_NEWS AND PLANS._
FOR several days Caspar lay in Deborah Whitecar's best bed, very weak
and languid and comfortable, and decidedly indisposed to any greater
mental or physical exertion than that of taking his broth and answering
the doctor's questions, or speculating idly on the bit of landscape and
river which he could see out of his window.
Then he began to recover rapidly, to feel a profound interest in the
dinner-hour, to sit up while his bed was made, and at last, to Kitty's
great delight, to be dressed and walk to the window. His mind was now
quite clear as to all that had happened up to the time when Recompense
Joake visited him in his room and showed him how he might escape. After
that, everything was in a fog. He dimly remembered hearing voices about
him, especially Kitty's, and being well cared for, but that was all.
His nurse, though kindness itself, was very peremptory and would not
allow him to talk, and even Kitty would only answer all his inquiries
by laying her small finger on her lip, and, if he persisted, by
vanishing from the room.
One day, he was sitting by his window looking out at the winding river
and the pretty village, of which he could see a bit on the other side.
He was feeling more than commonly downhearted and lonely. He had never
been seriously ill in all his life before; he did not know what to
make of the weakness which oppressed him; and, like most men under
similar circumstances, he thought he should never be any better. He
had heard no public news, and nobody had given him a hint as to what
was to be done with him. In this mournful case he was sitting, leaning
both elbows on the window-sill with his head on his hands, when he was
aroused by a cheerful voice behind him:
"Well, this is an improvement on the last time I saw you, but you would
hardly handle a sledge as well as at our first meeting."
Caspar looked round to see a gentleman whose face he seemed dimly to
remember, though he could not at first tell where they had met.
"You are in a fog, I see," said the stranger, smiling. "Don't you
remember the Mischianza and the assistant Major André found for you?"
"And you are Jonathan Elmer?" said Caspar, shaking the hand the other
held out to him.
"Yes, and your friend Kitty's father. I little thought, when we parted
in Philadelphia that night, how we should meet again. How are you
feeling?"
"Very much better, thank you, if only I could gain strength."
"You will soon do that when you are able to get out of doors. Do you
feel equal to a little talk about your own and public affairs?"
"Oh yes, indeed!" answered Caspar, eagerly. "I have so longed to hear
some news! But first tell me how you escaped."
"Easily enough," answered Captain Elmer. "In fact, I had no need to
escape, for no one had thought of suspecting me. I went home to my
lodging, and the next morning, having gained all the information I
wanted, I walked away as I had come, made a circuit, and joined my
regiment. And now, in return for my story, tell me how you came hither,
for I don't suppose you came 'on purpose' to drive away the bear, as
Kitty says."
Caspar replied by detailing the circumstances with which the reader is
already acquainted.
"Then you really were a spy as well as myself, though not so
successful. I remember that fine Major André saying that you would do
good service in that line."
"It was not Major André, but one of our own officers, to whom I was
indebted," said Caspar. "I had no choice, you know: I had to obey
orders."
"That is of course. But what do you mean to do now?"
"That is not for me to say. I am a prisoner, and I suppose under
sentence of death."
"Hardly as bad as that," said Captain Elmer, smiling. "It is true that
death is usually the portion of a detected spy, but circumstances
alter cases. In the first place, you saved my own life and my child's.
In the second, you have acquired no information; and if you had, you
have had no chance to communicate it, and it would be of no use to
your commander as things are at present. Neither do I suppose you are
possessed of any knowledge which would be of use to us."
"If I have, I would not give it you," said Caspar. "I have no wish
to return to the British service, but nothing shall induce me to act
against my old comrades."
"There is no need," said Captain Elmer. "I suppose you have heard no
public news."
"Not a word."
"Then you don't know that Sir Henry Clinton has evacuated Philadelphia
a month ago, and been beaten by the American forces on his way across
the Jerseys?"
"Beaten!" Caspar's face expressed the surprise he felt.
"Why, yes, it amounted to that. The Americans encamped upon the ground,
and Sir Henry ran away in the night. That looks like being beaten,
doesn't it?"
"It certainly does; and yet I hardly know how to believe it. I wonder
what old Von Falkenstein said?"
"I fancy there were plenty of hard things said on both sides. The
triumph would have been much greater only for Lee's conduct."
"And the Americans are in Philadelphia?" said Caspar, as if he could
not yet believe the news.
"Yes, and a good many of your own countrymen besides."
"Prisoners?"
"No; deserters. It was curious to see the poor fellows creeping out of
every hole and corner, some of them half-starved. There have been still
more desertions on the line of march."
"I can hardly blame my countrymen, though I could not make up my own
mind to desert," said Caspar. "I don't very well see how I can return
now if I wish it ever so much."
"Under other circumstances you might be exchanged," said Captain Elmer.
"As it is, such a move might provoke inconvenient inquiries. My serious
advice to you, Reinhart, is to remain where you are till your strength
returns, and then go to work at your trade. You will find no trouble
in supporting yourself and laying up money.—I think you said you had a
wife and family?"
"Yes; I have, or had, a wife and four children at home."
"Well, this war cannot last for ever, and it can end only in one way,"
said Captain Elmer, who, like most Americans, had not the slightest
doubt of the success of his country's cause. *
* This hopeful spirit was never stronger than in the darkest days of
the Revolution.
"By that time, you may probably have enough beforehand to send for your
wife and children, and settle yourselves comfortably where your boys
can grow up in a free country and be as good as anybody."
Caspar drew a deep breath.
"That sounds very nice," said he; "but—"
"Well, but what?"
"I can hardly tell," said Caspar, "but the future looks dark to me. I
fear I shall never do a day's work again."
"Nonsense! You will be as well as ever in a month."
"And where shall I find work, supposing I am able to do it?"
"Where shall you not find it, you might better say," returned Captain
Elmer, with a little impatience. "Anywhere! Here in Greenwich—up in
Bridgeton, where the greatest fool that ever slung a sledge is worth
his weight in gold, let alone a clever workman like yourself. There is
my uncle's forge suffering for want of a journeyman this minute. Don't
be so downhearted, man!"
"See here, Jonathan Elmer: if it wasn't interfering with thy
arrangements, I should say thee was making Caspar talk more than was
good for him, considering that he has been sitting up all the morning
without anything to eat. Hadn't thee better stop now and let him have
something?" said Recompense Joake, appearing at the door with his usual
long face and a tray filled with good things for his patient.
"I dare say you are right," said Captain Elmer.—"Reinhart, why didn't
you tell me I was tiring you to death?"
"If thee wasn't inexperienced in the ways of sick folks, I should say
that was a foolish question," said Recompense, who seemed to find it
necessary to put all his propositions hypothetically, as the logicians
say. As he spoke, he quietly and quickly brought a small stand to
the side of Caspar's arm-chair, arranged his provisions thereon, and
brought the patient a basin of cool water to refresh his face and hands
before eating.
"I declare, Recompense, you are a jewel!" said the captain, struck
with admiration. "You are as handy as an old woman. You ought to be
head-nurse in a hospital."
"My mother used to say there was a corner for every crooked stick if it
could only be found," answered Recompense, busily cutting a delicate
little broiled chicken into pieces of convenient size and pouring out a
fragrant cup of spearmint tea. "I was always reckoned handy about sick
folks, though I ain't very smart other ways. Thee 'd better come away
now and let the man eat his dinner in peace. He has had talk enough for
one day."
"He is getting on pretty well, isn't he?" asked Captain Elmer as they
descended the stairs from Caspar's room.
"Well, middling," answered Recompense, with a true nurse's
unwillingness to say that his patient was improving. "I've seen them
get on faster, and I've seen them not so fast."
"I'm sorry he is so downhearted."
"Oh, thee needn't mind that. He will feel quite different when he has
eaten his dinner and had a nap. Thee gave him rather too great a dose
of talk with thy news and thy plans."
"I dare say I was stupid," said the captain, apologetically, "but I had
thought it all over so many times, and he never said he was tired."
"Of course he didn't. Sick folks hardly ever do; and there's where well
folks have got to look out for them. However, I don't think there's any
harm done.—Has thee settled his matters, think?"
"Oh yes. There won't be any trouble, seeing that Clinton is out of the
way and all Jersey is in our hands for the present," answered Captain
Elmer. "There is nothing to hinder his going to work at his trade
either here in Greenwich or at Bridgeton, but I should advise the
latter, as being rather more out of the way."
"And thee thinks he won't be liable to be taken and hung for a
deserter?"
"Not unless he takes a great deal of pains to bring it about. Clinton
would have his hands fuller than they are now if he should undertake
to catch and hang all the men that have deserted in his march across
Jersey. Reinhart might go to Philadelphia without danger, but I believe
he will do as well, or better, in Bridgeton."
As Recompense had predicted, Caspar was ready to take a brighter view
of his circumstances after he had eaten his broiled chicken. The
prospect which his friend held out to him was certainly alluring.
The trade of war was utterly hateful to him, and particularly so the
business of war and oppression, in which his countrymen were so largely
engaged. He enjoyed the thought of returning to his old trade and
living in peace with all mankind once more. Money, it was true, was
likely to be scarce in the colonies, but it would go hard but he would
lay up enough to purchase a bit of land, build himself a house, and
make a home ready for his wife and the children against the time when
he could send for them.
The thought of never seeing Nonnenwald again gave him for the present
little concern. He had no near relatives; both his brothers had been
killed in the Seven Years' War, into which they had been forced as he
had been into his late situation. He could not be expected to feel very
much loyalty toward his sovereign. No; he would make a home in this
New World for himself and his family—such a house as he could see from
his window on the other side of the river. He would buy a cow or two,
and—But here the cows began to multiply themselves unaccountably, and
the landgrave of Hesse to appear on the scene in the shape of a fat
pig urgently begging not to be sold to Joses Dandy. In short, Caspar
fell sound asleep in the midst of his day-dreams, and awoke mightily
refreshed and able to take as reasonable a view of matters as his
friend could desire.
The next day he was taken out for a drive, and the next he crept out
for a little walk round the garden, leaning on the arm of his faithful
nurse and accompanied by Kitty, whose delight at the recovery of her
friend was unbounded. She had quite made up her quarrel with Recompense
Joake, though they now and then had a little passage-at-arms. Caspar
found much to admire and wonder at, and his companions had enough to do
to answer his questions. The walk did him no harm, and the next day he
was able to go down to the river-side.
Caspar now gained strength rapidly, and began to try his hand at little
bits of work. He made a fine cradle for Kitty's doll. He mended all the
hinges about the place, and treated a case of complicated disorder in
the head of Deborah's spinning-wheel to the admiration of everybody.
He took lessons in English, and read all the books in the house, and
told stories about things in the old country, till Kitty clapped her
hands with delight, and Recompense declared that if it were not a sin
to repine, he should feel to be discontented at having seen so little
of the world. Nay, it is said that worthy was actually heard to laugh
aloud, thereby contradicting the notion prevalent among his friends
that he did not know how to perform that operation.
Before the end of the summer months Caspar was settled in Bridgeton,
and as busily engaged in shoeing horses and mending disabled wheels as
he had ever been at his forge in Nonnenwald. He found, indeed, that he
had a good deal to learn of American ways and customs, but in return he
was able to give some valuable hints to his employer. He found that he
was not so strong as he had been, and that the sledge-hammer was rather
heavy. He cast about for some lighter work, and, discovering a good
lathe which was disused because its former owner had been killed in the
army, he bought it, put it in order, and proposed to his friend and
employer that they should set up the business of making and repairing
spinning-wheels, reels, and so forth. The venture was prosperous. He
found his hands full of work, and seemed likely to become rich enough
before long to purchase the place which he had already in his eye.
He had only one serious trouble, and it was a very great one: he had
never heard a word from his family. He had written again and again, and
Captain Elmer had given his letters to some of his friends among the
French officers, on the chance of their going through France, but all
in vain. Not a word came in reply. There was no such thing possible as
going home. All that could be done was to wait with what patience and
fortitude he could muster for that "end of the war" which every one
prophesied, and which seemed every year to be farther off than ever. He
was not without his comforts by the way, as who is who walks through
the wilderness of this world with his eyes fixed on the Zion to which
he has set his face?
It was a comfort to conquer the good-will of his neighbours, who,
it must be confessed, were at first much disposed to treat him as a
suspicious character, if not as a downright enemy. It was a comfort to
make the first payment on the little wooden house with its tall upper
story and picturesque cool "summer kitchen," characteristic of West
Jersey houses, and to go over the same and plan out little additions
to its beauty and convenience—to plant grapevines and currant-bushes
and rose trees and yellow honeysuckles to fill the air with fragrance;
to make a neat fence and plant a row of linden trees before the door,
and to whitewash everything with snowy shell-lime in true West Jersey
fashion.
By and by, he found a still greater comfort. There were in the
neighbourhood of Bridgeton several German families who had come in and
taken up small pieces of land shortly before the war. They were very
poor and ignorant, and the children were growing up utterly wild and
untrained. It occurred to Caspar that here was a place to do something
for that Master who had done so much for him. It was perhaps too late
to do very much with the parents, but there were the children—such a
flock of them! Might they not be got together in some sort of school
and taught to read their Bibles and to speak good English? It was not
easy at first to gain the confidence of the children or the consent of
their parents to any such plan, but the common language was a great
help, and at last Caspar carried his point.
Sunday-schools, in the present sense, were unknown, but Caspar
succeeded after a while in collecting together the urchins of the
settlement for an hour or more on Sunday afternoon to teach them to
read and to read to them out of the Bible. Presently, the spirit of
ambition was roused, and some of them began to be eager to make more
progress than was possible with a lesson once a week. Caspar could not
be spared in the daytime, but his evenings were free. Three times a
week he walked through the woods to the little settlement to hold an
evening-school among his German friends.
There were not wanting some who smiled at his zeal, and others who
plainly hinted that Caspar was not likely to take so much trouble for
nothing, and that, most probably, some kind of plot was forming—perhaps
to bring the Hessians down and burn the town. But in general, people
had learned to believe in him, and his school proceeded in peace and
increased in usefulness day by day.
On the nineteenth of October, 1781, the English forces at Yorktown
under Lord Cornwallis surrendered, and the war was virtually at an end,
but it was not till the twentieth of January, 1783, that the treaty
of peace was formally and finally signed at Paris. The news reached
Congress on the twenty-third of March, and soon spread through the
country.
When Caspar heard that peace was proclaimed, he felt that he could wait
no longer. He must obtain news of his family at any risk. He resolved
to go to Philadelphia, and if needful to New York, find out some vessel
sailing to Europe, and proceed at least to some point near his former
home from which he could communicate with his family. He had abundance
of money for the purpose, and only waited till he could leave his
former employer and present partner without too much inconvenience,
and find a suitable tenant for his house to keep it in order till his
return.