Lucy Foster Madison

“Then call them to our presence. Face to face,
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear
The accuser and accused freely speak.”

—Richard II.

Monday, Second-day in Quaker parlance, dawned. The intense cold had abated though the air remained crisp and keen. A venturesome robin perched upon the bare bough of a cherry tree that grew near one of the sitting-room windows, and gave vent to his short and frequent song. Sally called Peggy’s attention to him.

“Dost hear what he says?” she cried. “Cheer up! Cheer up! Cheer up! ’Tis a harbinger of spring, and flowers, and warmer weather. Who knows but that he brings good luck to us too, Peggy?”

Peggy smiled sadly.

“I hope so,” she made answer. “But oh! I do wish this interview with the Council were over.”

“And so do I,” agreed Sally soberly. “’Twill soon be now, Peggy, for here comes thy mother to call us to get ready.”

“Yes,” spoke Mrs. Owen overhearing the words. “David says that as soon as ye have donned your wraps ’twill be time to go.”

Peggy and Sally were Quaker maidens, well drilled in art of self-repression, so they made no scene as they bade their mothers farewell, and took leave of Nurse Johnson, her son and Robert Dale. In spite of their training, however, their eyes were wet, and neither was able to speak for a few moments after they left the house. Then Sally broke the silence.

“Peggy,” she said, “after this I shall always have the greatest sympathy for the poor wretches who are executed. I feel just as though I was about to be hanged.”

“So do I, Sally. How great a change is wrought by war! A few short years ago neither of us thought to be called before the highest tribunal of the state. How happy we were before this awful war with its weary years of fighting came! Then we had no thought of sorrow, and friend was not against friend, misconstruing every act and deed of kindness.”

“I think I would not pursue that line of talk, lassies,” commented David Owen who walked in front of them. “See how brightly the sun shines! How blue the sky is! Beyond that azure is One in the hollow of whose hand ye are. Have courage.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen,” gasped Sally, stopping abruptly as they reached the walk leading to the State House entrance. “Yes; but what hath happened to the State House? ’Tis so big. I knew not that ’twas so large.”

Peggy stopped too and looked up at the State House, which stood some twenty-five or thirty feet back from the street. It was large, she reflected, its size impressing for the first time in her life with a sense of awe. She had always lived across from the building. Had loved it, and had been proud of the fact that it was deemed the most imposing edifice in the new world; now its aspect was one of forbidding unfamiliarity. David Owen gave them no time to indulge in fears, but hurried them at once along the walk and up the flight of five steps which led to the entry. The door opening into the East Chamber stood ajar. He glanced toward it quickly.

“The Congress is in session,” he remarked. “There are matters of import before it to-day, I hear. His Excellency meets with it.”

Lingering not, though he cast a wishful look toward the room, he led them to the second story of the building, pausing presently before the door of a chamber on the west side.

“I can go no further with ye,” he said sadly. “Ye will have to depend upon yourselves now, but there is naught to fear. Be of good courage, and answer all that is asked of ye with exact truth. And now farewell!”

He turned from them abruptly, and went hastily down the stairs as though he feared that he might give way to emotion. For a brief second the maidens stood, and then the door was opened, and the doorkeeper bade them enter. Summoning all her courage, Peggy grasped Sally’s hand, and went in.

At this time the government of Pennsylvania differed slightly from that of the other states. The old Committee of Safety had merged into what was called The Supreme Executive Council. There was an Assembly, which, in session with the Council, elected a Governor who was called the President of the state, the Vice-president being elected in the same manner. The President was Captain-General, and Commander-in-chief of all of Pennsylvania’s forces, and upon the Council devolved the administrations of all war matters. Its chief executive committees constituted a Board of War and a Navy Board. The former had charge of the land service; the latter of the water, both under the direction of the Council. A very careful and exact account of affairs in the state was kept by means of ward committees in the cities and districts, and any infraction of measures adopted for the public safety was known almost immediately to the Council. It was before this high tribunal that the girls had to appear.

Peggy’s heart sank as they entered the chamber, and she encountered the grave glances of the men assembled there. There were not more than a dozen in session, for the Council was a small body. Some of the members she knew well, others only slightly. They were courteous, kindly men with the best interests of their country at heart, but stern and implacable toward the least infringement of patriotism. And so the girl’s heart beat tumultuously as she advanced timidly toward the platform upon which the President, Mr. Moore, was seated.

He rose as the trembling maidens paused before him, and stood for a moment looking at them in silence. It seemed to Peggy that his glance searched every recess of her heart. She grew pale before his intense gaze, and her eyes fell. Sally, on the contrary, seemed to have recovered her customary composure. She suddenly stood erect, and looked about her. Presently she saw Mr. Jacob Deering, and smiled a greeting. The old gentleman was visibly uneasy under her glance, and opening his snuff-box he took a huge pinch of snuff.

“Margaret Owen.” Peggy started as the unaccustomed appellation fell from the lips of the President. “It hath been brought to the attention of this Council that you have given aid to a prisoner of war. That you have harbored one of the enemy, and have tried to abet his escape. What have you to answer to this charge?”

“’Tis true,” faltered the girl in a low tone.

“When did it occur?”

“Last Sixth-day.”

“Which was Friday, the first day of this month. Was your father at home at the time?”

“Yes,” answered Peggy quickly, “but he knew naught of it.”

“And did you not know that it was a misdemeanor to succor one of the enemy?”

“Yes, friend; I knew it.”

“You knew that ’twas a misdemeanor, and yet unbeknown to your father you still committed it?” he asked, as though amazed at such duplicity. “Did you not know that such an act might bring suspicion upon him? Did you not know that even though he had given good service to the cause, even that would not avail him if he were suspected of abetting a prisoner’s escape? Whom can we trust since General Arnold failed us?”

Peggy was too full of emotion to be able to do more than nod acquiescence.

“Then if you knew these things, why did you do this?” he demanded, his brow darkening.

“He was my cousin, Clifford Owen,” she told him brokenly. “I could not refuse him shelter in such a storm.”

“Clifford Owen? A son of that Colonel Owen who as a prisoner on parole stayed at your house?”

“Yes,” answered Peggy.

“A brother to that Mistress Harriet Owen who played the spy with our army at Middlebrook, and who while at your house tried to communicate with the enemy at New York and was banished for so doing?”

“Yes,” answered the girl again.

“And to favor one of these cousins you would do that which might cause doubt to be cast upon your father’s patriotism, and bring this friend here under displeasure of this tribunal? This friend who hath served us so nobly as nurse.”

“Thee must not do anything to Sally,” cried Peggy, roused by this speech. “I alone am to blame for everything. None knew that I hid my cousin, and Sally helped only because she saw how greatly I was distressed lest Clifford should be taken. She did not know him, and only helped me out of friendship. Ye must do naught to her. There is no one to blame but me.”

“And do you justify yourself for involving a loyal friend in difficulty by the mere fact that the prisoner was your cousin?” he asked, and the cold incisiveness of his tone made the girl shiver. “You have said that he was your cousin, Margaret Owen, as though that were excuse for disloyalty. Ye have both attended Master Benezet’s school; while there did ye not read of one Junius Brutus, who sentenced his own sons to death when he found them implicated in a conspiracy against the country?”

“Yes, we read of it,” interposed Sally so shrilly that the grave men who composed the semicircle were startled into keen attention. “We read of it, Friend Moore; but does thee think their mother would have done it? I’ve often wondered where Mistress Junius Brutus was. Had he been my husband,” with an impressive shake of her curly head, “I’d have led him a life of it after such an act. ’Twas unnatural and cruel, I think. Of course Peggy hid her cousin. Is she not a female? Think ye that females are made of such stern fiber that a relative, even though he were an enemy, would ask aid and be refused? I don’t believe that there is one of ye but what would do the same thing under like circumstances. Thee has spoken of what I have done for the Cause. Why doesn’t thee mention Peggy’s services? Didn’t she ride in the cold and the storm to inform General Putnam of the spy, Molesworth’s plot? Hasn’t she worked to keep the hands, and the feet, and the backs of the army warm? I don’t believe that another girl in the Union hath knit so many mittens and socks, or made so many shirts as Peggy Owen hath. I can’t begin to tell all she hath done for the Cause; and yet just because she hath regard for her kin, which being a woman she cannot help, ye want to convict her of a misdemeanor. ’Tis monstrous! How can she help softness of heart? Hath she not been taught every First-day to do good to them that despitefully use her? When I first went into nursing I hated the English intensely, and when the wounded were brought in I’d attend to our own soldiers first, no matter how badly the others were hurt. And then one day, Dr. Cochrane said to me: ‘They’re all mothers’ sons, Miss Sally. Somewhere, some woman is waiting and praying for each one of them. Our own boys might be in like predicament with the enemy. Treat them as you would like our own treated.’ Since then,” Sally continued half crying, “I’ve tended them all alike—American or English, French or Hessian.”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Jacob Deering, as the maiden’s voice broke. Like a flash she turned upon him.

“Thee has a niece, Kitty, hasn’t thee, Friend Deering?” she cried.

“Why, so I have, Miss Sally. So I have.”

“And she married an Englishman, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” he answered with a bewildered air. “Yes, she did.”

“Now, Friend Deering,” she cried, shaking her finger at him earnestly, “just suppose that Kitty’s Englishman had come to thy house for shelter last Sixth-day, when it was so cold and stormy that thee would feel bad if the house cat was left outside? Suppose he had come asking for shelter? Would thee be any the less a friend to thy country if thee should listen to the dictates of humanity and give him shelter?”

“Bless my soul!” ejaculated Mr. Deering, again helping himself liberally to snuff. “Bless my soul!”

“Wouldn’t thee give him shelter?” persisted she. “Wouldn’t thee, Friend Deering?”

“Zounds! Of course I would,” he cried. “Englishman, or not. No matter what he was, I would turn no man from my door on such a day.”

“Of course thee wouldn’t,” she cried in a blaze of indignation. “Yet thee and thy fellows here want to indict Peggy and me for the very thing ye would do yourselves. Shame on ye!”

“Indict ye!” cried the old gentleman, getting to his feet with the agility of a youth. “Indict ye!” he roared, shaking his fist at the council belligerently. “If any man dares to indict so much as a hair of your pretty heads he shall answer to Jacob Deering.”