THE BLACKSMITH
I had come up gasping for breath, well out in the stream, either shore a
mere darker shadow showing above the water. How far I had been swept
below the barge could not be guessed, as I could distinguish no outlines
clearly, excepting the bare spars of a vessel, tied up to the west shore.
As this ship had not been in sight previously I concluded the drift had
been greater than anticipated, and I struck out quickly toward the
opposite bank, fearful lest I be borne down as far as Gloucester before I
could finally make land. It was a hard swim across the swift current, and
I was nearly exhausted when I finally crept up the low bank, and lay
dripping and panting in the shelter of some low bushes. Except for the
bark of a distant dog there was no sound more disturbing than the rustle
of leaves, and the lapping of water. As my breath came back I sat up,
wrung out my clothes as best I could, and, with difficulty, drew on the
boots I had borne across, slung to my shoulder.
I possessed but a dim conception of where I was, yet knew I must make a
wide detour to the east so as to escape British foraging parties. There
was nothing to guide me except the stars, no sign of any habitation, nor
cultivated field; not even a fence. I shivered in the night air, and went
stumbling forward over the rough ground, until I came upon a road running
north and south. I had no desire to proceed in either of these
directions, but the walking was so much better that I turned to the left,
hoping to find a trend eastward, as I knew the river swerved in that
direction. My reward was the discovery of a crossroad, a mere wagon
track, into which I gladly turned, and plodded along steadily. The stiff
exercise, combined with the heat of my body--for I was walking now as
rapidly as the darkness would permit--dried my clothes, yet with every
step onward, I became more apprehensive of danger. I was unarmed, my
sword sunk in the Delaware, my pistol useless from wet powder; unless I
found concealment before daybreak I would doubtless fall into the hands
of some roving band, and be summarily dealt with. If loyalists, I was
certain to be returned to Philadelphia a prisoner; if Colonial then I
would find it hard to explain the uniform I wore. In either case there
would be no gentleness in handling me.
I must have thus plodded doggedly along through the darkness for fully
five miles, without perceiving the first sign of habitation, or even a
wood into which I could crawl for concealment, when I suddenly came upon
a long, one-story stone building standing at the left of the road, a
grim, silent, apparently deserted structure, one end of the roof caved
in, and several of the windows smashed. The appearance of desolation was
so complete as to make the flesh crawl, and in the distance an owl hooted
dismally. I tried the doors, but they appeared firmly fastened. Far in
the east there was a faint lightening of the sky promising the approach
of dawn, and thus aroused to a knowledge that I must immediately attain
shelter, I clambered through one of the broken windows, and dropped to
the earthen floor within. I could see nothing, not even a hand held
before my eyes, yet carefully felt my way forward through a tangle of
rubbish, wheels, scraps of iron, some casks, a number of plough handles,
and a riffraff of stuff I could not make out. The place had evidently
been used as a repair shop, but must have been closed for months, as I
could feel the grit of dust everywhere, and cobwebs brushed against my
face as I moved about. Finally I felt the outlines of a large box half
filled with paper, and, for want of something better, crept in and
snuggled down, intending to rest there until daylight should reveal my
surroundings.
I was warm enough, now, my clothing practically dry, but thoroughly tired
from the long tramp over the dark road, and exhausted by the excitement
through which I had passed. Even my mind seemed dulled, and it appeared
useless to think or plan. All night long I had been the helpless victim
of circumstances, and I could only trust blindly to luck for the future.
I recall lying there, staring up into the darkness, listening to the
squeal of a rat in some distant corner, the memory of the past few hours
rioting through my brain in bewildered confusion. I had not intended to
sleep, yet drowsiness came, and I lost consciousness.
I know not what aroused me, but it was already daylight, a gleam of sun
through the windows turning the festooned cobwebs into golden tapestry.
One side of the box in which I lay had been broken out, and I could see
the full length of the shop, which appeared littered from end to end with
all manner of implements of husbandry, and woodworking and blacksmith's
tools. It was a jumble of odds and ends, scraps of wood and iron,
discarded parts of machinery, an old forge, bits of harness, and a broken
saddletree. All this I perceived with my first glance, but it was the
distant sound of a voice which as instantly held my attention. At first I
could not locate the speaker, nor comprehend the peculiar singsong of the
utterance. But as I lifted my head, listening intently, I knew the man to
be beyond the wooden partition at my right, and that he was praying
fervently. Somehow heartened by this discovery I crept out from the bed
of papers, and stole silently forward to the narrow door which apparently
led into this second apartment. The voice never ceased in its monotonous
appeal, and I ventured to lift the latch, and take cautious glance
through the slight opening.
It was a blacksmith shop of fair size, fully equipped with all the tools
of the trade, the walls blackened by smoke, the earthen floor littered
with _débris_, a leathern apron hanging over the anvil. A curtain drawn
aside formed a smaller, separate apartment, with puncheon floor, lighted
by a small window through which a gleam of sun fell. I caught therein
glimpse of a bunk full of disarranged blankets, a straight-back chair,
and a small table, with a few books lying upon it. Yet all this was but
the result of a glance, as my whole attention concentrated upon a
kneeling figure just beneath the loop of the curtain. The man was facing
me, but with eyes closed, and uplifted, as his lips poured forth the
fervent words of prayer. I was not a religious man in those days, yet the
faith of my mother was not forgotten, and there was something of
sincerity about that solitary kneeling figure I could not but respect.
The words uttered, the deep resonant voice, and above all, the expression
of that upturned face, held me silent, motionless. He was a man of short,
sturdy limb, but great bulk, massive chest, and immense shoulders
evidencing remarkable strength. His face was rugged, the jaws square, the
chin pronounced, the brow broad, rather than high, with nose like the
beak of a hawk. His thick hair, iron-gray, was a bushy mat. His only
clothing consisted of leathern breeches, well worn but clean, and a rough
shirt, open at the throat, and sleeveless. This revealed a brawny chest,
and arms knotted with muscle.
But it was the man's voice, deep, resonant, vibrant with feeling, which
fascinated me, while the words spoken seemed to yield me a new conception
of prayer, so simple were they, so clearly a true utterance of the heart.
Believing himself alone with his Maker, there was a depth of sincerity in
the tone which hushed all shallow criticism. Rare Christian faith,
unreserved surrender, absolute confidence spoke through every syllable,
and I stood there, almost breathless, listening, feeling that this was
holy ground. What was this man, this praying blacksmith? A patriot
surely, from his words of petition; one who had suffered much, but was
willing to suffer more. The strength chiselled in that upturned face,
those deeply marked features, revealed no common mental equipment. Here
was a real man, with convictions, one who would die for an ideal; without
doubt a radical, ready to go to any extreme where conscience blazed the
way.
I cannot attempt to reproduce from memory those words of petition which
came slowly from his lips, as though the man was himself awed by the
presence of the Infinite. There was no stumbling, no hesitancy, but the
solemnly devout language of the Bible seemed to flow naturally forth, as
though the man's mind was steeped with the imagery of that Oriental past,
the present struggle in which he was engaged but a reflection of old
Jewish wars in which Jehovah led the chosen hosts to victory. As he
finally paused, his head bowed low, I stepped forward into the light,
confident of welcome, utterly forgetful of the uniform I wore. At the
first faint sound of my approach on the floor he was upon his feet
fronting me, the shortness of his limbs yielding him a certain grotesque
appearance, his deep-set eyes regarding me suspiciously. Before I could
realize the man's intent he sprang between me and the outer door, his
hand gripping an iron bar.
"A son of Baal!" came the roar from his lips. "How came you here in that
uniform? Are you alone?"
"Alone, yes," and I hurled the scarlet jacket into the dirt with a
gesture of disgust. "I had even forgotten I wore it. Wait a moment. I
heard your prayer, and know you must be with us. I am Major Lawrence of
the Maryland Line."
He stared at me motionless.
"Then how come ye here?"
"I was sent into Philadelphia by Washington himself, but my identity was
discovered, and there was no way of escape except across the Delaware. I
reached here during the night, and crept into your shop to hide. The
sound of your voice awoke me from sleep, and I knew from your words that
it was safe for me to come forth."
"You may know it, young man, but I don't," he replied gruffly. "We're a
bit suspicious of strangers here in the Jerseys these days. The minions
of Satan encompass us about. What have ye to show to prove your story?"
I shook my head, extending my hands.
"Only my word of honor. I had a pass from Hamilton, but destroyed that
before entering the British lines. If I tell you the whole story, perhaps
you will understand its truth."
The expression of his face did not change, yet I thought the deep-set
eyes were not altogether unkind.
"You are hungry, no doubt?"
"Being human, yes."
"Then we'll eat and talk at the same time. You're only one man, an' I'm
not afraid of you, an' if ye are a Britisher I wouldn't starve you to
death. There's little enough, the good Lord knows, but you're welcome to
the half of it. Make yourself comfortable there on the bench."
I did as he suggested, impressed by the rugged directness of the fellow,
convinced he already half believed my brief explanation. He stepped
outside into the sunlight searching the road that led away across the
flat distance; returning he indulged in a single glance into the deserted
shop where I had passed the night. Apparently satisfied that I was indeed
alone, he threw open a cupboard in one corner, and brought forth a
variety of food, placing this upon a wide shelf near at hand.
Occasionally our eyes met, and I knew he was slowly making up his mind
regarding me. This silent scrutiny could not have been altogether
unsatisfactory, for, when he finally drew up an empty box and sat down,
he was prepared to talk.
"Help yourself," he began gravely. "It is rough camp fare, but doubtless
you are used to that. Do you know me?"
I scanned his face again intently, surprised by the question, yet
recognized no familiar features.
"No," I replied, with some hesitation. "Have we ever met before?"
"Not to my remembrance," and the man's language and accent evidenced
education above his apparent station. "But I have won some repute in this
part of the Jerseys, an' thought my name might be known to you. You would
recognize the signature of George Washington?"
"I have seen it often."
He drew a flat leather case from a pocket inside his shirt, extracting
therefrom a folded paper, which he opened, and extended to me across the
table. With a glance I mastered the few lines written thereon,
recognizing its genuineness.
"Hamilton penned that," I said in quick surprise, "and it is signed by
Washington's own hand."
The deep-set eyes twinkled.
"Right," he said shortly, "that bit of paper may save me from hangin'
some day. There are those who would like well to see me swing if they
only laid hands on me at the right time and place. You know what the
paper is?"
"A commission as Captain," and I bent over it again, "issued to Daniel
Farrell, giving him independent command of scouts--by heavens! are you
'Bull' Farrell?"
He was eating quietly, but found time to answer.
"There are those who call me by that nickname; others give me even a
worse handle. 'Tis my nature to make enemies faster than friends. You
know me then?"
"I was with Maxwell at Germantown," the remembrance of the scene coming
vividly to mind, "when you came up with your ragged fellows. You have
certainly taught them how to fight."
"There was no teaching necessary; all the trouble I ever have is in
holding them back," his face darkening. "Every man who rides with me
knows what war means here in the Jerseys; they have seen their homes in
flames, their women and children driven out by Hessian hirelings. We
fight for life as well as liberty, and when we strike we strike hard. But
enough of that. We have sufficient confidence in each other by now to
talk freely. What did you discover in Philadelphia? No more than I could
tell you myself, I'll warrant."
I told the story, while he listened silently, his eyes alone expressing
interest. As I ended, he slowly lit his pipe, and sat there smoking,
apparently thinking over what I had said.
"Have I learned anything of importance?" I asked finally.
"For Washington, yes; but very little unknown to me. So you met Mistress
Claire, eh? The little minx! 'Tis a month since I heard of her."