University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

“The sergeant-major of dragoons,” continued General
—,” was kindly received on board the British gallies,
and sent to New-York. After passing the usual interrogations
before the adjutant-general, he was taken into
the presence of Sir Henry Clinton. Not doubting the sincerity
of a man who had encountered such dangers in order
to join his standard, he inquired with great emphasis—

“How may this spirit of defection among the American
troops be best excited? Are any general officers suspected
of being concerned in the conspiracy of Arnold?
What is the prevailing opinion respecting the doom of
André? Is not the popularity of Washington with the
army declining?

“To these insidious questions Champé returned wary
answers. The haughty features of Clinton relaxed into a
sarcastic smile, and putting gold into his hand, he directed
him to wait on General Arnold.

“He is forming,” said he, “an American legion for the
service of his Majesty. You must have a command in it
since you so well understand how to baffle the rebels.”

“Champé was presented to Arnold by an officer. He
found him in one of those elegant mansions, which suffered
so much from the wantonness of abuse by the British
soldiery. Fond of pomp, and elated by it, he regarded
the dragoon with an arrogant, inquisitorial look. The
Virginia cavalry had borne such high reputation for intrepidity
in their country's cause, that he could scarcely believe
that one of them stood before him in the character
of a deserter. Yet, amid the assumed haughtiness of his
manner, it seemed as if the consciousness of his crime
came suddenly over him, and callous as was his heart, he
dared not offer the Virginian the hand of a traitor.

“A letter from the commander of the gallies, who had
witnessed the circumstances of the escape, was enclosed
to him by one of the aids of Sir Henry Clinton. He perused
it, and his doubts vanished. Hurrying toward
Champé with his quick, limping gait, he said—

“I am glad to see that you are so wise a man. You
shall have the same station in my legion, which you have
held in that of the rebels.”

“This was a fiery ordeal to Champé. He had submitted
to the exposure of his escape, and to the ignominy resulting
from imputed treachery, without repining, considering
them as the sacrifice necessary to be made for the
attainment of that great good which Hope was offering.
But to bear arms against that country, for which he had
fought, spent watchful nights upon the cold ground, and
sent his midnight prayer to heaven, was more than he

could sustain. Scarcely could he withhold his hand from
plunging a sword into the heart of the traitor. Scarcely,
with all his characteristic calmness, could he command
utterance to say, that he wished to retire from war, for he
was aware that if, in its various vicissitudes, he should fall
into the hands of the Americans, a gibbet, at which his
soul revolted, would be his inevitable doom. The blood
mounted to the forehead of the traitor, at this refusal.
Champé marked the rising storm of passion, and hastening
to quell it, said—

“Nevertheless, I have a martial disposition. It may
be that my mind cannot rest, to see the glory of war, and
not partake it. If it prove so, I will avail myself of your
offer.”

“Arnold was satisfied, and appointed him quarters near
himself. The dragoon, sensible that the greatest circumspection
was necessary, endeavoured so to conduct as to
lull suspicion. His first object was to convey letters to
Lee. But to so dangerous an attempt many obstacles were
interposed. In his private instructions, he had been directed
to a person on whose aid he might rely; one of that
class of adventurous and patriotic spirits, who submitted
to the most humiliating disguises, to obtain intelligence for
their country's good. Their dangers were more affecting
than those incurred upon the field of battle; for with them,
the punishment of defeat was ignominious death, and the
reward of victory inglorious concealment. Females frequently
dared the perils connected with a system of espionage,

and like the Saxon king amusing himself with his
harp in the camp of the foe, secretly unstrung the sinews
of the enemy's strength.

“A delay of several days intervened, ere Champé found
it practicable to elude his attendants, and go in search of
this unknown coadjutor. It was beneath the cover of a
gloomy evening, when rain fell in torrents, that he ventured
cautiously to open the door of a small dwelling in
the suburbs of the city. A man was there, hovering over
a miserable fire, and hastily stripping the feathers from
some dead poultry. A basket of eggs, as if for the market
of the next day, stood near him on a bench. He started at
the British uniform, and playing with the long hair which
hung over his eyes, said in the tone of an idiot—

“Here's fine fowls, your honour,—fine for the spit, Sir.
Will you buy some fresh eggs? three for sixpence.”

“Then lifting the basket, he ran with childish haste to
exhibit it to the stranger. Champé fixed upon him his
keen black eye, and repeated with deep intonation the
watch-word which had been given him by Lee. Instantaneously
the half bent form became erect, and the fidgeting,
wandering movements of idiocy were exchanged for
the light of an intelligent countenance. Securely bolting
the door, he drew a chair for Champé, and listened to his
brief conversation with deep emotion. As he gave him,
at parting, the letter to be conveyed to the American
camp, he would fain have put into his hand a piece of
gold. But the spy, as if touched by the spear of Ithuriel,

rose to the full height of six feet, and extending his arm in
an attitude of native majesty, and uncovering his head,
where a deep scar severed the thick locks, said—

“You mistake me. Suppose ye that gold is payment
for these scars—this disgrace—this wretchedness? Ought
you not better to read the heart, where the love of its
country lies so deep, that many waters cannot quench
it, neither the floods drown it? Here, a miserable outcast,
I think of my desolate country, and my heart bleeds, not
for itself, but for her.”

“Half-abashed at the lofty demeanour of the spy,
Champé pressed his hand, and departed. The next day,
Major Lee communicated to Washington, in his marquee,
the following letter in cypher.

“Unforeseen circumstances occurred to protract the
enterprise. Lee longed for the appointed day with the
impatience of a lover. At length it arrived, and with a
party of dragoons he repaired to Hoboken. Three ledhorses,
completely accoutred, accompanied the train.
The beautiful steed of Champé was one of the number,
and Lee could scarcely restrain his joy, as he saw him
proudly champing his bit, and anticipated the pleasure
with which his faithful officer would again remount him.
He concealed himself with his party in a thick wood.
Evening drew on, it seemed, more slowly than ever.
Dark clouds partially enveloped the atmosphere. A few
faint stars were occasionally visible. The eye of Lee
was continually upon the waters, and before the appointed

hour, he fancied that he heard the dash of oars, and
the watch-word in the voice of Champé. Midnight passed,
the dawn gleamed, the morning opened, but no boat appeared.

“Disappointed, and full of apprehension for the safety
of his faithful emissary, Lee collected his party, and returned
to consult with Washington. Several days of anxiety
intervened, ere the arrival of the trusty spy, from
whom he learned that a sudden movement of Arnold disconcerted
their plan, but a few hours before the time appointed
for its execution. He changed his quarters to superintend
the embarkation of his troops, who were transferred
from their barracks to ships, destinied for some secret expedition.
This was afterwards ascertained to be for the shores
of Virginia. Thither poor Champé was obliged to accompany
the traitor, whose depredations upon his beloved
native state he was compelled to witness. There, at the
peril of his life, he escaped, and passing through North
Carolina, often hiding whole days in thickets, and suffering
the severity of famine, he at length joined the army which
was in pursuit of Lord Rawdon. Reduced almost to a
skeleton, he hastened to Major Lee, and threw himself
at his feet, a broken-hearted man. His commander raised
him in his arms, and tears flowed over his manly cheeks.
Addressing himself to an officer of a noble countenance,
who stood intently viewing the scene, he said—

“General Greene, the worth of this man is incalculable.

You know something of his virtues, but the half of his
sufferings has not been told you.”

“The veteran received him as a brother. There is
nothing like a participation in common danger to cement
the hearts of men together. Friendships formed in prosperity
may be sincere; but those, tried by adversity, are
like gold from the furnace.

“Lee directed the disconsolate Champé to Washington,
and ordered his servant to bring him the horse, and
cloak, which were brought back by Cornet Middleton.
It was an affecting sight to see the soldier meet his favourite
animal. Till that moment he had preserved his manhood.
But, when he saw that mute companion of his dangers
again standing by his side, he threw his arms around
his curving neck, and wept like a child.

“Washington gave to the disheartened man, that comfort
which a noble mind, replete with tenderness, knows
so well to administer.

“Go, my friend,” said he, “to your own Loudon county.
Let the intercourse of kind affections sooth your spirit.
In the failure of your designs, you deserve more
praise, than many victors whom the world have applauded.
I cannot again risk you in this war. Your life is too
valuable to me, and to your country, to be again exposed
to the dangers of battle, or to the hazard of that vengeance,
which the enemy would inflict, if you became their prisoner.”

“Champé received his discharge, and retired to private

life, embellishing it with his virtues, and carrying with
him, what was to him above all price, the friendship of
Washington.”

“How,” inquired Colonel—, “had this enterprise
reference to the liberation of André?”

“It was ardently hoped by Washington,” replied his
brother, “that the capture of Arnold might develop some
circumstance of palliation, which would permit us to restore
the amiable André to his friends. This was, however,
the dictate of compassionate feelings, rather than of
sober judgment. But long ere Champé could bring his
designs to their termination, the unfortunate and noble-minded
André had confessed the character in which he
came, and by the sentence of the court-martial had been
led to execution.”

“That interesting man,” said the Lady, “and the firmness
with which he suffered, made a deep impression upon
all classes of persons in our community. In this instance,
and in the imprisonment of young Asgill, in retaliation for
the unprincipled murder of Huddy by Lippincut, Washington
subjected his wishes to the controul of policy.”

“But he could not suppress his sympathies,” said Colonel—.
“They were visible in his changed countenance,
when he spoke of their misfortunes. You have
justly admired, Madam, the firmness of André; yet there
is a circumstance respecting one of our own Connecticut
men, which, though less applauded, is worthy of equal
honour. When the retreat of Washington left the British

in possession of Long-Island, it became exceedingly important
to know their plan of operations. Application for
that purpose, was made to Captain Knowlton, whose name
will remind Anderson of the rail-fence, and of the terrible
carnage at Bunker-hill. Nathan Hale, a native of Connecticut,
a young man with the rank of captain, urged
earnestly for the hazardous service. He passed in disguise
to the island, obtained the most important information,
and was on the point of departure. At that moment
he was suddenly apprehended, and carried before Sir
William Howe. Scorning dissimulation, he frankly acknowledged
for what purpose he came. He was ordered
for execution the next morning, and treated in the most
unfeeling manner. It was in vain that he requested the
attendance of a clergyman, or even the favour of a bible
for one moment. Letters written to a mother, and the
dearest friends of his heart, were destroyed. The reason
given by the provost-marshall for this singular cruelty,
was—

“The rebels shall never know that they have in their
army, a man capable of dying with such firmness.”

“A stranger, exposed to the bitterness of insult, without
a glance of pity, or a tear of sympathy, he approached the
gallows with an undaunted air, uttering the heroic sentiment—

“I lament that I have only one life to lose in the service
of my country.”

“Neither hope of promotion, nor pecuniary reward, had

incited him to this enterprise. His sole motive was patriotism;
yet he sleeps without a stone, almost without a
record. How different was his treatment, so disgraceful
to humanity, from the tender attentions bestowed on André
by Washington! How different the barbarity of his
murder from the poignant regret with which Washington
signed the warrant for the execution of André!”

“It can never be necessary,” said the Lady, “to add
bitterness to the severity of the law. Justice, and cruelty
have no affinity; it is the depravity of man which blends
them. In the character of Washington, sympathies and
energies are finely mingled. We are always glad to find
that a hero does not forfeit the sensibilities of a man.”

“It is easy,” said Colonel—, “to pass encomiums
on the virtues of Washington, for it is always safe to do so.
But we, who saw him without restraint, who knew the
secret trials which he endured, are most sensible how far
beneath his merits is the meed of fame. While to a distant
observer he might seem the most fortunate of men,
hidden darts were piercing him. His disinterested labours
were not always correctly estimated. Congress sometimes
blamed, often opposed his wisest measures. It concealed
within its bosom a faction, anxious to supplant him.
Instigated by the malicious calumniator, Conway, and the
vindictive, and unprincipled Charles Lee, their object was
to supersede him, and elevate Gates upon the ruin of his
reputation. His perplexities were greatly increased, by
the brief, and inadequate periods of the enlistment of his

soldiers; so that often, on the eve of some important action,
when all his effective strength was required, his army
would be disbanding, and vanishing like a shadow.”

“The wants of the soldiers,” said Gen.—, “were
also to him a source of continual sorrow. Ill-clothed, ill-fed,
and scantily provided with ammunition, he was compelled
to struggle with his pity, and enforce that rigid discipline
and subordination, without which an army is an
unmixed evil. In their winter-quarters, particularly at
Valley-Forge, and Morristown, where, through the crevices
of the miserable log-huts which they had themselves
constructed, they were heard complaining for food, for
want of which their half-naked, emaciated forms were
famishing; when the traces of their feet upon the snow
and ice, were red with their own blood, how did Washington
strive to relieve their comfortless condition. With
what fatherly compassion would he listen to their complaints;
yet with what firmness decree justice to their
offences. How would he sooth them into patience, while
his own heart was bleeding. Yet, in the midst of his sorrows,
with what dignity and serenity of soul, would he
meet the darkest vicissitudes, and be prepared for the
most unforeseen exigencies. It was to his officers a source
of wonder, as well as of admiration, that when the most
important transactions were committed to his guidance,
he never neglected the most minute attentions.”

“I have been surprised” said the Lady “at his
power of uniting calm and deliberative wisdom, with
promptness and energy of execution. I have supposed

that the structure of mind, which enables a man to philosophize,
did not naturally dispose him to the performance
of difficult and daring deeds. But he, whom
Heaven raised up for its own great purpose, seemed to
combine, without contradiction, opposing qualities.”

“I shall never forget,” said Colonel —, “that
mixture of noble feeling with urbanity, with which, in the
early stage of the contest, he refused to treat with the
commissioners from Lord and Admiral Howe, because
they studiously avoided the acknowledgment of those
titles, which the independence of his country demanded.
To his expanded mind, those titles were less than nothing
and vanity. But he would not dispense with the respect,
which was due to his nation through her representative.
How firm and dignified was his demeanour when,
in the winter of 1776, the despondence of the people appeared
in every imaginable form, when the enlistments of
his insufficent army were expiring every month, and they
could be induced neither to remain, nor to contend. How
bright was the glance of his eye when, after performing
prodigies of valour at Monmouth, and enduring without
complaint the excessive heat of that terrible day, he lay
down upon the earth in his cloak for a short repose that
night, expecting to renew the battle ere the dawn of morning.
But his countenance has, at no period, made a more
indelible impression upon my mind, than at the passage
of the Delaware; when by a brilliant stratagem, he revived
the hopes of a dejected nation. I think I again see
the banks covered with snow, as they were during the intense

cold of that Christmas night. Seated upon his noble
horse, and attended by General Greene, he superintended
the hazardous embarkation, with the serenity of a superiour
being. In retracing this group, the athletic form and
open countenance of his black servant Bill always recurs
to my memory, with his upturned eye fixed affectionately
upon his master, as if he were the arbiter of his fate. On a
slippery and steep eminence at some distance, the intrepid
Knox directed the passage of the artillery. His steed
seemed to tread in air, and he displayed the same firmness,
with which he continued to stand, as one of the pillars of
the temple of Liberty, until the storm which rocked her
foundations had past. The soldiers forced the horses, with
their baggage, down the slippery banks, and the slight
boats, in which they encountered the masses of ice borne
down by the river, seemed emblematical of the struggles
of an infant nation with one, whose armour, and whose
tone threatened destruction.”

Could Colonel — have anticipated the events of
forty years, he might have seen the magnificent pencil of
Sully forcibly illustrating his own description of the memorable
“Passage of the Delaware.”

Madam L—, always moved by the praises of Washington,
replied—

“Such an union of goodness with greatness, of deliberative
wisdom with energy of execution, of attention to the
most minute concerns amid the transaction of the greatest,
rank our Washington, not only among the first of heroes,
but the best of men.”