begins the backstretch of the second quarter at the same pace, they
begin to lag, and little by little drop back. Suddenly Cowles awakens to
the fact that he must depend upon his own efforts for the rest of the
race, and starts after Jack at a sprinting gait. Jack hears the rapid
steps close behind him, and tries a little stratagem of his own, hardly
hoping that it will succeed against a veteran runner like Cowles. By
slow degrees he swings out from the pole until nearly a yard away,
leaving a tempting gap. By the rules, any runner passing another on the
inside may be disqualified for fouling if so he interferes with the
runner ahead, for the leading runner has a right to the pole, and a
runner taking the inside does so at his own risk. Cowles knows the rules
well, but decides to take the chance and save the two or three yards
that passing on the outside would take. But just as he is almost abreast
of the crafty Jack, the latter swings back to the pole, and Cowles has
to stop almost short to avoid a collision, which by the rules would be
blamed to him, and while his stride is broken Jack gains nearly ten
yards.
Now they are at the quarter-post again, and the first half-mile has been
traversed in 2.08. Jack is still leading, and by degrees sets a slower
and slower pace to save himself for the final effort in the stretch. But
half-way around Cowles suddenly recognizes his tactics, and with an
indignant effort takes the lead with that rapid even gait which seems to
devour the ground, and which so imperceptibly draws away from a
following runner if so be the latter relax his efforts in the least. Ah,
the bitter third quarter! when the weakness creeps up from a runner's
legs breast-high, and the laboring lungs feel as if iron bands were
tight around them; when the head swims, and flashes come and go before
the eyes, and every effort of body and mind is concentrated in a
struggle not to let the white-jersey back just ahead draw away ever so
little. Past the starting-post they go, and the others are hopelessly
behind. There is a tremendous roar from the Harvard men as they begin
the last quarter, and Cowles draws away ever so little from Jack. But
the latter grits his teeth and calls upon his numb legs, and the gap
closes up again. So they run like a tandem-team, and stride by stride
the last quarter lessens and lessens.
The stretch is very near, and though the pace is terrific, Jack feels
that he has an atom of spirit left somewhere down in his heels. And as
they turn the last corner and the homestretch looms up before them, Jack
lengthens his stride a trifle, and the blue Y with two little a's on
either side, which the runner who has not won a point for Yale is
condemned to wear, is almost parallel with the crimson bar. A roar of
cheers fills the air as the two runners come down the stretch, fighting
every yard, their heads back, their eyes fixed in an unwinking stare
which sees only the red line between the finish posts but forty yards
away.
[Illustration: "COME IN--COME IN, JACK!"]
And now the band of Assorted Howlers get in their deadly work. Dickie's
hat and coat are off, his collar limp, and with most marvellous
gyrations he is leading his orchestra in a wonderfully constructed
cheer. Finally, "Nine Jack Vails!" he whoops, "and let 'em come loud."
And every Yale voice on the bleachers and grand stand joins in, and
"Jack Vail! Jack Vail! Jack Vail!" they thunder. But Jack, only ten
yards away from the finish, hears nothing but the sobbing gasps of the
runner beside him, sees nothing but the tape and the face of Mike all
working and distorted with excitement as he stands back of the judges.
And suddenly out of the din, which seems somehow far away and like a
dream, he hears Mike's voice, hoarse in its intensity: "It's the last
ten yards, me boy! Oh, _come in--come in_, Jack!"
And Jack comes. With a last desperate staggering plunge he throws
himself forward, and feels the blessed pressure of the parting tape that
tells him the race is won.
Nothing more does Jack remember until he finds himself lying in Mike's
strong arms in the training-house, while the rest of the team press up
to shake his hand, and the Captain, full of joyful chuckles, kneels
down, and with his penknife rips off the obnoxious a's, and the great
blue Y stands forth on his jersey front--won at last.
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XI.
GLOOM AND VICTORY.
Oh, the disheartening days that followed--the constant marching to and
fro, the bitter defeats, and the hopeless feeling of being overwhelmed
by superior numbers! Oh, the heart-aches and the weariness!
Once more, so to speak, George was on his native heath, for the
discouraged and partly shattered army of Washington was in full retreat
across the northern part of New Jersey. The men marched or, better,
hurried along despondently. It was more like a rabble fleeing before the
invaders than a body of fighting-men. The short enlistments were running
out; dissatisfaction was everywhere; and very early one morning they had
been compelled to evacuate their camp, leaving behind blankets, tents,
and even their breakfasts cooking at the fire, for the British had
followed them across the Hudson, and were close upon their heels. Fort
Washington had been taken, and Fort Lee had been abandoned with
everything it contained.
And it was growing cold; the ice had formed in the meadows, and a slight
fall of snow lay melting in the muddy roads. Clothing and shoes were
scarce; the inhabitants of Newark and other towns came bravely to the
rescue. Yet there were many Tories who were praying already for the
advance of the British, and it was rumored every day that orders would
be received to resume the retreat, for recruiting had almost ceased.
These were trying times for all, but for none more so than for
Lieutenant George Frothingham. By sickness and desertion his company had
dwindled to scarcely thirty men. All of his gold had gone to help keep
the remaining few together.
And now began the weary, weary marching once more. Discouraged and
foot-sore, ragged and hungry, the patriot army retreated southward, the
British so close upon their rear that oftentimes they would come in full
sight, and skirmishes were frequent.
New Brunswick, Princeton, and Trenton successively fell into the hands
of the enemy, and at last, on the 8th of December, Washington crossed
the Delaware, and, owing to every boat being in the hands of the
Americans on the southern shore, the pursuit was abandoned for the time.
Soon, however, was a victory to be given to the shivering army, and
Washington was to astonish the eyes of the military world. But this is
casting ahead.
"George," said Carter, one snowy afternoon--for Lieutenant Hewes had
recovered from his wound and hastened to the front again--"George,
to-morrow's Christmas, and although we get no plum-pudding, in my
opinion there's something afoot."
"Then I trust that it may be forward," replied George; "this walking
backwards in order to face the enemy tires out men's souls and courage."
The two friends were standing close to a small fire, holding out their
hands to the welcome glow. In the woods about them roughly built huts
showed everywhere, and before each one huddled clusters of
hungry-looking men, soldiers of an army that had known nothing but
defeat.
"Colonel Roberts was called to attend a council at the General's
headquarters, and came back with a smile on his face. That must mean
cheering news of some sort, eh?" Carter warmed to his subject. "And
haven't you marked the gathering and mending of the flat-boats?"
"Yes," answered George. "It means they will cross the river. I think
that it is well known that the Hessians in Trenton stay much abed this
weather. But the morrow will show. I'm off to my blanket."
The boys bade each other good-night, and the fire burned low.
At daybreak the next day along the American lines everything was in the
bustle of preparation for some great movement. What it was no one knew.
Rations were being prepared, powder and balls distributed, the strongest
men were being picked out and formed into separate companies, and the
weak and sickly were distributed up and down the line of earth-works.
George awoke at the sun's first rays, and was buckling on his sword when
Carter Hewes hurriedly entered the hut he shared with Captain Clarkson.
"It is Trenton surely," he whispered; "but there is a chance for us to
volunteer for a service that will make the army grateful. I spoke for
you as well as for myself. Was I right or not?"
"Of course you were," said George, smiling.
"Here it is," was the reply. "On the way to Trenton is an English
baggage-train, eight or ten big wagons filled with stores and
plunder--powder, too, perhaps. A spy, a reliable man, has just brought
in the news. He says that it is lightly guarded, and that a dozen men
with good horses could cross the river up above, and by fast riding
intercept and burn it. The General has given his permission."
Somehow as Carter spoke he reminded George of his father, Colonel Hewes.
"I will go," he said. "But how about my Captain, and how to cross the
river?"
"Captain Clarkson will be told, and there is a big flat-boat five miles
up-stream that we can use. We will start when it is dark this evening."
He grasped George's hand.
But it was not until midnight that everything was completed; men had to
be chosen, and horses that could travel fast were scarce. But at twelve
o'clock ten men, mounted and armed, started west along the river. It was
not until dawn that they came across the road from Trenton to the north,
for they had been forced to make a wide detour. The spy was with them;
objects were growing plainer, and he pointed with his finger.
"There lies Trenton, eight miles away, and the Dutchmen all asleep," he
said, "and if my judgment fails me not, our wagon-train is encamped in
yonder hollow."
The ten riders crossed a field and entered a forest of small pine-trees;
the snow deadened the sound of the horses. Suddenly they came to a
clearing, and the guide raised his hand.
"There they are," he said. Before a small frame building ten big wagons
were halted in the road. The horses were blanketed and tethered to the
wheels; not a guard of any kind was to be seen.
"Hark!" exclaimed one of the troopers. A loud boom sounded from the
southward.
"General Washington has crossed the river," said Carter to George, who,
mounted on one of Colonel Roberts's horses, was at his elbow.
Another cannon-shot, and then a roaring of them--a constant ripple and
crash of sound. Heads appeared at the windows of the frame house, a few
figures ran out.
[Illustration: "CHARGE!" ORDERED THE CAPTAIN OF THE LITTLE PARTY.]
"Charge!" ordered the Captain of the little party.
So sudden was the attack that not a shot was fired. Then and there
twenty English soldiers and a score of teamsters surrendered to ten bold
Americans. They were disarmed, and penned in the frame house again.
"Don't let us burn the wagons; let us take them in," suggested George.
"Wait and see how it goes over there," said the guide. "Here! Hurry!
Harness up! If they retreat, it will be along the highway. I know a wood
road we can drive them into."
In a few minutes the heavy wagons had been pulled up the hill and far
into the pines. The prisoners were placed underneath and guarded.
"Here comes a man on horseback," said some one from the edge of the
thicket.
A dragoon, helmetless and without a coat, tore by on the road below,
lashing his horse.
"Hush! Don't cheer," said Carter, sternly. "Here comes another; we have
won the day."
Breathlessly the little party watched the fugitives make up the road
towards Princeton, and when the last had gone, light-hearted they took
their prizes up the road towards Trenton.
"There flies our flag," said Carter, as the houses came in sight. "Three
cheers now, men, and with a will!"
Once more did George Frothingham shake hands with Washington.
Five days flew by, and recruits swarmed in. But the British were not
idle. George was posting the guards outside of Washington's headquarters
on New-Year's night, when the Commander-in-chief accompanied by his
staff came walking by. The relief saluted, and the young Lieutenant
caught the words, "Retreat is now impossible."
The next day the British advanced on Trenton. They did not force a
battle, for it was thought that the Americans would surrender; but the
latter retreated to the further side of a little creek called the
Assumpinck, and here again commenced the dreary work of digging into the
frozen earth, and, strange to say, the order was, "Make all the noise
you can."
As soon as the darkness had settled down at night the watch-fires along
the line blazed brightly in the woods. Quickly word was passed for the
army, now swelled to five thousand men, to form into line. Washington
again was about to astonish military eyes.
Under cover of the darkness he slipped across the creek, and marched
silently northward by a road unguarded by the British. The men, looking
over their shoulders, could see their own camp-fires still burning
brightly behind them, for a force of men had been left there to keep
them going, and pick and shovel were ringing busily.
Again the British slept on, unconscious of what was happening, and in
the early morning an empty camp confronted them. But at the same time
his Majesty's forces at Princeton were astonished to see well-formed
bodies of troops swinging along the road toward their encampment on the
hill about the college buildings.
George's company had halted, and was waiting for the word. It was a very
strange sight indeed, for the command was drawn up to the side of a
little brook, just across an arched stone bridge.
As the light broadened they could see coming down the road in front of
them a line of red standing out brightly against the bare meadows and
patches of snow. They did not seem to be afraid of the forces gathered
below them in the meadow, for they did not even form a line of battle.
Everything was quiet. A rabbit jumped from a thicket, darted out and
bobbed across the field. Some snow-birds twittered in the leafless
branches overhead; but soon was the stillness to be broken.
"I declare, I don't think they see what they're about!" exclaimed a
soldier.
The fact was, the regiment of British soldiers had taken the Americans
at first for Hessians. Soon, however, they were to be undeceived, for a
volley from a company off to the right warned the officers, and the
Redcoats spread out across the hill-side. A body of Americans at this
moment came out of a hollow and met them face to face. It was a mutual
surprise, and the fighting began at once. Some horsemen galloped back in
the direction of Princeton, one and a half miles or so away.
Re-enforcements of the enemy were hurried down the road on a run. The
detachment with which George had been standing charged up to join the
hand-to-hand fighting at the front.
The battle had opened. Most of the Americans near the stone bridge were
raw militia. They could not be made to fire in volleys, but each man
apparently fought for himself. They had had little drilling, not having
been in the affair at Trenton, and this was their first sight of blood.
George saw that exhorting was of no avail. The men were full of fight,
but they were not trained to listen. He sheathed his sword, and picked
up a musket from the ground.
The Redcoats, advancing in their well-dressed line, came steadily on.
The ranks of the militia broke and retreated; only a few stood their
ground. A man on horseback rode to the front. He stood up in his
stirrups, shouted, and waved his sword about his head.
"Mark ye him there on the gray horse--'tis General Mercer," a voice
shouted, as the militia once more began to rally. "Stand firm! stand
firm!" the officer was crying. Suddenly his steed reared, and the rider
leaped up in the saddle, and, leaning across the big gray's neck, slid
to the ground. The horse stumbled and fell immediately, and the General
was seen almost alone, parrying the British bayonets with his sword. At
last down he went before any one could reach him.
As George, for the nonce a private, was reloading his piece, he saw two
soldiers draw back their muskets and plunge the bayonets into the
prostrate form. A fury seized him, and with a handful of young
militiamen he rushed at the red bristling line. He swung his musket by
the barrel and struck to right and left. How he kept from being killed
was a miracle, for men fell and shots rang all about him.
Now was the time for help, and, luckily, it came. Washington, at the
head of some hurrying troops, pushed forward from the eastward, and the
tide of battle turned. The British ran across the stone bridge, and many
fled toward the town.
The pursuit was now kept up in two directions. Part of the American
forces chased after the retreating British across the bridge toward
Trenton, another detachment swept onward toward the town, where the
Redcoats had taken refuge in the college buildings. The companies were
mixed together by this time--Pennsylvanians, Virginians, New Jerseymen,
and New-Yorkers were fighting elbow to elbow.
A strange sight that George had seen after the re-enforcements under
General Washington had been hurried up kept recurring to his mind as he
pressed forward. It was one of the small events that force themselves
upon the mind in moments of great excitement.
The leader upon whom the fortunes of the country then depended had been
regardless of all danger, and had been mixed almost with the
hand-to-hand fighters, a conspicuous object on his white horse, but as
yet not a ball had touched him.
Colonel Fitzgerald, one of the Irish officers attached to the American
service, had ridden up to Washington as soon as the British ranks had
broken. George recalled how strange it seemed. The brave Colonel's face
was contorting oddly, for he was crying like a baby, the tears rolling
down his cheeks, and the sobs almost preventing him from speaking.
"Thank God! thank God!" he said, "your Excellency is safe."
Washington had extended his hand, and replied, quietly, though he was
touched by the congratulation, "The day is ours, Fitzgerald."
The men about had cheered as they hurried on. The sleeve of George's
coat was hanging in shreds and blackened with the stain of powder. He
remembered how he had grasped the muzzle of a musket, and it had seemed
to go off almost in his hand. The flint of his own gun had become
dislodged during its short use as a club, and was lost. He fruitlessly
searched for another as he ran.
The troops of the enemy that had retreated northward had taken refuge
within the walls of the historic Nassau Hall. They had smashed in
windows, cut loop-holes, and had tried to get some artillery into
position.
"Have you a spare flint?" George inquired of a panting figure at his
side as they climbed a fence at the back of a small farm-house. The man
he addressed turned. It was his fellow-clerk at Mr. Wyeth's, the man
whom he had thought a chicken-heart.
"Ah, Frothingham," he said, his pale eyes alight with excitement, "I
have, and you are welcome."
George grasped the hand and the extended flint together. "Bonsall," he
said, "you are a brave fellow, and I have misjudged you. I must have
been a nice curmudgeon in that old counting-house."
"No, no," said the other; "we didn't understand each other, and you
thought I was a coward. Mayhap I was. Have you any ball about you?"
George had still some of the King's statue mementos. He handed them to
his companion, who placed two or three of them in his mouth, much as a
boy might marbles. The two young soldiers advanced and caught up with
the line. Some scattering shots rang from the college campus. Bonsall,
who was just taking aim, whirled half around, clasped one hand to his
breast, and extended the other feebly before him.
"I'm shot," he said, peering blindly into the young Lieutenant's eyes.
George leaped forward and caught the dying boy; he bent over him, and
placed his head on his lap.
The pale eyes opened. "Good-by, Frothingham," came the lad's voice in a
weak whisper. "In my pocket, here--here."
George thrust his hand inside the threadbare coat. There was an envelope
addressed to Mrs. Lucius Bonsall, New York.
"Give it to her," the poor boy said, "with love, with love."
George laid him down on the frozen earth, and now crying himself, much
as the Irish Colonel had, he leaned against an elm, and aimed at the
windows of Nassau Hall. A battery of artillery was playing at the bottom
of the hill, and the masonry shattered from the old brown building. It
was too hot for the British, and they fled across the green, down the
turnpike toward New Brunswick and Rock Hill, the Americans at their
heels.
"'Tis a fox chase," said a starved-looking soldier, with a grin on his
unshaven face. "I heard the General say it himself. Hurrah!" Off he
dashed.
George did not join in the pursuit, but finding his old friend Thomas
and another soldier, they made their way back to the frozen garden, and
there dug a grave, and marked the spot where poor Luke Bonsall had
fallen.
George looked into the college buildings an hour or so later. Scorched
with fire and littered with the remains of a cavalry occupation,
vandalism had been at work. Pictures were cut and slashed, and books
destroyed, and, strange to say, a cannon-ball had carried away the head
of a handsome portrait of his Majesty King George.
The stay of the Continental forces here was short, for the astonished
and chagrined Cornwallis was coming up from Trenton. The next day all
were on the move to the northward.
George searched for his company, and helped sift the men into something
of military shape. It was in horrible confusion, and had suffered many a
loss. During all this time he kept thinking of Bonsall's letter, that
was in his pocket next to that of his little sister's. It was not long
before it was to play quite an important part in our hero's personal
history.
Elated with their victories, which had revived the flagging zeal of the
citizens, the army had marched to Morristown, and there sought
winter-quarters.
They had only been a few days in the shelter of the town, resting from
the long marches and the consequences of freezing and fighting at the
same time, when Carter Hewes met George on the street.
"Roberts told me to find you," he said. "There are important orders
waiting for you."
What could it mean? George furbished up the few brass buttons left on
his famous coat, and walked up to the great house where a flag was
flying at the top of a rough pole.
Colonel Roberts met him and took him to one side as soon as he had
entered, and an aid gave him a written order, which George read
hurriedly. There was no explanation; he had been detached from his
company, and the whole thing was somewhat confusing. Carter Hewes was
waiting at the gate, and threw his arms about his friend's shoulder as
soon as he came out on the roadway.
"Is it an order for special duty or a promotion?" he inquired, much
excited.
"It is the former," answered George, "but what to do I know not."
To his intense surprise he had been ordered to report to Colonel Hewes,
to whom he bore despatches. And where could one suppose? At Stanham
Mills! A horse was placed at his disposal; he was to start at once.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE BABYHOOD OF DENVER.
BY JULIAN RALPH.
The first cabin in any part of what is now Denver, the capital of
Colorado, was that of a hunter and trader, and is thought to have been
an Indian's old tepee. It stood in what is now West Denver in 1857. To
that neighborhood, in the early summer of 1858, came a party of Georgia
men headed by a leader named Green Russell, and hunting for gold on the
east slope of the Rocky Mountains. It had been said that some white men
had found gold there nine years before, and that three years later some
Indians also found a little. Later still a party of traders actually
carried some "pay dirt" from there to their homes in Missouri. "Pay
dirt," the reader should know, is any form of rock or earth or sand that
contains sufficient gold to pay for working it.