People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 February 1894 — A RIDE FOR FREEDOM. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A RIDE FOR FREEDOM.

ii eve that boy r/J will be the ruin |,jj of me. lie never kr.ows how to do anything right. And now here he’s been and cut down all the maples and saved the basswoods in that wood lot in my absence, and I found the oxen mismated, and everything was all wrong. A boy that don’t know enough to tell tlie difference between soft and ham wood won’t ever amount to much, in m> opinion. 1 was so provoked that I tolo him he could go to bed without his supper. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson.” Old 'Squire Holton was emphatic in his cr tieism of the ignorance or the thoughtlessness that characterized the daily doings of his farm help. To him there was nothing excusable in such conduct. He bad taken pains to tell the boy just what trees he wanted felled, and it wa# an essential matter to him whether the maples were cut down or left standing in that fine new jot he had recently bought of Maj. Tack man. “I half believe the boy did it on purpose to bother me,” he concluded, as he sat down to his supper of hot porridge atd milk and fried doughnuts which his wife bad just placed on the table. ‘‘Oh, no, father! John wouldn’t do that,” said kind, motherly Mrs. Holton. “John means to do right, but his mind isn't on his work.” “No, that it isn’t, I’ll be bound,” muttered the squire, between his mouthfuls of warm porridge. “He hasn’t had a mind for anything ever since that day Gen. Washington and his officers rode by, a month ago. It was only the other morning, w’heD I supposed he was busy watering the stock at the barn, and I happened to open the door i'or something, and there he was, marching up and down the floor, a turkey's tail feather 6tuck in his cap band and a pitchfork at his shoulder, and he a-giving off orders as though he was a corporal. 1 almost wish the continental army was sunk.” “Why, father!” exclaimed his wife; “and then we should lose our liberties, and the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill and Trenton would have to be fought over again.”

•‘Well, it would be better, anyway, for John if they were farther off than Valley Forge,” answered the squire, testily, attacking a huge doughnut that v* as as crisp as frost. And, overhead, in the large, open garret where bundles of thoroughwort •ad pennyroyal hung down from the long, slanting rafters, and which warmed only by the heat ascending through a ventilator from the kitchen below, the subject of the squire’s wrath lay listening to every word. He was a tall, fair lad, strong and active, with steady, gray-blue eyes and a shock of brown wavy hair that had a knack of always falling into his eyes. John Russell was sixteen years old, and was an orphan. Mrs. Holton was his father’s sister, and the squire, being without children of his own, had cheerfully consented, when it was first suggested, that the fatherless boy should come and live with them. He had lived there now for three years, but he did not take kindly to life on a farm. The boy had an imaginative temperament, inherited from his mother, and to drive the slow oxen day after day, do the milking and all the drudgery incident to a large farm, were not the most congenial employments. He honestly strove to do his duty, though, and the squire, if rough, was kind in his way. A shade of deep thought overspread his face as he heard his uncle’s words, and two or three tears rolled down his freckled face, which were bravely dashed away. “He did tell me to cut the maples,” he said to himself; “1 know he did, and, as for playing soldier, what hurt did it do? I had turned out the cows and done just as 1 do every day. I wish 1 was a soldier in Washington’s army, and I will be when 1 am older, unless we whip the British before. But I do hope I shall be able to do something for my country. If I only could —ls I only could!” U« lay for a long time, his mind full •/ conflicting thought*, but at last ha

sank to sleep, and forgot alike his trials and his ambitions in the sweet refreshing slumber of boyhood. In the morning when he wentdownstairs into the kitchen the squire spoke to him as though nothing had happened, and be went out and fed the cattle as usual. At the breakfast table his uncle said: “You may ride over to Googin’s mill today, John, and get a load of corn ground Mother says we are out of meal, and I’ve no mind to give up my johnny-cake in the morning. Yon may take the gray mare, and while the corn’s being ground you can call on Maj. Frye, just beyond, and ask him if he can pay the interest due on that note. It is two pounds and sixpence. Don’t forget now, and don’t make a blnnder. I’ve got the corn put up.” “All right,” answered John, cheerfully. And he wont out aDd saddled old Suke, the gray mare, and in half an hour was ready to start “Here’s some cheese and doughnuts for your luncheon,” said Mrs. Holton, giving him a small parcel which he placed in his coat pocket; “and here’s a new pair of mittens that I knit for you. You’ll need them to-day, for there is a raw cold air.” “Oh, thank you, aunt! They will keep my hands warm as toast,” replied John, with a good deal of feeling. “Tell Googins to take good toll, and get back before dark if you can.” This was the squire’s parting injunction as this “boy of seventy-six” started on his journey to the distant grist mill. It was not exactly seventy-six, but it was the 22d of February, 1778. Going to mill in those days was a different affair from what it is in this year of grace. John Russell, dressed in a coarse homespun, with knee-buckles and shoe-buckles, a coon-skin cap on his head, and wearing his thick woolen mittens, mounted upon the staid old farm horse, a bag of corn behind his saddle and another in front of him, presented a picture that is not likely to have its counterpart in modern times. He whistled merrily as he rode forward through the cold February day on his errand, for it was a pleasant change from driving oxen and felling trees.' Googins’ mill, so called after the proprietor, who was a German of the name of Hans Googins, was eight or nine miles from Squire Holton’s place, down on French creek. About a mile this side of the mill the road branched, the left hand leading on to the mill, the other taking one tc

the American encampment at Valley Forge, which was four miles distant John would have liked nothing better than to have gone to the patriot camp, but his orders were imperative, and he dared not spend the time, so he reined old Suke to the left and kept on to the mill. The miller, a short, stout German, with a broad, good-humored face, greeted our hero with a hearty “Goot morning, mine youDg frient!” “How s business?” asked John. “Beautiful,” replied Jlans. "So goot vat nefer vas.” "That is good for you. I should like to have my grist ready by two o’clock. Uncle says you must take toll enough to pay you well.” “Yaw. Mynheer Holton ish von fine man, unt I knows it,” said the miller. “Veil, I vill grind dat grist right avay quick. Maype you vill go in unt see Katrina unt der childrent Do leedle ones vill pe glad to see you, I dells you,” said the hospitable Hans. “Thank you," answered John, “but I have an errand to do at Maj. Frye’s, and I brought a luncheon in my pocket.” “Hat Maj. Frye ish von rascal, unt don’t you forgit it! Veil, I don’t vant to shpoke apoud him any more.” And, with a shrug of his thick shoulders. Hans phlled up the gate and set the great wheel in motion. John remounted and rode slowly away from the old mill, whose picturesque situation was heightened by its winter garb of white. It ■ was about noon when he approached the house of Maj. Frye, who was an old militia officer and had served in the French and Indian war. As he rode into the yard, he was surprised to see two horses standing nc-ar the door, on one of which sat a British orderly. Before he could dismount, the owner of the house, Maj. Frye himself, appeared in the opc-u doorway, ushering an officer in gay uniform without, “You may trust me, sir,’* the major

was saying. “There will be no mistake. The general is to be here at eight precisely, this evening. It will be your fault if you don’t secure him. ” Then, seeing the newcomer, he hesitated, and, as his countenance changed, he whispered something to his English visitor, who, with a slight inclination of the head, muttered the one word: “Remember!” and then hurriedly remounted his horse and rode away with his orderly. “Weil, young sir, lam glad to see you,” said the major, with well-feigned cordiality, addressing John. “I know the errand you have come for. and have got the money. So lead your horse into the barn and come in. I have reckoned up the interest on the squire’s note, and it is two pounds and fourpence,” he remarked, as they entered the house. “Uncle called it two pounds and sixpence,” said John, “and he told me to collect it.” “Oh, that ten’t much difference! I guess it’s all right, anyhow. 1 don’t know as I should have had the money if I hadn’t just sold some fat cattle to the British. They offered me a little, more than the Americans would, and I let them go.” “I wouldn’t have done it!” declared John, with emphasis. “1 hated to. But, you see, I knew the squire would be after the money. It was due yesterday, and he’s as regular as the sun. Besides, I am going to let Washington have a yoke of fat oxen to-niglib It’s his birthday, and the commander in chief is going to make a feast for the patriots. He is coming himself to-night to get them, as he wishes to surprise them.” John felt all his nerves tingle with a sudden thought. Was this man a traitor, and had he bargained with the British to betray Washington? The suspicion was strong in his mind, but he said nothing as the major paid over the money in brand new English pieces. “You may sign this receipt,” said Frye, as he took a folded paper from his pocket, tore it in two, and scribbled a few lines on one of the pieces. The boy looked over what had been written, and wrote his name as requested. The silver pieces he carefully stowed away in the insidejjocket of his woolen spenser, and after Suke had eaten her generous foddering of hay he started on his way back to the mill. His grist was ground and waiting for him, but, before he loaded the bags, he looked once more to see that his money was all right As he pulled it from his pocket, a piece of torn paper fluttered to the ground. It was the companion piece

of that on which the major bad written the receipt, and. John had put it in his pocket with the silver. He stooped to pick it up, and as he did so his quick eye caught a name, writen in a bold, clear hand, that was famous just then throughout the Ambrican colonies. ith a swiftly-beating heart and a flushed brow, he glanced over the few lines that preceded the autograph. The first part of the letter was on the piece on which he had receipted for the money, but there was enough to make his young blood thrill in his veins. This is what he read: “ received. II you mean business, I think the plan can be successfully carried out. My aid-de-camp, Maj. Singleton, will rtde over to-morrow to tiee you and arrange the details of the capture. He will pay into your hands half of the money you ask—tifty pounds. If we succeed in our enterprise and capture the general, the rest shall be paid you down. You may trust Maj Singleton as you would myself. “I have the honor to be, yours, for peace and "“tty. Gen. William Howe. “To Maj. Daniel Frye.” It was all clear as sunlight to John hi a moment. Maj. Fr3’e was a traitor, and the plot m which he was engager! was nothing less than the seizure of the commander in chief. There was no time to be lost Washington must be warned, and he was the one to do it “What time of day is it?” he asked the miller. Hans pulled out a big silver watch. "Vel, it pe tree minutes past two o’clock,” he said. “All right! Now, you take thi3 money and keep it till I call for it lam not going home with the grist— at least, not just yet Good-by!" The next moment he was on the back of old Suke and galJ-»ping down the road at a wild speed. “Mine Qott, dot poy ish crazy!" exclaimed Hans, as he stood in the doorway, his hands in hia pockets, gazing after the retreating figure. “[ gifs it

hup, es he hain’t gone stark mad. Dot ▼as ail!” Meanwhile John rode on, without a halt till he reached the American camp lie inquired of a sentinel for Washington’s headquarters, and an orderly was dispatched to conduct him to the Potts house. That was two miles further on, and ’it was nearly four o’clock when John and his escort arrived there. He was ushered by the orderly into a room where three or four officers sat at a table, one of whom rose and turned his attention to the rswcomer. “You wanted to see mo, my lad? I am the commander in chief.” John gazed for a moment with silent awe at that majestic presence, with the grave, worn, anxious face, before he could answer. He then placed in the general’s hand the piece of paper he had found. “Read that, sir,” ht said. “Where did you get this?" asked Washington, after he had read the lines. John told his story in a straightforward manner that vouched for his honesty, and when he had concluded Washington turned to his officers and said, sorrowfully: “Alas! who would have thought it? Whom shall we trust?" He asked John a few more questions of minor importance, which were answered readily, then he said: “My lad, the intelligence you have brought me is of the greatest importance anti value. Probably your thbuglitful action has been the means of saving my life and perhaps the liberties of the colonies. What can Ido for you?” “Mako me a soldier,” was John’s answer, as he thought of his one ambition. The pater patria looked gravely at the slender boyish figure and earnest face of the speaker, but did not smile. "You are hardly old enough for the rough life of a soldier, but I would like you to care for my horses. I need a boy for that. Will you come?” “If uncle and aunt will only let me,” replied John, so pleased that he could scarcely refrain from turning a somersault even before that august presence. “You may come to-morrow, then, and hero is your salary for the first quarter.” Washington placed in his hands a couple of gold pieces. John thanked him as well as he was able. “Be assured, my brave boy,” said Washington, as he accompanied him to the door, “that the service you have this day performed will not be forgotten. I tremble when I think what might have befallen our country if it had not been for your fortunate ais-, covery and intelligent action. I was going to visit that man’s house tonight, and he, like Judas, had bargained to betray me to my enemies for a few paltry pieces of silver and gold. Washington thanks you now; in the future he will do more.” And he bowed him out of the door. It was quite dark when John returned to the mill, where the wondering Bans was waiting for him. Before he was half way home he met the squire, who had become anxious at his protracted absence. John explained this satisfactorily and there never was a man more surprised than was Squire Holton when his nephew related all the adventures of the daj\ The next morning he accompanied the lad to Washington’s headquarters, and saw him enter upon his new duties. Before the war was over, John Russell was a bonn fide soldier, lie did good service at Yorktown, and won the commendation of Washington for dash and courage, lu after years he became a Virginia planter, and was a welcome visitor at Mt Vernon as long as Washington lived. The 22d day of February was always observed by him with peculiar solemnity and good cheer.—Fred M. Colby, in Golden Days.

"READ THAT, SIR!”