Part 13 (1/2)
A FACE ON THE WALL
Betty sat in her favorite seat, a low, three-legged cricket, on the side farthest from the fire in Clarissa's little morning-room; it was the day before Christmas, and Betty's fingers were busy tying evergreens into small bunches and wreaths. Of these a large hamperful stood at her elbow, and Peter was cutting away the smaller branches, with a face of importance.
”So you have never kept Christmas before,” said he, pausing in his cheerful whistle, which he kept up under his breath like a violin obligato to his whittling of boughs; ”and you don't believe in Kris Kringle and his prancing reindeers? My, what fun we boys had up in the old Beverwyck at Albany last year,” and Peter chuckled at the recollection of past pranks. ”Down here in the city it is chiefly New Year day which is observed, but thank fortune Gulian is sufficiently Dutch to believe in St. Nicholas.”
”Yes?” murmured Betty, her thoughts far away as she wondered what Moppet was doing up in the Litchfield hills, and whether Oliver had got back safely to the army again. Surely, he had cautioned her not to recognize him, but luckily her fort.i.tude had not been put to proof. And then she wondered what secret mission Kitty had been engaged upon that day at Collect Pond. Somehow Kitty and she had been more confidential since then; and one night, sitting by the fire in Betty's room, Kitty had confessed that she too was a rebel--yes, a st.u.r.dy, unswerving rebel, true to the Colonies and General Was.h.i.+ngton, and Betty's warm heart had gone forth toward her from that very moment.
”Clarissa has a huge crock full of _olykeoks_ in the pantry,” pursued Peter, to whom the Dutch dainty was sufficiently toothsome; ”and Pompey has orders to brew a fine punch made of cider and lemons for the servants, and oh! Betty, do you know that Miranda has a new follower?
His name is Sambo, and he comes from Breucklen Heights; he has been practicing a dance with her, and old Jan Steen, the Dutch fiddler, has promised to come and play for them and their friends in the kitchen, and for my part I think there will be more fun there than at Clarissa's card-party--don't you? Wake up, Betty; I don't believe you've heard one word I've been saying.”
”Indeed I have,” replied Betty, returning to her present surroundings with a start. ”A dance, Peter? Why, it seems to me the servants have great liberty here.”
”Don't you give yours a holiday up in New England? I thought you had negro servants as well as we?”
”So we do; you know that Miranda is the daughter of our old cook, Chloe.
She came here with Clarissa when she was a bride; oh, we have a few negro servants in dear New England, Peter, but not so many as here.
Gulian told me that there are some three thousand slaves owned in the city and its environs. But our negroes go to church and pray; they do not dance, and I know Chloe would be shocked with Miranda's flippant ways. She was ever opposed to dancing.”
”Don't be prim, Betty.”
”I--prim?”--and Betty went off into a shout of girlish laughter, as she flung a pine needle at Peter, who dodged it successfully; ”that I live to hear myself called what I have so often dubbed Pamela. Fie, Peter, let Miranda dance if she will; I should love to see her. It would be far more amusing than cards.”
”Betty,” said Peter, edging nearer her and lowering his voice to a whisper, ”I heard that the Sons of Liberty had another placard up near the Vly Market last night, and that Sir Henry Clinton is in great wrath because they are growing daring again. My! wouldn't I just like to see one of them; but they say (so Pompey told me) that they are all around us in different disguises. That's why they're so difficult to catch; it would go hard with them if the Hessians lay hands on the author of the placards.”
”But they will not; I heard Gulian say only last night that the cleverness with which the placards are prepared and placed was wonderful. Who tells you these things, Peter? Do have a care, for we are under Gulian's roof, and he would be very angry if he knew that your and my sympathies are all on the side of the Whigs.”
”Oh, I hear things,” murmured Peter evasively. Then whispering in Betty's ear, ”Did you ever hear Kitty speak of Billy the fiddler?”
”There's no one within hearing,” said Betty, as she finished her twelfth wreath and laid it carefully on the floor beside her cricket. ”Get the other big branch outside the door, and sit down here close by me while you pull the twigs off; then you can tell me safely, for Clarissa is sleeping, and she will call me when she wakes. Of course I never heard of the man you mention.”
Peter threw back his howl in a prolonged chuckle, as he followed Betty's instructions and edged his cricket close to her elbow.
”Man!--well, he's more like a monkey than anything. He only comes to my shoulder, and yet he's old enough to be my father.”
”A dwarf, do you mean?”
”No, not precisely; the boys call him a manikin, for he's not deformed; only very, very small; not above four feet high. He is Dutch and has been a drummer, it's whispered, in General Was.h.i.+ngton's army. They say he was in the battle of Harlem Lane, and beat the rally for our troops when Knowlton fell. The Vly boys are great friends with him.”
”But, I thought you were at daggers drawn with the boys of the Vly Market, Peter? Surely, you told me blood-curdling tales of the fights between them and you Broadway boys?”
”Oh, aye, but that's for right of way” and don't mean much except when we are actually punching each other's heads. Billy can tell great yarns; how his eyes flash when he speaks of the prison s.h.i.+ps, though I only heard him once, when Jan Steen was talking foolish Tory stuff.”
”Do you think 'Billy the fiddler,' as you call him, is one of the Sons of Liberty?”
”H-u-s-h!” and Peter looked fearfully around. ”I don't dare say, but I'm sure he's true and steady. Betty, I wish I was a little taller; if I were I'd run away some fine morning and go for a drummer boy with General Was.h.i.+ngton.”
Betty looked up with affectionate eyes at the st.u.r.dy urchin. ”I know how you feel, Peter; but wait a bit. It's sad and disheartening enough now, G.o.d knows, but perhaps better days may dawn for the patriots. My father says we must keep up our hearts as best we can, and trust in G.o.d and the Continental Congress. Did I tell you how we moulded the bullets last summer? We kept the tally, and over forty-two thousand cartridges were made from the statue of King George, so the women of Litchfield have contributed their aid to the cause in good practical fas.h.i.+on.”'
”Aye, that was fine! It must have been jolly fun, too.”