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Title: Peggy Owen at Yorktown
Author: Madison, Lucy Foster, 1865-1932
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Peggy Owen at Yorktown" ***

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[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 stopped immediately, madam,” he said. “War is not a
gentle thing, and sometimes suffering must fall upon even our friends.
In this case, however, your inconvenience will be short.”

The good woman had not recovered from her bewilderment at this speech,
ere he pushed past her into the house, and they heard him reprimanding
the looting soldiers sharply.

“What doth it mean, child?” she gasped as every article taken was
restored to its place, and a guard mounted before the dwelling. “Why are
we so favored when our poor neighbors are faring so ill?”

“’Tis Clifford,” Peggy told her. “He insisted that my friends and I
should not be subjected to annoyance by his people as a return for
nursing him.”

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed the nurse. “And you thought he did not
like you!”

“He doesn’t, friend nurse. He made sure that I should understand that
his feeling toward me had not changed, but he felt that he was under an
obligation of which he would be quit. Still,” a little gleam came into
Peggy’s eyes as she spoke, “he did think that he would not mind my
ministering to him so much now.”

“Of course not,” laughed Nurse Johnson. “He will think it his due now.
Isn’t that like an Englishman? But I am very thankful none the less,
though I see not how he could do other than he hath done. It is
certainly reassuring to know that we shall not be molested.”

So Peggy and her friend stayed in the cottage, or went back and forth to
the hospital untroubled, save for the irksomeness of having armed men
about the dooryard. And in the stable Star ate her oats, or tossed her
slender head unwitting of the fact that she had been saved from helping
in the marauding expeditions of the enemy.

“I have misjudged my cousin,” thought Peggy with a warm glow of
gratitude toward the lad as she prepared his breakfast the next morning.
“And yesterday I was so angry. Peggy, Peggy! will thee never learn to
govern thy temper? Thee must be more patient, and guard thy unruly
tongue better. Heigh-ho! ’tis an adventurous jaunt after all, though
still I would I were with mother. There! I don’t believe that my cousin
will ignore my offering this morning.”

And with this she placed a few violets on the platter, and started for
the hospital, going through the gate of the orchard which opened into
Palace Street.

As she closed the gate and turned in the direction of the hospital she
saw an officer coming down the street. There was something strangely
familiar in his appearance, and Peggy was so impressed with the idea
that it was some one she had met that she regarded him keenly. She
stopped as though she had received a shock as she recognized him. For
the man was Major-General Benedict Arnold, and he was coming directly
toward her.



CHAPTER XVII—AN UNWELCOME ENCOUNTER


                   “He stood alone—A renegade
                   Against the Country he betrayed.”

Peggy leaned against the fence for support, trembling violently. General
Arnold was evidently bound for the palace, and she must pass him if she
continued on her way to the hospital. The thought of running back to the
house, and waiting until he had passed came to her, but she found
herself incapable of moving. Peggy was obliged to resign herself to the
encounter.

The scarlet and gold of the British uniform well became him, Peggy could
not but observe. His dark, handsome face looked impassively from under
his laced, cocked hat, and with quickening heart-throbs she saw that he
still limped. Wildly she hoped that he would pass by without noticing
her, and she watched his approach with a sort of fascination.

The birds sang merrily above her head, flitting from tree to tree across
the blue of the sky. From the topmost bough of a near-by mulberry tree
an oriole poured forth a flood of melody. A fresh river breeze bearing
on its wings the odors of the sea stirred the maiden’s hair and touched
her flushed cheeks with refreshing coolness.

Alas! as he came directly in front of her he raised his eyes, and then
stopped abruptly with an exclamation of surprise and wonder.

“Why! it is Miss Peggy Owen, is it not?” he asked with a genial smile.

“Yes,” answered she faintly. “It is, Fr——” then she stopped. The word
friend stuck in her throat. She could not utter it. Friend? Nay, he was
not that. He had forfeited the title forever. And so, after a brief
hesitation, she continued: “It is I, in truth, General Arnold.”

A flush had come into his swarthy face as she substituted the title
“general” for friend. He bent his dark compelling eye upon her with
wistful eagerness.

“Miss Peggy,” he said, holding out his hand with a winning smile, “we
are both a long way from home. I little thought to find my girl friend
down here. I give you greeting.”

“And I give thee greeting also, sir,” she returned. But she did not put
out her hand. She could not.

She had been taught all her life to return good for evil. To submit to
baseness and ingratitude with meekness; but Peggy could not bring
herself to clasp Benedict Arnold’s hand in greeting. Above the singing
of the birds she heard John Drayton’s heart-broken cry, “My general! my
general! my general!” She saw again the anguish of strong men at the
defection of a brave soldier. How Drayton had loved him—this dashing,
daring leader who had ruined his ideal of manhood. The blankness and
awfulness of the pall that had settled upon the country after his
desertion had not yet been dissipated. Men had not yet ceased to look
suspiciously upon each other. Officers spoke with hushed voices even yet
of how the great heart of General Washington had been all but crushed by
this man’s falseness. And now he stood before her with outstretched hand
in the April sunshine.

“I give thee greeting, sir,” she said with unsmiling lips. “Greeting and
good-day.” And she made as if to pass him.

“Stay,” he said, his face crimsoned, and dark with anger. “Am I not fit
to be spoken to? You regard me as a traitor, do you not? Yes; your eyes
tell it though you say it not. My little maid, may not a man change his
opinions? Have I not heard that your father was not always of the belief
that bloodshed was lawful? Nay; even you yourself have changed since the
beginning of the war. Once you and your family held that resistance to
the powers that be was wrong. That submission to the king was not only
proper but duty as well. Have I not the right to change my views and
opinions also?”

“Yes,” she made answer. “Thee has the right. Any man may change.”

“Then why condemn me?” he cried with passion.

“I do not condemn thee, sir; I leave that to God and thy conscience,”
she said. “But oh!” she cried unable to control herself longer, “why did
thee not do it openly? No man would have held thee to blame had thee
come out boldly, and acknowledged thy changed views. But to seek to give
our strongest fortress into the hands of the enemy; to betray a brave
man to death, to destroy the idol that thee had made for thyself in the
hearts of thy soldiers, to bring sorrow to General Washington, who hath
so much to bear; this was not well, sir. ’Twas not done in the honorable
manner that men had a right to expect of Benedict Arnold. And now, to
come with fire and sword against thine own people! How can thee do it?
How can thee?”

“You do not understand. There have been men who have been willing to
bear infamy that good might come of it. I sought to be one of them. When
the colonies have been restored to their rightful allegiance the matter
may appear in a different light. Miss Peggy, you do not understand.”

“No,” she answered reluctant to prolong the interview. “I do not, sir;
nor do I wish to.”

“Child,” he said, regarding her with a winsome smile, “once you were
beset with pride because you walked the length of a drawingroom by my
side. Will you pleasure me with your company down this street?”

Peggy’s eyes were misty, and her voice full of infinite sadness as she
replied:

“When I was proud to walk with thee, thou wert a brave soldier, wounded
in the defense of thy country. Now thou hast betrayed that country, and
thou hast come against thine own people, plundering and burning the
property of thy brothers. I walk with no traitor, sir.”

Over his dark forehead, cheek, and neck the red blood rioted at her
words, and his dark eyes flashed ominously.

“So be it,” he said at length. “Enemies we are, then. I could have
served you greatly. Perhaps it would have been better for you to have
been more politic; but no matter. Benedict Arnold forces his presence
upon no one. This one thing, however, I ask of you: Tell me, I pray,
where John Drayton is. But answer that and I will leave you in peace.”

[Illustration: ”BENEDICT ARNOLD FORCES HIS PRESENCE UPON NO ONE“]

“Thee means to tempt him,” breathed Peggy, looking at him with startled
glance. “Thee has no right to know that. He was broken-hearted over thy
defection from thy country. He shed tears of sorrow. He and Daniel
Morgan also. He would not wish to hear from thee. Molest him not, I beg
of thee.”

“Ah! that touched you,” he cried. “If you are so sure of his loyalty why
ask me not to molest him? Are you afraid that he will come to me for the
love he bears me?”

“No,” responded the girl indignantly, stung to the quick by his sneering
manner. “John is fighting with the army, as he should be. Thee could not
persuade him to leave his duty, sir. I trust him as I do myself.”

“How now!” he cried. “Wilt lay a wager with me that another two months
will not find John Drayton fighting by my side? Wilt lay a wager on’t,
my little maid?”

“No; I will not,” she said, her eyes dilated with scorn at the
proposition. “Neither will I tell thee where he is so that thou canst
vilely try to woo him from his allegiance. John is loyal to his country.
He hath been severely tried, and not yet found wanting. I should be less
than friend to consent that thou shouldst make an attempt upon his
honor.”

“You have told me where he is, Mistress Peggy, without knowing it,” and
he laughed maliciously. “Daniel Morgan hath been, until of late, with
General Greene’s army in the Carolinas. If Drayton and Morgan were
together it follows as a matter of course that Drayton is also with
Greene.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Peggy in dismay. Then her native wit came to her aid.
“But that was last fall,” she objected. “It doth not follow that even if
he were there then, he is now. At that time thou wert with the enemy in
New York; yet now thou art in Virginia. Why should he remain stationary
any more than thou shouldst?”

“Well reasoned,” he approved, still laughing. “It doth not matter where
he is, Mistress Peggy. I can find him if I wish. And I may wish. Do you
live here?” indicating the cottage abruptly.

“For the time being, sir,” answered Peggy, longing to terminate the
interview. “I am here to care for my cousin, who is of the British
army.”

“Which accounts for the guard. Ah! Mistress Peggy, I see that despite
your Whig proclivities you know the wisdom of having a friend among the
enemy. Perhaps you would have met my friendly overtures in another
spirit had it not been so. I give you good-day. Perchance we may meet
again.”

Bowing low he left her, and feeling somehow very uncomfortable Peggy
went on to her cousin.



CHAPTER XVIII—UNDER THE LINDENS


                 “Snatch from the ashes of your sires,
                 The embers of the former fires;
                 And leave your sons a hope, a fame,
                 They too will rather die than shame;
                 For Freedom’s battle once begun,
                 Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
                 Though baffled oft is ever won.”

                                 —“The Giaour,” Byron.

“You are late,” spoke Clifford Owen with anything but an amiable
expression when at length Peggy reached his bedside. “Methought you had
forgot that I lay here without breakfast?”

“Nay, my cousin,” said the girl apologetically. “I started with thy
breakfast some time since, but one of thy generals stopped me; and then,
as the broth was cold, I tarried in the hospital kitchen to warm it.”

“Is it the everlasting broth again?” queried the boy irritably. “Odds
life! I think that Yankee doctor is determined to keep me here all
summer. How can a fellow gain strength with naught but broth to eat?”

“Thee should not speak so of the good doctor,” reproved Peggy gently.
“And to show thee that thee should not, know that that same Yankee
doctor said, when I was warming the broth, that thee was strong enough
to take something other than it. And he had me prepare, what does thee
think? Why, a soft-boiled egg and a bit of toast. So there, my cousin!
is not that a nice breakfast?”

“It isn’t half enough,” grumbled her cousin. “One little egg, and one
piece of toast that would scarce cover a half joe. Why, I could eat a
whole ox, I believe. I tell you the fellow wants to keep me on a thin
diet for fear that I will get strong enough to fight. I am going to have
one of the British surgeons look me over.”

“Thee is cross, and hungry; which is vastly encouraging,” commented the
maiden sagely.

The youth looked up at her with the merest suspicion of a smile.

“If being cross and hungry are encouraging symptoms,” he said somewhat
grimly, “I think I ought to get up right now. I’d like to tear this bed
to pieces, I am so tired of it; and as for hunger——” He paused as though
words failed to express his feelings.

“Then thee had better fall to at once,” suggested Peggy. “And thee is
talking too much, I fear.”

“No,” he said. “The coming of the army hath put new life into me. I am
no longer a prisoner, Mistress Peggy. That in itself is enough to cure
one of any malady. Think! ’twill not be long ere I shall come and go at
pleasure. Nor shall I be bound by a parole.”

“But thee must be patient a little longer,” advised the maiden, as he
resigned the tray to her with a sigh of content. “Thee must not overdo
just at this time, else thee will tax thy new-found strength too much.
And I wish to thank thee again, my cousin, for thy kindness yesterday.
Thy people have not molested us in any way, and thy friend, the officer
who spoke with thee, hath placed a guard about our house to ensure our
safety. Both Nurse Johnson and I appreciate thy thoughtfulness. We might
have fared ill had it not been for thee.”

“I like not to be beholden to any,” he remarked. “’Twill serve to repay
in part for your nursing. I see not yet why you should journey so far to
care for an unknown kinsman.”

“Thee did not seem unknown to me, my cousin,” returned Peggy quietly.
“Thy father stayed with us for nearly a year when he was upon parole in
Philadelphia. And I have been with Harriet for two years almost
constantly. Then, too, the dictates of humanity would scarce let us
leave thee down here without any of thy kin near. That is all,
Clifford.”

And Peggy would discuss the matter no further. Her heart was very warm
toward her cousin, and she did not wish a repetition of the conversation
of the day before. Seeing that he was inclined to converse too much she
quietly withdrew, and busied herself in other parts of the hospital,
winding bandages for the surgeons, or reading to the sick. She feared to
return to the cottage lest she should again meet with General Arnold;
and that, Peggy told herself, she could not bear. At length, however,
just about sunset, which was her usual time for returning, she ventured
forth.

The evening was a lovely one. The sun had sunk beyond the belts of
forest lying to the westward of the town, leaving the sky rosy and
brilliant. The street was deserted, and breathing a sigh of relief the
maiden hastened to the cottage. She found Mrs. Johnson awaiting her.

“You are late, child,” she said with so distraught an air that Peggy
looked up quickly. “I was beginning to fear that some ill might have
befallen you. What kept you so?”

“Friend nurse,” answered Peggy with some agitation, “General Arnold
stopped me this morning when I went to the hospital with my cousin’s
breakfast. I feared lest I should meet with him again, so I waited until
the street was clear.”

“Arnold, the traitor?” exclaimed Nurse Johnson.

“The very same. I knew him in Philadelphia when he was our general. I
liked not to talk with him, but he would not let me pass. Friend nurse,
does thee think the British will stay here long?”

“’Tis hard to tell, Peggy. I blame you not for not wanting to meet with
him, but ’tis a thing that will be unavoidable in this small town if
they stay any length of time. I think he must be with General Phillips
at the palace. I wish,” ended the good woman with the feeling that all
Americans held toward the traitor, “I wish that we might do something to
capture him. ’Tis said that His Excellency is most anxious to effect
it.”

“Yes; but naught can be done with an army back of him. But something
worries thee, and I have done naught but speak of my own anxiety. What
is it?”

“’Tis Fairfax,” Nurse Johnson told her in troubled tones. “He is hiding
in the forest, and wishes to come home for the night. I had a note from
him. He tried to creep in to-day, but was deterred by seeing the guard
in the yard. Of course, I knew that the militia must have fled to the
forest, and the poor fellows are in want of food because the British
have ravaged all the plantations near. If the boy could get in without
the knowledge of the guard he could stay in the garret until the
soldiers leave. But how to accomplish it I know not. He will be in the
palace grounds to-night a little after sunset, he said. And he wished me
to meet him there. But I promised the guard that I would cook them
Indian cakes to-night, and so I cannot leave without arousing their
suspicion. ’Tis time to go now, and to serve the cakes also. What to do
I know not.”

“Why could I not go to thy son, while thee stays and cooks the cakes?”
asked Peggy eagerly.

“Why, child, that might do! I did not think of that; yet I like not to
send you out again so late.”

“It is not late. The dark hath come only in the shadow, which will be
the better. And where will he be, friend nurse? The grounds are so large
that I might go astray if I did not know the exact spot.”

“He will be in the great grove of lindens which lies on the far side of
the grounds,” the nurse told her. “Yet I like not——”

“Say no more, friend nurse,” said Peggy quickly. “’Tis settled that I am
to go. Now tell me just what thee wishes me to do.”

After some further expostulation on the part of the nurse she consented
that the girl should go to meet the lad, carrying some of his mother’s
clothes which he should don, and so arrayed come back to the cottage.

“I wonder,” mused Nurse Johnson, “if he knew that the English general
hath his headquarters in the palace. ’Tis a rash proceeding to venture
so near. If he is taken they will make him either swear allegiance to
the king, or else give him a parole. Fairfax will take neither, so it
means prison for the boy. Foolish, foolish, to venture here!”

“But all will be well if we can but get him here unbeknown to the
guard,” consoled Peggy. “Friend nurse, cook many cakes, and regale them
so bountifully that they will linger long over the meal; and it may be
that Fairfax can slip in unobserved.”

“The very thing!” ejaculated the nurse excitedly. “What a wit you have,
Peggy. I begin to think that we can get him here, after all.”

She bundled up one of her frocks hastily, saying as she gave it to the
girl:

“Of course you must be guided by circumstances, my child, but come back
as quickly as possible lest the guard be through with the meal. If they
can be occupied——”

“I will hasten,” promised Peggy. “And now good-bye. Oh, I’ll warrant
those guards will never have again such a meal as thee will give them.
Now don’t be too anxious.”

“But I shall be,” answered the nurse with a sigh. “Not only anent
Fairfax but you also.”

Peggy passed out of the cottage quickly, and went toward the hospital.
It was so usual a thing for her to go back and forth that the going
attracted no attention from the guards. Now the hospital had an entrance
that opened directly into the palace grounds, and Peggy availed herself
of this convenience.

The grounds were very large, and it was fortunate that she knew the
exact situation of the grove of linden trees, else she must have become
bewildered. The lawns were in a sad state of neglect, overrun with vines
and wild growths; for, since Lord Dunmore, the last royal governor, had
left, the mansion had held but an occasional tenant. So much of
underbrush was there that it was a comparatively easy matter for Peggy
to pass unobserved through the trees in the gathering dusk of the
twilight. A guard had been placed in the immediate vicinity of the
mansion, and the town itself was thoroughly picketed so that sentinels
in the remoter parts of the grounds were infrequent. And unobserved
Peggy presently reached the great grove of lindens, the pride of the
former royal governor.

The moon was just rising through a bank of threatening clouds which had
gathered since the sunset. They obscured the moonlight at one moment,
then swept onward permitting the full light of the orb to shine. Peggy’s
voice trembled a little as she called softly:

“Friend Fairfax!”

“Mistress Peggy!” Fairfax Johnson rose slowly from the copse near the
grove, and came toward her.

“Is it thou?” asked Peggy in a low tone. Then as he drew closer: “Thee
is to put on this frock, friend. ’Tis thy mother’s. Then thee is to come
boldly back to the cottage with me, and enter while thy mother hath the
guard in the kitchen regaling them with Indian cakes and honey. Be
quick!”

The youth took the bundle silently, and retired a short distance from
her. The clouds cleared in the next few moments, discovering Master
Fairfax arrayed in his mother’s frock, which was a trifle long for him.
He stumbled as he tried to approach Peggy, and grabbed at his skirts
awkwardly.

“Thee must not stride, friend,” rebuked Peggy in a shrill whisper. “Thee
is a woman, remember. Walk mincingly. So! Hold not thy skirt so high.
Thy boots will betray thee. No woman had ever so large a foot. Oh, dear!
I don’t believe that thee will ever get by the guards. And thy mother is
uneasy about thee.”

“I’ll do better,” answered the youth eagerly. “Indeed, I will try to do
better, Mistress Peggy. Show me just once more. Remember that I’ve never
been a woman before.”

“’Tis no time for frivolity,” chided the girl, laughing a little
herself. “There! ’tis a decided improvement, Friend Fairfax. I think we
may start now. And as we go thee may tell me why thee should be so rash
as to venture into the town while the enemy is here. Thy mother wondered
anent the matter. Why did thee, friend?”

“Why, because the Marquis de Lafayette hath entered the state, and is
marching to meet the British,” he answered. “The militia of Williamsburg
is to join him. We march at daybreak. I wanted to see mother before
going, and to get something to eat. I have eaten naught since yesterday
morning.”

“Why, thou poor fellow,” exclaimed Peggy. “No wonder thee would dare
greatly. And ’tis venturesome, friend. Vastly so! And hath the Marquis
come from General Washington?”

“Yes; he hath twelve hundred regulars, and everywhere in tide-water
Virginia the militia are rising to join him. We must do all we can to
keep the old Dominion from being overrun by the enemy. The meeting place
is near the Richmond hills.”

“Thank you for the information,” came a sarcastic voice, and from out of
the gloom there stepped a figure in the uniform of an English officer.
The moon, bursting through the clouds at this moment, revealed the dark
face of Benedict Arnold. Peggy gave a little cry as she recognized him.

“So this is your trysting place,” he said glancing about the grove.
“Upon my word a most romantic spot for a meeting, but a trace too near
the enemy for absolute security. You realize, do you not, that you are
both prisoners?”

“Sir,” spoke Fairfax Johnson, “do with me as you will, but this maiden
hath done naught for which she should be made a prisoner. She but came
to conduct me to my mother.”

“And ’tis no trysting place,” interposed Peggy with some indignation.
“The lad but ventured here to see his mother. He hath eaten nothing
since yesterday morning. The least, the very least thee can do is to
first let him see his mother, and have a good meal.”

“And then?” he questioned as though enjoying the situation. “Upon my
word, Miss Peggy, you plead well for him. I have heard you plead for
another youth, have I not?”

“Thee has,” answered she with spirit. “But then I pleaded with an
American officer, a gallant and brave man. Now——”

“Yes, and now?” he demanded fiercely. “Have I no bowels of compassion,
think you, because I have changed my convictions? I will show you,
Mistress Peggy, that I am not so vile a thing as you believe. Go! You
and this youth also. The information he hath so unwittingly given is of
far more value than he would be as a prisoner. We had not yet been
advised of Lafayette’s whereabouts, and we were anxious to know them. We
have tarried at this town for want of that very intelligence. Therefore,
go! but take this advice: Hereafter, choose your meeting place at a spot
other than the enemy’s headquarters.” He laughed sneeringly, and turning
strode off under the trees.

“I would rather he had taken me prisoner,” observed the lad gloomily.

“Well, I am glad that he did not,” answered Peggy. “Thy mother would
have grieved so. Come, Friend Fairfax! With such a man one knows not how
long his mood of mercy will last. Let us hasten while we may.”

He followed her awkwardly. They reached the cottage without further
molestation, and entered it unobserved.

On the morning following the drums beat assembly soon after the sounding
of the reveille. The different commands filed out of their camps, and,
forming into a column, took up the line of march out of the city.



CHAPTER XIX—HARRIET AT LAST


      “Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
      Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake.
      Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin’s in his ire.
      May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire.
      Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
      Or die like your sires, and endure it no more.”

                                           —“Battle Song,” Scott.

With the courage born of the desperateness of the situation the citizens
of Williamsburg set about repairing the devastation wrought by the
invader. Wrecked homes and desolated families followed fast in the wake
of the British army. From field and hills the militia assembled to repel
their approach, leaving the crops to the care of the men too old for
service, the women who bravely shouldered tasks too heavy for delicate
frames, and the few negroes who remained faithful to their owners.
Patiently demolished gardens were replanted, poultry yards restocked,
depleted larders replenished in order that want, stark and gaunt, might
not be added to other foes.

And the sunny days of April became the brighter ones of May, and the
forests about the city blossomed into riotous greens, starred by the
white of dogwood, or the purplish-pink mist of the Judas-tree. The
mulberries and sycamores were haunts of song. Out of the cerulean sky
the sun shone brilliantly upon the leaf-strewn earth. All Nature
rejoiced, and sent forth a profusion of bloom and verdure as though to
compensate the land for the bloody war waged throughout its length and
breadth. For that great game, whose moves and counter-moves were to
terminate so soon in the cul-de-sac of Yorktown, had begun. From the
seacoast where Greene had sent him Cornwallis, recovered at last from
the dearly bought victory of Guilford Court House, was moving rapidly
across North Carolina for a junction with the forces in Virginia. There
was no longer a doubt but that the subjugation of the state was the aim
of the British.

An empty treasury, a scarcity of arms, a formidable combination to
oppose in the West, a continual demand upon her resources to answer for
the army in the North, with all these contingencies to face Virginia had
now to prepare to meet this new foe advancing from the South.

Late one afternoon in the latter part of May Peggy and her cousin sat in
the palace grounds under the shade of a large oak tree. The girl had
been reading aloud, but now the book lay closed upon the grass beside
her, and she sat regarding the youth who lay sprawled full length upon
the grass.

“And so thee is going back to the army?” she asked. “Is thee sure that
thee is strong enough?”

“Yes; I tire of inaction. I told General Phillips when he passed through
two weeks ago on his way to Petersburg that I would join him when the
combined army reached Richmond. I would have gone with him then but that
I hoped Harriet might still come here. I do not understand why I have
not heard from her, if she is, as you say, in New York.”

“I wish thee could hear, my cousin,” said Peggy patiently. “I would that
thee might hear from her for my own sake as well as thine. It vexes me
for thee to doubt my word, and thee will never believe that I have
spoken truth until thee hears from her.”

“But consider,” he said. “It hath been more than a month since you came.
When you first came you said that she was in New York. If so, why hath
she not written? Ships pass to and from there with supplies and messages
for the forces here. ’Twould have been easy to hear.”

“I am sorry that I cannot relieve thy uneasiness,” Peggy made answer.
“It is not in my power to do so, Clifford.”

“I am uneasy,” he admitted, sitting upright. “Sometimes I am minded to
set forth to see what hath become of her.”

Peggy looked at him with quick eagerness.

“Why not?” she asked. “My cousin, why should we two not go to
Philadelphia? Then thee could go on from there to New York to thy
sister. Why not, Clifford? My mother——” Her voice broke.

“You want to go home?” he asserted.

“Yes; oh, yes!” she answered yearningly. “Thee is well now. There is
naught to do but to amuse thee by reading or by conversation. The troops
are now all on the south side of the James River with thy general, Lord
Cornwallis. ’Twould be a most excellent time, Clifford, for a start
toward Philadelphia. We would have none but our own soldiers to meet.”

“‘Our own soldiers’ mean my foes, Mistress Peggy,” he rejoined with a
half smile. “You forget that I am an Englishman. We would never reach
your home were we to start. I am not going to risk my new-found freedom
by venturing among the rebels.”

“But I am a patriot, and thou art a Britisher, as thou say’st. Why not
depend upon me when we are among the Americans, and upon thee when with
thy forces?” asked the maiden ingenuously.

The lad laughed.

“Nay,” he returned. “We should need a flag that would show that we were
non-combatants. No; ’twill not do. I shall go back to the army, and
you——”

“Yes?” she questioned. “And I, my cousin? What shall I do? Twice already
in the past month thy army hath visited this city. How often it will
come from now on none can tell. All tide-water Virginia seems swept by
them as by a pestilence. Get me a flag and let me pass to my home.”

“’Tis not to be thought of for a moment,” he answered quickly. “I will
not even consider the thing. I have deliberated the matter, and, as I
feel to some extent responsible for your well-being, I have finally
decided what were best to be done. Know then, Mistress Peggy, that I
shall in a few days conduct you to Portsmouth, where the frigate ‘Iris’
lies preparing to return to New York. I shall send you on her to that
port.”

Peggy was too astonished for a moment to speak. The youth spoke with the
quiet assurance of one who expects no opposition to his decision. The
girl chafed under his manner.

“Thee takes my submission to thy authority too much for granted, Cousin
Clifford,” she remarked presently, and her voice trembled slightly. “I
am not going to New York. I spent a year there among the British, and
’tis an experience that I do not care to repeat. Thee does not choose to
be a prisoner, my cousin; neither do I.”

“If you were ever a prisoner there I know naught concerning it,” he
answered. “Surely if Harriet is there, as you would have me believe,
’tis the place for you. If you are the friends you seem to be what would
be more natural than for you to go to her, since to return to your own
home is out of the question? The vessel sails the first of June. I shall
put you on her. There is naught else to do.”

“I go not to New York,” was all the girl said. She had not told Clifford
any of the unpleasant incidents connected with his father, or sister.
She had been taught to speak only good, forgetting the evil. Now,
however, she wondered if it would not have been better to have
enlightened him concerning some of the events.

“We will not discuss the matter further for the present,” he said
stiffly. “I know best what to do in the matter, and you will have to
abide by it. I see naught else for you to do.”

Peggy’s experience with boy cousins had been limited to this one, so she
was ignorant of the fact that they often arrogate to themselves as a
right the privilege of ordering their girl relatives’ affairs. She did
not know that these same masculine relatives often assumed more
authority than father and brother rolled into one. She was ignorant of
these things and so sat, a wave of indignant protest surging to her
lips. Fearing to give utterance to the feeling that overwhelmed her she
rose abruptly, and left the grounds.

“I will walk as far as the college and back,” she concluded. “I must be
by myself to think this over. What shall be done? Go to New York I will
not. And how determinedly my cousin speaks! Doth he think that I have no
spirit that I will submit to him?”

And so musing she walked slowly down Palace Street, under the shade of
the double row of catalpa trees which cast cooling shadows over the
narrow green. At length just as she turned to enter Duke of Gloucester
Street there came the sound of bugles. This was followed by the noise of
countless hoof beats; then came the sharp tones of military command: all
denoting the approach of a body of mounted men.

The people began running hither and thither, and soon the street was so
filled with them that Peggy could not see what was coming. As quickly as
possible she made her way to the steps of the Capitol, and ascended its
steps that she might have a good view of the approaching force. From the
Yorktown road another detachment of British filed into town. The
citizens of the little city viewed their entrance with feelings in which
alarm predominated. What could they want in Williamsburg, they asked
themselves. Had they not been stripped of almost everything in the shape
of food that they should be compelled to support a third visit from the
enemy? A flutter of skirts in the rear division of the cavalry drew
attention to the fact that a girl rode among them and, surprised by this
unusual incident, Peggy leaned forward for a keener glance.

A cry of amazement broke from her lips as the girl drew near. For the
maiden was Harriet Owen on her horse, Fleetwood.

Harriet herself, blooming and beautiful! Harriet, in joseph of green,
with a gay plume of the same color nodding from her hat, smiling and
debonair, as though riding in the midst of cavalry were the most
enjoyable thing in the world. Peggy rubbed her eyes, and looked again.
No; she was not dreaming. She saw aright. The vision on horseback was in
very truth her cousin Harriet. With a little cry Peggy ran down the
steps, and pushed her way through the gaping crowd.

“Harriet,” she called.

Harriet Owen turned, saw her, then drew rein and spoke to the officer
who rode by her side. He smiled, saluted her courteously as she
dismounted lightly, and gave Fleetwood’s bridle into the hand of an
orderly. Quickly the English girl advanced to her cousin’s side.

“Well, Peggy?” she said smilingly.



CHAPTER XX—VINDICATED


              “’Tis just that I should vindicate alone
              The broken truce, or for the breach atone.”

                                                 —Dryden.

“Thee has come at last,” cried Peggy, a little catch coming into her
voice. “Oh, Harriet! Harriet! why didn’t thee come before? Or write?”

“Why, I came as soon as I could, Peggy. When I knew that the Forty-third
was to be sent down I went to Sir Henry for permission to accompany the
regiment. The colonel’s wife bore him company, which made my coming
possible. Oh, the voyage was delightsome! I love the sea. And the
military also. You should have heard the things they said to ‘this sweet
creature,’ as they styled me. And how is Clifford?”

“He is no longer an invalid, Harriet. He hath quit the hospital, and
taken rooms at the Raleigh Tavern. Thee can see the building from here
if thee will turn thy head. ’Tis the long low building with the row of
dormer windows in the roof. He talks also of returning to the army, but
hath been waiting to hear from thee. He hath worried. I am so glad that
thou hast come, and he will be glad also. I do believe that thee grows
more beautiful all the time.”

“Sorry that I can’t say the same for you,” laughed Harriet, pinching
Peggy’s cheek playfully. “What have you been doing to yourself? You are
pale, and thinner than when I saw you last. Mercy! how long ago it
seems, yet ’twas but the first week in last month. I have had such a
good time in New York, Peggy,” she ran on without waiting for answers to
her questions. “The routs and the assemblies were vastly entertaining.
And the plays! Oh, Peggy, you should have been there. I thought of you
often, and wished you with me, you little gray mouse of a cousin! Why do
you wear that frock? I like it not.”

“Did thee in truth think of me?” asked Peggy wistfully. “With all that
pleasuring I wonder that thee had time.”

“Well, I did of a certainty. Particularly after your mother’s letter
came telling me about Clifford, and how you had gone down to care for
him. Of course I knew that he was in good hands, so I didn’t worry. Is
this the hospital?”

“Yes,” answered the Quakeress who had been leading Harriet toward the
spot during the conversation. “I left thy brother in the palace grounds,
and I thought thee would like to be taken directly to him. Hath Captain
Williams come in yet?” she inquired of an attendant.

“Captain Williams,” repeated Harriet who seemed to be in high spirits.
“How droll that sounds! Are these the palace grounds?” as Peggy on
receiving the attendant’s answer led the way into them. “Oh! there is
Clifford!”

She made a little rush forward with outstretched arms as she caught
sight of her brother, crying joyously:

“Clifford! Clifford!”

The youth rose at her cry. Over his face poured a flood of color.
Incredulity struggled with joy, and was succeeded by a strange
expression. His face grew stern, and his brows knit together in a heavy
frown. He folded his arms across his breast as his sister approached,
and made no motion to embrace her. Peggy was nonplussed at the change.
What did it mean! He had been so anxious for her coming, and so uneasy
about her. She could not understand it. Harriet too seemed astonished at
this strange reception.

“One moment,” he said, and Peggy shivered at the coldness of his tones,
“do you come, my sister, as a loyal Englishwoman, or as a rebel?”

“Loyal?” questioned Harriet wonderingly. “Why, of course I’m loyal. What
else could I be?”

“And that Yankee captain? The one to whom you gave that shirt?”

“The Yankee captain?” A puzzled look flashed across Harriet’s face. “Oh!
do you mean John Drayton? Well, what about him?”

“Is he not favored by you?” queried Clifford, a light beginning to glow
on his countenance.

“Favored by me? John Drayton!” Harriet’s lip curled in disdain. “What
nonsense is this, Cliff? I dislike John Drayton extremely. Didn’t Peggy
tell you?”

“Then come,” he said opening his arms.

“You silly boy,” cried Harriet embracing him. “I am minded not to kiss
you at all. What put such absurd notions in your head? How well you
look! Not nearly so pale as Peggy is. One would think she was the
invalid. Come, Peggy! ’Tis fine here under the trees. Sit down while you
both hear about the gayeties of New York. And the war news! Oh, I have
so much to tell. Sir Henry says the game is up with the colonies this
summer. But oh, Cliff——”

“Have you been in New York?” he interrupted.

“Of course. Didn’t Peggy tell you how the Most Honorable Council of the
revolted colony of Pennsylvania,” and Harriet’s voice grew sarcastic,
“banished me to that city because I tried to get a letter to Sir Henry
Clinton concerning your exchange? It hath afforded much amusement at the
dinners when I would take off Mr. Reed’s solemn manner. ’Tis strange
that Peggy did not tell you.”

“She did,” he replied, and turning he looked at Peggy as though seeing
her for the first time. A gaze that embraced the gray gown that clung
close to her slender figure; the snowy whiteness of her apron, the full
fichu fastened firmly about the round girlish throat; and the simple cap
of fine muslin that rested upon her dark tresses. “She did,” he
repeated, and paused expectantly as though for her to speak.

But she made no comment. It was enough that she was vindicated at last.
It had hurt Peggy that her cousin should doubt her word, and now her
sole feeling was one of content that he should know that she had indeed
spoken naught but truth.

“Then if Peggy told you that I was sent there I see not why you should
ask if I came from there,” spoke Harriet in perplexity. “Clifford, have
you seen father?”

“No,” his face clouding. “I dread meeting him, Harriet. You know that he
left you and the home in my charge. Had I known that you would not
remain I would never have left you. And why did you not stay there, my
sister?”

“Alone, Clifford? Did you not know me better than that? Know then,
brother mine, that if you can serve your country, Mistress Harriet Owen
can also. Oh, I have seen service, sir. I was a spy in the rebel
headquarters at Middlebrook, in the Jerseys, for nearly a whole winter.”

“You, Harriet! A spy?” he cried aghast. “Not you, Harriet?”

“Don’t get wrought up, Cliff. Father knew it, and consented. We were
well paid for it. Didn’t Peggy tell you about it?” Harriet turned a
smiling countenance upon Peggy. “She knew all about it. I stayed with
our cousins while there.”

“I think there is much that Cousin Peggy hath not told me,” he remarked,
and again he looked at the girl with a curious intent glance. Peggy felt
her color rise under his searching gaze. “I will depend upon you for
enlightenment as to several things.”

The shadows lengthened and crept close to the little group under the
trees. Fireflies sparkled in the dusk of the twilight. A large white
moth sailed out of the obscurity toward the lights which had begun to
glimmer in the hospital windows. An owl hooted in a near-by walnut tree.
Peggy rose suddenly.

“We should not stay here,” she said. “Clifford is no longer an invalid,
’tis true; still he should not remain out in the dew.”

“I have scarcely begun to talk,” demurred Harriet. “I think I should
know what will suit my own brother, Peggy.”

“Our Cousin Peggy is right, Harriet,” observed Clifford in an unusually
docile mood. “I should not be out in the dew, and neither should you.
To-morrow there will be ample opportunity to converse. I confess that I
do feel a little tired. Then too there are matters to ponder.”

“Of course if you are tired,” said his sister rising, “we must go in.
To-morrow, Peggy, you will find yourself like Othello—your occupation
gone.”

“I shall not mind,” Peggy hastened to assure her. “Thy brother hath
desired thy coming so much that I make no doubt that he will enjoy the
companionship.”

“I dare say he did want me,” was Harriet’s self-complacent remark.
“Still, Peggy, there’s no denying the fact that you are a good nurse. Is
it not strange, Clifford, that she hath nursed all three of us? Father
when he was wounded in a skirmish at their house; me when I was ill of a
fever, and now you.”

“No; she hath not told me,” he answered. “She hath been remiss in this
at least, Harriet. Now——”

“I think mother did the most of the nursing,” interrupted Peggy hastily.
“And after all, ’tis over now. There is no necessity to dwell upon what
is past. We will bid thee good-night, my cousin.”

“And where do you stay?” inquired Harriet as Clifford left them at the
cottage gate. “Is this the place? How small it is! Will there be room
for me, Peggy?”

“Thee can share my room, Harriet. Mother made arrangements with Nurse
Johnson, with whom I came to Williamsburg, that I was to stay with her.
She is most kind, and will gladly receive thee.”

“Let’s hurry to bed,” pleaded Harriet. “I do want to tell you about
Major Greyling, and—well, some others. We can talk in bed.”

“Very well,” was Peggy’s amused response. “But I have somewhat to tell
thee also. Wilt promise to let me talk part of the time?”

“Don’t be a goose,” said Harriet giving her a little squeeze. “I have
something important to tell you.”

“Then come in,” said Peggy, opening the door.



CHAPTER XXI—A RASH RESOLVE


            “How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
            How much the flesh may suffer and not die!
            I question much if any pain or ache
            Of soul or body brings our end more nigh:
            Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,
                All evils may be borne.”

                                     —Elizabeth Akers Allen.

“Has thee had any news of the army lately, friend nurse?” questioned
Peggy one morning a week after Harriet’s arrival.

Nurse Johnson glanced quickly about to make sure that they were alone
before she replied:

“I had a short letter from Fairfax a few days since, Peggy. He said that
the Marquis had received word that a force under General Wayne was
coming to help in the defense of the state. He was on the point of
breaking camp at Richmond and marching up to the border to meet him.
Cornwallis hath already begun operations on the south side of the James.
’Tis said that he boasts that the people will return to their allegiance
as soon as they find that their new rulers are not able to give them
military protection. With that end in view the earl hath established a
veritable reign of terror wherever his troops march. He is harrying and
ravaging all plantations, running off the negroes, or inciting them
against their masters. In truth,” ended the good woman with some
bitterness, “if aught escaped the vigilance of the invading forces under
Phillips and Arnold it hath been reserved only for the keener eye of a
more pitiless enemy.”

“And thy son, friend nurse? Is he well?” inquired the girl, for a shadow
lay on Nurse Johnson’s brow that was not caused by the tidings of
Cornwallis’ ravages, harrowing as they were.

“I am worried about him, Peggy,” she admitted. “He is in truth far from
well, and feared an attack of fever when he wrote. He did not like to
ask for leave to come home, the need of men is so great; but felt that
he must do so did he not get better.”

“How dreadful a thing war is!” sighed Peggy. “The poor fellow! to be ill
and weak yet to stay on because of the need the country hath of men.
’Tis heroic, friend nurse.”

“Ah, child, ’tis little a mother cares for heroics when her only son is
suffering for lack of care. Sick and starving also, it may be.”

“I have been selfish,” broke from the girl remorsefully. “I have been so
full of my woe that I had forgot how our poor soldiers are in want of
everything. It hath seemed to me at times that I could not bear to stay
down here longer. Thee knows I have not heard from mother at all. I know
she must be worried if she hath not heard from me.”

“Your being here is cause for worry,” said the nurse soberly.
“Williamsburg is in the path of the armies, though it does seem as
though we had been visited enough by them. Would that you were home,
Peggy, but I see no way of your getting there. The expresses can scarce
get through.”

“Thee said that General Wayne was to join the Marquis,” spoke the girl
eagerly. “He is from my own state, friend nurse. I make no doubt but
that he would help me could I but reach his lines. And the Marquis——Why,
Robert Dale is with the Marquis’ forces! I remember now that Betty told
me he had been placed there for valor. Thee sees that I have plenty of
friends could I but reach our own lines unmolested.”

“’Tis not to be thought of,” said Nurse Johnson shaking her head
decidedly. “No, Peggy; ’tis irksome to stay here under the conditions of
things, but I see not how it can be helped. Ah! here is your cousin. How
beautiful she is!”

“Where are you going, Peggy?” asked Harriet as she entered the room, her
wonderful gray eyes lighting into a smile at Nurse Johnson’s last words.

“I am going to the college to see the museum of natural history,
Harriet. Will thee come with me?”

“Not I, Peggy. Such things are too tiresome,” yawned Harriet. “And
Clifford won’t go for a ride. He said that he had something to attend to
to-day. ’Tis no use to tease Cliff when he makes up his mind. He is
worse than father.”

“Well, if thee won’t come,” and Peggy tied the ribbons of her leghorn
hat under her chin, “thee must not mind if I go.”

“I wish I were back in New York,” pouted her cousin. “’Tis slow down
here. Had I known that Clifford was so well I would not have come.
However, there will be some amusement when the army under Lord
Cornwallis gets into quarters. I dare say father will take a house then.
Of course he will want us to look after it.”

“Is thy father with Lord Cornwallis?” asked Peggy quickly.

“Of course, Peggy. The Welsh Fusileers always stay with him. When we
left him at Camden he was to join Cornwallis, you remember.”

“Yes,” assented Peggy absently, “but I had forgot for the moment.”

In thoughtful mood she left the cottage. It seemed to her as though she
were caught in the meshes of a web from which there was no escape. Here
were Clifford and Harriet with the possibility of Colonel Owen appearing
upon the scene at any moment. When he came Peggy knew that she would be
unable to do anything. If only she could reach the American lines, she
thought, a way would be opened for her to proceed to Philadelphia.

The air was rife with rumors concerning the capture and narrow escapes
of the postriders. It seemed almost next to impossible for them to get
through to Philadelphia! How then could she, a mere girl, hope to
accomplish what they could not?

“And yet,” Peggy mused, “I must try. I dare not wait until Cousin
William comes for he will take Harriet and me with him wherever he goes.
I know not how it will end.”

She had reached the college campus by this time, and now paused
thoughtfully looking up at the statue of Norborne Berkeley, Lord
Botetourt,—most beloved of all the royal governors,—which had been
erected on the green.

“I bid you good-morrow, little cousin,” spoke a voice pleasantly, and
Peggy started to find Clifford beside her.

The lad smiled at the glance of surprise that Peggy gave at his mode of
address, and continued:

“I thought you had deserted me entirely. Was care of me so irksome that
you are glad to be rid of me?”

“No, Clifford; but thee had thy sister,” responded Peggy who had in
truth left the brother entirely to his sister. “Thee had no need of me
longer, as thee is not now an invalid.”

“True, I am no longer an invalid, Cousin Peggy. Still are there not some
matters to be settled betwixt us? Why have you not reproached me for my
doubt of you?”

“When thee found that I had spoke naught but truth what more was there
to be said, my cousin?” queried Peggy seriously. “Thy conscience should
do the reproaching.”

“And it hath,” he rejoined. “You have given me no opportunity to ask
pardon but I do so now. There were many things that I did not know that
Harriet hath told me. There are still many that require explanation in
order to have a good understanding of affairs. But this I have gathered;
all of us, father, Harriet and I, seem to be under deep obligation to
you and your family. And my debt is not the least of the three. I wish
to repay you in some measure for your care of me. As my excuse I can
only say that while I knew that we had cousins in this country I knew
little concerning them. I left home shortly after father came over, and
so knew naught of his stay with you. And that captain with the shirt
Harriet made——” he paused abruptly and clenched his hands involuntarily.
“I thought you were like him and all other Americans I had met,” he
continued—“boasting braggarts who had wooed my sister from her true
allegiance. I cry your pardon, my cousin. Will you give it me?”

“For all doubt of me, thee has it, Clifford,” responded the girl
sweetly, touched by his evident contrition. “But for what thee thinks of
Americans, no. There are some among us who are not as we would have them
be. Among all peoples the good and bad are mingled. I dare say thee is
not proud of all Englishmen. We are not a nation of braggarts, as thee
thinks. It hath taken something more than braggadocio to repulse thy
soldiers for six long years. It hath taken courage, bravery and a grim
resolution to win in spite of famine and the greatest odds that ever an
army faced. Those things belong not to boasters, my cousin.”

“A truce, a truce,” he cried. “I am routed completely. I admit that
Americans have bravery. Odds life! and tenacity also, when it comes to
that. Where get they that obstinacy that enables them to rise after
every defeat?”

“Where do they get it?” she asked. “Why, from their English blood, of
course. Thee and thy fellows forget that they are of thine own blood.
Oh, the pity of it! And see how thy people are treating this state!”

“’Tis fortune of war,” he uttered hastily. “And that brings me to the
pith of this interview. I have intelligence that Lord Cornwallis is
marching toward Richmond, which he will reach the last of this week.
Therefore, I shall escort you and Harriet to Portsmouth to-morrow, and
see you aboard the ‘Iris,’ bound for New York. I wish to join the earl
at Richmond, and I wish to see you in safety before doing so.”

“Thee must leave me out of such a plan, Clifford,” spoke Peggy quietly.
“I am not going to New York. When I was there before only the river lay
betwixt my mother and me, yet I was not permitted to cross it. I should
be a prisoner as thee would be in Philadelphia. I could not bear it.”

“But you cannot remain here, Peggy,” he remonstrated. “I am doing what
seems to me the best that can be done for you. The country is overrun by
soldiers of both sides. Were you able to get through the British lines
there still remain the rebels.”

“Thee has no need to trouble concerning me at all, my cousin,” spoke
Peggy with some heat. “If I can reach the rebel lines, as thee calls
them, I shall be sent through. I am not going to New York in any event.”

“I shall not permit you to remain here,” he said, determination written
on every feature. “I am your nearest male relative in this part of the
country, and as such I shall do what I think is best for you. Come,
little cousin, be reasonable. Harriet shall use her influence, once New
York is reached, to see that you go to your mother. Will not that
content you?”

“It doth not content me,” replied the girl, her whole nature roused to
resistance. Too well she knew what Harriet’s promises were to rely upon
them. “I am grateful to thee, Clifford, for thy thought of me; but thee
must give o’er anything that hath New York for its end and aim.”

“But I cannot let you stay here,” he cried again. “The game is up as far
as these people are concerned. I cannot let you remain to be a sharer in
their miseries and distresses. Be reasonable, Peggy.”

“I am reasonable, Clifford. Reasonable with the reason born of
experience. These people are my people. If I cannot get home I prefer to
share their misery, rather than to be at ease among the British. Attend
to thy sister, but leave me to do as I think best, I beg.”

“’Tis futile to talk further concerning the matter,” he said. “You must
be made to do what is best for you.” With this he left her.

“I can tarry here no longer,” Peggy told herself as she watched
Clifford’s retreating figure. “My cousin is sincere in the belief that
it is the best thing to do. Were Harriet to be relied upon——But no; too
many promises have been broken to trust her now. I must try to get to
our lines. I will go in the morning.”

The light was just breaking in the east the next morning when Peggy
softly stole into the stable where Star was, and deftly saddled and
bridled the little mare.

“We are going home, Star,” she whispered as she led the pony out of the
stable and yard to the road. “It will all depend on thee, thou dear
thing! Do thy very best, for thee will have to get us there.”



CHAPTER XXII—FOR LOVE OF COUNTRY


           “Our country’s welfare is our first concern:
           He who promotes that best, best proves his duty.”

                                         —Harvard’s Regulus.

Westward rode Peggy at a brisk pace. There were not many people
stirring, the hour was so early. The few who were abroad merely glanced
curiously after her, as she passed, without speaking. With a feeling of
thankfulness she soon left the deserted streets, and, passing the
college with its broad campus of green where the golden buttercups
seemed to wave a cheerful greeting, increased her speed as she reached
the cleared space of the road which stretched bare and dusty between the
town and the forest.

“At last we are started,” exulted the girl, drawing a deep breath as she
entered the confines of the great woods. “We ought not to get lost if we
follow the road, Star. And too I have been over every bit of it, and my
diary will tell the places we went through in case I should forget. But
first——” She pulled the pony into a walk; then, letting the reins hang
loosely, drew forth a little white flag made of linen, and fastened it
to the bridle.

“Clifford said we could not get through without a flag,” she mused.
“Well, that should show that we are non-combatants. And we do not wish
harm to any; do we, Star?”

The forest was on every hand. The narrow road wound deviously under
great trees of fir, and pines, and beech, shady, pleasant and cool.
Suddenly there came a medley of bird notes from out of the woods; clear,
sweet and inexpressibly joyous, the song of the mocking-bird. As the
morning hours passed and Peggy found that she was still the only
traveler upon the road, her spirits rose, and she became agreeably
excited over the prospects of the journey.

“We will ride hard, Star, until to-morrow night,” she cried catching at
a fragrant trailer of wild grape that hung from an overarching tree.
“To-morrow night should find us at Fredericksburg, if we go as fast as
we did coming down in the cabriolet. And I know we can do that.”

And so, talking sometimes to Star as though the little mare understood,
sometimes listening to the call of birds, the whirr of insects or the
murmur of the wind in the tree tops, the day passed. It was drawing near
nightfall when Peggy rode into New Castle, a small village on the
Pamunkey River, tired but happy. She had not been molested and the first
day was over. Peggy went immediately to the house where she had stopped
with Nurse Johnson on the way down.

There were no signs of the British, she was told at this place. It was
rumored that the Marquis de Lafayette had crossed the river further to
the west on his way to join General Wayne. Peggy rejoiced at the news.

“We have timed our going just right, Star,” she told the little mare as
she made an early start the next morning. “Lord Cornwallis will not
reach Richmond until the last of the week, and the Marquis hath just
passed on. I could not have chosen better.”

Filled anew with hope as the prospects seemed more and more favorable
Peggy rode briskly toward Hanover Court House, for she planned to reach
this place by noon. The road wound along the banks of the Pamunkey,
under large tulip trees so big and handsome that she was lost in wonder
at their magnificence.

In this happy frame of mind she proceeded, marveling often at the fact
that she seemed to be the only one on the road. It was the second day,
and she had met no one nor had any one passed her. ’Twas strange, but
fortunate too, she told herself.

The morning passed. The road, which had been for the greater part of the
way shaded by the great trees, now suddenly left the woods and stretched
before her in a flood of sunshine. A lane branched off to the right,
running under a double row of beech trees to a large dwelling standing
in the midst of a clover field not more than half a mile distant. The
country was thinly settled throughout this section, the houses so
scattering that this one seemed to beckon invitingly to the tired
maiden.

“Methinks ’twould be the part of wisdom to bait ourselves there, Star,”
she said musingly. “I think we will take an hour’s rest.”

With that she turned into the shady lane, and soon drew rein in front of
the house.

“Friend,” she said as an elderly, pleasant-looking woman came to the
door, “would thee kindly let me have refreshment for myself and horse;
refreshment and rest also, friend?”

“Light, and come right in,” spoke the woman heartily. “A girl like you
shouldn’t be riding about alone when the British are abroad in the
land.”

“But the British have not yet crossed the James,” answered Peggy
cheerfully.

“Why, a detachment passed here not an hour ago, bound for Hanover Court
House,” spoke the woman abruptly. “Didn’t you know that Cornwallis was
following the Marquis de Lafayette trying to keep him from meeting
General Wayne?”

“I did not know,” answered the maiden paling. “Why, I am going through
Hanover Court House myself. I want to reach Fredericksburg to-night.”

“You’d better bide with me until we hear whether they have left there,
and in what direction they ride, my dear. I should not like a daughter
of mine abroad at such a time. Where are you from?”

“I came from Williamsburg, and I am trying to get home,” Peggy told her.
“I live in Philadelphia, and came down to nurse a cousin who was
wounded. There was no one to come with me, and it seemed a good time to
start, as I thought Lord Cornwallis was still at Petersburg.”

“Bless you, child! it never takes them long to scatter for mischief when
they enter a state,” exclaimed the woman. “I think ’twill be best to
hide that mare of yours, if you want to keep her. There’s no telling
when others of the thieving, rascally English will be along. Here,
Jimmy,” to a youngster of ten who stood peeping at Peggy from behind the
door, “take the nag down to the grove behind the mills, and don’t forget
to feed her. You are the second person from tide-water to ask for rest
in the last twenty-four hours,” she continued leading the way into the
dwelling. “The other was a lad from the militia who came last night.
Most sick the poor fellow is, too.”

“What became of him?” asked Peggy interested on the instant. “I hope the
British did not get him.”

“Well, then, they didn’t,” was the laconic response. “I’ve got him here
hidden in the garret. We’ll go up to see him as soon as you have
something to eat. The boy needs looking after a bit.”

“I have some skill in nursing, friend,” spoke Peggy modestly. “If I
tarry with thee until ’tis wise to go on I might be of assistance in
caring for him.”

“Have you now? Then between us we will bring him round nicely. It’s
providential that you came. I was wondering how to give him proper care
without attracting too much attention from the darkies. There are not
many left me, and they seem faithful, but ’tis just as well not to rely
too much on them.”

The attic was a roomy garret extending over the entire main building.
Two large windows, one in each end of the gambrel roof, afforded light
and air. Boxes, trunks, old furniture, and other discarded rubbish of a
family filled the corners and sides, affording many recesses that could
be utilized as hiding-places in an emergency. A large tester bed spread
with mattress and light coverlids stood in the center of the space, and
upon it reposed the lithe form of a youth. Peggy gave an ejaculation of
astonishment as her hostess led her to the bed.

“’Tis Fairfax Johnson,” she cried. “Oh, friend, how does thee do? Thy
mother told me that thee was not well. How strange that I should find
thee here!”

“Why, ’tis Mistress Peggy!” exclaimed the young fellow, sitting up
quickly, a deep flush dyeing his face. “How, how did you get here?”

“I am trying to get home,” she told him. “I left Williamsburg yesterday
morning, and hoped to reach Fredericksburg to-night, but our good friend
here tells me that the British are at Hanover Court House. I am to bide
with her until they pass on.”

“That is best,” he said. “’Twas but an advance force on a reconnoitering
expedition that passed this morning. The rest will be along later. You
should not be here at all.”

“I know,” replied Peggy, surprised by this speech from Fairfax. It was
the longest he had ever made her. “Or rather I didn’t know, Friend
Fairfax, else I would not be here. And how does thee do? I am to help
care for thee.”

“You!” again the red blood flushed the lad’s cheek and brow. “Why, why,
I’m all right. A little rest is all I need.”

“I shall care for thee none the less,” answered the maiden demurely, the
feeling of amusement which she always felt at his shyness assailing her
now.

“And here is cool milk and toast with sweet butter and jam,” spoke the
hostess. “Boys all like jam, so I brought that for a tid-bit. With the
eggs it should make a fairish meal. Now, my lad, I’ll leave you to the
mercy of your young friend while I run down to see about things. It is
pleasant for you to know each other. Come down when you like, my dear,”
she added turning to Peggy as she left the room.

“Oh!” uttered Fairfax in such evident dismay that Peggy found it
impossible to suppress the ripple of laughter that rose to her lips.

“I shall tell thee all about thy mother while thee eats,” she said
arranging the viands before him temptingly. “Thy mother is worried anent
thee, friend, but she herself is well. She——”

“Listen,” he said abruptly.

A blare of bugles, the galloping of horses, the jingle of spurs and
sabres filled the air. Peggy ran to the front window and looked out.

“’Tis a body of men in white uniforms,” she cried. “They are mounted
upon fine horses, and are clattering down the lane toward the house.”

“’Tis Tarleton with his dragoons,” he exclaimed hastening to the window
for a view of them.

“Then thee must hide,” ejaculated Peggy. “Quickly! They may search the
place. Hurry, friend!”

“But you,” he said, making no move toward secreting himself.

“Go, go,” cried she impatiently. “I know Colonel Tarleton, and fear
naught from him or his troopers. Hide, friend! Here, take the food with
thee. ’Tis as well to eat while thee can.”

So insistent was she that the lad found himself hurried to a retreat
behind some boxes in spite of himself. Peggy then hastened down-stairs
to the good woman below. A quick glance at the girl told her that the
boy was in hiding.

“And do you go to my room, child,” she said pointing to a door under the
stairway. “We will make no attempt at concealment, but ’tis more
retired. It may be that they will not stop long. Goodness knows, there
is not much left to take.”

Peggy had scarcely gained the seclusion of the room ere the British
cavalry dashed up.

“In the name of the king, dinner,” called Colonel Tarleton, loudly.

“Of course if you want dinner, I suppose that I’ll have to get it,”
Peggy heard the mistress of the dwelling reply, grumblingly. “But some
of your people have already been here, and you know ’tis against their
principles to leave much.”

A great laugh greeted this sally as the troopers dismounted, tying their
horses to trees, or fences as was convenient.

“Get us what you have, my good woman, and be quick about it,” Tarleton
cried in answer. “We’ve come seventy miles in twenty-four hours, and
must be in the saddle again in an hour’s time. Now be quick about that
dinner.”

The dragoons, seemingly too weary for anything but rest, flung
themselves upon the grass to await the meal. Tarleton and one of his
lieutenants stretched out upon the sward directly under the window of
the room where Peggy was. For a time they lay there in silence, then the
junior officer spoke:

“Will it be possible for us to reach Charlottesville to-night, colonel?”

“Charlottesville!” Peggy’s heart gave a great bound as she heard the
name. Charlottesville was the place where the Assembly was in session at
that very time. But Colonel Tarleton was speaking:

“Not to-night, lieutenant. But to-morrow we’ll swoop upon the Assembly
and take it unawares. By St. George, ’twill be rare sport to see their
faces when they find themselves prisoners. Although I care more for
Jefferson and Patrick Henry than all the others together. We’ll hang
those two.”

The girl wrung her hands as she listened. Jefferson, the governor of the
state, the writer of the Declaration of Independence; and Patrick Henry,
he who had been termed the Voice of the Revolution! Oh! it must not be!
But how, how could it be prevented? They should be warned.

“If I but knew where Charlottesville is,” cried the girl anguished by
her helplessness. “What shall be done? Oh, I’ll ask Fairfax.”

Up to the garret she sped unnoticed by any one. The troopers were
outside, the members of the household busily engaged in preparing the
dinner.

“Friend Fairfax,” she called.

“Yes,” answered the lad rising from behind the boxes.

“Colonel Tarleton is after the Assembly at Charlottesville. He wants
especially to capture the governor and Patrick Henry.”

“Why, they’ll hang them if they do,” cried Fairfax excitedly. “How do
you know, Mistress Peggy?”

“I heard him say so,” answered Peggy. “Friend, what shall we do? They
should be warned.”

“Yes,” he answered. “That is what I must do.”

“Thee?” she cried, amazed. “Why, thee is weak and sick, Friend Fairfax.
Thee cannot go.”

“I must. Oh,” he groaned. “If I but had a horse. If I but had a horse I
could get to Charlottesville before them.”

“It might cost thee thy life,” the girl reminded him. “Thee is too ill
to go.”

“What am I but one among many?” he said. “I must try to steal one of
their horses.”

“Thee need not run such risk. Thee shall have my own little Star,” cried
Peggy thrillingly. “We can go now to the room under the stairs, and
while the troopers are at dinner, slip through the window and down to
the grove where she lies hidden. Come, friend.”



CHAPTER XXIII—A QUESTION OF COURAGE


               “What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,
               Express’d in action, in endurance prov’d.”

                                       —Sir Henry Taylor.

As they reached the door of the room under the stairs, however, their
hostess came into the hall. A frown contracted her brow at sight of
Fairfax.

“This is folly,” she exclaimed. “Boy, don’t you know that Tarleton’s
troopers are outside?”

“Yes; and they plan to go to Charlottesville after dinner to capture the
Assembly,” Peggy told her before the youth could reply. “Friend Fairfax
is to slip away to warn them.”

“Come in here,” she said drawing them into the dining-room. “Now,”
speaking rapidly as she closed the door, “what is the plan? I may be
able to help.”

“We are going through the window of thy room to the grove where my horse
is while thee gives them dinner,” explained the maiden.

“Why, child, that won’t do at all. They will leave a guard outside, of
course. You could not pass them. Let me think.”

For a brief second she meditated while the boy and the girl waited
hopefully.

“Are you able to do this?” she asked presently of Fairfax.

“Yes,” he answered. “Only devise some way for me to leave quickly. Every
moment is precious.”

“You are right,” she replied. “Now just a minute.”

She left the room, returning almost immediately with two flowered frocks
of osnaburg, and two enormous kerchiefs of the same stuff.

“These are what the mammies wear,” she said arranging one of the
kerchiefs about the lad’s head turbanwise. “There, my boy! you will pass
for a mammy if not given more than a glance.”

“Thee will make a good woman yet, Friend Fairfax,” remarked Peggy
smiling as she noted that the youth moved with some ease in the skirts.

“Yes,” he assented sheepishly.

“Follow me boldly,” spoke the hostess. “We will pass through the yard
from the kitchen to the smoke-house. If any of the dragoons call, mind
them not. Above all turn not your faces toward them. Go on to the
smoke-house, whatever happens. There is a back door through which you
can go down the knoll to the ravine. Follow the ravine westward to the
grove which lies back of the mill where the horse is. If you keep to the
ravine ’twill lead you into the road unobserved by any. Now if
everything is understood we will go.”

They followed her silently through the kitchen and out into the yard.
The hostess kept up a lively stream of talk during the passage to the
smoke-house.

“I reckon we’d better have another ham,” she said in a voice that could
be heard at no little distance. “There are so many of those fellows.
Aunt Betsy ‘low’d there were more than a hundred, and I reckon she’s
right.” There were in truth one hundred and eighty cavalrymen, with
seventy mounted infantry. “A few chickens wouldn’t go amiss either. They
might as well have them. The next gang would take them anyway.” And so
on.

From all sides came grunts of satisfaction, showing that the remarks had
been overheard by many of the dragoons, which was intended. The
smoke-house was reached in safety, and the good woman led them to the
rear door.

“I’ll keep them here as long as I can,” she said, “if I have to cook
everything on the place. You shall have at least two hours’ start, my
boy. God bless you! It’s a brave thing you are doing, but those men must
be warned.”

“I know,” he answered. “And now good-bye.”

“And do you stay in the grove until these British are gone, my dear,”
she advised Peggy. “I will feel better to have you down there out of
their sight. Jimmy shall come for you as soon as they are gone. You
won’t mind?”

“I shall like it,” answered Peggy. “Come, friend.”

“I will have to ride hard and fast, Mistress Peggy,” said Fairfax. When
they reached the grove a few moments later he removed Peggy’s saddle,
strapped on a blanket, and unfastened the bridle. “It may be the last
time you will see your little mare.”

“I know,” she answered. Winding her arms about the pony’s neck she laid
her head upon the silken mane, and so stood while the lad doffed the
osnaburg frock and disfiguring turban. As he swung himself lightly to
Star’s back the girl looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.

“Friend Fairfax,” she said, “thee is so brave. Yet I have laughed at
thee.”

“Brave? No,” he responded. “’Tis duty.”

“But I have laughed at thee because of thy shyness,” repeated the girl
remorsefully. “Thee always seems so afraid of us females, yet thee can
do this, or aught else that is for thy country. Why is it?”

Over his face the red blood ran. He sat for the briefest second
regarding her with a puzzled air.

“To defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be done
to thwart the enemy’s designs, is man’s duty,” he said at length. “But
to face a battery of bright eyes requires courage, Mistress Peggy. And
that I have not.”

The words were scarcely uttered before he was gone.

The British were at the house, and some of them might stray into her
retreat at any moment; the youth who had started forth so bravely might
fail to give his warning in time to save the men upon whom the welfare
of the state depended; she might never see her own little mare again;
but, in spite of all these things the maiden sank upon a rock shaken
with laughter.

“The dear, shy fellow!” she gasped sitting up presently to wipe her
eyes. “And he hath no courage! Ah, Betty! thy ‘Silent Knight’ hath
spoken to some purpose at last. I must remember the exact words. Let me
see! He said:

“‘To defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be
done to thwart the enemy’s designs, is man’s duty. But to face a battery
of bright eyes requires courage, Mistress Peggy. And that I have not.’

“Won’t the girls laugh when I tell them?”

It was pleasant under the trees. An oriole swung from the topmost bough
of a large oak pouring forth a flood of song. Woodpeckers flapped their
bright wings from tree to tree. A multitude of sparrows flashed in and
out of the foliage, or circled joyously about blossoming shrubs. From
distant fields and forests the caw of the crows winging their slow way
across the blue sky came monotonously. A cloud of yellow butterflies
rested upon the low banks of the ravine crowned with ferns. Into the
heart of a wild honeysuckle a humming-bird whirred, delighting Peggy by
its beauty, minuteness and ceaseless motion of its wings. And so the
long hours of the afternoon passed, and the westering sun was casting
long shadows under the trees before Jimmy came with the news that the
British had gone.

“And wasn’t that Colonel Tarleton in a towering rage,” commented the
mistress of the dwelling as Peggy reëntered the house. “He stormed
because dinner was so late. And such a dinner. I’ll warrant those
troopers won’t find hard riding so easy after it. Thomas Jefferson and
Patrick Henry will owe a great deal to fried chicken, if they get warned
in time. It took every chicken I had on the place, and not a few hams.
But it gave that boy a good start, so I don’t mind. Do you think he’ll
get through, my dear?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Peggy. “If it can be done I feel sure that Fairfax
Johnson can do it. I must tell thee what he said,” she ended with a
laugh. “It hath much amused me.”

“I don’t wonder that you were amused,” observed the good woman, laughing
in turn as Peggy related the youth’s speech. “Those same batteries have
brought low many a brave fellow. ’Tis as well to be afraid of them. He
is wise who is ware in time. Yet those same bashful fellows are ofttimes
the bravest. Methinks I have heard that General Washington was afflicted
with the same malady in his youth. And now let us hope that we will have
a breathing spell long enough to become acquainted with each other.”

Four days later a weary, drooping youth astride a limping little mare
came slowly down the shady lane just at sunset. Peggy was the first to
see them, and flew to the horse-block.

“Oh, thee is back, Friend Fairfax! Thee is back!” she cried delightedly.
“And did thee succeed? How tired thee looks! And Star also!”

“We are both tired,” he said dismounting and sinking heavily against the
horse-block. “But we got there in time. Governor Jefferson and his
family escaped over the mountains. Mr. Henry and others scattered to
places of safety. They captured seven, because they heeded not the
alarm, and lingered over breakfast. But not—not Patrick Henry nor Thomas
Jefferson.”

He swayed as though about to fall, then roused himself.

“Look to the mare! She, she needs attention,” he cried, and fell in an
unconscious heap.

“And somebody else does too, I reckon,” spoke the mistress of the
dwelling, running out in answer to Peggy’s call. “Jimmy, do you begin
rubbing down that little mare. I’ll be out to look after her as soon as
Peggy and I get this boy attended to. Poor fellow! he has gone to the
full limit of his strength.”



CHAPTER XXIV—AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER


               “Then each at once his falchion drew,
               Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
               Each look’d to sun, and stream, and plain,
               As what they ne’er might see again;
               Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
               In dubious strife they darkly closed.”

                              —“Lady of the Lake,” Scott.


There followed some days of quiet at the farmhouse. Their peacefulness
was gladly welcomed by the inmates after the turmoil caused by passing
troops, and Peggy and her hostess, Mrs. Weston, hoped for a continuance
of the boon. But if the days were tranquil they were far from idle.

Beside the household tasks there were Fairfax Johnson to be cared for,
and the little mare to be brought back to condition. Peggy found herself
almost happy in assisting in these duties, so true is it that occupation
brings solace to sorely tried hearts.

The youth’s illness soon passed, but there remained the necessity for
rest and nourishment. Rest he could have in plenty, but they were hard
pressed to furnish the proper nourishment. The place had been stripped
of almost everything, and had it not been for the grove where a few cows
shared Star’s hiding-place, and an adjoining swamp in whose recesses
Mrs. Weston had prudently stored some supplies the household must have
suffered for the lack of the merest necessities. Still if they could
remain unmolested they could bear scanty rations; so cheerfully they
performed their daily tasks, praying that things would continue as they
were.

If there was peace at the farmhouse it was more than could be said for
the rest of the state. Hard on the heels of Lafayette Cornwallis
followed, cutting a swath of desolation and ruin. Tarleton and Simcoe
rode wherever they would, committing such enormities that the people
forgot them only with death. Virginia, the last state of the thirteen to
be invaded, was harried as New Jersey had been, but by troops made less
merciful by the long, fierce conflict.

Hither and thither flitted Lafayette, too weak to suffer even defeat,
progressing ever northward, and drawing his foe after him from
tide-water almost to the mountains. Finding it impossible to come up
with his youthful adversary, or to prevent the junction of that same
adversary’s forces with those of Wayne, Cornwallis turned finally, and
leisurely made his way back toward the seacoast. He had profited by
Greene’s salutary lesson, and did not propose to be drawn again from a
base where reinforcements and supplies could reach him. Information of
these happenings gradually reached the farmhouse, filling its inmates
with the gravest apprehensions.

One warm, bright afternoon in June Peggy left the house for her daily
visit to Star. With the caution that she always used in approaching the
hiding-place of her pet the girl reached the grove by a circuitous
route. A sort of rude stable, made of branches and underbrush set
against ridge poles, had been erected for the pony’s accommodation, and
as she drew near this enclosure Peggy heard the voice of some one
speaking. Filled with alarm for the safety of her mare she stole softly
forward to listen. Yes; there was certainly some one with the animal. As
she stood debating what was to be done, she was amazed to hear the
following speech made in a wondering tone:

“Now just why should you be down here in Virginia when your proper place
is in a stable in Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Star? Hath some magic
art whisked you here, or what hath happened? I wish thee could speak, as
Peggy would say, so that thee could unravel the matter for me.”

“John! John Drayton!” screamed Peggy joyfully running forward. “How did
thee get here? I thought thee was in South Carolina. ’Tis Peggy, John.”

“Peggy?” exclaimed Drayton, issuing from the enclosure. “Peggy! I see it
is,” he said regarding her with blank amazement. “But how did you get
here? I thought you safe at home in Philadelphia?”

“’Tis a long story,” cried she, half crying. “And oh, John! does thee
know that Cornwallis is fast approaching this point with his army? Is’t
not dangerous for thee to be here?”

“Nay,” he replied. “I seek his lordship.”

“Thee what?” she cried, amazed.

“Never mind about it now, Peggy,” he said drawing her under the shade of
a tree. “Sit down and tell me how you came here. Is it the ‘cousins’
again?”

“Yes, ’tis the cousins,” answered the maiden flushing. “I could not do
other than come, John. Mother and I did not know that the enemy had
invaded the state. At least,” correcting herself quickly, “we did know
that General Arnold had made a foray in January, but ’twas deemed by
many as but a predatory incursion, and, as we heard no more of it, we
thought he had returned to New York. I saw him, and spoke with him,
John,” she ended sadly.

“But the cousins, Peggy! The rest can wait until you tell me what new
quidnunc tale was invented to lure you here.”

“Thee must not speak so, John,” she reproached him. “Thee will be sorry
when I tell thee about Clifford’s illness. He was nigh to death, in
truth, but ’twas not for me he sent, but his own sister Harriet.”
Forthwith she related all the occurrences that had led to her coming.
Drayton listened attentively.

“I wish that you and your mother were not so kind hearted,” he remarked
when she had finished her narrative. “No, I don’t mean that exactly. I
could not, after all that you did for me. But from the bottom of my
heart I do wish that those relatives of yours would go back to England
and stay there. They are continually getting you into trouble.”

“Would thee have us refuse my kinsman’s plea?” she asked him. “’Twould
have been inhuman not to respond to such an appeal.”

“I suppose it would,” he replied grumblingly. “But I don’t like it one
bit that you are here among all the movements of the two armies. See
here, Peggy! The thing to do is to get you home, and I’m going to take
you there.”

“Will thee, John?” cried Peggy in delight. “How good thee is! Oh, ’tis a
way opened at last. But won’t it cause thee a great deal of trouble?”

“So much, my little cousin, that we will not permit him to undertake
it,” spoke the wrathful tones of her cousin. “I am sorry to interrupt so
interesting a conversation, but ’tis necessary to explain to this,—well,
gentleman, that ’tis not at all necessary for him to trouble concerning
your welfare. I am amply able to care for you.”

“Clifford!” ejaculated Peggy starting up in surprise, and confronting
the youth, who had approached them unnoticed.

“Yes, Clifford,” returned the lad who was evidently in a passion. “’Tis
quite time that Clifford came, is it not? As I was saying, ’twill not do
to take this gentleman from his arduous duties. This Yankee captain
meddles altogether too much in our private affairs. It is not at all to
my liking.”

“So?” remarked Drayton cheerfully. He had not changed his position, but
sat slightly smiling, eyeing the other youth curiously.

“No, sir,” repeated Clifford heatedly. “We will not trouble you, sir.
Further, we can dispense with your presence immediately.”

“That,” observed Drayton shifting his position to one of more ease,
“that, sir, is for Peggy to decide.”

“My cousin’s name is Mistress Margaret Owen,” cried Clifford. “You will
oblige me by using it so when ’tis necessary to address her. Better
still, pleasure me by not speaking to her at all.”

“Clifford, thou art beside thyself,” cried Peggy who had been too
astonished at the attitude of her cousin to speak. “John is a dear
friend. I have known him longer than I have thee, and——”

“Peggy, keep out of this affair, I beg,” cried he stiffly. “The matter
lies betwixt this fellow and myself. Captain, I cry you pardon,
sir,”—interrupting himself to favor Drayton with an ironic bow,—“I fear
me that I rank you too high. Lieutenant, is’t not?”

“Nay, captain. Captain Drayton, at your service, sir.” The American
arose slowly, and made a profound obeisance. “Methinks at our last
little chat I remarked that perchance another victory would so honor me.
’Twas at Hobkirk’s Hill.”

“You said a victory, sir,” cried the other with passion. “Hobkirk’s Hill
was a defeat for the rebels.”

“A defeat, I grant you.” Drayton picked a thread of lint from his
sleeve, and puffed it airily from him. “A defeat so fraught with
disaster to the victors that many more such would annihilate the whole
British army. A defeat so calamitous in effect that Lord Rawdon could no
longer hold Camden after inflicting it, and so evacuated that place.”

“’Tis false,” raged Clifford Owen. “If Lord Rawdon held Camden, he still
holds it. He would evacuate no post held by him.”

“Perchance there are other war news that might be of interest,” went on
Drayton provokingly, evidently enjoying the other’s rage. “I have the
honor to inform you, sir, that Fort Watson, Fort Motte and Granby all
have surrendered to the rebels. They have proceeded to Ninety Six, and
are holding that place in a state of siege. The next express will
doubtless bring intelligence of its fall. Permit me, sir, to felicitate
you upon the extreme prowess of the British army.”

“And what, sir, is the American army?” stormed Clifford. “A company of
tinkers and locksmiths. A lot of riffraff and ragamuffins. What is your
Washington but a planter? And your much-lauded commander in the South?
What is he but a smith? A smith?” he scoffed sneeringly. “Odds life,
sir! can an army be made of such ilk?”

“The planter hath sent two of your trained generals packing,” retorted
Drayton. “The first left by the only ‘Gate’ left open by the siege; the
other did not know ‘Howe’ to take root in this new soil. The third
remains in New York like a mouse in a trap, afraid to come out lest he
should be pounced upon. Our smith——” he laughed merrily. “His hammer
hath been swung to such purpose that my Lord Cornwallis hath been
knocked out of the Carolinas, and the South is all but retaken.
Training! Poof! ’Tis not needed by tinkers and locksmiths to fight the
English.”

“Draw and defend yourself,” roared the English lad, whipping out his
sword furiously. “Such insult can only be wiped out in blood.”

“Thou shalt not,” screamed Peggy throwing herself before him. “Thou
shalt not. I forbid it. ’Twould be murder.”

“This is man’s affair, my cousin,” he said sternly. “Stand aside.”

“I will not, Clifford,” cried the girl. “I will not. Oh, to draw sword
on each other is monstrous. For a principle, in defense of liberty, then
it may be permitted; but this deliberate seeking of another’s life in
private quarrel is murder. Clifford! John! I entreat ye both to desist.”

[Illustration: “DRAW AND DEFEND YOURSELF!”]

“She is right, sir,” spoke Drayton. “This is in truth neither time nor
place to settle our differences.”

“And where shall we find a better?” cried Clifford, who was beside
himself with rage. “If you wish not to bear the stigma of cowardice, you
must draw.”

But Drayton made no motion toward his sword.

“Nay,” he said. “’Tis not fitting before her. I confess that I was wrong
to further provoke you when I saw you in passion. In truth you were so
heated that to exasperate you more gave me somewhat of pleasure. I cry
you pardon. There will no doubt be occasion more suitable——”

“I decline to receive your apology, sir,” retorted Clifford Owen hotly.
“Perchance a more suitable occasion in your eyes would be when I am at
the disadvantage of being a prisoner. Or, perchance, you find it
convenient to hide behind my cousin’s petticoats. Once more, sir; for
the last time: If you have honor, if you are not a poltroon as well as a
braggart and a boaster, draw and defend yourself.”

“It will have to be, Peggy,” said Drayton leading her aside. “There will
be bad blood until this is settled, and your cousin hath gone too far.
Suffer it to go on, I entreat.”

“’Tis murder,” she wailed weeping. “Thou art my dear friend. Clifford is
my dear cousin. Oh, I pray ye both to desist.”

“If you flout me longer I will cut you down where you stand,” roared the
British youth fiercely. “Is it not enough that I must beg for the
satisfaction that gentlemen usually accord each other upon a hint?”

Drayton wheeled, and faced him jauntily.

“’Tis pity to keep so much valor waiting,” he said saluting. “On guard,
my friend.”



CHAPTER XXV—HER NEAREST RELATIVE


                   “In all trade of war no feat
                   Is nobler than a brave retreat;
                   For those that run away and fly
                   Take place at least of the enemy.”

                                      —Samuel Butler.

Fearful of what might result from the encounter Peggy hid her face in
her hands as the two youths crossed swords. But at the first meeting of
the blades, impelled by that strange fascination which such combats hold
for the best of mortals, she uncovered her eyes and watched the duel
breathlessly.

Clifford, white and wrathful, fuming over Drayton’s last quip, at once
took the initiative, and advanced upon his adversary with a vehemence
that evidenced his emotion plainly. Drayton, on the contrary, was cool
and even merry, and parried his opponent’s thrusts with adroitness. Both
lads evinced no small skill with the weapons, and had Peggy been other
than a very much distressed damsel she might have enjoyed some pretty
sword play.

The wrist of each youth was strong and supple. Each sword seemed like a
flexible reed from the point to the middle of the blade, and inflexible
steel from thence to the guard. They were well matched, and some moments
passed before either of them secured the advantage.

It was quiet in the grove. No sound could be heard save the clash of
steel and the deep breathing of the contestants. No bird note came from
tree or bush. Not a leaf stirred. A hush had fallen upon the summer
afternoon. To the maiden it seemed as though Nature, affrighted by the
wild passions of men which must seek expression in private fray despite
the fact that their countries were embroiled in war, had sunk into
terrified silence.

Presently, even to Peggy’s inexperienced eye, it became apparent that
Clifford was tiring. Drayton, who from the beginning of the encounter
had fought purely on the defensive, was quick to perceive the other’s
fatigue. Suddenly with a vigorous side-thrust he twisted the sword from
his antagonist’s grasp, and sent it glittering in the air. Finding
himself disarmed Clifford quickly stepped backward two or three steps.
In so doing his foot slipped, and he fell. Instantly Drayton stood over
his prostrate form.

“Forbear, John,” shrieked Peggy in horrified tones. “Thee must not. Is
he not helpless?”

“Have no fear, Peggy,” answered the young man lightly. “He shall meet
with no hurt, though in truth he merits it. Sir,” to Clifford who lay
regarding him with a look of profound humiliation, “you hear, do you
not? I spare you because of her. And also because I am much to blame
that matters have come to this pass betwixt us. Rise, sir!”

“I want no mercy at your hands,” retorted the other, his flushed face,
his whole manner testifying to his deep mortification. “You have won the
advantage, sir. Use it. I wish no favor from you.”

“’Tis not the habit of Americans to slay a disarmed foe, sir. If you are
not satisfied, rise; and have to again.”

“No, no!” cried Peggy, possessing herself of the fallen sword. “Is there
not already fighting enough in the land without contending against each
other? Ye have fought once. Let that suffice.”

“My sword, Peggy,” exclaimed Clifford, rising, and stepping toward her.

“Thee shall not have it, unless thee takes it by force,” returned the
girl, placing the weapon behind her, and clasping it with both hands.
“And that,” she added, “I do not believe thee would be so unmannerly as
to use. Therefore, the matter is ended.”

Drayton sheathed his sword on the moment.

“I am satisfied to let it be so,” he said. “And now, Peggy, as to
ourselves: what will be the best time for you to start home?”

“If that subject be renewed our broil is anything but settled,”
interposed Clifford Owen sullenly. “I believe I informed you that, as
the lady’s nearest relative, I am amply able to look after her.”

“As to our quarrel,” replied Drayton, regarding him fixedly, “perchance
the whirligig of time will bring a more suitable occasion for reopening
it. When that occurs I shall be at your command. Until then it seems to
me to be the part of wisdom to drop the matter, and to consider Peggy’s
welfare only. As you are aware, no doubt, the British are in this
immediate vicinity. Any moment may see them at this very place. Let us
cry a truce, sir, for the time being, and determine what shall be done
to promote her safety.”

“How know you that the British are near here?” demanded Clifford
suspiciously. “Your knowledge of their movements will bear looking into.
It savors strongly of that of a spy, sir.”

For a second the glances of the young fellows met. Their eyes flashed
fire, and Peggy’s heart began to throb painfully. Oh, would they fight
again! How could she make peace between them? She must; and so thinking
started forward eagerly.

“Listen to my plan,” she said. “Ye both——”

The sentence was never finished. Upon the air there sounded the shrill
music of fifes, the riffle of drums, the hollow tramp of marching men,
the rumbling of artillery, the cantering of horses; all sounds denoting
the passing of a large force of armed men.

With a sharp cry of exultation Clifford Owen sprang toward John Drayton.

“’Tis the king’s troops,” he cried, clutching him tightly. “The king’s
troops! Now, my fine fellow, you shall explain to his lordship how you
came by your information. Ho!” he shouted. “What ho! a spy!”

“It is not thus that I would meet his lordship,” answered Drayton
wrenching himself free of the other’s hold. “Until then, adieu, my
friend.”

Without further word he leaped down the embankment, and disappeared
among the underbrush in the ravine, just as two British infantrymen,
attracted by Clifford’s cry, came running through the grove.

“Did you call, sir?” called one, saluting as he saw the uniform of the
young man.

“I fell,” answered Clifford, stooping to pick up the sword that Peggy
had let fall. “Perchance I cried out as I did so. The embankment would
be a steep one to fall down. Does the army stop here? I sent word to the
general there was no forage to be had, and to pass on to Hanover Court
House. I found no place where he would fare so well as at Tilghman’s
Ordinary.”

“’Tis for that place he is bound, sir,” replied the soldier, saluting
again. “But a few of us delayed here to—to——” he paused, then added:
“Shall we go through that enclosure there, captain?”

“My own little mare is there, Clifford,” spoke Peggy indignantly.

“Which we will bring ourselves, men,” he said dismissing them with a
curt nod. “You will wish to ride her, of course, my cousin.”

“If I go with you,” she answered.

“There is no ‘if’ about it,” he said grimly. “You are going.”

“‘As my nearest male relative in this part of the country’ I suppose
thee commands it,” she observed with biting sarcasm. “Clifford, does
thee forget that I am an Owen as well as thou?”

“I do not,” he made answer.

“I think thee does,” she cried. “An Owen, my cousin, with the Owen
temper. ’Tis being tried severely by thee. I know not how much longer I
can control it.”

“I see not why you should be displeased with me,” he remarked, plainly
surprised that such should be the case. “I am doing all I can for you.
At least, I will try to do as much as that—that——”

“Yes?” she questioned coldly. “Does thee mean Captain Drayton? He is my
friend. Mother and I esteem him highly. Pleasure me by remembering that
in future.”

“If he is your friend ’tis no reason why he should address you so
familiarly. I like it not.”

“I tire of thy manner, Clifford. I am not thy slave, nor yet under bonds
of indenture to thee that thou shouldst assume such airs of possession
as thee does. I tire of it, I say.”

“If I have offended you I am sorry,” he said sulkily. “I have a hot
temper and a quick one. I have held resentment against that—captain ever
since last February, when he flouted me with that shirt of my sister’s
making. It did seem to me then, as it hath to-day, that he took too much
upon himself. Now it appears that I am guilty of the same fault. At
least, being your near relative should serve as some excuse for me.”

“I think thee has made that remark upon divers occasions, my cousin. Is
not thy father with Lord Cornwallis?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Then kindly remember that being cousin-german to my father, he stands
in nearer relationship to me than thee does. Should I have need of
guidance I will ask it of him. Does thee understand, my cousin?”

“Only too well,” he burst forth. “And all this for the sake of a Yankee
captain. Oh, I noticed how solicitous you were lest he should be hurt.”

“And was solicitude not shown for thee also? Thou art unjust, Clifford.”

With crestfallen air the youth led Star from the rude stable, and
without further conversation they started for the house.



CHAPTER XXVI—TIDE-WATER AGAIN


              “Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
              The few brood mares, and oxen swept away;
              The Lares,—if the household shrine possessed
              One little god that pleased above the rest;
              Mean spoils indeed!”

                                   —“Juvenal,” 8th Satire.

A cry of horror broke from Peggy’s lips as they came in sight of the
house. The barns, granaries, smoke-houses, and other dependencies were
in flames. Clothing and even furniture were being carted from the
dwelling by the soldiery; that which could be carried easily being
appropriated by them, and the rest consigned to the fires. At some
little distance from the dwelling, pale but composed, bearing herself
with the fortitude of a Roman matron, stood Mrs. Weston, surrounded by a
group of wailing slaves, her little boy clinging to her skirts. She
beckoned the girl to her side when she caught sight of the cousins.

“They are leaving nothing, absolutely nothing,” she whispered. “How we
shall sustain life, if that is left us, is a problem I dare not face.
They found the cows.”

“Oh,” breathed Peggy. “What shall thee do? And Fairfax?”

“Is undiscovered so far. If the house is not burnt he may remain so. The
boy wanted to fight this whole force. I had hard work to convince him of
the folly of such a course. And you, Peggy? You will go with your
cousin, will you not?”

“Why, how did thee know ’twas my cousin?” queried Peggy in surprise.

“’Tis plain to be seen that he is kin, child. The resemblance is very
strong. Perhaps I did wrong, but when he came this afternoon to look
over the place as a possible site for some of the army to camp I thought
at once that it must be your British cousin. When he told me that his
lordship was to make his headquarters at Tilghman’s Ordinary at Hanover
Court House, and that the whole of the army would have to be quartered
in the near vicinity, I knew what that meant. So I took it upon myself
to tell him at once where you were, and sent him in search of you. Go
with him, Peggy. The safest place in the state at the present time is in
the enemy’s lines. ’Tis the wisest thing to do. And oh, my dear! My
dear! don’t start out again alone so long as this awful war continues.
Go with your cousin.”

“I fear me that I must,” said the maiden sadly. “But if I do what hope
is left me of getting home? After these troops pass on, the road will be
clear, will it not? Then what would be the risk for me to start forth?
If I could get to our own lines thee knows that all would be well.
Surely our army is somewhere near.”

“’Tis not to be considered for an instant, child,” spoke the matron
quickly. “After the regular army hath its fill of pillage there always
comes the riffraff to gather up what their masters have left. Scoundrels
they are; utterly devoid of every instinct of humanity. I would not have
you meet with them for the world. Peggy, be advised by me in this, and
ride on with your cousin.”

“I must go,” broke from Peggy. “I see that I must. But ’tis bitter to go
back; ’tis bitter to be compelled to be with such an enemy as this army;
’tis bitter also to leave thee like this, destitute of everything. How
terrible a thing is war,” she cried bursting into sudden weeping. “Oh,
will the time never come when nations shall war no more? I long for the
day when the sword shall be turned into the ploughshare, and the spear
into the pruning-hook.”

“And so do we all,” cried Mrs. Weston taking the girl into a tender
embrace, for she perceived that she was near the limit of endurance.
“Now mount that little mare of yours, and go right on with your cousin.”
She motioned Clifford to approach. “Unless your orders are such that you
cannot, young man,” she said, “take your cousin away from here at once.”

“I will do so gladly, madam, if she will but go with me,” he returned.
“Will you come, my cousin?”

“I must, Clifford,” answered Peggy, striving for composure. “There seems
naught else for me to do. Mrs. Weston thinks it the wisest course.”

“I thank you, madam,” he said bowing courteously. “And I pray you
believe me when I say that this plundering and burning are not at all to
my liking. ’Tis winked at by the leaders, and for that reason we, who
are of minor rank and who do not approve such practices, must bear with
them. Come, my cousin.”

“For those words, Clifford, I will forgive thee everything,” exclaimed
the overwrought girl.

“There are many who feel as I do,” he said assisting her to mount. “I
like army life, my cousin. There is nothing so inspiring to my mind as
the blare of bugle, or the beat of drum. The charge, the roar of
musketry, the thunder of artillery, all fill me with joy. They are as
the breath of life to my nostrils. Glory and honor lie in the field; but
this predatory warfare, these incursions that for their end and aim have
naught but the destruction of property—Faugh!” he concluded abruptly.
“Fame is not to be gained in such fashion.”

In silence they rode down the shaded lane to the road. The main army had
long since passed on, but the rear guard and baggage train still filled
the cleared stretch of road from which the lane turned. As had been the
case in every state that the English had entered, a number of loyalists
with their families flocked to the British standard, and traveled with
the army. Clifford, who was obliged to rejoin his command, found a place
for Peggy among these persons, promising to return as soon as possible.

The company was not at all congenial to the girl. The feeling between
loyalist and patriot was not such that either was easy in the presence
of the other. Women are ever more intensely partisan than men, and the
comments of some of these latter against their own countrymen tried
Peggy severely, but she bore it patiently, knowing that this was the
best that could be done in the matter. When at last Hanover Court House
was reached, Clifford came to see about accommodations for her; and on
this, as well as the days that followed, Peggy had no cause to complain
of his manner. That little reference concerning the nearer kinship of
his father had been productive of good fruit, and he no longer insisted
upon his own relationship offensively. So agreeable was his behavior
that when, at length, he brought his father to her she said not one word
to Colonel Owen about placing herself under his care. The colonel
himself seemed in high good humor, and greeted her with something of
affection.

“And so we are met again, my little cousin,” he said warmly. “Clifford
tells me why you are in this part of the country, and it seems that ’tis
to your nursing that he owes his continuance upon this mundane sphere.
Harriet hath not yet returned to New York, I understand, so we will be a
reunited family. It hath been some years since we have had that
pleasure. ’Twill be all the greater for having you with us.”

“I thank thee, Cousin William,” answered Peggy, responding at once to
his unexpected graciousness. “And thee will be glad to know that Harriet
hath quite recovered from her illness. She grows more beautiful, I
think, were that possible.”

“And this son of mine? What think you of him?” asked he. “I had some
cause for offense with him, but since he hath shown himself worthy to
follow in my footsteps I have forgot displeasure. He looks like David,
does he not?”

“So much, my cousin, that I cannot but think that he should be my
father’s son instead of thine. How strange that he should look so much
like him!”

“Yes. And I’ll warrant because of that you consider him better looking
than his father,” said Colonel Owen laughing heartily.

“But father hath uncommon good looks,” answered she. “And thee does
resemble him to some extent.”

“Well,” he said laughing again, “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied
with that. Now, Peggy, if this boy does not look well to your comfort,
just let me know. I am obliged to be with my regiment, but I shall
manage to look in upon you occasionally. Captain Williams,” he made a
wry face at the name, “hath somewhat more leisure.”

And so Peggy found herself well cared for, and in truth she needed much
comfort in the ensuing days. Of that march when Cornwallis continued his
retreat toward tide-water she never willingly spoke. To Point of Fork
and then down the river to Richmond the British commander proceeded by
leisurely marches, stopping often for rest, and oftener to permit his
troops time for depredations. Scene after scene of rapine followed each
other so rapidly that the march seemed one long panorama of destruction.
She thought that she knew war in all its horrors. Their own farm had
been pillaged, their barn burned, and they had suffered much from the
inroads of the enemy; but all this was as naught to what Virginia had to
endure.

It had come to mean comparatively nothing to these people to see their
fruits, fowls and cattle carried away by the light troops. The main army
followed, collecting what the vanguard left. Stocks of cattle, sheep and
hogs together with what corn was wanted were used for the sustenance of
the army. All horses capable of service were carried off; throats of
others too young to use were cut ruthlessly. Growing crops of corn and
tobacco were burned, together with barns containing the same articles of
the preceding year, and all fences of plantations, so as to leave an
absolute waste. This hurricane, which destroyed everything in its path,
was followed by a scourge yet more terrible—the numerous rabble of
refugees which came after, not to assist in the fighting, but to partake
of the plunder, to strip the inhabitants of clothes and furniture which
was in general the sole booty left to satisfy their avidity. Many of
these atrocities came directly under the girl’s vision; there were
others of which she was mercifully spared any knowledge.

In ignorance also was she of the fact that hard after them, not twenty
miles away, rode Lafayette. His forces augmented by additions from
Greene, by the Pennsylvanians under Wayne, by Baron Steuben’s command,
and by the militia under General Nelson, he no longer feared to strike a
blow, and so became the hunter instead of the hunted. Consequently there
was constant skirmishing between the van and the rear of the two armies.

The month was drawing to a close when the army fell back to
Williamsburg, and halted. The heat had become so intense that the troops
were easily exhausted, and necessity compelled a rest. Peggy was glad
when the spire of Bruton Church came into sight.

“I am so tired, Clifford,” she said wearily when the lad came to her as
the army entered the place from the west. “Tired and sick at heart. I
know not what form is used in leaving, if any, but if there be custom of
any sort to observe, let it be done quickly, I pray thee. And then let
us go to the cottage to Nurse Johnson.”

“There is no form to comply with,” he said, regarding her with
compassion. “We will go at once, though not to the cottage. Father hath
taken a house more commodious on the Palace Green, and hath sent me for
you. Harriet will be there also.”

And, though well she knew that taking a house meant in this instance the
turning out of the inmates that they might be lodged, Peggy, knowing
that protest would be of no avail, went with him silently.



CHAPTER XXVII—PEGGY RECEIVES A SHOCK


                 “Chains are round our country pressed,
                   And cowards have betrayed her,
                 And we must make her bleeding breast
                   The grave of the invader.”

                                               —Bryant.

Harriet, with her chestnut hair flying in a maze of witching ringlets,
her eyes starry with radiance, came dancing to meet them as they entered
the house which Colonel Owen had taken for his use.

“Father told me that you had come,” she cried embracing Peggy
rapturously. “Is it not delightsome that we are all together at last,
Peggy? Here are father, Clifford, you, and last, but not least, your
most humble and devoted servant, Mistress Harriet Owen. Oh, I am so
happy! And why did you run away, you naughty girl? Still, had you not
done so I should have missed seeing father and the army.”

“I was trying to get home,” answered Peggy, forgetting her weariness in
admiration of her cousin’s beauty, and wondering also at her
light-heartedness.

“Home to that poky Philadelphia, where tea and rusks, or a morning visit
are the only diversions?” laughed Harriet. “You quaint little Quakeress,
don’t you know that now that the army hath come we shall have routs,
kettledrums, and assemblies to no end?”

“Be not so sure of that, Harriet,” spoke her brother. “Lord Cornwallis
is not so inclined toward such things as is Sir Henry Clinton. He is
chiefly concerned for this business of warfare.”

“On the march, I grant you, Clifford, but when the army camps there are
always pleasurings. ’Twas so at Charlestown, and Camden, and ’tis the
case in New York. We shall have a gay time, Peggy.”

“Suppose, Harriet, that you begin giving our cousin a good time by
taking her to a room where she may rest,” suggested the youth. “Do you
not see that she is greatly fatigued? The march hath been a hard one.”

“She does indeed look tired,” remarked Harriet glancing at Peggy
critically. “Come on, Peggy. I’ll take you to our room. ’Tis much larger
than the one we shared at Nurse Johnson’s.”

And so chatting she conducted the weary girl to a large, airy chamber on
the second floor of the dwelling, leaving her with reluctance at length
to seek the rest of which Peggy stood so much in need.

Meanwhile, much to the consternation of the citizens of Williamsburg,
the entire army marched in and took possession of the little city.
Cornwallis seized upon the president’s house at the college for his
headquarters, forcing that functionary with his family to seek refuge in
the main college building. As the origin of the institution was so
thoroughly English, and it had remained in part faithful to the mother
country, he caused it to be strenuously guarded from destruction, or
injury of any sort. Indeed, this attitude had been maintained toward the
college by all the English throughout the war.

Officers of the highest rank followed the example set them by their
commander, and seized upon whatever dwelling pleased their fancy,
sometimes permitting the rightful owners to reserve a few rooms for
their own use; more often turning them out completely to find shelter
wherever they could. The men of minor rank took what their superiors
left, while the rank and file camped in the open fields surrounding the
town. Parties were sent out daily on foraging expeditions, and once more
York peninsula was swept by the devastating invader.

Of all that occurred in the five days that succeeded the army’s entry
into the city Peggy knew nothing. She was so utterly worn out that she
did not leave her room, and alarmed by this unusual lassitude in her
Colonel Owen insisted that she should keep to her bed. By the end of the
week, however, she felt quite herself again, and resolving to seek Nurse
Johnson without delay, she arose and dressed herself.

“I must tell her of Fairfax,” she thought as she went down the stairs to
the drawing-room. “It hath been unkind in me to keep the poor woman
waiting so for news of her son, but I have in truth been near to
illness. I know not when my strength hath been so severely tried. Peggy,
thee must display more fortitude. I fear thee has a long wait before
thee ere thee shall behold thy home again, and thee must call forth all
thy endurance to meet it. Megrims have no place in thy calendar, Peggy.”

Thus chiding herself she reached the drawing-room where Colonel Owen sat
with his son and daughter.

“’Tis quite time you came down, my little cousin,” cried the colonel as
she entered the room. “Clifford here hath been importuning me to have a
surgeon, to dose you with Jesuit’s bark, and I know not what else.
Zounds! the boy hath shown as much solicitude as if it had been Harriet.
I had hard work to convince him that all you needed was rest.”

“Clifford hath been most kind, Cousin William,” she said. “And so have
you all. I could not have been more tenderly cared for at home. Fatigue
was all that ailed me, however, and I have now recovered from that.”

“Come! that’s good news,” cried William Owen. “And now you shall hear
something of great import. This son of mine hath quite puffed me up with
pride. It seems that Earl Cornwallis wished some boats and stores of the
rebels on the Chickahominy River destroyed, and all the cattle
thereabouts brought in for the use of the army. He detailed Colonel
Simcoe to accomplish the matter. Now mark, Peggy! what does this same
Colonel Simcoe do but ask for Captain Williams, Captain Williams,
understand, to accompany him, avowing that he was one of the most
promising young officers in the army. It seems also that a little
skirmish took place between the rebels and Simcoe’s forces in which a
certain Captain Williams particularly distinguished himself. Egad! I
hear encomiums on all sides as to his conduct. Would that his commission
was in his own name!”

“And what do you think, Peggy?” exclaimed Harriet before Peggy could
make reply to her cousin. “Your old friend——”

“Harriet,” interrupted Clifford warningly. “We agreed not to speak of
that.”

“What is it, Clifford?” asked Peggy turning to him with alarm. “Hath any
of my friends met with injury? Hath any been made a prisoner? Or
wounded? Or—or killed?”

“No,” he told her kindly. “None of these things has happened. One of
your friends took part in the engagement which father has just
mentioned. There occurred an incident after the mêlée which was curious,
but ’twas nothing that should concern you. I would rather not tell you
about it. You will know it soon enough.”

“If none of those things happened,” she said relieved, “there is naught
else that I care about if thee does not wish me to know. Was thy side
the victor, my cousin?”

“Yes; though I understand that the rebels claim it also. The loss was
quite heavy on both sides for so small an action. You are arrayed for
the street, Peggy? Are you going out?”

“To Nurse Johnson’s, Clifford. I saw her son while away, and she would
be glad to have news of him,” Peggy explained frankly. “I ought to have
gone before this.”

“I would not go elsewhere, and I were you,” he said. “Harriet and I are
going for a short ride after parade. Would you like to accompany us?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I will not stay long, Clifford.”

Peggy started forth with this intention, but it took some little time to
reach the cottage so filled were the streets with troops. It seemed to
the girl that every foot of ground held a red coat. When she at length
arrived at the place it was to find Nurse Johnson out. She would soon be
back, she was told, so the girl sat down to wait for her. Finally the
good woman made her appearance, but there was so much to tell that it
was high noon before the visit was ended.

“I shall miss the ride,” mused Peggy passing quickly through the tiny
orchard to the gate which opened on Palace Street. “I hope that my
cousins won’t wait for me, or that they will not be annoyed. Why, John!”

For as she turned from shutting the gate she came face to face with John
Drayton.

“Is thee mad,” she cried, “to venture here like this? ’Tis certain
death, John.”

“Is anything liable to happen to a fellow who wears such a garb as this
in a British camp?” he asked indicating his clothes by a careless
gesture.

Peggy’s glance swept him from head to foot. He was clad in the uniform
of a British officer, and seemed not at all concerned as to his safety.
An awful suspicion clutched her, and again her gaze took in every detail
of that telltale uniform. Then her eyes sought his face and she looked
at him searchingly, as though she would read his very soul. Suddenly she
leaned forward and touched the red coat fearfully.

“What doth it mean?” she whispered, all her apprehension and doubt
contained in the query.

Over Drayton’s face swept a swift indescribable change at her words. He
drew a deep breath before answering, and when he spoke his voice held a
harshness she had never heard before:

“What doth such a thing usually mean, Peggy?”

“Not, not that, John,” she cried piteously. “Thee can’t mean what that
uniform says. Thee can’t mean that, John?”

“Just that,” he answered tersely.

With a low cry she shrank from him, her eyes wide with horror.

“A deserter! Thou?” she breathed.

“Even I, Peggy.”

All the color left her face. She swayed as though about to fall, but
when Drayton put forth his arm to support her she waved him back. For a
long time Peggy stood so overwhelmed that she could not speak. Then she
murmured brokenly:

“But why? Why?”

“I will answer you as I did his lordship,” replied the youth clearly.
“When he asked that same question, I said: ‘My lord, I have served from
the beginning of this war. While my commander was an American it was all
right, but when I was sent here to be under a Frenchman I thought it
time to quit the service.’”

“And is that all thy reason?”

“Is it not reason enough, Peggy?”

“No,” she cried passionately. “It is not. Oh, I see it all! Thee has
heard from General Arnold.”

“Why should you think that?” Drayton regarded her queerly. “What would
hearing from him have to do with my desertion?”

“Everything,” she answered wildly. “He hath wooed thee from thy
allegiance, as he said he would. ’Twas on this very spot that he boasted
that not two months would pass before thee would be fighting by his
side. And I defended thee because I believed that naught could turn thee
from thy country. Why look thee, John! how short hath been the time
since thou wert made a captain! For valor, thee said, at Hobkirk’s
Hill.”

“That was under Greene,” he made answer. “He is not a frog-eating
Frenchman.”

“Yet that same Frenchman hath left country and family to give his
services, his money, his life if necessary to help an alien people in
their fight for liberty. And thee cannot fight under such a man because,
forsooth, he is French. French,” with cutting scorn, “who would not
rather be French, English, German, or aught else than an American who
would desert his country for so small a thing?”

“Don’t, Peggy,” he pleaded. “It—it hurts.”

“And I have been so proud of thee,” she went on unheeding his plea, her
voice thrilling with the intensity of her feeling. “So proud of thee at
Middlebrook, when thee was spoken of as a lad of parts. So proud when
General Washington himself said he wished the whole army had thy spirit.
I treasured those words, John Drayton. And again I have been proud of
thy conduct in battle, and for all thy career, because I thought of thee
as my soldier. Oh!” she cried with passion, “I would rather thee had
died in battle; and yet, from the opening to the close of every campaign
I have prayed nightly that thee might be spared.”

Drayton adjusted his neck ruffles, and swallowed hard.

“Peggy,” he said. “Peggy——” and paused.

“I think my heart will break,” she sobbed; and with that last cry she
left him standing there.



CHAPTER XXVIII—VERIFIED SUSPICIONS


             “The way is long, my children, long and rough,
             The moors are dreary, the woods are dark;
             But he that creeps from cradle on to grave,
             Unskil’d save in the velvet course of fortune,
             Hath miss’d the discipline of noble hearts.”

                                                 —Old Play.

How could he do it? the girl asked herself as she made her way with
unseeing eyes back to her cousin’s dwelling. After all his years of
service, after enduring hardships that would tax any man’s soul to the
utmost, to desert now. What had become of the spirit that had carried
him through all that dreadful march through the wilderness to Quebec?
Where was the enthusiasm that had sustained him through the disastrous
campaigns of South Carolina? Oh, it was past all belief!

Many patriots, she knew, had come to consider the American cause
hopeless; many of the best men were weary of the long war; many also had
lost interest because of the French Alliance; but that John Drayton had
deserted because he had been sent to serve under the Marquis de
Lafayette she could not believe. Had he not told her with exultation at
Middlebrook that he was to be in that same Marquis’s corps of light
infantry?

That was not the reason, she told herself miserably. It was plain to her
that he had heard from the traitor Arnold who, to add to his infamy, had
sought repeatedly to corrupt the men of his former command. Undoubtedly
Drayton had been won from his allegiance through his affection for his
old leader.

Harriet and Clifford cantered to the gate just as she was entering the
door of the dwelling. Harriet called to her gleefully as she dismounted:

“You should have gone with us, Peggy. ’Twas vastly enjoyable. What think
you? Lord Cornwallis himself rode with us for a time. He is to dine with
father on Monday. Why! what hath happened?” she broke off at sight of
her cousin’s pale cheeks and woe-filled eyes.

“She hath seen the Yankee captain,” exclaimed Clifford joining them. “Is
not that the trouble, my cousin?”

“Yes,” assented Peggy drearily. “I saw him, Clifford. Oh!” with sudden
enlightenment, “was his desertion what thee was keeping from me?”

“That was it, Peggy. I knew that you would know that he had joined us
some time, but I hoped that it could be kept from you until you were
stronger.”

“Thee is very thoughtful,” said Peggy her eyes filling at this kindness.
“Still, Clifford, ’tis as well to know it now. Time could not allay one
pang caused by treachery.”

“Peggy,” said her cousin abruptly, “you talked with him, did you not?”

“Yes, Clifford.”

“And do you consider him sincere when he says that the reason for his
desertion is that he was sent to serve under the Marquis de Lafayette?”

“No,” she returned apathetically. “No, Clifford.”

“Ah!” he cried triumphantly. “I thought so. You think with me, then, my
little cousin, that the fellow is a spy?”

“A spy?” A light flashed into the girl’s eyes, and she looked at him
eagerly. It faded as quickly as it came, however, and she shook her head
sadly. “He is no spy,” she said. “I would he were, so that he was true
to liberty.”

“Then I beg of you to tell me his true reason for deserting,” he urged.
“I like him not; nay, nor do I trust him, yet if he be sincere in
renewing his allegiance to our king then I will give o’er my suspicions
regarding him.”

“I believe that ’twas caused by General Arnold,” she told him. “Last
spring when he was here in Williamsburg he boasted that John would soon
be fighting with him. He hath won him from his duty through his
affection, for John loved him greatly. I doubt not his sincerity,” she
concluded with such anguish in her tones that Harriet was touched.

“He isn’t worth a thought, Peggy,” she cried. “And what else could you
expect from John Drayton?”

“She speaks truth, my cousin,” said Clifford. “Desertions occur daily
from both sides. Those who are guilty of them are not persons actuated
by the highest motives. I would think no more of it.”

“Don’t,” exclaimed the girl struggling for control. “He was my friend.
Thee must not speak of him like that. Oh!” she cried with a burst of
tears, “how shall I bear it?”

“Tell her how it occurred, Cliff,” suggested Harriet. “She might just as
well know all about it.”

“Yes, tell me,” said Peggy looking up through her tears. “I want to know
everything to see if aught can justify him.”

“It happened after this manner,” began the youth complying with the
request with visible reluctance. “After the encounter with the rebels
the other day when they were retiring from us under a hot fire, what
does this fellow do all at once but dash from among them and come toward
us, crying: ‘I’m going to cast in my lot with you fellows.’

“This seemed to incense his comrades greatly. They ceased to fire at us
and turned their muskets against him. ’Twas marvelous that he escaped
unhurt, but he did, and was received with cheers and shouts of
admiration by our troops. Odds life!” ejaculated the youth with grudging
approval, “he hath pluck enough when it comes to that, but I like not a
turncoat. ’Tis said that my Lord Cornwallis is much taken with him, and
hath declared that he would like a regiment like him. Pray heaven that
he doth not repent it. I never liked him, you remember, and still less
do I regard him now. I shall keep an eye on him.”

“I thank thee for telling me about it, Clifford,” said Peggy. “I think I
will go to my room. I—I am tired.”

Seeing that the girl was losing command of herself her cousins permitted
her to leave them without further word, and at last Peggy could give way
to the sorrow that was overwhelming her.

The sun shone as brightly as of yore; the birds sang sweetly in the tree
tops, and flowers blossomed in the meadows; all the world of Nature went
on as before. For no act of man affects the immutable laws of the
universe, and with indifference to woe, or grief, or breach of trust
they fulfil their predestined designs though everything that makes life
dear may be slipping from one’s grasp. Peggy was wondering dully at this
one morning, a few days later, as she went down to breakfast.

“Peggy,” exclaimed Harriet startled by the girl’s haggard looks, “you
will make yourself ill by so much grieving. I doubt that ’tis best for
you to keep your room as you do. Remember how you made me shake off the
megrims by exertion in Philadelphia? Well, I shall play the physician
now, and make you bestir yourself. She should, shouldn’t she, father?”

Colonel Owen looked up from his place at the head of the table and
regarded the maiden disapprovingly.

“Peggy is a foolish little girl,” he remarked with some sharpness.
“Captain Drayton hath returned to his true allegiance, and I see no
reason why such a show of grief should be deemed necessary. ’Tis not
only unseemly, but vastly indelicate as well. As for action, not only
she but all of us will have to move whether we choose or not. The army
goes on the march again to-morrow.”

“Where, father?” asked Harriet in surprise. “Is ‘t not a sudden
determination on his lordship’s part?”

“Somewhat. He hath received an express from General Sir Henry Clinton
which says that all movements of the rebel general indicate a
determination to attack New York City. Washington hath been joined by
the French troops, and the activities of the allies denote a settled
purpose which hath alarmed Sir Henry for the safety of the city.
Therefore, he desires the earl to send him some troops, which will leave
his lordship too weak to hold this place. In consequence we are off
to-morrow for Portsmouth across the James. Zounds!” he burst forth
grumblingly. “I don’t mind campaigning in seasonable weather, but this
hot climate makes a move of any sort an exertion not to be undertaken
save by compulsion.”

“Must we go, father?” pouted Harriet, “Could you not get leave of
absence, and continue here? We are so comfortable.”

“Stay here to become a prisoner of war, my dear?” questioned her father
sarcastically. “Methought you were abreast of war news sufficiently to
know that that boy general of a Frenchman hath kept within a dozen miles
of us of late. The army will scarcely be out of here before he marches
in. Egad! but he needs a lesson. His lordship merely laughs when I tell
him so, and declares that the boy cannot escape him. He will attend to
him in time. Nay, Harriet; we shall have to go, though I confess to a
strong disinclination to move.”

The occupation of Williamsburg by the army under Cornwallis lasted nine
days; that of Portsmouth was little more than thrice that time, for upon
the engineers reporting that the site was one that could not be
fortified the British general put his troops aboard such shipping as he
could gather and transferred them bodily to Yorktown. Here he set the
army and the negroes who had followed them to laying out lines of
earthworks, that he might hold the post with the reduced number of
troops that would be left him after detaching the reinforcements needed
by Clinton. And now ensued a pause in the daily excitements and
operations of the Virginia campaign.

Yorktown was not much more than a village. It had been an emporium of
trade before the Revolution, while Williamsburg was the capital of the
state. The site of the town was beautiful in the extreme, stretching
from east to west on the south side of the noble York River, a small
distance above where the river empties into Chesapeake Bay.

Both Peggy and Harriet rejoiced in the change, and much of their time
was spent on the high point of land to the east of the village which
gave outlook upon Chesapeake Bay, gazing at the wide expanse of water.
Upon several of these occasions Peggy encountered Drayton, but the two
merely looked at each other without speaking, the girl with eyes full of
reproach, the youth with an expression that was unfathomable. Harriet
now began to twit her unmercifully upon her change of attitude toward
him.

“It is too amusing,” she said one day after one of these chance
meetings. “You were such friends at Middlebrook, Peggy, and now you will
not speak to him. All because he hath come to the conclusion that the
king hath the right of it.”

“I have already told him how I feel anent the matter,” answered Peggy
with a sigh. “There is no more to be said.”

“Would I had been a mouse to have heard it,” laughed Harriet. “Clifford
hath not even yet learned to trust him, though father chides him for his
feeling, and is disposed to make much of the captain. I think my brother
hath never got over the fear that he may have been in favor with me.
’Tis all vastly entertaining.”

“Treachery never seems amusing to me,” remarked Peggy quietly.

“I don’t think I should term taking sides with the king treachery,”
retorted her cousin. “It seems to me that ’tis the other way. You, and
others with Whiggish notions, are the traitors. ’Tis an unnatural
rebellion.”

“’Tis idle to speak so, Harriet, and useless to discuss it. We shall
never agree on the subject, and therefore what purpose is served by
talking of it?”

“Only this,” rejoined Harriet mischievously, turning to note the effect
of her words upon her cousin: “we were speaking of Captain Drayton, were
we not? Well, Peggy, you will have to get over your feeling toward him,
for father hath invited him to dine with us to-morrow.”

“Oh, Harriet!” gasped Peggy. “Why did he?”

“Because he thinks both you and Clifford need a lesson in politeness.
Clifford, because of his suspicions, and you because you do not speak to
him.”

“Oh!” said Peggy in pained tones. “Would that he had not asked him.
’Twas thoughtless in Cousin William.”

“I think father ought to have the right to ask whom he chooses to his
own house,” declared Harriet, who was in one of her moods. “He says that
when one of these misguided rebels realizes his error and strives to
rectify it we should encourage him, so that others may follow his
example. I expect rare sport when you meet.”

Peggy said no more, knowing how useless it would be to plead with either
Colonel Owen or Harriet once either had determined upon any course. So,
nerving herself for the ordeal, she went down to dinner the next day in
anything but a happy frame of mind.

To her surprise only Colonel Owen and Harriet were in the drawing-room.
There was no sign either of Clifford, or of John Drayton.

“Are you disappointed, Peggy?” asked Harriet with some sarcasm, catching
the girl’s involuntary glance about the apartment. “So are we, and
father thinks it unpardonable in a guest to keep us waiting so. I always
said that Captain Drayton lacked manners.”

Before Peggy could reply the door was flung open, and Clifford dashed
into the room.

“What in the world is the matter?” queried Harriet startled by his
manner of entrance. “One would think that you had affairs of state to
communicate that would brook no delay.”

“And so I have,” cried the lad with exultation. “Do not all of you
remember that I was not taken with that Yankee captain? Did I not say
from the beginning that he was not to be trusted? I was right, but no
one would heed me. I knew after the way he boasted the day we met with
the sword in Hanover that he was an unregenerate rebel, but my
suspicions were laughed at. I was right, I say.”

“Clifford, what do you mean?” cried his sister. Peggy did not speak, but
stood waiting his next words with feverish eagerness, her breath coming
quickly, her eyes dilated, her hands clasped tightly.

“Go on, my son,” spoke Colonel Owen with some impatience. “We all know
your feelings on the subject. What hath happened to verify such
suspicions?”

“Just this,” answered he with triumph: “last night the fellow stole out
and met one of the enemy. In company with another officer I followed
after him as he stole through the lines. Beyond Wormeley’s Creek the
meeting took place, and we apprehended him on his return. His spying
mission is over. He will do no more harm.”

“Clifford!” shrieked Peggy. “What does thee mean?”

“That because he is a spy,” cried Clifford, “he is condemned to die at
sunrise.”



CHAPTER XXIX—“I SHALL NOT SAY GOOD-BYE”


            “How beautiful is death when earned by virtue!
            Who would not sleep with those? What pity is it
            That we can die but once to save our country.”

                                           —Addison’s Cato.

“He is to die at sunrise.” The announcement came with such suddenness
that for a moment no one spoke. Peggy stood as though stricken. Colonel
Owen was the first to recover himself.

“Suppose that you unravel the matter from the beginning,” he suggested.
“’Twill be the better understood. Do I hear aright that you were the
means of discovering his duplicity?”

“It was I of a truth,” answered Clifford speaking rapidly. “I never
trusted him; so, while the rest of you made much of him and received him
into your confidences, I kept my eyes open. For a long time no act of
his justified suspicion, and it did seem as though distrust was
groundless. And then, ’twas just after we entered camp here at Yorktown,
I came upon him one night in the woods south of the Moore House. He was
pretty far afield, so I spoke to him sharply. He laughed, and said that
the heat had made him sleepless, and that he preferred the air to the
closeness of his quarters. I said no more, but resolved to double my
watch of him. This I did, and three times have I seen him leave camp
without permit. Confiding my fears regarding the reason for such
absences to Lieutenant Bolton we followed him last night, and our
vigilance was rewarded. Drayton met one of Lafayette’s men, and we were
close enough to them to hear him repeat the orders issued by Lord
Cornwallis yesterday to Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas concerning some
movements which were to take place from Gloucester Point, and also
impart other important information.

“Fearful lest some untoward incident might contribute to his escape we
let him return unmolested to the camp before apprehending him. His
lordship is quite cut up over the matter, and hath commended me publicly
for my alertness. He hath also,” concluded the youth proudly, “placed
the prisoner in my entire charge, leaving all proceedings in the affair
to be arranged by me. There will be no flaw in carrying out the
sentence, I promise you.”

“And all this time, while I have thought him disloyal, he hath been
true, true!” cried Peggy brokenly. “Oh, I should have known! I should
have known!”

“And he is in your charge, Cliff?” asked Harriet. “My, but you are
coming on! Father will have to look to his laurels.”

“You are o’er young, my son, to have the management of so serious an
affair,” remarked Colonel Owen gravely. “Lord Cornwallis likes young
men, and hath favored them upon many occasions when ’twould have been
better to give preference to older men. However, if you see that his
confidence is not misplaced we shall all be proud of you.”

“Have no fear, sir,” said Clifford pompously. “I have placed the
prisoner in a small cottage where there is no possibility of holding
communication with any one. He is not only well guarded, sir, but I have
the door locked upon the outside, and I myself carry the key. Even Lord
Cornwallis could not see him without first coming to me. Oh, I have
provided well against any miscarriage of justice.”

“Thee must let me see him, Clifford,” spoke Peggy abruptly. “I shall
never know peace unless I have his forgiveness. Thee will let me see
him, my cousin?”

“What you ask, Peggy, is utterly impossible,” answered Clifford. “He
shall not have one privilege. A spy deserves none. ’Twas not my desire
that the execution should be deferred until morning. There should be no
delay in such matters. Spies should be dealt with summarily.”

“You forget, son, that doctrine of that sort works both ways,” observed
his father, smiling at the youth’s important air. “We have spies of our
own in the enemy’s lines. Too great harshness of dealing will be
retaliated upon our own men.”

“Clifford,” cried Peggy going to him, and laying her hand upon his arm
pleadingly, “does thee not remember how he spared thee? He could have
slain thee when he had thee at his mercy. Thee will not refuse me one
little hour with him, my cousin.”

“I shall not grant one minute,” returned he sternly. The look which she
had seen when he refused to greet Harriet until satisfied of her loyalty
came now to his face. “He shall not have one privilege.”

“’Twould be inhuman not to permit it, Clifford. ’Tis not justice thee
seeks, but the gratifying of thine own rancor toward him.”

“She is right, my son,” spoke Colonel Owen. “You lay yourself open to
that very charge. To guard closely against escape is right. To take
every precaution against the miscarriage of the sentence is duty. But to
refuse a small privilege is not only against the dictates of humanity,
but ’tis impolitic as well. The vicissitudes of war are many, and by sad
fortune you might find yourself in the same condition as this young
fellow. ’Tis the part of wisdom to grant what one can in such cases.”

“Captain Williams needs no instructions as to his duty, sir,” returned
Clifford hotly.

Colonel Owen laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“I had forgot,” he said ironically. “I cry you pardon. Captain Williams,
of course, is conversant with the entire code of civilized warfare. I
shall say no more.” He arose and left the apartment.

“Clifford, thee must let me see John,” urged Peggy with feverish
insistence. “A little time is all I ask. It could not matter, nor make
the least difference in carrying out thy duty. One little hour,
Clifford!”

“Say no more,” he cried harshly. “I will not permit it.”

“Thee shall, Clifford Owen.” Peggy’s own voice grew hard in the
intensity of her feeling. “I have never asked favor of thee before, and
yet thee is indebted to me. Have I not cared for thee in illness? Thee
has said that thee would try in part to repay what thee owed me. This is
thy opportunity. When thee was about to die among strangers I came to
comfort and console thee in thy last hours. Wilt not let him have a like
consolation? Clifford!” Her voice broke suddenly. “Thee will let me see
him.”

“No,” he responded inexorably. “Where are you going?” he asked abruptly
as the girl turned from him with determination written on her
countenance.

“I am going to Lord Cornwallis,” answered Peggy. “I shall lay this
matter before him, and show him that ’tis not zeal which animates thee
in the discharge of thy duty, but private hatred. I make no doubt but
that he will accord me permission to see John.”

“I make no doubt of it either,” ejaculated the boy savagely. He was well
enough acquainted with his chief to know that a demand made by so
winsome a maiden would be granted. “Come back here, Peggy. I’ll let you
see him. I don’t care to have Lord Cornwallis, or any one else, mixed up
in our private affairs. But mind! it will only be for one hour.”

“Thank thee, Clifford. ’Tis all I ask,” she said sorrowfully. “When will
thee take me to him?”

“So long as it has to be, it might as well be now,” he told her sulkily.
“Are you ready?”

“Yes, Clifford.”

“And the dinner, good people?” broke in Harriet. “Am I not to be
pleasured by your company?”

“The dinner can wait,” exclaimed her brother shortly. “We’ll get this
business over with.”

Too intent upon her own feelings to give heed to the dourness of the lad
Peggy followed him silently as he strode from the house. In all her
after life she never forgot that walk: the glare of the sun; the soft
touch of the breeze which came freshly from the sea; the broad expanse
of the river where it melted into the broader sweep of the bay; the
frigates and shipping of the British lying in the river below, and above
all the heaviness of her heart as she followed her cousin to the place
where John Drayton awaited death.

Eastward of the village, on its extreme outskirts stood a small one
story house with but one window and a single door. It was quite remote
from the other dwellings of the town, and the tents of the army lay
further to the east and south so that it practically stood alone. A
mulberry tree at some little distance from the house afforded the only
relief from the blazing August sun to be found in that part of the
village. Two sentries marched to and fro around the hut, while a guard,
heavily armed, sat just without the threshold of the door. Clifford
conducted the girl at once to the entrance. The guard saluted and moved
aside at his command.

[Illustration: SHE STEPPED INTO THE ROOM]

“You shall have just one hour,” said the youth, unlocking the door. “I
shall call when ’tis time.”

Peggy could not reply. In a tumult of emotion she stepped into the one
room of the hut. The air was close and the heat almost intolerable after
the freshness of the sea breeze outside. Coming from the dazzling glare
of the sun into the darkened interior she could not see for a moment, so
stopped just beyond the door, half stifled by the closeness of the
atmosphere. When the mist cleared from her eyes she saw a small room
whose only furniture consisted of a pine table and two chairs. Drayton
was seated with his back toward the entrance, his head resting upon his
arms, which were outstretched upon the table. The maiden advanced toward
him timidly.

“John,” she uttered softly.

The youth sprang to his feet with an exclamation of gladness.

“Peggy,” he cried. “Oh, I did not hope for this.”

“I had to see thee,” she cried sobbing. “Oh, John, John! thee was loyal
all the time, and I doubted thee. All these weeks I doubted thee.”

“’Tis not to be wondered at, Peggy,” he said soothingly, seeing how
distressed she was. “Appearances were against me. But why should you
think that General Arnold had aught to do with it? I could not
understand that.”

“He had asked for thy address, John,” she told him through her tears.
“And he said that thee would be fighting with him before two months had
passed. When I saw thee in that uniform I thought at once that he had
succeeded in wooing thee from thy duty.” In a few words she related all
that had passed between her and the traitor. “Can thee ever forgive me?”
she concluded. “And did I hurt thee much, John?”

“It’s all right now, Peggy,” he said with a boyish laugh. “But I would
rather go through a battle than to face it again.”

“Why didn’t thee tell me, John?”

“For two reasons: First, the redcoats swarmed about us, and ’twould not
have been safe. Second, you were with your cousins, and I knew that
Clifford at least would be suspicious of me—particularly so if you were
not distressed over my desertion. ’Twas best to let you think as you
did, though I was sorely tempted at times to let you know the truth. I
thought that you would know, Peggy. I was surprised when you didn’t.” It
was his only reproach,

Peggy choked.

“I ought to have known, John. I shall never forgive myself that I did
not know. Was it necessary for thee to come?”

“Some one had to, and the Marquis wished that I should be the one. You
see, he could not understand why Cornwallis faced about, and made for
the seaboard. He did not have to retreat, but seemed to have some fixed
purpose in so doing that our general could not see through. Nor could
any of us. The Marquis sent for me, and explained the dilemma, saying
that he needed some one in the British camp who could get him
trustworthy intelligence on this and other things. The service, he
pointed out, was full of risk but of inestimable value. I should be
obliged to be with the enemy for a long time. It might be weeks. If I
were discovered the consequence would be an ignominious death. Of course
I came. When there is service, no matter the nature, there are not many
of us who are not glad to undertake it.”

“But to die?” she gasped.

“I shall not pretend that I don’t mind it, Peggy,” went on the youth
calmly, but with sadness. “I do. I would have preferred death in the
field, or some more glorious end. Still, ’tis just as much in the
service of the country as though I had died in battle. Were it to be
done again I would not act differently.”

“Thee must not die, John,” she cried in agonized tones. “Is there no
way? No way?”

“No, Peggy. I would there were. I’d like to live a little longer.
There’s going to be rare doings on the Chesapeake shortly. Let me
whisper, Peggy. ’Tis said that walls have ears, and I would not that any
of this should reach Cornwallis just at present. ’Tis glorious news. The
Marquis hath word that the French fleet under the Count de Grasse hath
sailed from the West Indies for this bay. ’Twill bring us
reinforcements, beside shutting Cornwallis off from his source of
supplies. His lordship hath not regarded the Marquis seriously as an
adversary because of his youth, and so is fortifying leisurely while our
young general hath encompassed him in a trap. He is hemmed in on all
sides, Peggy.

“Wayne is across the James ready to block him should he try to retreat
in that direction; the militia of North Carolina are flocking to the
border to prevent the British commander cutting a way through that state
should he get past Wayne. The Marquis is in a camp of observation at
Holt’s Forge on the Pamunkey River ready to swoop down to Williamsburg
on the arrival of the fleet. General Nelson and the militia of this
state with Muhlenberg’s forces are watching Gloucester Point. Best of
all,—lean closer, Peggy,—’tis whispered that Washington himself may come
to help spring the trap. He hath led Sir Henry into the belief that he
is about to attack New York, and my Lord Cornwallis feels so secure here
that he expects to send his chief reinforcements to help in its defense.
If the French fleet comes, the end of the war comes with it. Ah, Peggy!
if it comes.”

“Thee must live, John,” cried she excitedly. “Oh, thee must be here if
all this happens. Help me to think of a way to save thee.”

“I have done naught but think since I was brought here, Peggy. If I
could get past that guard at the door there would be a chance. But what
can I do with a locked door? I have no tools, naught with which to open
it. There is no other entrance save by that door and that window. No;”
he shook his head decidedly. “’Tis no use to think, Peggy. The end hath
come.”

“And how shall I bear it?” she cried.

“’Tis for the country, Peggy.” He touched her hand softly. “We must not
falter if she demands life of us. If we had a dozen lives we would lay
them all down in her service, wouldn’t we? If I have helped the cause
ever so little it doth not matter that I die. And you will let the
Marquis know what hath happened? And General Greene? I am glad you came.
It hath sweetened these last hours. I’ll forgive Clifford everything for
permitting it. You are not to grieve, Peggy. If I have been of help to
the cause in any way it hath all been owing to you. I have in very truth
been your soldier.”

“Peggy!” came Clifford’s voice from without the door. “Time’s up!”

“Oh, John,” whispered Peggy, white and shaken. “I can’t say good-bye. I
can’t——”

“Then don’t,” he said gently leading her to the door. “Let us take a
lesson from our French allies and say, not good-bye—but au revoir.” Then
with something of his old jauntiness he added: “Wait and see what the
night will bring; perhaps rescue. Who knows? Go now, Peggy.”

“We were speaking of rescue,” he said smiling slightly as Clifford,
fuming at Peggy’s delay, entered the room. “I have just said that we
know not what a night will bring forth, so I shall not say good-bye, but
au revoir.”

“You will best say good-bye while you can, Sir Captain,” growled
Clifford. “You will never have another chance. Come, my cousin.”



CHAPTER XXX—WHAT THE NIGHT BROUGHT


               “’Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
               Of fleeting life its luster and perfume,
               And we are weeds without it.”

                                    —“The Task,” Cowper.

“Who is the relief for to-night?” queried Clifford of the guard as he
closed and locked the door of the hut.

“Samuels, sir,” responded the soldier saluting.

“Tell him that I shall take charge at midnight,” commanded Clifford. “I
am going to stand guard myself so as to make sure that naught goes
amiss.” Then turning to Peggy he added: “I liked not the last remark of
that captain. It savored too much of mischief.”

But Peggy, knowing that Drayton had uttered it solely for her comfort,
made no reply. The afternoon was well on toward its close when they
reached their abode, and the girl went straight to the room which she
and Harriet occupied in common.

Harriet had just donned a dainty frock of dimity, and was now dusting
her chestnut ringlets lightly with powder. She glanced at Peggy over her
shoulder.

“There is to be company for tea, Peggy,” she said. “Two officers. Will
you come down?”

“No,” answered Peggy sinking into a chair. “I would rather not,
Harriet.”

“Don’t you want something to eat, Peggy?” she asked after a quick look
at Peggy’s face. “You have eaten naught since breakfast. Or a cup of
tea? You will be ill.”

“No, I thank thee, Harriet.” The maiden leaned her head upon her hand
drearily. The world seemed very dark just then.

“Tell me about it, my cousin,” spoke Harriet abruptly. “’Twill relieve
you to talk, and I like not to see you sit there so miserable.”

And at this unlooked-for sympathy on Harriet’s part Peggy broke into
sudden, bitter weeping.

“He is to die,” she cried. “There is no escape, Harriet. Thy brother
holds the key, and is to stand guard himself lest aught should go amiss.
He is cruel, cruel. Oh, the night is so short in summer! The sunrise
comes so soon! Would that it were winter.”

“Now just how would that help you, Peggy?” demanded Harriet staring at
her. “If one is to die I see not how the season could lessen one pang.
After all, Peggy, you must admit that John Drayton deserves his fate. He
is a spy. He knew the risk he ran. The sentence is just. ’Tis the
recognized procedure in warfare.”

“That doth not make it less hard to bear,” cried Peggy with passion.
“Grant that ’tis just, grant that ’tis the method of procedure in
warfare, and yet when its execution falls upon kinsman or friend there
is not one of us who would not set such method of procedure at naught.
Why, when thee——” She paused suddenly.

“Yes? Go on, Peggy,” said her cousin easily. “Or shall I finish for you?
You were about to speak, my cousin, of the time when I was a spy. You
are thinking that I was perhaps more guilty than John Drayton, insomuch
as he hath but given out information while I planned the captivation of
both the governor of the Jerseys and the rebel general. And you are
thinking, are you not? that you laid yourself under suspicion because of
a promise to me. And you are thinking, my little cousin, of how you
stole out like a thief in the night to aid me to make my escape. You are
thinking of that long night ride, and of all the trials and difficulties
in which it involved you. You are thinking of these things, are you
not?”

As the girl began to speak Peggy ceased her weeping, pushed back her
hair, and presently sat upright regarding her with amazement.

“Yes,” she almost gasped as her cousin paused. “Yes, Harriet; I was in
very truth thinking of those things.”

“And you are thinking,” continued Harriet placing a jeweled comb in her
hair, and gazing into the mirror, turning her head from side to side to
note the effect, “that in spite of all that befell, you took me back to
Philadelphia with you when I was ill, and cared for me until I was
restored to health. And you are thinking of what you have done for
father, and for Clifford. What a set of ingrates you must consider us,
Peggy.”

“Why does thee say these things to me, Harriet?” demanded Peggy. “How
did thee know what I was thinking? And yet thee, and thy father, and—and
Clifford too, sometimes, have been most kind to me of late. Why does
thee say them?”

“Because I should say them were I placed as you are,” returned her
cousin calmly. “I think I would shout them from the house-top.”

“To what purpose, my cousin? It would not procure John’s release. All
that can be done was done when Clifford let me see him.”

“I would not be so sure of that and I were you,” observed Harriet
quietly.

“Harriet! What does thee mean?” cried Peggy, her breath coming quickly.

“Peggy, I told you once that some time I should do something that would
repay all your favors, did I not?”

“Yes.” Peggy’s eyes questioned her cousin’s eagerly.

“Well, don’t you think it’s about time that I was fulfilling that
promise, my cousin? Suppose now, only suppose, that I could effect this
captain’s escape? Would that please you?”

“Harriet, tell me. Tell me!” Peggy’s arms were about her in a tight
embrace. “Thee knows, Harriet.”

“Did it want its captain then?” laughed Harriet teasingly. “Oh, Peggy,
Peggy! what a goose you are! Now sit down, and tell me where John
Drayton is, and what Clifford said and did. Then I will unravel my
plan.”

“There are two sentries beside the guard, Harriet,” Peggy concluded
anxiously, as she related all that had occurred. “They patrol the house,
meet and pass each other so that each makes a complete round of the hut.
I see not how thee can do anything.”

“Don’t be so sure, Mistress Peggy,” came from Harriet with such an
abrupt change of voice that Peggy was startled.

“That sounded just like Clifford,” she said.

“Certainly it did.” Harriet’s eyes were sparkling now. “I can do
Clifford to the life. I can deceive even father if the light be dim. I
am going to be Captain Williams to-night, Peggy. Clifford is so
cock-sure of himself that he grows insufferable. ’Twill be rare sport to
take him down a peg. Did’st notice how he spoke to father? He needs a
lesson. And father hath been in service so long that he ought to look up
to him.”

“But,” objected Peggy with some excitement, “Clifford will be there on
guard. Then how can thee represent him?”

“He will retire early, as he hath already lost much sleep from watching
and following after John Drayton. He will sleep until ’tis time to go to
the watch, and, Peggy, after Clifford hath lost sleep he always sleeps
heavily. He will ask father to waken him, and father in turn will ask me
to take note of the time for fear that he might doze. Now I have one of
my brother’s uniforms which I brought in this afternoon thinking that
there might be need of it. I shall don it, after slipping the key of the
hut from Cliff’s pocket. Then, presto! Captain Williams will go to take
charge of his prisoner. If it be somewhat before midnight ’twill be
regarded as the natural zeal of a young officer.”

“But I see not——” began Peggy.

“If I am the guard with the key in my possession, what doth hinder the
door from being opened, my cousin? If I choose to go in to speak to the
prisoner of what concern is it to any? Is he not in my charge?”

The girl spoke with such an assumption of her brother’s pompous air that
Peggy laughed tremulously.

“I do believe that thee can do it,” she cried. “Harriet, thee is
wonderful!”

“Certainly I can do it,” returned Harriet, well pleased with this
admiration. “I shall go in and speak to the captain; explain that he is
to come out when I let him know that the sentries have passed. When they
meet and cross each other there must be a brief time when the front of
the dwelling hath but the solitary guard. Once out, however, he will
have to rely upon himself. I can do no more.”

“He would not wish thee to, Harriet,” spoke Peggy quickly. “He told me
that could he but pass the door and the guard he did not fear but that
he could escape.”

“If Clifford goes to bed early the thing can be done,” said Harriet
going to the door. “It all depends upon that. Now, Peggy, I will send
you up some tea. ’Twill be best for you to remain here; such a
distressed damsel should remain in seclusion. I will come back after
tattoo.”

In spite of her cousin’s optimistic words Peggy spent the time before
her return with much apprehension. It seemed to her that the night was
more than half gone ere she appeared. In reality it was but ten o’clock.

“Father thought he had better not go to bed at first,” she said her eyes
glowing like stars. “I persuaded him that he ought not to lose his
rest—that while with the army he never knew when he might be called upon
for service which would not admit of repose. Therefore, ’twas the part
of wisdom to get it while he could, and I would see that he was aroused
in time to call Clifford. Everything hath gone just as we wished, and
what we have to do must be done quickly. I must be back in time to
restore the key to Cliff’s pocket, and then to waken father. Help me to
undress, Peggy.”

With trembling fingers Peggy unfastened her frock, and soon Harriet
stood before her arrayed in the uniform of a British officer.

“Captain Williams, at your service, madam,” she said, bowing low, a
cocked beaver held gallantly over her heart. Peggy was amazed at the
transformation. Every mannerism of Clifford was reproduced with such
faithful exactitude that were it not for her wonderful eyes and
brilliant complexion she could pass easily for her brother.

“I did not know that thee was so like him,” murmured Peggy. “But thine
eyes, Harriet. Clifford hath never such eyes as thine.”

“’Tis lucky that ’tis dark,” answered Harriet reassuringly. “They will
not be noticed in the dark. Besides, the guard will be so thankful for
relief that ’twill be a small matter to him what my eyes are like. Come,
my cousin.”

With a stride that was in keeping with the character she had assumed
Harriet went swiftly down-stairs to the lower story of the dwelling
followed by the trembling Peggy, and soon they were outside in the fresh
air of the night.

It was dark, as the girl had said. Only the stars kept watch in the sky,
and objects were but dimly perceivable. The noises of the great camp
were for the most part stilled. The rows and rows of tents lying
southward and eastward of the village gleamed white and ghostlike
through the clear obscurity. The glimmer of the dying embers of many
camp-fires shone ruddily in the distance, while an occasional sentinel
could be descried keeping his monotonous vigil. Silently and quickly
went the two girls toward the hut where Drayton was. Presently Harriet
stopped under the mulberry tree.

“Wait here,” she whispered. Peggy, in a quick gush of tenderness, threw
her arms about her.

“If aught should happen to thee,” she murmured apprehensively.

“For shame, Mistress Peggy,” chided Harriet shaking with merriment. “Is
this thy Quaker teaching? Such conduct is most unseemly. Fie, fie!”
Unloosening Peggy’s clasp she walked boldly toward the hut.

In an intensity of anxiety and expectation Peggy waited. On the still
air of the summer night Harriet’s voice sounded sharply incisive as she
spoke curtly to the guard, and hearing it Peggy knew that had she not
been in the secret she could not have told it from Clifford’s.

“A bit early, aren’t you, sir?” came the voice of the guard.

“I think not, Samuels,” replied the pseudo Captain Williams in his
loftiest manner, and with a sly chuckle the guard saluted and walked
away.

A candle was burning dimly in the hut, and by its feeble rays Peggy
could discern the outlines of her cousin as she took her place on guard.
The sentries passed and repassed. Presently Harriet rose, coolly
unlocked the door and passed inside. Peggy waited breathlessly. After a
few moments her cousin reappeared, and again assumed the watchful
position at the door. At length the moment for which they waited came.
The sentries passed to the side where they crossed on the return rounds.
Harriet swung open the door, and a form darted quickly out. The intrepid
maiden closed the door noiselessly, and by the time the sentinel had
reappeared was sitting stiffly erect, on guard once more.

Soon Peggy felt her hand caught softly.

“John,” she breathed.

“Peggy,” he answered in so low a tone that she could scarcely
distinguish the words. “How did you manage it? I thought your cousin my
most implacable enemy.”

“’Twas Harriet,” she told him. “She wears Clifford’s uniform.”

“Harriet!” Drayton’s whisper expressed the most intense astonishment.
“Harriet!” And even as he spoke the name she stood beside them.

“Come,” she said. They glided after her, pausing only when they had
reached a safe distance from the hut.

“We must not stop to talk,” said the English girl in peremptory tones.
“Captain Drayton, you will have to depend upon yourself now.”

“Gladly,” he responded having recovered from his amazement by this time.
“How can I thank you, Mistress Harriet? I——”

“You owe me no thanks,” she interrupted coldly. “I did it for Peggy. We
cannot stay longer. We must get back with the key before Clifford wakes.
Go!”

“Yet none the less do I thank you,” spoke the youth huskily. “’Twould
have been a shameful death. I thank you both. Good-bye!” He said no
more, but disappeared into the darkness.

With anxiety the girls returned to the house. All was as quiet as when
they left. Without incident the key was restored to Clifford’s pocket,
and, donning her own attire, Harriet went to rouse Colonel Owen. For it
was near midnight.



CHAPTER XXXI—THE DAWN OF THE MORNING


     “What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
     As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
     Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
     In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
     ’Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
     O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!”

                                                —Francis Scott Key.

     “Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
     Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
     Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
     Charge for the golden lilies now—upon them with the lance!”

                                   —“The Battle of Ivry,” Macaulay.

Would the escape be discovered at once? The maidens asked this over and
over as they crept into bed, and lay listening to every sound with
feverish expectancy. But the night hours came and went, bringing with
them no incident that betokened any unusual commotion in the camp. So,
declaring that naught was to be learned until morning, Harriet dropped
into slumber. Not so Peggy.

With the first faint streaks of the dawn sounded the bugle and drum beat
of the reveille, and she arose, dressed, and went down to the small
portico in front of the house, hoping to hear something which would
assure her that Drayton had not been retaken.

The sweet coolness of the early morning came restfully after the
excitement of the night, and under its pleasantness Peggy felt all her
anxieties fade away, and in their stead there came a deep feeling of
peace. Over the world the darkness of the night still brooded, but
lightly like a thin curtain whose filmy meshes were even now dissolving
under the growing brightness. All the stars save the morning one had
been extinguished by the gray dawn, and this first messenger of the day
still hung tremblingly in the east, a prophet sign of the light and
glory to follow. From the distance came the noises of the great camp,
and from a neighboring bush sounded the melody of a mocking-bird. The
world was sweet and fair, and life, in spite of dark moments, was well
worth while. Peggy had reached this point in her musings when the voice
of Colonel Owen startled her:

“You are up early, my little cousin. I feared that you would not sleep.”

There was an unwonted note of solicitude in his tones, and it came to
the girl with something of a shock that he was thinking of the execution
which was to have taken place at this hour. She opened her lips eagerly
to reply, and then there came the thought that not yet could she declare
her thankfulness until the escape had become known.

“Sometimes,” continued the colonel coming from the door to her side,
“sometimes, Peggy, ’tis wise to move about in sorrow. Action distracts
the mind, and anything that draws the thoughts from grief is of benefit.
Come, my little cousin! let’s you and I go to see the sun rise over the
river. ’Tis said to be wondrously beautiful. Will you come?”

“Yes,” answered she gently, touched by his thought of her.

“We shall have just time to reach the point,” he said leading the way to
the gate, “but there will be need for haste.”

The main street of the village faced the river, and this they followed
eastward. The way led by the hut where Drayton had been confined, and
Peggy glanced quickly at it. It was closed and apparently deserted, with
no sign of sentinel, or guard. She gave a sigh of relief. William Owen’s
brow contracted in a frown.

“Peggy, I did not think,” he exclaimed with contrition. “I forgot that
we should pass by the place.”

“It doth not matter,” she returned so cheerfully that his face
brightened. “Shall we go on, Cousin William?”

The walk took them through rows and rows of tents where the soldiers
were busily engaged in preparing breakfast, and on to a high point of
land far to the east of the village facing Chesapeake Bay.

The shadows still lay darkly under trees and shrubs. The distant woods
were veiled and still, but already in the east a faint rose bloom was
creeping. Below them was the river and on its broad bosom floated the
British ships. The soft murmur of the waves as they caressed the shore
came ripplingly with musical rhythm. The color of the sky deepened and
grew to deepest crimson, and water, tents, woods and fields bloomed and
blushed under the roseate effulgence. Great shafts of golden light
flamed suddenly athwart the rosy clouds. The green of the woods, and the
purple mists of the horizon became gradually discernible. The waters
were tinged with rainbow hues. As the crimson, and purple, and gold of
the river mingled with the gold, and purple, and crimson of the bay the
sun rose majestically from a sea of amber cloud. A wonderful blaze of
glory streamed over river and bay. Suddenly from around a bend to the
southward, as though they were part of the picture, three ships sailed
into the midst of the enchanting spectacle. Three ships, full rigged,
towering pyramids of sails, which moved with graceful dignity across the
broad expanse of glorified water, and came to rest like snowy sea-gulls
near the Gloucester shore.

“The French fleet,” burst from Peggy’s lips involuntarily.

“The French fleet! Nonsense! Girl, why do you say that?” exclaimed her
cousin. “What reason have you for thinking them so? No, they are the
ships that Sir Henry was to send as convoy to the transports. We have
expected them.” He regarded the vessels keenly for a time, and all at
once an uneasy expression crossed his face.

“Why do they not answer the signals of the ‘Charon’?” he muttered. “See!
They do not respond, yet our ship signals. Odds life, my cousin! I
believe that you are right.”

Peggy began to tremble as Drayton’s words came to her.

“If the French fleet comes, the end of the war comes with it.” Could it
be? Was it in very truth the beginning of the end?

That for which the people prayed had come at last; for it was indeed the
French fleet, and with its coming came the dawn of victory. The sun of
Liberty was brightening into the full day of Freedom when, her last
fetter thrown aside, America should take her place among the nations.

“There is a fourth vessel coming,” remarked Colonel Owen presently. “A
frigate this time. The others were ships of the line. We must go back,
Peggy. My Lord Cornwallis should know of this arrival.”

With a great hope filling her heart Peggy followed him silently back to
the dwelling. He left her at the door, and hastened to the house of
Secretary Nelson, where the earl had his headquarters. Harriet was
already at the breakfast table.

“Where have you been, Peggy?” she asked. “Here I have searched all
through the house but could find no one. I was beginning to regard
myself as a deserted damsel. Were you seeking further adventures?”

“No, Harriet,” Peggy laughed lightly. “I went with thy father to see the
sun rise over the river. ’Twas a beautiful sight. Thee must see it. Four
ships came while we were there and Cousin William hath gone to inform
Lord Cornwallis of the fact.”

“The English fleet, I make no doubt,” remarked Harriet carelessly. “I
think it hath been expected. Did’st see anything of Clifford?”

“No.” A perplexed look shadowed Peggy’s face. “Nor did I hear a word
anent the escape, Harriet. The hut was closed, and there was no sentry
about it. ’Tis strange that we have heard naught regarding the matter.
Would that Clifford would come.”

As though in answer to her wish Clifford himself at this moment appeared
at the door. He was haggard and pale, and he sank into a chair as though
utterly weary.

“You are worn out, Clifford,” exclaimed Harriet with some anxiety. “Have
a cup of tea. You take your military duties far too seriously, I fear
me.”

“Yes, I will take the tea, Harriet,” said the youth drearily. “Make it
strong, my sister. Everything hath gone awry. That Yankee captain
escaped.”

“Escaped?” Harriet brought him the tea, which he quaffed eagerly. “Tell
us about it, Clifford. How did it happen?”

“I can’t understand it,” he said dejectedly. “’Tis more like magic than
aught else. When I got to the hut last night the sentries were there on
duty, but there was no guard. I asked where Samuels was, and was
astonished when they declared that I myself had sent him away an hour
before. Suspecting something wrong at this I went at once inside the
hut, and found it empty. The door was locked, the key in my possession
all the time, but Drayton was gone. As near as I can get at it some one
impersonated me, and released him. But how came any one by a key? There
was a plot on foot yesterday for his rescue. His parting remark to you,
Peggy, seemed to indicate that he expected something to happen, but I
thought that I had taken every precaution.”

“Then he did escape, Clifford?” questioned Peggy eagerly.

“Yes,” answered the lad with bitterness. “He escaped. I do not expect
you to be sorry, Peggy, but I would almost rather have died than to have
it happen while he was in my charge. ’Tis a dire misfortune.”

“But not of such gravity as another that hath befallen us, my son,” said
Colonel Owen coming into the room in time to hear the last remark. “The
French fleet hath entered the Chesapeake, and now lies at anchor off the
Gloucester shore. Peggy recognized it at once, though I see not how she
knew. His lordship hath despatched a courier to find if there are others
lower down the bay.”

“Why should the coming of the French fleet be of such consequence?”
queried Harriet.

“It shuts off our communication with New York, which means that we can
receive neither supplies nor reinforcements from Sir Henry Clinton. If
our fleet doth not come to our assistance we may find ourselves in a
desperate situation.”

“There is no cause for worry, sir,” spoke Clifford. “If we are cut off
on the water side, what doth hinder us from retreating through North
Carolina to our forces further South?”

“Thee can’t,” uttered Peggy breathlessly. “I am sorry for thee, Cousin
William, and for thy army. Still I am glad that at last the long war may
be brought to a close.”

“Peggy, just what do you mean?” demanded Colonel Owen sharply.

“I was considering our own forces,” answered Peggy who had spoken
without thinking. “Would not the Marquis, and General Wayne, and all the
militia try to keep thy people from cutting through?”

“‘Fore George, they would!” ejaculated the colonel. “At least they
should try. By all the laws of military warfare they should have us
surrounded, and if that be the case we are in for a siege. Come, Peggy,
you are improving. We shall have a warrior of you yet.”

“Don’t, Cousin William,” cried Peggy. “’Tis not my wisdom at all. I but
repeat what I have heard.”

“’Tis sound policy, wherever you may have heard it,” declared Colonel
Owen. “Though I hope for our sakes that the rebels may not enforce it.
Come, my son. We have no time for further loitering.”

Roused from his dream of security at last Cornwallis, as had been
foreseen, meditated a retreat through the Carolinas. It was too late.
The James River was filled with armed vessels covering the transfer of
French troops which had been brought to the assistance of Lafayette. He
reconnoitered Williamsburg, but found it was too strong to be forced.
Cut off in every direction, he now proceeded to strengthen his defenses,
sending repeated expresses to Sir Henry Clinton to apprise him of his
desperate situation.

The days that ensued were days of anxiety. All sorts of rumors were
afloat in the encircled garrison. One stood forth from among the rest
and was repeated insistently until at length it crystallized into
verity: Washington himself was coming with his army and the allies.
Colonel Owen’s face was grave indeed as he confirmed the tidings.

“I cannot understand how the rebel general could slip away from the
Hudson with a whole army right under Sir Henry’s nose,” he complained.
“I know that the commander-in-chief expected an attack, and was
preparing for it; for that very reason he should have been more keenly
upon the alert. Where were his scouts, his spies, that he did not know
what his adversary was doing? Had he no secret service? He grows
sluggish, I fear me.”

The situation brightened for Cornwallis when part of the English fleet
under Admiral Graves took a peep in at the Chesapeake, but only a slight
action with the French vessels followed, and then the English ships
sailed away to New York. Once more the black cloud lowered, and soon it
burst in all its fury over the doomed army. On the twenty-eighth of
September the videttes came flying in to report that the combined army
of Americans and French were advancing in force. Seeing himself
outflanked the British commander withdrew into the town and the inner
line of defenses, and began a furious cannonading to prevent the advance
of the allies. And now from Sir Henry came the cheering intelligence
that the British fleet would soon come to his relief.

Colonel Owen and Clifford were on duty almost constantly, and the two
girls were much alone. The servants left precipitately, and the maidens
gladly undertook the housework as a relief from anxiety. Soon the
firewood gave out, and they were reduced to the necessity of living on
uncooked food. Encompassed on every side there was no opportunity for
foraging, and the supplies of the garrison depleted rapidly. But
meagerness of rations could be borne better than sound of cannon,
although there was as yet no bombardment from the Americans—a state of
affairs, however, that did not last long.

On the afternoon of the eighth of October Peggy and Harriet sat on the
small portico of the dwelling listening to the cannonading which had
been going on all day from the British works.

“Harriet,” spoke Peggy abruptly, “does thee remember that father is
outside there with the army?”

“Oh, Peggy,” gasped her cousin. “How dreadful! Suppose that father, or
Clifford, should hurt him? Wouldn’t it be awful?”

“Yes,” assented Peggy paling. “Or if he should hurt them.”

“There is not so much danger of that,” said Harriet. “Clifford said that
while they seemed to be throwing up earthworks there had been no big
guns mounted, and he did not believe that the rebels had many. ’Twould
be a great task to transport heavy ordnance from the Hudson.”

“But they have had the assistance of the French fleet,” reminded Peggy.
“Thee should know by this time, Harriet, that if General Washington
undertakes aught, he does it thoroughly. I fear we shall find soon that
he hath brought all his artillery.”

As if to confirm her words there came at this moment a deafening crash,
a tearing, screeching sound, as a solid shot tore through the upper
story of the house. The two maidens sprang to their feet, clasping each
other in terror. Long after Peggy learned that it was Washington himself
who had fired the shot. Instantly the roar of cannon and mortars
followed. The earth trembled under the thunder. The air was filled with
shot and shell, and roar of artillery. The bombardment of the town had
begun, and Earl Cornwallis had received his first salutation.

In the midst of the commotion Clifford came running.

“Get to the caves,” he shouted. “Ye must not stay here.”

Panic-stricken, the girls hastened after him to the bluff over the river
in the side of which caves had been dug in anticipation of this very
event.

“You should not be here, Peggy,” said the youth when they had reached
the protection of the dugout. “If you wish I will try to get a flag to
send you outside. ’Tis no place for a rebel.” This last he spoke with
some bitterness.

“And leave me alone, Peggy?” cried Harriet in dismay. “Oh, you would
not!”

“No, Harriet,” answered Peggy who in truth would have preferred almost
any place to Yorktown at that moment. “I will not leave thee if thee
wishes me to stay.”

“Then ye must go over to Gloucester Point,” cried the lad. “’Tis said
that all the women and children are to be sent there.”

“No,” said Harriet decidedly. “We will stay right here. We will be safe,
and I will not leave you and father. Why, you both might be killed, or
wounded.”

And from this stand neither Clifford nor her father could move her. The
time that followed was one to try the stoutest heart. The houses of the
village were honeycombed by shot. Scenes of horror were enacted which
passed all description. Shot and shell rained without cessation day and
night. Horses, for lack of forage, were slain by hundreds, and the girls
had no means of finding out if their own pets were included in the
slaughter. The shrieks and groans of the wounded mingled with the roar
of artillery, and added to the awfulness. And nearer, ever nearer,
approached the allies. The first parallel[[7]] of the Americans was
opened and passed.

From the outlying redoubts the British were forced backward, and the
second parallel opened. The situation was becoming desperate. The
defenses were crumbling under the heavy, unceasing fire. Abattis, and
parapet, and ditch were splintered, and torn, and leveled. The garrison
was losing many men, and closer still came the patriots. The end was
fast approaching. The Hector of the British army was opposed by a leader
who never left anything to chance.

And in the caves there was no occupation to relieve the tension, save
that of watching the shells. Peggy and Harriet stood at the entrance of
their dugout on the evening of the eleventh of October engaged in this
diversion. Sometimes the shells of the besieging army overreached the
town and fell beyond the bluff into the river, and bursting, threw up
great columns of water. In the darkness the bombs appeared like fiery
meteors with blazing tails. Suddenly from out of the clouds of smoke and
night a red-hot shell soared, curved, and fell upon the “Charon,” the
British ship lying in the river. Almost instantly the vessel was
enwrapped in a torrent of fire which spread with vivid brightness among
the rigging, and ran with amazing rapidity to the top of the masts. From
water edge to truck the vessel was in flames. The “Guadalupe,” lying
near by, together with two other smaller ships, caught fire also, and
all the river blazed in a magnificent conflagration. About and above
them was fire and smoke, while cannon belched thunder and flame.

“Oh, this awful war! This awful war!” shrieked Harriet suddenly. “I
shall go mad, Peggy.”

Peggy drew her back within the cave. “Let us not look longer, Harriet,”
she said soothing the girl as she would a child. “I hope, I believe that
it will not last. How can it go on? Oh, Harriet, Harriet! we could bear
anything if it were quiet for only a little while.”

“At first,” sobbed Harriet, “I thought I could not bear for the British
to be beaten; but now if only father and Clifford are spared, I care
not.”

It was near the end now. After a gallant sortie by which the English
regained a redoubt from the French only to lose it again, and after an
attempt to cut through on the Gloucester side of the river Cornwallis
gave way to despair. On the morning of the seventeenth Clifford came to
the cave. He was haggard, disheveled, and grimy with powder. Tears were
streaming from his eyes, and his appearance was so woebegone that the
maidens ran to him with cries of alarm.

“Harriet,” he cried, flinging himself on the ground with a sob, “it’s
all over! They are beating the parley.”

-----
[7] Parallel—a line of entrenchments parallel to those of the British.



CHAPTER XXXII—“LIGHTS OUT”


          “Oh! these were hours when thrilling joy repaid
          A long, long course of darkness, doubts, and fears—
          The heartsick faintness of the hope delay’d,
          The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and the tears,
          That tracked with terror six long rolling years.”

                                 —“Lord of the Isles,” Scott.

As the youth spoke the cannonading which for ten long days of thunderous
bombardment had raged incessantly suddenly ceased, giving place to a
stillness painful in its intensity.

“What doth that mean?” exclaimed Harriet.

“It means a cessation of hostilities,” explained Clifford huskily. “It
means that old Britain is beaten. Oh! if I were Cornwallis, I’d fight
until there was not a man left. I’d never yield.”

“Blame him not, Clifford,” said Harriet. “He hath made a brave defense.
For my part, I am thankful that ’tis over. Have you seen father?”

“No,” answered the youth. “Not since yesterday.”

“Then let us find him,” suggested she. “’Twill be a relief to get out of
this cave. Come, Peggy!”

And nothing loth Peggy followed her. The village was utterly wrecked. On
every side were mute tokens of the fury of the siege. The houses were
completely dismantled; in many instances literally riddled by shot. The
streets had been torn into great holes and ploughed into deep furrows by
the burrowing of shells. There were sights of horror everywhere, and the
girls grew faint and sick as they hastened with averted eyes to their
former dwelling, which was found to be less dilapidated than many of the
others. Clifford went in search of his father, and soon returned with
him. Colonel Owen was as gloomy as his son over the prospect of
surrender. He frowned at sight of Peggy.

“I suppose that you are rejoicing over our defeat, my little cousin,” he
exclaimed harshly.

“I am glad indeed that the cause hath succeeded, my cousin,” answered
the girl frankly. “We have fought so long that ’tis matter for rejoicing
when at length the victory is ours. Yet,” she added meeting his look
with one of compassion, “I am sorry for thee, too. I grieve to see
either a proud nation or a proud man humbled.”

“And is it indeed over, as Clifford says, father?” questioned Harriet.

“Yes,” he told her, his whole manner expressive of the deepest chagrin.
“Washington hath consented to a cessation of hostilities for two hours,
but there is no doubt as to the outcome. Our works are shattered, and
the ammunition almost exhausted. There is naught else to do but
surrender, but ’tis a bitter dose to swallow.”

He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Clifford turned upon
Peggy with something of irritation.

“Why don’t you say what you are thinking?” he cried. “Say that you are
glad, but don’t for pity sake look sorry for us!”

“I am not thinking of thee at all,” returned Peggy wistfully, “but of
father. Neither thee nor thy father is hurt, but what of my father?”

“And do you wish to go to him?”

“Yes,” she uttered eagerly.

“It can be arranged,” he said. “I will see to a flag.” As he started to
leave them William Owen looked up.

“Include Harriet in that too, my son,” he said. “This will be a sad
place for her until after the manner of capitulation hath been
arranged.”

“I shall not go, father,” interposed the maiden raising her head
proudly. “An English girl hath no place among victorious foes. Send
Peggy and you will, but I shall not leave you in your humiliation.”

“So be it,” he said.

Thus it came about that Peggy found herself outside the British works,
advancing toward the American lines under a flag. Less than three
hundred yards from the shattered works of the British the second
parallel of the patriots extended, and in front of it were the batteries
which had raked the town with such destructive fire. Midway of this
distance they beheld the solitary figure of a man approaching, also
bearing a flag. At sight of him Peggy forgot her escort, forgot
everything, and ran forward uttering a cry of gladness.

“Father, father!” she screamed.

“My little lass!” David Owen clasped her in a close embrace. “I was
coming in search of thee. I have been wild with anxiety concerning thee
since I learned that thou wert in the town. It hath been a fearful time!
Had not our cause been just I could not have borne it. There is much to
tell and hear, lass. Let us seek a place more retired.”

The batteries of the patriots, the redoubts taken from the enemy, and
the parallel, were connected by a covert way and angling works, all
mantled by more than a hundred pieces of cannon and mortars. David Owen
hurried his daughter past these quickly, for the girl paled at sight of
the dreadful engines of war whose fearful thundering had wrought such
havoc and destruction. Presently they found themselves somewhat apart
from the movements of the army, and Peggy poured forth all her woes.
There was indeed much to relate. She had not seen her father for three
long years, and in his presence she felt as though there could no longer
be trouble.

“And after they had been so kind of late,” concluded Peggy in speaking
of their cousins, “they seemed just to-day as though they did not wish
me with them. Even Harriet, who hath been clamorous for me to remain
with her, seemed so.”

“Mind it not, lass,” said he consolingly. “’Tis because they did not
wish a witness to their humiliation. After the first brunt of feeling
hath worn away I make no doubt but that their manner will be better even
than before. Ah! yonder is Captain Drayton. The boy hath been well-nigh
crazed at thy peril. I will call him.”

The rest of the day and the next also flags passed and repassed between
the lines, and on the afternoon of the latter commissioners met at the
Moore House to draw up articles of capitulation. These were acceded to
and signed. The British received the same terms which they had imposed
upon the Americans at Charlestown. Nothing now remained but the
observance of the formal surrender, which was set for the next day.

The nineteenth of October dawned gloriously. About noon the combined
armies marched to their positions in the large field lying south of the
town, and were drawn up in two lines about a mile long, on the right and
left of a road running from the village. On the right of the road were
the American troops; on the left those of the French. A large concourse
of people had gathered from all the countryside to see the spectacle.
Every countenance glowed with satisfaction and joy. The long struggle
was virtually ended. It had been a contest not for power, not for
aggrandizement, but for a great principle.

To Peggy’s joy it was found that her little mare had not been killed,
and so, mounted on Star, she was permitted to view the pageant by her
father’s side.

The French troops presented a most brilliant spectacle in white uniforms
with colored trimmings, and with plumed and decorated officers at their
head. Along the line floated their banners of white silk embroidered
with the golden lilies. They were gallant allies in gallant array. Their
gorgeous standards caught the glint of the sun and glittered and
sparkled in its rays. But the girl turned to view the less attractive
Americans.

There was variety of dress, poor at best. The French gentlemen laughed
at the lack of uniform, but respected the fighting abilities of the men
so clad. But if many wore but linen overalls there was a soldierly
bearing that commanded attention. These men were conquerors. Their very
appearance bespoke the hardships and privations they had undergone to
win in the struggle. Over their heads there fluttered the starry banner
which through their exertions had earned its right to live. Through
these men a nation had been born into the world. The golden lilies were
soon to wither; the red, white and blue of America was to be taken later
by France in their stead.

At two o’clock the captive army filed out of the garrison. “Let there be
no cheering,” had been the order from Washington. “They have made a
brave defense.” And so the march was made between silent ranks of
conquerors, the music being the then well-known air of “The World Turned
Upside Down.” The tune probably expressed very accurately the feelings
of the men who were to lay down their arms that autumn afternoon. Their
world had indeed been turned upside down when they were prisoners of the
men whom they had affected to despise. Each soldier had been given a new
uniform by Cornwallis, and the army marched quietly and with precision
to the field where they were to lay down their arms. But if there was
quietness there was sullenness also. The pride and spirit of Britain
were put to a severe test, and many could scarcely conceal their
mortification as they marched with cased colors, an indignity that had
been inflicted upon the garrison at Charlestown.

As they came forth every eye sought, not the plumed leader of the
French, but the plainly attired gentleman who sat upon a noble charger,
and viewed their coming with an inscrutable countenance. This was the
man but for whom they would have been victorious—that noble and gracious
figure which signified to all the world that the American Revolution had
ended in complete victory, the Virginia planter, whom they had despised
at the beginning of the conflict. They regarded him now with something
nearly approaching awe—the leader who had encountered trials and
obstacles such as no general had ever before been called upon to face.
The trials had been overcome and endured; the obstacles surmounted, and
the country carried on to victory in spite of itself.

Earl Cornwallis pleaded indisposition, and sent the soldiers who
worshipped him out to stand their humiliation without him. It was
General O’Hara who tendered his sword to General Washington who, with
dignity, motioned that it should be given to General Lincoln, who had
been in command at Charlestown when that place surrendered to the
British.

It was over at last, and the stars and stripes floated from the redoubts
at Yorktown. The officers were released on parole, and the men were to
be held prisoners in the states of Virginia and Maryland.

“And now what shall be done with thee, lass?” queried David Owen of
Peggy.

“Let us go home, father,” cried Peggy. “I am so tired of war and its
surroundings. Can thee not get a leave?”

“Yes,” he said. “To-morrow we will start for home.”

“For home and mother,” cried Peggy joyfully.



                    The Stories in this Series are:

                    PEGGY OWEN
                    PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT
                    PEGGY OWEN AT YORKTOWN
                    PEGGY OWEN AND LIBERTY



                   *       *       *       *       *

LUCY FOSTER MADISON

Mrs. Madison was born in Kirkville, Adair County, Missouri, but when she
was four years old her parents removed to Louisiana, Missouri, and there
her girlhood was spent. She was educated in the public schools of that
place, and graduated from the High School with the highest honor—the
valedictory.

As a child she was passionately fond of fairy stories, dolls and
flowers. Up to her eleventh year the book that influenced her most was
“Pilgrim’s Progress.” Mrs. Madison’s father had a large library filled
with general literature, and she read whatever she thought interesting.
In this way she became acquainted with the poets, ancient history and
the novelists, Dickens and Scott. It was not until she was twelve that
she came in contact with Miss Alcott’s works, but after that Joe, Meg,
Amy and Beth were her constant companions. At this time she was also
devoted to “Scottish Chiefs,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw” and “Ivanhoe,” and
always poetry.

She doesn’t remember a time when she did not write. From her earliest
childhood she made up little stories. In school she wrote poems, stories
and essays. When she became a teacher she wrote her own stories and
entertainments for the children’s work.

Mrs. Madison’s stories for girls are:

Peggy Owen
  Peggy Owen, Patriot
  Peggy Owen at Yorktown
  Peggy Owen and Liberty
  A Colonial Maid of Old Virginia
  A Daughter of the Union
  In Doublet and Hose
  A Maid of King Alfred’s Court
  A Maid of the First Century





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