Authors: Elizabeth Marie Pope
"What you doing in there?" he demanded unpleasantly.
"Washing," I replied politely, wondering if the scarlet sleeve sticking out from the clump of bushes on the other side of the pool looked as much like a sumac flower as I hoped it did.
"And who told you you could wash in that there pond? You come straight out before I drag you and march yourself up to the house. My Paw'll tend to you, he — "
"George!" the younger boy cut in excitedly. "George! He's got our hunk of soap — and he's been shaving with Paw's razor too!"
"I didn't know it was your Paw's razor," I retorted. "And besides, if a man leaves his razor in plain sight on the bank of a pool where anyone can find it, he ought to be grateful when the first poor tramping soldier who comes by simply uses it instead of stealing it — as he will doubtless agree when I explain the matter to him."
I saw by the glances that the two exchanged that they were not in the least anxious that Paw should learn that his razor had been on the bank of the pool or anywhere else within miles of the place.
"Reckon we had really ought to take him up to the house, George?" wavered the younger one uncertainly. "If he's a soldier like he says and hasn't done no harm — "
But George was made of sterner stuff. "I don't like his looks," he insisted stubbornly. "How do we know he ain't no thief or maybe even one of them outlaws broke loose out of the Goshen jail? He looks mighty white-faced to be any soldier to me, and anyway, if he is one, why ain't he with the army where he belongs?"
"I'm on my way back to the army now," I replied — it did not seem necessary to point out which particular army it was. "And I wager you wouldn't have any more sunburn than I do if you'd been struck down at Christmas and confined to your bedroom ever since. I've only been able to move about since yesterday." How marvelous a thing is the exact truth, properly manipulated!
"What's your name?" was the next question.
"William Shakespeare," I retorted recklessly.
"Never knew anybody named that," said George with suspicion. "Leastwise, they ain't no Orange County family I ever heard tell of."
"They're well known in my part of the world," I responded amiably, splashing a little in the water.
"Anyhow, I got a good mind — "
"Oh, come on, George!" the younger boy interrupted him. "Are you going to stand there on the bank gabbing at him
all
day? He's told you who he is, and Paw's razor's safe, and you know well as I do you ain't going to lug him out of no pond with your best clothes on, and we'll miss our chance at Resten-beethankful if we don't get moving. I bet Joe Titterton's boys is there already."
"On your way to Rest-and-be-thankful?" I inquired carelessly.
"It's the big party they're giving tonight because it's the Fourth of July and the Colonel's getting married," explained the younger boy. "We didn't think they was going to open up the house again till after the war, but Joe Titterton told us that old man Grahame got back special for the wedding, and there was guests coming from all over the county, maybe even the General from West Point and everybody, and they was short of help on account of the house being shut up so long and the men away with the army, so maybe we might get in to wash dishes or something, and George reckons he might even get to wait on people if he washed up good and took Paw's razor to shave off his — "
"Oh, shut your big mouth, Johnny!" George broke in, redfaced and exasperated. "Do you have to tell
everything
you know? You said we got to hurry, didn't you? And as for you — " he swung around on me, "I ain't got no time to fool with you now, but I give you fair warning to get out of that water and take yourself off of this here property quicker than scat if you know what's good for you," and with one last glare, he swept the towel and razor into his pocket, took his brother by the shoulder, and tramped away.
I came up the bank and lay down there to dry myself in the sunshine while I thought over the situation. Rest-and-be-thankful was not very far off, and it lay directly on my line of march. That meant I ought to alter my course. If the Grahames were entertaining "the General from West Point" and no doubt half of the other American officers stationed in the County, it would be suicidal to go within miles of the place.
Or would it? One of the lessons I had learned during my career as an outlaw was that the safest hiding place is usually under the sheriff's bed. There was bound to be a good deal of turmoil and scurry and confusion at a "big party." I might be able to slip past under the cover of darkness. I might even be able to steal some food — and I was already getting very hungry — or find a horse unguarded in the stables. And now I came to think of it, Dick would probably not be marrying his Eleanor at all if it were not for me. In a manner of speaking, I had made the match myself; and while I was hardly in a position to offer them my formal congratulations, it seemed churlish just to go by the house without so much as paying a little call.
And — the real and the only argument — Barbara Grahame was sure to be there. I wanted to see Barbara Grahame again very badly. After all, I had actually known her for only six hours. I had been separated from her now for a good six months, and the war might conceivably go on for another six years. There was not the faintest doubt in my mind that I was going to spend the rest of my life with her as soon as the ink was dry on the peace treaty, but even I could allow that it might really be better to see her and come to a complete understanding on the subject before I had to be off again till the Lord knew when. It was true that at the moment I did not exactly know how I would ever contrive to see her — but all that could take care of itself after I got to Rest-and-be-thankful.
"Quod desidero obtineo,"
I murmured to myself as I put on my coat and melted away into the woods again.
The remainder of the day went by uneventfully. I spent most of it keeping quietly to the hills and the underbrush. Indeed, I passed only one house, late that afternoon — a forest tavern near Rest-and-be-thankful — where I had a glimpse of a slatternly woman hanging out wash on a line, and a crowd of curious country folk gathered around a parcel of mounted soldiers who were refreshing themselves with tankards of beer by the door. Their lieutenant — a large, square-shouldered Southerner I had never seen before — was reading a sort of proclamation aloud from a sheet of paper. I lay up among the trees behind the place and listened. His voice was only too painfully clear.
"Aged about twenty-three," he was saying. "Tall . . . thin . . . blue eyes . . . stronger than he looks . . . signet ring on fourth finger of left hand . . . last seen wearing a dirty regulation tie-wig and uniform of British captain with — "
I looked hungrily at the homespun shirts and sturdy worsted stockings flapping dankly on the slatternly woman's line, and then shook my head sadly. That dirty regulation tie-wig and British uniform were all that stood between me and a sudden unpleasant death on the nearest gallows. An enemy officer found on hostile territory in disguise was by that very fact assumed to be a spy and received the usual punishment provided for such, as my poor friend John Andre was to discover a few months later when he went upriver on the King's business with Benedict Arnold.
The lieutenant finished reading the description of me, asked the country folk some questions, and rode off with his companions in a cloud of dust. I retreated to a safer hiding place farther back in the woods to wait for nightfall before I started down to Rest-and-be-thankful.
It had been a very warm day, and a little after sunset the heat finally piled up and broke in a brief, violent storm which drifted away toward the river after a minute or two but left everything behind it wet and dripping and chill. I drew a long breath of relief — at least I could be fairly sure that the garden was no longer full of strolling guests out to enjoy the balmy air and the moonlight. It would really have been ridiculous not to take advantage of so much good fortune. The last rumble of thunder had hardly died away before I rose, cut downhill through the woods, crossed a dark field, climbed a wall, and slipped between the trees of the orchard like a shadow.
The garden beyond the orchard was, as I had hoped, deserted. So was the terrace that ran along the front of the house, though it must have been crowded earlier in the evening — I could see cushions littering the steps and scattered wineglasses gleaming on the balustrade in the candlelight pouring from all the long windows. A single liveried servant was straightening the chairs and gathering up the empty glasses on a tray. He moved very slowly, pausing every two seconds to listen to the music or to peer in at the dancers. It seemed centuries before he worked his way down to the far end of the terrace and disappeared from view around the corner of the library, leaving me free to dart up the steps and reach the dense shadow of the great oak which had been left to shade the south windows when the house was built.
I had been in the dark so long that when I first looked in all I could see for an instant was a crazy swirl of lights and colors — candle flames, crystals, gleaming satins, brocades and velvets: crimson, blue, purple, rose, green and gold, all swaying and dipping together in the intricate patterns of the minuet. Then, as my eyes grew more accustomed to the glitter, I began to pick out here and there faces that I recognized. The stout, jolly, red-faced gentleman was old Mr. Shipley, Eleanor's father. The dark, slightly lame man in the general's uniform must be Benedict Arnold from West Point. The boy dancing shyly with the pretty girl was the same Lieutenant Featherstone that I had last seen beating off two of my men with a broken sword during the skirmish at the Beemer Mill. I even had a glimpse of Dick and Eleanor as the music stopped and the groups of dancers began to break up. They were coming down past the window in a knot of acquaintances, all laughing and talking at once. I caught a phrase about "your wedding tomorrow," and then a joke about this being their last real Independence Day that made me shudder and resolve to insist on a strictly private ceremony for myself and Barbara, without any old friends and well-wishers to —
I suddenly threw back my head and listened. I had heard a sound from the distance behind me.
Very faint, very distinct, rising and falling rhythmically on the wet night air: the regular, unmistakable beat of a squadron sweeping down the road at a full gallop. Then, as I turned, the horses' hoofs hesitated, paused, and broke down confusedly. The riders were dismounting at the upper orchard gate.
Not cavalry officers arriving late for the ball — they would have come straight on down the drive and left their horses at the door. There was only one reason why they should have dismounted at the upper gate: they must be intending to make their way quietly up through the orchard and garden, hunting for somebody. And the only person they were likely to be hunting for was an escaped prisoner of war, badly wanted by the authorities at the Goshen jail, aged about twenty-three, tall, thin, blue-eyed, stronger than he looked, a signet ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, last seen wearing a dirty regulation tie-wig and the uniform of a captain in the British army with —
The lighted terrace was obviously no place for me. I shot out of the shade of the oak even faster than I had shot into it, put one hand on the balustrade for a quick spring into the shrubbery — and caught sight of the liveried servant with the tray of glasses, coming back around the corner of the library wing, walking briskly and humming a tune under his breath. I had most stupidly forgotten that he would have to return that way to take his dirty glasses to the scullery.
Run — and he would have every soul in the place down on me before I could escape across the lawn. Stay where I was and put a bold face on the matter — and there was a chance, one very thin chance, that he might take me for some prisoner of war who had been permitted to come to the festivities on parole. I relaxed suddenly against the balustrade, like an unconcerned guest who had stepped out for a mouthful of fresh air, yawned carelessly as he approached . . . and then saw to my complete dismay that he was nobody on earth but my old acquaintance George, magnificently tricked out in a powdered wig, an apricot-colored coat, and black satin knee breeches that were rather too large for him. We recognized one another at the same moment.
If George had only had enough sense to leap back and shout for help, he could have sent me back to my pile of straw in the Goshen jail without further difficulty. Instead, the unspeakable fool simply made a blind rush, dropped his tray of glasses, and lashed out recklessly with his fists. He evidently remembered how meekly I had behaved when he found me in the pool and thought that he was not going to have any trouble with me. It was a perfectly natural mistake. Most people made it the first time they met me.
"I'm sorry, George," I murmured apologetically, and hit him.
George flung up both hands and went down in a heap. His head struck the sharp edge of the balustrade with a sickening crack; he rolled over, and lay still among the scattered fragments of the wineglasses.
The whisper of violins and the tap of dancing feet went on without interruption in the ballroom. The guests were making so much noise of their own that a little more on the terrace had passed unnoticed. The soldiers who had dismounted at the gate were not yet in sight. That meant they were still searching for me in the grounds on their way up to the house — and the orchards and the shrubberies must be full of them. I could hardly hope to escape now. George had delayed me just long enough to make it almost impossible.
He still lay where he had fallen, an ugly sight, quite unconscious. His own mother would not have recognized his face, cut and hacked and bleeding from his plunge into the broken wineglasses. I frowned suddenly and began to turn over one of the broken glasses meditatively with the toe of my boot.
It might be possible. It could by no stretch of the imagination be called a brilliant plan, and if I were caught it would certainly mean the end of me, but it might be possible ... I took off my coat.