“GET OUT OF THE WAY,
MY HEARTY”

The Young
Continentals
at Trenton

by
John T. M^cIntyre
Author of
“The Young Continentals at Lexington”
“The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill”

Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.

The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
MCMXI

COPYRIGHT
1911 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

“The Young Continentals” series deals with the experiences of four boys in the American Revolution. One of them, Nat Brewster, is from the hills about Wyoming, Ben Cooper is from Philadelphia, while the Prentiss twin brothers come from Boston.

In the first book of the series, “The Young Continentals at Lexington,” Nat Brewster played the leading part—a part full of daring and enterprise. In the second book, “The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill,” Ezra Prentiss replaced Nat as the principal figure, while in the present volume, George Prentiss steps into the foreground.

The first book dealt with the revolution from the stirring of the wrath of the colonies to the first blows struck at Lexington and Concord Bridge. The second began where the first ended, and related the events that took place during the siege of Boston, including the fight on Breed’s Hill and ended with the evacuation of the city by the British.

The present, or third, takes up the thread of the great struggle where the second laid it down; it deals with the preparation for defending New York City, describes the battle of Long Island, the crossing of the Delaware and the capture of the Hessians at Trenton.

The fourth book, “The Young Continentals at Monmouth,” takes in the encounters around Philadelphia, including the battle of Germantown, and ends with Washington’s brilliant success at Monmouth. Ben Cooper fills the eye in this volume; and during the course of the story appears the celebrated Molly Pitcher, the girl who served a gun at Monmouth and whom Washington afterward made a sergeant on the field of battle. This volume is now in preparation.

Contents

Illustrations

The Young Continentals at Trenton

CHAPTER I
SHOWS HOW MERCHANT DANA BOARDED THE
“NANCY BREEN” AND WHAT CAME OF IT

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

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

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

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

“Just in to-day, captain?”

“An hour ago,” replied the skipper.

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

“I suppose you hail from Newport?”

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

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

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

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

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

At once the weazened little man was at his side.

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

The young man turned and surveyed the newcomer.

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

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

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

“Quite so,” he replied.

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

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

“It is,” answered the other.

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

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

“From headquarters?”

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

The young man seemed puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But George shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps,” said George.

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

George looked into the candid face of the speaker inquiringly.

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

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

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

Mr. Camp sniffed and snorted in great disdain.

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

But Mr. Dana patiently evaded this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old gentleman turned upon him wrathfully.

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” asked she, quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For shame!” she cried.

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

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

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

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

But young Prentiss laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

George Prentiss looked quietly into the frowning face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II
SHOWS THE RECEPTION GEORGE MET WITH IN
NEW YORK TOWN

When George Prentiss stepped aboard the shallop once more he found the master and crew of one awaiting him in high admiration.

“Well, lad,” cried the former, in a tone of satisfaction, “you can manage yourself as trimly as any craft of your tonnage that I ever clapped an eye on. Give me your fist!

“I was surprised,” he added, “to see you go over the side to the rescue of that scolding old fellow. A lad that’s exchanged shots with the British at Boston, as I have no doubt you have done, could hardly be expected to take up the quarrel of a Tory in New York.”

“As it happens,” said young Prentiss, gravely, “Mr. Camp is a sort of connection of mine. The girl you saw just now and the young militia officer are my cousins, though, indeed, I never saw them before. In a time like this families are divided—some members of it are upon one side, and some upon the others. This teaches me to be a trifle tolerant.”

“Ah, yes,” said the master of the vessel, “I understand. Well,” with a lifting of the brows, “if you have Tories in your own household, I’m sorry for you. It must be lowering to a man’s pride to know that his own kin would stoop to such ideas, and when they are once set that way there is little hope of ever making them alter their views. Once a Tory, always a Tory.”

“Not always,” and George shook his head. “I was, in the beginning, a king’s man myself. My friends convinced me that the king’s way was the best—that the colonists should submit—that they were rushing to destruction in making an armed resistance. They assured me that Gage’s force would deal gently with my countrymen—that not a shot would be fired in anger upon them. But Lexington showed me the falseness of this. I knew then that the Americans had taken the only hopeful way to secure justice; and from that time on I was one of them.”

But the seaman shook his head.

“When you tell me this is so, lad, I believe it,” said he. “But it’s only an odd case. The Tory, take him all standing, is a narrow bigot who cannot see beyond the tip of his nose. He was brought up to believe that King George and his government were ordained by Providence; and the stiffest gale that ever blew would not sweep him from his moorings.”

George Prentiss did not reply to this; he had no keen reason for converting the shallop’s master to an opposite way of thinking; and even if he had, he knew it would be of no use to try.

“I think I’ll be setting about my affairs,” he said. “It’s coming on midday.”

The skipper hitched up his trousers. “Of course,” stated he, “I don’t know what your affairs are; but, as I said before, I have suspicion of them. And look you, my hearty, give no heed to old Dana’s talk. Go about your business in your own way.”

“Thank you,” said young Prentiss. “I had made up my mind to do that. Mr. Dana,” he added to himself, “has been mistaken; he expected one passenger, evidently, and found another.”

Directly up Broad Street he made his way until he came to Beaver; here he turned in toward the Parade at the foot of Broadway. The red-coated sentries were mounting guard upon the walls of the fort; the British ensign floated from its tall pole; but the streets were filled with the blue and buff of the young American army, and the numerous and strangely devised flags of the revolution.

Apparently the Parade was a favorite place for the showing of oneself in the middle of the day. Ladies in carriages and upon horseback drove and cantered up and down the paved ways; groups of citizens and scores of militia officers stood here and there; companies of raw troops were being put sternly through the manual by hard-faced sergeants.

As George walked across the Parade he gained not a little attention, for the dispatch bag which hung across his arm, the broad shoulder belt supporting a steel hilted hanger, the pistol butt which showed beneath his coat, gave him a particularly businesslike appearance. And then his bronzed looks, the breadth of his shoulders, and the cock of his hat, spoke of a youth to be reckoned with in any company.

Pausing before one of the numerous groups, he inquired politely:

“Will you have the goodness to direct me to headquarters?”

A foppish young dragoon officer with a mincing manner, who had been entertaining the occupants of a carriage beside which he stood, turned upon the speaker.

“Hah!” said he, “you have news for old Put, have you?”

There was something in the cheap familiarity of this that aroused the anger of young Prentiss. He had seen the bluff, straightforward Putnam face a thousand dangers that night upon Breed’s Hill, he had seen him storming in the midst of the rout, striving to rally his men, pleading with them to make one more desperate stand. And now to hear him so referred to by this mincing fop filled him with resentment.

“My business is with General Putnam,” said he, stiffly.

The dragoon marked his manner and laughed, while at the same time his glances bade the ladies in the carriage mark his wit.

“What?” cried he. “Here’s a right proper New Englander, indeed.” He smoothed the sleeves of his well fitting coat and flecked some invisible specks from his epauletted shoulders. “They hold their officers as something more than human at Massachusetts Bay,” he proceeded, addressing the group of militiamen. “And one must not style them with anything less than their full dignity.”

The militiamen smiled broadly, while the citizens guffawed; the ladies in the carriage tittered, and cast mirthful looks at the youth from the northern colony. But one among them did not smile; and George noticed this at the moment in which he recognized her. It was Peggy Camp.

“A man wearing a uniform for the first time,” said George tartly, and with a sweep of the eyes that took in the other’s immaculate costume, “should show a little respect for a soldier of the general’s known service. At least that is the belief generally held in Boston.”

The fop choked, stuttered and grew red at this biting answer. The mirthful looks of the ladies were now turned upon him; and while he was mentally casting about for some witty rejoinder, a soggy looking man in the dress of a merchant and a countenance like a point of interrogation, took young Prentiss eagerly by the sleeve.

“There is fresh news, then, from Boston way? Of what nature is it, young man?”

“Any news that I personally have,” said the youth, “is very commonplace and of no value.”

“That you personally have? Ah, yes, perhaps,” and here the man’s face grew more interrogative than ever. “But your dispatches?”

“They are for the eye of the commandant of New York,” replied young Prentiss, annoyed.

“But surely,” and the merchant smiled in a very knowing way, “you had a little glance at them on the way—the briefest, of course, but still a glance.”

The youth’s face flushed beneath the bronze. “Do you speak in ignorance of a soldier’s duty, sir?” demanded he; “or is this meant for an insult?”

The inquisitive face of the merchant paled. “No, no!” cried he in much haste. “An insult! Goodness bless you, young man—no! Why, I thought the thing would be the most natural in the world. Just a slight glimpse, you see. What hurt would it do? I’ll leave it to any gentleman here.”

But none of the party saw fit to support him; and much abashed he fell to the rear, not relishing George’s looks. The foppish dragoon had by this time recovered, and now put himself forward.

“I presume by your tone,” said he, acidly, “that you hold the commission of Congress.”

But George shrugged his shoulders.

“What!” and the presumption of the dragoon immediately began to mount. “A common soldier, and have you the effrontery to use this manner to officers and gentlemen?”

There was a stiffening among the militiamen at this; they had re-collected themselves and were beginning to feel their superiority. But George, his temper returned to its level, only smiled.

“Sirs,” said he, “I stopped to ask a civil question in a civil manner. If this gentleman has received what he considers a sharp answer, he has himself to blame for it only. And as to the commissions,” here George squared his shoulders and drew himself up proudly, “don’t forget that they are harder to come by in the face of the enemy than here in New York, where influence will get one, apparently, for any jack-a-dandy.”

“Take care, sir,” cried an officer.

George smiled, flipped his hand to his hat in a most cavalier manner and stepped briskly away across the Parade. But through the tail of his eye he saw a grave officer, who had just come up, halt at the carriage before referred to; and he also saw Peggy Camp lean forward and whisper something to him swiftly. Then the officer motioned a young ensign forward, said something in turn, and the ensign made after George with all speed. Overtaking him, he said, politely:

“Pardon me, but I understand you are looking for headquarters. It is just above here. Lord Sterling requested me to show you the way.”

“Lord Sterling!” echoed George, and he could not help a backward glance at the officer who still remained beside the carriage speaking with Peggy Camp and her friends. Of late he had heard much of the distinguished man who, born in New York, had made such a great fight in the English courts for the earldom of Sterling. He had failed in this; but all America believed him the rightful heir, and so called him. His service to the colonial cause had already marked him; and he had been created general of brigade.

“You are a friend to Miss Camp, I take it,” said the ensign. But George shook his head.

“What, no! I thought from the interest she took in your welfare,” with a laugh, “that you were. And, too, she appeared quite delighted at your brisk handling of young Henderson. You seem to be quite fortunate.”

There was considerable stir about the doorway of the building which the ensign pointed out as headquarters; a sentry passed them at a word from this same obliging young officer.

“If you desire to see General Putnam in person,” said the ensign, “you’ll first have to see Major Hyde. And as he happens to be our cousin to Peggy Camp, you’ll no doubt get along famously with him.”

The laugh that followed this sally was still ringing in George’s ears as he crossed the room to speak to Major Hyde, who was seated at a big table engaged in writing. The major was a young man of sallow complexion and with a cold, supercilious manner.

“Well,” demanded he, his lip drawing back from his fine teeth in a sneer that seemed one of his characteristics, “what now?”

George resentfully slapped his dispatch bag upon the table, being careful, however, to keep a grip upon it.

“Dispatches,” said he, bluntly, with a salute. “From General Washington to General Putnam.”

“Ah, yes.” Major Hyde’s hand went forward toward the packet. “I will take charge of them.”

But as the hand advanced, the packet retreated. “My orders,” said young Prentiss, drily, “are that these dispatches be delivered into General Putnam’s hands only.”

There were several other officers seated about the room transacting headquarters business; at the young man’s words they looked up, surprised. Major Hyde sprang to his feet, his eyes snapping with anger.

“What do you mean?” cried he. “You’ll do as I bid you. Don’t forget that! I am your superior officer.”

“I am aware that you are,” replied the young man, “but my orders from General Washington are unmistakable, sir. And he is your superior officer.”

For a moment Hyde remained standing with rage; then he sat down abruptly and rapped upon the table for an orderly.

“Dispatches from Boston for General Putnam,” said he shortly. “Tell him so.”

George stood back and awaited the soldier’s return; and as he waited he could not help wondering at his odd experience in New York.

“I have been on shore but a bare hour—scarcely that long—and I have met with nothing but affronts and rebuffs,” he said to the young ensign who sat in a window overlooking Broadway. “I can’t understand the attitude of the colonists here. At Boston, one has but to be a patriot to meet with consideration. But in New York, apparently, it makes little difference what your sympathies; you have but to be a stranger to be marked for insolence.”

“New York,” said the ensign, who seemed a person of some intelligence, “is very different from Boston—from my own city, Philadelphia, or from any other place in the colonies, for the matter of that. It was settled by mixed races—Dutch, Huguenots, English and Scotch. Their interests, desires and ideals have been different from the beginning. They have become so accustomed to facing each other down and sneering at each other’s social peculiarities that it has, so it seems, grown to be a part of their deportment.”

Here the speaker was about to plunge into an elaborate discourse upon this subject, but George was saved from listening by the orderly reappearing from an inner room and beckoning him forward.

“The general will see you,” said he.

In another moment the young man found himself in the presence of the stout, red-faced Putnam who sat puzzling over some intricate maps at a great table. Beside him sat another officer whom George at once recognized as General Sullivan, and standing near by was General Heath, who had done so much to train the raw levies for the fight at Breed’s Hill.

GENERAL PUTNAM GLANCED UP

General Putnam glanced up as George entered; his good-humored face took on a smile, and he at once threw aside the map, which, to speak the plain truth, did not greatly interest him.

“Ah, Prentiss,” said he. “So it’s you, is it?”

George saluted; drawing the packet of sealed dispatches from his saddle-bag, he laid them before the bluff commander. The latter tore it open eagerly; one by one he mastered the contents of the papers, and as he did so, passed them on to Sullivan, who in turn read and handed them to General Heath.

“And so General Washington will be with us within a few weeks,” said the latter, upon finishing the last of the dispatches. “Excellent!”

“It is all we require to make the place safe,” said Putnam. “The batteries are planted, the redoubts completed and the passes all made good. With the main body of the army here we can welcome the enemy at any time he chooses to show himself.”

“The general is bringing the forces on by way of Providence, Norwich and New London,” spoke Sullivan, referring to one of the papers, “and says that he will remain with them until they are safely embarked at the latter place.”

Here Heath and Sullivan fell into a debate as to the probabilities of the main body’s securing sufficient suitable craft to carry it expeditiously from the Connecticut port to New York; and while they were so engaged, Putnam arose and crossed the room to where George Prentiss was standing. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he had not passed on to his brother officers; and he folded and refolded it carefully with his strong, thick fingers, as he said:

“And so the general has made you a bearer of his dispatches.”

A flush of color came into the young man’s face, and he replied earnestly:

“I was proud indeed to be called upon for such service. I had had no thought that I might be so trusted.”

“Tut, tut,” said the kindly Putnam, “if you made a mistake at the beginning, you but showed that you were human. We are all likely to do the same. All of us were at one time or another king’s men; and if you were somewhat late in renouncing your allegiance, so to speak, what great matter? You are as determined upon liberty now as the best of us. You proved that a score of times about Boston and Cambridge last winter.”

“I am pleased that you hold so good an opinion of me, general,” said young Prentiss, “and, believe me, I shall try to be worthy of it.”

“I understand your feelings,” and Putnam laid a big hand upon his shoulder. “So we’ll say no more about it. And now, good-bye; I have some matters to attend to. But leave word with Major Hyde where you can be found. I may want your service upon business of importance.”

George saluted; and as the sturdy old soldier turned back to the table, the young man left the room. He inquired of the ensign, whom he found still at the window, as to the inns and lodging places.

“The ‘King’s Arms’ is the place for you. It is but a step or two above; look,” pointing from the window, “you can see its sign-board from here.”

Thanking the affable young man, George turned to Major Hyde and gave the “King’s Arms” as his address, after which he left the building and took steps to install himself at the inn.

It was something past high noon by this; and as he sat at a table in the “King’s Arms” discussing a beefsteak pie and a brown loaf, he chanced to glance from the window near which his table stood. Upon the opposite side of the way stood Major Hyde and Henderson, the foppish officer of dragoons; in earnest conference with them was a burly personage in a long skirted coat and having the manner of an ill-trained mastiff. Every now and then Hyde would punctuate his remarks by pointing at the inn, and each time the little, fierce, deep-set eyes of the burly man would follow the gesture with satisfaction. After some moments, during which George observed all three closely, they appeared to come to some sort of understanding. The burly personage, after assuring them of something, at once crossed the street toward the “King’s Arms.”

CHAPTER III
TELLS HOW A BULLY ENTERED THE
“KING’S ARMS”

There were sundry other patrons of the “King’s Arms” gathered in the public room at the time, dining on the wholesome food for which the inn was noted. There were officers of the colonial army; there were, also, citizens of the town, who, judging from their discourse, were of various political complexions; and, also, there were many smartly attired ladies of apparent consequence.

The peppery Lee and his successor in command of New York had shown a marvelously short temper in their dealings with the more vigorous of the Tories; but for all that there were many of them left in the town, and, too, they were not of the sort that keep a still tongue to gain favor.

Indeed, as he listened to the conversation going on upon all sides, young Prentiss was greatly astonished. Round about Boston, the king’s men had not dared to express themselves since Boston fight; but here they not only proclaimed their views, but the patriots listened patiently.

“It is because the matter has not progressed so rapidly here as in Boston,” he reasoned with himself. “The king’s army is not strong enough to take the initiative—and the friends of liberty have not yet abandoned hope of patching up matters with the ministers at London.”

Very near to George, one of these discussions was fast gathering volume, but, as his breakfast on board the “Nancy Breen” had been of the slimmest, he gave more attention to his dinner than to the dispute. But gradually, as the voices grew in sternness, the young fellow noticed something familiar in them; so turning his head he recognized Merchant Camp, his partner Dana, and the heavy-faced young militiaman, Camp’s nephew.

The old Tory merchant, a napkin tucked about his neck, was flourishing his fork and airing his opinions with much relish. He sat directly facing his nephew, and seemed to be scorching him with sarcasm and his private version of the facts.

“Keep to your opinions, if you style them as such,” he was saying. “You are only a lad and I will not quarrel with you because of them. But, as sure as the sun shines at this moment, there will be wreck and ruin for many because of the loose thinking of you and the like of you.”

He put down the fork carefully upon his plate and now shook his finger beneath the sullen young man’s nose, while he went on:

“Because your party has forced a handful of king’s troops to keep behind the walls of the fort—because you have taken the government’s cannon with none to prevent you, you must needs fancy yourselves great fellows, indeed. And because the king’s frigates do not open upon you, you think it is because they fear you. Bah, sir, bah! I never credited reasoning creatures with so little sense. The reason why the garrison remains quiet—the reason why Lee and Putnam were permitted to seize the guns—the reason why the frigates below there have withheld their broadsides, is because they are biding their time. The answer will yet come, never fear; and when it does, trust His Majesty’s officers to make it full and complete.”

The heavy-browed young man shook his head, stubbornly, and looked more sullen than ever.

“They are awaiting reinforcements,” said he. “We all know that. But what difference does it make? Let them come. By the time they get here, General Washington will also have arrived with the American army. He drove the British out of Boston, and he’ll drive them out of New York.”

“He drove them out of Boston—I grant you that. But it was because vigorous measures had not been taken in the first place. Gage was too lenient—too easily gulled. He did not dream that British subjects would ever take up arms against their sovereign. But here it is different. Howe knows the full measure of this treason, and he should come prepared to cope with it. He’ll be provided with fleets and armies and equipment; and no doubt he’ll have his instructions as to how to act. It’ll not be the case of Gage over again. Trust the king’s ministers for that. And another thing,” here the old man’s voice was pitched a key lower, “in the colony of New York, your brave Washington and his fellows will have a different people to deal with. The countryside will not be with him as in Massachusetts. There will be thousands of loyal gentlemen; and besides, there will be the Johnson family.”

In spite of the lowered voice, the words were caught by those seated close by; and George Prentiss noticed that every one near paused and looked up.

“Hah! Those Johnsons!” grumbled a gentleman of undoubted Dutch extraction at the table at George’s right. “A dangerous set of rascals, indeed!”

“If I may make bold, sir,” asked the young man, “to whom does he refer?”

The pursy gentleman looked astonished at this.

“Is it possible,” said he thickly, “that there is any one who does not know of Sir William Johnson, once His Majesty’s Indian agent?”

“But is he not now dead?”

“Yes, but his descendants still live,” complained the other, his broad Dutch face full of indignation. “Sir William made vast wealth in his office; he was almost actual sovereign of the Six Nations. His family have all his riches and all his power over the Indians, and they threaten to bring the tomahawks upon us if we persist in our demands for justice.”

George could not help a shudder at this; that the British might resort to the Indians to help their cause had never occurred to him.

“And, uncle,” demanded the heavy-browed young man, “do you approve of so barbarous a method of putting down the popular will as Guy Johnson or Colonel Claus could supply?”

Here Mr. Camp was seized with a fit of coughing; that he did not approve of it was plain enough; but he was not the man to give an opponent in debate the slightest advantage. It was Mr. Dana who next spoke.

“Far be it from any of us to desire bloodshed of whatsoever kind,” said he. “For my part, I fervently hope that the misguided people of these provinces will shortly see their error, and abide by what the law plainly requires them to do.”

Here the sullen young man laughed scornfully.

“There will be blood letting and plenty of it, never fear,” exclaimed he. “The Sons of Liberty will never give a step in their demands; and England’s present ministers are not of the sort to let a rich prize slip from them without a struggle.”

“And why should they?” demanded Mr. Camp in a high voice. “Why should they, nephew? These colonies cost men’s lives and much treasure to acquire, and why should the government not defend them?”

Here he plunged into an angry defense of any action that the ministry might take; his voice was so unguarded and his manner so violent that the waiters went scurrying here and there; and finally the landlord himself approached hastily.

“I must beg of you, Mr. Camp,” suggested he in a smooth voice, “that you moderate your language. You are giving offense to my guests, sir.”

For a moment it seemed as though the short-tempered old king’s man was about to flare forth as he had upon the wharf earlier in the day. But a remembrance of what had followed that outburst, perhaps, deterred him. He waved his hand, and said:

“Ah, yes; I had forgotten. I ask your pardon.”

Highly gratified at quelling a possible disturbance so easily, the landlord was about to turn away when a voice bellowed:

“Come now, a place—a place! Must I be kept waiting as though my money were not as good as another’s? Get me a place, blockhead, or I’ll see what cudgeling will do for you.”

A frightened little man in a huge apron fluttered about somewhat helplessly.

“Here is a place,” said he, drawing back his chair at a table in a shadowy corner. “And a very good place, too, sir. Much to be desired, indeed.”

“You’ll tempt me to lay my stick over your back yet,” bellowed the impatient guest. “What sort of a situation is that for a man of my quality? A fitting place for a dog to curl up, but not for a gentleman to eat his dinner in.”

“This way, sir,” interposed the host, much in haste, for complaint was distasteful to him. “This way. Here is a place well lighted and well aired,” and he drew out a chair at George’s table. “The young gentleman will not object, I’m sure,” and he bowed to George.

“Not in the least,” said George, and as he spoke he glanced up. At once he recognized in the noisy, ill-tempered guest the burly personage whom he had seen a few minutes before in conference with Major Hyde and the dragoon officer, across the way.

“Object!” said the big man in a harsh voice. “Object! Why should he, I’d like to know? This is a public inn, and I think I know my rights in such a place.”

So saying, he slapped his dusty beaver hat upon the table and sat down facing George with noisy ostentation. There was something deliberately offensive in the man’s manner, and George darted a sharp look at him, though he said nothing. The newcomer noted the look, and thrusting his head forward inquired, bluntly:

“You have nothing to say, I trust, young sir?”

“In my turn,” replied young Prentiss, quietly, “I trust that I shall have no occasion to say anything.”

The burly man did not seem to know how to take this; but evidently he suspected some hidden meaning in the saying, for his little eyes began to snap.

“I make it a point to pay as I go, and ask favors of no one,” declared he. “What have you to say to that?”

“It’s a good resolution, as such things run,” returned the youth. “But, believe me, sir, I can do very well without the particulars as to your private affairs.”

The burly personage was taken somewhat aback at this, and his surprise was so evident that several persons who had been listening laughed outright. Among these was Herbert Camp, and instantly the big man selected him from the others and whirled round in his chair.

“I hope, sir,” said he, with much directness, “that you are not laughing at my expense.”

The sullen-faced lieutenant flushed as he saw the eyes of all within hearing turn upon him. But he answered readily enough:

“I would be very sorry, indeed, to do anything at your expense.”

“Ah, would you so?” and the man eyed him with singular intentness. “Well,” with a nod of the head, “I’ll bear you in mind, my lad. It is possible that I’ll make some small effort in your direction before a very great while.”

From the time that he had seen his neighbor in conference with Major Hyde and the officer of dragoons and had caught their gestures, George had had no doubt but the man’s intentions in entering the “King’s Arms” was in some way connected with himself. He had given both officers offense during the morning, and he had felt that the burly one’s errand was some scheme of retaliation.

The offensive manner of the man toward him seemed to clinch this belief; but now, as George went sedately on with his dinner, all the time observing his neighbor, his suspicions gradually changed. The newcomer paid no further attention to him; indeed, for all the knowledge he betrayed of his presence, young Prentiss might as well not have existed.

This seemed odd to George and piqued his interest; he was still speculating upon its meaning, when he made a peculiar discovery. The man before him sat, as stated, with his arms folded across his chest; his eyes had also closed, and a casual observer would have pronounced him fallen into a doze. But several little things pointed out the real facts to George. The big man was intently listening to the conversation which had been resumed at Mr. Camp’s table.