“I wish to borrow one of your canoes, Ellis,” said he, “and beg your attention to my horse, which is in the shed.  Be so kind as to give it feed, and to cover it with a blanket if you have such a thing.  But leave it in the shed, and ready saddled; I may have to ride in a hurry.  I sha’n’t need you with me in the canoe—­nor any supper, I thank you, sir.”

For the man, with the taciturn way of his kind, had motioned toward some pork frying at a fire.  With no thought to press, or to question, he replied: 

“I’ll fetch the canoe down the gully, cap’n.  You stay here and warm yourself a minute.  And don’t worry about your hoss, sir.”

A few minutes later, Philip was launched upon the dark current of the Hudson, paddling silently toward the Eastern shore.  Darkness had now fallen, and he trusted it to hide him from the vigilance of the British vessels whose lights shone dim and uncertain down the river.

Much larger craft landed much larger crews within our lines, on no darker nights—­as, for one case, when the Whigs came down in whaleboats and set fire to the country mansion of our General De Lancey at Bloomingdale.  Philip made the passage unseen, and drew the canoe up to a safe place under some bushes growing from the face of a low bluff that rose from the slight beach.  His heart galloped and glowed at sense of being on the same island with his wife.  He was thrilled to think that, if all went well, within an hour or two he should hold her in his arms.

He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hung beneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip of beach.  Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to a cleared space backed by woods.

“Who goes there?”

’Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing, half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff.  The snow on the ground enabled the two to descry each other.  Winwood saw the man raise a musket to his shoulder.

“A word with you, friend,” said Philip, and strode swiftly forward ere the sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) had the wit to fire.  Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwood clapped his pistol to the soldier’s breast with the other.

“Now,” says he, “if you give a sound, I’ll send a bullet through you.  If I pass here, ’twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it but us two.  Let go your musket a moment—­I’ll give it back to you, man.”

A pressure of the pistol against the fellow’s ribs brought obedience.  Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into the snow, spoiling the priming.

“Now,” he continued, “I’ll leave you, and remember, if you raise an alarm, you’ll be blamed for not firing upon me.”

Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinel to pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred.  The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfort outweighed his military conscience.