Peggy Owen Patriot Part 39

-Goldsmith.

A few days later the country was electrified by the news that the Whigs west of the Alleghanies had marched to the relief of their oppressed brethren of the Carolinas, and defeated the British at King's Mountain.

The victory fired the patriots with new zeal, checked the rising of the loyalists in North Carolina, and was fatal to the intended expedition of Cornwallis. He had hoped to step with ease from one Carolina to the other, and then proceed to the conquest of Virginia; he was left with no choice but to retreat.

The men about Charlotte had disputed his advance; they now hara.s.sed his foraging parties, intercepted his despatches and cut off his communications. Declaring that every bush hid a rebel, Lord Cornwallis fell back across the Catawba into South Carolina.

At the plantation the news of the victory was received with joy, causing Peggy to unfold the plan that had been maturing ever since she had regained possession of Star.

"What doth hinder my going home now?" she asked the a.s.sembled family one evening. "The British have gone, and I have but to keep to the road to arrive in time at Philadelphia."

"But the Tories?" questioned Mistress Egan. "They are everywhere."

"I have waited so long for a way to open," continued Peggy, stoutly. "It is wonderful how it hath all come about. First, the sea brought me to thy door, Friend Mandy. Then we came up here where the road is the selfsame one used by the delegates to go to the Congress. Then my own pony is brought to this very house. Does thee not see that 'tis the way opened at last?"

"I see that we must let you go," said the good woman sadly, "though I shall never know a minute's peace until I hear of you being safe with your mother."

"I will write as soon as I reach her," promised the girl. "And I shall get through, never fear. Did thee not say to thy husband when the cottage was burned that the people would help? Well, they will help me too."

"You cannot go alone, my girl," interposed Henry Egan decidedly.

"'Twould never do in the world. Things air upset still, even though the British air gone. If I hadn't joined the milish I'd take you home myself. As things air there can't a man be spared from the state jest now. North Carolina needs every man she can get."

"I know it, Friend Henry," answered Peggy. "And I would not wish any one to leave his duty for me. The cause of liberty must come before everything."

"That is true," he said. "Be content to bide a little longer, and mayhap a way will be opened, as you say."

So, yielding to his judgment with the sweet deference that was her greatest charm, Peggy bore her disappointment as best she could. It was but a few days, however, until the matter was brought up again by the fisherman.

"Peggy," he said, "I heard as how Joe Hart was going to take his wife and baby to her folks in Virginny, so that he can join the Continentals with Gates. If you're bound to go this might be your chance. Things don't seem to be so bad over there as they air in this state, and it may be easier for you to get some one to take you on to Philadelphia."

"When do they start?" asked Peggy joyfully.

"To-morrow morning. That won't give you much time, but--"

"'Tis all I need," she answered excitedly. "Oh, Friend Henry, how good thee is to find a chance for me."

"There, my girl! say no more. Of course you want them even as they must want you. You'll write sometimes, and when this awful war is over, if there air any of us left, mayhap you'll come down to see us again."

"I will," she promised in tears.

"Another thing," he said, bringing forth a few gold pieces, "you must take these with you. They will help you in your journey, but use 'em only when you can't get what you want any other way. 'Tis better to trust to kindness of heart than to cupidity."

In spite of her protests he made her accept them, and she sewed them in the hem of her frock, promising to use them with discretion. With many tears Peggy took leave of these kindly people the next morning, and set forth with Joe Hart and his wife and baby for Virginia. The road was mountainous, and the riding hard, but Peggy's heart danced with gladness and she heeded not the fatigue, for at last she was going home. Home!

The opaline splendor of the morning thrilled her with an appreciation that she had never felt before. What a wonderful light threaded the woods and glorified the treetops! Home!

At night they stopped at some woodman's hut, or at a plantation, if they were near the more pretentious establishment; for inns were few, and the habitations so far removed from each other that the people gladly gave entertainment to travelers in return for the news they brought.

Often they encountered bodies of irregular troops upon the road directing their wearied march toward the headquarters of the patriot army. The victory at King's Mountain had thrilled the people even as Concord and Lexington had done, and roused them to renewed exertions.

Peggy's companions were not very cheerful. The man was a rough, kindly, goodhearted fellow, but his wife was a delicate woman, peevish and complaining, whose strength was scarcely equal to the hardships of the journey and the care of the sickly infant who fretted incessantly.

Four days of such companionship wore upon even Peggy's joyousness. They were by this time some fifteen miles east of Hillsborough, where the remnant of the patriot army lay. The road was lonely, the quiet broken only by the whimpering of the baby and the querulous soothing of the mother. Peggy felt depressed and mentally reproached herself for it.

"Thee is foolish, Peggy," she chided sternly, "to heed such things. If the poor woman can bear it thee should not let it wherrit thee. Now be brave, Peggy Owen! just think how soon thee will see mother. Can thee not bear a little discomfort for that? And how exciting 'twill be to tell them--What was that?" she cried aloud, turning a startled look upon the mountaineer, who rode a short distance ahead of Peggy and his wife.

"It sounded like a groan," exclaimed he.

They drew rein and listened. The road ran through a forest so densely studded with undergrowth that it was impossible to see any distance on either side. For a few seconds there was no sound but the whispering of the pines. They were about to pa.s.s on when there came a low cry:

"You, whoever you are! Come to me, for the love of G.o.d!"

For a moment they looked at each other with startled faces, and then the mountaineer made a motion to swing himself from his horse.

"Joe," cried his wife, "what air you going to do? Don't go! How'd you know but what it's an ambush?"

"Nay; some one is hurt," protested Peggy.

While Hart still hesitated, Peggy dismounted, and leading Star by the bridle walked in the direction from which the cry came.

"Where is thee, friend?" she called, her voice sounding clearly through the stillness of the forest.

"Here! Here!" came the feeble reply.

Dropping the pony's bridle Peggy pushed aside the undergrowth, and advanced fearlessly, pausing ever and anon to call for guidance. Shamed by this display of courage Joe Hart followed her, despite the protests of his wife. Presently just ahead of them appeared a man's form lying outstretched under a clump of bushes, and wearing the uniform of the Continentals. One arm, the right one, was broken, and lay disabled upon the gra.s.s, while the hand of the other lifted itself occasionally to stroke the legs of a powerful horse which stood guard over the prostrate form of his master.

The animal snapped at them viciously as they approached, but the soldier spoke to him sharply, so that they could draw near in safety. The girl bent over the wounded man pityingly, for a gaping hole in his side through which the blood was flowing told that he had not long to live.

"What can I do for thee, friend?" she asked gently, sinking down beside him and raising his head to her lap.

"Are you Whig or Tory?" he gasped, gazing up at her eagerly.

"A patriot, friend," she answered wiping the moisture from his brow with tender hands.

"Thank G.o.d," he cried making a great effort to talk for the end was fast approaching. "I bear letters to General Gates from the Congress. In my shoe; will you see that they are taken to him?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Promise me," he insisted. "You look true. Promise that you yourself will take them to him."

"I promise," she said solemnly. "And now, friend, thyself. Hast thou no messages for thy dear ones?"

"Mary," he whispered a spasm of pain contracting his face. "My wife!

Tell her that I died doing my duty. She must not grieve. 'Tis for the country. Water!" he gasped.

But Joe Hart, foreseeing the need for this, had already gone in search of it, and opportunely returned at this moment with his drinking-horn full. The vidette drank eagerly, and revived a little.

"Thy name?" asked Peggy softly, for she saw that his time was short.

"William Trumbull, of Fairfield, Connecticut," he responded. The words came slowly with great effort. "'Twas Tories," he said, "that shot me, but Duke outran them. Then I fell and crawled in here. My horse--" A smile of pride and affection lighted up his face as he turned toward the animal. "We've taken our last ride, old fellow!"