Lucy Foster Madison

“Say, what is honor! ’Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offense
Suffered or done.”

—Wordsworth.

At these words Peggy was much frightened, for she thought at once that they had fallen into the hands of the pine robbers. For the briefest second Clifford sat passive, then he let his riding whip fall in a stinging blow on the face of the fellow who held his bridle. With a howl of rage the man fell back, but sprang forward again as the youth, seizing the rein of Peggy’s little mare, attempted to make a dash for liberty. Had he been alone the effort might have succeeded, but hampered with a second horse the attempt was futile. The cousins were again surrounded, and Clifford was dragged unceremoniously from his saddle. He struggled fiercely with his assailants, managing to shake them off so as to reach Peggy’s side just as one ruffian was about to lift her from Star’s back.

“Away, sirrah!” he cried haughtily. “I will assist my cousin.”

“As you will, captain,” answered the man, falling back respectfully.

“Captain!” The cousins exchanged glances of surprise as the title fell from the man’s lips. What could it mean? Both of them were puzzled, but neither made any comment. Resistance to such a superior force was useless. Their captors were heavily armed, and Clifford, of course, had no weapons. Now as the leader issued a command to march the youth spoke:

“What is the meaning of this outrage? What do you want with us?”

“Young man,” returned the leader in a strong determined voice, “there is no personal harm designed either to you, or to the lady. If you remain silent and quiet you may reckon on good treatment; but if you resist——” He did not complete the sentence, but touched his pistol significantly.

“I see no help for it, Peggy,” said Clifford grimly. “We shall have to go with them; though for what purpose I know not. Aside from our horses we have naught of value——”

“Peace,” cried the leader harshly. “We can’t stand here all day. Forward, march!”

And with this the party started on a brisk walk. Two men walked in front of the cousins; two on each side, and the others brought up the rear, two of them leading the horses. The glen at this point became fuller of trees, and the road overgrown by a tangle of underbrush. Presently it dwindled until it became a narrow foot-path, disappearing in the distance in a mass of brushwood. It would have been impossible to pass over the path mounted, and the reason for leaving the saddle was now apparent. There were still short stretches which gave evidence that the road had been a well used thoroughfare at some former time, but now abandoned. This was, in truth, what had occurred, as it had been the road to the copper mines.

Notwithstanding the fact that they were afoot and were using precautions their persons more than once came into contact, rudely enough, with the projecting stumps and branches which overhung the pathway. At length the party emerged from the glen, and turned off into a road which seemed narrower, and more overgrown with underbrush than the one just left. After a distance of perhaps a half mile they came into a cleared space of considerable extent. In the center of this space stood a large frame building whose courtyard, stables, and other appurtenances proclaimed it an inn. It might have been a prosperous and well patronized hostelry at one time, but at present it bore every appearance of neglect and decay.

Neither Peggy nor Clifford had been beyond the glen, and neither had heard of this tavern, so they looked at it now with much curiosity, for it seemed to be the objective point of their captors. As they entered the courtyard a boy came forward, and took charge of the two horses without speaking. It was as though he had been watching for their coming. On the piazza an elderly woman, evidently the hostess, bustled at once to Peggy’s side with the obvious intention of taking her in charge. Clifford drew Peggy’s arm within his own in a determined manner.

“My cousin stays with me,” he said. “She goes not out of my sight.”

“What nonsense!” ejaculated the leader angrily. “Did I not say that no harm was intended either of you? The girl will be all right.”

“I think so too, my cousin,” said Peggy after a glance at the landlady’s face. She was not ill looking, and the maiden was no longer afraid.

“It may be,” answered Clifford. “To be sure I shall keep you where I shall be certain of the fact.”

“Very well,” said the leader shrugging his shoulders. “’Tis not my affair. Step in here, captain.”

Again the cousins wondered, but without a word they entered the room indicated. There was no one within, and for the moment they were alone. Peggy turned toward him quickly.

“What does thee think of it all, Clifford?” she cried.

“I have a strong suspicion as to who is responsible,” he answered with darkening brow, “but we shall see.”

Just at this moment the door opened precipitately to admit one at whom Peggy stared, then rubbed her eyes to look again; for it was Harriet Owen.

“At last, my brother,” she cried advancing toward him and throwing her arms about his neck. “We have you at last. Oh, won’t the rebels howl when they find their victim gone?”

“Harriet!” Clifford unclasped her arms, and held her so that he might look at her. “I feared this. What is the meaning of this?”

“It means life, liberty, freedom, my brother,” she cried exultingly. “I planned it all, though I did of a truth have assistance. I had spies who found that you were permitted to ride about the country. I kept a watch for several days that I might have you brought here.”

“For what purpose?” he asked coldly. “You could have seen me by coming to Chatham.”

“Chatham?” she answered impatiently. “Clifford, don’t you understand? I could not come to Chatham, because I failed. Sir Guy will not give up that Captain Lippencott to the rebel general. Sir Guy! Poof! I weary of him!” She gave her foot an impatient stamp. “Why should he shield a refugee when an English officer’s life is at stake? And I have helped to further his plans too, my brother. I carried goods into Lancaster for him, contraband they were. ’Tis the plan now to subdue the Americans by their love of indulgences, and by so pampering them draw out the money from the country. When all is gone they must surrender. War cannot be carried on without money. I helped him in his plan, I say, and now he will not do this for me.”

“And that wagon with the false bottom was where those goods were?” he said. “Harriet, how could you do it? With Cousin David who hath been so kind to you in charge of that work of detection.”

“I did not know that he was there, Clifford. As for the false bottom in the wagon, I knew naught of that, as I said. I was not told of that. It was a——”

“A cask in a barrel of vinegar,” put in Peggy quietly. “John found it, Harriet, but he did not speak of it to father, or Robert, or thy brother here.”

“John Drayton found it?” she cried, amazed. “Why, how did he come to look in the vinegar?”

“I think ’twas something that thee said which caused him to be suspicious, Harriet. So thee sees that that part of thy general’s plan hath failed.”

“I am glad of it,” cried Harriet. “Glad! Glad! He would not help me. He will only investigate further. And General Washington will wait no longer when he has heard from him. Clifford, you need too much explanation. The time hath come to act.”

“Do I understand that you are responsible for having us brought to this place?” he asked.

“Yes, oh, yes,” she answered hastily. “Only Peggy was not to come in here. She was to be kept in another room, and after all was over she was to be returned to camp.”

“After what was over, my sister?” His voice was cold, but Harriet did not seem to notice it.

“Your escape, Clifford. Come, we have no time to lose. Fresh horses await us in the stables, saddled and bridled ready for instant use. Here are clothes for a disguise. Don them, and we leave at once. We are to make a wide dÉtour to the north of Chatham, reaching the Passaic River again at Newark. A boat will be there in the bay to take us to New York. It cannot fail if we start now.”

“And Peggy?” he questioned so calmly that she should have taken alarm from the quietness of his voice.

“Peggy is to go back to Chatham, and tell the rebels they may seek another victim,” she replied gleefully.

“Peggy to go back to face Colonel Dayton with information that I have escaped?” he cried, amazement written on every feature.

“She was not to know it, Cliff, but you would have her to come in here. Beside, they wouldn’t harm her. She is a Whig herself, remember. Oh, she may come with us,” she added as his brow grew dark. “Only, Clifford, we must make haste. The longer start we have the better chance we stand of success.”

“Who are those men that brought us here?”

“Hirelings,” she cried. “Of course I paid them well. Don’t ask so many questions, Cliff. They are natives from near here. They will do anything I ask.”

“Come, Peggy,” he said rising. “We are going back. Not all the hirelings in the world shall make me break my parole.”

“Clifford, ’tis not the time for quixotic foolishness. Do you not understand that Sir Guy hath sent word to General Washington that he will investigate further? General Washington does not want that. He wants Lippencott, or, failing him, a victim. He will wait only so long as it takes Sir Guy’s letter to reach him. It means death, Clifford. An ignominious death.”

“And do you know that you are asking me to break my parole, my sister? That you are asking me to break my word of honor? That you wish me to betray the trust reposed in me by a chivalrous foe?”

“A chivalrous foe!” she scoffed. “Is it chivalrous to slay the innocent for the guilty? I tell you, Clifford, that truly as you live I have taken the only way to save you. You are justifiable in breaking any word given under such circumstances. Is life of so little worth that you do not care for it? What hath rendered you so indifferent?”

“Life without honor hath no charm for me, my sister,” he returned solemnly. “A parole is more binding upon a soldier than ropes of steel, or chains of iron would be. Men have broken paroles, but when they do they no longer are esteemed by honorably minded men. Such are poltroons, cowards. I will not be of their number. A truce to this talk! If I am to die, I will die as a soldier, blameless and of spotless reputation.”

“Clifford,” she entreated him earnestly, “’tis the only hope. You have already broken your parole in passing the prescribed limits of the rides. I had regard for your scruples by having you brought here. And now, since you are here through no fault of your own, you can take advantage of the fact to escape.”

“Sophistry,” he uttered shortly. “That is no salve to the conscience, Harriet.”

“But the death, my brother?” She was very white for Clifford was moving toward the door. “’Tis no way for a gentleman to die.”

“The mode is not at all to my liking, my sister,” he answered gravely. “Hanging is not, in very truth, a death for a gentleman; still a man may be a gentleman though he be hanged.”

He put his hand on the door-knob and turned again toward Peggy. But Harriet uttered a cry of anguish.

“I’ll never see you again, Clifford,” she cried. “And father will be broken-hearted. He helped me in this.”

“Harriet!” he cried. “Do not ask me to believe that Colonel Owen prefers his son’s life to his son’s honor? I’ll not believe it.”

“Believe what you will, my brother, only come with me,” and she clung to him pleadingly. “I’ll call those men, Clifford.”

“You shall not, Harriet,” he answered putting her aside. “Instead get your own horse and come back with us.”

“I cannot, Clifford. I must see our father. Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

But Clifford turned from her, saying coldly:

“You have wounded me too deeply, my sister.”

“Clifford, thee must not leave thy sister so,” interposed Peggy. “Mistaken she may be in her efforts for thy liberty, but ’tis done through love for thee. ’Twould be monstrous to leave her unkindly!”

“I mean not to be unkind, my cousin,” he returned. “But consider my feelings when my own sister hath tried to put me in a position that would reflect upon mine honor.”

“Thee must not be too hard on her, Clifford. Women do not regard such things as men do. When their affections are bestowed all else is subordinated to them. Doth a mother, a sister, a wife cease to love when man hath lost his honor? I tell thee such things seem different to us. Thy sister hath intended thee no wrong. ’Tis because of her love for thee that she hath done this.”

“True, Peggy,” came from Harriet brokenly. “True.”

“Peggy,” cried Clifford in astonishment. “Such words from you who are the soul of honor? You would not ask me to do this.”

“No; but ’tis because of my upbringing, Clifford. I have been taught that a word once passed must be kept. That a promise must not be broken. Therefore, I understand why thee would prefer death to the breaking of thy parole. I am proud that thee feels as thee does about it. I am prouder still that even thy sister cannot tempt thee to break thy word great as is thy love for her. Yet underneath it all I have a heart of a woman, and that heart aches for thy sister.”

“’Fore George!” murmured the youth gazing from one to the other in perplexity. “I never dreamed of this. I thought of course that such things were regarded alike by both sexes. I——” He passed his hand over his brow thoughtfully. Then his expression softened. “I have much to learn. Harriet!” And he opened his arms.

“My brother,” she cried. “My wonderful brother! And you will go with me?”

“No,” he answered while he kissed her. “No, Harriet. However such things may appear to you, for me there is but one course: I must return. But come with us.”

“I cannot, Clifford. I must go back to father.”

“Then I must leave you, because we have been long, too long away from camp. And now good-bye!”

“Something may yet come up to save him, Harriet,” whispered Peggy as Harriet followed them weeping to the piazza.

“No,” she said disconsolately. “This was the only hope, Peggy. Everything hath been done that can be done. I shall never see him again.”

There was no one about. Long afterward Peggy found that this state of things had been prearranged in order that the inmates of the inn might not be held responsible when Clifford’s flight should be discovered. Clifford himself brought their horses from the stables. Silently they mounted, then turned for a last word with Harriet. But she had sunk upon the steps of the porch, and with her face buried in her hands, was sobbing in heart-breaking accents:

“Clifford! Clifford! Clifford!”