NEWS OF LOVE AND WAR.
"Hidden perfumes and secret loves betray themselves."
--JOUBERT.
"Joscelyn, from my upper window I have seen a rider turn into the next
street and make for the tavern. Perchance he brings news or letters.
Will you come with me and see?" It was Betty's voice under her window,
and Joscelyn put her head out a moment to say she would go; then ran
downstairs. And go she did in spite of her mother's vehement protest.
"'Tis scarce three weeks gone since you were reviled in the streets as a
Tory, and now you will go thrust yourself in place to receive the same
treatment again. 'Tis folly--ay, worse than folly!"
But Joscelyn scarcely heard, for in the street Betty was pulling her
along at such a pace.
"Methought you would be glad to get a letter from--well, from--It is
something over three weeks since you last heard from--" a shy little
laugh finished the sentence, and she gave Joscelyn an extra pull which
set them into a run.
"How glad somebody would be to see you in such haste to get a letter
written to me," panted Joscelyn, laughing.
"Whither away so fast?" cried Mistress Strudwick from her door; but they
did not stop to answer, only calling back merrily that a man, grown, yet
not old, nor crippled, nor blind, had ridden into the square, and they
were going to have a look at so wonderful a curiosity.
As they turned into the open space before the court-house, the town-bell
struck a few resonant notes, a signal from the decrepit old ringer that
there was news for somebody. In a few minutes the place was thronged
with eager wives and mothers and sweethearts crying out for tidings of
their loved ones. Did the man bring any? Yes, he was but now out of the
north; whither he went mattered not to them, a man's mission was his own
secret, but in his pouch were letters for towns along the route, and he
brought, besides, news of the dreadful massacre in Pennsylvania. And
when the few letters were distributed he stood upon the steps and told
the pitiful story of Wyoming Valley.
"The able-bodied men were away fighting with Washington; only the old
men and women and children remained. Upon this helpless band hundreds of
British and Indians, led by Butler, fell, driving them to the fort.
Thence the men, shaking with age, but not with fear, sallied to the
attack, were defeated and captured, and in sight of those within were
tortured with every fiendish device the savages could invent. Then the
fort surrendered, and in spite of Butler's efforts tomahawk and
scalping-knife did their deadly work among the helpless captives.
Outraged women, spitted upon rails, saw their tender babes brained
against rocks and trees. The yells of the captors were mingled with the
cries for mercy and the shrieks of the dying, and night was turned into
day by the light of burning villages. In all the beautiful valley not a
house was spared; and where had been prosperity is now but a desolate
wilderness strewn with graves and ruins."
When he finished, women were weeping upon each other's necks, thinking
of their own little ones and those other murdered babies. And fierce was
the denunciation of Butler for enlisting in his army savages whose
brutality could not be controlled. This was not war; it was
assassination, as cowardly as it was cruel.
So bitter was the feeling aroused, that for a while the fact that the
courier had brought some letters was quite overlooked, until Mistress
Nash and Janet Cameron came forward with epistles which contained
messages for many of those present. Then it was remembered that the
other two letters had both been for Joscelyn Cheshire, and immediately a
dozen voices demanded her. But she was already well down the street, her
arm linked in Betty Clevering's.
"Come away, Aunt Cheshire will be wretched about you," the latter had
whispered to her, remembering the scene in this very place a few weeks
before and dreading a repetition of it, and in her secret heart wishing
that at least one of the letters in Joscelyn's hand should not be read
aloud to the public, knowing well that in it was some love-message for
herself, for was not that why Eustace wrote so often to Joscelyn? And so
she dragged her companion back the way they had come; but as they walked
Joscelyn tore open the letter with the familiar seal, exclaiming
gayly:--
"Paper is not scarce with Eustace, since he sends me three whole sheets.
Let me see--Betty--Betty--Betty--just in a fleeting glance I see your
name some eight times. What a fondness he hath for writing the word!"
"Let me read with you, Joscelyn," cried Betty, her cheeks very bright;
and drawing close together the two girls held the sheet between them and
slackened their pace. But they were not left long to their privacy, for
by the time they reached the Cheshire door a dozen neighbours were upon
them.
"So, so, Joscelyn, be not running away with your tidings. Tell us what
Clinton is doing in New York," exclaimed Mistress Strudwick, who had
come with the others to give the girl countenance, if so she should need
it.
"Ay, do not be playing the selfish, but give us the news," cried several
voices.
"I am as ignorant as you of General Clinton's doings," the girl said,
smiling at the first speaker; "for, as far as I have got, the letter is
full of questions about somebody here at home."
"Yes, a spying letter for information, no doubt," sneered Amanda Bryce.
"The courier said they were both from some one in New York. Who writes
to you from Clinton's army?"
"Eustace Singleton, a handsome lad whom you know right well, Mistress
Bryce."
"He sends you two letters by the same hand? Faith! he is an ardent
correspondent."
"Nay, this other letter is in a strange writing. I know not yet who hath
sent it."
"Break the wafer and read it to us."
"I do not choose, Mistress Bryce, to give my letters to the public."
"Do not choose, because you do not dare."
"Do not dare?"
"Hush, Joscelyn, she does not mean what she says," put in Mistress
Strudwick.
"Yes, I do mean it, Martha, every word of it. She dare not read it,
because it is a spying letter,--asking information, mayhap, which may
give us over to a massacre like to that of Wyoming: that's why she dare
not."
A chorus of cries and hisses arose, but the girl on the step did not
quail. Her delicate lip curled with scorn. "'Tis false! You do all know
I would be incapable of such wickedness."
"Then read us the letter and prove it."
"I will not."
She thrust the letter into her bosom and faced them with flashing eyes,
the very picture of defiance. But a touch from Mistress Strudwick
quelled the storm within her. Turning swiftly, she put her arm around
the old woman's neck. "There, I am going to be good. I would not
distress you and mother again for the world. But you know I have the
right of it."
"Yes," echoed Janet Cameron, taking her place on the other side of
Joscelyn. "We all know that though you are a Tory, you are no traitor;
and I say, Out upon Mistress Bryce for hinting such a thing! I am a
Continental, and my father is in Charleston fighting for the cause, but
I would trust Joscelyn Cheshire to the end of the world!"
Out in the crowd the sentiment against the girl instantly changed, and
all but Amanda Bryce applauded Janet's words.
"Eustace Singleton writes her naught but love-letters--let her keep
them!" cried another girl. "Methinks I should not want the world to be
reading my sweetheart's letters and counting the kisses he sends me."
"No, nor those he gives you," said Martha Strudwick, with a merry wink,
and instantly there was a great laugh, for the girl had been caught
kissing her lover the winter day on which the troops had marched, for
which imprudence her mother had soundly boxed her ears.
"And now," cried Joscelyn, when the laugh had passed, "to prove that
there is no treason in this letter, I shall let Betty Clevering--as good
a Continental as the best of you--sit down yonder on the bench and read
every word of it before I myself have seen it. Here, Betty, be you the
judge whether what is herein writ is of treasonable import; and mind you
skip nothing, particularly the love passages." She laughingly pushed
Betty upon the bench, and leaving Eustace's letter in her hands, came
back to Janet's side.
"My letter was from my brother, Joscelyn; and he said he knew not where
Richard had been sent. He himself is in the old Sugar House in New York;
what he suffers he will not say, but we can guess, since so much has
been said of the place."
Joscelyn kissed the tearful face softly. "Perchance your imagination is
over-vivid. It grieves me to the quick that any of our townsfolk should
suffer."
"It will be a great relief to his mother to know that Richard is not in
the Sugar House."
"Yes, there is only one worse prison in the country, and that is for the
captured seamen."
"Do not let us talk of its horrors."
So the conversation went on until Betty Clevering, her face like a
budding rose, came forward again.
"This letter," she said, holding up the missive, "is one of friendship
merely; in it I find absolutely nothing against our cause, save a curse
on the war that keeps the writer from--from her he loves."
"Dear me, to see her blush one would think it were Betty's love-letter,
not Joscelyn's."
"How shy she looks!"
"Betty, was it writ so tenderly that you, who are but an outsider, are
abashed to read it? Truly, I wish Master Singleton would give lessons in
love writing. My man talks so much of General Washington and his doings
that he quite forgets to put in the love passages."
"And 'tis for those that a woman reads her letters," said Mistress
Strudwick. "The 'I love yous' and 'dears' and 'kisses' scattered through
the pages mean more to her heart than the announcement of a victory. In
faith, old woman as I am, I always read the last sentence first, knowing
it will be the sweetest, if so the writer is in his senses."
"That is why I wanted so much to read Joscelyn's letter. I knew Eustace
would never plot against his own town any more than she would, but an
ardent love-letter makes good reading, no matter to whom it may be
writ," laughed Dorothy Graham, breaking a glowing rose from a nearby
bush, and holding it playfully against Betty's cheek, looking archly at
her companions as she tapped first one and then the other with her
finger, whereupon the laugh again arose, for some had long ago guessed
at Eustace's passion.
Meantime, Joscelyn, drawing somewhat apart, took the strange letter from
her dress and broke the wafer. The missive covered but one scant page,
but those who watched as she read saw her face grow pale and her lip
tremble.
MISTRESS JOSCELYN CHESHIRE, in Hillsboro'-town:
Richard Clevering, with ten of his comrades, taken at Monmouth
field, lies in one of the prison-ships in Wallabout Bay. If he is
aught to you,--you know best whom _he_ loves,--bestir yourself for
an exchange, for only that can save him from the sure death that
lurks in those accursed hulks. I, one of the guard that carried him
there, promised him that you should know, and at the risk of
discovery and punishment I thus keep my promise. He is brave and
generous. It were a pity to let him die.
JAMES COLBORN.
NEW YORK, this tenth day of July, 1778.
Even in the far southern towns the infamy of those prison-ships had been
told, and with a sudden gesture of compassion the girl stretched her
arms toward the opposite house.
"Aunt Clevering, poor Aunt Clevering!" and thrusting the letter into
Mistress Strudwick's hands, she exclaimed: "Here read it--read it aloud,
then take it over yonder--I cannot." And gathering Betty close in her
arms she listened while the letter was read to the sorrowing women.
"Who are the others? Called he no names?"
"Oh, mayhap one is my son!"
"And another may be my husband!"
"Even the Sugar House had been easier than this! Mark you what we have
heard of the ferocity of the jailers, the foulness of the food, the
loathsomeness of the ships! They will die, our brave lads will all die
there!"
"Will die?--Nay, perchance they are already dead; 'tis a month since
this letter was writ, and two months since Monmouth fight."
And the letter went the rounds of the town, carrying sorrow everywhere
and a miserable dread and uncertainty into many homes, for all of the
men missing from Monmouth were not yet accounted for. Whose dear ones
were suffering with Richard, mine or thine, or our neighbour's?
All the afternoon, Joscelyn paced her floor, her brows knitted, her
fingers clenched. She knew best whom he loved? Yes, she knew. Every day
for the past year he had let her see his heart; even in their quarrels
over the war, he had not forgotten that he loved her. At first she had
taken it for a passing fancy, and had treated him with laughing
coquetry, fanning his love later on into the white flame of passion with
that groundless jealousy of Eustace. Then it was she realized what it
was with which she was playing.
And now he was lying in that loathsome ship, with the fever on one side
and the harsh keepers on the other. Did she care as he wanted her to
care? No, but her anger against him for his persistent assumption of her
acquiescence in his suit was all forgotten; she remembered only the
happy side of their friendship, and that he was Betty's brother. She
could not put aside the appeal in Colborn's letter, for it was an appeal
from Richard himself; and yet what could she, a mere girl without aid or
influence, do to set him free? That was why her hands were clenched and
she paced her floor with quick steps. Then at last she sat down, and
opening her portfolio she wrote for half an hour, covering sheet after
sheet. When they were done she gathered them up quickly and ran
downstairs and crossed the street to the opposite house. There all was
sadness and tears because of Colborn's news.
"Here, Betty," she said, placing the folded sheets upon the table;
"Eustace Singleton is on Lord Cornwallis's staff and must have influence
with him, and through him, with General Clinton. I have written Eustace
to use all effort and despatch in Richard's behalf, but you must add a
postscript to make the plea effective."
"And why, I pray you, should he heed a postscript from Betty?" asked her
mother, angrily, forgetful for a moment of her grief.
"Because," Joscelyn answered, facing her calmly, "he loves her, and the
few words she writes will outweigh all my pages."
"What! That Loyalist, the son of Joseph Singleton, our old enemy, in
love with my daughter? This is some mockery."
"It is the sober truth."
"I do not believe it; but if it be so, then will Richard and I have a
word to say in the matter. Betty, put down that quill; I will not have
you stoop to ask a favour of that family."
"Not even for Richard's life and freedom, Aunt Clevering?"
"I do not believe he has any influence. In love with my daughter--what
impudence!"
"Rather what good fortune, since it may save your son."
"Mother, it seems our one chance; bid me write." And Joscelyn joined in
the girl's plea.
The older woman's features worked spasmodically, but presently she
nodded slowly. "For Richard's sake, Joscelyn, yes; but mind you, Betty
will set him out in short order if ever he presumes to declare himself.
She knows her duty; no Singleton blood comes into my family."
She could not see Betty's face, for Joscelyn stood between them; but two
weeks later Eustace kissed the blots where the tears had fallen just
under her pleading little postscript:--
"Because of all you said to me in Joscelyn's parlour, because of
your red roses which I wore in the privacy of my room until they
faded, I beseech you, save my brother!"
"But oh, Joscelyn, suppose he can do nothing?"
"Then, dear, we must carry our plea to Lord Cornwallis. My father and he
were friends in England; perhaps we may gain his ear through that
old-time acquaintance."
"And how will you reach Cornwallis?" Mistress Clevering asked
doubtfully.
"If need be, Betty and I will seek him in General Clinton's camp."
Betty put her cheek close to the girl's. "Joscelyn, after all you are
not indifferent to Richard," she whispered, half wistfully, half
joyously.
But Joscelyn's face was almost stern. "This letter from Colborn is in
truth a plea from Richard, since he must have bid the man write. Think
you I could let such a thing pass unanswered--and from your brother,
too?"
"God bless you, Joscelyn, though your heart is as hard as flint."