HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
“It’s going to be a great day,” observed Mac. “What was it the history
book said, Gordon? ‘The day of their departure dawned brisk and fair’?”
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“Didn’t it say something about every soul being scared? Surely it did.”
“It said every soul was prepared,” corrected Gordon, with dignity.
“Well, Ethan Allen and his crowd hadn’t anything on us,” Mac answered.
Indeed they had not, to judge from appearances, for nearly everything
which had constituted the camp and made it homelike had been loaded into
the gallant _Swan_, which rocked gently at its moorings. The glider,
after a triumphant career of record making and breaking, had been taken
apart, first submissively posing for innumerable snapshots. There was
talk of awarding to the graceful flier a gnome motor, some time or
other, and it was agreed that meanwhile if any enterprising shopkeeper
in Oakwood cared to exhibit it “as the glider in which Harry Arnold
had—”
“Sh-h-h, here he comes,” said one of the scouts, in an undertone; “he’d
be wild if he heard you proposing that.”
“You’re not going to trust this precious cargo to Morrel, are you,
Doctor?” said Harry.
“I thought I’d let Howard go along with him to tend the engine. Morrel
can steer.”
“If you want her to go to the left, Til,” said Harry, soberly, “you just
pull on this rope, and for the right—”
“Think you can remember that, Til?” said Roy Carpenter.
“You fellows make me tired,” grumbled Tilford Morrel.
The _Swan_, on her last voyage under scout auspices, went majestically
down the stream into the broad expanse of the lake, and headed for Port
Henry. Here she waited for the rest of the troop, and then the greater
part of their camp property was sent on to Oakwood to herald their
approach. But they kept enough for bivouac camping, in case they should
decide to tramp as far as Albany before taking the train.
If you were to search to-day for the spot where the Oakwood boys camped
all summer, you would find no distinguishing mark, no defacing of ground
or tree, no unsightly can or battered paper box,—nothing unless,
perchance, the initials “G. L.” obscurely graven here and there. Thus
the scout comes and goes, and none shall be the wiser,—except, perhaps,
another scout to whose observant eyes a wisp of grass may hold a
meaning, and who sees where others see not.
Their camping paraphernalia reduced to a minimum, the Oakwood troop
crowded into the _Swan_, a borrowed dory accommodating the overflow, and
crossed the lake at Port Henry, landing at Chimney Point. From here they
could look across the narrow channel formed by the Crown Point
peninsula, and see the ruins of the famous old fortress on the end of
the clumsy thumb of land. The sight of it fired Gordon with enthusiasm.
“Oh, it’s going to be great!” he cried. “Can we get down opposite
Ticonderoga to-night, Red Deer?”
“If you’re good,” said Mac.
At Chimney Point they returned the _Swan_ to its rightful owner, who
agreed to row the borrowed dory across to its owner, and then they
started southward along the Vermont shore.
It was, as Mac had observed, a great day. A brisk breeze rippled the
waters of the lake, and rustled musically among the leaves.
“Well, who’s going to be Ethan Allen?” asked Red Deer. “Here we are, a
couple of miles down the line, and don’t know yet who’s leader. Harry,
this beautiful historic revival is yours, so I guess you’re old Ethan.”
“No, that’s Kid’s job,” laughed Harry, putting his arm over Gordon’s
shoulder as they tramped along.
“G. Lord, or no one,” shouted Mac.
“G. Lord for mine!” added Brick Parks.
“If Kid Lord isn’t Ethan Allen, I won’t play,” shouted John Walden.
Gordon grinned from ear to ear. “All right, only you’ll have to be Seth
Warner, Harry.”
“If you think I’m going to turn around and lead this outfit back to
Crown Point in order to play Seth Warner, you’ll have to think again, my
fraptious boy. If Ethan Allen Lord leads us forth to victory this night,
I think that will be about enough. Have you got the speech all pat?”
“‘In the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress!’”
shouted Gordon, striking an attitude.
“Great!” said Charlie Greer.
“Did you notice how I rolled my r’s?” asked Gordon.
“We certainly did—you’re the only original!”
“That’s nothing. I can do it even better than that.”
Harry, smiling, walked over to Vinton, who was carrying several staves
and a fishing-rod wound up in a piece of light tenting. Fumbling in this
bundle, he pulled out a battered, rusty sword.
“Here you are, old man,” he said, handing it to Gordon. “You want to do
it right, you know.”
“Where’d he get that?” asked Langford, surprised.
“Don’t ask me,” said Dan Swift.
“Oh, cracky, where’d you get it, Harry?” Gordon cried.
“Oh, cracky, I just happened to see it in Port Henry when we were making
the glider,” laughed Harry.
Gordon grew sober.
“Now you’re the genuine, warranted article,” said Harry, falling back
and walking with the scoutmaster.
“How did you happen to buy that, Harry?” Dr. Brent asked in a low voice.
“Oh, I just happened to see it in the blacksmith’s. I _thought_ it would
hit him in the right spot.”
Red Deer made no comment. He knew Harry.
In a few minutes Gordon fell behind, and he and Harry walked together.
“Harry, it’s a James Dandy! I—I don’t see how you happened to think to
buy it.”
“Oh, I just happened to be in Berry’s getting some steel bent.”
“Then it was when—while—during—”
“Yes, it was when, while, during,” said Harry; “and you’re supposed to
wave it over your head just the minute you clap your eyes on Mr. E. C.
Wade—see?”
“Oh, but it’ll be great!” said Gordon.
A day’s tramp southward along the Vermont shore brought them opposite
Ticonderoga about dusk. Far inland, when the view was unobstructed, they
could see the hazy outline of the Green Mountains, and across on the New
York side, Harry pointed out the frowning, shaggy head of old Bulwagga,
and farther on, the less forbidding height of Dibble Mountain, from
whose summit they had seen the smoke which lured them northward only to
find a heap of ashes.
“But you found us just the same, didn’t you, Harry?” said Mac.
“Did you think he wouldn’t?” said Gordon, contemptuously. (It was
noticeable that he did not say _we_; he said _he_.) “He found you right
at the biological moment, too.”
“Psychological,” corrected Red Deer, smiling.
“He’s all right, is Harry boy,” said Charlie Greer.
“So’s G. Lord,” said some one else.
“Harry,” said the doctor, “this is private land we’re coming to. Guess
we’ll have to make a long detour. It wouldn’t do for a party of scouts
to be caught trespassing.”
To the doctor’s surprise, however, Harry vaulted the low fence,
apparently oblivious of the sign which said, “Positively No
Trespassing.” “Come ahead,” said he, looking back.
“Isn’t he the bold thing?” said Nelson Pierce.
A man came down through the grounds with a menacing aspect. “Don’t yez
know how to read plain English?” he shouted.
“No, but I can understand plain Irish,” said Harry. “Hello, Pat, how are
you?”
The man uttered a laugh to crack the heavens. “Sure, and ’tis yourself,
is it? And Oi’m that glad to see ye!”
“Are we pinched?” laughed Harry.
“Ye are that, the whole Wild West crew of yez! Fetch yer friends in here
till I have thim fined ten dollars each. Did yez have yer supper yit?
’Tis a lie, ye didn’t—come into the house.”
Gordon was already at Harry’s side, and the rest followed.
“Where’s the folks?” asked Harry.
“Gone. The place is closed up an’ I’m left here to kape it open. The
sarvants went to Oakwood to tidy up a bit a week ago, and the Mister and
Missus went this morning with Master Penfield. It’s a ghrand place
they’ve there, Mister Arnold. Me and the old woman goes down with our
bandbox in the tourin’ car with Jimmie, Mister Roger’s man, this day
week, praise be, for ’tis as slow as mud here now.”
“How are they? All well?” asked Harry.
“All well, and waitin’ to get their two hands on ye—specially the
girrls, forbye a letter ye sint Master Penfield. Sure, he made a raid on
the establishment. Two fancy hats, no less, must Miss Marjorie hand
over, and there’s not so much as a wicker chair left in the house. Come
up and set down in wan o’ thim—the whole o’ yez!”
“Was the aeroplane a success?” Gordon asked.
“Faith, why should it not be, with the ind of a tin-dollar fountain pen
into it, and poor Mr. Danforth, him writin’ with the stub of a lead
pencil? It kin carry three passengers, seventeen-year-locusts, would ye
believe it, and it wint acrost the lake!”
“Fine!” said Harry.
The place seemed indeed deserted, with Mr. Danforth’s genial face not in
evidence. But Pat and his good wife proved very cordial and hospitable
substitutes. Pat protested that if Mr. Danforth were to hear of their
passing the house without accepting its entertainment, he, Pat, would be
peremptorily discharged and denounced every day thereafter. So they
dined luxuriously under the trees on the beautiful lawn, on a variety of
dainty and toothsome odds and ends from the still well-stocked larder.
After dark they went on down the shore, with many acknowledgments to the
hearty chauffeur, who seemed to have a full measure of the genuine
Danforth hospitality. “I was chauffeur here long befoor there was anny
autimobiles, or befoor they’d the place at all,” he told them, as they
left; “and he’s the ghrand man, but I can’t larrn him to manage a boat.”
At nine o’clock that night, the Oakwood scouts sprawled on the grassy,
sloping shore, just opposite old Fort Ticonderoga. A mile or so behind
the fort lay the sleeping village. Behind the waiting scouts rose the
historic Mount Independence; and across the lake there glimmered a
quivering yellow band, the light of a camp-fire just beyond the fort.
“Wonder what time they’ll turn in?” said Roy Carpenter. “Christopher,
but that light looks cheerful!”
The old fort, partially restored, lay at the end of a roundish cape
projecting from the New York shore, and here the water flowed through
the narrowest channel in all the lake’s broadening and narrowing path.
It was a spot forever associated with the good old War of Independence.
Right here, where the Oakwood scouts now waited for the light to die,
had the redoubtable Allen given his boisterous followers a final
harangue, generously offering to release any one who lacked the courage
to follow him across.
The boys had not been able to secure a boat anywhere in the vicinity,
and here they were handicapped in a way that Ethan Allen had not been.
For that intrepid leader had, to tell the truth, “attached” all the
boats along the shore—in the name of the great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress. This, of course, the new Green Mountain Boys could
not very well do; so Harry suggested reconnoitering alone, bringing
back, if possible, one of the enemy’s canoes. The proposition was one
after Ethan Allen’s own heart. They rigged a makeshift raft by lashing
together three logs which lay on a ruined pier near by, and spent an
hour fashioning a rough sculling oar with a scout staff and a piece of
narrow board.
After the fire had died sufficiently to convince them that the Albany
troop had gone to bed, Harry boarded the raft, and managed to work his
way across the channel, which was here about one third of a mile across.
He kept well clear of the illuminated area, and crawled cautiously up
the sloping shore, testing the ground before each step. It was almost
pitch dark, but on the little eminence, a hundred feet or so from the
shore, a black, irregular bulk could be seen, behind which was a
fast-dying light. Undoubtedly that was where they spent the evenings.
And he felt equally certain that they slept within the fortress walls.
He crept up the hill. There was not a sound. He listened, and suddenly
became conscious of voices, speaking in an undertone. Then, two figures,
walking together, emerged from the darkness, crossed the band of dying
light, and were engulfed again in the night. He followed them by their
voices. He could not hear what they were saying, but presently one spoke
in a louder tone, from which he gathered that they had separated. He
crept closer until he was within earshot of steady footfalls. These he
followed, silently, stealthily, clutching every stone and brittle twig
between his toes. Soon a figure took hazy outline against the background
of less black water. It seemed to be headed for the shore.
Harry undid the knot of his scarf and took it off, crunching the soft
fabric into a wad. Then he stole forward, and with simultaneous
movements threw one arm about the walking figure and with the other hand
stuffed the wadded scarf into its mouth and held it in. Then, tripping
the boy by a dextrous movement of his foot, he let him gently to the
ground. As the sentinel was taken completely by surprise, it was all
done in a second.
“Hello, Atwell, you Laughing Hyena,” he whispered. “It’s your old
college chum, Harry Arnold,—don’t get scared now; here, look at me,”
and he struck a match, holding it near his face. “You’re supposed to be
gagged—see? There’s a great game on for to-night. We’re going to take
the fort and have the laugh on Mr. Wade. I’m going to take this wad out
of your mouth, but understand you’re supposed to be gagged—you mustn’t
do or say a thing—understand?”
Atwell nodded, and the gag was removed. “You’re a wonder, Arnold,” said
he. “My, but you had me scared for a minute!”
“Don’t tell me a thing,” interrupted Harry. “You’re gagged and you can’t
talk. I’m going to tie this scarf round your neck, and that’ll mean
you’re out of the game—you’re a gagged sentinel—see? Don’t spoil it
now, will you?”
He felt sure that the gag about Atwell’s neck would be as effectual as
one in his mouth, and he wasted no more time on that bitter enemy, for
there was another sentinel to be looked after. This turned out to be
none other than the redoubtable Frankie, who was easy game. Harry gagged
him with his handkerchief, marched him down to Atwell, who was sitting
on a rock, and left him to recover from his fright and to receive from
his fellow-sentinel a more complete explanation.
“Remember, you’re out of the game, Frank,” whispered Harry, as he
started down toward the shore. In half an hour he was back among his own
troop with a canoe. There were other canoes, but he had managed to find
only one paddle.
“One canoe’s all we want, anyway, Harry,” said Gordon, laughing
gleefully over his report of the gagged sentinels; “because the day must
be just breaking when we enter the fort and we must go in small
boat-loads to stretch the time out.”
Between one and two o’clock in the morning, they began their desperate
and hazardous move against King George’s proud minions, as Gordon called
them.
“Say, Atwell’s an awful nice fellow for a redcoat,” said Harry, as the
first three scouts, Vinton, Carpenter, and Brent, were pushed off with
many reminders of the need of absolutely silent paddling.
“I have naught but contempt for him, and for that redcoat tyrant, Wade,
as well,” said Gordon.
“Ay, let us think of the cruel Stamp Act to-night, and the Boston
Massacre, and—and—a few other things,” said Red Deer. “Colonel Gordon
Allen speaks what is in all our hearts!”
“You’ll like Mr. Wade, Red Deer,” said Harry. “He’s great. His troop
thinks the world of him.”
“His tinseled uniform was paid for by poor colonial farmers and honest
pioneers,” said Gordon, fiercely.
“On the level?” said George Conway.
“He wore a golf suit the last time I saw him,” said Harry.
“Now, Harry, I can see you’re going to spoil it all. The first thing
you’ll do, you’ll go and shake hands with him before—”
“Never!” said Harry. “Shake the hand that—er—something or
other—mm—squeezes—pinches—er—an unjust tax—er—”
“That’s rotten, Harry!” said Brick Parks.
“Awful,” commented Red Deer.
“That tramples on our unavailable rights,” growled Gordon.
“Inalienable rights, sure—that’s what his hand tramples on—if it
tramples at all.”
“I meant his foot,” said Gordon.
“Well, then, I won’t shake his foot, either,” said Harry.
They sat close to the shore, and listened for the sound of the returning
canoe.
“Guess they’re pinched,” suggested Bert.
But soon the canoe glided silently shoreward with the faintest ripple.
“Where did you land them?” Harry asked Roy, who brought the canoe back.
“Just in the shadow of the fortress. They’re playing mumbly-peg with the
gagged sentinels.”
“What’s that?” said Gordon.
“Never fear,” said Roy. “’Tis not so. Goodman Brent and Goodman Vinton
are playing mumbly-peg with each other near the shore. We heard the
gagged sentinels talking together a few paces off.”
“Chewing the rag,” ventured Matthew Reed.
“Now, don’t begin that, Matty,” said Harry. “You’ve been so good up to
now.”
“Who goes next?” Red Deer asked.
“Goodman Walden, Goodman Morrel—”
“Better send Morrel with the last load, Kid,” said Harry. “He’ll be sure
to talk when he gets over.”
“Don’t call me Kid! Is that what you call respect for your leader?”
There was no need for hurry, for they did not wish to land the last
boat-load until dawn and they preferred to make a number of trips rather
than crowd the canoe. “For,” as Gordon said, quoting Mr. Wade, “this
thing must be going on right under his very nose all night.”
So they went over in small lots and did the whole job in eight trips,
having met with no mishap and made no sound which could possibly have
been heard within the fort. The day was just breaking. The two gagged
sentinels, faithfully silent, came down to the shore and stood meekly
watching the group.
“Hello, Kid Lord,” ventured Frankie, in a cautious whisper.
Gordon gave him a scathing look. “Follow, my brave fellows,” said he.
“Did you hear that?” said Brick Parks.
“Come on, follow,” said Mac.
Gordon, with the gigantic, rusty sword thrown over his shoulder like a
musket, trudged up the slope, his gallant company following after, and
Red Deer, smiling and cleaning his gold specs, bringing up the rear. It
was a formidable array. There, on the summit of the grassy height, stood
the old fort, rather small and unforbidding to have such a bloody, but
glorious, history. For many years, it had been no more than a roofless
ruin, but the partial restoration had been studious and faithful, on the
outside, at least. Yes, it was, in all essentials, the same old fort
that Montcalm had held against the British in the bloody French and
Indian War, that Ethan Allen had taken, and that General Burgoyne had
retaken.
The great portal stood open, and the intrepid leader marched boldly in.
The first gray light of morning coming through the score of port-holes
showed the forms of the occupants, each patrol sleeping in a separate
corner of the enclosure. Here was a slight divergence from historic
truth, for Captain Delaplace had slept upstairs. But there was no
upstairs now, and Mr. Wade reposed comfortably on a balsam mattress
among the Ravens. But was not the feat already accomplished? Had not the
sentinels been overpowered and gagged? And had not the brave Green
Mountain Boys crossed the lake in small boat-loads under the very nose
of the haughty Delaplace?
“Go and poke him with your sword, Kid,” whispered Howard Brent.
“Better tickle him,” said Mac. “Jumping jiminies, how those redcoats can
snore!”
“Ahem,” said Gordon, gruffly, not knowing exactly how to proceed.
“You’ll wake the wrong one,” suggested Red Deer; “better give the
captain a poke, Gordon.”
So Gordon stepped up and prodded the Albany scoutmaster with his sword.
Mr. Wade immediately sat up, rubbing his eyes. “That you, Frank?” said
he, sleepily. “You—is it?”
“Come down—er—I mean, get—rise up—you crawling tyrant’s minion!”
shouted Gordon. “I demand the surrender of this fort!”
“There must be some mistake,” said Mr. Wade, rising sleepily and rubbing
his eyes. “We have permission to camp here.”
“We scorn the warrant of King George!” Gordon answered, “and denounce
your commission—and—er—don’t we?” he ended, turning to Harry.
“Sure we do,” said Harry.
By this time nearly every scout was sitting up, staring. Mr. Wade was
beginning to smile.
“I demand the surrender of this fort, Captain Delaplace Wade,” said
Gordon, waving the old sword, “in the name of the great Jehovah and the
Continental Congress! Here I stand with near a score of sturdy Green
Mountain patriots at my back. Your sentinels lie gagged. We have come
thither—I mean hither—in one of your own canoes!”
“It’s a bum canoe, too,” said Mac.
“Silence, Goodman Mac,” said Gordon.
“We have come here in the name of Liberty, under the very shadow of
your—er—wait a minute—your—er—unguarded walls. Do you admit that
you were talking through your hat that night at camp-fire?”
Mr. Wade gave one look at Dr. Brent, who was nearly bursting with
laughter. Then he went over to a corner, picked up a scout staff and
handed it respectfully to Gordon. “I surrender,” said he, laughing, “but
not unconditionally. The brave Green Mountain Boys must become our
guests.”
In a minute all was laughing pandemonium, and introductions were as
thick in the old fortress as bullets in the days of the gallant
Montcalm. Red Deer and the tyrant Wade chatted in a way to suggest
downright treason on the part of one or the other. Al Wilson, Atwell,
and Brownell hobnobbed with Ethan Allen, as if he were a long-lost
brother. Frankie and Giant George followed Harry Arnold about, so that
it looked suspiciously as if Harry would turn Tory before the day was
over. Walter Lee displayed his new canoe to Harry in a way to suggest
that the two might have held some treasonable intercourse in times past.
But worst of all, and enough to make old King George turn in his royal
grave, what did the Green Mountain Boys do but agree to remain with the
proud redcoats for several days and then join them in a canoe trip up
the beautiful Lake George!
The redcoat Wade’s surrender was complete. He admitted that they had
done just what he had said could not be done, and that, so far as the
transporting of the company and the overpowering of the sentinels were
concerned, it was true to history, as nearly as history could be relied
upon, when it couldn’t agree with itself.
If we were to follow these thirty-odd boys as their flotilla of canoes
glided up the placid bosom of the beautiful lake on their homeward way,
there would be no space for the one or two incidents which have yet to
be told. The two troops parted at the head of the lake, where the
Oakwood boys took the train for New York.
While they were bidding good-by to the Albany scouts, with many plans
for a joint camp the next summer, Frankie confided a dark secret in
Harry’s ear. “Atwell and Brownell sent me into the lean-to for the
bottle of citronella the other night, the mosquitoes were so thick.”
“Yes? They say it’s great stuff to rub on your face,” answered Harry.
“Of course, it was dark,” said Frankie.
“Was, hey?” said Harry, carelessly.
“I brought them out a bottle of ink,” Frankie concluded. “They didn’t
find it out till after they’d used it.”