MID WAR'S ALARMS.
Madam Wetherill sighed over the affair and was sorry to hear of the
failing health of James Henry. But nothing could be done to ease up
Faith's hard lines. She understood much more than she could explain to
the innocent Primrose; more indeed than she cared to have her know at
present about the emotions the human soul. For she had the sweet
unconsciousness of a flower that had yet to open, and she did not want
it rudely forced.
Rachel's desire and disappointment must have soured her greatly, she
thought. In spite of her training in resignation, human nature seemed as
strong in her as in any woman of the world who maneuvered for a lover.
Yet Madam Wetherill was truly glad Andrew had escaped the snare.
And now the country was in great disquiet again. Arnold's treason and
its sad outcome in the death of the handsome and accomplished Major
Andre fell like a thunderbolt on the town where he had been the leader
of the gay life under Howe. Many women wept over his sad end. Washington
had been doubtful of Arnold's integrity for some time, but thought
giving him the command at West Point would surely attach him to his
country's fortunes. Washington being called to a conference with the
French officers at Hartford, Arnold chose this opportunity to surrender
West Point and its dependencies, after some show of resistance, into
the hands of the British for a certain sum of money.
But Arnold had roused suspicions in the heart of more than one brave
soldier; among them Andrew Henry, who had been promoted to a lieutenancy
for brave conduct and foresight.
Clinton was to sail up the river. Andre went up the Hudson in the sloop
of war _Vulture_, which anchored off Teller's Point. Fearing they knew
not what, the Continentals dragged an old six-pound cannon to the end of
Teller's Point. That galled the _Vulture_ and drove her from her
anchorage, so that she drifted down the river. Andre, therefore, was
compelled to make his way by land. Being arrested at Haverstraw, the
commander unwisely allowed him to send a letter to Arnold, who at once
fled down the river in a barge and met the _Vulture_, leaving behind his
wife, the beautiful Philadelphian, Margaret Shippen, and their infant
son, and thus the chief traitor escaped.
England had spent a vast amount of treasure and thousands of lives in
battles, hardships, and disease, and had not conquered the
revolutionists. She had now involved herself in war with both France and
Spain. Holland, too, was secretly negotiating a treaty with the United
Colonies.
While the town was in consternation over these events, late in November
Mrs. Washington, then on her way to join her husband, stopped a brief
while with President Reed of the Congress. Again the soldiers were in
great distress, needing everything and winter coming on. The ladies had
formed a society for work, and were making clothing and gathering what
funds they could.
"Mrs. Washington is to come," said Polly Wharton, dropping in at Arch
Street, full of eagerness. "The Marquis de Lafayette has given five
hundred dollars in his wife's name, and the Countess de Luzerne gives
one hundred. When we count it up in our depreciated money it sounds much
greater," and Polly laughed with a gay nod. "Mrs. Washington has begged
to contribute also. It is said the commander in chief was almost
heart-broken about that handsome young Andre, and would have saved him
if he could. And Margaret Shippen comes home next to a deserted wife, at
all events deserted in her most trying hour. Of course, Primrose, you
will join us. You can do something more useful than embroider roses on a
petticoat, or needlework a stomacher."
"Indeed I can. Patty has seen to it that I shall know something besides
strumming on the spinet and reading French verse. But the French are our
very good friends."
"And I am crazy to see Mrs. Washington. There is devotion for you!"
"If thou wert a commander's wife thou wouldst be doing the same thing,
Polly. 'For,' she said in the beginning, 'George is right; he is always
right. And though I foresee dark days and many discouragements, my heart
will always be with him and the country.' If we had more such patriots
instead of pleasure-loving women!" And Madam Wetherill sighed, though
her face was in a glow of enthusiasm.
"But there are many brave women who give up husbands and sons. And
though my mother consented about Allin, it wrung her heart sorely. We
have not heard in so long. That is the hardest. But we seem to get word
easily of the gay doings in New York. And so thou wilt not go,
Primrose?"
"Indeed, I will not. What pleasure would it be to me to dance and be gay
with my country's enemies? I shall make shirts and knit socks."
"Yes, Primrose is old enough, but she somehow clings to childhood," said
Madam. "We have spoiled her with much indulgence."
"Indeed, I am not spoiled. And if the British should take away all we
had, dear aunt, I would work for thee. I do know many things."
"Dear heart!" and Madam Wetherill kissed her.
There was much interest to see Mrs. Washington, though some of the
ladies had met her on a previous visit. Madam Wetherill had been among
those brave enough to ally herself with the cause by calling then, and
Mrs. Washington gracefully remembered it.
"And this is the little girl, grown to womanhood almost," she said, as
Primrose courtesied to her. "You are not a Friend, I see by your attire;
but the name suggested someone----"
"But my father was, madam, and well known in the town. And I have a
brave Quaker cousin who joined the army at Valley Forge, Andrew Henry."
"Yes, I think that is the name. Did he not bring some supplies while we
were in so much want, and come near to getting in trouble? You must be
proud of him indeed, for he was among those who suspected Arnold's
treachery, and were so on the alert that they set some of his plans at
naught, for which we can never be thankful enough. Henry, that is the
name! A tall fine young fellow with a martial bearing, one of the
fighting Quakers, and Philadelphia hath done nobly in raising such men.
The General never forgets good service, and he is marked for promotion."
Primrose courtesied again, her eyes shining with lustrousness that was
near to tears.
"I should almost have danced up and down and clapped my hands, or else
fallen at her feet and kissed her pretty hands if she had said that
about Allin," declared Polly afterward. "Oh, it was soul-stirring, and
the belles stood envying you, but some of them have blown hot and blown
cold, and were ready to dance with Whig and Tory alike. And I wanted to
say that you were too patriotic to go up to New York and be merry with
your brother. Then I bethought me he was on the wrong side. Such a
splendid fellow, too, Primrose; skating like the wind, and such a
dancer, and with so many endearing ways. Child, how can you resist him?"
"I cannot be a turncoat for the dearest love."
"Andrew Henry should have been your brother. He looks more like that
grand old portrait of your father than his own son does," declared
Polly, and some inexplicable feeling sent the scarlet waves to the fair
face of Primrose.
Busy enough the women were, and on many of the shirts was the name of
the maker. Primrose begged that Patty's name might be put on their
dozen, and Janice Kent consented hers should be used.
"For Primrose is such an odd, fanciful name, and it seems as if it
belonged just to my own self and my dear mother," the child said, and
Madam Wetherill respected the delicacy.
Mrs. Bache, Franklin's daughter, wrote to Washington that there were
twenty-five hundred shirts, the result of nimble and patriotic fingers;
and, she added, "we wish them to be worn with as much pleasure as they
were made."
Philemon Nevitt was indeed angry at his sister's refusal, but as he was
in no sense her guardian, he could not compel her. Some weeks elapsed
before he wrote again. It was a hard, cold winter, and if full of
discouragements for the Continentals was not especially inspiriting for
the British.
There had been something of a revolt among the Philadelphia troops at
Morristown, who thought, having served their three years' enlistment,
they should be allowed to return to their homes. Sir Henry Clinton,
mistaking the spirit of the trouble, at once offered to take them under
the protection of the British government, clothe and feed them and
require no service of them, unless it was voluntarily proffered.
"See, comrades," exclaimed one of the leaders; "we have been taken for
traitors! Let us show General Clinton that the American Army can furnish
but one Arnold, and that America has no truer patriots than we. But if
we fight, we should not be compelled to starve on the field, nor have
our wives and children starving at home."
This protest aroused Congress. Taxes were imposed and submitted to
cheerfully, and Robert Morris, an ardent patriot, with Thomas Mifflin,
labored to bring about a better state of finances, and the Bank of
Pennsylvania was due to the ability and munificence of the former.
And though, as Thomas Reed admitted, "the bulk of the people were weary
of war," and the different parties in the city were almost at swords'
points, they had all joined in fierce denunciation of Arnold's treason.
His handsome estate was confiscated, not so much for its value, as it
was deeply in debt, but as an example of the detestation in which the
citizens held his crime. His wife pleaded to stay in her father's house
with her young son, but the executive council decided that she must
leave the State at once.
The mob made a two-faced effigy, which was dragged in a cart through the
streets, a band of rough music playing the Rogue's March. Afterward it
was hanged and burned, and no Tory voice was raised in his behalf,
though universal sympathy was expressed for the unfortunate young Andre.
Philemon Henry was intensely bitter about it. "But you have not all the
traitors," he wrote. "My heart has been rent by the defection of some of
our bravest men, and most trusted; and one who has seemed almost a
brother to me, as we played together in boyhood, and have kept step in
many things. I had cherished a curious hope that he might disarm thy
girlish bitterness, Primrose, and that sometime his true worth would be
apparent to you. And from the first, though he never confessed any
further than that he envied me my pretty little sister, I knew he was
more than common interested. These things are best left to work
themselves out, and you were both young, so I held my peace. Six months
ago Sir Gilbert Vane, the uncle, died, and, as title and estates were
entailed, Vane Priory came to him. At first he was minded to return, and
I wish now that I had bundled him off. Then he had queer, dispirited
fits about the cause we were serving. I regret we have not been more in
earnest and not so much given to pleasure. The city has been very gay,
but I think many of the women whose feet twinkled merrily in the dance
talked treason with rosy lips in the pauses.
"I was angry when I read your letter and tossed it over to him, wishing
that I had been your guardian and had some right to order your life. He
held it a long while, then he rose and began to pace the floor.
"'I tell you, Phil,' he said with strange earnestness, 'we are on the
wrong side. Nothing can ever conquer these people while the love of
their own country outweighs everything else. If the women feel this way,
and cannot be tempted, no wonder the men are steadfast and go in rags
and half starve and take any hardship. We forget that they are our own
kin, of our own brave English blood, and would we tolerate an invader?
Would we not fight to the last man? It would be nobler to go home and
let them rule themselves, for we can never conquer them.'
"'You talk treason,' I said angrily. 'You had better be careful.'
"'They are talking the same thing in the House of Parliament. I have
been paying more attention to these things of late, and I feel that in
the end we shall be worsted. Better make brothers of them now while we
can. If this were my country, my birthplace----'
"'Hold!' I cried in a passion. 'I am an Englishman. That is the country
of my mother's birth, and my father had good English blood in his veins.
My Uncle Henry thinks the rebels all in the wrong, and I know well my
father would never have sided with them. My sister would have been
brought up to love the King.'
"He made no answer, but went out presently. Then for some days he was
moody and kept himself quite busy, and I thought was planning to return
to England to look after his estates. Our colonel thought so, too. And
then five others beside him suddenly disappeared. Shortly after we
learned they had gone South to enter the army under General Greene. I
only hope they will fall into Tarleton's hands, and he will make short
work of them. But my heart is sore for the loss of my boyhood's friend,
and the shame of his turning traitor. I hear that Benedict Arnold has
joined the King's forces, and of a surety he and they would be well
matched in any fight.
"I have a presentiment I shall never see my pretty darling again.
Primrose, I love thee more than thou canst imagine. I would that I had
thee and that we two were going to England out of this terrible strife.
Farewell.
"Thine own dear brother,
"PHIL."
Primrose ran weeping to her aunt and gave her the long epistle. Madam
Wetherill tried to comfort her, and presently she dried her tears a
little.
"We can hardly call him a traitor,--Gilbert Vane, I mean,--for he has
not really betrayed his country, but changed his mind. And I think it
very brave of him when he might go to England and live in luxury," said
Primrose in a broken voice.
"Thou art quick to see the heroic side. Of course, if he should be taken
prisoner, he would be put to death without mercy."
"But he does not sell his country!" with emphasis. "Oh, poor, dear Phil!
My heart aches for him. And yet, if the British soldiers begin to see
the doubtfulness of a final conquest, I think there must be hope. But
what can I say to Philemon? I seem destined to be always divided in
opposite directions."
"That is very true," and Madam Wetherill smiled rather sadly. For it
seemed hard indeed that brother and sister should have such opposing
interests. Many a girl would have been won at once by the proffer of
pleasure.
But Primrose did not have very long to consider. Another note came from
New York. Tired of inaction, Philemon Nevitt had asked that some more
stirring duty should be allotted to him, and he was transferred to
another body of troops, who were watching the Americans and harassing
them in the vicinity of Morristown. It was said deserters from the
British army had transferred their allegiance, and Colonel Nevitt
determined to put a stop to this, and capture some of them to make an
example the soldiers would dread in future.
"When he writes like this I hate him!" and Primrose stamped her dainty
foot upon the floor, while her eyes flashed with curious steely gleams
that seemed to have black points. "It does not seem as if the same blood
could run in our veins, but then he hath none of my own dear mother's
sweetness. If he were related to her my heart would break. And I think
he must have some of the characteristics of uncle James, who keeps his
hard heart against Cousin Andrew. Was my father of that stamp, dear
madam?"
"He had a much broader life. He was brought into contact with various
people, and possessed a certain suavity that one finds in many of the
old families here in town. Good Mr. Penn did not insist that men should
be all of one mind."
"'Twould be a queer world indeed," and Primrose half smiled, for her
moods were like an April day.
"Then thy mother was a wise, winsome woman," said Madam Wetherill in
fond remembrance.
"That is what wins me to Phil," returned the girl. "When he talked of
her and all her pretty ways, and the dainty verses and tales she told
him, and how she shielded him from his father's displeasure when he
would have been whipped, then he seems like a vision of her come back.
But, now that he is going to fight against my country----" and the rosy
lips curled in scorn. "He might have remained a fine, pleasure-loving
soldier, doing no real harm, fit to dance with pretty women or march in
a fine parade."
She discussed this with Polly Wharton, who was now her dearest friend,
although she was two years older.
"Art thou not unduly bitter, Primrose?" Polly always chided in grave
Quaker phraseology, but, like many of the younger generation, fell into
worldly pronouns in seasons of haste or merriment. "We should be ashamed
of him if he saw his duty and weakly shirked it. I am sorry such a fine
fellow, with good American blood in his veins, should be a Tory. In
truth I cannot see at present how the quarrel can be mended, and I am
desperately sorry."
Polly's cheeks were pink as a rose.
"It never will be mended now. Times are hard with us, to be sure, and
there is much discouragement, but the French army and a great navy have
reached Newport, and Aunt Wetherill was reading of a French loan. That
wise Mr. Adams is in Paris with our dear Mr. Franklin----"
"Who plays chess with French beauties and writes them skits and
bagatelles, and, no doubt dances the grave minuet with them. And then we
blame our young lads for having a little pleasure! But 'tis darkest
just before dawn, and maybe we have come to the darkest times."
"And I am certain the dawn will come. God will not let such a good cause
and so great an effort in behalf of human liberty go by default."
So they worked on and hoped. There was great interest in the Southern
campaign now.
And then Polly came one morning, full of tears and trouble. There had
been sad news from the highlands of the Hudson. A troop of British had
made their way almost to one of the camps, expecting to surprise and
capture the Federal soldiers. There had been a sharp skirmish, spirited
and fateful enough to be called a battle. The Federals had won in the
end and taken a number of prisoners, while many British soldiers were
among the killed and wounded.
"Andrew Henry sent the word to my father, who means to apply for passes
and go at once," and there Polly broke down.
"But that is not the worst of it. Something has happened to Allin! Oh,
Polly!" and the soft arms were about Polly's neck, while she was kissing
the tear-wet cheek, her own eyes overflowing.
"Yes, it is Allin!" sobbed the girl. "They thought when they first
brought him in that he was dead. But it seems now he is badly wounded
and may live. They wanted to take his leg off, but Lieutenant Henry
would not let them. Oh, poor Allin! And he begged that father would come
or send, for the regiment may go on to Virginia."
"Oh, if he could be brought home!"
"It comes so near now." Polly wiped her eyes. "But oh, Primrose! I had
nigh forgotten. Forgive me that I put my own sorrow first. Colonel--I
believe he is that now--Colonel Nevitt led the men and was wounded also,
and is captured."
Primrose stood up very straight, and contradictory emotions struggled in
her fair face. Her rosy lips faded and quivered, and she swallowed over
a great lump in her throat.
"It seems strange," said Polly, "that the cousins should have been
pitted against each other. And, though I am desperately sorry about
Colonel Nevitt, I am proud of Andrew Henry. Oh, dear Primrose!"
"I am always torn in two. I wonder if there was ever such a girl!" and
the slow tears beaded the bronze lashes of Primrose Henry's eyes.
"Think of poor Peggy Shippen being banished from her family and forced
to follow a traitor! For, after all, it was the fortune of war, and
Colonel Nevitt was doing his duty as he saw it in all good faith."
"Thou art so generous, Polly. He should have been some connection to
thee; oh! what am I saying? Surely thou wouldst not want a redcoat
Britisher tacked to thy family! I hope he is not sorely wounded, but
just enough to keep him from fighting against my country until we have
won our independence."
"Thou dost make cunning wishes, Primrose," and in spite of her sorrow,
Polly Wharton smiled.
Madam Wetherill came home from her marketing, which was no light
undertaking with all the trouble about paper money, and gold and silver
so scarce. She still rode her horse well, and time dealt very leniently
with her.
"I heard some strange news in the market place," she began, and then
she caught sight of Polly. "Oh, dear child! is it true that some of the
flower of our town have perished? It was a great surprise, to capture
some deserters, it was said, and went hard with our brave men."
"Nay, Lieutenant Henry won in the end, and our loss was nothing compared
to the enemy. But poor Allin----"
"He is not dead," added Primrose, when Polly's voice failed. "And,
madam, Cousin Andrew hath taken our heroic Colonel Nevitt a prisoner in
his first battle. I know not whether to rejoice or cry."
"Primrose, thou art a naughty girl!"
"If it had been the other way, I should have had no difficulty. Yes, I
am a hard-hearted little wretch and do not deserve any brother! But
Andrew will see that he is not treated as the poor fellows were in the
Walnut Street Jail; and if he should lose an arm or a leg I will devote
my life to him. Oh!" with a sudden burst of tenderness, "I hope it is
nothing serious. The mortification will be hard enough."
There were numbers of the wounded sent as soon as possible to the larger
cities where they could be cared for. Rough journeying it was, with none
of the modern appliances of travel, and many a poor fellow died on the
way.
For various reasons Madam Wetherill had not gone out to the farm as
usual. The news was troublesome from Virginia and Maryland, where Arnold
was destroying stores and laying waste plantations. The seat of war
seemed to be changing in this direction, and some of the most famous
battles were to be fought here. Cornwallis was fortifying, and everybody
dreaded the news.
Pleasure in town had slipped back to a more decorous aspect. There were
simple tea-drinkings and parties of young people going out on the river
in the early evening singing pretty songs. Or there were afternoon
rambles to the charming green nook called Bethsheba's Bath and Bower,
where wild flowers bloomed in profusion, and the copses were fragrant
with sweet herbs, growing wild; or the newly cut hay in the fields still
about. Sometimes they took along a luncheon and some sewing. There were
still windmills to grind the grain, and Windmill Island had been
repaired and was busy again.
Primrose seemed just beginning life. Hitherto she had been a child, and
now she was finding friends of her own age, with whom it was a pleasure
to chat and to compare needlework and various knowledges.
She sympathized tenderly with Polly Wharton in her sorrow, and began to
go frequently to the house. Next in age to Polly were two boys, and then
a lovely little girl.
Another incident had made the summer quite notable to Primrose. This was
the marriage of Anabella Morris, which took place in Christ Church.
Anabella's husband was a widower with two quite large children, but of
considerable means. Madam Wetherill was very generous with her outfit,
though she began to feel the pinch of straitened means. So much property
was paying very poorly and some not rented at all.
Primrose was one of the maids, and consented to have her hair done high
on her head and wear a train, and to be powdered, though Madam Wetherill
disapproved of it for young people who had pretty natural complexions.
Some young women wore a tiny bit of a black patch near their smiling
lips, or a dimple, as if to call attention to it.
"And, if it grew there, they would move heaven and earth to have it
taken off," said that lady with a little scorn.
The bride's train was held up by a page dressed in blue and silver, and
then followed the pretty maids, and the relatives. It was quite a brave
show, and a proud day for Anabella, who had been dreaming of it since
she was a dozen years old.
Madam Wetherill gave her a wedding dinner, which now would be called a
breakfast, so much have things changed, and then a coach took the newly
married pair to their own home. Though Anabella would rather not have
had another woman's children to manage, she was truly glad that all her
anxieties in husband-hunting were over.
Then Mr. Wharton came home with his son, who was still in a quite
uncertain state, and it had been a question whether his shattered leg
could be saved. But Dr. Benjamin Rush took it in hand and said it would
be a shame indeed if such a fine young fellow would have to stump around
all the rest of his life on a wooden leg.