University of Virginia Library

1. THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD.
PART FIRST.
INDUCTION.

DIALOGUE I.

Scene. The road-side on the slope of a wooded hill near
Fort Edward. The speakers, two young soldiers,—
Students in arms.
1st Student.

2nd Stud.

1st Stud.

2nd Stud.

1st Stud.

2nd Stud.

1st Stud.

[Exeunt.

DIALOGUE II.

Scene. The same. A group of ragged soldiers in conference.

1st Soldier.

I am flesh and blood myself, as well as
the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What
the devil would you do?—You may talk till dooms-day,
but what's to hinder us from serving our time out?—
and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point.
Show me that.

2nd Sol.

Three months! Ha, thank Heaven mine is

up to-morrow; and, I'll tell you what, boys, before the
sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack
Richards trudging home,—trudging home, Sirs! None of
your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good
piece of bread and butter is the figure for me. But you
should hear the Colonel, though, as the time draws
nigh. Lord! you'd think I was the General at least.
Humph, says I.

3d Sol.

Ay, ay,—feed you on sugar-candy till they get
you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and moccasins.—

2nd Sol.

And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten myself,
no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll
have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I
don't. None of your figures for me! I say, boys, I am
going home.

1st Sol.

Well, go home, and—can't any body else
breathe? Why don't you answer me, John?—What
would you have us do?—

4th Sol.

Ask Will Wilson there.

1st Sol.

Will?—Where is he?

4th Sol.

There he stands, alongside of the picket there,
his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise
as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something
pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its
such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll
tell you.

3d Sol.

Ay, Will has been to the new quarters to-day.
See, he's coming this way.

5th Sol.

And he saw Striker there, fresh from the Jerseys,
come up along with that new General there, yesterday.

3d Sol.

General Arnold?

5th Sol.

Ay, ay, General Arnold it is.

6th Sol.

[Advancing.]
I say, boys—

4th Sol.

What's the matter, Will?

6th Sol.

Do you want to know what they say below?

All.

Ay, ay, what's the news?

6th Sol.

All up there, Sirs. A gone horse!—and he
that turns his coat first, is the best fellow.

4th Sol.

No?

6th Sol.

And shall I tell you what else they say?

4th Sol.

Ay.

6th Sol.

Shall I?

All.

Ay, ay, What is it?

6th Sol.

That we are a cowardly, sneaking, good-for-nothing
pack of poltroons, here in the north. There's
for you! There's what you get for your pains, Sirs.
And for the rest, General Schuyler is to be disgraced, and
old Gates is to be set over us again, and—no matter for
the rest. See here, boys. Any body coming? See here.

3d Sol.

What has he got there?

2nd Sol.

The Proclamation! The Proclamation!
Will you be good enough to let me see if there is
not a picture there somewhere, with an Indian and a
tomahawk?

6th Sol.

Now, Sirs, he that wants a new coat, and a
pocket full of money—

3d Sol.

That's me fast enough.

2nd. Sol.

If he had mentioned a shirt-sleeve now, or a
rim to an old hat—

4th Sol.

Or a bit of a crown, or so.

6th Sol.

He that wants a new coat—get off from my
toes, you scoundrel.

All.

Let's see. Let's see. Read—read.

7th Sol.

(Spouting.)
“And he that don't want his
house burned over his head, and his wife and children,
or his mother and sisters, as the case may be, butchered
or eaten alive before his eyes—”

3d Sol.

Heavens and earth! It'ant so though, Wilson,
is it?

7th Sol.

“Is required to present himself at the said village
of Skeensborough, on or before the 20th day of August
next. Boo—boo—boo—Who but I. Given under my
hand.”—If it is not it—it is something very like it, I can
tell you, Sirs. I say, boys, the old rogue wants his neck
wrung for insulting honest soldiers in that fashion; and
I say that you—for shame, Will Willson.

4th Sol.

Hush!—the Colonel!—Hush!

2nd Sol.

And who is that proud-looking fellow, by his
side?

4th Sol.

Hush! General Arnold. He's a sharp one
—roll it up—roll it up.

6th Sol.

Get out,—you are rumpling it to death.

(Two American officers are seen close at hand, in a
bend of the ascending road; the soldiers enter the
woods.)

DIALOGUE III.

Scene. The same.

1st Officer.

I cannot conceal it from you, Sir; there is
but one feeling about it, as far as I can judge, and I had
some chances in my brief journey—

2nd Off.

Were you at head-quarters?

1st Off.

Yes,—and every step of this retreating army
only makes it more desperate. I never knew any thing
like the mad, unreasonable terror this army inspires.
Burgoyne and his Indians!—“Burgoyne and the Indians!”—there
is not a girl on the banks of the Connecticut
that does not expect to see them by her father's
door ere day-break. Colonel Leslie, what were those
men concealing so carefully as we approached just now?
—Did you mark them?

2nd Off.

Yes. If I am not mistaken, it was the
paper we were speaking of.

1st Off.

Ay, ay,—I thought as much.

2nd Off.

General Arnold, I am surprised you should
do these honest men the injustice to suppose that such
an impudent, flimsy, bombastic tirade as that same proclamation
of Burgoyne's, should have a feather's weight
with any mother's son of them.

Arnold.

A feather's, ay a feather's, just so; but when
the scales are turning, a feather counts too, and that is
the predicament just now of more minds than you think
for, Colonel Leslie. A pretty dark horizon around us just
now, Sir,—another regiment goes off to-morrow, I hear.
Hey?

Leslie.

Why, no. At least we hope not. We think
we shall be able to keep them yet, unless—that paper
might work some mischief with them perhaps, and it
would be rather a fatal affair too, I mean in the way of
example.—These Green Mountain Boys—

Arnold.

Colonel Leslie, Colonel Leslie, this army is
melting away like a snow-wreath. There's no denying
it. Your General misses it. The news of one brave
battle would send the good blood to the fingers' ends
from ten thousand chilled hearts; no matter how fearful
the odds; the better, the better,—no matter how large
the loss;—for every slain soldier, a hundred better would
stand on the field;—

Leslie.

But then—

Arnold.

By all that's holy, Sir, if I were head here,
the red blood should smoke on this grass ere to-morrow's
sunset. I would have battle here, though none but the
birds of the air were left to carry the tale to the nation.
I tell you, Colonel Leslie, a war, whose resources are
only in the popular feeling, as now, and for months to
come, this war's must be; a war, at least, which depends
wholly upon the unselfishness of a people, as this war
does, can be kept alive by excitement only. It was
wonderful enough indeed, to behold a whole people, the
low and comfort-loving too, in whose narrow lives that
little world which the sense builds round us, takes such
space, forsaking the tangible good of their merry firesides,
for rags and wretchedness,—poverty that the thought of
the citizen beggar cannot reach,—the supperless night
on the frozen field; with the news perchance of a home
in ashes, or a murdered household, and, last of all, on some
dismal day, the edge of the sword or the sharp bullet
ending all;—and all in defence of—what?—an idea—an
abstraction,—a thought:—I say this was wonderful
enough, even in the glow of the first excitement. But
now that the Jersey winter is fresh in men's memories,
and Lexington and Bunker Hill are forgotten, and all
have found leisure and learning to count the cost; it
were expecting miracles indeed, to believe that this army
could hold together with a policy like this. Every step
of this retreat, I say again, treads out some lingering
spark of enthusiasm. Own it yourself. Is not this
army dropping off by hundreds, and desertion too,

increasing every hour, thinning your own ranks and
swelling your foes?—and that, too, at a crisis—Colonel
Leslie, retreat a little further, some fifty miles further;
let Burgoyne once set foot in Albany, and the business
is done,—we may roll up our pretty declaration as fast
as we please, and go home in peace.

Leslie.

General Arnold, I have heard you to the
end, though you have spoken insultingly of councils in
which I have had my share. Will you look at this little
clause in this paper, Sir. The excitement you speak of
will come ere long, and that at a rate less ruinous than
this whole army's loss. There's a line—there's a line,
Sir, that will make null and void, very soon, if not on
the instant, all the evil of these golden promises.
There'll be excitement enough ere long; but better blood
than that shed in battle fields must flow to waken it.

Arnold.

I hardly understand you, Sir. Is it this threat
you point at?

Leslie.

Can't you see?—They have let loose these
hell-hounds upon us, and butchery must be sent into our
soft and innocent homes;—beings that we have sheltered
from the air of heaven, brows that have grown pale at
the breath of an ungentle word, must meet the red knife
of the Indian now. Oh God, this is war!

Arnold.

I understand you, Colonel Leslie. There
was a crisis like this in New Jersey last winter, I know,
when our people were flocking to the royal standard, as

they are now, and a few fiendish outrages on the part of
the foe changed the whole current in our favor. It may
be so now, but meanwhile—

Leslie.

Meanwhile, this army is the hope of the
nation, and must be preserved. We are wronged, Sir.
Have we not done all that men could do? What were
twenty pitched battles to such an enemy, with a force
like ours, compared with the harm we have done them?
Have we not kept them loitering here among these hills,
wasting the strength that was meant to tell in the quivering
fibres of men, on senseless trees and stones,
paralyzing them with famine, wearying them with unexciting,
inglorious toil, until, divided and dispirited, at
last we can measure our power with theirs, and fight,
not in vain? Why, even now the division is planning
there, which will bring them to our feet. And what to
us, Sir, were the hazards of one bloody encounter, to
the pitiful details of this unhonored warfare?—We are
wronged—we are wronged, Sir.

Arnold.

There is some policy in the plan you speak
of,—certainly, there is excellent policy in it if one had
the patience to follow it out; but then you can't make
Congress see it, or the people either; and so, after all,
your General is superseded. Well, well, at all events he
must abandon this policy now,—it's the only chance left
for him.

Leslie.

Why; howso?

Arnold.

Or else, don't you see?—just at the point
where the glory appears, this eastern hero steps in,
and receives it all; and the laurels which he has been
rearing so long, blow just in time to drop on the brow of
his rival.

Leslie.

General Arnold,—excuse me, Sir—you do
not understand the man of whom you speak. There
is a substance in the glory he aims at, to which,
all that you call by the name is as the mere shell
and outermost rind. Good Heavens! Do you think
that, for the sake of his own individual fame, the
man would risk the fate of this great enterprize?—What
a mere fool's bauble, what an empty shell of honor,
would that be. If I thought he would—

Arnold.

It might be well for you to lower your voice
a little, Sir; the gentleman of whom you are speaking is
just at hand.

[Other officers are seen emerging from the woods.]

3d Off.

Yes, if this rumor holds, Lieutenant Van
Vechten, your post is likely to become one of more honor
than safety. Gentlemen—Ha!—General Arnold! You
are heartily welcome;—I have been seeking you, Sir.
If this news is any thing, the movement that was planned
for Wednesday, we must anticipate somewhat.

Leslie.

News from the enemy, General?

Gen. Schuyler.

Stay—those scouts must be coming

in, Van Vechten. Why, we can scarce call it news yet, I
suppose; but if this countryman's tale is true, Burgoyne
himself, with his main corps, is encamping at this moment
at the Mills, scarce three miles above us.

Arnold.

Ay, and good news too.

Leslie.

But that cannot be, Sir—Alaska—

Gen. Schuyler.

Alaska has broken faith with us if it is,
and the army have avoided the delay we had planned
for them.—That may be.—This man overheard their
scouts in the woods just below us here.

Arnold.

And if it is,—do you talk of retreat, General
Schuyler? In your power now it lies, with one hour's
work perchance, to make those lying enemies of yours
in Congress eat the dust, to clear for ever your blackened
fame. Why, Heaven itself is interfering to do you right,
and throwing honor in your way as it were! Do you talk
of retreat, Sir, now?

Gen. Schuyler.

Heaven has other work on hand just
now, than righting the wrongs of such heroes as you and I,
Sir. Colonel Arnold—I beg your pardon, Sir, Congress
has done you justice at last I see,—General Arnold, you
are right as to the consequence, yet, for all that, if this
news is true, I must order the retreat. My reputation
I'll trust in God's hands. My honor is in my own keeping.

[Exeunt Schuyler, Leslie, and Van Vechten.

Arnold.

There's a smoke from that chimney; are
those houses inhabited, my boy?

Boy.

Part of them, Sir. Some of our people went off
to-day. That white house by the orchard—the old parsonage
there? Ay, there are ladies there Sir, but I heard
Colonel Leslie saying this morning 'twas a sin and a
shame for them to stay another hour.

Arnold.

Ay, Ay. I fancied the Colonel was not dealing
in abstractions just now.

[Exeunt.

DIALOGUE IV.

[Scene. A room in the Parsonage,—an old-fashioned
summer parlor.—On the side a door and windows
opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with
shade trees. The view beyond bounded by a hill
partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque
costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa.
Annie sits by a table, covered with coarse needle-work,
humming snatches of songs as she works.

Annie,

(singing.)

Yes, let me see now,—with a little plotting this might
make two—two, at least,—and then—

—Alas! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing
without there, wasting for ever; and never a glimpse of
it. Delicate work this! Here's a needle might serve for
a genuine stiletto! No matter,—it is the cause,—it is
the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of
the bravest lance that brave knight ever won.

(Singing)

[Mrs. Grey enters from without.]

Mrs. G.

Do not sing, Annie.

Annie.

Crying would better befit the times, I know,—
Dear mother, what is this?

Mrs. G.

Hush,—asleep—is she?

Annie.

This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need
enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask
mother!

Mrs. G.

Draw the curtain on that sunshine there.
This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have
dropped that golden hair,—yet this delicate beauty is but
the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and

shrinking helplessness. No, Annie; put away your hat,
my love,—you cannot go to the lodge to-night.

Annie.

Mother?

Mrs. G.

You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is
no time for idle pleasure, God knows.

Annie.

Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and
your cheek is pale.—And now I know where that sad
appointment led you. Is it over? That it should be in
our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, cannot
think of!

Mrs. G.

Harder things for humanity are there than
bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy,—
the mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie.

Annie.

Poor Endross! And he will go, to his dying
day, a crippled thing. But yesterday I saw him springing
by so proudly! And the mother—

Mrs. G.

“Words, words,” she answered sternly
when I tried to comfort her; “ay, words are easy.
Wait till you see your own child's blood. Wait till you
stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the
groans come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe;
and then let them prate to you of the good cause.”
Bitter words! God knows what is in store for us;—all
day this strange dread has clung to me.

Annie.

Dear mother, is not this the superstition you
were wont to chide?

Mrs. G.

Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere
this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown
straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful index;
and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call
it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,—hear me calmly, my
child,—the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer
than we counted on this morning, and—hush, not a word.

Annie.

She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured
in her sleep last night; twice she waked me with the
saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the window
in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to
sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say and—and what?

Mrs. G.

I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though,
that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the
enemy.

Annie.

No! no! Has Alaska turned against us?
Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in
yonder field. 'Tis false; it must be. Surely he could
not harm us.

Mrs. G.

And false, I trust it is. At least till it is
proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it.

Annie.

And why?

Mrs. Grey.

She needs no caution, and it were useless
to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all,
already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day; I have
marked it myself.

Annie.

It is just two years to-morrow, mother, since

Helen's wedding day, or rather, that sad day that should
have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite
forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so noble!

Mrs. G.

Hush! Never name him. Your sister is
too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory!
Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an unworthy
love. See the rose on that round cheek,—it
might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her
now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear,
whose strength they think to trample. Where are you
going, Annie?

Annie.

Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only
stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air
a little; indeed, there's no fear of my going further now.

[Exit.

Mrs. G.

Did I say right, Helen? It cannot be feigned.
Those quick smiles, with their thousand lovely
meanings; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the
smiling soul. Principle is it? There is no principle in
this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows
up from it, genuine, not feigned; and yet I have found
her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony.
Helen!

Helen.

Oh mother! is it you? Thank God. I
thought—

Mrs. G.

What did you think? What moves you
thus?

Helen.

I thought—'tis nothing. This is very strange.

Mrs. G.

Why do you look through that window thus?
There's no one there! What is it that's so strange?

Helen.

Is it to-morrow that we go?

Mrs. G.

To Albany? Why, no; on Thursday. You
are bewildered, Helen! surely you could not have forgotten
that.

Helen.

I wish it was to-day. I do.

Mrs. G.

My child, yesterday, when the question was
debated here, and wishing might have been of some
avail, 'tis true you did not say much, but I thought, and
so we all did, that you chose to stay.

Helen.

Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany
wind over a hill like that?

Mrs. G.

Like what, Helen?

Helen.

Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers
are stationed now?

Mrs. G.

Not that I know of? Why?

Helen.

Perhaps we may cross that very hill,—no—
could we?

Mrs. G.

Not unless we should turn refugees, my
love; an event of which there is little danger just now, I
think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads
out directly to the British camp.

Helen.

Yes—yes—it does. I know it does. I will
not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all.

Mrs. G.

You talk as though you were dreaming still,
my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for
a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now; or take a ramble
through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie
there,—no, yon she comes, and well too. It's quite
time that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing
worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with
you about these fancies; you must not thus unnerve
yourself for real evil.

[Exit.

Helen.

It were impossible,—it could not be!—how
could it be?—Oh! these are wild times. Unseen powers
are crossing their meshes here around us,—and, what
am I?—Powers?—there's but one Power, and that—
—“He careth for the little bird,
Far in the lone wood's depths, and though dark weapons
And keen eyes are out, it falleth not
But at his will.

[Exit.