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 a small black mare, and she drew rein abruptly.

"What is it, Peggy?" asked a sweet-faced matron, leaning from the side of a "one horse chair" drawn up under the shade of a tree by the roadside. "What hath happened? Thee seems dismayed."

"I am, mother," answered the girl, springing lightly from the back of the horse. "My saddle girth hath broken, and both Robert and Tom are back with the wagons. There is a breakdown. What shall I do? This will cause another delay, I fear."

"Thee can do nothing, Peggy, until Robert returns. Try to content thyself until then."

"I could repair it myself, I believe, if I only had a string," said the maiden. "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 two began a hasty search of the vehicle.

It was a golden day in September, 1778, and the afternoon sun was flooding with light the calm and radiant landscape afforded by the wooded slopes of Chestnut Hill, penetrating even the dense branches that overarched the highroad leading to Germantown.

It was one of those soft, balmy days when the fathomless daylight seemed to stand and dream. A cool elixir was in the air. The distant range of hills beyond the river Schuylkill was bound with a faint haze, a frail transparency whose lucid purple barely veiled the valleys. From the motionless trees the long clean shadows swept over tangles of underbrush brightened by the purple coronets of asters, feathery plumes of goldenrod, and the burning glory of the scarlet sumac. Ranks of silken thistles blown to seed disputed possession of the roadside with lowly poke-bushes laden with Tyrian fruit.

The view from the crest of the hill where the chaise had stopped was beautiful. The great forest land spread out beneath seemed boundless in extent, for the farms scattered among the woodland were scarcely visible from the height, but the maiden and her mother were so intent upon the mishap of the broken strap as to be for the nonce insensible to the delights of the scenery. So absorbed were they that they started violently when a voice exclaimed:

"Your servant, ladies! Can I be of any assistance?"

"Why," gasped Peggy, turning about in amazement as a lad of about eighteen, whose appearance was far from reassuring, stepped from the woods into the road. "Who art thou, and what does thee want?"

"I want to help you mend your saddle," said the youth coolly, doffing a tattered beaver with some grace. "Didst not say that the girth had broke?"

"Yes, but," began the girl, when her mother spoke:

"Art sure that thou canst aid us, my lad?" she asked mildly. "Thou wilt not mind if I say that thee looks in need of aid thyself."

"As to that, madam, it can be discussed later," he rejoined. "For the present, permit me to say that here is a piece of rawhide, and here a jack-knife. What doth hinder the repairing of the saddle but your permission?"

"And that thou hast," returned the lady. "We shall be indeed grateful to thee for thy aid."

At once the youth stepped to the side of the mare, and inspected the broken band critically. Then, removing the saddle to the ground, he set to work upon it with a dexterity that showed him to be no novice. "What is 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 was haggard and unkempt, and his garments hung about him in tatters. His form was thin to emaciation, and, while he boasted the remains of a beaver, his feet were without covering of any sort.

"'Tis a pretty beast," he remarked, seeming not at all concerned as to his rags. "One of the likeliest bits of horse-flesh I've seen in many a day. Are you fond of her?"

"I am indeed," answered the girl, patting the mare gently. "My father gave her to me, and I would not lose her for anything. He is now with the 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 call Quakers," 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, because they choose to range themselves upon the side of their country. Methinks thou 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 to the country," exclaimed Peggy with some warmth. "Is thee not of the army too? Thou art an American."

The lad hesitated, and then said quickly: "Not now. I have been." And then, abruptly--"Are you ladies alone?"

"No," replied the girl, casting an anxious glance down the roadway. The highways of Pennsylvania, once so peaceful and serene, were by this period of the war so infected with outlaws and ruffians as to be scarcely safe for travelers. "We have an escort who are coming up with the wagons. One broke, and it took all hands to repair it. They should be here at any time now."

"There!" spoke the youth, rising. "I think, mistress, that you will find your saddle in prime order for the rest of your journey."

"Thank thee," said Peggy gratefully. "It is well done. And now what shall we do for thee? How can we serve thee for thy kindness?"

"Are you bound for Philadelphia, or do you stop in Germantown?" he asked.

"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 shape of money. Hard coin is seldom met with these days."

"Nay," said the boy with a gesture of scorn. "Keep your bills, madam. I have had my fill of Continental money. 'Twould take all that you have to purchase a meal that would be filling, and I doubt whether the farmers hereabouts 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 or not. And they should. Every good patriot should stand by the country's currency."

"You are all for the patriots, I see," he remarked. "When one has suffered in the cause, and received naught from an ungrateful country one doesn't feel so warmly toward them."

"But, my lad," broke in the lady, "thee will pardon me, I know, if I say again that thee looks in need of assistance. If we cannot aid thee here perchance in the city we could be of service. I am Lowry Owen, David Owen's wife. Thou mayst have heard of him?"

"Perchance then, madam, you would not mind if I accompanied you to the city?" queried the lad. "Wilt let me ride with you?"

"With pleasure," answered Mrs. Owen. "Thou shalt sit in the chaise with me while Tom may go in the wagons. This chair is not so comfortable as a coach, because it hath no springs or leather bands, but thou wilt not find it unbearable."

"'Twill be better than walking," he returned with easy assurance. His assurance 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 the chair. "Peggy, fetch me the portmanteau from under the seat. Why did I not ask as to thy needs?" she added with grave self-reproach as the youth 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 be taken 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 told them. "I have been living on wild grapes, and corn whenever I could find a field. I thank you, madam; and you also, mistress."

"And hast thou no home, or place to go that thou art reduced to such a pass?" asked the lady.

"There is no place near. Perhaps when I reach Philadelphia I shall find a way to get to mine own home, and then----"

"Ah! there comes Robert with the wagons," exclaimed Peggy, as four wagons escorted by as many troopers appeared from behind a bend in the highway. "I am so glad, for now we can start again. He will know what to do for thee, thou poor lad!"

"Is he--is he a soldier?" asked the boy gazing at the approaching wagon train with evident alarm.

"Why, yes; of course," answered Peggy. "He is aide for the time being to General Arnold, who hath charge of Philadelphia. Why----"

"I thank you again," cried the lad, springing to his feet with such a sudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother were astonished. "I thank you, and bid you good-morrow." Darting across the road, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leaving Peggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him.

"Heigh ho!" gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. "I wonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear."

"Perhaps Robert can explain," said her mother with a peculiar smile. "I rather 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 a deserter?"

"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 up to them. "We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and a youth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for the want of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, but when he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappeared into the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter."

"I make no doubt of it," spoke the young man gravely. "The woods are full of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him to stay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not have been here alone."

"Tom?" Peggy looked her dismay. "Why, we have not seen him since he went with thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hath befallen him."

"He must be about somewhere," said the youth comfortingly. Nevertheless he dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung the roadside. "Why, you black rascal," he shouted as he came upon a negro asleep behind some brush. "Get up! I thought I sent you to guard your mistresses?"

"Dere wuzn't nuffin' ter guard 'em frum," yawned Tom, who counted himself a privileged character. "I seed dey wuz all right, so I 'prooves de shinin' hour by gittin' a li'l res'. Yo' ain't a gwine ter 'ject ter dat, 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 one from the farm. I wonder not that he is tired. Why," closing her bright eyes in a vain attempt to look drowsy, "I could almost go to sleep myself."

"You spoil that darkey," remonstrated the youth as Tom, knowing that his case was won, climbed to his place in the chaise. "Let me look at that saddle, Peggy. If it is all right we must start at once, else 'twill be night ere we reach the city. Ah! 'tis well done," he added with approval, 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 own horse gave the command, and the journey was resumed.