University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE TRIAL AND SENTENCE.

“Well, old fellow, so you're caught at last,
are you?” said the foremost of Captain Milford's
pursuers, panting for breath. “By St.
Dennis! you've nearly knocked the wind out
of me; but if you're in that delectable place,
I forgive you.”

A loud laugh from the others, as they came
up, denoted that they viewed the affair in a
rather ridiculous light. Milford made no reply
to the first speaker; and as it was too
dark to distinguish objects ten feet from the
eye, and as he remained perfectly quiet, two

thirds buried in the mud, it became a matter
of some doubt with the soldiers, whether he
had escaped, been drowned in the slough, or
whether he was fast, and in a condition to answer
their questions.

“Get a pole off the fence there, to the left,
push it into the hole, and ascertain if he is in
there—and if so, whether he is alive or dead,”
said another voice, in the tone of one who,
ex-officio, had authority to command the
others.

As one of the men immediately went for
the pole, Captain Milford, who now felt satisfied
there was no chance of escape, said:

“Gentlemen, I must beg of you to assist me
out of this.”

“Ha! the scoundrel is not dead, and he
has found his tongue at last, pursued the man
in authority. “But get the pole, Carban, for
we shall need it. There methinks I see him
now,” continued the speaker, drawing nearer
to Milford, and striving to peer into the darkness,
but taking good care to try the earth
under him at every step. “Who are you,”
he demanded, in a rough tone, “that has caused
so much commotion and alarm in the city?”

“I am your prisoner, sir,” replied the Captain,
drily.

“Yes, and by—! you will have to pay
dearly for his night's work, or I'm no judge of
military matters. We are not to be raised in
the middle of the night, out of our warm
beds, to run a foot-race after such scape-graces
as you and your companions, and then let
you off with a slight reprimand, I can assure
you. Who are you? and what have you been
about, sirrah?”

“I will answer these questions only to your
superiors,” returned Milford, firmly. “At
present it is enough for you to know I am
your prisoner; and the sooner you do your
duty, and set me before your commanding officer,
the sooner you will know my secret—
that is to say, if you ever know it.”

“You are an insolent dog, at all events!”
rejoined the other, harshly. “Quick, Carbon,
with that pole, and let us have out this mud-diver!”

“He speaks like a feller that knows a thing
or two of military affairs,” said one of the
others. “Now I wouldn't wonder if he turned
out to be some rascally spy, after all.”

“I hope so,” returned the chief of the party;
“for then we'll have some satisfaction for our
foot-race, in the pleasure of seeing him dangle
at a rope's end.”

The pole was by this time plunged into the
slough, where Milford could reach it, and in
a short time he was safely on the more solid
earth, but completely covered with mud and
slime, which made him a very repulsive object.

“Come, you vagabond, you shall soon have
the desired interview with our commander,”
said the leader of the party. “Fall in, men
—fall in; for though you don't all belong to
my corps, I suppose you'll not refuse to serve
as an escort to this mud-beauty.”

“Certainly not,” was the reply.

“Well, Smith and I will lead, Carbon will
bring up the rear, and you two gentlemen
will flank the prisoner on the right and left.
Ready all—march!” and at the word, the
whole party moved off, with military precision,
shaping their course up the lane to Broadway.

Ere they reached the latter thoroughfare,
however, the party was joined by another
night-guard, consisting of half a dozen privates,
commanded by a corporal. A half
was ordered, questions asked, and explanations
given, and just as the two parties were about
to separate, an officer of the staff rode up, and
demanded to know the cause of the tumult
and alarm.

“Our prisoner here can best give that explanation,”
replied the officer who had the Captain
in charge; and he hurriedly related how and
where he had been taken, but declared that
he was ignorant of his crime, as he had refused
to answer his questions.

“Let him be conducted at once to the presence
of his excellency, Sir Henry Clinton.”

“To-night, your honor?” queried the other,
in a tone of surprise.

“I said at once, sir,” rejoined the officer of
the staff; and putting spurs to his horse, he
rode swiftly away.

“Well, it will be short work with you, I'm
thinking,” growled the Corporal to Milford.

The latter made no reply; and the word
being given to march, the party with the
prisoner again set forward, at a quick step,
shaping their course to the residence of the
commander-in-chief. Broadway was astir
with the alarm; and on his way to the mansion
of Sir Henry, our hero met more than
one party of patroles, and saw horsemen riding
to and fro, with as much haste and apparent
exeitement as if the city were already in a
state of siege. In fact, he saw enough to convince
him that the alarm was general, and
that on him must fall the heaviest punishment
of military law, death on the gibbet.

“All is lost,” he said, mentally; “but I
must nerve myself to die as becomes a true
soldier. Poor Andre! our fates are much
alike; and we shall soon meet; perhaps, in
another world.”

The Captain thought of Rosalie, and for
the first time his heart sunk, and a tear
dimmed his eye.

There was a small guard of soldiers drawn
up before Sir Henry's mansion; and the front
door being open, Milford perceived several
officers of high rank moving about in the brilliantly
lighted hall. The Corporal reported
himself and his business, and the prisoner was
immediately conducted into the presence of
the commander-in-chief. The latter was
seated at a table, in the same apartment where
we first introduced him to the reader in the
`Female Spy.” The room was lighted with
a large chandalier of wax candles, suspended
from the ceiling; and around the table sat
several officers, in full dress, while others were
standing back, more in the shade, their bright
scarlet uniforms, gold epaulets, rich sashes,
and sparkling ornaments, making a splendid
and imposing display. To account for so
many of high rank being present, we need
only say, that they had been summoned hither
to attend a council-of-war, which had not
broken up when the alarm was sounded.

There was a dead silence as Milford entered,
escorted by two of the soldiers, who fell
back the moment he had crossed the threshold
of the audience-room. All eyes were of
course fixed upon him, with stern curiosity;
and as he confronted the assemblage, covered
with mud from head to foot, and full in the
blaze of light, which flashed upon him so suddenly
as to dazzle his sight—and remembered,
too, for what purpose he was there, and how
much like a guilty wretch he must appear to
all present—it is no wonder that for the moment
he should feel overcome, feel his brain
reel, and stagger against the wall for support.
But his weakness, or emotion, was only momentary;
his natural firmness and lofty courage
soon returned; and he stood up boldly,
calmly, and looked his enemies full in the face,
without the quiver of a single muscle of his
noble countenance. He knew his fate, and
had resolved to meet it without a murmur.
Concealment, or prevarication, he fancied
would be useless, and he had resolved to disclose
all.

“Who are you, sir?” sternly demanded
Sir Henry, with an angry frown.

“One not altogether unknown to your excellency,”
replied our hero, in a firm, calm,
even tone of voice. “My name is Edgar Milford,
and I hold the commission of Captain in
the American army.”

“Ha! Captain Milford?” exclaimed Sir
Henry, in a tone of surprise. “Yes, methinks
I recognize your features now, as the person
with whom I had an interview a few days
since. But how comes it, sir, that you are
brought hither under guard, in this plight, at
this time of night?”

“Your excellency and gentlemen (bowing
respectfully to the company), I will be frank,
and speak the truth; for prevarication I now
deem useless, and unworthy of one who prides
himself on being a man of honor and a soldier.
I first appeared before your excellency as a
deserter from the American camp; but, sir, I
never did desert my country, I never did desert
the cause of liberty, and, I hardly need
add now, your excellency, I never shall prove
myself a recreant and a renegade.”

“Ha! then, sir, we see before us a spy?'
cried the other, sharply, quickly, and with a
dark frown gathering on his brow.

“Term me what you please, your excellency,
it will alter nothing now. I came
hither, sir, for the express purpose of seizing
the traitor, Benedict Arnold. I have failed

in my object; and I a wait the penalty of my
temerity with a stout heart, and an unflinching
faith in the mercy of almighty God.”

The firm, lofty, solemn tone in which Milford
spoke—the frank, manly manner in which
he avowed his object in coming to the city—
together with the exciting, not to say startling
nature of that object itself, caused a powerful
sensation among the officers who heard him.
Even Sir Henry himself seemed astonished to
silence; and it was not till a buzz of admiration,
for such dauntless, self-sacrificing heroism,
began to run around the room, that he
recollected himself, and again spoke. Milford,
without appearing to do so, noted even the
slightest indication of the feeling in which his
confession was received; and we must do him
the justice to say, that friendless, unprotected,
ay, already doomed, as he felt himself to be,
it was the proudest moment of his life.

“You have made this acknowledgment,
young man, with the sad fate of poor Major
Andre fresh in your memory,” resumed Sir
Henry, softening at the recollection of one so
dear to him.

“I have, your excellency,” replied the
prisoner; “and were I assured I could die as
much regretted, by friends and foes, as was
that noble, high-minded, generous, confiding,
and accomplished officer, I could meet my
death with a welcome seldom bestowed upon
the grim king of terrors.”

Sir Henry was moved at this tribute of respect
to the memery of one he loved as a son;
but he strove to conceal it, and rejoined:

“Will you favor us with the plan you had
arranged for kidnapping Arnold?”

“Pardon me, your excellency! but I can
not betray the secrets of others,” was the lofty
reply. “I have acknowledged to my own inlividual
intentions—that must suffice.”

“You had confederates, of course?”

“If I had, your excellency, you never will
earn who they were from me.”

“You are right, sir; and in the memorable
language of Greene, when a like question was
put to the lamented Major Andre, who replied
in a manner similar to yourself, `We have no
right to demand this of you.' But do you
object to stating how it chanced you caused
this alarm to-night? and how it happened you
were captured?”

“Without wishing to appear obstinate, your
excellency,” said Milford, after a pause, for the
first time exhibiting a slight embarrassment,
“I would rather decline answering that former
question: as to the latter, that is soon explained:
I was endeavoring to escape from
some soldiers, in hot pursuit of me, when I
accidentally plunged into a slough, made I presume
by the late rain, and was thus rendered
helpless.”

Sir Henry now turned to a gray-headed
officer who sat near him, and the two held a
short conversation in whispers. He then said
aloud:

“Gentlemen, I must beg of you to withdraw
for a few minutes, while these three
Generals (naming the parties who sat at the
table) and myself hold a secret consultation.
Colonel Dundas, you will call in the guard,
and take charge of the prisoner. If you
choose, you may conduct him into the library
—but we shall not be long.”

The apartment was soon cleared of all but
the four Generals. Milford had scarcely taken
a seat in the library, when Colonel Dundas
received an order to reconduct the prisoner
to the presence of the commander-inchief.
When Milford again entered the audience
room, he found the same officers present
as at his introduction. There was something
ominous in the solemu silence which
prevailed; but his mind was fully prepared
for the worst, and he exhibited no emotion.

“Captain Milford,” began Sir Henry Clinton,
speaking in a slow, distinct, impressive
tone, “as you are a soldier of no common intelligence,
you of course are not ignorant of
the laws of nations in regard to that class of
individuals who come under the denomination
of spies. That you are one of this class, we
have your own voluntary admission, and
therefore have deemed it useless to call in
other evidence. The penalty of this crime,
as you well know, is death by the hangman;
and no matter what our own feelings may be
in the matter, we are bound, by the policy of
war, to see the law carried into effect. From
my heart, young man, I sincerely pity you;

but pity must be sacrificed to duty; and therefore
it only remains for me, as an instrument
of the law, to pronounce your sentence. It
is the unanimous verdict of this tribunal before
which you have been arraigned, that, by
your own admission, you are guilty as a spy,
and ought to suffer death; and it is turthermore
decreed, that at the hour of sunrise to-morrow,
in the yard of the city prison, you
be hung by the neck till you are dead. I will
merely add, may God Almighty have mercy
on your soul!”

There was a breathless silence in the audience-room,
when this awful sentence was pronounced,
and every eye was fixed upon the
the prisoner, with a look of sympathy. The
latter listened to his doom with perfect composure,
and, save a slight paleness, which
overspread his features, there was no visible
change in his appearance. There was no
sinking of his calm, bright eye—no contraction
of the muscles of his countenance—no
quivering of his lips—and no one could say
he was more affected than those who looked
on as spectators. After the lapse of a few
moments, he replied, in a clear, firm, manly
tone:

“Your excellency and gentlemen, I beg
leave to say a few words, ere we part forever,
or at least to meet no more on earth. In the
first place, I would thank you, from my heart,
for the respectful manner in which I have
been treated since I came into your presence,
and for the sympathy which it is apparent
you have bestowed upon a stranger and an
enemy. I am still young, gentlemen, and
will not deny that there is much to make life
dear to me; but I have ever strove to act
honorably, to do my duty to my country, and
this reflection will console me in my last moments.
I am a soldier, I trust in God a
Christian, and fear not death. When I engaged
in the hazardous undertaking which has
resulted in failure and so fatally to me, I did it
with full consciousness of its perils, and of the
awful consequences that would ensue if taken.
I was therefore fuily prepared for what has
taken place; and so far from regretting what I
did, I here candidly avow, that with all my
knowledge of the past, were I again at lib
erty, and the same chances of success or failure
were to present themselves, I would re
ënact the same part. To seize a vile miscreant—a
traitor to his country—a villain of the
darkest die—who honors no obligation to God
or man—and bring him to justice—to the
punishment he so deservedly merits—I conceived
to be both a justifiable and a worthy
act; and with death now staring me in the
face, I find, gentlemen, my sentiments in this
respect do not undergo any change. But
your excellency and gentlemen, I will not
tire your patience by longer occupying your
valuable time. Once more thanking you for
your kind attention, respectful demeanor, and
true sympathy, I humbly bow to your decree.”

When Milford had done speaking, Sir
Henry took up a pen, and hastily wrote a few
lines, while each of the officers conversed in
low tones with one another. Sir Henry then
made a sign for Colonel Dundas to approach;
and folding the paper, the he placed it in his
hands, saying, in a low tone,

“Sir, you will take charge of the prisoner,
Let him be conveyed to the prison, and see
that, unlike the one we recently had there in
durance, he does not escape. This paper is
the order for his execution: see it carried into
effect.”

The guard was now summoned, and the
prisoner removed. As Milford was descending
the marble steps of the mansion, a lady,
on horseback, rode up on a keen run, and,
scarcely reining in her furious beast, wildly
threw herself from his back. Milford turned
his head a little to observe her, and the bright
light of the hall flashed full upon his own features
and hers at the same moment. The
eyes of both met at once; and uttering a
piercing scream of despair, the lady sank
down in a swoon.

It was Rosalie Du Pont.

“Merciful God!” exclaimed Milford, covering
his eyes and shuddering: “I had hoped
to be spared this heart-rending scene. On!
guard—on! for the love of Heaven! and take
me from her sight.”

The guard quickened their pace, Milford
did not look back, and in a few moments the
angle of a street shut her from his view, whom,
of all others, he loved best on earth.