 | CHAPTER VIII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
A HAPPY YOUNG COUPLE THAT WANT NOTHING—DISCREET CONDUCT
OF OUR HEROINE—COLLOQUY BETWEEN TWO OLD PEOPLE—FRIEND
UNDERWOOD AND HIS FAMILY—THE SADDLE
ON THE WRONG HORSE—JOHN ARRIVES AT HEAD-QUARTERS
—ACCOMPANIES THE CAPTAIN ON A PARTY OF OBSERVATION
—A SURPRISE, A CAPTURE, AND A CHASE, WHICH ENDS IN
RUNNING DOWN THE HUNTERS INSTEAD OF THE GAME.
After being six times reminded of his duty, and at
length fairly pushed out of doors by Jane, our hero at
length mounted his steed, and pursued his way to the
old stone house to pay his respects to the good old patriarch
and his wife. He was received with a simple,
affectionate welcome, conveyed in few words; and
when, in answer to their inquiries, he related the
story of his wonderful escape, the old dame shed
tears of mingled horror and gratitude, while the gray-haired
patriarch shook him by the hand, and was
proud of his grandson. After spending an hour or so,
conversing on these matters, and hearing and answering
various minute inquiries about his father, John began
to show symptoms of restiveness, which he judiciously
placed to the account of his horse, that was
standing in the snow pawing away manfully. To the
replied, that he was going to spend the day with Colonel
Hammond by special invitation; on hearing
which, the old lady exchanged a significant look with
her mate, who said nothing, but thought a great deal,
according to the custom of wise old gentlemen. But
it not being in the nature of the sex to be content
with dumb-show, the look was followed up by words
of the following import—
“Well, I declare!” said the old dame, “who would
have thought it? So you are going to stay all day at
the colonel's! and you slept there all night, too! Well,
I declare! who knows what may happen!”
“Neither you or I, Rachel,” quoth the wiser vessel;
“but I've heard say, an ounce of luck is worth a pound
of understanding.”
“Yes, and you know, grandfather,” so she always
called him, “you know it is written in the tenth chapter
of Jeremiah, that some people are born with a silver
spoon in their mouths, and others with a wooden
ladle.”
“I don't think you'll find that in Jeremiah, Rachel,
but I dare say it is true for all that.”
“Well, then it's in the book of Proverbs, for I am
pretty sure I saw it there, though my memory is not
quite so good as it was before the old French war.
But I will soon see.” Accordingly she took down the
old Bible but whether the passage was found in Jeremiah,
or the book of Proverbs, does not appear from
any authentic documents.
John passed his time, previous to joining the army,
in unalloyed happiness, or, at least, only alloyed by the
and romancers—if the phrases are not synonymous—
have told us a thousand times that happiness cannot
be described; but we confess we do not believe a
word of it. Why should there be more difficulty in
depicting the smiles, than the tears of humanity?
Why are the pure enjoyments of virtuous love, the
cheerful scenes of domestic happiness, the rich prospects
of national peace and plenty, not equally susceptible
of being delineated, with the excesses of the
passions, the crimes and sufferings of guilt, or the
bloody and atrocious scenes of war? Alas! we fear
it is not the difficulty of painting the picture, but of
finding admirers, that gives such disproportioned space
to the records of crime and suffering, over those of
virtue and happiness. Is it not, that having, in a
great measure, lost the capacity of enjoying these innocent
delights ourselves, like the parent of death and
sin contemplating the happiness of the first pair in the
garden of Eden, we turn in sickening envy from the
scene, as one in which we can never partake, and
seek excitement in banqueting on those splendid exhibitions
of guilt and misery which ever follow in the
track of heroes and demigods?
We have, however, a different reason for refraining
from enlarging on the happiness of John and his affianced
bride, namely, the apprehension that some of
our readers might pine away with envy in contemplating
the picture of virtuous love sanctioned by parental
authority, and beckoned forward by enchanting
hope to a long perspective of fancied bliss. “With
whom does time gallop withal,” if not with such favoured
dream, and the morrow brought only a recurrence of
what was even more delightful in the repetition. But
at length the period arrived, when they were to pay
the full price of all the pleasures of meeting by the
pangs of parting. We shall not describe the scene
minutely, for it was as like as two honey-bees to that
delineated on a former occasion, making allowance
for the difference of weather. Then, nature was all
arrayed in smiles; now, she was wrapt in her gloom
and severity, lifeless, though not dead, awaiting the
touch of balmy, life-inspiring spring, to wake her into
music, smiles, and blushes. We shall only say, that
as the lovers were exchanging their mutual farewells
in the presence of the old continental, each, as if influenced
by a common feeling, looked wistfully, if not
beseechingly, in his face, as if to ask something at his
hands.
“Well, what is it?” said he. “What have you got
to say to me, John?”
“Nothing, sir,” replied John.
“And you, young madam?”
“Nothing, sir,” replied Jane.
“Nothing, sir,” exclaimed the colonel, mimicking
each in turn, “nothing, sir. Then, sir, please to face
to the right about, mount your horse, and be off; the
snow is so deep, you will hardly save your distance,
for your leave expires to-day. Good-bye, take care
you are not shot for a deserter.”
“Take care,” said Jane, with glistening eyes, “take
care you are not shot by the red coats.”
“Pooh!” cried the colonel, “what do you think a
come, sir, mount, I say, and don't let me see your face
again till you have fulfilled your part of our bargain.
You understand?”
They parted. Jane watched his course, until she
could see him no more, then wandered about the home
a while, from room to room, not knowing what she
sought, and finally sat down to mend the colonel's silk
night-cap, which was a treasure in these times, when
men scarcely wore a head, much less a cap on it. As
the good little girl plied her long darning-needle, which
was also a treasure, brought from New York by Mangham,
the pedlar, it operated as a charm, just like Mesmerism,
and, by degrees, soothed her throbbing heart
into quiet resignation, cheered by the hope of soon
meeting again to part perhaps no more. When she
next encountered her father, it was with her accustomed
sweet, cheerful smile, and all again went on
smoothly as before in the domicil of the old continental.
Blessed, yea, thrice blessed, are the employments
of the hand, for they are the best assuagers of a wounded
heart.
Our hero proceeded but slowly on his journey, owing
to the road being covered with deep snow. Not
a single track denoted that man or beast had preceded
him; for the men of the country around, with the exception
of the old and infirm, were either soldiers or
fugitives, and the cattle had, with few exceptions, been
driven away by their owners, or carried off by parties
of plunderers. He lost his way three times, but whether
owing to the obscurity of the road, or his head being
full of other thoughts, must be left to the decision
Croton river, at a ferry then kept by a respectable
Quaker, who, as a non-combatant, enjoyed a certain
qualified exemption from the evils of the times, though
it must be confessed he was treated with very little
ceremony by both red coats and continentals. A neutral,
in time of war, most especially such a one as
that of our revolution, is game for both parties, and
generally squares accounts by making game of
them.
The peaceable Quaker had frequently experienced
this truth, and as frequently put it in practice; but on
the whole, like most of those mysterious broad-brims,
he resembled the sheep not alone in practising the
doctrine of non-resistance, but in another peculiar
characteristic, for, the more you sheared him, the
thicker became his wool. According to his own account,
he was plundered almost every night, yet,
strange to say, he waxed richer and richer every day,
and was the only farmer in all the country round, that
had not his broken windows stuffed with old hats, and
worn out garments. He was suspected, but without
cause, of having a sneaking preference for king
George, but in his heart he yearned for liberty. The
truth of the matter is, that he had an irresistible preference
for guineas over continental money, and could
not resist the temptation of supplying his enemies in
preference to his friends. In short, he was a hard-money
man, for he adored specie, and eschewed shin-plasters
incontinently. His wife, however, like almost
every farmer's wife and daughter of the heroic age
of our country, was sincerely attached to the good
home by their father, was deeply imbued with her
feelings.
Our traveller halted at the house of friend Underwood
for refreshment and rest, and was received rather
coolly; but, as he called John, friend, it served as an
apology for treating him in rather an unfriendly manner,
for good words are a sort of continental money,
and act as worthless substitutes for the sterling value
of good deeds. Farmer Underwood could tell a man
afar off who dealt in paper promises, or shin-plasters,
as they now began to be opprobriously called, and he
saw, at a glance, that our hero was wanting in the
one thing needful; however, he invited him in, and
offered a seat at a cheerful blazing fire. Comfort is,
indeed, the badge of all the tribe, and no one ever saw a
Quaker who dressed in rags, cultivated lean land, or
lived in a poor house.
While the steed of our hero discussed his provender,
the party at the fireside was engaged in conversation
on public affairs. The neat, simple, and indeed handsome
Quaker dame, in the meantime busied herself
about her domestic concerns, ever and anon stopping
to listen to John's details of the position of the army
in the Highlands. Farmer Underwood, at length,
asked him if he was not tired of such hard service,
saying it was a poor business to fight without victory,
and live without food.
“Dost thee hear, boys,” said he, as the boys came
in to dinner. “Dost thee hear how the continental soldiers
are without shoes, or shirts, and that their bellies
are as badly off as their backs. How much better art
to comfort the inward man.”
“But, friend Underwood,” answered John, “if all
the men staid at home, what would become of the
cause, and the country? It would be overrun by the
red coats, and we should be no better than slaves.”
“We should then live in peace and quiet, friend.”
“Peace and quiet! do you call it peace and quiet,
when you are pinned to the ground by a pitchfork, or
a bayonet, with the foot of an enemy on your neck, to
keep you from writhing? Do you call it peace and
quiet, when you are only let alone because you have
not the spirit to turn like a worm, when trod upon?
Do you call it peace and quiet, when you lie shivering
under the bed-clothes, while robbers are rifling
your house, laying waste your fields, insulting your
wives and daughters, because they will not cry God
save the king? By my soul, friend Underwood, I
would rather be in the midst of an earthquake, than
enjoy such peace and quiet as this.”
“Friend,” said the Quaker dame, who had stood listening
to this animated appeal, her large black eyes
kindling as he proceeded: “Friend, is there anything
in the house thee would like? Thee shall be kindly
welcome.” John thanked her gratefully, but declined
the offer.
“Obadiah,” quoth farmer Underwood, “thee hadst
best go and see after the stranger's horse; and Nehemiah,
thee art wanted at the wood-pile; and Uriah,
thee should be threshing in the barn, for thee must go
to mill to-morrow.”
The young men departed unwillingly, with their
saddle his horse, he found them shouldering their flails
and pitchforks, and marching to and fro about the barnfloor,
practising military manœuvres. On his departure,
he tendered the price of his entertainment, but
the good woman declined receiving it, saying, in a
low tone, “thee art serving thy country, and defending
its women and children, and such should find welcome
everywhere.” He took her by the hand, and departed,
thinking to himself, that the saddle was on the wrong
horse, and that the Quaker and his wife ought to
change garments.
“Friend,” said Obadiah, as he passed the barn, where
the youngster was going through the manual with a
pitchfork, “friend, was that done judgematically?”
“Like an old continental,” replied John, and gayly
setting forward, a ride of some two or three hours
brought him to his old quarters, where the captain
welcomed him with great cordiality. From this period,
his time passed in the regular, and somewhat monotonous
routine of soldierly duties, until the breaking
up of the ice, the melting of the snow, and the chirping
of the little birds, announced the coming of the spring.
Another campaign was about to open, with prospects
ill calculated to inspire any hope that the future would
make amends for the past. While the republican
army had been suffering grievous privations, and a
continual diminution from the expiration of their brief
terms of service, that of the enemy had been quartered
in the city of New York, enjoying the gayeties
of life, in the midst of plenty and repose. Superior
in numbers, discipline, and equipments of every kind,
and the confidence of future victories, had little else to
do but scour the country at pleasure, during the summer,
and feast and frolic through the livelong winter.
Previous to opening the campaign, it was desirable,
if possible, to gain precise information of the state of
affairs in New York, the probable time the enemy
would be in motion, and the course he would pursue.
For this purpose, a small detachment was placed under
the command of the captain, with instructions to approach
York Island, under cover of night, and, if possible,
seize some straggler from the British lines, who
might, perhaps, communicate the desired information.
John was one of the party selected, and one evening,
just about dusk, they proceeded on their critical and
important mission. The distance was too great to be
reached that night, and arriving just about daylight at
Hungry Hollow, the captain determined to halt in this
sequestered spot until evening, assured that here they
would be safe from all observation. Nothing of consequence
occurred, except that John suggested to the
captain the propriety of his riding over to see the old
people at the stone house, and received a sharp reprimand
for his pains.
The design was to approach Kingsbridge in the dead
of night, beat up some outpost, and carry off one or
more prisoners. The evening came in gloomy and
dark, the sky being deeply overcast with clouds, and
cautiously pursuing their way by a back road, some
miles from the river, they at length approached the
bridge, which at this time formed the only communication
from the island to the mainland. Here the
plan of operations, and commanding that no one should
utter a word, on pain of the severest punishment, proceeded
cautiously forward, until he caught a view of
the glimmering at the guard-house on the south end
of the bridge. The darkness of the night had increased
with its progress, and the silence of death reigned all
around, save the grinding of the horses' feet in the
sandy road that led to the point of destination. Arriving
at the spot where the road made a sudden turn
round a ledge of high rocks, within a short distance
of the bridge, the party dismounted, with the exception
of one to whom the horses were given in charge, with
directions to push forward, at a given signal, towards
the bridge, for the purpose of receiving his comrades,
and any prisoners they might have the good fortune
to secure. This done, the captain proceeded cautiously
to reconnoitre the premises.
We have said there was a guard-house at the south
end of the bridge, in which glimmered a light, by the
aid of which was seen a sentinel pacing back and
forth, with slow and sleepy pace. Sheltered by the
reeds that grew on the bank of the river, the party
stole along, sometimes knee-deep in mud, until they
gained a lodgment under the bridge, where they listened
with breathless interest, but heard nothing save
the measured footsteps of the sentinel, who was pacing
towards the other extremity of the bridge, where
he halted, and spoke some words which they could not
distinguish.
“The sentinel is about to be changed,” whispered
the captain, “he will perhaps return once more, and
seize him. Have you the gag ready, John?”
The sentinel approached, stopped, and listened, while
the party under the bridge heard with dismay the
neighing of one of their horses, disturbing the dead
silence around. After listening a few moments,
he walked briskly away towards the guard-house.
“Now!” whispered the captain, and in a second the
party was on the bridge. In another, they had seized
the sentinel, but unfortunately not before he had uttered
an exclamation which alarmed the guard, who,
the moment they could get ready their arms, sallied
forth. This brief interval, however, enabled the soldier
to bring up the horses on the signal being given;
but before they could mount with their prisoner, the
guard was upon them, and discharged a volley, which,
though given at random, in the deep obscurity of night,
proved fatal to two of the party. The rest retreated
while the guard was reloading, which was a work of
some difficulty in the pitchy darkness.
Quick as thought the prisoner was placed in front
of the stoutest of the troopers. “Dash on, boys!”
cried the captain, in a faint voice, and on they sped
fast as their steeds could go, the old soldier ever and
anon urging them forward for their lives and for their
country. Scarcely, however, had they proceeded a
couple of miles, when he fell headlong to the earth,
with the words “Dash on, boys!” trembling feebly on
his lips. “They have finished me, John,” said he, as
the young man dismounted and knelt by his side.
“I've got a bullet in my shoulder. But don't stop for
me. Ride on—ride on for your lives—the man you
to head-quarters, and leave me to my fate. Ride on—
away with you!”
The men obeyed unwillingly—the old soldier sunk
down with the exertion he had made. Here he lay a
few minutes without speaking, while John was vainly
trying to staunch the blood flowing from his wound
with a handkerchief.
“Who is that?” said he, faintly.
“Your son, dear father.”
“What business have you here? Away—leave
me—and do your utmost to carry that red coat to
head-quarters. You cannot tell what information he
may be able to give. It may save thousands of lives—
it may save your country. You can do me no good,
for I am dying. Go—and may God preserve you.”
“Not one step, sir! Live, or die, I will not desert
my father!”
The wounded soldier raised himself on his elbow,
with a last effort, and passionately cried out—
“Then, instead of my blessing, take my curse. As
your superior officer, I command you—as your father,
I adjure you to leave me. With my last breath, I order
you to join my men, and do your best to lead them
to head-quarters. I am a dead man, and dead men
can take care of themselves.”
Thus saying, he sunk down, and moved and spoke
no more. Rising, after an agonizing struggle, arising
from grief for the fate of the brave old soldier, and
the necessity of leaving him or incurring his malediction,
the bitter tears rolled down his cheeks, and he
said to himself—“Here is another item in the price of
horses crossing the bridge, and kneeling for an instant
over the breathless body, he breathed a silent farewell,
—a silent prayer for the repose of the soul of his gallant
parent—then mounting his horse, spurred forward
to overtake his comrades.
He had scarcely turned a corner of the road, when
a party of dragoons, which had been roused by one
of the guard at the bridge, came riding up furiously,
and seeing the body of the captain, by the light of the
morning dawn, halted to examine it; but finding no
signs of life they again pushed forward, to recover,
if possible, their kidnapped companion. The fugitives,
by this time, were some miles in advance, but being
encumbered by their prisoner, did not proceed with
the same speed as their pursuers. The moment John
overtook them, by tacit consent he assumed the direction
of the party. The road led over a succession of
hills and valleys, in a devious course, and the daylight
disclosed to their pursuers, the party, scampering over
a high eminence at a distance of some two or three
miles. Descending into a deep vale, they were again
lost sight of, and thus alternately hidden, and again in
full view, the chase was continued with increasing
ardour, if not increasing speed. But it every moment
became evident that the pursuers were gaining ground,
and that to escape was almost as hopeless, as to halt
and fight a party numbering three to one, would be
desperate. Nearer, still nearer, appeared the enemy
every time they crossed a hill in the rear, and they
were now within half a mile, when John and his party
descended into a deep valley, which branched off towards
a stream, sometimes almost dry, at others a roaring
torrent, found its way to the Hudson. Being now out
of view of their pursuers, a sudden thought occurred
to John, which, if put in practice, might possibly secure
their escape. Directing his companions to follow,
he plunged into the stream, which had been lately
swelled by a heavy rain, and had not yet quite subsided,
and tracing his course upwards, after the example
of the hunted deer, leaving no track behind, he
was soon out of sight of the high road.
Scarcely had they disappeared, when the enemy
gained the summit of the hill overlooking the valley,
and missing the fugitives, concluded they had just descended
the eminence before them. Shouting with
the exultation of certain and speedy success, they
spurred on with renewed eagerness, leaving John and
his party in the rear, treading the mazes of the winding
stream towards its source in a rugged range covered
with forests. When certain he was not followed
in that direction, and that he was out of their view
entirely, he left the channel of the stream, crossed a
field or two, and gained a back road that led to the
Highlands across Pine's Bridge.
In the meantime, the enemy continued the chase
over a road which, winding through a hilly country,
precluded seeing any considerable distance ahead, until,
ascending a high commanding eminence, which
afforded a long view of the country before them, they
were brought to a full stop by perceiving that the
game was nowhere in view. Not a living thing was
in sight, nor could they perceive on examination any
back, they could find no road branching off from that
they had travelled, nor any bars or fences thrown
down by which the fugitives might have escaped.
They must, therefore, have passed them somewhere,
and nothing was left but to turn back, and, if possible,
discover the precise spot where they had deviated
from the road. A scrutiny was accordingly commenced,
but without success, from the difficulty of distinguishing
the horses' tracks from each other, until it
was discovered that one of those belonging to the retreating
party was without a shoe to one of his hinder
feet, having lost it in the course of the chase.
This served them as a sort of landmark, and after a
tedious scouting, they at length discovered that the
track was lost at the stream, which, as before stated,
crossed the deep ravine through which the road passed.
It was thus made evident that the chase had taken to
the water, and gone eastward, as a contrary direction
would have carried them to the river close at hand,
and in full view. The pursuit was therefore renewed
in that direction with reviving hope, and renovated
vigour. They pursued their rough, embarrassed way,
following the stream, and carefully searching for the
precise point where the fugitives had emerged. This
they discovered, after a progress of about half a mile,
during which they met with many obstacles, which
greatly impeded their course. The state of the fence,
which had been pulled down, indicated the spot, and
the tracks of the horses led them through some fields,
from which they at length passed into a cross-road,
where the unshod foot served as an unerring guide.
While all this was passing, our hero and his party
kept on their way, with all possible speed. But, by
this time, their horses began greatly to flag, though
they had been selected from the fleetest and strongest
of the troop. The necessity of frequently shifting the
prisoner from one to another, in order to relieve them
alternately, occasioned considerable delays. The men,
too, as well as their steeds, required rest and refreshment,
and a halt was determined on, whatever might
be the consequences. Accordingly, they proceeded to
a solitary farm-house, almost hid by a stately old elm,
the growth of the primeval soil, which was now slowly
putting forth its pale purple buds to the breathing
spring.
The column of white smoke curling upwards, and
floating on the pure atmosphere of morning, gave
token that the house was inhabited, and its secluded
situation invited the party to choose it as a place of
rest, as well as safety, for, it seemed possible, if not
probable, that their pursuers might eventually follow
their track and overtake them. Every precaution
was therefore taken to elude surprise. The horses
were kept saddled and bridled, and one of the party,
by turns, stood sentinel on an eminence, which commanded
a view over the road they had passed, while
it hid a like portion of that they were about to
pursue.
Approaching the house, it presented an aspect of
neglect, decay, and desolation, emblematic of these
dreary times, when the bayonet lords it over the land,
and defenceless weakness, instead of exciting pity,
provokes only insult and robbery. An aged female
window, as if watching their approach, but on entering,
not a living soul was to be seen. The room presented
a spectacle of poverty; the little furniture it
contained was either worn out or broken; the surrounding
fields, though blest by nature with the capacity
to yield a ready reward to the labours of the
husbandman, were without fences, and overgrown
with worthless weeds, and neither cattle or domestic
animals lowed in the fields, or loitered about the farm-yard.
Silence reigned everywhere, but it was not
the silence of peace. The crowing of the cock, the
cackling of hens, the lowing of the cows, the ploughman's
whistle, and the milkmaid's song, and all those
rural sounds that give life to the rural prospects, refreshment
to the soul of man, were unheard amid the
grim repose of nature. John remembered it in past
times, when surrounded by a family of lusty boys, and
rosy cheeked girls, the old couple, to whom the place
belonged, walked on their way contented and happy,
and its present aspect smote on his heart. “Another
item in the price of liberty,” thought he, as he sighed
over the sufferings of his country.
As no refreshment could be procured in the absence
of the old woman who had been detected at the window,
search was made for her, and she was at length
found hid under a heap of straw in the cellar. The
poor old soul, though her thread of life was almost
spun, trembled for the little remnant that was left.
“O, for the Lord's sake! for mercy's sake! don't
murder a harmless old woman!” exclaimed she, as
they drew her forth.
“Murder you, mother, what put that in your head?”
said John, “we are friends.”
“Friends! I have no friends. I am a poor, lone
woman, and friends or foes, everybody plunders and
insults me. The Cow Boys come here as friends and
steal my fowls; the Skinners say they are my friends,
and drive away the cattle; and the red-coats and
Yagers, after plundering everything they can lay their
hands on, break everything they cannot carry away,
and then go away cursing me for a rebel. But God's
will be done, only don't murder me, gentlemen!”
John assured her that they had come as friends, and
would treat her as friends. He told her his name,
which she remembered, and being thus reassured, she
went out for a few moments, and returned leading an
old man supporting himself by a stick, and bending
under the burden of almost a century of years. A few
white hairs lay like strangers at a distance over his
wrinkled brow, and his patched garments gave
evidence of patient industry contending with extreme
poverty. Still his person and his garments were clean,
a circumstance more than any other indicating not
worthless want, but want incurred by inevitable misfortune.
Poverty may be the lot of any man, but dirt
is the offspring of sheer idleness, since there is always
water enough in the world to keep all the world clean.
The beggar with filthy face and hands, gives sufficient
evidence that he is himself the author of his own fate.
Being told the story of their wants, the old woman
bent her way towards a little copse of wood at a short
distance, facing a rugged cliff of rocks, within which
she disappeared a few minutes, and returned with a
was the hiding place for all the old couple had left in
the world, and to such straits were the poor people
who could not remove from the scene of robbery and
strife reduced, in order to preserve the scanty means
of life. While the humble meal was preparing, John
asked a variety of questions, and among others, what
had become of their sons and daughters. The question
brought the apron of the mother to her eyes, but the
old man had long ceased to weep, for he was blind.
“Three of our sons,” answered she, “are gone to the
army. They may be dead, or they may be living, for
it is but seldom we see any one that can tell us what
is passing, and men die now-a-days without any body
being the wiser for it.”
“I saw them not four days ago,” said John, “they
were all well, and three better soldiers never drew
sword or trigger.”
“God reward you for that good news, young man.
You shall pay nothing for your breakfast, that's all
the thanks I can give you. But my youngest son—he
is dead. I know he is dead, for I saw him die.”
“Yes,” said the old man, “and so did I. But, thank
God, I shall never see such a sight again; that is some
comfort.”
“You saw him die?” inquired John, who felt interested
in the story.
“Yes,” replied the old dame, “he died here on this
very spot. You can see the stain of his blood on the
floor. I have scrubbed and scrubbed to get it out, but
whenever the boards are wet, and the sun shines on
them, there it comes again, and I can see my poor
“How did he die?”
“Why, like a man,” said the graybeard, proudly.
“Aye, that's what he did,” cried the mother. “He
died trying to save his father's house from plunder,
and his old parents from being whipt and spit upon.
Well, I will tell you all about it, for it is a comfort to
old people to be pitied, and it does one good to let
every body know what a fine, bold fellow he was.
You must know, sir, he was coming home from the
field, the fourth of July, over a year ago, after working
hard in a little corn-field we had, till it was quite
dark. It was over the hill yonder, out of sight of the
house. Well, a party of three Skinners or tories, I
don't know which, for one is as bad as the other, had
come to the house about an hour before, and after
eating and wasting all they could find, began to make
a great noise about some liquor to drink. They said
they were sure we had some hid away in the house,
which was a great big lie, for neither I, or my old man,
nor my son, ever drank anything stronger than cider,
and we had none of that ever since the Yagers burnt
our cider-mill. Well, we had none to give them, and
then they began to call us d—d rebels, and all sorts
of names, when just then my son come in, and hearing
what was going on, spoke to them pretty strong about
their conduct. One thing brought on another, and at
last they swore that if we didn't give them liquor,
they'd tie us all up and give us a whipping.”
“The cowardly rascals!” exclaimed John.
“Well, then, as I was saying, one thing brought on
at last they swore they would `split him like
a shad' for his impudence. And so they did. They
cut him down on this blessed spot, and hacked him to
pieces afterwards. See where they cut me over the
arm for trying to save him. But that was not the
worst, for they cut my old man just over the eyes in
such a way that by degrees he lost his sight, and has
never since seen the light of heaven.”
“The cowards! the bloody, villainous cowards!”
exclaimed John. “Oh! if I ever come across them,
if they don't pay dearly for this!”
“Well, young man,” said she, “that's very good of
you. I don't commonly bear malice, but I own I should
like to see—no—not just see, but hear that these cruel
men were served as they did my son.”
“And I promise you,” said John, “that if I ever
meet any of those rascally Skinners, they shall not be
the better off for your story, mother. But you must
live in hope of better times. It cannot be but such
miseries as our dear country has endured, and I fear
must still endure, will not be one day repaid by long
years of happiness. Liberty, like religion, must have
its martyrs, and your son was one of them. It must
be—it will be.”
“But I shall never live to see it,” replied she.
“Nor I. Old men, like me, must look beyond the
grave. They have no hope but that of hereafter,”
said the old man. “I shall have nothing to live on
but the thought of that miserable fourth of July when
my poor boy was murdered. It was a bitter day for
us.”
“But a glorious day for our country—the birth-day
of its independence; the beginning of that, whose
end, I trust, will be a blessing to mankind. You may
not live to see it, but your children, and your children's
children will, or there is no virtue in generous blood
or fearless patriotism. Think of that, mother, and
thank God that you have borne children, who don't
fear to die in defence of their country or their parents.”
“Do you think we shall ever be free?” asked the
good woman, anxiously.
“I know it—I feel it—” said John, “for God and
Washington are on our side. But where are your
daughters?”
“They are gone with a bag of corn to mill, for we
have no one else to send. It is so far that they are
forced to start early to get back the same day.”
Here the conversation was cut short by the cry of
“Turn out! turn out! the red coats are in sight!” and
the sentinel posted on the hill came galloping full
speed. All was now haste and confusion. The party
mounted, and without bidding farewell, or recollecting
their bill, scoured away before their pursuers came in
sight, the intervening hills, and a turn in the road,
through a thick wood, screening them effectually for
the time.
The red coats halted at the house, the others had
just quitted, for they, too, as well as their horses, were
both tired and hungry. The old dame declared truly
that she had nothing to give them, and the officer commanding,
being fortunately a gentleman, the desolate
pair for this time escaped insult and outrage. Unluckily,
incapacity to entertain them, let out the secret that all
her provisions had been consumed by a party that
called that morning. The officer eagerly inquired,
how long it was since they departed, and his hope of
overtaking them, suddenly reviving, he ordered his
men to mount with all speed, and resume the chase.
Away, then, they scampered full speed. But John
and his party had by this time got the start some
miles, and their horses having been refreshed by rest
and food, travelled with new vigour. Still the disposal
of their prisoner perpetually delayed their progress,
and the irregular formation of the country continually
enabled them to discern their pursuers, who were
again evidently gaining ground. The flight and the
chase thus continued, until both parties approached
Pine's Bridge, one of the principal passes over Croton
river, where John expected to find a detachment from
the American army on guard. The horses again began
to flag, and the near approach of the eager red
coats was announced by shoutings that grew every
moment more loud and triumphant. Fifteen minutes
more and all had been lost, for when they reached the
bridge the enemy was scarce half a mile in the rear.
Here they found a company of continentals, to the
commander of which our hero said a few words, and
rode on as if still fearful of being captured. The officer
instantly ordered his men into a thick wood of
evergreens, where they had scarce time to conceal
themselves, when the pursuing party came in sight,
and perceiving the bridge unguarded, dashed across
without hesitating a moment. Turning an angle of
sight of their anticipated prey, drawn up as if waiting
to receive them. A parley ensued, in which John
roused the indignation of the commander of the red
coats by demanding his unconditional surrender. “You
are either a madman or an idiot,” cried he, “don't you
see we number three to one? Surrender, this instant,
or take the consequences.”
“Look behind you, sir,” said John, and the officer
obeying the intimation, was struck with dismay at
seeing a company of regulars drawn up in his rear.
John once more, and for the last time, demanded his
surrender, and as his situation was such as to preclude
all hope of escape, he relinquished his sword with feelings
of the bitterest mortification. “You have caught
me in a trap,” said he. “Yes,” replied John; “the
hunters have become the game, and the game the
hunters.”
The commandant of the bridge gallantly resigned
the prisoners to John, who, he was pleased to say, had
fairly earned them by his masterly retreat, and our
hero leisurely conducted them to the camp. From the
prisoner captured at Kingsbridge, and those at the
bridge over Croton river, much valuable information
was extracted; and John had the satisfaction at hearing
the father of his country regret the fate of his devoted
old soldier, while he applauded the conduct of
the young volunteer.
| CHAPTER VIII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty | |