Chapter XI: A Messenger of Defeat

In the excitement of those September days, when the two armies overran the Pennsylvania hills to the west and south of Philadelphia, Hadley came near forgetting his Uncle Ephraim and the promise he had made his mother regarding the old man. Miser Morris had so repelled his nephew’s kindly efforts to help him, that the boy felt he was no more able to do him any good while at the Three Oaks than he was miles away from the Morris farm in the lines of the Continental troops. And then, the glamour of the life--the drilling, the marching, the uncertainty, the danger--all fed his imagination and inspired him with actual delight. Prentice declared almost hourly that Hadley was “spoiling a good officer by hanging about a country inn.”

“I don’t feel that I could regularly enlist,” the boy said to him, “so I am not likely to be an officer yet awhile. I am here only as a volunteer, and my conscience troubles me, too, at that.”

But all things end in their own good time, and the long wait which ensued after the landing of the British finally was closed on the morning of September 11th. Captain Prentice’s command had not even tasted a skirmish until that day; but Hadley--nor the captain himself--could find no fault with the position they occupied during the fearful hours which followed the first gun of attack. Hadley was eager to see a real battle, to see the armies charge each other and try their strength upon a real battle-field, instead of individual men snapping their muskets at one another in little skirmishes. Before the end of that day he could not realize what awful motive had ever urged such foolish desire in his heart.

He saw men lying dead upon the browning hillsides; he heard wounded horses screaming in their death agony; the earth shook with the discharge of the heavy guns; the crackling of the musketry fire deafened him. The fife and drums, the uniformed officers, the marching soldiery made no appeal to Hadley Morris now. Wounds and death were all about him, and fear gripped his heart as though in a vice. Time and again as he heard the shriek of the bullets over his head he could have fainted, or run away in abject terror, had he dared! But the thought of being considered a coward frightened him even more, and he stayed.

Once, when there was a lull of heavy firing on both sides, a strange sound reached his ears. Captain Prentice’s command was somewhat above and to one side of the main line of battle, and this sound, growing louder and more ear-piercing as the strange silence continued, had such an eerie effect upon the listener that Hadley actually shook with a nervous chill, without knowing what caused it. The sound was little more than a murmur--yet a very insistent, penetrating murmur.

“What is it?” Hadley whispered to the man who stood next him in the broken line.

“The cries of the wounded,” was the stern reply, and the boy was glad when a renewal of the conflict drowned the awful sound.

No history fittingly tells the story of that day’s struggle--the high hopes with which the battle was begun by the Americans, the determined, dogged resistance they offered the British soldiery. Yet its salient points are familiar enough. We do not like, even now, to speak at length upon the defeats of our arms even in that unequal war. But without doubt, had not Sullivan blundered and lost to the American cause a good twelve hundred men, the Battle of the Brandywine would have been placed upon the list of American victories.

Hadley saw the patriot army driven back and as they retreated he observed many of the men weeping like women at the thought of flying before an enemy which they had practically held in check since early morning. Captain Prentice, who had been recklessly courageous during the engagement, was wounded, yet still kept on the firing line with his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages. As they broke into the final disorderly retreat, an aide galloped to the young captain and said a word to him.

“Morris!” exclaimed Prentice, “follow this man to Colonel Cadwalader. He wants you. All’s lost here, anyway; there’s nothing more to be done.”

Hadley threw down his musket and ran beside the aide’s stirrup along the dusty road for nearly a quarter of a mile before overtaking the group of officers of which Colonel Cadwalader was the centre. The Colonel sat on his horse firmly and, despite the creature’s dancing, was writing rapidly on the pommel of his saddle.

“Morris,” he said, scarcely glancing at the youth. “It is over for to-day. You are not kept here with Captain Prentice by any enlistment, I believe?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you can go back if you wish--you can go home. We shall retreat, and whether His Excellency secures another such chance to meet the enemy soon, we know not. It is an awful thing--an awful thing! But that is not why I called you. There is a fresh horse yonder being held for you. Here branches the road to Philadelphia. You will not be molested, for the British have not yet crossed it--though it’s not sure they’ll not throw a column out between us and the city.

“This letter goes to Holdness at the Indian Queen Hotel in Fourth street--anybody will direct you. Then, when it is delivered, you may follow your own wishes, Master Morris,” and the gentleman leaned down and dropped the unsealed note into the boy’s hand with a grave smile. “Leave the horse where you exchanged steeds before on the Germantown pike--you already have a horse there, have you not?”

“I left one there, sir.”

“Very well. Now, off with you! I shall see you anon--and hear more of you to your credit, I believe,” and with a wave of his hand Colonel Cadwalader dismissed him.

Together with the men beside whom he had fought Hadley was nigh heartbroken over the result of the battle. The retreat was almost a rout in some parts of the field. The boy sprang upon the horse held by an orderly, and at once dashed away through the broken lines and soon left the disorganized army behind. It was a bitter hour, and, young as he was, the youth felt it keenly. How would he be greeted in the city toward which he was carrying the news of the battle? He could imagine with what despair the result of the struggle would be received.

But he could not imagine all that had occurred in the capital during the hours of that fateful day. The days of anxiety and suspense which had followed the landing of the enemy culminated that morning when the distant booming of heavy guns announced the beginning of a general engagement in the southwest. At the first cannon shot many people left their houses and collected in the streets, and all day long their straining ears listened to the thunderous muttering of the guns. About six o’clock it died away, but the groups in the street still listened and waited. The sun set and supper-time came and went unnoticed by those still remaining in the Quaker City.

Naturally there were not any great number of male adults, excepting the old men, or those burdened by family or business cares which actually forbade their being in the ranks of the patriot army. Of course, there were a few Tories left, but they were not active, as had been Joseph Galloway and the Allens before they were banished from the town. There were no young men--only boys and children hanging on the skirts of the various groups about the State House, or listening to the remarks of the wise ones gathered before the doors of the houses of public entertainment.

The women, too, whispered on their doorsteps to each other, or craned their necks out of the darkened windows to look nervously along the street. The sound of the guns had brought that grim, horrible Thing called War so much nearer to them than it had ever seemed before.

About eight o’clock there was some little disturbance at one of the inns called the Old Coffee House, where the story gained credit that Washington had won a victory, and some few began to cheer. But there was no authority behind the story, and the enthusiasm died out, and by nine o’clock the suspense was actually painful.

At last, far out Chestnut street toward the distant Schuylkill, there rose the sound of rapid hoof-beats. As the approaching horseman tore down the street voices rose and hailed him as he passed, and soon the clamor grew to a roar, which roused the town for blocks around. The people ran together toward the State House, and saw a youth on a foam-flecked horse, covered with dust, and exhausted, riding hard along the rough way.

Once he drew rein for a moment to inquire the way again to the Indian Queen; but he refused to answer any questions until he had ridden around into Fourth street and stopped before the door of the old hostelry.

“Had Morris!” exclaimed a voice in the crowd which poured out of the place, and the lank figure of Lafe Holdness pushed through the throng and helped the boy from the saddle.

“What’s the news? Tell us of the battle!” cried the crowd. “What does the lad bring?”

Hadley thrust Colonel Cadwalader’s letter into the scout’s hand first. Then he said weakly to the anxious citizens: “There has been a battle fought to-day; but there are plenty of stragglers to tell you of it. There is another messenger in town already--he can tell you better than I.”

“But, is it defeat or victory?” somebody cried.

“The army has been beaten--I don’t know how badly. They say somebody blundered, and General Washington is obliged to fall back. The French Marquis was wounded, I was told--seriously. The army is marching northward and there will be plenty of stragglers here soon.”

Then he clutched Holdness by his sleeve. “Get me a bed, Lafe. I am nearly dead with riding so far on top of all that’s been done to-day. And I have no money.”

“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the Yankee. “Never mind money here, lad. Ye’ll be well entertained--I’ll speak to somebody about ye. But I must be off myself at once.”

And in ten minutes Hadley was alone in a little room at the top of the house, anxious to rest after his toilsome ride, while Holdness was away on some business connected with Colonel Cadwalader’s note. The city was, however, in a tumult. Hadley’s news had now been verified by a dozen other messengers of ill-tidings, and few in Philadelphia that night believed that Washington could successfully oppose the enemy again before Howe threw his troops upon the city itself.

Indeed, when Hadley appeared in the street the next morning to mount his horse brought around by the stableman, the same groups of excited citizens seemed to surround the Indian Queen which had been there the night before when he arrived. As far as he could learn, everybody seemed to believe that the city was doomed to capture by the British, and that the defeat of Brandywine could not be retrieved. A night’s sleep, however, had renewed Hadley’s courage as well as refreshed his body. When he clattered out of town, following the road northward toward Germantown, he drew in, with every breath of the fresh morning air, the feeling that all was not yet lost. He remembered how bravely his comrades had fought the day before; how reluctant they had been to fall back, even when commanded to do so. He thought of General Washington himself, and a mental picture of His Excellency’s stern, firmly lined face rose before him. That was not a man to give up--nor would General Knox, nor Wayne, nor Colonel Cadwalader, nor even young Captain Prentice! Before he reached the farm-house where he had left his horse, he was confident that Philadelphia would not be given over to the enemy without a second struggle.

And with that belief another idea entered the boy’s mind. He had experienced a real battle. It had frightened him, and the thoughts of some of the awful things he had seen and heard still troubled him; but he felt that now, when he had been initiated in war’s alarms, it was too bad that he should not remain and fight again when the patriots tried to keep the enemy out of the city.

“I’ll go home as quick as ever I can and beg uncle to let me go--he must let me enlist!” the boy thought. “Anyway, if he says ‘no,’ I’ll go just as I did this time, find a gun, and stay as long as the battle’s on. I know Jonas won’t care.”

He came again to the Ferry and crossed it at night, Black Molly, he had found her in good condition at the farmer’s, apparently as eager to be home as himself. The news of the disastrous battle had preceded him, and everywhere Hadley was met by anxious inquiries. He met no Tories, for most of them had gone to join the British forces; but the American farmers had again lost hope.

As he was poled across the river one of the ferrymen said to him: “Morris, ye’d best watch sharply as ye go along home. It is reported a party of Tories crossed below here not two hours ago. They used old Alwood’s bateau, and Brace Alwood is with them. They’re meaning no good to folks, I take it.”

“I thought all the Tories would be with the King’s men,” said the boy. “I heard on the road that they’ve sworn to march into Philadelphia with the Redcoats when the city is captured.”

“Well, Brace has got business of some kind over here--and it isn’t any good business, I’ll be bound. You’d better warn Jonas. They may come to the inn.”

Hadley was somewhat troubled by this information. Brace Alwood had been a reckless sort of a young man before the war broke out, and had incurred the enmity of many of the neighbors. It was reported that since he had joined the British he had given full sway to his more harmful propensities, and that he was noted among the Tory hangers-on of the King’s troops for his cruelty and bitter enmity against the patriots. He had obtained some petty office in the army, and now, with others, perhaps as brutal as himself, had come into his own neighborhood for no good purpose. Surely, if he had crossed the river merely to visit his father and mother, he would not have brought a troop with him.

But Hadley saw nobody on the road until he came abreast of his uncle’s property. Then he did not see any man, but a light in a clump of trees some distance back from the horse-path, and in Miser Morris’ pasture, attracted his attention. This was so strange a place for a fire, for a fire it was Hadley could tell by the intermittent leaping and fading of the light, that he could not go by without investigating, and after riding Black Molly a few rods beyond the grove in question, he dismounted, tied her to a fence rail, and crept over to reconnoitre.

There was a campfire in the middle of the clump of trees. It was well hidden from the house and outbuildings, and scarcely discernible from the highway. But when he got into the edge of the grove Hadley saw with surprise that although the fire was small there was a good-sized company about the blaze. He counted eight heavily armed and roughly dressed men lying about the fire, but Brace Alwood, Lon’s older brother, was not among them.

“Now, why should these fellows be roosting here?” thought the American youth, quite puzzled. “Of course they know that most of our men are away now with the army, and have they really come over here to harass the unprotected homesteads? If they have, and if they trouble the farmers’ wives, it will be too hot about here for the Alwoods to stay when the men do come back.”

A crackling in the bushes startled him, and he crouched lower. The Tories seemed so sure of their position that they did not keep a guard, and now two other figures came rapidly into the circle of the firelight, Hadley noticing that their approach was from the direction of his uncle’s house. An instant later he recognized Brace Alwood, the probable leader of this party of bushwhackers. He was grown much older looking since he had left home, and his bronzed face was covered by a tangled growth of beard. His companion he held by the arm, and Hadley saw that it was Alonzo.

“Here he is, boys,” declared Brace, with a laugh. “He’s young, but he’s sharp--a reg’lar fox for cunning. I found him watching the premises yonder, and he tells me everybody’s gone for the night, and the old man is in the house. All we got to do is to wait an hour or so till things get thoroughly quieted down, and then make our call. Miser Morris’ll be glad to see us, eh?” and the fellow laughed unpleasantly.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

A PROVIDENTIAL SPARK

By WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON

If there is any one incident in my past life that I particularly dislike to dwell upon, it is the night I spent in a lonely mountain cabin in Northwestern Arizona.

I had left the little mining settlement of San Rosa early that morning to visit a ranch belonging to a friend of mine that lay some ten or twelve miles to the westward.

I had never been there before, but from the directions given me, I felt sure I could find the place without difficulty.

I had to cross two or three mountain spurs, and pass through a couple of deep ravines to reach the high stretch of table land where the ranch was located.

I am fond of sport, and to this must be attributed the adventure which placed me in such peril. At sunrise I was four or five miles on my way, and while riding through a deep wooded hollow, I discovered bear tracks in a bit of soft ground, which had the appearance of being fresh.

Here was a temptation too great to be resisted, and, hoping to obtain a shot at Bruin, I followed the trail up the side of the ridge. The footprints which were too small to be those of a grizzly, soon vanished, of course, but I rode on over the hilltop and down into the ravine beyond, eager to get a glimpse of the animal.

But Bruin failed to make his appearance, though I followed the hollow for several miles, and finally concluded to give up the search and strike for my destination.

But here I was confronted by a puzzling problem.

I had passed several intersecting ravines on my way, and now I was utterly at a loss which one to take.

I made a speedy choice, however, for there was no time to lose in hesitation, and rode briskly on for two or three hours.

But none of the landmarks which I had been warned to look for appeared, and I had to admit that I was lost.

It was now about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the setting sun showed that I had been traveling in the proper direction--in the general sense of the word, but whether the ranch was close at hand or not, I had not the remotest idea.

Some distance ahead I could detect the sound of running water, so I concluded to slake my thirst, and then strike for the highest point of ground to be found where I could obtain a view of the country.

In a moment I saw the water sparkling at the bottom of the ravine, and, as I rode down to the spot, a startling and unpleasant sight met my eyes.

Two men, an evil-faced Mexican and an Apache Indian, were sitting by the side of a great rock. Their horses were tied to saplings a few feet away, and their arms, I noted with relief, were lying on the ground, almost equally distant.

The surprise was mutual, for the mossy path had muffled the sound of my horse’s hoofs.

I recognized both instantly. The Mexican was Luiz Castro, a man who bore a bad name among the settlements, and his companion was Scarface--so called from a couple of ugly knife marks on his cheek--and a very bad Indian, indeed, if reports were to be believed.

The Apache had been driven from his tribe for some misdemeanor, and for several years he and the Mexican had been inseparable companions--a very odd friendship, to say the least.

I concluded not to stop for a drink at that spring.

“Can you tell me the way to Block’s Ranch?” I inquired, respectfully.

The Apache looked at me stolidly, but Castro quickly replied:

“Si, señor; straight ahead through yonder ravine. You can’t miss it.”

I thanked him, and nodding briefly, rode on. The ravine referred to was just ahead, and I had gone a mile or more when the suspicion suddenly occurred to me that Castro might have misdirected me for some evil purpose.

I carried quite a sum of money which I had no desire to lose, and as rapidly as possible I rode on until a sudden gloom warned me that darkness was at hand. The ravine showed no signs of terminating, and my suspicion became a certainty.

The two scoundrels had guided me to this lonely spot with the intention, no doubt, of waylaying and shooting me. They were quite capable of such a deed, I well knew.

I shivered at the thought, and taking a hasty glance behind, put spurs to my mustang and trotted ahead as rapidly as the narrow, uncertain path would allow.

In five minutes the ravine widened and I saw a small clearing just ahead, in the centre of which was a rude log cabin. I rode eagerly to the door and was disappointed to find it empty. Some lonely miner, perhaps, had once lived there until he either met a violent death or abandoned the place in search of a better claim.

It was now quite dusk, and I realized the hopelessness of proceeding farther that night.

The ravine narrowed again just ahead, and the steep ridges on each side forbade any attempt at climbing.

My mind was made up in an instant. Here I must spend the night.

I hastily picketed my horse outside where he could find plenty of grass, and entered the cabin. I was agreeably surprised to find it in such good condition. The door was firm on its hinges, and sockets on each side seemed to invite the heavy bar that was lying close by on the floor. The window shutter could be secured in the same way.

I lost no time in securing the door and window, and then I felt comparatively safe, for I was well armed with a Winchester and a pair of revolvers.

I had crackers and jerked beef in my knapsack, and, making a cheerful blaze in the fireplace, I ate a hearty lunch. Then I lit my pipe and sat down with my back against the wall where the heat could easily reach me.

I could hear my horse moving about outside, but no other sound reached me; and I began to be ashamed of my fears. I smoked and pondered for two or three hours, and I was just considering the advisability of bringing my horse inside the cabin for better security, when, without the least warning, a sharp report rang in my ears, and a bullet buried itself in the log within an inch of my face.

Startled as I was, I had sufficient presence of mind to throw myself flat on the floor, grasping my rifle in the fall.

I did not intend this for a ruse, but my unknown enemy evidently thought I had fallen from the effects of his bullet, for instantly I heard a thumping on the door, and a few words spoken in a low voice. Castro and the Apache were outside, I had no doubt.

The shot was fired through a chink in the logs, and, creeping over the floor, I put my Winchester to the orifice and let fire twice in succession, to let them know that I was not a dead man yet, and determined not to be one if I could help it.

A hasty glance at the cabin walls showed me that wide cracks abounded everywhere, and, alarmed at the peril I was in, I tore off my coat, and, running swiftly to the fireplace, smothered the blaze and stamped out the embers.

I breathed easier when this was done, for, of course, my foes could not do any accurate shooting in the dark. Then I sat down in the centre of the floor to await the next move. It was a trying situation, and the thought of spending the long hours of the night in baffling the attempts of two would-be assassins was terrifying.

For a long time all was quiet, and then I heard them fumbling at the door and the window. This gave me little concern. I knew they could not force an entrance there.

Then another hour went by, and I was beginning to hope the miscreants had abandoned their scheme, when I suddenly became aware that some one was on the roof. I understood instantly what this meant. My foes intended to come down the chimney.

The sounds were so loud and so close that I believed one of them to be already descending, and snatching an armful of straw from the pallet, I dashed it on the fireplace and applied a match.

A few seconds later I realized what a dangerous trap I had blundered into, for as the blaze flooded the room with light, a rifle cracked, and I was knocked forcibly to the floor.

I believed for a moment that I was mortally wounded, but a little later I found that the bullet had struck my watch and glanced harmlessly off, after shattering the works.

I was not slow to comprehend the trick that had been played on me, and without any delay I crept to one corner of the room, which by this time was comparatively dark, for the straw had nearly burnt itself out. One of the fellows had remained below, ready to shoot, while his confederate worked the cunningly laid scheme from the roof.

For a time I was pretty sore from the shock, and then I began to fear that as a last resource they would come down the chimney in earnest.

I concluded to be on the safe side by preparing for such an emergency, and as the fire was now out, I gathered up what straw remained and piled it in the chimney place, ready to use if occasion required, though I determined to make sure that my enemy was actually on his way down before I flooded the cabin with light again.

I suppose two hours must have passed this time without the slightest move from the miscreants, but I remained watchful and alert, with my Winchester on my knee.

Then I was startled to see a tiny flame licking the base of the straw pile. Some sparks must have lingered in the embers of the previous fire, and I rose quickly to put out the blaze.

But before I could reach the spot the tiny flame had expanded with startling celerity, and the fireplace was a glowing furnace.

I looked hurriedly around for shelter, but, before I could move, a hoarse cry rang out from the chimney, and down tumbled Scarface, the Apache, into the seething fire.

I dashed forward and dragged him out on the floor by one leg, before the flames could do him serious injury. He was stunned from the fall, though, and before he was able to offer any resistance, I had him securely bound, hand and foot, with a strong rope that I fortunately chanced to have in my pocket.

During this time Castro was probably on the roof, for no shots were fired through the logs; and, as the straw burned itself out, I felt that the siege had ended in my favor.

From Scarface I had nothing to fear, and I knew that the cowardly Mexican would not attempt to carry out a plan at which his comrade had failed so disastrously.

The Indian spent the remainder of the night in groaning, and when the welcome daylight shone through the logs my friend, Block, arrived on the scene with several of his ranchmen, and my siege was over.

The ranch turned out to be only two miles away. My friend had been expecting me on the previous day, and the sound of shooting during the night led him to make a search in this direction.

Castro had decamped, taking my horse with him, but he was captured at a neighboring settlement a week later.

Scarface recovered from his burns and was handed over to the sheriff, who put him where he was not likely to injure any person for some time to come.

My escape that night was truly a providential one. The crafty Apache had been stealing without a sound down the broad chimney, when the little spark that was smouldering for hours burst into a blaze at just the right moment, for if Scarface had gained the interior of the cabin this story would probably have never been written.

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond