The Young Continentals at Monmouth

After leaving the two conspirators on the bench before Clark’s Inn, Ben Cooper entered the building, sought the landlord and paid his score.

“Then you do not mean to stop here to-night,” said the host, who knew him.

“No,” answered Ben. “It will, perhaps, be the last time I shall have to pass with my father in many days, and I think I shall ride out to Germantown and spend the night there.”

His horse, which had been placed in the inn stable, was brought out; Ben mounted and struck out north, meaning finally to turn into the Germantown road. He entered this some distance beyond the city limits; the night was moonlit, but there was a haze hanging over everything which waved from tree and bush, in the light breeze, like long, gauzy streamers of white. He had gone quite some distance on his way when at length he made out a peculiar sound, a steady rising and falling, of which he for a long time could make nothing. Finally, however, he understood, and laughed.

“It’s some one singing,” he said.

The sound was behind him, and coming through the waving banners of mist, edge-lit in the moonlight, it produced a weird effect. He drew in his horse, after a time, in order to hear the better; away in his mind was the impression that he had heard the music somewhere before.

Nearer and nearer drew the singer, the fall of hoofs now mingled with the song; listening, Ben at last recalled the mournful melody.

“It is one of the songs sung by Paddy Burk on the night I met him by the Bristol road.”

Then amid the clatter of oncoming hoofs the words of the song became plain.

Here the singer’s horse stumbled, and the song came to an abrupt termination. Then a voice was lifted in protest.

“Arrah, what kind of a beast are you, at all, at all! Faith, you go stumbling along like a porpoise in wooden shoes. Lift up your feet, you good-for-nothing villain, or it’s the whip I’ll be taking to you, though I’ve never done it before.”

Amazed, Ben called out:

“What, Paddy Burk!”

The horse and rider came to an abrupt stand.

“Who is that taking me name into his mouth?” demanded the rider, his hand upon his pistol. “I see you there, but I can’t make you out.”

“It’s Ben Cooper,” answered the lad.

Instantly the other touched his mount, and it trotted forward.

“Arrah, now, here’s a meeting, indeed,” cried Paddy, with a rollicking laugh. “I knew you were somewhere ahead of me, but sorra the sight did I hope to have of you to-night.”

“But how did you come here?” asked Ben, puzzled. “You are about the last person in the world I expected to see on the Germantown road to-night.”

“Why, then,” spoke Paddy, humorously, “it’s meself that did not expect to be here, either. But you see,” as their nags cantered ahead side by side, “I were sent on to Philadelphia, too, with dispatches; I asked for you at the inn across from the State House and was told that you had started for your home.

“‘Well,’ says I to myself, ‘you’ve only been there once, Paddy, my lad, but sure, I think you can find the way even at night, for never was there a place where you were made more welcome.’”

“It’s a lonely way, and I’m glad indeed to have your company,” said Ben, for he and the Irish boy had become the best of friends during the months of their acquaintance. There was no more merry soul in all the American force than Paddy; also, he was a daring rider and tireless. In the many fights in the Jerseys he had shown himself fearless and resourceful. During the day at Brandywine he had been with Sterling’s brigade, in the thick of the early onset, as Ben learned as they rode along.

“It was a great day, entirely,” declared Paddy, “and sorry was I that we couldn’t win it. But,” hopefully, “there are other days coming, and our day is among them, somewhere, I’m sure.”

After a little they fell into silence, and the Irish boy began to take note of the road.

“Why,” said he, “it is a lonely place, sure enough. A while ago, as I were coming along, I felt a bit down in the mouth, and that is why I took to the singing.”

“If it hadn’t been for that, I’d not have recognized you,” said Ben.

“Sure, then, that is lucky enough. But,” and Paddy looked back over his shoulder, “it’s not all good fortune me singing brought me to-night. Faith, a while ago it nearly got me a knock on the head.”

“How was that?” asked Ben.

“As I just said, I felt a bit down in the mouth, and so started a few bars of ‘Tatter Jack Walsh’ by way of a lilt. Never a bit of attention I was paying to anything, but looked straight between my horse’s ears as they stuck up before me, when lo! and behold you, I hears a voice almost at my ear, and suddenly sees a horseman riding on each side of me.”

“What then?” said Ben, with interest.

“My hand makes a move for the pistol in my holster, but before I could reach it one of the men says:

“‘Keep hands off that. No harm’s meant you.’ Then turning to the other he says: ‘I told you that a screech-owl like this would not be he.’

“Then says the other:

“‘No harm’s done in making sure. This is the road he’d take, and he’s somewhere ahead.’

“‘Hush!’ says the other, and he made as though to clap his hand over the mouth of the one that spoke. ‘Hush. Not another word!’”

“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, and his eyes also went back over his shoulder. “And what did you do then?”

“I put spurs to my horse,” replied Paddy, “and made away from their companionship as hard as I could. And I promised myself as I came along that I’d warn the person they were after if I came up with him.”

“Then, Paddy, you’ve kept your promise, for unless I am greatly mistaken, I am that person.”

Paddy uttered a surprised exclamation.

“Now then, look at that,” said he. “Faith, it’s a thick head I have entirely not to think of it myself. And so,” with great concern in his voice, “it’s you they are riding to overtake?”

“I suppose,” said Ben, evading this question, “that you did not gain a very good view of them?”

“I did not,” admitted the Irish lad, “for it were a part of the road which were overhung by great trees, and sorra a ray of moonlight fell upon them. But both of them were of good size, I could see that, and they sat their horses like men used to the work.”

In a very little while the two lads reached a section not far from Germantown known as Rising Sun; and it was here that Ben’s horse, having been hard pressed all the day, suddenly showed symptoms of lameness. At a little public house, which showed a glint of light in one of the windows, they dismounted, and Paddy thundered at the door. After a few moments it opened and a man came out, holding a light above his head. He was a small man with a lean, crafty face and sharp eyes.

“What’s wanted?” he asked in an angry tone. “What’s this knocking, sirs, at this time of night?”

“My horse has gone lame,” said Ben. “I want to leave him here to be cared for, and engage another to finish my journey to Germantown.”

“You may leave your horse if you care to,” said the man. “But as for giving you one to replace it, that is more than we can do. We have but one, and that’s in the city to-night, gone with a load of vegetables.”

“What shall we do?” said Ben to his companion. “I can’t torture my good beast by forcing him further.”

“There seems to be sorra the thing to do but stop here,” said Paddy Burk, “and make the best of it.”

Ben also felt that nothing else remained to do; but somehow he had a feeling that it would not be well. The idea of the two riders somewhere along the road came to him unpleasantly.

“But,” he thought, trying to shake the feeling off, “there is more to be feared afoot in the open road than there is in an honest public house.”

He must have spoken the last few words aloud, for the sharp-faced man held up the lantern until the rays fell full upon the lad’s face.

“Do you question the inn, sir?” he demanded, bristling. “It has had an honest name these many years. Drovers, farmers and all those going into and coming from the city have had bed and board here; and never was there one to say that a wrong was done him.”

“I say nothing against your house, good man,” said Ben. “For anything to the contrary I know, it may be the most perfect of inns.”

He gave his horse to the man, who led it to the barn. Ben and Paddy followed, and after stripping the saddle from the animal examined the leg. Finding that the strain was nothing serious, they rubbed it well, bound it and saw that both beasts were fed. Then they went into the inn.

It was a shabby sort of place, dusty and ill kept; but they were so situated that they could do nothing but make the best of it.

“What shall I get the gentlemen for their suppers?” inquired a huge, red-faced woman as she came rolling from an inner room. “We have some excellent ham, and some fowls well worth the price we ask for them. Try a pair, roasted, sirs; they are that tender and young that they’ll melt in your mouths.”

But both boys had eaten their evening meal, and said so.

“If you can give us beds, that’s all we’ll trouble you for,” said Ben.

There was some grumbling at this between the man and woman; but finally the former lighted a candle and nodded for the lads to follow him.

“But take care of the stairs,” he said, as they ascended a crazy flight of them; “they are somewhat old and worn, and we would not have an accident happen for the world.”

“Why, then,” spoke Paddy Burk, as he felt, with no little trepidation, the stairs tremble under his feet, “if you are as nervous about it as all that, it’s queer that you don’t repair them.”

The man grinned at him over his lean shoulder.

“They don’t belong to me,” he said. “We are tenants of this place, and the owner should make the repairs.”

They reached the second floor through a trap-door and found themselves in a low ceilinged room with cobwebs hanging from the rafters and the window-panes smutted and broken. Two beds of straw were upon the floor in opposite corners, and the boys looked at them askance. However, they were accustomed to much worse in the camp, and so said nothing.

“I’ll leave the candle with you,” said the man as he stood upon the shaky stairs, his head and shoulders protruding through the trap. “We rise early in the morning,” he continued, “and I suppose you’ll want to make an early start.”

“Yes,” said Ben, “and if you do not hear us moving about, landlord, arouse us.”

The man said that he would, lowered the trap-door and disappeared.

“If my horse is not able to travel in the morning,” said Ben to Paddy, as they prepared for bed in the dim candle-light, “I’ll have to go on to my father’s and get another.”

“That will require us to be stirring early then, if we expect to get back to camp at any reasonable hour.”

Ben shook his head.

“I’m afraid the ride back will be much shorter than you think.”

“What! Do you suppose——”

“That the army is going to fall back? Yes. And,” with a sigh, “it may continue to fall back.”

As Ben stretched himself upon the pallet, his mind was busy with the consequences that would attend these constant retreats. The hands of Washington’s enemies would be strengthened; should Gates meet with a success in the north, he would stand before the unthinking as the shining military light of the nation, and Congress might go to the length of placing him at the head of the army. The boy’s knowledge of military tactics was necessarily limited, but he was aware of the almost certain fatality that would attach to this action. The powerful intellect and unshaken fortitude of Washington replaced by the petty vanity of Gates meant but one thing.

“Destruction,” muttered Ben. “Such a man as General Gates could not sustain a series of disasters. He would collapse under discouragement, and the army would melt away.”

Here Paddy blew out the candle, and crawled into bed. As he lay there, a single spot of light upon the ceiling attracted his attention.

“What’s that?” said he, and arose upon one elbow. Ben did likewise, and both stared at the spot of light. Then they noticed a thin beam coming up through the floor.

“It’s a hole,” said Paddy Burk. “They still have a light below stairs, and it’s shining through.”

As they settled back to sleep, the first heavy drops of a rainfall set in. The pattering upon the shingles lulled them into that drowsy state which comes before deep slumber. Through the dim avenues of this, Ben had a consciousness that the rain had greatly increased and the wind had lifted, and after a little he became aware that some one was stirring without in the road. But in his dreamy condition the sounds seemed far away. Voices were heard, but as though they were the voices of persons in the distance. But the loud closing of a door aroused him to a more wakeful condition; heavy footfalls were heard below, and a voice spoke sharply to the landlord.

“I tell you, gentlemen,” said the latter, “I have no more room. The house is a small one, and——”

“Well, you’ll have to accommodate us somehow, Master Host,” said a voice which brought Ben to a sitting position. “There is no other place but the ‘Waggon’ at Germantown, and that’s too far in this weather. And to return to the city is out of the question.”

“We have but the one room for guests, sir,” stated the landlord. “That has but two beds and they both are occupied.”

“I told you that it would be better to continue,” said another voice, and at the sound of this Ben arose. “We still had a fair chance to come up with him, and——”

“That will do,” said the first voice. “A still tongue would be best suited to the occasion.”

Stepping softly across the floor Ben reached the place where the beam of light shot upward; through the crevice in the planks he had a good view of the public room below.

There in the center of the floor stood Tobias Hawkins, a riding whip in his hand; and against the chimneypiece leaned the long, bony form of the man with the yellow smile.

It was the work of an instant to awaken Paddy Burk. The Irish boy was one of those who come out of a sleep keen and alert; and he listened quietly as Ben whispered to him the necessary particulars as to the men below.

“Arrah, then,” said Paddy, with a yawn, “they are the two bla’guards, entirely.” He crept with Ben to the hole in the floor and surveyed the two below with great interest. “And so they are the villains who stopped the carriage with the money in it,” he whispered. “And to think,” astonished, “that it’d be the same two whom I met to-night. Sure the world is a small place, after all.”

“Put our horses up, anyhow,” said Tobias Hawkins to the landlord. “And after you’ve seen them well and fed and littered, awaken these travelers and inquire of them if they’d not share their room with two gentlemen seeking shelter for the night.”

“Why, as for the matter of that,” said the landlord, as though the idea appealed to him, “perhaps we might do something in that way, sirs. You see, the two travelers are but boys, and they may be prevailed upon to——”

But the two men stopped him with uplifted hands and forward steps.

“Boys?” said Sugden.

“What sort of boys?” asked Hawkins.

“Why, well-grown lads, perhaps of eighteen,” replied the sharp-faced landlord. “They were on their way north on the road when one of their horses went lame—not that of the Irish one, but the other.”

“The Irish one,” said Tobias Hawkins. “Ah!”

The two watchers above saw him exchange glances with his companion, and they were glances full of meaning.

“We met the Irish lad on the road,” said Sugden, “but, as it chanced, he was alone.”

“From their words in the barn, though they spoke little, I drew that the Irish one had overtaken the other on the road.”

“As like as not,” said Tobias Hawkins. Then he asked: “Did you perchance ask their names?”

“I did not, but it may be that my wife did.” He went to a door in the rear and opening it called lowly: “Did you inquire of the two up-stairs what their names were?”

The voice of the woman replied:

“No. But one of them I’ve seen before. He’s the son of Lawyer Cooper who lives at Germantown.”

“Ah, yes,” said Tobias Hawkins, as the landlord closed the door.

“Do you know him, sir?” asked the landlord, curiously.

“Very slightly,” said Hawkins, and the watchers saw the evil smile which he gave his friend. “Very slightly; but I am much interested in him, nevertheless.”

“Shall I go up and see if they will share the room with you?”

“Not yet. Put our horses away.” Hawkins surveyed the man closely; apparently he saw something in the lean face and sharp eyes which pleased him, for he laughed, and continued: “When you return we shall discuss their being disturbed or no.”

And when the man left the room, the two sat down by the table upon which burned the candle; the eyes of both were turned in the direction of the room above, and both shook with silent laughter that was not pleasant to see.