[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 839. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
IN FRONT OF A SPANISH CRUISER.
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE.
"An hour's sport with a Spanish cruiser--that's what it will be," Benito
Bastian said to himself.
But the care he was giving to his boat looked like more serious business
than an hour's sport. She is a swift sharpie that he called _Villa
Clara_, after his native town, and she was drawn up on the beach and
turned over, and Benito was scraping her clean. If she ever did fast
sailing, he wanted her to do it that night.
"Let this wind hold, and give me a dark night," he went on, "and it will
take a faster cruiser than _El Rey_ to catch me."
Benito is a handsome dark-eyed Cuban boy, who lives on the little Cuban
island called Ginger Key, forty miles north of the Cuban coast. The boys
of Ginger Key, like their older brothers, are full of excitement just
now; for occasionally a band of Cuban patriots makes its way over from
Florida and goes into hiding in the thick woods, and watches its chance
to land on the coast of Cuba. These hands need guides; and it is the
Ginger Key boys who know the waters well, and the coast too. Benito
handles his sharpie to perfection on the darkest nights and in all kinds
of weather; and as to helping his countrymen, the Cuban insurgents, he
feels about it just as the Boston boys felt about Bunker Hill.
"I ought to be doing something for the cause," he said to himself
several months ago. "It's a pity I'm only sixteen; they may think I am
too young. But I know these waters as well as any man on the key."
He looked down regretfully at his bare feet and legs, for his trousers
were rolled well up. He took off his old straw hat and smiled at it; but
he could not see how his brown eyes flashed, nor how handsome his brown
hair looked, waving in the wind. He is tall and strong for his age, and
brown as a berry--not only from the sun, but by nature.
"Yes, they'll say I'm only a boy, that's sure," he continued; "so I must
have my wits about me if I want to get a chance."
Two large parties of armed men Benito saw land on Ginger Key, and saw
neighbors of his pilot them across to Cuba, dodging the Spanish
cruisers. Then a third party came and went into camp, while the schooner
_Dart_ cruised up and down in the Florida straits. This last party staid
so long that something seemed to be wrong, and Benito made up his mind
that he might be useful; at any rate, he would try. He said little, but
learned all he could, and when the opportunity came he went to the
leader of the party.
"You don't get away very fast," he said to the leader, taking care to
speak in a low voice. "It's ticklish work, landing men near Sagua la
Grande. That's well watched."
The man looked at him curiously, surprised that this boy should know so
much about his arrangements.
"Yes," he answered, "that is well watched. _El Rey_, the big Spanish
cruiser, patrols that coast day and night."
"I think I could draw her off long enough for you to land your men,"
Benito whispered.
"You?" the man exclaimed; "why, you are only a boy!" It was just as
Benito expected.
He went on to unfold the plan he had made; and it was a plan so full of
daring and danger that the man opened his eyes wide.
"Well," said he, "you're full of grit, if you _are_ only a boy. But you
are very young, and I don't know anything about you. I don't even know
whether you could make your way over to Cuba. You run over there alone
and bring me some token to show that you've been there, and then I will
talk to you."
"That's easy," Benito answered. "What shall I bring you?"
The man thought a moment. "Bring me a bunch of red bananas," he
answered. "They are plenty in Cuba, but you raise only yellow ones on
this key. If you bring me a bunch of red bananas, I will know that you
have been in Cuba."
Forty-eight hours later Benito laid a bunch of red bananas in the
leader's tent, and gave him some valuable information about the
movements of the cruiser.
"I think you'll do," said the man. "You are not all talk and no action,
like some of these fellows. If you can draw the cruiser off and keep her
out of our way for two hours, you are worthy to call yourself a Cuban."
"Very good," Benito answered. "I will try."
They talked over the details of the plan, and agreed that they must wait
for a pitch-dark night and a brisk wind. On the morning that Benito
scraped his boat, there was every promise of such a night. There would
be no moon, the sky was overcast, and a lively breeze came in from the
southeast.
Seventy-five men and a great many cases of rifles were on board the
schooner _Dart_, at five o'clock that afternoon, the hour agreed upon
for sailing to make sure of reaching Sagua la Grande by midnight; and
the sharpie _Villa Clara_ seemed impatient for Benito to hoist her
sails.
"We will give you a line and tow you over," said the leader.
"Oh, I guess you don't know the _Villa Clara_," Benito answered. "I
think she will show the schooner the way."
"One thing I must ask you," were the leader's last words before he went
on board the schooner--"do your father and mother know what danger you
are going into to-night?"
"I have no father or mother," Benito replied, sadly; "so if I don't come
back it will not make much difference."
None knew better than he the risk he was taking. The cruiser would blow
him out of the water if she could; and if any of them were captured,
they would either be shot or be sentenced by the Spaniards to long terms
of imprisonment.
The night was all they could ask, and just what they had waited for. No
moon, the sky full of black clouds to obscure the stars, and half a gale
blowing from the southeast. Benito was willing to risk his life on the
sharpie being a faster boat than the Spanish cruiser on such a night.
Neither schooner nor sharpie showed a light; and if Benito had been
captured on the way over his captors would have been astonished at the
cargo he carried. In the bottom of his boat were a dozen boards, each
two feet long by a foot wide, with a shallow tin can nailed to the
middle of each board. And there were four canisters of colored fire--one
red, one yellow, one green, and one white. And there were several yards
of fuse, and a box of sand. The colored fire and the fuse Benito had
bought when he visited Cuba for the bananas.
"The schooner is to lie to as soon as we sight the lights on the Cuban
coast," was the arrangement Benito made with the leader. "After I find
the cruiser you will see her lights moving; but she will be nearer to me
than to you. I will give you a white light when all is safe. When I burn
a white light you can land your men."
The sharpie and the schooner kept well together till they were near the
coast of Cuba, and they saw the lights of Sagua la Grande before ten
o'clock. This was so much earlier than they had expected that it made
some difference in Benito's plans. By midnight the cruiser, following
her usual course, should be somewhere off Cardenas; but instead of that
they saw her lights directly in front of the spot where they proposed to
land the men.
"So much the better," said Benito, when he boarded the schooner for a
moment before setting his dangerous plot in motion. "I will coax her
down to the eastward."
The leader of the party gave him a warm grip of the hand before they
parted.
"You are a brave lad," said he. "When you are under the cruiser's fire,
remember that it is in the cause of freedom."
"Oh, I don't think they can hit me," Benito answered; "and I am sure
they can't catch me." And he was off.
The schooner and the sharpie had this great advantage; they could see
the cruiser's lights, but she could not see them.
Benito beat down the coast till he was about five miles to the eastward
of the cruiser, and several miles from the shore. Then he took up one of
his boards with the shallow tin can nailed to it.
He poured sand into the can till it was about two-thirds full, and then
put in a good inch of red fire. Through a little hole that he had
punched in the side of the can he inserted the end of a full half-yard
of fuse, and wound it round and round the can, and tied it with a cord
to keep it out of the water. Cautiously he struck a match under the
stern seat and touched it to the fuse, and laid the board on the surface
of the water and left it floating there.
This done, he headed the sharpie for shore. The long fuse was used
because he desired to be close under the shore before the red fire
burned. The southeast wind was just right for him, and the sharpie
fairly flew through the water. He was close enough in, and was pouring
sand into the second can fastened to a board, when the red light blazed
up.
What a glare it made! Certainly that lurid light must be visible for
twenty miles.
It was green fire that Benito poured into his second can, and for this
he used a much shorter fuse--just long enough to give him time to
escape from the circle of light that was sure to follow. The red fire
had hardly died out before the green fire blazed up, but by that time
Benito was half a mile away.
"That will stir them up," he said to himself. The sharpie was making a
long run to the northeast then, seaward and away from the cruiser; but
he kept an eye on her lights. "It's plain enough what that means. First
the red light, a signal from a party about to land; then the green
light, an answering signal from their friends on shore. At least that's
what I want the cruiser to think, and I believe she will; and she'll
hunt those lights."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, a moment later, "the cruiser has seen the lights,
for she's moving. I've started her, sure. Now the excitement begins."
The cruiser's lights grew larger and larger. She was standing down the
coast, almost straight toward the green light, which still burned. She
ran up within a half-mile of it, and fire belched from one of her
turrets.
C-r-a-s-h! crash! Not one great boom, but a continuous roar.
"That's her Gatling!" Benito exclaimed. "Lucky I didn't burn my lights
on the boat, as I thought of doing."
Spain's cruisers are as modern as our American vessels, and fitted with
every deadly appliance. The one thing that _El Rey_ lacks is a
search-light; if she had carried a search-light that night Benito would
not be alive to tell this story.
The green light disappeared under the shower of bullets, and the cruiser
kept on her course. That was against the wind, and the sharpie could not
compete with steam against the wind; but Benito was heading out seaward,
off to the northeast, further and further away from the schooner.
When he was full three miles out from shore again, and perhaps eight
miles from the _Dart_, he set off another red light, giving it, as
before, a long fuse. He was hardly fifty feet away from it when there
came another crash from the cruiser--a deep boom this time from one of
her heavy guns, followed by a shower of bullets from the Gatling; he
heard them whistling and shrieking through the air, but he was not
struck. The red light had not even begun to burn yet; the cruiser's
watchful men had seen the spark burning at the end of the fuse.
"All right, Spaniard!" Benito exclaimed. He had never been under fire
before, and his lips were set firm, and his free hand involuntarily
closed into a tight fist. "All right, Spaniard! I've got you waked up,
anyhow. You're chasing a party of insurgents, ain't you! I wish I dared
tell you that you're chasing a boy, while the insurgents are getting
ready to land ten miles up the coast!"
He stood in for the shore again, still beating to the eastward as close
as the wind would allow; and when the fuse's spark blazed up into a
bright red light the cruiser was heading towards it.
"A little careful about showing this light; that's what I'll have to be;
a little careful," he said to himself, as he struck a match to set off
his second green light close to shore. He kept the sharpie between the
spark of fuse and the cutter's lights as long as he could to hide the
fire, and then stood out seaward to the northeast again.
As the green light blazed up he turned his head a moment to look at it,
and in that instant a strange thing happened. When he looked towards the
cruiser again she had disappeared! Save for the green fire burning there
was not a spark of light on all that black sea.
"I thought she'd do that!" Benito exclaimed. "She's trying my own game,
and has put out all her lights. Well, I'll give her a white light in a
few minutes, and that will be something new for her to think about."
He was still running out seaward and eastward, and the sharpie was
bending down to her work, and cutting the waves like a knife, when
suddenly he heard the throbbing of an engine and the splash of a
propeller. Before he had time to think a great black wall of iron,
looming twenty feet above his head, was right on top of him.
The cruiser was accidentally running him down in the darkness! He could
see nothing on the water, but there was light enough in the sky to make
out her great black form towering over him. His first impulse was to cry
out; but he shut his teeth tight and waited for the blow.
But the blow did not come. The next instant the black mass was shooting
past him, her iron side hardly six feet from the sharpie's stern.
"Good sharpie! Good old girl!" he exclaimed; and in the excitement he
patted the boat on the gunwale. "If you hadn't been a flier, we'd been
goners that time."
Benito's heart was in his throat for a few minutes; he would not pretend
to deny that. But no wonder, for no boat ever had a narrower escape. He
ran out several miles more and burned his white light, which said to the
schooner:
"Land your men! I have the cruiser busy." And then he ran out five miles
further to the northeast and burned another red light.
"That's an extra touch, that last red light," he said to himself. "They
gave me a close rub, so I'll just mix them up a little worse."
Then he put the sharpie about, and headed her for Ginger Key. He had
risked his little all--his life and his boat--in the cause of his
country, and his night's work was done. With the wind on his starboard
quarter he knew that no cruiser in Cuban waters could overtake him.
Before he had gone far he saw lights on the cruiser again, and they
showed her to be nearly where he had burned the white fire, fully ten
miles from the schooner. And by that time the men were all on shore.
Next day Benito was on Ginger Key as usual; but it was not till nearly a
month later that a passing schooner carried to the key a letter with an
Havana postmark, addressed to Benito Bastian. The letter was only a few
lines, without any signature; but it enclosed a Spanish draft for two
hundred dollars.
"We landed safely, and are with friends," the letter said. "We have made
up this little testimonial for a brave boy we know."
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.[1]
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER IV.
IN OLD NEW YORK--A GREAT DEPARTURE.
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 836.
The next morning Cato was sent over to the Hewes' mansion with a note
signed by both the twins, and addressed to Carter. It requested him to
come to Stanham Manor and spend the day, and plans were laid to have a
glorious time.
But what was their disappointment when Cato brought back the news that
their new-found friend and old-time enemy had left that very morning
with his father for New York.
The twins were much cast down, but there was soon to be a greater burden
on their minds, for after luncheon they had been told that a parting
would shortly take place between them, and that Mr. Daniel Frothingham
was going to take William back with him to England.
For some reason Uncle Nathan had a marked partiality for William, but he
was the last person in the world to have held a preference in this
regard, as it was absolutely impossible for Uncle Nathan to tell the
twins apart.
The boys had listened to the news of the coming separation in dignified
silence, and as soon as possible they had made their way back to the
garden behind the house. Their feelings at first were too deep for
words.
"I will not go, unless you go too," said the elder boy at last, seating
himself on the edge of a grass-plot. He had hard work to keep from
crying.
"You said you wanted to go to England," said George. "You have talked
about it often."
"Well, it's not fair," said William. "Why should he choose me?"
"It may not be for long," answered George. "You'll come back--or
probably I can go over there to see you."
"And we may be able to get into the army," said William, trying to be
cheerful.
George sat down beside him. "I do wish I were leaving with you," he
said, choking back the tears, "but he refused to think of sending us
both. Aunt Clarissa asked him." He put his arm about his brother's
shoulders. "I'm going to be sent to town to school," he added.
"I tell you what let's do," said William. "Let's draw lots, and see which
one of us will go to London."
He broke a bundle of spears of grass and tore them off, some longer than
others. Then he rubbed two of them in his hands.
"I don't know which it is," he said; "but if you get the shorter one,
you go, and if you get the longer one, I go."
George drew at once. It was the shorter spear. So far as Uncle Nathan's
preference went, it counted for nothing with his nephews.
The departure that took place the following week was an affair of the
greatest moment. Although the young Frothinghams did not know it at the
time, it was a long farewell they were taking of Stanham Mills.
Good-byes were said at last, and, to tell the truth, tears were shed in
plenty as they parted from their sister.
The twins' belongings were packed into small boxes, then the old chaise
was harnessed up, and seated beside their Uncle Daniel, and followed by
Nathaniel Frothingham and Cato on horseback, they set out to make the
long journey to the city. Mr. Wyeth had started the previous afternoon.
The young Frothinghams had been to New York only once before, when they
were very small indeed, and their recollections of the first visit were
somewhat vague.
It was long after dusk when the little party arrived at their
destination. They had been rowed across the river from Paulus Hook, and
went with their uncle at once to a tavern which in the days of Dutch
supremacy had been one of New York's most aristocratic dwelling-houses.
Now it was the rendezvous for merchants of Tory principles and army
officers. Young, befrilled, and powdered dandies who aped the manners of
the Continent hero exchanged their pinches of snuff with as much
gallantry and courtesy as if they had met at the palace of St. James.
The Stanham party had been driven from the ferry in a rough lumbering
affair--half coach, half omnibus--and had been deposited with their
small box and the saddle-bags at the door of the tavern.
As they had gone down the hallway they caught a glimpse, through the
open door on the right, of a group of men in red coats, with much
glitter of gold lace and many buttons, who could be seen through the
thick clouds of tobacco smoke seated about a large steaming punch-bowl
on a great oak table. They were some of the officers of his Majesty's
forces that had been sent to "protect" the inhabitants of his "thankless
colonies."
Everything was new to the boys--the sound of the many voices, the
snatches of songs and choruses that now and then came up from the
coffee-room, the jingle of spurs and sabres as a party of troopers made
their way across the stone flagging of the court. In all directions were
delights, and in their little room they could hardly sleep from
excitement that first night.
Early in the morning they looked out of the window, still thrilled with
the pleasure that all young natures feel at being amidst new
surroundings. It was a beautiful day, and the wind blowing from the
southward was filled with the fresh smell of the sea. Their room was
high up, and they could look over the sloping roofs and house-tops
across the river and out into the bay, where two or three huge
men-of-war lay straining at their anchors.
"Isn't it fine!" exclaimed William, as they knelt on the floor with both
elbows on the window-sill, drawing short breaths with gasps of sheer
delight.
At the end of the street was a small green, and here a company of
infantry was drilling. They could catch the glint of the sunlight upon
the muskets, and almost hear the energetic words of the young officer,
who strode up and down the front.
"Oh, to be a soldier!" said William.
"Wouldn't it be grand?" said George, the martial spirit that animates
almost every boy welling up in him so strongly that he quivered from the
top of his head to the soles of his bare feet.
Just then a two-horse equipage was seen coming down the street, with the
dust flying up from the great red wheels. In it sat a man, richly
dressed, with his three-cornered hat set sideways over his powdered
hair, his chin resting on his hands, which were supported by a
gold-headed cane, and a sneer was upon the cruel lips.
It was Governor Tryon, who had put down the so-called "rebellion" in the
Carolinas, and for his "fidelity" in hanging several people who strongly
expressed their views had been honored by the post of being his
Majesty's representative, the Governor at New York.
The boys were craning their necks to get a good view of the red-wheeled
coach, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was old Cato.
"Come on, young gentlemen," he said. "Hurry on yo' close; yo' uncles is
waitin' breakfast down below stairs."
They jumped up, and in a few minutes were both arrayed in the quaint
costumes in which we first saw them. True, the pink breeches, despite
Aunt Polly's careful ironing, showed traces of the plunge into the
brook, and the buttons on the heavy velvet coats were not all mates; but
Aunt Clarissa had sacrificed some of her treasures, and the lace
trimmings were fresh and clean.
"I wish we had swords," said George, thinking of the glimpse of a young
periwigged dandy he had seen talking to some ladies in the tavern parlor
the night before.
The two uncles greeted the twins quite cheerfully. The ship that was
going to take Uncle Daniel back to England was to sail early on the
morrow, and he appeared glad indeed at the prospect of leaving America
behind him. As the boys sat down, Mr. Wyeth came up and joined the
party.
"Well, my young gentlemen," he said, bowing over the back of his chair,
"we're glad to see you in the city; and what do you think of it?" he
inquired.
"It's very fine," ventured George, but then he could say no more. He
grasped his brother's hand underneath the table. He could not speak of
the prospect of leaving William then, for, of course, no one else knew
that the twins had decided in their own way which one was to go with
Uncle Daniel.
A party of officers in all the bravery of their red coats and glittering
accoutrements came laughing through the doorway. They hardly
acknowledged Mr. Wyeth's salute, and seated themselves at a table,
thumping loudly with their fists, and calling for the waiter.
The twins looked at them in wide-eyed admiration.
"This is a loyal house," said Mr. Wyeth, with a sigh of pleasure. "But I
do assure you, sir," addressing Uncle Daniel, "that there are other
taverns in the town where seditious speeches are made openly, and where
men gather whose conduct and whose thoughts approach almost to open
rebellion." He lowered his voice. "The merchants here have followed the
pernicious example of the misguided Bostonians, and have refused to
import English goods. If this keeps up, ruin to the country must follow.
Secret societies have been formed, and their abominable proclamations
can be seen posted on almost every corner. They say England has no right
to impose a tax of any kind."
Uncle Nathan frowned, but he restrained his tendency to burst into rage.
"There are the gentlemen who can take care of the rebels," he said,
nodding towards the group of officers. "The prisons should be filled
with malcontents, who dare to dispute the authority of the King." Uncle
Nathan had calmed himself with an extreme effort.
After breakfast the boys set out for a stroll, and made their way down
to the Battery. As they turned into the little park whom should they see
but Carter Hewes leaning against a big stone post, and watching the
waters lapping against the sea-wall.
"Carter!" they both shouted, running forward, and some breathless
greetings were exchanged.
"What brings you here?" said one of the twins at last, after they had
explained their own presence and their mission.
"I came with my father," said Carter. Then he lowered his voice. "He is
here on business, you see."
Just then what Carter was going to say was drowned by the sudden rolling
of a drum, and down Broadway, into which the boys had turned, came a
company of English foot.
"Don't they look splendid?" said William, keeping time to the throbbing
of the music.
Carter looked at them sullenly. "They may have a chance to lose some of
their finery soon," he said. "I wish they were at the bottom of the sea.
If some people were not blind they would have been sent back
before--back where they came from!"
"But the King," said William, pointing to the small bronze statue of
George III. on horseback, that was in the little circle on the near-by
Bowling Green.
"Confound the King!" said Carter. "He's the blindest of them all."
This expression must be pardoned on account of Carter's youth. Probably
even his hot-headed father would not have used it in such a public place
at least.
The twins gasped and stepped back slowly from him. "You are a rebel,
then!" they both said, and, turning, they walked away, without looking
over their shoulders.
Carter remained standing where he was. He saw he had offended the loyal
young Frothinghams beyond manner of expression, and he wished that he
could take back his words, now that it was too late.
But the twins walked silently along; they felt each other's minds so
well that speech was not needed. However, when they had gone some
distance up Broadway they stopped for a moment before a house where some
troops were quartered, for a drum rested on the doorstep.
A tall soldier stepped outside of the house. He was putting pipeclay on
his white cross-belts, and smoking some villanous tobacco, which caused
him to hold his head to one side to keep the smoke from getting in his
eyes. He was humming a bit of song as he worked, and suddenly glancing
down, his eye caught the boys watching him.
"Git out, ye little Yankee rebels!" he said, and launched a kick in
their direction--"git out of this."
"We are not 'Yankee rebels,'" said the younger, drawing himself up
proudly.
"We are loyal subjects of his Majesty King George," said William, "and
you have no right to talk to any one like that, no matter who they are!"
The man paused and took the pipe out of his mouth. "Tare and ages!" he
said, "an' you're loyal subjects of the King, in troth?"
"We would fight for him," said William.
"Hear the bhoys!" said the man. Then he called back through the doorway,
"Shaughnessy," said he, "come out here quick; here are two recruities
fer ye!"
Another tall man with sergeant's chevrons on his sleeves came to the
doorway. The powder from his hair was still about his shoulders, and he
was binding his queue with a black cord, holding the end of it in his
mouth, and twisting the cord around and around until he deftly tied it
with a jerk. Then he spoke over his companion's shoulders.
"Would yez enlist?" he said.
"If we were old enough," said William.
"Ah, they're brave lads," said the first speaker. "If there was more
like thim I could go back to my Katherine at Bally Connor, and now we'll
be kipt here until the saints only know whin, and probably will have to
fight out in the howlin' wilderness."
"Come down and see us, bhoys," broke in the second speaker. Then he
whispered, "Bring some of yer father's terbaccy, or a paper o' snuff.
How's that, Gineral McCune?"
"Or a bottle of somethin' warmin'," suggested the other one.
The twins were too much depressed by the result of their meeting with
Carter to appear amused. They simply turned and walked away, and after a
stroll of an hour or so they arrived at Smith's Tavern again.
The hours passed quickly. At next sunrise the boys were dressing in
their little room at the top of the house. William handed a coat to
George. It was the one Aunt Clarissa had prepared for the journey.
Generally the old lady had endeavored to make some slight differences in
the boys' garments, which was not noticeable at first glance, but was
helpful in distinguishing them, provided each wore his own apparel.
George put on William's coat, but paused, with his arm half-way in the
sleeve. "No, William, you ought to go," he said.
"Pray, it's settled," replied his brother. "When they find it out
perhaps they will send me too."
"How about the scar?" said George, reading his brother's thoughts.
William made a sudden movement and extended his arm. Across the back of
his left hand ran a large scar. He had hurt it years ago while playing
with a sickle out at Stanham Mills. It showed quite plainly in a good
strong light.
"Perhaps you had better go, after all," said George.
"Not a single step," replied his brother. "You know we never change when
we once have drawn lots. I can keep my hand hidden easily enough.
Besides, they have not thought of looking for a long time now."
This decided it, and with the exchange of coats the boys exchanged their
names, as they had done on various occasions before.
All was bustle and confusion at the wharf where the _Abel Trader_ lay.
Cato stood by trying hard to smile, but the tears were running down his
cheeks and dropping from the point of his grizzled chin.
The tide and wind were ripe to swing the vessel out from shore; the last
good-byes had been said. George was standing by Uncle Daniel on the
deck. For some few minutes the twins had not been able to speak a word,
for they would have cried hysterically, and they knew it well enough.
Suddenly William drew his hand across his eyes; Uncle Nathan started.
There was the red scar!
The gang-plank was being drawn, and the old man staggered. "Stop there a
minute!" he shouted, before the last cable was thrown off. "Stop there,
I say!"
He rushed up the swaying plank to the deck, holding William by the arm,
and fairly dragging him after him.
"You little villains!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, as he pushed up to where
his brother Daniel and George were standing near the taffrail. He
exchanged the boys much as one person would take one article in place of
another, and did not even have time to reply to Uncle Daniel's
astonished exclamation, but holding George as if he were afraid he would
soar into the air, and with a grasp that made the boy wince with pain,
he muttered beneath his breath, and fairly had to make a jump for it to
regain the dock.
Once there, Uncle Nathan began to shake the boy so fiercely that his
head almost flew off his shoulders.
The little brig swung slowly out, and her blocks grated as her yards
were braced around. Then her jibs clattered up the forestays and she
caught the wind.
Strange to say, if it had not been for Uncle Nathan's action on this day
this story might never have been written.
CHAPTER V.
A BURST OF FLAME.
It was a rainy April day in New York. Three years had passed since the
events of the last chapter. Promises of spring were to be seen on every
hand. A few warm days had already started the leaf buds along the Bowery
Lane; even a few blossoms had begun to show in the shrubbery in Ranleigh
Gardens.
But the feeling of uneasiness in the colonies, due to the continued
oppressions of Great Britain, was soon to be broken by a burst of flame.
New York was yet the most loyal city that the King held in America, but
much indignation had been shown at the actions of the crown that were
directed against Boston, and the latter city was on the verge of
rebellion. Except for the excitement of the days when the long-expected
tea was attempted to be landed in New York in April, when Captain
Lockyer had returned to England with the tea-ships, their cargoes all
intact, the year of '74 had passed without happenings of much moment.
But now it was the momentous year of '75, and many things had
changed--changes in some respects hard to believe.
Poring over the books in a dingy shipping-office in a narrow side street
off Mill Lane leaned a tall figure. Two years of this same kind of work
had not impaired George's health in the least. Although now only
sixteen, he looked years older, for he was tall and wonderfully
developed, and the grave manner of speech and that strange dignity which
the young Frothinghams possessed had not left him. From some ancestor
the twins must have inherited immense natural strength, for George was
as strong almost as the biggest porter in Mr. Wyeth's employ.
His clothes were neat, but were devoid of any attempt at lace or
ornament. In fact, young Frothingham had quite a struggle at present to
get along. His aunt sent him a little money from the proceeds of the
grist-mill, for mining had now wholly ceased at Stanham Mills. This,
with the pittance that Mr. Wyeth paid him for his services, had enabled
him to secure a small room in the house of a good old Irish woman named
Mrs. Mack, who washed clothes for the gentle folk.
Poor Uncle Nathan had been dead now two years or more, and George had
been taken from school at a Mr. Anderson's, and placed in Mr. Wyeth's
office.
Mr. Wyeth and George had grown apart in the last year. The latter always
did his duty, but could not stand the tirades of the virulent Tory
against a cause to which the boy now felt himself firmly united, for
George, even against his will and inclination, had become converted to
the side taken by the Sons of Liberty. Mr. Wyeth, over a year before
this rainy April morning, had found that George had, as he expressed it,
"gone entirely wrong," and after seeing remonstrance would be in vain,
had ignored him altogether. If it were not for what he owed Uncle Daniel
in London he would have discharged him from his service.
This would not have mattered much. But there was one sorrow that cut the
younger Frothingham deeper and deeper every day. It was the tone of his
brother's letters from England. Since the day upon the dock they had not
seen each other. Long letters, however, passed between them every month.
So strongly had William felt upon the matter, and so frequently had he
expressed himself angrily at the course of popular thought and action in
the colonies, that George could never bring himself to take up the other
side in his correspondence. There had never been a difference of opinion
between them in their lives. So he had from the first ignored the
question in his letters to his brother.
If, however, the trouble should blow over, and wise counsels prevail in
England, at some future time, when everything was once more tranquil, he
could confess all. England even at this late moment could have recalled
the colonies to her standard.
In the mean time, no one, not even Mr. Wyeth or his fellow clerks, knew
that George was attached to a secret society, whose members were pledged
to give their lives to "opposing tyranny."
George was not the only lad whose smooth face was innocent of a razor,
but whose strong young frame and true heart were both at the service of
his country.
Through the window-panes of Mr. Wyeth's office, on the second floor,
could be seen the dripping streets and the rain pouring down from the
gables of the houses.
George paused, with his finger marking the place in a column of figures,
and looked out. He saw Mr. Wyeth coming towards the office, and as soon
as he had entered, the merchant came through the large store-room and
approached George's desk.
"Master Frothingham," he said, "will you come to my house to-morrow
morning? I am desirous of having people in my employ meet some gentlemen
who will be there present."
George accepted the invitation gravely, and the events of the next day
were to have a tremendous influence on his life.
The morrow dawned clear and bright. It was Sunday, the twenty-second of
the month. Clouds, however, were banking all around, and shortly after
the breakfast hour it was portending rain.
George walked to his employer's house. Several of his fellow clerks
waited in the hall. Mr. Wyeth was in consultation in his library with
one or two influential men of well-known royalist principles. One of
them was Rivington the Tory, printer to his Majesty, and another was Mr.
Anderson, George's former schoolmaster, now secretary to the hated
Governor Tryon.
The bells had commenced ringing for church, and people could be seen
walking along the streets with their prayer-books under one arm and
unwieldy umbrellas under the other.
"We are going to receive a lecture on loyalty to the crown," whispered
one of the clerks.
"I do not think we are in need of it, Master Frothingham," said another.
"Trust us for that."
The speaker was a loose-jointed youth, with pale fishy eyes, whom George
disliked extremely. So he did not reply, but walked to the doorway and
gazed out through the little strip of lozenge-shaped windows. It had
commenced to rain, and the big drops were hopping up from the doorstep.
The street joined the Bowery Lane; the ground sloped slightly, and at
the top of the incline the lad saw a crowd was gathering. Some people
bareheaded, others with umbrellas, were swarming out from the houses and
thronging at the corner. The church-going crowds had halted.
There was a man on horseback there, who waved his hand excitedly as he
talked. News had evidently come from Boston, and all ran to the window.
What could it mean? Just then some one laughed. Flying down the hill
came Abel Norton, the chief clerk. He was plashing the mud to right and
left, and holding his hat on with both hands as he ran along, heading
direct for Mr. Wyeth's.
"Abel's got the news," said some one. "There's no use going out; we'll
hear it all." They laughed again.
The old man burst breathlessly through the door, and at that moment a
cheer came from the crowd outside. The people did not seem to mind the
rain in the least. Hats were thrown into the air, then the gathering
dispersed in different directions, and the corner was deserted.
Abel stood leaning against the tall clock in the hallway, trying to
catch his breath.
"Where's Mr. Wyeth?" he said.
The latter, hearing the disturbance, had pushed himself out of the great
leather chair in his library, and had stepped to the door.
"Did any one call my name?" he asked; then catching sight of Abel's
dripping figure, "Well, sir," he said, "what means this, prithee?"
"It means," said Abel, "that there has been a battle near Boston. It
means that war is on."
"Another Tea Party, I presume," said Mr. Wyeth, taking a pinch of snuff
calmly, and dusting his shirt frill with a stroke of his fingers.
"No, sir," exclaimed the chief clerk. "His Majesty's troops have been
defeated, and driven, with great slaughter, back from Concord and
Lexington to the protection of the city. The rebels are organized, well
drilled and armed."
"Hurrah!" said a voice quite audibly.
Everybody started back in consternation; Mr. Wyeth dropped his snuff-box
with a jingle.
"Who said that?" he asked, his face turning a shade redder.
George stepped forward. He was pale, and his hands were gripped strongly
together behind his back.
[Illustration: "THE TIME HAS COME," HE SAID, LOOKING MR. WYETH IN THE
EYE.]
"The time has come," he said, looking Mr. Wyeth in the eye--"the time to
decide. I did so long ago. The voice of liberty has spoken."
There was a murmur of assent or disagreement--it was hard to tell
which--from the group of clerks.
One of the porters who stood in the doorway with folded arms exclaimed,
beneath his breath, so no one heard him, "Thank God!"
Mr. Wyeth stepped forward. "I had suspected quite as much," he said.
"You disgrace your name, sir. Leave my presence and eke my employment.
Instanter, sir."
George walked down the hall. When he reached the door, he turned and
bowed.
"Hold!" exclaimed Mr. Wyeth. "There is a letter here from your brother
in England. Let us trust that he is more loyal to his country's
interests and to his King. Let us trust that there is only one of your
family name who does not know his duty."
He extended a letter which had arrived by a packet the previous
afternoon. George took it and silently walked out into the rain.
The porter Thomas followed him and half closed the door behind him. "I
thank you, Mr. Frothingham," he said, "for the words you spoke. We'll
drive the 'Lobster Backs' into the ships, and turn 'em all adrift--eh,
sir, will we not?"
The two grasped hands without a word, and George, stepping into the
shelter of a big elm, broke the seal of the letter.
It was from William. It beseeched him to stand by the side of the "loyal
men and true, who uphold the crown." It expressed sorrow at hearing
through Mr. Wyeth that he had been seen at least on friendly terms with
"traitors and arch conspirators." His brother prayed him to remember all
their early talks, and exhorted that his first thought be of the King.
"If you cannot answer me," went on the letter, "in a way I hope you
will, I shall understand your silence; but remember it is for the--"
George glanced at the last word, crumpled the letter in his hands, and
then tore it into small pieces that floated out into the rainy gutter.
"My country has no King now," he said, and looking out through the rain
and through his tears it seemed to him that the world was turned upside
down. He drew his hand across his forehead wearily, and drawing his
cloak about him like an old man, strode down the street.
Suddenly the idea of the "Redcoats" running before the farmers at
Lexington came into his mind's eye. He quickened his steps and threw
back his shoulders once again, and as he turned about the corner he ran
into some one hastening in the opposite direction. He looked closely at
the thick-set, muscular figure.
"Carter Hewes!" he exclaimed.
"Well met, indeed," replied the other, "What think you of the news?"
"Glorious!" said George.
"We will have it all about here soon," said Carter. "You are with us?"
"I am, with all my heart," replied young Frothingham, "to the very end."
The two lads shook hands for full a minute.
"Listen! Listen!" said Carter, suddenly. "The bells!--the bells have it,
and I would that the King in England could hear them ringing."
"I would better that my brother William were here and listening with
us," returned George.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A NEW LIFE.
BY FLORENCE HALLOWELL HOYT.
(_In Three Instalments_).
CHAPTER I.
"Ain't it about time for the stage, Cynthy?"
"Why, no, Aunt Patty! Just look at the clock; it's only half past four.
The stage doesn't leave the station until five."
"This day's seemed dreadful long, somehow."
"That's because we are expecting Ida," said Cynthia, who was patching a
sheet by the light of a west window. "And I suppose the day has seemed
long to her, too."
"Yes, poor child, travellin' since ten o'clock this mornin'," said Aunt
Patty. "I guess she'll relish our cold chicken 'n' orange marmalade,
Cynthy."
"I wonder if she's changed much?" Cynthia put down her work and looked
meditatively from the window. "Six years is a long time, Aunt Patty."
"Yes, Ida's a young lady now, dearie," Aunt Patty sighed. "And she's
lived so different from what we have, Cynthy. We mustn't expect her to
fall into our ways right away. She'll have to learn to love us all over
again, you see."
Cynthia turned a tender glance upon the little plainly dressed old woman
sitting in the open doorway sewing carpet rags.
[Illustration: "SHE WON'T HAVE ANY TROUBLE LEARNING TO LOVE YOU."]
"She won't have any trouble learning to love you, Aunt Patty," she said.
"Just think what we owe to you! Neither of us can ever forget for a
moment all you've done for us."
"I haven't done anything but what was my duty, child. When your poor
mother died, there wasn't any one but me to take you 'n' Ida; but I've
never been able to do for you as I'd like."
"You've done more than one person out of a thousand would have done!"
and Cynthia threw down the sheet, crossed the room, and put both arms
around the old woman's neck. "Aunt Stina Chase could have taken us. She
was rich even then, and could have borne the burden of our support
better than you. But she didn't even consider it, and she never did
anything for us until she took Ida. And you know it was only because Ida
was so pretty that she wanted her. Now that she is going to Europe, she
sends Ida back without even consulting you about it."
"Well, dearie, we're glad enough to take her back, I'm sure. She'll be
company for us both these long summer days. And we oughtn't to expect
Aunt Stina to take her to Europe. I guess it's pretty expensive livin'
in those foreign places."
"I only hope Ida didn't want to go," rejoined Cynthia, returning to her
seat by the window. "She'll find it very dull here, anyhow, I'm afraid,
after the gay times she's had in the city."
"Yes, poor child," said Aunt Patty, "and we mustn't feel put out if she
seems down-hearted just at first. I guess I'd better set about gettin'
supper, Cynthy; it's strikin' five."
"Very well; and I'll set the table," said Cynthia, beginning to fold the
sheet, "I'm going to put a big vase of flowers in the middle, and I'll
give Ida one of the best damask napkins, if you don't mind?"
"Do just as you like, child," said Aunt Patty.
They went into the big pleasant kitchen together. The setting sun filled
it with a golden glory; on the braided rug by the stove lay a big
Maltese cat, in the south window was a wire stand of plants, and in one
corner a tall eight-day clock with a moon on its face. Everything was
scrupulously clean and in perfect order. The floor was as white as soap
and sand could make it; the pans on the big dresser reflected everything
about them, and the stove shone with its coat of polish.
Cynthia sang as she moved about putting the dishes on the table. She was
of a happy contented disposition, and never grumbled at anything. She
loved her home, plain as it was; she didn't mind hard work, and her
simple pleasures satisfied her, though she had often longed for a peep
into the great busy world outside Brookville. She had sometimes envied
Ida, though she had never allowed Aunt Patty to suspect it, and had
wished that she might have shared with her sister the many advantages
afforded by city schools and teachers.
Aunt Stina Chase was her father's only sister, and had never known what
it was to be poor. She had married a rich man at a very early age, and
had been left a widow within a few years. She took her luxurious home,
her many servants, her carriage, and her diamonds as a matter of course.
But her easy, untroubled life had made her selfish, and when her brother
and his wife died within a few months of each other, leaving two little
girls to the mercy of the world, she had not thought it incumbent on her
to take the children. She had left that to Aunt Patty, who was only a
half-sister of the dead mother. But when, years after this, she heard
from an acquaintance that Ida, the elder of the two little girls, was
exceedingly pretty and attractive, a whim seized her to send for the
child.
Aunt Patty had thought it her duty to let Ida go, for Mrs. Chase
promised to have the girl instructed in music and the languages, and
there was no opportunity at the Brookville school for anything except
the plainest sort of an education.
So for six years Ida had made her home in the city, and her occasional
letters to Cynthia, who was a year her junior, gave evidence that she
was well satisfied with the change of homes.
It was Mrs. Chase who had written that Ida was about to return to
Brookville. It was apparently taken for granted that Aunt Patty would
welcome her gladly, and there was no hint about reclaiming her when the
European trip should be over.
Cynthia thought the letter cold and heartless, and her tender heart
ached for her sister. She wondered if Ida had not been cruelly hurt at
being so summarily disposed of when her presence was found inconvenient.
She wondered, too, how Ida would bear the change from luxury to a very
plain way of living, for Cynthia was quite conscious of the limitations
of her home, much as she loved it.
"There's the stage, now!" cried Aunt Patty, as the rumble of wheels and
the heavy trot of horses' hoofs were heard on the hard road which ran
before the house.
They both hurried out to the front gate. The stage had stopped in a
cloud of dust, and a tall, slender girl, fashionably attired in a dark
blue suit, and hat of rough straw trimmed with blue ribbons, was
descending from it.
The driver, assisted by another man, who had volunteered his help, was
engaged in taking down a large canvas-covered trunk, on one end of which
were the initials "I. S. W."