The Loyalist

by James Francis Barrett

  CHAPTER III

  I

  Stephen was sitting in his room, his feet crossed on a foot-rest beforehim, his eyes gazing into the side street that opened full before hiswindow. He had been reading a number of dispatches and letters piled ina small heap in his lap; but little by little had laid them down againto allow his mind to run into reflection and study. And so he sat andsmoked.

  It seemed incredible that events of prime importance were transpiring inthe city and that the crisis was so soon upon him. For nearly threemonths he had been accumulating, methodically and deliberately, a chainof incriminating evidence around the Military Governor and JohnAnderson, still he was utterly unaware of its amazing scope andmagnitude. Perfidy was at work all around him and he was powerless tointerfere; for the intrigue had yet to reach that point where convictioncould be assured. Nevertheless, he continued to advance step by stepwith the events, and sensed keenly the while, the tension which wasbeginning to exist but which he could not very well point out.

  He had kept himself fully informed of the progress of affairs in NewYork, where the recruiting was being accomplished in an undisguisedmanner. The real facts, however, were being adroitly concealed from thebulk of the populace. Information of a surprising nature had beenforwarded to him from time to time in the form of dispatches andletters, all of which now lay before him, while a certain SergeantGriffin had already been detailed by him to carry out the more hazardouswork of espionage in the city of the enemy. The latter was in a fair wayto report now on the progress of the work and had returned toPhiladelphia for this very purpose.

  Irish Catholics had been found in the British Army at New York, but theyhad been impressed into the service. Sergeant Griffin had spoken to manydeserters who avowed that they had been brought to the colonies againsttheir own will, declaring that they had been "compelled to go on boardthe transports where they were chained down to the ring-bolts and fedwith bread and water; several of whom suffered this torture before theycould be made to yield and sign the papers of enlistment." Inconfirmation of this declaration, he had in his lap a letter written toGeneral Washington by Arthur Lee, June 15, 1777, which read: "Every manof a regiment raised in Ireland last year had to be shipped off tied andbound, and most certainly they will desert more than any troopswhatsoever." To corroborate this claim he had obtained severalclippings, advertisements that had appeared in the New York newspapers,offering rewards for the apprehension of Irish soldiers who had desertedto the rebels.

  The same methods he learned were now being employed in the recruiting ofthe Catholic regiment. Blackmail had been resorted to with splendidresults. In several instances enormous debts had been liquidated infavor of the recruits. Even commissions in the army of His Majesty hadbeen offered as a bounty. There was success, if the few hundred faces inthe ranks could be reckoned as a fair catch, yet the methods ofrecruiting did not begin to justify the fewness of the numbers.

  Just how this idea had taken root, he was at a loss to discover.Certainly not from the disloyalty manifested by the Catholic populationduring the war. The exploits of the famous "Congress' Own" Regimentsmight, he thought, have contributed much to the enemy's scheme. It wascommonly known that two regiments of Catholics from Canada, raised inthat northern province during the winter of 1775-76, had done valiantservice against the British. A great number of the Canadian populationhad welcomed the patriots under Generals Schuyler, Montgomery and Arnoldupon their attempted invasion of the country, and had given muchassistance towards the success of their operations. Inasmuch as many hadsought enlistment in the ranks as volunteers, an opportunity wasfurnished them by an act of Congress on January 20, 1776, authorizingthe formation of two Canadian regiments of soldiers to be known as"Congress' Own." The First was organized by Colonel James Livingston;the Second by Colonel Moses Hazen. Both of these regiments continued inactive service for the duration of the war, and both obtained a vote ofthanks from the American Congress upon its termination.

  Herein, then, must lay the germ of the project of the British Regimentof Roman Catholic Volunteers.

  He sat and considered.

  "You tell me, then," he said quietly, "that this is the state of affairsin New York."

  "Yes, sir," replied the soldier.

  There was a further silence.

  II

  The progress of the work in the city of Philadelphia had been lessevident to him. Certain it was that Anderson was directing his undividedattention to the furtherance of the plan, for which task he had beenadmirably endowed by Nature. That Arnold, too, was greatly interested inthe success of the plot, he already suspected, but in this he had nomore than a suspicion, for he could not discover the least incriminatingobjective evidence against him. There were several whose names had beenassociated with the work; yet these, too, had revealed nothing, whenconfronted with a direct question. And whatever influence he might havehad, whatever lurking suspicions he might have accumulated from thecontributory details, these when simmered down amounted to little ornothing. The plan had not progressed to the extent required. There wasnothing to do but to await further developments.

  This man Anderson was ingenuous. The most striking characteristic abouthim, that towards which and in support of which every energy and everytalent had been schooled and bent, was an intrepid courage. A vast andcomplicated scheme of ambition possessed his whole soul, yet hisdisposition and address generally appeared soft and humane, especiallywhen no political object was at stake.

  During the four or five months spent in the city, he had made a host offriends among all classes of people. His agreeable manner and hisfluency of speech at once gained for him the confidence even of the mostphlegmatic. No man was endowed with more engaging qualities for thework, if it may be assumed that he was engaged solely in the recruitingof a Tory Regiment from among the supporters of the Whigs. Everythingseemed to declare that he was associated with the work. And because hewas associated with it, it progressed.

  The names of several who had yielded allegiance to the opposite sidewere in the hands of Stephen. The Major of the new regiment was aCatholic, John Lynch. So were Lieutenant Eck, Lieutenant Kane, andQuartermaster Nowland. These were at present in New York, whither theyhad journeyed soon after the British occupation of the city. Of thehundred-odd volunteers, who were supposed to constitute the company,little could be learned because of the veil of secrecy which had fromthe very beginning enshrouded the whole movement.

  Pressure had been brought to bear on several, it was discovered, withthe result that there was no alternative left them but to sign thepapers of enlistment. In this Anderson had been materially aided by theMilitary Governor's intimate knowledge of the fortunes and prospects ofthe bulk of the citizenry. To imply this, however, was one thing; toprove it quite another. For whatever strength the accusation might bearin his own mind, he could not forget that it was still a mere suspicion,which must be endorsed by investigation if the people were to beconvinced. And Stephen was unprepared to offer the results of hisinvestigation to a populace which was too indolent and hasty toinvestigate them as facts and to discriminate nicely between the shadesof guilt. Anderson was loved and admired by his countrymen and moreespecially by his countrywomen. Everything, it seemed, would be forgivenhis youth, rank and genius.

  Even Marjorie had been captivated by him, it appeared. The relationshipwhich was beginning to thrive between them he disliked, and some day hewould make that known to her. How attentive he had been to her waseasily recognizable, but to what degree she returned this attention wasanother matter. What she thought of this stranger and to what extent hehad impressed her, he longed to know, for it was weeks since he had laideyes on her; and the last two attempts made by him to see her had foundher in the company of Anderson, once at Shippen's, and again on a ridethrough the country. True, he himself had been absent from town for abrief time, immediately after his court-martial, when he returned toheadquarters to file a report with his Commander-in-chief, and the fewmoments spent with her upon his return was
the last visit. Undoubtedlyhe was a stranger to her now; she was absorbed with the other man.

  Still Stephen wished that he might see her. An insatiable longing filledhis whole soul, like the eternal cravings of the heart for communionwith the Infinite. There was certain situations where a man or womanmust confide in some person to obtain advice or sympathy, or simply tounload the soul, and there was no one more becoming to Stephen than thisgirl. She understood him and could alleviate by her sole presence, notthrough any gift properly made, but by that which radiated from heralone, the great weight which threatened to overwhelm his whole being.Simply to converse with her might constitute the prophecy of a benignexistence.

  He determined to see her that very evening.

  III

  "Marjorie," said Stephen, "of course you've a perfect right to doexactly as you like. But, you know, you did ask my opinion; didn't you?"

  "I did," said Marjorie, frowning. "But I disagree with you. And I thinkyou do him a grave injustice."

  She had been seated in a large comfortable chair in the middle of theside yard when he entered. A ball of black yarn which, with the aid oftwo great needles, she was industriously engaged in converting into anarticle of wearing apparel, lay by her side. Indeed, so engrossed wasshe, that he had opened and closed the gate before her attention wasaroused. She rose immediately, laying her knitting upon the chair, andadvanced to meet him.

  "I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"

  He looked at her.

  "Rather let me ask that question," was his query by way of reply."Already twice have I failed to find you."

  They walked together to the chairs; she to her own, he to a smaller onethat stood over against them.

  "That you called once, I know. Mother informed me."

  "You were similarly engaged on both occasions."

  He brought his chair near to her.

  "With Mr. Anderson?"

  She smiled straight in his face.

  "Of course."

  He, too, smiled.

  "Well!" then after a pause, "do you object?"

  He did not answer. His fingers drummed nervously on the arm of hischair and he looked far up the road.

  "You do not like him?" she asked quickly.

  "It would be impossible for me to now tell you. As a matter of fact, Imyself have been unable to form a definite opinion. I may let you knowlater. Not now."

  A deep sigh escaped her.

  "I should imagine you could read a man at first sight," she exclaimed.

  "I never allowed myself that presumption. Men are best discovered atintervals. They are most natural when off their guard. Habit mayrestrain vice, and passion obscures virtue. I prefer to let them alone."

  She bit her lip, as her manner was, and continued to observe him. Howserious he was! The buoyant, tender, blithesome disposition whichcharacterized his former self, had yielded to a temper of saturninecomplexion, a mien of grave and thoughtful composure. He was analyticand she began to feel herself a simple compound in the hands of anexpert chemist.

  "I am sorry to have caused you a disappointment."

  "Please, let me assure you there is no need of an apology."

  "And you were not disappointed?"

  A smile began to play about the corners of her small mouth. She tried tobe humorous.

  "Perhaps. But not to the extent of requiring an apology."

  "You might have joined us."

  "You know better than that."

  "I mean it. Peggy would have been pleased to have you."

  "Did she say so?"

  "No. But I know that she would."

  "Alas!" He raised his arm in a slight gesture.

  She was knitting now, talking as she did. She paused to raise her eyes.

  "I think you dislike Peggy," she said with evident emphasis.

  "Why?"

  "I scarce know. My instinct, I suppose."

  "I distrust her, if that is what you mean?"

  "Have you had reason?"

  "I cannot answer you now, for which I am very sorry. You will find myreasoning correct at some future time, I hope."

  "Do you approve of my friendship with her?"

  She did not raise her eyes this time, but allowed them to remain fixedupon the needles.

  "It is not mine to decide. You are mistress of your own destinies."

  Her face grew a shade paler, and the look in her eyes deepened.

  "I simply asked your advice, that was all."

  The words hit so hard that he drew his breath. He realized that he hadbeen brusque and through his soul there poured a kind of anger first,then wounded pride, then a sense of crushing pain.

  "I regret having said that," he tried to explain to her. "But I cannottell you what is in my mind. Since you do ask me, I fear Peggy greatly,but I would not say that your friendship with her should cease. Not atpresent, anyhow."

  "Well, did you approve of my going there with Mr. Anderson?"

  "With him? No."

  "Can you tell me the reason?"

  And then he explained briefly to her of his reasons for disliking thisman and of the veil of suspicion and of mystery with which he wassurrounded. He did not think him a suitable companion for her, andwished for her own good that she would see no more of him.

  There was no reply to his observations. On the contrary Marjorie lapsedinto a meditative silence which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as themoments passed. Stephen watched her until the suspense became almostbeyond endurance, wondering what thoughts were coursing through hermind.

  At length he broke the silence with the words recorded at the beginningof the chapter; and Marjorie answered him quietly and deliberately.

  She continued with her knitting.

  IV

  A great melancholy fell upon him, if it were indeed possible for him tobecome more dispirited, against which he was powerless to contend. Therewas revealed to him on the instant a seeming predilection on the part ofMarjorie for this man, Anderson. The longer they conversed, the deeperdid that conviction grow. This made him careless and petulant. Now afeeling of deep regret stole over him because he had been sounsympathetic. In presence of her feeling of grief and disappointment,his pity was aroused.

  "I deeply regret the pain I have caused you," he said to her quietly andkindly. "It was altogether rude of me."

  She bit her lip violently, tremulously, in an effort to restrain theflood of emotion which surged within, which threatened to burst forthwith the pronunciation of the merest syllable.

  She did not reply, but fumbled with the knitted portion of her garment,running its edges through her fingers.

  "I had no intention of speaking of him as I did," he went on. "I wouldnot, did you not ask me."

  "I am not offended."

  "Your composure reveals to me that you have been hurt."

  "I did not mean that you should know it."

  "Very likely. But you could not disguise the fact. I shall give you theassurance, however, that the subject shall not be a topic for discussionby us again. He must not be mentioned."

  "Please! I--I----"

  "It was solely for yourself that I was concerned. Believe me when I saythis. Insofar as I myself am concerned, I am wholly disinterested. Ithought you desired to know and I told you as much as it was possiblefor me to tell. You must ask me no more."

  "He has not revealed this side of his character to me and I have been inhis company on several occasions. Always has he been kind, gentlemanly,sincere, upright."

  Her eyes were centered full upon him, those large brown eyes that seemedto contain her whole being. Whether she was gay or sad, jocose or sober,enthusiastic or despondent, the nature of her feelings could becommunicated solely by her eyes. She need not speak; they spoke for her.

  "You are right in believing every man virtuous until he has provedhimself otherwise," he replied. "There should be one weight and onemeasure. But I regulate my intercourse with men by the oppositestandard. I distrust every man until he has prov
ed himself worthy, andit was that principle which guided me, undoubtedly, in my application ofit to you."

  "Do you consider that upright?"

  "Do not misunderstand me. I do not form a rash judgment of every personI meet. As a matter of fact I arrive at no judgment at all. I deferjudgment until after the investigation, and I beware of him until thisinvestigation has been completed."

  "You are then obliged to live in a world of suspicion."

  "No. Rather in a world of security. How often has the knave paradedunder the banner of innocence! The greatest thieves wear golden chains."

  "I could not live after such manner."

  She became impatient.

  "Were you thrown into daily relation with the world you would soon learnthe art of discrimination. The trusty sentinel lives a life ofsuspicion."

  At length a truce was silently proclaimed. Composure reigned. Theunpleasant episode had to all appearances been obliterated from theirminds. There was even a touch of that old humor dancing in her eyes.

  "Some one has said," she observed, "that 'suspicion is the poison offriendship.'"

  "And a Latin proverb runs, 'Be on such terms with your friend as if youknew he may one day become your enemy.' Friendship, I realize, isprecious and gained only after long days of probation. The tough fibersof the heart constitute its essence, not the soft texture of favors anddreams. We do not possess the friends we imagine, for the world isself-centered."

  "Have you no friends?"

  Now she smiled for the second time, but it was only a smile of humorabout the corners of her mouth.

  "Only those before whom I may be sincere."

  He was serious, inclined to analysis, one might say.

  "Can you expect to find sincerity in others without yourself beingsincere?"

  "No. But my friend possesses my other soul. I think aloud before him. Itdoes not matter. I reveal my heart to him, share my joys, unburden mygrief. There is a simplicity and a wholesomeness about it all. We aremutually sincere."

  "Your test is severe."

  "But its fruits imperishable."

  "I cannot adopt your method," was the deliberate reply as she began togather together her ball and needles.

  "Let's leave it at that."

  And they left it.

  V

  Long after he had gone she sat there until it was well into the evening,until the stars began to blink and nod and wrap themselves in the greatcloak of the night, as they kept a silent vigil over the subdued silencewhich had settled down upon the vast earth and herself.

  The longer she sat and considered, the more melancholy did she become.Stephen was displeased with her conduct and made no effort to concealit, inflicting only the greater wound by his ambiguous and incisiveremarks. His apparent unconcern and indifference of manner frightenedher, and she saw, or she thought she saw a sudden deprivation of thatesteem with which she was vain enough to presuppose he was wont toregard her. And yet he was mistaken, greatly mistaken. Furthermore, hewas unfair to himself and unjust to her in the misinterpretation of herbehavior. His displeasure pained her beyond endurance.

  In her relations with John Anderson, she had been genuinely sincere bothwith herself and with Stephen. The latter had asked her to help him; andthis she was trying to do in her own way. That there was somethingsuspicious about Anderson, she knew; but whether the cause lay in hismanner of action or in the possession of documentary evidence, she couldnot so much as conjecture. What more apt method could be employed thanto associate with him in the hope that at some time or other importantinformation might be imparted to her? She did not intend to play thepart of the spy; still if that was the role in which she hoped to findAnderson, she was ready to assume a similar role for the very purpose ofoutwitting him and defeating him on his own ground. If Stephen wouldonly trust her. Oh, dear! And she wrung her hands in abject despair.

  Little by little her experiences of the summer just past came before herwith a vividness which her experience with Stephen served only tointensify. First, there was the night of the Governor's Ball. He hadcome into her life there, filling a vacancy not realized before.Hitherto, she had been quite content in the company of almost any one,and especially with those of the sterner sex. But with the advent ofthis dashing young officer she began to experience a set of newsensations. The incompleteness of her life was brought before her.

  He seemed to perfect her being, sharing her pleasures, lessening herwoes, consoling her heart. Still, there was one office that he hadfailed to perform; he was not obsequious. Not that he was ever wantingin attention and deferential courtesy, or that he ever failed to betraya warmth of feeling or a generous devotion; but his manner was prosaic,thoroughly practical both in action and in expression. He spoke histhoughts directly and forcibly. He was never enthusiastic, neverdemonstrative, never warm or impulsive, but definite, well-ordered,positive. It was quite true that he was capable of bestowing service tothe point of heroism when the occasion required, but such a quality wasnot spontaneous, because his heart, while intensely sympathetic,appeared cold and absolutely opposed to any sort of outburst. He was tooprudent, too wise, too thoughtful, it seemed, acting only when sure ofhis ground, turning aside from all obstacles liable to irritate orconfuse him.

  Then John Anderson came and initiated her into a newer world. Heappeared to worship her, and tried to make her feel his devotion in hisevery act. He was gallant, dignified, charming, lavishing attention uponher to the point of prodigality. He said things which were pleasant tohear, and equally as pleasant to remember. What girl would not beattracted by such engaging personal qualities; but Marjorie decided thathe was too much of the Prince Charming whose gentle arts proved to behis sole weapons for the major encounters of life.

  Hence she was not fascinated by his soft accomplishments. He interestedher, but she readily perceived that there was not in him that realdepth which she had found in Stephen. True, he made her feel more like asuperior being than as a mere equal; he yielded ever to her slightestwhim, and did not discomfort her with weighty arguments. But her acumenwas such that she was enabled to penetrate the gloss and appraise theman at his true value. The years spent at her mother's knee, thenumberless hours in her father's shop where she came in contact withmany men, her own temperament, prudent by nature, enabled her toperceive at a glance the contrast between a man of great and noble heartclothed in severe garments, and the charlatan garbed in the brightfinery of festal dress.

  And now the boomerang against which she was defending herself struck herfrom a most unexpected angle. That Stephen should misunderstand hermotives was preposterous; yet there was no other inference to be drawnfrom the tone of his conversation during the few distressful minutes ofhis last visit. In all probability, he had gone away laboring under thehateful impression that she was untrue, that she had permitted her heartto be taken captive by the first knight errant who had entered thelists. And what was more, the subject would never again be alluded to.He had promised that; and she knew that he was absolute in hisdeterminations. His groundless displeasure disconcerted her greatly.

  Whether it became her to take the initiative in the healing of thebreach which she felt growing wide between them, or simply to await thedevelopment of the course of action she had chosen to pursue, now becamea problem to her perplexed mind. So much depended upon the view he wouldtake of the whole situation that it was necessary for him to understandfrom the very beginning. She would write him. But, no! That might bepremature. She would wait and tell him, so great was her assurance thatall would be well. She would tell him of her great and impassionatedesire to be of assistance to him; she would put into words her analysisof this man's character, this man about whom he himself had first castthe veil of suspicion; she would relate her experience with him. Shesmiled to herself as she contemplated how pleased he would be once thefrown of bewilderment had disappeared from his countenance.

  "Marjorie! Dost know the hour is late?"

  "Yes, Mother! I am coming directly."

&nb
sp; It was late, though she scarce knew it. Gathering her things, shebrought the chairs into the house.