“Is this North Carolina?” asked Peggy.
“Yes; and this is Fisherman’s Inlet, near the Cape Fear River. What ship did you say you was on?”
“’Twas the schooner ‘Falcon,’ from New York,” Peggy told her. “It was one of the vessels with Sir Henry Clinton, who set forth to attack Charleston.”
The woman’s face darkened ominously. “And you air a Tory, of course, being as you air a Quaker and with a British ship?” she said questioningly.
“I? Oh, no, no!” cried Peggy quickly. “Why, my father is David Owen of the Pennsylvania Light Horse. He is with the Continental army. I am a patriot, but I was captured and taken to New York City, where I have been since the last day of February of last year. It’s nearly a year,” she ended, her lips quivering.
“You don’t say!” ejaculated the woman. “Then you must be a prisoner of war?”
“I know not that I would be truly a prisoner of war,” answered Peggy, “for ’twas my father’s cousin who captured me. I will tell thee all about it.”
“You pore child,” exclaimed the woman, who ceased her work as Peggy unfolded her story, and listened with wide-eyed attention. “What a lot you’ve been through! I’m glad that you’re not one of them English.”
“And is thee a Whig?” asked Peggy.
“As I said, we air fisher folks, and don’t mingle in politics. We don’t wish harm to nobody, English or any other. Why, even though we air wreckers we always pray for the poor sailors in a storm, but we pray too that if there air any wrecks they will be washed up on Fisherman’s Inlet.”