"And where did you sleep at nights?" inquired Nathan.

"Where we could," Barnabas answered bitterly. "Those of us who had blankets were glad to sleep on the hard ground, though the weather was the coldest and the snows the deepest I ever knew. As for those who had no covering--why, lad, I've seen dozens of men, after working hard all day, sit awake around the fires from sunset till sunrise to keep from freezing. And all this time Lord Howe and his army were snug and warm in our Philadelphia, an' livin' off the fat of the land."

"Which they're doing yet," Nathan exclaimed, wrathfully. "Haven't I seen them with my own eyes?"

"Just wait till the winter's over," said Barnabas. "They may be singing a different tune then. Ain't Benjamin Franklin across the sea tryin' to get the French to help us, lad?"

"Yes," a.s.sented Nathan.

"And is there no word from him yet?"

"Not yet, Barnabas; but it may come any day."

"It can't come too soon," replied the old man. "And now to go on with my story. As I was saying, lad, it was the first of the year till we got into the huts, and since then we've been sufferin' purty near as bad.

The horses died by hundreds, and the men had to haul their own supplies and fire-wood. And look at the sick men in the hospital, and men with legs amputated, and men with legs froze black--that's on account of there being no straw to sleep on. But it's no use my tellin' you, for you'll see it all yourself."

"I have seen it," exclaimed Nathan, "even in the short time I have been here, and what I wonder at most is the way the men endure their sufferings. There is no complaining--"

"Complaining?" interrupted Barnabas. "I should say not, lad. This is an army of heroes, from General Washington down. You should have seen your father during some of them blackest times, not thinking of himself, but sharing his rations and blanket with others, and helping weak and sick soldiers in their work--"

Barnabas stopped thus abruptly, seeing tears in Nathan's eyes, and wisely tacked off on a different subject. For some time longer the two friends chatted, discussing the past and the future, and deploring the well-known fact that Congress and the people were withholding their sympathies and confidence from Washington in this the darkest period of his career.

At last the bugles sounded taps, and they retired to their damp huts to sleep till the dawn of another day.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH NATHAN'S MILITARY CAREER VERY NEARLY TERMINATES

Within a few days Nathan was thoroughly accustomed to his new life, and though the weather turned bitter and freezing, giving him a taste of the hardships the army had endured before his arrival, he felt no longing or desire to return to the comfortable guardianship of Cornelius De Vries.

On the contrary, he took pride in showing that he could endure the rigors and duties of camp-life as unflinchingly as the older and veteran soldiers. His pluck and boyish good nature quickly made him a favorite with officers and men alike. He was always ready to help a comrade, or to a.s.sume tasks that did not properly belong to him. Without a murmur he did picket-duty by day or night, in rain and snow and freezing cold. He made light of the poor and scanty food that was served out to him, and when he lay awake shivering for want of sufficient covering, his bed-fellows heard never a word of complaint from his lips.

Thus a week pa.s.sed, and the lad's heroic and steadfast performance of duty was all the more praiseworthy because he was hourly tortured by fears for his father's life. The result of Captain Stanbury's wound was still uncertain. He was delirious and in a high fever, and none but the hospital attendants and surgeons were permitted to see him. He was receiving the best care and treatment possible under the circ.u.mstances, and his vigorous const.i.tution was a strong point in his favor; but until the crisis was reached the issue could not be foretold. Not only the Wyoming men, but many others as well, longed and prayed for the gallant captain's recovery. Washington sent twice daily to inquire for him, and on several occasions spoke a few words of comfort and hope to Nathan in person.

In the meantime the lad had written to Cornelius De Vries, and the letter, together with certain official dispatches to patriot friends in Philadelphia, was delivered by a trusty messenger. The latter, on his return to camp, brought papers for Washington and a reply to Nathan's letter. Of necessity the worthy Hollander wrote briefly, yet what he had to say was full of interest. He expressed deep sorrow for Captain Stanbury's critical illness, and while he showed that he was sorry to lose Nathan and missed him greatly, he took pains to give the lad some good advice suitable for a soldier's career. Referring to the memorable night at the Indian Queen, he stated that Anthony Benezet and Timothy Matlack had escaped to the lower floor of the tavern in the darkness and confusion that followed the pursuit of Nathan, and that Jenkins had concealed them in the cellar until the danger was over. "Major Langdon was slightly wounded in the arm," a postscript added, "by the bullet that shattered his lantern."

A few words must be said here concerning Mr. Noah Waxpenny. That peculiar individual did not appear again at the Indian Queen. Being under the impression that the information given him was true, and that Major Langdon was not in the town, he took up temporary quarters at the Cross Keys Inn on Chestnut Street. For several days he was occupied in making sly inquiries about Richard Stanbury and a certain other person, with what success will appear further on in the story. Then, still taking it for granted that Major Langdon was not in Philadelphia, he set out for Long Island in search of him. But on reaching New York he was prostrated by illness resulting from a heavy cold, and in that city he lay on his back for weeks, unable to give any attention to the task that had brought him to America.

A few days after the receipt of Cornelius De Vries's letter, and while Captain Stanbury was still hovering between life and death, Nathan met with an adventure which very nearly terminated fatally, but which raised him even higher in the estimation of the commander-in-chief. To his own quick wits and courage he owed his escape, but in after life he could never recall that night without a shudder.

Driven by necessity to make use of a power granted him by Congress, Washington had issued a proclamation to all the farmers within seventy miles of Valley Forge--they were mostly Tories in their sympathies--ordering them to thresh out as much grain as might be demanded, and at short notice, under penalty of having their whole stock seized as straw. Requisitions were first made on the farmers living at a distance, while those in the vicinity of the camp were prudently left till the last. Among the latter was a certain Jacob Troup, a man known to be loyal to the Americans, and the owner of a large barn stocked with the previous summer's crop of wheat and oats. His turn came during the third week in February, and as the farm was close to camp, and Troup had three or four hirelings in his employ, a lot of confiscated grain was brought there to be threshed at the same time with his own.

For three days the work went on, the greater portion of the grain acc.u.mulating in the loyal farmer's granary preparatory to being carted to camp. But, late in the afternoon of the fourth day, Washington received word that a force of British cavalry had been seen within twenty miles of Valley Forge, and this news, considered in connection with a well-founded rumor that spies were, or had been, within the lines, led him to take prompt measures to secure the large store of grain.

For this duty twenty men of the Wyoming Company were detailed, and Barnabas Otter and Nathan were of the number. So many of the officers were sick or disabled that the command of the little party fell to the lot of Corporal Dubbs. Shortly after supper they formed in the company street and marched quietly through the camp, heading southwest toward Philadelphia. They pa.s.sed out of the lines between Knox's batteries and Woodford's redoubt, from which point the farmhouse of Jacob Troup was rather more than a mile distant.

It was as bitter and stormy a night as the army at Valley Forge could remember in all that winter. That morning a brief thaw had been succeeded by a cold snap, which formed a hard crust on the snow that thickly covered the ground. Since afternoon fresh snow had been falling, and now the flakes were coming down in a dense, fine ma.s.s. Aided by a cutting wind drifts were gathering here and there, and it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The cold was still intense.

Under these circ.u.mstances the thinly-clad and poorly-shod men suffered greatly as they marched on in the teeth of the storm, leading with them four horses that were to haul the grain to camp in the farmer's big sledge. But not a word of complaint was uttered. The thought that the success of their mission meant bread for the army kept their spirits up, and like true heroes they faced the cold and snow. No doubt the brave fellows longed for a fight to heat their blood, but there was little chance that any of the British would be hovering near on such a night as this.

On they went, holding their musket-stocks with numbed fingers. In a black line they straggled through the storm, up hill and down, across patches of timber and low scrub, now knee-deep in fresh snow-drifts, now plodding over the wind-swept crust beneath. At last the leader gave the word to halt. It was in a hollow partly sheltered from the wind, and straight ahead, toward Philadelphia, the snowy landscape merged duskily into the night. To the left a narrow lane led fifty yards to the farm buildings of Jacob Troup. Word of the coming had been sent to him, and a cheery light was flashing in house and barn.

"All's well," declared Corporal Dubbs. "I expected nothing else, for the Britishers ain't the kind of chaps to stir from their warm fires in such weather. But precautions won't go amiss, and I'm going to post half a dozen pickets to watch while the rest of us load the grain."

Accordingly he selected two men, and gave them orders to advance to the left and take their stand on a road that lay some distance to the rear of the farm buildings. "Amos Brown," he said, "you and Tom Relyea march in the opposite direction--off here to the right--and keep on till you come to the road that leads to the Schuylkill beyond Valley Creek."

The corporal now turned to Barnabas Otter, pointing one numbed hand straight ahead to the southwest, in a direction at right angles to those indicated to the other sentries. "Comrade, you know who lives over yonder?" he asked.

"Abner Wilkinson," replied Barnabas. "I've seen the place often. The owner is a rank Tory."

"Ay, he's said to be," admitted the corporal, "and I reckon opinion is right. He certainly looked mighty sour when we stript him of his grain and stock. Well, to proceed, just back of Abner Wilkinson's barn is a broad lane that connects further on with the main highway from Philadelphia. It's bordered by woods, and if the enemy come at all, they'll likely come that way. So you post yourself on that little hill overlooking the road beyond the barn--it's not much over a quarter of a mile from here. Nathan Stanbury will go with you as far as the orchard this side of the house, and that's where I want him to stay. Do you understand?"

"Ay, ay, sir," a.s.sented Barnabas.

"And you, lad?"

"Yes, I understand," said Nathan. "I'm to mount guard at the edge of the orchard."

"Exactly; and keep an eye on the house. I'm telling you this because of the rumors about spies being in camp. The family are living in Philadelphia, and Abner Wilkinson is said to be there too. But I've my doubts about that, and you and Barnabas may learn something to-night if you're wide-awake."

The six pickets had stepped to the front as their names were called, and Corporal Dubbs now addressed them collectively in a few brief words.

"These precautions are no more than my duty warrants," he said. "A soldier never knows what's going to happen. As for the posts I've a.s.signed you to--why, I don't believe General Washington himself could improve on 'em. If the enemy come they won't find us napping, and there'll be plenty of time to save the grain. In case all goes well you can leave your places in about half an hour from the time you get there.

Should one of you discover the British he will fire his musket, and then you must all fall back. The report will reach us over here, and will give us a chance to get the grain into the lines. Now off with you, and be spry about it."

The corporal gave the word to march, and his fourteen men and four horses followed him down the lane toward the farm-house. The six pickets, trudging off by twos, quickly vanished in the darkness and the storm. Side by side Nathan and Barnabas struck over the open field, and a tramp of a quarter of a mile brought them to the crest of a slight ridge, from whence they saw the Tory farmer's house and barn looming mistily out of the snow at a distance of four hundred yards. The wind now had a clean sweep at them, and the snow cut their faces like sleet as they pushed on down the slope. They felt their limbs growing numb, and half of the time they had to close their eyes. At length, panting and exhausted, they reached the welcome shelter of the orchard, and were out of the worst of the storm. For several minutes they crouched in a snow-drift on the farther side of the fence to recover breath and to reconnoiter. But there was no sign of danger--so far as they could see or hear. The house, looming close by, had a dreary and desolate look with its shuttered windows below and its black squares of gla.s.s above.

"I reckon there's n.o.body in yonder," said Barnabas, his teeth chattering as he spoke. "I sort of agreed with the corporal that Abner Wilkinson might be lurking about, but I daresay he's keeping snug in Philadelphia."

"Yes, that's more likely," a.s.sented Nathan. "And I don't believe that troop of cavalry is anywhere near."

"Perhaps not," replied Barnabas, "but if they are, it'll fall to my lot to spy 'em. I must be going now, lad. Just you stay right here, and be sure to keep moving a bit, else you'll get numbed and drop over asleep in the snow. If you hear the crack of my weapon don't wait--cut and run for Troup's place."

"And if I fire you'll hurry this way?" asked Nathan.

"Of course, lad; but there's no danger of you givin' an alarm. If the British are prowlin' about I'll be the first to see 'em."

With this Barnabas shouldered his musket and trudged off. His tall figure grew dimmer and dimmer amid the flurrying snow-flakes, and he was out of sight before he had reached the farther end of the orchard.

A sudden feeling of loneliness now oppressed Nathan, and with it came an unaccountable suspicion of danger. He looked warily up the bare, white hillside toward the Troup farm, and then he trudged across the orchard in the opposite direction. Looking from the fence past the end of the barn, he could vaguely make out against the sky-line the rounded and wooded little hill on top of which Barnabas was to mount guard. It was very nearly a quarter of a mile distant. Coming back to his former post, he riveted his eyes on the house. It faced toward the barn, and the side wall was directly opposite him, separated by a thirty foot strip of yard. He half expected to see one of the shutters thrown open, or to hear the sound of voices from within.

But, as the minutes slipped by, and only the moaning of the wind broke the silence of the night, the lad grew ashamed of his fears. The bitter cold was the only enemy he had to contend with. His bare ears and hands pained him terribly, and a slight sensation of drowsiness warned him that he must keep moving. So he stood his musket against a big apple tree, wrapping a rag around the flint and pan to protect them from the damp, and began to pace up and down the narrow angle of the orchard. He continued this for a quarter of an hour, stopping occasionally to look and listen, until his feet had trodden a well-defined path between the trees. Feeling the need of more violent exercise, he rapidly folded and unfolded his arms for a few minutes, and then, fastening his hands on a big limb overhead, he repeatedly drew his chin up to a level with it.

When he had warmed himself comfortably by these means he shouldered his musket and stepped to the fence.

"Why don't Barnabas come?" he said half aloud. "I've surely been here half an hour, and that was the limit. By this time the grain ought to be all loaded and on the way to camp. I wouldn't mind the cold if there was any fighting going on, but this sentry duty in winter is the worst part of a soldier's life. And I am anxious to get back to see how my father is--"