Owing to the impossibility of the horses of Tarleton’s and Simcoe’s legions being ferried on the small boats which transported the foot troops from Portsmouth to Yorktown, they had been left behind the rest of the army, with directions to put themselves on board the frigate and sloops of war and effect a landing at Hampton or thereabouts. This gave the commissary still more time free from the presence of Major Hennion, but he had little reason to think it of advantage to him. At meal hours, since they had but one table, Janice could not avoid his company, but otherwise she very successfully eluded him. Much of each day she spent with her mother, who was ailing, and kept her room, and she made this an excuse for never remaining in those shared by all in common. When she went out of doors, which, owing to the August heats, was usually towards evening, she always took pains that the baron should not be in a position to join her, or even to know of her having sallied forth. With the same object, she generally, as soon as she left the house, hurried through the little village and past the rows of tents of the encampment on the outskirts and the lines of earthworks upon which the soldiery and negroes were working, until she reached the high point of land to the east, which opened on Chesapeake Bay, where, feeling secure, she could enjoy herself in the orchard of the Moore house, in the woods to the southward, or with sewing or a book, merely sit on the extreme point gazing off at the broad expanse of water.

She was thus engaged on the afternoon of the 28th of August, when the rustle of footsteps made her look up from her book, only to find that her precautions for once were futile, as it was the commissary who was hastening toward her.

“I needed this,” he began, “to prove to me that you were not a witch, as well as a bewitcher, for, verily, I had begun to think that by some black art ye flew out of your window at will. Nay,” he protested, as Janice, closing her book, rose, “call ye this fair treatment, Miss Meredith? Surely, if ye have no gratitude yourself, ye should at least remember what I am doing for your father and mother, and not seek to shun me as if I were the plague, rather than a man nigh mad with love for ye.”

“’T is that very fact, Lord Clowes,” replied Janice, gravely, “which has forced avoidance of you upon me. Surely you must understand that, promised now as I am to another, both by my father’s word and by my own, your suit cannot fail to distress me?”

“Is ’t possible that, to please others, thee intends, then, to force thyself to marry this long-legged dragoon?” protested Clowes. “Hast thy father not told thee of thy own loss of Greenwood and of his undoubted loss of Boxely?”

“Our loss of property, my Lord, but makes it all the more important that we save our good name; and if our change of circumstance does not alter Major Hennion’s wishes, as I am certain it will not, we shall keep faith with him.”

“Even though Lord Clowes offers ye position, wealth, and a home for your parents, not a one of which he can give?”

“Were I not promised, Lord Clowes, nothing could induce me to marry you.”

“Why not?” questioned the baron, warmly.

“Methinks, if you but search the past, sir, you cannot for an instant be in doubt. Obligations you have heaped upon us at moments, for every one of which I thank you, but never could I bring myself to feel respect, far less affection for you.”

The commissary, with knitted brows, started to speak, but checked himself and took half a dozen strides. Returning, he said:—

“Miss Meredith, ’t is not just to judge the future by the past. Can ye not understand that what I did in Philadelphia, ay, every act of mine at which ye could take offence in our whole acquaintance, has been done on heated impulse? If ye but knew a man’s feelings when he loves as I love, and finds no response to his passion in the object of it, ye would pardon my every act.”

“’T is not alone your conduct to us, Lord Clowes, but as well that to others which has confirmed me in my conviction.”

“Ye would charge me with—”

“’T is not I alone, my Lord, that you have deceived or injured, and you cannot plead for those the excuse you plead to me.”

“’T is the circumstances of my parole of which ye speak?” demanded the baron.

“Of that and other things which have come to my knowledge.”

Again the suitor hesitated before saying, with a suggestion of glibness: “Miss Meredith, every ounce of blame ye put upon my conduct I accept honestly and regretfully, but did ye but know all, I think ye would pity rather than judge me in that heart which seems open to every one but me. From the day my father died in the debtor’s prison and I was thrown a penniless boy of twelve upon the world, it has been one long fight to keep head above water, till I got this appointment. The gentlemen of the army have told ye that I was a government spy, I doubt not. I wonder what they would have been in my straits! Think ye any man is spy by choice? Am I worse than the men who hired me to do the work, and who gained praise and rewards, even to the blue ribbon, by the information I had got for them, while only scorn and shame was my portion? Think ye a life given to indirection and worming, to prying and scheming, is one of self-choice? Hitherto I have done the dirty work of ministers,—ay, of kings; but from the day I leave this country, that is over and done with for ever, and their once tool, now rich, will take his place among the very best of England’s peers, for money will buy a man anything in London nowadays. ’T is not alone that I love ye nigh to desperation that I beg your love; ’t is that your love will help to make me the honest-living man I ambition to be. But grant the longing of my life, and I’ll pledge ye happiness. Ye shall write your own marriage settlement, a house, carriages, jewels—”

“Indeed, Lord Clowes, even were my feelings less strong, you ask for what is now impossible.”

“Because your father, with a short-sightedness that is wellnigh criminal, has tied ye to this fellow! Can’t ye perceive that the greatest service ye can render him will be to relieve him of the promise he has not the courage to end? In a six-months he’ll bless ye for the deed, if ye will but do it.”

Almost as if he had come to protect his rights, the voice of Major Hennion broke in upon them. “Everywhere have I sought you for upwards of an hour,” he said, as he hurried toward them, “and began to fear that some evil had befallen you.” He caught Janice’s hand eagerly and kissed it.

“But when did you arrive?” exclaimed the girl.

“The legions were landed at Hampton Road this morning and reached camp an hour gone,” explained the major. Still retaining her hand, he turned to Clowes and said, “If I understood you aright, my Lord, you told me you knew not where Miss Meredith was to be found?”

“And Miss Meredith will bear me out in the statement, sir, though I am quite willing that my word should stand by itself,” retorted the commissary, tartly. “Nor am I in the habit of having it questioned by colonial striplings,” he added insultingly.

“Nor am I—” began Philemon, heatedly; but Janice checked him by laying her free hand on his arm.

“’T is naught to take umbrage at, Phil,” she said dissuadingly, “and do not by quarrelling over a foolish nothing spoil my pleasure in seeing you.”

“That I’ll not,” acceded the major, heartily. “Ah, Janice,” he cried, unable to contain himself even before the baron, “if you knew the thrill your words give me. Are you truly glad to see me?”

“Yes, Phil, or I would not say so,” answered the girl, ingenuously.

Lord Clowes, a scowl on his face, turned from the two, to avoid sight of Hennion’s look of gladness. This brought him gazing seaward, and he gave an exclamation. “Ho! What ’s here?”

The two faced about at his question, to see, just appearing from behind the curve of the land to the southward, a full-rigged ship, one mass of canvas from deck to spintle-heads, and with a single row of ports which bespoke the man-of-war.

“’T is a frigate,” announced Clowes, “and no doubt sent to convoy the transports we have been awaiting. Yes; there comes another. ’T is the fleet, beyond question,” he continued, as the first vessel having opened from the land, the bowsprit of a second began to appear.

The three stood silent as the two ships towering pyramids of sails, making them marvels of beauty, swept onward with slow dignity across the mouth of the York River, at this point nearly three miles wide, toward the Gloucester shore. Before they had gone a quarter of a mile, a third and larger vessel came sweeping into view, her two rows of ports showing her to be a line-of-battle ship. Barely was she clear of the land when a string of small flags broke out from her mizzen rigging, and almost as if by magic, the yard arms of all three vessels were alive with men, and royals, top gallants, and mainsails with machine-like precision were dewed up and furled, and each ship, stripped of all but its topsails, rounded to, with its head to the wind.

“That is a strange manoeuvre,” remarked Philemon. “Why stop they outside, instead of sailing up the river?”

“They’ve hove to, no doubt, to wait a pilot, being strangers to the waters,” surmised Clowes, wheeling and looking up the river townwards. “Ay, there goes some signal from the ‘Charon’s’ truck,” he went on, as the British frigate anchored off the town displayed three flags at her masthead.

Janice, thankful for the diversion the arrivals had caused, said something to Philemon in a low voice, and they set out toward the town. Not noticing the obvious attempt to escape from his society, or to outward appearance perturbed, the baron put himself alongside the two, and walked with them until the custom-house was reached.

“Will you come in, Philemon, and see dadda and mommy?” questioned the girl, as the three halted at the doorway.

As she spoke, an orderly, who a moment before had come out of headquarters, made towards the major, and, saluting, said, “Colonel Tarleton directs that you report at headquarters without delay, sir.”

“My answer is made for me, Janice,” sighed Philemon. “I fear me ’t is some vidette duty, and that once again we are doomed to part, just as I thought my hour had come. Many more of such disappointments will turn me from a soldier into a Quaker. However, ’t is possible his Lordship wants but to put some questions, and, if so, I’ll be with you shortly.” He crossed the street and entered the Nelson house.

Shown by the orderly to the room where Cornwallis was, he found with him his colonel and a man in the uniform of a naval officer.

“Ah, here he is,” said the British general. “Major Hennion, the three ships which have taken station at the mouth of the river pay no heed to the ‘Charon’s ’signals, nor are theirs to be read by our book, so ’t is feared that they are French ships. As ’t is impossible to believe they would thus boldly venture into the bay if alone, we wish to know if there are others below. Furnish Lieutenant Foley with a mount, and, with an escort of a troop, guide him over the road you came to-day to some spot where a view of the roadstead at Old Point Comfort is to be commanded.” Speaking to the naval officer, he enjoined, “You will carefully observe any shipping there may be, sir, and of what force, and report to me with the least possible delay.”

It was a little after ten o’clock on the following day when a troop of hot and weary-looking horses and men clattered along the main street of the town and drew up in front of headquarters. Throwing himself from the saddle, Major Hennion hurried into the house. The moment he was in the presence of Cornwallis, he said: “’T is as you surmised, general. Between thirty and forty sail stretch from Lynnhaven Bay to the mouth of the James, and though ’t was difficult to exactly estimate their force, they are mostly men of war, and some even three-deckers.”

“Beyond question ’t is the French West India fleet,” burst from Cornwallis. For a moment he was silent, then sternly demanded, “Where is Lieutenant Foley?”

“The gentlemen of the navy, sir, are more used to oak than to leather, and we set him such a pace that twelve miles back he could no longer sit his saddle, and we left him leading his horse, thinking this information could not be brought you too soon.”

“It but proves the old saying that ‘Ill news has wings,’” replied the earl, steadily, as he walked to the window and looked out into the garden. Here he stood silently for so long that finally Hennion spoke.

“I beg your pardon, general,” he said, “but am I dismissed?”

All the reply Cornwallis made him was to ask, “When you first came amongst us, major, you spoke with the barbaric provincialism and nasal twang of your countrymen, but in your years with us you have lost them. Could you upon occasion resume both?”

“Indeed, my Lord,” replied the officer, smiling, “’t is even yet a constant struggle to keep from it.”

“The word you bring must be got to Clinton without question of fail and with the least possible delay. Are you willing to volunteer for a service of very great risk?”

“Does your Lordship for a moment question it?”

“Not I. To-night we will try to steal a small sloop out of the river with a despatch for Clinton; but we must not place our whole dependence on this means, and a second must be sent him overland. Get you a meal, sir, and a fresh horse, and from some civilian or negro procure such clothes as are fitting for a travelling peddler. I will order you a pack and a stock of such things as are appropriate from the public stores, and you shall at once be rowed across the river and must make your way as best you can northward to New York. Dost understand?”

“Ay, my Lord,” replied Major Hennion, his hand already on the door-latch.

Left alone, Cornwallis stood for a moment, his lips pressed together, then summoning an aide, he gave him certain directions, after which, going to his writing-desk, he pulled out a drawer and from it took quite a batch of Continental and State currency. Seating himself at his desk, he laid one of the notes upon it, and taking his penknife he very neatly and dexterously split the bill through half its length. Taking from his pocket a wallet, he drew from it a sheet of paper covered with numbers and syllables, which was indorsed, “Cipher No. I.” Writing on a scrap of paper a few words, he then alternately looked at what he had penned and at the cipher, taking down on one of the inner surfaces of the bill a series of numbers. Scarcely had he done his task when a knock came at the door, and in response to his summons a negress entered.

“’Scuse me, your Lordship,” she said with a bob. “De captain, he say youse done want a leetle flour gum.”

“Yes. Give it to me and leave the room,” answered the earl.

Touching his finger in the saucer she had brought, Cornwallis rubbed it inside the split along the three edges, and then laying the bill on his desk, he patted the edges where they had been split, together, wiping them clean with his handkerchief. Running over the pile of currency, he sorted out some fifty notes, then taking a sheet of paper, he began a letter.

Before the earl had finished what he was writing, he was again interrupted, and the new-comer proved to be Major Hennion, clothed in an old suit of butternut-coloured linen. And as if in laying aside his red coat, shorts, and boots he had as well laid aside military rank, he seemed to have already reverted to his old slouch.

“Good,” exclaimed Cornwallis, as he rose. “Are your other preparations all made?”

“Every one, general; and my horse and pack are already at the river-side.”

The earl took the pile of sorted bills from his desk and handed them to Hennion. “There is the money to pay your way,” he said, “all Continental Loan office or Virginia currency, save one of North Carolina for forty shillings, which on no account are you to part with, even if any one in the States to the northward will accept it, for I have split it open and written within it to Sir Henry Clinton the news I have to tell. Say to him that a few moments in water will serve to part the edges where they have been gummed together. I give you the note, that if you are caught, you may still find some means to send it on. But lest by mischance it should be lost or taken from you, and you should yet be able to reach New York, I have here the words I have written in cipher within the bill. Have you a good memory?”

“For facts, if not for words, my Lord.”

The general took up from his desk the little memorandum he had written before using his cipher and read out: “An enemy’s fleet within the Capes. Between thirty and forty ships of war, mostly large.” “Spare not your speed, sir, yet take no unnecessary risk,” ended the earl, as he held out his hand.

As Hennion took it, he said: “I will endeavour not to fail your Lordship in either respect; in going, however, I have one favour to crave of you. I leave behind me my promised bride, Miss Meredith; and I beg of you that she shall not want for any service that your Lordship can render her, or that I could do were I but here.”

“’T is given,” promised the earl, and on the word Hennion hurried from the room. Crossing the street, he knocked at the custom-house, and of the servant inquired, “Is Miss Meredith within?”

“No, sir,” replied the soldier.

Where is she?”

“I know not, sir. She left the house an hour ago.”

With something suspiciously like an oath, the major turned away and, hurrying along the street, descended that which sloped down the bluff to the river. Here stood an officer, while in the water lay a flatboat which already held, besides two rowers, a horse and a pair of fat saddle-bags. Without a word Phil jumped in and the rowers struck their oars into the water.

At the same time that Major Hennion’s party had been despatched to gain news of the fleet, other troops of Tarleton’s and Simcoe’s cavalry had been thrown out on scouting parties across the peninsula to the James, and the following day they brought word that the French were busily engaged in landing troops from their ships at Jamestown, with the obvious intention of effecting a junction with Lafayette’s brigades, which were at Williamsburg. A council of war was held that evening to debate whether the British force should not march out and attack them; but it was recognised that even if they completely crushed the French and Americans, they had themselves made escape southward impossible by the care with which they had destroyed the bridges and ferries in their march into Virginia, while if they fled northward, they would certainly have to fight Washington’s army long before they could reach New York. It was therefore unanimously voted that the least hazardous course was to remain passive in their present position.

Five days after this decision, a deserter from Lafayette’s camp came into the British lines, bringing with him the news that it was openly talked in Williamsburg that Washington and Rochambeau, with their armies, were coming to join the troops already in Virginia. Nor were the British long able to continue their doubting of his assertions, for a Tory brought in the same tale, and with it a copy of the “Baltimore Journal,” which printed the positive statement that the Northern army was on the march southward and was already arrived at Wilmington. A second council of war was therefore summoned to debate once again their difficulties; but ere the general and field officers had met, a schooner, eluding the French vessels which blockaded the mouth of the river, arrived from New York, bringing a despatch from Sir Henry Clinton, in which he assured the encircled general that the British fleet would quickly sail to relieve him, and that he himself, with four thousand men, would follow close upon its heels. The order for the council was therefore recalled; and Cornwallis turned the whole energies of the force under his command to strengthening his lines and in other ways making ready to resist the gathering storm.