TOM INVESTIGATES
THERE were many exclamations of impatience heard in the boat as Benzeor
changed her course, and the helmsman himself appeared to be the most
impatient of all. A drizzling rain was now falling and there were many
signs apparent that a stormy night was approaching.
"I wish I knew just what the warning was for," muttered Benzeor. "Fine
night this, to be prowling around the bay in!"
"There was no mistake about the sign, though," replied Jacob. "There's
something wrong, or we shouldn't have seen the white flag. That means
there's something going on up the Navesink."
"All the more reason for going home then!" said Benzeor. "Who was on the
lookout to-day? Does any one know?"
"Yes, 't was Peter Van Mater," said Tom, who up to this time had taken
no part in the conversation. "He told me yesterday that he was to be in
the tree to-day."
"What! Little Peter?" demanded Benzeor quickly.
"Yes," replied Tom. "I saw him out by their cornfield yesterday. He was
there driving away the crows and blackbirds."
"Little" Peter was so called to distinguish him from his father who bore
the same name; and although his son, a well-grown young fellow of
eighteen, towered more than a half head above "Big" Peter now, the
distinctive names given several years before this time still clung to
them both.
The Van Mater place joined the Osburn farm, and for years Tom and Little
Peter had been the best of friends. On those rare occasions when a brief
break in the arduous labors on the farms had come, together they had
gone crabbing, or had sailed down to Barnegat, where the sea-fowl
gathered in great flocks when the proper seasons came.
Tom's heart had gone out to Little Peter as it had not to any other
person. Peter's round face shone with an expression of good nature which
nothing but the mention of a tory or a pine robber seemed to be able to
ruffle. A reference to either of them never failed to arouse the dormant
anger of the lad, and with all the intensity of his quiet and strong
nature he hated both. For the Van Maters, even to the mother and the
girls, were patriots of the strongest kind, and now Big Peter was away
in Washington's army and had left his eldest son and namesake to protect
the family and manage the farm in his absence.
And Little Peter had accepted the task with an outward assent that
deceived even his own father. Only to Tom had he mentioned his true
feelings, and expressed his determination to buy up his time, so that
he, too, might be enrolled in the patriot army.
Tom Coward well knew that the words expressed Little Peter's feelings
and desires rather than his purpose, for he was satisfied that nothing
would induce his friend to desert his mother and the children in their
time of need. But he had fully sympathized with Peter in his desire to
buy up his time, and there were special reasons why the words meant much
more to him than they did to his friend.
About a decade before this time, when one of the numerous "September
gales" was raging along the Jersey shore, a great crowd had assembled on
the beach watching the efforts of a schooner they could see, about a
mile out on the ocean, to weather the storm. All day long the crowd had
remained there, powerless to aid the stricken people on board the
storm-tossed boat, for this was long before the time of the life-saving
crews and their noble work along the coast.
Late in the afternoon on that eventful day, when the storm had abated
somewhat, although the waves, like moving mountains of water, still came
thundering in upon the beach, a boat had been manned and started forth
to the aid of the people in their peril; but before the brave band could
gain the schooner, she had foundered and gone to the bottom.
The men who had gone forth to the rescue had been about to return to the
shore, when they thought they saw something floating over the boisterous
waves toward them. When a second glance was obtained they started
swiftly toward the object, and, as they drew near, saw a huge cotton
bale with a woman and a little lad strapped upon it. At last, after some
desperate efforts, the bodies were rescued, but that of the woman was
lifeless and that of the lad was nearly so.
The rough men had brought both ashore, and, after some labor on the part
of the women in the assembly, the lad had been restored, but the woman
was beyond all earthly aid. Upon some of the clothing of the rescued boy
the name Coward had been found, and "Tom" was improvised, for that would
do as well as any other for the name of a stranger lad whose home and
parents were to be, as the people of Old Monmouth thought, forever
wrapped in mystery.
Tom Coward had been the sole survivor of the wreck. For days some
portions of the ill-fated schooner and its cargo were washed ashore, but
no clue was ever found as to her name or destination.
What to do with the rescued lad then became the perplexing problem among
the simple folk of Monmouth, and it was at last solved by "binding him
out" to Benzeor Osburn, which simply meant that Tom was to live with the
man who had taken him until he was twenty-one years of age, and in
return for the home he received he was to give his labor and life until
that eventful day should arrive when he, too, would become a man.
The lad had gone, for he had no voice in the matter, and all the home he
had ever known had been with Benzeor and his family. Only a faint
recollection of the wreck remained in his mind, but he had heard the
story many times and thought much over it in secret. Often had he
visited the unmarked grave in the churchyard, where he was informed that
all that was mortal of his mother lay resting. But her name and face
were both alike unknown to him. In his dreams, or when he had been
working alone in some of the distant fields, it would almost seem to him
that something of another existence would rise before him, or that he
could almost see the face of a gracious woman bending low over him whom
he could call "mother."
Who he might be he could not determine. Who he was, was a matter much
more easily settled, for all knew him as the "bound boy" of Benzeor
Osburn; and while some of the country people might occasionally think of
him as the little lad, who years before had been rescued from a sinking
schooner, they seldom referred to it, and the past had been crowded out
by the present. But Tom Coward had not entirely forgotten.
Benzeor had received him into his home the more readily because, as he
expressed it, "all of his boys had been born girls," and he felt the
need of the aid and presence of a boy about the place. And Benzeor in
his way had not been unkind to the stranger lad, or at least not
intentionally so, but the labor on the farms in those days had been
severe, and he was a man to whom money had been the one thing needful.
He did not spare himself, and certainly he had no thought of sparing
those who were dependent upon him; and, as a natural consequence,
neither the girls nor Tom, and much less the overworked, spiritless
little mother of the family, found much to relieve the monotonous round
of labor on the farm.
At first, Tom had not complained and had accepted all as a matter of
course, but of late his heart had rebelled against his lot more and
more. It was not that he did not appreciate the rough kindness which was
extended to him, especially by the patient, uncomplaining mother and the
two girls, Sarah and Mercy, who were nearest his own age. But certain
undefined longings kept rising in his soul, he knew not how, and the
increasing eagerness of Benzeor "to make his place pay" had apparently
driven all else from the mind of his foster father.
Perhaps more than any of these things, his interviews with his friend
Little Peter had stirred his soul, for Peter had longings, too, and, as
has been said, had even declared his intention "to buy up his own time."
That he was a son in his own home, and was surrounded by the love of
father and mother, had not made the purpose in Peter's heart appear in
the least strange or unusual, for the custom was not unknown among those
sturdy forefathers of ours. When they had cared for a boy in his infancy
and helpless years, it was considered as no more than a just return that
the years of early manhood, which would naturally be of value to the
fathers in their labors on the farms, should belong not to the son but
to the father. So whenever a well-grown boy felt that he would like to
start in for himself, it was not unusual for him to offer, or to promise
to pay as soon as he could earn the money, the amount which was
considered as a fair equivalent for the value of his services in the few
years before he became "of age," and could enter upon his own career.
In those days the obligation of the child to his father was emphasized.
In our own time the obligation of the father to his child is considered
the more important, and all that love and devotion can offer are laid at
the feet of the children.
Perhaps justice lies somewhere between these two extremes, and no one of
us desires to return to the harsher methods of those earlier years; but
certainly the children who are so fortunate as to be born in these more
fortunate times have some need of recalling the words of one who, long
before the trying days of the Revolution, exhorted all to "honor their
fathers and mothers."
Be that as it may, Tom Coward thought much and long over his friend
Peter's project, and even went so far at one time as to hint to Benzeor
that he would not be averse to entering into some such arrangement with
him. But Benzeor's indignation, and the grief with which Sarah heard of
the proposal, had silenced him, and he had not referred to the matter
again.
None the less, however, did it remain in his thoughts, and of late the
suspicion with which he had come to regard many of Benzeor's actions had
increased his feeling of discontent, for Tom's sympathies were all with
the colonies in their struggle.
Many a time had he and Peter talked over the matter, and the eagerness
of one to serve in the army was fully shared by the other. But Benzeor's
patriotism seemed all to be dormant, and as the troubles increased, his
zeal to make money steadily increased also. At times he would be absent
from home for days together, and more than once Tom had been awakened
in the night by the sound of strange voices heard in conversation with
Benzeor in the room beneath that in which he was sleeping.
Thoughts of all these things had been in Tom's mind throughout that
voyage to New York, and they, as well as his youthfulness, served to
explain the silence he had maintained since he had set sail. He had
known, however, that Peter was to serve as the lookout that day, and
when he volunteered the information it was the first time he had spoken
aloud for a half hour.
The rain now was steadily increasing, and the uneasiness of the men on
board the little boat became more marked. They were far from the tree by
this time, and no one appeared to know just what plan to follow.
"If I was alone, I'd take all the risks," said Benzeor at last.
"You needn't stop on our account," replied Jacob. "I don't believe
there's much danger in starting up the river, any way, for my part.
Little Peter may not have seen anything to amount to much. If you want
to chance it, go ahead."
"We don't just know what's ahead of us," said Barzilla uneasily. "It
may be nothing, and then again it may not be. I wish there was some way
of finding out before we risk too much."
"Why not land farther down the shore and let Tom go up and see?" said
Jacob. "If Little Peter's gone, it will mean the danger's gone, too, and
if he hasn't, why Tom here can find out for us and report; though for my
part I'm not afraid to go up the river as it is. It's too dark for any
one to see us, or it will be soon."
"That's a good suggestion," said Benzeor quickly, as he brought the boat
about. "We'll land down the shore and let Tom go up for us. You're not
too much of a 'coward' to do that, are you Tom?"
"I'll go," said Tom quietly, although his cheeks flushed with anger at
Benzeor's antiquated and brutal pun. He had heard it many times, but
never without feeling angry, although he well knew that Benzeor spoke
the words lightly.
With the change in the course the wind seemed to increase. The spray was
dashed into their faces, and the men were soon drenched. The sail had
been shortened, but the little boat dashed ahead with ever increasing
speed.
"It's a rough night outside," said Benzeor, when at last he gained the
desired point on the shore. "It's lucky for us we're inside the Hook.
Now then, Tom!" he added. "Bestir yourself, lad, and come back soon."
Tom leaped ashore and ran swiftly along the beach toward the tree. He
was familiar with its location and knew that he could find it in the
darkest night. The rain beat upon him and the darkness momentarily
increased, but the wind was with him, and in a brief time he recognized
the dim outlines of the tree.
Then ceasing to run, he began to approach more cautiously. He was not
positive that Peter was there now, for some one might have taken his
place. Certainly caution was the better part in any event.
He stopped and whistled the half dozen notes which he and Peter used as
a call. He waited a moment, but as no answer was heard he advanced a
little nearer and whistled again.
"That you, Tom?" came from some one in the tree.
"Yes," replied Tom.
In a moment Peter dropped from his position, and began to explain to his
friend the cause of the display of the signal of danger.