CHAPTER XI.
_Winwood Comes to See His Wife._
'T were scarce possible to exaggerate the eagerness with which Margaret looked forward to the execution of the great project. Her anticipations, in the intensity and entirety with which they possessed her, equalled those with which she had formerly awaited the trip to England. She was now as oblivious of the festivities arising from the army's presence, as she had been of the town's tame pleasures on the former occasion. She showed, to us who had the key to her mind, a deeper abstraction, a more anxious impatience, a keener foretaste (in imagination) of the triumphs our success would bring her. Her favourable expectations, of course, seesawed with fears of failure; and sometimes there was preserved a balance that afflicted her with a most irritating uncertainty, revealed by petulant looks and tones. But by force of will, 'twas mainly in the hope of success that she passed the few days between our meeting in the glade and the appointed Wednesday evening.
"Tut, sister," warned Tom, with kind intention, "don't raise yourself so high with hope, or you may fall as far with disappointment."
"Never fear, Tom; we can't fail."
"It looks all clear and easy, I allow," said he; "but there's many a slip, remember!"
"Not two such great slips to the same person," she replied. "I had my share of disappointment, when I couldn't go to London. This war, and my stars, owe me a good turn, dear."
But when, at dusk on Wednesday evening, Tom and I took leave of her in the hall, she was trembling like a person with a chill. Her eyes glowed upon us beseechingly, as if she implored our Herculean endeavours in the attempt now to be made.
We had to speak softly to one another, lest Mr. Faringfield might hear and infer some particular enterprise--for we were not to hazard the slightest adverse chance. Captain Falconer had been away from his quarters all day, about the business of the night, and would not return till after its accomplishment. Thus we two were the last to be seen of her, of those bound to the adventure; and so to us were visible the feelings with which she regarded the setting forth of our whole company upon the project she had designed, for which she had laboriously laid preparations even in the enemy's camp, and from which she looked for a splendid future. Were it realised, she might defy Mr. Faringfield and Philip: they would be nobodies, in comparison with her: heroines belong to the whole world, and may have their choice of the world's rewards: they may go where they please, love whom they please, and no father nor husband may say them nay. Though I could not but be sad, for Philip's sake, at thought of what effect our success might have upon her, yet for the moment I seemed to view matters from her side, with her nature, and for that moment I felt that to disappoint her hopes would be a pity.
As for myself (and Tom was like me) my cause and duty, not Margaret's private ambitions, bade me strive my utmost in the business; and my youthful love of danger sent me forth with a most exquisite thrill, as into the riskiest, most exhilarating game a man can play. So I too trembled a little, but with an uplifting, strong-nerved excitement far different from the anxious tremor of suspense that tortured Margaret.
"For pity's sake, don't fail, boys!" she said, as if all rested upon us two. "Think of me waiting at home for the news! Heaven, how slow the hours will pass! I sha'n't have a moment's rest of mind or body till I know!"
"You shall know as soon as we can get back to New York," said I.
"Ay--if we are able to come back," added Tom, with a queer smile.
She turned whiter, and new thoughts seemed to sweep into her mind. But she drove them back.
"Hush, Tom, we mustn't think of that!" she whispered. "No, no, it can't come to that! But I shall be a thousand times the more anxious! Good night!--that's all I shall say--good night and a speedy and safe return!"
She caught her brother's head between her hands, bestowed a fervent kiss upon his forehead, swiftly pressed my fingers, and opened the door for us.
We passed out into the dark, frosty evening. There was snow on the ground but none in the air. We mounted our waiting horses, waved back a farewell to the white-faced, white-handed figure in the doorway; and started toward the ferry. Margaret was left alone with her fast-beating heart, to her ordeal of mingled elation and doubt, her dread of crushing disappointment, her visions of glorious triumph.
At the ferry we reported to Captain Falconer, who was expeditiously sending each rider and horse aboard one of the waiting flat-boats as soon as each arrived. Thus was avoided the assemblage, for any length of time, of a special body of horsemen in the streets--for not even the army, let alone the townspeople, should know more of our setting forth than could not be hid. The departure of those who were to embark from the town was managed with exceeding quietness and rapidity. Captain Falconer and the man who was to guide us to Edward Faringfield's trysting-place were the last to board.
Upon rounding the lower end of the town, and crossing the Hudson to Paulus Hook, which post our troops had reoccupied after the rebel capture of its former garrison, we went ashore and were joined by men and horses from up the river, and by others from Staten Island. We then exchanged our hats for the caps taken from the rebel cavalry, donned the blue surtouts, and set out; Captain Falconer and the guide riding at the head.
For a short distance we kept to the Newark road, but, without proceeding to that town, we deviated to the right, and made Northwestwardly, the purpose being to pass through a hiatus in the semicircle of rebel detached posts, turn the extremity of the main army, and approach Morristown--where Washington had his headquarters--from a side whence a British force from New York might be the less expected.
Each man of us carried a sword and two pistols, having otherwise no burden but his clothes. At first we walked our horses, but presently we put them to a steady, easy gallop. The snow on the ground greatly muffled the sound of our horses' footfalls, and made our way less invisible than so dark a night might have allowed. But it made ourselves also the more likely to be seen; though scarce at a great distance nor in more than brief glimpses, for the wind raised clouds of fine snow from the whitened fields, the black growth of tree and brush along the road served now as curtain for us, now as background into which our outlines might sink, and a stretch of woods sometimes swallowed us entirely from sight. Besides, on such a night there would be few folk outdoors, and if any of these came near, or if we were seen from farmhouses or village windows, our appearance of rebel horse would protect our purpose. So, in silence all, following our captain and his guide, we rode forward to seize the rebel chief, and make several people's fortunes.
I must now turn to Philip Winwood, and relate matters of which I was not a witness, but with which I was subsequently made acquainted in all minuteness.
We had had no direct communication with Philip since the time after our capture of Mr. Cornelius, who, as every exchange of prisoners had passed him by, still remarked upon parole at Mr. Faringfield's. If Mr. Faringfield received news of Winwood through his surreptitious messenger, Bill Meadows, he kept it to himself, naturally making a secret of his being in correspondence with General Washington.
Though Philip knew of Meadows's perilous employment, he would not risk the fellow's discovery even to Margaret, and so refrained from laying upon him the task of a message to her. How she found out what Meadows was engaged in, I cannot guess, unless it was that, unheeded in the house as she was unheeding, she chanced to overhear some talk between her father and him, or to detect him in the bringing of some letter which she afterward took the trouble secretly to peep into. Nor did I ever press to know by what means she had induced him to serve as messenger between her and Ned, and to keep this service hidden from her father and husband and all the world. Maybe she pretended a desire to hear of her husband without his knowing she had so far softened toward him, and a fear of her father's wrath if he learned she made Ned her correspondent in the matter. Perhaps she added to her gentler means of persuasion a veiled threat of exposing Meadows to the British if he refused. In any event, she knew that, once enlisted, he could be relied on for the strictest obedience to her wishes. It needed not, in his case, the additional motive for secrecy, that a knowledge of his employment on Margaret's business would compromise him with General Washington and Mr. Faringfield.
How Meadows contrived to meet Ned, to open the matter to him, to convey the ensuing correspondence, to avoid discovery upon this matter in the rebel camp, as he avoided it upon Washington's business in New York, is beyond me: if it were not, I should be as skilful, as fit for such work, as Meadows himself. 'Tis well-known now what marvellously able secret agents Washington made use of; how to each side many of them had to play the part of spies upon the other side; how they were regarded with equal suspicion in both camps; and how some of them really served their enemies in order finally to serve their friends. More than one of them, indeed, played a double game, receiving pay from both sides, and earning it from both, each commander conceiving himself to be the one benefited. In comparison with such duplicity, the act of Meadows, in undertaking Margaret's private business as a secret matter adjunctive to his main employment, was honesty itself.
'Tis thus explained why, though Margaret might communicate with her brother in the enemy's camp, she got no word from her husband there. But his thoughts and his wishes had scarce another subject than herself. The desire to see her, possessed him more and more wholly. He imagined that her state of mind must in this be a reflection of his own. Long ago her anger must have died--nay, had it not passed in that farewell embrace when she held up her face to invite his kiss? The chastening years of separation, the knowledge of his toils and dangers, must have wrought upon her heart, to make it more tender to him than ever. She must grieve at their parting, long for his home-coming. So convinced was he of such feelings on her part, that he pitied her for them, felt the start of many a tear in sorrow for her sorrow.
"Poor girl!" he thought. "How her face would gladden if I were to walk into her presence at this moment!"
And the thought gave birth to the resolution. The joy of such a meeting was worth a thousand risks and efforts.
His first step was to get leave of absence and General Washington's permission to enter New York. The former was quickly obtained, the latter less so. But if he failed to demonstrate to the commander the possible profit of his secretly visiting the enemy's town, he convinced him that the entrance was not too difficult to one who knew the land so well, and who could so easily find concealment. Sympathising with Philip's private motive in the case, trusting him implicitly, and crediting his ability to take care of himself in even so perilous a matter, Washington finally gave consent.
Philip rode in proper manner from the rebel camp, bound apparently Southward, as if perchance he bore despatches to the rebel civil authorities at Philadelphia. Once out of observation, he concealed his uniform cap and outer coat, and provided himself at a New Jersey village with an ordinary felt hat, and a plain dark overcoat. He then turned from the Southward road, circled widely about the rebel camp, and arrived at a point some distance north of it. Here, in a hospitable farmhouse, he passed the night. The next day, he rode Eastward for the Hudson River, crossing undiscovered the scanty, ill-patrolled line of rebel outposts, and for the most part refraining from use of the main roads, deserted as these were. By woods and by-ways, he proceeded as best the snow-covered state of the country allowed. 'Twas near dusk on the second day, when he came out upon the wooded heights that looked coldly down upon the Hudson a few miles above the spot opposite the town of New York.
He looked across the river and Southeastward, knowing that beyond the low hills and the woods lay the town, and that in the town was Margaret. Then he rode back from the crest of the cliff till he came to the head of a ravine. Down this he led his beast, arriving finally at the narrow strip of river-bank at the cliff's foot. He followed this some distance Southward, still leading the horse. 'Twas not yet so dark that he could not make out a British sloop-of-war, and further down the river the less distinct outline of a frigate, serving as sentinels and protectors of this approach to the town. From these he was concealed by the bushes that grew at the river's edge.
At last he turned into the mouth of a second ravine, and, rounding a sharp side-spur of the interrupted cliff, came upon a log hut built upon a small level shelf of earth. At one end of this structure was a pent-roof. Philip tied his horse thereunder, and, noting a kind of dim glow through the oiled paper that filled the cabin's single window, gave two double knocks followed by a single one, upon the plank door. This was soon opened, and Philip admitted to the presence of the single occupant, an uncouth fellow, fisherman and hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in patrolling the New Jersey side at the head of his troop. The man was at heart with the rebels, and Winwood knew with whom he had to deal. Indeed Philip had laid his plans carefully for this hazardous visit, in accordance with his knowledge of the neighbourhood and of what he might rely upon.
"I wish to borrow one of your canoes, Ellis," said he, "and beg your attention to my horse, which is in the shed. Be so kind as to give it feed, and to cover it with a blanket if you have such a thing. But leave it in the shed, and ready saddled; I may have to ride in a hurry. I sha'n't need you with me in the canoe--nor any supper, I thank you, sir."
For the man, with the taciturn way of his kind, had motioned toward some pork frying at a fire. With no thought to press, or to question, he replied:
"I'll fetch the canoe down the gully, cap'n. You stay here and warm yourself a minute. And don't worry about your hoss, sir."
A few minutes later, Philip was launched upon the dark current of the Hudson, paddling silently toward the Eastern shore. Darkness had now fallen, and he trusted it to hide him from the vigilance of the British vessels whose lights shone dim and uncertain down the river.
Much larger craft landed much larger crews within our lines, on no darker nights--as, for one case, when the Whigs came down in whaleboats and set fire to the country mansion of our General De Lancey at Bloomingdale. Philip made the passage unseen, and drew the canoe up to a safe place under some bushes growing from the face of a low bluff that rose from the slight beach. His heart galloped and glowed at sense of being on the same island with his wife. He was thrilled to think that, if all went well, within an hour or two he should hold her in his arms.
He saw to the priming of his pistols, and loosened the sword that hung beneath his overcoat; and then he glided some way down the strip of beach. Coming to a convenient place, he clambered up the bluff, to a cleared space backed by woods.
"Who goes there?"
'Twas the voice of a man who had suddenly halted in the clearing, half-way between the woods and the crest of the bluff. The snow on the ground enabled the two to descry each other. Winwood saw the man raise a musket to his shoulder.
"A word with you, friend," said Philip, and strode swiftly forward ere the sentinel (who was a loyalist volunteer, not a British regular) had the wit to fire. Catching the musket-barrel with one hand, Winwood clapped his pistol to the soldier's breast with the other.
"Now," says he, "if you give a sound, I'll send a bullet through you. If I pass here, 'twill bring you no harm, for none shall know it but us two. Let go your musket a moment--I'll give it back to you, man."
A pressure of the pistol against the fellow's ribs brought obedience. Philip dropped the musket, and, with his foot, dug its lock into the snow, spoiling the priming.
"Now," he continued, "I'll leave you, and remember, if you raise an alarm, you'll be blamed for not firing upon me."
Whereupon Philip dashed into the woods, leaving the startled sentinel to pick up his musket and resume his round as if naught had occurred. The man knew that his own comfort lay in secrecy, and his comfort outweighed his military conscience.
Through woods and fields Winwood proceeded, skirted swamps and ponds, and waded streams, traversing old familiar ground, the sight of which brought back memories of countless holiday rambles in the happy early days. Margaret's bright face and merry voice, her smiles, and her little displays of partiality for him, were foremost in each recollection; and that he was so soon to see her again, appeared too wonderful for belief. He went forward in the intoxication of joy, singing to himself as a boy would have done.
He knew where there were houses and barns to avoid, and where there were most like to be British cantonments. At length he was so near the town, that he was surprised to have come upon no inner line of sentries. Even as he wondered, he emerged from a copse into a field, and received the usual challenge--spoken this time in so quick, machine-like a manner, and accompanied by so prompt and precise a levelling of the musket, that he knew 'twas a British regular he had to deal with.
He made a pretence of raising a pistol to shoot down the sentry. This brought the sentry's fire, which--as it too was of a British regular of those days--Philip felt safe in risking. But though the shot went far wide, he gave a cry as if he had been hit, and staggered back into the woods. He was no sooner within its cover, than he ran swiftly Eastward with all possible silence. He had noted that the sentry had been pacing in that direction; hence the first of the sentry's comrades to run up would be the one approaching therefrom. This would leave a break in the line, at that part of it East of the scene of the alarm. Philip stopped presently; peered forth from the woods, saw the second sentry hasten with long steps Westward; and then made a dash across the latter's tracks, bending low his body as he went. He thus reached a cover of thicket, through which he forced his way in time to emerge toward the town ere any results of the alarming gun-shot were manifest.
Unless he were willing to attempt crossing what British defences he knew not, or other impediments that might bar passage to the town elsewhere than at the Bowery lane entrance, he must now pass the guard there, which served for the town itself as the outer barriers at Kingsbridge served for the whole island of Manhattan. He chose the less tedious, though more audacious alternative of facing the guard.
He could not employ in this case the method used in passing the shore patrol, or that adopted in crossing the line of sentinels above the town; for here the road was the only open way through, it was flanked by a guardhouse, it was lighted by a lantern that hung above the door, and the sentinels were disciplined men. Philip gathered these facts in a single glance, as he approached by slinking along the side of the road, into which he had crawled, through a rail fence, from an adjoining field.
He was close upon the sentinels who paced before the guardhouse, ere he was discovered. For the third time that night, he heard the challenge and saw the threatening movement.
"All's well," he replied. "I'll give an account of myself." And he stepped forward, grasping one of his pistols, not by the breech, but by the barrel.
"Stop where you are!" said the sentry, menacingly.
Philip stood still, raised the pistol, flung it at the lantern, and instantly dropped to his knees. The sentinel's musket flashed and cracked. Total darkness ensued. Philip glided forward between the two men, his footfalls drowned by the sound of their curses. When past them, he hurled his remaining pistol back over his shoulder toward a mass of bushes on the further side of the sentinels. Its descent through the brush had some sound of a man's leap, and would, he hoped, lead the enemy to think he might have escaped in that direction. By the time the noise of a commotion reached him, with orders to turn out the guard, he was past the building used as a prison for his fellow rebels, and was hastening along the side of the common--now diverted to camp uses of the British as it had been to those of the rebels--able to find the rest of his way in Egyptian blackness. He knew what alleys to take, what short cuts to make by traversing gardens, what ways were most like to be deserted. The streets in the part of the town through which he had to pass were nearly empty, the taverns, the barracks, and most of the officers' quarters being elsewhere. And so, with a heart elated beyond my power of expression, he leaped finally into the rear garden of the Faringfield mansion, and strode, as if on air, toward the veranda.
He had guessed that the family would be in the smaller parlour, or the library, and so he was not surprised to see all the lower windows dark that were visible from the direction of his approach. But, which gave him a thrill of delightful conjecture, two upper windows shone with light--those above the great parlour and hence belonging to one of the chambers formerly occupied by Margaret and him. He knew no reason why his wife should not still retain the same rooms. She would, then, be there, and probably alone. He might go to her while none was present to chill their meeting, none before whom her pride might induce her to conceal the completeness of her reconciliation, or to moderate the joy of her greeting. Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out? Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in a long embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy as he climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.
Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came at length to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but the door was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as a sitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance had recognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber. He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have made her a little graver, doubtless.
He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible. Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoe toward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as he passed her dressing-table--the most joyous, eager face in the world. He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. She was there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her face turned by chance toward the door through which he entered.
"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and started toward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smile of joy and love upon his face.
She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigid as marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach. As he halted in astonishment, his joy dying at her look, she whispered hoarsely:
"You! You, of all men? And to-night, of all nights!"
'Twas the night of our setting forth upon her great design of seizing his commander-in-chief.