"Lucky he did. He was just the man needed to do that job at Bennington. I went as messenger to Portsmouth and heard John Langdon, the speaker of the New Hampshire a.s.sembly, pledge his property to fit out Stark. That's the kind of statesmen to have."

"A durned sight better than the majority of those in Congress. Whar is yer Uncle d.i.c.k, at home worryin' about ye?"

Donald laughed, and then his face grew serious as he said, "No. He joined Stark and I'm the one who is worrying about him."

"General Arnold played a good trick on St. Leger, when he sent that decoy messenger to him with the c.o.c.k-and-bull story about the reinforcements marching to Fort Stanwix bein' thicker than the leaves on the trees," remarked Zeb.

"And wasn't that a glorious fight poor old Herkimer's men made against the Tories and Brandt's Indians? That must have been terrible, a regular hand-to-hand struggle. Yes, Arnold is here and many think he should have the command."

"And I'm one o' the number," said Zeb, stoutly. "That man has more courage an' energy than the whole Continental Congress. Look at the way he fought in the Canadian campaign! They tell me, though the British defeated the fleet of boats he built to oppose 'em on the lake, that no man ever led a braver struggle against greater odds and got away without bein' captured. He was ready to resign before this Burgoyne campaign, an' I wouldn't hev blamed him. He doesn't know how to git along without making enemies, for, when he has anything to do, he goes at it hammer and tongs no matter whose toes he treads on, but he gets it done, by hook or by crook."

"You know, Zeb, that somehow I never had great liking for him, but he certainly is a brave, resourceful leader. I think he's the most ambitious man in the service."

"He's willing to earn his promotion, which some of 'em wouldn't if they knew how. He's earned it ten times over. The men who can do things are the ones we've got to have to win. One thing, this army isn't goin' to lack fer men, such as they are, by the way the farmers are comin' in with their old guns and hay hooks."

"Such as they are! Zeb, you're a dyed-in-the-wool Virginian. These New Englanders and New Yorkers coming into camp are of the same mettle as those under Stark and those who died with Herkimer. There are no better men in the world."

"Reckon ye better make an exception o' the Rangers. They sent us down here, when we ought to be with Washington, specially to save you people from the Indians."

"Yes, and the day you started, Stark and his New Hampshire and Ma.s.sachusetts men, with the help of Seth Warner's men, won a victory which will result in the defeat of Burgoyne. You Virginians are all right; you have your Washington and Morgan and the Rangers, but don't cry down the Northern farmers in their homespun. They've had to fight for a living from the beginning, and, from Lexington right down through till now, they've fought for their country."

"Except when they've left to go home and gather their crops. Soldiers who stay in the field till the war's over are the kind that is needed."

"Excuse me," interrupted Rodney, for the conversation had waxed warm, "but, from what Zeb told me, both Virginia and Ma.s.sachusetts were needed to pull through the wilderness on the way to Quebec."

Zeb laughed and said, "I reckon Virginia and Ma.s.sachusetts will have to hang together if we get the job done."

"And if we don't," added Donald, with a laugh, "they'll hang separately, as Dr. Franklin said of the signers of the Declaration of Independence."

CHAPTER XXV

PUT TO THE TEST

"Likely lookin' men Dearborn's picked up," was Zeb's comment as Major Dearborn marched his recruits past. "Hi, Don. An' thar's his uncle.

Glad he got through Bennington safe an' sound. Don was some worried about him. Man an' boy, ye can't beat 'em."

"His uncle is a fine looking man. Those men have bayonets. They ought to be of service. But there's none like the Rangers, eh, Zeb?"

"Askin' such questions is waste o' breath."

"Well, I hope we'll soon have a chance to prove it."

"We've been sayin' the same thing for more'n two weeks. I reckoned we sure would get it two days ago when we occupied Bemis Heights. h.e.l.lo!

What's doin'?"

"Fall in!"

As though there were magic in the words, those travel-stained riflemen sprang to their places with an eagerness never seen among regular troops.

"The enemy is crossing the Hudson, an' we're to make 'em wish they hadn't," was the message which ran along the lines. Many a man turned to the next in line and said in matter of fact tone, "That means fight."

"There they are," exclaimed Rodney, as they came in sight of the solid lines of the British army. Under Burgoyne were some of the finest soldiers Europe could produce. They marched in compact lines, moving like weighted machines under their heavy trappings which were gorgeous and imposing.

"They don't intend to leave any hole for us to wedge in," said Rodney.

Ah! There opens a way to get at that German regiment. Morgan sees it and the battle is on. It was, however, only a brief skirmish; a few volleys, a few human beings stretched on the ground dead and wounded, a few prisoners. France, across the water, waiting for something decisive, before committing herself to the cause of America, will hear of it and of battles to come. But many more men than were with Morgan that day would be required to stop that British army. On they came and established their camp within two miles of that of the Americans.

Between these armies the land was rough and hilly, part of it covered with forests. Well out in front of the American army Morgan's corps was stationed.

"If anything happens we're likely to be the first to know it," was Rodney's comment.

"That's what we're here for. We're the whiskers, the feelers o' the cat that's set to watch the mouse."

"A full grown rat, I'd say, by the size."

"Six to eight thousand, includin' Tories an' redskins, who won't count when the pinch comes. By the way the country folks are comin' in with their rifles an' pitchforks we're in a fair way to snare the lot."

"Zeb, you certainly are the most hopeful man I ever knew. Anyhow, if Burgoyne wants to eat his Christmas dinner in New York, he's got to give us a chance at him soon."

Evidently Burgoyne arrived at a like conclusion. On the morning of September nineteenth the pickets reported the British advancing.

Morgan's corps was immediately ordered forward to engage the enemy and delay his progress. The gallant Major Morris led one line and Morgan the other, and Morris encountered the enemy first, a picket detachment of about three hundred men. The Rangers charged and drove them, and followed so impetuously on their heels as to run into the main body, and as a result of such recklessness they suffered severely. Morris rode right into the midst of the British, but, wheeling his horse, escaped and rejoined his men, who were now badly scattered. Donald Lovell received a severe wound in his side. His uncle, marching by his side, picked him up as though a child, and across his powerful shoulders carried him back to a place of safety.

Morgan, hearing the firing, was hurrying on to support the other line when, finding it broken and scattered, he is said to have shed tears in his chagrin at what he thought was due to carelessness and meant defeat. Were the Rangers, the pride of the army, to be shattered in their first encounter after all their boasting? It is not surprising that Morgan felt that his fondest hopes had been recklessly ruined.

But the Rangers had been trained for just such emergencies and, when their colonel blew the "turkey call" on the bone whistle which he carried, and those piercing sounds were heard above the din of battle, his men rallied.

Quickly they formed into line, eager to regain what they had lost.

Every man felt that his country and the honour of his corps were at stake, and he was ready to die if necessary. Already the afternoon was half gone, but before night could stop the bloodshed many a man would pay the penalty of a soldier; some of those lithe, bronzed, hardy fellows, throbbing with health and vitality, would not see the sun rise over Bemis Heights on the morrow.

In the forest ahead a little clearing had been made for a small farm, and there the Rangers came upon the advance line of the enemy.

"Now we'll get it hot!" exclaimed Rodney under his breath, but among them all not a face paled nor a hand grasping a rifle trembled. On, directly at the British, the men ran like deer, except a few detailed to duty as sharpshooters, dodging behind stumps or climbing trees as agile as monkeys. On go the Rangers. Now the British fire into the line and some fall.

Why do they not return the fire? Ah! now their rifles leap to shoulder at close range and every shot tells! What ghastly gaps are left in the British ranks, and the Rangers are still rushing on like demons, loading as they run! It is too much for those fighting machines accustomed to fight, as they march, with mathematical precision; they turn and run. Back they go to the hill behind, where there are reinforcements waiting with cannon, the riflemen at their heels. Oh, the cruelty of it all, shooting, stabbing, yelling!

Now the British swarm upon the meagre lines of the Rangers and the latter are forced back, literally by weight of numbers. And, as they retreat, a British detachment is sent around to attack them on the flank. They press forward, expecting to crumple up Morgan's men like tall grain in the hand of the reaper! They will teach those rude fellows a lesson, that Americans can't stand before the trained soldiers of Europe.

"Here come the New Hampshire boys!"

Stalwart men they were, those men from New Hampshire, led by Cilley and Scammel. Their training in military matters had been meagre, indeed, but they fight, and Morgan's men rally for another onslaught, and again another, for they will not stop until darkness stops them.

Hurrah! now they have the cannon, but the retreating British wisely carry the linstocks with them so the cannon may not be turned against them, and later they are able to recapture them.

Backward and forward, yells of triumph on one side and again on the other. Rodney and Zeb keep together. There is blood on the side of young Allison's face, scratched by a bullet, as he would have said, had he known it. "On and at 'em." Down goes Zeb, his companions in their onward rush leaping aside or over his prostrate body. Rodney saw him fall, but what could he do? If they ever came back he would find him. He doesn't forget, and, when they come staggering back through the smoke, with the British bayonets behind them, Zeb is carried to the rear.

"You're lucky it's no worse, Zeb."