At sunrise, the next morning after the conversation with Washington,
Roderick Barclugh started with his passport signed by Colonel Hamilton.
He took up his journey on the road that leads south through the
highlands on the east side of the Hudson to New York.
From Fishkill the road is hemmed in on both sides by steep hills.
Glimpses of the river are obtained occasionally as a traveller reaches
some vantage-point. An hour’s ride brought Barclugh to a view of a
broad stretch of the Hudson, and there lay before him the object of all
his travels and labors,--West Point in full view.
He leaped off his horse eagerly, and fastened him to a sapling. Then
with spying-glass in hand, he found a seat which, in a commanding
position on a high cliff, overlooked the scene like an amphitheatre
below him.
Proceeding to sketch the redoubts, approaches and armament of West
Point, Barclugh admired the location as a military stronghold and
thought as he critically surveyed the situation:
“If that palladium of liberty can be assaulted and won with gold,
General Washington may then admit that gold is mightier than either the
sword or pen.”
However, he stood in thrilling admiration of this wonderful work of
engineering skill which had been built by a nation that the English
King had been wont to call barbarous. Here, frowning with cannon, were
works that had risen out of a desert in less than two years, and which
would have cost the English government five hundred thousand pounds
sterling, but they had been built by Americans who did not expect pay.
Immediately above West Point the Hudson flows through two precipitous
headlands almost face to face,--one upon the east and the other upon
the west bank. After passing these two promontories the river makes a
quick turn to the eastward, and then to the southward, thus forming a
short bend and then stretching out into a straight reach of several
miles.
On the point of land thus projecting into the bend of the river, six
redoubts were bristling with cannon. They were located in the form of
an amphitheatre, beginning at the lowest ground and extending to the
highest summits. As the river here is surrounded by mountains, the
construction was planned so that one redoubt commanded the next lower
and also the river both up and down stream. A chain was stretched
across the channel to stop ships of war. Two lofty heights opposite
West Point protected the eastern bank with frowning cannon that
overlooked the whole valley. One hundred and fifty cannon were counted
by Barclugh in these strongholds, and a goodly part of them were the
spoils of the American victory over Burgoyne.
“Was he to succeed in his plans to cause the downfall of such a
military position?” recurred to his mind as he sought his horse and
nervously turned his steps to the highway. There were now only fifty
miles of a journey to King’s Bridge, the first British outpost.
His plans seemed to be working admirably, and he was thanking his luck
that he had travelled thus far and no mishaps to block his game had
occurred. As his horse galloped nearer the British position his hopes
mounted higher, and he saw visions of the future, where he would be
emulated for his part in the subjugation of the rebellious Colonists.
Surely they would be better off under the protection of the powerful
mother country than to pursue the mad career of independence. His
reverie was suddenly brought to a termination when he came to a fork in
the road where the question as to the wisest course to follow had to be
determined.
The roads fork below West Point, and form two parallel routes to New
York,--one following close to the Hudson, and the other, five miles
back, taking the same direction. Barclugh had to rely on his chart and
on his own judgment,--he thought the back road would be less frequented
and consequently more to his liking,--so he chose the back road.
Everything went along serenely this day with Barclugh. He passed the
last American outpost by simply presenting his passport from Colonel
Hamilton and entered the neutral territory infested by roving bands of
“cow-boys,” and “skinners,” as they were termed.
Arriving at the Croton River near sundown, Barclugh stopped at an inn
kept by a Connecticut dame, whose husband, it was learned afterward,
had gone to war to escape death at home from the length of his wife’s
tongue.
When Barclugh arrived in sight of the inn he had visions of a square
meal; for his ride since sunrise had aroused the demands of nature. But
as he dismounted, somewhat of a surprise awaited him at the doorsteps
in the person of a smallish woman, having a weazened face, a short,
whittled-off nose, little, steel-blue eyes and a large mouth. The lips
were thin, colorless and compressed in such a manner that no man dared
to dispute her ability to bear down and insist upon her own, sweet way.
Without any preliminaries the woman commenced at Barclugh as soon as
she saw him approach:
“I don’t b’leeve I can care for any strangers. Are you from the
eastward? All my rooms are full. If I keep you at all I shall have to
give up my own bed. Dunno what to do. Have you ready money or orders?
If you have ready money I might take you, but I would have to charge
you more. Are you a stranger in these parts? The next inn? Oh, that
is thirteen miles beyond. You couldn’t reach it to-night. If you did,
you would not like it anyway. The people there haven’t any family
tree. Have I anything to eat? Oh, yes, but I wasn’t brought up to do
this kind of work. Since Joshua went to the war I have had to wash the
dishes and I am spoiling my hands. You are from Paris, eh? I always
did like to entertain real gentlemen. I like Frenchmen, too; they are
so polite--I suppose you are hungry. It’s La Fitte? Why that’s real
aristocratic. My maiden name was Hopper. I was born in Haddam, old
Haddam in Connecticut. My father was selectman in that town for forty
years, and he was deacon nigh on to the same. ’Pears to me I used to
know some French people. Yes, their name was, lemme see--oh, yes, they
could not have been any kin of yours. Their name was La,--La Porte. If
I had only known that I was going to have a real gentleman to-night
from Paris, I might had a nice chicken and some ham and eggs.--You are
a financier, eh? Oh, that’s real nice. I s’pose you’re married? No?
Well, how delighted I am that you have come this way; come right in.
You know I haven’t heard from Joshua for nigh on to two years--the
poor man may be dead. Have I any children? Oh, no, Joshua and I always
thought we ought to have had one and we were going to call him little
Eli,” was the introduction Barclugh had to the Red Squirrel Inn
presided over by Mrs. Charity Puffer.
Being put on his guard by the first onslaught, but concluding that
she was harmless, Barclugh determined to learn more of the American
phenomenon before his departure.
Mrs. Puffer led her guest to the sitting-room, flew up stairs, told her
cook that a gentleman of quality was there for supper, put on a clean
dress, spread a clean table-cloth, flew out to have a chicken killed,
brought out a couple of pieces of silver that used to be in Deacon
Hopper’s family and then came in and sat down before her guest.
Every moment of talk that was wasted in getting supper ready seemed an
irretrievable loss to her existence,--especially when she had some one
on whom to ply her vocation.
“Don’t you think that I would make a smart wife for a nice rich man?”
she began again. “This life in the country nearly kills me. You know
I never had to live this way before I married Mr. Puffer. He brought
me out here and I have had to work my fingernails off. Don’t you see
how poor I am? I was a beautiful young woman and he couldn’t furnish
me any servants. I worked and worked, for I was so industrious.
What was he doing all this time? Poor man, he was laid up with a
disorder like a fever, and I had to nurse him and care for him. Then
he got discouraged. Well, I couldn’t teach him anything. He was so
obstinate.--He wouldn’t dress himself up like I wanted and I had the
hardest time to get him to take me to meeting.--He didn’t want to wear
gloves, so I used to say to him: ‘Father, you must try and look nice,’
and he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ He would hold his hands and arms
straight down by his sides and his fingers out stiff when I put gloves
on him. Well, I used to get so provoked, because he knew better than
that. When I used to say: ‘Father, you must let your hands hang kind
o’ natural,’ he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ Well, I want to tell
you, when the war broke out I just made up my mind that father had to
go to war or I would go myself. So he went one day, when I hit him with
the boot-jack, and I haven’t seen him since.
“Oh, yes, supper will be ready in a very short time. It takes so long
for supper to cook when the fire don’t burn. Did I ever have any beaux?
Yes, I was forgetting to tell you about a beau I once had, when I was a
gay and young woman. His name was Nehemiah, and he used to come around
before I knew Joshua. Well, Nehemiah came one evening to see me and I
was not in good humor at all. After the old folks had left us to spark
a little, I moved over to one end of the settle, and when Nehemiah
moved toward me, I sat up as stiff as a stake and I turned my back on
him and never spoke once to him that whole evening. Well, at last when
I wouldn’t speak or stir, he got skeered and I haven’t seen his face
from that day to this. Well, I must tell you, Mr. La,--LaFeet, I don’t
like men anyway.”
“Oh, yes, I perceive you don’t, nor anything to eat either,” chuckled
Barclugh.
“Oh, yes, you see it is such a pleasure for me to converse with a
gentleman that understands my better qualities and can appreciate the
fact that he comes into the environment of a refined and well-bred
lady. You know that there are so many inn-keepers who are vulgar. They
haven’t any china that has been in the family for two generations,--no
plate, nor manners. My sakes! I have been forgetting all about supper
with my stories,--”
“About yourself,” interjected Barclugh.
“Jest so, Mr. Feet. I’ll go out and see if Betty has the supper on the
table.”
As soon as Mrs. Puffer disappeared, Barclugh drew a long breath and
exclaimed:
“Whew! whew! I’ll have a time to get something to eat here!”
“Why! what do you think, Mr. Feet? Supper has been ready a long time.
My Betty can cook a chicken, boil a ham and make tea quicker than
anybody I ever knew. Come right along this way.
“I’ll sit down with you and I know you will enjoy your supper. Will
you be seated right there? Here is some chicken. I never eat any meat
for supper, myself, before going to bed. I drink my cup of tea. Oh,
can’t you cut the chicken? Oh, that’s too bad. Just sharpen the knife a
little. That’s it. Just put a little muscle into it.--Well, I declare,
Betty just half boiled that chicken. If you can wait a little I shall
take it out and boil it a little more.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Puffer,” said Barclugh, as he sat down out of
breath, after he had stood up to carve the fowl.
“Here’s some bread and butter, Mr. Feet. I do enjoy Betty’s bread and
butter. It’s about all I care to take for my supper.”
“Madam, is that some ham, on the other side of the table?” queried
Barclugh, as he saw that he would have to take matters into his own
hands, if he were to have any supper.
For the first time, Mrs. Puffer looked embarrassed, as she replied:
“Yes, that is one of those celebrated hams that are cured in
Connecticut. It came from old Haddam, and it is well seasoned. Yes, my
father used to cure those hams fifty years ago.”
“Not that one, I hope, Mrs. Puffer?” helplessly queried Barclugh.
“Oh, no, not that one, Mr. Feet, but he used to cure them just like
that.--Will you have some more tea? There’s plenty of tea. Oh, yes,
I knew you would. Just one drop of milk and I wonder if Betty put on
enough sugar? Well, you can excuse the sugar this time. There, I told
Betty to cook you some eggs, but she has forgotten. I know that you
wouldn’t care for any ham if you didn’t have eggs to eat with it. You
will have some more bread and butter, I know you will.”
“Yes, madam, if you please, I will take some of that ham also, and make
myself a sandwich,” insisted Barclugh, for matters were desperate for
his stomach’s sake.
“Very well, Mr. Feet. I will take it over to the sideboard, and prepare
you one, myself,” was the offer of Mrs. Puffer, expecting her guest to
say: “No, thank you, it will be too much bother.”
But not that way for Barclugh. He arose from the table and said:
“Allow me to assist you. I will take it over to the sideboard for you,”
wishing to be agreeable.
“No! No! you mustn’t do that! I couldn’t allow you! I will do that
myself,” interposed Mrs. Puffer, as she jumped up hastily and grabbed
the platter to take the ham off the table, when the so-called ham
rolled to the floor and bounced up like a rubber ball, for it was as
hollow as a fiddle, and made of wood.
Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out.
Mrs. Puffer picked up the wayward morsel and placed it on the sideboard.
She sat down as coolly as though she had used the ham before, and broke
the silence by saying:
“Mr. La Fitte, you know how it is when you have to trust to servants. I
have that dish of ham for an ornament on the sideboard, but Betty had
to place it on the table this evening. That is just like those girls.
They do not know better.”
[Illustration: Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired
out.]
There was nothing for Barclugh to do now but to eat bread and butter,
and fill up on tea and talk.
When a man is disappointed in his meal he begins to get ugly. So
Barclugh arose from the table, went into the sitting-room and demanded
his bill and declared that he would have to leave for the next
stopping-place.
But Mrs. Puffer objected, by saying:
“Oh, no, Mr. La Fitte, you know that these roads are infested with
‘cow-boys’ and ‘skinners,’ and you may be captured and robbed.”
“Which party is it that you belong to, Mrs. Puffer?” asked Barclugh. “I
should think that you belonged to the latter.”
From without the house loud shouts of “Hello!” “Hello!” were heard on
the road.
Mrs. Puffer turned to Barclugh exclaiming:
“Some of those rascals are there now. You better hide yourself
somewhere.”
“Never mind, madam,” replied Barclugh, and handing over a sovereign to
pay his fare, continued, “I can take care of myself.”
At that instant a burly fellow in the uniform of a Continental walked
in.
“Any strangers here to-night, Mrs. Puffer?” came in heavy tones from
the soldier.
“There’s one gentleman here, Mr. La Fitte. I believe he can give a good
account of himself,” replied the landlady.
“What’s your business here, Mr. La Fitte? Where are you going?”
demanded the soldier.
“Here’s my passport, sir,” was the reply, and Barclugh handed out the
Colonel’s document.
“You’re the sort of a party we want!” remarked the fellow, as he went
to the door and whistled, meanwhile holding his pistol ready and eying
Barclugh.
Four of his companions came into the room, and at once the spokesman
ordered:
“Fasten his arms, men. He’s a spy.”
Barclugh submitted while wondering why his passport was not sufficient.
After the squad had searched Barclugh and disarmed him, they marched
him out and ordered him to mount his horse and ride between them.
However, when the troopers started off their course led them to the
southward. They acted queerly to Barclugh. They crossed the Croton at
Pine Bridge and went toward the Hudson. In any event he was all right
unless the scamps were bent on robbery. However, he did not lose his
nerve. Finally, after an hour’s ride and silence, the prisoner ventured
this question:
“Gentlemen, I am a prisoner in the hands of which party?”
“You are a prisoner of His Majesty King George III. No talking, sir, we
are on dangerous ground.”
Barclugh’s spirits at once mounted high. As soon as he reached a
British post, he would despatch a cipher message to General Clinton
in New York and he knew that at once he would be escorted to secret
quarters in the town.
To understand Barclugh’s perilous position in the country through which
he was now passing, a few facts concerning the conditions existing in
the spring of 1780 must be stated.
From the upper part of Manhattan Island or King’s Bridge to the Croton
River was neutral ground, during the British occupancy of New York. The
British sent out reconnoitering parties toward the American lines and
the Americans would reconnoitre toward the British. Independent bands
of Tories called “cow-boys” raided into this territory, and foraged
upon the inhabitants who did not sign allegiance to the King. Then the
American bands called “skinners” raided upon the loyalists. The real
warfare of these parts consisted in these lawless bands watching each
other when on raids and if the “cow-boys” had a good drove of animals,
the “skinners” attempted to disperse the band and appropriate the
spoils. The whole of the lower part of Westchester County was thus kept
in distress during nearly all of the Revolutionary War by the ravages
of these bands.
On the night in question, when Barclugh was a prisoner in the hands
of his friends, the party was ascending a steep hill in silence and
surrounded by dense forest, when suddenly out of the night air and
darkness rang a voice within a hundred feet:
“Surrender, you devils!” and the clicking of a dozen flintlocks sounded
in quick succession.
At the sound of such a number of clicks, the five British whirled on
their horses and dashed down the hill and Barclugh did as the rest, but
he was in the rear since he did not understand their tactics of retreat.
A volley followed the foe, retreating in the dark. Barclugh’s horse
was shot, and threw his rider headlong with such violence that he was
stunned and rendered unconscious. One of the fleeing British dropped
his flintlock in the fracas.
The attacking party chased the fleeing British, yelling and exchanging
pistol shots. They returned when sure that the “cow-boys” were out of
harm’s way and picked up the unconscious form of Barclugh. He was still
unconscious when placed against a tree next to the roadside.
After being administered a good drink of rum, Barclugh opened his eyes
and asked:
“Gentlemen, where am I?”
“You are a prisoner,” replied the leader.
“I was a prisoner,” insisted Barclugh.
“You are still one,” came the sharp reply.
A fire had been lighted by this time and all were warming their fingers
in the chilly air of the May night.
Barclugh gazed around and noticed that all wore the red coats of the
British. He realized that he might better be good-natured over his
captivity. He turned to his captors, with the remark:
“Gentlemen, I have been a prisoner twice since sundown,--once the
prisoner of King George by a party in Continental uniform, and now a
prisoner a second time by a party of redcoats. Please inform me whose
prisoner I may be now.”
“Where did they git you?” asked the leader. “Did they git you in that
Red Squirrel Inn?” at which the whole party laughed.
“I b’leeve he tried to git a piece of that wooden ham,” sung out one of
the party, and there was another burst of laughter.
“Could you cut that chicken?” repeated another.
“Well, gentlemen, I gave up the chicken as a bad job, broke the ham,
paid Mrs. Puffer a sovereign and got no change, being glad to escape
alive; for she told me she had hit Joshua with a boot-jack,” at which
recital the whole party roared and some of the younger fellows rolled
on the ground in delight.
“Did she tell you how beautiful she used to be and how she froze out
Nehemiah?” was the next question that gave them all a chance to laugh
again.
“Yes, indeed, and she asked me if I ‘didn’t think she would make a
smart wife for a nice rich man?’ but I didn’t get a chance for a word
in edgewise for an answer,” related Barclugh to the intense delight of
the whole party.
“Wal, stranger, I guess you are a purty good fellow. Where did you come
from and where are you going?” asked the leader of Barclugh.
“I came from the headquarters of General Washington this morning and
gave my passport to those scamps and now they have carried it off.”
“Wal, if you are able to travel we will take you to General
Washington’s headquarters right away; for you are a prisoner of the
Westchester Independents, and General Washington is at Verplancks Point
to-night.”
Barclugh was not much the worse for his mishap, except that his
shoulder was strained and he was bruised on the side of his face where
he had slid down the hill.
He procured a new horse, proceeded to headquarters under the escort of
two troopers, and being recognized by Colonel Hamilton, proceeded on
his journey next morning.
He rode through the American lines by way of Tarrytown and was not
molested by either party until he surrendered himself to the sentinel
of King George at King’s Bridge.