Peggy Owen at Yorktown
by Lucy Foster Madison · English · Gutenberg #36744 · 417,425 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Peggy Owen at Yorktown
Author: Lucy Foster Madison
Illustrator: H. J. Peck
Release date: July 15, 2011 [eBook #36744]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36744
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN ***
Produced by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "DID THEE PUT THY NAME ON IT?"]
PEGGY OWEN
AT YORKTOWN
BY
Lucy Foster Madison
Author of
"Peggy Owen"
"Peggy Owen Patriot"
"Peggy Owen and Liberty"
Illustrated by H. J. Peck
The Penn Publishing Company
PHILADELPHIA MCMXVII
COPYRIGHT 1911 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
"Oh, who can gaze upon the relics here,
And not their sacred memories revere?
Who can behold the figures of our sires,
And not be touched with Freedom's hallowed fires?"
Introduction
The members of the Society of Friends, or "Quakers," residing in the
American colonies, were sadly tried during the struggle by those
colonies against King George. The Quaker principles forbade warfare, but
the Quaker hearts were often as loyal to their country as any about
them. Some of these found a way to reconcile principles with patriotism
and, entering the American army, were known as "fighting Quakers." David
Owen, Peggy's father, was one of these, and the first book of this
series, "Peggy Owen," told of some dangers that his brave little
daughter underwent to serve the cause she loved. In "Peggy Owen Patriot"
is the story of a winter in New Jersey at Washington's camp, Peggy's
capture, her unwilling stay in New York, and her final escape from her
British captors in the Carolinas. Her pony, "Star," who appears again in
this story, shared many of her dangers. "Peggy Owen and Liberty"
completes the series.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Loyal Subject of His Majesty,
George Third, Makes a Shirt 11
II. Harriet Makes a Present 25
III. A Glimpse of Clifford 38
IV. A Strange Presentiment 52
V. A Day of Note 60
VI. A Message of Indignation 73
VII. Harriet Takes Matters in Hand 90
VIII. Hospitality Betrayed 103
IX. The Dictates of Humanity 115
X. Farewell to Home 127
XI. On the Road 139
XII. The Home of Washington 149
XIII. The Appearance of the Enemy 164
XIV. The Journey's End 174
XV. Peggy is Troubled 186
XVI. The Tables Turned 200
XVII. An Unwelcome Encounter 211
XVIII. Under the Lindens 220
XIX. Harriet at Last 234
XX. Vindicated 244
XXI. A Rash Resolve 254
XXII. For Love of Country 266
XXIII. A Question of Courage 280
XXIV. An Unexpected Encounter 289
XXV. Her Nearest Relative 301
XXVI. Tide-Water Again 310
XXVII. Peggy Receives a Shock 321
XXVIII. Verified Suspicions 333
XXIX. "I Shall Not Say Good-bye" 347
XXX. What the Night Brought 362
XXXI. The Dawn of the Morning 376
XXXII. "Lights Out" 395
Illustrations
"Did Thee Put Thy Name On It?" Frontispiece
"Thee Must be John Paul Jones" 70
"I Have Heard Nothing" 119
"Why Have You Come?" 183
"Benedict Arnold Forces His Presence Upon No One" 216
"Draw and Defend Yourself!" 298
She Stepped Into the Room 355
PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN
CHAPTER I--A LOYAL SUBJECT OF HIS MAJESTY, GEORGE THIRD, MAKES A SHIRT
"Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye,
But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh."
--Thomas Moore.
It was a fine winter day. There had been a week of murky skies and
dripping boughs; a week of rain, and mud, and slush; a week of such
disagreeable weather that when the citizens of Philadelphia awoke, on
this twenty-first day of February, 1781, to find the sun shining in a
sky of almost cloudless blue and the air keen and invigorating, they
rejoiced, and went about their daily tasks thrilled anew with the
pleasure of living.
About ten o'clock on the morning of this sunlit winter day a young girl
was slowly wending her way up Chestnut Street. At every few steps she
was obliged to pause to lift into place a huge bundle she was carrying--a
bundle so large that she could just reach her arms about it, and clasp
her hands together in the comfortable depths of a great muff. A ripple
of laughter rose to her lips as, in spite of her efforts, the bundle at
length slipped through her arms and fell with a soft thud upon the
frozen ground.
"It's lucky for thee, Peggy," she cried addressing herself merrily,
"that 'tis not yesterday, else thee would have a washing on thy hands.
Oh, if Sally could only see me! She said that I'd not reach home with
it. Now, Mr. Bundle, is thee carrying me, or I thee? Just lie there for
a moment, and then we'll see who is worsted in this fray."
Removing her winter mask the better to inhale the bracing air, she
disclosed a face flushed rosily from her exertions and dark eyes
brimming with laughter just now at the plight in which she found
herself. She stood for a moment breathing deeply then, readjusting the
mask under the folds of her calash, managed with some difficulty to get
the bundle once more within the circle of her arms, and again started
forward. It was slow progress, but presently she found herself without
further mishap in front of a large dwelling on the corner of Fifth and
Chestnut Streets, standing in the midst of extensive grounds just across
from the State House.
With a sigh of relief the girl deposited the bundle on the bottom step
of the stoop, and then, running lightly up the steps, sounded the great
brass knocker. The door was opened almost instantly by a woman whose
sweet face and gentle manner as well as her garb bespoke the Quakeress.
"I saw thee coming, but could not get to the door before thy knock
sounded, Peggy," she said. "And did thee have a good time? Harriet hath
missed thee, and in truth it hath seemed long since yesterday. And what
is in that bundle, child? 'Tis monstrous large for thee to carry."
"'Tis linen, mother," answered the maiden bringing the bundle into the
hall. "It came last night to Mrs. Evans for her to make into shirts for
the soldiers, but word came from the hospital this morning that both she
and Sally were needed there, so I told her that, as we had our
apportionment all made up, we would gladly do hers. And such a time to
get here as I had. So thee missed me? 'Tis worth going away for the
night to hear thee say that. How is Harriet?"
"Wherriting over thy absence. Indeed, she seems scarce able to bear thee
from her sight. I persuaded her to work upon the shirt, thinking to
beguile her into something like calm. She should go out to-day if 'tis
not too cold."
"'Twould do her good," declared Peggy. "It is fine out. Such a relief
from the rain and mud of the past week. And oh, mother! what does thee
think? Mistress Reed hath twenty-two hundred shirts already that the
ladies have made, and she hath received a letter from His Excellency,
General Washington, concerning them. She wished that all that were not
needed for the Pennsylvania line should be given to our near neighbor,
New Jersey, but left it with him to do as he thought best. She told Mrs.
Evans that she wished to see thee and others of the committee soon.
There is to be a notice as to time. Thee does not mind this extra work,
does thee, mother?"
"Nay, Peggy. 'Twas right to bring it. 'Tis little that we who are at
home can do for those in the field, and Mrs. Evans and Sally give too
much time as it is to the hospital to undertake anything more. But let
us go in to Harriet. She will be glad that thou art here."
"Have you come at last, Peggy?" cried a slender girl starting up from a
settle which was drawn before a roaring fire as mother and daughter
entered the living-room. "And did I hear you say something about more
cloth for shirts? Peggy Owen, you have done nothing else since we came
from the South two months ago but make shirts. I doubt not that every
soldier of the rebel army hath either a shirt of your making, or a pair
of socks of your knitting."
"That could hardly be, Harriet," laughed Peggy. "I have made but twelve
shirts, and just the same number of socks. As we have a few more in the
army than that thee sees that it could not be. And how does thee feel?"
"Oh, I don't know," spoke Harriet plaintively. She was very pale as
though she had been ill, which was the fact, but her disorder had
reached that stage of convalescence in which it was more mental than
physical. "I don't know, Peggy. I don't believe that I'll ever be well
again."
"How thee talks," chided Peggy. "Did thee finish the shirt mother gave
thee to make? Methought that would woo thee from thy megrims."
"Yes; it is finished," answered the other with a sigh of weariness. "I
have just put the last stitch in it, and I'll do no more. Heigh-ho! to
think of Harriet Owen, daughter of William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh
Fusileers, and a most loyal subject of His Majesty, making a shirt for
one of the rebels. What would father think of it, I wonder?"
"I think that he would rather have thee so engaged than to have thee
give up to thy fancies, Harriet," answered Peggy as her cousin drew the
garment from among the pillows of the settle, and held it up to view.
"Did thee put thy name on it? Mistress Reed wishes every woman and girl
who makes one to embroider her name on it."
"'Tis athwart the shoulders," said Harriet, handing the shirt to Peggy,
a little sparkle coming into her eyes. Wonderful eyes they were: gray in
color, surrounded by lashes of intense black, and dazzling in their
brilliancy. "Well, Peggy?"
"Oh, Harriet," gasped the Quaker maiden, a look of vexation flashing
across her face. "What will Mistress Reed say?"
For across the shoulders of the garment was embroidered in red letters:
"Harriet Owen--A loyal subject of the king."
"What will she say?" repeated Peggy in dismay.
"Well, I am a loyal subject of the king, am I not? Doth being in
Philadelphia instead of London or New York make me otherwise? Doth even
making a rebel shirt change me?"
"N-no," answered Peggy. "I do not wish thee to change, Harriet; only it
doth not seem quite, quite---- In truth, as thee is just among us to get
well it doth not----" She paused hardly knowing how to continue.
"'Tis naught to trouble over, my daughter," spoke her mother serenely.
"'Twill wear just as long and keep some soldier just as warm as though
it were not there. I doubt not that it will cause some amusement in
camp, and what is't but a girlish piece of mischief, after all? I am
pleased to see a spark of thy former spirit, Harriet. Thee is growing
better."
"Thank you, madam my cousin. And I will make no more, if it please you.
I find the stitching wearisome, and the object not much to my liking."
"Then it were better for thee to make no more," declared the lady.
"Though 'tis not well to lie on the settle and do naught but read. I
think with Peggy that to go out will do thee good. Therefore, after
dinner thou must go with her to take the shirts that are finished to
Mistress Reed. Then a walk to the river, or to Pegg's Run, where there
is sure to be skating if the ice is strong enough, will do nicely for
to-day. There are some fine skaters among us, and 'twill amuse thee to
see them."
"I care more for assemblies and small dances than I do for sports,"
declared Harriet. "Still, if you think best, I will go, madam my cousin.
I get lonesome here. I am so far from my people, and from my country.
New York was gayer when I was there. Do you not think so, Peggy? And yet
'tis not nearly so large as this city."
"Thee has not been strong enough for much gayety," reminded the lady
gently. "As soon as the spring comes we will see about more diversion.
There will be the rides, and many jaunts which the weather hath not
permitted heretofore. But for to-day the walk must do. So be ready to go
with Peggy as soon as the dinner is over."
"And may I read until then?" queried the girl wistfully. "The book is
very enticing. I but laid it aside to finish the shirt."
"Yes; and Peggy may join thee, if she wishes," said Mrs. Owen rising. "I
like not for her to read idle tales, nor much verse when there is so
much to be done, but the poem that thou art reading now is a noble one.
I would like her to become familiar with it. I read it when a girl."
"What is it, Harriet?" questioned Peggy as her mother left the room.
"'Tis 'Paradise Lost,' by Mr. John Milton," answered her cousin, taking
the book from a near-by table, and turning the leaves of the volume
idly. "'Tis considered à la mode in London to be so familiar with it as
to be able to quote passages from it on occasion. So long as I must stay
in the colonies 'tis as well to prepare for my return."
"But thee cannot go back until the war is over," Peggy reminded her.
"Thee would not wish to go without thy father, would thee?"
"Of course not. But the war is sure to be over soon now. Three of the
Southern colonies are already restored to the Crown, and after Lord
Cornwallis subjugates Virginia 'twill be an easy matter to move
northward toward your main army. And where will your Mr. Washington be
then--with Sir Henry Clinton attacking him from the front and Lord
Cornwallis from the rear? Oh, it will soon be over!"
"That is what thy people have said from the beginning," remarked Peggy
quietly. "And yet, in Fourth month, 'twill be six years since the battle
of Lexington in Massachusetts was fought, and we are not conquered yet."
"But 'tis different now, Peggy. Your resources are drained. Even Cousin
David, fervent patriot though he is, murmurs at the weakness of your
central government. Part of your own soldiers mutinied last month. One
of your best generals hath come over to us, and you have won but two
victories in nearly three years--Paulus Hook and Stony Point. Oh, 'tis
vastly different now. We shall see the end soon."
"Thee has forgotten King's Mountain, which was a decided victory," spoke
Peggy. "And," she added stoutly, "though I know that what thee says is
largely true, Harriet, and that it doth indeed look dark for us, I feel
sure that we will win eventually. Whenever it hath been the darkest some
great event hath happened to raise our spirits so that we could go on. I
just know that 'twill be the same now. Something will occur to give us
hope."
"It may be," observed Harriet carelessly, "though I see not how it can."
Peggy made no answer. She had spoken more hopefully than she felt. In
common with other patriots she was appalled at the dark outlook with
which 1781, the sixth year of the war, had opened. It was in truth a
very dark hour. The American Revolution was in sore straits. It was
dragging and grounding on the shoals of broken finances and a helpless
government. The country had not yet recovered from the depression caused
by Arnold's treason. True, the plot had failed, but there was nothing
inspiriting in a baffled treason, and there had been no fighting and no
victories to help the people and the army to bear the season of waiting
which lay before them. General Washington lay helpless with his army
along the Hudson River, unable to strike a blow for the lack of men and
supplies. The Revolution seemed to be going down in mere inaction
through the utter helplessness of what passed for a central government.
As all this passed through Peggy's mind she leaned back in her chair,
and gazed sadly into the fire, a hopeless feeling creeping into her
heart in spite of herself.
"If after all we should fail," she half whispered and then sat up
quickly as though she had been guilty of disloyalty. "This will never
do, Peggy," she murmured chidingly. "Fail, with General Washington at
the head of things? What an idea! Harriet," turning to her cousin,
"haven't we forgotten the poem?"
"Yes," answered Harriet who was gazing dreamily into the fire. "Don't
let's read, Peggy."
"But----" began Peggy when there came the excited tones of Mrs. Owen from
the hall greeting a guest:
"And is it really thou, John? What brings thee? Peggy will be so glad to
see thee. Come in, and welcome."
"John! John Drayton!" cried Peggy springing to her feet as the door
opened to admit the tall form of a youth. "What brings thee from the
South? Hast thou news? Oh, come in! I am so glad to see thee. Is thee an
express?"
"Yes, Peggy." The youth's clothing was bespattered with dried mud as
though he had ridden hard and fast without time for attention to
appearances. A handsome roquelaure[[1]] was so covered that its color
was scarce distinguishable. There were deep circles under his eyes as
though he were wearied yet his manner was full of subdued joyousness.
"Yes, I am an express. I have just brought Congress despatches which
tell that on the 17th of January, under General Morgan we met Colonel
Tarleton at the Cowpens in South Carolina, and utterly routed him."
"Did what?" gasped Peggy, while Harriet Owen sat suddenly bolt upright.
"Routed him! Wiped him out!" repeated young Drayton with a boyish laugh,
and the old toss of his head that Peggy remembered so well. "We met
Colonel Tarleton at the Cowpens, and we soundly whipped him."
-----
[1] Cloak.
CHAPTER II--HARRIET MAKES A PRESENT
"Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave--
Gushed, warm with hope and valor yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save."
--"The Battle-Field," Bryant.
"It is not true," burst from the English girl. "It can't be. Met Colonel
Tarleton and utterly routed him? Impossible!"
"It doth indeed seem too good to be true," cried Peggy.
"Impossible or not, it hath really happened," answered Drayton, laughing
gleefully at their amazement. "I was detailed, at my own request, to
bring the news to Congress. I wanted to see if you were in truth safe in
your own home, Peggy. Another express riding at speed hath gone on to
General Washington with the tidings. The victory hath gladdened every
countenance and paved the way for the salvation of the country."
"Begin at the beginning and tell all and everything," commanded Peggy.
"But first let the lad make himself comfortable," interposed Mrs. Owen.
"He is tired and weary, I doubt not. Take his hat and cloak, Peggy,
while I bring him a chair. Harriet, tell Sukey to hasten with the
dinner."
"Has thee become a macaroni[[2]], John, that thee has such a fine
cloak?" queried Peggy as she relieved Drayton of his beaver and
roquelaure.
"With these clothes?" asked the youth quizzically. For the removal of
the cloak exposed a very shabby uniform to view. "That roquelaure became
mine by what you might call impressment, and 'thereby hangs a tale'
which you shall hear anon. But now for Cowpens."
"Yes; let us hear about Cowpens," cried Peggy eagerly. "Oh! I can scarce
wait the telling."
"It happened after this fashion," began Drayton settling himself with a
sigh of satisfaction in the chair Mrs. Owen had brought. "Lord
Cornwallis began again his march toward North Carolina with the first of
the year. So General Greene detached Brigadier-General Morgan to harass
the left flank of the British, and to threaten Ninety Six. We annoyed
Cornwallis so much that he sent Colonel Tarleton with the light infantry
and some cavalry to push us to the utmost.
"Colonel Tarleton advanced up the west side of the Broad River, while
his lordship proceeded up the east side; the plan being for him to fall
upon us should we attempt to recross and retreat into North Carolina.
Well, I am bound to say that Colonel Tarleton did press us hard. So much
so that we fell back before him until we reached the Cowpens, so called
because the cattle are here rounded up and branded. It lies about midway
between Spartanburg and the Cherokee Ford of the Broad River. The
position was both difficult and dangerous, and though General Morgan
didn't want to fight, he knew that the time had come when he had to.
"Well, what did the man do as we camped there the night before the
battle? Why, he went among the men as they sat about the camp-fires, and
told them he was going to fight and just what he wanted them to do. The
result was a glorious victory the next day.
"We rose early and breakfasted quietly, and then prepared to fight.
About eight o'clock the enemy came in sight and drew up in line of
battle. No sooner were they formed than they rushed forward shouting
like a lot of demons. 'Tis Colonel Tarleton's way of attack, and
ofttimes it scares the militia so that they become panic stricken, and
break and run. This was the time when they didn't.
"The militia received the first onslaught, fired two volleys and then
fell back, according to instructions. As they did so the British yelled
and shouted, and advanced in a run. And then you should have seen how
Pickens' sharpshooters got in their work. 'Wait until they are within
fifty yards,' they had been told, 'and then fire.' They followed their
orders to the letter, and picked off the men with the epaulettes until
the ranks of the British were demoralized by the loss of officers. Then
the second line cleared, and we regulars advanced, and charged. The next
thing any of us knew the British infantry threw away their arms, and
began to cry for quarter.
"Colonel Tarleton then ordered his dragoons to charge while he attempted
to rally the infantry, but the rout was too complete. When he found that
he could do nothing with the infantry, he made another struggle to get
his cavalry to charge, hoping to retrieve the day, but his efforts
proved fruitless. They forsook him, and went flying from the field of
battle. Colonel William Washington pursued them until evening, and on
his return drove before him a number of prisoners which he had collected
on the route.
"There were six hundred men captured; ten officers and more than a
hundred men killed, but Tarleton, I am sorry to say, escaped. All the
cannon, arms, equipage, music and everything fell into our hands, while
our loss was but twelve killed and sixty wounded. Oh, I tell you we were
jubilant! We crossed the river, making a détour to escape his lordship,
and brought our prisoners and booty safe to a junction with the main
army. General Greene was delighted over the victory, for the destruction
of Colonel Tarleton's force will cripple Cornwallis severely. After a
few more such victories I think his lordship will realize that he no
longer hath a Gates to deal with."
"Is it not wonderful?" broke in Peggy. "Oh, I knew that something would
happen soon to cheer us up! It hath always been so from the beginning of
the Revolution. There was Trenton in '76, just when every one thought
the country lost; and Saratoga in '77, when our own dear city was in the
hands of the British. Whenever it hath been so dark that it seemed as
though we could not press forward something hath always occurred to
renew our courage. I can see it all!" she cried enthusiastically. "The
swamps, and the trees with the marksmen hidden behind them; the river,
and the palmettos; the swift rush of the soldiers through the trees, and
then the crash of arms, and victory!"
"I thought you were a Quaker," sneered Harriet. "Do Friends so delight
in warfare?"
"But I am a patriot too," cried Peggy. "I can't help but feel glad that
we were victorious, although I am not sorry that Colonel Tarleton
escaped, as thee is, John. He was so good to me. Had it not been for him
I would not have been home."
"It is utterly impossible," came from Harriet again. "Colonel Tarleton
never did meet defeat, and I don't believe that he ever will. 'Tis some
quidnunc story got up to keep the rebels fighting. And if it were true,
you are cruel to rejoice when father may have been in the action. Or
Clifford."
"But the Welsh Fusileers, thy father's regiment, stay always with Lord
Cornwallis, do they not?" queried Peggy, whose residence among the
British had taught her much concerning such matters. "And as for thy
brother, Clifford, thee does not know where he is."
"No; I don't know," answered the English girl tearfully. "I would I did.
But he might have been there. He is somewhere in these revolted
colonies, and it's cruel to be so glad when he might be among those who
are killed, or wounded." She flung herself back among the pillows of the
settle as she finished speaking, and gave way to a passion of tears.
"But you would rejoice at an English victory, Mistress Harriet," spoke
Lieutenant Drayton in surprise. The Harriet he remembered would have
scorned to betray such weakness. "We do not exult over those who are
slain or wounded, but we do delight in the fact that liberty is advanced
whenever we win a battle. And we care for the wounded, even though they
are foes. Also," he added, his brow darkening, "we give quarter, and
your people do not."
"'Tis a great price to pay for freedom," remarked Mrs. Owen sadly. "And
yet there are times when it can be obtained in no other way."
"But to--to say that they r-ran," sobbed Harriet. "The British wouldn't
run."
"Oh, wouldn't they?" observed the lieutenant dryly. "These ran like
foxes when the hounds are after them. And they took to cover worse than
any militia I ever saw. But there!" he concluded. "What doth it matter?
We whipped them badly."
"Harriet hath been ill, John," explained Peggy in a low tone. "Thee must
not mind what she says."
"I don't," returned he good-naturedly. "There was never much love lost
between us, as she knows, though I am sorry that she hath been ill. Are
you as busy as ever, Peggy?"
"The dinner is ready, John," spoke Mrs. Owen as Sukey came to the door
with the announcement. "Thee must be hungry. Come now, and eat. And thee
must make thy home with us while in the city. It would give us great
pleasure."
"Thank you, madam. I will accept gladly, though it will be but for a day
or two. There will be return despatches from Congress to General Greene.
I must go back as soon as the gentlemen have finished with me. I wait
upon them this afternoon."
"Then thee won't be able to go with the girls to see the skating,"
remarked the lady leading the way to the dining-room.
"If they finish with me soon I will join them," he answered. "My! how
good this table looks! 'Tis not often that I sit down to a meal like
this."
"I wonder how you poor soldiers can fight so well when you have so
little to eat," she said soberly. "'Tis in my mind often."
"Perhaps we fight the better for being hungry," he returned lightly. "We
have to get filled up on something, you know. Supplies are in truth hard
to come by. Clothing as well as food. General Greene went before the
legislatures of all the states he passed through on his way South to
plead that men, clothing, food and equipment might be forthcoming for
the campaign. There is woeful remissness somewhere. Why, some of our
poor fellows haven't even a shirt to their backs."
"And I have made twelve myself since I came back," exclaimed Peggy
proudly. "And mother as many more. Mistress Reed hath twenty-two hundred
to send to the Pennsylvania line now."
"No wonder 'Dandy Wayne' is so proud of his men," sighed the youth with
a certain wistfulness in his voice. "The Pennsylvania line is the best
dressed of any of the Continentals, and all because the women of the
state look after their soldiers. Would that the other states would do as
well!"
"Lieutenant Drayton," spoke Harriet suddenly. She had quite recovered
her composure by this time. "Peggy did not tell you that I have made a
shirt too."
"Not for the patriots?" he asked amazed.
"Yes; for the rebels," she replied.
"Come!" he cried gayly. "You are improving. We will have a good patriot
out of you yet."
"Perhaps," she responded graciously, a roguish gleam coming into her
eyes. "Are you in need of shirts, lieutenant?"
Drayton's face flushed, and then he laughed.
"I am not as badly off as some of our poor fellows, Mistress Harriet,
but they would not come amiss. Why?"
"Because," said she speaking deliberately, "if you will accept it, I
should like to give you the shirt that I made."
"To give it to me?" he queried astonished. He had always known that
Harriet disliked him, and therefore could not understand this sudden
mark of favor. "To give it to me?"
"Yes; to you. Will you promise to wear it if I give it to you?"
"Oh, Harriet," came from Peggy reproachfully, but John Drayton answered
with a puzzled look:
"I shall most certainly wear the garment if you give it to me, mistress,
and feel highly complimented in so doing."
"I will hold you to your word, sir," cried Harriet. With that she ran
out of the room but soon returned with the garment in question. "There!"
she said holding it up so that he could read the embroidered
inscription. "See to what you have pledged yourself, John Drayton."
A twinkle came into his eyes, but he took the shirt from her, holding it
tightly as he said:
"I shall abide by my word. And what think you the British would say if
they saw what is here embroidered? This, mistress: 'That 'tis small
wonder the rebels are successful when even our own women help to keep
them in supplies.'"
"Oh, give it back," she exclaimed in consternation. "I did not think of
that."
"Nay; a bargain is a bargain." Drayton folded up the shirt with a
decided gesture. "You were trying to put up a 'take in' on me, but it
hath redounded on yourself. Stand by your word, mistress."
"He hath thee, Harriet," cried Peggy laughing.
"I don't care," answered Harriet tossing her head. "'Tis across the
shoulders, and if ever I hear of its being seen I shall know that he
turned his back to the foe."
"Then you have heard the last of it, for that I will never do," said the
lad solemnly.
-----
[2] Macaroni--a dandy.
CHAPTER III--A GLIMPSE OF CLIFFORD
"They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
* * * * *
"Then here's their memory--may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite."
--John Kells Ingram.
When at length the two maidens started forth in the early afternoon they
found that the news of the victory at the Cowpens was upon every tongue.
The streets were filled with an eager, joyous crowd of people, all
discussing the intelligence with mingled emotions of incredulity and
delight. Slumbering patriotism awoke to new ardor, and despairing hearts
thrilled anew with hope. From the depths of discouragement the pendulum
swung to the other extreme, and all sorts of brilliant achievements were
prophesied for the army in the South under Greene.
"How soberly they take the news," observed Harriet as they passed a
group of men who were quietly discussing the event. "See how gravely,
almost sadly, those men are talking. In London we make a great ado when
our soldiers win a victory."
"But those are Friends, Harriet. See, thee can tell by their drab
clothes and low, broad-brimmed beavers. And being such are therefore
neutral. Neutrals do not rejoice at a Continental victory any more
than--than some other people," she added with roguish insinuation. "Those
who are not of the sect are hilarious enough. Of a truth it doth seem as
though their gladness verged on the unseemly."
"That's just it," said the other accusingly. "You, and I doubt not many
others in this city of Penn, think the least bit of exuberance a sin."
"It hath not been so of late, Harriet. Indeed it doth seem as though,
since thy people held the city, that we would never regain our old
peacefulness."
"I liked New York better than this," went on the English girl peevishly.
"There was so much more gayety."
"But we are considered the more intellectual," spoke Peggy quickly, who
could not bear to hear the least aspersion against her beloved city.
"'Tis often commented upon by those who come among us. Shall we turn
into High Street, Harriet? Or does thee prefer to keep down Chestnut?"
"High Street by all means, Peggy. I think it would be the finest street
in the world if it were not for the markets in the middle of it."
"Does thee?" cried Peggy much pleased. "Why, I thought thee didn't like
Philadelphia?"
"I do like the city. The streets are so broad and regular, and these
footways are like those we have in London. 'Tis the people that are not
to my liking." The girl sighed.
For a moment Peggy could not answer for indignation; then, choking back
a crushing retort, she replied sagely:
"The people are well enough, Harriet. 'Tis thy feeling which is not
right. Thee certainly has the megrims to-day."
"Is not that Mr. Morris's house?" asked Harriet as they reached the
southeast corner of High and Front Streets.
"Yes," replied Peggy gazing mournfully at the mansion indicated. "'Twas
there also that General Arnold lived when he had charge of the city. I
went there to one of his teas, Harriet. The city rang with his prowess
at that time. Next to General Washington I liked him best of any of our
generals, though I like not to speak of him now. Thy general, Sir
William Howe, lived there when thy people held Philadelphia."
"Ah!" said Harriet surveying the residence more intently. "So that is
where he lived, is it? 'Tis a fine dwelling."
"Mr. Morris hath made many improvements since he bought it, though it
hath always been considered one of the best in the city," Peggy informed
her.
"He is very rich, isn't he, Peggy?"
"He is said to be, Harriet, and is, I doubt not. He hath such great
skill in financial matters that 'tis no wonder. The Congress hath put
him in charge of the nation's finances, I hear, and many hope that he
will put our money upon a firm basis. He hath already been of great
service to the patriots in advancing money, and he hath advised many of
our people concerning investments. 'Tis owing to him that mother hath
prospered of late," concluded the girl warmly. "See the vessels,
Harriet."
They had turned now into Front Street, and stopped to look at the broad
river filled with ice-floes. Out of the long length of the street upward
of two hundred quays opened, forming so many views terminated by vessels
of different sizes. There were three hundred at the time in the harbor
disputing possession with the huge cakes of floating ice.
"And when the British left in '78 they left us not one bark," went on
Peggy after they had stood for a moment in silence.
"I wonder," spoke Harriet musingly, "I wonder why England doth not send
a great fleet over here to ravage this entire seaboard? If all these
large towns could be so attacked at one time the revolted colonies would
be conquered at once, and an end put to the rebellion."
"It would not conquer us," declared Peggy stoutly. "I have heard some
say that with General Washington at their head they would retire beyond
the mountains, and fight from there. Thee can never conquer us,
Harriet."
Harriet made no reply, and they resumed the walk toward Poole's Bridge.
A throng of promenaders, skaters and sliders filled the banks and glided
over the smooth ice of Pegg's Run, as the extensive marsh which lay
beyond the high table-land north of Callowhill Street was called.
This high waste ground had some occasional slopes down which some
hundreds of boys were coasting. The whole area was a great ice pond on
which it seemed as though all the skating population of Philadelphia had
congregated. The city had long been preëminent in the sport. At this
time her skaters were considered the most expert and graceful in the
world, and the girls soon became absorbed in watching them as they
mingled together and darted about, here and there.
"Are there none but boys and men?" questioned Harriet presently.
"'Tis not esteemed delicate for females to skate," Peggy informed her.
"Though," she added lowering her voice instinctively, "we girls of the
Social Select Circle used to slip off where none could see, and practice
it. Sally Evans got so skilled that she excelled in the 'High Dutch,'
and I could cut my name on the ice, but alas for Betty Williams. She
could hardly stand on her skates, and we were always having to help her
up from a tumble."
"Is thee talking about me, Peggy?" demanded a voice, and Peggy gave a
little cry of welcome as she turned to find Betty Williams standing
behind her. "Hasn't thee anything better to do than to tell of thy
friends' failings? And what is this I hear? That the express from the
Cowpens is staying at thy house? Is he friend of thine? What luck thee
has, Peggy."
"Thou shalt come and meet him for thyself, Betty. Yes; he is an old
friend, Lieutenant John Drayton. Surely thee remembers hearing me speak
of him?"
"A lieutenant? Charmante! I dote on army men," cried Betty rapturously.
"I remember now about him. Does thee know him also, Harriet?"
"Yes," answered Harriet curling her lip. "He is a pretty fellow enough,
and will never swing for the lack of a tongue. Lieutenant Drayton is no
favorite of mine, though Peggy and her mother are fond of him."
"Yes; mother and I are fond of him," spoke Peggy with some sharpness,
quick to resent a slur against one of her friends. "Perhaps he is
deficient in the court manners to which my cousin hath been accustomed,
but he treats even an enemy with courtesy, and thee has had no cause to
complain of him, Harriet. Would that he could say as much for thee."
"Where was his courtesy when I asked him to return that shirt?" demanded
Harriet. "A true courtier would not have kept it after I had expressed a
wish for its return."
"Thee should not have presented it if thee did not wish him to keep it."
"What ever are you girls talking about?" demanded Betty with eager
inquisitiveness. "Tell me all anent the matter. What shirt? Tell me this
minute else I will perish with curiosity. That is, if 'tis no secret.
"Oh!" she cried merrily as with some laughter and many details both
Harriet and Peggy unfolded the matter of the shirt. "Oh, Harriet! what a
rout! I blame thee not for not liking him. How he discomfited thee! I'm
so anxious to meet him. Does thee know Robert Dale, Harriet? We girls
have always esteemed him the very nicest boy in the world. By the way,
Peggy, father wrote that Robert hath been put in General Lafayette's
division. The Select Corps 'tis called. 'Tis monstrous distinction."
"How?" asked Harriet. "I know him not though it seems as though I
should, I have heard so much anent him. How is the Select Corps
distinctive?"
"As though thee did not know," cried Betty incredulously. "Had I spent
as much time with both armies as thee and Peggy have there would be
naught about anything military that I did not know. But, for fear that
the Select Corps is the one thing lacking in thy knowledge of camp, I
will tell thee that its members are taken from the whole army for the
active part of a campaign. The Select Corps is always in advance of the
main army, and has the right to make the first attack on the enemy. 'Tis
of vast distinction to be of it, and Robert must have proved himself
valorous else he would not have been honored by being placed in it."
"But 'tis a position of danger as well as honor, Betty," remarked Peggy.
"If Mr. Washington does no more fighting than he hath done for the past
few years your Robert Dale will be in no danger," observed Harriet, who
was certainly in a bad mood for the day.
"Oh, as to that," retorted Betty airily, "we manage to get in a victory
often enough to keep up our spirits. Really, Harriet, I do wish thee
could meet Robert."
"And I wish that you both could meet my brother, Clifford," cried
Harriet. "Why, none of the youths in the rebel camp at Middlebrook could
compare with him in looks. He is so handsome, and noble, and brave. Oh,
I do wish that I could see him!" she ended, a pathetic quaver coming
into her voice.
"Thee has not seen him since thee came to America, has thee?" asked
Betty. Peggy, whose gentle heart was touched by the feeling her cousin
exhibited, forgot how trying she had been, and pressed her hand
tenderly.
"No, Betty. He left home soon after father came to join General Gage in
Boston. When we were in New York City father had Sir Henry Clinton to go
over the rosters of the different regiments to see if we could locate
him, but we could find no trace of him. I did not mind so much until
since I have been ill, but now I want to see him so much."
"Does he look like Cousin William, Harriet?" asked Peggy.
"No; he is more like your father than mine. Father says that Cousin
David is like my grandfather, and Clifford is the living representative
of the picture of grandfather."
"If he is like father he must be all that thee claims for him," spoke
Peggy warmly. "I should dearly like to see him, Harriet, and perhaps
thee will hear of him soon. If he is in this country anywhere with the
British army thee will surely hear of him in time. Don't grieve."
"If thee does find him I hope that he will come to Philadelphia,"
laughed Betty, who had put up her hair and adopted young lady airs. "I
like nice boys, be they English or American."
"Or French," put in Peggy slyly. "I've heard that thee takes a lesson
each morning from one of the aides of Monsieur de la Luzerne, the French
minister. Thee needs to be dealt with, Betty."
"Peggy Owen, Sally hath been telling thee tales out of school," cried
Betty, her face flushing. "When did thee see her?"
"A hit! A hit!" laughed Peggy. "How thee mantles, Betty. Know then that
I stayed with Sallie last night, and thereby increased my knowledge as
to several matters. She said----"
"I must be going," uttered Betty hastily. "Good-bye, girls. Come and see
me, Harriet, but leave thy cousin at home."
She darted away before Peggy could call out the merry retort that rose
to her lips. Then the maiden turned to Harriet.
"And 'twould be wise for us to go too, Harriet," she said. "The air
begins to grow chill, and thee must not take cold. See! many of the
skaters and promenaders are leaving, and soon there will be none left. I
did not know that 'twas so late. Is thee tired?"
"No; I believe that the walk hath done me good," answered Harriet, who
did look better. "Still I feel a little cold. Let us walk fast, Peggy."
Recrossing the bridge they left the gay throng and started briskly down
the narrow footway of Front Street. Suddenly the clatter of hoofs was
heard, and the maidens turned to see a party of American horse
approaching from the direction of Frankford. They were riding at speed,
and the girls drew close to the curb of the walk to see them pass. As
the dragoons drew near they saw that they were escorting a number of
British prisoners.
"Hath there been another battle?" asked Harriet, growing pale.
"I think not," answered Peggy. "There is always an express to tell of
it, if there hath been, before the prisoners come. These are not from
the Cowpens, Harriet. They could not be, and come from that direction."
"True," said Harriet. "I wonder if the main army hath engaged with our
troops? Oh, I like not to see our men made prisoners!"
Peggy made no reply, and in silence the two watched the troopers. As
they came opposite to the place where the maidens stood one of the
prisoners, a young fellow, leaned over and said something to the trooper
next him. Then, with a light laugh he turned his face full upon them,
and lifted his hat with jaunty grace.
As he did so Harriet sprang forward with an amazed cry:
"Clifford! Clifford! Clifford!"
CHAPTER IV--A STRANGE PRESENTIMENT
"He alone
Is victor who stays not for any doom
Foreshadowed; utters neither sigh nor moan;
Death stricken, strikes for the right,
Nor counts his life his own."
--Atlantic Monthly Calendar, 1908.
An exclamation of intense astonishment burst from the young fellow's
lips, and he drew rein quickly. If it was his intention to come to them
he was not allowed to carry it out, for at this moment the leader of the
troopers gave a sharp command, and the whole party swept onward at
increased speed.
"Clifford! Clifford!" called Harriet again and again; but the youth gave
no further heed, and the horsemen were soon beyond the reach of her
voice.
"'Twas Clifford," she cried turning to Peggy with a sob. "Oh, Peggy,
what shall I do? He is a prisoner."
"Is thee sure that it was he, Harriet?" questioned Peggy who had been
amazed at what had taken place.
"Did I not see him? And did you not hear him speak? I could not tell
what he said. Could you? He is a prisoner. I must get to him. Come! we
must go faster, Peggy, so that we can see where they take him."
By this time the dragoons had turned into one of the cross streets, and
when the girls reached the place of turning they had passed out of
sight.
"I wish Cousin David were here. He would know what to do," cried Harriet
greatly excited. "Couldn't we send for him, Peggy?"
"Father couldn't leave the army now, Harriet, as thee knows. Besides, it
would take long to send for him, and thy brother might be gone before he
could get here. We must find John. He will know what to do."
"Then let us hurry, hurry," exclaimed the English girl clasping her
hands convulsively together.
Lieutenant Drayton was just ascending the steps of the Owens' dwelling
as they reached Fourth Street, but catching sight of them he ran down
the stoop to join them.
"The Congress hath but this moment finished with me," he said, "so that
it was impossible for me to come to Pegg's Run. Was the skating fine? I
should like to have seen it, and to have taken a turn---- Why! what hath
happened?" he broke off, all at once becoming aware of their
perturbation. "You both seem somewhat upset."
"'Tis Harriet's brother," explained Peggy seeing that her cousin was
unable to speak. "A party of American horse came from the North bringing
in some prisoners, and Harriet saw her brother, Clifford, among them.
She called to him, but they would not let him stop. They turned into
Arch Street, and we lost sight of them."
"When did it happen, Peggy?"
"But now, John. Just as we were leaving Pegg's Run. Could thee find
where they went?"
"Oh, Lieutenant Drayton, will you find him for me?" entreated Harriet.
"I will try, Mistress Harriet. If he is to stay in the city, he will be
put in one of the jails. If he is to go on to the interior the party
would stop at one of the inns for the night, as 'tis now too late in the
day to go further. The thing to do will be to go to the jails, and if he
be not there, to make the round of the inns. Be not over-anxious. If he
is to be found, and surely 'twill be an easy matter, I will soon bring
you word of it."
He lifted his beaver as he finished speaking, and left them. The two
girls went slowly into the dwelling, and reported the affair to Mrs.
Owen.
"John will find him, Harriet," said the lady soothingly. "That is, of
course, if he stays in the city, and as the lad says, the troopers will
of a certainty stop here for the night. Try to occupy thyself until his
return. He will do everything he can to find thy brother. Should he be
found then we will try to get his release in some manner; but now busy
thyself about something. Thee is too much agitated, and will make
thyself ill again."
"I know not what to do," objected Harriet sinking into her favorite seat
on the settle before the fire. "What shall I do, Peggy?"
"Read to me from that poem, Harriet," suggested Peggy, bringing the
volume to her cousin. "Thee was to do that this morning when John came
with news of the battle. 'Twill make the time pass more quickly."
"I would rather talk," said Harriet, turning the leaves of the book
rapidly. "I do not believe that a poem will content me. A tale would be
more enthralling. Still there are some beautiful passages, and I will
try some of them. Here is one that is considered one of the finest in
the poem. Father read it to me once."
With a voice rendered more expressive than usual by reason of her
unwonted emotion Harriet read that wonderful and pathetic invocation to
light with which the blind poet begins the third canto of his immortal
poem:
"'Hail, holy Light, offspring of heaven first-born.'"
She was fond of poetry, and fond also of reading it aloud; so that soon
her attention was caught by the musical cadence of the verse. Peggy
watched her, amazed at the transition that now took place. She who had
been so agitated and anxious a few moments before was absorbed by the
rhythm of the poem. Her eyes kindled; her cheeks flushed, and her
accents became sonorous:
"'Thus with the year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead and ever during dark
Surrounds me----'
"Oh!" screamed the girl, suddenly letting the book fall to the floor as
she pressed her hands to her eyes. "The dark! The dark!"
"What is it?" cried Peggy running to her. "What is the matter, Harriet?"
"Oh, I shall be blind! I shall be blind," broke from Harriet in agonized
tones. "I know I shall. It came to me just now. Oh, Peggy! Peggy!"
"What a fancy!" cried Peggy giving her a little shake. "Thee is all
upset, Harriet. Mother must give thee some Jesuits' Bark."
"But I shall be," moaned the girl. "I know that it will happen."
"Thy sight will dim with age, of course," said Peggy in a matter-of-fact
tone. "Just as mine will, and as mother's hath already done. Then we
will both wear bridge glasses, unless we use the spectacles with wire
supports which Dr. Franklin hath invented. And thou wilt look at me over
them; like this."
She tucked her chin down on her breast, and looked at her cousin so
drolly that Harriet laughed through her tears.
"That's better," approved Peggy. "Thine eyes are all right, Harriet. I
see naught wrong with them save that they are much prettier than mine;
which is not at all to my liking."
Again Harriet laughed, well pleased with the compliment.
"I do believe that you are right, Peggy," she said. "I am full of
fancies. But oh! you don't know how I felt for a few moments." She
shivered, and passed one hand lightly over her eyes. "I've read that
passage often, but never before did it affect me so. I could see the
dark, the 'ever-during dark,' about me; and it came to me that I should
be blind."
"Don't talk of it. Don't even think about it," said Peggy soothingly.
"As I said, thee is all upset over thy brother, and therefore is prone
to imagine many things. 'Tis lowness of mind that causes it. Now while
we wait for John, we will make mother let us get the supper. Thou shalt
make the chocolate, Harriet. In that thee excels."
And in this manner, talking to her as though she were a little child,
Peggy beguiled her cousin into forgetfulness of her strange foreboding.
CHAPTER V--A DAY OF NOTE
"Great were the hearts, and strong the minds,
Of those, who framed, in high debate,
The immortal league of love, that binds
Our fair, broad Empire, State with State.
* * * * *
"That noble race is gone; the suns
Of years have risen, and set;
But the bright links those chosen ones
So strongly forged, are brighter yet."
It was late that night when Drayton returned.
"No," he said in answer to Harriet's eager questioning. "I found him
not. I went to both the old and the new jails, but he was in neither. In
fact, no prisoners have been received for some days. I then made the
rounds of the taverns, but no such party was stopping at any of them.
There was but one trace to be found: some of the loungers about the inns
said that a party of horse was seen in the late afternoon riding toward
the lower ferry. I will inquire in that direction to-morrow. 'Tis not
customary to travel at night with prisoners, unless the need is urgent.
I wonder that a stop for the night was not made in the city."
The dragoons had passed through the city, as the lieutenant found the
next day; and, crossing the Schuylkill at Gray's Ferry had gone on to
the Blue Bell Tavern, putting up there for the night. They were up and
away early the next morning.
"Then how shall I find him?" queried Harriet as Drayton imparted this
information to her. "Lieutenant, you are an officer in the army; tell me
how to find my brother. I ought not to ask this of you, I know. I
haven't always been kind or pleasant, but if you will only help me in
this, I'll--I'll----Peggy, help me to plead with him."
"There is no need to plead, mistress," responded he quickly. "If I can
be of service to you, it will be a pleasure. I will do what I can to
find him. If he is an officer the task will be much easier. If I hear
aught concerning him I will send you word at once. 'Twas said at the
Blue Bell that the party was for the South, and if so, it may be that I
shall overtake it. I leave to-morrow if the despatches of Congress are
ready."
"So soon?" exclaimed Peggy in dismay. "Why, thee came but yesterday,
John."
"A soldier's time is never his own, Peggy. It hath been delightful to
have even these few days. After the hard marching of the past weeks 'tis
like an oasis in the desert to tarry in a real home. From all I hear we
are likely to be on the move for some time to come. 'Twas openly talked
in camp, before I left, that 'twas our general's plan to draw my Lord
Cornwallis as far from his base of supplies as possible. If that be true
we shall do naught but march for some time to come. This is a good rest
for me."
"If thy stay is so short then we must see that 'tis made as pleasant as
possible," declared Mrs. Owen. And from that moment the three, for
Harriet threw off her depression and was once more the charming girl
that she had been at Middlebrook, devoted themselves so successfully to
his entertainment that Drayton declared that it was well that he had a
horse to carry him away; for he would never leave of his own volition.
"It hath been delightful," he reiterated as he was about to depart. "I
doubt that 'tis good for me to have so much pampering. 'Twill give me a
desire to play the messenger at all times, and make me long for comforts
that are not to be found in camp, or on the march. You shall hear from
me soon, Mistress Harriet. Even though I should not overtake your
brother and the dragoons still you shall have word of it."
With that he was gone. Life with its duties resumed its accustomed
routine at the Owens' dwelling with the exception that Harriet seemed
much improved. The interest in her brother was the thing needful to
arouse her, and she daily gained in strength. The two horses, Star and
Fleetwood, were brought from the stables, and the girls with Tom as
groom again rode whenever the weather was pleasant. And so a week
passed. February was folded away in the book of years, and March was
upon them; but if Drayton had overtaken the horsemen on his way South
they had received no word.
"How warm the sun is," exclaimed Harriet as she and Peggy were returning
from a long ride on the first of the month. "Were it not that I might
receive word from Lieutenant Drayton about Clifford, I would suggest
that we turn about and go on to Chestnut Hill. It would be pleasant to
be out all afternoon."
"Nay," demurred Peggy. "The distance to Chestnut Hill makes it not to be
thought of. Besides, dinner is at two, and mother wished us to be home
in time for that. Though it is pleasant."
It was pleasant. The storm month had begun his sway with the mildness of
the proverbial lamb. The air held just enough of keenness to be bracing,
and the sky was blue with the blueness of May. There was the promise of
spring in the woods. The almost dead silences of winter had disappeared.
The song of the occasional robin was heard; the flutter of wings, and
the almost silent noises of the trees and thickets, evidenced in the
swelling buds of the bare branches.
The Germantown road was a favorite ride with them, and this day they
stopped often to exclaim over the spaciousness of the landscape which
the leafless trees admitted to their view.
"Do you think that I will hear to-day, Peggy?" asked her cousin
wistfully after one of these stops.
"I know not, Harriet. John will let thee know as soon as he can, for he
promised. I would not think so much anent it, if I were thee. What is
the saying? 'A watched pot never boils.' Is not that it?"
"I can't help it, Peggy. If Clifford were not a prisoner I would not
care so much. Just as soon as I find where he is I must try to secure
his release. I know that Sir Henry Clinton would get him exchanged if I
should ask it. I will write to him."
Instantly Peggy was troubled. She feared Harriet's activities. The
council of the state was alert and watchful, and would tolerate no
communications of any sort with the enemy. In fact, several women, wives
and relatives of Tories in New York and other points within the British
lines, had recently been arrested for this very fault. So it was a very
grave face the maiden turned to her cousin.
"Harriet," she said, "does thee remember the trouble that we got into at
Middlebrook by trying to pass letters to Sir Henry? Thee must not try to
pass any letters here."
"But this is different, Peggy," protested the other girl eagerly. "I'm
not going to do any spy work. I learned a lesson at that time that I
shall never forget. You have my word, Peggy. I shall not break it. The
only thing I should write would be but a line to ask for Clifford's
exchange. There could be no harm in that."
"If thee sends a letter of any sort, Harriet, thee must first take it to
Mr. Joseph Reed, the president of the council. If he sees no objection
to it then he will send it through for thee. If thee does not care to go
to him, mother would attend to it for thee. 'Twould be best to leave the
matter with her in any case. She would do everything that could be
done."
"But the army is not here," expostulated Harriet, who evidently had the
matter strongly in mind. "I see no reason why I should submit my letter
to Mr. Reed. There could be naught to report of war matters from
Philadelphia. 'Tis not as it was at Middlebrook."
"Is it not?" queried Peggy. "Why, Harriet, the enemy want all knowledge
that can be had of the movements of Congress. Philadelphia is the center
of the government. Whatever transpires here is of great interest to Sir
Henry. Therefore, the rules regarding letters are rigid. Thee must not
attempt it, Harriet."
"Well, well, have it your own way," returned Harriet lightly. "I think
you make too much of such a small thing, Peggy, but the affair can be
arranged when Clifford's whereabouts become known. So we will say no
more about it."
There was nothing that could be said, so Peggy held her peace; but she
thought deeply. She would tell her mother, she resolved, and they would
see that no communication was had with the British that was not through
the regular channels. But what a responsibility these English cousins
were, she mused, and so musing sighed heavily.
"Wherefore the sigh, cousin mine?" quizzed Harriet, bending low over her
saddle to look into Peggy's eyes. "Is it because you are afraid of what
I shall do? Fie, for shame! 'Tis you who are beset by fancies now. Fear
nothing, Peggy. I shall bring no further trouble upon you. Is that what
you were worrying about?"
"Yes," confessed Peggy frankly. "It was, Harriet."
"Then think of it no more. Have I not said that no trouble shall come to
you? And there shall not. But a truce to seriousness. 'Tis much too fine
for worry. Is not that a robin redbreast, Peggy?"
"Yes, Harriet. I have noticed several since we began our ride. 'Twill
soon be spring. And it should be; for it is the first of Third month."
And so the topic of the letter was put aside for the time, and the
maidens rode on through the trees chatting pleasantly. Suddenly the dull
boom of a cannon smote their ears.
"A battle! A battle!" cried Harriet excitedly as they drew rein to
listen. "Oh, what if our people have attacked the city?"
"Nay," spoke Peggy. "'Tis more like that there is something to
celebrate. Listen! Does thee not hear bells?"
"I wonder what it can be?" exclaimed Harriet. "I hope that 'tis not
another victory for the rebels."
"Let us hasten, Harriet. We can find out in no other way." Peggy called
to Tom, and they set forward at speed.
The noise became a din as they entered the city. Cannon boomed from the
shipping on the Delaware, and artillery thundered on the land. All the
bells in the city were ringing. Hoarse shouts filled the air, and upon
every side there were manifestations of joy.
"Oh, what can it be?" exclaimed Peggy with some excitement. "I wish we
knew."
A short, thick-set little man, of dark, swarthy complexion was just
crossing Front Street toward one of the quays as she spoke. He turned as
he heard the exclamation, and came toward them.
"If you do not know, lassie, let me tell you," he said with a deep
obeisance. "'Tis a great day. A great day, and will go down in history
as such. Know then that this morning the last state ratified the
Articles of Confederation, and by that act the Union becomes perpetual."
"Have they done it at last?" cried she. "Why, it hath been debated and
discussed so long that we feared 'twould never happen. I did not know
'twas to occur to-day."
"Nor did any of us," returned he genially. "I fancy that it took even
the Congress by surprise. 'Twas announced at noon, by a discharge of
artillery, the signal agreed upon. I am going now to add my quota to the
rejoicing by firing a _feu de joie_ from my ship yonder."
He indicated a frigate beautifully decorated with a variety of streamers
anchored just off the quay.
"The 'Ariel,'" read Harriet, at which Peggy opened her eyes wide.
"If that is thy ship then thee must be that John Paul Jones who fought
that wonderful battle with the 'Serapis' two years ago," ejaculated she.
For the "Ariel" was the vessel which was given that gallant officer in
place of the "Bon Homme Richard" which had been so battered in that
memorable engagement that it had sunk two days after the fight.
[Illustration: "THEE MUST BE JOHN PAUL JONES"]
"The very same," he answered with a profound courtesy. "The very same,
at your service, ladies."
"And thou hast stopped to give us information just as though thee was an
ordinary man," she said in so awed a tone that he burst out laughing.
"Well, and why not? Could I not give it as correctly as another? I am
honored to be of service."
He swept them another courtesy, and a little confused by the meeting the
two girls thanked him, and rode on.
On every hand the citizens demonstrated the importance of the happy
occasion. At two o'clock in the afternoon, the President of Congress
received congratulations. At night the evening was ushered in by an
elegant display of fireworks while the gentlemen of Congress, the civil
and military officers, and many of the principal citizens partook of a
collation spread for them at the City Tavern.
The first great step toward making the union permanent was taken. There
were many pitfalls awaiting the young nation ere one republic could be
moulded out of thirteen sovereign states. There were concessions to be
made, mistakes corrected, in later years a baptism of blood, before E
Pluribus Unum could be properly the motto of the new United States. But
the first step toward becoming a nation among the nations was taken when
the states entered into a firm league of friendship on this day for
their common defense, the security of their liberties and their mutual
general welfare. A people struggling for liberty always become the
favorites of heaven, and how far-reaching the links forged between the
states was to become was known alone to the Ruler of all.
CHAPTER VI--A MESSAGE OF INDIGNATION
"Thou art a traitor:
False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrous prince;
And from the extremest upward of thy head,
To the descent and dust beneath thy feet,
A most toad-spotted traitor."
--"King Lear," Shakespeare.
"Mother, did thee know about the celebration?" asked Peggy, as the two
girls entered the sitting-room where Mrs. Owen sat sewing.
"Yes. Friend Deering was here but now, and told me the cause of it. A
post-rider hath come from the South, Harriet; there is a letter."
"From Lieutenant Drayton?" cried Harriet, taking the missive eagerly.
"Oh, I wonder if he hath found Clifford?"
"That were best known by reading it," suggested Peggy, as her cousin
stood holding the letter without breaking the seal. "Open it quickly,
Harriet. I am beset with curiosity."
Without more ado Harriet tore open the epistle. As she did so a sealed
enclosure fell to the floor, but she was too intent upon what Drayton
had written to notice it for the moment. The latter ran:
"Esteemed and Honored Madam: It is with great pleasure that I take up my
pen to inform you that at length I have located your brother; and a
lively time it gave me, too. I left Philadelphia, as you doubtless
remember, on Friday, but it was not until Sunday night that I overtook
the party of American horse who had your brother in charge.
"I had inquired concerning them at every inn on the highway, but they
had either passed without stopping or had just left; so that I almost
despaired of ever coming up with them. By great good fortune, however, I
found them at The Head of the Elk[[3]] where I purposed to stay Sunday
night. Supper was over, and prisoners and captors sat about the fire in
the common room of The Three Lions Tavern when I entered. There were
five prisoners in all, and I looked at each one carefully, hoping to
recognize your brother by your description of him.
"One, the youngest of the lot, had something strangely familiar about
him, and all at once it came to me that he looked like Peggy."
"It could not have been Clifford, then," Harriet paused to remark,
looking at her cousin wonderingly. "I see no resemblance to you, Peggy."
"But thee said that he looked like father," reminded Peggy. "I am like
father too, save my eyes and hair, which are dark, like mother's. If thy
brother looks like father 'twould be natural that John should think him
like me. Read on, Harriet. Perchance 'twas not he, after all."
"I was sure then," continued Harriet, reading, "that this was your
brother; so, after obtaining permission from the officer in charge, I
approached him and said:
"'I cry you pardon, sir, but are you Clifford Owen, brother of Mistress
Harriet Owen?'
"He looked at me queerly, it seemed to me, before he replied:
"'I am not he; but if it were my name I see not what concern it is of
yours.'
"'I bear a message to one Clifford Owen,' I told him. 'If you are not he
of course 'twould be of no moment to you.'
"'No,' he said, and seemed disinclined to talk. Seeing him so I left off
for a time, but after some chat with the others, I turned to him again.
"'If you are agreeable, sir, I would fain know your name?'
"'You are persistent,' he cried with some heat. 'I am not the man you
seek; then why should you wish my name?'
"'And why should you not tell it?' I returned. 'Unless, perchance, there
are reasons for its suppression. We of these states ofttimes have to do
with persons who care not for us to know their names.'
"'It is Wilson Williams, sir,' he answered, springing to his feet. 'Now
will you cease your questions? I know not why you should pester me with
them. Is't the fashion of Americans to annoy prisoners in such manner?'
"'Since you are not the man, I will trouble you no further, sir,' I
answered with spirit. Turning my back upon him I began chatting with the
others, who seemed not averse to conversation.
"I had a shrewd suspicion that he was Clifford, passing for some reason
under another name, so I led the talk to the war and its progress,
gradually giving utterance to speeches that grew more and more
inflammatory, hoping to make him declare himself under the heat of
controversy. I saw that he writhed under the conversation, so at length
I observed:
"'Even you British are coming to our way of thinking. The great Pitt,
Charles Fox, and others among you know that 'tis the same spirit that
animates us that stirred our common ancestors to resist the oppression
of Charles First. None of you can be among us long without acknowledging
this. Why, in Philadelphia, there is at this moment an English maiden
who was bitter against us when she came among us, but who hath gradually
been brought to our manner of belief. As a token of this she hath
conferred upon me, an officer of the patriot army, a great mark for her
favor.' This I said, Mistress Harriet, to stir him. You must give me
your pardon in the matter, for I thought but to serve you. And when I
had said this I went to my saddle-bags which had been placed in a corner
of the room, and drew forth the shirt that you had given me.
"'This hath she made for me,' I said holding it up to view. 'And this,'
pointing to the inscription, Harriet Owen a loyal subject of the king,
'hath caused us much amusement.' I could not but smile as I held it up,
for it came to me that you had said that if it were seen by the English
you would know that I had turned my back to the foe. And here it was
back to the enemy even before seeing service. The words had no sooner
left my lips than here was my young man on his feet. Snatching the
garment from my hands he tore it into pieces before I could prevent.
"'There, sir!' he cried, tossing the shreds into the fire. 'No Yankee
shall wear a shirt of my sister's making. If you want satisfaction you
shall have it.'
"He clapped his hand to his side for his rapier, but, being a prisoner,
of course found it not. 'A sword!' he cried furiously. 'A sword! A
sword!'
"'Sir,' I said, saluting him, 'I fight with no prisoner. And now that
you have acknowledged that Mistress Harriet Owen is your sister,
perchance you will permit me to give you her message. She wished you to
inform her of your destination that she might exert herself to secure
your release. Write her at Philadelphia, in care of Madam David Owen,
who is a cousin of yours, as, I dare say, you know. I make no doubt but
that your sister will be able to get you a parole.'
"'With your aid?' he fumed. 'I will rot in prison before I accept aid
from a Yankee captain.'
"'A lieutenant, sir,' I corrected. 'By some oversight I have not yet the
honor to be a captain. Perchance the matter will be adjusted after our
next victory. I will bid you a very good-night, sir.'
"'Now by my life!' he cried, flinging himself upon me. 'You shall not
leave this room until I have some satisfaction.' With that he began
belaboring me with his fists. Of course 'twas not in human nature to
withstand such an onslaught without a return in kind, so presently here
we were on the floor, rolling over and over, and pummeling each other
like two schoolboys.
"At length the officer of the troopers and some of the others pulled me
off, for I was at the moment on top, having obtained the mastery.
"'Have done, lieutenant,' cried the officer. 'Do you want to kill him? I
can't have my prisoner beat up.'
"I got up, rather reluctantly, I must confess, for the young gentleman
had been trying and had brought it upon himself, and turned to the
others to make excuses. But they all, even his fellow prisoners, were
laughing. They had perceived the trick I had used to make him declare
himself, and were well pleased with the bout, as no bones were broken,
or blood shed. Have no fear either, mistress; save a few bruises and
perchance a black eye your brother is no worse hurt than he should be.
"Your brother was sullen, and took the chaff with anything but a good
grace; so, after a little, I bade them all good-night and went to my
room to write you a report of the matter, which I fear will not be at
all to your liking. A little later I heard him calling for inkhorn and
powder,[[4]] so that if he writes in heat to you, this will inform you
of the reason.
"Monday morning.--I did not finish the letter last night, but hasten to
do so this morning before starting on my journey South. Early the
captain of the dragoons came to me laughing:
"'Here's a kettle of fish, Drayton,' he said. 'The Englishman vows he'll
have your blood. Oh, he's in a pretty temper. He is pleading for a
sword, and hath promised us everything but his life for one. He hath
writ to his sister too, and I am to send it. How to do it I know not. If
you are in favor with her perchance you can attend to it.'
"'I can,' I replied. 'I have one of my own to send. I am leaving
immediately, captain, and after I am gone tell our friend that his
sister hath no more liking for me than he seems to have, and but used me
for messenger, lacking a better.
"'I shall tell him naught, I dare not,' he said. 'Only go not near him
before you leave, lieutenant. I know not what will happen if you do.'
"'And I know that whatever happens I must have a whole skin for the
delivery of my despatches,' I answered laughing.
"Enclosed please find the letter your brother hath writ, and permit me
to thank you for the enjoyableness of this little frisk. If I have
gained an enemy, you at least have found a brother; so honors are even.
Whenever you have another service to perform you have only to call upon
him who subscribes himself
"Your humble and devoted servant,
"John Drayton.
"_To Mistress Harriet Owen_,
"_Philadelphia, Pa._"
"The wretch!" cried Harriet, throwing the letter to the floor in a pet.
"How dare he act so? Oh, I wish that Clifford had run him through.
'Twere well for John Drayton that he had no sword. How dare he flout him
in that manner?"
"Softly, softly, my child," spoke Mrs. Owen mildly, with difficulty
suppressing her smiles, while Peggy laughed outright. "Methinks both the
lads were at fault, but John wished only to satisfy himself of the
other's identity. And he did serve thee in that, Harriet. But why should
Clifford wish to conceal it?"
"I know not," answered Harriet soberly. "I suppose 'twas because he
feared father would make him withdraw from the service should he find
him."
"Mayhap he explains the matter in his letter," suggested Peggy picking
up the neglected enclosure, and handing it to Harriet.
"Oh, yes; the letter," cried Harriet tearing it open eagerly. "Why!" she
exclaimed casting her eye quickly down the page. "He's angry! Just
listen.
"'And is it true,'" began the missive without heading or beginning of
any sort, "'that Harriet Owen, my sister Harriet, hath so far forgot her
duty to her king as to labor in behalf of his rebellious subjects? And
such an one as you have chosen to favor, Harriet! Could not the daughter
of Colonel William Owen, of the Welsh Fusiliers, find a better object
than this whippersnapper of a Yankee captain?
"'Harriet! Harriet! And has it come to this? Are you a traitor to your
country and your king? To make a shirt for a rebel were infamy enough,
but to embroider your name across its shoulders that all might see that
Harriet Owen, a loyal subject of the king, was so employed surpasses
belief.
"'Harriet, if this be true, if you have forgot what is due yourself,
your brother, your father, your country and the most illustrious prince
that ever sat upon the throne--if you have forgot your duty to all these,
I say, then never more shall I call you sister. Never will I write the
name of Clifford Owen again, but go down to my grave under the one I
have chosen.
"'But, my sister, I cannot believe it of you. I cannot believe that so
short a time could change you so. Some one other than you must have made
that shirt, and this popinjay of a captain--or is it a lieutenant? no
matter!--hath stolen it to flaunt before me, and to stir me to anger.
"'Would that when I saw you in Philadelphia I had stopped, in spite of
my captors. It was not permitted, and at the time, I was content that it
should be so, for I feared that father might be with you. I dread his
displeasure when he meets me; for, as you know, he hath, in truth, great
cause to be offended with me. Should the matter have truth in it that
you have become imbued with the virus of this rebellion, it may be that
a short account of how I have been fighting for the glory of old Britain
will bring you back to a realizing sense of your duty.
"'Know then that when I left you home,--and why did you ever leave there?
This country is no place for a girl bred as you have been.--After I had
left there, I say, I obtained a commission by the help of Lord Rawdon. I
think he knew who I was; we met him once, if you remember, but he said
naught about the matter. He saw at once that I wished my identity kept
sub rosa, and the army was greatly in need of men. Of course it cost a
pretty penny, and I expect a scene with father about it. Pray that I may
distinguish myself ere we meet.
"'I came with Lord Rawdon to the colonies, and have been with him ever
since, mostly in the province of Georgia. We conquered that colony and
garrisoned Savannah, where you and father would, no doubt, have found me
had not that storm driven Sir Henry Clinton elsewhere to land. I was
sent to Charlestown after you left for Camden and was stationed there
for some months. Then his lordship sent me to New York by sea with
letters for General Clinton. I was tired of the Southern climate, and
another gladly exchanged with me, and went South while I remained in New
York.
"'There was lately some information to be procured about the rebel
forces, and volunteering for the service I was captured by some of the
enemy's scouts. There were a number of British prisoners in the rebel
camp, and, as they seem not to be any too well supplied with rations, we
prisoners are sent somewhere to the interior to be fed and kept out of
the way of mischief. I think our destination is Charlottesville, where
the Convention prisoners[[5]] are. 'Tis said that there is a regular
colony of them at that place, which is, I believe, in the province of
Virginia. There is to be a short stop at Fredericksburg before going on
to the encampment of prisoners, for what reason I know not. If you will
write immediately to that place I think I will receive it.
"'But, Harriet, dearly as I would love to hear from you, if you have
grown to sympathize with these revolted colonies in this broil against
the king, if you are false to your country, as that fellow would have me
believe, then write me not.
"'How can one sympathize with such obstinate people as these rebels are?
When one is in their company they are barely civil, and that is, as Jack
Falstaff says, by compulsion. They seem to grow stronger by every
defeat. And why do they? They seem like Antæus, of whom 'twas fabled
that being a son of the goddess Tellus, or the earth, every fall he
received from Hercules gave him more strength so that the hero was
forced to strangle him in his arms at last. Would that our minister
could send us a Hercules to conquer these rebels.
"'If you can secure my release, Harriet, do so. I am quite sure that Sir
Henry Clinton, if the matter is brought to his attention, would exert
himself regarding an exchange. As you are doubtless aware, an affair of
this kind must be kept prominently before the notice of the great ones,
else it will be shelved for some other thing that is pressed with more
persistence. And yet, if nothing can be accomplished save by the
connivance of that captain, lieutenant, or whatever he may be, I would
rather a thousand times stay as I am. Write me, if you are still my
loyal sister.
"'Wilson Williams
(Clifford Owen).'
"If ever," spoke Harriet with tears of vexation filling her lovely eyes,
"if ever I see that John Drayton again I will give him occasion to
remember it. Clifford never wrote such a dreadful letter to me before.
Peggy Owen, 'tis no laughing matter."
"No," agreed Peggy merrily. "No, 'tis not, Harriet. And yet I cannot
help but laugh. I cry thy pardon, my cousin, but, but----" Unable to
finish she gave vent to another peal of laughter.
-----
[3] Now Elkton, Maryland.
[4] Horn ink-bottle, and powder, or sand, to dry the written page.
[5] At Burgoyne's earnest solicitation General Gates consented that the
surrender at Saratoga should be styled a "convention." This was in
imitation of the famous convention of Kloster-Seven, by which the Duke
of Cumberland, twenty years before, sought to save his feelings while
losing his army, beleaguered by the French in Hanover. The soothing
phrase has been well remembered by the British, who to this day speak of
the surrender as the "Convention of Saratoga."
CHAPTER VII--HARRIET TAKES MATTERS IN HAND
"I feel less anger than regret.
No violence of speech, no obloquy,
No accusation shall escape my lips:
Need there is none, nor reason, to avoid
My questions: if thou value truth, reply."
--"Count Julian," _Walter Savage Landor_.
"And if it had not been for your insisting upon it that shirt would
never have been made," went on Harriet in an aggrieved tone.
"I think that 'twas I more than Peggy who persuaded thee to make the
shirt," said Mrs. Owen quietly. "It was done to woo thee from thy
fancies, Harriet, rather than with any purpose to get thee to aid our
soldiers. If thee will write to thy brother and explain the matter to
him he will forgive thee it. Further, according to John's letter, had it
not been for that very same garment thy brother would not have
acknowledged his identity. So thou seest, my child, that good hath come
out of it after all."
"Why, so it hath," acknowledged Harriet brightening. "I had not thought
of it in that light, madam my cousin. And would you mind if my brother
were to come here, if a parole can be obtained for him?"
"Of course he must come here," returned the lady with a smile of
gratification. She was pleased that Harriet should show thoughtfulness
for her convenience. It had not always been the case with either the
girl or her father. Colonel Owen was wont to demand a thing rather than
request it, and Harriet herself had been somewhat addicted to obtaining
her desires in the same fashion at Middlebrook. Of late, however, she
was evincing more consideration for both Peggy and herself. "David would
not wish it otherwise."
"'Tis very kind of you, my cousin," said the girl with sudden feeling.
"But you will like Clifford. Indeed no one can help it."
"I am quite sure that we shall," responded Mrs. Owen graciously. "His
letter bespoke him to be a lad of parts. And now as to the parole. That
must first be accomplished before the exchange can be thought of; the
latter will of necessity take time."
"How much?" queried Harriet. "I know that 'twas long before father got
his, but that was in the early part of the war, before England had
consented to exchange prisoners."
"I know not how long 'twill take, Harriet." Mrs. Owen threaded her
needle thoughtfully. "Those things seem in truth to go by favor. As thy
brother well says, if those in authority exert themselves it should be
arranged quickly. If they do not then the matter drags along sometimes
for months."
"Awaiting the convenience of the great," added the girl with some
bitterness. "And such convenience is consulted only when they have need
of further service. The past is always forgotten. Still, father stands
well with Sir Henry, and I myself rendered him no little service by what
I did at Middlebrook. I think,--nay, I am sure,--that if I can get his ear
he will see that the affair is adjusted according to my wishes. I will
write to him."
"It may be, Harriet, but thee must make up thy mind to endure some
little delay. It seldom happens that there are not some rules or
regulations to observe, all of which take time. For thy sake we will
hope that Clifford's case will be the exception in such matters. We can
do naught to-day about it because of the celebration, but to-morrow thou
and I will go to Mr. Joseph Reed, the president of the council, who will
advise us about the parole and anent the exchange also."
"Harriet," said Peggy suddenly, "does thee remember that when thy
brother is exchanged he must return at once to the British lines? Thee
had better not be too eager anent the exchange."
"But I intend to go back with him," Harriet informed her composedly.
"Thee does?" asked Peggy in surprise. "Why?"
"'Tis so much gayer in New York, Peggy. Don't you remember the times we
had before father made us go South? Beside, I cannot hear at all from
father here. As you know, 'tis almost impossible to get letters through
the lines to him, and I have had no word since I have been here. I know
not whether he is in Camden, where we left him, or with my Lord
Cornwallis."
"But would he wish thee to be there, my child?" questioned Mrs. Owen
gravely. "I cannot but think that he would prefer that thee should
remain with us until he either comes or sends for thee."
"He would not mind if I were with Clifford," returned the girl lightly.
"We could have great sport there together. Besides, if I wish it father
would not care. If he did I could soon bring him to look at the affair
with my eyes. I usually do about as I please; don't I, Peggy?"
"Yes; but Cousin William did not always approve of thy way," reminded
Peggy. "If thee continues to dwell in the house thy father had 'twill
cost greatly, and once he spoke to me about thy extravagance. He said
that both thee and thy brother were like to bring him to grief. 'Twas
for that reason that he welcomed the idea that I should look after the
expense. Does thee not remember?"
"I remember naught but that I wondered that you should prefer
housewifery to pleasuring," answered Harriet gayly. "Father is always
complaining about extravagance, but he likes right well for me to appear
bravely before his friends. La! when one has position to maintain one
must spend money, and no one knows it any better than my father."
Peggy was silent. Did her cousin wish her brother's exchange solely that
she might return to New York, or was she in truth anxious to be where
she could hear from her father? Had she really any natural affection for
either, she wondered. Harriet began to laugh at her expression.
"I always know when you are displeased, cousin mine," she said putting
her arm about her. "You pull down the corner of your mouth, so." Suiting
the action to the word. "And your eyebrows go up, so. Now, confess: when
you were with us, didn't you want to come back to your own people?"
"Yes," admitted Peggy, "I did. But it was because of my mother. Thy
father would not be with thee there, and as thy brother is in the army
also, he may be sent anywhere in the States at any time. While I know
that thee must find it far from agreeable to be with those who are not
of thy politics, still 'tis the wish of thy father that thee should stay
here."
"Will you never be naught but a prim little Quakeress?" cried Harriet
shaking her. "Know then that I have wishes too, and friends there who
are almost as close as kinspeople. Then, too, you would be relieved of
me here. Just think how delightsome that would be," she ended teasingly.
"I am not thinking of us at all," confessed truthful Peggy, "but of what
is best for thee. I feel as though I were responsible to Cousin William
for thee."
"Don't you worry, mother mentor," cried Harriet dancing about gleefully.
"When Clifford comes your responsibility ceases. How he will laugh when
he finds that I can no longer care for myself. I am going now to my
room, little mother. If I stay longer than you think best call me."
"Thee is saucy," was Peggy's retort, as Harriet ran out of the room,
pausing only long enough to make a mouth at her.
But Harriet's high spirits had vanished the next morning when she
returned from her visit to Mr. Reed.
"What think you?" she cried bursting in upon Peggy who was ironing in
the kitchen. "Mr. Reed will see that the parole is given Clifford, but
the exchange must wait until an American prisoner is found of equal rank
with Clifford, who can be given for him. Isn't it provoking!"
"I should think thee could bear the delay patiently so long as thee will
have thy brother with thee," remarked Peggy quietly. "'Twould be far
more vexatious if the parole could not be given."
"Why, of course, Peggy. Oh, well! I suppose that I must content myself.
Thank fortune, I can at least write to Clifford. If he were not in the
rebel lines even that would be denied me. I am going to write him now."
"Mr. Reed was much taken with Harriet," observed Mrs. Owen, entering the
kitchen as the English maiden left it.
"But not more than thee appears to be, mother," smiled Peggy. "'Tis
amusing to see the difference with which thee regards her now, and the
way it was at Middlebrook."
"She seems much improved," answered her mother. "Does thee not think so?
So much more thoughtful of others. It did not strike me that she was
much given to consideration then; but now----"
"But now thee has had her under thy wing for nearly three months; thee
has nursed her back to health, and humored her every whim as though she
were a child of thine until thee regards her as though she were thy very
own. Thou dear mother!" The girl stopped her ironing long enough to kiss
her mother tenderly. "Doesn't thee know that whatever thee broods over
thee loves?"
Mrs. Owen laughed.
"How well thee knows me, Peggy. But thou art fond of her too, art thou
not?"
"Yes, I am, mother," admitted the girl. "Whenever we go anywhere I am
proud of her beauty, and that she is my cousin. And my friends here are
charmed with her. Even Sally and Betty--though she sometimes makes
dreadful speeches because of being for the king. She can be so sweet,
mother, that at times I must steel myself against her, lest I should be
more tolerant of her opinions than is wise."
"As to her being for the king, my child, that, as thee knows, is because
of being English. And I would not have her feign a belief in the cause
of Liberty did she not of a truth hold it to be just. An open foe is
ever best, Peggy."
"It isn't politics, mother. At least not her feeling toward us, though
it is trying to stand some of her comments, but----"
"Peggy, thee is troubled anent something," asserted the lady taking
Peggy's face between her hands and gazing anxiously into her eyes. "What
is it, my child?"
"'Tis anent the delay, mother. Should the exchange be effected quickly
then there would be no cause for worry. But if it must be long, as
Harriet thinks it may be, then I fear that my cousin will try to
communicate with Sir Henry Clinton. In fact, she spoke of doing it
yesterday, and I cautioned her against it. She said that she would not
bring harm to us; but, mother, at her home in New York she was not
always scrupulous about her promise. In truth, she let nothing stand in
her way when she had her heart set on doing a thing. I intended telling
thee about the chat when we returned from our ride yesterday, but what
with the celebration and the letters it escaped my mind."
"Thee may dismiss the matter from thy thoughts, Peggy, for she spoke
about that very thing to Mr. Reed. He told her that it would not help
the exchange at this time, but that after her brother came it could be
taken up. Then, he said, he would see that whatever she might wish to
communicate to the British commander should reach him."
"Oh, I am so glad," exclaimed Peggy. "It hath given me no small concern,
mother. I did not think my cousin would wittingly cause us trouble, but
I feared that on the impulse of the moment, she might try to pass a
letter through the lines. Thee knows what that would mean, mother?"
"Yes; and she does also, for Mr. Reed went into it with her. He told her
to be very careful in speaking even about writing to Sir Henry, as the
people were in no mood to tolerate communications with the enemy. She
understands all that it means, my child. I think she will do naught
until Clifford comes, and perhaps he will be better of judgment than
she."
"I am so glad," said Peggy again, and much relieved resumed her
neglected ironing.
The days passed. March glided into April, but the soft sweet days of
spring brought no letter from Clifford. If the parole had been given
Harriet did not know of it. She fumed and fretted under the waiting.
"Why do I not hear from him?" she cried one morning. "It hath been a
month since I wrote, and it doth not take half so long to hear from
Virginia. I do wish that either I would hear from Clifford, or that Mr.
Reed would let me know anent the parole."
"Thee is like to get one of thy wishes, for here comes Mr. Reed now,"
said Peggy who was standing by the front window of the living-room.
"Let me go to the door, madam my cousin," exclaimed Harriet as Mrs. Owen
started to answer the knocker.
"Very well, Harriet," assented the matron with a smile.
But both Peggy and her mother were startled to hear Mr. Reed say
gravely, in answer to Harriet's eager questioning:
"Nay; 'tis not about the parole I am come, Mistress Harriet, but anent a
more serious matter."
"And what, sir, could be more serious than my brother's release?" came
Harriet's clear voice.
"A charge against you, mistress, would be much more serious," was the
reply.
"Of what do you accuse me, sir?" was the girl's haughty query.
"I accuse you of nothing, but I insist upon truthful answers to some
questions. For the sake of these cousins with whom you are staying I
entreat you to reply with truth, and nothing but truth."
"Come, Peggy," cried Mrs. Owen rising. "We will see what this means."
CHAPTER VIII--HOSPITALITY BETRAYED
"For right is right, since God is God;
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin."
--"The Right Must Win,"
_Frederick William Faber_.
"What is the trouble, Friend Reed?" asked Mrs. Owen as she entered the
hall.
"I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Owen. It grieves me to enter David Owen's
house upon such mission as I must this day perform, but war is no
respecter of persons. Were it my own household I still must subject its
inmates to a most rigid inquiry." Mr. Reed fumbled nervously with his
cocked hat as he spoke, and looked the embarrassment that he felt.
"Come in, Friend Reed." Mrs. Owen threw wide the door of the
sitting-room with a smile. "Thee may make all the inquiries thee wishes
without apology. And what is the trouble?"
"Madam--I need hardly ask, and yet I must--did you know that this girl
here had been communicating with the enemy?"
"No; I did not know of it. Harriet, is such the case? Hast thou indeed
been guilty of this?"
"Yes," admitted Harriet defiantly. "I did write to Sir Henry Clinton
about my brother. If that is communicating with the enemy then I am
guilty."
"This then," said Mr. Reed producing a letter from his coat, "this then
is yours?"
Harriet took the missive and scanned it quickly.
"Well," she said. "And what then? It is mine, and, as may be seen, 'tis
innocent enough. It merely asks the commander to get my brother's
exchange as soon as he can. It speaks too of the services our family
have rendered to the cause. Why should it not be written? Am I not
English? Have I not a right to ask aid from my own people?"
"Undoubtedly, mistress; but in times like these there are regulations to
be observed by both sides. One who breaks them does so at his own risk,
and subjects himself and those with whom he abides to suspicion. I
warned you against this very thing. I promised to attend to any letter
you might wish to send to the British commander after we had found an
officer who might be exchanged for your brother. That you preferred to
risk sending a message through the lines irregularly rather than to
benefit by my assistance doth not speak well for the harmlessness of the
letter, however innocent it doth appear on the surface."
"But it contains nothing that can harm any one," she protested. "And you
were so long in telling me about the parole. Why, look you! 'Tis all of
a month since you promised to get my brother here, and he hath not come
yet! Think you I could wait longer? The letter hath not been written
five days, and had you obtained my brother's release as you promised
'twould not have been written at all. 'Tis unfair to hold me to account
for a matter for which you yourself are to blame."
"Your brother was not at Fredericksburg as you thought he would be,
Mistress Harriet," answered he. "I was but seeking to find where he had
been taken. The delay was in your service. Why did you not come to me
instead of taking matters in your own hands? I would have explained. As
the affair now stands you have not only brought punishment upon
yourself, but you have subjected these, your cousins, to suspicion."
"As to myself," she said superbly, "it doth not matter. I was right to
seek aid of my own people. I would do it again if it were to do over. My
brother's welfare merits any risk I might run. As for Peggy and her
mother, it is needless to say anything. They are not responsible for any
of my doings, and cannot be held for them. 'Tis ridiculous to tell me
that I have brought suspicion upon them, and 'tis done merely to fright
me."
"You speak that which you know not of," he said soberly. "These be
parlous times, mistress. Have you forgot that at Middlebrook you played
the spy? Have you forgot that despite that fact you are brought again in
our lines on the plea of ill health? Have you forgot that your father is
a colonel in the British army, and that you yourself are an English
girl? There are those who say that these facts show plainly that your
cousins but use their patriotism as a mask to aid the side with which
they truly sympathize."
Harriet stared at him in dismay, and turned very pale as a wail broke
from Peggy:
"Oh, Harriet, Harriet! why did thee do it? And thee promised."
"No harm shall come to you, Peggy," cried Harriet. "Sir," turning to Mr.
Reed, "believe me when I say that these two had naught to do with either
the writing or the sending of the letter. In truth, they knew not when
'twas done, nor how."
"And how shall your word be believed when you think nothing of breaking
it?" he questioned. "You promised your cousin, it seems; you also
promised me that you would not hold communication with the enemy without
first consulting me. We cannot trust you. Beside, the letter was
returned with this warning from His Excellency, General Washington:
"'Gentlemen of the Council:
"'Permit no communication whatever between the writer of this letter
and the enemy. Young as she is, she hath already shown herself very
adept as a spy.'"
"What, what are you going to do to them?" asked the girl, in
consternation. "In very truth, sir, they had naught to do with the
matter."
"We know it," he made answer. "And yet, despite past services, despite
the fact that David is in the field, there were some who whispered
against them. The purest patriots in times like these are subjected to
suspicion by the least untoward action. A year ago who would have
thought that General Arnold would try to betray his country? I, myself,
have been approached with offers from an emissary of the king. Because
Mrs. Owen and her daughter are so well known for patriotic services,
because we know them to be persons of high honor and unquestioned
integrity, we have permitted no reflection upon them. But this state of
things will not continue if you are allowed to remain with them.
Therefore, we have decided that your punishment shall be----"
"What?" she cried anxiously. "Oh, I pray 'tis not arrest."
"Wait," he said. "The arrest was thought of, but the council consented
to give it o'er on condition that you withdraw immediately into the
enemy's lines. In short, mistress, you are to be sent to New York."
"Banished to New York?" she repeated in amazement. "Why, that is where I
want to be. Good sir," sweeping him an elaborate courtesy, "I thank you
and the excellent gentlemen of the council. The punishment is most
agreeable to my liking."
"And to ours," he answered her sternly, offended by her levity. "Be
ready, therefore, to go to-morrow morning. In company with a number of
other women, Tories and wives of Tories guilty of the same misdemeanor
as yourself, you will be sent under escort to the British. Mistress
Owen, you have my sympathy and congratulation also that the matter is no
worse. I will bid you all a very good day."
Harriet sank down on the settle as the door closed upon the gentleman,
and looked expectantly at the other two. But neither Mrs. Owen nor Peggy
spoke. The matron quietly resumed her sewing, while Peggy stared at her
as though this new breach of trust was more than she could believe.
"Say something, one of you," cried the girl suddenly. "I'd rather you
would be angry than to sit there like that."
"How could thee do it?" came from Peggy. "Oh, Harriet! doesn't thee ever
keep thy word?"
"Well, I promised not to bring any harm upon you, and I didn't; did I?
Mr. Reed tried to scare us anent that, but he soon told the truth of the
matter."
"It was not owing to thee that harm did not result to us, Harriet," said
Mrs. Owen in a serious tone. "I dare not think what would have happened
had we not been in our own city, and have given proof many times of our
patriotism. I am not going to rail at thee, child; for I believe that
thee did not wittingly try to injure us. But reflect on this: here were
we all, Mr. Reed, Peggy and myself, who were trying to aid thee in
getting a release for thy brother. We did all that could be done, and
cautioned thee against trying to do anything without our help. We had
thy best interests at heart, Harriet. Now, dear child, doth it not seem
that something was owing to those whose hospitality thou wert enjoying?
Was not the letter inexcusable as a breach of hospitality?"
"Oh," cried the girl bursting into tears. "I see now that it was. I did
not mean to bring harm to you, madam my cousin. Oh, I was wrong in doing
it. I am sorry now."
"Then we will dwell no longer upon that feature of it," remarked the
lady. "The thing now is to see what good can be got out of it. Thou wilt
see about thy brother's exchange, wilt thou not? He should be there with
thee."
"Yes," assented the girl miserably. "I will go to Sir Henry at once
anent it. In that way 'tis much better to be where I can see him. Still,
while I am glad to go I shall miss you both. You have been very good to
me, but it will be gayer there. We British know better than you how to
make merry. But if I were to be ill again I know of no place that I
would rather be than here."
"If thee only cares for us when thee is ill or in trouble, thee can just
stay with the British," cried Peggy indignantly. "Thy family seem to
think that we live for naught else than to do you service. I wonder if
the day will ever come when one of you will meet favors with aught but
trickery?"
"Peggy," chided her mother sharply.
"I can't help it, mother. I am sick and tired of deceit and falsehood,
and the knavery that makes us appear like traitors to the country. I am
glad that she is going." With this passionate outbreak Peggy burst into
tears.
Harriet looked at her for a moment unable to make any reply, but
presently she spoke in tones that were unusually gentle for her:
"Peggy, the day will come when you shall see what I will do. We are not
all bad, if we are English."
"Don't ever promise about anything any more," sobbed Peggy. "I can never
believe thee again."
But all of her resentment vanished the next morning as a hay cart drew
up before the door under escort of a guard. There were a few women in
the cart, and a number of people, men and boys mostly, had collected to
view the departure.
"Oh, Harriet," she sobbed putting her arms about her, "since thee must
go I wish the mode was different."
For an instant Harriet's lips quivered. She grew very pale and clung to
Peggy convulsively. It was only for an instant, however, that she
displayed any emotion.
"Oh, well," she said with a toss of her head. "The mode is well enough,
I dare say, since 'twill convey me to New York. And Fleetwood is to go
with one of the men."
But Peggy knew that in spite of her brave front the girl was humiliated
at the manner of her departure. Without a glance at the surrounding
crowd of curious ones Harriet took her place in the cart, and settled
herself comfortably.
"If a letter should come from Clifford, madam my cousin," she said
leaning forward to speak to Mrs. Owen, "I pray you to read it. Then
write him in answer what hath befallen me. Tell him I will spare no
effort to have him join me soon in New York. And so farewell!"
She smiled brightly at them, and waved her hand repeatedly as the cart
drove off. Peggy and her mother stood watching it as long as it was in
sight.
"Oh, mother, I am so tired of it all," said the girl, with tears. "Will
nothing ever be right any more? Will this long war and all its
complications never be over with? I am so weary, mother."
"Give not way to such feelings, Peggy," said her mother, drawing her
into the house. "It doth seem dark at times, and this happening is in
truth a sad ending to Harriet's stay with us. But everything will come
right in time. Do not doubt it. Have faith. All will be well some time."
CHAPTER IX--THE DICTATES OF HUMANITY
"The sweetest lives are those to duty wed
Whose deeds both great and small,
Are close knit strands of an unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells;
The Book of Life the shining record tells."
--_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_.
After the departure of an inmate of a family, whether that person has
been pleasant or otherwise, there follows a feeling of blankness, of
something amiss. Distance, in truth, produces in idea the same effect as
in real perspective. Objects are softened, and rounded, and rendered
doubly graceful; the harsher and more ordinary points of character are
mellowed down, and those by which it is remembered are the more striking
outlines that mark sublimity, grace, or beauty. And so it was with
Harriet.
Her irritability, her unpleasant remarks, her ceaseless demand upon
their service were soon forgotten. The grace and dignity that
distinguished her from others were remembered to her advantage. The
pleasant smile, the pretty manner, the imperious bearing were idealized
in the softening glamour of absence. The mode of her departure had
palliated whatever of resentment Mrs. Owen and Peggy might have felt for
the girl's breach of hospitality.
"I believe that I am lonesome without Harriet," declared Peggy one
evening. "Is thee, mother?"
It was the seventh day of Harriet's absence. Tea was over. The servants
had retired for the night, and mother and daughter sat alone in the
sitting-room, knitting by the light of the candles.
"'Tis most natural for us to miss her, my daughter. She hath been with
us so long, and with thee especially that 'tis not to be wondered at
that thee feels lost. Harriet hath many good qualities. She hath been
left to follow her own impulses too much, but I hope that her
association with thee hath been of benefit to her."
"With me, mother?" exclaimed Peggy flushing scarlet at this praise.
"Thee should not say that. In truth, I don't deserve it, mother. I was
often vexed with her, and sometimes gave way to sharpness. I ofttimes
went to my room to gain control of myself. I have a temper, mother, as
thee must know."
"I do, my child; but I know too that thou art trying to get the mastery
of it. Because thou didst so strive is the reason that I believe that
companionship with thee will make Harriet better. She hath received
impressions that cannot fail to be of advantage to her. I am hoping that
Harriet will make a noble woman."
"I wonder," said Peggy musingly, "why Clifford did not write to her? It
would have saved all this trouble had he done so."
"Thee must remember that he said in his letter that he thought they were
to stop for a time at Fredericksburg. They may not have done so, or he
may have been taken elsewhere after a short stop. Mr. Reed says that
there was no report of any such party at any of the taverns there."
"The parole will not be given now, will it, mother?"
"I think Mr. Reed would exert himself further in the matter did we
desire it, Peggy, but 'tis best to let it drop for the present. If there
are whispers anent our having our cousins with us, 'twere best to let
Harriet see to an exchange for the lad. If that could be obtained his
whereabouts would have to be made known. For ourselves, we will live
very quietly for a time. It may be as well that the boy did not come.
Should he prove a lad of spirit, as I make no doubt he is, between him
and Harriet they might have caused greater trouble than she did."
"Yes," assented the girl thoughtfully. "'Tis as well as thou sayest,
mother. Still, I have heard so much anent my cousin, Clifford, that I
confess that I am somewhat curious about him. I think I should like to
see him."
"I have wondered about him also, Peggy. Is he like William, I wonder, or
doth he take after his mother? William could be agreeable at times, but
one was sometimes cognizant only of his failings."
[Illustration: "I HAVE HEARD NOTHING"]
Thus conversing the minutes passed quickly. The house was very still,
and the monotonous quiet was broken only by the click of the needles.
The tall clock in the hall had just announced the usual bedtime when
there sounded three loud raps on the front door.
"That was the knocker," cried Peggy, starting up. "I wonder who it can
be at this time of night?"
"We shall soon see," said her mother taking up a candle and proceeding
to the hall. "Who is it?" she called cautiously.
"'Tis I, Sally. Open quickly. I have news," answered the clear voice of
Sally Evans.
Mrs. Owen unbolted the door hastily, and Sally tumbled rather than
stepped into the hall. Her calash was untied, and her curly locks had
escaped their ribbon and hung in picturesque confusion about her face.
"Harriet!" she gasped. "I want Harriet."
"Harriet is gone, Sally," exclaimed Peggy. "Has thee not heard?"
"Gone where?" asked Sally in dismay. "I have heard nothing. She must be
found, wherever she hath gone. There is news----"
"Come in and sit down," said Mrs. Owen drawing her into the
sitting-room. "Now tell us what hath occurred."
"I should tell Harriet," persisted Sally, who was plainly excited.
"Where hath she gone?"
"She was sent to New York for communicating with the enemy," replied
Mrs. Owen. "'Tis strange that thee heard naught of it. It happened a
week since."
"We have been so busy," explained Sally recovering herself a little.
"What shall I do? Her brother is dying in the Williamsburg Hospital."
"What! Not Clifford?" cried Mrs. Owen and Peggy simultaneously.
"Yes; Dr. Cochran, who hath been appointed director-general of all the
hospitals since Dr. Shippen resigned, hath just returned from a tour of
inspection of the Southern division. At our hospital at Williamsburg he
found Harriet's brother, Clifford, who told him who he was. He was a
prisoner, as we know, and was shot while trying to make his escape. The
doctor promised to let his sister know of the matter as soon as he
reached Philadelphia. He was too busy to come himself, but sent me. Oh,
I ran every step of the way, and now she is not here."
"No," said Mrs. Owen. "She is not here. Oh, the poor boy!"
"Why, I have forgot his note," exclaimed Sally. She drew an unsealed
letter from the bosom of her gown and handed it to Mrs. Owen. The lady
opened it at once.
"Come to me, Harriet," she read, "if you wish to see your brother
alive. I am dying, and I wish not to die alone in a strange land
with none of my kinspeople near me. The doctor will find a way for
you. Can write no more. Come!
"Clifford."
"Would that the child had not been so hasty," sighed the matron folding
the missive thoughtfully. "And now what is to be done? We must let her
know, of course. I will see Mr. Reed in the morning."
"But 'twill be too late for her to go to him by the time she gets the
word," said Sally. "How long doth it take to send a letter to New York?"
"All of three days. More, if the roads are bad. I fear too that 'twill
be too late, but it must be done." Mrs. Owen let her head fall on her
hand and sat in deep perplexity for a while. "Sally," she said abruptly,
"can the doctor be seen to-night?"
"He might see thee, Mrs. Owen," answered Sally. "We are monstrously
busy, but the case is exceptional. And that reminds me that 'tis time I
was returning." She rose as she spoke.
"Alone? Nay; wait until I get my cloak."
"Tut, tut!" cried Sally. "An army nurse afraid? Why, I would not fear a
whole Hessian regiment. Nay; I will not hear of taking thee out at
night, Mrs. Owen."
"Let us both go, mother," suggested Peggy, running for their wraps.
"And I would like to see the doctor," said Mrs. Owen as Sally began
again to expostulate.
The walk to the hospital, which occupied the entire square between
Spruce and Pine Streets and Eighth and Ninth Streets, was short. Peggy
and Sally talked in low tones over Harriet's absence and the cause
thereof, while Mrs. Owen mused in silence. The lady was still thoughtful
after her interview with Dr. Cochran.
"How did the doctor say he was, mother?" asked Peggy as they started for
home.
"Badly hurt, my child. He was sorry for the lad's sake that Harriet was
not here. Clifford, it seems, looks to her coming with great eagerness.
'Tis his one hope of life, the doctor thinks."
Peggy fell into silence. The night was beautiful. One of those soft
balmy nights that come sometimes in the early spring, leading one to
thoughts of summer joys. But its sweet influence was not felt by these
two. One idea possessed the minds of both, and each waited for the other
to give voice to it.
"Mother," spoke Peggy abruptly as they reached the stoop of their own
dwelling, "thee means that one of us must go to my Cousin Clifford,
doesn't thee?"
"Yes; one of us must go," answered her mother. "One must remain here to
have the house in readiness for David should he have need of it. The
other must respond to the poor lad's appeal for his kinsmen."
"'Twill mean more whispers against our patriotism, will it not, mother?"
"It cannot be helped, Peggy. If others choose to believe ill of us for
doing a deed of mercy then we must pay no heed. We must so order our
conduct that our friends will know that we are loyal to the cause, even
though we do minister to an English cousin. The others matter not. 'Tis
David's kin who calls, and not to heed the call were to be false to the
dictates of humanity. And now which one of us shall go, Peggy?"
"Mother, I must be the one, of course. Thee must be here to look after
affairs and in case father should have need of thee. I will go. I knew
that I must as soon as Sally told her news. But oh, mother! I have been
home such a little while! What if something should happen to keep me
from thee as it did before?"
"Peggy, if thee talks like that I cannot let thee go," exclaimed her
mother. "If it were in either of the Carolinas I would not think of
permitting it even to succor a poor wounded boy. It should take but a
short time to go and come. I talked it over with the doctor. He had
thought that Harriet might wish to go, and, not knowing of her
departure, made arrangements whereby she might go with one of the nurses
who hath been here on a furlough. She returns to-morrow in a cabriolet
with her son. Thou art to take Harriet's place. Thee will not mind,
Peggy."
"No, mother. I shall murmur no more. 'Tis right to go. Thee will let
Harriet know, though how she can do anything I see not. She will not be
allowed to enter the lines again. What time doth the cabriolet with the
nurse start? Should we not begin to prepare for the journey now?"
And seeing her so willing to accept the charge the mother in Mrs. Owen
would not down. She drew the girl in a close embrace.
"If it were not right, Peggy," she murmured. "If the doctor had not
already prepared a place, or if I thought for a moment that harm would
befall thee, I should not let thee go. But----"
"Why, mother, there is naught else to do," answered Peggy cheerfully.
"Thee must not think of harm. I was foolish to give way, and so art
thou, mother mine. Of course naught will happen, and it is the right
thing to do. What shall I take? And we should have supplies also, should
we not?"
And with the Quaker habit of self-repression mother and daughter put
aside their emotion to prepare for the coming journey.
CHAPTER X--FAREWELL TO HOME
"Such was the season when equipt we stood
On the green banks of Schuylkill's winding flood,
A road immense, yet promised joys so dear,
That toils and doubts and dangers disappear."
--"The Foresters," _Alexander Wilson_.
"There are lint and bandages in the large bundle, Peggy. Dr. Cochran
says they can scarce get enough of them. The hospitals as well as the
departments of the army are in sore need of supplies. Ah me! the long,
grim, weary years of fighting have made the people slow to respond to
the necessities of our soldiers, and the Congress hath not the power to
make levies. I would send sheets and pillow cases if there was room. We
shall see when thy companion comes. The hamper is filled with jellies
and delicacies. Thou wilt divide them with the other poor wounded ones.
They will be glad of them, I make no doubt. And thy portmanteau is all
packed, child. I think we have forgot nothing. There is but little time
left to dress for the journey."
Mrs. Owen cast an anxious glance at the array of bundles as she
enumerated them, locked the portmanteau, and gave the key to her
daughter.
"I know, mother, but it will not take me long. I will run down to the
stables to say good-bye to Star now, and then dress. How I wish the dear
thing could go too!"
"I fear thee will have to be content without her for this time, Peggy.
It will not be for long."
"True, mother," assented the girl cheerfully. "And the very first thing
I shall do when I come back will be to take a long, long gallop. I will
be gone just a moment."
She ran out of the room as she finished speaking, and without pausing
for even a passing glance at the trees or the terrace, went swiftly
through the orchard to the stables.
"Thou dear thing!" she exclaimed laying her head on the mare's silky
mane. "I do wish thee was going with me. Thee has been my companion
through so many jaunts that I don't feel quite right at leaving thee.
Oh, I do wish thee was going!"
The little mare whinnied and rubbed her nose gently against her young
mistress as though she too would like to go. Peggy stroked her softly.
"I do wish thee was going," she said again. "Then no matter what
happened I would always have a way to get back to mother. Why, Peggy
Owen!" she exclaimed as the full import of the words she had just spoken
came to her. "What whimsies have beset thy brain that thou shouldst say
that? What could happen? Thee must not get the megrims, Peggy, before
thee has started. There, Star! I must not linger with thee. Now I have
kissed thee just on the spot that gave thee thy name. Thou wilt remember
thou art to give me a good ride when I come back."
Peggy gave a last lingering caress to her pet, and turned reluctantly to
leave her. As she did so she found herself face to face with Sally Evans
and Betty Williams.
"We thought we should find thee here," cried Sally. "When the doctor
told me that thee was to go down to see Harriet's brother, I went for
Betty at once. We came to see thee off."
"Oh, Peggy, I think thee has the most luck," grumbled Betty. "The South
hath all the fighting, and thee is going right there."
"Why, no, Betty," corrected Peggy with a laugh. "The fighting is in the
Carolinas, and I go only to Virginia. There is no warfare there. I
should not go if there were."
"Well, I should, and I had the chance. I suppose Virginia is not
Carolina," went on Betty, who was hazy about her geography, "but 'tis
much nearer than Philadelphia. I do think, Peggy Owen, that thee has the
most delightsome adventures in the world," she ended with a sigh.
"I am afraid that it will not be very pleasant to go to a cousin who is
dying," returned Peggy soberly. "Come, girls! 'tis time for me to dress.
Let us go to my room. I am to go with a nurse and her escort. She hath
been up here on a visit, and 'tis fortunate that she returns just at
this time."
"I knew thee would go just as soon as I knew that Harriet was not here,"
said Sally, winding her arm about her waist. "There was naught else to
do."
"That was what mother and I thought, Sally. Would that I had thy skill
and experience in nursing. Then perchance I could bring my cousin back
to health."
"Well, thee shouldn't want to, Peggy," cried Betty. "Look how the
British treat our poor fellows when they are wounded. Yet we treat our
prisoners as though they were friends, and not enemies. I get out of
patience with Sally here when I see her so good to them when any are
brought into the hospital wounded. And why does thee do it, Sally?"
"To make them ashamed of themselves," answered Sally promptly. "They
look upon us as provincials and almost barbarians. When they find us
actuated by feelings of humanity it begins in time to dawn upon them
that they are dealing with kinsmen and brothers. Sometimes they are
brought to such a keen realization of this that they refuse longer to
fight us, and so leave the army. I have reasoned with some of them," she
ended demurely.
"I'll warrant thee has," laughed Peggy.
Thus chatting the girls walked slowly to the house, and then up to
Peggy's own little room where they began to help the latter to dress for
the journey. She was ready presently, and then Sally cleared her throat
in an oratorical manner.
"Mistress Peggy Owen," she began, untying with a flourish a small
package which had escaped Peggy's notice, "on behalf of The Social
Select Circle, of which thee is an honored member, I present thee with
this diary with the injunction that thou art to record within its pages
everything that befalls thee from the time of thy leaving until the day
of thy homecoming."
"All and everything," supplemented Betty eagerly.
"Why, girls, 'tis beautiful," cried Peggy pleased and surprised by the
gift. "It is sweet to be so remembered, and if The Circle wishes me to
set down all the happenings of my journey, I will do so with pleasure.
But there will be no adventures. 'Tis not to be expected on such a
jaunt."
"Every jaunt holds possibilities," observed Sally sententiously. "When
thee was away before, look at all that befell; yet we have not heard the
half of what happened because thee forgot. Now if thou wilt write every
day in this little book for the benefit of thy friends The Circle can
enjoy thy journey as well as thou."
"I'll do it," promised Peggy. "But you must not expect much. I shall be
gone such a short time that you girls will scarcely have begun to miss
me ere I shall be home again. 'Twill be a sad journey, I fear."
"But thy cousin may get well," interposed Betty. "Just think of the
romance contained in an unknown cousin. The relationship is just near
enough to be interesting," she ended with such a languishing air that
both Peggy and Sally shook her.
"Such an utterance from a member of The Social Select Circle," rebuked
Peggy. "I'm surprised at thee, Betty."
"Oh, the edict against the other sex is revoked now," declared Betty.
"And didn't we always have better times when Robert was with us than
when we were alone?"
"We wouldn't now, though," answered Sally. "He doesn't speak French,
Betty."
"Sally, thee is dreadful! Don't listen to her, Peggy. She is always
trying to tease."
"I shall not, Betty," consoled Peggy, casting a mischievous glance at
Sally. "Never mind. Thee is patriotic, anyway."
"How?" asked Sally as Betty, foreseeing some further jest, would not
speak.
"By helping to cement the French Alliance, of course," laughed Peggy.
"Thee is worse than Sally," pouted Betty turning to look out of the
window. "Peggy, is thee to go in a one-horse cabriolet? Because there is
one coming up Chestnut Street now. Let me see! A woman is within and it
is driven by a young man. Heigh-ho! 'Tis a promising outlook. There is a
baggage wagon following with two men on the seat. Thee will be well
escorted, Miss Peggy Owen."
"It must be the nurse," exclaimed Peggy. "And mother is calling, too.
Come, girls."
They ran lightly down-stairs, and soon Mrs. Johnson, the nurse, was
shown in. She was a large, motherly-looking woman of middle age, with a
pleasant smile and kind eyes. Peggy felt drawn to her at once.
"And so this is to be my young companion," she said, drawing the girl
toward her as Mrs. Owen presented her daughter. "I predict that we shall
be great friends, my dear. Of a truth 'twas most pleasing news when the
doctor told me that I should have your company. The journey is long,
'twill take all of ten days to reach Williamsburg, so that unless there
is conversation to enliven the way, 'tis apt to be most tedious. Now,
Fairfax, my son, is an excellent escort but an indifferent talker. He
looks well to the needs of the horses, and we shall not suffer for lack
of attention, save and except conversation from him. That we shall have
to furnish ourselves."
"The cabriolet is somewhat light to carry three persons," observed Mrs.
Owen reflectively as she returned from carrying out some bundles to the
baggage wagon.
"We considered that, madam, but Fairfax will ride part of the time in
the baggage wagon when the roads become so rough that the load seems
heavy for the horse. 'Tis too bad that he has not his horse with him,
but we knew not when we came that we were to have the pleasure of Miss
Peggy's company on our return. We shall manage nicely, I dare say. The
two men in the baggage wagon are an addition also that we did not
expect. They have charge of some supplies for the hospital which Dr.
Cochran is sending with us. I was glad to have them. 'Tis more agreeable
in a long journey to have a party."
"Mother!" breathed Peggy, her eyes glowing with the idea. "Could not the
young man ride Star?"
"I was just thinking of that, my child," said Mrs. Owen with an
indulgent smile. "'Tis in truth a way opened for thee to take thy pony."
"Do you indeed mean that Fairfax may ride a horse of yours, my dear?"
questioned Nurse Johnson, rising. "Why, that is most welcome news. You
are generous."
"Nay," protested Peggy. "I thought mostly of myself, I fear; I wish very
much to have my little mare with me, and I do not deserve thy praise,
friend nurse----" She paused in some confusion. "I should say Mrs.
Johnson."
"Nay; let it be friend nurse," replied the good woman laughing. "I think
I like it. And I shall call you Peggy. And your own saddle can be put in
the baggage wagon, and you can take a little gallop occasionally to
relieve the monotony of riding."
"Thee relieves me of all fear that Peggy will not be well taken care
of," declared Mrs. Owen as the two left the room. "And sheets, friend?
Has thee plenty of them? If there is room I could give thee a number."
The nurse's eyes filled with tears.
"We have need of everything, madam," she said. "'Twill gladden our
hearts to receive anything in the nature of supplies."
They were ready at last, and Peggy approached her girl friends for a
last good-bye.
"Thee has a silent knight for thy escort, Peggy," whispered Betty
through her tears, with a glance in the direction of Nurse Johnson's
son, who had not spoken to them. "Be sure to write in the diary if he
speaks to thee at all through the journey. And mind! thee must put down
the very words he says."
"Betty, Betty, thee is grown frivolous," expostulated Peggy. "Sally,
thee must deal with her severely."
"She shall help me to care for the next doughty Englishman that comes to
the hospital," declared Sally. "Still, Peggy, if the young man should
break his silence 'twould be naught amiss to record the happening, for
the delectation of The Circle."
"Thee is as bad as Betty, Sally. I shall keep the diary right with me,
girls, and put down whatever of interest occurs."
"And thou wilt send word of thy safe arrival as soon as thou canst, my
child," said Mrs. Owen, holding her close. "If such a thing should be
that thy cousin recovers we will see what can be done anent his coming
here. And now farewell!"
Peggy clung to her without replying, and then quietly took her place in
the cabriolet beside the nurse. She smiled bravely at them, and as the
cabriolet started she leaned out and waved farewell as long as she could
see her mother.
CHAPTER XI--ON THE ROAD
"The rolling world is girdled with the sound,
Perpetually breathed from all who dwell
Upon its bosom, for no place is found
Where is not heard, 'Farewell.'"
--Celia Thaxter.
As the little caravan turned from Chestnut Street into Seventh so that
she could no longer see her home Peggy's lips quivered, and it was with
difficulty that she refrained from bursting into tears.
"Give not way to idle grief at our parting," her mother had admonished
her. "Thee will have need of all thy fortitude to attend thy cousin, and
'twere sinful to waste thy strength in weeping."
With this counsel in mind the girl struggled bravely against her
emotion, and presently, wiping her eyes, turned toward the nurse. For
youth is ever buoyant, and it is not natural for it to give way long to
sadness. They had passed the Bettering House by this time and were well
on their way toward the lower ferry.
"Thee will think me but a dull companion, I fear, friend nurse," she
said. "But I grieve to leave my mother even for so short a time. In
truth, I have but recently returned home after a long absence."
"Partings are always sad, my child, even when they are but for a few
days," replied Nurse Johnson sympathetically. "I felt just so when I
bade my sister farewell this morning. We had not seen each other for ten
years until I came for this visit, and 'tis like to be as long again
before we get another glimpse of each other if this fearful war
continues. In times such as these separation from loved ones is fraught
with more than the usual sorrow; for one never knows what will happen.
But you have borne up bravely, child. I feared a scene. Most girls would
have treated me to such. You have the making of a good nurse, Peggy,
with such control."
"'Tis another time that I merit not thy praise," explained the maiden.
"'Tis all due to mother. She cautioned me about giving way to my
feelings, thinking that I would need my strength for the journey."
"Your mother is right," said Nurse Johnson soberly. "The way is long and
we shall have much ado to beguile the tediousness of it. As a beginning,
can you tell me if those earthworks yonder are the remains of British
entrenchments?"
"Yes," answered the girl. "Traces of their lines are still discoverable
in many places about the city. If thee rode out the Bristol road at all
thee must have seen a large redoubt which commands the Delaware. Its
parapet is considered of great elegance, though there are those that
contend that the parapet was constructed with more regard to ornament
than for fortification. Just this side of the battery are the barracks
they built."
"And were you in the city when they held possession?"
"No. Mother and I were at Strawberry Hill, our farm on the Wissahickon.
Thee should have seen our city before the enemy held it, friend nurse.
There were great trees all along the banks of the Schuylkill here which
were called the Governor's Woods. The English cut them down for
fire-wood, and to help build their fortifications. And so many of our
beautiful country places were burned."
"'Tis so all over the land, my child," returned the nurse sadly. "War
leaves a train of wrecked and desolated homes wherever it is waged. We
of Virginia have been fortunate so far to escape a wholesale ravage of
the state. True, there have been some predatory incursions, but the
state as a whole has not been overrun by the enemy. If General Greene
can continue to hold Lord Cornwallis' attention in the Carolinas we may
not suffer as those states have."
Thus she spoke, for no one imagined at this time that Virginia would
soon become the center of activities. And so chatting they crossed the
river, and by noon were in Chester, where they baited their horses and
refreshed themselves for the afternoon journey.
It was spring. The smooth road wound beneath the budding foliage of the
forest. The air was fresh and balmy, and laden with the perfume of
flowers and leaves. The sky was blue, and Peggy followed with delight
the flight of a hawk across its azure. Robins flew about merrily, with
red breasts shaken by melodious chirpings, and brilliant plumage
burnished by the sunlight. The maiden began to feel a keen enjoyment of
the drive, and chatted and laughed with an abandon foreign to her usual
quiet demeanor.
They lay at Wilmington, Delaware, that night, and early the next morning
were up and away again. Mindful of her new diary Peggy recorded her
impressions of the country through which she passed for the benefit of
her friends of The Social Select Circle.
"The country is beautiful," she wrote enthusiastically on the fourth day
of her journey after passing from Wilmington through Newcastle, and Head
of the Elk, and crossing the Susquehanna River. "Though it seems to me
more sandy than Pennsylvania. I think this must arise from being so near
the coast. The Susquehanna is very broad at this crossing, but it cannot
compare with the Delaware for limpidness and whiteness. Nor are its
banks so agreeable in appearance. To-morrow we enter Baltimore, which I
long to see, for Nurse Johnson says 'tis a monstrously fine city.
"'And is thee going to tell us naught but about the country, Peggy?' I
hear thee complain, Betty Williams. Know then, thou foolish Betty, that
the 'Silent Knight,' as thee dubbed him, hath not yet broken that
silence. Each morning he bows very gravely and deeply. Oh, a most ornate
obeisance! Thee should see it. This I return in my best manner, and the
ceremony for the day is over. If he hath aught to communicate he seeks
his mother at the inns where we stop for refreshments. Truly he is a lad
beset by shyness.
"'And where is thy tongue, Peggy?' I hear thee ask.
"Well, it may be that I shall use it if he does not speak soon. Such
shyness doth engender boldness in us females. Will that please thee,
thou saucy Betty?"
"Although," soliloquized Peggy when she had made this entry, "it may not
be shyness at all, but wisdom. I have heard mother say that wise men are
not great talkers, so when the young man does speak I make no doubt but
that his words will be full of matter. I must remember them verbatim,
and set them down for the edification of The Circle."
They reached Baltimore that night instead of the next day; at so late an
hour there was no time to see the little city. It was one of the most
important places in the new states at this time, ranking after
Philadelphia and Boston in size, and growing rapidly, having been made a
port of entry the year before. There was a quarter composed entirely of
Acadian families speaking nothing but French, Nurse Johnson told her,
and Peggy made a particular note of the fact for Betty's delectation.
"Perchance when I return I can see more of it," said the maiden
philosophically as they were getting ready for their departure early the
next morning.
"I hope that you can, my dear," said Nurse Johnson. "'Twill be a hard
ride to-day, for we want to make Colchester by nightfall. I have a
cousin there with whom we can stop, which will be vastly more
pleasurable than to stay at an ordinary. If we do not make the place
to-night there would be no time for visiting to-morrow."
The roads were good and hard, and the riding pleasant in the early
morning. But as the day advanced the atmosphere became sultry, and Peggy
was conscious of more fatigue than she had felt at any time through the
journey.
"Fairfax must change with you, and let you ride Star for a time," spoke
Mrs. Johnson, regarding her with solicitude. "I am sure that will rest
you."
"I think it will," answered Peggy. "I do feel just a little weary of the
carriage, friend nurse. Perhaps thy son would like the change also? It
must be lonely for him riding all alone."
Nurse Johnson laughed as she caught the girl's look.
"You must not mind his not talking," she said. "I think he hath never
spoken to a girl in his life. Still, he is a good son, for all his
shyness."
The change to Star's back was made, and they started forward at renewed
speed. Peggy's spirits rose as she found herself on the little mare, and
she rode ahead of the vehicle sometimes, or sometimes alongside of it
chatting gayly. So pleasantly did the time pass that none of them
noticed that the sky had become overcast with clouds. A heavy drop of
rain falling upon her face compelled the girl's attention.
"Why, 'tis raining," she exclaimed in surprise.
"There's going to be a thunder-storm," cried Nurse Johnson viewing the
clouds in dismay. "How suddenly it hath come up. Fairfax, we must put in
at the nearest plantation. Let Peggy get back in with me so that she
will not get wet. Then we must make speed."
The lad got out of the vehicle obediently, and approached the girl to
assist her from the horse. As she sprang lightly to the ground, he gazed
at her earnestly for a moment as though realizing the necessity of
speech, and said:
"It looks like rain."
As he spoke the far horizon was illuminated by a succession of lurid
flashes of lightning which shone with fiery brilliancy against the black
masses of thunder-clouds. The muttering of thunder told that the storm
was almost upon them. The fact was so evident that no living being could
deny it. The lad's observation differed so from what she had expected
from him that there was no help for it, and Peggy gave way to a peal of
merry laughter.
"I cry thee pardon, Friend Fairfax," she gasped. "It doth indeed look
like rain."
For a second the young fellow stood as though not realizing the full
import of what he had said, and then, as heavy drops began to patter
rapidly through the trees, the girl's merriment infected him and he too
burst into laughter.
"It is raining," he corrected himself, which remark but added to the
girl's mirth.
"Where are we?" asked his mother as Peggy took her place beside her.
"We are near His Excellency's plantation, mother."
"His Excellency?" cried Peggy. "Do you mean General Washington's house,
friend nurse?"
"To be sure, Peggy," said Mrs. Johnson glancing about her. "Mount Vernon
lies just beyond us on our left. We must put in there."
CHAPTER XII--THE HOME OF WASHINGTON
"By broad Potowmack's azure tide,
Where Vernon's Mount in sylvan pride,
Displays its beauties fair."
--"Ode to Mount Vernon,"
David Humphreys.
"Oh, I wonder if Lady Washington hath returned yet from headquarters,"
cried Peggy so interested in the fact that she might again behold that
lady that she forgot that it was raining. "I would like so much to see
her! I knew her quite well at Middlebrook in New Jersey when the army
lay there for winter quarters two years ago. Mother and I were there
with father."
"'Tis early for her to return from headquarters, is it not?" asked the
nurse, touching the horse lightly with the whip. "Methinks that I have
heard her say that she always heard the first and last guns of a
campaign; and campaigns do not begin in April at the North."
"True," said Peggy. "Then will it not be an intrusion to go there during
her absence?"
"Intrusion to escape a thunder-storm?" laughed Mrs. Johnson. "Hardly, my
child. We should be welcome even though we did not seek to avoid a
drenching. The general hath left orders with his overseer, Mr. Lund
Washington, that hospitality should be extended to every one the same as
though he were there in person. Then too every one in this part of the
country goes to Mount Vernon for help in every sort of distress. Oh,
yes! we shall be very welcome."
"Mount Vernon?" mused the girl. "I wonder why 'tis so called? We call
our country home 'Strawberry Hill,' but that is because of the vast
quantities of strawberries that grow there. I see not why the general
should call his place Mount Vernon."
"I can enlighten you as to that, Peggy. The estate formerly belonged to
his half-brother, Lawrence Washington. He too was of a military turn,
and served with Admiral Vernon of the British Navy in an expedition
against Carthagena in South America. He married Anne Fairfax on his
return, and built this house on the estate left him by his father. So
great was his admiration for the gallant admiral that he called his home
Mount Vernon, in his honor. There was but one child born of the union,
and on her death General George Washington, who was a great favorite
with his brother, became his heir. Lawrence died also, so the general
came into possession. He hath left the place much as his brother had it,
though he contemplates its enlargement when relieved of military duty, I
hear. My husband's mother was of the Fairfax family, which is the reason
my son is so called. 'Tis the fashion among Virginians to give family
names to their children. There! we are going to be caught by the storm
after all!"
There came a vivid flash of lightning followed by a deafening peal of
thunder as she finished speaking. Their horse reared in affright, then
plunged forward in a terrified run. The storm was upon them in all its
fury. The rain beat into the cabriolet from all sides, and soon they
abandoned any effort to keep dry. It seemed to Peggy that she had never
seen such a storm before, and never had she been out in such a one. The
rain came down in torrents. Flash after flash of dazzling light darted
across the sky, accompanied by a continuous roar of thunder like the
discharge of artillery. It was impossible to hear each other speak, so
they drew close together, the nurse controlling the horse as best she
could.
Suddenly as they ascended a small steep hill from the edge of a wild
ravine the mansion with all its surroundings came into view. Peggy
forgot that her garments were wet through and through; forgot that it
was raining so hard that the outlines of the dwelling were blurred and
indistinct, and leaned forward eagerly to see the home of General
Washington.
Stately trees shaded the lodges which stood on each side of the entrance
gate; and, as they drove through, a colored boy darted from one of the
lodges and taking hold of the bridle rein ran abreast of the animal with
them to the dwelling.
The villa, as General Washington called it, was at this time not so
large as it is now, the general having enlarged and added to the mansion
after the Revolution. It was, however, a house of the first class then
occupied by thrifty Virginia planters; of the old gable-roofed style,
two stories in height, with a porch in front, and a chimney built
inside, at each end, contrary to the prevailing custom. It stood upon a
most lovely spot, on the brow of a gentle slope which ended at a thickly
wooded precipitous river bank, its summit nearly one hundred feet above
the water. Before it swept the Potomac with a magnificent curve, and
beyond the broad river lay the green fields and shadowy forests of
Maryland.
The door opened as the carriage reached the porch, and a man came
hastily to their assistance. He said not a word until they were safely
within the entrance hall, and then he turned to Nurse Johnson with a
smile.
"Well, well, Hannah Johnson," he said. "Who would ever have thought of
seeing you here? Quite a little sprinkle we're having."
"I should say it was a sprinkle, Lund Washington," retorted Nurse
Johnson, gazing ruefully at her wet clothing. "It strikes me more like a
baptism; and you know I don't hold with immersion."
"I know," he said laughing. "Never mind. We'll soon get you fixed up."
Mr. Lund Washington was General Washington's relative, who had charge of
the estate while the owner was away to the war.
At this moment a pleasant-faced, plump little woman came bustling into
the hall, and hastened to greet them.
"I could not come sooner, Hannah," she said. "I was making a lettuce
tart which we are to have for supper. Come right up-stairs, both of you,
and change that wet clothing. Nay, my child," as Peggy mindful of her
dripping garments hesitated. "It doth not matter about the dripping. All
that concerns us is to get you both into dry garments."
With such a welcome Peggy felt at home at once, and followed the
overseer's wife obediently up the broad stairway to one of the chambers
above. Mrs. Washington went to a chest of drawers and drew forth some
folded garments.
"These are just the things for you, my dear," she said. "They were
Martha's, and will fit you exceedingly well."
"I thank thee," said Peggy taking them reverently, for Martha had been
Lady Washington's only daughter, and she had been told of her early
death.
"I see you are a Quakeress," said Mrs. Washington pleasantly. "We have
many such down here, though not so many as are in your state. How vastly
the frock becomes her. Doth it not, Hannah?"
"It does indeed," replied Nurse Johnson glancing at the girl with
approval. "Child, you should never wear aught but colors. You were never
made for the quiet garb of your sect."
"Some of our Society are not so strict anent such matters as they might
be," Peggy told them, a smile coming to her lips as she recalled the
numerous rebukes concerning gay apparel given by the elders at the
meetings. "'Tis only of late that I have dressed so quietly."
"Now, my dear," spoke Mrs. Washington, setting a dainty lace cap on the
maiden's dark hair, "look in the mirror, and see if the result doth not
please you."
"It pleases me well," answered Peggy surveying her reflection with a
smile. "In truth it hath been long since I have been arrayed so gayly.
Mother doth not approve of much dressing while the war lasts."
"Your mother is right," concurred the lady with warmth. "Mrs. Washington
feels just the same about the matter. Still, I doubt if your mother
would remain of that opinion were she to see you now. Would that she
could, or that a limner[[6]] were here to depict your likeness."
In truth the girl made a charming picture in the dainty frock of
dove-colored Persian flowered with roses of cherry hue, and finished
with a frill of soft lace from which her white throat rose fair and
girlish. A pair of high-heeled red slippers completed the costume, and
Peggy would have been more than human if her eyes had not brightened,
and her cheeks flushed at her image in the mirror.
Mrs. Washington led them at once to the great dining-room, where they
found Mr. Washington, and young Fairfax Johnson who had arrived a short
time after them. The storm had ceased, but the clouds still hung dark
and lowering, producing an early twilight. A house servant was just
lighting the myrtle-berry candles in the lusters as they entered the
room, and the light glinted from the floor, scoured to a shining
whiteness. The blacks brought in the supper immediately, and the little
party gathered about the table informally. Peggy found herself seated
beside Fairfax Johnson.
A spirit of mischief seized her, and made her sit silent, waiting for
him to speak.
"For," she thought roguishly, "'twill never do in the world to have
naught to record for the girls but those two remarks, 'It looks like
rain,' and 'It is raining.' If I do not speak he must, or else be guilty
of discourtesy."
Her patience was soon rewarded. The youth struggled bravely with his
bashfulness, and presently turned to her.
"It hath stopped raining," he said.
Peggy's dimples came suddenly, and her eyes twinkled, but she answered
demurely:
"It hath, Friend Fairfax, for which I am glad. It was a severe storm.
Did thee get very wet?"
"Yes," he answered. "It rained hard."
"Oh, dear!" thought the girl. "Will he never have anything to say except
about that rain? I wonder what Betty would do? Such a nice lad should be
broken of his shyness." Then aloud: "And Star, friend? Is she all
right?"
"Yes. Didn't seem to mind it a bit, after the first scare. Did you get
wet?"
"Yes. Monstrously so," replied Peggy, surprised that he was doing so
well. "He won't need any help if this continues," was her mental
comment. Then, "Mrs. Washington gave me some of Lady Washington's
daughter's clothes to wear. They just fit me. Was she not kind?"
"Very," he answered briefly. "If--if getting wet always makes you look
like you do to-night you had better get wet every day," he blurted out
abruptly, and then turned from her decidedly, blushing furiously.
Peggy caught her breath at the suddenness of the thing, and colored
also.
"Peggy, Peggy," she chided herself reproachfully. "Thee should not have
spoke about thy frock. No doubt the lad deemed it duty to say something
of the kind to thee. 'Twas not seemly in thee. And how shall I answer
him?"
She was saved the necessity of a reply, however, by Mr. Washington, who
said:
"You are quite well acquainted with the general and his wife, Hannah
tells me, Miss Peggy. If 'twould please you to see something of the
estate I will take you about a little in the morning before you start.
You should see something of the place while you are in these parts."
"Oh, I should be pleased," cried Peggy her animation returning at this.
"Thee is very kind, sir."
"The pleasure will be mine," was the courteous reply.
And so it happened that Peggy rose betimes the next morning, but early
as she deemed it Mr. Washington was awaiting her. He had a little pony
saddled and bridled ready for her to mount.
"We will have time for a short look about before breakfast," he said
kindly. "'Tis my custom to ride to all the farms through the day, as the
general does when he is home. 'Twould take too long for us to do that,
but you can form an idea of the extent of the plantation by this
détour."
Thanking him Peggy mounted, and they set off at a brisk pace. All trace
of the storm had passed save a dewy freshness of the air, and the
wetness of the grass. The sun was shining with all the warmth and
brightness of an April day in Virginia. The birds were twittering amid
the new-born leaves, and the hyacinths and tulips were coming to their
glory in the gardens. The smiles of cultivation were on every hand, and
the air was heavy with the perfume of growing things after a rain.
The grounds in the immediate vicinity of the mansion were laid out in
the English taste, Mr. Washington told her. The estate itself consisted
of ten thousand acres which were apportioned into farms, devoted to
different kinds of culture, each having its allotted laborers. Much,
however, was still wild woodland, seamed with deep dells and runs of
water, and indentured with inlets; haunts of deer and lurking places of
foxes. The whole woody region along the Potomac with its forest and
range of hills afforded sports of various kinds, and was a noble hunting
ground.
The girl found that the plantation was a little empire in itself. The
mansion house was the seat of government, with dependencies, such as
kitchens, smoke-houses, work-shops and stables. There were numerous
house servants for domestic service, and a host of field negroes for the
culture of the crops. Their quarters formed a kind of hamlet apart,
composed of various huts with little gardens and poultry yards, all well
stocked, and swarming with little darkies gamboling in the sunshine.
Among the slaves were artificers of all kinds: tailors, shoemakers,
carpenters, wheelwrights, smiths, and so on; so that the plantation
produced everything within itself for ordinary use. The time was too
short to permit of Peggy's seeing more than a small part of the whole,
but she saw enough to permit of an estimate of the estate. As they
returned to the mansion Mr. Washington assisted her to dismount, saying
as he did so:
"No view of Mount Vernon is complete without a look at the Potomac from
the wharf, Miss Peggy. You will just have time for that before the call
comes for breakfast. Be quick; for yonder comes Mrs. Washington, and she
won't want the cakes to cool."
"I will be back in a minute," cried Peggy catching his mood. Laughing
gayly she ran swiftly across the sward under the trees and on to the
wharf, which lay a little below the mansion, in front of the deer park.
"This is the place in truth for a fine view," commented the girl as she
reached the extreme end of the wharf. "Peggy, take a good long look.
Thee will never have another chance, I fear. Heigh-ho! what will the
girls say to this? 'Twill take the most of three pages in the diary to
transcribe the half of this momentous day. It is a beautiful river,
though of course I am partial to my own Delaware. No wonder the general
loves his home. How the river winds and curves----Why!"
Peggy stopped short in her musings, and opened her eyes wide in
surprise; for a large ship was bearing directly toward the wharf. For a
moment she gazed, and then, as the ship veered slightly in her course,
she caught sight of the flag at the taffrail. And at sight of that flag
every drop of color left her face. For the flag was the emblem of
England, and the ship was headed for Mount Vernon.
-----
[6] Portrait-painter.
CHAPTER XIII--THE APPEARANCE OF THE ENEMY
"The word went forth from the throne:
'Reap down their crops with your swords!
Harry! ravage!
Hound on the rage of your hireling hordes,
Hessian and savage!'"
--Leonard Woolsey Bacon.
For one long moment the girl stood staring at that flag, so stricken
with terror as to be incapable of motion. Too well she knew the meanings
of its presence. The descent of a British ship upon any part of the
coast at this time brought destruction and ruin to all that lay in its
path. Fire and sword, ravage and waste followed in its wake. And this
was a British cruiser, and it was headed for Mount Vernon. Peggy wrung
her hands in anguish and a sob broke from her lips.
"Oh, the general's home! The general's beautiful home will be burned!"
With the words came a realization of the necessity for action. With an
effort she threw off the numbing dread that beset her, and turning fled
swiftly to the mansion. As she reached the porch Mr. Lund Washington
came to the door.
"You are just in time," he called cheerily. "Breakfast is ready, and
Mrs. Washington feared if you lingered much longer 'twould be cold. Is
not the view----Why! what hath happened?" he broke off catching sight of
her pale face.
"The British!" panted Peggy. "The British are coming up the river!"
With an exclamation of alarm Mr. Washington sprang past her and hurried
toward the wharf. At the same moment cries and shouts rent the air and
from all over the plantation the negroes came running. Some were ashen
with terror, and ran into the house weeping and wailing. The bolder
spirits gathered on the banks of the river to watch the approach of the
vessel. From the mansion came Mrs. Lund Washington and Mrs. Johnson,
alarmed by the outcries and uproar of the darkies.
"And what is it, my dear?" asked Mrs. Washington as Peggy sank weakly on
the steps of the porch. "Why are you so pale? Know you the cause of the
commotion?"
"It's the British," repeated the maiden fearfully. "A British ship is
coming."
"A British ship!" Each woman's face paled at the words. They were
fraught with such awful meaning. They too stood stricken as Peggy had
been with terror. Then Mrs. Washington spoke calmly, but it was with the
calmness of despair:
"Let us not despond. It may be that they will exempt this place from
destruction. Let us hope."
"No," said Peggy with conviction. "They will not spare it. 'Tis our
general's home. They have tried so many times to capture him; there have
been so many plots to kill him, or for his betrayal, that anything that
can strike a blow at his heart will be used. I fear, oh, I fear the
worst!"
Meantime the cruiser drew up alongside the wharf. As soon as the vessel
was made fast the captain stepped ashore and approached the spot where
Mr. Lund Washington stood.
"What plantation is this?" he demanded brusquely.
"It is Mount Vernon," replied the overseer.
"Mount Vernon, eh? The seat of the rebel leader?"
"It is General Washington's home, sir," was the reply.
"So I thought, so I thought," returned the officer with a chuckle. "Are
you in charge here?"
"Yes; I am Lund Washington, General George Washington's relative, and
represent him during his absence," Mr. Washington informed him with
dignity.
"And I am Captain Graves of the English navy," responded that officer
pompously. "In command of the 'Acteon' there. Now, sir, I want breakfast
for my crew, and that quickly. And then supplies: flour, corn, bacon,
hams, poultry and whatever else there may be on the estate that will
feed hungry soldiers. Now be quick about getting them."
"And if I refuse?" said Mr. Washington.
"Refuse!" roared the officer. "If you refuse, by St. George I'll burn
every building on the place and run off all your negroes. Now do as you
please about it."
Mr. Washington hesitated no longer.
"I will comply with your demands," he said simply. He would do anything
rather than that the general should lose his home.
"And mind," called Captain Graves, "I want no dallying."
"There will be none," answered the overseer quickening his footsteps.
"Wife," he said as he reached the porch where Peggy and the two women
awaited him, "we must have breakfast for the crew as quick as it can be
gotten. Do you see to it while I attend to what is wanted for supplies."
Peggy looked up in amazement, thinking that she had not heard aright.
"Is thee going to give them breakfast and supplies from General
Washington's place, sir?" she asked.
"I must, my child," replied Lund Washington sadly. "The captain
threatens to burn the houses, and run off with all the slaves if I do
not. I cannot help myself. They would take what they want anyway."
"Then thee should let them take it," cried Peggy excitedly. "The general
won't like for thee to feed the enemy from his stores. He won't like it,
friend."
"I am in charge of the property," repeated the overseer. "If anything
happens to the place while 'tis in my charge I will be responsible. I
will comply with any reasonable demand rather than have the plantation
razed."
"The general won't like it," Peggy reiterated in a low tone as Mr.
Washington began to give orders to the slaves concerning the supplies
while his wife hastened to see about breakfast. "He won't like it. I
know that he would rather have his home burned than that the enemy
should be supplied from his plantation. Oh, I know he won't approve of
it."
"Lil' missy's right," declared a venerable darky who stood near. "Marse
George ain't gwine ter laik hab'n de enemy fed offen his craps. 'Tain't
fitten dat he'd fight 'em, an' feed 'em, too."
"That is just it," declared the girl turning toward him quickly,
surprised that a negro should grasp the point of honor affected. "What
is thy name?" she added. "I should like to know it."
"Lawsy, missy! doan you know old Bishop?" said the old darky, bowing
deeply. "Why, I wuz Marse George's body sarvant all froo de French an'
Indian Wahs. Bin wif him most ebbrywhar, old Bishop has. Too old to go
enny mo' dough, an' so he has Mista Willum Lee to look aftah him. P'raps
you might hab seen Mista Lee. A black, sassy nigga, lil' missy."
"Yes," answered Peggy smiling. "I know him, Bishop. I used to see him
often at Middlebrook. And so thee is Bishop?"
For Peggy had heard General Washington speak affectionately of his
former body servant. Bishop was too old now for camp life, but he had,
as he said, served General Washington through the French War. He was
almost eighty years old now. There were deep furrows upon his cheeks,
his hair was gray, and his form was bent by the weight of his years, but
old Bishop knew his master's heart, and knew that that master would
rather lose his whole property than to have it succor the enemies of his
country.
So the venerable darky and the maiden watched with sorrow the labor of
the slaves as they ran back and forth to the ship, laden with flour,
hams, bacon from the storehouses; chickens, geese and turkeys from the
poultry yards; fruits and vegetables from the cellars; while the air was
filled with the shrill cries of swine being slaughtered.
It was over at last. The crew had been fed; the ship was heavily laden
with supplies, and with a sarcastic acknowledgment of their courtesy the
captain weighed anchor and sailed away. And then the family sat down to
a belated breakfast.
The meal was a mere pretense, however, and soon after it the cabriolet
was brought round, and Peggy and her companions set forth once more upon
their journey.
"I wish," said Mrs. Johnson as they drove away from the mansion, "I wish
you were safe at home, Peggy. I don't believe that I am doing right in
permitting you to go on."
"I must," spoke Peggy quickly. "There is my cousin dying, friend nurse.
I must go on. Does thee fear an invasion of the whole state?"
"It looks as though the invasion were here, Peggy. Of course, it may be
but a predatory incursion as others have been before, but I fear, I
fear----" ended the good woman shaking her head.
"How much longer will it be before we reach Williamsburg?" inquired the
girl.
"We should be there the fourth day from this," replied Nurse Johnson.
"Of course it may be the right thing for you to go on, as you are so
near the end of the journey; but I do wish you were safe at home."
"I shall lose no time in returning after I have done all for my cousin
that can be done," declared Peggy. "I think mother would wish me to go
on now, but when all is over----"
"Then you must get back as quickly as possible," said the nurse.
After all Peggy and old Bishop were right regarding General Washington's
feelings concerning the raid on the plantation.
"It would have been a less painful circumstance to me," he wrote to his
representative when he heard of the matter, "to have heard that, in
consequence of your non-compliance with their request, they had burned
my house and laid my plantation in ruins."
So sensitive was this man concerning anything that would seem to touch
his honor.
CHAPTER XIV--THE JOURNEY'S END
"Thy love shall chant its own beatitudes
After its own life working...
A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich;
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest."
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Late afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Mount Vernon found the
little party drawing near to the lowland city of Williamsburg. The road
had no other travelers than themselves. There were no more thick woods,
the road running in a blaze of sunshine past clumps of cedars, and
wayside tangles of blackberry, sumac and elder bushes.
Presently the spires of churches and the roofs of several large
buildings came into sight, clustered in one small spot, as it seemed to
Peggy, until they entered the town itself, when they receded to their
proper distances. The maiden leaned forward eagerly to see the place,
for she had heard much of its gayety and fashion.
One broad unpaved street was the main thoroughfare of the town. It was
very straight, shaded by mulberry and poplar trees, and ran for a
measured mile from the Capitol at one end to the goodly college of
William and Mary at the other. Houses, vine-clad, with wide porticoes
and large gardens, bordered it, and two or three narrower streets
debouched from it.
"This is the Duke of Gloucester Street, my dear," explained Nurse
Johnson as they entered the broad thoroughfare. "Yonder lies the Capitol
where the courts convene. Once it was the center of all the legislation
of the state, but all that is past since the capital hath been removed
to Richmond."
"Hath it?" exclaimed Peggy in surprise. "I did not know it. When was it,
friend nurse?"
"'Twas done two years ago," responded the nurse sadly. "Williamsburg was
deemed too accessible to the enemy, so the government was removed to
Richmond. I doubt not that we should be thankful, since the British did
march for the capital in their late invasion of the state. The worst
feature of the matter is that the traitor, Arnold, led the force that
sacked and burned Richmond in January. No doubt 'twould have been our
fate had the government still been here. Look well at the college,
Peggy. It hath sent forth many of the men who are of prominence in the
nation."
Peggy regarded the college with great interest, for its fame was far
spread, as it was the second university to be founded in the New World,
Harvard being the first.
On the right of the large campus was the president's house, built of
brick alternately dull red and gray, brought over from England. Opposite
was another building of like proportions and architecture known as the
Brafferton School, built and endowed as an Indian seminary, a modest
antitype of Hampton.
Although there were a number of shops and ordinaries, as the taverns
were called, the town was thinly peopled, and Peggy was conscious of a
chill of disappointment. Where was the glitter and glamour of pageantry
of which she had heard so much?
Was this modest hamlet with its few detached houses with no pretentions
to architectural beauty the gay capital of Virginia? As though divining
her feeling Nurse Johnson spoke.
"Virginia is a state of large plantations and few cities," she said.
"Williamsburg is not like Philadelphia, my dear, and yet it hath had its
share of gayety. Before the war began 'twas a goodly sight in winter to
see the planters and their families come in for divertisement and
enjoyment. 'Twas very gay then. Gloucester Street was filled with their
coaches and the spirited horses of the youths. Those were gladsome times
that I fear me we shall see no more since the capital hath been
removed."
She sat for a time lost in thought, and then spoke mournfully:
"Ah, child, 'tis sad to see the passing of greatness. There are many
like me who grieve to see the old town overshadowed. And this," she
continued as they passed a long low building with a wide portico and a
row of dormer windows frowning from the roof, "this is the Raleigh
Tavern. Its Apollo room is a famous place for balls, and meetings of
belles and beaux. We are entering Palace Street now, Peggy. That large
building at the end was formerly the Government Building, or the Palace,
as 'tis called, where the royal governors were wont to dwell. The old
powder magazine yonder held the spark that ignited the wrath of
Virginians to rebel against the king. And this, my dear, is the end of
our journey. 'Twas formerly the barracks of the mansion, but 'tis now
used for a hospital."
Peggy was conscious of quickening heart throbs as she alighted from the
cabriolet, and ascended the few steps that led to the door of the
building.
The westering sun cast a pleasant glow through the wide hall, for the
entrance doors were thrown back, but Peggy had time for only a glance.
The nurse led the way at once to one of the rooms which opened from the
hall, saying:
"I must give report of the supplies immediately to the storekeeper, my
child. Then I will see the matron and find where your cousin lies. Sit
you here for a short time."
Peggy sank obediently into the high-backed chair that the nurse pulled
forward, and waited with some trepidation for the summons to go to her
cousin. The office was full of business. A large force of storekeepers
were busied in giving bedding and other necessaries to what seemed to
Peggy an endless stream of nurses; while a number of clerks bent over
their books, deep in the accounts of the storekeepers.
The song of birds came through the open window near which the girl sat.
A bee hummed drowsily over a budding peach tree that stood just outside,
and all at once it came to her that she was a long, long way from home.
All her light-heartedness had vanished. The sunshine, the budding trees,
the journey with its pleasant companionship, and, above all, her own
youth, had served to lull into forgetfulness, for the time being, the
purpose of the journey. Now, however, the passing to and fro of the
nurses, the coming and going of the doctors with their low-toned orders,
all brought a vivid realization of her mission, and Peggy felt suddenly
faint and weak.
"I wish mother were here," she thought, a great wave of longing sweeping
over her. "Oh, I do wish that mother were here, or else that everything
was done that must be done so that I could go back."
At this point in her musings Nurse Johnson returned, and it was well
that she did so, for Peggy was getting very close to the point of
breaking down.
"You are tired," exclaimed the nurse at sight of her face. "Child, give
o'er the meeting until to-morrow. You would be more fit then."
"'Tis naught, friend nurse," said Peggy rousing herself resolutely. "I
fear me I was getting just a little homesick. And how is my cousin? Is
he--is he----"
"He is better," the nurse hastened to tell her. "Much better, the matron
says, and longing for his sister. You are to go to him at once, but he
must not do much talking as he is still very weak. With careful nursing
he may pull through. And now come, but be careful."
Peggy arose and followed her across the hall into a large room,
scrupulously clean, and bare of furniture save the rows of beds, some
small tables and a few chairs.
On one of the beds in the far corner of the room lay a youth so like her
father that Peggy could not repress an exclamation. His eyes were
closed; his face very pale, and serene in its repose. His hair was light
brown in color, with auburn lights in it that fell low over his
forehead. Peggy drew near and looked at him with full heart.
"How like he is to father," she murmured with a quick intake of her
breath. "He doth not look like either Cousin William, or Harriet. Oh, he
should have been my brother!"
The nurse bent over the lad, and touched him gently.
"Captain Williams," she said. "Here is some one to see you."
His eyes opened, and Peggy almost gasped, so like were they to David
Owen's.
"Harriet," whispered the youth making a weak attempt to rise. "Hath she
come at last?"
"It is not Harriet," said Peggy touching his forehead gently, "but
Peggy, my cousin."
The young fellow turned a wondering look upon her.
"But Harriet, Harriet?" he murmured. "Why do you call me cousin?"
"Thee is not to talk," cried Peggy quickly, as the nurse shook a warning
finger. "I call thee cousin because thou art my Cousin Clifford. Harriet
could not come because she had been sent to New York. I am Peggy. Peggy
Owen, thy very own cousin. I have come to care for thee, and to take
thee home when thou art strong enough. And that is all," she ended
breathlessly as the nurse again nodded a warning.
"I want Harriet," reiterated the youth turning away from her. "Why have
you come? I want you not."
This was more than the girl could stand. She had been on the road for
ten long days and was fatigued almost beyond the point of endurance. And
when Clifford, who was so like her father that she had been stirred to
the very depths of her being, said:
"I want you not. Why have you come?" she could no longer control her
feelings but burst into tears.
"I came because thy sister was sent on to New York and could not come,"
she sobbed.
[Illustration: "WHY HAVE YOU COME?"]
"Because thee said in thy letter that thee didn't want to die with none
of thy kin near. And I have come all the way from Philadelphia to be
with thee if thou shouldst die, and to take thy last messages."
"I am not going to die," said he in an obstinate voice. "And I shall
save my last messages for my sister."
At that Peggy looked up in blank amazement, thinking she had not heard
aright. She had made no small sacrifice to come to Virginia to minister
to him on his death-bed, if need be; or to bring him to health by
careful nursing. And now for that cousin to tell her that he would give
her none of his messages was unsettling to say the least.
And so the girl looked up, and met the lad's eyes, which held a queer
look of defiance. His lips were bloodless, but they were set in a
straight line of determination. He looked so like a great big spoiled
child that Peggy's tears vanished as if by magic, and she gave vent to a
low laugh. A laugh so sweet and girlish that many who heard it smiled in
sympathy, and turned to get a glimpse of the maiden.
"Thee is a great big goose," she cried wiping her eyes. "And I am
another. I shall hold thee to thy words as a promise. Thee is to save
thy last messages for thy sister. And until she comes, which, I make no
doubt, will be soon, I shall care for thee whether thee likes or not.
And I shall begin right now by fixing that pillow. Thee is not
comfortable. Nurse, please may I have some vinegar? My cousin's head is
so hot. There! Sleep now, and to-morrow thee may talk some more. Sleep,
my cousin."
And Peggy, mistress of herself once more, firmly checked the feeble
remonstrances of the youth and began stroking his forehead with soft,
soothing touches. Finding his protests of no avail her cousin submitted
to her ministration, and soon, in spite of his efforts to keep awake,
his eyelids drooped, the drawn look of his face relaxed, and he slept.
"And now you too must rest," said the nurse. "Come, my child, to my
home."
"But these other poor fellows," said Peggy. "Can we not make them
comfortable first?"
"We will let the others attend to it for to-night, Peggy. The first duty
in nursing is to keep one's self in trim, otherwise the nurse herself
becomes a patient. Come."
And nothing loth Peggy followed her.
CHAPTER XV--PEGGY IS TROUBLED
"Blow, blow thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind as man's ingratitude."
--"As You Like It."
Half hidden by lilac bushes and trellised grape-vines the cottage of
Nurse Johnson stood in Nicholson Street. A tiny garden lay on one side
of the house, and back of it a small orchard extended through to Palace
Street.
It was a week later, and Peggy stood by the open window of the
living-room of the cottage gazing thoughtfully at the garden. The
sunshine lay warm upon the thick green grass studded with violets.
Daffodils flaunted golden cups at their more gorgeous neighbors, the
tulips. The lilac bushes were masses of purple and white blossoms. The
apple trees in the orchard were great bouquets of rose and snow. It was
a pleasant place, cool and inviting under the trees.
But Peggy was looking with eyes that saw not its pleasantness. She was
considering the events of the past few days. The matron of the hospital
had acceded to her desire to assist in the care of her cousin, and she
had devoted herself to him assiduously. But Clifford's manner toward her
troubled her, and there was a pained expression upon her face as she
gazed into the pretty garden. Unconsciously she sighed.
Nurse Johnson threw aside her sewing and came to her side.
"Child," she said, "what troubles you? Are you homesick?"
"Friend nurse," answered Peggy abruptly, "my cousin doth not like me."
"Why do you think so, Peggy?" asked the nurse quietly. "Hath he been
rude?"
"Rude? Oh, no! I would he were," answered the girl. "Were he rude or
cross I should think 'twas merely his illness. Mother says the best of
men are peevish when convalescing, but my Cousin Clifford is not cross.
Yet he is surely getting well. Does thee not think so?"
"Yes," responded Mrs. Johnson with conviction. "He surely is. He began
to mend from the day you came. The matron, the doctors, the nurses all
say so."
"And yet," said Peggy sadly, "'tis not because of my coming, nor yet of
my care that he hath done so. It seems rather as though he were trying
to get well in a spirit of defiance."
"He is an Englishman, Peggy. Saw you ever one who was not obstinate? The
nurses have remarked the lad's frame of mind, and 'tis commonly thought
that he believed that you desired him not to recover."
"What?" cried Peggy horrified. "Oh, friend nurse, why should he think
such a dreadful thing? I desire his death? Why, 'tis monstrous to think
of."
"A mere fancy, child; though why any of us should wish any of the
English to live is more than I can understand. What with all the
ravaging and burning that is going on 'twould be small wonder if we
should desire the death of them all. But if he lives, Peggy, as he seems
in a fair way to do, 'twill be owing to your care."
"Still," said Peggy, "I wish he were not so cold to me. Mother and I
cared for Cousin William, his father, when he was wounded, and often he
was irritable and would speak crossly. Yet he always seemed to like it
right well that we were with him, and would say sometimes that he knew
not what he would have done without us. And Harriet! why, when Harriet
was ill with fever she was petulant and fretful at times, but there were
other occasions where she was sweet and grateful. But Clifford accepts
my attentions in a manner which shows plainly that he would prefer
another nurse, but that he submits because he cannot help himself. As of
course he cannot," she added smiling in spite of herself. "Sometimes I
would rather he would be cross if he would discover more warmth of
manner."
"Don't mind him, child. It is, it must be some vagary of his illness. I
should not pay much attention to it, and I were you."
"He does not know that I notice it," the girl told her. "But I cannot
help but think of it, friend nurse. 'Tis strange that he should dislike
me so. 'Twould cause mother much wonder."
"Have you writ anent the matter to her, Peggy?"
"No; 'twould worry her. I have told her only of his condition and that I
hope that he will soon be strong enough to start for Philadelphia. When
does thee look for Dr. Cochran to come?"
"About the first of June. Should your cousin be well enough you might
start north before that time. For my part, while sorry to lose you, I
shall be glad when you are at home with your mother. You have been so
occupied with your cousin that you may not have noticed that the militia
are drilling every evening now."
"I have seen them on the Market Green," answered Peggy. "Is the fact
alarming, friend nurse?"
"The cause of such frequent drill is quite alarming, child. The British,
under General Arnold, have come out of their quarters at Portsmouth, and
have started up the James on another ravaging expedition. General
Phillips hath joined the traitor and hath sent a large force against
Richmond again. They are plundering and destroying every plantation and
town on the south side of the river. 'Tis wonder they have not come to
Williamsburg ere this. I fear that they will soon. Would there were a
way for you to go home, Peggy."
"If it were not for Clifford I could go on Star," mused Peggy.
"Alone? Why, child, I should not be easy one moment if you were to start
on that journey all by yourself. Ten days on that lonely road? 'Tis not
to be thought of."
"No," sighed the girl. "I suppose not, friend nurse. There is but one
thing to do at present, and that is to care for my cousin. And that
reminds me that 'tis time to go to him now."
Throwing aside all her melancholy, for Peggy had been taught that gloom
had no place near the sick, she went into the kitchen, took from its
place on the dresser a salver which she covered with a napkin, placed
thereon a bowl of steaming broth, for Peggy permitted no one to prepare
his food but herself, and then regarded it thoughtfully.
"There should be some brightness," she mused. "'Tis passing hard to lie
all day in bed with no hint of the spring time. I have it."
She ran out to the empurpled grass where the violets grew thickest, and
gathered a small nosegay of the largest blossoms. These she brought in
and laid daintily on the salver beside the bowl of broth.
"As thee cannot go to the blossoms I have brought the blossoms to thee,"
said she brightly when she reached her cousin's bedside. "See, my
cousin, 'tis a bit of the May, as thee calls it, although May hath not
yet come in truth; but 'tis very near. Friends say Fifth month, though
'tis not so pretty a name as thine. Thou canst hold them if thou
wishest. 'Tis so small a bunch that it will not tire thy poor, weak
fingers."
"I thank you," said the lad coldly. "I fear me that you put yourself to
too much trouble for me." He took the violets listlessly, never
vouchsafing them so much as a glance.
"And how does thee do this morning, my cousin?" The girl shook up the
pillows, then slipped them under his head so that he half sat, half
reclined in the bed, cheerfully ignoring the chilly reception that the
poor violets received. "I think thee looks brighter."
"I rested well, Mistress Peggy," he answered briefly, and then he
dropped the blossoms, and taking the spoon from her, added: "I will not
trouble you to feed me this morning. I am quite strong enough to feed
myself."
"Very well," assented Peggy with becoming meekness, quietly arranging
the salver in front of him.
The lad began strongly enough, but soon his hand began to tremble. The
perspiration stood on his forehead in great drops as he continued to
make the effort, and presently the spoon fell with a clatter from his
nerveless fingers. He sank back, panting and exhausted, on his pillows.
"Thou foolish boy," rebuked Peggy gently wiping the perspiration from
his brow. "Thee must not waste thy strength if thee wishes to get well
soon. Thee must be patient a little longer, my cousin."
"Would I had died," broke from him passionately, tears of humiliation in
his eyes, "ere I was brought to lie here like a baby compelled to accept
services that I wish not."
A deep flush dyed the girl's face, and she choked. For a moment she
feared lest she should lose her self-control, then mastering
herself--Peggy had been well schooled in self-repression--she said
mournfully:
"Thee must not excite thyself, Cousin Clifford. Suffer me to care for
thee a little longer. If it can be arranged so that another may take
charge of thee, it shall be done. I knew not that thou didst dislike me
so much."
He made no reply, but partook of the broth she gave him without protest.
Then, because it was part of her duty to wait beside him until the
morning visit of the surgeon, she picked up the little bunch of violets
and sat down quietly.
Her heart was very full. She could not understand the youth's aversion.
It was as though he held something against her that she had done; the
resentment of an injury. In wondering perplexity she fondled the
violets, and with unconscious yearning her thoughts flew back to far-off
Philadelphia, and the long ago time when there was no war, and she had
not known these troublesome cousins.
What times she, and Sally, and Betty, and all the girls of The Social
Select Circle had had gathering the wild flowers in the great woods!
When was it they had gone there last? It came to her suddenly that it
had been six long years before, just after the battle of Lexington. They
had made wreaths for their hair, she remembered. Was it violets that
made Sally's, she wondered, the blue of the flowers she held stirring
her memories vaguely. No; it was quaker-ladies, and they were blue as
Sally's eyes. They never would go to the great woods again because the
British had felled the trees.
At this point in her meditation Peggy looked up with a start to find her
cousin regarding her with such an intent look that the color mantled her
cheek and brow. He seemed as though he was about to speak, and, fearful
that there would be another outbreak which would agitate him, she began
speaking hurriedly:
"I am thinking of the great wood, cousin, which used to lie along the
banks of the Schuylkill River at home. We went there in spring time for
violets, and all the wildings of the forest. Thee should have seen the
great trees when they were newly leaved, and again in the autumn when
they were clothed in scarlet and gold; and----"
"What have you done with Harriet?" interrupted he in a tense tone.
"What have I done with Harriet?" repeated Peggy so surprised by the
question that she let the violets fall to the floor unheeded. Clifford
had not mentioned his sister's name since the first day she came. "I
told thee, my cousin, that the council had sent her to New York, because
she communicated with Sir Henry Clinton which is not allowed. She had
been warned, but she heeded it not. Does thee not remember?"
"I know what you told me," he made answer. "Think you that I believe it?
Nay; I know that your people have prevented her from coming to me."
For a moment Peggy was so amazed that she could only stare at him. When
she had recovered sufficiently to speak she said clearly:
"I think thee must be out of thy mind, cousin. I spoke naught but truth
when I told thee of Harriet. I should not know how to speak otherwise.
Why should we hinder thy sister from coming to thee? There would be no
reason."
"At one of the taverns where we stopped on the way down here, a captain,
a whipper-snapper Yankee, flaunted a shirt in my face made by my
sister." The boy's eyes flashed at the recollection. "I wrote her
praying her to tell me that he did it but to flout me. I prayed her to
write that she was still loyal to her king and country. And she answered
not. I sent another letter, and still there was no reply. Then I tried
to escape to get to her, and I was wounded in the attempt. The director
of the hospital here promised, to quiet me, that he would see that she
received a letter, and I wrote for her to come. Harriet would have come
had she not been prevented."
"But why should she be prevented?" demanded the astounded Peggy.
"Because 'twas feared that once she was with me she would return to her
allegiance. That my influence would make her remember that Colonel
Owen's daughter could show no favors to a Yankee captain; that----"
"Clifford Owen," interrupted the girl sternly, "listen to me. Thou art
exciting thyself needlessly. Thy sister likes the Yankee captain, as
thee calls him, no more than thee does. She did make that shirt; but
'twas done because she was as full of idle fancies as thou art, and
mother sought by some task to rid her of the megrims. She gave it to
John hoping to flout him, thinking that he would not wear a garment
bearing the inscription embroidered, in perversity, upon it. She did
write to thee. Not once but several times. That thee did not receive the
letters is to be deplored, but not to be wondered at, considering the
state of the country. She exerted herself on thy behalf to procure a
parole, and 'twas near accomplishment when, impatient at the delay, she
wrote to Sir Henry Clinton imploring him to ask thy exchange. As I have
told thee, 'tis not permitted for any to communicate with the enemy, and
so she was sent to New York. And now thee has the gist of the whole
matter," concluded Peggy with dignity.
"And why is she not here?" he asked obstinately.
The girl rose quickly.
"I have told thee," she said quietly. "I will say no more. If thee
chooses to doubt my word then thee must do so. I have spoke naught but
truth. My cousin, thee will have to get another nurse. I am going back
to my mother. 'Twas a mistake to come. I but did so because mother and I
felt sorrow for thee alone down here with none of thy kin near, and
perchance dying. 'Twas a mistake, I say, to have come, but I will
trouble thee no longer. I shall start home to-day on my pony. The way is
long, and lonely; but better loneliness and fatigue than suspicion and
coldness. I hope thee will recover, my cousin. Farewell!"
She turned, standing very erectly, and started to leave the room. Before
she had taken a half dozen steps, however, there came the quick beat of
the mustering drum from the Market Green, and a hoarse shout from
without:
"The British! The British are coming!"
CHAPTER XVI--THE TABLES TURNED
"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed--at the praise of their own loveliness."
--Byron.
Instantly the little town was all commotion. From every quarter men came
running in answer to the call, ready to defend their homes from the
invader; while women huddled together in groups, or gathered their
treasures and fled with them to the forest. Mustered at length, the
militia, pitifully few in numbers, sallied forth to meet the enemy. From
the southward came the strains of martial music as the British
approached, and mothers, wives, and sisters waited in breathless
suspense the result of the encounter.
The sound of a few shots was borne presently on the breeze, followed by
the rush of running men, and the militia which had marched forth so
bravely but a short time before, came flying back, panic stricken.
"There are thousands of them," cried the panting men. "We could not
stand against the whole British army." On they ran, while from the other
direction came the first division of Major-General Phillips' army, the
Queen's Rangers, under Lieutenant-Colonel Simcoe, which marched in with
drums beating, and colors flying.
At the first alarm Peggy had paused abruptly, hardly knowing what to do.
Her first impulse had been to return to the cottage, but remembering
that Fairfax was with the militia, and Nurse Johnson somewhere about the
hospital, she hesitated. As she did so there came a peremptory voice
from the bed:
"Mistress Peggy!"
"Well, my cousin?" Peggy went back to Clifford reluctantly.
"Are my people truly coming?"
"They seem to be," answered the girl.
"And where were you going?"
"I really don't know," answered she. "I would be alone at Nurse
Johnson's cottage, which I would like not. Solitude is conducive to
fear, and I wish ever to present a brave front in the presence of the
enemy. I shall remain somewhere about the hospital by necessity."
"Stay by me," he said.
"But thee has hardly ceased telling me that thee does not want me near
thee?" cried the girl opening wide her eyes in surprise.
"I have not changed my opinion concerning the matter," he said grimly.
"But I am an English officer, and the safest place for you is by my
bedside. Therefore, mistress, I command you to sit here by my bed."
"I don't want thy protection," began Peggy hotly. "I think I prefer thy
soldiers."
"Did I want your nursing?" he demanded savagely. "No, I did not; yet was
I compelled to submit to it. And while I did not desire your attendance,
still you have attended me. For what purpose I know not, nor doth it now
matter. The fact remains that I am under an obligation of which I would
be quit. I will requite whatever of service you have rendered me by
procuring exemption from pillage or annoyance for both yourself and the
friends with whom you are staying. Sit you here beside me, Mistress
Peggy, and bide the result."
"Clifford Owen," retorted the maiden so bitterly angry that she could
scarcely speak, "were it not for those friends who have been so kind to
me, I would die rather than accept aught from thy hands. But because of
them I will take whatever of favor thee can obtain for us. But 'tis
under protest. Under strong protest, I would have thee understand."
"So?" he said. "That is quite as it should be."
For one long instant the two gazed at each other. The lad's whole
appearance betokened the keenest enjoyment of the situation. He looked
as though he had received a draught of an elixir of life, so animated
and strong did he appear.
Peggy, on the contrary, found no pleasure in the state of things. She
was as near blind, unreasoning wrath as her gentle nature ever came. Had
it not been for Nurse Johnson and her son, she would have left her
cousin's bedside forthwith. As it was she sat down beside him in
anything but a meek frame of mind.
The streets of the little city thronged with the red coats of the
British, and they took possession of public buildings, dwellings, and
shops as though they were masters returning to their own.
It was not long before several soldiers under the leadership of an
officer made their appearance in the hospital. Rapidly they went through
the rooms searching for British prisoners among the wounded and sick
inmates. There was no rudeness nor annoyance of any sort offered to
either the American sick, or their white-faced nurses. As they
approached his bed Clifford sat up stiffly, and gave the officer's
salute.
"Ha!" cried the English officer. "What have we here?" and he paused
beside him.
"I am Captain Williams, of the Forty-eighth Regiment, sir," declared
Clifford with another salute. "I have been a prisoner with the enemy
since the last week of February."
"Ha! yes; I remember. Taken at Westchester while on private business for
Sir Henry Clinton," said the other.
"The very same, sir. And this," indicating Peggy, "is my cousin,
Mistress Margaret Owen, of Philadelphia, who hath been put to no small
inconvenience by my illness. She hath nursed me back to health, or at
least until I am on the road to recovery. For the sake of whatever
service I have been able to render General Sir Henry Clinton, I beg you
to see that neither she, nor any of the inmates of the house where she
dwells, be subjected to annoyance. She hath also a pony, I believe, of
which she is very fond. Wilt see that it is exempted from impressment?
It is needless to say that any favor rendered me in the matter will not
go without recompense."
A significant glance was exchanged between the two which Peggy did not
notice. What she did see, however, was that the officer saluted in turn,
saying pompously:
"Whatever you desire in the matter, captain, will be done. If the young
lady will come with me to show me the house I will at once put a guard
on the premises. I promise that she will suffer no annoyance of any
sort."
As Clifford spoke of her as his cousin, Peggy felt a quick revulsion of
feeling. It was the first time he had so called her. Then, as he openly
acknowledged his indebtedness to her nursing, the girl's anger toward
him died away. After all, she thought, the lad was doing his best to
repay her for what she had done. That he was doing it from a desire to
be quit of the obligation did not matter in the least. She knew now how
he had felt during the time when he had submitted to her attentions, and
a sense of justice made her aware that he was acquitting himself
handsomely. And so as she rose to accompany the officer to the cottage,
she said humbly:
"I thank thee, my cousin. I will not forget thy kindness in the matter."
A puzzled look came into the youth's eyes at her changed demeanor, but
he merely gave a slight bow, and motioned her to go on with the officer.
But Peggy was not yet through with him.
"May I come again to attend thee?" she asked in a low tone. "Thee is not
well yet, thee must know."
"Yes," he said. "Come, and you will, mistress. I will not mind your
ministrations so much now."
And in much better spirits than she had deemed possible a few moments
before the girl accompanied the officer to the cottage. Nurse Johnson
came to the door wringing her hands as they neared the entrance.
"There will be naught left, Peggy," she said despairingly. "The soldiers
are in the house now stripping it of everything. 'Twill be a mercy if
the house is left."
Before Peggy could make reply the officer removed his cocked hat, bowing
courteously.
"That shall be stopp
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