CHARITY, after her first convulsive grasp around Young Cy's waist, held on merrily as they trotted away from Squire Condit's gatepost, although she twisted around to wave a last good-bye to Mehitable.
"You little know how near I was to staying home!" she laughed. "My mother was not there and Mehitable, forsooth, had a sudden spell o' being mistress!"
Young Cy laughed in carefree enjoyment. A good horse beneath him, the brisk, cold invigoration of a bright January day, the pleasant companionship of one of his favorite friends—what more could a lad desire! So they cantered and walked by turns until they had veered away from the Second Road and, turning into the First Road, had passed Scotland Lane and the meeting house and were headed now directly for Newark.
"See that?" nodded Young Cy mysteriously, as they passed the meeting house.
"See what" inquired Charity mischievously. "Methinks the building, if that is what you mean, looks not out of the ordinary. What about it?"
Young Cy laughed. It was so easy that happy morning to laugh! But he sobered as he looked back over his shoulder.
"I have word that the Tories intend to hold a meeting there to-night," he said in a grim tone. "Think of it. Cherry! Holding one of their treasonable gatherings right there in the Parson's own building!"
"But Parson Chapman has, despite his own patriotism, a great many Tories among his congregation," answered Charity reasonably. "I suppose they think 'tis their right to use the meeting house an they choose."
"Well, 'tisn't," denied Young Cy vigorously. "That meeting house was built to worship God in and it isn't worshipping God to hold a Tory meeting there and—and" He faltered and groped for words to finish his meaning.
"And worship the devil!" finished Charity with unexpected daring. "Oh, la, Young Cy!" she laughed. "Let us discuss more pleasurable things this lovely morn than Tory meetings."
As they neared the fields and meadows outlying the farms on the west of Newark an hour or so later the two young travelers gazed in pity at the meager herds of cattle and flocks of sheep grazing there. The planters who, like Squire Condit, lived back in the Newark mountains, had been more beyond the reach of the raiders who had swooped across into New Jersey—the seizures of stock and supplies had been less frequent there.
"Why, that be Matthew Crane's meadow. Young Cy," observed Charity, pointing. "I remember the enormous herd of cattle he used to have there!"
"Aye," nodded the boy soberly. "Newark has been recently occupied by ye enemy, besides. What the raiders did not take, the regulars did!"
They trotted along in silence until they began to ascend the western slope of the ridge across the summit of which were certain paths used by the young people of Newark for summer strollings and called, therefore, lovers' lanes. Below, halfway down the hill, was a lane called High Street upon which had been built one or two dwellings. This was the western boundary of the Town by the River.
"Ye know, Cherry, ye must be prepared to see desolation hereabouts," warned Young Cy. "Father said 'twas scandalous what ye enemy did after the Battle o' Trenton—they destroyed so much. The homes of Samuel Pennington and Josiah Beach were robbed o' everything, even clothes. Though the joke of it was, ye town Tories fared no better than the Whigs, for the Hessians did not spare them either."
"Those Hessians!" flashed Charity. "To think they are in this war for the money they make!"
Young Cy nodded grimly. "I have a good notion to tell ye something, Cherry," he began, glancing around him cautiously.
"I can keep a secret!" cried Charity eagerly.
"'Tis this, then. I have joined the 'Jersey Blues,' Cherry!"
"The 'Jersey Blues'?" repeated Charity, puzzled.
"Hush, not so loud!" Young Cy looked around at her frowningly. "Ye 'Jersey Blues,'" he went on softly, "are secret organization formed of mostly the farmers and planters hereabouts, to punish, so far as we be able, the British and Hessians for outrages committed by them. They are under the command of a wonderful man, Captain Littell, and they wear home-made blue uniforms made by the wives and the mothers of the members. Already Captain Littell has made the enemy dance to his tune!"
"'Tis wonderful." Charity's eyes shone.
"The enemy call us 'those rebel devils,'" pursued the boy. "They hate us more than the regular Amercan troops, for we have scored so many silent victories. The day Newark was abandoned by the British, when they marched to Elizabeth Town—the day after our Trenton victory—a detachment o' them was sent to Connecticut Farms. We knew they were bent upon mischief, so Captain Littell followed hastily—I was not along, but I have this from Hiram Taylor—and ambushed some o' his men, then appeared in front o' ye enemy with the rest o' them. The enemy, turning, found that they were being fired upon from the rear, also, and surrendered without firing a shot themselves, only to be chagrined by discovering the small numbers of their captors. The British commander ordered out a body o' Hessians to avenge the insult; but Captain Littell drove them into a swamp and forced them, too, to surrender to his inferior numbers. A troop of horse was then sent to annihilate the 'rebel devils,' but they had to seek safety in flight. I tell you, Cherry, we plain farmers, when roused and fighting for our homes, are more than a match for troops fighting for hire!"
"Oh," breathed Charity enviously, "I would I were a man!"
Young Cy laughed, then he pointed to the pretty village nestling at their feet as they paused upon the slope of the hill. Newark, at that time, consisted of about one hundred and fifty houses, a few taverns, and some little shops. Beyond the small farms which skirted its eastern boundary was the Passaic River, and still beyond that, across the swamps, was another river, the Hackensack. The Hudson River was hidden from their eyes by the heights which lay between them and Paulus Hook, as Jersey City was then called, while the shore lines of New York and Staten Island were also invisible for that same reason.
"'Tis pretty, isn't it!" said Young Cy simply, before picking up the horse's bridle he had allowed to slacken upon the beast's neck. "Get along, Tab! Father told me to go to ye tavern for dinner. Cherry, and we'd best hurry, for 'tis past noon."
Descending to the village. Young Cy rode through it. Charity gazed with interest at the town pump, placed at the intersection of what are now Broad and Market streets. This public pump, put for some reason ten or twelve feet below the street level, was always surrounded by mud in warm weather and by ice in winter, yet it was one of the centers and gathering places for the townspeople. Now one or two buxom maids were chatting there. But Young Cy hurried past to the tavern on the northeast corner of Broad and Market streets, where he dismounted stiffly and helped Charity down from her pillion.
"Go in, Cherry," he said. "I will follow as soon as I see about the nag's dinner. Ho, hostler!"
Not exactly relishing the idea of entering the tavern alone, the bitter wind soon sent Charity scurrying to cover as her escort disappeared around the corner of the house. Inside the entrance, she stood breathless a moment, her hood slipped back to reveal her soft curls, and her long cape making her appear older than she really was.
Several men lounging before the great fireplace looked at her curiously as she paused there, and one of them, a big, hulking fellow with somehow an air of the sea about him, kept his eyes fastened boldly upon her flushed cheeks. It seemed to the embarrassed little girl that she stood there a long, long time before a door at the rear of the room opened and mine host, a tray of smoking dishes held high above his head, entered from the kitchen. He caught sight of her at once and, placing his tray upon a table, came toward her.
In a voice trembling half from fright, half from anger, Charity asked him about dinner for two, carefully avoiding as she did so the unpleasant stare of the man by the fireplace.
"Aye, dinner!" nodded the host. "Well, wouldn't ye like to wait in the kitchen with my mistress? 'Tis more pleasant than here, methinks!" And he sent a keen glance in the direction of his other guests, all of whom looked away at the implied rebuke except the brazen-eyed man.
In the inn kitchen a vast hubbub of boiling pots, steaming kettles, and broiling meats was going on; but through the blue haze of smoke and steam Charity saw a large, fair-faced woman directing several wenches. As the little girl paused again, shyly, Mistress Gifford, wife of the host, approached her.
"There—there were some men in there by the fire," murmured Charity in answer to her question as to what she wished.
"Ah, I understand!" And Mistress Gifford's sweet face flushed. "'Tis doubtless Captain Jaffray stirring up trouble! Well, we shall return to the proper room for our guests."
So saying, Mistress Gifford flung the kitchen door open and entered the taproom with sturdy tread.
"How now, sir! May I ask why you send a guest into ye kitchen?" she demanded in a high, audible voice.
"My dear," returned the tavern keeper deprecatingly, "I but did it for her own peace o' mind."
"Enough!" answered his wife sternly. "Let it be understood, forsooth, that this room is for all of our guests and that any one not behaving in a gentlemanly manner is free to leave!"
This time, before her angry glance, Captain Jaffray's eyes sought his plate and, victorious, Mistress Gifford turned away, to beckon Charity to a table in a cozy inglenook. A moment later the door opened and Young Cy entered hastily.
To Charity's surprise, however, he did not come to where she was waiting, but hurried over to the fireplace where, a moment later, to her great displeasure, she heard him greeting the man Jaffray in a loud, cordial manner. There was a laughing exchange of words, and then Young Cy was standing beside her with Jaffray.
"Charity," said the boy awkwardly, "I wish you to meet Captain Jaffray of New York. He will share our table."
Trembling with anger. Charity scarcely looked up as she murmured her acknowledgment of the unwelcome introduction. But in no wise dismayed, Jaffray seated himself and motioned to the tow-headed servant, whom the girl instantly disliked for smiling broadly at her predicament, to bring his dinner to him.
Captain Jaffray addressed all of his conversation to Young Cy who, looking pleased and excited, responded rather boastfully, it seemed to Charity. She herself sat silent, scarcely eating. Then, when the others had finished, Jaffray, who had been speaking of his sloop, proposed that Young Cy go down to inspect it
"Aye, let us do so!" agreed Young Cy enthusiastically. It could be seen that he entertained the greatest respect and admiration for the other.
"But, Young Cy, I do not think my mother would like it an I went 'way over to ye river!" protested Charity, in genuine amazement.
Young Cy drew down his brows in a quick frown; buth is face cleared as Jaffray intervened smoothly.
"Would she mind, think you, when you are so well escorted by Master Jones here?" he suggested. "Besides," he turned to the boy, "I have that spyglass—the one I promised ye—on board."
"Aye, truly?" Young Cy's eyes sparkled. "Ah, we must down ye sloop, Charity," explained importantly. "Captain Jaffray has there a gift for me."
"Perhaps I could wait here," began Charity timidly. But Young Cy caught up her cape laughingly.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "What harm can befall! Best not to get separated, though, Cherry! Why, we shall be back here within the hour!"
Once within Captain Jaffray's trim, neat cabin on board his sloop. Charity wondered why she had been so timid. Only when he entered from a stateroom adjoining, whither he had repaired to fetch the spyglass, did her heart misgive her. Could an honest man's face wear such a sinister look as the one he cast upon Young Cy's back? Then, as he advanced, as his expression changed to one of simple cordiality, she reproached herself for being overly suspicious.
"There, sir," he said, as the boy turned eagerly toward him, placing the spyglass before him upon the table.
"Oh, 'tis a beauty!" breathed Young Cy. "But, sir"—he paused—"I cannot accept this as a gift; 'tis far too costly."
Replacing the glass sorrowfully upon the table he stepped back. There was a moment's silence. All were engrossed. No one glanced toward the portholes which lighted the cabin. Had they done so, two of the occupants of that cabin might have discovered a most interesting fact.
"Nay, sir," repeated Young Cy, and now there was downright renunciation in his voice, so that Charity felt sorry for him, "'tis too fine a gift to take unless I had some way o' paying ye for it. And I—I—fear I have no way o' doing that!"
Jaffray looked at him calculatingly for a moment. "Jones," he said at last, in a pseudo-frank tone, "there is a way o' paying me for the trifle an ye wish."
"Truly!" Young Cy's glance, which had dropped despairingly, flashed upward in sudden hope. "I would pay anyway I might—service or grain—I have half a crop which my father let me have last fall! Speak quickly, sir!"
Again Jaffray studied him coolly. Then he seated himself and drew the boy into another chair beside him while Charity watched in surprise.
"Jones," he began quietly, "in this war with England, there are many for her, many against her. I told you a falsehood last week when I met you in Newark. I let you think me a patriot. On the contrary, I am a Loyalist."
Young Cy stiffened in his chair. "But you told—told me" he stammered.
Jaffray nodded, his face all kindly concern.
"Let every man have his own beliefs, I say," he went on reasonably. "What matters it what I believe or what you do? The thing that matters is this spyglass which ye say ye desire. There is a small way you can pay me for it—a slight bit of information"—he shot a look at the boy's amazed expression—"information which will not hurt any one to give or me to receive. If I asked you to tell me about—the 'Jersey Blues'—what would you say, young sir?"
As Captain Jaffray's suave voice died away in the appalled silence there was, for a tiny space of time, not a sound, not one movement. Then with a crash of his overturned chair. Young Cy sprang to his feet, his e'es blazing like angry flames in his white face.
"I'd say no, sir—a thousand times, no!"
Again absolute silence drifted over the cabin. Then the boy pointed with shaking hand at the spyglass.
"Were you trying to bribe me with that, sir?" he asked, hot scorn in his voice.
Captain Jaffray smiled and now both his young guests saw, with terror, the cruelty underlying that smile.
"Putting it crudely—perhaps," he said. Charity, shrinking back, caught his eye. Like a panther, Jaffray turned upon her. "Perhaps you," he snarled, all suavity gone forever from his voice, "perhaps you know something o' the 'Jersey Blues.'"
But Young Cy interposed bravely.
"She knows naught," he said curtly. And Jaffray, convinced, for Charity's youth and frightened face spoke more than Young Cy's words, turned toward the hatchway. But before he had paced forward more than a foot or two. Charity, whose gaze had, by chance, come to rest upon one of the portholes, uttered a horrified shriek.
"Young Cy, the boat is moving! See, we are being carried away! I can no longer see the dock nor the shore! He is taking us away from Newark!"