MOLLY STARK’S HUSBAND.
The little mountain town of Derryfield[1] was full of the sounds of the
drum and fife, while companies of tall, raw-boned countrymen, some with
uniforms, more without, but all bearing arms and belts, were marching
to and fro in the streets, and on the green, to the lively notes of
“Yankee Doodle.”
In the best parlor of the “Patriot Arms,” the principal tavern of the
village, a remarkably tall and scraggy-looking officer, in the uniform
of a Continental General, was standing before the fire, with one foot
on the huge andiron, looking shrewdly at our friend, Adrian Schuyler,
who stood before him, still shackled.
The scraggy officer had very broad shoulders, and huge hands and
feet, but the flesh seemed to have been forgotten in the formation
of his powerful frame. He had a tall, narrow forehead, and a very
stern, shrewd-looking face of a Scotch cast of feature, with high
cheek bones, and very sharp black eyes. His nose and chin were both
long, the latter very firm withal. His manner was remarkably sharp and
abrupt. The nervous energy of the man seemed to be ever overflowing
in impatience and fiery ardor. Such was Brigadier-General--afterwards
Major-General--John Stark, the first leader of militia during the
Revolutionary War.
“Well, sir,” he said, as Schuyler concluded his relation, “I’m very
sorry that the rascals stole your commission, but your face is
sufficient. I believe your story. What does Schuyler want me to do?”
“To join him at Bemis’ Hights, General,” said the Hussar, with equal
business-like promptness.
“Well, sir, I’ll see him hanged first,” said Stark, with a snap of his
teeth.
Adrian hardly knew what to say to the eccentric brigadier, as he stood
there, nodding his head as if to confirm his words.
“General,” he began, “if any unfortunate accident deprives me of
credit--if you don’t believe I am properly authorized--”
“I told you I did, young man,” said Stark, with all his old abruptness.
“You’re enough like Phil Schuyler to let me see you’re his cousin.”
“Then, General, what am I to understand?”
“That I’ll see them all hanged first.”
And the iron brigadier compressed his teeth like a vise.
Adrian Schuyler began to wax indignant. Without even waiting for a
smith to file off his irons, he had ridden to Derryfield, turning loose
the black horse, as he had been bidden. Seeking General Stark in the
town, in his equivocal guise, he had been arrested by the patrol, and
brought in as a prisoner, when he had told his whole story without
reserve.
The presence of his gray charger--which had been captured, the night
before, around the General’s quarters--confirmed the truth of part
of his statement, while Stark’s clear penetration told him that the
handsome, open face of Schuyler was not that of a traitor. Being so
fully believed, the General’s brusque answer to his message vexed and
surprised him beyond measure.
“General Stark,” he began, indignantly, “do you call that a proper
answer to the lawful orders of a man like General Schuyler? Are you
aware--”
Stark interrupted him in his gruff, abrupt manner:
“Keep cool, young man. I know Phil better than you. He’s a good man--a
sight too good to be hustled from pillar to post by those asses of
Congressmen. They shan’t hustle _me_. I hold my commission from
New-Hampshire, and intend to stay here.”
“And do you mean to say, General Stark,” asked the hussar, fiercely,
“that I am to go back and report to General Schuyler that you refuse
to come to his aid, when the enemy are pressing him hard, and you have
three thousand men under your orders?”
Stark turned his head to the young man.
“You can tell him and any one else,” he said emphatically, “that John
Stark’s a man, not a post. They can send me all the orders they like,
and I’ll see them hanged before I obey them.”
Adrian Schuyler was now completely indignant, but he remained calm.
With quiet dignity, he said:
“General Stark, I have only one request to make of you, in that case.”
“Umph--umph! What is it?” grunted Stark, gruffly.
“Allow your men to restore me my horse, which I see at your quarters,
and let me ride back to my chief.”
“Umph--umph! Very good, very good. Have your irons off first, eh?”
“No, sir,” cried Adrian, fiercely; “not a favor from you but my own
charger. I would sooner die than accept aught else from a man who
deserted his country in the hour of trial.”
“Umph--umph! Gritty lad--gritty lad--like your pluck, by jingo--keep
cool--better have a smith and a dinner, eh? Look faint--_must_ have
dinner.”
This was indeed true, for Adrian had not touched food for twenty-four
hours. He was too angry, however, to accept the offer and turned away
to the door, when Stark’s sharp, metallic voice asked:
“Well, youngster, what are you going to tell Phil, if you get there
alive?”
“That you refuse to fight,” said Adrian, angrily.
“Oh, no, no--not a bit of it,” said Stark, in his quick manner; “not
by a big sight, youngster. You stay with me, and I’ll show you as much
fighting as any man wants, in two days.”
Adrian paused, irresolute. There was something in the voice of Stark
that sounded as if he was mocking him.
“What do you mean, General?” he asked sullenly. “If you are playing
with me, allow me to say that it is in bad taste to an officer in my
position, who has incurred danger to reach you.”
The eccentric General changed his manner immediately. He came up to
Schuyler and forced him, with rough kindness, into a chair by the table.
“You sit there,” he said gruffly. “I want to talk turkey to you.”
Then he rung a bell, and as the orderly entered, he gruffly ordered up
the “nearest smith and a good dinner.” The orderly did not seem to be
amazed at the singular order. He was an old dragoon, who had once been
a ranger of Stark’s company in the French and Indian war. He saluted,
and wheeled swiftly about, departing without a word.
“Now, see here, captain,” began the eccentric General, as the door
closed, “don’t misunderstand me. I’m going to keep you here, because
I know you can’t get back to your General now. Burgoyne has a body of
his infernal dragoons on the road here, and to-night I march to meet
them. I’ll not put myself under the orders of Congress--that’s flat.
They’ve cheated Arnold and me out of our fairly-won commissions, and my
State has granted what they refuse. I’m going to whip these British and
Hessian dragoons out of their boots, on my own hook, and if Congress
don’t like it, they can lump it. That’s flat, too. When I’ve whipped
the enemy, you can carry the news to Phil, if you please, and I shall
be glad of your help. What do you say now?”
Adrian had been silent during this singular address, which was spoken
in short jerks, the General stumping round the room all the time.
When he had finished, the hussar answered:
“I say you’re a strange man, General; but I’ll stay with you, if you
like. At all events, I can help you, till the road’s clear.”
Stark laughed in his abrupt manner, and clapped the other on the
shoulder, saying:
“You’re the right grit, lad, and if I don’t show you a few English
flags, the day after to-morrow, it’s because Molly Stark will be a
widow.”
The door opened, and in clamped a big country blacksmith, with his
basket of tools, while his blue coat, brass scales, and tall hat-plume
showed that he had just come in from “training.”
“Hang it, Zeke, we don’t want to shoe a horse here,” said Stark,
grinning. “This gentleman has been unfortunate enough to fall into
British hands, and they’ve ornamented him with bracelets. File them
off, so he can dine with me.”
“That’s me, Gineral,” said the smith, affably. “Ef I don’t hev them
irons off in five minutes, you kin take my hat.”
He was as good as his word, filing away at the irons with great vigor,
and when the tavern waiter entered with a large tray, some five minutes
later, Adrian Schuyler was rubbing his released wrists with a sense of
gratitude, while the smith, who had been cheerfully whistling over his
task, and replying affably to his General’s dry jokes, had just picked
up his basket to leave.
Adrian Schuyler, who was used to the formal discipline of the great
Frederick’s army, was wonderfully amused at the free and easy ways of
the General of militia, who behaved like an easy-going old father among
his uncouth soldiers. He had yet to learn that in that singular man,
John Stark, were concentrated the only qualities that enable a man to
drive up raw militia to the cannon’s mouth, with the steadiness of
veterans.