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“Our country’s welfare is our first concern: He who promotes that best, best proves his duty.”
—Harvard’s Regulus. |
Westward rode Peggy at a brisk pace. There were not many people stirring, the hour was so early. The few who were abroad merely glanced curiously after her, as she passed, without speaking. With a feeling of thankfulness she soon left the deserted streets, and, passing the college with its broad campus of green where the golden buttercups seemed to wave a cheerful greeting, increased her speed as she reached the cleared space of the road which stretched bare and dusty between the town and the forest.
“At last we are started,” exulted the girl, drawing a deep breath as she entered the confines of the great woods. “We ought not to get lost if we follow the road, Star. And too I have been over every bit of it, and my diary will tell the places we went through in case I should forget. But first——” She pulled the pony into a walk; then, letting the reins hang loosely, drew forth a little white flag made of linen, and fastened it to the bridle.
“Clifford said we could not get through without a flag,” she mused. “Well, that should show that we are non-combatants. And we do not wish harm to any; do we, Star?”
The forest was on every hand. The narrow road wound deviously under great trees of fir, and pines, and beech, shady, pleasant and cool. Suddenly there came a medley of bird notes from out of the woods; clear, sweet and inexpressibly joyous, the song of the mocking-bird. As the morning hours passed and Peggy found that she was still the only traveler upon the road, her spirits rose, and she became agreeably excited over the prospects of the journey.
“We will ride hard, Star, until to-morrow night,” she cried catching at a fragrant trailer of wild grape that hung from an overarching tree. “To-morrow night should find us at Fredericksburg, if we go as fast as we did coming down in the cabriolet. And I know we can do that.”
And so, talking sometimes to Star as though the little mare understood, sometimes listening to the call of birds, the whirr of insects or the murmur of the wind in the tree tops, the day passed. It was drawing near nightfall when Peggy rode into New Castle, a small village on the Pamunkey River, tired but happy. She had not been molested and the first day was over. Peggy went immediately to the house where she had stopped with Nurse Johnson on the way down.
There were no signs of the British, she was told at this place. It was rumored that the Marquis de Lafayette had crossed the river further to the west on his way to join General Wayne. Peggy rejoiced at the news.
“We have timed our going just right, Star,” she told the little mare as she made an early start the next morning. “Lord Cornwallis will not reach Richmond until the last of the week, and the Marquis hath just passed on. I could not have chosen better.”
Filled anew with hope as the prospects seemed more and more favorable Peggy rode briskly toward Hanover Court House, for she planned to reach this place by noon. The road wound along the banks of the Pamunkey, under large tulip trees so big and handsome that she was lost in wonder at their magnificence.
In this happy frame of mind she proceeded, marveling often at the fact that she seemed to be the only one on the road. It was the second day, and she had met no one nor had any one passed her. ’Twas strange, but fortunate too, she told herself.
The morning passed. The road, which had been for the greater part of the way shaded by the great trees, now suddenly left the woods and stretched before her in a flood of sunshine. A lane branched off to the right, running under a double row of beech trees to a large dwelling standing in the midst of a clover field not more than half a mile distant. The country was thinly settled throughout this section, the houses so scattering that this one seemed to beckon invitingly to the tired maiden.
“Methinks ’twould be the part of wisdom to bait ourselves there, Star,” she said musingly. “I think we will take an hour’s rest.”
With that she turned into the shady lane, and soon drew rein in front of the house.
“Friend,” she said as an elderly, pleasant-looking woman came to the door, “would thee kindly let me have refreshment for myself and horse; refreshment and rest also, friend?”
“Light, and come right in,” spoke the woman heartily. “A girl like you shouldn’t be riding about alone when the British are abroad in the land.”
“But the British have not yet crossed the James,” answered Peggy cheerfully.
“Why, a detachment passed here not an hour ago, bound for Hanover Court House,” spoke the woman abruptly. “Didn’t you know that Cornwallis was following the Marquis de Lafayette trying to keep him from meeting General Wayne?”
“I did not know,” answered the maiden paling. “Why, I am going through Hanover Court House myself. I want to reach Fredericksburg to-night.”
“You’d better bide with me until we hear whether they have left there, and in what direction they ride, my dear. I should not like a daughter of mine abroad at such a time. Where are you from?”
“I came from Williamsburg, and I am trying to get home,” Peggy told her. “I live in Philadelphia, and came down to nurse a cousin who was wounded. There was no one to come with me, and it seemed a good time to start, as I thought Lord Cornwallis was still at Petersburg.”
“Bless you, child! it never takes them long to scatter for mischief when they enter a state,” exclaimed the woman. “I think ’twill be best to hide that mare of yours, if you want to keep her. There’s no telling when others of the thieving, rascally English will be along. Here, Jimmy,” to a youngster of ten who stood peeping at Peggy from behind the door, “take the nag down to the grove behind the mills, and don’t forget to feed her. You are the second person from tide-water to ask for rest in the last twenty-four hours,” she continued leading the way into the dwelling. “The other was a lad from the militia who came last night. Most sick the poor fellow is, too.”
“What became of him?” asked Peggy interested on the instant. “I hope the British did not get him.”
“Well, then, they didn’t,” was the laconic response. “I’ve got him here hidden in the garret. We’ll go up to see him as soon as you have something to eat. The boy needs looking after a bit.”
“I have some skill in nursing, friend,” spoke Peggy modestly. “If I tarry with thee until ’tis wise to go on I might be of assistance in caring for him.”
“Have you now? Then between us we will bring him round nicely. It’s providential that you came. I was wondering how to give him proper care without attracting too much attention from the darkies. There are not many left me, and they seem faithful, but ’tis just as well not to rely too much on them.”
The attic was a roomy garret extending over the entire main building. Two large windows, one in each end of the gambrel roof, afforded light and air. Boxes, trunks, old furniture, and other discarded rubbish of a family filled the corners and sides, affording many recesses that could be utilized as hiding-places in an emergency. A large tester bed spread with mattress and light coverlids stood in the center of the space, and upon it reposed the lithe form of a youth. Peggy gave an ejaculation of astonishment as her hostess led her to the bed.
“’Tis Fairfax Johnson,” she cried. “Oh, friend, how does thee do? Thy mother told me that thee was not well. How strange that I should find thee here!”
“Why, ’tis Mistress Peggy!” exclaimed the young fellow, sitting up quickly, a deep flush dyeing his face. “How, how did you get here?”
“I am trying to get home,” she told him. “I left Williamsburg yesterday morning, and hoped to reach Fredericksburg to-night, but our good friend here tells me that the British are at Hanover Court House. I am to bide with her until they pass on.”
“That is best,” he said. “’Twas but an advance force on a reconnoitering expedition that passed this morning. The rest will be along later. You should not be here at all.”
“I know,” replied Peggy, surprised by this speech from Fairfax. It was the longest he had ever made her. “Or rather I didn’t know, Friend Fairfax, else I would not be here. And how does thee do? I am to help care for thee.”
“You!” again the red blood flushed the lad’s cheek and brow. “Why, why, I’m all right. A little rest is all I need.”
“I shall care for thee none the less,” answered the maiden demurely, the feeling of amusement which she always felt at his shyness assailing her now.
“And here is cool milk and toast with sweet butter and jam,” spoke the hostess. “Boys all like jam, so I brought that for a tid-bit. With the eggs it should make a fairish meal. Now, my lad, I’ll leave you to the mercy of your young friend while I run down to see about things. It is pleasant for you to know each other. Come down when you like, my dear,” she added turning to Peggy as she left the room.
“Oh!” uttered Fairfax in such evident dismay that Peggy found it impossible to suppress the ripple of laughter that rose to her lips.
“I shall tell thee all about thy mother while thee eats,” she said arranging the viands before him temptingly. “Thy mother is worried anent thee, friend, but she herself is well. She——”
“Listen,” he said abruptly.
A blare of bugles, the galloping of horses, the jingle of spurs and sabres filled the air. Peggy ran to the front window and looked out.
“’Tis a body of men in white uniforms,” she cried. “They are mounted upon fine horses, and are clattering down the lane toward the house.”
“’Tis Tarleton with his dragoons,” he exclaimed hastening to the window for a view of them.
“Then thee must hide,” ejaculated Peggy. “Quickly! They may search the place. Hurry, friend!”
“But you,” he said, making no move toward secreting himself.
“Go, go,” cried she impatiently. “I know Colonel Tarleton, and fear naught from him or his troopers. Hide, friend! Here, take the food with thee. ’Tis as well to eat while thee can.”
So insistent was she that the lad found himself hurried to a retreat behind some boxes in spite of himself. Peggy then hastened down-stairs to the good woman below. A quick glance at the girl told her that the boy was in hiding.
“And do you go to my room, child,” she said pointing to a door under the stairway. “We will make no attempt at concealment, but ’tis more retired. It may be that they will not stop long. Goodness knows, there is not much left to take.”
Peggy had scarcely gained the seclusion of the room ere the British cavalry dashed up.
“In the name of the king, dinner,” called Colonel Tarleton, loudly.
“Of course if you want dinner, I suppose that I’ll have to get it,” Peggy heard the mistress of the dwelling reply, grumblingly. “But some of your people have already been here, and you know ’tis against their principles to leave much.”
A great laugh greeted this sally as the troopers dismounted, tying their horses to trees, or fences as was convenient.
“Get us what you have, my good woman, and be quick about it,” Tarleton cried in answer. “We’ve come seventy miles in twenty-four hours, and must be in the saddle again in an hour’s time. Now be quick about that dinner.”
The dragoons, seemingly too weary for anything but rest, flung themselves upon the grass to await the meal. Tarleton and one of his lieutenants stretched out upon the sward directly under the window of the room where Peggy was. For a time they lay there in silence, then the junior officer spoke:
“Will it be possible for us to reach Charlottesville to-night, colonel?”
“Charlottesville!” Peggy’s heart gave a great bound as she heard the name. Charlottesville was the place where the Assembly was in session at that very time. But Colonel Tarleton was speaking:
“Not to-night, lieutenant. But to-morrow we’ll swoop upon the Assembly and take it unawares. By St. George, ’twill be rare sport to see their faces when they find themselves prisoners. Although I care more for Jefferson and Patrick Henry than all the others together. We’ll hang those two.”
The girl wrung her hands as she listened. Jefferson, the governor of the state, the writer of the Declaration of Independence; and Patrick Henry, he who had been termed the Voice of the Revolution! Oh! it must not be! But how, how could it be prevented? They should be warned.
“If I but knew where Charlottesville is,” cried the girl anguished by her helplessness. “What shall be done? Oh, I’ll ask Fairfax.”
Up to the garret she sped unnoticed by any one. The troopers were outside, the members of the household busily engaged in preparing the dinner.
“Friend Fairfax,” she called.
“Yes,” answered the lad rising from behind the boxes.
“Colonel Tarleton is after the Assembly at Charlottesville. He wants especially to capture the governor and Patrick Henry.”
“Why, they’ll hang them if they do,” cried Fairfax excitedly. “How do you know, Mistress Peggy?”
“I heard him say so,” answered Peggy. “Friend, what shall we do? They should be warned.”
“Yes,” he answered. “That is what I must do.”
“Thee?” she cried, amazed. “Why, thee is weak and sick, Friend Fairfax. Thee cannot go.”
“I must. Oh,” he groaned. “If I but had a horse. If I but had a horse I could get to Charlottesville before them.”
“It might cost thee thy life,” the girl reminded him. “Thee is too ill to go.”
“What am I but one among many?” he said. “I must try to steal one of their horses.”
“Thee need not run such risk. Thee shall have my own little Star,” cried Peggy thrillingly. “We can go now to the room under the stairs, and while the troopers are at dinner, slip through the window and down to the grove where she lies hidden. Come, friend.”
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“What makes a hero?—An heroic mind, Express’d in action, in endurance prov’d.”
—Sir Henry Taylor. |
As they reached the door of the room under the stairs, however, their hostess came into the hall. A frown contracted her brow at sight of Fairfax.
“This is folly,” she exclaimed. “Boy, don’t you know that Tarleton’s troopers are outside?”
“Yes; and they plan to go to Charlottesville after dinner to capture the Assembly,” Peggy told her before the youth could reply. “Friend Fairfax is to slip away to warn them.”
“Come in here,” she said drawing them into the dining-room. “Now,” speaking rapidly as she closed the door, “what is the plan? I may be able to help.”
“We are going through the window of thy room to the grove where my horse is while thee gives them dinner,” explained the maiden.
“Why, child, that won’t do at all. They will leave a guard outside, of course. You could not pass them. Let me think.”
For a brief second she meditated while the boy and the girl waited hopefully.
“Are you able to do this?” she asked presently of Fairfax.
“Yes,” he answered. “Only devise some way for me to leave quickly. Every moment is precious.”
“You are right,” she replied. “Now just a minute.”
She left the room, returning almost immediately with two flowered frocks of osnaburg, and two enormous kerchiefs of the same stuff.
“These are what the mammies wear,” she said arranging one of the kerchiefs about the lad’s head turbanwise. “There, my boy! you will pass for a mammy if not given more than a glance.”
“Thee will make a good woman yet, Friend Fairfax,” remarked Peggy smiling as she noted that the youth moved with some ease in the skirts.
“Yes,” he assented sheepishly.
“Follow me boldly,” spoke the hostess. “We will pass through the yard from the kitchen to the smoke-house. If any of the dragoons call, mind them not. Above all turn not your faces toward them. Go on to the smoke-house, whatever happens. There is a back door through which you can go down the knoll to the ravine. Follow the ravine westward to the grove which lies back of the mill where the horse is. If you keep to the ravine ’twill lead you into the road unobserved by any. Now if everything is understood we will go.”
They followed her silently through the kitchen and out into the yard. The hostess kept up a lively stream of talk during the passage to the smoke-house.
“I reckon we’d better have another ham,” she said in a voice that could be heard at no little distance. “There are so many of those fellows. Aunt Betsy ‘low’d there were more than a hundred, and I reckon she’s right.” There were in truth one hundred and eighty cavalrymen, with seventy mounted infantry. “A few chickens wouldn’t go amiss either. They might as well have them. The next gang would take them anyway.” And so on.
From all sides came grunts of satisfaction, showing that the remarks had been overheard by many of the dragoons, which was intended. The smoke-house was reached in safety, and the good woman led them to the rear door.
“I’ll keep them here as long as I can,” she said, “if I have to cook everything on the place. You shall have at least two hours’ start, my boy. God bless you! It’s a brave thing you are doing, but those men must be warned.”
“I know,” he answered. “And now good-bye.”
“And do you stay in the grove until these British are gone, my dear,” she advised Peggy. “I will feel better to have you down there out of their sight. Jimmy shall come for you as soon as they are gone. You won’t mind?”
“I shall like it,” answered Peggy. “Come, friend.”
“I will have to ride hard and fast, Mistress Peggy,” said Fairfax. When they reached the grove a few moments later he removed Peggy’s saddle, strapped on a blanket, and unfastened the bridle. “It may be the last time you will see your little mare.”
“I know,” she answered. Winding her arms about the pony’s neck she laid her head upon the silken mane, and so stood while the lad doffed the osnaburg frock and disfiguring turban. As he swung himself lightly to Star’s back the girl looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.
“Friend Fairfax,” she said, “thee is so brave. Yet I have laughed at thee.”
“Brave? No,” he responded. “’Tis duty.”
“But I have laughed at thee because of thy shyness,” repeated the girl remorsefully. “Thee always seems so afraid of us females, yet thee can do this, or aught else that is for thy country. Why is it?”
Over his face the red blood ran. He sat for the briefest second regarding her with a puzzled air.
“To defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be done to thwart the enemy’s designs, is man’s duty,” he said at length. “But to face a battery of bright eyes requires courage, Mistress Peggy. And that I have not.”
The words were scarcely uttered before he was gone.
The British were at the house, and some of them might stray into her retreat at any moment; the youth who had started forth so bravely might fail to give his warning in time to save the men upon whom the welfare of the state depended; she might never see her own little mare again; but, in spite of all these things the maiden sank upon a rock shaken with laughter.
“The dear, shy fellow!” she gasped sitting up presently to wipe her eyes. “And he hath no courage! Ah, Betty! thy ‘Silent Knight’ hath spoken to some purpose at last. I must remember the exact words. Let me see! He said:
“‘To defend the country from the invader, to do anything that can be done to thwart the enemy’s designs, is man’s duty. But to face a battery of bright eyes requires courage, Mistress Peggy. And that I have not.’
“Won’t the girls laugh when I tell them?”
It was pleasant under the trees. An oriole swung from the topmost bough of a large oak pouring forth a flood of song. Woodpeckers flapped their bright wings from tree to tree. A multitude of sparrows flashed in and out of the foliage, or circled joyously about blossoming shrubs. From distant fields and forests the caw of the crows winging their slow way across the blue sky came monotonously. A cloud of yellow butterflies rested upon the low banks of the ravine crowned with ferns. Into the heart of a wild honeysuckle a humming-bird whirred, delighting Peggy by its beauty, minuteness and ceaseless motion of its wings. And so the long hours of the afternoon passed, and the westering sun was casting long shadows under the trees before Jimmy came with the news that the British had gone.
“And wasn’t that Colonel Tarleton in a towering rage,” commented the mistress of the dwelling as Peggy reëntered the house. “He stormed because dinner was so late. And such a dinner. I’ll warrant those troopers won’t find hard riding so easy after it. Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry will owe a great deal to fried chicken, if they get warned in time. It took every chicken I had on the place, and not a few hams. But it gave that boy a good start, so I don’t mind. Do you think he’ll get through, my dear?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Peggy. “If it can be done I feel sure that Fairfax Johnson can do it. I must tell thee what he said,” she ended with a laugh. “It hath much amused me.”
“I don’t wonder that you were amused,” observed the good woman, laughing in turn as Peggy related the youth’s speech. “Those same batteries have brought low many a brave fellow. ’Tis as well to be afraid of them. He is wise who is ware in time. Yet those same bashful fellows are ofttimes the bravest. Methinks I have heard that General Washington was afflicted with the same malady in his youth. And now let us hope that we will have a breathing spell long enough to become acquainted with each other.”
Four days later a weary, drooping youth astride a limping little mare came slowly down the shady lane just at sunset. Peggy was the first to see them, and flew to the horse-block.
“Oh, thee is back, Friend Fairfax! Thee is back!” she cried delightedly. “And did thee succeed? How tired thee looks! And Star also!”
“We are both tired,” he said dismounting and sinking heavily against the horse-block. “But we got there in time. Governor Jefferson and his family escaped over the mountains. Mr. Henry and others scattered to places of safety. They captured seven, because they heeded not the alarm, and lingered over breakfast. But not—not Patrick Henry nor Thomas Jefferson.”
He swayed as though about to fall, then roused himself.
“Look to the mare! She, she needs attention,” he cried, and fell in an unconscious heap.
“And somebody else does too, I reckon,” spoke the mistress of the dwelling, running out in answer to Peggy’s call. “Jimmy, do you begin rubbing down that little mare. I’ll be out to look after her as soon as Peggy and I get this boy attended to. Poor fellow! he has gone to the full limit of his strength.”
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“Then each at once his falchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each look’d to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne’er might see again; Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed.”
—“Lady of the Lake,” Scott. |
There followed some days of quiet at the farmhouse. Their peacefulness was gladly welcomed by the inmates after the turmoil caused by passing troops, and Peggy and her hostess, Mrs. Weston, hoped for a continuance of the boon. But if the days were tranquil they were far from idle.
Beside the household tasks there were Fairfax Johnson to be cared for, and the little mare to be brought back to condition. Peggy found herself almost happy in assisting in these duties, so true is it that occupation brings solace to sorely tried hearts.
The youth’s illness soon passed, but there remained the necessity for rest and nourishment. Rest he could have in plenty, but they were hard pressed to furnish the proper nourishment. The place had been stripped of almost everything, and had it not been for the grove where a few cows shared Star’s hiding-place, and an adjoining swamp in whose recesses Mrs. Weston had prudently stored some supplies the household must have suffered for the lack of the merest necessities. Still if they could remain unmolested they could bear scanty rations; so cheerfully they performed their daily tasks, praying that things would continue as they were.
If there was peace at the farmhouse it was more than could be said for the rest of the state. Hard on the heels of Lafayette Cornwallis followed, cutting a swath of desolation and ruin. Tarleton and Simcoe rode wherever they would, committing such enormities that the people forgot them only with death. Virginia, the last state of the thirteen to be invaded, was harried as New Jersey had been, but by troops made less merciful by the long, fierce conflict.
Hither and thither flitted Lafayette, too weak to suffer even defeat, progressing ever northward, and drawing his foe after him from tide-water almost to the mountains. Finding it impossible to come up with his youthful adversary, or to prevent the junction of that same adversary’s forces with those of Wayne, Cornwallis turned finally, and leisurely made his way back toward the seacoast. He had profited by Greene’s salutary lesson, and did not propose to be drawn again from a base where reinforcements and supplies could reach him. Information of these happenings gradually reached the farmhouse, filling its inmates with the gravest apprehensions.
One warm, bright afternoon in June Peggy left the house for her daily visit to Star. With the caution that she always used in approaching the hiding-place of her pet the girl reached the grove by a circuitous route. A sort of rude stable, made of branches and underbrush set against ridge poles, had been erected for the pony’s accommodation, and as she drew near this enclosure Peggy heard the voice of some one speaking. Filled with alarm for the safety of her mare she stole softly forward to listen. Yes; there was certainly some one with the animal. As she stood debating what was to be done, she was amazed to hear the following speech made in a wondering tone:
“Now just why should you be down here in Virginia when your proper place is in a stable in Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Star? Hath some magic art whisked you here, or what hath happened? I wish thee could speak, as Peggy would say, so that thee could unravel the matter for me.”
“John! John Drayton!” screamed Peggy joyfully running forward. “How did thee get here? I thought thee was in South Carolina. ’Tis Peggy, John.”
“Peggy?” exclaimed Drayton, issuing from the enclosure. “Peggy! I see it is,” he said regarding her with blank amazement. “But how did you get here? I thought you safe at home in Philadelphia?”
“’Tis a long story,” cried she, half crying. “And oh, John! does thee know that Cornwallis is fast approaching this point with his army? Is’t not dangerous for thee to be here?”
“Nay,” he replied. “I seek his lordship.”
“Thee what?” she cried, amazed.
“Never mind about it now, Peggy,” he said drawing her under the shade of a tree. “Sit down and tell me how you came here. Is it the ‘cousins’ again?”
“Yes, ’tis the cousins,” answered the maiden flushing. “I could not do other than come, John. Mother and I did not know that the enemy had invaded the state. At least,” correcting herself quickly, “we did know that General Arnold had made a foray in January, but ’twas deemed by many as but a predatory incursion, and, as we heard no more of it, we thought he had returned to New York. I saw him, and spoke with him, John,” she ended sadly.
“But the cousins, Peggy! The rest can wait until you tell me what new quidnunc tale was invented to lure you here.”
“Thee must not speak so, John,” she reproached him. “Thee will be sorry when I tell thee about Clifford’s illness. He was nigh to death, in truth, but ’twas not for me he sent, but his own sister Harriet.” Forthwith she related all the occurrences that had led to her coming. Drayton listened attentively.
“I wish that you and your mother were not so kind hearted,” he remarked when she had finished her narrative. “No, I don’t mean that exactly. I could not, after all that you did for me. But from the bottom of my heart I do wish that those relatives of yours would go back to England and stay there. They are continually getting you into trouble.”
“Would thee have us refuse my kinsman’s plea?” she asked him. “’Twould have been inhuman not to respond to such an appeal.”
“I suppose it would,” he replied grumblingly. “But I don’t like it one bit that you are here among all the movements of the two armies. See here, Peggy! The thing to do is to get you home, and I’m going to take you there.”
“Will thee, John?” cried Peggy in delight. “How good thee is! Oh, ’tis a way opened at last. But won’t it cause thee a great deal of trouble?”
“So much, my little cousin, that we will not permit him to undertake it,” spoke the wrathful tones of her cousin. “I am sorry to interrupt so interesting a conversation, but ’tis necessary to explain to this,—well, gentleman, that ’tis not at all necessary for him to trouble concerning your welfare. I am amply able to care for you.”
“Clifford!” ejaculated Peggy starting up in surprise, and confronting the youth, who had approached them unnoticed.
“Yes, Clifford,” returned the lad who was evidently in a passion. “’Tis quite time that Clifford came, is it not? As I was saying, ’twill not do to take this gentleman from his arduous duties. This Yankee captain meddles altogether too much in our private affairs. It is not at all to my liking.”
“So?” remarked Drayton cheerfully. He had not changed his position, but sat slightly smiling, eyeing the other youth curiously.
“No, sir,” repeated Clifford heatedly. “We will not trouble you, sir. Further, we can dispense with your presence immediately.”
“That,” observed Drayton shifting his position to one of more ease, “that, sir, is for Peggy to decide.”
“My cousin’s name is Mistress Margaret Owen,” cried Clifford. “You will oblige me by using it so when ’tis necessary to address her. Better still, pleasure me by not speaking to her at all.”
“Clifford, thou art beside thyself,” cried Peggy who had been too astonished at the attitude of her cousin to speak. “John is a dear friend. I have known him longer than I have thee, and——”
“Peggy, keep out of this affair, I beg,” cried he stiffly. “The matter lies betwixt this fellow and myself. Captain, I cry you pardon, sir,”—interrupting himself to favor Drayton with an ironic bow,—“I fear me that I rank you too high. Lieutenant, is’t not?”
“Nay, captain. Captain Drayton, at your service, sir.” The American arose slowly, and made a profound obeisance. “Methinks at our last little chat I remarked that perchance another victory would so honor me. ’Twas at Hobkirk’s Hill.”
“You said a victory, sir,” cried the other with passion. “Hobkirk’s Hill was a defeat for the rebels.”
“A defeat, I grant you.” Drayton picked a thread of lint from his sleeve, and puffed it airily from him. “A defeat so fraught with disaster to the victors that many more such would annihilate the whole British army. A defeat so calamitous in effect that Lord Rawdon could no longer hold Camden after inflicting it, and so evacuated that place.”
“’Tis false,” raged Clifford Owen. “If Lord Rawdon held Camden, he still holds it. He would evacuate no post held by him.”
“Perchance there are other war news that might be of interest,” went on Drayton provokingly, evidently enjoying the other’s rage. “I have the honor to inform you, sir, that Fort Watson, Fort Motte and Granby all have surrendered to the rebels. They have proceeded to Ninety Six, and are holding that place in a state of siege. The next express will doubtless bring intelligence of its fall. Permit me, sir, to felicitate you upon the extreme prowess of the British army.”
“And what, sir, is the American army?” stormed Clifford. “A company of tinkers and locksmiths. A lot of riffraff and ragamuffins. What is your Washington but a planter? And your much-lauded commander in the South? What is he but a smith? A smith?” he scoffed sneeringly. “Odds life, sir! can an army be made of such ilk?”
“The planter hath sent two of your trained generals packing,” retorted Drayton. “The first left by the only ‘Gate’ left open by the siege; the other did not know ‘Howe’ to take root in this new soil. The third remains in New York like a mouse in a trap, afraid to come out lest he should be pounced upon. Our smith——” he laughed merrily. “His hammer hath been swung to such purpose that my Lord Cornwallis hath been knocked out of the Carolinas, and the South is all but retaken. Training! Poof! ’Tis not needed by tinkers and locksmiths to fight the English.”
“Draw and defend yourself,” roared the English lad, whipping out his sword furiously. “Such insult can only be wiped out in blood.”
“Thou shalt not,” screamed Peggy throwing herself before him. “Thou shalt not. I forbid it. ’Twould be murder.”
“This is man’s affair, my cousin,” he said sternly. “Stand aside.”
“I will not, Clifford,” cried the girl. “I will not. Oh, to draw sword on each other is monstrous. For a principle, in defense of liberty, then it may be permitted; but this deliberate seeking of another’s life in private quarrel is murder. Clifford! John! I entreat ye both to desist.”
“She is right, sir,” spoke Drayton. “This is in truth neither time nor place to settle our differences.”
“And where shall we find a better?” cried Clifford, who was beside himself with rage. “If you wish not to bear the stigma of cowardice, you must draw.”
But Drayton made no motion toward his sword.
“Nay,” he said. “’Tis not fitting before her. I confess that I was wrong to further provoke you when I saw you in passion. In truth you were so heated that to exasperate you more gave me somewhat of pleasure. I cry you pardon. There will no doubt be occasion more suitable——”
“I decline to receive your apology, sir,” retorted Clifford Owen hotly. “Perchance a more suitable occasion in your eyes would be when I am at the disadvantage of being a prisoner. Or, perchance, you find it convenient to hide behind my cousin’s petticoats. Once more, sir; for the last time: If you have honor, if you are not a poltroon as well as a braggart and a boaster, draw and defend yourself.”
“It will have to be, Peggy,” said Drayton leading her aside. “There will be bad blood until this is settled, and your cousin hath gone too far. Suffer it to go on, I entreat.”
“’Tis murder,” she wailed weeping. “Thou art my dear friend. Clifford is my dear cousin. Oh, I pray ye both to desist.”
“If you flout me longer I will cut you down where you stand,” roared the British youth fiercely. “Is it not enough that I must beg for the satisfaction that gentlemen usually accord each other upon a hint?”
Drayton wheeled, and faced him jauntily.
“’Tis pity to keep so much valor waiting,” he said saluting. “On guard, my friend.”
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“In all trade of war no feat Is nobler than a brave retreat; For those that run away and fly Take place at least of the enemy.”
—Samuel Butler. |
Fearful of what might result from the encounter Peggy hid her face in her hands as the two youths crossed swords. But at the first meeting of the blades, impelled by that strange fascination which such combats hold for the best of mortals, she uncovered her eyes and watched the duel breathlessly.
Clifford, white and wrathful, fuming over Drayton’s last quip, at once took the initiative, and advanced upon his adversary with a vehemence that evidenced his emotion plainly. Drayton, on the contrary, was cool and even merry, and parried his opponent’s thrusts with adroitness. Both lads evinced no small skill with the weapons, and had Peggy been other than a very much distressed damsel she might have enjoyed some pretty sword play.
The wrist of each youth was strong and supple. Each sword seemed like a flexible reed from the point to the middle of the blade, and inflexible steel from thence to the guard. They were well matched, and some moments passed before either of them secured the advantage.
It was quiet in the grove. No sound could be heard save the clash of steel and the deep breathing of the contestants. No bird note came from tree or bush. Not a leaf stirred. A hush had fallen upon the summer afternoon. To the maiden it seemed as though Nature, affrighted by the wild passions of men which must seek expression in private fray despite the fact that their countries were embroiled in war, had sunk into terrified silence.
Presently, even to Peggy’s inexperienced eye, it became apparent that Clifford was tiring. Drayton, who from the beginning of the encounter had fought purely on the defensive, was quick to perceive the other’s fatigue. Suddenly with a vigorous side-thrust he twisted the sword from his antagonist’s grasp, and sent it glittering in the air. Finding himself disarmed Clifford quickly stepped backward two or three steps. In so doing his foot slipped, and he fell. Instantly Drayton stood over his prostrate form.
“Forbear, John,” shrieked Peggy in horrified tones. “Thee must not. Is he not helpless?”
“Have no fear, Peggy,” answered the young man lightly. “He shall meet with no hurt, though in truth he merits it. Sir,” to Clifford who lay regarding him with a look of profound humiliation, “you hear, do you not? I spare you because of her. And also because I am much to blame that matters have come to this pass betwixt us. Rise, sir!”
“I want no mercy at your hands,” retorted the other, his flushed face, his whole manner testifying to his deep mortification. “You have won the advantage, sir. Use it. I wish no favor from you.”
“’Tis not the habit of Americans to slay a disarmed foe, sir. If you are not satisfied, rise; and have to again.”
“No, no!” cried Peggy, possessing herself of the fallen sword. “Is there not already fighting enough in the land without contending against each other? Ye have fought once. Let that suffice.”
“My sword, Peggy,” exclaimed Clifford, rising, and stepping toward her.
“Thee shall not have it, unless thee takes it by force,” returned the girl, placing the weapon behind her, and clasping it with both hands. “And that,” she added, “I do not believe thee would be so unmannerly as to use. Therefore, the matter is ended.”
Drayton sheathed his sword on the moment.
“I am satisfied to let it be so,” he said. “And now, Peggy, as to ourselves: what will be the best time for you to start home?”
“If that subject be renewed our broil is anything but settled,” interposed Clifford Owen sullenly. “I believe I informed you that, as the lady’s nearest relative, I am amply able to look after her.”
“As to our quarrel,” replied Drayton, regarding him fixedly, “perchance the whirligig of time will bring a more suitable occasion for reopening it. When that occurs I shall be at your command. Until then it seems to me to be the part of wisdom to drop the matter, and to consider Peggy’s welfare only. As you are aware, no doubt, the British are in this immediate vicinity. Any moment may see them at this very place. Let us cry a truce, sir, for the time being, and determine what shall be done to promote her safety.”
“How know you that the British are near here?” demanded Clifford suspiciously. “Your knowledge of their movements will bear looking into. It savors strongly of that of a spy, sir.”
For a second the glances of the young fellows met. Their eyes flashed fire, and Peggy’s heart began to throb painfully. Oh, would they fight again! How could she make peace between them? She must; and so thinking started forward eagerly.
“Listen to my plan,” she said. “Ye both——”
The sentence was never finished. Upon the air there sounded the shrill music of fifes, the riffle of drums, the hollow tramp of marching men, the rumbling of artillery, the cantering of horses; all sounds denoting the passing of a large force of armed men.
With a sharp cry of exultation Clifford Owen sprang toward John Drayton.
“’Tis the king’s troops,” he cried, clutching him tightly. “The king’s troops! Now, my fine fellow, you shall explain to his lordship how you came by your information. Ho!” he shouted. “What ho! a spy!”
“It is not thus that I would meet his lordship,” answered Drayton wrenching himself free of the other’s hold. “Until then, adieu, my friend.”
Without further word he leaped down the embankment, and disappeared among the underbrush in the ravine, just as two British infantrymen, attracted by Clifford’s cry, came running through the grove.
“Did you call, sir?” called one, saluting as he saw the uniform of the young man.
“I fell,” answered Clifford, stooping to pick up the sword that Peggy had let fall. “Perchance I cried out as I did so. The embankment would be a steep one to fall down. Does the army stop here? I sent word to the general there was no forage to be had, and to pass on to Hanover Court House. I found no place where he would fare so well as at Tilghman’s Ordinary.”
“’Tis for that place he is bound, sir,” replied the soldier, saluting again. “But a few of us delayed here to—to——” he paused, then added: “Shall we go through that enclosure there, captain?”
“My own little mare is there, Clifford,” spoke Peggy indignantly.
“Which we will bring ourselves, men,” he said dismissing them with a curt nod. “You will wish to ride her, of course, my cousin.”
“If I go with you,” she answered.
“There is no ‘if’ about it,” he said grimly. “You are going.”
“‘As my nearest male relative in this part of the country’ I suppose thee commands it,” she observed with biting sarcasm. “Clifford, does thee forget that I am an Owen as well as thou?”
“I do not,” he made answer.
“I think thee does,” she cried. “An Owen, my cousin, with the Owen temper. ’Tis being tried severely by thee. I know not how much longer I can control it.”
“I see not why you should be displeased with me,” he remarked, plainly surprised that such should be the case. “I am doing all I can for you. At least, I will try to do as much as that—that——”
“Yes?” she questioned coldly. “Does thee mean Captain Drayton? He is my friend. Mother and I esteem him highly. Pleasure me by remembering that in future.”
“If he is your friend ’tis no reason why he should address you so familiarly. I like it not.”
“I tire of thy manner, Clifford. I am not thy slave, nor yet under bonds of indenture to thee that thou shouldst assume such airs of possession as thee does. I tire of it, I say.”
“If I have offended you I am sorry,” he said sulkily. “I have a hot temper and a quick one. I have held resentment against that—captain ever since last February, when he flouted me with that shirt of my sister’s making. It did seem to me then, as it hath to-day, that he took too much upon himself. Now it appears that I am guilty of the same fault. At least, being your near relative should serve as some excuse for me.”
“I think thee has made that remark upon divers occasions, my cousin. Is not thy father with Lord Cornwallis?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Then kindly remember that being cousin-german to my father, he stands in nearer relationship to me than thee does. Should I have need of guidance I will ask it of him. Does thee understand, my cousin?”
“Only too well,” he burst forth. “And all this for the sake of a Yankee captain. Oh, I noticed how solicitous you were lest he should be hurt.”
“And was solicitude not shown for thee also? Thou art unjust, Clifford.”
With crestfallen air the youth led Star from the rude stable, and without further conversation they started for the house.
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“Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey, The few brood mares, and oxen swept away; The Lares,—if the household shrine possessed One little god that pleased above the rest; Mean spoils indeed!”
—“Juvenal,” 8th Satire. |
A cry of horror broke from Peggy’s lips as they came in sight of the house. The barns, granaries, smoke-houses, and other dependencies were in flames. Clothing and even furniture were being carted from the dwelling by the soldiery; that which could be carried easily being appropriated by them, and the rest consigned to the fires. At some little distance from the dwelling, pale but composed, bearing herself with the fortitude of a Roman matron, stood Mrs. Weston, surrounded by a group of wailing slaves, her little boy clinging to her skirts. She beckoned the girl to her side when she caught sight of the cousins.
“They are leaving nothing, absolutely nothing,” she whispered. “How we shall sustain life, if that is left us, is a problem I dare not face. They found the cows.”
“Oh,” breathed Peggy. “What shall thee do? And Fairfax?”
“Is undiscovered so far. If the house is not burnt he may remain so. The boy wanted to fight this whole force. I had hard work to convince him of the folly of such a course. And you, Peggy? You will go with your cousin, will you not?”
“Why, how did thee know ’twas my cousin?” queried Peggy in surprise.
“’Tis plain to be seen that he is kin, child. The resemblance is very strong. Perhaps I did wrong, but when he came this afternoon to look over the place as a possible site for some of the army to camp I thought at once that it must be your British cousin. When he told me that his lordship was to make his headquarters at Tilghman’s Ordinary at Hanover Court House, and that the whole of the army would have to be quartered in the near vicinity, I knew what that meant. So I took it upon myself to tell him at once where you were, and sent him in search of you. Go with him, Peggy. The safest place in the state at the present time is in the enemy’s lines. ’Tis the wisest thing to do. And oh, my dear! My dear! don’t start out again alone so long as this awful war continues. Go with your cousin.”
“I fear me that I must,” said the maiden sadly. “But if I do what hope is left me of getting home? After these troops pass on, the road will be clear, will it not? Then what would be the risk for me to start forth? If I could get to our own lines thee knows that all would be well. Surely our army is somewhere near.”
“’Tis not to be considered for an instant, child,” spoke the matron quickly. “After the regular army hath its fill of pillage there always comes the riffraff to gather up what their masters have left. Scoundrels they are; utterly devoid of every instinct of humanity. I would not have you meet with them for the world. Peggy, be advised by me in this, and ride on with your cousin.”
“I must go,” broke from Peggy. “I see that I must. But ’tis bitter to go back; ’tis bitter to be compelled to be with such an enemy as this army; ’tis bitter also to leave thee like this, destitute of everything. How terrible a thing is war,” she cried bursting into sudden weeping. “Oh, will the time never come when nations shall war no more? I long for the day when the sword shall be turned into the ploughshare, and the spear into the pruning-hook.”
“And so do we all,” cried Mrs. Weston taking the girl into a tender embrace, for she perceived that she was near the limit of endurance. “Now mount that little mare of yours, and go right on with your cousin.” She motioned Clifford to approach. “Unless your orders are such that you cannot, young man,” she said, “take your cousin away from here at once.”
“I will do so gladly, madam, if she will but go with me,” he returned. “Will you come, my cousin?”
“I must, Clifford,” answered Peggy, striving for composure. “There seems naught else for me to do. Mrs. Weston thinks it the wisest course.”
“I thank you, madam,” he said bowing courteously. “And I pray you believe me when I say that this plundering and burning are not at all to my liking. ’Tis winked at by the leaders, and for that reason we, who are of minor rank and who do not approve such practices, must bear with them. Come, my cousin.”
“For those words, Clifford, I will forgive thee everything,” exclaimed the overwrought girl.
“There are many who feel as I do,” he said assisting her to mount. “I like army life, my cousin. There is nothing so inspiring to my mind as the blare of bugle, or the beat of drum. The charge, the roar of musketry, the thunder of artillery, all fill me with joy. They are as the breath of life to my nostrils. Glory and honor lie in the field; but this predatory warfare, these incursions that for their end and aim have naught but the destruction of property—Faugh!” he concluded abruptly. “Fame is not to be gained in such fashion.”
In silence they rode down the shaded lane to the road. The main army had long since passed on, but the rear guard and baggage train still filled the cleared stretch of road from which the lane turned. As had been the case in every state that the English had entered, a number of loyalists with their families flocked to the British standard, and traveled with the army. Clifford, who was obliged to rejoin his command, found a place for Peggy among these persons, promising to return as soon as possible.
The company was not at all congenial to the girl. The feeling between loyalist and patriot was not such that either was easy in the presence of the other. Women are ever more intensely partisan than men, and the comments of some of these latter against their own countrymen tried Peggy severely, but she bore it patiently, knowing that this was the best that could be done in the matter. When at last Hanover Court House was reached, Clifford came to see about accommodations for her; and on this, as well as the days that followed, Peggy had no cause to complain of his manner. That little reference concerning the nearer kinship of his father had been productive of good fruit, and he no longer insisted upon his own relationship offensively. So agreeable was his behavior that when, at length, he brought his father to her she said not one word to Colonel Owen about placing herself under his care. The colonel himself seemed in high good humor, and greeted her with something of affection.
“And so we are met again, my little cousin,” he said warmly. “Clifford tells me why you are in this part of the country, and it seems that ’tis to your nursing that he owes his continuance upon this mundane sphere. Harriet hath not yet returned to New York, I understand, so we will be a reunited family. It hath been some years since we have had that pleasure. ’Twill be all the greater for having you with us.”
“I thank thee, Cousin William,” answered Peggy, responding at once to his unexpected graciousness. “And thee will be glad to know that Harriet hath quite recovered from her illness. She grows more beautiful, I think, were that possible.”
“And this son of mine? What think you of him?” asked he. “I had some cause for offense with him, but since he hath shown himself worthy to follow in my footsteps I have forgot displeasure. He looks like David, does he not?”
“So much, my cousin, that I cannot but think that he should be my father’s son instead of thine. How strange that he should look so much like him!”
“Yes. And I’ll warrant because of that you consider him better looking than his father,” said Colonel Owen laughing heartily.
“But father hath uncommon good looks,” answered she. “And thee does resemble him to some extent.”
“Well,” he said laughing again, “I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that. Now, Peggy, if this boy does not look well to your comfort, just let me know. I am obliged to be with my regiment, but I shall manage to look in upon you occasionally. Captain Williams,” he made a wry face at the name, “hath somewhat more leisure.”
And so Peggy found herself well cared for, and in truth she needed much comfort in the ensuing days. Of that march when Cornwallis continued his retreat toward tide-water she never willingly spoke. To Point of Fork and then down the river to Richmond the British commander proceeded by leisurely marches, stopping often for rest, and oftener to permit his troops time for depredations. Scene after scene of rapine followed each other so rapidly that the march seemed one long panorama of destruction. She thought that she knew war in all its horrors. Their own farm had been pillaged, their barn burned, and they had suffered much from the inroads of the enemy; but all this was as naught to what Virginia had to endure.
It had come to mean comparatively nothing to these people to see their fruits, fowls and cattle carried away by the light troops. The main army followed, collecting what the vanguard left. Stocks of cattle, sheep and hogs together with what corn was wanted were used for the sustenance of the army. All horses capable of service were carried off; throats of others too young to use were cut ruthlessly. Growing crops of corn and tobacco were burned, together with barns containing the same articles of the preceding year, and all fences of plantations, so as to leave an absolute waste. This hurricane, which destroyed everything in its path, was followed by a scourge yet more terrible—the numerous rabble of refugees which came after, not to assist in the fighting, but to partake of the plunder, to strip the inhabitants of clothes and furniture which was in general the sole booty left to satisfy their avidity. Many of these atrocities came directly under the girl’s vision; there were others of which she was mercifully spared any knowledge.
In ignorance also was she of the fact that hard after them, not twenty miles away, rode Lafayette. His forces augmented by additions from Greene, by the Pennsylvanians under Wayne, by Baron Steuben’s command, and by the militia under General Nelson, he no longer feared to strike a blow, and so became the hunter instead of the hunted. Consequently there was constant skirmishing between the van and the rear of the two armies.
The month was drawing to a close when the army fell back to Williamsburg, and halted. The heat had become so intense that the troops were easily exhausted, and necessity compelled a rest. Peggy was glad when the spire of Bruton Church came into sight.
“I am so tired, Clifford,” she said wearily when the lad came to her as the army entered the place from the west. “Tired and sick at heart. I know not what form is used in leaving, if any, but if there be custom of any sort to observe, let it be done quickly, I pray thee. And then let us go to the cottage to Nurse Johnson.”
“There is no form to comply with,” he said, regarding her with compassion. “We will go at once, though not to the cottage. Father hath taken a house more commodious on the Palace Green, and hath sent me for you. Harriet will be there also.”
And, though well she knew that taking a house meant in this instance the turning out of the inmates that they might be lodged, Peggy, knowing that protest would be of no avail, went with him silently.