CHAPTER I--ON THE ROAD TO PHILADELPHIA
"And rising Chestnut Hill around surveyed Wide woods below in vast extent displayed."
--"The Forester," Alexander Wilson.
"Oh, gracious!"
The exclamation burst from the lips of a slender girl mounted upon asmall black mare, and she drew rein abruptly.
"What is it, Peggy?" asked a sweet-faced matron, leaning from the sideof a "one horse chair" drawn up under the shade of a tree by theroadside. "What hath happened? Thee seems dismayed."
"I am, mother," answered the girl, springing lightly from the back ofthe horse. "My saddle girth hath broken, and both Robert and Tom areback with the wagons. There is a breakdown. What shall I do? This willcause another delay, I fear."
"Thee can do nothing, Peggy, until Robert returns. Try to contentthyself until then."
"I could repair it myself, I believe, if I only had a string," said themaiden. "I wonder if there isn't one in the chaise. Let's look, mother."
Throwing the bridle over her arm the girl joined her mother, and the twobegan a hasty search of the vehicle.
It was a golden day in September, 1778, and the afternoon sun wasflooding with light the calm and radiant landscape afforded by thewooded slopes of Chestnut Hill, penetrating even the dense branches thatoverarched the highroad leading to Germantown.
It was one of those soft, balmy days when the fathomless daylight seemedto stand and dream. A cool elixir was in the air. The distant range ofhills beyond the river Schuylkill was bound with a faint haze, a frailtransparency whose lucid purple barely veiled the valleys. From themotionless trees the long clean shadows swept over tangles of underbrushbrightened by the purple coronets of asters, feathery plumes ofgoldenrod, and the burning glory of the scarlet sumac. Ranks of silkenthistles blown to seed disputed possession of the roadside with lowlypoke-bushes laden with Tyrian fruit.
The view from the crest of the hill where the chaise had stopped wasbeautiful. The great forest land spread out beneath seemed boundless inextent, for the farms scattered among the woodland were scarcely visiblefrom the height, but the maiden and her mother were so intent upon themishap of the broken strap as to be for the nonce insensible to thedelights of the scenery. So absorbed were they that they startedviolently when a voice exclaimed:
"Your servant, ladies! Can I be of any assistance?"
"Why," gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of abouteighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from thewoods into the road. "Who art thou, and what does thee want?"
"I want to help you mend your saddle," said the youth coolly, doffing atattered beaver with some grace. "Didst not say that the girth hadbroke?"
"Yes, but," began the girl, when her mother spoke:
"Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?" she asked mildly. "Thou wiltnot mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself."
"As to that, madam, it can be discussed later," he rejoined. "For thepresent, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here ajack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but yourpermission?"
"And that thou hast," returned the lady. "We shall be indeed grateful tothee for thy aid."
At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected thebroken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he setto work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. "Whatis the name of the pony?" he asked, addressing the maiden directly.
"Star," answered she regarding him with curious eyes.
He was in truth a spectacle to excite both curiosity and pity. He washaggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. Hisform was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of abeaver, his feet were without covering of any sort.
"'Tis a pretty beast," he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as tohis rags. "One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I've seen in many aday. Are you fond of her?"
"I am indeed," answered the girl, patting the mare gently. "My fathergave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now withthe army at White Plains, New York."
"Are you not Quakers?" he queried, glancing up in surprise.
"We are of the Society of Friends, which the world's people callQuakers," interposed the matron from the chaise.
"And they, methought, were neutral," he observed with a smile.
"Not all, friend. There be some who are called Free Quakers, becausethey choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinksthou shouldst have heard of them."
"I have," he rejoined, "but as Fighting or Hickory Quakers."
"It doesn't matter what we are called so long as we are of service tothe country," exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. "Is thee not of the armytoo? Thou art an American."
The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: "Not now. I have been." Andthen, abruptly--"Are you ladies alone?"
"No," replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. Thehighways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by thisperiod of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to bescarcely safe for travelers. "We have an escort who are coming up withthe wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They shouldbe here at any time now."
"There!" spoke the youth, rising. "I think, mistress, that you will findyour saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey."
"Thank thee," said Peggy gratefully. "It is well done. And now whatshall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?"
"Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?" heasked.
"Philadelphia, my lad," spoke the mother.
"Would thee----" She hesitated a moment and then drew forth some bills."Would thee accept some of these? 'Tis all I have to offer in the shapeof money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days."
"Nay," said the boy with a gesture of scorn. "Keep your bills, madam. Ihave had my fill of Continental money. 'Twould take all that you have topurchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmershereabouts would take them."
"There is a law now compelling every one to take them," cried Peggy."They will have to take the Continental money whether they wish to ornot. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country'scurrency."
"You are all for the patriots, I see," he remarked. "When one hassuffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful countryone doesn't feel so warmly toward them."
"But, my lad," broke in the lady, "thee will pardon me, I know, if I sayagain that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee hereperchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, DavidOwen's wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?"
"Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to thecity?" queried the lad. "Wilt let me ride with you?"
"With pleasure," answered Mrs. Owen. "Thou shalt sit in the chaise withme while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as acoach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt notfind it unbearable."
"'Twill be better than walking," he returned with easy assurance. Hisassurance deserted him suddenly, and he sank upon the ground abruptly."I am faint," he murmured.
"The poor lad is ill," cried Peggy hastening to his side. "Oh, mother!what does thee think is the matter?"
"'Tis hunger, I fear," replied Mrs. Owen hastily descending from thechair. "Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did Inot ask as to thy needs?" she added with grave self-reproach as theyouth reached eagerly for the food. "There! Be not too ravenous, my lad.Thou shalt have thy fill."
"Oh, but----" uttered the boy, clutching the provisions. He said no more,but ate with frantic haste, as though he feared the viands would betaken from him. Mrs. Owen and Peggy regarded him with pitying eyes.Presently he looked at them with something of his former jauntiness."'Tis the first real food that I have eaten for three days," he toldthem. "I have been living on wild
grapes, and corn whenever I could finda field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress."
"And hast thou no home, or place to go that thou art reduced to such apass?" asked the lady.
"There is no place near. Perhaps when I reach Philadelphia I shall finda way to get to mine own home, and then----"
"Ah! there comes Robert with the wagons," exclaimed Peggy, as fourwagons escorted by as many troopers appeared from behind a bend in thehighway. "I am so glad, for now we can start again. He will know what todo for thee, thou poor lad!"
"Is he--is he a soldier?" asked the boy gazing at the approaching wagontrain with evident alarm.
"Why, yes; of course," answered Peggy. "He is aide for the time being toGeneral Arnold, who hath charge of Philadelphia. Why----"
"I thank you again," cried the lad, springing to his feet with such asudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother wereastonished. "I thank you, and bid you good-morrow." Darting across theroad, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leavingPeggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him.
"Heigh ho!" gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. "Iwonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear."
"Perhaps Robert can explain," said her mother with a peculiar smile. "Irather think 'twas because he feared to meet a soldier."
"But why?" persisted the girl. "I see not why he should fear--mother,"she broke off suddenly as a thought came to her, "was the lad adeserter?"
"I fear so, Peggy. There are many such roaming the country, I hear."
"Oh, Robert," cried the maiden as a youth of soldierly bearing rode upto them. "We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and ayouth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for thewant of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, butwhen he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappearedinto the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter."
"I make no doubt of it," spoke the young man gravely. "The woods arefull of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him tostay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not havebeen here alone."
"Tom?" Peggy looked her dismay. "Why, we have not seen him since he wentwith thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hathbefallen him."
"He must be about somewhere," said the youth comfortingly. Neverthelesshe dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung theroadside. "Why, you black rascal," he shouted as he came upon a negroasleep behind some brush. "Get up! I thought I sent you to guard yourmistresses?"
"Dere wuzn't nuffin' ter guard 'em frum," yawned Tom, who countedhimself a privileged character. "I seed dey wuz all right, so I 'proovesde shinin' hour by gittin' a li'l res'. Yo' ain't a gwine ter 'ject terdat, is yer, Marster Dale?"
"And your mistress might have been robbed while you were doing so,"began Robert Dale sternly. "I've a mind----"
"Don't scold him, Robert," pleaded Peggy. "The ride hath been a long onefrom the farm. I wonder not that he is tired. Why," closing her brighteyes in a vain attempt to look drowsy, "I could almost go to sleepmyself."
"You spoil that darkey," remonstrated the youth as Tom, knowing that hiscase was won, climbed to his place in the chaise. "Let me look at thatsaddle, Peggy. If it is all right we must start at once, else 'twill benight ere we reach the city. Ah! 'tis well done," he added withapproval, after an inspection of the band. "Our deserter, if such he be,understands such things. Come, Peggy!"
He adjusted the saddle, assisted the maiden to it, then mounting his ownhorse gave the command, and the journey was resumed.