The Loyalist

by James Francis Barrett

  CHAPTER V

  I

  The wayfarer on this July afternoon in the fifth year of AmericanIndependence might have passed on the main thoroughfare leading into thecity of Philadelphia from the townships of Bristol and Trenton, a youngand powerfully built officer astride a spirited chestnut mare. Thecountryside, through which he was journeying, stretched for miles aroundin peaceful solitude, teeming and delightful with that leafy and richgreen livery which we are accustomed to associate with the idea ofabundance. Overhead the sky was clear, from which the sun blazed downgreat billows of heat that hovered over the landscape, giving vigor andenthusiasm to the various forms of vegetable life, but at the same timecausing the animal world to drowse and languish in discomfort.

  It was plain to be seen that the horseman was an officer of theContinental Army. His mount, young and well groomed, gave everyindication of a long ride, its nostrils dilated, its mouth moist withfoam, its sides streaky with strings of sweat. Haste was desired, it wasapparent, although in the more exposed portions of the roadway the marewas allowed to walk, her rider affectionately patting her neck orcoaxing her along with an encouraging remark.

  "Look, Dolly! There is some soft, tender grass to cool your lips. Weshall take some."

  And he turned the mare to the side of the road and allowed her tonibble at the greensward.

  Soon they were again on their way, she munching the while on the lastmouthful, now walking, now impatiently breaking into a canter; Stephen,holding her in check with his hand, looked far ahead at the roofs of thecity beyond. Through his mind there passed in review the incidents ofthe day, the memory of his business just concluded, the speculation ofthe future of the army, the contemplation of his reception by Marjorie.

  He had been away for more than a month. During that time he was engagedin business of the gravest nature. Many hours had been spent in thecompany of the Commander-in-chief before whom he had laid an account ofhis varied activities in the city. The proposed plan for the formationof the regiment of Roman Catholic Volunteers, with all its ramificationsand side issues, together with an account of his own adventures in itsrespect, was reported faithfully and accurately to his superior. Theperson of John Anderson, his suspicions concerning him, the strangelyformed friendship of the spy with the Military Governor, were indicatedwith only that amount of reserve necessary to distinguish a moral froman absolute certitude. Events had moved with great rapidity, yet he feltassured that the real crisis was only now impending, for which reason hedesired to return to the city so as to be ready for any service whichmight be required.

  "Go along, girl. We want to reach home by noon."

  Dolly heeded him and began to canter.

  Washington had not taken kindly to his suggestion for the recall ofGeneral Arnold's command; in fact he had treated the proposal with ascorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. It was plain tobe seen that His Excellency had placed much reliance and confidence inhis favorite officer. It was impossible to create so much as a suspicionin the mind of him, who had been compelled to endure irksome suppressionat the hands of a cabalistic and jealous military party, and who, forthat very reason, took a magnanimous view of the plight of one besetwith similar persecutions. General Arnold was in his eyes a brave andfearless leader, but one unfortunately annoyed and tormented by themachinations of an ungrateful and intolerant populace.

  And so when it came to pass that the one General, whom he had admiredand trusted, applied for an active command in the field, GeneralWashington cordially granted the request. If the wounded limb wouldpermit it, there was no doubt in the mind of His Excellency that GeneralArnold would prove the most heroic and able officer along the line.Lincoln was gone, having been forced to surrender with his entire armyat Charleston only six weeks before. Green was engaged with the army inthe Carolinas; Gates was a coward; Lee, a traitor. In the importantoperations which were soon to take place with the main army in thevicinity of New York, Arnold was the leader best qualified for the task.Washington took extreme delight in appointing him to the command of theRight Wing of his own army and the Second in Command of the Continentalforces.

  It was with genuine reluctance that he consented to listen to thestrange story as unfolded by his aide-de-camp, Captain Meagher. ThatGeneral Arnold should openly countenance rebellion was preposterous; tobecome a party to it was incredible. Yet the veracity of his aide wasunquestionable, and the wealth of evidence which he had presented leftlittle room for doubt. Still Washington's faith was unshaken. He feltassured that his favorite General would redeem himself when the propertime came. And every encouragement for this redemption would be affordedhim.

  West Point was open. He would recall the order appointing him to thecommand of the army and make him commander of the fortification there.The exigencies of the times required a man of rare ability and genius atthis post. Should there prove to be a shadow of truth in the allegationsof his aide, the change of command would simplify the situation fromwhatever viewpoint it might be regarded. The country might be preserved,and Arnold's ambition at the same time given another opportunity.

  Stephen ruminated over these events as he rode leisurely along. Agenuine satisfaction was derived from the knowledge that his chief'sconfidence in him was still unshaken. He felt that he had effected achange of post for the man whom, above all other men, Washington mostadmired and respected; nevertheless he felt that at the same time he wasonly executing a service which would ultimately prove to be ofincalculable value to the army and the nation. Arnold troubled him, butin command of a fortress he would occasion infinitely less worry andapprehension than in a responsible position in the field.

  Marjorie delighted him. At Morristown he had found her letter; and hisplans for the immediate present underwent a decided alteration. He hadbeen ordered to make the journey to Hartford in attendance upon GeneralWashington, who had already completed arrangements with Count Rochambeauand Admiral Ternay of the French navy for a conference there inreference to the proposed naval operations of the combined fleets. Withthe letter in his hand he had sought and obtained a further leave ofabsence from his Commander-in-chief in order that his own campaign forthe winning of the lady of his heart might be brought to a quick anddecisive termination.

  He had left the city, not hurt nor wounded as she had supposed, butsomewhat disappointed at the manner of her expression. Her apparentcoolness and unconcern he had ascribed rather to her extreme diffidenceand shyness than to want of appreciation or sincerity. That she trulycared for him, he knew full well; that he would eventually win her tohim was a faltering conviction. But, now, there was no further doubt.She had written him pages into which she had poured out her heart ingenerous and unmistakable accents, and which he had read and re-readwith growing delight.

  Washington could not refuse his request. He made no attempt to concealthe nature of his mission and obtained not alone His Excellency'sgracious permission but his sincere wishes for success as well. With aheart buoyant with joy and anticipation he spurred on his mare andpushed her to her worth in the direction of the city and the object ofhis quest.

  II

  He rode into the city well aware that the first news to reach him wouldbe that of the exodus of the Arnolds.

  "You came straight through town, I suppose?"

  "Yes," replied Stephen.

  "And came here direct?" continued Mr. Allison.

  "I quartered my mare, first. I thought immediately of the Inn as theplace to gather the news. So I hastened hither."

  "There's been heaps doin'," Jim remarked casually.

  "Never saw such excitement since the day of the regiment," observed thekeeper of the Inn, a well-mannered and well-educated gentleman, abovemiddle age, who held the enviable position of inn-keeper and lawyeralike. Every inn-keeper of this age commanded much of respect in thecommunity, for it was he who received the money of the people, and moneycommanded the necessities of life--a good bed, good things to eat,attentive servants; but Mr. Smith, the keeper of the Old London
CoffeeHouse, was the most respectable inn-keeper in the city, the proudpossessor of a very pretty library and an excellent table wherecleanliness and decency vied with dignity and self-respect.

  "Arnold, you know, has left the city," volunteered Mr. Allison.

  "Yes, I have surmised," was the reply.

  "Gone, an' all belongin' to 'im."

  "And closed his mansion?" Stephen inquired.

  "Tight. Mrs. Arnold went with him. They left yesterday."

  "But I thought----"

  "To the army? I understand he had been appointed to field duty underWashington. Second in Command, they say. But that has been changed. Hehas gone to West Point."

  Stephen did not answer.

  "It seems," went on Mr. Allison, "that he has been seeking a change ofpost for several months. His leg still bothers him, however, and verylikely prevented him from doing active duty in the field. On thataccount, it has been said, he was given charge of the fortress. It is animportant post, nevertheless, and carries with it a certain amount ofdistinction."

  "Hope he gits along better with 'em up there 'n he did here," remarkedJim. "He won't hev the s'ciety folks t' bother 'im now."

  "When did he leave?"

  "No one knows. There was no demonstration of any kind. It differed muchfrom the farewell of General Howe. Arnold left in disgrace, it wouldseem," said the Inn-keeper, as he moved away to give his attention toother business.

  "And Peggy gone, too?" Stephen was genuinely surprised at this, for herather expected that she would remain with her mother.

  "I am sure that the majority of our people are greatly pleased at thechange," said Mr. Allison. "I never saw one sink to such depths ofcontempt. He came to the city as Military Governor in a blaze oftriumph, the most celebrated soldier in the army, whose rise to popularesteem was only accelerated by the knowledge of the harsh treatmentreceived by him at the hands of Congress after the battle of Saratoga.He was the idol alike of soldiers and civilians. Their hearts were hiswithout the asking. That was two years ago. Today he left the city inthe fullness of his years, in secret, after so many plaudits, inobloquy, after so much honor."

  "It is a sad commentary on human nature," Stephen observed. "Yet in allthings else I blame the woman. 'Cherchez la femme.'"

  The room already was reeky from the clouds of tobacco smoke streamingupwards from the pipes of the several guests who were lounging in smallgroups about the room. There were several parties in as many corners,each wholly unconcerned about the other. The conversation of our triowas therefore private insofar as any privacy can be expected in an inn.Only the boisterous individual made himself heard, and then only to thedispleasure of the others.

  Leaving the two at the Inn, Stephen bade them adieu and directed hisjourney in the direction of Second Street. Hastening his steps he soonreached the Germantown road, and as he turned the bend perceived thefamiliar outline of the Allison home. Little did he suspect, however,that the curtains of one of the upper windows concealed a lithe form andthat his swift gait was being interpreted with a world of meaning. Helaid his hand on the gate, and even then Marjorie had opened the door tomeet him.

  III

  "First of all," she said, "how long may you remain? Will you dine withus, or what?"

  "I shall be most pleased. I have several days. His Excellency has goneto Hartford to engage in conference. It was intended that I shouldaccompany the staff. I begged leave, however, to return toPhiladelphia."

  They were seated on the sofa in the distant corner of the parlor. Theywere quite alone now for the first time, the mother having asked to beexcused after many minutes with the announcement that since he would bepleased to remain, the supper must needs be prepared. No, Marjorie neednot help her. She might entertain Captain Meagher.

  "It's glorious to see you again," he said, sitting down beside her afterMrs. Allison had departed from the room.

  "I am glad you have come," she replied softly, rubbing her hand acrossher apron as if to arrange it neatly.

  "But you knew that I would come, didn't you?"

  "I thought so."

  "And yet I greatly feared that it would not be possible. Preparationsare being made for the final campaign, and it is expected that theFrench will be asked to play an important part."

  "It was very generous of His Excellency to grant you leave."

  He began to smile.

  "Could you guess how I obtained it?" he asked.

  She turned to regard him.

  "What have you done?" she asked soberly.

  "Showed him your letter."

  "Stephen!" she gasped as she drew back.

  Neither spoke. He continued to smile at her apparent concern, while shestared at him.

  "Do you mean it?" she asked; then quickly--"or are you teasing?"

  "I did. I showed the letter to him, and asked if I might return to you."

  "He read it?"

  "There! There! I am joking. He did not read it, but I did have it in myhand, and I told him about you and that I was going back to take youwith me."

  Satisfied, she allowed herself to assume a more relaxed composure.

  "You are going to destroy it, aren't you?"

  He took it from his pocket and looked at it. She, too, glanced at it,and then at him.

  "May I keep it? I treasure every word of it, you know."

  "Did you but know how it was composed, you might ridicule me."

  "I suppose you closed yourself behind some great veil to shut out theworld from your view. Your mind toiled with thought until you wereresolved upon the heroic. There was no scheme nor formula; your quillran on and on in obedience to the flood of ideas which inspired it."

  She lapsed into meditation; but she recovered herself immediately.

  "No," she shook her head slowly though steadily. "At midnight with theaid of a little candle which burned itself out quite before the end."

  He looked up sharply.

  "That night?"

  She nodded.

  He put his arms around her and drew her close. She made no resistance,but allowed herself to fall into his embrace.

  "Marjorie!" he whispered.

  She yielded both her hands to his grasp and felt them compressed withinit.

  "You were not hurt at my seeming indiscretion?"

  "I told you in my letter that I was not."

  "Then you do love me?"

  She drew back a little as if to glance at him.

  "You know that I do," was the soft, reassuring answer.

  "Won't you let me hear you say it?" he pleaded.

  Reaching out, she put both arms about him and offered her lips to his,whispering at the same time only what he was destined to hear.

  Presently the old clock began to strike the hour of five.