A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XII.
IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA.
How natural the valley looked as George came down the road that led across the bridge! He could hear the brook roaring under its icy covering, and through the leafless trees he could make out the big manor-house. It was home again. What would they say? How would they receive him? There were no signs of activity about, no smoke coming from the foundry chimney. The place looked half deserted.
George watched some crows waddling out in the field. Suddenly they took flight, and the young Lieutenant saw what had put them up. He reined in his horse. "Adam Bent Knee," he ejaculated, and placing his fingers to his lips he gave the well-remembered whistle.
The old Indian stopped, and then striking into a gait, half run, half lope, he came across the snow.
"How! how!" he said, grasping the lad's extended hand.
Here was the first welcome. After the old Indian had answered a few questions about what was going on on the Hewes place, George pushed ahead. He had been sighted coming up the lane, and the few servants ran out to meet him. Cato danced about like a headless chicken, and rubbed his hand over his tear-wet check.
Little Grace, now a tall slender girl, wept for joy, and kissed the bronzed young soldier over and over again. Aunt Clarissa was nowhere to be seen.
"She's locked herself in the left wing," said Grace. "She says she will not see you. Don't grieve; perhaps she will change her mind."
Then she had held her brother off at full arm's-length, and looked at him from head to foot.
"You are just like the portrait of father in the hall," she said. George placed his arm about her waist, and went inside the house.
Aunt Clarissa did not put in her appearance, and that afternoon the young Lieutenant had ridden with the despatches over to Colonel Hewes's. What they contained he did not know. But they were evidently of importance, and this was soon to be proved.
The very day that Washington had moved upon Trenton an interesting dinner (the happenings of which have great bearing upon this story) was in progress thousands of miles away.
It was one of the oldest inns of the old town of London. The grill-room of the "Cheshire Cheese" was filled with the aroma of steaming plum-pudding and the appetizing fumes of roast beef. Even the mulled ale lent its accent to the general flavor. The waiters shuffled across the sanded floor, and from the compartments floated up clouds of smoke from the long church-warden pipes. The talk on all sides was upon the one absorbing subject—the rebellious Colonies and the progress of the war in America.
It all looked one way to most of the Londoners—New York had been taken, the Americans routed; in a few weeks all would be over. This was the general sentiment.
The gathering was mixed. Tradesmen, country squires, well-to-do haberdashers and drapers, poets and political writers, barristers, and a sprinkling of soldiers composed it mostly. Here and there might be seen a gay young noble-man, all frills and lace, who had strayed from his inner circle to enjoy the delights of this old time-honored meeting-place.
The busy London street outside was crowded with merrymakers.
In a corner of the grill-room was sitting a group that would at once hold our attention.
A tall florid individual with heavy hands was gesticulating with his thick blunt fingers, and an officer in un-dress uniform sitting opposite was listening, and making rings with the bottom of his wineglass on the elbow-polished table. His white wig decorated the post at a corner of the seat. In this same corner had sat Oliver Goldsmith, and it was Dr. Johnson's head that had made that dark spot on the wainscoting; in fact, the ponderous old gentleman still drifted in occasionally. And David Garrick had held forth here not many years before this very day.
But it is the figure now sitting silently in the corner that most interests us. The high forehead and clear-cut features have changed somewhat, and the strong slender hands and muscular young legs sprawled under the table have grown and lengthened, but if you would take our young American patriot and do his hair in that neat London fashion, dress him in that embroidered waistcoat and fine glass-buttoned coat, there he would be for all the world. As George had changed, William had changed also in the same proportion and ratio. The younger, on this very night shivering in the cold of a New Jersey winter, was browner of skin and ruddier of cheek, but features, glance, and the quick graceful movement of the head are all the same.
William was listening listlessly to the conversation. By constant practice he had become accustomed to the flow of Uncle Daniel's eloquence, and could stand to one side and allow it to pass on without disturbing him. Strange to say, at this very moment he was thinking sadly of the brother who was thinking more sadly still of him.
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his handsome coat and drew forth a sheet of closely written paper. It was a letter from Aunt Clarissa. Not only a letter, but a speech, a tirade, an eloquent exhortation. It contained little news that could give comfort, for it told of George's wicked behavior, and base defection to the ranks of the enemy arrayed against the Crown. "A Frothingham should be fighting for the King," the letter concluded, the lines heavily underscored. Poor Aunt Clarissa! Her most tender point, her pride, had been injured deeply.
"Mark my words, my dear sir, I have seen that country, and know its people," said Uncle Daniel, sententiously, "and as soldiers I hold them in contempt, sir. Who is this Mr. Washington on whom they pin their faith? An arrant up-start who has had some practice, I believe, in fighting the red Indians in the woods. Against a line of grenadiers he can do nothing. I wish I were young enough; I should like to take the field myself."
William pricked up his ears at this, and thrust Aunt Clarissa's letter back into his pocket. Never had he known that Uncle David had the slightest leaning toward the life of a soldier.
The military gentleman poured himself out another glass of wine. He held it critically up to the light before replying.
"I don't hold them in contempt, Mr. Frothingham. It will take our bravest and our best, mark me. We can accomplish little by depending upon the Hessians, mere hirelings of a German prince. Nothing but the devotion of Englishmen themselves can save the Colonies to England."
"You have been influenced, Colonel, by the Earl of Chatham," said Daniel Frothingham, also pouring out a glass of wine.
"I admire him," said the other, calmly; "but no half-way measures will suffice at this stage of the proceedings. We will need the best blood and the truest hearts in the country. If France joins in the struggle, it will come near to draining the resources of our tidy little island; but the French King wavers, I believe. The Americans, so far, have accomplished nothing." He turned to the young figure at the head of the table. "Has this tall nephew of yours any predilection for the service?" he inquired. "Me-thinks he would look well in red and white."
William's eyes glistened brightly.
"WOULDST CARE TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?"
"I know not," returned Uncle Daniel. "Wouldst care to be a soldier, son? Hast thought aught of it?"
William looked his uncle firmly in the eye and grasped the edge of the table. "Aye, many, many times. I doubt not I know the drill already, sir. I watch them at the castle every week," he said.
"Let's make a soldier of him, Mr. Frothingham," spoke up the officer. "There's a young cornet in my regiment who is poor in health and would sell out. Why not buy the red coat and the commission for the lad? I could take him with me and have him under my eye. Would you fight in America, young sir?"
"Aye," said William; "or anywhere."
"We sail in the Minerva in a fortnight come next Thursday," went on the Colonel. "It's bad weather on the Atlantic, but we wish to show them what a crack regiment can do. I have under me the pick of the service."
"H—um," said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, looking at his nephew with something of pride and affection in his small twinkling eyes. "Wouldst like to go, son?" he inquired.
William's reserve broke down. His mind was crowded with many things, and his heart torn with conflicting emotions. How strange it would be to be arrayed upon the other side with George, his brother, who still held all his love and affection, against him! Could he do it? And then the words that he had once penned George came up into his mind. "For the King, for the King," kept repeating themselves. "Uncle Daniel," he said, his under lip quivering, "if you would let me go, I would try to do my duty."
"Well spoken, well said, my young friend," put in the Colonel, leaning across the table and taking William's hand. "'Twould take no pains to make a soldier of such. Frothingham, let him go with me."
The expression on the red face had softened, and the old man for a moment paused. He followed a seam in the table with his forefinger thoughtfully. "He can go if he so wills. I will buy him the commission," he said at last.
William's heart bounded. Time and again, though his uncle had not known it, the sight of a marching regiment, the call of a bugle, and the steadily moving line had tempted him so strongly that he had almost felt like doing what many lads of his age had done under the same impulse—enlist and go into the ranks. Now was the chance offered to him to serve in a more legitimate and comfortable position. "I shall feel honored, sir," he said, in his dignified manner, "if you will accept my service, and take me with you."
"Done," said Colonel Forsythe. "Come and see me to-morrow morning after review; and you, sir," turning to his uncle, "will have done your part toward winning back the Colonies when you have helped place a sword-belt around his waist. Come also to-morrow. Matters can be easily arranged. But we are pressed for time." Colonel Forsythe arose—the compartment was hidden from the view of the crowd that thronged the large room—and adjusted his wig skilfully over his thin brown hair. He buckled on his sword, and turning, spoke again. "I must hasten," he said, "and I wish to thank you for the pleasure of the dinner and the honor of your company. To-morrow, then, at nine o'clock." He bowed and walked away.
Uncle Daniel picked up his heavy gold-headed cane, and slipping his arm through his nephew's, stepped out into the street. For some time as they walked along neither spoke. William was living over in his mind some of the old scenes out in the New Jersey home. He could hear the clatter of the mill and the roaring of the waters at the dam. He imagined he could hear George's laughter, and feel the hand that had so often grasped his own as they climbed the hills or ran down the brook together. Oh, if his brother were only here beside him!
At this very moment the same thought that was upper-most in his mind was being echoed by another heart, beating firmly beneath a brass-buttoned coat in far-off New Jersey.
"Your service may make some amends for the disgrace your brother has brought upon the family," said Uncle Daniel at last.
William's heart rebelled at the words his uncle used. "I'll warrant you," he said, "that George will not disgrace the name. He has been influenced by bad counsel and wicked friends."
"I would not give a shilling for his future," said Daniel Frothingham, "and I'm sorry that I brought up this at all. I told you once before that he was dead to me. I can never forgive him."
"I have forgiven him," said William. "I know that he thinks he is in the right, and, uncle, promise me"—he grasped the old man by the arm—"that when the war is over and our standard is once more respected and honored in America, grant me this, that George and I will be able to stand once more together hand in hand in your estimation. He has been misled. Oh, if he could but see!"
"William," said Daniel Frothingham, in his most ponderous manner, "I have made you my son and heir. May you never forget who you are, and that your grandfather, aye, and his grandfather, and so on back, have bled and died on foreign soil for the same flag and country that you are going to serve. Traitors have no place. Led or misled, your brother's hand has been raised against his and yours. Now say no more."
They had reached Uncle Daniel's house, for William had lived with him ever since his arrival in London. Uncle Daniel's heart had opened to the worth of the frank true nature that had grown so close to him; he would have denied his nephew nothing; all the yearnings of paternity had come to the lonely old man. He was deeply affected by thinking that the only being he had ever loved was now about to leave him.
"Good-night, good-night, son," he said, placing his heavy hand on William's head. "I will see you on the morrow. Sleep well, Lieutenant Frothingham."
William went up the stairs slowly to his richly furnished room. He could not sleep, but tossed uneasily until the morning. If he could have only held George from the fatal step! But young natures are hopeful, and he planned to suit his fancy.
When the war was ended, their love would bring them once more together, and what was his would be his brother's, as it had always been.
Three weeks later a bluff-bowed frigate was pounding her way through the heavy seas of the Atlantic. The wind boomed in the hollows of the great mainsail, and the icy spray dashed over the rail and clung to the rigging. The decks were slippery with frozen sleet, and the gray sky seemed to meet the ocean, and shut down like a tent over the tossing mass of gray-green water.
A group of officers, with their long coats gathered tightly about them, were standing near the taffrail. It was easy to recognize young Frothingham. He was listening to the talk about him.
"It promises to be a stormy passage," said one of the ship's officers. "In the twenty-six days that we may be out of sight of land the war may be over."
"I trust so," said the young Lieutenant to himself. "I'd rather fight the French." He looked down on the icy deck.
They had now been three days out from Portsmouth. There were few but the watch and the lookout pacing up and down the forecastle. A battery of five brass field-pieces was lashed firmly amidships, covered over with tarpaulin to keep them from the wet. Below, the 'tweendecks were crowded with lounging figures. So closely indeed were they packed that to make one's way forward or aft one would have to step over the recumbent figures. A thousand men were crowded within the wooden walls. The ports were closed, and the air was stifling. Racks of muskets shone on the sides and around the masts.
A drummer was practising softly, with his back against a gun-carriage. A fifer picked up his instrument and joined in shrilly.
"That's what we'll make 'em run to," he said, in derision. "It's their own tune, and, by St. George! it's a good tune for running!"
"Yankee Doodle" was caught up by the recumbent groups, and the men thumped the time on the decks with their heels.
"Mr. Washington's jig step," said a sailor, shifting his quid in his cheek. "English feet cannot dance to it. It takes the Yankees to do that."
The group of officers had made their way to the ward-room. The steward had set the table; dinner was waiting.
"Here's confusion to the 'rebels,' and health to King George!" said one of the subalterns. William drank it with the rest.
On the very day that the Minerva was being warped out into mid-stream at Portsmouth, to begin her voyage to America, Colonel Hewes had received the young American Lieutenant, who had ridden over from Stanham Manor, with as much joy as if he had been his own son.
George was surprised to find a company of well-clad soldiers encamped among the houses of the people who worked at the Hewes foundry. Piles of cannon-balls and some roughly moulded cannon were under a long shed.
It was necessary to have a guard for the protection of the works, for the northern part of New Jersey and the southern half of New York swarmed with marauding bands that claimed allegiance sometimes to one side and sometimes to another. "Cowboys" and "Skinners" they were called. The first claimed to be patriots, and were attached to no command; but the others were Tories, under the leadership of a man named Skinner, whose name brought terror with it. They were as lawless and as merciless as the wild red man of the woods, and plundered travellers and the soldiers of either side with the indiscrimination of highwaymen.
In a few words Colonel Hewes had explained the situation to George, and then taking him into the big office, he closed the door behind them.
"You remember your uncle's overseer, Cloud?" he asked. "Well, he has turned bandit; and if I catch him he will get a swing at a tree-limb, for a thieving rascal. He and his cut-throats have returned to the mountains here, I am informed. But it is not of this that I wish to talk with you." Colonel Hewes arose and threw a log on the fire. "Now, young man," he said, "I want you to listen until I have finished, and then—for I may talk at some length—you can do all the question-asking that you wish." He opened the despatch that George carried, read it carefully, and, leaning back in his chair, took a portfolio from a drawer and spread it across his knees. "Listen," he said. "You have a chance now to perform a signal service for your country. I asked them at Morristown to recommend a young man who might volunteer for love of it, and, to be frank, I suggested your name."
George smiled at the peculiar wording of this statement.
"It is known to you, of course, how important it is for us to be kept in touch with the movements and plans of the enemy," went on the Colonel. "We obtain information from sources and in a way that might astonish you; it certainly would cause some consternation to the British. Now in my mind there has been for some time an idea that I think can be successfully accomplished. I have broached it to no one high in authority in the army. There might be objections raised. It may be rash, but it is not impossible, and, if successful, would go in a great measure toward settling up affairs.
"Follow me closely. There is in New York a society formed of a few men of brains and caution, who are serving their country in a way that for the time being must make them suffer. They are placed in people's estimation as being royalists and Tories, but no truer American hearts beat than theirs. Risks are great, but the needs are quite as much so. They are known to one another, but cannot hold any meetings, as that would excite suspicion. Each one's movement is reported to the others in their own peculiar way. Nothing said, nothing heard, you know. But opinions are discussed amongst themselves, nevertheless. I cannot give their names; you will find them out for yourself, perhaps, if you care to meet my views.
"Now you know that the British hold in captivity our General Lee, and they decline to consider him a subject for exchange. He was taken from a farm-house by a party of Tories in New Jersey. Surprised and captured, he is now within the power of the enemy. Don't let what I am going to propose seem wild, or imaginary; but I believe that it is feasible to secure the person of either Lord Howe or his brother the General, and bring them from the heart of the city to become the guests of the people at large. To do this would require some plotting, much caution, fearlessness, and devotion. The details I cannot tell you, but you will be informed of them if you choose to assist in the venture."
George did not interrupt.
"Do you see these papers?" went on Colonel Hewes. "They are despatches from the Tories of Albany to the British in New York. Here also are the credentials of the young man who carried them. He is about your height, but nineteen years of age, and has never been in New York before. He is endorsed, however, to the British leaders. To make one's way into New York secretly is difficult. A stranger who cannot account for his appearance is suspected, but it is my belief that the person, armed with these papers can secure a position close to the seat of power. Intercepted despatches are better than destroyed. We know what these contain, but their contents will appear to be of great moment to the British, and upon them may determine the disposition of much of the huge force quartered in New York. This young man's name is Blount. I have found out enough of his family and of his personal history to make it possible for any one who takes his place to appear to have the knowledge necessary to allay suspicion. There is but one man there who has ever seen him. This is an uncle of his who is now absent in Connecticut, and who therefore need not be feared. Would you care to volunteer for an enterprise so hazardous?"
"But I am known," said George, "to people in New York."
"Think to whom," said Mr. Hewes. "Count over those whom you might fear."
"Mr. Wyeth," suggested George at once.
"He's safe in Canada," said Mr. Hewes.
George mentioned several other names, and, to his surprise, Mr. Hewes could account for almost all of them.
"Schoolmaster Anderson," said George.
Colonel Hewes smiled. "You need not fear him," he responded. "He will not know you; he is blind."
George started.
"But you will hear more of that anon, perhaps. The plan, in short, is this: I have a passport. 'Twill carry you through the American lines. You will be rowed across the river and placed so you can make your way safely up to the British works. These papers will do the rest for you. You will be Richard Blount, of Albany, will go at once to the 'City Arms,' wait for a day or so, and then receive instructions what to do. You will be watched, of course, but act with caution; keep off the streets as much as possible; stay with the soldiers, and forget that you have ever been in New Jersey. It is necessary that the one who undertakes this venturous trip should know New York and its by-ways. Therefore you have been chosen. The people you will meet will be those with whom you have never come into contact, and many of whom you have never even heard. It will not be for long. If you start to-morrow, you can be in New York in three days." The Colonel paused, then added:
"If you follow this story that I have written, you can explain how you came down from Albany."
George was thinking deeply. It did look like a wild, impossible scheme, but still be trusted in Colonel Hewes's judgment.
"Listen," again went on the older man. "Here is a cipher. It is not hard to learn." He handed George a slip of paper hardly larger than his thumb-nail.
"I cannot make much out of this," said the latter.
"Try it now," said Colonel Hewes, taking a magnifying-glass out of his pocket. Under the strong lens the characters could be easily read. Above each one was the letter of the alphabet it represented. "With this at your elbow you can readily write anything you please," said the Colonel. "When you have arrived at the inn, pretend to be ill; stay in your room, and write out in this cipher a description, frankly stating who you are, what you are doing, and who sent you. Add that you are waiting to receive your orders, and tell where you are to be found."
"To whom will I send it?" inquired George.
"You know that lane that leads by Edward Ripley's house at the upper turn of Broadway?"
"I do," said George. "There's a picket-fence at the further entrance of the field, and a path and turnstile lead through the orchard."
"Aye," said Colonel Hewes, "that's it. Have you ever marked the old gnarled apple-tree—the third one to the left of this same path?"
"I have," said George.
"On the further side," went on the Colonel, "is a hollow limb. When you have written out your paper, place it in the hollow as far back as you can reach. The next night go there, and you will find your answer. It will direct you in what way to proceed. It will not do for you to be seen talking with any one at first, for you must be a complete stranger. Now, there's a disguise—not much, for disguises excite suspicion. Young Blount has Indian blood; many good families up the Hudson have. Your hair is brown."
"Nearly red," put in George, laughing.
"We'll soon remedy that," said Mr. Hewes. "And you must change your walk, for Blount is slightly lame."
"Where is he?" asked George.
"He is safe enough," said Mr. Hewes, "and even without these papers it would be impossible for him to accomplish what you can with them. But I have forgotten to ask one thing."
"What's that?" inquired George.
"Whether you will go or not," replied Mr. Hewes.
"Of course I will," the lad answered, eagerly.
"Money will be given you, and you will receive more when you arrive in the city. Your companions in the scheme will make themselves known to you in their own way. I know not what it will be. They are clever people. Come over to-morrow early. You will start from here."
George jumped on his horse, and rode back on a run toward Stanham Mills. As he came up the lane, Aunt Clarissa was watching him from her retreat in the left wing. Her stern old face was set, but her eyes were red from weeping. She did not know what fruits the letter she had written William had already borne, and that he, now dressed in the King's red, was tossing on the bosom of the Atlantic. Neither did she have an inkling of what perils the renegade nephew was about to face in his country's service.