Chapter XXXII: On the Altar of His Country

"If you fail Honor here,
Never presume to serve her any more;
Bid farewell to the integrity of armes;
And the honorable name of soldier
Fall from you, like a shivered wreath of laurel
By thunder struck from a desertlesse forehead."

--Faire Quarrell.

For a time no sound was heard in the room but the sobs of the maiden and the broken utterances of the men. The tears of the latter were no shame to their manhood, for they were wrung from their hearts by the defection of a great soldier.

The friend of Washington and of Schuyler! The brilliant, dashing soldier with whose exploits the country had rung but a short time since; if this man was traitor whom could they trust?

Presently Peggy felt a light touch on her head, and looked up to find General Gates regarding her with solicitude.

"My child," he said, "I am about to ride into Hillsboro' to confer with Governor Nash. Will you permit me to be your escort? We must find a resting place for you. You must be weary after this trying day."

"I am," she replied sadly. "Wearied and heart-sick. Thee is very kind, and I thank thee." She rose instantly, and followed him to the door where the orderly had her horse in charge.

What a change had come over the encampment. From lip to lip the tidings had flown, and white-faced men huddled about the camp-fires talking in whispers. No longer song, or story, or merry jest enlivened the evening rest time, but a hush was over the encampment such as follows a great battle when many have fallen.

Seeing that she was so depressed General Gates exerted himself to cheer her despondency, leaving her when Hillsborough was reached in the care of a motherly woman.

"I shall send Lieutenant Drayton to you in the morning," he said as he was taking his departure. "He will need comfort, child; as we all do, but the boy was wrapped up in Arnold."

It was noon the next day before Drayton appeared, and Peggy was shocked at the change in him. There was no longer a trace of jauntiness in his manner. There were deep circles under his eyes, and he was pale and haggard as though he had not slept.

"John," she cried, her heart going out to him for his sorrow, "thee must not take this matter so. General Washington is left us."

"Yes," he replied, "but I loved him so. Oh, Peggy! Peggy! why did he do it?"

"I know not," she answered soberly. "After thee left Philadelphia there were rumors concerning General Arnold's extravagance. Mother was much exercised anent the matter. But as to whether that had anything to do with this, I know not."

"How shall I bear it?" he cried suddenly. "Who shall take his place? Had he been with us there would have been another tale to tell of Camden."

"That may be, John." And then, seeking to beguile his thoughts from the matter, she added with sweet craftiness: "Thee has not told me how thee came to be down here? Nor yet if thee ever returned to New York City after that trip with the wood? Thee should have seen Cousin William after the failure of the alert. That was why he brought me down here."

"Tell me about it, Peggy," he replied with kindling interest. And the girl, pleased with her artifice, related all that had befallen her.

"And now?" he questioned. "What are you going to do now?"

"There is but one thing to do, John," she answered, surprised by the query. "That is, to get home as quickly as possible."

"I like not for you to undertake such a journey, Peggy. There are more loyalists in the South than elsewhere, which was the reason the war was transferred to these states. 'Tis a dangerous journey even for a man. 'Tis hard to get despatches to and from Congress, as you know by the death of that poor fellow whose letters you carried. I don't believe that your mother would like for you to undertake it."

"But there is danger in staying, John. No part of the Carolinas is safe from an incursion of the enemy. 'Tis as far back to the plantation at Charlotte as 'twould be to go on to Virginia, and I want my mother. Friend Hart said that he and his wife would travel slowly so that I could o'ertake them."

"Yes; you ought to be out of this," agreed Drayton. "Every part of this country down here is being ravaged by Tories, who seem determined to destroy whatever the British leave. Would that I could take you to your mother, Peggy, but I cannot leave without deserting, and that I----"

"Thee must not think of it," she interrupted, looking at him fearfully.

"And that," he went on steadily without noticing the interruption, "I would not do, even for you."

"That forever settles my last doubt of thee," declared Peggy with an attempt at sprightliness. "I know that thee is willing to do almost anything for me."

"Yes," he replied. "And now I must go."

"Shall I see thee again before I leave, John?"

"When do you start?"

"In the morning. I waited to-day to see thee."

"Then it must be good-bye now," he said. "I am to carry some despatches to General Marion on the morrow, and that will take us far apart, Peggy. I asked for the mission; for I must have action at the present time. I like not to think."

"Don't be too venturesome," pleaded the girl. "We who know thee have no need of valiant deeds to prove thy merit."

"I want a chance to distinguish myself," declared the lad. "That, and to prove my loyalty too. All of General Arnold's old men will be regarded with suspicion until they show that they are true. And now good-bye, Peggy."

"Good-bye, John," spoke the maiden sorrowfully. "Thee carries my sympathy and prayers with thee."

He bade her good-bye again, and left. Early next morning Peggy set forth at speed hoping to overtake Mr. and Mistress Hart before the day's end. Her thoughts were busied with Drayton and his grief, and she now acknowledged to herself the fear that had filled her lest he too should prove disloyal.

"But it hath not even occurred to him to be other than true," she told herself with rejoicing.

And so thinking she rode along briskly, and was not long in reaching the spot where they had been stopped by the dying vidette. She gazed at the place with melancholy, noting that the bushes were trampled as though a number of men had passed over them. Doubting not but that this appearance had been caused by the soldiers who had been sent for the body, which was indeed the fact, the girl sped on rapidly, trying not to think of all that had occurred in the past few days.

Peggy had been sure of her bearings up to this time, for she had traversed the highway twice to this point, but from this on she was confronted by an unfamiliar road. So it happened that when directly she came to a place where the road diverged into two forks, she drew rein in bewilderment.

"Why," she exclaimed, "I don't know which one to take. What shall I do? How shall I decide, Star?" appealing to the only living thing near.

Hearing her name the little mare neighed, tossed her head, and turned into the branch of the roadway running toward the South, just as though she had taken matters in hand for herself. Peggy laughed.

"So thee is going to decide for me, is thee?" she asked patting the pony's neck. "Well, we might as well go in this direction as the other. I know not which is the right one. I hope that we will come to a house soon where I may ask."

But no dwelling of any kind came in sight. The afternoon wore away, and the girl became anxious. She did not wish to pass the night in the woods. The memory of that night so long ago when she and Harriet had ridden to Amboy was not so pleasant that she wished to repeat the experience. But Star sped ahead as though familiar with her surroundings. At nightfall there was still no sign of either Joe Hart and his wife, or sight of habitation.

"I fear me we have lost our way, Star," she mused aloud. "I wonder what we'd best do? Keep moving, methinks. 'Tis the only way to reach anywhere."

Peggy tried to smile at her little sally, but with poor success. The pony trotted ahead as if she at least was not bewildered, and presently, to the girl's amazement, of her own accord turned into a lane that would have escaped Peggy's notice. To her further astonishment at a short distance from the highway stood a woodman's hut, and the mare paused before the door.

"Why, thou dear creature!" cried Peggy in delight. "It seems just as though thee knew the way."

She dismounted, and with the bridle over her arm approached the cabin almost gaily, so greatly relieved was she at finding a shelter. A woman came to the door in answer to her knock, and opened it part way.

"What do you want?" she asked harshly.

"A lodging for the night, friend," answered the maiden, surprised by this reception, for the people were usually hospitable and friendly.

"How many air you?" was the next question.

"Myself alone, friend," replied Peggy, more and more amazed. "I wish food and a stable for my pony also. I will pay thee for it," she added with a sudden remembrance of the money that Henry Egan had given her.

"Well, come in." The door was opened, and the woman regarded her curiously as she entered. It was but a one-room hut, and a boy of twelve appeared to be its only occupant aside from the woman. He rose as the girl entered, and went out to attend the horse.

"Do you want something to eat?" asked the woman ungraciously.

"If thee pleases," answered Peggy, ill at ease at so much surliness. The woman placed food before her, and watched her while she ate.

"Where air you all going?" she asked presently.

"To Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania," explained Peggy, who had found that many of the women in the Carolinas were but ill-informed as to locations of places.

"Is that off toward Virginia?"

"I must go through Virginia to reach there," said the girl.

"You're going wrong, then," the woman informed her. "You air headed now for South Carolina."

The girl uttered a cry of dismay.

At this moment the urchin reëntered the hut, and whispered a moment to his mother. Instantly a change came over her. She turned to Peggy with a glimmer of a smile.

"Air you a friend?" she asked.

"Why, yes," answered Peggy, thinking naturally that she meant the sect of Quakers. "I should think thee would know that."

"You can't always tell down here. Sam says that you air riding Cap'n Hazy's horse. It used to stop here often last summer."

"Then that was why the pony brought me here," cried the girl in surprise. "I was lost. How strange!"

"Why, no. Horses always go where they are used to going," said the woman, in a matter-of-fact tone. "That is, if you give 'em their head. When is the cap'n coming?"

"How should I know?" asked Peggy, staring at her. "I don't----"

"We air friends, miss. You needn't be afraid to say anything you like. But you air right. Keep a still tongue in these times. 'Tis safest. And now, I reckon you'd like to go to bed?"

"Yes, if you please," answered the maiden, so amazed by the conversation that she welcomed the change for reflection. Was Captain Hazy the British commander of the foraging party who had come to the plantation, she wondered. It occurred to her that it might be wise to accept her hostess's advice to keep a still tongue.

There was but one bed in the room, and this was given Peggy, while the mother and son simply lay down upon the floor before the fire, which was the custom among mountaineers. Without disrobing the girl lay down, but not to sleep. She was uneasy, and the more she reflected upon her position the more it came to her that she had been rash to start out alone as she had done.

"But I won't turn back now," she decided. "I will take some of the money which Friend Henry gave me, and hire some one to take me home. 'Tis what I should have done at first."

At the first sign of dawn she was astir. The woman rose at the same time, and prepared her a hot breakfast.

"Now you just go right down that way," she told Peggy, as the maiden mounted her pony, indicating the direction as she spoke. "That'll take you down to the Cross Creek road. Ford the river at Cross Creek, and you will be right on the lower road to Virginia."

Peggy thanked her, gave her a half guinea, and departed. Could she have followed the direction given she would, as the woman said, have been on the lower road to Virginia, but alas, such general directions took no account of numerous crossroads and forkings, and the maiden was soon in a maze. That night she found a resting-place at a farmhouse where the accommodations were of a better nature, but when she tried to hire a man for guidance not one seemed willing to go.

"They were needed at home," they said. "There were so many raiding parties that men could not be spared." Which was true, but disheartening to Peggy.

In this manner three days went by. At long distances apart were houses of some description, and many ruins, some of them smoldering.

On the afternoon of the third day Peggy was riding along slowly, thoroughly discouraged, when all at once from the dense woods that lined the roadway there emerged the form of a horseman.

He was hatless and disheveled in appearance, and he surveyed the road as though fearful of meeting a foe. As his glance fell upon the maiden he uttered an ejaculation, and dashed toward her.

"Peggy," he cried staring at her in amaze, "what in the world are you doing down here in South Carolina? I thought you in Virginia by this time."

"I would not be surprised if thee told me that I was in Africa," answered poor Peggy half laughing, half crying. "I started for Virginia, but took a wrong turning, and seem to have kept on taking them ever since. I don't want to be down here, but no one will come with me to guide me, and I always go wrong on the crossroads."

In spite of the gravity of the situation Drayton, for it was he, laughed.

"Nay," he said, "let me believe that you came down here to help me deliver my despatches to Marion. I will have to take you in charge. Let me think what to do. I have it! There is a farmhouse where Whigs are welcomed near here. You shall stay there until these papers are delivered, and then we shall see if something can't be arranged."

"Oh, thank thee, John," cried she, mightily relieved. "'Tis so nice to have some one to plan. I shall do just as thee says, for I begin to believe that I am not so capable as I thought."

"These winding roads are enough to confuse any one," he told her. "You are not alone in getting lost, Peggy. Some of the soldiers do too, if they are not familiar with localities."

Cheered by this meeting, Peggy's spirits rose, and she chatted gaily, not noticing that Drayton kept looking behind them, and that he frequently rode a little ahead, as though he were on the lookout.

"What is it?" she asked at length becoming aware that something was amiss. "Is there danger, John?"

"Yes, Peggy. South Carolina is full of British, you know. I must watch for an ambush. I would not fail to deliver these despatches for anything. They are important, and as I told you the other day, all of us who were under Arnold will be suspected until tried."

Peggy grew pale. "I did not know there was danger, John. Doth my presence increase your anxiety?"

"'Tis pleasure to have you, Peggy, but I would rather you were in Virginia for your own safety. However, we shall soon turn into a side road which will lead to that farmhouse I spoke about. I could no longer get through the woods, or I should not have left them for the highway. But had I not done so I would not have met you. 'Tis marvelous, Peggy, that you have met with no harm."

"Why should I meet with any?" she queried. "I am but a girl, and can bring hurt to none."

Drayton drew rein suddenly, and listened.

"We must make a run for it, Peggy," he cried. "The British are coming. I gave them the slip a while ago, but I hear them down the road. If we can reach the lane we may escape them."

Peggy called to Star, and the boy and girl struck into a gallop. It was soon evident, however, that Drayton was holding back his horse for Peggy to keep pace with him. As Peggy realized this a whoop from the pursuers told that they had caught sight of them, and the clattering hoofs that they were gaining upon them.

"John," she cried, "go on! Thee can get away then."

"And leave you, Peggy? Never," he answered.

"But thy despatches? Thee just told me they must be delivered. Thee must go on."

"No," he replied with set lips.

"'Tis thy duty," she said imploringly.

"I know, but I'm not going to leave you to the mercy of those fiends," he cried.

"John, thee must not fail. See! they are gaining. Go, go! Does thee remember that thee will be suspected until thee is tried?"

"I know," he said doggedly, "but I won't leave you."

"For thy country's sake," she entreated. "Oh, John, I can't have thee fail because of me. Think of that poor vidette. Is thee going to do less than he? 'Tis thy duty."

"Peggy, don't ask it," he pleaded.

"Thee is less than soldier if thee doesn't do thy duty," she cried, quick to see her advantage. "John Drayton, I will never trust thee again if thee fails in thy duty now."

The two young people gazed at each other through the dust of the road, the girl with earnest entreaty, determined to keep the lad to his duty in spite of himself, and the youth torn by his fear for her and his loyalty.

"Go," she cried again. "I am a soldier's daughter. Would I be worthy the name if thee failed because of me? Go at once, or 'twill be too late."

"I'm going, Peggy," he said with a sob. "I'm going to do my duty even if you are the sacrifice. Take this pistol, and defend yourself. Good-bye." He bent and kissed her hand, and then without one backward glance went flying down the road and disappeared around a bend. For duty to country must come before everything, and father, mother, brother, sister, wife or sweetheart, must be sacrificed upon its altar, if need arises.

There was a smile on Peggy's lips, for Drayton had kept to his duty in spite of as great a temptation as ever assailed a man to do otherwise, and so smiling she turned to meet the pursuers.