"Battle," "defeat," "rout," "Cortelyou House," "the Maryland Line." "Good, I see the boys did their duty," were among the many exclamations I heard around the table and when the despatch ended.

"The bearer will describe the battle."

They all turned to me, and Thomas Johnson said: "Come, young gentleman, tell us everything you saw and heard."

So I took my place by the Chairman and told them of what I had seen and done, amid many interruptions and eager questions from the Council.

Thus for a time, as I stood there, I became a man of importance, telling the tale of the battle, of the defeat and the rout, of the fiery charges, the death, the pain and the anguish of it all, until long after the night had fallen. But an end comes to all things, and Thomas Johnson, laying his hand on my shoulder, said:

"Young gentleman, you must stay with me to-night."

I accepted gladly, for the inns were crowded, and it was somewhat late in the evening to find a friend to take me in. We strolled across the State House grounds under the soft September skies, through the wide, dusty streets, until we came to the future Governor's house. Though it was late, we talked for yet another hour, and then, with a cheery good-night, I was shown to my room.



CHAPTER XII

THE VETO OF A MAID

Ah, I am afraid the clean white sheets, the soft springy bed, and the balmy September air proved traitor to me, after the hardships of a soldier's life in the field, the rough bivouac, and the hard ride from the North, for when I awoke with a start, I found the sun high in the heavens and the music of birds coming through the open window from the trees outside. Hurriedly dressing, I opened my door and went down the broad stairway into the old hall. Everything was quiet, not a soul was around. I wandered across the hall and parlour, and there I stood for a few minutes, looking out into the street, when a merry burst of laughter across the hall attracted my attention. The door of the room opposite was slightly ajar, and I saw that it was the library of the house; so crossing the hall, I gently rapped on the panel. A cheery "Come in!" was my answer. I obeyed the summons, threw the door open, and entered.

"Why, it is our feather-bed soldier," came a merry voice from the broad window-sill, where sat two young ladies. A peal of ringing laughter followed; for, indeed, I was somewhat non-plussed to thus come upon two such laughing, merry girls.

One was dark, the other fair; Both were sweet and debonair.

Indeed they were very pretty, sitting there amid the quaint old surroundings, the heavy old book-presses, with solid oak doors, the wainscoting extending to the ceiling, the broad window-seats, the green trees, and quiet garden beyond. I knew at once that they must be daughters of my host, Mistress Polly and Mistress Betsy Johnson, at that time the reigning belles of the western shore.

"Now I know what awaited me I shall never forgive that feather-bed," I replied, recovering from my confusion and making my best bow. "I would never have proved such a traitor to my cloth."

"That is better," said Mistress Polly, the black-haired, dark-eyed one. "Come and report to us, sir. Do you not know that no officer returns from the army who does not immediately report to us?"

"I understand their alacrity in doing so. I shall be among the first to obey the order hereafter."

"Then, sir, come tell us of the battle, and what brought you hither so fast that the mud is still upon your boots?"

Now, telling the account of the battle to two charming young ladies, whose bright eyes and eager faces told of the interest they took in my narrative, was a far different thing from telling the same tale before the powerful Council of Safety, and I am free to confess that I enjoyed the last far more than the first.

Their exclamations and excited questions spurred me on, and I drew the picture of the battle with a stronger hand and painted myself a hero, which I am afraid I was far from being.

But Mistress Betsy suddenly sat up straight, exclaiming:

"Bless me, Polly, Mr. Frisby has not had his breakfast, and here it is near ten o'clock"—an outrageous late hour in those days.

At this both Mistress Polly and Mistress Betsy sprang to their feet, and I was duly conducted to the dining-room, where a delightful breakfast awaited me, which I endeavoured to eat amid their sallies and their questioning.

We were having a very gay time of it, when there came a heavy step through the hall into the room, and a cheery voice asked: "How is the soldier to-day? In good hands, I see." It was Thomas Johnson.

"That he is, sir," I replied, rising, "and he thoroughly enjoys it too."

"Spoken like a soldier," replied our future Governor, "and like a soldier you must leave at once, for the Council desire you to carry these despatches posthaste to General Washington."

"No; he shall not," cried Mistress Polly, with a stamp of her foot. "He has promised to drive our four-in-hand to the races this afternoon, and I am not going to let that Council of old fogies rob us of the only soldier in town who has seen service for at least one day."

"So that is the way the wind blows," said her father, pinching her cheek and laughing. "I will tell the great Council of Public Safety that they have been overruled by a maid."

"It will not be the first time," she retorted. "Their wives overrule them every day."

"I will ride all night to make it up," I suggested.

"Never mind, my boy," he replied, "you deserve a little holiday; you need not leave Annapolis until nightfall, and Kent the following night, which will give you a chance to see your mother again. There, I hope this little minx will give me some peace now."

The treaty was quickly sealed by a kiss, and Mistress Polly ran off to give the order for the coach-and-four, for the races began at one o'clock and the course was a short distance out of the city.

There soon came a clatter of hoofs, a rattle, a slam and a bang, a whoaing, a yelling, and a confusion of noises.

"They have put the colts in," cried Mistress Betsy with glee, and Mistress Polly was at the door crying, "Come on."

"Great Jove!" said I to myself, as I seized my hat and followed after, for though I had driven many a wild team I had never done so through a town before. And four devils they were for a certainty, a little under size, but making up for that by the fire and vim of their proceedings.

The heels of the wheelers were playing like castanets on the dashboard, while the leaders were in the air half the time as they swayed above the crowd of darkies, who, hanging on everywhere, were trying to hold them down, while the great coach swayed and rocked behind.

There was a flash of skirts, a gleam of the smallest feet in the world, and Mistress Polly and Mistress Betsy were in their places, and I had sprung to my seat and gathered the reins in my hands.

"All ready, Captain?"

"Ready. Let go." They scattered like chaff. There was a flash of hoofs and they were off like a shot, their bodies stretched low to the ground, the great coach rolling and rocking behind.

Luckily the street ended in a country road, for the street and the houses were gone in an instant, and we were rushing along between green fields. A column of dust rose up and whirled behind us, and the road stretched like a ribbon before, while the young ladies at my side laughed and clapped their hands in glee. After several miles the pace began to tell, I slowly brought them under control, and by the time I had come to the race-course I had them well in hand. We had gone several miles out of our way, but by taking a short cut we arrived at the races on time. I brought the four colts into the field with a dash and a flourish as they were preparing for the first race.

The course was a great level field of greensward, oval in shape, with the track in beautiful condition. Far down the track on either hand, almost encircling the field, stretched the lines of the coaches, chariots, gigs, and wagons. Gentlemen on horseback and on foot, an eager, bustling crowd, gay with colours and bright faces, already tingling with the excitement of the coming race, made a stirring scene; for the Trinity of the Marylanders in the early days of my youth were the horse, the hounds, and a fight.

But though the faces were fair, merry, and pleasant to look upon, though the chariots and four-in-hands were gorgeous and bedecked, there was a woful lack of cavaliers to make those damask cheeks mantle with a blush, for they were away fighting in the North. Thus it was, as I drove down the line in my uniform of scarlet and buff, to find a stand, that Mistress Polly and Mistress Betsy had their triumph, and many a fair face turned our way as we drove by, until I brought the coach to a halt in a good place next to the parson, where he sat his cob, watching the preliminaries.

"Find the parson," said Mistress Polly judiciously, "and you will have found the best place in the field."

"Oh, Mistress Polly, you are a minx," said that reverend gentleman. "How in the world could I make the youngsters come to church if they did not know I was a good judge of horseflesh as well as a minister?"

"They are off," cried Mistress Betsy. The race had begun; but why describe the race? Those who have never seen a race are mere worthless creatures deserving no consideration, and those who have seen a race do not need a description. At the mere name they see the grand thoroughbreds at the line, their coats shining like satin in the sun, eager and ready to be off. Then the flag falls, and, amid the rustling of skirts and craning of necks, they are off. Ah, and then comes the glorious excitement of it all as you watch with eager eyes that ribbon of a track, and see now this one, now that one, slowly draw away from the bunch at the start, and the closing of the space again, until they become mere moving spots on the far side of the field. And then, that home stretch, with its thunder of hoofs, its roar of voices, and cheers and yells, as the grand beasts, with straining nerves and neck to neck, make the last great effort; and afterward the triumph, the waving of handkerchiefs, the great cheer that greets the victor, and the smiles of merry lips and laughing eyes. Those were the prizes we raced for, when racing was the pastime of gentlemen, and not an excuse for blackguardism and gambling, as to-day it is fast becoming. So my kind hosts and I made our little bets, and enjoyed ourselves right thoroughly, until the last race, which was won by a grandson of the great Selim, was over and done. Then I swung my four colts into the road again, and at a rattling pace returned to town.

It was late now, and the sun was preparing to take its last dip behind the western hills; so I was forced to bid my charming hostesses adieu, and amid many good wishes and a waving of handkerchiefs, departed to seek my waterman, to begin my trip across the bay.

The town became a blur, a dark mass behind us, broken by the twinkling of the lights through the gloom, as we swiftly glided down the Severn before the wind. Out upon the bay it was still light, and we steered for the north point of the Isle of Kent. The wind was fresh. With all sail set we skimmed the water before it, and ere many hours had passed we saw the light through the gloom of Rock Hall straight ahead. But the old waterman suddenly brought his helm around hard, and pointed her nose for the wide mouth of the Chester close at hand.

"What is wrong?" I asked, and for an answer he pointed with his arm to where against the sky were outlined the tapering masts of a large vessel lying between us and Rock Hall.

"That is a man-of-war," he said, "we will have to run up the river to Chestertown."

"Agreed," said I, right readily, for I thought I might see Mistress Jean once more before I went back to the front.

The mouth of the Chester was soon gained, and for hours, through the stillness of the night, we glided over its smooth waters, between low, heavily wooded banks, or the broad sweeping fields of some plantation, whose boundaries were lapped by the waters of the river. In the early morning, in the dusky gray hours, we ran along beside the wharf of the old county seat of Kent.



CHAPTER XIII

THE GREETING OF FAIR LIPS

After wandering through the streets of this old town during the early hours of the morning, seeing it gradually wake into life and take on the quiet bustle of the day, I at last found myself before the inn, which had just been opened.

The host was an old friend, and we were soon fighting over the battles again, when a shadow fell across us and I sprang to my feet.

It was Capt. James Nicholson, one of the three brothers who fought their ships in sunshine and in storm, while there was a plank left for them to stand upon, carrying dismay through the English fleets by their desperate courage and daring. He was a man about forty years old, over medium height, but slender and of fair complexion, with light blue eyes and reddish hair, a typical descendant of that old Viking, Nicholson, who fought some famous fights under King Haco, and harried the coasts of Scotland until he gained a foothold there and founded the Scottish family of the name. The same open, bold countenance of the Admiral, the same frank and manly bearing, showed him to be a sailor and a fighter.

"Hello, Frisby," said he, shaking my hand cordially. "With the dove so near I knew that the hawk would not be far away."

I stammered out, as the landlord smiled, that I was forced to come to Chestertown to avoid the man-of-war lying off Rock Hall.

"She is off Rock Hall, is she? Well, I shall have to chase her away with the Defence next week. But is that your only excuse for coming so far out of your way?"

And when I protested that it was, he laughed genially, and, turning to the landlord, said: "He does not look like a knight-errant who flies to the rescue of maids, and Tory maids at that, does he? But see here, youngster, since you have brought this little traitress into my household, you will have to do your share in converting her to the true principles of liberty and democracy."

"Keep that for the men, Captain," cried the landlord. "Keep that for the men; the women give us no peace, as it is, and if they once get those notions there will be no living with them."

"Ah, you old reprobate, you had better not let your wife hear you."

With this we left the inn, and going through some quiet streets, we at last came to Water Street, with its square brick houses, gardens and flowers, and green lawns leading to the river. Very substantial were the buildings, quaint and old-fashioned. A number of white steps led from the street to the porch of the Captain's house. When, at his motion, I opened the door and stepped into the hall, which was somewhat dark after the glare of the street, there came a flurry of lace, and soft arms were around my neck. And—well, what could a man do but return that kiss with interest? But the best things are but fleeting, for, when she glanced at my face, and saw who I was, she gave a little cry, broke from my arms, and vanished in confusion up the stairway, followed by the merry laughter of the real uncle, not the proxy.

"You surely cannot object to that welcome, Frisby; but I must tell Mistress Jean to be more careful, or the army will lose a promising officer. They will not be able to keep you away from the town if this keeps on."

So saying, he led the way to the rear porch where it overlooked the lawn and the river.

Here we sat and talked until the breakfast-bell rang, and we went into the dining-room. I was as hungry as a trooper by this time, after my all-night experience on the Chester.

The dining-room was a long room, with open windows looking out across the river and the fields.

We had not as yet taken our seats, when through another door came Mistress Jean and Mistress Nancy Nicholson, her bosom friend and confidante, with their arms around each other's waists—a charming picture.

The colour mantled high on Mistress Jean's cheek, and I am sure that mine played the traitor also, but Mistress Nancy came to the rescue by demanding news and particulars of her cavalier, for such she declared Mr. Richard Ringgold of Hunting Field to be.

Answering, I told her that I had left him covered with blood and with glory, but on the fair road to recovery. And so, though Mistress Jean still showed a heightened colour, in telling of Master Richard's fortunes and escapes we broke the embarrassment of the meeting, and were soon fast friends again. It was a merry breakfast. Afterward the two young ladies and I walked in the garden by the river's edge and talked of many things,—of war and campaigning, for I claimed to be an authority by now, and quite a veteran,—of love; but that was too dangerous, for Mistress Nancy would look at me slyly and laugh as she asked if I was as great an authority upon the one as I was upon the other.

I retorted that I had heard many a lecture on the subject from Master Richard, but otherwise knew nothing of the art, and then I begged her to take me as a pupil, so that in time I might become as great a scholar as Dick himself. But she roguishly recommended me to her Assistant Professor Mistress Jean Gordon, who, she told me, knew more of the art than she did herself. And then, having come to some boxwood alleys, she slipped away and left Mistress Jean and me alone.

"They tell me, Mistress Jean, that love is war; may I ask what the fate of the prisoners is?"

"As in real war," she replied, "those who surrender at discretion receive but scant courtesy, but those who make a gallant resistance are often victorious in their defeat."

"I see that you love the old Highland fashion, where the bridegroom came with force and arms and bore the bride away."

"Better swords and daggers, and hearts that are true, than silks and satins, Lowland fops and perfidy."

"English swords have crossed ere this with Highland steel, and English hearts are as tried and as true as those that beat beneath the plaid," said I, coming to the defence of my English ancestry.

"So ho! Sir Rebel!" she cried in glee, "what means this defence of the hated redcoat? Do you not fear the shadow of the great committee that you preach treason so openly?" And she looked so bewitching in her little triumph that I had to thrust my hands into my pockets and turn away, so great was the temptation.

"I will turn Highlander," said I, "if you do not stop."

"Stop?" she said with the most innocent air in the world.

"Aye," said I, "for if your Highlanders have ever been sturdy knaves, the Frisbys have ever been quick where bright eyes and ruby lips are concerned, and there is no telling what might happen." And I looked so determined and fierce that she broke into merry laughter in my face.

"Your fate be upon you," said I solemnly; and—well, at that moment, I heard Captain Nicholson calling that my horse was at the door, waiting for me.

"That means that I must go, Mistress Jean," and the laughter died on her lips, "go to join my comrades in the North in their struggle for the Great Cause. When you hear of battles and sieges and sudden deaths, will you sometimes think of the young rebel who rode with you from the Braes to Fairlee? For wherever he may be, whether in the glory of the rush and the sweep of the charge, or the gloomy and dismal retreat; whether in the camp on the bleak hillside, with the cold north wind blowing, or bivouacked in the Southern savannahs warmed by the rays of the sun; in the fatigue and the toil of the marches, amid the groans and cries of the dying, or the joy and triumph of the hour when the fight has been fought and won, your smile shall always be with him, the light of your eye in his heart. Will you think of him, or forget, Mistress Jean?"

"I will think of him." Her voice was very low and sweet. Then I stooped and kissed her hand, the fairest hand that man ever looked upon.



CHAPTER XIV

THE RETURN OF THE TORY

As I turned to ride away, after bidding good-bye to the Captain, I heard a voice calling me, and looking up, I saw Mistress Nancy at a window, and riding under it she commanded me to convey to Master Richard a tiny case wrapped in many papers.

"And now, sir," said she, "here is something for you;" and she threw me a little case, which, on opening quickly, I saw contained a miniature of a fair young girl, with a wealth of dark brown hair, the loveliest eyes and the sweetest face.

"Mistress Nancy," I cried, "you are my guardian angel." Placing the miniature over my heart, I threw her a kiss, and rode on my way rejoicing.

I rode from Chestertown to Fairlee, where I bade my mother good-bye, and from there I took up the trail to the North, riding into camp one evening just as the sun was setting.

I reported immediately to the great General, who thanked me for the speed with which I had carried the despatches and returned. And then I was once more among my old comrades of the Line.

They crowded around me, one and all, for I had messages for many of them, and they were eager for the news of old Kent and the shore, and my welcome was right royal.

And now, for a month or so, disasters came crowding upon our arms; defeat and death stalked through our ranks, and cast a gloom over the cause.

We fought the fight at White Plains, and when Fort Washington fell many of our Maryland boys went to the hulks of old Jersey to find a last resting-place under the cold gray waters of Wallabout Bay. Amid constant marching, skirmishes, and defeats the months slipped away, and the cold gloomy winter was upon us. Ah, how cold and bleak and barren the hillsides looked after the smiling fields of Maryland, touched and warmed by the Southern sun! And then the cold, the bitter cold of it all, the white winding sheet of the snow and the ice made us shiver and hug the fire of dry fence-rails and button our threadbare coats more tightly around us, while we looked in despair at the toes peeping through the ends of our boots. But the great General knew how to warm the blood in our veins and drive the despair from our hearts, when on that bitterly cold Christmas night he led us across the Delaware and hurled us against the Hessians.

It is true that we left a trail of blood as we marched, dyeing the snow with its crimson. Yet the fight itself was glorious, and when we came back in our triumph the cold and the snow were as nothing. We made sport of our rags and tatters and laughed the English to scorn.

Then again when we struck them at Princeton seven days later, threw the dust in Cornwallis's eyes, and played with him as we willed, we were ready to follow our leader wherever he pointed the way.

And so, after humbling the English, we returned to our camp for the winter, and there made ready for the spring, when we saw my Lord Cornwallis back on the Hudson again.

Then we lay in Jersey, watching them over in New York, until far into the summer, ready to take up the march when the news should come of the destination of the English fleet that lay off Sandy Hook.

At last one day there came a horseman spurring fast from the southward, bearing the news of a vast fleet that covered the waves of the Chesapeake and lay at that moment off the harbor of Baltimore, threatening it with fire and sword.

Then there was a mighty bustle in the camp, and we whose homes were now in danger took up the march to the southward, eager to meet the foe.

When we reached Philadelphia we found that the enemy had entered the Elk, and was now marching on the city, while the hastily called Maryland and Delaware volunteers threw themselves in the way, cutting off straggling parties and obstructing the advance.

So we hurried on to assist them, and found ourselves on the evening of the 10th of September at the Brandywine, with the English advance but a few miles away.

It was here that I met with one of the volunteers, who on hearing the English were in the Chesapeake had taken his rifle from the rack and joined in the defence. He came from lower Kent, but told me of the devastation all through the county of Cecil, wherever the enemy had laid its blighting hand.

"They tell me," he said, "that the old Tory, Charles Gordon, whom they ran out of Cecil, is with Lord Howe, and high in his counsels. When they arrived in the Elk, Gordon, with a body of troops, marched all night and attacked the house of James Rodolph at dawn. Rodolph was away from home, and that is the only thing that saved him, for they say that Gordon swore that he would hang him if he once caught him. As it was, he gave Rodolph's house to the flames, and burned everything on the place. 'An eye for an eye,' said he, 'is a Highland saying as well as a Jewish one. I regret that I cannot destroy the land as well.' Rodolph, when he heard of it, stormed and swore, but he has not dared to venture within the confines of Cecil since."

"Did Gordon do anything else?" I asked.

"No. After he burnt Rodolph out he tried to stop Lord Howe from pillaging, but his lordship answered, 'You have had your turn, and now you must let the others have theirs,' and so the pillaging went on."

But the planters and the yeomen who had risen at the first alarm hung on the flanks of Lord Howe's army, cutting off stragglers and scouting-parties, and confining the belt of desolation within narrow lines.

At last came the 11th of September, the day when we met Lord Howe at the Brandywine, and were sent reeling back in disorderly retreat, when by a skilful march they outflanked our right wing and rolled it up.

And then disaster followed disaster. Paoli came, that grim and bloody surprise at the dead of night. We had marched with Wayne and gained the rear of the British column, and lay for the night in a dense wood, waiting for the recruits under Smallwood, who was marching to join us, before we began our attack on the British rear.

It was in the early hours of the morning, the blackest of the night, the hour before the dawn, when there came sudden shots from our pickets, and before we could spring to arms the Highland war-cry rang through the forest and the Black Watch swept over us. The wild forms of the Highlanders, the intense darkness, the surprise, the din and noise of the strife as those who could grasp their muskets made a desperate stand, struck terror through the camp, and ere the men could rally we were swept into the woods beyond. It seemed to me, as I was borne along in the press, I heard, high over the charging cry of the Scots, the voice of the old Tory cheering his men on. Certain it is that I saw him for a moment by the light of a camp-fire, sword in hand, urging on his wild Scots, who seemed to grow wilder under his leadership, as our line melted away before their advance.

Ah! but it was grim and terrible. Our men, overcome by the surprise and the rout, carried terror into the camp of Smallwood's recruits, which was near at hand, and they, too, gave way.

But the dawn came: with it we gathered our shattered forces together and marched back to join Washington.

Philadelphia fell, but the tide soon turned; for at Germantown we once more met them and avenged the surprise at Paoli.

But the thing that thrilled us through and through and set our banners high was the courage of our brothers of the Line, who, thrown into Fort Mifflin, held it in the teeth of the enemy's fire until every gun was dismounted and the fort itself levelled to the earth, leaving nothing to defend. It was a brave and gallant action, and we envied them for their good fortune.

We had avenged Paoli at Germantown, yet this added another wreath to our banner. It was a thing to stir the blood and to set the pulses bounding to hear how those heroes fought under the crumbling walls of Mifflin, and prayed for the friendly cover of night to fall to hide them from that storm of fire and shell, and yet fought on.



CHAPTER XV

THE FLAG OF TRUCE

The long hard winter soon came on, and we retired to Valley Forge to suffer and to bear what was far more deadly than the English bullets—the terrible cold and desolation of that dreary place. Cold, bitterly cold it was, as the wind came down from the mountains, swept over the broad fields, pierced through our torn and tattered garments, and racked our frames with pain. And yet, terrible as the exposure was, there stands out one bright day in all that dreary winter, one day, one hour in which I forgot all the cold and the hardships and would not have been elsewhere for anything in the wide world.

It was near the setting of the sun on one of the bleakest and coldest days of the year. The sun itself was sinking behind the distant hills, and the sky was brilliant with its fiery javelins, which threw a lurid light across the cold gray heavens, the last protest of departing day against the approach of the chill dismal night. The snow lay heavy upon the ground, and spread like a great white pall over the sins and sorrows of the world. Before us stretched the road, unbroken and trackless; not a man had passed that way, for we stood guard at the outpost, and the flicker of the foeman's fire could be seen six hundred yards away, through the gloom.

"Lucifer, but it is cold!" said one of the guard, as he threw another rail on the fire and held his hands out over the flames to warm them.

"Aye; Old Nick himself would not be a bad acquaintance now—his smell of brimstone and sulphur might warm us up a bit," said another.

We were making the best we could of it, under the lee of a high bank by the side of the road, where we had cleared a space and stacked a good supply of dry fence-rails to feed the fire during the night. The wind from the northwest swept over our heads, sheltered as we were by the bank, and we would have defied the cold that crept ever upward but for the rags and tatters that covered our frames. The men themselves were cheerful, as they sat hugging the fire, and laughed and joked at their hardships.

"I wonder if those Highland devils will bother us to-night?" asked one, for the Black Watch held the outpost down the road.

"They will be too busy warming their knees," came the reply from across the fire, and a laugh followed.

"Hello, what is that?" for the thud of hoofs was heard on the road coming from the camp.

"A flag of truce, by George!" said the sergeant. "Who on earth wants to go through the lines on a night like this?"

The party, consisting of several troopers, an officer, and what appeared to be a woman on horseback, was soon within hailing distance, and I heard Ringgold's voice call out:

"I say, Frisby, are you in charge here?"

"Yes," I replied. "What's up?"

"We have a prisoner here who wishes to go through the lines, but I don't know whether you will permit her or not."

"Is she fair?" I asked. "For in that case she shall not pass unless she gives us a smile by way of tribute as she rides by."

"Not even if George Washington so orders, sir," said a voice that I knew.

"By the saints, my lady!" I cried, and I was by her side in an instant. "What brings you here, and why are you going within the English lines?"

"Should not a daughter be with her father?" she asked.

"But those bloody English, with all their fine trappings and their feathers! Nay, my lady, you have been disrespectful to the Continental Congress, as I can vouch for. You are our prisoner, and I will not let you escape thus, to smile on the wearers of his Majesty's uniform."

But she laughed quite merrily, and answered my threat with "Lieutenant Ringgold, pray ride on with the flag of truce."

"Dick Ringgold," I cried in my turn, "if you take less than ten minutes I shall be your deadly enemy for life."

"All right, old fellow." Dick rode on toward the enemy's campfire with the bugler until he had gone about half the way, and then we heard the parley sounded and saw a stir in the opposite camp.

"Mistress Jean," said I, returning to the charge, "you are perfectly heartless, and though I know the redcoats cannot help but fall in love with you, I warn you that if you smile on any one of them I shall go through the lines and seek him out, even into the heart of the city itself, though I have to swing for it."

"You will never try anything so rash;" and now the laughter had gone from her voice.

"That I will, my lady," I replied, "for I would rather dance on nothing than know that you belonged to another."

"But you must not," said she. "You must not think of such a thing. You must promise me never to attempt it."

"Nay, Mistress Jean, that I cannot promise. It would drive me mad to stand here on guard all the winter night and see the lights of Philadelphia off there in the east; to know amid all the gayety and the balls you reign supreme; to know I could not see you because of the miserable redcoats that guard the city. If they were ten times their number I would find my way through them to be once more at your side, Mistress Jean."

Before she could reply the Highland officer broke in, for he had ridden up with Ringgold.

"Mistress Jean, it gives me pleasure to be the first to welcome you to our lines. Your father told us of your coming, and there has been a rivalry between us as to who should be the one to escort you to the city."

"That was kind of all of you; but how did you leave my father?"

"Well, and eager for your coming."

He was a splendid-looking young fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, and somewhat bony, with a voice that rang frank and true. He was a Highlander, every inch of him, and carried himself with a free and graceful carriage, and when I heard him tell Mistress Jean that he was a Farquharson and an old ally of her house, I knew I had at last met a dangerous rival. For, out of romances, it is not the villain, but the brave and frank gentleman who is most dangerous to the peace of mind of lovers, for they see in him what they themselves most admire, and by which they hope to win their ladies' love.

"Lieutenant Ringgold, now," said Farquharson, "I am ready to receive Mistress Gordon from your hands, and to conduct her within our lines."

"Far more ready than we are to let her go," answered Dick gallantly; "but it is the fortune of war." And then the two officers saluted and the exchange was made.

So Mistress Jean bade us all good-bye right prettily, and I, being on the off side of her horse from the others, seized her hand as it hung by her side and kissed it several times. She at first did not withdraw it, and then, bending over, whispered, "Do not try to enter the city, for they will hang thee, and I would not lose so true a friend." Here her voice was very soft and low. I kissed her hand once again and she was gone.

We watched their dark shadows down the road to the Highland outpost, as they moved like great blots across the snow. I stood, I do not know how long, gazing after them, when Dick's hand was on my shoulder.

"Never mind, Frisby," said he, "we shall win the city in the spring, and then you may win her also."



CHAPTER XVI

THE BALL OF MY LORD HOWE

Many a night after that last parting I stood guard on that dreary outpost, gazing out across the snow at the dim lights of the city far to the eastward. Aye, for the city was gay that winter, gay with parties and dances, balls and dinners, and the bells rang as merrily as if we were not starving and dying out on the bleak, hillsides. Aye, those old burghers were warm and comfortable as they sat by their fires, with a glass of their wine or toddy at their side.

True, my Lord Howe ruled the city with an iron hand, but he was a gallant gentleman, and his officers made good partners for their fair daughters at the balls. They were handsome in their scarlet uniforms, with their epaulets and their sabres, making, indeed, a very gallant show, while those ragged patriots out upon the snow had not shoes to their feet, and were altogether too disreputable to be admitted even to the kitchens of their houses. Then, again, runs not the Quaker law, "Thou shalt not fight"? And so the good old burghers threw another log on the fire and sat down to enjoy the cheerful blaze.

The news came to us, sifted through the lines; we heard of their dances and their balls, and everywhere we heard that Mistress Jean Gordon was the belle of them all. The old Tory held high rank in the counsels of Lord Howe, and the daughter, by her grace and beauty, reigned it over the hearts of every gallant gentleman of his army.

We heard of her refusing my Lord Paulet and several other gentlemen, noted among us for their hard fighting, whenever by chance we were opposed to them. And I, standing guard on the outpost, chafed in vain when I heard these tales, until one day chance decided me to risk all, to see her once more with my own eyes, and perhaps speak to her.

There had been a skirmish on the outposts that day, and our men had captured an English officer, a Captain of the line. He was a talkative man, and while he was waiting to be sent to the rear as a prisoner we entertained him at our mess table, and he in turn told us the news of the town.

"That must be a wonderful country, what do you call it, that eastern shore of yours?" said he, "if it contains any more beauties like Mistress Jean Gordon."

"Ah, the Tory's daughter?"

"Yes. She is the reigning belle of the whole town, and all our fellows are wild about her. I never saw so many fellows in love with one girl before, but Farquharson seems to have the best of it, while Lord Paulet stamps and swears."

Now, we were loyal Marylanders—loyal, at least, to her wit and beauty, so then and there we proposed and drank the health of the Tory maid, while Dick chimed in with the amendment, "May she never marry a Britisher, but a patriot tried and true," at which our English Captain good-naturedly protested; and while they drank the toast I made a vow that ere a week was past I would be within that city.

Fortune came my way, for as I left the mess-room that night I ran against Tom Jones of Cresap's old company of riflemen from the mountains of the West, the most daring and desperate spy in all our army. He was a man of powerful strength, as lithe and active as a panther, while his face was as immovable as that of an Indian, with never a sign thereon of the thoughts and passions of the man within. He was clad for the moment in the dress of the riflemen, a full suit of buckskin, leggings, hunting-shirt, and all, while carelessly thrown across one arm was his rifle, and in his belt was sheathed the long hunting-knife.

"Lieutenant," said he, "I expect to return through your lines to-morrow night, so do not fire before you challenge."

"Come this way, Jones," said I, leading him aside from the others. "I do not know which way you are going, but I want you to help me through the lines into the city. Can you do so?"

"But, Lieutenant, they will be wanting to hang you if you are caught."

"I will take that risk. I must be in the city within a week."

Jones, like most great frontiersmen, was a man of quick decision and few words.

"Meet me in an hour," said he, "at the Yellow Tavern."

An hour later found me at the tavern in full uniform, for it was the only suit I possessed in which it would be possible to present myself before a lady, so dilapidated, torn, and ragged was my wardrobe. But I had a great storm-coat which hid the uniform and was an admirable disguise.

The tavern was crowded. As I stood by the fire I did not at once notice a quiet, unassuming traveller who had just entered, until he brushed past my arm and whispered, "Follow me." I did so a few minutes later, for it was Tom Jones, who looked for all the world as if he was a quiet city merchant, born and bred within its limits. Yet you had but to notice his walk, and you saw at once that he was a mountaineer, for he threaded his way through the crowd as noiselessly as he did among his native forests, where the crack of a dead twig might mean his death by a hostile bullet.

I followed him out into the night, and a dark and dismal night it was; the snow was falling heavily and you could not see three rods away.

"We will follow the pike," said he, "until we see their camp-fire. They will not keep strict watch to-night, and we will have to keep in touch with the landmarks."

We trudged along through the snow past the outpost where I had commanded so many nights, keeping the vigils by the weary hours; then we became more careful, as the Highland outpost was but a few yards away.

"They will have their backs to the storm," said the spy, "and though it is dangerous to go to the windward of a foe, yet he is not so apt to hear us as he would be to see us if we tried the leeward side. Those Highlanders have keen eyes."

So we flanked the outpost to the windward and passed them safely, and then Jones led me by many little bypaths and lanes until we came to the outskirts of the town. And though the guard at one time could have touched us as they passed, so dense was the storm that never for a moment was our safety jeoparded.

At last the houses became closer and we found ourselves in the town, while every now and then a belated traveller met us, glanced our way and passed on, for by now it was far into the night. But when we reached the heart of the town, even at that hour, the streets became filled with carriages, and we met many officers and gentlemen, returning from a ball. My Lord Howe entertained that night, and it was a sign of loyalty and good faith for every one to attend.

Though I became interested in seeing the muffled figures pass us, and the carriages hurrying through the street, I grew uneasy as I saw that Jones was making his way to the centre of the town, to the very door of Lord Howe's mansion. At last I remonstrated with him, but Jones growled in answer: "How can you throw the dogs off your track, if the snow does not fill it, but by mixing it with other tracks?"

This was unanswerable. I followed him along the street until we were among the crowd before Lord Howe's door.

It was a gay and brilliant scene, that ball of my Lord Howe, and though it was near the end, the music of the dance still floated through the wide entrance, while the figures of the dancers flitted across the windows, which were ablaze with lights. The guests were fast leaving; fair ladies and officers bravely uniformed were coming down the steps. There was a calling of carriages and of names, the slamming of doors and the muffled roll of the wheels as they drove off. I was about to move on with Jones, when I heard the major-domo, a sergeant of the guard, call out the carriage of Colonel Charles Gordon, and then I would have drawn back, as I had been forced into the front rank; for, though I knew that she must be at the ball, I had not thought to be brought so suddenly face to face with her. But ere I could do so, she came down the carpeted stairs leaning on her father's arm, graceful and beautiful, while by her side walked Farquharson in full Highland costume, eager and attentive. A smile was upon her lips as she listened, and then her eyes met mine. Her face went pale, and she was near fainting. Her father caught her as she slightly reeled, and Farquharson looked fiercely around to see what the cause was. But I was muffled up, and before he could demand the cause Mistress Jean was eagerly declaring that it was a mere nothing; and, as if to prove what she said was true, she hurried on to the carriage.

Farquharson leaned for a moment into the carriage to bid them good-night, and then it rolled off into the darkness.



CHAPTER XVII

AN EXCHANGE OF COURTESIES

"A narrow escape that for you, Lieutenant," said Jones. "But she was a plucky lass, and now it is time for us to be looking for cover."

He turned down a narrow, quiet street until we came to a house set somewhat back in the yard.

Jones now rapped very gently on the door; it swung open as if he was expected, and a moment later we found ourselves heartily welcomed by an old Quaker lady in a little room with a bright fire burning.

"I thought thee would come, Brother Jones," said she, "and who is this braw lad thou hast brought with thee?" And she smiled on me.

"He is one of our Lieutenants, who has a sweetheart in town, and is willing to risk his neck to see her," said Jones gruffly, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

This completed my conquest, and the motherly old soul proceeded to take charge of me.

"Who is thy lady love thou hast come to see?" And when I told her that she was a Tory she was much distressed, but eager to help me.

"The Good Book says thou must not fight, but it also says thou must help thy friends and neighbours, so I will help thee."

But at last, after chattering awhile she took a candle and showed us to our rooms. I was soon lost in the almost blissful comfort of clean white sheets and a feather-bed.

When I awoke next morning Jones had already departed on his mission, leaving me a note telling me where to meet him the next night on our return to camp.

All that day I kept close to the house, for I did not dare to venture forth in the broad day, as I was known to many, and it would not have gone well with me if I had met with those I knew.

But at last the night began to fall, and, bidding my kind hostess good-bye, I made my way through the streets to the Tory's house.

I soon found it—a square brick structure in a quiet street. I noticed, as I approached it, several dark alleys just at the right places for a rapid retreat if the worse should come to the worst.

Then my hand was on the knocker, and its fall startled me as the clatter echoed far down the street and seemed to wake the very dead.

A slave opened the door, who, though he glanced at me suspiciously, told me that his mistress was at home.

Then in a moment my storm-coat was off, and I stood in the door of the drawing-room.

It was a beautiful picture, the great strong Highlander on his knees at the feet of Mistress Jean begging for her hand, which she seemed to be denying him, for he was growing more and more passionate.

For a moment, as I stood there, I could feel my hair grow gray, but the tumult and the conflict within me were short and I turned to go, for it seemed to me that she could not but care for so gallant a gentleman.

But her eyes met mine, and then for a moment there was terror in them, and a cry broke forth from her lips.

Farquharson, startled by her gaze, turned also, and, seeing me, was quickly on his feet, his face aflame with passion.

"Sir," said he, advancing toward me, "do you not know the fate of eavesdroppers"—and then for the first time noticing my uniform, added, "and spies?"

"I know the fate of those who call a gentleman by such names," I retorted coolly.

"A gentleman?" and he laughed. "I will have you hanged for a dog of a spy before sunrise."

"Pardon me, sir, but you are my prisoner until it shall suit me to let you go free."

At this he laughed merrily.

"Well said, Sir Rebel," he cried; "but permit me to pass before I spit you on my sword." And he drew and advanced upon me.

"Permit me, sir, to use another argument;" and I drew my pistol and covered him. "Advance another step and I will blow your brains out."

He glanced at me for a moment, but did not advance. "And further, let me suggest that we are in the presence of a lady, and it is not seemly for her to see the flash of weapons."

At this he put up his sword.

"To whom do I owe a lesson in gallantry?" he asked with a low and sweeping bow.

"James Frisby, of Fairlee, a Lieutenant in the Maryland Line," I replied with equal courtesy.

Mistress Jean had stood as though she were turned to stone during our exchange of courtesies, but now she seemed to recover.

"Captain Farquharson," she cried, and she came and stood between us, "this is an old friend of mine. He saved my life at the Braes when we were raided by the rebels. You must promise me to let him go free out of the city."

"Your wishes, Mistress Jean, are law," said he, "and shall be obeyed. I shall give him till morning to escape in."

"Which I promptly accept," said I, "with the hope that I may be able to repay your courtesy if fortune should bring you within our lines some day."

And so he bade Mistress Jean farewell, but as he passed me, I whispered to him:

"Sir, some words have been said that need an explanation."

"It will give me pleasure to offer you one at any place you may appoint."

"Then meet me," I said, "two days hence at sunrise on the pike, half-way between the lines."

"With swords or pistols?"

"Swords."

"I will be there;" and he passed on out.

When he had gone, I turned to Mistress Jean, who urged me to leave at once.

"You must go," said she, "for at any moment you may be tracked and discovered, and then——"

"And then—what?" I answered, smiling. "Do you think, Mistress Jean, that I, who travelled for miles through the snow and the storm last night to catch one glimpse of your face, that I, who at last stand in your presence, would give a thought to the noose around my neck?"

But she would not let me say her nay, and then her terror grew, until at last she told me that Lord Howe sometimes came home with her father at nine o'clock to talk over the plans of the spring campaign, and that every moment she expected to hear their voices in the hall.

"The sight of your face, Mistress Jean, has repaid me for my journey; but if you bid me go, why, then, it is fate, and go I must." Then a thought came to me. "Mistress Jean, tell me this before I leave in the enemy's camp all that is dearest on earth to me: tell me if you love that Highlander, if you care for him." And she, who a moment before was urging me to leave, stood silent, with her face turned away from me, with never a word to say.

And I, seeing how matters stood, took my courage in my hands, and, with a low bow, wished her good-bye.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE CROSSING OF SWORDS

Sunrise, two days later, found Mr. Richard Ringgold and myself stamping our feet in the snow on the pike, half-way between the hostile lines.

"I suppose they will let us fight here without interruption," said Dick.

"No danger from that," I replied. "We will fight in that little hollow, where the outposts cannot see us."

"Here they come," said Dick. We saw two officers approaching across the snow from the Highland outpost.

They soon came up, and we saluted, while Dick and Captain Forbes, Farquharson's second, soon agreed upon the preliminaries.

"Will you lead the way, gentlemen?" said Forbes.

Dick and I led them to the little hollow between the hills, where a slight meadow formed a platform, as it were, for us to act our drama upon.

Since my first duel with Rodolph on the banks of the Elk I had seen something of war and of battles, and considered myself an old hand in such encounters.

And so I found myself looking Farquharson over and estimating his strength and his skill, for I knew him to be one of the best swordsmen among the Highlanders, while I could claim, with all due modesty, to be the best in the Maryland Line.

He was a notable swordsman, you could see that at a glance; the powerful figure, yet as light and active as a cat, the muscles of his sword arm telling of long and patient handling of the weapon, while his cold gray eye spoke for his coolness and determination.

He glanced at me, as we threw off our coats, in almost an indifferent manner, as if he had a duty to perform, which was to be done as quickly as possible, the mere suppression of a country bumpkin by a gentleman of fashion. I knew that would change as soon as our swords crossed, and smiled to myself. Then, being stripped to our shirts, we took our places and saluted.

Click, and our swords rang true. Though he fenced somewhat carelessly at first, there came a surprised look and a sudden change in his manner, as I parried a skilful thrust and touched him lightly on the shoulder. He seemed to realise that he had no ordinary swordsman opposed to him, and quickly brought into play all his skill and fierceness in attack, throwing me on the defensive and forcing me gradually back.

It could not last; no strength could stand it. When he found that the steel guard met every attack, that every thrust was parried, he relaxed the fierceness of his attack and began to fence with more skill and caution.

Thus it was we fenced for several minutes, the clash of the steel ringing out in the cold, crisp air across the snow, and it came to my opponent that he had at last met a swordsman who was his equal in skill. From this on every moment he developed some new feint, some new attack, and, though I met them every one, it took my utmost skill to do so.

But at last there came the end. He had assumed the offensive again and was pressing hard upon me, when he placed his foot upon a loose stone in the snow, which rolled. The sword flew from out his hand and he was down upon his knee.

My sword was at his throat, and then my hand was stayed, for there came before me the vision of the Tory maid, standing with face averted in the square brick house in the city. That she might care, that she might be in terror then as to the fate that might befall him, flashed through my brain. I brought my sword to a salute, and returned it to its scabbard.

"Sir," said I, as Farquharson rose, "it is a pleasure to have fought with so gallant a gentleman."

"And I, sir," he returned, "am happy to have met so skilful a swordsman." And then, like gallant men who have fought and know each other's worth, we shook hands on the spot where a moment before our blades were thirsting for each other's blood.

"It gives me pleasure," he continued, "to withdraw my remarks at Colonel Gordon's, as they arose from a misapprehension."

"I will consider them as if they had never been said," I replied, "and I beg of you, on your return, to present my compliments to Mistress Gordon, and tell her that I send you to her as my wedding gift."

"Why, is she to be married?" he asked in a startled way.

"I believe so," I answered, "but she will tell you all about it."

And so we returned to the pike, where we all saluted again, and retraced our steps to the lines.

The spring was late that year. April had come before there came a soft warm breeze from the Southland, waking nature into life, and covering the hard frozen face of mother earth with wreaths and clouds of mist and moisture. From every hillside, from every frost-bound plain, the smoke of spring arose, and through the air there breathed the spirit of the reincarnated life of the world.

How we of the Southland hailed it with joy, and drank in with our lungs this promise of a new life! We who loved the sunshine and the balmy breezes, the great joy of living amid fragrant fields and green-clad forests, we who hated the storms, the wind and cold of the North,—ah, how the blood in our veins welcomed this soft caress of the South! We threw off the terror of the winter, looked forward with glee to the opening of the spring campaign, and counted in anticipation the honours we were to win, the glory that would be ours.

New life sprang up all through the camp; the troops left the busy duty of hugging the fires, the ranks filled up, and order and discipline once more became the order of the day.

Rumours soon came creeping through the lines of a change in the leadership of the enemy's forces, but as yet they lay quietly within the city and showed not the teeth of offence. Thus we lay on the green hillsides of Valley Forge, busily preparing for the struggle which was certain to come, until far into the spring, without a sign of a movement on the part of the enemy.

But with May came their new Commander-in-Chief, Sir Henry Clinton, and the departure of Lord Howe, and we knew that the time had at last come when some bold stroke would be played in the game of war.

The gaps in our ranks had been somewhat filled, and we were ready and eager for active service as soon as the great General would give the command.

At last came rumours of a retreat, that the English were preparing to desert the city and march across the plains of Jersey to where New York lay, sheltered by the waters of the sea and the rivers. We marched toward the Delaware to be ready to strike them when they moved.

So, one day, as I stood on the outpost, guarding the nearest road to the city, I saw Jones approaching at full speed on an old horse, which he had evidently borrowed. I was ready for his news.

"The British are crossing the Delaware; we will catch them in Jersey now or never," he cried, and then he had dashed past on his way to headquarters.

My little guard received the news with a yell, and we looked forward eagerly for the order to join our regiment on the march.

It was not long in coming, and on that night, the 18th of June, we crossed the Delaware, and started on the race across Jersey that was to end at Monmouth.



CHAPTER XIX

THE SANDS OF MONMOUTH

For a week we hung on the flank of the enemy, waiting for an opportunity to strike, as we saw the immense train form on the right bank of the Delaware and take up its cumbersome march across the Jersey plains.

With it marched the whole force of the British army of seventeen thousand men, who did their duty so well that we longed for an opening in vain.

All through those blazing hot days of June we marched through the sands of Jersey, ankle deep as we trudged along, and it seemed as if the time for a trial of strength would never come. All to the east and south of us the great train of their wagons crawled along through the heat and the dust, and the sun glinted and gleamed on the points of the bayonets as the mass of their troops marched on.

Slowly they crawled through the dusty roads of Jersey, and slowly they were crawling beyond the reach of our arms into the haven of safety.

At last, on the 27th of the month, they reached the heights of Monmouth, within a day's march of their journey's end, while we lay five miles away at Englishtown, swearing low and earnestly at our luck.

That night there came news to the camp that put new life in the men, and made them forget the heat and the toil of the march; the news that the great General had decided to risk a throw in the morning, and that our regiment was to be with the advance.

And so, when Lee rode up to take command, we gave him a cheer, for though we disliked and distrusted the man, yet his coming meant a fight in the morning.

Then there was a great stir in the camp; the men saw to their muskets, and the signs everywhere told of their eager preparations for the deadly struggle in the morning, while the cheery laugh and the snatches of song spoke well for the spirits of the men after the long, toilsome march of the day.

The sun comes up out of the ocean early in Jersey, but even before its rays had cleared the pine tops our camp was stirring with life, the men preparing for the advance.

But there seemed to be a fatality about it all; a hand, as it were, covered us and held us back, paralyzing the spirit of the men. Delay followed delay, and when at last the regiments took up the line of march, ours was held back until almost the last. The New Jersey volunteers had the post of honour, as they longed to revenge their ruined homesteads and devastated farms, and then our turn came.

We marched out of Englishtown into the dreary country beyond. On every side sand dunes, former barriers of the ocean, raised their crests, covered with a straggling forest of stunted pines and scrub trees, which, in the passes in the hills, came down to the road, disputing the passageway, while in the shallow valleys lay the open fields and marshes. A dreary country withal, but where a small body of troops could hold the passes in the hills against many hundreds and make good their defence.

We passed through the defile in the first range of hills, crossed the low valley, and then, after passing through the second defile, we had only to cross the one before us to be on the heights overlooking the enemy's position at Freehold.

As we approached this last pass in the hills we were surprised to see a steady stream of our troops coming back in disorder through the gap. The men were retreating doggedly in broken ranks, and turning, as they trudged along, to look back, as if with half a mind to return.

As they came streaming past our advance I called to a sergeant, an old backwoodsman whose courage I knew, and asked him of the battle and why he was not fighting.

"Fight?" he cried indignantly, "why, damn it, Lieutenant, they will not let us fight. They ordered us to retreat before a musket was fired."

At that moment Captain Mercer, an aide of the staff of General Lee, rode up to Colonel Ramsay, who was near me.

He delivered an order rapidly, and then I heard Ramsay's voice ring out angrily. "Retreat?" he cried. "By whose order?"

"By the order of General Lee."

"But," he protested hotly, "we have not seen the enemy yet."

Mercer shrugged his shoulders. "I only carry the order," he said.

The stream of fugitives grew rapidly, becoming more disorderly, showing at every step the spread of the panic and the rout, as Colonel Ramsay stopped the advance and gave the order to retreat.

Slowly and reluctantly we obeyed, and as we retired through the second pass in the hills we saw the British gain the opposite ridge and advance with cheers on the disorderly flying mass in the sandy valley behind.

Every moment the press of the fugitives grew greater, and though we still maintained our formation and marched as on parade the retreat had turned into a rout. On every side and in our rear the broken ranks of the army poured past, demoralised and in despair, and ever nearer came the musketry and the cheers of the advancing English.

"They will catch us before we get through the gap," said Dick, looking at the pass in front of us.

"Then we will fight anyhow," I replied, "and General Lee can go to the devil."

Whereupon our spirits began to pick up, and the men retreated more slowly than ever, glancing over their shoulders to see how near the head of the British column was.

At last we came to the foot of the first pass, with its hills heavily covered with scrub pines. Behind us stretched the fields of broken troops, and we could see the red line of the British as they debouched upon the plain and drove the patriots before them.

It was a wild scene of confusion and disorder, of demoralised retreat and rout; and then something happened.

There was a stir in the pass in our front, a clatter of hoofs, and there appeared before us the General with his staff. He towered there with his great figure, a veritable god of war and of wrath.

For a moment his eye swept the field, and his face flushed crimson with indignation and anger, as he saw the best troops of his army flying like sheep before the enemy. There was a storm in the air, and then, as Lee rode up, it broke.

We heard his excited "Sir, sir!" and the General's angry tones, and then dismissing him contemptuously, he called to Hamilton to ask if there was a regiment which could stop the advance.

Ramsay sprang forward.

"My regiment is ready, General."

"If you stop them ten minutes until I form, you will save the army."

"I will stop them or fall," cried Ramsay, and, turning to us, he gave the order to "About face," and then crying that the General relied on us to save the army, he led us in the charge.

Not a moment too soon, for, as the press of the fugitives was brushed aside by our advance, mingling in the midst of the disorderly mass, came the red line of the British, cheering and victorious.

But suddenly the flying mass disappeared, and in their place came the yell of the Maryland Line, the long array of their bayonets bent to the charge, with all the fury and weight of their onset.

For a moment the red line hesitated; then an officer, who looked strangely familiar, sprang forward, shouting:

"They are nothing but dogs of rebels; charge and break them."

The red line answered with a cheer, for their fighting blood was up, and they dashed forward to meet us.

Then came such a clash of steel as is seldom heard, as the King's Grenadiers and the Maryland Line met in the shock of the charge. For a moment so close was the press that we could not wield our arms, and men fell, spitted on each other's bayonets.

Then came a deadly struggle, as men fought desperately, hand to hand, and the lines swayed backward and forward as the weight of the numbers told. The ground was lost and gained, struggled for and won over and over, while the dead lay in heaps under our feet.

It was in the midst of this deadly struggle, when I was fighting sword in hand amid the press of bayonets for my very life, that I saw Ramsay, who was near, cheering on his men, come face to face with the officer who led the charge of the Grenadiers. Then, in that storm centre, around which the roar of battle raged, there was a flash of steel and the swords crossed. But in the fury of the battle duels are short and fierce, and I saw Ramsay, who was already covered with wounds, falter for a moment, as the other lunged, and then he was down among the slain.

Our line hesitated as Ramsay fell, and the English pressed on with a cheer. But I sprang forward, shouting to the men to save their Colonel, and they, answering my call, forced the English back, until I stood by Ramsay's body. But only for a moment; before we could raise Ramsay gently up and bear him off the field, there came another charge of the Grenadiers that forced us off our feet and hurled us backward, fighting desperately, leaving the body of our Colonel in the hands of the enemy. But in the melee I found my sword crossing that of the officer who had fought with Ramsay, and instantly I attacked him fiercely, for I was burning to avenge Ramsay's fall. But he, with ease and coolness, parried all my thrusts and played with me as if I were but a child. Then, as I was growing desperate, he called to me, "Nay, lad, go try your sword on some one else and leave an old Scot alone. I would not hurt you for the world."

I started and let the point of my sword fall, for it was the voice of the old Tory, whom I had not before recognised in the confusion of the fight. This slight hesitation almost led to my capture, for I had been fighting in advance of our line, and now I found myself in the midst of the English troops. So, saluting the old Tory hastily, I regained our lines.

Then, fighting foot by foot and inch, by inch, we contested their advance, as the weight of numbers bore us backward up the hill into the pines. But every minute gained meant the salvation of the army.

Ah, it was hot work there, ankle deep in the sand, with the broiling sun above us, while the smoke and the dust of the conflict filled our throats and eyes; but we staggered on and fought blindly, desperately, amid the din and the carnage.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes—ah, there it is at last, and the roar of the opening battle broke out to the right and left of us, as the re-formed regiments went into the fight.

Then to our left came the high piercing yell of our brothers of the Line, and we knew that the British were falling back before them. The Grenadiers struggled on for a moment longer, but the force of their charge was spent, and the fire of the new regiments forced them back in turn.

But it was only for awhile, for they re-formed, and, under the leadership of the gallant Monkton, hurled themselves upon us once again.

Monkton fell, and their lines shrivelled up under our fire. Then, as it was near the setting of the sun, Washington, glancing over the field, saw that the time had come and ordered the advance.

Our whole line sprang forward, and, though we had borne the brunt, the toil, and heat of the day, not a man faltered. As the long line swept forward the British slowly retreated before us. We drove them across the plain and through the second pass, where night overtook us and stopped our pursuit.

But then, when the fever of the battle left us, a great fatigue seized hold of our limbs, the men sank to the earth as they stood, and slept from very exhaustion.

But we were soon to be aroused.

Through the darkness came the sound of a horse's hoofs, and a voice, asking for Ramsay's regiment. I sprang up, answering, and saw approaching a body of horsemen. The foremost rider seemed an immense figure, as he advanced in the darkness; but I, who had seen him often before, knew him to be the great General.

I immediately gave the alarm, and the men sprang to their feet and presented arms.

And then, there under the pines, by the light of the stars, the General rode down our line, and, coming to the centre, we felt his glance fall over our ranks.

"Men of Maryland," spoke Washington, and his voice rang clear through the pines, "once before at Long Island you saved the army, and to-day, for a second time, you have done so by your courage and tenacity. I thank you in the name of the army and the nation; I thank you for myself."

A wild yell that broke from the Line was his answer. We forgot our fatigue and our wounds in the pride of the moment.



CHAPTER XX

IN THE LINES OF THE ENEMY

It was near the end of the first watch when an order came to me to pick out several men, go forward, feel the enemy's outposts, and see if the enemy was still retreating.

Making my choice, I passed our pickets with three men, and made my way cautiously to the last pass in the hills which was in the enemy's possession at nightfall. But not a sign of their pickets or troops could I find; so I boldly advanced in the pass, and, crossing the ridge, found myself on the heights overlooking Freehold. It was a small town of scattered houses, and beyond it I could see the lights of the British camp-fires.

But as the heights were not near enough for our purpose, we descended into the plain, and carefully made our way toward the town, where I knew certain patriots were, who, if I could once get speech with them, would tell me the whole plans of the enemy.

We could hear the tramp of feet at the further side of the village, and all the sounds of an army in retreat. Being now so close to them, and in great danger, we moved with the utmost caution. Near at hand, on the outskirts of the town, stood a large, square stone house, separated from the rest of the houses by an immense garden. Having found a break in the hedge, we entered.

It was an old garden, filled with boxwood walks and flowers run wild. Very prim at one time it must have been; but, now that the war had helped the return to nature, it was a wild and tangled mass.

Making our way through the garden, a light was suddenly thrown upon our path, and, glancing up, I saw that it came from a window which, though it was on the first floor of the house, was yet some distance from the ground.

Then the figure of a woman crossed the window, stopping for a moment to look out, while we stood in the shadow of the hedge, holding our breath. But she passed on, and I, determining to see into the room to discover whether it contained friend or foe, quickly gained the shelter of the wall of the house. The wall was of rough hewn stone, and with the help of my comrades' shoulders, I raised myself high enough to glance over the window-sill, and what I saw there made me drop to the ground quickly.

Then, whispering to my comrades to stay where they were, I made my way to the rear entrance of the house, and, finding the door unfastened, softly entered the hall; and then I was standing in the door of the room from which the light came.

A lamp stood on a table near a long horse-hair sofa with spindle legs, on which lay the figure of a man. The coat had been cut from his shoulder, which was swathed in many bandages, while the blood-stained rags on the table and the floor told of the seriousness of the wound.

A slender figure was bending over him, gently arranging a pillow under his head.

"Do you feel easier now, father?"

"Yes, lassie." Then, a moment later, "Why does not Clinton send me a carriage? He surely does not intend to desert me here."

"Captain Farquharson is searching for one," she answered. And then turning to the table, she saw me standing in the doorway. The colour left her face; she gave a little cry, for she thought there were many men behind me, and that all was lost. So, quickly putting my finger to my lips, I stepped back into the darkness of the hall, and as I did so, I heard the old Tory ask, "What's that?"

"It was nothing," she answered. "I thought I saw a ghost."

I stood there in the broad window waiting, for I knew she would come.

Below me was the garden, heavy-scented with the odour of flowers, and the hum of the night insects was everywhere in the air. Close to the wall I saw the figures of my scouts. The noise of the tramp of feet, the creak of waggons, and the voice of command came to me from the village street.

At last she came and stood before me. In her eyes were great pain and fear and suffering.

"Tell me," she asked anxiously, "is there any danger for him?"

"More danger for me than for him," I replied. "The whole American advance guard consists of three men and myself; the rest will follow in the morning."

"Ah," she cried, and there was hope once more in her voice; "then we can escape."

"If you can move your father by sunrise, yes," I replied.

"But you," she said, and there was new anxiety in her voice; "you are in great danger here. When the soldiers come to remove father they will take you prisoner."

"I care not, Mistress Jean," I answered, "for your eyes have held me prisoner for many a long day, and all the prison bars in the world are nothing to me so long as I can look into them."

"Nay," she said, "you must not say such things to me."

And I, taking this as a confirmation of all my fears and that at last Farquharson had succeeded in his suit, would have bade her good-bye and gone my way. But before I went I told her of my wishes for her happiness, and that I had met Farquharson and knew of his skill and courage.

"Farquharson?" and her eyes were wide open in surprise. "I really believe you think I am going to marry him;" and she laughed so softly, bewitchingly, that—

"Jean, Jean," I cried, now that hope and life had come back with a rush, "Jean, do you know that I love you; that I love the very ground on which you walk, the sunbeams in your hair, the very air you breathe? Ah! Jean—" But at that moment came the voice of the Tory calling her and the tramp of feet on the porch.

"Let me go," she cried, for I held her hands in mine; "and fly,—that is the guard."

"Nay," said I, "not till you give me a kiss. I will stay here and be captured first."

There was a moment's hesitation, and then a flash of white arms, and the softest caress—ah, such a caress that the memory of it will go with me to the grave. And then she was gone.

And I, not wishing to be captured now, slipped through the rear door to my men, and a short time later, having satisfied ourselves of the retreat of the enemy's forces, we made our way back over the hills to report to the General.

We followed the enemy closely the next day, and did not draw off until we saw them beyond our reach at Sandy Hook.

Then we took our way to the Jersey hills, and lay there for a time watching the enemy in New York.



CHAPTER XXI

THE PASSING OF YEARS

Then came a long period when it seemed almost as if peace had settled over the land, so seldom did the rattle of musket fire or the angry flash of guns break the quiet repose of the Jersey plains and farms.

Far across the marshes lay New York, and behind its walls and the broad sweep of the waters the British army rested safe, while the army of the patriots, scattered among the forests, woods, and hills of Jersey and New York, lived, like Robin Hood's followers of old, and waited while the wheel of fortune turned.

A year went by, when at the taking of Paulus Hook I first heard news of the welfare of the Tory and the maid, since the night of the Monmouth retreat.

It was after an all-night march through the marshes of Jersey, often breast-high in the water, that we made a silent, deadly charge with the bayonet on the enemy's fort, and carried it before the sun had risen.

We were retiring rapidly, after securing our prisoners, when one of my men called to me: "Captain, here's one of those Highland chiefs knocked on the head."

I went to him and found that it was Farquharson, who had received an ugly blow on the head from a clubbed musket.

A little whiskey between his teeth and water on his face revived him, and I was able, with the help of several men, to carry him along with our party.

We made good our retreat, and when several days later I was in the main camp of the army, I went to the quarters where the prisoners were detained, and there I again met Farquharson.

"Captain," said he, smiling, for he had almost recovered from his wound, "there is no entering a contest against you; fortune is always on your side."

"My turn will come," I answered; "but is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am afraid not, unless you bribe the guards to let me escape."

"That would be clear against the articles of war," I replied. We fell to talking, and then it was I heard of the Tory and his daughter.

"It was about Christmas time," said Farquharson, "that the King sent a message over the sea, granting him a pardon for the part he had taken in '45, for you know he was out then. The Sea Raven was about to clear in a week for Glasgow, and a sudden longing seemed to seize him to see once more the dash of the waters through the Braes of Mar and the heather-crowned hills of old Aberdeen; and so, within a week, they had sailed away; and as he left he said to me: 'A revolt drove me from old Scotland; another sends me back again. I wonder where fortune will end my days.' It is a strange fortune that has followed him through life."

"It is, indeed," I replied.

So they sailed away over the seas, gone back to their own land and people; and between that land and mine burned high the flame of war. But through the flame and across the broad stretch of the waters, I saw the form of the maid beckoning me on, and though my hope was well-nigh gone, I buckled tight my sword-belt and doggedly went on,—went on, through the long march to the southward, the toil, the hunger, and the defeat of the Camden campaign.

The great triumph of Eutaw Springs and Cowpens, as we drove back Cornwallis from the hill country to the shore, rolled back the tide of invasion and drowned it in the sea.

A year went by, bringing me adventures not a few, and with the adventures came wounds and honours; and when there came the news of the leaguer of Yorktown, it found me a full Colonel in the army of the South.

It was not my fortune to be present at that last great feat of our arms, when the great General struck the blow that freed us for ever from the tyranny of the King.

But when the news came down to us in the savannahs of the South we hailed it with joy, for we saw once more before us the quiet, smiling fields of Maryland, with the ease and comfort and plenty of it all that awaited but our coming to repay us for the years of strife and blood.

And then at last came the order for us to take up the homeward march. The men took up the trail with as jaunty a step as when they first marched to the northward, long years before. The gay uniforms were faded and gone; rags and tatters had taken their places, while of the brave banner that was flung to the breeze at the Head of Elk nothing remained but the staff and a few ribbons that flaunted therefrom.

But every tatter told the tale of a fight where the shot and shell had torn it as it waved above the charging line, the deadly struggle of the hand to hand, or marked the slow and sullen retreat.

The men themselves were hardy and bronzed; from their ragged caps to their soleless shoes they bore the stamp of veterans. They showed the signs of their training in the angry school of war; wide indeed was the difference between the gay volunteers of '76 and the hardy veterans of '82. We swung along in our homeward march with a right goodwill, and at last came to the broad Potomac and saw the hills of Maryland beyond.

Now the river itself to the low water-line of the southern bank is within the boundaries of Maryland. Wishing to be the first across the line, I rode my horse in to the saddle-girths, and let him drink thereof.

A day later brought us to Annapolis, where we received the thanks of the State authorities, and with all due form and ceremony obtained our discharge and then dispersed to our homes.

That very day I took a canoe, and, crossing the bay, found myself again on the steps of Fairlee.

Once more my mother leaned on my arm, and, looking up at her tall, broad-shouldered son, with his epaulets of a Colonel, bronzed face, and hardy bearing, seemed proud and happy.



CHAPTER XXII

THE COMING OF THE MAID

Many months had passed away, spring had come again, and the fair city of Annapolis lay in a mass of flowers. The vivid green of the old trees cast a delightful shade over all, tempting one to stroll through the quiet streets and byways, past the moss-grown walls, the old-fashioned gardens, buried in roses, and the stately, proud mansions of many of Maryland's best and bravest.

I was standing on a step and above me stood Mistresses Polly and Betsy Johnson, who were railing at me now that I no longer wore a uniform and was simply a plain member of the Legislature.

"He looked so fine in his brass buttons," said Mistress Polly.

"A brave, bold, quite proper-looking young fellow," added Mistress Betsy.

"And now just look at him," continued Mistress Polly pathetically; and they surveyed me sorrowfully, while malicious mischief played around the corners of their eyes.

I laughed outright. I could not help it, so droll was the expression on their faces.

"True, your ladyship," I said; "the toga does not fit a young man so well as the buckled sabre and glittering epaulets. But now that dull peace has come, the hall of the Legislature is the only place where you can throw the weight of your sword in the conflict and wield some influence in the great struggles of the country; would you have me idle?"

"Nay, I would not have that," said Mistress Polly judiciously. "But your round head and big hands are just the things for a fight, and though your voice is—well—can be heard a considerable distance, I am afraid——" She paused, as if doubtful about its being put to any good use in the hall of the Assembly.

Decidedly I was getting the worst of it.

At this moment Dick Ringgold, who represented Kent with me, came swinging up the street, and, seeing me standing on the steps, hailed me with—

"Hello, Frisby, have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"Your old Tory friend Gordon is on the Sally Ann, from London, which has just come up the harbour."

"Any one with him?" I asked anxiously.

"Well," said Dick, maliciously drawling it out, "I heard some one say there was a young lady with him."

I did not stop to protest against the laughter that followed me as I dashed down the street, or to Dick's shout as he called something after me. A few minutes later I was on the wharf.

Out in the stream, swaying with the current of the tide, lay the Sally Ann, her tall spars tapering high in air, her decks full of bustle and activity, showing the journey's end and that the final preparations for disembarkation were under full headway.

As I arrived a boat was pulling off from her side containing two passengers. As I saw them my heart gave a great bound; my hand went to my hat and swung it around my head. In answer to my signal came the fluttering of a handkerchief.

"Sir," said I, as the old Tory stepped ashore, "let me be the first to welcome you back to old Maryland."

"Would that all my enemies were like you!" he replied. "I hesitated long about returning, but Jean would have it so."

And Mistress Jean said not a word as I took her hand in mine, but her face was mantled in scarlet and her eyes were downcast.

The prim old garden of the Nicholsons never looked more charming, the flowers more sweet and beautiful, or the green boxwood hedges more suggestive of rest and repose; the lazy waters of the Chester rolled along at its foot, gently lapping the grass. Ah! the sun was shining on a glorious world that day, for Mistress Jean walked beside me.

"Mistress Jean," said I, as we stood where the waters met the grass and looked out over the broad and silent river, flowing on and on as if to eternity, "our lives have been more like mountain torrents than the broad smooth river here. We have lived through the battles and sieges, seen blood and death and all the horrors of a great war, but now that peace has come, and our course lies through pleasant fields and verdant meadows, would it not be best for them to join and flow on as this great river does, Jean? Ah, Jean, you know how much I love you."

And then she placed her hand in mine; her eyes spoke that which I most wished to know, and the very earth seemed glorious.

I know not how long we stood there, when there came Mistress Nancy Nicholson's voice through the garden, calling, "Jean, Jean, where are you?"

"Here," she answered; and with that Mistress Nancy came running round the hedge.

"Oh, Jean," she cried, "Dick has proposed."

And then, seeing me, she stamped her little foot, and cried, "Oh, bother!" blushing meanwhile as red as one of her roses.

"And so have I, Mistress Nancy," I replied.

* * * * *

And now, my children, I end this tale, sitting here on the old porch at Fairlee. The pen drops from my hand, but my eyes are not too dim to see the flash of the sunlight on the waters of the great bay through the break in the trees.

Nor are they too dim, Miss Jean, in spite of the impertinent toss of your head, to see in you the likeness of the maid that led me such a wild dance in the days of my youth. And I promise you, if you do not smile on young Dick Ringgold and stop your outrageous treatment of him, I will not leave you a cent in my will.

There, there; I retract every word that I said. Was there ever so audacious a monkey in the world?

There, I have finished. Oh, yes, I forgot—

"John Cotton, bring me some more mint."

THE END.