The Young Continentals at Monmouth

The Porcupine was still turning over the odd remarks of his companion, when they pulled up at that famous hostelry of Revolutionary days, “The City Tavern.” In the inn yard, Ben, looking down from his saddle, inquired of a hostler who had come to take their mounts:

“Can you tell me where Mr. Robert Morris lives?”

“Do you mean the merchant, Morris?” asked the man.

“Yes.”

“You will find his house on Chestnut Street, near to Seventh,” directed the man.

They dismounted, and saw to it that their horses would be cleaned, fed and bedded; after this they went into the tavern and bespoke lodgings for themselves.

“And will you have supper also, gentlemen?” smiled the landlord. “Piping hot it will be, the very sort for a damp, chilly evening like this. Taken in a snug, warm room, I can conceive of nothing more inviting.”

Ben laughed. He and the landlord were old acquaintances, and the lad knew his ways.

“Why,” spoke Ben, “if your supper and your rooms were only half as enticing as your manner of speaking of them, they would be the most desired things in all Philadelphia. However, we will put both of them to the test in a very little while. I have a message to deliver, and then we shall try whether or no you can prove what you say.”

In a very short time Ben, having left the Porcupine behind, arrived at the house of Robert Morris and sounded the heavy brass knocker. A thin-shouldered woman in a white cap came to the door and replied to his questions.

“No,” she said, “Mr. Morris is not at home. Indeed, he will not be home until late, by all accounts, for I’ve heard it said that he’ll sup to-night at one of the taverns with some friends.”

“My business is important,” said Ben. “Can you tell me at which of the taverns he will be?”

But the woman shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I am sorry, young gentleman, but I cannot.”

Ben considered for a moment.

“Will you oblige me with a pen full of ink and a slip of paper?” he asked.

Thereupon the woman invited him to walk in; in the wide hall he was provided with the desired articles, and so wrote a few lines explaining who he was and the nature of his errand. The note he gave to the woman.

“I shall return between this and midnight,” he said. “Mr. Morris will, no doubt, have returned by then.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the woman, earnestly. “He will be sure to be home by then. And I will give him your message as soon as he comes.”

The evening was a brisk one; the moon was coming up clearly, the air was tingling with cold, and the lad’s spurs jangled upon the flags as he stepped buoyantly along.

“This is the sort of weather that makes one feel like undertaking some enterprise,” he told himself, his spirits rising with every step he took. “If it is the same in the neighborhood of Trenton, I should not be surprised to shortly hear that the general has set out again upon another venture against the British.”

He stepped jauntily into the coffee room of the tavern; the candles were lighted, the curtains were drawn at the small paned windows and a heap of logs crackled in a huge fireplace. Before this sat the Porcupine upon a stool, his short legs crossed one upon another and deeply engaged in a conversation with—of all persons in the world—Mr. Tobias Hawkins.

Mr. Hawkins stood with one foot upon the fender, and one elbow upon the mantel; he looked very stalwart and very handsome as he gazed laughingly down at the dwarf, and seemed very much amused at something which the latter had said.

“And so,” remarked he, to the high admiration of some serving maids, and other attachés of the inn, “you are a patriot, are you?”

“I am,” replied the Porcupine, as cool as you please, “and I try to act up to the way I think.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Hawkins. “Excellent, indeed! A patriot who tries to put his opinions into acts! Why, this is a prodigy! If all patriots were of your kidney, my fine fellow, belike we’d have more deeds than words.” He ran his fingers through his coarse, luxuriant hair, and his eye challenged the mirth of a few guests supping at the round tables. “But come,” he added, “let us hear what form your actions took.”

“What other form could they take but good blows?” quoth the Porcupine, sagely. “What other form would be understood in these times but hard knocks?”

The mirth of Hawkins filled the room; the titters of the servant maids and the grins of the waiters showed their entertainment; broad smiles were on the faces of the guests who had heard the dwarf’s words.

“And do you mean to tell me that you delivered the good blows you speak of?” demanded Hawkins. “And the hard knocks? Surely, the foe must have trembled when he saw you preparing for the fight.”

“If inches won battles, then the British would never lose one,” stated the Porcupine, calmly. “Their beef-eaters are each as big as two men.” With a comical gesture he hitched his belt about and brought the huge pistol which he still carried into plain view. “The little fellow can shoot as straight as the big one,” he added; “and, sometimes, better.”

“Ah,” said Tobias Hawkins, and he stared with interest at the weapon, which he now apparently noted for the first time. “I see.” There was a pause during which he examined the dwarf with amused unbelief; then he inquired: “And where, may I be permitted to ask, has the excellence of your aim been called into play?”

“At Lexington,” replied the Porcupine, with never a wrinkle of his countenance; “also at Bunker Hill; and again in some less important affairs about the town of Boston.”

There was something about the simplicity of this answer that drove the smiles from the faces turned toward the speaker. The unbelieving amusement in the face of Hawkins, however, remained.

“I see,” said he, “that you are a person who has seen service. Mayhap, you were also a partaker in the matter at Trenton, a few weeks ago.”

“I had no such good luck,” replied the Porcupine, moodily. “By all right I should have been there; but some folks need a great deal of scurrying to keep them at rest, and so I must be riding here and there for them, delivering letters filled with nothing when I might have been of some real service beyond the river.”

There was no laughter or grinning at this; even Hawkins seemed to have concluded that he had exhausted the dwarf’s humorous possibilities, for he yawned and said:

“Ah, well, you take yourself seriously enough, I’ll say that for you, my lad. But, then, it is as well that you do so, for you’ll find as you progress through life that others will not go far out of their way to do the like.” And with this the man turned away, calling to the host: “Landlord, have not my friends arrived?”

“No, Mr. Hawkins, not yet, sir. It is a trifle early, I think. You said eight o’clock, and it is not much after seven.”

Hawkins looked at a huge silver watch and replaced it in his pocket with a frown. Ben noticed this with a smile.

“Some,” thought the lad, “to have noted him a few moments ago, would have fancied him a chap of rare wit and good nature. But it was only while trying to hold up another to ridicule. Now that the point of his wit has been turned, he is ill-tempered enough.”

Hawkins paced the floor of the coffee room impatiently. Ben and the Porcupine ordered and ate their supper at a table near the fire.

“A beefsteak pie,” remarked the dwarf, “is a dish not to be ill considered. I know of nothing that affords a hungry stomach more satisfaction.”

Ben watched the blaze dart up the huge throat of the chimney; the logs crackled and the fire roared; the boy stretched his booted legs out toward it with a sigh.

“After a long day on the road,” said he, “the fire is as good as the food. And,” with a glance around, “the room is as satisfying as either.”

It was some little time since they had sat down to their meal, and quite a number of persons had come and gone. So when Ben cast his eyes about it is not at all surprising that he should notice some of the newcomers. Suddenly he sat erect.

“Hello!” said he.

“What now?” asked the Porcupine.

“I see that one of Mr. Hawkins’ friends has arrived.”

The dwarf screwed his head around so that he might see; and when he had done so he whistled lowly.

“Merchant Livingstone!” said he. “So they are to sup together.”

“Friend Hawkins does not lag in the matter of clinching his friendships,” smiled Ben. “Look at him. One would fancy that he’d been in touch with the other all his life.”

The two mentioned were seated at a table no great distance away; their heads were bent close together, and Hawkins was speaking earnestly and in a rather lowered voice.

“Of course,” he said, “it would not do, as I already remarked to-day, to speak too openly upon certain subjects. But they can be discussed guardedly and with circumspection, and so do no general harm.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Livingstone, eagerly. “I understand and thoroughly appreciate your standpoint. But,” and his head went nearer to that of his new friend, “are there actually steps being taken to—to oust, so to speak—a certain person?”

Hawkins waved one large, well-kept hand.

“My dear sir,” said he, “it is entirely too early to expect such definite things as ‘steps’ in the matter. At most, it is but under consideration.”

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Livingstone nodded his head wisely. “No steps have been taken, but the matter is being considered.” There was a pause of a few moments, then he added with a resumption of his former eagerness: “Can you tell me, is the thing being well considered?”

Hawkins shook his head gravely.

“That is all I can say at this time. The matter came to me quite in the way of an accident, and I passed my word as a gentleman to keep silent regarding it.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Merchant Livingstone, hastily. “And quite right, too, sir. It were best that the utmost privacy be exercised in such things.”

The speaker sat staring ponderously, straight before him, his great face solemn and approving. There was a silence between them and it was Hawkins who finally broke it.

“You were to have a friend to sup with you, were you not?”

“Two of them,” answered Livingstone. “That is why I so strongly urged you to come. I desired you to meet them, for they are persons of consequence in Philadelphia—yes, and in the nation, too, for the matter of that.”

Hawkins nodded, but said nothing. Ben watching him, curiously, saw an expectant look in his eyes.

“However,” continued Merchant Livingstone, “only one of them will attend. But he is a fine fellow, and I’m sure you will be delighted with him.”

“Who is it?” asked Hawkins.

At this moment there was a clatter of crockery at the far side of the coffee room, one of the waiters having met with a mishap. Ben could not catch the name spoken by the fat merchant, but Hawkins apparently heard it, for his face lit up suddenly; and for an instant the boy felt sure there was exultation in his eyes.

“Why,” said the man, and his tones showed only mild interest, “I am quite charmed. I did not expect to meet so famous a personage during my stay in your city.”

“I have many friends, both in commercial and public life,” said the fat merchant, complacently. “And before you leave for the South I shall take much pleasure in presenting you to them.”

Here followed a great deal of talk regarding Mr. Livingstone’s friends; Ben, as he idly listened, noted that now and then the interest of Hawkins was aroused at the mention of certain names; but for the most part the man made no sign.

All this time the Porcupine, who sat with his back to the two men, had been studying Ben. And when he noted a flagging of the latter’s interest, he spoke.

“It seems to me,” said he, “that you have been mightily taken by those two.”

Ben smiled good-humoredly; and yet there was a grave expression in his eyes.

“By one of them only,” he corrected.

“And that is Master Hawkins,” said the dwarf.

Ben nodded.

“But why?” asked the other, curiously. “Have you ever seen him before to-day? What has he done that you should be so interested in him?”

Ben made no reply for a few moments; and when he did speak his voice was low and troubled.

“I don’t know just why I am so interested in him,” he replied. “I have never seen him before to-day; and it is not anything which he has done which attracts me; it is,” vaguely, “what he may be about to do.”

The Porcupine looked astonished.

“What he may be about to do,” repeated he. “Well, now we have a dealing in mysteries, indeed! And what do you think he may be about to do?”

But Ben Cooper shook his head.

“I don’t know. It is not definite enough for me to give it a name. I have a sort of presentiment that harm is to come through him; that is all I can make out of it.”

The dwarf sat in silence, trying to understand this. He brushed his stiff crest of hair more erect, wrinkled his brows and stared at his friend; but, apparently, he could make nothing of it all. And while he was so engaged a somewhat stout man, with a round face and shrewd eyes, came into the coffee room. It was the landlord who hastened forward to relieve him of his cloak and three-cornered hat.

“Hah!” said the round-faced man as he stamped upon the hearth to warm his feet, “it keeps cold, landlord.” He unwound a great length of woolen comforter from about his neck and then rubbed his hands briskly together before the blaze. “But then, what else would we have for a New Year’s Eve?”

Seemingly the gentleman was the one whom Merchant Livingstone expected, for that honest man greeted him warmly and presented Hawkins. Again in the whirl of words did Ben lose the name.

“I am right glad to meet Master Hawkins,” said the newcomer. “I do not recollect any one in Savannah of the name with whom my firm has had dealings; but then,” with a laugh, “I do not profess to recall them all.”

“We have never had the pleasure of any transactions with your house, sir,” said Tobias Hawkins, smoothly. “Our trade is mostly importations from the islands, and gulf points. Spanish goods, and Portuguese, too, we import in foreign bottoms, for such are largely demanded by the ports along the gulf and south coast.”

Their supper was served to them, and the three fell to with hearty appetites; but the meal had not progressed far when Master Livingstone again fell to talking politics.

“I cannot express my gratification,” he said, “at seeing so excellent a patriot as our friend Hawkins coming from so youthful a province as Georgia. It shows, it seems to me, that the spark of patriotism is wide-spread; and this being the case, it cannot but help gaining headway as time goes on.”

The round-faced gentleman nodded.

“That,” said he, “is my own way of looking at it. And patriotism alone is what will keep the war against tyranny moving. It will fill the ranks of the army, it will provide money to pay the troops, it will keep competent commanders in the field.”

Master Livingstone glanced at Tobias Hawkins, and that gentleman nodded his head and pursed up his lips. What he meant by this was an enigma, but to the mind of the fat merchant, it was simple enough.

“Ah,” said that worthy, “in that last remark you put your finger upon the vital point of this struggle, sir. Pure patriotism alone will supply competent commanders to lead our troops. But the patriots should be careful. They should make sure that the commanders fixed upon are competent.”

For a moment there was a silence; then the round-faced man said:

“There is a tang to your voice, Neighbor Livingstone, that would lead one to suppose that you doubt the ability of the army’s leaders.”

For a moment the other merchant stammered; his great face became mottled with agitation; and when he finally found his tongue, he said:

“Of course, I have no military skill, and do not profess to be a judge of these matters. But there are many who are complaining; and there are not a few who openly say that we should have a change.”

The other nodded, and settled his napkin more comfortably under his chin.

“A change?” said he. “Oh, yes, there are a great many who are crying for that. But who are they, sir? Answer me.” He glanced at the other two as though challenging them to reply. Livingstone in turn glanced at Hawkins, and as that gentleman gave no sign, he, also, remained mute. The speaker tasted delicately of the dish before him, then pointing his fork at the silent twain, proceeded:

“Since you don’t seem able to answer, I will do so for you. The thing had its beginning with a parcel of knaves who thought to line their pockets out of the public funds; and later they were joined by disappointed officers whose preferment had been discountenanced by General Washington because he knew them for what they were.”

Master Livingstone coughed apologetically; it were as though he disliked controverting his guest, but felt compelled by facts to do so.

“There is, perhaps, some truth in what you say,” said he. “But then, there are many persons who belong to neither of the classes you mention, who believe the present commander-in-chief to be unfit.”

The other made no reply to this, merely gesturing his impatience with such people. His silence seemed to encourage Merchant Livingstone, who went on:

“Now, look the thing candidly in the face, my dear sir, and tell me if you don’t think these good folk have some cause for believing as they do. There is the campaign about New York. It is notorious that it was sadly bungled. Long Island would have been won by any far-seeing officer; the affairs on the river and above New York would have proven matters of little effort to many a man who is held idle here in the city. The flight across the Jerseys——”

But at this the round-faced man lost all patience. He tore his napkin from about his neck and dashed it down upon the table.

“The flight across the Jerseys is precisely on a footing with all the other things you have mentioned or can mention. With a handful of badly armed men, Washington fell back before a disciplined army; at every halting place he sent appeals for help, and though he was in the most desperate danger, no aid was given him; though he crossed the entire state, not a hundred militia answered his call.” Here the angry gentleman got upon his feet and glared at his adversary. “Did they expect him to give battle with his bare hands? A commission is not all that an officer requires, sir. He cannot wave it in the face of the enemy and expect them to be seized with fright. He must be given men, sir—men and money; and unless he is given them, what rational person can expect anything but defeat and retreat?”

That Mr. Samuel Livingstone was astounded at this outburst was evident. He lifted one fat hand in protest, and said with much emotion:

“My good friend, don’t be violent, I beg! I did not think to offend you, but to merely repeat some things which could not help but reach my ear.”

“It does not set well upon a man of your years and station, Livingstone, to repeat common gossip. What has been said to the discredit of General Washington has been said behind his back. Not one of his detractors has had the courage to speak openly and specifically—that is, not one whom he would think it worth while to controvert. The whole matter is a rascally one, sir, and every worthy person should frown upon it.”

“I meant to give you no offense,” said Master Livingstone.

“And you have not. What I say is said as a citizen, my friend; and I have no personal feeling in the matter whatever.”

However, when the speaker sat down once more, Ben Cooper noted that his manner was not at all as even as it had been formerly. Apparently he was no lukewarm friend of the commander-in-chief of the American forces, and felt the insinuations leveled against that gentleman much more keenly than he cared to admit.

Livingstone spoke but little after this; his friend’s reception of his views had so abashed him that he seemed to prefer to keep silent. But with Hawkins it was different. With smooth insinuation he entered into the matter under discussion; he stated no views, but seemed somewhat eager as to the views of others. Ben listened with attention; now and then he noted the man’s eye lift in his direction, but as the glances seemed merely passing ones he gave them no heed. After a time the Porcupine spoke.

“Master Hawkins seems very inquisitive,” remarked he, shrewdly. “Mark you, how he asks questions.”

“And, also, mark you, whom the questions hinge upon,” said Ben, with meaning.

Intently the dwarf listened, all the time seeming much interested in the remnants of the beefsteak pie. At last he looked up at Ben, his brows lifted and his mouth drawn to one side, knowingly.

“He wants to know about the people who are speaking ill of General Washington—especially about those officers who think themselves ill-treated.” There was a silence, and as Ben said nothing, the dwarf asked: “I wonder why?”

“I, too, wonder why,” said Ben, and there was that same speculative look in his face which the Porcupine had noted more than once since their first sight of Tobias Hawkins on the outskirts of the throng which had watched the captive Hessians.

After Mr. Livingstone and his guests had done with their supper, they sat for some time and talked. Hawkins’ part in this was still questioning; and always, as the Porcupine had shrewdly noted, questions concerning those who bore General Washington ill will. The clock struck ten as the round-faced man arose.

“I had not thought it so late. You will excuse me, Livingstone, and you, Mr. Hawkins, for leaving you so abruptly. But my time is much taken up these nights; I have much correspondence thrust upon me, and many books to put in order before I sleep.”

So saying he called for his cloak, his comforter and three-cornered hat; and shaking hands with his companions he hurried out into the cold streets. It was no great while after this before Hawkins and Livingstone also made up their minds to go; the former stood before the cheerfully blazing fire as he drew on his greatcoat and adjusted his hat; then with his hands upon his hips he turned and stared Ben straight in the eye.

“I trust, young sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me when next we chance to meet.”

Ben was taken by surprise; but he contrived to present a cool front and make reply:

“I have a habit of remembering faces, sir. And yours,” inspecting the man with much calmness, “is one not readily forgotten.”

The man favored him with a smile which was not altogether pleasant to see. The good humor of the early evening was now completely gone; his strong features were harsh and hawk-like.

“Perhaps,” sneered he, “you, like our young friend here, have been to the wars.” As the boy made no reply, he went on: “Perhaps a person with good sight might have seen you also at Bunker Hill.”

“It is possible,” smiled Ben. “There were a great many there.” He looked steadfastly into the man’s face and continued, intending the saying merely as a jest and that he should not be thought backward with an answer: “And who knows, sir, but that one with even less excellent vision might have noted you there?”

The effect of this upon the man was startling. For an instant he glared like a tiger and his powerful hands clinched.

“Master Hawkins!” cried Samuel Livingstone, alarmed.

The man’s countenance cleared like magic; with a wide gesture he burst into a great laugh.

“Don’t mind me, sir,” cautioned he. “I will have my jest at even the most unseemly of times. But come, I’ll not detain you with my clowning.” And with that he took the merchant by the arm and started jovially for the door. But upon reaching it he turned and addressed himself to Ben once more.

“I ask your pardon, my lad, for the liberty taken in presuming to have a laugh at your expense. Perhaps,” and there was a covert meaning in both his voice and eyes, “we shall meet at some other time. And, if it should so chance, trust me to remember you, even if you should, after all, forget me.”

And with that the door closed upon both him and the merchant, and Ben and the Porcupine sat looking into each other’s faces.