I UNCOVER CAPTAIN GRANT
The thicket was sufficiently dense to conceal us from the man, who
remained standing at the foot of the steps. He was but a mere dark
shadow, and I could not even distinguish that he was a soldier, yet the
danger of his presence was sufficiently great, for should he advance to
the right he would come upon Grant's unconscious form, and in that
silence the slightest noise might arouse suspicion. Mistress Claire still
clung to my hand, but only to whisper a sentence of instruction.
"Go straight north, Major, until you reach the hedge; follow the shadow
of that beyond the orchard, and then take the road running westward.
Don't mount until you reach there--good-bye."
"Good-bye, you will not forget me?"
"I--I am afraid not, but--but you must go!"
I left her standing there, a faint gleam of white against the dark
shrubbery, motionless. Grasping the bit of the horse I picked my course
slowly across the lawn, watchful that the intervening thicket hid my
movements, the soft carpet of grass muffling every sound. We reached the
hedge,--a high, impassable barrier to further progress in that direction,
but here the shadows were sufficiently dense for us to proceed faster,
with little peril of discovery. There were no sounds of alarm from the
house, by this time barely visible, but we continued on a walk until the
orchard was skirted, and I felt beneath my feet the ruts of a road
running east and west. I waited long enough to adjust the stirrups, which
were too short, listening intently for any sounds of pursuit. The house
could no longer be seen, and the night was quiet as a grave. What had
become of Claire? Was she still hiding at the edge of the thicket, or had
she found means of attaining shelter within the house? It was useless to
speculate, and I could better serve her by going my way. I swung up into
the saddle, and the horse broke into a lope.
There is no incident of that night's ride which I recall distinctly. I
merely pushed on steadily through the darkness, leaving my mount to
choose his own course, confident we were headed toward the river. I was
sufficiently acquainted with the valley of the Delaware, when daylight
came, to decide upon the nearest ford. As to the British patrols I must
run the risk of dodging these, but felt safe from such an encounter for
several hours. In truth I met no one, having no occasion to even draw
rein, although we passed through two small villages, and by a number of
farms. I could not even determine that these houses were occupied; they
were dark and silent, even the galloping hoofs of my horse failing to
awaken response.
As the feeling of security took possession of me, my mind returned to her
whom I had just left. As I had kissed her, as I had heard her lips repeat
the words I had insisted upon her saying, it had all seemed real. But now
that I was no longer looking into her eyes, I began to doubt and
question. Had she assented merely to appease me, merely to compel me to
leave her? She had said as much, almost denied caring for me, openly
stated that there was between us an impassable barrier. At the time, in
the spell of her presence, all this had meant merely a girlish spirit of
coquetry; it had seemed to me her eyes denied her lips, and gave me
courage. But now, alone under the stars, and riding away from her, this
assurance deserted me, and I began to doubt. Why should I have hoped? We
had met in ways which made intimacy inevitable, and yet the girl had
spoken no word which I could presume to interpret into love. She had
trusted me with her friendship, and was in no way responsible for my more
serious thoughts. I could not recall one word, or act, on her part, that
would give me any right to think that she cared for me, except as an
acquaintance and friend. Through sympathy she might have served any
fugitive with the same loyalty shown me. Surely she could not have loved
me in Philadelphia, when we met for the first time, and yet, even then,
she had risked everything to aid my escape. She had done no more
since--all might have arisen from the same impersonal motive. But what
could that motive be? A mere love of adventure, the reckless audacity of
youthful spirits, a secret sympathy with the cause of the Colonies, or a
desire to outwit Grant? I could not believe her purpose unworthy, that
she would sink her womanhood into mere trickery. She disliked Grant,
despised him as she had just cause, yet it was not to anger him that she
had helped me. Somewhere there was a reason, and a valid one, for her
action.
And, on the other hand, what could make it impossible for her to confess
the truth? A love for some one else? It was not Grant, at least, and no
other name had ever been mentioned. She insisted that she was a sham, a
fraud; that when I really knew her I might despise her. She had not
spoken this as a joke, but in sober earnestness. What could be the
meaning? I had suggested that she was a British spy, and she had made no
denial, and yet it was impossible to believe such a charge true. All I
had witnessed of her acts would seem rather to connect her with the
Colonies. Yet there were matters unexplained--the mysterious night
riding, the attack on me, and my first night's imprisonment at Elmhurst.
No attempt had been made to clear up these affairs, and I might construe
them as I pleased. Yet there was nothing convincing, as I knew not how
far Eric might be concerned. Perhaps all that appeared strange about the
conduct of the sister could be explained by a few moments' conversation
with the brother. I determined to search him out as soon as I was safely
within the lines, and hear his story.
It was already daylight when I arrived at this conclusion, and, in the
gray desolation of dawn, drew up on the bluff summit to gaze down into
the river valley. It was a scene of quiet beauty, reflecting little of
the ravages of war. My vantage of height gave me a wide vista, embracing
the silvery stream, and a long stretch of meadow land, dotted with
farmhouses, and intersected by roads. In the middle distance small
villages faced each other across the stream, and toward these most of the
roads converged,--proof of the existence of a ford. I could not be
mistaken as to the town--Burlington on the Jersey shore, and opposite
Bristol. I should be safe enough in the latter, even if we had no outpost
stationed there. I knew homes along those shaded streets, where food
would be forthcoming, and where I could probably procure a fresh horse.
It was the nearer town, nestled on the Jersey bank, that I studied with
the greatest care, but, so far as I could see, the single street was
deserted. To the south, certainly two miles away, a squadron of horse
were riding slowly, surrounded by a cloud of dust. Without doubt this was
the British patrol that had left the village at daybreak.
It was a hot, close morning, and the padded Ranger's coat heavy and
tight-fitting. I took it off, flinging it across the saddle pommel. As I
did so a folded paper came into view, and I drew it forth, curiously. My
eye caught the signature at the bottom of a brief note, and I stared at
it in surprise. Fagin! How came Fagin to be writing to Captain Grant? He
pretended to be a Tory to be sure, yet both armies knew him as a
murderous outlaw, plundering loyalists and patriots alike. There came to
me a memory of Farrell's chance remark that Grant had some connection
with this fellow's marauding. I had not seriously considered it then, but
now--why, possibly it was true. I read the lines almost at a glance,
scarcely comprehending at first, and then suddenly realized the base
villainy revealed:
"Have the money and papers, but the girl got away. Will wait for you at
Lone Tree to-night. Don't fail, for the whole country will be after me as
soon as the news gets out about Elmhurst. _Fagin_."
So that was the reason for this raid--Grant's personal affair. He had
returned to Elmhurst, leaving his men to trudge on into Philadelphia
under their Hessian officers so that he might communicate with Fagin. He
had contrived to get Colonel Mortimer to detail him, after the main
column had been started on a false trail, and then he had left his detail
to another, and rode alone to the rendezvous at Lone Tree. There,
doubtless, he had received Fagin's report, with the papers whatever they
were, and then returned to Elmhurst, determined to force his will with
the girl. What had happened then I knew well, for I had been part of it.
What a pity it was I had failed to kill the fellow, instead of leaving
him unconscious.
The papers! Perhaps they were in the coat also. Surely Grant had no time
to change or destroy them, as he must have ridden directly to Elmhurst. I
searched the pockets of the garment hastily, finding a note or two, his
orders to escort Delavan, and a small packet tied securely by a cord. I
felt no hesitancy in opening this, and ascertaining its contents. The
lines I read hastily seemed to blur before my eyes; I could barely
comprehend their purport. Little by little I grasped the meaning of it
all, and then my mind leaped to recognition of Grant's purpose. They were
notes of instruction, brief orders, suggestions, memoranda, such as might
be issued to a secret agent greatly trusted. These were addressed simply
"Mortimer," many unsigned, others marked by initials, but I instantly
recognized the handwriting of Washington, Hamilton, and Lee. Without
question this packet was the property of Eric Mortimer, but why had the
boy preserved these private instructions, covering months of operations,
I should judge, although scarcely one was dated? And what caused them to
be of such value to Captain Grant?
The answer came in a flash of suspicion--the Colonel. He could be
threatened with them, blackmailed, disgraced before Sir Henry Clinton,
driven from his command. They were addressed merely to "Mortimer,"
discovered at Elmhurst, and were sufficient to convict of treason. It was
a fiendish plot, well conceived, and Grant was fully capable of carrying
it out to the end. I could realize what the possession of these papers
meant to him--military advancement, a distribution of the Mortimer estate
in which he would doubtless share, and a fresh hold on Claire whereby he
could terrify the girl into accepting him.
I stood there in uncertainty, turning these papers over and over in my
hands, striving to determine my duty. Should I return to Elmhurst? To do
so would only bring me into renewed peril, and would apparently benefit
no one. Without this packet Grant was helpless to injure Colonel
Mortimer. As to Claire, Seldon would protect her for the present, and as
soon as the father returned, he would doubtless compel her to accompany
him back to Philadelphia. The best service I could render was to destroy
these notes, and then seek out Eric Mortimer, in Lee's camp, and tell him
the whole story. All that any one could do now was to warn the Mortimers
against Grant, to let them know his treachery, and this could be best
accomplished through Eric. Although in different armies, striving against
each other in the field, there must still exist some means of
communication between father and son, or, if not, then between brother
and sister.
With flint and steel I built a small fire of leaves in a cleft beside the
road, and fed to the flames one by one the papers from the packet,
glancing over each one again to make sure of its contents; all were
addressed alike, simply "Mortimer," but upon two I found the word
"Elmhurst." It was easy to see how the discovery of such communications
would tempt an unscrupulous scoundrel like Grant to use them to injure
another, and win his own end, but why had that young Eric failed to
destroy them as soon as received?
When the last paper had been reduced to ashes, I stamped out the embers
of fire under my boot heel, and, with lighter heart, rode down the hill
toward the ford.