“‘And is it true,’” began the missive without heading or beginning of any sort, “‘that Harriet Owen, my sister Harriet, hath so far forgot her duty to her king as to labor in behalf of his rebellious subjects? And such an one as you have chosen to favor, Harriet! Could not the daughter of Colonel William Owen, of the Welsh Fusiliers, find a better object than this whippersnapper of a Yankee captain?
“‘Harriet! Harriet! And has it come to this? Are you a traitor to your country and your king? To make a shirt for a rebel were infamy enough, but to embroider your name across its shoulders that all might see that Harriet Owen, a loyal subject of the king, was so employed surpasses belief.
“‘Harriet, if this be true, if you have forgot what is due yourself, your brother, your father, your country and the most illustrious prince that ever sat upon the throne—if you have forgot your duty to all these, I say, then never more shall I call you sister. Never will I write the name of Clifford Owen again, but go down to my grave under the one I have chosen.
“‘But, my sister, I cannot believe it of you. I cannot believe that so short a time could change you so. Some one other than you must have made that shirt, and this popinjay of a captain—or is it a lieutenant? no matter!—hath stolen it to flaunt before me, and to stir me to anger.
“‘Would that when I saw you in Philadelphia I had stopped, in spite of my captors. It was not permitted, and at the time, I was content that it should be so, for I feared that father might be with you. I dread his displeasure when he meets me; for, as you know, he hath, in truth, great cause to be offended with me. Should the matter have truth in it that you have become imbued with the virus of this rebellion, it may be that a short account of how I have been fighting for the glory of old Britain will bring you back to a realizing sense of your duty.
“‘Know then that when I left you home,—and why did you ever leave there? This country is no place for a girl bred as you have been.—After I had left there, I say, I obtained a commission by the help of Lord Rawdon. I think he knew who I was; we met him once, if you remember, but he said naught about the matter. He saw at once that I wished my identity kept sub rosa, and the army was greatly in need of men. Of course it cost a pretty penny, and I expect a scene with father about it. Pray that I may distinguish myself ere we meet.
“‘I came with Lord Rawdon to the colonies, and have been with him ever since, mostly in the province of Georgia. We conquered that colony and garrisoned Savannah, where you and father would, no doubt, have found me had not that storm driven Sir Henry Clinton elsewhere to land. I was sent to Charlestown after you left for Camden and was stationed there for some months. Then his lordship sent me to New York by sea with letters for General Clinton. I was tired of the Southern climate, and another gladly exchanged with me, and went South while I remained in New York.
“‘There was lately some information to be procured about the rebel forces, and volunteering for the service I was captured by some of the enemy’s scouts. There were a number of British prisoners in the rebel camp, and, as they seem not to be any too well supplied with rations, we prisoners are sent somewhere to the interior to be fed and kept out of the way of mischief. I think our destination is Charlottesville, where the Convention prisoners[[5]] are. ’Tis said that there is a regular colony of them at that place, which is, I believe, in the province of Virginia. There is to be a short stop at Fredericksburg before going on to the encampment of prisoners, for what reason I know not. If you will write immediately to that place I think I will receive it.
“‘But, Harriet, dearly as I would love to hear from you, if you have grown to sympathize with these revolted colonies in this broil against the king, if you are false to your country, as that fellow would have me believe, then write me not.
“‘How can one sympathize with such obstinate people as these rebels are? When one is in their company they are barely civil, and that is, as Jack Falstaff says, by compulsion. They seem to grow stronger by every defeat. And why do they? They seem like Antæus, of whom ’twas fabled that being a son of the goddess Tellus, or the earth, every fall he received from Hercules gave him more strength so that the hero was forced to strangle him in his arms at last. Would that our minister could send us a Hercules to conquer these rebels.