A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XIV.
HIGH LIVING.
The gift of mimicry had now served the young spy in good stead. He lay hidden for some time, chuckling over having barked to such good purpose. Then he retraced his steps, and at last he found the tree. No doubt the man he had seen there had been one of the mysterious people he was expected soon to meet.
By leaning far out from one branch to the other, George could insert his hand in the hole of the projecting limb. It was empty, and he dropped his letter into the hollow. Then he returned carefully through the town to the inn, and without much difficulty gained the top of the wall, the projecting roof, and once more his chamber window. The falling snow, he knew, would hide his footprints.
He was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking. He had slept late, and the glaring sunlight, reflected from the white expanse outside, was pouring into the room. He arose hastily and unlocked the door. One of the inn servants was standing there. He touched his finger to his forehead respectfully.
"The landlord's compliments, sir, and your box is here. Shall I bring it up?" he inquired.
George had made up his mind to be surprised at nothing. "By all means," he answered. "Glad it has arrived."
"Oh, it has been here this fortnight," returned the man.
"Of course," George laughed; "and longer, mayhap, eh?"
"I don't know, sir. Have you the key?"
The fictitious Mr. Blount did not know what to reply. "Mr. Gerry has it," he answered at last, mentioning the landlord's name at a venture.
"I will ask him, sir," said the servant, "and bring up the box at once."
He disappeared.
"What did it all mean?" thought George to himself.
In a few minutes the servant reappeared with a large leather-covered, nail-studded trunk. "And here's the key," he puffed. "Mr. Gerry had it, as you said, sir."
George raised the lid. Silk stockings, plush and velvet coats, satin waistcoats, and frilled shirts!—the wardrobe of a dandy—was exposed before his eyes. But instead of showing his astonishment, he merely closed the top and said:
"Is there naught else?"
"I think not, sir," said the servant, pocketing his tip.
When he had gone, "Mr. Richard Blount" took out the articles one by one.
"This may be part of the scheme," he said. "I suppose that I shall have to wear them. What's next to do?" He tried on the clothes. They fitted him as if made for him. He looked at himself in the greenish-yellow glass. "Whoever I look like," he said, "I do not resemble George Frothingham of the Twelfth New Jersey Infantry, that's one thing certain." Looking for a closet or a place to hang up his finery, he espied a small door at the farther side of the room. It opened upon a narrow stairway, and the odor of cooking showed that it led probably to the kitchen.
The only thing the trunk contained that George did not make use of was a white wig. The strong dye he had used had taken the curl out of his hair, and he drew it back from his forehead straight and glossy as an Indian's.
He chose a rather quiet wine-colored coat, crimson waistcoat, and pearl breeches, and setting the lace-trimmed hat jauntily on his head, went down into the coffee-room.
"Ah, good-morning, Mr. Blount!" said the landlord. "There was an officer of his Majesty's horse here this morning asking for you. But he requested that you should not be disturbed." George bowed his thanks, and asked the landlord to hurry with his breakfast.
As he turned about he could have fallen, for there, quite close to him, was standing Schoolmaster Anderson. He was not blind at all! His keen ferretlike eyes had the same quick glance, and his thin lips that same Sphinx-like expression. But the beauty of George's disguise was proved in an instant to his satisfaction, for Mr. Anderson looked at him curiously, and asked Mr. Gerry his name in a voice that was quite audible.
"Richard Blount," the latter replied.
"Ah, indeed!" answered the ex-schoolmaster. "The nephew of our friend—eh?"
"The same," the landlord replied, as his young guest seated himself at the table.
George's hands were shaking so with excitement that he could hardly hold his knife and fork at first, but he quickly got over it, and a feeling of exultation came into his mind. If Mr. Anderson had not recognized him, no one else would, surely. If no one who actually knew the real Richard Blount turned up, he was safe enough.
At this moment a loud blustering voice was heard, and a great figure came from the hallway into the coffee-room.
It was Rivington, the King's printer, the man the early patriots had wished to tar and feather for his utterances. He scarcely acknowledged Mr. Anderson's nod, but turned to an officer who was following him.
"How that little schoolmaster does put on airs!" he said. "Why he receives toleration I do not see."
"He is rather clever, I fancy," replied the officer. "His imitation of General Washington is most amusing."
"Yes, he is amusing," responded Rivington.
George looked at Mr. Anderson once more. His small head seemed to retreat into the folds of his neck-cloth, and the lace at his wristband hung below his finger-tips. His clothes were as gorgeous as the plumage of a peacock, and he had a way of bringing his heels together with a click like a dancing-master. But the keen eyes and that protruding chin would have told an accurate observer that a brain of no mean quality was hidden underneath the curled white wig. But Rivington and the officer were approaching.
"Ah, here's my friend of the other morning!" exclaimed the officer—"young Blount of Albany." The speaker was the young cavalry Captain who had met George on the hill-side two days before. "I see you have found your tailor," he went on.
"No; better luck, my wardrobe," answered George. "I feared me I had lost it."
"Good! Allow me to present our loyal friend, Mr. Rivington, long-time printer to his Majesty," replied the officer.
"Your service, sir," replied Mr. Rivington, looking at George thoughtfully. "You have not changed since I saw you last at Albany."
Imagine the surprise of the fictitious Richard Blount! Everything was certainly playing into his hands. But he merely bowed, and asked the two gentlemen to breakfast with him. They accepted, and seated themselves.
George once more had to recount the story of his supposed adventures on the way from the city up the river.
Occasionally Rivington would interrupt with leading questions. "Ah, from there you turned to the left and took the Lime Kiln Road beyond Hudson—eh? Then down into the valley by Cloverburgh?"
A fear welled into George's heart. Was this man trying to trip him? So to all questions he replied in the negative, and told of another way; to which Rivington agreed, generally speaking, thus:
"Yes, 'tis the better route, I understand. A very clever ruse, indeed. Think you not so, Captain?"
"Quite wonderful," the other replied. "Mr. Blount should tell it to General Howe. The Yankees are not so clever as he thinks."
"Oh, by no odds!" Rivington had responded.
"You mentioned having despatches to his Lordship and his brother," said the younger officer. "Do you not think it would be well to deliver them as soon as possible? Pardon my suggestion."
"'Tis my intention to deliver them to-day. Can you secure an interview?" inquired George, eagerly.
"Beyond all doubt I can," said Rivington, interrupting. "They will be glad to see you."
An hour or so later George was waiting, with the florid printer, in the little anteroom of the polished hallway of one of the large private houses that belonged to New York's most wealthy family. It was here that General Howe and his brother, the noble Lord, lived when on shore. They both had quarters also on board the flag-ship in the bay.
Something was going on, for aides and orderlies streamed in and out of the big house, and despatches were being taken to the various commands; secretaries, with their arms full of papers and with pens behind their ears came out occasionally, filled with importance.
At last an orderly stepped up to where our hero and Rivington were pleasantly chatting. "General Howe will see you, gentlemen," he said, saluting.
George caught himself in the act of replying to the salute. That would never do at all. He was supposed to be ignorant of military tactics, and he trembled at his narrow escape.
General Howe glanced over the despatches lazily. He appeared to be an easy-going man of indolent habits, for he lounged in his chair. He had a good-natured face.
"So the American General Schuyler is disgruntled, eh?" he said. "'Tis quite like opera-bouffe. And they say that Farmer Gates from Massachusetts may supersede him. Well, well, the plot thickens. Burgoyne's army is obstructed by broken roads and felled trees. Let them take their time. They will encounter nothing worse. 'Tis my opinion that we forced things too hard in Now Jersey. I thank you for the news these despatches contain, my dear young sir," he said, "and it is good news to hear of our friends up the river. Can I do anything for you? You can most certainly command me. I trust I shall see you again."
A splendid hound was sprawled out on the rug before the fireplace. George looked at him carefully. He knew the dog in an instant. It was one that had been raised by Mr. Wyeth. General Howe followed the lad's glance.
"I see you know a good dog when you see him," he said. "'Twas a present to me from a soldier. He seems to have an antipathy for Yankees, but likes a scarlet coat."
The dog turned over on his back and lazily tapped the floor with his tail. Seeing George, he arose and stretched himself; but as he approached closer he suddenly grew excited, and jumped up on the young man's breast, trying his best to lick his hands and face.
"How strange!" said General Howe. "I have never seen him pay aught of attention to a stranger here before. Down, down! you devil!" The dog slunk beneath the table, and at last Rivington and "Richard Blount" stepped out in the hallway.
"'Tis strange about dogs," the older man was saying. "They are both faithful and capricious."
George went back to his hotel. On his way he had another proof that his disguise was quite impenetrable, for whom should he pass walking along the street but Abel Norton, the chief clerk. George held his breath. The old man, however, looked him in the face and passed on.
All this lack of recognition gave George the necessary assurance to carry on his fictitious position. He listened to the talk of the soldiers in the grill-room at the City Arms, but gained little knowledge of the plans even from the conversation of the officers. It was evident that the leaders of the British feared their divulgence. It was not Lord Howe's intention to let Washington know the destination of the fleet, which he could turn either northward to the assistance of Burgoyne, or southward into the Chesapeake and the Delaware. While this uncertainty remained, both forces were at a standstill.
It had thawed during the day, and a drizzling rain had set in. Late at night George opened the window, and once more stood upon the roof. Then he dropped over the wall to the ground. He had once more donned the old suit which he had worn as his first disguise, and with his collar drawn up to his ears he strode northward. He had not gone far when, as he turned about the corner of a lane, he thought he heard the sound of some one screaming. Then a doorway burst open, throwing a flood of light out into the darkness, and a female voice was heard screaming shrilly:
"Thieves! robbers! help!"
A man's figure was seen struggling at the doorway with a woman, who had grasped him firmly by the throat.
George, animated by an impulse, jumped the fence and ran to the house. But before he reached there, a man turned the corner at top speed and disappeared.
George knew the little house well; it was in a room in the second story that he had passed many a night thinking of the past and planning for the future. It was Mrs. Mack's.
"For the love of Heaven, Mr. Frothingham!" exclaimed a voice.
George had come within the ray of light, and it was none other than the good washer-woman who was standing there.
"The blackguard tried to rob me," she said. "He stole in the back way, and I found him in the pantry; but he didn't get a thing," she added, "He might have murthered me intirely if you hadn't come up, sir."
George stepped inside the house and closed the door. "Would you have known me, Mrs. Mack?" he asked.
"Indade in a minute, sir," she said, "I think. No, but you have changed. Perhaps it was the way you leaped the fince. Your hair, sir—what has happened it?"
"Mrs. Mack," said George, "I must speak quickly. I am here on dangerous business. If you see me anywhere you must not recognize me—until you see me in my uniform. Do you understand?"
"Shure," said the good woman. "Now I recall your face, you're a perfect stranger, sir."
George smiled. "Have you seen the deaf-and-dumb man who brought the money to me?"
"I do now and then. And shure he often asks fer ye."
"And what do you tell him?" asked George.
"That I hope ye're well," she responded.
"Now, Mrs. Mack, how can you do it?"
"And indade and with signs, and why not?" she asked, giving the same answer that she had once before. "P'r'aps I have promised not to tell."
"Well," was the response, "remember, would you know me now? I have to hasten."
"I would not," replied the widow. "Good-by, and may the Lord bless ye!"
"It was strange that she recognized me and the others did not," George was thinking to himself, as he approached the lonely orchard, whose path was rarely used except by the occupants of the two farms that bordered it. "It may have been the walk," he added.
The snow had melted so that he could find no trace of any one having been there before him on this day, but when he reached his hand back into the limb of the tree, he touched a paper. How it thrilled him! Now he would find out what things meant. There was something else there also, and stretching out his fingers, he grasped a leather bag, which clinked musically as he drew it forth. It was more gold! He hurried back to the inn, and climbed to the top of the wall. But what was his dismay and horror when he saw a figure on the roof bending on its knees trying to look into the window of his room! A light was burning brightly within.
George lowered himself cautiously and turned about the corner. What was he to do? How was he to regain the second story? The papers must be read at once.
George did not know that the man on the roof had caught sight of his head as he had drawn himself up to the top of the wall, and had called: "Hist! Blount! Oh, Blount!" in a low tone.
Then the stranger had crawled to the edge of the roof, and whispered again: "Hist! Number Four! I am Number Two."
But he looked and listened in vain for an answer, for at this moment George had disappeared in the darkness. He had not heard the hail.
With the agility of a sailor the small figure slid to the ground and walked away quickly. If the young spy had heard the footsteps he would have known that it was his old friend the schoolmaster.
When George reached the corner he leaned back against a buttress, puzzling what to do.
Then he remembered with a start the door in his room that he had opened thinking it would be a closet, but had discovered it to be a narrow stairway that led down into a sort of servants' hall off the kitchen. If he could gain it now he might be able to see within his apartment and find out what was going on. The man on the roof prevented him, of course, from getting back the way he left.
The tap-room opened upon the alley. It was thick with the clouds of tobacco smoke, and noisy with the conversation of the crowd. He knew that if he could once get beyond it to the kitchen he might be able to find the door that led to the stairway. And now an idea struck him. The walls were covered with rough cartoons and sheets of somewhat vulgar songs, which most of the crowd had learned by heart. He had seen the men often edging along, with their faces close to the wall, as if they had been bookworms searching in a case for a mislaid volume. He stepped inside the room, and followed the same tactics. No one paid the least attention to him, and with his back to those seated about the tables, he made his way to the kitchen. Here good luck also favored him, for a fat man in a greasy apron snored in the corner. He was the only occupant, and a door partly ajar disclosed to him the servants' stairway.
George stole softly up, and reached a little landing, which he knew at once was the one he had looked at from his own room. He could hear the sound of voices from within. One was loud and hearty, and the other he knew at once as Landlord Gerry's.
"He is out on some escapade with the young officers, I promise you," said the landlord, "or mayhap he has gone over to the fleet, though all below-stairs say that they did not see him go out. Why don't you wait until the morning, sir? He appears a popular young gentleman, and may possibly stay out late."
"No, he is a sleepy-head, my nephew," responded the other. "And he will return soon if summat has not befallen him."
"He is a handsome lad," put in the landlord.
The other laughed. "Well, that depends where you look for beauty," he responded. "I never reckoned him as such."
George saw it all now. It was the uncle from Connecticut, who had returned, and, to use the expression, "the jig was up."
But what meant the man on the roof?
Seating himself on the stairway, his courage almost left him. What was he to do? A hiding-place must be found before morning.
He thought at once of Mrs. Mack's. There lay his only hope. But there was now some movement in the kitchen. The fat man, who had been sleeping, was stirring a rasher of bacon over the fire. The talking had ceased in his room, and suddenly he remembered with a start of fright that the cipher and locket he had left under the pillow of the bed. It almost made him sick with fear. He moved from his hiding-place, and putting his eye to the key-hole, looked within.
The candle was guttering, and a huge shadow wavered across the opposite wall. As his eye became accustomed to the light and the draught of air blowing through the key-hole, he made out the figure of the large man sitting in an easy-chair. His breast was rising and falling. He was asleep.
IN TWO STEPS HE WOULD BE IN FULL VIEW.
George tried the door. It moved, and in a moment he was standing in the room. Here he paused. In two steps more he would be in full view of the person looking through the window. He carefully measured the distance and the direction of objects about him; and drawing a long breath he blew with all his might at the candle on the dressing-case. It flickered and went out. Then he stepped across in the darkness and placed his hand beneath the pillow.
The heavy man drew a long breath and moved his head. "Confound that light!" he said, and George heard him arise to his feet and fumble along the wall.