8 A Feast and a Storm

It was not in nature for us who were very young to refrain from our share in these festivities, however much one might condemn them as out of place. In truth, the only choice left us was either to join in them or mope alone. I did each at times, and about a week after my duel, the subject having been well-nigh forgotten in the rush of gayety, Culverhouse came to me and asked me to make one of a party at a turtle feast at Cotton’s Inn, on the East River, a species of entertainment very popular at the time, and one from which I have often derived much enjoyment.

“Only one condition is put upon you,” said Culverhouse, “and it is that you bring a fair partner. Every one is expected to contribute his or her share to the gayety of the entertainment.”

I accepted both the invitation and the condition with great readiness, and bethought me of Marion as my possible partner if I could escape the vigilant eye of her father, who seemed to be as sure as ever that I deserved watching. But second thought convinced me such action would not be right; I ought to be open in all that I did. I decided to ask Mlle. de St. Maur, and was glad that I had come to such decision.

Mlle. de St. Maur was quite willing, nay, delighted, she said. How could a young girl to whom the way was opened refuse to take part in the gayeties going on about her? And the seigneur, whose position had grown most unpleasant, and whom our generals had begun to treat in some sort as a kind of privileged spy, though it was wholly Loudoun’s fault that he remained so long, seemed pleased at my attention to his daughter, and consented that she should go. He was willing for once to forego his strict French notions of propriety and let her make one of the party, since Mrs. Kennedy was to accompany us and have Mlle. de St. Maur in her especial charge.

Mlle. de St. Maur and I rode together down Queen Street to the rendezvous, Mrs. Kennedy, who was not so strict as the seigneur, saying nothing against it. As we passed the houses of our aristocracy along this fashionable avenue I could see more than one fair face at the window gazing at us. I will admit that I felt a certain pride, for, as I have hinted already, Mlle. de St. Maur was no ordinary girl in appearance, and on horseback she looked particularly well. I might as well say at this very point that our girls that season showed considerable jealousy of Mlle. de St. Maur, of which they should have been ashamed, for she was in a measure our guest. I had heard of the spiteful remark made by several that she ought to be in Quebec with her own people, where she belonged. But she was very beautiful, and women are women the world over.

The rendezvous was at Governor de Lancey’s elegant country seat on the Bowery Road, where we found a fine company of some forty persons had gathered. Governor de Lancey himself had just come from the city in the great state which was his custom. It had been an official visit of much importance, and he rode in his gilded chariot drawn by four snow-white horses, with outriders in brilliant livery.

He seemed somewhat oppressed by the cares of state which were weighing very heavily then upon the important men of the colony, but he showed much gayety when he saw us. The Revolution has come, and we look at men and affairs in a manner somewhat different from that of the old days, but I shall not undertake to pass any criticism upon Governor de Lancey. His enemies say that he was haughty, arrogant, and intolerable; his friends say that he was the best of comrades, genial, self-sacrificing, and a lover of his country. All I know is that he was a man of great spirit, wit, culture, and strength, and as I was neither an adherent of the house of de Lancey nor of the rival house of Livingston, but kept my own counsel and followed my own course, I think I can speak with a fair degree of impartiality.

He took us down a leafy, shaded avenue to his house, a noble structure of brick, three stories in height. He served us with lemon punch, showed us his pictures and works of sculpture, many of them from the best masters of Europe, and sent us on our way, saying, with a bit of a sigh, that he wished he was as young as we were, and could go with us and enjoy the minutes as they passed, instead of grubbing over dry orders and reports and seeking to provide for the future.

About half of us were on horseback and the remainder in Italian chaises, a gentleman and lady in each chaise, and our programme was to take luncheon together at noon at Cotton’s Inn, do some idle fishing in the East River in the afternoon, varied with tea drinking and card playing at the inn if we felt like it, a dinner afterward, and then a pleasant ride home in the cool of the evening.

It was near the close of September, and it had been warm in the city, where the houses are so tall as to shut off the air, many of them being a full three stories in height. It had been very close and heavy, too, making the breathing difficult, but after we had come upon the Bowery Road we found a breeze blowing which made it more pleasant, and the coolness increased as we rode northward past the marshes and meadows and ponds and outcroppings of rock which cover so much of the central part of our island. Very valuable some of this land is, too, for farming purposes, owing to its contiguity to the city and its easy reach, therefore, of a great market. In truth, there are many so sanguine of our city’s future that they predict its encroachment some day upon these farms. But, while I am proud of New York, and confident of its increasing greatness, I can scarce subscribe to so much as that.

Mlle. de St. Maur and I had dropped back a little behind the crowd. There was a great clatter of talk and flurry of laughter ahead of us, but the others, being fully occupied with themselves, paid no attention to us, nor did we to them. As I had expected, Marion came with Spencer, and they were near the head of the party.

I was acting the part of guide and instructor to mademoiselle, describing this and that object of interest, when a man came out of some woods at the roadside and looked very fixedly at us two. He was a mean-looking fellow, ill clad, and I thought his stare impertinent. I was preparing to bid him begone about his business when I noticed a great look of surprise, mingled with some alarm, upon Mlle. de St. Maur’s face. She gazed at the fellow, who returned her look for a few moments, then turned and walked carelessly into the woods.

“He seemed to know you,” I said to mademoiselle.

“He does know me, unless I am greatly mistaken in the person,” she replied quite frankly, “but I never expected to see him here.”

I was silent for a little while. I had some curiosity on the subject, but it was contrary to courtesy for me to question her. She turned to me presently.

“You do not ask me who he is?” she said.

“No, I have not,” I replied.

“Then do not do so,” she said very earnestly. “If anything should come of that man’s presence here, do not think that I or my father had any connection with it. I did not know until a quarter of an hour ago that he was here, and my father does not know it yet. We owe you for kindnesses, let us owe you for one more.”

I do not like mysteries, but, looking into Louise de St. Maur’s beautiful and frank face, and into her eyes as honest as the sunshine, I knew that she was telling the absolute truth. So, putting it into as complimentary words as I could, I said I would believe no evil of the Seigneur of St. Maur or his daughter.

We increased our pace and rejoined the others, for we had no wish to cause remark. Yet Marion, who was in most becoming attire, and was perhaps the second handsomest in the party, gave me several saucy glances, which I endured with a fair degree of equanimity. Our girls still showed the little jealousy of Mlle. de St. Maur to which I have alluded, and, being her cavalier, I exerted myself to find her agreeable attentions besides my own, which I hope were not disagreeable, Culverhouse and young James de Lancey, the same who afterwards behaved so gallantly in the campaigns, assisting me.

One holds the bright days of one’s early youth—the days of youth are not all bright by any means—in tender memory, and this was one of the brightest of mine. A smart breeze from the East River drove away the heat and gave the air the crisp, sparkling flavor of early autumn which is so inspiring to heart and brain. The brown foliage fluttered and rustled, and as we rode along we caught glimpses of the river, a perfect blue under a perfect blue sky. The war had closed for me for the day.

Cotton’s place was very old. It is said that Peter Stuyvesant built the house generations ago as a place for trade with the Indians, but it had been used many years now for turtle feasts and other such entertainments. If there was any man who knew more and better ways than old Tom Cotton of serving crab and lobster and oysters and every kind of fish, he was not to be found along our coast.

Our day passed most pleasantly and rapidly. Sometimes I was in the inn, partaking of the tea which the ladies poured, and of which I am not overfond, and sometimes I was in a boat fishing with Mlle. de St. Maur or some other.

Toward evening the air grew heavy and warm again. It seemed to be full of damp, and the clouds gathered fast. The sultry conditions portended a storm, and we broke up our party in a hurry. Those in the chaises started first, and drove toward the city as fast as the nature of the road would permit. I was assisting Mlle. de St. Maur upon her horse when Marion and Spencer galloped past us, and bade us hurry if we expected to reach the city before the storm burst. Mademoiselle looked around for Mrs. Kennedy, but that lady seemed to have overlooked her charge in the confusion of the moment. At least we did not see her.

Off rattled the chaises, with those on horseback following behind, and Mlle. de St. Maur and I last. We soon saw that we had need to hurry, for the skies were blackening at a prodigious rate, and the increasing dampness of the air betokened the speedy arrival of rain.

We became a flying procession. On we went at a gallop through the fields and among the woods of maple and spruce and hickory. The air was very close and heavy. In the southwest the clouds were blackest, and presently the lightning began to flash there, followed by the heavy, threatening rumble of the distant thunder.

The approach of night, combined with the clouds, created a twilight darkness, and the head of our flying column became invisible. Presently the southwest began to moan, and I knew it was the signal of the coming shower. The rain streaks appeared across the sky, and the leaves rustled before the rush of wind which brought the rain with it. A cooling breath came through the hot air, and a whiff of rain struck us. I saw a great tree well foliaged beside the road, and I suggested to mademoiselle that we stop under it for shelter. I shouted to the others to stop there also, but they must have failed to hear me, for when we halted under the tree we saw the last couple disappearing around a curve of the road ahead of us.

But I considered that we were more lucky than they. The rain came with a swoop and a dash, the first drops pattering on the earth like bullets and kicking up the dust in little clouds, which the next drops drove back to the earth and turned into mud. Overhead the leaves rattled under the shower, but we were dry for the present.

“They have left us, mademoiselle,” I said, which was a self-evident fact.

“You have a pleasant life here,” she said.

“New York is a gay town,” I replied.

“The brown-haired lady, Miss Arthur, is very pretty,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, wondering why she should take up the subject, “Marion is a very pretty girl, and she’s my kinswoman, third or fourth cousin, I’ve never figured out exactly which.”

“I’ve heard that she’s to be much more nearly related to you,” she said. “I congratulate you. Lieutenant Charteris.”

“Nothing of the kind,” I said in great haste. “Marion and I are old playfellows, and we like each other a great deal, but not that way. Her father hates the sight of me, and, besides, I think she is beginning to look with favor upon Spencer, with whom I fought a duel once.”

“I heard about that,” she said. “You disarmed him.”

“Luck more than skill,” I replied.

Then she turned the conversation to other matters, but she was very lively and bright. She told me of her life in Canada, in Quebec, and in the country, her education at a convent in France, and her visit to the great and fashionable world of Paris with her father. I was interested so deeply that I scarce noticed the violence of the rain and the increasing darkness. The water at last found its way through the foliage and sprinkled us both. I suggested that we dismount and stand against the trunk of the tree for protection, but this, too, soon failed. All the foliage of the tree was soaked, and it dripped water steadily.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “we must abandon our tree and get back to the city somehow. Are you afraid of a wetting?”

“I’ve spent half my life in the Canadian woods,” she said, “and it wouldn’t become me to fear a little rain.”

If it did not become her, it certainly would not become me, and, assisting her upon her horse, I mounted mine, and we rode on. The rain, instead of coming in sudden bursts and puffs, had settled into a steady downpour, which, however, was none the less wetting. We plodded along, trying to keep our backs to it. Riders and horses were soaked, but Mlle. Louise was cheerful, and appeared to look upon it as an adventure worth the telling afterward. I shouted several times for the others, but they seemed to have gone too far ahead to hear us.

The rain decreased presently and the clouds began to clear away, but we could not see either our comrades or any human habitation. I noticed, however, in the darkness that we had wandered from the road, and were following a sort of foot path. It seemed to lead in the right direction, and Mlle. Louise and I whipped up our horses, anxious to reach the city and dry clothing as soon as possible. Twenty yards farther on the path ended at a marsh, entirely too black and too muddy to be entered. There was nothing for us to do but to turn back or seek a way through the woods at the imminent risk of having our eyes scratched out by low boughs.

“This is your country; what are you going to do?” asked mademoiselle with a droll look.

I was lost, and I did not like to confess it, but I knew that she knew it. It hurt my pride to be lost on Manhattan Island, with whose woods and hills and marshes I thought I was so thoroughly acquainted. I was sorry that we had not passed the tree and gone on with the others. The water was dripping from both of us, and our discouraged horses hung down their heads and breathed wearily.

“I think we had better ride back to the road,” I said.

Back we went, but the road seemed to have disappeared. The path merely wound around through the woods, and then abutted again upon a marsh.

“I may have lost all idea of direction,” I said desperately, “but at least I have my voice left.”

I shouted again and again as loud as I could, but no reply came. The water dripped from the rainsoaked trees to the muddy earth, and the frogs in the new pools began to croak. I looked out of the corner of my eye at Mlle. de St. Maur to see what she thought of me, but I could see no expression of derision on her face. I was humble, and she was considerate. In my heart I cursed the old Dutchmen who had laid out the cow paths through this part of the island, making them twist and curve and end nowhere, just as they make their long pipe stems twist and curve.

“There is one thing sure, mademoiselle,” I said contritely, “this is an island, and if we keep on riding straight ahead we are bound to come some time to the sea somewhere.”

“Suppose we try it,” she said.

I fixed upon the direction in which I thought the city lay, and we urged our tired horses forward. We were not even in a path, but splashed sometimes through marsh and then pressed through thick-grown bushes. At last I saw water shining through trees, and I concluded that I had missed my course a little and come out on the North River.

When we rode up to the water, I found that it was only a big pond, but it brought my wits back to me, for I knew it. It was the great pond on the Rosehill farm of John Watts, the same who was the brother-in-law of Governor de Lancey. I had skated on it many a time, and over there beside it stretched the post road. Beyond I could see the long avenue of elm trees leading to Mr. Watts’s country house. I had found myself, and I announced the fact joyfully to Mlle. de St. Maur, who, I have no doubt, was as glad as I, even though she had spent half her life in the Canadian woods.

We had now only to turn into the post road and follow it to the city. We were wet through, and splashed with mud to boot, and right glad we were to see the friendly lights of New York, though we had the consolation the next day of knowing that many of our comrades had fared no better.

It was somewhat late when we reached Mr. Kennedy’s home on Broadway, where the de St. Maur’s were yet guests, but the lights were still twinkling for us, as Mrs. Kennedy and some others who had gone from the same house had arrived before us. The seigneur helped to receive us with an anxiety relieved by our arrival. But I do not think he would have allowed his daughter to go to a turtle feast again without his own company.

I bade them good night, and remounted my horse to ride to my quarters and dry clothing.

As I passed the corner I saw a man leaning against the fence. The light from one of the street lanterns fell on his face, and I recognized him at once as the fellow who had startled Mlle. de St. Maur in the morning. He had passed completely out of my mind during the day, but his reappearance in the city aroused my curiosity. I had promised Mlle. de St. Maur not to concern myself about him, but I thought it no harm to ask him what he was doing there, especially as his appearance was not encouraging.

For reply, he gave me an evil look, and bade me go about my business.

I warned him that the stocks were for such as he, and rode on. But I could not dismiss him again from my mind so readily. He had spoken with a foreign accent, and, putting that and Mlle. de St. Maur’s knowledge of him together, I concluded that he was a French spy, not that I believed for a moment in the complicity of the de St. Maurs.

I thought over the matter much on my way to my quarters. I decided that I would say nothing and keep a watch for the fellow. After all, what harm could a spy do us? There was nothing for him to learn about our army, except what all the world knew—namely, that we were lounging our time away. If he could count our numbers and find out how many cannon and rifles and pounds of powder and lead we had, so could any street boy in New York.

Beyond that the general in chief himself seemed to know nothing.

I was wet, and my bones were stiffening, but my first duty was to my horse. I took him to the little stable in the rear of my quarters and fed him, returning thence in order that I might do as much and more for myself.

When I came to the front of the house, which stood a bit back from the sidewalk, I saw a man lounging in the street twenty or thirty yards away. His face was turned from me, but the figure was not altogether unfamiliar. I knew in a moment that it was the man whom Mlle. de St. Maur and I had met in the wood, the same to whom I had spoken when I left the Kennedy house, the one who was so much upon my mind just then. I had marked him well, and I was sure.

If I had been older, less given to the imagination and impulse of youth, I would have gone into the house and to bed, leaving the man to take care of himself and to do as he chose. But I did the other. I believed that this man was following and watching me, and I felt a certain anger because of it. Moreover, my curiosity was raised to a great pitch.

Without hesitation I opened the gate, entered the street, and walked toward him. But he slipped away from me, and when I increased my gait he increased his to the same degree. Other people were in the streets, for since the war and the coming of the soldiers ours had grown to be an ungodly town, and people were not always in bed at proper hours. They paid no attention either to me or to the man whom I was pursuing.

The fellow led me such a dance that I was on the point of abandoning the pursuit as not worth the while. I stopped, but he stopped, too, and looked back at me. The distance was not too great to show me when I saw his face that I was right in taking him to be the spy, for such I had mentally called him.

His manner indicated a desire to lead me on, and, seeing it, I was nothing loath. I could not divine his purpose, but I had sufficient interest now to follow up the matter and see. When I started he started also, and on we went again. He looked back presently as if to make sure that I was following, and then turned into Broad Street, walking toward its foot. On the way I passed old Peter Vlieck, one of the night watchmen, a big, heavy fellow whom I knew. But he stalked solemnly up the street, looking straight ahead of him, in search of what wickedness I knew not, and paid no attention to me.

At the foot of the street, and directly in front of my man, was the Royal Exchange, looking very large and solemn in the dusk. The open lower floor within the arches, so busy, so full of life by day, was deserted and still. Turning back one more look to see that I was there, my man left the street and walked under one of the arches. This, as plain as day, was an invitation to a meeting, an interview, or something, and without delay I followed.

He had gone to the far side of the space, and was leaning against the brickwork of one of the arches. He made no effort to conceal his features, but, owing to the poorness of the light, I could not see them very distinctly.

“You have been following me,” he said, “and now you have overtaken me. What do you want?”

I was not at all sure what I wanted, or that I wanted anything at all, so I replied:

“If I have followed you, you followed me first; it’s merely making things even.”

He uttered some impatient exclamation, and demanded again my business with him. I thought it best to keep cool, so I also leaned negligently against one of the arches.

“One thing I had in mind when I followed you,” I said, “was to ask you what progress you are making in your business.”

“What business?” he asked.

“Spying, seeking information about the English that you can take to your comrades the French.”

“You guess well. Lieutenant Charteris. That’s my occupation.”

“It seems a waste of energy and useless risk of one’s life.”

“Perhaps it is. It was hardly worth while for me to come to New York for information about your armies, but I have friends, dear friends, here whom I wished to see.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Oh, there may be many,” he replied carelessly, “the names of whom I will not tell, but I might mention, for instance, the Seigneur and Mlle. de St. Maur.”

“Mlle. de St. Maur may know you,” I replied. “In fact, I have every reason to think that she does, but I have equal reason also to think that she does not like you.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” he replied. “I may be much more to Mlle. de St. Maur and Mlle. de St. Maur may be much more to me than you think.”

I dislike mystery and anything savoring of it. Moreover, the man’s manner was insulting, as doubtless he intended it to be.

“My friend,” I said, “I don’t know your name, but I take you to be a spy, your own admission being such, and it seems to me you are rather reckless. All I have to do is to give an alarm, and you will be seized and hanged by the neck until you are dead, as the judges say.”

“But you won’t do that.”

“Why?”

“I am the friend of the Seigneur and Mlle. de St. Maur. My arrest would put them in a most serious position, for I would immediately assert their connivance in my visit here. You are not willing to have that happen, for you are in love with Mlle. de St. Maur.”

I took thought a little. It is good to commune briefly with one’s self sometimes.

“My friend,” I said, “you charge me with being in love with Mlle. de St. Maur, and your tone in making the charge is that of a guardian or some such person. But a little while ago another man charged me with being in love with his daughter. To-morrow, I suppose, some third man will charge me with being in love with his stepsister or his maiden aunt. Am I supposed to fall in love with every woman I meet?”

“That’s not my affair,” he replied. “Only I advise you to keep away from Mlle. de St. Maur.”

“What if I don’t?” I replied. My anger at his tone and manner was rising in spite of me.

“This may help you,” he replied.

Without a warning the scoundrel drew a pistol from his pocket and fired at me. Instinct made me dodge as his finger approached the trigger, and the bullet struck the arch, though it whizzed unpleasantly near me.

I drew my sword and slashed at him with all my might, for his treacherous attempt at murder was enough to infuriate even the meekest of human beings, and I did not claim to be such. But I only cut a gash in one of the bricks, for he had turned with great quickness, circled about, and sped up Water Street, which was but dimly lighted.

I ran after him, but he had the start of me, and, moreover, proved to be a swifter runner than I. I saw in a moment that unless overtaken by some one else he would escape. I hesitated, and hesitating stopped. I had the de St. Maurs in mind. If he were captured, explanations would be necessary, and then he would probably keep his threats. After all, I had little complaint to make. His bullet had not touched me, and I did not see what particular harm he could do us in New York, spy about though he might both by night and by day.

I heard excited voices and the noise of approaching footsteps, attracted by the shot. I made up my mind in half a minute. I turned and ran back toward the Royal Exchange. Just as I reached the nearest arch I saw the burly form of Peter Vlieck. He had thrust his face far out, as if that would help him to look through the dusk, and I knew he was trying to find the cause of the shot. I rushed up to him and seized him with both hands.

“Thank heaven, the bullet did not hit you!” I exclaimed. “What a lucky escape!” He recognized me, but looked bewildered.

“A lucky escape, you say! What do you mean?” he cried.

“Are you sure he did not hit you? Do you feel no wound?” I cried, kneading my hands into his shoulders and pudgy arms. “No,” I continued, “I see no wound there. And at short range, too! What luck! The city could ill afford to spare such a man as you, Mynheer Vlieck.”

I continued to feel for a wound, and Vlieck grew alarmed. I discovered blood on his coat, and then I discovered that I was mistaken. But his alarm increased visibly.

“Have I been shot at? Has somebody been trying to kill me?” he gasped.

“An attempted assassination!” I cried in excited tones. “One of the boldest ever heard of, and right here, too, in the shadow of this palace devoted to commerce and peace. But it was like you, Mynheer Vlieck, to think little of yourself and seek the criminal even at the further risk of your life!”

He straightened up, and his chest swelled. Other people were arriving now.

“He stood here in the shadow of this arch,” I continued, “and I saw his pistol leveled, but I could not warn you in time. He fired. I ran after him, but he escaped up Broad Street, and I returned, fearing that I would find you dead, and instead I find you seeking him everywhere.”

The warlike old watchman’s eyes flamed with pride. He looked around at the admiring crowd.

“I heard his bullet whizz,” he said, “and I confess that for the moment I was startled. But I, too, pursued him, and I would have overtaken him had not my bulk unfortunately interfered with rapid pursuit”

“Are you sure that you are not wounded? Look again!” I asked anxiously.

Two or three of the crowd assisted in the examination, and then it was shown conclusively that the bullet had missed him. As the Weekly Post Boy said in its next issue: “The darkness made the assassin’s aim uncertain, and our brave and worthy watchman was spared for future usefulness. There is no doubt that the villain was one of the lawless camp followers whom our watchmen have had to repress with so strong a hand, and who wanted revenge.”

I left the good Peter swelling and strutting and surrounded by his admiring friends, and went home after the dry clothing and rest that I needed so badly.

I preserved absolute silence about the adventure at the Royal Exchange, even to Mlle. de St. Maur. I watched for the spy, but the days passed, and I saw no more of him.

A short while later I heard that the matter of the prisoners had been brought to a head at last, and that the de St. Maurs were about to depart, going by the way of Albany, and thence into the French lines. There was nothing against the seigneur, though he had been treated suspiciously, and our commander in chief had to let him go. I was present when they departed in their coach.

“Mademoiselle,” I said, “I trust that you will not forget us when we come to Quebec.”

“You will come only as prisoners,” she said with a flash of French pride.

Culverhouse and I and some others of equal age gave them escort as far as Kingsbridge, for we owed all courtesy and protection to the strangers within our gates, even though they were of the enemy. When we left them and waved them our final salutes, Culverhouse and I rode away together.

“A fine girl and a fine old man,” said Culverhouse.

I was silent, but in silence I agreed with him.

We went back to camp and the old idleness and dreary waiting. Thus a long time passed.

►   ▲