|
“The good old rule, the simple plan, |
A great merchant may have more than one way of doing business, and I would not undertake to account for every barrel and box that was unladen at that little landing. Nor would I be surprised to encounter sometime, among the ghosts of Philipse Manor Hall, that of the immortal Kidd himself, seated at dead of night, across the table from the first lord of the manor, before a blazing log in the seven-foot fireplace, drinking liquor too good for the church-founding lord to have questioned whence it came; and leaving the next day without an introduction to the family.
This 1682 part of the house, in facing south, had the Albany road at its left, the Hudson at its right, and at its front the lane that ran by the Neperan, from the road to the river. Thus was the house for sixty-three years. When the first lord’s grandson, Elizabeth’s grandfather, in 1745 made the addition at the north, what was the east gable-end of the old house became part of the east front of the completed mansion. The east rooms of the old house were thus the southeast rooms of the completed mansion, and, being common to both fronts, gained by the change of relation, becoming the principal parlor and the principal chamber. The east parlor, 37 entered on the west from the old hall, was entered on the north from the new hall; and the new hall was almost a duplicate of the old, but its ceiling decorations and the mahogany balustrade of its stairway were the more elaborate. This stairway, like its fellow in the old hall, ascended, with two turns, to a hall in the second story. Besides the new halls, the addition included, on the first floor, a large dining-room and the great kitchen; on the second floor, five sleeping-chambers, and, in the space beneath the roof-tree, dormitories for servants and slaves. Elizabeth’s grandfather gave the house the balustrade that crowns its roof from its northern to its southern, and thence to its western end. He had the interior elaborately finished. The old part and its decorations were Dutch, but now things in the province were growing less Dutch and more English,—like the Philipse name and blood themselves,—and so the new embellishments were English. The second lord imported marble mantels from England, had the walls beautifully wainscoted, adorned the ceilings richly with arabesque work in wood. He laid out, in the best English fashion, a lawn between the eastern front and the Albany post-road. He it was who married Joanna, daughter of Governor Anthony Brockholst, of a very ancient family of Lancashire, England; and who left provision for the founding of St. John’s Church, across 38 the Neperan from the manor-house, and for the endowment of the glebe thereof. And in his long time the manor-house flourished and grew venerable and multiplied its associations. He had five children: Frederick (Elizabeth’s father), Philip, Susannah, Mary (the beauty, wooed of Washington in 1756, ’tis said, and later wed by Captain Roger Morris), and Margaret; and, at this manor-house alone, white servants thirty, and black servants twenty; and a numerous tenantry, happy because in many cases the yearly rent was but nominal, being three or four pounds or a pair of hens or a day’s work,—for the Philipses, thanks to trade and to office-holding under the Crown, and to the beneficent rule whereby money multiplies itself, did not have to squeeze a living out of the tillers of their land. The lord of the manor held court leet and baron at the house of a tenant, and sometimes even inflicted capital punishment.
In 1751, the second lord followed his grandfather to the family vault in Sleepy Hollow Church. With the accession of Elizabeth’s father, then thirty-one years old, began the splendid period of the mansion; then the panorama of which it was both witness and setting wore its most diverse colors. The old contest between English and French on this continent was approaching its glorious climax. Whether they were French emissaries coming down from Quebec, by the Hudson or by horse, or English and colonial 39 officers going up from New York in command of troops, they must needs stop and pay their respects to the lord of the manor of Philipsburgh, and drink his wine, and eat his venison, and flirt with his stunning sisters. Soldiers would go from New York by the post-road to Philipsburgh, and then embark at the little landing, to proceed up the Hudson, on the way to be scalped by the red allies of the French or mowed down by Montcalm’s gunners before impregnable Ticonderoga. Many were the comings and goings of the scarlet coat and green. The Indian, too, was still sufficiently plentiful to contribute much to the environing picturesqueness. But, most of all, in those days, the mansion got its character from the festivities devised by its own inmates for the entertainment of the four hundred of that time.
For Elizabeth’s mother, of the same given name, was “very fond of display,” and in her day the family “lived showily.” Her husband (who was usually called Colonel Philipse, from his title in the militia, and rarely if ever called lord) had the house refurnished. It was he who had the princely terraces made on the slope between the mansion and the Hudson, and who had new gardens laid out and adorned with tall avenues of box and rarest fruit-trees and shrubs. Doubtless his deer, in their picketed enclosure, were a sore temptation to the country marksmen who 40 passed that way. Lady, or Madam, or Mrs. Philipse, the colonel’s wife, bedazzled the admiring inhabitants of West Chester County in many ways, but there is a difference between authorities as to whether it was she that used to drive four superb black horses over the bad roads of the county, or whether it was her mother-in-law, the second lord’s wife. Certainly it was the latter that was killed by a fall from a carriage, and certainly both had fine horses and magnificent coaches, and drove over bad roads,—for all roads were bad in those days, even in Europe, save those the Romans left.
Of all the gay and hospitable occasions that brought, through the mansion’s wide doors, courtly gentlemen and high-and-mighty ladies, from their coaches, sleighs, horses, or Hudson sloops, perhaps none saw more feasting and richer display of ruffles and brocade than did the wedding of Mary Philipse and Captain Morris, seven years after the death of her father, and two after the marriage of her brother. It was on the afternoon of Sunday, Jan. 15, 1758. In the famous east parlor, which has had much mention and will have more in course of this narrative, was raised a crimson canopy emblazoned with the Philipse crest,—a crowned golden demi-lion rampant, upon a golden coronet. Though the weather was not severe, there was snow on the ground, and the guests began to drive up in sleighs, under the white trees, at two o’clock. At 41 three arrived the Rev. Henry Barclay, rector of Trinity, New York, and his assistant, Mr. Auchmuty. At half-past three the beauteous Mary (did so proud a heart-breaker blush, I wonder?) and the British captain stood under the crimson canopy and gold, and were united, “in the presence of a brilliant assembly,” says the old county historian.[1] Miss Barclay, Miss Van Cortlandt, and Miss De Lancey were the bridesmaids, and the groomsmen were Mr. Heathcote (of the family of the lords of the manor of Scarsdale), Captain Kennedy (of Number One, Broadway), and Mr. Watts. No need to report here who were “among those present.” The wedding did not occur yesterday, and the guests will not be offended at the omission of their names; but one of them was Acting Governor De Lancey. Colonel Philipse—wearing the ancestral gold chain and jewelled badge of the keepers of the deer forests of Bohemia—gave the bride away, and with her went a good portion of the earth’s surface, and much money, jewelry, and plate.
After the wedding came the feast, and the guests—or most of them—stayed so late they were not sorry for the brilliant moonlight of the night that set in upon their feasting. And now the legend! In the midst of the feast, there appeared at the door of the banquet-hall a tall Indian, with a scarlet blanket close about him, and in solemn tones quoth he, 42 “Your possessions shall pass from you when the eagle shall despoil the lion of his mane.” Thereupon he disappeared, of course, as suddenly as he had come, and the way in which historians have treated this legend shows how little do historians apply to their work the experiences of their daily lives,—such an experience, for instance, as that of ignoring some begging Irishwoman’s request for “a few pennies in the Lord’s name,” and thereupon receiving a volley of hair-raising curses and baleful predictions. ’Tis easy to believe in the Indian and the prophecy of a passing of possessions, even though it was fulfilled; but the time-clause involving the eagle and the lion was doubtless added after the bird had despoiled the beast.
It was years and years afterward, and when and because the eagle had decided to attempt the said despoiling, that there was a change of times at Philipse Manor Hall. Meanwhile had young Frederick, and Maria, and Elizabeth, and their brothers and sisters arrived on the scene. What could one have expected of the ease-loving, beauty-loving, book-loving, luxury-loving, garden-loving, and wide-girthed lord of the manor—connected by descent, kinship, and marriage with royal office-holding—but Toryism? In fact, nobody did expect else of him, for though he tried in 1775 to conceal his sympathy with the cause of the King, the powers in revolt 43 inferred it, and took measures to deter him from actively aiding the British forces. His removal to Hartford, his return to the manor-house,—where he was for awhile, in the fall of 1776, at the time of the battle of White Plains,—his memorable business trip to New York, and his parole-breaking continuance there, heralded the end of the old régime in Philipse Manor Hall. The historians say that at that time of Colonel Philipse’s last stay at the hall, Washington quartered there for awhile, and occupied the great southwestern chamber. Doubtless Washington did occupy that chamber once upon a time, but his itinerary and other circumstances are against its having been immediately before or immediately after the battle of White Plains. Some of the American officers were there about the time. As for the colonel’s family, it did not abandon the house until 1777. With the occasions when, during the first months of Revolutionary activity in the county, use was sought of the secret closets and the underground passage thoughtfully provided by the earlier Philipses in days of risk from Indians, fear of Frenchmen, and dealings with pirates, this history has naught to do.
In 1777, then, the family took a farewell view of the old house, and somewhat sadly, more resentfully, wended by familiar landmarks to New York,—to await there a joyous day of returning, when the 44 King’s regiments should have scattered the rebels and hanged their leaders. John Williams, steward of the manor, was left to take care of the house against that day, with one white housemaid, who was of kin to him, and one black slave, a man. The outside shutters of the first story, the inside shutters above, were fastened tight; the bolts of the ponderous mahogany doors were strengthened, the stables and mills and outbuildings emptied and locked. Much that was precious in the house went with the family and horses and servants to New York. Yet be sure that proper means of subsistence for Williams and his two helpers were duly stowed away, for the faithful steward had to himself the discharge of that matter.
So wholesale a departure went with much bustle, and it was not till he returned from seeing the numerous party off, and found himself alone with the maid and the slave in the great entrance-hall, which a few minutes before had been noisy with voices, that Williams felt to the heart the sudden loneliness of the place. The face of Molly, the maid, was white and ready for weeping, and there was a gravity on the chocolate visage of black Sam that gave the steward a distinctly tremulous moment. Perhaps he recalled the prediction of the Indian, and had a flash of second sight, and perceived that the third lord of the manor was to be the last. 45 Howbeit, he cleared his throat and set black Sam to laying in fire-wood as for a siege, and Molly to righting the disorder caused by the exodus; betook himself cellarward, and from a hidden place drew forth a bottle of an old vintage, and comforted his solitude. He was a snug, honest, discreet man of forty, was the steward, slim but powerful, looking his office, besides knowing and fulfilling it.
But, as the months passed, he became used to the solitude, and the routine of life in the closed-up, memory-haunted old house took on a certain charm. The living was snug enough in what parts of the mansion the steward and his two servitors put to their own daily use. As for the other parts, the great dark rooms and entrance-halls, we may be sure that when the steward went the rounds, and especially after a visit to the wine-cellar, he found them not so empty, but peopled with the vague and shifting images of the many beings, young and old, who had filled the house with life in brighter days. Then, if ever, did noise of creaking stair or sound as of human breath, or, perchance, momentary vision of flitting face against the dark, betray the present ghost of some old-time habitué of the mansion.
When the raiding and foraging and marauding began in the county, the manor-house was not molested. The partisan warfare had not yet reached its magnitude. After the battle of White Plains 46 in 1776, the British had retained New York City, while the main American army, leaving a small force above, had gone to New Jersey. Late in 1777, the British main army, leaving New York garrisoned, had departed to contest with the Americans for Philadelphia. Not until July, 1778, after Monmouth battle, did the British main army return to New York, and the American forces form the great arc, with their chief camp in upper West Chester County. Then was great increase of foray and pillage. The manor-house was of course exempt from harm at the hands of King’s troops and Tory raiders, while it was protected from American regulars by Washington’s policy against useless destruction, and from the marauding “Skinners” by its nearness to the British lines and by the solidity of its walls, doors, and shutters. Its gardens suffered, its picket fences and gate fastenings were tampered with, its orchards prematurely plucked. But its trees were spared by the British foragers, and the house itself was no longer in demand as officers’ quarters, being too near King’s Bridge for safe American occupancy, but not sufficiently near for British. Hessians and Tories, though, patrolled the near-by roads, and sometimes Continental troops camped in the neighboring hills. In 1778, the American Colonel Gist, whose corps was then at the foot of Boar Hill, north of the manor-house, was 47 paying his court to the handsome widow Babcock, in the parsonage, when he was surprised by a force of yagers, rangers, and Loyalist light horse, and got away in the nick of time.[2] The parsonage, unlike the manor-house, was often visited by officers on their way hither and thither, but I will not say it was for this reason that Miss Sally Williams, the sister of Colonel Philipse’s wife, preferred living in the parsonage with the Babcocks rather than in the great deserted mansion.
On a dark November afternoon, Williams had sent black Sam to the orchard for some winter apples, and the slave, after the fashion of his race, was taking his time over the errand. The shades of evening gathered while the steward was making his usual rounds within the mansion. Molly, whose housewifely instincts ever asserted themselves, had of her own accord made a dusting tour of the rooms and halls. She was on the first landing of the stairway in the east hall, just about to finish her task in the waning light admitted by the window over the landing and by the fanlight over the front door, when, as she applied her cloth to the mahogany balustrade, the door of the east parlor opened, and Williams came out of that dark apartment.
“Lord, Molly!” he said, a moment later, having started at suddenly beholding her. “I thought you were a ghost! It’s time to get supper, I think, 48 from the look of the day outside. I’ll have to make a light.”
From a closet in the side of the staircase he took a candle, flint, and tinder, talking the while to Molly, as she rubbed the balusters. Having produced a tiny candle-flame that did not light up half the hall, Williams started towards the dining-room, but stopped at a distant sound of galloping horses, which were evidently coming down the Albany road. The steward and the maid exchanged conjectures as to whether this meant a British patrol or “Rebel” dragoons, “Skinners” or Hessian yagers, Highlanders, or Loyalist light horse; and then observed from the sound that the horses had turned aside into the Mile Square road.
But now came a new sound of horses, and though it was of only a few, and those walking, it gave Williams quite a start, for the footfalls were manifestly approaching the mansion. They as manifestly stopped before that very hill. And then came a sharp knock on the mahogany door.
“See who it is,” whispered Molly.
Williams hesitated. The knock was repeated.
“Who’s there?” called out Williams.
There was an answer, but the words could not be made out.
“Who?” repeated Williams.
This time the answer was clear enough.
“It’s I, Williams! Don’t keep me standing here in the wind all night.”
“It’s Miss Elizabeth!” cried Molly; and Williams, in a kind of daze of astonishment, hastily unlocked, unbolted, and threw open the door.
A rush of wind came in from the outer gloom and almost blew out the candle. Williams held up his hand to protect the flame and stepped aside from before the doorway.
The wind was promptly followed by Elizabeth, who strode in with the air that a king might show on reentering one of his palaces, still holding her whip in her gloved hand. Behind her came Colden, the picture of moody dejection. When Cuff had entered with the portmanteaus, Williams, seeing but three horses without, closed the door, locked it, and looked with inquiry and bewilderment at Elizabeth.
“Br-r-r-r!” she ejaculated. “Light up my chamber, Molly, and have a fire in it; then make some hot tea, and get me something to eat.”
Elizabeth’s impetuosity sent the open-mouthed maid flying up-stairs to execute the first part of the order, whereupon the mistress turned to the wondering steward.
“I’ve come to spend a week at the manor-house, Williams. Cuff, take those to my room.”
The black boy, with the portmanteaus, followed in the way Molly had taken, but with less rapidity. By this time Williams had recovered somewhat from his surprise, and regained his voice and something of his stewardly manner.
“I scarcely expected any of the family out from New York these times, miss. There——”
“I suppose not!” Elizabeth broke in. “Have some one put away the horses, Williams, or they’ll be shivering. It’s mighty cold for the time of year.”
“I’ll go myself, ma’am. There’s only black Sam, you know, and he isn’t back from the orchard. I sent him to get some apples.” And the steward set the candlestick on the newel post of the stairway, and started for the door.
“No, let Cuff go,” said Elizabeth, sitting down on a settle that stood with its back to the side of the staircase. “You start a fire in the room next mine, for aunt Sally. She’ll be over from the parsonage in a few minutes.”
Williams thereupon departed in quest of the stable key, inwardly devoured by a mighty curiosity as to the wherefore of Elizabeth’s presence here in the company of none but her affianced, and also the wherefore of that gentleman’s manifest depression of spirits. His curiosity was not lessened when the major called after him:
“Tell Cuff he may feed my horse, but not take 52 the saddle off. I must ride back to New York as soon as the beast is rested.”
“Why,” said Elizabeth to Colden, “you may stay for a bite of supper.”
“No, thank you! I am not hungry.”
“A glass of wine, then,” said the girl, quite heedless of his tone; “if there is any left in the house.”
“No wine, I thank you!” Colden stood motionless, too far back in the hall to receive much light from the feeble candle, like a shadowy statue of the sulks.
“As you will!”
Whereupon Elizabeth, as if she had satisfied her conscience regarding what was due from her in the name of hospitality, rose, and opened the door to the east parlor.
“Ugh! How dark and lonely the house is! No wonder aunt Sally chose to live at the parsonage.” After one look into the dark apartment, she closed the door. “Well, I’ll warm up the place a bit. Sorry you can’t stay with us, major.”
“It is only you who send me away,” said Colden, dismally and reproachfully. “I could have got longer leave of absence. You let me escort you here, because no gentleman of your family will lend himself to your reckless caprice. And then, having no further present use for me, you send me about my business!”
Elizabeth, preferring to pace the hall until her chamber should be heated, and her aunt should arrive, was striking her cloak with her riding-whip at each step; not that the cloak needed dusting, but as a method of releasing surplus energy.
“But I do have further present use for you,” she said. “You are going back to New York to inform my dear timid parents and sisters and brothers that I’ve arrived here safe. They’ll not sleep till you tell them so.”
“One of your slaves might bear that news as well,” quoth the major.
“Well, are you not forever calling yourself my slave? Besides, my devotion to King George won’t let me weaken his forces by holding one of his officers from duty longer than need be.”
But Colden was not to be cheered by pleasantry.
“What a man you are! So cross at my sending you back that you’ll neither eat nor drink before going. Pray don’t pout, Colden. ’Tis foolish!”
“I dare say! A man in love does many foolish things!”
The utterance of this great and universal truth had not time to receive comment from Elizabeth before Cuff reappeared, with the stable key; and at the same instant, a rather delicate, inoffensive knock was heard on the front door.
“That must be aunt Sally,” said Elizabeth. 54 “Let her in, Cuff. Then go and stable the horses. My poor Cato will freeze!”
It was indeed Miss Sarah Williams, and in a state of breathlessness. She had been running, perhaps to escape the unseemly embraces of the wind, which had taken great liberties with her skirts,—liberties no less shocking because of the darkness of the evening; for though De la Rochefoucauld has settled it that man’s alleged courage takes a vacation when darkness deprives it of possible witnesses, no one will accuse an elderly maiden’s modesty of a like eclipse.
“My dear child, what could have induced you——” were her first words to Elizabeth; but her attention was at that point distracted by seeing Cuff, outside the threshold, about to pull the door shut. “Don’t close the door yet, boy. Some one is coming.”
Cuff thereupon started on his task of stabling the three horses, leaving the door open. The flame of the candle on the newel post was blown this way and that by the in-rushing wind.
“It’s old Mr. Valentine,” explained Miss Sally to Elizabeth. “He offered to show me over from the parsonage, where he happened to be calling, so I didn’t wait for Mrs. Babcock’s boy——”
“You found Mr. Valentine pleasanter company, I suppose, aunty, dear,” put in Elizabeth, who spared neither age nor dignity. “He’s a widower again, isn’t he?”
Miss Sally blushed most becomingly. Her plump cheeks looked none the worse for this modest suffusion.
“Fie, child! He’s eighty years old. Though, to be sure, the attentions of a man of his experience and judgment aren’t to be considered lightly.”
Those were the days when well-bred people could—and often did, naturally and without effort—improvise grammatical sentences of more than twelve words, in the course of ordinary, every-day talk.
“We started from the parsonage together,” went on Miss Sally, “but I was so impatient I got ahead. He doesn’t walk as briskly as he did twenty years ago.”
Yet briskly enough for his years did the octogenarian walk in through the little pillared portico a moment later. Such deliberation as his movements had might as well have been the mark of a proper self-esteem as the effect of age. He was a slender but wiry-looking old gentleman, was Matthias Valentine, of Valentine’s Hill; in appearance a credit to the better class of countrymen of his time. His white hair was tied in a cue, as if he were himself a landowner instead of only a manorial tenant. Yet no common tenant was he. His father, a dragoon in the French service, had come down from Canada and settled on Philipse Manor, and Matthias had been proprietor of Valentine’s Hill, renting from 56 the Philipses in earlier days than any one could remember. His grandsons now occupied the Hill, and the old man was in the full enjoyment of the leisure he had won. His rather sharp countenance, lighted by honest gray eyes, was a mixture of good-humor, childlike ingenuousness, and innocent jocosity. The neatness of his hair, his carefully shaven face, and the whole condition of his brown cloth coat and breeches and worsted stockings, denoted a fastidiousness rarely at any time, and particularly in the good (or bad) old days, to be found in common with rustic life and old age. Did some of the dandyism of the French dragoon survive in the old Philipsburgh farmer?
He carried a walking-stick in one hand, a lighted lantern in the other. After bowing to the people in the hall, he set down his lantern, closed the door and bolted it, then took up his lantern, blew out the flame thereof, and set it down again.
“Whew!” he puffed, after his exertion. “Windy night, Miss Elizabeth! Windy night, Major Colden! Winter’s going to set in airly this year. There ain’t been sich a frosty November since ’64, when the river was froze over as fur down as Spuyten Duyvel.”
There was in the old man’s high-pitched voice a good deal of the squeak, but little of the quaver, of senility.
“You’ll stay to supper, I hope, Mr. Valentine.”
From Elizabeth this was a sufficient exhibition of graciousness. She then turned her back on the two men and began to tell her aunt of her arrangements.
“Thankee, ma’am,” said old Valentine, whose sight did not immediately acquaint him, in the dim candle-light, with Elizabeth’s change of front; wherefore he continued, placidly addressing her back: “I wouldn’t mind a glass and a pipe with friend Williams afore trudging back to the Hill.”
He then walked over to the disconsolate Colden, and, with a very gay-doggish expression, remarked in an undertone:
“Fine pair o’ girls yonder, major?”
He had known Colden from the time of the latter’s first boyhood visits to the manor, and could venture a little familiarity.
“Girls?” blurted the major, startled out of his meditations.
The old country beau chuckled.
“We all know what’s betwixt you and the niece. How about the aunt and me taking a lesson from you two, eh?”
Even the gloomy officer could not restrain a momentary smile.
“What, Mr. Valentine? Do you seriously think of marrying?”
“Why not? I’ve been married afore, hain’t I? What’s to hinder?”
“Why, there’s the matter of age.” Colden rather enjoyed being inconsiderate of people’s feelings.
“Oh, the lady is not so old,” said the octogenarian, placidly, casting a judicial, but approving look at the commanding figure of Miss Sally.
Then, as he had been for a considerable time on his legs, having walked over from the Hill to the parsonage that afternoon, and as at best his knees bent when he stood, he sat down on the settle by the staircase.
Miss Sally, though she knew it useless to protest further against Elizabeth’s caprice, nevertheless felt it her duty to do so, especially as Major Colden would probably carry to the family a report of her attitude towards that caprice.
“Did you ever hear of such rashness, major? A young girl like Elizabeth coming out here in time of war, when this neutral ground between the lines is overridden and foraged to death, and deluged with blood by friend as well as foe? La me! I can’t understand her, if she is my sister’s child.”
“Why, aunt Sally, you stay out here through it all,” said Elizabeth, not as much to depreciate the dangers as to give her aunt an opportunity of posing as a very courageous person.
Miss Sally promptly accepted the opportunity. 59 “Oh,” said she, with a mien of heroic self-sacrifice, “I couldn’t let poor Grace Babcock stay at the parsonage with nobody but her children; besides I’m not Colonel Philipse’s daughter, and who cares whether I’m loyal to the King or not? But a girl like you isn’t made for the dangers and privations we’ve had to put up with out here since the King’s troops have occupied New York, and Washington’s rebel army has held the country above. I’m surprised the family let her come, or that you’d countenance it by coming with her, major.”
“We all opposed it,” said Colden, with a sigh. “But—you know Elizabeth!”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth herself with cheerful nonchalance, “Elizabeth always has her way. I was hungry for a sight of the place, and the more the old house is in danger, the more I love it. I’m here for a week, and that ends it. The place doesn’t seem to have suffered any. They haven’t even quartered troops here.”
“Not since the American officers stayed here in the fall o’ ’76,” put in old Mr. Valentine, from the settle. “I reckon you’ll be safe enough here, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Of course I shall. Why, our troops patrol all this part of the country, Lord Cathcart told us at King’s Bridge, and we have naught to fear from them.”
“No, the British foragers won’t dare treat Philipse 60 Manor-house as they do the homes of some of their loyal friends,” said Miss Sally, who was no less proud of her relationship with the Philipses, because it was by marriage and not by blood. “But the horrible ”Skinners,“ who don’t spare even the farms of their fellow rebels—”
“Bah!” said Elizabeth. “The scum of the earth! Williams has weapons here, and with him and the servants I’ll defend the place against all the rebel cut-throats in the county.”
The major thought to make a last desperate attempt to dissuade Elizabeth from remaining.
“That’s all well enough,” said he; “but there are the rebel regulars, the dragoons. They’ll be raiding down to our very lines, one of these days, if only in retaliation. You know how Lord Cornwallis’s party under General Grey, over in Jersey, the other night, killed a lot of Baylor’s cavalry,—Mrs. Washington’s Light Horse, they called the troop. And the Hessians made a great foray on the rebel families this side the river.”
“Ay,” chirped old Valentine; “but the American Colonel Butler, and their Major Lee, of Virginia, fell on the Hessian yagers ’tween Dobbs’s Ferry and Tarrytown, and killed ever so many of ’em,—and I wasn’t sorry for that, neither!”
“Oho!” said Colden, “you belong to the opposition.”
“Oh, I’m neither here nor there,” replied the old man. “But they say that there Major Lee, of Virginia, is the gallantest soldier in Washington’s army. He’d lead his men against the powers of Satan if Washington gave the word. Light Horse Harry, they call him,—and a fine dashing troop o’ light horse he commands.”
“No more dashing, I’ll wager, than some of ours,” said Elizabeth, whose mood for the moment permitted her to talk with reason and moderation; “not even counting the Germans. And as for leaders, what do you say to Simcoe, of the Queen’s Rangers, or Emmerick, or Tarleton, or”—turning to Colden—“your cousin James De Lancey, of this county, major?”
The major, notwithstanding his Toryism, did not enter with enthusiasm into Elizabeth’s admiration for these brave young cavalry leaders. Staten Island and East New Jersey had not offered him as great opportunities for distinction as they had had. It was, therefore, Miss Sally who next spoke.
“Well, Heaven knows there are enough on either side to devastate the land and rob us of comfort and peace. One wakes in the middle of the night, at the clatter of horses riding by like the wind, and wonders whether it’s friend or foe, and trembles till they’re out of hearing, for fear the door is to be broken in or the house fired. And the sound of shots 62 in the night, and the distant glare of flames when some poor farmer’s home is burned over his head!”
“Ay,” added Mr. Valentine, “and all the cattle and crops go to the foragers, so it’s no use raising any more than you can hide away for your own larder.”
Elizabeth was beginning to be bored, and saw nothing to gain from a continuation of these recitals. Doubtless, by this time, her room was lighted and warm. So, thoughtless of Colden, she mounted the first step of the stairway, and said:
“I have no doubt Williams has contrived to hide away enough provisions for our use. So I sha’n’t suffer from hunger, and as for Lee’s Light Horse, I defy them and all other rebels. Come, aunt Sally!”
She had ascended as far as to the fourth step of the stairway, and Miss Sally was about to follow, when there was heard, above the wind’s moaning, another sound of galloping horses. Like the previous similar sound, it came from the north.
Elizabeth stopped and stood on the fourth step. Miss Sally raised her finger to bid silence. Colden’s attitude became one of anxious attention, while he dropped his hat on the settle and drew his cloak close about him, so that it concealed his uniform, sword, and pistol. The galloping continued.
When time came for it to turn off eastward, as it 63 would do should the riders take the road to Mile Square, it did not so. Instead, as the sound unmistakably indicated, it came on down the post-road.
“Hessians, perhaps!” Miss Sally whispered.
“Or De Lancey’s Cowboys,” said Valentine, but not in a whisper.
Elizabeth cast a sharp look at the old man, as if to show disapproval of his use of the Whigs’ nickname for De Lancey’s troop. But the octogenarian did not quail.
“They’re riding towards the manor-house,” he added, a moment later.
“Let us hope they’re friends,” said Colden, in a tone low and slightly unsteady.
Elizabeth disdained to whisper.
“Maybe it is Lee’s Light Horse,” she said, in her usual voice, but ironically, addressing Valentine. “In that case we should tremble for our lives, I suppose.”
“Whoever they are, they’ve stopped before the house!” said Miss Sally, in quite a tremble.
There was a noise of horses pawing and snorting outside, of directions being given rapidly, and of two or three horses leaving the main band for another part of the grounds. Then was heard a quick, firm step on the porch floor, and in the same instant a sharp, loud knock on the door.
No one in the hall moved; all looked at Elizabeth.
“A very valiant knock!” said she, with more 64 irony. “It certainly must be Lee’s Light Horse. Will you please open the door, Colden?”
“What?” ejaculated Colden.
“Certainly,” said Elizabeth, turning on the stairway, so as to face the door; “to show we’re not afraid.”
Jack Colden looked at her a moment demurringly, then went to the door, undid the fastenings, and threw it open, keeping his cloak close about him and immediately stepping back into the shadow.
A handsome young officer strode in, as if ’twere a mighty gust of wind that sent him. He wore a uniform of blue with red facings,—a uniform that had seen service,—was booted and spurred, without greatcoat or cloak. A large pistol was in his belt, and his left hand rested on the hilt of a sword. He swept past Colden, not seeing him; came to a stop in the centre of the hall, and looked rapidly around from face to face.
“Your servant, ladies and gentlemen!” he said, with a swift bow and a flourish of his dragoon’s hat. His eye rested on Elizabeth.
“Who are you?” she demanded, coldly and imperiously, from the fourth step.
“I’m Captain Peyton, of Lee’s Light Horse,” said he.
The Peytons of Virginia were descended from a younger son of the Peytons of Pelham, England, of which family was Sir Edward Peyton, of Pelham, knight and baronet. Sir Edward’s relative, the first American Peyton, settled in Westmoreland County. Within one generation the family had spread to Stafford County, and within another to Loudoun County also. Thus it befell that there was a Mr. Craven Peyton, of Loudoun County, justice of the peace, vestryman, and chief warden of Shelburne Parish. He was the father of nine sons and two daughters. One of the sons was Harry.
This Harry grew up longing to be a soldier. Military glory was his ambition, as it had been Washington’s; but not as a mere provincial would he be satisfied to excel. He would have a place as a regular officer, in an army of the first importance, on the fields of Europe. Before the Revolution, Americans were, like all colonials, very loyal to their English King. Therefore would Harry Peyton be content with naught less than a King’s commission in the King’s army.