"WHAT ABOUT THE BOY?" ([page 13])

THE BOYS OF OLD
MONMOUTH

A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778

BY

EVERETT T. TOMLINSON

Author of "Washington's Young Aids," "Guarding the Border,"
"The Boys with Old Hickory," "Ward Hill
at Weston," etc., etc.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge

COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS

THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH

CHAPTER I

OLD MONMOUTH

Old Monmouth is an expression dear to the heart of every native-born Jerseyman. The occasional visitor seeking health among its whispering pines, or relaxation in the sultry summer days along its shore, where the roll of the breakers and the boundless sweep of the ocean combine to form one of the most sublime marine views on all the Atlantic seaboard, may admire the fertile farmlands and prosperous villages as much as the man to the manor born, but he never speaks of "Old" Monmouth.

Nor will he fully understand what the purebred Jerseyman means when he uses the term, for to the stranger the word will smack of length of days, and of the venerable position which Monmouth holds among the counties of the State.

Monmouth is old, it is true, and was among the first of the portions of New Jersey to be settled by the Woapsiel Lennape, the name which the Indians first gave to the white people from across the sea, or by the Schwonnack,—"the salt people,"—as the Delawares afterwards called them. But the true Jerseyman is not thinking alone of the age of Monmouth when he uses the word "Old." To him it is a term of affection also, used it may be as schoolboys or college mates use it when they address one another as "old fellow," though but a few years may have passed over their heads.

The new-comer or the stranger may speak of Fair Monmouth, and think he is giving all the honor due to the beautiful region, but his failure to use the proper adjective will at once betray his foreign birth and his ignorance of the position which the county holds in the affections of all true Jerseymen.

Still, Monmouth is old in the sense in which the summer visitor uses the word. Here and there in the county an antiquated house is standing to-day, which if it were endowed with the power of speech could tell of stirring sights it had seen more than a century ago. Redcoats, fleeing from the wrath of the angry Washington and his Jersey Blues, marched swiftly past on their way to the Highlands and the refuge of New York. Fierce contests between neighbors, who had taken opposite sides in the struggle of the colonies for freedom from the yoke of the mother country, or step-mother country, as some not inappropriately termed her in these days, occurred in the presence of these ancient dwelling-places, and sometimes within their very walls. Many, too, would be the stories of the deeds of tories, and refugees, and pine robbers contending with stanch and sturdy whigs. Up the many winding streams, boat-loads of sailors made their way from the gunboat or privateer anchored off the shore, to burn the salt works of the hardy pioneers, or lay waste their lands as they searched for plunder or for forage.

The forked trees along the shore, in whose branches the lookouts were concealed as they swept the ocean for miles watching for the appearance of the hostile boat, were standing until recent years. In their last days broken, it is true, and almost destroyed by the winter storms and their weight of long years, still they stood as the few remaining tokens of that century when our fathers contended for "their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor." At last the pathos and weakness of old age prevailed, and to-day there remains scarcely a vestige of those ancient landmarks.

Perhaps if the boys and girls of New Jersey had been as mindful of those old trees as the Cambridge lads and lassies have been of the spreading elm beneath whose branches the noble-hearted Washington assumed the command of the little American army, some of them might still be standing; but as it is, the most of them have crumbled and fallen and disappeared as completely as have the men who sought the shelter of their branches in the trying times of '78.

So, too, for many years stood the famous tree from whose limbs the noble patriot, Captain Huddy, was hanged,—as dastardly a deed as was committed by either side in that struggle which tried the souls of our fathers. But the trees are gone, and only a few quaint houses and venerable landmarks and heirlooms remain of those things which witnessed the contests, and deeds high or base, of that far-away time.

The lofty monument on the old battle-ground of Monmouth is surmounted by the figure of a man whose face is shaded by his hand, as if he were still striving to obtain a glimpse of the redcoats in the darkness as they hastened to gain the Highlands and the refuge of the waiting boats which were to bear them away to the safety of the great city. But it is itself essentially modern, and only in its brief records, carved by patriotic hands upon its sides, and in its figure of the granite soldier standing upon its summit, does its suggestiveness lie. It looks down upon a thriving village and out upon the lands of thrifty and prosperous farmers, and there is nothing in all the vision to remind one that the soil was ever stained by the blood of soldiers clad in uniforms of scarlet, or of buff and blue.

And yet, as fierce a struggle as our country ever knew occurred within the region. Women toiled in the fields while their husbands and sons fought, or even gave up their lives to drive away their oppressors. Yes, even in the battles some of the women found places, and Captain Molly Pitcher was only one among many who had a share in the actual struggle of the Revolution. Houses were doubly barred at night against the attacks of prowling bands of refugees or pine robbers, and many times were defended by the patriotic women themselves. Spies crept in among them, and evil men who owned no allegiance to either side seized the opportunity to prey alike upon friend and foe. At times it almost seemed as if the words spoken many centuries ago were then fulfilled, and that "a man was set at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and that a man's foes were they of his own household."

But with all the suffering and bloodshed there were many heroes and heroines, and even the boys and girls were not without a share in the struggles of the times which tried men's souls. The houses in which they dwelt may have disappeared and given place to far more imposing structures; their very names may no longer be recalled; but, after all, they displayed many qualities which the world ought not willingly to permit to die, and the heritage which they have bequeathed to us will lose nothing of its value if we go back in our thoughts and strive to comprehend more clearly the price which our fathers paid for the land we love.

In the early summer of 1778, while the feelings of the Monmouth people had been deeply stirred,—and indeed the patriots of the county had been among the foremost to pass resolutions and be enrolled among the defenders of the new nation,—there had not as yet come the intense excitement which followed the advance of General Clinton's army from Philadelphia. The long winter at Valley Forge had at last come to an end, and when the British moved out from the city,—for holding it longer seemed to be useless,—Washington had led his troops into the town almost as soon as the enemy departed. Nor was that all, for he quickly decided to follow after the departing general, and overtake and give him battle before Clinton could lead his men across the Jerseys.

The American commander knew that his own forces numbered nearly as many as those the British general had; and as, in spite of the dreadful sufferings of the winter, his men were in far better condition than they had ever been before,—thanks to the tireless energy of Baron Steuben,—he resolved to depart from Philadelphia and follow after the British.

Clinton had sent the recently enrolled tories to New York by water, and as there were some three thousand of these alone, he soon decided that his troops must go by land.

Accordingly, the journey was begun, but the Continentals, going a little farther to the north than the line of Clinton's march, planned to gain a position in advance of the enemy by the rapidity of their movements, and then, turning about in their course, fall upon the redcoats face to face and offer them battle in some advantageous place.

The baggage wagons of Clinton stretched out in a long line of twelve miles as they followed after the army, and in other ways the British leader was somewhat embarrassed. Consequently, when he learned of Washington's plan, he quickly decided to change the direction of his march, and, by passing through "Old Monmouth," lead his army to the Navesink Highlands and there have them all embark for New York.

Washington had first offered the command of his advance forces to young Lafayette, but he was somewhat perplexed by the return of General Lee to his army, and knew not just what to do.

Lee had been captured a little more than a year before this time, through his own carelessness, near Morristown, and we may be sure that Washington was not greatly troubled by the loss. Lee had steadily opposed him, and was plotting to secure his position for himself. However, the British general Prescott, whose capture by the Americans had been effected in a manner not unlike that in which Lee himself had been taken, had been exchanged, and Lee once more returned to the American army.

He was still the same Lee, sensitive, jealous, and suspected of being in league with Howe, who recently had sailed away for England to explain to Parliament the causes of his failures in the preceding year.

Much as he disliked to make the change, Lee's return compelled Washington to recognize his presence, and after some tactful efforts he removed Lafayette and gave Lee his position as leader of the advanced forces. Lee had bitterly opposed the project of following Clinton, and steadily objected to the march across the Jerseys.

Washington, however, was firm in his determination, and the march was soon begun; but the lack of confidence which he felt in General Lee must have sadly increased the troubles of the great commander, already beset by perils of so many kinds. Whether he was mistaken in his estimate of the man, we shall learn in the course of this story.

Such then was the general condition of affairs as the summer of 1778 drew on. Those of the people of Old Monmouth who were at home heard occasional rumors of the advance of the two armies, but few of them had any thought of the stirring scenes which were to be enacted in their midst before the summer was ended.

It was now late in June. The summer had been unusually warm, and the men and boys, as well as the women, who were at home had labored busily in the fields, in the hope of an early as well as an abundant harvest. For those who cared to avail themselves of them, the markets in New York provided a ready place for the sale of their produce, and not only the tories, but some of the men whose sympathies as yet had not led them openly to declare their preferences for either side, or who perhaps cared more for the prices they were likely to receive in New York for the results of their labors than they did for liberty or any such abstract quality, were not averse to loading up the boats, which many of the farmers near the shore owned, and sailing away for the city.

Down the lower bay one such boat was swiftly making its way one afternoon in June, 1778. On board were four men, three of whom evidently were in middle life, but the fourth was a sturdy lad about seventeen years of age, and it was plain that he was not in full sympathy with his companions. He took but little part in the conversation, and the expression upon his face frequently betrayed the feelings in his heart. The three men with him apparently did not give him much thought or attention, and evidently were too well satisfied with the results of their expedition to waste any time in questioning the lad as to the cause of his silence.

"There's the old tree now," said one of the men as they came within sight of the landmark. "If nothing has gone wrong, we'll soon be in the Navesink."

"Yes, and back at work again," grumbled another. "For my part I think Fenton and Davenport and the rest of the pine robbers have the easiest time of all. They swoop down upon some whig farmer, and all they have to do is to take what he has worked out. I don't see why it isn't all fair enough in war."

"If it wasn't for that skull of Fagan, with that pipe stuck in its mouth, nailed up on the tree over there beyond the Court House, I'd go in myself," said the first speaker. "The grin on it is almost more than I can bear."

"That'll do to frighten women and children with," said the third man, who had been silent for a time. "Fagan got a little too bold, that was the trouble with him. He carried it a little too far. I happen to know that there are some men who know enough to put a finger in, and not get it burned either."

"Perhaps you've done a little yourself in that line, Benzeor Osburn?" queried the last speaker. "I've thought sometimes you could tell some tales if you wanted to."

"And who knows but I might?" replied Benzeor. "I may be able to keep my place from being confiscated and sold, the way my brother's was two years ago, but that may not mean either that I don't know what's to my own advantage when I see it. You'd do the same, wouldn't you, Jacob Vannote?"

"That I would," replied Jacob, "and so would Barzilla Giberson here, too. All we want is that some good man like you, Benzeor, should tell us how to do it."

"I can tell you," said Benzeor quietly. "I've made up my mind that I've held off just as long as I am going to. I'm going in, and if you have a mind to join, I'll let you in, too."

"Tell us about it," said Jacob eagerly. "What about the boy?" he added in a low voice, glancing toward the fourth member of the party as he spoke.

"What? Tom Coward? He's a coward by name as well as by nature. You haven't anything to fear from him. He's been in my home since he was five year old. He won't make any trouble."

Nevertheless, the speaker lowered his voice, and for a long time the trio conversed eagerly upon the new topic. So intent were they that not one of them noted the flush upon the lad's face at the brutal reference to him, nor saw the look of determination which came a little later in its place.

Apparently Tom was not giving any attention to the men with him in the swift sailing boat. He retained his seat near the bow, and seemed to be interested only in the waves before him. A brisk wind was blowing, and the waters betrayed the tokens of a coming storm.

The boat was pitching more and more as it sped on, and Tom watched the rolling waves, many of them capped with white and rising steadily higher and higher. The darker hues gave place to a lighter green as they rose, and the increasing roughness seemed to reflect somewhat the feelings in his own heart.

Far away in the distance stretched the long sandy beach of the Hook, becoming more and more distinct as the boat drew nearer. The gulls were flying low, and the weird cries of the sea-birds were heard on every side.

Suddenly Tom stood upright, and, after gazing intently for a moment at some object on the shore, turned to his companions and said,—

"Some one's up in the tree, and the signal's out, too."

The men instantly ceased from their conversation, and peered intently at the tree in the distance.

Evidently the sight was not altogether pleasing, for with an exclamation of anger Benzeor Osburn, who was holding the tiller, quickly changed the course of the boat, and started back in the direction from which they had come.

CHAPTER II

TOM INVESTIGATES

There were many exclamations of impatience heard in the boat as Benzeor changed her course, and the helmsman himself appeared to be the most impatient of all. A drizzling rain was now falling and there were many signs apparent that a stormy night was approaching.

"I wish I knew just what the warning was for," muttered Benzeor. "Fine night this, to be prowling around the bay in!"

"There was no mistake about the sign, though," replied Jacob. "There's something wrong, or we shouldn't have seen the white flag. That means there's something going on up the Navesink."

"All the more reason for going home then!" said Benzeor. "Who was on the lookout to-day? Does any one know?"

"Yes, 't was Peter Van Mater," said Tom, who up to this time had taken no part in the conversation. "He told me yesterday that he was to be in the tree to-day."

"What! Little Peter?" demanded Benzeor quickly.

"Yes," replied Tom. "I saw him out by their cornfield yesterday. He was there driving away the crows and blackbirds."

"Little" Peter was so called to distinguish him from his father who bore the same name; and although his son, a well-grown young fellow of eighteen, towered more than a half head above "Big" Peter now, the distinctive names given several years before this time still clung to them both.

The Van Mater place joined the Osburn farm, and for years Tom and Little Peter had been the best of friends. On those rare occasions when a brief break in the arduous labors on the farms had come, together they had gone crabbing, or had sailed down to Barnegat, where the sea-fowl gathered in great flocks when the proper seasons came.

Tom's heart had gone out to Little Peter as it had not to any other person. Peter's round face shone with an expression of good nature which nothing but the mention of a tory or a pine robber seemed to be able to ruffle. A reference to either of them never failed to arouse the dormant anger of the lad, and with all the intensity of his quiet and strong nature he hated both. For the Van Maters, even to the mother and the girls, were patriots of the strongest kind, and now Big Peter was away in Washington's army and had left his eldest son and namesake to protect the family and manage the farm in his absence.

And Little Peter had accepted the task with an outward assent that deceived even his own father. Only to Tom had he mentioned his true feelings, and expressed his determination to buy up his time, so that he, too, might be enrolled in the patriot army.

Tom Coward well knew that the words expressed Little Peter's feelings and desires rather than his purpose, for he was satisfied that nothing would induce his friend to desert his mother and the children in their time of need. But he had fully sympathized with Peter in his desire to buy up his time, and there were special reasons why the words meant much more to him than they did to his friend.

About a decade before this time, when one of the numerous "September gales" was raging along the Jersey shore, a great crowd had assembled on the beach watching the efforts of a schooner they could see, about a mile out on the ocean, to weather the storm. All day long the crowd had remained there, powerless to aid the stricken people on board the storm-tossed boat, for this was long before the time of the life-saving crews and their noble work along the coast.

Late in the afternoon on that eventful day, when the storm had abated somewhat, although the waves, like moving mountains of water, still came thundering in upon the beach, a boat had been manned and started forth to the aid of the people in their peril; but before the brave band could gain the schooner, she had foundered and gone to the bottom.

The men who had gone forth to the rescue had been about to return to the shore, when they thought they saw something floating over the boisterous waves toward them. When a second glance was obtained they started swiftly toward the object, and, as they drew near, saw a huge cotton bale with a woman and a little lad strapped upon it. At last, after some desperate efforts, the bodies were rescued, but that of the woman was lifeless and that of the lad was nearly so.

The rough men had brought both ashore, and, after some labor on the part of the women in the assembly, the lad had been restored, but the woman was beyond all earthly aid. Upon some of the clothing of the rescued boy the name Coward had been found, and "Tom" was improvised, for that would do as well as any other for the name of a stranger lad whose home and parents were to be, as the people of Old Monmouth thought, forever wrapped in mystery.

Tom Coward had been the sole survivor of the wreck. For days some portions of the ill-fated schooner and its cargo were washed ashore, but no clue was ever found as to her name or destination.

What to do with the rescued lad then became the perplexing problem among the simple folk of Monmouth, and it was at last solved by "binding him out" to Benzeor Osburn, which simply meant that Tom was to live with the man who had taken him until he was twenty-one years of age, and in return for the home he received he was to give his labor and life until that eventful day should arrive when he, too, would become a man.

The lad had gone, for he had no voice in the matter, and all the home he had ever known had been with Benzeor and his family. Only a faint recollection of the wreck remained in his mind, but he had heard the story many times and thought much over it in secret. Often had he visited the unmarked grave in the churchyard, where he was informed that all that was mortal of his mother lay resting. But her name and face were both alike unknown to him. In his dreams, or when he had been working alone in some of the distant fields, it would almost seem to him that something of another existence would rise before him, or that he could almost see the face of a gracious woman bending low over him whom he could call "mother."

Who he might be he could not determine. Who he was, was a matter much more easily settled, for all knew him as the "bound boy" of Benzeor Osburn; and while some of the country people might occasionally think of him as the little lad, who years before had been rescued from a sinking schooner, they seldom referred to it, and the past had been crowded out by the present. But Tom Coward had not entirely forgotten.

Benzeor had received him into his home the more readily because, as he expressed it, "all of his boys had been born girls," and he felt the need of the aid and presence of a boy about the place. And Benzeor in his way had not been unkind to the stranger lad, or at least not intentionally so, but the labor on the farms in those days had been severe, and he was a man to whom money had been the one thing needful. He did not spare himself, and certainly he had no thought of sparing those who were dependent upon him; and, as a natural consequence, neither the girls nor Tom, and much less the overworked, spiritless little mother of the family, found much to relieve the monotonous round of labor on the farm.

At first, Tom had not complained and had accepted all as a matter of course, but of late his heart had rebelled against his lot more and more. It was not that he did not appreciate the rough kindness which was extended to him, especially by the patient, uncomplaining mother and the two girls, Sarah and Mercy, who were nearest his own age. But certain undefined longings kept rising in his soul, he knew not how, and the increasing eagerness of Benzeor "to make his place pay" had apparently driven all else from the mind of his foster father.

Perhaps more than any of these things, his interviews with his friend Little Peter had stirred his soul, for Peter had longings, too, and, as has been said, had even declared his intention "to buy up his own time." That he was a son in his own home, and was surrounded by the love of father and mother, had not made the purpose in Peter's heart appear in the least strange or unusual, for the custom was not unknown among those sturdy forefathers of ours. When they had cared for a boy in his infancy and helpless years, it was considered as no more than a just return that the years of early manhood, which would naturally be of value to the fathers in their labors on the farms, should belong not to the son but to the father. So whenever a well-grown boy felt that he would like to start in for himself, it was not unusual for him to offer, or to promise to pay as soon as he could earn the money, the amount which was considered as a fair equivalent for the value of his services in the few years before he became "of age," and could enter upon his own career.

In those days the obligation of the child to his father was emphasized. In our own time the obligation of the father to his child is considered the more important, and all that love and devotion can offer are laid at the feet of the children.

Perhaps justice lies somewhere between these two extremes, and no one of us desires to return to the harsher methods of those earlier years; but certainly the children who are so fortunate as to be born in these more fortunate times have some need of recalling the words of one who, long before the trying days of the Revolution, exhorted all to "honor their fathers and mothers."

Be that as it may, Tom Coward thought much and long over his friend Peter's project, and even went so far at one time as to hint to Benzeor that he would not be averse to entering into some such arrangement with him. But Benzeor's indignation, and the grief with which Sarah heard of the proposal, had silenced him, and he had not referred to the matter again.

None the less, however, did it remain in his thoughts, and of late the suspicion with which he had come to regard many of Benzeor's actions had increased his feeling of discontent, for Tom's sympathies were all with the colonies in their struggle.

Many a time had he and Peter talked over the matter, and the eagerness of one to serve in the army was fully shared by the other. But Benzeor's patriotism seemed all to be dormant, and as the troubles increased, his zeal to make money steadily increased also. At times he would be absent from home for days together, and more than once Tom had been awakened in the night by the sound of strange voices heard in conversation with Benzeor in the room beneath that in which he was sleeping.

Thoughts of all these things had been in Tom's mind throughout that voyage to New York, and they, as well as his youthfulness, served to explain the silence he had maintained since he had set sail. He had known, however, that Peter was to serve as the lookout that day, and when he volunteered the information it was the first time he had spoken aloud for a half hour.

The rain now was steadily increasing, and the uneasiness of the men on board the little boat became more marked. They were far from the tree by this time, and no one appeared to know just what plan to follow.

"If I was alone, I'd take all the risks," said Benzeor at last.

"You needn't stop on our account," replied Jacob. "I don't believe there's much danger in starting up the river, any way, for my part. Little Peter may not have seen anything to amount to much. If you want to chance it, go ahead."

"We don't just know what's ahead of us," said Barzilla uneasily. "It may be nothing, and then again it may not be. I wish there was some way of finding out before we risk too much."

"Why not land farther down the shore and let Tom go up and see?" said Jacob. "If Little Peter's gone, it will mean the danger's gone, too, and if he hasn't, why Tom here can find out for us and report; though for my part I'm not afraid to go up the river as it is. It's too dark for any one to see us, or it will be soon."

"That's a good suggestion," said Benzeor quickly, as he brought the boat about. "We'll land down the shore and let Tom go up for us. You're not too much of a 'coward' to do that, are you Tom?"

"I'll go," said Tom quietly, although his cheeks flushed with anger at Benzeor's antiquated and brutal pun. He had heard it many times, but never without feeling angry, although he well knew that Benzeor spoke the words lightly.

With the change in the course the wind seemed to increase. The spray was dashed into their faces, and the men were soon drenched. The sail had been shortened, but the little boat dashed ahead with ever increasing speed.

"It's a rough night outside," said Benzeor, when at last he gained the desired point on the shore. "It's lucky for us we're inside the Hook. Now then, Tom!" he added. "Bestir yourself, lad, and come back soon."

Tom leaped ashore and ran swiftly along the beach toward the tree. He was familiar with its location and knew that he could find it in the darkest night. The rain beat upon him and the darkness momentarily increased, but the wind was with him, and in a brief time he recognized the dim outlines of the tree.

Then ceasing to run, he began to approach more cautiously. He was not positive that Peter was there now, for some one might have taken his place. Certainly caution was the better part in any event.

He stopped and whistled the half dozen notes which he and Peter used as a call. He waited a moment, but as no answer was heard he advanced a little nearer and whistled again.

"That you, Tom?" came from some one in the tree.

"Yes," replied Tom.

In a moment Peter dropped from his position, and began to explain to his friend the cause of the display of the signal of danger.

CHAPTER III

THE MEETING ON THE RIVER

"I've been here since noon," began Peter, "but it seems more like a whole day to me. I've listened to the calls of the sea-birds and heard the roar of the storm which I knew was coming, till it almost seemed to me I couldn't bear it any longer. I'm glad you've come, for I've got a chance to stretch now, and the sound of a voice will help to quiet my nerves again."

"I didn't know you had any nerves," replied Tom. "But we can't stand here in this storm talking about such things. Benzeor sent me over to find out what you meant by hanging out the white flag. You haven't seen anything suspicious, have you?"

"I have that," said Peter eagerly. "I was beginning to think that my coming here was all a piece of foolishness, when along about four o'clock—leastwise I should think it was about that time, though I didn't have any dial anywhere about to mark the time for me—what should I see but a whaleboat making for the river? You had better believe I forgot all about the time and everything else but the boat then, for I didn't know but some more of the Greens were coming up the Navesink on another trip such as they made the other day."

Peter referred to an expedition which a band of several hundred tories from New Jersey, commonly known as the "Greens," had made a few weeks before this time. They had set forth from New York and had made a visit to some of their former neighbors and friends, and the tokens of their affection which they had left behind them had chiefly consisted of the ashes of burned homes and empty barns. The raid had been a cruel one, and its object apparently was more for devastation than for plunder, and many of the good people of Red Bank and Middletown and the adjoining towns had good cause to remember it so long as they lived. The numbers of the invaders had rendered them safe from all attacks, and the wanton destruction they wrought before they returned to New York had been the chief reason for keeping a watch stationed in the old tree every day since their visit. And Peter had received strict orders not to depart from his place of observation, if he saw anything suspicious, until he was satisfied that all danger was past. And Peter was faithful, that was well known, or he would not have been selected for the duty that day.

"Well," resumed Peter, "I watched the boat till it went out of sight up the river. There were seven men on board of her, six of 'em pulling at the oars and the seventh steering. No more boats followed her, and I shouldn't have been suspicious if I hadn't thought I recognized the man who was steering."

"Who was he?"

"He looked to me a good deal like Fenton."

"What? The pine robber?"

"Yes, though of course I may have been mistaken. I never saw him but once and that was when he was a blacksmith over by the Court House before the war. My father had sent me over there to have one of the horses shod at his shop. I don't know that I should have remembered him if it hadn't been for something he did that day. I saw him take a half-inch bar of iron and bend it almost double with his hands. That made a great impression upon me, for I didn't believe there was another man in the colony who could do that."

"Probably not," replied Tom. "But what made you think this was one of Fenton's whaleboats?"

"Nothing but Fenton himself. Of course I've heard of the stories of what he's been doing since he became a pine robber. His gang is one of the worst, you know, and the minute I set my two eyes on him I suspected it was Fenton himself."

"Why didn't you get word up the river as soon as you saw him?"

"They've got watchers farther up, and that's their business. Besides, I didn't care to have him double me up the way he did that iron bar. Then, my business was to stay here and give the warning to anybody that might be going up the stream, you see. That's why I waved the flag when I saw you coming."

"And they haven't come back yet?" inquired Tom eagerly.

"No. That's what I'm waiting for. There isn't any fun in hanging out here in the wet, I can tell you. Just as soon as I can see that whaleboat coming out into the bay again I'm done."

"All right, Peter, I'll go right back and report to Benzeor. Maybe he'll take you on board and carry you home."

"Not unless I see the whaleboat again," said Peter doggedly as he prepared to climb to his seat in the tree again.

Tom hurriedly departed and started to return with his message to the waiting Benzeor and his men, who he knew would be becoming impatient by this time. As he ran along the beach the storm smote him full in the face, but in spite of the driving rain the night was not very dark. The moon was near the full and gave sufficient light to enable him to see far out over the tossing waters. He could even discern the outlines of the little boat far up the shore, and as he ran swiftly forward he was thinking of the report he was to make to the waiting Benzeor, and his thoughts were not entirely pleasing.

Fenton's deeds had become notorious in Old Monmouth. At the head of his brutal band, composed of men as desperate and reckless as he, he had pillaged and plundered throughout the county during the preceding year, and up to this time no one had been found strong enough to put a stop to his evil deeds. Any unprotected farmhouse was liable to receive one of his visits, and such a visit was seldom made without profit to the outlaws, for such in fact they were, and with their ill-gotten gains they hastened away to store them in their hiding-places among the pines.

Nor was Fenton's band the only one which had its headquarters in that lonely and unfrequented region known in Old Monmouth as the "Pines." West, Disbrow, Fagan, Davenport, and many others of the lawless men, had engaged in similar occupations, and all had their hiding-places in the same wild spot, and in a measure protected and aided one another.

Up to this time Fagan had been the only one to suffer the well-deserved penalty of his crimes, and in the preceding winter a band of two hundred of the desperate patriots had assembled and driven the famous, or rather infamous, outlaw to bay. At last he had been taken, and the infuriated men, mindful not only of the sufferings of their own families at his hands, but also of their possible future sufferings as well, had measured out a stern justice to the man, and with their own hands had hanged him from the long limb of a tree which stood by the side of the road which led from Monmouth Court House[1] to Trenton. Afterwards some of the patriots who had suffered most from his evil deeds had severed the skull from the body and nailed it to the tree, and then, placing the pipe between the grinning jaws, had left the uncanny sight as a warning to all who might be disposed to follow in the footsteps of the outlaw.

For a few weeks the suffering patriots found relief, but only for a few weeks.

Despite the terrible warning, the other bands of pine robbers soon renewed their labors, and now in the early summer of '78 the region was suffering more from the marauding bands than ever had been known before.

It was all a part of the horrors of war. Sometimes, when we read of the brave deeds which have made famous some of the men who had a share in the struggle, we are prone to think only of the heroism displayed. And there was many a true hero in that and in every other war which our country has waged. We are never to forget that; but there was another side which has, to a large extent, passed from the memory of the present generation. The loss of property and of life, the sufferings of the women and children in the lonely homes, the barbarity and cruelty of evil men who, freed from the restraint of law in a time when the worst passions of men were aroused, gave free rein to their avarice and all that was bad in them, have frequently been ignored or forgotten. The glory of war or the pride in true heroism cannot entirely atone for the sufferings that were only too common in the scattered homes or lonely places.

And Fenton's band was one of the worst. From their strongholds among the pines, into which few men had the hardihood to enter, they would set forth on horseback some dark night, and the tale they might have told upon their return was ever one of blood and sorrow. People tortured until in their agony they were compelled to yield up their scanty savings, raids upon the flocks and herds already becoming far too small for the necessities of their owners, burning houses, and men and women deliberately shot by the outlaws, were only a few among the many results of their raids.

Not the least of the evils was the knowledge that among the people of Monmouth there were some who, while they might not openly be known as members of the bands, still gave the desired information to the leaders as to the places where possessions were secreted, or of the times when the patriots were aroused and it was best for the "Barons of the Pines," as some termed them, to remain in hiding among the tall dark trees. Professedly, the outlaws acknowledged no allegiance to either side in the struggle, but somehow it had come to pass that a stanch whig was liable to suffer far more from their depredations than his tory neighbor, and as a natural consequence the feeling between neighbors and those who had been friends was becoming more and more strained and bitter.

Thoughts of these things were passing rapidly through Tom's mind as he ran swiftly on through the storm to rejoin his companions. Fenton? Yes, he had heard of him too many times not to recognize his name and to feel well assured that a visit from him in such a night could promise little good for any of the patriots dwelling near the Navesink.

"Well, what is it, Tom?" said Benzeor, as the panting lad rejoined them. "Is it Little Peter on the lookout? He must have seen a ghost to have warned us to stay out here in the bay in such a night as this. I'm wet to the skin."

"It's Fenton," replied Tom huskily, for he had not yet recovered his breath. "Peter said he saw him and six of his men go up the Navesink about four o'clock."

"Fenton?" said Jacob quickly. "Then we're in for a night of it. We don't want to fall into the hands of that pine robber when our pockets are as well lined as they are to-night."

"I'm not so sure about that," replied Benzeor slowly. "There's ten chances to one that they won't come back before morning, and if they do they won't be likely to find us in such a storm as this."

As he spoke a fresh gust swept the rain directly into their faces. The storm certainly was increasing, and the prospect of spending a night in the bay was dreary enough to cause the most stout-hearted to hesitate. And it may have been that other thoughts than that of the storm influenced Benzeor.

At any rate he gruffly responded, "You can do as you please, but I'm going up the Navesink. If you're afraid, you can stay here or start out across the country on foot. You'll have to speak quick if you go with me, for I'm off."

Benzeor turned and grasped the bow of his boat to push her off the beach upon which she had grounded. Before he had succeeded, however, Jacob spoke up quickly and said, "We're with you, Benzeor. If you can stand it, we can."

"Get aboard then, every one of you!" said Benzeor gruffly.

Tom and Barzilla quickly took their places in the stern, while Benzeor, with the aid of Jacob, soon sent the boat out from the shore.

The sail was soon rigged and shortened, and the little party then started for the narrow mouth of the Navesink. The boat rolled and pitched in the storm, but Benzeor had her well in hand, and soon steered into the more quiet waters of the river. Tom could see the tree as they passed, and was positive that Peter could also see them, but no hail was given, and the point was soon left far behind them.

Then up the narrower waters of the river the boat sped on in her course, but not a word was spoken by any of those on board. The storm was still raging and Benzeor's attention was largely occupied in managing his craft, and the others were busied with thoughts which perhaps they did not care to express.

Tom was decidedly anxious. A meeting with Fenton and his band was something of which he was fearful, and as they sped on his fears increased each moment. Benzeor's apparent indifference had not deceived him, and deep in his heart there was a lurking suspicion that perhaps he might be able to account for it, if he felt so disposed.

However, he too was silent, and a half hour had passed and as yet no signs of danger had appeared. Benzeor was steering as close inshore as the wind permitted, and Tom was beginning to hope that they would succeed in making their way up the river without being discovered.

Suddenly Jacob, who was seated in the bow and was keeping a constant lookout ahead, shouted, "Port! Port your helm, Benzeor! Quick! Quick!"

Benzeor instantly heeded the warning, but his quick movement barely served to enable them to pass a boat which loomed up in the darkness. It was a whaleboat, and with a sinking heart Tom saw that there were six men rowing, while a seventh was seated in the stern and was serving as helmsman.

Instantly Peter's words flashed into his mind, and he knew that they had barely escaped a collision with the very boat which the lookout had discovered making its way up the Navesink late in the afternoon. The party could be none other than that of Fenton and his outlaw band.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Freehold.

CHAPTER IV

BENZEOR'S VISITOR

"Hold on there! Hold on, I say! Stop, or we'll shoot!"

The words were shouted by some one in the whaleboat, and Benzeor evidently was about to heed the sharp command. He quickly changed the course of the boat, and as the shortened sail flapped in the wind as the little craft came about, the whaleboat came alongside and some one reached forth with a boat-hook, and the progress was instantly stayed.

Tom's heart was beating rapidly in his excitement. A wild impulse to leap into the river seized him, but before he could leave his position in the bow, two of the other crew clambered on board, and he knew that an attempt to escape would now be useless. Doubtless the men were armed, and the darkness was not deep enough to conceal him from their sight. His only hope now depended upon the actions of the men and the course which Benzeor should decide to follow.

The sail was instantly lowered in obedience to the sharp command of the men who had boarded the boat, and, in great fear, the lad waited for the purpose of their captors to be declared. He drew back in his position in the bow, hoping to escape the notice of all on board, as he saw that Benzeor had arisen from his seat and stood facing the men.

"Who are you? What ye out in a night like this for? Whose boat is this?" exclaimed the one who appeared to be the leader.

"Is that you, Fenton?" replied Benzeor in a low voice.

"Ho, it's Benzeor Osburn!" exclaimed the man, peering intently into the face before him as he spoke. "I thought it was strange we didn't find you in your house. We waited an hour as we agreed to, but when you didn't put in an appearance, we thought we'd start back. Where ye been, Benzeor? What's up now?"

"I'd been back home in time if it hadn't been for the storm and an alarm we had back in the bay. I think ye'd better go back with me now, Fenton. I've got some facts that may interest you, and we can't talk them over here."

"Who are these men with you?" inquired Fenton suspiciously.

"Oh, they're all right. I'll vouch for them, every one," replied Benzeor. "You haven't anything to fear from any of my friends. Come up to my house and I'll tell ye all about it."

Fenton hesitated a moment before he replied, and Tom peered intently at the man of whom he had already heard so many tales. He could see his great form, although he could not distinguish the features of his face in the darkness. His deep voice and gruff manner had not tended to allay the lad's fears, and now Benzeor's words and actions filled his heart with a new alarm. Was Benzeor about to cast in his lot with Fenton? His words betrayed the fact of their previous acquaintance, and all the recent suspicious actions of his foster father came back to him. No one in the party had yet spoken, except Benzeor and Fenton, but the recent conversation on board the boat, much of which Tom had overheard, convinced the troubled lad that no very strong protest would be made against any proposal that Benzeor might feel disposed to make.

"I'm rather of the opinion," said Fenton roughly, "that it's about time you went home with me. I don't know who these fellows on board here are, and I don't care. You're the one I'm after, Benzeor, and it seems to me the time's come for you to join us or quit. You've been shilly-shallying long enough."

"Hush! Don't speak so loud!" replied Benzeor anxiously.

Fenton laughed outright at Benzeor's evident alarm, and, turning to his companions in the whaleboat, said, "I think we'd better take the boat along with us. We can land this crew anywhere along the shore, or we can sink 'em in the river, just which you please. It's too much of a storm for us to be hanging around here on the Navesink."

"Fenton," said Benzeor, rising and stepping up to the side of the outlaw, "you'd better do as I say. I've got something to tell ye, and it's worth hearing, too."

A low conversation followed between the two men which Tom, with all his efforts, was not able to hear. The result of it, however, quickly became apparent when Fenton turned to his companions and said, "It's all right, boys. You go on without me, and I'll join you to-morrow. I'm going up to Benzeor's now."

The boat-hook was quickly withdrawn at his command, and the sound of the oars of the departing boat soon ceased to be heard.

The sail of Benzeor's boat was then hoisted again, and once more the little party, increased now by the addition of Fenton, began to make their way up the Navesink. Though the rain was steadily falling, the wind was favoring, and the boat, handled by the skillful Benzeor, held steadily to its way. The low shores could be seen in the distance on either side, and an occasional light betrayed the location of some lonely farmhouse, whose occupants in the confidence begotten of the storm had ventured to sit up till a later hour than was customary in those days.

Not a word was spoken on board the boat, and Fenton had taken a position near Tom from which he did not move. All were drenched, but a summer rain was something which none of them minded in such a time as that.

When an hour had passed, Benzeor ran his boat closer inshore and in a few moments landed. Then turning to his companions he said, "Come over to my house to-morrow, Jacob, and I'll give you and Barzilla your shares of the money."

"We'll go with you now," replied Jacob, evidently not desiring to put off the day of reckoning too long, a desire in which Barzilla also shared.

"No, I can't fix it up to-night. You can take the bag, though, if you want to, and bring me my share to-morrow."

Benzeor's confidence in his fellows served the desired purpose, and Jacob and Barzilla speedily departed, taking with them the little bag of gold which had been received as the price of the produce they had taken to New York.

"Tom, you look out for the boat," called Benzeor, as he and Fenton started towards the little house whose outlines could be discerned in the distance.

Tom obeyed, and as he worked over the little boat, looking well to all the details, his thoughts were far more busy than his hands. The changes which he had noted in Benzeor of late seemed almost to have reached their climax. Was the man intending now to go with Fenton? All his recent absences from home came up before the lad's mind, and the strange visitors he had received there of late were not forgotten. What was it Benzeor was planning to do? He was not much like the man he had been a few years before this time, and as Tom thought over all the changes, he was troubled more and more.

He knew that Sarah had not been unaware of what was going on, for many a time had they talked it all over together. Sarah had remained a steadfast champion of her father, but Tom had not failed to see that she was none the less troubled by his strange actions. His grasping disposition had become more and more apparent of late, and while he had never in the presence of his family referred to anything he had in his mind to do against the patriots, his very silence in such times was more threatening than any words he could utter. But Sarah had steadily refused to believe that her father would desert the cause for which at the outbreak of the war he had professed the most ardent attachment; still, it was impossible for her not to discover, what Tom for a long time had seen, that he was strangely silent of late.

The change in Benzeor Osburn had been so gradual as to deceive many of his friends and neighbors. All had known his "closeness," as the country people termed his love of money, but few of them had thought it would ever lead him into the position in which the man at that time really stood.

Benzeor in '76 had been among the loudest in his expressions of loyalty to the cause of the colonies, and had been foremost in blaming his own brother for his "toryism." His brother's property had been confiscated, but Benzeor's had been left unmolested, so confident had all the whigs been in the sincerity of his expressions. And at the time Benzeor had meant what he said, and said what he meant. But never for a moment had he dreamed that the struggle would be such a long-continued one as it had proved to be, nor had he thought that patriotism would affect his own possessions. All that would be done would be to make a strong protest against the unjust taxation, for Benzeor had hated taxes as he did few things in this world, and then a compromise would be effected, which would permit the colonists to go on with their occupations, and the mother country would soon see that it was not to her own advantage to drive her rebellious children too far.

The first shock had come to him when the Continental Congress had declared the country to be a free and independent nation. That was going too far, Benzeor thought, and so he freely expressed himself; but still hoping that a compromise of some kind would be made, and that his own possessions would not be disturbed, he had uttered no further protests, though his voice ceased to be heard in favor of the rebellion.

As further events betrayed the weakness of the patriot cause, and he had found that patriotism was likely to prove a somewhat expensive virtue, his feelings had undergone a still more decided change. At first he had entered into one or two secret projects by which he had succeeded in enriching his own pockets, and the success had so affected him that as his patriotism decreased his hopes of gains correspondingly increased; and soon from deeds for which he tried to justify himself, he had been gradually drawn into others which even his own seared conscience proclaimed to be wrong. In some of the latter he had come into contact with the outlaws of Fenton's class, and his association with them had soon banished the feeling of disgust he had formerly cherished for them, until it had even come to pass that Fenton himself was a not unwelcome guest in his own home.

At first the visits had been made secretly, and the promises of rich harvests to be reaped, as the result of their evil deeds, had appealed to Benzeor more strongly than even he himself was aware. The lawless times, the constant turmoils, the bitterness between those who had recently been the warmest of friends, the ease with which raids were made, and the apparent impossibility of detection, had all combined to arouse the avaricious Benzeor more and more; and now not very much was needed to draw him still farther within the toils of Fenton and his band.

Not all of these things were apparent to Tom when at last he left the boat and started towards the house, but he had seen sufficient to make him suspicious of Benzeor, and he was as perplexed as he was troubled. All his own feelings had gone out more and more to the patriot cause, and more than once had he been sadly tempted to depart from his home without waiting for the formality of buying up his time, and he had even gone so far as to suggest to Sarah several times what he had it in his mind to do. Sarah's grief, however, and the confidence which she still professed to feel in her father, as well as the dislike in his own heart to do anything which bore any resemblance to stealing,—for so the troubled lad regarded the taking of time which did not really belong to him as the bound boy of Benzeor Osburn,—had hitherto held him back. How long such feelings would continue to sway him Tom could not decide when at last he lifted the latch and entered the kitchen.

Benzeor and his guest were seated before the fire which had been started in the wide and open fireplace, and were drying their wet clothing as they conversed eagerly together.

As Tom came in, Benzeor glanced up hastily and said, "You can go to bed, Tom. You must be wet and tired, and there is a lot of work to be done to-morrow." Benzeor's voice was not unkind, but Tom did not fail to see that his presence was not desired. He quickly lighted a candle with a splinter which he thrust into the fire and held until it was in a flame, and then went up the low stairway to his room directly over the kitchen in which the men were seated.

As he entered the room he noted the gleam which came through the open space near the rude chimney, and, placing the candle on the low table, he advanced and peered down at the men. He could see both plainly, and, after observing them for a moment, he was about to turn away and take off his dripping clothing, when he suddenly stopped. He had overheard a word which caused his heart to beat much more rapidly, and in a moment he was upon his knees striving to hear what more would be said.

He remained in the same position for an hour, and at last arose only when Fenton opened the door and went out into the darkness. Then Benzeor closed and barred the door, and started directly up the stairway.

Instantly Tom blew out his candle and leaped into bed, all wet and muddy as he was, and drew the bedclothes close up around his face.

Benzeor came slowly on and then stopped before the door of Tom's room. The lad was trembling in his excitement, for he well knew that if the man should enter and discover that he had not removed his clothing before going to bed, his suspicions would at once be aroused. And above all things Benzeor's suspicion at that time was what Tom most desired to lull.

There were wild thoughts in Tom's mind of leaping from the bed and, rushing past the man, making a break for the outside. Perhaps the man might not enter, however, and, trembling with fear and excitement, Tom waited.

It seemed to him that a long time had elapsed, and still no sound outside the door could be heard. Had Benzeor gone on? The light of his candle which still shone through the cracks disproved that. What could he then be doing?

Tom tried to conjecture what must be going on on the stairway, but the silence was still unbroken. The minutes were like hours to the frightened lad. It seemed to him as if the beatings of his heart must be heard throughout the house.

His suspense was soon ended—when Benzeor lifted the latch and Tom felt the light of the candle streaming in full upon his face.

CHAPTER V

THE MESSENGER

For a moment Tom closed his eyes and waited for the words which he expected and feared to hear. His body was trembling and all his strength was required to prevent his teeth from chattering. If Benzeor should enter the room Tom knew that at once his predicament would be discovered, and in the present state of his foster father's feelings he was aware that he could expect no mercy at his hands.

He heard no footstep, but he felt that the light of the candle was still shining upon his face and knew that Benzeor had not departed. At last, unable to bear the suspense longer, he opened his eyes, for he felt that he must see what was going on in the room. There stood Benzeor in the doorway holding the candle with one hand, and intently regarding the apparently sleeping boy before him.

"I'll be down directly," said Tom drowsily, as if he were just awaking. "I didn't know it was time to get up. I'll be with you in a minute."

"It isn't time to get up," replied Benzeor slowly. "I'm just going to bed. I stopped to see if you were all right. Have you been asleep long?"

"I—I don't know. Is there anything wrong?" Tom still kept the bedclothes drawn tightly about his face, and although he was feigning that he had been sleeping, he was in a state of terror. If Benzeor should approach the bed he well knew what would follow.

"No, there's nothing wrong," replied Benzeor. "I just wanted to see if you were all right. It's been a hard trip, and there's much work to be done to-morrow."

Tom closed his eyes and did not continue the conversation, hoping that the man would feel satisfied and leave him to himself. Nor was he disappointed, for Benzeor soon withdrew and closed the door behind him.

Tom could hear him as he stumbled about in the adjoining room, preparing for bed. Frightened as the lad had been, he had not failed to notice the expression upon Benzeor's face. It seemed to him that fear and recklessness were combined there, and that in the recent decision which the man had made, he had bidden farewell to everything good in his nature.

Benzeor had not been without his good qualities. Even then, in spite of his alarm, Tom recalled his rough kindnesses, and thought how much better in many ways his foster father had treated him than had some of the true fathers treated their own sons, for the times were rough and the one thing which was demanded of all the growing boys was implicit obedience to their elders. And this obedience had been ofttimes compelled by no gentle means. The use of the strap upon boys who were as large as their fathers was not unknown, and no one ever thought of resenting the harsh treatment. But Benzeor had seldom struck him. Tom almost wished that he had, for it would make the carrying out of the project he had already formed much easier.

Then, too, all the kindness he had received at the hands of Benzeor's wife and of the girls came back to him. It was true that this had been largely of a negative character, but in times like these through which the troubled lad was then passing, even that was not forgotten. He had toiled early and late, and knew that he had given more than a full equivalent for the scanty food and rough clothing he had received. But after all, Benzeor's home had been all the home he had ever known, and he was not unmindful of the benefits he had received.

His soul now, however, was in a state of turmoil. The words he had overheard had proved conclusively that Benzeor was a changed man, and as Tom thought of the project which Fenton had presented, and into which his foster father had entered with apparent eagerness, his own indignation increased. The long waiting was past now, and the time for action, the time of which he had dreamed and thought so much of late, had come at last.

He removed the bed-clothing and sat up on the side of the bed, listening intently. Benzeor had ceased to move about in his room, and the sounds which now came indicated clearly that he was asleep. Against the little window the rain was still beating, and the darkness was so intense in the room that Tom could not distinguish any object.

For several minutes he continued in his position, undecided whether he had better make the attempt to depart from the house by the way of the stairs, or through the window in his room. If he should select the former, the stairs would be sure to creak under his feet; and then, too, there would be the bars which must be drawn from the door. There were too many possibilities of detection to make that method of departure the desirable one.

If he should go through the window, all he would have to do would be to drop upon the woodpile directly beneath,—a pile which Tom knew was there, for he himself had drawn and cut the wood only a few days before this time. He decided to use the window.

Stepping slowly and carefully, he approached and quietly raised the sash. As he looked out into the night, the farm buildings could be seen, and yonder was the road he was to seek.

Hesitating no longer, the resolute boy crawled through the open window, and then, clinging for a moment to the sash with his hands, dropped upon the woodpile below. There was a noise as the wood rolled from under him, but, quickly rising, he ran to the long lane which led out to the road, and then stopped to learn whether his departure had been discovered or not.

The silence was unbroken. The outlines of the rude little house stood out in the darkness, the rain was falling steadily, and the heavy clouds hung low over the earth. Not even the dog had been disturbed, and with a lighter heart Tom turned and ran down the lane and was soon in the road.

The mud was now thick and heavy, and he found his progress difficult. But as he had not far to go, he ran steadily on, and soon came within sight of Little Peter's house. There was no light to be seen within it, and he was not at all certain that his friend had returned.

He approached and stood beneath the window of the boy's room, which, like his own, was over the kitchen. Then he gave the low whistle which they both had used as a "call." At first there was no response, and when he had given it two or three times he concluded that his friend had not returned from his work as the lookout in the tree by the mouth of the Navesink. Nothing then remained to be done but to rouse the family, for Tom was determined, and was well aware that what he planned to do must be done quickly.

Approaching the kitchen door he rapped loudly upon it. Twice had he repeated the summons before a window was raised, and some one looking out upon him called, "Who's there? Is that you, Peter?"

"No, it's not Peter. It's Tom Coward, and I want to get in. I've got something to tell you."

"I'll be down in a moment," said Peter's mother, for Tom had recognized the voice as her's.

Tom soon heard the heavy bars withdrawn, and in a brief time the door was opened, and then closed and carefully barred behind him.

"What's wrong, Tom?" inquired the woman anxiously. "Has anything happened to Peter?"

"I don't think so," replied Tom. "He was all right when I left him a few hours ago down by the Hook. But what I want to know now is whether you've had any word from his father?"

"Not a word, except that it's reported the army's on the march again. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know that I ought to tell you," replied Tom hesitatingly, "but the truth of the matter is that I happened to hear that he was coming home."

"You've heard something more than that, Tom Coward," said the woman now thoroughly alarmed. "I know you've heard more, or you wouldn't have come over here at this time of night and in such a storm. What is it? What is it?"

Tom perceived that he had gone too far to retreat now, and so he began his story. He did not go into all the details, for as yet he did not desire to implicate Benzeor, at least in the eyes of all his neighbors.

"The way of it is this," began Tom hesitatingly. "I happened to be to-night where I overheard the talk between two men, and one of 'em was Fenton, the pine robber."

Tom could perceive the expression of alarm which swept over the face of the woman, who was still standing before him. Apparently ignoring it, however, he went on. "It seems that both of the armies are on the march across Jersey, and that Washington has halted over by Hopewell. Somehow, Fenton had got word that your husband was coming home for a day, and he's fixed up a plan to trap and take him."

"I haven't heard a word," said the woman slowly. "When was he coming?"

"To-morrow."

"And Fenton knows of it?"

"Yes. And he knows something more, too, or at least he pretends to. I heard him say that you had some money hidden in an old sock, which you'd stored away in the garret."

Tom saw the woman start at his words, and knew then that Fenton's statement had been correct, although he could not conjecture how the pine robber had received his information. Little Peter's mother was a resolute woman, but even the stoutest heart might well be alarmed to hear that Fenton was aware of such possessions.

"Have you any idea when Little Peter will come home?"

"No. It's too bad to keep him out in such a night. And we need him here now."

"I'll wait till he comes," said Tom quietly. "There's no danger to-night, but I want to see him, and I don't think you'll object to my staying, will you?"

"No," said the woman eagerly. "Oh, what times these are! My husband has been in the army more than a year, and the end hasn't come yet. What will become of us? What shall we do? Tom," she added suddenly, "what was Fenton going to do with him if he caught him?"

"Take him and send him to New York. You know there's a reward for every prisoner taken. But he hasn't got him yet."

"No, that's so; and what's more he won't either, if it can be prevented. Have you told Benzeor about it? Hark! There's some one at the door now!"

The woman was not mistaken, for a low tapping on the kitchen door could be distinctly heard. For a moment neither spoke, but they could not conceal their fears from each other. Just then a stronger gust of wind drove the rain with added force against the windows. The sound of the storm seemed to increase the fear of those within the house. Perhaps Fenton himself had even then come; or, as was more probable, Tom thought, his own departure had been discovered, and Benzeor had come for him. As between the two, Tom decidedly preferred to meet Fenton at that time.

Again the low rapping was heard, and Tom knew that some response must be made. "I'll open the door. Maybe it's Little Peter come back," he whispered.

"No, it isn't Peter. He wouldn't come in that way."

"I'll find out who it is," replied Tom more resolutely, although his heart was oppressed by a great fear. His hands were trembling, and he almost expected that the moment he drew back the bars a rush against the door would be made.

"You stand ready to push against the door," he said as he grasped the bar. Slowly he drew it back, and standing away from the slight opening called out, "Who's there?"

No reply was heard, and the wind which swept through the open space quickly extinguished the candle, leaving them both in total darkness. For a moment Tom thought they were being attacked, and he instantly slammed the door back, and shot the bar into its place.

The rapping upon the door was quickly repeated, and the voice of some one outside could be heard. "Don't light the candle again," whispered Tom. "It'll let them see what's inside here. Who's out there?" he called in louder tones. "Who's there? You'll have to tell who you are, or we shan't let you in. Who is it?"

Another rap was the only reply, and Tom was almost decided not to heed the summons longer, but to leave the callers, whoever they might be, out there in the storm.

"I'll go upstairs and look out of the window," whispered Peter's mother; and, creeping softly out of the room, she soon made her way up the stairway to the room overhead from which she had replied to Tom's own summons a few minutes before.

Tom waited and listened. The rapping was not repeated, and no sound could be heard outside the door. What could it all mean? Had the marauders gone around to some of the windows? These were barred by heavy inside shutters, and no light could be seen to reveal the presence of any one. The darkness in the room was intense, and Tom almost thought he could feel it. He was breathing hard in his excitement, but he had not left his position by the door.

Soon he heard the sound of the woman returning down the stairway. He waited breathlessly, and she soon rejoined him.

"I can't see but one man," she whispered. "He's right there in front of the door."

"Is it Benzeor?"

"I couldn't see. You'd better open the door and let him in. We can handle one."

Tom did not feel so positive about that, but bidding her light the candle, he again drew back the bar. "Come in! Come in! Quick!" he called.

Some one pushed past him, and the door was instantly closed and barred again.

The candle was not yet lighted, and in the darkness he felt as if some one were about to grasp him. He could almost feel hands upon him now. He stepped farther back from the door, and waited in breathless suspense for the candle to be lighted.

After several attempts, the woman succeeded in igniting a splinter from the embers in the ashes on the fireplace, and the beams of the lighted candle quickly dispelled the darkness.

"It's Indian John!" said Tom with a great sigh of relief as he saw the man before him.

The visitor was a strange appearing being, clad in the leggings and moccasins of his race, while over his shoulders he wore a faded coat which once had done duty for some Continental soldier. His dark eyes burned as if they had caught a reflection from the sputtering candle, but with a countenance unmoved he gazed quietly at his companions in the room.

"Oh, John, what a fright you gave us!" said the woman at last. "What brings you here on a night like this?"

The Indian made no reply, save to draw a letter from the pocket of the dripping, faded coat, and quietly held it forth to the woman.

CHAPTER VI

IN THE TEN-ACRE LOT

Little Peter's mother instantly grasped the letter, and seating herself by the table, and drawing the candle nearer, at once began to read. Tom watched her eagerly, but she did not speak, and the expression upon her face did not betray any of the emotions in her heart.

The Indian still stood motionless in the position he had taken when he first entered the room, and except for the occasional turning of his dark eyes from the boy to the woman, so far as appearances went he might have been a statue. The rain still dashed against the windows, and the sounds of the wind outside showed that the storm was unabated. The flickering candle served to intensify the darkness, and the alarm which Tom had felt had not entirely departed.

The woman read the letter all through carefully, and then, without a word of explanation, began to read it again. Tom hardly knew what to do. He had given her his warning, and whether she would care for his further services he could not determine. He did not feel like interrupting her, and yet he feared that his presence now might not be altogether welcome, for he had no means of knowing what the message was, or who had sent it.

His uncertainty was quickly dispelled, however, as the woman laid the letter upon the table, and turning to him said, "You were right, Tom. Peter is coming home; but how you found it out, I cannot even guess."

Tom did not feel at liberty to enlighten her upon the subject beyond what he had told her already, for he was sadly troubled about Benzeor and his relations with Fenton. Doubtless Benzeor was implicated, but matters had not yet gone so far that he felt he was at liberty to betray his foster father to the neighbors.

"Yes," resumed the woman, "Peter is coming home, but only for a day or two."

"Where is he? What does he say of the army?" inquired Tom.

"Washington is at Hopewell, as you said, Tom. When he found out that Clinton really intended to march across Jersey, he detached General Maxwell's brigade and some of the militia to obstruct and bother the British, and Peter was in the militia, you know. They were to keep close to the redcoats, and by their skirmishes keep them from going too fast, and so give Washington a chance to pass them, and then, when the place he wanted was found, turn about and fight. When the army crossed the Delaware at Coryell's Ferry, Washington sent Colonel Morgan with six hundred of the riflemen to reinforce Maxwell, and with the rest of his men he set out to march toward Princeton."

"I thought you said he was at Hopewell now," said Tom.

"So he is, Peter writes, but Hopewell isn't but a few miles from Princeton, you know, and he decided to stop there and give his army a good rest. Peter writes that all the men now think that Clinton is marching so slowly on purpose, and that his plan is to let the Americans go on into the lower country and then gain the right of our army by a quick march and get possession of the higher ground on the right of our men. Peter writes that that is what all the Continentals think Clinton is trying to do, and so General Washington has halted at Hopewell. That's only five miles from Princeton, you see, and he is going to stay there a few days so that he can give his men a good rest before any engagement takes place; and he can find out what Clinton's plans are, too."

"And while the army is waiting there, Big Peter thinks he'll run up home for a day, does he?" said Tom.

"Yes, that's just it. He's sent me word of his coming by Indian John, here. But you must have been delayed John," she said, turning to the Indian as she spoke.

"Heap wet," said the Indian quietly.

"When does he say he expects to be here?" inquired Tom.

"To-morrow; no, to-day, for it must be long past midnight now. I shouldn't be surprised to see him any time."

"Well I've given you my message, and you'll know what to do now. I think perhaps I'd better be going back home, that is, unless there's something you think I can do to help you."

"No, there's nothing more now, Tom. Little Peter will soon be here, and with him and Indian John in the house, I don't think we shall have much to fear. It was good of you to come, Tom. I shall never forget you, and I know that Peter will not, either. I am sadly troubled, but I think it will be all right."

"Good-night, then," said Tom.

"Good-night, and thank you again for all your trouble and kindness."

Tom drew back the bar, and, opening the door, passed out into the night, little dreaming that he had looked upon the face of Little Peter's mother for the last time.

As he ran along the lonesome road, he could see that the clouds were breaking, and in low masses were swept by the wind across the sky. The rain had almost ceased now, but the air was damp and heavy and strangely oppressive. Perhaps it was the oppressiveness which affected Tom more than the excitement through which he had just passed, for the lad was much depressed as he came nearer to Benzeor's house. All the conversation he had overheard between the men came back to him, and he almost wished that he had not left Peter's mother alone with Indian John and the children. His feeling of obligation to Benzeor had mostly departed now, and as he recalled the plots of his foster father his heart was hot within him. He even thought of going over to the Court House and reporting the matter to Sheriff Forman that very night; but the hope that Benzeor still might not join Fenton in the evil project they had formed deterred him, and as he just then obtained a glimpse of the house which for more than ten years had been the only home he had ever known, his mind was recalled to his own immediate plans. At least he had given Peter's mother the warning, and if Fenton's band should make the proposed visit, in any event she would be prepared to receive them.