Peggy Owen Patriot Part 40

"Would thee like for me to speak to the general about thy horse?" asked Peggy.

"If you would," he cried eagerly. And then after a moment-"Take off my boots."

The mountaineer complied with the request, and the dying patriot gave the papers which Hart took from them to Peggy.

"Guard these with your life," he continued. "And get to General Gates without delay. They have news of Arnold's treason--"

"Of what, did thee say?" cried Peggy.

"Of the treason of Benedict Arnold," he said feebly. "He is a traitor."

"Not General Arnold!" exclaimed Peggy in anguish. "Not the Arnold that was at Philadelphia! Oh, friend! thee can't mean that Arnold?"

"The very same," he responded. "And further, he is seeking to induce the soldiers to desert their country's colors."

"Merciful heavens! it can't be true!" she cried. "Friend, friend, thee must be wandering. It couldn't happen."

"But it hath," he gasped. "They told me to make speed. I-I must go!"

With a superhuman effort he struggled to his feet, stood for a brief second, and fell back-dead.

CHAPTER x.x.xI-HOW THE NEWS WAS RECEIVED AT CAMP

"Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to G.o.d."

-"The Lost Leader," Browning.

White and shaken Peggy leaned weakly against a tree, and covered her face with her hands.

"We must be getting on, miss," spoke the mountaineer, after a few moments of silence.

"And leave him like that?" cried the girl aghast.

"There is naught else to be done," he replied gravely. "We have nothing to bury him with."

"But 'tis wrong," remonstrated she, kneeling beside the dead vidette, and touching his brow reverently. "He died for his country, friend."

"Tell them at the camp," suggested he. "Mayhap they will send out and get him."

"Yes; that is what we must do," she said. "I could not bear to think of him lying here without Christian burial."

"And what is it now, miss?" questioned Hart, as she still lingered.

"Could we cut a lock from his hair, friend? For his wife! I know that mother and I would wish if father-if father--" Peggy faltered and choked.

Silently Hart drew out his hunting-knife and severed a lock of hair from the vidette's head, which the maiden placed with the despatches in the bosom of her gown. Then taking the kerchief from about her throat she spread it over his face, and followed the mountaineer back to the road.

As they left the spot the horse resumed his former position, and a last glance from Peggy showed the faithful creature standing guard over the dead form of his master.

"Whatever made you so long, Joe?" cried his wife petulantly. "The baby's that fretful that I don't know what to do with her. She's jest wore out, and we must get where something can be done for her."

"Tilly," he answered gravely, "there was a pore soger in there who died.

He wanted us to take his despatches to Gates. I reckon we'll have to go back to Hillsboro'town."

"Back fifteen miles, with the baby sick," exclaimed the woman in dismay.

"Joe Hart, you must be crazy. We shan't do no such thing. It will lose us a whole day, and we ain't got any too much time as 'tis. Your own flesh and blood comes before anything else, I reckon. Jest see how the child looks."

The baby did look ill. The father regarded it anxiously, and then glanced about him with an uncertain manner.

"The general ought to have them despatches," he said, "but the child is sick, sure enuff. Mayhap we can find somebody to take the letters back at the next cabin."

"Nay," objected Peggy. "I promised the soldier that I would see that the papers were given into the general's own hands; therefore I will ride back with them. We cannot trust to uncertainties."

"Yes," spoke the wife eagerly. "That is just the thing, Joe. The girl can take them. It's daylight, and nothing won't hurt her. We'd best push on to where the baby can be 'tended to. She can catch up with us to-morrow!"

"Very well," replied Peggy quietly. "And, friend, where shall I tell the general to come for the body? Does thee know the place?"

The mountaineer glanced about him. "Jest tell him about two mile above the cross-tree crossing," he said. "On the north side the road. Anybody that knows the country will know where 'tis. I don't like--" But Peggy bade them good-bye and was gone before he could voice any further regrets.

"'Twas useless to parley over the matter," she thought as a turn in the road hid them from view. "In truth the little one did look ill. I would as soon be alone, and I can return the faster. This awful thing about General Arnold! How could it have happened? Why, oh, why did he do it?"

Her thoughts flew back to the night of the tea at General Arnold's headquarters. How kind he had seemed then. The dark handsome face came before her as she remembered how he had walked down the room by her side, and how proud she had felt of his attention. And how good he had been to John Drayton! Drayton! Peggy started as the thought of the lad came to her. How had he taken it? The boy had loved him so.

It is never pleasant to be the bearer of ill tidings, and Peggy found herself lagging more than once in her journey. The afternoon was drawing to a close when she came in sight of the town on the Eno near which the army was encamped. They had pa.s.sed around it in the morning. Mrs. Hart had feared that her husband might be tempted into staying with the army, and so had insisted upon the detour.

The little town, nestled among beautiful eminences, seemed deserted as the maiden rode down the long unpaved street to the upland beyond, where the camp lay. In reality the inhabitants were at supper, and sundry fragrant odors were wafted from the various dwellings to the pa.s.sing girl. Peggy, however, was too heavy of heart for an appeal to the senses, though she had not tasted food since the morning meal.

Pa.s.sing at length through a defile the encampment came to view. It was surrounded with woods, and guarded in its rear by the smooth and gentle river. A farmhouse in the immediate neighborhood served as headquarters for the officers.

Numerous horses were tethered in rows about the upland plain. There were no tents or huts, but rude accommodations for the men had been made by branches and underwood set against ridge-poles that were sustained by stakes, and topped by sheaves of Indian corn.

Groups of men were scattered over the plain, some wagons were to be seen in one direction, and not far off, a line of fires around which parties were engaged cooking food. Here and there a sentinel was pacing his short limits, and occasionally the roll of the drum, or the flourish of a fife told of some ceremony of the camp.

Peggy had but time to observe these details when she was stopped by the picket who demanded the countersign.

"I know it not, friend," was her response. "Lead me at once to thy general, I beg thee; for I bear despatches for him."

At this moment the officer in charge of the relief guard, for the beautiful and inspiring music of the sunset retreat was just sounding, came up.

"What is it, Johnson?" he asked. Peggy gave a little cry at the sound of his voice.