path: root/79284-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79284 ***


WINDS OF REBELLION

In the Dungeon of the Prison Ship

By Ernest Haycox




Table of Contents

  I — THE BLACK FRIGATE TAVERN
  II — OVER THE RIVER
  III — A CAPTAIN OF THE KING’S OWN
  IV — THE PRISON SHIP
  V — ESCAPE
  VI — A LIGHT IN THE STORM
  VII — BLIND MAN’S BUFF
  VIII — BLADE AND BLADE




CHAPTER I — THE BLACK FRIGATE TAVERN


There was a roar and a rush of wind outside the hut and a tattoo of rain
on the window panes. Loose shakes on the roof slatted at every gust. The
insecure door strained against the lock, shivered and groaned and
threatened to burst open at each thrust of the tempest. It was not a
particularly well constructed hut, for a dozen cold cross-currents of
air swept in between the logs where the chinking was thin, plucked at
the lantern’s light and congealed the blood of young Jeffry Peale who
sat patiently before an open copy of Grotius and at intervals annotated
certain persuasive passages. It was early 1777, with Washington’s army
resting on arms amid the Morristown hills. Spring broke gustily over the
winter-bound brigades and glutted the streams that poured into a
British-infested valley below.

Jeffry Peale wrapped the cloak tighter about his neck and tried to
sustain his interest in the volume. It took a man of persistent
studiousness or strong ambition to keep at such labor in this dreary,
frigid cell and, though Peale had more than the usual share of those
qualities, the blood ran too strongly in him to make a monkish penance
of it. He had done well enough for one bitter night and it was time to
hasten toward that haven of warmth and cheer where his brother officers
long had been—the Black Frigate Tavern—and thaw the marrow in his bones.

Through the window he saw a light advancing toward the hut, blurred to a
vague oval in the turbulent night. An officer of the guard, no doubt,
making the rounds. He rose to stamp over the boards and clap on his hat.
Life had about gone out of his limbs, and his fingers were as stiff as
those of a marble statue. That came, he said to himself in a moment of
self-derision, of coveting too much glory and advancement.

Sometimes it seemed better to drift good naturedly, as did the rest of
the subalterns, making the most of a disagreeable campaign, drinking to
the tavern keeper’s daughter in between the sudden raids on the low
country. But, even as he thus abjured himself, his mind, clear and
retentive, was conning the passages on military law which he had just
finished reading. It was an acquisitive, pushing habit that no amount of
depression or discouragement could shake off.

“As long as you are Jeffry Peale,” he murmured, striving to tie the
cloak, “you’ll be wanting to march on. So make the most of it, my lad.”

The long threatening door swept open and slammed violently against the
inner wall; at the same time an orderly wrapped in a blanket and showing
only two bleak eyes above the folds, was thrust across the threshold.

“L’tenant Peale, the brigadier wishes your comp’ny at his quarters as
soon’s possible.”

The orderly accepted the other’s nod and, pulling the door shut after
him, vanished into the darkness.

Peale tarried a minute, essaying to fathom the meaning of the summons.
His conscience, however, was clear, and with a small excitement rising
in his breast he left the hut and forged his way across an uneven,
stumpy parade ground. The wind attacked him viciously, first on one
quarter, then on the other. The rain sluiced out of the sky and stung
his face like so many darts, and it was with real relief that he passed
between a row of huts and entered a grove of trees where the storm was
slightly broken. Just beyond was the brigadier’s quarters. He clapped
one hand to his hat and knocked at the door. In a moment it was opened
slightly and an urgent voice said:

“Make it quick, man! This —— place is stone cold.”

Peale slipped quickly through. The door banged shut and began a steady
_rat-a-tat_ against its loose hinges, leaving the lieutenant confronting
the lone occupant of the room, the general of the brigade. The young man
stood silent, astonished at the situation. It was not often that general
officers of the Continental Line rose to admit subalterns.

This swart, medium-sized man with the frank, bold face, had a reputation
for dispensing with formality between himself and his men. Once a
private soldier himself, he knew how to command affection and respect at
the same time. Other generals might insist on their personal guard, but
no sentry stood outside of Maxwell’s door to suffer in the wind. And
doubtless he had sent his aide off to the Black Frigate to get warm. It
was the measure of an officer who was beginning to command a reputation
as a heady fighter in vanguard skirmishes.

“Come to the light,” said the general, stepping behind his camp desk.

Peale did as ordered and felt himself sharply studied from the half
shadows.

“You come well recommended,” continued the older officer. “It is a fine
body you carry around. Where did you get that sweep of shoulders?”

“My father put me to the forge as soon as I could hold a hammer,” said
Peale.

“Aye, I know _that_ type. One of those yeomen who insists on every keg
standing on its own bottom. I could wish for more of that brand of
independence. The war would sooner end. Tell me, have you traveled much
around the city of New York?”

“I spent some months there in ’78.”

“D’ye know the country between here and the Hudson shore?”

Peale thought a moment.

“I made but one trip, but I have studied the maps at quite some length.”

“Enough to make the trip by dark?”

Peale was not certain of that, but he was not the man to lag behind
opportunity. So he answered boldly—

“Yes, sir.”

The general was silent for some time. When he spoke it was as if to
himself.

“Good muscle, good limb. Apparently sound of wind. A swordsman of parts,
so your captain said, and with the address of a gentleman. ’Tis those
things that matter in a tight situation. A little boldness goes far.
Tell me, can you swim—I mean well?”

“My home is on a sound, sir. I believe I hold some records for
outdistancing men of the district.”

The general moved to his desk and nodded.

“That’s all. I suppose you’ll be going down to the tavern to thaw. I
wish I could.”

Jeffry Peale turned away, grievously disappointed. Some signal duty had
hovered over him and vanished; the mark of that disappointment must have
showed on his ruddy cheeks, for the general’s eyes flashed in a friendly
manner.

“Tut, sir. If you knew the trouble ahead you’d not be so hard after the
mission. Go drink your porto and be thankful for a moment or two of
warmth in this infernally bleak world.”

“I could wish the honor of any service the general might trust me with,”
said Peale, tarrying at the door.

“It may yet fall to you when other eggs are broken,” replied Maxwell
cryptically. “If you see my aide at the tavern send him to me.”

Peale embarked across the stormy parade with a heavy heart.

“Whatever the duty,” he muttered, “it will go to another. Some Southern
macaroni, no doubt, with the air of a cavalier.”

What good of studying Grotius when promotion came to the man who looked
like a fighter and talked like a fighter? He struggled against the
elements, bearing off on a very muddy road that led beyond the lines.
Earth and sky melted into one vast orbit of tumult as he traveled, eyes
fixed on the light from the guard-house.

He did himself great injustice when he marked himself so low in
appearance. But that was the pessimistic Puritan strain which had
conspired for many generations to keep his folk humble. Independent they
might be, and greatly set on their rights, but when it came to personal
valuation they were strangely diffident, disparaging.

He met the guard’s challenge and passed through the lines. The highway
was a sea of slush that came high around his boots. Once he heard the
splash of hoofs and stepped aside to let a cavalcade pass him. Another
scouting party returned from the lowlands. There were more of these
detachments out lately, Peale decided, as he picked up the glimmer of
the tavern, directly ahead. The army was waking from its long slumber
and now was fencing and feinting with small parties. Feeling greatly
dispirited, Peale shook the water from his cloak and let himself into
the thick and warm air of the tavern.

It was such a tavern as might have been found on any road in any State—a
long, low-ceilinged room with a few tables scattered about. Obviously it
had been built for modest traffic and modest profits, for it fairly
bulged under the score or more of officers now within. They were of all
uniforms and all ages and illustrated perfectly the tremendous sectional
difference of the thirteen States.

Some were neat and dapper and carried their regimentals with pride;
others wore the clothes like so much draping. Connecticut and Maryland
rubbed elbows with civility and kept company each with its own kind.
Through the fog of tobacco smoke Jeffry Peale saw a familiar face and
crowded his way past several groups to one small corner where a brother
officer, Priam Lafferty, sat alone.

The man cast an irritated glance at Peale—a glance that fell just short
of the latter’s eyes—and spoke in a brusk, clipped voice.

“Thought your books held you home this night, Jeff?”

There was one vacant chair beside Lafferty and Peale dropped into it.

“Frozen out. ’Tis bitter weather, Priam. Look at the mud on my boots.”

Lafferty nodded, eyes traveling across the crowded room as if seeking
some one in particular. Peale caught the tavern keeper’s glance and
raised a crooked finger, deciding that Lafferty must again be in one of
his frequent moods of sulky moroseness. There was no accounting for the
man’s swift changing of humor, and Peale who had known him from boyhood
shrugged his shoulders and dismissed it from his mind.

The two of them face to face made a great contrast. Peale kept himself
groomed and though not far advanced in his twenties his face already was
beginning to settle in steadfast lines; he had apparently passed the
period of turbulence and had found himself. Perhaps his hazel eyes were
not very happy, for he shared his father’s oft-expressed belief that
happiness was a thing people spent too much time in seeking, but they
were most certainly direct and level and when his interest was strongly
aroused they contracted slightly and gave the effect of tremendous
penetrative power.

They were of about the same age, but Lafferty had gone more to bone and
bulk. His was one of those bodies that are lumpy and disproportionate
enough to make any suit of clothes look shoddy. When he slouched in the
chair, a slack-lipped, rebellious-eyed creature whose face was a
playground for every passing emotion, his waistcoat bulged untidily. His
chin needed shaving and the coarse jet hair of his head, here and there
streaked with white, was untrimmed. There seemed to be a magnet in the
far corner of the room that irresistibly drew his somber attention.

Peale caught sight of the tavern keeper’s daughter flirting outrageously
with a Jersey captain and chuckled a little. Priam Lafferty was in a
murderous mood just then, he knew.

“The girl treats you badly, Priam. But ’tis nothing to nurse a broken
heart over.”

Lafferty’s murky eyes rolled.

“If she’s wishin’ to introduce that gentleman to a duel—”

“Chut! Y’ve led yourself into this tap-room love affair, Priam. D’ye
think she’s the kind to be led by any single man? Trim yards and square
into the wind. ’Tis money in her father’s pocket to be engaging to all.”

Lafferty underwent one of his characteristic shifts of temper and
grinned sourly.

“Oh, I know I’m a bigger fool than most. _You_ may talk of ridin’ on an
even keel, for that’s in your very marrow. I’ve yet to see the event
that’ll shiver you. But you sh’d know I’m not the one to live that way.”

“No,” agreed Peale, “you’re not. ’Tis the whole jug of rum for you or
not a drop. Sometimes I could wish myself a little like that.”

He took the glass of wine brought by the tavern keeper, exchanged a
sober word with the man and began to sip deliberately. He felt the
warmth come back into his body; a little drowsy, he watched figures
shifting through the tobacco smoke and heard the rise and fall of
voices. Such words as came intelligibly to him dwelt entirely with home
affairs. How easily men slipped away from martial ardor when the chance
came.

He looked for General Maxwell’s aide in vain and found himself smiling
at sight of an ancient uncle sprawled before the fireplace, legs
widespread and a mug of mulled cider in his fist. He was all of
forty-five and yet but a subaltern. Only a New Englander, Peale decided,
could make such a picture of fireside contentment. Coat and waistcoat
were thrown wide open and hat was laid aside. A nutcracker face with a
pair of bright, mellow eyes stared into the amber flames. Peale felt
ashamed of his mirth. There was unquenchable spirit in a man like that
who would forsake comfort for the field.

He let the wine trickle past his tongue and put the glass against the
light. Purple rays shot through the liquid. Then he heard Priam Lafferty
speaking staccato phrases—

“Lieutenant Jeffry Peale—Mr. Otto Trevoris — a friend of mine passing
through on business.”

Drowsiness deserted Peale. He looked up to find a man of middle age
bowing ceremoniously; an attentive, unsmiling man dressed in severe
civilian’s black and leaning slightly on a cane. Peale rose and offered
his place gravely, but the other had spied an empty chair at a near
table and drew it over, taking seat between the two and resting both
hands on the table. Peale looked sharply at the cane and made certain
mental reservations; he had seen such cleverly contrived things before
and usually they sheathed swords. When his eyes raised they came in
conflict with those of Trevoris, and for a moment a singular and
studious exchange of glances took place.

Priam Lafferty broke this duel with a short laugh, fist smashing on the
table top.

“Strike me, I’ve waited five minutes for a drink. Hi, Benedick! Advance
with the wine gourds!”

“It is dev’lish cold out,” said the stranger, Trevoris, shaking his
shoulders. They were not broad shoulders but Peale was struck by their
precise erectness.

“I pity any man who must travel abroad in it,” rejoined Peale.

“Then pity me,” said Trevoris. He watched the inn keeper bearing up with
bottle and glass and poured himself a drink which, after raising it to
both men, he tossed down with a gulp. “’Tis rank stuff to be calling
port,” he muttered, “but will serve to keep the cold out. I’ve yet five
miles ahead of me to the Star and Crescent.”

“You have traveled from a distance?” asked Peale, mildly curious.

Priam Lafferty’s saturnine face turned toward him, scowling from some
new dissatisfaction. Trevoris helped himself to fresh wine and played
with the glass stem.

“From Spanish New Orleans,” said he, surveying the smoke and the crowd
with an air of ill-concealed scorn.

Peale’s interest was instantly aroused.

“That’s a trip I could wish to take. Tell me, how do you find the
country between here and the Mississippi? It must be dev’lish hard
going. ’Tis a land for a man with a good rifle eye, is it not?”

Trevoris shrugged those erect shoulders and seemed bored.

“If a gentleman likes hardships I would commend it. As for me, it seems
like God’s own wilderness.”

“Nevertheless,” insisted Peale, “it is the place for the common soldier
when this war is won. Cheap land and plenty of elbow room. The seaboard
is crowded and the South belongs to the nabobs. Give all us old soldiers
a hundred acres on the Ohio and we’ll fashion a new State for you. But,
tell me of New Orleans. How large a place is it?”

Trevoris took another drink and seemed amused. Priam Lafferty broke in
impatiently.

“Oh, —— the catechism, Jeff! Who cares about New Orleans? Choke off the
inquisition. Never have I seen the like of such a man to ask questions.
Anything from awls to elephants will command your attention. Here’s a
toast to the pot-gutted Benedick and his fair daughter.”

Peale smiled a little and drank. Trevoris put down his glass and looked
to his watch.

“I dislike most infernally to start off, but I must reach Albany Monday,
a sennight. Gentlemen, I give you one to his Excellency General
Washington and the next campaign. May the army win its just desserts.”

“With all my heart,” said Peale, bowing.

Trevoris’ face was satiric; Priam Lafferty stared at him, somber-eyed,
half unwilling to drink. In the end he swallowed the liquor and began a
tapping on the table with his nails.

“Well, the army must win somethin’,” he grumbled. “We’re a starved,
frozed lot now.”

“In New York, I hear,” said Trevoris, “they eat, dance and are merry.”
He rose and threw a silver piece on the table. “I must be going,
disagreeable as it is. Mr. Peale, it has been a pleasure. I trust I will
see more of you.”

Priam Lafferty passed a hand across his rumpled hair, frowning heavily.

“Enough of this cursed babble for me. I’ll see you to your horse and
then go home.”

They crossed the room and stopped momentarily by the door while the
stable boy slipped out for Trevoris’ mount. Peale saw Priam Lafferty
glowering blackly at the captain who had usurped the interest of the
tavern keeper’s daughter. Trevoris stood with his greatcoat covering him
and even through the swirling smoke Peale could see his eyes sweep the
room. Then the door opened and the stable boy beckoned. The two went out
and a heavy draught of air set all the lights to guttering. Certainly,
decided Peale, the storm had not abated. It took an urgent kind of
business to force a merchant to brave five miles of mud road on a
pitch-black night. He settled in the chair and was grateful for the
warmth.

Outside, Trevoris dismissed the boy and sprang into the saddle. Priam
Lafferty put a hand to a stirrup and together the pair moved a few rods
down the obscure highway.

“Ticklish business this,” he grumbled. “I can’t say it’s the best way of
meetin’.”

Trevoris spoke coldly, through the dark.

“’Tis my policy to meet in as public place as possible. There’s more
spying ears and eyes in this road than back at the tavern. Rest easy.”

“Easy!” grumbled Lafferty, almost shouting to make himself heard above
the storm. “Little ye know my temper. This shilly-shally ill suits me.
Don’t be surprized if I see you in the city before so very long.”

“You can do us better service where you are,” replied Trevoris.

“And expose myself to more danger. ’Tis an uneasy life. Well, you’ve got
the packet. Avoid the next village as you would the plague. ’Tis full of
suspicious fellows.”

“Au revoir. Should you find anything important in the next two weeks,
remember to warn our certain friend.”

With that Lafferty released his grip on the saddle and stopped,
listening to the slosh of Trevoris’ horse’s hoofs until the tempo of the
wind overwhelmed the small echoes. He traveled back to the tavern and on
the threshold debated going in.

“No, ’tis best I leave Jeff and his questions alone. —— the fellow for
his curiosity.” He gripped the folds of his cloak tightly and, leaning
against the wind, entered the picket lines of the camp.

                *        *        *        *        *

Jeffry Peale had drunk his gentleman’s quart and was overhearing the hot
debate of a Massachusetts and a Virginia man on slavery when a finger
tapped him on the arm. General Maxwell’s aide, bearing the marks of the
storm, spoke briefly.

“To headquarters with me, Jeffry. And you’d do well to tuck a bottle of
rum under your arm.”

Peale stood up suddenly.

“’Quarters?” said he, excitement coming over him.

He wrapped the cloak around him and clapped on his hat, striding to the
door at a gait that left the aide well to the rear. Somewhere in the
half-gale the officer caught up, complaining bitterly.

“Such an infernal racket abroad. I’ve not been warm for forty hours.
D’ye have an inkling of your job?”

“Something,” said Peale, picking a course for the brigadier’s hut. They
passed the pickets and slipped heavily in the mud.

“And yet you hurry,” said the aide. He swore again. “Did anything ever
beat a soldier’s idea of glory? Rushing through this tempest to be sent
on a wretchedly cold and hungry affair. Was there ever such a
perversion—” he ran out of breath and had to stop. But at the
brigadier’s door he burst out, “Nevertheless, I’d give my right arm to
be in your place, you lucky devil! Go in!”

General Maxwell was busy with the quill when Jeffry Peale entered,
slamming the door behind him. The brigadier looked up, stared a moment
with his bold, frank eyes and then motioned to another chair.

“Draw to the table. You’ve got business to do. Come here where you can
see the map.”

They were closeted thus, head to head, for the better part of a
half-hour. In the end Peale said—

“Yes, sir, and where will I find the horse?”

“’Twill be at the door of your hut when you are ready. I give you but a
few minutes. ’Tis late now and prudence demands you reach the river by
day. Mind you, this is not an affair to be spread amongst your cronies.”

Peale let himself out of the hut and trudged across the parade ground to
his own quarters. The trees groaned beneath the impact of the wind’s
frenzy; all the world seemed a-quiver. In this black, uneasy universe
there was nothing to distinguish between earth and infinity, yet Peale
thought he saw a lone star breaking through the pall—his own star. It
was an illusion, of course, he decided. Such was the fabric on which
life was built. It took but a word and a gesture to change the course of
a career, to lift a man from plodding obscurity to the blood-stirring
path of adventure which now lay before him.

No more the student for Jeffry Peale. Now the clash of saber, the night
ride and the softly spoken password. This was all that a soldier could
ask. He plunged into his hut and went to his own corner, oblivious of
the presence of Priam Lafferty in the opposite bunk. He belted on his
sword, inspected his pistols and threw over his shoulder a cartridge
pouch, ranging impatiently around the room.

Lafferty sat up and spoke sullenly.

“Patrol?”

Peale shook his head.

“Off on a private excursion.”

“What, man? On a night like this? Tut, ye’re out on duty or y’d not be
out at all. I smell a mission. Where away, Jeff?”

“If you can smell the mission,” returned Peale, grinning, “try to smell
the destination.”

Lafferty got up with an oath, his jowls turned scarlet.

“So I’m told to mind my own affairs, eh? What fine gentleman are you
turnin’ into? You aspire high, but let me not have airs from you. I’ll
not stand them.”

It was Lafferty in his ugly mood, brow furrowed and lips twisted in a
line at once sardonic and contemptuous. Peale squared off, speaking
shortly.

“If you mean to rag me, it’s best to forget it. A secret once told is a
secret twice told and none should know it as well as you. Drop your bad
humor and bid me luck. Be a good wife, Priam, to my property while I’m
away.”

The door rattled under a fist and Peale put a hand to the latch.
Lafferty cursed.

“Mind your own property—I’ll not! If you see me again—”

The rest of the phrase was snatched from his mouth when Peale opened the
door and the wind burst through. A lantern glinted, an orderly held out
the reins of a mount. Peale got into the saddle and swung away. He
passed the pickets, the tavern and embarked on that road which Trevoris
not long before had chosen.

He traveled fast and he traveled far, with always the elements shrilling
in his ears and the rain soaking him to the skin. Past one sleeping
village and another; across a creek, with the board bridge rumbling
beneath him; up hill and down and at intervals a beacon-light shining
across meadows to reassure him.

He forded the Passaic at flood, turned out at the hint of a night party
scurrying down the black highway, crossed the treacherous slough of the
Hackensack, and at last came upon a broad pike that led straight east.
And just as day was breaking on the horizon he stopped his jaded horse
at a silent house and knocked on the door. Long after, the bolt was shot
and a voice challenged him.

“Well?”

“Franklin and Deane.”

“Come in.”




CHAPTER II — OVER THE RIVER


He followed shuffling footsteps down an interminably long hall, with the
smell of stale furnishings in his nostrils and his drums cracking from
the surcease of the storm. He could hear it battering furiously at every
shutter and door as if trying to break through the habitation and
surround him again with its ice-like fingers. Relieved from that frigid
embrace he began to feel uncomfortably warm; his ears and fingers burned
and his eyes stung. His guide turned a corner and opened a door, leaving
him poised in the darkness with an admonitory whisper.

“Wait till I throw a blanket over the win’ow. Pryin’ eyes—”

The fellow moved away, shuffling. Boards creaked and something
fluttered; another door opened and presently the man returned with a
guttering candle and set it on a table.

“I wish ye hadna come,” he growled. “Aye, I wish it infernally strong ye
hadna come. The countryside is a nest o’ traitorous dogs that ’ud sell a
neighbor to the gallows fer a shillin’.”

By the feeble beam of light Peale saw him to be a thin, undersized man
with a narrow face and a crooked nose, dressed like some slovenly
servant. Furtive eyes met him and glanced away as if afraid of the
contact.

“’Tis beyant me why I’m served up with so many night birds. Three in the
last month. Too many, too many. I’m suspected now. Lud, I c’n feel the
halter on my neck every blessed hour. I suppose,” he said, averting his
face, “ye’ll be wantin’ to cross ower?”

“That’s the idea,” replied Peale, settling into a chair. “Day’s about
come, though, so I’ll have to lay by until night. Y’ve got a plain
citizen’s suit for me—and a cot I can catch a bit of sleep on?”

The man wrung his bony fingers.

“So I’ve got to harbor ye in the house twelve hours? ——, why didna ye
come sooner? I could’ve put ye across an’ washed my hands of ye. ’Tis
bad—bad. D’ye unnerstand? There was a file of redjackets in the
neighborhood this very mornin’!”

“’Tis a risk we must run,” returned Peale wearily.

“Ye mean a risk _I_ run, young man.” The fellow stared gloomily at the
table. “Well, ye’re hankerin’ fer a bit o’ somethin’ to eat, I’ll vow.”

“I could manage it.”

“’Twon’t be much. Sit still.”

The man rose and slipped through the door. In another part of the house
Peale heard him throwing wood on the fire. He leaned back in his chair,
on the point of falling asleep. By and by the man called softly through
the hall.

“Asa, Asa, come down an’ take a horse to the barn. Hurry now, there’s a
crack o’ light comin’ ower the eastern line. Ye’ll bury saddle an’
bridle beneath the hay.”

Peale shook his head, feeling sorry for these people. They lived a life
of extreme uncertainty, never sure but that the British might not pack
them off for summary punishment or, on the other hand, that overzealous
patriots, enraged by their apparent Toryism, would harry them out of
house and home. It was not so much the actual danger, great though that
was, but the suspense hanging over them. The furtive, suspicious look on
the man’s face was plain enough evidence of the strain. Peale opened his
eyes suddenly, hearing a voice at his side.

“’Tis scant fare, friend, but the tea’s hot an’ plentiful. I keep the
fireplace burnin’ all the night fer visits like this. Say yer grace an’
eat.”

Peale fell to without ceremony. A pot of cheese, sour bread and bitter
tea made his meal, with his host brooding over him.

“Ye’ll take my bed. ’Tis time I was up. In my closet is a fine suit with
a fawnskin waistcoat fit for any gentleman. I save it fer such
occasions. Ye’ll wear that well, though I doubt not it’ll be a mite
strict on yer shoulders. They shouldna send men with such unusual
carriage on a mission, for when a man commands attention he’s cramped in
his business.”

“There’s a tavern somewhere across the stream?”

“A place fer every villain in the county —a scant mile above the English
picket lines. The Red Boar, they call it. Aye, a precious pack of
scoundrels infest it. It’s direct across the river from me, beyant the
shore a quarter mile, on the Albany Post Road.”

Peale reached into his pocket and brought out five gold pieces which he
shoved across the table without explanation. His host took them each
between his fingers, rubbing the surface in a half-greedy manner.

“Well, ’tis some consolation. Now, come. Ye’d better sleep while ye may.
At dark tonight we’ll row across. My boat’s floatin’ on the tide in
the bushes at foot o’ the cliff.”

Peale followed the man through the hall and into a frowsy bedroom. He
was tremendously tired and promptly sat on the mattress and shed his
boots. His host muttered something about “pryin’ eyes” again and snuffed
out the candle, retreating. There was a gray light slipping through the
shutters as Peale drew the blankets over him. Next moment he was
profoundly asleep.

                *        *        *        *        *

Somewhere during the afternoon Peale woke from his heavy sleep. The
storm seemed to have lost its vigor and now only shook the house with
occasional gusts. Daylight penetrated the shutters, and he rolled over,
knowing that it would do no good to rise before dusk and that an extra
hour’s rest would give him that much more power of body for whatever
befell during the coming night. So he slept again.

When he woke the second time it was with a vague feeling of
apprehension. There was no one in the semi-dark room and no sound in the
cold house. Outside, evening was settling and the storm had subsided,
leaving a silence over the countryside that seemed to Peale to contain a
threat. Under the propulsion of this inexplicable feeling he got up,
pulled on his boots and gained the malodorous hallway.

Across the way was the kitchen with a fire burning brightly on the
stones and something of savory smell steaming in a kettle on the crane.
But of his host, nothing could be seen or heard. He moved through the
kitchen to another room, and thence to the funereal parlor he had first
sat in, before dawn. Going back to the hall, he came to the stairway and
called, softly—

“What’s up, friend?”

The hollow echo of his voice trembled in the air and evoked no reply.
Now, thoroughly roused, he started for the front door and was on the
point of opening it and going out to the barn when a sense of caution
stayed his hand. Instead, he turned to the nearest window and peered
through the curtains.

It was the last of a gray, bleak day, but there was enough of light for
Peale to see through a lane of trees to the dull black surface of the
North River. Beyond, masked in the settling fog, was Manhattan Isle.
Peale’s sharply scanning eyes made out a dim beam of light from the
farther shore—some farmer’s lantern, no doubt, bobbing across a meadow.
Farther down the Isle and shut from his view by the intervening trees
was New York town, headquarters of the British forces in America—his
destination.

A dog barked, shattering the unnatural stillness of the darkening night
and Peale turned his attention to the immediate foreground. At the
extreme right of his vision was the barn, and around its edges wound a
path that he judged must lead down the bluff to the river’s edge. Then
he caught sight of a figure moving out of the trees, so slowly as to
seem prompted by stealth. As long as he was in the deeper shadows, Peale
could make nothing of his countenance or costume, but within a dozen
strides the man got to clear ground and then the young officer had a
vague outline of British accouterments and a trailing musket. Almost at
the same instant he saw others breaking from the thicket at the other
extremity of his vision.

He left his vantage point and ran to the door, shooting the bolt into
the catch. Retreating to the bedroom, he swept his arm through the
closet and brought out a handful of clothes from which he had to choose
his suit almost by sense of touch. Ripping off his uniform he donned the
civilian garments. Beneath his coat he buckled securely the brace of
pistols.

Clapping on hat and cloak, he rolled up his own uniform, thrust it under
the bed and hurried back to the window. In the fast-thickening fog the
four or five advancing Englishmen were hardly more than silhouettes
against the darker mass of woods. Even as he turned a last glance at
them, some one mounted the flagstone steps and resolutely knocked at the
door, saying in a bold, ringing voice—

“Open, farmer, ’tis king’s soldiers.”

Peale ran back through the hall on his toes. A rear door promised exit
somewhere in the darkness, but it seemed to him probable that it might
be guarded. He swayed on his toes, debating courses, while the front
portal shivered under the butt of a gun and the challenging voice rose
to a more irate pitch.

“Open or I’ll break this cursed thing from its hinges!”

At that Peale made up his mind. Drawing pistol, he raised the latch of
the rear door very cautiously and then flung it open at one sudden,
unexpected movement. A figure twisted around to meet him, growling:

“Oh, no ye don’t! Stand fast or I’ll stick ye somethin’ ’orrible!”

His pistol went in a true arc and struck the sentry on the head; the man
fell with a small, expiring breath, sloshing in the muddy earth. Peale
looked about him, half expecting other opposition. None developed. He
ran behind a stone house, passed another intervening stretch to a shed
and thence across twenty yards to the thicket.

It had all been accomplished without commotion or general discovery. But
he could hear the man at the back door groaning and knew it would be
but a moment before the unconscious sentry would be discovered. He
turned riverward and, parting the sodden brush before him, skirted the
house and barn. Scrambling down a rather sharp slope, he reached a path
that descended still more abruptly over the face of a rock palisade. As
he lowered himself, loose rocks shot away from his feet, crashed through
brush and reached the river’s surface with a plunking sound.

Here in the gorge a small wintry wind scoured upward and numbed his
exposed members. He groped along the dark stairs with all the speed
possible, leaving the sound of the British soldiery behind and at last
putting his feet on level ground. Before him water rippled against the
stony beach and bushes rustled lightly in the breeze.

The farmer had mentioned his boat tied to bushes, and Peale, on
exploring forward, found it so.

“Oars, bailing pot and rope,” said he, untying the skiff and shoving
off. “Having been so unceremoniously left, I shall have to be my own
guide. ’Tis the gentleman’s own loss that he’s not here to bring his
boat back from the other shore. I strongly suspect he deserted the house
at the very first smell of a trap and left me to meet the amiable
hirelings of Hanover. Ah, well, I should not too strongly condemn the
poor devil. Now let’s try our luck.”

It seemed no great matter to keep abreast the current and land on the
opposite shore somewhere in the latitude of the tavern. He pulled
steadily, muffling his stroke as much as possible; water gurgled gently
against the skiff’s snout. From the river he looked upward along the
Jersey Palisades, trying to distinguish his recent shelter, but that
area was swathed in the same darkness that fell about the river.

In midstream or beyond—he had no way of knowing just where—he heard the
knock of oars and the boiling of water. He rested, trying to fathom the
whereabouts of the other craft. Of a sudden it slid within pistol’s
range, so near that he could hear a man’s heavy breathing. Some one
spoke with a gibing inflection:

“Wot did ye say ’er name was? Amaryllis, hey? Aye, I know the trull.
Lad, ye didn’t think to be the only man—”

The sentence was muffled by the fog; the boat passed beyond a heavy wall
of it and Peale heard only a heavy coughing and a rough expletive. Then
silence.

He took up his course again and redoubled his efforts to regain lost
headway in the stream. Ten minutes later the bottom of the boat grated
on gravel and stopped. He climbed out and, as a precaution, shoved the
craft again into the stream. The farmer was out one stout skiff; that
was the fortune of war.

“Now if I’ve held with the current, I should be in a straight line with
that tavern,” he murmured.

He moved forward, crossing a rocky strip of beach and coming against a
line of bushes. A bank appeared to hedge him from the rolling land of
the island. It was useless to seek a path in the darkness, so he worked
himself between the thicket and climbed straight forward. It was stout
labor, but presently he left the slope behind him and stood erect on the
edge of some kind of field. For the first time he saw lights glimmering
dimly in the southward—lights of New York town.

“Straight eastward, my lad,” he cautioned himself. “The road should be
hard by.”

A creek splashed along its course on his left, and against the
metal-black sky he saw the faint tracery of tree branches. Passing
onward, he arrived at a fence, surmounted it and became engaged in heavy
woods. At almost the same time he heard, from the immediate foreground,
the creaking of a carriage and the urging of a driver’s voice. This was
the reassurance he needed.

Stumbling from one abrupt depression to another, he fought his way from
the trees, well soaked, and embarked upon the highway, sinking deep in
the mud. It was villainous stuff that laid a score of traps for him, yet
within a hundred yards he was rewarded by the sight of a dim, diffused
light ahead.

It was a feeble beacon, nor did it become much brighter as he
progressed. When he stood within a few yards of the place he found a
smudged window winking at him; from within the place came a bawling
voice. It was a tavern, and undoubtedly that unsavory hostelry known as
the Red Boar. Peale stood a moment at the door, listing to the groan of
the tavern shingle in the fitful wind. Then, drawing a pistol, he pushed
through the door with the abrupt haste of a man seeking trouble.

It was an evil-smelling place, with furniture scarred by many brawls and
the floor littered with straw. A dozen candles gave it but half enough
light and a fire smoked dismally on the hearth. In the far corner were
two men who had kicked back their chairs at his entrance and looked
about to fall upon him. In all his travels he had never entered an inn
more charged with the atmosphere of illicit trade and violence. He had
no doubt that it was the rendezvous of every renegade in the countryside
and, since it was so close to the British pickets, that scores of
deserters had made it their stopping place. He waved the weapon at the
two glowering fellows and spoke crisply.

“Sit down, you rascals and stop that infernal staring at a gentleman.
Where’s the master of this inn?”

Hardly had he finished the question when an inner door flew open and a
tremendously fat creature with a perspiring brow entered.

“Eh, eh?” he grumbled, “that be no way to talk to my customers, sir.
’Tis an honest trade I have.”

“Honest?” cried Peale angrily. “—— of an honest place! Not a
quarter mile back I was set upon by a brace of ruffians and lost a sound
horse and saddlebags! I had the voice of one and, by Godfrey, if I hear
him again I’ll know him well enough to send a ball through his cowardly
body! You—” pointing to the nearest of the men at the table, “—speak a
word! Let’s have your voice.”

“D’ye take me fer—”

“Enough,” broke in Peale. “Now your partner!”

“I’m minded to break yer face, my fine—”

The inn keeper clapped his hands together.

“No, no, Job! Hold yer tongue! The gentleman’s well roused and apt to do
violence. Sir, ye’ve come to the wrong place, I do swear. D’ye think I’d
harbor birds of that feather?”

“I have your reputation,” said Peale somberly. “’Tis none too savory. A
pity to me the general doesn’t sweep this island clean o’ such rascals.
Dash me, I’ll take it out on some one for that miserable half-mile I
walked!”

“’Tis but a like distance to the pickets,” assured the inn keeper in a
soothing voice.

“An’ d’ye think I’d go another step in this mud on foot? I’ve got a
better way. Tell me, d’ye know any of those pickets?”

“I know half the royal army,” boasted the tavern keeper. “They favor me
with their trade—when a little innocent fun is wanted.”

“You’ll make a fine guide. Bring around a couple horses and guide me
through the lines.”

“Oh, no, sirrah,” objected the tavern keeper. “A gentleman couldn’t ask
that much. Perhaps one of these boys—”

“Cursed if I want either of the rascals!” broke in Peale, blowing
through his nose. “I want a man to explain my lookin’ like a cursed
rebel spy! Ye’ll go if I’ve got to drag you by the queue. Come, don’t
purse your lips at me. If it’s a sweetener ye want—here.”

He took a crown from his pocket and tossed it at the fat one’s
outstretched hand. The latter caught it with astonishing agility and a
change came over his face. The two at the table exchanged a significant
glance, which Peale observed.

“If ye’ve thought to waylay me, ye’ll do well to think of safer robbery.
I’m not a man to tamper with. Come, Benedick, get your horses out, and
bring a lantern. I dislike waiting.”

The tavern keeper bowed.

“If the gentleman puts it that way, I’m bound to give. A moment, sir,
while I saddle up. Ye’ll have a drink?”

“Y’ve made your profit off me,” said Peale. “Now go along. I don’t drink
such bilge-water as ye’d likely serve.”

The tavern keeper took the insolence without protest. He had dealt with
many great gentlemen with tongues just as sharp as this one owned. In
particular, he had been favored with the company of some of the British
officers when they were sweeping the island for deserters, and he knew
the quality of their scorn only too well. So he ducked his head and left
the room, while Peale stood wrathfully in the center of the place,
eyeing the two at the table.

They remained silent, cowed by his steady gaze. In a short while the
tavern keeper hallooed from the road, and Peale went out to find the man
in the saddle, holding a spare horse by the reins and carrying a
lantern. Peale swung up; they pressed forward.

“I hope ye won’t be sayin’ too much about the rascals that set upon
you,” offered the tavern keeper humbly. “At least ’twould be kind if ye
didn’t say it was close to my place. The high gentleman officers in town
look queerly my way. Any excuse would be good enough for them to harry
me out. Oh, I’ll not say I don’t treat the boys well and mebbe there’s a
bit of mischief that goes on. But ye’ll allow it would be injustice in
this case.”

“It’s a —— outrage that a gentleman can’t travel from Philip’s Manor to
New York without being took by a pack o’ brigands,” growled Peale.

Whereupon the tavern keeper fell silent.

The scattered lights of the city grew closer and the road turned to
another quarter. Quite before Peale was aware of it they were being
challenged, and the tavern keeper had slipped from his saddle and was
advancing, lantern swinging from side to side. Peale heard him speaking
in a low, amiable tone.

“—a misfortune to the gentleman. ’Tis you, Rob? Gad, that’s luck! Ye’ll
pass him out o’ favor? Should he be kept till daylight I fear he’d tell
the general. Then I’d suffer. A matter o’ favor.”

The guard muttered a half inaudible phrase.

“’Tis after enterin’ hours. But let him come on. It’s a raw, cold night,
ye old rascal.”

By the light, Peale saw a bottle pass. The innkeeper returned,
chuckling.

“Go right on, sir. About the horse, now—”

“Come with me till we strike the cobblestones,” said Peale, “and you
shall have your horse back.”

Thus they passed through and were enveloped in momentary darkness.
Without further conversation they traveled until the houses began to
scatter along the way, some dark and some with lights a-twinkle in their
windows. In another twenty minutes they reached a street lamp and here
Peale drew up and dropped from the saddle.

“Y’re an amiable villain,” he said, handing over the reins. “I shall say
nothing about the affair.”

“Thanks to ye, sir. ’Tis not every gentleman— There’s a patrol, by ——!
I’d best be goin’.”

He turned and made off, leaving Peale in the street. Somewhere in
another block came the steady tread of feet. In the silence of this
outer section Peale heard a brief command and then the challenging of
guards. Without listening further, he swung down an alley and passed
from the radius of the light.

“So far luck has run strong with me,” he murmured, “but, when it comes
time to leave—ah, that may be another story.”

He had been well coached as to his destination, and within another ten
minutes he stood at the door of an imposing stone house through the
windows of which came a cheerful light. He tapped on the knocker, and by
the glow emanating from the interior began to survey his muddy boots and
soaked apparel. The door opened suddenly and a girl with corn-colored
hair and a grave white face stood silhouetted by the rays of a hall
light. She spoke with a slow, rising inflection—

“Yes?”

“I have been told, madam,” said he, after a sharp inspection of her
face, “that I might find lodging here. I’ve traveled a great distance
this day and had the misfortune to lose my horse.”

She was silent for a long interval, the wind blowing the folds of a
voluminous skirt about her. One hand rose toward her face as if to fend
off a stray lock of hair.

“I’m sorry, but the house is full,” she replied at last.

“The river is deep,” said he, making a gesture with his arm.

“Ah! Come in.”




CHAPTER III — A CAPTAIN OF THE KING’S OWN


Sunlight invaded the room—the vagrant sunlight of a wintry, overcast
day. Some time ago the fifes and drums had sounded reveille throughout
the town; but it was a summons that had not found Jeffry Peale lagging
in bed. Quite a long while before he had been stationed at the clothes
closet with his ear pressed against the wall. In the room adjoining, two
officers had spent their dressing period in a rather acrimonious
argument concerning military policy, during the course of which Peale
had picked up a few helpful fragments relating to conditions within the
city. And after their departure for breakfast he set thoughtfully to
work brushing his clothes and knocking the caked mud from his shoes.

It was while doing this that there sounded a tapping on his door.
Adjusting his coat and moving a little nearer to the pistols on the
lowboy, he said, “Come,” and then was sorry for his aloofness. The
portal opened quickly and the girl with the corn-colored hair slipped
through with one swift glance behind her.

“It was the very first moment I could get away,” said she. “The last of
the gentlemen just now left the table.”

“I had thought to come down earlier,” he answered, “but decided it
wisdom to wait until I saw you.” He smiled, becoming on the instant a
fine and engaging gentleman. “’Tis not my custom, I assure you—to let
others wait on me.”

There was no answering smile.

“You had not meant to mix with the English officers?” she asked. “I
thought you were to remain under cover, like the rest, until I had given
you information.”

“My orders are a little broader. I am to take what you have for me and
spend the day walking about.”

She seemed to be looking through and beyond him, her eyes troubled by
visions. Jeffry Peale thought he had never seen a woman so soberly
introspective and yet so plainly made for gaiety and high humor. Once,
the sun thrust a long beam across the room to become entangled in her
hair, and under that light it glowed like metal at white heat, sending
color to her face.

“Why,” she demanded, “are you all so gay and reckless—all you who come
on these dangerous missions? Is it because you love danger more than
others—or is it a mask?”

“All men love life,” said he, “and certainly none love it more than I. I
think we like to play a game. The game is to flirt as near death as
possible and yet come away with honor. In my imaginings I have done it
many times in many ways.”

“But when you flirt—and lose? When you see death as surely yours—then
what?”

“’Tis in the game not to consider losing. But if we do lose, then it’s
to be played out and the forfeit given. What else?”

“Like Captain Hale,” said she, nodding. “Sometimes I see them—all that
have passed through here—standing in a rank. They were brave and gallant
fellows. And in the ranks there’s sometimes a gap, and then my heart
aches terribly all night.”

“Look to yourself. Do you never think of your own danger?”

“Danger? There is none. Look: My boarding house is always full of
British officers. Some are very loyal—and—and complimentary. The first
one to whisper treason about me would have a duel on his hands
instantly. I am utterly safe. But come, is it not foolish to spend good
time this way? I brought with me a list kept for two weeks now. It is
yours. You had better memorize the figures and destroy it.”

A slip of paper came from some mysterious source. Peale took it, bowing
slightly.

“I should be flattered to know your name,” he said. “Mine is Jeffry
Peale, of Maxwell’s brigade.”

“Jane Welch. When will you have breakfast?”

“Give me a half-hour with this,” he replied, pointing to the paper. “I
should like to get it in mind before going abroad.”

She inclined her head and left the room. Peale took a chair by the
window and began a studious perusal of the finely shaded writing. For a
while he saw nothing of the figures or words. Jane Welch’s face was
indelibly outlined on the paper, somber-eyed, the sun shining in golden
yellow hair.

“’Tis like looking at the sun and seeing the reflection long after,” he
mused.

He found himself comparing the courage in her eyes with the same quality
he had seen in those officer ladies who followed the army from campaign
to campaign, creating makeshift homes in tents or huts, that the men
might have some moments of homely cheer. Women like Dame Washington,
Greene’s charming wife or the jolly Mrs. Knox.

He turned resolutely to the list of regiments in and around the city,
memorizing. Interspersed among the figures were items overheard, such
as:

“The Fourth Foot is well talked of by officers for discipline, but the
men are considered undersized and the regiment only half strength.”

“’Tis known that Admiral Howe wishes to see the Colonies conciliated and
that his brother, the general, has a great regard for American rifles.”

“Cornwallis is considered the strongest fighting general of all the
English.”

He went through the paper carefully, and then a second time, laying it
aside with a comment.

“This evening I shall commit it more carefully. ’Tis time now to take my
tour.”

Slipping the paper beneath the mattress, he finished dressing, took his
cloak and hat and went down. In the hall the girl met him and pointed
through an inner door to where a table still was set with breakfast
dishes.

“Take the head chair. Probably you will have company. There’s an officer
or two who usually sleep right up to parade and roll-call and have to
come back later to eat. What,” she asked, in a much lower tone, “shall I
name you?”

“My own,” said he. “The less of deception, the less of stumbling.”

“But a moment ago,” she remarked, “I remembered I had not yet eaten. So
if you do not mind—”

He was before her, pulling back a chair.

“Many strange things befall a man in the course of war, but I should not
have believed yesterday that in twenty hours I would be tipping coffee
cups with so pleasant a partner. ’Twill brighten the camp-fire many days
to come.”

She gave him a glance that for the moment was free from the usual
soberness. It left her face strangely soft and, in a measure, beautiful.

“I do believe war makes all men gallant.”

He took his seat, saying gravely:

“No doubt you hear many pretty speeches. I did not mean it to sound so.”

“I did not take it—so,” she replied and turned her eyes to the silver
pot. “Your cup, Jeffry Peale.”

The front door opened and slammed violently. A youth in a subaltern’s
uniform came bouncing in.

“By all that’s sublime, Miss Jane—” he began in a loud voice, then
stopped short and put on his professional dignity. “Oh, I do beg pardon
for the racket. Silly of me.”

“Lieutenant Consolven,” said the girl with a slow gesture of her white
hand, “we have a temporary guest at our table. This is Jeffry Peale.”

The Englishman bowed with his head and shoulders as Peale rose.

“Pleasure,” he grunted and without further ceremony made for a seat
across from the girl. He had a high color and a long, horsey jaw; there
was about him the external boisterousness and rudeness of the country
squire’s son. When he sat down it was with vigor and when he began to
eat it was with enthusiasm.

“Hungry—lud! Made that parade one leap ahead of the old martinet. No
more!” He swallowed a quantity of cakes and coffee and turned a frank,
unsuppressed curiosity on Peale. “Peale? A Surrey Peale?”

“Kent, a hundred years ago. At present a New York Peale, and an
infernally roused one. Why d’ye allow brigands to invest the roads
around this city? I was set upon last night and in the scuffle lost a
good horse and saddlebags. Seems a pity this army can’t suppress such
nonsense.”

The subaltern threw back his head and laughed noisily.

“Sounds to be the very same tale the ‘martinet’ tells, doesn’t it, Miss
Jane?”

The girl explained to Peale.

“That’s Lieutenant Consolven’s captain—a very strict gentleman.”

“A ripper! A fire-eatin’, gimlet-eyed monster with the heart of a
provost marshal,” broke in the subaltern, mouth full.

“—and he’s forever outraged by the lawlessness outside the lines,” she
finished.

“Must run,” said the subaltern, swallowing his coffee. “Infernal racket
abroad. Would appear there’s a certain rebel spy in the city. So the
report comes from headquarters. Now they’ve got details scourin’ every
low dive in town. Cursed life, this. Always some overturnin’ or uproar.”

“And do they know the gentleman by sight or substance?” asked Peale.

“Not that I’m aware. ’Tis just a smell they have. Troop across the river
flushed him from a suspect’s house. Found a uniform. Now we’re turnin’
out the low dives. If he’s about we’ll find him there. Always find spies
in such filthy dens,” he explained with finality, kicking back his
chair.

Peale rose at the same time.

“If you’ve no objection I’ll walk down the street with you.”

“Come along then.”

Peale followed the subaltern out, meeting the girl’s sober glance as he
closed the door. There was a deep concern in those eyes and, though he
wanted to believe that concern was for his safety, he was too humble to
suppose it so. Rather it was for the success of his mission and for the
cause he represented. So thinking, he passed into the windy street, with
the sun showing fitfully, half up in the heavens and toward the south
the black clouds of a coming storm.

He had to walk lively to keep up with the Englishman who muttered a fear
of the Martinet.

“A sly devil,” said he. “I’m supposed to be on tour now—worse luck. The
man’s eyes are in the back o’ his neck, I fully believe. By gad, ’tis a
sad state when the son of a Surrey gentleman must fetch and carry to a
Lunnon weaver rose from the ranks. This principle of equality of
classes—was there ever a more pernicious, damnable doctrine?”

“Many men hold with it,” observed Peale gravely.

“’Twill be the ruination of all such,” grumbled the subaltern. “Let each
bottle keep to its own shelf.”

His eyes darted down the street and suddenly, without apology, he bolted
into an alley, leaving his companion alone.

Peale continued his walk, keenly observant. It had been some years since
he last had trod these streets, and the change of the town was
shockingly visible. It had the air of being down at the heels, of sadly
needing paint and repairs. The streets were littered with débris and,
though by reputation it bore the name of a city very gay and voluptuous
under the British régime, Peale could not but notice the shabbiness of
the passers-by and the air of uncertainty in too many faces. Here were
concentrated thousands of troops and refugees, a great part of the
latter living only on the hope of a speedy success of the royal arms,
subsisting on the last of their incomes.

Fine ladies and gentlemen passed him in coaches, holding their heads
properly high; tradesmen peeped from their doors at this parade, none
too cheerful, and here and there lounged rough characters who viewed all
with insolence. British occupancy had brought untidiness to an orderly
provincial town. And always there was a passing and repassing of
soldiers led by stony-faced officers.

It was upon these that Peale bent the closest scrutiny, sometimes with
professional admiration, sometimes with ill-concealed scorn. The British
Empire could buy them fine uniforms and new accoutrements and drill them
until they stepped as one and carried their arms neatly; even so, the
home government could not conceal the poverty of the recent regiments.

The veterans Peale could tell at a glance by their carriage—men who had
been trained in the hard school of lifetime enlistments. Peale had met
them on the battlefield and could testify to their stubbornness under
fire; but at intervals he saw groups from the new, high-numbered
regiments—undersized, shoddy men from the docks and gutters of England.
The very sight of them gave him courage, and he turned toward the North
River slips, where the spars showed high above the houses, with a
lightened heart. The Elijahs and Elnathans and Samuels who stood parade
on the bleak Morristown hills need have nothing to fear from them.

He came to the lowlier part of town, where were lodging houses for
sailors and barracks for soldiers—a quarter smelling of salt air and
tar, and traditionally boisterous. Beside him was an apothecary shop and
on impulse he ducked through the small door and stood in a semi-lighted
cell, hearing some one growl at him from a dark corner.

“Well, what d’ye want here?”

“A shilling’s worth of horehound,” answered Peale, making out the shadow
of the fellow, “and a little civility, my friend.”

“If y’ve come from gin’rals headquarters to spy on an honest man’s
business, _gentleman_, ye can go back. Wirra, ’tis a poor excuse ye
offer—a shillin’s of horehound, eh? Bah!”

“You talk, friend, strangely like a rebel. Doesn’t his Majesty’s
gracious government suit you?”

The apothecary moved reluctantly to his shelves.

“I’ll have me rights,” he grumbled. “D’ye think it’s politic to be
sendin’ agents forever around to snoop? Y’d think th’ blessed army was
afeerd o’ its shadow. Day an’ night—day an’ night! Between rogues and
thieves an’ spies I’m fair sick o’ it!”

Here was a malcontent, certainly. Peale threw his shilling on the case
and waited for the apothecary.

“Some day, friend, you may be rid of the trouble,” said he, and took up
the horehound.

The cobblestones resounded with those incessant files marching by. He
bent beneath the door’s shortness and faced the daylight again. And
immediately every muscle and every nerve in his body sprang to that
defensive state which rises in great danger.

For, advancing upon him, not a rod distant, was that thin-lipped,
severe-eyed gentleman whom he had met in Priam Lafferty’s company at the
Black Frigate tavern—Trevoris. He was no longer the merchant in
civilian’s black but a captain wearing the bright red, blue and buff of
the King’s own regiment.

He stopped, even as Peale stopped, and his hand went up to halt the
dozen soldiers behind him. The severe eyes contracted and the rather
swart face screwed into an unlovely, predatory mask. Thus he stood for
an instant, studying the man before him with a terribly sharp gaze. Then
his sword came flashing out and he moved forward, saying coolly:

“So, my dear Mr. Peale, you have favored us with a brief visit? Stand
fast, sir, or I’ll run you through!”

It was such an instant as Jeffry Peale had often visioned over his
books. On those occasions past he was often troubled about his slowness
of mind, for he never rated himself highly as a quick thinker; but now,
as the grim, dour-faced captain advanced, blade foremost, and the
soldiers and bystanders began to crowd around, he saw every avenue of
escape in one swift glance; understanding, too, that if he were to live
at all he had to put himself to the gauntlet.

He whirled, threw a man aside with his arm and dashed down the street,
unhooking his cloak and letting it fall.

There was an alley hard by that angled toward the river and this he
took, with a motley pack pursuing in full cry and every house disgorging
men at his heels. Not a hundred yards off he saw the black hull of a
ship sidling in the water, and beside it a warehouse. It was for that he
made his break; once inside that shelter, piled high with London
merchandise, he might temporarily hide, and while the pursuers diffused
themselves, drop silently into the river and start for the Jersey shore.

He calculated he would have made some progress across before they
followed him in boats. After that, he depended on his strength to carry
him safely over. At any rate, it was the lone means of escape open to
him.

But, as the alley narrowed down, a slatternly woman stepped out of a
near-by hovel and stood, arms akimbo, gaping at him. She was rolling in
fat, frowsy-haired and seemingly dazed by the unexpected uproar. The
voice of the pack, however, was something that stirred her animal
shrewdness. A human being was being hunted down, the rarest of all
sports. So, when Peale was but a few yards away she stepped directly
into his path and spread out her immense arms, cackling.

“No ye don’t laddie! Come here.”

Peale, never expecting this turn of affairs, was unable to halt his
course. He swerved a little, plunged into an outstretched arm. It threw
him and he went down, with the slattern on top, clawing his cheeks with
her nails. Then those fat arms gripped him relentlessly, and before he
could fight away the mob was around, striking him with boot and cudgel,
shouting their curses. Dimly, he heard the curt voice of the captain
lashing at them as at a pack of dogs.

“Back, ye scurvy animals, before I send a volley into ye! Sergeant,
knock ’em aside! I want that man alive for the gallows!”

The crowd gave way and Peale, rising to a knee, felt the captain’s sword
at his breast. The man’s face was unmoved and he spoke with cold
courtesy.

“I could wish that courage expended for a more worthy cause,” said he.
“Stand, Mr. Peale.”

The game was played out. Peale rose and faced a file of redcoats.

“Your victory, Mr. Trevoris. Or was that a convenient title for your
recent expedition?”

“My name, Mr. Peale, is Captain Tremble,” said the officer. And he
added, with a certain grim satisfaction, “My men call me the Martinet
an’ ’tis certain I shall be on the court martial that sentences ye to
hang.”

The slattern elbowed her way through the circle, shouting:

“An’ here’s the one who got the laddie, Cap’n! Ye’ll not forget the
reward, wull ye?”

The captain favored her with a most contemptuous glance and spoke to the
soldiers; but there was yet another fellow to have his brief say. Some
one bellowed like a bull and Peale, turning his eyes, saw the apothecary
standing near, shaking his finger.

“So, ’twas a _rebel_ spy, eh? An’ ye guyed me about loyalty to the king?
Wirra, I’ll show’ee my measure!”

He ducked from sight and put a shoulder to the spectators in front.
Before Peale could dodge, the apothecary’s arms carried forward a bucket
of slops and all the filthy contents splashed in the prisoner’s face.
The crowd yelled gleefully; Captain Tremble swung and his sword struck
the apothecary on the head once, then again and again until the latter
swayed and fell within the circle, a bloody spectacle.

“I’ll teach ye respect of the king’s arms!” he growled, blowing through
his nose. “Y’re no better than a rebel.” Then, hearing the undertone of
hostility to the act, he flashed his weapon around at them. “No more of
it! Disperse! If any wish to taste Provost Cunningham’s hospitality I’ll
soon enough clap him in the first sugar house on the street. Disperse
now!”

The citizens fell back and made a lane, through which Peale marched,
flanked by the captain and followed by the file of soldiers. From behind
sounded the loud and sustained vilification of the slattern. It
accompanied them out of the alley and well up the street. Even as they
turned a corner they could hear her voice rising and falling, expending
all the well learned curses of a lurid life.

The captain was speaking, but to deaf ears. Peale had plunged himself
into a stern inquiry, that sort of self-distrusting examination which
had been his dower from earliest youth. There never was a time when he
had not belittled his mind and his courage, and never so much as now.
Another more resolutely forthright man would not have been taken. A more
subtle man never would have fallen into the snare, never would have left
a trail behind for British authorities to trace.

And yet, as he argued the other side of the case, he found himself
cheered. For, after all, the moves of the game had been against him. It
mattered not how shrewd his might have been—the sharp eyes of Trevoris,
or Captain Tremble, had fallen athwart his path. That was a contingency
he could not have foreseen, nor could any decently discreet mind have
foreseen it. A fortune of war.

For one brief instant he experienced a stealthy fear that Priam Lafferty
was involved; he immediately stamped this fear as a disloyalty on his
part and banished it from his mind. Had he not known Priam the best part
of his life? Priam had been duped, imposed upon by the pseudo-merchant
from Spanish New Orleans. Nothing more.

And so, by the time they had traversed the street, a spectacle for all
eyes, he had restored his self-respect and regained the philosophy that
seemed to him to represent all that was best in a soldier’s life—to
resign oneself in mind to any fate that might befall, but in action
never to give up so long as a single living impulse animated muscle and
mind.

The detail stopped; he was pushed into a door by Tremble. At the end of
a hall they turned into a room and confronted a seated general who wore
an order on his coat. Captain Tremble explained the affair in a dozen
words. Peale saw the general’s face turn stormy.

“I can not understand it,” said the general. “Blessed if I can! What
more could you provincials wish than the beneficent kindness of his
majesty? What real, just grievances have you that could not have been
settled peacefully? ’Tis upon your head—all this bloodletting and
misery. I have said a thousand times and I say it again, that to all
disaffected who accept his majesty’s gracious pardon should be shown
every courtesy—as if they had never erred. But to you, my fine young
man—to you who have broken every regard, violated the king’s peace and
gone so far as to engage in the abominable, insidious act of spying—to
you I shall not show an ounce of mercy! There will be a court for you
before night and by daybreak you shall die!”

“’Tis such a sermon as I might have expected,” replied Peale sedately.
“I do not expect you to see on both sides of the wall. But if you should
wish to find me cringing for pardon, I must disappoint you. I can die as
well as any man.”

“Captain, send him to the provost!”

Peale bowed himself out and, followed by Tremble, rejoined the file of
soldiers and set rapidly off down another street. The storm in the south
had moved closer; shutters were slapping on the house walls and a gust
of rain sprinkled the cobblestones. Peale drew a deep breath,
unconscious of all the eyes upon him, and began to feel a strange
exhilaration of spirit. The reason for it he could not determine, yet it
was there, a strong, buoyant current that flowed out of some remote
reservoir. And, prompted by it, he raised his head, to find himself
looking directly at the house of Jane Welch and to see Jane Welch
herself staring down from the stoop at him, her hair blowing heedlessly
across her white face and her eyes mirroring an emotion Jeffry Peale had
never before seen in a woman’s face.

It was all too brief; one moment he met that glance and the next had
passed on, seeing Captain Tremble bowing at the girl and hearing the
guard behind gruffly ordering him to move faster.

Somewhere beyond they stopped at a sugar house. Tremble advanced toward
the guard. There was a passage of words and another officer turned into
sight, beginning an immediate protest.

“No, no, Captain. I can not permit another man in this place. ’Tis
loaded so now there’s not room for all to sleep. Another few treacherous
dogs and they’ll burst the walls. Try the next.”

And so they went on, while the wind burst over the town with redoubled
force. Peale, entirely disinterested, took little note of his
surroundings. Presently they came to another sugar house, stopped and
waited. Tremble motioned Peale inward. He passed on to a hall and thence
into a semi-dark, dismally cold area, hearing a lock click behind him.
Footsteps clattered away and presently he was left alone.

He had no idea how long he waited in this cheerless, draughty place; it
seemed an endless length of time. He heard the guard changed and the
occasional rattling of a cart. The day waned swiftly and of a sudden the
storm roared in all fury about them. It was then that he heard the inner
door open and was dazzled by the rays of a lantern. A thick booming
voice challenged him:

“What the —— you doin’ here? ——, there’s rats like you scattered all
over the town. How in —— do they expect the provost to keep account?
Guard, who’s this rebel?”

“I be’nt told, sir. The last relief said nawthink about ’im.”

He was another officer, the lantern bearer, and slightly drunk. At a
peremptory order Peale moved into the hall, to find guards resting on
their arms. Propelled by a rough arm, he stepped into the rain-drenched
street and was put into a column of prisoners who huddled miserably
together. The lantern bearer coughed and said gruffly:

“Off to the prison ship, the whole pack o’ ye. There’s a new set o’
rascals comin’ to the city an’ we need room. Forward!”

Bending his head against the tempest, Peale followed obediently. They
trudged from street to street and at last came to the river’s edge,
where a barge waited. One by one they were herded in. The guards crowded
after and then, with a prisoner at each oar, they embarked across the
twisted currents of the East River.

It could not have been more than four o’clock, but it was so dark that
nothing could be seen twenty yards ahead of the pitching craft. The
slightly drunken officer cursed them in a dozen ribald ways and once
cuffed the ear of one of his own men who manipulated the sweep.

“Look, rebels!” he shouted. “There’s your future home! Many’ve rotted
there before you and many will rot after y’ve been sewed up and tossed
over!”

Peale raised his head and gazed eastward. A phantom ship rose out of the
fog and towered over the barge—a battered, stripped hulk that rode
uneasily in the swells. Not a glimmer of light came from it, not a sound
of cheer. It floated, a sinister, foul thing—the grave of all hope, a
living death for thousands of American soldiers.

As the barge passed around the stern, Peale made out the faded name,
_Whitby_. But on a thousand tongues it was already known as the
“hell-ship.”




CHAPTER IV — THE PRISON SHIP


The barge, thrust by the current, sheered in toward the hull of this
ship of death. Peale saw a porthole, strongly barred, a few feet above
his head and, as they came abreast, a vagary of the wind carried down to
him an indescribable stench. Nor was he the only one to experience it,
for there was a general mutter among the prisoners and the slightly
drunk officer began to lash at them with his tongue.

“Pull out—pull out! Y’ll swamp the barge shortly!”

From the porthole issued a hollow, frenzied voice.

“Better drowned than sech mis’ry! Lads, for God’s sake stay clear of
this cesspool! ’Tis easier to die in clean air!”

The officer raged and drew his pistol, threatening instant death to the
unknown speaker, but a sweep of the oars took the barge away and the
darkness blotted out voice and stench alike. A dozen strokes brought
them on the lee side of the ship; the officer issued a great shout that
presently was answered by a sentry’s grumbling voice.

“Aye.”

“Throw over the ladder! Prisoners comin’ up.”

“’Tis after receivin’ hours.”

“Stand there, jackanapes, and refuse an officer’s direct order! Throw
over the ladder, or by gad, I’ll give you a ball! After hours, indeed!
Who are you to balk a provost guard? Make it fast now before we stave in
our sides!”

After considerable delay in which the barge was flung violently back and
forth, always threatening to hurl itself against the ship’s side and
splinter into a hundred pieces, the ladder rolled down upon them and the
prisoners climbed up, one by one.

Peale, being in the rear of the barge, was the last to step on the decks
of the hulk, with the uncomplimentary farewell of the English subaltern
behind him. The rest of the unfortunates were huddled in front with the
solitary guard hovering indistinctly three yards away. There still was
time to take a step back and hurl himself over into the turbulent water;
in the darkness none could find him nor trace his route shoreward.
Precisely at that instant the guard advanced and a bayonet touched his
chest.

“For’d, rebel and down into the hole!”

Other guards, warned, came running up. Peale went on, seeing those ahead
stoop and disappear into the bowels of the hulk. Presently he was beside
the trap-door that led below and, when he likewise bent over, the fetid,
miasmatic air billowed up and struck him fully in the face.

It was a smell unlike any he had ever experienced. Barnyard and abattoir
stenches were perfume compared to it. That first full breath threw him
back, gagging, his vitals revolting at so horrible a destination. Then
the guard’s steel blade again touched him ungently and, half falling
through the aperture, he grasped the rungs of the ladder and descended.
The door of the trap fell into place, sealing this foulness in.

Reaching the bottom, he stood at the center of a whispering group,
blinded by the utter darkness and wrestling with the revolt of his
senses. It seemed impossible that men could live at all in such
atmosphere, or that any authority would permit it. Yet it was so; here
below was half a brigade of men—the _Whitby_ had the reputation of
holding better than a thousand—sleeping, or trying to sleep.

The group dissolved, fellows stumbling to right and left, seeking a
place on the floor. Peale’s ears began to pick up a subdued mournful
chorus which, when he traced out individual threads of it, proved to be
men groaning, sighing, choking—every conceivable lament of the human
spirit. What made it all the more pitiable was the hopeless quality of
their plaint. To Peale, vigorous and strong and with a memory of the
fresh, stormy air outside, it was at first unbelievable that so many of
them would endure this misery when only a trap-door and a skeleton crew
stood between them and freedom; it was but two or three hundred yards to
the Long Island shore, and there were boards a-plenty to rig up a raft
that would carry them across in the darkness.

The answer was too apparent: These men were not in their full vigor and
never again, probably, would be. Their bodies had begun to rot and their
spirits were at the last, stubborn level, below which is death. The
tyranny of one trap-door and one solitary guard was enough to quell
them.

He saw the gray bull’s-eye of a port across from him and started toward
it, only to stop, gesturing futilely in the dark. That looked to be the
sole air vent in all the extent of the ship, and to reach it he knew he
would have to cross a solid carpet of men. He turned another way. It was
very slow travel; always he felt bodies in his path and he had to reach
down with his hand to find space enough to place his feet.

They were like the dead, unprotesting, and with only some small sound or
twitching to indicate they still lived. Once he lost his balance and
stepped on an arm, and drew back, expecting protest. None came, and he
arrived at last at a vacant strip between two silent figures and laid
himself in it, marveling.

He told himself that he would have a night-long vigil. Never in this
dungeon of hopelessness could he find rest, and so he rolled face to the
floor. He knew not how long he was awake; but at last the poisonous
vapor drugged him and he fell into a state that was neither sleeping or
waking. Sometime, when the small bull’s-eye of light shone dimmest, a
great agonized cry rang through the hulk from bow to stern—the death cry
of a mortal. After that, profound silence settled over all.

                *        *        *        *        *

He was roused at last by a cold draught of air pouring on his body and
by a ringing cry repeated again and again.

“Rebels, bring up your dead! Rebels, bring up your dead!”

Rising from his confined position, he found a foggy light billowing
through the open trap-door and the full, ruddy face of an English
officer peering down. Looking about, he saw the sad spectacle of better
than a thousand men waking to face another dreary day of confinement.
They were packed together like sticks of wood, with here and there
figures sprawling across others, at right angles.

One by one they rose and made their way uncertainly toward the ladder,
stooping at places to pinch and examine certain bodies who did not move.
They wore a ghastly color and their faces were drawn and sagged—an
illusion, he thought, of the early morning light. The man immediately
behind stirred, put a shaking hand to Peale’s shoulder and with that
support rose. He had not seen Peale’s countenance, but his finger tapped
slowly on the civilian suit and he spoke in a dead-level voice:

“’Tis a new man come to crowd this hell. I can see it by the neat
fixin’s on yer coat.”

When Peale swung about he knew that it was not the gray light that made
prisoner’s faces so; it was not an illusion but the pallor of
disintegrating flesh.

This one was nothing but a parcel of bones wrapped indifferently in
parchment. Something in the eyes told of youth; elsewhere was the sign
age. His hair was gray, his teeth hung loosely in white gums. Once he
had been a powerful fellow, for the shoulder joints were far apart and
his ribs, each of which was outlined through the cotton shirt, were well
sprung. But the muscles that once he had flexed and felt pride in were
shrunk to nothing. He must have seen the flaring compassion in Peale’s
face for he observed, mournfully:

“Well, friend, look on one betwixt earth an’ purgatory. I kin straddle
both regions mighty easy, I tell you.”

Peale felt the need of liquor then.

“Often have I heard tales of this place but never did they match the
living truth. Who are you, man, and how long have you been here?”

“Sharon Eastman—Haslet’s regiment. I was took with Stirling at the
skirmish on Long Island, August last.”

“And not exchanged yet?”

“Not a bit of news have _I_ heard about exchange. But ’tain’t likely I
would. When I was still strong I tried to escape. See fer yourself how
far down I come since then. Oh, no, they ain’t no exchange fer me.”

The guard’s warning issued again.

“Bring up your dead, rebels!”

Men worked sluggishly sewing blankets around several figures. A party of
six spent their feeble effort lugging one such mournful burden to the
upper deck. Sharon Eastman pointed with his thumb.

“This be a sickly ship. Ten die each blessed night. ’Tain’t long before
I’ll pass up them stairs like that. ’Ud gone sooner, but I come o’ tough
stock. Y’ve got no mess, yet, o’course? Well, stick by me for a time.
’Tis our first turn at the kettle.”

An officer, followed by four stolid, heavily armed mercenaries,
descended and went toward the center of the hold, where a big copper
kettle swung from the beams. Beneath it was a pit of earth on which a
fire was now blazing. The officer raised his voice.

“Bring y’r rations up, rebels! Mess by mess. No tarryin’, now, or I’ll
see to ’t ye lose y’r proper turn.”

Several fellows grouped about Sharon Eastman who seemed to act in the
capacity of a non-commissioned officer for his mess. From some place
along the dark crannies of the ship’s hulk he fetched a shank of beef
and a bucket of moldy peas. Peale looked upon the meat with a fresh
disgust of senses. It was raw and in a state hard to describe—a
stinking, maggoty piece of provender unfit for human consumption.

The group followed Eastman hungrily toward the kettle. Some one had
already bailed water into the kettle; green-scummed bilge-water, nothing
more. Without ceremony Eastman dropped the meat into this steaming brine
and stepped back, eyes cocked on the officer.

“I assure you,” said Peale, “I want none of that. I’ve long felt the
need of a fast and now’s the opportunity to take it.”

“Such squeamishness will pass,” observed the officer coldly.

Boots tramped across the deck above them and a tackle squealed under
burdens being lowered over the side. Peale saw a blanketed body pass
down across a porthole and heard the shouted directions of a guard. Back
of him clustered a line of men, waiting their turn at the kettle. The
officer took his watch and, after a period that could not have been more
than five minutes, raised his hand to Eastman.

“Pull your meat out. ’Tis done.”

“Done?” spoke up Peale angrily. “The filthy stuff’s not even warmed.”

“Take it out and give way.”

“D’ye require men to be cannibals on this cursed ship?” demanded Peale.

His fist went into the tub and emerged with the meat; this stringy
whitish stuff he thrust under the officer’s nose. The latter stepped
back with a wry face, at the same time plucking at his sword hilt.

“Fine filth for human bein’s is it not?” asked the irate Peale. “If you
think it’s done, taste it.”

“None of this —— sedition or I’ll run y’ through!” exclaimed the
officer. Sharon Eastman grabbed at Peale’s coat and pulled him away,
whispering:

“None o’ that. ’Twill serve no good. He’d spit you quicker’n a wink.”

Peale surrendered the meat and watched the mess divide it, he himself
refusing a share. Eastman poured into the hand of each a small measure
of the peas, and thus they made their meal. Groups collected elsewhere
going through the same mockery. At places he saw some of the newcomers
like himself, standing aside and being jeered for their lack of
appetite.

The trap-door was open and a few of the prisoners were crawling to fresh
air. With undisguised eagerness he followed and soon stood at the rail,
looking off through the fog to the city. Guards strode behind
him—high-helmeted Anspachers whose pigtails and dour faces indicated a
savagery of heart that they really did not possess. Toward the stern,
part of the deck had been penned off, and in it Peale saw a half dozen
pigs and a cow which now was being milked. Forward, another burying
detail clambered up the ship’s ladder, back from their sad work on the
Wallabout beaches.

But a scant five hundred yards separated him from Manhattan’s shore; he
had breasted twice the distance in waters no less dangerous. But to
accomplish this in daylight was almost impossible, and before night came
the trap-door would again bar him below decks. He cudgeled his brain for
a way out. Certainly he could not stay long without embarking on that
decline of flesh and spirit which so marked the other poor devils.

If he meant to break, he must break shortly. Through fire, sword or
water—any chance was preferable to rotting away. Moreover, Captain
Tremble must soon be looking for his prisoner and, failing to find him
in the sugar-houses, would surely come to search the ship and march him
back before a summary court. Therefore, if the man did not come during
this day, the first darkness was time to move on his contemplated
course. Somewhere on deck, in the pigsty or in a shadow of the guards’
housing, he might hide. Or, failing that, a crown in an itching palm
might help. These Germans had an unholy lust for plunder and felt no
particular pride in the war they waged.

Anything to reach mainland, see Jane Welch once more and take that
dossier he had put under the bed; then regain the Jerseys. The thought
of the girl brought forward a fear that had been with him since the
first moment of capture. Had he implicated her in any way by his
presence at the house? Had Tremble’s sharp glances pierced her secret?
Peale, moving uneasily, believed not. She had said she was above
suspicion and that the Englishmen residents in her house were too loyal
to countenance the thought. For that matter, she had a plausible
explanation; she might say Peale had looked like just another of the
many traveling provincial squires who applied at her door for lodging.

In the fog he seemed to vision her as she had been on the hour of his
capture—a tense figure, whipped by the wind, one white hand to her
breast and her eyes filled with an emotion such as he had never seen
before. Where could another woman be found like her?

Sharon Eastman stepped beside him, mumbling. There was a sly look on his
face and he pointed furtively toward the pen of hogs.

“They’re a-feedin’ the porks. If y’ll come quiet we’ll steal some o’ the
bran.”

“From where?”

“Why, out o’ the trough. ’Tis not so hard to do an’ it makes great
porridge. When the Hessian turns his back—”

Peale shook his head. Eastman grumbled disapprovingly.

“Better take hold o’ that p’ticklar appetite, friend. Y’ve got to eat.”

“Where,” asked Peale, “do they bury the dead?”

Eastman’s bony finger swept the mud flats of Wallabout Basin. “There.
But it’s no great rest the dead get. When the tide washes out y’ll see
white bones from Rapelje’s Mill to Remsen Point.”

Peale ground his foot into the deck, swearing roundly.

“Is there no spark of decency in their —— hearts? Gad! It makes a man
want to break them between his fist! Oh, I’ll call some of their proud
officers to account!”

“Not for a while, friend,” was the dispirited answer. “If it’s escape ye
think about, better put the idea away. It’s been tried many a time and
but once do I know of a man succeedin’. And if ye fail it’s outright
death or suthin’ worse. There’s a dark hole for’d they use fer proud
devils—half awash with bilge an’ squealin’ with rats the size o’ your
arm. Think twice, friend.”

“I am done with thinking,” replied Peale, gustily. “Did you ever hear of
a guard bein’ bribed?”

“I’ve considered it,” said Eastman wistfully. “If I was the strong lad
of another day an’ had a gold piece I’d be tempted to try that method.
These Hessians, they’d sell their mothers fer a bit o’ plunder.”

“Once the trap-door was left open—after dark I mean—and a dozen stout
fellows got to the deck—”

“No, no!” said Eastman with as much emphasis as his frail body would
admit. “I tried that. ’Twon’t work. Y’ll only make a fury that’ll bring
down the guards. And the new lads like yerself—there ain’t enough o’
them to push through by force. If ye mean to escape, do it by yerself.
The poor boys below are beneath movin’. The last example was a-plenty to
put fear o’ God in ’em. Five slaughtered outright, friend, and two more
in the dark hole till the rats bit ’em and they died o’ plague, ravin’
mad. Look to yerself only. Can ye swim?”

“Better than most.”

“Then it’s a fair chance ye have. But, mind me, if y’ fail, carry right
through till ye fall stone dead. Never let ’em pinion ye down alive.”

An officer saw them together, talking thus earnestly, and came over with
a sharp warning.

“No sedition on board! Separate!”

Eastman slid away. Peale stared at the shoreline, mind filling with the
hope of release from the leprous hulk that swayed uneasily in the water.
Once overboard, he would have no fear. Even in darkness he would have a
few glimmering lights from the town to guide him on. Ashore, he would
again be a free agent. Free enough at least to fight for himself. Here
on the prison ship he could only watch disaster overtake him. And there
was Maxwell waiting in the Morristown hut for his reply; there was Jane
Welch—

This new-found turbulence of spirit caused the day to drag on
interminably, made doubly dull by the lack of sun. Not once did the
heavy fog disperse, or a clear sky appear. Occasionally rain fell and
drove some of the feebler ones below. Toward midday there was a general
movement toward the hold, but though Peale got as far as the trap, his
freshened sense of smell rebelled at the sickening stench and so he
returned to his post and began a study of the guards.

The previous night, on coming aboard, an English voice had assailed him,
and even in the shadows he had seen the guard’s stubborn English face.
But, during the early hours there had been a change. Hessians now
lounged at particular posts on deck, arms carelessly ready, their
taciturn visages made all the more gloomy by their fashion of pigtailing
their hair and by their tall, helmeted hats. Not one who did not wear an
extraordinarily thick mustache. A child would have been frightened at
the first glimpse of them; and indeed America had trembled when first
they arrived.

Trenton had dissipated their false ferocity, and the towns and farms
along the route of their march knew them now as greedy, lustful
marauders more set on stealing the lead weights out of a clock than on
fighting. They kept their places stolidly, watching like so many lazy
mastiffs. Once Peale saw a prisoner sway and rub the elbow of such a
Hessian. The man spoke a word of jargon and pushed the weak one away
with his hand, not ungently.

He still had a few precious gold crowns in his pockets, saved from
confiscation by his swift changing of prisons. Now, as his ideas of
escape expanded, the money seemed the chosen instrument of salvation.
From hour to hour he watched, until time came to change reliefs and
another took post over the trap-door. They appeared to stand the regular
two-hour shift and Peale calculated that the following relief would come
on some short time before darkness; that guard was the one to approach
with the offer of money.

He moved restlessly around the pigsty to starboard. The path from the
trap-door to the ship’s side was not an open one. Several kegs of
molasses were piled between and a kind of alley led through them: Once
past the guard he had to thread this and throw himself over the bulwark.
He visualized every step of it. All he asked was but a moment’s
forgetfulness on the part of the Hessian sentry; a moment in which the
trap-door might be left unbolted. So thinking, he watched the East River
grow darker and more turbulent.

A cautious voice spoke into his ear.

“Come below, sir. There’s a council goin’ on.”

Before he could turn his head one of the newer prisoners walked past,
took a tour of the deck and descended. Peale tarried some moments,
feeling conscious of an overseeing eye. Casually looking about, he saw
no one watching and so followed down the trap and ladder to the hold.

Already dusk settled in the place and men were assuming attitudes around
the portholes. Some of the messes were fixing for the night meal. There
seemed to be a sly expectancy in the faces he passed; faces that
explored his stature as he walked along the dim alleys. News, he
decided, traveled quickly among prisoners.

Toward a far corner he saw the messenger who had summoned him and
pursued his way with a certain air of disinterest. Yet his intuition
told him what was abroad half-way toward the stern, and therefore he was
in a measure prepared when Sharon Eastman rose from a blanket and
intercepted him, whispering rapidly:

“Remember what I told ye, friend. Play a lone fiddle. Have nothin’ to do
with gen’ral mutiny. _That’s_ beyant hope!”

Peale nodded and went on. Beyond a square oak post, green with mold, he
came upon six of those with whom he had ridden on the barge. All were
resolute fellows, though ragged and dirty, and all turned on him a
singular glance of hope that the messenger presently undertook to
explain in a subdued voice:

“We got our bearin’s on this ship, sir. ’Tis the opinion of six of
us—all that’s got spirit—that if we ever wish to see liberty again it
would be better to make the attempt now. And since I knew you to be one
of Maxwell’s officers—seen you on parade one day—I made it plain to the
rest you should take the lead and give us some encouragement.”

“What had you thought?”

“Ah, that’s the infernally hard question to answer. We’d thought to
force the trap-door after dark and scatter. Once the passage was open
the rest of the poor devils might take heart and follow after. That
would simplify things. ’Twould be no task then to disarm the Hessians
and control the ship.”

“But if not?” asked Peale.

“Well, if we must count on only ourselves, it’s a matter o’ reaching the
bulwarks and divin’ for it.”

“Can all swim?” persisted Peale.

The spokesman was interrupted in his answer by another, more forthright.

“No, but —— all tories, I’ll take my chance on sinkin’ ruther’n fester
here! Besides, half them molasses kegs are empty, an’ bunged up. Good
support fer a bad swimmer. I’ll chance it!”

“You’ll give us a lead?” persisted the first speaker anxiously. “’Twas
in the mind of some that maybe we’d be bringin’ trouble down on the
heads of the helpless. ’Twas the reason we should like your direction in
case o’ trouble.”

Peale harked to Sharon Eastman’s warning and dismissed it. If there were
men to make the effort at liberty his was the privilege of throwing in
his lot with them.

“I had thought of a plan,” he said, scanning the circle of anxious
faces. “It’s fair dark now. Make no undue move together, but slip toward
the foot of the ladder, after it’s beyond being seen, and wait for my
word. Once on deck, quiet is the word and every man to his own
resources.”

He left them and made his way back through the thickening gloom.
Overhead was the tread of sentries, and when he reached the deck again
and expelled the cloying air from his lungs he found a new guard had
been posted at the trap—another dour creature, hardly distinguishable
from his brethren. Peale, glancing about him, thought each and every one
of these mercenaries possessed the same avidity of plunder in their
eyes.

There were, at the moment, no inquisitive faces bent his way and the fog
of the coming dusk had begun to foreshorten distance on the ship. So,
mustering his resources, he caught the Hessian’s attention by a nod of
his head.

“Do you understand English, friend?”

The mercenary stood at ease, arm thrown around his bayoneted weapon. His
features were cast in one unblinking, taurine expression. Peale felt a
degree of helplessness.

“I could wish for a knowledge of languages now,” he murmured. “I doubt
if he’ll comprehend signs and it would draw attention. But there is one
tongue he’ll understand, I vow.”

Taking a crown from his pocket, he bent as if to look at the buckle of
his shoe and slipped the crown beneath his heel. Rising, he moved away,
exposing the money.

The guard’s eyes fastened instantly upon it and remained there for an
indefinite period. Peale stepped back on the piece to recover the man’s
attention and then looked at the cloudy sky. The mercenary’s bold
features lost their rigidity when the prisoner moved his attention to
the trap-door and rather pointedly crossed glances with him. Deserting
the coin a second time, Peale walked to the aperture and kicked his toe
against the iron bolt which, at night, held the trap down. Again he
commanded the Hessian’s face with a steady glance, and ended by passing
between the kegs and leaning on the bulwark of the ship.

The Hessian looked about to find whether he were unobserved, and then in
a swift motion retrieved the crown. Peale nodded and flirted one finger
not too conspicuously out toward the river. The Hessian seemed to nod
his head—Peale could not be sure of that, but the sign looked
favorable—and resumed his stolid posture, one arm wrapped around the
bayonet.

An officer came from aft, calling out.

“Below rebels! Get below to your blankets!”

Not many had elected to stay above until the last moment of grace.
Enfeebled, lack-luster creatures, they preferred stench and a little
warmth to the chilly draughts of the harbor wind. Peale, almost the last
one to duck through the trap, turned to catch the Hessian’s eye. As he
passed below, closely followed by another straggler or two, the trap
slammed and the iron bolt clanked. The English officer spoke a word and
marched away, his boots making a small, mincing echo in the hold. They
were trapped once more for the night.

Of a sudden it was dark with no more than a grayish beam shooting
through the ports. Peale, standing at the ladder, began to make out once
more the rising chorus of human misery. Here were the hours when courage
ebbed. Men, shut in upon themselves by the lack of vision, began to be
aware of their proximity to death and to bewail the fact in slow and
measured groans. Peale shook his head compassionately at the sound,
hardly able to master a torrential anger. These creatures were going
through purgatory before their time.

A hand touched his elbow.

“Is there a flaw in the guards? Did you coax one?”

“I think so,” murmured Peale. “If you hear the bolt—”

A musket butt grounded on the trap, and they were aware that the bolt
was being worked from its slot, inch at a time, faintly protesting.
Peale touched his neighbor and felt the man reach out to signal another.
Advancing up the rungs, he stationed himself with his arms ready to
raise the door. The protesting iron became silent and the musket butt
tapped again, this time with less of noise. Peale was aware of his
followers clustering behind and, reaching down to communicate a word of
caution, he put his weight against the door and shoved, a little at a
time.

Waist high to the deck, he looked around to reassure himself. The guard
had slipped into the outer ring of darkness, apparently. There was no
living sound from fore or aft and nothing but the small sough of wind
and sigh of the East River current. Between the molasses barrels Peale
saw the glimmering lights of New York town.

Reassured, he got to the deck, laid the trap soundlessly down, and stood
silent, checking his following one by one as they emerged, breathing as
if from great physical exertion. There was an even half dozen of them
and he wanted all to be assembled at the ship’s railing before breaking
the silence. As for a general uprising, he had banished it from his
thoughts long ago. The bulk of the prisoners had ostentatiously rolled
themselves into blankets before dusk, as if washing their hands of all
trouble. It was for the chosen six to run the gauntlet.

His senses were preternaturally sharpened by suspicion, and he had not
taken a step forward before he knew that the worst of his fears was
about to be realized. They were ambushed, trapped, betrayed by the
Hessian who had taken his crown. He could see nothing or hear nothing to
justify this belief, yet he knew that they were ringed around by guards
and that the next pace toward the molasses barrels would loose a bitter,
bloody encounter.

It was one of those impalpable shutter-like warnings that rise from
utter blackness; all stalking animals know these, and sometimes men,
fighting for their existence, are pitched to a condition where they,
too, become aware. Poised on the balls of his feet, he was at the
necessity of making a decision, with Sharon Eastman’s warning rising to
guide him: “If y’re caught, go down fightin’. Don’t let ’em take ye
alive!” And were it not far better for men to die instantly than to
suffer decay? In the encounter they might score something for their
imprisonment; the gods willing, they might come out on even terms.

“Break!”

It was a signal. From the molasses barrels came a driving storm of lead.
A bullet fanned his cheek and his nearest companion sobbed like a
broken-hearted child and fell at his very feet. The kegs rolled away and
they were hemmed in. The silence of the river was riven by lusty cries.

Peale knew, even as he crouched low and came up beneath a guard’s
weapon, that he and the rest were utterly lost. The attack was too
vicious and too sudden; there was too much weight behind it. If a single
man escaped over the side that tragic night, he might account himself
lucky. So thinking, he got his arm around a mercenary’s fat throat and
brought him down.

The both of them were trampled on and kicked as others passed and
repassed the piece of deck over which they fought. The Hessian, greatly
overbalancing Peale by his bulk, sought to bring his rifle to bear.
Peale felt the bayonet gouge his chest; he ran his hand down the length
of the blade and found a good grip.

His knee knocked the Hessian’s wind from the paunchy stomach. A twist
and a solid blow and the trick was done; the Hessian lay still. Rising,
he dashed toward the ship’s side.

A lantern flared in his face and a sword flashed before his eyes. His
bayonet averted a disastrous swipe of the blade; but at the same time he
heard the alarm go out and resistance crumble behind and knew that the
freed guards were swarming toward him.

“Rally! Here’s the malcontent! Steady! Spit him if ye must, but try to
bag the devil alive!”

That officer’s very back was to the ship’s bulwark. But a distance of
five feet was between Jeffry Peale and liberty—a five feet that he could
not cut his way through.

Lunging and smashing, he saw faces drop before him while the lantern’s
glow took on a bloody color. He felt blows on his body, innumerable
blows, and his ears rang. Still he fought, trying to reach the elusive
officer who held the treacherous light upon him and made him a fair
target for all the surrounding mercenaries.

Barbaric oaths rang in his ears; he saw the point of his bayonet plunge
through a tunic and come out with a jet of blood behind it. After that
his vision reeled. Something thundered against his head and he heard, as
from a remote distance, the officer saying curtly:

“Don’t kill the devil! Take him for’d to the lazarette and throw him in.
We’ll give the rats company for a while. Ah! Well done! He’s down!”

Vivid shells burst in his brain and a cannon roared and reverberated.
After that salute all was dark. His last flash of thought was—

“Jeffry Peale, you are dead!”




CHAPTER V — ESCAPE


Jane Welch’s house was a very comfortable place to be that blustery
night, for the east wind, which all week long had whipped the coast with
its sly temper, was making a final grand tour of the city. It swept the
streets with malevolent intent, sending all pedestrians to the nearest
shelter, fingertips stinging cold and eyelashes burdened with frost
particles.

More than once officers of the guard had stamped in for a moment’s
stolen warmth and crawled reluctantly out again, enviously leaving
Ensigns Bunch and Osbaldeston to attend the flaming pyre of oak on the
andirons. These two were off duty this night and each in his own manner
was trying to impress the lady of the house as she sat in the rocker and
fashioned something with cloth and needle.

Both were rather desperately in love with Jane Welch, and showed it.
With Bunch it was the sighing breath and languorous eye that begged for
response; in short, every such artifice as the fashionable manuals on
love-making indicated as proper for gentlemen. Osbaldeston, no less
smitten, was severely handicapped by nature, for he scarcely uttered a
word in the course of an hour and the least attention from the girl
caused him to blush to the crown of his ungainly head and pucker his
lips to hide a most painful self-consciousness.

Bunch was very scornful of his comrade and by every token considered his
case as the farther advanced; but when she rose and put four mugs of
cider in the ashes to mull Osbaldeston well nigh fainted; in passing she
accidentally touched his boot and this, according to the manuals, was a
secret sign of young love coyly advancing to meet the gentleman’s humor.
Bunch noted it with thunderous brow and stabbed his brother officer with
a killing glance, receiving in return a more or less ribald snoot.

All of this, of course, behind poor Jane Welch’s back. The ardent
ensigns considered that she had never seemed more beautiful or more
reserved; but in truth she was torn by every sound of the storm and when
she ventured to raise her eyes to the men it was with a fear that they
would read the truth in her eyes. This was the penalty of dissembling.
They might harry Jeffry Peale throughout the miserably bitter-cold
countryside or already have sent a stray shot into his heart; it made no
difference. She must smile and politely respond to their small conceits.

Very fervently she thanked God there was sewing to bend over that they
might not see printed on her face a question that would not leave her.
Where—and why could not a kind Lord tell her?—was Jeffry Peale? Sleeping
and waking, through three long days and nights, she had asked herself
that. The provost guards had searched their dungeons and the irate
Captain Tremble had inspected the hulks in the bay, all to no avail.
Innumerable parties had gone out and more than one tavern—the Red Boar
among them—had been wrathfully wrecked in the search.

And two court martials had sat as a result of the spy’s disappearance.
Perhaps no such uproar would have been caused had it not been for
Tremble. But he, of all men, was not one to rest.

There was not an officer in New York more devoted to the royal cause,
nor one more bitterly opposed to those who had rebelled against it. The
man was a zealot, a humorless martinet who seemed incapable of pity. It
was on record that he favored war without quarter; and the higher
officers were well aware that if the result of the struggle depended on
the sacrifice of a single life, Captain Tremble would be just the sort
to step out and offer himself as the martyr. His was not a temper to
cross lightly and his men detested him, at the same time carrying a
discipline few other companies of the royal army could boast. All in
all, he was an implacable, shrewd sort of character and perhaps the only
one in the city Jane Welch feared. His eyes were too cold, too
penetrating.

She woke from her thoughts to find Bunch speaking in his affected
manner:

“Do you not think, lady, it would be jolly in Old England now? Sewing in
a fine English hall before just such a fire and, mayhap, a few hounds
snoozin’ at hand?”

Osbaldeston looked worried, and started to speak. Then, remembering his
shortcomings, he shut his mouth like a trout on a fly and watched the
girl.

“Indeed it would be pleasant,” she said. “But you must remember,
gentlemen, I love New York, too. We provincials are stubborn people
about leaving this land.”

“Ah,” muttered Osbaldeston in satisfaction, and then turned ruddy as she
looked his way.

“Nevertheless,” said Bunch gloomily, “I could wish for a stall at a
Lunnon coffee house this night.”

“And now,” said she, “you have changed your desire. Which is it you
would be? The squire or the townsman—”

The wind whipped into the room and the front door slammed. The girl’s
grave eyes turned quickly and then dropped. Captain Tremble stood in the
hall, throwing off his cloak and hat. He turned, unsmiling, and bowed
with a precise kind of courtesy toward her. As for the ensigns, he
dismissed them at one glance and left them sitting silent and
uncomfortable, constrained by his sternness. Taking a chair betwixt the
fire and the girl, he rubbed his hands in dour silence for some
minutes—the nearest he ever came to permitting himself luxury.

Either Osbaldeston or Bunch would have topped him by a head, for he was
not a large man nor big-boned. And doubtless the combined age of the
ensigns was not greater than his, for his temples were graying and fine
lines showed in his face. But for all that, he bore himself like a
fighting man; and he was known as a dangerous sword.

“Very cold,” said he to the girl.

“Yes. I am glad I don’t stand a guard tour.”

“My belief is you’d stand it better than some of the nincompoops this
army is now cluttered with.” He snapped a finger at the ensigns. “One of
you fetch some sticks for the fire.”

Osbaldeston excused himself and went back through the house. Bunch
endeavored to make conversation.

“Have they got a smell yet of the spy, sir?”

“D’ye think I’d be tarryin’ here if they had?” demanded Tremble sharply.

“Three days since he appeared at this house,” mused the girl, head bent
over the sewing. “What do you think happened to him, Captain?”

It was a question perhaps not wise, but it had to be uttered. She could
not see Tremble’s face, but she was very certain his gimlet eyes were
fixed on her.

“And what do _you_ think happened to him?” asked Tremble.

Jane Welch raised her head, startled.

“Me? La, what could you expect me to know, sir? He has vanished and—”
here was a gentle gibe at him “—not all the king’s gallant soldiers
ensembled can find him.”

Bunch spoke reassuringly.

“Be assured he’ll never put his scurvy foot in these premises again.
’Tis nothing for you to worry about.”

“Perhaps she’d not be worried.”

It was a cryptic sentence, with the implication of more than one
meaning. When Jane Welch caught Tremble’s eyes she saw a faint malice in
them and of a sudden she put her hands together and collected her
courage. Bunch moved uneasily and blurted out a protest—

“Oh, now, I must protest—”

“Be quiet!” was Tremble’s sharp rejoinder. He bowed a little at the
girl. “’Twas not a charitable or Christian remark. I do beg your
pardon.”

But the malice, the slight doubt persisted. It was the first word of
doubt ever directed at her and it came like a direct challenge. She had
always feared him for his penetration, his animal-like intuition. Now
she knew she had him for a critic, an enemy. Without answer, she dropped
her head and, quite unannounced, the picture of Jeffry Peale was before
her, as it had often been the past eventful hours.

He was like many others who had traveled the dangerous path before him;
and yet he was like none. Those others were gallant fellows from every
State and every rank; they were gay and, like gentlemen, they paid her
brief court as an appreciation of her own courage. Then they were gone
and in time their faces merged, one into the other, until she could not
remember them as individuals.

But she knew she would never forget the sight of Jeffry Peale, even if
ten thousand others came after. The secret of Jeffry Peale was in his
eyes. There his strength and weakness rested side by side. She had never
seen this wistfulness of a hungry man, this mild distrust of self, this
shining light of ambition so twisted and entwined before. A brave
soldier he might be, but first and always he was like a boy looking at
some far-off star. Quite clear, quite humble.

Tremble’s dry, brittle voice broke athwart her communing.

“If the lady would be so kind as to give us her society a moment—”

She smiled.

“You must excuse me. I often fall into a dreaming.”

Bunch smirked, as if he quite well knew what this dreaming was about.
Osbaldeston came tramping back with the wood and, greatly to Tremble’s
irritation, threw it a-clatter on the floor.

“Quite a few of these provincial women keep secret company with
themselves,” announced Tremble. “I sometimes wonder if they are so Tory
as they profess to be.”

Osbaldeston, behind Tremble’s back, drew one finger across his throat
and swiftly pointed to the captain, grimacing. But Jane Welch knew she
was being fenced with and, on her guard, answered evenly enough:

“You have no great regard for a people of these provinces, have you,
Captain Tremble? Neither for rebels or Tories or women or children.”

“I could wish,” said Tremble with a quietness that chilled the girl’s
blood, “that everything pertaining to the provinces had never existed. I
could wish to see it all in ashes—a desert—back to the red Indian.” He
bowed again, without offering pardon, and pointed toward the fire. “I
had wondered if that cider—”

“It is quite ready,” said she, putting her sewing aside and rising. She
drew out a mug and handed it to Tremble. “I offer this to you, Captain,
with better grace than to return your compliments.”

His thin lips pressed to an even finer line.

“I never dissemble my feelings,” said he and blew into the hot drink.

He was not destined to taste it. The door burst open again and a very
frozen aide came into the room, speaking to Tremble!

“The colonel’s wish, sir, is that you will turn out your company and
scour the city. The spy has come to life—bursting out of a dungeon on
the _Whitby_ and leaping into the river.”

Tremble set the mug on the floor, transfixed the courier with a steely
gaze and thundered:

“On the _Whitby_? Ye mean to stand there and tell me they’ve kept the
rascal _concealed_ from the gallows? I inspected that ship two days
ago!”

“You know the commander of this ship, sir. And the quality of the
dungeon.”

“Thought to kill him by a more eventful way, eh? By gad, there is too
much of private vengeance going on in this army! And now he’s loose once
more! Well, I’ll find him if I must wreck every house in the town. And
when that’s accomplished I’ll see to it the fine gentleman in charge of
the _Whitby_ is kicked out of the king’s service! Bunch—Osbaldeston—come
with me!”

He stalked into the hallway with something very near predatory joy on
his face. Bunch, cowed by the captain’s manner, followed humbly after,
casting a last beseeching glance at the girl who sat still, unmindful of
her needlework. But Osbaldeston kept his place, turned dogged. Tremble,
ready to go, found him tarrying and sent a more peremptory challenge at
the young man.

“Osbaldeston! D’ye hear my command?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Osbaldeston, “but I’m not of your company and
therefore not under your immediate command.”

“D’ye mean to disobey?” shouted Tremble, advancing a step.

“I obey such as have direct authority over me,” replied Osbaldeston
stubbornly. “But y’re not _my_ company commander and this is my free
night. I’m within my rights, sir, and you well know it.”

Tremble’s hand went to his sword and it seemed as if he meant to force
the subaltern from the room at the point of the blade; then his features
resumed their noncommittal cast and he retreated, flinging a warning
over his shoulder:

“Very well, sir. I shall see you properly scorched, when this affair is
over. Bunch? Why’re you rooted there, a-gaping? Out, man!”

The door slammed and Osbaldeston was left alone with Jane Welch, a great
deal disturbed, but sticking manfully to his contention.

“He’s a born devil,” muttered the ensign. “Maybe I’d gone without a fuss
if he’d not played the boor to you.”

“You have upset the will of a dangerous man,” warned the girl. “He will
give you trouble.”

“I’m not sure. My captain bears a vile hate toward the martinet; if it’s
to be a court, I’m bound to have plenty of friends.”

She returned to her work and, thus screened of countenance, asked a
question—

“When the messenger spoke of the dungeon—of private vengeance—what did
he mean?”

Osbaldeston squirmed.

“Some things are better unsaid.”

“And as long as I have been here I have not heard about it. It must be a
silent conspiracy among you. I should like to know.”

Osbaldeston scowled.

“You’ll find some officers who don’t approve—and I’m of that party. The
simple fact is, Miss Jane, there’s some foul holes on the _Whitby_ where
a man can be put in solitary until he dies. ’Tis at the discretion of
the prison ship commander. Perhaps this spy was unruly—he did seem a
stubborn fellow—and they chucked him down in such. I wouldn’t doubt but
what he had a hand in the last prisoners’ break.”

“Ah,” said the girl, and began to sew furiously.

Osbaldeston, having spoken more in the preceding quarter hour than
during a whole week, subsided, staring into the flames. Outside, the
wind began to carry toward them sounds of the freshened pursuit. A
section went by at the double, boots making a great deal of racket in
the night. A rifle sounded elsewhere, the first false alarm of several
to follow as the evening went on. And at each such shot the girl
flinched until at last she had to get up and move toward the window. A
troop of horse passed the street on the gallop.

“What are they doing?” she demanded impatiently. “Do they need to send
the whole army to scout for a single man? La, it seems ridiculous.”

Osbaldeston looked surprized.

“Now, Miss Jane, I shouldn’t let your sympathy carry you away. He’s but
a spy and he knew the odds when he took up the game.” Then, with a quiet
boyish frankness he added, “Perhaps it ain’t fair, exactly, to harry a
creature—but would you ever call war fair? Oh, I’m no fire-eater and,
between you and me, I’d as soon they’d give the rebels terms and call it
quits.”

She made a great effort at controlling herself and resumed her seat.
Hardly had she done so when an elderly housemaid came through from the
kitchen. She knelt at the fire and put on a fresh log; then, taking up
the mug of cider so recently abandoned by Captain Tremble, she shot a
glance at Osbaldeston, who was turned a little away with his face to the
flames and his mind somewhere in merry England, then with a swift motion
of her finger, caught the attention of Jane Welch. She was a dark,
sharp-faced woman and at this particular moment her eyes rolled with
unwonted agitation, rising and falling to convey a wordless message. Her
head bobbed forward, indicating the rear of the house, after which she
went back through the door and closed it with a telltale slam.

Jane Welch’s needle poised, and of a sudden she uttered a small,
disappointed “La!” and turned a vexed brow on Osbaldeston, who emerged
from his reverie.

“What?” he asked.

“I had meant to get three yards of good sagathy cloth this very
afternoon from the mercer—and I forgot. Well, the evening’s wasted now.
If I but had it—”

Osbaldeston was instantly on his feet. “’Twould be only pleasure for me
to get it, Miss Jane. The mercer at the corner?”

“No, the mercer farther down—on Beaver Street. I am ashamed to send you
on such a night and mayhap the shop will be closed.”

He was already struggling into his cloak and half-way to the door, a
pathetically eager young man scarcely beyond the school age—a subaltern
who found little to please him in the swashbuckle of the military.

“If the fellow’s not open I’ll soon enough bring him ’round,” he assured
her and ducked into the turbulent night.

The girl sprang up as the latch of the door fell and hurried to the
kitchen where the housemaid awaited, out of breath, eyes wide with
excitement.

“Oh, laws—laws! Missy Jane, _he’s_ in the shed, half dead and the
clothes on him no less’n so much ice! Laws, what _will_ we do?”

She wrung her hands and plucked at the younger girl’s shawl. Jane Welch
drew in her breath.

“He lives then? Oh, how kind is life! Sally, don’t wring your hands so!
Bolt the front door and close the hall door. Hurry! I’ll help him in
while you watch! He must go in my room—’tis the safest! Don’t stand
there so cravenly—run!”

She pushed the woman away with both hands and then, pulling the shawl
about her, went through the back door, crossing a windy yard and coming
to a stone house. It was very dark and very cold and when she got into
the shed she heard the short, uneven breathing of a man badly shaken.
She struck his foot and instantly she was crouched beside him, her white
hands crossing his face and feeling his body tremble uncontrollably. It
was as the maid had said; his clothing was like so much ice armor and
his hair was beginning to freeze together. Water dripped from every part
of his clothing.

“Oh, my poor boy! Come, can you raise yourself a little? Here’s my arm.
You are shaking terribly! Make one effort—Jeffry. One big effort. Are
you past it?”

“In—in the house? No. Bad for you. Get me a blanket—and—let me lie!”

“And perish! Come up!”

He made the effort and fell back; but it served to send the blood into
chilled members and with her arm beneath him he finally got to his feet.
Steadying him, she led the way out of the shed and to the house. Once in
the kitchen it was easier, but when the light fell on his haggard,
bloodless countenance she checked a cry.

It looked as if he had been cruelly beaten. Long welts lay across his
cheeks and blood was still caked in his hair, even though he had crossed
a river. He looked tired, tired beyond the power to tell, and there were
lines on his face that had never been there a short three days ago. The
prison ship had left its mark.

But it passed belief that he had succeeded in coming away at all.

The girl, guiding his feet upstairs, could hear his heart beating slow
and hard. Coming to her bedroom door, she threw it open and as quickly
shut it.

Peale swayed a little and then without any great expense of effort,
walked to the bed and sank down. The maid put her head in the room and
was dispatched on an errand.

“The wine, Sally, and a plate of that fowl we had for supper. Bring hot
water. Leave the door bolted. If the ensign must knock we’ll say we had
become afraid.”

Peale looked up at her, speaking easier.

“My lady, they had about run me down. ’Tis strange how a man’s mind will
stay clear while muscles grow dead and the heart falters. I saw myself
die, tonight—and yet here I am. ’Tis not so bad as I had thought, for I
feel a little life coming back.”

“You have gone through more than you can forget,” said she. “The mark is
on you.”

He moved his hand.

“Oh, that will fade. In another hour I shall be fit. Where a man is
sound, his muscles soon come back.”

She went over and knelt by the fire, stirring it up with fresh wood.

“I have heard rumors about the prison ship—all unpleasant. They spoke of
a dungeon. Were you in it? How did you get out?”

“The ship’s commander,” replied Peale, with a very faint trace of humor,
“had his own notions of torture. I failed of one escape and so was put
away with the rats, knee high in bilge-water and nothing but bran and
water once a day. They thought they had me broke, but the guard who fed
me tonight at dusk was a careless rascal and I surprized him and hauled
him into the hold after me. A simple thing then to dive over and swim.

“I had not figured the water to be so cold. It cuts like a knife. Once
ashore I was hemmed in and this was the only shelter I knew. I thought
to get that list from you and make my way out. But the candle must have
been rather low, for when I knocked on your back door and regained the
shed it seemed to flicker.”

She had remained crouched by the fire, hands interlaced.

“So easy to say—and still—with all the black world about you and your
marrow frozen—oh, Jeffry Peale, why is it you still remain doubtful of
yourself?”

“Eh? And how could you know that?”

“Plain—so very plain.”

She meant to say more, but the maid slipped into the room with a tray of
food. Peale rose from the bed and walked unsteadily to the fire,
choosing a chair. The girl went out, without comment, and after quite
some interval returned with an arm freighted with a man’s suit.

“Your own must be gotten off quickly. Here is what my father once wore.
’Twill be small, but it’s only makeshift until your own dries.”

“Give me an hour,” said he, “and I will be gone.”

Jane Welch looked troubled.

“I could wish to believe it. But you don’t know Captain Tremble. He has
raised half the army in search. La! That’s Ensign Osbaldeston rattling
at the door, Sally. Go down and let him in. I shall be there in one
moment.”

“Come,” grumbled Peale, “I’ll not be caught here. ’Twould mean your
betrayal.”

“Rest awhile and I’ll hear what’s being said. As for betrayal—I fear but
one man.”

“Who is that?” demanded Peale with a show of concern.

Jane Welch noted his manner and dropped her eyes.

“Captain Tremble. But never mind. Eat and change your suit and rest.
I’ll be back after a bit and tell you the news.”

He turned in his chair and watched her. As she closed the door she met
his glance and saw there again the recurrence of that wistfulness which
had so strongly marked him out from all others. She treaded the stairs
and came upon Osbaldeston holding a package.

“Terribly long time,” he apologized, “but I had to read the mercer out
of bed and lecture him on the duties of a tradesman.”

She took the package with a brilliant smile and reduced him to
speechlessness with one short compliment.

“You are a most obliging gentleman.”

There was a commotion outside and a sharp command. Dispersed soldiers
ran for barracks and presently Tremble stamped in the house, a glum,
bitter-mouthed figure.

“Luck, Captain?” she asked.

He warmed his hands at the blaze.

“He’s in the city—that’s certain. And I’ll wager my commission he’ll
never get out after such guards as I’ve posted. The lines are doubled.
Oh, I’ll run him down! If day comes and he’s not taken I’ll make very
short work of it with other means.”

She folded her hands, smiling gently.

“It is no light matter to cross the power of a captain in his majesty’s
army, is it, sir?”

He favored her with a sharp glance and broke out, suddenly—

“Why don’t you ask me what means I intend to use?”

“Why, sir, to what purpose? I am not interested.”

He started for the stairs.

“No? Ah, madam, I doubt _that_. You are a very clever woman. But then
all women are clever.”

And with this shot he climbed upward. Osbaldeston glowered. Jane Welch
collected her things and nodded at the clock.

“I shall follow his example. Good night, sir.”

She summoned the maid with a glance. Together they climbed the stairway
and passed into the room.

Jeffry Peale had made the change of clothing and was warming himself.
Raising a warning finger, the girl moved over and spoke in very low
tones.

“You can not go tonight. Captain Tremble has the whole city guarded. It
would be death to try. You must sleep in this room.”

Peale shook his head.

“But it’s your room, my lady.”

She pointed toward the other end of the place where a second bed rested
in the shadows.

“Sally and I will sleep there. No, you must be quiet. Captain Tremble
would see or hear any change we made. Sally, blow out the candles.”

The maid obeyed and the room was plunged in entire darkness, save as the
flames in the fireplace made a small yellow pool of light against the
wall. At the end of the hall Peale heard a door close cautiously. It was
Tremble’s door.




CHAPTER VI — A LIGHT IN THE STORM


He slept deeply, and perhaps that was why he thought he had been in bed
but a few minutes when he was awakened by a sound. The room was
deserted, a fire burned cheerfully on the hearth and through the windows
came a dim light like that of the hour before dawn. Throwing aside a
quilt, he crossed the room—still dressed in the misfit suit—and looked
out of the curtains. People moved in the street and soldiers filed by;
overhead the clouds were particularly dense and momentarily growing
blacker. It was so still that he heard quite plainly the voices of
children around the corner and the click of feet on the cobbles. On
looking at his watch he was astonished to find it almost noon.

His long abused body had taken opportunity to recoup its vitality, and
while he slumbered the night and the day had rolled on and the storm had
changed tactics, recalling the cavalry of the east wind and massing all
the artillery of the sky.

There was a light tapping at the door, and on his summons Jane Welch
slid quietly through bearing a tray. There was food in sight and, what
excited Peale’s attention, a brace of dueling pistols. The girl put the
tray on the bed and lifted a cautioning finger. On coming closer he saw
her face had assumed a deep concern.

“The city’s been scoured all day,” she said in a low voice. “You’ve
never heard of a wilder search. Five poor people in gaol as suspects and
thrice some one shot at, being mistaken for you.”

“And what are the pistols for?” he asked, watching her pour coffee.

“Bring up a chair, Jeffry, and eat. I am beginning to be afraid for you.
Last night you couldn’t have gone on. You were dead tired and the guards
were double-posted, with every man on the street being stopped to
explain himself. Today is your only chance, and it must be soon. Captain
Tremble left ten minutes ago to bring back hounds from a farm up the
island.”

Peale lowered his cup.

“I’m to be treed with dogs, then?”

“But you have two or three good hours. It will take him that long to
fetch them.”

A sense of the danger—which he had before considered—came back to him
fourfold.

“My lady, I should not have come. But my memory failed me as to the
exact figures in that dossier you gave me to study. I meant to get it
and go on. But I must’ve overguessed my strength, for when I reached the
shed I could do no more than to make a small noise and give way. I had
never considered they would use dogs—had not thought dogs would be
available hereabouts.”

“You can’t harm me. They will carry the scent to the stone shed and no
farther. Sally spread pepper between there and the house and even now is
scrubbing the floor and the hall stairs. I am safe. And it will rain
soon.”

“Nevertheless the trail comes into the yard. That will be enough to put
a suspicion into men’s minds. Into Tremble’s above all else.”

“They may suspect—but they can prove nothing,” she returned stoutly.

“You are brave—very brave. I sometimes wonder how you manage all the
louts who come storming into your house.”

A slight shadow came over her face.

“Sometimes—not often—but sometimes a man of ill-breeding presumes on
decency. There is one below now. A friend of Captain Tremble, evidently,
for they sat beside the fire, head to head, and spoke very low for
better than a half-hour. He dresses like a gentleman but is none.”

“Then he does not keep his place?” demanded Peale, deserting his cakes
and standing before her.

Her eyes flashed. She had touched a spark to tinder and the knowledge
made the rich color come to her face, visible even in the darkened room.

“La, why do I worry you with my poor affairs? You must put your mind to
getting away from here. These pistols may help you. And here in the
closet is a sword of my father’s.”

She rummaged among clothes and brought it out, the scabbard gleaming in
the fire-light. Peale glanced through the window to the ever blackening
sky. One drop of rain splashed on the glass; in the street lights were
twinkling, though it was past noon.

“While they look for me in every back alley I shall try a bolder way.
What I need is an officer’s suit that will fit and the list of troops
you have. Is the house clear?”

“Save for this stranger.”

“Go down and bolt the door and come back.”

He heard her descend and presently, listening through the aperture of
the portal, made out the wheedling, strangely familiar voice of a man.
Jane Welch answered in curt monosyllables, at which the stranger’s
manner grew louder, more persistent. Peale closed the door with a
feeling of impotent anger and crossed to the window.

The sky was a mottled black; far off to the north he saw a pale blue
streak. Of a sudden lightning flashed and printed a vivid sprawling
track across his brain which lasted long after its disappearance. In a
moment a clap of thunder shook the town and sent its echoes thunderously
back and forth. There was a moment’s lull in which he heard a wind
rushing through the street and the first small patter of rain. Then a
second, more overwhelming flash lighted the buildings and streets in an
intense electric glare and heralded a sound as of the heavens falling
in. The windows rattled and the flames shot from the hearth into the
room, scattering ashes.

He heard the door open and swung around. There, faintly illumined by the
fire, he saw a man’s arm encircling Jane Welch and a man’s face bending
forward in a vain effort to catch her evading lips. Her arms flailed at
his chest and she spoke with a gusty passionate anger.

“Drop your arms, you swine!”

It was too dark to make out the character of the fellow. Peale seized
the sword on the mantel and strode forward, feeling the blood rush
toward his head.

“Step away or you are a dead man!”

The intruder sprang back and his hand went to the gentleman’s blade at
his side. Peale, peering at the blur of his face, had an uncomfortable
memory flash into his head and elude him. Precisely at the moment the
whole room was made day-bright by another of those transitory streaks of
lightning and he recoiled as a man does from the sight of horror.

The intruder was Priam Lafferty—the same bulky, uneven comrade of the
Morristown camp-fires. The same Priam with the lust of pleasure in his
eyes. Out of that moment came Jeffry Peale’s cry of detestation—

“Oh, you —— decoy duck!”

“Ha! So here you are! Tremble said ye’d been abroad. Well, my fine lad,
your meat is burnt now. I shall have the pleasure—”

“You scurvy traitor!” cried Peale. “D’you stand there and feel like a
man? Why, you dog, you should be hiding your face! And to top it y’
pursue a woman! Gad!”

“The trull was not backward about bein’ pleasant—”

“Stop! ’Tis always been your abominable conceit that all women were
forward. Another word about it and I’ll slit your heart!”

“Well, cockatoo, d’ye want to test blades?”

Peale turned from flame to ice. Silence fell across the room like a
blanket and he saw in one tragic picture the course of his friendship
with Priam Lafferty from boyhood up. And where before he had always
denied Priam’s weakness he recalled now the odds and ends of pettiness,
the bullying spirit, the avid search of pleasure. They led step by step
to the present treachery. He bowed toward the girl and said evenly—

“My lady, if you will go outside and close the door.”

In the following flash of lightning he saw her body swaying and her face
turned on him, pale and concerned. Then it was dark and she had
vanished.

He took a grip on the sword and shook it in his wrist, observing
Lafferty’s shoulders loom larger and hearing the man’s mocking voice.

“It irks your straight-laced mind to find me turnin’ politics, don’t it?
Why, —— you, Jeff, I’ve played false to the army almost a year! And I’m
not ashamed! What’s the use of sufferin’ for nothin’? Bah, I’ll be a man
of consequence, drinkin’ my wine long after you’re dead and the army
beaten. ’Tis only little intellects that abominate a change o’ side. As
for me, I am pliant and to show you how I cherish my new allegiance I
shall spit you nicely and render you up to Captain Tremble.”

“That,” replied Peale without emotion, “reveals the heart of a jackal.”

“—— you!” shouted Lafferty. “Up blade! Y’ve always assumed a superior
air to me! Gad, but I’ve endured it for the last time! Up blade! At
you!”

Peale was silhouetted, his back to the fire; out of the darkness he saw
Lafferty’s blade sweep, a flash of yellow running from tip to guard. His
own weapon sang gaily and they were at grips.

Lafferty pressed; always he pressed. It was his temper, a temper that
fitted well with any kind of conflict, growing hotter, stronger, more
violent as the contest endured, with a small core of shrewdness within
all this heat to preserve him from that blindness which usually rises of
rage.

Peale gave way, feeling the opposite blade slide in and out with
gathering strength. This was a tide he did not feel able to stem. Let
Priam wear himself out. Parry, lunge, parry! The shuffling of feet
across and around the floor. The click and rattle of steel on steel,
overborne by the thunder and the fury of the rain just bursting about
the house.

In the lightning he saw Priam’s jaws set as they had never been before
and the frenzy of combat blazing in his eyes. Darkness again.
Parry—lunge! That time the man was halted. Priam who took defeat badly
and stooped to conquer by trickery. Trickery! He must watch that.

Priam’s voice taunted across the whining blades.

“You’re strong, Jeff, but I’ll wear ye down! Remember, I’ve done it
before!” His own breath rose and fell in great sweeps and when they
fought close to the fire-light his cheeks glistened with beads of sweat.
Lunge! And this was the Priam so careless of his courtesies with Jane
Welch. Power came to Jeffry’s tiring arm. Here was a time to press! His
blade ripped into substance and across the small space he heard Priam
gasp.

“Done! Oh, by God, I’m done, Jeff!”

Peale halted, blade outstretched, seeing Lafferty’s figure sag; if the
man was done, why didn’t that sword arm drop. Treachery! He leaped,
hearing Priam’s point penetrate his sleeve. His voice, remote from his
body, spoke.

“Now I know I shall kill you, Priam. Stand fast, you dog, and meet my
point!”

His arm was made of lead. It was suffocatingly hot and his neck-piece
choked him. On blade! Thank God it stormed outside, that men might not
hear! He saw the bulky figure shift in front of him and followed. Once
more they circled and then he felt the weapon opposed him begin to
tremble. Press!

Above the elements that clash of metal sounded and stopped. It was done!
Priam Lafferty had got his pay. He stood, an uncertain figure with a
face that, in the ensuing flash, was quite disturbed, drenched in sweat.
The man’s blade fell with a clatter and he began to sag, going upon his
knees as if he meant to pray. Then he collapsed and the floor sounded
under his bulk.

“—— you—Jeff—you beat me—this time!”

The door burst open and the girl ran through. Jeffry Peale dashed the
perspiration from his brow and relaxed his aching muscles. Into his head
came the most pressing thought.

“Now, my lady, your usefulness here is at end! You must come away with
me!”

“Thank the Lord—oh, thank the Lord!”

By the light Jeffry saw again that wide-eyed emotion so inexplicable to
him. He stepped away and ran an eye down the length of his blade to
where the tip showed crimson in the yellow rays. He sheathed it and went
to the girl.

“Come, we’ve got to be moving. Yourself and your maid. Is there a
shelter you can find outside the lines?”

“My maid need not stir beyond the city. She has particular friends here.
Once I give her the word she will disappear as if the earth had
swallowed her. ’Tis her own secret.”

“And you?”

She studied him for several moments, speaking at last in a subdued
voice.

“I have friends beyond the Passaic.”

“No nearer?” He shook his head. “My dear girl, d’ye mean you must travel
back through all this weather with me? ’Twill be a hard trip. Have you
no nearer friends?”

“I am sturdy,” said she, almost meekly. “I can stand hard travel.”

“Then we go. Haste! Company may burst in any moment. I must get a
uniform.” He caught up a candle and lighted it in the fire.

“Come, Ensign Osbaldeston is nearly as tall. This room—next Captain
Tremble’s.”

He stood in the hall and issued swift directions.

“Have the maid get you a coach. Do you have the power to get beyond
lines?”

“Oh, yes. It’s been my habit to go into the country every week for fresh
vegetables. I have a pass.”

“Good! Then have the maid tell the stableman to bring around a horse.
Wrap yourself well, meanwhile.”

He slipped into Osbaldeston’s room and crossed to the clothes closet.
There were several uniforms hung on the wall, some of them rather
splendid things for parade, even by candlelight. Without much hesitation
he picked himself a plainer field-service suit and set about getting
into it, speeded by the thought that at any moment officers might return
to the house —and that Tremble was probably at this time returning with
hounds. The hounds, he told himself, would be of little use after the
torrent of rain.

Pulling on boots, he looked for a cloak and hat. With them he returned
to the girl’s room, to find her standing ready, holding out a slip of
paper to him. It was the list. He thrust on his cloak, buckled on the
sword and pocketed the pistols.

“My lady, you are going to share rough fare.”

“I am not afraid—hush!”

She ran to the door and after a bit drew in the maid, dripping wet.

“’Tis ready, ma’am. And the driver bids ye come. The horse, sir, is
behint.”

Peale nodded.

“Go ahead, my lady. Pass through the lines and have the coachman drive
at a fair rate. I shall be coming behind.”

“If you meet a like officer,” she mused, “or the guard refuses you—”

“’Tis as dark as a cave out, and they would have to peer close. As for
the guard—that will take care of itself.”

The girl bent forward and kissed the maid.

“Fend for yourself, Sally. After this war—”

Peale turned away, a little affected by the parting of the two.
Presently he heard them go down and not long after the coach rolled
away. It was time for his own adventure. With a last look at the dead
Lafferty he left the room and passed down to the front door. Holding the
cape tightly, he ducked out, to be met by a fierce, driving wind. A
hostler stood at the steps, holding a restive horse. Without comment
Peale sprang into the wet saddle.

“An’ who, sir, shall I s’y stan’s back o’ this?” asked the hostler.

“Put it to the account of Captain Tremble,” replied Peale and spurred
the animal into the gale.

He followed the street for a short distance, seeing here and there a
solitary passer-by and once overhauling a file of soldiers who bent
their necks against the bitter rain. But he felt safe; the elements
conspired to protect him, and with a degree of elation he turned into a
side alley and came presently to the guard where he was brought to a
halt by a sentry’s sharp challenge. He came abreast the man and leaned
down.

“Have you seen a coach roll by the past few minutes?”

The guard, seeing the boots and the binding on the hat, spoke
respectfully.

“Yes sir. Not five minutes ago. Your pass—”

“——!” shouted Peale. “Why did you let it get through?”

“The lady showed a pass,” replied the sentry. “’Tis common for her to go
out in the country, though I can’t see why she should choose this day.
Your pass—”

“Damnation!” exclaimed Peale. “You made a mistake! The pass was forged!
That coach must come back!” And, without further parley he put a spur to
his horse and dashed onward. He half expected to have a bullet sent
after him; but as the semi-darkness took him under cover no rifle report
sounded in his ears and finally, looking back, he saw the sentry
standing in the roadway, an indistinct, uncertain figure. His ruse had
worked.

“’Tis the same as has been done by reckless officers on our own lines,”
he muttered. “The British guard is no less gullible than the American.”

He urged his mount to as fast a pace as the rutted, unreliable road
would allow, expecting at every bend to catch a view of the coach. It
had gone on at a better rate than expected, and with some small concern
he began to count the odds yet ahead of them. The road was patrolled at
intervals by outguards and dragoons, and sooner or later he must
encounter one or the other unless he turned aside.

Thus thinking, he found himself thrust without warning into the jaws of
a trap. Riders loomed not twenty yards away—four of them—and in another
five paces he saw a pack of dogs being led behind. This was Tremble
returning home!

He jammed his hat farther on his head and rode boldly up to the group,
giving way to the side of the highway. The rain was falling in torrents
and the wind fairly drove his breath into his lungs. By the half-light
he saw the riders straighten and turn toward him; and by viewing the
size of their figures he picked upon the slight one on the far side as
being Tremble.

The near man drew up as if to talk. Peale shouted a meaningless phrase
into the teeth of the wind, pointed and kept on. The other man tarried,
then gave his horse the rein. They forged southward and soon were lost.
And at the next turn Peale saw the lumbering coach making hard progress
in the mud.

Coming abreast the driver, he held up his hand and motioned to the side
of the road. When the driver hesitated, Peale drew his sword and at that
the horses swerved and the coach wheels, reaching the soft shoulder,
sank deep and were stuck. Jane Welch put her head out of the door; Peale
rode alongside, threw back the latch and opened it.

“Your arm!” said he.

She understood. Balancing herself on the coach step, she gave her arm
and in a moment had swung outward and was sitting in front of Peale. He
hesitated one moment, debating as to the coachman. But it was dark and
the storm seemed in no way abating. Pursuit could not be particularly
dangerous in the next hour. And so he forgot the man and drove his mount
off the road and through the brush.

There was a field ahead and this he took, traveling at the best speed
possible. They were met by a fence which they skirted for fifty yards
before finding a gap. The storm pounded them on all quarters, ceaseless,
stinging in its force. Southward the thunder muttered, following the
less frequent flashes of lightning. Out of this turbulence they saw the
winking of a light, toward which the girl pointed.

“That’s Tory—I know them!” said she, raising her voice against the wind.
“You had better go around it.”

He nodded and guided the horse into a ditch swollen with water. The
ground rose sharply and fell away with equal abruptness. In front of
them was the Hudson, a river of strength always, and now whipped and
lashed by the gale sweeping through the gorge. They had a view of the
immediate stretch out from the shore and could see the waves driving in
upon the gravel. The girl turned a wondering face to him.

“Where are we going?”

He stopped the horse and slid off, offering her his arm. Once on the
ground, he pointed directly beneath them. There, drawn beyond the
water’s reach, was an overturned boat and beside it lay a pair of oars.

“Fortune is with us! There is your Tory’s skiff. I had expected to look
farther. Here is our escape from Manhattan Isle.”

                *        *        *        *        *

It was not much more than an hour later when the sodden afternoon was
giving way to a premature night. Captain Tremble stood before the
general with the look of a man bitterly disappointed. His usually severe
face was even darker and his lips were nothing more than sharp edges.

“Give me leave to observe, sir, that I have never approved the freedom
allowed suspicious characters within this city. It is here proved. This
Jane Welch well duped us.”

The general frowned.

“She bore excellent character, Mr. Tremble.”

“I did not believe it and had I been given the support of any officer at
all I should have searched that house last night. But, knowing the
general infatuation for the girl—”

“Tut, sir,” broke in the general testily. “We can not all have your
penetration of mind.”

The captain drew himself up rather stiffly.

“I do not mean to call any officer’s ability into question.”

“But,” continued the general, “this girl and this spy must be overtaken.
’Tis a most flagrant flouting of his majesty’s forces. I want them back
here to suffer their fate. The coachman said they turned to the left,
riverward. And now comes the word from Mr. Symmes that his boat is
missing. There’s a piece of addition for ye.”

“Give me twenty horse and I shall bring them back,” said Tremble.

“Get your dinner, sir, and I shall have a barge to put you over the
river with an order on the dragoons stationed there.”

“Let me disregard the dinner, sir. The sooner started the better.”

The general favored him with an extraordinarily long glance and then
reached for quill and paper.

“You live well up to your reputation. I believe you will get them.”

“There can be no question of that,” answered Tremble coldly. “I make it
a matter of personal honor. They will not dupe me again.”




CHAPTER VII — BLIND MAN’S BUFF


They crouched beneath the shelter of an oak, watching the glint of a
farm house light some hundred yards away. Both were drenched, for the
passage of the river was a tempestuous affair and the unchecked wind
drove the raindrops through their clothes like so many knives. The
ascent of the palisades on the western side was almost as difficult, and
they wandered like lost children until a rugged pathway presented itself
in the ever blackening night.

Overhead the tree branches cracked ominously, and now and again a weaker
member came dashing down. The girl stood beside the trunk of the oak,
shielded thus and by Peale’s body.

“There is our next point of attack,” he decided, indicating the farm
light. “Give me your hand. I believe I can make out a path ahead.”

“The rain is slacking, or else the wind’s dying.”

It seemed so, for as they stumbled toward the beacon the wind ripped
less gustily across the parapets of the palisades. Peale waded boot-high
through grass and came to a very muddy yard—the yard between barn and
house most probably. Going onward at a sedate pace, he listened for
dogs, blessing the tumult of the evening as he did so.

The light was of a sudden cut off from their view; passing onward, they
again met it and stopped. The door of the place was directly in front of
them. Peale left the girl with a whisper and advanced to the adjoining
window. Between the drapes he had a view of a man sitting alone before
the kitchen blaze, head bowed a little and lips moving soundlessly over
the passages of a book. He was well past middle age, as evidenced from
his very gray hair, and he seemed to be quite settled of conscience,
else he would have closed his shutters long ago. Peale, sweeping the
place with a curious eye, returned to the girl and led her to the door,
rapping vigorously on the panels.

It came wide open after a brief moment. The farmer stood across the
threshold, holding a candle high and shielding it with a palm. Before
either of them could say so much as an apology he was speaking gravely.

“Come in to the fire.”

The fugitives passed through to the kitchen while their host shot the
door’s bolt. Peale reached for the girl’s cloak and held it near the
fire; water began to puddle on the stones. The farmer removed the book
he had been reading from the chair—Peale saw it to be the Bible—and
beckoned the girl to sit.

“Drenchin’ wet, the both o’ ye. Let me knock up a stronger blaze. ’Tis
well I let the coffee kettle simmer. Nawt a minute now an’ y’ll both
have a hot drink o’ it.”

It struck Peale a little odd. He noted that when he removed his own
cloak the farmer gave the British uniform but one short glance, after
which his placid face changed not a whit. Certainly he was either a bold
man or a very discreet one. At any rate, he poked the fire and presently
had poured them both coffee, well mixed with cream.

“Sugar,” said he, offering the drink, “I can’t offer ye—and well ye
should know why, with both armies payin’ its weight a’most in gold.
Anyhow, it’ll sarve to keep off the chills. My lady, y’d best draw a
little closer to the heat.”

“You are very obliging,” remarked Peale. “One would think we were
expected.”

“Ain’t it the Lord’s command to entertain strangers?”

“Tory and rebel alike?” parried Peale.

The farmer’s mild face set in rather resolute lines.

“That’s a distinction the Bible knows nawthin’ about.”

“I vow,” said Peale, “but you are a strange gentleman. Do you not run
the risk of being called easy in politics?”

“Easy?” The farmer’s temper was roused. “Nawt a bit of it! I have
politics a-plenty. Reckon I could ask the same o’ ye.”

“You see the uniform,” replied Peale, pointing to his borrowed
regimentals.

“Eh! What of it? Is it likely a British officer would be flounderin’
around this unsettled country in the dark o’ night—an’ afoot?”

“Then let’s consider the other side of the case,” said Peale. This mild
looking farmer was a great deal shrewder than first appearance
indicated. “If my politics are doubtful it is the same with most Jersey
civilians.”

“True enough,” agreed the farmer. “An’ why? Because, friend, we’re
harried first by one side, then t’other. Never a sure day do we know,
nor a peaceful night do we own. ’Tis all right for the soldier inside
his camp to speak ill of the citizen for not holdin’ a faster
allegiance. Put yourself in between fire for a month and y’ll see the
reason we _seem_ fickle.”

“To come to business,” said Peale, “have you got a team and wagon?”

The farmer hesitated, then with some reluctance admitted he had.

“We need it,” continued Peale, “with you to guide us. We must put
ourselves well to westward before daylight.”

It was not a pleasant prospect for the farmer and he mulled it over in
his mind at great length, finally coming to a mild dissent. The weather
was vile, the streams they had to cross were badly swollen and at any
juncture they might be taken up by partisan troops.

“You see,” broke in Peale with a trace of irony, “I am discovering your
politics after all. As for discomfort and danger, look you to this lady.
Are you less able to share such adventures than she? If you are a
patriot, you will go of your own free will. But if you are comfortably
Tory then I must confess I’ll have to induce you with other weapons than
persuasion.”

The farmer shrugged his shoulders.

“If ye put it thataway, I’m your man. We’ll hitch up. Ma’am, I’m a
widower. If y’ll go into the bedroom and raise the chest cover y’ll find
all my ol’ woman’s clothes. Better put on suthin’ warm.”

Peale accompanied him to the barn and held the lantern while the team
was hitched.

Some twenty minutes later they were traveling over a black, uncertain
road toward the Hackensack River. It was nothing more than a flat,
springless farm wagon, uncomfortable in every respect and open to the
steady fall of rain which now came straight down out of the sky. Peale
and the farmer sat in the seat; behind and below this a place had been
made for the girl, shielded by their bodies and wrapped in a piece of
ship’s canvas.

Peale held a well shrouded lantern for emergencies.

“Bear off to the right,” he directed. “’Tis not discretion to take the
road through Bergen or New Ark.”

“So I’m to travel every cow path an’ git stuck in every mire?” grumbled
the farmer. “Well, y’ll not make great progress.”

“Bear off.”

The farmer had some confidence the first few miles and they jolted away
from the Hudson at a brisk pace. Peale lost sense of time; the night
turned to a more impenetrable black, the water sluiced about them.
Nothing was said, save that at long intervals the farmer urged his horse
on with a “G’yup, Leader—Pull, —— ye, Prince.”

And after what appeared to be six miles, but could not have been much
more than three, he halted the team and clambered down from the seat
with a very brief comment.

“Hackensack.” He vanished beyond for some minutes, reappearing with a
word of encouragement. “Luck’s with ye, my boy. Tide’s out an’ the ford
won’t be so bad. Ma’am if you don’t want to git wetter—”

Peale abandoned the seat and lifted the girl into it. The farmer set the
brakes; they slid down a sharp embankment, wheels skidding. Water
muttered through the spokes and as the driver released the brakes he
began to berate the horses:

“G’yup—Prince—Leader! Tarnation ain’t ye ever been in water afore?
_G’yup!_”

The river slapped the wagon bed and surrounded Peale’s boots. They were
swung downstream, team and all. The farmer, unmindful of his company,
swore roundly and lashed out with his whip. Perched thus between defeat
and victory, the horses struck a sand bar and dug in. The wagon came to
a halt that very nearly knocked all of them into the water. The whip
lashed again and then they were splashing to the shore. They climbed the
far bank and once more settled to a steady gait.

“Dangerous chances ye take by keepin’ to the back roads,” warned the
farmer. “That ford now—we made it by no more’n a lick an’ a promise.”

“’Tis plenty. We got across,” replied Peale quite simply.

In something less than an hour they reached the Passaic; here a very
rude bridge spanned the stream, the work of the near-by settlers. They
crossed gingerly, feeling the rush of current sway the whole structure.
Once beyond, Peale was offered the choice of a main highway to
Morristown or a lesser road that swung south. He chose the latter and
they jolted onward, silence settling.

They had now entered a land of great uncertainty, situated between the
outposts of both armies and belonging to neither. Each week saw some
raid, British or American; no man knew just when a company of dragoons
might swoop down, confiscate a few supplies, overturn a wagon train and
dash back for shelter. And when hoofs drummed in the distance it was
always uncertain until the party came to view which side was to present
itself. The inhabitants, accustomed to these swift, unexpected forays,
had long past learned to conceal all livestock and all grain; and they
hid their true allegiance behind countenances either artful or
suspicious.

It was a strip of territory full of peril for the fugitives. At no
place, short of their own outguards, could they show their faces without
the risk of betrayal. They could count on absolutely no help, and at
every hint of traffic on the roads, were under the necessity of hiding.

Jeffry Peale grew more and more apprehensive as the night wore on and
the wagon made increasingly poor progress over the abominable highways.
The farther they went, the greater appeared the farmer’s caution.
Perhaps two hours beyond the crossing of the Passaic he stopped his
wagon and crawled down, taking the lantern with him. When he returned
from a short reconnaissance of the road he offered Peale another choice
of directions.

“Reached the hills. If ye go on straight it’s nigh fifteen miles to
Morristown, with the Passaic to cross again. Er ye can branch south
to’rd Springfield. What’s in yer mind?”

“South. My destination’s—” Peale was about to announce the location of
his brigade’s headquarters, but checked himself. It helped nothing to
give the man his true course. So he contented himself with repeating.
“Turn south. And press the team a little faster. We’ve made poor
progress the last hour.”

“Nawt a bit d’ye think o’ the team,” grumbled the farmer.

“A great deal I think of them,” contradicted Peale. “But somewhat more
of our own hides. Press on.”

They turned, the road if anything worse than that which they left, and
the texture of the night as black as the bottom of a well. One comfort,
indeed, came to them; the rain fell off and after another hour or so of
miserable travel turned to a dense mist that hung suspended in the air.
The farmer noted it with a prophecy. “I know this land right well.
T’morrer the fog’ll be thick enough to cut with a knife. Won’t see a
dozen steps in front o’ ye.”

Peale crawled from the seat and knelt beside Jane Welch.

“I can’t help but think of all the misery I have brought upon you.”

“Don’t. This is the sauce of a very uneventful life to me.”

“I wish I could believe it,” he muttered. “But it’s no weather to expose
you to.”

“Ah, but Jeffry, I am strong. Do you know, I was raised on a farm and
did all the chores a boy would do? La, I’m not afraid. Don’t vex
yourself. Don’t think of me as a woman this night.”

“And how shall I think of you, then?”

“As—a comrade.”

“Well,” said he, speaking rather low, “I have thought of you in many
ways—Jane.”

Several minutes later she began again.

“I see Captain Tremble’s face as clearly as if he stood before me.”

“And it’s a face that augurs no good to us,” replied Peale. “I sh’d be
willing to wager my commission he’s abroad in the Jerseys this moment,
not far from our trail.”

“Might he overtake us?”

“If we tarried too long in this contrivance. Are you at all warm?”

“Jeffry Peale, _will_ you stop worrying about me?”

Nevertheless he tucked the tarpaulin around her and, feeling unusual
pleasure at having done it, clambered back on the seat.

                *        *        *        *        *

Thereafter there passed between the party not a dozen words in four or
five hours. Once the farmer stopped his horses to give them a breathing
spell and they sat still and frigid. In that dreariest of periods, just
before daybreak, the driver began a vigorous complaint.

“Look ’ee now. Hain’t I gone fur enough to suit ye? A turrible hard trip
it’s been—and I’ve got to do it all over again.”

Peale nodded in the darkness.

“Stop the team.” He vaulted to the road and was gone for better than
five minutes. Presently his voice rose from the wagon side. “Your
journey’s over. Give me your hand, Jane.”

He lifted her to the ground, hearing her catch a breath.

“My body seems to have gone asleep. Oh, it will pass.”

Peale spoke to the farmer.

“Sorry to say I haven’t a penny. If you will give me your name I shall
see—”

“Nawt a bit o’ _that_,” replied the driver in a suppressed, emphatic
voice. “I’ll have no name o’ mine harked about. I’m peaceful. Let it
go.”

There was a rustle of cloth; the girl caught Peale’s fist and pressed
some solid coin into it.

“Let the gentleman have it. We are very grateful.”

The farmer muttered a short thanks. With a great deal of caution and
much murmuring at his team he got the wagon around. They heard it
slushing off, unseen, and in a very short time even the echoes were lost
in the night’s thick air.

“I pity the man,” confessed Peale. “But pity is a poor article for us to
be spending now. Come, we’ve not far to go.”

“Within the lines?”

“No, not that good. I judge we’re something like five miles away. But
there’s a farmhouse and barn a short distance off. I’ve been past it
many times before.”

“Patriot?”

“Lord, a man can’t tell about politics in this region. No, I suspect the
fellow is strongly Tory. It makes no difference. We are going to use his
barn for a few hours.”

She was tired and, without knowing that she did it, leaned a little
against him. They walked two or three hundred yards and entered a lane
that brought them within hand’s reach of a barn before they were aware
of it. Peale fumbled for the door catch; not finding it, he put his arms
to the nearest aperture and brought the portal away from the wall
sufficiently to admit the girl and himself.

It fell back into place with a small protest. They were within shelter
again, and presently buried in hay, feeling the first comfortable warmth
since leaving the house on the Hudson. It was just beginning to get
light. Afar, a dog barked.

                *        *        *        *        *

Captain Tremble stopped the troop at dawn and rode alone to the house
door, leaning over to knock with the butt of his pistol. After a great
deal of delay a head appeared out of the window.

“What ye want?”

“Have you seen a man and woman riding along this road—the man wearin’
British regimentals?”

“Nary,” answered the citizen, pulling a nightcap from his head. “But I
heerd a wagon pass summat beyant midnight.”

“Going which way, sir?”

The citizen waved his hand westward. Tremble fixed his sharp eyes on the
informer and inquired in a ringing voice—

“Are you loyal or rebel, sir?”

“As to that,” grumbled the citizen, “it ain’t none o’ your business. But
I’m Tory, if it’ll ease ye any.”

“So?” sneered Tremble. “A blessed fickle lot all you Jerseymen are. I
should not misdoubt greatly if ye harbored rebels yourself.”

“Yer privileged to come an’ look,” replied the citizen tartly, and
withdrew from the window.

Tremble debated this course in his mind a moment. But the man had not
seemed averse to inspection and so he turned away, loath to waste time.

Gaining the road, he led the troop onward at a rather rapid pace,
considering the fact they had traveled very hard the past ten hours. Man
and beast alike were coated with reddish mud and all were uncomfortably
chilled. The fog pressed about them with increased density, seeming more
like rain suspended in mid-air. Indeed, it was so thick that it burned
their lungs. Two paces in front the highway vanished behind the gray,
clammy wall.

Not much later Tremble burst through this wall and came unexpectedly
upon a team and wagon greatly spattered with mud, the gray-haired driver
half asleep in the seat. He came awake with a jump when Tremble issued a
ringing “Halt!”

“Where, sir, have you been?” he demanded.

“Morristown,” replied the driver promptly.

It was the guide who had conducted Peale and Jane Welch so far during
the previous night. But if he was alarmed at the sudden appearance of a
British patrol he did not show it. Instead, he stretched himself and
returned the captain’s fiercely antagonistic look with admirable
serenity.

“Morristown!” thundered the captain. “Within the enemy’s lines, eh?
Trafficking with the rebels at midnight! D’ye know I could hang you
properly for that?”

“For a-goin’ to see my son who’s held prisoner there?” asked the farmer
very mildly. “I’m a respectable subject o’ the king, mister, but I’ve
noticed you gentlemen soldiers make little distinction between one side
or t’other when it comes to plain citizens. Y’d as soon sack my house as
the greatest rebel’s.”

“And so I would,” replied Tremble with the utmost frankness. “This ——
country is a nest of snakes. Have ye seen a fugitive couple pass by? Man
an’ woman—the man doubtless wearin’ British regimentals?”

The farmer shook his head.

“Nawt a bit.”

Tremble wasted no more time with him. Within the half-hour he had
reached another house and had propounded the same query in a like tone
of ferocity. No, the citizen had seen no such fugitives. But he had
heard a wagon creak past not more than an hour or two ago, just before
daylight, bound southward in the direction of American outposts. Tremble
considered it at some length and finally turned to his sergeant.

“’Tis our game, I’ll lay ten guineas it is. Forward.”

And he put the weary troop to a very fast gait. He was at that moment
not more than three miles from the two, and rapidly closing up the
distance.

                *        *        *        *        *

They had been comfortably swathed in the hay, Peale and Jane Welch, for
twenty minutes or so, listening to the crunch of bovine teeth and the
stamp of hoofs, when a small side door opened and a short, very stout
farmer came in with a milk bucket. Peale had only to part the hay in
front of him to command a perfect view, for he was directly above the
mangers.

The farmer took a pitchfork and threw down a small amount of hay for
each of the three cows in the barn and then did the like operation for a
pair of sleek draft animals and one scrubby looking saddlenag. Peale
cast a covetous eye on this last. With a great deal of caution he
brought out a pistol and after letting the farmer milk the first cow,
rose from the hay.

There was no need to issue warning. The farmer heard the noise above him
and reared back quite frightened. Even before daring to cast his eyes
upward to the mow, his free arm reached for a pitchfork. Then he found
himself looking directly into the muzzle of a pistol.

“No racket, my friend,” said Peale. He helped the girl up—at which the
farmer was frankly astonished—and together they slid to the flooring.

“’Tis most extraordinarily abrupt,” added Peale, “but unavoidable.”

“I’m a stout Tory,” broke in the farmer, noting the British uniform. “If
yer runnin’ from the rebels, y’d better keep very low. There’s been a
patrol established on this road, an’ it comes by every mornin’ early.”

“So? Well, we’ve had no breakfast and that milk looks—”

The farmer was willing enough to oblige his unbidden guests.

Peale took the bucket and tipped it up to the girl’s mouth, smiling. “I
had never expected to offer you refreshment under these circumstances,
Jane.”

“Is it not the unusual that people cherish?” she asked. She drank until
want of breath stopped her; a drop of the milk clung to the tip of her
nose. “La, I must look like the cat that forgot to clean his whiskers,”
she added ruefully, and began to scrub her face with a handkerchief.

She was somewhat paler than usual and the long, disagreeable ride had
left its mark in her eyes. Still, she had an answering smile for him.
Woman-like she began to study herself and the sight of the hay clinging
to her skirt was enough to set her to a furious cleaning.

The farmer eyed the both with a species of greediness.

“I’m a stout Tory,” he repeated, “but yer in dangerous country, friends.
Washington’s had cavalry scourin’ the country a-main since Tuesday. Why,
I vow I dunno. ’Tis but four odd miles to the outguards. ’Tain’t my
business what yer after, sir; but for two gold crowns I’ll to’t they
won’t find ye.”

“Have you gear for that sway-back nag?” demanded Peale. Then his eyes
caught sight of bridle and saddle hanging on a peg. “Yes, I see you
have. I shall be forced to ask the loan of it.”

“Ridin’ in broad day?” exclaimed the farmer. “Oh, no, sir. ’Tis folly!
Stay here till night. I’ll see ye well pertected—fer two crowns, gold.”

“And what if I haven’t two crowns, gold?”

The farmer’s countenance became much less friendly.

“How much have’ee, then?”

“Come. Enough of this barterin’. Saddle the horse and we’ll be gone.”

“An’ wot shall I get in return?”

“You’ll be paid in due time. Hurry.”

The farmer dropped his milk bucket and went toward the horse with a
great deal of grumbling.

“’Tis the last I’ll see o’t. An’ no money, either. Godfrey’s bells, but
I like it little enough!”

Peale opened the door and the farmer, after saddling, led the mount into
the foggy morning, still protesting. Though he was obviously a sharp and
unscrupulous fellow, Peale could not help but pity him a little. The
settlers of this debated land suffered a great deal; he made a note that
the man should be recompensed for the trouble.

The fog, if anything, had thickened, and though the road was not more
than twenty feet away it stood shrouded. Peale bent his ear one way and
then another and called to the girl. Getting into the saddle, he reached
for her arms and swung her up before him.

“What’s your name, friend?”

“Tull,” responded the fellow, very surly. His eyes sparkled. “I vow, I
ain’t goin’ to consider myself bound to secrecy if the rebels should
happen along. No, I ain’t.”

“I should say,” remarked Peale, “that judging from your very amiable
temper you might consider yourself bound for a very debatable region.”
The horse skittered away at a mincing pace and the farmer was lost in
the fog. As they swung southward on the road, however, they found him
bellowing. “Hey! ’Tis the wrong direction, jackanapes! Turn back!” And
when he heard the hoofbeats continue unchecked, he was beside himself.
“So, I been gulled, eh? Oh——!”

He was still ranging around the barnyard when Captain Tremble rode out
of the fog not a quarter hour later. At the very first sight of the rank
of British uniforms he related the whole story. Captain Tremble surveyed
him with a blasting eye.

“Ye assume too much grief, yokel. ’Tis not that you love the royal; it’s
because you lost a horse. A condemned, infernal land o’ snakes, this! A
little solid money and y’d as soon cry for Mr. Washington’s rabble. On,
dragoons! We’ll have our fine birds within twenty minutes!”




CHAPTER VIII — BLADE AND BLADE


Peale traveled with as much speed as the nag would allow, which was not
a great deal, considering the beast’s lack of stamina and the burden it
had to carry. The road had seen a great deal of traffic and was in
execrable condition, deeply rutted and pock-marked throughout by other
hoofs sinking to the fetlock. Over this the unfortunate animal slipped
and grunted.

“We should make as good time walking, I swear,” remarked Peale. “Should
have requisitioned one of the man’s plough horses. Less spirit in a nag
I have never seen. A decent feed of grain would founder the poor brute.”

“We have been fortunate,” interposed the girl, clinging to his arm. “Are
we not within sight of safety?”

“’Tis but a dim sight,” said he, throwing an arm toward the fog. “Well,
it has been a cloak to us. Without it we should never have ventured
abroad.”

He stopped the horse and turned in the saddle; but there was no sound he
could definitely distinguish, so he resumed travel and began a
calculation of the distance yet to go.

“We have covered a mile—which makes it something like three miles to
Maxwell’s outguards, I should judge. ’Tis a dangerous neighborhood for
British horse to invade. Yet with this fog they might safely do it. I
have a feeling Tremble is not far behind. The man is stubborn. Press
along, Bluegrass! Now where is that sound?”

He did not pause this time, though it trembled on his eardrums,
something too vague to place, and too distinctive to dismiss.

“If we are overtaken, Jane, you will drop—”

Then the troop was upon him without further warning. The fog, long
useful, had played him false and blanketed the approach of the dragoons
until they were within striking distance. The swash of hoofs and the
clinking of furniture rose from a vague echo to a plain alarm. He
stopped the horse.

“Down! Into the brush! I’ll run them out and come back. If not, make
your way—”

She was half across the road. The nag trembled at the haunches and
sprang on as he drew his pistols and glanced behind. The van of the
dragoons dashed through the swirling curtain, Tremble foremost, dark
face grimly satisfied.

“Halt, sir! Sergeant, aside into that brush! The girl’s taken cover!”

A pair of dragoons forged ahead of the captain, swinging their carbines
clear of the leather buckets. Peale fired at the foremost and saw him
fall, the rest of the troop jamming up in the road. Tremble cried like a
madman—

“On, you fools!” And presently he was to the fore again.

Peale heard the girl utter a short scream of alarm and surmised that she
had been overtaken. It set his pulse racing, and of a sudden he swung
from the highway and dashed into the brush, determined to make some sort
of stand of it. That folly lasted but an instant—long enough for the
leading dragoons to follow him into the thicket—and in a very clear
vision he saw that for the present he had to count the girl out. There
was a dossier resting beneath his coat which came before all else.

It could not be far off to American cavalry. Tremble had put himself in
a convenient trap. Jaded horses—a long distance from the British lines—

The broad chest of a dragoon presented itself; a carbine exploded in his
face, so near that he tasted powder smoke. Then he caught the fellow
with his second pistol, dropped it and went to his sword. In the
confusion he slipped farther through the brush and for a moment had the
screening fog as shelter. Again a figure penetrated it and spurred up to
where his own frightened mount was pitching—a gaudy non-commissioned
officer with a leathern face.

The non-com crowded abreast and slashed down with his heavy saber. Peale
ducked aside and parried. Out of the dragoon’s throat emerged a rusty
shout. The momentum of the blade carried him off balance and, as he
bent, Peale’s weapon flashed through the red tunic. Again he was away
while the pursuit eddied and clamored. Captain Tremble’s voice rose to a
frantic timbre.

The woods crashed under the fanwise spread of the dragoons. Peale turned
his nag and raced for the road. Then, through the morning’s mist, came
the thrum of other troops advancing at the gallop. The bushes were
flailed flat beside him and Tremble sprang to view, hatless, eyes
bitter-bright. He, too, had caught the approaching echo and now,
balanced between pursuit and retreat he came to a halt, sword poised.
His men were collecting out on the road to meet this unknown troop, the
sergeant’s voice summoning them from all quarters. Peale drew his
breath.

“Y’ve over-reached yourself, Tremble,” said he.

“Ha!” muttered Tremble, eyes cocked toward the distance. He was about to
fling himself back toward his detachment and Peale knew it. So, swinging
the sorry nag around, he blocked the captain’s passage.

“You came too far in search of satisfaction, sirrah,” he repeated.
“There’s an American patrol come to investigate this hullabaloo. You’re
done for. Dismount and show me your metal.”

The oncoming patrol swept by and without warning collided with the
English dragoons. There was a shot or two and a ringing command that
rang through the obscured area. Then blade beat upon blade and the lust
after victory resounded high and imperious. Tremble scowled tremendously
at his opponent.

“D’ye think your scurvy mounted men can beat me? No, sir! Do you
surrender?”

“Dismount.”

“I shall kill you quick enough,” answered Tremble dropping from the
saddle, itching to be with his party. “Hurry, man!”

They faced each other quite warily, circling slowly in the small glade,
testing their footing on the sodden carpet of leaves, and reading such
emotions as flashed to the surface of the opposite’s countenance. For
quite as much does victory depend on the forward spirit as on the
sensitive blade; and by that token Peale knew he had come upon a
redoubtable foe.

That British captain knew no fear. His was an arrogant, zealous courage.
His blade whipped over the intervening space and touched Peale’s weapon
with a skimming sound. His knees bent and his free arm began to dance
outward at his side.

“On guard, you fool! _I_ have never yet missed my man.”

“You will need that breath later,” said Peale very grimly.

And with that they were met. Peale had selected his spot and was
determined to hold it. Within the first three parries he had forgotten
the resolution and was circling. Here was no bludgeoning opponent; the
steel had a diabolical lightness about it. When he countered and closed
he saw Tremble’s nut-brown face to be utterly expressionless save for a
sparkle coming through half-shut eyes and a slight flare of nostrils.
The man had well learned his lesson; he was a bundle of muscle, a
storehouse of swift energy. Peale, stiffening his defense, withstood a
slashing attack and drove home his point. He had broken up that advance.
On retreating he found his vision obscured; there was blood dripping
down his brow.

“Do you give?” demanded Tremble. “I most assuredly will kill you and I’d
rather have the pleasure—ah, sir, take _care_!—of seeing you hang.”

It was not braggadocio. The man was serenely confident. On that
confidence he harried Peale mercilessly around the glade, flicking away
the other’s guard with careless effort. The American, worn down by
twenty hours of constant travel, began to feel a treacherous weight
steal along his shoulder and into his fingers.

That would never do! He could afford no handicaps with this master of
the duello. Spurred by the knowledge of his weakness, he began to throw
away caution. He closed. The glade rang with the sharp exchange. Of a
sudden the gallant captain, unmindful of his slippery footing, made a
long thrust and went down on a knee.

Peale sprang back and dropped the point of his weapon, waiting.

It was a natural gesture, yet it came so much as a surprize to Tremble
that he forebore rising for a second.

“Gallant, eh?” he snarled. “Whyn’t ye take advantage?”

“Up!”

“Ah, ye think ye need no advantage?”

And thereupon Tremble lost a measure of his confidence, never to regain
it. The man was unafraid! He rose and assumed a more cautious posture.
Thus Peale brought the battle to him and time after time was beaten
away. The captain never moved a step. There was an endless repetition of
movement. In darted the American’s blade, to be parried and thrown out.
This was novice work! And the stealthy weight was tricking Peale. He was
excessively hot and somewhat blurred of vision. He saw Tremble standing
so sure and so solid. There must be an end of this!

The glade rang again, the steel snarled. Peale towered over his man. The
captain broke—and broke again. Peale filled his lungs and sent a long,
rollicking cry over Tremble’s head and drove. The steel whined. One
blade wavered uncertainly—and was down. Down! Home, point!

“Touch,” said Tremble, imperturbably. He stood like a statue. “A touch
for Mr. Peale.”

Down some distance in the road the fight lost its tenor and fell to a
low note. A horse galloped toward the glade. Peale shook the persistent
sweat out of his eyes and tried to draw a full breath. He was winded,
useless of shoulder. He could not have lifted his weapon horizontal for
all the mortal danger in the world. But there was no need to. Tremble’s
face became quite saturnine and his legs failed him. Down he went in a
heap. There was one burst of energy left in him and he used it
characteristically. Up came arm and sword and he flung the blade
straight at Peale, then fell back dead. The weapon missed its mark and
dropped harmlessly on the leaf mold.

The leaves shivered and a ruddy youth burst through, in the saddle, and
whirled around to keep from riding over Peale.

“Cornered, sir! What the ——?”

“Peale—of Maxwell’s brigade, Lieutenant,” explained the victor, shaking
his head wearily. There was a tugging at his elbow and unexpectedly he
found himself resting on the girl’s shoulder, quite glad to have the
support. His muscles quivered.

“——!” exclaimed the patrol lieutenant. “It _must_ have been a sight!”

“The best swordsman,” said Peale simply, “lost. My shout, I believe,
took him off guard. Have you routed the party?”

“Somewhat!” said the lieutenant energetically.

“Pick us up, then,” said Peale. “I bear despatches for General Maxwell.
The lady must find warm shelter very soon or she’ll take cold.”

“If I may observe,” said the officer, “y’ve a nasty cut there.”

“Come, no delay!”

The patrol leader rode to the highway and began to collect his men. From
some particular source the girl had gotten a piece of cloth and wrapped
it around Peale’s head.

“Infernal headache the captain bequeathed me,” said he. “My lady, you
said you had folks around here. I shall have the pleasure of ordering
these men to escort you there.”

“To the nearest tavern then.”

“But your folks—”

“I have no folks. Neither here nor elsewhere.”

His head cleared somewhat; he found himself looking at a very bedraggled
girl whose eyes were at this moment sober and resigned. Her courage
seemed to have deserted her. In truth, she was forlorn. And she answered
his inspection with a very meek explanation.

“’Twas fiction I told you in New York. But I feared you would not care
to be bothered with taking me if I said it elsewise. I am very grateful,
Mr. Peale. To the first tavern, then, and I shall no longer be a
burden—”

“Oh, ——,” exclaimed the harassed young man, entirely to himself.
“_That’s_ an ill-sounding reason.” He put a muddy finger under her chin.
“After all’s passed am I to be thrown over like a worn shoe? Look you,
Jane—there’s a chaplain in the brigade.”

“Take me to the first tavern sir! La, I’d not have you askin’ me while I
looked like this! I’d think it was marriage out of pity!”

He led her to the road and in a moment both were riding south toward the
American lines. He had been rebuffed, undoubtedly; but on a second
glance he knew he had won another victory. He leaned over and spoke in a
humble subdued tone.

“I shall send you home to my mother, then.”

“Jeffry, no. It’s not in me to be so far away. I follow you as close as
fortune will let me. Do not other officers’ ladies make their homes on
the edge of the camp?”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
July 15, 1927. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79284 ***