The days went by, and on the afternoon of December thirtieth the boys
rode out of camp, the twins well wrapped up in front of troopers and
Tom mounted on a troop-horse. The day was pleasant and warm for the
season, and McLane pushed on at speed down the west side of the river.
It was a long and hard ride and the twins were tired when, nine miles
from the city, at a friendly farmer’s, pickets were put out and they
spent the night and were well fed.
They stayed all of that day at the farm, and at seven on New Year’s
Eve the Sergeant went back to camp, leaving but six men. Presently, to
Tom’s amazement, McLane came out of the barn with his Lieutenant, both
dressed as British officers and the men as King’s soldiers. Then they
mounted as before and rode slowly toward town. Tom, very curious, asked
questions. McLane laughed: “Only a little fancy ball, Tom, and don’t
talk. I want to think. Later I hope to send you a dispatch.” Tom was
puzzled, but rode on in silence.
About nine at night they were just outside of the English pickets, not
far from the Schuylkill. Here they rode into a wood and dismounted.
Then McLane on foot led the boys down the Lancaster Road.
“Yonder,” he said, “is a guard. As it is very dark you may get by
unseen. If not, you must say you are boys from town and have lost your
way. Not a word of me. Be careful. At the middle ferry bridge you will
find a chaise and your man-servant. Now be silent and careful and
good-bye, Colonel Markham.”
Full of the boy delight in an adventure so real, Tom went on in the
darkness with the twins. He saw against the sky a guard on a little
hillock above the road. A thicket of briers lined the wayside.
Tom halted and whispered: “We have got to creep, Gemini, and play
bears. No noise, and go slow.”
With this the three went down on their hands and knees in the snow,
and, Tom leading, crept by the sentry on the bank, who was stamping and
beating his breast to keep warm.
“Now,” said Tom, “for a run to get warmed up”; and, unseen, they ran
through the darkness on the well-trodden snow of the mid-pike.
They soon found the chaise and their servant. He had a pass so that
they easily went by the guard and after a short drive were at home and
in their mother’s arms.
When the boys left him, McLane, a little anxious, looked after them for
a time and returned to his men. They tied their horses in the wood
and, leaving a man to care for them, one by one crawled through the
thin line of pickets, who were much occupied in keeping themselves warm.
It was very dark, and again the snow was falling and a fierce wind
blowing. At last the men came together at a low whistle from McLane.
They were now close to the house where, in the wood above the
Schuylkill, Mr. Penn was pleased to entertain his friends. It was a
quaint little house and still stands to-day in the Zoological Gardens.
There is a small entrance hall, a winding stair, and on the left a
descent to a long underground passage ending in two large, cool-storage
rooms. One large chamber on the first floor looks eastward over the
river.
McLane knew it all well. It was now long after nine and very dark. The
partisan officer was safe between the pickets he had passed and those
along the west shore far below the house.
Leaving his men near the door he went around the house. Then,
approaching a window, he cautiously looked into the room. A dozen
candles were on the table, and many more in sconces on the wall.
At the table sat Mr. Galloway, the British superintendent of police, a
staunch Tory, Mr. Penn, Colonel Grimstone, and Captain Verney. There
were several empty chairs. Supper was over. There were empty bottles on
the table and a big bowl of punch.
The Colonel had removed his stiff regulation stock. Galloway had
unbuttoned his embroidered waistcoat. Verney was looking at his watch.
“A nice party,” said McLane. “Will it incline to be hospitable?”
Then he returned to the front.
The Lieutenant said: “Their horses are in the stable, the grooms asleep
beside a fireplace.”
A man was put at each window, two left at the door, and, it being
now near to ten, McLane quietly entered the hall, and then, with his
Lieutenant, appeared in the supper-room. Mr. Penn arose.
“Good-evening, sir,” said McLane. “Lieutenant Hand and I have had a
long ride, and seeing your lights took the liberty----”
“Oh, most welcome--as are all gentleman of His Majesty’s service. Sit
down, sir. Colonel Grimstone, you may know these officers.”
“Never saw them in all my life,” said the Colonel gruffly.
Captain Verney rose and bowed.
“I beg pardon,” he said, “I did not catch your name.”
“Captain Head, at your service.”
“That’s queer,” said Grimstone; “Head and Hand.”
“Sit down,” said the host. “Oh, by George, the servants have gone
and--Verney, you are the youngest and you know the way, would you fetch
some wine for us from the cellar?”
McLane said a word to his Lieutenant, who rose, apologizing. “I want
to see to the horses. Be back in a moment.”
In the hall he saw Verney take a lantern and go down to the cellar. The
Lieutenant waited a moment, shot bolt and lock behind the Captain, and,
returning, sat down by Galloway.
“Pray throw off your cloaks, gentlemen,” said Penn. “Will you drink,
Captain Head?”
McLane cast his cloak back from his left shoulder and set a hand on his
pistols.
“I never drink while on duty, Mr. Penn. You must hold me excused.”
“As you please, sir,” answered Penn.
“What’s your regiment?” inquired Grimstone in a thick voice.
“McLane’s Horse! And if a man moves there will be two dead.” For a
pistol was at the forehead of both the Colonel and Galloway.
They were startled, but had wit enough to understand a very unpleasant
situation.
“Don’t do that!” cried Grimstone. Galloway sat as still and as pale as
a statue.
“I am sorry, Mr. Penn, to disturb you,” said McLane; “but as I have
neither eaten of your salt nor drunk at your board, you will pardon me.
Neither do I want you or Mr. Galloway,” he continued, “if you will say,
on your honor, that you will not leave this room nor give the alarm for
half an hour.”
Penn said: “Needs must. You know the proverb, Captain McLane.”
Galloway said: “Oh, I swear.”
“Kindly put your watch on the table, Mr. Penn. Ten, I see. Captain
Verney is locked in the cellar. My regards to him. Come, Colonel, and
on the honor of a gentleman if you speak or resist I shall kill you.
Good-night, Mr. Penn.”
The Colonel rose with his captor and went out.
“Sergeant, put this gentleman between two men and call in the rest. If
he ventures to give the alarm shoot him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good Heavens!” said Penn to Galloway. “A nice ending for a supper.
That fellow missed Sir William Howe by only ten minutes.”
“Hark! What was that?” said Galloway. Distant shots rang sharp through
the cold night air.
“They have had trouble with the pickets.”
“Hope they caught them,” said Galloway.
Penn returned: “He is one of the kind that catches and is never
caught.” Then, as the noise of a great thumping and pounding fell on
his ears, he added: “Just listen to Verney!” And he fell back in his
chair, convulsed with laughter. “No, don’t move, Galloway. It wants
fourteen minutes of the half-hour. Sir William was in luck.”
A little later the amazed and disgusted Verney heard the story. “He
did not want me, I suppose.” He knew later that, because of being a
gentleman and courteously kind to Tom’s mother, McLane was pleased to
forget him.
The Colonel failed to appear at home that night. Verney was late in
returning, and only at breakfast did Mrs. Markham and the boys, to
their relief, and greatly to Tom’s delight, learn of the capture of
their unmannerly guest.
Then the Captain, still a little cross, turned on Tom.
“Now, sir,” he asked, “did you run away with the sleigh or the sleigh
with you?”
The Count, much amused, listened.
Tom was cornered. Very red in the face, he replied: “The horses ran
away with both, sir.”
“I may assure Sir William that the horses ran away?”
Tom felt that he was well within the boundary of truth as he said,
“Yes. They ran like everything. We upset, and Captain McLane found us
and took us to Valley Forge.”
“And what, sir, became of the map we left in the sleigh?”
Tom wriggled.
“I want an answer.”
“General Washington has it.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No, sir. Captain McLane gave it to him.”
“I think,” remarked the Count, “that you had better stop here.”
That was also Tom’s opinion.
“The map was in the coat-pocket, I remember.”
“Yes, sir. I was to tell Count Einstein, with Captain McLane’s
compliments, that his coat is at Farmer Nixon’s, near the Cross Keys
Tavern. He said you could easily get it.”
The Count expressed his pleasure, and Verney asked no further questions.
A few days later, just before supper, Tom burst into the room with the
twins after him.
“He’s got a letter!” cried Bill.
“He won’t let us see it!” cried Harry.
They fell on Tom and rolled in wild laughter on the floor.
“This is too much,” said Mrs. Markham.
Verney rose, and with two or three mild kicks separated the fighting,
laughing tangle of legs and arms.
Then he caught the elder boy by the collar and said: “Stand up on your
hind legs, Tom, and tell me what this row is about.”
“He’s got a letter,” said Bill, “a Quaker man, a farmer, left it; and
he won’t let us see it till mother reads it.”
“Where is it?” said Verney.
“Here, sir. You’re choking me. You may read it. There’s a message for
you.”
Captain Verney looked at the address and read, laughing, “This with
haste.”
“With your permission, madam,” he said; then he read aloud:
“Valley Forge, January 7, 1778.
“To Colonel Thomas Markham, Jr., late of Captain Allan McLane’s
Company, Continental Line----”
“That’s me!” said Tom.
“Indeed!” He turned to the contents.
DEAR COLONEL: I beg to report that after leaving you on the road with
Gemini I had the pleasure of Capturing Colonel Gravestone, now here
on parole and a low diet. He says his name is Grimstone, but what can
be grimmer than Gravestone, and grim he is and grave. We shall swap
him off for Colonel Markham.
My compliments to Captain the Honorable John Verney. Having been a
kind and courteous guest I forgot him. It was against the rules of
the service, but I trust, sir, you will not have me court-martialed.
The map found in the coat proves useful. My thanks to Major Montresor.
Remember me to your mother.
I have the honor to be your very obedient humble servant and
brother-officer.
ALLAN McLANE.
Postscript--I promised you an ending to my story, and here it is.
“Well, of all the impertinent things!” cried Verney; “but, my dear
Count, I should like to see ‘Gravestone’ among these gentlemen, and, on
my word, I should like to meet this brave and merry officer.”
The Colonel spent two months and more on parole at Valley Forge. He
lost four stone and became meek.
In the spring he was exchanged for a better man, Colonel Markham, but
no amount of food, as he swore, ever enabled him to make up for the
scant fare he had had in the camp of the Continentals.
The twins and Tom lived to enjoy many Christmas Days, but none like
that they spent with the army at Valley Forge in the hard winter of
1777-8.