Chapter XI: Peggy Pleads for Drayton

"'Me from fair Freedom's sacred cause
Let nothing e'er divide;
Grandeur, nor gold, nor vain applause,
Nor friendship false, misguide.'"

--The American Patriot's Prayer.
(Ascribed to Thomas Paine.)

It was Mrs. Owen who found a way out of the situation.

"Nay, lad," she said in her gentle way after Peggy had poured forth her fear that the boy might be shot, and Drayton had expressed himself as eager to go back at once. "Be not too hasty. Youth is ever impulsive, and prone to act on the resolve of the moment. Thee would prefer another chance, would thee not?"

"Yes," answered the lad quickly. "If I could have it, I would show myself worthy of it. But if I cannot, Madam Owen, I am still resolved to go back, and face death like a man."

"Thee is right, John," she answered. "But if we could reach the proper authorities something might be done to give thee an opportunity to redeem thyself. Stay! I have it! Was not Mr. Arnold thy general?"

"Yes," he said. "But oh, madam! is it necessary that he should know? Think, think what it would be should he learn that John Drayton, one of his soldiers, deserted. I could not bear to see him."

"But would he not take more interest in thee than any other officer might? He alone would know all that thou didst endure in that march through the Maine wilderness. He would have a more complete understanding of thy privations, and how thou hast borne thyself under them. It is to him we must look to get thee thy chance."

Drayton buried his face in his hands for a time, and sat in thought. Presently he looked up.

"You speak truly, madam," he said. "'Tis the only way. He is the one to whom we must go. I am ashamed to face him, but I will. I'll ask for another chance, but oh! this is a thing that he cannot understand: he who would give his life rather than fail in his duty. 'Tis a part of my punishment. I'd rather die than face him, but I will."

"Once more, lad, let us not be too hasty," said the lady again, laying a detaining hand upon his arm as he rose to his feet. "We must approach him with some little diplomacy. So much have I learned in this long war. He hath discovered a liking for Peggy here, and hath bestowed marked notice upon her upon several occasions. Therefore, while I like not to seem to take advantage of such favor, in this instance it might be well to send her as an advocate to him for thee. What does thee say, Peggy?"

"That 'tis the very thing," cried Peggy, starting up. "Oh, I will gladly go to him. And I will plead, and plead, John, until he cannot help but give thee another chance."

"It seems like shirking," remonstrated Drayton, his restored manliness eager to begin an expiation.

"Thee has been advertised as a deserter, lad, and should thee attempt to go to him thee might be apprehended. Also, if the general were to see thee without first preparing him, he might not listen to thy explanation, and turn thee over to the recruiting officer. It will be the part of wisdom for Peggy to see him first."

And so it was arranged. September had given place to the crisp bracing air of October, and on the uplands the trees were beginning to wear the glory of scarlet and yellow and opal green. Sunshine and shadow flecked the streets of the city, and as Peggy wended her way toward the headquarters of General Arnold, she was conscious of a feeling of melancholy.

"Is it because of the dying year, I wonder?" she asked herself as a dead leaf fell at her feet. "I know not why it is, but my spirits are very low. Is it because I fear the general will not give the lad his chance? Come, Peggy!" Addressing herself sternly, a way she had. "Put thy heart in attune with the weather, lest thee infects the general with thy megrims."

So chiding herself she quickened her steps and assumed an aggressively cheerful manner. Just as she turned from Fifth Street into High she heard a great clamor. She stopped in alarm as a rabble of men and boys suddenly swept around a corner and flooded the street toward her. The girl stood for but a moment, and then ran back into Fifth Street, where she stopped so frightened that she did not notice a coach drawn by four horses driving rapidly down the street.

"Careful, my little maid! careful!" called a voice, and Peggy looked up to find General Arnold himself leaning out of the coach regarding her anxiously. "Why, 'tis Miss Peggy Owen," he exclaimed. "Know you not that you but escaped being run down by my horses?"

"I--I--'tis plain to be seen," stammered the maiden trembling.

"Sam, assist the young lady into the coach," he commanded the coachman. Then, as Peggy was seated by his side: "I cry you pardon, Miss Peggy, for not getting out myself. I am not so nimble as I was. What is it? What hath frightened you?"

"Does thee not hear the noise?" cried Peggy.

Before he could reply the mob swept by. In the midst of it was a cart in which lay a rude pine coffin which the crowd was showering with stones.

"'Tis the body of James Molesworth, the spy," he told her. "When he was executed 'twas first interred in the Potter's Field; then when the British held possession of the city 'twas exhumed and buried with honors. Since the Whigs have the town again 'tis thought fitting to restore it to its old resting place in the Potter's Field."

"'Tis a shame not to let the poor man be," she exclaimed, every drop of blood leaving her face. "Why do they not let him rest? He paid the debt of his guilt. It were sin to maltreat his bones."

"'Tis best not to give utterance to those sentiments, Miss Peggy," he cautioned. "They do honor to your heart, but the public temper is such that no mercy is shown toward those miscreants who serve as spies."

"But it hath been so long since he was executed," she said with quivering lips. "And is it not strange? When I came into the city to seek my father 'twas the very day that they had exhumed his body and were burying it with honors. Oh, doth it portend some dire disaster to us?"

"Come, come, Miss Peggy," he said soothingly. "Calm yourself. I knew not that Quakers were superstitious, and had regard for omens. Why, I verily believe that you would look for a stranger should the points of the scissors stick into the floor if they fell accidentally."

"I would," she confessed. "I fancy all of us girls do. But this--this is different."

"Not a whit," he declared. "'Tis a mere coincidence that you should happen to be present on both occasions." And then seeing that her color had not returned even though the last of the mob had gone by, he gave a word to the coachman. "I am going to take you for a short drive," he announced, "and to your destination."

"Why! I was coming to see thee," cried Peggy with a sudden remembrance of her mission. "I wish to chat with thee anent something and--someone."

"Robert Dale?" he questioned with a laugh. "He is a fine fellow, and well worthy of a chat."

"Oh, no! Not about Robert, though he is indeed well worthy of it, as thee says. 'Tis about one John Drayton."

"What? Another?" He laughed again, and settled himself back on the cushions with an amused air. Then as he met the innocent surprise of her clear eyes he became serious. "And what about him, Miss Peggy?"

"Does thee not remember him, Friend Arnold?" she queried in surprise. "He was with thee on thy march through the wilderness to Quebec."

"Is that the Drayton you mean?" he asked amazed in turn. "I do indeed remember him. What of him? He is well, I hope. A lad of parts, I recall. And brave. Very brave!"

"He hath not been well, but is so now," she said.

"You have something to ask of me," he said keenly. "Speak out, Miss Peggy. I knew not that he was a friend of yours."

"He hath not been until of late," she answered troubled as to how she should broach the subject. "Sir," she said presently, plunging boldly into the matter, "suppose that after serving three long years a soldier should weaken? Suppose that such an one grew faint hearted at the prospect of another winter such as the one just passed at Valley Forge; would thee find it in thy heart to blame him, if, for a time, he should"--she paused searching for a word that would express her meaning without using the dreadful one, desert--"he should, well--retire without leave until he could recover his strength? Would thee blame him?"

"Do you mean that Drayton hath deserted?" he asked sternly.

"He did; but he repents," she told him quickly. "Oh, judge him not until I tell anent it. He wants to go back. His courage failed only because of sickness. Now he is ready and willing, nay, even eager to go back even though he meets death by so doing. As he says himself 'twas naught but the cold, and hunger, and scanty clothing that drove him to it." Peggy's eyes grew eloquent with feeling as she thought of the forlorn condition of the lad when she first saw him.

"And if he goes back, will he not have hunger, and cold, and scanty clothing to endure again?" he asked harshly.

"Yes; but now he hath rested and grown strong," she answered. "He will have the strength to endure for perchance another three years should the war last so long. He wants to go back. He wants a chance to redeem himself."

"And had he not the courage to come to me himself without asking you to intercede for him?" he demanded. "He was in my command, and he knows me as only the soldiers do know me. Since when hath Benedict Arnold ceased to give ear to the distress of one of his soldiers? I like it not that he did not appeal to me of himself."

"He wished to," interposed the girl eagerly. "Indeed, 'twas mother's and my thought for me to come to you. We thought, we thought"--Peggy faltered, but went on bravely--"we thought that thee should be approached diplomatically. We wished the lad to have every chance to redeem himself, and we feared that if thee saw him without preparation thee might be inclined to give him to the recruiting officer. He is so sincere, he wishes so truly to have another chance that mother and I could not bear that he should not have it. I have made a poor advocate, I fear," she added with a wistful little smile, "though he did say that he would rather die than face thee."

"Unravel the matter from the beginning," he commanded, with a slight smile at her confession of diplomacy.

And Peggy did so, beginning with the time that the lad mended the saddle on the road, the loss of her pony, and everything leading to Drayton's stay with them, even to the making of the uniform of blue and buff and the reading of "The Crisis."

"Upon my life," he cried laughing heartily at this. "I shall advise General Washington to appoint you to take charge of our fainthearted ones. So he did not relish being called a summer soldier, eh? Miss Peggy, I believe that I should like to see the lad, and have a talk with him."

"Thee will not be harsh with him, will thee?" she pleaded. "He hath indeed been in a woeful plight, and he could not bear it from thee. And he doth consider the country ungrateful toward him."

"He is right," commented Arnold, a frown contracting his brow. "Ungrateful indeed! Not only he but others have suffered from her injustice. Have no fear, Miss Peggy, but take me to him at once."

Nevertheless Peggy felt some uneasiness as the coach turned in the direction of her home.