 | CHAPTER VIII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
SKETCH OF A SEPTEMBER MORNING—A GROUP OF STRANGERS
INTRODUCED—THE GAME-CHICKEN AND HER COMMANDER—
UTILITY OF MUSIC—A RIDE AND A DIALOGUE—QUAKERS
MILITANT—DIFFICULTY OF THREADING A NEEDLE.
It was one morning just before the peep of dawn,
as the full moon was hovering over the high, precipitous
mountain that skirts the noble Hudson on the
western bank, between Tappan Bay and Haverstraw,
that a group of three persons was standing on the
beach, preparatory to embarking on the river. The
wide expanse of waters presented the aspect of a magnificent
lake, sleeping still and calm, awaiting the approaching
morn; the range of mountains to the north,
was decked with a white night-cap of mist, while the
banks of the river below, lay half hid, half revealed in
the obscurity of distance and night. The only object
visible on the wide expanse of waves, was a large
ship, whose dark hull, and lofty masts, were somewhat
indistinctly seen some miles below. All was silent
and motionless, save the group of living beings on the
beach, one of whom wore a blue surtout; the other,
the dress of a plain, country gentleman; and the third,
a pea-jacket, and tarpaulin hat, from under which
strayed a profusion of matted gray hairs, that seemed
not to have been fretted by comb or brush for many a
day.
“Come, bear a hand, Arthur—there is no time to be
lost, for we must be back again before the cock crows,”
said the plain looking man.
“An't I making all the haste I can?” answered a
shrill, squeaking, querulous voice. “The Game-Chicken
is half full of water, and I am baling it out with
my hat.”
“Do you think she will carry us safely over?”
“What—the Game-Chicken? Why, darn my eyes,
sir, if I don't believe she'd swim with all the water of
the sea on board. If a man is ever drowned in her,
it will be because he was'nt born to be hanged, I reckon.
There, now, I'm ready.”
“Step in, Mr. Anderson,” said the plain gentleman,
politely.
“Mr. Anderson! Sir, my name is—”
“Anderson, sir,” interrupted the other, quickly.
“You forget,” added he, in a low voice.
“Yes, too true; there is no help for it, now,” said
the other, in the same low tone. “Why was I not returned
back to the ship as was promised?”
“Because she has changed her position during the
night. See, she is just visible in the moonlight; it
would be broad day before I could return, and how
should I be able to account for being there at all?”
“Why, then, return? Remain on board, and accompany
me to New York, where, I pledge my honour,
you shall be amply rewarded.”
“I thank you, major—Mr. Anderson, I should say,
but I leave too great a stake behind—my family and
my property.”
“Take your family with you, or send for them; they
may easily be made for its loss.”
“No, faith! My wife and children shall never become
exiles for me. I must return, before it is known
I have been away, except by this half-witted sailor.”
“Aye,” replied the blue surtout, bitterly, “and play
the traitor to both sides, like some of your betters at
West Point.”
“Traitor and spy are boon companions all the world
over,” replied the other carelessly. “But come, sir, the
boat waits; and hark! the first cock crows. It will
be late before you reach Croton river. Once over
that, and you may whistle your way to New York in
safety.”
The party now entered the Game-Chicken, as Arthur
called his boat, and being pushed from the beach,
the pilot began to ply his pair of oars briskly, ever and
anon chaunting a stave of the following ditty, which
tradition has still preserved among some of the old
sky-larkers of the revolution, who were then boys living
between the lines—
And tother, alligator,
He'll squash the red coats in his jaws,
Jist like a rotten tater.”
“Oh! for mercy's sake, Arthur, stop that ditty. It
sets my teeth on edge. Your voice is second only to
a screech-owl,” said the plain gentleman.
“Screech-owl, sir! Why, when I was aboard the
Bone Ham Richard, I was counted the best singer of
the whole mess. Besides, my oars won't keep time
together unless I set them to music—
The tories can't abide him,
He makes them run from Perth Amboy,
And the red coats close aside 'em.
“The red coats don't come here to fight,
They're all a pack of thieves, sir,
They rob our hen-roosts every night,
And not a pullet leaves, sir.”
At the end of each alternate line of the preceding
stanzas, Arthur signalized the word, sir, by jerking his
oars with sudden emphasis, and throwing himself
back, making the Game-Chicken spin through the
water merrily.
Though they are all so frumptious,
We'll lick them tother side the moon,
For all they're so contumptious.”
“Stop that infernal stave, I tell you, Arthur, major—
Mr. Anderson wishes to take a nap, and can't sleep
with such a squeaking in his ears. Besides, he don't
like to hear the red coats run down,” again interrupted
the plain gentleman.
“No? why, that's strange! If Squire Anderson is
a good whig, as I conclude he is, or I'll be darned if
he should ever have set his foot aboard the Game-Chicken,
he'll like my song above all things—
A singing chip, chip, chip,
The Yankees will the red coats pay
And all their bullies whip, whip.
Likewise Bloody Anthony,
Such glorious boys were never seen
To fight for liberty.
“Then here's to all Americans
Among the bold and free,
That fill their cups and toss their cans
Where I should like to be.
“Huzza! again for—”
Here the song was brought to an abrupt close, by
the Game-Chicken suddenly striking the shore, with a
shock that pitched Arthur backwards into the bottom
of the boat, with his heels uppermost.
“There's a hole in the ballad, Arthur,” said the plain
gentleman.
“N—ye—es,” drawled out Arthur, feeling as if for
something behind him, “and somewhere else, too, I
reckon. I didn't calculate we were half over the bay,
but somehow or other, the Game-Chicken sails like the
wind to the tune of Yankee Doodle.”
The two passengers now jumped on shore, leaving
the pea-jacket in charge of the Game-Chicken, and
ascended the bank, where they found a horse held by
a servant of the plain gentleman, who directed him to
go down to the boat and there wait his coming.
“Now, sir,” said he, addressing the person in the
blue surtout, “mount, and spur for life. Until you
have passed Croton river, you are in danger every moment.
Once on the other side, and you will be comparatively
safe, in your present disguise, and with a pass
in your pocket. But your life depends on escaping
detection.”
“My life? I can at the worst be considered and
treated as a prisoner of war, and my life will be in no
danger, at least after I am taken.”
“Don't believe it, sir. You have been within the
rebel lines. You are travelling in disguise, and carry
about you what will assuredly hang you should you
be taken to the head-quarters of General Washington.”
“General Washington,” echoed the other, contemptuously,
“who made him a general? But I care not;
they can only consider me a prisoner of war, and
treat me as such. I should soon be exchanged.”
“Never, sir. You don't know this Mr. Washington,
as you call him. A court-martial will be convened,
if you are taken with the papers upon you, and you
will be hanged as sure as you are alive.”
“Hang me! the adjutant! the— He dare not do
it.”
“I tell you again, you don't know him. He will
dare anything authorized by the laws of war, for the
good of his cause and his country. I wish well to
neither, at least according to his creed; but this I will
say of him, that he is as firm as a rock when he believes
himself right, and in this case he will have right
on his side.”
“Right? I am no spy, sir.”
“Mr. Anderson,” said the other, firmly, “let me ask
you one simple question—did you, or did you not know
the business on which you were sent?”
“Was I a fool to be sent blindfold on an errand?
I did—what then?”
“Then, sir, I must be bold to tell you, frankly, you
and will be treated accordingly if you fall into the
hands of the rebels in this disguise.”
“And who obliged me to disgrace myself thus? I
came in my uniform as a British officer, known and
recognised as such, and was thus received. That I
came within the enemy's lines was not my fault; that
the Vulture, in which I came, dropped down the river
to escape the fire of the rebels, was no business of
mine—and that I wear a disguise arises from necessity,
not choice. I a spy! I suffer the disgraceful death
of a felon! Pooh, sir! you are conjuring up bugbears
to frighten me.”
“Well—well—we will not dispute the point any
more. Too much time has been wasted already.
Farewell, and make all the speed you can, for again I
tell you, your life is involved in this perilous adventure.”
The conference ended here. The man in the blue
surtout turned his horse's head towards the south, the
other hastily returned to the boat, which immediately
pushed off for the opposite shore. The former pursued
his way briskly, and notwithstanding his previous declarations,
reflected keenly and deeply on the predicament
in which he was placed—partly by his own acts,
partly by the agency of others. Though possessed of a
pass from the commandant at West Point, which
would, in all probability, insure his release should he
be stopped on his way, still there was something in
the business he was upon, and the disguise he had assumed,
which not even the fanaticism of loyalty by
which he was actuated, could thoroughly reconcile to
the feelings of a man of honour, or the frank and manly
he arrived at Croton river, at a point where there was
no bridge at that time, and which was crossed by a
ferry, kept, as before stated, by Farmer Underwood.
It was fordable at low water, but at this time the tide
was high, and a boat was necessary to pass over
travellers.
The farmer was busy at his morning avocations,
while his three lusty boys were as usual going through
their manual in the barn; Obadiah, with a rusty old
gun, acting as fugleman, while ever and anon the robustious
youth chaunted a stave of some old continental
song, redolent of more patriotism than poetry,
greatly to the annoyance of the non-combatant farmer.
“Why, sure, it can't be possible, Ruth,” said he to his
wife; “the boy is singing profane and warlike songs,
like unto a thunderbolt. And behold! why, son Obadiah,”
cried the old man, raising his voice, “what art
thee going to do with that carnal weapon?”
“Father,” replied the young man, approaching him,
“I hear our people are well nigh starving up yonder
in the Highlands. I do wish thee would send us there
with a load of flour, instead of down to Kingsbridge.”
“Yea, friend Obadiah, and get paid in continental
money, instead of golden guineas. Thee talks like a
foolish lad, friend Obadiah, of a truth, verily; go to.”
“I'll tell thee what, father, I heard such stories of the
Yagers, the red coats, the tories, and the Skinners
burning down houses and barns, and robbing and
abusing the women and children, whose fathers and
brothers are gone to the wars, that the spirit moves
army, as sure as this gun.”
“And so am I, father,” said Nehemiah, coming up.
“And so am I, father,” said Uriah, following.
“And so am I, father! the dev—I mean thee cannot
be in earnest, boys.”
“Right up and down earnest, father,” replied Obadiah.
“We've got our guns ready, and mother has
baked us a knapsack full of gingerbread. We're off
this morning like a shot. Mother says every young man
that can shoulder a musket, ought to fight for his
country in times like these—shoulder, hoo!”
“Why, the rebellious housewife! this cometh of
having Presbyterian blood in her. Thee cannot say
thy mother incited thee.”
“Yea, father—she told us how Nathaniel Greene,
who is now fighting for his country by the side of
Washington, and smiting the red coats hip and thigh,
belonged to our persuasion. She said it was a sin and
a shame that her sons should be carrying corn to the
enemy, instead of driving him before them; so we are
going to try our hands a little. Present arms!”
“A plague on Ruth, my wife, for putting such notions
in thy foolish pate; thee will be read out of meeting,
boys.”
“Never mind, father, when the wars are over, and
we are all free and independent, thee shall read us in
again, with friend Nathaniel Greene. Take aim—fire!
bang!”
Ruth now entered, to say breakfast was ready, and
was retiring, when Farmer Underwood detained her.
“Friend Ruth,” said he, “abide thee a little. Thee
foolish boys, and spiriting them on to mischief; even
now they depart to join in the unlawful business of
defending their country. Thee art but half a Quaker,
Ruth. What evil spirit possessed thee?”
“No evil spirit, friend,” replied Ruth, with a mild
and simple fervour. “No evil spirit, friend Nathan;
but almost every day, for more than a year past, I
have seen the smoke of our neighbours' buildings rising
over yonder hill, and I knew who it was that set them
on fire. I have heard story after story of farms laid
waste, cattle driven away, old men and women abused,
even unto death, and young maidens insulted and outraged
by the lawless soldiers from beyond the seas.
And when I saw and heard all this, I said to myself,
in the bitterness of my heart, am I the mother of women,
that my sons should be idle at home, while their
country is bleeding? Nathan, thou art a Friend, but
thou art still a man. Thou hast sons with stout hearts
and willing minds; wouldst thou see thy country—that
generous country which opened its bosom to thy fathers,
in times when no other refuge was left them on
the face of the earth, ravaged and subdued by the descendants
of our ancient persecutors—trodden under
foot, crushed to the earth in cruel bondage, by those
who, at the same time, if they should triumph, will
persecute our faith as they did in past days, and make
us again exiles or martyrs? Couldst thou see this, oh
Nathan! and not lend a hand in such woful times of
need?—couldst thou, friend Nathan?”
“No—d—n me if I could. Ruth, the boys shall
go, and we will both bless them at parting. The
gird on their armour, and if they don't fight bravely,
they are no blood of mine or thine. Zounds and fury,
Ruth! the spirit moveth me sorely to go forth myself,
like David against Goliath, and smite the Philistines.”
“Nay, friend Nathan, thou shalt stay at home, and
take care of me and thy mill, while thou prayest for
the safety of our children and our country. But behold!
some one is riding down yonder hill; he seems
a stranger, and in haste.”
As they turned their eyes in that direction, a horseman
was seen descending with rapid pace into the
valley of the Croton, whereupon, Obadiah marched
out into the middle of the road, with musket on his
shoulder, and awaited his coming in grim array.
“Stay a little, friend,” said Obadiah, as he came up.
“Where art thou riding so fast?”
“What's that to you, friend? suppose I am in haste,
that is no affair of thine.”
“Yea, verily, but it is, friend. Thee may be a spy,
for what I know, and a spy is a serpent in the grass,
I have heard say.”
“Spy! why, what do you know? Have you heard?”
Here the traveller checked himself, and the thought
came over his mind, that his cause or his errand could
not be good, when every clodhopper thus threw him
off his guard and alarmed him into betraying himself.
Recovering, in some measure, his self-possession, he
produced his pass, and asked if that was not sufficient.
Obadiah examined it with the air of an old campaigner,
and answered—
“Verily, it seemeth so. Thee may go thy way,
friend.”
“Heaven be praised!” again thought the traveller;
“but what a scoundrel do I seem to be, thus swindling
my way at the risk of every moment being discovered
and disgraced.” Then once more addressing Obadiah,
he asked—
“How far do you call it to Kingsbridge, friend?”
“What, thee is going to Kingsbridge, then, friend?”
“I expected an answer, not a question, friend.”
“Yea, verily—hem—it seemeth to me, friend, that
I should like to know what business thee has at Kingsbridge?”
“And it seemeth to me, friend, that I shall not tell
thee, for, as I said before, it is no business of thine.”
“Well, friend, I don't wish to pry into thy secrets.
It is somewhere about four-and-twenty miles to Kingsbridge.”
“Could I get breakfast on the road, some three or
four miles onward?”
“Much nearer, friend,” said Obadiah, “we are just
going to fall to, ourselves, and albeit thee won't answer
a civil question, I can promise thee a welcome.”
“Thank you—thank you, friend, a thousand times;
but I am in great haste, and must be riding a few
miles onward before I stop. I would not miss being
in New York this night for ten thousand guineas. Is
the boat ready?” Being answered in the affirmative,
he entered the boat, and in a few minutes was landed
on the other side.
“I wonder who he can be. I think I have seen him
somewhere before. Verily, now I recollect, Ruth, I
to—hem!” and here, friend Nathan stopped short, apparently
in some little confusion.
“I wish I had stopped him,” quoth Obadiah, “for all
his pass. He talked about ten thousand guineas, and
that's an idear that would never come across a continental;
they talk about nothing but continental money.
But now it's too late, for we must be going. Nehemiah,
Uriah, march!” cried he, in a loud voice, which
was answered by the appearance of the two brothers.
“The blessing of a good conscience and a good
cause be upon thee, my sons. Take care to come
back safe and sound,” said the father.
“God in his goodness bless thee, my sons,” said
Ruth. “Go to the good Washington, and tell him, a
mother hath sent the sons of her bosom to fight by his
side. Take care of thy country, and be sure not to
come home with a wound in thy backs.”
The lads departed on their holy errand, from which
one of them never returned. The stout-hearted Obadiah
fell at the head of his company, storming the
works at Yorktown, and the others returned at the
end of the war, with an honourable rank, and honourable
scars to show that it had been dearly earned.
When they disappeared behind the hill, Ruth applied
her snow-white apron to her eyes, and then sat down
to her household cares. It is recorded, however, as a
curious fact, that she never before found such difficulty
in threading her needle.
| CHAPTER VIII. The old Continental, or, The price of liberty | |