Peggy Owen, Patriot: A Story for Girls

Peggy’s heart began to flutter painfully as she found herself once more in the presence of General Washington, and her mind went back involuntarily to the last time when she had taken that long ride to Valley Forge to beg for her father’s exchange. So perturbed was she that she did not notice that the room was large, low ceiled, and cozily warmed by a huge fire of logs which glowed in the great fireplace. Instead of being interested in the furnishings of the apartment, as she would have been at another time, she clung close to her father overcome by the remembrance of how very near they had been to losing him, and could not raise her eyes when he said:

“I beg to present my wife and daughter, Your Excellency. They tell me that they have brought some money and supplies, and it seemed best to let thee know of it at once.”

“You have acted with discretion, Mr. Owen,” said General Washington rising from the table before which he had been sitting. “Madam Owen, I have long known of you through your good works, but have hitherto not had the pleasure of meeting with you personally. You would be welcome at any time, but doubly so since you bring us aid.”

“Thy thanks are not due me, but to the citizens of Philadelphia, sir,” said Mrs. Owen with her finest curtsey. “There are two wagon loads of stores of various kinds, among which are several casks of cider vinegar. We heard that thee was in need of that article.”

“We are indeed,” replied General Washington. “The country hereabouts hath been scoured for it until the farmers tell us that there is no more. ’Tis sorely needed for our fever-stricken men. ’Tis very timely, Mistress Owen.”

“And for thyself, sir,” continued the lady, “a few of us learned of thy fondness for eggs, and there are several dozens of those. But, sir, on pain of displeasure from those who sent them, thou art not to divide them with any. They are for thine own table.”

“I will incur no displeasure on that account, I assure you,” said the general laughing. “I fear that you have been in communication with the housekeeper, who hath been much concerned because of the scarcity of eggs. I thank you, Mrs. Owen, for having so favored me, and also for the other stores. They are much needed. Mr. Owen, will you see to ‘t that the quartermaster heeds your wife’s injunction about those eggs?”

David Owen bowed, and his wife went on:

“And Peggy hath also something for thee in that box, Your Excellency. She hath made so much of a mystery of it that I knew not the nature of its contents until this afternoon.”

General Washington had not been unaware of Peggy’s agitation. Perhaps he too was thinking of the time when she had been so severely tried, for his voice was very gentle as he took the girl’s hand and said:

“Miss Peggy and I are old friends. She promised me once to tell me what became of that wonderful dog of hers. I shall claim the fulfilment of that promise, my child, since we shall see much of each other this winter.”

The ready smile came to Peggy’s lips, chasing away the tears that had threatened to flow.

“Does thee remember Pilot?” she cried. “Oh, Friend Washington, I did not think a man so concerned with affairs of state would remember a dog.”

“He wished me well, and I always remember my friends and well wishers,” he said, pleased that she had recovered her composure.

“And ’tis one of them who hath sent thee this box of five hundred English guineas,” she said quickly, pointing to the box. “’Tis from Mr. Jacob Deering, sir. He said to tell thee that since he was esteemed too old to take up arms ’twas the only way left him to serve the cause. He regretted the smallness of the amount, but he said that English money was hard to come by.”

“It is indeed hard to come by,” replied the general, receiving the box with gratification. “This is most welcome, Miss Peggy, because just at this time our own money is depreciating rapidly owing to the fact that the British are counterfeiting it by the wagon load, and distributing it among the people. I trust that I may soon have an opportunity to thank Mr. Deering in person. I shall be in Philadelphia next week, and shall do myself the honor of calling upon him. In the meantime, Miss Peggy, receive my thanks for this timely relief. Will you not——”

At this moment the door opened to admit an orderly. General Washington turned to him. “What is it, sir?” he said. “Did you not know that I was occupied?”

“Pardon me, sir,” replied the orderly, saluting. “One of the videttes hath brought in a young girl who declares she hath a permit to pass the lines. He knows not what to do with her. She is English, sir, and comes from New York.”

“Bring her in,” commanded the chief. “Nay,” as the Owens made a movement to depart, “stay a little, I beg of you. This matter will take but a moment.”

As he finished speaking the door opened once more to admit the form of a young girl. She could not have been more than Peggy’s age, but she carried herself with so much dignity that she appeared older. Her eyes were of darkest gray, shaded by intense black lashes, and starry in their radiance. At present they held a look of scorn, and her well set head was tilted in disdain. A wealth of chestnut hair but slightly powdered clustered about her face in ringlets, and her complexion was of such exquisite fairness as to be dazzling. She was clad in a velvet riding frock of green, her beaver hat, from which depended a long plume, matching the gown in color. Her whole manner and appearance were stamped by a general air of distinction.

She advanced at once into the room, apparently unconscious of the effect that her beauty was producing.

“By what right, sir,” she cried in a clear musical voice, “do your men stop me in my journey? I have a pass.”

“Let me see it, madam,” said General Washington quietly. He glanced at the paper she gave him, and remarked, “This is from General Maxwell at Elizabethtown. He refers the matter to me for consideration. May I ask why so young a female wishes to pass through our lines?”

“I wish to join relatives in Philadelphia,” she answered. “I travel alone because I was told that Americans did not make war on women and girls. It seems that I was mistaken.”

“You are an English girl,” said the general, ignoring her last remark. “Why do you not stay with your people in New York?”

“Because, sir, I was left in England with my brother while my father came over with General Gage to fight the rebels. My brother ran away, so I came to join father. He had gone to the Southern colonies, and when he learned that I was here, he wrote me to go to my relatives. I left New York under a flag of truce, and came to Elizabethtown. There I went at once to the general in charge. Sir, I have complied with every requirement necessary to pass the lines, and I ask that I be permitted to resume my journey.”

“And what is the name of these relatives?” asked Washington imperturbably.

“Owen, sir. David Owen is my father’s cousin.”

“Why!” exclaimed Peggy, who had been an amazed listener to the conversation. “Thee must be my Cousin Harriet!”

CHAPTER XV—HARRIET

“A moment, lass,” he said, a quick glance flashing between him and General Washington. “Let me speak to the maiden. My child,” turning to the girl who was regarding him intently, “thou wilt pardon me, I know, if I ask thee a few questions. It behooves us to be careful in times like these, and we but take precautions that thine own people would use under like circumstances. Therefore, tell me thy father’s name, and his regiment.”

“By what right do you question me?” she demanded haughtily.

“I am David Owen,” he answered briefly. “If thou art in truth my kinsman’s daughter there is no reason why thee should not answer my questions.”

“Ask what you will, if you are Mr. David Owen, and I will answer,” she said, her manner changing to one of extreme courtesy. “My father is William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers. My brother’s name is Clifford, and I am Harriet. Do you believe me now, my cousin? Or is there aught else to be asked?”

“Nay,” replied he mildly. “I believe that thou art truly William’s daughter.”

“Then may I place myself under your protection, cousin?” she queried so appealingly that Peggy’s tender heart could not bear it, and she went to her quickly. “My father wished it, and I am a stranger in a strange land.”

“Surely thee may,” exclaimed Mr. Owen, touched, as his daughter had been, by the pathetic quiver that had come into her voice. “That is”—he hastened to add, “if His Excellency hath no objection?”

“I have none, Mr. Owen,” declared General Washington. “As the young lady hath proved herself a relative I give her into your keeping. There could be no better sponsor for her, sir.”

“I thank thee,” said David Owen gravely. “I will see that thy trust is not misplaced. And now, sir, we have troubled thee o’er long, I fear, and will therefore say good-night.”

“But not until Mistress Owen tells me when she and Miss Peggy, together with this newly found kinswoman, will honor me by their presence to dinner. Will you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey by Monday, Madam Owen?”

“Yes, Your Excellency. It will afford us great pleasure to dine with thee at that time,” replied the matron bowing.

The courtesies of leave-taking over, David Owen led the way to the coach.

“Take thy seat with us in the vehicle, my child,” he said to Harriet Owen. “I will have thy horse sent after us.”

“And has thee a horse too?” asked Peggy as the girl took her place beside her. “Then we shall have some famous rides, Cousin Harriet. And what is thy horse’s name?”

“Fleetwood. I brought him from England. He hath been mine from a colt. I have never had any other, and he will suffer none to ride him but me.”

“Thee thinks of him as I do of Star,” cried Peggy in delight.

“Didst say, my child,” interposed David Owen after the two maidens had chatted a while, “that thy brother left thee alone in England?”

“Yes, Cousin David. Clifford hath always been wild for the army, but father would not hear of his joining it. ’Twas lonesome after father left us, so I did not blame Clifford for leaving. A lad of mettle should not stop at home when His Majesty hath need of him to help put down this rebellion. Your pardon, cousin. Being English I am all for the king, you know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Owen, pleased at her frankness. “I like thy manner of speaking of it, Harriet.”

“But still, that need be no reason why we should not be friends,” she said quickly. “There be those at home who think with the colonies, and blame them not for rebelling. It may be that I too shall be of like opinion after my sojourn with you.”

“It may be, Harriet. Have no uneasiness, my child. If thou art led to our way of thinking it must be of thine own conviction, and not from any effort that we shall bring to bear upon thee. Thou art welcome despite thy opinions. And didst thou cross the ocean alone?”

“Yes; that is,” she added hastily, “there was an officer’s wife who was coming to join her husband. I was with her. When father learned that I had come, he desired that I should go to you. He was sure that you would welcome me despite the difference in politics. And why are you not in Philadelphia?”

“I, of course, am with the army,” he replied. “The custom of campaigning only in the summer hath the advantage of permitting our wives and daughters to join us in camp during the winter; so my wife and Peggy have come for that time. Thou wilt like it, Harriet; for there are amusements such as delight the hearts of maidens. I doubt not but both thee and my little Peggy will sorrow when ’tis time to leave it.”

“Harriet must be tired, David,” suggested Mrs. Owen kindly. “Should not further explanation be deferred until the morrow?”

“I mind not the talk, madam, my cousin,” spoke Harriet, and Mrs. Owen noted instantly that she used Colonel Owen’s term of addressing her. “It warms my heart for my cousin to talk to me.” Again the little tremor came into her voice as she added: “It makes me feel more at home.”

“Then talk on, my child,” said the lady gently.

So the girl chatted of her father and brother, her home in England, her voyage across the ocean, and other subjects with so much charm that when at length the coach drew up before a farmhouse whose sloping roof and low eaves were but dimly distinguishable in the darkness Peggy found herself very much taken with this new cousin.

“I could listen to thee all night, Cousin Harriet,” she exclaimed as her father assisted them from the coach.

“And so could we all,” said David Owen laughing, plainly as much pleased with the maiden as was Peggy. “But we are at quarters, and the rules are that every one must be in bed at tattoo. That will give us just time for supper.”

And so in spite of the protests of both girls they were sent to bed in short order.

The rides began the very next day, and as Harriet seemed to be as much interested in the encampment as Peggy, Mr. Owen took them through part of it.

“’Tis a strong cantonment,” he said. “There are seven brigades here in the vicinity of Middlebrook. The main army lies in the hills back of Bound Brook, near enough to be called into service instantly if necessary. The artillery under General Knox lies a few miles away at Pluckemin. The entire force of the army is scattered from here to Danbury, Connecticut.”

“But why is it so scattered, my cousin?” inquired Harriet. “Methinks that ’twould be the part of wisdom to keep the army together?”

David Owen laughed.

“Would that thou wert Sir Henry Clinton,” he said. “Then all thy soldiers would stay in New York instead of being transferred to the Southern colonies. ’Tis done for two reasons: the easy subsistence of the army and the safety of the country.”

“But doth it not hem Sir Henry in?” she demanded. “How can he get through these lines without fighting?”

“That is just it,” said Mr. Owen laughing again. “Thee will soon be quite a soldier, Harriet. Here we are at Van Vegthen’s bridge, which is one of three that crosses the Raritan. General Greene, who is acting as quartermaster at present, is encamped here. He hath his quarters in yon dwelling which lies to our left. ’Tis Derrick Van Vegthen’s house, and ye will both meet with him and the general. Mrs. Greene is here, and Mrs. Knox. Ye will like them. Let us ride closer. As ye are unaccustomed to camp life ’twill be a novelty to ye to see the men engaged in their various duties. How busy they are!”

From side to side the maidens turned, eager to see all that Mr. Owen pointed out. Quite a village of blacksmith shops, storehouses and other buildings connected with the quartermaster’s department had grown up around the house where General Greene made his headquarters. On the near-by elevation, even then called Mt. Pleasant, his brigade was encamped.

As Mr. Owen had said, the scene was a busy one. A company of soldiers was drilling on the open parade ground, while of those who were not on duty some chopped wood which had been brought from the near-by hills, or tended fires over which hung large chunks of meat spitted upon bayonets, while still others could be seen through the open flaps of the tents cleaning their accoutrements.

“I should think those tents would be cold,” remarked Peggy with a slight shiver, for although the winter’s day was sunlit, the air was chill.

“They are not o’er comfortable, Peggy,” returned her father. “But does thee not see the huts that are in process of construction? General Washington taught the men how to build them, and they will be comfortably housed ere long. Note that they are built without nails, and almost the only tools used are the axe and saw. ’Tis most marvelous that such comfortable and convenient quarters can be made with such little expense to the people.”

“The marvel to me,” remarked Harriet Owen thoughtfully, “is that such ill-clad, ill-fed looking troops can stand against our soldiers. Why hath not the British swept them down like chaff before the wind? ’Tis past understanding.”

“Because their cause is a righteous one,” said David Owen solemnly. “And because, also, what thou art in the way of forgetting, my little cousin: they are of thine own blood, and therefore fight with the spirit of Englishmen.”

“English?” she exclaimed. “English! I had not thought of that, my cousin.”

“Consider our case,” he said. “Thou art of the same blood as ourselves. Doth it make a difference in the stock because thou dost happen to live in England, while Peggy there lives in America?”

“I had not thought of it in that way,” she said again. “I think the English have not considered it either. I would talk more of the matter, Cousin David, but not now. I have much to think of now. But do you not fear that I shall tell the British about this camp?” added Harriet smiling.

“No, my child. Thou wilt not have opportunity,” observed Mr. Owen. “Does thee not know that once being with us there can be no returning to New York? There can be no passing and repassing to the city.”

“Oh,” she cried in dismay. “I did not know. Can I not return if I should wish to?”

“Not unless thou hadst been away from the army for a long time,” he answered.

“But suppose, suppose father should come?”

“Even then thee would have to stay with us until such time that it was deemed advisable for thee to return. So thee sees, Harriet, that the rebels, as thee calls them, will have the pleasure of thy company for some time to come.”

“I see,” she said. Presently she threw her head back and gave way to a peal of musical laughter. “There is but one thing to do, Cousin David,” she cried. “And that is to become a patriot myself.”

CHAPTER XVI—THE TWO WARNINGS

“And being a soldier let us prepare for him,” said the English girl, reaching for a box. “What would we females be without powder? ’Tis as necessary to us as to a soldier, for ’tis as priming to our looks as ’tis to a gun. There! will I do, Peggy?”

“Thee is beautiful, my cousin,” replied Peggy with warm admiration. “Thee does not need powder nor anything else to set off thy looks.”

“Oh, well,” laughed the maiden, plainly gratified by her cousin’s remark, “’tis as well to be in the mode when one can. And I wish to do you honor, my cousin.”

“Oh, John,” cried Peggy as she entered the parlor, where young Drayton stood twirling his cocked beaver airily. “That I should live to see thee wearing the white cockade of the Parley-voos on thy hat. What hath happened?”

“The most wonderful thing in the world, Mistress Peggy,” answered Drayton reddening slightly at her raillery. “General Washington hath said that if my behavior warranted it he would put me with the Marquis de La Fayette’s brigade upon his return from France. As ’tis to be a picked corps of men ’tis most gratifying to one’s vanity to be so chosen. And in compliment to my prospective commander I am wearing the white cockade with our own black.”

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Peggy. “Thee is making us proud of thee. Father said that there was no soldier more faithful to duty than thou. This is my cousin from England, John. Mistress Harriet Owen, Ensign Drayton.”

“Your servant, madam,” said Ensign Drayton with a sweeping bow, which Harriet returned with a deep curtsey.

“Ah, Drayton,” said David Owen, entering at this juncture. “The lassies are wild to see the camp. Canst thou ride, ensign?”

“That is how I made Miss Peggy’s acquaintance, sir,” said young Drayton frankly.

“Ah, yes; I had forgot, my boy. I was thinking that perhaps thou couldst join us in our rides, and when it would not be possible for me to be with the girls thou couldst escort them.”

“I should be pleased, sir,” answered Ensign Drayton. “The country hereabouts is well adapted to riding as ’tis much diversified. The roads, though narrow, are through woods and dales, and are most beautiful. I have been over the most of them, and know them well.”

“Then thou art the very one to go with us,” said Mr. Owen. “Now, my lad, answer any questions those camp wild maidens may ask and I will improve my well-earned repose by perusing the ‘Pennsylvania Packet.’ A new one hath just reached me.”

“Wilt pardon me if I say something, Mistress Peggy?” inquired young Drayton an hour later as Harriet left the room for a moment.

“Why yes, John,” answered Peggy. “What is it?”

“It is to be careful of your cousin,” said the boy earnestly. “I like not the fact that she is English and here in camp. She means harm, I fear.”

“Why, John Drayton,” exclaimed the girl indignantly. “Just because she is English doth not make her intend any hurt toward us. I am ashamed of thee, John, that thee should imagine any such thing of one so sweet and good as my cousin, Harriet. And is she not beautiful?”

“She is indeed very beautiful,” he answered. “Pardon me, mistress, if I have wounded you, but still do I say, be careful. If she intends no hurt to any, either the camp or you, there still can be no harm in being careful.”

“John, almost could I be vexed with thee,” cried Peggy.

“Don’t be that, Miss Peggy. I may be wrong. Of course I am all wrong if you say otherwise,” he said pleadingly. “I spoke only out of kindness for you.”

“There, there, John! we will say no more about it; but thee must not hint such things,” said Peggy. And Drayton took his departure.

“Mother,” cried Peggy several days after this incident when she had returned from the ride which had become a daily institution, “mother, John is becoming rude. I don’t believe that I like him any more.”

“Why, what hath occurred, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen, glancing at her daughter’s flushed face anxiously. “Thy father and I are both much pleased with the lad. What hath he done?”

“’Tis about Harriet,” answered Peggy, sinking into a chair by her mothers side. “The first time he came he cautioned me to be careful because of her being here. I forgave him on condition that he should never mention anything of like nature again. And but now, while we were riding, Harriet stopped to speak for a moment to a soldier, and he said: ’I don’t like that, Mistress Peggy. Why should she speak to that man? This must be looked into.’ And, mother, he wished to question Harriet then and there, but I would not let him. He is monstrously provoking!”

“Well, does thee know why she spoke to the soldier?” asked her mother quietly.

“Mother!” Peggy sat bolt upright in the chair, and turned a reproachful glance upon the lady. “Thee too? Why, Harriet told me but yesterday that she was becoming more and more of the opinion that the colonists were right in rebelling against the king. And is she not beautiful, mother?”

“Thou art quite carried away with her, Peggy,” observed Mrs. Owen thoughtfully. “Thou and thy father likewise. As thee says, Harriet’s manner to us is quite different to that which her father used. But William, whatever his faults, was an open enemy for the most part, and I like open enemies best. I cannot believe that an English girl would so soon change her convictions regarding us.”

“Mother,” cried Peggy in open-eyed amaze, “I never knew thee to be suspicious of any one before. Thou hast been talking with John. What hath come to thee?”

“I have said no word concerning the matter to John; nor will I, Peggy. ’Tis not so much suspicion as caution. But now I heard her ask thy father if there were but the three bridges across the Raritan, and if ’twere not fordable. Why should she wish to know such things?”

“Did thee ask father about it, mother?”

“Yes.”

“And what said he?”

“He feared that because of William’s actions I might be prejudiced against her. He thought it quite natural for her to take an interest in military affairs, and said that she asked no more questions concerning them than thou didst. Beside, he said, she was such a child that no possible harm could come of it.”

“Belike it is because of Cousin William that thee does not feel easy, mother,” said Peggy much relieved.

“It may be,” admitted the lady. “Yet I would that she had not come. I would not have thee less sweet and kind to her, my daughter, but I agree with John that it can do no harm to be careful. Watch, my child, that thou art not led into something that may work harm to thee.”

“I will be careful,” promised Peggy, adding with playfulness: “As careful as though I did not have thee and father to watch over me, or the army with General Washington right here. Let me see! Seven brigades, are there not? To say nothing of the artillery and four regiments of cavalry variously stationed, and I know not how many brigades along the Hudson and the Sound. There! thou seest that I am as well versed in the disposition of the army as Harriet is.”

“Is thee trying to flout thy mother, Peggy?” asked Mrs. Owen laughing in spite of herself. “I may in truth be over-anxious and fearful, but ’tis strange that John feels so too. As thee says, it does seem as though naught could happen with the whole army lying so near. Still I have the feeling that harm threatens through the English girl.”

But the days passed, and the time brought no change to Harriet’s manner. She remained affectionately deferent to Mr. Owen, full of respectful courtesy toward Mrs. Owen, and had adopted a playful comradeship toward Peggy that was charming. The good lady’s reserve was quite melted at length, and she became as devoted to the girl as her husband and daughter.

With girlish enthusiasm the maidens regulated their own days by that of the camp. They rose with the beating of the reveille, reported to Mrs. Owen as officer of the day for assignments of duty, and, much to her amusement, saluted her respectfully when given tasks of knitting or sewing. When the retreat sounded at sunset they announced their whereabouts by a loud, “Here,” as the soldiers answered to roll call, and, unless there was some merrymaking at one of the various headquarters, went to bed at the beating of tattoo.

Lady Washington joined her husband in February, and there was an added dignity to the kettledrums and merrymakings in consequence. Better conditions prevailed throughout the camp than had obtained at Valley Forge the preceding winter. The army was at last comfortably hutted. The winter was mild, no snow falling after the tenth of January. Supplies were coming in with some degree of plenitude, and the outlook favored rejoicing and entertainment.

But life was not all given up to amusement. The women met together, and mended the soldiers’ clothes, made them shirts and socks whenever cloth and yarn were to be had, visited the cabins, carrying delicacies from their own tables for the sick, and did everything they could to ameliorate the lot of the soldier.

After a few such visits to the huts Harriet made a protest.

“I like not common soldiers,” she explained to Peggy. “I mind not the sewing, though I do not understand why Americans deem it necessary to always be so industrious. ’Tis as though they felt that they must earn their pleasures before taking them.”

“Are not ladies in England industrious too?” inquired Peggy.

“They look after their households, of course, my cousin. And they paint flowers, or landscapes, and the tambour frame is seldom out of the hand when one is not practicing on the spinet, but they do not concern themselves with the welfare of the common soldiers as your women do.”

“Oh, Harriet,” laughed Peggy. “Thee has said that before, but thee does not practice what thee preaches.”

“What mean you?” demanded Harriet with a startled look.

“I have seen thee several times give something to a common soldier, as thee calls him. Yesterday when we were leaving General Greene’s I saw thee slip something to one when he came forward to tighten Fleetwood’s girth. John saw it too.”

“I had forgot,” remarked the girl carelessly. “Yes; I did give him a bit of money. Methinks he hath rendered us several services of like nature, Peggy, when something hath gone amiss. Yet it may not have been the same soldier. I scarce can tell one from another, there are so many.”

“Thee has a good heart,” commended Peggy warmly. “Mother says that ’tis the only way to do a kindness. Perform the deed, and then forget it. But I always remember.”

“Does Cousin David ride with us to-day, or doth the ensign?” asked Harriet.

“’Tis John, my cousin. Father is on duty.”

“I am sorry,” said Harriet. “I do not like Ensign Drayton. He reminds me of a song they sing at home:

    “‘With  little  hat  and  hair  dressed  high,
            And  whip  to  ride  a  pony;
        If  you  but  take  a  right  survey
            Denotes  a  macaroni,’”

she trilled musically. “Now don’t say anything, Peggy. I know he is considered a lad of parts. I heard two officers say that he would no doubt distinguish himself ere the war was over. ’Twas at Mrs. Knox’s kettledrum.”

“Now I must tell mother that,” cried Peggy, her momentary vexation at Harriet’s song vanishing. “He is our especial soldier.”

“Is he? And why?” asked Harriet. “Nay,” she added as Peggy hesitated. “’Tis no matter. I knew not that it was a secret. I care not. I like him not, anyway. Peggy, do you like me very much?”

“I do indeed, Harriet,” answered Peggy earnestly. “Why?”

“I am just heart-sick to hear from my father,” said Harriet, the tears welling up into her beautiful eyes. “It hath been so long since I heard. Not at all since I came, so long ago.”

“’Tis hard to get letters through the lines,” said Peggy soberly.

“I know it is, for I have tried,” answered Harriet. “The officers won’t send them. If you were away from Cousin David wouldn’t you make every effort to hear from him?”

“Indeed I would,” responded Peggy. “Harriet, has thee asked father to help thee? He would take the matter to General Washington.”

“General Washington does not wish to do it because I am British,” answered Harriet after a moment. “I know that they must be careful, but oh! I am so anxious anent my father, Cousin Peggy.”

“That is just as mother and I were about father last winter,” observed Peggy. “At last Robert Dale wrote us that he was a prisoner in Philadelphia, and I rode into the city to see him.”

“Was that when father was exchanged for him?” questioned the girl eagerly.

“Y-yes,” hesitated Peggy. She did not like to tell Harriet what effort had to be made to get the exchange.

“Peggy, he helped you anent Cousin David then; will you help me about my father?”

“How could I, Harriet?” asked Peggy.

“If you will just hand this note to that soldier that you saw me give the money to yesterday he will get it through the lines. Nay,” as Peggy opened her lips to speak. “You shall read it first. I would do nothing unless you should see that ’twas all right. Read, my cousin.”

She thrust a note into Peggy’s hand as she spoke.

“Miss Harriet Owen presents compliments to Sir Henry Clinton, and would esteem it a favor if he would tell her how Colonel William Owen is. A word that he is well is all that is desired. I have the honor, sir, to be,

“Your humble and obliged servant,

“Harriet Owen.

“Middlebrook, New Jersey,

Headquarters American Army.”

“Why, there ought to be no objection to getting that through,” exclaimed Peggy. “Harriet, let me ask father——”

“I have asked him,” said Harriet mournfully. “He would if he could, Peggy. He wishes me not to speak of it again, and I promised I would try to content myself without hearing from father. You must not speak of it either; else Cousin David will be angry with me for not trying to be content.”

“Don’t cry, Harriet,” pleaded Peggy, as the girl commenced to sob, and her own tears began to flow. “Something can be done, I know. Thee ought to hear from Cousin William.”

“Cousin David said I must be content,” sobbed Harriet. “And he hath been so good to me that I must; though ’tis very hard not to hear. I see that you do not wish to do it, Peggy. I meant no wrong to any, but——”

“How does thee know that the soldier could get the note through the lines, Harriet?” asked Peggy thoughtfully.

“He said that he was to have leave to go to Elizabethtown for a few days, and while there he could do it,” said Harriet, looking up through her tears.

“Why does thee not give it to him, then?” inquired Peggy.

“It must be given to him to-day,” answered the other, “because he goes to-morrow. If Cousin David were to ride with us I would, but Ensign Drayton always watches me as though I were in communication with the enemy, and about to bring the whole British force right down upon us. You know he does, Peggy.”

Peggy flushed guiltily.

“Yes,” she admitted, “he doth, Harriet. I knew not that thee was aware of it, though.”

“Give me the note,” said Harriet, rising suddenly. “As my father helped you to your father I thought you would aid me, but I see——”

“Nay,” said Peggy, her gentle heart not proof against the insinuation of ingratitude. “Give me the note, Harriet. I will give it to the man. I see not how it can bring harm to any, and thee ought to hear from thy father.”

“How good you are, Peggy,” cried Harriet, kissing her. “Here is the note. If I can only hear this once I will be content until such time as Cousin David deems best. You are very sweet, my cousin.”

And under the influence of this effusiveness Peggy saw not that the note her cousin handed to her was not the one which she had read.

CHAPTER XVII—A LETTER AND A SURPRISE

“He is the patriot governor of the state, Harriet,” answered Mrs. Owen mildly. “We do not call such rebels. As to the reward I know not. I had not heard of such amount being offered, although ’tis well known that he is held in particular abhorrence by both the Tories and thy people. Perhaps David can inform thee concerning the affair.”

“’Tis no matter,” spoke Harriet hastily. “I dare say that I have confused him with another. Peggy, hath my beaver the proper tilt to show the feather? It should sweep to the right shoulder.”

“’Tis most becoming,” answered Peggy, after a critical survey. “Thee looks as charming as ever, Harriet.”

“Vanity, vanity,” laughed her cousin. “Shall we go for the ride now?”

Ensign Drayton rode into the yard just as their horses were brought to the block for the girls to mount. To Peggy’s surprise the same private soldier to whom she was to give the note had them in charge. As Harriet vaulted lightly into her saddle he left Fleetwood’s head and went round to the horse’s side.

“That will do, sirrah,” spoke young Drayton sharply. “I will attend to the strap.”

Peggy glanced at him quickly. “John grows unmannerly,” she thought to herself. “Now what did the poor man do amiss? Friend,” she called as the soldier saluted and turned to leave, her voice showing her indignation, “friend, thee shall fix Star’s girth if it needs it.”

“Thank you, miss,” he said, saluting again. He tightened the strap deftly, and the girl put her hand in her purse for a small coin. As she did so her fingers touched the note that Harriet had given her, and she bent toward him suddenly.

“Thee was to take a letter, was thee not?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, a look of astonishment flashing across his face.

“It is here, friend,” said she, giving him the missive. “I hope thee can get it through, for my cousin is sore beset with grief for news of her father. And there is money for thee. Thou art a good man, and hast a kind heart.”

“Thank you,” he said saluting, and Peggy could not have told how he concealed the note, it was done so adroitly.

“Why did thee speak so sharply to him, John?” she queried when at length they had started.

“Those girths should be attended to before bringing the horses round,” he answered. “’Tis done to get money from you girls. He never sees us but that he comes forward under some pretense of doing a service. I like not his actions. How doth it come that he is attending the horses? He is not your father’s man.”

“I know not,” answered Peggy. “Doth it really matter? Fie, fie, John! thee is cross. I never saw thee so before.”

“Your pardon,” said the lad contritely. “I meant not to be so, but men require sharp treatment, and perchance I have brought my parade manner with me.”

The girls laughed, but a constraint seemed to be over all three. Harriet was unusually silent, and Peggy, though conscious of no wrong-doing, was ill at ease.

The feeling was intensified as, when they had gone some distance, young Drayton wheeled his horse suddenly.

“Let us go back,” he said abruptly.

“Why?” exclaimed both girls simultaneously, but even as they spoke they saw the reason. A few rods in front of them, suspended from the limb of a tree, hung the limp body of a man.

“Is it a spy?” whispered Peggy shudderingly.

“Yes, Mistress Peggy. I knew not that the execution would take place on this road, else I would have chosen another for the ride. ’Tis not a pleasing sight.”

“Is thee ill, Harriet?” cried Peggy, all at once happening to glance at her cousin who had no color in her face.

“Ill? No,” answered Harriet with an attempt at carelessness. “I am chilled; that is all. Then, too, as the ensign says, yon sight is not a pretty one. Methinks such service must be extremely hazardous.”

“It is, mistress,” said Drayton sternly. “So perilous is it that the man, woman, or girl even who enters upon it does so at the risk of life. No mercy is shown a spy. Nor should there be.”

“And yet,” she said growing paler still, “spies are used by your own general, sir. It is a parlous mission, but he who enters upon it serves his country as truly as though”—she laughed, flung up her head and looked him straight in the face—“as though he were an ensign,” she finished mockingly.

“She has thee, John,” cried Peggy gaily. “But a truce to such talk. ’Tis gruesome, is it not? Let us converse upon more pleasing subjects.”

“Methinks,” said Drayton briefly, “’twould be as well to return, Mistress Peggy. The ride hath been spoiled for the day.”

But a shadow seemed over them, and neither girl recovered her accustomed spirits until some hours later when they went into dinner.

“Now by my life, David,” cried William Livingston, the great war governor of New Jersey, as the maidens were presented. “Now by my life, these girls take not after you, else they would not be such beauties. They must meet with my daughters. I had three,” he said turning to Peggy. “The Livingston Graces, some called them, but one grew tired of being a nymph and so became a bird. Nay; be not alarmed,” he added as a puzzled look flashed across Peggy’s face, “she but married John Jay. ’Tis a joke of mine. And this is the cousin from across the sea who bids fair to become our more than sympathizer? Wilt pardon me if I say that were I British I’d never relinquished to the rebels so fair a compatriot?”

“Perchance, sir,” replied Harriet, sweeping him an elaborate curtsey, and assuming the gracious manner which was one of her charms, “perchance if you were on the other side I would not wish to be relinquished.”

“That is apt,” he responded with a hearty laugh. “What think you, David? Are not the honors evenly divided betwixt this young lady and myself? I must be wary in my speech.”

“And are you at Liberty Hall this winter?” she asked him presently.

“Yes; thanks to Maxwell’s brigade, I am permitted this enjoyment. Were he not stationed at Elizabethtown, however, I could not be with my dear ones. ’Tis the first time in three years that I have had the privilege. Hath General Washington returned from Philadelphia, David?”

“He hath been back for some time,” answered Mr. Owen. “Since the first of the month, in fact. ’Twas dull here without him.”

“I like him better than any other one of your people whom I have met, my cousin,” declared Harriet after the governor had taken his departure. “I have heard much of Liberty Hall, Cousin David. I am curious anent it. Where is it?”

“’Tis a mile northwest of Elizabethtown, Harriet,” answered he. “A wonderful place it is. The governor hath sent abroad and obtained hundreds of trees to adorn the grounds. ’Tis his lament, however, that he will not live to see them grown. He is a wonderful man also. ’Tis no marvel that thee is pleased with him. His daughters are most charming, and will be agreeable acquaintances for thee and Peggy. We will go there soon.”

“But tell me how to get to the Hall, please,” she teased. “I want to know exactly.”

“Exactly,” he laughed. “Well, well, Harriet, I will do my best; though why thee should want to know exactly is beyond me.”

“’Tis fancy,” she said laughing also. “And thee always indulges my fancies, Cousin David. Doesn’t thee now?”

“Whenever thee uses that speech, my child, I cannot resist thee,” he answered. And forthwith sat down by the table and drew for her a map showing just where the road to Liberty Hall turned from the Morris turnpike.

“Drayton and I are both on duty to-day,” announced Mr. Owen the next morning. “If you ride, lassies, it must be without escort, unless I can find some one to go with you.”

“Oh, do let us go alone, Cousin David,” pleaded Harriet. “Peggy and I have gone so a few times. There is nothing to harm us.”

“I see not how harm could befall you so long as you stay within the lines,” said Mr. Owen indulgently. “But it shall be as Lowry says.”

“And what say you, madam my cousin?” The girl turned toward the lady with pretty deference.

“Could not the ride go over for one day?” asked she. “I like not for you to ride alone.”

“’Twill be good for Peggy,” spoke Harriet with an air of concern. “She is not well to-day.”

“Is thee not, my daughter?” asked Mrs. Owen. “Thee is pale.”

“’Tis nothing to wherrit over, mother,” spoke Peggy cheerfully. “I did not sleep well, that is all. Almost do I believe with Doctor Franklin that the windows should be raised in a sleeping-room, though none but he advocates such a thing.”

“Doctor Franklin advocates naught but what he hath proved by experience to be good,” declared Mr. Owen, rising. “He is a philosopher who profits by his own teaching. I think ’twould be best for the girls to go, wife.”

“Then, by all means, go,” decided Mrs. Owen. “But start earlier than usual, so as to be back long before the retreat sounds; else I shall be uneasy.”

“We will do that, mother,” promised Peggy. And as soon as the morning tasks were finished the maidens set forth.

“Are you not glad that we are alone to-day?” asked Harriet, when they had ridden a while. “I tire of even Cousin David. Do you not?”

“Why, no!” exclaimed Peggy in surprise. “I would rather have father with us. I do not see how any one could tire of him.”

Harriet made no reply to this speech, and the two rode for some distance in silence. The February day was chill and gray, the roads slushy, but the outdoor life they had led rendered the maidens hardy, and they did not mind the dampness.

“Why!” ejaculated Harriet suddenly. “Aren’t we on the Elizabethtown turnpike?”

“Yes,” said Peggy glancing about. “I knew not that we had come so far. We must turn back, Harriet. Mother said that she would be uneasy if we were not there before the sounding of the retreat, and the afternoons are so short. ’Twill be time for it before we know it.”

“I’ll tell you what, Peggy,” cried her cousin. “Let’s go by Liberty Hall.”

“It is too late,” answered Peggy. “Thee must know that it is all of twenty miles to Elizabethtown, and though we have ridden a goodly part of the distance ’twould be more than we could do to-day. There and back, Harriet, is not to be thought of.”

“Well, I am going, anyway,” exclaimed Harriet with more petulance than Peggy had ever seen her exhibit. “So there!”

She struck Fleetwood a sharp blow with her riding crop as she spoke, and set off at speed down the road. Too much surprised to do more than call after her, Peggy drew rein, undecided what course to pursue. As she did so her eye was caught by a folded paper lying in the roadway. Now this had fallen from Harriet’s person as her horse started off unnoticed by either girl.

“That’s a letter!” exclaimed Peggy as she saw it. “Some one must have dropped it. Could it have been Harriet? I’ll get it and tease her anent the matter.”

Smiling roguishly she dismounted and picked up the missive. Somewhat to her amazement there was no address, and opening the epistle she found neither address nor signature.

“How monstrously queer!” she cried, turning it about. “Why, why,” as her glance rested almost unconsciously upon the writing, “what does it mean?” For with deepening amazement this is what she read:

“Your information opportune. An attempt will be made on the night of the twenty-fourth to surprise brigade at Elizabethtown, and to take the old rebel at L—— H——. Reward will be yours if successful. Can you be near at hand so as to be taken yourself?”

“The brigade at Elizabethtown is General Maxwell’s,” mused Peggy thoughtfully. “Then the old rebel must be Governor Livingston of Liberty Hall. The twenty-fourth? Why, ’tis to-day!” she cried in consternation. “Oh! what must I do? ’Tis past four of the clock now.”

She looked about dazedly as though seeking guidance. But with Peggy a need of decision usually brought quick result, and it was so in this instance. It was but a moment before her resolve was taken.

“I must just ride there and tell him, and then warn the garrison,” she said aloud. “’Tis the only thing to do.”

Mounting Star, she shook the reins and started. Before she had gone a dozen rods, however, here came Harriet riding back full tilt.

“Where are you going?” she called. “That is not the way to Bound Brook.”

“I know, Harriet,” replied Peggy without stopping. “I am going to Liberty Hall. An attempt will be made to-night to capture the governor. He must be warned.”

“How know you that such attempt will be made?” asked her cousin, riding up beside her. “Are you daft, Peggy?”

“Nay; I found a letter in the road saying so,” explained Peggy. “Will thee come too, Harriet? And there is no time for chat. We must hasten. Perhaps though thee would better ride back to tell mother.”

“’Tis indelicate for females to meddle in such matters,” cried Harriet excitedly. “Think how froward your father will think you, Peggy. Wait! we will go back to camp, and send relief from there, as doth become maidens.”

“It could not reach the garrison in time, as thee knows,” returned Peggy, keeping steadily on her way. “Do not talk, Harriet. We must ride fast.” The letter was still in her hand.

“Let me see the letter,” said Harriet. “Where did you get it? It could not have been long in the road, for ’tis not muddy. Who could have dropped it?”

“Harriet, thee is detaining me with thy clatter,” spoke Peggy with some sharpness. “Thee has seen the letter, and know now the need for action. Either come with me or ride back to camp. We must act.”

“You shall not go,” exclaimed Harriet reaching over, and catching hold of Star’s bridle. “’Tis some joke, and beside, your mother will be waiting for us. Come back!”

Peggy drew rein and faced her cousin with sudden suspicion. “Harriet,” she said, “is that letter thine?”

“Mine?” Harriet laughed shrilly. “How could it be mine? I was not anywhere near when you found it. Besides, I never saw the governor until yesterday. How could I be concerned in his capture then?”

“True,” said Peggy with brightening face. “Thy pardon, my cousin. Thy actions were so queer that for a moment I could but wonder.”

“And now we are going right back to the camp,” cried Harriet gaily. “That will show that you are sorry for such thoughts. Why, Peggy, you are getting as bad as John Drayton.”

“Nay,” said Peggy drawing her rein from her cousin’s clasp. “I am sorry that I wronged thee, Harriet, but neither thee nor any one shall detain me from going to Governor Livingston and the garrison. Do as thou wilt in the matter. I am going.”

For the second time in her life she struck her pony sharply. The little mare reared, and then settling, dashed off in a gallop. She did not look to see whether her cousin was following her or not. On she rode. The February slush spattered from Star’s flying hoofs, and covered her from head to foot, but she did not notice. The daily rides had familiarized her with the road to Elizabethtown, and the minute description given by her father to Harriet the night before now enabled her to head unerringly for the governor’s mansion. The short winter day was drawing to a close when all at once she became aware that there was the sound of hoofs behind her.

The sound increased. Presently she felt the hot breath of a horse upon her face, and just as she turned from the Morris turnpike into Livingston Lane, at the end of which stood the governor’s country seat, Fleetwood, running as a deer runs in leaps and bounds, dashed past her, with Harriet urging him to greater endeavor.

Before Peggy was half-way down the lane Harriet had reached the great house, sprung from her saddle and was pounding vigorously upon its portals.

“Fly, fly,” she cried, as the governor himself came to the door. “The British are coming to take you. Peggy will tell you all. I must warn the garrison.”

She was on Fleetwood’s back again by the time she had finished speaking, and was off before either the astonished governor or the dumbfounded Peggy could utter a word.