A FLASH OF STEEL
That night we sat at the long table in the dining-room of the inn. All
up and down its great length sat the officers of the Line--country
gentlemen from Cecil, Kent, and as far south as Queen Anne, who had
ridden thus far to see the mustering and to give it their countenance
and their favour. Grave and sedate gentlemen many of them, men of
affairs, the leaders of their counties, and delegates to the
Convention and to Congress--men of the oldest and bluest blood in the
province, of wide estates and famous names, whose families wielded a
mighty influence in the cause of the patriots and gave it stability
and great strength.
Then there was the parson, a merry old gentleman, stout of form, with
a round face and twinkling eyes, who in his youth was a mighty
fox-hunter in spite of his cloth; even then, stout as he had grown,
when he heard the music of the hounds, it was with difficulty he
restrained the inclination to follow, which now, alas! was made
impossible by his great weight. We who loved hard riding, hard
fighting, and a strong will, admired him, and no man was more popular
throughout the three counties than the fox-hunting parson. He knew the
people and their ways, and was one of them.
"I hear you are fire-eaters here," he said to a vestryman upon being
installed.
"Then we are well matched," came the reply, "for they say you are a
pepperbox."
So no gathering throughout the county was a success without the
parson, and by the unanimous voice of the Line he was called to be
their chaplain.
We sat there in the long dining-room amid the hum of many voices, the
glare of many lights, and the click of the glasses, as the wine was
going around, when a young man who sat across the table from me rose
with his glass poised between his fingers.
He was a handsome man, of twenty-one or twenty-two, of dark and
swarthy features, thick lips and nose, and hair as black as night,
telling of the Indian blood in his veins.
His name was Rodolph, and he was the son of a man more noted for his
wealth than for his principles, but who was then at the city of
Annapolis, a delegate from the county of Cecil.
"I propose a toast," he cried, "that all true patriots should drink. A
toast to the delegates of this county, who at the convention of the
province in the city of Annapolis are standing as the bulwarks of
liberty against the tyranny of the Crown."
We were all on our feet in an instant to drink the toast, with a right
goodwill, all except Charles Gordon, who sat at my right hand. He kept
his seat and watched us with a cool, sarcastic smile upon his lips.
"Is not the toast good enough for you?" cried Rodolph, with an ugly
sneer upon his face.
All eyes now turned to where Charles Gordon sat, and he slowly rose.
"Drink to your delegates?" said he. "Not I. They are the scum of the
county of Cecil, and you know it. I would as soon be governed by my
slaves at the Braes as by such men as they are. I wish you joy of
them." And bowing, he turned and left the room by a door that was near
at hand.
For an instant there was silence, then an uproar broke forth, and
Rodolph sprang around the table to follow him, with several of the
young men at his heels. But I, seeing the danger, with possibly a
thought of a fair maid's eyes, threw myself before the door with drawn
sword.
"No man passes through this door," I cried, "unless he passes over
me."
The crowd drew back in surprise.
"Since when," I shouted, for they hesitated, "have Maryland gentlemen
learned to fight in mobs? If any one has an insult to resent, let him
fight as becomes a gentleman, man to man."
"Stand aside," shouted Rodolph, who was now before me, "and let me get
at the traitor."
"Put up your swords, gentlemen." I found I had a new ally in a tall,
dignified gentleman, who took his place beside me, a Mr. Wilmer of the
White House in Kent.
"The lad is right," he said; "and you, Rodolph, I should think, would
have had enough of Charles Gordon of the Braes."
At this there was a laugh, which at the time I did not understand; but
the company good-naturedly put back their swords and resumed their
places at the table, all except Rodolph, who slipped away from the
room.
That night, as I lay upon my bed, dreaming, boylike, of the fair eyes
of the Tory maid, and hoping that the part I had played in the matter
of the toast might come to her ears and cause her to give me a smile
at our next meeting, I heard the sound of footsteps coming down the
passageway.
"There is great danger," said a voice, which I recognised as the
landlord's, as they were passing by my door. "Rodolph is stirring up
the crowd, and though you might brave the mob, Mistress Jean--" and
then the voices died away.
"The mob" and "Mistress Jean." Clearly something must be afoot.
Springing from my bed, I swore to myself, that, if anything happened
to the Tory maid, I would make Phil Rodolph feel the edge of my sword.
Hastily throwing on my clothes, I went to the window and looked out.
The night was dark, the sky being full of drifting clouds, through
which the moon faintly struggled; everything lay quiet and still in
the village and the camp. Steps were heard upon the porch below, and
then a horse was brought around from the stables. A moment later a
horseman mounted, and I saw a slender figure on the pillion behind
him.
"Keep to the south road," said a voice, "they have only one sentry
there."
I did not wait to hear more, but slipped downstairs and out of a side
door, and the next moment I was running softly through the camp to the
outpost on the south road, for one of my own men was stationed there,
and I knew that without orders or the countersign no man would pass
that way that night. It was well I did, for as I drew near I heard the
challenge "Who goes there?" and the answer "A friend."
"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."
"Maryland." But the Tory had missed it, and the next moment the
sentry's rifle was at his shoulder, and I knew the cry for the officer
of the guard would follow; so I stepped out from the shadow, and the
sentry, seeing me, brought his rifle to a salute.
"Lieutenant," he said, "he wants to pass, and has given the wrong
countersign."
"Yes," said I, drawing my hat over my eyes, for I did not wish to be
recognised by Mistress Jean. "I heard. But I know them; let them
pass."
"Certainly, Lieutenant."
"Thank you," said the rider, and a still softer "Thank you" came from
his companion. I bowed, but said nothing, and stood there watching
them disappear down the dark road until the sound of the horse's hoofs
was lost in the distance.
"Queer time of the night to ride, sir," said the sentinel.
"Yes; but they have far to go."
"Kent or Queen Anne's, sir?"
"Down by Bohemia Manor."
"That is where that old Tory Gordon lives; they say they are going to
rout him out in the morning for insulting the committee last night. He
is up at the inn, there, and Phil Rodolph says he is going to make it
hot for him."
"Mere talk, I expect. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
I took my way back to the inn, and when I crawled to my room once more
and into bed, Dick Ringgold raised himself on his arm and said in a
sleepy voice: "What's up, Frisby?"
"Oh, nothing," I replied; "go to sleep." And I soon followed my own
advice.