Chapter I: A Loyal Subject of His Majesty, George Third, Makes a Shirt

"Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved,
And bright were its flowery banks to his eye,
But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh."

--Thomas Moore.

It was a fine winter day. There had been a week of murky skies and dripping boughs; a week of rain, and mud, and slush; a week of such disagreeable weather that when the citizens of Philadelphia awoke, on this twenty-first day of February, 1781, to find the sun shining in a sky of almost cloudless blue and the air keen and invigorating, they rejoiced, and went about their daily tasks thrilled anew with the pleasure of living.

About ten o'clock on the morning of this sunlit winter day a young girl was slowly wending her way up Chestnut Street. At every few steps she was obliged to pause to lift into place a huge bundle she was carrying--a bundle so large that she could just reach her arms about it, and clasp her hands together in the comfortable depths of a great muff. A ripple of laughter rose to her lips as, in spite of her efforts, the bundle at length slipped through her arms and fell with a soft thud upon the frozen ground.

"It's lucky for thee, Peggy," she cried addressing herself merrily, "that 'tis not yesterday, else thee would have a washing on thy hands. Oh, if Sally could only see me! She said that I'd not reach home with it. Now, Mr. Bundle, is thee carrying me, or I thee? Just lie there for a moment, and then we'll see who is worsted in this fray."

Removing her winter mask the better to inhale the bracing air, she disclosed a face flushed rosily from her exertions and dark eyes brimming with laughter just now at the plight in which she found herself. She stood for a moment breathing deeply then, readjusting the mask under the folds of her calash, managed with some difficulty to get the bundle once more within the circle of her arms, and again started forward. It was slow progress, but presently she found herself without further mishap in front of a large dwelling on the corner of Fifth and Chestnut Streets, standing in the midst of extensive grounds just across from the State House.

With a sigh of relief the girl deposited the bundle on the bottom step of the stoop, and then, running lightly up the steps, sounded the great brass knocker. The door was opened almost instantly by a woman whose sweet face and gentle manner as well as her garb bespoke the Quakeress.

"I saw thee coming, but could not get to the door before thy knock sounded, Peggy," she said. "And did thee have a good time? Harriet hath missed thee, and in truth it hath seemed long since yesterday. And what is in that bundle, child? 'Tis monstrous large for thee to carry."

"'Tis linen, mother," answered the maiden bringing the bundle into the hall. "It came last night to Mrs. Evans for her to make into shirts for the soldiers, but word came from the hospital this morning that both she and Sally were needed there, so I told her that, as we had our apportionment all made up, we would gladly do hers. And such a time to get here as I had. So thee missed me? 'Tis worth going away for the night to hear thee say that. How is Harriet?"

"Wherriting over thy absence. Indeed, she seems scarce able to bear thee from her sight. I persuaded her to work upon the shirt, thinking to beguile her into something like calm. She should go out to-day if 'tis not too cold."

"'Twould do her good," declared Peggy. "It is fine out. Such a relief from the rain and mud of the past week. And oh, mother! what does thee think? Mistress Reed hath twenty-two hundred shirts already that the ladies have made, and she hath received a letter from His Excellency, General Washington, concerning them. She wished that all that were not needed for the Pennsylvania line should be given to our near neighbor, New Jersey, but left it with him to do as he thought best. She told Mrs. Evans that she wished to see thee and others of the committee soon. There is to be a notice as to time. Thee does not mind this extra work, does thee, mother?"

"Nay, Peggy. 'Twas right to bring it. 'Tis little that we who are at home can do for those in the field, and Mrs. Evans and Sally give too much time as it is to the hospital to undertake anything more. But let us go in to Harriet. She will be glad that thou art here."

"Have you come at last, Peggy?" cried a slender girl starting up from a settle which was drawn before a roaring fire as mother and daughter entered the living-room. "And did I hear you say something about more cloth for shirts? Peggy Owen, you have done nothing else since we came from the South two months ago but make shirts. I doubt not that every soldier of the rebel army hath either a shirt of your making, or a pair of socks of your knitting."

"That could hardly be, Harriet," laughed Peggy. "I have made but twelve shirts, and just the same number of socks. As we have a few more in the army than that thee sees that it could not be. And how does thee feel?"

"Oh, I don't know," spoke Harriet plaintively. She was very pale as though she had been ill, which was the fact, but her disorder had reached that stage of convalescence in which it was more mental than physical. "I don't know, Peggy. I don't believe that I'll ever be well again."

"How thee talks," chided Peggy. "Did thee finish the shirt mother gave thee to make? Methought that would woo thee from thy megrims."

"Yes; it is finished," answered the other with a sigh of weariness. "I have just put the last stitch in it, and I'll do no more. Heigh-ho! to think of Harriet Owen, daughter of William Owen, a colonel of the Welsh Fusileers, and a most loyal subject of His Majesty, making a shirt for one of the rebels. What would father think of it, I wonder?"

"I think that he would rather have thee so engaged than to have thee give up to thy fancies, Harriet," answered Peggy as her cousin drew the garment from among the pillows of the settle, and held it up to view. "Did thee put thy name on it? Mistress Reed wishes every woman and girl who makes one to embroider her name on it."

"'Tis athwart the shoulders," said Harriet, handing the shirt to Peggy, a little sparkle coming into her eyes. Wonderful eyes they were: gray in color, surrounded by lashes of intense black, and dazzling in their brilliancy. "Well, Peggy?"

"Oh, Harriet," gasped the Quaker maiden, a look of vexation flashing across her face. "What will Mistress Reed say?"

For across the shoulders of the garment was embroidered in red letters: "Harriet Owen--A loyal subject of the king."

"What will she say?" repeated Peggy in dismay.

"Well, I am a loyal subject of the king, am I not? Doth being in Philadelphia instead of London or New York make me otherwise? Doth even making a rebel shirt change me?"

"N-no," answered Peggy. "I do not wish thee to change, Harriet; only it doth not seem quite, quite---- In truth, as thee is just among us to get well it doth not----" She paused hardly knowing how to continue.

"'Tis naught to trouble over, my daughter," spoke her mother serenely. "'Twill wear just as long and keep some soldier just as warm as though it were not there. I doubt not that it will cause some amusement in camp, and what is't but a girlish piece of mischief, after all? I am pleased to see a spark of thy former spirit, Harriet. Thee is growing better."

"Thank you, madam my cousin. And I will make no more, if it please you. I find the stitching wearisome, and the object not much to my liking."

"Then it were better for thee to make no more," declared the lady. "Though 'tis not well to lie on the settle and do naught but read. I think with Peggy that to go out will do thee good. Therefore, after dinner thou must go with her to take the shirts that are finished to Mistress Reed. Then a walk to the river, or to Pegg's Run, where there is sure to be skating if the ice is strong enough, will do nicely for to-day. There are some fine skaters among us, and 'twill amuse thee to see them."

"I care more for assemblies and small dances than I do for sports," declared Harriet. "Still, if you think best, I will go, madam my cousin. I get lonesome here. I am so far from my people, and from my country. New York was gayer when I was there. Do you not think so, Peggy? And yet 'tis not nearly so large as this city."

"Thee has not been strong enough for much gayety," reminded the lady gently. "As soon as the spring comes we will see about more diversion. There will be the rides, and many jaunts which the weather hath not permitted heretofore. But for to-day the walk must do. So be ready to go with Peggy as soon as the dinner is over."

"And may I read until then?" queried the girl wistfully. "The book is very enticing. I but laid it aside to finish the shirt."

"Yes; and Peggy may join thee, if she wishes," said Mrs. Owen rising. "I like not for her to read idle tales, nor much verse when there is so much to be done, but the poem that thou art reading now is a noble one. I would like her to become familiar with it. I read it when a girl."

"What is it, Harriet?" questioned Peggy as her mother left the room.

"'Tis 'Paradise Lost,' by Mr. John Milton," answered her cousin, taking the book from a near-by table, and turning the leaves of the volume idly. "'Tis considered à la mode in London to be so familiar with it as to be able to quote passages from it on occasion. So long as I must stay in the colonies 'tis as well to prepare for my return."

"But thee cannot go back until the war is over," Peggy reminded her. "Thee would not wish to go without thy father, would thee?"

"Of course not. But the war is sure to be over soon now. Three of the Southern colonies are already restored to the Crown, and after Lord Cornwallis subjugates Virginia 'twill be an easy matter to move northward toward your main army. And where will your Mr. Washington be then--with Sir Henry Clinton attacking him from the front and Lord Cornwallis from the rear? Oh, it will soon be over!"

"That is what thy people have said from the beginning," remarked Peggy quietly. "And yet, in Fourth month, 'twill be six years since the battle of Lexington in Massachusetts was fought, and we are not conquered yet."

"But 'tis different now, Peggy. Your resources are drained. Even Cousin David, fervent patriot though he is, murmurs at the weakness of your central government. Part of your own soldiers mutinied last month. One of your best generals hath come over to us, and you have won but two victories in nearly three years--Paulus Hook and Stony Point. Oh, 'tis vastly different now. We shall see the end soon."

"Thee has forgotten King's Mountain, which was a decided victory," spoke Peggy. "And," she added stoutly, "though I know that what thee says is largely true, Harriet, and that it doth indeed look dark for us, I feel sure that we will win eventually. Whenever it hath been the darkest some great event hath happened to raise our spirits so that we could go on. I just know that 'twill be the same now. Something will occur to give us hope."

"It may be," observed Harriet carelessly, "though I see not how it can."

Peggy made no answer. She had spoken more hopefully than she felt. In common with other patriots she was appalled at the dark outlook with which 1781, the sixth year of the war, had opened. It was in truth a very dark hour. The American Revolution was in sore straits. It was dragging and grounding on the shoals of broken finances and a helpless government. The country had not yet recovered from the depression caused by Arnold's treason. True, the plot had failed, but there was nothing inspiriting in a baffled treason, and there had been no fighting and no victories to help the people and the army to bear the season of waiting which lay before them. General Washington lay helpless with his army along the Hudson River, unable to strike a blow for the lack of men and supplies. The Revolution seemed to be going down in mere inaction through the utter helplessness of what passed for a central government.

As all this passed through Peggy's mind she leaned back in her chair, and gazed sadly into the fire, a hopeless feeling creeping into her heart in spite of herself.

"If after all we should fail," she half whispered and then sat up quickly as though she had been guilty of disloyalty. "This will never do, Peggy," she murmured chidingly. "Fail, with General Washington at the head of things? What an idea! Harriet," turning to her cousin, "haven't we forgotten the poem?"

"Yes," answered Harriet who was gazing dreamily into the fire. "Don't let's read, Peggy."

"But----" began Peggy when there came the excited tones of Mrs. Owen from the hall greeting a guest:

"And is it really thou, John? What brings thee? Peggy will be so glad to see thee. Come in, and welcome."

"John! John Drayton!" cried Peggy springing to her feet as the door opened to admit the tall form of a youth. "What brings thee from the South? Hast thou news? Oh, come in! I am so glad to see thee. Is thee an express?"

"Yes, Peggy." The youth's clothing was bespattered with dried mud as though he had ridden hard and fast without time for attention to appearances. A handsome roquelaure[[1]] was so covered that its color was scarce distinguishable. There were deep circles under his eyes as though he were wearied yet his manner was full of subdued joyousness. "Yes, I am an express. I have just brought Congress despatches which tell that on the 17th of January, under General Morgan we met Colonel Tarleton at the Cowpens in South Carolina, and utterly routed him."

"Did what?" gasped Peggy, while Harriet Owen sat suddenly bolt upright.

"Routed him! Wiped him out!" repeated young Drayton with a boyish laugh, and the old toss of his head that Peggy remembered so well. "We met Colonel Tarleton at the Cowpens, and we soundly whipped him."

----- [1] Cloak.