Jane Welch’s house was a very comfortable place to be that blustery
night, for the east wind, which all week long had whipped the coast with
its sly temper, was making a final grand tour of the city. It swept the
streets with malevolent intent, sending all pedestrians to the nearest
shelter, fingertips stinging cold and eyelashes burdened with frost
particles.
More than once officers of the guard had stamped in for a moment’s
stolen warmth and crawled reluctantly out again, enviously leaving
Ensigns Bunch and Osbaldeston to attend the flaming pyre of oak on the
andirons. These two were off duty this night and each in his own manner
was trying to impress the lady of the house as she sat in the rocker and
fashioned something with cloth and needle.
Both were rather desperately in love with Jane Welch, and showed it.
With Bunch it was the sighing breath and languorous eye that begged for
response; in short, every such artifice as the fashionable manuals on
love-making indicated as proper for gentlemen. Osbaldeston, no less
smitten, was severely handicapped by nature, for he scarcely uttered a
word in the course of an hour and the least attention from the girl
caused him to blush to the crown of his ungainly head and pucker his
lips to hide a most painful self-consciousness.
Bunch was very scornful of his comrade and by every token considered his
case as the farther advanced; but when she rose and put four mugs of
cider in the ashes to mull Osbaldeston well nigh fainted; in passing she
accidentally touched his boot and this, according to the manuals, was a
secret sign of young love coyly advancing to meet the gentleman’s humor.
Bunch noted it with thunderous brow and stabbed his brother officer with
a killing glance, receiving in return a more or less ribald snoot.
All of this, of course, behind poor Jane Welch’s back. The ardent
ensigns considered that she had never seemed more beautiful or more
reserved; but in truth she was torn by every sound of the storm and when
she ventured to raise her eyes to the men it was with a fear that they
would read the truth in her eyes. This was the penalty of dissembling.
They might harry Jeffry Peale throughout the miserably bitter-cold
countryside or already have sent a stray shot into his heart; it made no
difference. She must smile and politely respond to their small conceits.
Very fervently she thanked God there was sewing to bend over that they
might not see printed on her face a question that would not leave her.
Where—and why could not a kind Lord tell her?—was Jeffry Peale? Sleeping
and waking, through three long days and nights, she had asked herself
that. The provost guards had searched their dungeons and the irate
Captain Tremble had inspected the hulks in the bay, all to no avail.
Innumerable parties had gone out and more than one tavern—the Red Boar
among them—had been wrathfully wrecked in the search.
And two court martials had sat as a result of the spy’s disappearance.
Perhaps no such uproar would have been caused had it not been for
Tremble. But he, of all men, was not one to rest.
There was not an officer in New York more devoted to the royal cause,
nor one more bitterly opposed to those who had rebelled against it. The
man was a zealot, a humorless martinet who seemed incapable of pity. It
was on record that he favored war without quarter; and the higher
officers were well aware that if the result of the struggle depended on
the sacrifice of a single life, Captain Tremble would be just the sort
to step out and offer himself as the martyr. His was not a temper to
cross lightly and his men detested him, at the same time carrying a
discipline few other companies of the royal army could boast. All in
all, he was an implacable, shrewd sort of character and perhaps the only
one in the city Jane Welch feared. His eyes were too cold, too
penetrating.
She woke from her thoughts to find Bunch speaking in his affected
manner:
“Do you not think, lady, it would be jolly in Old England now? Sewing in
a fine English hall before just such a fire and, mayhap, a few hounds
snoozin’ at hand?”
Osbaldeston looked worried, and started to speak. Then, remembering his
shortcomings, he shut his mouth like a trout on a fly and watched the
girl.
“Indeed it would be pleasant,” she said. “But you must remember,
gentlemen, I love New York, too. We provincials are stubborn people
about leaving this land.”
“Ah,” muttered Osbaldeston in satisfaction, and then turned ruddy as she
looked his way.
“Nevertheless,” said Bunch gloomily, “I could wish for a stall at a
Lunnon coffee house this night.”
“And now,” said she, “you have changed your desire. Which is it you
would be? The squire or the townsman—”
The wind whipped into the room and the front door slammed. The girl’s
grave eyes turned quickly and then dropped. Captain Tremble stood in the
hall, throwing off his cloak and hat. He turned, unsmiling, and bowed
with a precise kind of courtesy toward her. As for the ensigns, he
dismissed them at one glance and left them sitting silent and
uncomfortable, constrained by his sternness. Taking a chair betwixt the
fire and the girl, he rubbed his hands in dour silence for some
minutes—the nearest he ever came to permitting himself luxury.
Either Osbaldeston or Bunch would have topped him by a head, for he was
not a large man nor big-boned. And doubtless the combined age of the
ensigns was not greater than his, for his temples were graying and fine
lines showed in his face. But for all that, he bore himself like a
fighting man; and he was known as a dangerous sword.
“Very cold,” said he to the girl.
“Yes. I am glad I don’t stand a guard tour.”
“My belief is you’d stand it better than some of the nincompoops this
army is now cluttered with.” He snapped a finger at the ensigns. “One of
you fetch some sticks for the fire.”
Osbaldeston excused himself and went back through the house. Bunch
endeavored to make conversation.
“Have they got a smell yet of the spy, sir?”
“D’ye think I’d be tarryin’ here if they had?” demanded Tremble sharply.
“Three days since he appeared at this house,” mused the girl, head bent
over the sewing. “What do you think happened to him, Captain?”
It was a question perhaps not wise, but it had to be uttered. She could
not see Tremble’s face, but she was very certain his gimlet eyes were
fixed on her.
“And what do _you_ think happened to him?” asked Tremble.
Jane Welch raised her head, startled.
“Me? La, what could you expect me to know, sir? He has vanished and—”
here was a gentle gibe at him “—not all the king’s gallant soldiers
ensembled can find him.”
Bunch spoke reassuringly.
“Be assured he’ll never put his scurvy foot in these premises again.
’Tis nothing for you to worry about.”
“Perhaps she’d not be worried.”
It was a cryptic sentence, with the implication of more than one
meaning. When Jane Welch caught Tremble’s eyes she saw a faint malice in
them and of a sudden she put her hands together and collected her
courage. Bunch moved uneasily and blurted out a protest—
“Oh, now, I must protest—”
“Be quiet!” was Tremble’s sharp rejoinder. He bowed a little at the
girl. “’Twas not a charitable or Christian remark. I do beg your
pardon.”
But the malice, the slight doubt persisted. It was the first word of
doubt ever directed at her and it came like a direct challenge. She had
always feared him for his penetration, his animal-like intuition. Now
she knew she had him for a critic, an enemy. Without answer, she dropped
her head and, quite unannounced, the picture of Jeffry Peale was before
her, as it had often been the past eventful hours.
He was like many others who had traveled the dangerous path before him;
and yet he was like none. Those others were gallant fellows from every
State and every rank; they were gay and, like gentlemen, they paid her
brief court as an appreciation of her own courage. Then they were gone
and in time their faces merged, one into the other, until she could not
remember them as individuals.
But she knew she would never forget the sight of Jeffry Peale, even if
ten thousand others came after. The secret of Jeffry Peale was in his
eyes. There his strength and weakness rested side by side. She had never
seen this wistfulness of a hungry man, this mild distrust of self, this
shining light of ambition so twisted and entwined before. A brave
soldier he might be, but first and always he was like a boy looking at
some far-off star. Quite clear, quite humble.
Tremble’s dry, brittle voice broke athwart her communing.
“If the lady would be so kind as to give us her society a moment—”
She smiled.
“You must excuse me. I often fall into a dreaming.”
Bunch smirked, as if he quite well knew what this dreaming was about.
Osbaldeston came tramping back with the wood and, greatly to Tremble’s
irritation, threw it a-clatter on the floor.
“Quite a few of these provincial women keep secret company with
themselves,” announced Tremble. “I sometimes wonder if they are so Tory
as they profess to be.”
Osbaldeston, behind Tremble’s back, drew one finger across his throat
and swiftly pointed to the captain, grimacing. But Jane Welch knew she
was being fenced with and, on her guard, answered evenly enough:
“You have no great regard for a people of these provinces, have you,
Captain Tremble? Neither for rebels or Tories or women or children.”
“I could wish,” said Tremble with a quietness that chilled the girl’s
blood, “that everything pertaining to the provinces had never existed. I
could wish to see it all in ashes—a desert—back to the red Indian.” He
bowed again, without offering pardon, and pointed toward the fire. “I
had wondered if that cider—”
“It is quite ready,” said she, putting her sewing aside and rising. She
drew out a mug and handed it to Tremble. “I offer this to you, Captain,
with better grace than to return your compliments.”
His thin lips pressed to an even finer line.
“I never dissemble my feelings,” said he and blew into the hot drink.
He was not destined to taste it. The door burst open again and a very
frozen aide came into the room, speaking to Tremble!
“The colonel’s wish, sir, is that you will turn out your company and
scour the city. The spy has come to life—bursting out of a dungeon on
the _Whitby_ and leaping into the river.”
Tremble set the mug on the floor, transfixed the courier with a steely
gaze and thundered:
“On the _Whitby_? Ye mean to stand there and tell me they’ve kept the
rascal _concealed_ from the gallows? I inspected that ship two days
ago!”
“You know the commander of this ship, sir. And the quality of the
dungeon.”
“Thought to kill him by a more eventful way, eh? By gad, there is too
much of private vengeance going on in this army! And now he’s loose once
more! Well, I’ll find him if I must wreck every house in the town. And
when that’s accomplished I’ll see to it the fine gentleman in charge of
the _Whitby_ is kicked out of the king’s service! Bunch—Osbaldeston—come
with me!”
He stalked into the hallway with something very near predatory joy on
his face. Bunch, cowed by the captain’s manner, followed humbly after,
casting a last beseeching glance at the girl who sat still, unmindful of
her needlework. But Osbaldeston kept his place, turned dogged. Tremble,
ready to go, found him tarrying and sent a more peremptory challenge at
the young man.
“Osbaldeston! D’ye hear my command?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Osbaldeston, “but I’m not of your company and
therefore not under your immediate command.”
“D’ye mean to disobey?” shouted Tremble, advancing a step.
“I obey such as have direct authority over me,” replied Osbaldeston
stubbornly. “But y’re not _my_ company commander and this is my free
night. I’m within my rights, sir, and you well know it.”
Tremble’s hand went to his sword and it seemed as if he meant to force
the subaltern from the room at the point of the blade; then his features
resumed their noncommittal cast and he retreated, flinging a warning
over his shoulder:
“Very well, sir. I shall see you properly scorched, when this affair is
over. Bunch? Why’re you rooted there, a-gaping? Out, man!”
The door slammed and Osbaldeston was left alone with Jane Welch, a great
deal disturbed, but sticking manfully to his contention.
“He’s a born devil,” muttered the ensign. “Maybe I’d gone without a fuss
if he’d not played the boor to you.”
“You have upset the will of a dangerous man,” warned the girl. “He will
give you trouble.”
“I’m not sure. My captain bears a vile hate toward the martinet; if it’s
to be a court, I’m bound to have plenty of friends.”
She returned to her work and, thus screened of countenance, asked a
question—
“When the messenger spoke of the dungeon—of private vengeance—what did
he mean?”
Osbaldeston squirmed.
“Some things are better unsaid.”
“And as long as I have been here I have not heard about it. It must be a
silent conspiracy among you. I should like to know.”
Osbaldeston scowled.
“You’ll find some officers who don’t approve—and I’m of that party. The
simple fact is, Miss Jane, there’s some foul holes on the _Whitby_ where
a man can be put in solitary until he dies. ’Tis at the discretion of
the prison ship commander. Perhaps this spy was unruly—he did seem a
stubborn fellow—and they chucked him down in such. I wouldn’t doubt but
what he had a hand in the last prisoners’ break.”
“Ah,” said the girl, and began to sew furiously.
Osbaldeston, having spoken more in the preceding quarter hour than
during a whole week, subsided, staring into the flames. Outside, the
wind began to carry toward them sounds of the freshened pursuit. A
section went by at the double, boots making a great deal of racket in
the night. A rifle sounded elsewhere, the first false alarm of several
to follow as the evening went on. And at each such shot the girl
flinched until at last she had to get up and move toward the window. A
troop of horse passed the street on the gallop.
“What are they doing?” she demanded impatiently. “Do they need to send
the whole army to scout for a single man? La, it seems ridiculous.”
Osbaldeston looked surprized.
“Now, Miss Jane, I shouldn’t let your sympathy carry you away. He’s but
a spy and he knew the odds when he took up the game.” Then, with a quiet
boyish frankness he added, “Perhaps it ain’t fair, exactly, to harry a
creature—but would you ever call war fair? Oh, I’m no fire-eater and,
between you and me, I’d as soon they’d give the rebels terms and call it
quits.”
She made a great effort at controlling herself and resumed her seat.
Hardly had she done so when an elderly housemaid came through from the
kitchen. She knelt at the fire and put on a fresh log; then, taking up
the mug of cider so recently abandoned by Captain Tremble, she shot a
glance at Osbaldeston, who was turned a little away with his face to the
flames and his mind somewhere in merry England, then with a swift motion
of her finger, caught the attention of Jane Welch. She was a dark,
sharp-faced woman and at this particular moment her eyes rolled with
unwonted agitation, rising and falling to convey a wordless message. Her
head bobbed forward, indicating the rear of the house, after which she
went back through the door and closed it with a telltale slam.
Jane Welch’s needle poised, and of a sudden she uttered a small,
disappointed “La!” and turned a vexed brow on Osbaldeston, who emerged
from his reverie.
“What?” he asked.
“I had meant to get three yards of good sagathy cloth this very
afternoon from the mercer—and I forgot. Well, the evening’s wasted now.
If I but had it—”
Osbaldeston was instantly on his feet. “’Twould be only pleasure for me
to get it, Miss Jane. The mercer at the corner?”
“No, the mercer farther down—on Beaver Street. I am ashamed to send you
on such a night and mayhap the shop will be closed.”
He was already struggling into his cloak and half-way to the door, a
pathetically eager young man scarcely beyond the school age—a subaltern
who found little to please him in the swashbuckle of the military.
“If the fellow’s not open I’ll soon enough bring him ’round,” he assured
her and ducked into the turbulent night.
The girl sprang up as the latch of the door fell and hurried to the
kitchen where the housemaid awaited, out of breath, eyes wide with
excitement.
“Oh, laws—laws! Missy Jane, _he’s_ in the shed, half dead and the
clothes on him no less’n so much ice! Laws, what _will_ we do?”
She wrung her hands and plucked at the younger girl’s shawl. Jane Welch
drew in her breath.
“He lives then? Oh, how kind is life! Sally, don’t wring your hands so!
Bolt the front door and close the hall door. Hurry! I’ll help him in
while you watch! He must go in my room—’tis the safest! Don’t stand
there so cravenly—run!”
She pushed the woman away with both hands and then, pulling the shawl
about her, went through the back door, crossing a windy yard and coming
to a stone house. It was very dark and very cold and when she got into
the shed she heard the short, uneven breathing of a man badly shaken.
She struck his foot and instantly she was crouched beside him, her white
hands crossing his face and feeling his body tremble uncontrollably. It
was as the maid had said; his clothing was like so much ice armor and
his hair was beginning to freeze together. Water dripped from every part
of his clothing.
“Oh, my poor boy! Come, can you raise yourself a little? Here’s my arm.
You are shaking terribly! Make one effort—Jeffry. One big effort. Are
you past it?”
“In—in the house? No. Bad for you. Get me a blanket—and—let me lie!”
“And perish! Come up!”
He made the effort and fell back; but it served to send the blood into
chilled members and with her arm beneath him he finally got to his feet.
Steadying him, she led the way out of the shed and to the house. Once in
the kitchen it was easier, but when the light fell on his haggard,
bloodless countenance she checked a cry.
It looked as if he had been cruelly beaten. Long welts lay across his
cheeks and blood was still caked in his hair, even though he had crossed
a river. He looked tired, tired beyond the power to tell, and there were
lines on his face that had never been there a short three days ago. The
prison ship had left its mark.
But it passed belief that he had succeeded in coming away at all.
The girl, guiding his feet upstairs, could hear his heart beating slow
and hard. Coming to her bedroom door, she threw it open and as quickly
shut it.
Peale swayed a little and then without any great expense of effort,
walked to the bed and sank down. The maid put her head in the room and
was dispatched on an errand.
“The wine, Sally, and a plate of that fowl we had for supper. Bring hot
water. Leave the door bolted. If the ensign must knock we’ll say we had
become afraid.”
Peale looked up at her, speaking easier.
“My lady, they had about run me down. ’Tis strange how a man’s mind will
stay clear while muscles grow dead and the heart falters. I saw myself
die, tonight—and yet here I am. ’Tis not so bad as I had thought, for I
feel a little life coming back.”
“You have gone through more than you can forget,” said she. “The mark is
on you.”
He moved his hand.
“Oh, that will fade. In another hour I shall be fit. Where a man is
sound, his muscles soon come back.”
She went over and knelt by the fire, stirring it up with fresh wood.
“I have heard rumors about the prison ship—all unpleasant. They spoke of
a dungeon. Were you in it? How did you get out?”
“The ship’s commander,” replied Peale, with a very faint trace of humor,
“had his own notions of torture. I failed of one escape and so was put
away with the rats, knee high in bilge-water and nothing but bran and
water once a day. They thought they had me broke, but the guard who fed
me tonight at dusk was a careless rascal and I surprized him and hauled
him into the hold after me. A simple thing then to dive over and swim.
“I had not figured the water to be so cold. It cuts like a knife. Once
ashore I was hemmed in and this was the only shelter I knew. I thought
to get that list from you and make my way out. But the candle must have
been rather low, for when I knocked on your back door and regained the
shed it seemed to flicker.”
She had remained crouched by the fire, hands interlaced.
“So easy to say—and still—with all the black world about you and your
marrow frozen—oh, Jeffry Peale, why is it you still remain doubtful of
yourself?”
“Eh? And how could you know that?”
“Plain—so very plain.”
She meant to say more, but the maid slipped into the room with a tray of
food. Peale rose from the bed and walked unsteadily to the fire,
choosing a chair. The girl went out, without comment, and after quite
some interval returned with an arm freighted with a man’s suit.
“Your own must be gotten off quickly. Here is what my father once wore.
’Twill be small, but it’s only makeshift until your own dries.”
“Give me an hour,” said he, “and I will be gone.”
Jane Welch looked troubled.
“I could wish to believe it. But you don’t know Captain Tremble. He has
raised half the army in search. La! That’s Ensign Osbaldeston rattling
at the door, Sally. Go down and let him in. I shall be there in one
moment.”
“Come,” grumbled Peale, “I’ll not be caught here. ’Twould mean your
betrayal.”
“Rest awhile and I’ll hear what’s being said. As for betrayal—I fear but
one man.”
“Who is that?” demanded Peale with a show of concern.
Jane Welch noted his manner and dropped her eyes.
“Captain Tremble. But never mind. Eat and change your suit and rest.
I’ll be back after a bit and tell you the news.”
He turned in his chair and watched her. As she closed the door she met
his glance and saw there again the recurrence of that wistfulness which
had so strongly marked him out from all others. She treaded the stairs
and came upon Osbaldeston holding a package.
“Terribly long time,” he apologized, “but I had to read the mercer out
of bed and lecture him on the duties of a tradesman.”
She took the package with a brilliant smile and reduced him to
speechlessness with one short compliment.
“You are a most obliging gentleman.”
There was a commotion outside and a sharp command. Dispersed soldiers
ran for barracks and presently Tremble stamped in the house, a glum,
bitter-mouthed figure.
“Luck, Captain?” she asked.
He warmed his hands at the blaze.
“He’s in the city—that’s certain. And I’ll wager my commission he’ll
never get out after such guards as I’ve posted. The lines are doubled.
Oh, I’ll run him down! If day comes and he’s not taken I’ll make very
short work of it with other means.”
She folded her hands, smiling gently.
“It is no light matter to cross the power of a captain in his majesty’s
army, is it, sir?”
He favored her with a sharp glance and broke out, suddenly—
“Why don’t you ask me what means I intend to use?”
“Why, sir, to what purpose? I am not interested.”
He started for the stairs.
“No? Ah, madam, I doubt _that_. You are a very clever woman. But then
all women are clever.”
And with this shot he climbed upward. Osbaldeston glowered. Jane Welch
collected her things and nodded at the clock.
“I shall follow his example. Good night, sir.”
She summoned the maid with a glance. Together they climbed the stairway
and passed into the room.
Jeffry Peale had made the change of clothing and was warming himself.
Raising a warning finger, the girl moved over and spoke in very low
tones.
“You can not go tonight. Captain Tremble has the whole city guarded. It
would be death to try. You must sleep in this room.”
Peale shook his head.
“But it’s your room, my lady.”
She pointed toward the other end of the place where a second bed rested
in the shadows.
“Sally and I will sleep there. No, you must be quiet. Captain Tremble
would see or hear any change we made. Sally, blow out the candles.”
The maid obeyed and the room was plunged in entire darkness, save as the
flames in the fireplace made a small yellow pool of light against the
wall. At the end of the hall Peale heard a door close cautiously. It was
Tremble’s door.