 | Washington |  |
Scene 5.
—Washington's Quarters. Aides-de-Camp and Orderlies go in and out: he at a desk with papers.Washington.
Take this despatch with speed to General Greene.
Send General Prescott here.
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Bid General Sullivan bring his forces up
With his best speed.
This goes to General Morgan,
I want his rifles quickly to the front.
This to Westpoint. Less hurry, but due care.
The Aide, young Custiss, to whom he gives it, says
My General, was that true?
Washington.
Wretchedly true:
I went myself to the fortress; they had fled,
That traitor and that spy; the first escaped
On board a British gunboat in the Hudson,
The other, caught with maps and plans upon him,
Has been condemned to death: a drum-courtmartial
Sentence him to be hanged,—hanged as a spy.
Bishop.
Can Master speak with a petitioner?
Washington.
I am engaged: upon what matter? urgent?
Bishop.
She says, on life or death.
Washington.
A woman then?
Orderly.
Yes, General, she would not be denied,
Assured that you would speak with Mary Arnold.
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The traitor's sister! O the bitter pang
That I have lived to call my lifelong friend,
Brother of my first love, as boy and girl,
My lowland beauty of those halcyon days,
A Traitor blackest dyed.
(To Bishop.)
Let her come in.
Aside.
She cannot yet have heard of his escape,
And comes to plead for him: it will be pleasure
However mixed with pain, to let her know
He got off in the Vulture. Franklin says
There is a spot of calm centering the midst
Of the most furious hurricane; these toils
And cares of war still find a heart of peace
Serene and quiet in their whirl;—
To his Orderlies, &c.
One moment,
Give space, and leave me: in the corridor
Be ready to my call. Speed these despatches:
he gives a second batch.
I will give audience to this lady alone.
Enter Mary Arnold.
Washington.
Well, Mary Arnold; only two short minutes
Can these my thousand cares afford: be quick.
Mary.
O, Sir, there yet is time,—is there yet time?
General, by all the love you bore me once
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So loved, so noble,—say he shall not die!
Washington.
Mary, it is a melancholy pleasure
To tell thee that he lives, and shall not die,—
The traitor will not meet his doom,—take comfort,
Thy brother has escaped.
Mary.
O, not my brother!
I do not plead for him: he is our shame,—
Myself I could have stabb'd him for his treason;
I pray for one less guilty—and more dear—
Betrayed as you were by that villain Benedict,
My own betrothed, my all but husband, André!
Washington.
How? That mean spy thy husband? I had hoped,
Poor Mary Arnold, to have gladdened thee,
My unknown passionflower of hot sixteen,
For sake of all the past, by the true news
That thy bad brother saves his shameful life:
But this unworthy plea for Major André
Cannot be heard one moment:—he must die.
Mary.
Not yet, not yet! O spare that precious life!
Washington.
The spy by all our laws of war must die,
And fourteen officers, the court of trial,
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I cannot help the matter if I would:
Justice commands and policy commends
No death less utterly shameful for a spy.
Mary.
Yet spare, if not his life, at least his honour.
Washington.
Honour? what honour is there in a spy?
Mary.
In some sort it was duty,—he was betrayed,—
He looked for better ends to those worse means;
The way seemed crooked, but the goal was straight,—
Washington.
Those who do ill that good may come, poor pleader,
Are caught in their own toils, and swiftly earn
Fit payment for such tortuous policy.
Enough. I cannot hear one word. Farewell.
However I may pity him, or thee,
And with whatever sorrow for his doom,
He dies! a terrible warning, gibbeted
On Westpoint battlements.
She swoons away, he summons the attendants, and the Act ends.
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