Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: "WHAT ABOUT THE BOY?" (page 13)] THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778 BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON _Author of "Washington's Young Aids," "Guarding the Border," "The Boys with Old Hickory," "Ward Hill at Weston," etc., etc._ [Illustration: The Riverside Press] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY EVERETT T. TOMLINSON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. OLD MONMOUTH 1 II. TOM INVESTIGATES 15 III. THE MEETING ON THE RIVER 27 IV. BENZEOR'S VISITOR 40 V. THE MESSENGER 53 VI. IN THE TEN-ACRE LOT 67 VII. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 82 VIII. INDIAN JOHN 96 IX. THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT 112 X. THE STORY OF THE MISCHIANZA 126 XI. TO REFUGEE TOWN 141 XII. BATHSHEBA'S FEAST 156 XIII. WITH THE REDCOATS 169 XIV. THE WAY TO CRANBERRY 182 XV. THE BOAT ON THE BAR 195 XVI. TED WILSON'S VICTIM 208 XVII. A FRUITLESS CHASE 221 XVIII. A RARE BEAST 233 XIX. THE RELEASE OF BENZEOR 246 XX. THE FLEET OF BARGES 259 XXI. THE RIDE WITH THE LIEUTENANT 272 XXII. A SOLDIER WOMAN 286 XXIII. AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY 298 XXIV. THE ABODE OF INDIAN JOHN 310 XXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT FIGHT 323 XXVI. THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH 336 XXVII. THE RETURN TO BENZEOR'S HOUSE 349 XXVIII. THE RIDE TO THE MILL 364 XXIX. AFTER THE BATTLE 377 XXX. TOM COWARD'S PATIENT 390 XXXI. AMONG THE PINES 403 XXXII. CONCLUSION 416 THE BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH CHAPTER I OLD MONMOUTH OLD Monmouth is an expression dear to the heart of every native-born Jerseyman. The occasional visitor seeking health among its whispering pines, or relaxation in the sultry summer days along its shore, where the roll of the breakers and the boundless sweep of the ocean combine to form one of the most sublime marine views on all the Atlantic seaboard, may admire the fertile farmlands and prosperous villages as much as the man to the manor born, but he never speaks of "Old" Monmouth. Nor will he fully understand what the purebred Jerseyman means when he uses the term, for to the stranger the word will smack of length of days, and of the venerable position which Monmouth holds among the counties of the State. Monmouth is old, it is true, and was among the first of the portions of New Jersey to be settled by the Woapsiel Lennape, the name which the Indians first gave to the white people from across the sea, or by the Schwonnack,--"the salt people,"--as the Delawares afterwards called them. But the true Jerseyman is not thinking alone of the age of Monmouth when he uses the word "Old." To him it is a term of affection also, used it may be as schoolboys or college mates use it when they address one another as "old fellow," though but a few years may have passed over their heads. The new-comer or the stranger may speak of Fair Monmouth, and think he is giving all the honor due to the beautiful region, but his failure to use the proper adjective will at once betray his foreign birth and his ignorance of the position which the county holds in the affections of all true Jerseymen. Still, Monmouth is old in the sense in which the summer visitor uses the word. Here and there in the county an antiquated house is standing to-day, which if it were endowed with the power of speech could tell of stirring sights it had seen more than a century ago. Redcoats, fleeing from the wrath of the angry Washington and his Jersey Blues, marched swiftly past on their way to the Highlands and the refuge of New York. Fierce contests between neighbors, who had taken opposite sides in the struggle of the colonies for freedom from the yoke of the mother country, or step-mother country, as some not inappropriately termed her in these days, occurred in the presence of these ancient dwelling-places, and sometimes within their very walls. Many, too, would be the stories of the deeds of tories, and refugees, and pine robbers contending with stanch and sturdy whigs. Up the many winding streams, boat-loads of sailors made their way from the gunboat or privateer anchored off the shore, to burn the salt works of the hardy pioneers, or lay waste their lands as they searched for plunder or for forage. The forked trees along the shore, in whose branches the lookouts were concealed as they swept the ocean for miles watching for the appearance of the hostile boat, were standing until recent years. In their last days broken, it is true, and almost destroyed by the winter storms and their weight of long years, still they stood as the few remaining tokens of that century when our fathers contended for "their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor." At last the pathos and weakness of old age prevailed, and to-day there remains scarcely a vestige of those ancient landmarks. Perhaps if the boys and girls of New Jersey had been as mindful of those old trees as the Cambridge lads and lassies have been of the spreading elm beneath whose branches the noble-hearted Washington assumed the command of the little American army, some of them might still be standing; but as it is, the most of them have crumbled and fallen and disappeared as completely as have the men who sought the shelter of their branches in the trying times of '78. So, too, for many years stood the famous tree from whose limbs the noble patriot, Captain Huddy, was hanged,--as dastardly a deed as was committed by either side in that struggle which tried the souls of our fathers. But the trees are gone, and only a few quaint houses and venerable landmarks and heirlooms remain of those things which witnessed the contests, and deeds high or base, of that far-away time. The lofty monument on the old battle-ground of Monmouth is surmounted by the figure of a man whose face is shaded by his hand, as if he were still striving to obtain a glimpse of the redcoats in the darkness as they hastened to gain the Highlands and the refuge of the waiting boats which were to bear them away to the safety of the great city. But it is itself essentially modern, and only in its brief records, carved by patriotic hands upon its sides, and in its figure of the granite soldier standing upon its summit, does its suggestiveness lie. It looks down upon a thriving village and out upon the lands of thrifty and prosperous farmers, and there is nothing in all the vision to remind one that the soil was ever stained by the blood of soldiers clad in uniforms of scarlet, or of buff and blue. And yet, as fierce a struggle as our country ever knew occurred within the region. Women toiled in the fields while their husbands and sons fought, or even gave up their lives to drive away their oppressors. Yes, even in the battles some of the women found places, and Captain Molly Pitcher was only one among many who had a share in the actual struggle of the Revolution. Houses were doubly barred at night against the attacks of prowling bands of refugees or pine robbers, and many times were defended by the patriotic women themselves. Spies crept in among them, and evil men who owned no allegiance to either side seized the opportunity to prey alike upon friend and foe. At times it almost seemed as if the words spoken many centuries ago were then fulfilled, and that "a man was set at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law, and that a man's foes were they of his own household." But with all the suffering and bloodshed there were many heroes and heroines, and even the boys and girls were not without a share in the struggles of the times which tried men's souls. The houses in which they dwelt may have disappeared and given place to far more imposing structures; their very names may no longer be recalled; but, after all, they displayed many qualities which the world ought not willingly to permit to die, and the heritage which they have bequeathed to us will lose nothing of its value if we go back in our thoughts and strive to comprehend more clearly the price which our fathers paid for the land we love. In the early summer of 1778, while the feelings of the Monmouth people had been deeply stirred,--and indeed the patriots of the county had been among the foremost to pass resolutions and be enrolled among the defenders of the new nation,--there had not as yet come the intense excitement which followed the advance of General Clinton's army from Philadelphia. The long winter at Valley Forge had at last come to an end, and when the British moved out from the city,--for holding it longer seemed to be useless,--Washington had led his troops into the town almost as soon as the enemy departed. Nor was that all, for he quickly decided to follow after the departing general, and overtake and give him battle before Clinton could lead his men across the Jerseys. The American commander knew that his own forces numbered nearly as many as those the British general had; and as, in spite of the dreadful sufferings of the winter, his men were in far better condition than they had ever been before,--thanks to the tireless energy of Baron Steuben,--he resolved to depart from Philadelphia and follow after the British. Clinton had sent the recently enrolled tories to New York by water, and as there were some three thousand of these alone, he soon decided that his troops must go by land. Accordingly, the journey was begun, but the Continentals, going a little farther to the north than the line of Clinton's march, planned to gain a position in advance of the enemy by the rapidity of their movements, and then, turning about in their course, fall upon the redcoats face to face and offer them battle in some advantageous place. The baggage wagons of Clinton stretched out in a long line of twelve miles as they followed after the army, and in other ways the British leader was somewhat embarrassed. Consequently, when he learned of Washington's plan, he quickly decided to change the direction of his march, and, by passing through "Old Monmouth," lead his army to the Navesink Highlands and there have them all embark for New York. Washington had first offered the command of his advance forces to young Lafayette, but he was somewhat perplexed by the return of General Lee to his army, and knew not just what to do. Lee had been captured a little more than a year before this time, through his own carelessness, near Morristown, and we may be sure that Washington was not greatly troubled by the loss. Lee had steadily opposed him, and was plotting to secure his position for himself. However, the British general Prescott, whose capture by the Americans had been effected in a manner not unlike that in which Lee himself had been taken, had been exchanged, and Lee once more returned to the American army. He was still the same Lee, sensitive, jealous, and suspected of being in league with Howe, who recently had sailed away for England to explain to Parliament the causes of his failures in the preceding year. Much as he disliked to make the change, Lee's return compelled Washington to recognize his presence, and after some tactful efforts he removed Lafayette and gave Lee his position as leader of the advanced forces. Lee had bitterly opposed the project of following Clinton, and steadily objected to the march across the Jerseys. Washington, however, was firm in his determination, and the march was soon begun; but the lack of confidence which he felt in General Lee must have sadly increased the troubles of the great commander, already beset by perils of so many kinds. Whether he was mistaken in his estimate of the man, we shall learn in the course of this story. Such then was the general condition of affairs as the summer of 1778 drew on. Those of the people of Old Monmouth who were at home heard occasional rumors of the advance of the two armies, but few of them had any thought of the stirring scenes which were to be enacted in their midst before the summer was ended. It was now late in June. The summer had been unusually warm, and the men and boys, as well as the women, who were at home had labored busily in the fields, in the hope of an early as well as an abundant harvest. For those who cared to avail themselves of them, the markets in New York provided a ready place for the sale of their produce, and not only the tories, but some of the men whose sympathies as yet had not led them openly to declare their preferences for either side, or who perhaps cared more for the prices they were likely to receive in New York for the results of their labors than they did for liberty or any such abstract quality, were not averse to loading up the boats, which many of the farmers near the shore owned, and sailing away for the city. Down the lower bay one such boat was swiftly making its way one afternoon in June, 1778. On board were four men, three of whom evidently were in middle life, but the fourth was a sturdy lad about seventeen years of age, and it was plain that he was not in full sympathy with his companions. He took but little part in the conversation, and the expression upon his face frequently betrayed the feelings in his heart. The three men with him apparently did not give him much thought or attention, and evidently were too well satisfied with the results of their expedition to waste any time in questioning the lad as to the cause of his silence. "There's the old tree now," said one of the men as they came within sight of the landmark. "If nothing has gone wrong, we'll soon be in the Navesink." "Yes, and back at work again," grumbled another. "For my part I think Fenton and Davenport and the rest of the pine robbers have the easiest time of all. They swoop down upon some whig farmer, and all they have to do is to take what he has worked out. I don't see why it isn't all fair enough in war." "If it wasn't for that skull of Fagan, with that pipe stuck in its mouth, nailed up on the tree over there beyond the Court House, I'd go in myself," said the first speaker. "The grin on it is almost more than I can bear." "That'll do to frighten women and children with," said the third man, who had been silent for a time. "Fagan got a little too bold, that was the trouble with him. He carried it a little too far. I happen to know that there are some men who know enough to put a finger in, and not get it burned either." "Perhaps you've done a little yourself in that line, Benzeor Osburn?" queried the last speaker. "I've thought sometimes you could tell some tales if you wanted to." "And who knows but I might?" replied Benzeor. "I may be able to keep my place from being confiscated and sold, the way my brother's was two years ago, but that may not mean either that I don't know what's to my own advantage when I see it. You'd do the same, wouldn't you, Jacob Vannote?" "That I would," replied Jacob, "and so would Barzilla Giberson here, too. All we want is that some good man like you, Benzeor, should tell us how to do it." "I can tell you," said Benzeor quietly. "I've made up my mind that I've held off just as long as I am going to. I'm going in, and if you have a mind to join, I'll let you in, too." "Tell us about it," said Jacob eagerly. "What about the boy?" he added in a low voice, glancing toward the fourth member of the party as he spoke. "What? Tom Coward? He's a coward by name as well as by nature. You haven't anything to fear from him. He's been in my home since he was five year old. He won't make any trouble." Nevertheless, the speaker lowered his voice, and for a long time the trio conversed eagerly upon the new topic. So intent were they that not one of them noted the flush upon the lad's face at the brutal reference to him, nor saw the look of determination which came a little later in its place. Apparently Tom was not giving any attention to the men with him in the swift sailing boat. He retained his seat near the bow, and seemed to be interested only in the waves before him. A brisk wind was blowing, and the waters betrayed the tokens of a coming storm. The boat was pitching more and more as it sped on, and Tom watched the rolling waves, many of them capped with white and rising steadily higher and higher. The darker hues gave place to a lighter green as they rose, and the increasing roughness seemed to reflect somewhat the feelings in his own heart. Far away in the distance stretched the long sandy beach of the Hook, becoming more and more distinct as the boat drew nearer. The gulls were flying low, and the weird cries of the sea-birds were heard on every side. Suddenly Tom stood upright, and, after gazing intently for a moment at some object on the shore, turned to his companions and said,-- "Some one's up in the tree, and the signal's out, too." The men instantly ceased from their conversation, and peered intently at the tree in the distance. Evidently the sight was not altogether pleasing, for with an exclamation of anger Benzeor Osburn, who was holding the tiller, quickly changed the course of the boat, and started back in the direction from which they had come. CHAPTER II TOM INVESTIGATES THERE were many exclamations of impatience heard in the boat as Benzeor changed her course, and the helmsman himself appeared to be the most impatient of all. A drizzling rain was now falling and there were many signs apparent that a stormy night was approaching. "I wish I knew just what the warning was for," muttered Benzeor. "Fine night this, to be prowling around the bay in!" "There was no mistake about the sign, though," replied Jacob. "There's something wrong, or we shouldn't have seen the white flag. That means there's something going on up the Navesink." "All the more reason for going home then!" said Benzeor. "Who was on the lookout to-day? Does any one know?" "Yes, 't was Peter Van Mater," said Tom, who up to this time had taken no part in the conversation. "He told me yesterday that he was to be in the tree to-day." "What! Little Peter?" demanded Benzeor quickly. "Yes," replied Tom. "I saw him out by their cornfield yesterday. He was there driving away the crows and blackbirds." "Little" Peter was so called to distinguish him from his father who bore the same name; and although his son, a well-grown young fellow of eighteen, towered more than a half head above "Big" Peter now, the distinctive names given several years before this time still clung to them both. The Van Mater place joined the Osburn farm, and for years Tom and Little Peter had been the best of friends. On those rare occasions when a brief break in the arduous labors on the farms had come, together they had gone crabbing, or had sailed down to Barnegat, where the sea-fowl gathered in great flocks when the proper seasons came. Tom's heart had gone out to Little Peter as it had not to any other person. Peter's round face shone with an expression of good nature which nothing but the mention of a tory or a pine robber seemed to be able to ruffle. A reference to either of them never failed to arouse the dormant anger of the lad, and with all the intensity of his quiet and strong nature he hated both. For the Van Maters, even to the mother and the girls, were patriots of the strongest kind, and now Big Peter was away in Washington's army and had left his eldest son and namesake to protect the family and manage the farm in his absence. And Little Peter had accepted the task with an outward assent that deceived even his own father. Only to Tom had he mentioned his true feelings, and expressed his determination to buy up his time, so that he, too, might be enrolled in the patriot army. Tom Coward well knew that the words expressed Little Peter's feelings and desires rather than his purpose, for he was satisfied that nothing would induce his friend to desert his mother and the children in their time of need. But he had fully sympathized with Peter in his desire to buy up his time, and there were special reasons why the words meant much more to him than they did to his friend. About a decade before this time, when one of the numerous "September gales" was raging along the Jersey shore, a great crowd had assembled on the beach watching the efforts of a schooner they could see, about a mile out on the ocean, to weather the storm. All day long the crowd had remained there, powerless to aid the stricken people on board the storm-tossed boat, for this was long before the time of the life-saving crews and their noble work along the coast. Late in the afternoon on that eventful day, when the storm had abated somewhat, although the waves, like moving mountains of water, still came thundering in upon the beach, a boat had been manned and started forth to the aid of the people in their peril; but before the brave band could gain the schooner, she had foundered and gone to the bottom. The men who had gone forth to the rescue had been about to return to the shore, when they thought they saw something floating over the boisterous waves toward them. When a second glance was obtained they started swiftly toward the object, and, as they drew near, saw a huge cotton bale with a woman and a little lad strapped upon it. At last, after some desperate efforts, the bodies were rescued, but that of the woman was lifeless and that of the lad was nearly so. The rough men had brought both ashore, and, after some labor on the part of the women in the assembly, the lad had been restored, but the woman was beyond all earthly aid. Upon some of the clothing of the rescued boy the name Coward had been found, and "Tom" was improvised, for that would do as well as any other for the name of a stranger lad whose home and parents were to be, as the people of Old Monmouth thought, forever wrapped in mystery. Tom Coward had been the sole survivor of the wreck. For days some portions of the ill-fated schooner and its cargo were washed ashore, but no clue was ever found as to her name or destination. What to do with the rescued lad then became the perplexing problem among the simple folk of Monmouth, and it was at last solved by "binding him out" to Benzeor Osburn, which simply meant that Tom was to live with the man who had taken him until he was twenty-one years of age, and in return for the home he received he was to give his labor and life until that eventful day should arrive when he, too, would become a man. The lad had gone, for he had no voice in the matter, and all the home he had ever known had been with Benzeor and his family. Only a faint recollection of the wreck remained in his mind, but he had heard the story many times and thought much over it in secret. Often had he visited the unmarked grave in the churchyard, where he was informed that all that was mortal of his mother lay resting. But her name and face were both alike unknown to him. In his dreams, or when he had been working alone in some of the distant fields, it would almost seem to him that something of another existence would rise before him, or that he could almost see the face of a gracious woman bending low over him whom he could call "mother." Who he might be he could not determine. Who he was, was a matter much more easily settled, for all knew him as the "bound boy" of Benzeor Osburn; and while some of the country people might occasionally think of him as the little lad, who years before had been rescued from a sinking schooner, they seldom referred to it, and the past had been crowded out by the present. But Tom Coward had not entirely forgotten. Benzeor had received him into his home the more readily because, as he expressed it, "all of his boys had been born girls," and he felt the need of the aid and presence of a boy about the place. And Benzeor in his way had not been unkind to the stranger lad, or at least not intentionally so, but the labor on the farms in those days had been severe, and he was a man to whom money had been the one thing needful. He did not spare himself, and certainly he had no thought of sparing those who were dependent upon him; and, as a natural consequence, neither the girls nor Tom, and much less the overworked, spiritless little mother of the family, found much to relieve the monotonous round of labor on the farm. At first, Tom had not complained and had accepted all as a matter of course, but of late his heart had rebelled against his lot more and more. It was not that he did not appreciate the rough kindness which was extended to him, especially by the patient, uncomplaining mother and the two girls, Sarah and Mercy, who were nearest his own age. But certain undefined longings kept rising in his soul, he knew not how, and the increasing eagerness of Benzeor "to make his place pay" had apparently driven all else from the mind of his foster father. Perhaps more than any of these things, his interviews with his friend Little Peter had stirred his soul, for Peter had longings, too, and, as has been said, had even declared his intention "to buy up his own time." That he was a son in his own home, and was surrounded by the love of father and mother, had not made the purpose in Peter's heart appear in the least strange or unusual, for the custom was not unknown among those sturdy forefathers of ours. When they had cared for a boy in his infancy and helpless years, it was considered as no more than a just return that the years of early manhood, which would naturally be of value to the fathers in their labors on the farms, should belong not to the son but to the father. So whenever a well-grown boy felt that he would like to start in for himself, it was not unusual for him to offer, or to promise to pay as soon as he could earn the money, the amount which was considered as a fair equivalent for the value of his services in the few years before he became "of age," and could enter upon his own career. In those days the obligation of the child to his father was emphasized. In our own time the obligation of the father to his child is considered the more important, and all that love and devotion can offer are laid at the feet of the children. Perhaps justice lies somewhere between these two extremes, and no one of us desires to return to the harsher methods of those earlier years; but certainly the children who are so fortunate as to be born in these more fortunate times have some need of recalling the words of one who, long before the trying days of the Revolution, exhorted all to "honor their fathers and mothers." Be that as it may, Tom Coward thought much and long over his friend Peter's project, and even went so far at one time as to hint to Benzeor that he would not be averse to entering into some such arrangement with him. But Benzeor's indignation, and the grief with which Sarah heard of the proposal, had silenced him, and he had not referred to the matter again. None the less, however, did it remain in his thoughts, and of late the suspicion with which he had come to regard many of Benzeor's actions had increased his feeling of discontent, for Tom's sympathies were all with the colonies in their struggle. Many a time had he and Peter talked over the matter, and the eagerness of one to serve in the army was fully shared by the other. But Benzeor's patriotism seemed all to be dormant, and as the troubles increased, his zeal to make money steadily increased also. At times he would be absent from home for days together, and more than once Tom had been awakened in the night by the sound of strange voices heard in conversation with Benzeor in the room beneath that in which he was sleeping. Thoughts of all these things had been in Tom's mind throughout that voyage to New York, and they, as well as his youthfulness, served to explain the silence he had maintained since he had set sail. He had known, however, that Peter was to serve as the lookout that day, and when he volunteered the information it was the first time he had spoken aloud for a half hour. The rain now was steadily increasing, and the uneasiness of the men on board the little boat became more marked. They were far from the tree by this time, and no one appeared to know just what plan to follow. "If I was alone, I'd take all the risks," said Benzeor at last. "You needn't stop on our account," replied Jacob. "I don't believe there's much danger in starting up the river, any way, for my part. Little Peter may not have seen anything to amount to much. If you want to chance it, go ahead." "We don't just know what's ahead of us," said Barzilla uneasily. "It may be nothing, and then again it may not be. I wish there was some way of finding out before we risk too much." "Why not land farther down the shore and let Tom go up and see?" said Jacob. "If Little Peter's gone, it will mean the danger's gone, too, and if he hasn't, why Tom here can find out for us and report; though for my part I'm not afraid to go up the river as it is. It's too dark for any one to see us, or it will be soon." "That's a good suggestion," said Benzeor quickly, as he brought the boat about. "We'll land down the shore and let Tom go up for us. You're not too much of a 'coward' to do that, are you Tom?" "I'll go," said Tom quietly, although his cheeks flushed with anger at Benzeor's antiquated and brutal pun. He had heard it many times, but never without feeling angry, although he well knew that Benzeor spoke the words lightly. With the change in the course the wind seemed to increase. The spray was dashed into their faces, and the men were soon drenched. The sail had been shortened, but the little boat dashed ahead with ever increasing speed. "It's a rough night outside," said Benzeor, when at last he gained the desired point on the shore. "It's lucky for us we're inside the Hook. Now then, Tom!" he added. "Bestir yourself, lad, and come back soon." Tom leaped ashore and ran swiftly along the beach toward the tree. He was familiar with its location and knew that he could find it in the darkest night. The rain beat upon him and the darkness momentarily increased, but the wind was with him, and in a brief time he recognized the dim outlines of the tree. Then ceasing to run, he began to approach more cautiously. He was not positive that Peter was there now, for some one might have taken his place. Certainly caution was the better part in any event. He stopped and whistled the half dozen notes which he and Peter used as a call. He waited a moment, but as no answer was heard he advanced a little nearer and whistled again. "That you, Tom?" came from some one in the tree. "Yes," replied Tom. In a moment Peter dropped from his position, and began to explain to his friend the cause of the display of the signal of danger. CHAPTER III THE MEETING ON THE RIVER "I'VE been here since noon," began Peter, "but it seems more like a whole day to me. I've listened to the calls of the sea-birds and heard the roar of the storm which I knew was coming, till it almost seemed to me I couldn't bear it any longer. I'm glad you've come, for I've got a chance to stretch now, and the sound of a voice will help to quiet my nerves again." "I didn't know you had any nerves," replied Tom. "But we can't stand here in this storm talking about such things. Benzeor sent me over to find out what you meant by hanging out the white flag. You haven't seen anything suspicious, have you?" "I have that," said Peter eagerly. "I was beginning to think that my coming here was all a piece of foolishness, when along about four o'clock--leastwise I should think it was about that time, though I didn't have any dial anywhere about to mark the time for me--what should I see but a whaleboat making for the river? You had better believe I forgot all about the time and everything else but the boat then, for I didn't know but some more of the Greens were coming up the Navesink on another trip such as they made the other day." Peter referred to an expedition which a band of several hundred tories from New Jersey, commonly known as the "Greens," had made a few weeks before this time. They had set forth from New York and had made a visit to some of their former neighbors and friends, and the tokens of their affection which they had left behind them had chiefly consisted of the ashes of burned homes and empty barns. The raid had been a cruel one, and its object apparently was more for devastation than for plunder, and many of the good people of Red Bank and Middletown and the adjoining towns had good cause to remember it so long as they lived. The numbers of the invaders had rendered them safe from all attacks, and the wanton destruction they wrought before they returned to New York had been the chief reason for keeping a watch stationed in the old tree every day since their visit. And Peter had received strict orders not to depart from his place of observation, if he saw anything suspicious, until he was satisfied that all danger was past. And Peter was faithful, that was well known, or he would not have been selected for the duty that day. "Well," resumed Peter, "I watched the boat till it went out of sight up the river. There were seven men on board of her, six of 'em pulling at the oars and the seventh steering. No more boats followed her, and I shouldn't have been suspicious if I hadn't thought I recognized the man who was steering." "Who was he?" "He looked to me a good deal like Fenton." "What? The pine robber?" "Yes, though of course I may have been mistaken. I never saw him but once and that was when he was a blacksmith over by the Court House before the war. My father had sent me over there to have one of the horses shod at his shop. I don't know that I should have remembered him if it hadn't been for something he did that day. I saw him take a half-inch bar of iron and bend it almost double with his hands. That made a great impression upon me, for I didn't believe there was another man in the colony who could do that." "Probably not," replied Tom. "But what made you think this was one of Fenton's whaleboats?" "Nothing but Fenton himself. Of course I've heard of the stories of what he's been doing since he became a pine robber. His gang is one of the worst, you know, and the minute I set my two eyes on him I suspected it was Fenton himself." "Why didn't you get word up the river as soon as you saw him?" "They've got watchers farther up, and that's their business. Besides, I didn't care to have him double me up the way he did that iron bar. Then, my business was to stay here and give the warning to anybody that might be going up the stream, you see. That's why I waved the flag when I saw you coming." "And they haven't come back yet?" inquired Tom eagerly. "No. That's what I'm waiting for. There isn't any fun in hanging out here in the wet, I can tell you. Just as soon as I can see that whaleboat coming out into the bay again I'm done." "All right, Peter, I'll go right back and report to Benzeor. Maybe he'll take you on board and carry you home." "Not unless I see the whaleboat again," said Peter doggedly as he prepared to climb to his seat in the tree again. Tom hurriedly departed and started to return with his message to the waiting Benzeor and his men, who he knew would be becoming impatient by this time. As he ran along the beach the storm smote him full in the face, but in spite of the driving rain the night was not very dark. The moon was near the full and gave sufficient light to enable him to see far out over the tossing waters. He could even discern the outlines of the little boat far up the shore, and as he ran swiftly forward he was thinking of the report he was to make to the waiting Benzeor, and his thoughts were not entirely pleasing. Fenton's deeds had become notorious in Old Monmouth. At the head of his brutal band, composed of men as desperate and reckless as he, he had pillaged and plundered throughout the county during the preceding year, and up to this time no one had been found strong enough to put a stop to his evil deeds. Any unprotected farmhouse was liable to receive one of his visits, and such a visit was seldom made without profit to the outlaws, for such in fact they were, and with their ill-gotten gains they hastened away to store them in their hiding-places among the pines. Nor was Fenton's band the only one which had its headquarters in that lonely and unfrequented region known in Old Monmouth as the "Pines." West, Disbrow, Fagan, Davenport, and many others of the lawless men, had engaged in similar occupations, and all had their hiding-places in the same wild spot, and in a measure protected and aided one another. Up to this time Fagan had been the only one to suffer the well-deserved penalty of his crimes, and in the preceding winter a band of two hundred of the desperate patriots had assembled and driven the famous, or rather infamous, outlaw to bay. At last he had been taken, and the infuriated men, mindful not only of the sufferings of their own families at his hands, but also of their possible future sufferings as well, had measured out a stern justice to the man, and with their own hands had hanged him from the long limb of a tree which stood by the side of the road which led from Monmouth Court House[1] to Trenton. Afterwards some of the patriots who had suffered most from his evil deeds had severed the skull from the body and nailed it to the tree, and then, placing the pipe between the grinning jaws, had left the uncanny sight as a warning to all who might be disposed to follow in the footsteps of the outlaw. For a few weeks the suffering patriots found relief, but only for a few weeks. Despite the terrible warning, the other bands of pine robbers soon renewed their labors, and now in the early summer of '78 the region was suffering more from the marauding bands than ever had been known before. It was all a part of the horrors of war. Sometimes, when we read of the brave deeds which have made famous some of the men who had a share in the struggle, we are prone to think only of the heroism displayed. And there was many a true hero in that and in every other war which our country has waged. We are never to forget that; but there was another side which has, to a large extent, passed from the memory of the present generation. The loss of property and of life, the sufferings of the women and children in the lonely homes, the barbarity and cruelty of evil men who, freed from the restraint of law in a time when the worst passions of men were aroused, gave free rein to their avarice and all that was bad in them, have frequently been ignored or forgotten. The glory of war or the pride in true heroism cannot entirely atone for the sufferings that were only too common in the scattered homes or lonely places. And Fenton's band was one of the worst. From their strongholds among the pines, into which few men had the hardihood to enter, they would set forth on horseback some dark night, and the tale they might have told upon their return was ever one of blood and sorrow. People tortured until in their agony they were compelled to yield up their scanty savings, raids upon the flocks and herds already becoming far too small for the necessities of their owners, burning houses, and men and women deliberately shot by the outlaws, were only a few among the many results of their raids. Not the least of the evils was the knowledge that among the people of Monmouth there were some who, while they might not openly be known as members of the bands, still gave the desired information to the leaders as to the places where possessions were secreted, or of the times when the patriots were aroused and it was best for the "Barons of the Pines," as some termed them, to remain in hiding among the tall dark trees. Professedly, the outlaws acknowledged no allegiance to either side in the struggle, but somehow it had come to pass that a stanch whig was liable to suffer far more from their depredations than his tory neighbor, and as a natural consequence the feeling between neighbors and those who had been friends was becoming more and more strained and bitter. Thoughts of these things were passing rapidly through Tom's mind as he ran swiftly on through the storm to rejoin his companions. Fenton? Yes, he had heard of him too many times not to recognize his name and to feel well assured that a visit from him in such a night could promise little good for any of the patriots dwelling near the Navesink. "Well, what is it, Tom?" said Benzeor, as the panting lad rejoined them. "Is it Little Peter on the lookout? He must have seen a ghost to have warned us to stay out here in the bay in such a night as this. I'm wet to the skin." "It's Fenton," replied Tom huskily, for he had not yet recovered his breath. "Peter said he saw him and six of his men go up the Navesink about four o'clock." "Fenton?" said Jacob quickly. "Then we're in for a night of it. We don't want to fall into the hands of that pine robber when our pockets are as well lined as they are to-night." "I'm not so sure about that," replied Benzeor slowly. "There's ten chances to one that they won't come back before morning, and if they do they won't be likely to find us in such a storm as this." As he spoke a fresh gust swept the rain directly into their faces. The storm certainly was increasing, and the prospect of spending a night in the bay was dreary enough to cause the most stout-hearted to hesitate. And it may have been that other thoughts than that of the storm influenced Benzeor. At any rate he gruffly responded, "You can do as you please, but I'm going up the Navesink. If you're afraid, you can stay here or start out across the country on foot. You'll have to speak quick if you go with me, for I'm off." Benzeor turned and grasped the bow of his boat to push her off the beach upon which she had grounded. Before he had succeeded, however, Jacob spoke up quickly and said, "We're with you, Benzeor. If you can stand it, we can." "Get aboard then, every one of you!" said Benzeor gruffly. Tom and Barzilla quickly took their places in the stern, while Benzeor, with the aid of Jacob, soon sent the boat out from the shore. The sail was soon rigged and shortened, and the little party then started for the narrow mouth of the Navesink. The boat rolled and pitched in the storm, but Benzeor had her well in hand, and soon steered into the more quiet waters of the river. Tom could see the tree as they passed, and was positive that Peter could also see them, but no hail was given, and the point was soon left far behind them. Then up the narrower waters of the river the boat sped on in her course, but not a word was spoken by any of those on board. The storm was still raging and Benzeor's attention was largely occupied in managing his craft, and the others were busied with thoughts which perhaps they did not care to express. Tom was decidedly anxious. A meeting with Fenton and his band was something of which he was fearful, and as they sped on his fears increased each moment. Benzeor's apparent indifference had not deceived him, and deep in his heart there was a lurking suspicion that perhaps he might be able to account for it, if he felt so disposed. However, he too was silent, and a half hour had passed and as yet no signs of danger had appeared. Benzeor was steering as close inshore as the wind permitted, and Tom was beginning to hope that they would succeed in making their way up the river without being discovered. Suddenly Jacob, who was seated in the bow and was keeping a constant lookout ahead, shouted, "Port! Port your helm, Benzeor! Quick! Quick!" Benzeor instantly heeded the warning, but his quick movement barely served to enable them to pass a boat which loomed up in the darkness. It was a whaleboat, and with a sinking heart Tom saw that there were six men rowing, while a seventh was seated in the stern and was serving as helmsman. Instantly Peter's words flashed into his mind, and he knew that they had barely escaped a collision with the very boat which the lookout had discovered making its way up the Navesink late in the afternoon. The party could be none other than that of Fenton and his outlaw band. FOOTNOTE: [1] Freehold. CHAPTER IV BENZEOR'S VISITOR "HOLD on there! Hold on, I say! Stop, or we'll shoot!" The words were shouted by some one in the whaleboat, and Benzeor evidently was about to heed the sharp command. He quickly changed the course of the boat, and as the shortened sail flapped in the wind as the little
{'title': "The Boys of Old Monmouth: A Story of Washington's Campaign in New Jersey in 1778", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}