A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XXI.
WHAT LED TO IT.
When George had left Rivington seated in his chaise on the Paulus Hook Turnpike, he walked on down the narrow lane to which the path had led him. A number of small houses stood there close together.
An old man was chopping wood in the back yard of the fifth house. Although it was cold, he was in his shirt sleeves, and the blows of his axe were sharp and lusty.
George, coming along the fence, observed him for some time before he spoke. Then he cleared the rails with a left-handed vault, and approached closer. The old man had stopped his chopping, and George saw that he had but one leg.
"Good-morning!" George said, quietly. "God save our country!"
"Amen!" was the answer.
It was the patriot greeting.
"Will you help me?" went on George. "I have escaped from prison in New York."
"You are blunt in the telling of it," said the kindly voice—there was a twinkle in the sharp black eyes—"and I will be blunt in my answer. I will. But come into the house. The door-yard is no place for the discussion of state secrets."
When the door had closed behind them, the old man had looked at George's clothes with interest.
"Were you in the hulks?" he asked. "I should judge not."
"No," returned George; "I was in the sugar-house prison, on Vine Street, and was treated fairly well."
"Friends at court, eh?" suggested the old man, bobbing quickly over to a window and letting the light into the room.
"Ay," said George, "and they helped me to escape. I will talk bluntly again. I am a Lieutenant in the Thirteenth New Jersey Infantry, and was despatched to New York on special business. I was captured, held prisoner, and would now return to my command at Morristown."
"What's the news in town?" asked the old man.
"You hear but little in prison, but there are rumors that General Howe is lazy," George answered.
"'Tis a frightful scandal," chuckled his host, who had now bobbed to the other side of the room, and was taking down some cold meat and a loaf of bread from the cupboard.
A door opened, and a young girl came from an inner room. She gave a little exclamation as she saw that her grandfather had some one with him.
"Another defender to assist," said the old man, briskly.
"Oh!" said the girl, smiling. "And what can we do for him?"
"Send him on his way rejoicing," was the answer. "Come, sir," he added; "break bread with us, and I will drive you out of the Debatable District and start you on your journey."
George murmured his thanks.
"No need of that," said the old man; "you are giving us a privilege. Harness the old mare, Minnie, lass," he said. "No, don't move. She's as handy as a whip about a stable," he added, as George had arisen.
The young girl flushed, and patted her grandfather on the shoulder as she passed.
"It will be ready in a minute," she said, glancing at George out of the corner of her eye.
"Put her to the sledge, and toss some hay in the bottom of it," called the old gaffer after her. "I am afraid I shall have to take you part of the way as cargo," he said, turning, and at the same time filling a pewter mug full of cool fresh milk. "There's the drink that keeps one young," he added, pouring out another for himself.
The sledge was waiting in the wood-shed, and George was soon covered with the light load of hay.
"We have some suspicious neighbors hereabouts," said the girl, as she lightly tossed the cover so as to conceal the young officer's form. "Good-by, and an easy journey to you."
"Good-by, and a thousand thanks," came the answer from the depths of the hay.
"G'long, Molly," said the old man, and the sledge slipped over the shavings into the snowy road.
They jogged along for an hour or so, when it became evident to George that they had left the beaten track and were going through deeper snow.
"Whoa up, old sweetheart! Back! back! 'Sh! 'sh!" called the driver, reining in. "Jump out," he said. "Here's where we change."
They were drawn up alongside of an old log barn in the midst of a clearing in the woods.
George struggled from his hiding-place.
Searching in the hay, his benefactor drew forth a saddle.
"It is impossible for you to walk, and you must take old Molly and jog along as best you can. You will have to accept a loan of her, Mr. Lieutenant. Fifteen miles from here you will find Lyons Farms. Ask for the house of Pastor Hinchley. You can be as blunt with him as you were with me. Leave the old mare there. Mr. Hinchley will set you on your way, and you can proceed on foot. If I am not mistaken, there are some of our gallant lads not many miles to the westward of Short Hills."
"To whom should I be thankful?" inquired George, quite overcome.
"To the Lord Almighty and His humble servant Peter Wissinck, very much at your service. My ancestor it was who settled the island of Manhattan."
The old man had said this proudly.
"That is an honor indeed," replied George, lifting his hat.
"Yes," said the old man, "I am as Dutch as blue china plate. Dutch backbone and Yankee heart—that's a good combination for you!"
"Good indeed," said George. "But pray tell me how you are going to return?" he continued, loath at first to accept the kind offer of the horse.
"Dot and go one," was the answer. "Hop, skip, and a jump. There's no one can beat me at it. Come, lad, into the saddle."
As George settled himself and reached forward for the reins old Peter struck the mare a slap on the flank.
"G'long, Molly," he said. "Take good care of him."
Then he turned and started back at a furious pace along the drifted road. It would have taken a good walker to have caught up with him.
If George had known the adventures that were soon to befall him his heart might have failed him. He had ridden on for some hours, when he thought he heard the sound of distant shots ahead. It was past noonday when he came in sight of Lyons Farms.
CHAPTER XXII.
A FORCED OPPORTUNITY.
We left William standing in the hallway at Stanham Manor. When Cato had gone with the heavy saddle-bags, he closed the door that led to the north wing softly behind him.
Lieutenant Frothingham was left alone. He sighed and rested his elbow on the back of a tall chair, and gazed into the glowing embers on the hearth. For a long time he remained motionless, and when he looked up again and out of the window he saw that a black cloud had obscured the moon. But there was a small circle of light moving down the lane. Long black shadows wavered across the snow on the meadow.
He stepped to the window sill, and at last could make out that it was a lantern, and that the shadows were those of the man's legs who carried it. There were dark objects behind him, and now the figures turned about the corner and came straight toward the house. He heard the slamming of a side door, and saw Cato step outside and start to meet the new-comers.
Suddenly Cato stopped, and turning, sped like a deer back to the veranda, and dodged in through the side entrance. How noiselessly the old man could move! William did not know that he had entered the hall until there was a soft touch on the elbow that was in the sling.
"Jasper Gates!" exclaimed the old man, whispering, with his face close to William's ear. "Hide yo'self. Don't go outside. Some folks is bringin' some one up here on a litter, and, 'fo' de Lawd, I do believe it's yo' brudder Mas'r George. Come quick. Hide in de big garret at de head ob de stairs. I'll help you git 'way 'fore mornin'. Don't stop to talk now, chile, but come 'long."
He led the way up the stairway two steps at a time. In a minute or so there was great confusion through the house.
Two men carrying a rough litter made of boughs came into the hall. They were preceded by the slouching figure of Adam Bent Knee, the old Indian, carrying a lantern. The men laid their burden on the floor before the fire.
Aunt Clarissa, in a quilted dressing-gown, came down the stairs. The light from the candle showed red through her fingers.
"Ugh! most froze," said the old Indian.
"It's Master George, ma'am," said one of the men who had carried the litter. "Old Adam found him in the snow a short way down the road. He's got a bad touch, surely."
The other man tapped his forehead significantly.
It was evident that something serious was amiss, for the poor figure on the litter murmured incoherently.
Aunt Polly, scared almost gray, had been awakened at last. She had given one look at the empty bed that William had left, and like a frightened, squawking hen flew down the hall. "Lawd fo'gib me, I done fall 'sleep," she said, "an' he must git 'way den. What's he don wiv dose close?"
"His imprisonment was too much for him," said Aunt Clarissa. "We should have watched him more closely."
A delirious moan showed that some immediate action must be taken.
"Here, you, lift him up and take him to his room—poor boy! How did he get out?" said Aunt Clarissa, noticing that the right arm was still supported in the black silk neckerchief.
In a few minutes George, moaning feebly, was ensconced in the pillows not long ago left vacant by his brother. It was evident that he was suffering from exposure. He was in a raging fever.
A man was despatched at once for the doctor, but it would be some hours before he could return.
"Now, all of you, off to bed," said Aunt Clarissa. "I will watch him."
"Won't you let me stay, Mistis?" murmured Aunt Polly, tearfully. "I'll promise not to go to sleep."
"Out of my sight!" said Aunt Clarissa, sternly. "I would not trust you to watch a boiling kettle. Out of my sight, you viper!"
Mrs. Frothingham's solicitude for her nephew was something new and strange, but, nevertheless, the servants slunk away.
Aunt Clarissa, however, had not forgotten to thank Adam Bent Knee or the men whom he had called from the foundry settlement to assist him in carrying the litter. The old Indian had related none of the circumstances, merely stating he had found George in the snow.
When she was alone the stern nature broke down, and Aunt Clarissa approached the bedside. She knelt down and hid her face in her hands.
"I am punished for my stubborn pride," she said. Then in prayer she poured forth all the contrition of her heart.
Sleep is a curious phenomenon in many ways. Things that might be expected to awaken seem to coincide with our dreaming thoughts and pass us by, while soft noises or an unexpected presence awakens us as if a cold hand had been laid upon the forehead.
Grace had not been awakened by the trampling of the many feet or the commotion caused by carrying George up the stairway. She had dreamed that a body of troops had taken possession of the house, and that she was endeavoring to hide, for a voice had seemed to say, "The British are here!"
Afterwards the dream had changed, as all dreams do, and she was again a little girl playing on the bank of the brook with her two beloved brothers—one now lying ill in the big room down the hall, and the other, for aught she knew, far away in the distant city of London—for William's letter to Aunt Clarissa announcing his arrival in America had not reached Stanham Mills.
As Grace dreamed once more of the old days, she had awakened. The moon had come out again, and was about to sink behind the range of western hills, but the cold light flooded the room.
All at once Grace started and sat up. Yes! There was no doubt about it. There were footsteps going down the hall. She stole to the door and opened it cautiously, her heart beating fast.
She was not mistaken, for there was the figure of her brother George, dressed exactly as when he had arrived on horseback, stepping carefully down the broad staircase.
The girl hastened back into the room, and slipping her little white feet into a pair of soft slippers, she threw a heavy cloak about her, and picked up the candle that was burning brightly behind its paper shade.
When she reached the hallway below she started. There was her brother endeavoring with his left hand to open the heavy front door. "George!" she called, "Is it you?"
"Go back. Don't come near me," came the answer, "I pray you let me go."
"WHERE ARE YOU GOING? STOP! STOP!" SHE SAID.
It seemed to Grace that she must yet be dreaming; but despite the warning, she approached closer, holding the candle high above her head. "Where are you going? Stop! Stop!" she said.
"Good-by, good-by, dear sister," was the only answer.
With an effort the door had been thrown open, and a gust of wind blowing coldly in extinguished the candle she was holding.
The door closed softly. Grace stumbled forward. The last thing that was pictured in her mind was that strange left hand reaching and tugging at the massive bolt. Across the back of it she had seen a scar!
It was so black around her that her eyes at first could not find the direction of familiar objects. At last, however, she made out the stairway, and turned toward it, filled with fright at what she had seen.
What did it mean? It was William's hand! And now something was moving, she was sure, over to the left against the wainscoting, and she could hear it scrape: and then she felt as if she heard a breath. It was too much for her tense nerves, and she shrieked aloud—the terrifying woman's scream of fear and horror that starts the strongest nerves.
"'S—'sh—, it's only Cato!" said a voice close to her.
Grace controlled herself with an effort. But the one scream had rung through the house, and lights and footsteps came hurrying along the corridors. "Oh, Cato, I'm so frightened!" she said. "You don't know what I have seen."
"You's been walkin' in yo' sleep, missy," said the old negro. "Come, here's Aunt Polly; jes go 'long wid her."
"It's nuffin, it's nuffin at all," he shouted to the group that had assembled at the head of the stairway, Aunt Clarissa and the guest, the young officer, among them. The latter had wound, toga fashion, about him a patchwork quilt, and carried his drawn sword in his hand, "Jes Miss Grace been walkin' in her sleep, and got little skeered, I reckin," said the old servant, with a throaty laugh.
"No, Cato, I was not walking in my sleep. I saw—"
"Now come, Miss Grace," interrupted Aunt Polly, "jes don' t'ink ob dat no more. Come off to bed, an' let yo' ol' mammy tuck yo' in."
Aunt Clarissa followed her niece into her bedroom, but would not let the old negress follow.
The young officer had disappeared as soon as he had seen there was no use for his eager steel.
"Grace," said Aunt Clarissa, "what was it?"
"It was William," said the girl; "I saw him plainly. He said, 'Good-by.' Oh, auntie, what does it mean? You remember the scar across his hand?"
"It means that something has happened," said Aunt Clarissa, at first, sententiously. Then, after a pause: "Come, come, now; it may only be a dream, after all. Go to sleep. I must go back to your brother George."
Aunt Clarissa was worried, nevertheless; and when she reached the bedroom where George lay she once more sank down upon her knees. Oh, Inconsistency! Aunt Clarissa was praying for the confusion of the forces of the King!
The figure on the bed moaned uneasily.
"What is it, dear?" said Aunt Clarissa, lifting her head from the counterpane.
If George could have heard this term of endearment, it would have almost convinced him that he must have lost his wits; but Aunt Clarissa had undergone a great reconstruction.
"Oh, it is you, Cloud, is it?" exclaimed George, distinctly. "You black-hearted villain, you dare not harm me." Again he sank back and mumbled incoherently.
Aunt Clarissa had listened. "Cloud—Cloud—why, that's the name of our old overseer! What could he have been doing around here?" she whispered.
At this minute there was a clatter at the front door; the doctor had arrived.
"Where under the sun has this young man been?" he asked, as he stood at the bedside.
"In a few words I will tell you," said Aunt Clarissa, who never wasted her breath at the best. "He has escaped from an English prison in New York, where they treat men so horribly that it is enough to turn one's hair to listen to it, let alone one's heart. He arrived yesterday afternoon on horseback, looking tired and worn. He fainted, and I put him to bed. I left that worthless colored wench Polly to keep her eye on him, and she fell asleep. He got out somehow, and the Lord only knows where he has been, for his clothes were torn and smothered in mud and ooze when they found him up the road. He probably had been gone two hours."
"He's been through some great strain," said the doctor; "and see the marks around his neck."
There was a welt the breadth of one's finger showing plainly on the white skin of George's throat.
"Rest is what he needs. The trouble is with his brain. The wound in his arm is old and healing." The doctor spoke slowly, and placed his ear on George's chest. "He will recover," he said.
After he had made this examination the surgeon had left a sleeping potion, and had ridden home in the early morning light. He had arrived at the Manor House by the Valley Road, but determined to make his way back across the Ridge.
But he had gone only a short distance along the road that led up the hill when his horse stopped and began to blow, much in the manner of a startled deer, his ears pricked forward, and his haunches lowered and quivering.
The doctor looked ahead, and saw something in the bushes. But not a step nearer could he urge his steed. So he slipped from the saddle, and dragging the reins over the trembling horse's head, took a stride to one side of the road.
There lay the body of a man with arms outstretched and the face turned upwards. He had on a pair of fringed buckskin leggings and an old soldier coat, green with red facings. He was dead.
The doctor stooped closer to examine, and an exclamation broke from his lips. The man had been scalped skilfully! It was years since such a thing had occurred in that part of the country.
There was something familiar in the drawn features, and the doctor, twisting himself so as to obtain a better look, uttered something beneath his breath.
"By Homer's beard!" he said, "it's Cloud, the renegade!"
There were signs of a struggle in the bushes and the prints of moccasined feet in the snow. Further on it was evident from footprints that a number of men and horses had crossed the road.