"'Me from fair Freedom's sacred cause
Let nothing e'er divide;
Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,
Nor friendship false, misguide.'"
--The American Patriot's Prayer.
(Ascribed to Thomas Paine.)
It was Mrs. Owen who found a way out of the situation.
"Nay, lad," she said in her gentle way after Peggy had poured forth her
fear that the boy might be shot, and Drayton had expressed himself as
eager to go back at once. "Be not too hasty. Youth is ever impulsive,
and prone to act on the resolve of the moment. Thee would prefer another
chance, would thee not?"
"Yes," answered the lad quickly. "If I could have it, I would show
myself worthy of it. But if I cannot, Madam Owen, I am still resolved to
go back, and face death like a man."
"Thee is right, John," she answered. "But if we could reach the proper
authorities something might be done to give thee an opportunity to
redeem thyself. Stay! I have it! Was not Mr. Arnold thy general?"
"Yes," he said. "But oh, madam! is it necessary that he should know?
Think, think what it would be should he learn that John Drayton, one of
his soldiers, deserted. I could not bear to see him."
"But would he not take more interest in thee than any other officer
might? He alone would know all that thou didst endure in that march
through the Maine wilderness. He would have a more complete
understanding of thy privations, and how thou hast borne thyself under
them. It is to him we must look to get thee thy chance."
Drayton buried his face in his hands for a time, and sat in thought.
Presently he looked up.
"You speak truly, madam," he said. "'Tis the only way. He is the one to
whom we must go. I am ashamed to face him, but I will. I'll ask for
another chance, but oh! this is a thing that he cannot understand: he
who would give his life rather than fail in his duty. 'Tis a part of my
punishment. I'd rather die than face him, but I will."
"Once more, lad, let us not be too hasty," said the lady again, laying a
detaining hand upon his arm as he rose to his feet. "We must approach
him with some little diplomacy. So much have I learned in this long war.
He hath discovered a liking for Peggy here, and hath bestowed marked
notice upon her upon several occasions. Therefore, while I like not to
seem to take advantage of such favor, in this instance it might be well
to send her as an advocate to him for thee. What does thee say, Peggy?"
"That 'tis the very thing," cried Peggy, starting up. "Oh, I will gladly
go to him. And I will plead, and plead, John, until he cannot help but
give thee another chance."
"It seems like shirking," remonstrated Drayton, his restored manliness
eager to begin an expiation.
"Thee has been advertised as a deserter, lad, and should thee attempt to
go to him thee might be apprehended. Also, if the general were to see
thee without first preparing him, he might not listen to thy
explanation, and turn thee over to the recruiting officer. It will be
the part of wisdom for Peggy to see him first."
And so it was arranged. September had given place to the crisp bracing
air of October, and on the uplands the trees were beginning to wear the
glory of scarlet and yellow and opal green. Sunshine and shadow flecked
the streets of the city, and as Peggy wended her way toward the
headquarters of General Arnold, she was conscious of a feeling of
melancholy.
"Is it because of the dying year, I wonder?" she asked herself as a dead
leaf fell at her feet. "I know not why it is, but my spirits are very
low. Is it because I fear the general will not give the lad his chance?
Come, Peggy!" Addressing herself sternly, a way she had. "Put thy heart
in attune with the weather, lest thee infects the general with thy
megrims."
So chiding herself she quickened her steps and assumed an aggressively
cheerful manner. Just as she turned from Fifth Street into High she
heard a great clamor. She stopped in alarm as a rabble of men and boys
suddenly swept around a corner and flooded the street toward her. The
girl stood for but a moment, and then ran back into Fifth Street, where
she stopped so frightened that she did not notice a coach drawn by four
horses driving rapidly down the street.
"Careful, my little maid! careful!" called a voice, and Peggy looked up
to find General Arnold himself leaning out of the coach regarding her
anxiously. "Why, 'tis Miss Peggy Owen," he exclaimed. "Know you not that
you but escaped being run down by my horses?"
"I--I--'tis plain to be seen," stammered the maiden trembling.
"Sam, assist the young lady into the coach," he commanded the coachman.
Then, as Peggy was seated by his side: "I cry you pardon, Miss Peggy,
for not getting out myself. I am not so nimble as I was. What is it?
What hath frightened you?"
"Does thee not hear the noise?" cried Peggy.
Before he could reply the mob swept by. In the midst of it was a cart in
which lay a rude pine coffin which the crowd was showering with stones.
"'Tis the body of James Molesworth, the spy," he told her. "When he was
executed 'twas first interred in the Potter's Field; then when the
British held possession of the city 'twas exhumed and buried with
honors. Since the Whigs have the town again 'tis thought fitting to
restore it to its old resting place in the Potter's Field."
"'Tis a shame not to let the poor man be," she exclaimed, every drop of
blood leaving her face. "Why do they not let him rest? He paid the debt
of his guilt. It were sin to maltreat his bones."
"'Tis best not to give utterance to those sentiments, Miss Peggy," he
cautioned. "They do honor to your heart, but the public temper is such
that no mercy is shown toward those miscreants who serve as spies."
"But it hath been so long since he was executed," she said with
quivering lips. "And is it not strange? When I came into the city to
seek my father 'twas the very day that they had exhumed his body and
were burying it with honors. Oh, doth it portend some dire disaster to
us?"
"Come, come, Miss Peggy," he said soothingly. "Calm yourself. I knew not
that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily
believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the
scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally."
"I would," she confessed. "I fancy all of us girls do. But this--this is
different."
"Not a whit," he declared. "'Tis a mere coincidence that you should
happen to be present on both occasions." And then seeing that her color
had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a
word to the coachman. "I am going to take you for a short drive," he
announced, "and to your destination."
"Why! I was coming to see thee," cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance
of her mission. "I wish to chat with thee anent something and--someone."
"Robert Dale?" he questioned with a laugh. "He is a fine fellow, and
well worthy of a chat."
"Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as
thee says. 'Tis about one John Drayton."
"What? Another?" He laughed again, and settled himself back on the
cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her
clear eyes he became serious. "And what about him, Miss Peggy?"
"Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?" she queried in surprise.
"He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec."
"Is that the Drayton you mean?" he asked amazed in turn. "I do indeed
remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall.
And brave. Very brave!"
"He hath not been well, but is so now," she said.
"You have something to ask of me," he said keenly. "Speak out, Miss
Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours."
"He hath not been until of late," she answered troubled as to how she
should broach the subject. "Sir," she said presently, plunging boldly
into the matter, "suppose that after serving three long years a soldier
should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the
prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge;
would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he
should"--she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning
without using the dreadful one, desert--"he should, well--retire without
leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?"
"Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?" he asked sternly.
"He did; but he repents," she told him quickly. "Oh, judge him not until
I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of
sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even
though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself 'twas naught but
the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it." Peggy's
eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition
of the lad when she first saw him.
"And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty
clothing to endure again?" he asked harshly.
"Yes; but now he hath rested and grown strong," she answered. "He will
have the strength to endure for perchance another three years should the
war last so long. He wants to go back. He wants a chance to redeem
himself."
"And had he not the courage to come to me himself without asking you to
intercede for him?" he demanded. "He was in my command, and he knows me
as only the soldiers do know me. Since when hath Benedict Arnold ceased
to give ear to the distress of one of his soldiers? I like it not that
he did not appeal to me of himself."
"He wished to," interposed the girl eagerly. "Indeed, 'twas mother's and
my thought for me to come to you. We thought, we thought"--Peggy
faltered, but went on bravely--"we thought that thee should be approached
diplomatically. We wished the lad to have every chance to redeem
himself, and we feared that if thee saw him without preparation thee
might be inclined to give him to the recruiting officer. He is so
sincere, he wishes so truly to have another chance that mother and I
could not bear that he should not have it. I have made a poor advocate,
I fear," she added with a wistful little smile, "though he did say that
he would rather die than face thee."
"Unravel the matter from the beginning," he commanded, with a slight
smile at her confession of diplomacy.
And Peggy did so, beginning with the time that the lad mended the saddle
on the road, the loss of her pony, and everything leading to Drayton's
stay with them, even to the making of the uniform of blue and buff and
the reading of "The Crisis."
"Upon my life," he cried laughing heartily at this. "I shall advise
General Washington to appoint you to take charge of our fainthearted
ones. So he did not relish being called a summer soldier, eh? Miss
Peggy, I believe that I should like to see the lad, and have a talk with
him."
"Thee will not be harsh with him, will thee?" she pleaded. "He hath
indeed been in a woeful plight, and he could not bear it from thee. And
he doth consider the country ungrateful toward him."
"He is right," commented Arnold, a frown contracting his brow.
"Ungrateful indeed! Not only he but others have suffered from her
injustice. Have no fear, Miss Peggy, but take me to him at once."
Nevertheless Peggy felt some uneasiness as the coach turned in the
direction of her home.