Then there was one that Tom had heard at the play, sung by a gay captain and a dare-devil recruiting sergeant, and of which the latter half would fill d.i.c.k's head with longings and visions:

"Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse To wipe his scoundrel master's shoes, For now he's free to sing and play, Over the hills and far away.

"We shall lead more happy lives By getting rid of brats and wives That scold and brawl both night and day, Over the hills and far away.

"Over the hills, and over the main, To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain; The king commands, and we'll obey, Over the hills and far away.

"Courage, boys, it is one to ten, But we return all gentlemen; While conq'ring colors we display, Over the hills and far away."

And there was a duet, which Tom had heard at the opera in London, and which he sang, imitating the respective voices of the highwayman and the adoring Polly.

The tune took a lasting possession of d.i.c.k, and the sweet-sounding recurrent line exercised upon him a witchery that increased as he grew.

He chose for his bedroom the rear apartment of the loft over the kitchen, because its window looked towards the east, and his first glance at dawn, his latest at night, was towards the farthest hill-tops.

There were hills to the west, too, a great many more of them; mountain ranges, from the straight ridge of the Tuscaroras, to the farthest Alleghanies; but d.i.c.k's heart looked not in that direction, where he knew there was but savage wilderness all the thousands of miles to the Pacific Ocean. Towards the east, where the live world was, he longed to wing. Strangely enough, so had circ.u.mstance directed, he never, till he was seventeen years old, travelled as far as to the farthest mountains in sight southward or eastward. His father had turned his back on the Old World, thrown his interests heart and soul with those of the new land, built up a well-provided home on the outer verge of civilization, joined irrevocably the advance guard of the westward march of men. What little business he had with towns could be done through the pack-horse men and wagoners. So d.i.c.k had only his imagination on which to call for an idea of the level country towards the sea. What was behind the hills?

How he envied the birds he saw flying towards that distant azure band that backed the green hills nearer! Should it ever be his lot to follow them?

At seventeen d.i.c.k was a strong, lithe youth, five feet eleven inches tall, and destined to grow no taller; with a thoughtful, somewhat eager face, whose sharpness of feature and alertness of expression had some suggestion of the fox, but with no indication of that animal's vices; brown hair that fell back to its queue from a wide and open brow; and blue eyes both steady and keen. Such was his appearance one sunny spring morning when he started from the house to join the men in the field, from which the sound of his father's "whoa," and of Tom MacAlister's chirping to the plow-horses, could be heard through the blossoming fruit-trees in which the birds were twittering. He returned his mother's smile through the open kitchen window, at which she stood kneading the dough for the week's baking. As he went towards the lane which ran up in front of the house from the so-called road, he could hear her voice while she half unconsciously sang at her work:

"'Over the hills, and over the main, To Flanders, Portugal, or Spain; The king commands, and we'll obey, Over the hills and far away.'"

He took up the tune and hummed it, and, though the cheerful solitude around him seemed ineffably sweet, he sighed as he followed with his eyes the course of a tiny white cloud towards the high blue eastern horizon. It was Sat.u.r.day, next to the last day of April, 1775.

As he leaped over the rail fence, from the houseyard to the lane, he saw a horse turn into the latter from the road. He recognized the rider, a good-looking young man, one of the few in the neighborhood with whom d.i.c.k was intimate.

"Good morning, M'Cleland," said d.i.c.k, heartily. "Where from?"

"From Hunter's Mill, and I can stay only a moment to give you the news, if you haven't heard it." He stopped his horse.

"What news?" queried d.i.c.k, wondering whether it might be of another Indian war, like that of Lord Dunmore's in Western Virginia the preceding year; or whether there had been a renewal of the old feud between the Pennsylvanians and the Connecticut settlers up in the Wyoming Valley; or whether the English government had repealed or reinforced the Boston Port Bill. These were matters in which d.i.c.k and M'Cleland had both taken interest,--especially the last one, for nowhere had the difference between King and colonies, which quarrel had been growing ever since the pa.s.sage of the Stamp Act ten years before, been more thoroughly discussed than in the Wetheral household, and nowhere was the feeling for resistance to the King more ardent.

"Great news," said M'Cleland, controlling his voice with difficulty, while his eyes sparkled with excitement. "On the nineteenth the King's troops marched out from Boston to take some ammunition the people had stored at Concord. At Lexington they met a company of minutemen, and there were shots and bloodshed. The whole country around rose and killed G.o.d knows how many of the regulars on their way back to Boston. When the messengers left Cambridge, there was an army of Ma.s.sachusetts men besieging the King's soldiers in Boston. There's no doubt about it. At Hunter's Mill I saw the man who met at Paxton the rider that talked in Philadelphia with the messenger from Cambridge, who had affidavits from Ma.s.sachusetts citizens. Tell your people. I'm off up the river. Get up!"

d.i.c.k never went any farther towards the field. He called in his father and Tom, and there was a long discussion of the situation. Wetheral said that Pennsylvania would be organizing troops, in due time, to back up Ma.s.sachusetts, and that the only course was to wait and join such a force. But d.i.c.k would not hear of waiting. "Now is the time men are needed!" was his answer to every counsel. First make for the scene of war; it would be time to join the Pennsylvania forces when these should arrive there. The father gave in, at last, and the mother had nothing to oppose to the inevitable but the protest of silent tears. To her, the whole matter was as lightning from a clear sky. It was settled; the boy should go, the father should stay. The mother had a day in which to get d.i.c.k's things ready. As for Tom MacAlister, who was subject to no man's will but his own, his first hearing of the news had set him preparing for departure. As he tied his own horse to the fence rail the next day, to wait for d.i.c.k, he bethought him how of old his motto had been always "up and away again," and he marvelled that he had remained twelve years contented in one place.

It was not yet Sunday noon when d.i.c.k, who it was decided should share with Tom the use of the latter's horse on the journey to Cambridge, according to the custom known as "riding and tying," mounted for the first stage. He wore a c.o.c.ked hat, a blue cloth coat altered from one his father had brought from England, a linsey shirt, an old figured waistcoat, gray breeches, worsted stockings, home-made shoes, and buckskin leggings; carried a rifle, a blanket, and a change of shirts; and had two gold pieces, long saved by his mother against the time of his setting up for himself. Tom MacAlister was dressed and armed exactly as at d.i.c.k's first meeting with him, his clothes having been temporarily supplanted by homespun during his years of farm service.

There was a lump in d.i.c.k's throat when he put his arms around his mother's neck, and felt against his cheek the tear she had striven to hold back. The last embrace taken, he gave his horse the word rather huskily, and followed Tom MacAlister, who was already striding down the lane. Turning into the road, d.i.c.k looked back, and saw his father, his mother, his aunt, and Rover, the last-named now feeble and far beyond the age ordinarily attained by dogkind, standing together by the fence.

His father waved an awkward military salute, his mother forced a smile into her face, and the old dog made two or three steps to follow, as in the past, then stopped and looked somewhat surprised and hurt that d.i.c.k did not call him. One swift glance from the puzzled dog to his mother's wistful face, and d.i.c.k's home in the Pennsylvania valley pa.s.sed from his sight forever. He cleared his throat, swallowed down the lump in it, and turned his eyes forward towards the east. Tom MacAlister's grim face wore a look of quiet elation, and he could be heard softly whistling, as he trudged on, the tune of "Over the hills and far away."

CHAPTER III.

AT THE SIGN OF THE GEORGE.

As they proceeded, d.i.c.k laughingly alluded to the time when, at the age of four, he had started out on this same road, thinking it would take him to Paris in a few hours.

"And wha kens," said MacAlister, in all seriousness, "but this same road may yet lead ye there, or to Chiney, for that matter? Him that sets out on a journey knowing where 'twill land him is a wiser man nor you and me, my son!"

Presently MacAlister fell behind, and was soon lost to sight as d.i.c.k rode on. By and by d.i.c.k dismounted, tied the horse to a tree by the path, and went on afoot. When he had walked about an hour, he was overtaken and pa.s.sed by MacAlister, on the horse, which Tom, on coming up to it, had untied and mounted. Walking on alone, d.i.c.k in due time found the horse tied at the path's side, and mounted to overtake and pa.s.s Tom in turn. He caught up to his comrade at the place where, it had been decided, they should cross the Juniata, which they did on horseback together, partly by fording and partly by swimming the horse.

Proceeding as before, and not losing the time to cross to the island for a visit to d.i.c.k's grandfather when they reached the Susquehanna, they came at nightfall to the house of a farmer on the west bank of that river, and lodged there. At early dawn they were on their way again, and just as the sun rose d.i.c.k reached the crest of the farthest mountains southeast of his home. Who could describe his feelings as he looked for the first time over the fair wooded country that rolled afar towards the purple and golden east? Did his mother, at this moment, looking towards the farthest azure line, know he was there at last, and that he saw what the birds had seen that he had so often envied when they flew eastward?

"Get up!" he cried, and urged his horse down the eastern mountainside towards his future.

Riding and tying, the two comrades came to Harris's ferry-house, whence they crossed the Susquehanna in a scow, to the small collection of low buildings--stone residence, old storehouse for skins, blockhouse for defence, and others--which then const.i.tuted Harrisburg. While they were crossing, the ferryman at the pole entertained them with anecdotes of the parents of the John Harris of that day,--how they were st.u.r.dy Yorkshire people; how the wife Esther once in time of necessity rode all the way to Philadelphia in one day on the same horse; how she was once up the river on a trading trip to Big Island, and heard of her husband's illness and came down in a bark canoe in a day and a night; how she was a good trader, and could write, and had boxed the ears of many an Indian chief when he was drunk; how she could swim as well as a man and handle firearms as well as any hunter; how she worked at the building of her brick house five miles up the Susquehanna; how she once ran up-stairs and took from a cask of powder a lighted candle that her maid had mistakenly stuck in the bung-hole; how the then present John Harris was the first white child born thereabouts and was taken to Philadelphia to be baptized in Christ's Church. d.i.c.k would have liked to see the inside of the church at Paxton, three miles from Harrisburg, because one of his acquaintances, having got a girl into trouble, had made public confession before the congregation there, praying in the usual formula:

"For my own game, Have done this shame, Pray restore me to my lands again."

He would have liked, also, to seek out some member of the gang of "Paxton Boys" that had killed the Conestogo Indians in Lancaster County, in 1764, and get the other side of that story, which was generally accepted as one of unwarranted ma.s.sacre of friendly natives. But the impulse to press forward overcame the other, and the travellers, having followed the left bank of the Susquehanna, by the road which had been in existence from Harris's since 1736, lodged on the second night of their journey at a wooden tavern in the village of Middletown. The next morning they turned directly eastward, their backs towards the Susquehanna, and proceeded on the road to Lancaster. They now entered the band of country settled by German Protestants, whose fertile farms gave the slightly undulating land a soft and smiling appearance.

At noon, dining at a rude log hostelry, more farmhouse than tavern, they were invited to drink by two thin, middle-aged, merry fellows, in brown cloth coats and c.o.c.ked hats, who said they were Philadelphia merchants returning from a view of some interior land which they intended to purchase for the purpose of developing trade. They invited Tom and d.i.c.k to drink with them, laughed so boisterously at Tom's sage jokes, and expressed so much admiration of d.i.c.k's intelligence and book-learning, that when all four left the tavern to proceed eastward, d.i.c.k and Tom, seeing that the two jolly merchants were afoot, took counsel together and agreed to share with them the use of the horse. This generous idea was engendered by a hint that one of the merchants made in jest. The horse was a huge animal and could easily bear any two of four such thin men as were those concerned. Lots were cast to determine which two should be the pair to mount first. One of the two merchants held the straws, and as a result of the drawing he and his companion got on the horse together and started. A turn in the road hid them from view in half a minute. d.i.c.k and MacAlister were about to follow afoot, when they were reminded by the tavern-keeper that the drinks taken at the merchants' invitation were yet to be paid for.

"Bedad," said Tom, "our friends were so busy laughing at my tale of the ensign's wife at the battle of Minden, they forgot to settle the score."

d.i.c.k, who had been provided with sufficient silver to see him to Philadelphia, besides his two gold pieces, speedily paid the bill, and the two comrades resumed their journey. After several minutes of silence, Tom expressed some belated surprise at the fact that two substantial merchants should be travelling afoot. d.i.c.k replied that there must be some interesting reason for so unusual a circ.u.mstance.

"Ay," said Tom, "we'll speer them when we catch up to them." The two trudged on. By and by d.i.c.k began to look, each time the road made a turn, for the horse standing at the side of the way, accordingly to agreement. An hour had pa.s.sed since the tavern had been left behind.

Another hour followed. At last d.i.c.k broke the silence:

"Is it likely our friends may have lost their way?"

Tom MacAlister drew a deep breath and replied:

"Devil a bit is it them that's lost their way! It's us that's lost our horse."

"Why, what do you mean? Two such worthy Philadelphia merchants!"

"Philadelphia nothing! I'll warrant they do be a pair of rascals from the Connecticut settlement in the Wyoming Valley, turned out of the community for such-like tricks as they've played on us new-born babes.

That's the effect on me of twelve years' residence in the wilderness. My son, it's time we throwed off our state of innocence and braced ourselves to meet the mickle deviltry of the world. Richard, lad, I tell it to ye now, though ye'll no mind it till ye've had it pounded into ye by sore experience, your fellow man is kittle cattle, and your fellow woman more so!"

They might have had to walk all the way to Lancaster but that they were overtaken by a train of pack-horses from Carlisle, and paid the pack-driver to shift the horses' loads and give them the use of one of the animals. At evening they arrived at Lancaster, which then had some thousands of inhabitants and was to d.i.c.k quite a busy and town-like place. He saw the prison where the Indian chief Murhancellin had been confined on being apprehended by Captain Jack's hunters for the murder of three Juniata men the previous year. d.i.c.k went to see the barracks, the Episcopal and German churches, and a house where some of the famous Lancaster stockings were made. He gazed with wonder and hidden disapproval at the long beards of the Omish men, and enjoyed the bustle of horses and wagons before the excellent tavern where he and Tom pa.s.sed the night. The next morning the two got seats in one of the huge covered wagons engaged in the trade between Philadelphia and the interior. They dined at the Duke of c.u.mberland Tavern, and put up at evening at the sign of the Ship, thirty-five miles from Philadelphia. This distance was covered the next day, and a little before sunset, the wagon having crossed the picturesque Schuylkill by the Middle Ferry and pa.s.sed under beautiful trees down the High Street road, through the Governor's Woods and by brick kilns and verdant commons, and across little water-courses spanned by wooden bridges, d.i.c.k set his eyes on Philadelphia, whose spires and dormer windows reflected the level sun rays, and whose trim brick and wooden houses rose among leafy gardens. The town then had about thirty thousand people, and lay close along the Delaware, its built-up portion extending at the widest part about seven or eight streets from the river, not counting the alleys and by-streets. As the wagon lumbered down High Street, which was then popularly (as it is now officially) known as Market Street, d.i.c.k kept his emotions to himself, satisfying his curiosity without betraying it, and in no outward way disclosing how novel to him was the actual sight, which neither excelled nor fell short of the scene he had so often imagined, much as it differed from it in general appearance. At Fourth Street, as the wagon continued east, the houses began to be quite close together. At Third, the markets began, and ran thence down the middle of the street towards the Delaware. The wagon, with its eight horses, stopped for some reason at the Indian King Tavern, near Third Street, whereupon Tom and d.i.c.k, having settled with the wagoner, and not intending to lodge at that inn, proceeded afoot down Market Street, a part of which was paved with stones and had a narrow sidewalk for foot-pa.s.sengers. This last-named convenience was one that even some of the first cities of Europe then lacked.

The animation of the streets quite put to shame d.i.c.k's recollections of the little bustle at Lancaster. The rifles and baggage of the two did not attract much attention among the citizens and tradespeople, in those days of much hunting, and especially at a time when there was already talk of new military companies forming, when the provincial militia was drilling and recruiting, and when men were coming to town to offer the colonies their services in the event of general revolt. Delegates were already arriving from other colonies to attend the Second Continental Congress, which was to meet on the tenth.

As the two comrades approached the London Coffee House, at Front and Market Streets, they saw three well-dressed citizens issue from the door and greet with the utmost respect a stocky old gentleman who had just turned in from Front Street, and whose face was both venerable and worldly, kind and shrewd, while his plain brown coat took nothing from his look of distinction, and his walking-stick seemed quite unnecessary to one whose vigor was still that of youth. He cordially responded to the three gentlemen, the first of whom detained him for the purpose of introducing the third. The name by which the old gentleman was addressed startled d.i.c.k for the moment out of his self-possession, and he stopped and stared with unfeigned curiosity and pleasure. It was his first sight of a world-famous man, and the writer of Poor Richard's Almanac, whose proverbs every Pennsylvanian knew by heart, the celebrated philosopher, the wise agent of the provinces, who had just returned from London, lost nothing in d.i.c.k's admiration from the youth's visual inspection of his face and person.

While Doctor Franklin stood talking with the three, d.i.c.k and Tom went on past Front and Water Streets, turned down along the wharves, and presently arrived at their recommended destination, the Crooked Billet Inn, which stood at the end of an alley on a wharf above Chestnut Street. The two engaged lodging for the night, bestowed their belongings, and went for supper to Pegg Mullen's Beefsteak House, at the southeast corner of Water Street and Mullen's Alley. Having devoured one of the steaks for which that house was famous, and as it was not yet dark, d.i.c.k proposed a walk about the city. But Tom demurred as to himself, and said in a low tone, turning his eye towards a party of young gentlemen who sat at a near-by table:

"Go and see the sights, lad, and ye'll meet me at the Crooked Billet some time before the hour of setting out, the morning. I've other fish to fry, for a private purpose of my own. And should ye see me in company with yon roisterers, mind to call me captain or not at all, for I'm bent on introducing myself to their acquaintance, and that'll require me belonging to the quality."

d.i.c.k looked at the group indicated, which consisted of a handsome, insolent-looking young man of about twenty-five and three gay dogs of the same age, whose loud conversation had dealt exclusively with cards and other implements of fortune. With no hope or wish of fathoming MacAlister's designs, d.i.c.k paid the bill (for his friend was almost without money), and left the eating-house. He first inspected parts of Water and Front Streets, where many rich merchants lived over their shops; then viewed the handsomer residences in South Second Street; saw the City Tavern and some of the well-dressed people resorting there; looked at Carpenter's Hall, where the Congress had met the preceding year; walked out to the State House, crossed Chestnut Street therefrom, to drink at the sign of the Coach and Horses, the old rough-dashed tavern nestling amidst great walnut-trees; loitered on the bridge to look down at Dock Creek each time he crossed that stream. When, at dusk, the street lamps were lighted (for, thanks to Franklin, Philadelphia had long possessed the best street lamps in the world), the town a.s.sumed what to d.i.c.k was a fairylike appearance. Of the people he saw in the streets, perhaps a third wore the broadbrims of the Quakers. A few of the faces were of the German type, but most were of the unmistakable English character, and from such of these as were not Quaker a trained observer might easily have picked out a Church of England person or a Dissenter at sight. On first entering the city d.i.c.k had been struck with the prettiness of the young women, but now that night had fallen and he had returned to the vicinity of the river, the few of the fair that he saw abroad were of rather bedraggled appearance.

As he walked along the wharves, listening to the lap of the tide against the piles and vessels, he heard a sharp scream of mingled pain and anger, in a feminine voice. Looking quickly towards the wharf whence it came, he saw, in the light from the corner of a small warehouse, a young woman recoiling from the blow of a sailor who was about to strike her again. She dodged the second blow, and the sailor made ready to deliver a third, but before he could do so d.i.c.k's fist landed on the side of his head and he dropped to the wharf, dazed and limp. d.i.c.k then took off his hat to the woman, who was a slender creature of about twenty, dressed with a cheap attempt at gaiety. With quite attractive large eyes, she quickly viewed d.i.c.k from head to foot.

"Rely on my protection, madam," said he, tingling with exultation at having had so early an opportunity to figure as a rescuer of a.s.sailed womankind.

"I am afraid he will follow me," said the girl, in a low tone, glancing at the sailor, after her examination of d.i.c.k's appearance.

"He will do so at his peril, if you'll accept my arm to the place where you are going," said d.i.c.k, with great gallantry and inward self-applause.