 | City legends |  |
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.
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,
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!
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
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!
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:
Is heavy to be borne;
Drag not your life through sloughs of shame—
Seek not a nation's scorn!
Beckons for hell while yet on earth.
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
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!
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