University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The pedlar and his companion soon reached the
valley, and after pausing to listen, and hearing no
sounds which announced that pursuers were
abroad, they entered the highway. Acquainted
with every step that led through the mountains,
and possessed of sinews inured to toil, Birch led
the way in silent activity, with the lengthened
strides that were peculiar to the man and his profession—his
pack was alone wanting to finish the
appearance of his ordinary business air. At times
when they approached one of those little posts,
held by the American troops, with which the highlands
abounded, he would take a circuit to avoid
the sentinels, and plunge at once fearlessly into a
thicket, or ascend a rugged hill, that to the eye
seemed impassable. But the pedlar was familiar
with every turn in their difficult route, knew where
the ravines might be penetrated, or where the
streams were fordable. In one or two instances,
Henry thought that their further progress was absolutely
at an end, but the ingenuity or knowledge
of his guide conquered every difficulty. After
walking at an incredible rate for three hours, they
suddenly diverged from the road which inclined
to the east, and held their course directly across

the hills in a due south direction. This movement
was made, the pedlar informed his companion, in
order to avoid the parties who constantly patroled
in the southern entrance of the highlands, as well
as to shorten the distance, by travelling in a
straight line. After reaching the summit of a very
considerable hill, Harvey seated himself by the
side of a little run, and opening the wallet, that
he had slung where his pack was commonly suspended,
invited his comrade to partake of the
coarse fare that it contained. Henry had kept pace
with the pedlar, more by the excitement natural
to his situation, than by the equality of his physical
powers. The idea of any halt was unpleasant,
so long as there existed a possibility of the horse
getting below him in time to intercept their retreat
through the neutral ground.—He, therefore,
stated his apprehensions to his companion, and urged
his wish to proceed.

“Follow my example, Captain Wharton,” said
the pedlar, commencing his frugal meal; “if the
horse have started, it will be more than man can
do to head them; and if they have not, other work
is cut out for them, that will drive all thoughts of
you and me from their brains.”

“You said yourself, that two hours detention
was all important to us, and if we loiter here, of
what use will be the advantage that we may have
already obtained?”

“Them two hours are passed, and Major Dunwoodie
thinks little of following two men, when
hundreds are waiting for him on the banks of the
river.”

“Listen!” interrupted Henry; “there are horse
at this moment passing at the foot of the hill. I
hear them even laughing and talking to each other.
By heavens! there is the voice of Dunwoodie himself,
and he calls to his comrade in a manner that

shows but little uneasiness. One would think that
the situation of his friend would lower his spirits:
surely, Frances could not have given him the
letter.”

On hearing the first exclamation of the Captain,
Birch arose from his seat, and approached cautiously
to the brow of the hill, taking care to keep
his body in the shade of the rocks, so as to be unseen
at any distance, and earnestly reconnoitred the
passing group of horsemen. He continued listening,
until their quick footsteps were no longer audible,
and then quietly returned to his seat, and
with incomparable coolness resumed his meal.

“You have a long walk, and a tiresome one before
you, Captain Wharton; you had better do as
I do—you was eager for food at the hut above
Fishkill, but travelling seems to have worn down
your appetite.”

“I thought myself safe then, but the information
of my sister fills me with uneasiness, and I
cannot eat.”

“You have less reason to be troubled now,
than at any time since the night before you was
taken, when you refused my advice and offer to
see you in safety,” returned the pedlar. “Major
Dunwoodie is not a man to laugh and be gay, when
his friend is in difficulty. Come, then, and eat, for
no horse will be in our way, if we can hold our
legs for four hours longer, and the sun keeps behind
the hills as long as common.”

There was a composure in the pedlar's manner
that inspirited the youth, and having once determined
to submit to Harvey's government, he suffered
himself to be persuaded into a tolerable supper,
if the quantity be considered without any reference
to the quality. After completing their repast,
the pedlar again resumed his journey.

Henry followed in blind submission to his will.

For two hours more they struggled with the difficult
and dangerous passes of the highlands, without
road or any other guide than the moon, which
was travelling the heavens, now wading through
the flying clouds, and now shining upon objects
with a brilliancy, second only to her great source
of light. At length they arrived where the mountains
sunk into rough and unequal hillocks, and
passed at once from the barren sterility of the
precipices, to the imperfect culture of the neutral
ground.

The pedlar now became more guarded in the
manner in which they proceeded, and took divers
precautions to prevent meeting any moving parties
of the Americans. With their stationary posts
he was too familiar to endanger his falling upon
them unawares. He wound among the hills and
vales, now keeping the highways and now avoiding
them, with a precision that seemed instinctive.
There was nothing elastic in his tread, but he glided
over the ground with enormous strides, and a
body bent forward, without appearing to use exertion,
or know weariness.

The moon had set, and a faint streak of light
was beginning to show itself in the east. Captain
Wharton ventured to express a sense of fatigue,
and to inquire if they were not yet arrived at a part
of the country where it might be safe to apply at
some of the farm-houses for admission.

“See here,” said the pedlar, pointing to a hill
at a short distance in their rear; “do you not see
a man walking on the point of that rock? Turn
more, so as to bring the daylight in the range—
notice, now he moves, and seems to be looking
earnestly at something to the eastward. That is
a royal sentinel, and two hundred of the rig'lar
troops lay on that hill, no doubt sleeping on their
arms.”

“Then,” cried Henry, “let us join them, and
our danger is at once ended.”

“Softly, softly—Captain Wharton,” said the
pedlar, drily; “you've once been in the midst of
three hundred of them, but there was a man who
could take you out; see you not yon dark body on the
side of the opposite hill, just above the corn-stalks?
These are the—the rebels—waiting only for day,
to see who will be the master of the ground.”

“Nay, then,” exclaimed the fiery youth, “I
will join the troops of my prince, and share their
fortunes, be it good or be it bad.”

“You forget that you fight with a halter around
your neck—no, no—I have promised one whom I
must not disappoint, to carry you safe in; and unless
you forget what I have already done, and
what I have risked for you, Captain Wharton, you
will turn and follow me to Harlaem.”

To this appeal, the youth felt unwillingly obliged
to submit; and they continued their course
towards the city. It was not long before they
gained the banks of the Hudson. After searching
for a short time under the shore, the pedlar
discovered a skiff, that, from his movements,
appeared to be an old acquaintance; and entering
it with his companion, he landed him on
the south side of the Croton. Here Birch declared
they were in safety; for the royal troops held
the continentals at bay, and the former were out
in too great strength for the light parties of the
latter to trust themselves below that river, on
the immediate banks of the Hudson, from a dread
of having their retreat cut off.

Throughout the whole of this arduous flight,
the pedlar had manifested a coolness and presence
of mind that nothing appeared to disturb. All
his faculties seemed to be of more than usual perfection,
and the infirmities of nature to have no

dominion over him. Henry had followed him
like a child in leading-strings, and he now reaped
his reward, as he felt the bound of pleasure at
his heart, on hearing that he was relieved from apprehension,
and permitted to banish every doubt
of his security.

A steep and laborious ascent brought them from
the level of the tide-waters to the high lands, that
form, in this part of the river, the eastern banks of
the Hudson. Retiring a little from the highway,
under the shelter of a thicket of cedars, the pedlar
threw his form on a flat rock, and announced
to his companion, that the hour for rest and refreshment
was at length arrived. The day was
now opened, and objects could be seen in the distance
with distinctness. Beneath them lay the
Hudson, stretching to the south in a straight line
as far as the eye could reach. To the north, the
broken fragments of the highlands threw upwards
their lofty heads, above the masses of fog that
hung over the water, and by which the course of
the river could be traced into the bosom of the
hills, whose conical summits were grouping together,
one behind another, in that disorder which
might be supposed to succeed their mighty but
fruitless efforts to stop the progress of the flood.
Emerging from these confused piles, the river, as if
rejoicing at its release from the struggle, expanded
into a wide bay, which was ornamented by a few
fertile and low points that jutted humbly into
its broad basin. On the opposite, or western shore,
the rocks of Jersey were gathered in an array
that has obtained for them the name of the palisadoes,
elevating themselves for many hundred
feet, as if to protect the rich country in their rear
from the inroads of the conqueror; but, disdaining
such an enemy, the river swept proudly by
their feet, and held its undeviating way to the

ocean. A ray of the rising sun darted upon the
slight cloud that hung over the placid river, and
at once the whole scene was in motion, changing
and assuming new forms, and exhibiting fresh objects
to the view in each successive moment. At
the daily rising of this great curtain of nature, at
the present time, scores of white sails and sluggish
vessels are seen thickening on the water,
with that air of life which denotes the neighbourhood
to the metropolis of a great and flourishing
empire; but to Henry and the pedlar it displayed
only the square yards and lofty masts of a vessel
of war, riding a few miles below them. Before the
fog had begun to move, the tall spars were seen
above it and from one of them a long pendant
was feebly borne abroad in the current of
night air, that still quivered along the river;
but as the smoke arose, the black hull, the crowded
and complicated mass of rigging, and the heavy
yards and booms, spreading their arms afar, were
successively brought into view.

“There, Captain Wharton,” said the pedlar,
there is a safe resting-place for you—America has
no arm that can reach you if once you gain the
deck of that ship. She is sent up to cover the
foragers, and support the troops; the rig'lar officers
are over fond of the sound of cannon from
their shipping.”

Without condescending to reply to the sarcasm
conveyed in this speech, or perhaps not noticing
it, Henry joyfully acquiesced in the proposal, and
it was accordingly arranged between them, that so
soon as they were refreshed he should endeavour
to get on board of the vessel.

While busily occupied in the very indispensable
operation of breaking their fast, our adventurers
were startled with the sound of distant fire arms.
At first a few scattering shots were fired, which

were succeeded by a long and animated roll of musketry,
and then quick and heavy volleys followed
each other.

“Your prophecy is made good,” cried the English
officer, springing upon his feet. “Our troops
and the rebels are at it—I would give six months'
pay to see the charge.”

“Umph!” returned his companion, without
ceasing his meal; “they do very well to look at
from a distance; but I can't say but the company
of this bacon, cold as it is, is more to my taste just
now than a hot fire from the continentals.”

“The discharges are heavy for so small a force;
but the fire seems irregular.”

“The scattering guns are from the Connecticut
militia,” said Harvey, raising his head to listen;
“they rattle it off finely, and are no fools at a
mark. The volleys are the rig'lars, who, you
know, fire by word—as long as they can.”

“I like not the warmth of what you call a scattering
fire,” exclaimed the captain, moving about
from uneasiness; “it is more like the roll of a drum
than the pop-gun shooting of skirmishers.”

“No—no—I said not skrimmagers,” returned
the other, raising himself upon his knees, and
ceasing to eat; “so long as they'll stand, they are
too good for the best troops in the royal army.—
Each man does his work as if fighting by the job;
and then they think, while they fight; and don't
send bullets among the clouds, that were meant to
kill men upon earth.”

“You talk and look, sir, as if you wished them
success,” cried Henry sternly.

“I wish success to the good cause only, Captain
Wharton,” returned the pedlar, suddenly changing
his air of exultation to an abstracted manner.
“I thought you knew me too well, to be uncertain
which party I favoured.”

“Oh! you are reputed loyal, Mr. Birch,” said
the youth, with a little contempt;—“but, by Heavens!
the volleys have ceased!”

They now both listened intently, for a little
while, during which the irregular reports became
less brisk, and suddenly heavy and repeated volleys
followed. —

“They've been at the baggonet,” said the pedlar;
“the rig'lars have tried the baggonet, and
have drove the rebels.”

“Ay! Mr. Birch, the bayonet is the thing for
the British soldier, after all!” shouted Henry
with exultation. “They delight in the bayonet!”

“Well, to my notion,” said the pedlar, “there's
but little delight to be taken in any such pokerish
thing. But I dare say the militia are of my mind,
for half of them don't carry the ugly things.—
Lord!—lord!—Captain, I wish you'd go with me
once into the rebel camp, and hear what lies the
men tell about Bunker Hill and Burg'yne; you'd
think they loved the baggonet as much as they
do their dinner.”

There was an inward chuckle, and singular air
of affected innocency about his companion while
speaking, that rather annoyed Henry, and he
deigned no reply to his remarks.

The firing now became desultory, occasionally
intermingled with heavy volleys. Both of the
fugitives were standing, listening with much anxiety,
when a man, armed with a musket, was
seen stealing towards them under the shelter of
the cedar bushes that partially covered the hill.
Henry first noticed this suspiciously looking stranger,
and instantly pointed him out to his companion.
Birch started, and certainly made an indication
of sudden flight; but recollecting himself,
he stood in sullen silence until the stranger was
within a few yards of them—

“'Tis friends,” said the fellow, clubbing his gun,
but yet apparently afraid to venture nearer.

“You had better be off,” cried Birch, in a loud
voice, “here's rig'lars enough at hand to take
care of you; we are not near Dunwoodie's horse
now, and you will not easily get me again.”

“Damn Major Dunwoodie and his horse,” cried
the leader of the skinners, (for it was him) “God
bless king George! and a speedy end to the rebellion,
say I. If you would just show me the safe
way in to the refugees, Mr. Birch, I'll pay you
well, and ever after stand your friend in the bargain.”

“The road is as open to you as to me,”said Birch,
turning from him in ill-concealed disgust; “if you
want to find the refugees, you know well where
they lay.”

“Ay, but I'm a little afeard of going in upon
them by myself; now you are well known to them
all, and it will be no detriment to you just to let
me go in with you.”

Henry interfered, and after holding a short dialogue
with the fellow, entered into a compact with
him, that on condition of surrendering his arms,
he might join their party. The man complied
instantly, and Birch received his gun with eagerness,
nor did he lay it upon his shoulder to renew
their march, before he had carefully examined
the priming, and ascertained to his satisfaction,
that it contained a good dry ball-cartridge.

As soon as this engagement was completed, they
commenced their journey anew. By following
the bank of the river, Birch led the way free from
observation, until they reached the point opposite
to the frigate, when, by making a signal, a boat
was induced to approach. Some time was spent,
and much precaution used, before the seamen
would trust themselves ashore; but Henry having

finally succeeded in making the officer, who commanded
the party, credit his assertions, he was
able to rejoin his companions in arms in safety.
Before taking leave of Birch, the Captain handed
him his purse, which was tolerably well supplied
for the times; the pedlar received it, and watching
an opportunity, he conveyed it unnoticed by
the skinner, to a part of his dress that was ingeniously
contrived to hold such treasures.

The boat pulled from the shore, and Birch turned
on his heel, drawing a sigh of vast relief, and
shot up the hill with the enormous strides for
which he was famous. The skinner followed, and
each party pursued their common course, casting
frequent and suspicious glances at the other, but
both maintaining a most impenetrable silence.

Wagons were moving along the river road, and
occasional parties of horse were seen escorting
the fruits of their excursion towards the city.—
As the pedlar had views of his own, he rather
avoided falling in with any of these patroles, than
sought their protection. But, after travelling for
a few miles on the immediate banks of the river,
during which, notwithstanding the repeated efforts
of the skinner to establish something like sociability,
he maintained a most determined silence,
keeping a firm hold of the gun, and a side glance
upon his associate, the pedlar suddenly struck into
the highway, with an intention of crossing the hills
towards Harlaem. At the moment that he gained
the path, a body of horse came over a little eminence,
and was upon him before he perceived them.
It was too late to retreat, and after taking a view
of the materials that composed this scouting party,
Birch rejoiced in the rencontre as a probable
means of relieving him from his unwelcome companion.
They were some eighteen or twenty
men, who were mounted and equipped as dragoons,

though neither their appearance nor manner denoted
much of discipline. At their head rode a heavy
middle aged man, whose features expressed as
much of animal passion and as little of reason as
could well be imagined. He wore the dress of an
officer, but there was none of that neatness in his
attire, nor grace in his movements, that was usually
found about the gentlemen who bore the royal
commission. His limbs were firm, but not pliable,
and he sat his horse with strength and confidence,
but his bridle hand would have been ridiculed by
the meanest rider in the Virginia regiment. As he
expected, this leader instantly hailed the pedlar, in
a voice by no means more conciliating than his appearance.

“Hoy! my gentlemén—which way so fast?”
he cried. “Has Washington sent you down as
spies?”

“I am an innocent pedlar,” returned Harvey,
meekly, “and am going below to lay in a fresh
stock.”

“And how do you expect to get below, my innocent
pedlar? Do you think we hold the forts at
Kingsbridge to cover such peddling rascals as you,
in your goings in and comings out?”

“I believe I hold a pass that will carry me
through,” said the pedlar, handing him a paper,
with an air of consummate indifference.

The officer, for such he was, read it, and gave a
look of extraordinary intelligence for the man, at
Harvey, when he had done.

Then turning fiercely to one or two of his men
who had officiously passed on and stopped the
way, he cried—

“Why do you stop the man—give way and let
him pass in peace; but who have we here? your
name is not on the paper.”

“No, sir,” said the skinner, lifting his hat with
humility; “I have been a poor deluded man who
has been serving in the rebel army, but thank God,
I've lived to see the error of my ways, and am
now come to make reparation by enlisting under
the Lord's anointed.”

“Umph! a deserter—a skinner, I'll swear,
wanting to turn cow-boy. In the last brush I had
with the scoundrels, I could hardly tell my own
men from the enemy. We are not over well supplied
with coats, and as for the faces, the rascals
change sides so often, that you may as well count
their faces for nothing; but trudge on, we will contrive
to expend you before long.”

Ungracious as was this reception, if one could
judge of the skinner's feelings from his manner,
it nevertheless delighted him hugely. He moved
with alacrity towards the city, and really was so
happy to escape the brutal looks and frightful manner
of his interrogator, as to lose sight of all other
considerations. But the man who performed the
functions of orderly in the irregular troop, rode up
to the side of his commander, and entered into a
close and apparently confidential discourse with
his principal. They spoke in whispers, and cast
frequent and searching glances at the skinner, until
the fellow began to think himself an object of more
than common attention. His satisfaction at this
distinction was somewhat heightened, at observing
a smile on the face of the Captain, which, although
it might be thought grim, certainly denoted much
inward delight. This pantomime occupied the
time they were passing a hollow, and concluded
as they rose another hill. Here the captain and
his sergeant both dismounted, and ordered the
party to halt. The warriors each took a pistol
from their holsters, a movement that excited no suspicion
or alarm, as it was a precaution always observed,

and beckoned to the pedlar and the skinner
to follow. A short walk brought them to
where the hill overhung the river, the ground
falling nearly perpendicularly to the shore. On
the brow of the eminence stood a deserted and dilapidated
building, that had been a barn. Many
of the boards that had formed its covering were
torn from their places, and its wide doors were
lying the one in front of the building and the other
half way down the precipice, whither the wind had
cast it. Entering this desolate spot, the refugee
officer very coolly took from his pocket a short
pipe, whose colour might once have been white,
but which now, from long use, had acquired not
only the hue but the gloss of ebony, a tobacco
box, and a small roll of leather that contained
steel, flint and tinder. With this apparatus, he
soon furnished his mouth with a companion that
habit had long rendered necessary to extraordinary
reflection in its owner. So soon as a large column
of smoke arose from this arrangement, the
Captain significantly held forth his hand towards
his assistant. A small cord was produced from
the pocket of the sergeant, and handed to the
other. Now, indeed, appeared a moment of deep
care in the refugee, who threw out vast puffs of
smoke until nearly all of his head was obscured, and
looked around the building with an anxious and inquisitive
eye. At length he removed the pipe,
and inhaled a draught of pure air, returned it to
its domicile, and proceeded to business at once.
There was a heavy piece of timber laid across the
girths of the barn, but a little way from the southern
door, which opened directly upon a full view
of the river as it stretched far away towards the
bay of New-York. Over this timber, the refugee
threw one end of the rope, and regaining it, joined
the two parts in his hand. A small and weak barrel
that wanted a head, the staves of which
were loose and at one end standing apart, was left
on the floor probably as useless to the owner.—
This was brought by the sergeant in obedience to
a look from his officer, and placed beneath the
beam. All of these arrangements were made with
immoveable composure, and now seemed completed
to the officer's perfect satisfaction.

“Come,” he said coolly to the skinner, who,
amazed with the preparations, had stood both
a close and silent spectator of their progress. He
obeyed—and it was not until he found his neck-cloth
removed, and hat thrown aside, that he took
the alarm. But he had so often resorted to a similar
expedient to extract information or plunder,
that he by no means felt the terror an unpractised
man would have suffered, at these ominous movements.
The rope was adjusted to his neck with
the same coolness that formed the characteristic
of the whole movement, and a fragment of board
being laid upon the barrel, he was ordered to
mount it.

“But it may fall,” said the skinner, for the first
time beginning to tremble. “I will tell you any
thing,—even how to surprise our party at the
Pond, without this trouble; and that is commanded
by my own brother.”

“I want no information,” returned his executioner,
(for such he now seemed really to be,) as
he threw the rope repeatedly over the beam, first
drawing it tight, so as to annoy the skinner a little,
and then casting the end from him, far beyond
the reach of any one.

“This is joking too far,” cried the skinner, in
a tone of remonstrance, and raising himself on his
toes, with the vain hope of releasing himself from
the cord by slipping his head through the noose—

But the caution and experience of the refugee
had guarded against this escape.

“What did you with the horse you stole from
me, rascal?” he cried, throwing out extraordinary
columns of smoke, as he waited for a reply.

“He broke down in the chase,” replied the
skinner quickly; “but I can tell you where one is
to be found, that is worth him and his sire.”

“Liar! I will help myself when I want one—
but you had better call upon God for aid, as your
hour is short.” On concluding this consoling advice,
he struck the barrel a violent blow with his
heavy foot, and the slender staves flew in every
direction, leaving the skinner whirling in the air.
As his hands were unconfined, he threw them upwards,
and held himself suspended by main
strength.

“Come, captain,” he said coaxingly, a little
huskiness creeping into his voice, and his knees
beginning to shake with a slight tremor, “just
end the joke—'tis enough to make a laugh, and
my arms begin to tire—indeed I can't hold on
much longer.”

“Harkee, Mr. Pedlar,” said the refugee, in a
voice that would not be denied, “I want not your
company. Through that door lies your road—
march!—offer to touch that dog, and you'll swing
in his place, if twenty Sir Henrys wanted your
services.” So saying, he retired to the road with
the sergeant, as the pedlar precipitately retreated
down the bank.

Birch went no farther than a bush that opportunely
offered itself as a skreen to conceal his
person, while he yielded to an unconquerable desire,
to witness what would be the termination of
this extraordinary scene.

Left thus alone, the skinner began to throw
fearful glances around, to espy the hiding places

of his tormentors. For the first time, the horrid
idea seemed to shoot through his brain, that
something serious was intended by the Cow-Boy.
He called entreatingly to be released, and made
rapid and incoherent promises of important information,
mingled with affected pleasantry at their
conceit, which he could hardly admit to himself
could mean any thing so dreadful as it seemed.—
But as he heard the tread of the horses moving on
their course, and in vain looked around for human
aid, violent tremblings seized his limbs, and his
eyes began to start from his head with terror.—
He made a desperate effort to reach the beam,
but too much exhausted with his previous exertions
he caught the rope in his teeth, in a vain
effort to sever the cord, and fell to the whole
length of his arms.—Here his cries were turned
into shrieks—

“Help—cut the rope—Captain!—Birch!—good
pedlar—down with the Congress!—sergeant!—for
God's sake help—Hurrah for the King!—Oh God!
Oh God!—mercy—mercy—mercy—”

As his voice became suppressed, one of his
hands endeavoured to make its way between the
rope and his neck, and partially succeeded, but
the other fell quivering by his side. A convulsive
shuddering passed over his whole frame, and he
hung a hideous livid corse.

Birch continued gazing on this scene with a
kind of infatuation, and at its close he placed his
hands to his ears, rushing towards the highway;
but still the cries for mercy rung through his brain,
and it was many weeks before his memory ceased
to dwell on the horrid event. The Cow-boys
rode steadily on their route, as if nothing had occurred,
and the body was left swinging in the
wind, until chance directed the footsteps of some
straggler to the place.