The Young Continentals at Monmouth

From the manner of the men, it was evident that the coming of Tobias Hawkins was no surprise to his friend. Indeed, the latter had been, it was evident, patiently awaiting him; and now the eagerness in his manner showed plainly that he attached some importance to the arrival.

“I had about given up all hope of you,” said the man with the yellow smile, his first words showing the truth of the lad’s discernment.

“I said I would reach here as soon after nine o’clock as I could. To be sure, it is somewhat after that; but I could not finish my business earlier.”

“The hour at which it is finished,” said the other, “does not greatly matter. The question is, how did you succeed?”

Tobias Hawkins laughed and in the sound of that laugh Ben caught something like triumph.

“Success,” said the man, “is so easily won, that there is no credit in it. But let us go inside where we can talk quietly.”

“It would be much better if we remained where we are,” said the other, looking about. “The inn is filled with madmen, I think. They can do nothing but rave over the defeat of Washington and the flight of Congress.”

Hawkins, after a cautious glance about, seated himself upon the bench. A small cedar in a tub concealed the window at which Ben sat; the boy could see only the crowns of the two hats over the high back of the bench, but the delighted sound that came from Hawkins told him that the man was chuckling.

“Washington’s defeat,” repeated Hawkins; “ah, what a relief that was! It altered things all about me. Trenton and Princeton and the affairs in the Jerseys had set me a task that I sometimes despaired of, Sugden; but this one defeat brought all the complainings to the top again. The victories were forgotten; the commander had lost a battle, therefore the commander was incompetent.”

“A rare good general, this Washington, I think,” said Sugden. “A careful fighter and one that will last long—if they allow him?”

There was a laugh with this last, a mocking sort of laugh which indicated the speaker’s disbelief in the possibility.

“With the goodness or the badness of Mr. Washington as an officer, we personally have nothing to do,” said Hawkins. “We are paid to excite disbelief in him; our duty is to have him supplanted by a weaker man, so let us be about that, and bother with nothing else.”

Ben felt his heart throb heavily at this, and the blood beat about his temples and roared in his ears. Here at last was the thing which he had thought for so long, put plainly into words. There was a movement on foot to displace Washington as head of the army; fearing that its forces would not be equal to the task of subduing the aroused colonies, the British government had set about undermining the one man whose genius they feared in the field.

“A conspiracy,” breathed Ben. “A conspiracy conducted by this man Hawkins!”

Now better than ever did the lad understand the actions of Tobias Hawkins. As he thought over all the man’s doings and sayings he fancied that they all centered in the one purpose.

“On New Year’s Eve, when I first saw him, he was but newly come to Philadelphia to begin his plotting; and that faultfinding old fellow, Livingstone, was just the sort of man he needed to enable him to make a fair start; Hawkins knew that he was well connected, and much too stupid to ever suspect that he was being used.”

The conspirators’ eagerness that same night to learn from Mr. Morris the names of those persons who were not upon good terms officially with Washington once more returned to the boy.

“He has found out the greater part of them by now, I suppose,” thought Ben. “There is the adventurer Conway, the vain General Gates, and the rather calculating Mifflin; he keeps the company of all three, and each of them is an enemy of Washington.”

The man’s threat that night returned to Ben.

“He feared that I had discovered his identity,” he mused. “And he thought to stop my revealing what I knew. This man whom he calls Sugden as much as said so when I encountered him at Bristol. And the attempt to rob the carriage of the money sacks sent by Master Morris, for I now feel sure that Hawkins was the other party to that, was but another way of seeking the embarrassment of General Washington.”

Hawkins was still chuckling over what were apparently pleasing thoughts. For a time the man with the yellow smile said nothing, but as the other seemed in no hurry to impart what he knew, he grew impatient.

“Come,” he said, “let us know what you have to tell.”

There was a pause, the chuckling ceased, and then Hawkins spoke.

“There was a time only last fall when I considered this work upon which we are now engaged as impossible. It was Admiral Howe who first mentioned it to me, I think, and I openly scouted it. Then Sir Henry Clinton broached it, and at last General Howe. Each of them fancied it, and each of them told me plainly that it was quite in my way.”

Sugden grunted.

“They were right there; everything in the line of underground effort is in your way. I never saw any one who took more naturally to subterfuge, wriggling through keyholes, and the gaining of men’s confidence for his own ends.”

Tobias Hawkins laughed. This, so it seemed, he regarded as flattery.

“You are disposed to think rather well of any little talent that I may possess, my friend,” he said. “But I paid no attention to either of the military or naval heroes,” he proceeded; “their sort are seldom very keen in matters that do not have to do with the movements of fleets or divisions. However, when Lord George Germain wrote to me, begging me to undertake the task—and mentioning a handsome sum which the government would be disposed to pay me should I succeed—I began to seriously turn the matter over in my mind.”

“Ah, yes, the money,” said Sugden. “Germain knew how to interest you.”

Again Tobias Hawkins laughed, in no way put out by the other man’s candor.

“I can always be appealed to by way of my purse,” he confessed. “I find that it’s much the better way when all’s said and done. To risk all for the honor of one’s flag is well enough, perhaps, for some; but to mix a few gold pieces with the honor makes it ring better to others.”

“Different minds have different fancies,” admitted the man with the yellow smile. “But tell me, what ever made them hit upon the removal of Washington from command as the best means of weakening the movement for independence?”

“They knew the man, and they knew that such as he must sooner or later clash with the petty people who were about him. Some of the newer members of Congress are small men; Washington is a giant; and mean natures always come to hate one superior to them. Could I gain the confidence of the small men in Congress, thought Lord George Germain, I would have taken a long step toward success.”

“Excellent!” said Sugden, approvingly. “Most excellent!”

“Then,” went on Tobias Hawkins, “upon my own part I knew that there would be a certain amount of dissatisfaction in the army. Every captain would want to be a colonel, and every colonel a general of brigade. These dissatisfied ones I decided to select as my friends.”

The nature of the man’s plan appalled the young American; and yet he could not help but admire its cold-blooded perfection.

“And there are enough of that sort in the army for all intents,” said Sugden. “It did not take me long to learn that all who put on a uniform did not do so through love of country. Gates, they say,” and Sugden sniggered, “is the very man to bring victory to the American arms.”

“There is a thing,” said Hawkins, “which fits most excellently into my plan. Gates is a weak man, all but mad with vanity, and jealous in every fiber of his being of Washington. With much hard work I have centered upon him the favor of all in Congress who are opposed to the present commander.”

“But they are not aware, I’ll wager, that it was your hand that bent them so,” said the other.

“They do not dream of it; each thinks the idea began with himself, and I,” with a laugh, “am careful enough to allow them to go on thinking so.”

“Now as to this foreign adventurer, Conway,” said Sugden; “he seems to have advanced in favor very rapidly.”

“The opposition to Washington took him up because he dislikes Washington; they are struck with admiration of his military talents. I control him by the only means which could control him. He fancies, through my hints, that Gates is but a figurehead, and when the time comes to choose Washington’s successor, that he, himself, will be the man.”

“Better and better,” commented the other, his tongue clicking in admiration. “You have lost none of your cunning, I see.”

“You have heard of the change that has been made in the commissariat of the army, I suppose?”

“Why, yes, something, I think.”

“It has been taken from the hands of those friendly to Washington. Delays will ensue, and that will insure a poorly fed, badly clothed and scantily cared-for following. With such a rabble, he can do nothing. The result will be the growth of the cry ‘Give us Gates; he can save the country!’”

“Clever,” admired the other; “very clever, upon my word!”

“It is lucky for us that Gates has succeeded Schuyler in the north,” said Hawkins. “Schuyler has borne the brunt of the fighting up there, and when he had so placed the pieces as to assure success, he was removed from command, and the favorite sent in his place to reap the fruits of his labor.”

“It is well planned,” said Sugden. “I cannot see what is to prevent the entire movement for liberty, as they call it, from falling like a house of cards.”

Ben Cooper had listened to this conversation with blood that was slowly heating to a point where an outbreak of some sort must come. He did not stop to reason as to what was best to do, as Nat Brewster or some others of his friends would have done; but when the impulse came, he threw up the sash, placed his hands upon the window sill and vaulted through. Stalking round the end of the bench he suddenly confronted the two conspirators.

“Perhaps, Master Tobias Hawkins,” said he, “the fall of the cause against which you have worked so very expertly will not come as easily as you think. General Washington is not without friends; and look to yourself that it is not you, instead of he, that will come to grief.”

For a moment the two men were too astounded to speak. The position of the bench upon which they sat, so they had apparently thought, and the low tones which they had used, made it impossible that they be overheard. The window behind them had escaped their attention entirely. But Hawkins recovered himself readily enough and regarded the indignant lad, a sneer upon his face.

“Ah, we meet again,” said he, in a low, savage tone. “It would seem that in the end we must become more or less intimate.”

“Perhaps much more than you will care for,” said Ben Cooper. “Your intentions and your accomplishments will make you none too popular with Congress, the army or the public.”

“And so,” said Tobias Hawkins, slowly, “you would make known what you have heard.”

“At the first opportunity,” said Ben, hotly.

“Perhaps,” said Hawkins, and a disagreeable smile crept across his face, “it would be best for you to raise a hue and cry now. There are many persons of importance in the inn; call them, charge me with what you like!” His head bent toward the boy and one finger waved at him mockingly. “But who, think you, would believe what you have said?”

Ben stared at the man, the truth of what he said coming like a shock.

“I am a gentleman of consequence in the community,” smiled Tobias Hawkins, disagreeably, “and you are a wild youngster whose word is not to be too largely credited. I have friends in the Congress, in the army, in civil life. Everything that I have done,” and the smile grew still more disagreeable, “has been done openly and for the good of the country.”

“But your reasons,” flared the boy, “your reasons have been to——”

“Can you prove that?” questioned Hawkins.

“You yourself have said it,” returned Ben.

The man laughed, and his companion joined him.

“I deny that I said it,” spoke Hawkins. “And now what do you say?”

Nonplused, Ben stood for a moment, not knowing what answer to make. Hawkins was right. Ben could prove no wrong intention behind anything the man had done. To have plotted against Washington was no crime. Many men in public life were doing the same thing openly, every day. Now that it was too late, Ben saw that he had been too impulsive in making known his presence; but though defeated, he made up his mind to have a final fling at any rate.

“You are right,” said he, evenly enough, now that he realized the weakness of his position. “Just now I can do nothing—in that way.”

“Ah, you see that, do you?” laughed the man.

“I do,” replied Ben. “But there is one thing which you, seemingly, do not see.”

“And what is that?” asked Tobias Hawkins.

“The nature of the punishment awaiting known enemies found within the lines,” said the boy, composedly.

There was a moment’s silence; then Hawkins, with a shifting in his bold eyes which was not there a little before, said:

“I don’t quite understand.”

“It is difficult,” said Ben, “to recall a face seen in the press of battle, more especially when that battle took place so long ago, as did, we will say, Bunker Hill. But, sometimes, it can be done; and frequently more than one person can recall the face. So, in your proceedings, Master Hawkins, do not be overbold, I warn you. When one knows a thing, as I know it, there are many ways of bringing about a desired end.”

And with that the boy turned about and entered the inn, leaving the two men staring after him.