The Young Continentals at Monmouth

Before retiring on the night before, Lord Cornwallis had looked at the lines of American camp-fires and listened to the sound of the mattocks and spades at the east end of the bridge.

“In the morning,” said my lord, using the language of the English huntsman, “I will bag the fox.”

At daylight, however, the thunder of cannon from the direction of Princeton awoke him from his sleep; once without he saw the dying watch-fires and deserted camp of the Americans.

“They are gone,” said his general, Grant, in a tone which was one of mixed wonder and rage. “They have escaped us.”

Again came the roar of guns from along the Princeton road.

“Harken to that,” said Cornwallis, bitterly. “They have probably not only escaped us, but are making a rush upon Brunswick to capture our stores.”

With the celerity of trained soldiers, the British veterans got under way, and at top speed, with their officers urging them on, they marched toward Princeton. The Pennsylvania militia had ceased their pursuit and were engaged in destroying the bridge at Stony Brook; it was partly down when the cannon of Cornwallis drove them away; then, unable to pass by way of the bridge, the British, horse, foot and artillery, plunged into the cold water and gained the other side.

But the delay at the bridge permitted the Americans to draw a long and safe distance away; and seeing that there was no hope of overtaking them, Cornwallis pushed on to Brunswick, thankful at least that his stores were safe.

The American troops were still on the march toward the hills when Ben was summoned by an ensign to report to the commander-in-chief. Riding through a press of officers, his right hand at the salute, the boy reached the side of Washington.

“Is your mount fresh enough to make a second journey to Philadelphia?” asked the commander.

“Yes, general.”

“I have another message for Mr. Robert Morris; and as there is no time to write it, you must carry it as you carried his to me.”

Ben saluted.

“The money which he was to dispatch on the night of the first has been delayed, so Master Morris states in a letter received but now. Say to him that the utmost care must be exercised in the transportation of the coin, because of the unsettled state of the roads; say that I desire him to have a guard accompany the carriage, and instruct the person in charge to make for Morristown and not Trenton.”

There were some minor additions to this; and upon receiving the order, Ben wheeled his horse and rode back to his friends.

“Back to Philadelphia,” he announced, “and at once.”

They gathered around him and offered advice as to the most trustworthy way of making his journey. It was no child’s task to cover the ground between their present situation and the river, as they well knew. Ben shook each of them by the hand and bid them good-bye; then taking a rough by-road which ran almost directly toward the Delaware, he spurred forward upon his mission.

It was almost noon and the January sun sparkled upon the snow-covered fields; lower and redder it fell in the west until at length, when he sighted the ice-packed Delaware, the long shadows were stealing along the fringes of woods and upon the eastern slopes of the hills.

The cold which had so fortunately followed the veering of the wind upon the night before, freezing the soft road under the feet of the American troops, had here served a like purpose. The river was a solid mass and, after a little examination, Ben had no hesitation in venturing his horse upon it; the footing was strong every step of the way and he arrived upon the far side without any trouble.

“That was a piece of rare fortune,” muttered Ben, as he sat in the saddle and looked back at the long stretch of gray ice; “indeed, it was by far the most uncertain part of the journey.”

With a brief stop upon the river bank to rest his horse he rode forward upon the way to Bristol, and pulled up at the inn at that place some time after dark. There was a cheery light streaming through the inn windows; the sparks that flew from the chimney told of a roaring fire, and the scent of most excellent cooking crept out of the keyholes and under the doors. After his horse had been seen to, Ben was about to enter, when the hostler, a pale little man, with scant light hair, and mild eyes, said rather hesitatingly:

“These be rather uncertain times upon the road, sir.”

“Ay, and every other place,” answered Ben, with a smile.

The pale little hostler shook his head.

“But the road is the worst of all, I think,” said he. “For, you see, sir,” in explanation, “the road is most frequented—especially a road like this. And being a great deal frequented,” ominously, “a great many desperate characters are to be found upon it.”

Ben looked at him; there was something in the mild face which held his attention.

“Ah, yes,” said the lad, “desperate characters. In wild times like these there are many such, no doubt.”

“You may say so, young gentleman, you may say so, indeed. We are in fair terror of some of them, at times. They come here and do as they please; and if we say but a word they threaten our lives.” He paused and one hand stroked the horse’s neck for a moment; then he added: “Perhaps you wouldn’t care to go in there,” with a nod toward the inn door, “if you knew that one of that sort was within.”

Ben smiled good-naturedly.

“Why,” said he, “I confess, friend, that I have no great liking for such persons. But as my business at this time brings me in contact with more or less ungentle conduct, I don’t suppose that I need put myself about because of a trifle additional.”

He nodded, still smiling, to the little man, and lifting the latch entered the inn. As he had noted, the room was filled with candle-light; a great fire of billets crackled and blazed in the fireplace; and the smell of savory dishes being prepared in copper saucepans came with added distinctness to his nostrils. Ben’s round face, fresh colored cheeks and merry eyes always made him liked wherever he went, and as he stood stamping the snow from his boots in the doorway, he said to the buxom landlady:

“A good-evening to you, mistress; I hope your cooking is as good as it smells, for I am well toward being famished.”

He knocked some clogging particles from his heels with the stock of his riding whip; and as he was doing so, he noted with surprise that his cheery greeting was not replied to. He had stopped at the inn upon frequent occasions, and was known to the landlady; never before had she failed to bid him welcome.

So glancing up, he was about to say something more, when he noticed that her face was pale, and that she was trembling with anger.

“And so, landlady,” said a voice, “I may have no supper, eh?”

“You may have supper, sir,” said the woman. “You have but to conduct yourself in a fitting manner.”

The person whom she addressed was a huge, loose-jointed fellow with long black hair as straight as that of an Indian, and attired in a soiled traveling costume. He had sharp, ratty black eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His grin at the landlady’s words showed a row of yellowed teeth.

“Conduct myself in a fitting manner,” said he; “why, mistress, you asking that is like demanding that the fire be warm or the breeze be cool. I always so conduct myself.”

“That you do it now is all I ask,” said the landlady.

“Then serve my supper, which I see upon the coals; it seems to be done to a nicety, and I am rarely hungry.”

“Again I tell you that these,” and the landlady pointed to the saucepans bubbling away in the fireplace, “belong to those who came before you. It is the rule of the inn to serve its patrons in turn; and I do not intend to break my rules at this late day.”

“But I assure you, good mistress, that I am one who has very little respect for rules of whatsoever description,” said the man. “A supper I want, and a supper I will have, and that speedily.”

“It is a young lady, I tell you,” said the hostess; “and with her is a weak old man, her father.”

“Young ladies have no business upon the road in these times,” said the fellow, his yellowed teeth well displayed. “And as for weak old men, better for them if they stopped at home at all times.”

Ben crossed the room and stood by the fireplace, his back to the blaze; the night was cold, and the heat was comforting.

“Better, indeed,” said the landlady, “when they must be interfered with by such as you.”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” said the man, and his yellow smile grew particularly evil; his narrow eyes sparkled with anger, and his great, bony hands grasped the arms of his chair.

“There are few, if any, that can say that I ever treated them uncivilly,” maintained the landlady, “and if my words are at all severe, it is your own fault.”

“We have had a-plenty of words,” growled the man; “a-plenty, good lady, and we’ll have no more. A supper I want at once, and a supper I will have, so have some of your kitchen folk serve it to me, or upon my soul I will serve it myself!”

As the landlady said nothing, the man with the yellow teeth arose; and as he did so a door leading to an inner room opened and a young girl appeared.

“My father is quite comfortable now,” she said to the landlady. “Thanks to your kindness in so looking after us,” she added, with a grateful look and smile. “He says he would like to eat something if it is quite ready; and that is a very encouraging sign, indeed.”

“His supper is just right,” said the landlady, her lips set firmly together, as she gave the insistent guest a defiant look. She had crossed about half the room when he stepped before her. To avoid him she moved aside; then his huge hand closed upon her arm; and startled, she uttered a smothered shriek. At this there came a feeble answering cry; in the doorway where the girl had appeared, stood a tottering old gentleman in a dressing gown and supporting himself by means of a stick.

“Daughter,” he cried, “Betsy, my dear!”

“Here, father,” and the girl ran to him.

“I thought I heard you cry out,” said the old man. “And I came to your assistance.”

The man with the yellow smile laughed loudly at this.

“Good for you, old rooster,” said he, highly entertained. “You are a game one, but over old to be of use. And now, mistress,” to the landlady, “will you out of my way while I see to my boiled mutton?”

He gave her a fling at which she cried out once more. The old man tottered forward, his stick grasped in one quavering hand. But his dim old eyes flashed for all his feebleness, and he cried out bravely:

“What, sir! and would you lift a hand to a woman?”

The man showed his yellow teeth, much as a dog might have done.

“Old sir,” he warned, “meddle not where you have no acquaintance. As for the woman, I’d never laid a hand on her had she not been so stubborn.”

“He’d eat your supper, sir, that’s what he’d do,” sobbed the landlady. “The hungry wretch cares for no one.”

“Right there, mistress,” jeered the man. “I do not, indeed. And to show that I do not, here’s for the saucepans, for I can withstand the temptations of their smell no longer.”

With that he strode, with mouth agrin, toward the fireplace; the old man waved his stick feebly but was thrust aside with no gentle hand; and then the fellow came face to face with Ben Cooper.

Pale-faced landladies, slim young girls and tottering old men seemed of the sort that had no power to stop him; and now he leered at the round-faced stripling with the fresh cheeks of a schoolboy.

“Ah, you are there, are you, my lad?” said he, with enjoyment plain in his voice.

Ben looked at him quietly and nodded.

“Yes,” said he; “here I am, and here I have been for some time. Indeed,” thoughtfully, “I think I came during the first discussion with regard to the rights of the earlier patron.”

“Ah, did you so!” The man waved him aside with one huge hand. “Well, you have been there long enough. Stand aside.”

But the lad did not move; a wicked look came into the ratty eyes, and again the huge hand waved him away.

“Belike you’ll have me do more than wave with the hand,” said the man. “I’ll give you a moment to choose.”

Ben at once stepped aside, giving the ruffian a clear way to the fireplace. With the yellow grin wide upon his face, the man stooped to lift the bubbling saucepans from the fire. But before he could so much as touch them, something beat a sharp rat-tat-tat upon his head; leaping up, he found Ben regarding him calmly, a pistol in his hand.

“You seem in haste, sir,” said the boy, as he trifled with the lock of his weapon carelessly. “It may be that the use of a pistol barrel to drive an idea into your head is not to your liking.”

For an instant the man was taken aback, but he quickly recovered his poise.

“So they have taken to entrusting children with firearms?” sneered he. “It is a thing of which I can’t say I approve; and so, lad, I bid you to put that toy down, or I shall be compelled to assume your father’s place, and take a cudgel to you.”

“It’s a cold night,” said the youth, “but I fancy that you can bear the cold much better than we can your company.” The pistol barrel indicated the door. “So go at once, and let us have no further waste of words.”

The man saw that his attitude of disbelief in the boy would be of no use; and so with an evil look, he crossed the floor and threw open the door. Then he halted.

“This is not the first time that I’ve seen you,” he said. “I make no mistake in you, because you were carefully pointed out to me by a gentleman who has,” here the yellow smile was most manifest, “your future much in mind.”

“That,” said Ben, quietly, “is very thoughtful of him.”

The man nodded.

“Ay; and he’ll continue to be thoughtful, unless I am much mistaken in him. He is a man who, when he once becomes interested in any one, seldom lets him slip his mind. And in your case,” the man gestured admiringly, “he has gone so far as to provide against his forgetting. He has desired me to also remember you; and you may depend,” with a laugh that made the good landlady shudder, “that no matter what he may do, I shall not forget.”

And with that the door slapped to, and the man was gone.