Chapter 32

HOW ENGLAND TREATED PRISONERS OF WAR.

After Eben had escaped the captain of the war ship was furious.

He found out that five of the prisoners shared the same room with the escaped one, and he closely questioned them about the escape. They refused to speak a word; perhaps they knew nothing, but their mouths were closely sealed.

Orders were given to take the five prisoners to the shore and hang them in such a conspicuous place that the rebels might see them and take warning.

This cruel and uncivilized act was carried out by men who loathed the work, but who had to obey the orders of their superior.

Fearing that unpleasantness might ensue from the order, which, when too late, the captain regretted, orders were given to sail north, and Ethan Allen was taken to New York, where he was landed and thrown into a prison cell.

While it was a change to be on land, the treatment was more severe.

Every indignity was heaped upon the unfortunate prisoners by the tories who ruled the city.

There was but one gleam of sunshine in the hero's life.

He often heard news of the outside world.

A Congress had been called, and its deliberations were of vital importance.

The tories talked about it in Allen's presence.

They denounced men whose names Allen had not heard before, but who were becoming prominent. But they also talked of Sam Adams and John Hancock, of Patrick Henry and George Washington, and then they told each other that it was seriously proposed to create a new nation out of the colonies and declare the independence of the colonies.

All this was glorious news to the prisoner, and he listened in silence, afraid that his joy, if known, would prevent further conversation in his presence.

One hot, stifling day in July there was considerable commotion in the prison, and Allen knew that something more than the ordinary had caused the excitement.

How anxiously he waited to hear the news!

How tedious the hours passed before the change of guards gave the desired few minutes for conversation.

At last the hour came!

"The Declaration of Independence has been signed!"

"You do not mean it? The rebels would never dare!"

"But they have dared. They say that a new nation has been born. Ha, ha, ha! He, he, he! Ha, ha, ha!"

"Will all the prisoners have to be shot now?"

"No, they will be hanged, same as before. England has not recognized the new nation; but England has hired a lot of Hessians----"

"What are they?"

"Don't you know? They come from some place in Europe; their king sells or leases them out to fight."

"And they must fight whether they like it or not?"

"Oh, they like fighting; they are trained to fight. It is the only thing they can do, and they do it well. You see, they do it all the better because they can't talk English, so they kill all who do----"

"Then they may kill us."

"No, I do not mean that, but they kill all they are told to kill."

A warden entered the long corridor and called out the name of Ethan Allen.

Allen stepped from his cell and submitted to his arms and legs being heavily ironed.

He was then marched through the city to the Battery, where he was placed on board a war ship, with other prisoners, and taken to Halifax.

For nearly two years he suffered the most horrible tortures in prisons and prison ships. He seemed to have been forgotten.

For weeks at a time he was absolutely silent, no one being allowed to speak to him, and silence was strictly enforced among the prisoners.

Once Allen got a little paper and a pencil, and a friendly jailer promised to have the letter sent to its destination.

Allen addressed it to his brother at Bennington, in the Green Mountains, and it duly reached its destination, but the brother was away with the patriot army, the letter was kept, however, and read over and over again by the old friends of the hero of Ticonderoga.

In that letter he says:

"I have seen American patriot prisoners begging for food and being laughed at for their request. They have bitten pieces of wood to get little chips to eat and so satisfy their hunger. I was imprisoned for a time in a church, watched over by Hessians who would not let us leave to satisfy the wants of nature, and mid excrements the poor wretches, who only loved their country, died in horrible tortures."

It was a wonder that the letter ever reached Bennington, but the jailer who passed it out was a warm-hearted man, a son of the soil from Ireland.

It was in the early spring of 1778 that Allen heard his name called as he sat in the hold of a war ship lying off New York.

He dragged his legs wearily up the steps to the deck.

He had aged much during those two years, and his friends would scarcely have known him.

As he reached the deck he heard a voice, which seemed very familiar, say:

"Colonel, don't you know me?"

A tall, bearded young man stood before him with extended hand.

"Eben!"

"Ah! then I have not changed so much."

It was Eben Pike, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant of the American army.

"What brings you here? You are not a prisoner?"

"No; at this moment I am a guest of His Majesty the King of England, and am acting on behalf of the United States of America, and more especially the commander-in-chief, Gen. Washington, and----"

"I am so glad to see you, Eben, that I do not know what you have been saying. I feared you were dead."

"No, colonel, I had a work to do, and I have done it. You see, we, that is, the American army, took a certain English colonel prisoner, and England wanted him very badly, so Gen. Washington said: 'You shall have him in exchange for Col. Ethan Allen,' and at last the order for the exchange was made and you are free."

What did it mean?

Allen heard the word "free," but it seemed like an echo of fairyland, having nothing in common with this matter-of-fact, cruel world.

"Yes, Col. Allen, you are free."

This time the word was spoken by an English officer.

Allen staggered like a drunken man, and would have fallen had not Eben caught him.

"Come, colonel, we must not trespass on the hospitality of the King of England any longer; I have promised to escort you with all due diligence to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief."

Allen stood still, looking, with glassy eyes, at the speaker.

In a few moments he asked;

"Am I dreaming?"

"It looked very like it, colonel, for you acted as though you were asleep; but come now, we must be going."

"Do you mean it? Are you really Eben Pike?"

"Ask the captain here. He will vouch for that. The document reads: 'The bearer, Lieut. Pike, of the Army of the United States of America,' does it not?"

"Yes, Col. Allen, the whole thing means that you are exchanged. We have got our man, and we pay for his liberty by giving you yours. Good-day, and may I never see you again--at least under recent conditions."

Allen entered a small boat with Eben, and two stout seamen pulled the boat to the dock, where a carriage was in waiting.

Eben almost pushed the astonished and half-dazed Green Mountain hero into the carriage, and soon the waterside was left far behind and the carriage rolled along the roads to the place where Gen. Washington had made his headquarters.

By that time Allen had begun to realize that he was really free.

Washington met him at the door and grasped his hand warmly.

"For over a year we have been trying to secure your release, but could not get the English to consent. You have to thank Lieut. Eben Pike for your release. He is a real hero."

"General, I only did my duty."

"I wish every soldier did his duty as well. I must tell Col. Allen; I am sure he will be prouder than ever."

"No, general, it was a mere nothing."

"I am the best judge of that. You must understand, colonel, that Pike enlisted in the cavalry and did excellent service as a private soldier; he was speedily promoted, for he deserved it. But it was at the battle of White Plains that he distinguished himself. Almost single-handed he fought a company of cavalry when most of our men had retreated. He was surrounded and refused to surrender. 'I have been a prisoner of England once,' he said, and that was enough for him. He cut his way through the enemy, and even that enemy has borne testimony to his great bravery. I am proud of him."

"I am sure that a braver man than my young friend, Pike, never drew sword," added Allen, proudly.

"After he had gallantly cut his way through the enemy, he says he thought he could have done better, so he turned his horse and rode after the British. They evidently thought that he was the advance guard of a regiment, for they stuck their rowels into the horses and rode for life. Pike followed up closely and overtook Col. Jameson; he demanded his surrender, and Jameson had to submit, for Pike had the advantage."

"Yes, he could not help himself and live," Eben said, with a smile.

"Pike took his captive into camp, and the affair was reported to me. Sergt. Pike became lieutenant, but he was not satisfied. He knew that Jameson was a most important personage, almost as valuable as Cornwallis himself, so what does the young lieutenant do but ask me to refuse to exchange Jameson unless you were the captive given up by the British. The difficulty had been that you had no commission; I did not know it until I heard it from Montgomery and Schuyler, and so the British looked upon you as an outsider; but they wanted Jameson, and they got him, and you owe your freedom to Pike's pertinacity."

We can easily imagine Allen's feelings as he listened to the account given by Washington.

The pride he had felt in Eben's career was intensified, and he felt that the young Green Mountain scout would become one of the great heroes of the Revolution.

Allen was so broken down by his long and cruel imprisonment that he took a vacation and retired to Bennington to recuperate.