Dorothy's Spy/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
THE SPY
It was a positive relief to the girls when the tumult outside increased until individual cries could be distinguished. Scipio's stories of the horrible had plunged them into that frame of mind where they almost expected to see or hear something unearthly, and when the uproar first broke the stillness of that part of the city, it was as if the African ghosts had suddenly arrived.
"What is it?" Dorothy asked in tremulous tones, as the three stood in the middle of the room listening intently, but making no move toward going into that part of the house where it might be possible to see what was being done outside.
"I 'spects it's annuder spy, honey, else dey've done picked up a Tory what's been makin' brash talk," Scipio replied sagely.
"It sounds as if a great crowd was coming into the square."
"So it does, chile. I reckon dis yere place am beginnin' to be a mighty brisk part ob de city."
"Kill him! Kill him!" shouted a voice so near at hand that the girls clung to each other in terror.
"Are they trying to get into the house?" Dorothy asked in a whisper.
"I don' reckon so, honey, kase dere's nobody here dat dey'd want'er kill. Massa Dean am one ob de big men 'roun' yere, an' a high-up Son ob Liberty, so it carn't be his blood dey's hankerin' fur."
"There he goes! There he goes! He's run to earth, an' if no mistake be made he'll soon find himself where he can't spy on honest people!"
This second outburst of words seemed to come directly from beneath the front windows of the house, and both girls clutched the skirts of Scipio's coat, as Sarah asked in alarm:
"Are they coming in here?"
"Bress yer soul, honey, dey couldn't so much as git dere noses in, kase dis yere am a mighty strong house, an' den agin, dey don' want'er come. Dere ain't any spy 'roun' dis place."
"Look out for him! He went over that way!"
Then came the sound of hurrying footsteps, and the listeners knew by the noise that the pursuers were running across the square.
At this point it suddenly occurred to Scipio that by going into the front room it would be possible to see through the window all that was being done, and he darted swiftly forward, almost pulling the girls from their feet as they held fast to his coat.
"Don't go so near!" Dorothy cried when the old darkey's headway was checked momentarily as he came in contact with a chair.
"Why not, honey? I'se only gwine ter open de shutter de littlest bit ob a ways."
"If you so much as unfasten it some one can get in! Please don't do it, Scip, please don't!"
"Now see here, chile, it stands to de reasonableness ob tings dat I'se specially forced fur ter look out, kase yer father's gwine ter arsk me wha's been goin' on, an' how can I tell him ef I don' stick de end ob my nose out?"
"You mustn't do it!" Sarah screamed in an agony of fear. "Wait till Master Dean comes, and then you may do as you please."
"But honey, does you 'spect dem men am gwine ter wait so long? By de time Massa an' Missus come dis yere square will be des like er grabeyard, kase eberybody will be gone out'er it. Ef I don' get an inklin' now, it'll be too late."
"It is of no use to talk, Scip," Dorothy said, striving to imitate her mother's tone and manner when any certain matter had been definitely decided. "We cannot have the shutters opened!"
The old man was burning with curiosity to know what was being done outside, for the pursuers were yet within the square, but at such a distance that no words could be distinguished amid the uproar, and he had no idea of being thus held in check by two small girls.
"Now look here, you chilluns," he said persuasively, "I'se got ter do sumfin' else I'se boun' to ketch it hot when Massa comes home. He's gwine to 'low dat I ought'er tell him all 'bout it, an' I'se 'bleeged fur ter snoop' roun 'a littly bit. Ef yer don' wan' dis yere shutter opened, I'se gwine ter slide out'er de door. I kin lock it behin' me, an' you'll be jes' as safe as de chicken in de shell. Go back inter de odder room, honies, an' 'fore you'se know dat de ole man hab gone, he'll be here wid all de news."
Dorothy tried to be stern, as her mother would have been with a servant under similar circumstances; but the tears were so near her eyelids that the effort was unsuccessful. Before it was possible for her to speak without crying, Scipio had led Sarah and her back to the living room, and disappeared suddenly in the gloom of the long front hall.
As if believing that some great and imminent danger threatened, the girls clasped each other by the neck, as they sobbed feverishly, and retreated, without being really conscious of what they did, into the fireplace, heeding not the fact that by so doing they were trampling upon the evergreens with which Mistress Dean adorned the yawning, vault-like receptacle for fuel to hide from view the unsightly bricks.
Standing here, frantically embracing each other, the new costumes received yet further injury from the soot which was exposed to the touch once the green screen had been trampled down, and even the children's faces and hands were soon stained black in spots and streaks, which would have caused them great merriment but for the terror which had taken possession of both.
Here the trembling girls heard Scipio as, with difficulty, he forced back the bolt of the lock with the ponderous key; then came the creaking of the door when it was opened, and the tears began to flow down Dorothy's soot-begrimed face as she understood that now they were alone in the big house so full of terrifying shadows and possibilities for fear.
"He has gone out!" Sarah whispered amid her sobs, and Dorothy replied in a choking voice:
"We're all alone now, and if God don't take care of us we shall have a terrible time of it!"
"If your mother was here!" Sarah wailed softly. "Of course God looks after children; but we can't see Him, and we could any human folks who were with us!"
Then came a time of silence, during which the girls listened in fear and trembling; but without being able to distinguish any very fearful noises.
Once the mice scampering in the walls caused them to shrink back against the fireplace, to the further detriment of their clothing, and a fresh outburst of tears followed. When the cause of this interruption to the silence was finally understood, the girls bethought themselves of that babel of voices which marked the beginning of their present troubles; but it was stilled.
If a spy had been followed into the square, he must have made his escape, or been chased to some other part of the city.
"Surely the bonfire has been burned by this time! Sarah finally suggested. "Haven't we been here a very long while?"
"Mother and father will come soon now," Dorothy replied with a little ring of hope in her voice. "It is very late. Scip said he would only look out of the door, and come straight back, yet he has been gone more than an hour."
The old darkey had been absent no more than five minutes.
Then, to the intense relief of the children, the creaking of the street door was heard, and Dorothy cried as she stepped forward a few paces:
"He has come back! How glad I am; but I will rate him soundly for having stayed so long while we were in such danger!"
With the opening of the door the hoarse hum of angry voices could be heard a long distance away, as if those who searched for the spy were at that end of the square nearest Queen[1] street, and the girls retreated to their place of refuge once more, as Dorothy whispered:
"How terrible it would be if they should catch the soldier now! I wonder if they would hang him in the square? Father said a spy must be killed for doing such work."
"The Britishers have no right to make trouble here, now that the Declaration has been read, and I don't know that I am very sorry for the man. Why didn't he stay at Staten Island, with the rest of my lord Howe's soldiers?"
"You are sorry for him, Sarah Lamb!" Dorothy cried sharply, raising her voice slightly. "He is a human person, even if he has come here to do harm to our people!"
"If he hadn't come to-night we wouldn't have been in so much trouble. It was almost comfortable here with Scip, before the man ran into the square."
"I suppose they were chasing him, and he couldn't go anywhere else. You would run very fast, and never think you might be making trouble for two little girls, if men were close behind trying with all their might to hang you, Sarah Lamb!"
"I suppose I should," was the meek reply, and then, after a brief time of silence, Sarah added, "Why is Scip staying in the entry? Why don't he come in here?"
"He has no business to leave us alone so long!" Dorothy said indignantly. "He shall be made to know his duty toward us! Scip! Oh Scip! Come here this instant!"
As if in reply to this summons could be heard the grating of the bolt as the outer door was relocked, and the girls came forward to the middle of the room where the feeble rays of the candle fell upon them; but neither observed the stains and streaks of soot which literally covered the other, so intent were both on the supposed movements of the old darkey.
"Come here this instant, Scipio!" Dorothy cried, after waiting in vain for the appearance of the servant. "I shall tell my father that you are trying to frighten us!"
There was no reply to this command. The silence was profound, and it would have been a welcome break to the sobbing children if they could have heard the voices of the people outside.
"Why don't you come here?" and Dorothy stamped her little foot, while a fresh outburst of tears carried the soot down her face in tiny lines, like the tracings of rivers and streams on a map.
"It is wicked of him to act like this!" Sarah cried tearfully as she retreated to the fireplace once more, and Dorothy, suddenly finding herself alone in the middle of the room, ran with a little cry of fear to the side of her friend.
While one might have counted twenty the girls listened intently; but without hearing the lightest sound to indicate that the house had other occupants than themselves, and then anger began to take the place of fear in Dorothy's mind.
"That old Negro shall be made to know that he can't do just as he pleases simply because father isn't here to make him obey! What right has he to stand in the entry frightening us almost to death? I am going after him!"
This last announcement was made in a very shaky voice; but, having thus declared her intentions, Dorothy believed it necessary to make some decided movement, and she emerged from the fireplace again as Sarah cried imploringly:
"Surely you'll never think of going into the entry alone! Don't leave me here, Dorothy dear!"
"We'll take the candle, and you shall come with me. Surely two girls who are over ten years old, should have more spirit; it is because we are so afraid that Scip dares to play his pranks. I'm going to get the candle."
The mantel-shelf was too high for Dorothy to reach it while standing on the floor, and she, keeping her face turned resolutely toward Sarah lest she should see something horrible amid the gloomy corners of the room, pushed a chair forward.
The noise made by the heavy piece of furniture as it was forced across the sanded floor sounded unearthly in the ears of the children; but Dorothy, with a wonderful display of heroism, continued at the task until the chair was directly under the oaken shelf.
"Stand close by me so that I shan't fall, and we'll soon make Master Scip feel sorry for having played such a trick on us," Dorothy commanded, and Sarah obeyed, rather because it gave her a trifle more courage to take hold of her friend's garments, than because she had any great desire to assist in this marvelous display of courage, which absolutely frightened her.
Dorothy succeeded in getting the candle; but her hands trembled so violently that her bodice and gown were streaked with melted tallow before she had clambered down from the chair.
"Surely you are never going to open that door?" Sarah whispered as Dorothy walked forward timidly, and perhaps these words of incredulity forced Master Dean's daughter to do what she would otherwise have failed at. Having boldly announced her purpose, it seemed necessary now that she should carry into effect the proposed determination; but she moved very slowly, and clasped Sarah's hand very tightly, while advancing.
The most difficult portion of the task was to open the door, for who could say what horrible sight might be disclosed? Twice she made the effort in vain, and then grasped the handle of the latch more firmly as she cried:
"I am coming after you, Scip, you wicked servant, and when my father gets home you will be sorry for having been so bad!"
An exclamation of relief and surprise burst from both the girls when the heavy door was swung back, permitting a fairly good view of the hall to be had.
Instead of seeing Scip standing near by, the passage was empty. The outer door remained closed, and the girls could see the huge key in the lock.
"He has gone out again!" Dorothy cried, and once more anger came to aid her courage.
She had always heard her father and mother say that Scip was the one black servant in New York who could be relied upon as to faithfulnsss and a desire to serve his master's interests, and yet on this particular evening of all others, was he behaving in a most unseemingly and disagreeable manner.
Without really being aware of what she did, Dorothy advanced toward the door, Sarah following perforce because she did not dare loose the hold of her companion's gown, and the two halted only when they were close to the threshold.
"Surely you are not going to open that door!" Sarah cried in alarm.
"Of course not; but I have a mind to lock it, and then Scip will be forced to beg us to let him in."
"But we would be here alone!"
"We are alone now, and it will be safer if the door is locked. Any straggler could get in if we left it as it is."
As she spoke Dorothy took hold of the big key, using all her strength to turn it in the lock; but her efforts were in vain.
"Don't try," Sarah said imploringly. "It is too heavy for you to turn."
"I have done it many times before," and Dorothy persisted, perhaps because her friend intimated that she could not, until to her great surprise she found that despite all efforts the key remained immovable.
Then she laid hold of the door handle, and thus discovered that the bolt had been thrown into the socket.
"It is locked! Scip must have gone out again!"
"He couldn't do so and leave the key inside," Sarah suggested tearfully. "Oh this is dreadful, Dorothy! Let us go back to the living room!"
"But if Scip locked himself inside the house, why isn't he here now?" and Dorothy spoke sharply.
"He is hiding to frighten us, and it is very wicked for him to act in such a cruel manner," Sarah wailed, her grief becoming so violent that Dorothy was aroused to do what otherwise she would have shrank from.
"I will find him, and tell the wicked creature what he may expect when father comes home. Scip! Scip! Come out here this very moment, or you shall be soundly whipped on the morrow!"
There was no reply. No sound came either from the inside or the outside, and in Dorothy's trembling hands the candle flared and flickered in a fashion that caused the shadows to dance in a most horrible manner.
"Scip! Come here this instant!" and little Mistress Dorothy stamped her foot impatiently, shaking the latch of the parlor door. "I know you are hiding in this room, so come out at once!"
The door gave way under the feeble impulse of her trembling hands, and swung inward.
The tiny flame of the candle illumined a small square of the spotless floor; but it was in this square that the frightened girls saw a stranger standing; a man with pale face, and torn clothing.
Brief as was the glance bestowed upon the unexpected and startling sight, the children could see that one hand and arm of the unwelcome visitor was stained with blood, while his fingers clutched a huge pistol.
With one shrill scream the children ran at full speed to the refuge of the fireplace, dropping the candle in their flight, and there, in close embrace, they cowered trembling, almost beside themselves with fear, against the soot-covered bricks.
"I shall die! I shall die! Why don't mother come?" Sarah moaned, pressing her face against Dorothy's dirty hand. "What was that in the best room?"
"A man, Sarah, and it must be that he has come to kill us, though why he should do so I can't say, for we've never done anything wrong to him!"
During ten seconds or more the girls remained silent, and, save for the sobs which shook their small bodies, motionless.
The silence was most profound, and this absence of any evidence of life was more terrifying than the greatest tumult could have been.
"Can't you pray, Dorothy?" Sarah moaned. "We must do something, you know, before he comes in here."
Dorothy hesitated an instant, and then as if realizing that there was no other way by which they could appeal for help, she knelt down amid the ashes, never once thinking of her bright green stockings, and began in a thin, shrill voice which could well have been heard by that terrible stranger in the parlor, more particularly because the doors were open:
"Dear, kind, good Lord, we two poor girls are all alone in this big house, and Scip has run away. There's a bad man in the best room who has come to kill us, and won't You smite him to save us who never did You nor him any harm? We—we—we—" Dorothy was at a loss to know how the petition should be brought to a close, for it was her first original prayer, and as she hesitated the words that had been read on that afternoon came to mind, therefore she added, "and we mutually pledge to each other, our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor. Amen."
It was as if the children expected an immediate answer to the petition, for they clung to each other in silence, choking back their sobs as they listened intently, and suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps.
The prayer was to be answered.
"He's coming to kill us!" Sarah cried in an agony of fear, and before Dorothy could make reply, even had she been able to do so, the flaring light of the candle appeared in the doorway as a mild voice said slowly:
"I had no idea that by trying to save my life from the howling mob I was like to frighten two children so terribly. Bless your sweet hearts, I have three little girls in my home over the sea, and would as soon think of harming them, as of touching even a hair of your dear heads."
This speech was so unlike what a bloody-minded murderer would have made that Dorothy was emboldened to look up, and she saw in the faint light the man who was in the best room when they unintentionally opened the door.
She noted in that quick glance his kindly face, pale and drawn though it was, and straightway her courage came back in some slight degree, although not to such an extent that she dared venture out from the fireplace.
"If you please, sir, where is Scip?" she asked timidly.
"And who may he be, my dear?"
"Our servant, who was sent to take care of us; but who went out to learn the meaning of the hue and cry."
"That I cannot tell you, my poor, little frightened baby. It saved my life for the moment that he left the door open, and I darted inside just in time to put the mob off the scent. Although death was at my heels, I would have passed by your home had I known how much suffering my coming was to cause."
The stranger did not venture to approach the fireplace, but stood in the middle of the room holding the candle, as if purposely, that his face might be seen, and by this time, thanks to his gentle words, the girls mustered up sufficient courage to look at him boldly.
"Was it you, sir, who locked the door?" Dorothy asked after a long pause.
"Yes, my child. The key was in the lock. I judged from the appearance that the house was owned by some influential man of the city, and believed that once hidden here I would be in comparative safety, unless it so chanced that he proved to be a rank rebel who would think he was doing his full duty by throwing me back to the wolves."
"My father is one whom the king's people call a rebel, sir," Dorothy interrupted, now so much assured of safety from a murderer's knife as to remember her manners by dropping him a curtsey.
"Where is he now, my dear?"
"At Bowling Green, helping make the bonfire, sir. He is a Son of Liberty."
The stranger looked nervously around as a hunted animal might have done, and then setting his lips firmly together, he asked:
"And what might be his name, young mistress?"
"Jacob Dean, the silversmith, an' it please you, sir."
"Then indeed I have sought a sorry shelter, and it behooves me to make further flight."
"Why should you run away from my father, sir?" Dorothy asked in surprise. "Surely never a kinder gentleman can be found in all this city."
"I can well believe that, after seeing his daughter; but I am Lieutenant Fitzroy Oakman, of his majesty's Forty-fourth foot, and because of my commission, may not be pleasing even to so kindly a gentleman as your father."
"Surely he would be courteous, even to one of the king's officers, sir."
"Ay, Mistress Dean; but I am he whom the townspeople have been hunting down as a spy, to hang me, an' by my faith, it begins to look as if they would succeed."
"A spy!" Dorothy gasped, falling back toward the fireplace as, with a fresh outburst of tears, Sarah clung to her franctically.
- ↑ Now Pearl street.