Chapter I: Preface (1)

Here is a book of Patriotic Stories for children, to stand beside the similar collections of Christmas Stories and Thanksgiving Stories, which have already been welcomed by many parents, librarians, and teachers. Those seeking material appropriate to Washington’s Birthday and the Fourth of July will find here a goodly store, ready to their hands. The brief descriptive note at the head of each story will help the reader to choose one well suited to his audience. And the Table of Contents, as in the previous collections, indicates which tales will best please older, and which younger children.

The Editors hope that a book of stirring tales like these--not history, but stories such as children love, that yet ring true in spirit--will serve to help, though ever so little, the Cause of Liberty and will aid in keeping aglow in the hearts of our young people the ardent spark which inspired our forefathers--the Spirit of ’76.

_Napoleon was great, I know,
And Julius Cæsar, and all the rest,
But they didn’t belong to us, and so
I like George Washington the best._

--ANONYMOUS.

CONTENTS

(_Note._--The stories marked with a star (*) will be most enjoyed by younger children; those marked with a dagger(†) are better suited to older children.)

PAGE

Jabez Rockwell’s Powder-horn. _By Ralph D. Paine_ 3

The Little Lord of the Manor. _By Elbridge S. Brooks_ 19

†Old Esther Dudley. _By Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 40

*Betty’s Ride. _By Henry S. Canby_ 55

The First Blow for American Liberty. _By Emma W. Demeritt_ 64

†The Battle of Bunker’s Hill. _By Washington Irving_ 79

*Her Punishment. _By Elizabeth Gibson_ 91

Famous Words at Great Moments 95

*The Little Fifer. _By Helen M. Winslow_ 102

†Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys. _By Washington Irving_ 111

The Capture of the Hennepin Gun. _By Margaret Emma Ditto_ 117

Paul Revere’s Ride. _By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 132

*Tony’s Birthday and George Washington’s. _By Agnes Repplier_ 138

A Venture in 1777. _By S. Weir Mitchell_ 145

A Tempest in a Big Tea-pot. _By Samuel Adams Drake_ 189

†How the Warning Was Given. _By Mabel Nelson Thurston_ 192

†Susan Tongs. _By Ethel Parton_ 206

*The Little Minute-man. _By H. G. Paine_ 217

*General Gage and the Boston Boys. _By Samuel Adams Drake_ 225

†Washington and the Spy. _By James Fenimore Cooper_ 227

*Three Washington Anecdotes. _Adapted from M. L. Weems_ 236

“When George the Third Was King.” _By Elbridge S. Brooks_ 241

*Their Flag Day. _By Herbert O. McCrillis_ 256

A True Story of the Revolution. _By Everett T. Tomlinson_ 260

†Polly Callendar: Tory. _By Margaret Fenderson_ 270

Neil Davidson in Disguise. _By Mary Tracy Earle_ 279

†John Paul Jones. _By Rupert S. Holland_ 295

CHILDREN’S BOOK OF
PATRIOTIC STORIES

CHILDREN’S BOOK OF PATRIOTIC STORIES

JABEZ ROCKWELL’S POWDER-HORN[A]

By RALPH D. PAINE

A story of the “Powder-horn rebellion” at Valley Forge, and of how gallant young Jabez Rockwell rallied a retreating regiment at the battle of Monmouth.

“Pooh, you are not tall enough to carry a musket. Go with the drums, and tootle on that fife you blew at the Battle of Saratoga. Away with you, little Jabez, crying for a powder-horn, when grown men like me have not a pouch amongst them for a single charge of powder!”

A tall, gaunt Vermonter, whose uniform was a woolen bedcover draped to his knees, laughed loudly from the doorway of his log hut as he flung these taunts at the stripling soldier.

A little way down the snowy street of these rude cabins a group of ragged comrades was crowding at the heels of a man who hugged a leather apron to his chest with both arms. Jabez Rockwell was in hot haste to join the chase; nevertheless he halted to cry back at his critic:

“It’s a lie! I put my fife in my pocket at Saratoga, and I fought with a musket as long and ugly as yourself. And a redcoat shot me through the arm. If the camp butcher has powder-horns to give away, I deserve one more than those raw militia recruits, so wait until you are a veteran of the Connecticut line before you laugh at us old soldiers.”

The youngster stooped to tighten the clumsy wrappings of rags which served him for shoes, and hurried on after the little shouting mob which had followed the butcher down to the steep hillside of Valley Forge, where he stood at bay with his back to the cliff.

“There are thirty of you desperate villains,” puffed the fat fugitive, “and I have only ten horns, which have been saved from the choicest of all the cattle I’ve killed these two months gone. I would I had my maul and skinning-knife here to defend myself. Take me to headquarters, if there is no other way to end this riot. I want no pay for the horns. They are my gift to the troops, but, Heaven help me! who is to decide how to divide them amongst so many!”

“Stand him on his bald head, and loose the horns from the apron. As they fall, he who finds keeps!” roared one of the boisterous party.

“Toss them all in the air and let us fight for them,” was another suggestion.

The hapless butcher glared round him with growing dismay. At this rate half the American army would soon be clamoring round him, drawn by the chance to add to their poor equipment.

By this time Jabez Rockwell had wriggled under the arms of the shouting soldiers, twisting like an uncommonly active eel, until he was close to the red-faced butcher. With ready wit the youngster piped up a plan for breaking the deadlock:

“There are thirty of us, you say, that put you to rout, Master Ritter. Let us divide the ten horns by lot. Then you can return to your cow-pens with a whole skin and a clear conscience.”

“There is more sense in that little carcass of yours than in all those big, hulking troopers that could spit you on a bayonet like a sparrow!” rumbled Master Ritter. “How shall the lots be drawn?”

“Away with your lottery!” cried a burly rifleman, whose long hunting-shirt whipped in the bitter wind. “The road up the valley is well beaten down. The old forge is half a mile away. Do you mark a line, old beef-killing Jack, and we will run for our lives. The first ten to touch the stone wall of the smithy will take the ten prizes.”

Some yelled approval, others fiercely opposed, and the wrangling was louder than before. Master Ritter, who had plucked up heart, began to steal warily from the hillside, hoping to escape in the confusion. A dozen hands clutched his collar and leather apron, and jerked him headlong back into the argument.

Young Jabez scrambled to the top of the nearest boulder, and ruffled with importance like a turkey-cock as he waved his arms to command attention.

“The guard will be turned out and we shall end this fray by cooling our heels in the prison huts on the hill,” he declaimed. “If we run a foot-race, who is to say which of us first reaches the forge? Again--and I say I never served with such thick-witted troops, when I fought under General Arnold at Saratoga--those with shoes to their feet have the advantage over those that are bound up in bits of cloth and clumsy patches of hide. Draw lots, I say, before the picket is down upon us!”

The good-natured crowd cheered the boy orator, and hauled him from his perch with such hearty thumps that he feared they would break him in two.

Suddenly the noise was hushed as if the wranglers had been stricken dumb. Fur-capped heads turned to face down the winding valley, and without need of an order the company spread itself along the roadside in a rude, uneven line. Every man stood at attention, his head up, his shoulders thrown back, hands at his sides. Thus they stood while they watched a little group of horsemen trot toward them.

In front rode a commanding figure in buff and blue. The tall, lithe frame sat the saddle with the graceful ease of the hard-riding Virginia fox-hunter. The stern, smooth-shaven face, reddened and roughened by exposure to all weathers, lighted with an amiable curiosity at sight of this motley and expectant party, the central figure of which was the butcher, Master Ritter, who had dropped to his knees as if praying for his life.

General Washington turned to a sprightly looking, red-haired youth who rode at his side, as if calling his attention to this singular tableau. The Marquis de Lafayette shrugged his shoulders after the French manner, and said, laughingly:

“It ees vat you t’ink? Vill they make ready to kill ’im? Vat they do?”

Just behind them pounded General Mühlenberg, the clergyman who had doffed his gown for the uniform of a brigadier, stalwart, swarthy, laughter in his piercing eyes as he commented:

“To the rescue! The victim is a worthy member of my old Pennsylvania flock. This doth savor of a soldier’s court-martial for honest Jacob Ritter.”

The cavalcade halted, and the soldiers saluted, tongue-tied and embarrassed, scuffling, and prodding one another’s ribs in an attempt to urge a spokesman forward, while General Washington gazed down at them as if demanding an explanation.

The butcher was about to make a stammering attempt when the string of his apron parted, and the ten cow-horns were scattered in the snow. He dived in pursuit of them, and his speech was never made.

Because Jabez Rockwell was too light and slender to make much resistance, he was first to be pushed into the foreground, and found himself nearest the commander-in-chief. He made the best of a bad matter, and his frank young face flushed hotly as he doffed his battered cap and bowed low.

“May it please the general, we were in a good-natured dispute touching the matter of those ten cow-horns which the butcher brought amongst us to his peril. There are more muskets than pouches in our street, and we are debating a fair way to divide them. It is--it is exceedingly bold, sir, but dare we ask you to suggest a way out of the trouble which preys sorely on the butcher’s mind and body?”

A fleeting frown troubled the noble face of the chief, and his mouth twitched, not with anger but in pain, for the incident brought home to him anew that his soldiers, these brave, cheerful, half-clothed, freezing followers, were without even the simplest tools of warfare.

The cloud cleared and he smiled, such a proud, affectionate smile as a father shows to sons of his who have deemed no sacrifice too great for duty’s sake. His eyes softened as he looked down at the straight stripling at his bridle-rein, and replied:

“You have asked my advice as a third party, and it is meet that I share in the distribution. Follow me to the nearest hut.”

His officers wheeled and rode after him, while the bewildered soldiers trailed behind, two and two, down the narrow road, greatly wondering whether reward or punishment was to be their lot.

As for Jabez Rockwell, he strode proudly in the van as guide to the log cabin, and felt his heart flutter as he jumped to the head of the charger, while the general dismounted with the agility of a boy.

Turning to the soldiers, who hung abashed in the road, Washington called:

“Come in, as many of you as can find room!”

The company filled the hut, and made room for those behind by climbing into the tiers of bunks filled with boughs to soften the rough-hewn planks.

In one corner a wood-fire smoldered in a rough stone fireplace, whose smoke made even the general cough and sneeze. He stood behind a bench of barked logs, and took from his pocket a folded document. Then he picked up from the hearth a bit of charcoal, and announced:

“I will write down a number between fifteen hundred and two thousand, and the ten that guess nearest this number shall be declared the winners of the ten horns.”

He carefully tore the document into strips, and then into small squares, which were passed among the delighted audience. There was a busy whispering and scratching of heads. Over in one corner, jammed against the wall until he gasped for breath, Jabez Rockwell said to himself:

“I must guess shrewdly. Methinks he will choose a number halfway between fifteen hundred and two thousand. I will write down seventeen hundred and fifty. But, stay! Seventeen seventy-six may come first into his mind, the glorious year when the independence of the colonies was declared. But he will surely take it that we, too, are thinking of that number, wherefore I will pass it by.”

As if reading his thoughts, a comrade curled up in a bunk at Rockwell’s elbow muttered:

“Seventeen seventy-six, I haven’t a doubt of it!”

Alas for the cunning surmise of Jabez, the chief did write down Independence year, “1776,” and when this verdict was read aloud, the boy felt deep disappointment. This was turned to joy, however, when his guess of “1750” was found to be among the ten nearest the fateful choice, and one of the powder-horns fell to him.

The soldiers pressed back to make way for General Washington as he went out of the hut, stooping low that his head might escape the roof-beams. Before the party mounted, the boyish Lafayette swung his hat round his head and shouted:

“A huzza for ze wise general!”

The soldiers cheered lustily, and General Mühlenberg followed with:

“Now a cheer for the Declaration of Independence and for the soldier who wrote down ‘Seventeen seventy-six.’”

General Washington bowed in his saddle, and the shouting followed his clattering train up the valley on his daily tour of inspection. He left behind him a new-fledged hero in the person of Jabez Rockwell whose bold tactics had won him a powder-horn and given his comrades the rarest hour of the dreary winter at Valley Forge.

In his leisure time he scraped and polished the horn, fitted it with a wooden stopper and cord, and with greatest care and labor scratched upon its gleaming surface these words:

_Jabez Rockwell, Ridgeway, Conn.--His Horn.
Made in Camp at Valley Forge_

Thin and pale, but with unbroken spirit, this sixteen-year-old veteran drilled and marched and braved picket duty in zero weather, often without a scrap of meat to brace his ration for a week on end; but he survived with no worse damage than sundry frostbites. In early spring he was assigned to duty as a sentinel of the company which guarded the path that led up the hill to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief. Here he learned much to make the condition of his comrades seem more hopeless and forlorn than ever.

Hard-riding scouting parties came into camp with reports of forays as far as the suburbs of Philadelphia, twenty miles away. Spies disguised as farmers returned with stories of visits into the heart of the capital city held by the enemy. This gossip and information, which the young sentinel picked up bit by bit, he pieced together to make a picture of an invincible, veteran British army, waiting to fall upon the huddled mob of “rebels” at Valley Forge, and sweep them away like chaff. He heard it over and over again, that the Hessians, with their tall and gleaming brass hats and fierce moustaches, “were dreadful to look upon,” that the British Grenadiers, who tramped the Philadelphia streets in legions, “were like moving ranks of stone wall.”

Then Jabez would look out across the valley, and perhaps see an American regiment at drill, without uniforms, ranks half-filled, looking like an array of scarecrows. His heart would sink, despite his memories of Saratoga; and in such dark hours he could not believe it possible even for General Washington to win a battle in the coming summer campaign.

It was on a bright day of June that Capt. Allan McLane, the leader of scouts, galloped past the huts of the sentinels, and shouted as he rode:

“The British have marched out of Philadelphia! I have just cut my way through their skirmishers over in New Jersey!”

A little later orderlies were buzzing out of the old stone house at headquarters like bees from a hive, with orders for the troops to be ready to march. As Jabez Rockwell hurried to rejoin his regiment, men were shouting the glad news along the green valley, with songs and cheers and laughter. They fell in as a fighting army, and left behind them the tragic story of their winter at Valley Forge, as the trailing columns swept beyond the Schuylkill into the wide and smiling farm lands of Pennsylvania.

Summer heat now blistered the dusty faces that had been for so long blue and pinched with hunger and cold. A week of glad marching and full rations carried Washington’s awakened army into New Jersey, by which time the troops knew their chief was leading them to block the British retreat from Philadelphia.

Jabez Rockwell, marching with the Connecticut Brigade, had forgotten his fears of the brass-capped Hessians and the stone-wall Grenadiers. One night they camped near Monmouth village, and scouts brought in the tidings that the British were within sight. In the long summer twilight Jabez climbed a little knoll hard by, and caught a glimpse of the white tents of the Queen’s Rangers, hardly beyond musketshot. Before daybreak a rattle of firing woke him and he scrambled out, to find that the pickets were already exchanging shots.

He picked up his old musket, and chewing a hunk of dry bread for breakfast, joined his company drawn up in a pasture. Knapsacks were piled near Freehold Meeting-house, and the troops marched ahead, not knowing where they were sent.

Across the wooded fields Jabez saw the lines of red splotches which gleamed in the early sunlight and he knew these were British troops. The rattling musket-fire became a grinding roar, and the deeper note of artillery boomed into the tumult. A battle had begun, yet the Connecticut Brigade was stewing in the heat hour after hour, impatient, troubled, wondering why they had no part to play. As the forenoon dragged along the men became sullen and weary.

When at last an order came it was not to advance, but to retreat. Falling back, they found themselves near their camping-place. Valley Forge had not quenched the faith of Jabez Rockwell in General Washington’s power to conquer any odds, but now he felt such dismay as brought hot tears to his eyes. On both sides of his regiment American troops were streaming to the rear, their columns broken and straggling. It seemed as if the whole army was fleeing from the veterans of Clinton and Cornwallis.

Jabez flung himself into a cornfield, and hid his face in his arms. Round him his comrades were muttering their anger and despair. He fumbled for his canteen, and his fingers closed round his powder-horn. “General Washington did not give you to me to run away with,” he whispered; and then his parched lips moved in a little prayer:

“Dear Lord, help us to beat the British this day, and give me a chance to empty my powder-horn before night. Thou hast been with General Washington and me ever since last year. Please don’t desert us now.”

Nor was he surprised when, as if in direct answer to his petition, he rose to see the chief riding through the troop lines, but such a chief as he had never before known. The kindly face was aflame with anger, and streaked with dust and sweat. The powerful horse he rode was lathered, and its heaving flanks were scarred from hard-driven spurs.

As the commander passed the regiment, his staff in a whirlwind at his heels, Jabez heard him shout in a great voice vibrant with rage and grief:

“I cannot believe the army is retreating. I ordered a general advance. Who dared to give such an order! Advance those lines----”

“It was General Lee’s order to retreat,” Jabez heard an officer stammer in reply.

Washington vanished in a moment, with a storm of cheers in his wake. Jabez was content to wait for orders now. He believed the Battle of Monmouth as good as won.

His recollection of the next few hours was jumbled and hazy. He knew that the regiment went forward, and then the white smoke of musket-fire closed down before him. Now and then the summer breeze made rifts in this stifling cloud, and he saw it streaked with spouting fire. He aimed his old musket at that other foggy line beyond the rail fence, whose top was lined with men in coats of red and green and black.

Suddenly his officers began running to and fro, and a shout ran down the thin line:

“Stand steady, Connecticut! Save your fire! Aim low! Here comes a charge!”

A tidal wave of red and brass broke through the gaps in the rail fence, and the sunlight rippled along a wavering line of British bayonets. They crept nearer, nearer, until Jabez could see the grim ferocity, the bared teeth, the staring eyes of the dreaded Grenadiers.

At the command to fire he pulled trigger, and the kick of his musket made him grunt with pain. Pulling the stopper from his powder-horn with his teeth, Jabez poured in a charge, and was ramming the bullet home when he felt his right leg double under him and burn as if red-hot iron had seared it.

Then the charging tide of Grenadiers swept over him. He felt their hobnailed heels bite into his back; then his head felt queer, and he closed his eyes. When he found himself trying to rise, he saw, as through a mist, his regiment falling back, driven from their ground by the first shock of the charge. He groaned in agony of spirit. What would General Washington say?

Jabez was now behind the headlong British column, which heeded him not. He was in a little part of the field cleared of fighting, for the moment, except for the wounded, who dotted the trampled grass. The smoke had drifted away, for the swaying lines in front of him were locked in the frightful embrace of cold steel.

The boy staggered to his feet, with his musket as a crutch, and his wound was forgotten. He was given strength to his need by the spirit of a great purpose.

Alone he stood and reeled, while he beckoned, passionately, imploringly, his arm outstretched toward his broken regiment. The lull in the firing made a moment of strange quiet, broken only by groans, and the hard, gasping curses of men locked in the death-grip. Therefore, the shrill young voice carried far, as he shouted:

“Come back, Connecticut! I’m waiting for you!”

His captain heard the boy, and waved his sword with hoarse cries to his men. They caught sight of the lonely little figure in the background, and his cry went to their hearts, and a great wave of rage and shame swept the line like a prairie fire. Like a landslide the men of Connecticut swept forward to recapture the ground they had yielded. Back fell the British before a countercharge they could not withstand, back beyond the rail fence. Nor was there refuge even there, for, shattered and spent, they were smashed to fragments in a flank attack driven home in the nick of time by the American reserves.

From a low hill to the right of this action General Washington had paused to view the charge just when his line gave way. He sent an officer in hot haste for reserves, and waited for them where he was.

Thus it happened that his eye swept the littered field from which Jabez Rockwell rose, as one from the dead, to rally his comrades, alone, undaunted, pathetic beyond words. A little later two privates were carrying to the rear the wounded lad, who had been picked up alive and conscious. They halted to salute their commander-in-chief, and laid their burden down as the general drew rein and said:

“Take this man to my quarters, and see to it that he has every possible attention. I saw him save a regiment and retake a position.”

The limp figure on the litter of boughs raised itself on an elbow, and said very feebly:

“I didn’t want to see that powder-horn disgraced, sir.”

With a smile of recognition General Washington responded:

“The powder-horn? I remember. _You_ are the lad who led the powder-horn rebellion at Valley Forge. And I wrote down ‘Seventeen seventy-six.’ You have used it well, my boy. I will not forget.”

When Jabez Rockwell was able to rejoin his company, he scratched upon the powder-horn this addition to the legend he had carved at Valley Forge:

_First used at Monmouth, June 28, 1778._

A hundred years later the grandson of Jabez Rockwell hung the powder-horn in the old stone house at Valley Forge which had been General Washington’s headquarters. And if you should chance to see it there you will find that the young soldier added one more line to the rough inscription:

_Last used at Yorktown, 1781._

THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR[B]

By E. S. BROOKS

A picture of Evacuation Day in New York, in 1783, when the British
troops hauled down their flag and sailed away from free America.
A little lost lord, his distracted Tory grandfather, and some
kind-hearted American children are the principal characters. And we
are told how little Mistress Dolly Duane “won the distinguished honor
of being kissed by both Commanders-in-Chief on the same eventful day.”

It was the 25th of November, 1783--a brilliant day, clear, crisp, and invigorating, with just enough of frosty air to flush the eager cheeks and nip the inquisitive noses of every boy and girl in the excited crowd that filled the Bowery lane from Harlem to the barriers, and pressed fast upon the heels of General Knox’s advance detachment of Continental troops marching to the position assigned them, near the “tea-water pump.” In the Duane mansion a fire was blazing brightly and Mistress Dolly’s pet cat was purring comfortably in the cheerful light. But Mistress Dolly herself cared just now for neither cat nor comfort. She, too, was on the highway watching for the exciting events that were to make this Evacuation Day in New York one of the most memorable occasions in the history of the chief American city.

At some points the crowd was especially pushing and persistent, and Mistress Dolly Duane was decidedly uncomfortable. For little Dolly detested crowds, as, in fact, she detested everything that interfered with the comfort of a certain dainty little maiden of thirteen. And she was just on the point of expressing to her cousin, young Edward Livingston, her regret that they had not stayed to witness the procession from the tumbledown gateway of the Duane country-house, near the King’s Bridge road, when, out from the crowd, came the sound of a child’s voice, shrill and complaining.

“Keep off, you big, bad man!” it said; “keep off and let me pass! How dare you crowd me so, you wicked rebels?”

“Rebels, hey?” a harsh and mocking voice exclaimed. “Rebels! Heard ye that, mates? Well crowed, my little cockerel. Let’s have a look at you,” and a burly arm rudely parted the pushing crowd and dragged out of the press a slight, dark-haired little fellow of seven or eight, clad in velvet and ruffles.

“Put me down! Put me down, I say!” screamed the boy, his small face flushed with passion. “Put me down, I tell you, or I’ll bid Angevine horsewhip you!”

“Hark to the little Tory,” growled his captor. “A rare young bird, now, isn’t he? Horsewhip _us_, d’ye say--us, free American citizens? And who may you be, my little beggar?”

“I am no beggar, you bad man,” cried the child angrily. “I am the little lord of the manor.”

“Lord of the manor! Ho, ho, ho!” laughed the big fellow. “Give us grace, your worship,” he said, with mock humility. “Lord of the manor! Look at him, mates,” and he held the struggling little lad toward the laughing crowd. “Why, there are no lords nor manors now in free America, my bantam.”

“But I am, I tell you!” protested the boy. “That’s what my grandfather calls me--oh, where is he? Take me to him, please: he calls me the little lord of the manor.”

“Who’s your grandfather?” demanded the man.

“Who? Why, don’t you know?” the “little lord” asked incredulously. “Everybody knows my grandfather, I thought. He is Colonel Phillipse, Baron of Phillipsbourg, and lord of the manor; and he’ll kill you if you hurt me,” he added defiantly.

“Phillipse, the king of Yonckers! Phillipse, the fat old Tory of West Chester! A prize, a prize, mates!” shouted the bully. “What say you? Shall we hold this young bantling hostage for the tainted Tory, his grandfather, and when once we get the old fellow serve him as we did the refugee at Wall-kill t’ other day?”

“What did you do?” the crowd asked.

“Faith, we tarred and feathered him well, put a hog-yoke on his neck and a cow-bell, too, and then rode him on a rail till he cheered for the Congress.”

“Treat my grandfather like that--my good grandfather? You shall not! you dare not!” cried the small Phillipse, with a flood of angry tears, as he struggled and fought in his captor’s clutch.

Dolly Duane’s kindly heart was filled with pity at the rough usage of the “little lord.”

“Oh, sir,” she said, as she pushed through the crowd and laid her hand on the big bully’s arm, “let the child go. ’Tis unmannerly to treat him as you do, and you’re very, very cruel.”

The fellow turned roughly around and looked down into Dolly’s disturbed and protesting face.

“What, another of ’em?” he said surlily. “Why, the place is full of little Tories.”

“No, no; no Tory I!” said indignant Dolly. “My father is Mr. Duane, and he is no Tory.”

“Mr. Duane, of the Congress?” “Give up the lad to the maid.” “Why harm the child?” came mingled voices from the crowd.

“What care I for Duane!” said the bully contemptuously. “One man’s as good as another now in free America--isn’t he? Bah! you’re all cowards; but I know when I’ve got a good thing. You don’t bag a Phillipse every day, I’ll warrant you.”

“No; but we bag other game once in a while,” said Dolly’s cousin, young Edward Livingston, pushing his way to her side. “We bag turncoats, and thieves, and murthering runagates sometimes, even in ‘free America’; and we know what to do with them when we do bag them. Friends,” he cried, turning to the crowd, “do you know this fellow? He’s a greater prize than the little Phillipse. ’Tis Big Jake of the Saw-mill--a ‘skinner’ one day and a ‘cow-boy’ next, as it suits his fancy and as it brings him booty. I know him, and so does the water-guard. I am Livingston, of Clermont Manor. Let down the lad, man, or we’ll turn you over to the town-major. He’d like rarely to have a chance at you.”

The crowd uttered a cry of rage as it closed excitedly around the burly member of the lawless gang that had preyed upon the defenceless people of the lower Hudson during the years of war and raid. The bully paled at the sound, and loosed his hold upon the little Phillipse. Without waiting to see the issue, young Livingston dragged the “little lord” from the throng, while his companion, Master Clinton, hurried Dolly along, and they were soon free from the crowd that was dealing roughly enough with Big Jake of the Saw-mill.

“Now, Dolly, let us go back to the farm before we get into further trouble,” said Cousin Ned, a pleasant young fellow of eighteen, who looked upon himself as the lawful protector of “the children.”

“But what shall we do with our little lord of the manor, Cousin Ned?” asked Dolly.

“The safest plan is to take him with us,” he replied.

“Oh, no, sir; no,” pleaded the little boy. “We sail to-day with Sir Guy Carleton, and what will grandfather do without me?” And then he told them how, early that morning, he had slipped away from Angevine, Colonel Phillipse’s body-servant, passed through the barriers and strolled up the Bowery lane to see the “rebel soldiers”; how he had lost his way in the crowd, and was in sore distress and danger until Dolly interfered; and how he thanked them “over and over again” for protecting him. But “Oh, please, I must go back to my grandfather,” he added.

Little Mistress Dolly had a mind of her own, and she warmly championed the cause of the “lost little lord,” as she called him.

“Cousin Ned,” she said, “of course he must go to his grandfather, and of course we must take him. Think how I should feel if they tried to keep me from my father!” and Dolly’s sympathetic eyes filled at the dreadful thought.

“But how can we take him?” asked Cousin Ned. “How can we get past the barriers?”

A hundred years ago New York City proper extended northward only as far as the present post-office, and during the Revolution a line of earthworks was thrown across the island at that point to defend it against assault from the north. The British sentinels at these barriers were not to give up their posts to the Americans until one o’clock on this eventful Evacuation Day, and Cousin Ned, therefore, could not well see how they could pass the sentries.

But young Master Clinton, a bright, curly-haired boy of thirteen, said confidently: “Oh, that’s easily done.” And then, with a knowledge of the highways and byways which many rambles through the dear old town had given him, he unfolded his plan. “See here,” he said; “we’ll turn down the Monument lane, just below us, cut across through General Mortier’s woods to Mr. Nicholas Bayard’s, and so on to the Ranelagh Gardens. From there we can easily get over to the Broad Way and the Murray Street barrier before General Knox gets to the Fresh Water, where he has been ordered to halt until one o’clock. When the guard at the barrier knows that we have the little Baron of Phillipsbourg with us, and has handled the two York sixpences you will give him, of course he’ll let us pass. So, don’t you see, we can fix this little boy all right, and, better yet, can see King George’s men go out and our troops come in, and make just a splendid day of it.”

Dolly, fully alive to these glorious possibilities, clapped her hands delightedly.

“What a brain the boy has!” said young Livingston. “Keep on, my son,” he said patronizingly, “and you’ll make a great man yet.”

“So I mean to be,” said De Witt Clinton cheerily, and then, heading the little group, he followed out the route he had proposed. Ere long the barriers were safely passed, Cousin Ned was two York sixpences out of pocket, and the young people stood within the British lines.

“And now, where may we find your grandfather, little one?” Cousin Ned inquired, as they halted on the Broad Way beneath one of the tall poplars that lined that old-time street.

The little Phillipse could not well reply. The noise and confusion that filled the city had well-nigh turned his head. For what with the departing English troops, the disconsolate loyalist refugees hurrying for transportation to distant English ports, and the zealous citizens who were making great preparations to welcome the incoming soldiers of the Congress, the streets of the little city were full of bustle and excitement. The boy said his grandfather might be at the fort; he might be at the King’s Arms Tavern, near Stone Street; he might be--he _would_ be--hunting for him.

So Master Clinton suggested: “Let’s go down to Mr. Day’s tavern here in Murray Street. He knows me, and, if he can, will find Colonel Phillipse for us.” Down into Murray Street therefore they turned, and, near the road to Greenwich, saw the tavern--a long, low-roofed house, gable end to the street--around which an excited crowd surged and shouted.

“Why, look there,” Master Clinton cried; “look there; and the king’s men not yet gone!” and, following the direction of his finger, they saw with surprise the stars and stripes, the flag of the new republic, floating from the pole before the tavern.

“Huzza!” they shouted with the rest, but the “little lord” said, somewhat contemptuously, “Why, ’tis the rebel flag--or so my grandfather calls it.”

“Rebel no longer, little one,” said Cousin Ned, “as even your good grandfather must now admit. But surely,” he added anxiously, “Mr. Day will get himself in trouble by raising his flag before our troops come in.”

An angry shout now rose from the throng around the flag-staff, and as the fringe of small boys scattered and ran in haste, young Livingston caught one of them by the arm. “What’s the trouble, lad?” he asked.

“Let go!” said the boy, struggling to free himself. “You’d better scatter, too, or Cunningham will catch you. He’s ordered down Day’s flag and says he’ll clear the crowd.”

They all knew who Cunningham was--the cruel and vindictive British provost-marshal; the starver of American prisoners and the terror of American children. “Come away, quick,” said Cousin Ned. But though they drew off at first, curiosity was too strong, and they were soon in the crowd again.

Cunningham, the marshal, stood at the foot of the flag-pole. “Come, you rebel cur,” he said to Mr. Day. “I give you two minutes to haul down that rag--two minutes, d’ye hear, or into the Provost you go. Your beggarly troops are not in possession here yet, and I’ll have no such striped rag as that flying in the faces of His Majesty’s forces!”

“There it is, and there it shall stay,” said Day, quietly but firmly.

Cunningham turned to his guard.

“Arrest that man,” he ordered. “And as for this thing here, I’ll haul it down myself,” and seizing the halyards, he began to lower the flag. The crowd broke out into fierce murmurs, uncertain what to do. But in the midst of the tumult the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied Mrs. Day, “fair, fat, and forty,” armed with her trusty broom.

“Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my husband!” she cried, and before the astonished Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom came down thwack! thwack! upon his powdered wig. Old men still lived, not thirty years ago, who were boys in that excited crowd, and remembered how the powder flew from the stiff white wig and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the defeated provost-marshal withdrew from the unequal contest, and fled before the resistless sweep of Mrs. Day’s all-conquering broom. And the flag did not come down.

From the vantage-ground of a projecting “stoop” our young friends had indulged in irreverent laughter, and the marshal’s quick ears caught the sound.

Fuming with rage and seeking some one to vent his anger on, he rushed up the “stoop” and bade his guard drag down the culprits.

“What pestilent young rebels have we here?” he growled. “Who are you?” He started as they gave their names. “Livingston? Clinton? Duane?” he repeated. “Well, well--a rare lot this of the rebel brood! And who is yon young bantling in velvet and ruffles?”

“You must not stop us, sir,” said the boy, facing the angry marshal. “I am the little lord of the manor, and my grandfather is Colonel Phillipse. Sir Guy Carleton is waiting for me.”

“Well, well,” exclaimed the surprised marshal; “here’s a fine to-do! A Phillipse in this rebel lot! What does it mean? Have ye kidnapped the lad? Here may be some treachery. Bring them along!” and with as much importance as if he had captured a whole corps of Washington’s dragoons, instead of a few harmless children, the young prisoners were hurried off, followed by an indignant crowd. Dolly was considerably frightened, and dark visions of the stocks, the whipping-post, and the ducking-stool by the Collect pond rose before her eyes. But Cousin Ned whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Dolly--’twill all be right”; and Master Clinton even sought to argue with the marshal.

“There are no rebels now, sir,” he said, “since your king has given up the fight. You yourselves are rebels, rather, if you restrain us of our freedom. I know your king’s proclamation word for word. It says: ‘We do hereby strictly charge and command all our officers, both at sea and land, and all other our subjects whatsoever, to forbear all acts of hostility, either by sea or land, against the United States of America, their vassals or subjects, under the penalty of incurring our highest displeasure.’ Wherefore, Sir,” concluded this wise young pleader, “if you keep us in unlawful custody, you do brave your king’s displeasure.”

“You impudent young rebel----” began Cunningham; but the “little lord” interrupted him with: “You shall not take us to jail, sir, I will tell my grandfather, and he will make Sir Guy punish you.” And upon this the provost-marshal, whose wrath had somewhat cooled, began to fear that he might, perhaps, have exceeded his authority, and ere long, with a sour look and a surly word, he set the young people free.

* * * * *

Sir Guy Carleton, K. C. B., commander-in-chief of all His Majesty’s forces in the colonies, stood at the foot of the flag-staff on the northern bastion of Fort George. Before him filed the departing troops of his king, evacuating the pleasant little city they had occupied for more than seven years. “There might be seen,” says one of the old records, “the Hessian, with his towering, brass-fronted cap, moustache colored with the same blacking which colored his shoes, his hair plastered with tallow and flour, and reaching in whip-form to his waist. His uniform was a blue coat, yellow vest and breeches, and black gaiters. The Highlander, with his low checked bonnet, his tartan or plaid, short red coat, his kilt above his knees, and they exposed, his hose short and parti-colored. There were also the grenadiers of Anspach, with towering yellow caps; the gaudy Waldeckers, with their cocked hats edged with yellow scallops; the German yägers, and the various corps of English in glittering and gallant pomp.” The white-capped waves of the beautiful bay sparkled in the sunlight, while the whale-boats, barges, gigs, and launches sped over the water, bearing troops and refugees to the transports, or to the temporary camp on Staten Island. The last act of the evacuation was almost completed. But Sir Guy Carleton looked troubled. His eye wandered from the departing troops at Whitehall slip to the gate at Bowling Green, and then across the parade to the Governor’s gardens and the town beyond.

“Well, sir, what word from Colonel Phillipse?” he inquired, as an aide hurried to his side.

“He bids you go without him, General,” the aide reported. “The boy is not yet found, but the Colonel says he will risk seizure rather than leave the lad behind.”

“It cannot well be helped,” said the British commander. “I will myself dispatch a line to General Washington, requesting due courtesy and safe conduct for Colonel Phillipse and his missing heir. But see--whom have we here?” he asked, as across the parade came a rumbling coach, while behind it a covered cariole came tearing through the gateway. Ere the bastion on which the General stood was reached the cariole drew up with sudden stop. Angevine, the black body-servant, sprang to the horses’ heads, and a very large man hatless, though richly dressed, descended hastily and flung open the door of the coach just as Mistress Dolly was preparing to descend, and as he helped her out he caught in his ample arms the little fellow who followed close at her heels.

“Good; the lost is found!” exclaimed Sir Guy, who had been an interested spectator of the pantomime.

“All is well, General,” Colonel Phillipse cried joyfully, as the commander came down from the bastion and welcomed the new-comers. “My little lord of the manor is found; and, faith, his loss troubled me more than all the attainder and forfeiture the rebel Congress can crowd upon me.”

“But how got he here?” Sir Guy asked.

“This fair little lady is both his rescuer and protector,” replied the grandfather.

“And who may you be, little mistress?” asked the commander-in-chief.

Dolly made a neat little curtsy, for those were the days of good manners, and she was a proper little damsel. “I am Dolly Duane, your Excellency,” she said, “daughter of Mr. James Duane of the Congress.”

“Duane!” exclaimed the Colonel; “Well, well, little one, I did not think a Phillipse would ever acknowledge himself debtor to a Duane, but now do I gladly do it. Bear my compliments to your father, sweet Mistress Dolly, and tell him that his old enemy, Phillipse, of Phillipsbourg, will never forget the kindly aid of his gentle little daughter, who has this day restored a lost lad to a sorrowing grandfather. And let me thus show my gratitude for your love and service,” and the very large man, stooping in all courtesy before the little girl, laid his hand in blessing on her head, and kissed her fair young face.

“A rare little maiden, truly,” said gallant Sir Guy: “and though I have small cause to favor so hot an enemy of the king as is Mr. James Duane, I admire his dutiful little daughter; and thus would I, too, render her love and service,” and the gleaming scarlet and gold-laced arms of the courtly old commander encircled fair Mistress Dolly, and a hearty kiss fell upon her blushing cheeks. But she was equal to the occasion. Raising herself on tiptoe, she dropped a dainty kiss upon the General’s smiling face, and said, “Let this, sir, be America’s good-bye kiss to your Excellency.”

“A right royal salute,” said Sir Guy. “Mr. De Lancy, bid the band-master give us the farewell march,” and to the strains of appropriate music the commander-in-chief and his staff passed down to the boats and the little lord of Phillipse Manor waved Mistress Dolly a last farewell.

Then the Red Cross of St. George, England’s royal flag, came fluttering down from its high staff on the north bastion, and the last of the rear-guard wheeled toward the slip. But Cunningham, the provost-marshal, still angered by the thought of his discomfiture at Day’s tavern, declared roundly that no rebel flag should go up that staff in sight of King George’s men. “Come lively now, you blue jackets,” he shouted, turning to some of the sailors from the fleet. “Unreeve the halyards, quick; slush down the pole; knock off the stepping-cleats! Then let them run their rag up if they can.” His orders were quickly obeyed. The halyards were speedily cut, the stepping-cleats knocked from the staff, and the tall pole covered with grease, so that none might climb it. And with this final act of unsoldierly discourtesy, the memory of which has lived through a hundred busy years, the provost-marshal left the now liberated city.

Even Sir Guy’s gallant kiss could not rid Dolly of her fear of Cunningham’s frown; but as she scampered off she heard his final order, and, hot with indignation, told the news to Cousin Ned and Master Clinton, who were in waiting for her on the Bowling Green. The younger lad was for stirring up the people to instant action, but just then they heard the roll of drums, and, standing near the ruins of King George’s statue, watched the advance-guard of the Continental troops as they filed in to take possession of the fort. Beneath the high gateway and straight toward the north bastion marched the detachment--a troop of horse, a regiment of infantry, and a company of artillery. The batteries, the parapets, and the ramparts were thronged with cheering people, and Colonel Jackson, halting before the flag-staff, ordered up the stars and stripes.

“The halyards are cut, Colonel,” reported the color-sergeant; “the cleats are gone, and the pole is slushed.”

“A mean trick, indeed,” exclaimed the indignant Colonel. “Hallo there, lads, will you be outwitted by such a scurvy trick! Look where they wait in their boats to give us the laugh. Will you let tainted Tories and buttermilk Whigs thus shame us? A gold jacobus to him who will climb the staff and reeve the halyards for the stars and stripes.”

Dolly’s quick ear caught the ringing words. “Oh, Cousin Ned,” she cried, “I saw Jacky Van Arsdale on the Bowling Green. Don’t you remember how he climbed the greased pole at Clermont, in the May merrying?” and with that she sped across the parade and through the gateway, returning soon with a stout sailor-boy of fifteen. “Now tell the Colonel you’ll try it, Jacky.”

“Go it, Jack!” shouted Cousin Ned. “I’ll make the gold jacobus two if you but reeve the halyards.”

“I want no money for the job, Master Livingston,” said the sailor-lad. “I’ll do it if I can for Mistress Dolly’s sake.”

Jack was an expert climber, but if any of my boy readers think it a simple thing to “shin up” a greased pole, just let them try it once--and fail.

Jack Van Arsdale tried it manfully once, twice, thrice, and each time came slipping down covered with slush and shame. And all the watchers in the boats off-shore joined in a chorus of laughs and jeers. Jack shook his fist at them angrily. “I’ll fix ’em yet,” he said. “If ye’ll but saw me up some cleats, and give me hammer and nails, I’ll run that flag to the top in spite of all the Tories from ’Sopus to Sandy Hook!”

Ready hands and willing feet came to the assistance of the plucky lad. Some ran swiftly to Mr. Goelet’s, “the iron-monger’s” in Hanover Square, and brought quickly back “a hand-saw, hatchet, hammer, gimlets, and nails”; others drew a long board to the bastion, and while one sawed the board into lengths, another split the strips into cleats, others bored the nail-holes, and soon young Jack had material enough.

Then, tying the halyards around his waist, and filling his jacket pockets with cleats and nails, he worked his way up the flag-pole, nailing and climbing as he went. And now he reaches the top, now the halyards are reeved, and as the beautiful flag goes fluttering up the staff a mighty cheer is heard, and a round of thirteen guns salutes the stars and stripes and the brave sailor-boy who did the gallant deed!

From the city streets came the roll and rumble of distant drums, and Dolly and her two companions, following the excited crowd, hastened across Hanover Square, and from an excellent outlook in the Fly Market watched the whole grand procession as it wound down Queen (now Pearl) Street, making its triumphal entry into the welcoming city. First came a corps of dragoons, then followed the advance-guard of light infantry and a corps of artillery, then more light infantry, a battalion of Massachusetts troops, and the rear-guard. As the veterans, with their soiled and faded uniforms, filed past, Dolly could not help contrasting them with the brilliant appearance of the British troops she had seen in the fort. “Their clothes _do_ look worn and rusty,” she said. “But then,” she added, with beaming eyes, “they are _our_ soldiers, and that is everything.”

And now she hears “a great hozaing all down the Fly,” as one record queerly puts it, and as the shouts increase, she sees a throng of horsemen, where, escorted by Captain Delavan’s “West Chester Light Horse,” ride the heroes of that happy hour, General George Washington and Governor George Clinton. Dolly added her clear little treble to the loud huzzas as the famous commander-in-chief rode down the echoing street. Behind their excellencies came other officials, dignitaries, army officers, and files of citizens, on horseback and afoot, many of the latter returning to dismantled and ruined homes after nearly eight years of exile.

But Dolly did not wait to see the whole procession. She had spied her father in the line of mounted citizens and flying across Queen Street, and around by Golden Hill (near Maiden Lane), where the first blood of the Revolution was spilled, she hurried down the Broad Way, so as to reach Mr. Cape’s tavern before their excellencies arrived.