MAKING AN ENEMY SERVE THE PATRIOT CAUSE
At any other time Hadley would not have been so disturbed at meeting
Lon Alwood, for, though they were not friends, he was scarcely afraid
of the Tory youth. But now, when he was in such haste and so much
depended upon his getting across the river in the quickest possible
time, the unexpected appearance of young Alwood unnerved him.
“Whadjer goin’ ter do, Moster Had?” whispered the frightened darkey.
“Sho’s yo’ bawn, Ah’ll be skinned alibe fur dis.”
“Who’s that with you, Sam?” demanded his young master. “You’re helping
some rebel across the river--I know your tricks. I tell you, when
father hears of this he’ll make you suffer for it!”
“It’s Had Morris,” said the young courier, before his companion had a
chance to answer. “You needn’t come any nearer Lon, to find out. But,
as long as you are aboard, you can pick up the other pole and help Sam.”
“Had Morris!” shouted the other boy in astonishment and wrath. “Do you
think I’m going to do what you say?”
“Take up your pole, Sam!” commanded Hadley, hastily. “The boat’s
swinging down stream. Quick now!”
He had heard a door shut somewhere near, and was quite sure that the
elder Alwood had heard the noise at the riverside and was coming to see
about it. Hadley stepped to where Lon stood in frozen amazement, and,
holding a pistol at a threatening angle, patted each of his enemy’s
side pockets and the breast of his shirt. Lon was without arms.
“Lon, you pick up that other pole and set to work, or I’ll shoot you!”
commanded the young American, sternly. “If you were in my shoes you’d
treat me just as I’m treating you. I’ve got to get across the river,
and nothing you can do will stop me. No you don’t!” Lon had half
turned, as though he contemplated leaping into the river. Hadley raised
the pistol menacingly. “Pick up that pole!” he commanded.
At that moment the voice of the elder Alwood came to their ears.
“Lon! Lon! Is that you out there? What air you and Sam doin’ with the
boat?”
“Keep on poling and save your wind!” commanded Hadley, threateningly,
still with the pistol at Lon’s side.
But the old gentleman’s wrath rose, and, believing that it was not his
son aboard the boat, he brought his old-fashioned squirrel rifle to
his shoulder. “Stop where you be!” he called, threateningly. “I ain’t
goin’ to let you scalawags run off with my property--not by a jugful!
Come back here with that boat or I’ll see if a charge of shot’ll reach
ye!”
“Don’t shoot, dad!” yelled Lon, in deadly fear of the old man’s gun.
“You’ll like enough shoot me instead of him. I can’t help it. He’s got
a pistol an’--”
“Who is it?” cried the elder Alwood. “Where’s Sam?”
“It’s Had Morris. He’s makin’ Sam and me take him across the river.”
“Is that his horse I see there?” demanded the wrathful farmer.
“Yes, dad. Shoot it!” shouted Lon.
“Don’t you do it, Mr. Alwood,” warned the dispatch bearer. “I’ve got
my pistol right against your son’s ribs, and when you fire your gun I
shall pull the trigger.”
“Don’t, dad!” yelled Lon. “Don’t shoot the horse.”
Hadley nearly choked over his captive’s sudden change of heart, and
even black Sam chuckled as he bent his body against the pole at the
other side of the boat. They were now well out from the shore and the
water was deepening. Suddenly, above the loudly expressed indignation
of Farmer Alwood, sounded the clash of accoutrements and the ring of
hoofs. A cavalcade was coming along the edge of the river from the
direction of the regular ferry.
“What is to do here, sirrah?” demanded a sharp voice, which Hadley knew
very well. It was the troop of dragoons with Colonel Knowles at their
head. They had not found him up the river, and, suspecting that he had
struck out for some other place of crossing, were scouring the bank of
the stream. Alwood’s boat was the nearest.
Farmer Alwood explained the difficulty he was in--his son and slave
being obliged, at the point of a pistol, to pole the stable boy of the
Three Oaks Inn across to the Pennsylvania side of the river.
“Ha! Hadley Morris, you say? The very boy we’re after!” cried the
colonel. “Men, give them a volley!”
“No, no!” cried the old man. “That’s my son out there and my servant.
You want to commit murder, do ye?”
“This Alwood is a loyal man, colonel,” the sergeant said.
Colonel Knowles snorted in disgust. For the moment he was evidently
sorry that the Alwoods were not the worst rebels in the country, so
that he could have a good excuse for firing on the rapidly disappearing
boat. Their voices still floated across the water to Hadley, and he
heard the sergeant say:--
“We’d best give it up, sir. There’s no way of crossing near here, and
the whole country will be aroused if we don’t get back to our command.
There are more rebels than Tories in this neighborhood, sir.”
“Keep at it, boys!” Hadley commanded. “I’ve got my eye on you.
Lon--don’t shirk. Hurry up there, Sam, you black rascal!”
He could have hugged Sam in his delight at getting away from his
enemies: but he did not wish to get the old man into trouble. So he
treated him even more harshly than he did Lon all the way across the
wide stream. But Lon was in a violent rage when the big flatboat
grounded on the Pennsylvania shore.
“You may think you’re smart, Had Morris!” he exclaimed, throwing down
the pole as Hadley took Molly’s bridle to lead her ashore. “But you
an’ me haven’t squared accounts yet. If you’re running away to join
Washington’s ragamuffins, you’d better not come back here on our side
of the river. We’ll fix you if you do. Anyway, the British army will be
here like enough in a few days, and they’ll eat up the last rag, tag,
an’ bobtail of ye!”
Hadley laughed, but kept a grip on the pistol until he got Molly
ashore. He knew that, had he dared, young Alwood would have done
something besides threaten; he was not a physical coward by any means.
“Don’ yo’ run away wid ol’ Sam’s pistol, Moster Had,” whispered the
negro. “Dat pistol goin’ ter sabe ol’ Sam’s life sometime, like ’nough.”
“You’ll get into trouble with the farmers if they catch you with such
an ugly thing in your clothes,” Hadley returned, doubtfully, for, like
the other whites of the neighborhood, he did not believe in too much
liberty for the blacks, although the masters were struggling for their
freedom.
“Moster Holdness gib me dat weapon,” responded Sam, “an’ he mighty
pleased wid me, Moster Had.”
Hadley handed back the pistol when he heard the scout’s name, for he
knew that Holdness must have some good reason for wishing Black Sam to
be armed. Lon had not seen this little byplay; but he shouted for Sam
now to help pole the boat back across the river.
“Be as slow as possible, Sam!” Hadley whispered, leaping astride his
mare. “Those chaps over there might take it into their heads to cross,
after all--though they’d be running their necks into a noose. Our
people must be all about here.”
Sam pushed the heavy landing plank aboard again and picked up his pole,
while Hadley rode up the steep bank and reached the highway.
Black Molly had recovered her wind now, and as soon as she struck the
hard road started at a good pace without being urged. Hadley knew the
general direction which he was to follow--for the first few miles at
least; but he had never been over the road before.
The possibility of falling in with royalist sympathizers on the dark
woodroad along which the little mare bore him caused the boy to fairly
shake with dread.
Every little noise startled him. If Molly stepped upon a crackling
branch, he threw a startled look from left to right, fearing that some
enemy lurked in the thickets which bordered the road. It would be an
awful thing to be shot down from ambush, and it would scarcely matter
whether he was shot by bushwhackers or scouts of the American army.
By and by, however, the narrow woodroad opened into a broader highway.
He was on the Germantown pike, and there were houses scattered along
the roadside--but all dark and silent, save for the baying of watchdogs
as Molly bore him on and on, her tireless feet clattering over the
hard-packed road. The mist rising from the low lands stretched itself
in ribbons across the road, as though to stop his progress. He drew up
the collar of his coat and bent low over Molly’s neck, shivering as the
dampness penetrated his garments. It was early cockcrow.
Suddenly, from just before him where the mist hid the way, came the
clatter of arms. A cry rang out on the morning air, Molly rose on her
haunches and backed without her rider’s drawing rein. Hadley was nearly
flung to the ground.
“Halt!” cried a voice, and in front of the startled youth appeared
half a dozen figures all armed with muskets, and dressed in garments
so nondescript that their affiliation, whether with the British or
American armies, it would have been hard to guess. “Who are you,
Master?” demanded the voice which had cried “Halt!” “Why do you ride so
fast on this road at night?”
“See if he has the word, Bumbler,” advised a second man, and the party
advanced on the mare and her rider.
“It’s a good horse--but she’s been ridden far,” declared a third.
“She’ll sell for something handsome in Germantown.”
At this Hadley was quite assured that he had fallen into the enemy’s
hands with a vengeance. He dared not say that he had dispatches for
General Washington, for he believed the men who had stopped him to be
either royalist sympathizers, or a party of stragglers seeking what
unattached property they might obtain, being sure of going unscathed
for their crimes because of the unsettled state of the country.
Uniforms among the American troops were scarce at best. At this
time some of the regiments were distinguished merely by a cockade,
or a strap on their coats, while their uniforms were naught but the
home-spun garments they had worn on joining the army.
“He’s only a boy, Corporal,” said the first speaker, and a lean,
unshaven face was thrust close to Hadley’s. “Get off the horse, lad.
It’s too good for you to ride--unless you’re riding for the right side?”
This was said questioningly, and Hadley realized that he was being
given an opportunity to answer with the countersign but whether British
or American he did not know. And little good would it have done him had
he been sure of the affiliation of these men. He knew the countersign
of neither army.
“I’m only riding in a hurry to Germantown, sirs,” he said. “I do not
know the password. I hope you will not stop me--”
“What are you doing on this road?” demanded the corporal. “And without
the word? Didn’t you expect to fall in with the outposts?”
“With what outposts?” cried Hadley.
“Ours, of course--the American outposts? Are you one of this Tory tribe
with which the country is overrun?”
At this Hadley, scarce convinced, flung much of his caution to the
winds and replied: “I am as anxious to reach the American outposts as I
can be. I have got to go to headquarters--”
“Whose headquarters?”
“The Commander-in-Chief’s.”
“I believe the lad’s got dispatches, Corporal!” declared Bumbler.
“Let’s pull him off that horse and see.” So saying, he grasped Hadley
by the collar and dragged him bodily from the saddle.
“Easy with the boy, man!” returned the other. “See if he’s got any
papers about him. This is a queer set-up altogether, for a lad to be
riding like mad toward headquarters--and over this road.”
Breathless and disposed to believe the worst of his captors, Hadley
fought with all his strength to retain the packet; but Bumbler tore
open his coat, and his big hand sought the boy’s inner pocket, where
the precious papers lay.