After Janice left him the commissary-general mounted a horse, and, riding to the Franklin house, asked for Captain Mobray. “I have called, sir,” he announced, as the baronet entered the room, “on two matters—”
“Have they to do with the service, my Lord?” interrupted Mobray; “for otherwise I must decline—”
“First,” the caller went on unheedingly, “a number of past-due bills of yours have come into my possession in exchange for special victuals or stores, and I wish to learn your intention concerning them.”
“I— In truth—I—” haltingly began Sir Frederick, his face losing colour as he spoke. “I have had the devil’s turn of luck of late, and—and I am not in a position to take them up at the moment. I trust that you’ll give me time, and not press me too harshly.”
With a smile that expressed irony qualified by enjoyment, the creditor replied: “’T is a pleasure to aid a man to whom I am indebted for so much courtesy.”
Sir Frederick’s ashen hue changed to a ruddy one, as he said: “Lord Clowes, ’t is a bitter mouthful for a man to eat, but I ask your clemency till my luck changes, for change it must, since cards and dice cannot always run against one. I know I deserve it not at your hands, after what has passed—”
“Cease your stuttering, man,” ordered the commissary. “Had I revenge in my heart I’d have sent the bailiff not come myself. The bills shall wait your convenience, and all I ask for the lenience is that ye dine with me and do me one service. Ye did me a bad stroke with Miss Meredith; now I ask ye to offset it by telling her what my vengeance has been.”
Mobray hesitated. “Lord Clowes, I will do nothing to trick Miss Meredith, desperately placed as I am.”
“Chut! Who talks of trickery? Ye told her the facts of my parole; therefore ye owe it to me, even though it may not serve your own suit, to tell her as well what is in my favour.”
“And so help you to win her. I cannot do her that wrong, my Lord.”
“Is it worse to tell her only the truth about me than to seek to persuade her into a marriage with a bankrupt?”
“You state it unsparingly.”
“Not more so, I doubt not, than ye did the matter of my parole—which some day I shall be able to justify, and the gentlemen of the army will then sing a very altered tune— with this difference, that I say it to your face and ye did not.”
With bowed head Sir Frederick answered: “You are right, my Lord, and I will say what I can in your favour to Miss Meredith.”
“Spoke like an honest man. Fare ye well till next Wednesday, when I shall look for ye to a three-o’clock dinner.”
Whatever pain and shame the words cost him, honourably the baronet fulfilled his promise by going to the commissary’s quarters the following day and telling Janice the facts. The girl listened to his explanation with a face grave almost to sadness. “I—What you have told me, Sir Frederick,” she said gently at the end, “is of much importance to me just at this time, and I thank you.”
“I know, I know,” groaned the young officer, miserably, “and ’t is only part of my horrible run of luck that I should—that—ah—Take him, Miss Meredith, and end my torture.”
“Can you advise me to marry Lord Clowes?”
“After his generosity to me, in honour I must say nothing against him, but ’t is asking too much of human nature for me to aid his suit.”
“I—oh, I know not what to do!” despairingly wailed the girl. “Mommy says ’t is for me to decide, and dadda thinks I cannot do better, and to the ear it seems indeed the only thing to do. Yet I shudder every time I think of it, and twice, when I have dreamed that I was his wife, I have waked the whole house with my screams to be saved from him.”
“Miss Meredith,” burst out the baronet, “give me the right to save you. You know I love you to desperation; that I would live to make you—”
“Ah, pray, Sir Frederick,” begged Janice, “do not add to my pain and difficulty. What you wish—”
“I crave a pardon for my words. ’T was a moment’s selfish forgetfulness of you and of my own position, that shall not occur again.” Mobray stooped and kissed a loose end of the handkerchief the girl held, and hurried from the room.
As he was catching up his cloak and sabre in the hallway, the door of the office opened. “Come in here a moment, Sir Frederick,” requested the commissary.
“I have done as I promised, and that is all I can do at the moment,” almost sobbed the young fellow. “Nor will I dine here Wednesday, though you do your worst.”
“Tush! Do as ye please as to that, but come in here now, for I have a thing to say that concerns Miss Meredith’s happiness.”
“And what is that?” demanded the baronet, as he entered.
“I see by the G. O. that ye are named one of the commissioners to arrange a cartel of exchange with the rebels at Germantown to-day.”
“Would to God it were to arrange a battle in which I might fall!”
“’T is likely lists of prisoners will be shown, and should ye chance to see the name of Leftenant Hennion on any of those handed in by the rebels I recommend that ye do not advertise the fact when ye return to Philadelphia.”
“But the fellow‘s dead.”
“Ye have been long enough in the service to know that some die whose names never get on any return, and so some are reported dead who decline to be buried. Let us not beat about the bush as to what I mean. We are each doing our best to obtain possession of this lovely creature, but the father holds to his promise to the long-legged noodle, and, if he is alive, our suits are hopeless. So let them continue to suppose him—”
“Mine is so already,” groaned Mobray. “But if ’t were not, I would not filch a woman’s love by means of a deceit. Nor—”
“Fudge! Hear me through. The girl has always hated the match, which was one of her old fool of a father’s conceiving, and will thank any one who saves her from the fellow. Let her say nay to us both, and it please her, but don’t force her to a marriage of compulsion by needless blabbing.”
“I will hold my peace, if that seems best for Miss Meredith; not otherwise, my Lord,” answered Mobray, flinging from the room.
The baronet mounted his horse, and, stabbing his spurs into him, galloped madly down Market Street, and then up Second Street to where it forked into two country roads. Here the lines of British fortifications intersected it, and a picket of cavalry forced the rider to draw rein and show his pass. This done, he rode on, though at a more easy pace, and an hour later entered the village of Germantown. In front of the Roebuck Inn a guidon, from which depended a white flag, had been thrust into the ground, and grouped about the door of the tavern was a small party of Continental light horse. Trotting up to them, Mobray dismounted, and, after an inquiry and a request to one of them to take his horse, he entered the public room. To its one occupant, who was seated before the fire, he said: “The dragoons outside told me the reb—the Continental commissioners were here. Canst tell me where they are to be found, fellow?”
The person addressed rose from his seat, revealing clothes so soiled and tattered, and a pair of long boots of such shabby appearance, as to give him the semblance of some runaway prentice or bond-servant, but over his shoulder passed a green ribbon and sword sash which marked their wearer as a field officer; and as the baronet realised this he removed his hat and bowed.
“Since when did you take to calling your superior officers ‘fellows,’ Sir Frederick?” asked the other, laughing.
With a cry of recognition, Mobray sprang forward, his hand outstretched. “Charlie!” he exclaimed. “Heavens, man, we have made a joke in the army of the appearance of thy troops, but I never thought to see the exquisite of the Mall in clothes not fit for a tinker.”
“My name, Fred, is John Brereton,” corrected the officer, “which is a change for the better, I think you will own. As for my clothes, I’ll better them, too, if Congress ever gives us enough pay to do more than keep life in us. Owing to depreciation, a leftenant-colonel is allowed to starve at present on the equivalent of twenty-five dollars, specie, a month.”
“And yet you go on serving such masters,” burst out Mobray. “Come over to us, Charl—John. Sir William would give you—”
“Enough,” interrupted Brereton, angrily. “For how long, Sir Frederick, have you deemed me capable of treachery?”
“’T is no treachery to leave this unnatural rebellion and take sides with our good king.”
“Such talk is idle, and you should know it, Mobray. A word with you ere Grayson and Boudinot—who have gone to look at that marplot house of Cliveden which frustrated all our hopes four months since—return and interrupt us. I last saw you at the Merediths’; can you give me word of them?”
“Only ill ones, alas!” answered the captain. “Their necessities are such that I fear me they are on the point of giving their daughter to that unutterable scoundrel, Clowes.”
Jack started as if he had been stung. “You cannot mean that, man! We sent you word he had broke his parole.”
“Ay,” replied the baronet, flushing. “And let me tell you, John, that scarce an officer failed to go to Sir William and beg him to send the cur back to you.”
“And you mean that Mr. Meredith can seriously intend to give Miss Janice to such a creature?”
“I fear ’t is as good as decided. You know the man, and how he gets his way, curse him!”
“I’d do more than that, could I but get into Philadelphia,” declared Jack, hotly. “By heavens, Fred—”
But here the entrance of other officers interrupted them, and Colonel Brereton was set to introducing Boudinot and Grayson to the British officer.
Scarcely had they been made known to each other when Mobray’s fellow-commissioners, Colonel O’Hara and Colonel Stevens, with a detail of dragoons, came trotting up; and so soon as credentials were exchanged the six sat down about a table in a private room to discuss the matter which had brought them together. One of the first acts of Mobray was to ask for a look at the Continental lists of prisoners; and after a hurried glance through them, he turned and said to Brereton in a low voice: “We had word in Philadelphia that Leftenant Hennion died of a fever.”
“’T is a false rumour,” replied Brereton. “If I could I’d see that he failed of an exchange till the end of the war; and I would that one of our officers in your hands could be kept by you for an equal term.”
“Who is that?” asked Mobray.
“That rascal, Charles Lee,” muttered Brereton. “But, though he openly schemed against General Washington, and sought to supersede him, his Excellency is above resentment, and has instructed us to obtain his exchange among the first.”
In the arrangement of details of the cartel Brereton showed himself curiously variable, at times sitting completely abstracted from what was being discussed, and then suddenly entering into the discussions, only to compel an entire going over of points already deemed settled, and raising difficulties which involved much waste of time.
“Confound it!” said O’Hara presently, after a glance at his watch. “At this rate we shall have to take a second day to it.”
“Beyond question,” assented Jack, with a suggestion of eagerness. “Gentlemen, I invite you to dinner, and there are good sleeping-rooms above.”
“’T is out of the question,” replied Stevens. “We officers give a masked ball in the city to-night, and I am one of the managers."
“Well, then,” urged Brereton, “at least stay and dine with me at three, and you shall be free to leave by six. ’T is not much over an hour’s ride to the city.”
“That we’ll do with pleasure,” assented O’Hara.
“Go on with the discussion, then, while I speak to the landlord,” remarked Jack, rising and passing to the kitchen. “We wish a dinner for six,” he informed the publican, “by three o’clock” Then in a low voice he continued: “And hark you! One thing I wish done that is peculiar. Give us such whiskey as we call for of thy best, with lemons and sugar, but in place of hot water in the kettle, see to it that as often as it is replenished, it be filled with thy newest and palest rum. Understand?”
“Jerusalem!” ejaculated mine host. “You gentlemen of the army must have swingeing strong heads to dilute whiskey with raw rum.”
“I trust not,” replied the aide, drily.
When dinner was announced Brereton drew Grayson aside for a moment and whispered: “’T is a matter of life and death to me that these fellows be made too drunk to ride, Will, yet to keep sober myself. You’ve got the head and stomach of a ditcher; wilt make a sacrifice of yourself for my sake?”
“And but deem it sport,” replied Grayson, with a laugh; and as he took his place at the table he remarked: “Gentlemen, we have tested British valour, we have tested British. courtesy, and found them not wanting, but we understand that, though you turn not your backs to either our soldiery or our ladies, there is one thing which can make you tremble, and that is our good corn whiskey.”
“Odds life!” cried O’Hara, “who has so libelled us? Man, we’d start three glasses ahead of you, and then drink you under the table, on a challenge, but for this ball that we are due at.”
“A pretty brag,” scoffed Brereton, “since you have an excuse to avoid its test. But come, we have three good hours; but drink Grayson even in that time, and I will warrant you’ll not be able to sit your horses. Come, fill up your glasses from decanter and kettle, and I will give you a toast to begin, to which you must drink bumpers. Here ’s to the soldier who fights and loves, and may he never lack for either.”
Four hours later, when Brereton rose from the table, Stevens and O’Hara were lying on the floor, Boudinot was fallen forward, his head resting among the dishes on the table, fast asleep, and Mobray and Grayson, clasped in each other’s arms, were reeling forth different ditties under the impression that they were singing the same song. Tiptoeing from the room, the aide went to the kitchen door and said to the publican, “Order one of the dragoons to make ready Captain Mobray’s horse, as he wishes to ride back to Philadelphia.” In the passageway he took from the hook the hat, cloak, and sword of the young officer, and, removing his own sash and sabre, donned the three. Stealing back to the scene of the revel, he found Mobray and Grayson now lying on the floor as well, unconscious, though still affectionately holding each other. Kneeling gently, he searched the pockets of the unconscious man until the passport was lighted upon. Thrusting it into his belt, he stole from the room.
“What are the orders for us, sir?” asked the dragoon who held Mobray’s horse, as the aide mounted.
With an almost perfect imitation of the baronet’s voice, Brereton answered, “Colonel O'Hara will issue directions later,” and then as he cantered down the road he added gleefully: “Considerably later. What luck that it should be Fred, whose voice I know so well that I can do it to the life whenever I choose!” Then he laughed with a note of deviltry. “I am popping my head into a noose,” he said; “but whether ’t is that of hangman or matrimony, time only will show.”