Chapter XVI

IN WHICH EZRA LISTENS TO A DARING PLAN, AND HOW THREE SPIES LISTEN TO IT LIKEWISE

From the time that Washington reached New York, his progress toward Cambridge was a constant ovation. In all the towns he passed through he was received by committees of citizens. Addresses of welcome and praise were read to him, cannon were fired in his honor, and escorts met him and saw him on his way.

While he was no doubt gratified by all these signs of favor and indications of the people’s confidence, the general’s most earnest desire was to reach his destination and assume the command entrusted to him. At Springfield a committee of the Massachusetts Provincial Congress met him; a cavalcade of mounted citizens and troops escorted him into Cambridge on the second of July.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when the commander-in-chief entered the town. The streets were thronged with people; cheers met him upon every hand; people filled windows, sheds and roof tops to do him honor. The various colonial flags fluttered wildly; guns roared and the troops saluted their leader with critical satisfaction.

The next day General Washington assumed command of the army in due form. He at once rode about its posts and carefully examined the position of the enemy. Ezra, Nat and Gilbert Scarlett rode with the party that accompanied him, he having selected the two former as his messengers and the latter accompanying them because of his curiosity regarding the new leader.

“He looks,” Scarlett told Ezra, “like a man of unmistakable parts. Colonel Prescott, last night, was good enough to sketch his life and military acts for me, and I was much struck. At Braddock’s defeat he played the part, not only of a man, but of a most excellent officer.”

Slowly Washington reconnoitered the British lines. He found Howe strongly entrenching on Bunker Hill, advanced about half a mile from the late battle-field, with his sentries extending fully one hundred and fifty yards upon the Cambridge side of the Neck. Three floating batteries lay in the Mystic River, and a twenty-gun ship was at anchor below the ferry. On Roxbury Neck they were also strongly fortified. The bulk of the British army lay upon Bunker Hill; only a few light horse were at this time left in Boston.

Not a point of all this seemed to escape the observing eye of the Virginian; his comments and directions were listened to by Scarlett with close attention and deepening appreciation.

The American position had grown stronger since the Bunker Hill fight.

Entrenchments had been thrown up on Prospect and Winter Hills. From these the British camp was plainly in view at little more than a mile away. There was a strong work at Sewall’s Farm, which, afterward, Washington made stronger still. At Roxbury, General Thomas had thrown up a powerful fortification. The New Hampshire troops and a regiment of Rhode Island men held Winter Hill. General Putnam was in command at Prospect Hill with the greater part of his Connecticut regiments. The troops at Cambridge were all of Massachusetts Bay; and the bulk of Greene’s Rhode Islanders held Sewall’s Farm. Two other regiments of Putnam’s men and nine regiments of Massachusetts were stationed at Roxbury. Then there were some seven hundred men scattered along the coast to prevent descents of the enemy.

In spite of all that had been done by earnest and competent men, it was scarcely an army which Washington took command of that July day. It was, rather, a gathering of armed men, for there was not much organization.

“The men are rugged, faithful and brave,” said Ezra Prentiss to his friends that night as they sat at an inn called “The Honest Farmer” on the outskirts of Cambridge, toward Stark and Putnam’s entrenchments. “But they are also independent and impatient of restraint.”

“They elect to follow their own officers and obey no others,” said Nat Brewster. “And if they are not pleased with what is going forward, whole regiments feel themselves perfectly at liberty to withdraw, wait until their views are agreed to, or return to their homes.”

“General Washington will see to all that,” spoke Scarlett, with a nod of the head. “I have been giving him some attention to-day and I have perceived that he is not only a man who desires order, but one who has the will to achieve his desires. From this day on things will go differently; men will obey when an order is given them; if they do not, they will find that an accounting is to be made, not to an officer who is a friend and neighbor, but to one who has only the welfare of the colonies at heart.”

Ben Cooper laughed.

“The new general has been approved by you, then?” said he.

Scarlett twisted the points of his moustache.

“I am like to serve him before very long,” returned he, soberly. “For, under him, this promises to become a very pretty war, indeed.”

“The Honest Farmer” was a large place once frequented by farmers driving into Boston with their loads of produce. As it was cleanly kept, even in these lax and unprofitable days, it had become a favorite place of resort for young officers and citizens who liked to drop in and discuss the progress of events with them.

Upon the evening in question there was quite a throng gathered in the public room and the sound of voices filled it. Upon a bench opposite the boys sat a portly old fellow with a full, red face and a downright manner of speaking. A mild, thin-faced man sat beside him, and as they talked the lads could not help but overhear.

“It is all very well for a parcel of men such as Adams and Hancock and their agitating like, to sit safely away in Philadelphia, and send us a stranger to take charge of us,” grumbled the portly man, in his downright way.

“But, surely,” remonstrated the thin-faced man, “you would not call General Washington a stranger.”

“He is a stranger to me, sir,” spoke the portly one, in an injured tone. “And he is from the South. Why could we not have had one of our own people? Answer me that!”

But the thin-faced man shook his head.

“Congress should know what it is about,” said he. “It must know that the general is fitted for his work, or it would not have sent him.”

“What work?” blustered the portly man, and his voice was loud and domineering. “What work, I ask you, sir?”

But the thin man again shook his head and looked blank.

“The work to be done is to drive the British out of Boston,” stated the red-faced man with the portly figure. “To drive them out of Boston so that we can go back and resume our trades and occupations. That’s what he’s sent to do. But,” and he challenged the room with both voice and eye, “how is he going to do it?”

“Faith,” laughed a gray-haired major, who stood near, “he has him there.”

But the thin-faced man unexpectedly had an answer.

“He will attack them,” he declared valiantly. “He will attack them as soon as possible.”

The portly man snorted his disgust.

“Attack them,” he repeated scornfully. “But plague on it, sir, what will he attack them with? I am no military man, but I know that he can’t move on them with his bare hands. To attack successfully,” and the stout palm of the speaker struck the bench with a resounding whack, “he must have artillery—heavy artillery.”

The thin-faced man had no reply to make to this. But the gray-haired major spoke in his stead.

“You may be no military man, as you say, sir,” said he, “but you are quite right, for all. To reach Gage in his den we must have guns that will throw great weight a long distance.”

The portly man’s red face glistened with triumph.

“Sir,” said he cordially, “it is a great satisfaction to speak to a man of understanding. You have the intelligence, apparently, to grasp a situation. And I ask you, sir, as a man of intelligence,” impressively, “where those guns are to come from?”

It was the gray-haired major who now shook his head.

“You have a faculty of asking difficult questions, I perceive, sir,” laughed he. “And that is one which I must allow to pass me by.”

More and more triumphant grew the gentleman with the red face.

“We haven’t them,” he declared loudly. “We haven’t them. And, more than that, we cannot get them.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said a quiet voice from a bench in a corner. “Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Trivitt. There are guns a-plenty to be had, if they will but be sought after.”

The portly Mr. Trivitt glanced toward the corner, and scorn filled his red face.

“Huh!” he grunted. “Because you served in the militia, Harry Knox, and because you went tearing about on horseback at the Bunker Hill fight, don’t think that you can teach me understanding. I was a man before you were born, and I have the sense to see what is open to my eyes.”

Harry Knox, as Mr. Trivitt called him, was a medium-sized young man, well built and with a strong, intelligent face. He laughed at the other’s words, and replied:

“But it is possible, Mr. Trivitt, that all things do not come beneath your eyes.”

To one so self-important as the portly man this was little less than an insult.

“It is a pity that you were forced by the war to give up the selling of books,” said he to Knox. “I have heard, though I’ve never read a book in my life, that you were clever in your trade. But in the trade of a soldier you promise to be less excellent.” He arose to his feet with great dignity. “However,” he continued, “I never discuss matters of importance with youths. It is a waste of time and breath.”

And with that the indignant Mr. Trivitt stuck his three-cornered hat upon his head and stumped out of “The Honest Farmer” much affronted.

Ezra caught the eye of Henry Knox and nodded to him. Young Prentiss had inherited his father’s love of books, and had many times purchased volumes from the youthful bookseller at his shop in Boston; indeed, in the discussions that accompanied these transactions, quite an intimacy had sprung up between them.

Knox arose and approached the boys cordially. He was but twenty-five himself at this time, and had many boyish traits still.

“I am glad to see you once more,” said he to Ezra, as they shook hands. “I noticed you and your friends, here,” with a smile at the others, “as Prescott fell back from the hill on the day of the fight; but of course there was no time then for any exchanges, except with the enemy.”

The others were made known to him; he sat down with them and began to talk over the coming of Washington and the things that were to be expected of the new commander. At length, during a lull in the conversation, Gilbert Scarlett said:

“You did but jest with your fat friend, Mr. Trivitt, I suppose, with regard to the heavy guns.”

But young Knox shook his head.

“No,” said he, “I spoke seriously enough. If General Washington wants heavier and more cannon than he already has, they are to be had for the journeying after them.”

Seeing the look of interest upon the faces of his listeners, he continued:

“It is a simple matter enough. We have all heard of the success of Colonel Ethan Allan and young Arnold at Ticonderoga and Crown Point. Both these strongholds have been captured from the British and both are provided with heavy guns. A party, equipped with proper authority, could bring these on to Cambridge with some little effort.”

“I am not acquainted with the country between here and the captured strongholds,” said Gilbert Scarlett, delightedly, for the idea seemed to appeal powerfully to his imagination, “but the project is one of exceptional quality. I congratulate you, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Knox. “I am obliged to you. I have mentioned it to others—General Ward, for example, and he fancied it impracticable.”

“I have all respect for General Ward,” answered Scarlett, “but you’ll pardon me if I say that he’s too conservative. You’d gain a friend to your plan at once if you spoke to General Putnam or Stark, or one of their kind. A man must have a spice of daring to grasp opportunities.”

After that night the boys saw a great deal of Henry Knox. Indeed, also, he gradually came to be a man of importance in the camp. For his services at Bunker Hill he was made a colonel; and a practical, enterprising officer he proved to be.

The days went on, and Washington labored with the force newly under his command. Powder continued to be a scarce article in the camp. At no time was there above nine rounds to a man, and with this slender supply, the general had to maintain a constantly extending line of posts—posts always exposed to the concentrated assaults of well-ordered veterans. But he clung grimly to the task; little by little his ideas began to be seen, order gradually arose out of confusion; his brigadiers grasped his intentions readily, and so things began to shape themselves as he wanted them.

More than twenty thousand able men were desired to carry out Washington’s designs. There were only seventeen thousand enrolled; and of these less than fifteen thousand were fit for service. Recruiting was carried on throughout New England. Eloquent speakers harangued village crowds, and their highly colored words drew the young men constantly to the camp at Cambridge.

The environs of Boston at this time presented an animated sight. Fortifications were everywhere; men labored for the cause of liberty with mattock and spade; they drilled ceaselessly; whole towns, so it seemed, were given up to the military; white tents were pitched in orderly lines in the fields. Only a century before the two principal passes into Boston—Charlestown Neck and Boston Neck—had been fortified to save the town from the Indians and so preserve American civilization. Now the hills that commanded these same passes were peopled with the descendants of those who had formerly defended them and they were arrayed in the pride of war; their hands were raised against the oppressive government that should have fostered them, but which, instead, sought to crush them out.

While Washington was bringing order to his army and strengthening his position, he was also constantly seeking to confine the operations of the enemy and cut off their supply of provisions. Attacks were carefully guarded against; parties in whale boats were afloat each night to watch the waters; the American pickets grew as keen as night-birds, so accustomed were they to search the darkness.

Sudden assaults, made by parties on both sides, marked the summer, and the fighting on the islands continued. British transports arrived from time to time, filled with additional troops; now and then the King’s batteries opened fire upon an American work which they fancied was being pushed too far; on the sea, the Yankee privateers were increasing in numbers and in power; scarcely a week passed that the city did not receive news of some daring deed of theirs.

Then finally the long expected party of Southern riflemen arrived. These had enlisted at the first echo of the war and they had marched from four to seven hundred miles in their anxiety to face their country’s enemies.

They were bronzed, hardy looking men, dressed in hunting-shirts and coonskin caps. They carried rifles, the length of which caused the boys to open their eyes.

“They look like marksmen,” said Ezra Prentiss. “I have heard that the backwoodsmen in their colony are very expert with the rifle.”

As though to prove this, a party of the Southerners passed in review before the commanders shortly after they reached the camp. While advancing quickly, and at a distance of two hundred and fifty yards, they fired at a target seven inches in diameter. And each bullet found the mark!

Washington at once ordered these riflemen stationed at the outposts. Here they made themselves terrible to the British, and day by day this terror increased. Whatever they fired at they hit; and soon the King’s outposts dreaded to move except under cover. Rumors of the remarkable shooting of these men reached even so far as England; and one of them, who was made prisoner, was taken there. The newspapers described him with great minuteness; and the British public swarmed to see him and the motto “Liberty or Death” which he wore upon the breast of his hunting-shirt in common with his fellows.

Several times Washington tried to force the hand of Gage, as in his occupation of Ploughed Hill. But the British refused to accept the challenge. They bombarded the position, to be sure, and kept it up for the greater part of two weeks, but finally the firing ceased. During this summer, also, the celebrated Liberty Tree in Boston was attacked by the furious Tories and ruthlessly cut down.

October had arrived and the coming frost was felt in the night air. And as the chill grew deeper, the public room of “The Honest Farmer” grew more and more a place of resort for citizens and officers. One night the four boys had gathered there in company with Gilbert Scarlett. They sat before a slow fire of green wood, which served very well to take the discomfort out of the air, and were talking together upon topics of the time and listening to the sayings of those about them.

It seemed that “The Honest Farmer,” besides being a very pleasant inn, was a great place for grumblers. And just now some citizens, gathered about an oaken table, saw fit to criticize General Washington for what they called his inaction.

“What can he mean?” demanded one. “If the British will not come out to him, he should go in to them. This state of affairs, at the present rate, will continue on forever.”

“He was sent here to drive them out. Let him show that he is competent by at least attempting to do so,” grumbled another.

Thus they went on; each had his say in the matter and each said it churlishly and discontentedly.

“To be a military commander,” spoke Gilbert Scarlett to the boys, his booted legs stretched out to the fire, “is not to lie upon a bed of roses. Here we have a party of gentlemen who will speak their minds upon a subject upon which they have no information. They would have General Washington charge upon a strong position without powder enough to wake General Gage from his sleep. Apparently they possess rare enterprise, but their discretion is small, indeed.”

While he spoke Colonel Knox entered the room; after greeting some friends he made his way directly to where the boys were sitting. He was dressed in the blue uniform faced with white which had grown so familiar in those early days of the war; his face was bronzed through exposure to the weather, and his eyes were bright and full of a newly kindled eagerness.

He shook hands with the lads; that he was a colonel and they but enlisted men made no difference in that democratic time. And after he had greeted Scarlett, who made room for him at the fire, the young colonel sat down.

“Have you noticed a tinge of frost in the air?” asked he, as he rubbed his hands briskly. “It will be a hard, cold winter, I think, when it is once upon us. It is always so when there is so early a beginning.”

“It was midsummer when we saw you here last,” said Ezra. “You remember the night that you told us about the guns at Crown Point and Ticonderoga.”

The boy’s words were followed by a curious interruption. A mug, partly filled, shattered upon the brick paved floor near by; they turned surprised and saw a man, apparently advanced in years, bent over a table, his back turned to them. The hand that had held the mug hung at his side, trembling as though with palsy; his whole attitude was as of one stricken with some sudden shock.

Two others sat with the man; they wore the dress of seafarers, and while one was of commanding proportions, the other was small. The heads of both were bent toward the old man; and the boys could see little of them except that they were dark and wore their sailcloth hats pulled low over their foreheads.

After a glance the other lads gave their attention once more to Colonel Knox. But Ezra continued to watch narrowly the actions of the three. As the boys had come along in the dusk toward “The Honest Farmer” he had noticed some figures that seemed to cling to their shadows. He had, also, a dim sort of consciousness that these same figures had entered the inn after them. And now something whispered to him that these were the same—that the men had a purpose in being where they were—that their selection of seats so near to his friends and himself was no accident.

“And,” he told himself in a puzzled sort of way, “they seem familiar. I somehow feel that I have met with them before.”

He examined the strangers narrowly; in a few moments the old man recovered and seemed to be talking guardedly to his companions; and the boy, more than once, caught a ferret-like look from the smaller of the two seamen that impressed him queerly. More and more he felt that these were persons whom he had known before.

But while he was watching the strangers, he was also listening to the remarks of his friends as they spoke to Colonel Knox. Some little time passed; then the colonel said, addressing them all:

“I came here to-night in the hope of seeing you. It just happens that there is something toward that makes me require the help of a few young spirits who will not hesitate at a little risk.”

“We feel flattered,” said Nat Brewster, with a smile, “that you should think of us.”

Ben Cooper bent forward.

“It has something to do with the big guns at Ticonderoga,” said he.

Colonel Knox laughed.

“You are a clever guesser, Master Cooper,” said he.

“It was no guess,” replied Ben. “I’ve known all along that you’d not give up that idea of yours. I knew that if you’d get permission, you’d be off to the captured forts at once and try to carry it out.”

Ezra, watching the three strangers, fancied them rigid with attention, but at the same time making a show of keeping up a conversation of their own. Once he was about calling his friends’ attention to this, but the fear that it might, after all, be but imagination upon his part, deterred him.

“You are right,” said the young colonel. “The notion was a pet of mine because I thought it practical and likely to succeed. But I’ve had great difficulty in convincing others. When they thought of the vast wilderness to be crossed, the lakes and streams, they scouted the plan. It could not be done, they said; those great cannon could never be dragged so tremendous a distance through such a country.

“But at length I got the ear of the commander-in-chief. I flattered myself that he thought me no fool; for he has a way of looking at one that tells its own story.

“‘Heavy ordnance is badly needed,’ he said, ‘and this would be welcome, indeed, if we could but secure it!’ Then he fixed me with one of his looks and asked: ‘How would you go about getting it here?’

“‘I would start in the early fall,’ I said. ‘On the way I would collect sledges. By the time I reached Ticonderoga, transacted my business and was ready to return, the lakes would be frozen over. I could load the guns upon the sledges and so cross the ice. And so it will be through the wilderness. Lack of roads will not affect me; the snow will be there and the traveling will be as smooth as it can well be.’

“He seemed much struck with this idea and took it under consideration. And now he has given his consent.”

“And you are going!” cried George Prentiss, eagerly.

“As soon as I can collect the small party that is to accompany me.”

“And that’s why you sought us out!” exclaimed Nat, his face glowing in the firelight. “Good! Shall we go, lads?” turning to the others.

A chorus arose that caused the other frequenters of “The Honest Farmer” to turn about in mild surprise.

“You could not have done us a greater kindness,” said Ezra Prentiss to Colonel Knox. “The work of the camp is, of course, willingly undertaken by us all; but this is the sort of service that we most like.”

“If you are pleased to go,” returned the young colonel, “why, for the matter of that, I am equally pleased to have you. I have heard the stories of your doings since this war began; and of the services you rendered even before it started. They’ve long been abroad in the camp, as have the words uttered in your praise by Colonel Prescott, Mr. Adams, General Putnam and even Washington himself.”

As the lads chorused their low-voiced agreement to ride with Colonel Knox upon this mission which promised so much, Gilbert Scarlett drew his sword belt tighter and leaned forward toward that officer.

“Sir,” spoke he, “if you could contrive to make room for a volunteer in your company, I should be most pleased to make this venture under your leadership. It is true,” and he waved his hand in a gesture of depreciation, “that I am not of this country and am rather a stranger to you all. But,” here he reared his head proudly, “I have had some small experience in onfalls, ambuscades, sieges and other forms of warfare, in various parts of the world. So it is possible that I might be of service to you.”

“Mr. Scarlett,” said Colonel Knox, promptly, “I have heard of you. I accept your offer and am delighted to have you.”

They talked for some little time upon the matter; then the young colonel arose.

“Just when I shall start,” said he, “is a matter of doubt; but it will not be until I can be sure of the ice and snow, which will act such important parts in my plan. However, when we do start,” and he said this with quiet confidence, “we will make all speed and it will not be long thereafter until the King’s guns will be turned upon his governor. And then Boston shall be ours!”

The boys and Scarlett accompanied him to the door and out into the night. Here the colonel began saying something that seemed to interest them; and all but Ezra walked along with him toward his quarters.

Ezra, as he gave a quick look over his shoulder in the doorway, saw the three men at the inn table arise. He closed the door; and as his friends walked slowly away with Colonel Knox, he stepped back into the shadow and waited.

It was the smaller of the two sailor-like men who opened the door of “The Honest Farmer.” His thin face went this way and that, apparently in quest of those who had just left. As he caught the cautious questioning way the man had of holding his head, Ezra gasped in astonishment.

“It’s Jason Collyer!” he muttered.

Collyer’s two friends appeared directly behind him. As he saw him in motion, Ezra had no difficulty in recognizing the larger of these.

“It’s Abdallah,” he told himself. “There is no mistaking that measured step.”

“They have gone in that direction,” said Collyer, pointing down the dark street. “Shall we follow them?”

“There is no need,” spoke Abdallah, and his voice was as smooth as ever. “We have learned all that they can tell.”

“It was luck that made you want to follow them here when you saw them on the way,” said Collyer to the old man. “I confess, sir, I thought it but a waste of time, myself.”

The door of “The Honest Farmer” was now closed; but from a window a broad beam of light streamed out upon the stones. The men stood upon the margin of this and could be plainly seen as they faced away from Ezra, their eyes trying to follow Colonel Knox and the boys.

“Fortune,” said Abdallah, “is a queer thing. Sometimes it smiles upon us; and at others, it frowns. And all for no reason that we can see. Take that last night at my house for example. Everything had gone well, when suddenly that boy”—and he pointed down the dark street, “rode up and changed everything by his shrewdness.”

Here the old man gestured angrily and was about to speak. But Abdallah stopped him.

“It is no time for faultfinding or resentment,” said he, gently. “Rather it is one for self-congratulation. He beat us then, but we will beat him now. When they ride to Ticonderoga for the guns, they will have their labor for their pains. We,” and he laughed softly, “will have been there ahead of them.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Ezra Prentiss, quietly.

He took a step forward as he spoke. The men whirled about with exclamations and stood staring at him as the light from the window fell upon his face. At the same time a steady tramp of feet was heard; the flash of lanthorns came up and down the street. Patrols of continentals were coming from both directions.

“It is always best to make sure of what you say before you say it,” resumed the boy. “When we reach Ticonderoga, the guns will still be there; but you will be here, awaiting the judgment of a drumhead court, as spies.”

A gasp of dismay went up from the ferret-like Collyer; but Abdallah held up a hand for silence. He addressed Ezra.

“Spies?” said he, gently. “That would be a rough-hewn fate indeed. Think what is meted out to such offenders.”

“It is death,” said Ezra, solemnly.

“And would you deliver us up to that?”

“It is not for me to pass judgment,” answered the lad. “I leave that for my superiors.”

“But,” and there was a curious note in Abdallah’s voice that caught the boy’s attention, “you shall decide, for all! And your decision will be in our favor.”

“You shall see in a moment,” spoke Ezra Prentiss, gravely. “Here comes the American patrol. What is to hinder my giving you up to them?”

“This,” said Abdallah.

As he spoke he thrust the old man, who bore him company, forward suddenly. For the first time, Ezra saw this latter plainly.

“Grandfather,” he cried chokingly.

The old merchant lifted a hand as though about to denounce the lad; but Abdallah drew him back with a fierce whispered word of warning.

“If we are spies,” then said Abdallah to Ezra, “so is your grandfather. If you give us up to those men,” and his eyes went toward the patrols, who were now abreast of them, “you must also give him up. And remember,” all the gentleness out of his voice and manner, “to give him up means death!”

He paused a moment and then said with a low laugh:

“Speak up; what shall it be? Shall we go or stay?”

And Ezra, his heart frozen with fear, stared first at the patrols and then at his grandfather. Then both hands went up and he gestured them stupidly away.

Instantly they turned and obeyed; within a moment the night had swallowed them up; but still the boy stood there as one turned to stone.

“To save my grandfather’s life, I have made myself a traitor to the cause,” he whispered to himself. “But I could not help it,” a sob swelling in his throat, “I could not help it.”