“Mr. Hugh Wynne presents his compliments to Mr. Montresor, and returns
his skiff. He desires Mr. Montresor to accept two brace of ducks, and
begs to express his sincere thanks for the pass, which enabled Mr. Wynne
to make with comfort his way to the army. Mr. Wynne trusts at some time
to be able to show his gratitude for this favour, and meanwhile he
remains Mr. Montresor’s obedient, humble servant.
“October 1, 1777.
“Mr. Wynne’s most particular compliments to Mr. Andre. It proved easier
to escape than Mr. Andre thought.”
I could not help smiling to think of the good colonel’s face when he
should read this letter. I glanced at the arms over the fireplace,
thanked the good people warmly, and, as I went out, looked back at the
familiar words old John Bartram set over the door in 1770:
‘T is God alone, Almighty Lord,
The Holy One by me adored.
It seemed the last of home and its associations. I turned away, passed
through the grounds, which extended up to the Darby road, and, after
a careful look about me, moved rapidly southward. Here and there were
farm-houses between spurs of the broken forest which, with its many
farms, stretched far to westward. I met no one.
I knew there was a picket at the Blue Bell Inn, and so, before nearing
it, I struck into a woodland, and, avoiding the farms, kept to the
northwest until I came on to a road which I saw at once to be
Gray’s Lane. Unused to guiding myself by compass, I had again gotten
dangerously near to the river. I pushed up the lane to the west, and
after half an hour came upon a small hamlet, where I saw an open forge
and a sturdy smith at work. In a moment I recognised my old master,
Lowry, the farrier. I asked the way across-country to the Schuylkill. He
stood a little, resting on his hammer, not in the least remembering me.
He said it was difficult. I must take certain country lanes until I got
into the Lancaster road, and so on.
I did not wish to get into the main highway, where foragers or outlying
parties might see fit to be too curious. I said at last, “Dost not thou
know thy old prentice, Hugh Wynne?”
I felt sure of my man, as he had been one of the Sons of Liberty, and
had fallen out with Friends in consequence, so that I did not hesitate
to relate my whole story. He was pleased to see me, and bade me enter
and see his wife. As we stood consulting, a man cried out at the door:
“Here are more Hessians.” And as he spoke we heard the notes of a bugle.
“Put me somewhere,” I said, “and quick.”
“No,” he cried. “Here, set your snapsack back of this forge. Put on this
leather apron. Smudge your face and hands.”
It took me but a minute, and here I was, grimy and black, a smith again,
with my sack hid under a lot of old iron and a broken bellows.
As they rode up--some two dozen yagers--I let fall the bellows handle,
at which my master had set me to work, and went out to the doorway.
There, not at all to my satisfaction, I saw the small Hessian, Captain
von Heiser, our third and least pleasant boarder, the aide of General
Knyphausen. Worse still, he was on Lucy. It was long before I knew how
this came to pass. They had two waggons, and, amidst the lamentations
of the hamlet, took chickens, pigs, and grain, leaving orders on the
paymaster, which, I am told, were scrupulously honoured.
Two horses needed shoeing at once, and then I was told Lucy had a loose
shoe, and my master called me a lazy dog, and bid me quit staring or I
would get a strapping, and to see to the gentleman’s mare, and that in a
hurry. It was clear the dear thing knew me; for she put her nose down to
my side to get the apples I liked to keep for her in my side pockets.
I really thought she would betray me, so clearly did she seem to me to
understand that here was a friend she knew. A wild thought came over
me to mount her and ride for my life. No horse there of the heavy
Brandenburgers could have kept near her. It would have been madness, of
course, and so I took my six-pence with a touch of my felthat, and saw
my dear Lucy disappear in a cloud of dust, riding toward the town.
“That was a big risk for thee,” said the smith, wiping the sweat
from his forehead with his sleeve. “I will mount and ride with thee
across-country through the Welsh Barony. There thou wilt not be far from
the river. It is a good ten-mile business.”
After a little, when I had had some milk and rum, the horses were
saddled, and we crossed by an ox-road through the forest past the
settlement of Cardington, and then forded Cobb’s Creek, A cross-road
carried us into the Haverford road, and so on by wood-ways to the old
Welsh farms beyond Merion.
We met no one on the way save a farmer or two, and here, being near to
the Schuylkill, my old master farrier took leave of me at the farm of
Edward Masters, which lay in our way, and commended me to the care of
this good Free Quaker.
There I was well fed, and told I need to look out only on this side the
river for Tories. They were worse than Hessianers, he said, and robbed
like highwaymen. In fact, already the Tories who came confidently back
with the British army had become a terror to all peaceful folk between
Sweedsboro and our own city. Their bands acted under royal commissions,
some as honest soldiers, but some as the enemies of any who owned a cow
or a barrel of flour, or from whom, under torture, could be wrested a
guinea. All who were thus organised came at length to be dreaded, and
this whether they were bad or better. Friend Masters had suffered within
the week, but, once over the Schuylkill, he assured me, there need be no
fear, as our own partisans and foragers were so active to the north of
the stream as to make it perilous for Tories.
With this caution, my Quaker friend went with me a mile, and set me on
a wood path. I must be put over at Hagy’s Ford, he feared, as the river
was in flood and too high for a horse to wade; nor was it much better at
Young’s Ford above. Finally he said, “The ferryman is Peter Skinner, and
as bad as the Jersey Tories of that name. If thou dost perceive him to
talk Friends’ language in reply to thy own talk, thou wilt do well to
doubt what he may tell thee. He is not of our society. He cannot even so
speak as that it will deceive. Hereabouts it is thought he is in league
with Fitz.” I asked who was Fitz. He was one, I was told, who had
received some lashes when a private in our army, and had deserted. The
British, discovering his capacity, now used him as a forager; but he did
not stop at hen-roosts.
With this added warning, I went on, keeping north until I came to the
Rock road, by no means misnamed, and so through Merion Square to Hagy’s
Ford Lane and the descent to the river. I saw few people on the way. The
stream was in a freshet, and not to be waded. My ferryman was caulking a
dory. I said:
“Wilt thou set me across, friend, and at what charge?”
To this he replied, “Where is thee bound?”