The Rider of the Black Horse/Chapter 1
THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE
CHAPTER I
ON THE SHORE OF THE HUDSON
The June day was near its close, and already the shadows of the great hills were lengthening as they were reflected in the waters of the lordly Hudson. Almost like glass the river itself extended, so quiet was the air and so still were the wooded shores. The heat of midday was no longer felt, but the oncoming night promised only a measure of relief, for the air was still sultry and the few thunderheads that had been banked low in the western sky had been scattered, and the heavens were now apparently cloudless.
Not far back from the western bank of the Hudson, a young man, apparently about nineteen years of age, on horseback, was following the rough roadway or path that led to the shore. Both his own appearance and that of the horse which he was riding indicated a weariness that the stalwart and muscular frame of the rider could not entirely conceal. It was evident that he had been in the saddle for a long time, and his dust-discolored face, streaked as it was where streams of perspiration had rolled down his cheeks, almost concealed the dark eyes and darker hair that under other circumstances would have been the most noticeable of his features.
"Never mind now, Nero! We 're almost at the place where we 'll get fodder and a chance to sleep, old fellow!"
Almost as if he understood the words and the gentle patting on the neck which his rider bestowed upon him, the little black horse raised and dropped his head as if he were nodding approval, and once more broke into a run.
"No, no, not that," said his rider soothingly. "You 've covered more than a hundred miles since yesterday morning, and you 're entitled to a rest. Besides, old fellow, we 're not done yet. I wish we were at our journey's end and well back on our way, don't you?"
Again the horse threw his head up into the air as he came to a walk, and nervously lifted his feet as he picked his way over the stony road.
"If we get back into Jersey all right, Nero," resumed the young rider, "maybe that General Washington will pat you on the shoulder and say, 'My trusty fellow,' just as he did to me. It's worth it all, Nero, if we can only help him a bit, now is n't it?'
Despite his weariness it was a relief to young Robert Dorlon to speak aloud, although his faithful little steed could not make any response. For two days now he had been on his way from the hills of Jersey, where he had left Washington and his army facing the forces which Howe had sent in the early summer of 1777 to try to draw "the rebel" from his stronghold down into the plains, and give the redcoats battle. Of the issue of such a contest Howe and Cornwallis had never a question, and it is a natural inference that their wily foe had none either, for he steadily refused the challenge. Into the hills the redcoats had no mind to go, for the memory of Bunker Hill was still keen among them. However much they were inclined to belittle the courage and skill of the untrained farmers and farmers' boys in the ranks of the defenders of the colonies when they met them, as they did in the battle of Long Island in the preceding summer, it was an altogether different affair when they tried, even with bayonets, to drive them from some stronghold.
Eager as the redcoats were to catch the illusive forces of "the fox," as the British somewhat suggestively had named Washington, the American commander was equally eager to hold them where they were, or in the vicinity of New York. For the campaign, as it had been planned this year by the British, was one that aroused the keenest anxiety among the American leaders. John Burgoyne, with his great army of redcoats, militia, and Indians, was striving to force his way from Montreal, up Lake Champlain and Lake George, and then on to Albany. At the same time Colonel Barry St. Leger was marching with another army of redcoats and redmen from Oswego, in the hope of sweeping away every vestige of opposition as he proceeded on his way through the Mohawk Valley toward Albany, where he fondly hoped that his forces would join the victorious troops of John Burgoyne.
At the same time, up the Hudson from New York it was believed that Howe or Clinton would come with adequate forces to drive away all opposition, and when the three armies had united at Albany, then the American colonies would be effectively cut asunder, and all that the victorious British would have to do, would be to conquer either part at their leisure.
The plan certainly was one that promised well, and Washington's energies were at once directed toward an effort to hold the redcoats in or near New York and prevent them from going up the Hudson to the aid of their northern army, while Howe, Clinton, and Cornwallis were equally busy in striving to accomplish a similar result among their enemies. The early summer of 1777 accordingly became a time when the men of either side were tested as they seldom were throughout the eight weary years of the struggle for American independence.
It became, therefore, of the utmost importance to Washington to know how it fared in the north, and "expresses" were provided,—men who rode swiftly from one American post to the one that was nearest it, and there delivered their missive or message to their waiting successors, who in turn rode swiftly to the next point in the line, while the others retraversed their way with a word from the opposite direction.
In addition to these "expresses," however, Washington was accustomed to make use of certain trusty men who were to go directly from the army in Jersey to the forts on the Hudson, or to the army in the north, with the letter that was to be placed directly in the hands of the northern commander, and likewise to receive from him the word which in turn he was to hear back to the anxious leader in the Jersey hills.
Among the men assigned to the latter task was young Robert Dorlon, who already had twice made the journey and now was well advanced on his third. The need of haste on his part had been most impressively emphasized by the commander when he had set forth, and the recollection of his kindly words and confidence was even now, despite his weariness, strong in the thoughts of the young rider. It was General Maxwell who had selected him for the task and had commended him to Washington, confident alike in his strength, his discretion, and his energy. And a chance observer would speedily have declared that all these qualities were marked in the young man's bearing. His physical strength was apparent in every movement he made, his face at once begat confidence, and his manner was dignified despite the twinkle and the mischief that lurked only partly concealed in the dark eyes of young Robert. A frolic or a "rough and tumble" was his delight, and as a wrestler his fame had gone throughout the little army stationed in New Jersey. A contest between himself as a representative of a Jersey regiment and a young soldier from Pennsylvania had been arranged for the very day when he had been compelled to leave camp with his message for the army in the north, but his own necessary departure had prevented the meeting, for which he was almost as eager as his friendly and enthusiastic messmates had been for him.
And now as the June day drew to a close, Robert Dorlon found himself near the place where he was no longer to follow the shores of the Hudson, but was to obtain rest for the night at the humble abode of Dirck Rykman. In his former journey Robert had crossed to Peekskill and left a message for sturdy Israel Putnam, who was in command at the time of the patriot forces there, but the recent activities of the redcoats in that vicinity had caused Washington to direct his young "express" this time to proceed farther up the river before he even halted, for all chances were now to be avoided. The rumors and reports from the northern army had been of a character to render the leaders most anxious, and it was deemed wise to insist upon all haste in the journey which Robert Dorlon was making. The young man had clearly understood the demands upon him and was keenly alive to the part which he was to take.
The sun had just sunk below the western horizon, leaving behind it a brilliant sky, whose lurid colors Robert clearly perceived portended a morrow that would be even warmer than the present day had been. It was then with a sigh of relief that he perceived the little log house before him, where the young Dutchman with his wife and two little children dwelt. Only once had Robert seen him before, having stopped at his home over night on his most recent return from the north. Of Dirck's devotion to the cause of the colonies General George Clinton himself had been the voucher, and in many ways it was whispered that the young man had already been of aid to the patriots stationed in the highlands.
"Good-day to you, Dirck Rykman," called Robert, as he guided his horse into the pathway that led to the house, which was partly concealed from the sight of a passer-by by the bushes and trees that were in front of it.
Dirck himself he had seen standing in front of his home, leaning upon the handle of his hoe and apparently lost in meditation.
The young Dutchman hastily changed his position and glanced up at the unexpected hail. In a moment he perceived who his visitor was; but though he advanced to meet him, he was still visibly abstracted or troubled as he grasped the outstretched hand.
"How are the vrouw and the babies?" continued Robert, who, in the thought of the rest from his long ride, was once more in high spirits. "Got room and a bed for me to-night?" he added, as he flung himself from the saddle to the ground, and stood holding his horse by the bridle.
"There is room and a welcome," replied the Dutchman slowly, "but"—
"Take me across the river if it is n't all right," interrupted Robert quickly. "I can find a place on the other side"—
"No. Nein. There is room and a welcome. It is not that." Dirck spoke in low tones and almost unconsciously glanced toward the house as he spoke.
"What is it then?"
"There is somebody here."
"Who?" demanded Robert hastily, though he too dropped his voice.
"I do not know. You shall help me say when you see him."
"How many?"
"One."
"Where is he now?"
"In the house."
For a moment Robert was silent, minded to ask more questions; but Dirck's suggestion that he could help decide when he himself had seen the man, and the fear that his conversation with the Dutchman might be overheard, caused him to hesitate. As he glanced again toward the house, he was positive that he could see the form of a man even then behind the vine that had been trained upon the lattice-work in front of a part of the house.
"Shall I take my horse back into the woods?" inquired Robert, referring to the concealment of his faithful animal which had been deemed wise on the occasion of his recent visit.
"Nein. No. I will put the horse in my barn. It was already too late to hide him. We shall see later."
"That's good of you, Dirck. You take him and give him a good rubbing down and I 'll run down to the shore for a swim. I 'll not be gone long, and I 'll see to feeding Nero myself when I come back. That's something I would n't let my own mother do for you, would I, Nero?" he added, softly rubbing the nose of his horse as he spoke.
Flinging the rein to the Dutchman, Robert ran swiftly down the bank until he arrived at a secluded spot on the shore, and quickly removing his clothing, plunged into the river. For a time he was almost unmindful of his weariness and previous discomfort, as he swam about in the water; but the oncoming night and his uneasiness concerning: Dirck's visitor soon caused him to return to the shore, where he hastily donned his clothing and prepared to return to the house. Before he had climbed the bank, however, he perceived Dirck approaching, and instantly he halted, waiting for his friend to come near.
"How's Nero? Have you rubbed him down?" demanded Robert.
"Yaas. I had some help."
"Who helped you?"
"The man."
"Your visitor?" inquired Robert hastily.
Dirck nodded his head in reply, but did not speak.
"How long has he been here?"
"About an hour."
"What does he have to say for himself?"
"He wants me to keep him over night and ferry him across the river in the morning."
"Does he say where he's going?"
"He says he was doing somedings for General Clinton."
"He does? Does he say what?"
"No. Nein," replied Dirck, shaking his head.
"Naturally he wouldn't do that. Did he know who you were, Dirck, or did he just chance to stop at your house?"
"I cannot tell. He"—
Dirck stopped abruptly as the sound of a footfall was heard near them, and as both men glanced up they beheld a man approaching. To the unspoken question in Robert's eyes, Dirck quickly nodded, and the young "express" knew that the visitor whose arrival had perplexed and troubled Dirck was before him. He was glad that he had an opportunity to see the man before he spoke, but his hasty glance was interrupted by the stranger himself.