University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE LIBERTY-TREE.

—Sprague.

Rumours of the first blood shed at Lexington had
reached the valley of the Mohawk; but the length
of time it required in those days to traverse the intervening
country, prevented the story from being soon
confirmed in all its particulars; when, one afternoon,
it was noised abroad that a messenger, direct
from the scene of action, would address the friends
of liberty at a meeting to be held in front of the
stone church at German Flats. The occasion was
deemed a good one, by the leading Whigs of the
neighbourhood, for carrying into effect a favourite
political ceremony of the day, which should at once
mark their own adherence to the popular cause, and,
by its boldness, encourage and confirm their wavering
friends. To further which intention, placards
and notices were industriously circulated, inviting
the people to “assemble unarmed, for the purpose
of peaceable deliberation, and also to erect a liberty-pole!”

The yeomanry of the valley had been frequently
thus convened of late, to pass some vote of censure
upon the acts of the British ministry (for here, as
elsewhere throughout the provinces, during the early
stages of the Revolution, the name of the king
was studiously omitted in all the attacks upon his
government); and, like well-schooled fencers closely
practised in mock-combat, the thoroughly organized
community was versed in political discussion
and habituated to public business, long before its
ability for self-government was tested in a real
struggle with established power. But the measure
now in contemplation was a direct assault upon the
dignity of the crown; and the call “to assemble
unarmed for the purpose of peaceable deliberation,”
was too flimsy a covering for the treasonable deed
to which it was meant only as a precursor—the raising
openly the great emblem of rebellion.

Many, therefore, shook their heads, and stood
aloof from those who, they thought, were rashly
precipitating matters to a crisis. Some doubted
whether an immediate revulsion of public feeling
might not result from carrying proceedings at once
so far. Some actually felt this revulsion, and stood
prepared to co-operate with the Tory magistracy
in crushing so daring an outbreak of faction. But
others, who, from the first, had counselled more daring
measures, and had lately hung back in disgust
at the cautious, and, apparently, reluctant movements
with which they thought their leaders had impelled
the ball of revolution, were now emulous to spring
forward and take their place among the most active
in hurrying it onward. While others, again, knowing
no other principle than the love of change, no
impulse save that of curiosity, were urged, by the
novelty of the occasion, to be spectators of a scene,
where, if sympathetic excitement should impel them

to become actors, circumstances would determine
the part they should play.

Such an assemblage was the true field for a popular
orator to prove his powers; and tradition still
tells of the eloquence which wrought upon those
materials, and moulded and moved the mass as one
man, on that day. Tradition, too, tells especially
of one speaker—a youth of scarce twenty summers
—a shy student from Schenectady, who, fired by the
impassioned appeals of older and more practised
orators, burst through the bashfulness of inexperienced
youth, and, leaping upon the rostrum, poured
forth a flood of eloquence that hurried along the
most sluggish natures upon its irresistible tide.

“Who,” said a by-stander to a sturdy hunter, who,
with mouth agape, and eyes riveted, as if by magic,
upon the speaker, stood leaning upon his rifle near,
“who in all natur is that springald with sich a
tongue?”

“Why, Adam, is it you, man, that axes me who
young Greyslaer, of Hawksnest, is? You've seen
me teaching the boy afore now, when he came up
to Johnstown in his hollowdays, and, thof he be
grown a bit, you ought to know my old scholard.”

“Lor! Balt, that ain't the bookish chap that you
larnt the rifle to? The bold younker that stood the
brunt, when scapegrace Dirk de Roos got into that
scrape in old Sir William's time?”

“I tell you it is, though,” said the woodsman,
proudly; “and a right proper shot I made of him.
You see, now, how he plumps his argerments right
into the bull's-eye of the matter.”

“Sarting! he does make a clean go-ahead of it.
But when did he come up here to mix in our doings?”

“He? why, man, he's been here this four week,
and came up too with the Congress's commission
in his pocket, to raise a company. Who but him

was it that Sir John raised a rumpus with at the
training last week? Ah! if the boy only had as
good larning with the sword as he has with the
rifle, the baronet could never have filliped it out of
his hands so sarcily as he did.”

“Oh! yes, I heerd of that, Balt, as also how you
came near having your heels lifted higher than your
head, for threatning to blow Sir John clean through
if he did not let the stripling go.”

“I'd like to see the day when any of Sir John's
folks would try to back that brag of his'n. I'd a
mounted him upon the spot only for making it, but
the people said 'twas only words, and I must not
mind sich, and go and make further fuss, seeing
we had got young Max out o'his hands. But hist!
what's the lad saying now?”

“I mistrust that that's the Yankee messenger
he's introducing to the people,” said Adam, in a
modest whisper; for the hunter had gained tenfold
in the respect of the simple yeoman since this popular
display of his pupil.

“Behold,” cried the speaker, interrupting himself
in the midst of a bold apostrophe to Liberty, whom
he pictured as hovering over the land with wings
that shadowed it but for a moment, until she could
alight in peace and safety: “Behold the harbinger
of her first triumph! fevered with haste, worn with
impatient travel, he comes, like the victorious courier
from Marathon of old, to tell of Freedom's
bloody dawn at Lexington. Up, man, up, and tell
a tale that never can grow old, but freshens from
the frequent telling;” and, suiting the action to the
word, the youth, carried away by the enthusiasm
of the moment, seized the courier by the wrist, and
dragged the embarrassed man forward.

“Now that awkward loon, Adam,” said the hunter,
“will make a botch of the hull business. A
murrain on the Bosting folks that sent a critter what
couldn't speak.”

“Why, Balt, I guess they want all their speakers
to hum, and raaly I don't see but this chap has done
all in natur that was required of him, in coming
here so quick. It wan't judgmatical in young Max
to expect more from him, and pull the fellow up
there to gape about like a treed 'possum.”

The orator appeared himself to be instantly aware
of his error, and, even while the worthy Adam was
commenting upon it, had, with ready tact, turned
the poor fellow's confusion to advantage. “What!”
he cried, “bewildered, my friend, by the crowd of
heads you see below? This stout array of gallant
yeomen, the bone and sinew of our land, numbers
not half of those devoted to our cause, that will soon
pour from every glen and mountain near; men with
tongues as slow as yours to boast their deeds, but
having still the iron will to work them; men with
arms as strong as yours to raise the tree of Liberty,
and hearts as true to guard it.”

A deafening shout of applause burst from the
multitude almost before the last words had passed
the speaker's lips. The stout-limbed New-Englander,
changed at once from a shamefaced rustic
into the hero of the scene, threw up his head,
broadened his chest, and displayed his stalwart
frame with honest vanity. Then, as if wit had
been suddenly born of praise so well applied, he
leaped from the scaffold, and seizing a tall hickory,
which, freshly deracinated, was held erect by some
labourers near, he bore it, amid the plaudits of the
crowd, to a hole that had been previously prepared,
and, spurning the aid of some tackle erected upon
the spot, tossed the heavy sapling from his shoulders,
and planted it pointing to the skies.

The centre of attraction was now changed, as
the crowd collected around the spot, while those
who stood nearest were active in throwing earth
and stones around the roots, to secure the tree in

its position. The preconcerted act of rebellion for
which they had chiefly met was fully and successfully
consummated, but any farther measures which
might have been contemplated by the leaders of the
assemblage, were at this moment summarily discomfited.

The trampling of hoofs, and the dust arising from
a large body of horsemen at a turning of the road,
gave the first intimation of the approach of the royalists,
while proclaiming that they came in sufficient
force to crush any violent outbreak of insurrection.
There was a momentary panic in the
assemblage, and, before they could recover from the
surprise, Sir John Johnson, with a large body of
retainers armed with sword and pistol, rode into the
midst of the unarmed multitude. He was followed
by Colonels Claus, Butler, and Guy Johnson, a civil
magistrate by the name of Fenton, and other Tory
gentlemen of the county, each backed by a strong
party of followers similarly armed, who successively
drew up in military array so as nearly to encircle
the astounded Whigs.

“What mummery is this?” demanded the haughty
baronet, glancing round fiercely at those who stood
near the Liberty-tree, while more than one, over-awed
by his bearing, attempted to slink away in
the crowd. A stout Whig, by the name of Sammons,
stepped boldly forward to make reply; but,
before he could ascend the stage to place himself
upon a level with his mounted adversaries, Sir John
had thrown himself from his horse, and occupied
the place from which Greyslaer and the Boston
emissary had descended a few moments before.
Without noticing the movement of Sammons, he
at once commenced haranguing the people with
great vehemence. He appealed to the ancient love
they had borne his family, rehearsed the virtues of
his father, once so popular throughout the valley,

and exhorted them still to sustain the established
magistracy, which had ever kept their best interests
at heart. Finding, then, that the attempt to address
their affections and rekindle the faded ashes of
loyalty met with no response, he endeavoured to
awaken their fears. He dwelt upon the strength
and power of the king, and painted in strong colours
the folly of opposing his officers and revolting
against the crown. But the assemblage was
still mute; the approving plaudits of his own partisans
called forth no echo from the moody and stubborn
Whigs.

Irritated at their sullen obstinacy, Johnson now
turned disdainfully from the “motley crew of
would-be patriots,” as he in derision termed the
multitude generally, and poured out his invective
upon their leaders. The shrewd New-England
features of the Bostonian next caught his attention,
and the sharp eye of Sir John instantly detected
something in the man's air or apparel which might
have escaped any gentleman but the owner of
beeves and hemlock forests, whose revenue depends
so much upon the trade of a tanner.

“Who,” he asked, scornfully levelling his finger
at the stout yeoman, “who are the real leaders
of your mongrel crew, the vultures that ye bring
hither to hatch the egg of treason, that creatures
as foul and contemptible have thrust into our nest
of peace and loyalty? An itinerant New-England
leather-dresser! a vagrant pedler of rebellion! that
could only retail his wares to such offscourings of
society as many I see around me, if men whose
education should teach them better, had not misled
the gallant yeomanry, that I grieve to find in
such disgraceful company. You have had your
musters, too, your military gatherings, your array
of fools, that would fain play the soldier, with such
a beardless stripling as that to lead them. I know

the boy!” cried he, with a smile of scorn, pointing
to Greyslaer, who stood with folded arms and compressed
lips, as if with difficulty restraining the ire
that boiled within him. “I know the boy; I knew
him in old Sir William's time, who was once dear
to all of you; he was whipped then by my father's
overseer for plundering an orchard! Pity that the
lash had not—”

“Liar and villain!” shouted Greyslaer, springing
forward toward the stage.

“Seize the traitor!” cried Sir John, striking at
the youth with the butt of a loaded whip. Actively
evading the blow, Greyslaer succeeded in
getting one foot on the scaffold, but the next instant
the sturdy baronet had fastened a grip upon his
throat, and flung him backward into the arms of
one of his myrmidons, who quickly placed himself
astride the prostrate stripling.

“She must keep quiet now, or te tirk will pin
her,” said the brawny Highlander, who held him
thus in durance, smiling grimly the while at the ineffectual
efforts of Greyslaer to free himself, in spite
of the drawn dagger that flashed before his eyes.
The trusty Gael, in the mean time, might have felt
less comfortable in his position, had he known that
he was covered by the deadly aim of the hunter
Balt, whose cool discretion prevented him from
firing, save in the last extremity.

The benignant Mr. Fenton pressed near to Sir
John, as if about to intercede in some way, but the arrogant
soldier heeded not his well-meant offices. An
indignant murmur arose among the Whigs at witnessing
this scene; and, upon a slight movement
made among them, weapons were drawn, and a low-browed,
lank-haired, saturnine man, whose age
might be somewhere about thirty, a trooper in Colonel
Butler's train, spurring to the front, snapped

his pistol in the face of a bystander. He was instantly
reprimanded in sharp terms by his superior.

“What! fire on an unarmed man, Walter?
Shame on ye for one wearing the king's livery!
May I eat hay with a horse, if I suffer such a thing
among my riders, Watty.”

“We shall have to cut these rebel throats sooner
or later,” replied the man, doggedly, “and it matters
not when the business is begun.”

“Shame, shame,” cried Mr. Fenton.

“Walter Bradshawe,” said Greyslaer, without
making an effort to rise or gain any advantage to
protect himself from the consequences of what he
was about to say, “you, though so much my senior,
were for months my mate at school. I knew you,
too, as an aspiring attorney's clerk in my first years at
college; your political career has since made your
name common in the mouths of all men, and there
must be others here who know you full as well as
I; and when I say that, as boy and man, you were
ever a brute and a ruffian, there's not a man present
that can gainsay my words.”

“Tut, tut, boys,” cried Colonel Butler, restraining
a fierce movement of his subaltern, “may I eat
hay with a horse, but this is a foolish pair on ye
here. There's trouble enough without your brawling,
and you may soon have an opportunity of fighting
out your quarrel in the name of king and country,
without troubling older people with your capers.”

A glance of deadly hatred from Bradshawe, which
was returned with one of utter scorn from his quondam
schoolmate, was all the reply the young men
made to this speech. In the mean time, notwithstanding
the dismay which the sudden appearance
of the armed royalists had inspired, there were no
signs of dispersion among the patriot assemblage.

A few craven spirits had, indeed, slunk away, but
their absence was more than supplied by a number
of sturdy countrymen, in the guise of hunters, who,
with rifle on shoulder, came straggling into the
scene of action, as if brought thither only by accident
or curiosity. The Tories, who had trusted only
to their arms to give them a superiority over the
party, which from the first outnumbered them, began
soon to be aware that they were fast losing their
only advantage; and Colonel Guy Johnson, acting in
his capacity of a county magistrate, saw that it was
true policy to close by an act of civil authority the
duties which had been entered upon with a less
peaceful mission. He therefore addressed the people
anew, but in terms more soothing than those
which had been adopted by his kinsman the baronet;
though, like him, he commenced by trying to
awaken their old feelings of feudal attachment to his
family.

He spoke of the affection which they had always
borne to his father-in-law, Sir William Johnson,
now but a few months deceased, and who was believed
to have been brought to his grave from anxiety
of spirit at the perturbation of the times, and
the struggle between loyalty and patriotism, as the
crisis approached when he should be compelled to
decide between his king and his country. He said
that he saw many around him who were the old
friends and playmates of his youth, and who, till the
last, had always been cherished guests at his table.
And he appealed particularly to the influential families
of the Fondas, the Harpers, the Campbells, and
the Sammonses, several members of which were afterward
so distinguished in the border war of Tryon
county, to unite with him in his exertions to prevent
the effusion of blood among their mutual kindred
and neighbours. Finally, after regretting the

necessity of placing young Greyslaer in the custody
of the sheriff until he could be tried by his country
in fair proceedings at law, he made a signal to Sir
John, who had already placed the prisoner on horse-back
in the midst of his retainers, and bowing politely
to the company, the complaisant colonel moved
off in the rear of his retiring party.

The people, in the mean time, either too much
confused by the unexpected events which had succeeded
each other, or confounded by the fair and
polite words which had last been addressed to
them, made no movement to the rescue. But the
sound of the retiring troopers had scarcely died
upon the ear, before a deep murmur of disapprobation
pervaded the assemblage. Some reproached
each other with pusillanimity in having looked so
calmly upon the scene which had just been enacted
before them. Those who were armed were told
that they should never have permitted one of their
friends to be thus torn from among them. And
those who had been instrumental in getting up the
meeting without providing for such an exigency,
were rebuked by the riflemen, who had come last
upon the scene of action, because they did not direct
them what part to take when the difficulty
came on, of whose origin the new-comers were
themselves ignorant. These mutual bickerings and
recriminations, however, which only temporarily
suspended the unanimity of council, resulted at last
in a general call for immediate action. Every one
agreed that young Greyslaer must be at once delivered
from the hands of the Johnsons, who, notwithstanding
their promises, would doubtless seize the
first opportunity of transporting the youth to Canada,
where, if his fate were a no more cruel one than
perpetual imprisonment, he would be at least utterly
lost to the cause.

The hunter Balt, who had stood moodily looking
on without taking any share in these discussions,
seemed to catch new life from the determination,
when announced.

“I don't know,” said he, looking round, “whether
or not ye all mean to stick to what you say; though
I hope so, raaly. But I do know, that if young
Max Greyslaer be not as free as any man here,
afore one wilted leaf of this tree falls to the ground,
I'll water it with the best blood of the best Tory in
the county! That's right, Adam, jist empty another
gourd upon the roots, the poor thing looks thirsty.”

How the hunter's vow, and the resolve of his excited
compatriots, were carried into effect, may be
best told in another chapter.