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Sixth Chain.
Scene I.
suburbs of the city of Quebec, in the early morning of December 31, 1775. The air is full of falling snow. Wind whirls the flakes drearily, and piles them into drifts. A band of American soldiers are waiting to storm a barrier thrown across the street. They have sustained a heroic march through the forests and mountain passes of Maine and Canada, to make this fight. Colonel Benedict Arnold, their leader, addresses them.Benedict Arnold.
Men of the Western world, you stand before
The mighty throne of England; that pursues
Its conquests o'er the heights of ocean hills,
And through the depths of your own forest waves;
That offers peace, if you will but accept
Handcuffs and shackles with it; that perhaps
May let you live within your wilderness,
If you will crouch in cabins of disgrace,
And feed their foreign lordships. You have come
Through all the dangers Nature could invent,
Through all the suffering cruelty could ask,
And fought, meanwhile, a constant, marching war,
With rocks and hills—with forests and with floods;
But all that you thus far have done, has been
The sowing of a seed, whose harvest now
Stands nodding just before you. Will you reap
This field of glory?
Voices
(with a hoarse cheer).
We will follow you
Through death, and anything that lies beyond!
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Riches await you if you win this fight,
Honor awaits you if you win this fight,
Glory awaits you if you win this fight—
Soldier
(aside, shivering as he grasps his snow-covered musket).
I did not leave my well-loved forest home,
I did not leave my wife and mother weeping,
I did not leave my blue-eyed baby sleeping,
Through these vast forest solitudes to roam,
For honor or for glory or for gold.
In three great words my motto can be told:
God, Liberty, and Right!
For these I fight.
Arnold
(continuing).
Now let me say a word to any one
Not friendly to this contest: if one's here
Whose craven heart is still as yet untuned
To the wild concert-pitch of war, I say
Get out! go back! no bridges have been burned;
Safe hospitals and beds upon the way
Will take your puny, worthless bodies in.
I shall be at the front! I can not stay
Behind, to spur a coward to his duty.
Go back—weak woman by all women scorned!
But if there be those here who do not know
What life means, without glory; those whose hearts
Find mountain air, even, poisoned, when it floats
Above a land disgraced, come on with me!
And if you live, the world shall crown you heroes;
And if you die, though we've no Westminster
Where you can be entombed in marble, yet
Your names will bivouac in the nation's heart.
Hoarse Voices.
Give us the word to charge!
Arnold.
Now charge, and conquer!
[They fight their way fiercely through the first barrier; Arnold is wounded and disabled, and led to the rear, his soldiers still fighting.
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(as he is carried bleeding past his soldiers).
Fight on, my men, for glory—riches—fame!
Soldier
(grasping more tightly his musket).
God, Liberty, and Right—direct my aim!
The three legends of this chain endeavor to exhibit, in dramatic form, the probable thoughts and feelings of one of the most remarkable characters of history—under three widely differing sets of circumstances.
Scene II.
the city of Philadelphia. A room in Arnold's headquarters. Time, January, 1780. He holds in his hand a written reprimand from General Washington, which a court-martial had ordered administered. He paces the floor like a caged panther.Arnold.
I have decided!—Let these ragged men,
These poverty-accoutred colonists
Playing “Republic” at a dime a day,
Shirk for themselves—stripped of their strongest hope!
This hacked-up sword, that I so oft have worn
In a red sheath of blood—blood of their foes—
And been abused for all my pains and pain,
Shall join the cast-off cutlery of fools,
[Throwing it, crashing, to the floor.
These poverty-accoutred colonists
Playing “Republic” at a dime a day,
Shirk for themselves—stripped of their strongest hope!
This hacked-up sword, that I so oft have worn
In a red sheath of blood—blood of their foes—
And been abused for all my pains and pain,
Shall join the cast-off cutlery of fools,
And I will take the bright, gold-hilted blade,
Flashing with gems, that England offers me—
Then hew and stab my way to wealth and power.
A nation fights for self—why not a man?
Man is a nation! with rich provinces
Of heart and soul and brain; and his success
Is more to him than other men's to him!
Flashing with gems, that England offers me—
Then hew and stab my way to wealth and power.
A nation fights for self—why not a man?
Man is a nation! with rich provinces
Of heart and soul and brain; and his success
Is more to him than other men's to him!
They'll say, “He is a traitor.” Let them howl!
Has not Dame Nature given me the cue?
The head-wind is a traitor to the sail;
The tempest is a traitor to the ship;
The white frost is a traitor to the vine;
The conflagration traitor to the house—
And all were friends—until good reasons changed
Their love to venom. And have I not cause
To shift my blood-drenched loyalty about?
What has this puling “nation,” with thirteen
Unluckily numbered colonies, e'er done
To pay me for myself?—What has it given?
Honor?—What flags has this frail sinking craft
With which to cover even a chieftain's corpse?
My epaulettes are rags; my titles scorned
By the same foe that I so oft have driven.
The English call him “Mr. Washington,”
And me plain Arnold. Honor!—a good joke!
So, what have these wild upstarts given me,
To pay me for myself? Is't money?—Well,
When brass breeds gold, and lead yields diamonds,
And promises are dollars, then my pay
Will be a general's meed, and not a serf's!
Has not Dame Nature given me the cue?
The head-wind is a traitor to the sail;
The tempest is a traitor to the ship;
The white frost is a traitor to the vine;
The conflagration traitor to the house—
And all were friends—until good reasons changed
Their love to venom. And have I not cause
To shift my blood-drenched loyalty about?
What has this puling “nation,” with thirteen
Unluckily numbered colonies, e'er done
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Honor?—What flags has this frail sinking craft
With which to cover even a chieftain's corpse?
My epaulettes are rags; my titles scorned
By the same foe that I so oft have driven.
The English call him “Mr. Washington,”
And me plain Arnold. Honor!—a good joke!
So, what have these wild upstarts given me,
To pay me for myself? Is't money?—Well,
When brass breeds gold, and lead yields diamonds,
And promises are dollars, then my pay
Will be a general's meed, and not a serf's!
What has this Congress given to me? One who
Had suffered fifty deaths that they might live—
Had climbed and swam from Boston to Quebec—
Had conquered cataracts, and frosts, and cliffs,
Then fallen—wounded almost to the death—
Fighting for them?—what dulcet word of cheer
Has Congress offered me to heal my wounds?
“Spendthrift, come here and settle your accounts!”
When I on Lake Champlain stood by my ship
'Mid smoking, crackling masts, and sails, and spars—
And still fought with the foe—fought them from hell!—
What did they do to pay me for my blood?
Promoted men above me, who had yet
To learn the smell of powder! When beneath
My fallen steed a duel I had waged
With the foe's army—what magnificent gift
Did Congress tender me?—Another horse!
As if to say, “If you will ride to death
In our supreme behalf, we'll pay your fare.” ...
The card is played!—I am a British subject!—
Had suffered fifty deaths that they might live—
Had climbed and swam from Boston to Quebec—
Had conquered cataracts, and frosts, and cliffs,
Then fallen—wounded almost to the death—
Fighting for them?—what dulcet word of cheer
Has Congress offered me to heal my wounds?
“Spendthrift, come here and settle your accounts!”
When I on Lake Champlain stood by my ship
'Mid smoking, crackling masts, and sails, and spars—
And still fought with the foe—fought them from hell!—
What did they do to pay me for my blood?
Promoted men above me, who had yet
To learn the smell of powder! When beneath
My fallen steed a duel I had waged
With the foe's army—what magnificent gift
Did Congress tender me?—Another horse!
As if to say, “If you will ride to death
In our supreme behalf, we'll pay your fare.” ...
The card is played!—I am a British subject!—
A Voice
seems to speak to him:
Arnold, beware!—A traitor's name
Is heavy to be borne;
Drag not your life through sloughs of shame—
Seek not a nation's scorn!
He who betrays his land of birth,
Beckons for hell while yet on earth.
Is heavy to be borne;
Drag not your life through sloughs of shame—
Seek not a nation's scorn!
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Beckons for hell while yet on earth.
Arnold, step back!—You stand before
The coming century's tread!
Men yet to live may curse you sore,
Long after you are dead!
The brave man treacherous to the brave,
Must suffer, even in the grave.
The coming century's tread!
Men yet to live may curse you sore,
Long after you are dead!
The brave man treacherous to the brave,
Must suffer, even in the grave.
Arnold
(fiercely, grasping his sword from the floor).
Whose voice is that? Coward, come out and fight!
Clash not dull words with me; but try your sword.
Who are you?
[An interval of silence.
No one's here. ... It was my fancy.
I am alone. Yet Solitude to-day
Is grievous company. I'll call my servant,
And test him slyly if he'll go with me.
[Rings.
Enter Mike, a servant.
Arnold.
Mike, this is quite a long and weary war.
Mike.
Yes, sirrh, but bedad it'll be longher and strongher and higher and lower and deeper and bloodier—before we ever give up!
Bedad before we'll ever give up—we'll foight 'em till we can foight no more—and aftherwards, too—a long time aftherwards, bedad.
Arnold.
Mike, there are those who think we best had yield.
Mike.
Yalde?—Give up?—Surrender? Sure, sirrh, that will never happen until the hottest place known in sachred or profane histhory frazes over; and then, bedad, we'll put on the skates and have at 'em!
Gineral, I have two little bize—one of them a girrul; sure this same little girrul she is growin' up to be her mother, right over and over again, widout her infirmities of temper.
Gineral, I like that little girrul pretty well; sure she is the only crature in the wurruld that ever set me to writhin' po'try! and I sind
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I fell in love wid her the very day she was born, and me love—it has incr'ased daily since.
But, Gineral, sooner than I would see our little Republic surrendher, I would take that little girrul, kiss her good-by, and lay her away in her coffin forever.
[Exit.
Arnold.
Good heavens! how drear and lonely 'tis, even now,
This turning on one's Country! but 'tis done;
The card is played; I am a British subject!
Scene III.
a hotel room near the city of London in 1794—twelve years after the close of the Revolutionary War. An American sits alone at a table writing. A card is handed him by a servant.American.
Ah, Talleyrand!—what can he want with me?
Send him up.
Enter Talleyrand.
Pardon, Monsieur Anderson?
American
(rising).
General, sir.
Talleyrand.
Pardon. Parlez vous Français?
American.
Not well.
Talleyrand.
Then let us in the English talk,
Which I know little of, but still can use.
I beg you, General, listen now to me.
I have been worked much for my country. I
Have toiled and suffered hard; it gives me naught
Except allow me still much more to toil.
It says to me: “We do not want you, now;”
England replies, “We do not want you here.”
And so my heart—true to my country's weal,
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Hoping my fortune may be nurtured there,
Till it and I rush to my country's aid.
Meanwhile, I ask you, General, that you give
Me letters to some friends in yonder land—
American
(rising eagerly to his feet).
What, friends?—You say I've friends out there?—Speak quick.
Who are they?—Let me know their names?—Speak quick!
You shall have letters.—Speak!
Talleyrand
(shrugging his shoulders).
Why, General,
I know not who your friends may be; I know
Who mine are; they are those I love right well—
Those that are true to me, and I to them;
I hope some time my country all will say,
“Talleyrand was our friend.” Not now, but some time!
You surely have friends in your fatherland?
Send me to even the humblest!
American.
Talleyrand,
If you should pace my country, east to west,
And north to south, and cry out as you walked,
“Where are the friends of this man?—A reward
I offer to whome'er to me will bring
A friend of him whose name this letter bears!”
Then you would cry to all that Wertern land
In vain.—Yet not through silence would you walk:
Curses would leap at you from every door;
Hate's maledictions pierce you through and through;
Scorn would creep round you with its withering hiss;
Only because you named me as a friend.
Women and men and children all would cry,
“Curse him forever!”
Talleyrand.
General, why is that?
Were you not brave?
American
(laughing).
Brave? ask them was I not?
Ask any one that e'er crossed swords with me,
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Peer or subaltern, where was I i' the fight?
Did I say “Go,” or “Come!” Brave?—Try me now!
I was th' Achilles of the western fields!
Had I been marshalled in the Trojan wars,
Homer my praises would be singing yet!
I would be still a king 'mongst western kings—
Had I been true—
Talleyrand.
True?
American.
Talleyrand, list to me.
You speak of friends: you have true friends on earth—
You have some good friends in th' Elysian fields:
They have marched on, and camp there till you come.
Hearts you have tied to; souls that reach for yours;
You know not, happy man, what 'tis to be
Without one friend, in all God's threefold realm!
Talleyrand.
Without one friend?
American.
I speak it with my heart!
I have no friend in earth, or heaven, or hell!
If I were brought before the bar of God,
For final judgment, and it should be said,
“If there be any one in all this throng
Can speak one word for him, he shall be saved,”
All would be still, in thorny, scornful silence,
And I be pushed down, headlong, to my doom.
Worse than my doom; for Satan would appear
At his white-heated iron gate, and shout
“You are too vile to come as others do—
Too treacherous—you would give away the pass!
Delve midst the sulphurous filth outside, and then
Sneak upward from beneath!”
Talleyrand
(aside).
Insane!—insane!
American
(overhearing).
No! no! too sane! too sane! would I might rave!
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To drown the clamor of my thoughts! Too sane!
God gave to me clear brain—metallic will—
Warm heart—credentials of a prince 'mongst men;
But after me that hell-spawned spirit came—
The partner of all traitor-craft; the one
That helped foul Judas count his silver coins,
And changed them into lead to sink his soul;
That crept up even to Satan ere he fell,
And whispered, “You can rule instead of God!”
Talleyrand.
For God's sake, man, who are you?—what your crime?
American.
'Tis hell enough, to think this day by day;
But when night comes—the horror-breeding night—
The black page where are written lurid things
We will not see or hear by day—there throng
In the dull currents of my sleep—fierce souls,
Swarming from dread, cold silences of death.
One word they whisper in my aching ears,
Till it becomes a shout! It walks my brain,
And leaves its tracks in branded letters there;
Oh, I can look within, and read it now!
Midnight court-martial they hold over me—
They try me o'er and o'er for the same crime;
No one is there to speak a word for me;
And the same verdict always follows—“Guilty!”
And the same sentence—“Do not let him die!”
Talleyrand.
Tell me your crime, man, tell me!
American.
Talleyrand,
You yet are young; you have the columns still
Perchance, of swiftly marching years to form.
Take this advice from an old worn-out man—
Worn from without—worn threadbare from within;
Be never false to man; it is a crime;
But if you are, man some time may forget it;
Be never false to woman; 'tis a crime
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Be never false to childhood; 'tis a crime
Worst of all three; perhaps God may forgive.
But ne'er betray your country, till you wish
To pull the red-hot roof of hell upon you!
Talleyrand.
What did you do?
American.
I'll tell you; nearer! nearer!
Let me not speak, but whisper the damned truth!
I took my country's honor from her eyes,
I took my country's favors from her hand,
I took my country's strongest-guarded hope,
Her fortress, heaven-walled by river and hill,
Key to her hopes—hope of the centuries—
I took all these—intrusted me by her—
Took them in my black hands on one black night,
And—sold them—sold them—sold them—sold them—sold them
As I would vend a paltry patch of earth,
As I would huckster off a senseless beast—
Sold them for some few paltry chips of gold—
Of rotting, rotten, senseless, beastly gold!
I sold the Western Hemisphere, and then,
Poor fool, could not deliver the goods!
Talleyrand
(rising).
Your name!
American.
Listen! while I repeat to you the name
Of one once grandest of the grand, now base—
So low and vile that men would not even use it
To step upon, to keep them from the mud!
Benedict Arnold, traitor!
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