IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH
"... A darker departure is near,
The death-drum is muffled, and sable the bier."
--_Campbell._
The beautiful sunset retreat was sounding its inspiring notes as
Peggy left the guard-house, and slowly made her way across the
parade-ground. There was a note of pathos in the strain which seemed
peculiarly impressive, and all at once Clifford's words came back to
her:
"I have ever loved martial music." Then, because there seemed naught
else than waiting before her, she sank down under the tree where
Clifford and she had sat that very morning, now so long ago, to
listen to the music that he loved. Suddenly, as she listened, there
came to the girl a dim sort of understanding. There was a permeating
tonal effect in the music, striking at times, merely suggestive at
others, which seemed to breathe the spirit of bivouac and battle, of
suffering and patriotism, and the yearning of great devotion. A lump
came into her throat. An indefinable emotion swept her with an
appreciation of the spirit of a soldier which renders him happy at the
thought of dying in his country's battles. The flood-gates of Peggy's
tears were open, and she wept unrestrainedly. Presently Colonel Dayton
saw her sitting there, and came to her side.
"My child," he said sitting down by her, "I have just been in to see
your cousin. Your visit hath cheered him greatly. He bears up
wonderfully. Manly he is, and noble. Never hath a duty been so
repugnant to my feelings as this one is. Were it not just I could not
perform it."
"I cannot speak of justice, sir, when my cousin is to die," sobbed
she. "It may be just. I know not. My countrymen are not unkind; they
are not stirred by vengeful thoughts. It must be right, else General
Washington would not sanction it; I am but a girl. I do not know. But
oh, sir! to those of us who love my cousin it doth seem that mercy
should temper justice."
"Affection blinds us, Miss Peggy," he said, and sighed. "Under its
influence we are apt to forget that other boy to whom not even justice
was given. If men were always just there would be no necessity for
mercy. Had justice been rendered Captain Johnson your cousin would not
stand in need of clemency."
"True," she said. "True. It must be right, since such good men say so.
I cannot see it now. All sense of equity is lost to me, lost because
the victim is my cousin. Some time----" She paused unable to proceed.
Presently she looked up at him. "Colonel Dayton," she said, "it hath
occurred to me that the matter may not end here. That perchance the
enemy in reprisal for this--the loss of one of their officers--may
wreak vengeance upon one of ours of like rank. That would necessitate
another retaliation; to be followed by still another on the part of
the enemy. Sir, where will it stop?"
"That very thought hath come to me, child," he said gravely. "And the
thing is possible. This matter hath distressed General Washington
greatly. He hath never been so troubled since the treason of General
Arnold, and the execution of Major Andre. The affair hath been
considered impartially by the principal men of the army, by Congress,
and by General Washington. Miss Peggy, as there is a God in heaven, we
believe that we are doing right. There is not one of us whose
inclination does not prompt to mercy, but we dare not show it. The
peculiarly atrocious murder of Captain Johnson cannot be ignored."
"I know, I know," she murmured, passing her hand over her brow, and
looking at him with eyes full of pain. "'Tis strange that Fairfax, who
was my friend, and Clifford, who is my cousin, should both be
concerned in this."
"It is strange and hard, my child. But vex not yourself with
questioning. 'Tis better to accept the inevitable with resignation, as
your cousin hath done. He doth not question the justice of the
decree."
"He is a soldier, sir," she said, "and versed in the law of war."
"He is a gallant gentleman, Peggy. He will meet his doom bravely. But
you! Would that some of your people were with you."
"If father were but here," she wept. "If father were here to be with
him. 'Tis hard to go to death alone. Oh, sir, thee won't mind if
I----"
"Not to the execution?" he exclaimed hastily.
"Clifford will not permit that, sir. 'Tis only that I may stand at the
door of the guard-house to give him a last good-bye. He is alone. His
sister would wish it."
"Is it wise, Peggy?" he asked regarding her with deep concern.
"Yes, oh, yes! 'Twill cheer him to have a friendly face near him."
"If it will be of comfort to either of you, it may be done," he said
rising. "Come in, child. Mrs. Dayton must take you in charge."
Obediently Peggy followed him to the house. The colonel's wife was
very kind, but presently left her, thinking that she slept. It was
strange that no word had come from Harriet, she mused. Was it possible
that she had indeed lost all hope after her failure to rescue her
brother? It was unlike Harriet to give up like that. Peggy could not
believe it. Why then had she not heard? And her father! Perhaps he
was even then speeding toward them. Surely, surely, something must
occur to prevent this dreadful thing from happening!
The daylight faded. Twilight melted into darkness. From the camp the
voices of the soldiers in song or story floated in to her. Peggy went
to the casement window and stood staring out into the night. Tattoo
sounded. The noises of the camp died away, for the soldiers' day was
ended. Would there never be another day for Clifford? How was he
bearing it out there alone in the guard-house? Would his high courage
remain with him to the end? That he would die bravely she did not
doubt; but to die!
For what was she watching and waiting? She did not know. She was
hoping against hope that something would happen to prevent her
cousin's death. It was the night which had brought rescue to John
Drayton at Yorktown the year before. Would it not be as kind to
Clifford? So Peggy kept her vigil, and the hours passed. Once, the
room grew close, and, faint from watching and grief, she slipped out
under the trees. There was no moon, but the stars kept watch in the
sky, twinkling down at her with quiet friendliness.
In the valley the placid river murmured softly. The hills in the
distance seemed but a darker, lower sky lost in the obscurity of the
night. From out of the gloom the tents gleamed ghostly white. It was
so still that she could hear the footsteps of the sentries as they
made their rounds. With the faint streaking of the dawn came a sound
that caused her to flee, horror-stricken, to her room. For the sound
was that of hammering. The gallows was being erected.
And at that awful sound hope fled from the girl's heart. All night she
had waited, hoping, believing, that something would come to prevent
the execution. Now she felt that all was over. Clifford must die.
Calmness settled upon her. For with absolute despair came a peace--a
numbness that left her insensible to anything save the fact that she
must be brave for Clifford's sake--that he was alone, and she of all
his kindred was there to give him comfort. So Peggy prepared for the
ordeal before her.
The execution was to take place at nine o'clock. Long before that hour
the people from the countryside gathered. A great concourse of
farmers, and citizens from the near-by farms and villages, all
conversant with the details of the affair, came to see the unfortunate
victim.
Peggy saw none of them as she went with leaden feet to the
guard-house. No one said her nay as she took her position by the door.
The guards glanced at her compassionately, awed by the whiteness of
her face, and the awful calmness of her manner. The cousins had come
to be well known in the camp, and there was not a soldier who did not
commiserate the youth's fate.
How fast the moments go when one is expecting a dread event! It seemed
that it could not be time when the drums beat assembly, and the
soldiers filed into place. A squadron of dragoons and a battalion of
soldiers formed in a hollow square. Within their ranks was a cart in
which the prisoner was to be taken to the place of execution. The
bitterness of death fell upon her as she watched for Clifford's
coming. She must be brave. Of all his kindred she alone was there to
bid him a last farewell. That was all of which Peggy was conscious.
She did not know that the military band had taken its position in the
procession, and that the entire Jersey line was forming as for parade.
A stir at the door betokened the coming of the prisoner. The door
opened, and two guards appeared. Behind them, with a guard on either
side, came the unfortunate young man who was to pay the penalty of
another's crime. He was very white, but composed. As the morning
sunlight fell upon him he looked so young, so handsome in his scarlet
uniform, that a murmur of pity rose, and spread among the people. A
mist dimmed the youth's eyes as he caught sight of the little figure
standing by the door. He spoke to one of the guards, then stepped
quickly to her side, stooped, and kissed her.
"Thank you, little cousin," he said. "All is well with me."
With firm step he passed on to go to his ignoble death. As he took his
place in the cart the drums began to beat the dead march, and the
procession moved slowly away. Peggy heard nothing. Her eyes were
fixed on the scarlet coat of her cousin. He did not turn. He did not
look to right, nor to left. Like a brave, gallant gentleman he was
going to his doom. As long as she could see him her eyes followed him.
Her breath came gaspingly as the procession disappeared around a bend
in the road. Her senses reeled. The ground was slipping, slipping----
An exclamation, sharp, penetrating, brought her to herself. The guard
near her had paused in his round, and was gazing at a cloud of dust
which had suddenly appeared on the Morristown road. If it concealed
horsemen they were coming at a furious pace. Curious knots of people
began to cluster in groups to watch its approach. Through Peggy's
dulled apprehension a thrill of interest ran. As the quick beat of
galloping horses sounded on the morning air she started. Hope
electrified her being. Could it be that some one was coming with help
for Clifford? She ran to the road and strained her eyes toward that
approaching cloud of dust. And then, from out of its enveloping
particles three horses emerged. The foremost rider was standing in his
stirrups, and high above his head he waved a flag frantically. A
murmur of excitement stirred the watchers as the sunlight caught the
pure folds of the banner. It was a white flag. A white flag: the flag
of life, of salvation. Peggy shrieked at sight of it. A shriek that
mingled joy with an agony of apprehension lest he be too late. Lest he
be too late! She tore the kerchief from her neck and waved it wildly.
She called to him entreatingly to hurry, hurry, and knew not that her
cries could not be heard. She wrung her hands at her helplessness. On
came the horseman. Nearer and nearer he drew. The horse's flanks were
steaming. His eyes were strained and blood-shot. Blood flecked the
foam flew from his nostrils, but still his rider lashed him to greater
speed. He called to her as he passed: "Which way, Peggy? Which way?"
She raised her hand and pointed toward the bend in the road, and he
thundered on. She had known it was Drayton before he called. She knew
too that her father and Harriet rode behind. Her father come at last!
Peggy was sobbing pitifully now, every vestige of self-control gone.
David Owen brought his horse to a sudden stop as he came opposite
her, stooped, and swung her like a child up in front of him. She clung
to him crying:
"They have taken him, father! They have taken him!"
"Steady, lass! Please God, we'll be in time."
They were beside Harriet now. Harriet who, with pale, set features,
never turned. Her eyes were fixed on John Drayton's flying figure as
though all her hope lay with him. Faster and faster he rode. The white
flag streamed above him. His horse was running like the wind.
The bend in the road was turned at last. Peggy hid her face against
her father's shoulder afraid to look. But---- Clifford? She must know.
She sat up, but at first the crowd was all that she could see. A black
mass of swaying people whose heads were turned in their direction to
see what the commotion portended. The mass parted as Drayton dashed
toward it, leaving a clear path to the cart. And oh, thank heaven!
Clifford sat there safe, safe. The provost-marshal stood with his hand
on the rope, arrested in the very act of performing his awful duty by
John Drayton's hoarse shout:
"Forbear! Forbear in the name of Congress! A reprieve!"