“Yes; I am Lund Washington, General George Washington’s relative, and represent him during his absence,” Mr. Washington informed him with dignity. “And I am Captain Graves of the English navy,” responded that officer pompously. “In command of the ‘Acteon’ there. Now, sir, I want breakfast for my crew, and that quickly. And then supplies: flour, corn, bacon, hams, poultry and whatever else there may be on the estate that will feed hungry soldiers. Now be quick about getting them.” “And if I refuse?” said Mr. Washington. “Refuse!” roared the officer. “If you refuse, by St. George I’ll burn every building on the place and run off all your negroes. Now do as you please about it.” Mr. Washington hesitated no longer. “I will comply with your demands,” he said simply. He would do anything rather than that the general should lose his home. “And mind,” called Captain Graves, “I want no dallying.” “There will be none,” answered the overseer quickening his footsteps. “Wife,” he said as he reached the porch where Peggy and the two women awaited him, “we must have breakfast for the crew as quick as it can be gotten. Do you see to it while I attend to what is wanted for supplies.” Peggy looked up in amazement, thinking that she had not heard aright. “Is thee going to give them breakfast and supplies from General Washington’s place, sir?” she asked. “I must, my child,” replied Lund Washington sadly. “The captain threatens to burn the houses, and run off with all the slaves if I do not. I cannot help myself. They would take what they want anyway.” “Then thee should let them take it,” cried Peggy excitedly. “The general won’t like for thee to feed the enemy from his stores. He won’t like it, friend.” “I am in charge of the property,” repeated the overseer. “If anything happens to the place while ’tis in my charge I will be responsible. I will comply with any reasonable demand rather than have the plantation razed.” “The general won’t like it,” Peggy reiterated in a low tone as Mr. Washington began to give orders to the slaves concerning the supplies while his wife hastened to see about breakfast. “He won’t like it. I know that he would rather have his home burned than that the enemy should be supplied from his plantation. Oh, I know he won’t approve of it.” “Lil’ missy’s right,” declared a venerable darky who stood near. “Marse George ain’t gwine ter laik hab’n de enemy fed offen his craps. ’Tain’t fitten dat he’d fight ’em, an’ feed ’em, too.” “That is just it,” declared the girl turning toward him quickly, surprised that a negro should grasp the point of honor affected. “What is thy name?” she added. “I should like to know it.”