thought herself all alone as she shut the door, but presently a cold
nose was thrust against her hand, a furry head rubbed her knee. Fido,
the pet fox-terrier, had determined for his part to share the
tower-room.
THE END.
FOR KING OR COUNTRY.
A Story of the Revolution.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XVII.
A COUNTERPLOT.
So fine a time were the English officers having in New York that they
chafed very little beneath General Howe's protracted inaction. The only
fighting that William saw was on one of Tryon's foraging expeditions
into Connecticut, and, if the truth may be told, he was sickened and
sorrowed in heart at the vandalism done by the forces of the King. What
was the use of applying the torch to the houses of these poor misguided
farmers? and how bravely the little band of homespun coats had resisted
their advance upon a quiet little village! One thing was firmly in his
mind when he returned to the city from this expedition of
plunder--Colonel Forsythe was right. It would take England's best blood
and resources. In fact, the task of getting back the Colonies was the
greatest that any army of Great Britain had ever had laid out before it.
The fearless behavior of a farmer's lad, captured upon the march, struck
William with admiration. This was no "rebel." It was a patriot type, and
the Frothingham blood boiled at the brutality of a soldier who had
insulted the young prisoner.
William had a dream one night which disturbed him more than a little. It
seemed to him that he was walking along the road through a very
beautiful country. On either hand stretched green undulating meadows,
and neat white farm-houses were on the hill-sides. The wind was waving
the tassels of the corn softly. It was just such a view as he had seen
on his ride to New York with Uncle Nathan and his brother after the
first excitement at Stanham Mills.
It appeared, to him, however, as he walked along this road that was so
real, that he saw a gathering ahead of him, and caught a glimpse of the
uniforms of King George and the tall hats of the Hessians. As he
approached he saw that there was great movement in their midst, and
suddenly a beautiful woman dressed in white burst from the crowd. She
was struggling to free her hands, which were tied behind her back. The
soldiers and the Hessians were pelting her with mud and stones.
"I am Liberty, Liberty!" she cried.
To his chagrin, William saw himself in all his finery gather up a large
stone and hurl it at the beautiful figure in white, and at that moment
every little farm-house on the hill burst into flame, and the corn in
the fields shrivelled to the stalks, and a great voice resounded through
the air,
"Fair Liberty is dead--is dead!"
He had disliked himself very much for having had such a dream and
appearing in such a shameful character. It was some time before he could
shake off the effect of it from his mind.
It was a starlit evening after the return of the expedition, and he was
walking quickly through the street to join a small party at the
headquarters of another regiment. As he followed the narrow path in the
snow a woman's figure stepped to one side.
[Illustration: "WHERE IS THE OTHER UNIFORM?" SHE SAID.]
"Where is the other uniform?" she said.
"Pardon me," said William. "I do not understand."
"No more do I," the woman answered. "But my heart is broke."
William had smiled, but the woman had stepped out into the snow as if to
avoid him, and had hurried past.
"Poor crazy creature!" said the young officer to himself. "She looked at
me as if she knew me."
But he could not rid himself altogether of that reproachful look for
quite some time. And another thing that puzzled him was the strange
conduct of the landlord at the City Arms.
"I had a guest at my house not long ago," said he, upon one occasion,
"who favored you most wonderfully. His name was Blount of Albany. Know
you aught of him?"
Two or three people had spoken of the same resemblance, and told of the
disappearance of the lad from up the river.
A suspicion had entered William's mind, but he kept it to himself.
Soon, however, was it to be confirmed beyond all doubt.
A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms
at Fraunces's Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had
again recurred to the distasteful dream.
"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton
Blount, of Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle
of the young man who disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one
who had the pleasure of meeting him has remarked the curious resemblance
that you bear one another."
"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face
and figure. "'Twould be quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate
nephew; but they say that relationship can never see resemblances."
"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had
the honor of piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and
well-spoken young gentleman he was."
"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark
whether he was lame?"
"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite
graceful with it all, and his hair was black and straight."
"Like an Indian's?"
"Yes," was the answer, "very like."
"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems
like witchcraft. No trace of him to be found, although we have searched
everywhere."
As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer
joined him, and passed his arm through his.
"Oh, Frothingham," he said, "I have something truly strange to tell you!
I was on a visit of inspection to the town prisons a week or so ago, and
at an old sugar-house on Rose or Vine Street I saw your very double. The
resemblance has been haunting me, and I just have placed it."
"I seem to have doubles everywhere," answered William, carelessly,
though a great fear welled up in his heart. "I had supposed you were
going to tell me that I look like a Mr. Blount."
"I know him not," answered the officer, "but I do assure you that you
bear a great resemblance to this prisoner."
When William reached his room that night he rested for a long time,
wide-awake and thinking. It might be George who was held in prison.
All the next morning he was on duty at headquarters, and in the
afternoon he hastened toward the old sugar-house, whose location he knew
from the officer's description. With little trouble he succeeded in
getting permission from the jailer to look through the cells and
corridors. He had muffled part of his face in a wide silk neckerchief,
and had pushed his hat well forward on his forehead. He advanced hastily
into the large hall, and his eye ran around in a swift glance. With a
sense of relief that there was no one there that resembled the
description in the slightest way, he went on until he came to the cell
next but one to the end of the corridor. He looked within. Though the
light was quite dim, he could make out a figure lying on a patchwork
quilt. He placed his face close to the bars. His heart was beating
furiously. There could be no doubt about it. He grasped the iron closer
for support. It was George, his brother, fast asleep. The Virgil lay
open on the floor, and one slender finger marked the place.
With an effort William managed to compose himself. "What is this young
man imprisoned for?" he asked, in a whisper, of the jailer at his side.
"For stealing a watch," was the reply. "He tried to escape, and has been
wounded slightly in the arm. He appears to have been a likely youth, and
'tis a shame that he should have fallen so, for he has some learning."
The man shook his head pityingly.
William did not hear the last words. It appeared to him that a bright
flash came and went before his eyes, and again he grasped the bars of
the doorway. His brother George a thief. It could not be!
"Shall I wake him, sir," put in the jailer, not noticing William's
perturbation.
The young officer recovered himself.
"Oh, by no means!" he said, trying to control his voice. "Pray do not
disturb him."
As he was about to release his hold from one of the iron bars, he
perceived that it was filed almost in twain from the inside! He could
feel it with his fingers. The sleeper moved slightly, and William
stepped to one side out of sight.
It was quite difficult that he could affect any interest in the rest of
the prisoners, his brain was whirling so, and soon he thanked the jailer
and left the gloomy shadow of the building.
When he reached the outside air he drew down the muffler, for he felt
faint and sick. The tall soldier on guard at the gateway saluted him.
William turned, and as he did so almost ran into the arms of the little
schoolmaster, who was bobbing quickly along.
"Ho, ho, Lieutenant!" was the greeting; but a glance at the young man's
face told the story. "You know it. You have seen him?" asked
Schoolmaster Anderson.
"I have, and I am going to find out more. They say he stole, that my
brother is a thief. I cannot--"
"No, no, he is not," said Mr. Anderson. "On my honor no--and try to find
out nothing, for by doing so you may place a halter around his neck."
Then he added, quite calmly, "Your brother is a spy."
A sense of horror and yet of relief came over William.
"I have imperilled my own safety by befriending him," said Schoolmaster
Anderson. "Surely you, his brother, will not betray him?"
"Tell me," inquired William, "is he Richard Blount of Albany?"
"He took the young man's place at the peril of his life," answered the
schoolmaster. "Now say nothing more."
"But he is about to escape!" exclaimed the young Lieutenant.
It was the schoolmaster's time to start. "He is?" he inquired, half
faltering.
"Ay," said William. "The iron bars are almost filed in two."
"Well, well," remarked Mr. Anderson. "That will never do. We will have
to change that. Sure enough. He must be moved, but his safety is the
first thing to be thought of. You agree with me?"
"I am going to make myself known to him," exclaimed William, turning as
if to retrace his steps toward the prison.
"I pray that you will do nothing of the kind," broke in the old
schoolmaster. "It is only by great good fortune that his identity has
not been established. Any attention attracted to him might be the means
of accomplishing just what we wish to avoid."
"I will leave it all to you then, Mr. Anderson. Only we cannot connive
at the escape of a rebel spy, even if he is my brother."
"Your family is not the only one that is divided on this sad subject,"
said the schoolmaster, shaking his head. "Just look about you
everywhere."
After this there was but little said, and the two parted further down
the street, William depressed and sorrowed by the discovery and the
secret that bore upon his mind.
But to return to the cell of the mysterious young prisoner who read his
Virgil so indefatigably.
He had not been asleep at all upon the occasion of William's unexpected
visit. In fact, he had been working with a small file upon the iron
bars. It had to be done very carefully indeed, by fits and starts, for a
long-continued exertion might at any time bring upon him the attention
of the guard.
He had not recognized his brother in the dim light, and only thought him
one of the inspecting officers, although he had shivered when the jailer
spoke in such an off-hand manner of his being accused of theft.
In the mean time he had read his cipher note.
It told him that on a certain night, if it were possible for him to file
his bars in two, a boat with two rowers would be waiting beneath a wharf
of the North River. If everything worked smoothly on both sides, signals
would be exchanged.
The note was signed by Number Two. George knew this to be friend
Anderson. It stated that Number Three was unfortunately ill, and George
knew that Number Three was Abel Norton.
He had destroyed the epistle, and recommenced the tedious work of filing
away the bars.
Despite Mr. Anderson's warning, William could hardly restrain a desire
to visit the sugar-house and have a long talk with his brother, but he
saw that the consequences might be most disastrous. However, there was
one thing he could do--help George's material comfort; he would claim
this privilege at least.
Meeting Mr. Anderson one day, he asked him if George needed anything
that he could procure. To his surprise, the little schoolmaster refused
to discuss the question, and William took the hint that he was not
supposed to know that his brother was in New York at all. So, pained and
chagrined, he dropped the subject; he could not insist, as he had left
the matter in Mr. Anderson's hands.
He was, however, soon to undergo a great surprise.
Huddled up in his long gray cloak, he was facing a small snow-storm that
whirled the drifts around the corners of the houses, and as he emerged
into Waddell Lane a tall man who was approaching glanced at him most
curiously. Just as William was passing, the other extended his arm and
grasped him by the shoulder.
"Hold! I would not go in that direction," said the man. "Don't be rash.
Be cautious, Frothingham, I do beseech you. Step to one side in the
alley here; no one will see us, and I would have a word with you."
William, to his best knowledge and belief, had never seen the person who
addressed him so readily and excitedly by name before.
Something told him at once that here was one of the persons concerned in
his brother George's intended escape. It behooved him well to listen.
"You have chosen a good night," said Mr. Abel Norton, drawing the young
Lieutenant into the shadow of the doorway of an empty house, "a splendid
night. It has worked well; but, Heavens! a full uniform! How did you
procure it, in the name of mercy?"
"It was easier than you think, I suspect," said William, now speaking
for the first time.
"I wish I could say it becoming," went on the older man. "It must itch
you like a hair shirt--eh?"
William said nothing.
"I met your colored servant two days ago. I remembered having seen him
with your uncle years gone by. He has returned to New Jersey with
tidings of you, and the news that you have been slightly wounded and
that you will follow him. By this time they at Stanham have learned of
your intention to escape. I have been ill," continued Abel Norton. "This
is the first day that I have been out. I was on my way to the prison to
see if in some way I could learn tidings of you."
"There is no necessity of going now," said William.
"So I see, my dear boy. You never liked me when we worked together in
Sir Wyeth's office. What a proud young limb you were, and as solitary as
an owl! But this is no time for reminiscing. Is the boat prepared?"
"That's just the question," put in William, at a venture. "Everything
has worked well, but that I do not know."
"It must be arranged then at once to-night. I will see to it myself,"
said his mysterious acquaintance. "I know the ferrymen and where to
reach them. Shall I do it?"
"You had better," was the answer. "And let me know where I can find
them."
"At Striker's wharf, then, at eleven o'clock to-night. It will be
pitch-dark and a rough passage. Where are you bound to now?"
"To a safe hiding-place," answered William.
"Take care--take care--don't be too bold," said the other, cautiously.
"Well, if you will, may good-luck wait on you. To-night, then, at
eleven."
Abel Norton did not know what loyal British hands grasped his, but the
pressure was firm and hearty, for William's heart went out to this
friend of his brother's.
"Schoolmaster Anderson has frustrated the attempt at escape, of course,"
he thought to himself, "and the boat-men will wait in vain. I could not
find it in my heart to tell the old fellow who I was. He might have died
from sheer astonishment." But it seemed quite natural to be taken for
George again. The resemblance was not lost.
Abel Norton would have been astounded had he known where the "safe
hiding-place" was toward which the young spy was hastening, for he
walked on down the lane until he came to the corner, and went straight
through the main entrance into the City Arms. He stamped the snow from
his heels and was hailed by a group of officers, who made room for him
at the table. He but half listened to the conversation, until some one
slapped his shoulder.
"Come, come, recall your wandering thoughts!"
William gathered his wits together with an effort.
"I have just discovered," said an officer, "that despatches of the
greatest moment are passing between New England and General Washington's
army. We are quite as anxious to find out what his move will be as he is
to ascertain ours. You know something of the country over yonder?"
"Yes," replied William, "I was born and reared there."
A stranger in an ill-fitting uniform had been listening to the talk. He
now leaned across the table and addressed a question to the two
speakers.
"Your name is Frothingham, I believe, sir?"
"Yes, sir," answered William.
"Are you a relation of that family at Stanham Manor? I am a New Jersey
man in the King's service."
"I am," was the reply.
"Have you not a brother?"
"I have--or had. He," said William, laconically, "is in the American
service."
"Think nothing of that," was the response. "My own father and two
brothers hold positions of some importance under Washington. In fact, my
own wife sides with the rebels." The Tory officer said this as if he
were stating something quite ordinary. "This post-route of which we were
speaking when you entered, and through which all the despatches go, runs
through your country; and General Greene has cut a road, I take it,
almost through your land. The 'Cowboys' and 'Skinners' keep things
lively not far to the northward, but methinks it would be easy to obtain
advices near Stanham Mills or at the Hewes's estates. They have turned
your foundry into rebel gun-shops."
"Have they, indeed? I have heard no news for a long time from there."
William again relapsed into silence.
The inaction and the constant recurrence of the disagreeable dream of
poor persecuted Liberty had begun to tell. Insidious horrible thoughts
now and then flitted through his mind. Could he be doubtful of his own
loyalty? No; but he must do something to prove it and put it to the
test, if only for himself.
Then an idea came over him with such force as almost caused him to
exclaim aloud, "Eureka!" he said, to himself. "I have it. For the
King--for the King!'"
He pushed himself back from the table and hurried out of doors. He
fairly ran down the street to the corner on which stood the handsome
residence of General Howe.
"I would see the General on important business," he said to the sentry.
"Tell him that it is most urgent."
The orderly, after some delay, brought back a message of admittance, and
William followed him into the presence of the Commander-in-Chief.
He was lolling back in his chair, with a half-finished decanter on the
table beside him.
"Well, my young sir, what is this 'important business'?"
"Merely a request, your Excellency, that I may be detailed to obtain
information of the movements of the American forces. I have an
opportunity to penetrate into their lines with the best chance of my
commission being undiscovered. I think I can obtain important news.
"Your request is granted. And when would you leave?" spoke up the
General, lazily.
"To-night, at eleven o'clock," was the reply William made, remembering
that that was the time the strange tall man had mentioned.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
THE CHANGED VALENTINE.
A Play for St. Valentine's Day.
BY CAROLINE A. CREEVEY.
_CHARACTERS:_
AMANDA STUART.
MARY ANN MURPHY, _of Irish descent, who often affects the brogue_.
GERTRUDE CAMPBELL.
LAURA THURSTON.
ALICIA PERRY.
ADA MCCLURE.
GEORGIANA THOMPSON, _a little girl who lisps_.
(All members of Mrs. Eaton's boarding-school.)
MISS STEELE, _a harsh, unpopular teacher_.
MRS. ST. VALENTINE, _aunt to_ Cupid.
CUPID.
SCENE.--_A drawing-room in the school. The girls are seated around a
table, studying_. TIME.--_February 13th_.
[Illustration]
_Gertrude_. This is a horridly uninteresting lesson. Listen, now:
"Domestic affairs under Jefferson were at first marked by wonderful
prosperity. American commerce increased enormously, for as nearly all
Europe was at war, it was not safe to send goods in European vessels." I
should like to know what all Europe was at war about? Miss Goodrich will
be sure to ask. Can't you tell me, Alicia? You are so good in history.
_Alicia_. What are your dates? When was Jefferson's administration?
_Gertrude_. I'm sure I don't know. It must have been seventeen hundred
or eighteen hundred and something.
_Ada_. Well, I call that great! Studying about Jefferson, and don't know
when he lived!
_Gertrude_. Let's see if you know.
_Ada_. Course I don't! But then I ain't studying history. Just now I'll
be satisfied if I can find out what an adjective clause is.
_Mary Ann_. Aint is a regular verb--I aint, thou aintest, he aintet, we
aint, you aint--
_Laura_. Hush, Mollie; don't tease.
_Mary Ann_. Is it t'asin' I am? I'm helpin' you, me darlint. Active
voice, third person.
_Ada_. Mollie, you stick to algebra.
_Mary Ann_. Wid pleasure, me choild. It's _x_ equals the number of
laborers, and _y_ the hours they worked, and _z_ the sthroike they wint
upon.
_Amanda_. Oh, are you doing that example about the laborers? Just let me
see your statement; I can't get it.
_Mary Ann_. I'm afther tellin' ye the statement. It's me _x_ equals--
_Gertrude_. There, I have found Jefferson's reign--administration, I
mean--1801 to 1809.
[_Repeats it several times._]
_Alicia_. Well, about that time Napoleon lived--didn't he?
_Mary Ann_.
Napoleon was a warrior bould,
From Corsica he came,
And so at least we've all been tould
He set the world aflame.
_Amanda_. Girls, do you know what day to-morrow will be?
_All_ (_shout_). St. Valentine's day.
_Ada_. I hope to goodness I'll have six.
_Gertrude_. There's nothing mean about her.
_Georgiana_. There'th one coming for me, I'm thure. My brother alwayth
thendth me one.
_Amanda_. Oh, brothers' valentines don't count! Haven't you any other
friends? Don't you know any boys?
_Laura_. I am shocked.
_Mary Ann_. Whist thin! Mintion no dangerous characters in a young
ladies' institootion. Would ye raally, thin, me poor, deluded child, be
recavin' thim valentines, which is pizined with Cupid's arrers, from
school-boys?
_Laura_. Girls, it's study hour, and we ought not to talk, except about
our lessons.
_Georgiana_. Thomebody'th coming.
[_All bend earnestly over their books._]
_Enter_ Miss Steele. _She stands looking suspiciously at the girls._
_Miss Steele_. I thought I heard voices. Young ladies, were you
communicating?
_Mary Ann_. Yis, mum. I was a-communicatin' av me ixample to paper. It's
_x_ equals--
_Miss Steele_. Miss Murphy, you will be kind enough to drop that
outlandish way of speaking when you are addressing me. Were you
communicating with each other?
_Gertrude_. I asked what all Europe was at war about? It said so in my
history lesson.
_Ada_. I asked what an adjective clause was? It came in my grammar.
_Miss Steele_. Young ladies, I fear you are not absolutely truthful.
Remember, the truthful person is never afraid to incriminate himself. He
fears deceit above everything else. Try above all things to tell the
truth. In the present instance I certainly heard a word that did not
belong to either your history or grammar.
_Alicia_ (_behind her hands_). Eavesdropping, I do believe.
_Miss Steele_. Miss Perry, did you speak?
_Alicia_. I was restraining a sneeze, ma'am.
_Miss Steele_. The word that I happened to overhear was "valentines." I
want you to understand that I wholly disapprove of those things. They
are silly and stupid. It is a reprehensible custom, that of sending
them. Keep your thoughts on higher, better things. I shall remain with
you during the rest of this study hour, and see that you pursue your
work faithfully till the bell rings. (_Seats herself, adjusts glasses,
and proceeds to darn a pair of stockings._) It is quite cool here.
Georgiana my dear, go to my room, and in the left-hand corner of the
drawer you will find a white shawl. Bring it to me.
_Georgiana_. Yeth, ma'am. [_Exit._]
_Miss Steele_. Strange how that child lisps. I must speak to the
elocution-master about it. He might suggest a remedy for the defect.
_Mary Ann_. May I ask what this word spells?
_Miss Steele_. Certainly.