University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE FATHER AND NIECE.

Colonel Harwood, after a few moment's silence to control his feelings,
thus resumed his narrative to his daughter:—

“The negociations between us continued as I have said for three
days, at the expiration of which time General Leslie had possession
of all the information necessary for him to take possession of the
fortress. His first act was to cut off the supply of water. At the
end of three days more the garrison was in the utmost distress for
want of water, and all ignorant of the cause which prevented its
flow into the fortress as formerly. Taking advantage of this distress,
General Leslie made his approaches night after night nearer
and nearer the walls where they were weakest, as I had pointed
out to him in my plans. At length on the night of the tenth day a
general attack was made, and the garrison finding resistance madness,
with the enemy five times their number within the defences,
yielded without striking a blow. I and a few of my officers made
a stand until we were taken prisoners. The resistance of my officers
was real; that on my part only feigned.”

“Oh! my dear, wretched uncle!”

“Do not yet condemn me. I was under an illusion of madness,
I verily believe. I became General Leslie's prisoner. No one suspected
my agency in the fall of the fortress. No one could have
expected us to hold out, with our daily supply of water cut off. Not
a breath censured me. It was `the fortune of war,' so called.”

“Oh, what treachery!” muttered the young girl, in the low tone
of deep amazement and indignation.

“Hear me to the end,” continued Colonel Harwood, looking as
if he would sink under her proud glance of scornful surprise. “I
was not wholly lost. I was soon awakened to a full sense of my
folly and madness by the conduct of Leslie himself. The day after
the surrender I had made of the fortress, and also of my honor, he
invited me to dine with him alone. After dinner we were walking

in a grove, when he discovered to me as we conversed the falsity
of his true character. Said he to me,—

“`Harwood, do you know that I had not the least idea you
would treat my proposition, for you to give up the fort in accordance
to the terms of our old pledge, with seriousness; much more
go to work so systematically.' He then laughed as if laughing at
my weakness.

“`Would you not have done so?' I asked with surprise.

“`I? no, no. I am not quite so Quixotic, my dear Harwood!
My King and country and national honor I always put before private
friendship. Nevertheless, I am under the greatest obligations
to you.' This was spoken coolly and with an insulting air.

“`You are a villain!' I exclaimed. `I have been a fool; but I
will do what I can to redeem my own self-respect. Draw and
defend yourself?'

“Although a prisoner I retained my sword. He wore his at his
side. He stared at me to see if I was in earnest. I replied by
pressing the point of my sword against his breast and calling upon
him to defend his life. He turned deadly white but drew his sword,
and endeavored to cut me down with the same motion as it flew
out of its sheath. I parried at the thrust. We fought for a few
seconds, and my sword passed through his body. He fell dead
almost instantly. I looked around and seeing that the combat had
not been witnessed, for we were together in a little clump of trees
in the rear of his tent, I stooped down to search him for the letters
which I had written to him. But they were not upon his person.
I then took from his finger his signet ring, and hastening to the
tent which I had to pass through to escape, I presented it to the
sentinel in front, saying that I was going by permission of General
Leslie. I was beyond the limits of the British camp and effected
my escape to the American lines before the alarm was given.”

“I have heard that General Leslie was slain, but it was supposed
by an assassin who waylaid him. Could it have been by your
hand that he fell?”

“Yes, and in the manner stated. I was not suspected of having
slain him, as no one knew that I had dined with him in private
save his sentinel and servant; and when I went out with him after
dinner it was to go to my own quarters, which lay in an opposite
direction from the spot where he was found. My escape was attributed
to the confusion caused by his death, as I was on parole to
him only, and it was supposed that looking upon his death as a
termination of the parole, that I resolved to leave the camp. From
that hour to this I have never been suspected, save in one instance,
of having been a traitor. In slaying the base Leslie I had removed
the witness of my guilt. But he brought his death upon himself.”

“And why, my dear uncle, have you unfolded to me all this
painful story? Would to God you had kept the secret in your own
breast! It overwhelms me with grief and fills my bosom with
strange feelings towards you, that I would never had found place
there. I would rather have died than known that one whom I

believed the very mirror of honor, a proper pattern of an upright
gentleman, a patriotic and brave soldier, should thus be proven to
have fallen so low. How,—oh! how can I esteem you as I have
done? I have loved you, because I believed you all that was good
and noble. My dear uncle, this revelation almost breaks my heart.
Oh! why have you revealed this to me?”

“God knows I would have kept the secret forever sealed,
Caroline.”

“You were mad,—you were mad, sir, to listen to Leslie! Do I
gaze on a traitor? Sir, if I had read in a book of history the story
of an American officer who had thus betrayed his country, I should
have scorned him. But I will not hate you, I cannot hate you, my
dear uncle. I will forgive you.”

“Will you?” he cried, with joyful emotion.

“I will try to, I will try to forget. Oh, that I had never heard!
My uncle, so beloved and honored, a traitor!”

“Alas! you can neither forgive nor forget, though your heart
prompts you to. Your proud spirit, Caroline, will bend your affection
to it. I do not look for your love; and I fear that my object
in unfolding to you this humiliating confession will not be attained;
it is only to your love, your deep, faithful affection for me, that I look
for success.”

“Uncle, what can I do do for you? What is there that I can do
that can weigh against this painful relation with which you preface
your request?”

“I dare not speak. You look coldly upon me.”

“Nay, I will forget, my dear uncle. I love you still!” she cried,
throwing her arms about him. “Though you have been false to
your country, you have been true and good ever to me.”

“Noble girl!” he cried, almost overcome with his grateful
emotions.

“Now let me hear what you wish me to do?” she said, with a
winning smile; “though I cannot conceive what I have in my
poor power to perform, that can parallel with the dreadful confession
you have felt it necessary to make before asking me.”

“I will, I must say what I came here to say, Caroline.”

“Speak freely, sir,” she said, with frank sincerity.

“The correspondence which passed between me and Leslie has
come to light.”

“How? I trembled for this.”

“I do not know how. But every letter that I wrote to General
Leslie, with all the plans enclosed and all the damning proofs of my
treason, are in the hands of a man in this city.”

“Then you are lost!” cried Caroline Kent, with almost a
shriek.

“I am glad that you fear for me and feel for me. It leads me to
hope that you will resolve to save me.”

“Save you! Can I save you?”

“You can; it is in your power to make me a happy man; it is
in your power, Caroline, to dissipate the horrible fears that for some

weeks past have weighed upon my mind, and almost driven me to
suicide.”

“Speak, sir! I will do it.”

“I ask of you no promise until you have heard what I require of
you. The papers which are held by this person are in themselves
sufficient to bring me to an ignominious death; to brand my name
to the world with infamy; to destroy the hopes of my children; to
cause the finger of scorn to be pointed at my dear boy, who is now
in his country's service; in a word to wreck all that I am and all
who have any connection with me.”

“And how can this be averted? What can one so insignificant
as I do, sir?”

“You shall hear, though I would rather my tongue were paralyzed
than it should utter the words. The man who holds these fatal
papers is a lawyer, and though a person of extraordinary talents, a
man wholly destitute of principle. You see I describe to you his
character fairly, for you shall do nothing blindly; and in the end it
depends upon you to refuse or assent. His name is Simmins
Satchell.”

“I have heard of him. I have seen him pass the gate. Once he
looked at me so fixedly that I was alarmed, and inquired of one of
the young girls who he was, and they said it was the person you
have named. He looks to me, sir, like an evil man; his countenance
was dark and sinister; his very glance which met mine made
me shudder instinctively.”

“And well it might, poor child, if you knew all. When did you
see him?” asked Colonel Harwood, eagerly.

“But ten days ago; it was as I was just coming in from a walk
upon the common.”

“He did not speak?”

“No, sir; he looked at me in the most close and scrutinizing
way, and with a boldness that offended me, while it excited
alarm.”

“Already prejudiced,” said the Colonel, in a half-tone to himself.
“He has no hope; but I will do my duty, and the responsibility
will remain with him. This Satchell,” resumed the Colonel,
“came to me some weeks ago and desired an interview. He was
then a perfect stranger to me. He made known to me that he had
come to the knowledge that I had betrayed the fortress which had
fallen into General Leslie's hands, and stated that he held the proofs
in the correspondence which passed between us at the time. Judge
my feelings! He refused to tell me how he came by it. At length
he offered to place it at my disposal for a sum of money. I have
offered him from time to time an amount that at length reached five
thousand dollars,—all I am worth save the house I live in. Last
week he gave me to understand that he would accept this sum. I
hoped he would, for I was ready to make any sacrifice rather than be
branded as a traitor.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, with intense eagerness.

“Last night he came to see me. When he entered I supposed it

was to bring the fatal packet of letters and receive the five thousand
dollars. But alas, my dear niece, he now took a new position
altogether; hitherto he had seemed to me to be governed by an
avaricious desire to make as much money out of my fears as he
could by his bargain; for he confessed he had bought the letters of
a person to speculate upon; but now his attitude and terms
changed.”

“Did he demand more, sir?”

“More? He demanded what could not be compared with money;
he demanded what I had not the power to grant; and in case of
my refusal he said that he would at once communicate the papers
to the Government.”

“To the Government!” repeated Caroline Kent, with surprise
and alarm agitating her fine face.

“Yes. Once in the hands of the President, my condemnation,—
my death would be inevitable.”

“What did he ask?” she cried, clasping her hands together in
agony.

“That which is beyond price, and without which he will accept
nothing.”

“Name it, sir?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand!” she gasped, with horror in her looks.

“Yes. It is said at last, Caroline. He demands your hand in
marriage. Without it he swears,—and he is a man who will keep
his oath,—that the Government shall be informed of my treason.”

“This is fearful! What can he mean? My hand in marriage!
No, no! he could not have placed your honor and happiness,—your
life too,—on that condition.”

“It was his only condition. He said that if I would give my
consent, and say to you that I had done so, he would be satisfied;
he would make me no further responsible for the manner you might
receive him, but at once surrender me the papers.”

“And you gave your consent?”

“What could I do, Caroline? My consent does not involve
yours. You are free to act as you will.”

The young lady rose up and paced the room for some time in
silence, with a flushed cheek and flashing eye.