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The disc of the setting sun just touched the outline of the
forests crowning the heights of Hoboken, on a bright afternoon
in September, 1780, when a single horseman made his appearance
on the river-road leading from Tarrytown to New York, towards
which place, then in the possession of the British troops
under Sir Henry Clinton, he was slowly trotting his horse. His
journey was nearly ended with the day, for the needle-like spire
of Trinity Church had been, for the last half hour, a prominent
object in his eye, and the expanded bay, girt with its majestic islands,
and covered with the fleets of England, assured him that
he was approaching the headquarters of the British armies.

He rode slowly along, with his arms folded across his breast,
and the reins dropped carelessly over the drooping neck of his
large brown horse, who stumbled and floundered over the rough
road as if he had been ridden fast and far. The horseman was
a heavily-framed man, with a dark countenance, rendered still
darker by thick brows and whiskers. His face wore an expression
of dogged resolution and reckless daring. His costume was
partly that of a yeoman, partly military,—a fustian frock buttoned
to the throat, and reaching to the stirup, and a broad flapping
hat that he wore,—belonging to the class of yeomanry, and a
leathern belt stuck with a brace of pistols, and sustaining a serviceable
broadsword, with stout buff, buck-skin breeches, somewhat
soiled and darkened by long service,—appertaining to the
latter profession. He appeared lost in thought, and indifferent to

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surrounding objects; but the alert and wary movements of his
eyes, and, what a little closer scrutiny discovered, one hand of
his folded arms resting on the butt of a pistol, and the other
grasping the hilt of his broadsword, showed that he was on watch
for sudden danger, and prepared to meet it.

He had just gained the brow of a gentle declivity over which
the road wound, from whence there was a view of the town, and
from which the broad banner of England, floating above the
quarters of General Clinton, was full in sight, when the sun dipped
beneath the horizon; at the same instant the report of the
sunset gun fired from the Battery reached his ears—the flags on
fort and shipping descended from their staffs, and over the fortified
town night and watchfulness took the place of day and security.
The horseman now gathered the reins in his huge, brown
fist, settled himself in his saddle, and muttering, in a sort of subdued
growl:

“Come, Bruin, we have loitered full long—stir, stir! a measure
of corn and a cup of sack await us at the inn; so forward!”

He applied, as he spoke, both spur and whip to the sides of
his beast, who, forthwith, throwing back his ears, set off towards
the town at a round pace.

A short ride further through a straggling suburb brought him
in front of a low barrier thrown across the street, with a sentinel
pacing before it, and a guard-house with a group of soldiers a
few yards within, on the left. When he came in sight of this
obstacle, instead of checking, he urged his horse forward, and
rode directly towards it as if he intended to clear it at a flying
leap. The sentinel, on perceiving him, challenged, in a stern
tone. Without replying, he continued to advance at speed till
within ten feet of the gate, when, with a sudden and powerful
jerk, he threw his horse backward on his haunches, and leaped
off to the ground, just as the ball from the sentinel's musket hummed
harmlessly over his head.

“Well aimed for a beef-fed John Bull,” cried the horsemam,
with a loud laugh, springing into his saddle again. The corporal
of the guard, with his command, on hearing the report of the
piece, hastened to the post, and a dozen muskets were instantly
levelled at the rider, who sat immoveably on his steed, gazing
coolly on his adversaries.

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“How, sir! What means this bravado?” demanded the corporal
of the guard; “surrender, or I fire upon you.”

“Softly, good sir corporal! You've wasted powder enough
already. I did but try to see how well you kept the barriers—
and what mettle your men are made of; for the story goes that
a pretty wench or a jug of whiskey can cross your post in broad
noon, and the sentinel's never the wiser. It's “Who goes there?”
“Man with a jug o' whiskey.” “Stand, man! advance jug o'
whiskey and give us a taste.” Or, “Who goes there?” “Husband
and wife.” “Stand, husband! advance wife and give us a
kiss!” Ha, ha, ho! this is your system of tactics down in York,
they say up above. Ho, ha, ha!”

His laugh met no other return than a few round oaths from
the soldiers, while the corporal replied, “You should come then
in a wench's shape to test us, fellow.”

“Wench or whiskey, I must go into the town.”

“Show your passport.”

The man drew from his pocket an iron box, deliberately tapped
the lid, opened it, took therefrom a pinch of snuff, and
handed it over to the soldiers. One of them, only, acknowledged
the compliment by thrusting his arm through the barrier
and helping himself to half the contents.

“So, ho, man, you'd best take a shovel and fill your knapsack.
Here, sergeant, is my passport,” added the horseman, thrusting
his fingers beneath the snuff, and extracting a folded paper, crumpled
and dingy. It was pronounced correct. “Now, pass, sir,”
said the subaltern, “but if you approach the next post after this
fashion, may they send a score of bullets through your jacket.
I should not have borne with you as I have, but my orders led me
to look out for one of your cut and kidney.”

While he was speaking the barrier was thrown open, and the
horseman dashed through with a coarse joke at the expense of
the soldiers, which, in the breasts of those gentlemen, excited
wrath rather than mirth. In a few seconds horse and rider were
lost to their gaze in the increasing darkness and gloom of the
distant streets. After riding a short distance, the stranger turned
from the principal street to the left, and entered a winding
lane, which, by a circuitous route, led him towards the Battery.

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On the corner of this street, (then called Queen,) and Broad
street, he came to an inn, from which proceeded the sounds of
mirth and music. Here he drew rein and dismounted amid a
throng of idlers, gave his horse to a negro hostler with strict injunctions
to take the best care of him, and then, with the cool
impudence of a man confident in great physical powers, passed
through the crowd, jostling, to either side, soldier and townsman,
and entered the house. Proceeding directly to the tap-room,
which was filled with smokers and tipplers, he called loudly:

“Black Sam!”

“Here, sir. What gen'lman wish?”

“A can of ale dashed with brandy.”

Then striding across the room, he flung himself into a chair,
which a little, thin man vacated at his approach, and throwing
his feet over a table on which three or four men with blue coats,
cockades, and strait swords, were resting their mugs, he received
his potation, with the addition, also, of a pipe and tobacco.
Leaving him to discuss these at his leisure, the object of alehouse
curiosity and the centre of sundry ominous glances, we
will change our scene to the quarters of Sir Henry Clinton.