At the very moment that Dirk and the Dominie heard the sounds of the cannon during the first battle (I should have mentioned it chronologically), a group of women were at Foxen Creek washing. Owing to their finer organization, they all heard the cannon jar louder than either Dirk or the Dominie. Perhaps the silence of Nature in the green dingle of the creek had something to do with it. "Well, I declare, here comes Widow Schneider's son Cantine, that went off in Gates's army, and he's limping too. He looks dreadfully pale. I wonder if he's come home wounded? How do, Cantine. Why, what's the matter, boy, with you?" "A good deal," said the lad, wearily. "I'm wounded in the leg, and come home to be cured, I hope." "How did you get wounded, boy?" "Oh, my poor husband!" said one. asked the Dominie. "God rest his soul in glory!" "There goes another shot!" said the second. He's shot to pieces he is! Oh, blessed Mary, receive him into Paradise!" "That's the way poor folks are used!" cried a third. "They fight all the battles and the offishers git all the glory!" And so ran the lamentations of the poor women till all the sylvan dell was filled with their sorrow. Days passed along and no tidings from the north. At length came another sunset towards the middle of the month. "Good-evening to you, Dominie !" éxclaimed Dirk Steenkirk to the Rev. Derrick Schnaaps, as both met again at the corner of the two streets. "Our ears must have deceived us, Dirk," said the Dominie, after returning the salutation of the old tailor. "No news of any battle as yet." "Hardly time, Dominie, hardly time!" responded Dirk. "You must consider that we're thirty miles from Saratoga, if the battle, as I think it was, was fought there, and no end to the woods between. In fact, as you know, it is all woods except where General Schuyler cut down the trees to make his camp at The Sprouts of the Mohawk, and at little Fort Ann, that's hardly big enough to swing a cat round in it." "Oh, no; it isn't all woods!" returned the Dominie. "There's Deacon Bronck's clearing, not more than four miles out, and then Jan Jansen has cleared up quite a place two miles farther up. And then there's Brom Stryker, a mile or two above The Sprouts.' Still I think myself there's been hardly time for any news yet." "We've had two great battles between Gates and B'gyne, and we've whipped the plaguey Britishers out of sight." "Ah, ah!" said Dirk. "I thought so. Our ears, Dominie, did not play false after all. When did the first fight come off?" "The first was on the 19th of September, and the last on the 7th of this month," said the lad, lifting himself proudly on his crutches. "And if both were not good stand-up tough fights, there 're no snakes." "No doubt of that," ejaculated Dirk. "Well, give us thy story, Cantine ! " said the Dominie. Before, however, the lad, who had taken a seat on a grassy bank, commences, let us describe the house beside which the three were gathered. It was a two-story building, with a gambrel roof, in which squatted two or three dormer windows looking on Market Street, along which rose its front, directly at the corner, as noticed. It was full of little rooms as a worm-eaten cheese is of holes, and its broad-benched "stoop" was of wood. Its door had the customary two leaves swinging in the middle, and the brass knocker was a grinning wolf's head. The foundation walls composing the lower story were of rough plastered stone, and the upper half of the door leading into the story was a window. The whole building (with the exception of the foundation) was of the small, flinty Holland brick. It had little windows dotted all over it, and of loop-holes belted it. Altogether it was an odd concern, half dwelling, half block-house, and was built when an incursion was expected, day by day, from range 1 the Esopus Indians. On the side toward the cross street was the date of its erection, 1765, in small iron letters. 'Well," said Cantine, "when Gates heard that old weather-beaten red-faced B'gyne had left Fort Edward, he march ed as far north as Bemis Heights and entrenched. I was put on picket, and so, one day, I saw red spots breaking out of the dust on the road further north leading to Fort Edward, and I give the alarm. Sure enough B'gyne was coming, and we knew that a fight would come off right away, for Gates was a tough old sarpent to deal with, and wouldn't stand no nonsense anyhow. So we began to prepare for a high old time. Gates is like a singed cat-he's better than he looks-and don't mind a Britisher a bit more than old granny Vanderheyden minds a pinch o' snuff. And talking of snuff, I shouldn't mind a mossle o' whiskey if you have any about ye. Howsever, there was Gates and there was B'gyne." "Do go on with the fight, lad," said Dirk, "and don't shoot round the haystack like a humming-bird round a tumbler. I guess you've had more whiskey now than is good for you, boy." 66 'Well, ain't I a telling on ye!" said the lad, curtly. "If ye know more about it than I do, go on and tell it yourself and be hanged to ye!" "Don't be angry, good Cantine," said the Dominie, soothingly. "We're so anxious about the fight, you know, that we're impatient, you know." "Well, if ye know, as I said before, go on and tell it," said the lad, in hope the whiskey would be forthcoming at the delay. "I should think," he continued, after a while, "you might squeeze out a drop or so of cider. I won't go on, that's flat, until I wet my throat." And the boy looked as pig-headed as possible. Dirk and the Dominie, finding the lad determined not to proceed without the whiskey, reluctantly handed him a few small silver pieces, and with them Cantine hobbled to the little cowering shedgrocery of old Mrs. Vanderheyden, nearly opposite. In a few moments he emerged wiping his mouth. "Well, you see!” said the lad, reseating himself, this time on the stoop, "about ten in the morning B'gyne sallied out in three bodies to'rds Gates and Arnold, and I tell ye what 'tis, Gin'ral Arnold's nobody's fool at fighting, mind I tell ye! "Gates met him with a part of his army, led on by old Morgan, of Virginny, and a real old hoss he is at fighting too, and Gin'ral Dearborn. Morgan fought the Indians and Canada Tories alongside of Dearborn, while B'gyne comes along up to a place called Freeman's Farm; and here Gin'ral Fraser and Gin'ral Arnold have a tussel, and finally at last both armies meet here and the real battle begins. Now we drive the British, and now the British drive us. Now we push, and now they, jest like a couple of sawyers at a log. At last night come, and both sides stopped fighting. In the morning, though, B'gyne was nowheres with his troops; he'd got enough of fighting for the present, I tell ye. "The night before, though, we boys were all alive. Every one of us thought we'd have another fight, and we lay down by our arms all ready. The talk around the camp-fires and in the tents was whether we couldn't lick B'gyne, and we all ray ther thought we could. "There was one thing though that made me feel a kinder ugly. It was this: I was sentry at Gin'ral Gates' tent, and I heard, without meaning to, a little talk between the old Gin'ral and the Quartermaster that made my hair stand up. 'Twas only a sort of broken bits of talk I heard, but I couldn't help putting them together. Says Gates, says he, 'Quartermaster, how about the ammunition?' 'Pretty bad,' says the Quartermaster, and then they both fell to whispering. 'Enough to last if B'gyne attacks us in the morning?' asks Gates. 'Well, hardly,' said the Quartermaster. 'That's bad, very bad,' says Gates; 'but let's keep it all to ourselves, and if worst comes to the worst we can retreat to the "Sprouts" again and entrench, or we can stay where we are and wait for ammunition from Albany." Well, as I said before, there was no B'gyne to disturb us next morning, 'n the next, 'n the next. We almost got tired of waiting. I acted as a picket, and one night I got close to the British lines. I crept behind a thicket, close to a campfire. Arrah,' says an Irish grenadier, 'and I wonder what B'gyne manes to do? As for my part, I'm tired to death doing nothing.' "Wait a little,' said another, 'and if B'gyne don't give these rebels the old scratch I'm mistaken.' Just then a twig snapped under my foot and I made my self scarce. "In the mean time, the story got about among the men that Gates and Gin'ral Arnold had had a quarrel. But we was all strained up to the right pitch for a fight, and I do believe if all the Gin'rals had quarrelled amongst themselves we men 'ud a fit B'gyne ourselves. "At last B'gyne come to the scratch again, and attacked us. This was on the 7th of October. The battle began about two o'clock in the afternoon, and it was a tough fight, I tell ye. Morgan and Fraser fit each other, and Pon led up his brigade against Col. Ackland, and Gin'ral Dearborn and Lord Balcarris had it hot and heavy. Arnold, although he'd been stripped of his rank by Gates, mounted his horse as a volunteer at the head of three regiments of Gin'ral Learned's brigade, and charged B'gyne's centre where the Hessians stood, and routed 'em, and off they run. Just about this time I happened to be fighting by the side of Tim Murphy, of Morgan's rifle corps. There was a fine-looking British officer in front, on a white horse. He was very active in rallying his troops and leading them on. 'Do ye see that officer, Tim?' says Col. Morgan. 'I do,' answers Tim. 'It's Gin'ral Fraser,' says Morgan. I respect him but it's necessary he should die.'-' Amen,' says Tim, and a short time a shot comes from a tree which Tim had taken a station in, and Gin'ral Fraser falls shot. "Then come the last charge, and didn't the boys go it? I tell you they did some. On they went, on they went, hurrah boys! There was Gin'ral Patterson and Brooks, and Glover and Learned and Tenbroeck, and Arnold at the head of all, and Morgan next. We driv' the British out of their works, and at last we come upon the Hessians in their camp, and we driv' them out, all except Gin'ral Breyman, who was shot, and as the sun went down we found we'd got the victory. "Twas just about this time that I was shot, and I don't remember any more, and so I come home to tell you all about it. There was one thing, however. Gates was fully prepared if the fight had gone against him. He had a horse all saddled, close by his tent, to make a run for it if we got defeated; and the baggage wagons were all loaded, with the horses' heads pointed to'rds Albany. As I went limping along by Gates' horse, the darkey who was holding the bridle, says he, grinning, 'This hoss of Gin'ral Gates 'll jump all the gates 'twixt here and Allbouny,' says he, that is, ef there was any gates, which there ain't,' says he. "And as I went past the baggagewagons, says the head driver, says he, 'How goes the battle?' says he, 'for my hosses won't go to'rds Albany till old Arnold says the word. When you see him a comin' this way you may be sure the Britishers is a comin' too, and then the old Harry take the hindmost.' "I up and told him how it had gone, and didn't they hurray! I rayther guess some! And down here I come in a empty baggage wagon to tell ye all the news! And now I think of it, how's mother?” A day or two after Cantine's description, confirmation of the news reached the little antique city, which was illuminated in honor of the tidings. Cantine found the news a capital excuse to get drunk, and found himself the next morning in the stocks standing by the Dutch Church, at the intersection of Deer (now State) Street with Market. The inhabitants were carried away with excitement. Fort Frederick fired a salute, and King George was burnt in effigy in Lyon (now Washington) Street. The mayor, who lived in Queen (now Elk) Street, kept his house illuminated three nights, and the little boys kindled bon fires in all the streets and lanes of the city, while the larger played "soger," parading Deer Street continually with tin swords and broomsticks. Days passed with no further tidings. At length, one fresh October morning (the 20th of the month), ripe to the heart as a golden pippin, old Brom, the black Dutch fiddler of Albany, living in a little log cabin on the edge of Pinkster Hollow, came to Dirk's house, and was just about mounting the stoop toward the wolf'shead knocker, when Dirk opened the window portion of the basement door with "How now, Brom, what's the matter?" แ Golly, massa, how de do? Bery well, I tank-ee, same yourself. And B'gwine is a comin' wid de Bittish, and de mean Hessian, right straight along. Golly-me, dad!" "Who, what, where, what ye're about, Brom; drunk or what?" "Well, de trut is B'gwine is on the road to Albany, and his army wid 'em!" and Brom cut a caper. "Aha! surrendered, has he?" said Dirk. "S'rendered! what's dat? He guv up, and Gin'rall Gates he tuk his sword; and B'gwine is a comin', and Gin'rall Herides-well, and Gin'rall Phil-lups and-" "General He-rides-well!" repeated Dirk. "General De Riedesel, he means, neighbor Dirk!" said the Dominie, who had approached unobserved. "Ah, yes!" said Dirk, " and Phil-lups is doubtless General Phillips, Burgoyne's commander of artillery. Well, this is news indeed. But how did you hear it, Brom, so ahead of every one?" "De Injin chief, Skin-'em-down-" Dirk. my shins! No matter dough! He said 'Kah-kah!' dat's me-de Crow-in Injin; dough why he call colored gentleums Crows for, dis niggah didn't know, 'cept both be brack, and de eagle brack too, and he ain't no crow. But, says he, Kahkah, de Red Face, dat's B'gwine, don't call hisself war-yer no more. He's a woman to de Blue Coat; dat is, B'gwine give up to Gin-rall Gates, as he telled finally at last, and here ole Brom comes up to tell Massa Dirk!" "Here's something for your good news, Brom," said Dirk, throwing him a silver piece, which Brom caught with his hand as a dog catches a tossed bone in his mouth, and started for Mrs. Vanderheyden's grocery. "Here comes Cantine, and with a young tree too. Well, Cantine, how are you this fine brisk morning?" "Very well, tailor!" said the boy, using his crutch more than ever. "The stocks are not very good for wounded limbs. Here's an elm I've got for ye, tailor!" continued he. "Tailor, tailor," responded Dirk. "Here's impudence, and from boys too." "If ye ain't a tailor what are ye?" said the lad, grinning. "Mayor, perhaps, but I don't believe in it." "You don't believe in anything but whiskey and the stocks." "Precious little whiskey I see from you," said Cantine in a rage; "and as for the stocks, look out or I'll have your heels tripped up too, confound ye." "Well, what have you got there?" said Dirk, pulling out his pipe as a sedative. "An elm for ye, from the hill by the old Fort. It grew just by Pinkster Hollow, nigh the big spring. But if ye don't want it, say so." At this moment a cloud of dust rolled 'Sken-an-doah, of course, Dirk," said around the corner near the Patroon's the Dominie. "Well, I call 'm Skin'-em-down!" said Brom resolutely. "He skins 'em down and up too, and all over, when he's got a hold on 'm. Golly, I've seed 'm up dere in de Mohawk country-he skin one white man, a Frenchy, from de head to de toe. Bress VOL. IX.-30 mansion, at the head of the long street. Nearer it came, and now through it forms were dimly discernible. Down rolled the cloud, and clearer showed the forms. Tramp-tramp-tramp-down the rural road marched the forms. First came the blue coats of America, blue laced with red, two regiments led by Gen. Bricketts. The Stars and Stripes (just made the national banner by Congress, and unfurled for the first time in the nation at the surrender of Burgoyne) came next, borne by a mounted officer. Then the Irish grenadiers with their bearskin caps, and the Scotch fusiliers in their red turned up with blue. Next rolled ponderously along the royal batteries, with the artillerymen in their blue turned up with red. The Germans followed; the Hessian yager with his great canteen, and studded with brass ornaments, and the De Riedesel dragoon, with his heavy plumed helmet. Squalid, emaciated, were these troops, leading the wild inhabitants of the woods they had tamed-the great black, waddling bear, the light, springy, graceful deer, the fox, the black-cat, and in one instance a spitting, snarling wildcat in a wooden cage. Down they went; no fife piped, no drum sounded. Triumph there was none from the gazing groups, over the sad, dejected, downcast procession, with the exception of the Stars and Stripes, that glittered wide in the breeze of the rich October day. Down, down they went, until at length the last of the conquered army of Burgoyne had passed Dirk and his two companions. Down they streamed to Deer Street, then, turning to the left, down Deer to the waterside, whence they were wafted in boats to Groen-en-busch (now Greenbush), on the hills back of which barracks for their accommodation had been hastily erected. "I wonder if they'll go near Tiger (now Lancaster) Street, where mother lives! said Cantine. "But again, do you or don't you want the elm ?" "Of course I do, good Cantine!" said Dirk. "Plant it right before the house, as a remembrance of the day Burgoyne's army went through Albany." LEISURE MOMENTS. It wasn't a good, healthy, hearty cry, such as healthy, hearty children tell their petty sorrows with; but something so sad and wailing and pitiful that we needs must stop and ask the little one what ailed it. The girl was hardly six years old, scantily clad, soiled, very poor looking; and with her was another girl, a year or so her senior. Both, evidently, had come from the same home of poverty; no one to look after them, to keep them from being crushed in the crowd of wheels and hoofs and men that hurried, crunched, and rolled over the pavement into the near ferry-house at Jersey City; nobody to keep them from ill word or harsh treatment, or any harm that may come to children in the dangerous streets. There they stood, leaning against the brick wall, the smallest one still weeping. "What is the matter, my little girl?" Only the continuous low sobbing for an answer; but the elder said, with that strange indifference brought by familiarity with pain, "She's only a headache, sir." Then we chanced to look at a tiny foot, all twisted and bent out of shape, and knew what the small, suffering face had already told. Nothing could win her from her quiet, bashful tears; no sympathizing words, no offering of oranges,—great ripe, golden fruit that would have brought a smile to the troubled face of any child not soul-tired with suffering. To the elder one:— "Where do you two live?" "In Brooklyn, sir." "What are you doing so far away from home?" "We sing on the boat, sir!" Still through the gates the crowds jostle and push; fathers hurrying home to clasp their happy children in their arms; mothers gathering up with one hand their fine garments as they passed, lest they should touch the loathsome beggars, and with the other leading their own bright, daintily dressed daughters to homes of plenty and content. Still the carts |