_A DOOR OPENED._
VERY early in his military career, Caspar Reinhart had earned the
character given him by old Von Falkenstein—of being one of the best
men, and altogether the most silent man, in the whole force. Snatched
without warning from home and family and all that he held dear, he
was at first like one stunned by a heavy blow. He could feel nothing
but a cold, benumbing sense of utter desolation. As the days went on,
carrying him farther and farther from all that made life worth having,
this first feeling was succeeded by one of burning rage against those
who had been the cause of his misfortune, more especially against the
landgrave and Captain Burger, who had commanded the kidnapping party
who took him prisoner. It is impossible to have such a feeling in
one's heart and not betray it in some way; and so it came to pass that
Captain Burger knew that Caspar Reinhart both hated and despised him.
Now, it takes a great man to despise contempt. Captain Burger was not a
great man, but a very small one, and he returned Casper's hatred with
interest, and was all the more angry because his enemy gave him no
cause of complaint. No man was better at drill or neater in his dress
than Reinhart, none more punctiliously respectful in manner or more
attentive to his general duty. There was actually nothing to lay hold
of. Nevertheless, Captain Burger hated Reinhart and spited him on every
occasion.
But their connection was not to last long, which was well for both of
them. A smith was wanted for a cavalry regiment, and inquiry was made
among the men.
"There is Reinhart, from Nonnenwald," said Reinhart's colonel, who was
a friend of old Von Falkenstein. "His father was the best smith in
all the country, and he brought up his son to his own trade. I think
Reinhart would suit you exactly. He is in Burger's company at present,
and would be well out of it. Reinhart is no common man. He is somewhat
educated and very well behaved, but he is thrown away where he is; and
besides, they tell me Burger spites him whenever he can get a chance to
do so."
"How is it that you come to know him so well?"
"Oh, I knew his father before him, and so feel interested for him. I
should like to get him out of Burger's way."
"Burger is a stupid coxcomb of a would-be Frenchman," growled the old
man.
So the matter was finally settled, and Caspar found his condition much
improved by the exchange. His spirits insensibly grew brighter as he
felt his old tools once more in his hands. The dark cloud cleared away
from his brain, and he was able once more to think and to consider what
was best to be done. There was no escape from his present condition,
and all that remained was to make the best of it. He could not bring
himself to feel that he owed any duty to the sovereign who had sold him
like a sheep or the officers who had kidnapped him, but he saw that for
his own sake and that of those he had left at home, he must earn and
support a good character. He would do so to the best of his ability,
would save his wages, and at the end of the war, if he lived so long,
he would settle down in the country whither he had been brought against
his will and send for his family to come to him.
Having once arrived at this conclusion, Caspar kept it steadily in
view. He worked early and late, and earned many an odd shilling and
half guinea besides his regular pay. He set himself earnestly to
work to learn English, and made very rapid progress. One day, after
a successful foraging-party in New Jersey, he heard some of his
companions laughing over their plunder.
"Give it to Reinhart," he heard one of them say. "He can tell us."
"Give what to Reinhart?" he asked.
"A miracle! A miracle!" cried one of the men. "The smith has spoken
without being spoken to.—Come here, smith, and tell Barsch what he has
found. He thinks it is a book of Yankee magic."
Reinhart took in his hand the small richly-bound volume and looked at
the title-page.
"It is a Bible," said he.
"A Bible! Barsch has stolen a Bible!" cried his companions. "Barsch can
set himself up for a pastor.—Come, old fellow, give us a sermon."
"Hush, children!" said a gray old sergeant. "Is that the way to treat
the holy word? You will bring bad luck on us."
"It is only a Yankee Bible, Father Martin," said the young man, a
little abashed.
"A Bible is a Bible all over the world," returned the old sergeant. "Is
not that so, smith?"
"That is true," answered Reinhart.
He had held the Bible in his hands all the time, and as he turned over
its pages, a great longing seized him to have the book for his own. He
had not seen or opened a Bible since the day he was carried away, and
the very touch and sight seemed to do him good.
"Will you sell me this book, Barsch?" he asked.
"Give it to you if you like," was the answer. "You don't think it will
bring me ill-luck, do you?"
"Give him a horseshoe to wear round his neck in exchange for his book,"
cried one of the men, laughing, "else some Yankee witch will come and
carry him off."
A half-laughing, half-quarrelling dispute ensued, but Reinhart heard
nothing of it. Book in hand, he retreated to a quiet corner and sat
down to study his prize. He had always been given to reading when
he had time, and he thought the Bible would be a great help to that
knowledge of English which he so coveted. Every spare moment was now
spent with his book. He was familiar already with the German Lutheran
versions, and had no more trouble in making out the English than served
to impress it on his mind.
He read and studied, and by degrees a new light broke upon his
darkness. A new hope arose in his heart. One of whom he had always
heard, but whom he had never known, came to him, and said,—
"It is I: be not afraid."
And Caspar believed and was comforted. He still held to his purpose
of settling in America if he should live to the close of the war, and
getting his family about him in a new home, but a brighter and higher
hope arose behind and over all. He learned to take that long look into
eternity which reduces all things else to correct perspective, like the
true point of sight in a picture.
It was impossible for Reinhart not to abhor the life he was living.
He was a humane and kind-hearted man engaged in a war which it must
be confessed was one of peculiar atrocity. It is a fact that in order
to strike the more terror into the rebels, as they were called, the
Hessians were encouraged in all sorts of violence, cruelty, and
oppression. They were told that the Yankees took no prisoners except
such as they meant to make slaves of, and they were bidden to give no
quarter. In the whole of the New Jersey campaign, the Hessians robbed,
burnt, and murdered right and left, friends as well as enemies. Those
who had fondly hoped to remain neutral, relying on Sir William Howe's
protection, found they were leaning on a broken reed. The Hessians
never asked whether a man were Whig or Tory, rebel or loyal, so long
as he had what they coveted. The men were absolutely encumbered with
plunder; and as a natural consequence, their discipline was relaxed and
their own officers found it hard to manage them.
Reinhart kept aloof from such scenes as much as possible, but he
was a soldier and had to obey orders, and he constantly saw things
which turned him sick with horror or made his blood boil with rage.
Sometimes, indeed, he would interfere to save a life or protect a child
from death or a woman from insult, but oftener was a helpless spectator
of the atrocities perpetrated by his comrades.
Only for the hope that he might some time rejoin his family, and that
other hope which had lately arisen in his mind, he would have gone mad.
He never tried to avoid any exposure, but the bullets which laid low so
many of his companions seemed to avoid him, and he never had a scratch.
His wild companions, who had alternately abused and laughed at him, at
last began to respect the silent man who never shrank from any danger
or evaded any duty or hesitated to help a comrade in trouble, but who
absolutely refused to soil his hands with cruelty or plunder. Some of
them even whispered that he was under the protection of some superior
power; whether heavenly or not they could not tell.
Caspar was early at his work the morning after the accident with the
screen. He had a shrewd guess that his clever assistant with the brown
wig would not appear again, and he had therefore brought with him one
of his own companions.
The carpenter had mended the broken screen, and the light wire lattice
was once more fixed in its place when Major André appeared on the scene
with Caspar's old officer and enemy, Captain Burger. Burger had always
striven hard to assume and support the character of a fine gentleman.
He had once held a very doubtful position in one of the very smallest
of German courts. He had been the humble companion of the youthful
heir-apparent, and had there learned a little French, a little music,
and a good deal about kings and queens, princes and princesses. He
knew how to fence and to dance; and being big and tall, with a yellow
moustache and a great deal of assurance, he believed himself quite
irresistible. He had been one of the great promoters of the Mischianza,
which most of his companions openly ridiculed, and he had tried hard to
be made one of the "Knights of the Blended Rose," but that honour was
denied him.
"Well done, smith," cried Major André as Caspar paused in his work and
gravely saluted the two officers. "You have lost no time, I see, and
you have done your work well."
Caspar bowed gravely.
"But I see you have a new assistant," continued Major André. "What has
become of our Yankee friend?"
"I have not seen him," answered Caspar. "I thought he might be too much
hurt to work, and therefore, not to lose time, I brought one of my own
comrades along."
"You are a clever fellow," said André, examining the work. "You ought
to be something more than a common smith."
Caspar bowed again.
"Why, what a dumb fish you are, man!" said the good-natured major. "For
a man that speaks English so well as you do, you are wonderfully chary
of your words."
"We have a proverb which says that silence is a safe game," said
Caspar, not unmoved by the kindly manner of the handsome young
Englishman and smiling in his turn.
Captain Burger looked at Reinhart as he spoke, and recognized him.
"What! You are Reinhart of Falkenstein's troop?" said he, in a voice
which somehow conveyed an insult in its very tones. "I remember you
were always a sulky bear. Well, have you heard from home lately?"
"No, my captain," answered Caspar, respectfully, his heart giving a
sudden leap as a gleam of hope came over him. "I have never heard a
word from my wife since I left her. May I ask if any letters have come?"
"Not that I know of," answered Captain Burger. "I fancy the women have
something else to do. Your wife may have donned her widow's veil and
taken it off again before this time, as I hear many another has done."
For a moment, the old hate blazed up in Caspar's heart and shone out at
his eyes. Then the bitter feeling of disappointment drowned everything
else. He bit his pale lips and turned away.
"Burger, you are a brute," said André, in honest indignation.—"There!
Never mind, my man," he added, hastily and in a low tone as he caught
sight of Caspar's face. "Don't get yourself into trouble. I dare say
your good wife has written before now. The mails are very uncertain."
"Have no fear for me, my officer," answered Caspar, quietly. "He who
kicks a fettered man exercises his valour in safety.—Will it please you
to tell us what to do next? I think there is no more fear of this."
"Smith, you shall pay for this," said Burger, pale with rage in his
turn.
"Hold your tongue, man, can't you?" said André, drawing him away. "Let
the smith alone. He is a fine fellow, and shall not be insulted—while
he is working for me, at least."
It was not for Burger's interest to quarrel with his companion, so
he smoothed his plumes and affected to treat the matter as of no
consequence:
"Well, well, let it go. He is a good smith, as you say, and might rise,
only for his sulky temper."
"He must have wit, or he would not have learned English so readily,"
remarked André. "I was telling him yesterday that he ought to be
employed in secret service, as nobody would know him from a German born
in the country. I don't think, however, that he relished the notion."
A light not good to see shone in Burger's eyes for a moment.
"Yes, as you say, he would make a good spy.—I wonder I never thought of
that," he added, more to himself than to his companion. "To be sure, he
might desert, but then I should be rid of him."
"Why in the name of wonder should you wish to be rid of him?" asked
André, in surprise. "I should think such a workman would be invaluable.
I never saw a better piece of work than he has made of that screen."
"Oh, he is such a sulky dog. You heard how he answered me—or you,
rather."
"And what wonder, when you spoke as you did? Suppose any one had hinted
such a thing about your wife, supposing you had one?"
"Major André, such language as this from one gentleman to another—"
"Fiddle-de-dee!" said André, who stood in no awe of his big companion.
"Don't try to pick a quarrel, man. I have no time for such frolics at
present. Come, let us go and look at our arch of triumph. Do you know
what old Von Falkenstein said when I told him about it? 'More arch than
triumph,' he growled; and, faith, I think, between ourselves, the old
man was right. It must be confessed we have not made a very brilliant
campaign."
Two or three days after the Mischianza had gone off in grand array, a
messenger came to Caspar Reinhart as he was reading beside his forge in
one of the intervals of his work.
"You are to go to headquarters directly," said the messenger. "General
Clinton has sent for you."
Greatly wondering, Reinhart made himself tidy, put his book in his
pocket, and presented himself in due time before General Clinton,
who, with several officers about him, was examining a rough map of
the shores of the Delaware below Philadelphia. Captain Burger was in
attendance, and his eye met Reinhart's with a look which the latter did
not understand.
"Here is the man I mentioned to Your Excellency," said he.
"Oh yes! Your name is—"
"Caspar Reinhart, Your Excellency."
"And I hear you speak English very well and are skilful at your trade?"
"It is not for me to say, Your Excellency," answered Reinhart, with a
beating heart. He had heard a rumour that he was to be transferred to
the artillery—a change which would have been greatly to his liking.
"Ah, well, you are just the man I want," said Sir Henry. "It is very
desirable that we should know the state of things in West Jersey, and
you are the very one to obtain information for us. We have reason to
think that some forces are gathering there, and that there is a design
for attacking the forts."
The general proceeded to explain his plan. Reinhart was to be taken
down to the fort below the city. Here he was to take a boat, slip away
by night down the river, and land somewhere on the Jersey shore. From
thence he was to proceed inland in the character of a smith seeking
work, communicating cautiously with loyal inhabitants and gathering all
the information possible.
Again Caspar saw the glance of gratified malice in Burger's eyes, and
he understood at once that he was caught in a trap from which there was
no escape. His habit of silence served him in good stead; and though
every vein and nerve was tingling, he simply saluted and said nothing.
"You will come here at four o'clock to receive your final instructions
and money," continued Sir Henry. "I shall furnish you with a pass to
help you in your return, although you are not to use it except in case
of utmost need. You must make your wit save your head, as the saying
goes."
"Or his neck, rather," said Burger, with a sneer.
"I shall try to do so, Your Excellency," said Caspar, with the same
gravity, thinking, at the same time, that the pass would most likely be
unnecessary.
"That is all. Come here precisely at four o'clock. Of course you
understand that this matter must be mentioned to no one. You are merely
going down to the fort to look at some iron-work which needs repairing.
I need not tell you that the service is a dangerous one; but if you
succeed, the reward shall be in proportion to the danger."
Caspar, finding himself dismissed, walked slowly back to his quarters,
resolving many things in his mind. He saw clearly that he was indebted
to his old enemy Captain Burger for being sent on such a troublesome
and dangerous service—a service far more perilous than any ordinary
engagement, since, if discovered and taken, he was certain to be hung.
The business was one peculiarly disagreeable to him. His sympathies
were all on the side of the Americans, who were fighting for their
liberty against almost hopeless odds. As to his own prince, he
naturally did not feel that he owed any duty to the prince who had sold
him like a sheep. Hundreds of the Hessians had deserted, but Caspar
could not make up his mind to desert. If for no other reason, he would
not give his enemy such a triumph.
"I can only go where I am sent," said he, at last. "Perhaps, after all,
this may be the opening of the door for which I have been praying."
The afternoon was spent in making his preparations. He secured the
small sum of money which he had earned and saved, wrapped up his Bible
and put it in an inner pocket, and wrote a long letter to his wife,
which he carried to the old sergeant, begging him to send it as soon as
possible.
"What! You are going down the river, I hear?" said the old man. "I
suppose you will be back in a few days. I wish the stupid English
would mend their own tools and let us alone. There is not a smith in
the whole army who can manage a horse as you can. But you will be back
soon, eh?"
"There is no telling," said Caspar. "Farewell, Father Martin, and many
thanks for all your kindness. If you ever go back, go and see my wife
at Nonnenwald."
"Why, one would think you were going to your death," said old Martin,
struck by something in Caspar's manner. "You don't mean to desert, eh?"
"Not I," answered Caspar; "but there are things one must not tell, you
know."
"I believe Burger has been playing you some dog's trick or other," said
Martin. "If he has, I will put a nail in his shoe for it. I know all
about him and his family; he is no more a gentleman than I am. Yes,
yes! I can tell things."
"Do nothing for my sake, Father Martin," said Caspar, earnestly.
"The man has always been my enemy, but I have no desire for revenge.
Farewell, and present my duty to our colonel."
Punctually at four o'clock Caspar repaired to the general's quarters,
where he received his pass, a well-filled purse, and the hearty good
wishes of the general.
"You have settled in your mind precisely what you will do?"
"As far as I can beforehand, Your Excellency;" and Caspar proceeded to
explain his design.
"You are a very clear-headed man," said the general. "You shall not be
forgotten, I promise you, when you return."
"It will be time to think of that when I see whether I am to return at
all, Your Excellency."
"Oh, you must not be downhearted," said Sir Henry, kindly. "The service
is a dangerous one, but many a man has lived through it. Good luck go
with you!"
At twelve o'clock that night, Caspar Reinhart pushed off his little
boat and made for the Jersey shore, under cover of which he floated
downward, only using his oars to keep himself from running aground.
It was a bright night. The wind blew down the river and the tide was
running out very fast. The air was soft and warm, and all sorts of
sweet odours mingled with the smell of salt water and river-mud. The
frogs, turtles, and insects were performing an uproarious concert along
shore, to which to him unknown birds occasionally added a strain.
Caspar listened to the various voices, wondering what creatures made
them, and starting now and then as some big bullfrog near at hand
offered a gruff remark, till he grew horribly sleepy, and at last
dropped into a doze. He did not seem to himself to have slept a moment,
when he was startled by a sudden shock, and waked to find his boat
aground. The early streaks of dawn were showing in the east, and Caspar
concluded that he could not do better than to rest on his oars till it
grew light enough to see about him.
Presently he discovered that his boat had run itself aground on a sandy
spit of land projecting into the Delaware. On the other side seemed to
be the mouth of a pretty good-sized inlet or river; it was not easy
to say which. The banks were low and overgrown with oak and pine,
mostly quite small, and what is called scrub, intermixed with holly
and laurel, the latter in the full beauty of its magnificent bloom.
Beautiful vines ran over the trees, and strange flowering-plants grew
in the edges of the water. Dainty beach-birds danced up and down the
margin of sand left by the retreating tide, a stately heron was fishing
on the other side, and on a tree close at hand a mocking-bird was
pouring out a wonderful strain of melody. *
* The mocking-bird is a rare but not unknown visitor in South Jersey.
I heard a very fine one in the old churchyard in Bridgeton.
"It is the garden of Eden," thought Caspar, looking about him with
delight, for he had a keen sense of beauty. "Well, I don't see that I
can do better than to eat my breakfast, rest a while, and when the tide
makes float up the creek here and seek my fortune in the interior."