They crouched beneath the shelter of an oak, watching the glint of a
farm house light some hundred yards away. Both were drenched, for the
passage of the river was a tempestuous affair and the unchecked wind
drove the raindrops through their clothes like so many knives. The
ascent of the palisades on the western side was almost as difficult, and
they wandered like lost children until a rugged pathway presented itself
in the ever blackening night.
Overhead the tree branches cracked ominously, and now and again a weaker
member came dashing down. The girl stood beside the trunk of the oak,
shielded thus and by Peale’s body.
“There is our next point of attack,” he decided, indicating the farm
light. “Give me your hand. I believe I can make out a path ahead.”
“The rain is slacking, or else the wind’s dying.”
It seemed so, for as they stumbled toward the beacon the wind ripped
less gustily across the parapets of the palisades. Peale waded boot-high
through grass and came to a very muddy yard—the yard between barn and
house most probably. Going onward at a sedate pace, he listened for
dogs, blessing the tumult of the evening as he did so.
The light was of a sudden cut off from their view; passing onward, they
again met it and stopped. The door of the place was directly in front of
them. Peale left the girl with a whisper and advanced to the adjoining
window. Between the drapes he had a view of a man sitting alone before
the kitchen blaze, head bowed a little and lips moving soundlessly over
the passages of a book. He was well past middle age, as evidenced from
his very gray hair, and he seemed to be quite settled of conscience,
else he would have closed his shutters long ago. Peale, sweeping the
place with a curious eye, returned to the girl and led her to the door,
rapping vigorously on the panels.
It came wide open after a brief moment. The farmer stood across the
threshold, holding a candle high and shielding it with a palm. Before
either of them could say so much as an apology he was speaking gravely.
“Come in to the fire.”
The fugitives passed through to the kitchen while their host shot the
door’s bolt. Peale reached for the girl’s cloak and held it near the
fire; water began to puddle on the stones. The farmer removed the book
he had been reading from the chair—Peale saw it to be the Bible—and
beckoned the girl to sit.
“Drenchin’ wet, the both o’ ye. Let me knock up a stronger blaze. ’Tis
well I let the coffee kettle simmer. Nawt a minute now an’ y’ll both
have a hot drink o’ it.”
It struck Peale a little odd. He noted that when he removed his own
cloak the farmer gave the British uniform but one short glance, after
which his placid face changed not a whit. Certainly he was either a bold
man or a very discreet one. At any rate, he poked the fire and presently
had poured them both coffee, well mixed with cream.
“Sugar,” said he, offering the drink, “I can’t offer ye—and well ye
should know why, with both armies payin’ its weight a’most in gold.
Anyhow, it’ll sarve to keep off the chills. My lady, y’d best draw a
little closer to the heat.”
“You are very obliging,” remarked Peale. “One would think we were
expected.”
“Ain’t it the Lord’s command to entertain strangers?”
“Tory and rebel alike?” parried Peale.
The farmer’s mild face set in rather resolute lines.
“That’s a distinction the Bible knows nawthin’ about.”
“I vow,” said Peale, “but you are a strange gentleman. Do you not run
the risk of being called easy in politics?”
“Easy?” The farmer’s temper was roused. “Nawt a bit of it! I have
politics a-plenty. Reckon I could ask the same o’ ye.”
“You see the uniform,” replied Peale, pointing to his borrowed
regimentals.
“Eh! What of it? Is it likely a British officer would be flounderin’
around this unsettled country in the dark o’ night—an’ afoot?”
“Then let’s consider the other side of the case,” said Peale. This mild
looking farmer was a great deal shrewder than first appearance
indicated. “If my politics are doubtful it is the same with most Jersey
civilians.”
“True enough,” agreed the farmer. “An’ why? Because, friend, we’re
harried first by one side, then t’other. Never a sure day do we know,
nor a peaceful night do we own. ’Tis all right for the soldier inside
his camp to speak ill of the citizen for not holdin’ a faster
allegiance. Put yourself in between fire for a month and y’ll see the
reason we _seem_ fickle.”
“To come to business,” said Peale, “have you got a team and wagon?”
The farmer hesitated, then with some reluctance admitted he had.
“We need it,” continued Peale, “with you to guide us. We must put
ourselves well to westward before daylight.”
It was not a pleasant prospect for the farmer and he mulled it over in
his mind at great length, finally coming to a mild dissent. The weather
was vile, the streams they had to cross were badly swollen and at any
juncture they might be taken up by partisan troops.
“You see,” broke in Peale with a trace of irony, “I am discovering your
politics after all. As for discomfort and danger, look you to this lady.
Are you less able to share such adventures than she? If you are a
patriot, you will go of your own free will. But if you are comfortably
Tory then I must confess I’ll have to induce you with other weapons than
persuasion.”
The farmer shrugged his shoulders.
“If ye put it thataway, I’m your man. We’ll hitch up. Ma’am, I’m a
widower. If y’ll go into the bedroom and raise the chest cover y’ll find
all my ol’ woman’s clothes. Better put on suthin’ warm.”
Peale accompanied him to the barn and held the lantern while the team
was hitched.
Some twenty minutes later they were traveling over a black, uncertain
road toward the Hackensack River. It was nothing more than a flat,
springless farm wagon, uncomfortable in every respect and open to the
steady fall of rain which now came straight down out of the sky. Peale
and the farmer sat in the seat; behind and below this a place had been
made for the girl, shielded by their bodies and wrapped in a piece of
ship’s canvas.
Peale held a well shrouded lantern for emergencies.
“Bear off to the right,” he directed. “’Tis not discretion to take the
road through Bergen or New Ark.”
“So I’m to travel every cow path an’ git stuck in every mire?” grumbled
the farmer. “Well, y’ll not make great progress.”
“Bear off.”
The farmer had some confidence the first few miles and they jolted away
from the Hudson at a brisk pace. Peale lost sense of time; the night
turned to a more impenetrable black, the water sluiced about them.
Nothing was said, save that at long intervals the farmer urged his horse
on with a “G’yup, Leader—Pull, —— ye, Prince.”
And after what appeared to be six miles, but could not have been much
more than three, he halted the team and clambered down from the seat
with a very brief comment.
“Hackensack.” He vanished beyond for some minutes, reappearing with a
word of encouragement. “Luck’s with ye, my boy. Tide’s out an’ the ford
won’t be so bad. Ma’am if you don’t want to git wetter—”
Peale abandoned the seat and lifted the girl into it. The farmer set the
brakes; they slid down a sharp embankment, wheels skidding. Water
muttered through the spokes and as the driver released the brakes he
began to berate the horses:
“G’yup—Prince—Leader! Tarnation ain’t ye ever been in water afore?
_G’yup!_”
The river slapped the wagon bed and surrounded Peale’s boots. They were
swung downstream, team and all. The farmer, unmindful of his company,
swore roundly and lashed out with his whip. Perched thus between defeat
and victory, the horses struck a sand bar and dug in. The wagon came to
a halt that very nearly knocked all of them into the water. The whip
lashed again and then they were splashing to the shore. They climbed the
far bank and once more settled to a steady gait.
“Dangerous chances ye take by keepin’ to the back roads,” warned the
farmer. “That ford now—we made it by no more’n a lick an’ a promise.”
“’Tis plenty. We got across,” replied Peale quite simply.
In something less than an hour they reached the Passaic; here a very
rude bridge spanned the stream, the work of the near-by settlers. They
crossed gingerly, feeling the rush of current sway the whole structure.
Once beyond, Peale was offered the choice of a main highway to
Morristown or a lesser road that swung south. He chose the latter and
they jolted onward, silence settling.
They had now entered a land of great uncertainty, situated between the
outposts of both armies and belonging to neither. Each week saw some
raid, British or American; no man knew just when a company of dragoons
might swoop down, confiscate a few supplies, overturn a wagon train and
dash back for shelter. And when hoofs drummed in the distance it was
always uncertain until the party came to view which side was to present
itself. The inhabitants, accustomed to these swift, unexpected forays,
had long past learned to conceal all livestock and all grain; and they
hid their true allegiance behind countenances either artful or
suspicious.
It was a strip of territory full of peril for the fugitives. At no
place, short of their own outguards, could they show their faces without
the risk of betrayal. They could count on absolutely no help, and at
every hint of traffic on the roads, were under the necessity of hiding.
Jeffry Peale grew more and more apprehensive as the night wore on and
the wagon made increasingly poor progress over the abominable highways.
The farther they went, the greater appeared the farmer’s caution.
Perhaps two hours beyond the crossing of the Passaic he stopped his
wagon and crawled down, taking the lantern with him. When he returned
from a short reconnaissance of the road he offered Peale another choice
of directions.
“Reached the hills. If ye go on straight it’s nigh fifteen miles to
Morristown, with the Passaic to cross again. Er ye can branch south
to’rd Springfield. What’s in yer mind?”
“South. My destination’s—” Peale was about to announce the location of
his brigade’s headquarters, but checked himself. It helped nothing to
give the man his true course. So he contented himself with repeating.
“Turn south. And press the team a little faster. We’ve made poor
progress the last hour.”
“Nawt a bit d’ye think o’ the team,” grumbled the farmer.
“A great deal I think of them,” contradicted Peale. “But somewhat more
of our own hides. Press on.”
They turned, the road if anything worse than that which they left, and
the texture of the night as black as the bottom of a well. One comfort,
indeed, came to them; the rain fell off and after another hour or so of
miserable travel turned to a dense mist that hung suspended in the air.
The farmer noted it with a prophecy. “I know this land right well.
T’morrer the fog’ll be thick enough to cut with a knife. Won’t see a
dozen steps in front o’ ye.”
Peale crawled from the seat and knelt beside Jane Welch.
“I can’t help but think of all the misery I have brought upon you.”
“Don’t. This is the sauce of a very uneventful life to me.”
“I wish I could believe it,” he muttered. “But it’s no weather to expose
you to.”
“Ah, but Jeffry, I am strong. Do you know, I was raised on a farm and
did all the chores a boy would do? La, I’m not afraid. Don’t vex
yourself. Don’t think of me as a woman this night.”
“And how shall I think of you, then?”
“As—a comrade.”
“Well,” said he, speaking rather low, “I have thought of you in many
ways—Jane.”
Several minutes later she began again.
“I see Captain Tremble’s face as clearly as if he stood before me.”
“And it’s a face that augurs no good to us,” replied Peale. “I sh’d be
willing to wager my commission he’s abroad in the Jerseys this moment,
not far from our trail.”
“Might he overtake us?”
“If we tarried too long in this contrivance. Are you at all warm?”
“Jeffry Peale, _will_ you stop worrying about me?”
Nevertheless he tucked the tarpaulin around her and, feeling unusual
pleasure at having done it, clambered back on the seat.
* * * * *
Thereafter there passed between the party not a dozen words in four or
five hours. Once the farmer stopped his horses to give them a breathing
spell and they sat still and frigid. In that dreariest of periods, just
before daybreak, the driver began a vigorous complaint.
“Look ’ee now. Hain’t I gone fur enough to suit ye? A turrible hard trip
it’s been—and I’ve got to do it all over again.”
Peale nodded in the darkness.
“Stop the team.” He vaulted to the road and was gone for better than
five minutes. Presently his voice rose from the wagon side. “Your
journey’s over. Give me your hand, Jane.”
He lifted her to the ground, hearing her catch a breath.
“My body seems to have gone asleep. Oh, it will pass.”
Peale spoke to the farmer.
“Sorry to say I haven’t a penny. If you will give me your name I shall
see—”
“Nawt a bit o’ _that_,” replied the driver in a suppressed, emphatic
voice. “I’ll have no name o’ mine harked about. I’m peaceful. Let it
go.”
There was a rustle of cloth; the girl caught Peale’s fist and pressed
some solid coin into it.
“Let the gentleman have it. We are very grateful.”
The farmer muttered a short thanks. With a great deal of caution and
much murmuring at his team he got the wagon around. They heard it
slushing off, unseen, and in a very short time even the echoes were lost
in the night’s thick air.
“I pity the man,” confessed Peale. “But pity is a poor article for us to
be spending now. Come, we’ve not far to go.”
“Within the lines?”
“No, not that good. I judge we’re something like five miles away. But
there’s a farmhouse and barn a short distance off. I’ve been past it
many times before.”
“Patriot?”
“Lord, a man can’t tell about politics in this region. No, I suspect the
fellow is strongly Tory. It makes no difference. We are going to use his
barn for a few hours.”
She was tired and, without knowing that she did it, leaned a little
against him. They walked two or three hundred yards and entered a lane
that brought them within hand’s reach of a barn before they were aware
of it. Peale fumbled for the door catch; not finding it, he put his arms
to the nearest aperture and brought the portal away from the wall
sufficiently to admit the girl and himself.
It fell back into place with a small protest. They were within shelter
again, and presently buried in hay, feeling the first comfortable warmth
since leaving the house on the Hudson. It was just beginning to get
light. Afar, a dog barked.
* * * * *
Captain Tremble stopped the troop at dawn and rode alone to the house
door, leaning over to knock with the butt of his pistol. After a great
deal of delay a head appeared out of the window.
“What ye want?”
“Have you seen a man and woman riding along this road—the man wearin’
British regimentals?”
“Nary,” answered the citizen, pulling a nightcap from his head. “But I
heerd a wagon pass summat beyant midnight.”
“Going which way, sir?”
The citizen waved his hand westward. Tremble fixed his sharp eyes on the
informer and inquired in a ringing voice—
“Are you loyal or rebel, sir?”
“As to that,” grumbled the citizen, “it ain’t none o’ your business. But
I’m Tory, if it’ll ease ye any.”
“So?” sneered Tremble. “A blessed fickle lot all you Jerseymen are. I
should not misdoubt greatly if ye harbored rebels yourself.”
“Yer privileged to come an’ look,” replied the citizen tartly, and
withdrew from the window.
Tremble debated this course in his mind a moment. But the man had not
seemed averse to inspection and so he turned away, loath to waste time.
Gaining the road, he led the troop onward at a rather rapid pace,
considering the fact they had traveled very hard the past ten hours. Man
and beast alike were coated with reddish mud and all were uncomfortably
chilled. The fog pressed about them with increased density, seeming more
like rain suspended in mid-air. Indeed, it was so thick that it burned
their lungs. Two paces in front the highway vanished behind the gray,
clammy wall.
Not much later Tremble burst through this wall and came unexpectedly
upon a team and wagon greatly spattered with mud, the gray-haired driver
half asleep in the seat. He came awake with a jump when Tremble issued a
ringing “Halt!”
“Where, sir, have you been?” he demanded.
“Morristown,” replied the driver promptly.
It was the guide who had conducted Peale and Jane Welch so far during
the previous night. But if he was alarmed at the sudden appearance of a
British patrol he did not show it. Instead, he stretched himself and
returned the captain’s fiercely antagonistic look with admirable
serenity.
“Morristown!” thundered the captain. “Within the enemy’s lines, eh?
Trafficking with the rebels at midnight! D’ye know I could hang you
properly for that?”
“For a-goin’ to see my son who’s held prisoner there?” asked the farmer
very mildly. “I’m a respectable subject o’ the king, mister, but I’ve
noticed you gentlemen soldiers make little distinction between one side
or t’other when it comes to plain citizens. Y’d as soon sack my house as
the greatest rebel’s.”
“And so I would,” replied Tremble with the utmost frankness. “This ——
country is a nest of snakes. Have ye seen a fugitive couple pass by? Man
an’ woman—the man doubtless wearin’ British regimentals?”
The farmer shook his head.
“Nawt a bit.”
Tremble wasted no more time with him. Within the half-hour he had
reached another house and had propounded the same query in a like tone
of ferocity. No, the citizen had seen no such fugitives. But he had
heard a wagon creak past not more than an hour or two ago, just before
daylight, bound southward in the direction of American outposts. Tremble
considered it at some length and finally turned to his sergeant.
“’Tis our game, I’ll lay ten guineas it is. Forward.”
And he put the weary troop to a very fast gait. He was at that moment
not more than three miles from the two, and rapidly closing up the
distance.
* * * * *
They had been comfortably swathed in the hay, Peale and Jane Welch, for
twenty minutes or so, listening to the crunch of bovine teeth and the
stamp of hoofs, when a small side door opened and a short, very stout
farmer came in with a milk bucket. Peale had only to part the hay in
front of him to command a perfect view, for he was directly above the
mangers.
The farmer took a pitchfork and threw down a small amount of hay for
each of the three cows in the barn and then did the like operation for a
pair of sleek draft animals and one scrubby looking saddlenag. Peale
cast a covetous eye on this last. With a great deal of caution he
brought out a pistol and after letting the farmer milk the first cow,
rose from the hay.
There was no need to issue warning. The farmer heard the noise above him
and reared back quite frightened. Even before daring to cast his eyes
upward to the mow, his free arm reached for a pitchfork. Then he found
himself looking directly into the muzzle of a pistol.
“No racket, my friend,” said Peale. He helped the girl up—at which the
farmer was frankly astonished—and together they slid to the flooring.
“’Tis most extraordinarily abrupt,” added Peale, “but unavoidable.”
“I’m a stout Tory,” broke in the farmer, noting the British uniform. “If
yer runnin’ from the rebels, y’d better keep very low. There’s been a
patrol established on this road, an’ it comes by every mornin’ early.”
“So? Well, we’ve had no breakfast and that milk looks—”
The farmer was willing enough to oblige his unbidden guests.
Peale took the bucket and tipped it up to the girl’s mouth, smiling. “I
had never expected to offer you refreshment under these circumstances,
Jane.”
“Is it not the unusual that people cherish?” she asked. She drank until
want of breath stopped her; a drop of the milk clung to the tip of her
nose. “La, I must look like the cat that forgot to clean his whiskers,”
she added ruefully, and began to scrub her face with a handkerchief.
She was somewhat paler than usual and the long, disagreeable ride had
left its mark in her eyes. Still, she had an answering smile for him.
Woman-like she began to study herself and the sight of the hay clinging
to her skirt was enough to set her to a furious cleaning.
The farmer eyed the both with a species of greediness.
“I’m a stout Tory,” he repeated, “but yer in dangerous country, friends.
Washington’s had cavalry scourin’ the country a-main since Tuesday. Why,
I vow I dunno. ’Tis but four odd miles to the outguards. ’Tain’t my
business what yer after, sir; but for two gold crowns I’ll to’t they
won’t find ye.”
“Have you gear for that sway-back nag?” demanded Peale. Then his eyes
caught sight of bridle and saddle hanging on a peg. “Yes, I see you
have. I shall be forced to ask the loan of it.”
“Ridin’ in broad day?” exclaimed the farmer. “Oh, no, sir. ’Tis folly!
Stay here till night. I’ll see ye well pertected—fer two crowns, gold.”
“And what if I haven’t two crowns, gold?”
The farmer’s countenance became much less friendly.
“How much have’ee, then?”
“Come. Enough of this barterin’. Saddle the horse and we’ll be gone.”
“An’ wot shall I get in return?”
“You’ll be paid in due time. Hurry.”
The farmer dropped his milk bucket and went toward the horse with a
great deal of grumbling.
“’Tis the last I’ll see o’t. An’ no money, either. Godfrey’s bells, but
I like it little enough!”
Peale opened the door and the farmer, after saddling, led the mount into
the foggy morning, still protesting. Though he was obviously a sharp and
unscrupulous fellow, Peale could not help but pity him a little. The
settlers of this debated land suffered a great deal; he made a note that
the man should be recompensed for the trouble.
The fog, if anything, had thickened, and though the road was not more
than twenty feet away it stood shrouded. Peale bent his ear one way and
then another and called to the girl. Getting into the saddle, he reached
for her arms and swung her up before him.
“What’s your name, friend?”
“Tull,” responded the fellow, very surly. His eyes sparkled. “I vow, I
ain’t goin’ to consider myself bound to secrecy if the rebels should
happen along. No, I ain’t.”
“I should say,” remarked Peale, “that judging from your very amiable
temper you might consider yourself bound for a very debatable region.”
The horse skittered away at a mincing pace and the farmer was lost in
the fog. As they swung southward on the road, however, they found him
bellowing. “Hey! ’Tis the wrong direction, jackanapes! Turn back!” And
when he heard the hoofbeats continue unchecked, he was beside himself.
“So, I been gulled, eh? Oh——!”
He was still ranging around the barnyard when Captain Tremble rode out
of the fog not a quarter hour later. At the very first sight of the rank
of British uniforms he related the whole story. Captain Tremble surveyed
him with a blasting eye.
“Ye assume too much grief, yokel. ’Tis not that you love the royal; it’s
because you lost a horse. A condemned, infernal land o’ snakes, this! A
little solid money and y’d as soon cry for Mr. Washington’s rabble. On,
dragoons! We’ll have our fine birds within twenty minutes!”