Chapter XIV: News of Love and War

"Hidden perfumes and secret loves betray themselves."
--JOUBERT.

"Joscelyn, from my upper window I have seen a rider turn into the next street and make for the tavern. Perchance he brings news or letters. Will you come with me and see?" It was Betty's voice under her window, and Joscelyn put her head out a moment to say she would go; then ran downstairs. And go she did in spite of her mother's vehement protest.

"'Tis scarce three weeks gone since you were reviled in the streets as a Tory, and now you will go thrust yourself in place to receive the same treatment again. 'Tis folly--ay, worse than folly!"

But Joscelyn scarcely heard, for in the street Betty was pulling her along at such a pace.

"Methought you would be glad to get a letter from--well, from--It is something over three weeks since you last heard from--" a shy little laugh finished the sentence, and she gave Joscelyn an extra pull which set them into a run.

"How glad somebody would be to see you in such haste to get a letter written to me," panted Joscelyn, laughing.

"Whither away so fast?" cried Mistress Strudwick from her door; but they did not stop to answer, only calling back merrily that a man, grown, yet not old, nor crippled, nor blind, had ridden into the square, and they were going to have a look at so wonderful a curiosity.

As they turned into the open space before the court-house, the town-bell struck a few resonant notes, a signal from the decrepit old ringer that there was news for somebody. In a few minutes the place was thronged with eager wives and mothers and sweethearts crying out for tidings of their loved ones. Did the man bring any? Yes, he was but now out of the north; whither he went mattered not to them, a man's mission was his own secret, but in his pouch were letters for towns along the route, and he brought, besides, news of the dreadful massacre in Pennsylvania. And when the few letters were distributed he stood upon the steps and told the pitiful story of Wyoming Valley.

"The able-bodied men were away fighting with Washington; only the old men and women and children remained. Upon this helpless band hundreds of British and Indians, led by Butler, fell, driving them to the fort. Thence the men, shaking with age, but not with fear, sallied to the attack, were defeated and captured, and in sight of those within were tortured with every fiendish device the savages could invent. Then the fort surrendered, and in spite of Butler's efforts tomahawk and scalping-knife did their deadly work among the helpless captives. Outraged women, spitted upon rails, saw their tender babes brained against rocks and trees. The yells of the captors were mingled with the cries for mercy and the shrieks of the dying, and night was turned into day by the light of burning villages. In all the beautiful valley not a house was spared; and where had been prosperity is now but a desolate wilderness strewn with graves and ruins."

When he finished, women were weeping upon each other's necks, thinking of their own little ones and those other murdered babies. And fierce was the denunciation of Butler for enlisting in his army savages whose brutality could not be controlled. This was not war; it was assassination, as cowardly as it was cruel.

So bitter was the feeling aroused, that for a while the fact that the courier had brought some letters was quite overlooked, until Mistress Nash and Janet Cameron came forward with epistles which contained messages for many of those present. Then it was remembered that the other two letters had both been for Joscelyn Cheshire, and immediately a dozen voices demanded her. But she was already well down the street, her arm linked in Betty Clevering's.

"Come away, Aunt Cheshire will be wretched about you," the latter had whispered to her, remembering the scene in this very place a few weeks before and dreading a repetition of it, and in her secret heart wishing that at least one of the letters in Joscelyn's hand should not be read aloud to the public, knowing well that in it was some love-message for herself, for was not that why Eustace wrote so often to Joscelyn? And so she dragged her companion back the way they had come; but as they walked Joscelyn tore open the letter with the familiar seal, exclaiming gayly:--

"Paper is not scarce with Eustace, since he sends me three whole sheets. Let me see--Betty--Betty--Betty--just in a fleeting glance I see your name some eight times. What a fondness he hath for writing the word!"

"Let me read with you, Joscelyn," cried Betty, her cheeks very bright; and drawing close together the two girls held the sheet between them and slackened their pace. But they were not left long to their privacy, for by the time they reached the Cheshire door a dozen neighbours were upon them.

"So, so, Joscelyn, be not running away with your tidings. Tell us what Clinton is doing in New York," exclaimed Mistress Strudwick, who had come with the others to give the girl countenance, if so she should need it.

"Ay, do not be playing the selfish, but give us the news," cried several voices.

"I am as ignorant as you of General Clinton's doings," the girl said, smiling at the first speaker; "for, as far as I have got, the letter is full of questions about somebody here at home."

"Yes, a spying letter for information, no doubt," sneered Amanda Bryce. "The courier said they were both from some one in New York. Who writes to you from Clinton's army?"

"Eustace Singleton, a handsome lad whom you know right well, Mistress Bryce."

"He sends you two letters by the same hand? Faith! he is an ardent correspondent."

"Nay, this other letter is in a strange writing. I know not yet who hath sent it."

"Break the wafer and read it to us."

"I do not choose, Mistress Bryce, to give my letters to the public."

"Do not choose, because you do not dare."

"Do not dare?"

"Hush, Joscelyn, she does not mean what she says," put in Mistress Strudwick.

"Yes, I do mean it, Martha, every word of it. She dare not read it, because it is a spying letter,--asking information, mayhap, which may give us over to a massacre like to that of Wyoming: that's why she dare not."

A chorus of cries and hisses arose, but the girl on the step did not quail. Her delicate lip curled with scorn. "'Tis false! You do all know I would be incapable of such wickedness."

"Then read us the letter and prove it."

"I will not."

She thrust the letter into her bosom and faced them with flashing eyes, the very picture of defiance. But a touch from Mistress Strudwick quelled the storm within her. Turning swiftly, she put her arm around the old woman's neck. "There, I am going to be good. I would not distress you and mother again for the world. But you know I have the right of it."

"Yes," echoed Janet Cameron, taking her place on the other side of Joscelyn. "We all know that though you are a Tory, you are no traitor; and I say, Out upon Mistress Bryce for hinting such a thing! I am a Continental, and my father is in Charleston fighting for the cause, but I would trust Joscelyn Cheshire to the end of the world!"

Out in the crowd the sentiment against the girl instantly changed, and all but Amanda Bryce applauded Janet's words.

"Eustace Singleton writes her naught but love-letters--let her keep them!" cried another girl. "Methinks I should not want the world to be reading my sweetheart's letters and counting the kisses he sends me."

"No, nor those he gives you," said Martha Strudwick, with a merry wink, and instantly there was a great laugh, for the girl had been caught kissing her lover the winter day on which the troops had marched, for which imprudence her mother had soundly boxed her ears.

"And now," cried Joscelyn, when the laugh had passed, "to prove that there is no treason in this letter, I shall let Betty Clevering--as good a Continental as the best of you--sit down yonder on the bench and read every word of it before I myself have seen it. Here, Betty, be you the judge whether what is herein writ is of treasonable import; and mind you skip nothing, particularly the love passages." She laughingly pushed Betty upon the bench, and leaving Eustace's letter in her hands, came back to Janet's side.

"My letter was from my brother, Joscelyn; and he said he knew not where Richard had been sent. He himself is in the old Sugar House in New York; what he suffers he will not say, but we can guess, since so much has been said of the place."

Joscelyn kissed the tearful face softly. "Perchance your imagination is over-vivid. It grieves me to the quick that any of our townsfolk should suffer."

"It will be a great relief to his mother to know that Richard is not in the Sugar House."

"Yes, there is only one worse prison in the country, and that is for the captured seamen."

"Do not let us talk of its horrors."

So the conversation went on until Betty Clevering, her face like a budding rose, came forward again.

"This letter," she said, holding up the missive, "is one of friendship merely; in it I find absolutely nothing against our cause, save a curse on the war that keeps the writer from--from her he loves."

"Dear me, to see her blush one would think it were Betty's love-letter, not Joscelyn's."

"How shy she looks!"

"Betty, was it writ so tenderly that you, who are but an outsider, are abashed to read it? Truly, I wish Master Singleton would give lessons in love writing. My man talks so much of General Washington and his doings that he quite forgets to put in the love passages."

"And 'tis for those that a woman reads her letters," said Mistress Strudwick. "The 'I love yous' and 'dears' and 'kisses' scattered through the pages mean more to her heart than the announcement of a victory. In faith, old woman as I am, I always read the last sentence first, knowing it will be the sweetest, if so the writer is in his senses."

"That is why I wanted so much to read Joscelyn's letter. I knew Eustace would never plot against his own town any more than she would, but an ardent love-letter makes good reading, no matter to whom it may be writ," laughed Dorothy Graham, breaking a glowing rose from a nearby bush, and holding it playfully against Betty's cheek, looking archly at her companions as she tapped first one and then the other with her finger, whereupon the laugh again arose, for some had long ago guessed at Eustace's passion.

Meantime, Joscelyn, drawing somewhat apart, took the strange letter from her dress and broke the wafer. The missive covered but one scant page, but those who watched as she read saw her face grow pale and her lip tremble.

MISTRESS JOSCELYN CHESHIRE, in Hillsboro'-town:

Richard Clevering, with ten of his comrades, taken at Monmouth
field, lies in one of the prison-ships in Wallabout Bay. If he is
aught to you,--you know best whom _he_ loves,--bestir yourself for
an exchange, for only that can save him from the sure death that
lurks in those accursed hulks. I, one of the guard that carried him
there, promised him that you should know, and at the risk of
discovery and punishment I thus keep my promise. He is brave and
generous. It were a pity to let him die.
JAMES COLBORN.

NEW YORK, this tenth day of July, 1778.

Even in the far southern towns the infamy of those prison-ships had been told, and with a sudden gesture of compassion the girl stretched her arms toward the opposite house.

"Aunt Clevering, poor Aunt Clevering!" and thrusting the letter into Mistress Strudwick's hands, she exclaimed: "Here read it--read it aloud, then take it over yonder--I cannot." And gathering Betty close in her arms she listened while the letter was read to the sorrowing women.

"Who are the others? Called he no names?"

"Oh, mayhap one is my son!"

"And another may be my husband!"

"Even the Sugar House had been easier than this! Mark you what we have heard of the ferocity of the jailers, the foulness of the food, the loathsomeness of the ships! They will die, our brave lads will all die there!"

"Will die?--Nay, perchance they are already dead; 'tis a month since this letter was writ, and two months since Monmouth fight."

And the letter went the rounds of the town, carrying sorrow everywhere and a miserable dread and uncertainty into many homes, for all of the men missing from Monmouth were not yet accounted for. Whose dear ones were suffering with Richard, mine or thine, or our neighbour's?

All the afternoon, Joscelyn paced her floor, her brows knitted, her fingers clenched. She knew best whom he loved? Yes, she knew. Every day for the past year he had let her see his heart; even in their quarrels over the war, he had not forgotten that he loved her. At first she had taken it for a passing fancy, and had treated him with laughing coquetry, fanning his love later on into the white flame of passion with that groundless jealousy of Eustace. Then it was she realized what it was with which she was playing.

And now he was lying in that loathsome ship, with the fever on one side and the harsh keepers on the other. Did she care as he wanted her to care? No, but her anger against him for his persistent assumption of her acquiescence in his suit was all forgotten; she remembered only the happy side of their friendship, and that he was Betty's brother. She could not put aside the appeal in Colborn's letter, for it was an appeal from Richard himself; and yet what could she, a mere girl without aid or influence, do to set him free? That was why her hands were clenched and she paced her floor with quick steps. Then at last she sat down, and opening her portfolio she wrote for half an hour, covering sheet after sheet. When they were done she gathered them up quickly and ran downstairs and crossed the street to the opposite house. There all was sadness and tears because of Colborn's news.

"Here, Betty," she said, placing the folded sheets upon the table; "Eustace Singleton is on Lord Cornwallis's staff and must have influence with him, and through him, with General Clinton. I have written Eustace to use all effort and despatch in Richard's behalf, but you must add a postscript to make the plea effective."

"And why, I pray you, should he heed a postscript from Betty?" asked her mother, angrily, forgetful for a moment of her grief.

"Because," Joscelyn answered, facing her calmly, "he loves her, and the few words she writes will outweigh all my pages."

"What! That Loyalist, the son of Joseph Singleton, our old enemy, in love with my daughter? This is some mockery."

"It is the sober truth."

"I do not believe it; but if it be so, then will Richard and I have a word to say in the matter. Betty, put down that quill; I will not have you stoop to ask a favour of that family."

"Not even for Richard's life and freedom, Aunt Clevering?"

"I do not believe he has any influence. In love with my daughter--what impudence!"

"Rather what good fortune, since it may save your son."

"Mother, it seems our one chance; bid me write." And Joscelyn joined in the girl's plea.

The older woman's features worked spasmodically, but presently she nodded slowly. "For Richard's sake, Joscelyn, yes; but mind you, Betty will set him out in short order if ever he presumes to declare himself. She knows her duty; no Singleton blood comes into my family."

She could not see Betty's face, for Joscelyn stood between them; but two weeks later Eustace kissed the blots where the tears had fallen just under her pleading little postscript:--

"Because of all you said to me in Joscelyn's parlour, because of
your red roses which I wore in the privacy of my room until they
faded, I beseech you, save my brother!"

"But oh, Joscelyn, suppose he can do nothing?"

"Then, dear, we must carry our plea to Lord Cornwallis. My father and he were friends in England; perhaps we may gain his ear through that old-time acquaintance."

"And how will you reach Cornwallis?" Mistress Clevering asked doubtfully.

"If need be, Betty and I will seek him in General Clinton's camp."

Betty put her cheek close to the girl's. "Joscelyn, after all you are not indifferent to Richard," she whispered, half wistfully, half joyously.

But Joscelyn's face was almost stern. "This letter from Colborn is in truth a plea from Richard, since he must have bid the man write. Think you I could let such a thing pass unanswered--and from your brother, too?"

"God bless you, Joscelyn, though your heart is as hard as flint."