The Boys of Old Monmouth Part 19

"So I would, if it hadn't been for the barn floor."

Tom thought the barn floor was perhaps as much of a disadvantage to the pursued as to the pursuer, but he discreetly held his peace and said no more.

"Now, old man, you can get us some breakfast. My men will be back here in no time with the young rebel, and will have all the better appet.i.te because of their morning's work. You can feed us all, can't you?" said the officer.

"I have spoken to Rachel. Doubtless she will do her best for thee."

The men at once proceeded to place their horses in the barn and serve them freely from the Quaker's store. Then they entered the house and seated themselves at the table which Rachel had spread for them, although they first stationed one of their companions as guard.

For a time no one spoke, so busied were they in their occupation, and Tom Coward was not one whit behind any of them. He was tired and hungry, and the breakfast was doubly welcome to him. Rachel moved quietly about the room, her drab dress and broad white collar being in marked contrast to the brilliant uniforms of her self-invited guests.

"Old man," said the officer at last, "I wish you'd tell me how it happened that that young rebel was here on your place. You weren't sheltering him, were you?"

"Nay," replied Nathan. "In times like these, Friends are not p.r.o.ne to shelter any soldiers. Our guests are only those who come without any bidding of ours."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the officer. "I fancy you mean that as a reproach for us. Well, we'll pay you for our breakfast, never you fear about that.

Your scruples don't carry you so far that you object to receiving a return in good yellow or white metal, do they?"

"The laborer is ever worthy of his hire. I shall be thankful for any equivalent it may seem good unto thee to bestow upon me."

"That's right, that's right. Trust a broad brim for that every time. I'm not complaining, old man, I'm not complaining. You don't happen to know just where the rebel army is at present, do you?"

"It is reported that Washington is on the march for this very place.

Even now he may be approaching."

"Do you know that?" inquired the officer in a lower tone.

"Nay. I know nothing of their movements. It is all of the current report I am speaking to thee. I fear me that a man of peace is likely to suffer double ills between the two armies, for it is also reported that the British and their Hessian companions are also likely to march through this very region."

If the officer had glanced at the old Quaker he would have discovered that there was a very keen expression upon his face as he ventured the last supposition. But as he did not look up it was all lost upon him, and perhaps if he had seen it, he would not have understood its meaning, since his host was ostensibly a man of peace.

"I'm not so sure of that," said the officer quietly. "We've come to look over the land and report to Colonel Simcoe. What makes you think the rebels are near here, and are likely to march this way?"

"I will tell thee truly. The young man whom your companions are pursuing slept last night in my barn. He informed me frankly that Washington was to pa.s.s this way"--

"And fall on our army?" broke in the officer eagerly.

"That is the natural inference for thee to draw. It's a sad day for the Friends. They are ground between the upper and the nether millstones, for I understood thee to say that the British also were to come hither."

"You can understand what you please," replied the leader gruffly.

"You've given me the information I most desire and Colonel Simcoe would be glad to reward you for it, but being, as you are, a man of peace, of course you wouldn't be willing to take anything from a man whose occupation is blood letting. h.e.l.lo! here's the guard!" he added, rising abruptly from the table as he spoke. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," replied the guard, "except that our men are returning from the woods."

"And did they catch the young rebel?"

"No, or at least he's not with them now."

All hurriedly left the table and rushed out into the yard, Tom also going with them. The men could be seen returning across the lot, but it was at once evident that the young lieutenant was not with them.

"What's the trouble? How was it that you let the slippery little rebel get away from you?" demanded the leader, as the soldiers once more entered the yard.

"Simply because he could ride faster than we could," replied one of the band in a surly tone. "His horse was fresh and ours had been out all night."

The officer was angry, but, after a few sharp words to his men, he bade them enter the kitchen and get their breakfast.

"Did thee find him?" inquired Nathan.

"No, we didn't find him. I'd chase him right into camp if it wasn't that I must hurry back to the colonel with the word you've given me. You're sure about what you told me?"

"What did I tell thee?" inquired Nathan blandly.

"About the march of the rebels," replied the officer angrily. "I half believe you're in league with them yourself, in spite of all your whining words. If I thought you were I'd leave your body for the crows to pick."

"And is that the method which seemeth to thee to prove thou art right, and that I am no man of peace?"

"Oh, never mind, old man, never mind my words. Perhaps I'm a little too hard with you. This young rebel's getting away from us has put me out of temper. What I want to know is whether you believe what you said about the rebels coming through Cranberry."

"I have given thee the words as they were given me. I am not in the councils of the 'rebels,' as it seemeth good to thee to call them, and cannot say more. It is for thee to judge, not me, who am a man of peace and not familiar with the ways of warlike men."

By this time the men had finished their breakfast, and a hurried consultation followed. The decision at which they arrived was soon apparent when the leader approached Nathan, and, holding forth some silver in his hand, said, "There, take that for the breakfast you've given us."

"I thank thee," replied Nathan, accepting the money.

"Are you going back with us, lad?" said the officer, turning to Tom as he spoke.

"No. You said all you wanted of me was to point out the way to Cranberry."

"So I did, but if this old man speaks the truth,--and I'm inclined to think he does,--you'll be better off with us than you will be to stay behind when the rebels are coming. You'll have a good horse to ride, too; you must not forget that."

"I think I'll stay. I'm not afraid of the rebels, and can find my way all right." Tom's heart was beating rapidly, and the fear that permission for him to remain would not be granted was uppermost in his thoughts.

"Have it your own way, lad, have it your own way. I only spoke what I thought was for your own best good."

He gave a few orders to his men, and in a brief time the band departed, riding swiftly up the road and soon disappearing from sight.

"This was not a bad morning's work, Friend Thomas," said Nathan, when at last the men were gone, jingling the silver in his pocket as he spoke.

"It was a good deal better than I ever expected to have," replied Tom.

Neither of them realized, however, the full consequences, for Nathan's words, in addition to what the officer had already discovered, caused him to return in all haste with the information he had received to Colonel Simcoe. That officer, upon receiving the word, which was corroborated by other discoveries he had made, at once reported to Sir Henry Clinton, and an immediate change in the plans of the British was made. The advance to the Raritan was speedily abandoned, the route to the Highlands was at once chosen, and it was decided that the army should march by the way of Monmouth Court House. The battle of Monmouth, which soon followed, thus became possible, and that, with all its consequences to the struggling patriots, turned upon the information which Colonel Simcoe had received, and which he speedily carried to his commander.

Upon such slight events do those which we sometimes call the greater ones turn. Perhaps as we grow older and wiser we shall come to perceive more clearly the true relation which the so-called little things of life bear to the greater ones. A very wise man once declared that "he who was faithful in the little affairs of life was very greatly faithful." In any event, we have partially learned the lesson that it is a test of true greatness to be able to do little things well, and that the very best evidence of a man's being able to do the greater things is that he is willing to do the smaller ones, as they come to him, faithfully and honestly.

However, neither Nathan nor Tom was moralizing after this fashion when they entered the house after watching the departure of the British soldiers. Tom then related all his recent experiences to Nathan, not omitting the story of Benzeor's misdeeds.

The old Quaker listened attentively, and it was apparent from his frequent expressions of anger that his interest in the success of the Continentals was not entirely banished by his peaceful professions.