A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XV.
A SAFE DISGRACE.
George was so near that the heavy man could have touched him with his hand, but after scratching about the door, he found the latch at last, and stumbled sleepily out into the hall. Owing to the darkness within the room George could now see out of the curtainless window. There was no one on the roof! However, he could not tarry where he was; he must take the risk; and slipping the miniature and cipher into his pocket, he opened the window and slid over the wall to the alley. It was turning freezing cold; the ground crunched under his feet, and the little gate to the widow's diminutive front yard creaked shrilly. The young spy knocked softly on the door.
"Who's there?" came a voice from the second story.
"'Tis I, George Frothingham," he answered. "Mrs. Mack, I pray you let me in."
The old woman in a minute admitted him into the hallway.
"You will have to hide me somewhere, my good friend," he said, "for I am in great danger."
"The very place! the little room that you used to have," was the whispered response. "No one would think of looking for ye there; and if they did, there's a small attic over-head. Why should they think of my house?" she added.
Once more George found himself in the little room where he had passed so many lonely hours reading and writing, recalling pleasant scenes, and drawing bright pictures of what he hoped might be, before the great changes had arrived. Thinking that it might attract attention to have a light burning in the room at such an hour, he refrained from trying to read the despatches, putting it off until morning. He tumbled into the little bed that he had slept in so often, and, despite the excitement of the night, fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight—such a crisp sparkling day! Every twig on the trees shone like a branch of diamonds. The pools in the road were filled with white brittle ice that broke and shivered noisily beneath the feet of some school-boys going down the road.
"Oh, that I was only one of them!" thought George, looking out of the window. A curtain was tacked across the panes, and he could look out without being seen.
Suddenly he stopped, half dressed, although the room was intensely cold, and pulled out the despatch he had found in the hollow limb. There it was, neatly written in the cipher, and that also was at hand. But where were the magnifying-glass and the snuff-box? He could not find them, and strain his eyes to their utmost, he could not make out clearly the characters on the diminutive sheet of parchment. He hastily finished dressing, and called through the hallway for Mrs. Mack. There was no answer. Then he thought of a large round glass bowl that used to hang by a chain in the window below-stairs. He remembered that when filled with water it magnified extremely well. Mrs. Mack had evidently gone out, the house seemed deserted, so he slipped down the stairs, and found the bowl in its accustomed place. But as he reached it from the hook he paused. Two persons were softly talking at the back of the hall. He could feel, from the draught of air, that the door was open.
"'Tis very strange," said a man's voice; "but there's great excitement at the City Arms. I was there with the milk this morning, and they say as how a young gentleman from up the river has disappeared—murdered, maybe, for all they know. They are looking in all directions for him."
"And what might be his name?"
George recognized Mrs. Mack's voice.
"I have forgotten," said the man; "but they say he was a handsome lad, and scattered his money as if he expected it to grow again."
Then followed some conversation about the milk, and the door was closed. Mrs. Mack started as she saw her guest approaching.
"You had better stay in your room, Mr. Frothingham," she said. "That is my neighbor, the milkman, an inquisitive blackguard."
"Mrs. Mack," responded George, "I am the young man who is missing from the City Arms. They must not find me."
"Shure you're safe here. But what are you doing with the bowl, sir?" inquired the woman.
"I am going to read with it," said George. "Will you fill it with water?"
Mrs. Mack looked at him as if she thought he had taken leave of his senses, but she complied, and brought the bowl up to his room. In a few minutes more George was easily able to decipher the despatch. It ran as follows:
"To you,—Your number is four; initial B. Observe. We are glad to hear from our brother in New Jersey, and that he approves of the plan. It can be done. We are not suspected, and your arrival is most opportune. You have been seen by us; you are the young man for our purpose. It must be done on Friday night. A dinner will be given at a place to which you will receive an invitation. It is but a few steps from the river. After the dinner, cards will be proposed. Tables will be arranged in such a way that he whom we wish will be seated near the door. A note will arrive requesting his presence with the fleet. There will be no moon. A man-of-war's boat will be waiting; once in mid-stream, he will never reach the ships, for we know who mans the boat. The only difficulty will be to disarm suspicion of those who accompany him. They must be detained. You and another, who will be made known to you, will be playing at the farther table. You back him heavily with gold and lose your wager. This will keep the officers' attention. They will endeavor to stay after he is gone. When we have ten minutes' start pretend to be enraged, upset the table. There will be great confusion. The party will break up at once. Leave through the alley behind the house; go to Striker's Wharf. There you will find an able skiff. New Jersey is to the westward. We leave the rest to you. If we can keep enough of his friends from following him, it will be easy to accomplish our end of the undertaking. To-morrow at five o'clock be walking down the left-hand side of Johnson's Lane. Some one will pass you who will strike three times on the lid of his snuff-box. Turn and follow him. We hold no meetings, but he will give you some instructions. Final orders at the limb. You are number Four of Seven. Remember."
George read the strange epistle through. It was of little use to him now; he could not show himself in his assumed character. Richard Blount and the manner of his disappearance must remain a mystery. So far as he was concerned, he could lend no assistance in the proposed scheme. He tore the letter up, burning the scraps; but, after considering, he determined, however, to keep the appointment with the man with the snuff-box that evening.
At five o'clock, with a worsted shawl of Mrs. Mack's bound tightly about his throat and a heavy fur cap drawn around his ears, he was stamping his heels together like a butcher's apprentice, a basket on his arm, at the corner of Johnson's Lane. Three or four people passed him, but he saw no signs of a man with a tendency to tap on his snuff-box. At last, as he looked down the lane, he perceived a small figure walking toward him with a quick nervous step. George did not know what to do, for he recognized at once that it was Mr. Anderson. Strange to say, as he was approaching he drew a snuff-box from his pocket. Then with a flood of light it dawned upon the lad that Mr. Anderson was one of the "Seven," and he understood why he had not been recognized, and also knew that there was an able hand at the helm.
As the little man approached, a tall figure also appeared about the corner, and strode after the schoolmaster with long swinging steps. George saw at once that it was the young officer who had breakfasted with him the day before. They would soon be within speaking distance. Taking a few hasty steps he darted about the corner, dropping his basket as he ran. So quick had been the movement that he was not in time to dodge a great lanky man who was walking quickly from the opposite direction, and he ran right into his arms. So great was his impetus that the man fell back against the wall of a brick house, and his huge watch flew out of his pocket and was dashed to pieces.
"FROTHINGHAM! FROTHINGHAM!" THE OLD CLERK TRIED TO SAY.
"You thieving villain! Stop thief—stop!" exclaimed the stranger, making a grasp for George's shoulder. But now the lad's great strength once more served him in good stead. He struck down the other's arm, and as he did so gasped, for the person he had run into was none other than Abel Norton, his old chief clerk. Abel's other hand had firm hold upon the woollen comforter, and George caught him by the throat and twisted him backwards across his knee. "Frothingham! Frothingham!" the old clerk tried to say.
Here was an added danger. He was recognized! The two men must now be almost at the corner. With a final effort George tore himself away, and started down the alley at a run. He knew that farther on there was a big lumber-yard that opened on the main street. If he could reach there ahead of the others, he might manage to escape.
Abel's first cries, however, had brought a number of people from the public-houses, and the young officer and Mr. Anderson came about the corner of the lane. George's fleeing figure was in plain sight.
"Stop thief!" the officer shouted, and leaped forward with the stride of a swift runner.
"Stop thief!" echoed Abel Norton, and strange to say, the old man caught up with the redcoat easily, and, stranger still, appeared to slip and fall upon his heels. Down they both went.
Schoolmaster Anderson in the mean time was at the head of four or five other pursuers, who had run from the tap-rooms. Before he reached the spot where the two leaders were gathering themselves together, he also tripped, and the two next fell over him. There was a general laugh, and by this time George had turned through the gateway into the lumber-yard. Here again he had to adapt himself to circumstances, for at the farther entrance was standing a group of soldiers throwing horseshoes at a peg in the frozen ground. He could not go out of that opposite gate without exciting suspicion. There were only two things left him to do; one to jump the fence to the left, or try to scale the high wall to the right. A glance at the latter decided matters. There was a clumsy-looking ladder leaning against the wall. He hastened up, and threw himself over the top, kicking the ladder from beneath him as he jumped. He came down in a little garden. He had doubled on his tracks, and could hear the pursuit going down the road behind him. Suddenly he glanced up at the small house; it bore a sign over the front door:
MADAME LUCILLA BONSALL,
DRESSMAKER.
ROBES ET MANTEAUX.
He tried the door, it was unlocked, and he stepped in without knocking. A strange-looking woman with a long face and pale blue eyes was sitting there. George knew her at a glance to be Luke Bonsall's mother. She looked up from her sewing.
"What means this?" she asked, in a deep, hollow voice.
"I am a friend of your son's in the army. I have a message—a message from him to you," said George, panting. "Take me where we can be alone, and I will tell you."
The woman got up and slipped the bolt into the door.
"A message from my son!" she repeated. "He is dead."
George started. There would be no necessity to break the news. "I have a letter here," he said, fumbling in his pocket, "How did you know he died, might I ask, madam? It is true, and I was sorry to bear the tidings."
"I dreamed it," said the woman. "See, I am in black."
George handed her the letter. She read it carefully, but did not weep or show that it had touched her.
"It's good news," she said. "I told him that I could not be the mother of a coward."
"Indeed he was none such," answered George, quickly. "He died like a brave soldier, and would have made his mark."
"It was not to be," responded the woman. "The Fates would not have it so."
"What a strange creature is this!" thought George to himself. But had he known all, it would have seemed stranger still, for Mrs. Bonsall was a believer in occult signs, and long ago she had had her son's horoscope cast. She had been informed that the sickly, pale-eyed youth was to die in battle. The idea then would have seemed most amusing to any one else, but to Mrs. Bonsall it had been a reality, and Luke himself had gone to the front with this cloud about him. He was brave indeed.
George suddenly remembered his own position, and extended his hand. There had come a confused babble of voices out in the yard.
"Do you hear that, Mrs. Bonsall? They are after me! See," he said, "you must assist me. I must hide until dark, for if I am found my life is not worth a pine-tree shilling. They think I am a thief. I am not."
"Come," the woman said; "walk softly." She took him by the hand and led him back to a small stairway. They went up two flights until they reached a large empty hall. George stumbled over a heavy pair of boots, and looking through an open doorway on the right, he could see a cavalry sabre leaning against a chair.
"Sh! they have quartered them upon me," whispered Mrs. Bonsall. "But it's not for long, for despair and defeat await them. Ah yes! I know, I know!" Mrs. Bonsall pushed the fugitive into a little room beyond, and locked the door behind him.
He sat down on a chair near the window and looked out. He could see over the top of the wall that he had scaled. There were some soldiers and a number of men rummaging about the heaps of lumber. Then he heard a thump of the knocker on the door below. A rumbling sound followed. The strain was frightful on George's nerves.
"And think you I would shelter a pickpocket?" asked the woman, plainly.
George could not make out the reply, for a loud voice shouted, in a rich brogue: "Out, you fools! There's no one here. What do you take this spacious mansion for—a thieves' den? By the powers!"
"Don't let them in, Corporal Shaughnessy," pleaded the widow's voice.
The loud voice was now rumbling from below again. Some one in the crowd laughed, and George breathed easily as he heard them go out into the road.
It seemed to him now that it never would grow dark. He realized that he was very hungry, and he tried the door, but it was firmly locked. He was in Mrs. Bonsall's power, but he felt somehow that he could trust her. As he was deliberating whether to try the window or not, he heard the sound of footsteps.
"By the gun of Athlone!" said Corporal Shaughnessy's voice, "we will be moving soon, and sorry will I be, for though our landlady is the only female who ever failed to smile upon me, our quarters here are comfortable, and I would hate to be losing of them for a bed in the snows of the wilderness."
"They do be saying," put in another voice, "that it will be decided at the meeting to-night."
"And where's that to be held?" said the first speaker.
"At the Fraunces House. They always hold them there. I have been upon guard there."
"Come into me spacious apartment and have a pipe, McCune," said Shaughnessy.
The tones of the two men talking were familiar to George somehow. But when he heard the name "McCune," he recalled the whole thing to his memory. They were the two soldiers he and his brother had talked with years ago on that memorable day of parting.
The door closed behind them, and it had hardly done so when a soft grating of the key in the lock was heard. Mrs. Bonsall opened the door. Once more she took him by the hand and led the way down the stairs.
As they went through the front room the woman picked up a candle and looked intently at George's palm.
"Tribulations," she said; "but do not despair; success awaits you."
George did not smile, but gravely thanked her for all that she had done, and slipped out of the house.
It was pitch dark, and he remembered as he went along that he was far from accomplishing anything that he had made the perilous trip for. All his fine castles had tumbled about his ears, the smooth pathway that appeared to stretch before him had vanished, and nothing but obstacles loomed before his eyes. However, if he could not assist in the wild scheme of gaining possession of such a powerful hostage as Lord Howe or his brother, the General, any news that he could bring concerning the probable destination of the army would be of inestimable value to General Washington at Morristown. Why not find out as much as he could and get away?
So intently was he thinking, that he did not notice a figure that had stepped out of the doorway of a house and was walking, close at his heels.
"Oh, de ham fat it am good, an' de 'possum it am fine,"
hummed a voice.
George turned. "Cato, you imp of darkness," he said, "where did you come from?"
"From de State of New Jarsey," responded the old man, his white teeth gleaming plainly in the darkness. "Well, Mas'r George, I's done followed you, and it took de best horse on de place. I tink you mought need me."
"Then it was you that dodged over there in the road near West Point?"
"Yes, sah, I 'spect so. You come purty nigh gitting away from me once or twice, sah."
"How did you cross the river? How in the world?" exclaimed George, his astonishment driving all other thoughts out of his head.
"On a log raf, youn' mas'r, and it was purty col' work," answered the old negro.
"Cato," said George, impressively, "you must keep away from me, and you must get back as soon as you can."
"Can't I stay wid you, sah?" answered the old darky. "I'll be deaf, dumb, and blind. I knows you are here on some business dat—"
George interrupted him. "I hate to do it, Cato," he said; "but do you see that corner? You get back and around it as soon as you can, and if you meet me again, don't appear to know me, for by doing so you may place a rope around my neck."
The old man did not say another word, but scuttled off.
Now George determined upon a bold line of action. So well had he known the ins and outs of the town that he knew at once the room in which the officers were to meet, at Fraunces Tavern. He knew that through a stable in the rear he might gain a position from which he could hear or see something of the proceedings. But why not first go to the orchard? He had no sooner determined upon this plan than he had walked quickly to the north, and taking several short-cuts, reached the tree.
In the last few hours he had memorized the cipher until it was almost perfectly imprinted on his mind. There was a paper in the limb addressed to "No. 4." He drew it out, and finding where a fire had smouldered in the street, he picked out an ember and blew it into a flame. He made out the words: "B., Number Four, make your escape. Use all caution. We do not know you. It is for the best that you should be a stranger to us."