The corps was divided into eight companies, the captains of which were: Cobel, Posey, Knox, Long, Swearingen, Parr, Boone, and Henderson, all men selected by Morgan.

The organization of this corps was completed on June 13th, on which day it was ordered by Washington to watch for the approach of British scouting parties, for it was learned that Howe was to begin active operations. The American headquarters had now been changed to Middlebrook. That very day two divisions of the British forces, one under Cornwallis and the other under DeHeister, set out from New Brunswick for the purpose of engaging Washington, confident that, with a little more fighting, they would crush the revolution.

The Rangers had their first glimpse of the British under Cornwallis when the latter reached Somerset Court House, and, for several days, there was sharp skirmishing with scouting parties.

Rodney and Zeb were stationed one afternoon on one of the roads as pickets, when a company of the British were discovered approaching. The pickets' orders were to fire and fall back on the main body, unless it should be thought possible, in case of a small number of the enemy, to report their presence and secure force enough to cut them off. This was the view taken both by Zeb and his companion, so they ran back to report.

A squad of the Rangers was hurried forward to meet the enemy, with instructions to get between them and their main army, and make them prisoners. Before this could be accomplished the British came upon them. The enemy outnumbered the Rangers two to one, yet the latter would have charged them but for orders to halt and fire. So quickly was the order obeyed that the crack of their rifles rang out together with the British officer's command to fire. The British fired blindly into the smoke, whereas the riflemen had taken quick, accurate aim. But one among the Rangers was hit, and that was Rodney, he receiving a slight flesh wound in the left arm.

"I thought a bee had stung me," he said, later, when Zeb discovered the blood on his friend's sleeve.

The enemy, being uncertain as to the number of the Rangers, fell back in good order, carrying their dead with them. They were pursued by the Rangers until a larger body met them, when the Americans retreated.

Skirmishes like this were of daily occurrence, and Cornwallis, finding that Washington was not disposed to accommodate him by rashly engaging in battle under disadvantageous conditions, retreated to New Brunswick, with the Rangers dogging his flanks.

Quite a number of deserters were picked up. Benjamin Franklin had devised a shrewd scheme for encouraging desertions. Learning the brand of tobacco specially liked by the Hessians, he had offers concealed in packages of this tobacco, which was distributed where the Hessians would get them. These hired troops had no love for the cause for which they were fighting, and many of them had little for the tyranny with which they were treated when at home in Germany. When they read these offers, printed in German, of money and land, they were sorely tempted to change masters, especially if they did not happen to be of those who loved fighting for the privilege it gave them to loot and ravage.

How the country people, all the Americans, indeed, except the Tories, despised and dreaded the Hessian! In fact he was no more brutal than many of the British, but he was trained to loot and thus was held in disrepute. On several occasions he had bayoneted the American soldier after the latter had surrendered.

"Why didn't our men serve 'em a like turn at Trenton?" was a question some had asked.

Zeb well expressed the matter once when the subject was being discussed around the camp-fire.

"I reckon that job at Trenton was most complete. Thar's nothing about it to be ashamed of, an' everything to be proud of. If we'd butchered the pig-stickers when they were whinin' on their knees it wouldn't hev looked well in history."

"There comes a detachment of 'em now!" exclaimed Rodney, the following morning. He and Zeb were doing picket duty. The latter gave the call, and several Rangers ran up. A half mile down the road the Hessians came marching on in close order till they arrived at some farm buildings when they were seen to break ranks.

"Let 'em have it!" cried Zeb, bringing his long rifle to his shoulder. Then, loading as he ran, he called, "Come on, boys, let's get to closer range."

Other Rangers, hearing the firing, came running after them. In doing this they not only obeyed orders, but most of them gratified their own desire to get into a skirmish with the enemy at every opportunity.

Soon the bullets were singing anything but a cheerful song about the ears of the Hessians, who began to reform their ranks and returned the fire. After several of them had fallen in their tracks, the remainder retreated, bearing off their dead and wounded, pursued by the Rangers clear to the enemy's lines, when they, too, were compelled by overwhelming numbers to retreat.

As they passed the farm on the way back, "Do-as-much Bunster," a Pennsylvania Dutchman, exclaimed, "Dey vas not alretty till Christmas for roast pig to vait, I tink."

"Reckon your thinker is workin' this mornin'," was Zeb's reply as he turned aside to look over into a pen beside the road where a fine litter of white pigs lay cuddled about the old sow.

"You fellers hev earned one o' them beauties," said the farmer, coming out of his barn and proceeding to slaughter one of the innocents without evident compunction.

"Do as much for you zumtime," said Bunster, whereat all laughed. That was what the Dutchman always said when any one did him a favour. He was as good as his word, too, which not only gave him his nickname but made him one of the most popular men in his company.

He was both fat and jolly, as Dutchmen should be, but not always are. His blue eyes twinkled with good humour and shrewdness, and his eagerness showed that he was fond of roast pig.

How good it tasted though cooked, as it had to be, under unfavourable conditions over a camp-fire, and without proper utensils. There was, however, a look of contentment on the faces of those who partook of the feast that afternoon, and sat around on the warm ground licking their fingers.

"Let's see," said Zeb, "Bunster and I and Rodney are off duty to-night."

"Yah, and I tink I zum sleep get."

"One of those Hesse-Cassel ruffians swaps even for one good American, and there's a lot of our boys rottin' in the prison hulks in New York harbour to-night."

"Which is one way of saying we should capture a few Hessians for a pastime; hey, Do-as-much Bunster?" and Rodney thrust a forefinger into Bunster's fat ribs. The Dutchman squealed and leaped to his feet, for he was so ticklish that one, wishing to see him squirm, only had to point a finger at him.

"That farmer is certain sure a good one, though he is too lazy to take his pigs in out of danger. I hate to see him lose 'em. Besides he has a big rick o' hay right nigh that pig pen an' it looked like a good place to sleep. What d'ye say, boys, if we tote ourselves down thar this evenin'?"

"Zum place to sleep, yah?"

"I'm not sleepy yet, but I am ready to go," replied Rodney, so they set out.

They crossed the fields, some of which were new mown and fragrant. The sun was setting after a hot day. The swallows skimmed over the field.

"Swallers flyin' low, sign o' rain," said Zeb.

"Needn't lay it on the swallows when the clouds are piling up as they are this evening. We'll want a roof to the hay rick before morning, I think," was Rodney's reply.

They found the farmer doing his chores. His smile was a trifle apprehensive as he said, "That pig tasted so good ye come back fer more?"

"We be no hogs. We reckoned as how the fellers as didn't git roast pig might come back and try it this evenin'."

"Hope ye don't intend fightin' round here. My wife Nancy is dretful nervous."

"My kind and tremulous friend, do ye want the pig-stickers ter git yer pigs? We 'lowed as how we might stay here an' save yer next winter's pork. 'Sposin' you explain it to Nancy. We'll not allow any one to hurt her, if we can help it."

This seemed to satisfy the farmer; but he took fresh alarm when Zeb went along to a two-wheeled ox-cart, piled high with hay and backed against the pen. As Zeb raised the tongue, and told Bunster to put a stick under it, the farmer called excitedly, "Look out! Ye'll tip it into the pig pen; that load is too heavy behind, anyhow."

"Hay mought be good fer some kind o' hogs," which enigmatic remark by Zeb called forth no response from the farmer, who bade them good night and went into the house.

"I'll stand guard the first part or we'll draw lots, as you wish," said Rodney.

It was decided to draw lots, but Rodney, drawing the shortest straw, had his wish to stand guard the first part of the night for, though tired, he was not sleepy.

His companions threw themselves down on the hay at the foot of the rick and soon, by their regular breathing, he knew they slept. Sleep was a luxury with the Rangers in those days of continuous scout duty. Rodney's nerves were high strung and no sound escaped him. He heard the rustle of a toad in the grass at his feet. An occasional mosquito hummed about his ears. His mind wandered away to that little Indian village he had known. In his imagination he could hear the crooning song of the squaws about the camp-fires, the shrill cries of the whip-poor-will. He thought of the old Indian chief, whose savage hands had so often grasped the rifle the boy now held. Had Ahneota lived he doubtless would be encouraging the red men in aid of the British, and would not hesitate to torture women and children as well as men. How he hated the whites!

Hark! What was that sound? Surely the clink of the iron shoe of a horse on a stone in the road!

The boy waked his sleeping companions. They seized their rifles and all went nearer the road.

Out of the darkness misshapen objects could just be discerned, and the guttural voices of several Hessians could be heard. Then a light glimmered as one of the approaching party drew an old horn lantern from under his cloak. Two others, by aid of the light, clambered into the pen, leaving outside the one with the lantern and the fourth holding the horse.

The next moment a pig squealed. The vandals were sticking them with their bayonets.

"Follow me," whispered Zeb, running forward and tilting the cart tongue in the air, dumping the load of hay into the pen, and burying human and other hogs in the mire underneath.

"Surrender!" Zeb cried, thrusting the muzzle of his rifle under the nose of the fellow holding the lantern, while Rodney and Bunster disarmed the Hessian with the horse. Then Zeb quickly tied their hands behind their backs, and, telling Rodney to guard them and shoot them down if they moved hand or foot, he and Bunster turned their attention to the commotion in the pig pen.

From under the hay there issued grunts and squeals and German oaths. Sorry looking hirelings were those two Hessians when they crawled out into the light. Wisps of hay clung to their well greased pigtail queues and their hated uniforms, blue coats and yellow waistcoats, were daubed with muck.

"Pass out yer guns, an' take this fork an' pitch out the hay," was Zeb's order, which the dazed prisoners attempted to obey, when the farmer, calling out the window, said, "I'll look out fer that."

"Better let him, Zeb," said Rodney. "If we stay here too long we may have more Hessians than we need."

"Good advice, ye townsman of the immortal Jefferson. Forward march."

——-

[1] See "Marching with Morgan."

[2] The chief incident in "Marching with Morgan," in which Zeb and young Donald Lovell are the leading characters.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE RANGERS SENT AGAINST BURGOYNE

England proposed to snuff out the rebellion that summer of 1777: so she sent all the troops she could spare and hire, also bribes to secure the services of the Indians. England must win, though the savages kill and torture every man, woman and child on the frontier.

General Burgoyne must leave the writing of plays for a time and lead an army from Canada down to New York, and then Philadelphia was to be captured and the Continental Congress sent a-packing.

Howe is said to have thought the Burgoyne plan unwise, for he knew something about war, though frequently too indolent to put his knowledge into practice. This beautiful month of June he had his army down in New Jersey, watching for a chance to outwit Washington and seize Philadelphia.

After the first failure, he abandoned New Brunswick and marched his troops back to New York. Here was an opportunity for Morgan's Rangers. They followed Howe's army like a swarm of angry hornets. When too annoying, the British would turn and drive them back, but, as soon as the march was resumed, they would return and again sting the rear of the column into desperation.

When the Rangers first came in contact with the retreating British the latter were crossing a bridge. Here was a fine opportunity for Morgan's men, and they used it to the fullest extent. Their bullets laid many a poor Hessian in the dust, for the aim of the riflemen was quick and accurate, whereas that of the British was mechanical.

"Ah! Another bee has stung that arm. The redcoats intend to get it, I believe," suddenly cried Rodney.

"Does yer arm feel numb?" asked Zeb.

"No, I guess it's just a scratch. Anyhow I'm going to use it while I may."

No, our two comrades lost no time examining trifling wounds, while British bullets whistled about their ears. On the contrary, they were loading and firing as rapidly as possible, and the perspiration was streaming down their powder-blackened faces, for the day was hot.

"They are going to support the column; look out for a volley. Git down here, lie low," and, suiting action to word, Zeb threw himself on the grass.

A body of Hessians had wheeled about and posted themselves behind some temporary breastworks, which had been thrown up that morning. "Up and at 'em," was the word, and the Rangers ran forward and threw themselves on the ground so that most of the volley from the enemy passed over their heads.

"Up and at 'em" again, each time nearer, while flanking parties were working around toward the rear of the redoubts. The enemy behind the breastworks had the advantage both in number and position, and held back the Rangers, who had no bayonets and could not charge successfully.

"Here comes General Wayne's brigade, now we'll dislodge 'em," shouted Zeb in his excitement, and Bunster stood up and cheered.

"We'll teach 'em that they have to earn their money when they hire out to lick Americans," cried Rodney.

"What's the matter with Bunster!" exclaimed Zeb, for their companion staggered and pitched forward in a heap, his hands convulsively clutching the grass.

"They run, they run, at 'em, boys!" and, with this cry in their ears, Rodney and Zeb charged down on the flying enemy.

Bunster lay face down in the field. How he would have yelled and run after the retreating Hessians! He had made his last charge, poor Bunster! Such a genial fellow; such a kindly, helpful soul, with no fear in your heart! You have done as much as the best and bravest of them, and your country can never do as much for you.

At the first opportunity his companions sought him out from among the slain, and laid him in a hastily constructed grave. Zeb's eyes were wet and tears made furrows among the powder stains on Rodney's face. Their hearts would be hardened in the days of war to come, for that is one of war's penalties. What sympathy they might have would be rather with those writhing and waiting for death.

"Thar's a heap o' walkin' ahead of the Rangers," was Zeb's greeting as he returned from a talk with their colonel several days later.

"What is it now?"

"Schuyler an' Gates are howlin' fer more men an' expect Washington to furnish 'em whether he has 'em or not. Burgoyne's comin' down Lake Champlain with a horde of red devils at his heels, an' the country people up that way don't feel easy about their hair, with the lovely flag of England wavin' over 'em."

"I just heard a report that the farmers were taking the field. If they do as well as they did at Bunker Hill, Burgoyne may not have an altogether pleasant summer."

"Thar's too many people in this country who want to be independent of everything, even to fightin' whenever and how they please. It's time they did something."

"Certainly they don't respond very promptly to Washington's call for troops."

"This war has got to be won, if it's won at all, by armies an' not by a few men shootin' from behind a stone wall whenever the Britishers march their way."

"It can't be said that Morgan's Rangers don't respond when called upon."

"That's right. The country will remember us after we're killed. We've got a reputation for fighting already. Two thirds of us 'd rather be at a fight than a feast."

"You among the number."

"Not right. I hate war except when I get in a skirmish, an' then I don't think about it. I wish the men who bring on war had to do the fightin'."

Howe, twice foiled in his attempts to outwit Washington, had returned to New York, leaving his antagonist in doubt whether he proposed taking his army up the Hudson to meet Burgoyne or around to Philadelphia by sea. During this period of uncertainty, Morgan's Rangers marched to Hackensack and back again. They travelled light, each man lugging his provisions, rations of corn meal and a wallet containing dried venison. August 16th they received final orders to march to Peekskill, and there to take boats for Albany to join Gates' army.

Here at last was something definite, and how the men cheered! Washington was sending his best men to aid Gates because he thought the country needed them at that place. George Washington was a big enough man to forget self and think only of his country. Gates was not, and was to repay his chief for this assistance with treachery.

Rodney never forgot that day when they first came in sight of the beautiful Hudson. He made some remark about the scenery, when the man next him in line exclaimed: "Whew! but I'd like plenty of shade trees in my scenery," wiping away the perspiration with his sleeve.

"Ab, you are in as big a hurry to git thar as any of us," said another.

"I don't feel right certain about matters after we do. Thar must be some rattle-headed men in charge up in this country; what with fillin' ol' Ty full o' powder an' ball an' then allowin' the Britishers to climb a hill an' drive 'em out the fort. Thar sure be some folks as think they're ginerals by grace o' good looks an' lots o' friends. Then some feller, as knows how, comes along an' trees 'em," was Ab's reply.

A warm welcome awaited the Rangers when they joined the northern army. In fact all along their route they had received admiration and cordial greeting to their hearts' content. Gates flattered Morgan by arranging that the colonel should receive orders only from the general in command. Quarters were assigned them at Loudon's Ferry, and here they were joined by Major Dearborn with two hundred and fifty men selected from other regiments. This was pleasing to Morgan, as he and Dearborn had fought the enemy at Quebec, where both had been taken prisoners.

The Rangers welcomed the recruits heartily, and proceeded to get acquainted. In the midst of this Rodney saw a fine looking fellow, of about his own age, clad in the uniform of the Massachusetts militia, run toward Zeb, exclaiming, "I might have known if I could find Colonel Morgan I could find you, in flesh or spirit. How are you, anyway?"

"Shades of the Great North, Don, yer face looks good ter me."

Then, after they had shaken hands and patted each other on the shoulder, literally and metaphorically, Zeb, turning to Rodney, said, "Here's Donald Lovell, the lad who found me in a Quebec snowdrift an' saved my life when I was about as fer gone as poor Bunster."

"Easy, Zeb. I don't want to tell all you did for me, there isn't time, but I'm glad to know any one that's your friend."

"You two boys make a likely pair. Ye both really do credit to my judgment in pickin' ye out. How long ye been here, Don?"

"Only a few days. You've heard about Stark and the battle at Bennington, of course?"

"We certain have. He gave those Hessians a sound drubbing if reports are correct. He was at Trenton, you know. Was disgruntled, because he didn't get the promotion he wanted, an' went home."

"Lucky he did. He was just the man needed to do that job at Bennington. I went as messenger to Portsmouth and heard John Langdon, the speaker of the New Hampshire assembly, pledge his property to fit out Stark. That's the kind of statesmen to have."

"A durned sight better than the majority of those in Congress. Whar is yer Uncle Dick, at home worryin' about ye?"

Donald laughed, and then his face grew serious as he said, "No. He joined Stark and I'm the one who is worrying about him."

"General Arnold played a good trick on St. Leger, when he sent that decoy messenger to him with the cock-and-bull story about the reinforcements marching to Fort Stanwix bein' thicker than the leaves on the trees," remarked Zeb.

"And wasn't that a glorious fight poor old Herkimer's men made against the Tories and Brandt's Indians? That must have been terrible, a regular hand-to-hand struggle. Yes, Arnold is here and many think he should have the command."

"And I'm one o' the number," said Zeb, stoutly. "That man has more courage an' energy than the whole Continental Congress. Look at the way he fought in the Canadian campaign! They tell me, though the British defeated the fleet of boats he built to oppose 'em on the lake, that no man ever led a braver struggle against greater odds and got away without bein' captured. He was ready to resign before this Burgoyne campaign, an' I wouldn't hev blamed him. He doesn't know how to git along without making enemies, for, when he has anything to do, he goes at it hammer and tongs no matter whose toes he treads on, but he gets it done, by hook or by crook."

"You know, Zeb, that somehow I never had great liking for him, but he certainly is a brave, resourceful leader. I think he's the most ambitious man in the service."

"He's willing to earn his promotion, which some of 'em wouldn't if they knew how. He's earned it ten times over. The men who can do things are the ones we've got to have to win. One thing, this army isn't goin' to lack fer men, such as they are, by the way the farmers are comin' in with their old guns and hay hooks."

"Such as they are! Zeb, you're a dyed-in-the-wool Virginian. These New Englanders and New Yorkers coming into camp are of the same mettle as those under Stark and those who died with Herkimer. There are no better men in the world."

"Reckon ye better make an exception o' the Rangers. They sent us down here, when we ought to be with Washington, specially to save you people from the Indians."

"Yes, and the day you started, Stark and his New Hampshire and Massachusetts men, with the help of Seth Warner's men, won a victory which will result in the defeat of Burgoyne. You Virginians are all right; you have your Washington and Morgan and the Rangers, but don't cry down the Northern farmers in their homespun. They've had to fight for a living from the beginning, and, from Lexington right down through till now, they've fought for their country."

"Except when they've left to go home and gather their crops. Soldiers who stay in the field till the war's over are the kind that is needed."

"Excuse me," interrupted Rodney, for the conversation had waxed warm, "but, from what Zeb told me, both Virginia and Massachusetts were needed to pull through the wilderness on the way to Quebec."

Zeb laughed and said, "I reckon Virginia and Massachusetts will have to hang together if we get the job done."

"And if we don't," added Donald, with a laugh, "they'll hang separately, as Dr. Franklin said of the signers of the Declaration of Independence."



CHAPTER XXV

PUT TO THE TEST

"Likely lookin' men Dearborn's picked up," was Zeb's comment as Major Dearborn marched his recruits past. "Hi, Don. An' thar's his uncle. Glad he got through Bennington safe an' sound. Don was some worried about him. Man an' boy, ye can't beat 'em."

"His uncle is a fine looking man. Those men have bayonets. They ought to be of service. But there's none like the Rangers, eh, Zeb?"

"Askin' such questions is waste o' breath."

"Well, I hope we'll soon have a chance to prove it."

"We've been sayin' the same thing for more'n two weeks. I reckoned we sure would get it two days ago when we occupied Bemis Heights. Hello! What's doin'?"

"Fall in!"

As though there were magic in the words, those travel-stained riflemen sprang to their places with an eagerness never seen among regular troops.

"The enemy is crossing the Hudson, an' we're to make 'em wish they hadn't," was the message which ran along the lines. Many a man turned to the next in line and said in matter of fact tone, "That means fight."

"There they are," exclaimed Rodney, as they came in sight of the solid lines of the British army. Under Burgoyne were some of the finest soldiers Europe could produce. They marched in compact lines, moving like weighted machines under their heavy trappings which were gorgeous and imposing.

"They don't intend to leave any hole for us to wedge in," said Rodney.

Ah! There opens a way to get at that German regiment. Morgan sees it and the battle is on. It was, however, only a brief skirmish; a few volleys, a few human beings stretched on the ground dead and wounded, a few prisoners. France, across the water, waiting for something decisive, before committing herself to the cause of America, will hear of it and of battles to come. But many more men than were with Morgan that day would be required to stop that British army. On they came and established their camp within two miles of that of the Americans.

Between these armies the land was rough and hilly, part of it covered with forests. Well out in front of the American army Morgan's corps was stationed.

"If anything happens we're likely to be the first to know it," was Rodney's comment.

"That's what we're here for. We're the whiskers, the feelers o' the cat that's set to watch the mouse."

"A full grown rat, I'd say, by the size."

"Six to eight thousand, includin' Tories an' redskins, who won't count when the pinch comes. By the way the country folks are comin' in with their rifles an' pitchforks we're in a fair way to snare the lot."

"Zeb, you certainly are the most hopeful man I ever knew. Anyhow, if Burgoyne wants to eat his Christmas dinner in New York, he's got to give us a chance at him soon."

Evidently Burgoyne arrived at a like conclusion. On the morning of September nineteenth the pickets reported the British advancing. Morgan's corps was immediately ordered forward to engage the enemy and delay his progress. The gallant Major Morris led one line and Morgan the other, and Morris encountered the enemy first, a picket detachment of about three hundred men. The Rangers charged and drove them, and followed so impetuously on their heels as to run into the main body, and as a result of such recklessness they suffered severely. Morris rode right into the midst of the British, but, wheeling his horse, escaped and rejoined his men, who were now badly scattered. Donald Lovell received a severe wound in his side. His uncle, marching by his side, picked him up as though a child, and across his powerful shoulders carried him back to a place of safety.

Morgan, hearing the firing, was hurrying on to support the other line when, finding it broken and scattered, he is said to have shed tears in his chagrin at what he thought was due to carelessness and meant defeat. Were the Rangers, the pride of the army, to be shattered in their first encounter after all their boasting? It is not surprising that Morgan felt that his fondest hopes had been recklessly ruined.

But the Rangers had been trained for just such emergencies and, when their colonel blew the "turkey call" on the bone whistle which he carried, and those piercing sounds were heard above the din of battle, his men rallied.

Quickly they formed into line, eager to regain what they had lost. Every man felt that his country and the honour of his corps were at stake, and he was ready to die if necessary. Already the afternoon was half gone, but before night could stop the bloodshed many a man would pay the penalty of a soldier; some of those lithe, bronzed, hardy fellows, throbbing with health and vitality, would not see the sun rise over Bemis Heights on the morrow.

In the forest ahead a little clearing had been made for a small farm, and there the Rangers came upon the advance line of the enemy.

"Now we'll get it hot!" exclaimed Rodney under his breath, but among them all not a face paled nor a hand grasping a rifle trembled. On, directly at the British, the men ran like deer, except a few detailed to duty as sharpshooters, dodging behind stumps or climbing trees as agile as monkeys. On go the Rangers. Now the British fire into the line and some fall.

Why do they not return the fire? Ah! now their rifles leap to shoulder at close range and every shot tells! What ghastly gaps are left in the British ranks, and the Rangers are still rushing on like demons, loading as they run! It is too much for those fighting machines accustomed to fight, as they march, with mathematical precision; they turn and run. Back they go to the hill behind, where there are reinforcements waiting with cannon, the riflemen at their heels. Oh, the cruelty of it all, shooting, stabbing, yelling!

Now the British swarm upon the meagre lines of the Rangers and the latter are forced back, literally by weight of numbers. And, as they retreat, a British detachment is sent around to attack them on the flank. They press forward, expecting to crumple up Morgan's men like tall grain in the hand of the reaper! They will teach those rude fellows a lesson, that Americans can't stand before the trained soldiers of Europe.

"Here come the New Hampshire boys!"

Stalwart men they were, those men from New Hampshire, led by Cilley and Scammel. Their training in military matters had been meagre, indeed, but they fight, and Morgan's men rally for another onslaught, and again another, for they will not stop until darkness stops them. Hurrah! now they have the cannon, but the retreating British wisely carry the linstocks with them so the cannon may not be turned against them, and later they are able to recapture them.

Backward and forward, yells of triumph on one side and again on the other. Rodney and Zeb keep together. There is blood on the side of young Allison's face, scratched by a bullet, as he would have said, had he known it. "On and at 'em." Down goes Zeb, his companions in their onward rush leaping aside or over his prostrate body. Rodney saw him fall, but what could he do? If they ever came back he would find him. He doesn't forget, and, when they come staggering back through the smoke, with the British bayonets behind them, Zeb is carried to the rear.

"You're lucky it's no worse, Zeb."

"That's what the feller said as lost both legs. If I can keep clear o' the scalpin' knife I'll fight agin, sure's yer born!"

"If I'm alive to do it I'll see that you are taken off the field to-night."

"I know ye will if the redcoats don't take the field away from ye. If they do, the red devils will get more scalps than they can carry."

"They haven't got it yet. Here we go again," and, saying this, he joined the mass of running men returning to the charge.

There was the same din, the same clouds of acrid powder smoke, which now is lifted by a breeze, showing the solid ranks awaiting them. As Rodney fires he is conscious that he has shot an Indian, an Indian with blue eyes! What was an Indian doing in those serried ranks, why wasn't he skulking on the outskirts as Indians should? The enemy yield, and are driven back on to a rise of land in their rear, where they make a stand and again hurl back the riflemen.

As the Rangers retreat, Rodney sees the Indian lying on the ground lift his rifle to shoot. A Ranger knocks it aside, while another aims a blow that would have brained the savage had not Rodney knocked it aside, for he had recognized Conrad!

"Help me to take him," he cried.

"Kill him an' leave him," cried another.

Rodney grasped Conrad by the shoulders and another rifleman, with a growl at such folly, seized him by the heels. So it happened that he was laid by the side of Zeb.

By this time the battle raged along the entire front. American reinforcements were coming up and greater reinforcements were being sent to support the British, and Gates was back in his tent thinking it all a small affair.

With nightfall the two armies lay back like panting wolves, exhausted, and, now that there was time, Rodney made sure that both Zeb and Conrad had their wounds dressed.

"The Rangers won glory to-day and bore the brunt of the fighting. It was hot, though."

"I reckon you're correct, Rodney. I felt of it an' found it so," was Zeb's reply.

"It is reported about camp that Gates and Arnold have quarrelled, and Arnold was so mad he resigned and Gates accepted it."

"That so!" Zeb whistled, and then made a wry face on account of the pain in his leg. "That leaves Arnold in a pickle. 'Taint the height o' military etiquette to resign under fire. I wish Arnold was in command, though."

"You aren't the only one who wishes it. Well, I must find that Indian or he won't forgive me for shooting him."

"Too bad ye can't shoot straighter."

"That's unkind. When you know him you'll change your mind."

"Humph!"

Of what happened in the two weeks following this battle, history tells but little, for there was little that was decisive. Burgoyne waited for Clinton to come to his assistance. He did not come. Some of his messages did not get through the lines to Burgoyne. The Americans gradually got control of vantage points between the British and their avenue of retreat to Canada. But these were not dull days for the Rangers. There was scouting and skirmishing in which they bore an active part.

On the afternoon of October seventh Rodney brought in word that the British troops were moving, and Gates quickly ordered Morgan forward to engage them. The latter, as was his custom, had obtained a knowledge of the country and he saw a better plan, which was to lead his men around to a wooded hill on the enemy's flank and attack from there. This suggestion was approved.

"This will begin the end," remarked a fellow on Rodney's right.

"Unless Gates blunders," remarked another.

There before them lay a panorama which might well stir the blood, the finest looking soldiers in the world forming on the plain below.

General Poor's men were advancing to engage the enemy in front. Now is the moment for Morgan's men!

How they swept down on those British regulars, loading and shooting as they charged, and every ball finding its mark!

The enemy's volleys were not those of marksmen and did comparatively little execution. Now Dearborn's men are charging with the bayonet, and sharpshooters are picking off the British officers. Human beings could not stand under such an onslaught. The enemy's lines wavered, and then were swept off the field by the soldiers they had ridiculed. What will the King of France think when he hears of this?

Ah! there rides Frazer, gallant soldier, rallying the disheartened British troops. Frazer is a host in himself. If he succeeds, he may turn the tide of battle. What! he reels in his saddle and aides ride to his side and he leaves the field to die a few hours later. Those Rangers back on the hill seldom miss the mark.

The enemy shield themselves behind their entrenchments, and the Americans, flushed with victory, are charging them, and there goes Arnold riding the field like a madman, though Gates has ordered him to remain in camp. It shall not be said he resigned through fear, if he dies for it. But this desperate charge could not succeed, and Morgan's men turn back and Arnold is wounded in the same leg that was shot during the attack on Quebec. The British admire bravery and Arnold's portrait is to decorate shop windows in London for the curious to gape at. Alas for Arnold that the bullet was not better aimed!

At last it is night. The Americans have not been able to deliver the finishing stroke, but the British have learned that their fate is not to be a pleasant one, whatever happens.

These are but glimpses of that eventful struggle. The history of it is another story and a thrilling one.

We may think of Rodney and Zeb exulting as the days passed and they saw the American lines tighten about the hesitating enemy, hesitating only to be lost. Conrad, true to the manners of his adopted people, sat in stolid silence, seeing much and saying nothing, while his wound quickly healed. And there is Gates, so anxious for glory—he thinks now that he may get Washington's place,—that he is willing to agree that Burgoyne's soldiers may return to England if only they'll fight no more against America, and we may imagine the smile on the face of the English general. Nor is it difficult to imagine the dark red of anger in Colonel Morgan's face when Gates seeks his support for the place of commander-in-chief, and the "old wagoner" curtly tells him that he will have no part in such a scheme, that he will fight under Washington or not fight at all.

Zeb was sufficiently recovered from his wound to be able to see the British troops march past on the day of the surrender, looking down the ranks of Americans, some trim and soldierly, as were the Continentals, and others clad in homespun or the skins of the forest. And in the ranks filing past in dejection Rodney saw the sneering face of Mogridge. The flower of the British aristocracy, sons of nobility and members of Parliament, had been subalterns under Burgoyne. Mogridge, as ever, had followed in the wake of those having money so that he might live as the leech lives.

"I have got a furlough, and as soon as this wound will let me I'm going to Boston to see the folks." And at the moment Zeb said this he was carrying, in an inside pocket of his dirty hunting shirt, a letter from Melicite, the fair young French girl whose kindness to him and young Lovell in Quebec had won from him more than mere friendship.[3]

"And I'm going down into Connecticut to find the girl who sewed her name inside my coat," remarked a militia man standing by; for there were girls who won husbands by this simple little device, stitching their fate into the homespun coats they made for the soldiers.

Rodney turned away, feeling a bit lonely. He would find Conrad.

"Conrad, if I can get you freed will you promise me to live a friend to Americans and, on getting back to your people, will find Louis and bring him to my home in Charlottesville?"

For several minutes Conrad made no reply, and then he said: "Yah, I vill." And so it came about that, when his wound was healed, he turned his face toward his chosen home in the forest.

——-

[3] See "Marching with Morgan."



CHAPTER XXVI

TRICKED, AND BY HIS FRIEND

Burgoyne, on meeting Colonel Morgan after the surrender, had said to him: "Sir, you command the finest regiment in the world."

"A feller with ornary jedgment mought reach that ar conclusion with half the experience," remarked a lank old rifleman, whose peculiar gait had given him the name of "Lopin' Luther." Nevertheless, the compliment greatly pleased the Rangers. It could not, however, remedy the injustice done Morgan and his corps by Gates in not making favourable mention of them because the "old wagoner" so sturdily refused to participate in Gates' scheme to supplant Washington.

"Nawthin' ter do but keep at it; sun'll be shinin' bimeby," was the terse comment of one of the Rangers, and his was the philosophy which prevailed.

Rodney thought of the Indian saying: "My foot is on the path and the word is onward," when, on the first of November, orders came to join Washington's army.

"Now we'll be under a general as will play fair," was the way one rifleman expressed the general sentiment, and they set out on their journey, war-worn and ragged and weary with the arduous campaigning of the previous months.

As they marched away, one of the number sang to improvised music those stirring words written by the Reverend Timothy Dwight, one of the army chaplains:

"Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies."

Sorry looking Rangers were they when they arrived at Washington's headquarters; shoes worn out, clothes in tatters. There they found a dwindling army. The battles of the Brandywine and Germantown had been fought in their absence, and the British were in Philadelphia, planning for a hilarious winter. What remained of the American army must exist outside in the cold of a bitter winter and do what they might to keep the enemy where it was and cut off its supplies whenever possible. Those of the Rangers who had suitable clothing were immediately assigned to duty. At Gloucester Point they bore themselves so creditably that Lafayette said of them: "I never saw men so merry, so spirited and so desirous to go on to the enemy...."

Later, at Chestnut Hill, their unerring rifles did such execution that Howe's soldiers bore a sorry burden back to Philadelphia. There were sad gaps, as well, in the ranks of the Rangers, and among those fatally wounded was the gallant Morris who had charged the line at Bemis Heights.

As usual, the Rangers were assigned to outpost duty and scouting. Owing to need of secrecy, many a bitter winter night was passed by Rangers in this work without a camp-fire. These were wretched weeks for Rodney Allison; and there were moments when they seemed worse than the days of his captivity among the Indians. Then he would be reminded that Morgan's men were noted as well for endurance and fortitude as for courage and skill. It should not be said that the son of David Allison flinched or shirked a duty!

At the close of one cold, gray day spent on guard the officer in charge of the guard said to Rodney: "Can ye keep awake all night? I needn't ask ye though; ye've got to, fer thar be no men left to do the job."

"I'll try. What is it?"

"This mornin' one of our scouts saw a British officer ride to a house 'bout half a mile from here. We sent three Rangers down thar an' hunted high an' low, but hide nor hair could they find. I 'low he's thar an' to-night he'll try to git ter Philadelphy. You got ter go down thar an' stop him. If a word won't do, try a bullet."

It was a dismal prospect. The wind was cutting, and Rodney's clothes were worn thin. The weather was almost too cold for snow, but by night it fell in fine, stinging particles. Out on the road young Allison tramped to and fro to keep warm, occasionally stopping to thresh his arms. Late in the evening he saw someone go to the stable, and soon after a double team was driven out. The door of the house opened and a woman came out and entered the carriage. There were good-byes spoken in loud tones with no apparent attempt at concealment. Rodney was no coward, but in his heart he was glad that, instead of two men, he had only one and a woman to deal with. The woman might scream but probably wouldn't shoot.

The driver cracked his whip and the team came down the road at a rattling pace.

"Halt!"

The word rang sharply on the ears of the driver, a black man, and he quickly brought his horses to a standstill.

"Drive back. My orders are to allow no one to leave that house."

"You surely aren't making war on women," said the girl, opening the door of her carriage, and her voice sounded strangely familiar.

"I am making war on no one who obeys orders," he replied, his rifle levelled at the driver.

"Is that you, Rodney Allison? It is!" Then she laughed, such a merry, rollicking laugh, which the next instant gave place to indignation, as she exclaimed: "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What have I done that I should not be permitted to return to Philadelphia? Am I the man your backwoodsmen searched the house for, do you think? Black Pete does not greatly resemble any British officer I ever saw," and then she laughed again. "And I'm not forage, am I? And there's not a soul but me in this carriage; look for yourself. There, now tell Pete to drive on, please. After all, I'm glad to see you. And send my love to your mother and Naomi, won't you."

Rodney hesitated. She was the same imperious, winsome girl who had been his favourite playmate. No, there was no one inside the carriage; he was sure of that. How the men would laugh at him for capturing a negro and a girl! He felt like a ninny and afraid he might look like one.

"Drive on," he said with all the importance he could command, adding: "I am sorry to delay you, but must obey orders."

"Good night," she called back as she rode away. The coachman was plying the whip, and there was a note of triumph in her voice that somehow jarred on Rodney's nerves.

As he paced back and forth the conviction that he had made a grave mistake grew upon him, though for his life he could not be sure why it might be a mistake. Why need he say anything about the affair? The men would only joke him. Yes, he would tell the whole story and take the responsibility.

"Did ye inspect the inside o' the nigger as well as the carriage?" was the question sharply asked him by the officer the following day, when it was found that the officer's horse was gone from the stable, and that every slave on the place had run away the day before, just after the search of the house.



Assuming the disguise of a black menial was the last thing he would have suspected a haughty British officer to do!

Oh, but the disappointment was a bitter one! He had expected promotion. Certainly he had earned it. Now, that hope was gone. His blunder was the jest of his comrades, who would call after him: "Nigger in the woodpile, nigger on the box."

Morgan, troubled with rheumatism, had gone to his home in Winchester for the winter. The army was half starved and poorly clothed, and to make matters worse, it was generally understood that these hardships were due to corruption and incompetency; for there were some in authority, in those days, who were greedy, dishonest and hard-hearted.

Young Allison had occasion to visit the camp at Valley Forge and the sights he saw there never left his memory. Wretchedness and misery were on every side. How did Washington, knowing as he must that these conditions were unnecessary under proper management, how could he hope ever to save the country?

Who was that haggard fellow with bare feet wrapped in rags and little but an old horse blanket to keep out the wintry wind? Angus? Yes, no doubt of it!

"Hi, Rod! Say, you fellers as hev breeches ought ter bring us in a bite ter eat. What's the good o' your foragin' if yer don't?"

"I haven't had a mouthful since last night, myself. How are you, anyway? I don't see how you men can stay here and bear it."

"Many of us wouldn't if we'd the duds ter git away in. It's a hard road ter Charlottesville fer bare feet."

"I'm beginning to feel like taking it. When we drive the British out of the Quaker City then we'll apply for a furlough, eh, Angus?"

"I'd go this minute if I could."

"I doubt it, Angus. You always were a tenacious fellow."

"What's the good o' stayin' when Congress won't provide board an' clothes? They sure are a shiftless lot."

"They might easily be improved, it would seem, but we've gone too far in this war to turn back now."

"Starvin' an' freezin' ain't goin' ter help ther cause none."

"Spring will soon be here and we'll feel better, I hope."

Spring was approaching, and never again was the American army to suffer as it did that winter at Valley Forge. Those who endured, and lived through it, won such glory as few men achieve.

Colonel Morgan rejoined his command in the spring. The enemy were beginning to show signs of animation. Rumours were about that Howe intended to leave Philadelphia, and then another to the effect that he was to be recalled.

One day a company of Rangers was sent to support Lafayette at Barren Hill, Rodney among the number. Two British generals were marching their men by different routes from Philadelphia to capture the distinguished Frenchman and his command.

"Here," thought young Allison, "is my chance," and he set his face, which had noticeably hardened during the cruel winter. No more would it look with favour on the flattering smiles of a girl; at least Rodney had so resolved.

When the charge was made in characteristic Ranger manner, Allison was in the front line and was the last to turn back, though there were several bullet holes in his clothes. Another charge, and again he was in the lead. A big redcoat was upon him before he could reload. He clubbed his rifle, knocked aside the bayonet thrust and felled his antagonist. Then, when he turned to retreat, it was too late; a flanking party was at his back, and, with several other prisoners, he was driven off to Philadelphia.

Into the Provost Prison on Walnut Street he was huddled along with others. Oh, the squalor of it! The air was foul, the food poor, and the officer in charge, Captain Cunningham, a brutal man, inflamed with drink most of the time.

How his head ached the following morning! At first he attributed it to the foul air, but surely that could not cause every bone in his body to ache, nor the parched, feverish condition of his mouth. Was he, after so long escaping the hazards of camp and battle, to die in a hole like that old prison? That had been the fate of many a man.

"Hello, Allison. I'm glad, yet sorry, to find you here."

Rodney looked up. They had just brought in Lawrence Enderwood. For a few minutes, in the pleasure of companionship, the lad forgot the fever pains, but they would not be forgotten for long.

Enderwood entreated Cunningham to send a doctor, but was gruffly told to mind his business. The next morning Rodney was delirious.



CHAPTER XXVII

A BLENDED ROSE

For weeks the Quaker City girls had been looking forward with much anticipation and great eagerness to the eighteenth day of May, 1778. On that day there was to be a most wonderful, grand and gorgeous pageant in honour of the Howes.

There was much chirping and fluttering those evenings in the homes of the Shippens, the Chews, the Achmutys, the Redmans, and others. In the midst of all this lived Elizabeth Danesford, and a very lively part of it she was.

Among all the Philadelphia beauties—and none in all this great land or the lands across the seas could excel them—Lisbeth was a peeress. About her shrine could be found as many worshippers as any of the charming queens could boast. Scions of Britain's aristocracy, favoured with a glimpse from under her dark lashes, forgot their other duties and waited upon her whims. And she, Tory though she was, delighted in seeing the haughty bend the knee to a girl from the Old Dominion.

And that graceful fellow, Andre, who had a knack for rhyme, a little skill with the brush, and could design a lady's costume with even better success than he could pen a verse, ah, he was in his seventh heaven! Time enough to sorrow bye and bye when he should step from a cart with a rope about his neck, all because of Benedict Arnold.

There was a triumphal arch erected in honour of Lord Howe, and another in honour of his brother, the general. There were pavilions to build around the arena in which gaily attired knights, mounted on richly caparisoned steeds, were to contend, knights in white and knights in black, and their reward the favours to be bestowed by the fair damsels of the "Blended Rose" or "The Burning Mountain." And there were men and women no doubt—usually there are—who would have sold their immortal souls rather than have missed an invitation to attend.

Never before had America witnessed such a brave display, the parade of floats upon the river, the fireworks, the tournaments, the dazzling costumes, the sumptuous banquet and the brilliant ball to conclude it all; and then that beautiful Italian name, "Mischianza," the title by which it should be known to future generations.

The sun was winking at the closed curtains of Lisbeth's room the next morning as she stood before her mirror for a farewell glance at her splendid attire, and that towering head-dress flashing with jewels over which the hair-dresser had worked long and marvellously. The face was fresh, the beautiful eyes undimmed, the eyes of a conqueror, flashing as she recalled Lord Howe bending low over her fair hand with unmistakable admiration in his face.

While she thus admired herself, the drums were beating and the soldiers were marching out of the city to capture Lafayette, who, it was thought, would make a suitable decoration for the glory of the Howes. Really they should take away with them something in the way of glory other than memories of an idle winter amid Philadelphia's hospitality, and of the pomp and beauty of the "Mischianza." But the poor soldiers came marching back without their prize, while the ladies were yet talking of the fete, their costumes and their conquests. Yet, as we have learned, the soldiers, missing their prize, did bring back a meagre harvest for the maw of the Provost Prison, and of that Rodney Allison was a part.

What of the poor fellow we left moaning in delirium, and Lawrence Enderwood, doing his best to quiet his friend, while he inwardly raged at their jailer's brutality? He was a very sick lad, as Lawrence could see by the morning light filtering through the dirt of the windows.

"He'll not last long in this den; they die like flies. I know, for I've seen 'em," said a haggard prisoner, who had entered the prison a hale, lusty man and was now a tottering skeleton.

Helpless to aid his friend, and forced to sit idly by and see him suffer and die, Lawrence Enderwood buried his face in his hands.

"General Howe well might know this be no place for women."

The gruff, surly tone of Cunningham was answered by one as sweet as the note of a song bird.

"But, Captain, he surely might know it would be a better place for human beings if it were."

Lawrence lifted his head and his eyes lighted, as well they might, for the girl was a refreshing picture.

"You are right, Miss Danesford. General Howe not only might, he ought to know about this villainous place."

"Ah, Mr. Enderwood—pardon, that epaulette declares you are a captain and the red facings of your blue coat indicate that you lead Virginians. Possibly, however, the Mister to you is of more value than the title of captain, since your General Washington has made himself famous with the British as a plain 'Mister.'"

"It must be very humiliating to their generals to be beaten by a plain 'Mister,' must it not? But I would not say unpleasant things, for verily your visit is most welcome, whether you came to see me or another."

"You, most assuredly. Colonel Brent was boasting yesterday of having bagged a genuine militia captain from old Virginia, and, when he told me your name, I did not thank him for his exploit."

"Believe me, I greatly appreciate your kindness. Perhaps, having been so kind to a poor Virginia captain, you may come to speak of 'our' Washington, for you are a daughter of Virginia."

Lisbeth appeared not to notice this allusion to her Tory principles, and exclaimed, as she looked with evident disgust at the squalid surroundings: "Why will men be so cruel to men? I will tell General Howe some truths that will cause his ears to burn, and—"

"And shut the door against your return. You see I am selfish enough to look for another visit, though this pestilent hole is no place for you to visit. Howe will do nothing. When he was in command at New York our men literally rotted in the foul prison hulks lying in the harbour. It is a cheap and an easy way for killing us off."

"Now, no lectures, Captain Enderwood. Howe shall know of this, and I believe will do something to improve it. Meanwhile, here is a little basket of food cooked by our old Nancy. You always praised Nancy's cooking when you came to 'The Hall' in the old days, so you are under obligations to eat every crumb of it, even if it isn't as good as the prison fare."

"Good as the prison fare! Why, the cockroaches that crawl around here are literally starving. It's a marvel you got past old Cunningham with this basket. Nothing infuriates him so, and this morning I saw him knock on the floor a bowl of broth brought to one of the prisoners."

"Oh! I can't understand it."

"No, and you never will until you get better acquainted with men like Cunningham, which God forbid. But tell me about the 'Mis-er-'"

"'Mischianza?' Oh, it was the most delightful affair ever known. You should have seen it. The floats on the river, the parades, the arches, the battles between the knights and all! Well, Major Andre was a true prophet when he said no Roman fete would equal it. I simply can't find words to describe ever so little of it."

With you present I couldn't have realized its magnificence if I had seen it, was the thought in Enderwood's mind, but what he said was: "They tell me it was gorgeous, and you may say with the old Roman, er—how do those Latin words go? Anyhow it was to the effect that he'd been a part of the doings, quite a big part at that."

"I? Why, I was but a crumb at the banquet."

Ah, Lisbeth! Those flashing eyes, that colour such as "blended rose" never had, that lithe, rounded figure radiating vitality, bespeak too much of modesty in your words.

"Go on, Nat, old boy, faster! We must save the girl. Up and at 'em, Rangers! Cheated of promotion, and by a girl! Oh, Lisbeth, how could you do it! You knew I'd believe what you told me."

"Who is that?" The girl's face is pale and her voice trembles.

"Another victim. I was about to ask you, if possible, to have a doctor sent here. Cunningham refused it. You know him, surely you do. It's poor Rodney Allison. He'll not ride many more races, I'm thinking, such as the night he rode and overtook your horse and stopped it."

"Rodney! Don't you know me, your old playmate? Don't you know Lisbeth? How hot his head is!"

The girl sat, as one dazed, with her cool hand on the lad's forehead. He lay more quietly under her kindly touch.

"He hasn't got to suffer as long as the most of us. It will only be a question of a few days in this place," said Lawrence, bitterly.

Lisbeth looked up, and Lawrence saw that her eyes glittered and her face looked hard. She bade him adieu and was gone before he could say more.

"She come in like an angel o' mercy an' went out with a face like Jezebel's. Guess she was feared she mought ketch the fever," said one of the prisoners. Captain Enderwood swore at the poor old man, though the captain ever respected age and regarded profanity as the mark of a boor.

That night Rodney Allison slept in a clean bed in a neat room, with a doctor by his side and a nurse none other than Miss Danesford herself, while Captain Lawrence Enderwood, on parole, walked about the city and then took night watch at the side of his sick friend.



CHAPTER XXVIII

NEW VENTURES WITH OLD ACQUAINTANCES

What is more grateful to a weak, weary mortal on a hot morning than a snug seat under the shade of a tree, stirred by a gentle breeze from the river? Rodney Allison could think of nothing, and sank into the seat with a sigh of relief.

This was his first attempt at walking abroad since his illness, during which the British had left Philadelphia and returned to New York, pursued and harassed by the Americans. That morning Captain Enderwood had left him, and, when he had inquired for his bill, he was told that it had been paid. He had been dimly conscious during his illness of the presence of a nurse other than Enderwood, but when he had asked about it the captain had ignored the question and talked about something else. Surely he was indebted to some one for his life and life was very sweet this July morning.

"When d'ye leave yer grave?"

"Hello, Zeb! I was thinking about you, and wondering if we'd ever meet again."

"An' I was thinkin' the same thing when I got sight o' you an' concluded we wouldn't."

"Concluded we wouldn't?"

"Ye see, I 'lowed 'twas only yer ghost I was lookin' at. Ye've either had poor victuals or a poor appetite."

Rodney had the first hearty laugh he enjoyed for months and replied, "I've been pretty sick and am lucky to have any sort of looks left. But what are you doing in Philadelphia?"

"I'm hangin' around this town hopin' the schooner Betsy has escaped the British and will bring my wife."

"Your wife?"

"All the result o' my furlough in Boston."

"So Melicite, of whom Donald Lovell told me so much, consented. Zeb, you're a born conqueror. When you found you couldn't capture Canada you won a wife."

"More to my likin' than the whole o' Canada. Now I'm wonderin' how I'm goin' to support her. A soldier's pay for a month won't buy more'n a pinch o' salt, an' salt ain't very fillin' 'thout somethin' to go along with it."

"Well, I know where we can get a square meal, though it won't taste as good as that roast pig down in Jersey. Will you go with me?"

"Certain sure I'll go. I reckon thar be no good o' my hangin' round any longer to-day."

As they walked down Chestnut Street Rodney saw a familiar figure approaching.

"Zeb, there comes one of the greatest men in the country, Thomas Jefferson. Wonder if he'll remember me."

He was not left long in doubt. Mr. Jefferson's face was careworn and noticeably older than when Rodney had last seen him, and the lad was but a shadow of his former self, yet the man recognized him the moment they met.

"How is my young friend this morning? You've had an illness."

"I am just up from a fever. Mr. Jefferson, I want you to know my friend, one of Morgan's Rangers, Mr. Campbell, or Zeb, as we call him. He's been to me almost as good a friend as you."

"I'm always glad to meet your friends, Rodney. What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting till I get strength enough to go back to Charlottesville. I was taken prisoner and am on parole and I think home is the best place for me."

"Charlottesville is a good place at all times, especially now that Burgoyne's troops are imprisoned there. I should think you might also find it profitable to return, for the prisoners kept there have put money in circulation and made work. By the way, I haven't seen you since you sold your horse to my overseer. I felt badly about that because I knew you didn't let him go without a sacrifice. I will give you a letter and when you get back you take it to Monticello and get the colt. You can pay me at your convenience."

This was unexpected good fortune, and Rodney felt very grateful. "I wish I had Nat here. I would start to-morrow," he remarked to Zeb as they walked on.

"Thar seems to be no such thing as complete satisfaction in this world. Now, if I had a home fer Melicite an' me to go to, well, I reckon I'd be a little easier in mind."

"Come to Charlottesville with me. You heard what Mr. Jefferson said about business being brisk there. It's only a little village, but we'll find some way to turn a dollar. You've got to come, unless you can find something better."

And so it happened that Rodney and his friend and Melicite, who arrived in due time, all found their way to Charlottesville, and also found home and opportunity.

Rodney was surprised on his first visit to the quarters of the "Convention troops," as they were called. On Colonel Harvey's estate, about five miles distant from the Court House at Charlottesville, barracks and camps had been erected for the prisoners, who were constructing a building to be used as a theatre. Many of them had vegetable gardens, one officer, it was said, having spent nearly five hundred dollars for seed to be planted by his men.

When these prisoners had arrived there the previous winter, after a march of over seven hundred miles from Massachusetts, the hillside, which now bloomed, was desolate and bleak. But few buildings had been erected, and about the only provisions obtainable were corn meal and water. All that had been changed as by magic, and many of the poor fellows had not known such comfort since leaving their homes in England, while most of the Hessians were faring better than they ever had done at home.

It will be recalled that Gates had weakly consented to terms which allowed Burgoyne's soldiers to be transported to England on condition they should not fight against America. He was so eager to secure a surrender, that he evidently did not stop to consider that these soldiers could be used in England to replace those stationed there, who in turn could be sent to America. Shrewder men were quick to see the mistake and to take advantage of any circumstance to prevent it. Such a circumstance was afforded by Burgoyne himself, who, not liking the quarters assigned to him in Massachusetts, had declared the terms of the surrender had been broken. Moreover, when the Americans were ready to let the troops go on their arrival in Massachusetts, the British would not provide transportation, and by the time they were ready the Americans had various pretexts for not complying with the terms of the surrender. The British declared their opponents acted in bad faith. Undoubtedly many Americans believed England would act in bad faith if she could get the troops back.

Zeb's attitude on this question was that of many Americans. "I don't care to argue the matter," he said. "I can if necessary; the argyments been't all on one side."

Zeb would always be lame from his wound, in fact this had forced him to leave the army. "The Rangers aren't what they were," he told Rodney, "since Morgan was given another command. He was the king pin. He had a way o' seein' the Rangers got what belonged to 'em. They knew it, an' thar was nothin' they wouldn't do for him. I mind one day he was ridin' past whar some o' the men were at work clearin' a road. Two of 'em were tryin' to roll out a big rock an' a little squirt of a sergeant was bossin'. 'Why don't ye help the men?' Morgan shouted at him. 'I'm an officer, sir,' says the sergeant. 'Oh yes,' says Morgan. 'I didn't think o' that,' an' he jumped off his horse an' helped the men roll out the rock."

Rodney's work that fall often required him to visit the prisoners' encampment. One day, as he was passing a cabin, he heard some one call in a faint voice for help. He rushed in and found a man lying on the floor. He helped the man to his bed and as he did so saw that he was none other than his old acquaintance, the "Chevalier."

While Allison did not feel so bitter against this man as formerly, for the reason that his recent experiences had brought him knowledge of bigger rascals than he had ever supposed this man to be, yet his feelings were far from being friendly. He nevertheless ran for the camp doctor and waited until he had declared the man out of danger for the present. Rodney heard his advice to the patient, that he keep very quiet and free from excitement, as otherwise his next attack might prove fatal.

Rodney turned back into the cabin to ask if there were anything he might do, and the look in the face of the "Chevalier" startled the lad. It quickly passed, however, and the man quietly said: "Why, this is Rodney Allison, who saved my miserable existence out on the Scioto."

"Not much of an exploit to be remembered by. You'd have shot him if I hadn't."

"Why, you shot the redskin in the heel and, if I correctly recall my mythology, Paris required the assistance of the god, Apollo, before he was able to hit Achilles in a like spot."

"He only had a bow and arrow while I had one of the finest rifles in the country."

"Anyhow, it was an act worthy of a better return, as you no doubt concluded later."

This allusion to the gaming incident annoyed Rodney. He thought the least the fellow might do was to make no mention of that rascally affair.

"If I don't refer to that matter I see no reason for you to do so. Of late I've been associated with men who think that, after you've rolled a man in the dirt, it isn't necessary to rub it in."

The "Chevalier" whistled and then smilingly quoted:

"'The duke, he drew out half his sword— The guard drew out the rest.'"

"Can I do any more for you, sir?" Rodney spoke impatiently.

"You might tell me how are the mother and the little sister and about the home you feared the miser would get. You see I have a good memory for some things."

"They are well. They yet have the home, though I did my best to sacrifice it. If there's nothing I may do I will be going."

"You are kind, and I wish you would call again. I expected you would be in the army. As I remember, you were a lusty young rebel when I knew you."

"I served with Colonel Morgan's Rangers at the capture of Burgoyne."

It must be admitted there was a touch of malice in these words and the tone in which the lad spoke them.

"So I'm still further indebted to you. Well, as you are responsible for my being here, I hope you will feel under obligations to call again when I am better able to entertain company. By the way, did you ever know a man by the name of David Cameron? Why I ask is because you resemble a man by that name, whom I once knew."

"That was my father's name," replied Rodney, and the next instant he could have bitten his tongue. He quickly added: "My father, after coming to this country, had good reasons for taking the name of his mother's people, the Allisons, not that he had any occasion to be ashamed of the name of Cameron. Now that he is dead we shall retain the name of Allison."

"As I remember your father, he had no occasion to be ashamed of anything, except, possibly, some of his acquaintances. So David is dead."

"My father was a man who kept good company to the day of his death."

"He was a very kind-hearted man, and such cannot always keep what you term 'good company.' May I ask you to send here some worthy lawyer or trustworthy justice of the peace? I have some transactions which I wish to discuss with such a person. You, being the son of your father, I know will do that for me."

"Where and when did you know my father?"

"More than twenty years ago in London. When did he die, Rodney?"

"He was killed at the battle of Point Pleasant at the time we were out in the Ohio country."

"Four years ago. Do you come often to the camp?"

"Frequently."

"Will it be asking too much for you to look in on me, as they say?"

"I will do as you wish."

As Rodney rode away he thought much upon the strange man he had left. Evidently he was one whom his father had befriended. And the rascal had tried to rob his benefactor's son. Probably, what with the illness and all, the fellow's conscience twinged a little. Anyhow, he should have the lawyer though it were better he should have the clergyman, thought the lad.

That night Rodney found it difficult to put thoughts of the sick man out of his mind and, when a few days later he again had occasion to visit the camp, he took along with him some delicacies which he thought might tempt the patient's appetite.

"So you didn't forget me. What's this? Something besides camp fare? Oh, yes, you are David Cameron's son, but you've got a life work ahead if you live up to his standard."

"I believe you, sir."

"Would you be willing to send this letter? I suppose it will reach Philadelphia in a few days. By the way, did your father come to Charlottesville from London?"

"No. He lived nearly eighteen years down in Prince William County. He was employed there much of the time by Squire Danesford."

"Danesford! Did he have a daughter about your own age?"

"Yes. Lisbeth. She was in Philadelphia the last I knew of her. I heard the other day that the state had seized their estate. Danesford is a bitter Tory, you know."

"Danesford died a poor man in London last April. His daughter, I understand, died about three months later. At least the person to whom that letter is addressed wrote me she couldn't live."

"Are—are you sure? I didn't even know she was sick."

The man looked keenly at his caller. "I have no reason to doubt the report. It was said she took her father's death very much to heart, and, what with not being well,—she had nursed a friend, I think,—she was taken down with a fever. You must have known her?

"Why, she was my playmate. I—I can't realize she's dead." Then hurriedly saying good-bye he went away, seeing little and thinking much, and the "Chevalier" lay looking at the blank wall.

On arriving home Rodney went directly to his room. He shrank from telling the news to his mother. He must first think it over. The girl in the red cloak who had stamped her foot and called him a simpleton, ah, she was the one he missed, and not her who had laughed in his face that winter night and wheedled him as she laughed.

Mrs. Allison was greatly shocked. Rodney had been ashamed to tell his mother of the time Lisbeth had tricked him, and now it somehow seemed disloyal to the girl to speak of it. Well, he would forget it, and so resolving he worked as never before. There was work to do, both for himself and Zeb; moreover, it was profitable.

When he next had occasion to visit the encampment he called on the "Chevalier" as soon as he arrived. All the way to the camp the question had been in his mind: How did it happen that the man knew the Danesfords, spoke of them as persons with whom he was quite familiar? He met Angus, who said, "Ridin' back along soon?" and, on being told, replied, "I reckon I'll wait fer ye."

Rodney found the "Chevalier" unusually bright and nimble of wit. "I suppose, Allison, you think the war is over with the surrender of Burgoyne? Most of your people lose no opportunity to express that opinion. I notice, however, that the British army marches about the country pretty much as it pleases. Why, my lad, the war is just begun."

"Certainly it's a good beginning," was the lad's rather dry response.

The "Chevalier" appreciated it. There was a twinkle in his eyes. It was evident he liked to draw Rodney out. He said: "What would you people do if by some accident, for you can never hope to win unless some other powerful nation helps you, what would you do if you should win? All the colonies would be by the ears in less than a year."

"Perhaps you never heard what 'Sam' Adams told the Quakers who said they wished to obey such government as the Lord placed over them."

"What did he say?"

"He told them the Lord was providing a government."

"Don't you think this so-called government, where Congress may only humbly ask the several colonies, each to do its part, a pretty poor sort of government to lay at the Lord's door? Why, once these colonies get clear of England, they'll fight among themselves. But, even if they didn't, the country would have a patchwork of little petty governments and nothing in common to make them strong."

"Do you remember what Gadsden said at New York at the meeting held in protest against the Stamp Act?"

"No; what was it?"

"He said: 'There ought to be no New England man, no New Yorker known on the continent; but all of us, Americans.' I well remember father speaking of that. There was a queer codger who joined the Rangers. The men, because of his long legs, named him 'Lopin' Luther,' and he once said: 'We're fightin' fer free Englishmen as well as Americans, only the darn fools don't know it.'"

"You mean, or rather he meant, the principle involved. But, from what I have learned, the more of what the people term freedom they have, the more they want."

"And why not? Whoever called you the 'Cavalier,' evidently knew why he did so."

The man's face became grave. He said: "I am not worthy of the name. I have great respect for those who were known as Cavaliers. Some of your best blood in the Old Dominion descended from them. I believe it isn't so much what people have as the way they use it. I've seen those who were getting along finely until something more was added to them, then make a failure of it. Take your hero, Morgan; what did he have but his own courage and brains and powerful body? He's made the most of what he had. Had he been born a duke he might not have done so well."

"Could he have done what he has in your country, where your dukes are born with the privilege of lording it over the Morgans?"

"Rodney, you argue well. Where did you learn? I forget your father. You are indeed his son. Must you go? Well, here is a packet, of which I wish you to take charge. When you learn that I am dead, and the doctor tells me my heart is about worn out, you are to open the packet and I am sure will do right with what you find there."

Rodney hesitated, and the man, noticing his hesitation, said, "You will not regret it. You believe me, don't you?"

Looking into the face of the man, Rodney had it not in his heart to say no. Somehow, and he was almost ashamed to admit it to himself, he did believe. This man, who, under the guise of friendliness, once had robbed him, this gambler, literally compelled his liking.

When Allison had finished the business for which he had come, and was about to leave, he noticed the camp doctor hurrying to the Chevalier's cabin. With fear in his heart he followed. The fear was realized. The man who had been known to him as the "Chevalier" was dead. Rodney helped prepare the body. He had performed similar services for friends who had died in camp. It was not a duty from which he would flinch. Yet he started back, his face was pale. The doctor noticed the agitation and sought the cause. Young Allison was staring at tattoo marks on the right arm of the body. These represented a closed hand gripping a sword. Rodney had seen the exact counterpart of that on the right arm of little Louis, who had told him, "Papa put it there!"



CHAPTER XXIX

WHAT THE PACKAGE CONTAINED

"What's the trouble here, Rodney?" asked Angus, shouldering his way in through a throng of the curious, assembled about the door of the cabin.

The hearty voice of his friend helped Rodney to collect himself. "There has been a sudden death; he was a man I knew," he replied.

"I reckon you've lost a good friend," said Angus, when he saw the face of the figure on the couch. "He certain sure did you a good turn."

Rodney's look showed that he wondered just what his friend meant. He was not aware that Angus knew the man.

Seeing that Rodney seemed puzzled, Angus said: "Why, that time he euchred old Denham. You told me then ye didn't know him."

"What do you mean? This the man who paid off the mortgage? Oh! if I had known that!"

It all came to Rodney Allison, as light comes to one who has been blind, and is made to see. This man, instead of a knave, had been his friend! He had won the money in gambling that it might be used for a right purpose. He had so used it, and taken from his own purse as well. The sense of having done an injustice is very bitter when the injured has passed beyond one's power to atone!

When everything had been done that might be, and Allison and McGregor were walking away, the latter said: "I've found a feller as is lookin' fer a good horse. He saw Nat when you rode in this mornin' an' he asked no end o' questions, whar ye lived, how ter git thar an' said he was thinkin' o' buyin'. I 'lowed as how 'twould take a tote o' money ter buy. Thar goes the identical minion o' King George, now."

Rodney looked in the direction indicated. "That knave!" he exclaimed. "I'd never sell Nat to him if I needed the money to buy bread."

"Don't like his looks, eh? Yer powerful fussy. He ain't the best lookin' feller I ever did see, but I reckon his money's good."

The other made no reply. He could not explain his antipathy to Mogridge, for it was he whom Angus had pointed out. So he's here, thought Rodney, wondering what he could want with a horse.

Allison was not an unduly inquisitive youth, but it may readily be imagined his pulse quickened when he sat down with his mother to open the package which had been given him by the "Chevalier." It almost seemed that the man had known he was about to die, though his manner had been so cheerful.

Ah! Here was money—the package had seemed heavy—nearly fifty pounds in all; and here was his gold watch and seal ring and a letter. He quickly opened the letter and read with wonderment in his eyes, and then tears.

"MY DEAR RODNEY:—The man, whose life your father once saved at risk of his own, and whom you again saved from the bullet of a savage, wishes to express his sense of obligations. Please accept the contents of this packet as such an expression, for the obligations themselves cannot be repaid; also what I have tried to provide in the will which you will find enclosed. I would suggest that you consult the lawyer whom you brought to me at my request. Rightly cared for, the inheritance will ensure your mother and sister against want and afford you the chance of which you have been deprived on account of lack of funds. I'm sure you will understand that I do not allude to 'Chance,' the fickle goddess of the gaming table, and I have been happy to learn you profited by the lesson I taught you. Had I learned a similar one at your age, that one may not obtain something for nothing and be happy in the possession, I might have been of some service in the world. Instead, my life has been a failure, and that which I am leaving to you was the fruit of the service of my forebears. May you never feel the humiliation of uselessness, of having contributed nothing to the world that was of value!

"The property is in England, and not until the war shall be ended, I presume, will it be possible for you to come into the inheritance. I am leaving no near kindred. My little son died in Canada during my absence; his name was Louis. Elizabeth Danesford's mother I knew when she was a girl and lived in London, and, for her sake, her daughter, had she lived, was to have had the half of what I'm leaving to you. The estate in England, which Louis would have inherited, reverts to a distant cousin.

"I do not know whether your father ever told of his acquaintance with me, nor what his feelings toward me may have been. Surely, there was ample cause why they should have been unpleasant, but I like to think they were kindly. He loved me despite the sore distress I so often caused him, but when I struck him down, thinking him an enemy, and fled, believing myself a murderer, he must ever after have thought I deserted him. I hope he knows better now.

"After that horrible experience I joined the army in Canada and a year later was married. Louis was born and, after six years of such happiness as one who believes himself a criminal may enjoy, my wife died and Louis went to live with her parents near Lachine. One day I met a man who recognized me and, fearing exposure, I fled to New York, later to Philadelphia and then to Virginia at the outbreak of Dunmore's war. After that I returned to Canada only to learn that Louis had died. It seemed as if a fatality pursued all I loved. I went to England, determined to give myself up to justice, but was astounded to learn that there was no evidence that a crime had been committed. I was told your father did not die but was put aboard ship for the Colonies. Believing that England, however much in fault as to administration, was right in fighting to retain her government over this country, I again entered the army. The day on which I had the serious attack of heart trouble, and called for assistance and you came, I saw that in your face which told me you must be near of kin to David Cameron. I wonder that I never had noted the resemblance. If you are like him, as I believe, you will not leave the world the poorer for having lived in it, and at the end will not, as I, feel impelled to recall these lines which that wretch Wharton wrote: