Peggy Owen and Liberty Part 22

Peggy found herself running with the others. In all her short life she had never been so possessed by blind, unreasoning terror as she was at that moment. When at length tree and sky, and objects resumed their normal relation, she found that she and Sally were clinging to each other, and sobbing convulsively. And Sally was saying something. Peggy could not comprehend at first, but presently the words came to her clearly:

"We must go back, Peggy. We must go back."

"Why?" whispered Peggy, her voice filled with the horror of the scenes she had witnessed.

"Because, because," sobbed Sally, "there must be wounded. Oh, the poor, poor fellows!"

Peggy made a violent effort to collect herself.

"Yes," she said. "Thee is right, Sally. We must go back."

Soon they regained a degree of composure, and then they turned back.

When again they came into the village, or rather the place where the village had been, the enemy had gone, but the destruction was complete. Not a dwelling stood, the salt works, the grist-mills, the lumber mills, even the little boats of the fishermen had been destroyed. Of that busy, lively, little town not a vestige remained.

Shudderingly but with the resolution to be of service, if service should be necessary, the two girls made their way to the spot where the blockhouse had stood. As they drew near they saw the form of a woman moving among the bodies of the dead. She limped slightly, and they knew it was Nurse Johnson.

"Friend Nurse! Oh, Friend Nurse!" cried the girls running to her.

"He is not here," said Nurse Johnson apathetically. "They carried away some prisoners; he must be among them."

"Then he can be exchanged," cried Peggy, a gleam of joy irradiating her countenance. "Oh, I'm glad, glad!"

Nurse Johnson smiled wanly.

"I shall know no peace until I find where he is," she said. "I am glad that you are safe. Why came ye back from the woods? The British have just gone."

"The wounded," cried the maidens together. "We must care for them."

"Only the dead lie here," she told them with terrible composure. "Did ye not hear the order to spare none? There was no quarter given after the surrender. 'Tis that which makes me fearful for my son."

With that she sat down upon the bank of the river, and bowed her head upon her hands. One by one the women stole back from the forest. Each went first to those still forms lying so quietly, searching for father, husband, son or brother among them; then silently sat down among the ashes, and bowed her head. The little children stifled the sobs that rose in their throats, awed by this voiceless grief, and crept softly to the sides of their mothers, hiding their faces against them. More than a hundred women and children were stripped of everything, and rendered homeless, widowed and orphaned by the attack.

As though unable to bear the sight of such sorrow, the sun hid his face behind a cloud, and the forest lay in shadow. The waters of the bay sobbed in their ebb and flow upon the sands, and the wind that sighed through the pines echoed the wail of the grief-stricken women:

"Desolate! Desolate! Desolate!"

CHAPTER XVI

"OF WHAT WAS HE GUILTY?"

"Close his eyes; his work is done!

What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman?

"Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley!

What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly?"

--_George H. Boker._

There is no time when man so realizes his helplessness as in the presence of great affliction. So now Peggy and Sally, wis.h.i.+ng to give comfort but at a loss how to do so, withdrew a short distance from the stricken ones, then they too sat down. The girls were in sore need of consolation themselves, for they were faint and weary after the trying ordeal through which they had pa.s.sed. It was therefore no wonder that through utter exhaustion they fell into slumber; for youth and weariness will a.s.sert themselves against the tyranny of nerve-racking stress. A slumber that was of short duration.

A drop of rain splashed suddenly upon Peggy's hand causing her to start up in alarm. She looked about her quickly. The sky was covered by dark, lowering clouds which hung above them like a pall. The wind had veered to the east and a fiercer note had crept into its moaning.

Instead of the soft lapping of the tide there was an angry menace in the waves breaking turbulently upon the sh.o.r.e. A storm was coming, and they were without shelter. The girl ran to Nurse Johnson and touched her gently.

"'Tis going to rain," she cried, her clear young voice ringing out with startling suddenness. "Does thee not think that we should try to get somewhere, Friend Nurse?"

Nurse Johnson glanced at her dully, then at sight of the overcast sky she rose hurriedly.

"You are right, Peggy," she said. "'Tis time for action now. We must give way to grief no longer. Help me to rouse these women."

A patter of rain which fell as she finished speaking, brought a realizing sense of the situation to the women, and bravely they rose to meet it. For one short hour they had indulged their sorrow. In the greatness of the calamity that had overwhelmed them there had seemed to come an end of everything. That Freedom might live they had been bereft of all, but life with its responsibilities still remained, so resolutely they put aside their woe to take up again the burden of living. Though loth to leave the bodies of the brave dead there was no alternative, so presently a sad procession wended its way into the Court House Road. As the forest was neared there issued from its confines a small body of armed men followed by several wagons. A cry of gladness burst from Sally at sight of the leader.

"'Tis Friend Ashley," she cried. "Does thee not see, Peggy? 'Tis Friend Ashley!"

It was indeed Thomas Ashley. Full of amazed incredulity, for they had believed him to be among the prisoners taken by the enemy, his wife, Nurse Johnson and the girls ran to greet him.

"And Charley, father?" cried Mrs. Ashley. "Where is Charley?"

"With Hannah's boy, in the hands of the British," he answered. "Now, now, mother! don't give way. Prisoners can be exchanged, so he is not lost to us. Others did not fare so well."

But underneath his a.s.sumed cheerfulness Peggy detected anxiety. He did not linger talking, but bustled about helping the women into the wagons. The rain was falling heavily now, and there was need for haste. A small party of men was detached from the main body to go on into the village to bury the dead of both sides. The British had left their fallen ones to be cared for by the Americans, and generously the duty was performed. At length all was in readiness, and the journey toward shelter was resumed.

"And thou, friend? How did thee escape?" questioned Peggy as Thomas Ashley rode up beside the wagon in which the family sat.

"I was one of the scouting party that nevvy sent down the river road to intercept the enemy," he answered. "We were to take their fire while falling back on the blockhouse, but we did not see any signs of them. Alarmed at this, we scoured the woods to find where they were, when suddenly we were set upon by a party of refugees. A lively skirmish ensued, but the enemy was in superior force, and soon had the victory. In the disorder and confusion following the surrender a few of us made our escape. Meantime we heard the cannonading and knew that the blockhouse was attacked, but by the time we could make our way back to the village, the fort had fallen, and the British were burning the town.

"There was no sign of the women and children, but as the foe put off down the river with the prisoners, a friend crawled out of the bushes to tell me that the women had fled to the forest. It seemed best under the circ.u.mstances to go for aid for them, so we scattered to get it.

Of course I am glad to be with you," he ended huskily, "but 'tis pity that it could not be either Charley or nevvy."

"They are young, friend, and perhaps can stand imprisonment better than thee could," consoled Peggy. "And, as thee hath said, they can be exchanged, so after a short time all of us will be together again."

"Yes, father," spoke his wife. "Peggy is right. It hath all happened for the best, I dare say. They might have been killed, and you also.

So we won't grieve, but try to bear the lads' captivity as best we may. I do wish though that we could go home."

"We are going to, Mary; just as soon as I can find some one to take us there. There will be many to care for who have no place to go, and 'tis the right thing to make the charge as light as possible."

"And we shall be as safe there as anywhere," she said eagerly. "I shall be glad to get home."

Peggy's glance met Sally's, and her own wistfulness was reflected in Sally's eyes. They too would like to be home out of this turbulence of warfare, but knowing that these friends would take them were it possible they gave no voice to their longings.

As the journey proceeded parties of men swung into the road from all directions bound for the devastated town, bearing food, clothing, and medical necessities for the stricken inhabitants. The news of the attack had flown over the county like wild-fire, and the people rallied to the aid of the victims of this latest outrage, vying with each other in a generous contest as to the care of the villagers. It was found best to apportion a certain number to each party, and Farmer Ashley's family being in better condition than many of the others were among the last to find an abode. Tarrying only long enough to rest and refresh themselves, for they were anxious to return to the farmhouse, they were soon on their way thither.

"How glad we were to leave here," exclaimed Sally when at length they drove into the familiar yard. "And now how good it seems to get back!"

"Yes," sighed Nurse Johnson. "Would that we had never left the place.

Then the boys would not be in the hands of the British."