A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XVII.
A COUNTERPLOT.
So fine a time were the English officers having in New York that they chafed very little beneath General Howe's protracted inaction. The only fighting that William saw was on one of Tryon's foraging expeditions into Connecticut, and, if the truth may be told, he was sickened and sorrowed in heart at the vandalism done by the forces of the King. What was the use of applying the torch to the houses of these poor misguided farmers? and how bravely the little band of homespun coats had resisted their advance upon a quiet little village! One thing was firmly in his mind when he returned to the city from this expedition of plunder—Colonel Forsythe was right. It would take England's best blood and resources. In fact, the task of getting back the Colonies was the greatest that any army of Great Britain had ever had laid out before it.
The fearless behavior of a farmer's lad, captured upon the march, struck William with admiration. This was no "rebel." It was a patriot type, and the Frothingham blood boiled at the brutality of a soldier who had insulted the young prisoner.
William had a dream one night which disturbed him more than a little. It seemed to him that he was walking along the road through a very beautiful country. On either hand stretched green undulating meadows, and neat white farm-houses were on the hill-sides. The wind was waving the tassels of the corn softly. It was just such a view as he had seen on his ride to New York with Uncle Nathan and his brother after the first excitement at Stanham Mills.
It appeared, to him, however, as he walked along this road that was so real, that he saw a gathering ahead of him, and caught a glimpse of the uniforms of King George and the tall hats of the Hessians. As he approached he saw that there was great movement in their midst, and suddenly a beautiful woman dressed in white burst from the crowd. She was struggling to free her hands, which were tied behind her back. The soldiers and the Hessians were pelting her with mud and stones.
"I am Liberty, Liberty!" she cried.
To his chagrin, William saw himself in all his finery gather up a large stone and hurl it at the beautiful figure in white, and at that moment every little farm-house on the hill burst into flame, and the corn in the fields shrivelled to the stalks, and a great voice resounded through the air,
"Fair Liberty is dead—is dead!"
He had disliked himself very much for having had such a dream and appearing in such a shameful character. It was some time before he could shake off the effect of it from his mind.
It was a starlit evening after the return of the expedition, and he was walking quickly through the street to join a small party at the headquarters of another regiment. As he followed the narrow path in the snow a woman's figure stepped to one side.
"WHERE IS THE OTHER UNIFORM?" SHE SAID.
"Where is the other uniform?" she said.
"Pardon me," said William. "I do not understand."
"No more do I," the woman answered. "But my heart is broke."
William had smiled, but the woman had stepped out into the snow as if to avoid him, and had hurried past.
"Poor crazy creature!" said the young officer to himself. "She looked at me as if she knew me."
But he could not rid himself altogether of that reproachful look for quite some time. And another thing that puzzled him was the strange conduct of the landlord at the City Arms.
"I had a guest at my house not long ago," said he, upon one occasion, "who favored you most wonderfully. His name was Blount of Albany. Know you aught of him?"
Two or three people had spoken of the same resemblance, and told of the disappearance of the lad from up the river.
A suspicion had entered William's mind, but he kept it to himself. Soon, however, was it to be confirmed beyond all doubt.
A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms at Fraunces's Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had again recurred to the distasteful dream.
"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton Blount, of Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle of the young man who disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one who had the pleasure of meeting him has remarked the curious resemblance that you bear one another."
"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face and figure. "'Twould be quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate nephew; but they say that relationship can never see resemblances."
"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had the honor of piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and well-spoken young gentleman he was."
"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark whether he was lame?"
"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite graceful with it all, and his hair was black and straight."
"Like an Indian's?"
"Yes," was the answer, "very like."
"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems like witchcraft. No trace of him to be found, although we have searched everywhere."
As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer joined him, and passed his arm through his.
"Oh, Frothingham," he said, "I have something truly strange to tell you! I was on a visit of inspection to the town prisons a week or so ago, and at an old sugar-house on Rose or Vine Street I saw your very double. The resemblance has been haunting me, and I just have placed it."
"I seem to have doubles everywhere," answered William, carelessly, though a great fear welled up in his heart. "I had supposed you were going to tell me that I look like a Mr. Blount."
"I know him not," answered the officer, "but I do assure you that you bear a great resemblance to this prisoner."
When William reached his room that night he rested for a long time, wide-awake and thinking. It might be George who was held in prison.
All the next morning he was on duty at headquarters, and in the afternoon he hastened toward the old sugar-house, whose location he knew from the officer's description. With little trouble he succeeded in getting permission from the jailer to look through the cells and corridors. He had muffled part of his face in a wide silk neckerchief, and had pushed his hat well forward on his forehead. He advanced hastily into the large hall, and his eye ran around in a swift glance. With a sense of relief that there was no one there that resembled the description in the slightest way, he went on until he came to the cell next but one to the end of the corridor. He looked within. Though the light was quite dim, he could make out a figure lying on a patchwork quilt. He placed his face close to the bars. His heart was beating furiously. There could be no doubt about it. He grasped the iron closer for support. It was George, his brother, fast asleep. The Virgil lay open on the floor, and one slender finger marked the place.
With an effort William managed to compose himself. "What is this young man imprisoned for?" he asked, in a whisper, of the jailer at his side.
"For stealing a watch," was the reply. "He tried to escape, and has been wounded slightly in the arm. He appears to have been a likely youth, and 'tis a shame that he should have fallen so, for he has some learning." The man shook his head pityingly.
William did not hear the last words. It appeared to him that a bright flash came and went before his eyes, and again he grasped the bars of the doorway. His brother George a thief. It could not be!
"Shall I wake him, sir," put in the jailer, not noticing William's perturbation.
The young officer recovered himself.
"Oh, by no means!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Pray do not disturb him."
As he was about to release his hold from one of the iron bars, he perceived that it was filed almost in twain from the inside! He could feel it with his fingers. The sleeper moved slightly, and William stepped to one side out of sight.
It was quite difficult that he could affect any interest in the rest of the prisoners, his brain was whirling so, and soon he thanked the jailer and left the gloomy shadow of the building.
When he reached the outside air he drew down the muffler, for he felt faint and sick. The tall soldier on guard at the gateway saluted him. William turned, and as he did so almost ran into the arms of the little schoolmaster, who was bobbing quickly along.
"Ho, ho, Lieutenant!" was the greeting; but a glance at the young man's face told the story. "You know it. You have seen him?" asked Schoolmaster Anderson.
"I have, and I am going to find out more. They say he stole, that my brother is a thief. I cannot—"
"No, no, he is not," said Mr. Anderson. "On my honor no—and try to find out nothing, for by doing so you may place a halter around his neck." Then he added, quite calmly, "Your brother is a spy."
A sense of horror and yet of relief came over William.
"I have imperilled my own safety by befriending him," said Schoolmaster Anderson. "Surely you, his brother, will not betray him?"
"Tell me," inquired William, "is he Richard Blount of Albany?"
"He took the young man's place at the peril of his life," answered the schoolmaster. "Now say nothing more."
"But he is about to escape!" exclaimed the young Lieutenant.
It was the schoolmaster's time to start. "He is?" he inquired, half faltering.
"Ay," said William. "The iron bars are almost filed in two."
"Well, well," remarked Mr. Anderson. "That will never do. We will have to change that. Sure enough. He must be moved, but his safety is the first thing to be thought of. You agree with me?"
"I am going to make myself known to him," exclaimed William, turning as if to retrace his steps toward the prison.
"I pray that you will do nothing of the kind," broke in the old schoolmaster. "It is only by great good fortune that his identity has not been established. Any attention attracted to him might be the means of accomplishing just what we wish to avoid."
"I will leave it all to you then, Mr. Anderson. Only we cannot connive at the escape of a rebel spy, even if he is my brother."
"Your family is not the only one that is divided on this sad subject," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head. "Just look about you everywhere."
After this there was but little said, and the two parted further down the street, William depressed and sorrowed by the discovery and the secret that bore upon his mind.
But to return to the cell of the mysterious young prisoner who read his Virgil so indefatigably.
He had not been asleep at all upon the occasion of William's unexpected visit. In fact, he had been working with a small file upon the iron bars. It had to be done very carefully indeed, by fits and starts, for a long-continued exertion might at any time bring upon him the attention of the guard.
He had not recognized his brother in the dim light, and only thought him one of the inspecting officers, although he had shivered when the jailer spoke in such an off-hand manner of his being accused of theft.
In the mean time he had read his cipher note.
It told him that on a certain night, if it were possible for him to file his bars in two, a boat with two rowers would be waiting beneath a wharf of the North River. If everything worked smoothly on both sides, signals would be exchanged.
The note was signed by Number Two. George knew this to be friend Anderson. It stated that Number Three was unfortunately ill, and George knew that Number Three was Abel Norton.
He had destroyed the epistle, and recommenced the tedious work of filing away the bars.
Despite Mr. Anderson's warning, William could hardly restrain a desire to visit the sugar-house and have a long talk with his brother, but he saw that the consequences might be most disastrous. However, there was one thing he could do—help George's material comfort; he would claim this privilege at least.
Meeting Mr. Anderson one day, he asked him if George needed anything that he could procure. To his surprise, the little schoolmaster refused to discuss the question, and William took the hint that he was not supposed to know that his brother was in New York at all. So, pained and chagrined, he dropped the subject; he could not insist, as he had left the matter in Mr. Anderson's hands.
He was, however, soon to undergo a great surprise.
Huddled up in his long gray cloak, he was facing a small snow-storm that whirled the drifts around the corners of the houses, and as he emerged into Waddell Lane a tall man who was approaching glanced at him most curiously. Just as William was passing, the other extended his arm and grasped him by the shoulder.
"Hold! I would not go in that direction," said the man. "Don't be rash. Be cautious, Frothingham, I do beseech you. Step to one side in the alley here; no one will see us, and I would have a word with you."
William, to his best knowledge and belief, had never seen the person who addressed him so readily and excitedly by name before.
Something told him at once that here was one of the persons concerned in his brother George's intended escape. It behooved him well to listen.
"You have chosen a good night," said Mr. Abel Norton, drawing the young Lieutenant into the shadow of the doorway of an empty house, "a splendid night. It has worked well; but, Heavens! a full uniform! How did you procure it, in the name of mercy?"
"It was easier than you think, I suspect," said William, now speaking for the first time.
"I wish I could say it becoming," went on the older man. "It must itch you like a hair shirt—eh?"
William said nothing.
"I met your colored servant two days ago. I remembered having seen him with your uncle years gone by. He has returned to New Jersey with tidings of you, and the news that you have been slightly wounded and that you will follow him. By this time they at Stanham have learned of your intention to escape. I have been ill," continued Abel Norton. "This is the first day that I have been out. I was on my way to the prison to see if in some way I could learn tidings of you."
"There is no necessity of going now," said William.
"So I see, my dear boy. You never liked me when we worked together in Sir Wyeth's office. What a proud young limb you were, and as solitary as an owl! But this is no time for reminiscing. Is the boat prepared?"
"That's just the question," put in William, at a venture. "Everything has worked well, but that I do not know."
"It must be arranged then at once to-night. I will see to it myself," said his mysterious acquaintance. "I know the ferrymen and where to reach them. Shall I do it?"
"You had better," was the answer. "And let me know where I can find them."
"At Striker's wharf, then, at eleven o'clock to-night. It will be pitch-dark and a rough passage. Where are you bound to now?"
"To a safe hiding-place," answered William.
"Take care—take care—don't be too bold," said the other, cautiously. "Well, if you will, may good-luck wait on you. To-night, then, at eleven."
Abel Norton did not know what loyal British hands grasped his, but the pressure was firm and hearty, for William's heart went out to this friend of his brother's.
"Schoolmaster Anderson has frustrated the attempt at escape, of course," he thought to himself, "and the boat-men will wait in vain. I could not find it in my heart to tell the old fellow who I was. He might have died from sheer astonishment." But it seemed quite natural to be taken for George again. The resemblance was not lost.
Abel Norton would have been astounded had he known where the "safe hiding-place" was toward which the young spy was hastening, for he walked on down the lane until he came to the corner, and went straight through the main entrance into the City Arms. He stamped the snow from his heels and was hailed by a group of officers, who made room for him at the table. He but half listened to the conversation, until some one slapped his shoulder.
"Come, come, recall your wandering thoughts!"
William gathered his wits together with an effort.
"I have just discovered," said an officer, "that despatches of the greatest moment are passing between New England and General Washington's army. We are quite as anxious to find out what his move will be as he is to ascertain ours. You know something of the country over yonder?"
"Yes," replied William, "I was born and reared there."
A stranger in an ill-fitting uniform had been listening to the talk. He now leaned across the table and addressed a question to the two speakers.
"Your name is Frothingham, I believe, sir?"
"Yes, sir," answered William.
"Are you a relation of that family at Stanham Manor? I am a New Jersey man in the King's service."
"I am," was the reply.
"Have you not a brother?"
"I have—or had. He," said William, laconically, "is in the American service."
"Think nothing of that," was the response. "My own father and two brothers hold positions of some importance under Washington. In fact, my own wife sides with the rebels." The Tory officer said this as if he were stating something quite ordinary. "This post-route of which we were speaking when you entered, and through which all the despatches go, runs through your country; and General Greene has cut a road, I take it, almost through your land. The 'Cowboys' and 'Skinners' keep things lively not far to the northward, but methinks it would be easy to obtain advices near Stanham Mills or at the Hewes's estates. They have turned your foundry into rebel gun-shops."
"Have they, indeed? I have heard no news for a long time from there."
William again relapsed into silence.
The inaction and the constant recurrence of the disagreeable dream of poor persecuted Liberty had begun to tell. Insidious horrible thoughts now and then flitted through his mind. Could he be doubtful of his own loyalty? No; but he must do something to prove it and put it to the test, if only for himself.
Then an idea came over him with such force as almost caused him to exclaim aloud, "Eureka!" he said, to himself. "I have it. For the King—for the King!'"
He pushed himself back from the table and hurried out of doors. He fairly ran down the street to the corner on which stood the handsome residence of General Howe.
"I would see the General on important business," he said to the sentry. "Tell him that it is most urgent."
The orderly, after some delay, brought back a message of admittance, and William followed him into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief.
He was lolling back in his chair, with a half-finished decanter on the table beside him.
"Well, my young sir, what is this 'important business'?"
"Merely a request, your Excellency, that I may be detailed to obtain information of the movements of the American forces. I have an opportunity to penetrate into their lines with the best chance of my commission being undiscovered. I think I can obtain important news.
"Your request is granted. And when would you leave?" spoke up the General, lazily.
"To-night, at eleven o'clock," was the reply William made, remembering that that was the time the strange tall man had mentioned.