Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 21, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 November 1899 — THE PATRIOTS TALISMAN. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE PATRIOTS TALISMAN.

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.

pi CHAPTER XVI. Robert Seaton was alone in his narrow cell, with irons upon his feet and hands. Hie pockets had been emptied by the frrOTOSt marshal, his coat had been taken from him, and a ragged, filthy blanket thrown over his shoulders in ,its place. By day a faint ray of light had penetrated to his dungeon through a small, grated aperture over the door, but that had \>een long gone, and utter darkness had ■hut him in. Supper had been brought ,to him of bread and water, of which he had eaten. His magnificent physique could not be easily crushed from its nat•ural tone of health and strength. And ;yet. the heart within, beating so faithfully its life-pulses, was heavy and sad. A dismal prospect was before him —the -most dismal in its terrible consummation 'that can be placed before the brave man whose honor is dear to him. From his cell he could hear the tread ■of the aeninel upon the pavement of the corridor near at hand, and the sentinel had just been relieved for the third time «ince the utter darkness had fallen. So he knew that it was past ten o'clock. Only ten more hours of life, and then, death of the gallows! Well was it, he thought, that his father had died before this hour. Beyond this, two subjects •of thought bore heavily and painfully upon him. The first was of Lillian; but ithat was not the one that in this hour igave him the keenest regret. With Lillian he had kept faith. In her service he had sacrificed his life. Had he sacrificed more than life? Ah! this brought the second thought— How had he kept faith with his dying father? What had he done with that life which he had so solemnly pledged, above all else of earth, ■ <o the cause of his country? Had he ®ot foolishly, recklessly thrown it away? "To be sure, he had given it to Lillian, ■but had he not filched it first from the •cause of Liberty? He thought of the martyrs of Valley Forge—how he had. left them when they needed him most — .mad how he had thrown away a life that belonged wholly to the cause of American Independence! Had he kept faith with .his father? "Oh! this was the bitter thought, and he 'could not absolve himself. Had he come upon this mission in the service of his country—had he been acting under orders »'-from his commander-in-chief —he could Slave bowed to the fate more calmly, and ■he would have been sustained by the condoling reflection that his name would, in =the coming time, be enrolled with the ■noble, self-sacrificing martyrs who had laid down their lives before him, and -■should lay down their lives after him. But now —now, he was to die an ignomin- , tons death, and the final hour was to be brightened not at all by the sacred altar fires! t With a reading groan he bowed his I bead upon his manacled hands, and so ■remained until he was aroused by the -unbolting and opening of the door of his i-cell. I A man entered bearing a lighted laniern, which he placed upon the stone floor, and immediately the door was elosed by some one upon the outside. The iprisoner supposing it to be the provost . marshal come to find if there was any- ?' thing more of value upon which he could place his despoiling hands, had looked ‘ quickly and sharply up, and had caught tight of the form and the face. It was not Cunningham's burly form, nor hfs brutal face; it was a far slighter form, and the face, showing a man rather past the middle age, was handsome ana aristocratic, and the face of a stranger—the | face of a stranger, and yet not entirely t atrange. Somewhere, it seemed to Seav. ton, he had seen the face before, but he v 'eould not locate it. The visitor wore a : military cocked hat, a long fur-lined cloak and thick jack-boots, and our hero fan- ; cied that he caught sight of a rich garb beneath. “Captain,” said the stranger, in a tone which sounded strangely in contract with the rough voices of the prison, “if you I will sit upon the pallet I will find a seat upon this stool. It is tiresome standing , -on these uneven stones.” Seaton sat down upon the narrow bed, wondering what could be the meaning of ' "this visit. Had the man come in hopes i to gain from him information of the ■ Patriot camp and army? But he was | aoon to be enlightened. I 5; “Captain Seaton, it may be in my powT er to offer you a boon which you should * prize. You know the sentence which the court has passed upon you?” f “Yes, sir.” “And you are probably aware that §• Gen. Howe has approved?” ! “Yes, sir." ft' “You are to be hanged to-morrow morn- - lag at nine o’clock.” | “So I have been sentenced.” “And so your judges mean it shall be. It has been discovered to-day that our heavy provision train, under the escort of 'jj Maj. McKenzie, has been captured. Two r -of the drivers escaped, and have come in |,-with the intelligence; and it is known : that you, in person, led the attack upon our dragoons.” fe “Yes, sir,” replied our hero, with a s 'thrill of pride, “I led the attack, and F «Ude the capture—l, and those brave fefgMO who were with me.” “And now tell me,” continued the | tone, “did you think it wise and proper | to risk your life upon the foolish errand Ustbst brought you hither?” “Foolish, sir?” “Adr*—foolish, boy! Were you not in honor pledged to the cause in which you iyhad drawn your sword?” you have no sympathy with that "As an Englishman—no; but were I an fiptm*rioan, I should be a Patriot. If I Reaanot sympathize fully with your Revopaation, I do most heartily and utterly deNrigbt to ask you if you did not do fooli »*»ly and wrongly when you jeopardized { PP** *° valuable to the American cause HSE/iTsS*? was this of his own How could be answer but hon- - 1 .

“Let it pass, I pray you, sir,” he prisoner said. “The die is cast, and I must abide the issue.” “But,” demanded the other, sternly, “how will you compound with your own conscience for having cast away a life which you had solemnly pledged to your country, and that, too, upon a purely selfish mission?” “You know why I came?” “Yes —I know.” Seaton looked eagerly and wonderingly into the man’s face, but it was turned from the light, and he could only see it in dim outline. But a tumultuous thought had flashed upon him. "Who are you, sir?” “Never mind. Suffice it that I would be your friend.” “You are—the Earl of Wenloek!” “As I said before, I would be your friend, as I was once the friend—of —another.” “Ah! of Lillian!” “Of your father, hot-headed boy! But not another word on that topic. I know that you did not enter our lines as a spy; and, knowing this, I am ready and willing to assume a fearful responsibility. If I leave you here to-night, the hangman will be your next visitor! You will die an ignominious death, and the roll of fame and honor will know you no more forever!” The prisoner, with a stifled groan, raised his manacled hands. “Suppose it were in my power to save you? Suppose I could, this night, set you free, and place you on a sure road by which you could reach the camp of your friends before morning?” “Do you mock me, sir?” “No—l speak in all soberness.” “And you can set me free?” “Yes.” Seaton caught his breath. “What are the conditions?” he asked, in a whisper. “Simply these; that you rejoin your command at Valley Forge, and that you do not again, upon any mission personal to yourself, seek admission within the British lines.” “Aye!” cried Seaton, springing to his feet, and speaking in hot, bitter accents, “you would shut me away from Lillian! My surrender of her hand is to be the price of my liberty!” The visitor was not moved an atom from his perfect calmness. If he had come with the purpose of carrying out a plan of his own, he evidently knew how to do it, as he also knew the character of the man with whom he had to deal. “Captain Seaton,” he said, with an authoritative wave of the hand, and with stern idgnity, “that is a forbidden subject. In that direction your life has been staked and lost! Let us not touch upon it again. Will you be seated?’* The prisoner sank back, feeling that he had been overcome. The power to contend was not in his hands. “Now,” pursued the stranger, sternly, and yet with much depth of feeling, “I give you the ultimatum. For a brief space—it cannot be long, for we have not long in’ which to act —I place your life in your own hands, for you to do with it as you please. You may take it back into the service of your country, or you may yield if up to the British hangman! Mark me, the life is yours for a few short minutes. You have heard the conditions. Not a question! You know the ground on which you stand. . At this moment your life is yours, to do with it as you will. Will you keep faith with your country, or will you ” “Stop! stop! Let me think. You will lead me to liberty, and to the camp of my friends?” “Yes —on conditions.” “And those conditions ”

“That you return to your command at Valley Forge, and do not again seek admission within the British lines upon any business separate from your honorable and responsible military office. And even then I should hope that you might come openly and manfully, under a flag of truce, and not as a spy. What is your answer?” Robert Seaton had not to think long. The matter had been brought down to a very narrow compass. Plainly, he had but one of two things to choose: He might offer his restored life once more to his bleeding country, or he might sacrifice it ignominiously and shamefully to the executioner. He might still keep sacred faith with his sainted father, or he might be recreant and apostate. He thought of Lillian, but such thought could not enter into the problem he was now to solve. He would have given much to know if this man had seen Lillian—if she had been asked to make a sacrifice for the life thus restored. Was the man before him the Earl of Wenlock? He felt sure of it —very sure. And might not his liberty be the price' of her hand? O! if it were sol The visitor had watched him narrowly and marked this sudden convulsion. “Captain,” he said, very quietly, drawing a richly jeweled watch from his fob, and holding it down towards the light, “time passes. We have but a few moments to spare.” “May I not know your name?” “If I save you, you may know it some time, but not now. Or, I should say—if you suffer me to allow you to save your self. The work which I offer to do is of too grave and dangerous a character to admit of mj\name being known in connection with it. Have you considered?” “Yes, sir.” “What will you do with your life?” “I will keep the primal faith! I will carry It back, and offer it upon the altar of my country I” “Robert Seaton, may you never regret the step thus taken.” Ah! why should he have possible cause to regret, if there were not an accompanying sacrifice? Bat he had no time for consideration

Be expeditions. We must be away be-' fore the mounting of the next guard.” With his purpose once fixed our hero hesitated no more. He had confidence in his strange friend. He was leaving behind him the gallows of the enemy, with his own gallant command In prospect. His heart swelled with the thought, even beneath the British uniform. “Captain Seaton,” said the chief mover, when the prisoner had buttoned up the laced coat and put on the hat, “henceforth, while with me, or with the guide whom J shall give you, you will consider yourself only ‘Sergeant;’—you will need no other name. Follow me boldly, and look neither to the right hand nor left. What property have you in the prison?” “Only my watch and a little money.” “Was the watch valuable?” “No. I feared my fine watch —my father’s—might betray me, and I left It behind.” “Then we will let Cunningham keep his plunder. It will be better so.” Outside, in the corridor, the sergeant who had given up his clothes, and another man in a sergeant’s uniform, passed out by a grated door in the rear, which the master locked after them, throwing the key upon the pavement. “Now, Sergeant.” Our hero caught the nod, and remembered the name. His guide led the way past three sentinels —then through the guard room —then through the provost’s office —then past two more sentinels, to the street, where he turned his steps to wards the Schuylkill. Ere long they came to the court on which stood the Seaton residence. “Wait you here,” said the guide. “I shall be gone but a moment. Remember —your life depends upon your discretion. I will keep my word. Do you obey!” The man in the furred cloak went up the court, and very soon returned, followed by a lieutenant of grenadiers. “Here, my friend, we part. Not a word ” “Only this —of Patience Angell,” pleaded Seaton. “Your old housekeeper?” “Yes.” “She is safe from harm. I will answer for that. Now follow the lieutenant, and obey him strictly.” Our hero looked upon the man as ha turned away, and he knew that he was parting with Gen. Lord Wenloek. None but one high in place and power could have done what he had done. “Now, Sergeant!” said the grenadier. “Our mission is of importance, and wa will hasten.” Just below the Middle Ferry, at tha foot of Chestnut street, on the Schuylkill, was a fascine redoubt, under charge of the Seventy-first regiment, and here tha last line of sentinels was passed, the lieutenant having had no trouble. They crossed the river on the ice, and at a point not far distant on the opposite shore,, a horse, saddled and bridled, was found in charge of a soldier. “Sergeant,’ said the lieutenant, “this horse is for you. You know the way from here?” “Yes.” “Then speed ye. You have your orders.” Aye—his orders were—Silence. And so, without a word further, he gathered the reins, and dashed away. He was upon the back of a powerful horse, and the animal was fresh and eager, and before daylight, despite the deep and drifted snow, Captain Robert Seaton was in his hut at Valley Forge, with his faithful officers about him. On this Thursday morning there was a terrible commotion in the Walnut street prison at Philadelphia. Captain Cunningham, the provost marshal, was in a perfect frenzy of wrath and excitement, kicking everything and everybody that came in his way, and swearing fearfully. His chief prisoner, Robert Seaton, had escaped, and a sergeant, and corporal, and a private of his guard were missing. As soon as he could muster up the necessary courage, he repaired to the quarters of the commander-in-chief, to whom, when admitted, he told the story. “Tush! tush! Captain, I pray you, be more quiet,” said Sir William. “Return to your quarters, and hold your peace. I will see that search is made for your prisoner.” “And for the rascally guard, General.” “Yes. They shall be found if possible.” And that was the last the provost marshal heard of the matter from headquarters. If Sir William had been admitted to Lord Wenlock’s secret, he kept it most profoundly. At Valley Forge, Capt. Seaton, at the head of his command, was once more on active duty. If he cared for his life he did not show it. Before the summer time came he had performed feats of prowess and daring that amazed even those who knew him best, and which had drawn forth the warmest encomiums from his commander-in-chief. He seemed, in very truth, to wear a charmed life. To a few of his most trusted friends Seaton told the story of his adventure inside the enemy’s lines—told all that had to do with his arrest, his trial and his escape; so they knew hoar he had won back his life from the very jaws of death. But he told to no one that other part of the story—how the great hope that had made his life worth living for, had faded away in the hour of that life’s redemption. But had the hope entirely gone? Was the desolation complete? At least, he had heart to pray that the bitter cup might pass from him; and no man prays devoutly without som_ lingering faith. (To be continued.) Copyright.