Peggy Owen, Patriot: A Story for Girls

“How we cheered when we saw him coming! Brandishing his broad-sword above his head, he dashed into the thickest of the fight, calling the old, ‘Come on, boys! Victory or death!’ and the regiments followed him like a whirlwind. The conflict was terrible, but in the midst of flame and smoke, and metal hail, he was everywhere. His voice rang out like a trumpet, animating and inspiring us to valor. He led us to victory, but just as the Hessians, terrified by his approach, turned to flee, they delivered a volley in their retreat that shot his horse from under him. At the same instant a wounded German private fired a shot which struck him in that same leg that had been so badly lacerated at Quebec, two years before.

“As he fell he cried out to us, ‘Rush on, my brave boys, rush on!’ But one, in fury at seeing the general wounded, dashed at the wounded German, and would have run him through with his bayonet had not the general cried: ‘Don’t hurt him, he but did his duty. He is a fine fellow.’”

“I don’t wonder that thee loves him,” cried Peggy, her eyes sparkling at the recital. “I believe with thee that though all others should fail he would fight the enemy even though he would fight alone. Oh, I must get thee to tell mother this! I knew not that he was so brave!”

“Yes,” reiterated Master Drayton positively. “He would fight even though he fought alone. But I am not made of such stuff. I am no hero, Mistress Peggy. Beside, have not the Parley-voos come over to fight for us? They have all the honors given them; let them have the miseries too.”

“But why should the French fight our battles for us?” demanded the girl bluntly. “They are only to help us. Why should they exert themselves to save that which we do not value enough to fight for?”

“’Tis expected by the army, anyway,” said Drayton. “I know that I’ll do no more.”

“Thee is a poor tired lad,” said the girl gently. “And thy dinner. See how little thou hast eaten. I have talked too long with thee to-day. Later we will renew the subject.”

“Renew it an you will,” retorted the boy assuming again his jaunty manner, half defiance, half swagger. “’Twill make no difference. I have served my last. Unless the recruiting officer finds me you won’t catch me in the army again.”

Peggy smiled a knowing little smile, but made no answer.

“We shall see,” she thought as she left the room. “Methinks thee has some martial spirit left, Friend John.”

CHAPTER X—PEGGY TEACHES A LESSON

“I am trying to dye some cloth, mother, but it doesn’t seem to come right. What shall be done to indigo to get a pretty blue? I had no trouble with the yellow dye. See how beautifully this piece came out. Such a soft fine buff! I am pleased with it—but this——”

She paused and turned inquiringly toward her mother. Mrs. Owen took the stick from her hand, and held up a piece of cloth from the steaming kettle, examining it critically.

“Fix another kettle of water, Peggy,” she said, “and let it be near to boiling. Into it put some salts of tin, alum and cream of tartar. It needs brightening, and will come a pretty blue when washed in the solution. There! Punch each part of the cloth down into the water, child, so that it may be thoroughly wetted. So! Now rinse well, and hang it out to dry. That done thou shalt tell me for what purpose thou hast dyed the cloth such especial colors. Thy father hath no need of a new uniform.”

“’Tis for Friend John,” said Peggy dabbling the cloth vigorously up and down in the rinsing water.

“Why! hath he expressed a wish to return?” exclaimed Mrs. Owen in amazement. “I had heard naught of it.”

Peggy laughed.

“Not yet, mother,” she cried, her eyes dancing with mirth. “But I see signs. Oh, I see signs. This must be ready anent the time he does wish to go. This, with socks, and weapons, and aught else he may need.”

“Hast thou been reasoning with him, Peggy, that thee feels so sure?”

“A little,” admitted the girl. “This afternoon, if none comes to interrupt, I shall do more. Mother, what would I do without thee? Thee did just the right thing to bring this cloth to the proper color. Is it not beautiful? Would I could do so well.”

“’Twill come in time, my daughter. Skill in dyeing as in aught else comes only from practice. But here is Sukey to tell us of visitors. Wash thy hands and join us, Peggy. If ’tis Sally Bache I make no doubt but that there is news from Dr. Franklin.”

’Twas customary at this time to pay morning visits in Philadelphia, and several came, one after another, so that by the time she had finished her interrupted tasks Peggy found the afternoon well on toward its close before she could pay her usual visit to Master Drayton. She found him awaiting her coming with eagerness.

“’Tis good to be sheltered and fed,” he said as the maiden entered the room, “but none the less ’tis monstrous tiresome to be cooped up. What shall be done to amuse me, Mistress Peggy?”

“Would thee like to have me read to thee?” she asked, a gleam of mischief coming into her eyes.

“The very thing,” he cried, seating himself comfortably on the settle. “Is it a tale? Or perchance you have brought a verse book?”

“Neither,” she answered. “Art sure that thou art comfortable, Friend John? Does thee need anything at all?”

“Nothing at all,” he replied pleased at her solicitude. “And now for the reading. I am curious to see what you have chosen, for I see that you have brought something with you.”

“Yes,” she responded, producing a pamphlet. “’Tis just a little something from a writer who calls himself, ‘Common Sense.’” Before he had time to expostulate she began hurriedly:

“‘These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women. We have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.’”

“Now see here,” broke in the youth in an injured tone sitting bolt upright. “That’s mean! Downright mean, I say, to take advantage of a fellow like that. If you want to begin again on that summer soldier business, why say so right out.”

“Does thee object very seriously, John, to listening?” queried the maiden mildly. “I would like to read thee the article.”

“Oh, go ahead! I guess I can stand it.” Drayton set his lips together grimly, and half turned from her.

Peggy waited for no further permission. The pamphlet was one of the most powerful written by Thomas Paine, and, as he passed from paragraph to paragraph of the tremendous harangue, he touched with unfailing skill, with matchless power, the springs of anxiety, contempt, love of home, love of country, fortitude, cool deliberation and passionate resolve. Drayton listened for a time in silence, with a sullen and injured air. Slowly he turned toward the reader as though compelled against his will, and presently he sprang to his feet with something like a sob.

“In pity, cease,” he cried. “Hast no compassion for a man?”

“‘Up and help us; lay your shoulders to the wheel; better have too much force than too little, when so great an object is at stake. Let it be told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive, the country and city, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet and repulse it.... It matters not where you live, or what rank of life you hold, the evil or the blessing will reach you all.... The heart that feels not now is dead. The blood of his children will curse his cowardice who shrinks back at a time when a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles until death.... By perseverance and fortitude, we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and submission the sad choice of a variety of evils,—a ravaged country, a depopulated city, habitations without safety, and slavery without hope. Look on this picture and weep over it; and if there yet remains one thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.’”

“No more,” cried the youth in great agitation. “I can bear no more. ‘’Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles until death.’ ’Tis true. Do not I know it. Until death! Until death! Wretch that I am, I know it. There have been times when I would have given my life to be back in the army. Do you think it is pleasant to skulk, to hide from honest men? To know always and always that one is a poltroon and a coward? I tell you no. Do you think that I have not heard the inward pleading of my conscience to go back? That I have not seen the accusing look in your eyes? You called me a summer soldier! I am worse than that, and I have lost my chance.”

“Thee has just found it, John,” cried she quickly. “Before thee served for thine own advancement; now thee will begin again, and fight for thy country alone. If preferment comes to thee, it will have been earned by unselfish devotion. But thy country, John, thy country! Let it be always in thy thoughts until its liberties are secured beyond recall.”

“Would you have me go back?” he cried, stopping before her in amazement.

“Why, of course thee is going back,” answered Peggy simply. “There is naught else for a man to do.”

Drayton noted the slight emphasis the girl laid upon the word man, and made an involuntary motion of assent.

“Did you know that deserters are ofttimes shot?” he asked suddenly.

Peggy clutched at the back of a chair, and turned very pale. “No,” she said faintly. “I did not know.”

“I thought not,” he said. “None the less what you have said is true. ‘There is naught else for a man to do.’ I am going back, Mistress Peggy. I shall try for another chance, but if it does not come, still I am going back.”

“And be shot?” she cried. “Oh, what have I done?”

“Shown me my duty,” he answered quietly. “Blame not yourself, for there hath been an inward cry toward that very thing ever since I ran away from my duty. I have stifled its calling, and tried to palliate my wrong-doing by excuses, but neither winter’s cold, nor the ingratitude of an unappreciative country will excuse a man’s not sticking by his convictions. Never again will you have it in your power to call me a summer soldier.”

“Thee is right,” faltered the girl. “I—I am glad that thee has so resolved, and yet——Oh! I hope that thee will not be shot.”

She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Girl-like, now that the end was accomplished, Peggy was rather aghast at the result.

CHAPTER XI—PEGGY PLEADS FOR DRAYTON

“Yes,” answered the lad quickly. “If I could have it, I would show myself worthy of it. But if I cannot, Madam Owen, I am still resolved to go back, and face death like a man.”

“Thee is right, John,” she answered. “But if we could reach the proper authorities something might be done to give thee an opportunity to redeem thyself. Stay! I have it! Was not Mr. Arnold thy general?”

“Yes,” he said. “But oh, madam! is it necessary that he should know? Think, think what it would be should he learn that John Drayton, one of his soldiers, deserted. I could not bear to see him.”

“But would he not take more interest in thee than any other officer might? He alone would know all that thou didst endure in that march through the Maine wilderness. He would have a more complete understanding of thy privations, and how thou hast borne thyself under them. It is to him we must look to get thee thy chance.”

Drayton buried his face in his hands for a time, and sat in thought. Presently he looked up.

“You speak truly, madam,” he said. “’Tis the only way. He is the one to whom we must go. I am ashamed to face him, but I will. I’ll ask for another chance, but oh! this is a thing that he cannot understand: he who would give his life rather than fail in his duty. ’Tis a part of my punishment. I’d rather die than face him, but I will.”

“Once more, lad, let us not be too hasty,” said the lady again, laying a detaining hand upon his arm as he rose to his feet. “We must approach him with some little diplomacy. So much have I learned in this long war. He hath discovered a liking for Peggy here, and hath bestowed marked notice upon her upon several occasions. Therefore, while I like not to seem to take advantage of such favor, in this instance it might be well to send her as an advocate to him for thee. What does thee say, Peggy?”

“That ’tis the very thing,” cried Peggy, starting up. “Oh, I will gladly go to him. And I will plead, and plead, John, until he cannot help but give thee another chance.”

“It seems like shirking,” remonstrated Drayton, his restored manliness eager to begin an expiation.

“Thee has been advertised as a deserter, lad, and should thee attempt to go to him thee might be apprehended. Also, if the general were to see thee without first preparing him, he might not listen to thy explanation, and turn thee over to the recruiting officer. It will be the part of wisdom for Peggy to see him first.”

And so it was arranged. September had given place to the crisp bracing air of October, and on the uplands the trees were beginning to wear the glory of scarlet and yellow and opal green. Sunshine and shadow flecked the streets of the city, and as Peggy wended her way toward the headquarters of General Arnold, she was conscious of a feeling of melancholy.

“Is it because of the dying year, I wonder?” she asked herself as a dead leaf fell at her feet. “I know not why it is, but my spirits are very low. Is it because I fear the general will not give the lad his chance? Come, Peggy!” Addressing herself sternly, a way she had. “Put thy heart in attune with the weather, lest thee infects the general with thy megrims.”

So chiding herself she quickened her steps and assumed an aggressively cheerful manner. Just as she turned from Fifth Street into High she heard a great clamor. She stopped in alarm as a rabble of men and boys suddenly swept around a corner and flooded the street toward her. The girl stood for but a moment, and then ran back into Fifth Street, where she stopped so frightened that she did not notice a coach drawn by four horses driving rapidly down the street.

“Careful, my little maid! careful!” called a voice, and Peggy looked up to find General Arnold himself leaning out of the coach regarding her anxiously. “Why, ’tis Miss Peggy Owen,” he exclaimed. “Know you not that you but escaped being run down by my horses?”

“I—I—’tis plain to be seen,” stammered the maiden trembling.

“Sam, assist the young lady into the coach,” he commanded the coachman. Then, as Peggy was seated by his side: “I cry you pardon, Miss Peggy, for not getting out myself. I am not so nimble as I was. What is it? What hath frightened you?”

“Does thee not hear the noise?” cried Peggy.

Before he could reply the mob swept by. In the midst of it was a cart in which lay a rude pine coffin which the crowd was showering with stones.

“’Tis the body of James Molesworth, the spy,” he told her. “When he was executed ’twas first interred in the Potter’s Field; then when the British held possession of the city ’twas exhumed and buried with honors. Since the Whigs have the town again ’tis thought fitting to restore it to its old resting place in the Potter’s Field.”

“’Tis a shame not to let the poor man be,” she exclaimed, every drop of blood leaving her face. “Why do they not let him rest? He paid the debt of his guilt. It were sin to maltreat his bones.”

“’Tis best not to give utterance to those sentiments, Miss Peggy,” he cautioned. “They do honor to your heart, but the public temper is such that no mercy is shown toward those miscreants who serve as spies.”

“But it hath been so long since he was executed,” she said with quivering lips. “And is it not strange? When I came into the city to seek my father ’twas the very day that they had exhumed his body and were burying it with honors. Oh, doth it portend some dire disaster to us?”

“Come, come, Miss Peggy,” he said soothingly. “Calm yourself. I knew not that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally.”

“I would,” she confessed. “I fancy all of us girls do. But this—this is different.”

“Not a whit,” he declared. “’Tis a mere coincidence that you should happen to be present on both occasions.” And then seeing that her color had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a word to the coachman. “I am going to take you for a short drive,” he announced, “and to your destination.”

“Why! I was coming to see thee,” cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance of her mission. “I wish to chat with thee anent something and—someone.”

“Robert Dale?” he questioned with a laugh. “He is a fine fellow, and well worthy of a chat.”

“Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as thee says. ’Tis about one John Drayton.”

“What? Another?” He laughed again, and settled himself back on the cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her clear eyes he became serious. “And what about him, Miss Peggy?”

“Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?” she queried in surprise. “He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec.”

“Is that the Drayton you mean?” he asked amazed in turn. “I do indeed remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall. And brave. Very brave!”

“He hath not been well, but is so now,” she said.

“You have something to ask of me,” he said keenly. “Speak out, Miss Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours.”

“He hath not been until of late,” she answered troubled as to how she should broach the subject. “Sir,” she said presently, plunging boldly into the matter, “suppose that after serving three long years a soldier should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge; would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he should”—she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning without using the dreadful one, desert—“he should, well—retire without leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?”

“Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?” he asked sternly.

“He did; but he repents,” she told him quickly. “Oh, judge him not until I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself ’twas naught but the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it.” Peggy’s eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition of the lad when she first saw him.

“And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty clothing to endure again?” he asked harshly.

“Yes; but now he hath rested and grown strong,” she answered. “He will have the strength to endure for perchance another three years should the war last so long. He wants to go back. He wants a chance to redeem himself.”

“And had he not the courage to come to me himself without asking you to intercede for him?” he demanded. “He was in my command, and he knows me as only the soldiers do know me. Since when hath Benedict Arnold ceased to give ear to the distress of one of his soldiers? I like it not that he did not appeal to me of himself.”

“He wished to,” interposed the girl eagerly. “Indeed, ’twas mother’s and my thought for me to come to you. We thought, we thought”—Peggy faltered, but went on bravely—“we thought that thee should be approached diplomatically. We wished the lad to have every chance to redeem himself, and we feared that if thee saw him without preparation thee might be inclined to give him to the recruiting officer. He is so sincere, he wishes so truly to have another chance that mother and I could not bear that he should not have it. I have made a poor advocate, I fear,” she added with a wistful little smile, “though he did say that he would rather die than face thee.”

“Unravel the matter from the beginning,” he commanded, with a slight smile at her confession of diplomacy.

And Peggy did so, beginning with the time that the lad mended the saddle on the road, the loss of her pony, and everything leading to Drayton’s stay with them, even to the making of the uniform of blue and buff and the reading of “The Crisis.”

“Upon my life,” he cried laughing heartily at this. “I shall advise General Washington to appoint you to take charge of our fainthearted ones. So he did not relish being called a summer soldier, eh? Miss Peggy, I believe that I should like to see the lad, and have a talk with him.”

“Thee will not be harsh with him, will thee?” she pleaded. “He hath indeed been in a woeful plight, and he could not bear it from thee. And he doth consider the country ungrateful toward him.”

“He is right,” commented Arnold, a frown contracting his brow. “Ungrateful indeed! Not only he but others have suffered from her injustice. Have no fear, Miss Peggy, but take me to him at once.”

Nevertheless Peggy felt some uneasiness as the coach turned in the direction of her home.

CHAPTER XII—ANOTHER CHANCE

“’Twas cold,” muttered Drayton too ashamed to raise his head. “I—I feared it sir. You cannot understand,” he broke out. “How can a man of your courage know how such things eat the very heart out of a fellow?”

“I do know, boy,” exclaimed Arnold seating himself on the settle. “What would you say if I were to tell you that once I deserted?”

“You?” cried the youth flinging up his head to stare at him. “I’d never believe it, sir. You desert! Impossible!”

“Nevertheless, I did, my lad. Listen, and I will tell you of it. I was fifteen at the time, and my imagination had been fired by tales of the atrocities committed on the frontier by the French and Indians. I resolved to enlist and relieve the dire state of my countrymen as far as lay in my power. So I ran away from home to Lake George, where the main part of the army was at the time. The wilderness of that northern country was dense, and I passed through hardships similar to those we sustained in our march to Quebec. You know, Drayton, what an army may have to endure in such circumstances?”

Drayton nodded, his eyes fixed on his beloved leader with fascinated interest.

“Well,” continued the general, “the privations proved too much for a lad of my age, so I deserted, and made my way home. I shall never forget the fright my good mother would be in if she but caught a glimpse of the recruiting officer. I was under the required age for the army, to be sure, but none the less I skulked and hid until the French and Indian war had ceased, and there was no longer need for hiding.”

“You,” breathed the youth in so low a tone as scarce to be heard, “you did that, and then made that charge at Saratoga? You, sir?”

“Even I,” the general told him briefly. “’Tis a portion of my life that I don’t often speak of, Drayton, but I thought that it might help you to know that I could understand—that others before you have been faint hearted, and then retrieved themselves.”

“You?” spoke the lad again in a maze. “You! and then after that, the march through that awful wilderness! Why, sir, ’twas you that held us together. ’Twas you, that when the three hundred turned back and left us to our fate, ’twas you who cried: ‘Never mind, boys! There’ll be more glory for the rest of us.’ ’Twas you that cheered us when our courage flagged. ’Twas you that carried us through. And then Valcour! Why, sir, look at the British ships you fought. And Ticonderoga! And Crown Point! And Ridgefield, where six horses were shot from under you!”

“And do you remember all those?” asked Arnold, touched. “Would that Congress had a like appreciation of my services; but it took a Saratoga to gain even my proper rank.”

“I know,” cried the boy hotly. “Haven’t we men talked it over by the camp-fires? Were it left to the soldiers you should be next to the commander-in-chief himself.”

“I know that, my lad,” spoke the general, markedly pleased by this devotion. “But now a truce to that, and let us consider your case. Miss Peggy here tells me that you wish to return to the army?”

“I do,” said the youth earnestly. “Indeed, General Arnold, no one could help it about her. She gave me no peace until I so declared myself.”

“I understand that she read ‘The Crisis’ to you,” said Arnold, a smile playing about his lips. “But you, Drayton. Aside from that, is it your wish to return to the army? It hath ofttimes been in my thoughts of late to obtain a grant of land and retire thereto with such of my men as were sick and weary of the war. I have in truth had some correspondence anent the subject with the state of New York. Would you like to be one of my household there?”

“Beyond anything,” spoke Drayton eagerly. “But not until I have redeemed myself, general. Were I to go before you would always be wondering if I would not fail you at some crucial moment. You have won your laurels, sir, and deserve retirement. But I have mine to gain. Give me another chance. That is all I ask.”

“You shall have it, Drayton. Come with me, and I will send you with a note to General Washington. He hath so much of friendship for me that because I ask it he will give you the chance you wish.”

“But the uniform,” interposed Peggy who had been a pleased listener to the foregoing conversation. “I made him a uniform, Friend Arnold. Should he not wear it?”

“’Twould be most ungallant not to, Miss Peggy,” returned the commander laughing.

“I knew not that you had made it,” exclaimed Drayton as Peggy disappeared, and returned with the uniform in question. “Why, ’tis but a short time since I said that I would go back. How could you get it done so soon?”

Peggy laughed.

“It hath been making a long time,” she confessed. “Mother helped me with dyeing the cloth, but all the rest I did myself. I knew that thee would go back from the first.”

“’Twas more than I did then,” declared Drayton as the girl left the room once more in search of her mother. “Sir, could a man do aught else than return to his allegiance when urged to it by such a girl?”

“No,” agreed his general with a smile. “Drayton, your friend hath clothed you with a uniform of her own manufacture. You have shown an appreciation of Benedict Arnold such as I knew not that any held of my services to the country. Take therefore this sword,” unbuckling it from his waist as he spoke. “’Tis the one I used in that dash at Saratoga that you followed. Take it, Ensign Drayton, and wear it in memory of him who was once your commanding officer.”

“Your sword?” breathed Drayton with a gasp of amazement. “Your sword, General Arnold? I am not worthy! I am not worthy!”

“Tut, tut, boy! I make no doubt but that you will wield it with more honor than it hath derived from the present owner,” said the other pressing it upon the lad.

“Then, sir, I take it,” said Drayton clasping it with a reverent gesture. “And may God requite me with my just deserts if ever I bring disgrace upon it. Sir, I swear to you that never shall it be used, save as you have used it, in the defense of my country. Should ever I grow faint hearted again, I will have but to look at this sword, and think of the courage and patriotism of him who gave it to renew my courage. Pray heaven that I may ever prove as loyal to my country as Benedict Arnold hath shown himself.”

“You, you overwhelm me, boy,” gasped Arnold who had grown strangely pale as the lad was speaking. “I make no doubt but that you will grace the weapon as well as the original owner. Ah!” with evident relief, “here are Mrs. Owen and the fair Peggy. Doth not our soldier lad make a brave showing, Miss Peggy?”

“He doth indeed,” cried Peggy in delight. “And thee has given him thy sword, Friend Arnold! How monstrously good of thee!”

“Is it not?” asked Drayton in an awed tone. “And I am only a subaltern. Oh, Mistress Peggy, you will never have the opportunity to call me a summer soldier again. I have that which will keep me from ever being faint hearted again.” He touched the weapon proudly as he ended. “This will inspire me with courage.”

“Of course it will,” cried Peggy with answering enthusiasm. “Mother said all along that naught ailed thee but an empty stomach.”

“’Tis what ails the most of our soldiers,” said the boy as the laugh died away which this speech provoked. “’Tis marvelous how a little food doth raise the patriotism.”

“And thee will be sure to write?” questioned Peggy when they descended to the lower floor. “I shall be anxious to hear of thy well-being, and thee must remember, John, that ’tis my intention to keep thee in socks, and mittens, and to renew that uniform when ’tis needed. Thee shall be cold no more if I can help it. And how shall it be done unless thee will let me know thy whereabouts?”

“Have no fear. I shall be glad to write,” answered Drayton who, now that the time had come for departure, seemed loath to leave them. “Madam Owen, and Miss Peggy, you have made a new man of me. How shall I ever thank you for your care?”

“Speak not of it, dear lad,” said the lady gently. “If we have done thee good it hath not been without benefit to us also. And if thou dost need anything fail not to let us know. ’Tis sweet to minister to those who take the field in our defense. It makes thee very near and dear to us to know personally all that thee and thy fellows are undergoing for our sakes.”

“Dear lady, the man who will not fight for such as you deserves the fate of a deserter indeed,” exclaimed the youth, much moved. “I thank you again. You shall hear from me, but not as a summer soldier.”

He bent in a deep obeisance before both mother and daughter, and then with one last long look about him John Drayton followed General Arnold to the coach.

CHAPTER XIII—GOOD NEWS

The house and grounds were brought into order; the stores of unspun wool and unhatcheled flax were at length all spun into yarn and thread which in turn were woven into cloth from which the two replenished their depleted wardrobes. But, though all patriotic women strove to supply their every need by domestic industry, the prices of the commonest necessities of life advanced to such an extent that only the strictest frugality enabled them to live.

“There is one thing, mother,” said Peggy one morning in November as she found Mrs. Owen studying accounts with a grave face. “There is one thing sure: if the war lasts much longer we shall all be ruined as to our estates, whatever may be the state of our liberties.”

“True, Peggy,” answered her mother with a sigh. “Philadelphia hath become a place of ‘crucifying expenses,’ as Mr. James Lovell says. And how to be more frugal I know not.”

“And yet there was never so much dressing and entertaining going on,” remarked Peggy.

“Times are strangely altered indeed,” observed the lady with another sigh. “The city is no longer the town that William Penn desired, but hath gone wild with luxury and dissipation.”

“Many are leaving the city, mother. ’Tis not we alone who find it expensive.”

“I know, Peggy. ’Tis affecting every one. Would that a better example were set the citizens at headquarters. Mr. Arnold is a good soldier. He hath shown himself to be a man of rare courage, but I fear ’twas a mistake to put him in charge of our city. Would that he had less money, or else more prudence. I fear the effect on the country. But there! I have uttered more than was wise, but I trust to thy discretion.”

“The city is rife with rumors of his extravagance, mother,” Peggy made answer. “Thee is not alone in commenting upon it. Here was Robert yesterday looking exceedingly grave anent the reports. He says that there is much talk concerning the number and magnificence of the entertainments given at headquarters, and that many deem it but mere ostentation.”

“I feared there would be comment,” was Mrs. Owen’s reply. “’Tis pity that it should happen so when he hath such a fine record as a soldier. Such things cause discontent. There is so much use for the money among the suffering soldiers that I wonder he does not choose to spend it so. I like not to see waste. ’Tis sinful. Ah! here is Betty, who looks full of importance. Belike she hath news.”

“I am come to say good-bye, Peggy,” announced Betty Williams bustling in upon them. “Mother and family are going to Lancaster. Father hath advised us to leave the city owing to the high price of commodities, and while they go there, I, with a party of friends, am going to Dr. Simpson’s to take the smallpox. It hath been so prevalent that mother feared for me to delay longer in taking it.”

“Does thee not dread it, Betty?” questioned Peggy, regarding Betty’s fair skin with some anxiety.

“I like not the pittings,” confessed Betty candidly. “But Dr. Simpson advertises that he hath acquired special skill in the Orient in distributing the marks so as to minister to feminine looks instead of detracting from them, and he promises to limit them to but few. Can thee not come with me, Peggy? Thee has not had it, and we shall be a merry party.”

“I fear that it would not be altogether to my liking, Betty. I know that I should be inoculated, but I shrink from the process. I will say so frankly.”

“Thee is just like Sally,” cried Betty. “She hath courage to become a nurse, yet cannot pluck up heart to join a smallpox party. And thee, Peggy Owen! I am disappointed in thee. I have not half thy pluck, nor Sally’s; yet I mind not the ordeal. It may save me from a greater calamity. Just think how relieved the mind would be not to dread the disease all the rest of one’s life. And then to emerge fairer than before, for so the doctor promises. Oh, charmante!” ended Betty.

“Thee is brave to feel so about it, Betty,” said Peggy. “I hope that all will result as thee wishes. I shall miss thee.”

“I wish thee would come too,” said Betty wistfully. “The other girls are nice, but there are none like thee and Sally. It used to be that we three were together in everything, but since the war began all that hath changed. What sort of times have come upon us when the only fun left to a damsel is to take the smallpox? And what does thee think, Peggy? I wove some linen, and sent it to the ladies to make into sheets for the prisoners. They said that it was the toughest linen they had ever worked with. It made their fingers bleed.”

“Oh, Betty, Betty! was it thou who wove that linen?” laughed Peggy holding up her hands for inspection. “I’ve had to bind my fingers up in mutton tallow every night since I sewed on it. Never mind! thee meant well, anyhow. Come now! Shall we have a cup of tea, and a chat anent things other than smallpox, or tough linen?”

The two girls left the room, and Mrs. Owen turned once more to her accounts. But as the days passed by and the complexion of the times became no better her perplexity deepened.

The ferment of the city grew. Personal and political disputes of all kinds were rife at this time. Men began to refer to the capital city as an attractive scene of debauch and amusement. In compliment to the alliance French fashions and customs crept in, and the extravagance of the country at large in the midst of its distresses became amazing. It was a period of transition. The war itself was dull. The two armies lay watching each other—Clinton in New York City, with Washington’s forces extending from White Plains to Elizabeth, New Jersey. The Congress was no longer the dignified body of seventy-six, and often sat with fewer than a dozen members. Even the best men wearied of the war, and their dissatisfaction communicated itself to the masses. The conditions favored excesses, and Philadelphia, as the chief city, was caught in a vortex of extravagances.

So it was much to Mrs. Owen’s relief when she received a letter from her husband bidding her to come to him with Peggy.

“There will be no luxuries, and few conveniences,” he wrote from Middlebrook, which was the headquarters for the winter of seventy-eight. “None the less there is time for enjoyment as well as duty. Many of the officers have their wives and families with them so that there is no reason why we should not be together also.

“Tell Peggy that she will live in the midst of military equipment, but will not find it unpleasant. General Greene told me that he dined at a table in Philadelphia last week where one hundred and sixty dishes were served. Would that our soldiers had some of it! What a change hath come over the hearts of the people! I shall be glad to have thee and my little Peggy out of it.

“Come as soon as thou canst make arrangements, and we will be a reunited family once more, for the winter at least. God alone knows what the spring will bring forth. ’Tis now thought that Sir Henry Clinton intends for the South at that time. ’Twould change the complexion of affairs very materially.”

Here followed some instructions as to financial and other matters. Mrs. Owen called Peggy hastily.

“Oh, mother, mother! isn’t thee glad?” cried the girl dancing about excitedly. “And we will not only be with father, but with the army too. Just think! The very same soldiers that we have been making socks and shirts for so long.”

“The very same, Peggy,” answered her mother, her face reflecting Peggy’s delight. “I am in truth pleased to go. I was much worried as to the outcome of the winter here.”

CHAPTER XIV—THE CAMP AT MIDDLEBROOK

“Belike ’twas because we paid our reckoning in Continental money,” remarked Mrs. Owen. “Never mind the iron, Peggy. I shall do very well without it; and if thou art not careful thou wilt drop that box which thee has been so choice of through the journey.”

Peggy laughed as she resumed her seat by her mother’s side.

“Is thee curious anent that box, mother?” she questioned drawing a small oblong box of ebony wood closer to her.

“I should be,” observed the lady with a smile, “had I not heard Friend Deering tell thee that ’twas a secret betwixt thee and him.”

“I should think that being a secret would make thee wonder all the more concerning it,” remarked the girl. “It would me, mother.”

“Is thee trying to awake my inquisitiveness, daughter?”

“I am to tell thee about it should thee ask,” said Peggy suggestively. “But in all these four days thou hast not once evinced the slightest desire to know aught anent the matter. How can thee be so indifferent, mother? I am eager to tell thee.”

“So I judged,” replied Mrs. Owen laughing outright. “Know then, Peggy, that I am as desirous of hearing as thou art of telling. ’Tis something for General Washington; is ’t not?”

“Why, mother, thee knows already,” cried Peggy.

“No, no, child; I am only guessing. ’Twould be like Friend Deering to send something to the general. That is all I know of the matter.”

“Well, then, ’tis five hundred English guineas,” explained the girl, enjoying the look of amazement on her mother’s face.

“Peggy, no!” exclaimed the lady. “I thought belike ’twas money, but I knew not that it was so much. How pleased the general will be. Hard money is getting scarcer and scarcer, and the people murmur against the currency of Congress.”

“And shall I tell thee all that I am to say to Friend Washington?” asked Peggy with an important air. “Mother, thee did not guess that while thee was gathering supplies I too had business of like nature?”

“No, I did not know,” replied Mrs. Owen. “Unravel the matter, I beg, Peggy. ’Twill serve well to pass the time, and I am curious also concerning the affair.”

It was three weeks after the receipt of David Owen’s letter, and December was upon them ere mother and daughter had completed their arrangements for the journey. Knowing the great need of supplies at the encampment, Mrs. Owen determined not to go empty handed, and so made a personal canvas among the citizens, who responded to her appeal for the soldiers with their usual liberality. In consequence, when at length everything was in readiness, it was quite a little caravan that left the city headed for Middlebrook, New Jersey. First came the coach with Peggy and her mother inside; then followed two farm wagons loaded with stores of various kinds; behind these came Tom with Star, for Peggy was hoping for rides with her father; the whole traveling under the escort of four of the Pennsylvania Light Horse who had been in Philadelphia on furloughs.

The roads were bad, the traveling rough and slow, the weather cold and damp, but to Peggy, who had never before been away from Philadelphia and its vicinity, the journey was full of interest and excitement. It was now the afternoon of the fourth day since they had started, and both the maiden and the lady were conscious of a growing feeling of excitement as they neared the journey’s end, so the matter of the box, about which the matron had in truth been wondering, was a welcome diversion.

“At first,” said Peggy pulling the fur robe closer about her and nestling confidentially up to her mother, “he said ’twas so small an amount that he wished me to say naught concerning the donor. But I persuaded him to let me tell who gave it, saying to him that ’twas not the amount that counted so much as the spirit in which ’twas given.”

Mrs. Owen nodded approval, and the girl continued:

“And so I am to say that since Jacob Deering is esteemed too old to take up arms for his country ’tis the only thing he can do to show his sympathy with the cause.”

“Would that there were more like him,” ejaculated the lady. “The cause would soon languish were it not for just such support. Is thee tired, Peggy?”

“Not very, mother. Still, I shall be glad when we reach the camp.”

At length, just as the sun was sinking behind the Watchung Mountains, the cumbersome coach swung round a bend in the road, and the encampment came into view. They had left Philadelphia by the old York road, crossing the Delaware at Coryell’s Ferry, and swinging across Hunterdon County into Somerset, where the army was stationed, so that their first sight of the Continental cantonment glimpsed nearly all of the seven brigades stationed there.

All along the Raritan River, and on the heights of Middlebrook the fields were dotted with tents and parks of artillery. Suddenly, as they drew nearer, the highways between the different posts seemed alive with soldiers going and coming. There was the crunch on the frozen ground of many feet. The country quiet was broken by the rattle of arms, the snort of horses, and the stir and bustle of camp. There was something inspiriting in the spectacle. Fatigue was forgotten, and Peggy straightened up with a little cry of delight.

“Look at the tents, mother,” she cried. “Didst ever see so many before?”

“We must be at Middlebrook,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen, almost as excited as Peggy. “Just see how the prospect of rest hath reanimated the driver and his horses.”

The maiden laughed as the driver sat up, cracked his whip and urged his horses to greater dispatch. The tired animals responded nobly, but their spurt of speed was checked suddenly by a peremptory command from the patrol. The examination over, they were allowed to proceed, but were again halted when they had gone but a short distance.

“What can it be now?” wondered Peggy peering out of the coach. Catching sight of the tall figure that came alongside, she called gaily:

“The countersign, father! The countersign!”

“’Tis welcome! Thrice welcome!” answered David Owen flinging wide the door of the vehicle and taking her into a tender embrace. “Art tired, Peggy?”

“No, father; but I fear that mother is. She hath been cold too.”

“But I am so no longer,” spoke Mrs. Owen cheerily. “Thee is well, David?”

“Never better, my wife. I have forgot that I was ever ill. But come! let us proceed to our quarters.”

“And who are in our mess?” asked Peggy as, after a word to the driver, her father stepped into the coach.

“Thou hast become militaryish already, I see,” he said smiling. “I have found accommodations for us at a farmhouse very near Bound Brook. ’Tis just beyond General Greene’s brigade, and close enough to the Pennsylvania line not to interfere with active duty. There will be but five in our mess, as thee calls it, Peggy—Friend Decker and wife, thy mother, thyself and I. ’Tis Friend Decker’s house. Dutch they are, but patriots staunch and true. See, my wife! We are coming to General Washington’s headquarters. ’Tis a much better dwelling than he occupied last year at Valley Forge. To thy right, Peggy. ’Tis the farmhouse in the midst of the orchard.”

“Friend Deering hath sent some gold to the general by Peggy,” observed Mrs. Owen bending forward that she might the better see the building. “And there are supplies behind in the wagons for the soldiers. Two loads there are.”

“Now that is good news indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Owen. “The chief should know of it immediately. We will stop there now. ’Twill ensure the general a better night’s rest to receive such tidings. He hath been greatly worried lately over the apathy of the people toward the war.”

“Then if ’twill be of any comfort to him to learn of this small aid let us go to him at once, David,” said his wife.

The last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the hills as they turned from the road into the meadow in the centre of which stood the large two-story wooden dwelling where General Washington had established his quarters for the winter. But lately finished, it was considered a model of elegance for that section of the country, and was in truth most roomy and comfortable.

As the light faded, from the meadows and the hills sounded the drums, fifes and bugles in the retreat, or sunset drum beat. Scarcely had the music died away than all along the top of the mountain range the watch-fires of the sentinels blazed out suddenly.

“Oh!” gasped Peggy, her eyes glowing, “if I live long ’mid such surroundings methinks I shall feel equal to fighting the whole British army.”

“’Tis so with all new recruits, Peggy,” laughed her father. “Thee will not be so affected when the novelty wears off. And here is the dwelling. ’Twill not take us long to present our news to the general, and then for quarters.”

A few rods to the east of the mansion were about fifty tents erected for the use of the life-guard. Fires flamed before every tent, around which men were gathered, laughing, talking or singing. Peggy looked about with much curiosity, but her father hastened at once to the door of the dwelling, where stood an orderly.

“Will thee tell His Excellency that David Owen is without, and wishes to see him?” he asked. “’Tis important.”

The orderly was absent but a moment. “His Excellency will see you, Mr. Owen,” he said. “You are to go right in.”