"Aged about twenty-three," he was saying. "Tall . . . thin . . . blue eyes . . . stronger than he looks . . . signet ring on fourth finger of left hand . . . last seen wearing a dirty regulation tie-wig and uniform of British captain with — "
I looked hungrily at the homespun shirts and sturdy worsted stockings flapping dankly on the slatternly woman's line, and then shook my head sadly. That dirty regulation tie-wig and British uniform were all that stood between me and a sudden unpleasant death on the nearest gallows. An enemy officer found on hostile territory in disguise was by that very fact assumed to be a spy and received the usual punishment provided for such, as my poor friend John Andre was to discover a few months later when he went upriver on the King's business with Benedict Arnold.
The lieutenant finished reading the description of me, asked the country folk some questions, and rode off with his companions in a cloud of dust. I retreated to a safer hiding place farther back in the woods to wait for nightfall before I started down to Rest-and-be-thankful.
It had been a very warm day, and a little after sunset the heat finally piled up and broke in a brief, violent storm which drifted away toward the river after a minute or two but left everything behind it wet and dripping and chill. I drew a long breath of relief — at least I could be fairly sure that the garden was no longer full of strolling guests out to enjoy the balmy air and the moonlight. It would really have been ridiculous not to take advantage of so much good fortune. The last rumble of thunder had hardly died away before I rose, cut downhill through the woods, crossed a dark field, climbed a wall, and slipped between the trees of the orchard like a shadow.
The garden beyond the orchard was, as I had hoped, deserted. So was the terrace that ran along the front of the house, though it must have been crowded earlier in the evening — I could see cushions littering the steps and scattered wineglasses gleaming on the balustrade in the candlelight pouring from all the long windows. A single liveried servant was straightening the chairs and gathering up the empty glasses on a tray. He moved very slowly, pausing every two seconds to listen to the music or to peer in at the dancers. It seemed centuries before he worked his way down to the far end of the terrace and disappeared from view around the corner of the library, leaving me free to dart up the steps and reach the dense shadow of the great oak which had been left to shade the south windows when the house was built.
I had been in the dark so long that when I first looked in all I could see for an instant was a crazy swirl of lights and colors — candle flames, crystals, gleaming satins, brocades and velvets: crimson, blue, purple, rose, green and gold, all swaying and dipping together in the intricate patterns of the minuet. Then, as my eyes grew more accustomed to the glitter, I began to pick out here and there faces that I recognized. The stout, jolly, red-faced gentleman was old Mr. Shipley, Eleanor's father. The dark, slightly lame man in the general's uniform must be Benedict Arnold from West Point. The boy dancing shyly with the pretty girl was the same Lieutenant Featherstone that I had last seen beating off two of my men with a broken sword during the skirmish at the Beemer Mill. I even had a glimpse of Dick and Eleanor as the music stopped and the groups of dancers began to break up. They were coming down past the window in a knot of acquaintances, all laughing and talking at once. I caught a phrase about "your wedding tomorrow," and then a joke about this being their last real Independence Day that made me shudder and resolve to insist on a strictly private ceremony for myself and Barbara, without any old friends and well-wishers to —
I suddenly threw back my head and listened. I had heard a sound from the distance behind me.
Very faint, very distinct, rising and falling rhythmically on the wet night air: the regular, unmistakable beat of a squadron sweeping down the road at a full gallop. Then, as I turned, the horses' hoofs hesitated, paused, and broke down confusedly. The riders were dismounting at the upper orchard gate.
Not cavalry officers arriving late for the ball — they would have come straight on down the drive and left their horses at the door. There was only one reason why they should have dismounted at the upper gate: they must be intending to make their way quietly up through the orchard and garden, hunting for somebody. And the only person they were likely to be hunting for was an escaped prisoner of war, badly wanted by the authorities at the Goshen jail, aged about twenty-three, tall, thin, blue-eyed, stronger than he looked, a signet ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, last seen wearing a dirty regulation tie-wig and the uniform of a captain in the British army with —
The lighted terrace was obviously no place for me. I shot out of the shade of the oak even faster than I had shot into it, put one hand on the balustrade for a quick spring into the shrubbery — and caught sight of the liveried servant with the tray of glasses, coming back around the corner of the library wing, walking briskly and humming a tune under his breath. I had most stupidly forgotten that he would have to return that way to take his dirty glasses to the scullery.
Run — and he would have every soul in the place down on me before I could escape across the lawn. Stay where I was and put a bold face on the matter — and there was a chance, one very thin chance, that he might take me for some prisoner of war who had been permitted to come to the festivities on parole. I relaxed suddenly against the balustrade, like an unconcerned guest who had stepped out for a mouthful of fresh air, yawned carelessly as he approached . . . and then saw to my complete dismay that he was nobody on earth but my old acquaintance George, magnificently tricked out in a powdered wig, an apricot-colored coat, and black satin knee breeches that were rather too large for him. We recognized one another at the same moment.
If George had only had enough sense to leap back and shout for help, he could have sent me back to my pile of straw in the Goshen jail without further difficulty. Instead, the unspeakable fool simply made a blind rush, dropped his tray of glasses, and lashed out recklessly with his fists. He evidently remembered how meekly I had behaved when he found me in the pool and thought that he was not going to have any trouble with me. It was a perfectly natural mistake. Most people made it the first time they met me.
"I'm sorry, George," I murmured apologetically, and hit him.
George flung up both hands and went down in a heap. His head struck the sharp edge of the balustrade with a sickening crack; he rolled over, and lay still among the scattered fragments of the wineglasses.
The whisper of violins and the tap of dancing feet went on without interruption in the ballroom. The guests were making so much noise of their own that a little more on the terrace had passed unnoticed. The soldiers who had dismounted at the gate were not yet in sight. That meant they were still searching for me in the grounds on their way up to the house — and the orchards and the shrubberies must be full of them. I could hardly hope to escape now. George had delayed me just long enough to make it almost impossible.
He still lay where he had fallen, an ugly sight, quite unconscious. His own mother would not have recognized his face, cut and hacked and bleeding from his plunge into the broken wineglasses. I frowned suddenly and began to turn over one of the broken glasses meditatively with the toe of my boot.
It might be possible. It could by no stretch of the imagination be called a brilliant plan, and if I were caught it would certainly mean the end of me, but it might be possible ... I took off my coat.
Fortunately, George was still young and no larger below the shoulders than I was. My boots and breeches fitted him easily enough. The coat, of course, was a narrow squeeze, but I left it unbuttoned and hoped for the best. I had just settled his powdered wig on my own head, and was twisting off my signet ring to slip over the fourth finger of his left hand when there was a sudden rattle of spurs on the flagstones, and a gruff Southern voice called from the garden behind me: "You there, have you seen a — Hey! what's that you've got?"
The large lieutenant I had seen reading the proclamation at the tavern was standing at the foot of the steps, a cluster of troopers crowding a
t his back, all of them staring at the British officer and the liveried servant on the terrace. They were, happily, unable to perceive that it was no longer quite the same British officer and liveried servant who had been there five minutes before.
I dropped the signet ring into my pocket and rose twittering to my feet, the perfect image of a distracted young footman only too thankful to surrender a difficult problem into the hands of the proper authorities.
"I don't quite know myself, sir," I bleated uncertainly. "I was just going back to the scullery with my tray of glasses, sir, and I saw this person hiding there under the oak on the terrace, and he seemed to be a British officer, sir, so I knocked him down, sir, and I do hope I haven't done no harm, sir, if — " The rest of the sentence was lost as the large lieutenant swept me aside with one wave of his arm and went down on his knee beside George's prostrate body.
"I do hope I haven't done no harm, sir," I repeated pitifully.
"Harm!" said the large lieutenant, with a snort. "You've probably put in the best night's work you ever did in your life, son. You know who this is? Well, it's Peaceable Sherwood."
"Oh, sir!"
"Yes, that's it — if he's the one I think he is. Let's see. Tall: correct. Thin — well, he isn't fat anyway: correct. Blue eyes: correct. Signet ring: missing. Look, son, what was that thing I saw you putting in your pocket when we came up the steps? Well, well, never mind, keep it, I suppose you deserve it, let's just not say anything more about it. Dirty regulation tie-wig and British uniform: correct. Looks like we've found him all right, boys. Still, to make sure — any of you-all ever seen him so close that you'd recognize him again? Step forward!"
Rather to my relief, nobody stepped forward.
"Colonel Grahame or Miss Barbara could tell right away, sir," suggested a voice helpfully. " 'Twouldn't take me a minute to run around to the back of the house and fetch one of them, sir."
The lieutenant glanced in at the glittering crowd and shook his head. "I reckon that won't be necessary," he said doubtfully. "Colonel Grahame wouldn't thank us for breaking up his party and making a riot the night before his wedding — not with the General here and everybody — and after all, it isn't as if there were two British officers loose in Orange County with captains' uniforms and dirty wigs and blue eyes and all the rest of it. Suppose we just pick him up quiet and easy, and get out of here before anybody — "
"Why, Lieutenant Carter! I thought you said you were on duty tonight and couldn't come?"
Lieutenant Carter turned on his heel and bowed profoundly as a slender figure in yellow closed the long window behind her and came out to us, the candlelight shimmering over her fan and her dress and the brilliants starring her hair. At the sound of her voice, I drew one deep breath and retreated modestly to the shade of the oak tree.
"Nothing at all worth troubling you with, Miss Barbara ma'am," Lieutenant Carter was explaining apologetically. "Only one of the Britishers up at the Goshen jail who escaped last night and was trying to get down to New York. I'm afraid we had to break into your garden to catch him."
"Into our garden?" echoed Barbara. "But of all the foolish places for him to ... Oh! Who — who is he?"
"Well, it's odd, Miss Barbara, but he seems to be that same marauder you and the Colonel captured last Christmas — you remember him? Sherwood? Captain Peaceable Sherwood?"
The fan Barbara was carrying suddenly shimmered a little in the candlelight, as if the fingers that held it had tightened their grip, but her answer came in precisely the right tone of polite surprise and interest.
"Indeed? How very astonishing!" she said. "I hope the poor man isn't badly hurt?"
"Oh, he'll wake up again all right and tight back in the Goshen jail," replied Lieutenant Carter cheerfully. "Seems he had a fight with one of your own servants, who found him hiding on the terrace and knocked him down — that man over there yonder, under the tree."
Barbara turned and glanced at me. The friendly shadow of the oak lay thick across my face, but unfortunately not quite thick enough to conceal the shape of my head and the outline of my shoulders. I saw Barbara's lips part and her eyes widen suddenly in bewilderment.
"Are you sure you've caught the right man, Lieutenant Carter?" she inquired, with a new and rather strange note in her voice.
"Fairly sure, Miss Barbara," said Lieutenant Carter complacently. "Of course, though, we had only the printed description to go by, and — well, I wonder if it would be asking too much of you, Miss Barbara, now you're out here anyway, just to glance at him, and see if you can't positively identify him for us? Blood doesn't make you faint, does it?"
I knew what the answer was going to be even before Barbara made it.
"Not in the least, sir. If you wouldn't mind stepping to one side a little — ?" She bent forward, guarding her skirts delicately from the shards of broken glass, and surveyed the miserable George for a long moment in silence. It was the sort of silence I could imagine falling over the crowd on the Goshen green as the rope tightened slowly around my neck.
Then Barbara straightened up again and turned back to Lieutenant Carter.
"I can't swear to him, of course," she said, slowly and deliberately. "His own sweetheart couldn't swear to that face just now, I'm afraid. But I will say that I'm sure I've seen him before. He looks very familiar — " her eyes went around the circle of intent faces and came to rest again, as if by chance, on mine: "very familiar indeed. And he is wearing Captain Sherwood's coat. I remember that patch on the left elbow distinctly."
"That last fact alone would be quite enough to satisfy us, I assure you," said the lieutenant heartily. "Pick him up, boys. The sooner he goes back where he belongs, the better. I really don't know how to thank you properly, Miss Barbara. If there's any way my men or I can show our appreciation — "
"Very easily. Do you think you could possibly get him off the grounds before anyone else sees him? After all, fights and escaping prisoners and blood at a dance where the guests are supposed to be enjoying themselves the night before a wedding —" She broke off with an appealing little gesture of her hands.
"Not a soul will even know we've been here," promised Lieutenant Carter handsomely.
"How very kind of you, sir — and I only wish you could stay on for the dancing." She gave him one of her delightful smiles and turned back to the long window. "Come, George," she added, over one shoulder.
"George — Oh Lord, yes, I'd forgotten about him." The lieutenant stopped short halfway down the steps, fumbled in his coat, and tossed me a silver coin, which I caught neatly and put in my pocket with a grateful bow.
"And I only wish it was more, son," he added cordially. "But I'll tell them up at Goshen that you're the one who ought to get the reward, if there should happen to be any. Meanwhile" — he bowed again to Barbara as he turned to rejoin his followers — "I'm sure Miss Barbara here will take good care of you and see you're treated the way you deserve to be."
"You may be certain of that, Lieutenant Carter," said Barbara sweetly, giving him another dazzling smile as she closed her fan with a snap and swept me in through the window. I followed her in silence past the fringes of the dance and down the room to a secluded corner where a silver punch bowl stood on a small table, flanked and cut off from the rest of the dining parlor by a heavy screen. Here she halted and turned fiercely to confront me.
"Now, I'll attend to you," she said dangerously. "Have you lost your mind, coming straight back to the house like this? Didn't you remember that I was the one who put you in that jail in the first place?"
"Oh, yes," I assured her. "All the Sherwoods have memories like elephants. We never forget."
"And what possessed you to take off that uniform?" wailed Barbara. "Are you completely mad? Don't you know they'll hang you now if they catch you?"
"Something of the sort did pass through my head," I admitted. "I even composed about half of a farewell speech (to be recited on the gallows) in the time you spent looking at George to see if you couldn't po
sitively identify him."
"Oh, will you stop talking nonsense!" She wrung her hands distressfully together. "Be quiet and let me think! Dear Lord, what am I going to do with you? What in the world am I going to do with you?"
"That," I answered, finding a place where I could lean comfortably against the corner of the table, "is the exact question which I came to Rest-and-be-thankful especially to ask you. What are you going to do with me? You may perhaps remember that at Christmas time I did myself the honor of asking for your hand in — "
A voice from the other side of the screen interrupted me. It was a gay, careless voice, very distinct above the low laughter and the music.
"Oh, Felton! Just one moment, please! Have you chanced to see my sister anywhere about? There's something I have to tell her."
The reply came without an instant's hesitation. "I thought I had a glimpse of her just now going back to the corner with the punch bowl, sir."
All the color faded suddenly out of Barbara's cheeks and lips, leaving her face so white that the gray eyes looked black.
"It's Dick," she whispered. "Oh heaven help us, it's Dick, and he's coming over here."
"Why not?" I inquired cordially. "It's his own party, isn't it? I'm only a simple country boy named George who's come in from Paw's farm to work here for the night. He won't even look at me — nobody ever looks at the footmen. All I have to do is turn my back and start ladling punch into the cups. You see? Now, where was I? Oh, yes . . . the honor of asking for your hand in marriage. Unfortunately, however, I failed to catch your reply, owing to circumstances beyond my control, so — "
"Will you be quiet!" hissed Barbara frantically.
I dipped up a ladleful of punch, and out of the tail of my eye, saw Dick appear around the edge of the screen, his arm linked through Eleanor Shipley's and his dress epaulettes gleaming under the light of the candles. I had been quite right: his glance swept past me as if I had been a piece of the furniture and went directly to his sister.