A Jersey boy in the revolution

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Preface

Tuts story is founded upon the lives and deeds of some of the humbler heroes of the American Revolution. For the most part, the incidents and adventures interwoven in the tale are strictly true, and have been taken from the early records. The author has attempted, at least, to portray the perils and efforts of these forgotten men and women to protect themselves and their homes not only against an invading army, but also against the lawless men who were quick to take advantage of the contest for their own gain, and whose evil deeds were frequently ascribed by each of the contending armies to the other.

From this latter class no States in the Union suffered more than did New Jersey and South Carolina. The sturdy heroism of the humble people is often ignored in our histories; but it is as much a part of our vi PREFACE national inheritance as was the bravery in the open field. Indeed, the lives of the noble people, their fidelity and determination, their patience and faith, are all the most valuable portions of our heritage to-day. No monuments may have been erected to their memory, but they are none the less among the “unseen things which are eternal.”

This tale has therefore been written in the modest hope that it may stimulate the boys and girls of the present generation to learn more concerning the principles for which their fathers contended, and that they may not consider them least among the possessions which are now their own.

“The greatest gift a hero leaves his race Is to have been a hero. Say we fail !— We feed the high traditions of the world And leave our spirit in our children’s breasts.”

EVERETT T. TOMLINSON,

ELIZABETH, NEW JERSEY.

Contents

A Spy 1n O_tp MonmovuTH THE MARCH IN THE NIGHT THE DECISION

Tur DEPARTURE FROM THE CAMP

A DANGEROUS UNDERTAKING IN THE FOREST

Chapter I A Strange Stranger

TE road which led to Shrewsbury for the most part was through a tangled brush, and with tall pine-trees and chestnuts along its borders. Occasionally some fertile farm lands could be seen, and here and there a quaint dwelling-house appeared; but these were the exception and not the rule, for in 1778 Old Monmouth County, New Jersey, was still a _ sparsely settled region. It is true the county was called “Old” Monmouth even in those days, and compared with certain other parts of the colonies, or “states,” as they were then termed by some, there were many more people dwelling within its borders than rival counties could boast; but the evidences of newness were not wanting even in “Old” Monmouth.

In the road itself were the stumps of trees v4 A JERSEY BOY IN THE REVOLUTION which had been felled to open up a highway, and the deep ruts and rough places which abounded all proclaimed the lack of travel as well as of care. The September leaves, parched and sere from the intense heat of the preceding summer, were already falling, and as a gust of wind whirled them about fora moment before they dropped upon the highway, they served to increase the impression of loneliness and desolation. Squirrels were darting about in the woods in quest of their store of nuts for the winter days which soon would come, and the little gray “ cottontails,” as the Jersey people call the rabbits, appeared to feel no more alarm at being seen in the road than in the depths of the forests. A call of some bird occasionally broke in upon the stillness, but the quiet of the September day was only rendered the more intense by the plaintive cry.

Suddenly the squirrels for a moment abandoned their search and the little gray cottontails sat erect and listened intently. A sound not unknown had been heard, and instantly every denizen of the woods was alert, for the approach of a man was something they had already learned to fear. Soon the cause of the commotion appeared, when trudging along the rough roadway came a well-grown lad who evidently was familiar with the locality, and who walked sturdily on, alike unmindful of the curious glances of the saucy little squirrels and of the half-challenging attitude of the cottontails, which, ready to dart into the woods at the first sign of danger, still hesitated and lingered, and with ears erect watched the approach of the stranger.

Tom Coward, however, was too much troubled to heed the presence of the little dwellers in the forest. He swung the club he carried in his hands, and glancing neither to the right nor to the left, walked steadily forward as unmindful of the quick resumption of labor behind him as he had been of its cessation when he approached, for his heart was troubled over graver problems than

cottontails or squirrels could present.

In all the eighteen summers of his young life not one had been so tragic as that which had just passed. The advance of the British into old Monmouth and the terrible battle which had taken place only three months before this time had taught him more of the horrors of war and of the suffering which follows it than he had ever thought possible before.

Tom had had a part in that great battle. It was only a small part, it was true, but even to serve as a guide for some of the forces on that hot June morning had enabled him to learn from the inside what a desperate conflict between men of kindred races was like. For days the cries of the wounded, the groans of the dying, the sight of maimed and bleeding men, clad in coats of scarlet or of buff, had not departed from him. In the night sometimes he would start from his sleep with a cry which roused his bedfellow, Peter Van Mater, and it would require all his efforts to calm himself and once more resume his place beside his friend. The glory and the glamour of war were gone forever. Since the battle Tom had remained at the home of his foster father, Benzeor Osburn; and although the reasons which influenced him to do so have been recorded in another book,* it may be wise to recount them briefly for the sake of the readers of the present story.

Years before this time, so far away, in fact, that the events had faded from Tom’s mind, in one of the numerous gales which sweep over the Jersey shore, a noble schooner had been wrecked off the Monmouth coast. The

1 The Boys of Old Monmouth.

country people had assembled on the beach and watched the vessel struggling in the storm, until at last, driven on by compassion for the unfortunate people on board, a half dozen men had manned a whale-boat and set forth over the tossing sea to their aid. Before the luckless schooner could be gained she had foundered and disappeared beneath the waters, and the horror-stricken men who had gone to her relief at once began to search for the bodies of those who had cast themselves into the waves.

The only ones they had discovered were those of a woman and little child, fast bound to a floating bale of cotton; but when they were brought ashore it was speedily found | that only the child was living. The body of the dead mother was afterwards buried in the ‘near-by churchyard and her child was “bound out” to Benzeor Osburn, a farmer in Old Monmouth.

Tom Coward had heard the story many times and knew that he was the waif who had been rescued in the storm. The name Cow: erd had been found upon his clothing, but in all the years not a word had been heard which would indicate who or what he was. |

In Benzeor Osburn’s home he had _ been brought up much as the other country boys of the region had been. Benzeor had not been unkind to him, but the family was large and the demands many, so Tom had neither expected nor received any special favors. He had toiled in the fields and shared the privations without a murmur, well aware that his lot was not unlike that of many of the Monmouth lads. For Benzeor Osburn he had cherished no special feelings of any kind, looking upon him as his lawful master until that longed-for time should come when he would be twenty-one years of age and free to labor for himself. For Mistress Osburn, the worn and spiritless little mother of the large family, Tom’s feeling was one of pity; but for Sarah, the oldest of the children, a girl of his own age, he had a strong liking. Sarah’s energy and decision, her undaunted courage and gentleness had made her the stay of the family, and to the bound boy she was almost like a true sister.

The adjoining farm had been owned by the Van Maters, and there Tom had passed many of the infrequent holidays which came to him, for he and the eldest of the Van Mater boys were fast friends. Together they trapped and fished, and each shared with the other

A STRANGE STRANGER T his hopes and plans for the future. Tom’s friend was familiarly known as Little Peter, to distinguish him from his father who bore the same name. It is true that “ Little” Peter towered now more than a head above his father, but the appellation bestowed in childhood still continued. The Van Maters had been patriots of the most ardent kind, and at the breaking out of hostilities Peter, the father, had been among the first to enlist, and the son had been left as the main support of the mother and the five children. It is needless to say that the sentiments of the father were also those of the son; and Tom Coward, not to be behind in faithfulness, was as loyal as his friend. Many were the times when they planned to enter the army and share in the stirring experiences of the times ; but neither could leave home, and so their visions and dreams bade fair to be unfulfilled.

Unexpectedly, and in a manner which Old Monmouth never forgot, both boys were drawn into service, and the life they had known was gone forever; and the way of it was as follows. When trouble had first arisen between the colonies and the mother country, Benzeor Osburn had been among the loudest in his apparent devotion to the American cause, for he had ever been one to oppose taxation of any kind. When, however, the war had followed, and something more than protests were required, Benzeor’s patriotism had weakened, and gradually his affections were transferred, though they were not bestowed upon King George and his soldiers.

In Old Monmouth, as the war progressed, bands of reckless and evil men had been formed, who were quick to take advantage of — the prevailing struggle for their own profit. From their headquarters among the pines in the lower part of the county, they sallied forth to make attacks upon the scattered homes, and always left a trail of suffering and loss behind them. As many of the brave Monmouth men were then in Washington’s army, there were few left to protect the women and children from the “ pine robbers,” as the outlaws were called, and as a natural consequence the boldness of the bands and the fear of the people increased.

Benzeor Osburn had been drawn to these evil men. Their gains and immunity from punishment had appealed so strongly to his avaricious mind that at last he had virtually become one of them, though he fancied that none of his neighbors was aware of his deeds.

Tom Coward, hearing strange voices in the house at night and suspicious of the frequent absences of his foster father from home, had become convinced that Benzeor was playing a double part, but he was in no wise prepared for the revelation which came one never-to-beforgotten night.

It was a night when Peter Van Mater was expected for a visit in his home, he having obtained permission to leave the advancing army for a brief time; but somehow the pine robbers had learned of his plan and acted accordingly. Arriving at the place a half hour before the coming of the soldier, they had demanded of Mistress Van Mater the money which they declared was concealed somewhere about the house. The sturdy woman had refused to give up her possessions, and in the ~ turmoil which followed she had been shot by the outlaws, and her husband, upon his arrival, had been seized and carried away for the reward which was offered for every captured continental. And Tom Coward in his heart had been convinced that Benzeor Osburn had been one of those who had made the attack upon the Van Mater household.

The alarm and horror which followed the deed were almost indescribable. Little Peter had left the children in the care of the neighbors and gone to search for his father. Tom had résolved to leave Benzeor’s house and carry out the project he long had cherished, of joining the approaching army of Washington. Not even to Sarah did he breathe his suspicion of her father; but as Benzeor had at once departed from the region, perhaps there was slight need of that, after all.

On his way to the army Tom had fallen in with young Lieutenant Gordon, a Monmouth boy, whom General Maxwell had sent to mark the places where bridges were to be found in front of the advancing British army. As they journeyed on together, the leutenant had described to Tom his experiences, dwelling’ particularly upon the sights he had seen in Philadelphia, where, he casually informed his friend, he had heard of a Colonel Coward among the British forces there.

Tom had remained with the army for a time, serving as guide in the region familiar to him ;-but after the terrible battle of Monmouth, by a strange course of events he had been brought back to Benzeor’s house, and to his surprise discovered that Little Peter and his younger brothers and sisters were also there. A quiet word from Sarah had in formed him of her suspicions of her father, and Tom quickly understood that the true-hearted girl was eager to provide a home for those whom Benzeor had helped to make homeless.

In response to her appeal, both Tom and Little Peter had remained upon the place until the time of the opening of this story. The scanty crops had now been gathered and the pressing problem of the immediate future must be faced.

Tom’s thoughts had gone back again and again to the words of Lieutenant Gordon concerning the Colonel Coward he had heard of in the British troops. The lad’s own homeless condition had led him to dwell upon the information more and more. When he had been husking the corn or digging potatoes in _ the field, he had been thinking of the problem, until at last his longing to know something more concerning himself had become intense. Whowas he? Where had his home been? Had he brothers and sisters? The very thought of such a possibility was sufficient to send the blood bounding through the lad’s veins; but the reaction would come when he thought of his own helplessness. What could he ever do to find out the truth?

Not even to Little Peter had Tom told his thoughts, but the longing had become steadily stronger ; and at last unable to rest without making some effort to learn more, he had resolved to go to the home of Mr. Edwards in Shrewsbury and relate all the story to him, and seek his advice and aid.

It was true that Mr. Edwards was one of the stanchest loyalists in Old Monmouth. His son Stephen Edwards was in the British army in New York, and the father had never feared to declare his allegiance to the British king. Differing, however, from many of his Tory neighbors, he had been calm and dignified in the midst of the prevailing excitement, and even the confiscation of his property and threats against his life had not availed to induce him to enter into the controversy or the struggle.

Tom Coward had not lost any of his devotion for the cause of the colonies; but as he had a sheht acquaintance with Mr. Edwards, and as he also had a feeling of respect for him, in spite of the man’s well-known Tory sympathies, he had resolved to go to him and tell him all he knew, which was but little, and all he desired to know, which was much more.

The secret hope in Tom’s heart was that the son Stephen, whose wife was staying in the Edwards home while her husband was absent in the army, might be induced to make some inquiries in the city, and if he should by any chance meet the mystical Colonel Coward, he could very easily ascertain whether the officer had ever heard of any of his immediate family being lost off the Jersey shore in a storm a dozen or more years ago.

It was with some such thoughts in his mind, then, that Tom Coward was trudging along the rough road to Shrewsbury, and as the September sun began to sink lower in the western sky, he knew that the end of his journey now could not be far distant. Two miles more and he must be near the place in which Mr. Edwards was living.

The lad had been walking since noon, for horses were scarce in Monmouth after the battle; but Tom had not cared for the distance, and even expected to return that very night after his visit had been accomplished.

The moon would be near the full, and while prowling pine robbers would doubtless be out on their missions of woe, Tom had slight fear of them himself. If any of them should be discovered, it would be an easy matter to dart into the near-by woods and wait for them to depart. If the worst came to pass, he was unarmed and had nothing about him worth the taking. The worst he had to expect was a brutal kick or a blow on the head, and for such little things as that Tom had slight fear. At all events, they were secondary considerations; and in the eagerness which came now with the thought that the long desired visit was at last about to be made, the lad quickened his pace and was about to run, when he suddenly stopped as he discovered some one in the road in advance of him and evidently going in the same direction.

Tom’s first impulse was to turn about, but as he peered keenly ahead his fears were in a measure allayed when he discovered that the stranger was a woman. It was unusual that so near nightfall a woman should be on the road and alone. She must be a newcomer or she would never have dared to enter that lonely road unaccompanied. It might be some one he knew, and at the thought Tom stopped again and shouted: “Hello! Hello! Wait a minute and I’ll catch up with you!”

The effect of his call was not what he expected, for giving one startled glance behind her the woman appeared to hesitate for a mo-

ment and then acted as if she were about to

dart into the woods by the roadside.

©Holdon! Hold on!” called Tom. “I’m all alone. Wait for me!”

Apparently concluding that escape was impossible and that the stranger had spoken truly, the woman halted and Tom began to run toward her. As he approached he noted that she wore a long sunbonnet which almost concealed her face, but what impressed him far more than the bonnet or the dress was the fact that he had never before seen a women with such broad shoulders. She certainly was a stranger, and Tom felt somewhat abashed as he joined her. He had not been able to see her face, and for some reason it was kept turned away from him, though _ whether from modesty or fear Tom could not determine.

“1 beg your pardon, madam,” he began ; “1 saw that you were alone and I did not know but it might be a neighbor, so I called. Do you prefer to have me go on alone?”

“It matters not,” replied the woman; “I go but a short distance, I thank you.”

Tom glanced up quickly as she spoke. Surely no woman before ever possessed such a voice as that. At least he had never heard the like from any of his feminine acquaintances. ‘As he looked down at the ground his confusion was increased when he discovered that his companion was wearing the heavy boots such as the soldier had. What could it mean? Who was this strange being by his side?

He was silent for a moment and then said, “T also go but a short distance up the road. Know you where Mr. Edwards lives?”’

The question seemed to arouse a strange excitement in his companion. For a moment she stopped, and Tom thought she was about to turn and run back in the road. More and more puzzled, the lad began to apologize, although he could not understand why such a simple question could produce such an excitement, when the woman turned and tremblingly faced him. |

The low beams of the afternoon sun fell full upon her face, and Tom could not repress the exclamation that rose to his lips.

“It is you, Tom Coward, I see,’ said the woman. ‘Do you know me?”

“¢{—_ ]— | — think I do,” faltered Tom, « J — I —think so.”

“You are not positive though, are you?

You do not feel so sure, that you will feel called upon to refer to it to any one?”’

Tom hesitated. There was a conflict between pity and blame, anger and sympathy going on in his heart.

“‘T am hoping you will not feel it too much, just simply to refrain from mentioning our meeting in the hearing of others,” she repeated.

‘Suppose some one asks me?” inquired Tom nervously, for he had just obtained a glimpse of the barrel of a pistol in the hands of the woman.

“No one will ask you,” responded the stranger quickly, “or if any one should, all you need to reply is that you met a strange woman in the road. Do you hear me, Tom Coward ?”’

“Yes, I hear you. I have met a strange woman truly.”

“Mark me then! If you are going to Mr. Edwards’s, then understand me, I am not. You hear me, I take it?”

Ves.”

“And what may be your errand at Mr. Edwards’s, if I make bold to inquire ?”

*‘] wish to send a message to his son.”

“¢ And where is his son? Stephen Edwards, [ fancy you mean ?”

“Yes, Stephen. Stephen—is in New York,” said Tom at last.

“Yes, Stephen Edwards is in New York. Is it necessary for you to see his father?”

“‘T wish to see him on a matter of importance. It concerns no one but myself,” he hastily added, “and has to do only with myself, except that his son Stephen, who is in New York, may be able to aid me.”

“His son Stephen, who is in New York, can aid you in any reasonable matter. I know whereof I speak, for out of my own experience I have learned that he appreciates a friend. Go now.”

Thus bidden Tom turned and_ hastened along the road toward the house of Mr. Edwards, which was distant about a quarter of a mile. Only once did he glance behind him, and then he perceived that his recent companion had disappeared from sight.

Troubled and perplexed far more than he could express, Tom soon after entered the lane which led to the house Mr. Edwards then was occupying with his family, and in response to his knock the door was opened by the very man whom he had come to see.

CHAPTER If AN AGITATED TORY

Ir was at once evident to Tom that Mr. Edwards was agitated and excited. His cus tomary calmness was sadly wanting, and the lad in the recollection of his recent meeting with the strange woman in the road had no difficulty in understanding the cause of the man’s uneasiness. The expression of relief which came over Mr. Edwards’s face when he recognized his visitor was so marked that Tom felt his heart go out in sympathy to the old man in spite of his well-known adherence _ to the cause of the British king.

“¢ Come in, Thomas,” said Mr. Edwards, his voice trembling in spite of his efforts to control it. “ You are far from home. Have you had any supper?” :

“Yes,” replied Tom, as he accepted the invitation to enter and seated himself in the kitchen. “I brought something to eat with me.”’

“Ts everything safe at Benzeor’s? Per haps I ought not to ask the question, for no one and no place is safe in these godless times.”’ | “ Everything was all right when I left and probably is now, for as you know there are special reasons why Benzeor’s place is not likely to be attacked.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Edwards hastily. “T know, I know. But no one is safe now, and every day brings a darker view than the day before it.” As he spoke the old man rose from his seat and, approaching the door, listened for a moment, and then returned to the room. ‘Iam living in a constant state of fear,’ he explained, “and you must not heed my actions. What brings you here, Thomas ?” _ “Mr, Edwards,” began Tom abruptly, com-

ing at once to the purpose of his visit, “ you knew I am _ Benzeor’s bound boy, didn’t you? Youknow howl came there? You’ve heard the story of the wreck when my mother was drowned ?”’

“Yes,” replied Mr. Edwards gently. “I was in the crowd on the beach at the time. "T was a fearful gale, Thomas, and it was almost a miracle that you were saved. Not another soul came ashore that day.”

AN AGITATED TORY 21 “So I have heard. I have been thinking all summer of that wreck and of my poor drowned mother who is buried in the graveyard over by the church. Last summer Lieutenant Gordon told me that he had heard of an officer in the British army named Colonel Coward. Now I don’t know whether he is any of my family or not, but I’ve been thinking of him all summer and wondering whether I could n’t find out more about him, Sometimes it seems to me I just must drop everything and find that man.”

“ Why do you come to me with your story, Thomas? Did you fancy I would be able to assist you?’’ Mr. Edwards smiled somewhat bitterly as he spoke.

“1 know you don’t think as a good many of the people in Old Monmouth do about the war, but I didn’t know but Stephen might be able to learn something about that Colonel Coward and report to you. Stephen is in New York, isn’t he?”

“ Yes, yes, Stephen is in New York,”’ said Mr. Edwards hastily. “If ever I might be able to see him or get word to him, it is pos sible that he might know or find out something about the man. Hark! What was that?”

The dusk was deepening, and Tom could not see the expression upon the old man’s face. _ However, he had heard a door opened in the adjoining room and the sound of voices in a low conversation. Surely he recognized one of the voices, and it had not been long since he had heard it in the road over which he had come that very afternoon. It was not strange that Mr. Edwards should be agitated, and in spite of his lack of sympathy for his host’s Tory principles, he could feel for him in other ways.

Mr. Edwards departed from the room, and his voice also could be heard in the other room. Concluding that the time had come for him to go home, now that he had delivered his message and that he was likely to hear or learn more than he cared to know at that time, Tom rose and remained standing in the room.

His first impulse was to depart at once and without bidding Mr. Edwards good-night, but he wished to thank the old man for his implied willingness to aid him, and besides he was fearful that his departure would be misunderstood. Accordingly he waited, though he still could hear the low voices in the adjoining room, and the sound only served to increase his own feeling of uneasiness and alarm.

Just at that time Mr. Edwards reéntered the room, and taking a long splinter from the bundle which was hanging near the fireplace, thrust it into the fire and prepared to light a candle.

“T’m going now, Mr. Edwards,” said Tom quickly. “I thank you for your kindness, and if you can get word to Stephen and he is willing to make a few inquiries concerning Colonel Coward, I shall be very grateful. It means more to me than you can know.”

“Nay, nay, Thomas. Do not go yet. I beg of you to remain. As I was saying, I feel very confident that I can get word to my son and he will aid you, I am positive he will. Be pleased to be seated again.”