THE CARNIVAL
I had no idea of being thus cut off from work as a Minute Boy simply
because young Chris had decided it was too dangerous for us to continue
such service, and speaking perhaps more sharply than I should have
done, I said to this man whom we had been instructed to look upon in
the light of a superior officer:
“There is no question of our refusing duty simply because of danger. It
is for you to say where we shall go, and what we must attempt to do,
you knowing all the circumstances. If, peradventure, you send us where
there is no chance to escape being taken prisoners, then is the matter
on your head rather than ours. Do not be so quick to say that we are no
longer of any use to the Cause.”
“And what say you, Master Bowers?” the man asked, turning to Timothy,
and the lad replied with a smile, as if he was well content with the
entire situation:
“I am of much the same mind as Richard Salter. It does indeed look as
though we had little or no chance of gathering information; but I am
ready to make a try for it even at this moment.”
“Well said, lads!” the Weaver of Germantown cried, and clapping young
Chris on the shoulder in a friendly manner, he added, “I have no doubt
but that your backbone will be stiff by the time you have seen your
comrades begin work.”
“There is no need of stiffening my backbone,” young Chris replied
sulkily. “I want it to be understood that I am no nearer showing the
white feather than any other lad in this city; but when it is a matter
of our being hounded by all the lobster-backs General Howe has here,
then does it seem to me a foolish matter to make any attempt save that
of remaining in hiding.”
“Then it shall be you who remains in hiding, and your comrades may go
forth to ply their dangerous business. If there was naught of peril
in this work of ours while we strive to teach the king a lesson, then
could there be no credit attached to what we do.”
“I shall go wherever Richard Salter and Timothy Bowers dare stick their
noses,” Chris cried angrily. “Since you are so sharp for us to show
whether we are like to be timorous, what is the work you would have us
do just now?”
“Remain in hiding three or four days, mayhap, and in less than that
time the Britishers will tire of looking for a couple of lads who
amused themselves by making the son of a Tory a prisoner.”
“That is exactly the question in our minds,” I interrupted. “I dare not
return to my home, for there are lodging British officers who know me
full well, and where else may we go?”
“I allow that Master Targe can take care of you for a few days,
and here in this inn, unless something unforeseen occurs, you will
be almost as safe as at Valley Forge. Content yourselves to remain
indoors, and confined to one room, until I shall give the word. Then it
is my belief that you may venture out with no more danger than before
the Baker lad gave his information; but feeling fairly safe from being
taken into custody save you run upon someone who knows you exceeding
well.”
Such advice as this was much to my liking; it was exactly that for
which I had come, and on the instant I felt as if the greater portion
of all my troubles were swept away, save for the fact that I could not
let mother know of my safety.
However, as to this last I consoled myself with the thought that she
would understand we were not in custody, if she failed of hearing
such news from those lobster-backs who lodged in her house. If,
peradventure, I had been made prisoner, then they would surely give her
information, for, saving the fact that they served the king and were
ready to do whatsoever they might to harm us of the colonies, they were
fairly decent men so far as ordinary acquaintances go.
Then it was that the Weaver of Germantown made a signal, by knocking
upon the wainscoting of the door in a peculiar manner, and straightway,
within thirty seconds perhaps, the innkeeper appeared, whereupon the
two men held a reasonably long conversation in the passageway, speaking
in guarded tones as if it was not their desire we should overhear the
words.
When it had come to an end, he whom we had been told to consider our
commander, said in a matter-of-fact tone:
“You will remain in this house, and the room next this shall be put in
order for you. The three must sleep in one bed, for Master Targe is
not troubled with overly much furniture in this inn of his, and it is
not well the rooms that are ordinarily occupied by lodgers should be
dismantled, lest it appear suspicious to whomsoever might be inclined
to play the spy for the benefit of the Britishers.”
That we were to be taken care of in fairly good fashion all of us
understood half an hour later, when Master Targe himself came into the
room, bringing so much in the way of provisions that the four of us ate
a very hearty supper, and I am willing to swear that young Chris and I
stood sadly in need of the food.
While we ate the Weaver of Germantown discussed the escape of Skinny
Baker, and asked Timothy Bowers many questions concerning it; but, as
I have already set down, the lad knew very little beyond the fact that
the Tory cur was at liberty, and Jeremy and Sam had disappeared.
As a matter of course, we understood that the Britishers were holding
them in one place or another as prisoners, and instead of speaking
regarding what we were to do to aid him in spying, the man, when he was
come to an end of questioning, immediately set about speculating as to
how it would be possible for us to lend a hand to our comrades.
Until he had spoken as if it was no more than a matter of business,
this rescuing two prisoners from the Britishers, I had not so much as
dreamed we might be the means of setting them free; but now, although
no plan had been proposed, a great hope sprang up in my heart that
before we ourselves had fallen into serious trouble, there was a
possibility of showing Jeremy and Sam that the tie which bound us lads
together as Minute Boys was a strong one.
“The first task is to find out where the lads are held,” the Weaver of
Germantown said as if speaking to himself, “and that much I fancy we
can rely upon Master Targe to learn. He has the reputation of being one
who would stand neutral in this trouble ’twixt the colonies and the
king, and the Tories are of the belief they may soon bring him around
to their way of thinking. Surely, they say to themselves, he can be no
rebel, otherwise he would not hold himself aloof from them. Therefore
it is that within the past two months Master Dingley and I have learned
very much from him, he having picked it up here and there when he had
as patrons some of the Tory brood.”
It is not possible for me to set down all we said that night, for
not until a late hour were we three lads willing to go into the next
chamber in order to sleep, so eager had we become over this unformed
plan of liberating Jeremy and Sam.
If, however, we thought it was a task which would be set about
immediately, then was the mistake a grave one, for on the following
morning the Weaver of Germantown flatly refused to discuss the matter
with us when we were come into his room for breakfast, saying, as if
the matter no longer was of great importance to him:
“We will wait until finding out where the lads are confined, before
making overly much talk.”
As a matter of course this did not prevent us lads from talking among
ourselves, and we foolishly laid plans one after another, each of
which I dare say would have been impossible of execution, while our
companion, who it appeared to me, now that daylight had come, was
holding himself aloof from us, refused to take any part.
When another night shrouded the city in darkness, however, we had good
proof that the Weaver of Germantown had not given over doing whatsoever
he might toward aiding our comrades, for then it was, after the
innkeeper had called him out into the passage for a private interview,
that he came back and said to us, as if the information was something
which gave him greatest satisfaction:
“Your lads whom you would aid are confined in the Stone Prison, or, at
least, in the work-house portion of the building, and it would seem as
if the Britishers were eager to give us an opportunity of freeing them,
for there is no place in all the city, so far as I know, that would be
so favorable for our plans.”
Now you must know that this Stone Prison was at the corner of High and
Third streets. The jail itself fronted on High street, and I have heard
it spoken of as the debtors’ prison, while on Third street was another
building joined to the first by a high wall, which formed part of the
yard enclosure, and this was the work-house. There were, in the garret
of this last building, certain rooms set apart for prisoners, in case
the High-street jail proved too small to accommodate all who were under
arrest.
When General Howe took possession of our city and began clapping into
jail all the so-called rebels he came across, he found himself cramped
for places in which to confine his captives, therefore even the State
House was used for confining prisoners of war. This work-house of
the Stone Prison had ordinarily been used by the Britishers as a
guard-house; that is to say, a place where they confined their own
soldiers who were guilty of some slight misdemeanor.
Now, as a matter of course, all us lads knew the Stone Prison almost
as well as we did our own homes, and I could say to within the length
of an inch where some of the wall had crumbled away sufficiently to
give a fellow a foothold, if he dug his toes in deeply, because more
than once had Jeremy Hapgood and I clambered up to the top in order to
look over into the work-house, where the lobster-backs were undergoing
punishment for having been drunken, or disrespectful to some popinjay
of a superior officer.
“If we only knew in what part of the building the lads were held,”
Timothy Bowers said reflectively, and the Weaver of Germantown replied
promptly:
“They are in the attic of the building, of course, where are the cells,
for it does not stand to reason the Britishers would house them with
the red-coats who are undergoing punishment.”
“I will undertake to get inside the yard, on any dark night, within
half an hour, if so be the sentries have not been doubled since I last
saw the place,” I said, and young Chris cried in a tone of derision:
“Much good it would do you to get inside the walls, save you counted on
joining Jeremy and Sam.”
“Nay, nay, lad,” the Weaver of Germantown added quickly. “If so be you
know a way to get to the top of the wall, it may chance we shall hit
upon a plan of going yet further. It should not be a difficult matter
on a dark night, unless peradventure unusually strict guard be kept,
to gain the roof of the work-house from the wall at the corner of the
streets. If I mistake not, it comes well in height to the eaves of the
building.”
“And what then?” Chris asked with a sneer.
“We should at least be nearer the lads then than we are now, and the
remainder is something to be figured out at a later day.”
Then it was that the man refused to hold further conversation with us,
insisting that we go to bed immediately, and, as a matter of fact, we
could do no less than obey.
But it was not possible for him to force us to sleep, and we lay there
on the bags of straw many hours, speculating as to what might be done
if we could gain the roof of the building, or as to how we could come
at those cell-like rooms under the eaves where it stood to reason our
comrades were held.
I fancied I had a scheme which could be worked, if so be the night
was stormy; but I refrained from giving words to it at the time
because Chris was ever ready to make sport of plans formed by another,
therefore held my peace, letting him throw cold water as he would upon
the proposition that we could do anything toward releasing Jeremy and
Sam.
On the following day our Weaver of Germantown, had again seemingly
become indifferent to that which we would do, and held frequent
interviews with Master Targe in the passageway, until we were becoming
wearied of inaction.
It may seem strange that after we had escaped such grave peril,
there was even the lightest whisper of grumbling from us because we
were forced to remain hived up in one room where we were seemingly in
safety. Yet did this inaction so weigh upon me, that before eight and
forty hours had passed I came almost to believe it would be better we
went boldly out on the street, taking the chances of arrest, rather
than stay there cooped up like chickens who were being fattened for the
killing. So I said petulantly to this man who could be so friendly at
times, and again appear so distant that one hesitated to speak to him,
whereupon he replied gravely:
“If you are to accomplish anything in this world, lad, whether it be
playing the part of a spy, or engaging in what some might call a more
honest pursuit, the first thing which you must learn is patience. He
who tires quickly because of the sameness of his surroundings, or
because of a treadmill-like existence, is not the one to climb high
in whatsoever pursuit he follows. To steal from the Britishers their
secrets, or to release two lads who are held under heavy guard as
prisoners, are not simple matters, and he who expects that either one
or the other can be done off-hand without expenditure of time, sets
himself down as a simple.”
As a matter of course that silenced me, and during the remainder of
the day I strove earnestly to appear patient, as if it mattered little
whether I remained there, or went abroad.
One day passed after another, each a weary time of waiting for we knew
not what. Again and again would young Chris insist that it was needless
for us to be wasting the hours if we counted on making any attempt to
aid our comrades, and to all of his complaint and reproaches, for he
was not choice of words, this odd man gave no heed.
There were, in fact, moments when you might have said he failed to hear
the lad, even when young Chris was complaining the most loudly.
Then on a certain day, however, after we had been cooped up in that
small room so long that it seemed to me almost as if I had spent half
my life there, the Weaver of Germantown said suddenly, as if the fact
had but just been borne in upon him:
“Now, lads, I believe the hour has come when you may make the venture.”
“What venture?” young Chris asked sharply.
“That of striving to be of assistance to our people who are fighting
against the king.”
“Do you mean that we may go out from here?” Timothy Bowers asked, and
there was a joyous ring in his voice which told how great the relief,
and how little he regarded the possible danger.
“Since you have been cooped up here General Clinton has arrived to
take command of the troops, and it is to-morrow that this carnival,
which they call the Mischianza, is to be given. Now I propose that
if you lads are willing to make the venture, you shall set off at
nearabout midnight for Southwark, and there loiter around, each taking
a different station, to learn what you may from the guests themselves.”
“What?” young Chris cried in amazement. “Are we going to the carnival?
We whom the lobster-backs will arrest on sight?”
“Ay, that is my plan; but I am of the mind that you will not be
arrested. As a matter of course there will be many servants around the
grounds, and Master Targe has secured for you costumes which will
prove an effective disguise. If you are sufficiently quick-witted, it
should be a simple matter to mingle with the other attendants, waiting
upon the guests whenever you are called. It is by no means certain you
will gain valuable information, and yet I believe there is so great a
possibility that we should take advantage of it. Are you willing to
make the trial?”
“Of course we are, sir,” Timothy Bowers replied gleefully. “To say
nothing of having a chance to take part in the lobster-backs’ carnival,
it will do me solid good to breathe the fresh air once more. There
have been times since I came to this inn when it seemed that I would
stifle, although there is no reason why I make complaint concerning
the accommodations at the Jolly Tar, for he who is in danger of the
gallows, as I count that we three are, should be easily satisfied while
he is allowed to remain at liberty.”
“But what about our comrades who are held prisoners in the work-house?”
I asked sharply, thinking that the Weaver of Germantown had forgotten
them entirely, whereupon he said severely, and in a tone which was much
like that of reproof:
“The imprisonment of two lads is but a trifling matter as compared with
the needs of the Cause. Many a one must undergo imprisonment, or even
give up his life, and thousands upon thousands suffer bitterly in order
that we may accomplish that on which we have set our minds. I know to
a certainty that up to the time of General Clinton’s arrival nothing
had been done in the way of punishing your comrades. I suspect that the
Britishers are waiting until you also can be captured. It is equally
positive no move will be made immediately; surely not to-morrow during
the carnival, and it may be that when the festival has come to an end
we shall find time to look after those whom you would free.”
And now it is, in order that you may the better understand what we lads
did when we literally thrust our heads into the lion’s mouth, or to
what purpose we went this way and that, I must go forward somewhat in
my story, telling of what took place on the following day, even before
I finish speaking of that which we did at the moment when the Weaver
of Germantown set out plainly before us that we were in fact to act
the part of spies, and, if taken while thus at work, there would be no
question but that the gallows would be our final halting place in this
world.
Therefore I propose to set down what was done at this carnival, after
which I will come back and explain how we went about our duties. In
telling of the gaieties which the lobster-backs indulged in, I count
to read from a letter Major Andre himself wrote to his friends in
England, and which now lies plainly before me, it having been captured
at Monmouth among some of the British camp equipment, though why it was
he failed to send the missive I do not understand.
This is what he wrote:
“A grand regatta began the entertainment. It consisted of three
divisions. In the first was the Ferret galley, having on board several
general officers and a number of ladies. In the centre was the Hussar
galley, with Sir William and Lord Howe, Sir Henry Clinton, the officers
of their suite, and some ladies. The Cornwallis galley brought up the
rear, having on board General Knyphausen and his suite, three British
generals and a party of ladies. On each quarter of these galleys, and
forming their division, were five flatboats, lined with green cloth
and filled with ladies and gentlemen. In front of the whole were
three flatboats with a band of music in each. Six barges rowed about
each flank to keep off the swarm of boats that covered the river from
side to side. The galleys were decked out with a variety of colors
and streamers, and in each flatboat was displayed the flag of its own
division.
“In the stream opposite the centre of the city the _Fanny_, armed ship,
magnificently decorated, was placed at anchor, and at some distance
ahead lay his Majesty’s ship _Roebuck_, with the admiral’s flag hoisted
at the foretop masthead. The transport ships, extending in line the
whole length of the town, appeared with colors flying and crowded with
spectators, as were also the openings of several wharves on shore,
exhibiting the most picturesque and enlivening scene the eye could
desire. The rendezvous was at Knight’s wharf at the northern extremity
of the city. By half-past four the whole Company were embarked, and the
signal being made by the _Vigilant’s_ manning ship, the three divisions
rowed slowly down, preserving their proper intervals, and keeping time
to the music that led the fleet.
“Arrived between the _Fanny_ and the Market wharf, a signal was made
from one of the boats ahead, and the whole lay upon their oars, while
the music played ‘God save the King,’ and three cheers given for the
vessels were returned from the multitude on shore. By this time the
flood tide became too rapid for the galleys to advance; they were
therefore quitted, and the party disposed of in different barges. This
alteration broke in upon the order of procession; but was necessary
to give sufficient time for displaying the entertainments that were
prepared on shore.
“The landing-place was at the Old Fort, a little to the southward of
the town, fronting the building prepared for the reception of the
company, about four hundred yards from the water by a gentle ascent.
As soon as the general’s barge was seen to push from the shore, a
salute of seventeen guns was fired from the _Roebuck_, and, after some
interval, by the same number from the _Vigilant_. The company, as
they disembarked, arranged themselves into a line of procession, and
advanced through an avenue formed by two files of grenadiers, and a
line of light horse supporting each file. This avenue led to a square
lawn of two hundred and fifty yards on each side, lined with troops,
and properly prepared for the exhibition of a tilt and tournament,
according to the customs and ordinances of ancient chivalry. We
proceeded through the centre of the square.
“The music, consisting of all the bands of the army, moved in front.
The managers, with favors of white and blue ribbons in their breasts,
followed next in order. The general, admiral, and the rest of the
company proceeded promiscuously.
“In front appeared the building, bounding the view through a vista
formed by two triumphal arches erected at proper intervals in a line
with the landing-place. Two pavilions with rows of benches rising
one above the other, and serving as the wings of the first triumphal
arch, received the ladies, while the gentlemen arranged themselves in
convenient order on each side. On the front seat of each pavilion were
placed seven of the principal young ladies of the country, dressed in
Turkish habits and wearing in their turbans the favors with which they
meant to reward the several knights who were to contend in their honor.
These arrangements were scarce made, when the sound of trumpets was
heard in the distance, and a band of knights, dressed in ancient habits
of white and red silk, and mounted on gray horses richly caparisoned
in trappings of the same colors, entered the lists, attended by their
esquires on foot, in suitable apparel.”
Now then, in this letter of Major Andre’s, he writes many pages
concerning what they did when the knights rode into the field and
fought with lances, and blunt swords, and all that sort of thing,
which it is not necessary I set down. It is this last which is most
important, for in it did young Chris, Timothy and I figure in great
shape, according to our own belief:
Here is the remainder of General Andre’s letter:
“The company were regaled with tea, lemonade, and other cooling liquors
when they entered the house. On the same floor with the ball-room were
four drawing-rooms, with sideboards of refreshments. Dancing continued
until ten o’clock, when the windows were thrown open and the display
of fireworks began. At twelve o’clock supper was announced, and large
folding doors, hitherto artfully concealed, being suddenly thrown
open, discovered a magnificent saloon with three alcoves on each side
which served as sideboards. Fifty-six large pier glasses, ornamented
with green silk artificial flowers and ribbons; one hundred branches
with three lights in each, trimmed in the same manner as the mirrors;
eighteen lustres, each with twenty-four lights, suspended from the
ceiling, and ornamented as the branches; three hundred wax tapers
disposed along the supper table; four hundred and thirty covers, twelve
hundred dishes, twenty-four black slaves in Oriental dresses, with
silver collars and bracelets, ranged in two lines, and bending to the
ground as the general and admiral approached the saloon. Then came the
drinking of healths, and the toasts, and after supper the dancing was
continued until four o’clock.”
That letter gives a pretty good account of the entertainment, so I have
been told. But we three lads who were at the risk of our lives, saw
very little of what was going on, because we were chiefly among the
servants, save when called upon by the gentlemen or ladies to bring
them this or that in the way of refreshments.
You must not suppose that we were among the “twenty-four black slaves
in Oriental dresses,” for our station was not so high. However it had
been brought about, I know not; but certain it is that the innkeeper
of the Jolly Tar had provided us with costumes such as the ordinary
servant wore, and we were told how we should present ourselves at
Master Wharton’s mansion in order to be admitted.
You may say that a person who is telling a story has no right to go
ahead in the narrative in order to describe something which happened
in the future; but I have striven several times to relate it in a
different fashion, failing utterly, therefore must I do as I have
and let you put it down to the truth, which is, that I am but a poor
apology for a story-teller.
Now let me hark back to that room in the Jolly Tar inn where we three
lads were gathered with the Weaver of Germantown, when he astounded us
by announcing that if we were willing to take the chances, then might
we go to this carnival of the lobster-backs.
We all knew full well where was Master Wharton’s country house at
Southwark, and were told that when midnight was come, we must, having
made up in parcels the dresses which we were to wear for the occasion,
set off, and, if possible, conceal ourselves nearabout the mansion.
Then at daylight we were to put on our disguises, which I may say here
consisted simply of what I fancied was a Turkish style of dress, made
of some green and black stuff that completely enveloped the body, being
brought up tightly around each ankle, forming thereby a most comical
kind of trousers and tunic all in one piece.
As a matter of course, the clothing would not serve to hide our faces,
and therein the danger lay.
If so be we did not come upon any who were acquainted with us, and
there was little chance of such an unfortunate happening save in the
case of those officers who lodged with my mother, then were we safe in
embarking upon the venture.
We were to present ourselves boldly at the rear of the house, after
having put on our odd clothing, and from that on it would be the duty
of Master Wharton’s upper servants, or the master of ceremonies, to
direct us to what we should do.
The only matter of which we were absolutely positive was, that in event
of our being discovered, then was death almost certain, for there could
be no question but that we had gone there as spies, and would be dealt
with accordingly.