A PERILOUS MISSION
To-day, after the passing of a century and a quarter, the Chester hills
are much as they were on that chill winter’s day when the straggling
lines of ragged, almost barefooted men marched along the old Gulph
road. It is a farming country still, and although the forest has been
cut away, in places the woodland is now as thickly grown as then. Here
and there along the route the admiring descendants of those faithful
patriots have erected monuments to their name; yonder can still faintly
be defined the outlines of the Star Redoubt; there stands the house
which was the headquarters of General Varnum, who commanded the Rhode
Island troops; to the left of the road as one travels toward Valley
Forge, is the line of breastworks running through the timber, which has
been felled and grown up thrice since the axes of the Continentals rang
from hill to hill.
One night they rested on the toilsome march near the old Gulph Mills,
where the road passed through the deep cut between wooded heights:
then on again, the various brigades separating and following different
roads to the places assigned them. But the roads were, many of them,
ill-defined, the timber was thick, the fields rugged. Little wonder
that Baron de Kalb described the site chosen for the winter quarters of
the American army as a wilderness.
Nevertheless, the situation selected for the encampment was a good
one. In some of the towns, perhaps--Trenton, Lancaster, Reading, or
Wilmington--there would have been shelter for the troops; but there
were many objections to each place named. Had clothing and supplies
been abundant, the little army might have harassed the British all
winter long, and even shut them up completely in Philadelphia when
the spring opened. If the officers quarreled with the commander for
his obstinacy in choosing this position, the men set to in some
cheerfulness to build shelters. They were not afraid of hard work, and
they had suffered enough already from the cold and storms to appreciate
the log cabins which went up as if by magic on hillside and in hollow.
On the bank of Valley Creek, near its junction with the Schuylkill,
stood a stone cottage (as it stands to-day) of two small, low-ceiled
rooms on each of its two floors. Behind it was a “lean-to” kitchen,
in the floor of which was a trap which was the entrance to a secret
passage which, when the house had been erected, led to the river, being
a means of escape should the stone house be attacked by Indians. When
Washington selected this house for his headquarters at Valley Forge the
secret passage had long since been walled up and the entrance chamber
was simply a prosaic potato cellar. The house itself was meagrely
furnished--not at all the sort of a headquarters that Lord Howe enjoyed
in Philadelphia.
Some distance up the creek, beyond the forge which lent its name
to the valley, were the headquarters of big Major-General Henry
Knox, of the artillery, and near him was the young French Marquis,
Lafayette, but then recovering from the wound received at the battle
of the Brandywine--also a Major-General, and trusted and loved by the
Commander-in-Chief to a degree only equaled by the latter’s feeling for
Colonel Pickering. General Woodford, of Virginia, who commanded the
right of the line, was quartered at a house in the neighborhood of Knox
and Lafayette.
Up on the Gulph road, the southern troops, lying nearest to
Washington’s headquarters, were commanded by that Southern-Scotsman,
Lachlin McIntosh, and strung along within sight of the road were
Huntingdon’s Connecticut militia, Conway’s Pennsylvania troops,
Varnum’s Rhode Islanders, and Muhlenberg, Weeden, Patterson, Learned,
Glover, Poor, Wayne, and Scott on the extreme front of the embattled
camp. Hadley Morris, still with Wayne’s division, messed with Captain
Prentice, but found himself often attached to “Mad Anthony’s” personal
staff in the capacity of messenger, for the Quaker general occupied
a house in a most exposed quarter, some distance beyond the line of
defences, and was in constant communication with the Commander-in-Chief.
Hadley, indeed, scarce knew whom he served. At first his wound had
incapacitated him from participating in much of the work which fell
to the lot of the rank and file, and, as he rode one of the fleetest
horses in the American camp, he came to be looked upon as a sort of
volunteer aide, for he had never been regularly mustered into the
service. He often saw Lafe Holdness in the camp, and was not surprised,
therefore, one day, when he had been sent post-haste to General
Washington with some papers from Wayne, to find the Yankee in the front
room of the Potts’ cottage in close conversation with His Excellency.
Hadley never entered the presence of the great man without, in a
measure, feeling that sense of Washington’s superiority which he had
experienced when first he saw him, and he stood at one side now, ill
at ease, waiting for a chance to deliver his packet. The Commander had
a way of seeing and recognizing those who entered the room without
appearing to do so--if he were busily engaged at the time--and suddenly
wheeling in his chair and pointing to the boy, said in a tone that made
Hadley start:
“Is this the young man you want, Master Holdness?”
“I reckon he’ll do, Gin’ral--if he can be spared,” Lafe replied, with
the usual queer twist to his thin lips. “He’s gettin’ more important
around here than a major-gin’ral, I hear; but ef things wont go quite
ter rack an’ ruin without him for a few days, I guess I’ll take him
with me on this little ja’nt.”
Hadley blushed redly, but knew better than to grow angry over Lafe’s
mild sarcasm. His Excellency seemed to understand both the scout and
his youthful friend pretty well. “I have a high opinion of Master
Morris,” he said, kindly. “Take care of him, Holdness. It is upon such
young men as he that we most earnestly depend. Some of us older ones
may not live to see the end of this war, and the younger generation
must live to carry it on.”
Hadley did not think him austere now; his eyes were sad and his face
worn and deeply lined. Not alone did the rank and file of the American
army suffer physically during that awful winter; many of the officers
went hungry, too, and it was whispered that often Washington’s own
dinner was divided among the hollow-eyed men who guarded his person and
sentineled the road leading to the little stone cottage.
Lafe nodded to the boy and they withdrew. On the road outside the scout
placed his hand upon Hadley’s shoulder. “Had, that’s a great man in
yonder,” said he, in his homely way. “You ’n’ I don’t know how great
he is; but there’ll come folks arter us that will. He’s movin’ heaven
an’ airth ter git rations for this army an’ they aint one of us suffers
that he don’t feel it.”
[Illustration: “HADLEY UNTIED HIS HORSE.”]
Hadley untied his horse and they went on in silence until they came
to the sheds behind an old country inn not far from headquarters.
Here Holdness had left his great covered wagon and team of sturdy
draught horses. Despite the condition of affairs in the territory
about Philadelphia, the scout retained his character of teamster and
continued to go in and come out of the city as he pleased. How he
allayed the suspicions of the British was known only to himself; but,
evidently, General Washington trusted him implicitly.
Hadley, as they drove slowly through the camp, gave Black Molly over
into Captain Prentice’s care. Not until they were beyond the picket
lines of the Americans entirely did Holdness offer any explanation
of the work before them. “We’re goin’ ter stop at a place an’ take a
load of grain into Philadelphy,” he began. “I ’greed ter do this last
week. I aint sayin’ but I’d like ter turn about an’ cart it inter
aout lines; but that can’t be. The man ’at owns it is a Tory an’ he’s
shippin’ his grain inter town so as to save it from the ’Mericans. He’s
got his convictions, same’s we’ve got ourn; ’taint so bad for him to
sell ter them Britishers as it is for some o’ these folks ’t claim ter
have the good of the cause at heart, an’ yet won’t take scrip fer their
goods.”
When they came to the farmer’s in question the great wagon was heavily
loaded with sacks of grain. Hadley, who had so plainly seen the need
of such commodity in the American camp, suggested that they take a
roundabout way and deliver the sacks of grain to their friends instead
of to the British, without the Tory being any the wiser. “And spile my
game?” cried Lafe, with a chuckle. “I guess not. Reckon His Excellency
wouldn’t thank us for that. I’m wuth more to him takin’ the stuff into
Philadelphy than the grain would be. We’re goin’ in there to git some
information. Hadley, my son--this ain’t no pleasure ja’nt.”
“But what can I do?” queried the boy.
“What you’re told--and I reckon you’ve l’arned that already with
Gin’ral Wayne. A boy like yeou can git ’round ’mongst folks without
being suspicioned better’n me. It’s whispered, Hadley, that them
Britishers contemplate making a sortie on aour camp. You know the state
we’re in--God help us!--an’ if the British mean to attack we must know
it and be ready for them. Every crumb of information you can pick
up must be treasured. I’ll take ye to Jothan Pye an’ you can be an
apprentice of his. He kin git you access to the very houses in which
some o’ them big bugs is quartered. If plans are really laid for an
attack, you’ll hear whispers of it. Them whispers yeou’ll give to me,
sonny. D’ye understand?”
Hadley nodded. He understood what was expected of him; also he
understood that the mission would be perilous. But he had been in
danger before, and he did not lack some measure of confidence in
himself now.
The huge wagon rumbled on toward the British lines. When they were
halted, Lafe managed to give such a good account of himself that he
was allowed to pass through with little questioning, for the grain
was assigned to the quartermaster’s department. Hadley was simply
considered a country bumpkin who had come into town to see the sights.
Soon the old scout and the boy separated, Hadley making his way swiftly
to the Quaker’s habitation near the Indian Queen, where good Mistress
Pye welcomed him warmly.
Friend Pye was a merchant and dealt in such foreign
commodities--particularly in West India goods--as were in demand among
the British officers. As previously noted, the Quaker had lived so
circumspectly in the city throughout the war that his loyalty to the
king was considered unshaken by his Tory neighbors, and yet he was so
retiring and so worthy a man that the Whigs had not considered him a
dangerous enemy.
If anybody noted, during these cold days of middle winter, that Friend
Pye had a new ’prentice boy, it was not particularly remarked. The
gossip of the camp and, indeed, all conversation was tinged with
military life and happenings. Friend Pye’s young man carried goods to
the Norris house where My Lord Rawdon--that swarthy, haughty nobleman,
both hated and feared by all who came in contact with him--was
quartered, and even to Peter Reeves’ house on Second Street, where Lord
Cornwallis held a miniature court. Hadley was, in his new duties, quick
and obliging. The British officers often remarked that, for a country
bumpkin, Pye’s apprentice was marvelously polite and possessed some
grace and gentleness. But all the time Hadley Morris was keeping both
his eyes and ears open, and when Holdness came to the Quaker’s house
under cover of the night, he told him all he had heard and seen, even
to details which seemed to him quite worthless.
“Ye never know how important little things may be,” Holdness had told
him. “It’s the little things that sometimes turn aout ter be of th’
greatest value. Stick to it, Had.”
But, one day, Hadley experienced something of a shock--indeed, two
of them. He was walking through Spruce Street, carrying a bundle
with which his employer had entrusted him to deliver at an officer’s
residence, when a carriage came slowly toward him. It was a very
fine coach--much finer than any he had observed in Philadelphia thus
far--and it was drawn by a pair of magnificent horses. The horses were
bay, and before many moments the boy, with a start, recognized them.
His eyes flew from the handsome team to the coachman, perched on the
high seat.
The bays were the same he had seen so often while Colonel Creston
Knowles was a guest at the Three Oaks Inn, and the driver was William,
the silent Cockney. The coach window was wide open and Hadley could
see within. There, on the silken cushions, was seated Mistress Lillian
herself! The boy stared, stopping on the edge of the walk in his
surprise. Of course, he might have expected to find the British officer
and his daughter here, yet he was amazed, nevertheless.
But he was evidently not the only person astonished. Lillian saw him.
She leaned from the carriage window and, for an instant, he thought
she was about to call to him. Then she glanced up at the driver’s seat
and said something to William. At once the bays began to trot and the
carriage rolled swiftly past. But Hadley had looked up at the driver,
too, and for the first time saw and recognized the person sitting
beside William on the high perch.
William was gorgeous in a maroon livery: the person beside him was
in livery, also, and evidently acted as footman. But, despite his
gay apparel, Hadley recognized this footman instantly. It was Alonzo
Alwood, and as he gazed after the retreating carriage, the American
youth was conscious that Lon had twisted around in his seat and was
staring at him with scowling visage.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
In the Florida Everglades
By William A. Stimpson
“Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his
hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water,
took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the
paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream.
It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts
of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula.
Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a
claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes
for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a
few weeks with them in their southern home.
The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about
fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of
the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every
direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part
of the State.
The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April,
the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked.
They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and
packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening
to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious
and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their
hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way
to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed
a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct,
turned to their work again.
All the morning the wild fowl could be heard thrashing about in the
tall grass at the lagoon, and both King and Stebbins were sorely
tempted several times to slip up stream in the hope of bagging a
couple. But the steamer on which they intended shipping their produce
sailed from Lincoln, fifteen miles east, the next afternoon, and by
working persistently until dark they could hardly get their crop ready
for an early start on the following morning for the river town.
“If neither of you fellows can spare the time to go duck shooting, why
can’t I paddle up there and try a shot or two?” asked Alfred, late in
the afternoon.
“All the reason in the world, Al,” replied King. “No one except a
native, or a person who has lived here as long as we have, can traverse
this swamp in safety. Why, before you reach the lake where the ducks
are you will pass eight or ten little streams, any one of which you are
just as likely to enter as to keep on up the main channel. We’re afraid
you’ll get lost, Al. Don’t you think so?” he asked, turning to Stebbins.
“But I’ve been all around there with you fellows,” explained Alfred,
trying in vain to conceal his disappointment. “I’ve been up to the
lake, too, and I know the main stream perfectly well. I’m going to try
it, for I must have some roast duck.”
Both the boys tried to dissuade him from the undertaking, but he
was insistent, and finally they gave a reluctant consent. Realizing
fully his lack of acquaintance with the swamp, Whyte paid particular
attention to his surroundings as he paddled on, fearing that he might
turn into one of those little side streams of which King had warned him.
Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the ducks. Paddling noiselessly,
scarcely rippling the water as he passed through, he got within range
of the flock without alarming them. Bang! bang! went both barrels of
his twelve-bore, and at the reports the ducks rose from the water with
a loud whirr. One bird was wounded and lagged behind the others. It
fluttered along a hundred yards or so, then sank in a clump of marsh
grass, took wing again, but went less than ten yards, when it turned a
somersault in the air and dropped.
A few strokes of the paddle carried the bateau close to where the bird
had fallen, but when he reached the spot Whyte found that a stretch
of marsh lay between the edge of the water and his prize. He tried to
reach the duck with the paddle but could not do so. It was a fine, fat
bird, as he could plainly see, but it lay beyond his reach.
“Just my luck,” he muttered, after several unsuccessful attempts to
reach the bird. “I wonder if those hummocks will hold me,” noticing the
tufts of thick, coarse grass that dotted the morass in every direction.
The hummocks looked firm enough to bear his weight, so pushing the prow
of the boat as far into the edge of the bank as he could, he stepped
out and tried the first one. It was solid and unyielding. Certain,
then, that his plan was a feasible one, he sprang to the next hummock
and on until he had the bird in his hand. In returning, he rested too
much weight upon one of the tufts of thick grass. The treacherous mud
gave way, his foot slipped, and down he went into the black ooze up to
his thighs.
With an exclamation of impatience, he endeavored to withdraw his feet
and legs. They stuck fast. He tried a second time, but the mud held
him as in a vise. Putting forth all his strength and seizing several
blades of the long, coarse grass within his reach, he tried his best
to extricate himself, but to his dismay he found the sticky mud to be
as unyielding as quicksand. What was worse, when he ceased his efforts
he discovered that he had sunk deeper in the mire and was now embedded
nearly up to his breast.
Thoroughly frightened, he remained perfectly passive and began to
think. He realized that he was in a serious predicament, held a
prisoner, as he was, in the black, slimy mud of the swamp, and it
was cold there, too. His gun lay within reach, and, resting the arm
lengthwise, he made another attempt to release himself, but his efforts
were unavailing. The gun sank in the ooze, and in extracting it he
found that his exertions had caused him to sink several inches deeper.
The top of the mud now reached to his armpits.
He glanced at the sun, and, seeing it low in the west, was comforted.
King and Stebbins, becoming alarmed at his non-appearance, would soon
be setting out to look for him, he thought, if they were not already
doing so. His eyes wandered towards the opposite bank, and he was
struck with its unfamiliar appearance. Instead of the low, flat marsh
that lined that side of the stream, as he well knew, he was looking
upon a patch of higher land similar to the one upon which King and
Stebbins had their home. It dawned upon him then for the first time
that he had left the main channel.
As the realization of his true position came home to him, hope died.
Thinking that he was somewhere along the stream, he had felt sure of
rescue, but his discovery altered the situation completely. How far out
of his true course he was he had no way of knowing, and the thought of
the awful days and nights that would pass while he stood there dying,
if the mud did not eventually bury him and make his death even a more
horrible one, was far from pleasant.
Frantically he struggled to free himself, but he was held fast as
though he had been shackled in irons, and his struggles only left him
exhausted. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. His mouth
was dry and parched and his head began to swim. He felt that he was
losing his reason, but he pulled himself together with a herculean
effort. His legs and feet were cold and numb, and the keen night wind
nipped his ears and nose cruelly. The mud under his arms had begun to
freeze, and unless he kept breaking it continually with his hands, a
stiff crust would form at the top.
He racked his brain to devise some plan of escape from his terrible
position, but could think of nothing except to shout. That, he
supposed, would only be a waste of energy, but he must do something.
Gathering himself together, he essayed to call, but his mouth was so
parched that his voice did not penetrate further than ten yards. He
tried again, and this time found himself shouting louder. Again and
again he shouted until his voice echoed and re-echoed through the
everglades.
As the sounds died away his ear caught a faint call that seemed like
an answer to his own. Flushed with hope, he shouted again and then
strained his ears to listen. But silence, broken only by the twittering
of the night birds, reigned about him.
Once more he shouted, and again he thought he heard a reply, or was it
an echo of his own voice? The ordeal was too much for him, and with a
groan his head drooped and he lost consciousness.
With King and Stebbins the time passed until sundown before they
realized how late it was, and then they dropped their work and looked
along the stream in the direction taken by their guest.
“It is nearly seven o’clock, Marvin,” remarked King, consulting his
watch. “Al said he would be back by supper time, and here it is an hour
after. I believe he’s lost.”
“If that’s the case, we must find him before dark, or he’ll have to
stay in the swamp all night,” said Stebbins.
Both young men were hurrying towards the boat landing as they spoke.
“Maybe he’ll row around there a week before he finds his way out,”
declared King.
Stepping into the remaining boat, they both seized a paddle and sent
the light skiff whirling along towards the lake, keeping a sharp
lookout for any signs of the missing boat. “He promised not to go
further than the lake,” said Stebbins, as they reached a point where
the stream began to widen. “Let’s course over some of those creeks back
there,” indicating a part of the swamp in the rear of their island
home.
The boat’s prow was accordingly turned in that direction, and they
had proceeded but a few yards when King’s ear detected a faint call
somewhere in the distance. It was so low and indistinct that he was
unable to tell from what direction it came, but shouted loudly in
answer.
“Did you hear anything?” asked Stebbins, whose hearing was not so keen.
“I thought I did,” answered King, “and shouted in the hope that it
might be Alfred. He’s certainly out of the channel and is calling us.
Halloo! halloo! we’re coming! Where are you?” he shouted.
The boys rested a moment or two and listened for a reply. None came.
“We don’t know which way to go,” said King. “Let’s go south on a
venture.”
“Call again,” said Stebbins, after they had been paddling for a few
minutes. King did so, and in answer came a faint shout that both boys
heard. “We’re right, keep on straight ahead,” said King, excitedly.
“Where are you?” he called, but they did not receive any further answer.
They paddled an eighth of a mile along this course, calling constantly
without seeing anything of the person for whom they were looking.
“Strange he doesn’t answer us,” remarked Stebbins, thoughtfully. “I’m
afraid something’s happened to him.”
King said nothing, but kept peering ahead into the gathering
gloom. Darkness had fallen by this time and objects were hardly
distinguishable. Rounding a bend in the stream, they suddenly saw a
boat--the one in which Alfred had rowed away--drawn up on the bank.
With a shout the boys pushed ahead with rapid strokes. “Alfred, where
are you?” they called. As there was no response, they backed water, and
bringing their bateau to a stop, looked with blanched faces into the
empty boat.
“Where can he be?” muttered Stebbins.
“Look there! look there!” exclaimed King, rising in the skiff and
nearly upsetting it.
Stebbins followed the direction indicated, and saw what appeared to be
a man’s head upright on the ground.
“It’s Alfred, and he’s fast in the mud,” exclaimed Stebbins, grasping
the situation. “He’s dead!” he groaned.
Without further words, the boat was driven to the bank, and, stepping
on the very hummocks that had supported Whyte, they reached his side.
“Quick, Stebbins, get your paddle under his left arm; I will do the
same on my side,” said King, and, working together, they succeeded in
raising the apparently lifeless form from its position. In another
moment they had placed the unfortunate youth in the boat beside them,
and while one sent the skiff skimming towards home, the other rubbed
and chafed the cold hands and feet. At last they were rewarded by
seeing the eyes open and feeling the heart beat faintly.
By the time the party reached the house, Whyte was himself again, but
so weak and sick that he had to be carried from the landing and put
to bed. A doctor was brought from Lincoln the next day and left some
medicine and a few directions, but Alfred’s robust health and good
constitution did more for him than all the pills and powders, and in a
few days he had recovered from all traces of his terrible experience,
except the memory of it. That will stay with him always.
Audubon at Bird Rock
An interesting account, showing the numbers in which birds often live
together, is the following, written by Audubon. The great ornithologist
was, at the time of writing, visiting Bird Rock, a little granite
island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, so named from its only inhabitants,
birds, mostly of a species called Gannet.
“About ten, a speck rose on the horizon, which I was told was the Rock.
We sailed well, the breeze increased fast, and we neared the object
apace. At eleven, I could distinguish its top plainly from the deck,
and thought it covered with snow to the depth of several feet. This
appearance existed on every portion of the flat, projecting shelves.
Godwin (the guide) said, with the coolness of a man who had visited
this rock for successive seasons, that what we saw was not snow, but
Gannets. I rubbed my eyes, took my spy-glass, and in an instant the
strangest picture stood before me. They were birds we saw--a mass of
birds of such size as I never before cast my eyes on. The whole of my
party stood astounded and amazed, and all came to the conclusion that
such a sight was of itself sufficient to invite anyone to come across
the gulf to view it at this season. The nearer we approached, the
greater our surprise at the enormous number of these birds, all calmly
seated on their eggs or newly-hatched brood, their heads all turned to
the windward and toward us. The air above for a hundred yards, and for
the same distance around the Rock, was filled with Gannets on the wing,
which, from our position, made it appear as if a heavy fall of snow
was directly above us. The whole surface (of the island) is perfectly
covered with nests, placed about two feet apart, in such regular order
that you may look through the lines as you would look through those of
a planted patch of sweet potatoes or cabbages. When one reaches the
top, the birds, alarmed, rise with a noise like thunder, and fly off in
such a hurried, fearful confusion as to throw each other down, often
falling on each other until there is a bank of them many feet high.”
This was in 1833. If Audubon could visit the island now, how he would
find the “snows” melted. There is to-day not a single Gannet nesting on
the top of the rock. On the ledges and in the crannies about its sides,
the birds still dwell in great numbers, even in thousands, but not in
the countless myriads of the past.
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST
By Evelyn Raymond