Lucy Foster Madison

“... 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 AndrÉ. 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!”