THE FETE AT PHILADELPHIA.
"Drink to her that each loves best;
And if you nurse a flame
That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name."
--CAMPBELL.
The sixth day of May dawned clear at Valley Forge. In the crowded huts
and tents was an unusual stir, a brushing and repairing of ragged
uniforms, and a burnishing of bayonets and sword-hilts. Then the bugles
sounded their stirring call, and the morning sun looked down upon the
army drawn up in two lines upon the drill plateau. Richard, gazing down
the line in front of him, and knowing that the one in which he stood was
but its ragged prototype, felt his heart swell with admiration and a
sickening pity; for everywhere were the marks of privation and
starvation. Only the faces, transfigured by the radiance of a new hope,
told of the unconquered wills that lay dormant under the scars of
suffering.
Thus they heard the news for which they had been mustered into
line--France had acknowledged the independence of the colonies, and
would send them substantial martial aid. Franklin had won, and the
_fleur-de-lys_ was to float beside the star-studded banner of the young
republic fighting for her life.
When the proclamation was read, a salute of thirteen guns boomed out,
each the symbolic voice of a State pledging allegiance to the new
alliance. Down the lines went the rattle of musketry, and there rolled
up a shout that filled the blue hollow of the sky with its hoarse echo.
"Long live the king of France!"
"Long live the new Republic!"
"Hip--hip--huzza!"
It was as if the prisoned joy of months had broken into song. Scars and
tatters and hunger, pains and aching wounds were forgotten, and only the
radiance of peace and freedom yet to come shone in the dazzled upturned
eyes.
"Long live the lilies of France!"
When it was all done Richard sat down to write by the light of a pine
knot one of those letters that Joscelyn hated.
"I am much grieved at the news of you in Betty's last letter. She
says you daily draw upon yourself the disapproval of the townsfolk
by your public rejoicing over news of any British success. This is
not wise in you, for the people are in no temper to be mocked; and
I feel my hands grow cold at the thought that some danger may come
near you, and I too far away to stand between you and it! Go often
to see my mother, both because she loves you and because the
friendship of so good a patriot will be a safeguard in the
community. Betty hath writ me so queer a page about trying to love
my enemies, and her hope that I will look carefully at every man
toward whom my gun is pointed so that I shoot not a neighbour, that
I am at a loss to understand her meaning--unless, indeed, she hath
been tainted by your Toryism. What think you hath come to the
little minx?"
She would not answer the epistle, of course--she never did; but it was
such a relief to put his feelings into words. That she would be angry at
some of his words he knew, but it made him laugh to think of the
disdainful lips and flashing eyes.
He must have laughed aloud, for a man stretched upon the ground suddenly
asked him what the joke was.
"Oh, just a passing thought," Richard answered. "A man has to think
funny things to keep alive in this state of inactivity into which we are
called."
"You would like a little excitement?"
"Indeed I should. 'Tis now six weeks since I came into camp, and only
that one secret trip with you down the river has broken the monotony of
drilling and mounting guard."
The man, a Virginian named Dunn, one of the most daring and capable
scouts of the army, smoked a moment in silence.
"How would you like to witness the festivities in honour of General Howe
before he leaves Philadelphia?"
Richard's eyes lit up. "Take me with you, Dunn!" he cried, with great
eagerness.
"H-u-s-h!" said Dunn. "Nothing is arranged yet; but there will be much
to learn of the enemy's intended movements, and when would there fall so
fine a chance as these days of festivity when wine and tongues will both
run free? If I can so fix it, you shall go with me; you suit me better
than Price, for you are quicker to catch a cue. You have got just one
fault for this kind of business--you are always so d--n sure of yourself
and your own powers; a little humility would improve you."
Richard laughed and wrung his hand. "You can knock me down for a
conceited coxcomb, only take me with you."
For a few days the French alliance was the all-absorbing theme of talk;
and La Fayette's laughing prophecy that France's recognition of a
republic would one day come home to her seemed, to these aroused sons of
Liberty, like an augury that the countries of the Old World would one
day follow in the paths their swords were blazing out--the paths that
lead over thrones and crowns to self-government. But Richard soon had
other things whereof to think. Dunn was planning his expedition into the
lines of the enemy; but two weeks went by before he came to Richard's
tent and beckoned him aside.
"To-night at eight, by the pine tree down the road. I have spoken to
your captain, so there will be no hubbub about your absence. Bring no
arms but your pistols."
Under the young May moon Richard kept his tryst with the veteran scout,
as eager as a lover to meet his mistress.
"Sit down," said Dunn. "I shall tell you my mission, for I do not work
by halves. Sometimes an assistant has to act on his own responsibility,
and he spoils sport if he does not know the plan. First, we are to find
out when the British are to move, what is their destination, and by what
road they will go. If an attack is to be made before-hand on our camp,
we must bring back the plans. If there is a chance for our men to strike
a blow, we must know it."
"And how are we to learn these things?"
"By keeping our ears and eyes open and our wits sharpened. It will
take cool heads and steady nerves. We are to gain entrance into the
city as ordinary labourers. In this bundle are the necessary clothes.
Circumstances must govern us after we are there. Now to get ready."
It took but a few minutes to transform the soldiers into workmen, so far
as dress makes a transformation. Leaving their uniforms in the hollow
of a tree, where Dunn's man was to search for them, they mounted their
horses and set off by an unused road toward the distant city. The direct
route would have given them about twenty miles of travel, but the
numerous diversions they were obliged to make added a fourth of that
distance to their journey, so there was a gray streak of dawn in the
sky ahead of them when they drew rein at a lonely cabin on the edge
of a wood, beyond which were the cleared fields of a farm that skirted
the city. On the door of this hut Dunn struck three sharp taps, then
one, then two. After the signal was repeated the door was cautiously
opened by a man within, who, upon being assured of the identity of the
newcomers, bade them enter; and Richard found himself in an humble room
whose rafters were hung with drying herbs that gave out a pungent odour.
In a few words Dunn explained to the man, whom he called George,
something of their purpose.
"Well, I was expecting you. My vegetable cart starts in two hours; one
of you can go with me, the other must straggle on behind, for two would
be more than is safe with one cart. My daily pass allows me an
assistant."
[Illustration: "THUS THEY PASSED, WITH SMALL PARLEY, THE PICKET POSTS."]
When their horses had been hidden in an out-house, Richard and Dunn
threw themselves down and slept heavily until the carter aroused them.
The smell of breakfast, along with his eagerness for the coming
adventure, made Richard quick to answer the summons, and in a short time
the three were on their way. It had been arranged that Richard, who knew
nothing of the city, should go on with the carter, and that Dunn should
take his chances and follow. But in the public road, where other carts
were beginning to appear, they overtook a black-eyed lass carrying a
huge basket of eggs. It took but a few glances, flashed coquettishly
across the road, to bring Richard to her side. There were some gallant
speeches, a protest that ended in a pouting laugh, and then the two went
down the road like old friends, merry with the carelessness of youth,
she swinging her hands idly, he carrying her basket. Thus they passed,
with small parley, the picket posts, for the guards knew the girl who
came and went daily with her market wares.
Once they were in the city, Richard bade adieu to his companion, and,
after some little search, joined Dunn behind the market-house, the
latter having slipped in by an obscure alley. They soon knew from the
talk on the streets and the general air of bustle that the fete they had
come to witness was to begin on the water, so they repaired to the pier
above the city and waited for a chance to slip into the crowd. The
opportunity came through a boatman, who wanted two men to help row his
barge down to the appointed landing. They readily bargained to go, and
took their places in the boat, which was soon filled with a gay crowd of
ladies and their escorts, all in gala humour and attire. Richard,
sitting in front of Dunn, forgot all about his oar as he watched the
flutter of the brilliant throng, the glowing faces, the flashing smiles.
Never before had he seen so many magnificent costumes or such an array
of masculine and feminine beauty. But there was one face that seemed
strangely familiar--a face with dark eyes and tropical colouring of
olive and carmine. Where had he seen it? Nowhere, he felt sure, for a
girl like that was not to be forgotten. And yet his eyes went back to
her as to a friend. Who, then, was it she resembled? He was searching
his memory for a cue when suddenly something struck him sharply on the
arm, and Dunn said in a whisper:--
"Mind your oar and quit gaping that way; the whole company will be
noticing it directly, and coming over to examine you, and that'll be a
pretty kettle of fish!"
Richard picked up his oar quickly, ashamed of his defection; but for the
life of him he could not keep his eyes from the dark, vivacious face
across the boat, until her escort, a splendidly dressed officer of
Howe's staff, laughed and said to her:--
"I told you all hearts would be at your feet this day, and see, even the
boatman over there is worshipping from afar."
The half whisper reached Richard, and as the girl turned toward him
their eyes met. She laughed, and then threw up her head with a
disdainful toss, turning back to her companion. But the gesture had
cleared the doubt in Richard's mind. It was Mary Singleton over again,
and the vivid likeness was to her. This must be her Philadelphia cousin,
of whom he had often heard. She would know much of the plans of the
British, for her father was an intimate of Howe, and she herself said
to be betrothed to his chief of staff. This much Richard remembered
from Joscelyn's talk, and glad he was to recall the idle chatter
which at the time had bored him, since it kept him from more personal
conversation. It was of Joscelyn and himself that he had always wanted
to talk; but she had declared lightly that neither subject suited her,
for her own charms were too patent to need comment, and his were too few
to bear exposure, and had gone on to tell him of the Singletons, whom
she knew through Mary's letters. A plan that seemed like the gauzy web
of a fairy tale began to weave itself in Richard's mind as he bent to
his oar.
The river was full of boats of every description, from barges like the
one he was in, to giddy cockleshells that seemed a dare to Providence
as they careened and dipped and darted in and out among the larger
craft, like monster dragonflies rather than conveyances for human beings.
And each one, great and small, was packed from prow to stern with a
laughing, singing crowd in festal array. As the gay fleet approached
the appointed landing-place, it passed in line between two men-of-war
strung with flags and sun-kissed garlands; and then, amid the music of
hautboys, the braying of trumpets, and the booming of guns, the company
landed and proceeded to the grounds laid out for the tourney which was
to be the chief event of the day. It was a dazzling picture upon which
the afternoon sun looked down. In the centre stretched the tourney ring,
around which beautiful women, gorgeously gowned, sat on mimic thrones to
watch their gallants--tricked out like knights of old--contend for the
honours. The multi-hued throng of spectators filled out the picture
which had for its foreground the river with its decorated craft, and for
its background the deep green of the forest, with the city's clustered
roofs to one side. Thousands of flags and garlands and streamers of
ribbon tossed in the wind, while the music, like the invisible incense
of pleasure, drifted like the sunshine everywhere.
And the man for whom this was all planned sat on his dais, the
embodiment of soldierly bearing, of courtesy and gratification; for this
splendid demonstration told unequivocally the appreciation in which the
army held him, notwithstanding the implied disapprobation of the home
government in so promptly accepting his resignation, tendered, no doubt,
in an hour of chagrin and hurt pride at the strictures passed upon him
at home.
As soon as the barge was tied to its pier, Richard and Dunn mingled with
the throng, bent on seeing the sport. Richard longed to become a part of
the merry-making, but knew he must be content to be a spectator. He
looked about carefully for the black-eyed girl, and finally located her
through a remark overheard in the crowd:--
"Mistress Singleton occupies the place of honour on the right of the
master of ceremonies."
And when he had pushed his way farther on, he saw her. So he had been
right; this was Ellen Singleton, the _fiancee_ of Grant, one of the most
accomplished officers under Howe. All the afternoon he lingered in her
vicinity, but unable to advance in any way the mad scheme he had in
mind. When darkness fell, the company repaired to the hall where the
tourney victor crowned his queen, and the dancers took their places to
spend the time until supper was announced. More than four hundred guests
sat down to that table, over which twelve hundred waxen candles shed
their radiance. As Richard leaned into one of the low windows, absorbed
in the scene, he noticed that Grant was whispering earnestly to his fair
companion, and that she looked serious, even alarmed. Before he had
finished wondering at the cause, some one touched him on the arm, and he
turned to find Dunn at his elbow.
"Hist!" said the latter; "something is afoot. Couriers have come, and
General Howe spoke with them apart in the anteroom, and you should have
seen his face light up as he listened. It is, of course, something about
our troops. I heard La Fayette's name, but can get no particulars. Grant
is leaving the table; keep him in sight if possible while I try the
couriers."
Mistress Singleton also had risen, and was leaving the room on Grant's
arm. Quitting the window hastily, Richard was at the door when they came
out of the hall.
"I must speak with you," Grant said earnestly, in a low tone, to the
girl on his arm. The lawn was practically deserted, and the mimic
thrones erected for the tourney stood unoccupied in the blended light
of the moon and flambeaux. "The general's pavilion yonder is our best
place. There are some ladies and gentlemen on the far side, but at the
corner, there where the shadow falls, no one is sitting. Come."
He led her across the open space, and Richard saw them take their places
in the dim light, the girl's white dress marking the spot even from
where he stood. He followed slowly, not knowing what next to do, for he
was too new in the _role_ of scout to willingly play at eavesdropping,
so he stood irresolutely near the pavilion watching the quiet couple at
one side and the bevy of laughing revellers at the other. Evidently
Mistress Singleton was much agitated, for her hand rose in frequent
gesture, and her voice was a trifle shrill. Presently two young men from
the other party came down the pavilion steps, and one of them dropped
his long military cloak in the shadow at the end of the step, saying he
would find it again after the dance. Then they passed on. Behind them
two soldiers came at quickstep, and Richard heard these words:--
"Grant's division has the orders. Quick work of the whole crew of
rebels."
In the light of the flambeaux at the banquet-hall door Richard saw Dunn,
and hastened to join him. Putting together what they had gathered, they
made out that La Fayette had left Valley Forge with a body of troops,
intending to do whatever mischief he might, but that his movement had
been discovered, and Howe was planning to capture his whole force, and
Grant was to be detailed for the work. But what his course would be,
when he would set out, and what force would be with him were things yet
to learn. However, these were the very things La Fayette would want to
know. Dunn was waiting for Howe to leave the banquet-hall, so Richard
went back to his vigil near the pavilion. As he approached, Grant was
coming down the steps.
"I shall not be gone twenty minutes. You are quite safe, for Mistress
Hamlin is just behind you, and I'll send one of the officers to sit with
you. Wait for me, for it may be our last meeting."
Evidently the girl consented, for she kept her place while he sprang
down the steps and strode toward the lighted hall.
The wild plan Richard had cherished all day was to speak with this girl
on equal terms. It might cost him his life, but a very dare-devil spirit
of adventure took possession of him. Now was the hour of which he had
dimly dreamed. He did not stop to think, but stooping into the shadow,
he snatched up the long cloak lying there and wrapped it about him,
turning up the collar jauntily. Then with his heart thumping against his
ribs, but with a smile on his face, he came to the side of the steps
nearest the girl and went boldly up into the pavilion.