Chapter I: The Black Frigate Tavern

There was a roar and a rush of wind outside the hut and a tattoo of rain on the window panes. Loose shakes on the roof slatted at every gust. The insecure door strained against the lock, shivered and groaned and threatened to burst open at each thrust of the tempest. It was not a particularly well constructed hut, for a dozen cold cross-currents of air swept in between the logs where the chinking was thin, plucked at the lantern’s light and congealed the blood of young Jeffry Peale who sat patiently before an open copy of Grotius and at intervals annotated certain persuasive passages. It was early 1777, with Washington’s army resting on arms amid the Morristown hills. Spring broke gustily over the winter-bound brigades and glutted the streams that poured into a British-infested valley below.

Jeffry Peale wrapped the cloak tighter about his neck and tried to sustain his interest in the volume. It took a man of persistent studiousness or strong ambition to keep at such labor in this dreary, frigid cell and, though Peale had more than the usual share of those qualities, the blood ran too strongly in him to make a monkish penance of it. He had done well enough for one bitter night and it was time to hasten toward that haven of warmth and cheer where his brother officers long had been—the Black Frigate Tavern—and thaw the marrow in his bones.

Through the window he saw a light advancing toward the hut, blurred to a vague oval in the turbulent night. An officer of the guard, no doubt, making the rounds. He rose to stamp over the boards and clap on his hat. Life had about gone out of his limbs, and his fingers were as stiff as those of a marble statue. That came, he said to himself in a moment of self-derision, of coveting too much glory and advancement.

Sometimes it seemed better to drift good naturedly, as did the rest of the subalterns, making the most of a disagreeable campaign, drinking to the tavern keeper’s daughter in between the sudden raids on the low country. But, even as he thus abjured himself, his mind, clear and retentive, was conning the passages on military law which he had just finished reading. It was an acquisitive, pushing habit that no amount of depression or discouragement could shake off.

“As long as you are Jeffry Peale,” he murmured, striving to tie the cloak, “you’ll be wanting to march on. So make the most of it, my lad.”

The long threatening door swept open and slammed violently against the inner wall; at the same time an orderly wrapped in a blanket and showing only two bleak eyes above the folds, was thrust across the threshold.

“L’tenant Peale, the brigadier wishes your comp’ny at his quarters as soon’s possible.”

The orderly accepted the other’s nod and, pulling the door shut after him, vanished into the darkness.

Peale tarried a minute, essaying to fathom the meaning of the summons. His conscience, however, was clear, and with a small excitement rising in his breast he left the hut and forged his way across an uneven, stumpy parade ground. The wind attacked him viciously, first on one quarter, then on the other. The rain sluiced out of the sky and stung his face like so many darts, and it was with real relief that he passed between a row of huts and entered a grove of trees where the storm was slightly broken. Just beyond was the brigadier’s quarters. He clapped one hand to his hat and knocked at the door. In a moment it was opened slightly and an urgent voice said:

“Make it quick, man! This —— place is stone cold.”

Peale slipped quickly through. The door banged shut and began a steady _rat-a-tat_ against its loose hinges, leaving the lieutenant confronting the lone occupant of the room, the general of the brigade. The young man stood silent, astonished at the situation. It was not often that general officers of the Continental Line rose to admit subalterns.

This swart, medium-sized man with the frank, bold face, had a reputation for dispensing with formality between himself and his men. Once a private soldier himself, he knew how to command affection and respect at the same time. Other generals might insist on their personal guard, but no sentry stood outside of Maxwell’s door to suffer in the wind. And doubtless he had sent his aide off to the Black Frigate to get warm. It was the measure of an officer who was beginning to command a reputation as a heady fighter in vanguard skirmishes.

“Come to the light,” said the general, stepping behind his camp desk.

Peale did as ordered and felt himself sharply studied from the half shadows.

“You come well recommended,” continued the older officer. “It is a fine body you carry around. Where did you get that sweep of shoulders?”

“My father put me to the forge as soon as I could hold a hammer,” said Peale.

“Aye, I know _that_ type. One of those yeomen who insists on every keg standing on its own bottom. I could wish for more of that brand of independence. The war would sooner end. Tell me, have you traveled much around the city of New York?”

“I spent some months there in ’78.”

“D’ye know the country between here and the Hudson shore?”

Peale thought a moment.

“I made but one trip, but I have studied the maps at quite some length.”

“Enough to make the trip by dark?”

Peale was not certain of that, but he was not the man to lag behind opportunity. So he answered boldly—

“Yes, sir.”

The general was silent for some time. When he spoke it was as if to himself.

“Good muscle, good limb. Apparently sound of wind. A swordsman of parts, so your captain said, and with the address of a gentleman. ’Tis those things that matter in a tight situation. A little boldness goes far. Tell me, can you swim—I mean well?”

“My home is on a sound, sir. I believe I hold some records for outdistancing men of the district.”

The general moved to his desk and nodded.

“That’s all. I suppose you’ll be going down to the tavern to thaw. I wish I could.”

Jeffry Peale turned away, grievously disappointed. Some signal duty had hovered over him and vanished; the mark of that disappointment must have showed on his ruddy cheeks, for the general’s eyes flashed in a friendly manner.

“Tut, sir. If you knew the trouble ahead you’d not be so hard after the mission. Go drink your porto and be thankful for a moment or two of warmth in this infernally bleak world.”

“I could wish the honor of any service the general might trust me with,” said Peale, tarrying at the door.

“It may yet fall to you when other eggs are broken,” replied Maxwell cryptically. “If you see my aide at the tavern send him to me.”

Peale embarked across the stormy parade with a heavy heart.

“Whatever the duty,” he muttered, “it will go to another. Some Southern macaroni, no doubt, with the air of a cavalier.”

What good of studying Grotius when promotion came to the man who looked like a fighter and talked like a fighter? He struggled against the elements, bearing off on a very muddy road that led beyond the lines. Earth and sky melted into one vast orbit of tumult as he traveled, eyes fixed on the light from the guard-house.

He did himself great injustice when he marked himself so low in appearance. But that was the pessimistic Puritan strain which had conspired for many generations to keep his folk humble. Independent they might be, and greatly set on their rights, but when it came to personal valuation they were strangely diffident, disparaging.

He met the guard’s challenge and passed through the lines. The highway was a sea of slush that came high around his boots. Once he heard the splash of hoofs and stepped aside to let a cavalcade pass him. Another scouting party returned from the lowlands. There were more of these detachments out lately, Peale decided, as he picked up the glimmer of the tavern, directly ahead. The army was waking from its long slumber and now was fencing and feinting with small parties. Feeling greatly dispirited, Peale shook the water from his cloak and let himself into the thick and warm air of the tavern.

It was such a tavern as might have been found on any road in any State—a long, low-ceilinged room with a few tables scattered about. Obviously it had been built for modest traffic and modest profits, for it fairly bulged under the score or more of officers now within. They were of all uniforms and all ages and illustrated perfectly the tremendous sectional difference of the thirteen States.

Some were neat and dapper and carried their regimentals with pride; others wore the clothes like so much draping. Connecticut and Maryland rubbed elbows with civility and kept company each with its own kind. Through the fog of tobacco smoke Jeffry Peale saw a familiar face and crowded his way past several groups to one small corner where a brother officer, Priam Lafferty, sat alone.

The man cast an irritated glance at Peale—a glance that fell just short of the latter’s eyes—and spoke in a brusk, clipped voice.

“Thought your books held you home this night, Jeff?”

There was one vacant chair beside Lafferty and Peale dropped into it.

“Frozen out. ’Tis bitter weather, Priam. Look at the mud on my boots.”

Lafferty nodded, eyes traveling across the crowded room as if seeking some one in particular. Peale caught the tavern keeper’s glance and raised a crooked finger, deciding that Lafferty must again be in one of his frequent moods of sulky moroseness. There was no accounting for the man’s swift changing of humor, and Peale who had known him from boyhood shrugged his shoulders and dismissed it from his mind.

The two of them face to face made a great contrast. Peale kept himself groomed and though not far advanced in his twenties his face already was beginning to settle in steadfast lines; he had apparently passed the period of turbulence and had found himself. Perhaps his hazel eyes were not very happy, for he shared his father’s oft-expressed belief that happiness was a thing people spent too much time in seeking, but they were most certainly direct and level and when his interest was strongly aroused they contracted slightly and gave the effect of tremendous penetrative power.

They were of about the same age, but Lafferty had gone more to bone and bulk. His was one of those bodies that are lumpy and disproportionate enough to make any suit of clothes look shoddy. When he slouched in the chair, a slack-lipped, rebellious-eyed creature whose face was a playground for every passing emotion, his waistcoat bulged untidily. His chin needed shaving and the coarse jet hair of his head, here and there streaked with white, was untrimmed. There seemed to be a magnet in the far corner of the room that irresistibly drew his somber attention.

Peale caught sight of the tavern keeper’s daughter flirting outrageously with a Jersey captain and chuckled a little. Priam Lafferty was in a murderous mood just then, he knew.

“The girl treats you badly, Priam. But ’tis nothing to nurse a broken heart over.”

Lafferty’s murky eyes rolled.

“If she’s wishin’ to introduce that gentleman to a duel—”

“Chut! Y’ve led yourself into this tap-room love affair, Priam. D’ye think she’s the kind to be led by any single man? Trim yards and square into the wind. ’Tis money in her father’s pocket to be engaging to all.”

Lafferty underwent one of his characteristic shifts of temper and grinned sourly.

“Oh, I know I’m a bigger fool than most. _You_ may talk of ridin’ on an even keel, for that’s in your very marrow. I’ve yet to see the event that’ll shiver you. But you sh’d know I’m not the one to live that way.”

“No,” agreed Peale, “you’re not. ’Tis the whole jug of rum for you or not a drop. Sometimes I could wish myself a little like that.”

He took the glass of wine brought by the tavern keeper, exchanged a sober word with the man and began to sip deliberately. He felt the warmth come back into his body; a little drowsy, he watched figures shifting through the tobacco smoke and heard the rise and fall of voices. Such words as came intelligibly to him dwelt entirely with home affairs. How easily men slipped away from martial ardor when the chance came.

He looked for General Maxwell’s aide in vain and found himself smiling at sight of an ancient uncle sprawled before the fireplace, legs widespread and a mug of mulled cider in his fist. He was all of forty-five and yet but a subaltern. Only a New Englander, Peale decided, could make such a picture of fireside contentment. Coat and waistcoat were thrown wide open and hat was laid aside. A nutcracker face with a pair of bright, mellow eyes stared into the amber flames. Peale felt ashamed of his mirth. There was unquenchable spirit in a man like that who would forsake comfort for the field.

He let the wine trickle past his tongue and put the glass against the light. Purple rays shot through the liquid. Then he heard Priam Lafferty speaking staccato phrases—

“Lieutenant Jeffry Peale—Mr. Otto Trevoris — a friend of mine passing through on business.”

Drowsiness deserted Peale. He looked up to find a man of middle age bowing ceremoniously; an attentive, unsmiling man dressed in severe civilian’s black and leaning slightly on a cane. Peale rose and offered his place gravely, but the other had spied an empty chair at a near table and drew it over, taking seat between the two and resting both hands on the table. Peale looked sharply at the cane and made certain mental reservations; he had seen such cleverly contrived things before and usually they sheathed swords. When his eyes raised they came in conflict with those of Trevoris, and for a moment a singular and studious exchange of glances took place.

Priam Lafferty broke this duel with a short laugh, fist smashing on the table top.

“Strike me, I’ve waited five minutes for a drink. Hi, Benedick! Advance with the wine gourds!”

“It is dev’lish cold out,” said the stranger, Trevoris, shaking his shoulders. They were not broad shoulders but Peale was struck by their precise erectness.

“I pity any man who must travel abroad in it,” rejoined Peale.

“Then pity me,” said Trevoris. He watched the inn keeper bearing up with bottle and glass and poured himself a drink which, after raising it to both men, he tossed down with a gulp. “’Tis rank stuff to be calling port,” he muttered, “but will serve to keep the cold out. I’ve yet five miles ahead of me to the Star and Crescent.”

“You have traveled from a distance?” asked Peale, mildly curious.

Priam Lafferty’s saturnine face turned toward him, scowling from some new dissatisfaction. Trevoris helped himself to fresh wine and played with the glass stem.

“From Spanish New Orleans,” said he, surveying the smoke and the crowd with an air of ill-concealed scorn.

Peale’s interest was instantly aroused.

“That’s a trip I could wish to take. Tell me, how do you find the country between here and the Mississippi? It must be dev’lish hard going. ’Tis a land for a man with a good rifle eye, is it not?”

Trevoris shrugged those erect shoulders and seemed bored.

“If a gentleman likes hardships I would commend it. As for me, it seems like God’s own wilderness.”

“Nevertheless,” insisted Peale, “it is the place for the common soldier when this war is won. Cheap land and plenty of elbow room. The seaboard is crowded and the South belongs to the nabobs. Give all us old soldiers a hundred acres on the Ohio and we’ll fashion a new State for you. But, tell me of New Orleans. How large a place is it?”

Trevoris took another drink and seemed amused. Priam Lafferty broke in impatiently.

“Oh, —— the catechism, Jeff! Who cares about New Orleans? Choke off the inquisition. Never have I seen the like of such a man to ask questions. Anything from awls to elephants will command your attention. Here’s a toast to the pot-gutted Benedick and his fair daughter.”

Peale smiled a little and drank. Trevoris put down his glass and looked to his watch.

“I dislike most infernally to start off, but I must reach Albany Monday, a sennight. Gentlemen, I give you one to his Excellency General Washington and the next campaign. May the army win its just desserts.”

“With all my heart,” said Peale, bowing.

Trevoris’ face was satiric; Priam Lafferty stared at him, somber-eyed, half unwilling to drink. In the end he swallowed the liquor and began a tapping on the table with his nails.

“Well, the army must win somethin’,” he grumbled. “We’re a starved, frozed lot now.”

“In New York, I hear,” said Trevoris, “they eat, dance and are merry.” He rose and threw a silver piece on the table. “I must be going, disagreeable as it is. Mr. Peale, it has been a pleasure. I trust I will see more of you.”

Priam Lafferty passed a hand across his rumpled hair, frowning heavily.

“Enough of this cursed babble for me. I’ll see you to your horse and then go home.”

They crossed the room and stopped momentarily by the door while the stable boy slipped out for Trevoris’ mount. Peale saw Priam Lafferty glowering blackly at the captain who had usurped the interest of the tavern keeper’s daughter. Trevoris stood with his greatcoat covering him and even through the swirling smoke Peale could see his eyes sweep the room. Then the door opened and the stable boy beckoned. The two went out and a heavy draught of air set all the lights to guttering. Certainly, decided Peale, the storm had not abated. It took an urgent kind of business to force a merchant to brave five miles of mud road on a pitch-black night. He settled in the chair and was grateful for the warmth.

Outside, Trevoris dismissed the boy and sprang into the saddle. Priam Lafferty put a hand to a stirrup and together the pair moved a few rods down the obscure highway.

“Ticklish business this,” he grumbled. “I can’t say it’s the best way of meetin’.”

Trevoris spoke coldly, through the dark.

“’Tis my policy to meet in as public place as possible. There’s more spying ears and eyes in this road than back at the tavern. Rest easy.”

“Easy!” grumbled Lafferty, almost shouting to make himself heard above the storm. “Little ye know my temper. This shilly-shally ill suits me. Don’t be surprized if I see you in the city before so very long.”

“You can do us better service where you are,” replied Trevoris.

“And expose myself to more danger. ’Tis an uneasy life. Well, you’ve got the packet. Avoid the next village as you would the plague. ’Tis full of suspicious fellows.”

“Au revoir. Should you find anything important in the next two weeks, remember to warn our certain friend.”

With that Lafferty released his grip on the saddle and stopped, listening to the slosh of Trevoris’ horse’s hoofs until the tempo of the wind overwhelmed the small echoes. He traveled back to the tavern and on the threshold debated going in.

“No, ’tis best I leave Jeff and his questions alone. —— the fellow for his curiosity.” He gripped the folds of his cloak tightly and, leaning against the wind, entered the picket lines of the camp.

* * * * *

Jeffry Peale had drunk his gentleman’s quart and was overhearing the hot debate of a Massachusetts and a Virginia man on slavery when a finger tapped him on the arm. General Maxwell’s aide, bearing the marks of the storm, spoke briefly.

“To headquarters with me, Jeffry. And you’d do well to tuck a bottle of rum under your arm.”

Peale stood up suddenly.

“’Quarters?” said he, excitement coming over him.

He wrapped the cloak around him and clapped on his hat, striding to the door at a gait that left the aide well to the rear. Somewhere in the half-gale the officer caught up, complaining bitterly.

“Such an infernal racket abroad. I’ve not been warm for forty hours. D’ye have an inkling of your job?”

“Something,” said Peale, picking a course for the brigadier’s hut. They passed the pickets and slipped heavily in the mud.

“And yet you hurry,” said the aide. He swore again. “Did anything ever beat a soldier’s idea of glory? Rushing through this tempest to be sent on a wretchedly cold and hungry affair. Was there ever such a perversion—” he ran out of breath and had to stop. But at the brigadier’s door he burst out, “Nevertheless, I’d give my right arm to be in your place, you lucky devil! Go in!”

General Maxwell was busy with the quill when Jeffry Peale entered, slamming the door behind him. The brigadier looked up, stared a moment with his bold, frank eyes and then motioned to another chair.

“Draw to the table. You’ve got business to do. Come here where you can see the map.”

They were closeted thus, head to head, for the better part of a half-hour. In the end Peale said—

“Yes, sir, and where will I find the horse?”

“’Twill be at the door of your hut when you are ready. I give you but a few minutes. ’Tis late now and prudence demands you reach the river by day. Mind you, this is not an affair to be spread amongst your cronies.”

Peale let himself out of the hut and trudged across the parade ground to his own quarters. The trees groaned beneath the impact of the wind’s frenzy; all the world seemed a-quiver. In this black, uneasy universe there was nothing to distinguish between earth and infinity, yet Peale thought he saw a lone star breaking through the pall—his own star. It was an illusion, of course, he decided. Such was the fabric on which life was built. It took but a word and a gesture to change the course of a career, to lift a man from plodding obscurity to the blood-stirring path of adventure which now lay before him.

No more the student for Jeffry Peale. Now the clash of saber, the night ride and the softly spoken password. This was all that a soldier could ask. He plunged into his hut and went to his own corner, oblivious of the presence of Priam Lafferty in the opposite bunk. He belted on his sword, inspected his pistols and threw over his shoulder a cartridge pouch, ranging impatiently around the room.

Lafferty sat up and spoke sullenly.

“Patrol?”

Peale shook his head.

“Off on a private excursion.”

“What, man? On a night like this? Tut, ye’re out on duty or y’d not be out at all. I smell a mission. Where away, Jeff?”

“If you can smell the mission,” returned Peale, grinning, “try to smell the destination.”

Lafferty got up with an oath, his jowls turned scarlet.

“So I’m told to mind my own affairs, eh? What fine gentleman are you turnin’ into? You aspire high, but let me not have airs from you. I’ll not stand them.”

It was Lafferty in his ugly mood, brow furrowed and lips twisted in a line at once sardonic and contemptuous. Peale squared off, speaking shortly.

“If you mean to rag me, it’s best to forget it. A secret once told is a secret twice told and none should know it as well as you. Drop your bad humor and bid me luck. Be a good wife, Priam, to my property while I’m away.”

The door rattled under a fist and Peale put a hand to the latch. Lafferty cursed.

“Mind your own property—I’ll not! If you see me again—”

The rest of the phrase was snatched from his mouth when Peale opened the door and the wind burst through. A lantern glinted, an orderly held out the reins of a mount. Peale got into the saddle and swung away. He passed the pickets, the tavern and embarked on that road which Trevoris not long before had chosen.

He traveled fast and he traveled far, with always the elements shrilling in his ears and the rain soaking him to the skin. Past one sleeping village and another; across a creek, with the board bridge rumbling beneath him; up hill and down and at intervals a beacon-light shining across meadows to reassure him.

He forded the Passaic at flood, turned out at the hint of a night party scurrying down the black highway, crossed the treacherous slough of the Hackensack, and at last came upon a broad pike that led straight east. And just as day was breaking on the horizon he stopped his jaded horse at a silent house and knocked on the door. Long after, the bolt was shot and a voice challenged him.

“Well?”

“Franklin and Deane.”

“Come in.”