 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
II.—THE NINTH HOUR.
The time was 1778—the place, an old-time mansion, among the hills of
Valley Forge.
Yonder, in a comfortable chamber, seated before a table, overspread with
papers, you behold a gentleman of some fifty-six years, attired in black
velvet, with an elegant dress sword by his side, snow-white ruffles on his
wrists and breast. By the glow of the fire, which crackles on the spacious
hearth, you can discern the face of this gentleman, the wide and massive
brow, the marked features, and the clear, deep grey eyes. As he sits erect
in the cushioned arm-chair, you can at a glance perceive that he is a man
of almost giant stature, with muscular limbs and iron chest.
And snow drifts in white masses on yonder hills, which you behold
through the deep silled windows; and the wind, moaning as with a nation's
dirge, howls dismally through the deep ravines.
Still the gentleman, with the calm face and deep grey eyes, sits in silence
there, his features glowing in the light of the hearth-side flame, while a
pleasant smile trembles on his compressed lips.
Altogether, he is a singular man. His appearance impresses us with a
strange awe. We dare not approach him but with uncovered heads. The
papers which overspread the table, impress us with a vague curiosity.
There you behold a letter directed to General the Marquis de La Fayette;
another bears the name of General Anthony Wayne; a third General Benedict
Arnold; and that large pacquet, with the massive seal, is inscribed with
the words—To His Excellency, John Hancock, President of the Continental
Congress.
This gentleman, sitting alone in the old-fashioned chamber, his form clad
in black velvet, his face glowing in mild light, must be, then, a person of
some consideration, perchance a warrior of high renown?
As you look in mingled wonder and reverence upon his commanding
face, the sound of a heavy footstep is heard, and a grim old soldier, clad in
the hunting shirt of the Revolution, appears in yonder doorway, and approaches
the gentleman in black velvet.
He lifts the rude cap with bucktail plume from his sunburnt brow, and
accomplishes a rough salute. Then, he speaks in a voice which may have
been rendered hoarse by much shouting in battle, or sleeping dark winter
nights on the uncovered ground.
“General, I heer'd you wanted to speak to me, and I am here.”
The gentleman in black velvet, raised his clear grey eyes, and a slight
smile disturbed the serenity of his face.
“Ah, Sergeant Caleb, I am glad to see you. I want your aid in an undertaking
of great importance.”
“Say the word, and Caleb's your man!”
“Nine miles from the mansion, at four o'clock this afternoon, the `Loyal
Rangers of Valley Forge,' hold their meeting. Their captain, a desperate
man, has prepared a number of important papers for Sir William Howe.
In these papers are recorded the names of all persons within ten miles, who
are friendly to the British cause, or who are willing to supply Sir William
with provisions, together with a minute description of the affairs and prospects
of the Continental army. At four this afternoon, these papers will be
delivered to an officer of the British army, who is expected from Philadelphia
in the disguise of a farmer. That officer is now a prisoner near our
headquarters on the Schuylkill, some six miles from this place. You—understand
me, Sergeant Caleb—you will assume this disguise, hurry to the
Tory rendezvous, and receive the papers from the hands of the Captain.”
As the gentleman spoke, the countenance of the old soldier assumed an
expression of deep chagrin. The corners of his mouth were distorted in
an expression of comical dismay, while his large blue eyes expanding in
his sunburnt face, glared with unmistakable horror.
He had been with Arnold at Quebec, with Washington at Brandywine,
this hardy Sergeant Caleb—but to go to the Tory rendezvous in disguise,
was to act the part of a Spy, and the robber-captain of the Tories would
put him to death, on the first rope and nearest tree, as a—Spy!
Therefore the old Sergeant, who had played with death as with a boon
companion, when he came in the shape of a sharp bayonet, or a dull cannon
ball, feared him when he appeared in the guise of a—Gibbet!
“You are not afraid?” said the gentleman. “That will be news indeed,
for the soldiers! Sergeant Caleb Ringdale afraid!”
The old Sergeant quivered from head to foot, as he laid his muscular
hand upon the table, and exclaimed in a voice broken by an emotion not
any the less sincere because it was rude:
“Afeer'd? Now Gineral Washington, it isn't kind to say that o' me!
I'm not afeer'd of anythin' in the shape of a white or black human bein',
can deny!”
“Do you fear him?”
“Not a peg! For all he's the bloodiest villain that ever murdered a
man in the name of King George—for all he hides himself in the darkest
hollow, in the meanest, old, out-of-the-way farm-house, I don't fear, no
more than I feer'd them ten Britishers that fell on me at Paoli! But do
you see, Gineral, I don't like the idea of goin' as a spy! That's what
cuts an old feller's feelin's! Say the word, and I'll go, just as I am, in my
own proper uniform—not very handsome, yet still the rale Continental—
an' tell the Britishers to crack away, and be hanged!”
And in the honest excitement of the moment, the old Sergeant brought
his closed hand to bear upon the table, until the papers shook again.
Washington rested his cheek upon his hand, while his face was darkened
by an expression of anxious thought.
“You do not wish to go as a spy, and yet there are no other means of
securing these papers.”
You can see the old soldier stand confused and puzzled there, wiping the
perspiration from his brow with his bony hand, while Washington turning
his chair, folds his arms, and gazes steadily into the fire.
“Is there no man who will undertake this desperate office in my name?
in the name of the cause for which we fight?”
And as the words passed his lips, a soft voice—almost as soft and
musical as a woman's—uttered this reply, which thrilled the General to
the heart:
“There is. I will undertake it, General.”
Washington started from his chair.
“You!” he exclaimed, surveying the intruder from head to foot.
It must be confessed, that the expression of wonder which passed over
the face of the American General, was not without a substantial cause.
There in the glow of the fire, stood a young man, graceful and slender,
almost to womanly beauty, and clad not in the dress of a soldier, but in the
costume of a gentleman of fashion, a coat of dark rich purple velvet, satin
vest, disclosing the proportions of a broad chest and wasp-like waist, diamond
buckles on the shoes, and cambric ruffles around each delicate hand.
“You!” exclaimed Washington, “surely Ensign Murray, you are
dreaming!”
The face of the young man was somewhat peculiar. The skin very pale
and delicate as a woman's. The hair, long and dark brown in color, waving
in rich masses to the shoulders. The eyes, deep and clear—almost
black, and yet with a shade of blue—shone with an expression which you
could not define, and yet it was at once calm, wild and dazzling. Indeed,
gazing on those eyes, or rather into their clear lustre, you could not divest
yourself of the idea that they reflected the light of a strong intellect, at the
thought.
“Yes, General,” was the answer of Ensign Murray; “at four o'clock,
in the disguise of a British officer, I will enter the den of the Tories and
receive those papers!”
Washington took the young man by the hand, and without a word led
him across the room.
“Look there!” he whispered.
“They stood beside a glass door, which opened the view into the next
apartment, the drawing-room of the mansion.
As Ensign Murray looked, his pale yet handsome face was darkened by
an expression of indefinable agony.
There, beside the fire of the next chamber was seated a young girl,
whose hair descended in curling masses along her cheek, until they touched
her neck. A green habit fitting closely to her form, revealed its warm and
blooming proportions. She sat there alone, bending over an embroidery
frame, her dark eyes gleaming with light, as tranquil as the beam of the
evening star, upon the unruffled depths of a mountain lake.
And as her white fingers moved briskly over the flowers, which grew into
life at her touch, she sang a low and murmuring song.
“Look there!” whispered Washington, “and behold your bride! To-night
your wedding will take place. This very morning I left Valley
Forge, in order to behold your union with this beautiful and virtuous
woman. And yet you talk of going in disguise into the den of robbers,
who hesitate at no deed of cruelty or murder, and this on your bridal-eve!”
There was a strange expression on the young man's face—a sudden contortion
of those pale, handsome features—but in a moment all was calm
again.
“General, I will go,” he said, “and return before sunset!”
He stood before the Man of the Army, his slender form swelling as with
the impulse of a heroic resolve.
“George,” said Washington, in a tone of kind familiarity; “you must
not think of this! When your father died in my arms at Trenton, I
promised that I would, to the last breath of life, be a father to his boy. I
will not, cannot, send you on this fearful enterprise!”
“Look you!” cried the old Sergeant, advancing—“I don't like this office
of a Spy—but sooner than the young Ensign here should peril his life
at such an hour, I'll go myself! Jist set me down for that thing, will you?”
“General!” said the Ensign, laying his white hand on the muscular arm
of Washington, and speaking in a deep, deliberate voice, that was strongly
contrasted with his effeminate appearance and slender frame—“did I behave
badly at Brandywine?”
“Never a braver soldier drew sword, than you proved yourself on that
on to certain death!”
“At Germantown?”
“I can speak for him there, Gineral! You'd ought to seen him rushing
up to Chew's house, into the very muzzles of the British! He made
many an old soldier feel foolish, I tell you!”
“You were the last in the retreat, George, the last and the bravest!”
“Then can you refuse me this one request? Let me go—secure those
papers—and come back crowned with laurels, to wed my bride!”
He spoke in a clear deliberate tone, and yet there was a strange fire in
his eye.
Washington hesitated; his gaze surveyed the young man's face, and then
turning away he wrung him by the hand:
“On those papers, perchance, the safety of our army depends. Go or
stay as you please. I do not command nor forbid!”
With that word he resumed his seat, and bowed his head in the effort to
peruse the documents which were scattered over the table. He bowed his
head very low, and yet there were tears in his eyes—tears in those eyes
which had never quailed in the hour of battle, tears in the eyes of Washington!
The young man turned aside into a dark corner of the room, and covered
his Wedding-Dress with a coarse grey over-coat, that reached from his chin
to his knees. Then he drew on long and coarse boots, over his shoes
gemmed with diamond buckles. A broad-rimmed hat upon his curling
locks, and he stood ready for the work of danger.
“General,” he said, in that soft musical voice—“is there a watch-word
which admits—ha, ha!—the British officer into the Tory farm-house?”
“Death to Washington!” and a sad smile gleamed over the General's
face.
“The name of the British officer whose character I am to assume?”
“`Captain Algernon Edam, of His Majesty's Infantry!'—He is now
under guard, near headquarters, at Valley Forge.”
“Hah!” gasped Ensign Murray. “Captain Edam!”
“You know him, then?”
“I have known Captain Edam,” answered George Murray, with that
strange smile which invested his face with an expression that was almost
supernatural.
“These papers will give you all requisite information. The farm-house
is three miles distant from this place, and nine miles from Valley Forge.”
“Nine!” ejaculated the Ensign, with a sudden start. “Ah!” he muttered
in a whisper that would have penetrated your blood—“Must that horrible
number always pursue me? Nine years, nine days! These must
pass, and then I will wed my bride—but such a bride!”
Washington heard him murmur, but could not distinguish the words, yet
eye glared with wild light.
“Again let me entreat you to give up your purpose. Your danger is
enough to appal the stoutest heart! Not only death you dare, but death on
the—gibbet!”
In the earnestness of his feelings, Washington would have seized him by
the arm, but the Ensign retreated from his grasp, and left the room with
his exclamation:
“Farewell, General! Do not fear for me! Believe me, I will before
the setting of yonder sun, attain the object which I so earnestly desire!”
In the hall a new trial awaited the young soldier. He was confronted
by a jovial old man, with a corpulent frame, round face and snow-white
hair. It was Squire Musgrave, a fine specimen of the old fashioned gentleman
and—the father of his bride.
“Hah, you young dog! What trick is this?” said the old Squire, with
a jovial chuckle; “you skulked away from the table just now, proving
yourself a most disloyal traitor to old Madeira! And now I find you in
this disguise! Eh, Georgie! What's in the wind?”
“Hush! Not a word to 'Bel!” exclaimed the Ensign, with a smile on
his lips, and a look of affected mystery in his eyes. “Not a word, or
you'll spoil a capital jest!
Thus speaking, he flung himself from the old man, and stood upon the
porch of the mansion. The beautiful country lay there before him, not
lovely as in summer, with green leaves, perfume and flowers, but covered
far up each hill, and down into the shades of each valley, with a mantle of
frozen snow. The trees, their bared limbs upstarting into the deep blue
sky, were glittering with leaves and fruits, sculptured from the ice by the
finger of Winter.
And the rich warm glow of the declining sun was upon it all—the old
mansion, with its dark grey stone and antique porch, the far-extending hills
and winding dales of Valley Forge.
The Ensign stood upon the verge of the porch; he was about to depart
upon his enterprise of untold danger, when—
A soft warm hand was laid upon his shoulder; another was placed across
his eyes, and a light laugh thrilled him to the heart.
“Oh, you look like the ogre of some goblin story!” said a voice which
almost made him relent the stern purpose of that hour—“If you would only
look in the glass and see yourself! Ha, ha, ha!”
And as the soft hand was lifted from his eyes, George beheld the beautiful
form and beaming face of his—bride.
“Softly, Isabel! Not a word!” he whispered laughingly, “Or you will
spoil one of the finest jests ever planned!”
He pressed his kiss upon her warm ripe lips.
“The Last!” he murmured, as that pressure of soul to soul through the
mingling lips, fired every vein.
He darted from the porch, and hurried on his way. Far over the frozen
snow he toiled along, and only once looked back.
With that look of fearful anxiety he beheld his bride, standing on the
porch, her long hair floating from her face, while her merry laugh came
ringing to his ears.
Did you ever in a nightmare dream, chance to behold a dark old mansion,
standing utterly alone in the shadows of a dell, encircled by steep
hills, rough with rocks, and sombre with thickly clustered trees? In this
dell noonday is twilight, and twilight is midnight, so darkly frown the
granite rocks, so lowering rise the forest trees.
But this is in the summer time, when there are leaves upon the trees, and
vines among the rocks. In the summer time when the little brook yonder,
winding before the mansion, sings a rippling song in praise of the flowers,
and moss, and birds.
Now it is winter. Yonder, through the tall and leafless oaks, glares the
red flush of the sunset sky. Every tree with its rugged limbs, and stripped
branches, stands up against the western horizon, like a tree of ebony,
painted on a sky of crimson and gold. Winter now! The rocks, the
hill-side, the very ice which covers the brook, is white with a mantle of
snow, that gleams and blushes in the sunset glare.
Still the old mansion rises in sullen gloom, its dark walls tottering as
though about to fall, its shutters closed, its doorway crumbling into fragments.
And like a white veil flung over some ruffian bandit's brow, the steep roof,
covered with wreaths of snow, gleams above the dark grey walls.
Is this old mansion tenanted by anything that wears the shape of man?
As we look, the leaning chimney sends up its column of blue smoke to the
evening sky. Still for all that emblem of fireside comfort, the farm-house
looks like a den for murderers.
Look closely on its shutters and wide door, and you will perceive certain
port-holes, made for the musquet and rifle.
There are footsteps printed on the frozen snow, and yet you hear no
voices, you behold no form of man or beast.
At this hour, when the solemn flush of a winter sunset is upon the
mantle of snow, there comes slowly toiling over the frozen crust, the figure
of a young man clad in a coarse overcoat, with a broad-rimmed hat upon
his brow. That coat gathers around his slender form in heavy folds, and
yet it cannot hide the heavings of his chest. The hat droops low over his
face, and yet cannot conceal the wild glance of those deep blue eyes.
Urging his way along the frozen snow,—the shadow of his form thrown
far and black behind him—he stands before the battered door of the farm-house,
he lifts the iron knocker, and a sound like a knell breaks on the
still air.
The young man listens eagerly, but no answer greets his summons.
Then turning his face to the evening sky, he stands erect upon the granite
stone before the door, and in a clear voice repeats the words—
“Death to Washington!”
There is the sound of an unclosing door, the young man is seized by unknown
hands, and borne along a dark passage into a large and gloomy
place.
It may be a room, it may be a cavern, but all that greets his sight is a
large fire, burning on a wide hearth, and flashing a lurid glare over some
twenty ruffian faces.
A dark, a hideous picture!
A single form distinguished from the others by its height, but wearing the
pistols and knife, common to all, advances and confronts the stranger. The
young man, in that lowering face marked by the traces of many a crime,
recognizes “Black Runnels,” the Tory Chief.
“Whence came you?”
As he speaks, a strange sound mingles with his words—the clicking of
pistols, the clang of knives.
“From the headquarters of General Sir William Howe!” the young
man answered, in a clear deliberate voice.
“Your object here?”
“The possession of certain papers prepared by Captain Runnels, for Sir
William Howe.”
“Your name?”
“Algernon Edam, Captain in his Majesty's infantry!” replied the young
man, in the same collected manner.
There was a murmur, a confused sound as of many voices whispering in
chorus, and in a moment the blaze of a large lamp filled that spacious room
with light.
“Now look ye, Captain,” said the Tory leader, earnestly regarding the
disguised American, “we don't doubt as how you are the rale Captain
Edam, but we Loyal Rangers have a way of our own. We never trusts an
individooal afore we tries his spunk. If you are a true Briton, you wont
object to the trial. If so be you chances to prove a Rebel, why, we'll soon
find it out.”
The answer of the young man was short and to the point:
“Name your trial, and I am ready!”
“Do you see that keg o' powder thar? We'll attach a slow match to it
—a match that'll take three minutes to burn out! You will sit on that
keg!—Afore the three minutes is out, we'll return to the house, and see
how you stand the trial! If there's a drop of sweat on your forehead, or
any sign of paleness on your cheek, we will conclude that you are a rebel,
and deserve to die!”
The Tories gathered round, gazing in the young man's face with looks
of deep interest.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the object of their interest, “what need of this
nonsense? I am a British officer—but—what need of words, I am ready,
and will stand the trial.”
Thus speaking, he saw the match applied to the keg, he saw it lighted,
and took his seat. With a confused murmur, the Tories left the room.
“Look ye,” cried the last of their band, who stood in the doorway—it
was the Captain—“we will conceal ourselves, where the blowing up of the
house can do us no injury—that is, in case the worthless old den should
happen to blow up. In two minutes we'll return. Take care o' yourself,
Captain!”
The young man was alone—alone in that large old room, the light of the
lamp falling over his brow, the keg beneath him, the match slowly burning
near his feet.
Why does he not extinguish the match, and at once put an end to this
fearful danger? Why does he sit there, fixed as a statue, his pale face
wearing its usual calm expression, his deep blue eyes gleaming with their
peculiar light?
Not a motion—not a movement of the hand which holds his watch—not
a tremor of the face!
What are the thoughts of this young man, whom another minute may
precipitate into eternity by a horrible death?
Does he think of the young bride, who even now awaits his coming?
Two minutes have expired. The Tories do not return. Slowly, surely
burns the match—as calm, as fixed as marble, the young man awaits
his fate.
The half-minute is gone, and yet no sign of the bravoes.
At last—O! do not let your eyes wander from his pale, beautiful face, in
this, the moment of his dread extremity—the match emits a sudden flame,
sparkles, crackles, and burns out!
“Nine years, nine days! At last, thank God, it is over!”
These were his last words, before the powder exploded. He folded his
arms, closed his eyes, and gave his sould to God.
Did that lonely house ascend to heaven, a pyramid of blackening fragments,
and smoke and flame, with the corse of the young man torn into
atoms by the explosion?
For a moment he awaited his fate—all was silent. Then came the
sound of trampling footsteps; the young man unclosed his eyes, and beheld
the faces of the Tory band.
“Game, I vow, game to the last!” cried the Tory leader, Runnels—
“Do ye know we watched ye all the while, from a crack in yonder door?
It was only a trial you know, but a trial that would have made many an
older man than you shiver, turn pale, and cry like a babe!—There's no
out?”
“Give me the papers,” asked the brave young man. “Let me hasten
on my way!”
“O, I don't object to giving you the papers,” cried the Tory. “But,
afore I do, I like to ask your opinion of this gentleman?”
As he spoke, the Tories parted into two divisions; in their centre appeared
a man of some thirty years, his tall and muscular form clad in crimson,
his florid face with powdered hair and light blue eye, ruffled by a
sneering smile.
“Captain Edam!” exclaimed the disguised American, completely taken
by surprise—“I thought you were a prisoner, nine miles away at Valley
Forge?”
“Yes, Captain Edam, at your service!” replied the British officer with
a polite bow.
As he spoke, a burst of hoarse laughter made the old room echo again.
“It was well planned, my dear Ensign, but it won't do!” exclaimed the
Briton;—“I was a prisoner, but—escaped! You were a British officer, a
moment ago, but now, you are—a Spy. I presume it is needless to tell
you the fate of a Spy.”
It was strange to see the calm smile which broke from the young Ensign's
lips and eyes.
“Death!” he replied, in his low musical voice.
“Death—aye, death by the rope!” shouted the Tory Captain;—“I
say, Watkins, rig a rope to that beam! We'll show you how to play
tricks on Loyal Rangers.”
The rope was attached to the beam—the noose arranged; the Tories
filled with indignation, clustered round—still the young man stood calm and
smiling there.
“Ensign, you have ten minutes to live,” said the handsome British
officer. “Make your peace. You have been taken as a spy, and—ha,
ha! must be punished as a spy!”
“Thank God!” said the young man in a whisper, not meant to be
audible, yet they heard it, every Tory in the room.
“It seems to me, young man, you're thankful for very small favors!”
cried the Tory leader, with a brutal laugh.
The gallant Captain Edam made a sign—the Tories trooped through the
door-way.
George Murray was alone with Algernon Edam.
George Murray was pale—but not paler than usual—his blue eyes
glaring with deep light, his lip a lip of iron. Algernon Edam was tall and
magnificent in his healthy and robust manhood. There was ill-suppressed
laughter in his light blue eyes.
“Do you remember the days of our childhood, George, when we played
like this would ever come to pass! Here I stand, the rejected lover—ha,
ha! the British officer! And there stands the betrothed husband, the
Rebel Spy! Ha, ha, ha!”
These were bitter taunts to pass between a living and a dying man! Yet
there was something in the words and look of Captain Edam that revealed
the cause of all his ill-timed mirth—he was a rejected lover. His successful
rival stood before him.
No word passed the lips of George, He regarded the elegant Captain
with a calm smile, and coolly asked, as though inquiring the dinner hour—
“How many minutes before I am to be hung?”
“You carry it bravely!” laughed the Briton; “but think of Isabel!”
The only answer which escaped the lips of George, was a solitary
syllable:
“Al!” he said, and turned his smiling face upon the face of his enemy.
That syllable made the Briton tremble from head to foot. It spoke to
himof the happy days of old—of the green hills and pleasant dells of Valley
Forge,—of two boys who were sworn friends—of George and Algernon. It
also spoke of a laughing girl, who was the cousin of Algernon, the beloved
of George—Isabel!
For that name was the familiar diminutive which George had often whispered
in the ears of his boy-friend, flinging his arms about his neck, and
twining his hands in his golden hair.
“Al, don't you remember the day, nine years and nine days ago, when
in the presence of Isabel, you rescued me from a terrible danger?”
The words, the tone, the look, melted the heart of the undaunted Briton.
There is a magic in the memory of childhood, irresistible as a voice from
the lips of Death.
“I do, George, I do!” he cried, “and now, I am to be your—executioner!”
“To-night, is my wedding night, my friend—”
“But I cannot save you!” gasped Edam; his voice now deepened with
the accent of irresistible agony—“we are surrounded—all hope is vain.”
“I do not want to be saved,” said George, still preserving his quiet
manner; “let me be put to death as suddenly and with as little pain as
possible. But I have one request. When I am dead and you are safe in
Philadelphia, write to Washington, and tell him, that I died like a man.
Write to—Isabel—and tell her—'
—A large tear rolled down the Ensign's cheek. The Captain struggled
to a seat. There was something unnaturally frightful in the calmness of
the doomed man.
“Tell her, that—pure and beautiful as she is—George Murray could
never have made her life a life of peace and joy. Tell her that the last
words which he spoke were these—`Algernon Edam is noble in heart,
you—wed him, and my blessing be upon you!”'
The Captain,—to hide the agony of his feelings, uttered a horrible oath.
“Why cannot I aid you to escape?” he cried, wildly pacing the room.
“You can aid me to escape!” slowly uttered the doomed man.
“How? Name the method! Quick—for I am yours—yours to the
death!”
“You can aid me to escape from this horrible dream of life!” exclaimed
Murray, lifting his brown hair with his delicate hand—“this dream which
torments me, which sits upon my soul like a nightmare, which makes me
shudder at the idea of a union with Isabel! O, you may think me strange,
mad!—but talk as you will, my friend, I feel happier than I have felt for
years!”
While Edam stood horrified by his words, he removed the overcoat and
hat, and stood revealed in his wedding-dress.
“I thought that Brandywine would awaken me from this dream—O, how
hard it is to pursue a grave, and feel it glide from your footsteps! It was
a bloody battle, but I lived! Then, in the darkest hour of Germantown, I
saw my death in the mists before me, and leaped to grasp it, but in vain!
Still I lived! The day of my marriage wore on, and there was no resource
but suicide, until Washington informed me of this enterprise. Ah, my dear
friend, give me your hand; I feel very calm, aye, happy!”
The Briton, or rather the British officer, (for by birth he was an American,)
instantly seized the slender hand, wrung it, and swore by his Maker
that he should not die!
An expression, as strange as it was sudden, darkened the pale face of the
doomed man. His blue eyes emitted wild and deadly light. Do you see
him start forward, his slender and graceful form attired in his wedding-dress,
his rich brown hair waving from his shoulders? He seizes Edam
by the wrist.
“O, Algernon, were my bitterest enemy beneath my feet—one who had
done a wrong too dark for mercy, or revenge—sooner than sever his heart
with my knife, I would bid him live as I have lived for years!”
There is nothing in language to picture the utter horror of his look and tone.
Captain Edam was dumb, but his face reflected the despair of George.
“O, Algernon, I beseech you take Isabel, and be happy with her! At
the same time I implore you aid me in my attempt to shake off this nightmare
—life!”
Captain Edam sank back on the empty keg, and buried his face in his
hands.
You can see Murray stand there before the fire, contemplating him with
a calm smile.
“Hark! they come!” cried the British officer, starting to his feet and
alive.”
There was the sound of trampling feet—a confused murmur—then the
thunder of many rifle shots mingled in one deafening report, broke on the
silence of the hour.
George's countenance fell.
“Stand back!” shouted Captain Edam—“approach this room, and I will
fire! Hark! Do you hear, George? They dispute among themselves!
There is a division—we must save you! Do you hear those shouts?”
As he spoke, the door opened, and there, on the threshhold, stood a bluff,
hearty figure, attired in the Continental uniform.
“The Gineral sent me on your track!” exclaimed the hoarse voice of
Sergeant Caleb. “The Tories is captured and you are saved, you dare-devil
of an Ensign! I say, Mister, in the red jacket, won't you give up
your sword?”
As the honest veteran received the sword of Captain Edam, George
turned aside and buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook
with emotion, with agony.
“Foiled again! `Nine years, nine days!' I must submit—it is Fate!
The ninth hour is near! Ah! why is death denied to me?”
The old clock in the hall smiled in the light, its minute hand pointing to
30, its hour hand to 9.
The wedding guests were assembled. Far over the frozen snow, from
every window, gushed a stream of joyous light.
Grouped in the most spacious apartment of Squire Musgrave's mansion,
the wedding guests presented a sight of some interest.
The light of those tall wax candles was upon their faces.
Washington was there, towering above the heads of other men, his magnificent
form clad in the blue coat and buff vest, with his sword by his side.
By his side, the high brow and eagle eye of Anthony Wayne. Yonder, a
gallant cavalier, attired in the extreme of fashion, with a mild blue eye, and
clustered locks of sand-hued hair—the chivalrous La Fayette!
And there, standing side by side, were two young men, engaged in affable
conversation.
One, with a high forehead, deeply indented between the brows—the other,
a man of slender frame, with a delicately-chiselled face, and eyes that seem
to burn you, as he speaks, in that low, soft voice, which wins your soul.
Who, that beholds these young men, calmly conversing together, on this
wedding-night, would dream that one was destined to die by the other's
hand. For the one with the deeply-indented brow is Alexander Hamilton,
the other, with the sculptured face, and magical eyes and voice, is Aaron Burr.
In the centre of the scene stood a group, the objects of every eye.
The Preacher in his dark gown, on one side; the good-humored Squire,
with his jocund face and corpulent form, on the other.
Between them, under that chandelier, which warms their faces with a
mild light, stand the bride and briegroom.
She, in a dress of stainless white satin, which displays the beautiful outlines
of her bust and waist, and by its short skirt permits you to behold
those small feet, encased in delicate slippers. Her neck, her shoulders,
gleam like alabaster in the light. A single ornament—a cross of diamonds
and gold—suspended from the neck, rises and falls with every pulsation of
her heart. And from the flowing world of her dark hair, which freely
courses from her brow to the shoulders, looks out a face, at once young,
innocent, angelic!
Ever and again, glancing sidelong, she turns her large eyes towards the
bridegroom, while a soft crimson flushes imperceptibly over her face.
The bridegroom is very pale, but calm and sedate. His dark blue eyes
gleaming from the pallor of that delicately chiselled face, return the glance
of his bride with a look at once earnest and indefinable. Is it love?—or
love mingled with intense pity? What means that scarce perceptible quivering
of the nether lip?
The words of the Preacher are said. George presses the husband's kiss
on the lips of his bride. Why does Isabel—surrendering all the graceful
beauty of her waist to the pressure of his arm—start and tremble, as she
feels those lips, now hot as with fever, now cold as with death?
At this moment, through the interval made by the parting guests, advances
the form of Washington—that face, which never yet has been painted by
artist, or described by poet, beaming with a paternal smile, those dark grey
eyes, which shone so fiercely in the hour of battle, now gazing in softened
regard, upon the bridegroom and the bride.
The voice of Washington was heard:
“George, when your father breathed his last, in my arms, amid the horrors
of battle—it was at Trenton—with his parting breath, he besought me
to be a father to his son! How can I better fulfil my trust, than by placing
your hand within the hand of a beautiful and innocent woman, and bidding
you be happy together? She”—he turned to the bridegroom—“is worthy
of a soldier's love. He,”—turning to the bride—“he is a soldier, a little
rash, perchance, but brave as the summer day is long!”
He placed their hands together, and kindly looked from face to face.
Every eye was centred upon this interesting group.
Here, Washington, tall and commanding; on one side the bridegroom,
slender, almost effeminate, yet with courage and manhood written on his
face; on the other—a beautiful and sinless girl! What words can describe
the last?
At this moment the jocund voice of the father, good-hearted, bluff Squire
face, he advanced.
“Look ye, George,” he said. “Now that you're married, you must
conform to a custom in our family. Never a Musgrave was wedded but
the silver goblet and the old wine were brought forth, and a royal bumper
drank to the bride by all the guests. You dont't stand precisely in the
light of a guest—eh, George? ha! ha! But you must begin the ceremony!”
As he spoke, a servant in livery appeared with a salver, on which was
placed a venerable bottle, dark in the body, red about the neck, and wreathed
in cobwebs. Thirty year old Madeira. By its side a silver goblet, antique
in shape, carved with all manner of fawns and flowers.
In a moment this goblet was filled; from its capacious bowl flashed the
red gleam of rich old wine.
“Drink, George! A royal bumper to the health of the bride!”
The movement of George were somewhat singular. Every one remarked
the fact. As the bluff old Squire extended the goblet, George reached forth
his hand, fixing his blue eyes, with a strange stare, upon the crimson wine.
Then a shudder shook his frame, and communicated its tremor to the
goblet.
He seized it—as with the grasp of despair, or as a soldier precipitated
from a fortress might clutch the naked blade of a sword, to stay his fall—
his blue eyes dilating all the while he raised it to his lips.
His face was mirrored, there in the tremulous ripplets of the goblet, when,
as his lip was about to press its brim, his arm slowly straightened outward
from his body, his fingers slowly parted, each one stiffening like a finger
of marble.
The goblet fell to the floor.
George seemed making a violent effort to control his agitation. That lip
pressed between his teeth until a single blood drop came, the eyes wildly
rolling from face to face, the hands nervously extended.—Was ever the last
moment of a dying man as terrible as this?
He sank on one knee—slowly, slowly to the floor; he sank as though
the blood were freezing in his veins.
No words can picture the surprise, the horror, the awe of the wedding
guests.
Do you see that circle of faces, all pale as death, with every eye fixed
upon the kneeling? Do you behold the young girl, who faints not nor
falters, in this hour of peril, but, with a face white as the snow, firmly extends
her hand, and calls her husband tenderly by name?
For a moment all was terribly still.
At last he raised his head. He gazed upon her with eyes unnaturally
dilated, and whispered in a tone that pierced every heart—
“Isabel—I would speak with you alone.”
She raised him from the floor, and girding his waist with her arm, led
fainted, or shrieked, but, Heaven be blessed, was a Woman. One of those
women whose character is not known, until Adversity, like a holy angel,
reveals its heroic firmness and divine tenderness.
She closed the folding doors after her; the bride and bridegroom were
gone into the next chamber.
For half an hour, in silent awe,—not a word spoken, not a sound heard,
but the gasping of deep-drawn breath—the wedding guests waited there,
gazing on the closed folding doors.
It was an half hour of terrible suspense.
As the clock struck nine Washington advanced. “I can bear this no
longer,” he said, and pushed open the folding doors.
Ere we gaze upon the sight he beheld, let us follow the footsteps of
George and Isabel.
As she led him through the doorway into that large chamber, filled with
antique furniture, and lighted by a single candle, standing before a mirror
on a table of mosaic work, Isabel felt the hand which she grasped, covered
with a clammy moisture like the sweat of death.
Before that large, old-fashioned mirror, in which the light was dimly reflected,—like
a distant star shining from an intensely dark sky,—they sank
down on chairs that were placed near each other, George clinging to the
hand of his bride as to his last hope.
“The thing which I feared has come upon me!” he gasped, speaking
the pathetic language of Scipture—“Isabel, place your hand upon my brow,
and hear me. The time alotted to me is short: it rapidly glides away.
And while you listen, do not, ha, ha! do not smile if in the tragedy of my
life the grotesque mingles with the terrible!”
One hand with his own, one upon his brow, the brave girl listened. His
words were few and concise:
“Many years ago, when we were children, Isabel, on a cold, clear
winter's day, we wandered forth in the cheerless woods, you and I, and
Algernon. My favorite dog—you remember him?—was with us? Do
you also remember—”
Ah, that hollow voice, that unnatural smile! How well did Isabel
remember.
“Suddenly the favorite—old Wolfe, you know he was named after the
brave General—turned upon me, fixed his teeth in my arm, and lacerated
the flesh to the bone. Algernon struck him down—”
Isabel felt that brow grow like iron beneath her touch.
“It was long before the wound was healed, but the dog, in a few days,
died, raging mad. Now mark you, Isabel, another circumstance. Perchance
you remember it also? While my wound was most painful, there
came to your father's house an aged woman, who was noted for her skill in
people as a witch—a corceress! Is it not laughable, Isabel?—that a poor
old creature like this, regarded by some as an Indian, by others as a Negro,
should have such a strange influence upon my life? She healed the wound,
but, at the same time, whispered in my ear the popular superstition, that a
person bitten by a rabid dog, would go mad on the ninth hour of the ninth
day of the ninth year! Child as I was, I laughed at her words. Time
passed on; days, months, years glided away. Need I tell you how this
popular superstition fastened on my mind until it became a prophecy?
Perchance the poison, communicated by the fang of the dog, was already
working in my veins, perchance—but why multiply words? This awful
fear gradually poisoned my whole existence; it drove me from my books
into the army. I began to thirst for death. I sought him in every battle;
O, how terrible `to long for death that cometh not!' For I was always
haunted by a fear—not merely the fear of going mad, but the fear of the
`ninth day of the ninth year'—the fear of dying a death at once horrible
and grotesque—dying like a venomous beast, my form torn by convulsions,
my reason crushed, my last breath howling forth a yell of horrible laughter—”
He paused; you would not have liked to gaze upon his face. You
would rather have faced a charge of bayonets than heard his voice. There
was something horrible, not so much in the stillness of that dimly-lighted
room, nor altogether in the contortions of his face, the fire of his eye, the deep
conviction of his voice, but in the idea,—a noble mind, a brave heart, crushed
by a mere superstition! A young life forever darkened by an idle hallucination!
An immortal soul tortured by unmeaning words, uttered years
ago, in the dewy childhood time!
“Isabel!” gasped the wretched bridegroom, “in a moment, yonder clock
will strike the hour of nine! At that hour, the end of all this agony will
come! Hideously transformed, I will writhe at your feet!”
How acted then, this innocent and guileless girl, who had grown to bewitching
womanhood amid the hills and dells of Valley Forge?
Hers was not the skill to argue this question in a philosophical manner.
True, she had heard of great minds being haunted all their lives by a
horrible fear. Some, the fear of being buried alive—some, the fear of going
mad—some, the fear of dying of loathsome disease.
But it was not her knowledge of these fancies—these monomanias of the
strong-hearted—that moved her into action at this hour.
It was her woman's heart that whispered to her soul a strange but fixed
resolve.
“As the clock strikes nine, you will go mad,” she said. “This is the
idea that has haunted your life for years. It was this that forced the goblet
from your lips, palsied your hand and dashed the wine to the floor! But
if your reason survives the hour of nine? Then the danger will be over?
Speak George, is it so?”
“It is,” he gasped; “but there is no hope—”
The word had not passed his lips, when she tore one hand from his
grasp, removed the other to his brow. Outspreading her arms, she wound
them round his neck, and buried his face upon her bosom.
The clock began to strike the hour of nine.
Closer she clasped him, convulsively pressing his face to her breast—as
to a holy shrine—until he felt her heart beating against his cheek.
“Now, God help me!” she prayed, and reaching forth her left hand,
grasped a glass which stood upon the Mosaic table. It was filled with
water, fresh and sparkling, from the brook.
Look! she raises his head, gazes intently in his face. Ah! she winds
her right arm closer about his neck, and with those eyes earnestly, intensely
fixed upon his face, she holds the glass to his lips.
“Drink, George, and fear not! If you love me, drink!”
Feeble words these, when spoken again, but had you heard her speak,
or but seen the overwhelming love of her young eyes!
A nervous shudder shakes his frame. He shrinks from the glass. But
he sees her eyes, he feels her voice, he extends his hand and drinks.
The clock has struck the last knell of the fatal hour.
He drinks! She, gazing earnestly, with her face and heart fixed on him,
all the while, he drinks.
“Now,” she whispers, while her warm fingers tremble gently over his
cheeks. “Now, George, speak to me! It is past! You love me? You
drank for my sake! For my sake you conquered this fatal idea. Speak,
speak—is it past?”
He rose from his chair—his face changed, as a cloud seemed to pass
from his breast—he gazed upon her with tearful eyes, and then exclaimed
in a tone that came like music to her soul:
“Isabel, more than life you have saved! My reason; you—”
He could speak no more. His heart was too full. His joy too deep.
So, spreading forth his arms—as the horror of years rushed upon his
soul—he fell weeping on her bosom.
That was the sight which the unfolded doors revealed to Washington!
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |