*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 62181 ***

[Illustration: “This is a great pleasure to see you again.”]




  ARNOLD’S
  TEMPTER

  _By_
  Benjamin F. Comfort

  [Illustration]

  THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
  1908




  COPYRIGHT, 1908
  BY
  THE C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO.
  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
  U. S. A.

  All Rights Reserved




  _Dedicated to
  My Wife
  A. C. C._




ILLUSTRATIONS


  _Frontispiece_, “This is a great pleasure to see you again”

                                                               _Page_

  Mollie Greydon                                                   34

  Two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks
  of the Wingohocking                                             148

  “Have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and
  occupation?” quizzed the old man                                178

  Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out      222

  Captain Risk engaged two seamen, cutlass in one hand
  and pistol in the other                                         275

  She noticed how longingly he watched her depart                 333

  Mollie put down her needle-work and ran to meet her             360




ARNOLD’S TEMPTER




CHAPTER I


Roderick Barclugh was invited to dine with the FitzMaurices and
Benedict Arnold was to meet him.

The arrival in Philadelphia of a gentleman with credentials from Dr.
Franklin to the Secretary of Congress, who had much influence with the
French Court, and who had bills of exchange for twenty thousand pounds
sterling created stirring comment among the fashionables. He was to
meet without delay the choice spirits on the inside of Philadelphia’s
aristocratical party.

Robert FitzMaurice’s mansion, to which had been made great additions,
to suit the tastes of the new proprietor, was an old Colonial landmark.
The ambition of this merchant prince and financier had ever been to
establish his family and his fortunes under the English system of
aristocracy, upon such a grand scale of magnificence that he could
claim all the blandishments of a crest and a title which, of course,
belong to a person of substance. His entertainments were numerous,
and there gathered all the intriguers in and out of Congress,--those
who sanctioned the Revolution on political grounds but who shuddered
at the utterance of the word ‘democracy.’ The clergy, the judiciary,
the lawyers, the knights-errant and the financiers, found congenial
atmosphere and hospitality in this house; for schemes were there laid
to win independence, but, once won, the English Constitution and its
institutions of aristocracy and finance were the only safeguards of
prosperity and liberty which the common people should consider.

Upon the occasion of the dinner for Roderick Barclugh, the guests most
suitable for an affair of such financial and political importance were
to be Judge Shippen and his charming daughter, Bessie; General Arnold
and his bride, formerly Miss Peggy Shippen; Reverend Mr. White, Rector
of St. Peter’s and brother to Mrs. FitzMaurice; Thomas Milling and Mrs.
Milling; Mr. Wilson, a lawyer, and chief coadjutor in aristocratic
plans. Besides the foregoing, Colonel Hamilton, the aide of General
Washington, being in Philadelphia on business, and Roderick Barclugh
completed the list of the older set. A bevy of young and attractive
belles of the day were invited to give spirit to the party. These
were Miss Chew, daughter of Judge Chew, a suspected Tory; Miss Logan,
a representative of an old and distinguished Quaker family; and Miss
Greydon, a beauty and wit, who, by the way, was the only personage
present of advanced democratic belief.

At half-past five the coach-and-four of General Arnold rolled into the
_porte cochere_ of the FitzMaurice mansion, and the General, dressed
with wine-colored coat and knee breeches, buckles and velvet waistcoat,
lace frills in his sleeves and bosom, gallantly escorted his young and
brilliant wife up the steps into the spacious hallway.

Roderick Barclugh arrived with Mr. Wilson in the latter’s carriage.
Liveried lackeys bowed and scraped at every turn as the guests arrived
and retired to the dressing-rooms, and afterwards presented themselves
to the hostess and host in the reception room. The elegant apparel and
polished manners of Roderick Barclugh impressed everybody present with
a feeling that he was a man of affairs.

As General Arnold came into the room bearing on his arm Mrs.
Arnold,--blushing, beautiful and _distingue_--, both stepping up
urbanely to greet the hostess and host, Roderick Barclugh read family
domination in the hauteur and firm mouth of the young dame.

As the hostess turned to Roderick Barclugh she said:

“General Arnold, may I present to you and Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Barclugh?”

Roderick Barclugh bowed twice, very low, and Mrs. Arnold took pains to
say most cordially:

“It is with much pleasure we meet you, Mr. Barclugh,” as she smiled
most sweetly and passed on to the other part of the room to greet
friends.

Colonel Hamilton and Roderick Barclugh were the only ones who were not
intimately acquainted with every one else, so the party at once took on
a most free and jolly air. The young ladies at once lionized Colonel
Hamilton, who was a very popular beau of his time. Miss Greydon was
already making a few good-natured sallies at the Colonel.

Mr. Wilson held the attention of Roderick Barclugh by saying:

“Why, sir, Congress has had so many hot-headed and rabid Democrats that
the people of wealth and substance in the Colonies have dreaded the
issue of the Revolution for fear that the rabble and ignorance of the
country would rule,--in fact, I have no love for the so-called inherent
rights of the people, sir.”

“But why are the influential people of substance encouraging the
Revolution then, if they can see nothing except disorder and anarchy
result therefrom?” was the inquisitive rejoinder of Barclugh.

“Why, sir, those New England delegates under Samuel Adams and
the Southern delegates under Thomas Jefferson were so rabid that
Robert FitzMaurice and myself and our party of conservatives in the
Continental Congress were overwhelmed and compelled to sign the
Declaration of Independence. We did so reluctantly and after a bitter
contest, for the commercial and Quaker interests of Philadelphia
opposed the declaration. If the commercial interests of our country
could have the decision, there would have been no Declaration of
Independence. We would have settled our differences amicably with King
George, maintained our allegiance to the British Crown, and held the
Colonies under the British Constitution,” was the dramatic response of
the Philadelphia lawyer.

“Yes, and every one of you would bargain away your rights as free men
for the sake of so-called commercial interests, which will breed a
class of tyrants more potent than kings,” was the spirited retort of
Miss Greydon, who had been an attentive listener to the doctrines of an
advocate who, she knew, was paid for his opinions.

“Well, well, at politics already! Why it seems, Mr. Barclugh, as though
the Americans were born for politics,--even the ladies have their
opinions,” laughingly remarked the host as he offered his arm to Mrs.
Milling, and then turned to the guests with the words:

“James announces dinner.”

The hostess escorted Mr. Barclugh to Mrs. Arnold for her dinner
partner, and General Arnold to Miss Chew. Colonel Hamilton was selected
to accompany Miss Greydon, and the Reverend Mr. White, Miss Logan. Mr.
Wilson offered his arm to Miss Shippen and then Mr. Thomas Milling his
to the Rector’s wife, Mrs. White. The hostess graciously took the arm
of the eldest of the guests, Judge Shippen, and led the party to table
in the spacious dining-hall.

Mrs. Arnold at once put Roderick Barclugh at his ease by entering into
a lively conversation. Her young and gay spirits shone out serenely as
she said:

“I do wish, Mr. Barclugh, that this horrid war were ended, so that we
could once more live in peace and enjoy our homes and society. Do you
not think some good man could convince the best Americans of the folly
of their cause? Why, I believe I could if I were a man,” as she archly
tossed her head smilingly toward her escort.

“You could charm them into your way of thinking, madam, at all events.
I believe seriously, however, much might be gained for society by such
a course. Against such resources as the Bank of England controls, this
war does seem a hopeless task,” concluded Barclugh.

At table the Reverend Mr. White invoked the divine blessing upon the
assembled guests and prayed that “the havocs of war would cease by the
intercession of the divine wisdom; that the mother country would be
brought to a just realization of the needs of the Colonies; and that
the Colonies would find their true welfare in the safety and protection
of the British Constitution and laws,”--these were the sentiments of
the Chaplain of Congress expressed in private.

Mrs. FitzMaurice watched Colonel Hamilton’s face to ascertain how
these sentiments of her reverend brother affected one so close to the
Commander-in-Chief, but seeing that the Colonel was very enthusiastic
in paying his gallantries to the bevy of young ladies around him, she
became convinced that the British Constitution had Hamilton’s good will.

The hostess turned to Colonel Hamilton, however, and remarked:

“Now, Colonel, we know that you get to see the young ladies very seldom
from your camp, but, come, do let us hear of the Commander-in-Chief,
and what the news is about him.”

“Indeed, madam, I beg your forbearance,” replied Hamilton, “General
Washington is quite well, but he feels very much discouraged. He
complains bitterly about the principal men of the Colonies being
detained at home by private and Colonial affairs, so that the
responsible positions of Congress have fallen into the hands of
incapable and indifferent men. Everything drifts aimlessly along, while
many of our able men retire from Congress in order to prosecute schemes
for private gain instead of devoting their energies to the welfare of
the nation.”

Robert FitzMaurice took a lively interest in the last few remarks and
spiritedly replied:

“Yes, I presume we ought to ruin ourselves for the benefit of an
irresponsible government. Even though we gain our independence, the
government will be dominated by the rabid Whigs in whom we can have
no confidence. There will be no stability of government under such
demagogues as Samuel Adams and Thomas Jefferson. There will be no sound
financial system, nor anything for society to respect but the rag-tag
and bob-tail descended from everywhere and kin to nobody.” As he
concluded the last sally, everybody joined in a general laugh.

“Where could we expect to find any _grandes dames_ or any examples
of gentlemen? We know too well already what would become of a nation
ruled by shopkeepers and bushwhackers. I can see no virtue in the
so-called schemes of self-government; society could never submit to
such indignities. We would have to go to England to escape from such
a rabble,” was the bitter homily of Mrs. Arnold, as she spoke in well
measured language, and showed the fire of her dark eyes, and the charms
of her long lashes and beautiful neck.

“Bravo, madam,” was the challenge of Mr. Wilson, the lawyer, as he
lifted his wine-glass, and all the gentlemen followed to drink to the
sentiments of General Arnold’s blushing bride.

As the General drained his glass, he beamed with satisfaction; the
attention paid his bride tickled the vanity of his nature.

“I am convinced,” remarked Roderick Barclugh, “that if all the ladies
could so successfully convince their friends, the war would soon be
over.”

“Yes, and it will soon be over if Congress does not change for the
better the treatment of the army,”--said Arnold, pointing to himself,
while everybody laughed. “There is no gratitude for soldiers in a
government by the people,” said Arnold.

“You will receive the plaudits of a great people, as an heritage to
your children, General,” slyly, with a chuckle, put in Judge Shippen,
his father-in-law.

“Yes, but applause does not buy bread and butter and pay the bills,
Judge,” was Arnold’s reply.

“But patriots should restrict their needs of money for the sake of
their country,” was the advice of the Reverend Mr. White, the Rector of
St. Peter’s Church.

“Certainly, but patriotism, like patience, ceases to be a virtue when
one’s family must suffer ignominiously as a consequence,” was the
rejoinder of the Commander of Philadelphia.

“But, my dear General,” said Miss Greydon, “what would our cause do if
it were not for the sacrifices of our noble mothers, who say to their
sons: ‘Take this Bible and keep it in your breast as your guide; care
not for me. God will care for the brave and true; pursue your destiny
and return not till the tyrant is driven from our shores,’--like the
Spartan mother who said: ‘Come back with your shield or upon it.’”

“Ah, Miss Greydon,” said Arnold, “such sentiment is very fine, but very
poor business.”

“Ha, ha! that’s it, that’s it. There’s far too much sentiment in our
ideas of government,” said the lawyer, Wilson. “Sentiment can never
overcome Britain’s power and wealth.”

Now that the dinner was well along, and Miss Greydon saw that if any
one was to show loyalty to the cause of the Colonies at this gathering
of choice aristocratic spirits, she must assume the task, thus she
essayed to reply to the lawyer:

“But, Mr. Wilson, the day will be a very sad one for our government
and for our countrymen when we can surrender our cardinal virtues of
patriotism and self-denial in order to let personal gain shape the
destiny of our government. If mere arms and money are more powerful
than the ideas of freedom, of equality and of justice, then wealth and
brute force will rule the world. But if every true American stands
firmly for self-government and an independent system of finance and our
own social relations, Britain can never conquer us. Our nation will
prosper and put Britons to shame for the selfishness and audacity of
their claims. Were I possessed of the powers of an orator, I would not
rest until our Colonies were free to govern themselves in behalf of
human rights--not wealth.”

Everybody looked toward Mrs. Arnold, and those who knew her well
expected an outburst of her fiery nature, but the hostess, feeling
it was now time for the ladies to retire, arose and interposed very
gracefully:

“I think we had better retire in favor of the gentlemen, who can settle
those questions of state by means of wine and song.”

No sooner had the ladies gone, than the host said to the butler at his
side:

“James, you will now bring in the ‘jolly mariner.’”

At once the head waiter appeared bearing a huge punch-bowl laden with a
concoction,--the pride of the host. Besides slices of tropical fruits
and a foundation of rare old Burgundy, it was made smooth with sugar
and Jamaica rum. Then by way of a backbone to “stiffen” it a little,
James had put in a good portion of _Cognac_.

General Arnold had already drunk with everybody whom he could induce;
he was just beginning to feel his importance when the “jolly mariner”
arrived, and glasses were filled; then Arnold gave vent to the toast
nearest his heart. He arose and proposed,

“Here’s success to privateering.”

Standing, everybody drank deeply to this sentiment, for the host was
enriching himself on it, and Arnold hoped to support his extravagance
by it. The punch was so smooth that even the old heads desired another
bumper.

Old Thomas Milling, the head of the host’s trading-firm, was now
beginning to feel rather mellow and when he reflected that privateering
smacked of the gay sea-rover he sang a couple of stanzas of the old
ballad:

  “My name was Captain Kidd,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d,
  “My name was Captain Kidd,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d,
  “I roamed from sound to sound
  “And many a ship I found,
  “That I sank or ran aground,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d;
  “That I sank or ran aground,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d.”

“By George, that punch has the magic in it, Robert, to make Milling
turn loose,” said Wilson.

“Bravo, Milling.”

“Encore, encore.”

“Ha, ha! We’ll have the next,” rang out a medley of voices.

“All’s well, gentlemen, if it pleases you,” continued the old merchant:

  “My name was Captain Kidd,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d,
  “My name was Captain Kidd,
  “When I sail’d, when I sail’d,
  “Farewell to young and old
  “All jolly seamen bold,
  “You’re welcome to my gold,
  “I must die, I must die.
  “You’re welcome to my gold,
  “I must die, I must die.”

“Here’s to the gold, gentlemen, he says we’re welcome--hic--to it,”
said Arnold as he extended a wobbling wine-glass.

“Captain Kidd must have been a bold rover of the seas,” remarked
Roderick Barclugh, “to have been commissioned by the British Admiralty
to clear the seas of pirates and then to have turned to the plundering
himself. I rather admire the audacity of character. His riches would
have made him a great man if he had escaped the gallows, like many
another before and since his time. The riches are what we must have, no
matter so much how they come.”

“Hear, hear, gentlemen,” said Arnold, as he stupidly raised his
wine-glass and drank again, “we _must_ have the riches.”

At this moment the butler came quietly into the room and touching
General Arnold on the arm, delivered a message.

The Commander of Philadelphia took his leave, and everybody smiled as
he made extra efforts to steady his steps out of the room.

While the gentlemen were discussing privateers and the “jolly mariner,”
the ladies had gone to the drawing-room to have coffee served.

Mrs. FitzMaurice by an opportune retirement of the ladies from the
table had evaded an impending storm, for she had known Mrs. Arnold
from girlhood, and saw that a conflict of sentiment between her and
Miss Greydon was inevitable. As the hostess had a premonition of the
impending clash, she thought best to have the scene among the ladies
alone, for they all knew the hysterical temper of the General’s wife.

As soon as the ladies had been seated at the tables for coffee, Mrs.
Arnold’s ire began to gather headway.

“I should think,” she said, “that examples of the Spartan woman were
good enough for the common people, but for the gentry to give up their
birth-rights and fortunes, and to sacrifice themselves and their future
for a miserable system of self-government, such statements are vulgar
and indecent. Why, just to think! General Arnold asked the Committee
on Military Affairs and the Commander-in-Chief to be transferred to
the command of West Point, and thus far they have ignored his request.
Surely he deserves _some_ honors.”

“Why, Mrs. Arnold, I believe the proper thing to do, entertaining such
sentiments toward our principles of free government, instead of seeking
West Point, that General Arnold ought to resign, or in fact join the
other party,” flashed from Miss Greydon’s ready tongue.

“That’s too much. I--I--I can’t stand it. O General! O Papa! I must
leave this room. Somebody, somebody better come here,” shrieked
the General’s wife as the hostess led the unfortunate lady to the
dressing-room, and sent for General Arnold.




CHAPTER II


Bitterness of feeling between the Tories and Whigs was mollified in
Philadelphia by the gayety and social qualities of the French Minister.

M. de la Luzerne had rare social tact. He flattered the Tories and
dazzled the Whigs by fine dinners and balls to which all factions were
invited. The _salon_ of his residence was a favorite meeting-place.
Political feuds and family jars were settled by the benign smiles
and courtesy of the host and hostess. Times were stirring; the
checker-board of war held sway in the drawing-room; the social ills
of the body politic were cured by this representative of the French
monarch, and the Revolution prospered.

As the guests arrived, the liveried butler announced their names in
stentorian tones and Mollie Greydon and her father, Dr. Greydon,
entered when the music was starting for the cotillion. Roderick
Barclugh met Mollie as she came down the staircase, and announced to
her that she was to be his partner since her name by lot fell to him.

“May I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening, Miss
Greydon?” Barclugh asked her.

She had taken a parting glance in the mirror. Her reflected
_pompadour_, ribbons, and the lace handkerchief around her sloping
white shoulders satisfied her. Her bodice was square-cut and her head,
which was stately, poised on a well-rounded neck, added dignity to her
well-formed figure. When she appeared on the staircase and approached
Roderick Barclugh with a firm but elastic step she felt perfectly calm
and comfortably gowned.

“Certainly, Mr. Barclugh,” replied Mollie when asked to dance the
cotillion, “I shall deem it an honor.”

She took her partner’s arm and bowed to Alexander Hamilton, General
Washington’s aide. He was waiting to invite Mrs. Arnold for the
cotillion. Roderick Barclugh’s pulse beat fast with delight, when he
stepped into the ball-room, filled with America’s choicest spirits.
They swiftly passed among the couples, seated in a semicircle, waiting
for the leader to start the dancing; then they sat down, and he began
to talk to his beautiful partner.

Anne Milling, herself a belle, ran over to Mollie and whispered,

“You are fortunate in your lot for a partner. He is simply grand.”

Comte de Noailles was the leader of the cotillion, and his selection of
figures and favors was both bold and unique. His art had been learned
at the French Court, and the Colonists went into ecstacies over his
innovations.

Both Mollie and Mrs. Arnold were dancing in the first figure which was
a complicated affair requiring eight couples. Mrs. Arnold was standing
with her partner, Colonel Hamilton, watching the others when she said:

“Just look at those eyes of Mr. Barclugh,”--and she gave her head a
saucy toss,--“he is simply devouring that young Quakeress.”

“But you know, my dear Madam,” said the Colonel, “Miss Greydon has
had a beautiful life at Dorminghurst. She has cultivated the classics
and is gifted as a linguist. Those accomplishments along with her
personal charms are reflected in every movement of her form, which is
beautiful.”

“Now, Colonel, I am surprised to have you express yourself so
enthusiastically over that young prodigy. She is too ordinary for
me. She makes a companion of a young Indian maiden who lives on her
father’s estate. I believe her name is _Segwuna_ and she has much
influence over Mollie. She also has ideas about the rights of the
people. So there! What can you expect? She knits for the soldiers, and
attends the dairy at Dorminghurst for her mother!”

“Now! Now! Madam Arnold, you do not feel ungrateful--” Hamilton began.

“For my life, I can not see what Mr. Barclugh can see in a girl of her
tastes!” interrupted the General’s wife.

“But,” argued the Colonel, “Mr. Barclugh has seen the jaded life of
rouge and power and _effete ennui_ in Paris and this young, beautiful
and surprising belle of our Colonies appeals to him.”

“Oh, Colonel, you must be in love yourself,” said Mrs. Arnold archly;
“men are such untutored creatures.” She laughed heartily.

“_Salut de la Court!_” called Comte de Noailles, the leader.

The dancers began the merry round which wound up with Mrs. Arnold being
in the _promenade_ with Roderick Barclugh, and Colonel Hamilton with
Mollie Greydon.

“You have a fine partner, Miss Greydon,” remarked Hamilton.

“Really, do you think so?” asked Mollie.

“All the ladies are in ecstacies over him. It is a new face and a title
that attract.”

“You misunderstand me then,” said Mollie.

“But you are the exception that proves the rule,” enjoined the Colonel,
who was handsome in his gay uniform.

“Are men the infallible judges?” parried Mollie.

“When it comes to beauty,” replied the Colonel gayly.

The figure changed and Mollie found herself swinging in the arms of
Roderick Barclugh and out of breath she sat down with a swirl of satin
skirts that showed a dainty slipper.

Now Colonel Hamilton and Mrs. Arnold had a chance for a _tete-a-tete_
as she sat down with a heaving breast which gave effect to her low-cut
corsage of black velvet. Her white hand held a dainty fan which she
used vigorously as she said:

“I must tell you something about Roderick Barclugh. He will some day
have a title, and he is seeking his fortune in privateering. He is
engaged in this business along with FitzMaurice and Milling, and has
twenty thousand pounds sterling to his credit with them.”

“Why, how do you happen to know so much about him,” asked the Colonel.

“General Arnold told me. They have some business ventures in
privateering together. You know, we do not get enough from Congress for
our station.”

“Very true, Madam, but your lot is cast with a man of arms and he must
take the fortunes of war,” said Alexander Hamilton sternly.

“Oh, Colonel, you are so severe!” exclaimed the General’s wife as John
Milling came up and favored her with the next figure in the cotillion.

Little did Mollie and Barclugh know that they were the observed of all
observers in the ball-room. The French Minister came up to them and
shook his finger slyly at Barclugh and said: “_Une fille par excellence
de la belle France_.”

Barclugh colored slightly and rose to give the host a chance to speak
to Mollie and bowed very low. He then made his way to the side of Madam
Arnold.

“This is so sweet of you, _ma chere_, to grace our assembly with
your presence,” smilingly remarked the fat and jolly minister, while
rubbing his hands together nervously. “My compliments to your mama,”
continued the diplomat, “but look out and do not lose your heart to my
countryman, Mr. Barclugh. He is very gay, very gay.” He then passed on
to General Arnold.

“No dancing for you, _mon cher general_, eh?”

“_Certainment! Certainment!_” replied the diplomat as the General
pointed to his wounded knee, a relic of Saratoga.

Mollie now had a chance to pause for a few minutes from the gay whirl
of the dance, but she wished that she had never been allowed the
opportunity. She grew pale as she saw Roderick Barclugh talking with
Mrs. Arnold in a confidential manner. There was just one nod of her
head that spoke volumes to Mollie. Hot and cold tremors coursed through
her veins, for she could not fathom Mrs. Arnold, therefore she was a
mystery to her and Mollie did not like her.

“Is it Tuesday, then?” queried Mrs. Arnold in a voice above the music
of the dance.

“Tuesday,” nodded Barclugh in reply, just loud enough for Mollie to
hear it.

“Pardon me, Miss Mollie,” came from Barclugh as he took his seat, “I
was just making an appointment to ride out with the Commandant and his
wife next Tuesday.”

She made no reply, but looked displeased.

The intermission for refreshments ensued, and instead of going directly
to the tables where the coffee and chocolate were served, Barclugh and
Mollie continued their _tete-a-tete_.

“I missed your presence so much at Dorminghurst when we had our last
tea party, Mr. Barclugh,” said Mollie with much emphasis.

“I am flattered, Miss Greydon,” was all Barclugh could reply. His
manner was agitated.

Barclugh did not know why this mere girl should have such an influence
upon him. She was a surprise to his soul. Used to the artificial
manners of the French Court he could not believe his own eyes when he
beheld such grace of person, stately courtesy and dignity in any living
being as the one before him.

“But, you know, I do not give flattery,” flashed from the pretty lips.

“Maybe, if I stayed away from your tea party you would not care for
that?” queried Barclugh with intensity in his voice.

“Ah, but you know that I said ‘I missed you,’” answered Mollie with a
merry glance over the top of her fan.

At this juncture the Comte de Noailles happened along and urged on the
dancers:

“Here! Here! We need you. Get your partners for the country reel.”

Barclugh and Mollie stopped their confidences and laughed heartily at
each other as they hurried to the refreshment table and returned with
glee for the reel.

The Comte danced with Anne Milling and led the couples out into the
middle of the floor. Eight couples faced each other and the reel began.

“First couple forward and back!”

“Second couple the same!”

The young now had their chance and the dowagers and the old macaronis
filled up the ball-room and looked on with zest and zeal.

Mrs. Arnold while dancing with her partner, Colonel Hamilton, could
not keep her eyes from Roderick Barclugh and Mollie. She was simply
desperate to think that her sister, Bessie, did not have Barclugh for
her evening’s partner. She watched the expression on Barclugh’s face
as he bowed and swung in the changes of the dance, and she was so
preoccupied that when the Comte called:

“First couple up and down the center!”--she did not recognize her
partner’s bow until in self-defense Colonel Hamilton said:

“Pardon me, Madam!”

Startled with her inattention she blushed guiltily and took the
proffered hand of Colonel Hamilton and promenaded up and down between
the lines to the rhythm of the violins and the clapping of hands.

As the turn for Mollie and Barclugh came, it was noticeable to all
how Barclugh beamed with pride as he led Mollie, with her hand raised
high, and in dainty step passed between the merry dancers. He bowed
deferentially as they turned to retrace their steps. Mollie looked all
aglow as she stood _vis-a-vis_ to Barclugh. There was intoxication in
her manner, her face was illumined with success, but no one recognized
this triumph of Mollie Greydon with such envy as Mrs. Arnold. She could
not bear to think Barclugh was lost from _her_ influence.

The reel concluded with the Comte bowing and courtesying to the
onlookers as they applauded. He gave the call for the last figure:

“All join hands forward and back!”

“Salute!”

“Swing!”

Barclugh swung his partner with an abandon that Mollie could not
resist, and then escorted her to Dr. Greydon.

When Mollie had seated herself he finished the evening’s pleasure by
saying to her:

“The dance is the language of love.”




CHAPTER III


On the morning after the assembly Barclugh awoke as though from a
dream. After leaving the French Minister’s mansion he went to his
bachelor’s quarters on Front Street and sat in his chair trying to
dispel the pictures of Mollie Greydon. Reason as he might--that she was
a mere girl and he a man of the world, and he ought not to allow his
fancy to dwell upon affairs of his heart when he had sterner duties to
perform--still the image of that being who had awakened a new life for
him clung to his brain and he could not forget it. It gave him no rest.

But the morning of the following Thursday when he was to see her again,
he bounded out of bed and felt as though he could not wait for the hour
to arrive. To take the carriage to Dorminghurst was his overpowering
desire.

The old Colonial mansion of Dorminghurst had been the scene of many
brilliant receptions; but this one, when Mollie felt that her fate was
to be settled, seemed of far-reaching influence. The servants arranged
the china and the tea-urn on a round mahogany table in the center of
the drawing-room. Tables and chairs arranged for groups of ladies and
gentlemen to sit around and sup their tea and gossip, were placed in
the corners of the large room. Mollie was taking a last look at her
gown when she heard the first carriage rattle along the roadway and
came down the grand staircase to take her place with her parents.

The Greydons held a position of unquestionable influence in the upper
society of Philadelphia. James Greydon, Mollie’s grandfather, had been
Secretary of William Penn, the founder; then deputy Governor, then
executor of Penn’s vast landed estate. Consequently, the Greydons were
lordly proprietors, for the thrifty grandfather had bought his lands
from the Indians. Thus a card for a reception at Dorminghurst became
almost a command.

On this serene afternoon in May the broad avenue of hemlocks seemed
more beautiful than ever. The liveried equipages of the FitzMaurices,
the Millings, the Redmans, the Binghams, the Adamses, the Chews, the
Carrolls, the Pinckneys, the Shippens, the Peterses, the Arnolds came
rolling up to the pillared entrance and gay guests alighted, passed
hurriedly to the _boudoirs_ and came down to greet Dr. and Mrs.
Greydon, and not the least,--Miss Mollie.

That young lady was in an anxious mood. She greeted each arrival in a
very sweet and cordial manner, but she cast constant glances out into
the arched hallway to see if Roderick Barclugh were among the latest
arrivals. She eagerly scanned every face and at last saw him come with
James Wilson, the lawyer.

Mollie watched him ascend the curved staircase on one side and return
with the line of guests on the other. He was fashionably dressed in
his powdered wig and queue and his shining buckles and lace frills. No
gentlemen present bore a more distinguished appearance than Roderick
Barclugh. She watched him shake the hand of her father and her mother,
and, when her turn came, she offered her hand with delight in her eyes
as she said:

“I am so glad that you remembered my special invitation.”

There was a slight flush in her cheeks, and she knew that Barclugh
approved of her gown and her hair by the satisfied glances that his
eyes made. He looked into her eyes as he said softly:

“This is a great pleasure, to see you again.”

Roderick Barclugh bowed profoundly and passed among the guests. He was
in the midst of a group who were gossiping about the Arnolds.

“What do you think, Mr. Barclugh,” asked Anne Milling, approaching
Barclugh in her most bewitching manner, “the court-martial of General
Arnold has found him guilty of misconduct in his office as Commander of
Philadelphia and General Washington has been ordered to make a public
reprimand. The dear, brave General! He has been made to endure more
than he can stand. Don’t you think so, Mr. Barclugh?”

“General Arnold surely is brave, but has he not been extravagant?” was
Barclugh’s reply in a tone indicating his aversion to the subject.

“I have little sympathy with him as he has become very imperious and
overbearing of late, since he married Peggy Shippen. He did not have
the fortune or the position in society to marry such an ambitious girl
as Margaret; she needed a baronet,” volunteered Mrs. FitzMaurice, who
had the faculty of speaking her mind.

“It is a question which one has the most ambition, Mrs. Arnold or the
General, since they have moved into their new country home, ‘Mount
Pleasant’ on the Schuylkill. Have you attended any of their gorgeous
entertainments? No wonder his ambition runs away with him. They both
love luxury and they need money,” chimed in Sally Redman, who loved to
have people realize that she knew a few things about the gay world.

“Let me whisper something. It must never be repeated. The French
Minister refused General Arnold a loan. I have it from very direct
sources,” volunteered Charles Bingham.

“Did he go to the French Minister himself?” queried Barclugh.

“Yes,” replied Bingham, and the whole group laughed heartily.

“Hush! Here they come now,” whispered Anne Milling as she gave Mr.
Bingham a touch on his arm.

The General and his wife came up arm in arm, all smiles when the group
just referring to them turned and greeted the Commander of Philadelphia
and his wife most cordially:

“Why, how do you do, General? How do you do, Peggy, my dear? I am so
glad to see you,” said Mrs. FitzMaurice in her sweetest tones and with
a smile for both of them.

Mrs. Arnold at once addressed herself to Roderick Barclugh and the
General to M. de la Luzerne, who had just joined the group.

“I hope that we may see you out to ‘Mount Pleasant’ very soon, Mr.
Barclugh. My sister, Bessie, is now visiting me and it would give us
the greatest pleasure to see you. Tuesdays are our days. Then, I must
tell you”--in her most pleasing tones--“the General has taken a very
great interest in you of late.”

“I thank you, Madam; it will be not your pleasure alone, but mine.”

In times of war very little of the drawing-room satisfied the men of
affairs; so, when the ladies and the macaronis were fairly aglow with
gossip over the tea-cups, John Adams, Dr. Greydon and Charles Thompson
found themselves together in the doctor’s office and began to discuss
serious affairs over their pipes and mugs of home ale.

“By thunder! That trading house of Milling and FitzMaurice brought
home a fat prize, William,” remarked Charles Thompson. “One of their
privateers secured a British ship worth eighty thousand pounds
sterling.”

“Is it possible? No wonder they can live in luxury. They are growing
fat out of the war. That one prize would pay back one half that they
have loaned to Congress,” continued John Adams.

“I always was opposed to war on general principles,” argued Dr.
Greydon, “but if we must fight, all right. Yet, when private
individuals can go out on the high seas and take other private
individuals’ substance it seems like licensed robbery.”

“I venture to say riches thus gained will never profit the gainer.
Robert FitzMaurice has made fabulous riches out of his piratical
enterprise but he will lose it all, some day,” reasoned the Secretary
of Congress.

“Heigho there!” exclaimed John Adams, “do you know that FitzMaurice and
Milling are now planning to start a bank and to do all the financing
for Congress? They want a charter.”

“That’s fine,” began Dr. Greydon. “First, Congress grants letters of
Marque and Reprisal to these enterprising merchants, in order for
them to hold up their neighbors’ ships and rob them; now, when they
grow rich out of the war, we will license them to hold our hands when
they can go into _our_ pockets and rob _us_. Oh! That’s a fine scheme
to throttle our war. They could tell us then to lay down our arms if
the bank was not pleased. Never let us get into the clutches of these
financiers. The power of the purse must always belong to Congress, the
representatives of the people.”

Thus spoke Dr. Greydon, and then Charles Thompson added:

“The money of our Congress maybe depreciated, but if the people of our
country accept it, which the patriots do--maybe the Tories do not--we
will prosper; but if we give ourselves into the hands of the bank, they
would take nothing but specie for payment and we would be paralyzed. We
could do nothing but surrender.”

“Here! Here! William, we are forgetting our ladies,” said John Adams,
and they arose and joined the guests in the drawing-room.

Mollie was helping her mother serve the tea; the guests were seated at
the tables; but she did not lose sight of Barclugh. Although the large
drawing-room and the library were thronged with guests, she could not
let him out of her sight. Members of Congress, generals, their sons and
daughters, and French diplomats thronged the rooms but they soon began
to depart.

At the first opportunity Barclugh left his tea-cup and found his way to
the side of Mollie. She turned and said spiritedly:

“You must miss your gay society in Paris, Mr. Barclugh? They must be
so different from our society? I would be delighted to travel abroad
again; I was so young when papa took me to England.”

“Society is very much the same the world over,” answered Barclugh,--“so
insincere.”

“Are all people insincere, Mr. Barclugh?” returned Mollie.

“By no means. There is one whom I know to be sincere.”

“But, do you really, Mr. Barclugh, enjoy your sojourn in America?”
insisted Mollie.

“I would leave to-morrow if it were not for the _tete-a-tetes_ that I
have with one whom I meet too seldom.”

[Illustration: Mollie Greydon.]

“That is exasperating, Mr. Barclugh. Who can it be? Is it Mrs. Arnold?”
sallied Mollie.

“Oh! no! no! She is too imperious. Can you not guess?” and Barclugh
looked so appealingly into Mollie’s eyes that her pulse seemed to cease.

She grew pale and could scarcely venture a reply.

“I would not dare to guess,” she said softly, “for fear that I might be
mistaken.”

The Secretary of Congress, Charles Thompson, came up to Mollie at this
juncture to bid her good-bye and she was drawn into the duties of
bidding the guests farewell; Roderick Barclugh left Dorminghurst that
afternoon, determined to win the heart of Mollie Greydon; but little
did he know what stirring events would intervene before he could offer
himself to the one he loved.




CHAPTER IV


“That game, Charles, last night, upset our plans, and we must recoup
our fortunes from government,” suggested young Lord Carlisle bitterly,
on the morning after he had lost ten thousand pounds sterling at a
single cast at hazard in Brooks’ Club.

He was addressing his two cronies, Charles Fox and George Selwyn. Both
were members of Parliament and included within the inner Cabinet and
Councils of the government of Lord North. Both were powerful in the set
that obtained favors (for the chosen few) from the monarch, George III.

In order that no one might observe them, the three were alighting
from the chariot of Lord Carlisle and entering the “Old Cock” Tavern,
a resort for literary drudges and solicitors of Temple Court. They
entered at the side entrance in Apollo Court, just off Fleet Street.
They had come directly from the gaming-table, dejected and desperate
from heavy loss, to a place where they could retire securely to one of
the cosy corners for breakfast and repose.

Having been all night in the great room at Brooks’, nerved to high
tension at the hazard of great stakes, this sorry set of cronies sought
refreshment and a reckoning of their shattered fortunes. One of those
reposeful havens for the “weary and heavy laden,” in old London’s jaded
life, now appealed to these gaming spirits and leaders of government.

The “Old Cock” boasted of a respectable antiquity even at this time,
1777. The old gossip, Samuel Pepys, had graced its haunts in the time
of the Stuarts; it survived the ravages of the Plague, and even the
great fire of Old London; the entrance was a passageway that passed
a flight of stairs and a bar into a large, well-lighted coffee-room.
Skylights furnished air and sunshine whenever London could lay claim
to the latter. Bright sea-sand glistened on the faultless floor. Rows
of mahogany boxes, formed by high-backed seats on three sides and open
toward the center, surrounded the entire room, except where the huge
fireplace added good cheer in its restful, blazing wood.

In one of these boxes a party could be quite secluded. The tops of
the settles were higher than one’s head and a bandy-legged table of
mahogany sat between the benches. The mantel of the fireplace was
massive oak, carved after the fashion of the Elizabethan age, and the
atmosphere of the place was presided over by a heroic representation of
an “Old Cock” perched high at the farther end in the act of hailing the
morn.

Noted for its wine and for those “who knew what was good and could
afford to pay for it,” the “Old Cock” was justly celebrated for the
solace within its walls.

Life swirled in Old London, around the young bloods at Brooks’. The
great room where hazard ran riot beheld noted encounters between Fox,
March, Burgoyne, Carlisle, Rodney and Selwyn. These revels afforded
gossip in coffee-houses, taverns and drawing-rooms. Many a bottle
of good, old port tickled the cockles of a Londoner’s heart, while
Fox’s debts, Carlisle’s losses and Selwyn’s witticisms afforded old
London-town an excuse to gossip about people to one’s heart’s content.
A reckoning, however, was sure to come. No bulls and bears were in
existence then, but their progenitors revelled in high play at the club.

“Charles,” began Carlisle in a cozy nook of the “Old Cock,” “you know
that Burgoyne’s return from his disaster affects our situation most
seriously. What can be done to meet our disappointments? If Burgoyne
had simply reached New York, the King would have elevated him to the
vacant peerage of S---- as was promised us; and Parliament would have
voted him one hundred thousand pounds sterling so that he could have
paid me his debt of twenty-five thousand pounds.”

Fox, who had been in Lord North’s cabinet, and as Junior Lord of the
Treasury had opposed the estrangement of the Colonies, foresaw the
disaster in war as carried on by Lord North. His powerful influences
were directed to stop the war more by diplomacy than by force. But
his gambling proclivities kept all of his friends in jeopardy. Now
something must be done to stop the disastrous war and at the same
stroke recoup the waning fortunes of himself and his cronies.

Therefore, turning to his two friends in distress, he mildly argued:

“Well Carlisle, I shall go to my friend, Mr. Prince, Governor of the
Corporation of the Bank of England, and ask him to insist with that
old fool, Lord North, that if our soldiers can not whip the Colonists,
we must _buy_ the leaders. We can appoint a commission with yourself,
Carlisle, at its head to go to America and settle the conflict with a
_coup d’etat_.”

Selwyn listened most eagerly to whatever Charles advised at all times,
but now he smiled graciously as he exclaimed:

“Zounds! that’s good! My Lord, if you once get to America to show your
bags of gold to the hungry dogs, the woods will ring with the yelps
of the hungry pack. They would give up the chase and devour the bones
that you might throw to them,” exclaimed Selwyn, who sat in the corner
sipping his well-brewed coffee.

“Such a stroke,” continued Selwyn, lazily, “to win the Colonies, would
bring us the King’s favor and two hundred thousand pounds sterling by
Parliament, my Lord; and we would once more recoup our fortunes. Then
Charles could satisfy the Shylocks and kick them down the stairs.”

While these gentlemen of plots on the government exchequer were
scheming in their corner, the rest of the coffee-room of the old tavern
was humming with groups of customers, who were drinking, smoking, and
eating to their hearts’ content.

Lingering over tankards of ale, or puffing at long pipes of tobacco,
tables were surrounded by wise-visaged solicitors discussing the
possible phases of the trial of the Duchess of Kingsley, who was on
trial for bigamy.

Having married, clandestinely, the second son of Lord Ker, and the
marriage being disowned, the Duchess had lived publicly with the Duke
of Kingsley, and finally married him during Mr. Ker’s lifetime. But
at the death of the Duke, proceedings were instituted by which she
was found guilty of the crime charged, and thus lost all the property
left her by the Duke. If such subjects did not afford gossip at the
coffee-houses others did.

In one corner were the literary characters, among whom was Dr. Johnson,
and, of course, his friend Boswell,--surrounded by a company of
satellites, all of whom paid court to the old autocrat, the leader of
all criticism, and the arbiter of all opinions on the passing literary
productions.

Oh, how the “old growler” delighted in a pint of port! When his soul
grew mellow how that charmed circle delighted to hear him repeat for
the five hundredth time those favorite lines from rare old Ben Jonson:

  “Wine, it is the milk of Venus,

         *       *       *

  That cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker,
  Pays all debts, cures all diseases,
  And at once three senses pleases.”

Selwyn was a great admirer of Fox, and was one of his life-long
friends, but a courtier first and last.

His friendship for Lord Carlisle also was of the most tender nature.
He stood between his two friends as the adviser of Carlisle and
the guardian of Fox. The latter was a brilliant politician, and a
passionate gamester, who needed the good offices of a diplomat like
Selwyn.

Yet Selwyn’s most concern was to keep Fox within a sphere of
usefulness, in order that Fox could pay back to Carlisle money that was
loaned at the gaming-table. The interests of the three were so involved
that one had to maintain the other in order to preserve himself; they
repeated the story of Cæsar and Pompey.

“I have the scheme,” ejaculated Selwyn, who was by this time growing
enthusiastic over the idea of stopping the American War with the
English valor that wins their battles when bayonets fail. “I am
acquainted with a young man who is the secret agent of the Bank of
England in France and has brought us the innermost information from the
French Court by reason of his skill as a diplomat, and his pretended
friendship for the American cause.

“He is a personal friend of Dr. Franklin. In America he could be
recognized as a supporter of the cause of independence while he kept
your Commission informed as to the weakness within the American ranks.

“You could induce him,” continued Selwyn spiritedly, “to undertake
the mission by promising the highest position, that of Viceroy in the
Colonies. You could also offer a peerage and vast landed estates in
America for his success.”

“No man could resist such inducements,” concluded Carlisle, as he drank
in the plans with evident satisfaction.

Fox sat there unconcerned as to details, but awakening out of a reverie
on last night’s game remarked to Selwyn:

“George, I am agreed. You talk well, but what is the man’s name?”

As a matter of fact, Fox did not have so much concern about the
Colonies, as he did about the vast sum of money that he owed Carlisle.
He was ready for any expedient to pacify his creditor and give some
excuse to put off demands on his depleted fortunes.

If Carlisle should succeed in retaining the Colonies within the
empire, and at the same time receive great personal treasures from
the government, Fox’s personal obligations would be cancelled and a
disastrous war would be ended.

Selwyn, replying to Fox’s question, said persuasively:

“His name, my dear Charles, is Roderick Barclugh, but for purposes
of state it must be withheld until the plans are working. If you are
agreed you can submit your plan to the King through the bank. I am sure
that the King will take up your ideas as his own. Then he has to listen
to those people that control his purse-strings, anyway.”

Lord Carlisle, young and ambitious to recoup his severe losses, arose
from the breakfast and said decisively:

“Gentlemen, the plan is well conceived. If it fails to subdue the
rebels, my name will sink to the depths of ignominy; but if it
succeeds, I shall have the honor of serving my King as well as Warren
Hastings at all events.”

Whereupon the three plotters departed for their lodgings, to be ready
for the game at Brooks’ that night.

Selwyn, the diplomat of the trio, set the plans to working. He
interviewed Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, who
consented to influence the King.




CHAPTER V


“Your Majesty, I am informed that the French monarch has decided to
recognize the independence of the Americans and put all the resources
of France against Great Britain.”

“Whence comes your information, Mr. Prince?” asked George III, as he
sat in his private study of St. James’s, October, 1777.

“Your Majesty, the secret service of the Bank of England has kept
Roderick Barclugh in the French Court. He is on terms of intimacy with
Louis XVI. He associates with Benjamin Franklin and the Colonial party;
he keeps us informed as to every phase of their affairs.”

George III rubbed his hands in each other and looked impatient but
gracious, yet his eyes had an anxious gleam as he nervously asked:

“Is the recognition of the independence of the Colonies possible and
has it come at last? What shall we do about it then, Mr. Prince?”

“There is but one way to reconcile the Americans, since Burgoyne’s
surrender, your Majesty,” replied the Bank Governor. “We must convince
the leaders of the army and the men of substance in the Colonies,
that a long-drawn-out war will ruin the country--that the return of
peace will establish commerce and prosperity; and that allegiance to
your Majesty’s person and crown will give the protection that a young
commonwealth needs.”

“Very well, very well, sir, but what means are you going to use to
convince these rebels?” queried the monarch, impatiently, as he began
to comprehend the undertaking that began to develop.

“Not by warlike means, your Majesty, which has cost your exchequer
twenty thousand pounds sterling for each and every rebel so far killed,
but by the most subtle subjection--that of diplomacy and finance,”
replied Mr. Prince (who knew that the King had used this policy to
carry his desires through Parliament).

“Ah, that is good,” exclaimed the King. “But whom can we trust with
such a delicate mission? I have learned to depend upon the wisdom
of your money, but not upon persons. Can you lay a plan that will
accomplish the result? I have so few men of the genius that you
display, Mr. Prince.”

Mr. Prince now had the ear of the monarch, and as George III showed
his abject helplessness, the holder of England’s purse-strings took
advantage of the situation to carry out the plot planned in the “Old
Cock” Tavern:

“Your Majesty, we must send a Commission to treat with the Colonists
on the spot, when we have turned the men of substance to a desire for
peace. We must send a skilled diplomat among the Colonists, who will
keep us informed as to what the Colonists will do for peace if we
were to grant all their demands except independence. This undertaking
will be dangerous and delicate. Our agent must gain the confidence of
the leaders within the rebel lines. He must be one who can go without
the least suspicion. If he succeeds we must reward him by making him
Viceroy (an echo of the conspirators in the ‘Old Cock’ Tavern) and by
granting him a peerage and a landed estate befitting his dignity of
office.”

“Agreed, Mr. Prince, but whom can you recommend for such delicate
commissions?” asked the King, as he grew enthusiastic over the plot,
for George III loved intrigue.

“Ah!” exclaimed “the arbiter of the power of the purse” (the one great
security of the rights of Englishmen), as he bowed very low to the
monarch:

“May it please your Majesty to entrust your humble servant with so
much privilege as to name the one who is to save your Colonies. There
is no one that will respect your royal will with as much diligence as
your faithful diplomat, Roderick Barclugh. Then for the commissioner to
conclude your terms of peace, I would humbly beg that you entrust such
matters of importance to your Lord Carlisle.”

“Excellent! Excellent! Sir,” exclaimed the King, “but where are these
gentlemen? Command them into my presence. My plans shall be carried
out at once. All that was needed was to have a suggestion, for these
have always been my ideas, I now stand firmly on this idea since you
have seconded me; I have always stood for it; England shall not lose
her Colonies. I am not to be outdone by the French. Where are these
gentlemen, sir?” asked the subtle monarch of the President of the Bank
of England.

Mr. Prince bowed and left the King, for he knew his character so well
that there was nothing more for him to do. He had carried his plans,
although His Majesty had finally claimed them as his own.

However, when the King asked for Roderick Barclugh and Lord Carlisle,
these worthy gentlemen were close at hand (not by accident) but by
means of the finesse of the worthy George Selwyn, who was a courtier
of no mean order. He had his pawns ready for the next move on the
checker-board.

The King had now grown more self-conceited, and when these worthy
gentlemen came into his private audience and both approached and knelt
in obeisance to his commands (for Mr. Prince had given the cue of what
was to happen when he passed out), the King arose and said:

“Lord Carlisle, arise. Mr. Barclugh, arise. It is at your Sovereign’s
commands that you shall proceed to the shores of his rebellious
Colonists and use your persuasion to insure their allegiance to the
British Realm. Gentlemen, no means must be spared to preserve the
integrity of the British Empire. May the blessings of God pursue your
endeavors. Follow the plans that hath pleased the Almighty to have your
Sovereign prepare.”

At the conclusion of this inspired speech, His Majesty stepped toward
Lord Carlisle and Mr. Barclugh, and shook each by the hand and
spoke of the great pleasure that his duty gave, whereupon these two
representatives of royalty retired in due form and respect from his
royal presence.

When our commissioner and our secret agent emerged from the august
presence of George III, they made straightway to the chariot of Lord
Carlisle and were driven post-haste to Brooks’ Club. Carlisle alighted,
but Barclugh went to the house of his chief, Mr. Prince, for he was in
London incognito.

Fox at the head of the faro table was banker, and Selwyn sat opposite,
in the great green room at Brooks’. The play was highly interesting
when Carlisle entered the room. The Bank was two thousand pounds
sterling to the good and the night was but begun. Lord Carlisle went
to the side of Fox and spoke to him, who turned the deal over to Gilly
Williams. Selwyn arose at a sign from Fox, and the three conspirators
left for a private room to discuss the new phase of American politics.

Fox, who was easily the leader of the Whig coterie that centered in
Brooks’ Club, opened the discussion by remarking:

“Has the ‘lunatic’ (George III) carried out the plan?”

“He has,” replied Carlisle, who had just left his Majesty.

“But who is this Barclugh? Can we depend upon him? His task is almost
superhuman,” commented Fox to his cronies.

“Barclugh is the grandson of Sir George Barclugh of the plot to murder
William of Orange,” remarked Carlisle.

“He will do, then,” assented Fox. “For the followers of the Stuarts
were the most remarkable zealots of any age.”

“Yes, and Barclugh has been the secret agent of Mr. Prince, the
President of the Bank of England, at the court of Louis for five years
past. His reports have been reliable and I can vouch for anything that
he undertakes,” contended Selwyn, who was the balance-wheel and the
diplomat of these choice spirits of Brooks’ high play.

“Very well, very well,” exclaimed Charles, “you and Carlisle fix up the
details; I must be back, Gilly will ruin me. You and Carlisle fix up
these matters--whatever you do will suit me. You know I must not leave
the game,” contended Fox, as he nervously spoke and returned to the
green room and hurried to his seat at the head of the table where the
banker sat turning the cards for the coterie of gamesters.

Selwyn now had an opportunity to go calmly over the points at issue
with Carlisle.

“This war must be ended, my Lord,” said Selwyn. “Give Barclugh every
opportunity to win the leaders. Keep the army, under that drawing-room
general, Sir Henry, at a respectful distance from the wily Washington;
let Barclugh ply his arts among the substantial Colonists, and you will
return as the savior of the Colonies and a Parliamentary grant will
await you.”

“But suppose the plans fail, George, what then?” anxiously queried
Carlisle.

“Nothing fails that Britons put their hands and hearts to,”
expostulated Selwyn. “Start to-morrow; be on the scene--Barclugh will
follow. Nothing daunts the ambitious Briton; we must succeed, or ruin
stares us in the face. The continuous drain upon our resources at
the gaming-table has sapped our substance,--we must have funds from
government or give up our life at the Club. Carlisle, the game depends
upon you.”

Thus reasoned Selwyn, for he knew that the select few who practised
high play at Brooks’ had exhausted the resources of their set, and the
only legitimate prey at hand was the funds of government to be won at
the game of Colonial politics.

Carlisle left on the first ship for New York, and Barclugh was to leave
as soon as Lord Germaine could fix up the funds and credentials for him
to carry to the scene of war in America.

Roderick Barclugh was fitted by environment and education to become
a diplomat of no mean order. Born in 1749, his parentage a Scotch
father and a French mother--the rare combination of shrewdness and
finesse--whose traditions on one side led back to the cause of the
Stuarts, and a line of court favorites of the French monarch on the
other--distinguished him for a life of bold intrigue.

His grandfather, Sir George Barclugh, quit his native land with the
Pretender, James II. His father was reared in Paris, and married the
French Queen’s lady-in-waiting, Marie La Fitte. The union was happy
and two sons were the issue. The older was named George Barclugh and
the younger Roderick. The boys grew up surrounded by all the elegant
manners of the French Court at this period.

At twenty-two years of age Roderick Barclugh could speak English,
French and Spanish. He was tall and vigorous in constitution; endowed
with shrewd, steely-blue eyes and a prominent aquiline nose. Firmness
and fortitude were in every expression of his eyes and mouth. His hair
was reddish-brown in color--partaking of the auburn locks of his Scotch
grandfather, and the black of his mother’s race.

He was faultless in his easy manner when in society of ladies, and
when among men inclined to be brusque and haughty. His eyes had a
merry assurance of good will; yet therein could be found firmness,
determination and passion. His voice was trained for the dulcet tones
of persuasion, and, at will, he could command the robust tones of his
father’s race.

Without effort Roderick Barclugh could control his feelings and be
nonchalant to sentiment, and on necessary occasions be frivolous and
gay. His composition had all the artful diplomacy of a French courtier
and the canny ways of an ingenious and bold Scotsman--altogether, a
brilliant and dangerous being.




CHAPTER VI


Revolutionary New York was enveloped in an atmosphere of sombre unrest.
The English had driven out the patriot families; some loyalists,
however, who were persecuted in other colonies sought refuge in New
York, but they simply became hangers-on at a huge military camp.

Gayety was forced. The monotony of military cares bore heavily upon
the British leaders and at length desperation was traced upon their
faces. There was no enterprise. Something must be done or the spirit of
militarism would die.

Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander-in-Chief, was fat and short.
Punctilious with his officers, formal,--even distant, in his
manners--he was not one to inspire enthusiasm. His face was full, his
nose was large and prominent, and although an expression of animated
intelligence at times pervaded his countenance, still he lacked the
rare ability to inspire confidence and conviction. He was simply in
command because favoritism had placed him there; he was a drawing-room
general.

On a crisp day in November, General Clinton and Lord Carlisle were
surveying the landscape from the drawing-room of the Beekman mansion,
which was a beautiful seat of revolutionary times, and the chosen
country residence of the British Commander.

The blue waters of the bay were whipped into white waves as the
nor’east gale swept over the water. The energy of the wind broke forth
in sparkling waves upon the bosom of the harbor and Sir Henry explained
to Lord Carlisle how the commerce of the new continent would center in
this haven that was now controlled by his British forces. He gestured
confidently as he maintained that the admiralty had a base in New York
harbor from which to fit out its men-of-war and carry on the conflict
in any direction.

In the midst of his laborious arguments Sir Henry exclaimed:

“My Lord, there comes one of our forty-four-gun frigates! Zounds! She’s
standing right up to the inner anchorage. She may be a messenger from
our War Lord, Germaine.”

Sir Henry took up his spying-glass and stepped out upon the portico to
see what ship it might be.

Lord Carlisle walked back and forth impatiently, while Sir Henry
closely watched the movements of the ship.

These two men differed in their plans for the conduct of the war.
Lord Carlisle wished to offer a proclamation to the Colonists,
openly conceding everything that the people demanded except absolute
independence. But Sir Henry chafed under this means of procedure. He
saw that such a course implied the failure of the military to deal with
the problem of subduing the Americans. He contended that a decisive
stroke must be made by the army before any terms should be offered the
rebellious Colonists.

Carlisle spoke impatiently when the ship was looming up in full view:

“I hope that Germaine has sent Barclugh with definite instructions as
to our course. We are losing valuable time and opportunity here by
reason of our inactivity.”

This last word was a distinct challenge to Clinton, who lowered his
glass long enough to look squarely at Carlisle and remark spiritedly:

“There is no use to waste words, my Lord. We cannot afford to sacrifice
the reputation of English arms; it would be suicidal. Treat with the
rascals? Yes, when they have felt the force of our power. Now that they
have formed an alliance with our ancient enemy we must deal them a
crushing blow, first.”

Carlisle, however, was insisting upon the right of the commissioners to
dictate the policy, yet he did not care how the results were attained
so long as his mission to America was successful. Fox and Selwyn would
see that he was properly rewarded, provided the Colonies were not lost.

“Very good, Sir Henry,” retorted Carlisle, when the General stood
before him in an attitude of defiance, “but the longer that we wait,
the farther apart we drift. I am intent upon activities in one way or
another.”

“There she comes to,” continued Sir Henry, as he resumed his spying
investigations. “By the speed that she comes up the bay, I believe that
she may be the Prince Harry, the fastest cruiser of the Admiralty’s
register.”

“How deluded these rebels are to hold out against such odds on the
sea,” exclaimed Sir Henry, with animation. “How magnificent to behold
the seamanship of our sailors! Behold them swarm the yard-arms! There
go the anchors to the catheads! She swings to the cable! Her sails are
stowed in a twinkling! What discipline! I maintain our sovereignty of
the seas and we have no business to beg a settlement except at our own
terms,” concluded General Clinton as he turned upon Lord Carlisle,
waving his little fat hands and arms majestically.

Carlisle saw where Sir Henry had placed him when he appealed to an
Englishman’s vanity, his ships; but he looked at General Clinton
through those blue eyes for an instant and fell back upon the only
argument that an Englishman could never withstand.

“But, Sir Henry, you do not comprehend,” argued Carlisle, “what an
expenditure of treasure this war has already cost the King’s exchequer.
Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, says: ‘We shall all be
paupers by this everlasting drain on our gold.’ Sir Henry, I represent
the financial side of this problem.”

“Well, my Lord,” retorted Sir Henry, “all that I can say to your
argument is, that with your money power, as now constituted, having
your Bank Governor at the throat of our nation, you will make cowards
of us all. We shall lose the toil of two centuries and the sacrifices
of twenty generations of Englishmen in colonizing a wilderness. For
what? For the dross called pounds sterling! The Colonists are unruly
children. Chastise them and then bring them back home and treat them
generously.”

Carlisle now paced nervously up and down the portico, evidently
thinking of how he would turn the last argument of Sir Henry, when the
little fat body of the General fairly bubbled over with pugnacity as he
grew red in the face and exclaimed:

“If the War Lord would give me the men to chastise the rebels well, and
not listen to the whining Bank Governor, we could wage a successful
campaign and make an honorable peace.”

Lord Carlisle held his peace and glared at Clinton.

Now General Clinton turned toward the bay and there beheld events
transpiring that turned the temper of his conversation.

“Zounds!” he exclaimed. “They have lowered a boat and are making for
the Battery. There must be despatches or important personages aboard.”

He raised his glass and looked upon the boat’s crew approaching the
shore.

“We need not bother ourselves,” contended Sir Henry, “Andre will
forward anything of importance to us.”

The two representatives of government then returned to the drawing-room
to get out of the biting wind and to indulge in a bottle of Madeira for
old England’s sake.

At the office of the Commander-in-Chief, No. 1 Broadway, was Major John
Andre who had come from the capture of Charleston with General Clinton
as Adjutant General of the English Army. He was unmarried and young and
affable. His lodgings were in the same house as the General’s office
and he dined at the King’s Arms Tavern, No. 9 Broadway, a few doors
from his quarters.

As soon as the boat could land from the Prince Harry, no time was lost
in forwarding the despatches to headquarters.

A passenger came ashore, a young man dressed in the style of a Parisian
of fashion. He had travelled under an assumed name, for even the
British naval officers were not to know his mission. The arrangement
of his queue was faultless. His satins and sword, his laces and
high-heeled shoes, indicated the courtier. But Pierre La Fitte was none
other than Roderick Barclugh on his mission for the King of England.

When Major Andre appeared in the ante-room of the headquarters of
General Clinton, he extended his hand to this strange gentleman
cordially and said:

“I believe that I have the honor of addressing M. Pierre La Fitte.”

“That’s what I am called,” replied the stranger.

“Very well, sir,” continued Andre. “I will take you to my quarters as I
understand that you are on a secret mission.”

When Major Andre had received the despatches there was one in cipher
marked “important” and it read as follows:

                                             “Whitehall, Sept. 25, 177--

  “Sir: I have the honor to send on a particular secret Mission to
  America, our esteemed Friend, M. Pierre La Fitte.

  “He accompanies this despatch and his Identity must be kept a
  profound Secret.

  “Provide him with secret and suitable Quarters and put him in
  communication with General Clinton and Lord Carlisle at the earliest
  possible moment.

                                                         “Geo. Germaine.
  “Adj’t. Gen. John Andre.”

As soon as Major Andre had conducted M. La Fitte to sleeping apartments
adjoining his own, and had made the stranger welcome, he sent a courier
with despatches and information to the Beekman House that M. La Fitte
would be accompanied by himself to meet Lord Carlisle and the General.

La Fitte rested until nightfall when darkness would conceal his
movements.

A post-chaise drew up in front of the headquarters and two gentlemen
disguised in great-coats emerged from the building and made their way
to the carriage.

The three miles to the Beekman House were quickly covered and the
secret agent alighted with Major Andre. The two approached the mansion
and a sentry challenged them, but the Adjutant was recognized and
allowed to enter. A liveried footman announced the two to the General
who greeted them eagerly in the reception room.

“We are gratified to have you with us, Mr. Barclugh, and we believe
that the nature of your mission will not let you remain in our midst
very long.”

“I am glad to hear you address me by my own name, General Clinton,”
responded Barclugh. “My voyage has been tedious, indeed, under my
assumed name of M. La Fitte.”

The sealed instructions on Barclugh’s mission had been forwarded by
Major Andre to the Beekman House and they were as follows:

                                              “Whitehall, 24 Sept, 177--

  “Sir: I have the great Pleasure of conveying the King’s Commands, by
  introducing to you Mr. Roderick Barclugh who is commissioned to act
  as the Special Secret Agent of His Majesty to the Men of Substance
  among his Rebellious Colonists.

  “When the Duration of the Rebellion is considered, it has been
  mortifying to his Majesty to have no decisive Blow inflicted to
  speedily suppress the rebels; and His Majesty commands me to
  instruct that your Assistance to the Diplomacy of Mr. Barclugh and
  Lord Carlisle would be most gratifying to His Royal Pleasure.

  “It is a great Pleasure to me to have another Occasion of obeying
  the King’s Commands by desiring you to convey to Lord Carlisle, His
  Majesty’s approbation of His Lordship’s mission to America.

  “I am, sir, your most obedient humble servant,

                                                         “Geo. Germaine.
  “Sir Henry Clinton, K. B.”

Lord Carlisle was much flattered by the receipt of the King’s
encouragement, although Clinton noted in the letter a slight expression
of unrest over the lack of results in the war.

However, Clinton did not take all of the burden of blame on himself;
Lords Howe and Cornwallis had made some of the mistakes in the Jersey
Campaigns and he was willing for the diplomatists to take a hand at the
subjugation of the rebels, for a while, at least. They had talked much,
as usual; now let them try their skill at results.

Sir Henry had to give some instructions to his Adjutant, so he turned
to Roderick Barclugh as he remarked:

“Excuse me for a few moments, Mr. Barclugh. I have some urgent matters
to dispose of.”

“Certainly,” returned Barclugh as he took up a discussion of affairs
with Lord Carlisle, asking:

“What is the situation here, my Lord?”

“Oh, it’s hard to convince these military people,” answered Carlisle
as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of General
Clinton and Andre.

“I presume so,” assented Barclugh, dryly, as he shrugged his shoulders.
“But what have you done, my Lord, on _your_ mission?” asked Barclugh.

“Oh, nothing but to wait for you,” answered Carlisle disgustedly.

“Well, we must do something very soon, or know the cause,” declared
Barclugh as General Clinton approached them.

“Gentlemen,” remarked General Clinton, “we might better retire to the
Council Chamber and discuss our matters there. Shall I send for Mr.
Eden, my Lord?”

“Never mind Eden, General,” replied Carlisle. “Mr. Barclugh is anxious
to conclude with us and be about his own mission. I know that he is
impatient at least to be out of New York,” replied Carlisle bluntly.

“Very well, very well, gentlemen,” assented Clinton as he led the way
to the staircase and bowed to the other two in Pickwickian fashion as
he said:

“After you,” and he bowed and gestured toward the staircase with his
chubby hand.

A bright fire crackled in the fireplace of a nearly square room where
the diplomats were to hold council with the Commander-in-Chief; a round
table in the center contained a large map of the Colonies; a half
dozen straight-backed bandy-legged chairs stood around carelessly;
and a corner closet with a glass door was well stocked with a choice
selection of Madeira.

Here were three representatives of English authority presented with the
problem of subduing the rebellious Colonies. Each one, however, had his
own pet theory of serving the King, ostensibly for the glory of the
King, but primarily to gain glory for himself.

Clinton could see no means of ending the war except by military
subjugation; Carlisle was entirely for conciliation and Barclugh was
bent on subornation. All of these theories were launched upon the
Colonists at the same time by the subtle minds of George III and his
advisers.

Barclugh was impatient to begin the discussion, so he pulled his chair
up to the table and began to tell his story unceremoniously:

“Gentlemen, my mission is to create a diversion among the men of
substance in the Colonies, and I shall do it on a commercial basis.
If the military can do its part and pound the army of Mr. Washington
into a defensive position and at the same time subjugate the southern
Colonies as is planned by the War Lord, I will overcome the men of
substance by means of finance and commerce. Their commercial instincts
will overshadow the phantom of independence. The merchants will desire
peace and the old order of stable money and settled commerce. They
cannot resist the consideration of self-interests. Then Lord Carlisle
and his commissioners can proclaim that the Colonists may have all of
the political freedom and the representation that they desire, as long
as they keep up their allegiance to the throne of England.

“But above all where the Colonists will fail,” concluded Barclugh,
“will be in their lack of gold. When the gold of England is put in the
balance, the men of substance will see the hopelessness of their cause.”

“Right you are, Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Lord Carlisle. “We can grant
them a few titles of nobility also which they will not be able to
resist.”

“But gentlemen,” added Clinton, “the military could put the forces of
Mr. Washington on the defensive at once if we could only take that
stronghold of West Point. That is our stumbling-block. Our ships could
control the Hudson and cut New England off from the rest, if we could
ascend above West Point. There lies the key to the military situation.
West Point is the Gibraltar of America.

“But,” continued Clinton, “how do you propose to reach Philadelphia,
Mr. Barclugh?”

“My plan is, General Clinton,” replied Barclugh, “to embark here,
on one of your ships which will take me to the east shore of the
Chesapeake Bay and land me in the night. I shall make my way by land
through Delaware to Wilmington, thence to Philadelphia. My story shall
be that I was landed by a French privateer that was cruising in these
waters.”

“Very well laid, sir!” exclaimed General Clinton, rubbing his hands. “I
have the very ship, the Vulture, Captain Sutherland, that can take you
on board at once and proceed on the mission.”

“Gentlemen, I can conceive of nothing but success in the plans of Mr.
Barclugh,” said Lord Carlisle, “and I propose that we drink to his
success.”

The three plotters stood around the table and General Clinton filled
each one’s glass from the buffet with his rarest Madeira, then raising
his glass, the Commander of His Majesty’s forces in America, proposed
a toast, which was drunk in silence:

  “Confound their politics,
  Frustrate their knavish tricks,
    God save the King.”

After a few civilities exchanged by the King’s representatives,
Roderick Barclugh was conducted aboard the sloop-of-war, Vulture, which
was commanded to sail for the Capes of the Chesapeake and land its
passenger at the earliest possible moment.




CHAPTER VII


Philadelphia was in a curious state of unpatriotic sentiment during
the winter of 1778. The merchants, the Quakers and wealthy landowners
(whose fortunes were established) had sentiments that were decidedly
pro-English. Only the leadership and influence of such men as Franklin,
Mifflin, Thomson and the influx of patriotism from other Colonies
through such men as Patrick Henry, Samuel Adams, Jefferson, Livingston,
and the peerless actions of Washington alone saved the least spark
of independence among the leading citizens. Philadelphia reeked with
Loyalists. After the evacuation of the town by the British army, it
was impossible for the Whigs to celebrate such a glorious event by an
exclusively Whig ball. All the belles of the town embraced a list of
those who had attended every social function of the British officers.
They dined where the King was toasted; attended theatricals where our
native land was ridiculed. Even the glorious heraldic pageant of the
Meschianza claimed homage, from the belles of the leading families.

The meekness of the Quakers and their horrors of war (upon religious
principle) were changed to loud acclamations of joy when the British
occupied their town. Quakers shook their heads and looked religiously
solemn whenever the patriots asked for money and provisions; but when
the British presented their demands for supplies, the Philadelphia
Quakers smiled graciously and gave without stint. The actions of many
of these good people were very questionable during the trying times of
the Revolution.

Into this atmosphere of Toryism Roderick Barclugh arrived from New
York. Besides the secret instructions of the Governor of the Bank
of England and the King’s Minister of War, Lord George Germaine,
Barclugh brought with him a passport into the confidence of the leading
patriots. The British secret agent had secured a letter of introduction
to Charles Thomson, Secretary of Congress, from Benjamin Franklin. The
French monarch had secured these credentials for Barclugh on account of
the former fidelity of his family to the Pretender.

The letter was addressed as follows:

                                                  “Paris, Nov. 20, 1777.

  “My dear Sir:

  “With much personal satisfaction, the interests and influence of
  our friend M. Roderick Barclugh have been enlisted in our cause. He
  comes to us with the best of credentials of the French Monarch.
  He will represent the interests of some of France’s leading men of
  wealth, and is desirous of securing Letters of Marque and Reprisal
  from our Congress for the purpose of engaging in privateering.

  “Your cordial co-operation in his affairs is solicited.

  “Believe me, sir, with sentiments of unabated esteem,

                                            “Your most obedient servant,
                                                           “B. Franklin.

  “Mr. Charles Thomson,
    “Secretary of Congress,
      “Philadelphia, Pa.”

Thus protected with the best passport obtainable, a representative
of the Bank of England and of the War Lord took up his abode in
Philadelphia.

Roderick Barclugh was at once introduced to the leading firm of traders
and privateersmen, Milling & FitzMaurice. They received him very
cordially, especially when he asked them if they would honor his drafts
on account of his Bills of Exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam for twenty
thousand pounds sterling. The senior member of this firm, Mr. Thomas
Milling, was very gracious at once. He invited Roderick Barclugh to
make any convenience out of his compting-rooms, at least, until such
times as he could settle himself in his own quarters.

In 1777 Philadelphia contained about thirty thousand souls. Front
Street, which ran parallel with the Delaware River, and Market
Street, which ran at right angles to the river, were the principal
thoroughfares for both business and residence. The merchants, traders,
lawyers and doctors were principally to be found on Front Street and a
few on Market Street. There were no banks in Philadelphia at that time.
All the merchants had strong boxes of their own.

Roderick Barclugh engaged a house on Front Street near Market Street,
one of those commodious Colonial houses used by traders at that time
for both business and lodging purposes. The room on the first floor
fronting on the street was used as an office for general business; and
immediately in the rear of this room was the private office of Roderick
Barclugh, wherein all the infamy of commercialism that “excludes alike
the virtues and the prejudices that stand in the way of its interest,”
held sway.

The second story of this building contained the sleeping apartments
of the British agent. He had a clerk for his compting-room and a
man-servant to be general lackey. He maintained no household as his
meals were served him in a private dining-room at the Boar’s Head
Tavern, next door. All of his affairs were maintained in great privacy.
Therefore, the clerk and servant performed their daily services and
lived apart from their master.

Thus situated, business began to open up for Roderick Barclugh,
Financier. Characters through whom negotiations were to be developed
were not lacking. Philadelphia society rankled with Toryism that threw
itself into the dust at any pretext for aristocratic government. Even
some of the leaders in the Whig party of the town openly supported
Congress because it was to their interest, but privately could see no
good in the advanced theories of democracy as upheld by Samuel Adams.

The merchant princes who had privateers scouring the seas for booty
had reason for the war to continue and give them license to prey
on commerce, but when order should be re-established, wished an
aristocratic government for the enjoyment of their gains.

Roderick Barclugh was soon a high favorite among the merchants. Robert
FitzMaurice was the Financier General of Congress, and his commercial
house of Milling & FitzMaurice was being enriched in every possible
channel. The credit that this public position gave him, advanced
his gains in trade and privateering. His credit allowed him to build
ships. Nearly every week a privateer of his commission was bringing in
a richly-laden merchantman as a prize to his wharves in the Delaware.
These cargoes enriched Milling & FitzMaurice to the amount of 800,000
pounds sterling while the war lasted. Is it any wonder that this firm
should make loans to the Continental Congress since they were merely
putting capital into their stock in trade?

One man at this time standing in the light of public opinion as the
antithesis of Thomas Paine in his philosophy of _Common Sense_, was
James Wilson, a leading lawyer of Philadelphia, and a writer of no mean
abilities. He was the intimate friend of Robert FitzMaurice, and an
adviser in the aristocratic plans of the financier. Whatever were the
plans of the men of substance for monarchial forms in government, this
clever lawyer was ever ready to advocate these principles by means of
pamphlets and after-dinner speeches. He was making a fortune in the
practice of law when the country was in the very throes of despair, but
this Scotchman knew wherein his fat fees lay.

But Roderick Barclugh did not confine his attention to the merchants
and lawyers alone in pursuing his plans. One of the channels through
which he pursued the objects of his mission was a fishmonger of the
town,--Sven Svenson.

In a raging snowstorm of the winter of 1772, a small Norwegian bark was
making its course to the Swedish settlements of the Delaware, with a
company of Swedish emigrants. The ship met an undeserved fate on the
sands of the Jersey Coast. The whole ship’s company perished in the
frigid blasts of a northeast gale in January, save one,--Sven Svenson,
a young and vigorous Swede, eighteen years of age. He was found numb,
and almost exhausted, by a party of Jersey fishermen. They cared for
him and took him to their homes.

These fishermen plied in the oyster trade of Philadelphia with
the oysters at that time found in the estuaries of the mouth of
the Delaware River. Two trips a week with a sloop were made from
Philadelphia to the oyster beds and back. In this trade, Sven at once
turned his hand. He was a handy sailor-man,--industrious and saving.

At the time when Roderick Barclugh arrived in Philadelphia, one of
the best known and happiest men in the town was Sven Svenson. He
had taken hold of the responsible end of the oyster trade himself.
Any day, in oyster season, one could find this flaxen-haired Swede
pushing a wheel-barrow up and down Market Street and through Front
Street,--opening a dozen here and a dozen there for passers-by.
Everybody ate them on the half-shell, tempered with a squirt of
pepper-“sass” from a three-cornered bottle having a goosequill through
the cork. Every one liked Sven; not alone for the happy smile with
which he opened you an oyster; but he gave it with a sly wink and an
extra squirt of “sass,” that pleased.

The mistresses of the best households held Sven as a prime favorite,
since, whenever they gave an order for a feast, they could depend upon
having their orders filled. He also supplied their tastes with the best
in the market.

There were no family secrets but Sven heard them through the servants,
or else he happened upon those little wordy duels which occur in the
best of families. Moreover, as many Swedish girls were in domestic
service it was an easy matter for Sven to hear all the choice gossip of
the town.

After settling himself into his bachelor quarters, one of the first
things that Roderick Barclugh undertook was to take early morning walks
all over the town for knowledge of the people. On several of these
observation journeys, he had passed this pumpkin-faced Swede, who, on
general principles, saluted every person of note with a most gracious
courtesy and removal of his hat.

Barclugh, noticing how good-naturedly everybody stopped Sven’s
wheel-barrow, and how many patronized his fresh oysters, recognized
in this guileless vender of shellfish a master-key to all the town’s
frailties. Following up his observations, the next day when he met
Sven on his morning rounds,--merrily pushing his wheel-barrow up
Market Street, dressed in leather breeches, white cap and apron,--the
fishmonger stopped and bowed low, half recognizing Barclugh’s desire to
speak.

“How do you sell your wares, my good man?” spoke Barclugh.

“Sax pence ahl vat you eet, sahr,” was the prompt reply.

“All right, let us have some of the smallest, with no pepper-sauce, my
man. I like them briny. Are these from the deep salt water?” continued
Barclugh, thus to draw out Sven, who bustled around to please his new
customer.

With a jerky motion he opened a choice bivalve and held it up for
Barclugh to eat on the half-shell.

A roguish twinkle gleamed in his eye when his customer had taken the
oyster with a smack of his lips. Sven held out the other half of the
shell and with his oyster knife pointing to the fine purplish coloring
of the inside, said:

“Das wass a he-oeystar, and ahl maan got some by me. Van maan eet
plaanty he-oeystar and papper-saass he feel strang ahl daay. Das wass
samting vat halps fadder and strangtans modder.”

The Swede could have gone on about his oysters at any length as long
as his customer would eat, but getting enough “he-oysters,” Barclugh
handed him a sixpence and at the same time slipping a crown piece into
his hand, asked:

“Do you know General Arnold?”

“Yah,” replied Sven, who looked startled and astonished as he grasped
the coin, and squared himself up to tell _all_ that he knew.

“I haf baan in dis kontry sax yahr and sax monts. My name is Sven
Svenson, and my brodder’s garl varks for Mrs. Arnold. Ganral Arnold
eats plaanty he-oeystar and owes me tan pound starling. Mrs. Arnold haf
a strang tongue and talks to the Ganral to yump his yob and vark for
dee Angleesh.”

Barclugh smiled and left Sven still eager to tell more, showing
unconcern by hastily departing, yet when walking briskly along he
thought to himself:

“The Swede loves money and his knowledge must be mine. Arnold can not
long resist his wife and my offers too.”




CHAPTER VIII


After the dinner party at the FitzMaurice’s, the next morning was
ominous with sullen clouds in the Arnold homestead. The servants were
gliding from room to room in sober mien; conversations were carried on
in whispers. The Madam was served with breakfast in her room, and the
General had no appetite. The office of the Commandant of Philadelphia
was streaked with strata of dark blue vitriolic language.

The first caller was Sven Svenson, who approached the sentinel before
the General’s office door. The two fell into conversation.

“Haf Ganral Arnold been up?” asked Sven as he came near the sentinel,
with his hat in his hand.

“I reckon not, Sven, he was mighty weak-kneed when he came home last
night,” was the sentinel’s reply.

“Das varking maan haf to vark and vark for hees pay, and de Ganral eets
and dreenks ahl day ant ahl night. Hee talks so hard at mee I haf to
valk oudt ant svore I vas beat.”

“How much does the General owe you now, Sven?” asked the sentinel in an
undertone.

“Tan pound starling for goot oeystar vat Mistrees Arnold vants for hair
beeg koumpanee.”

“Ha, ha! Sven, you are in luck it’s not more,” blurted out the
honest-faced Virginian who was standing guard at the Commandant’s
office. “This Connecticut apothecary and horse-trader has succeeded to
a position where he can gratify his desires for extravagant living, but
if he keeps on in his present course, he will ruin our cause; but he
has a spouse who leads him a good race, Sven.”

“Yah, Mistrees Arnold vent to ahl dee baals and deenirs vid Major
Andre and dee Angleesh offeecirs as vas here een Pheeladalpheeia laast
veentir,” said the Swede.

“Hush, hush, Sven, here comes the General,” whispered the sentinel, as
he came to attention and saluted General Arnold who passed to his small
office building next his residence.

Arnold did not look at Sven, but a scowl came over his brow as he
passed into the little office room, slamming the door behind him.

Sven then approached the door very cautiously and rapped. An imperious
voice inside roared:

“Come in.”

The first greeting Sven got was:

“What the devil you want here? Haven’t I told you not to come around
here and bother me? I haven’t any money. So that settles it. Get right
out of here.”

“But, Ganral Arnold, I need some maaney to----”

“Money, money,” roared the Commander as he arose from his seat and
paced up and down the floor, never heeding the Swede. “Money! It is the
nightmare of my life. I went to that dinner to drown the thoughts of
the cursed stuff, but the only thing said by the nabobs was to get it,
and the need of it comes upon me at arising. By thunder! I shall get
it! I was never born to bear these pangs.

“Sven,” turning to the Swede, “go and tell Johnson, in the kitchen, to
bring me a hot rum and have one yourself.”

“Ahl right, Ganral,” replied Sven, as he rubbed his hands gleefully,
and made his retreat, glad to have a whole skin left.

The next caller was Captain Samuel Risk, of the Privateer Holker.

“Good morning, General. I’ve just come in with the snuggest kind of
a prize,--a West Indian brig loaded out for home with sugar, rum
and coffee for London merchants. She will net the firm of Milling &
FitzMaurice ten thousand pounds sterling, and I have a neat little
share besides.”

“What! ten thousand pounds sterling? Is it possible? Why, that firm of
Milling & FitzMaurice must be very prosperous. I wish I could get into
a little of that kind of business myself. My expenses of living are
very great, Captain, and I must make something by commerce.”

“Well, well, General, that is a very easy matter.”

“Why, Captain, are there any chances?”

“Chances? Bless your soul, plenty, sir, plenty sir,” said the Captain.
“All that we need are stern men, not too scrupulous and who can do a
thing in such a way that the right hand will not know what the left
hand does.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Arnold. “Why, sir, you know I used to be a trader
myself at one time,--a New England trader, sir. Before the war, sir, I
used to drive my team and sleigh by way of Lake George to Canada and
trade Yankee notions for horses. Then I would drive the horses overland
and take them on a brig to the West Indies and trade them there for
sugar, rum and molasses. So you see I am a trader, sir,--a New England
horse-trader.”

“Well, if you are a horse-trader, General, you will do. We have an
order from a merchant in New York for two thousand barrels of flour
and we need a passport for the proper individual to pass through our
lines to New York and return in order to effect the necessary business
arrangements. If the trade goes through successfully we can afford to
give you one third of the profits. We expect confidently to make about
$10,000 out of the transaction in gold, and your share, General, will
surely be $3000.”

“That’s merely a business transaction between private individuals and
it will harm no one. But, Captain, could you make any advances on the
profits, for I am very much in need of $1000 to-day and if it matters
not to you, I will ask you for this amount now?” eagerly questioned
Arnold.

“I would willingly make it $1000, General, only I have just $500 of
gold with me; but I can give you that,” as he counts out the gold on
the desk for General Arnold and keenly looks at him.

“Very well, Captain, that will help me out. It is settled,” said
Arnold, as he grasped the gold and put it into his pockets with avidity.

“But remember, simply give me the name of the individual and I will
furnish him with the passport through our lines, but do not let me know
anything about his business.”

“That’s well, General, for commerce knows no country,” were the
concluding remarks of Captain Risk as he bowed and started for the
door. “I will be here to-morrow for the document. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, sir, but bring the other $500 if possible; I need it,”
contended Arnold.

“If possible, General,” was the response, and the privateersman left
Arnold to go directly to the office of Roderick Barclugh.




CHAPTER IX


The FitzMaurice dinner and the reception at Dorminghurst were
revelations to Roderick Barclugh. He learned that Arnold had a passion
for luxury and no discretion as to its cost; then he became convinced
that the lawyers and clergy and merchants feared a democratic form of
government.

Roderick Barclugh was possessed of wonderful resources to accomplish
his ends. The next morning very early he sent his clerk for Captain
Samuel Risk of the Privateer Holker, in which ship he held the
controlling interest. Arnold’s cupidity must be tried at once.

As Captain Risk came into Barclugh’s private office, the first sound
that greeted his ears was:

“Good morning, Captain Risk, can you depend on your crew to transfer
two thousand barrels of flour to a neutral ship flying the ensign of
Holland in a convenient harbor off Long Island? There’s $20,000 to be
divided up in it.”

“Yes, sir, I can do it. State your necessities in the case. What will
be the ship’s share?” was the prompt answer of the intrepid Captain.

“From private advices, a merchant in New York wants the flour for
his account. I need a passport to get to New York to have the money
advanced and the business concluded. Arnold needs money and his
share in the transaction will be $3000, the ship’s share $10,000 and
protection from capture guaranteed. See Arnold at once, and here is
$500 to advance him for his promise to deliver the passport.”

“Agreed, Mr. Barclugh, and I’ll have that vainglorious upstart tied up
in this business within an hour. I shall return here at once with the
prize,” was the reply of the gingery, little, red-faced Captain as he
went out the door on his mission.

Barclugh turned to his clerk in the compting-room and sent him to
engage two thousand barrels of flour for export on the Brigantine
Holker from Milling & FitzMaurice, who now held merchandise for the
account of Roderick Barclugh in large sums--the result of successful
privateering cruises. But as a matter of fact the flour shipment was
merely a cloak to carry on a deeper scheme. Barclugh had constant
communication with Sir Henry Clinton, the British Commander, but he
needed a safe passport for himself to New York and return in order to
explain the details of his plot to ensnare Arnold with British gold. He
must go in person to the British Commander-in-Chief for the matter was
of such delicate and intricate nature that there must be no mishaps.

The flour transaction would simply pay the expenses of the enterprise,
because the difference in the price of flour between New York and
Philadelphia was twelve dollars a barrel, and the supply was very short
at the former place.

While Barclugh was revolving these problems in his mind, Captain Risk
returned and stated in his straightforward manner:

“The shark is securely hooked, and is desperately in need of money.
That young and gay wife of his is an expensive luxury. He has promised
the passport, taken the $500 and wants $500 more.”

“That is too much to advance. He will have to wait for the balance till
your return. The $3000 promised him will lead him on to new hopes in
extravagance and he will be eager for more when he gets his full share.
Ha, ha! so he took the gold eagerly, did he? Prosperity intoxicates
him. He has desperate courage, and cares not for consequences to
himself,--nor to others. He is capable of as much evil as good to his
cause. Let’s see, Captain, I’ll have the name for the passport ready
to-morrow. You may get your ship ready and load on the flour; for, if
the trade falls through, you can slip down to Havana with your cargo.”

“That’s well, Mr. Barclugh, I’ll have my crew shipped and the cargo
loaded and be lying in the stream awaiting your orders inside the week.”

“Very well, Captain, if you should go to Havana you will bring home one
of those West Indian fellows and then you will be able to retire and
buy an estate,” was the mirthful turn of Barclugh’s planning.

“Ay, ay, sir. Then when I’m land-sick I can sell a farm and go to sea.
What a luxury that would be! But I was never born to be a land-lubber,
sir. Good day, I’ll get the passport to-morrow.”

“Good day, Captain,” said Barclugh, as he followed the skipper to the
door.

“We must use Arnold for our business,” rang in the ears of Captain Risk
from Barclugh, while he walked jauntily off to go aboard his ship.




CHAPTER X


Captain Risk was astir early next morning, called at the office of
Roderick Barclugh, and secured the fictitious name for the passport. He
then at once went to the office of General Arnold on Market Street.

Arnold was in a happier mood than the day previous. The expectancy
of an easy $3000 had given him a chance to see some relief from his
hopeless financial entanglements.

From the developments of the past few days he thus reasoned to himself,
as he paced nervously up and down his small office floor:

“Wherever that $3000 is to come from there surely must be more for me
if my part of the contract were zealously performed. But who can be
the person or persons that are carrying through these transactions?
Captain Risk is only the skipper of the Privateer Holker; who has the
money? I’ll find out, by thunder! Just give Arnold a chance. These
pangs of debt gnaw at the very core of my mental existence. I would
be honorable, but the slavery of financial obligations drives me to
desperate means of relief. Money! money!! money!!! What would I not do
just now for 20,000 pounds in gold? Ha, ha! General Washington would
not dare to reprimand me for my extravagance. I would not dodge every
one then, fearing a demand for that which I have not. Then,--O God, my
wife’s social position would be secure. To get money nowadays you must
look for it among those who have it,--not among the poverty-stricken
Colonists. The English have money and, by thunder, they have gratitude
for the services of their generals. If I had been fighting on the
English side I would not now have been begging. I would have had a
title,--Lord Arnold of Saratoga,--an estate, a pension, and a settled
position for myself and family for such services as I rendered at
Bemis Heights. Bah! what reward have I now in fighting for the rights
of mankind? I ought to fight for the glory of a King; then I would be
sensible; Mrs. Arnold tells me so, and she must be right. But then,
could I have fought in blinding snowstorm from cake to cake of ice, and
travelled over snow in bare and bleeding feet, starved and bled from
gaping wounds, for money? Never! never!! But then I was free, reckless,
and wedded to the profession of a soldier,--now I am linked to the
ambition and tastes of an aristocratic lady. As a man to whom shall be
my duty,--to my country or to my wife? Arnold was never a coward,--my
wife shall prevail!”

In such a reverie of conflicting thoughts was Arnold wrapped, when a
loud rap at the office door caused him to face about and, assuming a
military posture, sharply command:

“Come in.”

“Good morning, General Arnold, I am here for the passport, and we are
ready to load the flour and to start the messenger to New York. The
messenger’s name is Pierre La Fitte,” was the direct, businesslike way
in which the little sea-captain approached Arnold.

“Very well, Captain Risk, but who are ‘_we_’ of whom you speak? You
realize that you are simply a sea-faring man, and very likely to turn
up in Davy Jones’ locker; if, by any possible mishap, this messenger,
Pierre La Fitte, be intercepted, and any suspicions aroused by any
papers found, I could be compromised at once, and I would have no
guarantee of fair treatment. I must deal with your principal, whoever
he is.”

“Well said, General Arnold, you must be secured and protected. Remain
here and you will have this business all settled within an hour, and
you may have protection or whatever else you want for that matter. Good
day, sir,” was the snappy answer of the little skipper, as he read the
whole import of Arnold’s fears, when he suddenly departed to let him
wonder what was to happen next.

When the skipper gained the outside, he explained the situation to
himself, as he reasoned it out.

“Ah, he’s a shark! At first he wanted to know nothing of the
transaction, now he wants to know all. But, howsomever, that Barclugh
knows his business and now that I have hooked the fish, Barclugh will
land him, shark and all that he is.”

When the door shut behind Captain Risk, and Arnold had found himself
addressed, explained, and answered all in one jerk, so to speak, he
drew a long breath and said to himself:

“Whew! what’s up now? What must these people believe me to be? There
must be money where Risk does his business. Those privateersmen are the
only ones who are getting rich in Philadelphia to-day. There’s Robert
FitzMaurice, Financier General of Congress, his warehouses are full of
captured merchandise and I know that he would sell flour to anybody,
even indirectly to the enemy, if he could thereby show a good balance
on his ledger account. Philadelphia, in traffic with the enemy, is
rotten. I must now know where it is going on, and who is at it. Maybe,
I was too eager with Captain Risk. He’s gone without leaving a clue.
I guess my chance is up. When I actually must have money, what a fool
I was to ask for his principal in the matter. I might have known that
Risk would not have divulged his principal. But I wonder why they sent
Risk to me for a passport, anyway? This business has been done before
and they did not need a passport. For some reason they need me. Therein
lies my chance, and by thunder, Mrs. Arnold will be rich yet, even
though I used to be a New England horse-trader.”

While Arnold had fears and hopes of his success in mind, Barclugh had
listened to Arnold’s request as given by Captain Risk and after the
concise narrative, Barclugh simply said:

“Captain, you have done your duty. Leave the rest to me. Load your
ship, and sail with the flour to the appointed rendezvous at the
entrance of Sag Harbor.”

“That’s well, Mr. Barclugh. I’m better at running a blockade or
overhauling a lime-juicer than in handling a horse-trading shark,” was
the blurting opinion of the Yankee skipper, as he tripped out of the
compting-room of Roderick Barclugh,--little knowing that he had played
the preliminary part in a nation’s drama.

The time was momentous on Arnold’s hands as he pulled at his hair to
think that he had lost his opportunity with Captain Risk, when the
door of the office opened, and there stood Roderick Barclugh.

Arnold, wondering who was Risk’s principal, stared in amazement at
Barclugh’s presence. But Barclugh at once knew that boldness was his
weapon to use.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Barclugh, I am very glad to see you,” said
Arnold. “Will you be seated?” as he walked to the door and told the
orderly to admit no one, and then bolted the door behind him.

“General Arnold,” said Barclugh, “do you mean business about this flour
transaction?”

Arnold put on his most gracious air and replied:

“I am entirely in _touch_ with the enterprise, Mr. Barclugh, but I
was obliged to require some token of good faith on the part of the
principals. So you see I could not give Captain Risk the passport until
I had arranged with the responsible parties as to the ways and means of
getting out of the scrape in case of complications arising.”

“What token do you require, General Arnold, on my part?” coolly asked
Barclugh.

“Oh, that is a simple matter for men of substance, Mr. Barclugh. You
see I have bought an estate on the Schuylkill and am in debt; I keep up
my house in town and my pay is entirely inadequate for the tastes of my
family, so, if you could loan me a few thousand pounds in gold, I could
serve you on this occasion and possibly on others.”

“You are very right, General, about your pay being too small to support
a gentleman’s family. To be candid with you, what you need is money.
If I were to put you in the way of securing twenty thousand pounds
sterling, would you accept the proposition? Merely a proposition to do
your country a lasting benefit.”

“My dear Mr. Barclugh, I am dying daily of chagrin, and money is my
only salvation. I would be willing to die ignominiously if I could only
secure my wife that much fortune.”

“Arnold, would you go over to the other party? Would you consider
consequences? Would you honor the obligation?”

“Barclugh, a man that is the slave of the need of money has no country,
has no conscience, has no will of his own. I am a slave. My wife’s
desires torment me as a lash. The abyss opens before my eyes. My
country’s cause can never prevail against the wealth and resources of
Britain. To be loyal to America I would die a pauper in a lost cause.
To serve Britain I would gain my desires,--victory and riches. The die
is cast, sir, command me!”

“You have now arrived at a sensible conclusion, General Arnold,” argued
Barclugh. “There is no use for you to be a beggar after such abilities
as you have shown and such services as you have rendered your country.
I am the direct representative of His Majesty, George III. You prepare
the passports. Be candid with me, and I can relieve your financial
difficulties. I will communicate with you in a few days; in the
meantime, come down to my office, and I will loan you whatever money
you need temporarily.

“Good day, sir,” concluded Barclugh, as he left Arnold’s office,
rejoicing to himself at Arnold’s total subjection to money.




CHAPTER XI


Whenever conspirators engage to carry out a plot, they at once begin to
construct arguments justifying means to their ends.

At the present day we observe oily worded arguments made in the public
press to gild the corruption of virtue by the influence and power
of money; and no flight of the imagination is required to determine
exactly the same influence at work to-day in our money-bag circles
which shows its corruption in the following letter addressed to Arnold
in 1778:

“Dear General:

“Among the Americans who have joined the rebel standard, there are
very many good citizens whose only object has been the happiness of
their country. Such, then, will not be influenced by motives of private
interest to abandon the cause they have espoused. They are now offered
everything which can render the Colonies really happy and this is the
only compensation worthy their virtue.

“The American Colonies shall have their Parliament, composed of two
Chambers, with all its members of American birth. Those of the upper
house shall have titles and rank similar to those of the House of Peers
in England. All their laws, and particularly such as relate to money
matters, shall be the production of this assembly, with the concurrence
of a Viceroy. Commerce in every part of the globe subject to British
sway shall be as free to the people of the thirteen Colonies as to the
English of Europe. They will enjoy, in every sense of the phrase, the
blessings of good government. They shall be sustained, in time of need,
by all the power necessary to uphold them, without being themselves
exposed to the dangers or subjected to the expenses that are always
inseparable from the conditions of a state.

“Such are the terms proffered by England at the very moment when she
is displaying extraordinary efforts to conquer the obedience of her
Colonies.

“Shall America remain, without limitation of time, a scene of
desolation,--or are you desirous of enjoying peace and all the
blessings of her train? Shall your provinces, as in former days,
flourish under the protection of the most puissant nation of the world?
Or will you forever pursue that shadow of liberty which still escapes
from your hands, even when in the act of grasping it? And how soon
would that very liberty, once obtained, turn into licentiousness, if
it be not under the safeguards of a great European power? Will you rely
upon the guarantee of France? They among you whom she has seduced may
assume that her assistance will be generous and disinterested, and that
she will never exact from you a servile obedience. They are frantic
with joy at the alliance already established, and promise you that
Spain will immediately follow the example of France. Are they ignorant
that each of these has an equal interest in keeping you under, and
will combine to accomplish their end? Thousands of men have perished;
immense resources have been exhausted; and yet since that fated
alliance the dispute has become more embittered than ever. Everything
urges us to put a conclusion to dissensions,--not less detrimental
to the victors than to the vanquished; but desirable as peace is, it
cannot be negotiated between us as between two independent powers;
it is necessary that a decisive advantage should put Britain in a
condition to dictate the terms of reconciliation. It is her interest,
as well as her policy, to make these as advantageous to one as the
other; but it is at the same time advisable to arrive at it without any
unnecessary waste of that blood of which we are already as sparing as
though it were again our own.

“There is but General Arnold who can surmount obstacles so great as
these. A man of so much courage will never despair of the Republic,
even when every door to a reconciliation seems sealed.

“Render then, brave General, this important service to your country!
The Colonies can not sustain much longer the unequal strife. Your
troops are perishing in misery. They are badly armed, half naked and
crying for bread. The efforts of Congress are futile against the
languor of the people. Your fields are untilled, trade languishes,
learning dies. The neglected education of a whole generation is an
irreparable loss to society. Your youth, torn by thousands from their
rustic pursuits of useful employments, are mown down by war. Such as
survive have lost the vigor of their prime or are maimed in battle;
the greater part bring back to their families the idleness and corrupt
manners of the camp. Let us put an end to so many calamities; you and
ourselves have the same origin, the same language, the same laws. We
are inaccessible in our island; and you, the masters of a vast and
fertile territory, have no other neighbors than the people of our
loyal Colonies. We possess rich establishments in every quarter of the
globe, and reign over the fairest portions of Hindustan. The ocean is
our home, and we pass across it as a monarch traversing his dominions.
From the Northern to the Southern pole, from the East to the West
our vessels find everywhere a neighboring harbor belonging to Great
Britain. So many islands, so many countries acknowledging our sway, are
all ruled by a uniform system that bears on every feature the stamp of
liberty, yet it is well adapted to the genius of different nations and
various climes.

“While the continental powers ruin themselves by war, and are exhausted
in erecting the ramparts that separate them from each other, our
bulwarks are our ships. They enrich us; they protect us; they provide
us as readily with the means of invading our enemies as of succoring
our friends.

“Beware, then, of breaking forever the link and ties of friendship
whose benefits are proven by the experience of a hundred and fifty
years. Time gives to human institutions a strength which what is new
can only attain in its turn, by the lapse of ages. Royalty itself
experiences the need of this useful prestige, and the line that has
reigned over us for the past sixty years has been illustrious for ten
centuries.

“United in equality, we will rule the universe; we will hold it bound,
not by arms and violence, but by the ties of commerce,--the lightest
and most gentle bonds that human kind can wear.”

Allowing sufficient time for the arguments of this letter to
crystallize his determination, Arnold was entrapped. Barclugh had
analyzed what effect the document would have on Arnold’s mind; he knew
that vanity alone would lead him to commit treason on the pretext that
he might save his country from desolation and ruin, so that he could
be the master-key in the great drama. To end the war at one stroke and
receive the pecuniary gratitude of the English government and to stand
out in history like Brutus, or Monk, or Marlborough, as the creator of
kings or governments, was the dream of an adventurous spirit. Arnold
loved dramatic display. Battlefields had provided him a theatre for the
exercise of his valor; garrison duty at Philadelphia had given him the
allurements of social dissipations; the need of money and the glitter
of kingly promises were for him the crucial tests of honor which sunk
his career.

Roderick Barclugh was in Arnold’s office the next day at midnight, and
thus addressed his victim:

“General Arnold, you of all Americans can end this cruel war with the
mother country. So if you receive twenty thousand pounds in gold and
a commission as General in the British Army, and a pension of two
thousand pounds sterling per annum for life, what can you do to endow
your countrymen with the blessings of peace?”

“Mr. Barclugh,” said Arnold, “I shall be inflicting enduring good upon
humanity to stop the vain sacrifices of Americans in a forlorn cause.
I would re-establish trade and friendly relations at home and abroad.
The name of Arnold would be a synonym for the savior of this country.
There would be no need, then, for a Washington. I would be the founder
of great prosperity and happiness, and my natal day would be cherished
by the,--well, by the nobility, anyway.

“However, I have thought of the best way for us to accomplish the
object: you see, West Point is the citadel of American military hopes;
if they were to lose that stronghold, New England could be cut off
from the rest of the Colonies. The control of the upper Hudson falls
with West Point. Communications would then be cut between New England
and the Southern Colonies. The rebel forces would then be merely local
bands, and the commanders partisan leaders. Then another British force
could invade Virginia and each section be subdued in detail, but after
the fall of West Point the Colonists would be glad to make terms of
peace. Bloodshed would then be stopped.

“I can secure the command of West Point from the Commander-in-Chief,
and when once in the coveted position, then Americans and American
destiny will be at my feet.”

“Your plan is an inspired one, General Arnold, and here are two
thousand pounds in Bills of Exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam, which
you can get cashed at my office as a token of my faith in you. Now,
with my passport in my pocket I shall start at once by way of West
Point for New York, and carry the good news to General Clinton. Be sure
and communicate with General Washington at once for your assignment to
your new command,” were the parting words of Roderick Barclugh, as he
mounted his horse at daylight to begin his journey through the Jersey
Highlands, under the disguise and name of Pierre La Fitte.




CHAPTER XII


When Roderick Barclugh left the office of General Arnold, he mounted
his horse and took the Germantown road. The hour was just before dawn,
and much fatigue after the exciting negotiations with the traitor
caused Barclugh to ride briskly, while serious meditations flitted
through his brain:

“What will Washington think of Arnold’s request for assignment to West
Point? I must pave the way for Arnold’s success. If I could only meet
General Washington, being armed with the letter of Robert FitzMaurice,
I would encourage the General to favor Arnold and explain away his
unrest at Philadelphia. I could praise his deeds at Saratoga; how he
longed for active service; his marriage and its financial obligations.
The desire to please his wife entangled Arnold in unwarranted
expenditures. To assign such a valuable leader to a post away from all
allurements of society would preserve a valuable leader for active
service after his wound had healed.”

Thus he mused, while his horse alternately galloped and walked, until
he realized that the sun had risen, and he found that he had reached
the seat of his friend, Dr. William Greydon, who had urged him to stop
at Dorminghurst, whenever he should have business that way.

Knowing that he might have greater need of his horse later on in the
course of his perilous journey, he considered it wisdom to stop and
spend the day for rest and gather his thoughts and energy for a long
ride the next day. He also wished to travel incognito and the less he
stopped at public houses, the better his purpose was helped along.

To stop at Dorminghurst did not require any length of argument, as
Barclugh was young and still susceptible. Neither had he forgotten Miss
Mollie Greydon who was at the dinner party of the Financier General;
Barclugh recalled her beauty and intellectual qualities.

Riding between the hemlocks to the mansion, Roderick Barclugh was
struck with the taste of this American home. As he dismounted he was
greeted by the master of the house on the portico, while his horse was
attended by a watchful black servant. The welcome he received was in
true Colonial fashion:

“At last, Mr. Barclugh, you have made good your promise to break bread
with me. I know that you must have risen early, so we can breakfast at
once,” was the greeting of Dr. William Greydon.

Turning to the servant, Dr. Greydon continued:

“Care for Mr. Barclugh’s horse and bring his saddle-bags into the
house.”

“Really,” replied Barclugh, “starting on this journey last night, I was
detained with a friend arranging my business until early morning. I am
on a long journey to the Commander-in-Chief at Fishkill, and I thought
best to make my journey in short stages at first.”

“You are wise, Mr. Barclugh,” replied his host, “and I am sure
Dorminghurst is honored with your presence.” Bowing courteously as Mr.
Barclugh entered the great hallway, Dr. Greydon ushered his guest to
the staircase, and left him in the hands of a trusted man-servant who
led the way to the guest-chamber.

After the customary formalities of presenting himself to his host and
family in the library, breakfast was served in the rear hall.

The easy manners of gentlemen’s families during the Revolution were a
blessing to travelers. Open houses, hearty welcome to soldiers, was
the rule among patriots, and hospitality was as free and unpolluted as
sparkling spring water.

What impressed Roderick Barclugh as remarkable, was the frank and
unaffected manner in which he was greeted by the daughter and
brilliant wife of Dr. Greydon. Their “thee’s” and “thou’s” were not
assumed in addressing a guest who happened in; for the Greydons had
traveled in Europe, and Dr. Greydon was a graduate in Medicine of
Cambridge University.

There is risk to young women in early morning calls. If ever a young
woman is seen in her true self, that time is at her own breakfast
table. No one appreciated such a fact more keenly than Roderick
Barclugh. Therefore, when he presented himself for this early breakfast
he greeted Mrs. Greydon and Miss Mollie with these words:

“Miss Mollie, I am surprised to find you astir so early.”

“Why!” exclaimed the young Quakeress, “Mr. Barclugh, I have already
translated forty lines of Horace for father, as well as directed the
churning for mother.”

“Wonderful! Bravo!! Miss Greydon, I have much respect for the young
woman who can combine the graces of odes of the greatest Latin poet
along with the duties of domestic economy, and all before breakfast,”
exclaimed Barclugh. “I believe, however, that Horace sings of the vine,
the bees, the grain, the cattle, and the thrifty housewife. I am really
delighted to find some one so practically refined,” continued the
guest.

Mollie Greydon was a perfectly happy and healthy girl, who enjoyed
being busy and useful. She was dressed this morning in a neat and
becoming homespun of her father’s loom. Her form was well rounded and
her face was animated and possessed of one of those kindly benevolent
expressions that are heaven-born. Her eyes were hazel-brown, large and
deep-set, which indicated stable character and mental penetration. Her
hair was brown, and worn combed back, high and plain.

There was nothing of the ascetic or complaining nature about her.
She was a wholesomely good and reasonable girl, ready and willing to
accept any station in life in which she happened to be cast,--always
ready to perform her full duty, no matter in what sphere. If she were
linked to the fortunes of an honorable pioneer or to the luxury of
a Colonial gentleman, she would have no grievances. Mollie Greydon
was conscious of her ability to render her full duty in life and
therefore the equipoise of her countenance and the grace of her mind
and body were discernible in whatever she did. She had much energy,
but still had discretion to keep much in reserve. She had lively
passions and a temper which any worthy person must respect, but the
judgment in its use was the work of a master mind. She quarreled
with no one but the open enemies of her country, and the advocates
of aristocracy. Her young days had been intermingled with all the
contemporary men of ideas, since she was her father’s companion, and
always at his side. The social and domestic life of Dorminghurst, the
intellectual atmosphere of her home, and the advantages of meeting all
the distinguished men of the times around her father’s fireside, had
rounded out the qualities of a gifted young woman, which she was.

The breakfast was plain and substantial, composed of hominy and
milk, and sugar-cured ham, with a corn cake and a cup of coffee;
also potatoes that were boiled. Roderick Barclugh had an unerring
opportunity to study the bearing of Miss Mollie in all its details. He
asked her several pointed questions for the only purpose of sounding
her philosophy on current affairs, and on her views of life in the
colonies.

Among other questions one was addressed to her with an earnest gaze
from Barclugh’s penetrating eyes:

“Miss Mollie, have you no young lady companions near at hand to help
you pass the time?”

“No, Mr. Barclugh,” came the prompt and decided answer of the young
Quakeress. “I have very few. My father and my mother are my most
constant companions. One tutors me in the classics, almost daily,
and the other instructs me in all the duties of our household. I am,
therefore, very busy at my books, the spinning, the weaving, the
oversight of the dairy and the poultry-yards. I have my circle of
friends in Philadelphia and I attend some of the entertainments given
there; but in these stirring times, when our countrymen need clothes
and food, I owe all of my energy to them.”

“Well, well, Miss Greydon, you are truly in earnest about this war. Let
me see,” laughingly remarked Barclugh, “do you really believe that the
Colonists can possibly succeed in their efforts to win independence?
Will not your zeal have been spent in vain?”

“Why, Mr. Barclugh,” came her reply in girlish enthusiasm, “you
remember that Wolsey, in the time of Henry VIII, said:

  ‘Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal
  ‘I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age
  ‘Have left me naked to mine enemies.’

And I can assure you that I believe when I serve this country for the
principles of independence and equality of the people, I am serving my
God. So I have heard Mr. Franklin say to father, and he must be right.”

Turning to his host and hostess at each end of the breakfast table,
and to Miss Greydon, who sat opposite, Barclugh looked at each one
earnestly, while he remarked:

“This young lady must be inspired.”

With the purpose of disclaiming any credit to herself, the young lady,
with all the sincerity of a child, laughed with animation, as she tried
to explain her wisdom:

“No, Mr. Barclugh, you must not think so. For the past five years we
have heard nothing discussed at our tables, at our firesides, and on
every occasion, nothing but the ‘Rights of Man,’ ‘Common Sense,’ ‘Age
of Reason,’ ‘The Declaration of Independence,’ ‘The Tyranny of Kings,’
and ‘The Corruption of Aristocracy,’ until their doctrines have become
household words. I have imbibed them, absorbed them, and discussed
them, so I feel that every word I utter is the truth.”

Dr. and Mrs. Greydon let the younger people occupy each other’s
attention and listened with smiles of satisfaction at the readiness
with which their only daughter was able to expound the sentiments of
the household.

However, Dr. Greydon turned to his guest, saying:

“Mr. Barclugh, I must let you know that Mollie is my boy.”

“Well, Miss Greydon, there is no mistaking two things; that you are
right and that you are sincere. After this, you may be sure that
you have my respect and my esteem,” were the admissions of Roderick
Barclugh, and a deep emotion came over his whole frame, as the crimson
blush of blood rose out of his body, and enveloped his neck and ears
and face.

Here was an unaffected and honest Colonial girl of nineteen, who had
brought this diplomat to bay.

While thinking of his journey and mission the thought flashed through
his mind:

“Magna est veritas et prevalibit.”

Nothing but monosyllables could Barclugh utter after this upheaval in
his breast, produced by the wisdom and truth stated by the innocent
young soul who sat opposite him at table. Small-talk about the farm and
city relieved his predicament until breakfast was over.

Dr. Greydon and Barclugh enjoyed a social pipe in the library after
breakfast, until the Doctor suggested:

“Since you have been awake all night the best thing for you to do is to
take a rest.”

The suggestion was eagerly taken up by Barclugh, for he needed rest and
seclusion. Therefore, he excused himself, and went to his chamber and
sat down in a large chair with a resignation becoming a better cause
than his.

He began to think of the excitement of ensnaring Arnold the night
before, and then the voice of that beautiful girl:

  “Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal
  “I serv’d my king....”

rang in his ears.

He jumped up and placed his clenched fists in his hair, and exclaimed:

“My God, I am blushing again! What ails me? I tremble. Oh, that face!
that voice! those words deep in wisdom! Great God! I am in love!”

       *       *       *       *       *

He paced up and down his chamber. He took off his shoes and outer
garments and lay down to sleep, but he could not. He tossed from side
to side; he jumped up and sat on the chair, but no repose could he find.

“What can I do? Shall I throw everything overboard? Shall I renounce
my mission, and ask Miss Greydon to be my wife? No, I can not do that,
for the traitor, Arnold, has me in his power. If I proceed in this
nefarious business, my life will not be right to meet this pure and
innocent soul on an equality.”

Straightening himself up and gazing out of the window, Barclugh saw
the birds carrying straws to build their nests, and the bees bringing
honey to the hive in the garden, and he mused no longer but walked to
and fro as he resolved:

“Come, Barclugh, brace thyself. Ah, I shall proceed. I shall attempt
both ends. If one fail, perhaps the other will succeed. I know which
one I most desire.

“But I must not linger here. To hear her voice again I shall be lost. I
must go very soon; yes, at once.”

Barclugh had now calmed and he lay down again and slept soundly for two
hours.

Awakening with a start, he dressed in haste, and found his host and
informed him that the urgency of this business would not let him rest
longer.

Leaving his compliments for his hostess and Miss Mollie with the
Doctor, Barclugh mounted his horse and galloped down the avenue of
hemlocks to the public road, and took the direction of Trenton on the
Delaware.




CHAPTER XIII


The dearest thought of an American patriot is the fact that, no matter
how deep and powerful the plots for aristocratic forms of government,
these ideas wither and die in embryo on the free soil of America.
The dreams of a Fairfax in Virginia, the Patroons in New York, a
Blennerhasset in the Ohio Valley, were never to be realized in the
free air of America. The principle of primogeniture found no favor
in the new land of hope and refuge. The Covenanters in Pennsylvania
and the valley of Virginia, the Puritans in New England, the Quakers
in Pennsylvania, the Catholics in Maryland, the Debtors in Georgia,
all left British soil with grievances which were to be righted in the
wilderness.

All of those who were favored with prosperity remained at home,
and they were largely the first-born sons, or entailed heirs. The
underlings cleared out to the wild-woods. How could the mother
country expect, therefore, conformity to her system of aristocratic
estates, if those who sought the Colonies left home smarting under
the inequality shown to the younger sons? The laws of Britain had,
through generations, elevated the first-born and pauperized the junior
offspring, till at last the American Revolution could with propriety
be named the uprising of the younger sons of Britain for equality. Can
Englishmen wonder, therefore, to-day, that Americans have no patience
with English aristocracy and royalty? Any statesman who would emulate
English social systems in America may be prepared for an avalanche.

However, there is one relic of old England’s musty law tomes with which
the younger sons may again have to measure swords, if not settled by
peaceful and constitutional means. That is a law analogous to the law
of entailed estates, which maintains inequality in like manner between
individuals. The growth has been gradual and unseen until recent years;
but at the same time producing rumblings in the hearts of the unfavored
persons. _Primogeniture_ maintained inequality between brothers and
sisters in the family; the other creates an inequality in finance and
commerce, _in perpetuo_, by means of an artificial person, endowed with
a legal immortality which destroys all individualism. That fiction of
vested rights is the stock corporation under the genius and authority
of the Common Law of England.

No matter how safe Americans may feel against the introduction of
aristocratic laws and forms of government, still, spasmodically and
industriously, attempts have been made to supplant the idea of equality
before the law, by legislation for the favored ones.

The mission of Roderick Barclugh to the new world was to crush out
the struggle for liberty by means of bribery and at the same time to
imitate those laws of England, which would bind the social conditions
of England upon the Colonists forever. Against the rebels, the outcome
of the War for Independence seemed such a foregone conclusion, that
already Roderick Barclugh was scheming to advance his own social
prestige which his zeal for the King of England promised. He expected
to be Viceroy of the Colonies, and to receive the title of Lord
Barclugh of Allegheny.

The matter had been so far decided and planned that the letter to
Arnold explicitly stated that the Parliament of the Colonies would have
an upper house of Lords of the Realm who were to receive their patents
of nobility from the King of England. The thought of independence
was ridiculed by the English; so what could more properly occupy the
thoughts of Barclugh than his exalted position when England should
subdue the rebels?

His mind was set upon creating one of the most extensive landed
estates to which noble blood could lay claim. He would receive one
of those royal grants of land out of the public domain in Western
Pennsylvania, equal to a principality. He would build such a castle
that its renown would live through ages. The tenantry would be bound
to the soil from generation to generation, paying their rents for
the privilege of bare existence upon the lands of a noble lord. The
miller’s son would be a miller, the blacksmith’s boy would be a
blacksmith, the ploughman’s boy would be a ploughman, toiling without
hope and without ambition; for the privilege of equality would be
denied them under the English social system.

The consuming thought of Barclugh in all these stirring panoramas
was the founding of a noble family that would emblazon the crest of
Barclugh high in the fields of statesmanship and war.

But how was such a problem to be accomplished? Should he wait until his
honors had fallen to him, and then go home and ally his name with one
of the great houses and names of English nobility? Or should he seek
among the best blood in the Colonies, a lady out of the representatives
of wealth, gentility, and intellect, because such an one would be
inured to the customs and privations of pioneers which a _grande
dame_ from ancestral halls could never endure? Either one course or
the other must be chosen. For land and heirs are necessary appendages
to successful nobles. Land without heirs is a misfortune; but heirs
without lands or wealth, among aristocrats, had better been unborn.

Roderick Barclugh was not in the habit of jumping at conclusions.
Thus in the selection of his bride he had weighed every influence
upon the future of his posterity and his estate. He had calculated
that his helpmate must be capable of maintaining, by means of her
accomplishments, grace of person, and intellect, his exalted social
eminence. She must be respected by the Colonial social leaders in
order that the administration of the vice-regal office should be
deservedly popular. Though to make doubly sure of his results, Barclugh
had determined to wed before his mission to America was divulged and
before his emoluments and honors were known. If he were to be accepted
in his proposals for marriage he would be desired for himself, and
not as Viceroy of the most powerful monarch on earth. Once settled
in his marital affairs he could open up to his bride the honors of
his position, and the power which would rest in her hands. Dreams
of William the Conqueror parcelling out estates and titles to his
favorites welled up in the mind of Barclugh.

“What woman would not enjoy such a position?” thought he. “Not a
vestige of the former principles of equality and democracy would be
tolerated; every semblance of the principles of the Declaration of
Independence would be crushed.”

But who was to be the fortunate or unfortunate object of all these
plans and conceptions of power and grandeur,--the one on whom would
devolve all the prestige of founding a new order of barons,--whose will
might be the arbiter and maker of titles for American families in the
new regime of nobility and aristocracy?




CHAPTER XIV


In 1699 the ebb and flow of the Delaware’s tide were slipping placidly
by the City of Brotherly Love, when the founder of Dorminghurst first
saw the sphere of his future labors. He was but five and twenty years
of age, and the good ship Canterbury brought him hither as secretary of
the Proprietor and Governor of Pennsylvania.

He was tall and athletic; a fine scholar, versed in Latin, Greek,
French and Spanish. He was a member of the Society of Friends. Imbued
with all the ambition of a young, vigorous and refined manhood, James
Greydon prospered under the patronage of his benefactor, William
Penn. He attended to all the official correspondence of the Colony
of Pennsylvania, and to all the private accounts and business of the
Proprietor of the Colony. He was a faithful steward to a good and
liberal man. He attended all the meetings which William Penn held
with the Indian tribes for the purpose of buying lands west of the
Susquehanna. The details of these vast transactions rested in the able
hands of James Greydon.

All that tract of land lying on both sides of the Susquehanna and the
lakes adjacent, in or near the Province of Pennsylvania, was confined
at this time by several treaties entered into with the Conostogas, the
Shawnees, the Iroquois, the Susquehannas and the Onondagas,--all of
whom loved Penn and his friends; so that the language of the treaty had
these remarkable words of brotherly relationship:

“They shall for ever hereafter be as one head and one heart, and live
in true friendship and amity as one people.”

When Penn was obliged to return to England in 1701, the management of
his personal and real estate in the Colony was left to James Greydon.
Greydon, therefore, had to receive the Indian deputations, as well as
to superintend all the fur traffic with the tribes for the benefit
of the proprietor’s estate. He could hardly escape becoming a large
landlord by the opportunities thrust into his way in the routine of his
duties.

However, the mere acquirement of riches was not gratifying to James
Greydon. He not only wished to establish his family comfortably in the
enjoyments of a large estate, but he cherished even more highly those
graces of mind and body, which accompany the love of books and learning.

Consequently, a few years after his establishment in the Colony and
his marriage to a daughter of a wealthy merchant, he consolidated
his earnings into several large tracts of land between Philadelphia
and the settlement of Friends called Germantown. He named the estate
“Dorminghurst.”

The mansion was finished in 1728. At the start, the family occupied the
beautiful spot for a summer resort. Many times its master rode from
Philadelphia on his finely-bred horse to superintend the clearing of
fields, the planting of fruit trees and the setting out of rare shrubs
for landscape effects. His pride was aroused in laying out and adorning
with hemlocks an avenue which was to be the grand approach to his
mansion. While out in the wilderness west of the Susquehanna surveying
his possessions, the beauty of the native hemlocks amazed him so
forcibly that he gathered, with his own hands, one hundred young trees,
and upon his return to Dorminghurst in the autumn had them re-planted
for the glory of his own handiwork. Hawthorns, walnuts, hazels and
fruit trees sent out by William Penn from England found appropriate
spots each year for the embellishment of James Greydon’s home.

Nature had provided Dorminghurst with many attractive features. The
primeval forest of oaks, elms and maples needed only the exercise
of taste and the use of artistic judgment to convert the undulating
natural landscapes into lasting impressions of the beautiful. To cull
out the obtruding exuberance of the primitive woodland was a triumph
of art. To create a vista of the rivulet, Wingohocking, crooking up a
little valley, and to present expanding miles of swelling meadows over
which grazed sleek cattle, sometimes resting under a lone magnolia or a
group of beeches, were passions in the heart of a devotee of Virgil’s
Georgics. The sloping of the ground in all directions from the site
of the mansion-house allowed the broad avenue between the hemlocks to
curve around each side of the buildings. One way a serpentine road
descended through a dense wild-wood grove, and then meandered through
the gully, giving perspectives or vistas through the shadowy treetops;
the other way skirted enclosures for fruits and esculents on one side,
and on the other passed broad lawns rising and falling in harmony
’midst the clumps of spruces, pines and firs.

The development of a family seat in the early Colonial times aroused
all the latent energies and pride of its founder. All the true domestic
instincts found gratification in first choosing a picturesque location
and then unfolding plans for landscape gardening. Problems arose. The
manufacture of the brick, and the hewing of the timbers, from off the
proprietor’s own soil, the construction of a mill on the stream to
grind his own grain, and the building of his smoke-house, brew-house, a
place for his loom, his dairy, and his ashery, rounded out the domestic
economy of a Colonial gentleman.

The realizations of every domestic felicity were found in these
establishments. The capital sprung from the soil, and the labor
bestowed brought forth bountiful fruits of the earth, which are sweet
to all true men. These treasuries of a home and the securities for
a future were sounder and more human than an up-to-date gentleman’s
commercial assets which are artificial and sometimes of fictitious
origin. No market quotations ruined the Colonial home.

After the needs of the home were supplied from the soil, from the
spinning-wheel and loom and the dairy and the poultry-yard, the
surplus could be traded for the small needs of money. The Colonist was
supported by nature’s products direct from the soil; the man of the
present is the offspring of artificial institutions of money and of
corporations--the slave of vested rights, whose origins have mostly
been the unearned increment.

But, aside from the domestic felicity of the Colonial families, the
social phases of their lives were no less distinguished than their
hospitable homes. After the mansion was built and the servants or
slaves well ordered; after the smoke-house was full of meat; after
the mill was full of grain; the home-made ale or cider in the cellar;
the spinners and weavers busy at the warp and woof; the travelling
shoemaker busy at the year’s foot-wear (made from the home-tanned
leather), what could deter the natural social proclivities of these
people? The cares of an artificial man were unknown. The dames had
quilting and spinning-bees, while the men had hunting contests, which
were decided by the best filled bags. Entertainment and hospitality
shown to house-parties would last for days. The housewives vied with
each other to see their husbands and families clothed in the finest
textures of their own manufacture. Each household tried to produce the
finest ale of its own brewing, and to establish reputations for its
cakes, mince pies and doughnuts. The gossip of the neighborhood was
exchanged by the housewives; the men traded horses and sheep and swine;
they all danced, dined, played games and made merry; so, then, what
more could they ask for pleasure?

Dorminghurst grew out of the forest under the influence of a master
mind. The mansion was one of those plain, square, two-storied brick
structures,--dormer windows for the attic rooms, and a detached
kitchen in the rear (connected with the large dining-hall by a
covered passageway). The office was built in line of the eastern
elevation of the dwelling, and connected with the house by a covered
way. The store-house, smoke-house, brew-house and bakery, besides
the servants’ quarters and the stables, were all built of brick and
formed a quadrangle enclosure and a court in the center. The doors of
all buildings were massive oak and secured by the heaviest fastenings
of iron. All windows on the ground floor had heavy shutters, and an
underground, secret passageway led from the house to a door under the
stables. The structures were enclosed thus to guard against Indian
attacks.

A handsome porch and steps led up to the massive front door, which
entered into the great hall that extended through the middle of the
building. A double staircase, starting in the middle of the great
central hall, met on a common landing, which led to the sleeping
chambers. Large double parlors on each side of the hallway were
connected by folding doors. The large, well-lighted front room on the
east side was used as the library, and the large hallway to the rear
of the staircase was used as the dining and living-room. All the
apartments had vast chimney-places, commodious enough in the openings
to receive huge logs of wood for good cheer in winter. Grotesque
blue and white tiles, imported from Holland, embellished the massive
brick-work of the chimney, and above the mantels were arched niches
adorned with rare old china and heavy silver-ware, which on state
occasions saw service at table.

The furniture of a Colonial house in 1730 partook, like the house
itself, of simplicity, and in design was more useful than ornamental.
Mahogany was little known in Pennsylvania, yet used to some extent
in the West Indies; oak and black walnut served for the cabinet
woods. Chairs in profusion were found only in the houses of the
most substantial. Choicely carved chests-of-drawers, cupboards,
high-backed chairs and tables found their way from Europe only by
the grace of ship-masters, so that imported Colonial furniture was
rare and expensive. However, each town of importance had its list of
cabinet-makers and joiners who fashioned their handiwork after the
design of articles imported and thus supplied the needs of the new
country.

At Dorminghurst everything which was possible to be constructed from
material found on the estate was made and fashioned right there. The
timbers for the mansion and outbuildings were hewn in the forest, and
the lumber for finishing the interior was sawed by hand on the spot.
Any pieces of oak or walnut that were choice were saved and seasoned
for the cabinet-work and for the furniture. Half a dozen skilled
artisans were hired by the year and the workmanship put upon the doors,
the wainscotting and the staircase was marvellous.

The front part of the great hallway had a lofty ceiling, and was
lighted by windows in the second story.

The great double staircase flared out at the foot and ascended by
graceful curves, thus forming an elliptical center space between the
two banisters. The effect upon entering the well-lighted and lofty
hallway was to command respect for the mansion. After passing between
two massive and richly-carved newel posts, the elliptical opening
between the two staircases had hall seats in comfortable nooks and
the rear hall had a huge fireplace and mantel at the very end. Two
massive oak settles, high in back, faced each other on each side of the
chimney-place, and one could stretch out and lie down on either one of
them and be comfortable. A lengthy oaken table with bandy legs stood
in the center of the hall. Two long forms or benches without backs
were on each side, and two massive, high-backed chairs were at each end
of the table. A damask cover was on the table, and the floor was bare
and scrupulously white. In entertaining company the great hall was in
popular favor.

At this table James Greydon used to entertain his intimates, and he
loved to sit and discourse upon topics of the day. He was a Latin
scholar and scientific writer of no mean ability. In the ripeness of
his attainments he produced a translation of Cicero’s “De Senectute,”
which was the first production in America of classical scholarship.
At Dorminghurst he collected, for a Colonist, a wonderful library of
classical authors.

The well-lighted front room on the first floor was lined with shelves,
on which rested shining lights of literature, to guide the effort
and ambition of struggling genius in the wilderness of Pennsylvania.
An untimely accident had crippled James Greydon, so that for thirty
years of his latter life his time was spent almost entirely among his
books and in his farming pursuits. He wrote valuable treatises on
agriculture, for the then primitive Colonists, and collected precious
editions of Cicero, Virgil, Seneca, Pliny and Horace, to say nothing of
the lesser lights of Latin literature.

He also collected valuable editions of Greek writers on philosophy,
history, verse and the drama. These were the most distinguished
collections of classical works to be used at this early date for the
benefit of American learning. James Greydon was one of the fathers
of scholarship in the New World. He was in correspondence with many
scholars and men of letters in Europe. He was the great friend and
co-laborer of Franklin, who acquired his knowledge of Latin and Greek
from Greydon’s hands.

The quadrant, of such benefit to mariners and explorers, was invented
by an artisan under the encouragement of Greydon, at Dorminghurst.

The numerous pamphlets and treatises produced by Greydon on the science
of agriculture and on politics were the products of Franklin’s press.
Even the noted work of the translation of “De Senectute” which was
printed by Franklin (to whom credit at the time was sometimes given for
the authorship of the work) was performed by James Greydon.

But the crowning distinction for which Dorminghurst shall be known,
was the reverence in which its master was held by the red men of
the forest. Keen in the detection and appreciation of true manhood,
the native instincts of the Indian shunned the commercialism of the
grasping English office-holder; but the pure and simple line of
conduct of the scholar and philosopher commanded the respect and
esteem of those children of nature--the Indians. Deputations of the
fierce Iroquois and the Shawnees and the Susquehannas travelled far
and long to listen to the counsel and wisdom of the distinguished sage
and philosopher of Dorminghurst. The Indians learned to trust his word
and advice so well that his estate became, at length, the Mecca for an
annual gathering of his forest friends, and the permanent abode of a
few of the descendants of Altamaha.




CHAPTER XV


Many times the long avenue of hemlocks was honored by the gathering of
the tribes of red men at Dorminghurst.

Before entering the city for their business with the Governor and
Council at Philadelphia, the Indians invariably camped on the estate
of the big white chief, James Greydon, as a mark of respect to their
friend. Usually the exchange of courtesies could best be accomplished
by preparing a feast for the assembled tribesmen.

On the day set apart for the feast, the tribesmen approached the
mansion through the avenue of hemlocks. They were clothed in their
best buckskin leggings, skin robes and moccasins, and bedecked with
plumage and trinkets. No arms or tomahawks were carried, because
the Indians respected the Quakers’ dislike of war. They seated
themselves in respectful silence on each side of the avenue under the
spreading trees, while the servants were busied covering the white
tables with dozens of roasted turkeys, ducks, chickens, saddles of
venison,--roasted before an open fire,--roasts of beef, pyramids of
doughnuts and apples, great pies and cakes, and then light bread cut
into slices. All this provision met the eyes of the hungry savage, as
he sat smoking his kin-ni-kin-nick.

An occasional grunt of satisfaction issued out of the shade of the
hemlocks, whenever a chief, between puffs at his pipe, assented to
the monosyllables of the others. The groups were picturesque, seated
and grouped around the trees of the spacious lawn. Dignity, becoming
a noble race, was written in the lofty mien and countenance of every
face. If ever Indians were happy, they were, in partaking of the
generous hospitality of this noble Quaker, who was the successor of
their great father, William Penn.

The importance of a tribal feast to the Colonists, in 1732, had much
weight with the principal men of the State. The distinguished men of
the province travelled long distances to be present at these gatherings
given by the master of Dorminghurst.

The feast began when the Secretary led out of his mansion an assemblage
of gay ladies and gentlemen. James Greydon led them down the wide
avenue of hemlocks, bowing and smiling to the natives. They all
proceeded to a lofty and spreading oak, accompanied by the great Chief,
Altamaha. When the ladies were seated and the gentlemen grouped about,
the Chief of the Onondagas, Altamaha, stepped forward and gave a short
command. At once the whole body of Indians came forward and squatted
on the ground in the form of a half-moon, facing the white people. The
chiefs formed a group distinct from the other tribesmen within the
circle facing James Greydon.

When the Indians had taken their places James Greydon advanced with
solemnity to address his guests:

“My children: The spirit of our great father, William Penn, calls us
together again. I welcome you as his children. We are all his children.
We have been driven from our homes by the persecutions of the English.
We seek our homes among the children of the Great Spirit of the forest,
the red men; we are brothers.

“We love our brothers; if they come to our wigwams, hungry, we give
them food; we do not make war upon them in their hunting-grounds; we
love peace.

“The Great Spirit who rules the heavens and the earth knows that the
children of William Penn have a hearty desire to live in peace and
friendship with you. Your friend and great father, William Penn,
retained a warm affection for all the Indians and commanded all those
whom he sent to govern the Quakers to treat the Indians as his
children; he continued in this love for them until his death.

“My brethren: Your hearts have been clean and you have preserved the
pledge of friendship long ago made for your great father’s children,
and the chain has no breaks or rust; you have never forgotten the great
love which our father, William Penn, had for you.

“My friends: May your young men learn from you what your great father
said to you before he went to his happy hunting-grounds. May our chain
of friendship never be broken and may it endure between our children
and our children’s children, and may it last while the creeks and
rivers run and while the sun, moon and stars do shine.

“I make you welcome to my home.”

Altamaha stood up in his place, and with stolid mien, looking toward
his people and the whites, began to reply, at first slowly, while his
voice grew in volume as he proceeded:

“Father: Listen to your children; you have them now before you.

“We all belong to our great father, William Penn; we all are children
of the Great Spirit; we walk in the same path; slake our thirst at
the same spring; and now our great father wishes us to smoke the pipe
around the same fire.

“Brothers: We must love each other; we must smoke the same pipe; we
must help each other; and more than all we must love the Great Spirit;
he is for us; he will destroy our enemies, the King’s dogs; he will
make all his red children and the children of our great father happy
together.

“Brothers: We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our
burdens. The blood of many of our fathers and brothers has run like
water on the ground to satisfy the avarice of the King. We, the red
men, are threatened with great evil; nothing will pacify the King but
the destruction of all the Indians.

“When the English first set foot on our grounds they were hungry; they
had no place on which to spread their blankets or kindle their fires.
They were feeble; they could do nothing for themselves. Our fathers
commiserated their distress and shared freely with them whatever the
Great Spirit had given his red children. They gave them food when
hungry; medicine when sick; spread skins for them to sleep on, and gave
them ground that they might hunt and raise corn,--Brothers: Our enemies
are like poisonous serpents; when chilled they are feeble and harmless;
but invigorate them with warmth and they sting their benefactors to
death.

“Brothers: Our enemies came among us feeble and now that we have made
them strong, they wish to kill us or drive us back as they would wolves
and panthers.

“Brothers: The King is not a friend to the Indians. At first he only
asked for lands sufficient for a wigwam; but now nothing will satisfy
him but the whole of our hunting-grounds from the rising to the setting
sun.

“The King wants more than our hunting-grounds; he wishes to kill all
our old men, women and little ones.

“Our enemies despise and cheat the Indians; they abuse and insult them;
they do not think the red men sufficiently good to live.

“Brothers: Who are our enemies that we should fear them? They can
not run fast, and are good marks to shoot at; they are only men; our
fathers have killed many of them; we are not squaws, and we will stain
the earth red with their blood.

“Brothers: We must compare our enemies to a fat dog that carries its
tail upon its back; but when affrighted it drops its tail between its
legs and runs away.

“O Brothers: The children of our great father Penn are different; they
do not love war; they love peace and happiness. When I heard the voice
of my great father coming up the valley of the mountains, calling me to
this feast, it seemed as a murmuring wind. I got up from my mat where I
sat musing, and hastened to obey it. My pathway hither has been clear
and bright. There is not a cloud to darken it. Truly it is a pleasant
sky above our heads to-day. I have nothing but pleasant words for my
father’s children. The raven is not waiting for his prey. I hear no
eagle cry. Come, brothers, let us go, the feast is ready.”

The whites, at the conclusion of this burst of native eloquence, were
visibly affected. The delivery was impassioned and clear. For the
moment all seemed to be transfixed by the impressive character of the
speech. James Greydon, however, walked up to the savage chieftain,
shook him by the hand, saying: “Good, good, my friend,” and then
escorted him by the arm to the tables. The whole assemblage arose and
followed in order. When the Indians were all arranged by themselves on
each side of the table, the sachem stepped to the head and gave thanks
to the Great Spirit in loud and earnest tones by some word of their
dialect which sounded to the European ear like “Wah, Wah,” and when he
had finished, in no less earnest tones, the whole assembly of natives
replied by words which sounded like “Swe, Swe.” At once thereafter the
solemnity of the occasion was at an end. The Indians began to talk and
laugh. The feast began.

In Indian fashion the natives sat on the ground and waited for the
attendants to serve them with portions of everything on the table. The
younger people, especially the squaws, would point at the different
delicacies and dishes. One feature which attracted the notice and
remarks of the entire deputation was a small pig, which had been
stuffed and roasted, standing on all fours. At the other end was
a large beaver, dressed and cooked in like manner. The center was
embellished by placing a coon and a ’possum, dressed and cooked to a
turn, which were standing on all fours and facing each other, as though
they were ready to fight. These preparations of their own popular
dishes immensely pleased the Indians. But when huge pewter mugs of cool
ale were passed, then there was fun. The old men and warriors drank it
with satisfaction. When the young people and women were urged to take
a draught they would shrink from it at first, and when they had tasted
it they would make wry faces at which all the others laughed. When the
cakes and pies came around, however, the women looked at them curiously
and ate them with enjoyment, for they were produced by an art of
cookery unknown to the squaws.

The whole feast passed off gayly, yet modestly. An Indian abhors
familiarity and vulgarity. The conversation was pleasant but never
hilarious. They sat on the ground, Indian fashion, and ate with their
hands and fingers, but, withal, there was no greediness. They were
polite to each other and waited in silence for their turn to be served.
Courtesy to each other is a cardinal practice and they respect the
proprieties of intercourse between themselves on all occasions.

However, in a group under a tree by themselves were the chiefs and
James Greydon and his white friends. The whites were eating like
Indians, seated on the ground and joining in the pleasures of the
feast. When everybody had eaten and had drunk all that was needed,
Altamaha brought out a new pipe and filled it with tobacco from his
pouch. He lighted the tobacco with his steel and flint. After taking
several puffs of the smoke, he passed the pipe first to the white
chief, James Greydon. Then after a few puffs, Greydon passed it to his
white friends. The pipe was then passed to all the chiefs and sachems.
After all the principal men of the tribes had smoked the pipe of
friendship and peace, Altamaha took it to James Greydon, saying:

“Your brother gives you his pipe of friendship and peace. You must keep
it and never again let it be used. Never let the fire be put out which
Altamaha has kindled for you.”

Standing up, James Greydon took the pipe, saying in reply:

“My good friend: The most noble of his race is Altamaha. His pledge
of friendship to me to-day shall never be broken. The pipe shall be a
token to me and my children of the love of Altamaha and his people. His
fire shall burn forever in my heart. But come, Altamaha, let us all be
merry. Let the young men dance. Our white friends will be pleased.”

At a sign for the dance, the great sachem, Pisquagon, stepped out into
an open space on the lawn and began to shake his shell rattles and
let out some vocal gyrations. The young men and women applauded by
screeching and clapping of hands. The whole concourse gathered around
Pisquagon and in unison joined in his chant:

“Yo! ho! ha! ha!--

“Yo! ho! ha! ha!--

“Yo! ho! ha! ha!--

“Yo! ho! ha! ha!” And to the rhythm made by the shell rattles, one
warrior with feathered war-cap waving above him, shoulders and limbs
bare, lets out a whoop and starts over the green by jerking his two
feet together over the ground. Presently another, “dressed in Georgia
fashion,”--little else on than a collar and a pair of spurs,--starts
off sideways, moving his feet over the ground by jerks, in unison with
the shell rattles. Suddenly he faces the other performer and the two
proceed in unison, one forward and the other backward, following the
same direction around in a circle. As if by magic, yells come from the
others, and pairs join the moving circle in manner like the first two.

The circle is completed. The noisy stamping of their feet and the
shrieks of enthusiasm are startling. At certain cadences in the chant,
each one faces about and continues the moving circle in the same
direction as before, dancing and contorting with renewed spirit and
energy. The dusky throng performs all manner of grotesque movements.
Every conceivable posture of the human frame is kept up while moving to
the beats and rhythm of the shells. The men were dancing alone, but a
young squaw, desiring to join, presents herself at the side of the one
whom she wishes to favor, and quietly dances in the circle. There was
no cessation of the spirit of the dance till sheer exhaustion stopped
it. Some sort of superstitious frenzy seemed to possess their souls. To
the whites the most amusing part of it all was to observe the solemn
and serious faces of those who were in the performance of the most
grotesque antics. Not a smile softened their somber mien.

A well-contested foot-race for a necklace of beads was run between the
Indian girls to conclude the festivities, and when the setting sun had
drawn near, James Greydon’s Indian friends had withdrawn so silently
and without ceremony, that he remarked to his guests when he looked
around to find them:

“The earth must have swallowed them up.”




CHAPTER XVI


“Segwuna, Segwuna, here are the berries,” sang out the sweet voice of
Mollie Greydon, on a balmy June day, as two girls were seeking wild
strawberries on the banks of the Wingohocking. The year was 1776, and
the day was one of lasting memory at Dorminghurst.

Dr. Greydon had invited Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson to
Dorminghurst to spend a Sunday during the deliberations of the
Continental Congress. The change and rest in the country would give
these earnest workers the time in which to ponder over their labors and
to consult as to measures that Congress ought to adopt.

When distinguished guests were to grace the home of the Greydons
frequently Miss Mollie was busy for days providing the table with
all the delicacies of the season, and leaving nothing undone for the
comfort of her father’s friends.

For the purpose of gathering a goodly supply of wild strawberries, she
went to the lodge of Kaubequa, the mother of her favorite companion,
Segwuna, to enlist the Indian woman and her daughter in her task.
The three worked tirelessly on the day before Sunday, as the
distinguished statesmen were to be present for supper, and she knew
that wild strawberries would be such a treat for her father’s guests.

[Illustration: Two girls were seeking wild strawberries on the banks of
the Wingohocking.]

Ever since the killing of Kaubequa’s brave by the whites, when Segwuna
was a small child, this lone Indian family had made their home on
Dr. Greydon’s estate, Dorminghurst. The child had been nurtured and
educated as his own, since she was the grandchild of Altamaha, the
great friend of James Greydon, his father.

The Greydons had cherished these children of the forest as a heritage
of the soil. The family of Altamaha had always been privileged Indians
at Dorminghurst. After the death of Altamaha, and the killing of his
son in the valley of the Monongahela, Kaubequa, her infant daughter and
boy made the long journey to Dr. Greydon’s estate alone.

The white settlers had killed her brave, and had driven her tribe from
the beautiful valley in the mountains, and the mother had wearied of
war. She knew that if she could once get to the old friends of Altamaha
she could rest in safety and rear her two children in peace. She oft
murmured to herself in the plaintive language of her race as she gazed
upon her two fatherless children:

“I care not again to hear the eagle scream on high. The war manitou
has left me alone, alone and destitute. Every day, thou, star of my
destiny, I gaze at thee. Whither shall I fly?

“He was still standing on a fallen tree that had fallen into the
water,--my sweetheart!

“Alas, when I think of him! when I think of him! It is when I think of
him!--Oh, _disquagummee_!”

Her mind rebelled and indignation took the place of sadness as she
thought of the happy wigwam that her warrior supplied so well with
game and fish; and how she used to enjoy the security of their forest
home. While her brave was out after the chase, she was grinding the
corn and tanning the skins. When he journeyed far in his favorite
hunting-grounds she was cultivating the maize and potatoes for her
loved ones, so that there would be plenty for her lord upon his return.

Many times did she swing her baby girl to sleep while her boy played
about the lodge and gazed at her with love in his young eyes as she
sang:

  “Swinging, swinging, lullaby,
  “Sleep thou, sleep thou, sleep thou,
  “Little daughter, lullaby.
  “Swinging, swinging, swinging,
  “Little daughter, lullaby.

  “Your mother cares for you,
  “Sleep, sleep, sleep, lullaby.
  “Do not fear, my little daughter,
  “Sleep, sleep, sleep,
  “Do not fear, my little daughter.

  “Swinging, swinging, lullaby,
  “Not alone art thou.
  “Your mother is caring for you.
  “Sleep, sleep, my little daughter,
  “Swinging, swinging, lullaby,
  “Sleep, sleep, sleep.”

But she could not, in the care of her children, dispel the sadness of
her mind, knowing that she must give up the joys of her forest life.
Everything had been so full of hope when he was beside her, but now she
could lie on her couch of boughs and mats and ponder upon the sad fate
to which she had been cast by the relentless white man. Her mind oft
reflected what has been well written:

  “’Tis not enough. That hated race
  “Should hunt us out from grove and place,
  “And consecrated shore,--where long
  “Our fathers raised the lance and song.”

The inevitable had come to Kaubequa, and she sought her white friends,
whose religion abhorred war. She set up her lodge on the estate of Dr.
Greydon,--not even asking leave to do so.

The first evidence that the master of Dorminghurst had of the newly
arrived family, was the presentation of a _mokuk_ of maple sugar to the
household by a comely young squaw. She carried an infant daughter on
her back, bound up in an Indian’s cradle.

She desired to obtain some meat, and her way was to exchange with the
white people.

Her son was a dextrous lad of nine years, who had learned to fish and
trap small animals for food and fur.

The infant daughter of Kaubequa grew like a young fawn around her
mother’s lodge. When the child had reached the age verging upon
womanhood, she possessed a tall, slender form, a beautiful olive
complexion and large expressive eyes, much like the wild doe,--in that
the haughty restlessness of the wilderness child could be discerned in
her glance.

Her name was Segwuna, the daughter of Springtime, and when about
thirteen summers, her mother advised her that a sign made by the Great
Spirit to her would mean that she was to be a great woman, if she only
would do whatever her mother required of her.

Consequently, early one morning in mid-winter, an unusual sign
appeared to Segwuna in her dreams. She arose from her couch and ran as
far from her lodge as her strength allowed and remained there until her
mother found her.

Her mother knew what had happened, and directed her to come nearer the
family abode, and instructed her to help prepare a lodge out of the
boughs of the hemlock.

She was told not to taste anything for two days, not even snow. As a
diversion, she was to twist and prepare the bark of the linden into
twine. She could gather wood, build herself a fire, lie down and keep
warm.

Segwuna did as directed and at the end of the two days her mother came
to see her, but did not bring a morsel to eat. Her thirst was greater
than her hunger, yet the pangs of hunger were very violent.

Kaubequa sat down with her child, after she had ascertained that
nothing had passed Segwuna’s lips for two days, and said:

“My child, you are my only daughter. Now, my daughter, listen to me and
try to obey. Blacken your face and fast faithfully, so that the Master
of Life may have pity on you and me, and on us all. Do not in the least
deviate from my counsels, and in two days more I will come to you.”

Segwuna continued to fast for two days more, when her mother came to
the lodge and melted some snow and told her to drink the water. Her
desires were for more, but her mother would not allow anything more to
drink or anything to eat. But she instructed Segwuna to ask the Great
Spirit to show her a vision that would not only do them good, but also
benefit mankind.

The night of the fifth day a voice called to Segwuna in her slumber,
and said:

“Poor child, I pity your condition. Come, you are called into my
service on earth. I give you my power and the life everlasting. I give
you long life on earth and skill in bringing others to my kingdom of
life everlasting in the happy hunting-grounds.”

In her vision she saw a shining path like a silver cord and it led
upward to an opening in the sky, where stood the Great Spirit, in a
brilliant halo, encircled with glistening stars.

“Look at me,” saith the spirit, “my name is the Bright Blue Sky. I am
the veil that covers the earth. Do not fear. You are a pure and dutiful
maiden. You have come to the limit which mortals cannot pass. Now
return. There is a conveyance for you. Do not fear to ride on its back,
and when you get to your lodge, you must take that which sustains the
human body.”

Segwuna saw a snow-white bird soaring like the frigate bird in the
sky, and when she got on its back, she was wafted through the air,--her
hair streaming behind,--and as soon as she arrived at her lodge her
vision ceased.

Upon awakening, Segwuna arose and returned as fast as she could to her
mother’s lodge, where she was fed cautiously by her mother. One could
see that she had undergone a serious transformation. The same tall
willowy form and elastic step were there, but the eyes had changed
their innocent fawn-like gaze to a tense and determined far-away look
that could be interpreted as seriousness and reflection combined.

She went about her duties around the wigwam as though some great
task or burden were weighing her down. And well might those about
her observe her changed manners, for she now deserted the company of
her former playmates and took long and lonely walks through the deep
woods,--resolving silently to serve the Great Spirit the rest of her
life by rendering happy those whom she loved.

The Great Spirit of her forefathers had now wrought in her soul deep
convictions of the duty that she owed to her mother, her brother,
and especially to her kind young friend who lived in the great
mansion-house. The stories that she had heard recited around the
lodge’s fire of the presents made by the great white chief, James
Greydon, to her people, surged through her mind. How kind and gentle
he had always been to the Indians! her kinsfolk! Those were happy days
before the white men had learned the beauties of their old home on the
Monongahela! All the native traits of her race were aroused.

Many times she reasoned thus:

“I can never forgive an injury, nor can I ever forget hospitality and
kindness. My heart bleeds to show the King, our father across the sea,
what great wrong has been done my loved ones, when he sent the great
white birds across the sea that caused the eagle to scream on high.

“My Manitou will bless his Segwuna and teach his daughter to show the
King that when my sky was clear he ought not to send his warlike birds
on the long journey across the water. The King’s warriors shall not
prosper on this side of the great water. Segwuna, the handmaid of the
Great Spirit, shall take her friends over the river, across which the
King’s warriors can not pass. While her friends shall be happy and have
plenty, from this time forth the King shall remain on the other side of
the river and wither and die, because he was so avaricious.”

The small band of Indians at Dorminghurst learned to love and revere
Segwuna. As she grew older she stored up the herbs of the forest and
showed great skill in nursing and curing the young and old of lesser
ailments.

The test of the young prophetess came in the year 1774. The severe
storms and heavy snows of the winter made game very scarce and the
Indians were near starvation. They had, therefore, occasion to try the
arts of Segwuna to determine the range of the game.

So the chief of the band came into the lodge of Segwuna’s mother and
requested that her daughter be allowed to try her skill to relieve
them. The mother laid the request before Segwuna and gained her consent.

The prophetess directed the chief to build the prophet’s lodge of ten
posts or saplings, each of different kinds of wood that she named. When
finished and tightly wound with skins, Segwuna went inside and took a
small drum and rattles with her. The whole band assembled around.

The chief put the question to the prophetess:

“Where shall game be found?”

As if from some supernatural power the drum sounded within the lodge,
and a voice was heard chanting, while the whole structure began to
shake violently, and the people without began to shriek and moan
as though to recognize the presence of the Great Spirit that was
consulted.

A silence fell suddenly upon the lodge, and the people now looked for
an answer to their question.

A voice then arose as from the top of the lodge, which said in slow and
sepulchral tones:

“How short-sighted, you. If you will go in the direction of the south,
game in abundance you will find.”

Next day the camp was taken up, and they all moved to the southward,
led by the hunters. Proceeding not far beyond their former
hunting-grounds a doe and two fawns were killed, and the little band
thereafter found an abundance of food for the rest of the winter.

The reputation of Segwuna was thus established among her own people,
but still greater undertakings were awaiting this handmaiden of the
Great Spirit, not alone for the good that she did for her own people,
but for the benefit of a nation.




CHAPTER XVII


The distinguished members of the Continental Congress reached
Dorminghurst during the afternoon when Mollie Greydon and Segwuna had
been gathering the wild strawberries for supper. They were weary with
their deliberations during the hot June days, and the freshness of the
country air was a tonic to soul and body.

Dr. Franklin had known Dr. Greydon since the latter’s childhood, and he
walked around the grounds examining the garden with characteristic good
comradeship, as he said:

“William,” addressing Dr. Greydon, “are these cherries from the trees
brought over by William Penn and planted by your father?”

“How fine,” exclaimed Mr. Jefferson, “are these roses! I shall have to
get some cuttings for my garden at Monticello,” as they sauntered along
the path bordered by box, on the way to the sun-dial.

“Yes,” replied Dr. Greydon to Benjamin Franklin, “father planted the
originals of most of these trees and we have grafted the scions to
perpetuate the memory of our dear friend, William Penn. But do you
see those columbines on the wall? Those were brought from Monongahela
by Altamaha. That honeysuckle was brought from England by our friend,
George Fox,” as he pointed to a beautiful vine embowering the gate of
the wall surrounding the house court.

The three made their way through rows of hollyhocks, feverfew,
rhododendrons, tulips, peonies, narcissi, rows of homely bee-hives, the
spot for the physic and pot-herbs, where pennyroyal, tansy, spearmint,
anise, dill, horse-leek, bitter-sweet, hyssop and boneset were growing,
when they reached the apple orchard beyond the garden.

A large orchard seat under one of those homely old apple trees,
savoring of domesticity, brought them to a quiet nook where the three
sat down for a discussion of affairs.

“Do you believe that the delegates from Pennsylvania will vote for a
Declaration, Doctor Franklin?” asked Mr. Jefferson of his associate.

“I, for one, shall vote for the Declaration,” replied Benjamin
Franklin, emphatically, “but the other delegates from Pennsylvania,
Robert Morris and James Wilson, I am convinced will never do so.
They love riches too well to disturb present institutions. They are
too close to, and too much interested in the commercial element of
Philadelphia to be so radical. If they could see money in the venture
they would not hesitate.”

“But do you not think that they can see the great benefits to mankind
in free institutions and in the doctrine that all men are created free
and equal?” continued Mr. Jefferson.

“Never, sir, so long as they think that there is any reason to stand
on the argument of non-interference with settled usage and present
commercial relations. They believe that a Declaration would bring war
and an upheaval in trade. You know they represent great commercial
houses in London, and they think that they would be ruined to cut off
their condition of agent and hireling. They are thoroughly whipped into
line by a policy of commercial cowardice and dependence. They cannot
see that to be independent of England’s merchants would be for their
own benefit,” argued Franklin to his listeners’ delight.

“I believe that they will see the error of their way,” continued Dr.
Greydon.

“Yes, when they find that they are overwhelmingly outvoted by the rest
of us,” remarked Jefferson. “But those commercial people think that the
world revolves around them and that we farmers are mere satellites,
reflecting their wisdom,” continued Jefferson lightly.

“But what about the printers?” inquired Franklin with a smile.

“Oh, they have no right to exist, when they print the truth about these
lords of creation,” insisted Jefferson.

“When they speak of themselves as men of substance, I find that they
are mighty small potatoes, when they require a man of physic to keep
body and soul together,” happily joined in Dr. Greydon.

“Really, these commercial people are to be pitied,” said Franklin.
“Their glory is of short duration. To-day they are princes of commerce,
and to-morrow they are paupers. So we must be charitable with them and
let them show how little they know, as they usually do in a bombastic
way. Like a ‘tinkling cymbal’ and ‘a sounding brass’ their glory
passeth as the night.”

By this time a servant announced supper, and the three retraced their
steps in jolly good humor to the mansion, for their appetites were
unusually keen.

At supper Dr. Franklin exclaimed when he tasted the wild fruit that
Mollie had provided:

“William, where did you get such delicious wild fruit?”

“Why, sir, our daughter, Mollie, and Segwuna, the Indian maiden,
gathered the best on the estate,” as he indicated Miss Mollie with a
gesture of his hand, whereupon Mollie blushed inordinately as the two
distinguished guests smiled graciously upon her.

“Did I understand you to say ‘Segwuna’?” asked the philosopher.
“Segwuna, Segwuna,” he continued. “Why, Mr. Jefferson, we have heard
that name before. It is so peculiar.”

“Certainly, certainly, Doctor,” was Mr. Jefferson’s response. “She is
the mysterious Indian maiden that has been such a constant attendant
upon our meetings of Congress. Why, she would be at our door as we
passed in, and still there as we passed out. She has been observed
by several gentlemen. At all times she looks eagerly into our faces
as though anxious for some sign or news that would please her. Her
face lights up with an intelligence that haunts me ever since I first
met her gaze. She seemed so pure and noble that I have been more
than once moved at the presence of this lone Indian girl,--the sole
representative of her race among the curious throng that have watched
our deliberations. If she lives near by,” continued the statesman with
much earnestness in his tone, “I would like to question her, and learn
her purpose at the doors of Congress.”

Dr. Greydon was surprised at this information and he replied with
lively interest:

“You certainly may see our forest child, Mr. Jefferson, and in fact,
this very evening; for Segwuna has grown up on our estate, and if any
honor attaches to the meeting, Dorminghurst shall claim it,” concluded
the host as he turned to Dr. Franklin with a merry twinkle in his eye.

“May I take you to the lodge of Segwuna, Mr. Jefferson?”
enthusiastically questioned Miss Mollie, as her eyes danced with joy at
the mention of her favorite companion by these distinguished gentlemen.
“Segwuna,” she added, “has told me that great events were going to
happen within the present moon and that great leaders of men were to
come forth and proclaim the sweetest message from the Great Spirit that
human kind had ever heard.

“She has been to the meetings of Congress,” innocently burst out
Segwuna’s companion, “to watch for what the Manitou has told her would
come to pass, because she has told me all about it.”

“How do you suppose the Indian maiden can foretell such great matters,
Miss Mollie?” asked the venerable Dr. Franklin, who was really affected
by the enthusiasm of his young friend.

“Why, Mr. Franklin, there is much that is good and wise in Segwuna. She
seeks out the poor and sick in the city and carries them medicine and
game. She says that the rich are too proud and grasping to remember the
poor.

“She says such wise things and tells me that her Manitou has sent
her as a guiding star to me, and that she will protect me from much
danger,” continued Miss Mollie, with a tinge of real sentiment in her
voice.

As the question had been answered most interestingly by Miss Mollie,
Mr. Jefferson seemed to be seriously taken up with the philosophy of
Segwuna, and turned to Dr. Greydon suggesting that they might go to the
lodge of Segwuna and interview her upon the glowing topics of the day
as the sage of Monticello remarked:

“For we know not from what source we may gather wisdom that shall
illumine our path.”

When the meal had been finished, and the gentlemen had relished their
pipes under the hemlocks, the whole party strolled on their way with
Mollie as leader. They took the path past the mill on the Wingohocking
and through the wild-wood trail in the soft light of the early evening
to the lodge of Segwuna.

Nothing could be more peaceful or simple in nature than the lone wigwam
in a rift of the woods, approached by a well-beaten path through the
underbrush. The curling smoke of a lazy fire was streaming skyward in
the still evening air, with an atmosphere broken by no sound except the
barking of an Indian’s dog.

There sat the mother on a mat before the wigwam, and peering from the
inside was Segwuna, standing shyly out of sight, but able to perceive
the approach of the party with Dr. Greydon.

Kaubequa sat quietly at her wigwam entrance and when Dr. Greydon
approached and greeted her in her own tongue, she replied and smiled as
she asked Segwuna to step out and greet them.

As the daughter obeyed, Mollie ran and took Segwuna by both hands, and
led her toward Dr. Franklin and Mr. Jefferson,--both of whom bowed very
low when Miss Mollie presented her shy Indian companion.

As Dr. Franklin could discern serious eagerness in Mr. Jefferson’s
countenance, he volunteered to unravel the Indian girl’s mind.

“Segwuna, we have observed you at the meetings of Congress, and may
we ask why you are so much interested in the proceedings?” asked Dr.
Franklin, when he had been presented to Segwuna.

“Certainly, Mr. Franklin,” answered the Indian maid, “Segwuna never
misses a day. The Great Spirit is watching every word said in Congress.
I am bound to do His bidding. He wishes Americans to be free and make
all men equal. The Indians love liberty. The soil which the white man
has adopted for his home, in the beginning was given by the Great
Spirit to His children, the Indians. Each Indian was to be his own lord
and master, and whoever lives on the Indian’s land shall derive the
same right. What the Great Spirit hath given shall never be taken away.”

When Mr. Jefferson had found much force in the first answer, he
nervously continued with a question:

“Do you believe, Segwuna, that this land of ours shall be free and
prosperous forever?”

“Yes, Mr. Jefferson, the Great Spirit in the first place gave the
Indians this land. He told them that they would be given the means
of subduing all of the earth, if they would only be industrious and
cultivate the gift of corn and make good use of His gift.

“If they did not make good use of the gift, his white brother would
come and take his birth-right away. So, as the Indians heeded not what
the Great Spirit commanded, his white brother has succeeded to all the
good that the Indian’s corn was intended to be for the land.”

Dr. Greydon was amazed at the answers already given and thought that
something more than common knowledge was her heritage, so he attempted
a question:

“Is the Indian’s white brother to resist his enemy, the King across the
water?”

“Yes, Dr. Greydon, if the Great Spirit had given this land to all men
alike and all men are to be equal in His sight no King can prosper on
the soil where Indian corn is grown; for when the King’s soldiers eat
the corn of the Great Spirit, they shall turn upon their King and fight
for liberty like the Indian and the Indian’s white brother.”

“O Segwuna, will you tell the gentlemen what the Great Spirit says
shall come to the land of the Indians when the King shall cease to hold
sway over it?” was the question of Mollie, who had heard Segwuna talk
about these things before.

“Yes, my sweetheart, I love to look upon my native land, the land of my
forefathers, as the most powerful of the nations. But the Great Spirit
must be obeyed, or the white brother of the Indian shall lose all like
the Indian.

“The Indians have lost their beautiful land because they did not make
good use of the Great Spirit’s gift,--the Indian corn. They left the
planting of it to the women, while they followed the chase. But the
Indian’s white brother must make good use of this gift and become very
powerful as the Great Spirit promised. Yet when the white man shall get
too proud to eat the Indian’s corn for food, he then also shall lose
this beautiful land.

“The King laughs at the Indian’s corn and at the Indian’s skins for
raiment and at the Indian’s love for equality; but the King must learn
to give freely to his unfortunate brother. All of this the King and his
white brother must learn from the Indian. When any one starves in the
tribe, the chief must starve also.

“If the King takes all of the corn away from his hunters and gives it
to the chiefs, the Great Chief will become angry and take his corn away
from his land so that the King and his chiefs shall have to become
hunters too.”

At the conclusion of this last answer, Mr. Jefferson stepped up to
Segwuna and thanked her for her kindness, and handed her a silver coin.

But at this last act Segwuna smiled and with polite dignity returned
the coin and said:

“The Great Spirit hath no token of worth except His bounteous love and
kindness.”

In return Mr. Jefferson seemed greatly pleased as he politely shook the
hand of Segwuna and replied:

“My dear child, you have a noble spirit and I shall remember what you
have told us.”

The other gentlemen shook the hand of Segwuna and Mollie kissed her as
they left to return to the mansion.

On the way all turned to Dr. Franklin to learn his opinion of the
philosophy of the Indian girl.

After a short period of silent reflection on the part of all, the
good-humor of the old printer could not be held in as he solemnly said:


“If the King of Great Britain does not subdue the Americans, he shall
have to acknowledge the corn.”




CHAPTER XVIII


Barclugh started on his long and perilous ride to Washington’s
headquarters at Fishkill; thence to New York.

He was oblivious to all that passed him on the road. He travelled
on, and on, to the ferry at Trenton, conscious of nothing but his
own thoughts. The more that he willed to divorce the image of Mollie
Greydon from his mind, the more his soul rebelled. He at last reasoned
that another existence than his own had entered his life, and he could
not explain the cause. But should he only let his thoughts dwell
unrestricted on his business, at least he might be able to dismiss her,
as he had many times the existence of the gay infatuations of his life
in Paris.

However, her beauty of face, her form and her carriage not only
enthralled him, but he dwelt upon the character that he found in the
kindly twinkle of her deep hazel eyes; her understanding of the great
principles of human liberty; her patriotism; her devotion to the
soldiery of her native land. All were grand conceptions to dwell upon.

In her there was no first consideration of self, like the frivolous
woman of fashion. She knew that a mission in life was the proper
destiny for one to follow; and in the trying needs of her country she
knew that clothes and food for the Continentals needed her best and
undivided effort.

She knew that every dozen of eggs, every fowl, every blanket, every
pair of woolen socks, every yard of homespun, spoke volumes to the
patient, ill-fed, and ill-clothed Continental who was serving for the
principles of the Declaration,--serving with no pay and expecting
none. She was happy in the pursuit of her humble mission; she had no
grievance with which to worry others. Her mission was to render some
one happy with her deeds; consequently her life was full of elements
that daily exemplified the sweetness of her existence to others.

The natural tendency of a commonplace intellect would be to sternly
rebuke others who expressed opinions opposed to his own ambitions;
but the philosophy of human nature carried Barclugh into deeper
considerations. He had his particular objects to accomplish and had his
plans matured to effect them; therefore, he kept quiet about his own
principles and tried to learn every detail about the opinions of the
opposition. Thus he would be prepared to use the weak points of his
adversary to his own advantage.

He thought he knew that Colonial gentlemen were much like their
Anglo-Saxon ancestry, honest, fearless and loyal to their convictions;
but if, after a protracted struggle, they found their cause defeated
and their case hopeless, they would submit. Their love of peace and
tranquillity would overcome their feelings about independence. They
would be satisfied with the forms of liberty without the substance. He
reasoned that history repeats itself among his countrymen. When the
Normans conquered the Anglo-Saxon, his submission to the regime of
William the Conqueror was complete. He reasoned that a decisive stroke
of the English arms would reconcile the Colonists to the helplessness
of their cause.

These convictions led him more seriously than ever to conclude that the
dominant party at the end of the war would have the allegiance of the
whole country. Therefore Roderick Barclugh was more resolute than ever
to seize West Point by means of gold and afterwards ally himself and
his fortunes to the virtues and zeal of Mollie Greydon.

He travelled on the main turnpike that led northward from Philadelphia,
along the Delaware, until he reached Bristol, which commands a
beautiful view of the river. He stopped at an inn kept by a Mr.
Benezet, and announced himself thus:

“My name is Pierre La Fitte. I am a merchant from Philadelphia, and
travelling to Boston. Have no news, am tired and hungry. Have you
provender for my horse and dinner for me?”

The landlord looked up in astonishment at the brusque preclusion of
prying questions as to the business, destination and knowledge of a
stranger. Even the servants tiptoed when they came into the presence of
their august guest.

However, the dinner and lodging were most excellent, and the breakfast
was more than could be expected at a country inn, but when Barclugh
paid his bill in the morning the innkeeper had charged double prices
for his guest’s exclusiveness. As Barclugh got what he desired,--no
questions,--he did not mind the payment, but before he had been many
more days on this journey he learned that Colonial hospitality was
not always dealt out on a money basis, and he was exceedingly glad to
change his mannerisms.

The refreshing sleep at the Bristol inn was excellent to Barclugh, and
the next morning he started out with his spirits in high glee. The
enthusiasm of his nature was now working out the possibilities of his
mission, and he was calculating the possibilities of danger in his
journey, all of which acted upon him as a stimulant, while his horse
was cantering along the Delaware road, in the fresh morning air, toward
Trenton.

A ferry crosses the Delaware three miles below the town, and Barclugh
took it to the Jersey side and went to an inn at Trenton that had
a sign swinging on a high post, representing a beaver at work with
his teeth, gnawing down a large tree, underneath which was written,
“Perseverando.”

Barclugh was inclined to stop at the tavern to give his horse a rest
and to refresh himself while he would be feeling his ground about his
journey northward.

The hour was about ten o’clock in the morning, when the old men of the
town began to gather at the tavern for a gossip over the war news,
and to indulge in their daily allowance of rum in the tap-room. As
Barclugh dismounted and sauntered up the steps which led into the
public house, all eyes were turned upon the stranger. He seated himself
in an arm-chair at a round table. A large square room having a low
ceiling and settles standing at right angles to the fireplace met his
glance; the smoke was curling slowly from smouldering logs into the
chimney-space; a lazy, fat, round-faced Swede was lolling at the end of
the bar, and several casks of wine and liquor placed upon racks to the
left of the counter were labelled, “Rum,” “Madeira,” “Canary,” “Cherry
Bounce,” “Perry,” and “Cider.”

A brace of old cronies whose only cares now were to meet each other
in the tap-room daily and talk over the prowess among men in their
youthful days, and despair about the effeminate youth of the present;
and wonder what the world was coming to, were seated at a table and
gazed at the stranger.

“He, he, he!” chuckled old Samuel Whitesides, as Barclugh seated
himself and ordered a hot rum punch, for the morning air was chilly.
“I declare, those whippersnappers daown in Philadelphia are makin’ a
fool aout of Ben Arnold,--he’s got a mighty high snortin’ kind of a gal
that he’s hitched up to,--and I b’leave, brother Hopper, that he would
like to be out of the clutches of them money-grabbers. He’s too good a
fighter to be gallavantin’ around in silks and satins.”

“How queer! how queer!” squeaked out old Jonathan Hopper, as he leaned
over and poked his old companion in the ribs. “Say, Sam, if we were
young agin like Ben, we would not prefer to stay ’round with aour wife
in the city than to be chasing those redcoats from Dan to Beshabee,
partic’larly if we had been married less than a year, eh, Sam’l! Wall,
I guess not! He, he, he! Eh, Samuel?” as he poked old Sam in the ribs
again with his cane.

“Wa’al, Jonathan, when we were boys, thar was no time for this
high-fa-lutin’ keepin’ honey-moon, keepin’ honey-moon. What we had to
do was to git married and leave Betsy at home while we went to work
to git som’thin’ to keep body and soul together. But naow, even in
these war times, our Ginerals are snoopin’ araound in these high jinks
fashion, waitin’ on their leedies in taown.”

“Quite keerect, quite keerect, Sam’l, but I calcalate if you and I were
to live it over agin and had a chanc’t to git into all these doin’s
that the young sprouts now have, in the large taowns, I b’leeve we
would be as keen as ennybody for pleesure. For what’s the use of you,
you old rascal, skrewin’ yourself up into a pritty pass over the young
uns, for natur’ is natur’ and let natur’ take its course, Sam’l. But
how queer! how queer!” said old Jonathan as he again poked Samuel in
the ribs and took another sip out of the rum glass.

By the time the pint of rum was consumed by these relicts of the reign
of Queen Anne, they were generally ready to go up the road arm in arm,
each with a cane, just mellow enough to show the young sprouts that
nobody need show them how to step off with the dignity of an Indian.

However, on this day matters took a different turn.

Barclugh stepped up to the old gentlemen and inquired modestly:

“Gentlemen, may I ask you the best road to Princeton?”

“To be sure, sir,” replied old Samuel, as he turned toward Barclugh,
leaning forward with both hands on his walking-stick as he sat gazing
into Barclugh’s face:

“But have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and occupation?”
quizzed the old man.

Barclugh was not quite ready for the inquisitive familiarity of the
reply, but as he commenced with a question there was no alternative in
his case but to answer up cheerfully:

“My name is Pierre La Fitte; I am a merchant of Philadelphia on my way
to Fishkill Landing.”

“Humph, you got a pretty skittish ride before you, Mr. La Fitte, and I
b’leeve the longest road is the shortest for you. You just keep right
on to Princeton and then to Morristown Heights and when you git five
miles beyond Morristown you ask for my son-in-law, Benjamin Andrews,
and he will take good care of you and all you need to tell him is that
you met old Samuel Whitesides and it won’t cost you a farthing for your
keep.”

However, as this conversation was proceeding, old Jonathan kept his
eye closely on the stranger as he sat with his chin on both hands which
were resting on his cane before him.

[Illustration: “Have we the pleasure of the gentleman’s name and
occupation?” quizzed the old man.]

Barclugh noticed that he was being scrutinized very sharply and he did
not relish his position, but he looked out at his horse and turned
to go with a parting bow to the two old men, while he thanked his
informant twice.

No sooner had the stranger mounted than the old men arose to watch him
disappear up the road.

“Sam’l,” said Hopper, “what d’ye think of that ’ere stranger? I b’leeve
he has no good around these parts. He had an uneasy and restless look
in his eye. He’s got some deep-laid business on his mind and I don’t
think that was his name that he told us. Mabbee he’s one of those
consarned British spies that we hear so much about these times.”

“Yes, yes, you got to git yourself all worked up naow, Jonathan, and
all on account of that gentleman addressing me to the hexclusion of
yourself. If you thought that he was a spy why didn’t you step up to
him and demand his passports? Now that he is gone you can concoct all
kinds of dreams about him; that’s cowardly, Jonathan, that’s cowardly.”

“Sam’l,” came the hot reply, “you and I have been boys and men
together, but when you impeach the bravery of an old soldier,--one who
has been at Crown Point and Ticonderogy, too! Why, sir, that is beyond
endurance, and before I shall be seen coming down this road again with
you, may bunions like onions grow out of my toes. I shall leave you,
sir, I shall leave you,” sputtered old Jonathan as he hobbled to his
feet, livid and glaring at Samuel with rage.

As he shuffled across the room with the aid of his cane, he made
for the door and straightway, as fast as his bunions would allow
him, striding up the road, he cut the air with his hands and cane,
muttering: “I’ll be damned first, I’ll be damned first.”

However, Jonathan had not gone very far before he met a young Indian
girl going in the opposite direction. She stopped and very quietly
asked:

“Sir, could you tell me if you have seen a gentleman on a black horse
go along the road this morning travelling for Fishkill to General
Washington’s headquarters? He was tall and dark and wore a velvet
waistcoat of dark blue.”

“Why, my girl, yes, that’s right. He was going to Fishkill. Certainly,
you just come with me, I’ll show you a man that knows all about him.
He was just talking with him. I b’leeve that ’ere man you ask for is a
rascal, and Samuel can’t turn my head abaout it neethur.”

“Yes, sir, I believe he has no good purposes in taking this journey. I
have seen him and General Arnold meet after midnight alone.”

“Look at that! look at that!” continued old Jonathan. “Mabbee Sam’l
won’t listen to that. You come along with me, my girl. I want you to
show that old wiseacre a thing or two. Come along with me, my girl.”

When they arrived at the door of the tap-room, the Indian girl
hesitated and paused at the doorway while Jonathan bolted up to Samuel
as though he were going to eat him up.

But Jonathan said in his most persuasive tones:

“Samuel, there’s a young lady here, that wants to ask you about that
gentleman on his way to Fishkill.”

“Certainly, certainly, Jonathan. I’ll do anything to please you,”
returned Samuel as he rose and went to the Indian girl, who stood at
the doorway of the tavern, as she asked:

“Has this gentleman told you where he was going?”

“Yes,” spoke up Samuel as he straightened to his full height to answer.
“He sid he was goin’ to Feeshkill.”

“I b’leeve he was lyin’,” interjected Jonathan, with a snap in his
voice. “I think he’s goin’ somewhere else and he wanted to put us off
his tracks. Now, what do you think, young lady?”

“It’s hard to tell, sir, but I saw him visit General Arnold.

“What name did he give you, sir?”

“He said: ‘My name is Pierre La Fitte, and I am a merchant of
Philadelphia on my way to Feeshkill,’” replied Samuel.

“Why, that’s not his real name,” returned Segwuna. “His name is
Roderick Barclugh.”

“Look at that, look at that,” said Jonathan, glaring at Samuel. “I knew
that you would be up to great bizness when you asked that rascal to
stop at Ben Andrews’. He may be a reg’lar cut-throat.”

“Now, look a’ here, Jonathan, I think that you’re a-pokin’ your nose
too far into my way of doin’ things, d’ye hear?” ejaculated Samuel, as
he pounded on the floor with his walking-stick, by way of emphasis.

Jonathan Hopper glared at Samuel as he strode off indignantly toward
the other part of the room, while Segwuna talked to Samuel Whitesides
about Barclugh.

Segwuna immediately took her departure on the road to Princeton as soon
as she learned that Barclugh had left for that direction.

The two old cronies agreed that the stranger was more mysterious after
they had learned that this Indian girl was following his footsteps.

For weeks afterward Uncle Sam and his friend Jonathan had an incident
of consequence to discuss in the queer occurrences of that morning at
the inn.




CHAPTER XIX


As Barclugh mounted his steed and cantered through Trenton, he saw
happy children and old men, chickens and ducks at every household.
Occasionally the housewife came to the side door and gazed with arms
akimbo at the strange horse and rider.

There was much to occupy Barclugh’s thoughts as he rode over this road.
A little over a year previous here the hirelings of George III laid
down their arms to the intrepid Washington, and his mission was to
overcome by means of money what Britain’s generals had lost at arms.
The irony of the situation aroused his red blood. He quickened the pace
of his horse as the blood surged through his body at the thoughts of
the enormity of his undertaking.

Quickly he left the town and turned his direction toward Princeton. He
knew that he was travelling on martial ground. He soon came to and had
to cross the identical bridge that Washington had so gallantly defended
against Cornwallis, whom he had sent to camp; but ere the morning,
the thunder of American artillery in the rear at Princeton awoke the
British to the fact that they were out-generalled.

Also the sleepy town of Princeton presented its scenes of disaster to
Barclugh, who was riding along on his solitary journey of intrigue.
Here he had to pass in view of Nassau Hall, where Washington’s force
surrounded two hundred British and compelled them to surrender. On his
way thither he had to pass over the road that Washington’s rear-guard
had so successfully blocked to the British advance by chopping down
timber across the roadway and by burning the bridges behind him.

The British representative gnashed his teeth to actually see how
helpless was the situation of Washington’s band of barefooted patriots
one day at Trenton, and the next how triumphant under the daring leader
as he marched his little force to safety at Morristown Heights.

The question never was so vividly presented to mortal mind as now
to Barclugh, to learn the foundation for such intrepid feats in the
presence of thoroughly disciplined European forces. Americans had no
training or discipline; so, how did they maintain such superiority with
such inferior numbers?

As Barclugh had not journeyed in the heart of American territory
without being wide-awake to every bit of character, he had not
forgotten the injunction of old Samuel Whitesides to visit his
son-in-law, Benjamin Andrews. His home was five miles north of
Morristown. Here he could rest and perhaps learn something.

North of Princeton the country begins to grow abruptly hilly, and at
Morristown veritable mountains occur, with broad valleys stretching to
the northeast and southwest. But beyond Morristown the country grows
hard to travel through. The ridges grow steeper, the settlers fewer,
and the timber thicker. The streams find a chance to gurgle around
the rocks and roar over the falls. The wilderness impressed Barclugh.
As his horse, that was now jaded, carried him upon a ridge, he stood,
to take in the extensive landscape. When ridge upon ridge met his eye
the immensity of the Colonial territory grew to a realization upon
his mind. His journey was more than a revelation to him; it was a
conviction of how little the King’s advisers knew about the conditions
in America, while gaming around the green tables at Brooks’.

Nestling among the timber in the valley of the Whippany River was a
settler’s log-house. It stood back from the roadside and was approached
by a serpentine road, crude at present, but designed some day to grace
more pretentious grounds. But what a pity the settler’s axe had not
spared a few of those giants of the forest, whose degradation was
evidenced by the blackened stumps of the clearing.

However, the pioneer had no time to consider anything but present
utility in those days, and as Barclugh turned his horse down the road
toward this house, he was met in the dooryard by Benjamin Andrews,
whose six feet four of brawn and sinew had unmistakable characteristics
of force and endurance. Simplicity of life and hard labor developed
such men.

“May I have lodging and fodder for my horse?” said Barclugh as he
rode up to the settler. “I have been directed to you by Mr. Samuel
Whitesides, while travelling through Trenton.”

“Wal, I b’leeve you kin, if daddy Whitesides sent you here. Thomas,
take the gentleman’s horse. Bless me, come in and get warm. My Nancy
will be glad to hear from daddy. What’s the news from south’ard?” were
the words of welcome of the settler, as he led the way to the latched
door. He pulled on the string that opened into the large room that
answered for kitchen, dining-room and sleeping-room, except for the
loft that was used by the children to sleep in.

As Barclugh entered the log-house, he found Mrs. Andrews standing
in the middle of the room, shyly holding her apron, and shielding a
four-year-old boy who was holding on to her skirt and gazing at the
stranger in amazement.

“Nancy, this gentleman was sent to us by daddy,” was the introduction
of the stranger by the husband, and the wife curtsied, nodding her
head as the youngster began to cry. But no name was necessary to be
mentioned so long as he knew daddy.

However, Barclugh accepted the native hospitality, and cheerfully took
the chair proffered him before the comfortable fireplace, while the
housewife went silently about her duties.

Benjamin Andrews had been on his farm in the Whippany valley nearly two
years, and he had a comfortable log-house well chinked and roofed with
shakes riven out of white pine. A good-sized log-barn, thatched with
straw, six head of cattle,--three cows and three yearlings,--one full
sow and three porkers running about the yard,--two indifferent horses
worth about four guineas each, constituted Andrews’ belongings. His
land was one hundred and eighty acres, for which he paid forty pounds
sterling, and about thirty-five acres of which was under tillage.

With willing hands, he and his family had started in the primitive
forest to make a home. They had left the parental roof with three
children and about thirty pounds in ready money, saved by several
years of hard labor. They had two cows and a heifer, a pair of old
horses, a sow, utensils, and a provision of flour and cider to take to
their new home.

That night Barclugh sat in a large arm-chair before a blazing log fire,
after he had done full justice to a bowl of fresh milk and cornmeal
mush, also a plentiful portion of fried pork and boiled potatoes with
their jackets on. Relays of creamy bread and rich, wholesome butter had
done him more service, after his weary journey, than a dinner _à la
carte_ at the Café Rochefoucauld in his native Paris.

However, what rankled in the brain of Barclugh was the collection of so
much real contentment and the enjoyment of much comfort and plenty in
the wilderness in so short a time. Whence had it sprung? Could one man
accomplish much in so short a period? Barclugh could not restrain his
anxiety for enlightenment. He began to ask questions:

“How have you built such a fine home in so short a time, Mr. Andrews?”
were the words addressed to the settler, who sat smoking his pipe,
while the two older children hung around their father, gazing at the
stranger from behind their father’s chair.

“Wal, it’s ben pritty hard work, but you see we’ve ben pritty
lucky. When we fust came on the land, nigh on to two year ago, our
neighbors,--”

“What, have you neighbors, Mr. Andrews?” interjected Barclugh.

“Wal, a few, sir. After we got on to the land, as I was sayin’, four of
them came with their oxen and axes, and in two days we hed this here
house put up and the floor hewed and the chimney built and then in the
fall they came agin, but more on ’em, and we hed a barn-raisin’ and
daddy was here and we hed a rip-roarin’ old time with that barrel of
cider that I kept over and that five gallon of rum that daddy brought
from taown.”

“But didn’t it cost you anything to do all of this?” was the inquiry of
Barclugh, as he sat listening in amazement.

“Nary a farthing, ’cept the cider the boys had and the grub. But
that summer I hed raised lots of ’taters and a good piece of corn
and a piece of wheat in the clearance, the milk of the cows kept the
sow goin’ and the chickens gave us lots of eggs. Nancy here” (who
stopped and smiled at the mention of her name) “raised all those
chickens,--but the first winter I hed a close shave on the cattle and
horses, but I kinder looked ahead for that and the spring before I
found a nat’ral medder down the river and I mowed abaout six acres of
r’al good hay and stacked it up for caow feed. That was mighty lucky,
for thet winter was hard and browsing was short in the woods for the
cattle and the horses.”

“Oh, do you let your stock run loose in the winter, Mr. Andrews?” was
the next interrogation.

“Why, sir, them old pelters of horses will find a bit o’ grass if
it’s kivered six inches in snow, and two mile away. They’ll paw right
through a crust of snow for a bite of nat’ral grass. But I keep them up
at night and feed ’em in the stable. Cattle and horses do better to run
out when the weather isn’t too cold.”

“But tell me, Mr. Andrews, how do you raise crops among those stumps?”
was the question from Barclugh’s puzzled mind that broke the serenity
of his amazement.

“Wal, Mister,’scusin’ my curiosity, but where were you raised? I guess
they didn’t know much in them parts. For, I’d rather have ’taters on a
piece of new ground. Then corn grows taller en your head in new ground.
At fust we go in and cut out all the small trees, and girdle the big
ones so that we can go in and clear and break up the new soil, for it’s
meller and rich. Then we have loggin’-bees when a new settler comes
into the neighborhood. In that way he gets a good boost.”

“Do you have to get up these bees, as you call them? What are bees?”
continued our interrogator, who desired to make the most of his
opportunity.

“Wal, that’s mighty queer you don’t know what bees are. Why they’re
very common in these parts. But say, Mister, you must come from some
seaport town where there’s no sich things. I guess you’re mighty green
ennyhow, for bees ain’t new aroun’ here. Where air you from? I hain’t
seed sich a greeny in all my life,” were the concluding words of
Andrews, as he actually laughed aloud.

“I am from Philadelphia, Mr. Andrews,” replied Barclugh, who fully
appreciated the confiding nature of the settler.

“But you’re not raised thar,” continued Andrews.

“No, in Paris.”

“But you’re not French.”

“Yes, I speak the language.”

“Do you know Mr. Franklin?”

“Certainly, I came here for him.”

“You did?” queried Andrews. “Look at that, Nancy,” continued Andrews,
addressing his wife who sat knitting at the table listening to the
men’s conversation. “This gentleman knows Benjamin Franklin. How’s the
French takin’ up the cause?”

“Oh, they’re helping the Colonies,” replied Barclugh, but continuing,
in order to get at his own line of thought, he asked:

“Do you need much money to buy these lands and start a home in the
wilderness, Mr. Andrews?”

“Wal,” replied Andrews, “as far as money is consarned, nary a shilling
have I made in two year, but I hed some to start on,--mighty lettle
though, for I paid most on’t for the first payment on my land, and
then I’ll have to wait till I git crops off this summer for the next
payment. But you see, we raise our livin’ and the old folks at home
make us some cloth for clothes while we’re startin’, so that by next
year we can help ourselves right along.”

“So you have no use for money at home, but you get your pay for
supplies furnished Mr. Washington, don’t you?” queried Barclugh.

“Wal, that’s all well understood among our people. When we have some
pork or flour for the army, or beef or grain, we take it to our nearest
depot and get a receipt for the stuff at the price paid, and when it’s
signed by General Washington’s commissary that’s all the money we want
for our transactions. Our receipts will be redeemed if Congress gains
independence, and if we fail we shall not need the receipts, for we
shall all be dead.”

This last bit of information killed all the enthusiasm in Barclugh’s
breast, and, as he had observed Andrews’ children and wife ascend the
ladder in the corner, leading to the loft, he yawned and began to
wonder where he would sleep for the night.

Andrews noticed his evident desires and remarked:

“Mister, I b’leeve you better turn in for the night, and you will find
your bed prepared in the corner where Nancy and I sleep, but we allus
give it up to company,” were the parting remarks of Barclugh’s host,
who turned and climbed the ladder into the loft.

Dawn was barely visible when the Andrews household was astir. Barclugh
was up first, for he occupied the sole living-room. Then a good
breakfast was soon steaming on the table,--consisting of fried pork,
fried eggs, potatoes and bread and butter, and bowls of milk.

After doing full justice to the frugal meal, Barclugh started to
prepare for departure. He found his horse, well groomed, standing
hitched in the dooryard.

Going up to Mrs. Andrews, Barclugh thanked her for such a fine bed
and such wholesome meals. He then took the little boy in his arms and
kissed him while he congratulated the mother upon her well-behaved
children.

As Barclugh stepped into the dooryard, he drew a guinea from his pocket
and placed it in the hand of Benjamin Andrews, remarking while he did
so:

“Mr. Andrews, you have been so kind and considerate of me, I wish to
leave you my name and give you a small token of my appreciation of your
generous and hearty hospitality. My name is Roderick Barclugh; I am on
my way to General Washington’s headquarters, and I hope that I may see
you again. If I can be of any service to you, I shall gladly be at your
command.”

“Wal, Mr. Barclugh, I thought mebbee you had some desire to not give
your name, and I couldn’t be rude enough to ask you. But you have
mistaken Benjamin Andrews, when you offer him gold for his simple
services to a friend of General Washington. I could not and I would not
be guilty of this kind er hospitality. You may need this money before
the war is over. I can git along fust-rate without it,” were the words
of Andrews, as he looked straight into Barclugh’s eyes and held out the
coin for its return.

Barclugh reluctantly took the piece of gold and being completely
nonplussed at the sterling qualities of his backwoods host, he grasped
him by the hand, and said with much earnestness:

“Sir, I honor your courtesy and your sentiments. May we meet again so
that I can return your kindness. I thank you.” At that the rider turned
and rode toward the gate.

But before Barclugh could reach the gate, little Sammy Andrews was on
foot before him, and as the horse passed through the gate, already
opened by Sammy, Barclugh beckoned the boy to come near him and pressed
into his hand a small buckskin wallet containing two guineas, telling
the boy at the same time:

“Sammy, take this to your mother with the best wishes of Mr. Barclugh.”

The boy flew toward the house, as Barclugh rode up the road, and soon
disappeared over the hill, among the timber.




CHAPTER XX


Passing through scenes which impressed upon Barclugh the virtues
and the hardihood of the Colonists, he rode the whole day wondering
how such noble souls as Benjamin Andrews were to be conquered. They
were resourceful, self-reliant, and the peer of any Englishman in
gentlemanly virtues. So long as they had no need or desire for the
artificial demands of society their character remained absolutely
unassailable. But in the cities, where luxury and old-world customs
were imbued, there the power of money would be felt, and only there.

However, after six days of travel, the suborner of American character
had had several good-sized shocks to his theories, and one of these
was the fact that one hundred years ago or less, the ground over which
he had travelled had been an unbroken wilderness, and now flourishing
settlements and homes were met at every turn. What was Britain to do
with four millions of earnest, fearless people launched in a war for
independence? Oh, that the King’s advisers had known what he had seen!
They would have paused and considered the demands of their people
across the sea.

Such reveries were suddenly to cease, however, for passing out of New
Jersey on the mountain road, Barclugh had passed into the confines of
Ulster County, New York, when he was abruptly confronted by three armed
men. He had been walking ahead and leading his horse after a long day’s
travel and had no thoughts of war:

“Halt! Friend? or foe? Advance and give the countersign,” thundered out
the leader of the three.

As Barclugh looked up he saw three gun-barrels levelled at him, and not
losing his nerve replied:

“Friend! I will present my passport.”

The passport was the one from Arnold, commandant at Philadelphia. It
ran as follows:

                                            “Philadelphia, May 20, 1780.

  “To Commander of American Outposts:

  “The bearer of this passport, Mr. Pierre La Fitte, will be granted
  safe convoy and allowed to pass American outposts on his way to
  Fishkill.

  “He has important business with the Commander-in-Chief, General
  Washington.

                                                    “(Signed) B. Arnold.
                                         “Major-General & Com. at Phil.”

“All’s well, Mr. La Fitte,” came from the leader. “I spose you’re from
the south’ard, and what news is there, sir?”

“No news, sir. What is the shortest road to Fishkill?” was the
impatient answer of Barclugh.

“Methinks,” rejoined the leader, “that you are in a mighty haste. What
be your profession, stranger?”

Drawing himself up to his full height, Barclugh replied:

“I am a financier.” Hoping thus to overawe the rustic soldiers.

“Ah, a financier, a financier, eh? Wal, you are the fust one that ever
struck these parts. I guess you are too rare a bird to be travelling
among our folks for no pains. I b’leeve we better pick your feathers a
little and see what kinder skin you got!”

“Boys, if we scratch his skin we might find a Tartar, eh?” said the
eldest of the three, and the other two laughed at his wit.

“Wal, I b’leeve if he’s a fi-an-cee man he oughter have a lackey or
two along to black his boots,” said the second soldier as he nudged
the leader in the ribs, “and powder his hair. Ha! ha! ha! Eh? boys?”
continued the latter.

“Look here, you will be punished for these indignities, when I report
you,” spoke up Barclugh, threateningly.

“Never mind, Mr. Feet, we know who is boss in this ’ere neck of the
mountains, and we’ll apply first American principles to your case. I
b’leeve the majority rules in this taown meetin’.”

“I say this feller is Mr. La Blackleg, and oughter peel off for a
little inwestergation,--and all of those in favor of that motion will
say ‘_aye_’!” Up went three hands and a mighty “_aye_” in unison.

“Carried,” yelled the leader.

Then the three laid strong hands on Barclugh.

Resistance seemed in vain for Barclugh, and he submitted, since he had
prepared for just such an emergency. He was calm, and said:

“Gentlemen, I am perfectly agreed you should examine all of my papers,
and take me to your headquarters.”

Barclugh took off his coat and handed it over; then he took off his
brace of pistols, boots, socks and hat.

There were but two papers in his coat,--one the passport of Arnold, and
another which the leader read, who then danced around in high glee,
holding the letter high up in the air and shouting:

“Yi! yi! yi! We’ve got him, boys! Nary a bit of honest bizness are
these fiancee men up to. How be it, he may be in-cog-ni-to, but I
b’leeve he’s pritty nigh to findin’ out he’s in the wrong bizness for
this country. Listen to this:

As read:

                                            “Philadelphia, May 20, 1780.

  “Sir:

  “I take pleasure to recommend to your kindly consideration, Mr.
  Roderick Barclugh, who is a gentleman of substance and of good parts.

  “He is on a secret mission for me to New York, to learn of the
  arrival of some important treasure ships of the English, and also to
  assist in our mutual business of privateering.

  “He is traveling _incognito_ and if you can further him on his
  journey, our common cause will be very materially assisted.

  “With every sentiment of esteem and regard, I am, dear General,

                                            “Your most obedient servant,
                                               “(Signed) R. FitzMaurice.

  “To His Excellency, General Washington.”

“I told you! I told you!” said the leader, “he calls himself Mr. La
Fitte, and here’s Mr. Barclugh on a secret mission to New York about
some treasure ships. I wonder if he has any treasure aboard naow. Boys,
you jest peel off that feller’s clothes a little more.”

The other two went at Barclugh with surprising energy, and examined
every seam of his clothing, and brought off a buckskin belt that was
around his waist, and the three went at its contents.

First they brought off fifty gold pieces, English guineas.

Then they felt some papers in a small pocket and lo, here were bills of
exchange on the Bank of Amsterdam for eighty thousand pounds in gold.

The leader held the bills up and counted three each for twenty thousand
pounds and two each for ten thousand pounds, and then turning to his
companions, said seriously:

“That beats my reckonin’. Boys, this fellow is an infernal rascal, for
he has more money on his person than any one man can honestly earn.
Say, Mr. Feet, where did you git this treasure? Did you earn it? Did
you find it? Does it belong to you?”

“Gentlemen,” replied Barclugh, “if you will conduct me to the camp of
General Washington, I will present you with the guineas I have and any
reasonable reward you may ask.”

“Nary a guinea will an American soldier ask from a stranger to perform
his duty. You will be conducted safely, with every guinea you have,
to Captain Thomas Storm and he will turn you over to Colonel Abraham
Brinkerhoff, who has command of our precinct,” were the soldierly words
of the spokesman of the party as he continued:

“Fall in, boys.”

They now took up the march in silence, leading the horse which carried
their prisoner, bootless and sockless, on the saddle.

Their journey led Barclugh to Newburg, the headquarters of Colonel
Brinkerhoff, who at once ordered the important prisoner with his papers
to the headquarters of General Washington.

The Commander-in-Chief received the papers and went at once to his
office, whither Roderick Barclugh had been conducted, and very
graciously returned the bills and gold after reading the letter from R.
FitzMaurice, the financier, with no remark except:

“I am very sorry, Mr. Barclugh, that you were handled so roughly
yesterday by our outpost, but you will understand that they have orders
to stop all travellers and search everybody that they do not know
personally. The road is much used by the Tories and British going to
and from Canada.”

“Our Colonel Hamilton has told me that he has met you at dinner at
Mr. FitzMaurice’s and we would be pleased to have you stop over night
with us. Our fare is plain, but we shall be pleased to make you as
comfortable as possible.”

“I shall take great pleasure in accepting your kind offer, General, yet
I shall be compelled to be away soon in the morning, since my business
is urgent,” replied Barclugh as he looked squarely into the eyes of
General Washington in order to drink in every word that this great and
good man uttered.

“You shall be at your own pleasure, Mr. Barclugh. Colonel Hamilton will
furnish you passports.

“Please excuse me further at present; Colonel Hamilton will be here
to take you to our quarters. I will see you later on,” were the
simple words of the Commander, as he left Barclugh and mounted his
Virginia-bred horse for a review of a new battalion from Connecticut.

The town of Fishkill was one of those sleepy little settlements during
the Revolutionary War, nestling in the shadow of a high promontory
projecting into the Hudson. However, in a military way it was of great
importance, since the great highway between New England and the Western
States crossed the Hudson here; and an important depot of supplies was
maintained there to furnish the needs of the northern army. The prison,
strongly palisaded, the workshops for casting shot and cannon and the
mills for making powder were maintained at this convenient spot.

The headquarters of General Washington and his staff while on a tour of
inspection were generally assigned to one of the commodious farmhouses
of the time on the highroad skirting the Hudson north of Fishkill.
Washington and his military family were finely quartered. A short
distance from the activities of the camp stood the commodious Colonial
residence of Colonel Hay, on high ground overlooking a most wonderful
scope of surrounding country. There was Newburg across the broad river;
Storm King and Crow’s Nest loomed up in the vision out of the Hudson;
and tier upon tier of the hazy blue Catskills rose in the northwest to
soothe a soul’s longing for enchantment.

While seated in a tent on the grounds of the mansion, and while musing
on the scene that lay before him, Barclugh was approached by the urbane
and talented Colonel Hamilton, who escorted him to the house.

There Colonel Tilghman, one of the aides, was met. He conversed most
delightfully with Barclugh for an hour or more, until dinner was spread
and the General had arrived.

With the General came Generals Knox and Wayne to dine, and after a
short presentation and exchange of compliments they all sat down to
dinner.

The repast was simple,--served in the English fashion, eight or ten
dishes filled with meat, poultry and vegetables, placed on the table
and followed by a course of pastry. After this, the cloth was removed
and apples and nuts in profusion were served. They were eaten during
toasting and calm conversation. The General was very fond of this
after-dinner intercourse, and prolonged it sometimes for two hours.

Barclugh now had the opportunity of his whole journey,--to observe the
caliber of the men who held the fate of the Colonies in their hands.
He was amazed at the bearing and conversation of Washington and his
military family. The dignity and the ease with which they made one feel
at his best, still, the reserve used, the high tone of the sentiments
expressed, commanded not only respect but esteem for Washington and his
cause.

The Commander conversed pleasantly with Barclugh,--but to penetrate
the General’s business or to divine his plans was to attempt the
impossible. There was a certain point to which one could approach in
Washington’s confidence, but beyond that arose a barrier which no one
could essay to surmount.

Such a feeling of remorse arose within Barclugh that his previous
intentions of setting forth the virtues of Arnold waned and he could
not muster the moral force to open upon Arnold’s assignment to West
Point, unless the General asked about Arnold himself.

However, at eight o’clock Barclugh was summoned from his room to supper
after the English custom.

The supper was simple also. It consisted of three or four light dishes,
some fruit and above all a great abundance of nuts, which were as well
received as at dinner.

After Washington, his military attaches and Barclugh had partaken of
this light repast, the cloth was removed and a few bottles of claret
and Madeira were placed on the table.

The toasts this evening were given by Colonel Hamilton, who was
particular to mention several of the belles of Philadelphia, whom
Barclugh had met. When it came the turn of Barclugh to propose a
sentiment or a toast, he asked them, gracefully, to drink to the
welfare and happiness of Miss Greydon of Dorminghurst, all of which was
well received by those present.

Exactly at ten o’clock the members of the General’s staff presented
themselves to Mr. Barclugh, and after customary formalities retired
gracefully for the night, and left the General alone with his guest.

Washington filled the glass of Barclugh and then his own and while
nibbling a few kernels of hickory nuts he said to his guest:

“When you left France, Mr. Barclugh, did you think that the French
monarch would maintain an army for our cause?”

“There was no question about it, General Washington. Mr. Franklin
told me as much when the full effects of Burgoyne’s surrender and the
failure of Cornwallis and Howe to hold Philadelphia were realized.
The French monarch was then encouraged to throw all of his resources
against England,” replied Barclugh, hoping to put Washington off his
guard, and have him grow enthusiastic for his cause.

But Barclugh was to be disappointed in this result. Washington again
asked him a leading question:

“Mr. Barclugh, do you believe that the British can use heroic measures
to offset the French aid?”

“Oh, yes, General. The British will be sure to exert themselves more
than ever in that event. You know that the British have a great navy
and great resources of money. When the power of money is put in the
balance, the weaker force will have to succumb. That is the manner in
which the Britons argue,” contended Barclugh, as he looked intently at
Washington, waiting for his reply.

“Well,” replied the patriot patiently, “if the English reason that
way, they forget that men have souls. Here is a nation of four million
souls waging war against the most powerful of monarchs, and no money
of our own. We came to America because we had no money; the nobility
had control of it. We have built up a nation without money. However,
we shall defend it without the Englishman’s money. Our people take the
quartermaster’s receipts as eagerly as they would British sovereigns,
and they pass current for all dues, because we have grown up in the
confidence of mutual helpfulness. Destroy that confidence and the
Englishman’s guinea becomes mere dross. If a ship were loaded with gold
and human beings, in case of distress, the Englishman would sacrifice
the human beings to save the gold, whereas the American would throw
overboard the gold to save the human beings.

“But when a soldier fights on the battlefield simply to gain gold, he
begins to think which is more valuable, life or gold, and he loses
confidence in the gold; but when a soldier fights on a battlefield for
civil or religious liberty, he becomes reckless of life and is willing
to sacrifice all for liberty.

“Now, sir, we fear not the war of gold.”

“But, General,” argued Barclugh, “will not the commercial classes and
the men of wealth be influenced by considerations of Britain’s gold?”

“The men of large wealth are already Tories, Mr. Barclugh, and against
us. The commercial classes will be on whichever side their trade is
encouraged. But the great mass of Colonists are agriculturists, whose
virtue is above reproach and on whose hardihood and honesty of purpose
this nation must place its reliance. If they stand firm and fight for
the principles of our Declaration of Independence, this nation shall
never perish, but if they allow artificial allurements of gold to buy
their liberty, then we shall have expedience for our principles and
laughter at our pretensions.”

Barclugh saw that principles had firm root in the Commander’s mind, but
he thought that he would sound for any petty prejudice that might be
lurking in his heart, so he cunningly said:

“However, you know, General Washington, that a great many
Philadelphians seem to be ambitious after wealth. I have noticed some
lukewarmness for the cause there.”

Whereupon Washington at once began to get reserved and continued the
conversation by asking:

“Mr. Barclugh, have you any news of General Arnold?”

“Yes, the last time I met General Arnold, he complained about the great
social demands upon him, and that to meet his expenses he was driven
almost to distraction. I could think that this good man might be ruined
in Philadelphia, by too much gayety. Then you know, General, that he
was never before used to it.”

The Commander-in-Chief did not express an opinion about Arnold, but
Barclugh observed that very careful mental note was made on what was
said of Arnold. However, he continued by asking:

“When you have completed your mission in New York, how do you propose
to return, Mr. Barclugh? I shall be pleased to serve you. I presume
your mission is entirely of a business nature and you will fight shy of
the military people,” in his most gracious and pleasing manner.

“I wish to return by way of the Jerseys, General. However, I may not
be able to return at all.” Desiring to impress upon Washington the
seriousness of his intentions, these were the concluding remarks of
Barclugh’s important conversation.

After the exchange of a few civilities about Philadelphia people and
the exchange of mutual compliments for the pleasant evening spent
together, Roderick Barclugh arose and retired to his bed, determined to
start early in the morning for New York,--a journey of sixty miles.




CHAPTER XXI


At sunrise, the next morning after the conversation with Washington,
Roderick Barclugh started with his passport signed by Colonel Hamilton.
He took up his journey on the road that leads south through the
highlands on the east side of the Hudson to New York.

From Fishkill the road is hemmed in on both sides by steep hills.
Glimpses of the river are obtained occasionally as a traveller reaches
some vantage-point. An hour’s ride brought Barclugh to a view of a
broad stretch of the Hudson, and there lay before him the object of all
his travels and labors,--West Point in full view.

He leaped off his horse eagerly, and fastened him to a sapling. Then
with spying-glass in hand, he found a seat which, in a commanding
position on a high cliff, overlooked the scene like an amphitheatre
below him.

Proceeding to sketch the redoubts, approaches and armament of West
Point, Barclugh admired the location as a military stronghold and
thought as he critically surveyed the situation:

“If that palladium of liberty can be assaulted and won with gold,
General Washington may then admit that gold is mightier than either the
sword or pen.”

However, he stood in thrilling admiration of this wonderful work of
engineering skill which had been built by a nation that the English
King had been wont to call barbarous. Here, frowning with cannon, were
works that had risen out of a desert in less than two years, and which
would have cost the English government five hundred thousand pounds
sterling, but they had been built by Americans who did not expect pay.

Immediately above West Point the Hudson flows through two precipitous
headlands almost face to face,--one upon the east and the other upon
the west bank. After passing these two promontories the river makes a
quick turn to the eastward, and then to the southward, thus forming a
short bend and then stretching out into a straight reach of several
miles.

On the point of land thus projecting into the bend of the river, six
redoubts were bristling with cannon. They were located in the form of
an amphitheatre, beginning at the lowest ground and extending to the
highest summits. As the river here is surrounded by mountains, the
construction was planned so that one redoubt commanded the next lower
and also the river both up and down stream. A chain was stretched
across the channel to stop ships of war. Two lofty heights opposite
West Point protected the eastern bank with frowning cannon that
overlooked the whole valley. One hundred and fifty cannon were counted
by Barclugh in these strongholds, and a goodly part of them were the
spoils of the American victory over Burgoyne.

“Was he to succeed in his plans to cause the downfall of such a
military position?” recurred to his mind as he sought his horse and
nervously turned his steps to the highway. There were now only fifty
miles of a journey to King’s Bridge, the first British outpost.

His plans seemed to be working admirably, and he was thanking his luck
that he had travelled thus far and no mishaps to block his game had
occurred. As his horse galloped nearer the British position his hopes
mounted higher, and he saw visions of the future, where he would be
emulated for his part in the subjugation of the rebellious Colonists.
Surely they would be better off under the protection of the powerful
mother country than to pursue the mad career of independence. His
reverie was suddenly brought to a termination when he came to a fork in
the road where the question as to the wisest course to follow had to be
determined.

The roads fork below West Point, and form two parallel routes to New
York,--one following close to the Hudson, and the other, five miles
back, taking the same direction. Barclugh had to rely on his chart and
on his own judgment,--he thought the back road would be less frequented
and consequently more to his liking,--so he chose the back road.

Everything went along serenely this day with Barclugh. He passed the
last American outpost by simply presenting his passport from Colonel
Hamilton and entered the neutral territory infested by roving bands of
“cow-boys,” and “skinners,” as they were termed.

Arriving at the Croton River near sundown, Barclugh stopped at an inn
kept by a Connecticut dame, whose husband, it was learned afterward,
had gone to war to escape death at home from the length of his wife’s
tongue.

When Barclugh arrived in sight of the inn he had visions of a square
meal; for his ride since sunrise had aroused the demands of nature. But
as he dismounted, somewhat of a surprise awaited him at the doorsteps
in the person of a smallish woman, having a weazened face, a short,
whittled-off nose, little, steel-blue eyes and a large mouth. The lips
were thin, colorless and compressed in such a manner that no man dared
to dispute her ability to bear down and insist upon her own, sweet way.

Without any preliminaries the woman commenced at Barclugh as soon as
she saw him approach:

“I don’t b’leeve I can care for any strangers. Are you from the
eastward? All my rooms are full. If I keep you at all I shall have to
give up my own bed. Dunno what to do. Have you ready money or orders?
If you have ready money I might take you, but I would have to charge
you more. Are you a stranger in these parts? The next inn? Oh, that
is thirteen miles beyond. You couldn’t reach it to-night. If you did,
you would not like it anyway. The people there haven’t any family
tree. Have I anything to eat? Oh, yes, but I wasn’t brought up to do
this kind of work. Since Joshua went to the war I have had to wash the
dishes and I am spoiling my hands. You are from Paris, eh? I always
did like to entertain real gentlemen. I like Frenchmen, too; they are
so polite--I suppose you are hungry. It’s La Fitte? Why that’s real
aristocratic. My maiden name was Hopper. I was born in Haddam, old
Haddam in Connecticut. My father was selectman in that town for forty
years, and he was deacon nigh on to the same. ’Pears to me I used to
know some French people. Yes, their name was, lemme see--oh, yes, they
could not have been any kin of yours. Their name was La,--La Porte. If
I had only known that I was going to have a real gentleman to-night
from Paris, I might had a nice chicken and some ham and eggs.--You are
a financier, eh? Oh, that’s real nice. I s’pose you’re married? No?
Well, how delighted I am that you have come this way; come right in.
You know I haven’t heard from Joshua for nigh on to two years--the
poor man may be dead. Have I any children? Oh, no, Joshua and I always
thought we ought to have had one and we were going to call him little
Eli,” was the introduction Barclugh had to the Red Squirrel Inn
presided over by Mrs. Charity Puffer.

Being put on his guard by the first onslaught, but concluding that
she was harmless, Barclugh determined to learn more of the American
phenomenon before his departure.

Mrs. Puffer led her guest to the sitting-room, flew up stairs, told her
cook that a gentleman of quality was there for supper, put on a clean
dress, spread a clean table-cloth, flew out to have a chicken killed,
brought out a couple of pieces of silver that used to be in Deacon
Hopper’s family and then came in and sat down before her guest.

Every moment of talk that was wasted in getting supper ready seemed an
irretrievable loss to her existence,--especially when she had some one
on whom to ply her vocation.

“Don’t you think that I would make a smart wife for a nice rich man?”
she began again. “This life in the country nearly kills me. You know
I never had to live this way before I married Mr. Puffer. He brought
me out here and I have had to work my fingernails off. Don’t you see
how poor I am? I was a beautiful young woman and he couldn’t furnish
me any servants. I worked and worked, for I was so industrious.
What was he doing all this time? Poor man, he was laid up with a
disorder like a fever, and I had to nurse him and care for him. Then
he got discouraged. Well, I couldn’t teach him anything. He was so
obstinate.--He wouldn’t dress himself up like I wanted and I had the
hardest time to get him to take me to meeting.--He didn’t want to wear
gloves, so I used to say to him: ‘Father, you must try and look nice,’
and he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ He would hold his hands and arms
straight down by his sides and his fingers out stiff when I put gloves
on him. Well, I used to get so provoked, because he knew better than
that. When I used to say: ‘Father, you must let your hands hang kind
o’ natural,’ he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ Well, I want to tell
you, when the war broke out I just made up my mind that father had to
go to war or I would go myself. So he went one day, when I hit him with
the boot-jack, and I haven’t seen him since.

“Oh, yes, supper will be ready in a very short time. It takes so long
for supper to cook when the fire don’t burn. Did I ever have any beaux?
Yes, I was forgetting to tell you about a beau I once had, when I was a
gay and young woman. His name was Nehemiah, and he used to come around
before I knew Joshua. Well, Nehemiah came one evening to see me and I
was not in good humor at all. After the old folks had left us to spark
a little, I moved over to one end of the settle, and when Nehemiah
moved toward me, I sat up as stiff as a stake and I turned my back on
him and never spoke once to him that whole evening. Well, at last when
I wouldn’t speak or stir, he got skeered and I haven’t seen his face
from that day to this. Well, I must tell you, Mr. La,--LaFeet, I don’t
like men anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I perceive you don’t, nor anything to eat either,” chuckled
Barclugh.

“Oh, yes, you see it is such a pleasure for me to converse with a
gentleman that understands my better qualities and can appreciate the
fact that he comes into the environment of a refined and well-bred
lady. You know that there are so many inn-keepers who are vulgar. They
haven’t any china that has been in the family for two generations,--no
plate, nor manners. My sakes! I have been forgetting all about supper
with my stories,--”

“About yourself,” interjected Barclugh.

“Jest so, Mr. Feet. I’ll go out and see if Betty has the supper on the
table.”

As soon as Mrs. Puffer disappeared, Barclugh drew a long breath and
exclaimed:

“Whew! whew! I’ll have a time to get something to eat here!”

“Why! what do you think, Mr. Feet? Supper has been ready a long time.
My Betty can cook a chicken, boil a ham and make tea quicker than
anybody I ever knew. Come right along this way.

“I’ll sit down with you and I know you will enjoy your supper. Will
you be seated right there? Here is some chicken. I never eat any meat
for supper, myself, before going to bed. I drink my cup of tea. Oh,
can’t you cut the chicken? Oh, that’s too bad. Just sharpen the knife a
little. That’s it. Just put a little muscle into it.--Well, I declare,
Betty just half boiled that chicken. If you can wait a little I shall
take it out and boil it a little more.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Puffer,” said Barclugh, as he sat down out of
breath, after he had stood up to carve the fowl.

“Here’s some bread and butter, Mr. Feet. I do enjoy Betty’s bread and
butter. It’s about all I care to take for my supper.”

“Madam, is that some ham, on the other side of the table?” queried
Barclugh, as he saw that he would have to take matters into his own
hands, if he were to have any supper.

For the first time, Mrs. Puffer looked embarrassed, as she replied:

“Yes, that is one of those celebrated hams that are cured in
Connecticut. It came from old Haddam, and it is well seasoned. Yes, my
father used to cure those hams fifty years ago.”

“Not that one, I hope, Mrs. Puffer?” helplessly queried Barclugh.

“Oh, no, not that one, Mr. Feet, but he used to cure them just like
that.--Will you have some more tea? There’s plenty of tea. Oh, yes,
I knew you would. Just one drop of milk and I wonder if Betty put on
enough sugar? Well, you can excuse the sugar this time. There, I told
Betty to cook you some eggs, but she has forgotten. I know that you
wouldn’t care for any ham if you didn’t have eggs to eat with it. You
will have some more bread and butter, I know you will.”

“Yes, madam, if you please, I will take some of that ham also, and make
myself a sandwich,” insisted Barclugh, for matters were desperate for
his stomach’s sake.

“Very well, Mr. Feet. I will take it over to the sideboard, and prepare
you one, myself,” was the offer of Mrs. Puffer, expecting her guest to
say: “No, thank you, it will be too much bother.”

But not that way for Barclugh. He arose from the table and said:

“Allow me to assist you. I will take it over to the sideboard for you,”
wishing to be agreeable.

“No! No! you mustn’t do that! I couldn’t allow you! I will do that
myself,” interposed Mrs. Puffer, as she jumped up hastily and grabbed
the platter to take the ham off the table, when the so-called ham
rolled to the floor and bounced up like a rubber ball, for it was as
hollow as a fiddle, and made of wood.

Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out.

Mrs. Puffer picked up the wayward morsel and placed it on the sideboard.

She sat down as coolly as though she had used the ham before, and broke
the silence by saying:

“Mr. La Fitte, you know how it is when you have to trust to servants. I
have that dish of ham for an ornament on the sideboard, but Betty had
to place it on the table this evening. That is just like those girls.
They do not know better.”

[Illustration: Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired
out.]

There was nothing for Barclugh to do now but to eat bread and butter,
and fill up on tea and talk.

When a man is disappointed in his meal he begins to get ugly. So
Barclugh arose from the table, went into the sitting-room and demanded
his bill and declared that he would have to leave for the next
stopping-place.

But Mrs. Puffer objected, by saying:

“Oh, no, Mr. La Fitte, you know that these roads are infested with
‘cow-boys’ and ‘skinners,’ and you may be captured and robbed.”

“Which party is it that you belong to, Mrs. Puffer?” asked Barclugh. “I
should think that you belonged to the latter.”

From without the house loud shouts of “Hello!” “Hello!” were heard on
the road.

Mrs. Puffer turned to Barclugh exclaiming:

“Some of those rascals are there now. You better hide yourself
somewhere.”

“Never mind, madam,” replied Barclugh, and handing over a sovereign to
pay his fare, continued, “I can take care of myself.”

At that instant a burly fellow in the uniform of a Continental walked
in.

“Any strangers here to-night, Mrs. Puffer?” came in heavy tones from
the soldier.

“There’s one gentleman here, Mr. La Fitte. I believe he can give a good
account of himself,” replied the landlady.

“What’s your business here, Mr. La Fitte? Where are you going?”
demanded the soldier.

“Here’s my passport, sir,” was the reply, and Barclugh handed out the
Colonel’s document.

“You’re the sort of a party we want!” remarked the fellow, as he went
to the door and whistled, meanwhile holding his pistol ready and eying
Barclugh.

Four of his companions came into the room, and at once the spokesman
ordered:

“Fasten his arms, men. He’s a spy.”

Barclugh submitted while wondering why his passport was not sufficient.

After the squad had searched Barclugh and disarmed him, they marched
him out and ordered him to mount his horse and ride between them.

However, when the troopers started off their course led them to the
southward. They acted queerly to Barclugh. They crossed the Croton at
Pine Bridge and went toward the Hudson. In any event he was all right
unless the scamps were bent on robbery. However, he did not lose his
nerve. Finally, after an hour’s ride and silence, the prisoner ventured
this question:

“Gentlemen, I am a prisoner in the hands of which party?”

“You are a prisoner of His Majesty King George III. No talking, sir, we
are on dangerous ground.”

Barclugh’s spirits at once mounted high. As soon as he reached a
British post, he would despatch a cipher message to General Clinton
in New York and he knew that at once he would be escorted to secret
quarters in the town.

To understand Barclugh’s perilous position in the country through which
he was now passing, a few facts concerning the conditions existing in
the spring of 1780 must be stated.

From the upper part of Manhattan Island or King’s Bridge to the Croton
River was neutral ground, during the British occupancy of New York. The
British sent out reconnoitering parties toward the American lines and
the Americans would reconnoitre toward the British. Independent bands
of Tories called “cow-boys” raided into this territory, and foraged
upon the inhabitants who did not sign allegiance to the King. Then the
American bands called “skinners” raided upon the loyalists. The real
warfare of these parts consisted in these lawless bands watching each
other when on raids and if the “cow-boys” had a good drove of animals,
the “skinners” attempted to disperse the band and appropriate the
spoils. The whole of the lower part of Westchester County was thus kept
in distress during nearly all of the Revolutionary War by the ravages
of these bands.

On the night in question, when Barclugh was a prisoner in the hands
of his friends, the party was ascending a steep hill in silence and
surrounded by dense forest, when suddenly out of the night air and
darkness rang a voice within a hundred feet:

“Surrender, you devils!” and the clicking of a dozen flintlocks sounded
in quick succession.

At the sound of such a number of clicks, the five British whirled on
their horses and dashed down the hill and Barclugh did as the rest, but
he was in the rear since he did not understand their tactics of retreat.

A volley followed the foe, retreating in the dark. Barclugh’s horse
was shot, and threw his rider headlong with such violence that he was
stunned and rendered unconscious. One of the fleeing British dropped
his flintlock in the fracas.

The attacking party chased the fleeing British, yelling and exchanging
pistol shots. They returned when sure that the “cow-boys” were out of
harm’s way and picked up the unconscious form of Barclugh. He was still
unconscious when placed against a tree next to the roadside.

After being administered a good drink of rum, Barclugh opened his eyes
and asked:

“Gentlemen, where am I?”

“You are a prisoner,” replied the leader.

“I was a prisoner,” insisted Barclugh.

“You are still one,” came the sharp reply.

A fire had been lighted by this time and all were warming their fingers
in the chilly air of the May night.

Barclugh gazed around and noticed that all wore the red coats of the
British. He realized that he might better be good-natured over his
captivity. He turned to his captors, with the remark:

“Gentlemen, I have been a prisoner twice since sundown,--once the
prisoner of King George by a party in Continental uniform, and now a
prisoner a second time by a party of redcoats. Please inform me whose
prisoner I may be now.”

“Where did they git you?” asked the leader. “Did they git you in that
Red Squirrel Inn?” at which the whole party laughed.

“I b’leeve he tried to git a piece of that wooden ham,” sung out one of
the party, and there was another burst of laughter.

“Could you cut that chicken?” repeated another.

“Well, gentlemen, I gave up the chicken as a bad job, broke the ham,
paid Mrs. Puffer a sovereign and got no change, being glad to escape
alive; for she told me she had hit Joshua with a boot-jack,” at which
recital the whole party roared and some of the younger fellows rolled
on the ground in delight.

“Did she tell you how beautiful she used to be and how she froze out
Nehemiah?” was the next question that gave them all a chance to laugh
again.

“Yes, indeed, and she asked me if I ‘didn’t think she would make a
smart wife for a nice rich man?’ but I didn’t get a chance for a word
in edgewise for an answer,” related Barclugh to the intense delight of
the whole party.

“Wal, stranger, I guess you are a purty good fellow. Where did you come
from and where are you going?” asked the leader of Barclugh.

“I came from the headquarters of General Washington this morning and
gave my passport to those scamps and now they have carried it off.”

“Wal, if you are able to travel we will take you to General
Washington’s headquarters right away; for you are a prisoner of the
Westchester Independents, and General Washington is at Verplancks Point
to-night.”

Barclugh was not much the worse for his mishap, except that his
shoulder was strained and he was bruised on the side of his face where
he had slid down the hill.

He procured a new horse, proceeded to headquarters under the escort of
two troopers, and being recognized by Colonel Hamilton, proceeded on
his journey next morning.

He rode through the American lines by way of Tarrytown and was not
molested by either party until he surrendered himself to the sentinel
of King George at King’s Bridge.




CHAPTER XXII


When Barclugh arrived at King’s Bridge, the time was midnight, and as
he was muffled and his name was assumed he had little risk of meeting
any person who would suspect his business.

He informed the sentinel that he must see the officer of the guard at
once.

Upon the officer coming to the guard house, Barclugh requested that a
note be sent without delay to General Clinton, the British Commander,
as information of the first importance must be sent to headquarters.

So the officer despatched a horseman to the Beekman House at full speed
with the following note:

                                           “King’s Bridge, May 28, 1780.

  “Sir: I have the honor to announce my arrival at King’s Bridge. I
  must be conducted to a safe retreat at once. My plans have carried
  but I am very much battered by travel and narrow escapes.

                                              “(Signed) Pierre La Fitte.
  “To General Clinton,
    “Commander of H. M. Forces in America.
      “Beekman House.”

Within three hours Major Andre arrived alone with an extra horse at
Fort Knypthausen, the defense at King’s Bridge, and after a few subdued
words with the officer of the guard, Barclugh was hurried to a horse.
His former animal was turned loose on the road to find its way back
to Verplancks Point. Thus no trace of Barclugh could be followed on
account of the horse that he had ridden.

Not a word was spoken by Andre to Barclugh in the guard house. Andre
ordered the officer to release the stranger. The officer told Barclugh
that he was to leave the guard house and follow Major Andre until the
horses were found, and to not speak until well out of hearing.

After Andre had travelled a few hundred yards away from Fort
Knypthausen, Major Andre grasped Barclugh by the hand and said:

“Mr. Barclugh, I am glad to see you. How are you?”

“I am nearly dead, Major Andre,” replied Barclugh, “I have been
captured and made prisoner three times. I was fired on last night and
my horse was killed. But after a hard journey, I am here with my plans
working.

“Arnold is committed to treason. I have the plans and strength of West
Point, and a great amount of information for the Commissioners.”

“Grand! Magnificent!!” exclaimed Andre. “We need a stroke like this to
arouse the nation, and counteract the French coalition with America.
I am devoted to your plan. I believe patents of nobility and grants
of land are the only means that will subdue the Americans. Of course,
results must first be brought about by the judicious use of gold to
gain the leaders.

“However, Mr. Barclugh,” continued Andre gaily. “How is my friend,
Mrs. Arnold? We used to have such gay times while in Philadelphia.
Does she not sympathize with our social life? I have heard that after
our evacuation of Philadelphia, the event was celebrated by a grand
ball given by the Whig element, but, when it came to a list of those
who should be invited, enough belles could not be found unless the
Tories were included. So the whole list of ladies that attended our
grand heraldic pageant, the Mischianza, had to be invited to be present
to have a success. The Shippens, the Chews, the Bonds, the Redmans,
the Willings and the whole list of our friends were there. Any of the
ladies of the first circles who will not stand for the principles of
aristocracy is a _rara avis_.”

“But you forget, Major Andre,” argued Barclugh, “that when you do find
such a lady, you will have a gem of the finest brilliancy. Such a one
will be a Whig out of principle, whereas a woman becomes a Tory out of
sentiment,” as he recalled the argument between Mollie Greydon and Mrs.
Arnold at the dinner party at Robert FitzMaurice’s.

Andre’s quarters were reached after the exchange of many pleasantries,
and the soldier showed the financier a room and bed and gave the key
to Barclugh to guard himself against any intrusion. Barclugh was now
safely quartered where he could carry out his business with the utmost
secrecy.

The remainder of that night and the next day were spent in bed by
Barclugh. He was suffering severely from the fall off of his horse, the
night before his arrival.

Major Andre had meals brought to his own room, and then quietly carried
the meals to Barclugh himself.

After two days and two nights of rest and nursing and a supply of clean
linen, Barclugh was sufficiently recovered to be escorted, in the dead
of the night,--when nothing was astir in the old Dutch town but the
solitary sentinel--to the Beekman mansion, the present location of 52nd
Street and Broadway. Here were the quarters of General Clinton.

Major Andre had his permanent quarters at No. 1 Broadway, and when
he and Barclugh walked out of the rear of these quarters a chaise and
postillion were ready for the financier and his escort to be driven in
haste to General Clinton.

Sir Henry Clinton, the Commander of the British forces in North
America, spent much of his time at his country house, the former
mansion of Dr. Beekman, and on the night in question he was anxiously
waiting to greet Roderick Barclugh.

His career had been unfruitful of results in America thus far, as he
had failed to aid Burgoyne, and, after evacuating Philadelphia, and
retreating by land to New York, had suffered disaster at Monmouth; he
had failed in his attack on Fort Moultrie, and now his whole career was
centered upon the capture of West Point by intrigue.

Seated in one of the upper chambers of the Beekman house were Sir
Henry Clinton, the Commander, Lord Carlisle and William Eden, M. P.,
Commissioners of the British government to America.

Lord Carlisle was the life-long friend of George Selwyn,--the wag of
English society and court circles in London at this time. William
Eden, a mere figure-head and courtier, was the intimate friend and
political supporter of both Carlisle and Selwyn. Charles Fox was the
brains and political force for this entire coterie, so that the
presence of Carlisle in America on his mission is obvious, since Fox
was irretrievably in debt to Carlisle and Selwyn. Furthermore, Fox
had been the associate of Carlisle at Eton and they had grown up to
be inseparable cronies; both were involved in all the noted gambling
escapades at Brooks’ and Almack’s for the previous ten years.

Besides the Commander and the two Commissioners, the room contained
a large round table and a sideboard well supplied with Madeira and
claret. This chamber was used for councils of war by General Clinton.
A map of the thirteen Colonies and the seaboard was lying carelessly
on the table. Carlisle and Clinton were discussing the losses at
the gaming table the night before and Eden was snuggling up to a
newly-opened bottle of Madeira, while seated in a large arm-chair,
enjoying a pipe of tobacco.

Barclugh entered the room, following Major Andre, and was received by
the three very, very cordially, but with much formality, as they had
met on serious business.

Here were five men authorized to treat with the Colonists in any manner
that would win them back to the allegiance of the King. They could wage
war, confiscate property, starve prisoners, offer rewards for treason,
offer to concede every demand of the Colonies for their political
welfare except independence. The utmost desire of the Commissioners
was to effect some compromise with the leaders of the revolution and
preserve allegiance to the mother country.

Roderick Barclugh was a very important personage in this council. He
had done important service in Paris for the financial interests of the
English government, and was now working out plans to stop the war for
the benefit of England’s Exchequer, so that, whatever he said had much
weight.

They all listened most intently to the recital of his advent into
Philadelphia’s commercial circles,--because he had much capital at
his command. How he became acquainted with the weakness of Arnold,
through the oyster vender, Sven Svenson, and how he interested Arnold
in privateering enterprises, all was heard with much interest. Then the
final surrender of Arnold to the proposition of treason, for twenty
thousand pounds sterling and a brigadier’s commission in the British
army, was received with profound satisfaction.

When Barclugh told of his journey, his being captured three times and
his interview with Washington, they listened with wonder; but when he
told of the experience with the Connecticut dame at the Red Squirrel
Inn and the wooden ham, the whole party laughed long and heartily.

At the conclusion of the narrative, Barclugh turned to General Clinton
and said brusquely:

“General Clinton, Arnold has been paid part of his price, and I shall
turn the military end of the business over to you. He will get his
assignment to West Point and you must carry out the details of the
plans already entered into. He will correspond with you under an
assumed name, and his language will have the _entente_ of carrying out
some large commercial transactions.”

“Mr. Barclugh, the conception and execution of your plans have been
magnificent, and I shall entrust the fulfilment of them to my able,
young adjutant, Major Andre,” graciously assented General Clinton, as
he turned with beaming eyes and countenance to his staff officer.

“But, gentlemen,” continued Barclugh, “my task at Philadelphia is
but commenced. My desires are to finish my business here as soon as
possible and return to start my next enterprise. I have the people and
plans engaged to start a bank in this country. It is to be known as the
Bank of North America. The model is to be our Bank of England, and we
shall have the government of this country so closely allied with this
institution that only safe measures of legislation will be allowed.

“Our great obstacle in overcoming the rebellion in our Colonies is the
lack of any centralizing power to draw all the men of substance into
one party and the poor devils into another. The reason is that there
are no organizations to control the accumulation of property.

“Life and industry create property, and money has been sanctioned
by custom to represent property; but an artificial system can be
established to control money; therefore, whoever controls the money of
a nation controls its life and industry.

“Commissary receipts answer as well for money now as gold, but if
we have a corporation of leading men of substance who lose their
individual interests in the policy of the bank, why, we can issue
a dictum that gold only will be received as money; then the vital
interests of thousands at once are merged into the centralized body.

“Let me establish a bank in Philadelphia, and I shall lay the
foundations of a rich man’s party that will bring the Colonists to the
institutions of the mother country more effectually than armies or
navies ever can.

“If the armies will conquer and hold the valley of the Hudson, and if
the military will conquer and hold the southern provinces, the power of
money will take Philadelphia with no loss of life. Then the Americans
will tire of the war and be glad to surrender to the fair offers of His
Majesty’s Commissioners.”

Lord Carlisle rubbed his hands with an excited air of satisfaction and
said enthusiastically:

“Mr. Barclugh, you have outlined the whole matter. Nothing more is
necessary. Eden and I are mere figureheads here, waiting for a decisive
blow, so that we can ply our vocation.

“The army must act now on your initiative and the results are sure to
be forthcoming,” continued Carlisle.

“Gentlemen,” proposed Lord Carlisle, as he arose with his glass partly
filled with Madeira, “success to Mr. Barclugh and his enterprise.”

They all drank their Madeira, standing, in honor of Barclugh.

The financier arose after the compliment paid to him and said modestly:

“Gentlemen, I thank you for your expression of regard.” Then, raising
his glass he continued: “My best wishes for a speedy conclusion of war
between Great Britain and her Colonies on constitutional grounds.”

The sentiment was received heartily by the others, and with glasses
raised high all drank deeply as only Englishmen can drink,--with no
“heel-taps.”

The conference being over, General Clinton took Barclugh by the arm
and escorted him to another room for his arrangements to return to
Philadelphia. The other three remained in the council chamber, to see
that King George, the aristocracy and British sordidness, were well
remembered with innumerable glasses of Madeira.

Lord Carlisle and William Eden were ordinary representatives of English
hangers-on to royalty’s apron strings. Both were fat and lymphatic. No
enterprise thrilled their souls. They were more than pleased to accept
the established order of their condition so long as the government was
good,--to them and theirs. They were as pliable as putty in the hands
of the controlling influence of the monarchy. They wanted a fat living
out of government with little service in return.

William Eden had his hobby, especially when a chance to tell it over
his Madeira offered. Filling his glass, and turning to Carlisle, he
stupidly rehearsed his theories:

“My Lord, you know I have very decided policy in regard to subduing the
King’s enemies. (By Jove, that’s good Madeira.)

“To make it the interest of Congress to close with us (the King’s
Commissioners) will be of the first consequence. (How’s that, Andre?)

“Well, from the many conversations which I have held with the men of
substance here in New York and from the nature of things, you know
that we ought to propose a scheme of government (My Lord, a government
as is a government), by a Parliament in the Colonies, composed of an
order of nobles or patricians,--and a lower house of delegates from the
different Colonial assemblies,--to be given to the provinces upon their
return to allegiance to our King.”

“That’s it, that’s it, Eden, allegiance is what we want,” interjected
Carlisle, enthusiastically.

Another glass of Madeira and Eden laboriously gathered up his
avoirdupois and continued:

“That form of government would have a general influence upon the
minds of those who now possess authority in America, as their present
precarious power would be by this means secured to themselves and
handed down to their descendants.”

“You have the idea all right, Mr. Eden,” said Carlisle, as he slyly
winked at Andre, “but we must have some others to listen to us than
these bottles of Madeira and Major Andre.

“Now, Eden,” continued Carlisle, “let’s have one glass to the words of
Dr. Johnson:

“‘That patriotism is the first business of scoundrels.’”

After this last appeal to Bacchus for inspiration, these two pillars of
British statesmanship found that they needed the assistance of Major
Andre to help them to their bed-chambers.

While the commissioners were exchanging empty platitudes, and drinking
the wine furnished by the Crown, the real business of the evening
was being concluded between General Clinton and Barclugh. As soon as
General Clinton had led the way to an airy bed-chamber Barclugh began
to unfold his plans:

“General Clinton, I must not delay here one minute longer than
necessary, for Washington has this town filled with spies, and my
detection here, at this house, means disaster.”

“How do you propose to return to Philadelphia?” asked General Clinton.

“My plan,” replied Barclugh concisely, “is to return as far as possible
by water. I wish that you could put me aboard one of your small armed
cruisers and send me down into one of those numerous inlets that are
opposite Philadelphia on the Jersey coast. I can be furnished a small
boat, and in case of capture I can pretend to have escaped from an
English vessel. In any event I shall be taken to Philadelphia and
turned over to Arnold.”

“That’s an excellent plan, Barclugh, and I have just the man to
perform the task,” said Clinton, “Captain Sutherland of the Sloop
Albatross. I shall send for him at once, and have you secreted on board
to-night, and then you can rest from your former journey. I know that
Washington’s spies are among us, and that you must be spirited away or
you will surely be traced to us.”

While the two were waiting for Captain Sutherland, for whom an order
had been despatched to report at the Beekman house for duty orders,
Barclugh went over the details for the fruition of Arnold’s plot. The
correspondence was to be conducted between Barclugh and Major Andre.
Barclugh would sign as Gustavus; Andre would reply as John Anderson.
Barclugh would turn over his letters to Arnold so that no traces could
be found for detection. As Barclugh was known among his commercial
associates to be in touch with merchants in New York, he could
correspond with little suspicion.

When Captain Sutherland was announced in the office below, General
Clinton brightened up and arose as he addressed his associate:

“Well, well, Mr. Barclugh, have you all of your effects ready to
depart? I dislike to have you leave us so informally, but duty calls
and there we are.”

“Oh, I’m ever ready,” was Barclugh’s prompt reply. “My whole wardrobe
and effects are on my person.”

Captain Sutherland was ordered to proceed down the coast of Jersey, and
land his passenger on the Jersey coast opposite Philadelphia, but in no
case to sacrifice the safety of the passenger. Obey the passenger as
to the place and manner of landing, and in no case to let his presence
on the ship be known. Not even Captain Sutherland could be informed as
to the business or name of Barclugh; he was simply introduced as Mr.
Gustavus.

The Captain of the Albatross and Barclugh mounted their horses and
proceeded to Paules’ Hook landing in the early hours of the morning.

When Barclugh and his companion had reached the landing and were
walking briskly to the ship’s boat, out of the darkness came the figure
of a female, who walked up to the two and touched Barclugh on the arm.

Barclugh stopped in amazement and looked upon the creature inquiringly,
and asked:

“My good woman, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, sir,” sweetly replied the mysterious woman, “I was looking
for my brother who was coming down to the ferry, and I thought that you
were he,” she continued in the voice of a well-trained Indian girl.

Barclugh was in a hurry to embark and did not make any note of the
incident, for he could not clearly see the face of his questioner in
the darkness. He passed on and boarded the Albatross, as he thought to
himself, to perfect his security.




CHAPTER XXIII


“Say, Bill, if this brig gets into blue water without a tussle I miss
my reckonin’,” dryly remarked one of the old sea-dogs to his companion,
as the two leaned on the ship’s rail next to the cat-head. “The coast
is swarming these days with lime-juicers and if we fall into their net,
we’d wish to have our grog sent down to Davy Jones’ locker, where we’ll
all be if Sammy Risk has a thing to do with it. He’d blow us all up
before he’d strike.”

“Look a’ here, Hank, you old growler, if Sammy Risk can’t show as
clear a pair of heels to them Britishers as ever vanished out of a
spying-glass,” replied old Bill Weathergage, “then I’ll take all the
jobs of slushin’ and swabbin’ that the boys ought’er do for a for’night
on the cruise.”

“Mind what ye’re sayin’, Bill.”

“I’ll do it, you old figger-head.”

The privateersmen were discussing probabilities as the Holker lay in
the stream below Philadelphia awaiting Captain Risk to fill out his
complement of sixty-five men. Roderick Barclugh had started on his
journey and the flour was all on board. The Holker stood up like a
church steeple with her cargo stowed away in her hold and hatches all
battened down, waiting for a passage outside the capes. Her armament
was three short six-pounders forward, and three long nine-pounders aft,
being the batteries on port and starboard; a long twelve-pounder bow
chaser and a long eighteen-pound quarter-deck stern chaser. A heavy
eighteen-pound swivel amidships completed the ship’s metal.

She was equal to many of the King’s cruisers in armament, and excelled
two-thirds of them in sailing qualities.

Word came up the river that a brace of the King’s cruisers were
standing off Cape May, ready to pounce upon any Yankee that chanced to
run the blockade.

The best chance was for Captain Risk to run the gauntlet in the dark,
so that the tenth day after Barclugh had left Philadelphia, he quietly
weighed anchor and slipped past the forts and stood off into the
roadstead, waiting for a chance to slip out.

The night came on dark and boisterous, so that word was passed to get
under weigh, as the weather looked nasty from the sou’-sou’east, and as
the enemy would have to stand off the coast for sea-room, Captain Risk
took advantage of the opportunity to make blue water.

Setting his foresail, main and fore-topsail, and reefing down for a
scud up the coast, Captain Risk jammed into the wind from the cover of
the river and made for the offing.

All lights were out and the binnacle was hooded. A double watch was
called on deck and the Holker tacked into the teeth of the gale until
the capes were fully two hours astern. The wind was moderating when
orders came to make her course nor’east by north. The yards were braced
in, and as the wind now came from abaft the beam, she was bounding
before the gale and scudding from wave to wave.

The moon was two hours high, and was peering through rifts in the
clouds. The sea was settling to a long swell. Every one on deck began
to feel that no danger was near, when the lookout sang sharply:

“Sail, ho.”

“Where away?” asked Captain Risk, as he stood on the port quarter,
glass in one hand, and the other on the main shrouds.

“Three miles on the lee bow. He is bearing down on the port tack, sir,”
returned the man aloft.

“That’s well. All hands!” commanded Captain Risk, as he turned to his
lieutenant, Mr. Ripley, saying with assurance:

“We have the weather and can keep him guessing.”

All hands were called and sent to quarters and both broadsides were
loaded with grape and round shot for close action.

When the enemy bore down within easy hailing distance, he asked through
his trumpet:

“What ship is that and where away?”

“This is the Privateer Holker, sir,” replied Captain Risk.

“You better haul down those colors, or I’ll blow you to smithereens,”
returned the man-o-war’s man.

“Not yet, my hearty. Fire away, Flannagan,” shouted Captain Risk to the
Englishman.

“Now then, let them have it, my lads!” commanded the privateersman
sharply.

The bright moonlight afforded good aim and the execution of the
broadside spread consternation among the enemy and cut into his
foreshrouds.

The enemy’s broadside flew high, and cut into the Holker’s rigging as
the ship rolled, with no serious damage.

The Holker’s crew now braced in their yards and shot under the stern
of the enemy, who had to come about on the starboard tack to ease his
injured shrouds.

Captain Risk now had the Englishman at his mercy. When under full
headway, he wore ship and brought the starboard battery into short
range, thus raking the cruiser from stem to stern.

Both ships were now on the starboard tack and the Holker in the weather
position. The Englishman came up on the port tack to cross the Holker’s
bow for a rake, but the foxy Risk brought his ship up for the port
tack, too, and filled away so fast that the broadside went astern.

The chance now came for Risk. The Englishman would have to wear ship,
to bring his starboard broadside into action. As quick as a flash, Risk
came about on the starboard tack, passed astern and raked the cruiser a
second time from stem to stern. The execution was so severe that every
one of the starboard main-shrouds was carried away and the Englishman
was thrown into utter confusion on his deck.

The Holker had the Englishman so that his only chance was to wear ship,
but his masts could not stand the strain. So the privateer came around
on the port tack and came booming alongside, within pistol range, and
delivered another broadside of grape that cut the crew to pieces and
sent a large part of them writhing on his deck.

But the cruiser’s crew was plucky, for now a running fight commenced.
The Englishman got in a telling broadside, that cut the binnacle from
under Captain Risk’s feet, and killed Mr. Ripley at his side. The
privateer, on account of her superior sailing qualities, had to tack
to bear up to her antagonist and keep from running out of range. The
fire of the cruiser was getting nervous and irregular and the privateer
delivered a terrific broadside that drove the men that were splicing
the shrouds, under the bulwarks. As the Holker was closing in to board
under cover of the smoke, a voice on the privateer’s foretop sang out:

“’Vast firing. She has struck.”

Captain Risk ordered his second lieutenant to board and find out her
name and the damage inflicted.

The ship was the General Monk, a brig of two hundred tons, commanded by
Lieutenant Churchill of His Majesty’s service. She carried sixteen long
nine-pounders and two long twelve-pounders for stern and bow chasers,
with a full complement of eighty men.

When the privateer’s crew boarded the General Monk, the decks were
literally strewn with dead and wounded, and the scuppers were running
blood. The grape at short range had killed fifteen and wounded twenty
more, among whom was Lieutenant Churchill. All the shrouds of the
foremast, and the head-sails were shot away. The foremast and bowsprit
were cut one-quarter through. The halyards and standing rigging were
shot adrift, and the running-gear was cut to pieces.

The Holker had lost the first lieutenant and six men killed, while
ten were wounded, and much injury had been done to the sails and
gear. A prize crew of fifteen were put aboard the General Monk, and
ordered back to Philadelphia, taking the prisoners and valuable stores
found aboard. The Holker had left, forty men effective for service,
and needed her rigging overhauled before making for the Long Island
rendezvous given by Barclugh. So Captain Risk thought best to put
into Egg Harbor for a short time to repair his rigging and get into
ship-shape for the run over to Long Island.

There seems to be a strange fatality among ships as well as among
men. In the height of success is the period of gravest fear of the
unexpected to occur.

The prize crew on the General Monk were busy setting up and splicing
rigging and fishing the spars as the prisoners were put below when
daylight stole upon the scene. The sound of the guns had borne down on
the other ship of the blockade. The crew of the Holker were tricing up
stays and shrouds in order to keep the Holker’s sticks from rolling out
of her, when about four miles, dead astern, loomed up a heavy frigate
under a cloud of canvas, making for the scene of action.

Captain Risk had to be served now by his wits rather than by his guns,
for, if he took to his heels, the prize would be left to the mercy of
the frigate.

Risk mounted his shrouds, trumpet in hand, and signalled his prize to
run before him on a course opposite to the Holker’s while he ordered
deliberately, in notes clear and strong:

“Ready, about!

“Mainsail haul!

“Raise tacks and sheets!

“Helm’s a-lee!

“’Vast bracing!”

The doughty little captain brought his ship over on the starboard tack,
and stood into the wind to draw off the stranger and try his speed.

Captain Risk now had his gear well cleared up and the shrouds well set
up to stand a run before the ten-knot breeze.

With sprightly bounds the crew of the Holker obeyed the commands:

“Stand by main and fore-tacks!

“Let her pay off!

“Man her weather braces!

“Haul!”

As she sheered off, the ship now staggered before the wind sooner than
the Englishman could realize the tactics of the brig.

The Holker had spirited away for half a mile before the lumbering yards
of the frigate could be trimmed to meet the Yankee’s course.

The chase was now on, for better or for worse. Nothing less than
heroic means could save the Holker. Her main-topsail, foresail, and
fore-topsail, were all set and she was laboring hard under her cargo
of flour; yet if Captain Risk could hold his own until he reached Egg
Harbor Inlet, he would show the frigate, Roebuck, the most devilish
piece of Yankee seamanship this side of Davy Jones’ locker.

On came the Roebuck with huge wings like a monstrous demon, yawing
wildly on each crest from the enormous stretch of her after-canvas, but
she was surely closing the gap between the ships. In another half-hour
she would be within short range of the Holker. A chance shot might
bring down the privateer’s topmast, and then all would be lost.

Captain Risk stood on the port quarter with glass in hand, watching
every rope and sail as he turned to his men and commanded sharply:

“Man that main-stay garnet, with a luff-tackle, bullies, and overboard
cargo with a will. No time to lose, my lads.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” came from twenty throats, as every man jumped to his
station.

The hatches came off in a trice, and the flour came swinging out, two
barrels at a heave.

“No hell-hole of a British prison for us this day,” came out from the
heart of every privateersman when he swung on the cargo with might and
main.

A puff of smoke now appeared out of the bow of the Roebuck, which the
crew of the Holker watched with bated breath, until the eighteen-pound
shot fell three hundred feet astern.

A cheer rang from the watch on the Holker’s deck.

“Now, men, heave over the six-pounders!” ordered the unruffled Risk.
“Every inch of free board means our bacon saved,” continued Risk, as he
stepped to the wheel and ordered the helmsman to lighter ship.

Just then another puff of white smoke curled out of the frigate’s fore
bulwarks and an eighteen-pound shot came crushing through the captain’s
cabin, and buried itself among the flour barrels in the hold.

“That is close shavin’,” said Risk dryly. “Unbend that long tom and
we’ll try that lime-juicer’s topsail!” ordered the little captain
restlessly.

Six of the lads on deck swung on the watch-tackle, and the long tom
was trained astern for Captain Risk to sight a life-saving shot at the
Roebuck’s rigging. The little privateersman took off his coat and hat
and elevated the piece for a long shot. He took a careful squint while
he signalled with either hand to haul on the side-tackles and when the
mark was sure, he ordered:

“Fire!”

The gunner applied the match and the Holker quivered as the old
reliable tom dealt out its rebuke to the Englishman. Captain Risk
shaded his eyes with both hands as he watched for the results of his
gunnery. The shot rose in parabolic beauty of flight while instants
seemed moments to Captain Risk and his crew, but true to its aim the
eighteen-pounder cut the enemy’s fore-topsail and yard, both of which
went by the board.

“I’ll show that rapscallion that he’s not on a pleasure cruise,”
chuckled the proud Risk, as he rubbed his little chubby hands and
paced the quarter-deck nervously. The gleam of delight in the little
skipper’s eye had no bounds, for he had saved, for a time at least,
his heart’s desire, the Holker, from humiliation.

Now there was excitement on the deck of the frigate. The huge hulk
yawed up into the wind as her sails came aback after the head-sail
power was cut down, but the nimble jackies soon swarmed aloft and
cleared away the wreckage, and the other sails were trimmed for a fresh
run before the whole-sail breeze.

The Holker had not yet gained security by any means, for the captain
of the Roebuck was one of those thoroughbred English sea-dogs who had
earned his promotion from a middy’s berth to the command of one of the
fleetest ships on the English Admiralty register. Captain Risk must
earn his safety, if he were to save his ship.

Yet minutes meant precious advantage to the Holker, and while the
frigate was losing headway, the brig’s crew was heaving cargo overboard
and the privateer was leaping on the waves like a hound as she
staggered under every stitch of canvas that she could bear. The gain on
the enemy was perceptible as each inch of free board gave her life. She
rose on the huge waves with more ease and labored less on each crest.

The gale had begun to increase rather than fall, so that when the
frigate steadied up before it once more she had her courses all set,
her main-topsail and main-topgallant sail, and the fore-topmast
stay-sail to hold her head up. A mighty cheer went up as the frigate
leaped into the wind again in full pursuit of the brig.

“Just give us two hours more,” said Captain Hamilton of the Roebuck
to Lieutenant Nelson, “and we will have that devilish rebel under our
lee,” as the British commander took a long look through his glass at
the brig about five miles ahead.

“That’s well, sir, if we can catch him,” replied Lieutenant Nelson.
“But he seems to be making wonderful headway and I believe those
Yankees are charmed.”

“We had one, once, point-blank under our starboard battery on the Sir
John, but the rascal took to his heels and ran us out of sight too
quickly to tell about it. He came into the wind and shot under our
stern while we expected nothing but for him to strike; and before we
could bring our battery to bear, we had to wear ship, so he escaped
with only a few scattering shots. Lord Ralston cut off the grog for a
fortnight to get even with his chagrin and disappointment.”

Captain Risk now had one chance to evade the Roebuck. That was to
lighter his cargo enough to let his ship weather the bar at Egg Harbor
Inlet. The Roebuck would then be outside, pounding away in the deep
water, waiting for his prey to come out.

Extending along the Atlantic Coast from Sandy Hook to the Gulf of
Mexico, are numerous inlets or openings between low, sandy islands
back of which is deep water and safety; but only light-draught vessels
can enter these inlets. The ebb and flow of the tides keep a shallow
channel open, but the heavy seas of the ocean wash the sands into a bar
and the tide is not powerful enough to cut a very deep channel.

One of these sand-bars was at the entrance of Egg Harbor Inlet. A deep
channel led from behind the low-lying islands, until the outflowing
tide met the action of the sea-ways and there formed an eddy that
deposited the sands into the bar, which was about one hundred feet
wide, and on each side of which was deep water. The current was
deflected to the southward, outside the bar, so that the channel was
like the letter “L,” the bar being in the angle.

When steering into the inlet the pilot must approach for a considerable
distance, parallel to the beach and at the critical point turn sharply
to port, or else land high and dry on as ugly a beach as ever lured a
mariner.

But, driven like a fox seeking cover, Captain Risk made straight for
this hole at Egg Harbor Inlet. The seas were going over the bar and
breaking into foam at every wave; a mile of breakers roared on each
side of the thread-like channel from the deep water to the sandy beach
of the islands.

The Roebuck was now hauling grandly into the chase. Thirty minutes more
and the Holker would be under the batteries of a forty-four-gun ship.

“Now, lads,” remarked the little Yankee skipper, “if you heave out that
cargo with a will and nary an eyebolt lets loose, I’ll put the Holker
into that hole yonder or we’ll pound our lives out on the treacherous
Jersey sands,” as he stepped forward and took the wheel into his own
hands.

“All hands at stations!” was the last command after guns were lashed
and hatches battened down.

The seas were running fearfully high from the sou’east after the
all-night gale. The breakers could be seen for unlimited stretches
right ahead, rolling surge upon surge. The ship followed a streak of
blue water midst the white foam.

When the Holker struck the channel the ebb-tide was setting out, and,
instead of driving fast ahead, the Holker seemed to hold up and simply
rise and fall on the choppy seas.

The hearts of all were in their throats, for now the Roebuck loomed up
and everybody saw the Englishman luff and a broadside belched forth at
the struggling Holker. Down came her main-topsail, but as long as her
head-sails hung out she could keep before the gale, and try to weather
the bar.

The frigate was desperately near; another raking broadside might take
the Holker’s foremast, and then she would be a helpless wreck at the
mercy of the breakers.

But the smoke hid the Holker from the frigate for an instant, and the
valiant Risk held his ship right upon the bar. As a huge surge came
athwart the quarter to throw the brig upon the sands, the skipper put
the wheel hard up. The ship at once broached to on the crest of a
wicked sea and rolled on her beams’ ends. As the keel scraped on the
bar a burly seaman grasped the wheel with the captain, and by wonderful
dexterity the rudder was put hard over. The next surge saw the Holker
right herself before the wind and launch safely in the still water
beyond the bar.

When the Holker accomplished this daring feat of seamanship, the crew
of the Roebuck were so thrilled that they let out a lusty cheer for the
Yankee and bore off into the blue water to ride out the gale.

Now that the Holker was speeding in smooth water to a safe anchorage,
the crew were clearing away the wreckage and admiring the little
captain, who had saved them again from the horrors of an English
prison.




CHAPTER XXIV


When the Holker made the inlet at Little Egg Harbor, she came to an
anchorage behind one of the low-lying islands. Her only chances for an
escape were a high tide and darkness, or a fog that would let her slip
out and pass the Roebuck. If a boarding party from the English frigate
did not attack him, Captain Risk was preparing his ship for a chance
to escape. There was much to keep his crew busy, for he had rigging to
overhaul and spars to mend.

At the time Roderick Barclugh was boarding the Albatross, the Holker
was waiting to escape, and little did he think that he was to run
across the privateer. He gladly went to his bunk and indulged in much
needed rest. All he knew was that he was to be put ashore on the New
Jersey coast near Little Egg Harbor inlet, and then he must make his
way to Philadelphia as best he could.

He felt that nothing ought to worry him when his mission to New York
had been accomplished. Thus far no drawback had occurred. Arnold simply
needed close watching and a small bait of gold now and then to keep him
working. He had arranged to sell the Holker when she had delivered the
flour, so that after the captain and crew were paid the prize money,
they could find other adventures.

The Albatross was one of those small, armed cruisers used by General
Clinton to execute raiding commissions up and down the coast. She was
of light enough draft to enter small inlets, travel the sounds and
bays, and assist in the guerilla warfare. She was a sloop armed with
eight nine-pound carronades, and one twelve-pound swivel. The crew
numbered forty men. As the orders given Captain Sutherland were to
convey his passenger to a harbor on the Jersey coast, the Albatross was
under way very soon, and started tacking into the sou’east gale for the
Narrows and Sandy Hook.

The watch on deck was busy bringing the sloop into stays and the men
off watch were sleeping soundly in their hammocks below decks. Barclugh
slept well until the Narrows were passed, and the Albatross began to
pound her nose into the sea-way, then he awoke and peered out of the
cabin to see where this commotion came from.

Greatly refreshed, Barclugh’s mind was active and alert. Whether the
change from the shore to the realm of Neptune had caused an undue
influence upon his affairs, only time could tell; however, there
seems to be a weak point in the affairs of all men; as though a farmer
were to sell his land and buy a ship to go to sea; or as though each
realm of nature had deities that rebelled upon the invasion of their
particular sphere by the patrons of the others.

At all events, Barclugh felt a restlessness from the influence of the
sea as he sat in the cabin and pondered upon the working of his plot.
He now had time to think about Captain Risk and the Holker. He wondered
where she could be and what would he do with Captain Risk, who was the
sole Colonist acquainted with his dealings with Arnold. He reasoned
thus:

“Captain Risk is devoted to the fickle fortunes of privateering.” (And
so he was.) “After Risk’s present enterprise shall have been closed,
he could take another ship and probably would be captured by a British
cruiser. Thus I do not need to fear on that score.”

Neptune loves a true sailor. But when a land-lubber enters nautical
enterprises to carry out plots, the old Sea-god sets his Nereides upon
the novice to give him a taste of wind and wave. Only the true and
tried presume to propitiate the nymphs of Father Neptune. Neither gold
nor titles influences the Nereides of wind and wave. The hurricane
in its mighty wrath levels the potentate to the same sphere as the
peasant. When the ship sinks, both exclaim in anguish:

“Lord, have mercy upon us!”

The Albatross made but slow progress against the sou’east gale. The
night of the second day she was abreast of Barnegat inlet. Before
morning Little Egg Harbor inlet was reached, but since the moon did not
rise clear after midnight, Captain Sutherland stood on and off until
daylight. In the daytime he could make the channel and go over the bar.

Early that morning the lookout forward sang out:

“Sail, ho!”

“Where away?”

“Two points on the weather bow, sir.”

Captain Sutherland took his glass and made out a full-rigged frigate
bearing down upon him. He had no fears, however, for he knew that the
Roebuck was in these waters, and no cruiser of the enemy would likely
be around. As the frigate bore down alongside, within close range, a
voice from a trumpet out of the mizzen shrouds was heard to say:

“What ship is that and where away?”

Captain Sutherland trumpeted back:

“His Majesty’s sloop, the Albatross, bound for Little Egg Harbor inlet.”

“All’s well,” returned the frigate. “This is His Majesty’s man-of-war,
Roebuck. We shall send aboard important news.” The frigate came up into
the wind and lowered a boat to come aboard.

No sooner had the first trumpet-sound reached the Albatross than
Barclugh was up and on deck; if he were to be captured on board
an English armed sloop, his plans would miscarry. When he saw His
Majesty’s cruiser he was reassured. As he paced up and down the deck,
he saw the lieutenant of the frigate come aboard and go into the cabin
of the Albatross.

After customary formalities, Lieutenant Nelson of the Roebuck stated
his business:

“Captain Sutherland, we are blockading a Yankee privateer inside the
inlet; she had captured the General Monk; we have chased her into this
harbor.

“If you will attack her, we will send you a full complement of men. We
will send the boats and you can take her by boarding.

“She can not man[oe]uvre inside the harbor, and she is crippled. Her
forward battery is gone, and she is short of crew.”

“It’s well, Lieutenant Nelson, I shall obey Captain Atherton’s orders,”
replied Captain Sutherland, and then he remarked quizzically: “Shall
we appease the sea-nymphs, Lieutenant?”

“Certainly, certainly,” returned Nelson, when he observed Captain
Sutherland go to the locker and take out a decanter of Madeira and two
long glasses.

“Got your eye?” proposed Sutherland, as the two raised their glasses,
and took a long pull at the “Milk of Venus” for the sake of good
comradeship.

During the day not a word could Barclugh ask about the business of the
two ships, for his security depended upon his own counsel being kept;
but at daylight the next morning, there was no more question in his
mind.

Lying at anchor behind the island was a crippled brig with main-topmast
gone. The frigate was lying a mile on the weather bow, and all was
activity on her decks. Three boats’ crews were boarding the small
boats; he saw them strike out for the Albatross. The wind had now
settled to a steady breeze from the south.

Lieutenant Nelson was in command of the boats’ crews from the frigate,
and as they came alongside, sixty brawny men, armed to the teeth,
mounted the deck of the sloop. With the boats in tow, the Albatross now
made over the bar toward the Holker.

When the Holker escaped the Roebuck and weathered the bar, Captain Risk
commenced at once to replace the injured topmast, and get his sails
repaired so that he could slip out in the dark of night, and show his
heels to the frigate. But when Risk saw the armed sloop make the inlet
with the three boats in tow, he knew what was ahead for his crew;
therefore, he called them all on deck and pointing to the sloop, said:

“Men, there come those lime-juicers to take this brig. They outnumber
us two to one. Shall we make them pay for their pains?”

“Ay, ay,” came from every throat, and the boatswain stepped forward and
said:

“Captain, wherever you lead us we will go.”

Captain Risk was now on his mettle. His ship was crippled; his
main-topmast was gone, he had thrown overboard his six-pounders, and he
was short his two lieutenants; his prize crew was on the General Monk,
and the killed and wounded in the engagement depleted his numbers;
however, he was determined that if he were compelled to strike to the
enemy he would make them pay two for one.

Mounting the quarter-deck, he first ordered a spring-line on his kedge
to windward, his bower anchor to leeward so that he could spring his
stern in a semicircle and bring his battery of twelve-pounders to bear,
no matter from what point the enemy approached.

Next he ordered the boarding-nets in place, loaded all the muskets
and pistols, and placed everything handy for fighting close aboard.
Cutlasses and pikes were made ready and the deck was sanded. The
battery was double-shotted with grape for close execution.

The Albatross came up with a fair breeze from the south’ard as though
they were on a pleasure excursion. When the sloop drew up into the
inlet, Barclugh got the glass from Captain Sutherland and critically
examined the lines and rig of the Holker.

He then began to think. The whole matter came before his view. The
Holker could be taken. The crew and Captain Risk could be confined
until his plot was carried through. Yet he did not wish any harm to
come to Risk during the fight.

When Barclugh returned the spying-glass to Captain Sutherland, he
remarked earnestly:

“Captain Sutherland, I see that fellow is getting ready to give us a
warm reception, and may I have the honor of leading one of your boats’
crews against him?”

“No, sir,” replied the captain imperatively. “I have strict orders to
land you safely on the Jersey shore in Little Egg River, and I can not
take any risks. You better repair at once to your cabin, and remain
there during the engagement, sir,” continued the captain, as he turned
to order his men. Barclugh could say nothing to these orders, and he
went below to mingle with the crew of the frigate.

Among the men he noticed a good-natured looking fellow; going up to
him, he said in an undertone:

“I want to speak to you, my good man. Kindly come to my cabin.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the man-o’-war’s man, as he ambled along with
Barclugh.

When they reached his cabin, Barclugh said:

“For certain private reasons, I desire to go aboard that brig when she
is taken. Here are five guineas, my man, if you exchange your uniform
for my suit. You remain closely in my cabin and keep the door fastened
until I return. Give me your name and station and I will take your
place in the boarding party.”

“My name is William Atkinson, hand as hit’s to obleege a gentleman I’m
willin’. We ’ave more’n this business than a poor man’s pay allows. Hi
belongs to boat’s crew number one,” replied the sailor as he hitched up
his trousers and put the guineas in a bag around his neck.

When Barclugh had changed his garb, Atkinson looked at him and
remarked:

“Keep in the dark and go along with the rest. Hin the hexcitement you
will not be knownst. Howsomever, you better get a little grease to
blacken ’em hup a little.”

Barclugh took his place among the armed men below, and kept in the dark
corners until the command was passed to man cutter number one.

As the sloop boomed up with a spanking breeze, every available space
was occupied by the one hundred armed men on her decks, so that
they looked like black birds. Captain Risk did not intend to remain
idle while this array was coming on. Instead, he trained his long
eighteen-pound pivot, and opened the fracas by giving the Englishman a
good shot between wind and water.

The sloop then manned the cutters and while they were advancing on the
brig, the sloop luffed up and delivered a broadside at long range, but
most of the shot fell short.

However, four boats’ crews, three from the frigate and one from the
sloop, advanced on the Holker with loud cheers. Barclugh took his place
unnoticed; the frigate’s men thought a man from the sloop had gotten
into their crew by mistake. The spy was intent on gaining the deck of
the Holker so that he might protect Risk if possible.

As the four boats’ crews came up to the Holker’s bow within close
range, Captain Risk swung off on the kedge-spring line, and brought
his broadside up to the boats and a sheet of flame burst out of the
Holker’s side. A score of men lay prostrate on the bottom of the boats.
Barclugh escaped.

The boats opened up a hot fire and took different courses,--one to the
forward chains,--one on each quarter, and one astern.

The boat’s crew astern cut the spring-line on the kedge, but that only
let the Holker drift with the wind.

Now commenced the fight with small arms, when the cannon could not
bear. The crew of the Holker stationed themselves on the forecastle and
on the quarter-deck.

A rush was made by the attacking party at the forward chains, but every
time a head showed itself above the bulwarks, it was met with a cutlass
or marlin-spike.

Two different rushes were made by the British at the stern, but each
attack was repulsed, and after forty minutes of ineffectual work the
English boats retired amidst loud cheers from the Holker’s crew.

The English lost fifteen killed and twenty wounded. They went back to
the sloop severely crippled,--so much so, in fact, that signals were
at once made to the Roebuck, and two boat-loads of crippled and dead
sent off to the frigate.

That evening Captain Risk saw four boat-loads come back from the
frigate to the sloop. He knew that he was to have a night attack from
more men than before, and he had lost six men in the fight that day.
His force was now reduced to thirty-four men.

Risk prepared for an emergency by placing his long tom amidships so
that if the enemy gained the deck forward or aft, he could turn them a
point-blank charge of grape, and, with a rally of his men, drive them
overboard.

As Captain Risk expected, however, at midnight he could see six
boat-loads approaching in the moonlight. He stationed his men, and they
knew that before Captain Risk would strike to the enemy he would apply
a match to the magazine, so every man determined to die at his station.

As soon as the enemy’s boats were distinguishable in their dim
outlines, a rapid discharge of the twelve-pounders and the muskets
began. The English separated and dashed forward. The plan was well
executed, since almost at once the six boats came alongside at
different points.

[Illustration: Captain Risk engaged two seamen, cutlass in one hand and
pistol in the other.]

Fighting like demons, the crews of the boats were determined to avenge
the day’s repulse and gain the deck. The English were driven back
amidships and astern where Captain Risk led his men; but in the forward
chains the English were in such numbers that they clambered up so fast
that the Yankees were driven back.

When Captain Risk saw the English gathering for a rush from the
forecastle, he grabbed a match and turning the long tom forward, he
applied the fire. He then called his men to his side to drive the
English back into their boats.

But the English had too many. When the long tom dealt its carnage,
enough remained to rush upon Risk and his little band, where a
hand-to-hand encounter ensued.

Rushing at the head of his men into the fight, Captain Risk engaged
two seamen, and with cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, he
shot one through the shoulder and sent the other reeling to the deck
with a cutlass stroke on his head. Being now pressed on all sides,
Risk rushed with a match to the companion-way to throw it into the
magazine; but he was shot in the forehead and killed before he could
accomplish his object. The Americans, now officerless, were forced upon
the quarter-deck; the crew was overpowered from all sides, and the
colors hauled down by the enemy. But the victory was dearly bought by
the English. In this last encounter twenty Englishmen were killed and
thirty-two wounded.

Among those that were wounded was Barclugh. When Captain Risk rushed
upon the two seamen that were advancing upon him, the one that he shot
in the shoulder was Barclugh. Faint with the loss of blood, and stunned
by the shock, Barclugh crawled very humbly back into his boat, and sat
there until he was carried to the sloop. He was not fatally hurt, but
his arm pained him severely.

When the sloop was reached, Barclugh got aboard without the assistance
of his mates, but, once below, he crawled to his cabin door. He found
William Atkinson soundly asleep, snoring like a porpoise blowing. When
he awoke the man-o’-war’s man, Atkinson exclaimed:

“Lor’ bless me, sir, you’re shot! I was dreamin’ how’s somethin’ was
happenin’ to you, sir. So let me ’elp you to bed and get you some water
or brandy. Here, let me get on my own clothes, as I am sure to be
blamed for these ’appenin’s.

“That’s it,--off with the blouse and trousers. I’m into them in a
jiffy. You’ll be better now, as you lie down a bit.”

“Atkinson,” requested Barclugh feebly, “you will find some brandy in
the locker there,--give me a little.”

“Ah, yes, sir. I was trying a wee bit in your absence, sir. It’s werry
good.

“Here you are,” continued the jacky. “Take that. Now lie down sir, and
I’ll go and notify the captain, sir. But before I go, sir, I wants to
leave these guineas with you. For, as you ’ad the trouble to get shot
in my place, I can’t take your money.” But when Atkinson looked at
Barclugh, he saw that he was unconscious, so, putting the money under
the pillow, he hastened on deck.

There every one was busy. Groans, curses, the dead laid out in rows
on the forecastle deck,--the wounded placed aboard the Roebuck’s
boats,--commands for cutters’ crews to man their boats, confronted
Atkinson on every hand. When his ensign ordered the crew of Atkinson’s
cutter to give way on the oars, he was at his station, and poor
Barclugh was left unattended in his cabin.

Every circumstance now turned against Barclugh and his plans.

Captain Risk was killed, but he had inflicted a serious wound in the
heat of battle, upon the plotter of the scheme. Thus the fate of a
nation was in the balance.

The representative of British gold received pay for his pains when he
was heartlessly left by the seaman in his cabin. When he aroused from
his spell of unconsciousness, in a dazed condition, he looked around
and found himself quite alone. After a short period of reflection, he
remembered the capture of the Holker, the encounter with Risk and the
death of the intrepid little captain as he attempted to blow up his
ship and all on board.

“My God!” muttered Barclugh to himself. “Ever since I came aboard this
craft, the fates seem to have worried me and to have been set against
my enterprise. Zounds! I had tried to be of some service to Risk, but
he has put me in my present predicament.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me! Oh, that shoulder is done for! I cannot
raise my left arm. I better try and call for some assistance.”

When Barclugh tried to raise himself, the loss of blood made his head
light, and everything seemed to grow dark when he raised himself. He
lay back in his berth, consoling himself by exclaiming:

“I had better remain where I am, and thank God that I am not worse off!”

Barclugh lay quietly in his berth for hours,--in fact until the
morning after the fight. Captain Sutherland had thought of Barclugh
as fast asleep, little thinking that his passenger would disobey
orders. However, when Captain Sutherland had left a crew aboard the
Holker to fit her out and take her to New York, he began to look after
his passenger. Not finding him astir and nobody having seen him for
twenty-four hours, he went to Barclugh’s stateroom and rapped on the
door.

A voice within responded feebly:

“Come in.”

As the captain entered, he exclaimed:

“What’s the matter, Mr. Gustavus?”

“Well, Captain, I disobeyed your orders. I could not resist going to
that ship and fighting for the King; but here I am with my shoulder
shot to pieces.”

“I am very sorry, Mr. Gustavus,” replied Captain Sutherland. “Are you
hurt very badly? I will send the ship’s surgeon to you.”

The surgeon came and dressed the wound and set the collar-bone, that
had been broken. He put Barclugh under strict orders that he must not
move out of bed for two or three days.

These three days were like sackcloth and ashes to Barclugh. He was
feverish to get to Philadelphia, but the wound chastened his soul. He
grew sick at heart, when he lay bandaged up, and the words of Mollie
Greydon rang in his ears:

  “Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal
  “I serv’d my king,--”

He tossed restlessly, smarting under the pangs of a contrite heart, and
muttered to himself again and again:

“If I only had half of the simplicity and happiness of the new settler,
Benjamin Andrews, all the drafts on the Bank of Amsterdam that I have
on my person would be freely given. If my life were linked with a pure
and lofty spirit like Mollie Greydon, and living on some lovely estate
like Dorminghurst, how free from all of this turmoil and strife my
life would be! No war!! No great need of money!!! No jealousy!!!! Just
living serenely for the happiness of those around me and for the glory
of my Creator!”

If the sublime presence of a sweet and tender woman had been able to
minister to Barclugh at this crisis of his soul, the better nature
within him would have triumphed over his sordidness, and he would have
given up to the better dictates of his conscience. However, he fell
into a deep slumber, and when he awoke his body had become rested and
refreshed. Stern ambition was uppermost in his mind again, and he began
to plan to get back to Philadelphia.

The next day Barclugh commenced to recover from the shock of his wound;
he chafed under the restraint that he was in; then he sent for Captain
Sutherland. As soon as Captain Sutherland entered the cabin where the
spy was sitting in an arm-chair, having his arm in a sling, he spoke
cautiously:

“Good morning, Captain Sutherland. I am behind on my calculations two
days already, and I am very desirous of returning to Philadelphia.”

“How do you propose to return, sir?” quizzed the captain.

“I have resolved on two possible means,” answered Barclugh. “One is to
engage a passage on a fishing sloop; the other to go overland.

“I used to be acquainted with a Swedish fisherman who sold oysters in
that city. He had two sloops that plied to this inlet. If I could be
fortunate enough to find him, I could return most comfortably.

“Then I could be taken up Little Egg River as far as a small boat could
go and thereafter depend on my own wits to reach Philadelphia overland.
I prefer the water route in a sloop.

“Put me ashore at some fisherman’s hut and I will take care of myself,”
concluded Barclugh.

“Do you think that you are well enough to make the journey?” asked the
captain.

“I shall be as well off as I am waiting here,” continued Barclugh.

“If you will give me two trusty men in a boat to land me at the mouth
of Little Egg Harbor River, I shall stop with the first fisherman that
I can find. I can buy his boat, if necessary, to take me on my journey.
A few guineas will look big in his eyes,” argued Barclugh.

“Very well, Mr. Gustavus, I shall undertake to land you whenever you
are ready,” stated Captain Sutherland, as he arose to leave.

“I shall be ready at sunrise,” replied Barclugh, whereupon the captain
left the cabin for the deck.




CHAPTER XXV


Barclugh had been landed, as agreed, by the crew of the Albatross at
the mouth of the Little Egg River, and had made his way to the hut of a
Swedish fisherman; not a soul had seen whence he came.

The fisherman’s hut was small, having been built out of the logs that
were found on the beach and which had drifted from some lumberman’s
raft of distant Maine or New Hampshire; yea, some claimed greater
distinction. An experienced eye could distinguish the mahogany log that
had floated from the West Indies with the Gulf Stream, and had been
blown on the Jersey sands by a nor’east or sou’east gale. These logs
were all smoothly hewn and chinked with a mortar made from the lime of
the oyster shell and the sands cast up by the waves.

The house sat on the shelving bank of the river, surrounded by ragged
nets, tar-smeared cauldrons, floats and spars. A rather young woman
stood in the doorway, while two children with bare feet played about
and a yellow dog barked vociferously at the stranger’s approach.

The children ran to the protection of their mother’s skirt when they
saw the man come near. Two calves stopped their pranks to gaze at the
new-comer. Loneliness stuck out from every corner of the habitation,
and stolid contentment was evident in every pore of the buxom young
Swedish mother.

Barclugh was at his wit’s ends when he strode up to the doorway, after
side-stepping a few times to escape the charges of the dog. The woman
stamped her foot and ordered the dog off, in a language foreign to
Barclugh’s comprehension.

Bowing in his most gracious manner and holding his hat in his one free
hand, Barclugh said graciously:

“Good morning, Madam. Is your husband at home?”

No answer, except a dubious shake of the head, accompanied by a most
pleasant smile. She walked into the one room of the house, and offered
Barclugh a chair when she had a good look at his crippled arm and
bandaged shoulder.

Everything about the fisherman’s home was plain, yet scrupulously
clean. The floor was glistening with the purest of sand. The large
fireplace took up nearly the whole end of the house. A kettle, a
skillet, and a three-legged, shallow pot sat on the hearth. A broad
table was on one side, which had been scoured with sand and soft soap
until the knots alone showed what character the wood once had.

Without any ceremony, the good wife began to prepare a meal. First she
put a pot on with fresh water, then went out to the river bank where
her husband kept lobsters and crabs in a small trap. By using a small
dipping-net, she brought out a large lobster and a half a dozen crabs.

These were hurried into the steaming kettle, and there sat Barclugh
watching his meal cook, while he became acquainted with the children by
making grimaces at them.

Barclugh ate his sea food, potatoes, and coarse bread with much relish.
He offered the good housewife a piece of silver, but she only shook her
head in the negative.

The day wore on and Barclugh sat on the river bank, watching the
children build houses in the sand, and the dog pant in the broiling
sun. He knew that the fisherman must come home, and then he would find
some one with whom he could converse. However, a foreign-tongued woman
and guileless children suited his purpose, for the less that he had to
talk the better for him.

The sun was setting over the broad expanse of sea-marsh, when a
well-rigged fishing sloop drew into the river’s mouth and landed at
the fisherman’s hut. Two gnarly Swedes and a lad jumped ashore. The
older one was the husband of the young woman, evidently, for she went
to the landing and in a few words explained to him the presence of the
stranger.

The Swede approached Barclugh, who noticed that the fisherman’s face
was much weather-beaten, his beard shaggy and unkempt.

“Meester, you have been shot?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Barclugh anxiously. “I am wounded and came
near being captured by those English ships of war. I want to go to
Philadelphia.”

“Vaal, I go to Pheeladelpheea with my feesh right avay. Eef you----”

“I’ll give you two guineas to take me there, and two guineas more to
keep silent, and let no one know where I came from,” nervously added
Barclugh.

“Aal right, I say nothing. I geeve you goot passage.”

Barclugh then handed him four guineas. The Swede smiled and went into
the house, where he gave the gold to his wife, and got his bag of clean
clothes.

There were no delays in the Swede’s movements. He jumped on board the
sloop with the other Swede and left the lad to stay with the family.

The sloop was well loaded amidships. An assorted cargo of crabs,
lobsters, bluefish, flounder, and mackerel were all packed in ice,
and covered over with moss. Hatches were fastened athwart-ship and
bulkheads protected the cuddy and the cockpit from the cargo of sea
food.

The cuddy was forward of the mast, and a square hatchway let the crew
below to the bunks, which were on each side of the keel between the
stem and the bulkhead.

The cockpit had seats all around it in the shape of a half-circle. A
barrel of fresh water rested on the keel under the seat next to the
after bulkhead; little drawers were arranged under the seats where
dishes and food were stored; a small charcoal stove was used to furnish
heat in cold weather and to cook the meals.

Barclugh was taken aboard and informed that he could bunk in the
cuddy until morning. Then the fishermen hoisted sail and cast off the
moorings. He gladly accepted the offer, for he had been well fed by the
Swede’s wife, and what he most needed was rest.

A long bag full of marsh grass was in the bunk to lie upon, and a
dunnage bag made his pillow. The cuddy was as neat and clean as one
could expect aboard a fisherman’s craft. When the water went swishing
by on the sloop’s planking, Barclugh fell into a sound sleep.

The two Swedes were brothers. One was married, and the other was his
partner in the fishing trade. The lad was a nephew that had come from
Sweden to live with his uncles. They plied their occupation between
Little Egg Harbor inlet and Philadelphia, and sold their catch to Sven
Svenson. In the summer season they took out enough ice each trip to
keep their fish until their return, and when Barclugh boarded their
sloop they were in a hurry to get to Philadelphia in the shortest time
possible.

The wind was light when the sun went down, but with the rising of the
moon the wind freshened and carried them down the coast at eight knots
an hour.

Nothing disturbed the serenity of the trip. When everything was sailing
smoothly, the older one crawled into the cuddy and occupied the bunk
opposite Barclugh. He slept soundly until after midnight, when he
relieved his brother and let him turn in.

At sunrise Barclugh arose and after freshening up with a good wash,
he looked around to see where they were. He saw the sloop heading
northwest, and a low-lying point of land astern.

“Where are we now?” he asked, as he took a good long breath of fresh
air.

“Wee aare finfe hoors sail fram Pheeladalpheea, Meester,” was the reply
of the Swede at the tiller.

The younger one was busy at the cooking of the morning meal. Barclugh
discouraged talk and the Swedes knew what they had been given the
guineas for.

The British spy took a seat forward and began to swell with exultation
when he pondered over his journey to New York, his interview with
General Clinton, and his participation in the capture of the Holker.
Now he was speeding to the conclusion of his journey,--the sloop
skimmed over the rolling waves of the Atlantic, as his enthusiasm grew
apace, and he thought of the subjugation of West Point by intrigue.

When the sloop reached the fishmonger’s landing in Philadelphia and
Barclugh stepped ashore, he walked unnoticed to his lodgings and
inwardly exclaimed:

“Victory! Victory!”




CHAPTER XXVI


No sooner was Barclugh settled in his lodgings, than he began to resume
his business duties.

“Mr. Hopewell,” he ordered, calling his clerk from the accounting room
to his private office, “go, and inform General Arnold that Mr. Barclugh
has arrived and that he wishes to see him at five o’clock in his
private office.

“Inform any personage of importance that I had a fall from my horse and
broke my collar-bone; be careful to whom you impart this information.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the faithful clerk, as he bowed himself out
of the stern-visaged presence.

With his going, Barclugh threw himself upon his couch, and rested
his weary body. The twenty days of exploit had been most eventful
and full of activities. Now that he had performed his mission to New
York, Arnold’s part alone had to be carried out and the plot would be
executed.

Weariness overcame Barclugh, and he slept soundly until he heard a
knock on his door.

Starting up with a dazed memory, he arose and found Mr. Hopewell at the
door, who informed him that General Arnold was in the outside office,
waiting to see him by appointment.

“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Very well! I’ll see General Arnold in a very few
minutes,” said Barclugh, reflecting for an instant.

Barclugh hurriedly washed and dressed and as he passed through the
accounting room, he quietly said to his clerk:

“You may go now, Mr. Hopewell.”

When the door opened upon General Arnold he arose nervously, and, as he
beheld Barclugh with his arm in a sling, he rushed forward and seized
Barclugh’s right hand in both of his, exclaiming:

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Barclugh? I hope that you are not seriously
injured? What,--what hurt you?”

“This is nothing serious,” replied Barclugh, as he languidly took a
seat. His wan and weather-beaten face had placed ten years upon his
shoulders.

The two conspirators sat down and for an instant each gazed at the
other to learn if there were any sign of the white feather. To the
steady gaze of Barclugh’s steely blue eyes, Arnold returned their
inquisitive glance with a set jaw and a determined look that could not
be mistaken for backsliding.

“How have you made out?” inquired Arnold hesitatingly.

“All right,” replied Barclugh firmly. “I saw Washington; I saw Clinton;
I saw Risk killed.”

“Good enough for that little pudgy piece of conceit. He thought that
he could whip all Christendom with that Holker and fifty men. So he’s
killed! How did that happen?”

Barclugh briefly related the whole journey,--the capture of the General
Monk, and the loss of the Holker.

When it came to the capture of the Holker, General Arnold became very
much interested, for his profits were in the cargo. He asked:

“Well, Mr. Barclugh, shall I receive anything out of this Holker
business now?”

“Oh, we have sold the ship and cargo to the English for whom it was
intended, and the telltale crew is disposed of. I will guarantee your
share. You need not worry about that. All that you need to do now is to
secure the command of West Point. We will carry out the money part of
the agreement.”

“Very good, Mr. Barclugh,” continued Arnold, “but you see I am
suffering for money; my debts of five thousand pounds sterling are
driving me to destruction, and I wish that you could advance me some
to-day.”

Barclugh now saw his opportunity to crush the independence of Arnold.
At this pitiable appeal for money, he arose with fist clenched, and
struck the table as he spoke:

“General Arnold, I have advanced you $3000! I have undertaken the
Holker enterprise for your benefit! I have arranged to secure you
twenty thousand pounds for the delivery of West Point! I have even
secured for you the assurance of a General’s commission in His
Majesty’s service, and all that has been asked of you is to deliver
West Point! Now you ask me to advance more of His Majesty’s funds? No,
sir, not until you have done more of your part. You must secure West
Point!”

The man who had suffered the privations and starvation of an expedition
at the head of a half-clad army to capture Quebec in mid-winter, and
never lost heart, now quailed before this ostentation of money. He hung
his head and in half-choking tones he arose and said:

“I have written to General Washington, and I may hear from him very
soon. I do hope that you can help me.”

As Arnold finished the last sentence, he walked out of the rooms of
Roderick Barclugh with the most forlorn expression. His chin was
resting on his breast as he walked to his home, there, maybe, to
receive another imperious demand for money.




CHAPTER XXVII


“General Arnold, I can not and shall not be subjected to these
miserable indignities any longer,” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, as she
hysterically left her husband at the breakfast table and went to her
bed-chamber.

On the day after Barclugh had arrived in Philadelphia, the Commander
of the town had been presented with the demands for the servants’
wages, bills for two gowns, and pay for the oysters and fish from Sven
Svenson, by his wife at breakfast, and his reply was:

“My dear, I have no money to-day.”

Arnold was brave in the midst of battle, but in the presence of an
imperious and unreasoning wife he was an abject coward. A look from
his wife was a command to Arnold, and he allowed his domestic expenses
to ruin him and drive him into desperation, because he did not dare to
curb within his means an unreasonably extravagant woman.

After Mrs. Arnold, in a fit of temper, had left her husband, Arnold
arose in dismay, then sat down dejectedly in his chair. His brow was
wrinkled; his eyes wore an expression of the fox, driven to bay; his
frame shook with anguish; his hands clenched his hair; and he sought
relief mentally, by reasoning out his situation to himself:

“My love for my wife causeth me to do foolish things, but I can not
deny her anything that pleases her. Her very look is a command to me.
When we married I thought our position demanded a country-seat, and I
bought it. When she asked for a carriage and postilion, I furnished
them. When she wished to dine her friends of the Tory party, I
consented.

“But where has it led me at length? I am a Major-General of the
Continentals, and living like a prince. Been married two years and five
thousand pounds in debt. Oh, that I could end these pangs of pride!
Yes, I shall end them. I shall again see Roderick Barclugh. I shall
write again to General Washington and demand my assignment to West
Point,” concluded Arnold as he arose and went to his wife’s chamber. He
tried to enter but the door was fastened.

An angry voice from within asked:

“Who’s that?”

“Margaret, my dear, may I speak to you?” meekly replied Arnold.

“I shall not have any explanation, General Arnold,” savagely replied
his wife; but she opened the door and imperiously walked to the other
side of the room, where she stood with her back to him.

“My dear,” began Arnold, “I find that,----”

“Yes, you’ll find that I and my child will leave this house and you
will find----” interjected Mrs. Arnold.

“If you will let me explain?” continued Arnold.

“I sha’n’t allow you to explain to me any more. You have done nothing
but explain ever since you met me.

“What shall become of me and my child, if things do not improve?”
continued Mrs. Arnold as she began sobbing.

“I know that you will be ordered off to active service and then you
will be killed and what shall become of me? There will be nothing left
for me to survive upon under this government.”

“Never mind, my dear, I shall try and get West Point. Then our fortunes
will soon change. We will not have all of the expenses of living in the
city; we can then pay off our debts. Besides I have some commercial
ventures that I expect to bring in some returns very soon. I know how
you must feel when you see how much money the FitzMaurices and the
Millings and the Redmans have and we do not have anything but my meagre
pay to live upon.

“But remember, my dearest, I shall do all in my power to make you
happy,--even to giving up my life. Oh! Margaret, bear up a little
longer and I shall be able to gratify every desire that you may have.
You know how much I love you, and how happy we have been with our boy!”

Quickly turning toward her husband, the beautiful and young Mrs. Arnold
put her face poutingly up to his to be kissed, as she said:

“Benedict, I know that you love me, and I am afraid that you love me
more than I deserve.”

The Arnold household had to contend with two conditions that are
sure to disrupt the tranquility of a home. One was the imperious,
unreasoning ambition of the wife to shine socially, and the other was
the recognition, by the husband, that his own social position was not
equal to the position that his wife was entitled to hold by reason of
education, family and environment.

Arnold had won fame in a few years on account of his brilliant and
daring military exploits, but his reckless and obstinate nature had
brought him into disrepute. He lacked finesse and diplomacy. His home
and social surroundings demanded wisdom that he did not possess.

He had been an apothecary, a horse trader, and a sea captain. His
enterprise in business had been of the adventurous order. He had
rubbed against the _hoi polloi_ of Colonial times. He was at home in a
country dance among French Canadians on his journeys to trade Yankee
notions for ponies, but when he entered the ultra-aristocratic circles
of Philadelphia as the military commandant, he soon succumbed to the
wiles of the beautiful women and the luxury of gay living; his head
soon swam with the fantastic notions of a new and gilded life.

He was an unsophisticated Adam, partaking of the sweets of life with
no preparation of the appetite. His ardent nature was not tempered
with the prudence of experience. He glutted himself like the gamin
who enters a pie contest. The wine was red and he desired to indulge
himself in its flavor. No consequences appealed to him in his mad
intoxication; he had no wisdom; his gentility was crude. Although
he was bold, he was reduced by circumstances to a parasite; he even
surrendered his political principles to those of his wife and her
friends.

When these two social forces had met and were joined in matrimony, an
abject imitation was made of the husband, and a tyrannical boaster of
the wife.




CHAPTER XXVIII


Leaving his wife’s chamber, Arnold went to the office of Roderick
Barclugh.

He was smarting under the findings of the court-martial at Morristown,
and under the monetary demands of a gay and ambitious wife. He had
proposed to resign his commission in the army and settle upon an estate
in the wilds of Western New York, and let history right the wrongs
that had been heaped upon him, but the ambition of his wife intervened
again. Her love of social distinction would not allow her to consent to
a home in the wilderness. What a glorious record of heroism was thus
turned into the wormwood of infamy!

Desperation was written on his face when Arnold reached the office of
Roderick Barclugh, who shook the General’s hand, saying:

“I hope, General Arnold, that you do not think seriously of my heated
discourse toward you yesterday, for I was weary and suffering from my
wound. I was then ill-humored and out of patience. Anything that I can
do to relieve your financial difficulties, you may command of me.”

This unexpected liberality on the part of Barclugh now won the heart of
Arnold. The ointment for a wounded spirit was in these words.

Arnold sat down and smiled as he rubbed his hands and began to relate
confidingly to Barclugh:

“Mr. Barclugh, my life, thus far, has been full of hardship and
bitterness. My honors have been won with a heart true to my country; no
stigma yet rests upon my name; but my motives have been misjudged and
maligned; the designs and calumny of wicked rivals have filled my life
with despair.

“Then, my enemies have attacked the idol of my soul,--my wife and the
mother of my child. Enough to arouse the bitterness of my being were
the attacks upon my own actions, but when the opinions of my wife and
her friends have to be scored and laid up against me I am driven to
seek satisfaction.

“The one burden of my soul that bears me down to the depths of
desperation, however, is that of my debts. I have always been used to
having plenty for my simple needs, but the war has impoverished me, and
I can not get my just dues from Congress. I owe the butcher, the baker
and the footman. My wife’s social ambition I am not able to curtail. I
am in the depths of embarrassment over my debts.

“If it were not for what I owe I could not consent to treason to
extricate myself; but I am too deeply involved. Indeed, too deeply!”
concluded Arnold as his voice choked, and huge tears trickled down his
cheeks.

Not a word passed the lips of these men of iron for a period that
seemed oppressively long.

At length Barclugh broke the silence, remarking compassionately:

“My dear General Arnold, your life has been worried to distraction
by men of small and ungenerous natures. They have sought to elevate
themselves by your undoing; but what must you expect from a government
such as you have in these Colonies? There is no authority, no
responsible head. You, in your case, have no appeal from a backbiting
set of adventurers.

“But in government at home such services as you have rendered have the
reward of a peerage and a grant from Parliament for the benefit of your
family.

“There is no use talking further, you can serve your countrymen far
more, by trying to put an end to these injustices, perpetrated by an
irresponsible rabble upon personages of substance, than by trying to
win independence,--for what?--A worse government, perhaps, than the one
you have had as Colonists.”

“In any event, the Commissioners of His Majesty are willing to grant
all the demands that the Colonists have asked for.

“Now, General Arnold, you will pardon me, but if I were to put two
thousand pounds sterling to your credit, as a loan, and leave it here
for your convenience, would that be of any service to you?”

“My dear Mr. Barclugh,” replied Arnold most graciously, “you have
befriended me generously--I am in need of friends.

“I shall not forget your kindness, but may I ask you to let me have
five hundred pounds to-day?”

“Certainly, certainly,” returned Barclugh, and he counted him out the
amount in Bank of England notes.

“But there is only one matter I wish to impress upon you, General
Arnold, before you go,” continued Barclugh, as he arose and took Arnold
by the hand. “I hope that you will press the matter about West Point
with General Washington, and let me know at the very first moment what
news you get. I know that General Washington desires to befriend you.”

“Of course, Mr. Barclugh, I will keep you posted. I expect news any
day; still there is a feeling within me that Washington is under the
influence of my enemies. He does not show the cordiality to me now,
that he used to.

“But never mind, I shall be able to give them all a lesson in the
manner of treating a gentleman, when the war is over.”

“Good day, Mr. Barclugh, I am more than grateful.”

“Come down at any time, General. We shall arrange all details when you
hear from headquarters.

“Good day,” concluded Roderick Barclugh.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Segwuna, where have you been, my dear? I have missed you so much,”
were the words of Mollie Greydon, when she saw Segwuna for the first
time in two weeks. Segwuna was in the winding path leading to the old
mill on the Wingohocking at Dorminghurst.

Segwuna turned around at the sound of Mollie’s voice, and walking
toward her, put an arm around the waist of her friend and replied:

“I have been to New York selling some moccasins and leggings,” for she
did not desire to let Mollie know the whole of her reasons for going to
New York.

Segwuna continued spiritedly:

“While there I saw General Clinton and Major Andre. They live in such
grand style,--a coach and postilion, just like General Arnold.

“Those grand people have no love for an Indian girl like me.”

“Oh, never mind, my sweetheart! I love you,” retorted Mollie sweetly,
as she embraced her friend and kissed her on the cheek.

“Oh, let’s go down to the mill, Segwuna,” continued Mollie. “We can sit
down and relieve our hearts to each other.”

Mollie had been much agitated ever since Mr. Barclugh’s visit to
Dorminghurst. She had been affected by the very peculiar and earnest
look in his eyes at the breakfast table. She had seen neither Barclugh
nor Segwuna since then, and her delicate nature had dwelt upon the
tender gaze in Barclugh’s eyes and thoughts of what it might mean had
haunted her by day and by night. If she could have told Segwuna, she
would have found relief, but Segwuna had left the same day that Mr.
Barclugh had gone to New York.

The two life-long friends, with arms around each other’s waists, now
sauntered down to a lonely spot around the old mill to tell of their
fears and their hearts’ desires. Mollie believed that Segwuna had
wisdom, so that the Indian maiden was the oracle that Mollie consulted
when she had burdens on her mind.

These two childlike natures had that implicit confidence in each other
that is born of God. They sat on the mill-race, under the shade of a
huge elm. As Mollie buried her head in Segwuna’s bosom, the fountains
of pent-up grief broke out and Mollie wept and wept until Segwuna
pacified her by stroking her brow and sweetly asking:

“What is the matter, my loved one? Has Segwuna offended you,
sweetheart? What makes my love so unhappy?”

“Oh, Segwuna, I thought that you had been lost or killed or that
something terrible had happened to you. You never stayed away so long
before. I have been looking for you every day, and you did not return.

“Now that you have returned and you have not changed,--you still love
me?--I cry for joy. But then, Segwuna, I have a secret to tell you, and
you must not laugh at me, for then I shall think that you do not love
me.

“Do you know,” continued Mollie, “that the day that Mr. Barclugh was
here, and we were talking at breakfast about the King’s courtiers, I
happened to repeat those lines of Shakespeare:

  ‘Had I but served my God with half the zeal
  ‘I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age
  ‘Have left me naked to mine enemies.’

“When I had finished these lines, the eyes of Mr. Barclugh gazed at me,
and such a light shone out of them, I have not been able to rid myself
of the look that he gave me.

“Segwuna, what does it mean? I am troubled by day in my thought and by
night in my dreams.

“I could not find you, my darling, to let you know what troubled me. I
have been unhappy every minute since then.”

“Well, my sweetheart,” replied Segwuna, “I shall pray to the
Great Spirit to protect you from harm; but there can be only one
interpretation of what you have told me,--it means that Mr. Barclugh is
in love with you.”

A thunderstorm had arisen from the southwest, while the two girls were
occupied in their heart to heart communion, and the two ran into the
old mill for protection. The terrific wind and downpour of rain shook
the old mill. When the sharp bolts of lightning and the heavy crash of
thunder seemed very near, Mollie clutched Segwuna by the arm, and hung
to her spasmodically, as fear seemed to multiply in her already much
agitated breast.

When Segwuna turned at last to leave for her mother’s lodge, she kissed
Mollie on the cheek, and whispered gently:

“Segwuna will pray to her Great Spirit to protect her sweetheart from
all harm. Good night, darling.”




CHAPTER XXIX


Barclugh took his meals regularly at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and
lived industriously attending to his plot, and to his speculations in
privateering.

He was busy organizing his bank, the capital of which was mostly
subscribed and whose charter was drawn and placed before the Council
of Pennsylvania for legal authority to do business. The corporation
was to be known as the Bank of North America; Thomas Milling was to
be its first President. Every detail was copied as closely after the
corporation of the Bank of England as possible; that was Barclugh’s
plan.

If Barclugh had confined himself to his plot with Arnold and to
his plans in financiering, he would have been better off. But the
allurements of commerce had also attracted his attention.

Ships of all descriptions were in the stream, awaiting a berth to
load or unload. Some were at the wharves of Milling & FitzMaurice,
loading or unloading merchandise and munitions of war. Privateers and
merchantmen, brigs and barques, full-rigged ships and sloops,--all
were a kaleidoscope of the cosmopolitan elements of Philadelphia.
The Malay, the Portuguese, the Negro, the Indian, the Caucasian, the
Creole, were all bartering and seeking adventure on the seas. They were
in a harbor where war now offered all of the prizes and all of the
calamities of life. The calamities claimed the greater share in the
final results.

Among all this motley crew lurked disease, lust, and greed. The leaders
of the enterprises reeked in greed, the hirelings exceeded in lust, but
disease had no favorites.

Diseases were cosmopolitan like the people. Cholera from the Orient,
_peste_ from the West Indies, scurvy from the Antipodes, fevers from
the ships and the camps of armies kept the city in continuous mourning.
Though disease played the heavy role in this drama of life, still it
acted its part when least expected.

Barclugh desired to buy a ship of Milling and FitzMaurice, and send her
out to the West Indies with a cargo of flour, and return with rum and
sugar. The profits would be large. He now had much money at command and
no use for it. He thought that a few dollars turned over for a profit
would not come amiss when he began his career after the Colonies were
turned over to the mother country.

There was a ship, the Sea Nymph, lying in the Delaware, a prize
belonging to Milling & FitzMaurice which had been bound from Havana to
London, laden with rum and molasses; but her crew was attacked with the
_peste_ and inside of a week two thirds of her men were stricken with
the disease.

In this critical condition the Independence, privateer of Milling &
FitzMaurice, ran upon the Sea Nymph, and she struck with no resistance.
Enough of the crew of the Independence who were immune to the disease
were put aboard to take her into Philadelphia. The Sea Nymph was a new
and handsome ship. She was lying in the stream waiting for her turn to
discharge cargo, when Barclugh learned about her, and, although advised
of the perils of the dreaded _peste_, he offered to buy her. Barclugh’s
impatience to be doing business prevailed against his friends’
judgment, and he went aboard of her to inspect the ship.

His weakened physical condition put him under susceptible conditions
to take the disease, and in ten days thereafter, Roderick Barclugh was
stricken with the _peste_.

However, before this event, matters had culminated fast in Barclugh’s
affairs. The tenth day of July, 1780, had arrived, and communication
had been opened up between Barclugh and Andre at New York. By means of
a few hundred pounds sterling, Barclugh had arranged to have letters
addressed to John Anderson, Esq., New York, delivered to a boat from
the Albatross, that landed at the Swede’s fishing hut on the Little Egg
River. In return the fisherman brought a sealed package addressed to
Mr. Gustavus, Philadelphia. Gustavus was the name of the Swede.

This line of communication was maintained at regular
intervals,--whenever a load of fish came from Little Egg Harbor inlet,
a sealed letter was delivered to Barclugh and an answer returned.

When Roderick Barclugh fell ill, he awoke in the early morning with
terrible pains in his back and loins. He found that he was unable
to arise, suffering intensely with a fever and pains in his joints.
His man-servant went as usual to the door of Mr. Barclugh’s sleeping
apartment but he did not find him astir, and as he listened, he heard
slight groans. When he gently opened the door, there was Barclugh,
helpless, breathing heavily, his eyes bulging. The only thing to do was
to bring Doctor Biddle.

When Dr. Biddle arrived, a hurried examination of pulse, eyes and
tongue soon convinced his experienced eye that the patient had the most
dreaded of diseases in the seaport of Philadelphia,--the _peste_. By
this time the sick man was unconscious, and the Doctor turned to the
servant and said:

“I am sorry to inform you, but this gentleman has the _peste_. Who
has charge of his affairs? We shall have to procure him nurses and
medicines.”

As though a thunderbolt had come out of a clear sky, James, the
servant, stood speechless and perfectly colorless at this announcement.
At last he regained his self-possession and said:

“I will notify Mr. Milling; he knows Mr. Barclugh best. But I can not
stay here and nurse him myself. My wife and children would die of
fright.”

“But,” remarked the Doctor, “you have been exposed.”

“All right! all right! Doctor, but you see there’s a mighty difference
betwixt the nursing of it and the staying away from it. Let these rich
men who can afford to die, be having the risks. I will go and tell Mr.
Milling.”

With that he put on his hat and ran to the office of Milling &
FitzMaurice, and without any ceremony rushed into the presence of Mr.
Milling, simply announcing:

“Mr. Barclugh, my master, has the _peste_.”

James then rushed out of the office of the merchant prince, and up
Front street, telling every person that he met:

“My master, Mr. Barclugh, has the _peste_.”

Thus, inside of an hour, the whole town was put in a fever of
excitement. Soon the number of cases was reported as a score; rumor had
it that every one had been exposed.

At the office of Milling & FitzMaurice, a hasty consultation was held
between the partners. The conditions under which the ship, Sea Nymph,
had come into port, and how Mr. Barclugh had inspected her and had
arranged to buy her, were discussed. The cargo of the Sea Nymph was in
their warehouse, and no one could foretell the consequences.

During this discussion of their own affairs, Milling & FitzMaurice did
not think of Barclugh. The Doctor waited and waited for some one to
come, but no one came to his relief. The accountant, Mr. Hopewell, had
heard the news on his way to the office, then had gone home to consult
with his wife.

At last the Doctor became worried, and leaving his patient alone, he
went to the office of Milling & FitzMaurice.

As he entered the accounting room, he walked quietly up to Mr. Milling
and said:

“Sir, I sent Mr. Barclugh’s servant to tell you that that gentleman had
the _peste_, and that he must have nurses and attention for he is a
very sick man.”

“Oh, the man did not ask us for nurses,” contended Mr. Milling. “He
simply told us that Mr. Barclugh was sick with the _peste_, and we had
no idea that our services were needed for a mission of that kind.”

“There is no time to talk, gentlemen. Mr. Barclugh lies unconscious
with fever, and I do not know to whom he can appeal in his distress but
your house. Good day, gentlemen, I must be with my patient.”

As soon as the Doctor had left, Mr. Milling looked at Robert
FitzMaurice as he said:

“Robert, what shall we do about this? I can not tie myself up for three
weeks and be exposed to this fever, and neither can you. Our affairs
can spare neither you nor me. Is there not some poor devil whom we can
get to nurse him? Barclugh has plenty of money with us.”

“Yes,” responded FitzMaurice. “There is Barton, he needs the money,
and he owes us; he ought to go and do this; he could then square our
account.”

Barton was one of the men in the warehouse of the firm and had a young
wife and four children. When the offer was made to him in the office
of his employers, he answered:

“Gentlemen, my life and my family are just as dear to me as either
of yours. I would not risk my life in that service for all of your
combined wealth. My life is exactly as dear to me as to any prince or
potentate.”

Mr. Milling looked at Robert FitzMaurice with a dissatisfied air, as he
followed Barton’s footsteps and closed the door behind him, while he
said:

“I believe Barclugh will be in pretty bad shape, before we can get any
one to nurse him.”

In the meantime, however, the news of the fever began to travel outside
of Philadelphia. Express messengers went on horseback to the north and
to the south, and on the way to Germantown, the news of Barclugh’s
fever reached Dorminghurst.

Dr. Greydon at once notified his wife and daughter. In less than
half an hour his carriage was ready, and he had left, prepared with
delicacies and medicines to succor a fellow being. There was no
calculation of consequences on his part.

Mollie asked her father if she might accompany him, but he explained
that she could be of little assistance, so she stood on the portico,
and watched her father’s carriage until it had reached the road through
the avenue of hemlocks.

But no sooner had her father’s carriage vanished through the trees,
than she ran with all of her might to the lodge of Segwuna.

With eyes full of despair, she ran up to Segwuna, and exclaimed:

“Segwuna! Segwuna! I have just learned that Mr. Barclugh has been
stricken with the _peste_, and father has started to go to him.

“Oh! Segwuna! what shall I do? What shall I do? I am fearful that
something will happen to him, and father would not let me go to help
nurse him,” as she burst into a fit of heart-rending sobs and buried
her head on Segwuna’s breast.

“Do not weep, my sweetheart. If you cannot go, Segwuna can go. I will
go and take the medicine that will save him. Do not fear, my dear.

“Segwuna will nurse him back to you. Be calm and let me get ready. It
will not take me long to reach his side.”

Segwuna went to her mother and gave her a few directions; in a few
minutes she was ready with a bundle of herbs, and with light step, and
the light of a guardian angel shining out of her beautiful eyes, she
and Mollie took the winding path down to the Wingohocking, then through
the avenue of hemlocks to the highway that led to Philadelphia.

Mollie stopped at the huge gate at the roadside and kissed Segwuna
thrice, as she bade her Godspeed, and prayed silently:

“That the sick one would have the protection of Divine Providence in
his affliction, and that God would bless the efforts of her friend,
Segwuna, to lead the sick one out of the ‘valley of the shadow of
death,’ and bring him nearer to his God and His Son, Jesus Christ.”

“God bless you,” was the parting salutation to Segwuna as Mollie stood
and watched the Indian maiden go lightly on her mission of mercy.

She watched her until Segwuna was a mere speck in the roadway, and then
turned silently to go to her bed-chamber to pray for the man, whom she
felt was dear to her, yet she could not tell why.




CHAPTER XXX


When Dr. Greydon reached the bedside of Roderick Barclugh, Dr. Biddle
was bathing his patient’s hands and arms, and laboring over him to
reduce the temperature. As the two doctors met in the sick-room, Dr.
Biddle arose and quietly addressed his friend:

“Dr. Greydon, I am glad that you have come. This gentleman is suffering
from a severe wound in the shoulder, and this fever has attacked him in
a virulent form, and unless we can reduce the temperature, his chances
are very slim for recovery.”

“Well, I am surprised to learn that he is wounded,” replied Dr.
Greydon, “but I heard that he undertook a perilous adventure to pass
through the enemy’s lines into New York, on a business enterprise; but
where did he get this fever? Are you sure that it is _vomito negro_?

“I presume that he met with some hair-breadth escape when he undertook
to get out of New York. How long has this paroxysm been running?”
continued Dr. Greydon.

“Ever since early this morning,” replied Dr. Biddle. “He was in his
usual health yesterday, his servant told me.”

Dr. Greydon quietly bent over the patient, and went through all the
formalities of a medical examination. When he had finished he looked at
Dr. Biddle and dubiously shook his head, as he said:

“Doctor, your diagnosis is correct. He certainly has _vomito negro_,
and the depressed condition of his system from the shock that the wound
has caused, must make his case critical, very critical.”

“Yes,” continued Dr. Biddle, “if we can reduce the fever, he will have
to receive careful nursing and I have notified Milling & FitzMaurice
that they shall have to send this gentleman a nurse, but none has come
yet; and it is four hours ago that I saw them.”

“Well, well, this matter must be attended to at once,” contended Dr.
Greydon, “and if you can remain a while, I will go and try to procure
the necessary person and bring him here at once.”

“That is good, Doctor,” replied Dr. Biddle. “I can continue the
bathing, and I can relieve the congestion by bleeding.”

Just as Dr. Greydon reached the street, and was about to enter his
carriage, he heard a voice calling:

“Doctor! Oh Doctor!”

The Doctor turned and there was Segwuna.

“What is it, Segwuna?” asked Dr. Greydon.

“I have come to help nurse Mr. Barclugh.”

“Are you not afraid, my child?”

“Segwuna is not afraid to do her duty, Doctor.”

“You are right, Segwuna,” replied Dr. Greydon. “Then we will go in.”

Leading the way to the Barclugh apartments, Dr. Greydon conducted
Segwuna to the sick-room on the second floor, and as they entered, the
other medical man remarked:

“Well, our wishes were quickly answered.”

“Let me introduce Segwuna, the granddaughter of Altamaha; she resides
on our estate and she has volunteered to help rescue the afflicted--I
know that no one could do it better,” were the words of Dr. Greydon,
as he took off his coat and began to get ready for the care of Mr.
Barclugh.

Segwuna immediately straightened out the room. She went with Dr.
Greydon through the house, and they found a large fireplace in the
kitchen of the residence where Barclugh had his business offices and
sleeping apartments.

There were a few pieces of wood so that a fire was soon going on the
hearth. Then a memorandum of necessary articles of household utility
was made, and in a very few minutes it seemed as though an angel had
flown into the former desolate house. As Segwuna went from room to
room, silently arranging a piece of furniture, and opening the windows
and shutters, sunshine seemed to drive chaos away.

The life that Barclugh led seemed to be wrong; when sickness came upon
him, money was mute. There was no loving kindness ready to be shown
to him, except what came from God’s messengers. Poor mortal! He was
lying unconsciously helpless, ignorant of the loving hands that now
administered kindnesses unto him.

At the end of the day, the household was settled down to a routine;
Segwuna had medicines, delicacies, linen and food for a long and
tedious battle with the dreaded _peste_, but better still she had the
instincts of a true nurse.

The sleeping-room on the second story, being the sick-room, she closed
the shutters to let in a minimum of light; she placed a pure white
linen cloth on the table; she kept cloths wet with vinegar on the
parched brow of the patient. A vase of pinks that had been sent by
Mollie from Dorminghurst was tastefully placed upon the table. In the
restful moments of the sick man, she slipped down stairs to the kitchen
and prepared a hot mustard bath for the feet, to relieve the congestion
in the brain. Wrapping the patient in a woolen blanket, she placed his
extremities in the hot bath, and then put him between clean linen to
cool his burning body.

During the first twenty-four hours, the paroxysm of the fever was
intense. The temperature was 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and as Barclugh
lay suffering on his back the groans and tossing of the sick one
were heart-rending. He was only semi-conscious most of the time, but
Segwuna never flagged in her attentions. After Dr. Biddle had first
administered a simple emetic, and then performed the customary bleeding
for the first stages of the disease, a large dose of calomel and
subsequently a half-tumblerful of _oleum ricinum_ was administered to
relieve the alimentary canal. It was then a fight of physical endurance
against disease.

However, Segwuna knew that the doctors were groping in the dark in
treating this disease, so she felt that much depended upon her skill in
keeping down the temperature, and keeping up the sick one’s strength,
in order to stand the ravages on his vital organs. When Barclugh tossed
and raved in his delirium, she saw that he placed his hand upon his
chest and stomach, and she felt that the fever must be burning the
vital organs. So she prepared a hot plaster of mustard and placed it on
the pit of his stomach. In a short time the patient seemed to get more
quiet, and he rested easily until morning.

The second day Dr. Greydon arrived very early; as soon as he saw the
patient, he remarked:

“Well, Segwuna, how is the gentleman this morning? I see that he is not
quite as flushed as he was yesterday. If his strength will hold out
to-day and to-morrow, we can hope to get him up.”

“Yes, Dr. Greydon, Mr. Barclugh is easier this morning, but he was
very sick at midnight. He was nervous and in great distress so I put a
mustard plaster on his stomach and it immediately quieted him.”

“You did perfectly right, Segwuna, my child. This fever seems to attack
the membranes of the stomach, and if you apply external applications,
you draw the congestion from the vital spot.

“Now, Segwuna,” continued Dr. Greydon, “you go and rest yourself, while
I remain here. Then you will be able to stand another night’s vigil.”

“Very well, I shall do so,” and Segwuna went to the couch that she had
prepared for herself in the former dining-room, where she slept soundly
until late in the afternoon.

In the meantime, Dr. Biddle came and relieved Dr. Greydon at the
bedside of Roderick Barclugh, so that he was not a minute without
constant watching at his side.

Between the two doctors a consultation was held, and they both
agreed that the sick man had a fighting chance for recovery, if his
constitution could stand the wear on his stomach and heart. No food
was to be administered until the fever was reduced, and then slight
stimulants were to be given to re-enforce the action of the heart.
Segwuna could nurse him by night, and the two doctors agreed to divide
their time during the day with the patient.

When Segwuna awoke from her sound sleep, she made her way to the
sick-room, and found Dr. Biddle taking his temperature with his
thermometer.

The temperature was 104 degrees Fahrenheit, and the pulse was 95 and a
glassy stare was noticeable in the eyes of the sick man who lay there
in a condition of stupor. His face was of a purplish-red hue, and his
cheeks began to lose that full and lively glow of health; a parched
and drawn appearance of the skin over the cheek-bones began to be
noticeable.

Also during the day he had suffered a few attacks of the _vomito negro_
that taxes the strength of the human organism to the utmost.

Dr. Biddle whispered to Segwuna as she came beside the sick-bed:

“He is very sick and you better give him a teaspoonful of this solution
in that tumbler every half-hour. If he can hold his own for the next
thirty-six hours, he will begin to gain. This paroxysm of the fever
usually reaches its crisis within three days, and after that, if his
strength is sufficient to sustain vital action, his case is hopeful.
But Segwuna, it all depends on the heart. This high temperature and
this terrible pulse! If it lasts too long, there can be no hope.”

“Yes, Doctor, I know that this _peste_ is a very grave disorder, and I
shall not neglect your instructions,” replied Segwuna, as Dr. Biddle
gathered up his medicine case and left.

The pride and power of man vanish when dread disease lays him low and
brings him next to dissolution!

As Segwuna arranged all matters for her night’s vigil, she suddenly
turned toward Barclugh, for, as he lay prostrate, his arms were waving
wildly in the air as he exclaimed in his delirium:

“Arnold loves money! Yes, he loves money! Yes, General Clinton, he
will get West Point from General Washington. I have offered him twenty
thousand pounds sterling, and a General’s commission in the British
army. Oh, that I had served my God with half the zeal I served my King.
Yes, she is beautiful in her virtue. Oh! that wound will be the death
of me! Yes, Risk shot me. There! There! All hands! Steady! Lads! Aim
low!

“Oh say, Miss, was I talking?”

“Not much, Mr. Barclugh, be calm,” replied Segwuna, as she held the
hand of the spy, and stroked his head, as he closed his eyes and dozed
off into a semi-conscious state.

These words of Barclugh in his delirium, though disconnected, agitated
Segwuna beyond measure. She had seen Barclugh leave on the Sloop-of-War
Albatross when she spoke to him at Paule’s Hook in the dark. She had
followed him to New York after he had visited at Dorminghurst. She had
traced him to the Beekman House, and now she heard him in his delirium.

Segwuna knew that this referred to Arnold. She reasoned thus:

“What conspiracy was this that had been divulged to her? Must she
inform Congress? No. She had come here because she loved Mollie
Greydon, and she must save Mr. Barclugh’s life. The Great Spirit had
given her this knowledge, and she must find out all she could about
Arnold and Mr. Barclugh. She could serve Congress by wisely learning
all she possibly could. She must not blast Mollie’s hopes until the
whole truth is known.”

The night augured badly for Barclugh. He awoke from his stupor about
ten o’clock, and his eyes showed intense suffering and sadness. He not
only suffered intense physical agonies, but when his mind regained
lucidity, thoughts of his plot with Arnold surged through his mind, and
the look of anguish on his face was most pitiable.

As the hour of eleven o’clock drew near, Segwuna noticed that the eyes
of her patient glistened more than before, and an expression of abject
helplessness came over his face. His face was flushed perceptibly and
the nervous stroking of his stomach indicated to Segwuna that her
applications of mustard ought to be applied.

After these were administered to the feet and stomach, quietude
succeeded the restless spell and the sick man lay peacefully until
Dr. Greydon arrived in the morning. He noted a material reduction in
the patient’s temperature. It was now down to 100 degrees, and the
crisis seemed passed; but still the lower temperature did not indicate
assurance of recovery.

When the fever begins to decline a period of low fever and depression
follows. If a relapse now occurs, the patient succumbs; but Segwuna
watched over her charge for ten days, until he was able to sit up and
partake of some solid food.

During the period of calm succeeding the paroxysm of fever, an event
occurred which threw more mystery than ever around the career of
Roderick Barclugh.

One morning very early before the break of day, when not a sound
disturbed the sick-room but the tick of the clock, and an occasional
ship’s bell announcing the change of the watch, a loud rap sounded on
the front door. Segwuna was all alone.

She went to the door, and there stood a burly Swedish fisherman whose
eyes bulged in astonishment to see a woman appear.

“What do you want?” asked Segwuna sweetly.

“I want to see Maister Baarkloo,” drawled the Swede.

“He is very sick with the _peste_, I do not believe that he is able to
see any one,” spoke up Segwuna.

“I haf sam lettar for heem, aand I give to heem--nobodday alse. I keep
not mysalf,” argued the Swede doggedly, as he started to come in.

Segwuna stood in the doorway attempting to block his passage, but the
Swede brushed her to one side and went straight for Barclugh’s room,
and Segwuna followed closely after him.

When the Swede reached the door of the sick man’s room, he raised his
hat and tiptoed up to the bedside of Barclugh.

As he stood beside the bed he drew out of his pocket a long sealed
envelope, addressed:

                            “Mr. Gustavus,
                                     “Philadelphia.

  “From John Anderson, Esq., Merchant.”

The Swede hesitatingly looked at Barclugh and saw him lying there and
staring with a glassy look in his eyes, unable to speak or to recognize
the Swede.

The fisherman turned stolidly to Segwuna as he said:

“I do my duty. I gav to nobodday alse.” As he said this he left the
packet on the bed, turned with a sad air, and walked out of the house
as mysteriously as he had come.

Segwuna took up the envelope and examined the address. She knew that
the Swede was a fisherman from the New Jersey coast. She had seen
Roderick Barclugh walk to the sloop of war at Paules’ Hook with Major
Andre, and she had seen them both leave General Clinton’s house
together.

She found Roderick Barclugh in Philadelphia, when she returned from
New York. He could not reach here by the sloop-of-war, so he must have
landed on the coast and have been brought here by the fisherman. As
these thoughts ran through her mind, she exclaimed:

“I have found it! The letter has traveled the same course, and John
Anderson is John Andre.”

What this shrewd woman could fathom out of the statements in Barclugh’s
delirium and what she had seen in New York, was that Arnold was to go
over to the British. If Arnold got West Point, she could put two and
two together and connect him with the twenty thousand pounds sterling
and the General’s commission in the British army.

Segwuna reasoned to herself as she watched the sick man, and thought of
what she ought to do:

“I have the clew to this poor man’s secret. His villainy must be
stopped. I shall not leave one stone unturned to fathom his plans. This
letter contains important facts. I shall deliver it when he recovers
and watch my opportunity to learn its contents after he has broken the
seal himself. Any other course would arouse his suspicions.”

So she took the letter and placed it in the drawer of an escritoire and
resolved to deliver it as soon as Roderick Barclugh regained enough
strength to read it.

When the episode of the letter delivered by the Swede had been well
considered, Segwuna reasoned to herself again:

“I must not arouse the suspicions of Mr. Barclugh. If I let him go on
he will weave a net to entrap himself.”

Later, Segwuna was enabled to learn the contents of the secret
correspondence after it had been given to Barclugh, who was too feeble
and too sick to think that the simple Indian maiden was interested in
his affairs.

At the end of two weeks, Roderick Barclugh was strong enough to
be moved from his quarters. Consequently, after a most thorough
destruction and cleansing of his effects, Dr. Greydon insisted upon
taking Roderick Barclugh to Dorminghurst to recuperate his depleted
body.




CHAPTER XXXI


Barclugh, a mere shadow of his former self, was driven in the carriage
of Dr. Greydon to Dorminghurst. As he passed along Front Street and up
Market Street, he was saluted by General Arnold who smiled graciously
to see his friend convalescing and out of doors.

When Dorminghurst was reached, there could be no mistaking the evident
gratitude in Barclugh’s wan features as he saw Mollie rush out of the
door and down to the carriage, extending both of her hands to him, as
she said:

“How glad we are to see you with us again, Mr. Barclugh! I know that
you will get strong very soon.”

“How kind of you to greet me so cordially, Miss Greydon. I owe my being
here to-day to your esteemed father and to Segwuna,” replied Barclugh
soberly as he arose with difficulty and got out of the carriage with
the assistance of Dr. Greydon.

Dr. Greydon walked with Barclugh and assisted his feeble footsteps to
the bright and airy room overlooking the Wingohocking.

Mrs. Greydon greeted him on the portico with such kindly words of
welcome, and the black servants stood looking on with such respectful
silence, that Barclugh could not help but wonder if it were not his own
mother in his own home who was now greeting him.

The Doctor soon made him lie down on the snowy white bed, and ordered
an egg-nog for his refreshment.

Sentiments of the tenderest feelings welled up in his breast upon the
receipt of such hospitality, and he murmured to himself as he lay on
his bed, peacefully resting:

“This kindness to me passeth all understanding. How shall I ever
express my gratitude and return this compliment that has been paid me?
No, I never expected such treatment as this from the hands of those
whose cause I am endeavoring to defeat. Well, my turn will come, and
then I shall show them my breeding.”

For the next few days Dr. Greydon would not allow Roderick Barclugh to
move out of his bed, for his strength was not enough yet to allow very
much exertion; but the new surroundings, and especially the beautiful
presence of Mollie Greydon, were an inspiration to him.

Mollie took a lively interest in the welfare of her father’s guest and
patient. Every morning she brought a fresh bouquet of the brightest
flowers from the garden and placed them in the sick-room herself;
then in the afternoon, she brought her Latin works along with her, and
read selections to him.

[Illustration: She noticed how longingly he watched her depart.]

In the sweet modulations of her voice, Barclugh found repose as he lay
on his bed,--weak and emaciated. His strength was not enough to allow
him to converse at much length, so that after Mollie had read these
classics to him, his heart throbbed with tender emotions and the words
that left his lips when she had finished:

“I thank you, Miss Greydon,” had the pathos of a heart full of
gratitude.

As he lay with mind so clear but his body so weak, he often dreamed to
himself:

“Oh! if my God will only restore me to my full powers again, I shall
live only to be worthy of the love of Mollie Greydon. She must be all
that is worth living for,--beauty, grace and loving kindness.”

Each day as Mollie brought the fresh flowers to the sick-room, and on
each occasion that she read to the sick, she noticed how longingly he
watched her depart, and how he beamed with joy whenever she entered his
sick-chamber to read some well-chosen classic.

In the course of a week, Roderick Barclugh began to recover his
appetite, and at the end of two weeks, he was strong enough to ride
out in the carriage with Mollie and the Doctor.

The three would drive in the morning and in the latter part of the
afternoon as far as Germantown, and along the banks of the Delaware.

These drives greatly benefited Barclugh’s health; he had also a most
excellent opportunity to get acquainted with the one who was the desire
of his heart.

One day as they drove toward Philadelphia they met Segwuna. Nothing
would satisfy Mollie unless she rode with them.

Mollie made room for her on the seat in the carriage that faced Dr.
Greydon and Mr. Barclugh.

“Don’t you think that our patient looks much improved, Segwuna?”
queried Dr. Greydon, good-naturedly, as the carriage rolled along the
highway.

“Yes, Dr. Greydon,” answered Segwuna, uncomfortably, as she sat looking
vacantly into the carriage top.

The others attempted to be gay, but Segwuna’s presence cast a gloom
over the ride; she neither smiled nor talked except in monosyllables.

“Have you learned anything of importance to-day in the city, about our
affairs of war, Segwuna?” cheerily asked Mollie, turning to the Indian
maiden with her happiest smile.

“Nothing, Miss Greydon, except what traitors would be interested in,”
spoke out Segwuna, sternly.

At the mention of the word “traitor,” Segwuna looked straight at
Roderick Barclugh, and she noticed a twitching of his lips and a
visible blush mounting his neck and ears.

To allay any possible attention to himself, Barclugh now entered into
lively conversation with Dr. Greydon and Miss Mollie, and utterly
ignored Segwuna, who sat stolidly in a brown study during the rest of
the carriage ride.

“Dr. Greydon,” began Barclugh spiritedly, “I am much interested in the
agriculture of the Colonies. There seems to be a wonderful fertility to
the soil, for a settler can go upon land with no capital but his hands
and a yoke of oxen, and inside of a year have a comfortable plantation
established. How can it be done? I do not understand it.”

“The soil is rich in the first place,” replied Dr. Greydon; “then our
American products of Indian corn and potatoes provide abundance for
man and animals, so that there is no difficulty in subsistence. The
natural meadow and the grasses of the woods provide for sleek cattle
and horses; then the abundance of wild pigeons, ducks, and turkeys and
the fish of the rivers and lakes also provide food; the hides of the
deer, bear, coons and squirrel provide raiment and robes. There is no
reason for man to suffer in this wonderfully prosperous country, if he
be industrious,” argued Dr. Greydon, with much satisfaction to himself,
but evidently to the discomfiture of Barclugh, for he remarked:

“This is all so strange to me. I cannot understand how the settlements
start up like mushrooms in the wilderness.”

“It is the promise of the Great Spirit,” contributed Segwuna. “But our
soil must be forever free from the tyranny of kings and potentates,
or the corn would not grow and the potatoes would wither and a famine
would devastate the land.”

“Segwuna is our prophetess, Mr. Barclugh,” declared Mollie, exultingly,
“and we all love her dearly,” continued Mollie, as she turned to
Segwuna, and putting her arms around her neck, kissed her.

Barclugh did not relish the affection that Mollie showed for Segwuna,
so he remarked emphatically:

“We cannot rely on superstition, Miss Greydon.”

The latent fire of the Indian character gleamed in Segwuna’s eyes, and
she longed in her heart to wither Roderick Barclugh, but the time was
not ripe. Segwuna simply kept silent and abided her time.

After the carriage had arrived at Dorminghurst, Dr. Greydon and
Barclugh sat upon the portico and conversed upon sundry subjects while
Mollie and Segwuna strolled off together toward Segwuna’s lodge, Mollie
remarked:

“Something has made you unhappy, Segwuna. What has happened to you?”

“Oh, nothing, my sweetheart. Your Segwuna’s heart bleeds for her
country’s welfare, and I can see that something is to happen during the
next moon that will make us all unhappy; but your Segwuna can not tell
her sweetheart now. It might make me wish that I had not spoken about
it, if it should not happen.

“I wish that my dearest one would excuse Segwuna and let her go to her
lodge, and pray to her Manitou to clear her sky and bring happiness
to her spirit, for her heart is very sad to-day,--very sad to-day,”
repeated Segwuna.

“Yes, yes, my loved one,” replied Mollie. “Your Mollie loves you
and knows how pure and noble her Segwuna is. Good night, dearest.
Good night,” were the parting words of Mollie Greydon, as she kissed
Segwuna, and left her to return to the mansion.

While the two were strolling on the winding path, Roderick Barclugh and
Dr. Greydon sat on the portico and conversed freely. Barclugh resolved
to confess the longings of his heart before his departure, as he knew
that he must soon leave Dorminghurst.

He opened the difficult subject by saying:

“Dr. Greydon, I have now been a guest at your house for two weeks, and
under trying circumstances to your household. I feel that I owe my life
to your tender care and solicitation. My father could do no more for
me; but I hope that you will not consider I am presuming on your good
nature, when I unfold to you an affair of my heart; and ask of you one
of the greatest favors that one man can bestow upon another.

“Dr. Greydon,” continued Barclugh, “ever since I first met your
daughter, I have esteemed her as one of the most talented and beautiful
women in this country, and since I first was a guest in your home, I
have learned to love her; I ask you to give her to me for my wife. My
position and means and prospects warrant me in making this request and
I hope that I may deserve the great honor that I ask you to confer upon
me.”

After a moment of silent reflection, Dr. Greydon replied most
reverently and in the peculiar language of his Quaker persuasion, which
he used only on occasions of great emotion:

“Thou hast been good enough for me to invite thee to my home. If I had
not thought thee good enough to be my son, thou shouldst not have been
my guest; but my daughter must give thee her own consent before thou
canst have mine.”

At the conclusion of these solemn injunctions, Barclugh arose, silently
shook the hand of Dr. Greydon and retired to his bed-chamber for
meditation.




CHAPTER XXXII


During the evening after Barclugh had asked the consent of Dr. Greydon,
an air of expectancy pervaded all except Mollie. Dr. Greydon had told
his wife about Barclugh’s request and she realized the importance of
this day to her darling daughter, who was one of the flowers of the
earth in her sight.

A mother rejoices in the proper selection of a husband by her daughter,
and Mrs. Greydon, one of those good, wholesome souls, believed in
whatever her husband proposed, so that when the Doctor informed his
wife of Barclugh’s intentions, she simply said:

“Thou knowest best what is right, William;” and was satisfied to rest
on his wisdom.

Mollie was utterly oblivious to the ordeal in store for her on
this particular evening. She was more witchy and poked more lively
sallies at Barclugh during the dinner than she ever had before on
any one occasion, but Barclugh blushed and took the pleasantries
good-naturedly. Yet Mollie noticed that she was doing most of the
talking, and wondered to herself why everybody was so sober and she so
lively. Nevertheless, her buoyancy of spirits could not be downed and
she continued her play of wit and humor throughout the dinner.

When the dinner was finished, Mollie said:

“I have the prettiest ode of Horace that I was translating before
dinner, and I must have papa and mamma and you, Mr. Barclugh, come to
the library and I will read it to you.”

So Barclugh offered Mollie his arm, and Dr. Greydon his to his wife,
and the four went up the great staircase to the library.

Mollie went to the book-shelves, while the others seated themselves on
the carved oak settles, facing each other before the great fireplace.
Mollie took the edition of Horace and seated herself at the head of the
large library table and began to read:

        INTACTIS OPULENTIOR

  “Though India’s virgin mine,
  And wealth of Araby be thine;
  Though thy wave-circled palaces
  Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas,
  When on thy devoted head
  The iron hand of Fate has laid
  The symbols of eternal doom,
  What power shall loose the fetters of the dead?
  What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb?

  “Happy the nomad tribes whose wains
  Drag their rude huts o’er Scythian plains;
  Happier the Gaetan horde
  To whom unmeasured fields afford
  Abundant harvests, pastures free:
  For one short year they toil,
  Then claim once more their liberty,
  And yield to other hands the unexhausted soil.

  “The tender-hearted stepdame there
  Nurtures with all a mother’s care
  The orphan babe: no wealthy bride
  Insults her lord, or yields her heart
  To the sleek suitor’s glozing art.
  The maiden’s dower is purity,
  Her parent’s worth, her womanly pride,
  To hate the sin, to scorn the lie,
  Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die.

  “Breathes there a patriot, brave and strong,
  Would right his erring country’s wrong,
  Would heal her wounds and quell her rage?
  Let him, with noble daring, first
  Curb Faction’s tyranny accurst,
  So may some future age
  Grave on his bust with pious hand,
  The Father of his Native Land,
      Virtue yet living we despise,
      Adore it, lost and vanished from our eyes.

          “Cease idle wail!
  The sin unpunished, what can sighs avail?
  How weak the laws by man ordained
  If Virtue’s law be unsustained.
  A second sin is thine. The sand
  Of Araby, Gaetulia’s sun-scorched land;
  The desolate regions of Hyperborean ice,
  Call with one voice to wrinkled Avarice:
  He hears; he feels no toil, nor sword, nor sea,
  Shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous poverty.

  “Forth! ’mid a shouting nation bring
  Thy precious gems, thy wealth untold;
  Into the seas or temple fling
  Thy vile unprofitable gold.
  Roman, repent, and from within
  Eradicate thy darling sin;
  Repent, and from thy bosom tear
  The sordid shame that festers there.

  “Bid thy degenerate sons to learn
  In rougher schools a lesson stern.
  The high-born youth, mature in vice,
  Pursues his vain and reckless course,
  Rolls the Greek hoop, or throws the dice,
  But shuns and dreads the horse.
  His perjured sire, with jealous care,
  Heaps riches for his worthless heir,

  “Despised, disgraced, supremely blest,
  Cheating his partner, friend, and guest,
  Uncounted stores his bursting coffers fill;
  But something unpossessed is ever wanting still.”

At the conclusion of the ode, Dr. Greydon remarked:

“Mollie, there is much wisdom in our Latin poets. Simplicity and
virtuous lives are the safeguards of nations. When Horace sang, the
Roman people began to feel the dangers of wealth and riotous living;
may our own country escape these baneful influences.”

Mrs. Greydon looked at her daughter with loving eyes when she had
finished her translation, and turning to Mr. Barclugh, said as she
arose to leave the young people to themselves:

“Mr. Barclugh, we take much pleasure in our Mollie’s preaching. We hope
that she will not bore you.

“You will pardon the Doctor and me for retiring so soon, but we have
many duties to perform.”

The Doctor and Mrs. Greydon then left the library to allow the young
people to have their own conversation.

When Dr. and Mrs. Greydon had left Roderick Barclugh and their daughter
to their fates, Barclugh sat on the settle with his arms folded on his
breast, and looking squarely at Mollie Greydon, ventured the words that
were burning within his heart:

“Miss Greydon, I wish to address you on a subject that is most dear to
my life. I----”

“Why, Mr. Barclugh, what is it that you mean?” interrupted Mollie as
she put down her book.

“Miss Greydon, I believe that I could recover my former health more
quickly if I could settle one thing in my mind,” continued Barclugh.

“I am sure that if there is anything to be done you ought to do so at
once, Mr. Barclugh, for you have been a very ill man,” returned Mollie,
as she looked at him and saw that peculiar expression that she had
noticed in his eyes when he sat opposite her at the breakfast table two
months before.

Roderick Barclugh now looked at Mollie, who instantly felt that some
great ordeal was impending. He arose and took Mollie’s hands in both of
his as he knelt at her side, and pleaded:

“Miss Greydon, I have loved you since that day I first met you at your
father’s table. My life is a void without your presence at my side.
Will you be my wife?” he asked as he took Mollie’s hand and pressed it
to his lips.

Mollie sat in her chair as though she were fashioned from marble. Her
beautiful face was transfixed away from Barclugh, and her gaze was that
of a frightened fawn. She could not answer.

At length Barclugh pleaded:

“Speak! Mollie, speak! My heart and my life go out to you with
sincerity and love! Will you consent to be my bride, and make me the
most favored man on earth?”

Mollie arose and went to the other end of the library table, and
looking at her lover said:

“It is impossible that you could love me, Mr. Barclugh. I am a
Quakeress.”

“That matters not, my dear Mollie. I have learned that God’s loving
kindness resides within the hearts of your people. I was saved from an
untimely death by the love and kindness of your dear father, and I know
that you had no less to do with it than he. So I feel that I am the one
to be unworthy of any affection that your heart possesses,” contended
Barclugh.

“I am highly complimented, Mr. Barclugh, by your kindly and unexpected
attentions to me, but I feel so unable to render any one happy that
I could not answer you at once. I must have time for meditation and
consultation with my parents.”

“There is no reason, dearest, why you ought not to have time. If
you will only consent to consider my love, so that I shall have an
opportunity to prove my worthiness, I shall be more than happy. Promise
me this much, Mollie. I shall then have a chance to show you how much I
love you?” pleaded Barclugh passionately.

Mollie sat down at the end of the table, buried her face in her arms
and began to sob and weep pitifully, and Barclugh stood disconsolately
at the other end of the table.

At length Barclugh went to the end of the table where Mollie sat, and
taking her hand in his, he knelt at her side, and pleaded earnestly:

“Mollie, will you satisfy the longing of my heart by promising me that
you will answer me in a month? Just give me a ray of hope, that I may
live for your sake. Mollie, just promise me, just promise.”

Between the sobs that fairly tore the heart’s moorings of Barclugh,
Mollie replied, feebly:

“In a month, Mr. Barclugh.”

Barclugh then took her hand and kissed it until he was beside himself;
then he arose and left Mollie alone in the library.

He resolved to go to his own lodgings the next morning, determined to
win his loved one by the ardor of his attentions.

Mollie’s supersensitive mind was overcome by the appalling nature of
the question that was made to her; and she thought how unworthy she was
to make another mortal happy for a lifetime. She needed the guidance of
reflection and the help of prayer to the All-wise Being that cares for
the most humble of His creatures.




CHAPTER XXXIII


When Barclugh arrived at his office on the day that he departed from
Dorminghurst, Benedict Arnold was there.

Dr. Greydon had left his guest at the door and before entering his
carriage, shook Barclugh heartily by the hand, as he said:

“Thou hast my blessing, my friend, and may our happiness always
continue as bright as it has been in the past fortnight.”

Barclugh was so overcome by the sincerity of his former host and
benefactor that he was visibly affected when he replied:

“I thank you sincerely, Dr. Greydon, for all that you have done for me.
I owe my life to your attentions.

“Give my love to Miss Mollie,” were the parting words of Roderick
Barclugh, as he turned to enter upon the sterner duties of his business.

Greeting Arnold by the salutation: “Good morning, General,” Barclugh
walked into his private office, followed by Arnold who shut the door
behind them.

“I am delighted to see you so well, Mr. Barclugh,” began Arnold. “It
does seem more than four weeks since you were taken ill.

“But I have good news for you, Mr. Barclugh. My commission as commander
of West Point has been promised. I have seen the Commander-in-Chief
personally.

“I shall move my headquarters there this week. Now all that we need to
do is to arrange the details of the surrender when I get there.”

“That’s all right,” interrupted Barclugh. “I can communicate with you
and forward your correspondence through our old channel until you wish
to arrange the details, when you can plan to meet Major Andre and make
out a plan of attack and surrender.”

“That’s it, that’s it, there need be no hurry until I get on the ground
and fix things,” continued Arnold enthusiastically. “But Mr. Barclugh,
before I can decently leave this town, I must settle all my household
debts. So, if you can favor me with five hundred pounds to-day, I
shall be pleased. I will simply consider it as an advance in the total
amount. I need it for expenses, you know.”

“Certainly, certainly, General Arnold, you must get away as soon and as
decently as possible,” replied Barclugh, going to the iron safe on the
other side of the office to get the money.

When General Arnold had received the money and arose to depart, he
smiled significantly to Barclugh, as he remarked:

“I am feeling like my old self once more. My fighting blood is up. No
use talking, the sinews of war put the nerve in a man.

“I am sorry to go at once, Mr. Barclugh, but my duties are pressing,
and I must close up my affairs here at the earliest possible moment.
Good day, Mr. Barclugh. I feel very grateful for your assistance,”
concluded Arnold as he left Barclugh’s office.

Roderick Barclugh called his clerk into his private office, as soon as
General Arnold departed, to give his orders:

“Mr. Hopewell, you may see Messrs. Milling & FitzMaurice and close
all of my privateering and other accounts with them except the Bank
of North America matter. Tell them that my illness has necessitated
my giving up everything except the banking business, which shall now
receive my exclusive attention.”

“Very well, Mr. Barclugh,” answered the faithful clerk, as he proceeded
to carry out these injunctions.

Roderick Barclugh now had accomplished the purposes for which his
dealings with Milling & FitzMaurice had been started. He had used
this channel to ensnare Arnold and to procure an introduction to the
leaders of society in Philadelphia, Tory and Whig, alike.

But there was only one question, if he were to withdraw his whole
account from Milling & FitzMaurice, they might be embarrassed. Having
planned to put this amount into the bank, he could let it lie in their
hands, as a loan, until the bank was established.

General Clinton must now be advised of the turn of affairs, so Barclugh
busied himself at the task of writing a complete history of the
transactions since the beginning of his illness and despatched the
letters by the Little Egg Harbor inlet route.




CHAPTER XXXIV


After Segwuna read the letters of John Anderson that had been brought
from New York by the Swedish fisherman, she could not bear the sight
of Roderick Barclugh. The thought of Mollie Greydon ever loving this
man who was visiting General Clinton and Major Andre, and conspiring
with General Arnold and at the same time visiting the Greydon family,
was repulsive to her. She did not yet possess knowledge positive
enough about Barclugh to inform Mollie of its nature; nor did she yet
really know that Mollie was in love with Mr. Barclugh. Still she fully
intended to devote her attentions to this conspiracy and expose its
operations, if possible.

As Segwuna lay on her couch of mats in her mother’s lodge, on the day
that she had been invited to ride in the carriage with Mollie and Mr.
Barclugh, she went over and over again all that she had learned:

“I first saw Mr. Barclugh after Mollie had met him at the dinner party
given by Robert FitzMaurice. Every day that I went to Philadelphia
I found Mr. Barclugh at the office of Milling & FitzMaurice or at
General Arnold’s. In watching him I followed him to the office of
General Arnold on the night before he visited Dorminghurst. I learned
that he was going to New York to visit General Clinton and get a
commission for General Arnold in the British army if Arnold turned over
West Point. The next morning he stopped at Dorminghurst and visited
my friends. I could not inform any one of what I knew for fear of
implicating my friends, for I did not know what the relations were
between Dr. Greydon and Mr. Barclugh.

“Now, it is all clear to me. Dr. Greydon does not know anything about
Mr. Barclugh’s business. Mr. Barclugh pretends to favor independence,
but he is striving to overthrow it. When I followed him to New York, I
suspected more; when I heard his exclamations in the delirium of fever,
I was convinced. The letters brought by the fisherman have shown that
he is in communication with the English.

“Segwuna must not rest night nor day until this spy is foiled in his
designs; if I should inform anybody, suspicion might fall upon my
friends at Dorminghurst who have befriended Mr. Barclugh and saved his
life. That course would never do, so the duty falls upon Segwuna alone
to overthrow the spy’s work and save her friends!”

She set about her task of thwarting Barclugh with much zeal. She walked
to Philadelphia and went immediately to Front Street near Barclugh’s
lodgings. The first thing that met her eyes was the departure of
General Arnold from the office of the British agent.

Segwuna kept her own counsel, but she was alert and active. She went
to the Halls of Congress and watched for any news that might be of
importance to her task. She heard Mr. Livingston talking to General
Schuyler about West Point, so she stopped to listen.

The conversation was about the report of the committee on army affairs,
and Mr. Livingston stopped General Schuyler in front of Carpenter’s
Hall.

“General Schuyler, have you done anything on your committee about
Arnold’s assignment?” asked Mr. Livingston. “I have written to the
Commander-in-Chief and asked him to assign Arnold to West Point. His
wounded knee will not allow him to ride a horse and that fact unfits
him for active service in the field.”

“Yes, you are right, Mr. Livingston,” replied General Schuyler,
“Arnold is a valuable man. The soldiers admire him. We will assign him
to post duty and recommend giving him West Point, if he declines to
take the field. The Commander-in-Chief wishes him to be active in the
coming campaign, but if Arnold insists upon garrison duty, he may get
whatever he wishes.”

This settled the matter in the mind of Segwuna, for she knew that
Arnold desired West Point. Now Segwuna must determine what she ought
to do to keep her eyes on Arnold and Barclugh at the same time. She
learned from the fish-vender, Sven Svenson, another point that put her
on her guard.

Sven was ambling along Market Street with his fish cart, when Segwuna
stopped him and said:

“Good morning, Sven, what is the news in town?”

“Val, I hap gude news, Miss Segwuna; Ganral Arnold has pade me up tan
pound starling an’ sax pance,” answered Sven as he showed the guineas
and smiled blandly at Segwuna.

“He vas going to da army to vark. I gass he vaants Vast Point. My
saster who varks for Mistrees Arnold, she tald mee so mach.”

“Do you think that he will get it, Sven?” asked Segwuna.

“Ah! He gats vat he vants,” retorted Sven, smiling more than ever.

“Thank you, Sven,” replied Segwuna knowingly, as she started on up the
street.

Philadelphia’s streets contained little knots of men and women
discussing the latest news, and everybody had it on his tongue that
General Arnold was about to leave town, and no one was sorry, for his
cold and overbearing manners had disgusted even his friends with him.

His extravagance and debts had brought unsavory gossip upon himself
and household. As Segwuna went through the market-place where two old
women,--seasoned gossips of the town,--stood and regaled each other,
she paused to hear their chatter:

“Have you heard about General Arnold and his spouse?” quizzed the first.

“What? About paying off his debts?” questioned the second.

“I wonder where he got the money? I heard that he sold merchandise to
the enemy,” continued the first one.

“No, he went to Connecticut last month and has just returned. He must
have had property there and sold it,” argued the second one.

“Have you heard what they named their boy?”

“No, what is it?”

“It’s Edward Shippen.”

“What? That old Tory?”

“Yes, that’s it. Those Shippens have turned Ben Arnold’s head. He’s not
the same since he became mixed up with that lot.”

“Well, Ben Arnold used to be a fine soldier before he knew those
Shippens. Now he doesn’t want to fight, he wants to lie around and play
the dandy.”

“Yes, I heard that General Washington wanted him to join the army, but
his wife is afraid that he will be shot. That’s a pretty pass. I wonder
if she’s better than any of the rest of us? We have husbands and sons
fighting.”

“I wonder where they will put him? I heard that he wanted to go to West
Point.”

“Yes, if I were General Washington, I wouldn’t do anything like that.
There must be some fire where there is so much smoke. He doesn’t want
West Point for any good purpose.”

“Well, I believe Ben Arnold is all right at heart if those Shippens
didn’t have a noose around his neck.”

“Poor man! I feel sorry for him.”

“But, do you know that I started to go to market, and here I am talking
yet.”

“Yes, that’s my case too, I must go.”

“Come over to see me.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good-bye.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Segwuna came into Philadelphia every few days. She kept close watch
on the movements of General Arnold. She knew that as soon as he got
stationed at West Point, matters would begin to move between him and
Major Andre. Accordingly, she learned when Arnold left Philadelphia.
She also heard about ten days thereafter that he had taken command at
West Point, August 3.

There was nothing for Segwuna to do when she had learned that Arnold
was stationed at West Point except to be on the ground where she knew
the dealings between Arnold and Andre would take place. The next move
that she made was to get her affairs at home all arranged, and tell her
mother that she was going to New York.

She could meet Major Andre and advise him against his plot. If that
plan failed, she could make her way to General Washington and advise
him of the advance of the British troops. Thus her friends would have
no suspicions cast upon them for their intimacy with Barclugh. Then
when the plot had been foiled, she could return to Philadelphia and
advise Dr. Greydon about Barclugh’s participation in the plot.

Mollie Greydon was sitting on the portico at Dorminghurst just after
a visit from Mr. Barclugh one warm afternoon in the latter part of
August. She had just been receiving the most marked attentions from her
lover. He never missed paying his respects to her at least three or
four times a week.

On this afternoon, Segwuna came tripping down the avenue of hemlocks,
and before she got to the portico, Mollie put down her needle-work, and
ran to greet her.

“Why, Segwuna,” she said, “you have been so mysterious of late, I have
not seen you for over two weeks. What has been the matter? I have
something to tell you, my dear.”

“I have come, my sweetheart, to tell you that Segwuna is going away.”

“Going away?” cried Mollie. “What for?”

“I am going to New York for General Washington,” replied Segwuna. “His
enemies are conspiring to defeat his plans and Segwuna’s duty calls
her to go. I have studied out what my duty is and I have worked to get
ready to go now. But before I go, I thought that I would come and tell
you.

“You must not let any one know where I am going, not even your father,”
cautioned Segwuna.

“Very well, Segwuna. Now I must tell you a secret of mine,” returned
Mollie. “Do you know, Mr. Barclugh has asked me to marry him?”

“Have you promised him?” demanded Segwuna impulsively, as her face
became the picture of solicitude.

[Illustration: Mollie put down her needle-work and ran to meet her.]

“Why do you look so eager and ask me that question?” asked Mollie
impatiently.

“But tell me, have you promised? If you have, I know that you would
have told me,” argued Segwuna.

“No, I have not promised. I asked a month to consider.

“I also wish to learn about his family and his business. I believe that
he loves me, and I believe that I could love him. He is so handsome,
and a perfect gentleman,” continued Mollie.

“Very true, my dear Mollie. I know that he loves you. He may be very
rich too, but you must know all about his business. He has been in
Philadelphia less than a year. He was introduced by Benjamin Franklin,
but his business is unsettled. Privateering is very precarious,” argued
Segwuna.

“Now, my dear Mollie, Segwuna’s life is devoted to yours. Promise me
just one thing. Do not give your consent until Segwuna returns. If you
promise him in this moon, your life may be unhappy. Wait until the next
moon and everything will be clear.”

“I believe that your advice is good. I must be certain that he loves me
and that I could make him happy, before I consent. Because, when I once
promise, my lot is cast,” reasoned Mollie, as Segwuna kissed her, and
walked sprightly down the avenue of hemlocks.

Mollie was resigned to wait. The wisdom of the Quaker character was
sufficiently grounded in her to cause her to be sure of her step before
she made one, and there were so many things to be considered before she
could promise.

Segwuna looked a perfect picture of nobility of character this evening,
when she left Mollie at Dorminghurst. Her tall, lithe figure and
elastic step, her dark hair hanging in a braid upon her back, her
long, oval face, firm mouth, deep-set eyes, aquiline nose, bare head
and olive complexion combined to produce a distinguished presence. Her
dress consisted of a tunic of buckskin, a short skirt, leggings and
moccasins of the same material. She wore no ornaments and the only
thing that encumbered her on her journey was a bag or knapsack made
of fine buckskin suspended on her back by means of a strap over her
shoulders and breast.




CHAPTER XXXV


Barclugh grew impatient and chafed under the uncertainties of his
position. He had restricted all of his business since his illness to
the plot with Arnold and to the establishment of a bank among the
merchants. Arnold was now at West Point and had been joined by his
wife. The latest despatch that Barclugh had in Philadelphia from Andre
was that negotiations had been opened up with Arnold and that he
expected to have the whole matter consummated within a week.

In spite of the apparent serenity of his affairs, he paced the floor by
day and tossed in his bed at night. The thoughts of Mollie Greydon’s
demeanor of late disturbed him.

“She does not enter into conversation with her former frankness and
abandon. There must be some restraining influence at work. I must
have this uncertainty off my mind. I shall go to her to-morrow and
have my mind clear about her love for me. Her time of a month for
the consideration of my proposal will be up in a week, but I cannot
postpone this longer. I must settle the matter to-morrow.”

On the day succeeding his resolution, Barclugh went to Dorminghurst
early in the afternoon and invited Mollie to accompany him on a
horseback ride to the Delaware.

Mollie received her suitor with a gracious smile, as it was perfectly
evident that she admired Mr. Barclugh (for in spite of his despicable
secret mission he was worthy of better things) and the two very soon
were on their way, gayly cantering down the avenue of hemlocks.

The afternoon was one of those sere, autumn days in late October. The
sun shone through a hazy smoke and the air was crisp and bracing. The
smoke curled out of the chimneys, lazily ascending, loath to leave the
environment of its former condition in the fireplace; but the calm
atmosphere allowed the ethereal vapor to hover about the old chimney
and house and to fill the hemlocks with a pungent incense.

This pungency of the smoky atmosphere oppressed Barclugh but to Mollie
it was like a sweet odor. She rattled off small-talk, as, aglow with
her buoyant spirits, she rode her prancing bay.

Barclugh never had such a task to perform as now confronted him. To
broach the subject nearest his heart would cast a gloom over the one
whom he loved better than his own life. As he rode closely to the
side of his companion, he could feel his heart throb violently, and
as he sat stolidly in his saddle, between his monosyllabic answers to
Mollie’s gayety, he thought:

“What ails you, old soul? Are you losing the power of speech? What
a pity to molest the happy life of such a perfect being! But we are
selfish. Yes; her life must be linked with mine. She can make me a
better man. Is it something in the poise of her head? is it something
in the way that she rides her horse? No, it is what she thinks, her
unconscious nobility of soul, that enthralls me.”

“Well, Mr. Barclugh, let us take a spurt on this fine stretch of road.
My Prince is chafing for a dash,” suggested Mollie as she looked up
into her companion’s face, who evidently was in a reverie.

“Good!” exclaimed Barclugh, somewhat startled. “Let’s go!” So he
spurred his horse and as if by magic the two finely-bred steeds
responded to the spirit of their riders and leaped into the air for a
brush.

Barclugh at once was on his mettle. To be challenged for a race by the
one whom he adored was the tonic needed for his soul. The somber spell
that depressed him was gone as he turned and saw Mollie urge on her
steed. She was a daring horse-woman; her mount was peerless. Barclugh
felt the blood mount to his hair as Mollie came up and rode past and
smiled roguishly at her lover as she distanced him.

Mollie reined in and turned around with her face full of animation as
she asked spiritedly:

“How’s that for my Prince, Mr. Barclugh?”

“Splendid! splendid!” exclaimed Barclugh in admiration of the restless
steed and the aristocratic form of Mollie, who, breathing fast, glanced
at her whip with which she struck her habit, for she intuitively felt
the ardor of Barclugh’s gaze and the blood mounted to her cheeks.

Here was the moment for Barclugh to ask the question uppermost in his
mind. But he did not. The power to encroach upon the sacred precincts
of the innermost soul of the one whom a refined nature loves is like
admiring the rose and then tearing up the roots that give it being. A
refined nature pauses at desecration.

Barclugh had offered himself, and Mollie had asked a month to answer.
The gnawings at a man’s heart often lead him through labyrinths of
impatience and indiscretion that are hard to untangle and bring him
into paths that are serene and pure. But on the other hand, it often
happens that the woman withholds her answer to a man’s avowal because
she must satisfy the questionings of a heart that needs more than a
mere avowal to convince her that the man is sincere and thoroughly in
earnest.

However, the exhilaration of the gallop with Mollie had cleared the
cobwebs from Barclugh’s brain. He looked upon Mollie as magnificently
noble and pure. She would certainly answer him at the end of the month
and if then she could not declare herself, he would know that some
further proof of his devotion must be made.

“Yet after all of the fine calculations that one can make,” thought he,
“love thrives without reason.”

Their way now lay through a wooded glen. The horses stepped smartly and
pranced proudly as their nostrils extended out of their classic heads.

“How beautiful this day!” exclaimed Mollie with enthusiasm. “I rejoice
to be here!” as she stroked the arched neck of her steed with her
shapely gloved hand. Mollie rode her horse as though she were mistress
of the situation. Her feminine intuition told her that her lover was
craving to declare his devotion, but she would have despised him for
it. She knew that the ground on which she trod was sacred until the
four weeks had passed. Yet she was fearful lest the promise to Segwuna
could not be kept. Her party was to be held in two days and she was to
dance in the minuet with Mr. Barclugh. She was satisfied as things were.

“What makes you so happy and beautiful this evening, Miss Mollie?”
ventured Barclugh at last.

“I don’t know,” replied Mollie archly.

“May I guess?” queried Barclugh after some reflection.

“Don’t guess. I don’t like guessing,” retorted Mollie impatiently.

“But you _will_ allow me this time?” returned Barclugh in his most
dulcet tones.

“No; I can not,” replied Mollie, as she spurred her horse and started
on a canter, Barclugh following her lead.

“Look! Mr. Barclugh, there is the Delaware!” exclaimed Mollie as she
pointed toward a broad expanse of the river, at the same time looking
at Barclugh with a roguish twinkle in her eyes.

“Confound those four weeks,” thought Barclugh; then he said:

“I don’t see so much in that to rave over. I am interested in better
views. I am interested in you, just now.”

“Nonsense! Mr. Barclugh,” protested Mollie. “You ought to have better
sense,” while she good-naturedly laughed at the evident discomfiture of
her lover.

Barclugh now colored, for he felt sheepish in his awkward position.
In another instant, however, he smiled, himself, and they rode down
the banks of the Delaware discussing pleasantly the beauties of the
landscape.

Barclugh recognized the fact that the fates were against him and
he concluded that the better part of valor was to wait for a more
propitious time. However, something within told him that the present
was his opportunity, for he thought:

“He who hesitates is lost.”

The road now took them over the Wingohocking as the crimson setting
of the sun shone over the rippling water and the autumnal hues of the
landscape mellowed the disappointment in his breast.

When the avenue of hemlocks at Dorminghurst was passed and he led
Mollie from her horse up to the portico, Miss Mollie smiled more than
graciously as she said:

“Now, Mr. Barclugh, I shall depend upon you at my party for the minuet.”

“Thank you, Miss Greydon,” replied Barclugh, bowing very low, “but
don’t forget that I shall claim my answer in another week.”




CHAPTER XXXVI


We next find Segwuna in New York. She was well acquainted with the
way thither, for she had traversed it many times. While pursuing her
purpose in New York, Segwuna lived with a small band of Iroquois on
Staten Island.

Segwuna found much favor among the ladies of the English officers, for
her skill as a prophetess was already established.

She now made it her particular business to call often upon the ladies
of General Clinton and General Knypthausen; and, also, upon Major Andre
in his office, one afternoon, when the principal business of the day
was over.

The offices of the Adjutant-General of the British Army were at No. 1
Broadway, in one of those old Dutch houses the entrance of which led up
a short flight of steps to a huge door having an iron knocker.

Dormer windows faced the street in the second story, and the hip
roof was covered with shingles that were coated with moss and
lichens,--evidences of an ancient construction.

When Segwuna rapped with the iron knocker on the huge door, a
red-coated English Sergeant opened it, and the prophetess modestly
inquired:

“Is Major Andre in?”

“Yes, Madam,” was the reply.

“May I see him?”

“He is very busy,” returned the Sergeant. “Will you give your name, and
state your business?”

“Tell him that Segwuna, the Indian prophetess, has news to tell him.”

“Will you come in and be seated?” continued the military man, who
ushered her into the outer office of the Adjutant-General.

Segwuna went into the outer office and sat down while the Sergeant
rapped on the door of the private office, and a voice within said:

“Come in.”

The Sergeant opened the door carefully and walked up to the desk of the
Adjutant-General and stood at attention until Major Andre turned from a
letter on his desk and glanced up at the soldier, who saluted:

“What is it?” brusquely asked Andre.

“A young Indian woman, who calls herself Segwuna, the prophetess,
wishes to bring you news.”

“Show her in, Sergeant Donovan,” ordered Andre.

The Sergeant went to the outer office, and politely informed Segwuna:

“The Adjutant says that he will see you, Madam.”

Segwuna tripped lightly to the door and entered the presence of one of
the most polished and handsome gentlemen of the British army. Dressed
in the most fastidious manner, his young and pleasing face shone
out with an animated expression of good-will as he arose and bowed
gracefully to Segwuna and said:

“Be seated, Miss Segwuna. I have heard very pleasing accounts of you
from Madam Clinton. Do you wish to tell me what my fate will be, this
evening?”

He had heard the ladies of his acquaintance raving over the wise and
peculiar speeches of this Indian maiden, and Major Andre thought that
he also ought to have something to relate.

A weak point in the military composition of Andre was his romantic and
artistic disposition. He loved the society of ladies. His graceful
manners and polished speech and writings gained him friends among the
ladies of his associates; but his love of foibles and gossip led him
into channels that detracted from his military achievements.

When Segwuna proposed to tell his fortune, he yielded from the very
constitution of his nature. He desired to have a good tale to tell
his lady friends at the next dinner party, where he was sure to be
lionized.

Segwuna simply replied to Major Andre’s question, modestly:

“Yes, Major Andre.”

“I hope that I have no very bad omen in my fortune, Miss Segwuna?” said
Andre, quizzically.

“Well, Segwuna shall have to tell you the truth, Major Andre,” replied
Segwuna soberly.

“All right, do you believe that I am going to succeed in my enterprise,
Segwuna?” asked Andre, bluntly.

“That depends on the will of the Great Spirit, Major Andre,” began
Segwuna, as she started to relate her account to the Adjutant-General.

“Segwuna sees that something very momentous to you and your cause is
going to happen this moon. The nature of your business concerns the
fate of a great fortress and a brave general. I can see the general
walking up and down the bank of a great river, waiting to speak to you.
He wants you to come to him, but if you go to him, he is sure to give
you directions that will bring ruin to you.

“These enterprises will require you to travel by land and by water. If
you keep on the water, you will have no harm come to you, but beware of
the land.

“The Great Spirit has been kind to you, but he does not love your
cause. You are fighting against the will of the Great Spirit when you
try to subdue the land to which he gave the Indian corn. The Great
Spirit hath decreed that every man is to be his own master, and there
is to be no distinction between men, in the land of the Indian’s corn.
If the hunters starve, the chiefs are to starve also.

“I can see that you expect a letter of importance. It is to be brought
by a boat and a fisherman from a distant city. The letter comes from a
gentleman that has your secrets. He writes under a different name from
his own.

“There are many trials for you to pass through during the next moon,
and if you leave the city on a journey to the general walking on the
banks of the great river, you shall lose your life.”

Segwuna paused and said no more.

Andre sat as though fixed to his chair. His thoughts were afar off.
The words of the Indian maiden seemed to stun him, and confound his
understanding. He started to rise and to speak, but he sat down again,
turned away and began to think.

At last he regained enough presence of mind to state to Segwuna:

“I am profoundly impressed with what you say. I shall be pleased to
consult you again. I hope that I shall reward you sufficiently by
giving you this small token of my esteem,” as he arose and held out in
his hand a guinea for Segwuna to accept.

Segwuna arose and declined the proffer of the gold by declaring with
dignity:

“I thank you, Mr. Andre, but the Great Spirit hath no token of worth,
except His bounteous love and kindness.”

Major Andre could say nothing. He was dumbfounded. He simply bowed
Segwuna out, overwhelmed by the startling revelations made by this
sagacious Indian prophetess.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Major Andre went back to his desk, and sat down for serious reflection.

He reasoned with himself:

“Here was a picture of Arnold and Barclugh. How did this simple Indian
maiden get such knowledge of my secret affairs? She can have no means
of gaining this knowledge. She is simply inspired.”

During the next week, Andre could not dispel the visions of Segwuna’s
prophecy. He did not dare to tell his friends, not even General
Clinton, for they would think him ridiculous. He was naturally timid,
and these words made him doubly so. They made him hesitate more than
once as to what he ought to do. Whereas he was formerly all enthusiasm
about his plot with Arnold, he now began to be doubtful and suspicious
of his own ability. The thought of the ire of the Great Spirit of the
Indian maiden being brought to bear against the project that he had in
hand worked upon the fancy of Andre’s poetical nature and unnerved him.

However, the Commander-in-Chief, General Clinton, had ordered Andre to
carry out these plans of ensnaring Arnold and taking West Point by
bribery, for it had been through the correspondence started by Andre
himself, that Arnold was led into correspondence with the enemy. The
whole plan had to carry or fall by the exertions of Andre’s own skill.

A letter was received by Major Andre at this time which read as follows:

                                                Phila., August 20, 1780.

  “Sir: I have heard from Mr. P---- about the arrangements to sell you
  the goods that you spoke of in your last favor.

  “He has every detail arranged, but he must meet you to make the
  contract in person. My authority in the matter has now come to an end.

  “He is still of opinion that his first proposal is by no means
  unreasonable, and makes no doubt, when he has a conference with you,
  that you will close with it. He expects when you meet that you will
  be fully authorized from your house; that the risks and profits of
  the co-partnership might be fully and clearly understood.

  “I am in behalf of Messrs. M---- and Co.

                              “Sir, Your Obedt. & Hble. Servant,

                                                            “_Gustavus_.

  “Mr. John Anderson, Merchant.”

John Anderson answered the above letter. Then, a few days thereafter,
information was received from Gustavus, agreeing to meet him at any
convenient point, if he, John Anderson, would make his way to the
American outposts above White Plains; that he would be secure under the
protection of Colonel Sheldon, who was prepared to meet him.

Arnold had informed Colonel Sheldon that a person was to come from New
York, to the latter’s quarters, whom he desired to meet for the purpose
of establishing a channel of secret intelligence with New York.

Accordingly, Colonel Sheldon received the following letter, which was
so uncertain and enigmatical that Colonel Sheldon despatched it at once
to General Arnold:

                                           “New York, September 7, 1780.

  “Sir:

  “I am told my name is made known to you and that I may hope your
  indulgence in permitting me to meet a friend near your outposts. I
  will endeavor to go out with a flag, which will be sent to Dobb’s
  Ferry on Monday next, the 11th instant, at twelve o’clock, where I
  shall be happy to meet Mr. G----. Should I not be allowed to go, the
  officer who is to command the escort, between whom and myself no
  distinction need be made, can speak on the affair. Let me entreat
  you, sir, to favor a matter so interesting to the parties concerned,
  and which is of so private a nature that the public on neither side
  can be injured by it.

                                               “(Signed) John Anderson.”

  To Colonel Sheldon,
      Salem.

Sheldon was confused by the mention of an officer taking the place
of John Anderson, and therefore sent the letter to Arnold, who tried
to explain the mysticisms in the letter to Colonel Sheldon as best
he could; and replied that he would meet the flag and the gentleman
himself at Dobb’s Ferry.

Arnold also instructed his subordinate that if he did not meet John
Anderson, by any mishap, word must be sent to headquarters of the
arrival of the gentleman within the lines, and that John Anderson must
be sent to his headquarters with an escort of two or three horsemen.

Arnold went down the river in his barge as far as King’s Ferry on the
afternoon of the 10th instant, and remained over night at the house of
Joshua H. Smith, who resided near the Ferry.

Early on the morning of the 11th instant, Arnold proceeded by barge to
Dobb’s Ferry for the purpose of meeting Andre. An accident prevented
the interview. As Arnold was approaching the destination, his barge was
fired upon by British gunboats and pursued closely enough to endanger
his life and possibly result in his capture.

He landed, therefore, on the west or opposite side of the river to
Dobb’s Ferry, and went down to the ferry landing, where he remained
till night, hoping to see Andre. At all events, he failed to have a
meeting on this journey.

The astonishing forecast of Segwuna had made Andre over-cautious and
timid. He did not choose to hazard his mission by land to Colonel
Sheldon. He chose the safer communication by water. He went to Dobb’s
Ferry with Colonel Beverly Robinson, and looked for Arnold to come in
his barge, but the firing upon the barge makes clear why Arnold did not
get to the rendezvous.

The timidity of Andre now explains the ultimate failure of the plot.
Arnold was obliged to explain his public journey down the Hudson, by
writing to General Washington to the effect that guard boats and signal
lights were necessary precautions to warn the country of the approach
of the enemy up the river.

The object of Segwuna’s visit to New York had been accomplished. She
had intimidated Major Andre, and foiled the treachery of Arnold. If the
interview as first planned at Dobb’s Ferry had taken place the recital
of subsequent events would have been unnecessary.

Now complications arose. Every fresh move that Arnold made required
explanations as to the movements of John Anderson. A second attempt
to have Andre meet with him by means of the overland route was not
considered favorably by Andre. He would not attempt to meet Arnold,
except under the pretense of an exchange of flags.

The only way for General Arnold to successfully accomplish his
treachery was to meet Major Andre personally, plan the surrender of
West Point and have his emoluments and rewards guaranteed. He depended
upon such a meeting and was bold enough himself, but his first
attempt at Dobb’s Ferry was empty of results and he was now thrown
into cautious movements. He had to explain to the Commander-in-Chief
about his public trip down the river; and the fact that he had been
fired upon and pursued by the enemy’s gunboats gave notoriety to his
whereabouts. The failure of the Dobb’s Ferry interview must rest upon
Andre, for Arnold was truly bold and fearless in his approach within
the enemy’s lines; Andre must have been intimidated by the warning of
Segwuna.

Arnold returned to his headquarters from Dobb’s Ferry disappointed and
nonplussed. He wrote from Robinson House at once to Major Andre:

“I have no confidant here. I have made one too many already who has
prevented some profitable speculations.”

Arnold’s anxiety for a meeting was now only exceeded by that of the
British, after the first failure; so Arnold stated that he would send
a trusty person to the east side of Dobb’s Ferry, Wednesday evening,
September 20th, who would conduct Major Andre to a place of safety
where a meeting between the principals could be held without fear.

Arnold added:

“It will be necessary for you to be in disguise. I cannot be more
explicit at present. Meet me if possible. You may rest assured that, if
there is no danger in passing your lines, you will be perfectly safe
where I propose a meeting.”

The letter was signed Gustavus and addressed to John Anderson, Merchant.

However, before these instructions reached Major Andre by Arnold’s
secret messengers, the British General Clinton became very anxious and
dispatched the Sloop-of-War Vulture on the scene, with an emissary on
board in the person of Colonel Beverly Robinson, who was now in the
secret of the negotiations. He had also accompanied Andre to Dobb’s
Ferry when Arnold’s barge had been fired upon. The Vulture proceeded
to Teller’s Point within view of the American lines for the purpose of
awaiting developments.

The unexpected, however, always happens to hinder schemes. General
Washington came on a tour of inspection, at this juncture, and crossed
the Hudson at King’s Ferry in full view of the Vulture soon after her
arrival.

General Arnold came down, of course, from his headquarters, Robinson
House, to meet the Commander-in-Chief in order to throw off any
suspicions surrounding his movements.

Washington and his suite crossed in Arnold’s barge and as the Commander
viewed the Vulture through his glass and turned and spoke to his suite
in whispers it was noticed and commented upon, subsequently, that
Arnold blanched and showed much concern.

While still in the boat, Marquis de la Fayette turned to General Arnold
and with a desire to get information of the whereabouts of the French
fleet under Guichen, now approaching American waters, and with no
suspicions whatever upon Arnold, pleasantly requested:

“General Arnold, since you have a correspondence with the enemy, you
must ascertain as soon as possible what has become of Guichen.”

Arnold immediately colored up and demanded:

“Marquis de la Fayette, what do you mean by asking me such a question?”

The question of Arnold was surprising and uncalled for and he quickly
recovered himself.

Fortunately for him, the boat was nearing shore and the anxiety to land
interrupted the incident. Arnold imagined that his scheme was detected
and that he was to be captured in the boat.

Arnold went to Peekskill with Washington and his party. The next day
Washington went to Hartford to meet the French Commander and Arnold
returned to West Point in his barge.

The British now desired to get into direct communication with Arnold
through Colonel Robinson on the Vulture. Finesse had to be used to
deceive the watchful post-commanders on the Hudson under the command of
Arnold. So, under the protection of a flag of truce from the Vulture,
Colonel Robinson sent a letter to General Arnold asking the military
to protect his property since he had learned that his home was to be
confiscated by the State of New York for his defection to the British
cause.

General Arnold submitted the letter to his Commander at Fishkill and in
consequence General Washington did not approve of the proposal to have
an interview with the enemy concerning a purely legal affair.

The Commander-in-Chief informed Arnold:

“Such a conference would afford grounds for suspicion in the minds of
some people and I advise you to avoid it; the subject in which Colonel
Robinson is interested does not come within the powers of a military
officer and the Civil Government of the State is the only authority to
which he can properly apply.”

Arnold now used the name of Washington to answer Robinson’s letter. He,
therefore, despatched a boat openly to the Vulture, under an officer
and a flag.

Here came Arnold’s opportunity to give the British all the information
that he desired. The answer was in two letters,--one sealed within the
other. The outer one gave Washington’s reply. The inner one stated
secretly that he would send on the night of the 20th a person to Dobb’s
Ferry, or on board the Vulture. This person would be furnished with a
boat and a flag of truce. He wished that the Vulture remain where she
was until the messenger reached her. The postscript of the letter said:

“I expect General Washington to lodge here on Saturday night next, and
I will lay before him every matter you may wish to communicate.”

The inside one also contained a copy of the letter heretofore sent to
Andre to meet his messenger on the east side of Dobb’s Ferry on the
evening of September 20th. This was the 19th, and the three letters
were despatched at once to General Clinton in New York.

September 20th, Major Andre, having received Arnold’s letters, pressed
on to the Vulture and arrived at seven o’clock in the evening instead
of remaining at Dobb’s Ferry as at first proposed.

Andre was all expectancy when he arrived on board the sloop-of-war. He
waited for Arnold or his messenger, all night. The next day he wrote
General Clinton that he had made a second appointment with no results.
The interview must be very soon or suspicions would be aroused to upset
the whole plan.

A ruse was now invented by Major Andre to acquaint Arnold of his
whereabouts. Some parties had shown a flag of truce on shore to the
Vulture and a boat was sent to communicate with them. When a boat
with a flag from the Vulture approached the shore it was fired upon
from ambush. This violation of the usage of warfare was a subject for
remonstrance. Therefore, a letter was sent to General Arnold by Captain
Sutherland of the Vulture, claiming usage against the code of civilized
nations at war. The letter was in the handwriting of Andre and signed,
“John Anderson, Secretary.” Here was the information sought. Arnold
immediately set about the plan to bring Major Andre ashore for an
interview.

Joshua Hett Smith lived about two miles below Stony Point, near the
mouth of Haverstraw Creek. He had boats and boatmen. He was a confidant
of Arnold and was engaged, upon various occasions, to enter the enemy’s
lines for the Commander of West Point.

Arnold’s plan was finally fixed. He went to Smith’s house and sent two
boatmen with Smith to bring a gentleman, named John Anderson, from the
Vulture to a point four miles below Smith’s house, to a lonely spot on
the banks of the Hudson, in the darkness of midnight.

Arnold had provided Smith with three papers signed by himself.

When the boat started from the mouth of Haverstraw Creek it was
past eleven o’clock and the night was serene. The boat sped along
undiscovered until the lookout on the Vulture hailed and ordered the
men alongside. Smith mounted the side and was immediately ordered below.

There he met Captain Sutherland and Colonel Robinson. The latter he
knew personally, for Robinson had been his neighbor on the Hudson.
Smith handed over the papers from Arnold. The cunning displayed by
Arnold was portrayed in these documents. Shielding himself from
detection he secretly intimated his desire to meet Major Andre.

The first letter addressed to Colonel Robinson was as follows:

                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 21, 1780.

  “This will be delivered to you by Mr. Smith who will conduct you to a
  place of safety. Neither Mr. Smith nor any other person shall be made
  acquainted with your proposals. If they (which I doubt not) are of
  such nature that I can officially take notice of them I shall do it
  with pleasure. I take it for granted that Colonel Robinson will not
  propose anything that is not for the interest of the United States as
  well as himself.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”

The next letter was to deceive the guard boats, many of which were
stationed along the Hudson to intercept commerce with the enemy.

                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 21, 1780.

  “Permit Mr. Joshua Smith to go to Dobb’s Ferry with three men and a
  boy in a boat with a flag, to carry some letters of a private nature
  for a gentleman in New York, and to return immediately, he having
  permission to go at such hours and times as the tide and his business
  suit.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”

The third one conveyed the knowledge secretly that Arnold wanted Major
Andre to meet him on shore.

                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 21, 1780.

  “This grants permission to Joshua Smith, Mr. John Anderson and two
  servants to pass and repass the guards at King’s Ferry, at all times.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”

When the papers had been examined in the cabin of the Vulture, Colonel
Robinson excused himself and returned in a little while with a
gentleman whom he introduced to Smith as Mr. John Anderson. Smith and
Anderson entered the boat and were rowed to the point of rendezvous
arranged by Arnold with Smith. Arnold, concealed in the shadow of the
cliff, lay near the river bank anxious for the boat to return with
Major Andre. The exact spot had been agreed upon.

When the boat, which was heavy and cumbersome, at length arrived, Smith
scrambled up the bank and found Arnold in the bushes. Smith returned
and conducted Mr. Anderson to the spot. Arnold requested Smith to leave
them to conduct their conversation privately.

Arnold looked around to be sure that Smith was out of hearing when he
extended his hand to Major Andre, remarking in a subdued and resigned
tone:

“At last, Major Andre, my hour of deliverance has come! I hope no
difficulties stand in the way of our plans.”

Andre was more than eager for the exploit,--he was rashly anxious. His
voice showed evident emotion when he said:

“General Arnold, we stand ready to carry out our part. Can you
surrender West Point?”

“I am able to surrender to your forces the stronghold of our hopes,
and end the war for the mother country. It will be a blessing to my
countrymen and an everlasting benefit to the kingdom of Great Britain.
But, sir, how am I to be sure that the promise made me by Roderick
Barclugh will be carried out?” was the reply given the question of
Andre.

“General Arnold, I am the authorized representative of His Britannic
Majesty and for your services to the King you are to be paid twenty
thousand pounds sterling, part of which has already been advanced by
Mr. Barclugh, and you are to receive a commission as Brigadier-General
in His Majesty’s service. These emoluments are dependent upon your
accomplishment of your own proposals.”

“That’s all correct, Major Andre,” returned Arnold, “but how am I to
realize these terms if by chance you were to be killed or I was to be
detected in this business? My only safety is in having the whole matter
drawn up in the form of a writing.”

“But we cannot do such things here in the dark, General Arnold. You had
better defer too much formality for the sake of safety. You are dealing
with gentlemen,” argued Andre.

“But governments have no gratitude,” retorted Arnold, smarting under
his experience with Congress.

“Yet, how can we write in these bushes?” continued Andre. “I cannot see
my hand. I propose to get back to the ship from here.”

“There is no use for haste in our conclusions in this matter,” argued
Arnold. “I have to submit to you the plans of the works at West Point,
the disposal of the garrison, the time of the attack and how you shall
approach. I have brought an extra horse and you can ride with me to
the house of Mr. Smith. I shall guarantee you protection and safety in
returning to your lines.”

Andre understood what it meant to prepare for the details of this
enterprise and at last he reluctantly consented to go within the
American outposts as he said:

“I shall rely upon you as a gentleman to convey me in safety to my
lines. My commander has instructed me not to enter your posts; but
since you insist upon an agreement in writing, I shall have to comply
with your plans.”

“Major Andre, you need not say these words to me. I have been driven to
this course by the relentless attacks of those for whom I have done the
most. My heart went out at first to my country, but now it has turned
to stone. No gratitude was shown me. I needed money and from whom did
I get it? I got it from my country’s enemies. I needed sympathy for
my wounds. From whom did I get it? Not from my countrymen. I needed
encouragement to go out and win more glory for our cause. Where did I
get it? Not from my country. Bah! These very mountains taunt me for
being a fool! My die is cast and I am with you heart and soul. We must
succeed.”

“You speak nobly, General Arnold,” insisted Andre. “I am drawn to you
irretrievably and I am willing to run my risks along with yours. I
shall follow you even though my life were in the balance.”

At this juncture the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of
Smith from the boat, who said:

“Gentlemen, I believe that your time is drawing near to daylight and I
must leave this situation with the boat. We must not be discovered in
this position by the guards.”

These words decided the case. When Arnold and Andre realized their
position and when Smith informed them that the boatmen had refused to
return to the Vulture for fear of detection, both of the conspirators
mounted horses and started for Smith’s house, which was four miles
distant by the road through Haverstraw village.

Smith and the boatmen went by water to Haverstraw Creek, where the boat
was moored. At his house Smith met Arnold and Mr. Anderson who had
already arrived just at daylight.

The three took breakfast together, since the family of Joshua Smith had
been previously taken, by arrangements made beforehand, to visit with
their kinsfolk, the family of Colonel Hay at Fishkill.

During the morning, in a room overlooking Haverstraw Bay, Andre and
Arnold secretly concluded the plans. Andre made the agreement in
writing with Arnold, and Arnold gave to Andre a detailed description of
the redoubts at West Point and continued with a plan of attack for a
bloodless English victory.

But again the hand of Providence brings about unexpected events. While
these dealings were concluding, they heard the booming of cannon and
saw the Vulture drop down stream out of range of the battery posted by
Colonel Livingston to drive off the enemy’s ship.

Much concern now came over the principals in this drama. Arnold
reassured Andre by stating that Mr. Smith would convey him by boat or
land through the American lines. Passports from the Commanding-General
would insure safe convoy through the district under Arnold and then
when Andre reached the British outposts he could manage himself.

Providing Major Andre with three passes to meet all possible
contingencies, as he thought, and leaving him in the hands of Mr. Smith
as Mr. John Anderson, Arnold returned in his barge soon after nine
o’clock that morning, to his headquarters to await the results of his
treachery.

Following are the passes provided for the return of John Anderson, in
Arnold’s own handwriting:

                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 22, 1780.

  “Joshua Smith has permission to pass with a boat and three hands and a
  flag to Dobb’s Ferry on public business and to return immediately.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”


                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 22, 1780.

  “Joshua Smith has permission to pass the guards to White Plains and to
  return, he being on public business.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”


                                          “Headquarters, Robinson House,
                                                    “September 22, 1780.

  “Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the guards to the White Plains, or
  below, if he chooses, he being on public business by my direction.

                                         “(Signed) B. Arnold, M. Gen’l.”

Andre passed the day in hiding, awaiting impatiently for darkness to
come that he might be returned to the Vulture. But the more Andre
insisted, the more opposed Smith grew to the route by boat. However,
Smith won his point for reasons not entirely logical, and after Andre
had exchanged his officer’s red coat for one of Smith’s, and had
wrapped himself up in a great military coat with a cape, the two
set out on horseback, a little before sunset, accompanied by a negro
servant belonging to Smith.

The route lay across the Hudson at King’s Ferry from Stony Point to
Verplanck’s Point. The party, after stopping over the first night,
proceeded successfully until they reached Pine Bridge on the Croton
River where Smith left Andre to pursue his own course through the
neutral country.

Smith now returned to Robinson House and reported to General Arnold
where he had left Mr. Anderson. Arnold seemed to be more than pleased
with the progress events were making at this report. He felt sure of
Andre reaching King’s Bridge.

When Andre left Smith he also felt assured of his success, for he rode
boldly along until he was near Tarrytown.

Here he was accosted by three men dressed in the uniform of British
soldiers.

Their story is best told in their own words. Paulding, one of the
three, said, when relating the capture:

“Myself, Isaac VanWart, and David Williams were lying by the side of
the road about half a mile above Tarrytown, and about fifteen miles
above King’s Bridge, on Saturday morning, the 23rd of September. We
had lain there about an hour and a half, as near as I can recollect,
and saw several persons we were acquainted with, whom we let pass.
Presently one of the young men who were with me said:

“‘There comes a gentleman-like looking man, who appears to be
well-dressed and has boots on, and whom you had better step out and
stop, if you don’t know him.’

“On that I got up and presented my fire-lock at the breast of the
person and told him to stand, and then I asked him which way he was
going.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope you belong to our party.’

“I asked him:

“‘What party?’

“He said: ‘The lower party.’

“Upon that I told him:

“‘I do.’

“Then he said: ‘I am a British officer out of the country on particular
business, and I hope you will not detain me a minute.’

“To show that he was a British officer, he pulled out his watch, upon
which I told him to dismount.

“He then said:

“‘My God, I must do anything to get along.’

“He seemed to make a kind of laugh of it and pulled out General
Arnold’s pass, which was to John Anderson to pass all guards to White
Plains and below. Upon that he dismounted and said:

“‘Gentlemen, you had best let me go or you will bring yourselves into
trouble, for your stopping me will detain the General’s business. I am
going to Dobb’s Ferry to meet a person there and get intelligence for
General Arnold.’

“Upon that I told him I hoped he would not be offended, that we did
not mean to take anything from him; and I told him there were many bad
people going along the road, and I did not know but perhaps he might be
one.”

Paulding stated:

“If Andre had not declared himself a British officer, when he produced
General Arnold’s pass I would have let him go. However, when he pulled
out his watch my suspicions were further aroused.”

The three volunteers searched Andre, and David Williams, one of the
party, relates this part of the story most minutely:

“We took him into the bushes,” said Williams, “and ordered him to pull
off his clothes, which he did; but on searching him narrowly we could
not find any sort of writings. We told him to pull off his boots which
he seemed to be indifferent about, but we got one boot off and searched
in that boot and could find nothing. But we found there were some
papers in the bottom of his stocking next to his foot, on which we
made him pull his stocking off and found three papers wrapped up. Mr.
Paulding looked at the papers and said he was a spy. We then made him
pull off his other boot, and there were found three more papers at the
bottom of his foot within his stocking.

“Upon this we made him dress himself and I asked him:

“‘What will you give us to let you go?’

“He said:

“‘I will give you any sum of money.’

“I asked him:

“‘Will you give us your horse, your saddle, bridle, watch and one
hundred guineas?’

“He said:

“‘Yes, and I will direct them to any place, even this very spot, so
that you can get them.’

“I asked him:

“‘Will you not give us more?’

“He said:

“‘I will give you any quantity of dry goods or any sum of money, and
bring it to any place that you pitch upon, so that you may get it.’

“Mr. Paulding answered:

“‘No, if you would give us ten thousand guineas, you should not stir
one step.’

“I then asked the person who called himself John Anderson:

“‘If it lay in your power, would you not get away?’

“He answered:

“‘Yes, I would.’

“I told him:

“‘I do not intend that you shall.’

“While taking him along to the nearest post, we asked him a few
questions, and we stopped under a shade. He begged us not to question
him and said:

“‘When I come to any Commander I will reveal all.’”

Andre and all of the papers found on him were taken to North Castle and
turned over to Lieutenant-Colonel Jameson.

Jameson unwittingly sent Andre immediately under a guard toward
Arnold’s headquarters, and despatched a note with the officer in charge
of the escort, to Arnold, stating that a certain John Anderson was
taken on his way to New York. He also stated that certain papers found
in his stockings and which were of “a very dangerous tendency,” had
been forwarded to General Washington.

The mistake made by Lieutenant-Colonel Jameson was discovered by Major
Tallmadge, next in command, when the Major returned to North Castle in
the evening and heard the story of the capture. Jameson was convinced
of his mistake in sending the prisoner but he would not listen to the
idea of not informing Arnold, his Commanding General, of what had
happened. He did not suspect his superior in the least.

However, a messenger was despatched to overtake the escort and to order
the prisoner back to North Castle, but to still forward the message to
Arnold’s headquarters. The fate of Arnold now seemed problematical. But
a chain of circumstances favored the traitor.

Andre was ordered back and sent to Salem under Major Tallmadge.
A messenger was sent with the guilty papers to intercept General
Washington, now on his way to West Point from Hartford, and the first
messenger was riding toward Robinson House to inform Arnold of the
capture of John Anderson and the papers.

General Washington missed the messenger because he returned on the road
north of the one on which the messenger was sent.

On the morning when Washington was due at Robinson House to breakfast
with Arnold, two of the aides-de-camp of the Commander-in-Chief were
sent ahead to inform General Arnold that the General was delayed
because he wished to inspect the redoubts across from West Point, and
not to wait breakfast. General Arnold then sat down to breakfast with
Mrs. Arnold and the two aides.

During the progress of the meal a messenger arrived and presented the
Jameson despatches to General Arnold.

Arnold read them and excused himself from the table without a sign of
excitement. He went to Mrs. Arnold’s chamber and ordered a servant to
call Mrs. Arnold. When she came to him, he hurriedly explained that his
life depended upon escape. She swooned in his presence and he left her
prostrate on the floor.

He went to the dining-room and stated to the aides:

“I have to go to West Point and prepare for the arrival of the General.”

He then hurriedly mounted a horse of one of the aides and dashed to the
landing where his barge was moored. Then ordering his men to row with
all their might, as he drew his pistols and sat in the stern, he sped
past the guard boats with a flag and reached the British Sloop-of-War
Vulture, fifteen miles below Robinson House.

After introducing himself, he surrendered the innocent boatmen to the
British Commander and wrote a letter to General Washington asking
mercy for his wife.

After General Washington had inspected the redoubts opposite West
Point, he went with his suite to Robinson House. Upon their arrival
they were informed that General Arnold had been hurriedly called to
West Point. Washington ate his breakfast and started with all of his
staff except Colonel Hamilton. They took a barge across the Hudson to
the forts.

As Washington stood in the barge viewing the highlands about him, he
said:

“Well, gentlemen, I am glad on the whole, that General Arnold has gone
before us, for we shall now have a salute and the roaring of the cannon
will have a fine effect among these mountains.”

When no cannon was heard and they saw nobody astir among the garrison,
Washington exclaimed:

“What! Do they not intend to salute us?”

The General and his party landed and found no one to greet them except
the Commandant, Colonel Lamb, who was very much surprised to see his
distinguished visitors.

Washington addressed him:

“How is this, sir? Is not General Arnold here?”

“No, sir,” replied the Commandant, “he has not been here these two
days, nor have I heard from him within that time.”

“This is extraordinary,” continued Washington. “We were told that he
crossed the river and that we should find him here. However, our visit
must not be in vain. Since we have come, although unexpectedly, we must
look around a little and see in what shape things are with you.”

When the forts and redoubts had been visited and the garrison
inspected, Washington and his party returned to the barge and recrossed
to the Robinson House.

The letters and papers that had been forwarded by Lieutenant-Colonel
Jameson to General Washington had followed the Commander-in-Chief on
the road to Hartford until it was learned that the General had returned
to West Point by the upper road. Then the express retraced his steps to
Robinson House.

Colonel Hamilton was alone at Arnold’s headquarters when the
incriminating papers arrived and immediately opened the despatches in
the absence of his chief at West Point. Here were the papers found in
Andre’s stockings and a letter from Andre to Washington disclosing his
true character as Adjutant-General of the British army and relating his
entry within the American lines, his departure therefrom in disguise
and his capture.

Upon the landing of General Washington and his staff at the Robinson
House from West Point, Colonel Hamilton was seen to walk briskly toward
them, and when he spoke to Washington in an undertone, they retired
quickly together into the house.

Here lay the exposure of the whole plot when the papers were perused by
Washington, but too late to entrap the traitor. Arnold had gone over to
the enemy and had made his escape to the Vulture. Andre was a prisoner
at Salem and had written a confession of the part that he had played.

Mrs. Arnold had been left ignominiously by the traitor, her husband,
and in her distraction she wept and raved alternately and accused
General Washington and Colonel Hamilton, when they sought to console
her, with a plot to murder her child. Her lamentations were pitiable
and heart-rending in the agony of her despair. She clasped her child
to her breast as she stood in the doorway of her chamber, hair
dishevelled, as she hurled the bitterness of a woman’s tongue against
those who, history tells us, held nothing but the deepest sympathy for
her misfortune.

At last Mrs. Arnold returned to her father’s home in Philadelphia and
remained there until the Council of Philadelphia passed a resolution,
October 29th, as follows:

“Resolved:--that the said Margaret Arnold depart this state within
fourteen days from the date hereof, and that she do not return again
during the continuance of the present war.”

Major Andre was conducted under guard, to the vicinity of the
Continental Army at Tappan. He was there tried by a Court of Enquiry
composed of six Major-Generals and eight Brigadiers, found guilty as a
spy and condemned to be executed.

Arnold and General Clinton attempted to save Andre’s life on the ground
that he had Arnold’s pass. But as the pass was issued to John Anderson
it was void when applied to Major Andre.

Credit must be given Andre, however, that he did not seek
justification, personally, during his trial for his acts under a
flag or pass from Arnold. He was reconciled to his fate and died as
a brave and honorable officer, dressed in the full uniform of the
Adjutant-General of the British Army, at Tappan, October 2, 1780.

When Segwuna heard of the capture of Major Andre and the exposure
and flight of Benedict Arnold, she thanked the Great Spirit for the
fulfillment of her prayers. She did not exult in the downfall of the
participants in this attempted crime against her native land, but
she thanked the Great Spirit for the exposure of their perfidy and
dishonesty. She now could explain to her friends the part that was
played by Barclugh in this nefarious undertaking and if, then, her duty
had not been performed she could not help it.

At the first announcement in New York about the capture of Andre and
the flight of Arnold, Segwuna lost no time in retracing her steps to
Philadelphia.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


“You have been very quiet these past few weeks, Miss Mollie. What has
been the matter? We have not seen you,” contended Miss Sallie Redman,
when she greeted Mollie at the Greydons’ party.

The old mansion at Dorminghurst was brilliantly illuminated and the
guests were fast arriving in carriages, and passing up one side of the
double staircase and down the other.

People were beginning to come to Philadelphia for the autumn session
of Congress. The French army had landed at Newport, and the French
fleet was fitting out for a demonstration against New York or against
some other stronghold of the English. Enthusiasm among the Whigs was
running high. The Tories were beginning to look with more favor upon
independence. The French minister M. de la Luzerne was the popular lion
of the hour, and anywhere that he was invited was sure to be thronged
with the dignitaries of a new nation.

The Greydons began the social season for the purpose of preparing
society for the early announcement of the engagement between Roderick
Barclugh and their daughter. When the invitations were first issued,
the purpose was to announce the engagement at this time, but Mollie
would not yet give her consent to Barclugh. Dr. Greydon could see no
reason, but Mollie was waiting to see Segwuna. However, Dr. Greydon
consulted with his wife and decided that if the announcement of the
engagement could not be made, a social function at Dorminghurst at
present would crystallize the enthusiasm of the Whigs and bring the
counsellors of the nation together for an exchange of ideas and
sentiments.

Mollie received with her mother and Dr. Greydon when the guests came
into the reception room. She was beaming with good-nature but when she
saw Roderick Barclugh approaching with the brilliant and haughty Miss
Bessie Shippen on his arm the color rose to her cheeks as Barclugh
shook Mollie’s hand and lingered long enough to say:

“You charm me with your beauty and happiness this evening.”

Miss Shippen shook the hand of Mollie with hauteur and looked at her
gown with indifference; and when she and Barclugh passed on through the
crowded rooms, she remarked bitterly:

“I do not see why that young Quakeress turns the men so crazy.”

“Because she has sense, beauty and no guile in her heart,” retorted
Barclugh snappily.

Miss Shippen exclaimed:

“Ah, that is it!”

The Shippens, the Redmans, and the Chews were there among the chief
representatives of the Tory sentiment. They congregated in groups by
themselves and seemed to feel that their sentiments were not popular,
when they saw the brilliant assemblage of Whigs from every state,
conversing about the topics of the hour.

General Schuyler from New York was talking to M. de la Luzerne, the
French minister, about the campaign, spiritedly:

“This arrival of the French troops and the fleet at Newport has given
us new life, M. de la Luzerne,” explained General Schuyler. “General
Washington has gone to Hartford to meet Count de Rochambeau. Our
committee expect to hear from him at West Point on his return. The
campaign is expected to take on an active turn if Clinton moves out of
New York,” concluded the General.

“Thank you, General Schuyler,” returned the French minister suavely.
“By the way, General, did I ever tell you how Arnold wanted to borrow
money from me on account of his importance and influence in affairs?”

“Why, no. Do tell it,” insisted the General.

“This is strictly _entre nous_, General,” related the minister. “Arnold
wanted a loan from the French government and I quickly told him: ‘You
desire of me a service which would be easy for me to render, but which
would degrade us both. When the envoy of a foreign power gives, or if
you will, lends money, it is in order to corrupt those who receive it,
and to make them the creatures of the sovereign whom he serves; or
rather, he corrupts without persuading; he buys and does not secure.
But the firm league entered into between the King and the United States
is the work of justice and the wisest policy. It has for its basis a
reciprocal interest and good-will. In the mission, with which I am
charged, my true glory consists in fulfilling it without intrigue or
cabal, without resorting to any secret practices, and by the force
alone of the conditions of the alliance,’” concluded M. Luzerne.

“Bravo, bravo, M. Luzerne. That Arnold has given our committee much
concern and trouble. He is a brilliant leader, but he has no sense
of propriety or diplomacy,” asserted General Schuyler, who left the
minister as he seemed to be holding a small reception of his own,--so
many people pressed around him to say a word about the arrival of the
French troops and fleet.

The music and dancing were going on in the large rooms across the
great hallway from the reception room. Mollie was there holding court,
entertaining a group of the younger men with her brilliant repartee.

Family representatives of the members of Congress from the South were
there;--each family coming in an equipage of its own.

The minuet was danced in its stateliest fashion; Miss Greydon and
Roderick Barclugh, Sally Chew and Mr. Carroll, Miss Hancock and Mr.
Custis, Miss Schuyler and Richard Henry Lee, formed the set. As the
music swelled in rhythmic measure, the richly gowned mademoiselles
and the bachelors, scions of the most distinguished families, tiptoed
and curtsied through the sinuous changes of the dance, to the entire
approbation of the critical assemblage.

Mollie was showered with attentions and compliments, some even going
as far as to hint slyly at the attentions of Roderick Barclugh. Mr.
Livingston of New York saw the minuet and noticed Roderick Barclugh
dancing with the daughter of the host. He turned to Charles Thomson,
the Secretary of Congress, and asked:

“Mr. Thomson, who is this gentleman, Mr. Barclugh? I have heard his
name, but I never saw him before. Where does he come from to us?”

Mr. Thomson, who was always very reserved, replied quietly:

“He was introduced to us by a letter from Benjamin Franklin, who in
turn was asked to give him the letter by the French Monarch.”

Mr. Livingston then remarked:

“Well, the French Secretary must then know his antecedents. Ah, here is
M. Marbois. We’ll ask him.”

“M. Marbois, do you know who this gentleman, Roderick Barclugh, is?”
questioned Mr. Livingston.

“Yes,” replied the Secretary pleasantly. “He is the second son of Sir
George Barclugh, who resided, when living, upon his estates in England.
I have heard that he has been engaged in secret missions of diplomacy.
But I do not know what interest brings him to Philadelphia.”

“It doesn’t matter,” continued the member of Congress. “I have
understood that he is paying attentions to Miss Greydon. I was anxious
to know his antecedents.”

When this conversation was taking place between the French Secretary
and Mr. Livingston, General Schuyler went over to the latter
gentleman and touched him on the arm. The General was deathly pale
and immediately the two went to a remote part of the house and held a
hurried consultation.

“Mr. Livingston,” said the General. “The news has just reached the
city that General Arnold has gone over to the enemy and Major Andre,
Adjutant-General of the British Army, is a prisoner in the hands of
General Washington, and that our cause has just escaped a terrible
calamity.”

“What!” exclaimed Livingston. “Has Arnold gone over to the enemy? And
you and I had just pleaded with the Commander to give him West Point!
What did he attempt to do?” questioned Livingston excitedly.

“Why, he planned to surrender West Point,” answered the General.

“Is it possible?” cried Livingston. “We must leave at once. We cannot
tell what may happen, or whom to trust.”

The two members of the Committee on Military Affairs of Congress
hastily found the host and gave the news to him and left for the city
together.

The news soon spread throughout the house, and animated groups were
collected, discussing the news.

Mollie was talking to Barclugh and Mrs. White, the Rector’s wife, when
Sally Milling came up to the group and exclaimed:

“Have you heard the news that has just reached the city?”

“No, what is it?” asked the other three, almost in unison.

“Why, General Arnold has gone over to the enemy, and Major Andre is
a prisoner in the hands of General Washington, and a plot has been
unearthed to surrender West Point to the British!”

Roderick Barclugh stood as though stricken with paralysis. His face
became ashen white. He tried to speak but his voice failed him.

Mollie Greydon and the other two ladies looked at Barclugh for an
instant and then Mollie stepped toward him as she asked:

“What is the matter, Mr. Barclugh? Are you ill?”

“No, no. It is nothing,” muttered Barclugh. “You will excuse me,
ladies. I had better retire.”

Roderick Barclugh went to the table where refreshments were served and
after partaking of a glass of punch, he sought his hostess and Miss
Mollie, then left in his carriage for his lodgings.

As soon as the Shippens heard the news they retired precipitately, for
the information was too crushing to wait for any formalities.

Nothing could exceed the excitement that ran through the large and
brilliant assemblage at the Greydons’. Even the music and the minuet
could not keep the guests from a discussion of all the Arnold family
troubles for the past two years. Everybody was so astounded that a
gloom was cast over the social pleasures of the evening. At last a
general leave-taking was in order and the last carriage rolled down the
avenue of hemlocks at half past twelve o’clock.




CHAPTER XXXIX


When the party was over, Dr. Greydon went up to Mollie and taking her
by the hands, said:

“Mollie, my child, you looked your best to-night. I felt very proud.
Now, you must take your rest. The excitement of this evening has been
very hard for you.”

“Very true, papa dear, but can you not let us talk over a few of the
events of the evening? That is the best part of an evening affair,--to
talk over what people said and what happened,” contended Mollie, when
she sat down to rehearse the evening’s events in girlish fashion.

“What a pity it was that the news arrived about General Arnold just in
the midst of the gayest part of the evening,” continued Mollie bubbling
over with the animation of youth. “What a fine minuet Mr. Barclugh can
dance! I was more than delighted! But did you see how pale he became
when he heard about General Arnold? And did you see how the Shippens
took the news? It was awful! Well, everybody will remember this party
from the tragic episodes caused by the Arnold treason!”

“Now, there, there, Mollie, you are too much worked up. You must give
yourself rest and repose for we can not tell what the morrow will bring
forth in these stirring times,” insisted Dr. Greydon, as he went up to
Mollie and took her by both hands and kissed her.

“Yes, Mollie, you must have rest,” reiterated her mother, as Mollie
went to her and kissed her good-night.

But no sooner had Mollie departed than very serious matters presented
themselves for discussion between Dr. Greydon and his wife about their
only daughter.

Dr. Greydon arose and taking his wife by the hand, said in his most
tender tones:

“Martha, my dear, we have astounding revelations to discuss, and I wish
that you would come into my office and there go over the matter with
me.”

“Very well, William,” assented Mrs. Greydon. “I hope that it is not
very bad news,” she continued as she took Dr. Greydon’s arm and
both went to the office in the south elevation of the quadrangle of
buildings.

Dr. Greydon led the way to the office and conducted his wife to a large
easy-chair, when he sat down at his desk and began to discuss the
important matters on his mind.

“My dear Martha, our Segwuna returned from New York to-night and
came to my office. She brought me the news about General Arnold and
Major Andre. She also informed me that our Mr. Barclugh has been the
secret agent of the British in Philadelphia, and has been in secret
communication with General Clinton for the purpose of carrying out
Arnold’s plot,--the surrender of West Point to the enemy.”

“What! Mr. Barclugh, the agent of the British!” exclaimed Mrs. Greydon.

“Yes, the _agent_ of the British! He had offered General Arnold twenty
thousand pounds sterling and a Brigadier-Generalship in the English
army.”

“Oh, what perfidy,” cried Mrs. Greydon. “How does Segwuna know these
things?”

“She followed Mr. Barclugh to New York and saw him with Major Andre and
General Clinton. She learned much while nursing him during his case of
the _peste_; and finally she went to New York and interviewed Major
Andre, who showed his concern at what Segwuna knew of the plot.

“Segwuna brought the news of the failure of the plot to me to-night. I
did not mention it because I wished to have the news confirmed and I
did not wish to spoil Mollie’s party.

“Now, dear Martha, what shall I do about the affair for Mollie’s sake?”

“I would first be sure that the story of Segwuna is true. If it is
true, I have no fears about what Mollie herself would say,” contended
Mrs. Greydon in her practical way. “Mollie has not yet consented to
marry Mr. Barclugh. She informed me so this morning. She promised
Segwuna not to do so until her return.”

“God bless Segwuna!” exclaimed Dr. Greydon. “Our daughter is safe from
the disgrace of this affair.”

“My advice, William,” argued Mrs. Greydon, “is to go to Mr. Barclugh
and ask him if these statements are true. If he loves our daughter he
will tell the truth. If he tells the truth and admits his guilt, on
account of our daughter’s love for him we will save him from exposure.”

“But how will our Mollie take this affair? I believe that she loves Mr.
Barclugh,” asked Dr. Greydon.

“There can be but one way for Mollie,” insisted her mother. “I will
explain all to Mollie in the morning. You can see Segwuna and question
her further and then we will have it decided in your office to-morrow
morning.”

“You are right, Martha,” concluded Dr. Greydon. “We must not continue
this discussion longer to-night,” as he offered his arm to Mrs.
Greydon, and conducted her to her apartments and fondly kissed her
good-night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning Segwuna met Dr. Greydon in his office at nine o’clock.

Dr. Greydon questioned the Indian maiden at length about the plot, and
she told the story precisely as before.

Mollie, with evidences of severe weeping and intense mental anguish
written upon every line of her face, entered her father’s office with
her mother. She at once ran to Segwuna and embraced her and said:

“My Segwuna, you did all of this for me. How shall I ever repay you?
How sorry I am for Mrs. Arnold. I might now have been placed in a
similar position.”

“My dearest Mollie,” began Dr. Greydon tenderly. “How do you feel about
Mr. Barclugh’s proposal for my daughter’s hand?”

“Father,” answered Mollie firmly, “I can never love the enemies of
my country, especially those who fight her institutions by means
of subterfuge and corruption. My love has been shocked. He knew my
patriotism and he encouraged it; but he hoped to win me and bind me by
the holy ties of marriage. My heart is broken. I can never consent, if
he is an enemy.

“But, father, do not expose him. It would cost him his life and I know
he loves me. Spare his life for my sake.”

These words settled the matter to the evident satisfaction of both Dr.
Greydon and Segwuna.

Mollie and her mother left the office for the other part of the house,
and the Doctor and Segwuna took the carriage for Philadelphia and
Roderick Barclugh’s office.

Dr. Greydon walked into the office of Roderick Barclugh and confronted
him when he was busy with his clerk in the outer room.

“Mr. Barclugh,” began Dr. Greydon. “May I see you privately?”

“Certainly,” replied Barclugh, as he led the way to his private office
and left Segwuna in the outer room.

“I understand, sir,” said Dr. Greydon, sternly, “that you have been
the secret agent of the British in our midst, you, who have asked my
daughter for marriage. Now, sir, is that statement true?”

“By what authority do you make those statements, Dr. Greydon?” parried
Barclugh.

“I ask you as a gentleman, Mr. Barclugh, who has extended the
courtesies of his home to you, to answer a direct question.”

“But you would not ask me to incriminate myself, Dr. Greydon?” replied
Barclugh hesitatingly.

“No, sir. If you are guilty, for the sake of my daughter’s former love
for you, you may leave our country. If you insist on not answering I
shall let you be apprehended,” insisted Dr. Greydon.

“But what proofs have you that I am concerned in this affair?” asked
Barclugh.

Dr. Greydon stepped to the door and called Segwuna to their presence,
as he asked her:

“Segwuna, what proof have you that Mr. Barclugh is concerned in this
treason?”

Segwuna took from the inner pocket of her waist and placed in Dr.
Greydon’s hands the envelope containing the letter brought to Roderick
Barclugh by the Swedish fisherman.

“That is sufficient,” exclaimed Barclugh, “I am the arch-conspirator,
Doctor Greydon. I am at your mercy. I have been unjust to ask your
daughter in marriage. If you allow me to escape with my life, I shall
return to England and teach my countrymen that Americans can not be
corrupted. I will do more for the cause of your country than armies or
alliances. I owe my life to you and I pledge myself to do a duty that I
owe to a true American gentleman. I will try to convince my government
of the justice of your cause.”

Turning to Segwuna, Barclugh said:

“You saved my life, Segwuna, and you also foiled my plot. The loss of
that letter during my illness made us too cautious in dealing with
Arnold. We knew that some one had the information and we were fearful
of entering the American lines since some one knew our scheme.”

“It was not I,” returned Segwuna, “Mr. Barclugh, that foiled your plot.
It was the Great Spirit that laid you low with the _peste_ and put the
correspondence into my hands. God hates a corruptionist.”

Barclugh fled at once upon the retirement of Segwuna and Dr. Greydon
from his office. He precipitately left on the sloop of the faithful
Swedes with all the ready money that he had.

He reached New York and went to General Clinton.

General Clinton withdrew from the Beekman House when the news of
the execution of Major Andre reached him. He now lived at Number 1
Broadway, where he could be in constant touch with the stirring affairs
of his command since the death of his beloved Andre.

Arnold came to New York and took up his quarters at the King’s Arms
Tavern, Number 9 Broadway. Here he lived and entertained the belief
that the British cause was invincible. He began plans to bring success
to the royal arms.

He prepared and issued an address, “To the Inhabitants of America,”
a long and labored article justifying his treachery. Then, a few
days thereafter, he issued a proclamation entitled, “To the officers
and soldiers of the Continental army who have the real interests of
their country at heart and who are determined to be no longer the
dupes of Congress or of France.” It was simply an offer of bribery
to the Americans to desert their cause; but there were no responses.
A few loyalists rallied around his standard,--those who were seeking
officers’ positions in the British army. His mercenary spirit was
expressed in this appeal.

In the midst of these circumstances, Roderick Barclugh arrived from
Philadelphia. His first sight when he walked into the King’s Arms
Tavern was that of General Arnold pacing up and down before the
fireplace in the tap-room.

Arnold looked up and beheld with astonishment the tall and athletic
form of Barclugh. Until now Arnold never had quaked before mortal
man; but when the piercing glance of Barclugh met his gaze, a culprit
shivering like a whipped dog was all that stood before Barclugh.

Had the spirit of Washington appeared in his path, Arnold could not
have been more abject. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His
eyes lost all power of vision and rolled nervously, as though hunted,
in their sockets. Pitiable, indeed, in his moral transgression, stood
the man once the pride of the patriot army, before one whose only claim
to distinction was the gold that he could control.

Barclugh was amazed at Arnold’s collapse. He felt guilty and powerless,
himself. The love of Mollie Greydon had saved his life; he knew that
his gold could never have done so. Yet Barclugh felt that he must not
relinquish his power over the traitor, so he addressed him harshly:

“You have ruined us all, Arnold. I am thankful to be here alive. The
stain of Andre’s blood will always remain upon your escutcheon.”

The traitor, nervous and guilty, looked around the tap-room, and
whispered into Barclugh’s ear:

“We better discuss our matters more privately.”

Arnold now led the way to his chamber and there the two faced each
other.

Arnold began anxiously:

“Barclugh, have you heard of my wife and child?”

“No news, Arnold,” replied the financier.

“Well, what is to become of her? I am dying by inches from anxiety. I
would be willing to give up all for her safety,” wailed the traitor.

“Cheer up, don’t whine about losses from your unfulfilled contract,”
continued Barclugh.

“What! do I not even get my money?” exclaimed Arnold.

“Not a farthing more, if I can help it,” retorted the moneyed man.

“How do you make that out?” asked the General.

“Well, it’s business.”

“What’s business to do with an affair of honor?”

“An affair of honor?” queried Barclugh. “You left your honor behind
when you accepted money and agreed to perform your treachery and
receive the balance when the job was successfully done.”

“But you see, Barclugh, I have the agreement of Major Andre to cover
just such an emergency as this,” exclaimed Arnold as he struck with
exultation his breast pocket in which he had his writing signed by
Andre.

“Well, that may or may not be so, Mr. Arnold. You will now have to
settle your bargain made with Major Andre, with General Clinton. Major
Andre is dead. I represent the men of substance and I am not at liberty
to recklessly squander their money in a way that is not warranted,”
contended the envoy of the Bank Governor.

“Very well, sir,” concluded Arnold, who was now aware of the cold
blood of a financial agent when the deal fell through. “We shall go
to General Clinton and have this matter settled. I demand that you go
with me. If I am not given satisfaction for the sacrifices that I have
undergone, I will publish my agreement made with Andre. The world will
call you a pack of scoundrels, to deceive an honest man.”

“Scoundrels!” exclaimed Barclugh. “You better ask what your friends
will say as to that.”

Arnold and Barclugh walked to the headquarters of General Clinton,
Number 1 Broadway. A few steps took the two up the staircase to the
front entrance and then they were ushered into the presence of the
English Commander.

None of the three men was in a humor to talk very much, especially
Barclugh. After an exchange of formal greetings, General Arnold
commenced the discussion:

“General Clinton, I must know where I stand in my financial matters and
in my official position before Mr. Barclugh leaves.

“Of course, you know I promised to turn over West Point to your command
and my compensation was to have been twenty thousand pounds sterling
and a commission as Brigadier-General in the British army, but the
fortunes of war have turned against us. I am here under your protection
with nothing to insure my recompense except my compact with Major Andre.

“General Clinton, shall I receive the recompense due me or shall I be
treated with ingratitude such as I have received from the Colonial
Congress?”

“General Arnold,” replied Sir Henry Clinton, “His Majesty’s government
certainly shall not dishonor its obligations, but we cannot be asked
to pay the full amount that was promised when the transaction was
entered into. For those conditions depended upon the success of your
enterprise. We shall have to limit the payment to ten thousand pounds
sterling, less what has been advanced to you by Mr. Barclugh. Mr.
Barclugh has already advanced you about four thousand pounds, so that
your balance will be about six thousand pounds sterling.

“You will receive a commission of Brvt. Brig. General and its regular
pay.

“But, General Arnold, do you believe that we can win our cause now that
we have failed in our enterprise against West Point?”

“There can be no question in my mind,” returned Arnold, now that he had
been assured of his allowance and his commission. “We can raise a force
and take West Point by regular attacks. I shall prepare plans and
submit them to you for approval.

“Then,” continued Arnold, “the Colonies can not hold out against the
resources of Great Britain. We must fight until the tide of victory
turns our way. We cannot afford to lose. We must win.”

“What do you think about the situation, Mr. Barclugh?” asked General
Clinton, turning to the special agent of His Majesty’s government,
graciously.

Barclugh drew himself up to his full height and said bitterly, for he
felt that both of the men before him had made a mess of his plans:

“Gentlemen, if you want my candid opinion, I am forced to say that
you will not conquer the American Colonists if you fight from now
until doomsday. They are simple, fearless people, liberty-loving and
self-sacrificing. They have no need of money. They live next to nature
and fight and exist wholly within their own resources.

“My mission to the Colonies has been made utterly unsuccessful since
our plot failed. One cannot understand the temper of the people until
he has lived among them as I have. The mothers and maidens, as well as
the men, are fighting for their land. There may be a few malcontents
among them, like our new friend here (pointing over his shoulder with
his thumb toward Arnold), but they are only loud talkers and boasters,
and carry no weight.”

Arnold scowled at Barclugh, and General Clinton’s ire began to gather
force when the color mounted into his thick neck and his wine-flushed
face, as he exclaimed:

“What! do you mean to tell _me_, sir, that His Majesty’s armies can
never conquer the Colonies? Impossible! Sir, impossible!”

“That’s what I mean,” responded Barclugh coolly.

“Do you mean to imply, sir, that the forces under the command of
General and Sir Henry Clinton, K. B., are not able to carry out the
King’s commands?” demanded General Clinton.

“I mean,” replied Barclugh dryly, “that both General and Sir Henry
Clinton, K. B., are very much deluded personages as to the task before
them.”

General Clinton now turned and bowed to Roderick Barclugh and, with
lips firmly compressed, said:

“Mr. Barclugh, I have done with your information. I thank you.”

Then Sir Henry remarked as he took Arnold’s arm in his own:

“General Arnold, we better retire.”

The two generals, in oppressive silence, now turned their backs on
Barclugh and stalked out of the room.

Barclugh stood and watched their departure. He dropped his head in
silent reflection. Raising his eyes, the pent-up fire of an indignant
soul shone out of them. He said:

“Let them go! The hirelings of kingly power as I have been! They plan
to flatter the King and consider as a reward only the gold that they
receive.

“It is well that kings have gold for their use. For the bones that they
throw to their dogs would soon play out, unless the dry bones that are
rattled scare the whelps.

“My mission has failed! Why? The Americans are superior to the system
that makes hirelings of us all. No system of finance affects them.
They refused my gold. Mutual trust in each other, as men, made their
pieces of commissary paper as useful as my gold. Of all the men
that I met, Arnold was the only one that I could convince with an
Englishman’s argument, pounds sterling. American manhood is a product
of American soil. It has grown out of the forests and the streams. It
is incorruptible. If its ideals are lost in the greed for gold, the
debased have to flee America and seek an asylum, like Arnold, in the
bosom of the Englishman where pounds sterling can outweigh character
and manhood.

“I return to England. I give them back their accursed gold, and show
them that though Englishmen may think like Warren Hastings, that the
souls of men are expressed in pounds sterling according to their
stations, yet in one place in this world manhood stands above guineas,
and AMERICAN MANHOOD HAS NOT ITS PRICE!”




CHAPTER XL


We now come to the home affairs of Barclugh. He returned to England
after his interview in New York.

Arnold was not successful in his enterprises after his failure to
surrender West Point. He ravaged towns in Connecticut and in Virginia,
as a British Brigadier, with fiendish delight, and history tells us
that he led anything but a happy existence in England; and at last,
died in seclusion.

“Unwept, unhonored and unsung.”

Poor Andre! He was the victim of the ambition of youth. His superiors
depended on his ability to do extraordinary things; however, his nature
was too guileless to cope with the daring of a man like Arnold. He
ought never to have gone into the American lines. To have met Arnold
secretly again at their rendezvous would have been an easy matter. His
superior, Clinton, gave him explicit instructions not to enter the
American outposts; but Arnold’s headlong rashness led him into danger
and he paid the penalty with his life.

Lord Carlisle, the British Commissioner, returned to England and
history tells us that he became Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland and sank
into oblivion. He and George Selwyn were the prime movers in the plot,
the purpose of which was to get funds from government with which to
square the losses of Fox at the gaming-table.

Barclugh, however, though the main actor in the plot to hold America
within the sphere of kingly and aristocratical government, was, by
his actual experience among the Americans of all classes, convinced
that their position was invincible on the principles of free and
representative government. He could see that even though the British
were to get the seaports along the Atlantic and hold them, the sturdy
pioneers would retire into the mountains and fight until exterminated.
Then the French Coalition gave England an enemy in the front and rear.
He could see the end. He thought best to conclude the war, and, at
least, save the Canadas to the mother country.

Convinced with these conclusions he went to Mr. Prince, the Governor of
the Bank of England, and made his report. The principal arguments were:

“In the eight years of the war the population increased nearly one
million souls.

“The British and Hessian soldiery desert to take up free homes on the
new lands of America.

“The land is productive of every necessity in abundance.

“The Americans leave their plows to fight one day and then return to
them, to provide subsistence the next.

“Money appeals to very few of them. None except a few merchants in the
seaports care for money. Merchandise receipts issued by the government
pass as legal tender.

“Their depreciated currency does not affect them. They have no banks.
They all have faith in their cause and in their ability to redeem their
obligations when the war ends. Therefore, each one stands ready to
sacrifice his life and his substance for his principles.”

When Mr. Prince received these tidings he knew that they were reliable
and he merely concluded:

“The war must stop before we lose all. But,” he prophesied, “in less
than one hundred years hence, England will subdue the Americans with
her system of finance and her system of aristocratic society. An
Englishman’s title will not then go begging in America.”

When Lord George Germaine received the report from the Governor of
the Bank of England and Lord North received it, and, at last, the
King--the inner circles of government were astounded.

Following closely upon these events came the news of Cornwallis’s
surrender, and Lord North made his famous exclamation:

“O God! It is all over!”




CHAPTER XLI


Mollie Greydon could not arise on the morning after the interview
between her father and Roderick Barclugh. She sank into a low fever and
for two months she lingered between life and death while being nursed
by her faithful friend, Segwuna. In her delirium she talked about the
Assembly at the French Ministers and oft repeated:

“The dance is the language of love.”

Then she would see the horses galloping down the road beside the
Delaware where she outdistanced Roderick Barclugh on her thoroughbred,
“Prince.”

She would pass her hand over the bed-covering and pat it with such a
loving and gentle touch as she said:

“Noble Prince, noble Prince, you are such a fine horse, Prince. If he
does not love me, you do, don’t you, Prince?

“You were naughty, Prince, to run away from him that day. If I had only
let him say what was in his heart that day, I would have been so happy.
Yes, I would have been so happy! so happy!” And Mollie went to sleep
from mere exhaustion.

Segwuna and Mollie’s mother were seated beside her canopied bed and
their eyes filled with tears as they watched the darling of their
hearts suffering such anguish. It can come to one only once in a
lifetime.

Many times Doctor Greydon and Mrs. Greydon held lengthy consultations
when the disease took its insidious hold on the now wasted frame of
their beautiful daughter. It was such a delicate thread that held all
that was dear to them on earth. The image of little Mollie, their only
darling child, as she gladdened their souls with her childish prattle
passed through their minds. For hours at a time, they would sit and
watch silently at the bedside and in silence pray to the One that knows
the hearts of all: “to deliver from our midst the Dread Messenger that
hovers over our child.”

Mrs. Greydon would sometimes tearfully say: “William, maybe it was all
for the best that Mr. Barclugh came to us, for God can send him back as
a messenger from our Colonies and tell the truth to our cousins beyond
the sea. That is what Segwuna says and she is almost endowed with the
intelligence of the supernatural.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, if Mr. Barclugh is the gentleman that I think he
will tell the truth, and how our child would rejoice in any good that
he could do for our country. I would give almost any personal sacrifice
if I could restore my little Mollie to her strength. Yes, I would give
up my own life for hers,” and the great, strong patriot turned his head
and his voice choked and the noble heart of the man was overcome with
his emotions.

The long days and the longer nights of the vigil for the dear one
dragged along and along and the father and the mother seemed to age
perceptibly under the strain. But Segwuna never lost her hope. She
would say in her sweet voice:

“The Great Spirit of Segwuna’s fathers will watch over our little one
and bless her days with happiness.”

The malady had its course and one morning Mollie awoke and said in a
whisper, for she was very weak:

“Mama, where have I been?”

“You have been sleeping sweetly, my dear,” replied the mother softly:

“Oh, I had such a sweet dream. I saw his face, and he looked at me with
such kindly eyes,” came from Mollie as though an angel were speaking,
and she closed her eyes and smiled as though she were an infant again.

“God be praised,” whispered her mother. “My darling girl may be saved.”

Now the days seemed brighter and the nights shorter. Mollie began to
gather strength. In a week she was able to see her father and talk to
him for five minutes while she held his hand in hers.

In three weeks she was able to drive in the carriage on mild days. But
her heart seemed heavy. She watched for the mail. She thought that he
could not have given her up without a word. Weeks grew into months and
the spring came and the summer passed yet no word from the one she knew
was dearer to her than life.

But on a bright day in October, nearly a year from the time when Mollie
was taken ill, a large, brawny man approached the portico where Mollie
was seated, and raising his hat, he asked:

“Is this Dorminghurst?”

“Yes,” replied Mollie.

“I have a letter here for Miss Greydon.” And the hardened hand of the
man placed a packet in Mollie’s fingers.

“Why, it is from Mr. Barclugh!” exclaimed Mollie.

“Where did you get it, sir?” asked Mollie.

“I brought it from the inlet on the Jersey coast. It came from New York
by sloop,” answered the man, who was one of the fishermen Barclugh had
employed when he fled.

“Are there any fees, sir?”

“None whatever. I was charged to deliver it into the hands of Miss
Mollie Greydon. I have done so and my duty ends. Good day. I must
return,” was the short and unceremonious message of the boatman and he
left as mysteriously as he came.

But here it was, the word from Roderick Barclugh at last: A large
package emblazoned with a crest and the motto standing out in strong
contrast:

  “Post Nubes Lux”

Mollie opened it with nervous hand and she gazed at the bold
handwriting of Roderick Barclugh with an anxious face.

                                                Devon Court, Devonshire,
                                                        August 17, 178--

  “My dear Madam:

  “True to my pledge to your honored father I have changed my attitude
  toward the Colonies. Mostly from your precious lips I have learned
  to love your country and the principles that they are struggling to
  maintain. I am happy to inform you that the Colonies will very soon
  be free and independent States. The report that I have made to my
  superiors is enclosed and the conclusion has been made according
  to the information in my report that a war of extermination is
  impracticable and that England will honor the Colonies to establish
  which she has contributed the best blood in her realm and will wish
  them Godspeed.

  “Now as to my part in the unfortunate drama of Arnold’s treason I can
  only say: ‘Forget it and forgive me.’

  “If it had succeeded my only desire was to share with you the honors
  that I might have claimed.

  “My dear Madam, I love you with all my soul. Your affection is more
  to me than my country, my title, or even my life. If you would only
  consent to be my wife I will go whithersoever thou sayest or do
  whatsoever thou biddest. Be mine and we will be forever happy.

  “Since my return to England my older brother has died and the title
  has fallen to me. My fortune is now ample and we can live quietly on
  our estates. The world has little to attract me outside of domestic
  happiness.

  “With the sentiments that I have always held in my heart, and which
  no worldly conditions can change, believe me to be

  “With sentiments of my tenderest love, your faithful and obedient
  servant,

                                                     “Roderick Barclugh.

  “Miss Mollie Greydon,
    Dorminghurst, Penn., N. A.”

As the motto on Barclugh’s seal says, “After darkness there is light,”
so Mollie read and re-read his sweet words with increasing delight. Her
soul was athirst for what he said. But what would papa say?

After many family councils in the Doctor’s office, at last Doctor
Greydon gave his consent under one condition, which was: that Roderick
Barclugh would come to America and take the ups and downs of a common
American and rear his family as free American citizens.

Mollie wrote her lover after she had time to consider the meaning of it
all, as follows:

                                                           Dorminghurst,
                                                       October 30, 178--

  “My dear Mr. Barclugh:

  “I regret that my words can not properly convey my sentiments in
  support of your noble acts in giving justice to our struggling
  Colonies. My father feels grateful to you for what you have done.

  “As to the part that you took in the drama of war, our Segwuna says
  that you were a messenger sent by the Great Spirit to learn the truth
  about our people and to convey it across the sea.

  “My feelings for you have always been of the tenderest nature and I
  know that I could love and honor you as your noble spirit deserves.

  “There is only one consideration that I can ask before I pledge you
  my honor and my life:

  “My people left England to escape the perfidy of aristocratical
  distinctions in society. If you were plain Roderick Barclugh and
  could come and live our simple life in America, my heart would
  rejoice to be your bride. But for me to return to England, a titled
  person, I would be sacrificing the principles of three generations
  of my forefathers and I should always feel guilty of treachery to my
  dearest family ties. Thus it would be a mistake to try to make me
  happy and we had better bide apart although it would break my heart.

  “But if you could come to America and we should be wedded simply as
  Roderick Barclugh and Mollie Greydon my heart would rejoice and I am
  sure God would prosper us in our journey through life.

  “With my tenderest affection and esteem,

                                             “As ever yours,

                                                       “Mollie Greydon.

  “Sir Roderick Barclugh, Bart,
    “Devon House,
      “Devonshire, England.”

In the course of two months, Sir Roderick Barclugh received the answer
that Mollie penned, and when he read its contents, he kissed the paper
that held the precious words, and as soon as the war closed, after
Cornwallis’s surrender, he immediately took steps to transfer his
baronetcy to his next of kin and made all arrangements to wed Mollie
Greydon in the following spring.

He did not forget to do justice to Mrs. Arnold and her children before
he left England or resigned his title.

He secured a pension for Mrs. Arnold of three hundred pounds sterling
yearly and one hundred pounds yearly for each of Arnold’s children. He
felt the responsibility for Arnold’s rash deed to a very great degree.

In the balmy days of June following, the old mansion of Dorminghurst
was gay with the prospects of the wedding of its jewel.

The old hemlocks seemed greener than ever and the lover’s walk and the
old mill had its attractions for Mollie and Roderick in the prenuptial
days.

The wedding was celebrated in high pomp (for the Greydons had
practically gone back to the established church) by the Reverend Mr.
White, the Chaplain of Congress.

The war was over and the people were united. The drama of the strife
was past. Peace and its pursuits held sway.

Roderick Barclugh and his bride emigrated over the Alleghanies and took
up lands in the blue-grass region of Kentucky, where they lived in
happiness and contentment, rearing a large family.

Their love for fine horses brought the line of thoroughbreds that
distinguishes the soil of the State of “the dark and bloody ground.”

The descendants of the Barclughs have spread throughout the valleys of
the Ohio and the Mississippi, and they have ever shone in the councils
of our nation, being noted for their integrity, loyalty and patriotism.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.





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