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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: In the Days of Washington A Story of The American Revolution Author: William Murray Graydon Release Date: November 21, 2012 [EBook #41420] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE DAYS OF WASHINGTON *** Produced by David Edwards, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) Front Cover "MY LAD," SAID WASHINGTON, "I THANK YOU" IN THE DAYS OF WASHINGTON A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION BY WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON Publisher's logo THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA MDCCCXCVI Copyright, 1896, by The Penn Publishing Company FRANKLIN PRINTING COMPANY 516-518 Minor Street [1] [2] Philadelphia CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I In Which Mr. Noah Waxpenny Introduces Himself 5 II In Which a British Officer Loses a Fine Horse 24 III In Which Nathan Becomes a Soldier 42 IV In Which Nathan's Military Career Very Nearly Terminates 62 V In Which Begins a Memorable Battle 91 VI In Which Nathan Meets an Old Enemy 106 VII In Which a Button Betrays Its Owner 117 VIII In Which Simon Glass Makes a Very Strange Remark 135 IX In Which Nathan Takes Part in the Battle of Wyoming 154 X In Which Nathan Finds the Papers 176 XI In Which Godfrey Pleads for the Condemned Prisoners 190 XII In Which a Mysterious Island Plays a Part 208 XIII In Which Nathan Makes a Perilous Swim 226 XIV In Which Nathan Feigns Slumber to Save His Life 244 XV In Which the Mystery is Very Nearly Explained 263 XVI In Which a Peep at the State-House Leads to an Ugly Adventure 273 XVII In Which Mr. Waxpenny Asserts the Majesty of the Law and the Curtain Falls 300 IN THE DAYS OF WASHINGTON CHAPTER I IN WHICH MR. NOAH WAXPENNY INTRODUCES HIMSELF It was an evening in the first week in February, 1778. Supper was over in the house of Cornelius De Vries, which stood on Green Street, Philadelphia, and in that part of the town known as the Northern Liberties. Agatha De Vries, the elderly and maiden sister of Cornelius, had washed and put away the dishes and had gone around the corner to gossip with a neighbor. The light shed from two copper candlesticks and from the fire made the sitting-room look very snug and cozy. In one corner stood a tall clock-case, flanked by a white pine settee and a chest of drawers. A spider legged writing-desk stood near the tile lined fireplace, over which was a row of china dishes—very rare at that time. The floor was white and sanded, and the walls were hung with a few paintings and colored prints. Cornelius De Vries, a well-to-do and retired merchant, occupied a broad-armed chair at one side of the table that stood in the middle of the room. He was a very stately old gentleman of sixty, with a clean-shaven and wrinkled face. He wore a wig, black stockings, a coat and vest of broadcloth, and low shoes with silver buckles. His features betrayed his Dutch origin, as did also the long-stemmed pipe he was smoking, and the glass of Holland schnapps at his elbow. At the opposite side of the table sat Nathan Stanbury, a handsome lad, neatly dressed in gray homespun and [3] [4] [5] [6] starched linen, and of a size and strength that belied his seventeen years. His cheeks were ruddy with health, and his curly chestnut hair matched the deep brown of his eyes. Nathan was a student at the College of Philadelphia, and the open book in his hand was a Latin Horace. But he found it difficult to fix his mind on the lesson, and his thoughts were constantly straying far from the printed pages. Doubtless the wits of Cornelius De Vries were wool-gathering in the same direction, for he had put aside the hated evening paper, "The Royal Gazette," and was dreamily watching the blue curls of smoke as they puffed upward from his pipe. Now he would frown severely, and now his eyes would twinkle and his cheeks distend in a grim sort of smile. There was much for the loyal people of the town to talk and think about at that time. For nearly six months the British army, under General Howe, had occupied Philadelphia in ease and comfort, while at Valley Forge Washington's ragged soldiers were starving and freezing in the wintry weather, their heroic commander bearing in dignified silence the censure and complaint that were freely vented by his countrymen. Black and desperate, indeed, seemed the cause of the United American Colonies in that winter of 1777-78, and as yet no light of cheer was breaking on the horizon. After grappling for the twentieth time with his lesson, Nathan suddenly closed the book and tossed it on the table. "I can't translate Latin to-night, Master De Vries," he exclaimed. "It's no use trying. I wish I was down-town. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air will compose my mind." The merchant answered only by a negative shake of the head, as he filled and ignited his pipe for the third time. "Yes, you are right," Nathan said, resignedly. "I suppose I should keep indoors as much as possible to avoid suspicion, and I may be needed again shortly—" Rat, tat, tat! Low and clear rang a knocking on the panels of the front door. "There!" exclaimed Nathan, jumping up and running into the hall. The opening of the door revealed a short man standing on the lower step; it was too dark to see his face plainly. Without a word he handed the lad a slip of paper, and then strode swiftly off down the street. Nathan closed and locked the door, and hurried to the light of the candles. He unfolded the paper and read aloud the following brief message, written in a small and legible hand: "Come to the Indian Queen at once. Thee will find friends waiting thy trusty services." The lad's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Another ride to Valley Forge," he said, eagerly. "How glad my father will be to see me! And it is a night ride this time, Master De Vries. I'll warrant 'tis a matter of great importance." "Not so loud, lad," cautioned the merchant. "But how comes it the word was trusted to paper? Did you know the messenger?" "It was Pulling, the deaf and dumb hostler from the tavern," Nathan replied. "Doubtless they have just heard news, and could not spare time to seek the usual messenger. Pulling is trustworthy enough and, of course, since he can't speak —" "It was imprudent to write," interrupted the merchant, "but I dare say they could do no better. Certainly, the summons is urgent, since it calls thee out at night." "Yes, I must go at once," said Nathan, "and without so much as a change of clothes. If the service is what I think it to be I will hardly be back by morning." As he spoke, he abstractedly dropped the slip of paper into the side pocket of his jacket, and moved toward the hall. "May the good God bring you back in safety," Cornelius De Vries said, earnestly. "I love you dearly, lad, even as I love your father, and I would not see you come to harm. I have long mistrusted these perilous doings, and yet for the sake of the cause—" "To save my oppressed country I would risk life ten times over," declared Nathan. "If there were no work for me to do here I should be fighting with our brave soldiers. But there is really no danger, Master De Vries. You know how often I have been back and forth." "But not at night, lad." "So much the better, with the darkness to shelter me," replied Nathan. "I must be off now. Good-bye, and don't worry." He put on his cap and briefly returned the pressure of the old man's hand. A moment later the door had closed behind him and he was walking rapidly down the silent street. The weather had changed a day or two before, and there [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] was a suggestiveness of spring in the mild, damp air. * * * * * Richard Stanbury, the father of Nathan, had come from England to America in 1760, at the age of twenty-six. He brought a wife with him—a pretty and refined woman—and they settled in Philadelphia. The next year Nathan was born, and five years later his mother died. The blow was a severe one to Richard Stanbury, and, the Quaker City being now distasteful to him, he removed with his son to New England. He accompanied the Connecticut colony to the Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania—which grant they had purchased from the Delaware Indians—and took part in the long struggle with the Pennsylvania settlers who were found in unjust possession. When the warfare finally came to a peaceful end he settled down to a life of farming and hunting in that earthly paradise. Richard Stanbury was a handsome and refined man, and a highly educated one. All with whom he came in contact were quick to realize his superiority, but in spite of that and his reserved nature, he made friends readily. He closely guarded the secret of his past, whatever it was, not even opening the pages to his son. But at times he hinted mysteriously at a great change that was likely to happen in the future, and he took pains to teach Nathan reading, writing, and history, and the rules of gentlemanly conduct. There was deep affection between father and son, and that the lad did not seek to know the mystery of the past was because he respected his parent's silence. He grew up to be brave and strong, generous and fearless, and few companions of his age could shoot with such skill or track game so untiringly through the forest. Soon after the great struggle for liberty began, and the colonies were in arms to throw off the British yoke, many of the settlers of Wyoming left their families and the old men at home and marched away to join Washington. Richard Stanbury went with them; he was Captain Stanbury now, and commanded a company. Nathan, young as he was, burned to enlist and fight. But his father would not hear of this. He had long ago formed other plans for the lad, and now the time for them was ripe. To Philadelphia went Nathan, to attend the admirable college that the Quaker town boasted, and to find a happy home with Cornelius De Vries. The expense was to come out of the worthy merchant's pocket. He had claimed this right because of the long friendship between himself and Richard Stanbury, which dated from the latter's arrival in America. So Nathan studied hard, a favorite with masters and pupils, while the first two years of the Revolution scored their triumphs and adverses. But he was not content to let others do the fighting, and when the British occupied Philadelphia, in the fall of 1777, the lad found at last a chance to help the cause of freedom. Several loyal citizens of the town had secret means of getting information about the plans of the British officers. These men were friends of Cornelius De Vries, and they came to know that his young lodger was a plucky and intelligent lad, and one to be relied upon. So Nathan was frequently chosen to carry messages to the camp at Valley Forge, where he sometimes saw his father, and where he made the acquaintance of General Washington and other officers. It was a very simple plan, and one that was not likely to be suspected. The citizens were permitted to take their grain through the British lines to the grist-mill at Frankford, and the lad would ride out after dinner on this errand. While the grain was being ground it was an easy matter for him to gallop to and from the American camp, then returning to the city by night with his sacks of meal. As Nathan hurried away from the Dutch merchant's house on this February evening, he knew that he was wanted for some service of more than ordinary importance. "This is the first time I have been sent for at night," he reflected, "and I guess it means a dash through the lines. The sentries don't allow any trips to mill after dark." He looked up to find himself passing the British barracks, which fronted on Green Street from Second to Third, and had been built soon after Braddock's defeat. Howe's army now occupied them, and the red-coated sentry at the gate glanced sourly at the lad in the gloom. Nathan went on, carelessly whistling a snatch of a tune, and presently turned down Fourth Street. A few yards from the corner, where a narrow bar of light streamed across the pavement from an open window, he collided with some one coming from the opposite way; both came to a halt. "Why don't you watch where you're going?" brusquely demanded the stranger, who looked to be about Nathan's age, and wore a new and well-fitting British uniform. "I might ask you the same," Nathan responded pleasantly, "but I won't. You see it's so dark hereabouts, and— why, Godfrey! I didn't know you." "Nathan Stanbury!" cried the other, in keenest surprise and pleasure. "How glad I am to see you!" He held out his hand expecting it to be taken. "No; I can't," Nathan said gravely. "I—I'm sorry to see you in those clothes." "And I'm proud of them. So you're as much of a patriot as ever? I thought you would turn." "I'll never turn," declared Nathan. "I'm more of a patriot than I was, and some day I'll be a soldier—" "Hush! don't air your opinions so loudly around here," cautioned Godfrey, in a good-natured tone. "I'm not going to [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] quarrel with you, Nathan. Two such old friends as we are can surely meet without talking about the war. I can't forget that you saved my life once, and I will always be grateful." "That sounds well from a Tory," interrupted Nathan. "Why don't you begin by being grateful to your country?" The other flushed, and for a few embarrassing seconds nothing was said. Standing together in the stream of yellow lamp-light, the two lads looked strangely alike, a resemblance that others had frequently observed. They were of the same build and height, and had the same general features. Godfrey Spencer was older by a year, with black eyes and hair. Nathan's eyes and hair were deep brown. "You are still attending college?" Godfrey finally said. Nathan nodded. "When did you come back to town?" he asked. "Two days ago," Godfrey replied, "with dispatches for General Clinton. You know I went with my mother to Long Island, and there I enlisted in a—a Tory regiment. I was promoted to lieutenant a month ago, and now Major Langdon, who is stationed here, has promised me a place on his staff." The last words were spoken with evident pride. "I'm sorry for you," said Nathan. "I can't wish you success, Godfrey, but I truly hope, for the sake of old times, that you won't get shot. I must go now. Good-bye." Disregarding the other's appeal to return, Nathan walked rapidly down the street, ignorant of the fact—as was Godfrey—that a British officer had been watching both lads closely from the open and lighted window of the house in front of which they were standing. "Who was that lad, Spencer?" he demanded. "An old college friend, Major Langdon," replied Godfrey, a little startled by the question. "His people are rebels. I was trying to convert him." "I mean his name, stupid, quick!" "Nathan Stanbury," said Godfrey. The major's face turned white, and something like an oath escaped his lips. His hands shook as they rested on the window-sill. "I might have known," he muttered to himself. Then aloud: "Yonder is a bit of paper the lad dropped when he pulled out his handkerchief. Fetch it, Spencer." Godfrey reluctantly picked up the paper, and Major Langdon opened the door to admit him. * * * * * A few months before Richard Stanbury's arrival in the Colonies there came from England to Philadelphia a merchant of London, Matthew Marsham by name. He was accompanied by his daughter, Betty Spencer, and her infant son Godfrey. Mrs. Spencer wore mourning for her husband, who had died recently. The merchant engaged in business, and prospered sufficiently to keep his little family in comfort and give his grandson a thorough education. To college went Godfrey in due course, and here he and Nathan were classmates for nearly a year after the beginning of the Revolution, during which period they formed a warm boyish friendship. On one occasion, while swimming in the Delaware, Nathan risked his own life to save Godfrey from drowning. But the growing animosities of the war finally began to draw the lads apart, for Godfrey's mother and grandfather were Tories. In the spring of 1777 Matthew Marsham died, and Mrs. Spencer removed with her son to Long Island, where she had friends living. It was of this past friendship—so strongly recalled to-night—more than of his errand, that Nathan was thinking sadly as he kept on his way down-town. Frequently he crossed the street to avoid a group of drunken and riotous soldiers, or put on a careless gait and attitude as some mounted officer spurred barrackwards past him. He met but few others, for reputable citizens kept indoors after dark. The Indian Queen tavern, one of the oldest and best known hostelries of the town, stood on South Fourth Street near Chestnut. The tap-room was empty when Nathan entered, and the secretly loyal landlord, Israel Jenkins, was taking his ease on a bench. "Well, here I am," said Nathan. "Company in the back room again, eh?" "Not this time, lad," replied Jenkins, with a wink of the eye. "The back room is too open for to-night's work. You'll [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] find them—" Sudden footsteps outside caused the landlord to bite off the sentence abruptly. "Get yourself yonder," he added, "and wait till I come. Quick! you mustn't be seen." He pushed Nathan into a dark hall on one side of the room, leaving the door open several inches, and from his place of concealment the lad saw the new arrival enter the tavern. He was a man who would have attracted attention in any surroundings, and was as likely to excite mirth as respect. His age was about fifty, and his tall, gaunt figure was dressed in rusty broadcloth, black stockings without knee or shoe buckles, and a gray cocked hat. He wore a flaxen wig, and a steel watch chain with seals dangled from his waistcoat. His face was smooth and of a parchment color, his nose abnormally large, and his eyes small and piggish. He had long white fingers, and he snapped them nervously as he nodded with an air of condescension to the landlord. "Good evening, sir," he said, in an oily voice. "I would have a pot of your best brew, and an ounce of mild tobacco." "I don't sell the last named," curtly replied Jenkins, who was by no means favorably impressed with his customer. "But you will let me have a little, eh, my good friend? Here is some," tapping his breast pocket, "but the sea air has quite destroyed its flavor." "You have lately crossed then?" asked Jenkins, who was always on the alert for news, and scented a present opportunity. "But this day I arrived from England on the packet-boat 'Bristol'," replied the stranger, "and right glad was I to put foot on solid ground. Thank you, my friend," he added, as Jenkins placed before him a tankard of ale and a twist of tobacco. "And now may I make bold to ask a little information of you?" "Depends on what it is," growled Jenkins, his suspicions suddenly awakened. "It is nothing harmful, sir; quite the contrary. Does not my face inspire confidence? Then you shall have my name. It is Noah Waxpenny, and I have the honor to be confidential clerk to the firm of Sharswood & Feeman, solicitors, Lincoln Inn, London." "It's no odds if you were the king himself," imprudently replied Jenkins. "Ha, very clever! A neat joke," laughed Mr. Waxpenny. "God save King George, and all his loyal subjects!" "Amen to that!" muttered the landlord, aloud. "And God forgive the lie," he added to himself. Mr. Noah Waxpenny chuckled, and half emptied the pewter at a draught. Then he leaned toward Jenkins in a confidential manner, and his next words were of so startling a nature that Nathan very nearly toppled against the door that separated him from the tap-room. CHAPTER II IN WHICH A BRITISH OFFICER LOSES A FINE HORSE "I wish to learn the present whereabouts of Richard Stanbury," said Mr. Waxpenny, slowly and deliberately. "Under that name he came from England to America in 1760, and a year later he was known to be residing in Philadelphia with a wife and infant son. Can you give me any information about him?" With a heightened color Jenkins stared first at the ceiling, and then shot a glance of apprehension at the hall door. "Stanbury ain't a common name," he replied, by way of gaining time, "but it seems like I've heard it somewheres or other. It might'n be Stanwix, now?" "No, Stanbury—Richard Stanbury." The landlord propped his elbows on the counter and looked meditatively into vacancy. "I've heard of Bow Street runners," he said to himself, "and I misdoubt but this chap is one of the snaky varmints in disguise. It ain't likely Dick [22] [23] [24] [25] Stanbury is wanted over in England, but there's no telling. What am I going to do about it? I'll bet a ha'penny the lad's listening out yonder with both ears. I'll just lie low till I get my bearings—that's the safest plan." During the course of this mental soliloquy he was cocking his head this way and that, and now he shook it in a manner that indicated profound and hopeless ignorance. "If a golden guinea would jog your memory, why, here it is," suggested Mr. Waxpenny, displaying the coin. "The gold wouldn't come amiss," said Jenkins, with a sigh, "but it ain't possible for me to earn it." The law clerk pocketed the guinea. "It's unlikely that Richard Stanbury was in your walk of life, my man," said he, with quiet scorn. "Your ignorance is excusable." "My what?" "Your disability to remember," corrected Mr. Waxpenny. "And now we'll try again. Can you tell me if Major Gerald Langdon, of the British cavalry, is stationed in this town?" "I seen by the 'Royal Gazette,' a fortnight ago, that he was in New York," replied Jenkins, truthfully enough. "What on earth is the game?" he asked himself in amazement. Mr. Waxpenny nodded his satisfaction. "There is one more person I wish to inquire about," he said. "Did you ever hear of—" The rest of the sentence was drowned in a burst of noisy voices and shuffling feet, as half a dozen tipsy soldiers and marines swung round the corner and entered the tavern. The London law clerk looked disdainfully at the company, and then made a hasty exit. Having served his customers Jenkins left them with brimming mugs in hand, and darted into the hall, slamming the door behind him. "Where are you, lad?" he whispered. "Here!" Nathan answered, hoarsely, from the darkness. "I have heard all, Mr. Jenkins. What can it mean? Why did that man inquire for my father?" "I haven't an idea," replied the landlord. "If he comes back I'll try to pump him. Meanwhile, it won't be amiss to tell your father there's a London chap seeking him." "I'll do that," muttered Nathan. "But it's queer—" "Don't bother about it," whispered Jenkins. "They're waiting for you up above—in the little room on the right at the head of the stairs. You'll see a light under the door. I must be off." The landlord returned to his customers, and Nathan slowly ascended the stairs, still puzzling over the strange inquiries of Mr. Waxpenny. Guided by the glimmer of light, he entered a small bed-chamber—the identical room, in fact, in which Jefferson had written the Declaration of Independence two years before. Here the lad found Anthony Benezet and Timothy Matlack, two elderly and highly respectable Quaker citizens. A candle, standing on a small table between them, dimly revealed their solemn faces and sober, gray garments. "Thee is late to-night," said Timothy Matlack. "I was detained at several places," explained Nathan. "I came as quickly as I could." "And is thee ready to serve us as before?" "Ready and willing, sir." "This is a task of greater peril and difficulty," said Anthony Benezet. "We have tidings for General Washington which cannot be conveyed verbally, and should reach him before morning. Here is the packet," drawing a sealed and folded paper from his bosom. "Thee must slip unseen through the enemy's lines. It is the only way." "I will do it," Nathan replied firmly. "There are many weak places, and the night is dark. I am not afraid." "Thou art a brave lad," said Anthony Benezet, "and God will protect thee. So, now hasten on thy journey. When thou hast passed the sentries, go to the house of Abel Sansom, on the Germantown Road. He will give thee a horse for the ride to Valley Forge." Nathan concealed the precious packet about his clothes, and turned toward the door. "Wait," said Timothy Matlack. "Did thee destroy the message I sent thee by Jenkins' man?" [26] [27] [28] [29] "I—I think I put it in my pocket," faltered Nathan, making a hasty search. "But it is not here now, sir. I fear I have lost it." "Where, lad? not on the street?" "Yes," Nathan admitted huskily, "up near the barracks." He remembered pulling out his handkerchief while talking to Godfrey. The note must have fallen out then, and he shivered to think of the possible consequences of the loss. "What rashness and folly!" groaned Timothy Matlack. "We are ruined, Anthony—" "Do not blame the lad," said his companion. "It was but a pardonable want of caution. All may be well if we can get safely out of the house. Go, Nathan—" Too late! Just then came a clatter of feet from down-stairs, and a couple of sharp words of command, a confused tumult arose and Jenkins was heard expostulating in loud and indignant tones in the tap-room. Next a door banged open, and the lower hall echoed to the tread of booted feet. For a few seconds after the disturbance began the occupants of the little room stared at one another in dazed terror. "The note has been found," gasped Timothy Matlack, "and British soldiers have come to search the house. We will all be hanged!" "They must catch us first," exclaimed Nathan, extinguishing the candle with a puff, and darting to the window. "We are trapped," he added, with a gloomy glance at the street below. "Two grenadiers are on the pavement." "Thee may get out by the rear of the house," hoarsely replied Anthony Benezet. "Those papers will be our death- warrant if the enemy take them. Thee must escape, lad—thee must. Quick! there is not an instant to lose." "But you?" demurred Nathan. "Friend Matlack and myself will remain quietly here," replied the old Quaker. "The note can but cause suspicion. There will be no proof against us, with thee out of the way. Here, take this. I had forgotten to give it to thee. Use it only in self-defense." In the darkness he pressed a heavy, brass-barreled pistol into the lad's hands. "I will do my best," muttered Nathan. "If I am shot tell my father—" A lump rose in his throat, and without finishing the sentence he opened the door and stepped into the hall. Fortunately the invading party had halted below while Jenkins tardily fetched them a light, and now they were but two-thirds the distance up the staircase. In the front was a stern and handsome officer, with a naked sword in one hand and a glass lantern held high in the other. The flashing light shone behind him on the red coats and fierce countenances of half a dozen grenadiers. Nathan saw all this at a brief glance, and recognized, with a thrill of anger, the face of Godfrey Spencer among his foes. He was himself instantly discovered as he turned and sped along the hall. "Halt, in the King's name!" roared the officer. "Halt or die!" On dashed Nathan, his heart thumping with terror as the din and clatter of pursuit rang behind him. He knew all about the house and its surroundings, and a dozen strides brought him to an angle of the hall. He slipped round the corner, and dimly saw, twenty feet ahead, a small window that opened from the rear of the house. He was but half way to it when a bright light streamed over him, and glancing backward he saw the officer turn the angle at the head of his men. Eager shouts told that they believed their victim to be trapped. It was a terrible crisis for the lad. Either he must check the enemy or abandon hope of escape, and he realized this in the flash of a second. He halted, faced about, and took quick aim with his pistol. "Look out, Major Langdon," cried a warning voice. "He's going to shoot." Bang! The thunderous report shook the building. The shattered lantern crashed to the floor, followed by total darkness, a yell of pain, and a volley of curses and threats. Amid the drifting smoke Nathan darted on to the window, threw up the sash, and let it fall with a clatter as he vaulted safely down upon the low roof of a shed. He was just in time. Crack! crack! crack!—bullets whistled overhead, and broken glass and splinters showered about him as he half tumbled, half climbed to the ground. In a trice he was through the stable-yard and over a wall into Third Street, across that deserted thoroughfare, and speeding through a dark and narrow lane in the direction of the Delaware River. [30] [31] [32] [33] There was dull shouting and outcry behind Nathan as he ran on, still clutching the empty pistol, and keeping a keen watch right and left; but he heard no close pursuit, and there were no dwelling-houses on the lane to imperil his present safety. "I'm going the wrong way," he said to himself, "but I daren't turn now. I hope I didn't kill that British officer—I never shot at any one before, and I hated to do it. One of the soldiers called him Major Langdon—why, that's the man who is going to put Godfrey on his staff, and the same that the London law clerk was inquiring about. Well, if I killed him I'm not to blame. It was in self-defense, and for my country's sake. If I'm caught they'll surely hang me—but I'm not going to be caught. These dispatches," feeling to make sure he had the precious packet, "must be saved from the enemy, and it won't be my fault if I don't deliver them at Valley Forge before morning." The plucky lad had now reached Second Street, and finding no one in sight, he turned up-town on a rapid walk. He had passed Market Street and was near Arch when he heard faint shouts, and looking back he saw a group of dark figures in pursuit. "They've tracked me clear from the tavern," he muttered, "and it won't be easy to give them the slip." He began to run now, with the hue and cry swelling behind him. He did not dare to turn into Arch Street, seeing people moving here and there in both directions; so he continued up Second, slinking along in the shadow of the houses. From a doorstep across the way some one shouted, and the human blood-hounds down the street caught up the cry with hoarse energy. The rush of many feet rang on the night air, and the tumult was rapidly spreading to the more remote quarters of the town. Nathan ran doggedly and swiftly on, looking in vain for a place of hiding, and knowing that the occasional lamp- posts he passed revealed his flying form to the enemy. Above Race Street a sour-visaged man—evidently a Tory citizen —leapt forward from one side with a demand to stop. "Get out of the way," the lad muttered fiercely, aiming his empty weapon. The coward fell back with lusty shouting, which was heard and understood by the approaching soldiers. Breathless and panting, Nathan turned west into Vine Street. With flagging strength and courage he kept on in his flight, realizing that unless some unforeseen help intervened he must soon be caught. Louder and nearer rang the roar of the pursuit, and a glance behind showed him the eager mob, led by red-coated grenadiers, within a hundred yards. With a desperate spurt the lad pushed on. Up the street beyond him he heard cries and saw people running excitedly. "It's no use; I'm trapped," he muttered, and just then he made a discovery that sent a thrill of hope to his heart. On Vine Street, a few yards from Cable Lane, was the house of Mr. Whitehead. Here Colonel Abercrombie was quartered, and a horse belonging to that officer, or to a visitor of rank, was standing before the door in care of a small boy. It was a large and handsome bay, and from each saddle-bag peeped the shiny butt of a pistol. "What's the fuss about?" asked the small boy—who was Mr. Whitehead's son Jonas—as the fugitive pulled up breathlessly in front of him. "All that mob ain't chasing you, are they? Did you steal something?" "No, but I'm going to," panted Nathan, with make-believe ferocity. He lifted the empty pistol. "Give me that horse. Don't make a whimper. I'll shoot you." Terrified by the threat and weapon, Jonas let go the bridle and fled to the pavement. Nathan swung himself into the saddle, clapped feet in the stirrups, and gave the bridle a tug that swung the horse around and started it across the street. The rush and roar of the pursuers rang in his ears, blending with a shrill cry from Jonas. He heard the house door fly open, and the voices of Colonel Abercrombie and other officers raised in a profane howl. Then he was clattering madly up the dark roadway of Cable Lane, with the din and tumult ebbing fainter and fainter behind him. On his stolen steed the lad cleared street after street at a gallop, making turns here and there, but trending mainly in the direction he wanted to go. Men and women in night-caps flung shutters open to look out, and called to people in the street as he whirled by. He had thrown his empty pistol away, and had taken from the holster a fresh one, which he held ready for use in his left hand. Soon vacant lots began to take the place of houses, and lighted windows and startled citizens were seen less frequently. Nathan ventured to check his horse and listen. Far behind he heard the dull pounding of hoofs, telling him that some of his pursuers had found mounts and were on the track again. With a glance around to get his bearings he pushed on at a rapid trot to the open country, thinking this gait more proper for the half-formed plan he had against the coming and unavoidable emergency. He knew the locality, but not so well as he could have desired. "The lines are some place about here," he muttered half aloud, "what shall I do? Trust to a dash to take me through, or abandon the horse and try it on foot? I must decide before the pickets—" "Halt! who comes?" The gruff command rang out from ten feet ahead, where a shadowy form had suddenly risen [34] [35] [36] [37] [38] [39] from the darkness of the open field. "Friend!" called Nathan, and with that he drove the stirrups so hard that his horse bounded forward on a gallop— straight for the dumfounded sentinel. There was a futile shot in air, a yell of pain, and then the Britisher was down under the cruel hoofs. Nathan and his galloping steed swept on, while behind them the night blazed with red flashes, and echoed to musket shots, oaths, and scurrying feet. "Safe at last!" the lad cried exultantly, and even as he spoke a jangle of equipments and a patter of hoofs on the turf gave the lie to his words. He had stumbled not on one or two pickets, but on a dismounted patroling party watching for deserters, who had been stepping off rather frequently of late through this weak part of the lines—mostly Hessians who had taken a fancy to the country. Nathan did not lose heart, black as his chances seemed. He urged his horse to its top speed, and the noble animal did gallantly. For five minutes the chase thundered on, the enemy slowly but surely gaining. A glance showed the lad that his pursuers were less than two hundred yards behind, and when he looked forward again it was to see the river Schuylkill looming dark and quiet under the canopy of stars. No time to hesitate. Over and down the bluff plunged horse and rider, their disappearance being the signal for a rain of bullets. Splash! splash! they were in the water now, and the gallant steed was breasting waves and current and slush ice as he swam toward the opposite bank and safety, with the lad out of the saddle and clinging to the flowing mane. Now they were at mid-stream—the river was narrower—and from the rear bank the halted dragoons opened fire. Crack, crack, crack!—the balls whistled and sputtered harmlessly. It was too dark for good aim, and there was little in sight to aim at. But keen eyes spied a boat moored in the bushes, and two soldiers were quickly in it and paddling after the fugitive. They were gaining rapidly, as Nathan saw by turning his head. Clinging to the horse's mane with one hand he snapped the pistol that he still held in the other. It was wet, and would not go off. He snatched the second from the unsubmerged saddle-bag, aimed and fired. With the report, the soldier who was paddling tossed up his arms and fell back with a hoarse cry. His comrade rose to his feet in the swaying boat, now but six yards away, and leveled his musket with a terrible oath. Flash! bang! the gallant horse quivered, whinnied with pain, and swung helplessly around with the current. Nathan's hand let go the bridle, and the black waters closed over the lad's head. CHAPTER III IN WHICH NATHAN BECOMES A SOLDIER Nathan's sudden disappearance indicated that the bullet had struck him also, but such was not the case. He knew the horse was shot the instant the report rang out, and his object in bobbing under was twofold; to escape the animal's struggles and to deceive the soldier. Letting himself sink a few feet, he dived still deeper, and then swam beneath the surface toward shore. In spite of his clothes he covered a good distance, and when lack of breath forced him to the top he was within ten yards of the bank. The watchful and suspecting dragoon spied the lad at once, and announced his discovery to the rest of the party by a shout, as he picked up the paddle and drove the boat nearer. On coming within the same range as before he snatched the musket from his dead or dying comrade, and again drew a bead on his intended victim. Just at this point, when he was nearly to the shore, Nathan looked back and saw his danger. He was all but exhausted, and he knew that he had not a ghost of a chance to escape. He was too weak even to dive, and for a terrible second or two, while his enemy made sure of his aim, he expected instant death as he struggled feebly on. But an undreamed of deliverance was at hand. From the near-by edge of the bank, in front of the lad, came a flash and a report. He glanced in bewilderment over his shoulder in time to see the murderous dragoon drop his unfired weapon and pitch head first into the water. The body sank at once, and the boat drifted on in pursuit of the dead horse. [40] [41] [42] [43] Nathan swam to shore, scarcely able to credit his good fortune, and no sooner had he planted his trembling feet on the bank than a stalwart figure rose before him out of the gloom—a Hessian with bristling mustache, a blue and yellow uniform, and a brass plate on his tall, black cap. He uttered a few angry words in German as he stared at the lad. "You saved my life," said Nathan, who was quick to see how the land lay, "and I thank you for it." "Och, I mean not to," the Hessian replied, in broken English. "I think you vas a comrade whom I watch for. You are American, eh? And you escape from the British?" "Yes," boldly admitted Nathan. The Hessian hesitated a moment. "You come mit me," he said. "This no safe place to stay." Nathan was of the same mind, and he followed his companion up the bank and then into the woods, while the angry voices of the British dragoons grew faint in the rear. As they went along the Hessian explained that he had deserted that evening, and was to have been joined by another man from his company. He had taken Nathan to be that expected comrade. "I will look for Hans no longer," he added. "He may be dead or captured." "Why did you run away?" asked Nathan, who had a thorough contempt for a deserter. The Hessian was not angered by the question. "Vy should I not?" he replied. "I haf no quarrel mit the colonists, and I like not to fight mit King Shorge for hire. In my native Anspach I get leedle pay und poor foot. I like America, and I alretty spike the language. Ach, is it not so?" "Yes, you'll do," assented Nathan. "I spike it better soon," the Hessian added. "And now vere you go?" "To the American lines," Nathan answered. "I'll take you there if you wish." "Nein, nein," the man replied; shaking his head vigorously. "Your general vill make me fight, und I haf enough of it. You go your vay und I go mit mine." He was plainly unwilling to disclose his plans, and the lad did not care to press him. So, with a hearty hand-shake, they separated, the deserter striding off toward the west, while Nathan turned northward. To reach the Germantown Road from the lad's present location would have meant a recrossing of the Schuylkill and a long detour out of his nearest course—a plan not to be contemplated for a moment. After parting from the Hessian he squeezed the water out of his clothes, dried the dispatches as much as he could, and then tramped for half an hour through the dark woods and open fields. Coming to a road that he recognized, he pushed on more rapidly, and was soon knocking at the door of a loyal farm-house. Down came the proprietor, nightcap on head and gun in hand, and on learning what was wanted he willingly loaned the lad his old mare and a pistol, on condition that both should be returned within a day or two. Nathan mounted in haste and rode off. Mile after mile slipped from under the flying hoofs and no enemy barred the way. As dawn was breaking a gruff voice challenged him, and he knew he had reached the outer picket lines at Valley Forge. The lad was known by name and reputation, and after a short wait he was taken in charge by an officer and conducted through the camp. There was much of interest to be seen. The narrow streets were waking up to the day's activity, and ragged and starved-looking men were issuing from the little huts. Some were building fires and others carrying wood. Night pickets, just released from duty, were stumbling sleepily toward their quarters. Wan and hollow faces peeped from the windows of the hospitals, and here and there a one-legged soldier hobbled along on crutches. Nathan and the officer presently reached the angle formed by the junction of the Schuylkill River and Valley Creek, where stood the large stone house that served for headquarters. The sentries passed them through the yard, and thence into the dining-room of the house. Here, early as was the hour, the American commander sat at breakfast. With him were two of his officers—Baron Steuben and General Knox. "A messenger for you, General," said the lad's companion, Lieutenant Wills. "He left Philadelphia last night and had the hardest kind of a time to get through. I thought you had better see him at once." With this the lieutenant left the room, and Washington drew his chair a little out from the table. His grave and somewhat haggard face lit up with a smile of welcome as he looked at Nathan. "So you are here again, Master Stanbury," he said, "and what do you bring me this time?" "Dispatches from Anthony Benezet, sir," replied Nathan, drawing the precious packet from his bosom. [44] [45] [46] [47] [48] Washington opened the documents, and read them slowly and attentively. Then with a few eager and low-spoken words, he handed them to his companions. They perused them in turn, and seemed impressed by the contents. "Most satisfactory indeed!" commented Baron Steuben. "And highly important," added General Knox. "But the papers have been wet." "Yes, I observed that they were damp," said Washington. "How do you account for that, Master Stanbury? Why, my lad, you have surely been wet yourself! Am I not right?" "You are right, sir," replied Nathan; and in a modest way he went on to tell of his experiences. But Washington and his companions, perceiving that more lay beneath the surface, asked question after question. Thus, by degrees, the whole of the lad's story was drawn from him, and his hearers learned in detail of the thrilling fight at the Indian Queen and the subsequent perilous escape from the town. Washington's look was more eloquent than words, and he impulsively clasped Nathan's hand. "My brave lad!" he exclaimed, "I am proud of you. Thank God that you came safely through such terrible dangers! I have not in my army a man who could have done better." "Not one, General!" assented Baron Steuben. "There is not one with a shrewder head and a pluckier heart." "The lad is a hero," cried General Knox. "I predict that he will be heard of in the future." Nathan blushed at these outspoken tributes of praise. He had never known such a happy moment, and he felt more than repaid for all he had suffered. "My lad," said Washington, "I thank you in the name of the country. You have performed a great service, and the safe-keeping of these dispatches means more than you can understand. Had they been captured by the enemy, many lives must have been forfeited. And what will you do now? You dare not return to Philadelphia at present." "Sir, I wish to be a soldier," Nathan answered. "That is my desire above all things. But my father will not permit me to enlist." "You will make a good soldier," declared Washington, after a thoughtful pause. "No doubt an officer in time. We have need of such recruits." He summoned an aid from the adjoining room, and said to him: "Tell Captain Stanbury that I wish to see him at once." The man departed on his errand, and, during the interval of waiting, Nathan was made to sit down at the table, and satisfy his keen hunger on the breakfast prepared for Washington and his guests. Nathan's father presently arrived—a big, handsome man, bronzed and bearded. He warmly embraced the lad, and listened with mingled pride and alarm to the narrative of his adventurous journey. "You have a noble son, Captain Stanbury," said Washington. "One that you may well be proud of. He tells me that his dearest wish is to serve his country in the field." Nathan fairly trembled with eagerness and suspense, and his father looked soberly at the floor, evidently at a loss for a reply. "Sir," he said, finally, "this is a hard thing you ask. The lad is young, and his education is still unfinished. And he is all I have in the world." "He has proved himself a man in discretion and bravery," replied Washington. "After the events of last night it will not be safe for him to return to Philadelphia at present. And his country needs him—" "His country shall have him, sir," cried Captain Stanbury. "Take the boy! I can no longer withhold my consent." So the question was settled to Nathan's satisfaction and delight, and in all the camp that morning there was no heart so light and happy as his. That he had attained his dearest and long-wished-for ambition seemed almost too good to be true, and it is to be feared that he felt but slight regrets at leaving his studies and the protecting care and home of Cornelius De Vries. He did not find an opportunity to tell his father of the mysterious visit of Mr. Noah Waxpenny to the Indian Queen, for Captain Stanbury and a small force of soldiers speedily and secretly left camp in the direction of Philadelphia, no doubt on account of the dispatches received from Anthony Benezet. And they took with them the mare and pistols borrowed from the loyal farmer. That same morning Nathan was mustered as a private into his father's company of Wyoming men, most of whom were neighbors he had known up at his old home on the Susquehanna, and which belonged to General Mifflin's division of the Pennsylvania troops. A supply of powder and ball and a musket were given to him; but he retained his own [49] [50] [51] [52] [53] clothes, for uniforms were few and far between in the American army at that time. Having thus become a full-fledged soldier the exhausted lad went to bed in the hut assigned to him, and slept under blankets all the afternoon and through the following night. On turning out in the morning, hungry and refreshed, Nathan found a sad and shocking piece of news awaiting him. Briefly, it was as follows: Late on the previous afternoon Captain Stanbury's little force met and attacked, midway between Valley Forge and Philadelphia, a foraging party of British soldiers in charge of two wagon-loads of provisions. In the fight that ensued the enemy were driven off with severe losses, and the supplies fell into the hands of the Americans. Only two of the latter were killed, and Captain Stanbury was shot in the groin. His men had brought him back during the night, and he was now lying in the hospital. Thither Nathan posted in haste, only to learn from the attendants that his father was too ill to be seen, and that his ultimate recovery was very doubtful. A kind-hearted surgeon came out and tried to cheer the lad up, bidding him hope for the best; but in spite of this well-meant consolation the young recruit spent an utterly wretched day. During the morning and part of the afternoon he was under the tuition of a drill-sergeant. At another time he would have taken keen delight in learning the duties of a soldier, but the thought of his father lying in the dreary hospital made the work irksome to him, and it was a great relief when he was set at liberty. At eventide, when supper was over, and the camp-fires were casting ruddy gleams on the quiet waters of the Schuylkill and the brown hills, Nathan was drawn aside by a member of the company named Barna...