[Illustration: "MY LAD," SAID WASHINGTON, "I THANK YOU"]
IN THE
DAYS OF WASHINGTON
A STORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
BY
WILLIAM MURRAY GRAYDON
[Illustration]
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA MDCCCXCVI
COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
FRANKLIN PRINTING COMPANY
516-518 Minor Street
Philadelphia
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I IN WHICH MR. NOAH WAXPENNY INTRODUCES HIMSELF 5
II IN WHICH A BRITISH OFFICER LOSES A FINE HORSE 24
III IN WHICH NATHAN BECOMES A SOLDIER 42
IV IN WHICH NATHAN'S MILITARY CAREER VERY NEARLY
TERMINATES 62
V IN WHICH BEGINS A MEMORABLE BATTLE 91
VI IN WHICH NATHAN MEETS AN OLD ENEMY 106
VII IN WHICH A BUTTON BETRAYS ITS OWNER 117
VIII IN WHICH SIMON GLASS MAKES A VERY STRANGE REMARK 135
IX IN WHICH NATHAN TAKES PART IN THE BATTLE OF WYOMING 154
X IN WHICH NATHAN FINDS THE PAPERS 176
XI IN WHICH GODFREY PLEADS FOR THE CONDEMNED PRISONERS 190
XII IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS ISLAND PLAYS A PART 208
XIII IN WHICH NATHAN MAKES A PERILOUS SWIM 226
XIV IN WHICH NATHAN FEIGNS SLUMBER TO SAVE HIS LIFE 244
XV IN WHICH THE MYSTERY IS VERY NEARLY EXPLAINED 263
XVI IN WHICH A PEEP AT THE STATE-HOUSE LEADS TO AN UGLY
ADVENTURE 273
XVII IN WHICH MR. WAXPENNY ASSERTS THE MAJESTY OF THE LAW
AND THE CURTAIN FALLS 300
IN THE DAYS OF WASHINGTON
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH MR. NOAH WAXPENNY INTRODUCES HIMSELF
It was an evening in the first week in February, 1778. Supper was over
in the house of Cornelius De Vries, which stood on Green Street,
Philadelphia, and in that part of the town known as the Northern
Liberties. Agatha De Vries, the elderly and maiden sister of Cornelius,
had washed and put away the dishes and had gone around the corner to
gossip with a neighbor.
The light shed from two copper candlesticks and from the fire made the
sitting-room look very snug and cozy. In one corner stood a tall
clock-case, flanked by a white pine settee and a chest of drawers. A
spider legged writing-desk stood near the tile lined fireplace, over
which was a row of china dishes--very rare at that time. The floor was
white and sanded, and the walls were hung with a few paintings and
colored prints.
Cornelius De Vries, a well-to-do and retired merchant, occupied a
broad-armed chair at one side of the table that stood in the middle of
the room. He was a very stately old gentleman of sixty, with a
clean-shaven and wrinkled face. He wore a wig, black stockings, a coat
and vest of broadcloth, and low shoes with silver buckles. His features
betrayed his Dutch origin, as did also the long-stemmed pipe he was
smoking, and the glass of Holland schnapps at his elbow.
At the opposite side of the table sat Nathan Stanbury, a handsome lad,
neatly dressed in gray homespun and starched linen, and of a size and
strength that belied his seventeen years. His cheeks were ruddy with
health, and his curly chestnut hair matched the deep brown of his eyes.
Nathan was a student at the College of Philadelphia, and the open book
in his hand was a Latin Horace. But he found it difficult to fix his
mind on the lesson, and his thoughts were constantly straying far from
the printed pages. Doubtless the wits of Cornelius De Vries were
wool-gathering in the same direction, for he had put aside the hated
evening paper, "The Royal Gazette," and was dreamily watching the blue
curls of smoke as they puffed upward from his pipe. Now he would frown
severely, and now his eyes would twinkle and his cheeks distend in a
grim sort of smile.
There was much for the loyal people of the town to talk and think about
at that time. For nearly six months the British army, under General
Howe, had occupied Philadelphia in ease and comfort, while at Valley
Forge Washington's ragged soldiers were starving and freezing in the
wintry weather, their heroic commander bearing in dignified silence the
censure and complaint that were freely vented by his countrymen. Black
and desperate, indeed, seemed the cause of the United American Colonies
in that winter of 1777-78, and as yet no light of cheer was breaking on
the horizon.
After grappling for the twentieth time with his lesson, Nathan suddenly
closed the book and tossed it on the table.
"I can't translate Latin to-night, Master De Vries," he exclaimed. "It's
no use trying. I wish I was down-town. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air
will compose my mind."
The merchant answered only by a negative shake of the head, as he filled
and ignited his pipe for the third time.
"Yes, you are right," Nathan said, resignedly. "I suppose I should keep
indoors as much as possible to avoid suspicion, and I may be needed
again shortly--"
Rat, tat, tat! Low and clear rang a knocking on the panels of the front
door.
"There!" exclaimed Nathan, jumping up and running into the hall. The
opening of the door revealed a short man standing on the lower step; it
was too dark to see his face plainly. Without a word he handed the lad
a slip of paper, and then strode swiftly off down the street.
Nathan closed and locked the door, and hurried to the light of the
candles. He unfolded the paper and read aloud the following brief
message, written in a small and legible hand:
"Come to the Indian Queen at once. Thee will find friends waiting thy
trusty services."
The lad's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed with excitement.
"Another ride to Valley Forge," he said, eagerly. "How glad my father
will be to see me! And it is a night ride this time, Master De Vries.
I'll warrant 'tis a matter of great importance."
"Not so loud, lad," cautioned the merchant. "But how comes it the word
was trusted to paper? Did you know the messenger?"
"It was Pulling, the deaf and dumb hostler from the tavern," Nathan
replied. "Doubtless they have just heard news, and could not spare time
to seek the usual messenger. Pulling is trustworthy enough and, of
course, since he can't speak--"
"It was imprudent to write," interrupted the merchant, "but I dare say
they could do no better. Certainly, the summons is urgent, since it
calls thee out at night."
"Yes, I must go at once," said Nathan, "and without so much as a change
of clothes. If the service is what I think it to be I will hardly be
back by morning." As he spoke, he abstractedly dropped the slip of paper
into the side pocket of his jacket, and moved toward the hall.
"May the good God bring you back in safety," Cornelius De Vries said,
earnestly. "I love you dearly, lad, even as I love your father, and I
would not see you come to harm. I have long mistrusted these perilous
doings, and yet for the sake of the cause--"
"To save my oppressed country I would risk life ten times over,"
declared Nathan. "If there were no work for me to do here I should be
fighting with our brave soldiers. But there is really no danger, Master
De Vries. You know how often I have been back and forth."
"But not at night, lad."
"So much the better, with the darkness to shelter me," replied Nathan.
"I must be off now. Good-bye, and don't worry."
He put on his cap and briefly returned the pressure of the old man's
hand. A moment later the door had closed behind him and he was walking
rapidly down the silent street. The weather had changed a day or two
before, and there was a suggestiveness of spring in the mild, damp air.
* * * * *
Richard Stanbury, the father of Nathan, had come from England to America
in 1760, at the age of twenty-six. He brought a wife with him--a pretty
and refined woman--and they settled in Philadelphia. The next year
Nathan was born, and five years later his mother died. The blow
was a severe one to Richard Stanbury, and, the Quaker City being
now distasteful to him, he removed with his son to New England.
He accompanied the Connecticut colony to the Wyoming Valley in
Pennsylvania--which grant they had purchased from the Delaware
Indians--and took part in the long struggle with the Pennsylvania
settlers who were found in unjust possession. When the warfare finally
came to a peaceful end he settled down to a life of farming and hunting
in that earthly paradise.
Richard Stanbury was a handsome and refined man, and a highly educated
one. All with whom he came in contact were quick to realize his
superiority, but in spite of that and his reserved nature, he made
friends readily. He closely guarded the secret of his past, whatever it
was, not even opening the pages to his son. But at times he hinted
mysteriously at a great change that was likely to happen in the future,
and he took pains to teach Nathan reading, writing, and history, and the
rules of gentlemanly conduct. There was deep affection between father
and son, and that the lad did not seek to know the mystery of the past
was because he respected his parent's silence. He grew up to be brave
and strong, generous and fearless, and few companions of his age could
shoot with such skill or track game so untiringly through the forest.
Soon after the great struggle for liberty began, and the colonies were
in arms to throw off the British yoke, many of the settlers of Wyoming
left their families and the old men at home and marched away to join
Washington. Richard Stanbury went with them; he was Captain Stanbury
now, and commanded a company. Nathan, young as he was, burned to enlist
and fight. But his father would not hear of this. He had long ago formed
other plans for the lad, and now the time for them was ripe. To
Philadelphia went Nathan, to attend the admirable college that the
Quaker town boasted, and to find a happy home with Cornelius De Vries.
The expense was to come out of the worthy merchant's pocket. He had
claimed this right because of the long friendship between himself and
Richard Stanbury, which dated from the latter's arrival in America.
So Nathan studied hard, a favorite with masters and pupils, while the
first two years of the Revolution scored their triumphs and adverses.
But he was not content to let others do the fighting, and when the
British occupied Philadelphia, in the fall of 1777, the lad found at
last a chance to help the cause of freedom. Several loyal citizens of
the town had secret means of getting information about the plans of the
British officers. These men were friends of Cornelius De Vries, and they
came to know that his young lodger was a plucky and intelligent lad, and
one to be relied upon. So Nathan was frequently chosen to carry messages
to the camp at Valley Forge, where he sometimes saw his father, and
where he made the acquaintance of General Washington and other officers.
It was a very simple plan, and one that was not likely to be suspected.
The citizens were permitted to take their grain through the British
lines to the grist-mill at Frankford, and the lad would ride out after
dinner on this errand. While the grain was being ground it was an easy
matter for him to gallop to and from the American camp, then returning
to the city by night with his sacks of meal.
As Nathan hurried away from the Dutch merchant's house on this February
evening, he knew that he was wanted for some service of more than
ordinary importance. "This is the first time I have been sent for at
night," he reflected, "and I guess it means a dash through the lines.
The sentries don't allow any trips to mill after dark."
He looked up to find himself passing the British barracks, which fronted
on Green Street from Second to Third, and had been built soon after
Braddock's defeat. Howe's army now occupied them, and the red-coated
sentry at the gate glanced sourly at the lad in the gloom. Nathan went
on, carelessly whistling a snatch of a tune, and presently turned down
Fourth Street. A few yards from the corner, where a narrow bar of light
streamed across the pavement from an open window, he collided with some
one coming from the opposite way; both came to a halt.
"Why don't you watch where you're going?" brusquely demanded the
stranger, who looked to be about Nathan's age, and wore a new and
well-fitting British uniform.
"I might ask you the same," Nathan responded pleasantly, "but I won't.
You see it's so dark hereabouts, and--why, Godfrey! I didn't know you."
"Nathan Stanbury!" cried the other, in keenest surprise and pleasure.
"How glad I am to see you!" He held out his hand expecting it to be
taken.
"No; I can't," Nathan said gravely. "I--I'm sorry to see you in those
clothes."
"And I'm proud of them. So you're as much of a patriot as ever? I
thought you would turn."
"I'll never turn," declared Nathan. "I'm more of a patriot than I was,
and some day I'll be a soldier--"
"Hush! don't air your opinions so loudly around here," cautioned
Godfrey, in a good-natured tone. "I'm not going to quarrel with you,
Nathan. Two such old friends as we are can surely meet without talking
about the war. I can't forget that you saved my life once, and I will
always be grateful."
"That sounds well from a Tory," interrupted Nathan. "Why don't you begin
by being grateful to your country?"
The other flushed, and for a few embarrassing seconds nothing was said.
Standing together in the stream of yellow lamp-light, the two lads
looked strangely alike, a resemblance that others had frequently
observed. They were of the same build and height, and had the same
general features. Godfrey Spencer was older by a year, with black eyes
and hair. Nathan's eyes and hair were deep brown.
"You are still attending college?" Godfrey finally said.
Nathan nodded. "When did you come back to town?" he asked.
"Two days ago," Godfrey replied, "with dispatches for General Clinton.
You know I went with my mother to Long Island, and there I enlisted in
a--a Tory regiment. I was promoted to lieutenant a month ago, and now
Major Langdon, who is stationed here, has promised me a place on his
staff." The last words were spoken with evident pride.
"I'm sorry for you," said Nathan. "I can't wish you success, Godfrey,
but I truly hope, for the sake of old times, that you won't get shot. I
must go now. Good-bye."
Disregarding the other's appeal to return, Nathan walked rapidly down
the street, ignorant of the fact--as was Godfrey--that a British officer
had been watching both lads closely from the open and lighted window of
the house in front of which they were standing.
"Who was that lad, Spencer?" he demanded.
"An old college friend, Major Langdon," replied Godfrey, a little
startled by the question. "His people are rebels. I was trying to
convert him."
"I mean his name, stupid, quick!"
"Nathan Stanbury," said Godfrey.
The major's face turned white, and something like an oath escaped his
lips. His hands shook as they rested on the window-sill.
"I might have known," he muttered to himself. Then aloud: "Yonder is a
bit of paper the lad dropped when he pulled out his handkerchief. Fetch
it, Spencer."
Godfrey reluctantly picked up the paper, and Major Langdon opened the
door to admit him.
* * * * *
A few months before Richard Stanbury's arrival in the Colonies there
came from England to Philadelphia a merchant of London, Matthew Marsham
by name. He was accompanied by his daughter, Betty Spencer, and her
infant son Godfrey. Mrs. Spencer wore mourning for her husband, who had
died recently. The merchant engaged in business, and prospered
sufficiently to keep his little family in comfort and give his grandson
a thorough education.
To college went Godfrey in due course, and here he and Nathan were
classmates for nearly a year after the beginning of the Revolution,
during which period they formed a warm boyish friendship.
On one occasion, while swimming in the Delaware, Nathan risked his own
life to save Godfrey from drowning. But the growing animosities of the
war finally began to draw the lads apart, for Godfrey's mother and
grandfather were Tories. In the spring of 1777 Matthew Marsham died, and
Mrs. Spencer removed with her son to Long Island, where she had friends
living.
It was of this past friendship--so strongly recalled to-night--more than
of his errand, that Nathan was thinking sadly as he kept on his way
down-town. Frequently he crossed the street to avoid a group of drunken
and riotous soldiers, or put on a careless gait and attitude as some
mounted officer spurred barrackwards past him. He met but few others,
for reputable citizens kept indoors after dark.
The Indian Queen tavern, one of the oldest and best known hostelries of
the town, stood on South Fourth Street near Chestnut. The tap-room was
empty when Nathan entered, and the secretly loyal landlord, Israel
Jenkins, was taking his ease on a bench.
"Well, here I am," said Nathan. "Company in the back room again, eh?"
"Not this time, lad," replied Jenkins, with a wink of the eye. "The back
room is too open for to-night's work. You'll find them--"
Sudden footsteps outside caused the landlord to bite off the sentence
abruptly. "Get yourself yonder," he added, "and wait till I come. Quick!
you mustn't be seen."
He pushed Nathan into a dark hall on one side of the room, leaving the
door open several inches, and from his place of concealment the lad saw
the new arrival enter the tavern.
He was a man who would have attracted attention in any surroundings, and
was as likely to excite mirth as respect. His age was about fifty, and
his tall, gaunt figure was dressed in rusty broadcloth, black stockings
without knee or shoe buckles, and a gray cocked hat. He wore a flaxen
wig, and a steel watch chain with seals dangled from his waistcoat. His
face was smooth and of a parchment color, his nose abnormally large, and
his eyes small and piggish. He had long white fingers, and he snapped
them nervously as he nodded with an air of condescension to the
landlord.
"Good evening, sir," he said, in an oily voice. "I would have a pot of
your best brew, and an ounce of mild tobacco."
"I don't sell the last named," curtly replied Jenkins, who was by no
means favorably impressed with his customer.
"But you will let me have a little, eh, my good friend? Here is some,"
tapping his breast pocket, "but the sea air has quite destroyed its
flavor."
"You have lately crossed then?" asked Jenkins, who was always on the
alert for news, and scented a present opportunity.
"But this day I arrived from England on the packet-boat 'Bristol',"
replied the stranger, "and right glad was I to put foot on solid ground.
Thank you, my friend," he added, as Jenkins placed before him a tankard
of ale and a twist of tobacco. "And now may I make bold to ask a little
information of you?"
"Depends on what it is," growled Jenkins, his suspicions suddenly
awakened.
"It is nothing harmful, sir; quite the contrary. Does not my face
inspire confidence? Then you shall have my name. It is Noah Waxpenny,
and I have the honor to be confidential clerk to the firm of Sharswood &
Feeman, solicitors, Lincoln Inn, London."
"It's no odds if you were the king himself," imprudently replied
Jenkins.
"Ha, very clever! A neat joke," laughed Mr. Waxpenny. "God save King
George, and all his loyal subjects!"
"Amen to that!" muttered the landlord, aloud. "And God forgive the lie,"
he added to himself.
Mr. Noah Waxpenny chuckled, and half emptied the pewter at a draught.
Then he leaned toward Jenkins in a confidential manner, and his next
words were of so startling a nature that Nathan very nearly toppled
against the door that separated him from the tap-room.