CHAPTER XXVII—PEGGY RECEIVES A SHOCK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just that,” he answered tersely.

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

“A deserter! Thou?” she breathed.

“Even I, Peggy.”

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

“But why? Why?”

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

“And is that all thy reason?”

“Is it not reason enough, Peggy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drayton adjusted his neck ruffles, and swallowed hard.

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

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

CHAPTER XXVIII—VERIFIED SUSPICIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Clifford.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colonel Owen laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Clifford.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John,” she uttered softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t thee tell me, John?”

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

Peggy choked.

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

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

“But to die?” she gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how shall I bear it?” she cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXX—WHAT THE NIGHT BROUGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That sounded just like Clifford,” she said.

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

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

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

“But I see not——” began Peggy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soon Peggy felt her hand caught softly.

“John,” she breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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