CHAPTER I

IN WHICH MR. NOAH WAXPENNY INTRODUCES HIMSELF

It was an evening in the first week in February, 1778. Supper was over in the house of Cornelius De Vries, which stood on Green Street, Philadelphia, and in that part of the town known as the Northern Liberties. Agatha De Vries, the elderly and maiden sister of Cornelius, had washed and put away the dishes and had gone around the corner to gossip with a neighbor.

The light shed from two copper candlesticks and from the fire made the sitting-room look very snug and cozy. In one corner stood a tall clock-case, flanked by a white pine settee and a chest of drawers. A spider legged writing-desk stood near the tile lined fireplace, over which was a row of china dishes--very rare at that time. The floor was white and sanded, and the walls were hung with a few paintings and colored prints.

Cornelius De Vries, a well-to-do and retired merchant, occupied a broad-armed chair at one side of the table that stood in the middle of the room. He was a very stately old gentleman of sixty, with a clean-shaven and wrinkled face. He wore a wig, black stockings, a coat and vest of broadcloth, and low shoes with silver buckles. His features betrayed his Dutch origin, as did also the long-stemmed pipe he was smoking, and the glass of Holland schnapps at his elbow.

At the opposite side of the table sat Nathan Stanbury, a handsome lad, neatly dressed in gray homespun and starched linen, and of a size and strength that belied his seventeen years. His cheeks were ruddy with health, and his curly chestnut hair matched the deep brown of his eyes.

Nathan was a student at the College of Philadelphia, and the open book in his hand was a Latin Horace. But he found it difficult to fix his mind on the lesson, and his thoughts were constantly straying far from the printed pages. Doubtless the wits of Cornelius De Vries were wool-gathering in the same direction, for he had put aside the hated evening paper, "The Royal Gazette," and was dreamily watching the blue curls of smoke as they puffed upward from his pipe. Now he would frown severely, and now his eyes would twinkle and his cheeks distend in a grim sort of smile.

There was much for the loyal people of the town to talk and think about at that time. For nearly six months the British army, under General Howe, had occupied Philadelphia in ease and comfort, while at Valley Forge Washington's ragged soldiers were starving and freezing in the wintry weather, their heroic commander bearing in dignified silence the censure and complaint that were freely vented by his countrymen. Black and desperate, indeed, seemed the cause of the United American Colonies in that winter of 1777-78, and as yet no light of cheer was breaking on the horizon.

After grappling for the twentieth time with his lesson, Nathan suddenly closed the book and tossed it on the table.

"I can't translate Latin to-night, Master De Vries," he exclaimed. "It's no use trying. I wish I was down-town. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air will compose my mind."

The merchant answered only by a negative shake of the head, as he filled and ignited his pipe for the third time.

"Yes, you are right," Nathan said, resignedly. "I suppose I should keep indoors as much as possible to avoid suspicion, and I may be needed again shortly--"

Rat, tat, tat! Low and clear rang a knocking on the panels of the front door.

"There!" exclaimed Nathan, jumping up and running into the hall. The opening of the door revealed a short man standing on the lower step; it was too dark to see his face plainly. Without a word he handed the lad a slip of paper, and then strode swiftly off down the street.

Nathan closed and locked the door, and hurried to the light of the candles. He unfolded the paper and read aloud the following brief message, written in a small and legible hand:

"Come to the Indian Queen at once. Thee will find friends waiting thy trusty services."

The lad's eyes sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Another ride to Valley Forge," he said, eagerly. "How glad my father will be to see me! And it is a night ride this time, Master De Vries. I'll warrant 'tis a matter of great importance."

"Not so loud, lad," cautioned the merchant. "But how comes it the word was trusted to paper? Did you know the messenger?"

"It was Pulling, the deaf and dumb hostler from the tavern," Nathan replied. "Doubtless they have just heard news, and could not spare time to seek the usual messenger. Pulling is trustworthy enough and, of course, since he can't speak--"

"It was imprudent to write," interrupted the merchant, "but I dare say they could do no better. Certainly, the summons is urgent, since it calls thee out at night."

"Yes, I must go at once," said Nathan, "and without so much as a change of clothes. If the service is what I think it to be I will hardly be back by morning." As he spoke, he abstractedly dropped the slip of paper into the side pocket of his jacket, and moved toward the hall.

"May the good God bring you back in safety," Cornelius De Vries said, earnestly. "I love you dearly, lad, even as I love your father, and I would not see you come to harm. I have long mistrusted these perilous doings, and yet for the sake of the cause--"

"To save my oppressed country I would risk life ten times over," declared Nathan. "If there were no work for me to do here I should be fighting with our brave soldiers. But there is really no danger, Master De Vries. You know how often I have been back and forth."

"But not at night, lad."

"So much the better, with the darkness to shelter me," replied Nathan. "I must be off now. Good-bye, and don't worry."

He put on his cap and briefly returned the pressure of the old man's hand. A moment later the door had closed behind him and he was walking rapidly down the silent street. The weather had changed a day or two before, and there was a suggestiveness of spring in the mild, damp air.

* * * * *

Richard Stanbury, the father of Nathan, had come from England to America in 1760, at the age of twenty-six. He brought a wife with him--a pretty and refined woman--and they settled in Philadelphia. The next year Nathan was born, and five years later his mother died. The blow was a severe one to Richard Stanbury, and, the Quaker City being now distasteful to him, he removed with his son to New England. He accompanied the Connecticut colony to the Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania--which grant they had purchased from the Delaware Indians--and took part in the long struggle with the Pennsylvania settlers who were found in unjust possession. When the warfare finally came to a peaceful end he settled down to a life of farming and hunting in that earthly paradise.

Richard Stanbury was a handsome and refined man, and a highly educated one. All with whom he came in contact were quick to realize his superiority, but in spite of that and his reserved nature, he made friends readily. He closely guarded the secret of his past, whatever it was, not even opening the pages to his son. But at times he hinted mysteriously at a great change that was likely to happen in the future, and he took pains to teach Nathan reading, writing, and history, and the rules of gentlemanly conduct. There was deep affection between father and son, and that the lad did not seek to know the mystery of the past was because he respected his parent's silence. He grew up to be brave and strong, generous and fearless, and few companions of his age could shoot with such skill or track game so untiringly through the forest.

Soon after the great struggle for liberty began, and the colonies were in arms to throw off the British yoke, many of the settlers of Wyoming left their families and the old men at home and marched away to join Washington. Richard Stanbury went with them; he was Captain Stanbury now, and commanded a company. Nathan, young as he was, burned to enlist and fight. But his father would not hear of this. He had long ago formed other plans for the lad, and now the time for them was ripe. To Philadelphia went Nathan, to attend the admirable college that the Quaker town boasted, and to find a happy home with Cornelius De Vries. The expense was to come out of the worthy merchant's pocket. He had claimed this right because of the long friendship between himself and Richard Stanbury, which dated from the latter's arrival in America.

So Nathan studied hard, a favorite with masters and pupils, while the first two years of the Revolution scored their triumphs and adverses. But he was not content to let others do the fighting, and when the British occupied Philadelphia, in the fall of 1777, the lad found at last a chance to help the cause of freedom. Several loyal citizens of the town had secret means of getting information about the plans of the British officers. These men were friends of Cornelius De Vries, and they came to know that his young lodger was a plucky and intelligent lad, and one to be relied upon. So Nathan was frequently chosen to carry messages to the camp at Valley Forge, where he sometimes saw his father, and where he made the acquaintance of General Washington and other officers. It was a very simple plan, and one that was not likely to be suspected. The citizens were permitted to take their grain through the British lines to the grist-mill at Frankford, and the lad would ride out after dinner on this errand. While the grain was being ground it was an easy matter for him to gallop to and from the American camp, then returning to the city by night with his sacks of meal.

As Nathan hurried away from the Dutch merchant's house on this February evening, he knew that he was wanted for some service of more than ordinary importance. "This is the first time I have been sent for at night," he reflected, "and I guess it means a dash through the lines. The sentries don't allow any trips to mill after dark."

He looked up to find himself passing the British barracks, which fronted on Green Street from Second to Third, and had been built soon after Braddock's defeat. Howe's army now occupied them, and the red-coated sentry at the gate glanced sourly at the lad in the gloom. Nathan went on, carelessly whistling a snatch of a tune, and presently turned down Fourth Street. A few yards from the corner, where a narrow bar of light streamed across the pavement from an open window, he collided with some one coming from the opposite way; both came to a halt.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" brusquely demanded the stranger, who looked to be about Nathan's age, and wore a new and well-fitting British uniform.

"I might ask you the same," Nathan responded pleasantly, "but I won't. You see it's so dark hereabouts, and--why, Godfrey! I didn't know you."

"Nathan Stanbury!" cried the other, in keenest surprise and pleasure. "How glad I am to see you!" He held out his hand expecting it to be taken.

"No; I can't," Nathan said gravely. "I--I'm sorry to see you in those clothes."

"And I'm proud of them. So you're as much of a patriot as ever? I thought you would turn."

"I'll never turn," declared Nathan. "I'm more of a patriot than I was, and some day I'll be a soldier--"

"Hush! don't air your opinions so loudly around here," cautioned Godfrey, in a good-natured tone. "I'm not going to quarrel with you, Nathan. Two such old friends as we are can surely meet without talking about the war. I can't forget that you saved my life once, and I will always be grateful."

"That sounds well from a Tory," interrupted Nathan. "Why don't you begin by being grateful to your country?"

The other flushed, and for a few embarrassing seconds nothing was said. Standing together in the stream of yellow lamp-light, the two lads looked strangely alike, a resemblance that others had frequently observed. They were of the same build and height, and had the same general features. Godfrey Spencer was older by a year, with black eyes and hair. Nathan's eyes and hair were deep brown.

"You are still attending college?" Godfrey finally said.

Nathan nodded. "When did you come back to town?" he asked.

"Two days ago," Godfrey replied, "with dispatches for General Clinton. You know I went with my mother to Long Island, and there I enlisted in a--a Tory regiment. I was promoted to lieutenant a month ago, and now Major Langdon, who is stationed here, has promised me a place on his staff." The last words were spoken with evident pride.

"I'm sorry for you," said Nathan. "I can't wish you success, Godfrey, but I truly hope, for the sake of old times, that you won't get shot. I must go now. Good-bye."

Disregarding the other's appeal to return, Nathan walked rapidly down the street, ignorant of the fact--as was Godfrey--that a British officer had been watching both lads closely from the open and lighted window of the house in front of which they were standing.

"Who was that lad, Spencer?" he demanded.

"An old college friend, Major Langdon," replied Godfrey, a little startled by the question. "His people are rebels. I was trying to convert him."

"I mean his name, stupid, quick!"

"Nathan Stanbury," said Godfrey.

The major's face turned white, and something like an oath escaped his lips. His hands shook as they rested on the window-sill.

"I might have known," he muttered to himself. Then aloud: "Yonder is a bit of paper the lad dropped when he pulled out his handkerchief. Fetch it, Spencer."

Godfrey reluctantly picked up the paper, and Major Langdon opened the door to admit him.

* * * * *

A few months before Richard Stanbury's arrival in the Colonies there came from England to Philadelphia a merchant of London, Matthew Marsham by name. He was accompanied by his daughter, Betty Spencer, and her infant son Godfrey. Mrs. Spencer wore mourning for her husband, who had died recently. The merchant engaged in business, and prospered sufficiently to keep his little family in comfort and give his grandson a thorough education.

To college went Godfrey in due course, and here he and Nathan were classmates for nearly a year after the beginning of the Revolution, during which period they formed a warm boyish friendship.

On one occasion, while swimming in the Delaware, Nathan risked his own life to save Godfrey from drowning. But the growing animosities of the war finally began to draw the lads apart, for Godfrey's mother and grandfather were Tories. In the spring of 1777 Matthew Marsham died, and Mrs. Spencer removed with her son to Long Island, where she had friends living.

It was of this past friendship--so strongly recalled to-night--more than of his errand, that Nathan was thinking sadly as he kept on his way down-town. Frequently he crossed the street to avoid a group of drunken and riotous soldiers, or put on a careless gait and attitude as some mounted officer spurred barrackwards past him. He met but few others, for reputable citizens kept indoors after dark.

The Indian Queen tavern, one of the oldest and best known hostelries of the town, stood on South Fourth Street near Chestnut. The tap-room was empty when Nathan entered, and the secretly loyal landlord, Israel Jenkins, was taking his ease on a bench.

"Well, here I am," said Nathan. "Company in the back room again, eh?"

"Not this time, lad," replied Jenkins, with a wink of the eye. "The back room is too open for to-night's work. You'll find them--"

Sudden footsteps outside caused the landlord to bite off the sentence abruptly. "Get yourself yonder," he added, "and wait till I come. Quick! you mustn't be seen."

He pushed Nathan into a dark hall on one side of the room, leaving the door open several inches, and from his place of concealment the lad saw the new arrival enter the tavern.

He was a man who would have attracted attention in any surroundings, and was as likely to excite mirth as respect. His age was about fifty, and his tall, gaunt figure was dressed in rusty broadcloth, black stockings without knee or shoe buckles, and a gray cocked hat. He wore a flaxen wig, and a steel watch chain with seals dangled from his waistcoat. His face was smooth and of a parchment color, his nose abnormally large, and his eyes small and piggish. He had long white fingers, and he snapped them nervously as he nodded with an air of condescension to the landlord.

"Good evening, sir," he said, in an oily voice. "I would have a pot of your best brew, and an ounce of mild tobacco."

"I don't sell the last named," curtly replied Jenkins, who was by no means favorably impressed with his customer.

"But you will let me have a little, eh, my good friend? Here is some," tapping his breast pocket, "but the sea air has quite destroyed its flavor."

"You have lately crossed then?" asked Jenkins, who was always on the alert for news, and scented a present opportunity.

"But this day I arrived from England on the packet-boat 'Bristol'," replied the stranger, "and right glad was I to put foot on solid ground. Thank you, my friend," he added, as Jenkins placed before him a tankard of ale and a twist of tobacco. "And now may I make bold to ask a little information of you?"

"Depends on what it is," growled Jenkins, his suspicions suddenly awakened.

"It is nothing harmful, sir; quite the contrary. Does not my face inspire confidence? Then you shall have my name. It is Noah Waxpenny, and I have the honor to be confidential clerk to the firm of Sharswood & Feeman, solicitors, Lincoln Inn, London."

"It's no odds if you were the king himself," imprudently replied Jenkins.

"Ha, very clever! A neat joke," laughed Mr. Waxpenny. "God save King George, and all his loyal subjects!"

"Amen to that!" muttered the landlord, aloud. "And God forgive the lie," he added to himself.

Mr. Noah Waxpenny chuckled, and half emptied the pewter at a draught. Then he leaned toward Jenkins in a confidential manner, and his next words were of so startling a nature that Nathan very nearly toppled against the door that separated him from the tap-room.