The Young Continentals at Trenton

A dry, weazened little man with a halt in his step passed “The Brigantine” inn which faced the East River at the foot of Broad Street; and as he did so, he peered in at the windows and doors, for it was a fine spring morning and they stood wide. “The Brigantine” was a place for captains and mates and merchants to congregate; and all about it were warehouses, shipping offices and places for the sale of maritime stores.

Apparently what the weazened little man sought was not visible in or about the tavern, for he went halting across the roadway and out upon the wharf, peering inquisitively here and there through a pair of huge, horn-rimmed glasses.

A good-sized shallop was moored to the wharf. She had come down the Sound during the night; a lean looking lad with a vacant grin upon his face was furling her clumsy lugs, and in the waist the skipper was coiling a line with expert neatness.

The dry little man limped to the string-piece; readjusting his glasses, he inquired in a high thin voice which squeaked when he sought to raise it:

“Just in to-day, captain?”

“An hour ago,” replied the skipper.

The little man stepped upon the rail and then with great care reached the deck. Approaching the skipper, he proceeded with marked anxiety and some craft:

“I suppose you hail from Newport?”

“New London,” replied the shallop’s master.

The anxiety of the little man now became tinged with eagerness.

“You did not bring a passenger, I know,” said he.

“Wrong, master,” returned the sailor. “I did, and there he sits, as natural as you please.”

A bronzed, well-made youth was leaning over the craft’s stern, gazing out over the waters of the bay to where several black hulled frigates swung frowningly at anchor; his eyes seemed to soberly measure the flaunt of their colors, and the bravado of their staring ports.

At once the weazened little man was at his side.

“Good-morning, young gentleman,” said he, with a squeak. “It is a beautiful day, is it not?”

The young man turned and surveyed the newcomer.

“Yes,” he returned, “it is a fine day enough.”

“You came down from New London, I understand,” questioned the dry little man. The youth nodded rather absently. However, the other rubbed his hands with quite a degree of briskness and seemed greatly pleased. “And,” said he, positively, “you were required to deliver—ah—something to—ah—some one?”

The youth was alert enough now; he examined the little man with inquiring eyes.

“Quite so,” he replied.

The hand rubbing now indicated vast relief; but in a moment it ceased, and an expression of disquiet came into the wrinkled, high-featured face.

“Of course,” spoke the little man, eagerly, “this vessel is the ‘Nancy Breen’?”

“It is,” answered the other.

The disquiet instantly departed; the squeak in the voice was full and content as the newcomer said:

“I had really forgotten to inquire; and it was a rather important question, too. But no matter.” Here the voice lowered itself into a pitch of confidence. “I was sent to give you a few instructions.”

“From headquarters?”

“Yes. You are not to make yourself known. I was to impress that upon you fully. Neither are you to call at any one’s lodgings.”

The young man seemed puzzled.

“That has rather an odd sound,” said he. “Where am I to transact my business?”

“There are many places where it may be done without attracting attention. But the best of these perhaps is the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ an inn just above the city.”

“I don’t quite understand it,” said the other. “Will you be kind enough to explain why all this secrecy is necessary?”

“Secrecy,” and the weazened little man made a wide gesture, “is never a bad thing. And while some of the reasons for this exercise of it are most obvious, others are as unknown to myself as to you. I am not a person of sufficient consequence to warrant my being told any but the outside facts. If you desire to learn more, you’d do well to inquire of those who are better informed.” He seemed about to take his departure at this, but paused. “Shall we say the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ then, to-morrow night at nine?”

“If it is necessary,” said the young man.

“Believe me, it is necessary, or I should not have been sent to you.”

The little man walked haltingly to the rail, climbed upon it and then upon the wharf.

However, he had not gone a dozen yards when he was halted. A stout, choleric old gentleman came stamping along; he had an oaken staff in his hand, and its tip rang angrily upon the stones.

“Ah, Mr. Dana,” cried he, “well met.” He paused before the dry little man and seemed to bristle with indignation. “I have been given to understand, sir, that the ‘Sea Gull’ is not permitted to sail.”

“I am sorry to say, Mr. Camp,” replied the other earnestly, “that your information is quite correct.”

At the mention of the name of Camp, the youth on board the “Nancy Breen” became more attentive; indeed, the expression upon his face seemed one of recognition.

“Do they mean to ruin us between them?” demanded the stout old gentleman. “Do they insist upon making beggars of us?”

He flourished the oaken staff and his face grew redder still.

“I will face these miscreants,” declared he. “I will have an understanding. Four of our ships have been held up in a month. Four in one month, do you understand? But still you do nothing!”

“If you will but listen to reason,” Mr. Dana said, but the angry old gentleman took him up in an instant.

“Reason!” cried he. “Reason! Was there ever a time, Mr. Dana, that I refused to harken to it? Answer me, sir! Specify an instance when I turned away from even common sense. I defy you to do it, sir; I defy you!”

“Now, now, Mr. Camp, don’t be vexed. I did not mean to insinuate that you were not open to reason. Nothing of the sort, dear sir, believe me. I merely desired that you listen to my remarks on the situation.”

The other planted the point of his staff firmly upon the stones.

“I have great respect for your capabilities, Mr. Dana,” said he. “No man more so. But the thing is beyond explanation. The vocabulary of Dr. Johnson himself would throw no light upon it.” He lifted the staff and pointed across the peaks of the buildings to where the British flag flew from a pole in the fort. “Do you see that? It should be an emblem of authority—the symbol of law. But it’s not! It should mark the power of the English nation—of English civilization. But it does not. Authority, law, the British nation, and its civilization as well, are a jest, Mr. Dana. Singly and together they are a jest for every low fellow in the town.”

“But,” expostulated the other, “can you not see that it will not last? It is only a momentary turbulence. It will pass. The good folks will come to their senses by and by.”

“That may be true enough,” said the old gentleman. “Indeed, I have no doubt but that it is, for the sight of bare bayonets in the hands of resolute fellows will make them run fast enough, I warrant you. But, nevertheless, that does not alter the present condition. It does not remove the fact that an English governor is penned up in Fort George, that English troops with muskets, cannon and other equipment sit idly by and permit His Majesty’s town to be overrun by rebels.”

“When Tryon returns he will make an end of it. He is even now on the sea, so I have heard. The situation needs only a resolved man,” and the little gentleman waved a hand assuringly.

But the other was not in the least quieted by this view.

“The people of New York,” said he, bitterly, “would, from what I have seen of them, dare do anything against the peace, if it be agreed with their rebellious fancies. The king’s desires are not enough for them. They must have representatives in Parliament, forsooth! They must not be taxed without their own consent! Nothing must be done in the matter of the colonies that they don’t, in their pride, consider fit and proper.” Mr. Camp laughed scornfully. “Oh, no, no, Mr. Dana, you are a good man of business and far-sighted enough in trade; but you are blind to what is going on around you.”

This conversation was plainly heard by those on board the “Nancy Breen.” The skipper winked at the bronzed young man.

“The old gentleman seems to fancy a spell of bad weather,” said he.

“And he doesn’t seem the sort to strip and run before a gale,” returned the young passenger. “Do you know him?”

“By reputation only, Master Prentiss. He’s a merchant in the West India trade, now retired from active service. He’s said to be as rich as the king himself; anyway, he lives somewhere in the Jerseys in a fine manor house and comes to New York but seldom.”

“For a retired merchant,” commented George Prentiss, “he takes an uncommon interest in shipping.”

“Oh, as for that, he’s retired only from the active work of it. He still has his moneys in the trade, I’m told. The gentleman who just now boarded us is his partner. But,” and the skipper looked at George inquiringly, “of course you knew that.”

But George shook his head.

“Merchant Camp I know something of,” said he, “but Mr. Dana I never laid eyes upon before.”

Lexington had been fought and the sneering British column driven back upon Boston. Then that city had been besieged by an army of farmers and mechanics; and Breed’s Hill had witnessed its desperate defeat, though we commonly now speak of the fight as the battle of Bunker Hill. And, finally, the British had run from Boston to their ships under the pitiless cannonading of Washington’s batteries.

New York was trembling and expectant. Any day might witness the arrival of a British fleet; and in the meantime the colonists were preparing its defenses. George Prentiss was thinking of these things, his eyes once more fixed upon the frigates afar off. The skipper having coiled the line to his satisfaction came toward him.

“When you first came aboard me at New London,” he said, “I judged by the trim of your yards that you were from the army up Boston way.”

George nodded, and the skipper, twisting a strand of rope between his tarry fingers, proceeded:

“I’ve seen a good many of them of late, and have come to know them at sight.” He bent nearer to his passenger. “Maybe you’ve come to New York on special business.”

“Perhaps,” said George.

“And maybe,” suggested the shallop’s master, “you have particular documents stowed away under hatches.” George did not reply to this, and the sailor proceeded: “Don’t think me prying, Master Prentiss, for I’m not. I don’t poke about meddling in other people’s affairs. But I couldn’t help hearing most of what old Merchant Dana said to you a few moments ago; and if you’ll take my word for it, you’ll have nothing to do with his instructions.”

George looked into the candid face of the speaker inquiringly.

“He’s not of the sort I take you to be,” explained the sailor. “Old Camp there,” pointing to the stout old gentleman with the oaken staff, “is said to be the most rabid Tory in all New York. But I’ve heard that questioned. Merchant Dana is a milder mannered man, to be sure; but those that know claim he’s more to be feared than his partner.”

George looked toward the two merchants, who were now pacing the wharf. There was no abatement in old Camp’s anger; and Mr. Dana, halting along beside him, still strove to calm him.

“My dear sir,” stated the latter with confidence, “we shall have but a short time to wait. It can’t be otherwise. When the ships of the line and the troopers, bearing His Majesty’s army, left Boston, where do you suppose they were headed?”

Mr. Camp sniffed and snorted in great disdain.

“What does it matter,” asked he, “where they were headed? Apparently they are of no great consequence, or they would have been able to hold Boston. And more than that, sir. If they had been worth the rations fed them by King George, they would have gone out and soundly beaten the rabble that opposed them as well.”

But Mr. Dana patiently evaded this.

“Without a doubt they are coming to New York,” declared he, hopefully. “Without a doubt, Mr. Camp. We shall then see what we shall see.”

“Ay,” said the indignant gentleman, “so we shall. But I expect little. Lord Howe may be a very excellent officer, but he has yet to prove it upon this side of the world. It seems that he is much of Colden’s kidney. He’d rather parley than act. To show these fellows who’s master needs a strong hand—not a long tongue.”

“But, my dear sir——” began Mr. Dana, but the other waved his words away with a sweep of the heavy staff.

“There is that rascally renegade whom Washington sent here,” he exclaimed. “I refer to Charles Lee. Though a greater villain never lived, still he had a grasp of matters that our own leaders might pattern by. Did he parley and hesitate when he arrived? He did not, I warrant you! He set to work in spite of all opposition. The king’s men threatened him; the soldiery made shift to show their teeth and the shipping in the bay cleared their decks. But without stopping to ask their leave, he seized upon the persons of his most outspoken opponents; then he stared the troops out of countenance and defied the frigates. Finally he stripped the British batteries of their guns, began to recruit an army, and build forts and redoubts to guard all the approaches to the city. While this man, Mr. Dana,” and the staff rang upon the stones, “has my unqualified disapproval, I cannot refuse him my admiration. He understands his duty and he does it.”

“Well, thank goodness, he’s been ordered from the city by his chiefs,” ejaculated Mr. Dana, fervently. “One could scarcely count upon one’s liberty while he was here.”

“This hectoring fellow, Putnam, who is now in command, as he calls it, is little milder in his arrestings and confiscatings,” complained Camp. “And I understand that the arch-rebel himself is even now upon his way here. When he arrives, I suppose there’ll be scarce a tree or pole in the town that’ll not have the body of some poor Loyalist gentleman dangling from it.”

“Do you actually believe that Washington will have the effrontery to show himself here, with the king’s fleet and an army due at any time?”

His companion snapped his fingers. “Mr. Washington,” declared he, “is to all appearances a man of enterprise. To be sure he’ll come here, and he’ll bring his rabble of raw countrymen with him to overawe us.”

During the period in which he had engaged his friend and business partner as above, the angry manner of Mr. Camp and his excited gestures had not failed to attract attention. Workmen, carters and merchants’ clerks had gathered into little groups; seamen upon the decks of vessels near by grinned and pointed him out to their mates. Few could hear his words; but his anger was so demonstrative, his gestures so eloquent that none missed his meaning. A lot of rough-looking fellows were lounging at the end of the wharf upon an upturned yawl; they had the appearance of deep-water sailors, wore knives in their belts and possessed an altogether ugly look.

The words of the old gentleman were perfectly audible to these men, as they were no great distance from him, and their frowning brows and muttered remarks showed that they did not take the matter as good-humoredly as those upon the shallop.

Mr. Dana grasped at his companion’s disparaging reference to Washington’s army.

“Raw countrymen,” said he, “describes them exactly. And do you suppose that such an array can hope to stand before the trained regiments of England?”

“Not if the trained regiments of England are properly directed. But I have little expectation that they will be. And in the meantime, our business—everybody’s business—is at a standstill. It is an outrage—a scandal! The leaders of this shameful revolt should be whipped at the cart’s tail!”

As he spoke these words, the pair in their pacing had arrived at a point very near to the group of seamen before mentioned. One of these, a hulking fellow, with a bare, bull throat and a particularly unprepossessing face, lifted himself from his lounging posture against the yawl.

“Don’t speak so sharp, Master Camp,” said he. “There are those here by whom your words are not favored overmuch.”

The old gentleman turned upon him wrathfully.

“None of your impudence, sailor!” cried he. “Speak when you are spoken to.”

The seaman sneered. “You are very high and mighty, Master Camp, I know,” said he. “But you and your like will change your manners before long.”

The short temper of the stout old Tory flared forth. “Before matters are done with,” exclaimed he, “I’ll see such as you soundly cudgeled. I knew what would come of flying in the face of the king and resisting his just tax. One meets with impudence at every turn; an upholder of law and decency is insulted by every low fellow who chooses to turn his tongue upon him.”

Here the cautious Mr. Dana took his friend by the arm and tried to draw him away. But the wrathful old Loyalist shook him off, and swept into a bitter tirade in which he reproached and abused all who opposed the king’s government. His furious manner and high-pitched voice drew a highly entertained crowd; and through this came a young girl.

“Oh, my dear Miss Peggy,” squeaked Mr. Dana, greatly relieved. “I am delighted that you have come.”

“What is it?” asked she, quietly.

“He has gotten upon politics again, and I can’t control him.”

Peggy listened for a moment to the highly colored language of the old Tory. Mr. Dana, with a nervous glance about, proceeded in a lowered tone:

“Such sentiments as his are not altogether popular in this part of the town. Indeed, I don’t know but what they are actually dangerous.”

George Prentiss was watching the girl. There was a proud, perhaps even a scornful lift to her chin; and now, when she, with much composure, approached the furious old king’s man, his interest increased.

“Uncle,” she said. Instantly the torrent of heated words stopped and he turned to her. “Please come away. You will make yourself ill.”

“In a moment, my dear,” returned Merchant Camp, “in just a moment. First,” facing the throng, “I must try and bring these people back to a sense of their duty. I must endeavor, as an honest man, to make them see the scandal of their attempts to undermine the power of a kind sovereign.”

“Kind,” cried a voice. “Kind, did you say, Master Camp?—and he hiring Hessians and Brunswickers to cross the seas and murder us?”

“And why should he not?” the old Tory demanded. “Why should he not? Is it not given to him to chastise his rebellious rascals in whatever manner he will? Who are you—what are you that you should oppose the king’s desires, whatever they may be? A pack of scurvy villains, most of you. A parcel of rogues that should be ironed in the hold of one of yonder frigates. If I had the will of you, I’d——”

But here he was interrupted by the bull throated seaman, who had by this time risen to his feet.

“Belay, master,” said he. “The time has gone by when such as you can hector us as you please. It would be better for you if you kept your tongue between your teeth, old gentleman,” added the sailor. “As the matter rests, if you were a younger man, I’d try something else on you beside words.”

“What, you rascal!” sputtered the king’s man, wrathfully, “would you threaten me?”

He lifted his staff and made a quavering blow at the other; the girl cried out sharply, as the seaman tore the weapon from the old man’s hands.

“You would, would you, you old walrus,” cried the brawny tar. And with that he lifted his brawny fist. Once more the girl cried out. She sprang between the two.

“For shame!” she cried.

But the brute in the seaman was aroused; with a rough push he forced her aside; then he took a menacing step toward the old man, his hand lifted once more.

This time he found himself face to face with George Prentiss, who had leaped from the deck of the shallop at the girl’s first cry.

“What, sailor,” cried the young man, placing one hand against the tar’s broad chest, “a fair and fit lad like yourself is surely not going to grapple with an old man.”

“That he’s an old un is not my fault,” growled the other; “so get out of the way, my hearty, before I hurt you.”

But young Prentiss laughed.

“As for that,” he said, “you may be able. But then again, you may not.” Then over his shoulder he spoke swiftly to Mr. Dana, “Take him away—and the young lady, too.”

The seaman’s hard face had darkened. “So, my young ship-jack,” said he, “you’ve got your doubts, have you? You don’t think, then,” with a sneer, “that you’re as much too young as the other is too old?”

“Not in the least,” said George, still good humoredly. “But nevertheless, sailor, we’ll try to pass it all by. No harm has been done any one; so we’ll say no more about it.”

“He’s trying to get the weather gauge of you, Ben,” called one of the seamen. “Belay the jaw-tackle and give him your starboard gun.”

“Ay, ay,” chorused the others, while the assemblage voiced their approval. “Rake him, mate.”

But the tar did not require encouragement; he shoved his face within an inch or two of the youth’s and said:

“King’s men are not liked, my hearty, in New York port, no matter if they be old or young.” And with that he made a short, wicked chop at the young fellow’s head. But George evaded it like a flash, and both his fists began to drub at the tar’s stomach and ribs. Then as the man swung once more for his head, the youth leaped out of distance; but like a flash he closed in with a driving hit to the body, followed by a perfect fusillade of shorter punches. Again he drew back; the tar, breathless and gasping, stood still and gazed at him.

“You’re well braced and bolted, sailor,” said George, still smilingly. “I’ve seen them strike under less than that.”

“Well, it’ll not be me, my lad,” gasped Ben Buntline. “You’re a good hand, but look to yourself.”

And with that he rushed in, his thick arms swinging like flails. But George stepped briskly to and fro; none of the blows seemed to come within a foot of him; and so ludicrous did the seaman’s attempts to strike him become that the gathering began to hoot and cheer. This not only angered the man himself, but also his mates. They arose at once; several drew their knives, while one exclaimed:

“What, you land sharks, will you make game of us!”

One or two rushed to the assistance of their friends; and seeing this, the smile vanished from George’s face; he began striking with a speed and power that soon brought his antagonist to his knees. But just then there came the tramp of hoofs upon the stones of the wharf, and the voice of Mr. Dana cried thinly:

“It’s Herbert! This way, lieutenant, this way!”

The crowd scattered; the seamen quickly grasped the situation, for they picked up their dazed comrade and bustled him away just as a troop of mounted militia rode up.

The officer at the head of the party was a heavy-browed, sullen looking young man in a lieutenant’s dress. As none now remained of the throng save George, this person rode up to him and said curtly:

“Well, sir, and is General Putnam’s plain order against rioting not enough for you? Do you require to be personally warned?”

George Prentiss looked quietly into the frowning face.

“Perhaps,” said he, “it would be as well for you to inform yourself as to what has taken place.”

The lieutenant was about to make an ugly rejoinder, but just then the girl came forward.

“Brother,” she said, and it seemed to George that the proud lift of her chin was more accentuated than it had been before, “this gentleman is in no way to blame. If it had not been for his kindness, we might have fared rather badly.”

Here Merchant Camp also came forward. “Nephew,” said he to the colonial lieutenant, and his voice was not without a trace of humor, “I had not thought to ever welcome any one who wore that uniform. But I was well enough pleased to see you just now. As for the youth, it’s just as your sister says. He’s a fine up-standing fellow, whoever he is, and I shall be delighted to see more of him.”

Here he shook George warmly by the hand, and proceeded:

“Very like you know the business place of Mr. Dana. If you have nothing better to do some day, pray come and see me there. I shall think it a kindness.”

The merchant remained in conversation with George, while the lieutenant, dismounting, dismissed his troop in charge of a sergeant; then leading his horse, he walked up the wharf at the side of his sister. When old Camp had said good-bye and also gone stumping up the wharf, Mr. Dana brought his wrinkled, high-featured face close to the young man’s.

“Don’t forget,” said he, “it’s the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ and the time is nine to-morrow night.”

And so he limped after his partner with many a backward glance and nod.