THE TABLES TURNED.
Ethan Allen could see no possible chance of escape.
He was not afraid to meet the punishment, but he felt it galling to be
trapped in such a way.
If he had not been a bitter opponent of New York before, that treachery
would have made him one.
For greater security the two mountaineers had been bound together, so
that they could be more easily guarded.
Nearly an hour passed before the officer determined to march.
He had sent out scouts to ascertain if the Mountain Boys were in the
vicinity, and the men had returned to report all quiet.
Then the small company, with its valuable captives, set out to cross
into York at the nearest point.
For about an hour the march was continued in silence, and the men were
fatigued, for they had to carry the prisoners, both Allen and Baker
refusing to walk one step.
A halt was called, and the soldiers were told they could rest for one
hour.
They were delighted at the prospect, and laid themselves down on the
grass.
So secure did they feel that they relaxed their watchfulness and
allowed the prisoners to lie down by themselves a little distance away,
yet not so far that they had any chance of escape.
Allen was singing a song of freedom; it was an old French ditty he had
learned and often sung.
He sang, not because his spirits were light, but simply to prevent a
feeling of melancholy overmastering him.
The singing satisfied his captors that he was resigned, and was not
meditating any plan of escape.
In the midst of his song he heard a soft, low voice say:
"Do not speak, but listen."
Baker had fallen asleep, and Allen knew that it was Eben who spoke; but
how the boy got there, or, in fact, where he was, Allen could not
conjecture.
"Here is a knife," said Eben; "I am going to cut the cords which bind
your hands; you can then liberate Baker. When you are both free, keep
still until you hear the cry of the catbird, and then leap to your feet
and run, taking a course direct to the left; the boys are there in
ambush, and you will be safe."
While Eben was speaking he succeeded in cutting the cords, and Allen's
hands were free.
Eben glided away as noiselessly as he came, and Allen woke Baker as
quickly as possible.
"Heigho! Have we to continue our journey?"
"Hush! do not utter a word! We have a chance to escape, if you will
listen and not speak."
Allen told him all that had been done, and then quietly cut the other's
cords.
Both men were free.
They lay as still as though the cords still bound their bodies.
Allen sang another song in a low, tremulous voice.
Again it had the effect of disarming suspicion.
A bird warbled in a tree, rather strangely for so late at night, but as
one of the men remarked that it was the bird's lookout and not his, no
notice was taken of it.
And then the warbling ceased and the peculiar call of the catbird was
heard.
Instantly the two prisoners were on their feet and making for the wood.
They had got some yards before their movement was noticed.
At once the soldiers seized their guns, and a volley was fired after
the fugitives.
The shots did not reach the mark, and pursuit was commenced.
Allen heard the catbird again and again, and by its sound guided his
footsteps.
The soldiers were close behind and were gaining every minute, but the
Mountain Boys ran pluckily, for it was a race for life in reality.
They rushed into the dense wood and followed the narrow path, which was
really a deer run.
Some of the soldiers fired again, and a ball struck a tree and
ricochetted, injuring the leader of the little band of pursuers.
The accident made the men more furious, and they ran so fast that it
seemed Allen and Baker must certainly fall into their hands.
Suddenly the scene changed.
From behind every tree there leaped out a Mountain Boy, and with one
voice a shout went up:
"Surrender!"
It was no use resisting.
The Yorkers were outnumbered.
They were blown with the long run, while their enemies were fresh and
their muskets loaded.
"To whom are we to surrender?" asked the officer.
"To Col. Allen and his Green Mountain Boys," was the answer.
"On what terms?"
"The same you gave us," answered Baker.
"Yes, you are invaders of another colony, and must be treated as
marauders," added Allen.
"We are prisoners of war."
"Not any more than we were, but you bound us with cords, and you must
submit to the same treatment."
"It is an outrage."
"Very likely you think so, but you should do to others as you would
they should do to you. The example was set by you, not me."
Turning to his men, Allen ordered them to convey the prisoners to the
camp by the lake, and added:
"Shoot anyone who attempts to escape."
The order was unnecessary, for the Yorkers were too much frightened to
think of escaping.
When the camp was reached Ethan Allen gave orders for the Garvans,
father and son, to be arrested and brought to the camp.
Peleg Sunderland told how the rescue had been accomplished, but when he
gave Zeb's version of the affair Allen shook his head and told his
friends of the arch treachery of the elder Garvan, whatever his son
might say to the contrary.
Before morning Zeke Garvan and his hopeful son, Zeb, were prisoners at
the camp of the Mountain Boys.
Zeke expected to be shot, and whimpered like a child.
His son, Zeb, was brave, and showed that death had no terrors for him.
There was a sort of bulldog courage about him which won the admiration
of even his enemies. He faced the Mountain Boys with a defiance which
seemed to mean:
"What are you going to do about it?"
When Allen asked him why he had been so treacherous, he laughed as
though the question was a good joke.
"I worsted the enemy, didn't I?"
"What do you mean?"
Zeb screwed up his mouth as though about to whistle, then suddenly
changed and burst into another laugh.
"Come, my boy, we do not make war on boys, so tell me your motive."
"Shall I?"
"It will be for your advantage, and your father----"
"Don't mention him. Let every tub stand on its own bottom, my father
always taught me. Talk about me, if you like, but leave dad alone."
"Then, for your own sake, tell me why you did it. Did others prompt
you?"
"I don't know what you mean by prompt, but if you mean did anyone tell
me to do it, I say no. I thought of it all by myself, and I made a
bargain with father, which he didn't keep; but he was a long time
before he saw it as I did."
"Tell all your story, and leave the rest to me."
"Well, you see, father wanted money----"
"Ah! so money stands before country?"
"Let me tell my story."
"Go on, I will not interrupt you again."
"You had better not if you want to hear what I have to say. I said
father wanted money, and as the Yorkers wanted you, and offered a big
sum of good money for your capture, why, I suggested to father that he
get the reward. Now, don't wince; wait until you have heard all. So I
got father to agree, and then you were invited to supper. I had gone
for the soldiers, and there you were trapped as nicely as any bear in
the mountains. Well, when you were secured I put up dad to ask when he
would get the reward, and he was told he would have to go to Albany for
it, and I found that he could get the reward even if you were rescued,
so I wanted to make myself solid with the boys, and I came and told
them which way you would be taken, and how to rescue you. So if you
will let us go we shall get the reward, but the Yorkers won't get you."
Zeb spoke with such a feeling of exultation that Allen had to laugh.
"So you tried to please both parties?"
"Well, yes; but if ye don't get the money we shan't be pleased with the
result."
"Have you told me the truth?"
"Of course I have, and I am itching to get the reward so that I may
laugh at the enemy."
"And try to play the same prank again."
"No, I want to join you; I am tired of home. My, won't the Yorkers be
mad at having to pay the money and not get you anyway?"
"They will not pay the reward."
"Then I'll fight until they do."
Allen called a council of the boys and asked what should be done with
the prisoners.
"Hang them all, every one of them," was the advice of Peleg Sunderland.
"I say, keep them as hostages, and if any of our men are caught, deal
with the Yorkers as they deal with our men," said Baker.
"And I think," remarked Allen, slowly and with great deliberation,
"that we ought to liberate the soldiers, who only did as they were
ordered, and punish Farmer Garvan."
"Let us leave the whole matter to the colonel."
"Good! he is always right."
This course was adopted, and Allen accepted the trust.
He ordered the soldiers to be brought before him, and then addressed
them, telling them how some had counseled hanging, but as they were
fellow-Americans it was resolved to liberate them, because they had
only obeyed orders.
He expressed a wish that they would go back to their own colony and
tell the Yorkers that the men of the mountains would never give up
their lands while one of them remained alive.
The officer in charge spoke for his men.
He thanked Allen for his merciful conduct, and declared that the duty
had been distasteful, but that as soldiers they must act without
question.
After the Yorkers left the camp, Allen ordered the farmer to be brought
before him.
"Farmer Garvan," he said, "you have been guilty of the greatest crime
it is possible for a man to commit. You offered hospitality, and then,
like Judas, you betrayed those who trusted you. Your offense is worse,
seeing that you are a grantee of New Hampshire. By all the laws of war
you ought to be hanged----"
"Spare me!" whined the farmer.
"You did not spare me, but for the sake of a little money would have
condemned me to death. You are a coward, or you would meet your fate
boldly. A man who risks so much should not cry out for mercy when his
rascality fails. I will not hang you----"
"Thank you. Heaven----"
"Stay! Do not call Heaven into a defense of treachery. I order that
you be stripped and receive one hundred lashes on the bare back, such
punishment to be meted out to you in accordance with the laws laid down
by the convention at Bennington."
Garvan fell on his knees and with uplifted hands prayed for mercy.
"It will kill me, I know it will. Oh, spare me, and I will serve you,
I----"
"Each of my men will give you a stroke with a good, strong oaken or
beechen stick, and may the punishment teach you that treachery never
pays."
In vain the man cried for mercy.
Allen could never forgive treachery.
The Green Mountain Boys hurried to cut sticks from the trees which grew
by the lake, and each submitted his stick to Allen, who rejected quite
a number because they were too large.
Zeke was stripped and tied to a tree, his hands above his head. The
first man was called to administer his stroke, when Zeb, who had been
standing, listening to the decision, rushed forward, and placing
himself between his father and the mountaineer, said:
"Strike, but not father. Let me bear the punishment, for it was all my
fault, it was all my doing."
"Stand aside."
"I will not."
"Drag him away," commanded Baker.
Two of the mountaineers stepped up to the boy, who had clasped his arms
around his father's waist.
He held on so tightly that to drag him away they must hurt him.
Baker ordered the men to whip him until he loosed his grasp, but Allen
stopped the execution of this order.
"Stop! Boy, you have won. I thought you were bad at heart, but I see
you love your father, and for your sake I remit the punishment."
Zeb fell on his knees and clasped Allen's legs.
"Bless you! If anyone ever says a word against you in my hearing he
shall die, that he shall."
"Release the prisoner."
When Zeke was free Allen ordered him to give up the paper signed by the
soldiers.
"And lose my reward?"
"Yes; I will not allow you to be rewarded for treachery."
Garvan had no option in the matter, and so he gave up the document,
which certified that he was entitled to the reward for the capture of
Ethan Allen and Remember Baker.
Zeb pleaded hard to be allowed to join the Mountain Boys, and Allen
consented provisionally that he should stay in the camp and hold no
conversation with his old companions.
"I am afraid you acted foolishly," said Baker. "Others will follow the
farmer's example."
"I think not. Mercy never yet failed; sternness often leads to
disaster. I am satisfied with what has been done."
In this, as in many other instances, Ethan Allen, rebel though he was
called, outlaw as he was decreed to be, showed the largeness of his
heart.
"We shall have to break camp. It is possible others besides those who
have been liberated will know of our nearness and profit by it."
"Where shall we go, colonel?"
"To Middlebury. We will not secrete ourselves, but openly show that we
are in the field to oppose New York in its pretensions."