CHAPTER I
THE SPY
Having finished my duties in connection with Sir Peter's private estateand his voluminous correspondence--and the door of my chamber beingdoubly locked and bolted--I made free to attend to certain secretcorrespondence of my own, which for four years now had continued,without discovery, between the Military Intelligence Department of theContinental army and myself through the medium of one John Ennis, thetobacconist at the Sign of the Silver Box in Hanover Square.
Made confident by long immunity from the slightest shadow of suspicion,apprehension of danger seldom troubled my sense of security. It didsometimes, as when the awful treason at West Point became known to me;and for weeks as I lay abed I thought to hear in every footfall onBroadway the measured tread of a patrol come to take me. Yet thetraitor continued in New York without sinister consequence to me; and,though my nights were none the pleasanter during that sad week whichended in the execution of the British adjutant-general, no harm came tome. Habit is the great sedative; at times, penning my spy's journal, Ismiled to remember how it was with me when first I came to New York in1777, four years since, a country lad of nineteen, fresh from thefrontier, where all my life had been spent among the Oneidas and thefew neighbors nearest Broadalbin Bush--a raw youth, frightened butresolved; and how I lived through those first months of mental terror,now appalled by the fate of our Captain Nathan Hale, now burning with ahigh purpose and buoyed up by pride that his Excellency should havefound in me a fit instrument for his designs.
I have never known whether or not I am what men call brave, for Iunderstand fear and I turn cold at thought of death. Often I have satalone in the house watching the sober folk along Broadway and WallStreet, knowing all the while that these same good people mightto-morrow all go flocking to Catiemuts Hill near the Fresh Water, or tothat open space in the "Fields" between the jail and the Almshouse, tosee me on the gallows. If such thoughts do not assail the brave--ifrestless nights, wakeful dawns, dull days are not their portion--I mustown that all these were mine, not often, perhaps, but too frequent toflatter self-esteem. And, fight them as I might, it was useless; forsuch moments came without warning--often when I had been merry withfriends, at times when, lulled by long-continued security, I had nighforgotten through eventless months that there was a war and that I hadbecome a New Yorker only because of war.
It was harder now, in one sense; four years as secretary to my kinsman,Sir Peter Coleville, had admitted me to those social intimacies sonecessary to my secret office; and, alas! friendships had been made andties formed not only in the line of duty, but from impulse and out ofpure affection.
I had never found it was required of me to pose as a rabid loyalist,and so did not, being known as disinterested and indifferent, andperhaps for that reason not suspected. My friends were from necessityamong the best among the loyalists--from choice, too, for I liked themfor their own sakes, and it was against their cause I worked, notagainst them.
It went hard with me to use them as I did--I so loathing perfidy inothers; yet if it be perfidy to continue in duty as I understood duty,then I practised it, and at times could scarce tolerate myself, whichwas a weakness, because in my own heart I knew that his Excellency couldset no man a task unworthy of his manhood. Yet it were pleasanter had myduties thrown me with the army, or with Colonel Willett in my nativenorth, whence, at his request, I had come to live a life of physicalsloth and mental intrigue under the British cannon of New York--here inthe household of Sir Peter Coleville, his secretary, his friend, hiswelcomed guest, the intimate of his family, his friends!--_that_ was thehardest of all; and though for months at a time I managed to forget it,the recurring thought of what I _was_, and what they believed me to be,stabbed me at intervals so I could scarce endure it.
Nothing, not even the belief that God was with us, I fear, could haveheld me there when the stress of such emotion left me staring at thedarkness in my restless bed--only blind faith in his Excellency that hewould do no man this shame, if shame it was--that he knew as well as Ithat the land's salvation was not to be secured through the barter ofmen's honor and the death of souls.
* * * * *
The door being secured, as I say, and the heat of that July day abatingnothing, though the sun hung low over Staten Island, I opened mywindows, removed coat and waistcoat, and, drawing a table to thewindow, prepared to write up that portion of my daily journal neglectedlately, and which, when convenient opportunity offered, was to find itsway into the hands of Colonel Marinus Willett in Albany. Before I wroteI turned back a leaf or two so that I might correct my report in thelight of later events; and I read rapidly:
_July 12, 1781._--Nothing remarkable. Very warm weather, and a bad odor from the markets. There is some talk in the city of rebuilding the burned district. Two new cannon have been mounted in the southwest bastion of the fort (George). I shall report caliber and particulars later.
_July 13th._--This day Sir Peter left to look over the lands in Westchester which he is, I believe, prepared to purchase from Mr. Rutgers. The soldiers are very idle; a dozen of 'em caught drawing a seine in the Collect, and sent to the guard-house--a dirty trick for anybody but Hessians, who are accustomed to fish in that manner. The cannon in the southwest bastion are twelve-pounders and old--trunnions rusted, carriages rotten. It seems they are trophies taken from the Carolina militia.
_July 14th._--A ship arrived in the lower bay. Details later. In Nassau Street, about noon, a tall fellow, clothed like a drover, muttered a word or two as I passed, and I had gone on ere it struck me that he had meant his words for my ear. To find him I turned leisurely, retracing my steps as though I had forgotten something, and as I brushed him again, he muttered, "Thendara; tell me where it is."
At that moment Captain Enderley of the Fifty-fourth Foot greeted me, linking his arm in mine, and I had no excuse to avoid him. More of this to-night, when, if the message was truly for me, I shall doubtless be watched and followed when I leave the house for a stroll.
_July 15th._--Last night there was no chance, Enderley and Captain O'Neil coming to take me to the theater, where the Thirty-eighth Regiment gave a frolic and a play--the latter most indifferent, save for Mrs. Barry's acting. I saw my drover in John Street, too, but could not speak to him.
This morning, however, I met the drover, and he was drunk, or made most marvelous pretense--a great six-foot, blue-eyed lout in smock and boots, reeking of Bull's Head gin, his drover's whip a-trail in the dust, and he a-swaggering down Nassau Street, gawking at the shop-windows and whistling Roslyn Castle with prodigious gusto.
I made it convenient to pause before Berry and Roger's show of jewels, and he stopped, too, swaying there gravely, balanced now on hobnail heel, now on toe. Presently he ceased his whistling of Roslyn Castle, and in a low but perfectly distinct voice he said, "Where is the town of Thendara, Mr. Renault?" Without looking at him or even turning my head, I answered, "Why do you ask me?"
He stared stupidly at the show-window. "Pro patria et gloria," he replied under his breath; "why do you serve the land?"
"Pro gloria," I muttered. "Give your message; hasten."
He scratched his curly head, staring at the gewgaws. "It is this," he said coolly; "find out if there be a lost town in the north called Thendara, or if the name be used to mask the name of Fort Niagara. When you have learned all that is possible, walk some evening up Broadway and out along Great George Street. We will follow."
"Who else besides yourself?"
"A brother drover--of men," he said slyly; "a little wrinkled fellow, withered to the bone, wide-eared, mild-eyed. He is my running mate, sir, and we run sometimes, now this way, now that, but always at your service, Mr. Renault."
"Are you drunk, or is it a pretense?" I demanded.
"Not _too_ drunk," he
replied, with elaborate emphasis. "But once this matter of Thendara is settled I hope to be so drunk that no friend of mine need be ashamed of me. Good day, sir. God save our country!"
"Have a care," I motioned, turning away. And so I left him to enter the shop and purchase a trinket, thinking it prudent in case any passer-by had observed how long I lingered.
_July 16th._--Sir Peter not yet returned from Mr. Rutgers. The name "Thendara" ringing in my ears like a dull bell all night, and I awake, lying there a-thinking. Somewhere, in some long-forgotten year, I had heard a whispering echo of that name--or so it seemed to me--and, musing, I thought to savor a breeze from the pines, and hear water flowing, unseen, far in the forest silence.
Thendara! Thendara!
The name is not Iroquois--yet it may be, too--a soft, gracious trisyllable stolen from the Lenape. Lord! how the name intrigues me, sweetly sonorous, throbbing in my ears--Thendara, Thendara--and always I hear the pine breeze high blowing and the flowing undertone of waters.
_July 17th._--Nothing extraordinary. The Hon. Elsin Grey arrived from Halifax by the Swan packet to visit Sir Peter's family, she being cousin twice removed to Lady Coleville. I have not seen her; she keeps her chamber with the migraine. As she comes from her kinsman, General Sir Frederick Haldimand, Governor of Canada, she may be useful, being lately untethered from the convent and no more than seventeen or eighteen, and vain, no doubt, of her beauty, and so, I conclude, prone to babble if flattered.
Here my journal ended; I dipped my quill into the inkhorn and wroteslowly:
_July 18th._--Nothing remarkable. The Hon. Elsin Grey still keeps her chamber. The heat in New York is very great. I am, without suspicion, sending money through Ennis to our prisoners aboard the ships in the Wallabout, and next week shall have more for the unfortunates in the Provost, the prisons, jails, and the sugar-house--my salary being due on the 20th inst. I have ever in mind a plan for a general jail delivery the instant his Excellency assaults by land and sea, but at present it is utterly hopeless, Mr. Cunningham executing the laws with terrible rigor, and double guards patrolling the common. As for those wretched patriots aboard the "_Hell_" and on those hulks--the _Falconer_, _Good Hope_, and _Scorpion_--which lie southeast of the _Jersey_, there can be no delivery save through compassion of that Dark Jailer who one day shall free us all.
I dropped my pen, listening intently. Close to my door the garretstairs creaked, ever so lightly; and I bent forward across the table,gathering my papers, on which the ink lay still wet.
Listening, I heard nothing more. Perhaps the great heat was warping thenew stairway, which led past my door, up through the attic, and out tothe railed cupola upon the roof.
I glanced at my journal; there was nothing more to add, and so, sandingthe sheets, I laid them back behind the swinging panel which I myselfhad fashioned so cunningly that none might suspect a cupboard in thesimple wainscot. Then to wash hands and face in fresh water, and put onmy coat without the waistcoat, prepared to take the air on the cupola,where it should soon blow cool from the bay.
Slipping lock and bolt, I paused, hand on the knob, to glance backaround the room--a habit formed of caution. Then, satisfied, I openedthe door and left it standing wide so that the room might air. As Iascended the attic stairs a little fresh puff of wind cooled me.Doubtless a servant had opened the flaps to the cupola, for they werelaid back; and as I mounted, I could see a square of blue sky overhead.
I had taken my pipe, and paused on the stairs to light it; then,pouching flint and tinder-box, I emerged upon the roof, to find myselfface to face with a young girl I had never before seen--the Hon. MissGrey, no doubt--and very dainty in her powder and one coquette patchthat emphasized the slow color tinting a skin of snow.
My bow, I think, covered my vexation--I being all unpowdered andwearing no waistcoat over an unfrilled shirt, for I do love fineclothes when circumstances require; but the lady was none the lesspunctilious, and as I made to toss my pipe into the street below, sheforbade me with perfect courtesy and a smile that only accented heryouthful self-possession.
"Mr. Renault need neither retire nor sacrifice his pleasure," she said."I have missed Sir Frederick's pipe-smoke dreadfully--so much, indeed,that I had even thought to try Sir Peter's snuff to soothe me."
"Shall I fetch it, madam?" I asked instantly; but she raised a smallhand in laughing horror.
"Snuff and picquet I am preparing for--a youth of folly--an old age ofsnuff and cards, you know. At present folly suffices, thank you."
And as I stood smiling before her, she said: "Pray you be seated, sir,if you so desire. There should be sufficient air for two in thishalf-charred furnace which you call New York. Tell me, Mr. Renault, arethe winters here also extreme in cold?"
"Sometimes," I said. "Last winter the bay was frozen to Staten Islandso that the artillery crossed on the ice from the city."
She turned her head, looking out over the water, which was now all agolden sparkle under the westering sun. Then her eyes dropped to theburned district--that waste of blackened ruins stretching south alongBroadway to Beaver Street and west to Greenwich Street.
"Is that the work of rebels?" she asked, frowning.
"No, madam; it was an accident."
"Why do the New Yorkers not rebuild?"
"I think it is because General Washington interrupts localimprovements," I said, laughing.
She looked around at me, pretty brows raised in quaint displeasure.
"Does the insolence of a rebel really amuse you, Mr. Renault?"
I was taken aback. Even among the British officers here in the city ithad become the fashion to speak respectfully of the enemy, and aboveall of his Excellency.
"Why should it not amuse me?" I asked lightly.
She had moved her head again, and appeared to be absorbed in the view.Presently she said, still looking out over the city: "That was a noblechurch once, that blackened arch across the way."
"That is Trinity--all that is left of it," I said. "St. Paul's is stillstanding--you may see it there to the north, just west of Ann Streetand below Vesey."
She turned, leaning on the railing, following with curious eyes thedirection of my outstretched arm.
"Please tell me more about this furnace you call a city, Mr. Renault,"she said, with a pretty inflection of voice that flattered; and so Iwent over beside her, and, leaning there on the cupola rail together,we explored the damaged city from our bird's perch above it--the citythat I had come to care for strangely, nay, to love almost as I lovedmy Mohawk hills. For it is that way with New York, the one city that wemay love without disloyalty to our birthplace, a city which is home ina larger sense, and, in a sense, almost as dear to men as thebirth-spot which all cherish. I know not why, but this is so; noAmerican is long strange here; for it is the great hearth of themother-land where the nation gathers as a family, each conscious of ashare in the heritage established for all by all.
And so, together, this fair young English girl and I traced out thewards numbered from the cardinal points of the compass, and I boundedfor her the Out-Ward, too, and the Dock-Ward. There was no haze, only aliving golden light, clear as topaz, and we could see plainly thesentinels pacing before the Bridewell--that long two-storied prison,built of gloomy stone; and next to it the Almshouse of gray stone, andnext to that the massive rough stone prison, three stories high, wherein a cupola an iron bell hung, black against the sky.
"You will hear it, some day, tolling for an execution," I said.
"Do they hang rebels there?" she asked, looking up at me sowonderingly, so innocently that I stood silent instead of answering,surprised at such beauty in a young girl's eyes.
"Where is King's College?" she asked. I showed her the building boundedby Murray, Chapel, Barckley and Church streets, and then I pointed outthe upper barracks behind the jail, and the little lake beyond dividedby a neck of land on which stoo
d the powder-house.
Far across the West Ward I could see the windows of Mr. Lispenard'smansion shining in the setting sun, and the road to Greenwich windingalong the river.
She tired of my instruction after a while, and her eyes wandered to thebay. A few ships lay off Paulus Hook; the Jersey shore seemed verynear, although full two miles distant, and the islands, too, seemedclose in-shore where the white wings of gulls flashed distantly.
A jack flew from the Battery, another above the fort, standing outstraight in the freshening breeze from the bay. Far away across the EastRiver I saw the accursed _Jersey_ swinging, her black, filthy bulwarksgilded by the sun; and below, her devil's brood of hulks at anchor, allwith the wash hung out on deck a-drying in the wind.
"What are they?" she asked, surprising something else than the fixedsmile of deference in my face.
"Prison ships, madam. Yonder the rebels die all night, all day, weekafter week, year after year. That black hulk you see yonder--the one tothe east--stripped clean, with nothing save a derrick for bow-sprit anda signal-pole for mast, is the _Jersey_, called by another name,sometimes----"
"What name?"
"Some call her '_The Hell_,'" I answered. And, after a pause: "It mustbe hot aboard, with every porthole nailed."
"What can rebels expect?" she asked calmly.
"Exactly! There are some thousand and more aboard the _Jersey_. When thewind sets from the south, on still mornings, I have heard a strangemoaning--a low, steady, monotonous plaint, borne inland over the city.But, as you say, what can rebels expect, madam?"
"What is that moaning sound you say that one may hear?" she demanded.
"Oh, the rebels, dying from suffocation--clamoring for food,perhaps--perhaps for water! It is hard on the guards who have to godown every morning into that reeking, stifling hold and drag out thedead rebels festering there----"
"But that is horrible!" she broke out, blue eyes wide withastonishment--then, suddenly silent, she gazed at me full in the face."It is incredible," she said quietly; "it is another rebel tale. Tellme, am I not right?"
I did not answer; I was thinking how I might use her, and the thoughtwas not agreeable. She was so lovely in her fresh young womanhood, soimpulsive and yet so self-possessed, so utterly ignorant of what waspassing in this war-racked land of mine, that I hesitated to gogleaning here for straws of information.
"In the north," she said, resting her cheek on one slender wrist, "wehear much of rebel complaint, but make nothing of it, knowing well thatif cruelty exists its home is not among those sturdy men who arefighting for their King."
"You speak warmly," I said, smiling.
"Yes--warmly. We have heard Sir John Johnson slandered because he usesthe Iroquois. But do not the rebels use them, too? My kinsman, GeneralHaldimand, says that not only do the rebels employ the Oneidas, butthat their motley congress enlists any Indian who will take their paperdollars."
"That is true," I said.
"Then why should we not employ Brant and his Indians?" she askedinnocently. "And why do the rebels cry out every time Butler's Rangerstake the field? We in Canada know Captain Walter Butler and his father,Colonel John Butler. Why, Mr. Renault, there is no more perfectlyaccomplished officer and gentleman than Walter Butler. I know him; Ihave danced with him at Quebec and at Niagara. How can even a rebel soslander him with these monstrous tales of massacre and torture andscalps taken from women and children at Cherry Valley?" She raised herflushed face to mine and looked at me earnestly.
"Why even our own British officers have been disturbed by theseslanders," she said, "and I think Sir Henry Clinton half believes thatour Royal Greens and Rangers are merciless marauders, and that WalterButler is a demon incarnate."
"I admit," said I, "that we here in New York have doubted the mercy ofthe Butlers and Sir John Johnson."
"Then let me paint these gentlemen for you," she said quickly.
"But they say these gentlemen are capable of painting themselves," Iobserved, tempted to excite her by the hint that the Rangers smearedtheir faces like painted Iroquois at their hellish work.
"Oh, how shameful!" she cried, with a little gesture of horror. "Whatdo you think us, there in Canada? Because our officers must needs holda wilderness for the King, do you of New York believe us savages?"
The generous animation, the quick color, charmed me. She was no longerEnglish, she was Canadienne--jealous of Canadian reputation, quick toresent, sensitive, proud--heart and soul believing in the honor of herown people of the north.
"Let me picture for you these gentlemen whom the rebels cry out upon,"she said. "Sir John Johnson is a mild, slow man, somewhat sluggish andoverheavy, moderate in speech, almost cold, perhaps, yet a perfectlygallant officer."
"His father was a wise and honest gentleman before him," I saidsincerely. "Is his son, Sir John, like him?"
She nodded, and went on to deal with old John Butler--nor did I stayher to confess that these Johnsons and Butlers were no strangers to me,whose blackened Broadalbin home lay a charred ruin to attest the lovethat old John Butler bore my family name.
And so I stood, smiling and silent, while she spoke of Walter Butler,describing him vividly, even to his amber black eyes and his pale face,and the poetic melancholy with which he clothed the hidden blood-lustthat smoldered under his smooth pale skin. But there you haveit--young, proud, and melancholy--and he had danced with her atNiagara, too, and--if I knew him--he had not spared her hints of thatimpetuous flame that burned for all pure women deep in the blackenedpit of his own damned soul.
"Did you know his wife?" I asked, smiling.
"Walter Butler's--wife!" she gasped, turning on me, white as death.
There was a silence; she drew a long, deep breath; suddenly, thegayest, sweetest little laugh followed, but it was slowly that thecolor returned to lip and cheek.
"Is he not wedded?" I asked carelessly--the damned villain--at hisMohawk Valley tricks again!--and again she laughed, which was, nodoubt, my wordless answer.
"Does he dance well, this melancholy Ranger?" I asked, smiling to seeher laugh.
"Divinely, sir. I think no gentleman in New York can move a minuet withWalter Butler's grace. Oh, you New Yorkers! You think we arenothing--fit, perhaps, for a May-pole frolic with the rustic gentry! Donot deny it, Mr. Renault. Have we not heard you on the subject? Do notyour officers from Philadelphia and New York come mincing and tiptoeingthrough Halifax and Quebec, all smiling and staring about, quizzingglasses raised? And--'Very pretty! monstrous charming! spike me, butthe ladies powder here!' And, 'Is this green grass? Damme, where's thesnow--and the polar bears, you know?'"
I laughed as she paused, breathlessly scornful, flushed with charmingindignation.
"And is not Canada all snow?" I asked, to tease her.
"Snow! It is sweet and green and buried in flowers!" she cried.
"In winter, madam?"
"Oh! You mean to plague me, which is impertinent, because I do not knowyou well enough--I have not known you above half an hour. I shall tellLady Coleville."
"So shall I--how you abuse us all here in New York----"
"I did not. You are teasing me again, Mr. Renault."
Defiant, smiling, her resentment was, after all, only partly real.
"We are becoming friends much too quickly to suit me," she saiddeliberately.
"But not half quickly enough to suit me," I said.
"Do you fancy that I take that silly speech as compliment, Mr.Renault?"
"Ah, no, madam! On such brief acquaintance I dare not presume to offeryou the compliments that burn for utterance!"
"But you _do_ presume to plague me--on such brief acquaintance!" sheobserved.
"I am punished," I said contritely.
"No, you are not! You are not punished at all, because I don't know howto, and--I am not sure I wish to punish you, Mr. Renault."
"Madam?"
"If you look at me so meekly I shall laugh. Besides, it ishypocritical. There is nothing meek about you!" I
bowed more meeklythan ever.
"Mr. Renault?"
"Madam?"
She picked up her plumed fan impatiently and snapped it open.
"If you don't stop being meek and answering 'Madam' I shall presentlygo distracted. Call me something else--anything--just to see how welike it. Tell me, do you know my first name?"
"Elsin," I said softly, and to my astonishment a faint, burningsensation stung my cheeks, growing warmer and warmer. I think she wasastonished, too, for few men at twenty-three could color up in thosedays; and there was I, a hardened New Yorker of four years' adoption,turning pink like a great gaby at a country fair when his sweetheartmeets him at the ginger bower!
To cover my chagrin I nodded coolly, repeating her name with a criticalair--"Elsin," I mused, outwardly foppish, inwardly amazed andmad--"Elsin--um! ah!--very pretty--very unusual," I added, with apatronizing nod.
She did not resent it; when at last I made bold to meet her gaze it waspensive and serene, yet I felt somehow that her innocent blue eyes hadtaken my measure as a man--and not to my advantage.
"Your name is not a usual one," she said. "When I first heard it fromSir Peter I laughed."
"Why?" I said coldly.
"Why? Oh, I don't know, Mr. Renault! It sounded so very young--CarusRenault--it sounds so young and guileless----"
Speechless with indignation, I caught a glimmer under the lowered lidsthat mocked me, and I saw her mouth quiver with the laugh flutteringfor freedom.
She looked up, all malice, and the pent laughter rippled.
"Very well," I said, giving in, "I shall take no pity on you infuture."
"My dear Mr. Renault, do you think I require your pity?"
"Not now," I said, chagrined. "But one day you may cry out formercy----"
"Which you will doubtless accord, being a gallant gentleman and noMohawk."
"Oh, I can be a barbarian, too, for I am, by adoption, an Oneida of theWolf Clan, and entitled to a seat in Council."
"I see," she said, "you wear your hair a l'Iroquois."
I reddened again; I could not help it, knowing my hair was guiltless ofpowder and all awry.
"If I had supposed you were here, do you imagine I should havepresented myself unpowdered and without a waistcoat?" I said,exasperated.
Her laughter made it no easier, though I strove to retrieve myself andreturn to the light badinage she had routed me from. Lord, what a teasewas in this child, with her deep blue eyes and her Dresden porcelainskin of snow and roses!
"Now," she said, recovering her gravity, "you may return to yourletter-writing, Mr. Renault. I have done with you for the moment."
At that I was sobered in a trice.
"What letter-writing?" I made out to answer calmly.
"Were you not hard at work penning a missive to some happy soul whoenjoys your confidence?"
"Why do you believe I was?" I asked.
She tossed her head airily. "Oh! for that matter, I could even tell youwhat you wrote: 'Nothing remarkable; the Hon. Elsin Grey still keepsher chamber'--did you not write that?"
She paused, the smile fading from her face. Perhaps she thought she hadgone too far, perhaps something in my expression startled her.
"I beg your pardon," she said quickly; "have I hurt you, Mr. Renault?"
"How did you know I wrote that?" I asked in a voice I hoped was steady.
"Why, it is there on your shirt, Mr. Renault, imprinted backward fromthe wet ink. I have amused myself by studying it out letter by letter.Please forgive me--it was dreadfully indiscreet--but I only meant totorment you."
I looked down, taking my fine lawn shirt in both hands. There was theimpression--my own writing, backward, but distinct. I remembered when Ihad done it, when I had gathered my ink-wet papers under my arms andleaned forward to listen to the creaking of the attic stairway. Supposeit had been Sir Peter! Suppose the imprint had been something thatcould have admitted of but one interpretation? I turned cold at thethought.
She was watching me all the while, a trifle uneasy at my silence, butmy smile and manner reassured her, and my gaiety she met instantly.
"I am overwhelmed," I said, "and can offer no excuse for this frowsydress. If you had any idea how mortified I am you would have mercy onme."
"My hair not being dressed a l'Iroquois, I consent to show you mercy,"she said. "But you came monstrous near frightening me, too. Do you knowyou turned white, Mr. Renault? Lud! the vanity of men, to pale at ajest touching their status in fopdom as proper macaroni!"
"I do love to appear well," I said resentfully.
"Now do you expect me to assure you that you _do_ appear well? that eventhe dress of a ragged forest-runner would detract nothing from yourperson? Ah, I shall say nothing of the sort, Mr. Renault! Doubtlessthere are women a-plenty in New York to flatter you."
"No," I said; "they prefer scarlet coats and spurs, as you will, too."
"No doubt," she said, turning her head to the sunset.
There was enough wind to flutter the ribbons on her shoulders and bareneck, and to stir the tendrils of her powdered hair, a light breezeblowing steadily from the bay as the sun went down into the crimsonflood. Bang! A cloud of white smoke hung over Pearl Street where theevening gun had spoken; the flag on the fort fluttered down, the flag onthe battery followed. Out on the darkening river a lanthorn glimmeredfrom the deck of the _Jersey_; a light sparkled on Paulus Hook.
"Hark! hear the drums!" she murmured. Far down Broadway the Britishdrums sounded, nearer, nearer, now loud along Dock Street, now lost inQueen, then swinging west by north they came up Broad, into Wall; and Icould hear the fifes shrilling out, "The World turned Upside-down," andthe measured tread of the patrol, marching to the Upper Barracks andthe Prison.
The drummers wheeled into Broadway beneath our windows; leaning over Isaw them pass, and I was aware of something else, too--a greatstrapping figure in a drover's smock, watching the British drums fromthe side path across the way--my friend of Nassau Street--and clingingto his arm, a little withered man, wrinkled, mild-eyed, clad also likea drover, and snapping his bull-whip to accent the rhythm of therolling drums.
"I think I shall go down," said a soft voice beside me; "pray do notmove, Mr. Renault, you are so picturesque in silhouette against thesunset--and I hear that silhouettes are so fashionable in New Yorkfopdom."
I bowed; she held out her hand--just a trifle, as she passed me, thegesture of a coquette or of perfect innocence--and I touched it lightlywith finger-tip and lip.
"Until supper," she said--"and, Mr. Renault, do you suppose we shallhave bread for supper?"
"Why not?" I asked, all unsuspicious.
"Because I fancied flour might be scarce in New York"--she glanced atmy unpowdered head, then fled, her blue eyes full of laughter.
It is true that all hair powder is made of flour, but I did not use itlike a Hessian. And I looked after her with an uncertain smile and witha respect born of experience and grave uncertainty.
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