So all felt that if they were to be hanged in England they would be tried, and on their trial they would be able to make their defense and let the world know under what grievances the American colonies were suffering.
In two days the vessel landed in Falmouth Harbor.
The news that the vessel had on board a number of American prisoners caused thousands of people to flock to the wharf.
The greatest curiosity was manifested.
Had a cargo of wild beasts entered port the curiosity could not have been greater.
In fact, Allen soon learned that the Americans were looked upon as wild beasts or savages, and certainly not as civilized beings.
The windows were filled with members of the fair sex, the sidewalks of the old English town were closely packed by men and children.
Hour after hour they waited to see the show.
A lot of detail, commonly called "red tape," had to be attended to before the prisoners were allowed to land.
A military band escorted a regiment of redcoats down to the dock, and the necessary papers for the transfer of the prisoners were exchanged.
Then across the gangplank walked Ethan Allen and Eben Pike, handcuffed together.
The people on the dock pushed and stared at the Green Mountain men.
"Why, they aren't green!" exclaimed one of the bystanders with disgust.
"No, they aren't Americans; they're Irish," said another.
"Of course they're Irish; Americans are black."
"No, red."
"Not by a long shot; they're all as yellow as guineas."
Absurd as it may appear at this day to have to record such ideas, it is an absolute fact that when it was rumored that the Green Mountain heroes were on their way to England the prevalent idea was that they derived their name from the color of their skin.
When the other prisoners disembarked the march was commenced to the barracks.
The people flocked round the prisoners so that progress was impeded.
The soldiers had to charge the crowd with bayonets many times.
"What did they mean by saying they thought we were Irish?" asked Eben. "I heard an Englishman say in New York that if it had not been for the Irish the Americans would not have rebelled. Of course it was nonsense, but the people do not know us yet, while they do know the Irish."
At the barracks the prisoners were received with as much curiosity as we can imagine was shown by Ferdinand and Isabella when Columbus presented the American Indians in 1492.
Every man was made to answer a lot of questions, and many times over.
Allen was questioned about the strength of the American army, and replied:
"I know not its numbers, but it is well equipped and can beat all the armies you can send over there."
"They are rebels, and only the lowest people sympathize with them."
"Do you call George Washington a common man?" asked Allen.
"He is a rebel, and ought to know better."
"And Richard Montgomery, who fought with you at Havana and Martinique?"
"Is he with the rebels?"
"I had the honor of serving under him."
"He will be hanged, for he was a soldier of his majesty."
"You will have to capture him first."
They could not make anything of Allen, so they desisted questioning and sent all the prisoners to the guardroom.
It was a difficult question for the government of England to decide.
The men were locked up in the barracks at Falmouth, but England did not know what to do with them.
If the prisoners were hanged as rebels, England would be blamed by other civilized nations, and yet it would not do to pardon them.
There was a very powerful opposition among the English people to harsh measures, and, in fact, many English wished America success in its struggle with the tory ministry.
And so Allen and his friends remained in jail, simply because the ministry did not know what to do with them.
Some months later the ministry decided to deport the American prisoners, and the captain of theSolebay, man-of-war, was ordered to take the prisoners back to America under sealed orders.
It was a pleasant change to leave the barrack prison, even for captivity on board a man-of-war.
Gradually the strictness had relaxed and the prisoners were treated better, and Allen fully believed that the meaning of the return to America was that they were to be liberated in exchange.
The master of arms on theSolebaywas an Irishman named Michael Gilligan, and the vessel had only been out two nights when Gilligan sought Allen and offered him his friendship.
"And it's meself as would be a rebel if I were free, but, bad cess to it, I was pressed, and so I made the best of a bad job, and will fight for the flag because it is my duty."
"I admire a brave Englishman——" Allen commenced, but was cut short with the remark:
"I'm not an Englishman, but I'm Irish, and my people are all rebels. Will ye let me be your friend?"
"I shall be only too pleased."
"Then you'll berth with me. Sure it's not such a place as I'd like to be offering you, but it's better than this."
Gilligan held a similar rank to that of a sergeant of a regiment, and was a man of considerable importance on board.
He had a berth between decks, inclosed in canvas, and, as it was large, Allen had plenty of room.
When Cork, or rather the Cove of Cork, now called Queenstown, was reached and theSolebaycast anchor, the rumor spread through the cove that a number of American rebels were on board.
Allen was standing on deck looking over the finest harbor in Europe, when his attention was called to a small boat hailing the war ship.
Some men climbed up on deck and asked for Col. Allen, of America.
Allen was so close that he could not help hearing, and he answered that he was Ethan Allen.
John Hays, a merchant of Cork, clasped Allen's hand and tried to speak, but, instead of words, tears flowed down his cheeks and his voice was choked.
When he did master his emotion he exclaimed, with patriarchal fervor:
"Heaven bless you and all brave men like you who are fighting for liberty."
He introduced his friend, merchant Clark, also of Cork, and said their mission was to offer the patriots such things as they stood in need of.
Clothes, or money, or food would be willingly given if Allen would only say what was most needed.
The offer was gratifying, and Allen expressed a wish for clothes for the prisoners. He explained that, though prisoners for several months, they had not received a change of clothes, and that some were absolutely in rags.
The next day a boat well laden pulled to theSolebay, and suits of clothes were found for each of the thirty-four prisoners.
A complete suit of underwear, an outer suit of warm material, an overcoat and two extra shirts, were bestowed on each of the prisoners, while Allen received superfine broadcloth sufficient for two jackets, and two pairs of breaches, in addition to a suit already made. He also received eight fine Holland shirts and socks ready made, a number of pairs of silk hose, two pairs of shoes, two beaver hats, one of which, richly laced with gold, came from James Bonwell, a wealthy merchant of Cork.
On the following day the boat returned to the ship laden with wines, spirits, sugar, tea and chocolate, a large round of picked [Transcriber's note: pickled?] beef, a number of fat turkeys and many other articles for Allen's personal use, while each of the men received two pounds of tea and six pounds of sugar, with plenty of meat, chickens and turkeys for the mess table of the prisoners.
Two days after the receipt of the stores the captain prohibited anything more being delivered to the prisoners, and took away everything which the men of Cork had given except the clothing.
He shouted himself hoarse about the way the rebels were being feasted.
"I heard him say," says Ethan Allen, in his autobiography, "that by all that was holy the American rebels should not be feasted by the rebels of Ireland."
An application was made by the Mayor of Cork for permission to be granted to Ethan Allen to attend a banquet to be given in his honor by the city, the mayor and ten leading citizens being willing to give bond for his return to the ship the next morning.
The application was refused, and the captain gave order to weigh anchor and put out to sea.
"Sure and the skipper is as hot as a roast pertater," said Gilligan; "he thinks for sure that the rebels of Cork will take you all off the ship by force, so he is going to put out to sea."
TheSolebayleft Cork harbor that day and did not return.
After a long sail the shore of North Carolina was reached, and the hearts of the Americans beat high with hope.
The captain was almost amiable, but it was with a fiendish glee caused by the belief that the American prisoners were to be hanged on American soil.
"I want to see," he said, to Allen, "American trees bearing the best fruit, and plenty of it."
"I am sure I re-echo your wish," answered Allen, whereupon the captain laughed and declared that the fruit he meant was dead Americans hanging from the boughs.
For several weeks theSolebaystayed at Cape Fear, and the prisoners were treated with great harshness.
One morning their hopes were again raised by an order for all to appear on deck.
"Stand in line!" ordered the officer.
The men did so and the roll was called.
"Colonel Allen, step forward!"
It was the first time he had been addressed by his title, and all thought it meant an exchange at least.
"Now select fifteen of the most deserving men among your company, and order them to stand out."
Allen selected the desired number.
"Thank you, Col. Allen. The fifteen will remain, the others can go below. The fifteen will be hanged to-morrow morning at sunrise. I thank you in the name of his majesty for having selected the most worthy."
"Coward!"
It was only one word, but that one word contained a wealth of contempt and scorn which made the officer tremble.
"Place those men in chains!"
The sergeant of marines saluted and gave the order to the remaining prisoners to return to their prison place.
Allen countermanded the order.
"Listen to me. I am a freeborn man, and, though a prisoner, I am a prisoner of war. I was promised fair treatment for myself and men if we would surrender at Quebec. Is this what you call fair treatment?"
"I am very sorry for you, Col. Allen; but, since I am a soldier, I am compelled to obey orders."
"And who gave you such an order?"
"That I may not answer—as you ought to know, being a soldier yourself."
"Are these men to be hanged?"
"So I was ordered to say. I have only acted according to instructions."
It was the man that spoke, not the officer. His softened voice showed that he had carried out a very distasteful order, and that his manhood revolted at it.
"Can I not make an appeal personally to the general commanding?"
"That would be impossible."
"Are these men to be hanged without trial?"
"Col. Allen, you are a brave man, and can face the worst. I am told, though I ought not to tell you, that the American rebels have gained several advantages lately, and the British authorities are determined to stamp out the rebellion; so——" He paused. The man was ashamed to utter what he had heard. Gathering courage from Allen's silence he continued: "We are told that no prisoners are to be treated as prisoners of war, but as outlaws and rebels, to shoot whom will be considered a meritorious act."
"And the object?"
"Can you not see? It is to strike terror into the rebels."
"So be it! But, mark me, I speak as a rebel, but also as a man, and I tell you that for every American hanged without due process of law, ten Englishmen shall die. Do not mistake me! I shall be a free man again, and shall make England suffer. The leaders of the Americans, called by you rebels, will know of this murder and will avenge it."
The British officer made no reply, but waved his hand to the sergeant, who removed the ill-fated fifteen.
By some chance Allen had omitted Eben's name from the fifteen, and while he regretted it at first, he was more than pleased now that the oversight had occurred.
When the prisoners were removed to their part of the lower deck, Eben managed to get close to Allen.
"You don't think they will hang those?" he asked.
"I do not know, my boy. I think they are vile enough for anything."
"I heard that officer, who came aboard with dispatches, say that there was a lot of the patriots close here."
"Of our people?"
"Yes."
"That accounts for it, then. They will hang the prisoners as an act of defiance."
"Colonel, I have an idea."
"What is it, Eben?"
"Come closer to me, for I must whisper very softly."
Eben managed so that his mouth was very close to Allen's ear, and then he told of his plan.
"I can slip over into the water when it is quite dark and swim to land; then I can make my way to the patriots and tell them the straits we are in."
"You could not reach the land."
"Not reach it? Why, colonel, have you forgotten how I swam across dear old Champlain and then back again?"
"I am not likely to forget that."
"Then I am sure I can do this little bit."
"But they will fire on you?"
"If they see me; and that is just what I am going to prevent."
"How?"
"Never mind that, colonel. Only give your consent and I will succeed, and I think I can save the lives of our friends."
"Eben, you are very brave. Can you bear to think of your fate?"
"I have thought of it. If we stay here we shall be hanged; if I fail to reach land I shall drown, and I think I would rather drown than be hanged. What say you, colonel?"
"My dear fellow, you must act as you think best."
"All right, colonel. Good-by; I may never see you again."
"Good-by, Eben. Take care of yourself, and may Heaven bless you."
Several times Allen tried to communicate with Eben, and to try to dissuade him from his hazardous undertaking, but the youth felt instinctively that he would do so, and remained out of reach of his beloved colonel's voice.
When night came Eben managed to get to the side of the ship unobserved, and in a few moments he had dropped noiselessly into the water.
But, as ill luck would have it, he got entangled in some chains as he struck out from the ship, and the noise attracted the attention of the guard.
"Man overboard!" he cried.
Allen heard the cry and his heart stood still, for he was sure Eben would be captured, and then nothing could save his life.
The officer in charge of the prisoners heard the cry also, and at once ordered every man to answer to his name.
It was the work of but a few minutes, and it was ascertained that Eben had really escaped.
"Do you see him?" asked the captain.
"Yes."
"Fire on him!"
Several muskets were fired, and had not the Vermonter been an excellent swimmer he would have been killed. But Eben dived and swam under the water a great distance, and the bullets were deflected by the water.
A boat was lowered and the stoutest sailors, with four marines, manned it.
"Ten pounds to the man who kills him," said the captain, "and twenty for the man who brings him in alive."
There was a stimulus in the offer of reward, although the Englishmen, every one of them, would have gloried in the chase and in hunting the boy to his death without even the chance of a reward.
Eben saw the boat coming after him, and he knew that he was in a race for life.
He was not daunted.
He watched the boat skim through the moonlit water, and he floated for some little distance to ascertain whether he was seen.
Assured of that, he laughed quietly to himself over the chase he would give them.
He dashed the water about as though he was about to sink, and instantly a musket ball struck the water within a few feet of him.
Then he dived and swam in another direction, knowing that the boat would continue on its straight track.
When he reappeared above the water he saw that he had gained very materially on his pursuers, and as he did not care what part of the coast he reached, he again dived and swam farther down the shore.
When he came to the surface and floated, he looked round and saw that the boat's crew had given him up for lost.
The boat was circling round and round, and every eye was strained to find his dead body.
Eben leisurely swam to the shore, and was glad when he reached land, for he was nigh exhausted.
He had to be very cautious, for many tories resided on the shore, and he knew that he would be treated as a suspicious character.
He found a wood which afforded him shelter.
Undressing, he hung his clothes out to dry, while he climbed into a tree, with the double object of not being found in a state of undress and be the better able to see if anyone approached.
There was a warm breeze blowing, and his clothes soon dried, and once again he felt like a human being.
A new trouble arose. He found his limbs so weak that he could not stand.
His flesh was hot and dry, his mouth parched, and his eyes were like burning coals.
He had fever.
The fact was appalling enough at ordinary times, but how much more so under the circumstances?
He dare not seek a house, even if he could crawl as far, for he knew that fever meant delirium, and in his delirium he might betray himself and so injure the cause he loved so well.
He had not lived in the mountains without knowing the value of herbs, so he looked around to find those natural medicines which at home had been used by the Indians and most of the white folks of the Green Mountains.
He wanted agrimony, but did not see any; but he did find yarrow in abundance.
Now, the leaves and flowers of the common yarrow, or theachillea milefoliumof botanists, are an excellent thing in fevers, producing perspiration and cleansing the blood at the same time; but Eben knew that it should be macerated in boiling water.
Boiling water was out of the question, and, in fact, there seemed to be no water save sea water near, so he gathered a quantity of the leaves and chewed them. The taste was bitter and aromatic, but refreshing to the fever-stricken boy.
After a time he felt a nausea, and stopped eating.
He turned over on his back and fell asleep.
When he awoke the sun was high in the heavens and he fancied he had slept four or five hours; in reality he had slept nearly thirty hours.
His body was covered with a cold perspiration and his mouth seemed less parched.
As he raised himself to look around he saw that he was not alone.
A man, evidently poor, if judged by his dress, stood some distance away, watching him closely.
"So you did wake, eh? I reckon'd that you were going to sleep till Gabriel blew his trump."
"Have I slept long?" asked Eben.
"Well, now, I can't say 'zactly, for I reckon you had been asleep a long time when I found you, and I've been here nigh on to ten hours."
"You have been watching me that long? Why?"
"Mebbe I took a fancy to you, and mebbe I know you."
"You know me?"
"Well, now, I reckon if I were to call you Ebenezer Pike——"
"If you did?"
"Yes, I was saying I reckon that you would have to say that was your name."
"What gave you that idea? And who is Ebenezer Pike?"
"I am no tory. Yesterday I heard that a prisoner had escaped from the war ship out there, and that the one who had got away was at the bottom of the sea. I was curious, and I asked all about it. Then I was asked if a body wouldn't float into land; and I said mebbe; and then the bluejacket told me he would give me ten shillings if I found the body and gave it up to him. So I searched and found—you."
"And discovered that I was not worth ten shillings?"
"Never mind what I found; I tell you I ain't no tory, and ten pounds, nor ten hundred pounds, would make me give up a live American hero. His dead body wouldn't be of no account to him, so I might give up that."
"And you think I am this escaped prisoner! Well, what do you want to do with me? for I am too weak to oppose your silly whim."
"I am going to take you to my house, and when you get strong you shall go just where you please."
"You mean this?"
"I do; and I tell you that if we could liberate Col. Ethan Allen we would, for he is wanted just now; Carolina means to be free and independent, so it does."
Eben did not attempt any resistance; in fact, he was too weak to oppose his discoverer, so he allowed himself to be lifted on the man's shoulder and be carried to a cabin on the other side of the wood.
Here he was tended as well as if he had been among relatives or his friends of the Green Mountains.
After a few days he was strong enough to go out, and he walked down to the beach and saw the vessel from which he had escaped lying at anchor.
But he saw something more—something which made his blood run cold.
As he was returning he saw five trees growing on the banks of the river near the cape, and from each tree there dangled a human body.
On closer inspection he found—what he had dreaded to find—that the bodies were those of some of his fellow prisoners.
"Come away, my boy," said his new friend. "Those men gave their lives for a sacred cause, and I wish every Carolinian could see and know them. It is a good thing for us that the cowardly tories hanged them, for every one hanged means a surer vengeance."
"It is horrible! Will they dare to serve Col. Allen so?"
"I don't think so, but they may. What are your plans?"
"I want to find the army of America and get the men to liberate Col. Allen."
"Praiseworthy, but we shall have a weary tramp before we reach the patriots. Things have changed and many difficulties will confront us."
"You say 'us,' as though you were going?"
"Where you go, so shall I."
Once more the two walked down to the beach, and Eben gave a cry of pain as he saw the war ship slowly sailing away.
After Eben had escaped the captain of the war ship was furious.
He found out that five of the prisoners shared the same room with the escaped one, and he closely questioned them about the escape. They refused to speak a word; perhaps they knew nothing, but their mouths were closely sealed.
Orders were given to take the five prisoners to the shore and hang them in such a conspicuous place that the rebels might see them and take warning.
This cruel and uncivilized act was carried out by men who loathed the work, but who had to obey the orders of their superior.
Fearing that unpleasantness might ensue from the order, which, when too late, the captain regretted, orders were given to sail north, and Ethan Allen was taken to New York, where he was landed and thrown into a prison cell.
While it was a change to be on land, the treatment was more severe.
Every indignity was heaped upon the unfortunate prisoners by the tories who ruled the city.
There was but one gleam of sunshine in the hero's life.
He often heard news of the outside world.
A Congress had been called, and its deliberations were of vital importance.
The tories talked about it in Allen's presence.
They denounced men whose names Allen had not heard before, but who were becoming prominent. But they also talked of Sam Adams and John Hancock, of Patrick Henry and George Washington, and then they told each other that it was seriously proposed to create a new nation out of the colonies and declare the independence of the colonies.
All this was glorious news to the prisoner, and he listened in silence, afraid that his joy, if known, would prevent further conversation in his presence.
One hot, stifling day in July there was considerable commotion in the prison, and Allen knew that something more than the ordinary had caused the excitement.
How anxiously he waited to hear the news!
How tedious the hours passed before the change of guards gave the desired few minutes for conversation.
At last the hour came!
"The Declaration of Independence has been signed!"
"You do not mean it? The rebels would never dare!"
"But they have dared. They say that a new nation has been born. Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Ha, ha, ha!"
"Will all the prisoners have to be shot now?"
"No, they will be hanged, same as before. England has not recognized the new nation; but England has hired a lot of Hessians——"
"What are they?"
"Don't you know? They come from some place in Europe; their king sells or leases them out to fight."
"And they must fight whether they like it or not?"
"Oh, they like fighting; they are trained to fight. It is the only thing they can do, and they do it well. You see, they do it all the better because they can't talk English, so they kill all who do——"
"Then they may kill us."
"No, I do not mean that, but they kill all they are told to kill."
A warden entered the long corridor and called out the name of Ethan Allen.
Allen stepped from his cell and submitted to his arms and legs being heavily ironed.
He was then marched through the city to the Battery, where he was placed on board a war ship, with other prisoners, and taken to Halifax.
For nearly two years he suffered the most horrible tortures in prisons and prison ships. He seemed to have been forgotten.
For weeks at a time he was absolutely silent, no one being allowed to speak to him, and silence was strictly enforced among the prisoners.
Once Allen got a little paper and a pencil, and a friendly jailer promised to have the letter sent to its destination.
Allen addressed it to his brother at Bennington, in the Green Mountains, and it duly reached its destination, but the brother was away with the patriot army, the letter was kept, however, and read over and over again by the old friends of the hero of Ticonderoga.
In that letter he says:
"I have seen American patriot prisoners begging for food and being laughed at for their request. They have bitten pieces of wood to get little chips to eat and so satisfy their hunger. I was imprisoned for a time in a church, watched over by Hessians who would not let us leave to satisfy the wants of nature, and mid excrements the poor wretches, who only loved their country, died in horrible tortures."
It was a wonder that the letter ever reached Bennington, but the jailer who passed it out was a warm-hearted man, a son of the soil from Ireland.
It was in the early spring of 1778 that Allen heard his name called as he sat in the hold of a war ship lying off New York.
He dragged his legs wearily up the steps to the deck.
He had aged much during those two years, and his friends would scarcely have known him.
As he reached the deck he heard a voice, which seemed very familiar, say:
"Colonel, don't you know me?"
A tall, bearded young man stood before him with extended hand.
"Eben!"
"Ah! then I have not changed so much."
It was Eben Pike, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the American army.
"What brings you here? You are not a prisoner?"
"No; at this moment I am a guest of His Majesty the King of England, and am acting on behalf of the United States of America, and more especially the commander-in-chief, Gen. Washington, and——"
"I am so glad to see you, Eben, that I do not know what you have been saying. I feared you were dead."
"No, colonel, I had a work to do, and I have done it. You see, we, that is, the American army, took a certain English colonel prisoner, and England wanted him very badly, so Gen. Washington said: 'You shall have him in exchange for Col. Ethan Allen,' and at last the order for the exchange was made and you are free."
What did it mean?
Allen heard the word "free," but it seemed like an echo of fairyland, having nothing in common with this matter-of-fact, cruel world.
"Yes, Col. Allen, you are free."
This time the word was spoken by an English officer.
Allen staggered like a drunken man, and would have fallen had not Eben caught him.
"Come, colonel, we must not trespass on the hospitality of the King of England any longer; I have promised to escort you with all due diligence to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief."
Allen stood still, looking, with glassy eyes, at the speaker.
In a few moments he asked;
"Am I dreaming?"
"It looked very like it, colonel, for you acted as though you were asleep; but come now, we must be going."
"Do you mean it? Are you really Eben Pike?"
"Ask the captain here. He will vouch for that. The document reads: 'The bearer, Lieut. Pike, of the Army of the United States of America,' does it not?"
"Yes, Col. Allen, the whole thing means that you are exchanged. We have got our man, and we pay for his liberty by giving you yours. Good-day, and may I never see you again—at least under recent conditions."
Allen entered a small boat with Eben, and two stout seamen pulled the boat to the dock, where a carriage was in waiting.
Eben almost pushed the astonished and half-dazed Green Mountain hero into the carriage, and soon the waterside was left far behind and the carriage rolled along the roads to the place where Gen. Washington had made his headquarters.
By that time Allen had begun to realize that he was really free.
Washington met him at the door and grasped his hand warmly.
"For over a year we have been trying to secure your release, but could not get the English to consent. You have to thank Lieut. Eben Pike for your release. He is a real hero."
"General, I only did my duty."
"I wish every soldier did his duty as well. I must tell Col. Allen; I am sure he will be prouder than ever."
"No, general, it was a mere nothing."
"I am the best judge of that. You must understand, colonel, that Pike enlisted in the cavalry and did excellent service as a private soldier; he was speedily promoted, for he deserved it. But it was at the battle of White Plains that he distinguished himself. Almost single-handed he fought a company of cavalry when most of our men had retreated. He was surrounded and refused to surrender. 'I have been a prisoner of England once,' he said, and that was enough for him. He cut his way through the enemy, and even that enemy has borne testimony to his great bravery. I am proud of him."
"I am sure that a braver man than my young friend, Pike, never drew sword," added Allen, proudly.
"After he had gallantly cut his way through the enemy, he says he thought he could have done better, so he turned his horse and rode after the British. They evidently thought that he was the advance guard of a regiment, for they stuck their rowels into the horses and rode for life. Pike followed up closely and overtook Col. Jameson; he demanded his surrender, and Jameson had to submit, for Pike had the advantage."
"Yes, he could not help himself and live," Eben said, with a smile.
"Pike took his captive into camp, and the affair was reported to me. Sergt. Pike became lieutenant, but he was not satisfied. He knew that Jameson was a most important personage, almost as valuable as Cornwallis himself, so what does the young lieutenant do but ask me to refuse to exchange Jameson unless you were the captive given up by the British. The difficulty had been that you had no commission; I did not know it until I heard it from Montgomery and Schuyler, and so the British looked upon you as an outsider; but they wanted Jameson, and they got him, and you owe your freedom to Pike's pertinacity."
We can easily imagine Allen's feelings as he listened to the account given by Washington.
The pride he had felt in Eben's career was intensified, and he felt that the young Green Mountain scout would become one of the great heroes of the Revolution.
Allen was so broken down by his long and cruel imprisonment that he took a vacation and retired to Bennington to recuperate.
As though the colonies had not enough work on hand in fighting the great power of Britain, they must needs quarrel among themselves, or at least New York picked a quarrel with New Hampshire over the title to Vermont.
Vermont was more than ever determined to remain independent of either New Hampshire or New York, and Ethan Allen admired the sturdy spirit of his mountaineers.
He was urged to take command of the Green Mountain forces, and he consented, writing Gen. Washington and telling him how he regretted the necessity of staying at home instead of entering the army of emancipation.
Washington replied in a friendly letter, reminding him that he deserved a rest after his trials, and also telling him that a man's first duty was to his own people and country.
Acting on this letter, Allen applied to the Congress for the admission of Vermont into the Confederation of States; but the rivals of New York and New Hampshire were too powerful in the councils of the new nation for Allen, and Vermont remained outside, a debatable territory.
Ethan Allen was sitting by the great, open fireplace in his house one evening in the early fall, when a visitor was announced.
"You have forgotten me, Col. Allen?"
"I do not remember having had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"I am Beverly Robinson."
"Indeed! Ah, now I remember. May I ask what brought you here?"
The tory did not like the brusque question, but he was a diplomat and fenced ably.
"I have heard of your prowess on the field and of your sufferings in captivity, and I have felt that, though we differ in politics, we are children of the same mountains and ought to be friends."
"If you are loyal to Vermont, differences of opinion will not affect me."
"Spoken like the brave man I knew you to be."
"Did you come here to tell me this?"
"Partly, and more especially to discuss the future of Vermont."
"Ah!"
"Yes; we are in a strange predicament. We have cut loose from the mother country, and the new country will not have us."
"That is one way of looking at the matter."
"Is it not the true one?"
"It may be."
"Well, why not pledge ourselves to remain neutral?"
"To remain neutral?"
"Yes. If we were to call a convention and pass a resolution to the effect that in the war between England and the colonies—I beg pardon, States—Vermont would remain absolutely neutral, we should be in a good position."
"In what way?"
"England would protect us against New York, and we could protect ourselves against New Hampshire."
"And you would ask me to make terms with England?"
"Why not? You do not believe that Washington will succeed. He cannot. England will triumph. The best men feel that it will be so. Benedict Arnold told me it was only a question of time and terms."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; he knows that all Washington is fighting for now is to get the best terms he can from Great Britain."
"Arnold told you this?"
"Well, no, not exactly in those words. But let me carry to headquarters your pledge of neutrality."
"Mr. Robinson, you may be honest in this, but I am afraid you are being made a tool of some designing person. Carry this back with you"—Allen stood up and folded his arms defiantly, as he said: "Tell England that Ethan Allen will never be neutral, never make terms with England, but will fight her power as long as he lives! Good-day, and never enter my house again as the agent of England."
Beverly Robinson retired second in the contest. Allen had won.
Though the tory had failed, he felt a respect for Allen, who had been so bold and courageous, and, though Allen never knew it, he was the means of saving Vermont from any attacks of the British.
Allen served his State and defended it against enemies without and within. He lived to see it recognized as a State, free and independent.
He also witnessed, with shame, the treachery of Benedict Arnold, and was glad that he had never recognized the traitor as a man of honor.
In the annals of the Revolution the name of Ethan Allen will ever shine conspicuously, and, though he fought but few battles, and remained in the army but a few months, England hated the mention of his name, and looked upon him as one of the men who fired the hearts of the Americans and encouraged them in the demand for freedom.
In the hearts of his countrymen he will ever be held in the highest estimation, and all ages will greet the Green Mountain Boy as the "Hero of Ticonderoga."