Chapter VIII

SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER WENT FORTH INTO THE NIGHT AND WHAT DISCOVERY HE MADE BY THE WAYSIDE

Ben Cooper had left his holster pistols slung from the back of a chair in the public room; so now when he strode in, took them up and looked at their locks and primings, the good landlady of the inn opened her eyes.

“What now?” she asked. “Has anything gone wrong?”

“Not yet,” answered Ben; “but,” smiling, “there is no knowing, according to your hostler, what will befall on the road after night.”

“Pay no attention to what he says upon that point!” exclaimed the woman. “He is fair mad about it. If he can get any one to listen to his talk about the road, especially the road after dark, he’s happy. Pay no attention to him.”

“It so chances,” said Ben, “that I am much struck by something which he has said, and have the curiosity to look further into it.” He placed the pistols in his belt, and provided himself with ammunition. “I shall, perhaps, be gone some time. If I return after you are all abed, I will not arouse you, so have no fear upon that score. There is hay in the barn loft, I know, and I can make myself comfortable enough in that for a few hours.”

The landlady was still expostulating when he departed, and as he walked down the ice-bound road, he heard her calling shrilly to the hostler.

“He’s in for a rare, good drubbing,” laughed Ben, to himself. “The hostess is a famous scold when she is herself, as I’ve often heard.”

The night was dark and bitterly cold, and the lad drew his greatcoat well about him, and plunged his hands deep into his pockets.

“By all appearances, the carriage is to be met hereabouts,” he mused, as he stumbled along. “As they have no horses, it seems reasonable to think that this is so. Therefore, I must be as cautious as I can, for there is no telling where these two worthies may be lurking.”

The wind lifted as he went along and soon he felt damp particles of snow upon his face.

“A storm,” said Ben. “I trust it will not block the road, if it prove that I must go on to Philadelphia.”

The fall increased; and the wind took up the flakes, whirling them about madly. In a very short time the night began to lighten, for the snow clung to the trees and bush and so mantled the earth as to make things rather plain to be seen.

“I must be more careful than ever now,” Ben told himself, his eyes sharply ahead. “If they should chance to be hiding near the road I am sure to be observed.”

To prevent this he left the road and began making his way through a thin growth of tall pines. The ground was thick with a carpet of needles, over which lay the light snow, so his footsteps were soft and cat-like. Suddenly ahead there loomed a sort of barrier of boughs, and from behind it came the faint sparkle of fire.

With increased caution the boy advanced, and as he drew near to the boughs, he caught the murmur of a voice. The sound continued, and Ben fancied that it must be some persons engaged in conversation; but upon approaching the sound he was astonished to discover that it was some one singing.

“Oh, ye Irish lads of fair renown,
Come listen unto me,
And I’ll relate a bitter fate
That happened on the sea.
It was in the dark December
Upon the Baltic coast----”

Just what happened upon the Baltic coast is something of a mystery, for at that point the singing broke off and a voice was raised in lamentation.

“Oh, by this and by that,” it said, “is there ne’er a stick of dry wood in all America to keep a poor gossoon from freezing to the marrow? Faith, here I am with sorra the coat to me back, and the wind whistlin’ a jig tune about me two ears. Oh, worra, worra, why didn’t they leave me stop at home in Ireland where I was happy, and not bring me to this place to fight the poor people who only ax the right to live dacently.”

In a little flare cast by the fire, Ben saw a round-headed, well-built lad, with a shock of sandy hair and an honest, comical-looking face. He was grubbing among the brush for something to add to his fire, but apparently all that was not frozen to the ground was wet by the snow, and he was meeting with but poor success. However, in spite of this, and with his teeth chattering, he began to sing once more.

“’Twas in the hills of Wicklow
First I saw the light of day,
And, my father’s cabin round,
I, as a child, did play.
Until one morning in the spring----”

What occurred on this particular morning must take its place beside the episode of the Baltic coast; for once more did the singer stop, and break forth into complaining:

“’S’cure to the dry chip is there anywhere. Oh, then must I get my death, entirely, in a strange place and with people all about who think me a thief of the world because I fought on the side of the Sassanach? Bless us and save us! It’s rather fight against them I would, any time, than for them.”

At this point Ben stepped around the barrier of boughs and into the circle of light cast by the fire. The sandy-haired youth leaped up and seized a cudgel which was lying beside him; whirling it about his head, he cried boldly enough:

“Stop where you are, or by this and by that, you’ll have this lump of a stick clattering about the head of you!”

Ben stood smilingly regarding him.

“How did you make your way all the distance without being found out?”

The other, seeing that, at least, no immediate attack was meditated, lowered his bludgeon.

“What’s that you say?” he demanded.

“I ask you, how did you get so far from Trenton without being discovered?”

“From Trenton, is it?” cautiously. “And, sure, who told you I come from Trenton?”

“The clothes you wear,” said Ben, as he sat down upon a log. “You threw the coat away because it was red; but the other things tell just as plainly that you are a British soldier.”

Here the cudgel was grasped firmly once more, and the sandy-haired lad took a step forward.

“Is it me that you call such a name?” demanded he. “Is it Paddy Burk that you call by so disgraceful a title? True for you, I did wear the red coat, and true again that I threw it in a ditch--because I hated it. But never was I a British soldier. I was an Irish boy compelled to wear a British soldier’s clothes, but never for a minute was I anything less.”

“You are a deserter, then,” said Ben.

“I left them just as honestly as they enlisted me. There was I at home, a raw boy, knowing nothing and listening to the tales the dragoon sergeant told of foreign parts. And when he handed me the ‘shilling,’ I took it thinking he only meant to be generous with me, and never dreaming that it made me a redcoat.”

“I’ve heard that they do such things,” said Ben.

“And then off they took me,” lamented Paddy Burk. “Off they took me to a big town and put me on board a ship with dozens more like me, and over we came to America as British soldiers--a thing we never thought to be.”

“You were with the army of Cornwallis, I suppose,” said Ben.

“Yes,” replied the other. “I was with him till he reached the place where they tried to cross the bridge, and the Americans drove them back. It was yesterday, I think. Then I got a good chance and took leg bail for it across the river on the ice. And,” with feeling, “here I am wandering about with never a bite nor sup since then; and it’s fair weak with the hunger I am.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Ben Cooper spoke.

“You don’t like the British service, then?”

“Like it!” The sandy-haired lad gripped his cudgel in both hands. “Sure, and how could any one with Irish blood in his veins like it?”

“Perhaps,” said Ben, “you’d prefer that of America.”

The cudgel was lowered and an interested look appeared upon the face of the boy.

“Now that,” said he, “is a different thing. I would have tried to find General Washington’s army, but I was afeered to go back across the river.” He stared at Ben, anxiously. “Maybe now it’s yourself that could tell me how to find it.”

“Well,” said Ben, “one of the first things that should be done in your case is to get you warm and provide you with some food. Then we can think of the rest.”

The face of the Irish boy brightened up wonderfully.

“Arrah, then it’s the great lad ye are!” he cried, with admiration. “Sure, a bite to eat and a fire with a trifle of heat in it would be as welcome as the sun in the morning.”

“But,” proceeded Ben, “before I can do anything else, I must first see to a matter of great importance. As for you,” and he pointed in the direction of the road, “take that way until you come to an inn, less than a mile away. Say to the landlady that----”

Here the other interrupted him.

“Ah, sure, it would make no matter what I’d say to her. It would be all the same, faith. She’d up with the broom and drive me away from the door for a vagabond.”

“But----” said Ben, and again he was interrupted.

“Wherever you do be going,” said Paddy Burk, “let me go with you; and when we come to a place where there’s a bit of comfort to be had, sure, then, you can speak for me yourself.”

Seeing that the lad was fixed in his belief that no one would receive him if his plea were unsupported, Ben’s mind was instantly made up.

“Come, then,” said he, arising, “and make yourself ready for a little adventure.”

“Ah,” said Paddy Burk, and he passed his hand lovingly over the length of his stout club, “that would be another name for a ‘ruction,’ I’m thinking. Well, by this and by that, when there’s such to the fore, no one ever saw Paddy Burk stand back and look on.”

Ben laughed.

“Perhaps, Paddy,” said he, “you’ll get your fill of ‘ructions,’ as you call them; for there is something ahead which promises well in that direction.”

In a few moments they had put out the fire and were trudging away under the trees, the wind whirling the snow about their faces and into their eyes. Ben kept his bearings and never allowed himself to get far from the road; indeed, he skirted it very closely, his companion trudging along at his side.

Suddenly the latter said:

“Whist! What is that beyant there? Is it a house, I dunno, or is it somebody carrying a light?”

At almost the same moment Ben had perceived the dim spark through the falling snow.

“It is moving,” said he, “and that shows that it is a light that is being carried.” They paused for a time and watched the spark.

“It is slowly growing brighter,” commented Ben, “and that proves that it is coming toward us.”

A little more observation showed that the light must be upon the road.

“Many’s the time I’ve seen the lights coming on that way on the night before market day at Ballysampson,” said Paddy Burk. “They’d move a weeny bit this way, and a small bit that way, according to the turns in the road, and all the time they’d be a-blinking like a one-eyed dragon out of a fairy book.”

Ben, with a sharp intaking of the breath, drew out his pistols. The other perceived the action in the dim light thrown up by the snow.

“Ah, ha,” said he, “and so here is where the ruction starts. Well,” with a brisk whirl of his cudgel, “the sooner the better, for a trifle of exercise would warm me, so it would.”

“The first point I must warn you on is to keep silence,” said Ben, one hand uplifted. “A wagon or carriage is expected at any time, bearing matters of moment for the American camp. I have reason to think that it is to be stopped near here.”

“And you think,” said Paddy Burk, in a whisper, “that this, with the light, may be the carriage?”

“I do,” replied Ben Cooper. “But come, let us make our way to the roadside.”

They turned at a sharp angle and started for the road; and as they reached it there came a sudden shout; a pistol shot rang out, and the moving lamp came to a stand far down the snowy road.

With the pistols gripped in his hands, Ben ran forward; as he neared the halted vehicle, he saw a man climbing down from a high seat, and another holding a pistol at his head. In the snow lay a dark, huddled form, and over it stood a man in a long greatcoat, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Have mercy, good folk,” whined the man, climbing down from the driver’s seat. “Take pity upon one who never did you harm.”

The man with the pistol answered with a brutal kick, at which the other howled loudly.

“Now hold your tongue, or you’ll get worse than that,” said the man with the pistol.

“The money is here--safe in the bags,” cried the coward. “Don’t harm me and I will show you where to find it.”

He was creeping toward the carriage once more when Ben Cooper’s first pistol exploded, and missed. The man who had kicked the driver whirled about savagely, but the second pistol laid him low; then the youth dropped both empty weapons in the road and leaped for the man in the greatcoat.

This person, however, stepped back, so as to avoid the full force of the rush; then he lifted an empty pistol which he held in his hand, and dropped it skilfully upon the boy’s head. Ben staggered beneath the shock of the blow; the pistol lifted to repeat, but the lad, shaken though he was, dodged, and in another instant had seized the other round the body.

The man in the greatcoat was powerfully made, and did not hesitate to grapple with his foe; but in spite of his great strength he found in the boy a supple, eel-like quality that made him difficult to master. Then to make matters worse for him, he stumbled over the prostrate form in the road and went down with the boy upon him. In an instant Ben had planted a knee in his chest, and gripped him about the throat.

All this had taken but a moment; and as Ben clung to his antagonist he felt a glow of triumph. But in this he was premature, for just then the man who had gone down under his pistol shot arose to his feet, the blood streaming from a wound in his scalp, and lurched toward the boy. It would have gone hard with the latter had not fortune favored him that night. Cramped by the cold and weakened by hunger, Paddy Burk had labored along a score or more paces in the rear. But now, as the newly arisen man was dragging Ben Cooper from the one he held pinned to the ground, the Irish lad was upon him with a whoop; the cudgel twirled gaily and the man dropped to the road once more.

“Up on the seat with you,” directed Paddy, glaring at the driver.

But the speaker’s face looked so distorted in the dim lantern light that the driver was stricken with fear and could not move.

“Then I’ll up for you,” said Paddy, promptly. “Inside with you,” to Ben, who stood still dazed from the blow he had received; “and as for you,” pointing his bludgeon at the man with the greatcoat, who was scrambling out of the snow, “keep your distance, or by this and by that, I’ll give you a taste of the stick that you’ll not like.”

With that he leaped upon the seat of the vehicle, and grasped the reins; Ben, after a bewildered glance within that showed him a heap of canvas bags snugly tucked away in a corner, stumbled in and dropped upon a seat. Then with a yell at the now plunging horses, the Irish lad waved his cudgel above his head.

“Away with you, my beauties,” he cried; “sure it is mesilf that will give you a loose rein all the way to General Washington’s camp if need be.”

And so away they tore with their precious load, the lantern swaying madly, the carriage pitching from side to side.