Lucy Foster Madison

“The state that strives for liberty, though foiled
And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,
Deserves at least applause for her attempt,
And pity for her loss. But that’s a cause
Not often unsuccessful.”

—“The Task,” Cowper.

Peggy was nearly blinded by the sudden rush of snow and wind that followed the opening of the great front door, and so for the moment did not recognize the two, a man and a woman, who stood there on the steps.

“Will ye enter, friends?” she asked courteously. “’Tis a fearful storm!”

“That it is, Peggy. We are mighty glad to reach shelter. Come, Fairfax! I told you that we should be welcome.”

“Nurse Johnson,” shrilled the girl in delight. “Why, come right in. Welcome? Of course thee is welcome. And thou also, Friend Fairfax. Why, we were speaking of thee but now. Mother, ’tis Friend Nurse, from Virginia.”

“Come in, Friend Johnson,” spoke Mrs. Owen warmly, coming in haste from the sitting-room. “Thee must be cold. ’Tis dreadful weather. Let me help thee with thy wraps.”

“I was getting pretty cold,” acknowledged Nurse Johnson. “We were on our way to the Jerseys, where my sister hath taken a farm. We thought to get to Burlington to-night, but the storm made traveling so difficult that I told Fairfax that I made no doubt you would put us up until ’twas over.”

“’Twill give us great pleasure, Friend Nurse—I should say, Friend Johnson,” answered Mistress Owen graciously. “We have heard Peggy talk of thee so much that we have fallen into her way of speaking of thee.”

“Continue so to call me, Mrs. Owen. I like it,” declared Nurse Johnson heartily.

“Peggy, see thou to the dishing up of the dinner, while I attend our friends,” spoke her mother. “We were just on the point of taking it up when ye came,” she explained. “Hot pepper-pot will warm ye better than anything.”

“Isn’t that our Silent Knight?” queried Betty, in a shrill whisper as Peggy was passing through the room.

“Yes, Betty. Shall I place him by thee at table?”

“See how she is priming for conquest,” remarked Sally as Betty, nodding acquiescence, began unconsciously to smooth her hair. “She must tell us every word he says; must she not, Robert?”

“Of a verity,” smiled the young man, his amusement plainly visible.

“I think thee has met with every one, Friend Nurse,” observed Mrs. Owen entering at this moment with the new arrivals. “David ye know, of course. Sally and Betty ye met last year. Robert? No; ye do not know him. Robert Dale, of the army, Nurse Johnson. And this is Fairfax, her son, Robert. Ye should be good friends, as ye have both fought for the country.”

“Thou hast forgot to give Robert his rank, Lowry,” spoke Mr. Owen as the young men shook hands. “Friend Johnson, have this chair. Thou wilt find it easy and quite comfortable.”

“Thy pardon, Robert,” exclaimed Mrs. Owen. “I do not always remember that thou art Major Dale.”

“I do not always remember it myself, madam,” returned the youth modestly. “And I wish to be Robert to you always.”

“How these children grow!” exclaimed Nurse Johnson sinking into the easy chair with a sigh of content. “It hardly seems possible that Fairfax is more than a boy; yet here he is a captain in the army.”

“A captain?” ejaculated Peggy in surprise.

“Yes; it does seem strange, doesn’t it? You see he served with the militia in Virginia during the last few years, and I presume would have stayed with it; but his uncle, my sister’s husband, persuaded him to enlist with the regular army. He said that if he would enroll himself among the New Jersey troops he would get him a commission as captain, which he did. That is one of the reasons we are going to New Jersey.”

“Thou wilt find it very comfortable here on the settle, Captain Johnson,” spoke Betty sweetly, drawing her skirts aside with such an unmistakable gesture that Fairfax, flushing hotly, was obliged to seat himself beside her.

Peggy’s glance met Sally’s with quick understanding.

“I will help thee, Peggy,” said Sally, rising. “Nay; we do not need thee, Mrs. Owen. Didst ever see Betty’s equal?” she questioned as they reached the kitchen.

Peggy laughed.

“Sally, she will never make him talk in the world,” she declared. “Thou and I will have a good laugh at her when ’tis over. ’Twill give a fine chance to tease.”

“’Tis just like a party,” cried Betty as, a little later, they were gathered about the table. “’Tis charming to meet old friends! And everybody is here save thy cousins, Clifford and Harriet, Peggy. Oh, yes! and Captain Drayton.”

“Captain Drayton is to go to Lancaster too, I understand,” remarked Mr. Owen. “Did thee know, lass?”

“No, father. I thought he was still with General Greene. He returned to him after Yorktown.”

“Yes, I know. This is but a recent arrangement. I shall be glad to have him at Lancaster. He is good help in a matter of the nature we shall find there.”

“And the cousins?” inquired Nurse Johnson. “Did they go to New York from Yorktown? I have wondered anent it.”

“Harriet went with Cousin William to New York; but Clifford was sent somewhere into the interior with the men. Thee remembers that all the majors and captains accompanied the men, to look after their welfare and to maintain discipline,” explained Peggy.

“I rather liked Clifford,” remarked the nurse. “He certainly earned our gratitude, Peggy, by protecting us when the British came to Williamsburgh. Did Peggy tell you about it, Mrs. Owen?”

“Yes; and so much else concerning the lad that I find myself quite anxious to see him,” answered Mrs. Owen. “Peggy declares that he should have been her brother instead of Harriet’s. He looks so much like David.”

“I think I agree with her. The resemblance is remarkable. But why did he go under the name of Captain Williams? I never did understand it.”

“’Twas because he went into the army without his father’s permission,” Peggy told her. “He feared that if he came to America under his own name Cousin William might use his influence to have him returned to England. ’Tis generally known, however, that he is Colonel William Owen’s son, though he is called Captain Williams.”

“Well, I hope the lad is well treated wherever he may be,” said the nurse musingly. “I should not like harm to befall him; he was so considerate of us. What is the outlook for another summer, Mr. Owen?”

“The general is preparing for another campaign, Friend Johnson. The preparations are proceeding slowly, however, owing to the exhaustion of the country. Then, too, every state seems afraid of bearing more than its share of the war. There is much disinclination to vigorous exertion. His Excellency is pleading and entreating that the people may not let the late success of our arms render them insensible to the danger we still face. There is talk of a new commander for the British, I hear. Meantime, our coasts are harassed by the enemy, and our commerce is all but stopped. Could the general have followed out his wish, and laid siege to Charlestown after the success at Yorktown, we need not have prepared for another campaign.”

And so the talk went on. It was never in the character and traditions of England to treat with an enemy in the hour of disaster. In its history treaties had, from time immemorial, followed upon victory, never upon defeat. It was therefore necessary as well as politic to grasp the full fruits of the brilliant success at Yorktown, and Washington, with the vigor which was one of the most striking traits of his well balanced nature, wished to carry its consequences to their utmost limit. But the French fleet under De Grasse refused to co-operate longer, and the general was forced to send his army back to the Hudson while he began preparations for another campaign. Meantime, the illicit trade assumed proportions that threatened to undo everything that had been gained by force of arms.

All these things were discussed, and Nurse Johnson gave them the latest news of the army in the South: General Greene had completely invested Charlestown, she said. General Wayne had been sent to Georgia and now lay before Savannah. The capitulation of the two places seemed but a question of time. The French still lay about Williamsburgh, having chosen that place for their winter quarters. It was reported that they would go north with the opening of spring. In turn, Mr. Owen told of the numerous raids that had been made, principally by refugees along the coast, the capture of the merchantmen, and the war at sea. Under cover of the conversation of their elders, Peggy was amused to see that Betty was talking animatedly to Fairfax Johnson. Presently, the dinner was finished, and she found herself alone in the dining-room with her girl friends.

“Peggy, thee maligned Captain Johnson,” declared Betty closing the door of the sitting-room. “Get me a towel, Sally. We will both wipe the dishes.” She polished a plate vigorously as she continued: “I found him most entertaining. He and his mother are going to northern New Jersey, where his aunt and uncle have a large farm. Plantation, he calls it. They grew very tired of being with the military so much at Williamsburgh, though no one could desire better troops than the allies. They intend to make their home in New Jersey if they like it. His aunt hath but one son, who is with the military on Tom’s River.”

Peggy gazed at her with an expression of the most intense astonishment.

“He told thee all that, Betty?” she exclaimed. “Why, thee is wonderful! In all the six or seven months that I knew him I never heard him say so much.”

“He needs just a little encouragement,” said Betty complacently. “He is really quite interesting. I enjoyed the conversation greatly. Sally Evans, whatever is the matter?”

“Oh! oh!” screamed Sally. “She enjoyed the conversation greatly. I should think she would. Why, she did all the talking. Robert and I commented upon it. Oh, Betty! Betty!”

“I did not do all the talking,” retorted Betty indignantly. “How could I have learned all the things I have said if I did the talking?”

“The conversation went like this, Peggy,” giggled Sally: “‘Is the farm a large one that thy aunt hath taken, Friend Fairfax?’ ‘Yes,’ answers he. Then Betty with a smile: ‘I believe Southerners call a farm a plantation, do they not?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is being with the military so much the reason thou and thy mother left Williamsburgh?’ ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘It really must be tiresome,’ goes on Betty, ‘though it hath been said that the French are exceedingly well behaved troops. Does thee not think so, Friend Fairfax?’ ‘Yes,’ he said once more. And that is the way the whole conversation went. I don’t believe the poor fellow said anything else but that one word, yes.”

“He did,” declared Betty with heat. “I remember quite distinctly that once he said, ’It doth indeed;’ and—and—oh! lots of other things. Ye are both just as mean as can be. And he did listen most attentively. I really enjoyed the talk, as I said.”

“I’ll warrant thee did,” laughed Peggy while Sally was convulsed with mirth. “I think thee did well, Betty. Thou art to be congratulated.”

“There, Sally Evans,” cried Betty. “I knew that Peggy would think about it in the right way.”

“Listen to her,” sniffed Sally. “Didst ever hear the like? Betty,” she ejaculated suddenly, “thee should not have helped with the dishes in such a gown. Thee has got a spot on it. This is no place for a belle. Suppose that thee goes back into the sitting-room now, and find out some more of Master Fairfax’s plans.”

“So thee can have a chance to talk me over with Peggy?” questioned Betty scornfully. “I don’t see any spot.”

“Here it is,” answered Sally, lifting a fold of the pink paduasoy on which a small spot showed darkly. “It may be just water, which will not stain. I should not like anything to happen to that gown. Thee looks so charming in it.”

“Thank thee, Sally,” said Betty examining the spot critically, quite mollified by Sally’s compliment. “I think ’twill be all right when ’tis dry. It might be as well, though, to go back to the sitting-room. I dare say they are wondering what hath become of us. Thee will come too, will thee not?”

“Yes, go; both of you,” said Peggy, picking up the dish-pan, and starting for the kitchen. “I will come too in a few moments. No, Sally, thee cannot help in the kitchen. Sukey and I will finish the pots and pans. It won’t take long. And thee needs to be there to keep Betty in order,” she ended merrily.

“Well, if thee won’t be long,” agreed Sally reluctantly.

Both girls passed into the sitting-room, while Peggy proceeded to the kitchen. As has been said, the kitchen was attached to the main dwelling by a covered entry way. On one side of this was a door leading out to the west terrace, which, the girl noticed, was partly open.

“No wonder ’tis hard to keep the kitchen warm with that door open,” she cried. “That must be some of Tom’s carelessness. I must speak to him.”

She put down the dish-pan on the wash bench, and went to the door to close it. As it resisted her efforts to shut she stepped outside to see what the trouble was. A startled ejaculation left her lips as the form of a man issued from behind it.

“What does thee wish, friend?” demanded Peggy sternly. “Why does thee not come to the door like an honest man instead of sneaking behind it? I shall call my father.”

“Don’t, Peggy,” came in low tones from the man. “I was watching for you. Will you shelter an escaping prisoner, my cousin?”

“Clifford!” she cried in amazement. “Oh, Clifford!”