2

On a clear, warm day, late in July, 1780, a handsome coach drawn by four horses crossed King’s Ferry and toiled up the Highland road.  It carried Benedict Arnold and his wife and their baggage.  Jack and Solomon passed and recognized them.

“What does that mean, I wonder?” Jack queried.

“Dun know,” Solomon answered.

“I’m scared about it,” said the younger scout.  “I am afraid that this money seeker has the confidence of Washington.  He has been a good fighting man.  That goes a long way with the Chief.”

Colonel Irons stopped his horse.  “I am of half a mind to go back,” he declared.

“Why?”

“I didn’t tell the General half that Reed said to me.  It was so bitter and yet I believe it was true.  I ought to have told him.  Perhaps I ought now to go and tell him.”

“There’s time ’nough,” said Solomon.  “Wait till we git back.  Sometimes I’ve thought the Chief needed advice but it’s allus turned out that I was the one that needed it.”

The two horsemen rode on in silence.  It was the middle of the afternoon of that memorable July day.  They were bound for the neutral territory between the American and British lines, infested by “cow boys” from the south and “skinners” from the north who were raiding the farms of the settlers and driving away their cattle to be sold to the opposing armies.  The two scouts were sent to learn the facts and report upon them.  They parted at a cross-road.  It was near sundown when at a beautiful brook, bordered with spearmint and wild iris, Jack watered and fed his horse and sat down to eat his luncheon.  He was thinking of Arnold and the new danger when he discovered that a man stood near him.  The young scout had failed to hear his approach—­a circumstance in no way remarkable since the road was little traveled and covered with moss and creeping herbage.  He thought not of this, however, but only of the face and form and manner of the stranger.  The face was that of a man of middle age.  The young man wrote in a letter: 

“It was a singularly handsome face, smooth shaven and well shaped with large, dark eyes and a skin very clean and perfect—­I had almost said it was transparent.  Add to all this a look of friendliness and masterful dignity and you will understand why I rose to my feet and took off my hat.  His stature was above my own, his form erect.  I remember nothing about his clothes save that they were dark in color and seemed to be new and admirably fitted.

“‘You are John Irons, Jr., and I am Henry Thornhill,’ said he.  ’I saw you at Kinderhook where I used to live.  I liked you then and, since the war began, I have known of your adventures.’

“’I did not flatter myself that any one could know of them except my family, and my fellow scout and General Washington,’ I answered.

“‘Well, I happen to have had the chance to know of them,’ he went on.  ’You are a true friend of the great cause.  I saw you passing a little way back and I followed for I have something to say to you.’