Here was the first welcome. After the old Indian had answered a few
questions about what was going on on the Hewes place, George pushed
ahead. He had been sighted coming up the lane, and the few servants ran
out to meet him. Cato danced about like a headless chicken, and rubbed
his hand over his tear-wet check.
Little Grace, now a tall slender girl, wept for joy, and kissed the
bronzed young soldier over and over again. Aunt Clarissa was nowhere to
be seen.
"She's locked herself in the left wing," said Grace. "She says she will
not see you. Don't grieve; perhaps she will change her mind."
Then she had held her brother off at full arm's-length, and looked at
him from head to foot.
"You are just like the portrait of father in the hall," she said. George
placed his arm about her waist, and went inside the house.
Aunt Clarissa did not put in her appearance, and that afternoon the
young Lieutenant had ridden with the despatches over to Colonel Hewes's.
What they contained he did not know. But they were evidently of
importance, and this was soon to be proved.
* * * * *
The very day that Washington had moved upon Trenton an interesting
dinner (the happenings of which have great bearing upon this story) was
in progress thousands of miles away.
It was one of the oldest inns of the old town of London. The grill-room
of the "Cheshire Cheese" was filled with the aroma of steaming
plum-pudding and the appetizing fumes of roast beef. Even the mulled ale
lent its accent to the general flavor. The waiters shuffled across the
sanded floor, and from the compartments floated up clouds of smoke from
the long church-warden pipes. The talk on all sides was upon the one
absorbing subject--the rebellious Colonies and the progress of the war
in America.
It all looked one way to most of the Londoners--New York had been taken,
the Americans routed; in a few weeks all would be over. This was the
general sentiment.
The gathering was mixed. Tradesmen, country squires, well-to-do
haberdashers and drapers, poets and political writers, barristers, and a
sprinkling of soldiers composed it mostly. Here and there might be seen
a gay young noble-man, all frills and lace, who had strayed from his
inner circle to enjoy the delights of this old time-honored
meeting-place.
The busy London street outside was crowded with merrymakers.
In a corner of the grill-room was sitting a group that would at once
hold our attention.
A tall florid individual with heavy hands was gesticulating with his
thick blunt fingers, and an officer in un-dress uniform sitting opposite
was listening, and making rings with the bottom of his wineglass on the
elbow-polished table. His white wig decorated the post at a corner of
the seat. In this same corner had sat Oliver Goldsmith, and it was Dr.
Johnson's head that had made that dark spot on the wainscoting; in fact,
the ponderous old gentleman still drifted in occasionally. And David
Garrick had held forth here not many years before this very day.
But it is the figure now sitting silently in the corner that most
interests us. The high forehead and clear-cut features have changed
somewhat, and the strong slender hands and muscular young legs sprawled
under the table have grown and lengthened, but if you would take our
young American patriot and do his hair in that neat London fashion,
dress him in that embroidered waistcoat and fine glass-buttoned coat,
there he would be for all the world. As George had changed, William had
changed also in the same proportion and ratio. The younger, on this very
night shivering in the cold of a New Jersey winter, was browner of skin
and ruddier of cheek, but features, glance, and the quick graceful
movement of the head are all the same.
William was listening listlessly to the conversation. By constant
practice he had become accustomed to the flow of Uncle Daniel's
eloquence, and could stand to one side and allow it to pass on without
disturbing him. Strange to say, at this very moment he was thinking
sadly of the brother who was thinking more sadly still of him.
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his handsome coat and drew
forth a sheet of closely written paper. It was a letter from Aunt
Clarissa. Not only a letter, but a speech, a tirade, an eloquent
exhortation. It contained little news that could give comfort, for it
told of George's wicked behavior, and base defection to the ranks of the
enemy arrayed against the Crown. "A Frothingham should be fighting for
the King," the letter concluded, the lines heavily underscored. Poor
Aunt Clarissa! Her most tender point, her pride, had been injured
deeply.
"Mark my words, my dear sir, I have seen that country, and know its
people," said Uncle Daniel, sententiously, "and as soldiers I hold them
in contempt, sir. Who is this Mr. Washington on whom they pin their
faith? An arrant up-start who has had some practice, I believe, in
fighting the red Indians in the woods. Against a line of grenadiers he
can do nothing. I wish I were young enough; I should like to take the
field myself."
William pricked up his ears at this, and thrust Aunt Clarissa's letter
back into his pocket. Never had he known that Uncle David had the
slightest leaning toward the life of a soldier.
The military gentleman poured himself out another glass of wine. He held
it critically up to the light before replying.
"I don't hold them in contempt, Mr. Frothingham. It will take our
bravest and our best, mark me. We can accomplish little by depending
upon the Hessians, mere hirelings of a German prince. Nothing but the
devotion of Englishmen themselves can save the Colonies to England."
"You have been influenced, Colonel, by the Earl of Chatham," said Daniel
Frothingham, also pouring out a glass of wine.
"I admire him," said the other, calmly; "but no half-way measures will
suffice at this stage of the proceedings. We will need the best blood
and the truest hearts in the country. If France joins in the struggle,
it will come near to draining the resources of our tidy little island;
but the French King wavers, I believe. The Americans, so far, have
accomplished nothing." He turned to the young figure at the head of the
table. "Has this tall nephew of yours any predilection for the service?"
he inquired. "Me-thinks he would look well in red and white."
William's eyes glistened brightly.
[Illustration: "WOULDST CARE TO BE A SOLDIER, SON?"]
"I know not," returned Uncle Daniel. "Wouldst care to be a soldier, son?
Hast thought aught of it?"
William looked his uncle firmly in the eye and grasped the edge of the
table. "Aye, many, many times. I doubt not I know the drill already,
sir. I watch them at the castle every week," he said.
"Let's make a soldier of him, Mr. Frothingham," spoke up the officer.
"There's a young cornet in my regiment who is poor in health and would
sell out. Why not buy the red coat and the commission for the lad? I
could take him with me and have him under my eye. Would you fight in
America, young sir?"
"Aye," said William; "or anywhere."
"We sail in the _Minerva_ in a fortnight come next Thursday," went on
the Colonel. "It's bad weather on the Atlantic, but we wish to show them
what a crack regiment can do. I have under me the pick of the service."
"H--um," said Uncle Daniel, thoughtfully, looking at his nephew with
something of pride and affection in his small twinkling eyes. "Wouldst
like to go, son?" he inquired.
William's reserve broke down. His mind was crowded with many things, and
his heart torn with conflicting emotions. How strange it would be to be
arrayed upon the other side with George, his brother, who still held all
his love and affection, against him! Could he do it? And then the words
that he had once penned George came up into his mind. "For the King, for
the King," kept repeating themselves. "Uncle Daniel," he said, his under
lip quivering, "if you would let me go, I would try to do my duty."
"Well spoken, well said, my young friend," put in the Colonel, leaning
across the table and taking William's hand. "'Twould take no pains to
make a soldier of such. Frothingham, let him go with me."
The expression on the red face had softened, and the old man for a
moment paused. He followed a seam in the table with his forefinger
thoughtfully. "He can go if he so wills. I will buy him the commission,"
he said at last.
William's heart bounded. Time and again, though his uncle had not known
it, the sight of a marching regiment, the call of a bugle, and the
steadily moving line had tempted him so strongly that he had almost felt
like doing what many lads of his age had done under the same
impulse--enlist and go into the ranks. Now was the chance offered to him
to serve in a more legitimate and comfortable position. "I shall feel
honored, sir," he said, in his dignified manner, "if you will accept my
service, and take me with you."
"Done," said Colonel Forsythe. "Come and see me to-morrow morning after
review; and you, sir," turning to his uncle, "will have done your part
toward winning back the Colonies when you have helped place a sword-belt
around his waist. Come also to-morrow. Matters can be easily arranged.
But we are pressed for time." Colonel Forsythe arose--the compartment
was hidden from the view of the crowd that thronged the large room--and
adjusted his wig skilfully over his thin brown hair. He buckled on his
sword, and turning, spoke again. "I must hasten," he said, "and I wish
to thank you for the pleasure of the dinner and the honor of your
company. To-morrow, then, at nine o'clock." He bowed and walked away.
Uncle Daniel picked up his heavy gold-headed cane, and slipping his arm
through his nephew's, stepped out into the street. For some time as they
walked along neither spoke. William was living over in his mind some of
the old scenes out in the New Jersey home. He could hear the clatter of
the mill and the roaring of the waters at the dam. He imagined he could
hear George's laughter, and feel the hand that had so often grasped his
own as they climbed the hills or ran down the brook together. Oh, if his
brother were only here beside him!
At this very moment the same thought that was upper-most in his mind was
being echoed by another heart, beating firmly beneath a brass-buttoned
coat in far-off New Jersey.
"Your service may make some amends for the disgrace your brother has
brought upon the family," said Uncle Daniel at last.
William's heart rebelled at the words his uncle used. "I'll warrant
you," he said, "that George will not disgrace the name. He has been
influenced by bad counsel and wicked friends."
"I would not give a shilling for his future," said Daniel Frothingham,
"and I'm sorry that I brought up this at all. I told you once before
that he was dead to me. I can never forgive him."
"I have forgiven him," said William. "I know that he thinks he is in the
right, and, uncle, promise me"--he grasped the old man by the arm--"that
when the war is over and our standard is once more respected and honored
in America, grant me this, that George and I will be able to stand once
more together hand in hand in your estimation. He has been misled. Oh,
if he could but see!"
"William," said Daniel Frothingham, in his most ponderous manner, "I
have made you my son and heir. May you never forget who you are, and
that your grandfather, aye, and his grandfather, and so on back, have
bled and died on foreign soil for the same flag and country that you are
going to serve. Traitors have no place. Led or misled, your brother's
hand has been raised against his and yours. Now say no more."
They had reached Uncle Daniel's house, for William had lived with him
ever since his arrival in London. Uncle Daniel's heart had opened to the
worth of the frank true nature that had grown so close to him; he would
have denied his nephew nothing; all the yearnings of paternity had come
to the lonely old man. He was deeply affected by thinking that the only
being he had ever loved was now about to leave him.
"Good-night, good-night, son," he said, placing his heavy hand on
William's head. "I will see you on the morrow. Sleep well, Lieutenant
Frothingham."
William went up the stairs slowly to his richly furnished room. He could
not sleep, but tossed uneasily until the morning. If he could have only
held George from the fatal step! But young natures are hopeful, and he
planned to suit his fancy.
When the war was ended, their love would bring them once more together,
and what was his would be his brother's, as it had always been.
Three weeks later a bluff-bowed frigate was pounding her way through the
heavy seas of the Atlantic. The wind boomed in the hollows of the great
mainsail, and the icy spray dashed over the rail and clung to the
rigging. The decks were slippery with frozen sleet, and the gray sky
seemed to meet the ocean, and shut down like a tent over the tossing
mass of gray-green water.
A group of officers, with their long coats gathered tightly about them,
were standing near the taffrail. It was easy to recognize young
Frothingham. He was listening to the talk about him.
"It promises to be a stormy passage," said one of the ship's officers.
"In the twenty-six days that we may be out of sight of land the war may
be over."
"I trust so," said the young Lieutenant to himself. "I'd rather fight
the French." He looked down on the icy deck.
They had now been three days out from Portsmouth. There were few but the
watch and the lookout pacing up and down the forecastle. A battery of
five brass field-pieces was lashed firmly amidships, covered over with
tarpaulin to keep them from the wet. Below, the 'tweendecks were crowded
with lounging figures. So closely indeed were they packed that to make
one's way forward or aft one would have to step over the recumbent
figures. A thousand men were crowded within the wooden walls. The ports
were closed, and the air was stifling. Racks of muskets shone on the
sides and around the masts.
A drummer was practising softly, with his back against a gun-carriage. A
fifer picked up his instrument and joined in shrilly.
"That's what we'll make 'em run to," he said, in derision. "It's their
own tune, and, by St. George! it's a good tune for running!"
"Yankee Doodle" was caught up by the recumbent groups, and the men
thumped the time on the decks with their heels.
"Mr. Washington's jig step," said a sailor, shifting his quid in his
cheek. "English feet cannot dance to it. It takes the Yankees to do
that."
The group of officers had made their way to the ward-room. The steward
had set the table; dinner was waiting.
"Here's confusion to the 'rebels,' and health to King George!" said one
of the subalterns. William drank it with the rest.
* * * * *
On the very day that the _Minerva_ was being warped out into mid-stream
at Portsmouth, to begin her voyage to America, Colonel Hewes had
received the young American Lieutenant, who had ridden over from Stanham
Manor, with as much joy as if he had been his own son.
George was surprised to find a company of well-clad soldiers encamped
among the houses of the people who worked at the Hewes foundry. Piles of
cannon-balls and some roughly moulded cannon were under a long shed.
It was necessary to have a guard for the protection of the works, for
the northern part of New Jersey and the southern half of New York
swarmed with marauding bands that claimed allegiance sometimes to one
side and sometimes to another. "Cowboys" and "Skinners" they were
called. The first claimed to be patriots, and were attached to no
command; but the others were Tories, under the leadership of a man named
Skinner, whose name brought terror with it. They were as lawless and as
merciless as the wild red man of the woods, and plundered travellers and
the soldiers of either side with the indiscrimination of highwaymen.
In a few words Colonel Hewes had explained the situation to George, and
then taking him into the big office, he closed the door behind them.
"You remember your uncle's overseer, Cloud?" he asked. "Well, he has
turned bandit; and if I catch him he will get a swing at a tree-limb,
for a thieving rascal. He and his cut-throats have returned to the
mountains here, I am informed. But it is not of this that I wish to talk
with you." Colonel Hewes arose and threw a log on the fire. "Now, young
man," he said, "I want you to listen until I have finished, and
then--for I may talk at some length--you can do all the question-asking
that you wish." He opened the despatch that George carried, read it
carefully, and, leaning back in his chair, took a portfolio from a
drawer and spread it across his knees. "Listen," he said. "You have a
chance now to perform a signal service for your country. I asked them at
Morristown to recommend a young man who might volunteer for love of it,
and, to be frank, I suggested your name."
George smiled at the peculiar wording of this statement.
"It is known to you, of course, how important it is for us to be kept in
touch with the movements and plans of the enemy," went on the Colonel.
"We obtain information from sources and in a way that might astonish
you; it certainly would cause some consternation to the British. Now in
my mind there has been for some time an idea that I think can be
successfully accomplished. I have broached it to no one high in
authority in the army. There might be objections raised. It may be rash,
but it is not impossible, and, if successful, would go in a great
measure toward settling up affairs.
"Follow me closely. There is in New York a society formed of a few men
of brains and caution, who are serving their country in a way that for
the time being must make them suffer. They are placed in people's
estimation as being royalists and Tories, but no truer American hearts
beat than theirs. Risks are great, but the needs are quite as much so.
They are known to one another, but cannot hold any meetings, as that
would excite suspicion. Each one's movement is reported to the others in
their own peculiar way. Nothing said, nothing heard, you know. But
opinions are discussed amongst themselves, nevertheless. I cannot give
their names; you will find them out for yourself, perhaps, if you care
to meet my views.
"Now you know that the British hold in captivity our General Lee, and
they decline to consider him a subject for exchange. He was taken from a
farm-house by a party of Tories in New Jersey. Surprised and captured,
he is now within the power of the enemy. Don't let what I am going to
propose seem wild, or imaginary; but I believe that it is feasible to
secure the person of either Lord Howe or his brother the General, and
bring them from the heart of the city to become the guests of the people
at large. To do this would require some plotting, much caution,
fearlessness, and devotion. The details I cannot tell you, but you will
be informed of them if you choose to assist in the venture."
George did not interrupt.
"Do you see these papers?" went on Colonel Hewes. "They are despatches
from the Tories of Albany to the British in New York. Here also are the
credentials of the young man who carried them. He is about your height,
but nineteen years of age, and has never been in New York before. He is
endorsed, however, to the British leaders. To make one's way into New
York secretly is difficult. A stranger who cannot account for his
appearance is suspected, but it is my belief that the person, armed with
these papers can secure a position close to the seat of power.
Intercepted despatches are better than destroyed. We know what these
contain, but their contents will appear to be of great moment to the
British, and upon them may determine the disposition of much of the huge
force quartered in New York. This young man's name is Blount. I have
found out enough of his family and of his personal history to make it
possible for any one who takes his place to appear to have the knowledge
necessary to allay suspicion. There is but one man there who has ever
seen him. This is an uncle of his who is now absent in Connecticut, and
who therefore need not be feared. Would you care to volunteer for an
enterprise so hazardous?"
"But _I_ am known," said George, "to people in New York."
"Think to whom," said Mr. Hewes. "Count over those whom you might fear."
"Mr. Wyeth," suggested George at once.
"He's safe in Canada," said Mr. Hewes.
George mentioned several other names, and, to his surprise, Mr. Hewes
could account for almost all of them.
"Schoolmaster Anderson," said George.
Colonel Hewes smiled. "You need not fear him," he responded. "He will
not know you; he is blind."
George started.
"But you will hear more of that anon, perhaps. The plan, in short, is
this: I have a passport. 'Twill carry you through the American lines.
You will be rowed across the river and placed so you can make your way
safely up to the British works. These papers will do the rest for you.
You will be Richard Blount, of Albany, will go at once to the 'City
Arms,' wait for a day or so, and then receive instructions what to do.
You will be watched, of course, but act with caution; keep off the
streets as much as possible; stay with the soldiers, and forget that you
have ever been in New Jersey. It is necessary that the one who
undertakes this venturous trip should know New York and its by-ways.
Therefore you have been chosen. The people you will meet will be those
with whom you have never come into contact, and many of whom you have
never even heard. It will not be for long. If you start to-morrow, you
can be in New York in three days." The Colonel paused, then added:
"If you follow this story that I have written, you can explain how you
came down from Albany."
George was thinking deeply. It did look like a wild, impossible scheme,
but still be trusted in Colonel Hewes's judgment.
"Listen," again went on the older man. "Here is a cipher. It is not hard
to learn." He handed George a slip of paper hardly larger than his
thumb-nail.
"I cannot make much out of this," said the latter.
"Try it now," said Colonel Hewes, taking a magnifying-glass out of his
pocket. Under the strong lens the characters could be easily read. Above
each one was the letter of the alphabet it represented. "With this at
your elbow you can readily write anything you please," said the Colonel.
"When you have arrived at the inn, pretend to be ill; stay in your room,
and write out in this cipher a description, frankly stating who you are,
what you are doing, and who sent you. Add that you are waiting to
receive your orders, and tell where you are to be found."
"To whom will I send it?" inquired George.
"You know that lane that leads by Edward Ripley's house at the upper
turn of Broadway?"
"I do," said George. "There's a picket-fence at the further entrance of
the field, and a path and turnstile lead through the orchard."
"Aye," said Colonel Hewes, "that's it. Have you ever marked the old
gnarled apple-tree--the third one to the left of this same path?"
"I have," said George.
"On the further side," went on the Colonel, "is a hollow limb. When you
have written out your paper, place it in the hollow as far back as you
can reach. The next night go there, and you will find your answer. It
will direct you in what way to proceed. It will not do for you to be
seen talking with any one at first, for you must be a complete stranger.
Now, there's a disguise--not much, for disguises excite suspicion. Young
Blount has Indian blood; many good families up the Hudson have. Your
hair is brown."
"Nearly red," put in George, laughing.
"We'll soon remedy that," said Mr. Hewes. "And you must change your
walk, for Blount is slightly lame."
"Where is he?" asked George.
"He is safe enough," said Mr. Hewes, "and even without these papers it
would be impossible for him to accomplish what you can with them. But I
have forgotten to ask one thing."
"What's that?" inquired George.
"Whether you will go or not," replied Mr. Hewes.
"Of course I will," the lad answered, eagerly.
"Money will be given you, and you will receive more when you arrive in
the city. Your companions in the scheme will make themselves known to
you in their own way. I know not what it will be. They are clever
people. Come over to-morrow early. You will start from here."