"OF WHAT WAS HE GUILTY?"
"Close his eyes; his work is done!
What to him is friend or foeman,
Rise of moon, or set of sun,
Hand of man, or kiss of woman?
"Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death bemocking folly?"
--_George H. Boker._
There is no time when man so realizes his helplessness as in the
presence of great affliction. So now Peggy and Sally, wishing to give
comfort but at a loss how to do so, withdrew a short distance from the
stricken ones, then they too sat down. The girls were in sore need of
consolation themselves, for they were faint and weary after the trying
ordeal through which they had passed. It was therefore no wonder that
through utter exhaustion they fell into slumber; for youth and
weariness will assert themselves against the tyranny of nerve-racking
stress. A slumber that was of short duration.
A drop of rain splashed suddenly upon Peggy's hand causing her to
start up in alarm. She looked about her quickly. The sky was covered
by dark, lowering clouds which hung above them like a pall. The wind
had veered to the east and a fiercer note had crept into its moaning.
Instead of the soft lapping of the tide there was an angry menace in
the waves breaking turbulently upon the shore. A storm was coming, and
they were without shelter. The girl ran to Nurse Johnson and touched
her gently.
"'Tis going to rain," she cried, her clear young voice ringing out
with startling suddenness. "Does thee not think that we should try to
get somewhere, Friend Nurse?"
Nurse Johnson glanced at her dully, then at sight of the overcast sky
she rose hurriedly.
"You are right, Peggy," she said. "'Tis time for action now. We must
give way to grief no longer. Help me to rouse these women."
A patter of rain which fell as she finished speaking, brought a
realizing sense of the situation to the women, and bravely they rose
to meet it. For one short hour they had indulged their sorrow. In the
greatness of the calamity that had overwhelmed them there had seemed
to come an end of everything. That Freedom might live they had been
bereft of all, but life with its responsibilities still remained, so
resolutely they put aside their woe to take up again the burden of
living. Though loth to leave the bodies of the brave dead there was no
alternative, so presently a sad procession wended its way into the
Court House Road. As the forest was neared there issued from its
confines a small body of armed men followed by several wagons. A cry
of gladness burst from Sally at sight of the leader.
"'Tis Friend Ashley," she cried. "Does thee not see, Peggy? 'Tis
Friend Ashley!"
It was indeed Thomas Ashley. Full of amazed incredulity, for they had
believed him to be among the prisoners taken by the enemy, his wife,
Nurse Johnson and the girls ran to greet him.
"And Charley, father?" cried Mrs. Ashley. "Where is Charley?"
"With Hannah's boy, in the hands of the British," he answered. "Now,
now, mother! don't give way. Prisoners can be exchanged, so he is not
lost to us. Others did not fare so well."
But underneath his assumed cheerfulness Peggy detected anxiety. He did
not linger talking, but bustled about helping the women into the
wagons. The rain was falling heavily now, and there was need for
haste. A small party of men was detached from the main body to go on
into the village to bury the dead of both sides. The British had left
their fallen ones to be cared for by the Americans, and generously the
duty was performed. At length all was in readiness, and the journey
toward shelter was resumed.
"And thou, friend? How did thee escape?" questioned Peggy as Thomas
Ashley rode up beside the wagon in which the family sat.
"I was one of the scouting party that nevvy sent down the river road
to intercept the enemy," he answered. "We were to take their fire
while falling back on the blockhouse, but we did not see any signs of
them. Alarmed at this, we scoured the woods to find where they were,
when suddenly we were set upon by a party of refugees. A lively
skirmish ensued, but the enemy was in superior force, and soon had the
victory. In the disorder and confusion following the surrender a few
of us made our escape. Meantime we heard the cannonading and knew that
the blockhouse was attacked, but by the time we could make our way
back to the village, the fort had fallen, and the British were burning
the town.
"There was no sign of the women and children, but as the foe put off
down the river with the prisoners, a friend crawled out of the bushes
to tell me that the women had fled to the forest. It seemed best under
the circumstances to go for aid for them, so we scattered to get it.
Of course I am glad to be with you," he ended huskily, "but 'tis pity
that it could not be either Charley or nevvy."
"They are young, friend, and perhaps can stand imprisonment better
than thee could," consoled Peggy. "And, as thee hath said, they can be
exchanged, so after a short time all of us will be together again."
"Yes, father," spoke his wife. "Peggy is right. It hath all happened
for the best, I dare say. They might have been killed, and you also.
So we won't grieve, but try to bear the lads' captivity as best we
may. I do wish though that we could go home."
"We are going to, Mary; just as soon as I can find some one to take us
there. There will be many to care for who have no place to go, and
'tis the right thing to make the charge as light as possible."
"And we shall be as safe there as anywhere," she said eagerly. "I
shall be glad to get home."
Peggy's glance met Sally's, and her own wistfulness was reflected in
Sally's eyes. They too would like to be home out of this turbulence of
warfare, but knowing that these friends would take them were it
possible they gave no voice to their longings.
As the journey proceeded parties of men swung into the road from all
directions bound for the devastated town, bearing food, clothing, and
medical necessities for the stricken inhabitants. The news of the
attack had flown over the county like wild-fire, and the people
rallied to the aid of the victims of this latest outrage, vying with
each other in a generous contest as to the care of the villagers. It
was found best to apportion a certain number to each party, and Farmer
Ashley's family being in better condition than many of the others were
among the last to find an abode. Tarrying only long enough to rest and
refresh themselves, for they were anxious to return to the farmhouse,
they were soon on their way thither.
"How glad we were to leave here," exclaimed Sally when at length they
drove into the familiar yard. "And now how good it seems to get back!"
"Yes," sighed Nurse Johnson. "Would that we had never left the place.
Then the boys would not be in the hands of the British."
"You never can tell, Hannah," remarked the farmer. "Had we stayed here
there would have been another attempt to capture nevvy, and we might
not have got off so well as we did before. It's about as broad as 'tis
long. Then too, nevvy had to obey orders from the Council of Safety,
so he would have had to go to Tom's River. Edwards, I hear, is
sentenced to be hanged; naturally the Tories would have been after
the boy hot-foot."
After the total annihilation of the village of Tom's River, the damage
to the farmhouse seemed inconsiderable, and it was with a sense of
rest that the girls entered the pleasant and homey kitchen. And now
for a time there was peace from molestation of any sort, and the short
period of repose brought healing to their bruised spirits.
In some manner Thomas Ashley contrived to learn that Fairfax had been
carried to New York, and subsequently to Sandy Hook, where he was
confined in the hold of a guard-ship. Simultaneously with this
information came the news that Edwards, the refugee leader whom the
young captain had captured, had been shot while attempting to escape,
and the county exulted that at last it was rid of such a desperado.
So the soft days of April passed until ten had elapsed since the
return from Tom's River. It seemed to Peggy that never before had
there been so beautiful a spring, and she spent much time among the
sweet scented things of the garden. There came a morning when all the
earth was kissed with scent, and all the air caressed by song. The
two maidens were out under the blossoming trees, and their talk
turned, as it frequently did, upon the absent Fairfax.
"'Tis such a lovely day, but poor Fairfax cannot enjoy it," uttered
Sally pensively. "How long doth it take for an exchange, Peggy?"
"I believe 'tis done in order of capture, Sally. Those who are taken
first are first to be liberated. And rank also hath much to do with
it. A captain would not be exchanged until a captain of equal rank
could be given for him. As to militia officers I know not how 'tis
managed. But whatever can be done, Friend Ashley will do. He hath
influence with the principal men of the county, and will no doubt use
it for Fairfax's release. He is proud of his nephew. Methinks he
grieves over the lad's imprisonment as much as his mother does."
"I think he does, Peggy. Then too, he hath the welfare of Monmouth
County so much at heart, and Fairfax was especially vigilant in
suppressing the incendiary acts of the Tories and refugees, that he
is missed. I hope he is well treated. 'Tis dreadful to be confined in
such weather!"
"I like not to think of it," remarked Peggy with a sigh. "I wish we
had not teased him so; yet what sport it was to see him mantle."
"There were times when I thought he liked it as well as we did, Peggy.
And he was beginning to hold his own with us. There was wit in the
conceit of naming his horse after both of us."
"I wonder what became of that horse," exclaimed Peggy. "Would that
Friend Ashley had it! He hath need of it for his trips into Freehold."
"The enemy must have taken it. They destroyed everything that they did
not take, and horses are valuable plunder. I saw naught of any animal
after the town was burned."
Both maidens became silent at the mention of that dreadful time.
Neither willingly spoke of it, and any reference to the affair was
casual. Peggy stooped and picked a sprig of tender grass, and began to
bite it meditatively.
"Friend Ashley comes back early," she remarked glancing over the fence
into the road. "Methought he was not to return until nightfall."
"Why, that was the intention," answered Sally. "I heard him tell his
wife that 'twould be late ere he came back. I wonder why he did not
stay?" She went to the fence and leaned upon it, gazing with some
curiosity at Thomas Ashley's approaching form. "Peggy," she called
quickly, "something is wrong. Does thee not see?"
"He is ill," cried Peggy as the farmer stopped suddenly in his onward
way and leaned against a tree. "Let us go to him, Sally."
There was no gate near where they were standing so the girls climbed
to the top of the fence, then jumping lightly down on the other side,
they ran hastily to Farmer Ashley.
"Is thee ill, friend?" queried Peggy. "Thee seems sick."
"Sick? Ay! sick at heart, child." Thomas Ashley turned to them such a
woebegone countenance that the maidens uttered cries of dismay. His
face was lined and drawn, and into his kindly eyes had come an
expression of care. He seemed no longer a robust, middle-aged man, but
somehow old and feeble.
"Lean on me," cried Peggy slipping her strong young arm about him.
"Sally and I will help thee into the house."
"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. Let me collect myself before I face
Hannah."
"There is bad news of Fairfax," cried Sally. "What is it, friend?"
"The worst," he answered brokenly. "The lad is no more."
"What does thee mean, friend?" gasped Peggy. "Is he---- No; thee can't
mean that he is--dead?" Her voice sank to a whisper as she uttered the
word.
Thomas Ashley let his face fall into his hands with a groan.
"Peggy! Sally! Where are you?" Clearly, Nurse Johnson's voice came to
them. A moment later she herself came down the road. "Are you in
hiding that you do not answer?" she asked. As there was no response
from any of them she glanced from one to the other anxiously.
"Something hath happened," she said. "What is it, Tom?"
But the farmer cowered before her.
"How shall I tell you, Hannah?" he cried piteously. "How shall I tell
you?"
"It is about my son," she said quickly. "Tell me instantly." As Thomas
Ashley continued unable to speak she added with passion: "Don't keep
me waiting. Am I not his mother? Who hath a better right to know if
aught hath befallen him?"
"No one," he answered her. "No one, Hannah. I would rather die than
tell you, yet I must. Hannah! Hannah!" Sobs burst from him that racked
his body. "They hanged him this morning."
A cry of horror broke from Sally and Peggy, but Nurse Johnson stood as
though turned to stone.
"Hanged?" she said. "My boy! What are you saying, Tom Ashley?"
"The truth," he cried with bitter grief. "The truth, God help us,
Hannah. The loyalists took him from prison, and brought him to
Gravelly Point, where they hanged him this morning. 'Twas because of
Edwards, they said. An express brought the news into Freehold. That
boy, that noble, gallant boy hath been hanged like a criminal!"
"But of what was he guilty? What crime did he commit?" Her calm was
terrible to see, and Peggy involuntarily took a step toward her, but
Sally stayed her quickly.
"Of what was he guilty, Hannah? Why, of repelling the invader. Of
trying to stay the ravages of the enemy. He committed the crime of
which Washington, and Jefferson, and Franklin, and John Adams are
guilty: the crime of patriotism."
"But he was a prisoner? A prisoner taken in open warfare. How could
such an one be hanged?"
"By all the code of civilized warfare he could not," broke from the
farmer passionately. "They have done it in defiance of the code. But
there shall be retaliation, Hannah. Eye for eye," he cried lifting his
clenched hands and shaking them fiercely above his head. "Tooth for
tooth, life for life. There shall be retaliation."
A sudden, wild cry burst from her:
"Will that give me back my son? Oh, my boy! My boy!" And she broke
into a passion of weeping.
The farmer motioned the girls away when they would have gone to her.
"Let her weep," he said, controlling his own emotion with difficulty.
"'Tis Nature's way toward helping her to bear it. Come! leave her for
a time."
So the maidens crept to their own little room to give vent to the
sorrow that filled them. The shy fellow had endeared himself to them,
and his untimely end affected them deeply. The days that followed were
sorrowful ones. Nurse Johnson was completely prostrated, and Mrs.
Ashley added to her woe a great anxiety for her own son. It fell to
the lot of Peggy and Sally to look after the household affairs, and
they were thankful for the occupation.
The last sad rites were performed at Freehold. Wrapped in his
country's flag, Fairfax Johnson was buried with all the honors of war.
But with the firing of the last volley the indignation of Monmouth
County blazed forth. A single deed of violence and cruelty affects the
nerves more than when these are exercised upon a more extended scale,
and this act was peculiarly atrocious. The cry of Thomas Ashley
sounded upon every lip: Retaliation! The cry grew as all the details
of the inhuman murder became known.
The young man had been charged with being privy to the killing of
Edwards, even though he pointed out to his captors that the refugee's
death had occurred after his capture. The opportunity to rid
themselves of so active an adversary, however, was not one to be
neglected; so, without listening to a defense, or even going through
the form of a trial, he was hurried to Gravelly Point by a band of
sixteen loyalists under Captain Lippencott, a former Jerseyman and an
officer in a refugee regiment, The King's Rangers, and there hanged.
It was said that he met death with great firmness and composure. Upon
his breast was affixed the label:
"Up goes Johnson for Frank Edwards."
The country, a little later England and the entire civilized world,
stood aghast at the atrocity of the incident. A prisoner taken in open
warfare hanged! Such a thing was unheard of. Such execution should be
dealt a spy, an informer, a deserter. But a prisoner of war---- Even
barbarians deal not so with an honorable foe. It was therefore no
wonder that the cry of Monmouth County reached into every part of New
Jersey, growing deeper and fiercer. Retaliation! It passed on, and
spread into every state. Everywhere the cry was taken up by the press
and the people: Retaliation! What had happened to a prisoner from New
Jersey might very well happen to a prisoner from any state. The matter
must be stopped before it proceeded any further. The grievance of one
was the grievance of all. The issue was no longer local, but national.
The cry rose and swelled into a volume. As with one voice the entire
people of the new nation demanded retaliation.
And the cry was heard in the halls of Congress. And it was heard on
the banks of the Hudson by Washington. Heard and answered. A stern
demand went to Sir Henry Clinton for Lippencott, the leader under
whose command the dastardly deed had been committed. For Lippencott,
else the act should be retaliated upon by the death of one of the
British prisoners of war.