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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

FOR KING OR COUNTRY.

A Story of the Revolution.

BY JAMES BARNES.

"RICHARD BLOUNT," OF ALBANY.

It was a dark, murky night when George reached the headquarters at West Point. He had been delayed often in the journey, having been forced to hide in the woods to avoid meeting stragglers from the guerilla forces, and once he saw a man ride to the top of a hill behind him and shadow his eyes with his hat. His horse was almost worn out when he had reached the American outposts. Here, however, there was no detention. He had passports that would take him across the river, where the forces that were making feints of threatening the British defences above the city were stationed.

After leaving the protection of the American arms he was to proceed on foot and enter the British lines as best he could, and there demand to be brought before the officials to whom he had despatches.

It is a strange thing that even the strongest and frankest natures often have the gift of dissembling when confronted with danger or necessity. A half-dozen times as George had ridden through the woods he had thought of giving up the project. General Washington knew nothing of it, he felt sure, and Colonel Hewes was known more for his brilliancy and dash than for his caution. It seemed hardly possible that any scheme of such tremendous importance as the capture of the British General could be successful; the plotting could not go on under the very eyes of the English; they would surely suspect something, and he knew what the fate of a spy would be. He remembered the brave Nathan Hale, but was animated none the less by the memory of this hero's last words, and the sorrow that he had expressed at having "but one life to give for his country." The question of right or wrong involved George did not weigh long in his mind, and, to tell the truth, the mystery of the adventure had strongly tempted him from the first.

No one would have recognized our young Lieutenant as he stepped from the boat into the glare of a lantern on the eastern shore of the Hudson--for he had been ferried across the river, the very night of his arrival at West Point. His brown hair was dyed black and straggled about his shoulders. Instead of his long blue coat, he wore a gray jacket and a short plum-colored waistcoat buttoned tightly to the throat; his legs were encased in heavy riding-breeches, and stiff leather gaiters came up to his knees. The big pouch in his pocket was filled with the precious English guineas, and sewed on the inside lining of his waistcoat were the despatches.

The story of supposed hardships that he had faced in coming down from Albany he had learned by heart, but it was hard for George to change the soldierly carriage of his shoulders. He was stamped with the imprint of military service. However, by placing a button in the sole of his left boot, he reminded himself of the limp which Richard Blount was supposed to have.

The next day, at early dawn, he began his trip, and late in the afternoon he rested at a farm-house, keeping out of sight as much as possible. When darkness came on, under the guidance of a Lieutenant Peck of a Connecticut regiment, he rode away once more southward toward the city.

It was almost four o'clock in the morning when Lieutenant Peck stopped. The latter, out of delicacy, had asked no questions, and George had felt in no mood for conversation. Their journey had been made in silence.

"Here is the lone oak," said the Lieutenant, "and here I am to leave you and take back the horses. This road will carry you to the British lines. I wish you all success in your dangerous enterprise, for I can guess, sir, what hardships and sacrifices you will have to make. God speed you."

George had dismounted. He shook the other's hand, thanked him, and hastened down the road. The papers that were sewed inside his clothes crinkled as he walked. He almost felt as if his courage would give out. What was he going to face? Was he not being made the victim of a wild, reckless enthusiast?

Nevertheless he would not back out. It was not in the Frothingham blood to turn. The family motto was "Onward." He would be true to it.

As he walked ahead he kept making up his mind what he would say and how he would appear. He was supposed not to be a country bumpkin, but a youth of some education and appearance. He was not to go into hiding when he reached the city, but to live openly, and to spend money lavishly on the soldiers. He was not to talk overly much, but to listen carefully, and to await the orders that he would receive, and act, when the time came, with promptness and fearlessness. He had been going over for the hundredth time the tale of his imaginary and wonderful passage through the American lines; and had traversed perhaps eight or ten miles from the spot where he had separated from Lieutenant Peck, when he saw some men with guns on their shoulders crossing from the woods to the left of the road.

It was growing light, and it was evident from their movements that they had detected him. Now a strange fear came into his mind. If they were English, all would be right and well; but if they were Americans, it would be hard for him to explain. It was good that this idea came to him, for it made him act as a fugitive naturally would. He walked on as if he had discovered nothing until he had placed the big trunk of a tree between himself and the strangers standing on the hill-side, two of whom were advancing toward him. Then he backed carefully away, still keeping the tree between him and the approaching figures, until he reached the stone wall at the road-side. He cleared this at a bound, and falling on his hands and knees, crawled along in the direction he had been pursuing. At last he found a patch of underbrush, and worked his way into it cautiously as a skulking Iroquois might. Peering out through the branches of a small pine he could clearly see the men that were walking toward the tree behind, which he apparently had taken shelter, up the road. He could see their surprised gestures when they found no one was there. He saw them searching the ground for footprints, as there had been a slight snow-fall, and of course his having walked backwards did not betray him at first glance. He hoped that they were Englishmen, but could not tell, for their uniform was a nondescript one like the Americans. Suddenly, as he watched the slope from his hiding-place, he saw the flash of a red coat, and then another. The man near the road shouted something back to the top of the hill. It was evident that George had come across an English outpost, and as it was now quite day-light, he could see, down the road, a number of horses being led out of a weather-beaten gray barn.

So Lieutenant Frothingham, now "Richard Blount," of Albany, stepped from his hiding-place, and walked boldly out to the road-side and seated himself on the stone wall.

For some reason the party who was searching the bushes further up had not discerned him, but the man in the red coat had, and was seen coming swiftly down the hill. The other joined him also, and soon the two were within speaking distance.

"Stand and deliver!" said the first, with his hand upon the butt of a large pistol that he carried in his belt.

"If you will pardon me," returned George, affecting a careless air, "I had just as lief sit for awhile; and as to delivering, I have come a long way to do it."

"What mean you?" said the man, stepping across the road and coming closer. The others had by this time come down also, and our young hero found himself confronted by a group of curious faces. The nondescripts had proved to be Tory irregulars.

"I mean just this," said George: "you are English--John Bulls, are you not? I am Richard Blount, of Albany. I have some letters for General Howe and his Lordship; and I have crawled, walked, and stolen through the American lines, and it is my desire to reach New York. Anything that you can do for me I am sure will be appreciated by my family and the gentlemen I wish to see."

The officer laughed and advanced. "I am happy to meet you, sir," he said. "How did you do it?"

"I kept to the woods mostly, and used some Indian tactics, doubtless," answered George.

"He knows them well," broke in a voice. "See how he escaped us up the road."

"I feared you were Yankees," was "Mr. Blount's" rejoinder. "I will be grateful to you, sir, if you will bring me to where I can get a Christian meal, for I am half famished, and no dissembling."

He descended from his perch on the stone wall and approached the officer.

"Here are my credentials, sir," he said, unbuttoning his coat and showing the letters sewed into the lining. "If you can hasten me on my way to the city and recommend me to a tailor, for I am a stranger there, I shall be greatly in your debt."

"'Twill be a pleasure, sir," said the officer, glancing at the first paper George had extended. "Will you give us the honor of breakfasting with our mess? We are quartered in the farm-house yonder."

George accepted, and the two young men walked down the road.

To his surprise, George had sunk his own individuality. He had no idea that it would be so easy or so interesting. He seemed to feel that he was Richard Blount. He limped beside the officer down the road, and chatted freely about the difficulties of his trip from Albany. There's a difference between lying and acting, and our young Lieutenant, though he did not know it, or perhaps had but discovered it, was an actor through and through.

He had caution enough not to embroider his narrative too freely, but stuck closely to the main idea that he had memorized; and he found that it was very easy to answer questions with questions--a common trick in America, the subtlety of which had not seemed to penetrate the English mind.

He found also, to his surprise, that he entertained the others by his assumption of a dry vein of humor.

"I might as well have Richard amuse them," he thought to himself, and made some remark about one of the thin horses which was being groomed in the front yard.

The officer laughed and ushered him into the little room.

A handsome young man in his shirt sleeves was bending over the open fireplace cooking something in a frying-pan. He looked over his shoulder as George and the party entered.

The young spy started. He remembered where he had seen this young man before; he had dined with him at Mr. Wyeth's.

"What have we here?" asked the officer.

George's heart beat once more quite freely.

"A hungry man," he responded, before any one could speak, "who would stand you a bottle of Madeira for your mess of pottage."

The other laughed, and soon Richard Blount was introduced. They inquired over and over again concerning the strength of the American forces, and, to tell the truth, the numbers did not suffer curtailing at George's hands.

"Why, for three days," he said, "I appeared to be crawling through the midst of an army."

"You did it well," responded one of the officers; "but, by the Dragon, you look a little like an Indian."

"'Tis no disgrace, sir," George answered quickly, affecting to be angered at the other's tone. "'Tis an honor to be allied to the chiefs of our Northern tribes. Perhaps you did not know--" He stopped.

"Pardon me," said the one who had last spoken. "I did not mean it as you have taken it. It was through my ignorance I spoke, as you assume."

After the meal, which gave some excuse for shortening the conversation, George asked to be sent down to the city.

"Can't you send me with a guard of honor?" he asked. "I will pay well for it."

"I cannot spare the men," answered the first officer, politely, who appeared to be in command of the picket, "but your neighbor on the right is going to town. He will accompany you, and save you the trouble of explaining and drawing out your papers at every cross-road."

"Thank you for the offer," said George. "And can you recommend the best inn that has a good cellar and table? for it seems to me that I have lived on parched corn for the last twelvemonth."

In a short time he was mounted on a spare horse, and was plying his conductor with questions as they traversed the streets of the town of Harlem and passed over the undulating hills dotted with handsome residences that adorned Manhattan Island. As they came into the city the ravages of the fire were visible to the westward; almost one-third of the town had suffered. There appeared to be soldiers, soldiers everywhere. They were quartered in every house, barracked in every large building. They passed a gloomy-looking structure that had once been "The City Farms."

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