CHAPTER XXXI—THE DAWN OF THE MORNING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the midst of the commotion Clifford came running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XXXII—“LIGHTS OUT”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And do you wish to go to him?”

“Yes,” she uttered eagerly.

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

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

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

“So be it,” he said.

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

“Father, father!” she screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For home and mother,” cried Peggy joyfully.

LUCY FOSTER MADISON