With this provision for their retreat, in case the house should be searched, Mr. Russell gave harbor to the hunted regicides, the secret of their presence being known only to his family and one or two of the most trusty inhabitants. The fugitives, happily for them, had no occasion to avail themselves of the concealed closet. Their place of hiding remained for years unsuspected. In time the rigor of the search was given up, and for many years they remained here in safety, their secret being remarkably well kept. It was in 1664 that they reached Hadley. In 1676, when Colonel Goffe so opportunely served the villagers in their extremity, so little was it known that two strangers had dwelt for twelve years concealed in their midst, that some of the people, as we have said, decided that their rescuer must be an angel from heaven, in default of other explanation of his sudden appearance.

It may be said, in conclusion, that Colonel Dixwell joined his fellow-regicides in Hadley in 1665. He had taken the name of Davids, was not known to be in America, and was comparatively safe. He had no reason to hide, and dwelt in a retired part of the town, where his presence and intercourse doubtless went far to relieve the monotony of life of his fellows in exile. He afterwards lived many years in New Haven, where he spent much of his time in reading,—history being his favorite study,—in walking in the neighboring groves, and in intercourse with the more cultivated inhabitants, the Rev. Mr. Pierpont being his intimate friend. He married twice while here, and at his death left a wife and two children, who resumed his true name, which he made known in his last illness. His descendants are well known in New England, and the Dixwells are among the most respected Boston families of to-day.

Not until James II. became king of England was a determined effort made to take away the liberties of the American colonies. All New England, up to that time, had been virtually free, working under charters of very liberal character, and governing itself in its own way and with its own elected rulers. Connecticut, with whose history we are now concerned, received its charter in 1662, from Charles II., and went on happily and prosperously until James ascended the throne. This bigoted tyrant, who spent his short reign in seeking to overthrow the liberties of England, quickly determined that America needed disciplining, and that these much too independent colonists ought to be made to feel the dominant authority of the king. The New England colonies in particular, which claimed charter rights and disdained royal governors, must be made to yield their patents and privileges, and submit to the rule of a governor-general, appointed by the king, with paramount authority over the colonies.

Months passed, during which the royal representative aped kingly manners and dignity in Boston, and Connecticut went on undisturbed except by his wordy fulminations. But in October of the next year he made his appearance at Hartford, attended by a body-guard of some sixty soldiers and officers. The Assembly was in session. Sir Edmund marched with an important air into the chamber, and in a peremptory tone demanded that the charter should be immediately placed in his hands.

This demand put the members into an awkward dilemma. The charter was in Hartford, in a place easy of access; Sir Edmund was prepared to seize it by force if it were not quickly surrendered; how to save this precious instrument of liberty did not at once appear. The members temporized, received their unwelcome visitor with every show of respect, and entered upon a long and calm debate, with a wearisome deliberation which the impatience of the governor-general could not hasten or cut short.

Argument of this kind was wasted on Sir Edmund. Remonstrance and appeal were alike in vain. It was the charter he wanted, not long-winded excuses, and he fumed and fretted while the slow-talking members wasted the hours in what he looked upon as useless argument.

Night had been drawing near on his entrance. Darkness settled upon the Assembly while the debate went on. Lights were now brought in,—the tallow candles of our colonial forefathers,—and placed upon the table round which the members sat. By this time Sir Edmund's impatience at their procrastination had deepened into anger, and he demanded the charter in so decided tones that the reluctant governor gave orders that it should be produced. The box containing it was brought into the chamber and laid upon the table, the cover removed, and there before their eyes lay the precious parchment, the charter of colonial liberty.

At that critical instant there came an unexpected diversion. During the debate a number of the more important citizens had entered the room, and stood near the table round which the members sat. Suddenly, from the midst of those people, a long cloak was deftly flung, with such sure aim that it fell upon the circle of blazing candles, extinguishing them all, and in a moment throwing the room into total darkness.

Confusion followed. There were quick and excited movements within the room. Outside, the crowd which had assembled set up a lusty cheer, and a number of them pushed into the chamber. The members stirred uneasily in their seats. Sir Edmund angrily exclaimed,—

"What means this, gentlemen? Is some treachery at work? Guard the charter! Light those candles instantly!"

The attendants hastened to obey; but haste in procuring light in those days had a different meaning than now. The lucifer-match had not yet been dreamed of. The flint-and-steel was a slow conception. Several minutes elapsed before the candles again shed their feeble glow through the room.

With the first gleam of light every eye was fixed upon the box which had contained the charter. It was empty! The charter was gone!

But the charter had vanished, and could not be sworn back into the box. Where it had gone probably no one knew; certainly no one was willing to say. The members looked at one another in blank astonishment. The lookers-on manifested as blank an ignorance, though their faces beamed with delight. It had disappeared as utterly as if it had sunk into the earth, and the oaths of Sir Edmund and his efforts to recover it proved alike in vain.

But the mystery of that night after-history has revealed, and the story can now be told. In truth, some of those present in the hall knew far more than they cared to tell. In the darkness a quick-moving person had made a lane through the throng to a neighboring window whose sash was thrown up. Out of this he leaped to the ground below. Here people were thickly gathered.

"Make way," he said (or may have said, for his real words have not been preserved), "for Connecticut and liberty. I have the charter."

The cheers redoubled. The crowd separated and let him through. In a minute he had disappeared in the darkness beyond.

This tree was hollow; the opening slender without, large within. Deeply into this cavity the fugitive thrust his arm, pushing the precious packet as far as it would go, and covering it thickly with fine débris at the bottom of the trunk.

The exultation in America knew no bounds. Andros was seized and thrown into prison in Boston, to preserve him from a ruder fate from the mob. Early in the next year he was shipped to England. Captain Wadsworth withdrew the charter from the hiding-place which had safely kept its secret until that hour, and placed it in the hands of the delighted governor. Jurists in England had declared that it was still in force, and the former government was at once resumed, amid the most earnest manifestations of joy by the populace.

Yet the liberties of Connecticut were soon again to be imperilled, and were to be save once more by the intrepid daring of Captain Wadsworth.

In brief, this royal governor was given full power of command over the militia of Connecticut, an act in direct contravention of the charter, which placed the military control in the hands of the colonial authorities. Fletcher pressed his claim. The governor indignantly refused to yield his rights. The people ardently supported him.

Filled with blustering indignation, Governor Fletcher left New York and came to Hartford, determined that his authority should be acknowledged. He reached there on October 26, 1693.

He called upon the governor and other authorities, armed with the royal commission, and sternly demanded that the command of the militia should be handed over to him.

"You have played with me in this matter," he asserted. "Now I demand an answer, immediate, and in two words, Yes or No. And I require that the militia of Hartford shall be instantly ordered under arms."

"As for the latter, it shall be as you wish," answered the governor "As for the former, we deny your authority. Nor will I, as you suggest, consent to hold command as your representative."

At their head stood their senior officer, Captain Wadsworth, the same bold patriot who had so signally defeated a royal governor six years before. He was now to add to his fame by as signally defeating another royal governor.

When the New York potentate, accompanied by the governor and a number of the assemblymen, and by the members of his staff, reached the place, they found the valiant captain walking up and down before his men, busily engaged in putting them through their exercises.

Governor Fletcher stepped forward importantly, produced his commission and instructions, and ordered them to be read to the assembled troops. The person to whom he handed them unfolded the commission, advanced to the front of the line, and prepared to read. He did not know with whom he had to deal.

"Beat the drums!" cried Captain Wadsworth, in a stentorian voice.

Instantly there broke out a roar that utterly drowned the voice of the reader.

"Silence!" exclaimed Fletcher, angrily advancing.

The drums ceased their rattling uproar. Silence once more prevailed. The reader began again.

Again such an uproar filled the air as only drum-heads beaten by vigorous arms can make.

"Silence! silence!" cried Fletcher, furiously. The drums ceased.

"Drum! drum, I say!" roared Wadsworth. Then, turning to the governor, and handling his sword significantly, he continued, in resolute tones, "If I am interrupted again I will make the sun shine through you in a minute."

This fierce threat ended the business. Governor Fletcher had no fancy for being riddled by this truculent captain of militia. King William's commission doubtless had its weight, but the king was three thousand miles away across the seas, and Captain Wadsworth and his trainbands were unpleasantly near. Governor Fletcher deemed it unwise to try too strongly the fiery temper of the Hartford militiaman; he and his suite returned hastily to New York, and that was the last that was heard of a royal commander for the militia of Connecticut.

To-day we may make our way from New York to Philadelphia in a two-hour "Flyer," with palace-car accommodations. To-morrow, perhaps, the journey will be made in ninety minutes. Such, at least, is the nearly-realized dream of railroad-men. A century and a half ago this journey took considerably more time, and was made with much less comfort. There is on record an interesting narrative of how the trip was made in 1723, which is worth giving as a contrast to present conditions.

The traveller was no less notable a personage than Benjamin Franklin, who, much to the after-advantage of the Quaker City, had run away from too severe an apprenticeship in Boston, failed to obtain employment in New York, and learned that work might be had in Philadelphia. The story of how he came thither cannot be told better than in his own homely language, so we will suffer him to speak for himself.

The book proved to be the "Pilgrim's Progress," in Dutch, well printed, and with copper-plate illustrations, a fact which greatly interested the book-loving traveller.

"On approaching the island, we found it was a place where there could be no landing, there being a great surge on the stony beach. So we dropped anchor, and swung out our cable towards the shore. Some people came down to the shore, and hallooed to us, as we did to them; but the wind was so high, and the surge so loud, that we could not understand each other. There were some small boats near the shore, and we made signs, and called to them to fetch us; but they either did not comprehend us, or it was impracticable, so they went off.

The story seems hard to credit. The travellers had already spent fifteen times the period it now takes to make the complete journey, and were but fairly started; while they had experienced almost as much hardship as though they were wrecked mariners, cast upon a desolate coast. The remainder of the journey was no less wearisome. The traveller thus continues his narrative:

"In the evening I found myself very feverish, and went to bed; but having read somewhere that cold water drunk plentifully was good for a fever, I followed the prescription, and sweat plentifully most of the night. My fever left me, and in the morning, crossing the ferry, I proceeded on my journey on foot, having fifty miles to go to Burlington, where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest of the way to Philadelphia.

"At his house I lay that night, and arrived the next morning at Burlington, but had the mortification to find that the regular boats were gone a little before, and no other expected to go before Tuesday, this being Saturday, wherefore I returned to an old woman in the town, of whom I had bought some gingerbread to eat on the water, and asked her advice. She proposed to lodge me till a passage by some other boat occurred. I accepted her offer, being much fatigued by travelling on foot. Understanding I was a printer, she would have had me remain in that town and follow my business, being ignorant what stock was necessary to begin with. She was very hospitable, gave me a dinner of ox-cheek with great good-will, accepting only of a pot of ale in return; and I thought myself fixed till Tuesday should come.

"I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, and shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since made there. I was in my working-dress, my best clothes coming round by sea. I was dirty from my being so long in the boat. My pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no one, nor where to look for lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and the want of sleep, I was very hungry; and my whole stock of cash consisted in a single dollar, and about a shilling in copper coin, which I gave to the boatmen for my passage. At first they refused it, on account of my having rowed, but I insisted on their taking it. Man is sometimes more generous when he has little money than when he has plenty; perhaps to prevent his being thought to have but little.

"Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth Street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father, when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut Street, and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way, and, coming round, found myself again at Market Street wharf, near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of the river-water, and, being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther.

"Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time had many cleanly-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I joined them, and was thereby led into the great meeting-house of the Quakers, near the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking round a while and hearing nothing said, became very drowsy through labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when some one was kind enough to arouse me. This, therefore, was the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia."

We can hardly imagine this to be the Franklin who afterwards became the associate of the great and the admired of nations, who argued the cause of America before the assembled notables of England, who played a leading part in the formation of the Constitution of the United States, and to whom Philadelphia owes several of its most thriving and useful institutions. Millions of people have since poured into the City of Brotherly Love, but certainly no other journey thither has been nearly so momentous in its consequences as the humble one above described.

On the 31st day of October, in the year 1753, a young man, whose name was as yet unknown outside the colony of Virginia, though it was destined to attain world-wide fame, set out from Williamsburg, in that colony, on a momentous errand. It was the first step taken in a series of events which were to end in driving the French from North America, and placing this great realm under English control,—the opening movement in the memorable French and Indian War. The name of the young man was George Washington. His age was twenty-one years. He began thus, in his earliest manhood, that work in the service of his country which was to continue until the end.

The contest between France and England for American soil was about to begin. Hitherto the colonists of those nations had kept far asunder,—the French in Canada and on the great lakes; the English on the Atlantic coast. Now the English were feeling their way westward, the French southward,—lines of movement which would touch each other on the Ohio. The touch, when made, was sure to be a hostile one.

England had established an "Ohio Company,"—ostensibly for trade, really for conquest. The French had built forts,—one at Presque Isle, on Lake Erie; one on French Creek, near its head-waters; a third at the junction of French Creek with the Alleghany. This was a bold push inland. They had done more than this. A party of French and Indians had made their way as far as the point where Pittsburgh now stands. Here they found some English traders, took them prisoners, and conveyed them to Presque Isle. In response to this, some French traders were seized by the Twightwee Indians, a tribe friendly to the English, and sent to Pennsylvania. The touch had taken place, and it was a hostile one.

The youthful pioneer proceeded alone as far as Fredericksburg. Here he engaged two companions, one as French, the other as Indian, interpreter, and proceeded. Civilization had touched the region before him, but not subdued it. At the junction of Will's Creek with the Potomac (now Cumberland, Maryland), he reached the extreme outpost of civilization. Before him stretched more than four hundred miles of unbroken wilderness. The snow-covered Alleghanies were just in advance. The chill of the coming winter already was making itself felt. Recent rains had swollen the streams. They could be crossed only on log-rafts, or by the more primitive methods of wading or swimming,—expedients none too agreeable in freezing weather. But youth and a lofty spirit halt not for obstacles. Washington pushed on.

Twenty miles farther on the Indian settlement of Logstown was reached. Here Washington called the Indian chiefs together in conference. The leading chief was known as Tanacharison (Half-King), an Indian patriot, who had been much disturbed by the French and English incursions. He had been to the French forts. What he had said to their commanders is curious, and worthy of being quoted:

"Fathers, I am come to tell you your own speeches; what your own mouths have declared. Fathers, you in former days set a silver basin before us, wherein was the leg of a beaver, and desired all the nations to come and eat of it,—to eat in peace and plenty, and not to be churlish to one another; and that, if any person should be found to be a disturber, I here lay down by the edge of the dish a rod, which you must scourge them with; and if your father should get foolish in my old days, I desire you may use it upon me as well as others. Now, fathers, it is you who are the disturbers in this land, by coming and building your towns, and taking it away unknown to us, and by force....

The poor Half-King was to find that he had undertaken a task like that of discharging the wolves out of the sheep-cote. The French heard his protest with contempt, and went on building their forts. He thereupon turned to the English, whom he, in the simplicity of his heart, imagined had no purpose save that of peaceful trade. His "fathers" had contemned him; to his "brothers" he turned in amity.

The Half-King, with two other chiefs (Jeskakake and White Thunder by name), volunteered to guide the whites. A hunter of noted skill also joined them. Once more the expedition set out. The journey was a terrible one. Winter had set in; rain and snow fell almost unceasingly; the forest was next to impassable; great were their toils, severe their hardships. On December 5 they reached the French outpost at Venango (now Franklin), where French Creek joins the Alleghany. Here they were met by Captain Joncaire, the French commandant, with a promising show of civility. Secretly, however, the astute Frenchman sought to rob Washington of his Indians. Fortunately, the aborigines knew the French too well to be cajoled, and were ready to accompany Washington when he set out on his remaining journey. Their route now led up French Creek to Fort Le Boeuf, on the head-waters of that stream. This they reached on the 12th, after a wearisome experience of frontier travel. Forty-one days had passed since Washington left Williamsburg.

The commandant here was M. de St. Pierre, an elderly man, of courteous manners, a knight of the order of St. Louis. He received Washington cordially, treated him with every hospitality while in the fort, did everything except to comply with Governor Dinwiddie's order to leave the works.

St. Pierre's reply was given in a sealed letter. It declared that he was a soldier, his duty being to obey orders, not to discuss treaties. He was there under instructions from the governor of Canada, here he meant to stay. Such was the purport of the communication. The tone was courteous, but in it was no shadow of turning.

While the Frenchman was using the pen, Washington was using his eyes. He went away with an accurate mental picture of the fort, its form, size, construction, location, and the details of its armament. His men counted the canoes in the river. The fort lay about fifteen miles south of Lake Erie. A plan of it, drawn by Washington, was sent to England.

But the Half-King was not to be placated by fine words. He knew the French. Delay was occasioned, however, of which Washington complained, and hinted at the cause.

"You are certainly mistaken, Major Washington," declared the polite Frenchman. "Nothing of the kind has come to my knowledge. I really cannot tell why the Indians delay. They are naturally inclined to procrastinate, you know. Certainly, everything shall be done on my part to get you off in good time."

Finally, the Indians proving immovable in their decision, the party got off. The journey before them was no pleasure one, even with the advantage of a water-route, and a canoe as a vehicle of travel. Rocks and drifting trees obstructed the channel. Here were shallows; there, dangerous currents. The passage was slow and wearisome, and not without its perils.

"Many times," says Washington, "all hands were obliged to get out, and remain in the water half an hour or more in getting over the shoals. At one place the ice had lodged and made it impassable by water, and we were obliged to carry our canoe across a neck of land a quarter of a mile over."

Gun in hand, and knapsack—containing his food and papers—on back, the intrepid explorer pushed forward with his companion, who was similarly equipped. Leaving the path they had been following, they struck into a straight trail through the woods, purposing to reach the Alleghany a few miles above the Ohio.

The journey proved an adventurous one. They met an Indian, who agreed to go with them and show them the nearest way. Ten or twelve miles were traversed, at the end of which Washington grew very foot-sore and weary. The Indian had carried his knapsack, and now wished to relieve him of his gun. This Washington refused, whereupon the savage grew surly. He pressed them to keep on, however, saying that there were Ottawa Indians in the forest, who might discover and scalp them if they lay out at night. By going on they would reach his cabin and be safe.

"Are you shot?" cried Washington.

"No," answered Gist.

"After this fellow, then."

The Indian had run to the shelter of a large white oak, behind which he was loading as fast as possible. The others were quickly upon him, Gist with his gun at his shoulder.

"Do not shoot," said Washington. "We had best not kill the man, but we must take care of him."

The savage was permitted to finish his loading, even to putting in a ball, but his companions took good heed to give him no further opportunity to play the traitor. At a little run which they soon reached they bade the Indian to make a fire, on pretence that they would sleep there. They had no such intention, however.

"As you will not have him killed," said Gist, "we must get him away, and then we must travel all night."

Gist turned to the Indian. "I suppose you were lost, and fired your gun," he said, with a transparent affectation of innocence.

"I know the way to my cabin," replied the Indian "It is not far away."

The savage was glad enough to get away. Gist followed and listened, that he might not steal back on them. Then they went half a mile farther, where they made a fire, set their compass, and, after a short period of rest, took to the route again and travelled all night.

The next night they reached the Alleghany. Here they were destined to experience a dangerous adventure. They had expected to cross on the ice, but the river proved to be frozen only for a short distance from the shores. That night they slept with the snow for a bed, their blankets for a covering. When dawn appeared the same dubious prospect confronted them. The current of the river still swept past, loaded with broken ice.

"There is nothing for it but a raft," said Washington. "And we have but one hatchet to aid us in making it. Let us to work."

The escape was almost like the proverbial one "from the frying-pan to the fire." The island was destitute of shelter. As the night advanced the air grew colder, and the adventurers suffered severely. Mr. Gist had his hands and feet frozen,—a disaster which Washington, despite his wetting, fortunately escaped. The morning dawned at length. Hope returned to their hearts. The cold of the night had done one service, it had frozen the water between the island and the eastern bank of the stream. The ice bore their weight. They crossed in safety, and the same day reached a trading-post, recently formed, near the ground subsequently to be celebrated as that of Braddock's defeat.

Here they rested two or three days, Gist recovering from the effects of his freezing, Washington improving the opportunity to pay a visit to Queen Aliquippa, an Indian princess, whose palace—if we may venture to call it so—was near by. The royal lady had been angry that he had neglected her on his way out. This visit, an apology, and a present healed her wounded feelings, and disposed her to a gracious reception.

What followed is matter of common history. Dinwiddie was incensed at St. Pierre's letter. The French had come to stay; that was plain. If the English wanted a footing in the land they must be on the alert. A party was quickly sent to the Ohio forks to build a fort, Washington having suggested this as a suitable plan. But hardly was this fort begun before it was captured by the French, who hastened to erect one for themselves on the spot.

Washington, advancing with a supporting force, met a French detachment in the woods, which he attacked and defeated. It was the opening contest of the French and Indian War.

As for Fort Duquesne, which the French had built, it gave rise to the most disastrous event of the war, the defeat of General Braddock and his army, on their march to capture it. It continued in French hands till near the end of the war, its final capture by Washington being nearly the closing event in the contest which wrested from the hands of the French all their possessions on the American continent.

The vicinity of the mountain-girdled, island-dotted, tourist-inviting Lake George has perhaps been the scene of more of the romance of war than any other locality that could be named. Fort Ticonderoga, on the ridge between that beautiful sheet of water and Lake Champlain, is a point vital with stirring memories, among which the striking exploit of Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain boys is of imperishable interest. Fort William Henry, at the lower end of Lake George, is memorable as the locality of one of the most nerve-shaking examples of Indian treachery and barbarity, a scene which Cooper's fruitful pen has brought well within the kingdom of romance. The history of the whole vicinity, in short, is laden with picturesque incident, and the details of fact never approached those of romantic fiction more closely than in the annals of this interesting region.

Israel Putnam, best known to us as one of the most daring heroes of the Revolution, began here his career, in the French and Indian War, as scout and ranger, and of no American frontiersman can a more exciting series of adventures be told. Some of these adventures it is our purpose here to give.

One morning, at daybreak, a sentinel who stood on the edge of the morass, overlooking the dense thicket which filled its depths, was surprised at what seemed to him, in the hazy light, a flight of strange birds coming from the leafy hollow. One after another of these winged objects passed over his head. After he had observed them a moment or two, he saw one of them strike a neighboring tree, and cling quivering to its trunk. A glance was enough for the drowsy sentinel. He was suddenly wide awake, and his musket and voice rang instant alarm, for the bird which he had seen was a winged Indian arrow. He had been made a target for ambushed savages, eager to pick him off without alarming the party which he guarded.

In this extremity Captain Little sent a messenger to General Lyman, imploring instant aid. He failed to obtain it. The over-cautious commander, filled with the idea that the whole French and Indian army was at hand, drew in his outposts with nervous haste, shut the gates of the fort, and left the little band to its fate.

Fortunately, the volleys of musketry had reached the ears of Major Putnam, on his island outpost. Immediately afterwards his scouts brought him word that Captain Little was surrounded by Indians, and in imminent danger of destruction. Without an instant's hesitation the brave Putnam plunged into the water, shouting to his men to follow him, and waded to the shore. This reached, they dashed hastily towards the scene of the contest. Their route led them past the walls of the fort, on whose parapets stood the alarmed commander.

"Halt!" cried General Lyman. "Come into the fort. The enemy is in overwhelming force. We can spare no more men."

"On them!" cried Putnam. "They will shoot us down here! Forward! We must rout them out from their ambush!"

His words found a responsive echo in every heart. With loud shouts the whole party charged impetuously into the morass, and in a minute were face to face with the concealed savages. This sudden onslaught threw the Indians into a panic. They broke and fled in every direction, hotly pursued by their revengeful foes, numbers of them being killed in the flight. The chase was not given up until it had extended miles into the forest.

Triumphantly then the victors returned to the fort, Putnam alone among them expecting reprimand. He had never before disobeyed the orders of his superior. He well knew the rigidity of military discipline and its necessity. Possibly General Lyman might not be content with a simple reprimand, but might order a court-martial. Putnam entered the fort, not fully at ease in his mind.

It was not long after this scene that Putnam took the leading part in another memorable affair, in which his promptitude, energy, and decision have become historical. The barracks within the fort took fire. Twelve feet from them stood the magazine, containing three hundred barrels of powder. The fort and its defenders were in imminent danger of being blown to atoms. Putnam, who still occupied his island outpost, saw the smoke and flames rising, and hastened with all speed to the fort. When he reached there the barracks appeared to be doomed, and the flames were rapidly approaching the magazine. As for the garrison, it was almost in a state of panic, and next to nothing was being done to avert the danger.

"Come down!" cried Colonel Haviland. "It is too dangerous there. We must try other means."

"There are no means but to fight the enemy inch by inch," replied Putnam. "A moment's yielding on our part may prove fatal."

His cool trepidity gave new courage to the colonel, who exclaimed, as he urged the others to renewed exertions,—

"If we must be blown up, we will all go together."

Despite Putnam's heroic efforts, the flames spread. Soon the whole barracks were enveloped, and lurid tongues of fire began to shoot out alarmingly towards the magazine. Putnam now descended, took his station between the two buildings, and continued his active service, his energy and audacity giving new life and activity to officers and men. The outside planks of the magazine caught. They were consumed. Only a thin timber partition remained between the flames and fifteen tons of powder. This, too, was charred and smoking. Destruction seemed inevitable. The consternation was extreme.

But there, in the scorching heat of the flames, covered with falling cinders, threatened with instant death, stood the undaunted Putnam, still pouring water on the smoking timbers, still calling to the men to keep steadily to their work. And thus he continued till the rafters of the barracks fell in, the heat decreased, and the safety of the magazine was insured.

Among Putnam's many adventures, there are two others which have often been told, but are worthy of repetition. On one occasion he was surprised by a large party of Indians, when with a few men in a boat at the head of the rapids of the Hudson, at Fort Miller. It was a frightfully perilous situation. To stay where he was, was to be slaughtered; to attempt crossing the stream would bring him under the Indian fire; to go down the falls promised instant death. Which expedient should he adopt? He chose the latter, preferring to risk death from water rather than from tomahawk or bullet.

The boat was pushed from the shore and exposed to the full force of the current. In a minute or two it had swept beyond the range of the Indian weapons. But death seemed inevitable. The water rushed on in foaming torrents, whirling round rocks, sweeping over shelves, pouring down in abrupt falls, shooting onward with the wildest fury. It seemed as if only a miracle could save the voyagers.