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diff --git a/36740-0.txt b/36740-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b37c502 --- /dev/null +++ b/36740-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9616 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peggy Owen Patriot, by Lucy Foster Madison + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Peggy Owen Patriot + A Story for Girls + +Author: Lucy Foster Madison + +Illustrator: H. J. Peck + +Release Date: July 15, 2011 [EBook #36740] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEGGY OWEN PATRIOT *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +[Illustration: “CAN I BE OF ANY ASSISTANCE?”] + + + + + Peggy Owen Patriot + + A Story for Girls + + BY + + Lucy Foster Madison + + Author of + + “Peggy Owen” + “Peggy Owen at Yorktown” + “Peggy Owen and Liberty” + + Illustrated by H.J. Peck + + The Penn Publishing Company + Philadelphia MCMXVII + + + + + COPYRIGHT + 1910 BY + THE PENN + PUBLISHING + COMPANY + + “I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes + With the memorials and things of fame + That do renown this city.” + + + + + Introduction + +In “Peggy Owen,” the preceding book of the series, the heroine, a little +Quaker maid, lives across from the State House in Philadelphia. By +reason of this she becomes much interested in the movements of the +Continental Congress, and when her father, in spite of his religion, +takes up arms for the Whigs she too becomes an ardent patriot. While +David Owen is with the army before Boston, Peggy and her mother find a +kinsman of his—William Owen, a colonel in the English army—a prisoner in +the city’s new jail. + +They succeed in having him released on parole, and take him into their +home, where he requites their kindness by selfishness and arrogance, +even killing Peggy’s pet dog, Pilot. He is exchanged at length, but +before leaving he brings one James Molesworth to the house, claiming +that he does not like to leave them unprotected. This man Peggy +discovers to be a spy. + +Upon the advance of the British toward Philadelphia Peggy and her mother +go to their farm on the banks of the Wissahickon. Here they are almost +denuded of supplies by foragers, one party of which is headed by their +own kinsman, Colonel Owen. American troopers arrive, and a sharp +skirmish takes place, in which Colonel Owen is wounded. While caring for +him word is received that David Owen is a prisoner in Philadelphia, and +ill of a fever. General Howe proposes to have him exchanged for one +Thomas Shale, and Peggy rides to Valley Forge to secure the consent of +General Washington. Owing to the fact that the man is a spy and a +deserter the exchange cannot take place, and, in a blaze of anger at +finding her cousin so comfortable while her own father lies ill, Peggy +denounces him, and forces him to accede to the proposal that he be +exchanged for her father. The book closes with the evacuation of +Philadelphia by the British. + +The present volume shows the Owens at Washington’s camp in northern New +Jersey. Peggy’s further adventures are continued in “Peggy Owen at +Yorktown” and “Peggy Owen and Liberty.” + + + + + CONTENTS + + CHAPTER PAGE + I. On the Road to Philadelphia 11 + II. The Home-Coming 24 + III. An Old Time Advertisement 37 + IV. A Girl’s Sacrifice 48 + V. Up in the Attic 61 + VI. Tea at Headquarters 69 + VII. A Summer Soldier 87 + VIII. Peggy’s Resolve 98 + IX. The Tale of a Hero 107 + X. Peggy Teaches a Lesson 119 + XI. Peggy Pleads for Drayton 129 + XII. Another Chance 141 + XIII. Good News 151 + XIV. The Camp at Middlebrook 159 + XV. Harriet 176 + XVI. The Two Warnings 188 + XVII. A Letter and a Surprise 205 + XVIII. Stolen Thunder 222 + XIX. A Promise and an Accusation 232 + XX. A Regretted Promise 247 + XXI. The Reckoning 258 + XXII. A High-Handed Proceeding 269 + XXIII. In the Lines of the Enemy 281 + XXIV. The Reason Why 291 + XXV. The Alert That Failed 303 + XXVI. The Battle With the Elements 319 + XXVII. A Haven After the Storm 335 + XXVIII. A Taste of Partisan Warfare 346 + XXIX. Peggy Finds an Old Friend 361 + XXX. An Interrupted Journey 376 + XXXI. How the News was Received at Camp 387 + XXXII. On the Altar of His Country 401 + XXXIII. A Great Surprise 419 + XXXIV. Home 429 + + + + + ILLUSTRATIONS + + “Can I be of Any Assistance?” Frontispiece + “Friend—I Should Say—General Arnold” 80 + Slowly He Turned Toward the Reader 124 + “My Wife and Daughter, Your Excellency” 169 + “Why Should Thee Play the Spy?” 261 + The Dingey was Caught by a Current 334 + “You Are Welcome,” said General Gates 396 + + + + +PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT + + + + +CHAPTER I—ON THE ROAD TO PHILADELPHIA + + + “And rising Chestnut Hill around surveyed + Wide woods below in vast extent displayed.” + + —“The Forester,” Alexander Wilson. + +“Oh, gracious!” + +The exclamation burst from the lips of a slender girl mounted upon a +small black mare, and she drew rein abruptly. + +“What is it, Peggy?” asked a sweet-faced matron, leaning from the side +of a “one horse chair” drawn up under the shade of a tree by the +roadside. “What hath happened? Thee seems dismayed.” + +“I am, mother,” answered the girl, springing lightly from the back of +the horse. “My saddle girth hath broken, and both Robert and Tom are +back with the wagons. There is a breakdown. What shall I do? This will +cause another delay, I fear.” + +“Thee can do nothing, Peggy, until Robert returns. Try to content +thyself until then.” + +“I could repair it myself, I believe, if I only had a string,” said the +maiden. “I wonder if there isn’t one in the chaise. Let’s look, mother.” + +Throwing the bridle over her arm the girl joined her mother, and the two +began a hasty search of the vehicle. + +It was a golden day in September, 1778, and the afternoon sun was +flooding with light the calm and radiant landscape afforded by the +wooded slopes of Chestnut Hill, penetrating even the dense branches that +overarched the highroad leading to Germantown. + +It was one of those soft, balmy days when the fathomless daylight seemed +to stand and dream. A cool elixir was in the air. The distant range of +hills beyond the river Schuylkill was bound with a faint haze, a frail +transparency whose lucid purple barely veiled the valleys. From the +motionless trees the long clean shadows swept over tangles of underbrush +brightened by the purple coronets of asters, feathery plumes of +goldenrod, and the burning glory of the scarlet sumac. Ranks of silken +thistles blown to seed disputed possession of the roadside with lowly +poke-bushes laden with Tyrian fruit. + +The view from the crest of the hill where the chaise had stopped was +beautiful. The great forest land spread out beneath seemed boundless in +extent, for the farms scattered among the woodland were scarcely visible +from the height, but the maiden and her mother were so intent upon the +mishap of the broken strap as to be for the nonce insensible to the +delights of the scenery. So absorbed were they that they started +violently when a voice exclaimed: + +“Your servant, ladies! Can I be of any assistance?” + +“Why,” gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of about +eighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from the +woods into the road. “Who art thou, and what does thee want?” + +“I want to help you mend your saddle,” said the youth coolly, doffing a +tattered beaver with some grace. “Didst not say that the girth had +broke?” + +“Yes, but,” began the girl, when her mother spoke: + +“Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?” she asked mildly. “Thou wilt +not mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself.” + +“As to that, madam, it can be discussed later,” he rejoined. “For the +present, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here a +jack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but your +permission?” + +“And that thou hast,” returned the lady. “We shall be indeed grateful to +thee for thy aid.” + +At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected the +broken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he set +to work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. “What +is the name of the pony?” he asked, addressing the maiden directly. + +“Star,” answered she regarding him with curious eyes. + +He was in truth a spectacle to excite both curiosity and pity. He was +haggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. His +form was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of a +beaver, his feet were without covering of any sort. + +“’Tis a pretty beast,” he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as to +his rags. “One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I’ve seen in many a +day. Are you fond of her?” + +“I am indeed,” answered the girl, patting the mare gently. “My father +gave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now with +the army at White Plains, New York.” + +“Are you not Quakers?” he queried, glancing up in surprise. + +“We are of the Society of Friends, which the world’s people call +Quakers,” interposed the matron from the chaise. + +“And they, methought, were neutral,” he observed with a smile. + +“Not all, friend. There be some who are called Free Quakers, because +they choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinks +thou shouldst have heard of them.” + +“I have,” he rejoined, “but as Fighting or Hickory Quakers.” + +“It doesn’t matter what we are called so long as we are of service to +the country,” exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. “Is thee not of the army +too? Thou art an American.” + +The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: “Not now. I have been.” And +then, abruptly—“Are you ladies alone?” + +“No,” replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. The +highways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by this +period of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to be +scarcely safe for travelers. “We have an escort who are coming up with +the wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They should +be here at any time now.” + +“There!” spoke the youth, rising. “I think, mistress, that you will find +your saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey.” + +“Thank thee,” said Peggy gratefully. “It is well done. And now what +shall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?” + +“Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?” he +asked. + +“Philadelphia, my lad,” spoke the mother. + +“Would thee——” She hesitated a moment and then drew forth some bills. +“Would thee accept some of these? ’Tis all I have to offer in the shape +of money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days.” + +“Nay,” said the boy with a gesture of scorn. “Keep your bills, madam. I +have had my fill of Continental money. ’Twould take all that you have to +purchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmers +hereabouts would take them.” + +“There is a law now compelling every one to take them,” cried Peggy. +“They will have to take the Continental money whether they wish to or +not. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country’s +currency.” + +“You are all for the patriots, I see,” he remarked. “When one has +suffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful country +one doesn’t feel so warmly toward them.” + +“But, my lad,” broke in the lady, “thee will pardon me, I know, if I say +again that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee here +perchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, David +Owen’s wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?” + +“Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to the +city?” queried the lad. “Wilt let me ride with you?” + +“With pleasure,” answered Mrs. Owen. “Thou shalt sit in the chaise with +me while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as a +coach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt not +find it unbearable.” + +“’Twill be better than walking,” he returned with easy assurance. His +assurance deserted him suddenly, and he sank upon the ground abruptly. +“I am faint,” he murmured. + +“The poor lad is ill,” cried Peggy hastening to his side. “Oh, mother! +what does thee think is the matter?” + +“’Tis hunger, I fear,” replied Mrs. Owen hastily descending from the +chair. “Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did I +not ask as to thy needs?” she added with grave self-reproach as the +youth reached eagerly for the food. “There! Be not too ravenous, my lad. +Thou shalt have thy fill.” + +“Oh, but——” uttered the boy, clutching the provisions. He said no more, +but ate with frantic haste, as though he feared the viands would be +taken from him. Mrs. Owen and Peggy regarded him with pitying eyes. +Presently he looked at them with something of his former jauntiness. +“’Tis the first real food that I have eaten for three days,” he told +them. “I have been living on wild grapes, and corn whenever I could find +a field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress.” + +“And hast thou no home, or place to go that thou art reduced to such a +pass?” asked the lady. + +“There is no place near. Perhaps when I reach Philadelphia I shall find +a way to get to mine own home, and then——” + +“Ah! there comes Robert with the wagons,” exclaimed Peggy, as four +wagons escorted by as many troopers appeared from behind a bend in the +highway. “I am so glad, for now we can start again. He will know what to +do for thee, thou poor lad!” + +“Is he—is he a soldier?” asked the boy gazing at the approaching wagon +train with evident alarm. + +“Why, yes; of course,” answered Peggy. “He is aide for the time being to +General Arnold, who hath charge of Philadelphia. Why——” + +“I thank you again,” cried the lad, springing to his feet with such a +sudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother were +astonished. “I thank you, and bid you good-morrow.” Darting across the +road, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leaving +Peggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him. + +“Heigh ho!” gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. “I +wonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear.” + +“Perhaps Robert can explain,” said her mother with a peculiar smile. “I +rather think ’twas because he feared to meet a soldier.” + +“But why?” persisted the girl. “I see not why he should fear—mother,” +she broke off suddenly as a thought came to her, “was the lad a +deserter?” + +“I fear so, Peggy. There are many such roaming the country, I hear.” + +“Oh, Robert,” cried the maiden as a youth of soldierly bearing rode up +to them. “We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and a +youth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for the +want of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, but +when he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappeared +into the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter.” + +“I make no doubt of it,” spoke the young man gravely. “The woods are +full of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him to +stay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not have +been here alone.” + +“Tom?” Peggy looked her dismay. “Why, we have not seen him since he went +with thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hath +befallen him.” + +“He must be about somewhere,” said the youth comfortingly. Nevertheless +he dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung the +roadside. “Why, you black rascal,” he shouted as he came upon a negro +asleep behind some brush. “Get up! I thought I sent you to guard your +mistresses?” + +“Dere wuzn’t nuffin’ ter guard ’em frum,” yawned Tom, who counted +himself a privileged character. “I seed dey wuz all right, so I ‘prooves +de shinin’ hour by gittin’ a li’l res’. Yo’ ain’t a gwine ter ‘ject ter +dat, is yer, Marster Dale?” + +“And your mistress might have been robbed while you were doing so,” +began Robert Dale sternly. “I’ve a mind——” + +“Don’t scold him, Robert,” pleaded Peggy. “The ride hath been a long one +from the farm. I wonder not that he is tired. Why,” closing her bright +eyes in a vain attempt to look drowsy, “I could almost go to sleep +myself.” + +“You spoil that darkey,” remonstrated the youth as Tom, knowing that his +case was won, climbed to his place in the chaise. “Let me look at that +saddle, Peggy. If it is all right we must start at once, else ’twill be +night ere we reach the city. Ah! ’tis well done,” he added with +approval, after an inspection of the band. “Our deserter, if such he be, +understands such things. Come, Peggy!” + +He adjusted the saddle, assisted the maiden to it, then mounting his own +horse gave the command, and the journey was resumed. + + + + +CHAPTER II—THE HOME-COMING + + + “Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, + His first, best country, ever is at home.” + + —Goldsmith. + +The bells of Christ Church were pealing out the joyous chime + + “Market-day to-morrow!” + +as the girl and Robert Dale, followed immediately by the chaise and more +remotely by the wagons, cantered into Front Street. It was Tuesday +evening, or in Quaker parlance, Third Day, and the streets were full of +stir and bustle incident to the preparation for next day’s market. + +“Oh!” cried Peggy drawing a deep breath. “How good it is to be home once +more! How musical sounds the rattling of even the carriages!” + +“Very harsh music, methinks,” smiled the youth. + +“But preferable to the croaking frogs and screeching owls of farm life,” +said the girl quickly. “If thee had been away for a year I make no doubt +but that thee would be as glad to return to this dear city as I am.” + +“I make no doubt of it too,” he agreed. + +“Just think,” went on Peggy. “I have not seen either Sally or Betty +since the Fourth of July. Had it not been for thee I would know naught +of what hath occurred since then. Thou hast been very kind to us, +Robert.” + +“It hath been a pleasure,” returned he gravely. “I think you cannot know +what a relief it is to get away from the incessant round of gaiety with +which the city seems beset. I weary of it, and long to be in the field.” + +“I hope that thee will not go just as we have returned to town,” +remarked the maiden. “Mother and I will welcome the chance to return +some of thy favors.” + +“Don’t, Peggy,” exclaimed the lad coloring. “I like not for you to speak +of requiting favors as though you and your mother owed aught to me. It +hath been a pleasure, as I have said.” + +“Thee is too modest, Robert. None the less we owe thee much, even though +thee does try to deny it. How, sir, could we have come to the city +without thy escort? With father away thee knows that ’twould have been +impossible for mother and me to have managed the wagons. And——But oh, +Robert! Aren’t the shops opened yet? So many seemed to be closed.” + +“Not all are open, Peggy. Everything is fast becoming as ’twas before +the coming of the British, but it will take some time to restore matters +to a normal condition. ’Tis but September, and they only left in June.” + +“I know,” observed she thoughtfully, “that ’twill be indeed long before +we are as we were before their coming. An enemy makes sad havoc, does it +not?” + +“Yes,” he agreed. And then, as the memory of all that the British +occupation had brought came to them, they fell into a silence. + +In common with many Whig families Lowry Owen and her daughter had +deferred their permanent return to the city until it had regained some +semblance of its former order. Under the command of Major-General +Arnold, Philadelphia, bruised, and sore, and shaken after the occupation +for nine long months by the British, was striving to become once more +the city of brotherly love, but the throes of reconstruction had not yet +settled into the calm of its former serenity. Something of this was +discernible even to the lenient eyes of the overjoyed maiden, and cast a +momentary shadow over her happiness at being once more within the +confines of her native city. But, as they entered Chestnut Street, the +tinge of sadness vanished, and her eyes sparkled. + +“I cannot wait for thee, Robert,” she called, giving her mare a gentle +pat. “Perhaps the girls may be waiting.” + +She smiled a farewell, and set off at speed, drawing rein presently +before a large double brick house at the western extremity of the town, +just across from the State House. + +Before she could dismount the door of the dwelling was thrown wide, and +two girls came running down the steps, and flung themselves upon her. + +“Oh, Peggy! Peggy!” they cried simultaneously. “We were waiting for +thee. Robert told us that we might look for thee to-day. What kept thee +so long? And where is thy mother? And Robert? Is not he with thee?” + +“Oh, girls!” exclaimed Peggy, returning their embraces rapturously. “How +good it is to see you. Sally, thee is prettier than ever! And how Betty +hath grown!” + +“Oh, Peggy, I have a thousand things to tell thee,” cried Sally Evans. +“I will give thee so droll an account of my adventures that thee will +smile.” + +“I am prepared to hear amazing things,” answered Peggy. “And I too have +adventures to tell.” + +“’Tis time for thee to come back, Peggy Owen,” exclaimed Betty Williams. +“For what with the routs and the tea drinkings the city is monstrously +gay. The Tories had it all their way while the British were here, but +now ’tis the Whigs’ turn.” + +“I am not so sure about that, Betty,” demurred Sally. “If there is any +difference made ’tis in favor of the Tories.” + +“I have heard Robert say they were favored,” observed Peggy. “It seems +strange. What causes such conduct?” + +“Has thee not heard?” laughed Sally, a mischievous sparkle in her blue +eyes. “Know then, Mistress Peggy Owen, that it originates at +headquarters. Cupid hath given our general a more mortal wound than all +the hosts of Britons could. In other words, report hath it that General +Arnold is to marry our Miss Peggy Shippen. ’Tis union of Whig and Tory, +and the Tories are in high favor in consequence.” + +“Perhaps,” said Peggy, “that the general wishes not to carry the +animosities of the field into the drawing-room. I have heard that +gallant soldiers never make war on our sex.” + +“Well, he certainly is gallant,” conceded Sally. “There are many tales +afloat concerning his prowess. I make no doubt but that thee has hit the +heart of the matter. Ah! here is Robert,” as the youth rode up. “Peggy +did not need thy assistance to dismount, sir,” she cried. “Betty and I +lifted her from Star ourselves.” + +“I expected it,” laughed Robert Dale. “Let me take Star, Peggy. I will +care for her until Tom comes.” + +“Oh, but,” began Peggy in expostulation, when Sally interrupted her. + +“Let him take her, Peggy. Is he not an aide? ’Tis his duty.” + +“Sally, thee is saucy,” laughed Peggy resigning the mare into the lad’s +keeping. “Come, girls!” leading the way into the dwelling. “Now tell me +everything.” + +“First,” began Betty, “thee is to go with us to see a wonderful aloe +tree on Fifth Day morn, but more of that anon. Where is thy mother?” + +“She is coming in the chaise with Tom, and should be here now. Girls, +you should have seen Robert caring for the wagons. He looked like a +woodsman. You would have thought that he was about to start for the +frontier.” + +“She belies me,” said Dale entering at this moment. “I will leave it to +Mistress Owen if I looked like one, though I would I had the +marksmanship of a backwoodsman. Our companies of sharpshooters are +almost the mainstay of the army.” + +“The army?” spoke Mrs. Owen catching the last word as she came into the +room unperceived. “Is there news, Robert? And what about the chances for +peace?” + +“The conditions have not changed, Mistress Owen, since last we spoke of +them,” returned the lad. “And peace seems as far off as ever. Sir Henry +Clinton still holds New York City, while General Washington watches him +from the highlands of the Hudson. Along the frontier the savage warfare +which began with the massacre at Wyoming continues, and these, aside +from skirmishes, constitute all of action there hath been since +Monmouth. It seems now to be a question of endurance on the part of the +patriots, and of artifice and trickery on the British side.” + +“But with the French to help us,” spoke the lady returning the greetings +of her daughter’s friends warmly. “The alliance which Dr. Franklin hath +at last succeeded in effecting. Surely with such aid the war must soon +be brought to a close.” + +“The allies have not been as effective so far as ’twas hoped they would +prove,” announced he. “Many of the people are seriously disaffected +toward the French, declaring that ’tis only a question of English or +French supremacy. The soldiers, I grieve to say, incline toward this +view, and the loyalists are doing all they can to further such belief.” + +“Well, here is one who is not disaffected toward the French,” broke in +Sally. “Oh, Peggy, thee should have been here to attend the +entertainment which the French minister gave in honor of the king’s +birthday. ’Twas highly spoke of, and everybody attended. And he was so +considerate of the Quakers.” + +“In what way, Sally?” asked Mrs. Owen. + +“Why, he hung a veil between the ballroom and the chamber in which they +sat that they might view such worldly pleasures with discretion,” +laughed Sally. + +“But Sally would not endure it,” spoke Betty. “When General Arnold came +in she told him that she did not wish to take the veil, as she had not +yet turned papist, and desired to partake of her pleasures more openly.” + +“Sally, thee didn’t,” gasped Peggy. + +“But I did,” declared Sally with a toss of her head. “He laughed, and +immediately took me without. And the dressing, Peggy! There never was so +much as there is now. Thee will thank thy stars that thee has been made +to embroider and learn fine sewing, for thee will need it.” + +“But is there naught but tea drinking, and dancing and dressing?” asked +Peggy perplexed. “We used to do so much for the army. Is nothing done +now?” + +“Oh, yes;” Sally blushed a little and then brightened up. “I have set a +stocking on the needles,” she said. “True, ’twas some time since, but I +am going to finish it. Mrs. Bache, she that was Sally Franklin, talks of +a society for making shirts and gathering supplies for the soldiers. I +fancy the most of us will belong, and then there will be something +beside enjoyment. Does that suit thee, Miss Peggy?” + +“Yes,” returned Peggy thoughtfully. “Not that I object to the enjoyment, +Sally, but I think we ought to do some of both.” + +“Well, here comes the beginning of the enjoyment,” exclaimed Betty from +the window. “Here is a soldier from headquarters, and I know that he +bears an invitation from the general for tea. We had ours this morning.” + +It was as Betty said, and an orderly was announced almost immediately. + +“I cry you pardon, madam,” he said advancing toward Mrs. Owen, “for +intruding so soon upon you. But a certain aide hath importuned our +general so urgently that you should be waited upon directly upon your +return that he dared not delay an instant beyond your arrival to deliver +this invitation to you and to your daughter. He bids me welcome you back +to the city in his name, and will do himself the honor to wait upon you +in person before the day set.” + +So saying he handed Mistress Owen two cards upon which were written the +invitations, and bowed himself out. + +“Oh, Robert, thee must be the aide of whom he spoke,” cried Peggy +receiving her card excitedly. “See, girls! ’tis for tea on Fifth Day +week. How delightsome! May we go, mother? How exciting town life is! I +had forgot ’twas so gay.” + +“Too gay, I fear me,” said her mother looking at the invitation +dubiously. “Yes; we will go, Peggy, because ’tis right that we should +pay respect to General Arnold. He hath no small task to restore the city +to order, but I do not wish to be drawn into a round of frivolity.” + +“But thee must let Peggy frivol a little,” protested Sally. “It hath +been long since she hath been with us, Mistress Owen.” + +Mrs. Owen laughed. + +“A little, Sally, I am willing for. But I wish not that nothing else +should be thought about. It seems as though the city hath gone wild with +merrymaking. I like it not.” + +“Of a truth there is too much tea drinking and feasting, madam,” spoke +Robert Dale soberly. “There are many who are dissatisfied with the state +of things while the army is ill-fed and ill-clothed. I for one would far +rather be yonder in the field, even in misery, than here dancing +attendance upon routs, and the whims of females.” + +“Oh, Robert!” came in a reproachful chorus from the girls. “Thee is +unmannerly.” + +“Your pardon,” said the youth sweeping them a profound curtsey to hide +his confusion. “I meant no offense to any present, but spoke of the sex +in general.” + +“Thee does not deserve forgiveness; does he, Peggy?” pouted Sally. + +“If ’twere for aught else than the army, I should say no,” answered +Peggy laughing. “But because he would rather be in the field for the +country we shall have to forgive him, Sally.” + +“Thank you, Peggy,” said the lad gratefully. “I will try to make amends +for my untoward speech at another time. Now I must attend my general. +Shall I bear your acceptance of his invitation, Mrs. Owen?” + +“If thee will, Robert,” answered she with a smile. + +“Thee is routed, Robert,” cried Sally saucily as he left them. + + + + +CHAPTER III—AN OLD TIME ADVERTISEMENT + + + “Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad + For plunder; much solicitous how best + He may compensate for a day of sloth, + By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong.” + + —“The Task,” Cowper. + +It was Thursday morning, and Mrs. Owen and Peggy had been very busy +bringing the house and grounds into something like order. Now, however, +both mother and daughter were surveying ruefully a pile of garments that +constituted the remains of their depleted wardrobes. Presently the lady +laid down a gray gown of tabby silk with a sigh. + +“There is no help for it, my daughter. Thee must have a new frock. I see +not how thou art to go to General Arnold’s tea otherwise.” + +“Oh!” breathed Peggy a look of pleasure irradiating her face. Then as a +thought came to her: “But are not goods very high, mother? How can we +afford it?” + +“We must, my child. Thou hast had no new frocks since Lexington, and +’tis quite time for others.” + +“But neither hast thou, mother. Does thee not remember that we +covenanted together that whatever we had to spend on clothes should be +given for garments for the soldiers? Now if I have a new gown, thee must +also.” + +“We will see, Peggy. But a gown thee must have. We will go to the +mercer’s to-day; but stay! Did not Sally speak of coming for thee to go +to see a tree of some sort? That will delay us for another day.” + +“How thee remembers, mother! She did, and ’tis nine of the clock now. If +she is coming ’tis time she were here. Does thee not hear horses, +mother? Perhaps that is she now.” + +She ran to the window just in time to see a party of youths and maidens +draw rein before the door. Sally Evans dismounted and ran quickly into +the dwelling. + +“Art ready, Peggy?” she cried. “We are going now to see the aloe tree.” + +“What aloe tree is it, Sally?” queried Peggy. “I have lived in +Philadelphia all my life, yet never before did I ever hear of one.” + +“’Tis because it hath only of late become remarkable,” answered Sally. +“Mr. Dunlap hath an account of it in the last ‘Packet.’ This is the only +one in the whole state, and every one is going to see it.” + +“But I don’t understand, Sally. Why should every one go? How is it +remarkable?” + +“Oh, Peggy! Peggy! That comes from staying on a farm and not reading the +papers. Know then,” assuming a didactic tone, “that the morning after +the arrival of the French Ambassador this tree shot forth its spire, +which it never does but once in the course of its existence, and in some +climates not less than a hundred years. This one has been planted about +forty-five years in the neighborhood of this city, and heretofore has +produced every year four leaves, but this spring early it spread forth +thirteen. And the spire,” concluded Sally impressively, “is thirteen +inches round, and hath grown thirteen feet in thirteen days.” + +“But that is marvelous!” exclaimed the amazed Peggy. + +“Is ’t not? ’Tis regarded as a wonderful omen anent the French alliance +and the thirteen states. Now do get ready, Peggy. Have Tom to bring Star +around at once. The others are waiting.” + +“Shall I wear a loo-mask or a vizard, mother?” questioned Peggy, giving +an anxious glance at her reflection in the mirror. + +“The loo-mask, Peggy. ’Tis easier held in place. Not thy gray duffle +riding frock, child. ’Tis o’er warm for that. Methinks that a safeguard +petticoat over the gown that thee has on with a short camlet cloak will +do nicely. I will tell Tom to bring Star around for thee.” + +“Sally, what does thee think? I am to have a new frock for General +Arnold’s tea,” confided Peggy as her mother left the room. “I did not +dream that we could spare money for furbelows, but mother insists that I +shall have it.” + +“Oh, but that is _charmante_!” exclaimed Sally. “Would that my mother +thought likewise, but I fear me that I shall have to wear the same +muslin frock that I’ve been wearing. Hey day! Thee is a fortunate girl, +Peggy.” + +“Am I not?” said Peggy gaily. “I have had no new one for so long that it +quite upsets me. I think of nothing else, and long for the time to come +to choose it.” + +“Yes; but do hurry now,” cried Sally impatiently. “Thou art sufficiently +smart for a country lass.” + +“Thee is saucy, Sally,” answered Peggy giving her a playful push. “Don’t +call me a country girl. Thou art not so citified.” + +“Well, I haven’t spent a whole year on a farm,” retorted Sally. “Peggy, +if thee gives another stroke to thy hair thy cap will slip off. ’Tis as +smooth as satin now.” + +“There! I am ready at last,” declared Peggy adjusting her riding mask. +“Oh, Sally, ’tis so good to be home again!” + +“And ’tis so good to have thee, Peggy,” returned her friend. “Nothing is +the same without thee. Why, when the city was under Sir William Howe——” + +“Something hath happened,” interrupted Peggy hastily, bending her head +to listen. “Mother is calling, and she seems upset. Come, Sally.” + +They hurried out of the room, and went quickly to the eastern piazza +where Mrs. Owen and Tom, the groom, stood. + +“What is it, mother?” asked Peggy noting their disturbed looks. + +“Peggy,” said her mother going to her, “thee must be very brave, my +child. Star is gone. She hath been stolen from the stable.” + +“Star! My pony stolen!” cried the girl as though unable to believe her +ears. “My pony! Oh, mother, it can’t be true!” + +“I fear that it is only too true,” answered the lady sorrowfully. + +“But stolen? Who would steal Star? Tom,”—turning quickly to the negro +groom,—“when did thee see her last? Didn’t thee feed her this morning? + +“No’m; I ain’t seed her dis mo’nin’,” answered Tom who seemed stupefied +by the occurrence. “I fed her las’ night, Miss Peggy, but when I kum out +dis mo’nin’ she wuz gone. De back doah wuz open, an’ I know’d she wuz +stole, kase I fas’n’d dat doah my own sef las’ night.” + +“Oh, but she can’t be,” cried Peggy with a sob. “Maybe she has just +strayed away. Has thee looked in the garden, Tom? Or through the +orchard?” + +“I hab looked ebberwhar, Miss Peggy,” declared the black with dignity. +“Torm warn’t gwine ter take any chances ob not seein’ dat are mare when +she de onlyest piece ob hoss-flesh dat we has dat mounts ter a row ob +pins. No’m; she stole. Dat’s all dere is to it.” + +“Peggy, Peggy!” called Robert Dale who, grown tired of waiting, had come +in search of the girls. “What keeps you so long?” + +“Oh, Robert!” wailed Peggy bursting into tears. “My horse is stolen! My +pretty, pretty pony that father gave me!” + +“Star stolen?” cried the youth aghast. Tom told his story again. + +“And the door was fastened last night, you say? How about the door into +the yard, Tom?” + +“I lock hit wid a padlock,” declared Tom. “Dey wuz both fasten’d, +Marster Dale. ‘Clare ter goodness dey wuz! I did it my own sef. I +fastens de inside doah on de inside, an’ de outside one on de outside. +De front one wuz locked dis mo’nin’, but de back one wuz wide open.” + +“Then some one must have been hiding inside,” declared Robert. “I will +take a look through the barn.” + +With Sally’s arm about her, Peggy and her friend followed the youth to +the stables. The lad mounted the ladder that led to the mow, and +presently called down excitedly: + +“There hath been some one here of a truth. Here is a place where he hath +lain concealed in the straw, and the remnants of food that hath been +eaten. ’Tis all as plain as day!” + +“But Star?” questioned Peggy with quivering lips as Robert descended the +ladder and stood once more beside them. + +“We’ll do everything we can to find her, Peggy,” answered the boy as +cheerfully as he could. “Now let us tell the others. They will be +wondering what the matter is.” + +“Oh, Peggy, what will you do for a horse to go with us?” cried Betty +Williams as the party of young people heard the news. + +“She may take mine,” suggested Robert. “I will stay here to see what can +be done about Star.” + +“That is good of thee,” said Peggy, wiping her eyes. “Do thou, Sally, +and all the others go on as planned. If Robert will stay to do whatever +can be done there is no need of any one else. ’Twould be mean to spoil +thy pleasuring just for my sake.” + +And so, despite their protests the young people were sent on, and Robert +turned to Peggy. + +“Weep no more,” he entreated, “but give me your aid in writing an +advertisement. This we will put in ‘The Packet,’ as that paper will +appear before ‘The Gazette,’ and that may bring some result. That will +be the best thing to do, will it not, Madam Owen?” + +“I think so, Robert. And offer a reward also. It may meet the eye of the +person who took the mare and induce him to return her. I like not to +think of any taking her, though. Philadelphia is changed indeed.” + +“It is, madam. Naught is safe though General Arnold strives to enforce +strict military rule. War doth indeed cause sad havoc with the morals of +people. How much shall the reward be?” + +“One hundred dollars,” answered the lady, after a moment’s calculation. +“What a help thou art.” + +“’Tis a pleasure,” returned he gallantly. “Beside, is not your husband +in the field while we who dally here have naught to do? ’Tis good to +have something beside pleasuring to divert the mind. And the +advertisement? ’Tis highly fashionable to have it writ in verse. I like +it not, but anything in the mode commands more attention. If you will +help me, Peggy, perhaps I can compass it, though straight prose is more +to my liking.” + +So, drying her eyes, Peggy brought forth inkhorn and quills, and the two +evolved the following advertisement, which followed the fashion of the +day: + + ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD! + + Last night was stole away from me + A likely jet-black mare was she + Just four years old this month or nigh, + About fourteen and half hands high; + She’s in good order and doth trot, + And paceth some, I’m sure of that; + Is wondrous pretty; a small star + In her forehead there doth appear; + Her tail was waved three days ago + Just like her mane, you’ll find it so; + Above her eyes, if you come near, + She’s very hollow, that is clear; + She has new fore shoes on, this I know— + I had her shod a week ago. + The above reward it will be sure + To any person that secures + Said thief and mare, that I may see + My mare again restor’d to me. + Or Fifty Dollars for the mare, + If the thief should happen to get clear; + All traveling charges if brought home + Upon the nail I will pay down. + +“There!” declared Robert Dale when the two had completed their labor. +“There will be no more elegant effusion in the paper. ’Tis finely writ +and to the point. I’ll take it at once to Mr. Dunlap, so that he may put +it into Saturday’s ‘Packet.’ If that doesn’t fetch your mare back, +Peggy, I don’t know what will.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV—A GIRL’S SACRIFICE + + + “In Being’s floods, in Action’s storm, + I walk and work, above, beneath, + Work and weave in endless motion! + Birth and Death, + An infinite ocean; + A seizing and giving + The fire of living: + ’Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply, + And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by.” + + —“Faust,” Gœthe. + +“Thee is troubled, mother,” observed Peggy as she and Mrs. Owen left the +yard of Christ Church where they had been attending morning service. + +The meeting-house which was built for the use of those Quakers who had +so far departed from the tenets of the Society of Friends as to array +themselves on the side of their country had not yet been erected, and +the Free Quakers, as they were called, were therefore compelled to +attend worship of other churches, or content themselves with “religious +retirement,” as family service was called. + +“I am, Peggy,” answered the lady a look of anxiety overcasting her face. +“Let us walk for a little before returning home. It may be that the air +will soothe my feelings.” + +Seeing that her mother wished to be left in quiet the girl walked +sedately by her side, ever and anon stealing a glance of apprehension at +the lady’s face. Presently Mrs. Owen spoke: + +“Tis naught to make thee look so uneasy, child. I am concerned over the +city, and the extravagance that abounds on every side. See the ferment +that it is in! Formerly on First Day the streets were orderly and quiet. +Now observe what a noisy throng fills the thoroughfares. Let us walk on. +Perchance at Wicaco we may find the peace and quiet we seek.” + +The quiet, sedate city of Penn had in truth lost its air of demure +respectability. As the metropolis of the colonies it attracted all those +adventurers of the older countries who sought to mend their fortunes at +the expense of the new United States. Many also who were sincere in +their admiration of the struggle for liberty had come to offer Congress +their services, and taverns and inns were filled to overflowing with +strangers of distinction and otherwise. Militia drilled; troops marched +and countermarched; while many British officers, prisoners on parole, +paraded the streets, adding a bright bit of color with their scarlet +coats. + +Mother and daughter passed slowly below High Street and continued down +Second. Past shops they went, and the City Tavern, crowded about with +sedan chairs and chaises; past the Loxley House, in which lived that +Lydia Darrach who had stolen out of the city the winter before to warn +the patriots of a contemplated attack by the British; past the dwelling +of the Cadwaladers; past also the great house built and formerly owned +by the Shippens; and on past other mansions with their gardens until +finally they paused involuntarily as the sound of singing came to them. +The sounds were wafted from the old Swedish church of Gloria Dei, and +the two stood in silence until the singing ceased. + +“Friends believe not in hymns or singing,” remarked Mrs. Owen as they +turned to retrace their steps. “But there is something about the +intoning of the psalms that calms the mind. It has ever brought comfort +to me.” + +“Mother,” spoke Peggy shyly. + +“Yes, my daughter.” + +“The one thing that I have always minded about the Friends is that very +lack of music. When I see other girls play the spinet I too would like +dearly to play upon it. I have always loved music, mother.” + +“I know thee has, Peggy. That is the reason that I have not chided thee +when I heard thee singing the ballads and songs of the world’s people. +Perhaps some time we may see our way to thy learning the spinet. If it +is right thee will be led to it.” + +“I know,” answered Peggy. And then, after a moment—“What troubled thee, +mother?” + +“Vanities, child. ’Twas the dressing, and the pomade, and the powder +discovered in the meeting. I have never seen so much before. And also, I +shame to confess it, Peggy, thy garb troubled me.” + +“Mine, mother?” Peggy looked up in amazement, and then glanced down at +her girlish frock of chintz. “Why, mother?” + +“In the first enthusiasm of the war,” said Mrs. Owen, “thee remembers +how we, thou and I, together with many patriotic women and girls, banded +together in an association formed against the use of foreign goods. We +pledged ourselves to wear homespun rather than buy any of the foreign +calicoes and silks. Before the Declaration every patriotic woman was +known by her clothes, and it so continued until we left the city at the +coming of the British. Of course, now that the line of separation hath +been drawn between Britain and her colonies, there no longer exists the +same patriotic reason for such abstinence; but we seem to be the last to +come to such knowledge.” + +“Mother, I never knew thee to be concerned anent such things before,” +said the girl quickly. + +“Perchance it hath been because we have not been dressed with +singularity before,” observed the lady. “I hold that every gentlewoman +should be arrayed becomingly and with such due regard to the mode that +her attire will not excite comment. Not that I wish thy thoughts +altogether concerned about such matters. Thee knows how we have received +warnings from good and wise men on the subject in our own meetings, but +we must do credit to David. And,” she added with a slight smile, “while +we are still ready to sacrifice our lives even for the cause of liberty, +we cannot steer clear of the whirlpool of fashion if we are to remain in +the city. Was thee not sensible of the difference between thy garb and +that of thy friends?” + +“Yes,” admitted the maiden candidly. “But I tried not to think about it. +I have been longing for some new frocks, but since Star hath been taken +I have not cared so much.” + +“The city seems caught in a very vortex of luxury and extravagance,” +went on the matron. “I do not mean that we should be of those who care +for naught but self-adornment and useless waste. Were it not for thee——” +She paused a moment and then continued: “Thou hast been very +self-denying, my daughter, concerning this matter, and hast borne the +filching of thy pony bravely. So then thou shalt have not only a frock +for the general’s tea, but another also. And a cloak, and a hat, +together with a quilted petticoat.” + +“Mother, mother!” almost screamed Peggy. “Thee overwhelms me. Where will +the money come from?” + +“We have made a little from the harvests of the past summer, Peggy. Then +the farm pays in other ways. Some of David’s ventures have turned out +well, despite the war and the fact that he is in the army. We shall have +to be careful, my daughter, and not run into extravagance, but there is +enough to furnish thee with a simple wardrobe.” + +“And thou?” questioned the girl. + +“I shall do well as I am, dear child. And now let us turn our thoughts +from this too worldly subject to others more befitting First Day. +To-morrow we will go to the mercer’s for the things.” + +And so, despite the fact that nothing had as yet been heard of the +stolen pony, it was a very happy maiden that set forth with her mother +the next day for the shops in Second Street. + +“Friend,” said the lady to a mercer who came forward to wait upon them, +“let us look at thy petticoats, calimanico; for,” she said in an aside +to Peggy, “’twill be the part of wisdom to purchase the homely articles +first, lest we be carried beyond our intention for the frocks. We shall +have to be careful, as the prices, no doubt, have become higher. How +much is this, friend?” + +“Fifteen pounds, fifteen shillings,” answered he. + +Mrs. Owen looked up in amazement, while Peggy, with less control, cried +out: + +“Such a price, and without quilting! Once it could have been bought for +fifteen shillings.” + +“’Tis very likely,” smiled the shopkeeper. “That must have been before +the war. Prices are soaring on everything, and are like to go higher +before falling.” + +Mrs. Owen laid down the garment gravely. + +“A coat and a hat,” she said. “What will be the cost of a very ordinary +one of each?” + +“They cannot be procured under two hundred pounds, madam.” + +“And gauze for caps?” + +“The common grade is twenty-four dollars a yard. The better quality +fifty dollars.” + +“Mother,” whispered Peggy, “why need thee buy the petticoat? We can +weave cloth for it, and I can quilt it myself.” + +“True, Peggy,” assented her mother. “I think we can manage about the +petticoat, but a frock thou must have. A frock and some gloves.” + +“Cloth for a frock, madam?” questioned the merchant eagerly. “Shall it +be lutestring, poplin, brocade, or broadcloth? I have the best of +England, madam.” + +But Mrs. Owen’s face grew grave indeed as he mentioned prices. Peggy’s +eyes filled with tears. She saw her new frock vanishing into thin air as +fabric after fabric was brought forth only to be rejected when the cost +was named. She knew that she had nothing to wear to the tea at +headquarters unless a new gown was purchased, and she choked in her +disappointment. Her mother saw her tears and turned to the merchant with +determination. + +“I will——” she opened her lips to say, when some one tapped her lightly +on the shoulder, and a clear voice called: + +“Why, Madam Owen, are you buying gowns? What extravagance! If farm life +pays well enough to buy cloth these times I shall get me to a farmery at +once. Mr. Bache wishes to go.” + +“Sally Franklin, how does thee do?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, greeting the +young matron warmly. “I came down intending to buy a great deal, but——” + +“The prices! The prices!” cried Franklin’s daughter, waving her hands. +“It takes a fortune to keep a family in a very plain way. And there +never was so much dressing and pleasure going on! I wrote to father to +send me a number of things from France, among them some long black pins, +lace, and some feathers, thinking he could get such things much cheaper +there.” + +“And did he?” eagerly questioned Peggy, who had now recovered herself. + +“No; and I got well scolded for my extravagance,” laughed Mrs. Bache. +“He sent the things he thought necessary, omitting the others. He +advised me to wear cambric ruffles instead of lace, and to take care not +to mend them. In time they would come to lace, he said. As for feathers, +why send that which could be had from every cock’s tail in America.” + +“How like Dr. Franklin that is,” remarked Mrs. Owen much amused. “What +did thee answer?” + +“That I had to be content with muslin caps in winter, and in summer I +went without. As for cambric I had none to make lace of. Oh, we shall +all come to linsey-woolsey, I fear. Dr. Shippen talks of moving his +family from the city, and the rest of us will have to do the same.” + +She moved away. The shopkeeper turned to bring on more goods, hoping to +tempt his customers, and Peggy took hold of her mother’s hand gently. + +“It will cut into thy resources greatly to get these things, won’t it, +mother?” + +“Yes,” assented the lady soberly. “For the frock alone I would have to +pay as much as I had intended for thy entire outfit.” + +“Then thee must not do it,” said Peggy gravely. + +“There is one way that it can be done, my daughter,” said her mother not +looking at her. “If thou wilt consent to forego all charitable gifts +this winter; if thou wilt let the soldiers or any other needy ones go +without benefit from thee; then thou canst take the money for all thy +things: the hat, the coat, the two frocks, the gloves, and all the other +necessaries of which we spoke. Now, Peggy, I will not blame thee if thou +dost choose according to thy wishes, for thou hast already given up +much. It rests with thee.” + +Peggy looked at the dazzling array of fabrics spread temptingly upon the +counter. She did want a new gown so badly. She needed it, she told +herself quickly. She had given up a great deal. Must she give up in this +too? For an instant she wavered, and then a vision of some of the +soldiers that she had seen flashed across her mind, and she turned from +the glittering array with a little sob. + +“I could not, I could not,” she cried. “And have nothing for the poor +soldiers! It would be a sin! But oh, mother! do let us hurry away from +here. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is so weak.” + +Pausing only for a word of courteous explanation to the mercer the lady +followed the maiden from the store. + + + + +CHAPTER V—UP IN THE ATTIC + + + “Up in the attic where mother goes + Is a trunk in a shadowed nook— + A trunk—and its lid she will oft unclose, + As if ’twere a precious book. + She kneels at its side on the attic boards, + And tenderly, soft and slow, + She counts all the treasures she fondly hoards— + The things of long ago.” + + —Anonymous. + +“I fear we have made a mistake in returning to town,” observed Mrs. Owen +when at length they reached the dwelling after a silent walk home. “I +had no idea things had become so dear. There is hardly such a thing as +living in town, but David wished us to be here. In truth, with so many +outlaws scouring the country, I feel that we are far safer than we would +be on the farm. And yet what shall be done anent the matter of clothes? +Thou must have a frock for the tea party.” + +“I can wear my blue and white Persian,” said the girl bravely. “Thee +must not worry so over my frock, mother.” + +“Thy Persian was new three years since,” objected her mother. “And thou +hast grown, Peggy. Beside, ’tis faded. Stay! I have the very thing. Come +with me, child.” + +She sprang up with so much animation that Peggy wondered at her. It was +not customary with Mrs. Owen to be harassed over such a matter as +clothes, but her daughter’s unselfishness when her need was so great had +stirred her to unusual tenderness. Up to the garret they went, the lady +leading the way with the agility of a girl. The attic extended over the +entire main building. There were great recesses under the eaves which +pigeons sought, and dark closets where one might hide as in the old +legend of the old oak chest. + +From one of the shadowed niches Mrs. Owen drew forth a chest. It was +battered and old, yet it required all the lady’s strength to force the +lock. + +“The key is lost,” she explained to Peggy who was following her +movements with eagerness. “’Tis a mercy the house was occupied by +British in place of Hessians. Had they had it everything would have been +taken. The English were more moderate in their plundering, though they +did take many of Dr. Franklin’s books, I hear, and his portrait.[[1]] + +“There,” she exclaimed almost gaily, drawing forth a yellowing dress, +and holding it up to view with gentle pride. “There, Peggy! There is thy +frock.” + +A faint sweet perfume emanated from the folds of the garment as Mrs. +Owen held it up. Peggy touched it wonderingly. + +“Whose was it, mother?” she asked almost in a whisper. “Not thine?” + +“Mine, Peggy? Why, ’twas my wedding dress.” The lady smoothed the satin +folds tenderly. “’Twas once the sheerest white, but it hath lain so long +that it hath mellowed to cream. But that will be the more becoming to +thy dark hair and eyes.” + +“And I am to wear it?” queried the maiden in awed tones. “Oh, mother, +’tis too much to ask of thee.” + +“Thee deserves it, my daughter. I would far rather that thou shouldst +have the good of it than it should lie here to rot. Let me see!” Diving +down into the chest with a gaiety she did not often exhibit, she brought +up some little shoes, silken to match the gown. “Ah! I thought these +should be here. And here is a fan with sticks of sandal wood. And a +piece of fine lawn that will make thee an apron. Come! we shall do +nicely. ’Tis a veritable treasure chest we have come upon. We will not +explore it further now. There may come another time of need. Take thou +the shoon, Peggy, and the fan. I will carry the gown. We will begin work +at once. I was slender when the frock was worn, but thou art a full inch +smaller about the waist. ’Twill be easily fixed.” + +With reverent hands Peggy took the shoes and fan, and followed her +mother down to the living-room. + +As Sally had said, Peggy was indeed thankful for the hours of training +in fine sewing and embroidery. When finally the day came for the trying +on, and the desired frock fulfilled her highest expectation, her ecstasy +was unable to contain itself. + +“Thee is the best mother that ever lived,” she cried catching Mrs. Owen +about the waist and giving her a girlish hug. “What would I do without +thee? Oh, mother! what if thee had had no wedding gown? What would we +have done?” + +Mrs. Owen laughed, well pleased at her enthusiasm. + +“We will not consider that part of it, Peggy,” she said. “We have it in +truth, and it does indeed look well. A new frock would have looked no +better. Ah! here is Sally. Let her give her opinion.” + +“Thee comes just in time, Sally,” cried Peggy as Sally Evans was shown +into the room. “How does thee like my new frock?” + +“’Tis much prettier than mine,” declared Sally eying the gown +critically. “And vastly distinctive. Where did thee get the material, +Peggy? I never saw quite the shade.” + +“Then thee thinks it citified and à la mode?” queried Peggy, ignoring +the question. + +“’Tis as sweet and modish as can be,” cried Sally generously. “Thee will +outshine all us females, Peggy.” + +“Thee can’t mean that, Sally,” reproved Peggy flushing at such praise. +“I know that thee is partial to thy friend, but that is going too far.” + +“But ’tis the truth,” answered Sally. “Would that I had seen that +fabric, and I would have chosen it for my new frock. I did get a new one +after all. I teased mother into getting it by telling her that thee was +to have a new one.” + +“Oh! did thee?” cried Peggy. “Why, Sally, this was mother’s wedding +gown. We went to get a frock, but found the prices beyond us. Mother was +determined that I should have the gown though, so she gave me this.” + +“Mother was going to get it anyway, Peggy,” said Sally quickly, seeing +her friend’s dismay. “It might not have been until later but I was to +have a dress this winter. So thee must not think it thy fault that I got +it. Would though that I had not. I wonder if my mother hath a wedding +gown. This is vastly pretty.” + +“Is ‘t not?” cried Peggy. “And, Sally, I hear there is to be dancing +after the tea at the general’s. It is strange for Quakers to attend such +affairs. Why, does thee not remember how we used to wish to attend the +weekly assemblies, and how it was spoke against in the meeting?” + +“It is strange,” assented Sally, “but Quakers go everywhere now with the +world’s people. What was it that Master Benezet used to teach us? +Something anent the times, was it not?” + +“‘O tempora! O mores,’” quoted Peggy. “‘O the times! O the manners!’ How +long ago it seems since we went to Master Benezet’s school. Heigh ho! +would I were attending it again!” + +“Why, Peggy Owen, would thee wish to miss this tea?” demanded her +friend. “For my part I am monstrously glad that I am through with books; +for now I am going to——” She paused abruptly. “But ’tis to remain secret +for a time,” she added. + +“Sally! a secret from me?” exclaimed Peggy reproachfully. “I thought +thee told me everything.” + +“I do; usually,” returned the other with a consequential air. “But this +is of great import, and is not to be known for a few days. Oh, Peggy,” +she cried, suddenly dropping her important mien, and giving Peggy a +hearty squeeze. “I am dying to tell thee all about it, but I cannot +until—until—well, until the night of General Arnold’s tea.” + +And so it came about that Peggy had another incentive for awaiting that +event impatiently. + +----- +[1] This, in fact, was not recovered until long afterward in London. + + + + +CHAPTER VI—TEA AT HEADQUARTERS + + + “Give Betsy a brush of horse hair and wool, + Of paste and pomatum a pound, + Ten yards of gay ribbon to deck her sweet skull, + And gauze to encompass it round. + Her cap flies behind, for a yard at the least, + And her curls meet just under her chin, + And those curls are supported, to keep up the jest, + By a hundred, instead of one pin.” + + —A Verse of the Day. + +“Will I do, mother?” asked Peggy, taking up the old fan with the sandal +wood sticks, and turning about slowly for the lady’s inspection. + +It was the night of General Arnold’s tea, and the maiden had just put +the finishing touch to her toilet, and was all aglow with excitement. +The creamy folds of the silken gown well became her dark hair and eyes. +The bodice, cut square, revealed her white throat so young and girlish. +Her white silk mitts, long and without fingers, were held to the sleeve +by “tightens.” A gauze cap with wings and streamers perched saucily upon +her dark locks which were simply drawn back from her low, broad +forehead, braided with a ribbon, and powdered but little. The prim +little frock fell just to her ankles, revealing the clocked white +stockings and dainty high heeled slippers with pearls glistening upon +the buckles. + +“Didst ever behold a more bewitching damsel than thy daughter, Mistress +Peggy Owen?” she cried, sweeping her mother a deep curtsey. + +Her eyes were shining. She was for the nonce a happy maiden concerned +with naught save the pleasures of girlhood, and possessed of a mood that +would have been habitual had not the mighty sweep of public events +tinged her girlish gaiety with an untoward gravity. + +Some such thought flitted through Mrs. Owen’s mind as she surveyed her +daughter with tender eyes, and she sighed. A look of anxiety flitted +over Peggy’s face. + +“Is thee not well?” she queried. “Or is it wrong, mother, for me to be +so happy when father is in the field?” + +“Neither, my daughter. I was but wishing that thou couldst be as care +free all the time as thou art to-night. But there! we will partake of +the fruit that is offered leaving the bitter until the morrow. Thy gown +well becomes thee, child. I make no doubt but that thou wilt look as +well as any.” + +“Mother,” exclaimed the girl, a soft flush dyeing her face, “thee will +make me vain.” + +“I trust not, my daughter. Others will, no doubt, tell thee so, and ’tis +as well that thou shouldst hear it first from me. Let it not spoil thee, +Peggy. Ah! here is Sukey to tell us that Robert and his uncle have come +for us.” + +Peggy gave a backward look at her reflection in the mirror, and well +pleased with what she saw there followed her mother sedately to the +drawing-room where Robert Dale and his uncle, Mr. Jacob Deering, awaited +them. + +The latter, stately in an olive-colored silk velvet with knee buckles, +silk stockings, bright silver shoe-buckles and the usual three looped +hat held in his hand, hastened to greet them as they entered. + +“Zounds! Miss Peggy,” he cried. “’Tis well that I am not a young buck, +else you should look no further for a gallant. Bless me, but you have +grown pretty! Bob, you rascal! why did you not prepare me for what I +should see? Upon my word, child, you must not mind a kiss from an old +man.” + +So saying he held her at arm’s length in admiration, and then kissed her +on both her cheeks. Whereat Peggy blushed right prettily. + +“Thee will make me vain,” she protested. “And mother hath but ceased +warning me against such vanity. In truth, Friend Deering, I believe that +no girl was ever so happy as I am to-night.” + + “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may: + Old Time is still a-flying; + And this same flower that smiles to-day, + To-morrow may be dying,’” + +he quoted gaily. “Have your fling, child. The morrow may bring grave +problems to be solved, so be happy while you can. ’Tis youth’s +prerogative. Bob, do you follow with Mrs. Owen. I shall take an old +man’s privilege and lead the princess to the coach myself. I’ faith, +there will be no opportunity for a word with her once she reaches +headquarters.” + +Peggy gave Robert Dale an arch glance over her shoulder as the old +gentleman led her to the coach, where she settled herself to await with +what patience she could their arrival at Major-General Arnold’s. + +At this time there was no suspicion whispered against the patriotism of +Benedict Arnold. Scarcely any soldier had done so much to sustain the +liberties of his country, and tales of his prowess, his daring and +courage were rife in the city. Upon being placed in charge of +Philadelphia by the commander-in-chief, General Washington, he had taken +possession of the mansion in High Street, once the home of Richard Penn, +and recently occupied by Sir William Howe. It was regarded as one of the +finest houses in the city, was built of brick, and stood on the +southeast corner of Front and High Streets. + +Peggy and her mother knew that the affair was to be more than the +ordinary tea, but they were scarcely prepared for the sumptuousness of +the occasion. + +“Is it a ball, Robert?” whispered the girl as they stood for a moment in +the crush about the door. + +“No,” answered the youth a frown contracting his brow. “’Tis elaborate +enough for one, and that is truth, Peggy. But when one is given it seems +to be the general’s purpose to outvie all that rumor hath spoken of the +Mischianza. All his entertainments are given on a most magnificent +scale; as though he were a man of unbounded wealth and high social +position. I like it not.” + +Peggy opened her lips to reply, but before she could do so the way was +cleared for them to approach the general. The girl looked with intense +interest at the gallant soldier of whose prowess she had heard so much. +He was a dark, well-made man, still young, not having reached the +meridian of life; his face, bronzed and darkened by fatigue and +exposure, indicated that he had seen the severest hardships of a +soldier’s life. Unable to accept a command in the field because of the +wounds received at Saratoga the preceding fall he had been made +commandant of the city. He was still on crutches, being thin and worn +from the effects of his hurt. + +Some of the stories of his great courage upon that occasion came to +Peggy’s mind, and brought a glow of admiration to her eyes. She flushed +rosily as he said in greeting: + +“I am pleased to welcome you, Mistress Peggy. A certain aide of mine +hath talked of naught else but your return for a week past. You are to +report him to me if he does not give you an enjoyable time. Ah, Dale! +look to’t that you distinguish yourself in the matter.” + +“Are there none but Tories?” questioned Peggy, as General Arnold turned +to greet other arrivals, and Mrs. Owen paused to converse with some +acquaintances. + +“Well,” the lad hesitated a moment and then continued, “they seem +remarkably fond of him, Peggy, and he of them. I would it were not so, +but many of the staff have thought that they flocked to his +entertainments in mischievous numbers.” + +“But are there no others?” asked the girl again, for on every side were +Tories and Neutrals to such an extent that scarce a Whig was to be seen. + +“Oh, yes, the gentlemen of Congress are here somewhere, for there is Mr. +Charles Lee, who is always to be found where they are. He pays court to +them upon every occasion in the endeavor to convince them what great +merit he showed at the battle of Monmouth.” And the youth laughed. + +“And the head-dresses,” exclaimed the girl in astonishment. “How high +they are. And the pomade! And the powder! Why, Robert, all the fashion +of the city is here!” + +“And what did the general say to thee, Peggy?” cried Sally’s voice, and +Robert and Peggy turned to find Sally and Betty directly behind them. +“Did he compliment thee upon thy name? ’Tis his favorite, thee knows. +There comes Miss Margaret Shippen now, and look at thy general, Robert. +One could tell that he was paying court to her.” + +“They are to be married soon, I hear,” announced Betty, when the laugh +that had followed Sally’s remark died away. + +“How beautiful she is,” exclaimed Peggy admiringly as she gazed at the +stately Miss Shippen. + +“She is indeed,” assented Robert, “though I would she were not a Tory.” + +“Fie, fie, Robert,” laughed Peggy. “Is not thy Cousin Kitty a Tory? I +never heard thee object to her.” + +“Oh, Kitty! that’s different.” Robert was plainly embarrassed. + +“Is it?” The three girls laughed again, enjoying his confusion. + +“I but voice the objections of the army,” explained he when their +merriment had subsided. “Of the Congress also, who fear the effect upon +the people, there is so much feeling anent the Tories.” + +“Congress!” exclaimed Sally with a scornful toss of her head. “I should +not mind what Congress said if I were General Arnold. They wouldn’t even +give him his proper rank until after Saratoga, though His Excellency, +General Washington, did his utmost to make them. I wouldn’t ask the old +Congress anything anent the matter. So there!” + +“Hoity-toity, my young lady! Have a care to your words. Know you not +that the gentlemen of that same Congress are present? It seems to me +that I have heard that some of those same gentlemen are the very men who +are on the board of a certain institution——” + +“Oh, hush, hush, Mr. Deering,” cried Sally turning with some excitement +to the old gentleman. “’Tis a secret known to but few.” + +“Now what did I say?” he demanded as the others looked at the two in +surprise. “Miss Peggy, won’t you defend me?” + +“Let him say it over, Sally,” said Peggy roguishly. “Perhaps we can tell +then.” + +“No, no,” uttered Sally with a questioning glance at him. “Thee does +know,” she burst forth as she met his twinkling eyes. “How did thee find +it out, Mr. Deering?” + +“If you will glad an old man by treading this measure with him, I’ll +tell you,” he answered. “Or perhaps you prefer a younger squire?” + +“Oh, thee! Thee every time,” cried she, linking her arm in his. + +“Won’t you follow them, Peggy?” asked Robert. + +“Why, no,” she answered in surprise. “Thee knows that I am a Quaker, +Robert.” + +“But not now, Peggy,” interposed Betty. “Since thee has become a Whig, +and have been read out of meeting thee is an apostate. Sally and I both +have learned to languish and glide at the new academy in Third Street. +They are taught there in the politest manner. Thee must attend.” + +Peggy looked troubled. + +“I do not think we should give up everything of our religion because we +are led to differ from the Society in the matter of politics,” she said. +“At least that is the way mother looks at it, though I should like to +learn to dance. Oh, dear! I am getting worldly, I fear. Now, Betty, thee +and Robert run along while I stand here and watch you. It hath been long +since I saw so bright a scene.” + +Thus urged, Robert and Betty glided out upon the floor, and Peggy looked +about her. + +The extravagance of the costumes was beyond anything hitherto seen in +the quiet city of Penn, and Peggy’s eyes opened wide at the gorgeous +brocades and wide hooped skirts. But most of all did she marvel at the +headdresses of the ladies. These, built of feathers, aigrets and +ribbands, topped the hair already piled high upon steel frames and +powdered excessively. The air was full of powder from wig and +head-dress. Happy laughter mingled with the music of the fiddles, and +the rustle of brocades. All made up a scene the luxury of which stole +over the little maid’s senses and troubled her. Unconsciously she +sighed. + +“Why not treading a measure, my little maid?” queried General Arnold’s +pleasant voice, and Peggy looked up to find him smiling down upon her. + +“I am a Quaker,” she told him simply. + +“Then mayhap we can console each other; although I do not refrain from +religious scruples.” + +“No; thee does it because of thy wound,” uttered the girl a glow of such +intense admiration coming into her eyes that the general smiled +involuntarily. “Does it pain thee much, Friend—I should say—General +Arnold?” + +[Illustration: “FRIEND—I SHOULD SAY—GENERAL ARNOLD”] + +“Nay; call me friend, Miss Peggy. I like the name, and no man hath too +many. At times I suffer much. At first I was in a very fever of +discontent, ’twas so long in healing. I chafed under the confinement, +for it kept me from the field. Of late, however, I have come to bear its +tardiness in healing with some degree of patience.” + +“Mother thinks that as much bravery may be shown in endurance as in +action,” she observed shyly. + +“More, more,” he declared. “Action is putting into execution the resolve +of the moment, and may be spurred by excitement or peril to deeds of +daring. One forgets everything under its stimulus. But to be compelled +to sit supinely when the liberties of the country are in danger——Ah! +that is what takes the heart out of a man. It irks me.” + +“Thee should not fret,” she said with such sweet gravity that his worn +dark face lighted up. “Thou hast already given so much for thy country +that ’tis well that thou shouldst take thy ease for a time. Thee has +been very brave.” + +“Thank you,” he returned, his pleasure at her naive admiration being +very apparent. Already there had been detractions whispered against his +administration of the city, and the genuine appreciation of this little +maid for his military exploits was soothing to him. “I know not how our +talk hath become so serious,” he said, “but I am a poor host to permit +it. ’Tis not befitting a scene of pleasure. Wilt take tea with me, Miss +Peggy?” + +Peggy looked up quickly, thinking she had not heard aright. What! she, a +simple young girl, to be taken to tea by so great a general! Mr. Arnold +stood courteously awaiting her assent, and realizing that he had indeed +bestowed the honor upon her, she arose, swept a profound curtsey, and +murmured an almost inaudible acceptance. + +There were little gasps of surprise from Sally and Betty, as she swept +by them, but pride had succeeded to Peggy’s confusion, and she did not +turn her head. Assured that never again would she be filled with such +felicity Peggy held her head high, and walked proudly down the great +drawing-room by Benedict Arnold’s side. + +’Twas customary in Philadelphia for the mistress of a household to +disperse tea to guests, but the general having no wife pressed his +military attachés into this duty. So overwhelmed was Peggy with the +honor conferred upon her that she did not notice that her cup was filled +again and again by the obliging servitor. She was recalled to herself, +however, by an audible aside from Sally: + +“And hath thy general plenty of Bohea in the house, Robert? ’Tis to be +hoped so, else there will be none for the rest of us. That is Peggy’s +sixth cup, is it not?” + +“Oh, dear!” gasped Peggy flushing scarlet, and hastily placing her spoon +across the top of her cup, for this was the proper mode of procedure +when one had been served sufficiently. “I did not know, I did not +think—in fact, the tea was most excellent, and did beguile me. Nay,” she +broke off looking at him bravely. “’Twas because I was so beset with +pride to think that it was thou who served me that I forgot my manners. +In truth, the incident is so notable that I shall never forget it.” + +“Now, by my life, you should drink all there is for that speech though +no one else were served,” declared he laughing. “What! No more? Then we +will see to ’t that your friend hath cause for no further complaint. Do +you read, Miss Peggy?” + +From a small spindle-legged table that stood near, he selected a book +from several which lay on its polished surface, and handed it to her. + +“Pleasure me by accepting this,” he said. “’Tis Brooke’s ‘Lady Juliet +Grenville.’ Most young ladies like it, and it hath more endurance than a +cup of tea.” + +“Oh, thank thee! Thank thee!” cried she delightedly. “I have heard much +of the tale, and have longed to read it. I shall truly treasure it.” + +“Would that my name were Margaret,” cried Sally as General Arnold left +her with her friends. “And what did thee do to merit all this honor, +Miss Peggy?” + +“I know not,” answered Peggy regarding the book almost with awe. “Oh, +girls! hath he not indeed been kind to me? ’Tis most wonderful how +everything hath happened. How vastly delightsome town life is! I hope +mother will go to every tea to which we are asked.” + +“And has thee had so much excitement that thee does not care for my +secret?” asked Sally. “’Twas my purpose to declare it at this time.” + +“Do tell it, Sally,” pleaded Peggy aroused by Sally’s earnest tone. +“Thee promised.” + +“Yes, yes, Sally,” urged Betty. “Do tell us.” + +“Then come close,” said Sally motioning to Robert and Mr. Deering to +draw nearer. “Know then, all of you, that to-morrow I am to begin to +prepare for being a nurse in the General Hospital.” + +“Oh, Sally!” cried Betty and Peggy in a chorus. + +“Yes,” said she, enjoying their surprise. “Mr. Deering seems to have +known it, and Robert here, but ’tis known to no others. I have been +minded for some time to do something more than make socks and shirts, +though they are badly needed, too, I hear.” + +“’Tis just splendid, Sally,” declared Peggy. “But Betty and I must do +something too. It will never do for thee to be the only one of us girls +to do so well. What shall we do, Betty?” + +“I fancy that my hands at least will be full,” said Betty. “Mother +thinks it advisable for me to take the smallpox as soon as she can spare +me.” + +“La!” giggled Sally. “How will that help the country, Betty?” + +“By preventing it from spreading,” answered Betty, at which they all +laughed. + +The music struck up at this moment, and the talk which had threatened to +become serious was interrupted. About eleven a genteel supper was +served, and General Arnold’s tea had come to an end. + + + + +CHAPTER VII—A SUMMER SOLDIER + + + “What, if ‘mid the cannon’s thunder, + Whistling shot and bursting bomb, + When my brothers fall around me, + Should my heart grow cold and numb?” + But the drum + Answered “Come! + Better there in death united than in life a recreant—come!” + + —“The Reveille,” Bret Harte. + +“Mother, what did thee think of the tea?” asked Peggy of Mrs. Owen the +next morning. + +Lowry Owen laid down her sewing and turned toward her daughter gravely: + +“’Twas an enjoyable occasion in many respects, my daughter. ’Twas most +pleasant to meet with old friends, but——” + +“Yes, mother?” questioned the maiden as the lady hesitated. + +“There was so much of extravagance and expenditure in the costumes and +even in the entertainment that I fear we cannot indulge often in such +pleasures. Mr. Arnold”—calling him after the London manner, a fashion +much in vogue at this time in the colonies—“must be a man of great +wealth to afford such hospitality. I understand that ’tis extended often +to his friends, and ’tis expected to some extent from a man in his +position. But we are not wealthy now, my child, and I wish not to be +drawn into a manner of life beyond our means.” + +“I know, mother,” answered the girl soberly. “Last night I was carried +away by the enjoyment of it all, and methought I would like naught else +than teas, and routs and parties all the time. Didst think thy daughter +could be so foolish?” + +“’Twas very plain to be seen, my child,” said the lady with a smile. +“And with thy father and others in the field it seems to me that thou +and I may be employed to better purpose, Peggy? What does thee say? +Shall we give up assemblies, tea drinkings and finery to patriotism, or +wouldst thou rather——” + +“Mother, thee knows that when ’tis a choice between such things and the +country they must go,” cried Peggy warmly. + +“I knew that I could count on thy cooperation,” observed Mrs. Owen +quietly. “Thou shalt have thy young friends, Peggy, and shall share +their pleasures, but we will have no more of public parade and +ostentation. I like it not. ’Tis not befitting the wives and daughters +of soldiers to indulge in such pastimes. And we shall be busy, Peggy. We +must spin and weave.” + +“I do not mind the work, mother. Sally is to be a nurse, and I would not +be happy could I not do something too.” + +And so the spinning-wheel was brought from the attic, and given a +prominent place in the living-room. The loom was set up in the large +kitchen, and from early morn until eight at night the girl spent the +long hours of the day spinning and weaving. Other Whig women also, +dismayed by the spirit of frivolity and extravagance that was rife in +the city, followed their example, and the hum of the wheel and burr of +the loom were heard in every household. + +“Thou hast been spinning since five of the clock this morning, Peggy,” +remonstrated Mrs. Owen one afternoon. “Is thee not tired? How many +skeins hast thou spun to-day?” + +“I have lost count, mother,” laughed Peggy. “It behooves me to be +thrifty, else there will be no yarn to knit. And such heaps and heaps of +unspun wool as there are! ’Tis no time to be weary.” + +“But thee must not overdo in the beginning. There is also much +unhatcheled flax to be made into thread for cloth, and if thee is too +wearied from the spinning of the wool thou wilt not be able to undertake +it. So stop now, and take a run through the garden.” + +“Just as soon as I finish this skein, mother.” + +Peggy’s light foot on the treadle went swifter and swifter, and for a +time no sound was heard in the living-room save the hum of the wheel. +Presently the spindle uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped +short in her fingers. + +“There!” she cried merrily, unraveling the knot dexterously. “Had I but +heeded thy advice, mother, this mishap would not have occurred. The +moral is that a maid should always obey her mother. I tried to outdo my +stint of yesterday, and by so doing have come to grief. Now if thee will +hold the skeins I will wind the yarn of to-day’s spinning ready for +knitting.” + +So saying she uprose from the wheel and took a snowy skein from the reel +on the table, and adjusted it upon her mother’s outstretched hands. + +“Sukey and I could do this after supper, Peggy,” expostulated the +matron. “I like not to have thee confined too closely to work, albeit I +would not have thee idle.” + +“Mother, thee knows that thee likes to have me excel in housewifery, and +how can I do so unless I practice the art? I cannot become notable save +by doing, can I?” questioned the maiden archly, her slim figure looking +very graceful as she stood winding the yarn with nimble fingers. “I +shall take the air when I have finished winding this ball, if it will +please thee; though”—and a shadow dimmed the brightness of her face—“I +like not to go out in the grounds since Star hath gone. How strange it +is that something should happen to both the pets that father gave me! +Pilot, my dog, was shot, and now my pony is stolen. Dost think I will +ever hear of her, mother?” + +“It hath been some time since thou didst advertise, Peggy, hath it not?” + +“Yes, mother. Three long se’nnights.” + +“And in all that time there hath come no word or sign of her.” The lady +hesitated a moment, and then continued: “Dear child, I fear that thou +wilt see no more of thy pretty horse. But take comfort in the thought +that though the gift hath been taken from thee the giver hath not. David +is well, and in good spirits. That is much to be thankful for, Peggy.” + +“It is, mother. Dear father! would he were home for all time.” + +Without further remonstrance Peggy went out under the trees. A slight +chill was in the air, for it was drawing toward evening. Summer’s spell +was released, and the sere decadence of the year was sweetly and sadly +going on. Up and down the neglected alleys of the garden she strolled, +pausing ever and anon to admire the scarlet fire of the late poppies. +Almost unconsciously her feet turned in the direction of the stable, a +place to which she made daily pilgrimages since the loss of her pet. As +she drew near the building the unmistakable sound of a low whinny broke +upon the air. A startled look swept across the girl’s face, and she +stopped short in astonishment. + +“That sounded like Star,” she exclaimed. “Mother was right in thinking +that I needed the air. I must not sit so long again at the wheel. I——” + +But another and louder whinny broke upon her ear, and full of excitement +Peggy flung wide the door, and darted within. + +“Oh, Star! Star!” she cried throwing her arms about the pony’s neck, for +the mare was really standing in her stall. “Where did thee come from? +Who brought thee? And where hast thou been?” + +But the little mare could only whinny her delight, and rub her soft nose +against her mistress’s sleeve. + +“Thou dear thing!” cried the girl rapturously. “Is thee glad to get +back? Does thee want some sugar? Oh, how did thee get here? Thee doesn’t +look as though thee had had much to eat. Poor thing! Couldn’t they even +groom thee?” + +“Mistress!” + +Peggy turned around abruptly, and there stood the same young fellow who +had mended her saddle when she and her mother were waiting on the +Germantown road. He was more ragged than ever, and thinner too, if that +were possible. He still wore his air of jaunty assurance, however, and +returned her astonished gaze with a glance of amusement. + +“Thou?” breathed Peggy. “And what does thee want?” + +“Naught, but to return thy horse,” he answered. + +“Oh! did thee find her?” cried the girl in pleased tones. “How good of +thee to bring her to me! Where did thee find her? And the thief? What +did thee do with him?” + +“The thief? Oh, I brought him too,” he said coolly. + +“But where is he?” she demanded looking around. “I do not see him.” + +“Here,” he said sweeping her an elaborate bow. + +“Thee?” Peggy recoiled involuntarily as the lad spoke. “Oh, how could +thee do it? How could thee?” she burst forth. + +“I couldn’t. That’s why I brought her back. I don’t steal from a girl.” + +“But why did thee keep her so long?” she asked, mollified somewhat by +this speech. + +“I wanted to see my people,” he answered. + +“And did thee?” she queried, her tender heart stirred by this. + +“No; they had moved, or something had happened. They weren’t there any +more.” He spoke wearily and with some bitterness. “I’d have sold that +horse if I hadn’t kept thinking how fond you were of her.” + +“And did thee know that I had offered a reward for her, friend?” + +“Why, of course I knew,” he replied. “Now as I am entitled to the money +for both the horse and thief, suppose you bring it out to me.” + +“But my pony,” objected Peggy. “How do I know that thee will not take +her again?” + +“Your horse?” he questioned angrily. “Don’t fear! Don’t you suppose that +if I had wanted to keep her I’d have done it? Now if you are going to +give me the money, do it. Then feed your mare. She hasn’t had much more +than I have. Don’t be afraid of me, but hurry. I can’t stay around here +any longer.” + +“I am not afraid, friend,” responded Peggy her hesitation vanishing. “I +was just thinking that thee looked hungry. Come to the house, and eat +something. Then thou shalt have thy money, though I know not what my +mother will say to that part of it. But thee should eat anyway. Come!” + +“I will not,” he cried. “I will not. Someone might see me and arrest +me.” + +“But if mother and I do not wish to prosecute ’tis not the concern of +any,” she told him mildly. “Now that I have Star, I would not wish to be +severe, and thou didst bring her back. Mother will feel the same way.” + +“’Tis not that,” he cried sharply. “Don’t you understand? I have run +away from the army, and I don’t want to be caught. I have been +advertised, as well as your horse.” + +“And so thee could not steal from a girl, but thee can desert thy +country in her fight for liberty,” said Peggy, her eyes blazing with +scorn. “I had rather a thousand times that thou hadst taken Star; that +thou couldst find it in thy heart to steal, though that were monstrous +sinful, than that thou should stand there, and declare thyself a +deserter. Why, thou art worse than a thief! Thou hast committed robbery +twice over; for thou hast robbed thyself of honor, and despoiled thy +country of a man.” + +“But”—he began, amazed at her feeling—“you do not know. You do not +understand. I——” + +“No,” blazed the girl. “I do not know. I do not want to know how a man +can be a summer soldier, as Mr. Thomas Paine calls them. A sunshine +patriot who rallies to his country’s side in fair weather, but who +deserts her when she needs men. A deserter! Oh!” her voice thrilling, +“how can thee be such a thing?” + +“It’s—it’s all up,” he said leaning against the door white and shaken. +“I’m done for!” And he fell limply to the floor. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII—PEGGY’S RESOLVE + + + “Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! + Will ye give it up to slaves? + Will ye to your homes retire? + Look behind you! They’re afire! + And, before you, see + Who have done it!—From the vale + On they come!—And will ye quail?” + + —John Pierpont. + +In an instant Peggy was out of the stable and running to the house. + +“Mother,” she cried bursting in upon Mrs. Owen so suddenly that the lady +started up in alarm, “the lad that mended my saddle is in the stable. He +hath brought Star back, and I fear he hath fainted. Come quickly!” + +“Fainted?” exclaimed the lady rising hastily. “And Star back? Tell Sukey +to follow with Tom, Peggy.” + +Seizing a bottle of cologne and a vinaigrette she went quickly to the +barn followed by Peggy and the two curious servants. + +“’Tis lack of nourishing food more than aught else that ails him,” was +Mrs. Owen’s comment as she laved the youth’s forehead with vinegar, and +bade Sukey burn some feathers under his nose. “Peggy, get the +guest-chamber in readiness. We will carry him in as soon as he hath +regained his consciousness.” + +The girl hastened to do her bidding, and presently the lad, by this time +recovered from his swoon, was put to bed, and the household all a bustle +with preparing gruel and delicacies. Shortly after partaking of food, he +gave a sigh of content and fell into a deep sleep. And then Peggy turned +to her mother. + +“Are we to keep him?” she queried. + +“Surely, my daughter. Why dost thou ask? The lad is not strong enough to +depart now. There is naught else to be done.” + +“But he is in truth a deserter, mother.” + +“I surmised as much, as thee remembers,” observed Mrs. Owen quietly. + +“And a thief,” continued the maiden with some warmth. “Mother, he +acknowledged that ’twas he who stole Star.” + +“And it was also he who brought her back,” reminded her mother. + +“But to desert,” exclaimed Peggy a fine scorn leaping into her eyes. “To +leave when his country hath such need of him!” + +“True, Peggy; but the flesh is weak, and when subjected to the pangs of +hunger ’tis prone to revolt. Our soldiers are so illy cared for that the +wonder is that more do not forsake the army.” + +“Mother, thee does not excuse it, does thee?” cried Peggy in so much +consternation that Mrs. Owen smiled. + +“Nay, Peggy. I only suspend judgment until I know all the circumstances. +Did he tell thee aught of his reasons for deserting?” + +“I fear,” answered Peggy shamefacedly, “that I gave him no opportunity. +In fact, mother, I discovered some warmth in speaking anent the matter.” + +Mrs. Owen smiled. Well she knew that in her zeal for the country Peggy +was apt to “discover warmth.” + +“Then,” she said, “we will bring naught into question until he hath his +strength. Yon lad is in no condition for fighting or aught else at the +present time.” + +“But once he hath his strength,” broke in the girl eagerly, “would it be +amiss to reason with him?” + +“Once he hath his strength I will say nothing,” answered the lady, her +mouth twitching. “Thou mayst reason with him then to thy heart’s +content.” + +And so it came about that the young deserter was attended with great +care, and none was so assiduous in attention to his comfort as Peggy. +For several days he did little but receive food and sleep. This soon +passed, however, and he was up and about, though he still kept to his +chamber both as a matter of precaution and as though enjoying to the +full the creature comforts by which he was surrounded. + +“Friend,” remarked Peggy one day after she had arranged his dinner +daintily upon a table drawn up by the settle upon which he was lying, +“thee has not told thy name yet.” + +“’Tis Drayton. John Drayton,” he returned an apprehensive look flashing +across his face. “You would not—would you?—betray me?” + +“I did not ask for that purpose,” she replied indignantly. “Had we +wished to denounce thee we would have done so long since. Why shouldst +thou think such a thing?” + +“I cry you pardon,” he said with something of his old jauntiness. “I +have heard that a guilty conscience doth make cowards of us all. ’Tis so +in my case. In truth I should not tarry here, but——” + +“Thee is welcome to stay until thy strength is fully restored, friend,” +she said. “My mother and I are agreed as to that. And then——” + +“Well? And then?” he questioned sharply turning upon her. + +“Friend, why did thee desert?” asked she abruptly. + +“Why? Because the thought of another winter took all the spirit out of +me. Because I am tired of being hungry and cold; because I am tired of +being ragged and dirty. I am tired of it all: the long hard marches with +insufficient clothing to cover me by day, and no blanket but the snow at +night. I made the march to Quebec through all the perils of the +wilderness. Through sleet and driving snow it hath always been my +fortune to serve. Last winter I spent among the dreary hills of Valley +Forge, enduring all the miseries of that awful time. And then, after all +that, for three such years of service what does an ungrateful country +bestow upon me? The rank of ensign.” And he laughed bitterly. “But every +foreign adventurer that comes whining to Congress may have the highest +commission that is in their power to bestow. And what do they care for +us who have borne the burden? Why, nothing but to let us starve.” + +“True,” said Peggy troubled. “True, Friend Drayton, and yet——” + +“And yet when we have given so much to an ungrateful country if we +desert we are hounded like dogs, or runaway slaves,” he continued +passionately. “And you, Mistress Peggy, who have known neither hunger +nor cold, nor what it is to be in battle, stand there accusingly because +I, forsooth, who have known all these things have tired of them. A +summer soldier, you called me. A winter soldier would have been the +better term.” + +Peggy’s face flushed. + +“Now,” he continued, “I am seeking to follow the precepts of the great +Declaration which doth teach that every man hath the right to life, +liberty and the pursuit of happiness after his own fashion.” + +“Still,” remarked the girl, who was plainly puzzled by his reasoning, +“if the British should succeed in defeating us what would become of the +Declaration? Methinks that ’twould be the part of wisdom not to accord +thy life by such precepts until they were definitely established.” + +“You are pleased to be sharp, mistress,” he said pushing back from the +table. “I—I am in no condition to argue with you. I am weak,” he added +reclining once more upon the settle. + +Peggy made no reply, and silently removed the dishes. A sparkle came +into her eye as she noted their empty condition. + +“Mother,” she said as she entered the kitchen where that lady was, “does +thee not think that our friend is able now to stand being reasoned with? +He said but now that he was still weak.” + +Mrs. Owen laughed quietly as she saw that nothing had been left of the +meal. + +“’Tis but natural that he should feel so, Peggy,” she said. “When one +hath been without food and a proper place to sleep the senses become +sharpened to the enjoyment of such things, and he but seeks to prolong +his delight in them. Be not too hard on the lad, my child.” + +“But would it harm him, mother, to reason with him?” persisted Peggy. +“If he can eat so, can he not be brought to see the error of his ways? I +would not injure him for the world.” + +“Set thy mind at rest upon that point, Peggy. Naught that thou canst say +to him can work him injury. Hath our friend told thee why he deserted?” + +“He feared another winter,” answered Peggy. “And perhaps he hath cause +to; for he hath been through the march to Quebec under General Arnold, +and last winter he spent at Valley Forge. And so he ran away to keep +from passing another such season in the army.” + +“Poor lad!” sighed the lady. “’Tis no wonder that he deserted. Yet those +who endure such hardships for so long rarely desert. ’Tis but a passing +weakness. Let us hope that he will return when he is well enough. He is +of too good a mettle to be lost.” + +“I mean him to go back,” announced Peggy resolutely. + +“Peggy, what is worrying thy brain?” exclaimed her mother. “Child, let +me look at thee.” + +“Leave him to me, mother,” cried the girl, her eyes shining like stars. +“He shall yet be something other than a summer soldier.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX—THE TALE OF A HERO + + + “Paradise is under the shadow of swords.” + + —Mahomet. + +“Thee must excuse me, Friend John. I am late with thy dinner because +General Arnold dined with us, and we sat long at table,” explained Peggy +the next day as she entered the room where Drayton sat. + +“Arnold?” cried the young fellow, starting up. “Was General Arnold here? +Here? Under this very roof? Could I get a glimpse of him?” + +He ran to the front window as he spoke and threw it open. Now this +window faced upon Chestnut Street, and there was danger of being seen, +so Peggy ran to him in great perturbation. + +“Come back,” she cried in alarm. “Some one might see thee. He hath gone. +Thou canst not see him. Dost forget that if any see thee thou mayst be +taken?” + +“I had forgot,” said Drayton, drawing back into the room. “You did not +speak of me?” he asked quickly, with some excitement. + +“Nay; calm thyself. We spoke naught of thee to him, nor to any. Have I +not said we would not? Was thee not under the general during the march +into Canada?” + +“Yes; but he was a colonel then. Hath his wound healed yet? Last spring +at Valley Forge he was still on crutches. Is he still crippled?” + +“Yes, he is still lame. He uses the crutches when he hath not one of his +soldier’s arms to lean upon.” + +“Would that he had mine to lean upon,” cried Drayton, with such feeling +that Peggy was surprised. + +“Why? Does thee think so much of him?” she asked. + +“I’d die for him,” uttered the lad earnestly. “There isn’t one of us +that was on that march to Quebec under him who wouldn’t.” + +“Suppose thee tells me about it,” suggested Peggy. “I have heard +something of the happenings of that time, but not fully. The city rings +with his prowess and gallant deeds. ’Tis said that he is generous and +kind as well as brave.” + +“’Tis said rightly, Mistress Peggy. Doth he not care for the orphans of +Joseph Warren who fell at Bunker Hill? In that awful march was there +ever a kinder or more humane leader? No tongue can tell the sufferings +and privations we endured on that march through the wilderness, but +there was no murmuring. We knew that he was doing the best that could be +done, and that if ever man could take us through that man was Benedict +Arnold. I cannot describe what hardships we endured, but as we +approached the St. Lawrence River I became so ill that I could no longer +march. Utterly exhausted, I sank down on a log, and watched the troops +pass by me. In the rear came Colonel Arnold on horseback. Seeing me +sitting there, pale and dejected, he dismounted and came over to me. + +“‘And what is it, my boy?’ he asked. ’I—I’m sick,’ I blubbered, and +burst out crying. + +“He didn’t say a word for a minute, and then he turned and ran down to +the river bank, and halloed to a house which stood near. The owner came +quickly, and Colonel Arnold gave him silver money to look after me until +I should get well. Then with his own hands he helped me into the boat, +gave me some money also, and said that I must not think of joining them +until I was quite strong. Oh!” cried Drayton huskily, “he was always +like that. Always doing something for us to make it easier.” + +“And did thee join him again?” questioned Peggy, her voice not quite +steady. She had heard of the love that soldiers often have for their +leaders, but she had not come in touch with it before. + +“Ay! who could forsake a commander like that? As soon as I was able I +followed after them with all speed. In November we stood at last on the +Plains of Abraham before Quebec. We were eager to attack the city at +once, but Sir Guy Carleton arrived with reinforcements, and we could not +hope to take the city until we too were reinforced. Finally we were +joined by General Montgomery and three hundred men, and the two leaders +made ready to assault the town. + +“On the last day of the year, in the midst of a driving snow-storm we +started. It was so dark and stormy that in order that we might recognize +each other each soldier wore a white band of paper on his cap on which +was written—Liberty or Death! + +“General Montgomery was to attack the lower town by way of Cape Diamond +on the river, while Colonel Arnold was to assault the northern part. The +storm raged furiously, but we reached the Palace Gate in spite of it. +The alarm was ringing from all the bells in the city, drums were +beating, and the artillery opened upon us. With Colonel Arnold at our +front we ran along in single file, bending our heads to avoid the storm, +and holding our guns under cover of our coats to keep our powder dry. + +“The first barrier was at Sault au Matelot, and here we found ourselves +in a narrow way, swept by a battery, with soldiers firing upon us from +the houses on each side of the passage. But Arnold was not daunted. He +called out, ‘Come on, boys!’ and we rushed on. ’Twas always that. He +never said, ‘Go, boys!’ like some of the officers. ’Twas always ‘Come +on, boys!’ and there he’d be at our head. I tell you a braver man never +lived. + +“Well, as he rushed on cheering us to the assault, he was struck by a +musket ball just at the moment of the capture of the barrier. His leg +was broken, and he fell upon the snow. Then, can you believe it, he got +up somehow, though he could only use one leg, and endeavored to press +forward. Two of us dropped our muskets, and ran to him, but he refused +to leave the field until the main body of the troops came up. He stood +there leaning on us for support, and calling to the troops in a cheering +voice as they passed, urging them onward. When at last he consented to +be taken from the field his steps could be traced by the blood which +flowed from the wound.” + +“Was it the same one that was hurt at Saratoga?” queried Peggy. + +“The very same. And no sooner was he recovered than he was in action +again. Although the attack on the city was a failure he would not give +up the idea of its capture. I believe that had not General Montgomery +fallen it would have succeeded.” + +“’Twas at Quebec that William McPherson fell,” mused Peggy. “He was the +first one of our soldiers to fall. Philadelphia is proud of his renown. +But oh, he was so young, and so full of patriotic zeal and devotion to +the cause of liberty!” + +“Every one was full of it then,” observed Drayton sadly. “When we were +on the Plains of Abraham before the battlements of the lofty town, think +you that no thought came to us of how Wolfe, the victorious Wolfe, +scaled those rocks and forced the barred gates of the city? I tell you +that there was not one of us whose heart did not feel kinship with that +hero. His memory inspired us. His very presence seemed to pervade the +field, and we knew that our leaders were animated by the memory of his +victory.” + +“Thou hast felt like that, and yet thou hast deserted?” exclaimed the +girl involuntarily. + +A deep flush dyed the young fellow’s face. He sat very still for a +moment and then answered with passion: + +“Have I not given all that is necessary? And I have suffered, Mistress +Peggy. I have suffered that which is worse than death. Why, death upon +the battle-field is glorious! I do not fear it. But ’tis the long +winters; the cold, sleepless nights, huddling in scanty wisps of straw, +or over a low fire for warmth; the going without food, or having but +enough to merely keep life within one. This it is that takes the heart +out of a man. I’ll bear it no more.” + +Two great tears forced themselves from Peggy’s eyes, and coursed down +her cheeks. “Thee has borne so much,” she uttered chokingly. “So much, +Friend John, that I wonder thee has lived to tell it. And having borne +so much ’tis dreadful to ask more of thee, and yet to have thee +fail—fail just at the very last! To dim such an honorable record! To +blot out all that thou hast endured by desertion! Oh, how could thee? +How could thee? Could thee not endure a little more?” + +Drayton stirred restlessly. + +“They haven’t treated me well,” he blurted out. “I wanted to be in the +Select Corps, and they wouldn’t put me there. And I merited it, Mistress +Peggy. I tell you I merited it.” + +“What is the Select Corps, John?” asked the girl curiously. + +“’Tis a body of soldiers made up of picked men from the whole army,” he +returned. “They are always in advance, and lead every charge in an +active campaign. I wanted to be there, and they wouldn’t put me in.” + +“But,” persisted Peggy speaking in a low tone, “does thee think that thy +general would desert as thee has done just because he was not treated +well? Thee knows that ’tis only of late that Congress would give him his +proper rank.” + +“He desert!” The boy’s sullen eyes lighted up again at the mere mention +of his hero, and he laughed. “Why, I verily believe that General Arnold +would fight if everybody else in America stopped fighting. Why, at +Saratoga when General Gates deprived him of his command, and ordered him +to stay in his tent, he would not. When we boys heard what had been +done, we were afraid he would leave us, and so we got up a petition +asking him to wait until after the battle. And, though he was smarting +from humiliation, he promised that he’d stay with us. But Gates told him +not to leave the tent, and ordered us forward. We went, but our hearts +were heavy to be without him. + +“At the first sound of battle, however, he rushed from the tent, threw +himself on his horse, and dashed to where we were, crying, ‘No man shall +keep me in my tent this day. If I am without command, I will fight in +the ranks; but the soldiers, God bless them, will follow my lead.’ + +“How we cheered when we saw him coming! Brandishing his broad-sword +above his head, he dashed into the thickest of the fight, calling the +old, ‘Come on, boys! Victory or death!’ and the regiments followed him +like a whirlwind. The conflict was terrible, but in the midst of flame +and smoke, and metal hail, he was everywhere. His voice rang out like a +trumpet, animating and inspiring us to valor. He led us to victory, but +just as the Hessians, terrified by his approach, turned to flee, they +delivered a volley in their retreat that shot his horse from under him. +At the same instant a wounded German private fired a shot which struck +him in that same leg that had been so badly lacerated at Quebec, two +years before. + +“As he fell he cried out to us, ‘Rush on, my brave boys, rush on!’ But +one, in fury at seeing the general wounded, dashed at the wounded +German, and would have run him through with his bayonet had not the +general cried: ‘Don’t hurt him, he but did his duty. He is a fine +fellow.’” + +“I don’t wonder that thee loves him,” cried Peggy, her eyes sparkling at +the recital. “I believe with thee that though all others should fail he +would fight the enemy even though he would fight alone. Oh, I must get +thee to tell mother this! I knew not that he was so brave!” + +“Yes,” reiterated Master Drayton positively. “He would fight even though +he fought alone. But I am not made of such stuff. I am no hero, Mistress +Peggy. Beside, have not the Parley-voos come over to fight for us? They +have all the honors given them; let them have the miseries too.” + +“But why should the French fight our battles for us?” demanded the girl +bluntly. “They are only to help us. Why should they exert themselves to +save that which we do not value enough to fight for?” + +“’Tis expected by the army, anyway,” said Drayton. “I know that I’ll do +no more.” + +“Thee is a poor tired lad,” said the girl gently. “And thy dinner. See +how little thou hast eaten. I have talked too long with thee to-day. +Later we will renew the subject.” + +“Renew it an you will,” retorted the boy assuming again his jaunty +manner, half defiance, half swagger. “’Twill make no difference. I have +served my last. Unless the recruiting officer finds me you won’t catch +me in the army again.” + +Peggy smiled a knowing little smile, but made no answer. + +“We shall see,” she thought as she left the room. “Methinks thee has +some martial spirit left, Friend John.” + + + + +CHAPTER X—PEGGY TEACHES A LESSON + + + “Rise then, my countrymen! for fight prepare, + Gird on your swords, and fearless rush to war! + For your grieved country nobly dare to die, + And empty all your veins for liberty.” + + —Jonathan Mitchell Sewall. + +It was several days before Peggy could have another talk with Master +Drayton, but meantime she set up the needles and began to knit +vigorously on stockings, spun into thread more of the flax, and put +Sukey to work weaving it into cloth. + +“Peggy, what is thee so busy about?” asked Mrs. Owen, coming into the +kitchen where the girl had been at work since the dawn. + +Peggy looked up from the dye kettle with a puzzled look on her face, and +gave an extra poke at the cloth reposing therein by way of emphasis. + +“I am trying to dye some cloth, mother, but it doesn’t seem to come +right. What shall be done to indigo to get a pretty blue? I had no +trouble with the yellow dye. See how beautifully this piece came out. +Such a soft fine buff! I am pleased with it—but this——” + +She paused and turned inquiringly toward her mother. Mrs. Owen took the +stick from her hand, and held up a piece of cloth from the steaming +kettle, examining it critically. + +“Fix another kettle of water, Peggy,” she said, “and let it be near to +boiling. Into it put some salts of tin, alum and cream of tartar. It +needs brightening, and will come a pretty blue when washed in the +solution. There! Punch each part of the cloth down into the water, +child, so that it may be thoroughly wetted. So! Now rinse well, and hang +it out to dry. That done thou shalt tell me for what purpose thou hast +dyed the cloth such especial colors. Thy father hath no need of a new +uniform.” + +“’Tis for Friend John,” said Peggy dabbling the cloth vigorously up and +down in the rinsing water. + +“Why! hath he expressed a wish to return?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen in +amazement. “I had heard naught of it.” + +Peggy laughed. + +“Not yet, mother,” she cried, her eyes dancing with mirth. “But I see +signs. Oh, I see signs. This must be ready anent the time he does wish +to go. This, with socks, and weapons, and aught else he may need.” + +“Hast thou been reasoning with him, Peggy, that thee feels so sure?” + +“A little,” admitted the girl. “This afternoon, if none comes to +interrupt, I shall do more. Mother, what would I do without thee? Thee +did just the right thing to bring this cloth to the proper color. Is it +not beautiful? Would I could do so well.” + +“’Twill come in time, my daughter. Skill in dyeing as in aught else +comes only from practice. But here is Sukey to tell us of visitors. Wash +thy hands and join us, Peggy. If ’tis Sally Bache I make no doubt but +that there is news from Dr. Franklin.” + +’Twas customary at this time to pay morning visits in Philadelphia, and +several came, one after another, so that by the time she had finished +her interrupted tasks Peggy found the afternoon well on toward its close +before she could pay her usual visit to Master Drayton. She found him +awaiting her coming with eagerness. + +“’Tis good to be sheltered and fed,” he said as the maiden entered the +room, “but none the less ’tis monstrous tiresome to be cooped up. What +shall be done to amuse me, Mistress Peggy?” + +“Would thee like to have me read to thee?” she asked, a gleam of +mischief coming into her eyes. + +“The very thing,” he cried, seating himself comfortably on the settle. +“Is it a tale? Or perchance you have brought a verse book?” + +“Neither,” she answered. “Art sure that thou art comfortable, Friend +John? Does thee need anything at all?” + +“Nothing at all,” he replied pleased at her solicitude. “And now for the +reading. I am curious to see what you have chosen, for I see that you +have brought something with you.” + +“Yes,” she responded, producing a pamphlet. “’Tis just a little +something from a writer who calls himself, ‘Common Sense.’” Before he +had time to expostulate she began hurriedly: + +“‘These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the +sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his +country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men +and women. We have this consolation with us, that the harder the +conflict, the more glorious the triumph.’” + +“Now see here,” broke in the youth in an injured tone sitting bolt +upright. “That’s mean! Downright mean, I say, to take advantage of a +fellow like that. If you want to begin again on that summer soldier +business, why say so right out.” + +“Does thee object very seriously, John, to listening?” queried the +maiden mildly. “I would like to read thee the article.” + +“Oh, go ahead! I guess I can stand it.” Drayton set his lips together +grimly, and half turned from her. + +Peggy waited for no further permission. The pamphlet was one of the most +powerful written by Thomas Paine, and, as he passed from paragraph to +paragraph of the tremendous harangue, he touched with unfailing skill, +with matchless power, the springs of anxiety, contempt, love of home, +love of country, fortitude, cool deliberation and passionate resolve. +Drayton listened for a time in silence, with a sullen and injured air. +Slowly he turned toward the reader as though compelled against his will, +and presently he sprang to his feet with something like a sob. + +“In pity, cease,” he cried. “Hast no compassion for a man?” + +[Illustration: SLOWLY HE TURNED TOWARD THE READER] + +But Peggy knew that now was the time to drive the lesson home, so +steeling her heart to pity, she continued the pamphlet, closing with the +peroration which was such a battle call as might almost startle slain +patriots from their graves: + +“‘Up and help us; lay your shoulders to the wheel; better have too much +force than too little, when so great an object is at stake. Let it be +told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but +hope and virtue could survive, the country and city, alarmed at one +common danger, came forth to meet and repulse it.... It matters not +where you live, or what rank of life you hold, the evil or the blessing +will reach you all.... The heart that feels not now is dead. The blood +of his children will curse his cowardice who shrinks back at a time when +a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man +that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and +grow brave by reflection. ’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; +but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, +will pursue his principles until death.... By perseverance and +fortitude, we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and +submission the sad choice of a variety of evils,—a ravaged country, a +depopulated city, habitations without safety, and slavery without hope. +Look on this picture and weep over it; and if there yet remains one +thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.’” + +“No more,” cried the youth in great agitation. “I can bear no more. +‘’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is +firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his +principles until death.’ ’Tis true. Do not I know it. Until death! Until +death! Wretch that I am, I know it. There have been times when I would +have given my life to be back in the army. Do you think it is pleasant +to skulk, to hide from honest men? To know always and always that one is +a poltroon and a coward? I tell you no. Do you think that I have not +heard the inward pleading of my conscience to go back? That I have not +seen the accusing look in your eyes? You called me a summer soldier! I +am worse than that, and I have lost my chance.” + +“Thee has just found it, John,” cried she quickly. “Before thee served +for thine own advancement; now thee will begin again, and fight for thy +country alone. If preferment comes to thee, it will have been earned by +unselfish devotion. But thy country, John, thy country! Let it be always +in thy thoughts until its liberties are secured beyond recall.” + +“Would you have me go back?” he cried, stopping before her in amazement. + +“Why, of course thee is going back,” answered Peggy simply. “There is +naught else for a man to do.” + +Drayton noted the slight emphasis the girl laid upon the word man, and +made an involuntary motion of assent. + +“Did you know that deserters are ofttimes shot?” he asked suddenly. + +Peggy clutched at the back of a chair, and turned very pale. “No,” she +said faintly. “I did not know.” + +“I thought not,” he said. “None the less what you have said is true. +‘There is naught else for a man to do.’ I am going back, Mistress Peggy. +I shall try for another chance, but if it does not come, still I am +going back.” + +“And be shot?” she cried. “Oh, what have I done?” + +“Shown me my duty,” he answered quietly. “Blame not yourself, for there +hath been an inward cry toward that very thing ever since I ran away +from my duty. I have stifled its calling, and tried to palliate my +wrong-doing by excuses, but neither winter’s cold, nor the ingratitude +of an unappreciative country will excuse a man’s not sticking by his +convictions. Never again will you have it in your power to call me a +summer soldier.” + +“Thee is right,” faltered the girl. “I—I am glad that thee has so +resolved, and yet——Oh! I hope that thee will not be shot.” + +She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Girl-like, now that the +end was accomplished, Peggy was rather aghast at the result. + + + + +CHAPTER XI—PEGGY PLEADS FOR DRAYTON + + + “‘Me from fair Freedom’s sacred cause + Let nothing e’er divide; + Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause, + Nor friendship false, misguide.’” + + —The American Patriot’s Prayer. + (Ascribed to Thomas Paine.) + +It was Mrs. Owen who found a way out of the situation. + +“Nay, lad,” she said in her gentle way after Peggy had poured forth her +fear that the boy might be shot, and Drayton had expressed himself as +eager to go back at once. “Be not too hasty. Youth is ever impulsive, +and prone to act on the resolve of the moment. Thee would prefer another +chance, would thee not?” + +“Yes,” answered the lad quickly. “If I could have it, I would show +myself worthy of it. But if I cannot, Madam Owen, I am still resolved to +go back, and face death like a man.” + +“Thee is right, John,” she answered. “But if we could reach the proper +authorities something might be done to give thee an opportunity to +redeem thyself. Stay! I have it! Was not Mr. Arnold thy general?” + +“Yes,” he said. “But oh, madam! is it necessary that he should know? +Think, think what it would be should he learn that John Drayton, one of +his soldiers, deserted. I could not bear to see him.” + +“But would he not take more interest in thee than any other officer +might? He alone would know all that thou didst endure in that march +through the Maine wilderness. He would have a more complete +understanding of thy privations, and how thou hast borne thyself under +them. It is to him we must look to get thee thy chance.” + +Drayton buried his face in his hands for a time, and sat in thought. +Presently he looked up. + +“You speak truly, madam,” he said. “’Tis the only way. He is the one to +whom we must go. I am ashamed to face him, but I will. I’ll ask for +another chance, but oh! this is a thing that he cannot understand: he +who would give his life rather than fail in his duty. ’Tis a part of my +punishment. I’d rather die than face him, but I will.” + +“Once more, lad, let us not be too hasty,” said the lady again, laying a +detaining hand upon his arm as he rose to his feet. “We must approach +him with some little diplomacy. So much have I learned in this long war. +He hath discovered a liking for Peggy here, and hath bestowed marked +notice upon her upon several occasions. Therefore, while I like not to +seem to take advantage of such favor, in this instance it might be well +to send her as an advocate to him for thee. What does thee say, Peggy?” + +“That ’tis the very thing,” cried Peggy, starting up. “Oh, I will gladly +go to him. And I will plead, and plead, John, until he cannot help but +give thee another chance.” + +“It seems like shirking,” remonstrated Drayton, his restored manliness +eager to begin an expiation. + +“Thee has been advertised as a deserter, lad, and should thee attempt to +go to him thee might be apprehended. Also, if the general were to see +thee without first preparing him, he might not listen to thy +explanation, and turn thee over to the recruiting officer. It will be +the part of wisdom for Peggy to see him first.” + +And so it was arranged. September had given place to the crisp bracing +air of October, and on the uplands the trees were beginning to wear the +glory of scarlet and yellow and opal green. Sunshine and shadow flecked +the streets of the city, and as Peggy wended her way toward the +headquarters of General Arnold, she was conscious of a feeling of +melancholy. + +“Is it because of the dying year, I wonder?” she asked herself as a dead +leaf fell at her feet. “I know not why it is, but my spirits are very +low. Is it because I fear the general will not give the lad his chance? +Come, Peggy!” Addressing herself sternly, a way she had. “Put thy heart +in attune with the weather, lest thee infects the general with thy +megrims.” + +So chiding herself she quickened her steps and assumed an aggressively +cheerful manner. Just as she turned from Fifth Street into High she +heard a great clamor. She stopped in alarm as a rabble of men and boys +suddenly swept around a corner and flooded the street toward her. The +girl stood for but a moment, and then ran back into Fifth Street, where +she stopped so frightened that she did not notice a coach drawn by four +horses driving rapidly down the street. + +“Careful, my little maid! careful!” called a voice, and Peggy looked up +to find General Arnold himself leaning out of the coach regarding her +anxiously. “Why, ’tis Miss Peggy Owen,” he exclaimed. “Know you not that +you but escaped being run down by my horses?” + +“I—I—’tis plain to be seen,” stammered the maiden trembling. + +“Sam, assist the young lady into the coach,” he commanded the coachman. +Then, as Peggy was seated by his side: “I cry you pardon, Miss Peggy, +for not getting out myself. I am not so nimble as I was. What is it? +What hath frightened you?” + +“Does thee not hear the noise?” cried Peggy. + +Before he could reply the mob swept by. In the midst of it was a cart in +which lay a rude pine coffin which the crowd was showering with stones. + +“’Tis the body of James Molesworth, the spy,” he told her. “When he was +executed ’twas first interred in the Potter’s Field; then when the +British held possession of the city ’twas exhumed and buried with +honors. Since the Whigs have the town again ’tis thought fitting to +restore it to its old resting place in the Potter’s Field.” + +“’Tis a shame not to let the poor man be,” she exclaimed, every drop of +blood leaving her face. “Why do they not let him rest? He paid the debt +of his guilt. It were sin to maltreat his bones.” + +“’Tis best not to give utterance to those sentiments, Miss Peggy,” he +cautioned. “They do honor to your heart, but the public temper is such +that no mercy is shown toward those miscreants who serve as spies.” + +“But it hath been so long since he was executed,” she said with +quivering lips. “And is it not strange? When I came into the city to +seek my father ’twas the very day that they had exhumed his body and +were burying it with honors. Oh, doth it portend some dire disaster to +us?” + +“Come, come, Miss Peggy,” he said soothingly. “Calm yourself. I knew not +that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily +believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the +scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally.” + +“I would,” she confessed. “I fancy all of us girls do. But this—this is +different.” + +“Not a whit,” he declared. “’Tis a mere coincidence that you should +happen to be present on both occasions.” And then seeing that her color +had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a +word to the coachman. “I am going to take you for a short drive,” he +announced, “and to your destination.” + +“Why! I was coming to see thee,” cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance +of her mission. “I wish to chat with thee anent something and—someone.” + +“Robert Dale?” he questioned with a laugh. “He is a fine fellow, and +well worthy of a chat.” + +“Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as +thee says. ’Tis about one John Drayton.” + +“What? Another?” He laughed again, and settled himself back on the +cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her +clear eyes he became serious. “And what about him, Miss Peggy?” + +“Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?” she queried in surprise. +“He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec.” + +“Is that the Drayton you mean?” he asked amazed in turn. “I do indeed +remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall. +And brave. Very brave!” + +“He hath not been well, but is so now,” she said. + +“You have something to ask of me,” he said keenly. “Speak out, Miss +Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours.” + +“He hath not been until of late,” she answered troubled as to how she +should broach the subject. “Sir,” she said presently, plunging boldly +into the matter, “suppose that after serving three long years a soldier +should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the +prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge; +would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he +should”—she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning +without using the dreadful one, desert—“he should, well—retire without +leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?” + +“Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?” he asked sternly. + +“He did; but he repents,” she told him quickly. “Oh, judge him not until +I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of +sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even +though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself ’twas naught but +the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it.” Peggy’s +eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition +of the lad when she first saw him. + +“And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty +clothing to endure again?” he asked harshly. + +“Yes; but now he hath rested and grown strong,” she answered. “He will +have the strength to endure for perchance another three years should the +war last so long. He wants to go back. He wants a chance to redeem +himself.” + +“And had he not the courage to come to me himself without asking you to +intercede for him?” he demanded. “He was in my command, and he knows me +as only the soldiers do know me. Since when hath Benedict Arnold ceased +to give ear to the distress of one of his soldiers? I like it not that +he did not appeal to me of himself.” + +“He wished to,” interposed the girl eagerly. “Indeed, ’twas mother’s and +my thought for me to come to you. We thought, we thought”—Peggy +faltered, but went on bravely—“we thought that thee should be approached +diplomatically. We wished the lad to have every chance to redeem +himself, and we feared that if thee saw him without preparation thee +might be inclined to give him to the recruiting officer. He is so +sincere, he wishes so truly to have another chance that mother and I +could not bear that he should not have it. I have made a poor advocate, +I fear,” she added with a wistful little smile, “though he did say that +he would rather die than face thee.” + +“Unravel the matter from the beginning,” he commanded, with a slight +smile at her confession of diplomacy. + +And Peggy did so, beginning with the time that the lad mended the saddle +on the road, the loss of her pony, and everything leading to Drayton’s +stay with them, even to the making of the uniform of blue and buff and +the reading of “The Crisis.” + +“Upon my life,” he cried laughing heartily at this. “I shall advise +General Washington to appoint you to take charge of our fainthearted +ones. So he did not relish being called a summer soldier, eh? Miss +Peggy, I believe that I should like to see the lad, and have a talk with +him.” + +“Thee will not be harsh with him, will thee?” she pleaded. “He hath +indeed been in a woeful plight, and he could not bear it from thee. And +he doth consider the country ungrateful toward him.” + +“He is right,” commented Arnold, a frown contracting his brow. +“Ungrateful indeed! Not only he but others have suffered from her +injustice. Have no fear, Miss Peggy, but take me to him at once.” + +Nevertheless Peggy felt some uneasiness as the coach turned in the +direction of her home. + + + + +CHAPTER XII—ANOTHER CHANCE + + + “Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, + Lord of the lion-heart and eagle eye; + Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, + Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. + Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime + Hath bleached the tyrant’s cheek in every varying clime.” + + —Smollett. + +Drayton was lying on the settle when Peggy announced General Arnold. He +sprang to his feet with an exclamation as the latter entered, and then +shrank back and hung his head. + +“You, you,” he murmured brokenly. “Oh, how can you bear to see me?” + +“And is it thus we meet again, Drayton?” said the general, all the +reserve and hauteur of his manner vanishing before the distress of his +former soldier. + +“’Twas cold,” muttered Drayton too ashamed to raise his head. “I—I +feared it sir. You cannot understand,” he broke out. “How can a man of +your courage know how such things eat the very heart out of a fellow?” + +“I do know, boy,” exclaimed Arnold seating himself on the settle. “What +would you say if I were to tell you that once I deserted?” + +“You?” cried the youth flinging up his head to stare at him. “I’d never +believe it, sir. You desert! Impossible!” + +“Nevertheless, I did, my lad. Listen, and I will tell you of it. I was +fifteen at the time, and my imagination had been fired by tales of the +atrocities committed on the frontier by the French and Indians. I +resolved to enlist and relieve the dire state of my countrymen as far as +lay in my power. So I ran away from home to Lake George, where the main +part of the army was at the time. The wilderness of that northern +country was dense, and I passed through hardships similar to those we +sustained in our march to Quebec. You know, Drayton, what an army may +have to endure in such circumstances?” + +Drayton nodded, his eyes fixed on his beloved leader with fascinated +interest. + +“Well,” continued the general, “the privations proved too much for a lad +of my age, so I deserted, and made my way home. I shall never forget the +fright my good mother would be in if she but caught a glimpse of the +recruiting officer. I was under the required age for the army, to be +sure, but none the less I skulked and hid until the French and Indian +war had ceased, and there was no longer need for hiding.” + +“You,” breathed the youth in so low a tone as scarce to be heard, “you +did that, and then made that charge at Saratoga? You, sir?” + +“Even I,” the general told him briefly. “’Tis a portion of my life that +I don’t often speak of, Drayton, but I thought that it might help you to +know that I could understand—that others before you have been faint +hearted, and then retrieved themselves.” + +“You?” spoke the lad again in a maze. “You! and then after that, the +march through that awful wilderness! Why, sir, ’twas you that held us +together. ’Twas you, that when the three hundred turned back and left us +to our fate, ’twas you who cried: ‘Never mind, boys! There’ll be more +glory for the rest of us.’ ’Twas you that cheered us when our courage +flagged. ’Twas you that carried us through. And then Valcour! Why, sir, +look at the British ships you fought. And Ticonderoga! And Crown Point! +And Ridgefield, where six horses were shot from under you!” + +“And do you remember all those?” asked Arnold, touched. “Would that +Congress had a like appreciation of my services; but it took a Saratoga +to gain even my proper rank.” + +“I know,” cried the boy hotly. “Haven’t we men talked it over by the +camp-fires? Were it left to the soldiers you should be next to the +commander-in-chief himself.” + +“I know that, my lad,” spoke the general, markedly pleased by this +devotion. “But now a truce to that, and let us consider your case. Miss +Peggy here tells me that you wish to return to the army?” + +“I do,” said the youth earnestly. “Indeed, General Arnold, no one could +help it about her. She gave me no peace until I so declared myself.” + +“I understand that she read ‘The Crisis’ to you,” said Arnold, a smile +playing about his lips. “But you, Drayton. Aside from that, is it your +wish to return to the army? It hath ofttimes been in my thoughts of late +to obtain a grant of land and retire thereto with such of my men as were +sick and weary of the war. I have in truth had some correspondence anent +the subject with the state of New York. Would you like to be one of my +household there?” + +“Beyond anything,” spoke Drayton eagerly. “But not until I have redeemed +myself, general. Were I to go before you would always be wondering if I +would not fail you at some crucial moment. You have won your laurels, +sir, and deserve retirement. But I have mine to gain. Give me another +chance. That is all I ask.” + +“You shall have it, Drayton. Come with me, and I will send you with a +note to General Washington. He hath so much of friendship for me that +because I ask it he will give you the chance you wish.” + +“But the uniform,” interposed Peggy who had been a pleased listener to +the foregoing conversation. “I made him a uniform, Friend Arnold. Should +he not wear it?” + +“’Twould be most ungallant not to, Miss Peggy,” returned the commander +laughing. + +“I knew not that you had made it,” exclaimed Drayton as Peggy +disappeared, and returned with the uniform in question. “Why, ’tis but a +short time since I said that I would go back. How could you get it done +so soon?” + +Peggy laughed. + +“It hath been making a long time,” she confessed. “Mother helped me with +dyeing the cloth, but all the rest I did myself. I knew that thee would +go back from the first.” + +“’Twas more than I did then,” declared Drayton as the girl left the room +once more in search of her mother. “Sir, could a man do aught else than +return to his allegiance when urged to it by such a girl?” + +“No,” agreed his general with a smile. “Drayton, your friend hath +clothed you with a uniform of her own manufacture. You have shown an +appreciation of Benedict Arnold such as I knew not that any held of my +services to the country. Take therefore this sword,” unbuckling it from +his waist as he spoke. “’Tis the one I used in that dash at Saratoga +that you followed. Take it, Ensign Drayton, and wear it in memory of him +who was once your commanding officer.” + +“Your sword?” breathed Drayton with a gasp of amazement. “Your sword, +General Arnold? I am not worthy! I am not worthy!” + +“Tut, tut, boy! I make no doubt but that you will wield it with more +honor than it hath derived from the present owner,” said the other +pressing it upon the lad. + +“Then, sir, I take it,” said Drayton clasping it with a reverent +gesture. “And may God requite me with my just deserts if ever I bring +disgrace upon it. Sir, I swear to you that never shall it be used, save +as you have used it, in the defense of my country. Should ever I grow +faint hearted again, I will have but to look at this sword, and think of +the courage and patriotism of him who gave it to renew my courage. Pray +heaven that I may ever prove as loyal to my country as Benedict Arnold +hath shown himself.” + +“You, you overwhelm me, boy,” gasped Arnold who had grown strangely pale +as the lad was speaking. “I make no doubt but that you will grace the +weapon as well as the original owner. Ah!” with evident relief, “here +are Mrs. Owen and the fair Peggy. Doth not our soldier lad make a brave +showing, Miss Peggy?” + +“He doth indeed,” cried Peggy in delight. “And thee has given him thy +sword, Friend Arnold! How monstrously good of thee!” + +“Is it not?” asked Drayton in an awed tone. “And I am only a subaltern. +Oh, Mistress Peggy, you will never have the opportunity to call me a +summer soldier again. I have that which will keep me from ever being +faint hearted again.” He touched the weapon proudly as he ended. “This +will inspire me with courage.” + +“Of course it will,” cried Peggy with answering enthusiasm. “Mother said +all along that naught ailed thee but an empty stomach.” + +“’Tis what ails the most of our soldiers,” said the boy as the laugh +died away which this speech provoked. “’Tis marvelous how a little food +doth raise the patriotism.” + +“And thee will be sure to write?” questioned Peggy when they descended +to the lower floor. “I shall be anxious to hear of thy well-being, and +thee must remember, John, that ’tis my intention to keep thee in socks, +and mittens, and to renew that uniform when ’tis needed. Thee shall be +cold no more if I can help it. And how shall it be done unless thee will +let me know thy whereabouts?” + +“Have no fear. I shall be glad to write,” answered Drayton who, now that +the time had come for departure, seemed loath to leave them. “Madam +Owen, and Miss Peggy, you have made a new man of me. How shall I ever +thank you for your care?” + +“Speak not of it, dear lad,” said the lady gently. “If we have done thee +good it hath not been without benefit to us also. And if thou dost need +anything fail not to let us know. ’Tis sweet to minister to those who +take the field in our defense. It makes thee very near and dear to us to +know personally all that thee and thy fellows are undergoing for our +sakes.” + +“Dear lady, the man who will not fight for such as you deserves the fate +of a deserter indeed,” exclaimed the youth, much moved. “I thank you +again. You shall hear from me, but not as a summer soldier.” + +He bent in a deep obeisance before both mother and daughter, and then +with one last long look about him John Drayton followed General Arnold +to the coach. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII—GOOD NEWS + + + “To them was life a simple art + Of duties to be done, + A game where each one took his part, + A race where all must run.” + + —“The Men of Old,” Lord Houghton. + +Life flowed along in its customary channels with little of incident for +Peggy and her mother after the departure of Drayton. But if it was not +eventful there was no lack of occupation. + +The house and grounds were brought into order; the stores of unspun wool +and unhatcheled flax were at length all spun into yarn and thread which +in turn were woven into cloth from which the two replenished their +depleted wardrobes. But, though all patriotic women strove to supply +their every need by domestic industry, the prices of the commonest +necessities of life advanced to such an extent that only the strictest +frugality enabled them to live. + +“There is one thing, mother,” said Peggy one morning in November as she +found Mrs. Owen studying accounts with a grave face. “There is one thing +sure: if the war lasts much longer we shall all be ruined as to our +estates, whatever may be the state of our liberties.” + +“True, Peggy,” answered her mother with a sigh. “Philadelphia hath +become a place of ‘crucifying expenses,’ as Mr. James Lovell says. And +how to be more frugal I know not.” + +“And yet there was never so much dressing and entertaining going on,” +remarked Peggy. + +“Times are strangely altered indeed,” observed the lady with another +sigh. “The city is no longer the town that William Penn desired, but +hath gone wild with luxury and dissipation.” + +“Many are leaving the city, mother. ’Tis not we alone who find it +expensive.” + +“I know, Peggy. ’Tis affecting every one. Would that a better example +were set the citizens at headquarters. Mr. Arnold is a good soldier. He +hath shown himself to be a man of rare courage, but I fear ’twas a +mistake to put him in charge of our city. Would that he had less money, +or else more prudence. I fear the effect on the country. But there! I +have uttered more than was wise, but I trust to thy discretion.” + +“The city is rife with rumors of his extravagance, mother,” Peggy made +answer. “Thee is not alone in commenting upon it. Here was Robert +yesterday looking exceedingly grave anent the reports. He says that +there is much talk concerning the number and magnificence of the +entertainments given at headquarters, and that many deem it but mere +ostentation.” + +“I feared there would be comment,” was Mrs. Owen’s reply. “’Tis pity +that it should happen so when he hath such a fine record as a soldier. +Such things cause discontent. There is so much use for the money among +the suffering soldiers that I wonder he does not choose to spend it so. +I like not to see waste. ’Tis sinful. Ah! here is Betty, who looks full +of importance. Belike she hath news.” + +“I am come to say good-bye, Peggy,” announced Betty Williams bustling in +upon them. “Mother and family are going to Lancaster. Father hath +advised us to leave the city owing to the high price of commodities, and +while they go there, I, with a party of friends, am going to Dr. +Simpson’s to take the smallpox. It hath been so prevalent that mother +feared for me to delay longer in taking it.” + +“Does thee not dread it, Betty?” questioned Peggy, regarding Betty’s +fair skin with some anxiety. + +“I like not the pittings,” confessed Betty candidly. “But Dr. Simpson +advertises that he hath acquired special skill in the Orient in +distributing the marks so as to minister to feminine looks instead of +detracting from them, and he promises to limit them to but few. Can thee +not come with me, Peggy? Thee has not had it, and we shall be a merry +party.” + +“I fear that it would not be altogether to my liking, Betty. I know that +I should be inoculated, but I shrink from the process. I will say so +frankly.” + +“Thee is just like Sally,” cried Betty. “She hath courage to become a +nurse, yet cannot pluck up heart to join a smallpox party. And thee, +Peggy Owen! I am disappointed in thee. I have not half thy pluck, nor +Sally’s; yet I mind not the ordeal. It may save me from a greater +calamity. Just think how relieved the mind would be not to dread the +disease all the rest of one’s life. And then to emerge fairer than +before, for so the doctor promises. Oh, _charmante_!” ended Betty. + +“Thee is brave to feel so about it, Betty,” said Peggy. “I hope that all +will result as thee wishes. I shall miss thee.” + +“I wish thee would come too,” said Betty wistfully. “The other girls are +nice, but there are none like thee and Sally. It used to be that we +three were together in everything, but since the war began all that hath +changed. What sort of times have come upon us when the only fun left to +a damsel is to take the smallpox? And what does thee think, Peggy? I +wove some linen, and sent it to the ladies to make into sheets for the +prisoners. They said that it was the toughest linen they had ever worked +with. It made their fingers bleed.” + +“Oh, Betty, Betty! was it thou who wove that linen?” laughed Peggy +holding up her hands for inspection. “I’ve had to bind my fingers up in +mutton tallow every night since I sewed on it. Never mind! thee meant +well, anyhow. Come now! Shall we have a cup of tea, and a chat anent +things other than smallpox, or tough linen?” + +The two girls left the room, and Mrs. Owen turned once more to her +accounts. But as the days passed by and the complexion of the times +became no better her perplexity deepened. + +The ferment of the city grew. Personal and political disputes of all +kinds were rife at this time. Men began to refer to the capital city as +an attractive scene of debauch and amusement. In compliment to the +alliance French fashions and customs crept in, and the extravagance of +the country at large in the midst of its distresses became amazing. It +was a period of transition. The war itself was dull. The two armies lay +watching each other—Clinton in New York City, with Washington’s forces +extending from White Plains to Elizabeth, New Jersey. The Congress was +no longer the dignified body of seventy-six, and often sat with fewer +than a dozen members. Even the best men wearied of the war, and their +dissatisfaction communicated itself to the masses. The conditions +favored excesses, and Philadelphia, as the chief city, was caught in a +vortex of extravagances. + +So it was much to Mrs. Owen’s relief when she received a letter from her +husband bidding her to come to him with Peggy. + +“There will be no luxuries, and few conveniences,” he wrote from +Middlebrook, which was the headquarters for the winter of seventy-eight. +“None the less there is time for enjoyment as well as duty. Many of the +officers have their wives and families with them so that there is no +reason why we should not be together also. + +“Tell Peggy that she will live in the midst of military equipment, but +will not find it unpleasant. General Greene told me that he dined at a +table in Philadelphia last week where one hundred and sixty dishes were +served. Would that our soldiers had some of it! What a change hath come +over the hearts of the people! I shall be glad to have thee and my +little Peggy out of it. + +“Come as soon as thou canst make arrangements, and we will be a reunited +family once more, for the winter at least. God alone knows what the +spring will bring forth. ’Tis now thought that Sir Henry Clinton intends +for the South at that time. ’Twould change the complexion of affairs +very materially.” + +Here followed some instructions as to financial and other matters. Mrs. +Owen called Peggy hastily. + +“Oh, mother, mother! isn’t thee glad?” cried the girl dancing about +excitedly. “And we will not only be with father, but with the army too. +Just think! The very same soldiers that we have been making socks and +shirts for so long.” + +“The very same, Peggy,” answered her mother, her face reflecting Peggy’s +delight. “I am in truth pleased to go. I was much worried as to the +outcome of the winter here.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV—THE CAMP AT MIDDLEBROOK + + + “We are those whose trained battalions, + Trained to bleed, not to fly, + Make our agonies a triumph— + Conquer, while we die.” + + —“A Battle Song,” Edwin Arnold. + +“Well, if this be a foot-warmer I wonder what a foot-freezer would be +called,” exclaimed Peggy in tones of disgust, slipping from her seat in +the coach to feel the covered iron at her mother’s feet. “I don’t +believe that the innkeeper at the last tavern where we baited our horses +filled it with live coals, as I told him to. He was none too civil.” + +“Belike ’twas because we paid our reckoning in Continental money,” +remarked Mrs. Owen. “Never mind the iron, Peggy. I shall do very well +without it; and if thou art not careful thou wilt drop that box which +thee has been so choice of through the journey.” + +Peggy laughed as she resumed her seat by her mother’s side. + +“Is thee curious anent that box, mother?” she questioned drawing a small +oblong box of ebony wood closer to her. + +“I should be,” observed the lady with a smile, “had I not heard Friend +Deering tell thee that ’twas a secret betwixt thee and him.” + +“I should think that being a secret would make thee wonder all the more +concerning it,” remarked the girl. “It would me, mother.” + +“Is thee trying to awake my inquisitiveness, daughter?” + +“I am to tell thee about it should thee ask,” said Peggy suggestively. +“But in all these four days thou hast not once evinced the slightest +desire to know aught anent the matter. How can thee be so indifferent, +mother? I am eager to tell thee.” + +“So I judged,” replied Mrs. Owen laughing outright. “Know then, Peggy, +that I am as desirous of hearing as thou art of telling. ’Tis something +for General Washington; is ’t not?” + +“Why, mother, thee knows already,” cried Peggy. + +“No, no, child; I am only guessing. ’Twould be like Friend Deering to +send something to the general. That is all I know of the matter.” + +“Well, then, ’tis five hundred English guineas,” explained the girl, +enjoying the look of amazement on her mother’s face. + +“Peggy, no!” exclaimed the lady. “I thought belike ’twas money, but I +knew not that it was so much. How pleased the general will be. Hard +money is getting scarcer and scarcer, and the people murmur against the +currency of Congress.” + +“And shall I tell thee all that I am to say to Friend Washington?” asked +Peggy with an important air. “Mother, thee did not guess that while thee +was gathering supplies I too had business of like nature?” + +“No, I did not know,” replied Mrs. Owen. “Unravel the matter, I beg, +Peggy. ’Twill serve well to pass the time, and I am curious also +concerning the affair.” + +It was three weeks after the receipt of David Owen’s letter, and +December was upon them ere mother and daughter had completed their +arrangements for the journey. Knowing the great need of supplies at the +encampment, Mrs. Owen determined not to go empty handed, and so made a +personal canvas among the citizens, who responded to her appeal for the +soldiers with their usual liberality. In consequence, when at length +everything was in readiness, it was quite a little caravan that left the +city headed for Middlebrook, New Jersey. First came the coach with Peggy +and her mother inside; then followed two farm wagons loaded with stores +of various kinds; behind these came Tom with Star, for Peggy was hoping +for rides with her father; the whole traveling under the escort of four +of the Pennsylvania Light Horse who had been in Philadelphia on +furloughs. + +The roads were bad, the traveling rough and slow, the weather cold and +damp, but to Peggy, who had never before been away from Philadelphia and +its vicinity, the journey was full of interest and excitement. It was +now the afternoon of the fourth day since they had started, and both the +maiden and the lady were conscious of a growing feeling of excitement as +they neared the journey’s end, so the matter of the box, about which the +matron had in truth been wondering, was a welcome diversion. + +“At first,” said Peggy pulling the fur robe closer about her and +nestling confidentially up to her mother, “he said ’twas so small an +amount that he wished me to say naught concerning the donor. But I +persuaded him to let me tell who gave it, saying to him that ’twas not +the amount that counted so much as the spirit in which ’twas given.” + +Mrs. Owen nodded approval, and the girl continued: + +“And so I am to say that since Jacob Deering is esteemed too old to take +up arms for his country ’tis the only thing he can do to show his +sympathy with the cause.” + +“Would that there were more like him,” ejaculated the lady. “The cause +would soon languish were it not for just such support. Is thee tired, +Peggy?” + +“Not very, mother. Still, I shall be glad when we reach the camp.” + +At length, just as the sun was sinking behind the Watchung Mountains, +the cumbersome coach swung round a bend in the road, and the encampment +came into view. They had left Philadelphia by the old York road, +crossing the Delaware at Coryell’s Ferry, and swinging across Hunterdon +County into Somerset, where the army was stationed, so that their first +sight of the Continental cantonment glimpsed nearly all of the seven +brigades stationed there. + +All along the Raritan River, and on the heights of Middlebrook the +fields were dotted with tents and parks of artillery. Suddenly, as they +drew nearer, the highways between the different posts seemed alive with +soldiers going and coming. There was the crunch on the frozen ground of +many feet. The country quiet was broken by the rattle of arms, the snort +of horses, and the stir and bustle of camp. There was something +inspiriting in the spectacle. Fatigue was forgotten, and Peggy +straightened up with a little cry of delight. + +“Look at the tents, mother,” she cried. “Didst ever see so many before?” + +“We must be at Middlebrook,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, almost as excited as +Peggy. “Just see how the prospect of rest hath reanimated the driver and +his horses.” + +The maiden laughed as the driver sat up, cracked his whip and urged his +horses to greater dispatch. The tired animals responded nobly, but their +spurt of speed was checked suddenly by a peremptory command from the +patrol. The examination over, they were allowed to proceed, but were +again halted when they had gone but a short distance. + +“What can it be now?” wondered Peggy peering out of the coach. Catching +sight of the tall figure that came alongside, she called gaily: + +“The countersign, father! The countersign!” + +“’Tis welcome! Thrice welcome!” answered David Owen flinging wide the +door of the vehicle and taking her into a tender embrace. “Art tired, +Peggy?” + +“No, father; but I fear that mother is. She hath been cold too.” + +“But I am so no longer,” spoke Mrs. Owen cheerily. “Thee is well, +David?” + +“Never better, my wife. I have forgot that I was ever ill. But come! let +us proceed to our quarters.” + +“And who are in our mess?” asked Peggy as, after a word to the driver, +her father stepped into the coach. + +“Thou hast become militaryish already, I see,” he said smiling. “I have +found accommodations for us at a farmhouse very near Bound Brook. ’Tis +just beyond General Greene’s brigade, and close enough to the +Pennsylvania line not to interfere with active duty. There will be but +five in our mess, as thee calls it, Peggy—Friend Decker and wife, thy +mother, thyself and I. ’Tis Friend Decker’s house. Dutch they are, but +patriots staunch and true. See, my wife! We are coming to General +Washington’s headquarters. ’Tis a much better dwelling than he occupied +last year at Valley Forge. To thy right, Peggy. ’Tis the farmhouse in +the midst of the orchard.” + +“Friend Deering hath sent some gold to the general by Peggy,” observed +Mrs. Owen bending forward that she might the better see the building. +“And there are supplies behind in the wagons for the soldiers. Two loads +there are.” + +“Now that is good news indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Owen. “The chief should +know of it immediately. We will stop there now. ’Twill ensure the +general a better night’s rest to receive such tidings. He hath been +greatly worried lately over the apathy of the people toward the war.” + +“Then if ’twill be of any comfort to him to learn of this small aid let +us go to him at once, David,” said his wife. + +The last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the hills as they turned +from the road into the meadow in the centre of which stood the large +two-story wooden dwelling where General Washington had established his +quarters for the winter. But lately finished, it was considered a model +of elegance for that section of the country, and was in truth most roomy +and comfortable. + +As the light faded, from the meadows and the hills sounded the drums, +fifes and bugles in the retreat, or sunset drum beat. Scarcely had the +music died away than all along the top of the mountain range the +watch-fires of the sentinels blazed out suddenly. + +“Oh!” gasped Peggy, her eyes glowing, “if I live long ’mid such +surroundings methinks I shall feel equal to fighting the whole British +army.” + +“’Tis so with all new recruits, Peggy,” laughed her father. “Thee will +not be so affected when the novelty wears off. And here is the dwelling. +’Twill not take us long to present our news to the general, and then for +quarters.” + +A few rods to the east of the mansion were about fifty tents erected for +the use of the life-guard. Fires flamed before every tent, around which +men were gathered, laughing, talking or singing. Peggy looked about with +much curiosity, but her father hastened at once to the door of the +dwelling, where stood an orderly. + +“Will thee tell His Excellency that David Owen is without, and wishes to +see him?” he asked. “’Tis important.” + +The orderly was absent but a moment. “His Excellency will see you, Mr. +Owen,” he said. “You are to go right in.” + +[Illustration: “MY WIFE AND DAUGHTER, YOUR EXCELLENCY”] + +Peggy’s heart began to flutter painfully as she found herself once more +in the presence of General Washington, and her mind went back +involuntarily to the last time when she had taken that long ride to +Valley Forge to beg for her father’s exchange. So perturbed was she that +she did not notice that the room was large, low ceiled, and cozily +warmed by a huge fire of logs which glowed in the great fireplace. +Instead of being interested in the furnishings of the apartment, as she +would have been at another time, she clung close to her father overcome +by the remembrance of how very near they had been to losing him, and +could not raise her eyes when he said: + +“I beg to present my wife and daughter, Your Excellency. They tell me +that they have brought some money and supplies, and it seemed best to +let thee know of it at once.” + +“You have acted with discretion, Mr. Owen,” said General Washington +rising from the table before which he had been sitting. “Madam Owen, I +have long known of you through your good works, but have hitherto not +had the pleasure of meeting with you personally. You would be welcome at +any time, but doubly so since you bring us aid.” + +“Thy thanks are not due me, but to the citizens of Philadelphia, sir,” +said Mrs. Owen with her finest curtsey. “There are two wagon loads of +stores of various kinds, among which are several casks of cider vinegar. +We heard that thee was in need of that article.” + +“We are indeed,” replied General Washington. “The country hereabouts +hath been scoured for it until the farmers tell us that there is no +more. ’Tis sorely needed for our fever-stricken men. ’Tis very timely, +Mistress Owen.” + +“And for thyself, sir,” continued the lady, “a few of us learned of thy +fondness for eggs, and there are several dozens of those. But, sir, on +pain of displeasure from those who sent them, thou art not to divide +them with any. They are for thine own table.” + +“I will incur no displeasure on that account, I assure you,” said the +general laughing. “I fear that you have been in communication with the +housekeeper, who hath been much concerned because of the scarcity of +eggs. I thank you, Mrs. Owen, for having so favored me, and also for the +other stores. They are much needed. Mr. Owen, will you see to ‘t that +the quartermaster heeds your wife’s injunction about those eggs?” + +David Owen bowed, and his wife went on: + +“And Peggy hath also something for thee in that box, Your Excellency. +She hath made so much of a mystery of it that I knew not the nature of +its contents until this afternoon.” + +General Washington had not been unaware of Peggy’s agitation. Perhaps he +too was thinking of the time when she had been so severely tried, for +his voice was very gentle as he took the girl’s hand and said: + +“Miss Peggy and I are old friends. She promised me once to tell me what +became of that wonderful dog of hers. I shall claim the fulfilment of +that promise, my child, since we shall see much of each other this +winter.” + +The ready smile came to Peggy’s lips, chasing away the tears that had +threatened to flow. + +“Does thee remember Pilot?” she cried. “Oh, Friend Washington, I did not +think a man so concerned with affairs of state would remember a dog.” + +“He wished me well, and I always remember my friends and well wishers,” +he said, pleased that she had recovered her composure. + +“And ’tis one of them who hath sent thee this box of five hundred +English guineas,” she said quickly, pointing to the box. “’Tis from Mr. +Jacob Deering, sir. He said to tell thee that since he was esteemed too +old to take up arms ’twas the only way left him to serve the cause. He +regretted the smallness of the amount, but he said that English money +was hard to come by.” + +“It is indeed hard to come by,” replied the general, receiving the box +with gratification. “This is most welcome, Miss Peggy, because just at +this time our own money is depreciating rapidly owing to the fact that +the British are counterfeiting it by the wagon load, and distributing it +among the people. I trust that I may soon have an opportunity to thank +Mr. Deering in person. I shall be in Philadelphia next week, and shall +do myself the honor of calling upon him. In the meantime, Miss Peggy, +receive my thanks for this timely relief. Will you not——” + +At this moment the door opened to admit an orderly. General Washington +turned to him. “What is it, sir?” he said. “Did you not know that I was +occupied?” + +“Pardon me, sir,” replied the orderly, saluting. “One of the videttes +hath brought in a young girl who declares she hath a permit to pass the +lines. He knows not what to do with her. She is English, sir, and comes +from New York.” + +“Bring her in,” commanded the chief. “Nay,” as the Owens made a movement +to depart, “stay a little, I beg of you. This matter will take but a +moment.” + +As he finished speaking the door opened once more to admit the form of a +young girl. She could not have been more than Peggy’s age, but she +carried herself with so much dignity that she appeared older. Her eyes +were of darkest gray, shaded by intense black lashes, and starry in +their radiance. At present they held a look of scorn, and her well set +head was tilted in disdain. A wealth of chestnut hair but slightly +powdered clustered about her face in ringlets, and her complexion was of +such exquisite fairness as to be dazzling. She was clad in a velvet +riding frock of green, her beaver hat, from which depended a long plume, +matching the gown in color. Her whole manner and appearance were stamped +by a general air of distinction. + +She advanced at once into the room, apparently unconscious of the effect +that her beauty was producing. + +“By what right, sir,” she cried in a clear musical voice, “do your men +stop me in my journey? I have a pass.” + +“Let me see it, madam,” said General Washington quietly. He glanced at +the paper she gave him, and remarked, “This is from General Maxwell at +Elizabethtown. He refers the matter to me for consideration. May I ask +why so young a female wishes to pass through our lines?” + +“I wish to join relatives in Philadelphia,” she answered. “I travel +alone because I was told that Americans did not make war on women and +girls. It seems that I was mistaken.” + +“You are an English girl,” said the general, ignoring her last remark. +“Why do you not stay with your people in New York?” + +“Because, sir, I was left in England with my brother while my father +came over with General Gage to fight the rebels. My brother ran away, so +I came to join father. He had gone to the Southern colonies, and when he +learned that I was here, he wrote me to go to my relatives. I left New +York under a flag of truce, and came to Elizabethtown. There I went at +once to the general in charge. Sir, I have complied with every +requirement necessary to pass the lines, and I ask that I be permitted +to resume my journey.” + +“And what is the name of these relatives?” asked Washington +imperturbably. + +“Owen, sir. David Owen is my father’s cousin.” + +“Why!” exclaimed Peggy, who had been an amazed listener to the +conversation. “Thee must be my Cousin Harriet!” + + + + +CHAPTER XV—HARRIET + + + “Whose beauty did astonish the survey + Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive; + Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve + Humbly call mistress.” + + —“All’s Well that Ends Well.” + +As if she had just become aware of the presence of others the girl +turned a startled look upon Peggy. + +“If you are David Owen’s daughter, then I am indeed your cousin,” she +said slowly intense surprise in her accents. “And if you are his +daughter, where is your father, and what do you here? I thought you were +in Philadelphia.” + +“Father is here,” answered Peggy, starting forward eagerly. “And thy +father is——” But David Owen laid a restraining hand upon her arm. + +“A moment, lass,” he said, a quick glance flashing between him and +General Washington. “Let me speak to the maiden. My child,” turning to +the girl who was regarding him intently, “thou wilt pardon me, I know, +if I ask thee a few questions. It behooves us to be careful in times +like these, and we but take precautions that thine own people would use +under like circumstances. Therefore, tell me thy father’s name, and his +regiment.” + +“By what right do you question me?” she demanded haughtily. + +“I am David Owen,” he answered briefly. “If thou art in truth my +kinsman’s daughter there is no reason why thee should not answer my +questions.” + +“Ask what you will, if you are Mr. David Owen, and I will answer,” she +said, her manner changing to one of extreme courtesy. “My father is +William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers. My brother’s name is +Clifford, and I am Harriet. Do you believe me now, my cousin? Or is +there aught else to be asked?” + +“Nay,” replied he mildly. “I believe that thou art truly William’s +daughter.” + +“Then may I place myself under your protection, cousin?” she queried so +appealingly that Peggy’s tender heart could not bear it, and she went to +her quickly. “My father wished it, and I am a stranger in a strange +land.” + +“Surely thee may,” exclaimed Mr. Owen, touched, as his daughter had +been, by the pathetic quiver that had come into her voice. “That is”—he +hastened to add, “if His Excellency hath no objection?” + +“I have none, Mr. Owen,” declared General Washington. “As the young lady +hath proved herself a relative I give her into your keeping. There could +be no better sponsor for her, sir.” + +“I thank thee,” said David Owen gravely. “I will see that thy trust is +not misplaced. And now, sir, we have troubled thee o’er long, I fear, +and will therefore say good-night.” + +“But not until Mistress Owen tells me when she and Miss Peggy, together +with this newly found kinswoman, will honor me by their presence to +dinner. Will you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey by +Monday, Madam Owen?” + +“Yes, Your Excellency. It will afford us great pleasure to dine with +thee at that time,” replied the matron bowing. + +The courtesies of leave-taking over, David Owen led the way to the +coach. + +“Take thy seat with us in the vehicle, my child,” he said to Harriet +Owen. “I will have thy horse sent after us.” + +“And has thee a horse too?” asked Peggy as the girl took her place +beside her. “Then we shall have some famous rides, Cousin Harriet. And +what is thy horse’s name?” + +“Fleetwood. I brought him from England. He hath been mine from a colt. I +have never had any other, and he will suffer none to ride him but me.” + +“Thee thinks of him as I do of Star,” cried Peggy in delight. + +“Didst say, my child,” interposed David Owen after the two maidens had +chatted a while, “that thy brother left thee alone in England?” + +“Yes, Cousin David. Clifford hath always been wild for the army, but +father would not hear of his joining it. ’Twas lonesome after father +left us, so I did not blame Clifford for leaving. A lad of mettle should +not stop at home when His Majesty hath need of him to help put down this +rebellion. Your pardon, cousin. Being English I am all for the king, you +know.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Owen, pleased at her frankness. “I like thy manner of +speaking of it, Harriet.” + +“But still, that need be no reason why we should not be friends,” she +said quickly. “There be those at home who think with the colonies, and +blame them not for rebelling. It may be that I too shall be of like +opinion after my sojourn with you.” + +“It may be, Harriet. Have no uneasiness, my child. If thou art led to +our way of thinking it must be of thine own conviction, and not from any +effort that we shall bring to bear upon thee. Thou art welcome despite +thy opinions. And didst thou cross the ocean alone?” + +“Yes; that is,” she added hastily, “there was an officer’s wife who was +coming to join her husband. I was with her. When father learned that I +had come, he desired that I should go to you. He was sure that you would +welcome me despite the difference in politics. And why are you not in +Philadelphia?” + +“I, of course, am with the army,” he replied. “The custom of campaigning +only in the summer hath the advantage of permitting our wives and +daughters to join us in camp during the winter; so my wife and Peggy +have come for that time. Thou wilt like it, Harriet; for there are +amusements such as delight the hearts of maidens. I doubt not but both +thee and my little Peggy will sorrow when ’tis time to leave it.” + +“Harriet must be tired, David,” suggested Mrs. Owen kindly. “Should not +further explanation be deferred until the morrow?” + +“I mind not the talk, madam, my cousin,” spoke Harriet, and Mrs. Owen +noted instantly that she used Colonel Owen’s term of addressing her. “It +warms my heart for my cousin to talk to me.” Again the little tremor +came into her voice as she added: “It makes me feel more at home.” + +“Then talk on, my child,” said the lady gently. + +So the girl chatted of her father and brother, her home in England, her +voyage across the ocean, and other subjects with so much charm that when +at length the coach drew up before a farmhouse whose sloping roof and +low eaves were but dimly distinguishable in the darkness Peggy found +herself very much taken with this new cousin. + +“I could listen to thee all night, Cousin Harriet,” she exclaimed as her +father assisted them from the coach. + +“And so could we all,” said David Owen laughing, plainly as much pleased +with the maiden as was Peggy. “But we are at quarters, and the rules are +that every one must be in bed at tattoo. That will give us just time for +supper.” + +And so in spite of the protests of both girls they were sent to bed in +short order. + +The rides began the very next day, and as Harriet seemed to be as much +interested in the encampment as Peggy, Mr. Owen took them through part +of it. + +“’Tis a strong cantonment,” he said. “There are seven brigades here in +the vicinity of Middlebrook. The main army lies in the hills back of +Bound Brook, near enough to be called into service instantly if +necessary. The artillery under General Knox lies a few miles away at +Pluckemin. The entire force of the army is scattered from here to +Danbury, Connecticut.” + +“But why is it so scattered, my cousin?” inquired Harriet. “Methinks +that ’twould be the part of wisdom to keep the army together?” + +David Owen laughed. + +“Would that thou wert Sir Henry Clinton,” he said. “Then all thy +soldiers would stay in New York instead of being transferred to the +Southern colonies. ’Tis done for two reasons: the easy subsistence of +the army and the safety of the country.” + +“But doth it not hem Sir Henry in?” she demanded. “How can he get +through these lines without fighting?” + +“That is just it,” said Mr. Owen laughing again. “Thee will soon be +quite a soldier, Harriet. Here we are at Van Vegthen’s bridge, which is +one of three that crosses the Raritan. General Greene, who is acting as +quartermaster at present, is encamped here. He hath his quarters in yon +dwelling which lies to our left. ’Tis Derrick Van Vegthen’s house, and +ye will both meet with him and the general. Mrs. Greene is here, and +Mrs. Knox. Ye will like them. Let us ride closer. As ye are unaccustomed +to camp life ’twill be a novelty to ye to see the men engaged in their +various duties. How busy they are!” + +From side to side the maidens turned, eager to see all that Mr. Owen +pointed out. Quite a village of blacksmith shops, storehouses and other +buildings connected with the quartermaster’s department had grown up +around the house where General Greene made his headquarters. On the +near-by elevation, even then called Mt. Pleasant, his brigade was +encamped. + +As Mr. Owen had said, the scene was a busy one. A company of soldiers +was drilling on the open parade ground, while of those who were not on +duty some chopped wood which had been brought from the near-by hills, or +tended fires over which hung large chunks of meat spitted upon bayonets, +while still others could be seen through the open flaps of the tents +cleaning their accoutrements. + +“I should think those tents would be cold,” remarked Peggy with a slight +shiver, for although the winter’s day was sunlit, the air was chill. + +“They are not o’er comfortable, Peggy,” returned her father. “But does +thee not see the huts that are in process of construction? General +Washington taught the men how to build them, and they will be +comfortably housed ere long. Note that they are built without nails, and +almost the only tools used are the axe and saw. ’Tis most marvelous that +such comfortable and convenient quarters can be made with such little +expense to the people.” + +“The marvel to me,” remarked Harriet Owen thoughtfully, “is that such +ill-clad, ill-fed looking troops can stand against our soldiers. Why +hath not the British swept them down like chaff before the wind? ’Tis +past understanding.” + +“Because their cause is a righteous one,” said David Owen solemnly. “And +because, also, what thou art in the way of forgetting, my little cousin: +they are of thine own blood, and therefore fight with the spirit of +Englishmen.” + +“English?” she exclaimed. “English! I had not thought of that, my +cousin.” + +“Consider our case,” he said. “Thou art of the same blood as ourselves. +Doth it make a difference in the stock because thou dost happen to live +in England, while Peggy there lives in America?” + +“I had not thought of it in that way,” she said again. “I think the +English have not considered it either. I would talk more of the matter, +Cousin David, but not now. I have much to think of now. But do you not +fear that I shall tell the British about this camp?” added Harriet +smiling. + +“No, my child. Thou wilt not have opportunity,” observed Mr. Owen. “Does +thee not know that once being with us there can be no returning to New +York? There can be no passing and repassing to the city.” + +“Oh,” she cried in dismay. “I did not know. Can I not return if I should +wish to?” + +“Not unless thou hadst been away from the army for a long time,” he +answered. + +“But suppose, suppose father should come?” + +“Even then thee would have to stay with us until such time that it was +deemed advisable for thee to return. So thee sees, Harriet, that the +rebels, as thee calls them, will have the pleasure of thy company for +some time to come.” + +“I see,” she said. Presently she threw her head back and gave way to a +peal of musical laughter. “There is but one thing to do, Cousin David,” +she cried. “And that is to become a patriot myself.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI—THE TWO WARNINGS + + + “Though your prognostics run too fast, + They must be verified at last.” + + —Swift. + +“And here is some one to see thee, Peggy,” said Mrs. Owen a week later, +coming into the little chamber under the eaves which the two maidens +occupied in common. “Bring thy cousin and come down.” + +“Is it John, mother?” asked Peggy, letting her tambour frame fall to the +floor. “I wondered why we did not see him.” + +“Yes, ’tis John, Peggy, though he is called Ensign Drayton here. Perhaps +’twould be as well for us to term him so, too.” + +“Come, Harriet,” called Peggy rising. “Let us run down. ’Tis our first +caller.” + +“And being a soldier let us prepare for him,” said the English girl, +reaching for a box. “What would we females be without powder? ’Tis as +necessary to us as to a soldier, for ’tis as priming to our looks as +’tis to a gun. There! will I do, Peggy?” + +“Thee is beautiful, my cousin,” replied Peggy with warm admiration. +“Thee does not need powder nor anything else to set off thy looks.” + +“Oh, well,” laughed the maiden, plainly gratified by her cousin’s +remark, “’tis as well to be in the mode when one can. And I wish to do +you honor, my cousin.” + +“Oh, John,” cried Peggy as she entered the parlor, where young Drayton +stood twirling his cocked beaver airily. “That I should live to see thee +wearing the white cockade of the Parley-voos on thy hat. What hath +happened?” + +“The most wonderful thing in the world, Mistress Peggy,” answered +Drayton reddening slightly at her raillery. “General Washington hath +said that if my behavior warranted it he would put me with the Marquis +de La Fayette’s brigade upon his return from France. As ’tis to be a +picked corps of men ’tis most gratifying to one’s vanity to be so +chosen. And in compliment to my prospective commander I am wearing the +white cockade with our own black.” + +“I am so glad,” exclaimed Peggy. “Thee is making us proud of thee. +Father said that there was no soldier more faithful to duty than thou. +This is my cousin from England, John. Mistress Harriet Owen, Ensign +Drayton.” + +“Your servant, madam,” said Ensign Drayton with a sweeping bow, which +Harriet returned with a deep curtsey. + +“Ah, Drayton,” said David Owen, entering at this juncture. “The lassies +are wild to see the camp. Canst thou ride, ensign?” + +“That is how I made Miss Peggy’s acquaintance, sir,” said young Drayton +frankly. + +“Ah, yes; I had forgot, my boy. I was thinking that perhaps thou couldst +join us in our rides, and when it would not be possible for me to be +with the girls thou couldst escort them.” + +“I should be pleased, sir,” answered Ensign Drayton. “The country +hereabouts is well adapted to riding as ’tis much diversified. The +roads, though narrow, are through woods and dales, and are most +beautiful. I have been over the most of them, and know them well.” + +“Then thou art the very one to go with us,” said Mr. Owen. “Now, my lad, +answer any questions those camp wild maidens may ask and I will improve +my well-earned repose by perusing the ‘Pennsylvania Packet.’ A new one +hath just reached me.” + +“Wilt pardon me if I say something, Mistress Peggy?” inquired young +Drayton an hour later as Harriet left the room for a moment. + +“Why yes, John,” answered Peggy. “What is it?” + +“It is to be careful of your cousin,” said the boy earnestly. “I like +not the fact that she is English and here in camp. She means harm, I +fear.” + +“Why, John Drayton,” exclaimed the girl indignantly. “Just because she +is English doth not make her intend any hurt toward us. I am ashamed of +thee, John, that thee should imagine any such thing of one so sweet and +good as my cousin, Harriet. And is she not beautiful?” + +“She is indeed very beautiful,” he answered. “Pardon me, mistress, if I +have wounded you, but still do I say, be careful. If she intends no hurt +to any, either the camp or you, there still can be no harm in being +careful.” + +“John, almost could I be vexed with thee,” cried Peggy. + +“Don’t be that, Miss Peggy. I may be wrong. Of course I am all wrong if +you say otherwise,” he said pleadingly. “I spoke only out of kindness +for you.” + +“There, there, John! we will say no more about it; but thee must not +hint such things,” said Peggy. And Drayton took his departure. + +“Mother,” cried Peggy several days after this incident when she had +returned from the ride which had become a daily institution, “mother, +John is becoming rude. I don’t believe that I like him any more.” + +“Why, what hath occurred, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen, glancing at her +daughter’s flushed face anxiously. “Thy father and I are both much +pleased with the lad. What hath he done?” + +“’Tis about Harriet,” answered Peggy, sinking into a chair by her +mothers side. “The first time he came he cautioned me to be careful +because of her being here. I forgave him on condition that he should +never mention anything of like nature again. And but now, while we were +riding, Harriet stopped to speak for a moment to a soldier, and he said: +’I don’t like that, Mistress Peggy. Why should she speak to that man? +This must be looked into.’ And, mother, he wished to question Harriet +then and there, but I would not let him. He is monstrously provoking!” + +“Well, does thee know why she spoke to the soldier?” asked her mother +quietly. + +“Mother!” Peggy sat bolt upright in the chair, and turned a reproachful +glance upon the lady. “Thee too? Why, Harriet told me but yesterday that +she was becoming more and more of the opinion that the colonists were +right in rebelling against the king. And is she not beautiful, mother?” + +“Thou art quite carried away with her, Peggy,” observed Mrs. Owen +thoughtfully. “Thou and thy father likewise. As thee says, Harriet’s +manner to us is quite different to that which her father used. But +William, whatever his faults, was an open enemy for the most part, and I +like open enemies best. I cannot believe that an English girl would so +soon change her convictions regarding us.” + +“Mother,” cried Peggy in open-eyed amaze, “I never knew thee to be +suspicious of any one before. Thou hast been talking with John. What +hath come to thee?” + +“I have said no word concerning the matter to John; nor will I, Peggy. +’Tis not so much suspicion as caution. But now I heard her ask thy +father if there were but the three bridges across the Raritan, and if +’twere not fordable. Why should she wish to know such things?” + +“Did thee ask father about it, mother?” + +“Yes.” + +“And what said he?” + +“He feared that because of William’s actions I might be prejudiced +against her. He thought it quite natural for her to take an interest in +military affairs, and said that she asked no more questions concerning +them than thou didst. Beside, he said, she was such a child that no +possible harm could come of it.” + +“Belike it is because of Cousin William that thee does not feel easy, +mother,” said Peggy much relieved. + +“It may be,” admitted the lady. “Yet I would that she had not come. I +would not have thee less sweet and kind to her, my daughter, but I agree +with John that it can do no harm to be careful. Watch, my child, that +thou art not led into something that may work harm to thee.” + +“I will be careful,” promised Peggy, adding with playfulness: “As +careful as though I did not have thee and father to watch over me, or +the army with General Washington right here. Let me see! Seven brigades, +are there not? To say nothing of the artillery and four regiments of +cavalry variously stationed, and I know not how many brigades along the +Hudson and the Sound. There! thou seest that I am as well versed in the +disposition of the army as Harriet is.” + +“Is thee trying to flout thy mother, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen laughing in +spite of herself. “I may in truth be over-anxious and fearful, but ’tis +strange that John feels so too. As thee says, it does seem as though +naught could happen with the whole army lying so near. Still I have the +feeling that harm threatens through the English girl.” + +But the days passed, and the time brought no change to Harriet’s manner. +She remained affectionately deferent to Mr. Owen, full of respectful +courtesy toward Mrs. Owen, and had adopted a playful comradeship toward +Peggy that was charming. The good lady’s reserve was quite melted at +length, and she became as devoted to the girl as her husband and +daughter. + +With girlish enthusiasm the maidens regulated their own days by that of +the camp. They rose with the beating of the reveille, reported to Mrs. +Owen as officer of the day for assignments of duty, and, much to her +amusement, saluted her respectfully when given tasks of knitting or +sewing. When the retreat sounded at sunset they announced their +whereabouts by a loud, “Here,” as the soldiers answered to roll call, +and, unless there was some merrymaking at one of the various +headquarters, went to bed at the beating of tattoo. + +Lady Washington joined her husband in February, and there was an added +dignity to the kettledrums and merrymakings in consequence. Better +conditions prevailed throughout the camp than had obtained at Valley +Forge the preceding winter. The army was at last comfortably hutted. The +winter was mild, no snow falling after the tenth of January. Supplies +were coming in with some degree of plenitude, and the outlook favored +rejoicing and entertainment. + +But life was not all given up to amusement. The women met together, and +mended the soldiers’ clothes, made them shirts and socks whenever cloth +and yarn were to be had, visited the cabins, carrying delicacies from +their own tables for the sick, and did everything they could to +ameliorate the lot of the soldier. + +After a few such visits to the huts Harriet made a protest. + +“I like not common soldiers,” she explained to Peggy. “I mind not the +sewing, though I do not understand why Americans deem it necessary to +always be so industrious. ’Tis as though they felt that they must earn +their pleasures before taking them.” + +“Are not ladies in England industrious too?” inquired Peggy. + +“They look after their households, of course, my cousin. And they paint +flowers, or landscapes, and the tambour frame is seldom out of the hand +when one is not practicing on the spinet, but they do not concern +themselves with the welfare of the common soldiers as your women do.” + +“Oh, Harriet,” laughed Peggy. “Thee has said that before, but thee does +not practice what thee preaches.” + +“What mean you?” demanded Harriet with a startled look. + +“I have seen thee several times give something to a common soldier, as +thee calls him. Yesterday when we were leaving General Greene’s I saw +thee slip something to one when he came forward to tighten Fleetwood’s +girth. John saw it too.” + +“I had forgot,” remarked the girl carelessly. “Yes; I did give him a bit +of money. Methinks he hath rendered us several services of like nature, +Peggy, when something hath gone amiss. Yet it may not have been the same +soldier. I scarce can tell one from another, there are so many.” + +“Thee has a good heart,” commended Peggy warmly. “Mother says that ’tis +the only way to do a kindness. Perform the deed, and then forget it. But +I always remember.” + +“Does Cousin David ride with us to-day, or doth the ensign?” asked +Harriet. + +“’Tis John, my cousin. Father is on duty.” + +“I am sorry,” said Harriet. “I do not like Ensign Drayton. He reminds me +of a song they sing at home: + + “‘With little hat and hair dressed high, + And whip to ride a pony; + If you but take a right survey + Denotes a macaroni,’” + +she trilled musically. “Now don’t say anything, Peggy. I know he is +considered a lad of parts. I heard two officers say that he would no +doubt distinguish himself ere the war was over. ’Twas at Mrs. Knox’s +kettledrum.” + +“Now I must tell mother that,” cried Peggy, her momentary vexation at +Harriet’s song vanishing. “He is our especial soldier.” + +“Is he? And why?” asked Harriet. “Nay,” she added as Peggy hesitated. +“’Tis no matter. I knew not that it was a secret. I care not. I like him +not, anyway. Peggy, do you like me very much?” + +“I do indeed, Harriet,” answered Peggy earnestly. “Why?” + +“I am just heart-sick to hear from my father,” said Harriet, the tears +welling up into her beautiful eyes. “It hath been so long since I heard. +Not at all since I came, so long ago.” + +“’Tis hard to get letters through the lines,” said Peggy soberly. + +“I know it is, for I have tried,” answered Harriet. “The officers won’t +send them. If you were away from Cousin David wouldn’t you make every +effort to hear from him?” + +“Indeed I would,” responded Peggy. “Harriet, has thee asked father to +help thee? He would take the matter to General Washington.” + +“General Washington does not wish to do it because I am British,” +answered Harriet after a moment. “I know that they must be careful, but +oh! I am so anxious anent my father, Cousin Peggy.” + +“That is just as mother and I were about father last winter,” observed +Peggy. “At last Robert Dale wrote us that he was a prisoner in +Philadelphia, and I rode into the city to see him.” + +“Was that when father was exchanged for him?” questioned the girl +eagerly. + +“Y-yes,” hesitated Peggy. She did not like to tell Harriet what effort +had to be made to get the exchange. + +“Peggy, he helped you anent Cousin David then; will you help me about my +father?” + +“How could I, Harriet?” asked Peggy. + +“If you will just hand this note to that soldier that you saw me give +the money to yesterday he will get it through the lines. Nay,” as Peggy +opened her lips to speak. “You shall read it first. I would do nothing +unless you should see that ’twas all right. Read, my cousin.” + +She thrust a note into Peggy’s hand as she spoke. + +“Miss Harriet Owen presents compliments to Sir Henry Clinton, and would +esteem it a favor if he would tell her how Colonel William Owen is. A +word that he is well is all that is desired. I have the honor, sir, to +be, + + “Your humble and obliged servant, + “Harriet Owen. + + “Middlebrook, New Jersey, + Headquarters American Army.” + +“Why, there ought to be no objection to getting that through,” exclaimed +Peggy. “Harriet, let me ask father——” + +“I have asked him,” said Harriet mournfully. “He would if he could, +Peggy. He wishes me not to speak of it again, and I promised I would try +to content myself without hearing from father. You must not speak of it +either; else Cousin David will be angry with me for not trying to be +content.” + +“Don’t cry, Harriet,” pleaded Peggy, as the girl commenced to sob, and +her own tears began to flow. “Something can be done, I know. Thee ought +to hear from Cousin William.” + +“Cousin David said I must be content,” sobbed Harriet. “And he hath been +so good to me that I must; though ’tis very hard not to hear. I see that +you do not wish to do it, Peggy. I meant no wrong to any, but——” + +“How does thee know that the soldier could get the note through the +lines, Harriet?” asked Peggy thoughtfully. + +“He said that he was to have leave to go to Elizabethtown for a few +days, and while there he could do it,” said Harriet, looking up through +her tears. + +“Why does thee not give it to him, then?” inquired Peggy. + +“It must be given to him to-day,” answered the other, “because he goes +to-morrow. If Cousin David were to ride with us I would, but Ensign +Drayton always watches me as though I were in communication with the +enemy, and about to bring the whole British force right down upon us. +You know he does, Peggy.” + +Peggy flushed guiltily. + +“Yes,” she admitted, “he doth, Harriet. I knew not that thee was aware +of it, though.” + +“Give me the note,” said Harriet, rising suddenly. “As my father helped +you to your father I thought you would aid me, but I see——” + +“Nay,” said Peggy, her gentle heart not proof against the insinuation of +ingratitude. “Give me the note, Harriet. I will give it to the man. I +see not how it can bring harm to any, and thee ought to hear from thy +father.” + +“How good you are, Peggy,” cried Harriet, kissing her. “Here is the +note. If I can only hear this once I will be content until such time as +Cousin David deems best. You are very sweet, my cousin.” + +And under the influence of this effusiveness Peggy saw not that the note +her cousin handed to her was not the one which she had read. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII—A LETTER AND A SURPRISE + + + “Oh, never shall we know again + A heart so stout and true— + The olden times have passed away, + And weary are the new.” + + —Aytoun. + +“Governor Livingston will dine with us to-day, Peggy,” remarked Mrs. +Owen as Peggy and Harriet came down the stairs equipped for their ride. +“Be not too long away, for thy father will wish you both here.” + +“Is he the rebel governor of the Jerseys?” asked Harriet abruptly. “The +one for whom two thousand guineas are offered—for his capture?” + +“He is the patriot governor of the state, Harriet,” answered Mrs. Owen +mildly. “We do not call such rebels. As to the reward I know not. I had +not heard of such amount being offered, although ’tis well known that he +is held in particular abhorrence by both the Tories and thy people. +Perhaps David can inform thee concerning the affair.” + +“’Tis no matter,” spoke Harriet hastily. “I dare say that I have +confused him with another. Peggy, hath my beaver the proper tilt to show +the feather? It should sweep to the right shoulder.” + +“’Tis most becoming,” answered Peggy, after a critical survey. “Thee +looks as charming as ever, Harriet.” + +“Vanity, vanity,” laughed her cousin. “Shall we go for the ride now?” + +Ensign Drayton rode into the yard just as their horses were brought to +the block for the girls to mount. To Peggy’s surprise the same private +soldier to whom she was to give the note had them in charge. As Harriet +vaulted lightly into her saddle he left Fleetwood’s head and went round +to the horse’s side. + +“That will do, sirrah,” spoke young Drayton sharply. “I will attend to +the strap.” + +Peggy glanced at him quickly. “John grows unmannerly,” she thought to +herself. “Now what did the poor man do amiss? Friend,” she called as the +soldier saluted and turned to leave, her voice showing her indignation, +“friend, thee shall fix Star’s girth if it needs it.” + +“Thank you, miss,” he said, saluting again. He tightened the strap +deftly, and the girl put her hand in her purse for a small coin. As she +did so her fingers touched the note that Harriet had given her, and she +bent toward him suddenly. + +“Thee was to take a letter, was thee not?” she asked. + +“Yes,” he replied, a look of astonishment flashing across his face. + +“It is here, friend,” said she, giving him the missive. “I hope thee can +get it through, for my cousin is sore beset with grief for news of her +father. And there is money for thee. Thou art a good man, and hast a +kind heart.” + +“Thank you,” he said saluting, and Peggy could not have told how he +concealed the note, it was done so adroitly. + +“Why did thee speak so sharply to him, John?” she queried when at length +they had started. + +“Those girths should be attended to before bringing the horses round,” +he answered. “’Tis done to get money from you girls. He never sees us +but that he comes forward under some pretense of doing a service. I like +not his actions. How doth it come that he is attending the horses? He is +not your father’s man.” + +“I know not,” answered Peggy. “Doth it really matter? Fie, fie, John! +thee is cross. I never saw thee so before.” + +“Your pardon,” said the lad contritely. “I meant not to be so, but men +require sharp treatment, and perchance I have brought my parade manner +with me.” + +The girls laughed, but a constraint seemed to be over all three. Harriet +was unusually silent, and Peggy, though conscious of no wrong-doing, was +ill at ease. + +The feeling was intensified as, when they had gone some distance, young +Drayton wheeled his horse suddenly. + +“Let us go back,” he said abruptly. + +“Why?” exclaimed both girls simultaneously, but even as they spoke they +saw the reason. A few rods in front of them, suspended from the limb of +a tree, hung the limp body of a man. + +“Is it a spy?” whispered Peggy shudderingly. + +“Yes, Mistress Peggy. I knew not that the execution would take place on +this road, else I would have chosen another for the ride. ’Tis not a +pleasing sight.” + +“Is thee ill, Harriet?” cried Peggy, all at once happening to glance at +her cousin who had no color in her face. + +“Ill? No,” answered Harriet with an attempt at carelessness. “I am +chilled; that is all. Then, too, as the ensign says, yon sight is not a +pretty one. Methinks such service must be extremely hazardous.” + +“It is, mistress,” said Drayton sternly. “So perilous is it that the +man, woman, or girl even who enters upon it does so at the risk of life. +No mercy is shown a spy. Nor should there be.” + +“And yet,” she said growing paler still, “spies are used by your own +general, sir. It is a parlous mission, but he who enters upon it serves +his country as truly as though”—she laughed, flung up her head and +looked him straight in the face—“as though he were an ensign,” she +finished mockingly. + +“She has thee, John,” cried Peggy gaily. “But a truce to such talk. ’Tis +gruesome, is it not? Let us converse upon more pleasing subjects.” + +“Methinks,” said Drayton briefly, “’twould be as well to return, +Mistress Peggy. The ride hath been spoiled for the day.” + +But a shadow seemed over them, and neither girl recovered her accustomed +spirits until some hours later when they went into dinner. + +“Now by my life, David,” cried William Livingston, the great war +governor of New Jersey, as the maidens were presented. “Now by my life, +these girls take not after you, else they would not be such beauties. +They must meet with my daughters. I had three,” he said turning to +Peggy. “The Livingston Graces, some called them, but one grew tired of +being a nymph and so became a bird. Nay; be not alarmed,” he added as a +puzzled look flashed across Peggy’s face, “she but married John Jay. +’Tis a joke of mine. And this is the cousin from across the sea who bids +fair to become our more than sympathizer? Wilt pardon me if I say that +were I British I’d never relinquished to the rebels so fair a +compatriot?” + +“Perchance, sir,” replied Harriet, sweeping him an elaborate curtsey, +and assuming the gracious manner which was one of her charms, “perchance +if you were on the other side I would not wish to be relinquished.” + +“That is apt,” he responded with a hearty laugh. “What think you, David? +Are not the honors evenly divided betwixt this young lady and myself? I +must be wary in my speech.” + +“And are you at Liberty Hall this winter?” she asked him presently. + +“Yes; thanks to Maxwell’s brigade, I am permitted this enjoyment. Were +he not stationed at Elizabethtown, however, I could not be with my dear +ones. ’Tis the first time in three years that I have had the privilege. +Hath General Washington returned from Philadelphia, David?” + +“He hath been back for some time,” answered Mr. Owen. “Since the first +of the month, in fact. ’Twas dull here without him.” + +“I like him better than any other one of your people whom I have met, my +cousin,” declared Harriet after the governor had taken his departure. “I +have heard much of Liberty Hall, Cousin David. I am curious anent it. +Where is it?” + +“’Tis a mile northwest of Elizabethtown, Harriet,” answered he. “A +wonderful place it is. The governor hath sent abroad and obtained +hundreds of trees to adorn the grounds. ’Tis his lament, however, that +he will not live to see them grown. He is a wonderful man also. ’Tis no +marvel that thee is pleased with him. His daughters are most charming, +and will be agreeable acquaintances for thee and Peggy. We will go there +soon.” + +“But tell me how to get to the Hall, please,” she teased. “I want to +know exactly.” + +“Exactly,” he laughed. “Well, well, Harriet, I will do my best; though +why thee should want to know exactly is beyond me.” + +“’Tis fancy,” she said laughing also. “And thee always indulges my +fancies, Cousin David. Doesn’t thee now?” + +“Whenever thee uses that speech, my child, I cannot resist thee,” he +answered. And forthwith sat down by the table and drew for her a map +showing just where the road to Liberty Hall turned from the Morris +turnpike. + +“Drayton and I are both on duty to-day,” announced Mr. Owen the next +morning. “If you ride, lassies, it must be without escort, unless I can +find some one to go with you.” + +“Oh, do let us go alone, Cousin David,” pleaded Harriet. “Peggy and I +have gone so a few times. There is nothing to harm us.” + +“I see not how harm could befall you so long as you stay within the +lines,” said Mr. Owen indulgently. “But it shall be as Lowry says.” + +“And what say you, madam my cousin?” The girl turned toward the lady +with pretty deference. + +“Could not the ride go over for one day?” asked she. “I like not for you +to ride alone.” + +“’Twill be good for Peggy,” spoke Harriet with an air of concern. “She +is not well to-day.” + +“Is thee not, my daughter?” asked Mrs. Owen. “Thee is pale.” + +“’Tis nothing to wherrit over, mother,” spoke Peggy cheerfully. “I did +not sleep well, that is all. Almost do I believe with Doctor Franklin +that the windows should be raised in a sleeping-room, though none but he +advocates such a thing.” + +“Doctor Franklin advocates naught but what he hath proved by experience +to be good,” declared Mr. Owen, rising. “He is a philosopher who profits +by his own teaching. I think ’twould be best for the girls to go, wife.” + +“Then, by all means, go,” decided Mrs. Owen. “But start earlier than +usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be +uneasy.” + +“We will do that, mother,” promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning +tasks were finished the maidens set forth. + +“Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?” asked Harriet, when they +had ridden a while. “I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?” + +“Why, no!” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I would rather have father with +us. I do not see how any one could tire of him.” + +Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance +in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but +the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did +not mind the dampness. + +“Why!” ejaculated Harriet suddenly. “Aren’t we on the Elizabethtown +turnpike?” + +“Yes,” said Peggy glancing about. “I knew not that we had come so far. +We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we +were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons +are so short. ’Twill be time for it before we know it.” + +“I’ll tell you what, Peggy,” cried her cousin. “Let’s go by Liberty +Hall.” + +“It is too late,” answered Peggy. “Thee must know that it is all of +twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part +of the distance ’twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, +Harriet, is not to be thought of.” + +“Well, I am going, anyway,” exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than +Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. “So there!” + +She struck Fleetwood a sharp blow with her riding crop as she spoke, and +set off at speed down the road. Too much surprised to do more than call +after her, Peggy drew rein, undecided what course to pursue. As she did +so her eye was caught by a folded paper lying in the roadway. Now this +had fallen from Harriet’s person as her horse started off unnoticed by +either girl. + +“That’s a letter!” exclaimed Peggy as she saw it. “Some one must have +dropped it. Could it have been Harriet? I’ll get it and tease her anent +the matter.” + +Smiling roguishly she dismounted and picked up the missive. Somewhat to +her amazement there was no address, and opening the epistle she found +neither address nor signature. + +“How monstrously queer!” she cried, turning it about. “Why, why,” as her +glance rested almost unconsciously upon the writing, “what does it +mean?” For with deepening amazement this is what she read: + +“Your information opportune. An attempt will be made on the night of the +twenty-fourth to surprise brigade at Elizabethtown, and to take the old +rebel at L—— H——. Reward will be yours if successful. Can you be near at +hand so as to be taken yourself?” + +“The brigade at Elizabethtown is General Maxwell’s,” mused Peggy +thoughtfully. “Then the old rebel must be Governor Livingston of Liberty +Hall. The twenty-fourth? Why, ’tis to-day!” she cried in consternation. +“Oh! what must I do? ’Tis past four of the clock now.” + +She looked about dazedly as though seeking guidance. But with Peggy a +need of decision usually brought quick result, and it was so in this +instance. It was but a moment before her resolve was taken. + +“I must just ride there and tell him, and then warn the garrison,” she +said aloud. “’Tis the only thing to do.” + +Mounting Star, she shook the reins and started. Before she had gone a +dozen rods, however, here came Harriet riding back full tilt. + +“Where are you going?” she called. “That is not the way to Bound Brook.” + +“I know, Harriet,” replied Peggy without stopping. “I am going to +Liberty Hall. An attempt will be made to-night to capture the governor. +He must be warned.” + +“How know you that such attempt will be made?” asked her cousin, riding +up beside her. “Are you daft, Peggy?” + +“Nay; I found a letter in the road saying so,” explained Peggy. “Will +thee come too, Harriet? And there is no time for chat. We must hasten. +Perhaps though thee would better ride back to tell mother.” + +“’Tis indelicate for females to meddle in such matters,” cried Harriet +excitedly. “Think how froward your father will think you, Peggy. Wait! +we will go back to camp, and send relief from there, as doth become +maidens.” + +“It could not reach the garrison in time, as thee knows,” returned +Peggy, keeping steadily on her way. “Do not talk, Harriet. We must ride +fast.” The letter was still in her hand. + +“Let me see the letter,” said Harriet. “Where did you get it? It could +not have been long in the road, for ’tis not muddy. Who could have +dropped it?” + +“Harriet, thee is detaining me with thy clatter,” spoke Peggy with some +sharpness. “Thee has seen the letter, and know now the need for action. +Either come with me or ride back to camp. We must act.” + +“You shall not go,” exclaimed Harriet reaching over, and catching hold +of Star’s bridle. “’Tis some joke, and beside, your mother will be +waiting for us. Come back!” + +Peggy drew rein and faced her cousin with sudden suspicion. “Harriet,” +she said, “is that letter thine?” + +“Mine?” Harriet laughed shrilly. “How could it be mine? I was not +anywhere near when you found it. Besides, I never saw the governor until +yesterday. How could I be concerned in his capture then?” + +“True,” said Peggy with brightening face. “Thy pardon, my cousin. Thy +actions were so queer that for a moment I could but wonder.” + +“And now we are going right back to the camp,” cried Harriet gaily. +“That will show that you are sorry for such thoughts. Why, Peggy, you +are getting as bad as John Drayton.” + +“Nay,” said Peggy drawing her rein from her cousin’s clasp. “I am sorry +that I wronged thee, Harriet, but neither thee nor any one shall detain +me from going to Governor Livingston and the garrison. Do as thou wilt +in the matter. I am going.” + +For the second time in her life she struck her pony sharply. The little +mare reared, and then settling, dashed off in a gallop. She did not look +to see whether her cousin was following her or not. On she rode. The +February slush spattered from Star’s flying hoofs, and covered her from +head to foot, but she did not notice. The daily rides had familiarized +her with the road to Elizabethtown, and the minute description given by +her father to Harriet the night before now enabled her to head +unerringly for the governor’s mansion. The short winter day was drawing +to a close when all at once she became aware that there was the sound of +hoofs behind her. + +The sound increased. Presently she felt the hot breath of a horse upon +her face, and just as she turned from the Morris turnpike into +Livingston Lane, at the end of which stood the governor’s country seat, +Fleetwood, running as a deer runs in leaps and bounds, dashed past her, +with Harriet urging him to greater endeavor. + +Before Peggy was half-way down the lane Harriet had reached the great +house, sprung from her saddle and was pounding vigorously upon its +portals. + +“Fly, fly,” she cried, as the governor himself came to the door. “The +British are coming to take you. Peggy will tell you all. I must warn the +garrison.” + +She was on Fleetwood’s back again by the time she had finished speaking, +and was off before either the astonished governor or the dumbfounded +Peggy could utter a word. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII—STOLEN THUNDER + + + “When breach of faith joined hearts does disengage, + The calmest temper turns to wildest rage.” + + —Lee. + +“And what is it all about, my child?” inquired the governor as Harriet +disappeared down the lane. + +“She spoke the truth, sir,” said Peggy, trying to recover from the +intense amazement into which Harriet’s conduct had thrown her. “Here is +a letter—nay, my cousin must have kept it,” she ended after a hasty +search. + +“She wished to show it to General Maxwell, I make no doubt,” he said. +“Canst remember the contents?” + +“I think so, sir,” answered Peggy, who was herself again. The thing to +do was to explain the warning to the governor. The affair with Harriet +could be adjusted afterward. “It said that an attempt would be made to +surprise the brigade at Elizabethtown on the twenty-fourth, sir, which +is to-night. Also that an effort would be made to captivate the old +rebel at L—— H——, which must have meant thee, sir.” + +“Doubtless! Doubtless!” he agreed. “I learned to-day that there was a +large reward offered for me, dead or alive.” + +“Why, it spoke of the reward,” cried she. “Thee won’t stay here, will +thee?” + +“Oh, as to that——” he began, when his wife and two daughters appeared in +the doorway. + +“What is it, William?” asked gentle Mrs. Livingston. + +“The British plan to attempt my capture to-night,” he explained grimly. +“Zounds! do they think to find me in bed, as they did Charles Lee?” + +“Oh, father,” cried one of the girls fearfully, “you must leave at once +for a place of safety.” + +“Here I stay,” declared the doughty governor. “Is ‘t not enough that I +should be hounded from pillar to post for two years, that I should leave +now with a brigade less than a mile away? I’ll barricade the house.” + +“Why, how could the house be barricaded when there is not a lock left on +a door, nor even a hinge on the windows,” cried Miss Susannah. “Papa, +aren’t you going to tell us who your informant is.” + +“Bless my soul,” ejaculated the governor hastily. “My dears, this is +Miss Peggy Owen, David’s daughter. ’Twas her cousin, however, who was +the informant. She hath ridden on, like the brave girl she is, to warn +Maxwell. Miss Peggy, will you not stop with the family until morning, or +do you wish to return to camp?” + +“The camp, sir,” replied Peggy promptly. “My mother will be uneasy.” + +“Then I will ride with you, my little maid,” cried he, swinging himself +into the saddle. “This information proves beyond doubt that there is a +spy somewhere among us, and steps should be taken at once for his +apprehension. My dears, if I thought for one moment that harm would be +offered you——” + +“Go, go,” cried one of the daughters imploringly. “No greater harm will +befall us than an attack of scarlet fever.” + +“That is Susy’s favorite jest,” chuckled William Livingston. “She will +have it that our belles are in more danger from the red coats of the +British officers than from all the bullets the English possess.” + +They had reached the end of the lane by this time, and turned into the +turnpike just as a trooper rode up to them coming from Elizabethtown. + +“Sir,” he said, saluting, “General Maxwell hath sent to ask concerning +this matter of attack. Have you any further knowledge regarding it, and +do you consider the information correct? A young girl, English she was, +came in great haste to tell us of it and hath set forth at speed for +Middlebrook to ask General Washington to send reinforcements, as the +number of the attacking party is unknown.” + +“’Tis marvelous,” ejaculated the governor. “That is just what should be +done. That is a wonderful cousin of yours, Miss Peggy. Yes,” to the +trooper, “I have no doubt but that the information is correct, though I +know no further concerning the affair than that an attack is +contemplated. Tell your general to be prepared. I am myself bound for +the camp and will hasten the sending of reinforcements.” + +The trooper saluted, wheeled, and left them. The ride to Middlebrook was +a silent one. The governor seemed absorbed in thought, and Peggy was +full of wonderment at the perplexity of Harriet’s actions. She had not +wished her (Peggy) to warn the governor. She had tried to keep her from +coming. And then—when she had thought her cousin well on toward the camp +she had come after her and had given the warning herself. Why, why, why? +Peggy asked herself over and over. Had she thought it a hoax at first, +as she had said, and then upon reflection concluded that it was not? + +She was glad that Harriet had changed about it, Peggy told herself, but +how strangely it was happening! Just as though ’twas Harriet and not +herself to whom the credit belonged. It was so different, she reflected, +from the time when she had gone to General Putman with news of the spy, +James Molesworth. Then she had been made much of by every one, and now—— + +As she reached this point in her musings she chided herself sharply. + +“Peggy,” she exclaimed in stern self-admonition, unconscious that she +spoke aloud, “Peggy, what doth it matter who did it—so that ’twas done? +That is the main thing.” + +“Did you speak, Mistress Peggy?” queried Governor Livingston, rousing +himself from reverie in turn. + +“I was thinking, sir,” she told him, “and knew not that I spoke aloud. +’Tis fashion of mine so to do sometimes.” + +“’Tis one that most of us indulge in, I fancy,” he responded. “We are +almost at camp now. Art tired, my child? ’Tis a goodly distance you have +traveled.” + +“A little,” she made answer, and again there was silence. + +It was ten o’clock when at last they rode into camp. Lights flashed as +men hurried to and fro, and there was a general appearance of excitement +quite different from the usual quiet of that hour. David Owen came out +of the farmhouse as they drew rein before it. + +“I hoped thee would come to the camp, William,” he exclaimed. “Harriet +hath thrown us all into a fever of apprehension concerning thee. His +Excellency hath sent twice to know if aught was heard from thee.” + +“His Excellency is most kind,” returned the governor. “And you also, +David, to be so solicitous anent me. And Harriet? How is she? Zounds, +David! there is a lass to be proud of! She not only warned me, but +Maxwell also, and now hath come back to the camp and roused it too! +Wonderful! wonderful! She hath beaten us well, Mistress Peggy.” + +“Yes,” said Peggy quietly. “She hath. Finely!” + +There was that in her voice that made her father come to her quickly. + +“Thee is tired, Peggy,” he cried lifting her from Star’s back. “Thy +mother hath been full of worriment anent thy absence, but Harriet said +that she had left thee at the governor’s, so I knew that thou wert safe. +Wilt light, William? We will be honored to have thy company for the +night, and as much longer as ’twill please thee to remain.” + +“Thank you, David.” Mr. Livingston swung himself lightly down to the +ground. “I accept your hospitality with pleasure. Methought I was safe +for this winter at home. Odds life! but the British grow reckless to +make sallies so near the main army.” + +“The more glory should the attempt have been successful,” laughed Mr. +Owen. “Come in, William.” + +“And this is the young lady who would give me no opportunity to thank +her for her information,” said the governor, going directly to Harriet +who, looking superbly beautiful, despite a certain languor, reclined in +a large chair surrounded by a group of officers. + +“You must thank Peggy,” declared Harriet laughing. “’Twas she who found +the note. Peggy and Fleetwood, my horse, deserve all the credit, if +there be any.” + +“And Harriet not a bit?” he quizzed, quite charmed by her modesty. “I +fancy that there are those of us who think that Harriet deserves some +little herself. And now that we are at ease, let us hear all about it.” + +“Hath not Peggy told you?” asked Harriet. + +“Only given me the outline of it,” he answered. “Now that the need for +action is past, let’s hear the story.” + +“Why, we were riding along when all at once I took a dash ahead of +Peggy, just for sport. When I returned she had the letter, which she had +found while I was gone,” Harriet told him. “I was miles away then, was I +not, Peggy?” Without waiting for an answer she continued hastily: “At +first we hardly understood what it meant, and then suddenly it flashed +over us that to-day was the twenty-fourth, and if there was an attack to +be made ’twould be to-night. Of course when we realized that, there was +but one thing to do, which was to let you know about it as quickly as +possible, and to warn the brigade at Elizabethtown. Really,” she ended, +laughing softly, “there is naught to make such a fuss about. Twas a +simple thing to do.” + +“Mother,” spoke Peggy, rising abruptly, “if thee does not mind I think +I’ll go to my room. I—I am tired.” + +Her voice quivered as she finished speaking and a wild inclination to +sob came suddenly over her. Mrs. Owen glanced at her daughter’s pale +face anxiously as she gave her permission to withdraw. Something was +amiss, she saw. The two girls had not spoken, and had avoided each +other’s glances. Wondering much, she turned again to the guests while +Peggy, safe at last in her own little chamber, gave vent to a flood of +tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX—A PROMISE AND AN ACCUSATION + + + Under each flower of radiant hue + A serpent lies unbidden; + And chance ofttimes doth bring to view + That which hath been hidden. + + —The Valley of Tayef. + +The camp was thrown into a turmoil of excitement the next day when it +was learned that two regiments of British had indeed endeavored to take +General Maxwell’s brigade by surprise. A detachment in search of the +governor had reached Liberty Hall shortly after three o’clock that +morning, but not finding him at home a quest was made for his private +papers, which were saved by the quick wit of his daughter, Susannah. +Baffled in this attempt they rejoined their comrades who had surrounded +Elizabethtown, expecting to capture the brigade at least. + +General Maxwell, however, by reason of Harriet’s warning had marched out +before their arrival, and surprised the enemy by falling upon them at +daybreak. + +The lively skirmish that ensued, resulted in the loss of several men on +each side, while the academy, where were kept stores of various kinds, +the Presbyterian Hospital, and a few other buildings were burned by the +British in their retreat. + +When this news was received Harriet and Peggy became the heroines of the +hour. A constant stream of visitors besieged the Owens’ quarters until +Mr. Owen laughingly declared that he should have to entreat protection +from General Washington. + +In all the demonstration, however, Peggy was a secondary luminary. + +“’Tis the more remarkable because thee is an English girl,” was David +Owen’s comment when Harriet protested against so much attention being +shown her. “And thee deserves it, my child. ’Twas a great thing for thee +to do.” + +“But Peggy found the note,” spoke Harriet with insistence. “I must have +been miles away when she found it. Wasn’t I, Peggy?” + +Peggy gave her a puzzled look. Why did she make such a point of not +being present when the note was found, she asked herself. + +“My daughter,” chided her father, “did thee not hear thy cousin’s +question? Thou hast not answered her.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed Peggy rousing herself. “What was it, Harriet? I was +wondering about something.” + +“’Twas naught,” spoke Harriet. “I only said I was not with you when the +note was found.” + +“No, thee was not with me,” answered Peggy, and something of her +perplexity was visible in her manner. + +On Friday morning, the day following the sortie by the enemy, Mrs. Owen +entered the parlor where the two girls were for the moment sitting alone +with Mr. Owen. + +“Girls,” she said, “an aide hath just come from His Excellency with his +compliments. He desires the pleasure of Misses Margaret and Harriet +Owen’s company to dinner. You are to accompany the aide, who will wait +for you to get ready, and will see that you are safely returned before +night falls.” + +“Oh, must we go?” cried Harriet. “Please, Cousin David, may I not stay +with you?” + +“Tut, tut, lass!” returned he. “Refuse His Excellency’s invitation to +dine? ’Twould be monstrous unmannerly, and that thee is not, Harriet.” + +“But I would rather stay with you,” she pleaded, and her dismay was very +apparent. + +“And deprive the general of the pleasure of thanking thee for thy +heroism?” he asked. “He wishes to interview you both about the note, I +dare say. He said the matter would need attention.” + +“I don’t know anything about it, my cousin,” she objected almost in +tears. “’Twas Peggy who found it.” + +“Nay; thee must go, Harriet,” he said in such a tone that she knew that +’twas useless to object further. + +The two girls went up-stairs to dress. It was the first time that they +had been alone together since they had found the note on Wednesday. To +Peggy’s surprise, Harriet’s hands were shaking so that she could not +unfasten her frock. A feeling of vague alarm thrilled Peggy at the +sight. She went to her cousin quickly. + +“Harriet,” she cried, “what is it? Why do you tremble so?” + +“Peggy,” answered Harriet, sinking into a chair with a little sob, “I am +afraid. I am so afraid!” + +“Afraid?” repeated the amazed Peggy. “Of what, Harriet?” + +“Of your Mr. Washington,” answered the girl. “He is so stern, and, +and——Oh, I am afraid!” she cried wringing her hands. + +“True, he is a stern man,” said the perplexed Peggy, “but still he hath +a kind heart. We have dined there often, Harriet, and thee did not mind. +I see not why thee should fear him now. He will but ask us about the +note, and thank thee for thy timely warning to the governor and the +brigade.” + +“You will not tell him that at first I did not wish to go, or to have +you go, will you, Peggy?” pleaded Harriet. “I thought better of it, +Peggy. I—I felt sorry about it afterward.” + +“Thee made up for thy hesitancy nobly, Harriet,” spoke Peggy warmly, all +her bewilderment vanishing at her cousin’s acknowledgment of sorrow for +what she had tried to do. “I will do as thee wishes in the matter.” + +“And will you tell him that I was not near when the note was found?” +asked the girl eagerly. + +“Yes; for thee was not. But why? I cannot see what difference ’twould +make whether thee was there or not.” + +“You are a good little thing, Peggy,” said Harriet kissing her without +replying to the question. “’Twas mean of me to ride ahead and give the +warning. ’Tis you who should have the credit, but I had to. I had to. +Some day you will know. Oh!” she cried checking herself suddenly, “what +am I saying?” + +“Harriet, thee is all undone anent something. Is thee not well? Let me +call mother, and she will give thee some ‘Jesuit’s bark.’ Thee is all +unstrung,” spoke Peggy with solicitude. + +“No, no; I am all right now,” said Harriet with something of her +accustomed gaiety of manner. “And, Peggy, whatever happens remember that +I am your cousin, leal and true. I am only a girl, Peggy, and alone in a +strange land.” + +“Harriet, what is the matter? Thee speaks in riddles,” ejaculated Peggy, +wonderingly. + +“Peggy, I am unstrung,” answered Harriet. “And I am afraid that I have +done wrong about—about many things. I wish, oh, Peggy, I wish I had not +had you give that note to that soldier. I’m afraid that ’twill be +found.” + +“Well? And what if it is, Harriet? There is nought of harm in it?” Peggy +spoke calmly hoping to soothe her cousin by her manner. + +“Peggy!” Harriet clasped her arms about her convulsively. “Promise me +that you will not tell that I asked you to give it to him!” + +“But,” began Peggy. + +“Promise, promise,” cried Harriet feverishly. + +“I promise, Harriet,” said Peggy, hoping to quiet her. + +“Peggy” called Mrs. Owen’s voice at this moment, “thee must make haste. +The aide is waiting.” + +“Yes, mother,” answered Peggy and there was no further opportunity for +conversation. To her surprise Harriet recovered her spirits at once and +when they reached headquarters was quite herself. + +“’Twas most kind of you, Lady Washington, to have us again so soon,” she +cried gaily as Mrs. Washington received them in the wide hall of the +dwelling. + +“It is we who are honored,” said the lady graciously. “I am quite cross +with Mr. Washington because he insists that he must see you first. He +wishes to have some talk with you before the dinner is served. No, +Billy,” as William Lee, General Washington’s body-servant, came forward +to show the maidens up-stairs. “It will give me great pleasure to help +the young ladies myself with their wraps. We are all very proud of our +English co-patriot. ’Twas a great thing for you to do, my dear,” she +added leading the way up the winding staircase. “It must have taken an +effort on your part to go against your own people, and shows very +plainly that your sympathy with the cause is sincere.” + +“Thank you, madam,” murmured Harriet in some confusion. “But, but Peggy +here——” + +“’Tis no more than we expect from Peggy,” said the matron, giving Peggy +such a gentle pat on the shoulder that Peggy’s heart grew warm and +tender. “Her views are so well known that nothing she could do for us +would surprise us. That is why we say so little of her share in the +matter.” And she gave Peggy another caressing touch. + +Why, of course that was it, Peggy told herself with a flash of +understanding. How foolish she had been to care, or to have any feeling +on the subject at all. It was a great thing for Harriet to do. And so +thinking she felt her heart grow very tender toward her cousin who had +suddenly lost her animation and was pale and silent as they came down +the stairs, and were ushered into the commander-in-chief’s office. + +General Washington was sitting before a large mahogany table whose well +polished top was almost covered by papers. He rose as the girls entered. + +“Mrs. Washington has hardly forgiven me for taking you away from her,” +he remarked smilingly. “I have promised that I will detain you but a few +moments. Miss Harriet, your head will be quite turned before you will +have finished with the toasting and feasting. But ’twas bravely done! +You both showed rare judgment and courage in acting as you did. It saved +a valiant man from capture and perhaps the slaughter of an entire +brigade.” + +“Your Excellency is very kind,” stammered Harriet while Peggy murmured a +“Thank thee, sir.” + +“Mr. Hamilton, will you kindly place chairs for the ladies?” spoke the +general to a slight young man who came forward from the fireplace near +which he had been standing. “Nay,” in response to an inquiring glance, +“you are not to stay, sir. Mrs. Washington will gladden you later by an +introduction.” Then as the young man left the room he added with a +slight smile, “I have to be stern with the blades when there are ladies +about, else they would have time for no other engagements. And now tell +me, I beg, all about this affair. How came it that ye were riding upon +that road?” + +“I asked Peggy to go there,” spoke Harriet quickly; “you see, sir,” with +charming candor, “Governor Livingston is a great friend of Cousin +David’s, and came to see him but the other day. He told us a great deal +of Liberty Hall, and how he had planted hundreds of trees which he had +imported from France and England, until I was curious anent the place. +Cousin David, or Ensign Drayton, usually rides with us, but Wednesday +both were on duty; so, as Cousin David said that there was no danger so +long as we kept within the lines, Peggy and I went for our ride alone. I +know not how it came about; but perhaps ’twas because the governor had +talked about his home, but we found ourselves all at once upon the +turnpike going toward Elizabethtown. Presently Fleetwood, being a +swifter nag than Star, became restive at our slow pace and to take the +edge off him I dashed ahead for a little canter. While I was gone Peggy +found the letter and when I came back there she was reading it. It did +not take us long to decide what to do, and—but the rest you know, sir,” +she ended abruptly. + +“Yes; I know the rest,” he said musingly. “And so you were not there +when Miss Peggy found the note?” + +“No,” she answered him. “I must have been a mile away. Don’t you think +so, Peggy?” + +“I do not know how far it was,” replied Peggy thoughtfully, “but thee +was not with me, Harriet.” + +“Where did you find it, Miss Peggy?” asked the general turning to her. +“You must see that it proves that there is a spy amongst us, and the +place where ’twas found may aid somewhat to his capture. Tell me as +nearly as possible where you found it.” + +“Does thee remember where three pines stand together at a bend in the +pike about ten miles from Elizabethtown?” she asked. Then as he nodded +assent she continued: “It was just in front of those pines, Friend +Washington, that it was lying. I caught sight of it and thought some one +had lost a letter, and so dismounted and picked it up. Then Harriet +returned and—and we had some talk.” Peggy was so candid that she found +it hard to gloss over the conversation with her cousin, but she went on +after a pause so slight as not to be noticeable. “’Twas deemed best to +ride direct to the governor’s house, and Harriet’s Fleetwood being +swifter than my Star, reached the Hall first.” + +“It could not have lain long,” he said, selecting the missive from among +a pile of papers. “The road was muddy and the paper is scarcely soiled. +Then, too, there was a wind blowing, and ’twould have been taken up from +the road had it been there long. According to this the person who +dropped it must have been so short a distance ahead of you that you +could not have failed to see him.” + +“There were but we two on the road, sir,” spoke Harriet, although the +question was directed to Peggy. “We neither met any one, Your +Excellency, nor did we see any one until we reached Liberty Hall.” + +“That being the case,” he said rising, “I will no longer risk Mrs. +Washington’s disfavor by keeping you from her. Permit me to thank you +both and particularly Miss Harriet for the judgment you showed. You did +the only thing that could be done, and ’tis rare indeed that maidens so +young show such thought. I hope that you will both pleasure us +frequently with your presence.” + +He opened the door for them with stately courtliness. Curtseying deeply +the maidens reached the threshold just as a group of soldiers bustled +unceremoniously into the hall, and blocked the exit. + +“A spy, Your Excellency,” cried an orderly, excitedly saluting. + +The soldiers drew apart as the orderly spoke and from their midst came +John Drayton leading the very private soldier to whom Peggy had given +Harriet’s note. + +“Your Excellency,” said the ensign saluting, “I caught this fellow just +as he was stealing from the lines. He had a most incriminating note upon +his person. His actions for some time have been most suspicious, and——” + +“Sir,” spoke General Washington gravely, “do you not see that there are +ladies present? Let them pass, I beg of you. Such things are not of a +nature for gentle ears to hear.” + +As he spoke the eyes of the prisoner rested upon the maidens. He gave a +short cry as he saw them, and sprang forward. + +“If I did have a note, Your Excellency,” he cried, “there stands the +girl who gave it to me.” + +“Where?” asked the general sternly. + +“There!” said the man pointing to Peggy. “That girl gave me the letter +Tuesday afternoon.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX—A REGRETTED PROMISE + + + “Not for counsel are we met, + But to secure our arms from treachery, + O’erthrow and stifle base conspiracies, + Involve in his own toils our false ally——” + + —“Count Julian,” Walter Savage Landor. + +For one long moment there was a silence so tense that the breathing of +those present was plainly audible. Peggy had become very pale, but she +met the searching glance which General Washington bent upon her +steadily. + +“Did you ever give him a note, letter, or communication of any kind?” he +asked at length. + +“Yes,” she answered. “I gave him a letter to send through the lines a +few days since. It was Third Day afternoon, as he hath said.” + +“You?” cried John Drayton springing toward her, and there was anguish +and incredulity in his voice. “You? Oh, Peggy!” + +“Yes,” she said again clearly. “Has thee the letter, John? Give it to +the general. He will see that there was naught of harm intended.” + +But Drayton shrank back and covered his face with his hands. + +“Have you the missive, ensign?” demanded the commander gravely. “If so +let me see it.” + +“She, she doth not know—— It cannot be. Oh, sir, do not look at the +letter, I beseech you,” uttered young Drayton brokenly. + +“The letter, Drayton.” There was no mistaking the command in the tone. +The boy drew the letter from his sword belt, and handed it to the +general. + +“There is some mistake,” he said, and Peggy was surprised to see that +his eyes were wet. “Sir, I entreat——” + +“Take your prisoner to the outer room, ensign,” ordered the chief after +reading the note. “Meantime, may I ask that all of you will leave me +with the exception of this girl?” He indicated Peggy as he finished +speaking. + +Silently the men filed out, but Harriet lingered, her eyes fixed upon +Peggy with so much of appeal that the latter tried to smile +reassuringly. + +“You must go too, Miss Harriet,” he said, and Harriet was forced to +leave the room. + +In all of Peggy’s life never had she felt the fear that now came upon +her. At all times reserved in his manner and his bearing full of +dignity, never before had she realized the majesty of General +Washington’s august presence. In the past when others had called him +cold and austere she had denied such qualities warmly, but now as she +found him regarding her with a stern expression she began to tremble +violently. + +“And to whom was your letter sent?” he asked after a painful pause. + +“To Sir Henry Clinton, sir.” + +“And what would you have to say to Sir Henry Clinton?” he demanded, +plainly astonished. + +“I?” Peggy looked at him quickly. “Why, I did not write it, Friend +Washington.” + +“You did not?” It seemed to Peggy that his glance would pierce her very +soul, so keen was his scrutiny. “If you did not, who did?” + +“Read the letter,” implored she. “Read it, sir. ’Twill explain +everything.” + +“I have read it,” he made answer. “Do you wish me to do so again?” + +“Yes,” she said, a vague apprehension stirring her heart at his manner. + +Slowly and impressively he read aloud without further comment: “A +certain personage spends a portion of every clear afternoon upon the +summit of Chimney Rock, which I have told you stands nigh to Bound +Brook. Fording the Raritan at the spot already designated could be done +without fear of the sentry, and the personage captured with but little +risk. Without him the army would go to pieces, and the rebellion ended. +Further particulars contained in other letters forwarded by S.” + +“Oh!” gasped Peggy her eyes widening with consternation. “That is not +the note I sent, Friend Washington. Does not that mean thee and thy +capture?” + +“Yes,” he said. “There seem to be plots and counterplots for the +leaders. What is behind all this? I am loth to believe that you would +wilfully connive at either my capture, or anything that would bring harm +to the cause.” + +“I would not, I would not,” she told him earnestly, amazed and +bewildered at the thing that had befallen her. “I would do naught that +would injure the cause. And thee—— Why, sir, I would rather die than act +of mine should bring thee harm.” + +“I believe you,” he said. “Your past actions show you have the best +interests of your country at heart. But you are shielding some one,” he +said leaning toward her suddenly. “Who is it? Were it not for the fact +that your cousin discovered so much zeal in warning Governor Livingston +and the garrison at Elizabethtown I should say that ’twas she. But were +she guilty she would not have warned the governor, and would have tried +to prevent you from doing so.” He looked straight into her eyes as the +girl with difficulty repressed an exclamation. “Who is it?” he asked +again. + +But Peggy could only stare at him unable to speak. In that moment the +truth had come to her, and she saw the explanation of everything. +Harriet had deceived her and all of them, from the beginning. A blaze of +anger swept her from head to foot. Was the daughter, like the father, +only seeking to work them harm? + +“Who is it?” repeated General Washington, watching her intently, and +seeing that she was shaken by some emotion. + +“It was——” she began, and paused. She had promised only that morning +that she would not tell that Harriet had given her the note. Could she +break her word? Had she not been taught once a word was passed ’twas a +sacred thing, and not to be lightly broken? She looked at him in +anguish. “I want to tell thee,” she burst forth, “but I have promised. I +have promised.” + +“But you thought the contents of this note were different, did you not? +You did not know that it contained a hint of a plan for my capture?” + +“No,” she answered. “I did not know.” + +“Then you were tricked,” he declared. “By shielding this person, or +persons, you expose the entire camp to other plots which may prove more +successful than these last have been. Do you still consider your word +binding under the circumstances?” + +“I have been taught,” she said, her eyes full of trouble, “that having +once passed my word it must be kept. Friends do not take oath as others +do, but affirm only. Therefore, we are taught, that once given one’s +word must be abided by so that it will be as stable and as much to be +relied upon as an oath.” + +“But do you not see, Mistress Peggy, that your refusal to disclose the +name of the person places you under suspicion?” + +“I am a patriot,” she asserted, pleadingly, “loyal and true to my +country. I have ever striven to do what I could.” + +“Yes; but by your own confession you have given a note to this man, who +says that ’tis this very one. We have only your word that ’tis not so. +Then, too, you were alone when the warning note was found. It was not +soiled nor trampled upon as it would have been had it lain there long. +Child, you place yourself under suspicion.” + +“I see,” she said miserably. + +“’Tis a cruel necessity of war to use spies,” he went on, “but all +armies show them small mercy when they are caught. And it should be so. +The man, woman, or girl even, acting as one does so at the risk of +life.” + +Peggy started. He had used almost the same words that John Drayton had +used the day they had seen the swinging body of the spy. A shudder shook +her. Again she saw the swaying form dangling from the tree. Small mercy +was shown a spy. Could she condemn Harriet to such a fate? Beautiful +Harriet with her wonderful eyes! + +“Friend Washington,” she cried brokenly, “thee does not believe that I +would injure thee, or my country, does thee?” + +“What am I to think, Miss Peggy?” he asked, ignoring her outstretched +hands. + +“Give me a little time,” she cried. “Only a little time. Oh, I am sore +beset. I know not what to do.” + +“Child,” he said with compassion, “I am thinking of a time when a young +girl came to me through winter’s snow and cold to plead for the life of +her father. Do you remember what she said when I told her that I could +not exchange a spy for him, valiant though the deeds of that father had +been? She said, ‘I know that thee must refuse me. Thee would be false to +thy trust were thee to do otherwise.’ Hath my little maiden whose answer +so warmed my heart with its patriotism that I have never forgotten it, +changed so that now she shields a spy? I cannot believe it.” + +“Thee presses me so hard,” she cried wringing her hands. “Let me have a +little time, I entreat thee. It could not matter to let me have until +to-morrow. Just until to-morrow, Friend Washington.” + +He gazed at her thoughtfully. Her anguish was so apparent that none +could help being touched. That there was much behind it all was very +evident, and so presently he said: + +“You shall have until to-morrow, Mistress Peggy. ’Tis against all +precedent, but for what you have done before I will grant your request. +But there will be no further delay.” + +“Thank thee, sir,” said she weeping. “I will ask none.” She spoke +timidly after a moment. “What am I to do, sir? Thee will not wish me to +stay for dinner if I am under suspicion.” + +“Yes,” he said. “Let all go on as before until the matter is unraveled. +Can you compose yourself sufficiently to wait upon Mrs. Washington? The +dinner hour hath come.” + +As Peggy replied in the affirmative, he called an orderly, and gave him +some directions, then escorted the maiden into the dining-room. The +Quaker habit of self-control enabled the girl to bear the curious +glances cast at her pale face, but the dinner was a trying ordeal. She +had grown to love the gay circle that gathered at the table, and to +count a day spent with the brilliant men and women as one to be +remembered; to-day she was glad when the time came for her to go home. + +Harriet had been very vivacious all through the afternoon, but as they +set forth accompanied by the same aide who had escorted them to the +mansion she relapsed into silence. It had been Peggy’s intention to tell +the whole story to her father and mother in Harriet’s presence as soon +as she reached home, but there was company in the drawing-room, and as +she stood hesitating what to do her mother hastened to them. + +“How tired you both look,” she cried in alarm. “To bed ye go at once. +Nay, David,” as Mr. Owen entreated a delay. “’Tis early, I know, but too +much excitement is not to be endured. And both girls will be the better +for a long sleep. So to bed! To bed!” + +And with some reluctance on the part of both maidens they went slowly up +to the little chamber under the eaves. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI—THE RECKONING + + + “He flees + From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes, + Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails + Now falsehood sinks from under him.” + + —Walter Savage Landor. + +As Peggy placed the candle she had carried to light them up the stairs +in the socket of a candlestick on the chest of drawers, Harriet closed +the door, and shot the bolt. Then slowly the two turned and stood face +to face. Not a word was spoken for a full moment. They gazed at each +other as though seeking to pierce the mask of flesh and bones that hid +their souls. + +It was a tense moment. The attitude of the Quakeress was accusing; that +of the English girl defiant, changing to one of supplication as the dark +eyes of her cousin held her own orbs in that intent look. For a time she +bore the gaze unflinchingly, but soon her glance wavered, her eyelids +drooped, and she sank into a chair whispering: + +“You know, Peggy. You know!” + +“Yes,” said Peggy. “I know, Harriet.” + +“Will—will they hang me, Peggy? What did Mr. Washington say? Oh, I have +been so miserable this afternoon! I thought they were coming to take me +every time the door opened. And you were so long with him. What did he +say?” + +“He does not know that it was thee who writ the letter yet, Harriet,” +Peggy informed her calmly. + +“Not know?” ejaculated Harriet, springing up in amazement. “Did you not +tell him, Peggy?” + +“No, Harriet. I promised thee this morning that I would not, and I could +not break my word,” explained Peggy simply. + +“You did not tell him?” cried Harriet, as though she could not believe +her ears. “Why, Peggy Owen, how could you get out of it? He would +believe that you were the guilty one if you did not.” + +“So he told me, Harriet. But I had promised thee; and then, and then, +though thee does not deserve it, I could not help but think of that spy +we saw—— But, Harriet, I asked him to give me a little time, and I +thought that I would ask thee to return my promise, because I cannot +submit to rest under the implication of having tried to injure General +Washington. Thee must give me back my word, my cousin.” + +“And if I do not?” asked Harriet anxiously. + +“I am going to father with the whole matter. I shall do that anyway. The +general claims that I was tricked, and I was, most shamefully. That +letter was not the one that thee let me read. And the letter telling of +the attack was thine. I see it all—why thee rode ahead to warn the +governor and the garrison, and everything. The time has come, Harriet, +when thou shalt tell me why thou hast come here to act as a spy. Why +hast thou used us, thy kinspeople, to mask such plots as thou hast been +in against our own friends? Have we used thee unkindly? Or +discourteously? Why should thee treat us so, my cousin?” + +[Illustration: “WHY SHOULD THEE PLAY THE SPY?”] + +“I did not mean to, Peggy,” returned Harriet with her old manner of +affection. “Do you not remember that I said this morning that I was +sorry that I let you send it? And I am. I am. But John Drayton was to be +with us, and he watched me so that I feared that he would see me. Truly, +I am sorry, Peggy.” + +She spoke with evident sincerity so that Peggy believed her. + +“Harriet,” she said, “tell me why thou hast done this? Why should thee +play the spy?” + +Harriet shivered at the word. “I am cold,” she said. “Let us get into +bed, Peggy. I am cold.” + +Without a word of protest Peggy helped her to undress, but she herself +climbed into the four-poster without disrobing. Harriet pulled the many +colored counterpanes about her and snuggled down into the thick feather +bed. + +“Peggy,” she said presently, “I know ’tis thought most indelicate for a +female to engage in such enterprise as spying, but would you not take +any risk for your country if you thought it would benefit her?” + +“Yes,” assented her cousin. “I would.” + +“That and one other thing is the reason that I have become one,” said +Harriet. “We English believe that you Americans are wrong about the war. +We are loyal to our king, and fight to keep the colonies which +rightfully belong to him. I came with my brother, Clifford, over here, +and both of us were full of enthusiasm for His Majesty. We determined to +do anything that would help him to put down the rebellion, and so +believing offered our services to Sir Henry Clinton. + +“There was but this one thing that I could do, and when we learned that +you and your mother were to join Cousin David we knew that it was the +opportunity we sought. Sir Henry welcomed the chance to have an +informant who would be right in the midst of things without being +suspected. And I have learned much, Peggy. I have done good work.” + +“Harriet,” interrupted Peggy amazed at the recital, “does thee mean to +tell me thee knew when mother and I were coming?” + +“To the very day,” answered Harriet with a laugh. “Oh, we keep well +informed in New York. You little know the people who are around you. And +your general hath spies among us, too. ’Tis fortune of war, Peggy.” + +“So General Washington said,” mused Peggy. “But I would thee were not +one. ’Tis a life full of trickery and deceit. I like it not for a girl.” + +“And the other reason,” continued Harriet, “is more personal. Peggy, my +father hath lost all his fortune. We are very poor, my cousin.” + +“But—but thy frocks?” cried Peggy. “Thee has been well dressed, Harriet, +and frocks are frocks these days.” + +“It seems so to you because you know not the mode, cousin. Were you in +London you would soon see the difference betwixt my gowns and those of +fashion. But I was to have the reward for Governor Livingston should the +plan for his capture succeed, and that would have helped father a great +deal.” + +“Oh, Harriet, Harriet!” moaned Peggy bewildered by this maze of +reasoning. “I would that thee had not done this, or that thou hadst +returned to thy people long ago. Why did thee not go back the other day? +’Twas in the letter that thee should be near so as to be taken also.” + +“I intended to,” answered Harriet. “That was why I wished to ride near +to Liberty Hall, but when I found that I had lost the note, I came back +for it, hoping that you had not seen it. You were determined to warn +both the garrison and the governor, and that would render it impossible +for me to get to our forces. I tried to slip away yesterday, but there +was no chance. And now you will tell on me to-morrow, and I will be +hanged.” + +“Don’t, Harriet,” pleaded Peggy. “I am going right down to father, and +see if he can tell us some way out of this. It may be that he can +persuade General Washington to let thee go back to thy people.” + +“Peggy,” cried Harriet laying a detaining hand upon the girl as she +slipped from the bed. “You must not bring Cousin David into this. He is +a soldier who stands high with the general. If he intercedes for me he +will himself be under suspicion. You would not wish to get your father +into trouble, would you? Beside, ’tis his duty, as a patriot, to give me +up to punishment. Do you not see it? If I were not your cousin you would +not hesitate in the matter.” + +“True,” said Peggy pausing. Well she knew that her father was so loyal +that the matter might appear to him in just that very way. “He loves +thee well though, Harriet.” + +“And for that reason he shall not be tempted,” cried Harriet. “No, +Peggy; there is no help. I must pay the penalty. I knew the risk.” + +She buried her face in the pillow, and, despite her brave words, sobs +shook her form. + +“Is there no way? No way?” cried Peggy frantically. “I cannot bear to +think of thee being hang——” She paused, unable to finish the dreadful +word. + +“There is one way,” said Harriet suddenly sitting up. “If you would help +me, Peggy, to get to Amboy I could get to New York from there.” + +“Could thee, Harriet? How?” + +“There are always sloops that ply betwixt the two places,” said Harriet. +“If I could but reach there I know that I could get one of them to take +me to the city.” + +“But how could thee reach Amboy?” asked Peggy. + +“Peggy, go with me now,” pleaded Harriet, clasping her arms about her +cousin. “Let us slip down, and get our horses. Then we can get to Amboy, +and you could be back to-morrow morning. Your father, ay! and your +mother, too, would be glad to know that I had got away before they came +to arrest me.” + +“But why should I go?” inquired Peggy. “Can thee not go alone? Thee +knows the way.” + +“They would not let me pass the lines,” said Harriet. “They would know +by my voice that I was English, and would detain me. Whatever we try to +do in the matter must be done to-night, because to-morrow will be too +late. Will you come with me, Peggy? I shall never ask aught else of +you.” + +“I will come,” said Peggy, after a moment’s thought. “I do believe that +father and mother will approve. And, Harriet, will thee give me back my +promise, if I do come?” + +“Yes, Peggy. And further, my cousin, if you will but help me to get to +New York I will never act the spy again. I promise you that of my own +accord. ’Tis too much risk for a girl, and I have had my lesson.” + +“Oh, Harriet,” cried Peggy. “If thee will only do that then I can tell +General Washington all the matter with light heart. I like not to think +of thee as a spy.” + +The tattoo had long since sounded. The house was still. The girls +dressed themselves warmly, and stole silently out of the dwelling down +to the stables where their horses were kept. Deftly they bridled and +saddled the animals, and then led them quietly to the lane which would +take them to the road. + +In the distance the flames of the dying camp-fires flickered palely, +illumining the shadowy forms of the few soldiers grouped about them, and +accentuating the gloom of the encircling wood. A brooding stillness hung +over the encampment, broken only by the sough of the wind as it wandered +about the huts, or stirred the branches of the pines on the hills. The +army slept. Slept as only those sleep who have earned repose. They were +soldiers whose hardships and sufferings have scarcely a parallel in the +annals of history, yet they could sleep even though they had but hard +boards for a couch, and but a blanket or a little straw for covering. + +Peggy started suddenly as the deep bay of a hound came to them from the +village of Bound Brook. + +“Harriet,” she whispered, “I am afraid. Let us wait until to-morrow.” + +“To-morrow will be too late,” answered Harriet, and Peggy wondered to +hear how hard her voice sounded. “Do you want me hung, Peggy? Beside, +you promised that you would come. ’Tis the last time that I’ll ever ask +favor of you.” + +“Yes, I know,” answered Peggy, in a low tone. “I will go, Harriet; but I +wish now that I had not said that I would.” + +“Come,” was Harriet’s brief answer. And Peggy followed her into the +darkness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII—A HIGH-HANDED PROCEEDING + + + “Had your watch been good, + This sudden mischief never could have fallen.” + + —First Part Henry VI. + +Had Peggy been in the lead she would have headed at once for the “Great +Raritan Road,” a highway which ran down the valley of the river directly +to the town of New Brunswick, which lay but a few miles west of Amboy. +Harriet, on the contrary, turned toward Bound Brook, and entered the +dense wood which stood between that village and the hills. + +“This is not the way to Amboy, Harriet,” remonstrated Peggy. + +“No,” answered her cousin briefly. Then, after a moment: “’Tis the only +way to get through the lines without the countersign. We must not talk.” + +“Hasn’t thee the countersign?” asked Peggy, dismayed. + +“No; don’t talk, Peggy.” + +And Peggy, wondering much how with two horses they could pass the +pickets unchallenged, relapsed into silence. But the lack of the +password did not seem to daunt Harriet. She pushed ahead as rapidly as +was consistent with rough ground, thickly growing trees and underbrush, +and the gloom of the forest. At length as they entered a shallow ravine +Harriet drew rein, and, as Peggy came up beside her, she spoke: + +“Are you afraid, Peggy?” + +“No,” replied Peggy, “but the stillness is monstrously wearing. And ’tis +so dark, Harriet.” + +“Which is to our benefit,” returned Harriet. “As for the quiet, once we +are clear of the lines we can chat, and so will not mind it. But come!” + +Again she took the lead, and Peggy, following after, could not but +marvel at the unerring precision with which her cousin chose her way. +Not once did she falter or hesitate, though to Peggy the darkness and +gloom of the forest seemed impenetrable. + +The melancholy of the forest encompassed them, infolding them like a +mantle. It so wrought upon their senses that they reached out and +touched each other frequently, seeking to find solace from its brooding +sadness. It seemed as though hours elapsed before Harriet spoke in the +merest whisper: + +“I think we are without the lines, Peggy. ’Tis about time, and now we +can seek the turnpike.” + +She had scarcely finished speaking when out of the darkness came the +peremptory command: + +“Halt! Who goes there?” + +“Friends,” answered Harriet, as the two obediently brought their horses +to a standstill. + +In the darkness the shadowy form of the sentinel was but dimly visible, +but a feeble ray of the pale moonlight caught the gleam of his musket, +and Peggy saw with a thrill of fear that it was pointed directly toward +Harriet. + +“Advance, and give the countersign,” came the order. + +How it came about Peggy could not tell, but as he gave the command, +Fleetwood reared suddenly upon his hind feet, and, pawing the air with +his forelegs and snorting viciously, advanced toward the guard +threateningly. An ominous click of the firelock sounded. Wild with +terror at the sight, and fearful of what might happen, Peggy cried +shrilly: + +“Look sharp!” + +“Why didn’t you say so before?” growled the sentry lowering his gun. +“What’s the matter with that horse?” + +“I think he must have stepped among some thorn bushes,” replied Harriet +sweetly. “I will soon quiet him, friend. The underbrush is thick +hereabouts.” + +“Too thick to be straying around in at night,” he answered with some +roughness. “That horse is enough to scare the British. What are you +doing in the woods? You are bound to lose your way.” + +“We have done that already,” she told him with apparent frankness. She +had succeeded by this time in quieting Fleetwood, who now resumed his +normal position. By the merest chance they had stumbled upon the +password, and she purposed making the most of it. “You see we were at a +party in the camp, and coming back my cousin and I thought to make a +short cut through the woods so as to get home quickly. We ought to have +been there long ago, but ’twas a pretty little frisk, and we just +couldn’t make up our minds to leave. You know how it is.” + +“Yes,” he rejoined laughing good naturedly. “I know how ’tis. I’ve gals +of my own. Well, you just get over to that road as fast as you can. ’Tis +a half mile straight to your right. And say! if another sentinel asks +for the countersign speak right up. You’re liable to get a ball if you +don’t.” + +“Thank you,” she said. “We will remember. Come, my cousin.” + +“You blessed Peggy!” she exclaimed as they passed beyond the hearing of +the guard. “How did you chance upon that watchword?” + +“I don’t know,” answered Peggy, who had not yet recovered her +equanimity. “I meant to say, ‘Look out!’ I don’t know how I came to say +sharp. But what was the matter with Fleetwood? Was he among thorns?” + +“Dear me, no! ’Tis a trick that I taught him. You do not know all his +accomplishments. ’Twas well for that sentinel that he let us through. +Wasn’t it, old fellow?” And her laugh as she patted the animal was not a +pleasant one to hear. + +Peggy shuddered. She would not like Star to be taught such tricks, she +thought, giving the little mare a loving caress. She was beginning to +doubt the wisdom of coming with Harriet. The girl appeared to know her +way so well, to be so able to care for herself that there seemed no need +for Peggy to be along. But let her see her safely to a place where she +could reach her own people, and then Peggy resolved, with a quick +tightening of the lips, nothing should ever induce her to put herself +into such a plight again. + +By this time the moon had gone down, and while the sky was not clouded +there was a dim haze that rendered the light of the stars ineffectual in +dispelling the darkness. On they rode. The time seemed interminable to +Peggy; the blackness of the night unbearable. The sudden snapping of a +dried twig under Star’s feet caused her to start violently. + +“Harriet,” she cried, “naught is to be gained by keeping to the woods. +The lines are passed. Let us get to the highway. We must make better +progress if I am to get back before the reveille.” + +“That you will never do, Peggy,” replied Harriet pointing to the sky. +“’Tis almost time for it now.” + +Peggy looked up in dismay. The gray twilight that precedes the dawn was +stealing over the darkness. The soldier’s day began when the sentry +could see a thousand yards about him. Another hour would bring about +just that condition. It was clearly impossible for her to return before +the sounding of the reveille. + +“Does thee know where we are?” she asked. “And where is the road?” + +“There is just a narrow strip of the woods betwixt us and the turnpike, +Peggy,” Harriet assured her. “It hath been so since we left the guard. +We will get to it at once if it please you. As for where we are, we +should be getting to Perth Amboy soon.” + +“But why hath it taken so long?” queried Peggy. + +“Because the brigades of Baron Steuben and General Wayne lay south of +the Raritan, and we had to go around them. I did not tell you, Peggy, +that ’twould take so long because I feared that you would not come. It +doth not matter, doth it, what way I took to safety?” + +“No,” answered Peggy, touched by this allusion to her cousin’s peril. +“It would have been fearful for thee to have come through the darkness +alone, but oh, Harriet! I do wish thee had told me. Then I would have +left a letter for mother, anyway. She will be so uneasy.” + +“Never mind!” consoled Harriet. “And then you may never see me again. +Shall you care, Peggy?” + +“Yes,” answered Peggy soberly. “I will, but——” She paused and drew rein +abruptly. “There are forms flitting about in the wood,” she whispered. +“Does thee think they mean us harm?” + +Harriet made no reply, but gazed intently into the forest. In the +indistinct light the figures of mounted men could be seen moving like +shadows among the trees. That they were gradually approaching the +maidens was evident. The girl watched them for a few seconds, and then +leaning forward gave a low, birdlike call. It was answered in kind on +the instant, and a half dozen horsemen dashed from the wood into the +narrow highway. + +“Now am I safe,” cried Harriet joyfully, reaching out her hand to the +foremost of the men who gathered about them. “Captain Greyling, your +arrival is timely.” + +“We have waited many nights for you, Mistress Owen,” said that officer. +“We began to think that you might in very truth have become one of the +rebels. You are most welcome.” + +“Thank you,” she cried gaily. “You are not more pleased to see me than I +am to be here. In truth, had I not succeeded in coming, I should not +have had another opportunity. ’Twas becoming very uncomfortable in camp. +I have barely escaped I know not what fate. But more of that anon. +Peggy, let me present Captain Greyling of De Lancy’s Loyal Legion. My +cousin, Mistress Peggy Owen, Captain Greyling.” + +De Lancy’s Loyal Legion! Peggy’s cheek blanched at the name. This was a +body of Tory cavalry, half freebooters and half in the regular service. +Between New York and Philadelphia and the country surrounding both +places the name stood for all that was terrible and malignant in human +nature. So stricken with terror was she that she could not return the +officer’s salutation. + +“Where lies the boat?” asked Harriet. + +“Close to the bank of the river. The trees hide it. ’Tis but a shallop +which will take us to the sloop which is in the bay outside Amboy. The +men will bring the horses by ferry.” + +“Very well,” answered Harriet, preparing to dismount. “We are at the end +of our long ride, Peggy. Are you not glad?” + +“I am for thee,” said Peggy, speaking quietly but filled with a vague +alarm. “As for me, I will bid thee farewell, and return to the camp.” + +She wheeled as she spoke, but instantly the mare’s bridle was seized, +and she was brought to a standstill. + +“What is the meaning of this?” cried Peggy, her eyes flashing. “Thee is +safe, Harriet. Call off thy friends. Thee knows that I must return.” + +“Dost think that I will part with you so soon, my cousin?” laughed +Harriet mockingly. “Nay, nay; I have promised to bring you to New York. +Best go peaceably, Peggy; for go you must.” + +“Never!” exclaimed Peggy, striking Star a sharp blow. The little mare +reared, plunged, pranced and wheeled in the effort to rid herself of the +hold on her bridle, but vainly. Peggy uttered a piercing shriek as she +was torn from the saddle, and half dragged, half carried through the +trees down the bank to the boat which was drawn up close to the shore. +Two of the men followed after the captain and Harriet. The latter seated +herself by Peggy’s side, and placed her arm about her. + +“’Twould have been better to come quietly,” she said. “I meant you +should go back with me all the while. I could not bear to lose you, +Peggy. I thought——” + +But Peggy, her spirit up in arms, turned such a look of scorn upon her +cousin that Harriet paused in her speech abruptly. + +“Speak not to me of affection, Harriet Owen,” she cried. “Thou art +incapable of feeling it. Is there no truth to be found in any of thy +family? Are ye all treacherous and dishonorable? Would that thou wert no +kin of mine! Would that I had never seen thee, nor any of thy——” + +Unable to continue, she burst into a passion of tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII—IN THE LINES OF THE ENEMY + + + “There is but one philosophy, + though there are a thousand schools— + Its name is fortitude.” + + —Bulwer. + +The morning broke gloriously, and held forth the promise of a beautiful +day. So mild was the weather that it seemed more like a spring day than +the last of February. Out in the bay of the Raritan rode a sloop at +anchor, and toward this the shallop made its way. They were taken +aboard, and Harriet, who had left Peggy to her grief, now approached +her. + +“We have been long without either rest or food, my cousin. Come with me +to breakfast. Then we will sleep until New York is reached.” + +Peggy vouchsafed her never a word, but taking a position by the taffrail +stood looking over the dazzling water toward the now receding shores of +New Jersey. Into the lower bay sailed the sloop, heading at once for the +narrows. Few sails were to be seen on the wide expanse of water save to +the left where, under the heights of Staten Island, a part of the +British fleet lay at anchor. Brilliant shafts of sunlight wavered and +played over the face of the water. Astern, as far as the eye could see, +lay the ocean, blank of all sail, the waves glinting back the strong +light of the east. Sky, water and shore all united in one sublime +harmony of pearls and grays of which the grandeur was none the less for +lack of vivid coloring. + +The discordant note lay in Peggy’s heart. She was full of the +humiliation and bitterness of trust betrayed. Humiliation because she +had been tricked so easily, and bitterness as the full realization of +her cousin’s treachery came to her. And General Washington! What would +he think when she did not come to him as she had promised? He would deem +her a spy. And she was Peggy Owen! Peggy Owen—who had prided herself on +her love for her country. Oh, it was bitter! Bitter! And so she stood +with unseeing eyes for the grand panorama of bay and shore that was +unfolding before her. + +The wind was favorable, yet it was past one of the clock before the +vessel made the narrows, glided past Nutten’s[[2]] Island, and finally +came to anchor alongside the Whitehall Slip. Harriet, who had remained +below the entire journey, now came on deck looking much refreshed. + +“You foolish Peggy!” she cried. “Of what use is it to grieve o’er what +cannot be helped? Think you that I did not wish to be with my people +when I was in the rebel camp?” + +“Thee came there of thine own free will,” answered Peggy coldly, “while +I am here through no wish of mine. Why did thee bring me?” + +“Out of affection, of course,” laughed Harriet. “Ah! there is father on +the shore waiting for us.” + +“I thought thee said that he was in the South,” Peggy reminded her. + +“One says so many things in war time,” answered Harriet with a shrug of +her shoulders. “Perchance I intended to say Clifford.” + +“And so you are come to return some of our visits, my little cousin,” +cried Colonel Owen, coming forward from the side of a coach as they came +ashore. “’Twas well thought. ’Twill be delightsome to return some of +your hospitality.” + +“Oh, Cousin William,” cried she, the tears beginning to flow, “do send +me back to my mother! Oh, I do want my mother!” + +“Tut, tut!” he rejoined. “Homesick already? You should have considered +that when you planned to come with Harriet.” + +“When I what?” exclaimed Peggy, looking up through her tears. + +“Planned to come with Harriet,” he repeated impatiently. “She wrote some +time since that she would bring you. Come! The dinner waits. We have +prepared for you every day for a week past. I am glad the waiting is +over. Come, my cousin.” + +And Peggy, seeing that further pleading was of no avail, entered the +coach, silently determined to make no other appeal. A short drive +brought them to a spacious dwelling standing in the midst of large +grounds in the Richmond Hill district, which was situated on the western +side of Manhattan Island, a little removed from the city proper. The +building stood on an eminence commanding a view of the Hudson River and +the bay, for at that time there were no houses or other buildings to +obstruct the vision, and was surrounded by noble trees. A carefully +cultivated lawn even then, so mild had been the winter, showing a little +green stretched on one side as far as the road which ran past the house. +On the other was the plot for the gardens, while in the rear of the +mansion the orchard extended to the river bank. On every hand was +evidence of wealth and luxury, and Peggy’s heart grew heavy indeed as +she came to know that Colonel Owen’s poverty had been but another of +Harriet’s fabrications. + +She sat silent and miserable at the table while Harriet, who was in high +spirits, related the incidents of the past few days: the finding of the +note in the roadway, the warning of the governor and the brigade, and +how she had been petted and praised for her heroism. Her father and +Captain Greyling, who had accompanied them home, laughed uproariously at +this. + +“Upon my life, my cousin,” cried William Owen, “I wonder not that you +are in the dumps. Fie, fie, Harriet! ’twas most unmannerly to steal such +a march upon your cousin. For shame! And did our little cousin weep out +her pretty eyes in pique that you were so fêted?” + +But Peggy was in no mood for banter. There was a sparkle in her eyes, +and an accent in her voice that showed that she was not to be trifled +with as she said clearly: + +“No, Cousin William, I did not weep. It mattered not who gave the +warning so long as the governor and the brigade received it. It was most +fitting that Harriet should have the praise, as that was all she got out +of it. ’Twas planned, as thee must know, for her to receive a more +substantial reward.” + +“You have not lost your gift of a sharp tongue, I perceive,” he answered +a flush mantling his brow. “Have a care to your words, my little cousin. +You are no longer in your home, but in mine.” + +“I am aware of that, sir. But that I am here is by no will of mine. If I +am used despitefully ’tis no more than is to be expected from those who +know naught but guile and artifice.” + +“Have done,” he cried, rising from the table. “Am I to be railed at in +mine own house? Harriet, show this girl to her chamber.” + +Nothing loth Peggy followed her cousin to a little room on the second +floor, whose one window looked out upon the noble Hudson and the distant +Jersey shore. + +“Aren’t you going to be friends, Peggy?” questioned Harriet pausing at +the door. “I could not do other than I did. Father wished me to bring +you here.” + +“But why?” asked Peggy turning upon her. “Why should he want me here? Is +it to flout me?” + +“I know not, Peggy. But be friends, won’t you? There is much more sport +to be had here in the city than in yon camp. You shall share with me in +the fun.” + +“I care not for it,” rejoined Peggy coldly. “And I will never forgive +thee, Harriet Owen. Never! I see not how thee could act so.” + +And so saying she turned from her cousin with unmistakable aversion, and +walking to the window gazed with aching heart at the Jersey shore line. +Harriet stood for a moment, and then went out, closing the door behind +her. Presently Peggy flung herself on the bed and gave way to her bitter +woe in a flood of tears. For what lay at the bottom of her bitterness? +It was the sharp knowledge that, with just a little forethought, a +little heeding of her mother’s and John Drayton’s warnings, all this +might have been avoided. + +Human nature is very weak, and any grief that comes from our own +carelessness, or lack of thought is harder to bear than that woe which +is caused by untoward circumstances. But at last tired nature asserted +itself, and Peggy fell asleep. + +Long hours after she awoke. It was quite dark in the room, and she was +stiff with cold. For a moment she fancied herself in her own little room +under the eaves at the camp, but soon a realization of where she was +came to her. She rose and groped her way to the window. The moon shone +upon the river and the Jersey shore. She looked toward the latter +yearningly. + +“Mother,” she whispered with quivering lips, “mother, what would thee +have me to do?” And suddenly it seemed to her that she could hear the +sweet voice of her mother saying: + +“My daughter, thou must bear with meekness the afflictions that are sent +upon thee. Hast thou not been taught to do good to them that +despitefully use thee?” Peggy uttered a cry of protest. + +“I cannot forgive them! They have behaved treacherously toward me. And +my country! ’Tis not to be endured that I should be placed in such +position toward it. ’Tis not to be endured, I say.” + +“Thou hast been close to sacred things all thy life, my child,” sounded +that gentle voice. “Of what avail hath it been if thy actions are no +different from those of the world? And thou art not without blame in the +matter.” + +Long Peggy stood at the window. It seemed to her that her mother was +very near to her. And so communing with that loved mother the bitterness +died out of her heart, and she wept. No longer virulently, but softly, +the gentle tears of resignation. + +“I will try to bear it,” she murmured, as she crept between the covers +of the bed. “I will be brave, and as good as thee would have me be, +mother. And I will be so truthful in act and word that it may shame them +out of deceit. And maybe, maybe if I am good a way will be opened for me +to get back to thee.” + +And so she fell into a restful sleep. + +----- +[2] Now Governor’s Island. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV—THE REASON WHY + + + “Yet remember this: + God and our good cause fight upon one side.” + + —“Richard III,” Act 5. + +It was seven o’clock before Peggy awakened the next morning. With an +exclamation at her tardiness in rising she dressed hastily, and went +down-stairs. Colonel Owen and Harriet were already in the dining-room at +breakfast. They brightened visibly as the maiden returned their +greetings serenely, and took her place at the table. + +“So you have determined to accept the situation,” observed Colonel Owen, +giving her a keen glance. + +“Until a way is opened for me to leave, sir,” replied Peggy. + +“Which will be at my pleasure,” he rejoined. But to this she made no +reply. “I am assisting Colonel Montressor, who is in charge of the +defenses of the city,” he remarked presently. “When your horses are well +rested you girls shall ride about with me.” + +“We have been riding almost every day the past winter with father,” said +Peggy, trying not to choke over the word. “The weather hath been so +pleasant that it hath been most agreeable for riding. There are pretty +rides over the hills and dales near the camp.” + +“You will find them no less beautiful here,” he assured her. “And now I +must go. Sir Henry will wish to see you during the day, Harriet.” + +“Very well,” she answered. “And I must see about some new frocks, +father. I misdoubt that my boxes will be sent after me from the rebel +camp. Mr. Washington will not be so thoughtful anent the matter as Sir +Henry was. I shall need a number of new ones.” + +“More gowns, Harriet!” he exclaimed. “You will ruin me by your +extravagance. Haven’t you anything that will do?” + +“I dare say that I can make shift for a time,” she replied. “But la! +what’s the use of being in His Majesty’s service unless one profits by +it?” + +“That seems to be the opinion of every one connected with it,” he +observed grimly. + +“Harriet,” spoke Peggy timidly, uncertain as to the manner her +proposition would be received, “I can sew very well indeed. Let me bring +some of thy old frocks up to the mode. ’Twill save thy father money, and +in truth things are monstrously high. That was one reason mother and I +joined father in camp. Thee admired that cream brocade of mine that was +made from mother’s wedding gown. Let me see if I cannot do as well with +some of thy finery.” + +“That’s all very well for you rebels,” spoke Harriet with some scorn, +“but when one is with English nobility ’tis another matter. Father, what +do you think? They sometimes wore homespun at camp even to the dinners. +They were always busy at something, and now here Peggy wants to get +right into sewing. Americans have queer ideas of amusement.” + +“If there is one thing that I admire about the Americans ’tis the manner +in which they bring up their daughters,” remarked her father with +emphasis. “I have yet to see a girl of these colonies who was not +proficient in housewifely arts. If Peggy can help you fix over some of +your things let her. And do try to pattern after her thrifty ways, +Harriet.” + +“Peggy is quite welcome to fix them for herself,” said Harriet with a +curl of her lips, and a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I shall get some +new ones.” + +Colonel Owen sighed, but left the room without further protest. The +conversation set Peggy to thinking, and observing. There was indeed +luxury on every hand, but there was also great waste. Wherever the +British army settled they gave themselves up to such amusements as the +city afforded or they could create. Fear, fraud and incompetence reigned +in every branch of the service, and between vandalism and the +necessities of war New York suffered all the woes of a besieged city. In +the endeavor to keep pace with his spendthrift superiors her cousin’s +household expenditures had run into useless excess. + +Harriet plunged at once into the gaiety of the city with all the abandon +of her nature, and Peggy, much against her inclination, was of necessity +compelled to enter into it also. There were rides every clear day which +revealed the strong defenses of the city. New York was in truth but a +fortified camp. A first line of defense extended from the heights of +Corlear’s Hook across the island to the Hudson. There was still another +line further up near the narrow neck of land below Fort Washington, +while a strong garrison guarded the outlying post of Kingsbridge. Peggy +soon realized that unless she was given wings she could never hope to +pass the sentinels. Every afternoon in the Grand Battery along the bay a +German band of hautboys played for the amusement of the officers and +townspeople, and here Peggy met many of the young “macaroni” officers or +feminine “toasts” of the city. She grew weary of the incessant round of +entertainments. There had been much social intercourse at the camp, but +it had been tempered by sobriety, and life was not wholly given up to +it. Peggy resolved that she would have to occupy herself in other ways. + +“Cousin William,” she said one morning, seeking Colonel Owen in his +study, where he sat looking over some papers with a frowning brow, “may +I talk with thee a little?” + +“Is it anent the matter of home?” he queried. “I can do nothing, Peggy. +You will have to stay here. We can’t have a rebel come into our lines +and then leave, you know.” + +“I know,” she answered sorrowfully. “I want to go home, but ’twas not of +that I came to speak.” + +“Of what then?” he asked. + +“Thee lives so well,” she said with a blush at her temerity, “and yet, +sir, there is so much waste. Thee could live just as well yet there need +be no excess. I wish, Cousin William, that thee would let me look after +the household while I am here. I care naught for the pleasurings, and +’twould occupy me until such time as thee would let me go home,” she +added a trifle wistfully. “I could not do so well as mother, but yet I +do feel that I could manage more thriftily than thy servants.” + +“Peggy,” he cried springing to his feet, “I hoped for this. You owe me a +great deal, and ’tis as well to begin to pay some of your debt. That is +why I brought you here.” + +“I owe thee anything?” she asked amazed. “How can that be?” + +“Think you that I have forgotten the time spent in your house, my little +cousin? Think you that I, an officer in His Majesty’s service, do not +resent that I was given in exchange for a dragoon?” + +“If thee thinks that I owe thee anything, my cousin, I will be glad to +pay it,” said Peggy regarding him with wondering, innocent eyes. “I am +sorry thee holds aught against me.” + +Colonel Owen had the grace to blush. + +“Harriet hath no housewifely tastes,” he said hastily, “and my son +shares her extravagant habits. Between them and the necessity of +maintaining a position befitting an officer, I am like to come to grief. +You are a good little thing, after all, Peggy. And now let me take you +about and put you in charge.” + +And thus it came that Peggy found herself installed at the head of her +cousin’s household. The position was no sinecure. She made mistakes, for +never before had she been thrown so entirely upon her own resources, but +she had been well trained, and the result was soon apparent in the +lessened expenditures. The experience was of great benefit to her, and +she grew womanly and self-reliant under the charge. Her cousin’s manner +too underwent a most pleasing transformation. He was kindly, and but +seldom made cutting and sarcastic speeches at her expense. Upon the +other hand, she was subjected to a petty tyranny from Harriet quite at +variance with her former deportment. + +And the spring passed into summer; summer waxed and waned, and in all +that time there had come no word from her father or mother, nor had +there been opportunity for her to send them any. That the war was going +disastrously against the patriots in the South she could not but gather +from the rejoicings of the British. Of the capture of Stony Point on the +Hudson by the Americans she was kept in ignorance. The influx of a large +body of troops and militia into the city, the surrounding of the island +by forty men-of-war, told that Sir Henry Clinton feared attack. And so +the summer passed. + +In December the troops from Rhode Island were hastily withdrawn, the +city strongly fortified, and everything indicated a movement of some +kind. Peggy tried to ascertain what it was, but for some time could not +do so. The snow which had begun falling in November now increased in the +frequency of the storms, scarcely a day passed without its fall. The +cold became severe, and ice formed in rivers and bay until at length +both the Hudson and Sound rivers were frozen solidly. The bay also +became as terra firma, and horses, wagons and artillery passed over the +ice to Staten Island. + +“Is our stock of fire-wood getting low, Peggy?” inquired Colonel Owen +one morning, laying down the “Rivington Gazette” which he was reading. +“The paper speaks of the growing scarcity of wood, and says that if the +severe weather continues we will be obliged to cut down the trees in the +city for fuel.” + +“I ordered some yesterday from the woodyards,” Peggy told him. She was +standing by one of the long windows overlooking the frozen Hudson. How +near New Jersey seemed. Men and teams were at that moment passing over +the ice on their way to and from the city. How easy it looked to go +across. She turned to him suddenly. “How much longer am I to stay, +Cousin William?” she asked. + +“Till the war closes,” he said laughing. As a shadow passed over her +face he added: “And that won’t be much longer, my little cousin. There +is a movement on foot that is going to bring it to a close before you +realize what hath happened. We have at last got your Mr. Washington in a +cul de sac from which he cannot escape.” + +“Where is General Washington, my cousin?” asked she quickly. + +“On the heights of Morristown, in New Jersey. Nay,” he laughed as a +sudden eager light flashed into her eyes, “you cannot reach him, Peggy. +If you could get through the lines, which you cannot, for the guards +have been increased to prevent surprise, you could not go through the +forest. The snow lies four feet on the level. You could not get through +the woods. But cheer up! I promise you a glimpse of your hero soon. The +war is on its last legs.” + +Peggy gazed after him with troubled eyes as he left the room. What was +the new movement on foot? Pondering the matter much she went about the +duties of the day. About the middle of the forenoon an ox cart with the +wood she had ordered drove into the stable yard. She uttered an +exclamation of vexation as she saw the ragged heap which the driver was +piling. Throwing a wrap about her she hurried into the yard where the +team was. + +“Friend,” she called severely, for Peggy looked well to the ways of the +household, “that is not the way to unload the wood. It must be corded so +that it can be measured.” + +“Yes, mistress,” answered the driver, touching his hat. + +Peggy started. He had given the military salute instead of the usual +curtsey of the countryman. She looked at him intently. There was +something strangely familiar about him, she thought, but he was so +bundled up that she could only see his eyes. Whistling cheerfully the +driver began to cord the wood as she directed. + +“Thou art not o’erstrong for the work,” she commented as he struggled +valiantly with a great stick. “I will send one of the stablemen to help +thee.” + +“Wait, Peggy,” he said in a low tone. + +“John!” almost screamed the girl. “John Drayton!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXV—THE ALERT THAT FAILED + + + “What gain we by our toils if he escape + Whom we came hither solely to subdue?” + + —“Count Julian,” Landor. + +“Be careful,” warned Drayton, letting the stick fall with a crash. “Can +you come to Rachel Fenton’s house in little Queen Street this morning? +We can talk there.” + +“Yes, yes,” cried Peggy eagerly. “I know where it is. I will go there +from market. John, my mother——” + +“Is well,” he answered quickly. “Don’t ask anything more now, but go in. +’Tis cold out here.” + +“But thee?” she questioned loth to leave him. + +“Oh, I’m used to it,” he responded airily. “Just send along that +stableman though, Peggy. These sticks are heavy. And say! Is’t permitted +to feed drivers of carts? There are not many rations just now in +Morristown, and I’d really like to eat once more.” + +“Thee shall have all thee wants,” she assured him. “But oh, John! if +they should find out who thee is! Thou art mad to venture into the +city.” + +“If they will wait until I’ve eaten they may do their worst,” he replied +with a touch of his old jauntiness. “No; I don’t mean that, for I’ve +come to take you back with me. That is, if you want to go?” + +“I do, I do,” she told him almost in tears. + +“Then go right in,” he commanded. “Won’t your cousins suspect something +if they see you talking like this to a countryman?” + +“They will think I am scolding thee,” she said with a tremulous little +laugh. “And truly thee needs it, John. I never saw a cord of wood piled +so crookedly before in my life.” + +“They’ll be glad to get wood in any shape if this weather keeps on, I’m +thinking,” he made answer. “Now do go right in, Peggy. And don’t forget +that stableman.” + +Peggy hastened within doors, sent the man to help with the wood, and +then tried to regain her usual composure by preparing a meal for +Drayton. + +“The poor lad,” was her mental comment a little later as she watched the +young fellow stow away the food that was placed before him. “He eats as +though he had had nothing all winter.” + +This was nearer truth than she dreamed. Had she but known the condition +of the army at Morristown she would not have wondered at the boy’s +voraciousness. She hovered about him, attending to his needs carefully, +longing but not daring to ask the many questions that crowded to her +lips. It would not do to risk conversation of any sort in the house. +There were too many coming and going. As it was the servants gazed at +her in surprise, curious as to her interest in a teamster. The meal +finished, Drayton rose with a word of thanks, and crossed to the fire +which blazed upon the kitchen hearth. + +Peggy felt a sudden apprehension as she heard Harriet’s step in the +hall. What if she should enter the kitchen? Would Drayton be safe from +the keen scrutiny of her sharp eyes? The lad himself seemed to feel no +uneasiness, but hung over the roaring fire of hickory logs as though +reluctant to leave its warmth. Making a pretense of replenishing the +fire Peggy whispered: + +“Go, go! Harriet is coming.” Drayton roused himself with a start, drew +his wrappings close about him, and, giving her a significant look, +passed through the outside door just as Harriet entered the room from +the passage. + +“Who was that, Peggy?” she asked sharply. + +“The man with the wood,” answered Peggy busied about the fire. “I gave +him something to eat.” + +“Mercy, Peggy! Is it necessary to feed such riffraff? They are all a +pack of rebels. No wonder father complains of expense.” + +Peggy’s cheeks flamed with indignation. “Would thee send any one away in +such weather without first giving him food?” she demanded. “’Twould be +inhuman!” + +“And I suppose thee wouldn’t treat a Britisher so,” mimicked Harriet who +was plainly in a bad humor. “Did father tell you that Sir Henry Clinton +was to dine here to-day?” + +“Yes,” returned Peggy gravely. “’Tis fortunate that ’tis market day, for +there are some things needed. I shall have to use the sleigh. Thee won’t +mind? I cannot get into the city otherwise.” + +“Oh, take it, by all means,” replied Harriet. “I wouldn’t go out in this +weather for a dozen Sir Henrys. La, la! ’tis cold!” She shivered in +spite of the great fire. “What doth father wish to see Sir Henry alone +for?” she asked abruptly. “He told me but now that he did not desire my +company after dinner. And I had learned a new piece on the harpsichord, +too,” she ended pettishly. + +“I know not, Harriet,” said Peggy instantly troubled. She did not doubt +but that it had something to do with the movement against General +Washington, but she did not utter her suspicion. “Mayhap ’tis business +of moment.” + +“Oh, yes; I dare say,” retorted Harriet. She yawned, and left the room. + +Peggy gave the necessary orders for the dinner and then quietly arrayed +herself for the marketing. She was allowed a certain freedom of +movement, and went into the city about business of the household without +question. With scrupulous conscientiousness she attended to the +marketing first, and then bidding the coachman wait for her, went +rapidly to Little Queen Street on foot. + +She had met with but few Quakers. They were regarded as neutrals, but +Colonel Owen disliked them as a sect and had forbidden her to hold +communication with them. Still Peggy knew where many of them lived, and +among these was Rachel Kenton. It was a quaint Dutch house, easily +found. New York was not so large as Philadelphia at this time, and Peggy +hastened up the stoop with eagerness, her heart beating with delight at +the prospect of at last hearing from her dear ones. + +A pleasant-faced, sweet-mannered woman responded to her knock, and +ushered her at once into a room just off the sitting-room, where Drayton +sat awaiting her. She ran to him with outstretched hands. + +“Now I can tell thee how glad I am to see thee,” she cried. “And oh, +John, do tell me of my mother! And father! How are they?” + +“Both are well,” he answered, “but they have grieved over your going +away. Why did you leave camp, Peggy?” + +“’Twas because of Harriet,” she told him. “She was a spy, John. They +would have hanged her had they found out that it was she who wrote that +note. And oh, what did General Washington say when he found me gone? It +hath been so long since then, and never a word could I hear.” + +“Well, he was pretty much cut up over it, and so were we all. Your +mother thought that Harriet must be at the bottom of the matter, and so +did I. Her boxes were searched, and some notes found that proved she was +a spy. Then, too, we made that fellow confess to everything he knew. You +remember him, Peggy? He accused you.” + +“Yes,” answered Peggy. “I remember, John. I can never forget how I felt +when he accused me of being the girl who gave him that letter. And it +wasn’t the same one at all.” + +“We got at the whole affair right well,” continued Drayton. “What we +could not understand was the fact that you came on to New York with your +cousin. Why did you?” + +“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “They brought me by force. I begged to +go back, but they wouldn’t let me.” Hereupon she told him the whole +story, ending with: “And Cousin William says that he had a score to +settle with me—and that was the reason he wanted me to come. John, thee +will tell the general that I could not help coming?” + +“Yes,” he said, with difficulty restraining his indignation. “Peggy, +Harriet would not have been hanged. They might have sent her out of the +lines, or even made her a prisoner, but they would not have hanged her. +Not but what she would have deserved it just as much as that poor fellow +who was hanged agreeable to his sentence, but being a girl would have +saved her.” + +“But thee said that it went hard with spies, whether they were men, +women, or girls even,” objected she. “And General Washington used almost +the same words.” + +“And so it does,” he replied, “but there are other punishments than +hanging. Never mind that now, Peggy. Let us plan to get away. I must +take the ox cart back into Jersey this afternoon. I have a pass for one +only, but I am to take back salt, coffee and flour. There is an empty +sack, and if you will hide within it we may be able to pass you as +merchandise. Will you try it, Peggy?” + +“I will do anything,” she declared excitedly. “It hath been so long! So +long, John, since I have seen mother that I am willing to attempt +anything.” + +“Wrap up well,” he advised her. “’Tis terrible weather, and be somewhere +among the trees as I come past the house. It will be about half-past +four, as it grows dark then, and the bags will not be so sharply +scrutinized. Once the cart is home we will have to run our chances of +getting to Morristown.” + +“John,” she cried as a sudden thought came to her, “there is some +movement on foot against the general. I did not think to tell thee +before. I know not what it is.” + +Drayton looked up quickly. + +“I wish we knew what it was,” he said. “There have been signs of an +action on the part of the British, but we have been unable to obtain an +inkling of what it could be. I would like right well to know.” + +“And so would I,” said she. + +“Go now,” he said rising. “You must not let them suspect there is +anything afoot, Peggy. I will move about in the city and see what I can +find out. Be sure to wrap up.” + +“I will,” she told him. “I hate to let thee go.” + +“’Tis only for a little while,” he answered. “’Twill be a hard journey +for you, Peggy, but your mother is at the end of it.” + +“Yes, yes,” she cried. “Mother is at the end.” + +Unable to speak further she turned and left him. The day was extremely +cold, and as she entered the house after the drive, and felt the warmth +of the fire, she became aware of a delicious drowsiness that was +stealing over her. + +“This will never do,” she exclaimed, trying to shake off the feeling. “I +must keep awake.” But try as she would her eyelids grew heavier until +finally she sought Harriet in the drawingroom. + +“Harriet,” she said, “will thee serve the dinner? I am so sleepy from +the drive that I must lie down a few moments. I know right well that I +should not give up, but——” + +“Nonsense,” cried Harriet crossly; “go lie down an you will, Peggy. One +would think to hear you talk that dinner could not be served without +you. ’Tis provoking the airs you give yourself! I dare say you will not +be missed.” + +“Thank thee, Harriet,” answered Peggy. “Thee will not find it irksome. +’Tis about ready.” The tired girl slipped down to the now empty +drawing-room. + +“I fear me I must hide if I want a minute to myself,” she thought, +gazing about the large room in search of a safe retreat. “And I must +have my wits about me to help John. If I can but close my eyes for a +moment, just a moment, I will be in proper trim.” Presently she spied +the large easy chair much affected by Colonel Owen, and she ran toward +it with an exclamation of delight. + +“’Tis the very thing!” she cried, drawing it to the most remote corner +of the room, and turning it about so that it faced the wall. “Now let +them find me if they can.” And so saying she ensconced herself in its +capacious recesses, and almost instantly fell asleep. + +“And you think the plan will not miscarry?” came the voice of the +commander-in-chief of the British forces in America. + +Peggy awoke with a start. Was she dreaming or did she in truth hear her +cousin say: + +“There is not the least chance of it, Sir Henry. The rebel general hath +his quarters full two miles from his main army, and owing to the cold +and the snow no danger is apprehended; so his guards are trifling. We +can easily slip upon him and be away with him before mishap can befall +us. Once we have possession of his person the whole rebellion falls to +the ground. It all depends upon him.” + +“True,” was the reply in musing tones. “Well, colonel, I have placed the +flower of the army at your disposal. But let this alert[[3]] succeed and +it shall be brought to His Majesty’s notice that ’tis you alone to whom +honor is due. ’Tis my hope that ’twill not fail.” + +“It cannot,” replied Colonel Owen in eager tones. “We leave at nightfall +by way of Newark. Just beyond Newark on the Morris turnpike lives one +Amos Henderson, who is favorable to us, and much laments this broil +against the king. He it is who will have a guide ready to take us to the +heights of Morristown. In twenty-four hours, sir, I will bring the rebel +general in person to your quarters.“ + +“I see not how it can fail,” remarked Sir Henry. “The utmost secrecy +hath been maintained concerning the matter. But did you not say that +dinner was served? That, sir, is a function with which nothing short of +a rebel attack should interfere. The plan of the new works, which +Montressor says you have, can be discussed afterward.” + +“Come, then,” said the colonel. + +Peggy slipped from the chair and running up-stairs quickly to her own +room, sat down to think. + +“I must not go with John,” was her decision. “He must get to the general +without delay. They said ’twould end the war if he were taken. And it +would. It would! I wonder what the time is?” + +It was but half-past two, and it seemed to the anxious girl as though +four o’clock, which was the time for Drayton’s appearance, would never +come. But at last she heard the clock in the hall chime out the hour, +and Peggy arose, wrapped herself warmly, and left the house quietly. The +snow was still falling. The numerous trees on the wide-spreading lawn, +as well as the huge snow-drifts, effectually hid the road from view of +the mansion. + +Peggy had scarcely taken her position near a bare thicket when she heard +the crunch of wheels over the snow, and soon the ox cart appeared down +the road. Drayton was whistling, and to all appearance was the +countryman he seemed. Peggy awaited him with impatience. + +“John,” she cried as the lad drew up opposite her, “John, there is an +alert planned to take General Washington. Cousin William starts at +nightfall for Morristown with a force to accomplish it.” + +“What?” exclaimed he. Peggy repeated her statement, and then quickly +told him the entire affair. + +“And thee must lose no time,” she said. “Go right on, John, quickly.” + +“And you, Peggy?” he cried. “Jump in and let us take the risk of getting +through together.” + +“No,” she said. “Thee must stop for nothing. ’Twould hinder thee in +getting to the general. Now go, John. ’Twill not be long ere the troops +gather here.” + +“But to leave you, Peggy,” he exclaimed. “I like it not. Were it not for +the chief I would not. It may be best. As you say there is need for +haste, but I will come again for you.” + +“No, no; ’tis too full of risk,” she said. “Go, John, go! I fear for +thee every moment that thee stays.” + +“I am going,” he said sorrowfully. “Tell me by which road this alert +goes?” + +“To Newark, and then by the Morris turnpike. They get a guide at Amos +Henderson’s,” she told him. + +“Good-bye,” he said. “I will come again for you, Peggy.” + +“Good-bye, John,” answered Peggy hardly able to speak. “And tell my +mother—my mother, John——” + +“Yes,” he said. They clasped hands. “Don’t worry, Peggy. This will be +the alert that failed.” + +Peggy waited until she could no longer hear his cheery whistle down the +road and then stole back into the house. + +Drayton was right. Four and twenty hours later the most disgruntled lot +of Britishers that the city ever beheld returned, fatigued and half +frozen from their fruitless quest. The famous alert from which so much +was hoped had failed. + +----- +[3] “Alert,” an old word meaning an attack. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI—THE BATTLE WITH THE ELEMENTS + + + “Southward with fleet of ice + Sailed the corsair Death; + Wild and fast blew the blast + And the east wind was his breath.” + + —Longfellow. + +“There is but one explanation to the whole thing,” growled Colonel Owen +the next morning. With the two girls for an audience he was voicing his +disappointment at the failure of the alert, and incidentally nursing a +frost-bitten foot. “And that is that the guide purposely led us astray.” + +“But why a guide at all, father?” questioned Harriet. “The highway is +easily followed.” + +“’Tis the snow,” he explained irritably. “All roads are buried under +four or more feet of it. Landmarks are obliterated and the forest but a +trackless waste. ’Tis no wonder the fellow lost his way, though, +methinks. ’Twas as though he knew our errand, and kept us floundering +among the drifts purposely.” + +“Belike he did,” observed Harriet. “What with Peggy feeding all the +rabble that comes along ’tis small wonder that your plots and plans +become known to the rebels. I bethought me the other day when she had +that teamster in the kitchen that he was a spy. Now I make no doubt of +it.” + +“What’s all this?” demanded her father sharply. “What teamster are you +talking about, Harriet?” + +“’Twas the man who brought the wood, Cousin William,” explained Peggy, +trying to speak quietly. “Harriet objected at the time to his being fed, +but ’twould have been unkind not to give him cheer when ’twas so cold.” + +“But that is no reason why you should talk with him,” sneered Harriet. +“I saw that parley you held when he was throwing off the wood.” + +“Did you talk to him, Peggy?” Colonel Owen regarded her keenly. + +“Why, yes,” she answered. “I went out to scold him because he was piling +the wood in such a way that it could not be measured.” + +“There was naught amiss about that,” he remarked with a relieved +expression. “Nor about the food either, if that was all there was to +it.” + +“But was it all?” queried Harriet. “The servants said that Peggy was +over-solicitous anent the fellow.” + +“Peggy!” Colonel Owen faced the maiden abruptly. “Let us have this +matter settled at once. You usually speak truth. Do so in this instance, +I beg of you. Was the wood and feeding the man all there was to the +affair?” + +Peggy did not reply. + +“There is more then,” he said. “Your silence speaks for you. I demand +now to know if this fellow was responsible for the failure of our plan +to captivate the rebel general?” + +But Peggy was not going to betray Drayton’s disguise if she could help +it, and neither would she speak an untruth. So she met her kinsman’s +glance with one as direct as his own as she answered, “I am to blame for +thy plan going amiss, Cousin William.” + +“You?” he exclaimed incredulously. “Why, you knew naught of it. I was +careful that even Harriet should not know it.” + +“I was in the drawing-room,” she told him boldly, “when thee and thy +commander were discussing the plan. I heard the whole plot. While the +dinner was being served I slipped out and sent word to the general.” + +“By whom?” he asked controlling his anger with difficulty. “By whom did +you send word?” + +“That, sir, I will not tell,” responded she resolutely. + +“And do you know what this action hath cost me?” he thundered, livid +with rage. “A knighthood and fortune. Was not the account long enough +betwixt us that you must add this to it? To come here and play the spy +in mine own house. ’Tis monstrous!” + +“I did not come here of my own accord,” she reminded him becoming very +pale. “If I have played the spy ’tis no more than thy daughter did for +many months in our house. I will gladly relieve thee of my presence at +any time that thee will let me go.” + +“You shall not go—now or at any time,” he stormed, his voice shaking in +its fury. “Moreover I shall put it out of your power to work any further +harm here. Sir Henry Clinton leaves for the South in a few days. I shall +go with him, and take you both with me.” + +“Oh, father!” wailed Harriet. “Not me?” + +“You too,” he answered. “You and this marplot of a girl, who hath +spoiled a most feasible plan of ending the rebellion.” He glared at +Peggy for a moment with a look that made her tremble and then stalked +out of the room. + +“Just see what you have done, Peggy Owen,” cried Harriet, her eyes +ablaze with wrath. “Now we’ll have to go I know not how far away, to +some old place where there is no fun. Just mind your own affairs after +this, will you?” + +“No,” replied Peggy stoutly, though her heart swelled at the thought of +going upon a journey that would take her further away from home. Like +most girls of the period she was hazy about the geography of the +country, and the South seemed an indefinite somewhere a long way off. +“No, Harriet, my affairs are those of the rebels, as thee calls them. If +at any time I hear aught planned either against them or the general, and +’tis in my power to warn them, I tell thee frankly that I shall do so.” + +“I shall go right to father with that,” cried Harriet, and in turn she +flounced out of the room. + +In spite of her brave words, however, Peggy’s tears fell like rain as +she slipped down to the stable and flung her arms about Star’s neck. + +“Oh, Star, Star!” she sobbed. “I’ll never see mother again, I fear me. +Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” + +Sir Henry Clinton was to set sail for Savannah, Georgia, which had +fallen into the hands of the British in December of the preceding year. +The province, after being overrun by the army in an incursion of savage +warfare, appeared to be restored to the crown, and now Charleston was to +be taken and South Carolina restored to its allegiance by the same +method. North Carolina and Virginia were to follow in turn, and the +campaign in the South concluded by a triumphal march back through +Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey, until Washington would be +between the two British armies. Then, with an attack from New York +simultaneous with one from the rear, the Continentals would be swept out +of existence. This, in brief, was the British plan of campaign for the +ensuing year, and the English commander-in-chief was setting forth for +its accomplishment. + +Colonel Owen’s determination to go with his chief seemed to grow firmer +the more Harriet pleaded with him to stay, and the day after Christmas +they set sail in the schooner “Falcon.” Reinforced by Admiral Arbuthnot +with new supplies of men and stores from England the British were +jubilantly sure of success, and set forth with their transports under +convoy of five ships of the line. + +“We shall have our horses with us, anyway,” declared Harriet, who +brightened up wonderfully once they were under way, and addressing Peggy +with the first gleam of good humor that she had shown since it had been +decided that they should accompany her father. “I saw to it that they +were sent aboard with the cavalry horses, on one of the transports. I +dare say there will be a chance for rides. At any rate ’twill not be so +cold as it hath been in New York.” + +“I suppose not,” agreed Peggy sadly. She was calling all her resolution +to aid her to bear this new trial. + +The early part of the voyage was extremely fortunate. The sea was +smooth, the sky clear, the air sharp but kindly. To Peggy’s surprise she +was not at all sick, and her spirits rose in spite of her sorrow at her +separation from her mother. With the closing in of the night of the +fourth day out, however, they fell in with foul winds and heavy weather. +The wind began to whirl, and the sea to lift itself and dash spray over +the schooner until the decks were as glassy as a skating pond. The +temperature fell rapidly. All day Sunday the ships went on under this +sort of weather which was not at all unusual for the time of year, but +the next day the weather began to quiet, and the waves sank gradually to +a long swell through which the vessels went with ease. + +The whole surface of the sea was like a great expanse of molten silver +which shimmered and sparkled under the rays of the wintry sun. The +prospect was now for a smooth voyage, and the sailormen scraped the ice +from rail and deck, and the passengers who had been confined to the +cabin now came on deck and raced about like children under the influence +of the pure air. The sky was very clear above, but all around the +horizon a low haze lay upon the water. + +“Isn’t this glorious, Peggy?” cried Harriet dancing about the deck like +a wind sprite. “After all, there is nothing like the sea.” + +“’Tis wonderful,” answered Peggy with awe in her tone. The vast spread +of the waters, the immensity of the sky, the intense silence through +which the creaking of the boats as they swung at the davits, and the +straining of the shrouds as the ship rolled sounded loud and clear, all +appealed to her sense of the sublime. + +“I hope ’twill be as fine as this all the way to Georgia,” said Harriet. +“And that seems to be the prospect.” + +The captain of the vessel, a bluff Englishman, was passing at the moment +and caught the last remark. He paused beside the maidens. + +“It won’t be fine long,” he declared gruffly. “With a ground swell and a +sinking temperature always look for squalls. Look there at the north!” +The haze on the horizon to the north was rather thicker than elsewhere, +and a few thin streaky clouds straggled across the clear, cold heavens. +It told nothing to the girls, but the skipper’s face grew grave, and he +hurried forward to give some commands. + +“Furl topsails!” he shouted to the mate, “and have the mainsails reefed +down!” + +“Ay, ay, sir,” came the response, and instantly the men began hauling at +the halliards, or sprang to the yards above to tuck away the great sails +making all snug for the coming storm. + +Even Peggy, unused to the sea as she was, could see that a storm was +about to burst upon them. The north was now one great rolling black +cloud with an angry ragged fringe which bespoke the violence of the wind +that drove it. The whole great mass was sweeping onward with majestic +rapidity, darkening the ocean beneath it. + +“Get below there,” shouted the captain as he suddenly caught sight of +the two girls still standing on deck watching the approach of the storm +with fascinated eyes. “Get below, I say! D’ye want to be blowed away? +Here she comes!” + +As he spoke the wind broke in all its fury. The schooner heeled over +until her lee rail touched the water, and lay so for a moment in a +smother of foam. Gradually she rose a little, staggered and trembled +like a living thing, and then plunged away through the storm. + +It was a wild and dreary night that followed. Shut in the dark of the +cabin Peggy and Harriet clung to each other, or to lockers, to keep from +being dashed across the floor of the tossing vessel. All night long +there was no chance for sleep. Every moment it seemed as though the ship +must go down at the next onslaught of the waves. + +“I like not to be mewed up like this,” objected Harriet when there came +a chance for speech. “I like the feel of the wind and the hail and the +spray.” + +“Is thee not afraid, Harriet?” questioned Peggy. + +“I am, down here,” answered her cousin. “I can stand any danger best +that I can face. But they will not let us up. We might be swept away +even if we could stand. And listen to the shouts, Peggy. There must be +something amiss.” + +And so on all through the long night. The dawn broke at last and brought +with it a slight abatement of the tempest, but with the lessening gale +came a new form of assault. The air was colder. A heavy fog rolled up +and through it came a blinding snow-storm, fairly choking the deck of +the ship. + +For three days the girls were confined to the cabin, with but biscuits +to nibble on. The fourth the wind fell at last, leaving the vessel +rudderless and dismasted, and heaving on vast billows. + +“There is but one hope for us,” said Colonel Owen as he explained the +damage to the girls, “and that is to be picked up by another vessel.” + +“Is it so bad as that, father?” questioned his daughter. + +“Yes,” he answered gloomily. + +But over the inky shroud of the ocean white capped and furious there +shone no sign of a sail. The snow had ceased falling, but it was +bitterly cold. The fifth and sixth days they tossed helplessly, but on +the seventh day Peggy turned to her cousin with a startled query. + +“Harriet,” she cried, “does thee hear that throbbing sound? What is it?” + +Harriet Owen paled as she listened. “That, Peggy,” she said after a +moment, “is the noise of the pumps. The ship hath sprung a leak.” + +At this moment Colonel Owen came from the deck. He was visibly pale, and +much troubled in manner. “Wrap yourselves as warmly as possible,” he +advised them. “’Tis but a question of time now ere we must take to the +boats, and there is no telling to what ye may be subjected before +reaching land, if in truth we ever tread foot on solid ground again. +Hasten!” + +His warning was well timed; for, as he ceased speaking, there came +hoarse shouts from above, a rush of hurrying feet, and the chugging of +the pumps stopped. He ran up the hatchway, and was back almost +instantly. “The boats are being lowered,” he informed them. “Throw what +you can about you and come. If we dally we may be left behind. Men +become beasts in a time like this.” + +The girls obeyed him with the utmost haste. They were both colorless, +but composed. On deck a wild scene was being enacted. The ship no longer +rose to the waves, and even to an inexperienced eye was settling. That +it was time to lower the boats was plain to be seen. The captain was +trying to preserve something like order among the crew, but the hour for +discipline had gone by. + +“Women first,” he was crying in trumpet tones. “Men, remember your wives +and daughters. Would ye have them left as ye are leaving these?” + +But over the side of the vessel the men scrambled with fierce cries and +imprecations, paying no heed either to his commands or pleadings. They +swarmed into the boats, fighting for places like wild animals. The frail +barks went down to the water loaded until the gunwales were lapped by +the smallest waves. The skipper turned to Colonel Owen. + +“The dingey is left, sir,” he said. “If you will help me to defend it +from the rest of these brutes, we may be able to get these girls into +it.” + +“I will do my utmost,” rejoined the colonel. “Harriet, do you and Peggy +stand behind me. When the boat is lowered be ready to get into it as +soon as the captain speaks.” + +Colonel Owen faced the few remaining men with drawn pistols as the boat +was let down. The first mate took his place, and stood ready to receive +the maidens. + +“Go, Harriet,” said her father. But to Peggy’s amazement her cousin +turned to her, crying, “You first, Peggy! You first!” + +“But,” cried Peggy her heart flooded with sudden warmth at this +unlooked-for solicitude, “I cannot leave thee, Harriet. I——” + +“Stop that nonsense!” exclaimed Colonel Owen gruffly. “We have no time +for it. Get into the boat at once.” + +Without further comment Peggy permitted herself to be handed down into +the boat, and as she reached it in safety she looked expectantly up for +Harriet to follow. At that moment came a hoarse cry from the skipper. + +“Cast off, Mr. Davy! Cast off! You’ll be swamped.” + +The mate pulled away just as half a dozen frantic seamen leaped from the +deck toward the boat. The swirl of the waters caught it, turning it +round and round by the force. With a great effort he succeeded in +sending it out of the eddy just in time to avoid being drawn under by +the drowning seamen. Again making a strenuous effort to get beyond their +reach he sent the dingey scudding to westward, was caught by a current, +and carried further away from the vessel. + +“What is it?” asked Peggy as she caught a glimpse of his whitening face. + +“God help them,” broke from him. “We are caught in the current and can’t +get back to the ‘Falcon.’” + +[Illustration: THE DINGEY WAS CAUGHT BY A CURRENT] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII—A HAVEN AFTER THE STORM + + + “Safe through the war her course the vessel steers, + The haven gained, the pilot drops his fears.” + + —Shirley. + +“We must,” burst from Peggy, springing up wildly. “Oh, friend, can’t +thee do something? We must not leave them.” + +“Sit still,” commanded the mate sharply. “Why, look you! We can’t even +see the ‘Falcon’ for the fog.” + +It was true. Already the hapless “Falcon” had been swallowed up by the +dense veil of vapor. It was as if the doomed vessel had been cut off +from all the open sea, and its fate hidden in the clinging curtain of +black obscurity. + +The girl uttered a low cry, and sank back to her place in the sheets +covering her face with her hands. Colonel Owen and Harriet had been +unkind. They had been selfish almost to cruelty in their treatment of +her, but in this hour of what she believed to be certain death to them +she forgot everything but that they were kinspeople. + +The sea was running very high. Now that they were so near its surface +they felt its full power. It had appeared stupendous when they were on +the deck of the schooner, but now the great billows hurled them up and +down, and tossed and buffeted them as though the boat was a plaything. +Vainly the mate tried to steady it with the oars. + +A long time Peggy sat so absorbed in grief for her cousins that she was +oblivious to the peril of the situation. At length, however, she looked +up, and the dreadful isolation and danger of the position appalled her. +Only that little boat between them and the great Atlantic. + +“I am cold,” she exclaimed, when she could bear it no longer. “Sir,” to +the mate, who was making tremendous effort with the oars, “is there +naught that will keep me from freezing?” + +“No,” answered he shortly, turning his set face toward her for a moment. +Its tense lines relaxed at sight of the girlish figure. “Stay! I have +it. Come, and row a while. You will be wetter than ever, but ’twill warm +you a bit.” + +Without a question Peggy gladly took the place by his side, and began to +scull as vigorously as her numbed fingers would permit with the oar he +gave her. She was not of much assistance, but the exercise served to +warm her chilled frame, and to divert her attention from their peril. + +In this manner the day went on, the wind died down, and the sea fell to +a low, glassy, foam-flecked roll, while overhead brooded the inky sky, +and round them was the leaden mist of the enveloping fog. Suddenly the +mate stopped rowing, and raised his head as though listening. + +“It’s land,” he shouted. “Land, to the westward!” He listened again +intently, and added solemnly: “And it’s breakers too, God help us!” + +Peggy listened breathlessly. The air was full of sound, a low, deep +roar, like the roll of a thousand wheels, the tramp of endless armies, +or—what it was—the thunder of a mighty surge upon a pebbly ridge. Louder +and nearer grew the sound. The mate’s face whitened, and Peggy sat +erect, full of terror at the unknown danger that confronted them. + +“I must pull,” he cried, sweeping her back to her place in the sheets. +“I must pull,” he cried again as the fog lifted and the dim outline of a +shore line became visible. “It’s a race with death, little girl, but we +may be the victors.” + +With mighty strokes he sent the dingey ahead into the boiling surf. A +great wave caught the little shallop upon its broad bosom and flung it +upon the reef which lay concealed in the foam. There was a horrible +rending crash as the stout keel snapped asunder, while a second wave +swept over it, sweeping out the struggling occupants, and bearing them +onward. + +Peggy knew naught of swimming, and so made no attempt to strike out. She +felt the water surging into her ears like a torrent of ice. She felt +that she was sinking down, down as if a great weight held her +remorselessly. This was death, she thought, and as the pain in her lungs +increased, visions passed swiftly through her brain. Where was the mate, +she wondered. A race with death, he had said. And death was the victor +after all. Her mother’s face flashed before her. She was dying and she +would never know. And Sally! And Betty! And Robert! What times they had +had! Would they grieve, when they knew? But they would never know. + +There was no hope. She must be resigned, came the thought, and so she +ceased to struggle just as a huge roller came surging over the outlying +reef. It caught her and bore her onward on its crest. Peggy closed her +eyes. + +“The pore child! She’s coming to at last,” sounded a kindly voice, and +Peggy opened her eyes and gazed into the anxious orbs of an elderly +woman who was bending over her. “There now, you pore dear! Don’t stir. +Just drink this, and go to sleep.” + +A cup of something hot was held to her lips. She drank it obediently and +sank back too utterly exhausted to even wonder where she was. She was in +a warm, dry bed. There was a caress in the touch of the hands that +ministered to her which penetrated through the stupor which was stealing +over her, and with a sigh of content, she turned over and slept. + +The recollections of the next few days were always thereafter dim to her +mind. She knew that an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, was in the +room frequently, but to speak or to move her limbs was quite impossible. +But on the fourth day she was better. The fifth she could speak, move, +rise in bed and turn, and when the woman brought some gruel in the +middle of the day Peggy ate it with a relish. She felt strong and +revived, and a desire for action stirred her. She wished to rise, and +sat up suddenly. + +“I believe if thee will help me I will get up,” she said. + +“Sakes alive, child! air you able?” cried the woman in alarm. + +“Yes,” said Peggy stoutly. “And I have troubled thee greatly, I fear.” + +“Why, you little storm-tossed bird,” exclaimed the woman, “don’t you go +for to call it trouble. Me and Henry just feel as though you was sent to +us. Well, if you will get up, here are your clothes.” She brought Peggy +her own things, clean and dry, and proceeded to help her dress. “There, +you do look better now you are dressed. Let me help you to the kitchen.” + +She put her arm about the maiden, and drew her gently across the room to +the one beyond which was kitchen and living-room as well. It was a large +room with a sanded floor clean scoured, a high backed settle, a deal +table, a dresser with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the +redness and radiance of a glowing fire in a huge fireplace. The woman +bustled about hospitably. + +“You must have something to eat,” she declared. “You’ve had naught but +gruel for so long that you must be hungry.” + +“I am,” replied Peggy, watching her in a maze of content. Presently she +sat up as a thought came to her. “Friend,” she cried, “how came I here?” + +“Why, Henry brought you,” responded the woman. “It was after the big +storm. We ain’t seen such a storm in years. Henry’s my husband. He’s a +fisherman, as mayhap you’ve surmised. That is, he fishes for food, but I +reckon you might call him a wrecker too,” she added with a smile. “Well, +as I was saying, he was down on the beach when you was washed up by the +waves. He thought you was dead at first, but when you got up, and tried +to walk he just ran over to you as you fell and brought you right up to +the house. Land! but we thought you was never coming to! But you did, +and now you’ll be all right in a day or two.” + +“How good thee has been,” said Peggy gratefully. “Why, thou and thy +husband have saved my life. I was so cold in the water and I—I was +drowning. Then that terrible wave threw me——” She paused shuddering at +the remembrance. + +“Dear heart, don’t think about it,” exclaimed the good dame hastening to +her. “Here, child, eat this piece of chicken. It will hearten you up +more than anything. After a bit mayhap you can tell me about yourself. +But not a word until every bite of chicken is gone.” + +Peggy smiled at the good woman’s insistence, but did not refuse the +chicken. Her appetite was awakened and keen, and she ate the piece with +such a relish that her hostess was well pleased. “There now! you look +better already,” she declared. “Henry will be glad to see it. He takes a +heap of interest in the folks he saves. I reckon he’s saved more lives +than any man on the coast of North Carolina.” + +“Is this North Carolina?” asked Peggy. + +“Yes; and this is Fisherman’s Inlet, near the Cape Fear River. What ship +did you say you was on?” + +“’Twas the schooner ‘Falcon,’ from New York,” Peggy told her. “It was +one of the vessels with Sir Henry Clinton, who set forth to attack +Charleston.” + +The woman’s face darkened ominously. “And you air a Tory, of course, +being as you air a Quaker and with a British ship?” she said +questioningly. + +“I? Oh, no, no!” cried Peggy quickly. “Why, my father is David Owen of +the Pennsylvania Light Horse. He is with the Continental army. I am a +patriot, but I was captured and taken to New York City, where I have +been since the last day of February of last year. It’s nearly a year,” +she ended, her lips quivering. + +“You don’t say!” ejaculated the woman. “Then you must be a prisoner of +war?” + +“I know not that I would be truly a prisoner of war,” answered Peggy, +“for ’twas my father’s cousin who captured me. I will tell thee all +about it.” + +“You pore child,” exclaimed the woman, who ceased her work as Peggy +unfolded her story, and listened with wide-eyed attention. “What a lot +you’ve been through! I’m glad that you’re not one of them English.” + +“And is thee a Whig?” asked Peggy. + +“As I said, we air fisher folks, and don’t mingle in politics. We don’t +wish harm to nobody, English or any other. Why, even though we air +wreckers we always pray for the poor sailors in a storm, but we pray too +that if there air any wrecks they will be washed up on Fisherman’s +Inlet.” + +A ripple of laughter rose to Peggy’s lips, but she checked it instantly. +“How can I laugh,” she reproached herself, “when ’tis but a few days +since I was on the ship? And the others have all perished, I doubt not.” + +“Don’t think about it,” advised the dame. “Laugh if you can. A light +heart is the only way to bear trouble. ’Tis a just punishment that they +should be drowned.” + +“But if Harriet had not made me go first I would not have been here,” +said Peggy her voice growing tender at the mention of her cousin. All +the old love and admiration for Harriet had returned with that act. + +“I wonder,” she added presently, “if ’twould be possible for me to get +to Philadelphia from here?” + +“Philadelphia! I am afraid not, child. You don’t know the way, and I +doubt if ’twould be safe to try it. Get strong first, and mayhap +something will turn up that will help you to get there.” + +“Yes,” said Peggy. “I must get strong first.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII—A TASTE OF PARTISAN WARFARE + + + “It was too late to check the wasting brand, + And Desolation reap’d the famish’d land; + The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, + And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead.” + + —“Count Lara,” Byron. + +While they were conversing the fisherman himself entered. He was a man +of middle age, much bronzed by exposure to weather, but with a kindly +gleam in his keen gray eyes. Peggy rose as he entered, and started +forward to meet him. + +“Thy wife tells me that I owe thee my life, sir,” she said, extending +her hand. “I don’t know how to tell thee how much I thank thee.” + +“Then don’t try,” he replied, taking her little hand awkwardly. “Now +don’t stand up, my girl. You’re like a ghost. Ain’t she, Mandy?” + +“Yes,” responded his wife. “And what do you think, Henry? She was on one +of the ships that started from New York with Sir Henry Clinton for +Georgia. They intend making another attempt to take Charleston.” + +The fisherman’s brow contracted in a frown. “So they air a-going to +bring the war down here?” he remarked thoughtfully. “That’s bad news. +Was there many ships?” + +“Five of the line, and I don’t know how many transports with men, +ordnance and horses,” answered Peggy. + +“Mayhap they’re all foundered by that storm,” exclaimed the dame. +“’Twould be a mercy if they was.” + +“Mandy,” spoke her husband, in a warning tone. + +“She’s a Whig, Henry Egan, and her father’s in the Continental army,” +explained the good woman. “And what’s more, she’s a prisoner of war, +too. Jest you tell him about it.” + +And Peggy told again all her little story. When she spoke of the time +spent in the camp of the main army, the fisherman became intensely +interested. + +“And so you know General Washington?” he remarked smiling. “How does he +look? We all air mighty proud of him down here. You see he comes from +this part of the country. Jest over here in Virginny. A next door +neighbor, you might call him.” + +And Peggy told all she could about General Washington, about such of his +generals as she had met, the movements of the army, and everything +connected with her stay in New York. Nor was this the last telling. + +North Carolina, while intensely patriotic as a whole and responding +liberally to the country’s demand for troops and supplies, had +heretofore had but one slight incursion from the British. For this +reason they were eager to hear from one who had been in the midst of the +main armies, and who seemed to come as a direct messenger from that +far-off Congress whose efforts to sustain a central government were +becoming so woefully weak. + +So Peggy found herself the centre of a little circle, composed of true +and tried Whigs whose leaning toward the cause had more than once +brought them into conflict with neighboring Tories. + +The cottage was situated on a small inlet of the ocean a few miles east +of the Cape Fear River. A little distance from the main shore a low +yellow ridge of sand hills stretched like a serpent, extending nearly +the full length of the state on the ocean side, and making the coast the +dread of mariners. These reefs were called “the banks.” The cottage was +an unpretentious structure, consisting of but three rooms: the +living-room or kitchen, a little chamber for Peggy, and a larger one +occupied by the fisherman and his wife. But the fisherman had grown rich +from wreckage. He had a number of beef cattle, and herded “banker +ponies” by the hundred. + +Peggy grew fond of him and of the wife, and assisted in all the duties +of the simple household. And so the time went by, and then there came to +them rumors of the British fleet which had at last landed its forces for +the besieging of Charleston. + +Anxiously the result was awaited. North Carolina rushed men to the city +to help in its defense, for if that fell it was but a question of time +until their own state would suffer invasion. At last, Henry Egan betook +himself to Wilmington, thirty miles distant, for news. On his return his +brow was overcast with melancholy. + +“Charleston is taken,” he announced in gloomy tones. “The whole of +General Lincoln’s army air prisoners. The British air overrunning all +South Carolina, plundering and burning the house of every Whig, and +trying to force every man in the state to join their army. The Tories in +both states air rising, and I tell you, wife, it won’t be long until our +time comes.” + +“I am afraid so,” answered Mistress Egan, turning pale. “Oh, Henry, I +wish we was up to mother’s at Charlotte. We would be safe up there.” + +“I don’t know, Mandy. It seems as though there was no place safe from +the British. It might be best to go up there, but I’d never reach there +with the ponies. The people air a-hoping that Congress will send us some +help from the main army. The state hasn’t anything now but milish. ’Tis +said in Wilmington that Sir Henry returns soon to New York, leaving Lord +Cornwallis to complete the subjugation of the South. He publicly boasts +that North Carolina will receive him with open arms.” + +“Belike the Tories will,” remarked the good dame sarcastically. “I +reckon he’ll find a few that won’t be so overjoyed. Mayhap too they’ll +give him a welcome of powder and ball.” + +But the reports that came to them from time to time of the atrocities +committed by the British in the sister state were far from reassuring. +Events followed each other in rapid succession. Georgetown, Charleston, +Beaufort and Savannah were the British posts on the sea; while Augusta, +Ninety-six, and Camden were those of the interior. From these points +parties went forth, gathering about them profligate ruffians, and roamed +the state indulging in rapine, and ready to put patriots to death as +outlaws. The Tories in both the Carolinas rose with their masters, and +followed their lead in plundering and arson. + +“I do wish, Henry,” said his wife, “that you would sell off all the beef +cattle and marsh ponies that you have. We’ll be getting a visit along +with the rest of the folks. I reckon, if you don’t.” + +“Everything is all right,” cried Henry who had just returned from +Wilmington. “Tidings jest come that Congress has sent General Gates to +take command of the Southern army, and they say he’s advancing as fast +as he can.” + +“Well, it wouldn’t do no hurt to get rid of the critters anyway,” +persisted his wife. “A lot of harm can be done before Gates gets here.” + +“I tell you everything is all right now,” said Henry exultingly. “Just +let Horatio Gates get a whack at Cornwallis, and he’ll Burgoyne him jest +as he did the army at Saratoga.” + +“I wish it was General Arnold who was coming,” said Peggy. She had never +felt confidence in General Gates since John Drayton had related his +version of that battle. The exposure of the “Conway Cabal” had lessened +her faith in him also, as it had that of many people. “General Arnold +was the real hero of Saratoga. He and Daniel Morgan; so I’ve heard.” + +“Well, I ain’t saying nothing against Arnold,” was the fisherman’s +answer. “He’s a brave man, dashing and brilliant; but if Congress hadn’t +thought that Gates was the man for us they wouldn’t have sent him down.” + +Peggy said no more. The climax came in August when, utterly routed at +Camden, Gates fled alone from his army into Charlotte. A few days later, +Sumter, who now commanded the largest force that remained in the +Carolinas, was surprised by Colonel Tarleton as he bivouacked on the +Wateree, and put to rout by that officer. Elated by his success +Cornwallis prepared for his northward march, and in furtherance of his +plans inaugurated a reign of terror. + +One night in the latter part of August Peggy could not sleep. It was +very warm, and she rose and went out on the little porch where she stood +trying to get a breath of air. The sea moved with a low murmur, the surf +being very light. + +“How warm it is,” she mused. “Even the sea is quiet to-night. How +different it is down here from my own Philadelphia. Is mother there now, +I wonder? Or would she be at Strawberry Hill? I wish——” + +She bent her head abruptly in a listening attitude. The tramp of a horse +approaching in a gallop was plainly heard. But a few moments elapsed +before a man, who in the starlight she could see was armed, dashed up +and drew rein before the cottage calling loudly: + +“Awake! Awake, Henry Egan! The British and Tories are coming. Awake, +man, awake!” + +“Friend,” called the girl excitedly, “who is thee?” + +“A friend. Jack Simpson,” he answered. “Is Egan dead, that he does not +answer? He must awake.” + +Peggy ran to the door of the bedchamber, calling wildly: + +“Friend Henry, Friend Mandy, awake, awake!” + +“Who calls?” cried Egan, sitting up suddenly. + +“’Tis Peggy,” answered she quickly. “A friend is here who says the +Tories are coming.” + +“The Lord have mercy on us,” ejaculated Mistress Egan springing out of +bed. “Henry, Henry, get up! The British and Tories are upon us.” + +At last awake, the fisherman sprang from his bed, and rushed to the +door. + +“Get your wife and whatever you want to save,” shouted the man outside. +“The British are out with Fanning’s Tories burning every suspected house +in the district. No time to lose, Henry. They’re coming now.” + +Egan hurried back into the house, and caught up a portmanteau which he +kept lying by his bed at night. Mistress Egan and Peggy were dressed by +this time, and the three hurried into the swamp which lay to the north +of the cottage. The man who had given the warning passed on to perform +the same office for other menaced families. + +Unused to swamps, the British seldom followed the inhabitants into their +recesses, and this proved the safety of many a family in the Carolinas. +They were scarcely within the confines of the marsh when they heard the +tramp of many hoofs, the neighing of horses, and the enemy was at the +cottage. + +“By my hilt, the birds have flown,” shouted an English voice, and the +words were distinctly heard through the stillness of the night. “Search +the house, boys. Egan must have some rich pickings. Bring out whatever +there is of value, and then burn the hut. The horses and cattle must be +hereabouts somewhere.” + +There followed hoarse cries and a rush for the building. It seemed to +Peggy that a moment had hardly passed before a red glare lit up the spot +where the cottage stood. + +“Back into the swamp,” whispered Egan in a whisper. “They may see us +here.” + +Back into thicknesses of morass such as Peggy had never seen before they +went, speaking only when necessary and then in the lowest of tones. And +thus the rest of the night was spent, while the fiends ravaged the +herding pens, and beat up the bushes for the ponies. The fugitives +remained in hiding until morning dawned. Then they made their way back +to the blackened ruins of the cottage. Tears coursed down Peggy’s cheeks +at the sight. + +“What shall thee do?” she cried putting her arms about Mistress Egan. +“Oh, what shall thee do?” + +For a moment the fisherman’s wife could not speak. She shed no tears, +but her face was worn, and drawn, and haggard. She had aged in the +night. + +“Henry,” she cried, “there is but one thing for us to do, and that is to +get to mother’s.” + +“And how shall we do that, Mandy? We have neither horse nor wagon left +us.” + +“Henry Egan, I’m ashamed of you! Ain’t we in North Carolina? When did +her people ever refuse to aid each other?” + +“You’re right,” he acknowledged humbly. “North Carolina is all right—but +the Tories. I don’t take no stock in that part of her population.” + +“And neither do I,” she rejoined grimly. “From this time on I am a Whig +out and aboveboard. They have done us all the harm they can, I reckon. +What you got in that bag, Henry?” + +Egan smiled. + +“It’s gold, Mandy. I reckon they didn’t find all the pickings.” + +“For mercy sake, Henry Egan, we can’t get through the country with +that,” exclaimed the good woman. “Bury it, or do something with it.” + +“Yes,” he said. “That will be the safest. Wait for me while I do it.” He +was with them again in a short time. “We will go to Hampton’s and get +something to eat,” he said. “I kept a little money, and maybe Mis’ +Hampton will let us have some horses.” He turned as he spoke and his +wife started after him, but Peggy lingered. + +“Come, child,” said Mistress Egan. “It’s a right smart way over to +Hampton’s. We must get along.” + +“But,” hesitated Peggy, “won’t I be a burden now? I ought not to add to +thy trouble.” + +“Why, honey, you have nowhere to go. What would you do? Now don’t worry +about trouble, but just come right along. We will all keep together. +What’s ourn is yours too.” And gratefully Peggy went with them. It was +indeed a “right smart way” to Hampton’s, which proved to be a large +plantation lying some ten miles from the cottage. It was a cloudless day +in August, and excessively warm. When they at length reached the place +they were footsore and weary. + +“Why, Mandy Egan,” exclaimed a motherly looking woman, coming to the +door of the dwelling as she caught sight of them. “Whatever has +happened? Come right in. You all look ready to drop.” + +Mistress Egan, who had borne up wonderfully all through the long night +and the wearing walk, now broke down at this kindly greeting. + +“The Tories, under some British, burnt us out last night,” explained her +husband. “They sacked the house first, of course, and ran off all the +ponies and cattle. We have come to you for help, Martha. Will you let us +have the horses to get up to Charlotte to her mother’s?” + +“Of course I will, Henry. All sorts of reports are flying about. Will +says that down at Wilmington ’tis thought that nothing can save the old +north state. Cornwallis hath already begun his march toward us.” + +“Heaven save us if ’tis true,” ejaculated the fisherman, sinking into a +chair. “First Lincoln and his whole army at Charleston; then Gates and +his forces at Camden! Two armies in three months swept out of existence. +The cause is doomed.” + +“Oh, if they had only sent General Arnold,” cried Peggy. “He is so +brave, so daring, I just know he could have saved us.” + +Gravely, oppressed by vague fears for the future, they gathered about +the table. American freedom trembled in the balance. Disaster had +followed fast upon disaster. Georgia, South Carolina restored to the +British—North Carolina’s turn to be subjugated was at hand. + +It was with sad forebodings that the three began their journey toward +the north early the next morning. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX—PEGGY FINDS AN OLD FRIEND + + + “One hope survives, the frontier is not far, + And thence they may escape from native war, + And bear within them to the neighboring state + An exile’s sorrows, or an outlaw’s hate: + Hard is the task their fatherland to quit, + But harder still to perish or submit.” + + —Byron. + +The travel northward was by slow stages, on account of the intense heat +of the lowlands. The settlements along the Cape Fear River were composed +principally of Scotch Highlanders, who were favorable to the side of the +king, and these the fisherman’s little party avoided by leaving the road +and making a wide détour through the woods. But often in the gloaming of +the summer evenings the weird notes of the bagpipes sounding old +Highland tunes would mingle with the mournful calls of the +whip-poor-wills, producing such an effect of sadness that Peggy was +oft-times moved to tears. + +Still, these regions were not deserted. They sometimes came across +numerous groups of women and children—desolated families, victims of +Tory ravages, who were fleeing like hunted game through the woods to the +more friendly provinces northward. It was a great relief when they +finally reached the undulating country of the uplands, and, after a week +of hard riding, the town of Charlotte, to the left of which, on the road +leading to Beattie’s Ford on the Catawba River, lay the plantation and +mill of William and Sarah Sevier, parents of Mistress Egan. + +They were unpolished people in many ways, but so kindly and hospitable +that Peggy felt at home at once. The community was famed for its love of +liberty, and was later denounced by Cornwallis as “a hornet’s nest.” It +was here, five years previous to this time, that the spirit of +resistance to tyranny found expression in the famous “Mecklenburg +resolutions.” In this congenial environment Peggy was as near to +happiness as it was possible for her to be so far from her kindred. One +thing that added to her felicity was the fact that Charlotte was +directly on the route running through Virginia and thence north to +Philadelphia, which before the Revolution had been used as a stage line. + +“If only I had Star,” she would cry wistfully, “I would try to get home. +If only I had Star!” + +One morning in the early autumn Mistress Egan called Peggy, and said to +her, in much the same manner that her mother would have used: + +“I want you to put on your prettiest frock, Peggy. Ma’s going to have a +company here for the day. The men are to help pa gather the corn while +the women take off a quilt. The young folks will come to-night for the +corn-husking, but I reckon there won’t be a girl that can hold a candle +to my little Quakeress. The boys will all want you to find the red ear.” + +Peggy laughed. + +“Is that the reason there hath been so much cooking going on, Friend +Mandy? Methought there was a deal of preparation just for the family.” + +“There’s a powerful sight to be done yet,” observed Mistress Egan. + +“Then do let me help,” pleaded Peggy. “Thee spoils me. Truly thee does. +Why, at home I helped mother in everything.” + +The guests came early, as was the custom when there was work to be done. +The men rode horseback with their wives behind them on pillions, and +with rifles held in the hollow of their left arms; for it was the +practice in those trying times to bear arms even upon visits of business +or friendship. Soon a company of two score or more had gathered at the +farmhouse. Greetings exchanged, the men hastened to the cornfields to +gather the new corn, while the women clustered about the quilting +frames, and fingers plied the needles busily, while tongues clacked a +merry accompaniment. + +The morning passed quickly, and at noon the gay party had just seated +themselves around the table where a bountiful dinner steamed, when they +were startled by a shout from the yard. + +“Fly for your lives, men! The British are coming to forage.” + +Instantly the men sprang for their rifles and accoutrements. Inured to +danger and alarms, the women were as quick to act as their husbands. +Some of them ran to the stables and led forth the horses, which they +saddled hastily, ready for service; while others gathered up whatever +objects of value they could carry. With marvelous celerity the men +placed the women and servants on the horses by twos and threes, bidding +them to betake themselves to neighbors who were more remote from the +main road. They themselves had scarcely time for concealment in a deep +thicket and swamp which bordered one extremity of the farm before the +British videttes were in sight. These halted upon the brow of a hill for +the approach of the main body, and then in complete order advanced to +the plantation. + +After reconnoitering the premises, and finding no one present, but all +appearances of the hasty flight of the occupants, the dragoons +dismounted, tethered their horses and detailed a guard. Some +sumpter-horses were harnessed to farm wagons, and some of the troopers +began to load them with various products of the fields; while military +baggage wagons under charge of a rear guard gradually arrived, and were +employed in the gathering of the new corn, carrying off stacks of oats +and the freshly pulled corn fodder. + +Enjoying the prospect of free living the soldiers shouted joyously among +their plunder. Separate parties, regularly detailed, shot down and +butchered the hogs and calves, while others hunted and caught the +poultry of different descriptions. In full view of this scene stood the +commander of the British forces, a portly, florid Englishman, one hand +on each side the doorway of the farmhouse, where the officers were +partaking of the abundant provisions provided for the guests of Mistress +Sevier. + +Meanwhile Peggy, who had been mounted behind Grandma Sevier, for so she +had learned to call Mistress Egan’s mother, discovered that lady in +tears. + +“Grandma,” she cried with concern, “what is it? Is thee frightened?” + +“It’s my Bible,” wailed the old lady. “The Scottish translation of the +Psalms is bound in with it, and they say the British burn every Bible +they find like that. Oh, I’ll never have another! My mother gave it to +me when William and me was married. The births and deaths of my children +are in it—oh, I’d rather everything on the place was took than that.” + +“Stop just a minute, please,” spoke Peggy. Then, as the surprised woman +brought the horse to a standstill, the maiden slipped to the ground. +“I’m going back for the Bible,” she cried, and darted away before any of +them guessed her intention. + +“Peggy, Peggy,” called several voices after her, but the girl laughed at +them and disappeared among the bushes. + +“The British won’t hurt me,” she reassured herself as she came in sight +of the dwelling. “I am just a girl, and can do them no harm. I’m just +going to have that Bible for grandma. ’Tis a small thing to do for her +when she hath been so good to me.” + +And so saying, she stepped out from the bushes where she had paused for +a moment, and marched boldly up to the commander in the doorway. + +“Sir,” she said, sweeping him a fine curtsey, “I wish thee good-day.” + +“Well, upon my life, what have we here?” exclaimed he, astounded at this +sudden apparition. + +“If thee pleases, good sir, I live here,” returned Peggy. + +“And I do please,” he cried. “Come in, mistress. Your pardon, but we +have made somewhat free with the premises, but if it so be that you are +a loyal subject of King George, you shall have ample recompense for +whatever we take.” + +“I thank thee,” she said, ignoring the question of loyalty. “I will +enter, if I may. Grandma wishes her Bible, and that, sir, can surely be +given her?” + +“Of a truth,” he cried, stepping aside for her to pass. “’Tis a small +request to refuse such beauty. Take the Bible and welcome, my fair +Quakeress.” + +“I thank thee,” spoke the girl, with quaint dignity. Sedately she passed +into the dwelling and went directly to Mistress Sevier’s chamber, where +the Bible lay on a small table. Clasping it close, Peggy again went +through the living-room, where the astonished officers awaited her +coming curiously. + +“You are not going to be so unmannerly as to leave us, are you?” asked +the captain. + +“Sir,” spoke the girl, facing him bravely, “I pray thee, permit me to +pass unmolested. We have left thee and thy soldiers at liberty to +possess yourselves of our belongings. Show at least this courtesy.” + +“Methinks,” he began, tugging at his moustache thoughtfully, “that such +leniency deserves something at your hands. I doubt not ’tis a +Presbyterian Bible, and we have orders to destroy all such. Methinks——” + +But Peggy was out and past him before he had finished speaking. There +was a shorter way into the swamp if she would go through the orchard +where the horses were tethered, and she sped across the lawn in that +direction. As she darted among the animals the book slipped from her +clasp and she stooped to recover it. As she rose from her stooping +position she felt the soft nose of a horse touch her cheek gently, and a +low whinny broke upon her ear. The girl gave one upward glance, and then +sprang forward, screaming: + +“Star!” In an ecstasy of joy she threw her arms about the little mare’s +neck, for it was in reality her own pony. “Oh, Star! Star! have I found +thee again?” + +Caress after caress she lavished on the pony, which whinnied its delight +and seemed as glad of the meeting as the girl herself. A number of +soldiers, drawn by curiosity, meanwhile gathered about the maiden and +the horse, and among them was the commanding officer. Peggy had +forgotten everything but the fact that she had found Star again, and +paid no heed to their presence. + +“It seems to be a reunion,” remarked the officer at length dryly. “May I +ask, my little Quakeress, what claim you have on that animal?” + +Peggy lifted her tear-stained face. + +“Why, it’s my pony that my dear father gave me,” she answered. “It’s +Star!” + +“That cannot be,” he told her. “I happen to know that this especial +horse came down from New York City on one of the transports with Sir +Henry Clinton. So you see that it cannot be yours.” + +“But it is, sir,” cried she. “I came down at the same time with my +cousin Colonel Owen and his daughter Harriet on the ‘Falcon.’ Our +horses, Harriet’s and mine, were put on one of the transports.” + +“Then why are you not in Charleston with the others?” he demanded. + +“Why, they were lost at sea,” she replied, turning upon him a startled +look. “We took to the boats, but ours was caught by the current and +swept away from the schooner. It must have gone down afterward.” + +“I see,” he said. “Then if all this is true, and you came down with Sir +Henry and his company, you must be a loyalist? In that case, of course, +you may have the horse.” + +“It is indeed truth that I came here in that manner,” reiterated Peggy. +“And the horse is truly mine.” + +“But are you loyal?” he persisted. “If you will say so you may take the +beast, and aught else you wish on the premises.” + +Peggy leaned her head against Star’s silky mane and was silent. It would +be so easy to say. She could not part with Star now that she had found +her. Would it be so very wrong? Just a tiny fib! The girl gave a little +sob as the temptation assailed her and tightened her clasp of the pony +convulsively. It was but a moment and then, stricken with horror at the +thought which had come to her, Peggy raised her head. + +“Sir,” she said, “I am not loyal to the king. I am a strong patriot. In +sooth,” speaking more warmly than she would have done had it not been +for that same temptation, “in sooth, I don’t believe there is a worse +rebel to His Majesty anywhere in these parts; but for all that thee +shan’t have Star. Thee shall kill me first.” + +And so saying she picked up the Bible from the ground where it had +fallen, and sprang lightly into the saddle. + +The captain had smiled in spite of himself as she flung him her +defiance. Peggy aroused was Peggy adorable. With eyes flashing, color +mantling cheek and brow, the crushed creamy blossom nestling caressingly +in her dark hair, the maiden made a picture that would bring a smile +from either friend or foe. But as she sprang to the saddle the officer +seized the rein which she had unknotted from the tree, exclaiming: + +“You have spirit, it seems, despite your Quaker speech. The horse is +yours for one——” + +At this instant there came a shout from the soldiers who had resumed the +chase of the poultry during the colloquy between their officer and the +maiden. Some of their number had struck down some beehives formed of +hollow gum logs ranged near the garden fence. The irritated insects +dashed after the men, and at once the scene became one of uproar, +confusion and lively excitement. + +The officer loosed his clasp on the bridle, and turned to see the cause +of the clamor. The attention of the guard was relaxed for the moment, +and taking advantage of the diversion Peggy struck her pony quickly. The +mare bounded forward; the captain uttered an exclamation and sprang +after her just as the sharp crack of a dozen rifles sounded. + +When the smoke lifted the captain and nine men lay stretched upon the +ground, and Peggy was flying toward cover as fast as Star could carry +her. Immediately the trumpets sounded a recall, but by the time the +scattered dragoons had collected, mounted and formed, a straggling fire +from a different direction into which the concealed farmers had extended +showed the unerring aim of each American marksman, and increased the +confusion of the surprise. + +Perfectly acquainted with every foot of the ground, the farmer and his +friends constantly changed their position, giving in their fire as they +loaded so that it appeared to the British that they were surrounded by a +large force. The alternate hilly and swampy grounds and thickets, with +woods on both sides the road, did not allow efficient action to the +horses of the dragoons, and after a number of the troopers had been shot +down they turned and fled. The leading horses in the wagons were killed +before they could ascend the hill and the road became blocked up. The +soldiers in charge, frantic at the idea of being left behind, cut loose +some of the surviving animals, and galloped after their retreating +comrades. + +“They didn’t find it so easy to get pickings up here as they did down at +my house,” chuckled Henry Egan as the hidden farmers came forth after +the skirmish, without the loss of a man. “I reckon, pa, you’d better get +the women back here. Some of these men need attention. I wonder where +Peggy went? The daring little witch! I was scared clean out of my senses +when she sassed that captain. Find where she is, pa.” + +It was not long before the women were back, and with them came Peggy, +tearful but joyous, leading Star by the bridle. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX—AN INTERRUPTED JOURNEY + + + “I still had hoped ... + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I heard, of all I saw.” + + —Goldsmith. + +A few days later the country was electrified by the news that the Whigs +west of the Alleghanies had marched to the relief of their oppressed +brethren of the Carolinas, and defeated the British at King’s Mountain. +The victory fired the patriots with new zeal, checked the rising of the +loyalists in North Carolina, and was fatal to the intended expedition of +Cornwallis. He had hoped to step with ease from one Carolina to the +other, and then proceed to the conquest of Virginia; he was left with no +choice but to retreat. + +The men about Charlotte had disputed his advance; they now harassed his +foraging parties, intercepted his despatches and cut off his +communications. Declaring that every bush hid a rebel, Lord Cornwallis +fell back across the Catawba into South Carolina. + +At the plantation the news of the victory was received with joy, causing +Peggy to unfold the plan that had been maturing ever since she had +regained possession of Star. + +“What doth hinder my going home now?” she asked the assembled family one +evening. “The British have gone, and I have but to keep to the road to +arrive in time at Philadelphia.” + +“But the Tories?” questioned Mistress Egan. “They are everywhere.” + +“I have waited so long for a way to open,” continued Peggy, stoutly. “It +is wonderful how it hath all come about. First, the sea brought me to +thy door, Friend Mandy. Then we came up here where the road is the +selfsame one used by the delegates to go to the Congress. Then my own +pony is brought to this very house. Does thee not see that ’tis the way +opened at last?” + +“I see that we must let you go,” said the good woman sadly, “though I +shall never know a minute’s peace until I hear of you being safe with +your mother.” + +“I will write as soon as I reach her,” promised the girl. “And I shall +get through, never fear. Did thee not say to thy husband when the +cottage was burned that the people would help? Well, they will help me +too.” + +“You cannot go alone, my girl,” interposed Henry Egan decidedly. +“’Twould never do in the world. Things air upset still, even though the +British air gone. If I hadn’t joined the milish I’d take you home +myself. As things air there can’t a man be spared from the state jest +now. North Carolina needs every man she can get.” + +“I know it, Friend Henry,” answered Peggy. “And I would not wish any one +to leave his duty for me. The cause of liberty must come before +everything.” + +“That is true,” he said. “Be content to bide a little longer, and mayhap +a way will be opened, as you say.” + +So, yielding to his judgment with the sweet deference that was her +greatest charm, Peggy bore her disappointment as best she could. It was +but a few days, however, until the matter was brought up again by the +fisherman. + +“Peggy,” he said, “I heard as how Joe Hart was going to take his wife +and baby to her folks in Virginny, so that he can join the Continentals +with Gates. If you’re bound to go this might be your chance. Things +don’t seem to be so bad over there as they air in this state, and it may +be easier for you to get some one to take you on to Philadelphia.” + +“When do they start?” asked Peggy joyfully. + +“To-morrow morning. That won’t give you much time, but——” + +“’Tis all I need,” she answered excitedly. “Oh, Friend Henry, how good +thee is to find a chance for me.” + +“There, my girl! say no more. Of course you want them even as they must +want you. You’ll write sometimes, and when this awful war is over, if +there air any of us left, mayhap you’ll come down to see us again.” + +“I will,” she promised in tears. + +“Another thing,” he said, bringing forth a few gold pieces, “you must +take these with you. They will help you in your journey, but use ’em +only when you can’t get what you want any other way. ’Tis better to +trust to kindness of heart than to cupidity.” + +In spite of her protests he made her accept them, and she sewed them in +the hem of her frock, promising to use them with discretion. With many +tears Peggy took leave of these kindly people the next morning, and set +forth with Joe Hart and his wife and baby for Virginia. The road was +mountainous, and the riding hard, but Peggy’s heart danced with gladness +and she heeded not the fatigue, for at last she was going home. Home! +The opaline splendor of the morning thrilled her with an appreciation +that she had never felt before. What a wonderful light threaded the +woods and glorified the treetops! Home! + +At night they stopped at some woodman’s hut, or at a plantation, if they +were near the more pretentious establishment; for inns were few, and the +habitations so far removed from each other that the people gladly gave +entertainment to travelers in return for the news they brought. + +Often they encountered bodies of irregular troops upon the road +directing their wearied march toward the headquarters of the patriot +army. The victory at King’s Mountain had thrilled the people even as +Concord and Lexington had done, and roused them to renewed exertions. + +Peggy’s companions were not very cheerful. The man was a rough, kindly, +goodhearted fellow, but his wife was a delicate woman, peevish and +complaining, whose strength was scarcely equal to the hardships of the +journey and the care of the sickly infant who fretted incessantly. + +Four days of such companionship wore upon even Peggy’s joyousness. They +were by this time some fifteen miles east of Hillsborough, where the +remnant of the patriot army lay. The road was lonely, the quiet broken +only by the whimpering of the baby and the querulous soothing of the +mother. Peggy felt depressed and mentally reproached herself for it. + +“Thee is foolish, Peggy,” she chided sternly, “to heed such things. If +the poor woman can bear it thee should not let it wherrit thee. Now be +brave, Peggy Owen! just think how soon thee will see mother. Can thee +not bear a little discomfort for that? And how exciting ’twill be to +tell them——What was that?” she cried aloud, turning a startled look upon +the mountaineer, who rode a short distance ahead of Peggy and his wife. + +“It sounded like a groan,” exclaimed he. + +They drew rein and listened. The road ran through a forest so densely +studded with undergrowth that it was impossible to see any distance on +either side. For a few seconds there was no sound but the whispering of +the pines. They were about to pass on when there came a low cry: + +“You, whoever you are! Come to me, for the love of God!” + +For a moment they looked at each other with startled faces, and then the +mountaineer made a motion to swing himself from his horse. + +“Joe,” cried his wife, “what air you going to do? Don’t go! How’d you +know but what it’s an ambush?” + +“Nay; some one is hurt,” protested Peggy. + +While Hart still hesitated, Peggy dismounted, and leading Star by the +bridle walked in the direction from which the cry came. + +“Where is thee, friend?” she called, her voice sounding clearly through +the stillness of the forest. + +“Here! Here!” came the feeble reply. + +Dropping the pony’s bridle Peggy pushed aside the undergrowth, and +advanced fearlessly, pausing ever and anon to call for guidance. Shamed +by this display of courage Joe Hart followed her, despite the protests +of his wife. Presently just ahead of them appeared a man’s form lying +outstretched under a clump of bushes, and wearing the uniform of the +Continentals. One arm, the right one, was broken, and lay disabled upon +the grass, while the hand of the other lifted itself occasionally to +stroke the legs of a powerful horse which stood guard over the prostrate +form of his master. + +The animal snapped at them viciously as they approached, but the soldier +spoke to him sharply, so that they could draw near in safety. The girl +bent over the wounded man pityingly, for a gaping hole in his side +through which the blood was flowing told that he had not long to live. + +“What can I do for thee, friend?” she asked gently, sinking down beside +him and raising his head to her lap. + +“Are you Whig or Tory?” he gasped, gazing up at her eagerly. + +“A patriot, friend,” she answered wiping the moisture from his brow with +tender hands. + +“Thank God,” he cried making a great effort to talk for the end was fast +approaching. “I bear letters to General Gates from the Congress. In my +shoe; will you see that they are taken to him?” + +“Yes,” she replied. + +“Promise me,” he insisted. “You look true. Promise that you yourself +will take them to him.” + +“I promise,” she said solemnly. “And now, friend, thyself. Hast thou no +messages for thy dear ones?” + +“Mary,” he whispered a spasm of pain contracting his face. “My wife! +Tell her that I died doing my duty. She must not grieve. ’Tis for the +country. Water!” he gasped. + +But Joe Hart, foreseeing the need for this, had already gone in search +of it, and opportunely returned at this moment with his drinking-horn +full. The vidette drank eagerly, and revived a little. + +“Thy name?” asked Peggy softly, for she saw that his time was short. + +“William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut,” he responded. The words +came slowly with great effort. “’Twas Tories,” he said, “that shot me, +but Duke outran them. Then I fell and crawled in here. My horse——” A +smile of pride and affection lighted up his face as he turned toward the +animal. “We’ve taken our last ride, old fellow!” + +“Would thee like for me to speak to the general about thy horse?” asked +Peggy. + +“If you would,” he cried eagerly. And then after a moment—“Take off my +boots.” + +The mountaineer complied with the request, and the dying patriot gave +the papers which Hart took from them to Peggy. + +“Guard these with your life,” he continued. “And get to General Gates +without delay. They have news of Arnold’s treason——” + +“Of what, did thee say?” cried Peggy. + +“Of the treason of Benedict Arnold,” he said feebly. “He is a traitor.” + +“Not General Arnold!” exclaimed Peggy in anguish. “Not the Arnold that +was at Philadelphia! Oh, friend! thee can’t mean that Arnold?” + +“The very same,” he responded. “And further, he is seeking to induce the +soldiers to desert their country’s colors.” + +“Merciful heavens! it can’t be true!” she cried. “Friend, friend, thee +must be wandering. It couldn’t happen.” + +“But it hath,” he gasped. “They told me to make speed. I—I must go!” + +With a superhuman effort he struggled to his feet, stood for a brief +second, and fell back—dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI—HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED AT CAMP + + + “Just for a handful of silver he left us, + Just for a riband to stick in his coat— + + * * * * * + + Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, + One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, + One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels, + One more wrong to man, one more insult to God.” + + —“The Lost Leader,” Browning. + +White and shaken Peggy leaned weakly against a tree, and covered her +face with her hands. + +“We must be getting on, miss,” spoke the mountaineer, after a few +moments of silence. + +“And leave him like that?” cried the girl aghast. + +“There is naught else to be done,” he replied gravely. “We have nothing +to bury him with.” + +“But ’tis wrong,” remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette, +and touching his brow reverently. “He died for his country, friend.” + +“Tell them at the camp,” suggested he. “Mayhap they will send out and +get him.” + +“Yes; that is what we must do,” she said. “I could not bear to think of +him lying here without Christian burial.” + +“And what is it now, miss?” questioned Hart, as she still lingered. + +“Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that +mother and I would wish if father—if father——” Peggy faltered and +choked. + +Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from +the vidette’s head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the +bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she +spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road. +As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last +glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the +dead form of his master. + +“Whatever made you so long, Joe?” cried his wife petulantly. “The baby’s +that fretful that I don’t know what to do with her. She’s jest wore out, +and we must get where something can be done for her.” + +“Tilly,” he answered gravely, “there was a pore soger in there who died. +He wanted us to take his despatches to Gates. I reckon we’ll have to go +back to Hillsboro’town.” + +“Back fifteen miles, with the baby sick,” exclaimed the woman in dismay. +“Joe Hart, you must be crazy. We shan’t do no such thing. It will lose +us a whole day, and we ain’t got any too much time as ’tis. Your own +flesh and blood comes before anything else, I reckon. Jest see how the +child looks.” + +The baby did look ill. The father regarded it anxiously, and then +glanced about him with an uncertain manner. + +“The general ought to have them despatches,” he said, “but the child is +sick, sure enuff. Mayhap we can find somebody to take the letters back +at the next cabin.” + +“Nay,” objected Peggy. “I promised the soldier that I would see that the +papers were given into the general’s own hands; therefore I will ride +back with them. We cannot trust to uncertainties.” + +“Yes,” spoke the wife eagerly. “That is just the thing, Joe. The girl +can take them. It’s daylight, and nothing won’t hurt her. We’d best push +on to where the baby can be ’tended to. She can catch up with us +to-morrow!” + +“Very well,” replied Peggy quietly. “And, friend, where shall I tell the +general to come for the body? Does thee know the place?” + +The mountaineer glanced about him. “Jest tell him about two mile above +the cross-tree crossing,” he said. “On the north side the road. Anybody +that knows the country will know where ’tis. I don’t like——” But Peggy +bade them good-bye and was gone before he could voice any further +regrets. + +“’Twas useless to parley over the matter,” she thought as a turn in the +road hid them from view. “In truth the little one did look ill. I would +as soon be alone, and I can return the faster. This awful thing about +General Arnold! How could it have happened? Why, oh, why did he do it?” + +Her thoughts flew back to the night of the tea at General Arnold’s +headquarters. How kind he had seemed then. The dark handsome face came +before her as she remembered how he had walked down the room by her +side, and how proud she had felt of his attention. And how good he had +been to John Drayton! Drayton! Peggy started as the thought of the lad +came to her. How had he taken it? The boy had loved him so. + +It is never pleasant to be the bearer of ill tidings, and Peggy found +herself lagging more than once in her journey. The afternoon was drawing +to a close when she came in sight of the town on the Eno near which the +army was encamped. They had passed around it in the morning. Mrs. Hart +had feared that her husband might be tempted into staying with the army, +and so had insisted upon the détour. + +The little town, nestled among beautiful eminences, seemed deserted as +the maiden rode down the long unpaved street to the upland beyond, where +the camp lay. In reality the inhabitants were at supper, and sundry +fragrant odors were wafted from the various dwellings to the passing +girl. Peggy, however, was too heavy of heart for an appeal to the +senses, though she had not tasted food since the morning meal. + +Passing at length through a defile the encampment came to view. It was +surrounded with woods, and guarded in its rear by the smooth and gentle +river. A farmhouse in the immediate neighborhood served as headquarters +for the officers. + +Numerous horses were tethered in rows about the upland plain. There were +no tents or huts, but rude accommodations for the men had been made by +branches and underwood set against ridge-poles that were sustained by +stakes, and topped by sheaves of Indian corn. + +Groups of men were scattered over the plain, some wagons were to be seen +in one direction, and not far off, a line of fires around which parties +were engaged cooking food. Here and there a sentinel was pacing his +short limits, and occasionally the roll of the drum, or the flourish of +a fife told of some ceremony of the camp. + +Peggy had but time to observe these details when she was stopped by the +picket who demanded the countersign. + +“I know it not, friend,” was her response. “Lead me at once to thy +general, I beg thee; for I bear despatches for him.” + +At this moment the officer in charge of the relief guard, for the +beautiful and inspiring music of the sunset retreat was just sounding, +came up. + +“What is it, Johnson?” he asked. Peggy gave a little cry at the sound of +his voice. + +“John!” she cried. “John Drayton!” + +“Peggy,” he gasped. “In the name of all that’s wonderful, what are you +doing here?” + +“I might ask thee the same thing,” she returned. “I was thinking of thee +but now, John.” + +“Were you?” he cried gladly. “I am a lieutenant now, Peggy.” He squared +his shoulders with the jaunty air which the girl remembered so well, and +which had always caused Harriet so much amusement. “What think you of +that?” + +“Oh, I am glad, glad,” she returned. + +“There is so much to tell you,” continued he. “Just wait until I place +this other sentinel, and then we can have a nice long talk.” + +“I can’t, John,” exclaimed she, remembering her mission. “I bear +despatches for the general.” + +“You with despatches,” he ejaculated laughing. “Have you ’listed, +Peggy?” + +“Nay,” returned she gravely, his lightness of heart striking her like a +blow. How could she tell him? “John, let me give the letters first.” + +“Come,” said he. “I will take you there at once. I am curious as to why +you are the bearer of such missives.” + +“’Tis ill tidings,” spoke Peggy. + +“Another disaster, eh?” He laid his arm over the pony’s glossy neck and +walked thus over toward the farmhouse. “Well, we are used to them. A +victory would upset us more than anything just at present. The day we +heard of King’s Mountain I thought the men would go wild. We didn’t try +to maintain discipline on that day. Oh, well; if we are whipped, we just +fight ’em again. We’ll win out in time.” + +The color fled from Peggy’s face. He did not know, and it was she who +must tell him. How would he bear it? They had reached the farmhouse by +the time, and Drayton assisted Peggy from the horse, and turned to an +orderly. + +“Will you say to the general that Ensign—I mean Lieutenant Drayton is +without with a young lady who bears despatches? ’Tis important. I have +hardly got used to my new dignity yet,” he explained turning to Peggy +with a boyish laugh. “It’s good to see you, Peggy.” + +“John,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm and speaking with +intense earnestness. “Will thee try to be brave? The news I bring——” + +“What mean you?” he asked in surprise. “Why should a disaster effect me +more than any one else? Peggy, I never knew you to act and to speak so +strangely before. What is it?” + +“The general waits, lieutenant,” interrupted the orderly. “He has but a +few moments, as he is going to Hillsboro’ for the night.” + +“Come, Peggy,” said Drayton. “I will take you in.” They passed into the +dwelling, and Drayton opened a door on the right of the hall which led +to General Gates’ office. There were several men in the room, among them +Colonel Daniel Morgan who had but recently arrived, and Colonel William +Washington. + +“General Gates,” said Drayton saluting, “allow me to present Mistress +Peggy Owen, who is the bearer of despatches. She is the daughter of +David Owen, of the Pennsylvania Light Horse.” + +“You are welcome, Mistress Owen,” said General Gates rising courteously. +“Stay, lieutenant,” as the lad made a movement to depart. “If the young +lady is friend of yours you may be her escort back to Hillsboro’ when +the mission is ended.” + +“Thank you, sir,” said Drayton, saluting again. + +“Sir,” said Peggy with a certain wistfulness in her voice caused by the +knowledge of the news she bore, “before thee takes the letters I should +like to tell thee how I came by them.” + +“Certainly you may,” he said regarding her with a new deference, for the +girl’s manner and accents bespoke her gentle breeding. + +[Illustration: “YOU ARE WELCOME,” SAID GENERAL GATES] + +And standing there Peggy told simply the story of how she had become +possessed of the despatches. A stillness came upon them as she related +the death of the vidette, her tones vibrating with tenderness and +feeling. + +“He died for his country,” she said, “and, sir, he wished that told to +his wife. She was not to grieve; for ’twas for his country. And his +horse, General Gates. I promised that I would speak to thee concerning +him. We left him guarding the body. Thee will see that he is cared for, +will thee not?” + +“Yes,” he said, much moved. “So noble an animal should be looked well +to. Did you learn the man’s name, mistress?” + +“’Twas Trumbull, sir. William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut.” + +“I will inform his wife myself,” said he, making a note of the matter. +“He died a hero performing his duty. And now may I have the despatches?” + +He extended his hand with a smile, saying as he did so: “A man would +have given them first, and the story afterward; but this little maid +feared we would forget the vidette if she delayed until afterward.” + +“Yes,” acknowledged the girl, looking at him earnestly, for she had +feared that very thing. “Sir,” giving him the despatches, “I pray thee +to pardon me for being the bearer of such awful tidings.” + +There was a slight smile on General Gates’ face at her manner of +speaking, but it died quickly as he ran his eye down the written page. +He uttered an exclamation as he mastered the contents, and then stood +staring at the paper. At length, however, he turned to the men at the +table, and said in a hollow voice: + +“Gentlemen, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that Major-General +Arnold is a traitor to his country.” + +An awful pause followed the announcement—a pause that throbbed with the +despair of brave men. Disaster had followed fast upon disaster. The +South was all but lost. Two armies had been wiped out of existence in +three months, and what was left was but a pitiful remnant. Washington’s +force in the North was so weakened by detaching troops for the defense +of the South that he was unable to strike a blow. And now this calamity +was the culmination. A murmur broke out in the room. Then, as though +galvanized into action by that murmur, John Drayton, who had stood as +though petrified, bounded forward with a roar. + +“’Tis false,” he cried, whipping out his sword. “I’ll run any man +through who says that my general is a traitor!” + +He advanced threateningly toward General Gates as he spoke. He had drawn +upon his superior officer, but there was no anger in the glance that +Horatio Gates cast upon him. + +“Would God it were false,” he said solemnly. “But here are proofs. This +is a letter from Congress; this one from General Washington himself, and +this——” + +“I tell you it is not true,” reiterated the boy fiercely. “Look how +they’ve always treated him! It’s another one of their vile charges +trumped up against him. Daniel Morgan, you were with him at Quebec and +Saratoga! Are you going to stand there and hear such calumny?” + +Morgan hid his face in his hands and a sob broke from his lips. The +sound seemed to pierce Drayton like a sword thrust. His arm dropped to +his side, and he turned from one to another searching their faces +eagerly, but their sorrowful countenances only spoke confirmation of the +news. + +“In mercy, speak,” he cried with a catch in his voice. “Peggy, tell me +truth! Speak to me!” + +“John, John, I’m afraid ’tis true,” cried Peggy going to him with +outstretched hands. “Don’t take it like this! Thee must be brave.” + +But with a cry, so full of anguish, of heartbreak, that they paled as +they heard it, Drayton sank to the floor. + +“Boy, I loved him too,” spoke Colonel Morgan brokenly. “We were both +with him on that march to Quebec. And at Saratoga in that mad charge he +made. I loved him——” + +He could not proceed. Bending over the prostrate lad he lifted him, and +with his arm about him drew him from the room. Peggy broke into a +passion of tears as Drayton’s wailing cry came back to her: + +“My general! My general! My general!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII—ON THE ALTAR OF HIS COUNTRY + + + “If you fail Honor here, + Never presume to serve her any more; + Bid farewell to the integrity of armes; + And the honorable name of soldier + Fall from you, like a shivered wreath of laurel + By thunder struck from a desertlesse forehead.” + + —Faire Quarrell. + +For a time no sound was heard in the room but the sobs of the maiden and +the broken utterances of the men. The tears of the latter were no shame +to their manhood, for they were wrung from their hearts by the defection +of a great soldier. + +The friend of Washington and of Schuyler! The brilliant, dashing soldier +with whose exploits the country had rung but a short time since; if this +man was traitor whom could they trust? + +Presently Peggy felt a light touch on her head, and looked up to find +General Gates regarding her with solicitude. + +“My child,” he said, “I am about to ride into Hillsboro’ to confer with +Governor Nash. Will you permit me to be your escort? We must find a +resting place for you. You must be weary after this trying day.” + +“I am,” she replied sadly. “Wearied and heart-sick. Thee is very kind, +and I thank thee.” She rose instantly, and followed him to the door +where the orderly had her horse in charge. + +What a change had come over the encampment. From lip to lip the tidings +had flown, and white-faced men huddled about the camp-fires talking in +whispers. No longer song, or story, or merry jest enlivened the evening +rest time, but a hush was over the encampment such as follows a great +battle when many have fallen. + +Seeing that she was so depressed General Gates exerted himself to cheer +her despondency, leaving her when Hillsborough was reached in the care +of a motherly woman. + +“I shall send Lieutenant Drayton to you in the morning,” he said as he +was taking his departure. “He will need comfort, child; as we all do, +but the boy was wrapped up in Arnold.” + +It was noon the next day before Drayton appeared, and Peggy was shocked +at the change in him. There was no longer a trace of jauntiness in his +manner. There were deep circles under his eyes, and he was pale and +haggard as though he had not slept. + +“John,” she cried, her heart going out to him for his sorrow, “thee must +not take this matter so. General Washington is left us.” + +“Yes,” he replied, “but I loved him so. Oh, Peggy! Peggy! why did he do +it?” + +“I know not,” she answered soberly. “After thee left Philadelphia there +were rumors concerning General Arnold’s extravagance. Mother was much +exercised anent the matter. But as to whether that had anything to do +with this, I know not.” + +“How shall I bear it?” he cried suddenly. “Who shall take his place? Had +he been with us there would have been another tale to tell of Camden.” + +“That may be, John.” And then, seeking to beguile his thoughts from the +matter, she added with sweet craftiness: “Thee has not told me how thee +came to be down here? Nor yet if thee ever returned to New York City +after that trip with the wood? Thee should have seen Cousin William +after the failure of the alert. That was why he brought me down here.” + +“Tell me about it, Peggy,” he replied with kindling interest. And the +girl, pleased with her artifice, related all that had befallen her. + +“And now?” he questioned. “What are you going to do now?” + +“There is but one thing to do, John,” she answered, surprised by the +query. “That is, to get home as quickly as possible.” + +“I like not for you to undertake such a journey, Peggy. There are more +loyalists in the South than elsewhere, which was the reason the war was +transferred to these states. ’Tis a dangerous journey even for a man. +’Tis hard to get despatches to and from Congress, as you know by the +death of that poor fellow whose letters you carried. I don’t believe +that your mother would like for you to undertake it.” + +“But there is danger in staying, John. No part of the Carolinas is safe +from an incursion of the enemy. ’Tis as far back to the plantation at +Charlotte as ’twould be to go on to Virginia, and I want my mother. +Friend Hart said that he and his wife would travel slowly so that I +could o’ertake them.” + +“Yes; you ought to be out of this,” agreed Drayton. “Every part of this +country down here is being ravaged by Tories, who seem determined to +destroy whatever the British leave. Would that I could take you to your +mother, Peggy, but I cannot leave without deserting, and that I——” + +“Thee must not think of it,” she interrupted, looking at him fearfully. + +“And that,” he went on steadily without noticing the interruption, “I +would not do, even for you.” + +“That forever settles my last doubt of thee,” declared Peggy with an +attempt at sprightliness. “I know that thee is willing to do almost +anything for me.” + +“Yes,” he replied. “And now I must go.” + +“Shall I see thee again before I leave, John?” + +“When do you start?” + +“In the morning. I waited to-day to see thee.” + +“Then it must be good-bye now,” he said. “I am to carry some despatches +to General Marion on the morrow, and that will take us far apart, Peggy. +I asked for the mission; for I must have action at the present time. I +like not to think.” + +“Don’t be too venturesome,” pleaded the girl. “We who know thee have no +need of valiant deeds to prove thy merit.” + +“I want a chance to distinguish myself,” declared the lad. “That, and to +prove my loyalty too. All of General Arnold’s old men will be regarded +with suspicion until they show that they are true. And now good-bye, +Peggy.” + +“Good-bye, John,” spoke the maiden sorrowfully. “Thee carries my +sympathy and prayers with thee.” + +He bade her good-bye again, and left. Early next morning Peggy set forth +at speed hoping to overtake Mr. and Mistress Hart before the day’s end. +Her thoughts were busied with Drayton and his grief, and she now +acknowledged to herself the fear that had filled her lest he too should +prove disloyal. + +“But it hath not even occurred to him to be other than true,” she told +herself with rejoicing. + +And so thinking she rode along briskly, and was not long in reaching the +spot where they had been stopped by the dying vidette. She gazed at the +place with melancholy, noting that the bushes were trampled as though a +number of men had passed over them. Doubting not but that this +appearance had been caused by the soldiers who had been sent for the +body, which was indeed the fact, the girl sped on rapidly, trying not to +think of all that had occurred in the past few days. + +Peggy had been sure of her bearings up to this time, for she had +traversed the highway twice to this point, but from this on she was +confronted by an unfamiliar road. So it happened that when directly she +came to a place where the road diverged into two forks, she drew rein in +bewilderment. + +“Why,” she exclaimed, “I don’t know which one to take. What shall I do? +How shall I decide, Star?” appealing to the only living thing near. + +Hearing her name the little mare neighed, tossed her head, and turned +into the branch of the roadway running toward the South, just as though +she had taken matters in hand for herself. Peggy laughed. + +“So thee is going to decide for me, is thee?” she asked patting the +pony’s neck. “Well, we might as well go in this direction as the other. +I know not which is the right one. I hope that we will come to a house +soon where I may ask.” + +But no dwelling of any kind came in sight. The afternoon wore away, and +the girl became anxious. She did not wish to pass the night in the +woods. The memory of that night so long ago when she and Harriet had +ridden to Amboy was not so pleasant that she wished to repeat the +experience. But Star sped ahead as though familiar with her +surroundings. At nightfall there was still no sign of either Joe Hart +and his wife, or sight of habitation. + +“I fear me we have lost our way, Star,” she mused aloud. “I wonder what +we’d best do? Keep moving, methinks. ’Tis the only way to reach +anywhere.” + +Peggy tried to smile at her little sally, but with poor success. The +pony trotted ahead as if she at least was not bewildered, and presently, +to the girl’s amazement, of her own accord turned into a lane that would +have escaped Peggy’s notice. To her further astonishment at a short +distance from the highway stood a woodman’s hut, and the mare paused +before the door. + +“Why, thou dear creature!” cried Peggy in delight. “It seems just as +though thee knew the way.” + +She dismounted, and with the bridle over her arm approached the cabin +almost gaily, so greatly relieved was she at finding a shelter. A woman +came to the door in answer to her knock, and opened it part way. + +“What do you want?” she asked harshly. + +“A lodging for the night, friend,” answered the maiden, surprised by +this reception, for the people were usually hospitable and friendly. + +“How many air you?” was the next question. + +“Myself alone, friend,” replied Peggy, more and more amazed. “I wish +food and a stable for my pony also. I will pay thee for it,” she added +with a sudden remembrance of the money that Henry Egan had given her. + +“Well, come in.” The door was opened, and the woman regarded her +curiously as she entered. It was but a one-room hut, and a boy of twelve +appeared to be its only occupant aside from the woman. He rose as the +girl entered, and went out to attend the horse. + +“Do you want something to eat?” asked the woman ungraciously. + +“If thee pleases,” answered Peggy, ill at ease at so much surliness. The +woman placed food before her, and watched her while she ate. + +“Where air you all going?” she asked presently. + +“To Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania,” explained Peggy, who +had found that many of the women in the Carolinas were but ill-informed +as to locations of places. + +“Is that off toward Virginia?” + +“I must go through Virginia to reach there,” said the girl. + +“You’re going wrong, then,” the woman informed her. “You air headed now +for South Carolina.” + +The girl uttered a cry of dismay. + +At this moment the urchin reëntered the hut, and whispered a moment to +his mother. Instantly a change came over her. She turned to Peggy with a +glimmer of a smile. + +“Air you a friend?” she asked. + +“Why, yes,” answered Peggy, thinking naturally that she meant the sect +of Quakers. “I should think thee would know that.” + +“You can’t always tell down here. Sam says that you air riding Cap’n +Hazy’s horse. It used to stop here often last summer.” + +“Then that was why the pony brought me here,” cried the girl in +surprise. “I was lost. How strange!” + +“Why, no. Horses always go where they are used to going,” said the +woman, in a matter-of-fact tone. “That is, if you give ’em their head. +When is the cap’n coming?” + +“How should I know?” asked Peggy, staring at her. “I don’t——” + +“We air friends, miss. You needn’t be afraid to say anything you like. +But you air right. Keep a still tongue in these times. ’Tis safest. And +now, I reckon you’d like to go to bed?” + +“Yes, if you please,” answered the maiden, so amazed by the conversation +that she welcomed the change for reflection. Was Captain Hazy the +British commander of the foraging party who had come to the plantation, +she wondered. It occurred to her that it might be wise to accept her +hostess’s advice to keep a still tongue. + +There was but one bed in the room, and this was given Peggy, while the +mother and son simply lay down upon the floor before the fire, which was +the custom among mountaineers. Without disrobing the girl lay down, but +not to sleep. She was uneasy, and the more she reflected upon her +position the more it came to her that she had been rash to start out +alone as she had done. + +“But I won’t turn back now,” she decided. “I will take some of the money +which Friend Henry gave me, and hire some one to take me home. ’Tis what +I should have done at first.” + +At the first sign of dawn she was astir. The woman rose at the same +time, and prepared her a hot breakfast. + +“Now you just go right down that way,” she told Peggy, as the maiden +mounted her pony, indicating the direction as she spoke. “That’ll take +you down to the Cross Creek road. Ford the river at Cross Creek, and you +will be right on the lower road to Virginia.” + +Peggy thanked her, gave her a half guinea, and departed. Could she have +followed the direction given she would, as the woman said, have been on +the lower road to Virginia, but alas, such general directions took no +account of numerous crossroads and forkings, and the maiden was soon in +a maze. That night she found a resting-place at a farmhouse where the +accommodations were of a better nature, but when she tried to hire a man +for guidance not one seemed willing to go. + +“They were needed at home,” they said. “There were so many raiding +parties that men could not be spared.” Which was true, but disheartening +to Peggy. + +In this manner three days went by. At long distances apart were houses +of some description, and many ruins, some of them smoldering. + +On the afternoon of the third day Peggy was riding along slowly, +thoroughly discouraged, when all at once from the dense woods that lined +the roadway there emerged the form of a horseman. + +He was hatless and disheveled in appearance, and he surveyed the road as +though fearful of meeting a foe. As his glance fell upon the maiden he +uttered an ejaculation, and dashed toward her. + +“Peggy,” he cried staring at her in amaze, “what in the world are you +doing down here in South Carolina? I thought you in Virginia by this +time.” + +“I would not be surprised if thee told me that I was in Africa,” +answered poor Peggy half laughing, half crying. “I started for Virginia, +but took a wrong turning, and seem to have kept on taking them ever +since. I don’t want to be down here, but no one will come with me to +guide me, and I always go wrong on the crossroads.” + +In spite of the gravity of the situation Drayton, for it was he, +laughed. + +“Nay,” he said, “let me believe that you came down here to help me +deliver my despatches to Marion. I will have to take you in charge. Let +me think what to do. I have it! There is a farmhouse where Whigs are +welcomed near here. You shall stay there until these papers are +delivered, and then we shall see if something can’t be arranged.” + +“Oh, thank thee, John,” cried she, mightily relieved. “’Tis so nice to +have some one to plan. I shall do just as thee says, for I begin to +believe that I am not so capable as I thought.” + +“These winding roads are enough to confuse any one,” he told her. “You +are not alone in getting lost, Peggy. Some of the soldiers do too, if +they are not familiar with localities.” + +Cheered by this meeting, Peggy’s spirits rose, and she chatted gaily, +not noticing that Drayton kept looking behind them, and that he +frequently rode a little ahead, as though he were on the lookout. + +“What is it?” she asked at length becoming aware that something was +amiss. “Is there danger, John?” + +“Yes, Peggy. South Carolina is full of British, you know. I must watch +for an ambush. I would not fail to deliver these despatches for +anything. They are important, and as I told you the other day, all of us +who were under Arnold will be suspected until tried.” + +Peggy grew pale. “I did not know there was danger, John. Doth my +presence increase your anxiety?” + +“’Tis pleasure to have you, Peggy, but I would rather you were in +Virginia for your own safety. However, we shall soon turn into a side +road which will lead to that farmhouse I spoke about. I could no longer +get through the woods, or I should not have left them for the highway. +But had I not done so I would not have met you. ’Tis marvelous, Peggy, +that you have met with no harm.” + +“Why should I meet with any?” she queried. “I am but a girl, and can +bring hurt to none.” + +Drayton drew rein suddenly, and listened. + +“We must make a run for it, Peggy,” he cried. “The British are coming. I +gave them the slip a while ago, but I hear them down the road. If we can +reach the lane we may escape them.” + +Peggy called to Star, and the boy and girl struck into a gallop. It was +soon evident, however, that Drayton was holding back his horse for Peggy +to keep pace with him. As Peggy realized this a whoop from the pursuers +told that they had caught sight of them, and the clattering hoofs that +they were gaining upon them. + +“John,” she cried, “go on! Thee can get away then.” + +“And leave you, Peggy? Never,” he answered. + +“But thy despatches? Thee just told me they must be delivered. Thee must +go on.” + +“No,” he replied with set lips. + +“’Tis thy duty,” she said imploringly. + +“I know, but I’m not going to leave you to the mercy of those fiends,” +he cried. + +“John, thee must not fail. See! they are gaining. Go, go! Does thee +remember that thee will be suspected until thee is tried?” + +“I know,” he said doggedly, “but I won’t leave you.” + +“For thy country’s sake,” she entreated. “Oh, John, I can’t have thee +fail because of me. Think of that poor vidette. Is thee going to do less +than he? ’Tis thy duty.” + +“Peggy, don’t ask it,” he pleaded. + +“Thee is less than soldier if thee doesn’t do thy duty,” she cried, +quick to see her advantage. “John Drayton, I will never trust thee again +if thee fails in thy duty now.” + +The two young people gazed at each other through the dust of the road, +the girl with earnest entreaty, determined to keep the lad to his duty +in spite of himself, and the youth torn by his fear for her and his +loyalty. + +“Go,” she cried again. “I am a soldier’s daughter. Would I be worthy the +name if thee failed because of me? Go at once, or ’twill be too late.” + +“I’m going, Peggy,” he said with a sob. “I’m going to do my duty even if +you are the sacrifice. Take this pistol, and defend yourself. Good-bye.” +He bent and kissed her hand, and then without one backward glance went +flying down the road and disappeared around a bend. For duty to country +must come before everything, and father, mother, brother, sister, wife +or sweetheart, must be sacrificed upon its altar, if need arises. + +There was a smile on Peggy’s lips, for Drayton had kept to his duty in +spite of as great a temptation as ever assailed a man to do otherwise, +and so smiling she turned to meet the pursuers. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII—A GREAT SURPRISE + + + “A man’s country is not a certain area of land, of + mountains, rivers and woods—but it is a principle, and + patriotism is loyalty to that principle.” + + —George William Curtis. + +There came hoarse shouts from the pursuing troopers as Drayton +disappeared from view, and they galloped toward the girl at increased +speed. There was something so fierce, so martial in their aspect that it +struck terror to the maiden’s heart, and she found herself all at once +shaking and quaking with fear. + +Dear as freedom is to every pulse, standing up for the first time before +an advancing foe one is apt to find one’s courage oozing out at the +fingers’ ends. And so with Peggy. + +The smile died from her lips, and a sort of panic took possession of her +as the sunshine caught the sheen of their scabbards and lighted into +glowing color the scarlet of their uniforms. Nearer they came. The girl +trembled like a leaf. + +“I am a soldier’s daughter,” she told herself in an effort to regain +self-control. “I will die like one.” + +Almost unconsciously her little hand clutched the pistol that Drayton +had thrust into it, and, as the enemy were nearly upon her, in an agony +of fear Peggy raised the weapon and fired. The foremost dragoon reeled +slightly, recovered his balance immediately, and drew rein with his +right arm hanging limply by his side. The others also checked their +horses as a scream of horror burst from Peggy’s lips. + +“God forgive me,” she cried. “Blood-guiltiness is upon me! I knew not +what I did.” + +And with this cry she threw the pistol from her, and dashed at once to +the dragoon’s side. + +“Thee is hurt,” she exclaimed looking up at him wildly. “Forgive me, +friend. I meant not to harm thee. Oh, I meant it not!” + +“Then why did you fire?” he demanded, regarding her with astonishment. + +Peggy wrung her hands in anguish. + +“I was afraid. Thee and thy troopers looked so terrible that I was in +panic. I knew not what I did, friend. And thy arm! See how it bleeds! +Sir, let me bandage it, I pray thee. I have some skill in such matters.” + +Her distress was so evident, her contrition so sincere that the scowl on +his face relaxed. Without further word he removed his coat, and let her +examine the injured member while the dragoons gathered about them, +eyeing the girl curiously. Her face grew deadly pale at sight of the +blood that gushed forth from a wound near the elbow, but controlling her +emotion she deftly applied a ligature, using her own kerchief for it. + +“You’re a fine rebel,” was his comment as she completed the self-imposed +task. “Shoot a man so that you can patch him up! ’Tis small wonder that +you have skill in such matters. Gordon, bring me that pistol. ’Tis the +first time that Banastre Tarleton hath been wounded in this war, and I +am minded to keep the weapon that did it.” + +“Is thee Colonel Tarleton?” asked she, her heart sinking. + +“Yes,” he made answer, a peculiar light coming into his eyes at her +involuntary shrinking. “And now, my fair rebel with the Quaker speech, +will you tell me why one of your sect fires upon an officer of His +Majesty? But perchance you are not a Quakeress?” + +“Methought I was in all but politics,” she replied. “I have been trained +all my life to believe that courage is displayed, and honor attained by +doing and suffering; but I have sadly departed from the ways of peace,” +she added humbly. “I knew not before that my nature had been so +corrupted by the war that my fortitude had become ferocity. Yet it must +be so since I have resorted to violence and the shedding of blood. And +how shall I tell my mother!” + +“Have you despatches?” he asked sternly. “Where were you going when we +captured you? I suppose that you realize that you are my prisoner?” + +“Yes; I know, sir. I bear no despatches,” she told him meeting his eyes +so frankly that he could not but believe her. “I was trying to get to my +home in Philadelphia. I started three days since, but lost my way. Every +one I asked for guidance gave it, correctly, I doubt not, but what with +the crossroads and swamps, and being unfamiliar with the country I have +gone far astray. Now I suppose that I shall never see my mother again!” + +“Well, you know that you deserve some punishment for that hurt. And now +what about that fellow that was with you? Why did the dastard leave you? +Zounds! how can a maiden prefer any of these uncouth rascals when they +exhibit such craven spirit!” + +“He was doing his duty, sir,” answered Peggy, and her eyes flashed with +such fire that he laughed, well pleased that he could rouse her. + +“His duty, eh? And did duty call him so strongly that he could leave a +girl alone to face what might be certain death? We English would call it +another name.” + +“Then you English would know nothing of true courage,” she retorted. “He +is a patriot, and his duty must come before everything else. Thee will +find, if thee has not already found, Colonel Tarleton, that these +uncouth rascals, as thee terms them, are not so wanting in spirit as thy +words imply.” + +“No; ’fore George, they are not,” he exclaimed. “And now unravel your +story to me. Your whole history, while we go on to Camden. ’Tis a goodly +distance, and ’twill serve to make me forget this hurt.” + +“Doth it pain thee so much?” she asked tremulously, the soft light of +pity and sorrow springing again to her eyes. + +“Oh, yes,” he answered grimly. “But now your story, mistress. And leave +out no part of it. I wish to know of all your treasonable doings so as +to make your punishment commensurable with your merits.” + +And Peggy, suppressing that part of her narrative that related to the +army, told him how she had been taken to New York, of the shipwreck, and +about her efforts to reach her home. + +“And so Colonel Owen of the Welsh Fusileers is your cousin,” he mused. +“Methought that I had seen you somewhere, and now I know that it must +have been at his house. Would you like to stay with your cousin and his +daughter until I decide upon your punishment?” + +“Thee did not understand, I fear me,” she exclaimed with a startled +glance. “I could not stay with them because they were lost at sea. Does +thee not remember that I said they were on the ‘Falcon’?” + +“True; but you could not see for the fog what happened after you left in +the small boat. They were rescued by another schooner, the ‘Rose,’ which +I was on myself. We escaped serious injury in the storm, and came across +the ‘Falcon’ just in time to rescue the crew and skipper, and those +officers and others who happened to be aboard.” + +For a short time Peggy was so overcome that she could not speak, but at +last she murmured faintly: + +“Oh, I am glad, glad!” + +“What sort of girl are you,” he asked abruptly, “that you rejoice over +their rescue? They were unkind to you, by your own telling. Why should +you feel joy that they are living?” + +“They are my kinspeople,” she said. “And sometimes they were kind. Had +it not been for Harriet I would not have been in the little boat. She +made me enter it when to remain on the ‘Falcon’ seemed certain death. +She knew not that they would be rescued.” + +“Perhaps not,” he remarked dryly. “Although I have never known Mistress +Harriet Owen to do one act that had not an underlying motive. But I +should not speak so to one who sees no wrong in others.” + +“Don’t,” she uttered the tears springing to her eyes at the sneer. “I do +see wrong; and thee doesn’t know how hard I am trying not to feel bitter +toward them. I dare not think that ’tis to them I owe not seeing my +mother for so long. I—I am not very good,” she faltered, “and thee knows +by that wound how I am failing in living up to my teaching.” + +“I see,” he said; and was silent. + +Camden, a strong post held by the British in the central northern part +of South Carolina, was reached at length. It was at this place that +General Gates met his overwhelming defeat in the August before, and as +Peggy viewed its defenses she could not but wonder that he had ventured +to attack it. Colonel Tarleton proceeded at once to a large two-story +dwelling, the wide verandah of which opened directly upon the main +street. + +“I will leave you,” he began, but Peggy uttered a cry of surprise as a +girl’s figure came slowly through the open door of the house. + +“Harriet! Harriet!” she cried. “Oh, thee didn’t tell me that Harriet was +here!” + +She sprang lightly from the pony’s back, and ran joyfully up the steps, +with arms outstretched. + +“I thought thee dead,” she cried with a little sob. “I knew not until +now that thou wert alive. Oh, Harriet, Harriet! I am so glad thee lives. +And where is Cousin William? And oh!——” she broke off in dismay. “What +hath happened to thee? What is the matter, Harriet?” + +For Harriet’s wonderful eyes no longer flashed with brilliancy but met +her own with a dreary, lustreless gaze. Her marvelous complexion had +lost its transparency, and was dull and sallow. She leaned weakly upon +Peggy’s shoulder, and as the latter, shocked at the change in the once +spirited Harriet, asked again, “Oh, what is the matter? What hath +happened?” she burst into tears without replying. + +“’Tis the Southern fever,” spoke Colonel Owen, coming to the door at +this moment. “So you escaped a briny grave, my little cousin? How came +you here? Was it to seek us that you came? You at least seem to have +suffered no inconvenience from this climate. It hath carried off many of +our soldiers, and Harriet hath pulled through by a miracle. It will take +time, however, to restore her fully to strength. Did you say you came to +seek us?” + +“Nay,” interposed Colonel Tarleton. “The girl is my prisoner, Colonel +Owen. I will leave her with you for the present, but will hold you +answerable for her safety. You are to send her to me each day so that +she may give attention to this wound which I owe to her marksmanship. So +soon as it shall heal I will decide upon her punishment.” + +“Well, upon my word, my cousin,” exclaimed William Owen as Colonel +Tarleton, scowling fiercely, went away. “You are improving. I knew not +that Quakers believed in bloodshed. Tell us about it.” + +And Peggy, drawing Harriet close to her in her strong young arms, told +of her rescue and how she came to be once more with them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV—HOME + + + “The bugles sound the swift recall; + Cling, clang! backward all! + Home, and good-night!” + + —E. C. Stedman. + +Each day Peggy was taken to Colonel Tarleton to attend his wound. It was +in truth painful, and often her tears fell fast upon the inflamed +surface when she saw the suffering he endured, and knew that it had been +caused by her hand. But it was healed at last, and when she told him +joyfully that he had no further need of bandages or treatment, he looked +at her with some amusement. + +“And now for the punishment,” he observed. “What do you deserve, +mistress?” + +“I don’t know,” said Peggy, growing pale. + +“I leave for the southern part of the state to-morrow,” he said. “The +matter must be decided to-day. What say you to a parole?” + +“Nay,” and the girl shook her head. “My father doth not believe in them, +and neither do I. I want to be free to help the cause in any way that I +can.” + +“Well, upon my word!” he cried. “You are pleased to be frank.” + +“Would you not rather have me so, sir?” she asked. + +“Yes,” he answered. “I would. Then what are we to do? Ah! I have it. I +shall banish you.” + +“Banish me?” repeated she with quivering lips. “To—to what place, sir?” + +“A distant place called Philadelphia,” he answered. “Think you that you +can bear such exile?” + +“Sir,” she faltered, trembling excessively, “do not jest, I pray thee. +I—I cannot bear it.” + +“Child,” he said dropping the banter, “I jest not. I am going to take +you to Georgetown and put you aboard ship for the North. I am sincere, I +assure you.” + +“Thee will do this?” she cried not daring to credit her senses. + +“Yes; and for this reason: In all this land, ay! and in England also, no +one hath ever before shed a tear when aught of ill hath befallen +Banastre Tarleton. Had any other woman, or girl, or man in this entire +Southland wounded me there would have been rejoicing instead of sorrow. +Had you not been sincere I would have made you repent bitterly. As it +is, this is my punishment: that you proceed to your mother as fast as +sail can carry you.” + +“And they call thee cruel?” cried the girl catching his hand. “Sir, none +shall ever do so again in my presence.” + +“Come,” he said. “I will go with you to your cousins. You must be ready +for an early start to-morrow. A number of loyalists are going to +Georgetown to take ship for other ports, so there will be a numerous +company.” + +But Harriet received the news with dismay. + +“What shall I do?” she cried, the tears streaming from her eyes. “I was +getting better, and now you will go and leave me again. Oh, Peggy, I +want to go too!” + +Colonel Owen looked up eagerly. + +“Why not?” he asked. “’Twould be the very thing! Peggy, could you not +take Harriet with you? In Philadelphia she would regain her strength. A +change from this malarious climate is what she needs. Won’t you take +her, Peggy?” + +“Oh, Peggy, do take me,” pleaded Harriet. “I shall die here!” + +But Peggy made no answer. She looked from father to daughter, from +daughter to father thoughtfully. Over her rushed the many things that +had befallen her since they had entered her life. The father had caused +the death of her dog; had treated her mother and herself scornfully; had +lodged a spy in their very home; and had finally robbed them of +everything the house contained in the way of food. + +And Harriet! Had she not deceived them all? Her father, mother and +herself? Would she not do so again if she were to be with them once +more? Would she not spy and plot against the cause if she were given +opportunity? Could she forgive and forget the deceit, the long absence +from her mother, the hardships and trials, and take her to her own dear +home? Could she do it? + +Her heart throbbed painfully as she turned a searching glance toward her +cousin. She was so thin, so wasted, so different from her former +brilliant self, that the last tinge of bitterness left Peggy, and a +sudden glow of tenderness rushed over her. + +“Of course thee shall come with me,” she cried, catching Harriet’s hands +and drawing her to her. “And thee shall see how soon mother and I will +make thee well. And oh, Harriet, thee will be in my very own home!” + +“Oh, I shall be so glad,” cried Harriet, a faint flush coming to her +face. “Father, do you hear? Peggy says that I am to go!” + +“You are a good little thing after all, Peggy,” observed Colonel Owen, +not without emotion. “A good little thing!” + +“I think that I will leave this love-feast,” exclaimed Colonel Tarleton, +laughing cynically. “’Fore George, but I am glad the girl is going. A +little more of this sort of influence would be bad for my reputation as +leader of the cruel raiders. Be sure that you are up betimes, Mistress +Peggy. I will have no dallying in the morning.” + +“I will be ready, and so will Harriet,” cried Peggy, darting to his side +and seizing the hand of the arm that she had wounded. Bending quickly +she kissed it, exclaiming, “I will never forget how good thee has been, +sir.” + +“There,” exclaimed he. “I have no more time to spare.” And he strode +away. + +It was a snowy day in early December, fourteen days later, that Peggy, +mounted on Star and Harriet on Fleetwood, left the ferry, and galloped +into Philadelphia. + +“’Tis my own dear city at last,” cried Peggy excitedly. “And that is the +Delaware in very truth. Thee hasn’t seen a river like it, has thee, +Harriet? We will soon be home now. ’Tis not much further.” + +And so in exuberance of spirit she talked until at length the home in +Chestnut Street was reached. She sprang to the ground just as Tom, the +groom, came to the front of the house. The darkey gave one glance and +then ran forward, crying: + +“Foh massy sake, ef hit ain’t Miss Peggy! An’ Star! Yas, suh, an’ Star! +Mis’ Owen will be powerful glad ter see yer. She am in de dinin’-room.” + +“Yes, it’s Peggy. Peggy—come to stay,” cried she, giving the bridle into +his hand. “Come, Harriet!” + +But Harriet hesitated. For the first time something like confusion and +shame appeared upon her face. + +“Your mother?” she whispered. “How will she receive me?” She clasped +Peggy’s hand convulsively. “What will she say to me?” + +Before Peggy could answer, the door of the dwelling opened and Mistress +Owen herself appeared on the threshold. There were lines of care and +grief in her face, and Peggy was shocked to see that her hair was +entirely white, but in manner she was as serene as of yore. + +“I thought——” she began, but at sight of the slender maiden advancing +toward her, she grew pale, and leaned against the door weakly. “Peggy?” +she whispered. + +“Mother! Mother! Mother!” screamed the girl springing to her arms. +“Mother, at last!” + +Her mother clasped her close, as though she would never let her go +again, and so they stood for a long time. Presently Peggy uttered a +little cry. “Harriet!” she exclaimed in dismay. “I had forgotten +Harriet.” She ran quickly down the steps, and putting her arm around her +cousin drew her up the stoop toward Mistress Owen. + +For the briefest second a shadow marred the serenity of the lady’s +countenance. Then, as she noted the girl’s wasted form, her glance +changed to one of solicitude and she took Harriet into her motherly +arms. + +“Thou poor child,” she said gently. “Thou hast been ill.” + +“I feared you would not want me,” faltered Harriet, the ready tears +beginning to flow. + +“We have always wanted thee, my child, when thou wert thine own true +self,” answered the lady. “But come into the sitting-room. Sukey shall +bring us some tea and thou shalt rest while Peggy and I talk. Thee must +be tired.” + +“Tired?” echoed Harriet, sinking into the great easy chair which Peggy +hastened to pull forward. “Tired?” she repeated with a sigh of content +as the exquisite peacefulness of the room stole over her senses. “I feel +as though I should never be tired again. ’Tis so restful here.” + +“It’s home,” cried Peggy, dancing from one object to another in her +delight. “And how clean everything is! Was it always so, mother?” + +“That speech doth not speak well for the places of thy sojourning, my +daughter,” observed her mother with a slight smile. “But tell me how it +hath happened that thou hast returned at last? I wish to know everything +that hath befallen thee.” + +And nestling close to her mother’s side, Peggy told all her story. + + + + + The Stories in this Series are: + + PEGGY OWEN + PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT + PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN + PEGGY OWEN AND LIBERTY + + + + + * * * * * + +LUCY FOSTER MADISON + + +Mrs. Madison was born in Kirkville, Adair County, Missouri, but when she +was four years old her parents removed to Louisiana, Missouri, and there +her girlhood was spent. She was educated in the public schools of that +place, and graduated from the High School with the highest honor—the +valedictory. + +As a child she was passionately fond of fairy stories, dolls and +flowers. Up to her eleventh year the book that influenced her most was +“Pilgrim’s Progress.” Mrs. Madison’s father had a large library filled +with general literature, and she read whatever she thought interesting. +In this way she became acquainted with the poets, ancient history and +the novelists, Dickens and Scott. It was not until she was twelve that +she came in contact with Miss Alcott’s works, but after that Joe, Meg, +Amy and Beth were her constant companions. At this time she was also +devoted to “Scottish Chiefs,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw” and “Ivanhoe,” and +always poetry. + +She doesn’t remember a time when she did not write. From her earliest +childhood she made up little stories. In school she wrote poems, stories +and essays. When she became a teacher she wrote her own stories and +entertainments for the children’s work. + +Mrs. Madison’s stories for girls are: + + Peggy Owen + Peggy Owen, Patriot + Peggy Owen at Yorktown + Peggy Owen and Liberty + A Colonial Maid of Old Virginia + A Daughter of the Union + In Doublet and Hose + A Maid of King Alfred’s Court + A Maid of the First Century + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Peggy Owen Patriot, by Lucy Foster Madison + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEGGY OWEN PATRIOT *** + +***** This file should be named 36740-0.txt or 36740-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/7/4/36740/ + +Produced by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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