CHAPTER IV.

IN OLD NEW YORK--A GREAT DEPARTURE.

[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 836.

The next morning Cato was sent over to the Hewes' mansion with a note signed by both the twins, and addressed to Carter. It requested him to come to Stanham Manor and spend the day, and plans were laid to have a glorious time.

But what was their disappointment when Cato brought back the news that their new-found friend and old-time enemy had left that very morning with his father for New York.

The twins were much cast down, but there was soon to be a greater burden on their minds, for after luncheon they had been told that a parting would shortly take place between them, and that Mr. Daniel Frothingham was going to take William back with him to England.

For some reason Uncle Nathan had a marked partiality for William, but he was the last person in the world to have held a preference in this regard, as it was absolutely impossible for Uncle Nathan to tell the twins apart.

The boys had listened to the news of the coming separation in dignified silence, and as soon as possible they had made their way back to the garden behind the house. Their feelings at first were too deep for words.

"I will not go, unless you go too," said the elder boy at last, seating himself on the edge of a grass-plot. He had hard work to keep from crying.

"You said you wanted to go to England," said George. "You have talked about it often."

"Well, it's not fair," said William. "Why should he choose me?"

"It may not be for long," answered George. "You'll come back--or probably I can go over there to see you."

"And we may be able to get into the army," said William, trying to be cheerful.

George sat down beside him. "I do wish I were leaving with you," he said, choking back the tears, "but he refused to think of sending us both. Aunt Clarissa asked him." He put his arm about his brother's shoulders. "I'm going to be sent to town to school," he added.

"I tell you what let's do," said William. "Let's draw lots, and see which one of us will go to London."

He broke a bundle of spears of grass and tore them off, some longer than others. Then he rubbed two of them in his hands.

"I don't know which it is," he said; "but if you get the shorter one, you go, and if you get the longer one, I go."

George drew at once. It was the shorter spear. So far as Uncle Nathan's preference went, it counted for nothing with his nephews.

The departure that took place the following week was an affair of the greatest moment. Although the young Frothinghams did not know it at the time, it was a long farewell they were taking of Stanham Mills.

Good-byes were said at last, and, to tell the truth, tears were shed in plenty as they parted from their sister.

The twins' belongings were packed into small boxes, then the old chaise was harnessed up, and seated beside their Uncle Daniel, and followed by Nathaniel Frothingham and Cato on horseback, they set out to make the long journey to the city. Mr. Wyeth had started the previous afternoon.

The young Frothinghams had been to New York only once before, when they were very small indeed, and their recollections of the first visit were somewhat vague.

It was long after dusk when the little party arrived at their destination. They had been rowed across the river from Paulus Hook, and went with their uncle at once to a tavern which in the days of Dutch supremacy had been one of New York's most aristocratic dwelling-houses. Now it was the rendezvous for merchants of Tory principles and army officers. Young, befrilled, and powdered dandies who aped the manners of the Continent hero exchanged their pinches of snuff with as much gallantry and courtesy as if they had met at the palace of St. James.

The Stanham party had been driven from the ferry in a rough lumbering affair--half coach, half omnibus--and had been deposited with their small box and the saddle-bags at the door of the tavern.

As they had gone down the hallway they caught a glimpse, through the open door on the right, of a group of men in red coats, with much glitter of gold lace and many buttons, who could be seen through the thick clouds of tobacco smoke seated about a large steaming punch-bowl on a great oak table. They were some of the officers of his Majesty's forces that had been sent to "protect" the inhabitants of his "thankless colonies."

Everything was new to the boys--the sound of the many voices, the snatches of songs and choruses that now and then came up from the coffee-room, the jingle of spurs and sabres as a party of troopers made their way across the stone flagging of the court. In all directions were delights, and in their little room they could hardly sleep from excitement that first night.

Early in the morning they looked out of the window, still thrilled with the pleasure that all young natures feel at being amidst new surroundings. It was a beautiful day, and the wind blowing from the southward was filled with the fresh smell of the sea. Their room was high up, and they could look over the sloping roofs and house-tops across the river and out into the bay, where two or three huge men-of-war lay straining at their anchors.

"Isn't it fine!" exclaimed William, as they knelt on the floor with both elbows on the window-sill, drawing short breaths with gasps of sheer delight.

At the end of the street was a small green, and here a company of infantry was drilling. They could catch the glint of the sunlight upon the muskets, and almost hear the energetic words of the young officer, who strode up and down the front.

"Oh, to be a soldier!" said William.

"Wouldn't it be grand?" said George, the martial spirit that animates almost every boy welling up in him so strongly that he quivered from the top of his head to the soles of his bare feet.

Just then a two-horse equipage was seen coming down the street, with the dust flying up from the great red wheels. In it sat a man, richly dressed, with his three-cornered hat set sideways over his powdered hair, his chin resting on his hands, which were supported by a gold-headed cane, and a sneer was upon the cruel lips.

It was Governor Tryon, who had put down the so-called "rebellion" in the Carolinas, and for his "fidelity" in hanging several people who strongly expressed their views had been honored by the post of being his Majesty's representative, the Governor at New York.

The boys were craning their necks to get a good view of the red-wheeled coach, when suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was old Cato.

"Come on, young gentlemen," he said. "Hurry on yo' close; yo' uncles is waitin' breakfast down below stairs."

They jumped up, and in a few minutes were both arrayed in the quaint costumes in which we first saw them. True, the pink breeches, despite Aunt Polly's careful ironing, showed traces of the plunge into the brook, and the buttons on the heavy velvet coats were not all mates; but Aunt Clarissa had sacrificed some of her treasures, and the lace trimmings were fresh and clean.

"I wish we had swords," said George, thinking of the glimpse of a young periwigged dandy he had seen talking to some ladies in the tavern parlor the night before.

The two uncles greeted the twins quite cheerfully. The ship that was going to take Uncle Daniel back to England was to sail early on the morrow, and he appeared glad indeed at the prospect of leaving America behind him. As the boys sat down, Mr. Wyeth came up and joined the party.

"Well, my young gentlemen," he said, bowing over the back of his chair, "we're glad to see you in the city; and what do you think of it?" he inquired.

"It's very fine," ventured George, but then he could say no more. He grasped his brother's hand underneath the table. He could not speak of the prospect of leaving William then, for, of course, no one else knew that the twins had decided in their own way which one was to go with Uncle Daniel.

A party of officers in all the bravery of their red coats and glittering accoutrements came laughing through the doorway. They hardly acknowledged Mr. Wyeth's salute, and seated themselves at a table, thumping loudly with their fists, and calling for the waiter.

The twins looked at them in wide-eyed admiration.

"This is a loyal house," said Mr. Wyeth, with a sigh of pleasure. "But I do assure you, sir," addressing Uncle Daniel, "that there are other taverns in the town where seditious speeches are made openly, and where men gather whose conduct and whose thoughts approach almost to open rebellion." He lowered his voice. "The merchants here have followed the pernicious example of the misguided Bostonians, and have refused to import English goods. If this keeps up, ruin to the country must follow. Secret societies have been formed, and their abominable proclamations can be seen posted on almost every corner. They say England has no right to impose a tax of any kind."

Uncle Nathan frowned, but he restrained his tendency to burst into rage. "There are the gentlemen who can take care of the rebels," he said, nodding towards the group of officers. "The prisons should be filled with malcontents, who dare to dispute the authority of the King." Uncle Nathan had calmed himself with an extreme effort.

After breakfast the boys set out for a stroll, and made their way down to the Battery. As they turned into the little park whom should they see but Carter Hewes leaning against a big stone post, and watching the waters lapping against the sea-wall.

"Carter!" they both shouted, running forward, and some breathless greetings were exchanged.

"What brings you here?" said one of the twins at last, after they had explained their own presence and their mission.

"I came with my father," said Carter. Then he lowered his voice. "He is here on business, you see."

Just then what Carter was going to say was drowned by the sudden rolling of a drum, and down Broadway, into which the boys had turned, came a company of English foot.

"Don't they look splendid?" said William, keeping time to the throbbing of the music.

Carter looked at them sullenly. "They may have a chance to lose some of their finery soon," he said. "I wish they were at the bottom of the sea. If some people were not blind they would have been sent back before--back where they came from!"

"But the King," said William, pointing to the small bronze statue of George III. on horseback, that was in the little circle on the near-by Bowling Green.

"Confound the King!" said Carter. "He's the blindest of them all."

This expression must be pardoned on account of Carter's youth. Probably even his hot-headed father would not have used it in such a public place at least.

The twins gasped and stepped back slowly from him. "You are a rebel, then!" they both said, and, turning, they walked away, without looking over their shoulders.

Carter remained standing where he was. He saw he had offended the loyal young Frothinghams beyond manner of expression, and he wished that he could take back his words, now that it was too late.

But the twins walked silently along; they felt each other's minds so well that speech was not needed. However, when they had gone some distance up Broadway they stopped for a moment before a house where some troops were quartered, for a drum rested on the doorstep.

A tall soldier stepped outside of the house. He was putting pipeclay on his white cross-belts, and smoking some villanous tobacco, which caused him to hold his head to one side to keep the smoke from getting in his eyes. He was humming a bit of song as he worked, and suddenly glancing down, his eye caught the boys watching him.

"Git out, ye little Yankee rebels!" he said, and launched a kick in their direction--"git out of this."

"We are not 'Yankee rebels,'" said the younger, drawing himself up proudly.

"We are loyal subjects of his Majesty King George," said William, "and you have no right to talk to any one like that, no matter who they are!"

The man paused and took the pipe out of his mouth. "Tare and ages!" he said, "an' you're loyal subjects of the King, in troth?"

"We would fight for him," said William.

"Hear the bhoys!" said the man. Then he called back through the doorway, "Shaughnessy," said he, "come out here quick; here are two recruities fer ye!"

Another tall man with sergeant's chevrons on his sleeves came to the doorway. The powder from his hair was still about his shoulders, and he was binding his queue with a black cord, holding the end of it in his mouth, and twisting the cord around and around until he deftly tied it with a jerk. Then he spoke over his companion's shoulders.

"Would yez enlist?" he said.

"If we were old enough," said William.

"Ah, they're brave lads," said the first speaker. "If there was more like thim I could go back to my Katherine at Bally Connor, and now we'll be kipt here until the saints only know whin, and probably will have to fight out in the howlin' wilderness."

"Come down and see us, bhoys," broke in the second speaker. Then he whispered, "Bring some of yer father's terbaccy, or a paper o' snuff. How's that, Gineral McCune?"

"Or a bottle of somethin' warmin'," suggested the other one.

The twins were too much depressed by the result of their meeting with Carter to appear amused. They simply turned and walked away, and after a stroll of an hour or so they arrived at Smith's Tavern again.

The hours passed quickly. At next sunrise the boys were dressing in their little room at the top of the house. William handed a coat to George. It was the one Aunt Clarissa had prepared for the journey.

Generally the old lady had endeavored to make some slight differences in the boys' garments, which was not noticeable at first glance, but was helpful in distinguishing them, provided each wore his own apparel.

George put on William's coat, but paused, with his arm half-way in the sleeve. "No, William, you ought to go," he said.

"Pray, it's settled," replied his brother. "When they find it out perhaps they will send me too."

"How about the scar?" said George, reading his brother's thoughts.

William made a sudden movement and extended his arm. Across the back of his left hand ran a large scar. He had hurt it years ago while playing with a sickle out at Stanham Mills. It showed quite plainly in a good strong light.

"Perhaps you had better go, after all," said George.

"Not a single step," replied his brother. "You know we never change when we once have drawn lots. I can keep my hand hidden easily enough. Besides, they have not thought of looking for a long time now."

This decided it, and with the exchange of coats the boys exchanged their names, as they had done on various occasions before.

All was bustle and confusion at the wharf where the _Abel Trader_ lay.

Cato stood by trying hard to smile, but the tears were running down his cheeks and dropping from the point of his grizzled chin.

The tide and wind were ripe to swing the vessel out from shore; the last good-byes had been said. George was standing by Uncle Daniel on the deck. For some few minutes the twins had not been able to speak a word, for they would have cried hysterically, and they knew it well enough.

Suddenly William drew his hand across his eyes; Uncle Nathan started. There was the red scar!

The gang-plank was being drawn, and the old man staggered. "Stop there a minute!" he shouted, before the last cable was thrown off. "Stop there, I say!"

He rushed up the swaying plank to the deck, holding William by the arm, and fairly dragging him after him.

"You little villains!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, as he pushed up to where his brother Daniel and George were standing near the taffrail. He exchanged the boys much as one person would take one article in place of another, and did not even have time to reply to Uncle Daniel's astonished exclamation, but holding George as if he were afraid he would soar into the air, and with a grasp that made the boy wince with pain, he muttered beneath his breath, and fairly had to make a jump for it to regain the dock.

Once there, Uncle Nathan began to shake the boy so fiercely that his head almost flew off his shoulders.

The little brig swung slowly out, and her blocks grated as her yards were braced around. Then her jibs clattered up the forestays and she caught the wind.

Strange to say, if it had not been for Uncle Nathan's action on this day this story might never have been written.