University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The narrator of Bunker-hill had not taken his leave,
when two gentlemen entered, who like him had served
through the war, but with a different fortune. They were
of the distinguished family of —, and sons of a gentleman
who, by enterprize in commercial pursuits, had
acquired an ample fortune, and, by that energy of character
which gives man influence over his fellows, had become
the founder of one of the most respectable aristocracies
which dignified his native place. He had been an
officer in the war of 1755, and his death occurred at about
the period of this sketch. The latter years of his life had
been marked by some aberrations of intellect, like that
of Otis, the early advocate of the liberties of Massachusetts,
whose memory the classic pen of Tudor has embalmed.
General —, the eldest of his five sons, was
of small stature, but of correct, and graceful symmetry.
Firm in camps, and wise in council, in refined society he
was gentleness itself. The friend of Washington, an inmate
of his military family, and highly respected by the
soldiers under his command, he bore into domestick life,

the spirit of that dovelike gospel which he loved. He
was accompanied by his younger brother Colonel —,
whose noble form the military habit well became, and
whose countenance was considered as a model of manly
beauty. While yet a boy, pursuing his studies at Yale
College, the war commenced; and his bold spirit prompted
him to rush from academic shades to the toils of the
tented field. He continued firm throughout the whole
contest, and rose through the different grades of command
to that of Lieutenant-Colonel, while yet in the early stages
of manhood.

The army has been called a school for manners, even
by those who consider it hostile to morals, and to the better
interests of man. The association of lofty spirits, inured
to danger in all its forms, and emulous of heroic
deeds, may naturally give energy, and elevation to the
character, which in the “piping time of peace,” has little
scope for action. But, among the officers of our revolution,
this was blended with a gallantry, a courtesy, which
in mixed society threw around them somewhat of the enchantment
of the age of chivalry. It produced a cast of
manners, which was peculiarly admired among females;
who found an almost irresistible charm in the graceful
condescension of these, so long accustomed to command
This deportment distinguished both these visitants of
Madam L—, though modified by their different characteristics.

They might have been compared to the two Gracchi,

save that the elder had more gentleness of soul, and the
younger less ambition for popularity, than their ancient
prototypes. After offering their respects to the Lady,
whom from childhood they had honoured as an epitome of
all that was noble in woman, they spoke kindly to the
the poor soldier, who had risen at their entrance.

“Sit down, my good fellow,” said General —,” I
am sorry that you have lost so much, by your country's
gain.”

“General,” he answered, unconsciously elevating his
crutch to his shoulder, as if it had been a musket, “I have
lost only a hand and a leg. Many have lost more, and
seen their country enslaved beside. I had rather this
head should have gone likewise, than not to have heard
that shout of victory when Burgoyne was taken.”

The piercing eye of Colonel — flashed with a warriour's
pleasure. The recollection of that event was dear
to his soul. He knew not then how conspicuous his own
noble form should appear in later times, on the canvas of
the illustrious Trumbull; deputed both to witness, and
pourtray the brilliant events which led to his country's liberty.
But the picture of the memory was, at that moment,
more vivid in the mind of Colonel —, than it
could have been rendered by the pencil of the artist.

Glowing recollections, and proud feeling, retouched the
traces of the scene; and in an instant countless images
thronged around him. The deeply marked, and interesting
countenance of Burgoyne, the ill-concealed melancholy

of his officers, amid the formalities of their capitulation,
the martial demeanour of Gates, the energetic,
open countenance of Knox, the sullen faces of the British
soldiery, the half-suppressed rage with which they
grounded their arms, produced a combination of joy and
rapturous gratitude, softened by pity, which can scarcely
be imagined but by an actor in those tumultuous scenes.
The very tones of the music, which guided their march,
seemed again to vibrate on his ear, and the foliage of the
Saratoga forests, bright with the opposing hues of autumn,
to wave in accordance.

Interesting groups filled the back ground of this mental
picture. The funeral of General Frazer; the incessant
cannonade upon his grave; the uncovered head of the
clergyman, who absorbed in the services of heaven, heeded
not the war upon earth; the pale, delicate, beautiful
countenance of Lady Ackland, committing herself to the
waters in an open boat, amid the darkness and storms of
night, or presenting to General Gates the open and wet
letter of Burgoyne, in which her protection was supplicated,
or entreating with the exquisite tones of female fortitude
in anguish, permission to attend her imprisoned and
desperately wounded husband; the magnanimous Schuyler,
as he took in his arms the three little children of the
Baroness Reidesel, reassuring the spirits of the stranger,
and the captive, by his tenderness to her helpless offspring;
these, and many more touching images were called

forth by the allusion of the disabled soldier to the
surrender of Burgoyne.

The transient reverie of Colonel — was dispelled by
the voice of the Lady, kindly mentioning Anderson, who
had been the last speaker.

“I take so much pleasure,” she said, “in his narratives,
that I sincerely regret any draw-back should exist to his
part of the satisfaction in visiting me. So strong are his
patriotic feelings, that he likes not to be long in a house,
which, for so many years, gave shelter to General Arnold.”

“I feel strongly indignant,” said Colonel —, “that
my native place should have given birth to the only
traitor, who ever existed among the officers of the United
States.”

“When we recollect,” replied Madam L—, “that
our contest had, at first, all the repulsive features of a civil
war—when we balance the labours, the privations, the discouragements
of our officers, with the infirmities of human
nature, I have often been surprized, and always grateful
to God, that this instance of treason was solitary.”

“There was,” said General —, “a circumstance
connected with the history of Arnold, with which, Madam,
you may not have been familiar; as it was for some time
known only to a few, who possessed the confidence of
Washington. The treason was discovered by him, on his
arrival at West-Point, from Hartford, in 1781. He was
astonished at perceiving marks of disorder, and at learning

that Arnold was absent, whom he expected would have
received him at the fortress. Recrossing the Hudson, he
went to the General's house, and found Mrs. Arnold in a
state of sudden, and violent distraction. Tearing her
hair, she could scarcely be restrained by her women, and
the two aids-de-camp of her husband, from rushing into
the streets. At the sight of Washington, her frenzy was
redoubled, with cries of “Depart! depart! thou demon,
sent to torment me.” Then a horrible suspicion of treason
first entered the mind of the Commander in Chief.
Soon the circumstances of the traitor's escape were made
known, by the men who returned from rowing him on
board the Vulture. He had endeavoured to bribe them
also to desertion, by promises of promotion, and British
gold. Finding them resolute, he forced them to trust their
lives to a miserable boat, retaining for his own use, the
barge in which they had innocently conveyed him to the
enemy. Intelligence arrived of the capture of André, and
Washington, inexpressibly afflicted, hastened to the army
which, under the command of General Greene, was encamped
in the vicinity of Tappan. He immediately summoned
to his presence Major Lee, of the celebrated
legion of Virginia horse, an intrepid officer, and worthy
the confidence of his Chief. When he came, Washington
was alone, and writing in his tent. The glimmering light
of the lamp displayed a countenance, pale with anxiety
and watching. His noble, and commanding appearance
seemed to derive new interest from the grief which shaded
his features. It was a searching, yet serene sorrow, such
as perchance might mark the brow of some guardian angel,
who saw the object of his affectionate tutelage, plunging
into perdition. He rose as Major Lee entered, and said
in a voice whose deep, and manly tones were softened into
exquisite modulation—

“Heaven only knows where the treason of Arnold will
end. Imputations are cast, through him, upon one whom
I hold most pure, and noble. Have you, among your bold,
Virginian spirits, any man capable of a daring, delicate,
and perilous enterprize? Know you any one willing to risk
life, liberty, and what is more, honour, upon a desperate
stake, where the chance of success is but as one against a
thousand dangers?”

“Did you say that honour must also be thrown into the
balance, my General?” inquired Lee. “And what is the
counterpoise?”

“The punishment of treason,” replied Washington with
energy, “the thanks of his country, the friendship of his
Chief, perhaps the rescue of an unfortunate victim “more
sinned against, than sinning.”

“Lee bent his eyes to the earth, in deep thought. Again
he raised them, beaming with affection, to his beloved
commander. Yet he looked one moment to Heaven, as
if for assurance, ere he spoke.

“I do know such a man; and but one. He is a native
of my own Loudon county. Though but twenty-four years
of age, he does honour to Virginia. He is the serjeant-major

of my cavalry, and has served since '76 with unsullied
reputation. His courage equals any danger, and his
perseverance is invincible. But in points of integrity he
will be found inflexible. I know not how far it is the will
of your Excellency, that his honour should be put to the
proof.”

“The cloud passed from the forehead of Washington, as
he said—

“Heaven be praised. My friend, you have raised a
heavy weight from my soul.”

“He then gave him his instructions with that minuteness,
and accuracy, which he ever preserved even in the most
perplexing, and dreadful exigencies. Lee returned to the
camp, and summoned to a private conference his faithful
officer. As he entered, his tall, finely proportioned form,
in the imposing dress of the Virginia cavalry, exhibited a
commanding appearance. His grave countenance betokened
a character, enduring, and undaunted, such as adversity
sometimes forms. His black eye, keen in its
glances, but almost melancholy when at rest, indicated a
man dexterous to read the secrets of others, and cautious
to conceal his own. His black hair, cut according to the
military fashion, still evinced some disposition to wreathe
itself into those close curls, which had given his youth a
cast of romantic beauty. His broad shoulders, and joints
firmly knit, gave evidence of native strength, confirmed by
severity of toil.

“I have sent for you, Champé, said his commander, to
entrust to you an expedition which requires inviolable secrecy.”

“The soldier bowed.

“I have chosen you to this confidence, because I have
long known your valour, and integrity. I commit to you
what may influence your destiny, beyond the power of
present calculation. It may secure that promotion which
is so dear to a brave man, or it may lead to an untimely
grave.”

“Again the soldier bowed with an unmoved countenance.
But, as the outlines of the mysterious plan were
developed, his features confessed the varying interests of
wonder, enthusiasm, and distress. He respectfully preserved
silence, until his commander had ceased to speak.
Then his emotion became extreme. He traversed the
tent with hasty strides, and his breathing was thick, and
strong as one who approaches convulsion. The bold
Champé, who often rode unmoved up to the sabre's edge,
trembled, and could scarcely articulate—

“I cannot think of desertion. I would serve my
Commander in Chief with the last drop in my veins, and
the last breath of my soul. But why does he solicit me to
appear as a betrayer of my country?”

“It is indispensable,” answered Lee, “that you join
the ranks of the enemy, and identify yourself with them.
How else can you expect to circumvent the traitor, and
bring him to his country's justice? It is the particular

order of Washington, that you offer him no personal injury,
but restore him to be made a public example.”

“There was a settled sorrow on the brow of the soldier,
and he almost gasped for utterance, as he said
“Speak not to me of desertion!”

“Lee approached him, as he traversed the tent with
unequal steps, and waving all circumstance of rank, drew
his arm within his own, and spoke in a low voice, words
which made him start. He exclaimed rapidly—

“It is false. The army holds not an officer more loyal
to the liberties of America, than him you mention. The
suspicion was created by the execrable Arnold. If, as you
say, it might be in my power to prove its falsity, I know
of nothing that would sooner tempt me to accede to your
purpose. Would to God, it were at the expense of my
blood, and not of my integrity.”

“His emotion redoubled, and his breast heaved strongly
against the band which compressed it. This was the
parting struggle. Lee was astonished at the length of his
resistance.

“I knew,” he said, “that the plan was replete with
peril. Therefore I entrusted it to you. I said, I have
known Champé from his youth. He will not shrink from
danger. It seems I was mistaken. Since you are more
moved by the semblance of present evil, than the prospect
of immense good, you are released from all obligation,
save that of secrecy. Leave my tent. I will seek
for another, who shall clear innocence from suspicion, bring

treason to punishment, fulfil the wishes of Washington,
and merit the thanks of his country.”

“Major Lee,” said the soldier calmly, “this appeal
was unnecessary. I had resolved to go when I last spoke.
You know me too well to believe that any part of my hesitation
has arisen from fear.”

Delighted to secure this cautious, and intrepid agent,
Lee gave him particular instructions, accompanied by the
kindest wishes, and recommended an immediate departure.
Champé hastened to the camp, wrapt himself in his
cloak, silently arrayed his horse, and began his adventurous
journey. He knew that his first danger was from the
pursuit of his own people; who, since the crime of Arnold,
had been full of watchfulness, and suspicion.

“Lee sat in his tent, ruminating upon the danger, and
magnanimity of Champé, and following in imagination
the speed of his faithful war-horse. Half an hour since
his departure had not elapsed, when suddenly the officer
of the day stood before him. In hurried accents, he said—

“A dragoon has been seen to leave our camp. He was
challenged by a patrole, but put spurs to his horse, and
escaped.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the Major. “The fatigues
of the day had so exhausted me, that I was half slumbering,
and did not comprehend your communication.”

“It was repeated, and he answered—

“It was undoubtedly some countryman. During the
whole war but one dragoon has deserted. I am sorry that

you suspect we harbour any such base souls in our Virginia
legion.”

“Indignant at his indifference, the officer replied—

“The deserter is believed to be no less a person than
your sergeant-major. His horse, and arms are missing
from their quarters. I have to request immediate orders
for pursuit.”

“These Lee was compelled to grant, after prolonging the
conversation as much as possible. Immediately a band
equipped for pursuit appeared in front of his tent. On
inspecting them, he said to the lieutenant at their head—

“I have a particular service for you in the morning.
Call Cornet Middleton to the command of this party.”

“This arrangement was partly to create delay, that the
fugitive might have more the advance of his pursuers; and
partly from a knowledge of the tenderness of Middleton's
disposition, which he thought would prevent him from inflicting
personal injury on his victim. The design of delay
was soon frustrated by the appearance of Cornet
Middleton, spurring his horse in front of his associates.
Such command of countenance had Lee, that not a muscle
moved, as he delivered his orders in a distinct, deliberate
tone—

“Pursue as far as you can with safety Sergeant Champé,
who is suspected of desertion to the enemy. He has
been seen to take the road leading to Paulus-hook. Bring
him alive, that he may suffer in the presence of the army;
but if he resist, kill him.”

The tramp of the horses, put to full speed, instantly
succeeded his words. He strained his eyes after them,
in agony. It was midnight, and rain fell in protracted
showers. Champé had the advance of his pursuers scarcely
one hour.

“He will be overtaken,” exclaimed Lee. “I have
destroyed a brave, and honourable man.”

“Securing the entrance of his tent, he threw himself upon
the earth, in bitterness of soul. Groans burst from his
manly bosom, and deeply he execrated the perfidy of Arnold,
which had been the cause of all this woe.

“Rain had fallen soon after the departure of Champé,
which enabled his pursuers, with the aid of the lights
they bore, to discern his track. It was for him an unfortunate
circumstance, that the front shoes of the horses of
those dragoons had a private mark by which their impression
was distinctly known to each other. This precaution,
which had often proved useful, now greatly enhanced
his danger. Middleton, with his men, occasionally dismounted
to examine these impressions; and as no other
horse had past since the shower, mistake was impossible.
Day broke when they were several miles north of the
village of Bergen. Ascending an eminence, just before
reaching the Three Pigeons, they descried Champé not half
a mile in front. Vigilant and active, he also, at the same
moment descried them. Putting spurs to his horse, he determined
to outstrip them. Middleton, calling on his men
to imitate him, urged his horse to breathless speed. Recollecting

a shorter route through the woods, to the bridge
below Bergen, which diverged from the great road near
the Three Pigeons, he directed a sergeant with five dragoons
to take it, and obtain possession of the bridge.
Champé also recollected this shorter road, but, thinking it
probable that Middleton would avail himself of it, felt constrained
to avoid it. He also knew that it was generally
preferred by those parties of our men who were returning
from the neighbourhood of the enemy, on account of the
concealment which the shade of its trees afforded.

“Fruitful in expedients, he with great presence of mind
resolved to relinquish his original destination to Paulus-hook,
and seek refuge from two British gallies, which usually
lay a few miles east of Bergen. Entering this village,
he turned to his right, and disguising his track as much
as possible, by choosing the beaten roads, directed his
course towards Elizabeth-town Point. The sergeant,
with his dragoons, concealed himself at the bridge, expecting
every moment to dart upon his prey. Thither
Cornet Middleton also soon arrived, and found, to his extreme
mortification, that the victim had eluded his stratagem.
Returning a short distance, he inquired of the
villagers of Bergen, if a dragoon had been seen that morning,
alone, and preceding him. They answered in the
affirmative, but their information of his route varied.
The pursuers, in great chagrin, dispersed through the
whole village to search for the track of his horse. It was
discovered just at the spot where, leaving the village, he

had taken the road towards the Point. They flew with
the speed of lightning. Again the fugitive was descried.
His eye was also bent upon them; and they perceived
that, notwithstanding the rapidity of his course, he had
lashed his valice to his shoulders, and that he carried his
drawn sword in his hand. The pursuit was rapid, and
close. Not more swiftly does the eagle pursue the dove
through the air.

“They were within a few hundred yards of him. They
shouted with eager joy. The heart of the fugitive beat
with tumultuous sensation, lest the gallies where he sought
refuge might not be there. In an instant, he perceived
their white sails; and for the first time blest the flag of
his country's foe.

“A long marsh, and the deep waters lay between him,
and the ark of safety. He sprang from his horse, and
plunged into the morass. His pursuers arrived, and dismounted
also.

“Champé, struggling with the tenacious and deceitful
footing, and sometimes sinking in the slimy pool, still held
his glittering sword high above his head. Reaching the
brink of the river, he threw away his cloak, and scabbard,
lest they might obstruct his desperate enterprize.
He threw his broad breast upon the waters, and divided
them with Herculean strokes. But, in his extremity, his
trusty sword escaped from his grasp, and the head of the
bold dragoon sunk for a moment, as if in despondency,
or sorrow.

“At this crisis, a fire commenced from the gallies upon
the cavalry on shore, some of whom, like the horsemen of
Pharoah, were preparing to plunge in after him, who thus
boldly made for himself a path through the deep. But
a light boat, with rapid oar, approached him, and bore
him on board the gallies.

“The British had been watchful of the strife, and drawing
the inference that Champé was a pursued deserter, determined
to protect him.

“Cornet Middleton collected his scattered band, and
returned to the camp, chagrined, and in silence. It was
three in the afternoon ere they arrived, yet Lee had not
yet left his tent. So sorely did the agitation of his mind
affect physical energy, that he almost seemed the victim
of intermittent fever. He was roused by a shout. It was
universal and prolonged—

“The traitor is slain. The second Arnold has met his
doom.”

“Rushing from his tent, he saw the horse of Champé led
on, with his cloak, and the scabbard of his trusty sword.
The eye of the fiery animal was rolling, and blood-shot,
and his sides heaved deeply, more in anger, than from toil.
To Lee it seemed that he was mourning for his master.

“I knew, he sighed, that Champé loved thee as a brother,
thou forsaken animal! Thou hast been his companion
these five years, in all dangers, by night and by day.
Consumed by heat, or chilled by frost, when sleep departed
from his eyes, thou wert with him.”

“Groaning audibly he returned to his tent, exclaiming—

“The blood of my bravest man is upon my soul to all
eternity.”

“Cornet Middleton entered. The Major read the settled
gloom upon his brow, and his hopes rekindled.

“The traitor has eluded me,” he said, and as he retraced
the adventure, Lee had need of all his self-controul
to repress the rapture that kindled in his eye. His sickness
vanished. Throwing himself upon his horse, he hastened
to head-quarters, and sought a private interview with
the Commander in Chief. Thrice Washington pressed
hard the hand of his Major; and once a bright moisture
glistened in his eye, as he heard the loyalty, the perils
the escape of the faithful Champé.