Lucy Foster Madison

“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.