Chapter V: A Door Opened

VERY early in his military career, Caspar Reinhart had earned the character given him by old Von Falkenstein—of being one of the best men, and altogether the most silent man, in the whole force. Snatched without warning from home and family and all that he held dear, he was at first like one stunned by a heavy blow. He could feel nothing but a cold, benumbing sense of utter desolation. As the days went on, carrying him farther and farther from all that made life worth having, this first feeling was succeeded by one of burning rage against those who had been the cause of his misfortune, more especially against the landgrave and Captain Burger, who had commanded the kidnapping party who took him prisoner. It is impossible to have such a feeling in one's heart and not betray it in some way; and so it came to pass that Captain Burger knew that Caspar Reinhart both hated and despised him.

Now, it takes a great man to despise contempt. Captain Burger was not a great man, but a very small one, and he returned Casper's hatred with interest, and was all the more angry because his enemy gave him no cause of complaint. No man was better at drill or neater in his dress than Reinhart, none more punctiliously respectful in manner or more attentive to his general duty. There was actually nothing to lay hold of. Nevertheless, Captain Burger hated Reinhart and spited him on every occasion.

But their connection was not to last long, which was well for both of them. A smith was wanted for a cavalry regiment, and inquiry was made among the men.

"There is Reinhart, from Nonnenwald," said Reinhart's colonel, who was a friend of old Von Falkenstein. "His father was the best smith in all the country, and he brought up his son to his own trade. I think Reinhart would suit you exactly. He is in Burger's company at present, and would be well out of it. Reinhart is no common man. He is somewhat educated and very well behaved, but he is thrown away where he is; and besides, they tell me Burger spites him whenever he can get a chance to do so."

"How is it that you come to know him so well?"

"Oh, I knew his father before him, and so feel interested for him. I should like to get him out of Burger's way."

"Burger is a stupid coxcomb of a would-be Frenchman," growled the old man.

So the matter was finally settled, and Caspar found his condition much improved by the exchange. His spirits insensibly grew brighter as he felt his old tools once more in his hands. The dark cloud cleared away from his brain, and he was able once more to think and to consider what was best to be done. There was no escape from his present condition, and all that remained was to make the best of it. He could not bring himself to feel that he owed any duty to the sovereign who had sold him like a sheep or the officers who had kidnapped him, but he saw that for his own sake and that of those he had left at home, he must earn and support a good character. He would do so to the best of his ability, would save his wages, and at the end of the war, if he lived so long, he would settle down in the country whither he had been brought against his will and send for his family to come to him.

Having once arrived at this conclusion, Caspar kept it steadily in view. He worked early and late, and earned many an odd shilling and half guinea besides his regular pay. He set himself earnestly to work to learn English, and made very rapid progress. One day, after a successful foraging-party in New Jersey, he heard some of his companions laughing over their plunder.

"Give it to Reinhart," he heard one of them say. "He can tell us."

"Give what to Reinhart?" he asked.

"A miracle! A miracle!" cried one of the men. "The smith has spoken without being spoken to.—Come here, smith, and tell Barsch what he has found. He thinks it is a book of Yankee magic."

Reinhart took in his hand the small richly-bound volume and looked at the title-page.

"It is a Bible," said he.

"A Bible! Barsch has stolen a Bible!" cried his companions. "Barsch can set himself up for a pastor.—Come, old fellow, give us a sermon."

"Hush, children!" said a gray old sergeant. "Is that the way to treat the holy word? You will bring bad luck on us."

"It is only a Yankee Bible, Father Martin," said the young man, a little abashed.

"A Bible is a Bible all over the world," returned the old sergeant. "Is not that so, smith?"

"That is true," answered Reinhart.

He had held the Bible in his hands all the time, and as he turned over its pages, a great longing seized him to have the book for his own. He had not seen or opened a Bible since the day he was carried away, and the very touch and sight seemed to do him good.

"Will you sell me this book, Barsch?" he asked.

"Give it to you if you like," was the answer. "You don't think it will bring me ill-luck, do you?"

"Give him a horseshoe to wear round his neck in exchange for his book," cried one of the men, laughing, "else some Yankee witch will come and carry him off."

A half-laughing, half-quarrelling dispute ensued, but Reinhart heard nothing of it. Book in hand, he retreated to a quiet corner and sat down to study his prize. He had always been given to reading when he had time, and he thought the Bible would be a great help to that knowledge of English which he so coveted. Every spare moment was now spent with his book. He was familiar already with the German Lutheran versions, and had no more trouble in making out the English than served to impress it on his mind.

He read and studied, and by degrees a new light broke upon his darkness. A new hope arose in his heart. One of whom he had always heard, but whom he had never known, came to him, and said,—

"It is I: be not afraid."

And Caspar believed and was comforted. He still held to his purpose of settling in America if he should live to the close of the war, and getting his family about him in a new home, but a brighter and higher hope arose behind and over all. He learned to take that long look into eternity which reduces all things else to correct perspective, like the true point of sight in a picture.

It was impossible for Reinhart not to abhor the life he was living. He was a humane and kind-hearted man engaged in a war which it must be confessed was one of peculiar atrocity. It is a fact that in order to strike the more terror into the rebels, as they were called, the Hessians were encouraged in all sorts of violence, cruelty, and oppression. They were told that the Yankees took no prisoners except such as they meant to make slaves of, and they were bidden to give no quarter. In the whole of the New Jersey campaign, the Hessians robbed, burnt, and murdered right and left, friends as well as enemies. Those who had fondly hoped to remain neutral, relying on Sir William Howe's protection, found they were leaning on a broken reed. The Hessians never asked whether a man were Whig or Tory, rebel or loyal, so long as he had what they coveted. The men were absolutely encumbered with plunder; and as a natural consequence, their discipline was relaxed and their own officers found it hard to manage them.

Reinhart kept aloof from such scenes as much as possible, but he was a soldier and had to obey orders, and he constantly saw things which turned him sick with horror or made his blood boil with rage. Sometimes, indeed, he would interfere to save a life or protect a child from death or a woman from insult, but oftener was a helpless spectator of the atrocities perpetrated by his comrades.

Only for the hope that he might some time rejoin his family, and that other hope which had lately arisen in his mind, he would have gone mad. He never tried to avoid any exposure, but the bullets which laid low so many of his companions seemed to avoid him, and he never had a scratch. His wild companions, who had alternately abused and laughed at him, at last began to respect the silent man who never shrank from any danger or evaded any duty or hesitated to help a comrade in trouble, but who absolutely refused to soil his hands with cruelty or plunder. Some of them even whispered that he was under the protection of some superior power; whether heavenly or not they could not tell.

Caspar was early at his work the morning after the accident with the screen. He had a shrewd guess that his clever assistant with the brown wig would not appear again, and he had therefore brought with him one of his own companions.

The carpenter had mended the broken screen, and the light wire lattice was once more fixed in its place when Major André appeared on the scene with Caspar's old officer and enemy, Captain Burger. Burger had always striven hard to assume and support the character of a fine gentleman. He had once held a very doubtful position in one of the very smallest of German courts. He had been the humble companion of the youthful heir-apparent, and had there learned a little French, a little music, and a good deal about kings and queens, princes and princesses. He knew how to fence and to dance; and being big and tall, with a yellow moustache and a great deal of assurance, he believed himself quite irresistible. He had been one of the great promoters of the Mischianza, which most of his companions openly ridiculed, and he had tried hard to be made one of the "Knights of the Blended Rose," but that honour was denied him.

"Well done, smith," cried Major André as Caspar paused in his work and gravely saluted the two officers. "You have lost no time, I see, and you have done your work well."

Caspar bowed gravely.

"But I see you have a new assistant," continued Major André. "What has become of our Yankee friend?"

"I have not seen him," answered Caspar. "I thought he might be too much hurt to work, and therefore, not to lose time, I brought one of my own comrades along."

"You are a clever fellow," said André, examining the work. "You ought to be something more than a common smith."

Caspar bowed again.

"Why, what a dumb fish you are, man!" said the good-natured major. "For a man that speaks English so well as you do, you are wonderfully chary of your words."

"We have a proverb which says that silence is a safe game," said Caspar, not unmoved by the kindly manner of the handsome young Englishman and smiling in his turn.

Captain Burger looked at Reinhart as he spoke, and recognized him.

"What! You are Reinhart of Falkenstein's troop?" said he, in a voice which somehow conveyed an insult in its very tones. "I remember you were always a sulky bear. Well, have you heard from home lately?"

"No, my captain," answered Caspar, respectfully, his heart giving a sudden leap as a gleam of hope came over him. "I have never heard a word from my wife since I left her. May I ask if any letters have come?"

"Not that I know of," answered Captain Burger. "I fancy the women have something else to do. Your wife may have donned her widow's veil and taken it off again before this time, as I hear many another has done."

For a moment, the old hate blazed up in Caspar's heart and shone out at his eyes. Then the bitter feeling of disappointment drowned everything else. He bit his pale lips and turned away.

"Burger, you are a brute," said André, in honest indignation.—"There! Never mind, my man," he added, hastily and in a low tone as he caught sight of Caspar's face. "Don't get yourself into trouble. I dare say your good wife has written before now. The mails are very uncertain."

"Have no fear for me, my officer," answered Caspar, quietly. "He who kicks a fettered man exercises his valour in safety.—Will it please you to tell us what to do next? I think there is no more fear of this."

"Smith, you shall pay for this," said Burger, pale with rage in his turn.

"Hold your tongue, man, can't you?" said André, drawing him away. "Let the smith alone. He is a fine fellow, and shall not be insulted—while he is working for me, at least."

It was not for Burger's interest to quarrel with his companion, so he smoothed his plumes and affected to treat the matter as of no consequence:

"Well, well, let it go. He is a good smith, as you say, and might rise, only for his sulky temper."

"He must have wit, or he would not have learned English so readily," remarked André. "I was telling him yesterday that he ought to be employed in secret service, as nobody would know him from a German born in the country. I don't think, however, that he relished the notion."

A light not good to see shone in Burger's eyes for a moment.

"Yes, as you say, he would make a good spy.—I wonder I never thought of that," he added, more to himself than to his companion. "To be sure, he might desert, but then I should be rid of him."

"Why in the name of wonder should you wish to be rid of him?" asked André, in surprise. "I should think such a workman would be invaluable. I never saw a better piece of work than he has made of that screen."

"Oh, he is such a sulky dog. You heard how he answered me—or you, rather."

"And what wonder, when you spoke as you did? Suppose any one had hinted such a thing about your wife, supposing you had one?"

"Major André, such language as this from one gentleman to another—"

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said André, who stood in no awe of his big companion. "Don't try to pick a quarrel, man. I have no time for such frolics at present. Come, let us go and look at our arch of triumph. Do you know what old Von Falkenstein said when I told him about it? 'More arch than triumph,' he growled; and, faith, I think, between ourselves, the old man was right. It must be confessed we have not made a very brilliant campaign."

Two or three days after the Mischianza had gone off in grand array, a messenger came to Caspar Reinhart as he was reading beside his forge in one of the intervals of his work.

"You are to go to headquarters directly," said the messenger. "General Clinton has sent for you."

Greatly wondering, Reinhart made himself tidy, put his book in his pocket, and presented himself in due time before General Clinton, who, with several officers about him, was examining a rough map of the shores of the Delaware below Philadelphia. Captain Burger was in attendance, and his eye met Reinhart's with a look which the latter did not understand.

"Here is the man I mentioned to Your Excellency," said he.

"Oh yes! Your name is—"

"Caspar Reinhart, Your Excellency."

"And I hear you speak English very well and are skilful at your trade?"

"It is not for me to say, Your Excellency," answered Reinhart, with a beating heart. He had heard a rumour that he was to be transferred to the artillery—a change which would have been greatly to his liking.

"Ah, well, you are just the man I want," said Sir Henry. "It is very desirable that we should know the state of things in West Jersey, and you are the very one to obtain information for us. We have reason to think that some forces are gathering there, and that there is a design for attacking the forts."

The general proceeded to explain his plan. Reinhart was to be taken down to the fort below the city. Here he was to take a boat, slip away by night down the river, and land somewhere on the Jersey shore. From thence he was to proceed inland in the character of a smith seeking work, communicating cautiously with loyal inhabitants and gathering all the information possible.

Again Caspar saw the glance of gratified malice in Burger's eyes, and he understood at once that he was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. His habit of silence served him in good stead; and though every vein and nerve was tingling, he simply saluted and said nothing.

"You will come here at four o'clock to receive your final instructions and money," continued Sir Henry. "I shall furnish you with a pass to help you in your return, although you are not to use it except in case of utmost need. You must make your wit save your head, as the saying goes."

"Or his neck, rather," said Burger, with a sneer.

"I shall try to do so, Your Excellency," said Caspar, with the same gravity, thinking, at the same time, that the pass would most likely be unnecessary.

"That is all. Come here precisely at four o'clock. Of course you understand that this matter must be mentioned to no one. You are merely going down to the fort to look at some iron-work which needs repairing. I need not tell you that the service is a dangerous one; but if you succeed, the reward shall be in proportion to the danger."

Caspar, finding himself dismissed, walked slowly back to his quarters, resolving many things in his mind. He saw clearly that he was indebted to his old enemy Captain Burger for being sent on such a troublesome and dangerous service—a service far more perilous than any ordinary engagement, since, if discovered and taken, he was certain to be hung. The business was one peculiarly disagreeable to him. His sympathies were all on the side of the Americans, who were fighting for their liberty against almost hopeless odds. As to his own prince, he naturally did not feel that he owed any duty to the prince who had sold him like a sheep. Hundreds of the Hessians had deserted, but Caspar could not make up his mind to desert. If for no other reason, he would not give his enemy such a triumph.

"I can only go where I am sent," said he, at last. "Perhaps, after all, this may be the opening of the door for which I have been praying."

The afternoon was spent in making his preparations. He secured the small sum of money which he had earned and saved, wrapped up his Bible and put it in an inner pocket, and wrote a long letter to his wife, which he carried to the old sergeant, begging him to send it as soon as possible.

"What! You are going down the river, I hear?" said the old man. "I suppose you will be back in a few days. I wish the stupid English would mend their own tools and let us alone. There is not a smith in the whole army who can manage a horse as you can. But you will be back soon, eh?"

"There is no telling," said Caspar. "Farewell, Father Martin, and many thanks for all your kindness. If you ever go back, go and see my wife at Nonnenwald."

"Why, one would think you were going to your death," said old Martin, struck by something in Caspar's manner. "You don't mean to desert, eh?"

"Not I," answered Caspar; "but there are things one must not tell, you know."

"I believe Burger has been playing you some dog's trick or other," said Martin. "If he has, I will put a nail in his shoe for it. I know all about him and his family; he is no more a gentleman than I am. Yes, yes! I can tell things."

"Do nothing for my sake, Father Martin," said Caspar, earnestly. "The man has always been my enemy, but I have no desire for revenge. Farewell, and present my duty to our colonel."

Punctually at four o'clock Caspar repaired to the general's quarters, where he received his pass, a well-filled purse, and the hearty good wishes of the general.

"You have settled in your mind precisely what you will do?"

"As far as I can beforehand, Your Excellency;" and Caspar proceeded to explain his design.

"You are a very clear-headed man," said the general. "You shall not be forgotten, I promise you, when you return."

"It will be time to think of that when I see whether I am to return at all, Your Excellency."

"Oh, you must not be downhearted," said Sir Henry, kindly. "The service is a dangerous one, but many a man has lived through it. Good luck go with you!"

At twelve o'clock that night, Caspar Reinhart pushed off his little boat and made for the Jersey shore, under cover of which he floated downward, only using his oars to keep himself from running aground. It was a bright night. The wind blew down the river and the tide was running out very fast. The air was soft and warm, and all sorts of sweet odours mingled with the smell of salt water and river-mud. The frogs, turtles, and insects were performing an uproarious concert along shore, to which to him unknown birds occasionally added a strain.

Caspar listened to the various voices, wondering what creatures made them, and starting now and then as some big bullfrog near at hand offered a gruff remark, till he grew horribly sleepy, and at last dropped into a doze. He did not seem to himself to have slept a moment, when he was startled by a sudden shock, and waked to find his boat aground. The early streaks of dawn were showing in the east, and Caspar concluded that he could not do better than to rest on his oars till it grew light enough to see about him.

Presently he discovered that his boat had run itself aground on a sandy spit of land projecting into the Delaware. On the other side seemed to be the mouth of a pretty good-sized inlet or river; it was not easy to say which. The banks were low and overgrown with oak and pine, mostly quite small, and what is called scrub, intermixed with holly and laurel, the latter in the full beauty of its magnificent bloom. Beautiful vines ran over the trees, and strange flowering-plants grew in the edges of the water. Dainty beach-birds danced up and down the margin of sand left by the retreating tide, a stately heron was fishing on the other side, and on a tree close at hand a mocking-bird was pouring out a wonderful strain of melody. *

* The mocking-bird is a rare but not unknown visitor in South Jersey.
I heard a very fine one in the old churchyard in Bridgeton.

"It is the garden of Eden," thought Caspar, looking about him with delight, for he had a keen sense of beauty. "Well, I don't see that I can do better than to eat my breakfast, rest a while, and when the tide makes float up the creek here and seek my fortune in the interior."