SHADES OF THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS
During the boys’ absence, a doctor from Ticonderoga had visited Walter
Lee, and pronounced his injuries comparatively slight, predicting a
quick recovery. A sheriff had come out with him, secured the best
description he could of the robber, and, satisfied who the fellow was,
had gone in search of him. But the bird had flown, as he informed Mr.
Wade on his way back. Harry was not altogether sorry to hear this, for
he had not been able to get the wretched young man’s mother out of his
thoughts.
That night as they sat around the camp-fire the conversation turned upon
the history of the old Fort Ticonderoga and its capture by the patriot,
Ethan Allen, in the early days of the War of Independence.
“He was a queer old fellow,” said Mr. Wade, who was always “great” at
camp-fire, “but I’ve never been able to make out how he did that trick.
There he was, a backwoods farmer, up in Bennington, Vermont, which was
then a wilderness, with a pack of lumbering backwoodsmen following him
about. Why, half of them didn’t have firearms, and half the guns they
had didn’t work. I understand they used to use their swords to hoe
potatoes. A uniform would have been a curiosity. They were simply a
parcel of big, burly, ignorant farmers, strong just as an ox is strong,
and almost as stupid. Allen had some wit, though. Well, finally the news
works up that way that the colonists are going to war. Up jumps old
Allen, and says he, ‘Come on, let’s go over there and take those two
forts. Crown Point and Ticonderoga.’
“They were loafing around the village store, talking about liberty and
tyranny and all that sort of thing. ‘It’s a go,’ said Seth Warner, who
was as reckless as Allen himself. ‘I’m with you,’ piped up the sheriff.
‘Me too,’ called another, and they got ready, chose Allen leader, and
came right down through to Shoreham, opposite Ticonderoga.—Put another
log on the fire, and rake her up a bit, will you, Cattell?
“Well, sir, there was one man who happened along, and he had some
military training, but they had no use for him—said he was nothing but
a soldier, and that was young Benedict Arnold, who turned traitor before
the end of the war. But they let him go along. Now, history tells us
that this pack of rough farmers, I don’t know just how many, brought up
on the shore right opposite Ticonderoga and Allen made them a great
speech. Then they appropriated a few dories that happened to be moored
about, for transports.
“That was long after midnight. They kept crossing and recrossing till
daylight, bringing the men over. You know, the fort, garrisoned by
English regulars, was scarcely two hundred feet from the shore. And this
thing was going on right under Captain Delaplace’s nose till daylight.
Then the whole crowd started up the hill, overpowered the sentry,
marched in, and Allen called upstairs for Delaplace to come down.
“‘What for?’ says Delaplace. ‘For me,’ says Allen; ‘I want the surrender
of this fort.’ ‘In whose name?’ called down the Captain, his nightcap
bobbing over the stairs. ‘In the name of the great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress,’ shouted Allen. And according to all accounts, the
Captain immediately surrendered the fort. Then, as if that wasn’t
enough, Seth Warner finished the job by taking Crown Point Fort in the
same way. And the Americans held them till General Burgoyne came down
through this country and retook them.
“Now, all things together, I say the whole thing was impossible!”
“It was done,” said Al Wilson, quietly.
“I know, Al,” said Mr. Wade, “but it was impossible just the
same—couldn’t be done.”
There was a great laugh, and Fred Brownell said: “You’re like the old
farmer that went to the menagerie and saw a camel for the first time.
He’d seen dromedaries with one hump before, but when he came to the real
camel with two humps he stood and looked at it for a few minutes in
amazement with his mouth wide open. Then he let out, ‘Gosh, ther ain’t
no such animal!’”
“Those farmers were full of patriotism,” ventured a boy, when the
laughter had subsided.
“Yes, and patriotism will carry one a long way,” said the scoutmaster;
“but I could never understand that capture—that and Paul Jones’s
victory. We’ll look over the ground when we go down there; the doctor
told me this morning that he’d see if he couldn’t get us permission to
camp a week or so right in the old fort. They say an old underground
passage to the lake is still there.”
Harry had listened carelessly to all this, but now an idea came to him.
“You mean to camp in the old fort, sir?” he asked.
“That’s the idea, if we can get permission. We’ll pick up here about the
middle of August and spend our last two weeks on historic ground. You
know, they’ve been restoring the old fortress after a fashion. A
patriotic woman became interested in it, and they’ve made quite a fort
of it. You two boys ought to see it. You know, old Ticonderoga has a
great history. It played a part in the bloody French and Indian War,
passed from the French to the English, then to the Americans when Ethan
Allen took it, then back to the English when Burgoyne took it, then
finally back to the Americans again. And now the Boy Scouts propose to
occupy it!
“We’ll explore the old Trout Brook where young Lord Howe was killed by
the Indians. I believe I can pick out the very spot.”
“Then you do admit Ethan Allen took it?” smiled Harry.
“Well, in a way,” laughed the scoutmaster, “according to history, yes;
according to reason and common sense, no.” Then, more seriously, he
added, “There are some things in history, freakish things, which are
theoretically impossible, but which are done. Paul Jones’s great battle
is one. The storming of Stony Point by Mad Anthony Wayne is another.”
“Washington put him up to that,” protested Al Wilson.
“No, he didn’t, Al; Washington told him to go ahead if he wanted to, and
Wayne, who was as crazy as a March hare, went ahead.”
“And succeeded,” finished Al.
“Yes, but logically he oughtn’t to have succeeded,” laughed Mr. Wade,
“and Ethan Allen ought not to have succeeded. There was something wrong
somewhere. If I were a military man and had a force of regular soldiers
under me in that old fort, do you suppose a pack of undrilled
backwoodsmen could land under my very nose, fire off a patriotic speech,
and take the fort without the loss of a single life or the shedding of a
drop of blood? No sirree!”
They all laughed at his good-natured vehemence, and he laughed himself,
for at such times he was no more than a boy among them.
“Oh, but it was great, though!” cried Gordon. Harry said nothing; he was
idly whittling a stick, and thinking. He hoped Gordon would not have the
same thought, and blurt it out. He was thinking that if this thing could
be done once without the shedding of a drop of blood, it could be done
again.
“The last two weeks in August,” he said to himself. “I wonder what Red
Deer will think of it.”
It was natural enough after this that the camp-fire “yarns” should turn
on the history of the famous lake, of the old forts at Ticonderoga and
Crown Point, and the story of the reckless, adventurous Ethan Allen and
his Green Mountain Boys. Thus the evening passed, the cheerful fire
crackling and lighting up the solemn woods and shining upon the faces of
the merry company. They sat later than usual, in honor of the two guests
who were to bid them farewell in the morning.
Gordon and Harry had the tepee to themselves, and the next day, early,
they took their leave of the hospitable camp. But first they went in to
see Walter Lee, who was to sit up that day. They had seen but little of
Collins, the “First Aid” boy, and now the three sat about the injured
scout’s couch and talked. Harry liked Collins immensely. When they rose
to go and had shaken hands with Walter, Harry lingered a moment. “I want
to ask you a question,” he said. “You remember when you passed us in the
train, you made me the full salute? How did you know I was patrol
leader?”
Walter’s hand went up to a slightly frayed buttonhole in Harry’s flannel
shirt. “I guess that’s where you fasten the lanyard of your patrol
whistle, isn’t it?”
Harry smiled. “You’ll do,” said he.
Gordon paused to lean down and speak confidentially to the invalid. “We
can’t make him wear a belt,” he said, “and he won’t wear a khaki coat,
either. He’s very funny about some things; well, good-by.”
Mr. Wade gave them a letter to be delivered to Dr. Brent, _alias_ Red
Deer, and bade them a hearty good-by, with many hints to be used in
their search for the needle in the haystack. The three patrols stood
together and gave them a great send-off. But not the full troop, either,
for seated by the roadside over the hill, they came upon Frankie and his
faithful follower, Giant George.
“What did you think of that scheme yesterday?” said Frankie.
“It was great,” answered Harry.
“I thought up all those signs,” Frankie continued.
“They were very clever, too,” Harry said.
“I thought up that about the odd shoes, too.”
“That was the best part; well, good-by, Frank.”
They had gone perhaps a hundred yards when the piping voice of Giant
George was heard in rebellious altercation with his leader, and
presently a frantic shout from him brought them to a halt.
“I thought up that about the odd garters!” he shouted.
“Good for you, George!”