But rank did not come unsought, or otherwise, to Philip's fellow volunteer from the Faringfield house, Mr. Cornelius. The pedagogue, with little to say on the subject, took the rebel side as a matter of course, Presbyterians being, it seems, republican in their nature. He went as a private in the same company with Philip.

It was planned that the rebel troops of New York province should invade Canada by way of Lake George, while the army under Washington continued the siege of Boston. Philip went through the form of arranging that his wife should remain at her father's house—the only suitable home for her, indeed—during his absence in the field; and so, in the Summer of 1775, upon a day much like that in which he had first come to us twelve years before, it was ours to wish him for a time farewell.

Mr. Faringfield and his lady, with Fanny and Tom, stood in the hall, and my mother and I had joined them there, when Philip came down-stairs in his new blue regimentals. He wore his sword, but it was not his wife that had buckled it on. There had been no change in her manner toward him: he was still to her but as a strange guest in the house, rather to be disdained than treated with the courtesy due even to a strange guest. We all asked ourselves what her farewell would be, but none mentioned the thought. As Phil came into view at the first landing, he sent a quick glance among us to see if she was there. For a moment his face was struck into a sadly forlorn expression; but, as if by chance, she came out of the larger parlour at that moment, and his countenance revived almost into hope. The rest of us had already said our good-byes to Mr. Cornelius, who now stood waiting for Philip. As the latter reached the foot of the stairs, Margaret suddenly turned to the pedagogue, to add her civility to ours, for she had always liked the bashful fellow, and his joining the rebels was to her a matter of indifference—it did not in any way affect her own pleasure. This movement on her part made it natural that Philip's first leave-taking should be of Mr. Faringfield, who, seeing Margaret occupied, went forward and grasped Phil's hand.

"God bless thee, lad," said he, showing the depth of his feelings as much by a tenderness very odd in so cold a man, as by reverting to the old pronoun now becoming obsolete except with Quakers, "and bring thee safe out of it all, and make thy cause victorious!"

"Good-bye, Philip," said Mrs. Faringfield, with some betrayal of affection, "and heaven bring you back to us!"

Fanny's farewell, though spoken with a voice more tremulous and eyes more humid, was in the same strain; and so was that of my mother, though she could not refrain from adding, "Tis such a pity!" and wishing that so handsome a soldier was on the right side.

"Good-bye and good luck, dear old Phil!" was all that Tom said.

"And so say I," I put in, taking his hand in my turn, and trying not to show my discomposure, "meaning to yourself, but not to your cause. Well—dear lad—heaven guard you, and give you a speedy return! For your sake and ours, may the whole thing be over before your campaign is begun. I should like to see a war, and be in one—but not a war like this, that makes enemies of you and me. Good-bye, Phil—and come back safe and sound."

'Twas Margaret's time now, for Ned was not present. There was a pause, as Phil turned questioningly—nay wistfully—toward her. She met his look calmly. Old Noah and some of the negroes, who had pressed forward to see Phil's departure from the house, were waiting for her to speak, that they might afterward call out their Godspeed.

"Good-bye!" she said, at last, holding out her hand indifferently.

He took the hand, bent over it, pressed it with his lips. Then he looked at her again. I think she must have shown just the slightest yielding, given just the least permission, in her eyes; for he went nearer, and putting his arm around her, gently drew her close to him, and looked down at her. Suddenly she turned her face up, and pursed her lips. With a look of gladness, he passionately kissed her.

"God bless you, my dear wife," he whispered; and then, as if by expecting more he might court a disappointment to mar the memory of that leave-taking, he released her, and said to us all: "Take care of her, I pray!" whereupon, abruptly turning, he hastened out of the open door, waving back his hat in response to our chorus of good-byes, and the loud "Go' bless you, Massa Philip!" of the negroes.

We followed quickly to the porch, to look after him. But he strode off so fast that Cornelius had to run to keep up with him. He did not once look back, even when he passed out of sight at the street corner. I believe he divined that his wife would not be among those looking after, and that he wished not to interpose any other last impression of his dear home than that of her kiss.

When we came back into the hall, she had flown. Later, as my mother and I went through the garden homeward, passing beneath Margaret's open windows, we heard her weeping—not violently, but steadily, monotonously, as if she had a long season of the past to regret, a long portion of the future to sorrow for. And here let me say that I think Margaret, from first to last, loved Philip with more tenderness than she was capable of bestowing upon any one else; with an affection so deep that sometimes it might be obscured by counter feelings playing over the surface of her heart, so deep that often she might not be conscious of its presence, but so deep that it might never be uprooted:—and 'twas that which made things the more pitiful.

Tom and I went out, with a large number of the town's people, to watch the rebel soldiers depart, and we saw Philip with his company, and exchanged with him a smile and a wave of the hat. How little we thought that one of us he was never to meet again, that the other he was not to see in many years, and that four of those years were to pass ere he should set foot again in Queen Street.

Many things, to be swiftly passed over in my history, occurred in those four years. One of these, the most important to me, happened a short time after Philip's departure for the North. It was a brief conversation with Fanny, and it took place upon the wayside walk at what they call the Battery, at the green Southern end of the town, where it is brought to a rounded point by the North and East Rivers approaching each other as they flow into the bay. To face the gentle breeze, I stopped and turned so we might look Southward over the bay, toward where, at the distant Narrows, Long Island and Staten Island seem to meet and close it in.

"I don't like to look out yonder," said Fanny. "It makes me imagine I'm away on the ocean, by myself. And it seems so lonely."

"Why, you poor child," replied I, "'tis a sin you should ever feel lonely; you do so much to prevent others being so." I turned my back upon the bay, and led her past the fort, toward the Broadway. "You see," said I, abruptly, glancing at her brown eyes, which dropped in a charming confusion, "how much you need a comrade." I remember I was not entirely unconfused myself at that moment, for inspiration had suddenly shown me my opportunity, and how to use it, and some inward trepidation was inseparable from a plunge into the matter I was now resolved upon going through.

"Why," says she, blushing, and seeming, as she walked, to take a great interest in her pretty feet, "I have several comrades as it is."

"Yes. But I mean one that should devote himself to you alone. Philip has Margaret; and besides, he is gone now, and so is Mr. Cornelius. And Tom will be finding a wife some day, and your parents cannot live for ever, and your friends will be married one after another."

"Poor me!" says she, with a sigh of comic wofulness. "How helpless and alone you make me feel!"

"Not so entirely alone, neither! There's one I didn't mention."

"And that one, too, I suppose, will be running off some day."

"No. He, like Tom, will be seeking a wife some day; perhaps sooner than Tom; perhaps very soon indeed; perhaps this very minute."

"Oh, Bert!—What nonsense! Don't look at me so, here in the street—people will take notice."

"What do I care for people? Let the fellows all see, and envy me, if you'll give me what I ask. What say you, dearest? Speak; tell me! Nay, if you won't, I'll make you blush all the more—I love you, I love you, I love you! Now will you speak?"

"Oh, Bert, dear, at least wait till we are home!"

"If you'll promise to say yes then."

"Very well—if 'twill please you."

"Nay, it must be to please yourself too. You do love me a little, don't you?"

"Why, of course I do; and you must have known it all the time!"

But, alas, her father's "yes" was not so easily to be won. I broached the matter to him that very evening (Fanny and I meanwhile having come to a fuller understanding in the seclusion of the garden); but he shook his head, and regarded me coldly.

"No, sir," said he. "For, however much you are to be esteemed as a young gentleman of honour and candour and fine promise, 'tis for me to consider you rather as an adherent of a government that has persecuted my country, and now makes war upon it. The day may come when you will find a more congenial home nearer the crown you have already expressed your desire to fight for. And then, if Fanny were your wife, you would carry her off to make an Englishwoman of her, as my first daughter would have been carried by her husband, upon different motives, but for this war. Perhaps 'twere better she could have gone," he added, with a sigh, for Margaret had been his favourite child; "my loss of her could scarce have been more complete than it is. But 'tis not so with Fanny."

"But, sir, I am not to take it that you refuse me, definitely, finally?—I beg—"

"Nay, sir, I only say that we must wait. Let us see what time shall bring to pass. I believe that you will not—and I am sure that Fanny will not—endeavour any act without my consent, or against my wish. Nay, I don't bid you despair, neither. Time shall determine."

I was not so confident that I would not endeavour any act without his consent; but I shared his certainty that Fanny would not. And so, in despondency, I took the news to her.

"Well," says she, with a sigh. "We must wait, that's all."

While we were waiting, and during the Fall and Winter, we heard now and then from Philip, for communication was still possible between New York and the rebel army proceeding toward Canada. He wrote Margaret letters of which the rest of us never saw the contents; but he wrote to Mr. Faringfield and me also. His history during this time was that of his army, of which we got occasional news from other sources. During part of September and all of October it was besieging St. John's, which capitulated early in November. Schuyler's ill-health had left the supreme active command to Montgomery. The army pushed on, and occupied Montreal, though it failed to capture Governor Carleton; who escaped to Quebec in a boat, by ingeniously disguising himself as a countryman. At Montreal the jealousies and quarrels of officers, so summarily created such, gave Montgomery much trouble, and when he set forward for Quebec, there to join the force sent under Arnold through the Maine wilderness from the rebel main army at Cambridge, he could take with him but three hundred men—so had the patriot warriors of New York fallen off in zeal and numbers! But you may be sure it was not from Philip's letters that we got these items disadvantageous to his cause.

Our last word from him was when he was in quarters before Quebec: Cornelius was with him; and they were having a cold and snowy time of it, waiting for Quebec to fall before them. He mentioned casually that he had been raised to a captaincy: we afterward learned that this was for brave conduct upon the occasion of a sally of Scotch troops from one of the gates of Quebec to cut off a mortar battery and a body of riflemen; Philip had not only saved the battery and the riflemen, but had made prisoners of the sallying party.

Late in the Winter—that is to say, early in 1776—we learned of the dire failure of the night attack made by the combined forces of Montgomery and Arnold upon Quebec at the end of December, 1775; that Arnold had been wounded, his best officers taken prisoners, and Montgomery killed. The first reports said nothing of Winwood. When Margaret heard the news, she turned white as a sheet; and at this triumph of British arms my joy was far outweighed, Mr. Faringfield's grief multiplied, by fears lest Philip, who we knew would shirk no danger, had met a fate similar to his commander's. But subsequent news told us that he was a prisoner, though severely wounded. We comforted ourselves with considering that he was like to receive good nursing from the French nuns of Quebec. And eventually we found the name of Captain Winwood in a list of rebel prisoners who were to be exchanged; from which, as a long time had passed, we inferred that he was now recovered of his injuries; whereupon Margaret, who had never spoken of him, or shown her solicitude other than by an occasional dispirited self-abstraction, regained all her gaiety and was soon her old, charming self again. In due course, we learned that the exchange of prisoners had been effected, and that a number of officers (among whom was Captain Winwood) had departed from Quebec, bound whither we were not informed; and after that we lost track of him for many and many a month.

Meanwhile, the war had made itself manifest in New York: at first distantly, as by the passage of a few rebel companies from Pennsylvania and Virginia through the town on their way to Cambridge; by continued enlistments for the rebel cause; by the presence of a small rebel force of occupation; and by quiet enrolments of us loyalists for service when our time should come. But in the beginning of the warm weather of 1776, the war became apparent in its own shape. The king's troops under Sir William Howe had at last evacuated Boston and sailed to Halifax, taking with them a host of loyalists, whose flight was held up to us New York Tories as prophetic of our own fate. Washington now supposed, rightly, that General Howe intended presently to occupy New York; and so down upon our town, and the island on which it was, and upon Long Island, came the rebel main army from Cambridge; and brought some very bad manners with it, for all that there never was a finer gentleman in the world than was at its head, and that I am bound to own some of his officers and men to have been worthy of him in good breeding. Here the army was reinforced by regiments from the middle and Southern provinces; and for awhile we loyalists kept close mouths. Margaret, indeed, for the time, ceased altogether to be a loyalist, in consequence of the gallantry of certain officers in blue and buff, and several Virginia dragoons in blue and red, with whom she was brought into acquaintance through her father's attachment to the rebel interest. She expanded and grew brilliant in the sunshine of admiration (she had even a smile and compliment from Washington himself, at a ball in honour of the rebel declaration of independence) in which she lived during the time when New York abounded with rebel troops.

But that was a short time; for the British disembarked upon Long Island, met Washington's army there and defeated it, so that it had to slip back to New York in boats by night; then landed above the town, almost in time to cut it off as it fled Northward; fought part of it on the heights of Harlem; kept upon its heels in Westchester County; encountered it again near White Plains; and came back triumphant to winter in and about New York. And now we loyalists and the rebel sympathisers exchanged tunes; and Margaret was as much for the king again as ever—she never cared two pins for either cause, I fancy, save as it might, for the time being, serve her desire to shine.

She was radiant and joyous, and made no attempt to disguise her feelings, when it was a settled fact that the British army should occupy New York indefinitely.

"'Tis glorious!" said she, dancing up and down the parlour before Tom and me. "This will be some relief from dulness, some consolation! The town will be full of gallant generals and colonels, handsome majors, dashing captains; there are lords and baronets among 'em; they'll be quartered in all the good houses; there will be fine uniforms, regimental bands, and balls and banquets! Why, I can quite endure this! War has its compensations. We'll have a merry winter of it, young gentlemen! Sure 'twill be like a glimpse of London."

"And there'll be much opportunity for vain ladies to have their heads turned!" quoth Tom, half in jest, half in disapproval.

"I know nothing of that," says she, "but I do know whose sister will be the toast of the British Army before a month is past!"

If the king's troops acquired a toast upon entering New York, the rebels had gained a volunteer upon leaving it. One day, just before Washington's army fled, Tom Faringfield came to me with a face all amusement.

"Who do you think is the latest patriot recruit?" cried he. It was our custom to give the rebels ironically their own denomination of patriots.

"Not you nor I, at any rate," said I.

"But one of the family, nevertheless."

"Why, surely—your father has not—"

"Oh, no; only my father's eldest."

"Ned?"

"Nobody else. Fancy Ned taking the losing side! Oh, 'fore God, it's true! He came home in a kind of uniform to-day, and told father what he had done; the two had a long talk together in private after that; and though father never shows his thoughts, I believe he really has some hopes of Ned now. The rebels made a lieutenant of him, on father's account. I wonder what his game is."

"I make no doubt, to curry favour with his father."

"Maybe. But perhaps to get an excuse for leaving town, and a way of doing so. I've heard some talk—they say poor Sally Roberts's condition is his work."

"Very like. Your brother is a terrible Adonis—with ladies of a certain kind."

"Not such an Adonis neither—at least the Adonis that Venus courted in Shakespeare's poem. Rather a Jove, I should say."

We did not then suspect the depth of Mr. Ned's contrivance or duplicity. He left New York with the rebels, and 'twas some time ere we saw, or heard of, him again.

And now at last several loyalist brigades were formed as auxiliaries to the royal army, and Tom and I were soon happy in the consciousness of serving our king, and in the possession of the green uniforms that distinguished the local from the regular force. We were of Colonel Cruger's battalion, of General Oliver De Lancey's brigade, and both were so fortunate as to obtain commissions, Tom receiving that of lieutenant, doubtless by reason of his mother's relationship to General De Lancey, and I being made an ensign, on account of the excellent memory in which my father was held by the loyal party. Mr. Faringfield, like many another father in similar circumstances, was outwardly passive upon his son's taking service against his own cause: as a prudent man, he had doubtless seen from the first the advantage of having a son actually under arms for the king, for it gave him and his property such safety under the British occupation as even his lady's loyalist affiliations might not have sufficed to do. Therefore Tom, as a loyalist officer, was no less at home than formerly, in the house of his rebel father. I know not how many such family situations were brought about by this strange war.



CHAPTER VIII.

I Meet an Old Friend in the Dark.

I shall not give an account of my military service, since it entered little into the history of Philip Winwood. 'Twas our duty to help man the outposts that guarded the island at whose Southern extremity New York lies, from rebel attack; especially from the harassments of the partisan troops, and irregular Whiggery, who would swoop down in raiding parties, cut off our foragers, drive back our wood-cutters, and annoy us in a thousand ways. We had such raiders of our own, too, notably Captain James De Lancey's Westchester Light Horse, Simcoe's Rangers, and the Hessian yagers, who repaid the visits of our enemies by swift forays across the neutral ground between the two armies.

But this warfare did not exist in its fulness till later, when the American army formed about us an immense segment of a circle, which began in New Jersey, ran across Westchester County in New York province, and passed through a corner of Connecticut to Long Island Sound. On our side, we occupied Staten Island, part of the New Jersey shore, our own island, lower Westchester County, and that portion of Long Island nearest New York. But meanwhile, the rebel main army was in New Jersey in the Winter of 1776-77, surprising some of our Hessians at Trenton, overcoming a British force at Princeton, and going into quarters at Morristown. And in the next year, Sir William Howe having sailed to take Philadelphia with most of the king's regulars (leaving General Clinton to hold New York with some royal troops and us loyalists), the fighting was around the rebel capital, which the British, after two victories, held during the Winter of 1777-78, while Washington camped at Valley Forge.

In the Fall of 1777, we thought we might have news of Winwood, for in the Northern rebel army to which General Burgoyne then capitulated, there were not only many New York troops, but moreover several of the officers taken at Quebec, who had been exchanged when Philip had. But of him we heard nothing, and from him it was not likely that we should hear. Margaret never mentioned him now, and seemed to have forgotten that she possessed a husband. Her interest was mainly in the British officers still left in New York, and her impatience was for the return of the larger number that had gone to Philadelphia. To this impatience an end was put in the Summer of 1778, when the main army marched back to us across New Jersey, followed part way by the rebels, and fighting with them at Monmouth Court House. 'Twas upon this that the lines I have mentioned, of British outposts protecting New York, and rebel forces surrounding us on all sides but that of the sea, were established in their most complete shape; and that the reciprocal forays became most frequent.

And now, too, the British occupation of New York assumed its greatest proportions. The kinds of festivity in which Margaret so brilliantly shone, lent to the town the continual gaiety in which she so keenly delighted. The loyalist families exerted themselves to protect the king's officers from dulness, and the king's officers, in their own endeavours to the same end, helped perforce to banish dulness from the lives of their entertainers. 'Twas a gay town, indeed, for some folk, despite the vast ugly blotches wrought upon its surface by two great fires since the war had come, and despite the scarcity of provisions and the other inconveniences of a virtual state of siege. Tom and I saw much of that gaiety, for indeed at that time our duties were not as active as we wished they might be, and they left us leisure enough to spend in the town. But we were pale candles to the European officers—the rattling, swearing, insolent English, the tall and haughty Scots, the courtly Hessians and Brunswickers.

"What, sister, have we grown invisible, Bert and I?" said Tom to Margaret, as we met her in the hall one night, after we had returned from a ball in the Assembly Rooms. "Three times we bowed to you this evening, and got never a glance in return."

"'Faith," says she, with a smile, "one can't see these green uniforms for the scarlet ones!"

"Ay," he retorted, with less good-humour than she had shown, "the scarlet coats blind some people's eyes, I think, to other things than green uniforms."

It was, I fancy, because Tom had from childhood adored her so much, that he now took her conduct so ill, and showed upon occasion a bitterness that he never manifested over any other subject.

"What do you mean, you saucy boy?" cried she, turning red, and looking mighty handsome. "You might take a lesson or two in manners from some of the scarlet coats!"

"Egad, they wouldn't find time to give me lessons, being so busy with you! But which of your teachers do you recommend—Captain Andre, Lord Rawdon, Colonel Campbell, or the two Germans whose names I can't pronounce? By George, you won't be happy till you have Sir Henry Clinton and General Knyphausen disputing for the front place at your feet!"



She softened from anger to a little laugh of conscious triumph, tapped him with her fan, and sped up the stairs. Her prediction had come true. She was indeed the toast of the army. Her mother apparently saw no scandal in this, being blinded by her own partiality to the royal side. Her father knew it not, for he rarely attended the British festivities, from which he could not in reason debar his wife and daughters. Fanny was too innocent to see harm in what her sister did. But Tom and I, though we never spoke of it to each other, were made sensitive, by our friendship for Philip, to the impropriety of the situation—that the wife of an absent American officer should reign as a beauty among his military enemies. I make no doubt but the circumstance was commented upon, with satirical smiles at the expense of both husband and wife, by the British officers themselves. Indeed I once heard her name mentioned, not as Mrs. Winwood, but as "Captain Winwood's wife," with an expression of voice that made me burn to plant my fist in the leering face of the fellow who spoke—some low-born dog, I'll warrant, who had paid high for his commission.

It was a custom of Tom's and mine to put ourselves, when off duty together, in the way of more active service than properly fell to us, by taking horse and riding to the eastern side of the Harlem River, where was quartered the troop of Tom's relation, James De Lancey. In more than one of the wild forays of these horsemen, did we take an unauthorised part, and find it a very exhilarating business.

One cold December afternoon in 1778, we got private word from Captain De Lancey that he was for a raid up the Albany road, that night, in retaliation for a recent severe onslaught made upon our Hessian post near Colonel Van Cortlandt's mansion, either ('twas thought) by Lee's Virginia Light Horse or by the partisan troop under the French nobleman known in the rebel service as Armand.

At nightfall we were on the gallop with De Lancey's men, striking the sparks from the stony road under a cloudy sky. But these troops, accustomed to darkness and familiar with the country, found the night not too black for their purpose, which was, first, the seizing of some cattle that two or three Whig farmers had contrived to retain possession of, and, second, the surprising of a small advanced post designed to protect rebel foragers. The first object was fairly well accomplished, and a detail of men assigned to conduct the prizes back to Kingsbridge forthwith, a difficult task for which those upon whom it fell cursed their luck, or their commander's orders, under their breath. One of the farmers, for stubbornly resisting, was left tied to a tree before his swiftly dismantled house, and only Captain De Lancey's fear of alarming the rebel outpost prevented the burning down of the poor fellow's barn.

The taking of these cattle had necessitated our leaving the highway. To this we now returned, and proceeded Northward to where the road crosses the Neperan River, near the Philipse manor-house. Instead of crossing this stream, we turned to the right, to follow its left bank some way upward, and then ascended the hill East of it, on which the rebel post was established. Our course, soon after leaving the road, lay through woods, the margin of the little river affording us only sufficient clear space for proceeding in single file. De Lancey rode at the head, then went two of his men, then Tom Faringfield and myself, the troop stringing out behind us, the lieutenant being at the rear.

'Twas slow and toilsome riding; and only the devil's own luck, or some marvellous instinct of our horses, spared us many a stumble over roots, stones, twigs, and underbrush. What faint light the night retained for well-accustomed eyes, had its source in the cloud-curtained moon, and that being South of us, we were hidden in the shadow of the woods. But 'tis a thousand wonders the noise of our passage was not sooner heard, though De Lancey's stern command for silence left no sound possible from us except that of our horses and equipments. I fancy 'twas the loud murmur of the stream that shielded us. But at last, as we approached the turning of the water, where we were to dismount, surround the rebels hutted upon the hill before us, creep silently upon them, and attack from all sides at a signal, there was a voice drawled out of the darkness ahead of us the challenge:

"Who goes thar?"

We heard the click of the sentinel's musket-lock; whereupon Captain De Lancey, in hope of gaining the time to seize him ere he could give the alarm, replied, "Friends," and kept riding on.

"You're a liar, Jim De Lancey!" cried back the sentinel, and fired his piece, and then (as our ears told us) fled through the woods, up the hill, toward his comrades.

There was now nothing for us but to abandon all thought of surrounding the enemy, or even, we told ourselves, of taking time to dismount and bestow our horses; unless we were willing to lose the advantage of a surprise at least partial, as we were not. We could but charge on horseback up the hill, after the fleeing sentinel, in hope of coming upon the rebels but half-prepared. Or rather, as we then felt, so we chose to think, foolish as the opinion was. Indeed what could have been more foolish, less military, more like a tale of fabulous knights in some enchanted forest? A cavalry charge, with no sort of regular formation, up a wooded hill, in a night dark enough in the open but sheer black under the thick boughs; to meet an encamped enemy at the top! But James De Lancey's men were noted rather for reckless dash than for military prudence; they felt best on horseback, and would accept a score of ill chances and fight in the saddle, rather than a dozen advantages and go afoot. I think they were not displeased at their discovery by the sentinel, which gave them an excuse for a harebrained onset ahorse, in place of the tedious manoeuvre afoot that had been planned. As for Tom and me, we were at the age when a man will dare the impossible.

So we went, trusting to the sense of our beasts, or to dumb luck, to carry us unimpeded through the black woods. As it was, a few of the animals ran headforemost against trees, and others stumbled over roots and logs, while some of the riders had their heads knocked nearly off by coming in contact with low branches. But a majority of us, to judge by the noise we made, arrived with our snorting, panting steeds at the hill-crest; where, in a cleared space, and fortified with felled trees, upheaved earth, forage carts, and what not, stood the improvised cabins of the rebels.

Three or four shots greeted us as we emerged from the thick wood. We, being armed with muskets and pistols as well as swords, returned the fire, and spurred our horses on toward the low breastwork, which, as it was not likely to have anything of a trench behind it, we thought to overleap either on horse or afoot. But the fire that we met, almost at the very barrier, felled so many of our horses and men, raised such a hellish chorus of wild neighing, cries of pain and wrath, ferocious curses and shouts of vengeance, that the men behind reined up uncertain. De Lancey turned upon his horse, waved his sword, and shouted for the laggards to come on. We had only the light of musketry to see by. Tom Faringfield was unhorsed and down; and fearing he might be wounded, I leaped to the ground, knelt, and partly raised him. He was unharmed, however; and we both got upon our feet, with our swords out, our discharged muskets slung round upon our backs, our intent being to mount over the rebel's rude rampart—for we had got an impression of De Lancey's sword pointed that way while he fiercely called upon his troops to disregard the fallen, and each man charge for himself in any manner possible, ahorse or afoot.

But more and more of the awakened rebels—we could make out only their dark figures—sprang forward from their huts (mere roofs, 'twere better to call these) to the breastwork, each waiting to take careful aim at our mixed-up mass of men and horses before he fired into it. As Tom and I were extricating ourselves from the mass by scrambling over a groaning man or two, and a shrieking, kicking horse that lay on its side, De Lancey rode back to enforce his commands upon the men at our rear, some of whom were firing over our heads. His turning was mistaken for a movement of retreat, not only by our men, of whom the unhurt promptly made to hasten down the hill, but also by the enemy, a few of whom now leaped from behind their defence to pursue.

Tom and I, not yet sensible of the action of our comrades, were striding forward to mount the rampart, when this sally of rebels occurred. Though it appalled us at the time, coming so unexpectedly, it was the saving of us; for it stopped the fire of the rebels remaining behind the barrier, lest they should hit their comrades. A ringing voice, more potent than a bugle, now called upon these latter to come back, in a tone showing their movement to have been without orders. They speedily obeyed; all save one, a tall, broad fellow—nothing but a great black figure in the night, to our sight—who had rushed with a clubbed musket straight upon Tom and me. A vague sense of it circling through the air, rather than distinct sight of it, told me that his musket-butt was aimed at Tom's head. Instinctively I flung up my sword to ward off the blow; and though of course I could not stop its descent, I so disturbed its direction that it struck only Tom's shoulder; none the less sending him to the ground with a groan. With a curse, I swung my sword—a cut-and-thrust blade-of-all-work, so to speak—with some wild idea of slicing off a part of the rebel's head; but my weapon was hacked where it met him, and so it merely made him reel and drop his musket. The darkness falling the blacker after the glare of the firing, must have cloaked these doings from the other rebels. Tom rose, and the two of us fell upon our enemy at once, I hissing out the words, "Call for quarter, you dog!"

"Very well," he said faintly, quite docile from having had his senses knocked out of him by my blow, and not knowing at all what was going on.

"Come then," said I, and grasped him by an arm, while Tom held him at the other side; and so the three of us ran after De Lancey and his men—for the captain had followed in vain attempt to rally them—into the woods and down the hill. Tom's horse was shot, and mine had fled.

Our prisoner accompanied us with the unquestioning obedience of one whose wits are for the time upon a vacation. Getting into the current of retreat, which consisted of mounted men, men on foot, riderless horses, and the wrathful captain whose enterprise was now quite hopeless through the enemy's being well warned against a second attempt, we at last reached the main road.

Here, out of a chaotic huddle, order was formed, and to the men left horseless, mounts were given behind other men. Captain De Lancey assigned a beast to myself and my prisoner. The big rebel clambered up behind me, with the absent-minded acquiescence he had displayed ever since my stroke had put his wits asleep. As we started dejectedly Southward, full of bruises, aches, and weariness, there was some question whether the rebels would pursue us.

"Not if their officer has an ounce of sense," said Captain De Lancey, "being without horses, as he is. He's scarce like to play the fool by coming down, as I did in charging up! Well, we've left some wounded to his care. Who is their commander? Ask your prisoner, Lieutenant Russell."

I turned on my saddle and put the query, but my man vouchsafed merely a stupid, "Hey?"

"Shake him back to his senses," said De Lancey, stopping his horse, as I did mine, and Tom his.

But shaking did not suffice.

"This infernal darkness helps to cloud his wits," suggested the captain. "Flash a light before his eyes. Here, Tippet, your lantern, please."

I continued shaking the prisoner, while the lantern was brought. Suddenly the man gave a start, looked around into the black night, and inquired in a husky, small voice:

"Who are you? Where are we?"

"We are your captors," said I, "and upon the Hudson River road, bound for Kingsbridge. And now, sir, who are you?"

But the rays of the lantern, falling that instant upon his face, answered my question for me.

"Cornelius!" I cried.

"What, sir? Why—'tis Mr. Russell!"

"Ay, and here is Tom Faringfield," said I.

"Well, bless my soul!" exclaimed the pedagogue, grasping the hand that Tom held to him out of the darkness.

"Mr. Cornelius, since that is your name," put in De Lancey, to whom time was precious. "Will you please tell us who commands yonder, where we got the reception our folly deserved, awhile ago?"

"Certainly, sir," said Cornelius. "'Tis no harm, I suppose—no violation of duty or custom?"

"Not in the least," said I.

"Why then, sir," says he, "since yesterday, when we relieved the infantry there—we are dragoons, sir, though dismounted for this particular service—a new independent troop, sir—Winwood's Horse—"

"Winwood's!" cried I.

"Ay, Captain Winwood's—Mr. Philip, you know—'tis he commands our post yonder."

"Oh, indeed!" said De Lancey, carelessly. "A relation of mine by marriage."

But for a time I had nothing to say, thinking how, after these years of separation, Philip and I had come so near meeting in the night, and known it not; and how, but for the turn of things, one of us might have given the other his death-blow unwittingly in the darkness.



CHAPTER IX.

Philip's Adventures—Captain Falconer Comes to Town.

Upon the way back to our lines, we were entertained by Mr. Cornelius with an account of Philip's movements during the past three years. One piece of information interested Captain De Lancey: the recent attack upon Van Wrumb's Hessians, which it had been our purpose that night to revenge, was the work of Winwood's troop of horse. Our curiosity upon hearing of Philip as a captain of independent cavalry, who had left us as a lieutenant of New York foot, was satisfied in the course of the pedagogue's narrative. The tutor himself had received promotion upon two sides: first, to the Presbyterian ministry, his admission thereto having occurred while he was with the rebel army near Morristown, New Jersey, the last previous Winter but one; second, to the chaplaincy of Winwood's troop.

"Sure the devil's in it," said I, when he had told me this, "if the rebels' praying men are as sanguinary as you showed yourself to-night—leaping out to pursue your beaten enemy, as you did."

"Why," he replied, self-reproachfully, in his mildest voice, "I find, do what I can, I have at bottom a combative spirit that will rise upon occasion. I had thought 'twas long since quelled. But I fear no man is always and altogether his own master. I saw even General Washington, at Monmouth—but no matter for that. Especially of late, I have found my demon of wrath—to speak figuratively—too much for me. 'Twas too violently roused, maybe, that night your General Grey and his men fell upon us as we slept, yonder across the Hudson, and slaughtered us like sheep in the barn we lay in."

"Why, were you in that too?" I asked, surprised. "I thought that troop was called Lady Washington's Light Horse."[3]

"Ay, we were then of that troop, Captain Winwood and I. 'Twas for his conduct in that affair, his valour and skill in saving the remnant of the troop, that he was put, t'other day, in command of an independent company. I may take some pride in having helped him to this honour; for his work the night General Grey surprised us was done so quietly, and his report made so little of his own share in the business, 'twould have gone unrecognised, but for my account of it. Though, to be sure, General Washington said afterward, in my hearing, that such bravery and sagacity, coupled with such modesty, were only what he might expect of Captain Winwood."

Cornelius had shared Philip's fortunes since their departure from New York. When Winwood fell wounded in the snow, between the two blockhouses at the foot of the cliff, that night the rebels met defeat at Quebec, the pedagogue remained to succour him, and so was taken prisoner with him. He afterward helped nurse him in the French religious house, in the walled "upper town," to which the rebel wounded were conveyed.

Upon the exchange of prisoners, Philip, having suffered a relapse, was unable to accompany his comrades homeward, and Cornelius stayed to care for him. There was a Scotchwoman who lived upon a farm a few miles West of Quebec, and whose husband was serving on our side as one of Colonel Maclean's Royal Highlanders. She took Winwood and the pedagogue into her house as guests, trusting them till some uncertain time in the future might find them able to pay.

When at last Philip dared hazard the journey, the rebel siege of Quebec, which had continued in a half-hearted manner until Spring brought British reinforcements up the river in ship-loads, had long been raised, and the rebels had long since flown. Provided by Governor Carleton with the passports to which in their situation they were entitled, the two started for New York, bound by way of the St. Lawrence, the Richelieu, the lakes, and the Hudson. It was now Winter, and only Winwood's impatience to resume service could have tempted them to such a journey in that season.

They came part way afoot, receiving guidance now from some solitary fur-capped courier du bois clad in skins and hoofed with snow-shoes, now from some peaceful Indian, now from the cowled brothers of, some forest monastery which gave them a night's shelter also. Portions of the journey they made upon sledges driven by poor habitans dwelling in the far-apart villages or solitary farmhouses. At other times they profited by boats and canoes, propelled up the St. Lawrence by French peasants, befringed hunters, or friendly red men. Their entertainment and housing were sometimes from such people as I have mentioned; sometimes of their own contriving, the woods furnishing game for food, fagots for fuel, and boughs for roof and bedding.

They encountered no danger from human foes until they were in the province of New York, and, having left the lakes behind them, were footing it Southward along the now frozen Hudson. The Indians in Northern New York had been won to our interest, by Sir John Johnson, of Johnson Hall, in the Mohawk Valley, and were more than formerly inclined to vigilance regarding travellers in those lonely regions. Upon waking suddenly one night when camped in the woods, Philip saw by the firelight that he was surrounded by a party of silent savages; his sword and pistol, and Cornelius's rifle, being already in their possession. The two soldiers were held as prisoners for several days, and made to accompany their captors upon long, mysterious peregrinations. At last they were brought before Sir John Johnson, at one of his forts; and that gentleman, respecting Governor Carleton's passes, and the fact that Captain Winwood was related by marriage to the De Lanceys, sent them with a guide to Albany.

Here they reported to General Schuyler; and Philip, having learned by the experience of his journey that his wound left him incapacitated for arduous service afoot, desired an arrangement by which he might join the cavalry branch of the army. Mr. Schuyler was pleased to put the matter through for him, and to send him to Morristown, New Jersey, (where the rebel main force was then in Winter quarters) with a commendatory letter to General Washington. Cornelius, whose time of service had expired, was free to accompany him.

Philip, being enrolled, without loss of nominal rank, in Lady Washington's Light Horse, which Cornelius entered as a trooper, had now the happiness of serving near the person of the commander-in-chief. He was wounded again at the Brandywine, upon which occasion Cornelius bore him off the field without their being captured. During the Winter at Valley Forge, and at the battle of Monmouth, and in the recent partisan warfare on both sides of the Hudson, their experiences were those of Washington's army as a whole, of which there are histories enough extant: until their troop was cut to pieces by Earl Grey, and Captain Winwood was advanced to an independent command. This was but a recent event.

"And did he never think of us in New York," said Tom, "that he sent us no word in all this time?"

"Sure, you must thank your British occupation of New York, if you received none of our messages. General Washington allowed them to pass."

"Ay, 'tis not easy for rebels to communicate with their friends in New York," quoth I, "despite the traffic of goods between the Whig country folk and some of our people, that Captain De Lancey knows about."

"Tut, man!" said De Lancey. "Some things must be winked at; we need their farm stuff as much as they want our tea and such. But correspondence from rebels must go to headquarters—where 'tis like to stop, when it's for a family whose head is of Mr. Faringfield's way of thinking."

"Well," said Mr. Cornelius, "Captain Winwood and I have discussed more than one plan by which he might perchance get sight of his people for a minute or so. He has hoped he might be sent into New York under a flag of truce, upon some negotiation or other, and might obtain permission from your general to see his wife while there; but he has always been required otherwise when messengers were to be sent. He has even thought of offering to enter the town clandestinely—"

"Hush!" I interrupted. "You are indiscreet. We are soldiers of the king, remember. But, to be sure, 'tis nonsense; Phil would not be such a fool as to risk hanging."

"Oh, to be sure; nonsense, indeed!" Cornelius stammered, much upset at the imprudence due to his thoughtlessness. "And yet," he resumed presently, "never did a man more crave a sight of those he left behind. He would barter a year of his life, I think, for a minute's speech with his wife. He talks of her by the hour, when he and I are alone together. There was some coolness, you will remember, before their parting; but 'twas not on his side, and his lady seemed to have dropped it when he was taking leave of her; and three years of absence have gone since then. So I am sure she has softened quite, and that she desires his return as much as he longs for her presence. And though he knows all this must be so, he keeps me ever reassuring and persuading him it is. Ah, sir, if ever there was a man in love with his wife!"

I made no reply. I had previously informed him of her good health, in answer to a question whose eagerness came of his friendship for Philip. I asked myself whether his unsuspecting mind was like to perceive aught that would pain him for Philip's sake, in her abandonment to the gaieties of the town, to the attentions of the king's officers, to the business of making herself twice as charming as the pedagogue had ever seen her.

We got it arranged that our prisoner should be put on parole and quartered at Mr. Faringfield's house, where his welcome was indeed a glad one. When Margaret heard of his presence in the town, she gave a momentary start (it seemed to me a start of self-accusation) and paled a little; but she composed herself, and asked in a sweet and gracious (not an eager) tone:

"And Philip?"

I told her all I had learned from Cornelius, to which she listened with a kindly heedfulness, only sometimes pressing her white teeth upon her lower lip, and other times dropping her lustrous eyes from my purposely steady, and perhaps reproachful, gaze.

"So then," said she, as if to be gay at the expense of her husband's long absence, "now that three years and more have brought him so near us, maybe another three years or so will bring him back to us!" 'Twas affected gaiety, one could easily see. Her real feeling must have been of annoyance that any news of her husband should be obtruded upon her. She had entered into a way of life that involved forgetfulness of him, and for which she must reproach herself whenever she thought of him, but which was too pleasant for her to abandon. But she had the virtue to be ashamed that reminders of his existence were unwelcome, and consequently to pretend that she took them amiably; and yet she had not the hypocrisy to pretend the eager solicitude which a devoted wife would evince upon receiving news of her long-absent soldier-husband. Such hypocrisy, indeed, would have appeared ridiculous in a wife who had scarce mentioned her husband's name, and then only when others spoke of him, in three years. Yet her very self-reproach for disregarding him—did it not show that, under all the feelings that held her to a life of gay coquetry, lay her love for Philip, not dead, nor always sleeping?

When Cornelius came to the house to live, she met him with a warm clasp of the hand, and with a smile of so much radiance and sweetness, that for a time he must have been proud of her on Phil's behalf; and so dazzled that he could not yet see those things for which, on the same behalf, he must needs be sorrowful.

Knowing now exactly where Philip was, we were able to send him speedy news of Cornelius's safety, and of the good health and good wishes of us all; and we got in reply a message full of thanks and of affectionate solicitude. The transfer of his troop to New Jersey soon removed the possibility of my meeting him.

In the following Summer (that of 1779), as I afterward learned, Captain Winwood and some of his men accompanied Major Lee's famous dragoons (dismounted for the occasion) to the nocturnal surprise and capture of our post at Paulus Hook, in New Jersey, opposite New York. But he found no way of getting into the town to see us. And so I bring him to the Winter of 1779, when the main rebel camp was again at Morristown, and Philip stationed near Washington's headquarters. But meanwhile, in New York, in the previous Autumn some additional British troops had arrived from England; and one of these was Captain Falconer.

There was a ball one night at Captain Morris's country-house some eight or ten miles North of the town, which the rebel authorities had already declared confiscate, if I remember aright, but which, as it was upon the island of Manhattan and within our lines, yet remained in actual possession of the rightful owner. Here Washington (said to have been an unsuccessful suitor to Mrs. Morris when she was Miss Philipse) had quartered ere the British chased the rebels from the island of Manhattan; and here now were officers of our own in residence. 'Twas a fine, white house, distinguished by the noble columns of its Grecian front; from its height it overlooked the Hudson, the Harlem, the East River, the Sound, and miles upon miles of undulating land on every side.[4]

On this night the lights showed welcome from its many windows, open doors, and balconies, and from the coloured paper lanterns festooned upon its facade and strung aloft over its splendid lawn and gardens. The house still stands, I hear, and is known as the Jumel Mansion, from the widow who lives there. But I'll warrant it presents no more such scenes as it offered that night, when the wealth and beauty of New York, the chivalry of the king's army, arrived at its broad pillared entrance by horse and by coach in a constant procession. In the great hall, and the adjacent rooms, the rays of countless candles fell upon brilliant uniforms, upon silk and velvet and brocade and broadcloth, upon powdered hair, and fans and furbelows, upon white necks and bosoms, and dazzling eyes, upon jewels and golden buckles and shining sword-hilts.

We that entered from the Faringfield coach were Mrs. Faringfield and my mother, Margaret and Fanny, Tom and myself. We had just received the greeting of our handsome hostess, and were passing up the hall, when my eyes alighted upon the figure of an officer who stood alone, in an attitude of pensive negligence, beside the mantelpiece. He was fully six feet tall, but possessed a carriage of grace and elegance, instead of the rigid erectness of so many of his comrades. He had a slender, finely cut, English face, a long but delicate chin, gray eyes of a beautiful clearness, slightly wavy hair that was now powdered, and the hands and legs of a gentleman.

"What a handsome fellow! Who is he?" whispered Margaret to Fanny.

I glanced at her. Her eyes showed admiration—an expression I had never before seen in them. I looked back at the officer. He in turn had seen her. His face, from having worn a look half melancholy, half languid, had speedily become animated with interest. 'Twas as if each of these two superb creatures had unexpectedly fallen upon something they had scarce hoped to find in their present environment.

"A mighty pretty gentleman, indeed," said my mother.

"Nay," said Margaret, with a swift relapse into indifference, "no such Adonis neither, on second view."

But I saw that she turned the corner of her eye upon him at intervals as she moved forward, and that she was not sorry or annoyed to find that he kept his gaze boldly upon her all the while. Presently he looked about him, and singled out an acquaintance, to whom he made his way. Five minutes later he was being introduced, as Captain Falconer, to Mrs. Winwood.

"'Faith," said he, in a courteous, subdued voice, after bowing very low, "I did not think to find a lady so recently from St. James', in this place. One might swear, looking at you, madam, that this was Almack's."

"Sir, you speak to one that never saw St. James' but in imagination," said Margaret, coolly. "Sure one can be white, and moderately civil, and yet be of New York."

"The deuce, madam! A native? You?"

"Ay, sir, of the aborigines; the daughter of a red Indian!"

"'Fore God, then, 'tis no wonder the American colonists make war upon the Indian race. Their wives and daughters urge 'em to it, out of jealousy of the red men's daughters."

"Why, if they wished the red ladies exterminated, they couldn't do better than send a number of king's officers among 'em—famous lady-killers, I've heard."

"Madam, I know naught of that; nor of the art of lady-killing itself, which I never desired to possess until this evening."

The captain's eyes, so languid with melancholy or ennui a short while before, now had the glow of pre-determined conquest; his face shone with that resolve; and by this transformation, as well as by the inconsistency of his countenance with the soft tone and playful matter of his words, which inconsistency betrayed the gentleness to be assumed, I read the man through once for all: selfish, resolute, facile, versatile, able to act any part thoroughly and in a moment, constant to his object till it was won, then quick to leave it for another; unscrupulous, usually invincible, confident of his proven powers rather than vain of fancied ones; good-natured when not crossed, and with an irresistible charm of person and manner. And Margaret too—there was more and other meaning in her looks than in her light, ironical speeches.

He led her through two minuets that night, and was her partner in the Virginia reel (the name the Americans give the Sir Roger de Coverly); and his was the last face we saw at our coach window as we started homeward.

"You've made the rest of the army quite jealous of this new captain," growled Tom, as we rolled Southward over the stony Harlem road. "The way Major Tarleton glared at him, would have set another man trembling."

"Captain Falconer doesn't tremble so easily, I fancy," said Margaret. "And yet he's no marvel of a man, as I can see."

Tom gave a sarcastic grunt. His manifestations regarding Margaret's behaviour were the only exception to the kind, cheerful conduct of his whole life. A younger brother is not ordinarily so watchful of a sister's demeanour; he has the doings of other young ladies to concern himself with. Tom did not lack these, but he was none the less keenly sensitive upon the point of Margaret's propriety and good name. 'Twas the extraordinary love and pride he had centred upon her, that made him so observant and so touchy in the case. He brooded upon her actions, worried himself with conjectures, underwent such torments as jealous lovers know, such pangs as Hamlet felt in his uncertainty regarding the integrity of his mother.

Within a week after the Morris ball, it came to pass that Captain Falconer was quartered, by regular orders, in the house of Mr. Faringfield. Tom and I, though we only looked our thoughts, saw more than accident in this. The officer occupied the large parlour, which he divided by curtains into two apartments, sitting-room and sleeping-chamber. By his courtesy and vivacity, he speedily won the regard of the family, even of Mr. Faringfield and the Rev. Mr. Cornelius.

"Damn the fellow!" said Tom to me. "I can't help liking him."

"Nor I, either," was my reply; but I also damned him in my turn.



CHAPTER X.

A Fine Project.

Were it my own history that I am here undertaking, I should give at this place an account of my first duel, which was fought with swords, in Bayard's Woods, my opponent being an English lieutenant of foot, from whom I had suffered a display of that superciliousness which our provincial troops had so resented in the British regulars in the old French War. By good luck I disarmed the man without our receiving more than a small scratch apiece; and subsequently brought him to the humbleness of a fawning spaniel, by a mien and tone of half-threatening superiority which never fail of reducing such high-talking sparks to abject meekness. 'Twas a trick of pretended bullying, which we long-suffering Americans were driven to adopt in self-defence against certain derisive, contemptuous praters that came to our shores from Europe. But 'tis more to my purpose, as the biographer of Philip Winwood, to continue upon the subject of Captain Falconer.

He was the mirror of elegance, with none of the exaggerations of a fop. He brought with him to the Queen Street house the atmosphere of Bond Street and Pall Mall, the perfume of Almack's and the assembly rooms, the air of White's and the clubs, the odour of the chocolate houses and the fashionable taverns. 'Twas all that he represented, I fancy, rather than what the man himself was, and conquering as he was, that caught Margaret's eye. He typified the world before which she had hoped to shine, and from which she had been debarred—cruelly debarred, it may have seemed to her. I did not see this then; 'twas another, one of a broader way of viewing things, one of a less partial imagination—'twas Philip Winwood—that found this excuse for her.

Captain Falconer had the perception soon to gauge correctly us who were of American rearing, and the tact to cast aside the lofty manner by which so many of his stupid comrades estranged us. He treated Tom and me with an easy but always courteous familiarity that surprised, flattered, and won us. He would play cards with us, in his sitting-room, as if rather for the sake of our company than for the pleasure of the game. Indeed, as he often frankly confessed, gambling was no passion with him; and this was remarkable at a time when 'twas the only passion most fine young gentlemen would acknowledge as genuine in them, and when those who did not feel that passion affected it. We admired this fine disdain on his part for the common fashionable occupation of the age (for the pursuit of women was pretended to be followed as a necessary pastime, but without much real heart) as evidence of a superior mind. Yet he played with us, losing at first, but eventually winning until I had to withdraw. Tom, having more money to lose, held out longer.

"Why now," said the captain once, regarding his winnings with a face of perfect ruefulness, "'tis proven that what we seek eludes us, and what we don't value comes to us! Here am I, the last man in the world to court success this way, and here am I more winner than if I had played with care and attention."

Tom once mentioned, to another officer, Captain Falconer's luck at cards as an instance of fortune befriending one who despised her favours in that way.

"Blood, sir!" exclaimed the officer. "Jack Falconer may have a mind and taste above gaming as a pleasure, for aught I know. But I would I had his skill with the cards. 'Tis no pastime with him, but a livelihood. Don't you know the man is as poor as a church-mouse, but for what he gets upon the green table?"

This revelation a little dampened our esteem for the captain's elevation of intellect, but I'll take my oath of it, he was really above gaming as a way of entertaining his mind, however he resorted to it as a means of filling his purse.

Of course Tom's friendly association with him was before there was sure cause to suspect his intentions regarding Margaret. His manner toward her was the model of proper civility. He was a hundred times more amiable and jocular with Fanny, whom he treated with the half-familiar pleasantry of an elderly man for a child; petting her with such delicacy as precluded displeasure on either her part or mine. He pretended great dejection upon learning that her heart was already engaged; and declared that his only consolation lay in the fact that the happy possessor of the prize was myself: for which we both liked him exceedingly. Toward Mrs. Faringfield, too, he used a chivalrous gallantry as complimentary to her husband as to the lady. Only between him and Margaret was there the distance of unvaried formality.

And yet we ought to have seen how matters stood. For now Margaret, though she had so little apparent cordiality for the captain, had ceased to value the admiration of the other officers, and had substituted a serene indifference for the animated interest she had formerly shown toward the gaieties of the town. And the captain, too, we learned, had the reputation of an inveterate conqueror of women; yet he had exhibited a singular callousness to the charms of the ladies of New York. He had been three months in the town, and his name had not been coupled with that of any woman there. We might have surmised from this a concealed preoccupation. And, moreover, there was my first reading of his countenance, the night of the Morris ball; this I had not forgotten, yet I ignored it, or else I shut my eyes to my inevitable inferences, because I could see no propriety in any possible interference from me.

One evening in December there was a drum at Colonel Philipse's town house, which Margaret did not attend. She had mentioned, as reason for absenting herself, a cold caught a few nights previously, through her bare throat being exposed to a chill wind by the accidental falling of her cloak as she walked to the coach after Mrs. Colden's rout. As the evening progressed toward hilarity, I observed that Tom Faringfield became restless and gloomy. At last he approached me, with a face strangely white, and whispered:

"Do you see?—Captain Falconer is not here!"

"Well, what of that?" quoth I. "Ten to one, he finds these companies plaguey tiresome."

"Or finds other company more agreeable," replied Tom, with a very dark look in his eyes.

He left me, with no more words upon the subject. When it was time to go home, and Mrs. Faringfield and Fanny and I sought about the rooms for him, we found he had already taken his leave. So we three had the chariot to ourselves, and as we rode I kept my own thoughts upon Tom's previous departure, and my own vague dread of what might happen.

But when Noah let us in, all seemed well in the Faringfield house. Margaret was in the parlour, reading; and she laid down her book to ask us pleasantly what kind of an evening we had had. She was the only one of the family up to receive us, Mr. Faringfield having retired hours ago, and Tom having come in and gone to bed without an explanation. The absence of light in Captain Falconer's windows signified that he too had sought his couch, for had he been still out, his servant would have kept candles lighted for him.

The next day, as we rode out Northward to our posts, Tom suddenly broke the silence:

"Curse it!" said he. "There are more mysteries than one. Do you know what I found when I got home last night?"

"I can't imagine."

"Well, I first looked into the parlour, but no one was there. Instead of going on to the library, I went up-stairs and knocked at Margaret's door. I—I wanted to see her a moment. It happened to be unlatched, and as I knocked rather hard, it swung open. No one was in that room, either, but I thought she might be in the bedchamber beyond, and so I crossed to knock at that. But I chanced to look at her writing-table as I passed; there was a candle burning on it, and devil take me if I didn't see a letter in a big schoolboy's hand that I couldn't help knowing at a glance—the hand of my brother Ned!"

"Then I'll engage the letter wasn't to Margaret. You know how much love is lost between those two."

"But it was to her, though! 'Dear M.,' it began—there's no one else whose name begins with M in the family. And the writing was fresh—not the least faded. I saw that much before I thought of what I was doing. But when I remembered 'twasn't my letter, I looked no more."

"But how could he send a letter from the rebel camp to her in New York?"[5]

"Why, that's not the strangest part of it. There's no doubt Washington has spies in the town, and ways of communicating with the rebel sympathisers here; I've sometimes thought my father—but no matter for that. The fact is, there the letter was, as certainly from Ned as I'm looking at you; and we know he's in the rebel army. But the wonder, the incredible thing, is that he should write to Margaret."

"'Tis a mystery, in truth."

"Well, 'tis none of ours, after all, and of course this will go no further—but let me tell you, the devil's in it when those two are in correspondence. There's crookedness of some kind afoot, when such haters combine together!"

"You didn't ask her, of course?"

"No. But I knocked at her chamber door, and getting no answer I went down-stairs again. This time she was in the parlour. She had been in the library before, it seemed; 'twas warmer there."

But, as I narrowly watched the poor lad, I questioned whether he was really convinced that she had been in the library before. He had said nothing of Captain Falconer's sitting-room, of which the door was that of the transformed large parlour, and was directly across the hall from the Faringfields' ordinary parlour, wherein Tom had first sought and eventually found her.

'Twas our practice thus to ride back to our posts when we had been off duty, although our rank did not allow us to go mounted in the service. For despite the needs of the army, the Faringfields and I contrived to retain our horses for private use. All of that family were good riders, particularly Margaret. She often rode out for a morning's canter, going alone because it was her will thereto, which was not opposed, for she had so accustomed us to her aloofness that solitary excursions seemed in place with her. One day, a little later in that same December, Tom and I had taken the road by way of General De Lancey's country mansion at Bloomingdale, rather than our usual course, which lay past the Murray house of Incledon. As I rode Northward at a slow walk, some distance ahead of my comrade, I distinctly heard through a thicket that veiled the road from a little glade at the right, the voice of Captain Falconer, saying playfully:

"Nay, how can you doubt me? Would not gratitude alone, for the reparation of my fortunes, bind me as your slave, if you had not chains more powerful?"

And then I caught this answer, in a voice that gave me a start, and sent the blood into my face—the voice of Margaret:

"But will those chains hold, if this design upon your gratitude fail?"

She spoke as in jest, but with a perceptible undercurrent of earnestness. This was a new attitude for her, and what a revelation to me! In a flash I saw her infatuation for this fine fellow, some fear of losing him, a pursuit of some plan by which she might repair his fortunes and so bind him by obligation. Had Margaret, the invincible, the disdainful, fallen to so abject a posture? And how long had these secret meetings been going on?

There was new-fallen snow upon the road, and this had deadened the sound of our horses' feet to those beyond the thicket. Tom was not yet so near as to have heard their voices. I saw the desirability of his remaining in ignorance for the present, so I uttered a loud "chuck," and gave a pull at my reins, as if urging my horse to a better gait, my purpose being to warn the speakers of unseen passers-by ere Tom should come up. I had not let my horse come to a stop, nor had I otherwise betrayed my discovery.

But, to my dread, I presently heard Tom cry sharply, "Whoa!" and, looking back, saw he had halted at the place where I had heard the voices. My warning must have failed to hush the speakers. Never shall I forget the look of startled horror, shame, and anger upon his face. For a moment he sat motionless; then he turned his horse back to an opening in the thicket, and rode into the glade. I galloped after him, to prevent, if possible, some fearful scene.

When I entered the glade, I saw Margaret and Captain Falconer seated upon their horses, looking with still fresh astonishment and discomfiture upon the intruder. Their faces were toward me. Tom had stopped his horse, and he sat regarding them with what expression I could not see, being behind him. Apparently no one of the three had yet spoken.

Tom glanced at me as I joined the group, and then, in a singularly restrained voice, he said:

"Captain Falconer, may I beg leave to be alone with my sister a few moments? I have something to ask her. If you would ride a little way off, with Mr. Russell—"

'Twas, after all, a most natural request. A brother may wish to speak to his sister in private, and 'tis more fitting to put a gentleman than a lady to the trouble of an absence. Seeing it thus, and speaking with recovered composure as if nothing were wrong, the captain courteously replied:

"Most certainly. Mr. Russell, after you, sir—nay, no precedence to rank, while we are simply private gentlemen."

He bowed low to Margaret, and we two rode out to the highway, there to pace our horses up and down within call. Of what passed between brother and sister, I afterward received a close account.

"I must have a straight answer," Tom began, "for I must not be put to the folly of acting without cause. Tell me, then, upon your honour, has there been reason between you and Captain Falconer for me to fight him? The truth, now! Of course, I shall find another pretext. It looks a thousand to one, there's reason; but I must be sure."

"Why, I think you have lost your wits, Tom," said she. "If a gentleman known to the family happens to meet me when I ride out, and we chance to talk—"

"Ay, but in such a private place, and in such familiar tones, when you scarce ever converse together at home, and then in the most formal way! Oh, sister, that it should come to this!"

"I say, you're a fool, Tom! And a spy too—dogging my footsteps! What right have you to call me to account?"

"As your brother, of course."

"My younger brother you are; and too young to understand all you see, for one thing, or to hold me responsible to you for my actions, for another."

"I understand when your honour calls for my actions, however! Your very anger betrays you. I will kill Falconer!"

"You'll do nothing of the kind!"

"You shall see! I know a brother's duties—his rights, by heaven!"

"A brother has no duties nor rights, concerning a sister who is married."

"Then, if not as your brother, I have as your husband's friend. For, by God, I am Phil's friend, to the death; and while he's not here to see what's passing, I dare act on his behalf. If I may not have a care of my sister's honour, I may of Philip Winwood's! And now I'll go to your captain!"

"But wait—stay, Tom—a moment, for God's sake! You're mistaken, I tell you. There's naught against Philip Winwood's honour in my meeting Captain Falconer. We have conferences, I grant. But 'tis upon a matter you know nothing of—a matter of the war."

"What nonsense! To think I should believe that! What affair of the war could you have to do with? It makes me laugh!"

"I vow there's an affair I have to do with. What do you know of my secrets, my planning and plotting? 'Tis an affair for the royal cause, I'll tell you that much. Nay, I'll tell you all; you won't dare betray it—you'd be a traitor to the king if you did. You shall be let into it, you and Bert. Call back Captain Falconer and him."

Puzzled and incredulous, but glad to test any assertion that might clear his sister of the suspicion most odious, Tom hallooed for us. When we re-entered the glade, Margaret spoke ere any one else had time for a word:

"Captain Falconer, I think you'll allow me the right to admit these gentlemen into the secret of our interviews. They are both loyal, both so dear to me that I'd gladly have them take a part in the honour of our project—of which, heaven knows, there'll be enough and to spare if we succeed."

"Madam," said he, "its chance of success will be all the greater, for the participation of these gentlemen."

"Well?" said Tom, looking inquiringly at his sister.

"You promise your aid, then, both?" she asked.

"Let us hear it first," he replied.

She obtained our assurances of secrecy in any event, and proceeded:

"Everybody knows what this rebellion costs England, in money, men, and commerce; not to speak of the king's peace of mind, and the feelings of the nation. Everybody sees it must last well-nigh for ever, if it doesn't even win in the end! Well, then, think what it would mean for England, for the king, for America, if the war could be cut short by a single blow, with no cost; cut short by one night's courage, daring, and skill, on the part of a handful of men!"

Tom and I smiled as at one who dreams golden impossibilities.

"Laugh if you will," said she; "but tell me this: what is the soul of the rebellion? What is the one vital part its life depends on? The different rebel provinces hate and mistrust one another—what holds 'em together? The rebel Congress quarrels and plots, and issues money that isn't worth the dirty paper it's printed on; disturbs its army, and does no good to any one—what keeps the rebellion afoot in spite of it? The rebel army complains, and goes hungry and half-naked, and is full of mutiny and desertion—what still controls it from melting away entirely? What carries it through such Winters as the rebels had at Valley Forge, when the Congress, the army, and the people were all at sixes and sevens and swords' points? What raises money the Lord knows how, finds supplies the Lord knows where, induces men to stay in the field, by the Lord knows what means, and has got such renown the world over that now France is the rebels' ally? I make you stare, boys; you're not used to seeing me play the orator. I never did before, and I sha'n't again, for heaven forbid I should be a woman of that kind! But I've studied this matter, and I hope I have a few ideas upon it."

"But what has done all these things you mention? May I ask that?" said I, both amused and curious.

"Washington!" was her reply. "Remove him, and this rebellion will burst like a soap-bubble! And that's the last of my speechmaking. Our project is to remove Washington—nay, there's no assassination in it. We'll do better—capture him and send him to England. Once he is in the Tower awaiting trial, how long do you think the rebellion will last? And what rewards do you think there'll be for those that sent him there?"

"Why," said Tom, "is that a new project? Hasn't the British army been trying to wipe out Washington's army and take him prisoner these four years?"

"But not in the way that we have planned it," replied Margaret, "and that Captain Falconer shall execute it. Tell them, captain."

"'Tis very simple, gentlemen," said the English officer. "If the honour of the execution is to be mine, and the men's whom I shall lead, the honour of the design, and of securing the necessary collusion in the rebel camp, is Mrs. Winwood's. My part hitherto has been, with Sir Henry Clinton's approval, to make up a chosen body of men from all branches of the army; and my part finally shall be to lead this select troop on horseback one dark night, by a devious route, to that part of the rebel lines nearest Washington's quarters; then, with the cooeperation that this lady has obtained among the rebels, to make a swift dash upon those quarters, seize Washington while our presence is scarce yet known, and carry him back to New York by outriding all pursuit. Boats will be waiting to bring us across the river. I allow such projects have been tried before, but they have been defeated through rebel sentries giving the alarm in time. They lacked one advantage we possess—collusion in the rebel camp—"

"And 'twas you obtained that collusion?" Tom broke in, turning to Margaret. "Hang me if I see how you in New York—oh, but I do, though! Through brother Ned!"

"You're a marvel at a guess," quoth she.

"Ay, ay! But how did you carry on your correspondence with him? 'Twas he, then, originated this scheme?"

"Oh, no; 'twas no such thing! The credit is all mine, if you please. I make no doubt, he would have originated it, if he had thought of it. But a sister's wits are sometimes as good as a brother's—remember that, Tom. For I had the wit not only to devise this project, but to know from the first that Ned's reason for joining the rebels was, that he might profit by betraying them."

"Ay, we might have known as much, Bert," said Tom. "But we give you all credit for beating us there, sister."

"Thank you! But the rascal never saw the way to his ends, I fancy; for he's still in good repute in the rebel army. And when I began to think of a way to gain—to gain the honour of aiding the king's cause, you know, I saw at once that Ned might help me. Much as we disliked each other, he would work with me in this, for the money 'twould bring him. And I had 'lighted upon something else, too—quite by chance. A certain old person I know of has been serving to carry news from a particular Whig of my acquaintance (and neither of 'em must ever come to harm, Captain Falconer has sworn) to General Washington." (As was afterward made sure, 'twas old Bill Meadows, who carried secret word and money from Mr. Faringfield and other friends of the rebellion.) "This old person is very much my friend, and will keep my secrets as well as those of other people. So each time he has gone to the rebel camp, of late—and how he gets there and back into New York uncaught, heaven only knows—he has carried a message to brother Ned; and brought back a reply. Thus while he knowingly serves the rebel cause, he ignorantly serves ours too, for he has no notion of what my brother and I correspond about. And so 'tis all arranged. Through Ned we have learned that the rebel light horse troop under Harry Lee has gone off upon some long business or other, and, as far as the army knows, may return to the camp at any time. All that our company under Captain Falconer has to do, then, is to ride upon a dark night to a place outside the rebel pickets, where Ned will meet them. How Ned shall come there unsuspected, is his own affair—he swears 'tis easy. He will place himself at the head of our troop, and knowing the rebel passwords for the night, as well as how to speak like one of Major Lee's officers, he can lead our men past the sentries without alarm. Our troop will have on the blue greatcoats and the caps the rebel cavalry wear—General Grey's men took a number of these last year, and now they come into use. And besides our having all these means of passing the rebel lines without hindrance, Ned has won over a number of the rebels themselves, by promising 'em a share of the great reward the parliament is sure to vote for this business. He has secured some of the men about headquarters to our interest."

"What a traitor!" quoth Tom, in a tone of disgust.

"Why, sure, we can make use of his treason, without being proud of him as one of the family," said Margaret. "The matter now is, that Captain Falconer offers you two gentlemen places in the troop he has chosen."

"The offer comes a little late, sir," said Tom, turning to the captain.

"Why, sir," replied Falconer, "I protest I often thought of you two. But the risk, gentlemen, and your youth, and my dislike of imperilling my friends—however, take it as you will, I now see I had done better to enlist you at the first. The point is, to enlist you now. You shall have your commander's permission; General Clinton gives me my choice of men. 'Twill be a very small company, gentlemen; the need of silence and dash requires that. And you two shall come in for honour and pay, next to myself—that I engage. 'Twill make rich men of us three, at least, and of your brother, sir; while this lady will find herself the world's talk, the heroine of the age, the saviour of America, the glory of England. I can see her hailed in London for this, if it succeed; praised by princes, toasted by noblemen, envied by the ladies of fashion and the Court, huzza'd by the people in the streets and parks when she rides out—"

"Nay, captain, you see too far ahead," she interrupted, seeming ill at ease that these things should be said before Tom and me.

"A strange role, sure, for Captain Winwood's wife," said Tom; "that of plotter against his commander."

"Nay," she cried, quickly, "Captain Winwood plays a strange role for Margaret Faringfield's husband—that of rebel against her king. For look ye, I had a king before he had a commander. Isn't that what you might call logic, Tom?"

"'Tis an unanswerable answer, at least," said Captain Falconer, smiling gallantly. "But come, gentlemen, shall we have your aid in this fine adventure?"

It was a fine adventure, and that was the truth. The underhand work, the plotting and the treason involved, were none of ours. 'Twas against Philip Winwood's cause, but our cause was as much to us as his was to him. The prospect of pay and honour did not much allure us; but the vision of that silent night ride, that perilous entrance into the enemy's camp, that swift dash for the person of our greatest foe, that gallop homeward with a roused rebel cavalry, desperate with consternation, at our heels, quite supplanted all feelings of slight in not having been invited earlier. Such an enterprise, for young fellows like us, there was no staying out of.

We gave Captain Falconer our hands upon it, whereupon he told us he would be at the pains to secure our relief from regular duty on the night set for the adventure—that of the following Wednesday—and directed us to be ready with our horses at the ferry at six o'clock Wednesday evening. The rebel cavalry caps and overcoats were to be taken to the New Jersey side previously, and there put on, this arrangement serving as precaution against our disguise being seen within our lines by some possible rebel spy who might thereupon suspect our purpose and find means of preceding us to the enemy's camp.

Tom and I saw the English captain and Margaret take the road toward the town, whereupon we resumed our ride Northward. I could note the lad's relief at being able to account for his sister's secret meeting with Falconer by a reason other than he had feared.

"By George, though," he broke out presently, "'tis plaguey strange Margaret should grow so active in loyalty! I never knew her zeal to be very great for any cause of a public nature. 'Tisn't like her; rabbit me if it is!"

"Why," quoth I, "maybe it's for her own purposes, after all—the reward and the glory. You know the pleasure she takes in shining."

"Egad, that's true enough!" And Tom's face cleared again.

Alas, I knew better! Besides the motive I had mentioned, there had been another to stimulate her wits and industry—the one her words, overheard by me alone, had betrayed too surely—the desire of enriching and advancing Captain Falconer. Well, she was not the first woman, nor has been the last, scheming to pour wealth and honour into a man's lap, partly out of the mere joy of pleasing him, partly in hope of binding him by gratitude, partly to make him seem in the world's eyes the worthier her devotion, and so to lessen her demerit if that devotion be unlawful.

"Poor Philip!" thought I. "Poor Philip! And what will be the end of this?"



CHAPTER XI.

Winwood Comes to See His Wife.

'T were scarce possible to exaggerate the eagerness with which Margaret looked forward to the execution of the great project. Her anticipations, in the intensity and entirety with which they possessed her, equalled those with which she had formerly awaited the trip to England. She was now as oblivious of the festivities arising from the army's presence, as she had been of the town's tame pleasures on the former occasion. She showed, to us who had the key to her mind, a deeper abstraction, a more anxious impatience, a keener foretaste (in imagination) of the triumphs our success would bring her. Her favourable expectations, of course, seesawed with fears of failure; and sometimes there was preserved a balance that afflicted her with a most irritating uncertainty, revealed by petulant looks and tones. But by force of will, 'twas mainly in the hope of success that she passed the few days between our meeting in the glade and the appointed Wednesday evening.

"Tut, sister," warned Tom, with kind intention, "don't raise yourself so high with hope, or you may fall as far with disappointment."

"Never fear, Tom; we can't fail."

"It looks all clear and easy, I allow," said he; "but there's many a slip, remember!"

"Not two such great slips to the same person," she replied. "I had my share of disappointment, when I couldn't go to London. This war, and my stars, owe me a good turn, dear."

But when, at dusk on Wednesday evening, Tom and I took leave of her in the hall, she was trembling like a person with a chill. Her eyes glowed upon us beseechingly, as if she implored our Herculean endeavours in the attempt now to be made.

We had to speak softly to one another, lest Mr. Faringfield might hear and infer some particular enterprise—for we were not to hazard the slightest adverse chance. Captain Falconer had been away from his quarters all day, about the business of the night, and would not return till after its accomplishment. Thus we two were the last to be seen of her, of those bound to the adventure; and so to us were visible the feelings with which she regarded the setting forth of our whole company upon the project she had designed, for which she had laboriously laid preparations even in the enemy's camp, and from which she looked for a splendid future. Were it realised, she might defy Mr. Faringfield and Philip: they would be nobodies, in comparison with her: heroines belong to the whole world, and may have their choice of the world's rewards: they may go where they please, love whom they please, and no father nor husband may say them nay. Though I could not but be sad, for Philip's sake, at thought of what effect our success might have upon her, yet for the moment I seemed to view matters from her side, with her nature, and for that moment I felt that to disappoint her hopes would be a pity.

As for myself (and Tom was like me) my cause and duty, not Margaret's private ambitions, bade me strive my utmost in the business; and my youthful love of danger sent me forth with a most exquisite thrill, as into the riskiest, most exhilarating game a man can play. So I too trembled a little, but with an uplifting, strong-nerved excitement far different from the anxious tremor of suspense that tortured Margaret.

"For pity's sake, don't fail, boys!" she said, as if all rested upon us two. "Think of me waiting at home for the news! Heaven, how slow the hours will pass! I sha'n't have a moment's rest of mind or body till I know!"

"You shall know as soon as we can get back to New York," said I.

"Ay—if we are able to come back," added Tom, with a queer smile.

She turned whiter, and new thoughts seemed to sweep into her mind. But she drove them back.

"Hush, Tom, we mustn't think of that!" she whispered. "No, no, it can't come to that! But I shall be a thousand times the more anxious! Good night!—that's all I shall say—good night and a speedy and safe return!"

She caught her brother's head between her hands, bestowed a fervent kiss upon his forehead, swiftly pressed my fingers, and opened the door for us.

We passed out into the dark, frosty evening. There was snow on the ground but none in the air. We mounted our waiting horses, waved back a farewell to the white-faced, white-handed figure in the doorway; and started toward the ferry. Margaret was left alone with her fast-beating heart, to her ordeal of mingled elation and doubt, her dread of crushing disappointment, her visions of glorious triumph.

At the ferry we reported to Captain Falconer, who was expeditiously sending each rider and horse aboard one of the waiting flat-boats as soon as each arrived. Thus was avoided the assemblage, for any length of time, of a special body of horsemen in the streets—for not even the army, let alone the townspeople, should know more of our setting forth than could not be hid. The departure of those who were to embark from the town was managed with exceeding quietness and rapidity. Captain Falconer and the man who was to guide us to Edward Faringfield's trysting-place were the last to board.