Chapter XVII: A Perilous Mission

To-day, after the passing of a century and a quarter, the Chester hills are much as they were on that chill winter’s day when the straggling lines of ragged, almost barefooted men marched along the old Gulph road. It is a farming country still, and although the forest has been cut away, in places the woodland is now as thickly grown as then. Here and there along the route the admiring descendants of those faithful patriots have erected monuments to their name; yonder can still faintly be defined the outlines of the Star Redoubt; there stands the house which was the headquarters of General Varnum, who commanded the Rhode Island troops; to the left of the road as one travels toward Valley Forge, is the line of breastworks running through the timber, which has been felled and grown up thrice since the axes of the Continentals rang from hill to hill.

One night they rested on the toilsome march near the old Gulph Mills, where the road passed through the deep cut between wooded heights: then on again, the various brigades separating and following different roads to the places assigned them. But the roads were, many of them, ill-defined, the timber was thick, the fields rugged. Little wonder that Baron de Kalb described the site chosen for the winter quarters of the American army as a wilderness.

Nevertheless, the situation selected for the encampment was a good one. In some of the towns, perhaps--Trenton, Lancaster, Reading, or Wilmington--there would have been shelter for the troops; but there were many objections to each place named. Had clothing and supplies been abundant, the little army might have harassed the British all winter long, and even shut them up completely in Philadelphia when the spring opened. If the officers quarreled with the commander for his obstinacy in choosing this position, the men set to in some cheerfulness to build shelters. They were not afraid of hard work, and they had suffered enough already from the cold and storms to appreciate the log cabins which went up as if by magic on hillside and in hollow.

On the bank of Valley Creek, near its junction with the Schuylkill, stood a stone cottage (as it stands to-day) of two small, low-ceiled rooms on each of its two floors. Behind it was a “lean-to” kitchen, in the floor of which was a trap which was the entrance to a secret passage which, when the house had been erected, led to the river, being a means of escape should the stone house be attacked by Indians. When Washington selected this house for his headquarters at Valley Forge the secret passage had long since been walled up and the entrance chamber was simply a prosaic potato cellar. The house itself was meagrely furnished--not at all the sort of a headquarters that Lord Howe enjoyed in Philadelphia.

Some distance up the creek, beyond the forge which lent its name to the valley, were the headquarters of big Major-General Henry Knox, of the artillery, and near him was the young French Marquis, Lafayette, but then recovering from the wound received at the battle of the Brandywine--also a Major-General, and trusted and loved by the Commander-in-Chief to a degree only equaled by the latter’s feeling for Colonel Pickering. General Woodford, of Virginia, who commanded the right of the line, was quartered at a house in the neighborhood of Knox and Lafayette.

Up on the Gulph road, the southern troops, lying nearest to Washington’s headquarters, were commanded by that Southern-Scotsman, Lachlin McIntosh, and strung along within sight of the road were Huntingdon’s Connecticut militia, Conway’s Pennsylvania troops, Varnum’s Rhode Islanders, and Muhlenberg, Weeden, Patterson, Learned, Glover, Poor, Wayne, and Scott on the extreme front of the embattled camp. Hadley Morris, still with Wayne’s division, messed with Captain Prentice, but found himself often attached to “Mad Anthony’s” personal staff in the capacity of messenger, for the Quaker general occupied a house in a most exposed quarter, some distance beyond the line of defences, and was in constant communication with the Commander-in-Chief.

Hadley, indeed, scarce knew whom he served. At first his wound had incapacitated him from participating in much of the work which fell to the lot of the rank and file, and, as he rode one of the fleetest horses in the American camp, he came to be looked upon as a sort of volunteer aide, for he had never been regularly mustered into the service. He often saw Lafe Holdness in the camp, and was not surprised, therefore, one day, when he had been sent post-haste to General Washington with some papers from Wayne, to find the Yankee in the front room of the Potts’ cottage in close conversation with His Excellency.

Hadley never entered the presence of the great man without, in a measure, feeling that sense of Washington’s superiority which he had experienced when first he saw him, and he stood at one side now, ill at ease, waiting for a chance to deliver his packet. The Commander had a way of seeing and recognizing those who entered the room without appearing to do so--if he were busily engaged at the time--and suddenly wheeling in his chair and pointing to the boy, said in a tone that made Hadley start:

“Is this the young man you want, Master Holdness?”

“I reckon he’ll do, Gin’ral--if he can be spared,” Lafe replied, with the usual queer twist to his thin lips. “He’s gettin’ more important around here than a major-gin’ral, I hear; but ef things wont go quite ter rack an’ ruin without him for a few days, I guess I’ll take him with me on this little ja’nt.”

Hadley blushed redly, but knew better than to grow angry over Lafe’s mild sarcasm. His Excellency seemed to understand both the scout and his youthful friend pretty well. “I have a high opinion of Master Morris,” he said, kindly. “Take care of him, Holdness. It is upon such young men as he that we most earnestly depend. Some of us older ones may not live to see the end of this war, and the younger generation must live to carry it on.”

Hadley did not think him austere now; his eyes were sad and his face worn and deeply lined. Not alone did the rank and file of the American army suffer physically during that awful winter; many of the officers went hungry, too, and it was whispered that often Washington’s own dinner was divided among the hollow-eyed men who guarded his person and sentineled the road leading to the little stone cottage.

Lafe nodded to the boy and they withdrew. On the road outside the scout placed his hand upon Hadley’s shoulder. “Had, that’s a great man in yonder,” said he, in his homely way. “You ’n’ I don’t know how great he is; but there’ll come folks arter us that will. He’s movin’ heaven an’ airth ter git rations for this army an’ they aint one of us suffers that he don’t feel it.”

Hadley untied his horse and they went on in silence until they came to the sheds behind an old country inn not far from headquarters. Here Holdness had left his great covered wagon and team of sturdy draught horses. Despite the condition of affairs in the territory about Philadelphia, the scout retained his character of teamster and continued to go in and come out of the city as he pleased. How he allayed the suspicions of the British was known only to himself; but, evidently, General Washington trusted him implicitly.

Hadley, as they drove slowly through the camp, gave Black Molly over into Captain Prentice’s care. Not until they were beyond the picket lines of the Americans entirely did Holdness offer any explanation of the work before them. “We’re goin’ ter stop at a place an’ take a load of grain into Philadelphy,” he began. “I ’greed ter do this last week. I aint sayin’ but I’d like ter turn about an’ cart it inter aout lines; but that can’t be. The man ’at owns it is a Tory an’ he’s shippin’ his grain inter town so as to save it from the ’Mericans. He’s got his convictions, same’s we’ve got ourn; ’taint so bad for him to sell ter them Britishers as it is for some o’ these folks ’t claim ter have the good of the cause at heart, an’ yet won’t take scrip fer their goods.”

When they came to the farmer’s in question the great wagon was heavily loaded with sacks of grain. Hadley, who had so plainly seen the need of such commodity in the American camp, suggested that they take a roundabout way and deliver the sacks of grain to their friends instead of to the British, without the Tory being any the wiser. “And spile my game?” cried Lafe, with a chuckle. “I guess not. Reckon His Excellency wouldn’t thank us for that. I’m wuth more to him takin’ the stuff into Philadelphy than the grain would be. We’re goin’ in there to git some information. Hadley, my son--this ain’t no pleasure ja’nt.”

“But what can I do?” queried the boy.

“What you’re told--and I reckon you’ve l’arned that already with Gin’ral Wayne. A boy like yeou can git ’round ’mongst folks without being suspicioned better’n me. It’s whispered, Hadley, that them Britishers contemplate making a sortie on aour camp. You know the state we’re in--God help us!--an’ if the British mean to attack we must know it and be ready for them. Every crumb of information you can pick up must be treasured. I’ll take ye to Jothan Pye an’ you can be an apprentice of his. He kin git you access to the very houses in which some o’ them big bugs is quartered. If plans are really laid for an attack, you’ll hear whispers of it. Them whispers yeou’ll give to me, sonny. D’ye understand?”

Hadley nodded. He understood what was expected of him; also he understood that the mission would be perilous. But he had been in danger before, and he did not lack some measure of confidence in himself now.

The huge wagon rumbled on toward the British lines. When they were halted, Lafe managed to give such a good account of himself that he was allowed to pass through with little questioning, for the grain was assigned to the quartermaster’s department. Hadley was simply considered a country bumpkin who had come into town to see the sights. Soon the old scout and the boy separated, Hadley making his way swiftly to the Quaker’s habitation near the Indian Queen, where good Mistress Pye welcomed him warmly.

Friend Pye was a merchant and dealt in such foreign commodities--particularly in West India goods--as were in demand among the British officers. As previously noted, the Quaker had lived so circumspectly in the city throughout the war that his loyalty to the king was considered unshaken by his Tory neighbors, and yet he was so retiring and so worthy a man that the Whigs had not considered him a dangerous enemy.

If anybody noted, during these cold days of middle winter, that Friend Pye had a new ’prentice boy, it was not particularly remarked. The gossip of the camp and, indeed, all conversation was tinged with military life and happenings. Friend Pye’s young man carried goods to the Norris house where My Lord Rawdon--that swarthy, haughty nobleman, both hated and feared by all who came in contact with him--was quartered, and even to Peter Reeves’ house on Second Street, where Lord Cornwallis held a miniature court. Hadley was, in his new duties, quick and obliging. The British officers often remarked that, for a country bumpkin, Pye’s apprentice was marvelously polite and possessed some grace and gentleness. But all the time Hadley Morris was keeping both his eyes and ears open, and when Holdness came to the Quaker’s house under cover of the night, he told him all he had heard and seen, even to details which seemed to him quite worthless.

“Ye never know how important little things may be,” Holdness had told him. “It’s the little things that sometimes turn aout ter be of th’ greatest value. Stick to it, Had.”

But, one day, Hadley experienced something of a shock--indeed, two of them. He was walking through Spruce Street, carrying a bundle with which his employer had entrusted him to deliver at an officer’s residence, when a carriage came slowly toward him. It was a very fine coach--much finer than any he had observed in Philadelphia thus far--and it was drawn by a pair of magnificent horses. The horses were bay, and before many moments the boy, with a start, recognized them. His eyes flew from the handsome team to the coachman, perched on the high seat.

The bays were the same he had seen so often while Colonel Creston Knowles was a guest at the Three Oaks Inn, and the driver was William, the silent Cockney. The coach window was wide open and Hadley could see within. There, on the silken cushions, was seated Mistress Lillian herself! The boy stared, stopping on the edge of the walk in his surprise. Of course, he might have expected to find the British officer and his daughter here, yet he was amazed, nevertheless.

But he was evidently not the only person astonished. Lillian saw him. She leaned from the carriage window and, for an instant, he thought she was about to call to him. Then she glanced up at the driver’s seat and said something to William. At once the bays began to trot and the carriage rolled swiftly past. But Hadley had looked up at the driver, too, and for the first time saw and recognized the person sitting beside William on the high perch.

William was gorgeous in a maroon livery: the person beside him was in livery, also, and evidently acted as footman. But, despite his gay apparel, Hadley recognized this footman instantly. It was Alonzo Alwood, and as he gazed after the retreating carriage, the American youth was conscious that Lon had twisted around in his seat and was staring at him with scowling visage.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

In the Florida Everglades

By William A. Stimpson

“Good-by, fellows; don’t expect me back before supper time.” Waving his hand to his friends, Alfred Whyte pushed the bateau into the water, took his seat in the centre, and with a few strong, even strokes of the paddle sent the frail craft out of sight around a bend in the stream.

It was on the edge of the Florida Everglades, those low, marshy tracts of swamp land that cover the whole of the lower end of the peninsula. Two New York boys, Willard King and Marvin Stebbins, had homesteaded a claim in the heart of the morass and were engaged in growing tomatoes for the northern markets. Alfred, a former schoolmate, was spending a few weeks with them in their southern home.

The piece of land upon which the two northerners had settled was about fifty acres in extent. It rose, island-like, from out the midst of the network of little creeks and streams that crisscrossed in every direction and made a veritable land-and-water spider’s web of that part of the State.

The tomato plants were set out in February and now, the first of April, the tomatoes had begun to turn red and were large enough to be picked. They had to be handled very carefully, wrapped in tissue paper, and packed in light wooden crates, so as to permit the process of ripening to be completed on the trip north. Picking and packing them was tedious and took considerable time. Both the young truck farmers had their hands full, and when a flock of wild ducks flew overhead on their way to the feeding grounds half a mile further inland, they merely directed a passing glance upward and then, stifling their sportsmen’s instinct, turned to their work again.

All the morning the wild fowl could be heard thrashing about in the tall grass at the lagoon, and both King and Stebbins were sorely tempted several times to slip up stream in the hope of bagging a couple. But the steamer on which they intended shipping their produce sailed from Lincoln, fifteen miles east, the next afternoon, and by working persistently until dark they could hardly get their crop ready for an early start on the following morning for the river town.

“If neither of you fellows can spare the time to go duck shooting, why can’t I paddle up there and try a shot or two?” asked Alfred, late in the afternoon.

“All the reason in the world, Al,” replied King. “No one except a native, or a person who has lived here as long as we have, can traverse this swamp in safety. Why, before you reach the lake where the ducks are you will pass eight or ten little streams, any one of which you are just as likely to enter as to keep on up the main channel. We’re afraid you’ll get lost, Al. Don’t you think so?” he asked, turning to Stebbins.

“But I’ve been all around there with you fellows,” explained Alfred, trying in vain to conceal his disappointment. “I’ve been up to the lake, too, and I know the main stream perfectly well. I’m going to try it, for I must have some roast duck.”

Both the boys tried to dissuade him from the undertaking, but he was insistent, and finally they gave a reluctant consent. Realizing fully his lack of acquaintance with the swamp, Whyte paid particular attention to his surroundings as he paddled on, fearing that he might turn into one of those little side streams of which King had warned him.

Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw the ducks. Paddling noiselessly, scarcely rippling the water as he passed through, he got within range of the flock without alarming them. Bang! bang! went both barrels of his twelve-bore, and at the reports the ducks rose from the water with a loud whirr. One bird was wounded and lagged behind the others. It fluttered along a hundred yards or so, then sank in a clump of marsh grass, took wing again, but went less than ten yards, when it turned a somersault in the air and dropped.

A few strokes of the paddle carried the bateau close to where the bird had fallen, but when he reached the spot Whyte found that a stretch of marsh lay between the edge of the water and his prize. He tried to reach the duck with the paddle but could not do so. It was a fine, fat bird, as he could plainly see, but it lay beyond his reach.

“Just my luck,” he muttered, after several unsuccessful attempts to reach the bird. “I wonder if those hummocks will hold me,” noticing the tufts of thick, coarse grass that dotted the morass in every direction.

The hummocks looked firm enough to bear his weight, so pushing the prow of the boat as far into the edge of the bank as he could, he stepped out and tried the first one. It was solid and unyielding. Certain, then, that his plan was a feasible one, he sprang to the next hummock and on until he had the bird in his hand. In returning, he rested too much weight upon one of the tufts of thick grass. The treacherous mud gave way, his foot slipped, and down he went into the black ooze up to his thighs.

With an exclamation of impatience, he endeavored to withdraw his feet and legs. They stuck fast. He tried a second time, but the mud held him as in a vise. Putting forth all his strength and seizing several blades of the long, coarse grass within his reach, he tried his best to extricate himself, but to his dismay he found the sticky mud to be as unyielding as quicksand. What was worse, when he ceased his efforts he discovered that he had sunk deeper in the mire and was now embedded nearly up to his breast.

Thoroughly frightened, he remained perfectly passive and began to think. He realized that he was in a serious predicament, held a prisoner, as he was, in the black, slimy mud of the swamp, and it was cold there, too. His gun lay within reach, and, resting the arm lengthwise, he made another attempt to release himself, but his efforts were unavailing. The gun sank in the ooze, and in extracting it he found that his exertions had caused him to sink several inches deeper. The top of the mud now reached to his armpits.

He glanced at the sun, and, seeing it low in the west, was comforted. King and Stebbins, becoming alarmed at his non-appearance, would soon be setting out to look for him, he thought, if they were not already doing so. His eyes wandered towards the opposite bank, and he was struck with its unfamiliar appearance. Instead of the low, flat marsh that lined that side of the stream, as he well knew, he was looking upon a patch of higher land similar to the one upon which King and Stebbins had their home. It dawned upon him then for the first time that he had left the main channel.

As the realization of his true position came home to him, hope died. Thinking that he was somewhere along the stream, he had felt sure of rescue, but his discovery altered the situation completely. How far out of his true course he was he had no way of knowing, and the thought of the awful days and nights that would pass while he stood there dying, if the mud did not eventually bury him and make his death even a more horrible one, was far from pleasant.

Frantically he struggled to free himself, but he was held fast as though he had been shackled in irons, and his struggles only left him exhausted. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. His mouth was dry and parched and his head began to swim. He felt that he was losing his reason, but he pulled himself together with a herculean effort. His legs and feet were cold and numb, and the keen night wind nipped his ears and nose cruelly. The mud under his arms had begun to freeze, and unless he kept breaking it continually with his hands, a stiff crust would form at the top.

He racked his brain to devise some plan of escape from his terrible position, but could think of nothing except to shout. That, he supposed, would only be a waste of energy, but he must do something. Gathering himself together, he essayed to call, but his mouth was so parched that his voice did not penetrate further than ten yards. He tried again, and this time found himself shouting louder. Again and again he shouted until his voice echoed and re-echoed through the everglades.

As the sounds died away his ear caught a faint call that seemed like an answer to his own. Flushed with hope, he shouted again and then strained his ears to listen. But silence, broken only by the twittering of the night birds, reigned about him.

Once more he shouted, and again he thought he heard a reply, or was it an echo of his own voice? The ordeal was too much for him, and with a groan his head drooped and he lost consciousness.

With King and Stebbins the time passed until sundown before they realized how late it was, and then they dropped their work and looked along the stream in the direction taken by their guest.

“It is nearly seven o’clock, Marvin,” remarked King, consulting his watch. “Al said he would be back by supper time, and here it is an hour after. I believe he’s lost.”

“If that’s the case, we must find him before dark, or he’ll have to stay in the swamp all night,” said Stebbins.

Both young men were hurrying towards the boat landing as they spoke. “Maybe he’ll row around there a week before he finds his way out,” declared King.

Stepping into the remaining boat, they both seized a paddle and sent the light skiff whirling along towards the lake, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of the missing boat. “He promised not to go further than the lake,” said Stebbins, as they reached a point where the stream began to widen. “Let’s course over some of those creeks back there,” indicating a part of the swamp in the rear of their island home.

The boat’s prow was accordingly turned in that direction, and they had proceeded but a few yards when King’s ear detected a faint call somewhere in the distance. It was so low and indistinct that he was unable to tell from what direction it came, but shouted loudly in answer.

“Did you hear anything?” asked Stebbins, whose hearing was not so keen.

“I thought I did,” answered King, “and shouted in the hope that it might be Alfred. He’s certainly out of the channel and is calling us. Halloo! halloo! we’re coming! Where are you?” he shouted.

The boys rested a moment or two and listened for a reply. None came. “We don’t know which way to go,” said King. “Let’s go south on a venture.”

“Call again,” said Stebbins, after they had been paddling for a few minutes. King did so, and in answer came a faint shout that both boys heard. “We’re right, keep on straight ahead,” said King, excitedly. “Where are you?” he called, but they did not receive any further answer.

They paddled an eighth of a mile along this course, calling constantly without seeing anything of the person for whom they were looking. “Strange he doesn’t answer us,” remarked Stebbins, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

King said nothing, but kept peering ahead into the gathering gloom. Darkness had fallen by this time and objects were hardly distinguishable. Rounding a bend in the stream, they suddenly saw a boat--the one in which Alfred had rowed away--drawn up on the bank. With a shout the boys pushed ahead with rapid strokes. “Alfred, where are you?” they called. As there was no response, they backed water, and bringing their bateau to a stop, looked with blanched faces into the empty boat.

“Where can he be?” muttered Stebbins.

“Look there! look there!” exclaimed King, rising in the skiff and nearly upsetting it.

Stebbins followed the direction indicated, and saw what appeared to be a man’s head upright on the ground.

“It’s Alfred, and he’s fast in the mud,” exclaimed Stebbins, grasping the situation. “He’s dead!” he groaned.

Without further words, the boat was driven to the bank, and, stepping on the very hummocks that had supported Whyte, they reached his side. “Quick, Stebbins, get your paddle under his left arm; I will do the same on my side,” said King, and, working together, they succeeded in raising the apparently lifeless form from its position. In another moment they had placed the unfortunate youth in the boat beside them, and while one sent the skiff skimming towards home, the other rubbed and chafed the cold hands and feet. At last they were rewarded by seeing the eyes open and feeling the heart beat faintly.

By the time the party reached the house, Whyte was himself again, but so weak and sick that he had to be carried from the landing and put to bed. A doctor was brought from Lincoln the next day and left some medicine and a few directions, but Alfred’s robust health and good constitution did more for him than all the pills and powders, and in a few days he had recovered from all traces of his terrible experience, except the memory of it. That will stay with him always.

Audubon at Bird Rock

An interesting account, showing the numbers in which birds often live together, is the following, written by Audubon. The great ornithologist was, at the time of writing, visiting Bird Rock, a little granite island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, so named from its only inhabitants, birds, mostly of a species called Gannet.

“About ten, a speck rose on the horizon, which I was told was the Rock. We sailed well, the breeze increased fast, and we neared the object apace. At eleven, I could distinguish its top plainly from the deck, and thought it covered with snow to the depth of several feet. This appearance existed on every portion of the flat, projecting shelves. Godwin (the guide) said, with the coolness of a man who had visited this rock for successive seasons, that what we saw was not snow, but Gannets. I rubbed my eyes, took my spy-glass, and in an instant the strangest picture stood before me. They were birds we saw--a mass of birds of such size as I never before cast my eyes on. The whole of my party stood astounded and amazed, and all came to the conclusion that such a sight was of itself sufficient to invite anyone to come across the gulf to view it at this season. The nearer we approached, the greater our surprise at the enormous number of these birds, all calmly seated on their eggs or newly-hatched brood, their heads all turned to the windward and toward us. The air above for a hundred yards, and for the same distance around the Rock, was filled with Gannets on the wing, which, from our position, made it appear as if a heavy fall of snow was directly above us. The whole surface (of the island) is perfectly covered with nests, placed about two feet apart, in such regular order that you may look through the lines as you would look through those of a planted patch of sweet potatoes or cabbages. When one reaches the top, the birds, alarmed, rise with a noise like thunder, and fly off in such a hurried, fearful confusion as to throw each other down, often falling on each other until there is a bank of them many feet high.”

This was in 1833. If Audubon could visit the island now, how he would find the “snows” melted. There is to-day not a single Gannet nesting on the top of the rock. On the ledges and in the crannies about its sides, the birds still dwell in great numbers, even in thousands, but not in the countless myriads of the past.

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond