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[Illustration: "WHAT ABOUT THE BOY?" (page 13)]
THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH
A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778
BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON
_Author of "Washington's Young Aids," "Guarding the Border," "The Boys
with Old Hickory," "Ward Hill at Weston," etc., etc._
[Illustration: The Riverside Press]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press,
Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OLD MONMOUTH 1
II. TOM INVESTIGATES 15
III. THE MEETING ON THE RIVER 27
IV. BENZEOR'S VISITOR 40
V. THE MESSENGER 53
VI. IN THE TEN-ACRE LOT 67
VII. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 82
VIII. INDIAN JOHN 96
IX. THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT 112
X. THE STORY OF THE MISCHIANZA 126
XI. TO REFUGEE TOWN 141
XII. BATHSHEBA'S FEAST 156
XIII. WITH THE REDCOATS 169
XIV. THE WAY TO CRANBERRY 182
XV. THE BOAT ON THE BAR 195
XVI. TED WILSON'S VICTIM 208
XVII. A FRUITLESS CHASE 221
XVIII. A RARE BEAST 233
XIX. THE RELEASE OF BENZEOR 246
XX. THE FLEET OF BARGES 259
XXI. THE RIDE WITH THE LIEUTENANT 272
XXII. A SOLDIER WOMAN 286
XXIII. AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY 298
XXIV. THE ABODE OF INDIAN JOHN 310
XXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT FIGHT 323
XXVI. THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH 336
XXVII. THE RETURN TO BENZEOR'S HOUSE 349
XXVIII. THE RIDE TO THE MILL 364
XXIX. AFTER THE BATTLE 377
XXX. TOM COWARD'S PATIENT 390
XXXI. AMONG THE PINES 403
XXXII. CONCLUSION 416
THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH
CHAPTER I
OLD MONMOUTH
OLD Monmouth is an expression dear to the heart of every native-born
Jerseyman. The occasional visitor seeking health among its whispering
pines, or relaxation in the sultry summer days along its shore, where
the roll of the breakers and the boundless sweep of the ocean combine to
form one of the most sublime marine views on all the Atlantic seaboard,
may admire the fertile farmlands and prosperous villages as much as the
man to the manor born, but he never speaks of "Old" Monmouth.
Nor will he fully understand what the purebred Jerseyman means when he
uses the term, for to the stranger the word will smack of length of
days, and of the venerable position which Monmouth holds among the
counties of the State.
Monmouth is old, it is true, and was among the first of the portions of
New Jersey to be settled by the Woapsiel Lennape, the name which the
Indians first gave to the white people from across the sea, or by the
Schwonnack,--"the salt people,"--as the Delawares afterwards called
them. But the true Jerseyman is not thinking alone of the age of
Monmouth when he uses the word "Old." To him it is a term of affection
also, used it may be as schoolboys or college mates use it when they
address one another as "old fellow," though but a few years may have
passed over their heads.
The new-comer or the stranger may speak of Fair Monmouth, and think he
is giving all the honor due to the beautiful region, but his failure to
use the proper adjective will at once betray his foreign birth and his
ignorance of the position which the county holds in the affections of
all true Jerseymen.
Still, Monmouth is old in the sense in which the summer visitor uses the
word. Here and there in the county an antiquated house is standing
to-day, which if it were endowed with the power of speech could tell of
stirring sights it had seen more than a century ago. Redcoats, fleeing
from the wrath of the angry Washington and his Jersey Blues, marched
swiftly past on their way to the Highlands and the refuge of New York.
Fierce contests between neighbors, who had taken opposite sides in the
struggle of the colonies for freedom from the yoke of the mother
country, or step-mother country, as some not inappropriately termed her
in these days, occurred in the presence of these ancient
dwelling-places, and sometimes within their very walls. Many, too, would
be the stories of the deeds of tories, and refugees, and pine robbers
contending with stanch and sturdy whigs. Up the many winding streams,
boat-loads of sailors made their way from the gunboat or privateer
anchored off the shore, to burn the salt works of the hardy pioneers, or
lay waste their lands as they searched for plunder or for forage.
The forked trees along the shore, in whose branches the lookouts were
concealed as they swept the ocean for miles watching for the appearance
of the hostile boat, were standing until recent years. In their last
days broken, it is true, and almost destroyed by the winter storms and
their weight of long years, still they stood as the few remaining tokens
of that century when our fathers contended for "their lives, their
fortunes, and their sacred honor." At last the pathos and weakness of
old age prevailed, and to-day there remains scarcely a vestige of those
ancient landmarks.
Perhaps if the boys and girls of New Jersey had been as mindful of those
old trees as the Cambridge lads and lassies have been of the spreading
elm beneath whose branches the noble-hearted Washington assumed the
command of the little American army, some of them might still be
standing; but as it is, the most of them have crumbled and fallen and
disappeared as completely as have the men who sought the shelter of
their branches in the trying times of '78.
So, too, for many years stood the famous tree from whose limbs the noble
patriot, Captain Huddy, was hanged,--as dastardly a deed as was
committed by either side in that struggle which tried the souls of our
fathers. But the trees are gone, and only a few quaint houses and
venerable landmarks and heirlooms remain of those things which witnessed
the contests, and deeds high or base, of that far-away time.
The lofty monument on the old battle-ground of Monmouth is surmounted by
the figure of a man whose face is shaded by his hand, as if he were
still striving to obtain a glimpse of the redcoats in the darkness as
they hastened to gain the Highlands and the refuge of the waiting boats
which were to bear them away to the safety of the great city. But it is
itself essentially modern, and only in its brief records, carved by
patriotic hands upon its sides, and in its figure of the granite soldier
standing upon its summit, does its suggestiveness lie. It looks down
upon a thriving village and out upon the lands of thrifty and prosperous
farmers, and there is nothing in all the vision to remind one that the
soil was ever stained by the blood of soldiers clad in uniforms of
scarlet, or of buff and blue.
And yet, as fierce a struggle as our country ever knew occurred within
the region. Women toiled in the fields while their husbands and sons
fought, or even gave up their lives to drive away their oppressors. Yes,
even in the battles some of the women found places, and Captain Molly
Pitcher was only one among many who had a share in the actual struggle
of the Revolution. Houses were doubly barred at night against the
attacks of prowling bands of refugees or pine robbers, and many times
were defended by the patriotic women themselves. Spies crept in among
them, and evil men who owned no allegiance to either side seized the
opportunity to prey alike upon friend and foe. At times it almost seemed
as if the words spoken many centuries ago were then fulfilled, and that
"a man was set at variance against his father, and the daughter against
her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and that
a man's foes were they of his own household."
But with all the suffering and bloodshed there were many heroes and
heroines, and even the boys and girls were not without a share in the
struggles of the times which tried men's souls. The houses in which they
dwelt may have disappeared and given place to far more imposing
structures; their very names may no longer be recalled; but, after all,
they displayed many qualities which the world ought not willingly to
permit to die, and the heritage which they have bequeathed to us will
lose nothing of its value if we go back in our thoughts and strive to
comprehend more clearly the price which our fathers paid for the land we
love.
In the early summer of 1778, while the feelings of the Monmouth people
had been deeply stirred,--and indeed the patriots of the county had
been among the foremost to pass resolutions and be enrolled among the
defenders of the new nation,--there had not as yet come the intense
excitement which followed the advance of General Clinton's army from
Philadelphia. The long winter at Valley Forge had at last come to an
end, and when the British moved out from the city,--for holding it
longer seemed to be useless,--Washington had led his troops into the
town almost as soon as the enemy departed. Nor was that all, for he
quickly decided to follow after the departing general, and overtake and
give him battle before Clinton could lead his men across the Jerseys.
The American commander knew that his own forces numbered nearly as many
as those the British general had; and as, in spite of the dreadful
sufferings of the winter, his men were in far better condition than they
had ever been before,--thanks to the tireless energy of Baron
Steuben,--he resolved to depart from Philadelphia and follow after the
British.
Clinton had sent the recently enrolled tories to New York by water, and
as there were some three thousand of these alone, he soon decided that
his troops must go by land.
Accordingly, the journey was begun, but the Continentals, going a little
farther to the north than the line of Clinton's march, planned to gain a
position in advance of the enemy by the rapidity of their movements, and
then, turning about in their course, fall upon the redcoats face to face
and offer them battle in some advantageous place.
The baggage wagons of Clinton stretched out in a long line of twelve
miles as they followed after the army, and in other ways the British
leader was somewhat embarrassed. Consequently, when he learned of
Washington's plan, he quickly decided to change the direction of his
march, and, by passing through "Old Monmouth," lead his army to the
Navesink Highlands and there have them all embark for New York.
Washington had first offered the command of his advance forces to young
Lafayette, but he was somewhat perplexed by the return of General Lee to
his army, and knew not just what to do.
Lee had been captured a little more than a year before this time,
through his own carelessness, near Morristown, and we may be sure that
Washington was not greatly troubled by the loss. Lee had steadily
opposed him, and was plotting to secure his position for himself.
However, the British general Prescott, whose capture by the Americans
had been effected in a manner not unlike that in which Lee himself had
been taken, had been exchanged, and Lee once more returned to the
American army.
He was still the same Lee, sensitive, jealous, and suspected of being in
league with Howe, who recently had sailed away for England to explain to
Parliament the causes of his failures in the preceding year.
Much as he disliked to make the change, Lee's return compelled
Washington to recognize his presence, and after some tactful efforts he
removed Lafayette and gave Lee his position as leader of the advanced
forces. Lee had bitterly opposed the project of following Clinton, and
steadily objected to the march across the Jerseys.
Washington, however, was firm in his determination, and the march was
soon begun; but the lack of confidence which he felt in General Lee must
have sadly increased the troubles of the great commander, already beset
by perils of so many kinds. Whether he was mistaken in his estimate of
the man, we shall learn in the course of this story.
Such then was the general condition of affairs as the summer of 1778
drew on. Those of the people of Old Monmouth who were at home heard
occasional rumors of the advance of the two armies, but few of them had
any thought of the stirring scenes which were to be enacted in their
midst before the summer was ended.
It was now late in June. The summer had been unusually warm, and the men
and boys, as well as the women, who were at home had labored busily in
the fields, in the hope of an early as well as an abundant harvest. For
those who cared to avail themselves of them, the markets in New York
provided a ready place for the sale of their produce, and not only the
tories, but some of the men whose sympathies as yet had not led them
openly to declare their preferences for either side, or who perhaps
cared more for the prices they were likely to receive in New York for
the results of their labors than they did for liberty or any such
abstract quality, were not averse to loading up the boats, which many of
the farmers near the shore owned, and sailing away for the city.
Down the lower bay one such boat was swiftly making its way one
afternoon in June, 1778. On board were four men, three of whom
evidently were in middle life, but the fourth was a sturdy lad about
seventeen years of age, and it was plain that he was not in full
sympathy with his companions. He took but little part in the
conversation, and the expression upon his face frequently betrayed the
feelings in his heart. The three men with him apparently did not give
him much thought or attention, and evidently were too well satisfied
with the results of their expedition to waste any time in questioning
the lad as to the cause of his silence.
"There's the old tree now," said one of the men as they came within
sight of the landmark. "If nothing has gone wrong, we'll soon be in the
Navesink."
"Yes, and back at work again," grumbled another. "For my part I think
Fenton and Davenport and the rest of the pine robbers have the easiest
time of all. They swoop down upon some whig farmer, and all they have to
do is to take what he has worked out. I don't see why it isn't all fair
enough in war."
"If it wasn't for that skull of Fagan, with that pipe stuck in its
mouth, nailed up on the tree over there beyond the Court House, I'd go
in myself," said the first speaker. "The grin on it is almost more than
I can bear."
"That'll do to frighten women and children with," said the third man,
who had been silent for a time. "Fagan got a little too bold, that was
the trouble with him. He carried it a little too far. I happen to know
that there are some men who know enough to put a finger in, and not get
it burned either."
"Perhaps you've done a little yourself in that line, Benzeor Osburn?"
queried the last speaker. "I've thought sometimes you could tell some
tales if you wanted to."
"And who knows but I might?" replied Benzeor. "I may be able to keep my
place from being confiscated and sold, the way my brother's was two
years ago, but that may not mean either that I don't know what's to my
own advantage when I see it. You'd do the same, wouldn't you, Jacob
Vannote?"
"That I would," replied Jacob, "and so would Barzilla Giberson here,
too. All we want is that some good man like you, Benzeor, should tell us
how to do it."
"I can tell you," said Benzeor quietly. "I've made up my mind that I've
held off just as long as I am going to. I'm going in, and if you have a
mind to join, I'll let you in, too."
"Tell us about it," said Jacob eagerly. "What about the boy?" he added
in a low voice, glancing toward the fourth member of the party as he
spoke.
"What? Tom Coward? He's a coward by name as well as by nature. You
haven't anything to fear from him. He's been in my home since he was
five year old. He won't make any trouble."
Nevertheless, the speaker lowered his voice, and for a long time the
trio conversed eagerly upon the new topic. So intent were they that not
one of them noted the flush upon the lad's face at the brutal reference
to him, nor saw the look of determination which came a little later in
its place.
Apparently Tom was not giving any attention to the men with him in the
swift sailing boat. He retained his seat near the bow, and seemed to be
interested only in the waves before him. A brisk wind was blowing, and
the waters betrayed the tokens of a coming storm.
The boat was pitching more and more as it sped on, and Tom watched the
rolling waves, many of them capped with white and rising steadily
higher and higher. The darker hues gave place to a lighter green as they
rose, and the increasing roughness seemed to reflect somewhat the
feelings in his own heart.
Far away in the distance stretched the long sandy beach of the Hook,
becoming more and more distinct as the boat drew nearer. The gulls were
flying low, and the weird cries of the sea-birds were heard on every
side.
Suddenly Tom stood upright, and, after gazing intently for a moment at
some object on the shore, turned to his companions and said,--
"Some one's up in the tree, and the signal's out, too."
The men instantly ceased from their conversation, and peered intently at
the tree in the distance.
Evidently the sight was not altogether pleasing, for with an exclamation
of anger Benzeor Osburn, who was holding the tiller, quickly changed the
course of the boat, and started back in the direction from which they
had come.