, were compelled to be silent, and the great commander was free to face his difficulties and dangers, which were not ended after the battle of Monmouth. That campaign had servedchiefly to place behind him one more of his problems, but, as we shall see, many yet remained to try the soul of the noblest American of them all.
HE DISCOVERED THAT THE SOLDIER WAS HIS FRIENDHE DISCOVERED THAT THE SOLDIER WAS HIS FRIEND
Meanwhile, what had become of the lad Tom Coward? Alarmed by the battle, not daring to fight and yet not knowing where to withdraw, although his fear had not been strong enough to lead to such a result, he was driven about by the movements of the men, and in one of the lulls which came in the conflict, he found himself almost alone. He was near a barn which stood beyond the borders of the battlefield, and was just about to turn the corner when he stumbled over the body of a fallen man.
As he glanced down, he was almost overcome when he discovered that the soldier was his friend, the young lieutenant. A hurried examination revealed that he was still living, though he was badly wounded in the throat. The lad lifted the head of the suffering man, but a groan caused him to desist. Almost overcome by grief and fear, he turned to seek for aid.
As he looked quickly about him, he perceived a man in the distance on the border of the woods away from the battle-ground.Instantly he turned and ran toward him, and to his surprise discovered that the man was none other than Friend Nathan Brown.
"Come, Nathan! come! Be quick! Lieutenant Gordon's over here by the barn. He's terribly wounded and may die any moment. Come and help me with him!"
The Quaker instantly responded, and without explaining how it had happened that he should be discovered so near a scene to which in spirit as well as in practice he was strongly opposed, ran by the side of the eager lad to the place where the wounded man had fallen.
TOM COWARD'S PATIENT
Theplace where young Lieutenant Gordon was lying was in the rear of the barn which belonged to the parsonage of the "new church." After the bullet had hit him, he had managed to crawl to that secluded place, but the sounds of the battle, which was still being waged in the vicinity, were not long heard by the wounded officer, for he had soon become unconscious, and the roar of the cannon and the shouts of the men were all unheeded and unheard.
"Is he dead?" said Nathan in a low voice, as he looked down upon the unconscious man.
"No! no!" replied Tom hastily; "or at least he wasn't a minute ago. No, he's still alive," he added after a hurried examination. "We must carry him away from this place."
"I see no place for thy friend. These sons of Belial are not likely to permit thee to depart unnoticed."
Friend Nathan was trembling, and his face betrayed his alarm. And there was much to frighten him. Clouds of smoke could be seen not far away, and the loud shouts of men and the reports of their guns could be distinctly heard. The struggle near the meeting-house was one of the most severe in all the battle, and the danger of which the frightened Nathan spoke was not unreal. But Tom's fears had departed now, and although he never fully understood the cause of the change in his feelings, the sight of his suffering friend and his determination to aid him had banished all thoughts concerning his own personal safety.
At a distance of a half mile, Tom could see a little farmhouse, and he hastily decided that the young lieutenant must be carried there. The building was on the border of the plain and on the side opposite to the place where the struggle was going on.
There would be danger in the attempt to carry him across the field, but thinking only of his friend, Tom said hastily, "We must carry him to that farmhouse yonder, Nathan. I don't know who lives there, but whoever does won't refuse to receive a wounded man, I know. You take hold of his feet, and I'lllift the head and shoulders, and we'll get him there somehow. Come, Nathan, we mustn't delay a minute."
"Have it thine own way, Friend Thomas," replied Nathan, as he stooped and grasped the legs of the wounded officer.
Tom gently lifted the head of the young lieutenant at the same time, and carefully across the field the two men began to move with their burden. Their progress necessarily was slow, and the lad's fears were not allayed by the evident alarm of his companion. Nathan repeatedly glanced behind him, and several times Tom was compelled to speak sharply to recall the frightened man to their present task. The shouts and reports of the guns were increasing, and Tom's strongest desire was to avoid attracting the attention of any of the combatants.
They had safely passed beyond the orchard, and he was just beginning to hope that their efforts would be successful, when suddenly Nathan's hat was lifted from his head and the sound of a whistling musket-ball was heard as it passed above them.
For a moment, the startled Nathan looked down at his hat, and as he perceived the hole in it which the bullet had made, he instantlydropped his burden, and turning sharply about, started in a swift run across the field.
"Come back, Nathan! Come back! Don't leave me here!" pleaded Tom; but Nathan did not heed the call.
His pace was a marvelous one for a man of his years, and as he bent low over the ground, as if to avoid other bullets which might be coming toward him, and sped swiftly forward, under other circumstances Tom might have felt inclined to laugh at the ludicrous sight the fleeing man of peace presented. But as it was he felt much more inclined to cry than to laugh, and, as he realized his own helplessness, he knew not what to do. If he had been alone he might have followed Nathan and gained a place of safety, but, as he glanced down upon the suffering man, who now lay stretched upon the ground, his whole soul rebelled against the thought of deserting his friend in a time like that.
What could he do? The desperate lad looked about him hoping to discover some one whom he might summon to his aid. In the distance he could see the bands of struggling soldiers, and their shouts and shots could be clearly heard. But they were allintent upon their own contest, and there was no one who would hear or heed him if he should call.
He could not abandon his friend—that much at least was certain; and at last he determined to do his utmost to carry the helpless, wounded man himself. Placing his arms beneath the shoulders of the unconscious lieutenant, and striving to rest the head against his own body, he started slowly on, dragging the man with him. His progress was necessarily slow, and he was compelled to stop frequently, both for his own sake and that of his friend. Still, on and on he persistently made his way. The intense heat of the day, his constant fear that life would depart from the body he was dragging forward, the sound of the battle behind him, all combined to increase his troubles; but not for a moment did he think of abandoning his efforts for his friend.
Proceeding slowly, stopping at frequent intervals and then resuming his efforts, he steadily drew nearer to the farmhouse he had perceived in the distance. How much time had been consumed he could not determine. The minutes seemed like hours to the struggling lad. His own danger was all forgottenfor the time, and the one purpose in his mind was to carry Lieutenant Gordon to some place of safety, where it should be possible to do something for the relief of the desperately wounded man.
At last, only one more lot remained to be crossed, and with renewed hope Tom was about to lift his burden, which he had dropped for one of his brief rests, when he suddenly discovered a man running toward him. Startled and alarmed by the sight he quickly perceived that the approaching man was Friend Nathan, who, hatless and with a dripping face, was soon by his side.
"Thou hast put me to shame, Friend Thomas," said Nathan soberly. "Thou art a better man than I, as well as a braver. I know not why it was, but when my hat was lifted from my head, and I perceived that hole the bullet had made, I lost my self-control. My teaching has been that of peace and I am poorly prepared for the contests of war. I will give thee no cause to complain now."
"Take hold, then," said Tom quickly. "We must get the lieutenant out of this heat, or there'll be no hope for him."
Nathan eagerly responded, and tenderlylifting the wounded man they proceeded across the lot.
When they halted for their first rest, Nathan said, "I have a word to say to thee, Friend Thomas. What did Washington say to thee when he heard thy demand for a recompense for the beast I let thee have?"
"Say? He didn't say anything, because I didn't say anything to him. You don't suppose he hadn't anything more to do than to talk with a boy like me about your old, broken-winded razor-back, do you? I don't even know what has become of the beast. I know I'm glad I don't have to ride it any more."
"'Tis well, Friend Thomas," replied Nathan, although Tom thought he discovered a trace of disappointment in the expression upon his face. "'Tis well, and I would not have it otherwise. I have been humiliated by my weakness in deserting thee, a mere lad, at such a time as this. I would like also to restore to you the half-joe you paid me for my beast." And as Nathan spoke, he drew the coin from his pocket and held it forth for Tom to take.
"I don't want your money," said the lad quickly. "Take hold of the lieutenant again,and this time we'll not stop before we come to the house."
Once more they tenderly took up their burden, and slowly advancing, soon approached the house. In the doorway a man and a young woman, evidently his daughter, were standing, watching the movements of the approaching men with a curiosity which the noise of the battle in the distance could not entirely dispel.
Tom's heart was lighter when he recognized the man as Jonathan Cook and the young woman as his daughter Mary.
"We've brought this man here," said Tom quickly, "to find a resting-place for him. It's Lieutenant Gordon, and he's terribly wounded. Will you let us put him in one of your beds?"
"We will that," said Mr. Cook. "We've got one poor fellow here now, and will do all we can for another, too. Take him right in here," he added, leading the way to a bedroom adjoining the living-room on the ground floor.
Tom and Nathan eagerly followed him, and in a brief time had placed the suffering man on the high bed. Although the lad was almost exhausted by his efforts, withNathan's aid he soon removed the clothing of the young officer, and then Mary came and bathed his bleeding face, and with many expressions of sympathy listened to the story the weary boy had to tell.
"I don't suppose it's been wise or safe for us to stay here," said Mary, "but we just couldn't leave the old place until we had to. We've been keeping watch all day long, and if the redcoats come this way we shall have to go. It's been a good thing we've stayed, though, for Captain Nealey is upstairs and he's almost as badly wounded as this poor man is. Oh, it's horrible, horrible!"
But intense as Mary's feelings were, they did not prevent her from bestowing a very tender care upon the unconscious young lieutenant, and as soon as Tom was satisfied that his friend was receiving better nursing than he could give, the lad went out of the room.
He discovered Nathan bathing his face and hands near the water-barrel, which stood beneath the corner of the eaves, and after he had followed his example, he began to be sensible of his own feeling of exhaustion.
"Now, Friend Thomas, thee must lie down and get some sleep," said Nathan. "I will assist Mary in her care of thy friend, and Iinsist that my words he obeyed. The heavy task has been thine, and my own cowardice has added to thy burdens, so that now it is thy turn to rest."
The tired lad was easily persuaded, and after again going into the room in which the unconscious lieutenant was lying, he followed Mr. Cook up the stairs to a room above, and soon threw himself heavily upon the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
It was dark when he awoke, and at first it was almost impossible for him to recall the events of the day. They soon returned, however, and hastily arising, he made his way down the stairs and entered the living-room, where he discovered Nathan seated in one of the large wooden chairs. The moonlight came in through the open windows, and as Nathan perceived the lad, he said,—
"And did sleep come to thee, Friend Thomas?"
"Yes. I'm rested now. How's the lieutenant?"
"There has been no change. Mary comes every hour and bathes his face in cool water from the well, but he does not open his eyes."
"Is the battle ended? I don't hear any guns."
"I know not. Since sunset all has been quiet, and it is now midnight."
"I'll watch now, and you go upstairs and get some sleep."
"Nay. I ought not to rest after my cowardice."
"Never mind that. You will do all the more if you rest awhile now."
Nathan was soon persuaded, and Tom took his place as watch. He could hear the troubled breathing of the suffering man, but it was the only sound to be heard. Outside the house all was silent, and as the slow hours passed, the only break which came was the occasional visit of Mary to bathe the face of the sufferer.
At daybreak, Mr. Cook brought the news of the retreat of the British, and great was the rejoicing in the old farmhouse when it was learned that at least the Americans had not suffered defeat in the battle of the preceding day.
Lieutenant Gordon was still living, although no signs of improvement in his condition could be discovered. Tom speedily decided that, as he was not enrolled in the army, there was nothing to prevent him from remaining and caring for his friend. Nathanalso declared that he would return to his aid as soon as he had gone home and explained to Rachel the necessity for a further absence, and the lad did not protest, for he thought he understood the motive which prompted the action.
During the day, Mr. Cook brought the reports of the battle, the hundred prisoners taken, the number of the dead and wounded, and the measures which were being taken in the scattered farmhouses and the old Court-House for the care of the sufferers.
Tom did not leave the house. His one thought now was of his wounded friend, and all that loving hearts and gentle hands could do was bestowed upon the suffering soldier, who as yet had not shown that he was aware of what was going on about him.
The long day passed and the dreary night followed, but still Tom and Mary cared for the sufferer. Captain Nealey was said to be improving rapidly, but no change as yet had come in the condition of the young lieutenant.
It was the morning of the second day, and in the early light Tom had gone out to the water-barrel again to bathe his face and hands. His heart was heavy, for apparentlyLieutenant Gordon was worse, and all the efforts of the lad and Mary had produced no improvement in his condition.
As Tom started to enter the house he halted upon the doorstep and looked up the road. A heavy farm wagon drawn by two horses was approaching, and as it came nearer the lad suddenly started as he thought he recognized the team. Surely those were Benzeor Osburn's horses. A moment later his suspicions were confirmed, and he knew that the lumbering wagon was his foster-father's.