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[Illustration: "CAN I BE OF ANY ASSISTANCE?"]
Peggy Owen Patriot
A Story for Girls
BY
Lucy Foster Madison
Author of
"Peggy Owen"
"Peggy Owen at Yorktown"
"Peggy Owen and Liberty"
Illustrated by H.J. Peck
The Penn Publishing Company
Philadelphia MCMXVII
COPYRIGHT
1910 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
"I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and things of fame
That do renown this city."
Introduction
In "Peggy Owen," the preceding book of the series, the heroine, a little
Quaker maid, lives across from the State House in Philadelphia. By
reason of this she becomes much interested in the movements of the
Continental Congress, and when her father, in spite of his religion,
takes up arms for the Whigs she too becomes an ardent patriot. While
David Owen is with the army before Boston, Peggy and her mother find a
kinsman of his--William Owen, a colonel in the English army--a prisoner in
the city's new jail.
They succeed in having him released on parole, and take him into their
home, where he requites their kindness by selfishness and arrogance,
even killing Peggy's pet dog, Pilot. He is exchanged at length, but
before leaving he brings one James Molesworth to the house, claiming
that he does not like to leave them unprotected. This man Peggy
discovers to be a spy.
Upon the advance of the British toward Philadelphia Peggy and her mother
go to their farm on the banks of the Wissahickon. Here they are almost
denuded of supplies by foragers, one party of which is headed by their
own kinsman, Colonel Owen. American troopers arrive, and a sharp
skirmish takes place, in which Colonel Owen is wounded. While caring for
him word is received that David Owen is a prisoner in Philadelphia, and
ill of a fever. General Howe proposes to have him exchanged for one
Thomas Shale, and Peggy rides to Valley Forge to secure the consent of
General Washington. Owing to the fact that the man is a spy and a
deserter the exchange cannot take place, and, in a blaze of anger at
finding her cousin so comfortable while her own father lies ill, Peggy
denounces him, and forces him to accede to the proposal that he be
exchanged for her father. The book closes with the evacuation of
Philadelphia by the British.
The present volume shows the Owens at Washington's camp in northern New
Jersey. Peggy's further adventures are continued in "Peggy Owen at
Yorktown" and "Peggy Owen and Liberty."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. On the Road to Philadelphia 11
II. The Home-Coming 24
III. An Old Time Advertisement 37
IV. A Girl's Sacrifice 48
V. Up in the Attic 61
VI. Tea at Headquarters 69
VII. A Summer Soldier 87
VIII. Peggy's Resolve 98
IX. The Tale of a Hero 107
X. Peggy Teaches a Lesson 119
XI. Peggy Pleads for Drayton 129
XII. Another Chance 141
XIII. Good News 151
XIV. The Camp at Middlebrook 159
XV. Harriet 176
XVI. The Two Warnings 188
XVII. A Letter and a Surprise 205
XVIII. Stolen Thunder 222
XIX. A Promise and an Accusation 232
XX. A Regretted Promise 247
XXI. The Reckoning 258
XXII. A High-Handed Proceeding 269
XXIII. In the Lines of the Enemy 281
XXIV. The Reason Why 291
XXV. The Alert That Failed 303
XXVI. The Battle With the Elements 319
XXVII. A Haven After the Storm 335
XXVIII. A Taste of Partisan Warfare 346
XXIX. Peggy Finds an Old Friend 361
XXX. An Interrupted Journey 376
XXXI. How the News was Received at Camp 387
XXXII. On the Altar of His Country 401
XXXIII. A Great Surprise 419
XXXIV. Home 429
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Can I be of Any Assistance?" Frontispiece
"Friend--I Should Say--General Arnold" 80
Slowly He Turned Toward the Reader 124
"My Wife and Daughter, Your Excellency" 169
"Why Should Thee Play the Spy?" 261
The Dingey was Caught by a Current 334
"You Are Welcome," said General Gates 396
PEGGY OWEN, PATRIOT
CHAPTER I--ON THE ROAD TO PHILADELPHIA
"And rising Chestnut Hill around surveyed
Wide woods below in vast extent displayed."
--"The Forester," Alexander Wilson.
"Oh, gracious!"
The exclamation burst from the lips of a slender girl mounted upon a
small black mare, and she drew rein abruptly.
"What is it, Peggy?" asked a sweet-faced matron, leaning from the side
of a "one horse chair" drawn up under the shade of a tree by the
roadside. "What hath happened? Thee seems dismayed."
"I am, mother," answered the girl, springing lightly from the back of
the horse. "My saddle girth hath broken, and both Robert and Tom are
back with the wagons. There is a breakdown. What shall I do? This will
cause another delay, I fear."
"Thee can do nothing, Peggy, until Robert returns. Try to content
thyself until then."
"I could repair it myself, I believe, if I only had a string," said the
maiden. "I wonder if there isn't one in the chaise. Let's look, mother."
Throwing the bridle over her arm the girl joined her mother, and the two
began a hasty search of the vehicle.
It was a golden day in September, 1778, and the afternoon sun was
flooding with light the calm and radiant landscape afforded by the
wooded slopes of Chestnut Hill, penetrating even the dense branches that
overarched the highroad leading to Germantown.
It was one of those soft, balmy days when the fathomless daylight seemed
to stand and dream. A cool elixir was in the air. The distant range of
hills beyond the river Schuylkill was bound with a faint haze, a frail
transparency whose lucid purple barely veiled the valleys. From the
motionless trees the long clean shadows swept over tangles of underbrush
brightened by the purple coronets of asters, feathery plumes of
goldenrod, and the burning glory of the scarlet sumac. Ranks of silken
thistles blown to seed disputed possession of the roadside with lowly
poke-bushes laden with Tyrian fruit.
The view from the crest of the hill where the chaise had stopped was
beautiful. The great forest land spread out beneath seemed boundless in
extent, for the farms scattered among the woodland were scarcely visible
from the height, but the maiden and her mother were so intent upon the
mishap of the broken strap as to be for the nonce insensible to the
delights of the scenery. So absorbed were they that they started
violently when a voice exclaimed:
"Your servant, ladies! Can I be of any assistance?"
"Why," gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of about
eighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from the
woods into the road. "Who art thou, and what does thee want?"
"I want to help you mend your saddle," said the youth coolly, doffing a
tattered beaver with some grace. "Didst not say that the girth had
broke?"
"Yes, but," began the girl, when her mother spoke:
"Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?" she asked mildly. "Thou wilt
not mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself."
"As to that, madam, it can be discussed later," he rejoined. "For the
present, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here a
jack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but your
permission?"
"And that thou hast," returned the lady. "We shall be indeed grateful to
thee for thy aid."
At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected the
broken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he set
to work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. "What
is the name of the pony?" he asked, addressing the maiden directly.
"Star," answered she regarding him with curious eyes.
He was in truth a spectacle to excite both curiosity and pity. He was
haggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. His
form was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of a
beaver, his feet were without covering of any sort.
"'Tis a pretty beast," he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as to
his rags. "One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I've seen in many a
day. Are you fond of her?"
"I am indeed," answered the girl, patting the mare gently. "My father
gave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now with
the army at White Plains, New York."
"Are you not Quakers?" he queried, glancing up in surprise.
"We are of the Society of Friends, which the world's people call
Quakers," interposed the matron from the chaise.
"And they, methought, were neutral," he observed with a smile.
"Not all, friend. There be some who are called Free Quakers, because
they choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinks
thou shouldst have heard of them."
"I have," he rejoined, "but as Fighting or Hickory Quakers."
"It doesn't matter what we are called so long as we are of service to
the country," exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. "Is thee not of the army
too? Thou art an American."
The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: "Not now. I have been." And
then, abruptly--"Are you ladies alone?"
"No," replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. The
highways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by this
period of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to be
scarcely safe for travelers. "We have an escort who are coming up with
the wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They should
be here at any time now."
"There!" spoke the youth, rising. "I think, mistress, that you will find
your saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey."
"Thank thee," said Peggy gratefully. "It is well done. And now what
shall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?"
"Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?" he
asked.
"Philadelphia, my lad," spoke the mother.
"Would thee----" She hesitated a moment and then drew forth some bills.
"Would thee accept some of these? 'Tis all I have to offer in the shape
of money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days."
"Nay," said the boy with a gesture of scorn. "Keep your bills, madam. I
have had my fill of Continental money. 'Twould take all that you have to
purchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmers
hereabouts would take them."
"There is a law now compelling every one to take them," cried Peggy.
"They will have to take the Continental money whether they wish to or
not. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country's
currency."
"You are all for the patriots, I see," he remarked. "When one has
suffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful country
one doesn't feel so warmly toward them."
"But, my lad," broke in the lady, "thee will pardon me, I know, if I say
again that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee here
perchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, David
Owen's wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?"
"Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to the
city?" queried the lad. "Wilt let me ride with you?"
"With pleasure," answered Mrs. Owen. "Thou shalt sit in the chaise with
me while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as a
coach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt not
find it unbearable."
"'Twill be better than walking," he returned with easy assurance. His
assurance deserted him suddenly, and he sank upon the ground abruptly.
"I am faint," he murmured.
"The poor lad is ill," cried Peggy hastening to his side. "Oh, mother!
what does thee think is the matter?"
"'Tis hunger, I fear," replied Mrs. Owen hastily descending from the
chair. "Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did I
not ask as to thy needs?" she added with grave self-reproach as the
youth reached eagerly for the food. "There! Be not too ravenous, my lad.
Thou shalt have thy fill."
"Oh, but----" uttered the boy, clutching the provisions. He said no more,
but ate with frantic haste, as though he feared the viands would be
taken from him. Mrs. Owen and Peggy regarded him with pitying eyes.
Presently he looked at them with something of his former jauntiness.
"'Tis the first real food that I have eaten for three days," he told
them. "I have been living on wild grapes, and corn whenever I could find
a field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress."
"And hast thou no home, or place to go that thou art reduced to such a
pass?" asked the lady.
"There is no place near. Perhaps when I reach Philadelphia I shall find
a way to get to mine own home, and then----"
"Ah! there comes Robert with the wagons," exclaimed Peggy, as four
wagons escorted by as many troopers appeared from behind a bend in the
highway. "I am so glad, for now we can start again. He will know what to
do for thee, thou poor lad!"
"Is he--is he a soldier?" asked the boy gazing at the approaching wagon
train with evident alarm.
"Why, yes; of course," answered Peggy. "He is aide for the time being to
General Arnold, who hath charge of Philadelphia. Why----"
"I thank you again," cried the lad, springing to his feet with such a
sudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother were
astonished. "I thank you, and bid you good-morrow." Darting across the
road, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leaving
Peggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him.
"Heigh ho!" gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. "I
wonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear."
"Perhaps Robert can explain," said her mother with a peculiar smile. "I
rather think 'twas because he feared to meet a soldier."
"But why?" persisted the girl. "I see not why he should fear--mother,"
she broke off suddenly as a thought came to her, "was the lad a
deserter?"
"I fear so, Peggy. There are many such roaming the country, I hear."
"Oh, Robert," cried the maiden as a youth of soldierly bearing rode up
to them. "We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and a
youth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for the
want of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, but
when he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappeared
into the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter."
"I make no doubt of it," spoke the young man gravely. "The woods are
full of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him to
stay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not have
been here alone."
"Tom?" Peggy looked her dismay. "Why, we have not seen him since he went
with thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hath
befallen him."
"He must be about somewhere," said the youth comfortingly. Nevertheless
he dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung the
roadside. "Why, you black rascal," he shouted as he came upon a negro
asleep behind some brush. "Get up! I thought I sent you to guard your
mistresses?"
"Dere wuzn't nuffin' ter guard 'em frum," yawned Tom, who counted
himself a privileged character. "I seed dey wuz all right, so I 'prooves
de shinin' hour by gittin' a li'l res'. Yo' ain't a gwine ter 'ject ter
dat, is yer, Marster Dale?"
"And your mistress might have been robbed while you were doing so,"
began Robert Dale sternly. "I've a mind----"
"Don't scold him, Robert," pleaded Peggy. "The ride hath been a long one
from the farm. I wonder not that he is tired. Why," closing her bright
eyes in a vain attempt to look drowsy, "I could almost go to sleep
myself."
"You spoil that darkey," remonstrated the youth as Tom, knowing that his
case was won, climbed to his place in the chaise. "Let me look at that
saddle, Peggy. If it is all right we must start at once, else 'twill be
night ere we reach the city. Ah! 'tis well done," he added with
approval, after an inspection of the band. "Our deserter, if such he be,
understands such things. Come, Peggy!"
He adjusted the saddle, assisted the maiden to it, then mounting his own
horse gave the command, and the journey was resumed.