“A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate;I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,—I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice,—I’ve seen her fair form from my sight depart!My doom is closed.”—Count Basil.
“A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate;I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,—I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice,—I’ve seen her fair form from my sight depart!My doom is closed.”
—Count Basil.
Clifford started as Sally uttered the word, “trickery,” and a deep flush dyed his face. He threw out his hands in a protesting gesture, and opened his lips to speak, but she was gone before he could say a word. He turned toward Peggy appealingly.
“Will you listen, my cousin?” he queried. “Or are you also shocked?”
“Nay, Clifford; I believe that thee intended naught but to have a little sport,” she replied.
“That’s just it,” he cried eagerly. “Everything hath been so depressing the last few days that a little diversion was welcome. When Major Gordon came in, saying thatyou wished to see me, and that a friend was with you who feared to come in unless I was bound, I knew at once it was Miss Sally. When the major suggested that ’twould never do for the young lady to find me unbound, the idea appealed to me immediately. It promised some brightness, a little fun which is all my excuse, Peggy. I intended naught else. I thought you both would regard it as a great joke. I see now that I should not have done it. It was caddish.”
“I think Sally felt the worst anent thy saying that the cords hurt pretty bad,” Peggy told him. “It seemed like an untruth to her.”
“’Fore George, Peggy!” cried the youth earnestly, “if she could but know the trouble I had in keeping still so that those ropes would not fall off she would think it was pretty bad.”
He laughed at the remembrance, and then became grave.
“I seem to be unfortunate in more respects than one,” he said with a sigh. “First, I misjudge you, Peggy. I can only explain that fact by saying that never before had Imet any one of like truthfulness and so straightforward. Then, not knowing that your friends had the same attributes, I am guilty of injustice toward Sally. Now she misconstrues what was meant for a jest into a contemptible trick. Oh, it was! I see it now. I’ faith! the sooner that execution comes off the better,” he ended bitterly.
“Don’t speak like that, Clifford,” chided Peggy gently. “I’m going to Sally and explain the matter to her. ’Twas all a miserable misapprehension. She will laugh most heartily when she understands it.”
“I don’t believe she will, Peggy,” he answered gloomily. “She feels tricked. She will never forgive me. You Quakers are queer people. I did not dream that words spoken in jest would be taken so seriously.”
“Well, my cousin, we have been taught that for every idle word we shall give account. Perchance we do not speak with so much lightness as the world’s people.”
“’Fore George, you do not,” he ejaculated. “But, Peggy, to a soldier the thought of death becomes familiar. So familiar in fact that even when we are under its dark shadow ifthere comes a chance for amusement of any sort we seize it. I would not for the world offend her, Peggy. Will you try to make peace for me? Tell her,” he smiled involuntarily, “that she is the unreasonable one now; that if she will not listen she lays herself open to the charge of being English which would be a most dreadful downfall from the high estate of being an American.”
“I’ll tell her everything, my cousin. I am sure that all will be well as soon as she understands. And Harriet will come to thee this afternoon. Thee must not let this, or aught else make thee down-hearted, Clifford. I am hoping that something will come up to avert this terrible fate from falling upon thee.”
But the youth shook his head.
“I have no hope,” he said. “’Tis only to please my sister that I have consented that she should try to get your general to postpone the execution until she can see Sir Guy. It seems but a useless prolongation of anxiety. Now as to this other matter: you will go at once to Sally, will you not, my cousin? Tell her that I am sorry that I lent myself to such deception, and that I wish she would notthink hardly of me. I shall never see her again, Peggy, but I like not to think that she thinks ill of me.”
“I’ll tell her all, my cousin,” promised Peggy as she took her leave. “Oh, dear!” she sighed as she wended her way toward Little Dock Street, where Sally lived. “Oh, dear! will naught ever go right again? Now just as Clifford gets so that he will listen to Sally this had to happen! But Sally ought not to hold it against him. She must not.”
Sally was up-stairs, her mother told Peggy, and slowly she went up to her friend’s room. A crumpled heap on the bed told where Sally was, but it did not turn as Peggy entered. She went over and put her hand on the head that was buried between two pillows.
“Thee is taking this too seriously, Sally,” spoke Peggy. “Don’t be too hard on him. After all thee knows that Clifford is just a boy.”
Sally turned a reddened, tear-stained face toward her.
“He is to die,” she murmured in shocked tones, “yet he jested. He jested, Peggy.”
“Sally, ’tis naught to make such a potherabout. Men, especially soldiers, regard death differently from the way we look at it. Let me tell thee about the matter.”
“I don’t care to hear any explanation,” answered Sally shortly.
“Sally, Sally, is thee going to be unreasonable and obstinate now? ’Tis as Clifford said: ‘Thee should say naught against the English for perverseness. Thee isn’t much better.’”
“Did Clifford Owen say that?” demanded Sally, sitting up with flaming cheeks.
“Nay; but something like it. How can I tell thee what he said if thee will not listen? Or has thee made up thy mind not to listen to Clifford’s explanation in revenge for the time that he was in listening to thine?” concluded Peggy artfully.
“Peggy! thee knows better than that. Of course, if there is an explanation I will hear it. It did not occur to me that there could be one.”
“Now that is my own Sally,” cried Peggy kissing her. She sat down on the side of the bed, and began earnestly: “Sally, we must not forget that my cousin belongs to the world’s people. Many things which to us areof gravity are not so to them, and our belief is as naught if it doth not make us regard their feelings with charity. Clifford feels sorrow now for the joke, and grieves because thee is inclined to think hardly of him.” Forthwith she told Sally how the jest had come about, ending with:
“So thee sees, Sally, that thou art somewhat in fault thyself, insomuch as thee said that thee would not venture in unless he were bound.”
“I see,” remarked Sally thoughtfully. “I see, Peggy. Well, ’tis all right, of course; but oh, Peggy! If—if he had not made me feel so sorry for him. If I had not cried because I thought those ropes hurt him I would not mind so much; though it was in truth ill to jest when he is to die.”
“But I cried too,” soothed Peggy. “Any one would who had the least bit of sensibility.”
“Does thee really think so, Peggy?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Peggy. “’Twas all in fun, and done on the impulse of the moment. But he says now that he sees ’twas wrong, and that he is sorry. Thee must forgive him, Sally.”
“Of course if he is sorry it makes a difference,” said Sally. “Somehow, Peggy, I am disappointed in him. Harriet always spoke so highly of him, and I liked him so much when he was with us, that it pains me to find him lacking in any respect. Well, if he is sorry, ’tis all right.”
“And I may tell him so?” asked Peggy eagerly. “I don’t want the poor fellow to have aught to wherrit him. He hath enough as it is.”
“Yes; thee may tell him, Peggy.” Sally slipped from the bed as she spoke and buried her face in the washing bowl. “After all, as thee said, ’tis naught to make such a pother about.”
“Will thee come home with me to see Harriet, Sally?”
“Not to-day, Peggy.” Sally began to brush her hair vigorously. “I will come in the morning. I want to think things over. Thee doesn’t mind?”
“No,” Peggy answered more troubled than she cared to admit over Sally. “Well, I shall see thee to-morrow then.”
Harriet and her father were awaiting herwhen she returned home. Harriet looked weary and a little pale.
“We could not see the Congress, Peggy,” said she in answer to Peggy’s eager queries. “Cousin David could not obtain an audience for me; but the Minister of War, in whose charge Clifford now is, consented that we should accompany him to the New Jersey cantonment. He said that ’twas General Washington’s desire that Clifford should be given every indulgence suitable to his rank and condition that would be consistent with the security of his person. He said too that the execution would take place pursuant to the general’s orders, and therefore ’twas proper that all pleas should be made to him. We start with the dragoons and officers who guard my brother to-morrow.”
It was early the next morning when the start for New Jersey was made. Early as it was, however, Sally was down to see them off. She hovered around Peggy, finally saying, with a fine air of carelessness:
“I had a short letter from thy Cousin Clifford, Peggy. If he should speak of the matter, I dare say he will not, thee may say that’tis all right. That I have no hard feelings toward him.”
Peggy caught her suddenly, and held her fast.
“Is that all I am to say, Sally? Is there naught else? Couldn’t thee give me one little kind word for him? He is to die, Sally.”
Sally struggled to free herself, then unexpectedly hid her face on Peggy’s shoulder, and burst into tears.
“Tell him,” she sobbed, then looked up at Peggy wrathfully: “If thee tells him anything until the very last, Peggy Owen, I will never forgive thee. Never!”
“I understand, Sally,” encouraged Peggy. “Tell me.”
“Thee may tell him, at the very last, at the very last, Peggy.”
“Yes, Sally.”
“Thee may tell him that I think him the finest gentleman I ever knew. There! Of course, being thy kinsman, and because we are such friends, for thy sake, thee knows——”
“Yes, I know.” Peggy kissed Sally gently, then held her close. “I have not told Harrieta word,” she whispered. “Oh, Sally! Sally!”
They joined Clifford and his guards on the Bristol road. Peggy could not but reflect with what joyousness she and Sally had passed over this very road a few short months before. How much had happened since that time! Fairfax foully murdered, Clifford, her cousin, on his way to pay the penalty of the deed. Truly strange things were wrought in the warp and woof of time. So musing, for little conversation was held, the long hours of the day glided into the shadows of evening, and found them at Trenton where they were to bide for the night. Peggy suggested seeing Governor Livingston, but Harriet demurred at once.
“He would do naught for us, Peggy,” she declared. “Have you forgot that ’twas I who tried to effect his captivation at Middlebrook? ’Tis that very thing that makes me fearful of meeting General Washington. Were not my brother’s life at stake I would not chance it.”
The roads were in good condition, the business in hand most urgent, and so they journeyed from early morning until nightfall ofeach day with but short stops to refresh man and beast. Through Princeton, and along the banks of the Millstone to Kingston they rode. Here the road left the valley and began to ascend the heights, then along the banks of the Raritan River until Somerset Court House was reached. Peggy turned to Harriet.
“Does thee know where we are, my cousin?” she asked smiling.
“We are coming into Middlebrook,” answered Harriet gazing about her. “Does it cause you painful thoughts, Peggy? ’Twas here that first you knew me. ’Twas here that I played the spy. Ah! the huts where the soldiers dwelt are still standing. ’Tis most familiar, Peggy.”
“Nay, I am not pained at the recollection, Harriet. Thou art changed in many ways since then. I do not believe that thee would play the spy now.”
“You know not, Peggy. I do not know myself. If aught would result of benefit to England’s cause, I might. I have done other things. I do not know.”
“Are you two talking about those huts yonder?” questioned Clifford, who had beenriding with Mr. Owen. “Cousin David says the American army camped here in the winter of ’79.”
“We know it, my cousin,” answered Peggy. “This is where we first met. Harriet and I passed that winter here.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “There are many things concerning that winter I would know.”
So with each girl supplementing the other the story of Middlebrook was told. Harriet did not spare herself in the recital. With amazing frankness she related how she had tried to capture both General Washington and Governor Livingston. Her brother listened in wide-eyed astonishment.
“And father let you engage in such emprises?” he queried with pained surprise.
Harriet smiled.
“I liked the danger, Cliff,” she said. “’Tis risk that gives the zest to all undertakings. Life is like food: insipid without some spice. Beside, here was Peggy to rescue me from paying the penalty of my acts. Poor Peggy! she thought she had fallen upon evil days when I carried her off to New York.”
“Poor Peggy indeed!” he agreed briefly; then relapsed into thought.
The road beyond Middlebrook was new to both maidens, and had they not been saddened by the knowledge that each mile traversed brought them nearer to the place where Clifford must be left they would have been delighted with the romantic scenery. Soon the heights of Morristown came into view. A few miles to the eastward of Morristown lay the little town of Chatham. Between the heights and the village lay the cantonment of the Jersey line, Clifford’s destination.
Chatham was a pleasant little place. There were many hills in the vicinity, and a fine view of the valley of the Passaic River, which stream ran through the village. But none of the party noticed hills or river as they went through the town toward the encampment. Harriet grew pale at sight of the tents.
“You must be brave, my sister,” pleaded Clifford, observing her pallor. “I must meet the colonel, you know. Help me to do so with composure. Besides, you will come back here after you have seen Sir Guy.”
“True,” she answered. “I am not goingto break down, Clifford. There is much to be done.”
They were received with extreme kindness by Colonel Elias Dayton, who had command of the Jersey line. No orders concerning Clifford had as yet been received from General Washington, he told them, save only that he must be closely guarded.
“And naught will happen to him until you have had time to see General Washington,” he reassured Harriet, moved by her grief at parting from her brother. “’Tis a most distressing affair, and there is no one in the American lines who does not desire that General Carleton will give us the real culprit.”
And with lightened hearts Mr. Owen and the two girls proceeded to Morristown, where they were to pass the night.
“But mercy is above this sceptered sway,It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute of God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,When mercy seasons justice.”—Shakespeare.
“But mercy is above this sceptered sway,It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,It is an attribute of God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,When mercy seasons justice.”
—Shakespeare.
The route now took the little party through a most romantic country, but after leaving Clifford their distress of mind was such that at first they did not remark it particularly. Nowhere in the world can there be found more beautiful scenery than that along the Hudson River. The views vary from what is pleasing and picturesque to that which is in the highest degree magnificent. And so, as gentle wooded slopes were succeeded by bold promontories, deep vales by extensive valleys, hills by lofty precipices, Harriet and Peggy found themselves roused from their apathy, and their attention, in spite of grief, was caught by the majesty of the noble river.
War with its attendant evils receded into the background for the time being, recalled only by the fortifications of New York Island, and the batteries of Stony Point and its sister garrison of Verplanck’s Point on the eastern shore. Sometimes the journey led them through fine woods; at others, through well cultivated lands and villages inhabited by Dutch families. Sometimes there were long stretches of dark forests, wild and untamed as yet by civilization; at other times, the road wound along the top of the Palisades, those rocky heights that extend like everlasting walls along the Jersey bank of the river. Again, the road descended these rocky walls skirting their base, and they found themselves marveling at the broad expanse of the water which in places seemed like a vast lake.
As they ascended into the Highlands, cliffs seemed piled on cliffs rising precipitously from the water’s edge, forming a surprisingly beautiful and sublime spectacle. The majestic river hemmed in by towering heights densely covered with forests made a picture of impressiveness and grandeur.
Again and again the maidens drew rein,sometimes uttering cries of delight as some new prospect unfolded its beauty; at others, sitting in silence awed by the magnificence of the panorama expanding before them. In such mood as this they approached West Point on the afternoon of the fourth day after leaving Chatham.
The river here ran in a deep channel formed by the mountains whose lofty summits, on every side, were thick set with redoubts and batteries. From the fort of West Point proper, which lay on the edge of the river, to the very top of the mountain at the foot of which it stood were six different forts, all in the form of an amphitheater so arranged as to protect each other.
“And this,” spoke Harriet with quickened interest, “is the fortress that General Arnold was to deliver into our hands?”
“Yes,” answered David Owen briefly. Americans could not even yet bear mention of the treason of the brilliant Arnold.
“It looks to be an important post,” commented the English maiden with a glance around that embraced all the grim redoubts of the lofty summits. “Had we obtained itthe misfortune at Yorktown would not have occurred.”
“Perchance not, lass. Here we are at the sally-port of the fort. I will turn you girls over to Mrs. Knox for the night, while I find quarters elsewhere. I for one am glad to reach here. It hath been hard riding. Are ye not tired?”
“I am, father,” answered Peggy wearily. “And yet I have been delighted with the beautiful river.”
“And I also,” agreed her cousin.
With the morning came the realization of the matter which had brought them. The noble river with its superb amphitheater of mountains no longer had power to enthrall their senses. Clifford’s fate rested upon the result of the interview before them, and that was the thing which now concerned them. Newburgh, where General Washington’s headquarters were, was not far distant. A ride of a few hours brought them to the southern extremity of the village, where the Hasbrouck house was situated. It was a farmhouse, constructed in the Dutch fashion, on the west side of the Hudson. The front stoop facedthe river, and a beautiful picture of mountains, sky and water was spread before the eye, but it extorted but a passing glance.
The army was at West Point, and only the life-guards were near the quarters of the commander-in-chief. Hence, there was lacking much of the bustle and movement which ordinarily existed about the chief’s quarters. An orderly took charge of their horses, and presently they were ushered into a large room which served as office as well as dining-room for the general. He sat now before a small table looking over some papers, but rose as they entered the room. He looked weary, and there were tired lines upon the strong face, but his manner was courteously attentive.
“Ah, Mr. Owen,” he said shaking hands cordially with David Owen. “I am glad to see you. I have excellent reports of the work you are doing in Lancaster. Miss Peggy, ’tis long since I have had the pleasure of seeing you. And—Miss Harriet!”
The smile died from his lips as he uttered her name. General Washington had an excellent memory for faces and events. Harriet’s duplicity at Middlebrook was not easily forgotten;so his expression changed, and his face grew stern and cold. Harriet’s color faded and she began to tremble. Nevertheless she sank in a deep courtesy before him.
“It was my understanding,” he continued, “that you were banished from our lines. If this be true how is it that we are favored with your company?”
“Sir,” she answered, gaining control over herself and speaking in a steady voice, “’tis true that I was banished to New York; but I think you will find that ’twas only from Philadelphia. I did not understand that it was from the entire line. I know, your Excellency, that I have no right to come to you to ask a favor. I have no claim by which I can urge even consideration. Still, I do ask mercy. I do entreat you to use clemency; not because I deserve it, but because I do not believe that you would be guilty of aught that savored of inhumanity or barbarity.”
Harriet was very beautiful as she made her plea, her unusual humility lending softness to the customary hauteur of her manner. A perplexed look crossed the general’s countenanceat her words. He bent toward her courteously.
“Unravel the matter, I beg of you,” he said more gently. “Do I understand that something hath gone amiss for which you are entreating lenity?”
“It is not for myself, sir. My cousins here can bear witness that I came within your lines for the sole purpose of seeing my brother.” She raised her head proudly, and met his glance with unwavering eyes. “He was at Lancaster. At Lancaster, where he hath been chosen as the most unfortunate victim of retaliation. It is for him I plead.”
“Your brother?” For the merest second a gleam of astonishment shone on his face. It faded, leaving his countenance as impassive as ever. He turned to the table, and picked up a folded document from among the many lying upon it.
Hastily he scanned the page, then looked up. “’Tis as I thought,” he said. “Brigadier-General Hazen hath reported concerning that matter, and the young man herein named is not your brother, Miss Harriet. On the contrary, ’tis one Captain Wilson Williams whohath been the unfortunate selected to pay the penalty.”
“And Captain Williams is my brother, sir. My brother, Clifford Owen, who because father did not wish him to go into the service enlisted under another name. My brother, and he hath been chosen to die shamefully because another hath committed a dastardly crime. Sir, in the name of that mother whose son you are, I entreat you to have mercy upon him who is an only son, an only brother——”
“And a mother in New Jersey mourns an only son, and she a widow,” he interrupted, his voice implacable in its sternness. “Miss Harriet, I lament the cruel necessity which alone can induce so distressing a measure. It is my desire not only to soften the inevitable calamities of war, but even to introduce on every occasion as great a share of tenderness and humanity as can possibly be exercised in a state of hostility. But for the barbarous and inhuman murder of Captain Johnson there must be satisfaction.”
“And will it give satisfaction to wreak vengeance upon an innocent person?” she cried stung to bitterness. The grim countenanceof the general was not encouraging. His eyes seemed to pierce her as with cold steel. “Is it not as barbarous, as inhuman to execute one who is as guiltless as yourself in the matter? You, sir, are dealing ruthlessly when you visit such penalty upon a victim. It shows want of humanity.”
“I am listening to you, Miss Harriet,” he said patiently, “because you are grieved and anguished over the affair. I know that you are much overwrought. Therefore will I explain to you that by all the usages of war, and upon the principle of retaliation I should have been justified in executing an officer of equal rank with Captain Johnson immediately upon receiving proofs of his death, and then informing the British commander of what I had done.”
“You are so stern,” she cried with growing excitement. “So stern! So unfeeling!”
“Nay,” he protested, and there was compassion in his tone. “Not unfeeling. Although duty calls me to make this decisive determination in the matter humanity prompts me to drop a tear for the unfortunate offering.I most devoutly wish that something might be done to save his life.”
“You do?” she cried eagerly. “Why, sir, ’tis easily done. A scratch of the pen is all that is necessary. Oh, ’tis a great thing to have such power! See, here are ink-horn, powder and paper! What doth hinder you from writing an order for his release?”
She stepped quickly to the table as she spoke, and picking up a quill held it appealingly toward him. His eyes softened.
“Stay!” he said. “I do feel just that way, Miss Harriet, but there is a duty that must be performed toward our people. There are many American prisoners held by the enemy. Among them some as young, as manly, as lovable as your brother. If the matter be suffered to go by without retaliation what assurance have we that they will not be as lawlessly dealt with as Captain Johnson?”
“Oh!” she said looking at him miserably. “But Clifford hath been guilty of naught. Were he a spy, an informer, a deserter, I would not ask you to abate one jot or tittle of his fate. I might in such case try to rescue him by trickery, by deceit, by anymeans that would save his life, but I would not question the justice of his doom. But he is not a spy, not an informer, not a deserter——”
“I KNEEL TO YOU, SIR.”“I KNEEL TO YOU, SIR.”
“Nor was Captain Johnson,” he reminded her. “Yet he was hanged most treacherously.”
“But not by Clifford, sir! Not by Clifford! He would scorn to do such a deed.” She stood for a moment, regarding him with such pleading that Peggy choked. Suddenly Harriet crossed the room and flung herself before him.
“Sir,” she cried seizing his hand, “Harriet Owen hath never knelt to mortal man before save her king. I kneel to you, sir, and I beg, I implore you to exercise clemency toward my brother. He hath been guilty of naught save that he hath served his king. He hath a blameless reputation as a soldier, and you yourself are a soldier. It may be just to retaliate; I know not. But is there not mercy as well as justice? ’Twill be great and noble to exert leniency in such a case as this.”
“Rise, I beg of you,” he exclaimed, much pained. “I must do my duty, however abhorrent it may be to me. There hath beenmercy shown already in that your brother hath had several days of grace, and the order for his execution not yet signed.”
At that Harriet clung to his hand desperately.
“Do not sign it yet, sir. You will not give his life—give me then a little time.”
“For what purpose? Is not uncertainty full of anguish and suspense?”
“No, no, no,” she answered vehemently. “It hath hope, possibilities. Sir, give me time to go to Sir Guy Carleton to lay the matter before him. He is our own commander. He should give you Captain Lippencott, the one who did the deed.”
“And there we are agreed,” he made answer. “I will do this, Miss Harriet, though I fear that your efforts will meet with no success. With your commander-in-chief lies the only gleam of hope that the situation possesses. Sir Guy hath reprobated the act in no uncertain terms, but still he finds himself unable to do aught than to accept the rulings of the court-martial. Go to him, Miss Harriet, and bring all the influence you have to bear upon him that he may release to us this man, Lippencott.No one would rejoice at your success more than I. Meantime your brother shall live until the result is made known to me. You shall have a reasonable time allowed.”
“Thank you, sir. I thank you——” The girl attempted to lift the hand to which she still clung to her lips, but a deadly faintness seized her. She trembled, grew pale, and fell in an unconscious heap at his feet.
“Fair as morning beam, although the fairest far,Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy’s bright star,Through all the wreckful storms that cloud thebrow of War.”—“Lady of the Lake.”
“Fair as morning beam, although the fairest far,Giving to horror grace, to danger pride,Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy’s bright star,Through all the wreckful storms that cloud thebrow of War.”
—“Lady of the Lake.”
The morning gun at West Point had not ceased to echo among the surrounding hills the next morning when the horses for Mr. Owen and the two maidens were brought to headquarters. Harriet, quite recovered from her indisposition of the day before, vaulted lightly into the saddle, and bowed low as General Washington came forth to bid them farewell.
“Your Excellency overwhelms us with kindness, sir,” she cried. “You have been nobility itself in granting this respite to my brother. I have no fear now as to the outcome of the matter. There is no doubt in my mind but that the real culprit will be delivered into your hands within a few days.”
“I trust that it may fall out as you wish,Miss Harriet,” answered the general courteously. “As I have said, you shall have ample time for your mission.”
“Thank you, sir. Ten days should be more than sufficient time. ’Tis but to go to New York, lay the whole affair before Sir Guy Carleton, and return.”
“There are many things which might occur to bring about delay, Miss Harriet,” he observed quietly. “In a case of this nature ’tis the part of wisdom to accept all that is offered. We will say two weeks; but General Carleton must give his decision by the end of that time. The matter now rests with him. I wish you all a safe journey.”
He bowed gravely, and, overcome by the kindliness of this great man, the three left Newburgh much happier than when they entered it. Harriet was to cross the river at Dobbs Ferry, the post where all communication between the two armies was maintained, while Mr. Owen and Peggy were to return to Chatham to inform Clifford of the result of the interview with General Washington.
In high spirits Harriet laughed and chatted as she had not done for days, pausing everand anon to admire the beauties of the river, uttering exclamations of delight at some particularly imposing view. Before them lay West Point with Crow’s Nest Mountain, Butter Hill and the two Beacon mountains; on the southwest, Pollopel’s Island, in use at this time as a military prison, lay at the northern entrance to the Highlands; on the east were the fertile valleys of the Mattewan and Wappinger’s Creeks, and the village of Fishkill Landing; behind them was Newburgh Bay with the little village of the same name upon its shores, beyond which lay a broad champaign country.
“Father and Clifford must see this before we sail for home,” cried Harriet. “Oh, if I were king I’d never let the Americans deprive me of such a river!”
“If it affects thee like that, lass, perchance then thee has a slight idea of how we, who are natives of the country, feel toward those invaders who try to wrest it from us.”
“I don’t wonder at your feelings, Cousin David,” she said. “’Tis only, being English, that it seems to me a mistake to give these colonies up.”
“We have demonstrated by force of arms that we are no longer colonies, Harriet,” he reminded her quietly.
“Oh, I know, Cousin David,” she replied gaily. “But, until peace is declared, I cannot but regard you as belonging to us.”
At this David Owen laughed heartily, but his daughter’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled.
“Thee amuses me, lass. Thy attitude is England’s precisely. The king and his counselors know that they are beaten, but are loath to sign articles of peace, acknowledging our independence, because by so doing they surrender their last hold upon what they are pleased to still term ‘colonies.’ But it must come.”
“A truce, a truce,” she cried laughing. “How can we acknowledge that we are beaten? When did England ever confess such a thing? At any rate you never could have been victorious had you not been English yourselves.”
Peggy joined her father’s laughter, and Harriet too was merry.
“Get all the consolation thou canst out thatfact, Harriet,” said Mr. Owen. “So long as independence is acknowledged we care not what sop England throws to her pride. But,” he added with a deep sigh, “I do wish most earnestly that peace would come.”
And so, in such frame of mind, for Harriet’s confidence was so great that it could not but infect them, Dobbs Ferry was reached. The girl waved them a lively farewell as she stepped aboard the barge which was to take her across the river.
“It won’t be a week ere I shall be back, Peggy,” she cried. “I don’t mind saying now that I have reason for my belief that Sir Guy will do as I wish in this. A week, my cousin, and you, and Clifford, and I will start again for Lancaster.” She secreted her passport as she waved again to them.
“I pray so, Harriet,” returned Peggy.
“She builds too strongly upon the belief that the British commander will help her, I fear me,” remarked Mr. Owen as the ferry pushed away for the far shore. Peggy turned to him quickly.
“Has thee no hope, father?”
“Very little, lass. General Washingtonwarned Sir Henry Clinton what the consequences would be if he did not give up the perpetrators of the murder of Captain Johnson. Sir Henry responded by ordering a court-martial. When Sir Guy came he communicated the findings of the court, and seemed to feel bound by the fact that it returned a verdict of not guilty against the leaders. I see not how Harriet can change the attitude of the British commander.”
“If she fails will General Washington carry out the execution, father?” Peggy’s lips tremblingly put the question.
“He must, child. He must do what is right at whatever cost to his feelings. This whole affair hath distressed him greatly, but justice to the army and to the public require that the measure be carried out in full. He did not come to his determination without mature deliberation, and his course hath been sanctioned by Congress, and supported by the approbation of the principal officers of the army. The general explained the matter at some length to me last night. It is peculiarly distressing to us, lass, because the victim happens to be of kin. Still, however painful thematter is, we must acknowledge the justice of the proceeding.”
“Ye-es, father.” But Peggy’s voice was very faint, and she looked white and spent.
Just? Oh, yes; it was just, but granting justice; granting that it was the method of procedure in warfare, what comfort could that give to those who loved the boy? Peggy was greatly downcast in spirits when, as Harriet’s figure became a mere speck on the farther shore, she and her father resumed their journey to Chatham.
Colonel Dayton was greatly pleased over the report from headquarters.
“I hope that the guilty may be brought to punishment instead of this youth,” he ejaculated fervently. “I cannot tell you, Mr. Owen, how exceedingly distasteful this whole affair is to all of us. If it were not right and just we could not proceed with it. I believe that I voice the thought of every American when I say that I hope the sister will succeed in her efforts. Did the general send any message regarding the young man’s treatment?”
“There is a letter, colonel,” exclaimedDavid Owen, drawing forth the missive. “I had nigh forgotten it.”
“This is most kind of the general,” exclaimed the colonel with an expression of relief as he perused the letter. “I will call the young man to hear it.”
In a few moments an orderly with Clifford in charge entered the room. The youth greeted his cousins affectionately, and listened attentively to the officer as he read the epistle:
“You will treat Captain Williams with every tenderness and politeness consistent with his present situation which his rank, fortune and connections together with his private estate demand. Further, inform the young gentleman that his sister hath been permitted to go to New York to place the matter in the hands of Sir Guy Carleton. No further steps in the matter will be taken until his commander is heard from.”
Colonel Dayton looked up benignantly.
“So there is hope that you may not suffer for the guilty, Captain Williams,” he said. “If Sir Guy will but let us have Captain Lippencott, you, young sir, will not have to paythe penalty for this most atrocious deed. Let us hope that your sister will be successful.”
Clifford smiled rather wearily.
“’Tis but a prolongation of the suspense,” he remarked. “She won’t succeed. Sir Guy can’t give up any man after a court-martial absolves him from blame. Still, I am glad that Harriet is well away. ’Twill be just as well for her to be with father until this whole miserable business is brought to a conclusion.”
“Then, lad, thou hast no hope?” questioned Mr. Owen.
“None whatever, Cousin David. How long a time hath your chief given Harriet?”
“Two weeks, Clifford.”
“Two weeks! Why, that is a lifetime,” exclaimed he. “Much may happen in two weeks.”
“True, Captain Williams; and, provided you will give your word of honor that you will make no attempt to escape, you shall be free to go and come at your pleasure,” spoke Colonel Dayton.
“I give it, sir, and thank you,” returned Clifford. “You have been and are most kind.”
“Then we shall begin by leaving you with your cousins,” said the colonel. “Come, orderly.”
“Is there aught that thou wouldst have me attend to, my lad?” asked Mr. Owen as Colonel Dayton left them. “If there is anything that can be done I should be glad to do it.”
“There is something, Cousin David.” Clifford looked at him eagerly. “I suppose the end will come soon after the two weeks are up, therefore I wish you would stay until ’tis over. You and Peggy. When I was in Virginia last year wounded, as I thought, unto death, Peggy came to me there that I might have some of my kindred near me in my last hours. My need is greater now than it was then. It won’t be very long. I’d like a friendly face near me at the last.”
Mr. Owen was almost overcome by the plea.
“My lad,” he replied huskily, “it distresses me to refuse thee aught at this time, but I cannot stay. I am a soldier, as thou art, and under orders. Leave was given for a few days, but ’tis nearly gone. I will make an effort to come again before the two weeks are up.”
“Then let Peggy stay, sir. Accommodationsare easily procured either in the village, or out here with one of the officers’ families. She would be well cared for, and ’twould be a comfort to me.”
The boyish face was full of pleading. He was very young. David Owen’s eyes misted suddenly as his youth came home to him.
“It must be as Peggy says, lad,” he rejoined, turning toward his daughter with concern. He had noted her pallor and sadness when he told her that there was but little hope for the boy, and he knew that if she stayed it must of necessity be a tax upon her strength. Peggy met his anxious glance with a brave smile. She was ever ready to sink self if by so doing she could give comfort to another.
“Certainly I will stay, if Clifford wishes it, father,” she said. “I think I should like to, and Harriet would wish it, I know.”
“Can thee bear it, lass, knowing that thy cousin’s time may be short?”
“Cousin David,” spoke Clifford quickly, “there isn’t going to be anything melancholy about these two weeks. ’Twould benefit neither my cousin nor myself to dwell upon the approach of death; so——”
“She shall stay, lad,” interrupted Mr. Owen. “Thy words remove the last scruple I had anent it. Would that I might be with thee also, but I shall try to come back.”
Accordingly when David Owen started on his return to Lancaster Peggy was left at Chatham. Mrs. Dayton had declared that she must make her home with them, and gratefully the maiden accepted the hospitality. Clifford, conformable to the instructions sent by General Washington, was subjected to little restraint. Relying upon the safeguard of his honor the American colonel let him come and go through the cantonment, the village, and about the surrounding country at his pleasure.
Peggy had her own little mare with her, and Clifford having procured a mount, it came about that they spent long hours in the saddle, exploring the neighboring hills, the roads and byways around the camp. At no time did Clifford exhibit sadness or melancholy. Had it not been for the knowledge ever present in the background of their consciousness of what was to come it would have been a happy period.
The days passed. Ten had gone by, but there came no word from Harriet. Peggy found herself growing apprehensive. Would Harriet succeed? she asked herself again and again. No word had come from her. Did it mean failure? She had been so sure. And Peggy was glad that General Washington had insisted that two weeks be the period given for the mission. That Clifford was not insensible of the flight of time was made known to her the day before the two weeks were up.
“We are going to ride as far as we can to-day, my cousin,” he said as the horses were brought round. “There may be word from Harriet, or from your general to-morrow. Perhaps something will occur that will prevent us from riding.”
“Where shall we go, Clifford?” asked Peggy falling at once into his mood. “Our longest ride is to the five knob tree on the Short Hills road.”
“That will do admirably,” he answered. “And the glen beyond. Let us go through it once more. It hath much of beauty and romance in its scenery.”
The day was quite warm, but it was pleasantriding. Clifford was unusually silent, and for the greater part of the distance seemed absorbed in thought. He turned toward her at length smiling:
“I am not very talkative this morning, Peggy. I have been thinking of your father. He thought that he might return, you remember.”
“Yes, Clifford. And I,” she added tremulously, “have been thinking of Harriet. We have had no word.”
“She hath failed, my cousin. Had it not been so she would have been here. Harriet likes not to confess failure. I was certain that she would not succeed, and consented for her sake alone that she should make the effort.”
“Still, by that means thee had an extra lease of life, Clifford,” Peggy reminded him.
“I wonder if that hath been altogether for the best, Peggy,” he said seriously. “Sometimes, when after all one must undergo such a penalty as lies before me, the kindest thing that can happen is to have it over with without delay.”
“Don’t, Clifford,” she cried shuddering.“I think that none of us could have stood it. It would have broken our hearts. With the delay we cannot but hope and believe that something will prevent this awful measure from being carried out.”
They had reached the five knob tree by this time, and beyond it lay the glen of which Clifford had spoken. It was as he had said romantic in its wildness. Various cascades leaped in foamy beauty across the path of the road which ran through the deep vale. Firs lay thickly strewn about, and the horses had to pick their way carefully through them. Copper mines, whose furnaces had been half destroyed by the English, were now overgrown with vines and half hidden by fallen trees, showed the combined ravages of war and nature. A few yards in advance of them the glen widened into a sylvan amphitheater, waving with firs and pines, and rendered almost impassable by underbrush. A short turning in the road suddenly brought them in front of a romantic waterfall. The cousins drew rein, watching the fall of the water in silence, for the sound of the cascade precluded them from conversation. The sun shonethrough the tree tops giving a varied hue to the rich greenness of the foliage, and tinging with prismatic hues the sparkling water. So intent were they upon the downpour of the waterfall that they did not notice the dark forms which stole out from the underbrush, and stealthily formed a cordon about them. By the heads of the horses two forms arose suddenly like gnomes from the earth, and a scream escaped Peggy’s lips as a hoarse voice shouted:
“You are our prisoners! Dismount instantly.”