"Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
* * * * *
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One more wrong to man, one more insult to God."
--"The Lost Leader," Browning.
White and shaken Peggy leaned weakly against a tree, and covered her
face with her hands.
"We must be getting on, miss," spoke the mountaineer, after a few
moments of silence.
"And leave him like that?" cried the girl aghast.
"There is naught else to be done," he replied gravely. "We have nothing
to bury him with."
"But 'tis wrong," remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette,
and touching his brow reverently. "He died for his country, friend."
"Tell them at the camp," suggested he. "Mayhap they will send out and
get him."
"Yes; that is what we must do," she said. "I could not bear to think of
him lying here without Christian burial."
"And what is it now, miss?" questioned Hart, as she still lingered.
"Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that
mother and I would wish if father--if father----" Peggy faltered and
choked.
Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from
the vidette's head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the
bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she
spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road.
As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last
glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the
dead form of his master.
"Whatever made you so long, Joe?" cried his wife petulantly. "The baby's
that fretful that I don't know what to do with her. She's jest wore out,
and we must get where something can be done for her."
"Tilly," he answered gravely, "there was a pore soger in there who died.
He wanted us to take his despatches to Gates. I reckon we'll have to go
back to Hillsboro'town."
"Back fifteen miles, with the baby sick," exclaimed the woman in dismay.
"Joe Hart, you must be crazy. We shan't do no such thing. It will lose
us a whole day, and we ain't got any too much time as 'tis. Your own
flesh and blood comes before anything else, I reckon. Jest see how the
child looks."
The baby did look ill. The father regarded it anxiously, and then
glanced about him with an uncertain manner.
"The general ought to have them despatches," he said, "but the child is
sick, sure enuff. Mayhap we can find somebody to take the letters back
at the next cabin."
"Nay," objected Peggy. "I promised the soldier that I would see that the
papers were given into the general's own hands; therefore I will ride
back with them. We cannot trust to uncertainties."
"Yes," spoke the wife eagerly. "That is just the thing, Joe. The girl
can take them. It's daylight, and nothing won't hurt her. We'd best push
on to where the baby can be 'tended to. She can catch up with us
to-morrow!"
"Very well," replied Peggy quietly. "And, friend, where shall I tell the
general to come for the body? Does thee know the place?"
The mountaineer glanced about him. "Jest tell him about two mile above
the cross-tree crossing," he said. "On the north side the road. Anybody
that knows the country will know where 'tis. I don't like----" But Peggy
bade them good-bye and was gone before he could voice any further
regrets.
"'Twas useless to parley over the matter," she thought as a turn in the
road hid them from view. "In truth the little one did look ill. I would
as soon be alone, and I can return the faster. This awful thing about
General Arnold! How could it have happened? Why, oh, why did he do it?"
Her thoughts flew back to the night of the tea at General Arnold's
headquarters. How kind he had seemed then. The dark handsome face came
before her as she remembered how he had walked down the room by her
side, and how proud she had felt of his attention. And how good he had
been to John Drayton! Drayton! Peggy started as the thought of the lad
came to her. How had he taken it? The boy had loved him so.
It is never pleasant to be the bearer of ill tidings, and Peggy found
herself lagging more than once in her journey. The afternoon was drawing
to a close when she came in sight of the town on the Eno near which the
army was encamped. They had passed around it in the morning. Mrs. Hart
had feared that her husband might be tempted into staying with the army,
and so had insisted upon the détour.
The little town, nestled among beautiful eminences, seemed deserted as
the maiden rode down the long unpaved street to the upland beyond, where
the camp lay. In reality the inhabitants were at supper, and sundry
fragrant odors were wafted from the various dwellings to the passing
girl. Peggy, however, was too heavy of heart for an appeal to the
senses, though she had not tasted food since the morning meal.
Passing at length through a defile the encampment came to view. It was
surrounded with woods, and guarded in its rear by the smooth and gentle
river. A farmhouse in the immediate neighborhood served as headquarters
for the officers.
Numerous horses were tethered in rows about the upland plain. There were
no tents or huts, but rude accommodations for the men had been made by
branches and underwood set against ridge-poles that were sustained by
stakes, and topped by sheaves of Indian corn.
Groups of men were scattered over the plain, some wagons were to be seen
in one direction, and not far off, a line of fires around which parties
were engaged cooking food. Here and there a sentinel was pacing his
short limits, and occasionally the roll of the drum, or the flourish of
a fife told of some ceremony of the camp.
Peggy had but time to observe these details when she was stopped by the
picket who demanded the countersign.
"I know it not, friend," was her response. "Lead me at once to thy
general, I beg thee; for I bear despatches for him."
At this moment the officer in charge of the relief guard, for the
beautiful and inspiring music of the sunset retreat was just sounding,
came up.
"What is it, Johnson?" he asked. Peggy gave a little cry at the sound of
his voice.
"John!" she cried. "John Drayton!"
"Peggy," he gasped. "In the name of all that's wonderful, what are you
doing here?"
"I might ask thee the same thing," she returned. "I was thinking of thee
but now, John."
"Were you?" he cried gladly. "I am a lieutenant now, Peggy." He squared
his shoulders with the jaunty air which the girl remembered so well, and
which had always caused Harriet so much amusement. "What think you of
that?"
"Oh, I am glad, glad," she returned.
"There is so much to tell you," continued he. "Just wait until I place
this other sentinel, and then we can have a nice long talk."
"I can't, John," exclaimed she, remembering her mission. "I bear
despatches for the general."
"You with despatches," he ejaculated laughing. "Have you 'listed,
Peggy?"
"Nay," returned she gravely, his lightness of heart striking her like a
blow. How could she tell him? "John, let me give the letters first."
"Come," said he. "I will take you there at once. I am curious as to why
you are the bearer of such missives."
"'Tis ill tidings," spoke Peggy.
"Another disaster, eh?" He laid his arm over the pony's glossy neck and
walked thus over toward the farmhouse. "Well, we are used to them. A
victory would upset us more than anything just at present. The day we
heard of King's Mountain I thought the men would go wild. We didn't try
to maintain discipline on that day. Oh, well; if we are whipped, we just
fight 'em again. We'll win out in time."
The color fled from Peggy's face. He did not know, and it was she who
must tell him. How would he bear it? They had reached the farmhouse by
the time, and Drayton assisted Peggy from the horse, and turned to an
orderly.
"Will you say to the general that Ensign--I mean Lieutenant Drayton is
without with a young lady who bears despatches? 'Tis important. I have
hardly got used to my new dignity yet," he explained turning to Peggy
with a boyish laugh. "It's good to see you, Peggy."
"John," said the girl, laying her hand on his arm and speaking with
intense earnestness. "Will thee try to be brave? The news I bring----"
"What mean you?" he asked in surprise. "Why should a disaster effect me
more than any one else? Peggy, I never knew you to act and to speak so
strangely before. What is it?"
"The general waits, lieutenant," interrupted the orderly. "He has but a
few moments, as he is going to Hillsboro' for the night."
"Come, Peggy," said Drayton. "I will take you in." They passed into the
dwelling, and Drayton opened a door on the right of the hall which led
to General Gates' office. There were several men in the room, among them
Colonel Daniel Morgan who had but recently arrived, and Colonel William
Washington.
"General Gates," said Drayton saluting, "allow me to present Mistress
Peggy Owen, who is the bearer of despatches. She is the daughter of
David Owen, of the Pennsylvania Light Horse."
"You are welcome, Mistress Owen," said General Gates rising courteously.
"Stay, lieutenant," as the lad made a movement to depart. "If the young
lady is friend of yours you may be her escort back to Hillsboro' when
the mission is ended."
"Thank you, sir," said Drayton, saluting again.
"Sir," said Peggy with a certain wistfulness in her voice caused by the
knowledge of the news she bore, "before thee takes the letters I should
like to tell thee how I came by them."
"Certainly you may," he said regarding her with a new deference, for the
girl's manner and accents bespoke her gentle breeding.
[Illustration: "YOU ARE WELCOME," SAID GENERAL GATES]
And standing there Peggy told simply the story of how she had become
possessed of the despatches. A stillness came upon them as she related
the death of the vidette, her tones vibrating with tenderness and
feeling.
"He died for his country," she said, "and, sir, he wished that told to
his wife. She was not to grieve; for 'twas for his country. And his
horse, General Gates. I promised that I would speak to thee concerning
him. We left him guarding the body. Thee will see that he is cared for,
will thee not?"
"Yes," he said, much moved. "So noble an animal should be looked well
to. Did you learn the man's name, mistress?"
"'Twas Trumbull, sir. William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut."
"I will inform his wife myself," said he, making a note of the matter.
"He died a hero performing his duty. And now may I have the despatches?"
He extended his hand with a smile, saying as he did so: "A man would
have given them first, and the story afterward; but this little maid
feared we would forget the vidette if she delayed until afterward."
"Yes," acknowledged the girl, looking at him earnestly, for she had
feared that very thing. "Sir," giving him the despatches, "I pray thee
to pardon me for being the bearer of such awful tidings."
There was a slight smile on General Gates' face at her manner of
speaking, but it died quickly as he ran his eye down the written page.
He uttered an exclamation as he mastered the contents, and then stood
staring at the paper. At length, however, he turned to the men at the
table, and said in a hollow voice:
"Gentlemen, it becomes my painful duty to inform you that Major-General
Arnold is a traitor to his country."
An awful pause followed the announcement--a pause that throbbed with the
despair of brave men. Disaster had followed fast upon disaster. The
South was all but lost. Two armies had been wiped out of existence in
three months, and what was left was but a pitiful remnant. Washington's
force in the North was so weakened by detaching troops for the defense
of the South that he was unable to strike a blow. And now this calamity
was the culmination. A murmur broke out in the room. Then, as though
galvanized into action by that murmur, John Drayton, who had stood as
though petrified, bounded forward with a roar.
"'Tis false," he cried, whipping out his sword. "I'll run any man
through who says that my general is a traitor!"
He advanced threateningly toward General Gates as he spoke. He had drawn
upon his superior officer, but there was no anger in the glance that
Horatio Gates cast upon him.
"Would God it were false," he said solemnly. "But here are proofs. This
is a letter from Congress; this one from General Washington himself, and
this----"
"I tell you it is not true," reiterated the boy fiercely. "Look how
they've always treated him! It's another one of their vile charges
trumped up against him. Daniel Morgan, you were with him at Quebec and
Saratoga! Are you going to stand there and hear such calumny?"
Morgan hid his face in his hands and a sob broke from his lips. The
sound seemed to pierce Drayton like a sword thrust. His arm dropped to
his side, and he turned from one to another searching their faces
eagerly, but their sorrowful countenances only spoke confirmation of the
news.
"In mercy, speak," he cried with a catch in his voice. "Peggy, tell me
truth! Speak to me!"
"John, John, I'm afraid 'tis true," cried Peggy going to him with
outstretched hands. "Don't take it like this! Thee must be brave."
But with a cry, so full of anguish, of heartbreak, that they paled as
they heard it, Drayton sank to the floor.
"Boy, I loved him too," spoke Colonel Morgan brokenly. "We were both
with him on that march to Quebec. And at Saratoga in that mad charge he
made. I loved him----"
He could not proceed. Bending over the prostrate lad he lifted him, and
with his arm about him drew him from the room. Peggy broke into a
passion of tears as Drayton's wailing cry came back to her:
"My general! My general! My general!"