"What gain we by our toils if he escape
Whom we came hither solely to subdue?"
--"Count Julian," Landor.
"Be careful," warned Drayton, letting the stick fall with a crash. "Can
you come to Rachel Fenton's house in little Queen Street this morning?
We can talk there."
"Yes, yes," cried Peggy eagerly. "I know where it is. I will go there
from market. John, my mother----"
"Is well," he answered quickly. "Don't ask anything more now, but go in.
'Tis cold out here."
"But thee?" she questioned loth to leave him.
"Oh, I'm used to it," he responded airily. "Just send along that
stableman though, Peggy. These sticks are heavy. And say! Is't permitted
to feed drivers of carts? There are not many rations just now in
Morristown, and I'd really like to eat once more."
"Thee shall have all thee wants," she assured him. "But oh, John! if
they should find out who thee is! Thou art mad to venture into the
city."
"If they will wait until I've eaten they may do their worst," he replied
with a touch of his old jauntiness. "No; I don't mean that, for I've
come to take you back with me. That is, if you want to go?"
"I do, I do," she told him almost in tears.
"Then go right in," he commanded. "Won't your cousins suspect something
if they see you talking like this to a countryman?"
"They will think I am scolding thee," she said with a tremulous little
laugh. "And truly thee needs it, John. I never saw a cord of wood piled
so crookedly before in my life."
"They'll be glad to get wood in any shape if this weather keeps on, I'm
thinking," he made answer. "Now do go right in, Peggy. And don't forget
that stableman."
Peggy hastened within doors, sent the man to help with the wood, and
then tried to regain her usual composure by preparing a meal for
Drayton.
"The poor lad," was her mental comment a little later as she watched the
young fellow stow away the food that was placed before him. "He eats as
though he had had nothing all winter."
This was nearer truth than she dreamed. Had she but known the condition
of the army at Morristown she would not have wondered at the boy's
voraciousness. She hovered about him, attending to his needs carefully,
longing but not daring to ask the many questions that crowded to her
lips. It would not do to risk conversation of any sort in the house.
There were too many coming and going. As it was the servants gazed at
her in surprise, curious as to her interest in a teamster. The meal
finished, Drayton rose with a word of thanks, and crossed to the fire
which blazed upon the kitchen hearth.
Peggy felt a sudden apprehension as she heard Harriet's step in the
hall. What if she should enter the kitchen? Would Drayton be safe from
the keen scrutiny of her sharp eyes? The lad himself seemed to feel no
uneasiness, but hung over the roaring fire of hickory logs as though
reluctant to leave its warmth. Making a pretense of replenishing the
fire Peggy whispered:
"Go, go! Harriet is coming." Drayton roused himself with a start, drew
his wrappings close about him, and, giving her a significant look,
passed through the outside door just as Harriet entered the room from
the passage.
"Who was that, Peggy?" she asked sharply.
"The man with the wood," answered Peggy busied about the fire. "I gave
him something to eat."
"Mercy, Peggy! Is it necessary to feed such riffraff? They are all a
pack of rebels. No wonder father complains of expense."
Peggy's cheeks flamed with indignation. "Would thee send any one away in
such weather without first giving him food?" she demanded. "'Twould be
inhuman!"
"And I suppose thee wouldn't treat a Britisher so," mimicked Harriet who
was plainly in a bad humor. "Did father tell you that Sir Henry Clinton
was to dine here to-day?"
"Yes," returned Peggy gravely. "'Tis fortunate that 'tis market day, for
there are some things needed. I shall have to use the sleigh. Thee won't
mind? I cannot get into the city otherwise."
"Oh, take it, by all means," replied Harriet. "I wouldn't go out in this
weather for a dozen Sir Henrys. La, la! 'tis cold!" She shivered in
spite of the great fire. "What doth father wish to see Sir Henry alone
for?" she asked abruptly. "He told me but now that he did not desire my
company after dinner. And I had learned a new piece on the harpsichord,
too," she ended pettishly.
"I know not, Harriet," said Peggy instantly troubled. She did not doubt
but that it had something to do with the movement against General
Washington, but she did not utter her suspicion. "Mayhap 'tis business
of moment."
"Oh, yes; I dare say," retorted Harriet. She yawned, and left the room.
Peggy gave the necessary orders for the dinner and then quietly arrayed
herself for the marketing. She was allowed a certain freedom of
movement, and went into the city about business of the household without
question. With scrupulous conscientiousness she attended to the
marketing first, and then bidding the coachman wait for her, went
rapidly to Little Queen Street on foot.
She had met with but few Quakers. They were regarded as neutrals, but
Colonel Owen disliked them as a sect and had forbidden her to hold
communication with them. Still Peggy knew where many of them lived, and
among these was Rachel Kenton. It was a quaint Dutch house, easily
found. New York was not so large as Philadelphia at this time, and Peggy
hastened up the stoop with eagerness, her heart beating with delight at
the prospect of at last hearing from her dear ones.
A pleasant-faced, sweet-mannered woman responded to her knock, and
ushered her at once into a room just off the sitting-room, where Drayton
sat awaiting her. She ran to him with outstretched hands.
"Now I can tell thee how glad I am to see thee," she cried. "And oh,
John, do tell me of my mother! And father! How are they?"
"Both are well," he answered, "but they have grieved over your going
away. Why did you leave camp, Peggy?"
"'Twas because of Harriet," she told him. "She was a spy, John. They
would have hanged her had they found out that it was she who wrote that
note. And oh, what did General Washington say when he found me gone? It
hath been so long since then, and never a word could I hear."
"Well, he was pretty much cut up over it, and so were we all. Your
mother thought that Harriet must be at the bottom of the matter, and so
did I. Her boxes were searched, and some notes found that proved she was
a spy. Then, too, we made that fellow confess to everything he knew. You
remember him, Peggy? He accused you."
"Yes," answered Peggy. "I remember, John. I can never forget how I felt
when he accused me of being the girl who gave him that letter. And it
wasn't the same one at all."
"We got at the whole affair right well," continued Drayton. "What we
could not understand was the fact that you came on to New York with your
cousin. Why did you?"
"I couldn't help it," she said. "They brought me by force. I begged to
go back, but they wouldn't let me." Hereupon she told him the whole
story, ending with: "And Cousin William says that he had a score to
settle with me--and that was the reason he wanted me to come. John, thee
will tell the general that I could not help coming?"
"Yes," he said, with difficulty restraining his indignation. "Peggy,
Harriet would not have been hanged. They might have sent her out of the
lines, or even made her a prisoner, but they would not have hanged her.
Not but what she would have deserved it just as much as that poor fellow
who was hanged agreeable to his sentence, but being a girl would have
saved her."
"But thee said that it went hard with spies, whether they were men,
women, or girls even," objected she. "And General Washington used almost
the same words."
"And so it does," he replied, "but there are other punishments than
hanging. Never mind that now, Peggy. Let us plan to get away. I must
take the ox cart back into Jersey this afternoon. I have a pass for one
only, but I am to take back salt, coffee and flour. There is an empty
sack, and if you will hide within it we may be able to pass you as
merchandise. Will you try it, Peggy?"
"I will do anything," she declared excitedly. "It hath been so long! So
long, John, since I have seen mother that I am willing to attempt
anything."
"Wrap up well," he advised her. "'Tis terrible weather, and be somewhere
among the trees as I come past the house. It will be about half-past
four, as it grows dark then, and the bags will not be so sharply
scrutinized. Once the cart is home we will have to run our chances of
getting to Morristown."
"John," she cried as a sudden thought came to her, "there is some
movement on foot against the general. I did not think to tell thee
before. I know not what it is."
Drayton looked up quickly.
"I wish we knew what it was," he said. "There have been signs of an
action on the part of the British, but we have been unable to obtain an
inkling of what it could be. I would like right well to know."
"And so would I," said she.
"Go now," he said rising. "You must not let them suspect there is
anything afoot, Peggy. I will move about in the city and see what I can
find out. Be sure to wrap up."
"I will," she told him. "I hate to let thee go."
"'Tis only for a little while," he answered. "'Twill be a hard journey
for you, Peggy, but your mother is at the end of it."
"Yes, yes," she cried. "Mother is at the end."
Unable to speak further she turned and left him. The day was extremely
cold, and as she entered the house after the drive, and felt the warmth
of the fire, she became aware of a delicious drowsiness that was
stealing over her.
"This will never do," she exclaimed, trying to shake off the feeling. "I
must keep awake." But try as she would her eyelids grew heavier until
finally she sought Harriet in the drawingroom.
"Harriet," she said, "will thee serve the dinner? I am so sleepy from
the drive that I must lie down a few moments. I know right well that I
should not give up, but----"
"Nonsense," cried Harriet crossly; "go lie down an you will, Peggy. One
would think to hear you talk that dinner could not be served without
you. 'Tis provoking the airs you give yourself! I dare say you will not
be missed."
"Thank thee, Harriet," answered Peggy. "Thee will not find it irksome.
'Tis about ready." The tired girl slipped down to the now empty
drawing-room.
"I fear me I must hide if I want a minute to myself," she thought,
gazing about the large room in search of a safe retreat. "And I must
have my wits about me to help John. If I can but close my eyes for a
moment, just a moment, I will be in proper trim." Presently she spied
the large easy chair much affected by Colonel Owen, and she ran toward
it with an exclamation of delight.
"'Tis the very thing!" she cried, drawing it to the most remote corner
of the room, and turning it about so that it faced the wall. "Now let
them find me if they can." And so saying she ensconced herself in its
capacious recesses, and almost instantly fell asleep.
"And you think the plan will not miscarry?" came the voice of the
commander-in-chief of the British forces in America.
Peggy awoke with a start. Was she dreaming or did she in truth hear her
cousin say:
"There is not the least chance of it, Sir Henry. The rebel general hath
his quarters full two miles from his main army, and owing to the cold
and the snow no danger is apprehended; so his guards are trifling. We
can easily slip upon him and be away with him before mishap can befall
us. Once we have possession of his person the whole rebellion falls to
the ground. It all depends upon him."
"True," was the reply in musing tones. "Well, colonel, I have placed the
flower of the army at your disposal. But let this alert[[3]] succeed and
it shall be brought to His Majesty's notice that 'tis you alone to whom
honor is due. 'Tis my hope that 'twill not fail."
"It cannot," replied Colonel Owen in eager tones. "We leave at nightfall
by way of Newark. Just beyond Newark on the Morris turnpike lives one
Amos Henderson, who is favorable to us, and much laments this broil
against the king. He it is who will have a guide ready to take us to the
heights of Morristown. In twenty-four hours, sir, I will bring the rebel
general in person to your quarters."
"I see not how it can fail," remarked Sir Henry. "The utmost secrecy
hath been maintained concerning the matter. But did you not say that
dinner was served? That, sir, is a function with which nothing short of
a rebel attack should interfere. The plan of the new works, which
Montressor says you have, can be discussed afterward."
"Come, then," said the colonel.
Peggy slipped from the chair and running up-stairs quickly to her own
room, sat down to think.
"I must not go with John," was her decision. "He must get to the general
without delay. They said 'twould end the war if he were taken. And it
would. It would! I wonder what the time is?"
It was but half-past two, and it seemed to the anxious girl as though
four o'clock, which was the time for Drayton's appearance, would never
come. But at last she heard the clock in the hall chime out the hour,
and Peggy arose, wrapped herself warmly, and left the house quietly. The
snow was still falling. The numerous trees on the wide-spreading lawn,
as well as the huge snow-drifts, effectually hid the road from view of
the mansion.
Peggy had scarcely taken her position near a bare thicket when she heard
the crunch of wheels over the snow, and soon the ox cart appeared down
the road. Drayton was whistling, and to all appearance was the
countryman he seemed. Peggy awaited him with impatience.
"John," she cried as the lad drew up opposite her, "John, there is an
alert planned to take General Washington. Cousin William starts at
nightfall for Morristown with a force to accomplish it."
"What?" exclaimed he. Peggy repeated her statement, and then quickly
told him the entire affair.
"And thee must lose no time," she said. "Go right on, John, quickly."
"And you, Peggy?" he cried. "Jump in and let us take the risk of getting
through together."
"No," she said. "Thee must stop for nothing. 'Twould hinder thee in
getting to the general. Now go, John. 'Twill not be long ere the troops
gather here."
"But to leave you, Peggy," he exclaimed. "I like it not. Were it not for
the chief I would not. It may be best. As you say there is need for
haste, but I will come again for you."
"No, no; 'tis too full of risk," she said. "Go, John, go! I fear for
thee every moment that thee stays."
"I am going," he said sorrowfully. "Tell me by which road this alert
goes?"
"To Newark, and then by the Morris turnpike. They get a guide at Amos
Henderson's," she told him.
"Good-bye," he said. "I will come again for you, Peggy."
"Good-bye, John," answered Peggy hardly able to speak. "And tell my
mother--my mother, John----"
"Yes," he said. They clasped hands. "Don't worry, Peggy. This will be
the alert that failed."
Peggy waited until she could no longer hear his cheery whistle down the
road and then stole back into the house.
Drayton was right. Four and twenty hours later the most disgruntled lot
of Britishers that the city ever beheld returned, fatigued and half
frozen from their fruitless quest. The famous alert from which so much
was hoped had failed.
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[3] "Alert," an old word meaning an attack.