Chapter 41

For a moment only the sobs of the girl could be heard, then the dying man gaspingly resumed: "A comrade I once had whom I loved best in this world till I knew you. By a strange chance we loved the same girl; I wish I might die with the knowledge that he is to have the happiness that was denied to me."

"Oh, Sir Frederick, you must not ask it! He--"

"His was so bitter a story that he deserves a love such as yours would be to make it up to him. I can remember him the merriest of us all, loved by every man in the regiment, from batman to colonel."

"And what changed him?" Janice could not help asking.

"T was one evening at the mess of the Fusileers, when Powel, too deep in drink to know what he was saying, blurted out something concerning Mrs. Loring's relations with Sir William. Poor Charlie was the one man in the force who knew not why such favouritism had been shown in his being put so young into Howe's regiment. But that we were eight to one, he'd have killed Powel then and there. Prevented in that, he set off to slay his colonel, never dreaming he was his own father. He burst in on me late that night, crazed with grief, and told me how he had found him at his mother's, and how she had robbed him of his vengeance by a word. The next day he disappeared, and never news had I of him until that encounter at Greenwood. Does he not deserve something to sweeten his life?"

"I feel for him deeply," replied the girl, sadly, "the more that I did him a grave wrong in my thoughts, and by some words I spoke must have cut him to the quick and added pain to pain."

"Then you will make him happy?"

"No, Sir Frederick, that I cannot."

"Don't punish him for what was not his fault."

"'T is not for that," she explained. "Once I loved him, I own. But in a moment of direst need, when I appealed to him, he failed me; and though now I better understand his resentment against my father and myself I could never bring myself to forgive his cruelty, even were my love not dead."

"I will not believe it of him. Hot and impulsive he is by nature, but never cruel or resentful."

"'T is, alas! but too true," grieved Janice.

Once again the baronet choked with blood and struggled for a moment convulsively. Then more faintly he said: "Wilt give him my love and a good-by?"

"I will," sobbed the girl.

Nothing more was said for some time, then Mobray asked faintly: "Is it that I am losing consciousness, or has the firing eased?"

Janice raised her head with a start. "Why, it has stopped," she exclaimed. "What can it mean?"

"That courage and tenacity have done their all, and now must yield. Poor Cornwallis! I make no doubt he'd gladly change places with me at this instant."

Here Mr. Meredith's voice broke in upon them, as standing in the mouth of the cave he called: "Come, Janice. The firing has ceased, to permit an exchange of flags with the rebels. Up with ye, and get the fresh air while ye can."

"I will stay here, father," replied the girl, "and care for--"

"Nonsense, lass! Ye shall not kill yourself. I order ye to come away."

"Go, Miss Meredith," begged Mobray. "You can do naught for me, and--and--I would have--Do as he says." His hand blindly groped until Janice placed hers within it, when he gave it a weak pressure as he said, "'T is many a long march and many a sleepless night that the memory of you has sweetened. Thank you, and good-by."

Reluctantly Janice came out of the bomb-proof, blinking and gasping with the novelty of sunlight and sea breeze, after the darkness and stench of the last weeks; and her father, partly supporting, led her up the bluff. It was a strange transformation that greeted her eyes,--ploughed-up streets and ruins of buildings dismantled by shot or left heaps of ashes by the shell, everywhere telling of the fury of the siege.

Keep your eyes closed, lass," suggested the squire, "for there are sights of horror. In a moment I'll have ye at headquarters, where things have been kept more tidy. There, now ye can look; sit down here and fill your lungs with this good air."

Silently the two seated themselves on the steps of the Nelson house, now pierced in every direction by the shot of the allies, though less damaged than many others. Presently Janice's attention was caught by the sound of shuffling footsteps, as of one with only partial use of his legs, and glancing up she gave a slight cry of fear. And well she might, for there stood the commissary, with his face like one risen from the dead, it was so white and staring.

"Meredith," he whispered, as if his larynx were parched beyond the ability to speak aloud, while with one hand he held his throat in a vain attempt to make his speech less weak and raucous, "they say 'The Parley' has been beat and a flag sent out, and that the post is to be surrendered. Tell me that Cornwallis will never do that. He 's a brave man. Tell me it is n't so."

"Nothing else is there for him to do, Clowes. He 's made a splendid defence, but now scarce a gun is left mounted and powder and shot are both exhausted; to persist longer would be useless murder."

"No, no! Let him hold out a few days longer. Clinton will relieve us yet. He must n't give up. God! Meredith, they'll hang me! He must n't surrender. I can't die just as life is worth something. No, no! I can't die now. I'm rich. Ninety thousand pounds I've made. To be caught like a rat! He must n't surrender the post." And muttering to himself, the miserable man shambled away, to repeat the same hopes and expostulations to the next one he found.

"He had another fit last night," remarked the squire; "and no one has seen him eat or sleep in four days, nor can he be persuaded to either, but goes wandering unceasingly about the town, quite unminding of shot and shell. Ho! what 's here?" he ended, pointing up the street.

Three officers were coming towards them, arm in arm, the two outsiders in red coats, and the middle one in a blue one, with buff facings. Occasionally as they advanced, he in the blue uniform swerved or stumbled slightly, as if he might be wounded or drunk. But one look at his face was sufficient to show the cause, for across his eyes was tied a broad white band.

"Oh, dadda," murmured Janice, suddenly paling, "'t is Colonel Brereton they have captured!"

"Nonsense, Jan! 't is impossible to know any man, so covered."

The girl attempted no reassertion, and as the three officers marched up to the headquarters, the two hastily rose from the steps.

"Ha!" exclaimed one of the British officers. "Here stands Miss Meredith now, Colonel Brereton, as if to end your doubting of my assurances of her being alive."

The blindfolded man, with a quick motion, withdrew the hand passed through the arm of his guide and raised it impulsively to the bandage.

"Hold," warningly said the British officer, as he caught the hand. "Small wonder the handkerchief becomes intolerable, with her to look at, but stay on it must till you are within doors."

Jack's hand clutched the officer's arm. "God! man, you are not deceiving me?"

"Speak up, Miss Meredith, and convince the sceptic that General O'Hara, though Irish, is yet a truth-teller on occasion."

"Oh, Colonel Brereton," said Janice, "I have just left Sir Frederick, who is at the point of death, and he gave me a message of farewell to you. Can you not go to him for a moment? 'T would be everything to him."

Jack hesitated. "My mission is so important--General O'Hara, wilt deliver this letter with a proper explanation to his Lordship, while I see this friend?"

"Certainly. If Miss Meredith will guide you and Lord Chewton to where he lies, I'll see that Lord Cornwallis gets the letter."

In the briefest possible time Brereton stood beside Mobray. Yet when the officer in charge of him untied the handkerchief and stepped back out of hearing, Jack's eyes did not seek his friend, but turned instead to the face of the girl standing beside him. For a moment they lingered in a gaze so steadfast, so devouring, that, try as she would not to look at him, Janice's eyes were drawn to his, despite herself. With a long breath, as if relieved of some dread, Jack finally turned away and knelt beside his friend. "Fred, old comrade," he said, as he took his hand.

"Charlie!" gasped Mobray, weakly, as his eyes opened. "Is 't really you, or am I wandering?"

"'T is I, Fred, come into town with a flag."

"You've beat old Britain, after all, have n't you?"

"No, dear lad," replied Jack, gently. "'T is the old spirit of England that has conquered, as it ever will, when fighting for its rights against those who would rob it of them."

"True. We forgot 't was our own whelps, grown strong, we sought to subjugate. And you had the better man to lead you, Jack."

"Ay, and so we ever shall, so long as Britain makes men generals because they are king's bastards."

"Nay, Charlie, don't let the sore rankle through life. 'T is not from whence you came that counts; 't is what you are. I'd take your shame of birth, if I could rid myself of mine. Fortune, position, and opportunity I've wasted, while you have won rank and glory."

"And now have not one thing to make life worth the while."

"Don't say it, Charlie. There's something for you to live for still. Put your hand into my shirt--yes--to the left-- now you have it."

Brereton drew forth a miniature set with brilliants; and as his eyes lit upon it, he gave an exclamation of surprise.

"'T is the one thing I concealed from my creditors," moaned Sir Frederick, "and now I leave it to you. Watch over and care for her for the sake of your love and of mine, Charlie."

Brereton leaned down and kissed Mobray on the cheek, as he whispered, "I will."

"Is--is Miss Meredith here, Charlie?" asked the dying baronet.

"Yes, Sir Frederick," replied Janice, with a choke.

"I--I--I fear I am a ghastly object," he went on, "but could you bring yourself--Am I too horrible for one kiss of farewell from you? Charlie will not grudge it to me."

The girl knelt beside Brereton, and stooping tenderly kissed the dying man on the same spot that Jack had kissed. Mobray's left hand feebly took hers, and, consciously or unconsciously, brought the one which still held Jack's to it. Holding the two hands within his own so that they touched, he said chokingly:--

"Heaven bless you, and try to forgive him. Good-by both. I have served my term, and at last am released from the bigger jail." A little shudder, a twitch, and he was dead.

For a minute the two remained kneeling, then Brereton said sadly:--

"He was the only friend left me in the world, and I know not why he is taken and I am left." He withdrew his hand from contact with the girl's, and rose. "I cannot stay, for my mission is not to be slighted, but I will speak to O'Hara, and see that he gets a funeral befitting his rank." Brereton squared his shoulders and raised his voice, to say: "Lord Chewton, I am--"

With a quick motion, the girl rose to her feet and said: "I have no right to detain you, Colonel Brereton, but--but I want you to know that neither dadda nor I knew the truth concerning Mrs. Loring when we said what we did on that fatal night. We both thought--thought--Your confession to me that once you loved her, and her looking too young to be your mother, led me into a misconception."

"Then you forgive me?" he cried eagerly.

"For the words you spoke then I do not even blame you, sir. But what was, can never be again."

"Ay," said the officer, bitterly. "You need not say it. You cannot scorn me more than I scorn myself."

Not giving her time to reply, he crossed to where the officer with the bandage stood waiting him, and once again was blindfolded, and led to headquarters.

"This way," directed General O'Hara, leading him into a room where stood Cornwallis.

"Are you familiar, sir, with the contents of General Washington's letter?" asked the earl.

"No, my Lord; I was its bearer only because I begged the Marquis de Lafayette to secure me the service."

"He grants a suspension of hostilities for two hours from the delivery of this, for me to put my proposals in writing. Did he say aught to you, sir, of the terms he would grant?"

"I am no longer on General Washington's staff" answered Brereton, "so I know not his expectations."

"From all I hear of him," said the general, "he is not a man to use a triumph ungenerously. He fought bravely under the British standards, and surely will not now seek to bring unnecessary shame on them." Seating himself at the table, he wrote a few lines, which he folded and sealed. "Will you not, use your influence with him to grant us the customary honours, and spare the officers from the disgrace of giving up their side arms?"

"I no longer possess influence with or the confidence of his Excellency," replied Brereton, gravely; "but he is a generous man, and I predict will not push his advantage merely for your humiliation."

"Will he not forbear making our surrender a spectacle?"

"If the talk of the camp be of value, my Lord, 't is said you are to be granted the exact terms you allowed to General Lincoln at Savannah; and you yourself cannot but acknowledge the justice of such treatment."

"'T was not I who dictated the terms of that surrender."

"Your observation, my Lord, forces the reply that 't is a nation, not an individual, we are fighting."

The proud face of the British general worked for a moment in the intensity of his emotion. "We have no right to complain that we receive measure for measure," he said; "and yet sir, though the lex talionis may be justified, it makes it none the less bitter."

Colonel Brereton took the letter, his eyes were blindfolded again, and he was led back beyond the lines.

With the expiration of the two hours, the firing was not resumed; and all that day and the next flags were passing and repassing between the lines, with the result that on the afternoon of the latter, commissioners met at the Moore house and drew up the terms of capitulation, which were signed that evening.

At twelve o'clock on the 19th, the English colours were struck on the redoubts, and the American were hoisted in their stead. Two hours later the armies of the allies took up position opposite each other on the level ground outside the town, and the British troops, with shouldered arms, cased colours, and bands playing, as stipulated, an English air, "The World Turned Upside Down," came marching out of their lines. As they advanced, Washington turned to an officer behind him and ordered, "Let the word be passed that the troops are not to cheer. They have fought too well for us to triumph over them." In consequence not a sound came from the American ranks as the British regiments marched up and with tears in many a brave man's eyes grounded their arms and colours. But the officers, through Washington's generosity, were allowed to retain their swords, sparing Cornwallis the mortification of having to be present in person; and it was General O'Hara who spoke the formal words of surrender, and who led the disarmed and flagless regiments back into the town, once the formalities had been completed. By nightfall twenty-four standards and over eight thousand prisoners were in the possession of the allied forces.

But one had escaped them, for in a cellar, hidden behind a heap of refuse and boxes, his body already stripped of its clothes by pilfering negroes, his face horribly distorted, and with froth yet on his lips, lay the commissary, dead.

And at the very moment the next day that two companies, one of British Fusileers, and one of New Jersey Continentals, were firing a volley over a new-made grave, in which, wrapped in the flag of his country, and buried with every military honor, had been deposited the body of him who had been Sir Frederick Mobray, a fatigue party were rolling into a trench, and carelessly covering with earth from the battered redoubts, along with the bodies of negroes and horses, and of barrels of spoiled pork and beef, the naked corpse of him who had been John Ombrey, Baron Clowes.

LXIII ON BRUNSWICK GREEN

On a pleasant June afternoon in the year 1782, the loungers about the Continental Tavern in the village of Brunswick were discussing the recent proclamations of the governor and commander-in-chief forbidding illicit trading with New York, both of which called forth general condemnation, well voiced by Bagby, when he remarked:--

"A man with half an eye can see what they are working for, and that their objections to our supplying the Yorkers is only a blind. What they really wants is that we patriots, who don't spend our days idling about in camp all winter at Rocky-Hill and now at Middle-Brook, doing nothing except eat the people's food, and spend the people's money, but who earn a living by hard work, sha' n't have no market but the continental commissaries, and so will have to take whatever they allow to offer us for our crops."

"'T aint the proclamations ez duz the rale injoory," asserted Squire Hennion; "fer printed orders duz n't hurt nobody, but when the gin'ral sends a hull brigade of sogers ter pervent us sellin' our craps then I consarned ef it aint tyranny ez every freeman is baound ter resist, jest ez we did in '65 an' '74."

Bagby, with a sour look at Hennion, said: "That 's one of the biggest grievances, but not the way some pretended friends of the people would have us think. What do your fellows say to officers having been fixed, so that pickets are only put where they'll stop us from sending boats to New York, while there 's one right here is allowed to send cargoes just when he likes?"

"Does yer mean that, Joe?" demanded a farmer.

"That I does," asserted Bagby, looking meaningly at Hennion. "I was told as a chance was given to the army to catch the man deepest in the business--and in worse--red handed. But what 's done? Instead of laying a trap, and catching him, they don't stir a finger, but wait ten months and then sends the very officer who did n't do nothing to put a stop to it. For weeks that high cock-a-lorum Brereton 's been smelling about this town, and lining the river at night with his pickets, when all the time he could have come here any afternoon, and arrested the traitor."

"Thet 'eres lucky fer yer," snarled Hennion viciously. "yer ain't the only one ez kin tell tales, I warns yer."

"I have n't done no bribing, and it was n't me as the information was lodged against," retorted Joe, rancourously.

"You can't mean as General Brereton 's winking at the trade, when scarce a boat 's got out of the river since his brigade camped there," demanded one of the loungers, indicating with his thumb Brunswick Green, whitened by rows of tents.

"I mean as Brereton could lay hands any time he pleased on one traitor, and why he has n't done so is what I want to know. What 's more, I'd like to know, why Washington does n't take any notice of the charges that I've been told was preferred against Brereton nigh six months ago for this very matter. I tell you, fellows, that money 's being used, and that some of those who hold themselves highest, is taking it."

"Don't seem like his Excellency 'ud do anythin' ez sneaky ez that," observed the publican, glancing upwards with pride at his signboard, now restored to its former position. "Folks says he's a 'nation fine man."

I'm just sick of all this getting on the knees to a man," grumbled Joseph, "just because he went and captivated Cornwallis. Washington is n't a bit better than some of us right here and it won't be long before you'll find it out."

"How do you make that, Joe?"

"Is n't he trying to bully Congress into paying the army, just as if he was king, as I suppose he hopes to be some day. You wait till he gets his way, and I guess the tax collectors will make the people sing a different tune about him. If I'm elected to the Assembly this spring, I calculate to make some ears buzz and tingle a bit, once the legislature meets. I'll teach some of these swaggering military chaps--who were n't nothing but bond-servants once yet who some of you fellows is fools enough now to talk of sending to Congress-- that this is a nation of freemen, and that now that the British is licked, we don't have no more use for them, and--"

"Waal, I declare, if thet don't favour Squire Meredith, an' his darter," interjected a farmer, suddenly, pointing with his pipe to where an army waggon was approaching on the Princeton post-road.

"Swan, ef yer ain't right," cried Hennion. "I did hope we wuz quit of them fer good an' all."

"Wonder what the gal 's in black fer?" observed a lounger.

"My nigger cook Sukey," said the landlord, "told me that Gin'ral Brereton told her the ole lady wuz mortal sick o' the small-pox an' that when he went aboard the pest-ship, she wuz so weak it did n't seem like she could be moved, but he an' the doctor got her safe ashore, an' when he last hearn, 'bout the first o' the year, she wuz gainin'."

The publican rose and went forward as the van stopped in front of his door. "Glad tew see yer, squire," he said, "an' yer, too, Miss Janice. Seems most like ole times. Hope nuthin 's wrong with Miss Meredith?"

The squire slowly and heavily got down from the box seat. "We have her body in the waggon," he said wearily and sadly.

"I vum, but that 's too bad!" exclaimed the landlord, and, for want of words of comfort, he hesitatingly held out his hand, but recollecting himself, he was drawing it back, when Mr. Meredith, forgetful of rank, caught and squeezed it.

"She never really rallied," went on the squire, with tears in his eyes, "and though she lived on through the winter, she did n't have the strength to mend. She died three weeks ago, and we have come back here to bury her."

"Naow yer an' Miss Janice come right intew my place, an I'll fix yer both ez comfortable ez I kin," invited the publican, warmly, once again forgetting himself so far as to pat Mr. Meredith on the back. Then as he helped Janice down, he shouted, "Abram, mix a noggin o' sling, from the bestest, an' tell Sukey that she's wanted right off, no matter what she's doin'."

The last direction was needless, for the slave, in some way informed of the arrival, had Janice in her arms ere the landlord well completed his speech, and was carrying more than leading her into the hotel and up the stairs to the room reserved for people of quality only, where she lifted her on to the bed and with her arms still clasped about the girl wept over her, half in misery, and half in an almost savage joy, while repeating again and again, "Oh, my missy, my Missy Janice, my young missy, my pooty young missy, come back to ole Sukey."

"Oh, Sukey," sobbed Janice, "but mommy is dead."

"Doan young missy pine," begged the slave. "De Lord he know best, an' he bring my chile, dat I dun take care ob from de day he dun gib her, back to ole black Sukey."

Meantime, the squire, after a question as to where the coffin could be temporarily placed, and a direction to the driver of the wagon, asked the publican: "We had word in Virginia that Greenwood was sold by the state; is 't so?"

"Yes, squire, it wuz auctioned last August an' wuz bought by ole squire Hennion, an' jes naow his Excellency 's usin' it fer headquarters, till the army moves north'ard."

A sadder look came on Mr. Meredith's face. "That 's worse news yet," he grieved, with a shake of his head; "but perhaps he'll not carry his hatred into this." He walked over to where the all-attentive loungers were sitting, and going up to Hennion, said humbly: "We were once friends, Hennion, and I trust that such ill feeling as ye bear for me will not lead ye to refuse a request I have to make."

"An' what 'ere is thet?" inquired Hennion, suspiciously.

"'T was Matilda's--'t was my wife's dying prayer that we should bring her back here, and lay her beside her four babies, and to let her die happy I gave her my word it should be done. Ye'll not refuse me leave, I'm sure, man, to bury her in the private plot at Greenwood."