SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER WENT FORTH INTO THE NIGHT AND WHAT DISCOVERY HE
MADE BY THE WAYSIDE
Ben Cooper had left his holster pistols slung from the back of a chair
in the public room; so now when he strode in, took them up and looked
at their locks and primings, the good landlady of the inn opened her
eyes.
“What now?” she asked. “Has anything gone wrong?”
“Not yet,” answered Ben; “but,” smiling, “there is no knowing,
according to your hostler, what will befall on the road after night.”
“Pay no attention to what he says upon that point!” exclaimed the
woman. “He is fair mad about it. If he can get any one to listen to his
talk about the road, especially the road after dark, he’s happy. Pay no
attention to him.”
“It so chances,” said Ben, “that I am much struck by something which he
has said, and have the curiosity to look further into it.” He placed
the pistols in his belt, and provided himself with ammunition. “I
shall, perhaps, be gone some time. If I return after you are all abed,
I will not arouse you, so have no fear upon that score. There is hay in
the barn loft, I know, and I can make myself comfortable enough in that
for a few hours.”
The landlady was still expostulating when he departed, and as he walked
down the ice-bound road, he heard her calling shrilly to the hostler.
“He’s in for a rare, good drubbing,” laughed Ben, to himself. “The
hostess is a famous scold when she is herself, as I’ve often heard.”
The night was dark and bitterly cold, and the lad drew his greatcoat
well about him, and plunged his hands deep into his pockets.
“By all appearances, the carriage is to be met hereabouts,” he mused,
as he stumbled along. “As they have no horses, it seems reasonable to
think that this is so. Therefore, I must be as cautious as I can, for
there is no telling where these two worthies may be lurking.”
The wind lifted as he went along and soon he felt damp particles of
snow upon his face.
“A storm,” said Ben. “I trust it will not block the road, if it prove
that I must go on to Philadelphia.”
The fall increased; and the wind took up the flakes, whirling them
about madly. In a very short time the night began to lighten, for the
snow clung to the trees and bush and so mantled the earth as to make
things rather plain to be seen.
“I must be more careful than ever now,” Ben told himself, his eyes
sharply ahead. “If they should chance to be hiding near the road I am
sure to be observed.”
To prevent this he left the road and began making his way through
a thin growth of tall pines. The ground was thick with a carpet of
needles, over which lay the light snow, so his footsteps were soft and
cat-like. Suddenly ahead there loomed a sort of barrier of boughs, and
from behind it came the faint sparkle of fire.
With increased caution the boy advanced, and as he drew near to the
boughs, he caught the murmur of a voice. The sound continued, and Ben
fancied that it must be some persons engaged in conversation; but upon
approaching the sound he was astonished to discover that it was some
one singing.
“Oh, ye Irish lads of fair renown,
Come listen unto me,
And I’ll relate a bitter fate
That happened on the sea.
It was in the dark December
Upon the Baltic coast----”
Just what happened upon the Baltic coast is something of a mystery,
for at that point the singing broke off and a voice was raised in
lamentation.
“Oh, by this and by that,” it said, “is there ne’er a stick of dry wood
in all America to keep a poor gossoon from freezing to the marrow?
Faith, here I am with sorra the coat to me back, and the wind whistlin’
a jig tune about me two ears. Oh, worra, worra, why didn’t they leave
me stop at home in Ireland where I was happy, and not bring me to this
place to fight the poor people who only ax the right to live dacently.”
In a little flare cast by the fire, Ben saw a round-headed, well-built
lad, with a shock of sandy hair and an honest, comical-looking face.
He was grubbing among the brush for something to add to his fire, but
apparently all that was not frozen to the ground was wet by the snow,
and he was meeting with but poor success. However, in spite of this,
and with his teeth chattering, he began to sing once more.
“’Twas in the hills of Wicklow
First I saw the light of day,
And, my father’s cabin round,
I, as a child, did play.
Until one morning in the spring----”
What occurred on this particular morning must take its place beside the
episode of the Baltic coast; for once more did the singer stop, and
break forth into complaining:
“’S’cure to the dry chip is there anywhere. Oh, then must I get my
death, entirely, in a strange place and with people all about who think
me a thief of the world because I fought on the side of the Sassanach?
Bless us and save us! It’s rather fight against them I would, any time,
than for them.”
At this point Ben stepped around the barrier of boughs and into the
circle of light cast by the fire. The sandy-haired youth leaped up and
seized a cudgel which was lying beside him; whirling it about his head,
he cried boldly enough:
“Stop where you are, or by this and by that, you’ll have this lump of a
stick clattering about the head of you!”
Ben stood smilingly regarding him.
“How did you make your way all the distance without being found out?”
The other, seeing that, at least, no immediate attack was meditated,
lowered his bludgeon.
“What’s that you say?” he demanded.
“I ask you, how did you get so far from Trenton without being
discovered?”
“From Trenton, is it?” cautiously. “And, sure, who told you I come from
Trenton?”
“The clothes you wear,” said Ben, as he sat down upon a log. “You threw
the coat away because it was red; but the other things tell just as
plainly that you are a British soldier.”
Here the cudgel was grasped firmly once more, and the sandy-haired lad
took a step forward.
“Is it me that you call such a name?” demanded he. “Is it Paddy Burk
that you call by so disgraceful a title? True for you, I did wear the
red coat, and true again that I threw it in a ditch--because I hated
it. But never was I a British soldier. I was an Irish boy compelled to
wear a British soldier’s clothes, but never for a minute was I anything
less.”
“You are a deserter, then,” said Ben.
“I left them just as honestly as they enlisted me. There was I at home,
a raw boy, knowing nothing and listening to the tales the dragoon
sergeant told of foreign parts. And when he handed me the ‘shilling,’
I took it thinking he only meant to be generous with me, and never
dreaming that it made me a redcoat.”
“I’ve heard that they do such things,” said Ben.
“And then off they took me,” lamented Paddy Burk. “Off they took me to
a big town and put me on board a ship with dozens more like me, and
over we came to America as British soldiers--a thing we never thought
to be.”
“You were with the army of Cornwallis, I suppose,” said Ben.
“Yes,” replied the other. “I was with him till he reached the place
where they tried to cross the bridge, and the Americans drove them
back. It was yesterday, I think. Then I got a good chance and took leg
bail for it across the river on the ice. And,” with feeling, “here I
am wandering about with never a bite nor sup since then; and it’s fair
weak with the hunger I am.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Ben Cooper spoke.
“You don’t like the British service, then?”
“Like it!” The sandy-haired lad gripped his cudgel in both hands.
“Sure, and how could any one with Irish blood in his veins like it?”
“Perhaps,” said Ben, “you’d prefer that of America.”
The cudgel was lowered and an interested look appeared upon the face of
the boy.
“Now that,” said he, “is a different thing. I would have tried to find
General Washington’s army, but I was afeered to go back across the
river.” He stared at Ben, anxiously. “Maybe now it’s yourself that
could tell me how to find it.”
“Well,” said Ben, “one of the first things that should be done in your
case is to get you warm and provide you with some food. Then we can
think of the rest.”
The face of the Irish boy brightened up wonderfully.
“Arrah, then it’s the great lad ye are!” he cried, with admiration.
“Sure, a bite to eat and a fire with a trifle of heat in it would be as
welcome as the sun in the morning.”
“But,” proceeded Ben, “before I can do anything else, I must first see
to a matter of great importance. As for you,” and he pointed in the
direction of the road, “take that way until you come to an inn, less
than a mile away. Say to the landlady that----”
Here the other interrupted him.
“Ah, sure, it would make no matter what I’d say to her. It would be all
the same, faith. She’d up with the broom and drive me away from the
door for a vagabond.”
“But----” said Ben, and again he was interrupted.
“Wherever you do be going,” said Paddy Burk, “let me go with you; and
when we come to a place where there’s a bit of comfort to be had,
sure, then, you can speak for me yourself.”
Seeing that the lad was fixed in his belief that no one would receive
him if his plea were unsupported, Ben’s mind was instantly made up.
“Come, then,” said he, arising, “and make yourself ready for a little
adventure.”
“Ah,” said Paddy Burk, and he passed his hand lovingly over the length
of his stout club, “that would be another name for a ‘ruction,’ I’m
thinking. Well, by this and by that, when there’s such to the fore, no
one ever saw Paddy Burk stand back and look on.”
Ben laughed.
“Perhaps, Paddy,” said he, “you’ll get your fill of ‘ructions,’ as you
call them; for there is something ahead which promises well in that
direction.”
In a few moments they had put out the fire and were trudging away under
the trees, the wind whirling the snow about their faces and into their
eyes. Ben kept his bearings and never allowed himself to get far from
the road; indeed, he skirted it very closely, his companion trudging
along at his side.
Suddenly the latter said:
“Whist! What is that beyant there? Is it a house, I dunno, or is it
somebody carrying a light?”
At almost the same moment Ben had perceived the dim spark through the
falling snow.
“It is moving,” said he, “and that shows that it is a light that is
being carried.” They paused for a time and watched the spark.
“It is slowly growing brighter,” commented Ben, “and that proves that
it is coming toward us.”
A little more observation showed that the light must be upon the road.
“Many’s the time I’ve seen the lights coming on that way on the night
before market day at Ballysampson,” said Paddy Burk. “They’d move a
weeny bit this way, and a small bit that way, according to the turns in
the road, and all the time they’d be a-blinking like a one-eyed dragon
out of a fairy book.”
Ben, with a sharp intaking of the breath, drew out his pistols. The
other perceived the action in the dim light thrown up by the snow.
“Ah, ha,” said he, “and so here is where the ruction starts. Well,”
with a brisk whirl of his cudgel, “the sooner the better, for a trifle
of exercise would warm me, so it would.”
“The first point I must warn you on is to keep silence,” said Ben, one
hand uplifted. “A wagon or carriage is expected at any time, bearing
matters of moment for the American camp. I have reason to think that it
is to be stopped near here.”
“And you think,” said Paddy Burk, in a whisper, “that this, with the
light, may be the carriage?”
“I do,” replied Ben Cooper. “But come, let us make our way to the
roadside.”
They turned at a sharp angle and started for the road; and as they
reached it there came a sudden shout; a pistol shot rang out, and the
moving lamp came to a stand far down the snowy road.
With the pistols gripped in his hands, Ben ran forward; as he neared
the halted vehicle, he saw a man climbing down from a high seat, and
another holding a pistol at his head. In the snow lay a dark, huddled
form, and over it stood a man in a long greatcoat, his hands stuffed
into his pockets.
“Have mercy, good folk,” whined the man, climbing down from the
driver’s seat. “Take pity upon one who never did you harm.”
The man with the pistol answered with a brutal kick, at which the other
howled loudly.
“Now hold your tongue, or you’ll get worse than that,” said the man
with the pistol.
“The money is here--safe in the bags,” cried the coward. “Don’t harm me
and I will show you where to find it.”
He was creeping toward the carriage once more when Ben Cooper’s first
pistol exploded, and missed. The man who had kicked the driver whirled
about savagely, but the second pistol laid him low; then the youth
dropped both empty weapons in the road and leaped for the man in the
greatcoat.
This person, however, stepped back, so as to avoid the full force of
the rush; then he lifted an empty pistol which he held in his hand, and
dropped it skilfully upon the boy’s head. Ben staggered beneath the
shock of the blow; the pistol lifted to repeat, but the lad, shaken
though he was, dodged, and in another instant had seized the other
round the body.
The man in the greatcoat was powerfully made, and did not hesitate to
grapple with his foe; but in spite of his great strength he found in
the boy a supple, eel-like quality that made him difficult to master.
Then to make matters worse for him, he stumbled over the prostrate form
in the road and went down with the boy upon him. In an instant Ben had
planted a knee in his chest, and gripped him about the throat.
All this had taken but a moment; and as Ben clung to his antagonist he
felt a glow of triumph. But in this he was premature, for just then
the man who had gone down under his pistol shot arose to his feet, the
blood streaming from a wound in his scalp, and lurched toward the boy.
It would have gone hard with the latter had not fortune favored him
that night. Cramped by the cold and weakened by hunger, Paddy Burk had
labored along a score or more paces in the rear. But now, as the newly
arisen man was dragging Ben Cooper from the one he held pinned to the
ground, the Irish lad was upon him with a whoop; the cudgel twirled
gaily and the man dropped to the road once more.
“Up on the seat with you,” directed Paddy, glaring at the driver.
But the speaker’s face looked so distorted in the dim lantern light
that the driver was stricken with fear and could not move.
“Then I’ll up for you,” said Paddy, promptly. “Inside with you,” to
Ben, who stood still dazed from the blow he had received; “and as for
you,” pointing his bludgeon at the man with the greatcoat, who was
scrambling out of the snow, “keep your distance, or by this and by
that, I’ll give you a taste of the stick that you’ll not like.”
With that he leaped upon the seat of the vehicle, and grasped the
reins; Ben, after a bewildered glance within that showed him a heap of
canvas bags snugly tucked away in a corner, stumbled in and dropped
upon a seat. Then with a yell at the now plunging horses, the Irish lad
waved his cudgel above his head.
“Away with you, my beauties,” he cried; “sure it is mesilf that will
give you a loose rein all the way to General Washington’s camp if need
be.”
And so away they tore with their precious load, the lantern swaying
madly, the carriage pitching from side to side.