"Rise then, my countrymen! for fight prepare,
Gird on your swords, and fearless rush to war!
For your grieved country nobly dare to die,
And empty all your veins for liberty."
--Jonathan Mitchell Sewall.
It was several days before Peggy could have another talk with Master
Drayton, but meantime she set up the needles and began to knit
vigorously on stockings, spun into thread more of the flax, and put
Sukey to work weaving it into cloth.
"Peggy, what is thee so busy about?" asked Mrs. Owen, coming into the
kitchen where the girl had been at work since the dawn.
Peggy looked up from the dye kettle with a puzzled look on her face, and
gave an extra poke at the cloth reposing therein by way of emphasis.
"I am trying to dye some cloth, mother, but it doesn't seem to come
right. What shall be done to indigo to get a pretty blue? I had no
trouble with the yellow dye. See how beautifully this piece came out.
Such a soft fine buff! I am pleased with it--but this----"
She paused and turned inquiringly toward her mother. Mrs. Owen took the
stick from her hand, and held up a piece of cloth from the steaming
kettle, examining it critically.
"Fix another kettle of water, Peggy," she said, "and let it be near to
boiling. Into it put some salts of tin, alum and cream of tartar. It
needs brightening, and will come a pretty blue when washed in the
solution. There! Punch each part of the cloth down into the water,
child, so that it may be thoroughly wetted. So! Now rinse well, and hang
it out to dry. That done thou shalt tell me for what purpose thou hast
dyed the cloth such especial colors. Thy father hath no need of a new
uniform."
"'Tis for Friend John," said Peggy dabbling the cloth vigorously up and
down in the rinsing water.
"Why! hath he expressed a wish to return?" exclaimed Mrs. Owen in
amazement. "I had heard naught of it."
Peggy laughed.
"Not yet, mother," she cried, her eyes dancing with mirth. "But I see
signs. Oh, I see signs. This must be ready anent the time he does wish
to go. This, with socks, and weapons, and aught else he may need."
"Hast thou been reasoning with him, Peggy, that thee feels so sure?"
"A little," admitted the girl. "This afternoon, if none comes to
interrupt, I shall do more. Mother, what would I do without thee? Thee
did just the right thing to bring this cloth to the proper color. Is it
not beautiful? Would I could do so well."
"'Twill come in time, my daughter. Skill in dyeing as in aught else
comes only from practice. But here is Sukey to tell us of visitors. Wash
thy hands and join us, Peggy. If 'tis Sally Bache I make no doubt but
that there is news from Dr. Franklin."
'Twas customary at this time to pay morning visits in Philadelphia, and
several came, one after another, so that by the time she had finished
her interrupted tasks Peggy found the afternoon well on toward its close
before she could pay her usual visit to Master Drayton. She found him
awaiting her coming with eagerness.
"'Tis good to be sheltered and fed," he said as the maiden entered the
room, "but none the less 'tis monstrous tiresome to be cooped up. What
shall be done to amuse me, Mistress Peggy?"
"Would thee like to have me read to thee?" she asked, a gleam of
mischief coming into her eyes.
"The very thing," he cried, seating himself comfortably on the settle.
"Is it a tale? Or perchance you have brought a verse book?"
"Neither," she answered. "Art sure that thou art comfortable, Friend
John? Does thee need anything at all?"
"Nothing at all," he replied pleased at her solicitude. "And now for the
reading. I am curious to see what you have chosen, for I see that you
have brought something with you."
"Yes," she responded, producing a pamphlet. "'Tis just a little
something from a writer who calls himself, 'Common Sense.'" Before he
had time to expostulate she began hurriedly:
"'These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the
sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his
country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men
and women. We have this consolation with us, that the harder the
conflict, the more glorious the triumph.'"
"Now see here," broke in the youth in an injured tone sitting bolt
upright. "That's mean! Downright mean, I say, to take advantage of a
fellow like that. If you want to begin again on that summer soldier
business, why say so right out."
"Does thee object very seriously, John, to listening?" queried the
maiden mildly. "I would like to read thee the article."
"Oh, go ahead! I guess I can stand it." Drayton set his lips together
grimly, and half turned from her.
Peggy waited for no further permission. The pamphlet was one of the most
powerful written by Thomas Paine, and, as he passed from paragraph to
paragraph of the tremendous harangue, he touched with unfailing skill,
with matchless power, the springs of anxiety, contempt, love of home,
love of country, fortitude, cool deliberation and passionate resolve.
Drayton listened for a time in silence, with a sullen and injured air.
Slowly he turned toward the reader as though compelled against his will,
and presently he sprang to his feet with something like a sob.
"In pity, cease," he cried. "Hast no compassion for a man?"
[Illustration: SLOWLY HE TURNED TOWARD THE READER]
But Peggy knew that now was the time to drive the lesson home, so
steeling her heart to pity, she continued the pamphlet, closing with the
peroration which was such a battle call as might almost startle slain
patriots from their graves:
"'Up and help us; lay your shoulders to the wheel; better have too much
force than too little, when so great an object is at stake. Let it be
told to the future world, that in the depth of winter, when nothing but
hope and virtue could survive, the country and city, alarmed at one
common danger, came forth to meet and repulse it.... It matters not
where you live, or what rank of life you hold, the evil or the blessing
will reach you all.... The heart that feels not now is dead. The blood
of his children will curse his cowardice who shrinks back at a time when
a little might have saved the whole, and made them happy. I love the man
that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and
grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink;
but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct,
will pursue his principles until death.... By perseverance and
fortitude, we have the prospect of a glorious issue; by cowardice and
submission the sad choice of a variety of evils,--a ravaged country, a
depopulated city, habitations without safety, and slavery without hope.
Look on this picture and weep over it; and if there yet remains one
thoughtless wretch who believes it not, let him suffer it unlamented.'"
"No more," cried the youth in great agitation. "I can bear no more.
''Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is
firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his
principles until death.' 'Tis true. Do not I know it. Until death! Until
death! Wretch that I am, I know it. There have been times when I would
have given my life to be back in the army. Do you think it is pleasant
to skulk, to hide from honest men? To know always and always that one is
a poltroon and a coward? I tell you no. Do you think that I have not
heard the inward pleading of my conscience to go back? That I have not
seen the accusing look in your eyes? You called me a summer soldier! I
am worse than that, and I have lost my chance."
"Thee has just found it, John," cried she quickly. "Before thee served
for thine own advancement; now thee will begin again, and fight for thy
country alone. If preferment comes to thee, it will have been earned by
unselfish devotion. But thy country, John, thy country! Let it be always
in thy thoughts until its liberties are secured beyond recall."
"Would you have me go back?" he cried, stopping before her in amazement.
"Why, of course thee is going back," answered Peggy simply. "There is
naught else for a man to do."
Drayton noted the slight emphasis the girl laid upon the word man, and
made an involuntary motion of assent.
"Did you know that deserters are ofttimes shot?" he asked suddenly.
Peggy clutched at the back of a chair, and turned very pale. "No," she
said faintly. "I did not know."
"I thought not," he said. "None the less what you have said is true.
'There is naught else for a man to do.' I am going back, Mistress Peggy.
I shall try for another chance, but if it does not come, still I am
going back."
"And be shot?" she cried. "Oh, what have I done?"
"Shown me my duty," he answered quietly. "Blame not yourself, for there
hath been an inward cry toward that very thing ever since I ran away
from my duty. I have stifled its calling, and tried to palliate my
wrong-doing by excuses, but neither winter's cold, nor the ingratitude
of an unappreciative country will excuse a man's not sticking by his
convictions. Never again will you have it in your power to call me a
summer soldier."
"Thee is right," faltered the girl. "I--I am glad that thee has so
resolved, and yet----Oh! I hope that thee will not be shot."
She burst into tears and ran out of the room. Girl-like, now that the
end was accomplished, Peggy was rather aghast at the result.