Chapter IX: A Midnight Burying

To play the rôle of eavesdropper, or “Peeping Tom,” was not exactly as Hadley Morris would have wished. He hated a sneak; but his curiosity regarding his uncle’s manœuvres was for the time too strong for his ideas of what was really honorable, and instead of retreating up the stairs to the loft again, he remained where he was and watched the old gentleman with wide-open eyes.

Like most substantially built houses of that day, the Morris homestead had a great stone and brick fireplace built into the end wall. To the right of the fireplace was one of those ovens in which the pioneer housewives did all their baking. The oven was like a safe built into the side of the chimney, and had a smooth clay floor. Uncle Ephraim had always kept the oven door fastened with an old-fashioned brass padlock.

The padlock now lay on the floor, and as Hadley continued to peer into the wide kitchen from around the corner of the door-frame, he saw Master Morris draw back from the mouth of the oven, holding a bag in each hand. The bags were not large, but by the way his uncle carried them the boy knew they were heavy, and when the old man stepped down from the chair and laid them on the table, the listener heard a faint chink as though of metal. “It’s gold!” whispered the boy to himself, and his eyes opened even more widely at the thought.

Then for the first time Hadley saw that Master Morris wore his waistcoat and coat, as though he were ready to go out of doors. He put on his hat at once, stuck the half-burned candle in a lantern, and with the latter swung over his arm and one of the heavy bags in each hand, he left the house.

Hadley hesitated only a moment; then, curiosity still spurring him, he ran lightly down the remaining steps into the kitchen and followed his uncle out of doors without stopping for his own hat. The night was mild and not at all dark, but the boy might have found some difficulty in following the old man had it not been for the flickering lantern which swung from his arm. This dancing will-o’-the-wisp led the boy down behind the barns and cribs and directly into the orchard where the branches of the gnarled old apple trees met and, with their fruit and foliage, shut out most of the star-light.

Hadley crept near, cautiously, when he saw that Uncle Ephraim had halted and set the light upon the ground. Soon he discovered that the old man had been here before since he went to bed, for there was a shovel and a heap of earth in plain view. He watched his uncle and saw him drop the two bags into what appeared to be a rather deep hole, then place a flat stone on top of them, and afterward fill in the hole with the soil and stamp it all down with care. There was considerable soil left then, and the old man carried this away, shovelful by shovelful, and threw it into a ditch at the far edge of the orchard. Afterward he replaced the sod which he had earlier removed, patting it all down evenly with the flat of his shovel. The burying was completed, and marking the spot well for future reference, Hadley ran back to the house and climbed to the loft, and was nicely in bed again before the old man returned to the kitchen.

But the strangeness of the whole matter kept the boy awake long after he was sure his uncle had sought his own couch. He was unable to compose his mind to sleep, and was glad when at length the cocks crew to announce the gray light in the east. He rose and went back to the Three Oaks without again seeing Uncle Ephraim, and tried to forget the incident of the night in his work about the inn. But when he saw Colonel Creston Knowles ride off with William toward the Morris farm soon after breakfast, Hadley wished he had remained longer with his uncle, and so been present at the interview which was about to take place between the old man and the British officer.

Lillian avoided him that day, seemingly, and Hadley went about his duties with much trouble at his heart. It was after noon when Colonel Knowles and his henchman returned, and a glance at the officer’s face told Hadley that the gentleman was in a towering rage. Evidently his visit had afforded him little satisfaction.

Soon, however, something occurred which succeeded in driving this mystery into the background of the boy’s mind. News from Philadelphia had been scarce since his return from the Pennsylvania side of the river; but after supper that evening a man rode up to the inn on a fagged-out horse, and told them that the army under Washington was on the move, and was marching toward Philadelphia, as it was believed Lord Howe’s fleet would land troops to attack the city, where Congress was then in session. The man obtained a fresh mount and rode on into the east, having secret business in that direction.

That night, while Jonas Benson and Hadley sat together in the chimney place of the inn kitchen, talking over the possibilities of the battle which must occur before long, the heralding squeak of Lafe Holdness’ wagon axles reached their ears, the outer door being ajar.

“Run and open the gate for him, Had!” exclaimed Benson. “Mistress, put down something to eat for a hungry man, and I warrant you Lafe will do justice to it.”

His wife grumblingly expressed herself that a cold supper was good enough for a man like Lafe Holdness; but she, nevertheless, obeyed her husband’s request.

“Stan’ round ther, you!” From the yard the teamster’s voice could be heard addressing the horses. “Ef ye want suthin’ ter eat, why don’t ye stan’ still so’t I kin unbuckle this strap? Hello, Had Morris! is that air yeou? I didn’t ’spect to see yeou ag’in this side o’ the river till the war was over,” and the Yankee chuckled mightily and dug the boy good-naturedly in the ribs.

“We heard to-night the army was on the move, Lafe,” Jonas said, coming to the porch, and speaking low.

Lafe dropped for the moment his bantering tone and spoke seriously. “There’s going to be something done purty soon, friends--somethin’ big! There’s sure to be a battle. Howe’s fleet is comin’ up Chesapeake Bay and General Washington will meet the troops he lands somewhere south of Philadelphia; but we ain’t got much more’n ten thousand men all told.”

“How many sailed from York?” queried the innkeeper.

“Nobody knows!” returned Lafe, ruefully. “Them dispatches Had took over ter Germantown didn’t give the exact figgers. But I’m out this way sendin’ in all the scatterin’ men that hev’ got guns. There won’t much happen hereabout until the two armies meet. And, speakin’ about Had,” added Lafe, suddenly, “I’m wantin’ ter use him, Jonas.”

“Well,” remarked the innkeeper, with twinkling eyes, “he’s a pretty valuable boy to me. I have to pay his uncle for him, too.”

“You’d oughter be called Judas Benson!” declared the Yankee. “You’re a great feller ter haggle over the price of a ’prentice boy. I’m goin’ ter send him to the army--it’s at Philadelphia now.”

“And that means I’ll likely lose a good horse as well as the boy,” grumbled Jonas.

“Don’t you think I’ve got anything to say about it myself?” demanded Hadley of the Yankee.

“Not much. I’ve got orders for you,” he declared, nodding his head. “See here.” He drew a battered wallet from his pocket, and in the light of the innkeeper’s lantern selected a slip of paper from one of the compartments. This he displayed before the wondering eyes of both Jonas and Hadley. On the paper was written, in a rather cramped and formal hand:

“Send back the boy from the Three Oaks Inn with any message. “Cadwalader.”

“Why!” exclaimed the round-eyed innkeeper, “that’s the man who saved you from the soldiers, Had--Colonel Cadwalader.”

“I reckon ye’ must ha’ got purty thick with Master Cadwalader, Had,” said Lafe, tearing the paper into small pieces. “Let me tell yeou he is in the General’s confidence as much as old Knox, or Colonel Pickering. I got suthin’ important for yeou to take to headquarters, an’ if yeou’ve had your supper yeou’d better saddle a hoss an’ git away with it purty soon. The quicker ye start the sooner ye’ll ketch the army, for it’s on the move.”

While he was speaking, Jonas Benson was already leading Black Molly out of her stall, showing at once that his objections to the boy’s departure had been but momentary. “He’s had his supper, and he can git out right now!” he declared.

But Hadley waited long enough to go into the loft and put on the best suit of homespun which he possessed, and encased his legs in long riding boots with a pair of tiny spurs screwed into the heels. There were no papers to take this time, for Lafe Holdness whispered the message he had to send into the boy’s attentive ear. “An’ now good luck to ye!” exclaimed the scout as the youth mounted into the saddle and Jonas opened the stable door. “Nobody can take nothin’ from ye this time, but mebbe it’s just as well if yeou dodge all armed men of airy complection till ye pass Germantown.”

Black Molly trotted quietly down the inn yard toward the gate. Just as she was going through this and her rider was about to give her the rein, he was startled by a soft “S-s-st!” beside him. He turned his head quickly and drew Molly down to a walk. A shadowy figure stood at the end of the porch. In an instant Hadley recognized Lillian Knowles, with a light shawl flung over her head and shoulders, and her hand outstretched to him.

“Hadley Morris!” she whispered, “if you are carrying anything--anything you don’t want other folks to see--look out! There are others beside me who know you are riding toward the ferry to-night.” And then, before he could reply or express his astonishment at her warning, she disappeared within the shadow of the porch. He heard the door close softly behind her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he started Molly on again and turned her head toward the distant ferry, wondering if he ought to take the girl’s words seriously and turn back for reinforcements.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

THE “DANDY FIFTH’S” LAST TRIUMPH

A MEMORIAL DAY STORY

By LAURA ALTON PAYNE

“We called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
When we passed them on parade.”

A sharp, imperative rat-a-tat-tat on the class-room door almost at her back startled the speaker, Sidney Dallas. She turned for an instant, but that instant was enough to scatter her wits like chaff before the wind. She paused--stammered--paused again, then repeated vaguely:

“We called--we called them the kid-gloved Dandy Fifth
When we passed them on parade.
We called--we called--”

But the words would not be coaxed back. Her mind was a perfect blank. She was so confused that she did not see that the visitor who was being ushered in by Bess Martin, and whose sharp knock had so disconcerted her, was her own mother.

A hot flush of shame scorched her face, the crowd of attentive faces before her began to waver, her knees grew weak, her feet cowardly, but she made one more brave effort:

“We called--we called”--she repeated weakly and hurriedly, then stopped short.

“But it would not come,” murmured mischievous Ted Scott, lugubriously. Ted had been crowded to the front seat, which he shared with two other boys. The boys snickered, and Sidney’s misery was complete. Never before had she failed in a speech, or realized the humiliation.

All a-tremble she stepped off the platform, and with scarlet face and tearful eyes passed down the aisle between the double row of visitors, whose looks of sympathy her distorted imagination turned into looks of derision at her distress. But the tears should not fall, and she would not lower her head. As she reached her seat she caught a look of amusement on the face of Myrtle Emmons, who sat at the desk immediately behind her own. It was that that gave her the bit over her runaway self-possession. Myrtle was somewhat noted for making fun of people. She would show Myrtle how little she cared.

Disregarding Myrtle’s nudge, she concentrated her attention upon the beautifully decorated school-room. It had been transformed into a veritable bower, not with boughs of pine and cedar as in the Eastern States, but with fragrant branches of catalpa with their great clusters of snowy blossoms and with immense sprays of feathery asparagus. The platform, as well as the teacher’s desk at the back of it, was banked with potted ferns and palms and flowering plants. The beribboned waste-basket formed a huge bouquet of feathery greenery, amidst which tall, graceful sunflowers bowed their golden heads. That artistic touch was her own, and she gazed at it with pride. Sunflowers and asparagus adorned the pictures and caught up the folds of the large flag draped gracefully over the front blackboard, and of the bright bunting festooned around the walls.

Flags and sunflowers, sunflowers and flags--a combination so popular that she should always associate the golden emblem-flower of her State with the glorious emblem of her country. They had devoted more time than usual to their decorations, for, the following Monday being Memorial Day, they had turned their “last day” exercises into a memorial service. Owing to the naval victory of scarce a month previous, patriotism was at a white heat, and patriotic selections of spirit shared the honors with tributes to the dead--both the Blue and the Gray, sectionalism being forgotten in the new union of the North and the South.

But it did not require recent victory to stir Sidney’s enthusiasm; she was at all times intensely patriotic. As a small child, a mere babe, she had listened enthralled to her father’s tales of the Civil War, through many of whose terrible battles he had passed. She invariably chose patriotic selections to speak. Such a deed as described in the “Dandy Fifth” made her forget herself. And now, of all times, to fail to-day! The school were singing softly:

“Cover them over--yes, cover them over--
Parent and husband, and brother, and lover:
Crown in your hearts those dead heroes of ours.
And cover them over with beautiful flowers.”

How she would love to lay a tribute of flowers upon the graves of the Dandy Fifth’s many dead heroes! And, oh, shame! she had failed to give them even the tribute of honor due them--failed miserably!

“Lying so silent by night and by day,
Sleeping the years of their manhood away.”

That meant the most of the Dandy Fifth. She could see the gaunt, silent forms, fallen at their posts in that awful hour that “tried men’s souls.” But theirs stood the test--stood it grandly.

“Swiftly they rushed to the help of the right,
Firmly they stood in the shock of the fight.”

Stood firm--firm? Did they not? Why, they made a glorious stand--none braver in all the war, none more deserving of honor!--and she had left them with their courage unproven, with the scorn of their comrades upon them, before they had been given a chance to make their derisive epithet a name to be proud of for all time. Oh, she could not bear it! she could not bear it! She must save the honor of the Dandy Fifth.

The thought was electric. It shocked into full life the resolve already half formed in her mind. Hastening up to Miss Mason she whispered a request, which was smilingly granted. With a bright face Sidney hurried from the room just as the next number was called. She meant to go home, find the poem, then come back and redeem herself. She had but three blocks to go, and that distance was covered with flying feet. To her dismay she found the door locked. Of course, her mother meant to attend the exercises. No doubt she was in the room all the time, and had witnessed her failure. But--she must get in. She looked for the key in its customary hiding-place when all the family were expected to be absent at once; it was not there. Recent petty thieving in the neighborhood had probably induced Mrs. Dallas to take the key with her.

Sidney was dismayed. She rushed from door to door, and from window to window. All were securely fastened. She sat down on the porch to think a moment. Perhaps she could get in through an upper window; she had left her own window, which, fortunately, was over the kitchen, lowered slightly and the screen unlatched. She could reach the spring through the opening, lower it still more, then crawl through. Desperation lent her strength to drag the long, heavy ladder from the barn and to raise it to the low kitchen roof. A moment later she pattered over the flat tin roof to the window--only to find further evidence of her mother’s caution. It was closed and latched.

Then, in spite of her courageous soul and her fifteen years, Sidney gave up to a tearful despair for a few minutes. Down upon the tin roof she sat, huddled close up in the corner, and, bowing her head upon her knees, wept silent tears of mortification. The thought that she would have to leave the Dandy Fifth unhonored brought forth the bitterest drops of all.

But--they did not give up. Neither would she. Something must be done. She would go back to the school-house and get the key, come back and get the book, then return and save the day for the Dandy Fifth if possible.

It was a very tired, hot-faced girl that labored up the second flight of stairs at the school-house. As she paused for breath a moment in the upper hall she heard Rob Ellison stentoriously depicting “Sheridan’s Ride.” In the room across the hall the “Fifth Graders” were singing “Sherman’s March to the Sea,” and farther on the “Sixths” were sending out a vigorous chorus of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Passing into the library, a small room just across the hall, she sat down to cool off, and at the same time to work up sufficient courage to face the crowded room in search of her mother. She didn’t want to disconcert another speaker by knocking on the door in order to call her mother out. She glanced around the room. Right there in that corner was where she stood when she rehearsed the “Dandy Fifth” to the elocution teacher.

Mechanically Sidney placed herself in the accustomed position, and half unconsciously began to recite the poem in a low tone. To her amazement and delight she went through it without a break. Whether it was the effect of association, or whether her recreant memory had suddenly chosen to return, she neither questioned nor cared, she was so overjoyed. She tried it again, then a third time, all unconscious of an interested listener beyond the closed door--Prof. Marlow, who stood there smiling to himself as the speaker’s voice rose higher and higher with returning confidence.

As Sidney finished with a triumphant flourish, he clapped his hands softly, then opened the door to remark smilingly. “Well done, Miss Sidney. Now, rally to the charge again, and march on to victory.”

Sidney blushed: she knew he had witnessed her failure. She felt that explanations were in order.

Prof. Marlow held up a warning finger. “At the eleventh hour, Miss Sidney,” he said, with a smile.

“It’s the twelfth hour that tells,” she retorted merrily, and passed into the school-room. Prof. Marlow followed her. He was curious to see how such a plucky effort would turn out.

Sidney was met with many swift glances as she entered, but her radiant face showed no trace of her recent failure. A few moments later she again faced the many expectant eyes, now no longer dreaded. No sudden rat-a-tat-tat could scatter her wits again--no, not even a cannon’s roar, for the Dandy Fifth’s honor was at stake. The audience greeted her enthusiastically. It is human nature to admire courage even in small things. Self was forgotten; every thought and feeling was centred on the subject in hand--that famous regiment of young aristocrats, men who knew not toil, who had never suffered want or endured hardship, whose fastidiousness fastened upon them the scornful epithet, “The Dandy Fifth.”

Her listeners saw it all: the old fort “somewhere down on the Rapidan” that the Dandy Fifth was ordered to hold; the fierce onslaught of the enemy along the whole line; the raging of battle day after day; how gloriously the old fort, the “key of the whole line,” on which hung the fate of the whole army, was held by the Dandy Fifth against all odds--a brave, determined foe without and starvation within. The water gave out; they fought on. Another day, and their rations were gone; they fought on. One by one, they sank to “rest where they wearied and lie where they fell.” A third day of fierce siege--a fourth, then reinforcements fought their way through, inch by inch, to the beleaguered men. And what a sight met their gaze!--a few gaunt-eyed men behind the guns, and many, many more lying as they fell, in the stupor of famine or ghastly and rigid in death. But the old flag floated still!--and the “kid-gloved Dandy Fifth” had proved that white hands are not incompatible with brave hearts. How their old comrades cheered!--and cheered! And how proud they were to clasp those brave, emaciated white hands!

Sidney’s little head might well have been turned by praise had it been that kind of a head, she received so many words of commendation. Ted Scott led the applause, and it was his hands that gave the final appreciative clap. Even Myrtle Emmons congratulated her. “It was grand, Sid,” she said, earnestly. “But how could you ever do it after breaking down once? I never could, and I always break down. I was awfully sorry for you, for, you see, I know how it goes. But, say, Sid! I thought I couldn’t help laughing as you came down the aisle; old Mrs. Perkins stalked along right behind you, her battered bonnet over one ear as usual, and that ancient, solitary, stiff, bedraggled, black feather sticking straight up. I always have to laugh when I see it, though, of course, I oughtn’t.”

“So do I,” returned Sidney, with sudden cordiality. So she had misjudged Myrtle, after all.

“But how could you do it?” persisted Myrtle.

Then out came the whole story, even to the tears, and they had a merry time over it.

“And to think that I was the cause of it,” laughed Mrs. Dallas. “But I am glad my little girl was brave enough to turn defeat into victory.”

“I don’t think it was really I, mamma,” said Sidney, slowly and thoughtfully. “It was the Dandy Fifth.”

TO MAY

Though many suns have risen and set
Since thou, blithe May, wert born,
And bards, who hail’d thee, may forget
Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn;
There are who to a birthday strain
Confine not harp and voice,
But evermore throughout thy reign
Are grateful and rejoice!

Delicious odors! music sweet,
Too sweet to pass away!
O, for a deathless song to meet
The soul’s desire,--a lay
That, when a thousand years are told,
Should praise thee, genial Power!
Through summer heat, autumnal cold,
And Winter’s dreariest hour.

Season of fancy and of hope,
Permit not for one hour
A blossom from thy crown to drop,
Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part.

--_Wordsworth._

LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS

BY ELIZABETH LINCOLN GOULD