Gen. P. "Crosby was now a prisoner and"—

Henry. "Pray, father, may I interrupt you to inquire why Crosby did not tell who he was, and in that way escape?"

Gen. P. "The committee of safety had given him orders at no time to tell his secret, unless he was likely to suffer death. Had it been known, that persons of this character were abroad in the country, no traveller would have been safe.

"On the arrival of the party, at White Plains, the prisoners were examined privately, one by one, and ordered to be marched to Fishkill, a small village, near the Hudson, about seventy miles from New York. Crosby underwent an examination also—but when he came before the committee, they highly commended him—told him that he must go as if a prisoner to Fishkill; but, in a little time, they would provide for his escape.

"On the following morning, the whole party were early on their way up the river. On reaching Fort Montgomery, near Peekskill, a short halt was made, and here Crosby met with one of the most trying incidents of his life.

"On entering the fort, whom should he see before him, but his former schoolmaster—a worthy man, who had often been at his father's, while teaching the village school in Southeast. And well did that schoolmaster know the attachment of old Mr. Crosby to American liberty—yet, here was his son, among a set of tories and a prisoner.

"The schoolmaster started back, with a kind of horror, and even Crosby was for a moment nearly overcome.

"'Is this possible?' exclaimed the schoolmaster, 'do my eyes serve me? Enoch Crosby! Why do I see you thus?'

"Crosby advanced, and taking his old friend by the hand, replied, 'you see me just as I am—among tories, and a prisoner—but—I have no explanations to offer."

"'No explanations!' uttered the other—'are you, then, indeed, an enemy to your country? Oh! your poor old father, Enoch—it will bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave when he hears of this.'

"For a moment, Crosby felt a faintness come over him—his father! he loved him—revered him—but he could not explain—it would not do—he, therefore, only replied, that God was his judge, and the time might come, when things would appear otherwise than they did.

"In the midst of this conversation—painful and unsatisfactory to both, the drum sounded 'the roll,' and Crosby had time only to press the hand of his old friend, which he did with affection. He was soon on his way—sadly depressed for a time, lest his father should hear his story, without the appropriate explanation; but he comforted himself that he was doing his duty to his country—and, perhaps, thought he, a few months may give us the victory, and then my father and friends will know all, and will love me the better for the part I am acting.

"The party at length reached Fishkill, and were conducted to an old Dutch church, where they were confined and strictly watched.

"Within a few days, the committee of safety arrived in the village, to examine the prisoners more strictly. Crosby, in his turn, was summoned to appear. But in respect to him, the committee only consulted how he might escape. There were difficulties in every plan they could think of—there was danger—great danger; yet they could not appear to favour him—and their advice to him was, to run the hazard of an attempt by night, in the best way he could contrive. And should he be so fortunate as to escape, he might find a safe retreat with a Mr. ——, who lived at some distance.

"Crosby, at length, thought of a plan. Near the north-west corner of the church was a window, from which he contrived to draw the fastenings, so that he could open it. Near this window, stood a large willow tree, whose deep shade would conceal him till he could have opportunity to escape unobserved.

"The night, at length, approached, in which he determined to put his plan into execution. But what if he should fail?—it might be the last of his earthly existence.

"About dark, the sentinels were stationed, as usual, round the house. They were four in number.

"Before midnight, all was still. Officers and soldiers were asleep. Crosby rose, and holding his chains, so that they should not clink, crept softly to the window, which he raised. Fast did his heart beat, while doing this—but faster still as he slid to the ground, beneath the willow tree.

"A sentinel was at no great distance. For a moment, he stopped— arrested by the noise—he even turned—listened—looked—but all was now silent there—and thinking himself mistaken, he sung aloud 'All's well,' and onward he marched, still farther from the place of Crosby's concealment.

"Now, thought he, is the moment—the only moment, perhaps, which I shall have; creeping on his hands and feet, he reached the grave yard, a stone's throw from the church, and here behind a tombstone, succeeded in loosing his chains.

"When this was done, he watched the moment to make his escape. A thick swamp, he knew, was at no great distance; but the darkness of the night made haste dangerous. Yet in rapidity lay his only hope.

"He prepared, therefore, to run the hazard. And seizing the moment, when the sentinel had turned in an opposite direction, he bounded forth and fled—a ball passed him before he had reached many rods,— and now another—and still another—yet a merciful providence protected him; and, before the garrison could be roused, he was wallowing deep in the mud of a swamp;—but he was safe—quite safe from pursuers."

Illustration_9

CHAPTER VI.