 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
3. BOOK THIRD.
BENEDICT ARNOLD.
BENEDICT ARNOLD.
I.—THE MOTHER AND HER BABE.
The angels of God look down from the sky to witness the deep tenderness
of a mother's love. The angels of God look down to witness that
sight which angels love to see—a mother watching over her sleeping babe.
Yes, if even these awful intelligences, which are but little above man, and
yet next to God, circling there, deep after deep, far through the homes of
eternity, bend from the sky to witness a scene of human bliss and woe, that
sight is the deep agony of a mother's love as she watches o'er her sleeping
child!
The deep agony of a mother's love? Yes! For in that moment, when
gazing upon the child—smiling upon it as it sleeps—does not a deep agony
seize the mother's soul, as she tries to picture the future life of her babe?—
whether that child will rise in honor and go down to death in glory, or
whether the dishonored life and unwept death will be its heritage?
Ah, the sublimity of the heart is there, in that mother's love, which even
angels bend down to look upon.
One hundred years ago, in a far New England town, a mother, with her
babe in her arms, stole softly through the opened doors of a quaint old village
church, and knelt beside the altar.
Yes, while the stillness of the Sabbath evening gathered like a calm from
heaven around her,—while a glimpse of the green graveyard came through
the unclosed windows, and the last beam of the setting sun played over the
rustic steeple, that mother knelt alone, and placed her sleeping boy upon
the sacramental altar.
That mother's face was not beautiful—care had been too busy there—
yet there was a beauty in that uplifted countenance, in those upraised eyes
of dark deep blue, in that kneeling form, with the clasped hands pressed
against the agitated bosom,—a beauty holier than earth, like that of Mary,
the Virgin Mother.
And why comes this Mother here to this lonely church, in this twilight
hour, to lay her babe upon the altar, and kneel in silence there?
Listen to her prayer.
She prays the Father, yonder, to guide the boy through life, to make him
a man of honor, a disciple of the Lord.
While these faltering accents fall from her tongue, behold! There, on
the vacancy of the twilight air, she beholds a vision of that boy's life, act
the thick sweat stands in beads upon her brow.
First, her pale face is stamped with fear. She beholds her boy, now
grown to young manhood, standing upon a vessel's deck, far out upon the
deep waters. The waves heave around him, and meet above the mast, and
yet that boy is firm. The red lightning from you dark cloud, comes quivering
down the mainmast, and yet his cheek does not pale, his breast does
not shrink. Yes, while the stout sailors fall cowering upon the deck, that
boy stands firm, and laughs at the storm—as though his spirit rose to meet
the lightning in its coming, and grapple with the thunderbolt in its way.
This vision passes.
The mother, kneeling there, beside the sacramental altar, beholds another
scene of her boy's life—another and another. At last, with eyes swimming
in tears of joy, she beholds a scene, so glorious drawn there upon the twilight
air—her boy grown to hardy manhood, riding amid embattled legions,
with the victor's laurel upon his brow—the praises of a nation ringing in his
ears—a scene so glorious, that her heart is filled to bursting, and that deep
“I thank thee, oh my God!” falls tremulously from her lips.
The next scene, right after the scene of glory—it is dark, crushing, horrible!
The mother starts appalled to her feet—her shriek quivers through
the lonely church—she spreads forth her hands over the sleeping babe—
she calls to God!
“Father in Heaven! take, O take this child while he is yet innocent!
Let him not live to be a man—a demon in human shape—a curse to his race!”
And as she stands there, quivering and pale, and cold with horror—look!
That child, laid there on the sacramental altar, opens its clear dark eyes,
and claps its tiny hands, and smiles!
That child was Benedict Arnold.
Near half a century had passed away. It was night in that New England
town, where, forty-five years before, that mother, in the calmness of
the Sabbath evening, brought her babe and laid it on the altar.
It was midnight. The village girl had bidden her lover a last good-night,
that good old father had lifted up his voice in prayer, with his children all
around him—it was midnight, and the village people slept soundly in
their beds.
All at once, rising from the deep silence, a horrid yell went up to the
midnight sky. All at once a blaze of fire burst over the roof. Look yonder!—That
father murdered on his own threshold—that mother stabbed
in the midst of her children—that maiden kneeling there, pleading for life,
as the sharp steel crashes into her brain!
Then the blood flows in the startled streets—then British troopers flit to
and fro in the red light—then, rising in the centre of the town, that quiet
village church, with its rustic steeple, towers into the blaze.
And there—oh, Father of Mercy!—there, in that steeple, stands a soldier,
with a dark cloak half-wrapped around his red uniform—yes, there he stands,
with folded arms, and from that height surveys with a calm joy, the horrid
scene of massacre below.
Now, mother of Arnold, look from Heaven and weep! Forty-five years
ago, you laid your child upon the sacramental altar of this church, and now
he stands in yonder steeple, drinking in with a calm joy, the terrible cries
of old men, and trembling women, and little children, hewn down in hideous
murder, before his very eyes.
Look there, and learn what a devil Remorse can make of such a man!
Here are the faces he has known in Childhood—the friends of his manhood—the
matrons, who were little girls when he was a boy—here they
are, hacked by British swords, and he looks on and smiles!
At last, the cries are stilled in death; the last flash of the burning town
glares over the steeple, and there, attired in that scarlet uniform, his bronzed
face stamped with the conflict of hideous passions—there, smiling still amid
the scenes of ruin and blood, stands Benedict Arnold.
That was the last act of the Traitor on our soil. In a few days he sailed
from our shores, and came back no more.
And now, as he goes yonder, on his awful way, while millions curse the
echo of his name, in yonder lonely room two orphans bless that name.
What is this you say? Orphans bless the name of Arnold? Yes, my
friends—for there was a night when those orphans were without a crust of
bread, while their father lay mouldering on the sod of Bunker Hill. Yes,
the Legislature of Massachusetts had left these children to the cold mercy of
the world, and that when they bore his name who fell on Bunker Hill—
the immortal Warren.
While they sate there, hungry and cold, no fire on the hearth, not a crust
of bread upon the table, their eyes fixed upon the tearful face of the good
woman who gave them the shelter of a roof, a letter came, and in its folds
five hundred dollars from Benedict Arnold.
This at the very moment when he was steeling his soul to the guilt of
Treason. This at the moment when his fortune had been scattered in banquets
and pageants—when assailed by clamorous creditors, he was ready to
sell his soul for gold.
From the last wreck of his fortune, all that had been left from the parasites
who fed upon him, while they could, and then stung the hand that fed
them, he took five hundred dollars and sent them to the children of his
comrade, the patriot Warren.
Is it true, that when the curse of all wronged orphans quivers up yonder,
the Angels of God shed tears at that sound of woe? Then, at the awful
hour when Arnold's soul went up to judgment, did the prayer's of Warren's
orphan children go up there, and like Angels, plead for him with God.
II.—THE DRUGGIST OF NEW HAVEN.
Let us look at his life between these periods; let us follow the varied
and tumultuous course of forty-five years, and learn how the innocent and
smiling babe, became the Outcast of his native land.
The course of this strange history, will lead us to look upon two men:
First, a brave and noble man, whose hand was firm as his heart was true,
at once a Knight worthy of the brightest days of chivalry, and a Soldier
beloved by his countrymen; honored by the friendship of Washington—
that man,—Benedict Arnold.
Then, a bandit and an outcast, a man panoplied in hideous crimes, so
dark, so infamous, that my tongue falters as it speaks his name—Benedict
Arnold.
Let me confess, that when I first selected this theme. I only thought of
its melo-dramatic contrasts, its strong lights and deep shadows, its incidents
of wild romance.
But now, that I have learned the fearful lesson of this life, let me frankly
confess, that in the pages of history or fiction, there is no tragedy to compare
with the plain history of Benedict Arnold. It is, in one word, a Paradise
Lost, brought down to our own times and homes, and told in familiar
language of everyday life. Through its every page, aye from the smiling
autumnal landscape of Kenebec, from the barren rock of Quebec, or the
green heights of Hudson, there glooms one horrid phantom, with a massive
forehead and deep-set eyes, the Lucifer of the story—Benedict Arnold.
The man who can read his life, in all its details, without tears, has a
heart harder than the roadside flint.
One word in regard to the infancy of Arnold.—
You have doubtless seen, in the streets of our large cities, the painful
spectacle of a beggar-women, tramping about with a deformed child in her
arms, making a show of its deformity, exciting sympathy by the exhibition
of its hideousness? Does the poor child fail to excite sympathy, when
attired in a jacket and trowsers, as a little boy? Then, the gipsey conceals
its deformed limbs under a frock, covers its wan and sickly face with a
bonnet.
And she changes it from to-day, making deformity always new, sickness,
rags and ulcers always marketable.
There is a class of men, who always remind me of this crafty beggar-woman.
They are the journeymen historians, the petty compilers of pompous
falsehood, who prevail in the vincinity of bookseller's kitchens, and
acquire corpulence.
As the beggar-woman has her Deformed child, so these Historians who
work by the line and yard, have their certain class of Incidents, which they
crowd into all their Compilations, whether Histories, Lectures, or Pictorial
of time and place.
For example; the first English writers who undertook the history of
Napoleon, propagated various stories about his infancy, which, in point of
truth and tragic interest, remind us of Blue-beard and Cock-robin. The
same stories had been previously told of Alexander, Cæsar, Richlieu, and
lately we have seen them revived in a new shape, in order to suit the infantile
days of Santa Anna.
These stereotyped fables—the Deformed children of History—are in fact,
to be found in every Biography, written by an enemy. They may wear
trousers in one history, put on a frock in another, but still cannot altogether
hide their original features. Cloak it as you may, the Deformed child of
history appears wherever we find it, just what it is, a puny and ridiculous
libel.
One of these Deformed children lurks in the current life of Arnold.
It is the grave story of the youth of Benedict, being passed away in various
precocious atrocities. He strewed the road with pounded glass, in
order that other little boys might cut their feet; he fried frogs upon a bakeiron
heated to an incredible intensity; he geared flies in harness, decapitated
grasshoppers, impaled “Katy-dids.”
So says the history.
Is not this a very dignified, very solemn thing for the Historian's notice?
Why did he not pursue the subject, and state that at the age of two years,
Benedict Arnold was deeply occupied in the pursuit of Latin, Sanscript,
Hebrew, Moral Philosophy and the Philosopher's stone?
Because the latter part of a man's life is made infamous by his crimes,
must your grave Historian ransack Blue-beard and Cock-robin, in order to
rake up certain delectable horrors, with which to adorn the history of his
childhood?
In our research into Arnold's life, we must bear one important fact in
mind. After he had betrayed his country, it was deemed not only justifiable
to chronicle every blot and spec in his character, but highly praiseworthy
to tumble the overflowing inkstand of libel upon every vestige of
his name.
That he comes down to our time, with a single good deed adhering to his
memory, has always seemed miraculous to me.
With these introductory remarks, let us pursue the history.
It was in the city of New Haven, on a cold day of April, 1775, that a
man of some thirty-five years, stood behind a counter, an apron on his
manly chest, mixing medicines, pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons
in their places.
Look well at this man, as he stands engaged in his occupation. Did you
ever see a bolder brow—a deeper, darker, or more intensely brilliant eye—
that face from the ear to the chin; a world of iron will is written in that
firm outline.
The hair, unclogged with the powder in fashion at this time, falls back
from his forehead in harsh masses; its dark hue imparting a strong relief to
the bold and warrior-like face.
While this man stands at his counter, busy with pestle and mortar—hark!
There is a murmur along the streets of New Haven; a crowd darkens
under those aged elms; the murmur deepens; the Druggist became conscious
of four deep-muttered words:
“Battle—Lexington—British—Beaten!”
With one bound the Druggist leaps over the counter, rushes into the
street and pushes his way through the crowd. Listen to that tumultuous
murmur! A battle has been fought at Lexington, between the British and
the Americans; or in other words, the handsomely attired minions of King
George, have been soundly beaten by the plain farmers of New England.
That murmur deepens through the crowd, and in a moment the Druggist
is in the centre of the scene. Two hundred men group round him, begging
to be led against the British.
But there is a difficulty; the Common Council, using a privilege granted
to all corporate bodies from immemorial time, to make laughing-stocks of
themselves, by a display of petty authority, have locked up all the arms.
“Arnold,” cried a patriotic citizen, uncouth in attire and speech: “We
are willing to fight the Britishers, but the city council won't let us have
any guns!”
“Won't they?” said the Druggist, with that sardonic sneer, which always
made his enemies afraid: “Then our remedy is plain. Come; let us
take them!”
Five minutes had not passed, before the city Council, knowing this
Druggist to be a man of few words and quick deeds, yielded up the guns.
That hour the Druggist became a soldier.
—Let us now pass over a month or more.
It is a night in May.
Look yonder, through the night? Do you see that tremendous rock, as
it towers up ruggedly sublime, into the deep blue sky? Yes, over the wide
range of woods, over the silent fastnesses of the wilderness, over the calm
waters of Lake George and the waves of Champlain, that rock towers and
swells on the night, like an awful monument, erected by the lost Angels,
when they fell from Heaven.
And there, far away in the sky, the moon dwindled away to a slender
thread, sheds over the blue vault and the deep woods and the tremendous
rock, a light, at once sad, solemn, sepulchral.
Do you see the picture? Does it not stamp itself upon your soul, an
image of terrible beauty? Do you not feel the awful silence that broods there?
On the summit of that rock the British garrison are sleeping, aye, slumbering
peacefully, under the comfortable influence of beef and ale, in the
impregnable fortress of Ticonderoga. From the topmost crag, the broad
Banner of the Red Cross swings lazily against the sky.
At this moment, there is a murmur far down in the dark ravine. Let us
look there. A multitude of shadows come stealing into the dim light of the
moon; they climb that impregnable rock; they darken round that fortress
gate. All is still as death.
Two figures stand in the shadows of the fortress gate; in that stern determined
visage, you see the first of the green mountain boys, stout Ethan
Allen; in that muscular figure, with the marked face and deep-set eye,
you recognize the druggist of New Haven, Benedict Arnold.
A fierce shout, a cry, a crash goes up to Heaven! The British Colonel
rushing from his bed, asks what Power is this, which demands the surrender
of Ticonderoga?
—For all his spangled coat and waving plumes, this gentleman was
behind the age. He had not heard, that a New Nation had lately been
born on the sod of Lexington. Nor did he dream of the Eight Years Baptism
of blood and tears, which was to prepare this nation for its full communion
with the Church of Nations, on the plains of Yorktown.—“In
what name do you demand the surrender of this fortress?”
In the name of a King? Or perchance in the name of Benedict Arnold
and stout Ethan Allen? No! Hark how that stern response breaks through
the silence of night.
“In the name of the Lord Jehovah and the Continental Congress!”
And floating into the blue sky, the Pine tree banner waved from the
summit of Ticonderoga.
—You will remember, that the emblem of the New-born nation, at
that time, was a Pine Tree. The Lord had not yet given his stars, to flash
from the Banner of Freedom; an emblem of the rights of man all over the
world.—
That was the first deed of Benedict Arnold; the initial letter to a long
alphabet of glorious deeds, which was to end in the blackness of Treason.
III.—THE MARCH THROUGH THE WILDERNESS.
There was a day, my friends, when some Italian peasants, toiling in the
vineyards of their cloudless clime, beneath the shadow of those awful Alps,
that rise as if to the very Heavens, ran in terror to the village Priest, begging
him to pray for them, for the end of the world was coming.
The Priest calmly inquired the cause of all the clamor. Soon the mystery
was explained. Looking up into the white ravines of the Alps, the
peasants had seen an army coming down—emerging from that awful wilderness
of snow and ice, where the avalanche alone had spoken, for ages—
in their midst.
That little man was named Napoleon Bonaparte—a YOUNG MAN, who
one day was starving in Paris for the want of a dinner, and the next held
France in the palm of his hand.
That was a great deed, the crossing of the Alps, by the young man, Napoleon,
but I will now tell you a bolder deed, done by the Patriot, Benedict
Arnold.
In April, 1775, that man Arnold stood behind a counter, mixing medicines,
pasting labels on phials, and putting poisons in their places.
In May, the Druggist Arnold, stood beside stout Ethan Allen, in the gate
of conquered Ticonderoga.
In September, the soldier Arnold was on his way to Quebec, through an
untrodden desert of three hundred miles.
One night, the young Commander Washington sat in his tent at Cambridge,
(near Boston,) with his eye fixed on the map of Canada, and his
finger laid on that spot marked Quebec.
While thus employed a soldier stood by his side.
“Give me two thousand men, General,” said he, “and I will take
Quebec.”
Washington answered this with a look of incredulous surprise.
“Three hundred miles of untrodden wilderness are to be traversed, ere
you can obtain even a glimpse of the rock of Quebec.”
“Yet I will go!” was the firm response of the soldier.
“But there are rocks, and ravines, and dense forests, and unknown lakes,
and impassable cataracts in the way,” answered Washington; “and then
the cold of winter will come on; your provisions will fail; your men will
be starved or frozen to death.”
Still that soldier was firm.
“Give me two thousand men, and I will go!”
Do you mark the bold brow—the clear, dark eye—the determined lip of
that soldier? Do you behold the face of Washington—utterly unlike your
vulgar pictures of the man—each outline moulded by a high resolve, the
eye gleaming chivalry, the brow radiant with the light of genius?
That soldier was Benedict Arnold.
Washington took him by the hand, and bade him go!
“Yes, go through the wilderness. Attack and possess Quebec. Then
the annexation of Canada will be certain; the American name will embrace
a Continent. Go! and God speed you on your journey.”
Did that great truth ever strike you? Washington did not fight for a
Half-America, or a Piece-America, but for the Continent, the whole Continent.
His army was not called the American, but the Continental
army. The Congress was not entitled American, but Continental. The
were impressed with the belief that God had given the whole Continent
to the Free.—Therefore he gazed upon the map of Canada. Therefore,
pressing Arnold's hand, he bade him God speed!
And he did go. Yes, look yonder on the broad ocean. Behold that little
fleet of eleven vessels stealing along the coast, toward the mouth of the
Kennebec. That fleet, sailing on the 17th of September, 1775, contains
eleven hundred brave men, and their leader, Benedict Arnold.
They reach the mouth of the Kennebec—they glide along its cliff-embosomed
shores. These brave men are about to traverse an untrodden
wilderness of 300 miles, and then attack the Gibralter of America. If that
was not a bold idea, then the crossing of the Alps was a mere holiday
pastime.
Let us leave this little army to build their canoes near the mouth of the
Kennebec; let us hurry into the thick wilderness.
Even in these days of steam and rail-road cars, the Kennebec is beautiful.
Some of you have wandered there by its deep waters, and seen the smiles
of woman mirrowed in its wave. Some of you have gazed upon those high
cliffs, those shadowy glens, now peopled with the hum of busy life.
But in the day when Arnold dared its solitudes, there was a grandeur
stamped on these rocks and cliffs—a grandeur fresh from the hands of God.
Yet, even amidst its awful wilds, there was a scene of strange loveliness,
a picture which I would stamp upon your souls.
Stretching away from the dark waters of that river—where another
stream mingles with its flood—a wide plain, bounded by dense forests,
breaks on your eye.
As the glimmering day is seen over the eastern hills, there, in the centre
of the plain, stands a solitary figure, a lone Indian, the last of a line of kings;
yes, with his arms folded, his war-blanket gathered about his form, the
hatchet and knife lying idly at his feet—there stands the last of a long line
of forest kings, gazing at the ruins of his race.
The ruins of his race? Yes—look there! In the centre of that plain,
a small fabric arises under the shade of centuried oaks—a small fabric, with
battered walls and rude windows, stands there like a tomb in the desert, so
lonely, even amid this desolation.
Let us enter this rude place. What a sight is there! As the first gleam
of day breaks over the eastern hills, it trembles through those rude windows,
it trembles upon that shattered altar, that fallen cross.
Altar and cross? What do they here in the wilderness? And why
does that lone Indian—that last of the kings—who could be burned without
a murmur—why does he mutter wildly to himself as he gazes upon this
ruin?
Listen. Here, many years ago, dwelt a powerful Indian tribe, and here,
from afar over the waters, came a peaceful man, clad in a long coarse robe,
church, reared the altar, planted the cross. Here, in the calmness of the
summer evening, you might see the red warrior with blunted war-knife,
come to worship; the little Indian child kneeling there, clasping its tiny
hands, as it learned, in its rude dialect, to lisp the name of Jesus; and here
the dark brown Indian maiden, with her raven hair falling over her bending
form, listened with dilating eyes, to that story of the virgin-mother.
Here, that man with the cross on his breast, lived and taught for twenty-five
years. Forsaking the delights of Parisian civilization, the altars and
monuments of the eternal city, he came here to teach the rude Indian that
he had a soul, that God cared for him, that a great Being, in a far distant
land, wept, prayed, and died for him, the dusky savage of the woods.
When he first came here, his hair was dark as night: here he lived until
it matched the winter's snow.
One Sabbath morn, just as the day broke over these hills, while man and
woman and child knelt before the altar, while the aged Priest stood yonder,
lifting the sacramental cup above his head, yes—my blood chill, as I write
it—on a Sabbath morning, as the worship of Almighty God was celebrated
in the church, all at once a horrid cry broke on the silent air! A cry, a
yell, a wild hurrah!
The cry of women, as they knelt for mercy, and in answer to their prayer
the clubbed rifle came crushing down—the yell of warriors shot like dogs
upon the chapel floor—the wild hurrah of the murderers, who fired through
these windows upon the worshippers of Jehovah!
There was a flame rising into that Sabbath sky—there were the horrid
shrieks of massacre ringing on the air, as men and women plunged into the
flood—while from yonder walls of rocks, the murderers picked them one by
one! The lonely plain ran with blood, down to the Kenebec, and the
dying who struggled in its waves, left but a bloody track on the waters, to
tell of their last fatal plunge!
And yonder, yes, in the church of God, kneeling beside that altar, clasping
that cross with his trembling hands, there crouched the old man as the
death-blow sank into his brain!
His white hair was dyed blood-red, even as the name of the Saviour
quivered from his lips.
Even, came—where a Nation had been, was now only a harvest of dead
bodies: where Religion had been, was now only and old man, murdered
beside his altar.
Yet still, in death, his right hand uplifted, clung to the fallen cross.
And who were the murderers?
I will not say that they were Christians, but they were white men, and
the children of white parents. They had been reared in the knowledge of
a Saviour; they had been taught the existence of a God. They were soldiers,
too, right brave men, withal, for they came with knife and rifle, skulking
worshipping their Maker.
Do you ask me for my opinion of such men? I cannot tell you. But
were this tongue mute, this hand palsied, I would only ask the power of
speech to say one word—the power of pen, to write that word in letters
of fire—and the word would be—Scorn!—Scorn upon the murderers
of Father Ralle!
And now, as the light of morning broke over the desolate plain, there
stood the lone Indian, gazing upon the ruins of his race. Natanis, the last
of the Norridgewocks, among the graves of his people!
But now he gazes far down the dark river—ha! what strange vision
comes here?
Yonder, gliding from the shelter of the deep woods, comes a fleet of
canoes, carrying strange warriors over the waters. Strange warriors, clad
in the blue hunting-frock, faced with fur; strange warriors, with powder-horn,
knife and rifle. Far ahead of the main body of the fleet, a solitary
canoe skims over the waters. That canoe contains the oarsmen, and another
form, wrapped in a rough cloak, with his head drooped on the breast, while
the eye flashes with deep thoughts—the form of the Napoleon of the wilderness,
Benedict Arnold.
Look! He rises in the canoe—he stands erect—he flings the cloak from
his form—he lifts the rough fur cap from his brow. Do you mark each
outline of that warrior-form? Do you note the bold thought now struggling
into birth over that prominent forehead, along that compressed lip, in the
gleam of those dark grey eyes, sunken deep beneath the brow?
He stands there, erect in the canoe, with outspread arms, as though he
would say—
“Wilderness, I claim ye as my own! Rocks, ye cannot daunt me;
cataracts, ye cannot appal! Starvation, death, and cold—I will conquer
ye all!”
Look! As he stands there, erect in the canoe, the Indian, Natanis, beholds
him, springs into the river and soon stands by his side.
“The Dark-Eagle comes to claim the wilderness,” he speaks in the wild
Indian tongue, which Arnold knows so well. “The wilderness will yield
to the Dark-Eagle, but the Rock will defy him. The Dark-Eagle will soar
aloft to the sun. Nations will behold him, and shout his praises. Yet
when he soars highest, his fall is most certain. When his wing brushes
the sky, then the arrow will pierce his heart!”
It was a Propheey. In joy or sorrow, in battle or council, in honor or
treason, Arnold never forgot the words of Natanis.
He joins that little fleet; he advances with Arnold into the Wilderness.
Let us follow him there!
Now dashing down boiling rapids, now carrying their canoes through
miles of forest, over hills of rock, now wading for long leagues, through
advance.
On, brave Arnold, on! For you the awful mountain has no terrors, the
cold that stops the blood in its flowing, no fear. Not even the dark night
when the straggler falls dying by the way, and unknown ravines yawn far
below your path, not even the darker day when the little store of parehed
corn fails, and your famished soldiers feed on the flesh of dogs—when even
the snake is a dainty meal—not even terrors like these can scare your iron
soul! On, brave Arnold, on!
Look, at last, after dangers too horrible to tell, the little fleet is floating
down that stream, whose awful solitude gained it this name, THE RIVER OF
THE DEAD. Far over the waters, look! A tremendous mountain rises there
from the waters above all other mountains into the blue sky; white, lonely
and magnificent, an alabaster altar, to which the Angels may come to worship.
Under the shadow of this mountain the little army of Arnold encamped
for three days. A single, bold soldier, ascends the colossal steep; stands
there, far above, amid the snow and sunbeams, and at last comes rushing
down with a shriek of joy.
“Arnold!” he cries, “I have seen the rock and spires of Quebec!”
What a burst of joy rises from that little host! Quebec! the object of
all their hopes, for which they starve, and toil, and freeze! Hark! to that
deep-mouthed hurrah!
Benedict Arnold then takes from his breast,—where wrapped in close
folds he had carried it, through all his dreary march—a blue banner gleaming
with thirteen stars. He hoists it in the air. For the first time the
Banner of the Rights of Man, to which God has given his stars, floats over
the waters of the Wilderness.
On, brave Arnold, on! On over the deep rapids and the mountain rock;
on again in hunger and cold, until desertion and disease have thinned your
band of eleven hundred down to nine hundred men of iron; on, brave hero
—Napoleon on the Alps, Cortez in Mexico, Pizarro in Peru, never did a
bolder deed than yours!
Let us for a moment pause to look upon a picture of beauty, even in this
terrible march.
Do you see that dark lake, spreading away there under the shadow of
tall pines? Look up—a faint glimpse of starlight is seen there through the
intervals of the sombre boughs. The stars look down upon the deeps;
solitude is there in all its stillness, so like the grave.
Suddenly a red light flares over the waters. The gleam of fires redden
the boughs of these pines, flashes around the trunks of these stout oaks. The
men of Arnold are here, encamped around yonder deserted Indian wigwam,
whose rude timbers you may behold among the trees, near the brink of the
waters.
For an hour these iron men are merry! Yes, encamped by the wave
of Lake Chaudiere. They roast the ox amid the huge logs; they draw the
rich salmon and the speckled trout from these waters. Forgive them if the
drinking horn passes from lip to lip; forgive them if the laugh and song go
round!—Forgive them—for to-morrow they must go on their dread march
again; to-morrow they must feed on the bark of trees, and freeze in cold
waters again—forgive them for this hour of joy.
Now let us follow them again; let us speak to brave Arnold, and bid
him on!
O, these forests are dark and dense, these rocks are too terrible for us to
climb, the cold chills our blood, this want of bread maddens our brain—but
still brave Arnold points toward Quebec, and bids them on!
Hark! That cry, so deep, prolonged, maddening, hark, it swells up into
the silence of night; it stops the heart in its beating. On, my braves! It
is but the cry of a comrade who has missed his footing, and been dashed
to pieces against the rocks below.
It is day again. The sun streams over the desolate waste of pines and
snow. It is day; but the corn is gone—we hunger, Arnold! The dog is
slain, the snake killed; they feast, these iron men. Then, with canoes on
their shoulders, they wade the stream, they climb the mountain, they crawl
along the sides of dark ravines. Upon the waters again! Behold the
stream boiling and foaming over its rocky bed. Listen to the roaring of the
torrent. Now guide the boat with care, or we are lost; swerve not a hair's
breadth, or we are dashed to pieces. Suddenly a crash—a shout—and lo!
Those men are struggling for their lives amid the wrecks of their canoes.
But still that voice speaks out: “Do not fear my iron men; gather the
wrecks, and leap into your comrades' canoes. Do not fear, for Quebec is
there!”
At last two long months of cold, starvation and death are past; Arnold
stands on Point Levy, and there, over the waters, sees rising into light the
rock and spires of Quebec!
Napoleon gazing on the plains of Italy, Cortez on the Halls of Montezuma,
never felt such joy as throbbed in Arnold's bosom then!
It was there, there in the light, no dream, no fancy; but a thing of substance
and form, it was there above the waters, the object of bright hopes
and fears; that massive rock, that glittering town.
At last he beheld—Quebec!
IV.—THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC.
It was the last day of the year 1775.
Yonder, on the awful cliffs of Abraham, in the darkness of the daybreak,
while the leaden sky grooms above, a band of brave men are gathered; yes,
while the British are banquetting in Quebec, here, on this tremendous rock,
brothers, the Continentals from Montreal.
That little army of one thousand have determined to attack the Gibralter
of America, with its rocks, its fortifications, its two thousand British soldiers.
Here, on the very rock, where, sixteen years ago, Montcalm and Wolfe
poured forth their blood, now are gathered a band of brave men, who are
seen in the darkness of this hour, extending like dim shadow-forms, around
two figures, standing alone in the centre of the host.
It is silent, and sad as death. The roaring of the St. Lawrence alone is
heard. Above the leaden sky, around the rock extending like a plain—
yonder, far through the gloom, a misty light struggles into the sky, that
light gleams from the firesides of Quebec.
Who are these, that stand side by side in the centre of the band?
That muscular form, with a hunting shirt thrown over his breast, that
form standing there, with folded arms and head drooped low, while the eye
glares out from beneath the fanning brow, that is the Patriot Hero of the
Wilderness, Benedict Arnold.
By his side stands a graceful form, with strength and beauty mingled in
its outlines, clad in the uniform of a General, while that chivalrous countenance
with its eye of summer blue, turns anxiously from face to face. In
that form you behold the doomed Montgomery. He has come from Montreal,
he has joined his little band with the Iron Men of Benedict Arnold.
Who are these that gather round, with fur caps upon each brow, moccasins
upon each foot; who are these wild men, that now await the signal-word?—You
may know them by their leader, who, with his iron form,
stands leaning on his rifle—the brave Daniel Morgan.
The daybreak wears on; the sky grows darker; the snow begins to fall.
Arnold turns to his brothers in arms. They clasp each other by the
hand.—Their lips move but you hear no sound.
“Arnold!” whispers Montgomery, “I will lead my division along the St.
Lawrence, under the rocks of Cape Diamond. I will meet you in the centre
of Quebec—or die!”
“Montgomery, I will attack the barrier on the opposite side. There is my
hand! I will meet you yonder—yonder in the centre of Quebec—or perish!”
It is an oath: the word is given.—Look there, and behold the two divisions,
separating over the rocks: this, with Montgomery towards the St.
Lawrence, that with Arnold and Morgan, towards the St. Charles.
All is still. The rocks grow white with snow. All is still and dark, but
grim shadows are moving on every side.
Silence along the lines. Not a word on the peril of your lives! Do
you behold this narrow pass, leading to the first barrier, yonder? That
barrier, grim with cannon, commands every inch of the pass. On one side,
the St. Charles heaps up its rocks of ice; on the other, are piled the rocks
of granite.
Silence along the lines! The night is dark, the way is difficult, but Quebec
is yonder! Soldier, beware of those piles of rock—a single misplaced
footstep may arouse the sleeping soldier on yonder barrier. If he awake,
we are lost! On, brave band, on with stealthy footstep, and rifle to each
shoulder; on, men of the wilderness, in your shirts of blue and fur!
At the head of the column, with his drawn sword gleaming through the
night, Benedict Arnold silently advances.
Then a single cannon, mounted on a sled, and dragged forward, by stout
arms.
Last of all, Daniel Morgan with the riflemen of the Wilderness.
In this order along the narrow pass, with ice on one side and rocks on
the other, the hero-band advance. The pass grows narrower—the battery
nearer. Arnold can now count the cannon—nay, the soldiers who are
watching there. Terrible suspense! Every breath is hushed—stout hearts
now swell within the manly chest.
Lips compressed, eyes glaring, rifles clenched—the Iron Men move
softly on.
Arnold silently turns to his men.
And yonder through the gloom, over the suburb of that city, over the
rocks of that city's first barrier—there frowned the battery grim with
cannon.
There wait the sentinel and his brother soldiers. They hear no sound;
the falling snow echoes no footstep, and yet there are dim shadows moving
along the rocks, moving on without a sound.
Look! Those shadows move up the rocks, to the very muzzles of the
cannon. Now the sentinel starts up from his reclining posture; he hears
that stealthy tread. He springs to his cannon—look! how that flash glares
out upon the night.
Is this magic? There disclosed by that cannon flash, long lines of bold
riflemen start into view, and there—
Standing in front of the cannon, his tall form rising in the red glare, with
a sword in one hand, the Banner of the Stars in the other—there, with that
wild look which he ever wore in battle, gleaming from his eye—there stands
the patriot, Benedict Arnold!
On either side there is a mangled corse—but he stands firm. Before
him yawns the cannon, but he springs upon those cannon—he turns to his
men—he bids them on!
“To-night we will feast in Quebec!”
And the hail of the rifle balls lays the British dead upon their own cannon.—Now
the crisis of the conflict comes.
Now behold this horrid scene of blood and death.
While the snow falls over the faces of the dead, while the blood of the
dying turns that snow to scarlet, gather round your leader, load and fire,
Wilderness!
Now Arnold is in his glory!
Now he knows nothing, sees nothing but that grim barrier frowning
yonder! Those fires flashing from the houses—that rattling hail of bullets
pattering on the snow—he sees, he feels them not!
His eye is fixed upon the second barrier. He glances around that mass
of rifles, now glittering in the red light—he floats the Banner of the Stars on
high—Hark to his shout!
“Never fear, my men of the Wilderness! We have not come three
hundred miles to fail now! Have I not sworn to meet Montgomery there,
to meet him in the centre of the town, or die?”
And then on, across the rocks and cannon of the barrier! Hark—that
crash, that yell! The British soldiers are driven back over the dead bodies
of comrades—the first barrier is won!
Arnold stands victorious upon that barrier—stands there, with blood upon
his face, his uniform—dripping from his sword—stands there with the Banner
of the Stars in his hand!
Oh! sainted mother of Arnold, who on that calm summer night, near
forty years ago, laid your child upon the sacramental altar, now look
from Heaven, and—if saints pray for the children of earth—then pray
that your son may die here upon the bloody barrier of Quebec! For then
his name will be enshrined with Warrens and Washingtons of all time!
Even as Arnold stood there, brandishing that starry banner, a soldier
rushed up to his side, and with horror quivering on his lip, told that the gallant
Montgomery had fallen.
Fallen at the head of his men, covered with wounds; the noble heart,
that beat so high an hour ago, was now cold as the winter snow, on which
his form was laid.
Leaving Arnold for a moment, on the first barrier of Quebec, let us trace
the footsteps of his brother-hero.
Do you behold that massive rock, which arises from the dark river into
the darker sky? Along that rock of Cape diamond, while the St. Lawrence
dashes the ice in huge masses against its base, along that rock, over a path
that leads beneath a shelf of granite, with but room for the foot of a single
man, Richard Montgomery leads his band.
Stealthily, silently, my comrades!—Not a word—let us climb this narrow
path. Take care; a misplaced footstep, and you will be hurled down
upon the ice of the dark river. Up, my men, and on! Yonder it is at
last, the block-house, and beyond it, at the distance of two hundred paces,
the battery, dark with cannon!
With words like these, Montgomery led on his men. The terrible path
was ascended. He stood before the block-house. Now, comrades!
An axe! an axe! by all that is brave! He seizes the axe, the brave
Montgomery; with his own arm he hews the palisades.—The way is clear
for his men. A charge with blazing rifles, a shout, the block-house is won!
Talk of your British bayonets—ha, ha! Where did they ever stand the
blaze of American rifles? Where? Oh, perfumed gentlemen, who in
gaudy uniforms, strut Chesnut street—talk to me of your charge of bayonets,
and your rules of discipline, and your system of tactics, and I will reply by
a single word—one American rifleman, in his rude hunting shirt, was worth
a thousand such as you. Who mocked the charge of bayonets on Bunker
Hill? Who captured Burgoyne? Who—at Brandywine—kept back all
the panoply of British arms from morning till night?—The Riflemen.
One shout the block-house is won.—Now on toward the battery—load
and advance! Montgomery still in the front. With a yell, the British behold
them approach; they flee from their cannon.—Montgomery mounts
the walls of rocks and iron; his sword gleams on high, like a beacon for his
men. At this moment, hush your breath and look!—While Montgomery
clings to the rocks of the battery, a single British soldier turns from his
flight, and fires one of those grim cannon, and then is gone again.
A blaze upon the right, a smoke, a chorus of groans!
Montgomery lays mangled upon the rock, while around him are seattered
four other corses. Their blood mingles in one stream.
A rude rifleman advances, bends down, and looks upon that form, quivering
for an instant only, and then cold—upon that face, torn and mangled,
as with the print of a horse's hoof, that face, but a moment before glowing
with a hero's soul. He looks for a moment and then, with panic in his
face, turns to his comrades.
“Montgomery is dead!” he shrieks; and with one accord they retreat
—they fly from that fatal rock.
But one form lingers. It is that boyish form, graceful almost to womanly
beauty, with the brow of a genius, the eye of an eagle. That boy ran away
from college, bore Washington's commands 300 miles, and now—covered
with the blood of the fight—stands beside the mangled body of Montgomery,
his dark eye wet with tears. In that form behold the man who was almost
President of the United States, and Emperor of Mexico—the enigma of
our history, Aaron Burr.
They are gone. Montgomery is left alone, with no friend to compose
limbs or close those glaring eyes. And at this moment, while the snow
falls over his face, while the warm blood of his heart pours out upon the
rock, yonder in his far-off home, his young wife kneels by her bed, and
prays God to hasten his return!
He died in the flush of heroism, in the prime of early manhood, leaving
Quebec.
The day is coming when an army of Free Canadians will encamp on
that very rock, their rifles pointed at the British battery, their Republican
flag waving in the forlorn hope against the British banner! Then perhaps,
some true American heart will wash out the blood of Montgomery from the
rock of Quebec.
Arnold stood upon the first barrier, while his heart throbbed at the story
of Montgomery's fate.
Then that expression of desperation, which few men could look upon
without fear, came over Arnold's face. Now look at him, as with his form
swelling with rage he rushes on! He springs from that barrier, he shouts
to the iron men, he rings the name of Morgan on the air.
He points to the narrow street, over which the second barrier is thrown.
“Montgomery is there,” he shouts, in a voice of thunder, “there waiting
for us!”
Hurrah! How the iron men leap at the word! There is the quick
clang of ramrods; each rifle is loaded. They rush on!
At their head, his whole form convulsed, his lips writhing, his chest
heaving unconscious of danger, as though the ghost of Montgomery was
there before him, Benedict Arnold rushes on!
Even as he rushes, he falls. Even as you look upon him, in his battle
rage with his right leg shattered, he falls.
But does he give up the contest?
By the ghost of Montgomery—No!
No! He lifts his face from the snow now crimsoned with his blood, he
follows with his startling eyes, the path of Morgan, he shouts with his
thunder tones, his well-known battle-cry.
He beholds his men rush on amid light and flame, he hears the crack of
the rifle, the roar of cannon, the tread of men, rushing forward to the
conflict.
Then he endeavors to rise. A gallant soldier offers his arm to the
wounded hero.
He rises, stands for a moment, and then falls. But still his soul is firm.
—Still his eye glares upon the distant flight. Not until he makes his bed,
there on the cold snow, in a pool of his own blood, until his eyes fail and
his right leg stiffens, does his soul cease to beat with the pulsations of battle.
Then and then only, the Hero of the Wilderness is carried back to
yonder rock.
Would to God that he had died there!
Would to God that he had died there with all his honorable wounds about
him. O, for a stray bullet, a chance shot, to still his proud heart forever.
O, that he had laid side by side with Montgomery, hallowed forever by his
one breath, would have been joined forever, in one song of immortality.
But Montgomery died alone; his blood stains the rock of Quebec. Arnold
lived; his ashes accursed by his countrymen, rest in an unknown
grave.
When the news of the gallant attack on Quebec—gallant though unsuccessful—reached
Philadelphia, the Congress rewarded Benedict Arnold with
the commission of a Brigadier General.
The same mob, who, afterwards—while Arnold was yet true to his country—stoned
him in the streets, and stoned the very arm that had fought for
them, now cracked their throats in shouting his name.
The very city, which afterwards was the scene of his Dishonorable Persecution,
now flashed out from its illuminated casements, glory of the Hero
of Quebec, Benedict Arnold.
V.—THE WAR-HORSE LUCIFER.
Now let us pass with one bold flight over the movements of the Continental
army in Canada; let us hasten at once, to that dark night when the
legions under Sullivan, embarked on the River Sorel, on their way to Lake
Champlain and Crown Point.
Let us go yonder to the darkened shore, as the shades of night come
down. A solitary man with his horse, yet lingers on the strand. Yes, as
the gleam of the advancing bayonets of Bourgoyne, is seen there through the
northern woods—as the last of the American boats ripples the river, far to
the south, while the gathering twilight casts the shadow of the forest along
the waters, here on this deserted strand, a single warrior lingers with his
war-horse.
There is the light canoe waiting by the shore, to bear him over the
waters; for he must leave that gallant steed with skin black as night, and a
mane like an inky wave.
He cannot leave him for the advancing foe; he must kill him.
Kill the noble horse that has borne him scatheless through many a fight!
Kill—Lucifer—so the warrior named him—that brave horse, whose heart
in battle beats with a fire like his own? Ah, then the stout heart of Arnold
quailed. Ah, then as the noble horse stooped his arching neck, as if to invite
his master to mount him once again, and rush on to meet the foe, then
Arnold who never turned his face away from foe, turned his face away from
the large speaking eye of that horse, Lucifer.
He drew his pistol; the horse laid his head against his breast, floating
his dark mane over his shoulders. Arnold who never shed a tear for the
dead men in battle, felt his eyes grow wet. He was about to shoot that
friend, who had served him so well, and never betrayed him.
There was the report of a pistol—the sound of a heavy body falling on
the sand—the motion of a light canoe speeding over the waters.
And Arnold looked back, and beheld the dying head of his horse faintly
upraised; he beheld that large eye rolling in death.
Ah, little can you guess the love that the true warrior feels for his steed!
Ah, many a time in after life, when the friend of his heart betrayed, and the
beloved one on whose bosom he reposed, whispered Treason in his ear, did
he remember the last look of that dying war-horse, Lucifer.
VI.—THE APE-AND-VIPER GOD.
Let us now pass rapidly on, in this our strange history. At first a
glorious landscape bursts upon our view, and Courage and Patriotism walk
before us in forms of God-like beauty. Let us leave this landscape, let us
on to the dim horizon, where the dark cloud towers and glooms, bearing in
its breast the lightnings of Treason.
Let us pass over those brilliant exploits on Lake Champlain, which made
the Continent ring with the name of Arnold.
Let us see that man rising in renown as a soldier, who was always—
First on the forlorn hope, last on the field of battle.
Let us behold certain men, in Camp and Congress, growing jealous of
his renown.
They do not hesitate to charge him with appropriating to his own use,
certain goods, which he seized when in command at Montreal. The
records of history give the lie to this charge of mercenary business, for
when Arnold seized the goods, he wrote to his commanding general and to
Congress, that he was about to seize certain stores in Montreal for the public
benefit. Those goods were left to waste on the river shore, through the
reckless negligence of an inferior officer.
We will then go to Congress, and behold the rise of that thing, which the
ancient sculptors would have impersonated under the mingled form of an
ape and a viper—THE SPIRIT OF PARTY.
It is the same in all ages. Without the courage or the talent, to project
one original measure, it is always found barking and snarling at the heels
of Genius. To-day it receives Napoleon, crowned with the bloody laurel
of Waterloo, and instead of calling upon France, to support her Deliverer,
this spirit of Party truckles to foreign bayonets, and requests—his abdication.
To-morrow, it meets the victor of the south, in a New Orleans' court
of justice, and while the shouts of thousands protected from British bayonets,
rings in his ears, this spirit of Party in the shape of a solemn Judge,
attempts to brand the hero with dishonor, by the infliction of a thousand
dollar fine. In the Revolution, Washington held the serenity of his soul
amid the hills of Valley Forge, combating pestilence and starvation, with an
unshrinking will. All the while in the hall of the Continental Congress,
the Spirit of Party was at work, planning a mean deed, with mean men for
then, as it is contemptable now.
In all ages, to speak plainly, this spirit of party, this effervescence of faction,
is the voice of those weak and wicked creatures, who spring into life
from the fermenting compost of social dissension. It never shows a bold
front, never speaks a plain truth, never does a brave deed. Its element is
intrigue, more particularly called low cunning; its atmosphere darkness; its
triumph the orgie of diseased debauchery, its revenge as remorseless as the
malice of an ape, or the sting of a viper.
A great man may be a Republican, or even a King-worshipper, willing to
write, or speak, or fight for his principles, with a fearless pen and voice and
sword. But he never can be a—Party Man. The very idea of faction,
pre-supposes intrigue, and intrigue indicates a cold heart, and a dwarfed
brain. It is the weapon of a monkey, not of a man.
This Spirit of Party, this manifestation of all the meanness and malice
which may exist in a nation, even as the most beautiful tropical flower
shelters the most venomous snake, has destroyed more republics, than all
the Tyrants of the world together, were their deeds multiplied by thousands.
Indeed, in nine cases out of ten, it has been by playing on the frothy passions
of contending factions, that Tyrants have been suffered to trample
their way to power, over the bodies of freemen.
Let us go to the hall of Congress, and see this Spirit of Party, the Apeand-Viper
God, which burdened the heart of Washington, more than all the
terror of British bayonets or scaffolds, first manifested in the case of Arnold.
Let a single fact attest its blindness and malignity.
—In February, 1777, Congress created five Major Generals, over the
head of Benedict Arnold. All of these were his juniors; one of them was
from the militia.
Was that the way to treat the Hero of the Wilderness, of Quebec, of
Ticonderoga and of Champlain?
Even the well-governed spirit of Washington, started at such neglect.
He wrote a manly and soothing letter to Arnold. He knew him to be a
man of many good and some evil qualities, all marked and prominent. He
believed that with fair treatment, the Evil might be crushed, the Good
strengthened. Therefore, Washington, the Father of his Country, wrote a
letter, at once high-toned and conciliating, to the Patriot, Benedict Arnold.
What was the course of Arnold?
He expostulated with the party in Congress, who wished to drive him
mad.
How did he expostulate? In his own fiery way. Like many stout souls
of that Iron time, he spoke a better language with his sword than with his
pen. Let us look at the expostulation of Arnold.
—It is night around the town of Danbury. Two thousand British
hirelings attack and burn that town. Yes, surrounded by his hirelings, assassins
Tories, brave General Tryon holds his Communion of Blood, by the
light of blazing homes.
In the dimness of the daybreak hour, these gallant men, whose trophies
are dishonored virgins, and blasted homes, are returning to their camp.
Yonder on those high rocks, near the town of Ridgefield, Arnold, with
only 500 men, disputes the path of the Destroyer. Ths Continentals are
driven back after much carnage, but Arnold is the last man to leave the rock.
His horse is shot under him; the British surround him, secure of their
prey; the dismounted General sits calmly on his dying steed, his arms
folded, his eye sunk beneath the compressed brow. A burly British soldier
approaches to secure the rebel—look! He is sure of his prisoner. Arnold
beholds him, beholds the wall of bayonets and faces that encircle him. The
soldier extends his hand to grasp the prisoner, when Arnold, smiling
calmly, draws his pistol and shoots the hireling through the heart. Follow
him yonder, as he fights his way down the rock, through the breasts of
his foes.
That was the right kind of Expostulation!
When a faction, nestling in the breast of your country, wrong you, then
only fight for that country with more determined zeal. Right will come
at last.
Had Arnold always expostulated thus, his name would not now be the
Hyperbole of scorn. His name could at this hour, rank second, and only
second to—Washington.
When Congress received the news of this Expostulation, Arnold was
raised to the rank of Major General. Yet still, they left the date of his
commission, below the date of the commissions of the other five Major Generals.
This—to use the homely expression of a brave Revolutionary soldier
—`was breaking his head and giving him a plaster,' with a vengeance.
Ere we pass on to the Battle-Day of Saratoga, let me tell you an incident
of strange interest, which took place in 1777, during Arnold's command near
Fort Edward, on the Hudson River.
VII.—THE BRIDAL EVE.
One summer night, the blaze of many lights streaming from the windows
of an old mansion, perched yonder among the rocks and woods, flashed far
over the dark waters of Lake Champlain.
In a quiet and comfortable chamber of that mansion, a party of British
officers, sitting around a table spread with wines and viands, discussed a
topic of some interest, if it was not the most important in the world, while
the tread of the dancers shook the floor of the adjoining room.
Yes, while all gaiety and dance and music in the largest hall of the old
mansion, whose hundred lights glanced far over the waters of Champlain—
thro' the opened windows, here this party of British officers had assembled
to discuss their wines and their favorite topic.
That topic was—the comparative beauty of the women of the world.
“As for me,” said a handsome young Ensign, “I will match the voluptuous
forms and dark eyes of Italy, against the beauties of all the world!”
“And I,” said a bronzed old veteran, who had risen to the Colonelcy by
his long service and hard fighting; “and I have a pretty lass of a daughter
there in England, whose blue eyes and flaxen hair would shame your tragic
beauties of Italy into very ugliness.”
“I have served in India, as you all must know,” said the Major, who sat
next to the veteran, “and I never saw painting or statue, much less living
woman, half so lovely as some of those Hindoo maidens, bending down with
water-lillies in their hands; bending down by the light of torches, over the
dark waves of the Ganges.”
And thus, one after another, Ensign, Colonel, and Major, had given their
opinion, until that young American Refugee, yonder at the foot of the table,
is left to decide the argument. That American—for I blush to say it—
handsome young fellow as he is, with a face full of manly beauty, blue deep
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and glossy brown hair, that American is a Refugee, and
a Captain in the British army.—He wore the handsome scarlet coat, the
glittering epaulette, lace ruffles on his bosom and around his wrists.
“Come, Captain, pass the wine this way!” shouted the Ensign; “pass
the wine and decide this great question! Which are the most beautiful:
the red cheeks of Merry England, the dark eyes of Italy, or the graceful
forms of Hindoostan?'
The Captain hesitated for a moment, and then tossing off a bumper of
old Madeira, somewhat flushed as he was with wine, replied:
“Mould your three models of beauty, your English lass, your Italian
queen, your Hindoo nymph, into one, and add to their charms a thousand
graces of color and form and feature, and I would not compare this perfection
of loveliness for a single moment, with the wild and artless beauty of—an
American girl.”
The laugh of the three officers, for a moment, drowned the echo of the
dance in the next room.
“Compare his American milk-maid with the woman of Italy!”
“Or the lass of England!”
“Or the graceful Hindoo girl!”
This laughing scorn of the British officers, stung the handsome Refugee
to the quick.
“Hark ye!” he cried, half rising from his seat, with a flushed brow, but
a deep and deliberate voice: “To-morrow, I marry a wife: an American
girl?—To-night, at midnight too, that American girl will join the dance in
Whether the American woman is not the most beautiful in the world!”
There was something in the manner of the young Refugee, more than in
the nature of his information, that arrested the attention of his brother officers.—For
a moment they were silent.
“We have heard something of your marriage, Captain,” said the gay
Ensign, “but we did not think it would occur so suddenly? Only think
of it! To-morrow you will be gone—settled—verdict brought in—sentence
passed—a married man!—But tell me? How will your lady-love be
brought to this house to night? I thought she resided within the rebel lines?”
“She does reside there! But I have sent a messenger—a friendly Indian
chief, on whom I can place the utmost dependence—to bring her from her
present home, at dead of night thro' the forest, to this mansion. He is to
return by twelve; it is now half-past eleven!”
“Friendly Indian!” echoed the veteran Colonel; “Rather an odd guardian
for a pretty woman!—Quite an original idea of a Duenna, I vow!”
“And you will match this lady against all the world, for beauty?” said
the Major.
“Yes, and if you do not agree with me, this hundred guineas which I lay
upon the table, shall serve our mess, for wines, for a month to come! But
if you do agree with me—as without a doubt you will—then you are to replace
this gold with a hundred guineas of your own.”
“Agreed! It is a wager!” chorussed the Colonel and the two other
officers.
And in that moment—while the door-way was thronged by fair ladies
and gay officers, attracted from the next room by the debate—as the Refugee
stood, with one hand resting upon the little pile of gold, his ruddy face
grew suddenly pale as a shroud, his blue eyes dilated, until they were encircled
by a line of white enamel, he remained standing there, as if frozen
to stone.
“Why, captain, what is the matter?” cried the Colonel, starting up in
alarm, “do you see a ghost, that you stand gazing there, at the blank wall?”
The other officers also started up in alarm, also asked the cause of this
singular demeanor, but still, for the space of a minute or more, the Refugee
Captain stood there, more like a dead man suddenly recalled to life, than a
living being.
That moment passed, he sat down with a cold shiver; made a strong
effort as if to command his reason; and then gave utterance to a forced
laugh.
“Ha, ha! See how I've frightened you!” he said—and then laughed
that cold, unnatural, hollow laugh again.
And yet, half an hour from that time, he freely confessed the nature
of the horrid picture which he had seen drawn upon that blank, wainscotted
wall, as if by some supernatural hand.
But now, with the wine cup in his hand, he turned from one comrade to
another, uttering some forced jest, or looking towards the doorway, crowded
by officers and ladies, he gaily invited them to share in this remarkable
argument: Which were the most beautiful women in the world?
As he spoke, the hour struck.
Twelve o'clock was there, and with it a footstep, and then a bold Indian
form came urging through the crowd of ladies, thronging yonder doorway.
Silently, his arms folded on his war-blanket, a look of calm stoicism on
his dusky brow, the Indian advanced along the room, and stood at the head
of the table. There was no lady with him!
Where is the fair girl? She who it is to be the Bride to-morrow?
Perhaps the Indian has left her in the next room, or in one of the other
halls of the old mansion, or perhaps—but the thought is a foolish one—she
has refused to obey her lover's request—refused to come to meet him!
There was something awful in the deep silence that reigned through the
room, as the solitary Indian stood there, at the head of the table, gazing
silently in the lover's face.
“Where is she?” at last gasped the Refugee. “She has not refused to
come? Tell me—has any accident befallen her by the way? I know the
forest is dark, and the wild path most difficult—tell me: where is the lady
for whom I sent you into the Rebel lines?”
For a moment, as the strange horror of that lover's face was before him,
the Indian was silent. Then as his answer seemed trembling on his lips,
the ladies in yonder doorway, the officers from the ball-room, and the party
round the table, formed a group around the two central figures—the Indian,
standing at the head of the table, his arms folded in his war-blanket—that
young officer, half rising from his seat, his lips parted, his face ashy, his
clenched hands resting on the dark mahogony of the table.
The Indian answered first by an action, then by a word.
First the action: Slowly drawing his right hand from his war-blanket, he
held it in the light. That right hand clutched with blood-stained fingers, a
bleeding scalp, and long and glossy locks of beautiful dark hair!
Then the word: “Young warrior sent the red man for the scalp of the
pale-faced squaw! Here it is!”
Yes—the rude savage had mistaken his message! Instead of bringing
the bride to her lover's arms, he had gone on his way, determined to bring
the scalp of the victim to the grasp of her pale face enemy.
Not even a groan disturbed the silence of that dreadful moment. Look
there! The lover rises, presses that long hair—so black, so glossy, so
beautiful—to his heart, and then—as though a huge weight, falling on his
brain, had crushed him, fell with one dead sound on the hard floor.
He lay there—stiff, and pale, and cold—his clenched right hand still
clutching the bloody scalp, and the long dark hair falling in glossy tresses
over the floor!
This was his bridal eve!
Now tell me, my friends, you who have heard some silly and ignorant
pretender, pitifully complain of the destitution of Legend, Poetry, Romance,
which characterises our National History—tell me, did you ever read a tradition
of England, or France or Italy, or Spain, or any land under the
Heavens, that might, in point of awful tragedy, compare with the simple
History of David Jones and John M'Crea? For it is but a scene from this
narrative, with which you have all been familiar from childhood, that I have
given you.
When the bridegroom, flung there on the floor, with the bloody scalp and
long dark tresses in his hands, arose again to the terrible consciousness of
life—those words trembled from his lips, in a faint and husky whisper:
“Do you remember how, half an hour ago—I stood there—by the table
—silent, and pale, and horror-stricken—while you all started up round me,
asking me what horrid sight I saw? Then, oh then, I beheld the horrid
scene—that home, yonder by the Hudson river, mounting to Heaven in the
smoke and flames! The red forms of Indians going to and fro, amid flame
and smoke—tomahawk and torch in hand! There, amid dead bodies and
smoking embers, I beheld her form—my bride—for whom I had sent the
messenger—kneeling, pleading for mercy, even as the tomahawk crashed
into her brain!”
As the horrid picture again came o'er his mind, he sank senseless again,
still clutching that terrible memorial—the bloody scalp and long black hair!
That was an awful Bridal Eve.
VIII.
THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER; OR
“WHO WAS THE HERO OF SARATOGA?”
There was a day my friends, when the nation rung with the glory of
the victor of Saratoga.
The name of Horatio Gates was painted on banner, sung in hymns,
flashed from transparencies, as the Captor of Burgoyne.
Benedict Arnold was not in the battle at all, if we may believe in the
bulletin of Gates, for his name is not even mentioned there.
Yet I have a strange story to tell you, concerning the very battle, which
supported as it is, by the solemn details of history, throws a strange light
on the career of Benedict Arnold.
It was the Seventh of October, 1777.
Horatio Gates stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two
armies, now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear bracing day, mellow
with the richness of Autumn; the sky was cloudless, the foliage of the
woods scarce tinged with purple and gold; the buckwheat on yonder fields,
frosted into snowy ripeness.
It was a calm, clear day, but the tread of legions shook the ground. From
sharpened bayonet. Flags were there, too, tossing in the breeze; here the
Banner of the Stars—yonder the Red Cross gonfalon.
Here in solid lines were arrayed the Continental soldiers, pausing on
their arms, their homely costume looking but poor and humble, when compared
with the blaze of scarlet uniforms, reddening along yonder hills and
over the distant fields. Ah, that hunting shirt of blue was but a rude dress,
yet on the 19th of September, scarce two weeks ago, on these very hills, it
taught the scarlet-coated Briton a severe lesson of repentance and humility.
Here, then, on the morning of this eventful day, which was to decide the
fate of America, whether Gates should flee before Burgoyne, or Burgoyne
lay down his arms at the feet of Gates, here at the door of his tent stood
the American General, his countenance manifesting deep anxiety.
Now he gazed upon the glittering array of Burgoyne, as it shone over
yonder fields, and now his eye roved over those hardy men in hunting shirts,
with rifles in their hands. He remembered the contest of the 19th, when
Benedict Arnold, at the head of certain bold riflemen, carried the day, before
all the glitter of British arms; and now—perchance—a fear seized him, that
this 7th of October might be a dark day, for Arnold was not there. They
had quarrelled, Arnold and Gates, about some matter of military courtesy;
the former was now without a commission; the latter commanded, alone,
and now would have to win glory for himself with his own hands.
Gates was sad and thoughtful, as in all the array of his uniforn, he stood
before his tent, watching the evolutions of the armies, but all the once a smoke
arose, a thunder shook the ground, a chorus of shouts and groans, yelled
along the darkened air. The play of death was begun. The two flags—
this of Stars, that of the Red Cross—tossed amid the smoke of battle, while
the sky was clouded in leaden folds, and the earth throbbed as with the
pulsation of a mighty heart.
Suddenly Gates and his officers started with surprise. Along the gentle
height on which they stood, there came a Warrior on a Black Horse, rushing
toward the distant battle. There was something in the appearance of
this Horse and his Rider, to strike them with surprise. The Horse was a
noble animal; do you mark that expanse of chest, those slender yet sinewy
limbs, that waving mane and tail? Do you mark the head erect, those nostrils
quivering, that eye glaring with terrible light? Then his color—the
raven is not darker than his skin, or maiden's cheek more glossy than his
spotless hide.[1]
Look upon that gallant steed, and remember the words of Job—
Hast thou given the horse strength? hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
Cans't thou make him afraid as a grasshopper. The glory of his nostrils is terrible!
He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the
armed men.
He mocketh at fear and is not affrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword.
The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield.
He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage; neither believeth he that it is
the sound of the trumpet.
He saith among the trumpets, Ha! ha! and he smelleth the battle afar off, the
thunder of the captains and the shouting.
But the Rider presents also a sight of strange and peculiar interest. He
is a man of muscular form, with a dark brow gathered in a frown, a darker
eye, shooting its glance from beneath the projecting forehead. His lip is
compressed—his cravat, unloosened, exposes the veins of his bared throat,
now writhing like serpents. It is plain that his spirit is with the distant
battle, for neither looking to the right or left, not even casting a glance aside
to Gates, he glares over his horse's head toward the smoke of conflict.
No sword waves in his grasp, but while the rein hangs on his horse's
neck, his hands rest by his side, the fingers quivering with the same agitation
that blazes over his face.
Altogether it is a magnificent sight, that warrior in the blue uniform on
his Black Horse, who moves along the sod at a brisk walk, his tail and mane
tossing on the breeze. And as the noble horse moves on, the soldier speaks
to him, and calls him by name, and lays his right hand on his glossy neck.
“Ho! Warren—forward!”
Then that Black Horse—named after the friend of the soldier, a friend
who now is sleeping near Bunker Hill, where he fell—darts forward, with
one sudden bound, and is gone like a flash toward the distant battle.
This brief scene, this vision of the Horse and his Rider, struck Gates
with unfeigned chagrin, his officers with unmingled surprise.
“Armstrong!” shouted Gates, turning to a brave man by his side, “Pursue
that man! Tell him it is my command that he returns from the field.
Away! Do not lose a minute, for he will do something rash, if left to
himself!”
Armstrong springs to his steed, and while the heaven above, and the broad
sweeps of woods and fields yonder, are darkened by the smoke of conflict,
he pursues the Black Horse and his Rider.
But that Rider looks over his shoulder with a smile of scorn on his lip,
a scowl of defiance on his brow. Look! He draws his sword—the sharp
through yonder clouds—while his shout echoes over the fields.
Wherever the fight is thickest, through the intervals of battle smoke
and cannon glare, you may see, riding madly forward, that strange soldier,
mounted on his steed, black as death.
Look at him, as with his face red with British blood, he waves his sword,
and shouts to the legions. Now you see him fighting in that cannon's
glare, the next moment he is away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up
the steep cliff.
Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that nameless soldier, and that noble
Black Steed, dashing like a meteor through the long columns of battle?
And all the while, Major Armstrong, spurring his steed to the utmost,
pursues him, but in vain. He shouts to him, but the warrior cannot hear.
He can see the Black Horse, through the lifted folds of battle-smoke, now
and then he hears the Rider's shout.
“Warren! Ho! Warren! Upon them—charge!”
Let us look in for a moment through these clouds of battle. Here, over
this thick hedge, bursts a band of American militia men—their rude farmer's
coats stained with their blood—while, scattering their arms by the way,
they flee before yonder company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing
forward, their solid front of bayone's gleaming in the battle-light.
In the moment of their flight, a Black Horse crashes over the field.
The unknown warrior reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the
path of this broad-shouldered militia man.
“Now, coward, advance another step, and I will shoot you to the heart!”
shouts the rider, extending a pistol in either hand. “What! are you
Americans—men—and fly before these British soldiers? Back and face
them once more—seize your arms—face the foe, or I myself will ride you
down!”
That appeal, uttered with deep, indignant tones, and a face convulsed
with passion, is not without its effect. The militia man turns, seizes his
gun; his comrades as if by one impulse, follow his example. They form
in solid order along the field, and silently load their pieces; they wait the
onset of those British bayonets.
“Reserve your fire until you can touch the point of their bayonets!”
was the whispered command of the Unknown. Those militia-men, so lately
panic-stricken, now regard the approach of the red-coats in silence, yet
calmly and without a tremor. The British came on—nearer and nearer
yet—you can see their eyes gleam, you can count the buttons on their
scarlet coats. They seek to terrify the militia-men with shouts; but those
plain farmers do not move an inch.
In one line—but twenty men in all—they confront thirty sharp bayonets.
The British advance—they are within two yards.
“Now upon the rebels—charge bayonet!” shouted the red-coat officer.
They spring forward, with the same bound—look! Their bayonets almost
touch the muzzles of these rifles!
At this moment the voice of the Rider was heard.
“Now let them have it—fire!”
A sound is heard—a smoke is seen—twenty Britons are down, some
writhing in death, some crawling along the sod, some speechless as stone.
The remaining ten start back—but then is no time for surprise.
“Club your rifles, and charge them home!” shouts the Unknown, and
the Black Horse springs forward, followed by the militia-men. Then a
confused conflict—a cry of “quarter!”—a vision of the twenty farmers
grouped around the Rider of the Black Horse, greeting him with hearty
cheers.
Thus it was all the day long.
Wherever that Black Horse and his Rider went, there followed victory.
The soldiers in every part of the field seemed to know that Rider, for they
hailed him with shouts, they obeyed his commands, they rushed after him,
over yonder cannon, through yonder line of bayonets. His appearance in
any quarter of the field was succeeded by a desperate onset, a terrible
charge, or a struggle hand to hand with the soldiers of Burgoyne.
Was this not a strange thing? This unknown man, without a command
was obeyed by all the soldiers, as though they recognized their General.
They acknowledged him for a Leader, wherever he rode; they followed
him to death wherever he gave the word.
Now look for him again!
On the summit of yonder hill, the Black Horse stands erect on his
haunches, his fore-legs pawing the air, while the rider bends over his neck,
and looks toward the clouded valley. The hat has fallen from that Rider's
brow; his face is covered with sweat and blood; his right-hand grasps that
battered sword. How impressive that sight, as an occasional sun-gleam
lights the Rider's brow, or a red flash of battle-light, bathes his face, as in
rays of blood!
At this moment, as the black steed rears on the summit of the hill, look
yonder from the opposite valley, dashes Major Armstrong, in search of that
Unknown Rider, who sees him coming, turns his horse's head and disappears
with a laugh of scorn. Still the gallant Major keeps on his way, in
search of this man, who excites the fears of General Gates—this brave
Rider, who was about to do “something rash.”
At last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the conflict came.
That fortress yonder on Behmus Height, was to be won, or the American
cause was lost.
That fortress was to be gained, or Gates was a dishonored man; Burgoyne
a triumphant General.
That fortress yonder—you can see it through the battle-clouds—with its
wall of red-coats, its lines of British cannon, its forest of bayonets.
Even those bold riflemen, who were in the wilderness with one Benedict
Arnold, who stormed the walls of Quebec, with this Arnold and Montgomery,
on that cold daybreak of December thirty-first, 1775, even those men of
iron fell back, terrified at the sight.
That cliff is too steep—that death is too certain. Their officers cannot
persuade them to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even
Morgan—that Iron Man among Iron Men—leans on his rifle, and despairs
of the field.
But look yonder! In this moment, while all is dismay and horror, here,
crashing on, comes the Black Horse and his Rider.
That Rider bends from his steed; you can see his phrenzied face, now
covered with sweat, and dust, and blood. He lays his hand on that bold
rifleman's shoulder.
“Come on!” he cries; “you will not fail me now!”
The rifleman knows that face, that voice. As though living fire had
been poured into his veins, he grasps his rifle, and starts toward the rock.
“Come on!” cries the Rider of the Black Horse, turning from one
scarred face to another. “Come on! you will not fail me now!”
He speaks in that voice which thrills their blood.
“You were with me in the Wilderness!” he cries to one; “and you at
Quebec!” he shouts to another; “do you remember?”
“And you at Montreal!”—
“And YOU, there on Lake Champlain! You know me—you have
known me long! Have I ever spoken to you in vain? I speak to you
now—do you see that Rock? Come on!”
And now look, and now hold your breath as that black steed crashes up
the steep rock! Ah, that steed quivers—he totters—he falls! No, no!
Still on, still up the rock, still on toward the fortress!
Now look again—his Rider turns his face —
“Come on, Men of Quebec, where I lead, you will follow!”
But that cry is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the rock.
And up and onward, one fierce bolt of battle, with that Warrior on his Black
Steed, leading the dread way, sweep the Men of the Wilderness, the Heroes
of Quebec.
Now pour your fires, British cannon. Now lay the dead upon the rock,
in tens and twenties. Now—hirelings—shout your British battle-cry if
you can!
For look, as the battle-smoke clears away, look there, in the gate of the
fortress for the Black Steed and his Rider!
That Steed falls dead, pierced by an hundred balls, but there his Rider
waves the Banner of the Stars, there—as the British cry for quarter, he lifts
he tells him that—
“Saratoga is won!”
And look! As that shout goes up to heaven, he falls upon his Steed,
with his leg shattered by a cannon ball.
He lays there, on his dead Steed, bleeding and insensible, while his
hand, laid over the neck of the gallant Horse, still grasps the Banner of the
Stars.
Who was the Rider of the Black Horse? Do you not guess his name?
Then bend down and gaze upon that shattered limb, and you will see that
it bears the scars of a former wound—a hideous wound it must have been.
Now, do you not guess his name? That wound was received at the
Storming of Quebec; that Rider of the Black Horse was Benedict
Arnold.
In this hour, while the sun was setting over the field of the Seventh of
October—while the mists of battle lay piled in heavy clouds above the walls
of the conquered fortress,—here, up the steep rock came Major Armstrong,
seeking for the man who “might do something rash!”
He found him at last, but it was in the gate of the fortress, on the body
of the dead steed, bleeding from his wound, that he discovered the face of
Benedict Arnold, the Victor of Behmus Heights.
This was not the moment to deliver the message of Gates. No! for this
Rash Man had won laurels for his brow, defeated Burgoyne for him, rescued
the army from disgrace and defeat. He had done something—RASH.
Therefore, Armstrong, brave and generous as he was, bent over the
wounded man, lifted him from among the heaps of dead, and bore him to a
place of repose.
Would it be credited by persons unacquainted with our history—would
the fact which I record with blushes and shame for the pettiness of human
nature, be believed, unless supported by evidence that cannot lie?
General Gates, in his bulletin of the battle, did not mention the name
of Benedict Arnold!
Methinks, even now, I see the same Horatio flying from the bloody field
of Camden—where an army was annihilated—his hair turning white as
snow, as he pursues his terrible flight, without once resting for eighty miles
—methinks I hear him call for another Arnold, to WIN THIS BATTLE, AS
Saratoga was won!
The conduct of Arnold in this battle became known, in spite of the
dastardly opposition of his enemies, and—says a distinguished and honest
historian—Congress relented at this late hour with an ill-grace, and sent
him a commission, giving him the full rank which he claimed.
He was now in truth, crowned as he stood, with the laurels of the Wilderness,
Army.
At the same time that George Washington received the account of Arnold's
daring at Saratoga, he also received from a Nobleman of France, three
splendid sets of epaulettes and sword-knots, with the request to retain one
for himself, and bestow the others on the two bravest men of his army.
George Washington sent one set of epaulettes with a sword-knot to Benedict
Arnold.
When we next look for Arnold, we find him confined to his room, with
a painful wound. For the entire winter the limb which had been first
broken at Quebec, broken again at Saratoga, kept him a prisoner in the
close confinement of his chamber.
Then let us behold him entering New Haven, in triumph as the Hero of
Saratoga. There are troops of soldiers, the thunder of cannon, little children
strewing the way with flowers.
Was it not a glorious welcome for the Druggist, who two years ago, was
pasting labels on phials in yonder drug store?
—A glorious welcome for the little boy, who used to strew the road with
pounded glass, so that other little boys might cut their feet?—
In this hour of Arnold's triumph, when covered with renown, he comes
back to his childhood's home, may we not imagine his Mother looking from
Heaven upon the glory of her child? Yes, sainted Mother of Arnold, who
long years ago, laid your babe upon the sacramental altar, baptized with the
tears and prayers of a Mother's agony, now look from heaven, and pray to
God that he may die, with all his honorable wounds about him!
There have been certain learned critics, who object to this similie. They state,
with commendable gravity, that the idea of a horse—even a war-horse, who ranks,
in the scale of being, next to man—having a hide `glossy as a maiden's cheek,' hurts
their delicate perceptions. Their experience teaches them, that the word `glossy,'
coupled with `black,' must refer to a `glossy black maiden.' Had my ideas ran in
that direction, I never would have penned the sentence; but as I do not possess the
large experience of these critics, in relation to `African maidens,' I must even let
the sentence stand as it is. They also object to the horse; saying piteously—“You
make him a hero!” I have no doubt they would prefer for a hero, an excellent
animal, noted for his deep throat and long ears. My taste inclines in a different
direction.
IX.—ARNOLD, THE MILITARY COMMANDER OF PHILADELPHIA.
Let us look for Arnold again!
We will find him passing through the streets of old Philadelphia, in his
glittering coach, with six splendid horses, and liveried outriders; riding in
state as the Governor of Philadelphia.
Then we look for him again. In the dim and solemn aisle of Christ
Church, at the sunset hour, behold a new and touching scene in the life of
Benedict Arnold.
It is the sunset hour, and through the shadows of the range of pillars,
which support the venerable roof of the church, the light of the declining
day, streams in belts of golden sunshine.
As you look, the sound of the organ fills the church, and a passing ray
streams over the holy letters, I H S.
There beside the altar are grouped the guests, there you behold the Priest
of God, arrayed in his sacerdotal robe, and there—O, look upon them well,
in this last hour of the summer day—the centre of the circle, stand the
Bridegroom and Bride.
A lovely girl, scarce eighteen years in age, with golden hair and eyes of
deep clear blue, rests her small hand upon a warrior's arm, and looks up
lovingly into his battle-worn face. She is clad in silks, and pearls, and gold.
He in the glorious uniform of the Revolution, the blue coat, faced with buff
and fringed with gold. The sword that hangs by his side, has a story all
its own to tell. Look! As the sunshine gleams upon its hilt of gold, does
it not speak of Ticonderoga, Quebec, and Saratoga?
And in the deep serenity of this evening hour—while the same glow of
sunshine gilds the white monuments in yonder graveyard, and reveals the
faces of the wedding guests—Benedict Arnold, in the prime of a renowned
manhood, having seen thirty-eight years of life, in all its phases—on the
ocean, in battle, amid scenes of blood and death—links his fate forever with
that queenly girl, whose romance and passion in love of power, are written
in two emphatic words—beautiful and eighteen!
Yes, in the aisle of Christ Church, the Hero of Quebec, hears the word
—husband—whispered by this young girl, who combines the witchery of a
syren, with the intellect of a genius; the Tory daughter of a Tory father.
And as the last note of the organ dies away, along the aisles, tell me, can
you not see the eye of that young wife, gleam with a light that is too intense
for love, too vivid for hope? That deep and steady gleam looks to me like
a fire, kindled at the altar of Ambition. The compression of that parting
lip, the proud arch of that white neck, the queenly tread of that small foot,
all bespeak the consciousness of power.
Does the the wife of Benedict Arnold, looking through a dark and troubled
future, behold the darkness dissipated by the sunshine of a Royal Court?
Does she—with that young breast heaving with impatient ambition—already
behold Arnold the Patriot, transformed into Arnold the Courtier—and
Traitor?
Future pages of this strange history, alone can solve these questions.
We must look at Arnold now, as by this marriage and his important
position—the Military Commander of the greatest city on the Continent—
he is brought into contact with a proud and treacherous aristocracy—as he
feasts, as he drinks, as he revels with them.
From that hour, date his ruin.
That profligate and treacherous aristocracy, would ruin an angel from
heaven, if an angel could ever sink so low, as to be touched by the poison
of its atmosphere.
We can form our estimate of the character of this Aristocracy in the
Revolution, from the remnant which survives among us, at the present hour.
Yes, we have it among us yet, existing in an organized band of pretenders,
whose political and religious creed is comprised in one word—England—
lovers of monarchy and every thing that looks like monarchy, in the shape
of privileged orders, and chartered infamies; Tory in heart now, as they
were Tories in speech, in the days of the Revolution.
I never think of this Aristocracy, without being reminded of those Italian
mendicants, who are seen in your streets, clad in shabby tinsel, too proud
to work the work of honest toil, and yet not too proud to obtain a livelihood
by the tricks of a juggler and mountebank.
—I do not mean the aristocracy of worth, or beauty, or intellect, which gets
its title-deeds from God, and wears its coat of arms in the heart, and which
if ever man saw, I see before me now—[2]
But I do mean that aristocracy, whose heraldry is written in the same
ledger of a broken bank, that chronicles the wholesale robbery of the widow
and the orphan, by privileged theft and chartered fraud.
If we must have an Aristocracy, or in other words a privileged class, entitled
by law to trample on those who toil, eat their bread, and strip from
them one by one, the holy rights for which their fathers fought in the Revolution,
let us I pray you, have a Nobility, like that of England, made
respectable by the lineage of a few hundred years. Let us—if we must
have an Aristocracy—constitute by law, every survivor of the Revolution,
every child of a hero of the Past, a Noble of the Land. This will at least
bear some historical justice on its face.
But to make these Tory children of Tory fathers, a privileged order, is it
not a very contemptable thing? As laughable as the act of the Holy Alliance,
who established the Restoration of the Bourbons, on the foundation
laid by Napoleon.
We have all seen the deeds of the Tory Aristocracy of Philadelphia.
To-day, it starves some poor child of genius—whom it has deluded with
hopes of patronage—and suffers him to go starving and mad, from the quiet
of his studio, to the darkness of the Insane Asylum. To-morrow, it
parades in its parties, and soirees some pitiful foreign vagrant, who calls himself
a Count or Duke, and wears a fierce beard, and speaks distressing English.
This aristocracy never listens to a lecture on science, or history,
much less a play from Shakspeare, but at the same time, will overflow a
theatre, to hear a foreign mountebank do something which is called singing,
or to witness the indecent postures of some poor creature, who belies the
sacred name of Woman, which obscene display is entitled dancing.
There is nothing which this aristocracy hates so fervently, as Genius,
native to the soil. It starved and neglected that great original mind, Charles
Brockden Brown, and left him to die in his solitary room, while all Europe
was ringing with his praise.
It never reads an American book, unless highly perfumed and sweetened
with soft words, and tricked out in pretty pictures. It takes its history,
literature, religion, second-hand from England, and bitterly regrets that the
plainness of our Presidential office, is so strong contrasted with the imperial
a husband from the poverty of some German Kingdom, three miles square,
and saddles her People with an annual Prince or Princess, whose advent
costs one hundred thousand yellow guineas.
This aristocracy never can tolerate native Genius. Because, in its fermenting
corruption, it resembles a hot-bed, it plausibly fancies that everything
which springs from such a soil, must be at once worthless and
ephemeral.
In one word, when we survey its varied phrases of pretension and meanness,
we must regret, that some bold Lexicographer had not poured into one
syllable, the whole vocabulary of scorn, in order to coin a word to be applied
to this thing, which always creeps when it attempts to fly, crawls
when it would soar—this Aristocracy of the Quaker City.
This Tory aristocracy existed in full vigor, at the time Arnold assumed
the command in Philadelphia.
You will observe that his position was one of singular difficulty; Washington
himself would not have given general satisfaction, had he been in
Arnold's place. In after time, Jackson at New Orleans, excited the enmity
of a bitter faction, because he held the same power, which Arnold once
exercised—that of a Military Governor, who commands in the same town
with a Civil Magistracy.
You will remember, that the very Aristocracy, who yesterday had been
feasting General Howe, sharing the orgies of the British soldiery, swimming
in the intoxication of the Meschianza, were now patriots of the first water.
The moment the last British boat pushed from the wharf, these gentlemen
changed their politics. The sound of the first American trooper's horse,
echoing through the streets of the city, accomplished their conversion.
Yesterday, Monarchists, Tories; to-day, Patriots, Whigs, these gentlemen,
with dexterity peculiar to their race, soon crept into positions of power and
trust.
From their prominence, as well as from his marriage with Miss Shippen,
Arnold was thrown into constant intimacy with these pliable politicians.
Having grounded these facts well in your minds, you will be prepared to
hear the grumbling of these newly-pledged patriots, when Arnold—who
yesterday was such a splendid fellow, sprinkling his gold in banquets and
festivals—obeyed a Resolution of the Continental Congress, and by proclamation,
prohibited the sale of all goods, in the city, until it was ascertained
whether any of the property belonged to the King of Great Britain or his
subjects.
This touched the Tory-Whigs on the tenderest point. Patriotism was a
beautiful thing with them, so long as it vented itself in fine words; but
when it touched King George's property, or the property of King George's
friends, they began to change their opinion.
Their indignation knew no bounds. They dared not attack Washington,
of malignancy and calumniation against Arnold.
Where that brave man had one fault, they magnified it into ten. Where
he was guilty of one wrong act, they charged him with a thousand.
Not seven months of Arnold's command had transpired, before Congress
and Washington were harrassed with letters asking for the trial and disgrace
of Arnold.
At last the matter was brought before Congress, and a Committee of that
body, after a thorough examination, gave to Benedict Arnold, “a vindication
from any criminalty in the matters charged against him.”
Then the war was opened against Arnold anew; then the Mob—not the
mechanics or men of toil—but the Rabble who do no work, and yet have
time to do all the riots in your large cities, were taught to hoot his name in
scorn, to stone him in the streets, him, the Hero of Quebec. Yes, the out-casts
of the city, were taught to cover him with filth, to wound with their
missiles, the very limb that had been broken by a cannon ball, on the barrier
of Quebec.
Congress did not act upon the Report of the Committee. Why was this?
That report was referred to a joint Committe of Congress and the Assembly.
At last General Washington was harrassed into appointing a Court
Martial. It was done, the day fixed, but the accusers of Arnold were not
ready for trial. Yes, loud as they were in their clamors, they asked delay
after delay, and a year passed.
All the while, these men were darkening the character of Arnold, all the
while he stood before the world in the light of an untried CRIMINAL. The
Hero of Quebec was denied a right, which is granted to the vilest felon.
Accused of a crime, he was refused the reasonable justice of a speedy trial.
At last, after his accusers had delayed the trial, on various pretences, after
the sword of the `unconvicted criminal,' resigned on the 18th of March,
1779, had been taken up again by him, on the 1st of June, the day appointed
for his trial, in order to defend his country once again, at last, on
the 20th of December, 1779, the Court Martial was assembled at the head-quarters
of Washington, near Morristown.
At last the day came—Arnold was tried—and after a month consumed in
the careful examination of witnesses and papers, was found guilty of two
colossal enormities. Before we look at them, let us remember, that his
accusers, on this occasion, were General Joseph Reed, and other members
of the Supreme Executive council of Pennsylvania.
Here are the offences:
I. An irregularity, without criminal intention, in granting a written
protection to a vessel, before his command in Philadelphia, while at Valley
Forge.
II, Using the public wagons of Pennsylvania, for the transportation
of private property from Egg Harbor.
Those were his colossal crimes!
The other two charges were passed aside by the court.
It was upon these charges that the whole prosecution rested—a military
irregularity in granting a written protection, before he assumed command in
Philadelphia, and—O, the enormity of the crime almost exceeds the power
of belief—a sacriligious use of the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania!
For this Benedict Arnold had been pursued for at least thirteen months,
with a malignity insatiable as the blood-hounds thirst. For this he had
been held up to all the world as a criminal, for this pelted in the streets, and
for this, the Hero of Quebec and Saratoga and Champlain, was to be publicly
disgraced, REPRIMANDED by George Washington.
Let us hear what that honest man, Jared Sparks, says of the matter:
“It was proved to the court, that although the wagons had been employed
for transporting private property, they were nevertheless used at
private expense, without a design to defraud the public, or impede the
military service.”
And the man who had poured out his blood like water, on the frozen
ground of Quebec, was to be stamped with eternal infamy for “USING THE
PUBLIC WAGONS OF Pennsylvania!”
You will pardon the italics and capitals. These words ought to be inscribed
in letters of fire on a column of adamant!
Is it possible for an honest man to read this part of the tragedy, without
feeling the blood boil in his veins?
My friends, here is the only belief we can entertain in relation to this
matter. At the same time that we admit that Arnold was betrayed into
serious faults through his intimacy with the Tory aristocracy of Philadelphia,
as well as from the inherent rashness of his character—that very
rashness forming one of the elements of his iron-souled bravery—we must
also admit, that among the most prominent of his accusers or persecutors,
as you please,—was “a man whose foot had once been lifted to take the
step which Arnold afterwards took.”
Before large and respectable audiences of my countrymen, assembled in
at least three States of this Union, I have repeatedly stated that I was
“prepared to prove this fact, from evidence that cannot lie.” No answer
was ever made to the assertion. In the public papers I have repeated the
statement, expressing my readiness to meet any person, in a frank and
searching discussion of the question—Was Arnold's chief accuser in heart
a Traitor? Still no answer!
It is true, that other and unimportant points of my history have been
fiercely attacked. For example, when following the finger of history, I
awarded to Arnold the glory of Saratoga, a very respectable but decidedly
anonymous critic, brought all his artillery to bear upon a line, which had a
reference to the preparation of buckwheat cakes!
So, when I expressed my readiness to examine the character of Arnold's
deeds the subject of laborious and filial panegyric, instead of meeting the
question like a man, crept away into some dark corner of history, and called
a sincere patriot by the portentous name of—Infidel! This was very much
like the case of the patriot John Bull, who, hearing a Frenchman examine
the character of George the Third, in no very measured terms, replied by a
bitter attack on the Emperor of Timbuctoo!
Having therefore, repeatedly stated that I was ready to give a careful and
impartial investigation of the history of Arnold's chief accuser, I will now
enter upon the subject as a question comprised within the limits of legitimate
history.
Is it not reasonable to suppose, that the man who took upon himself the
work of crushing Benedict Arnold, must have been a very good citizen, a
very sincere patriot, and if not a great warrior, at least a very honest
statesman?
Have we not a right to examine the character of this accuser? Remember—this
trial and disgrace of Arnold, was the main cause of his treason—
and then dispute our right to search the character of his Accuser, if you can.
Let us then, summon a solemn Court of history. Let us invoke the
Ghost of Washington to preside over its deliberations. Yes, approaching
that Ghost, with an awful reverence, let us ask this important question.
“Was not General John Cadwallader your bosom friend, O, Washington,
the man whose heart and hand you implicitly trusted? Did he not defend
you from the calumniation of your enemies? Was he not, in one word, a
Knight of the Revolution, without fear and without reproach?”
And the word that answers our question, swelling from the lips of Washington,
is—“Yes!”
We will ask another question.
“In the dark days of December, 1776, when with a handful of half-clad
men, you opposed the entire force of the British army, on the banks of the
Delaware, who then, O, Washington, stood by your side, shared in your
counsels, and received your confidence?”
“Benedict Arnold!”
If these answers, which the Ghost of Washington whispers from every
page of history, be true, it follows that General John Cadwallader is an impartial
witness in this case, and that Benedict Arnold was a sincere Patriot
in the winter of 1776.
Then let us listen to the details of facts, stated by General Cadwallader,
and by him published to the world, attested by his proper signature.
X.—WHO WAS THIS ACCUSER?
In December, 1776, a few days before the battle of Trenton, in the darkest
hour of the Revolution, when Washington and his army were menaced
with immediate destruction, an important conversation took place at Bristol,
on the banks of the Delaware.
The interlocutors were John Cadwallader and the Adjutant General of
the Continental Army.
The conversation was explicit; no disguise about its meaning, not a
doubt in the sound or purport of its every word.
The adjutant general of the Continental army, to whom Washington had
entrusted duties, involving, in their faithful performance, the well-being,
perchance the existence of that army, remarked to General Cadwallader:
“That he did not understand following the fortunes of a broken-down
and shattered army—”
At the very moment that he said this, Benedict Arnold was out yonder,
on the brink of the ice-bound river, assisting with his heart and hand, the
movements of George Washington.
But sheltered by the convenient silence of a comfortable chamber, the
Adjutant General continued:
“That the time allowed by General Howe, for offering pardons and
protections to persons who would come in, before the 1st of January, 1777,
had nearly expired—”
The philosophical nature of this remark becomes evident, when you remember
that at the very hour when the Adjutant General spoke, there was
a price set upon the head of the Rebel Washington.
“And—” continued this Adjutant General—“I have advised the Lieutenant
Colonel, my brother, now at Burlington, to remain there, and take
protection and swear allegiance, and in so doing he will be perfectly
justifiable.”
You will all admit, that this was beautiful and refreshing language from
any one, especially from the Adjutant General of the Continental army.
Much more was said of similar import, but the amount of the whole conversation
was in one word, that the Adjutant General, tired and sick of
the Rebel cause, was about to swear allegiance to his Majesty, King
George.
General Cadwallader, the bosom friend of Washington, heard these remarks
with surprise, with deep sorrow. From pity to the Adjutant General,
he locked them within the silence of his own breast, until the brilliant
attack at Trenton, which took place a few days afterwards, made it a safe
as well as comfortable thing, for the trembling patriot to remain true to his
country's flag.
Time passed, and General Cadwallader communicated this conversation
to certain prominent men of the time, thinking it better from motives of
kindness, to avoid a public exposure of the Adjutant General's intended
Treason.
But in the year 1778, a circumstance took place which forced the truth
from the lips of this memorable witness.
It was in a Court of Justice. A young man charged with Treason, was
on trial for his life. The Adjutant General, now transformed into an Attorney
General, urged his conviction with all the vehemence of which he
was capable. There may have been some extenuating circumstances in the
young man's case, or perhaps, the manner of the Attorney General, betrayed
more than patriotic zeal, for General Cadwallader a spectator in the Court,
filled with indignation that he could not master, uttered these memorable
words:
“It argues the effrontery of baseness—” said the brave officer, directing
his eagle eye toward the Attorney General—“in one man to pursue another
man to death, for taking a step which his own foot had once been
raised to take.”
These were hard words. The steady look and pointed finger, and deep
voice of Cadwallader, made them intelligible to the entire Court.
The Adjutant General never forgot them.
In the course of some four or five years, a discussion was provoked, fact
after fact came out in its proper colors, and General Cadwallader accused
the Adjutant General before the whole world, of the painful dereliction
stated in the previous pages.
He did not merely accuse, but supported his accusation by such evidence
that we are forced to the conclusion in plain words, that either the Adjutant
General was a Traitor in heart, speech and purpose, or General Cadwallader
was a gross calumniator.
The evidence which he produced in his published pamphlet, was a thousand
times stronger than that which stripped the laurel from Arnold's brow.
As a part of this evidence, we find a letter from Alexander Hamilton, dated
Philada. March 14, 1783, in which that distinguished statesman affirms his
remembrance of a conversation, which occurred between him and General
Cadwallader, in '77, and which embraced a distinct narrative of the dereliction
of the Adjutant General in December, '76.
Benjamin Rush, and other eminent men of that time, by letters dated 5th
Oct. 1782, March 12, 1783, and March 3, 1783, either record their remembrance
of a conversation, with General Cadwallader, in which he narrated
the treasonable sentiments of the Adjutant General, or distinctly affirm
a conversation with that individual himself, had before the battle of
Trenton, and full of Disloyalty to the Continental cause.
Alexander Hamilton and Benjamin Rush, were never given to falsehood.
And then comes a statement from Major Wm. Bradford, which dated
This brave officer states, that while he was at Bristol, in command of the
Philadelphia militia, in 1776, the Adjutant General went over to Burlington,
where the enemy were, and was gone three days and nights. It was
the opinion of Col. Bayard, that he had gone over to swear allegiance to
King George.
Such is but a portion of the testimony, presented in the memorable
pamphlet, signed by the bosom friend of Washington, John Cadwallader.
This case demands no elaborate argument, no expenditure of invective.
Either the Adjutant General was a Traitor, or John Cadwallader a * * * *.
There is no skulking away from the question. One way or other it
must be decided by every honest man, who peruses the evidence.
You will remember that I give no opinion about the matter. There are
the facts; judge every honest man for himself. That John Cadwallader
was no base calumniator, is attested by the records of history, by the
friendship of Washington.
To what fearful conclusion then, are we led?
That the Adjutant General in the dark days of 1776, not only avowed
his intention of deserting the Continental army, but was in fact, three days
and nights in the camp of the enemy.
Was this the conduct of a Patriot, or—it is a dark word, and burns the
forehead on which it is branded—A Traitor!
This adjutant general, was General Joseph Reed, President of the Supreme
Council of Pennsylvania, and the prominent accuser of Benedict
Arnold.
In his defence before the Court Martial, Arnold used these words:
—“I can with boldness say to my persecutors in general, and to the
chief of them in particular—that in the hour of danger, when the affairs of
America wore a gloomy aspect, when our illustrious general was retreating
through America, with a handful of men, I did not propose to my associates
basely to quit the General, and sacrifice the cause of my country to my personal
safety, by going over to the enemy, and making my peace.”—
Can you see his eye flash, as he looks upon the “Chief of his Persecutors?”
XI.—THE DISGRACE OF ARNOLD.
At last the day of the Reprimand came—Father of Mercy what a scene!
That man Arnold, brave and proud as Lucifer, standing among the generals,
beside whom he had fought and bled—standing the centre of all
eyes, in the place of the Criminal, with the eye of Washington fixed upon
him in reproof—with a throng of the meaner things of the Revolution,
whom the British King might have bought, had he thought them worth the
themselves at comfortable fires, while the hands of Arnold were freezing on
the ramparts of Quebec—exulting at his disgrace, glorying in his shame,
chuckling at his fall—
It was too much for Arnold. That moment the iron entered his soul,
and festered there.
From that moment he stood resolved in his work of treason. From that
moment his country lost a soldier, history one of her brightest names,
Washington his right-hand man, the Revolution its bravest Knight. In one
word, from that moment John Andre lost his life, Benedict Arnold his
honor; Sir Henry Clinton gained a—Traitor.
He could have borne reproof from the lips of Washington, but to be rebuked
while the dwarf-patriots were standing by, while the little `great
men' were lookers on!—It was indeed, too much for Arnold.
It is true, that the reprimand of Washington was the softest thing that
might bear the name—“I reprimand you for having forgotten, that in
proportion as you have rendered yourself formidable to our enemies, you
should have shown moderation towards our citizens. Exhibit again
those splendid qualities, which have placed you in the rank of our most
distinguished generals”—
These were the words of Washington, worthy of his hero-heart, but
from that moment, Arnold the Patriot was dead.
At that instant from the terrible chaos of dark thoughts, wounded pride,
lacerated honor, sprung into birth a hideous phantom, known by history as
—Arnold the Traitor.
Had he but taken the advice of Washington, had he but looked derision
upon his foes! Raising himself in all his proud height, his eye blazing
with that stern fire which lighted up his bronzed face on the ramparts of
Quebec, his voice deep, hollow, ringing with the accents of scorn, he should
have spoken to his enemies words like these:
“Look! Pitiful creatures of an hour, how your poisoned arrows fall
harmless from this bosom, like water from the rock! Things of an hour,
creatures of falsehood, who `trafficked to be bought,' while I served my
country in hunger and blood and cold, I hurl my defiance to your very
hearts! I will yet live down your persecution. In the name of Washington
and the Revolution, I swear it! I will yet write my name there—on
the zenith of my country's fame,—there, where the vulture beak of slander
the hyena fang of malice, cannot taint nor touch it!”
But he failed to do this. Unlike Jackson, who covered with the glory of New
Orleans, rested patiently for thirty years, under the odium of an unjust fine,
Arnold did not possess the power—to live down persecution. He was
lost.
In order to understand the scene of his reprimand in all its details, we
must wander back through the shadows of seventy years.
That fine old mansion of Morristown rises before us, in the calm light of
a winter's day. There is snow upon the ground, but it is frozen, until it
resembles an immense mirror, which flashes back to the sky the light of
the sun. Yonder we behold the mansion, standing on a gentle eminence.
Those poplars before the door, or rather beside the fence at the foot of the
elevation, are stripped of their foliage. The elm yonder, bared of its green
leaves, shines with a thousand limbs of ice and snow. All is cold, serene,
desolate.
We enter this mansion. Without pausing to survey its massive front, or
steep roof or projecting eves, we ascend the range of steps, give the word
to the sentinels, and pass beneath these pillars which guard the hall door.
Step gently along this hall— nter with uncovered brow, into this large
room, where the light of a cheerful hickory fire glowing upon the hearth,
mingles with the winter-sunshine, softened as it is by the thick curtains
along yonder windows.
Gaze with reverence, for great men are gathered here. Do not let your
eye wander to those antique chairs, fashioned of walnut, and carved into
various fantastic forms, nor to the heavy mouldings of the mantle-piece, nor
to the oval mirror encircled by a wreath of gold flowers.
But by the hearty glow of the hearthside flame, gaze I beseech, upon
this company of heroes, who dressed in blue and buff stand side by side,
leaving an open space before the fire.
A large table is there, on whose green cloth, are laid various papers,
burdened with seals, and traced with celebrated signatures. In the midst,
you behold a sword resting in its sheath, its handle carved in the shape of
an eagle's beak. That sword has seen brave days in the Wilderness and
at Quebec.
Three figures arrest your attention.
Neither the knightly visage of Wayne, nor the open countenance of the
Boy-General, La Fayette, nor the bluff hearty good-humor of Knox, command
your gaze. They are all there. There too, Cadwallader the bosom
friend of Washington, and Greene so calmly sagacious, and all the heroes
of that time of trial. Yet it is not upon these you gaze, though their faces
are all darkened by an expression of sincere sorrow.
It is upon those three figures near the fire that you look, and hush each
whisper as you gaze.
The first standing with his face to the light, his form rising above the
others, superior to them all in calm majesty of look and bearing. The
sunshine streaming through the closed curtains reveals that face, which a
crown could not adorn, nor the title of King ennoble. It is the face of
Washington, revealing in every calm, fixed outline, a heart too high for the
empty bauble of a crown, a soul too pure for the anointed disgrace of Royal
Power. He is very calm, but still you can trace upon his countenance a
look of deep, aye, poignant regret.
His eye is fixed upon the figure opposite.
Standing with his back to the window, a man of some thirty-nine years,
vigorous in each muscular limb, majestic in his breadth of chest, and in the
erect bearing of his neck and head, rests one hand upon the table and gazes
upon Washington with a settled look. His brow is bathed in the light of
the hearth. Do you see the red glare that flashes over each rigid feature?
Does it not impart to that bold brow and firm lips and massive chin, an expression
almost—supernatural?
As he stands there, you see him move one foot uneasily. The limb
broken once at Quebec, shattered once at Saratoga pains him. That of
course, is Arnold.
You hear the words of the Reprimand pass from the lips of Washington.
You listen with painful intensity. Not a whisper in this thronged room,
scarcely a breath! You hear the flame crackle, and the crumbling wood
fall in hot coals along the hearth.
Arnold hears it, all—every word of that solemn Reprimand.
Does his cheek blench? His eye change its fixed glance? His lip
quiver? No! As those words fall from the lips of Washington, he merely
suffers his head to droop slowly downward, until his eyes seem glaring
upward, from compressrd brows. But the light of those eyes is strange,
yes,—vivid, deadly.
—Meanwhile, looking between Washington and Arnold, do you see that
figure, resting one arm upon the mantel-piece, while his face is turned away,
and his eyes seem earnestly perusing the hot coals of the fire? That is a
very singular face, with parchment skin, and cold stony eyes, and thin,
pinched lips. The form—by no means commanding, or peculiar, either for
height or dignity—is attired in the glorious blue and buff uniform. Who
is this person?
Behold that glance of Arnold, shooting its scorn from the woven eye-brows,
and answer the question, every heart for itself. That glance surveys
the figure near the fire, and pours a volume of derision in a single look.
Who is this gentlemen? Ask the Secret records of the Revolution, and
ask quickly, for the day comes, when they will be secret no longer.
At last this scene—which saddens you, without your knowing why—is
over. The reprimand is spoken. Arnold raises his head, surveys the whole
company, first, Washington, with a look of deep respect, then the warrior
faces of his brothers in arms, and last of all, that figure by the fireside.
O, the withering scorn of that momentary gaze!
The flame light falls upon Arnold's brow, and reveals him, very calm,
somewhat pale, but utterly Resolved.
—So, do I imagine the scene of the Reprimand. So, taking for
granted, that his enemies, who had hunted him for thirteen months, were
present at the scene of his disgrace—do I, in my own mind, delineate this
picture of the Past.—
XII.—ARNOLD AT LANDSDOWNE.
Aged persons, survivors of the Revolution, have told me singular and impressive
stories of Arnold's appearance and demeanor, while in Philadelphia,
after this trial.
He wandered from place to place, with an even and steady gait, neither
looking to one side nor to the other, scarcely even speaking to any one,
either in courtesy or in anger, but preserving a settled calm of look and
manner.
And when the Mob stoned him, he never looked back, but patiently received
their missiles in his face, and on his wounded limb. He had grown
patient.
They tell me, that his features, swarthy and battle-worn, lost every trace
of vivacity: they were rigidly fixed; the lips compressed, the brow calm
and unfrowning, wore an expression that no one could read, while his eyes
had a wildness in their gleam, a fire in their glance, that told somewhat of
the supernatural struggle at work within him, the Battle between Arnold's
Revenge and Arnold's Pride.
Who shall tell the horrors of that mental combat?
At this time, he brings to mind the Hebrew Giant, Sampson. Yes, Arnold
imagined that his pursuers had put out the eyes of his honor, and
shorn off the locks of his strength. He fancied himself brought forth before
all America, to make sport for the tricksters and trimmers, in Camp and
Congress—the cowardly Philistines of that heroic time.
His fall had been determined with himself, but he also, resolved that the
ruins which were to crush him should neither be small nor insignificant.
He was to fall, but he would drag down the temple with him.
The Ruin should be great and everlasting. He would carve out for himself,
a monument of eternal infamy, from the rock of his patriot greatness.
Look yonder, my friends, into the retirement of Arnold's home.
Not the home in the city, amid the crowded haunts of life, but this mansion,
rising from the summit of a hill, that slopes gently away for a mile,
until its grassy breast melts into the embrace of the Schuylkill.
It is almost a Palace, this beautiful place of Landsdowne, which once
occupied by the Penn family, is now the retreat of Benedict Arnold. Here,
amid these beautiful woods, he hides his sorrow. Here, along these gravelled
walks, beneath the shade of overhanging trees, he paces all day long.
Sometimes he gazes on the distant rocks of Laurel Hill. Sometimes he
strays by the Schuylkill, and its clear waters mirror his face, lowering with
fearful passions. At times, secluding himself in these silent chambers, he
utters certain words in a low voice.
—Fancy the lion of the forest, captured, tied, his limbs, severed one by
one, and you have the case of Benedict Arnold.—
This proud mansion, once rung with the clamor of a Three day's festival.
It was when Arnold, recently appointed General in command of Philadelphia,
received the French Minister, Monsieur Gerard. For three days,
liveries, uniforms, gold, jewels and laces, fluttered and shone, over the wide
sweep of this beautiful lawn. The wine ran, day and night, free as the
Schuykill's waves. The mansion, luxuriously furnished, displayed in every
room the gaiety of the French Court, combined with the glitter and show
of an oriental Divan. Beneath the trees banquets were spread; on the
river, boats, shapen like Venetian gondolas, glided softly, freighted with a
precious treasure of voluptuous beauty.
At night, the wood and the mansion, and the river broke out, all at once
with a blaze of light. It was like a scene of enchantment.
And amid all these scenes, one Woman, pre-eminently beautiful, glided
along, her young form, swelling in every vein, with a sense of life, her eyes
gleaming passion, pride, fascination. Her long hair waved to her half bared
bosom. Her small foot, encased in delicate slipper, bounded in the dance
like a feather blown by a gentle wind, so light, so easy, so undulating.
Every eye was centred on her form. How often Arnold would stand in the
shadow, gazing upon her as she went to and fro, and thinking that all this
treasure of warm loveliness, this world of enticing beauty, was his own!
His wife, his newly-married Bride!
—But those glorious days were now changed. The guests were gone;
long since gone. Gone the honor, the gold, the friends. Then, the celebrated
Arnold, surrounded by parasites; now the disgraced Arnold, living
alone in these shades, in company with his wife.
It is of that wife and of her influence that I would speak.—Do you see
that lovely woman, clinging to the breast of the stern-browed warrior? It
is the evening hour. Through the window pours the red flush of sunset, bathing
both forms in rosy light. Those tresses fall over her white shoulders,
and along the manly arms which gird her to his heart.
Do you think he loves her? Look at his eye, blazing from the shadow
of his brow; that glance surveys her form, and gathers a softened fire from
her look. And she rests in his arms, just as you have seen a solitary white
lily repose on the bosom of a broad green leaf, which the waves urged
gently to and fro.
She is indeed a beautiful woman—but listen? What words are these,
that she whispers in his ear?
Does she tell him how much nobler will be Arnold the Patriot, enshrined
in the hearts of his countrymen, than Arnold the Courtier, dancing attendance
in the ante-chamber of King George?
Does she—following the example of many an humble country-woman,
clad not like her, in satins and gold, but in plain homespun—place in her
Husband's hand, the patriot's sword? Do those mild blue eyes, looking
base love for the baubles of a Court?
Let History answer.
I make no charge against the wife of Arnold. May the sod lay lightly
on her beautiful frame, which has long since mouldered into dust. Peace
to her ashes—if we invoke her memory, it is only for the sake of the terrible
lesson which it teaches.
Had she, instead of a King-worshipper, a lover of titles and courts and
shows, been a Hero-woman, Arnold might have been saved. But he loved
her. She clung to him in his disgrace. When the world frowned, her
bosom received his burning brow, and pillowed his torn heart. She was
with him in his loneliness. Was it strange, that her voice whispering to
him at all hours, should sway his soul with a powerful, nay, an irresistable
influence?
Imagine him neglected by Congress, disgraced in the camp, pelted in the
streets, striding to his home, his heart beating against his breast, like a lion
in its cage. There, in his Home, a beautiful girl welcomes him. She, at
least, is true. She may have married him because he was so renowned,
because he bore his honors with so proud a grace, but now, she is Home,
Friend, World to him.
—That single fact should make the flowers grow more beautifully above
her grave.—
She is ambitious. Perchance, when sleeping on his breast, she dreams
of a royal court, and there, attired in coronet and star, she beholds,—Earl
Arnold! Then when she wakes, bending her lips to his ear, she whispers
her dream, and not only a dream, but lays the plan of—Treason. Is it
improbable that Arnold was fatally swayed by the words of this bewitching
wife?
Again I repeat, had this wife, instead of a lover of courts and pomps and
names, been a Hero-Woman, her heart true to the cause of freedom, her
soul beating warmly for Washington and his cause, there would never have
been written, on the adamantine column which towers from history—dedicated
to the memory of Infamous Men—the name of—Benedict Arnold.
Let Woman learn this lesson, and get it by heart.
The influence of his wife was one of the main causes of Arnold's
treason.
A terrible lesson, to be remembered and told again, when this hand is dust!
How did she influence his life? By forcing herself into the rostrum or
the pulpit? By sharing in the debates of the Congress, the broils of the
camp? No? These women who write big books and mount high pulpits,
talking theology and science by the hour, never influence anybody. They
are admired for the same reason that the mob rushes to see a Mermaid or
link from the Sea Serpent's tail. Not on account of the usefulness, but
merely for the curiosity of the thing; for the sake of the show.
It was in the Home, at the Fireside, that the wife of Arnold exercised
her bewitching and fatal power!
And, O, let the Woman of our country, unheeding the silly philanthropy
which would force her into the pulpit, or the rostrum, into the clamor of
wordy debates, or the broils of political life, remember this great truth:
Her influence is by the Fireside. Her world is Home. By the light of
that Fireside, she stands a Queen upon her Throne. From that Throne,
she can mould man to good or evil—from the Sanctity of her home, she
can rule the world.
—Let us now, in one historical picture, condense three important points
of Arnold's career.—
XII.—ARNOLD, THE TRAITOR.
There was a night, when an awful agony was passing in the breast of
Arnold; the struggle between Arnold's revenge and Arnold's pride.
You have all seen that old house, in Second near Walnut street, which
once the Home of William Penn, once the Palace of Benedict Arnold, is
now used as a manufactory of Venus De Medicis, and sugar candies. That
old house, picturesque in ruins, with battlemented walls and deep-gabled
roofs?
One night a gorgeously furnished chamber, in that mansion, was illuminated
by the glare of a bright wood fire. And there, with his back to that
fire,—there, looking out upon the western sky, gleaming in deep starlight,
stood Benedict Arnold. One hand was laid upon his breast, which throbbed
in long deep gasps; the other held two letters.
Read the superscription of those letters, by the light of the stars; one is
directed to General Washington, the other to Sir Henry Clinton. One announces
his acceptance of the command of West Point, the other offers to
sell West Point to the British.
And now look at that massive face, quivering with revenge, pride and
patriotism; look at that dark eye, gleaming with the horror of a lost soul;
look at that bared throat with the veins swelling like cords!
That is the struggle between Arnold the Patriot, and Arnold the Traitor.
And there, far back in the room, half hidden among silken curtains, silent
and thoughtful, sits a lovely woman, her hands clasped, her unbound hair
showering down over her shoulders, her large blue eyes glaring wildly upon
the fire! Well may that bosom heave, that eye glare! For now the wife
of Arnold is waiting for the determination of her husband's fate; now, the
darkest shadow is passing over the Dial-plate of his destiny.
While Arnold stands brooding there, while his wife sits trembling by the
fire—without, in the ante-chamber, three persons wait for him.
One is a base-browed man clad in the blue uniform of the Continentals.
to bear the letter to Sir Henry Clinton.
That handsome cavalier, dressed in the extreme of fashion, with embroidered
coat, red heeled shoes and powdered hair, is a nobleman of
France; the Ambassador of the French King, the Chevalier De Luzerne.
He has come here to listen to the offer of Arnold, who wishes to enter the
service of the French King.
The third—look! A silent and moody red-man of the forest; an Indian
chief; wrapped up in his blanket, standing there, proud as a king on his
throne.
He has come from the wilds of the forest in the far northwest, to hearken
to the answer of Arnold (the Death Eagle, as the Indians call him,) to
their proposition, by which they agree to make him chief of their tribes.
Now look: the door opens; the three enter; Arnold turns and beholds
them.
Then occurs a hurried and a deeply-interesting scene.
While the wife of Arnold sits trembling by the fire, he advances, and
greets the Chevalier De Luzerne:
“Look ye,” he mutters in quick tones, “Your king can have my sword,
but mark! I am in debt; the mob hoot me in the streets; my creditors are
clamorous. I must have money!”
This bold tone of one used to command, little suits the polite Ambassador.
“My King never buys soldiers!” he whispers with a sneer, and then
bowing, politely retires.
Stung to the quick with this cool insult, Arnold—turning his eyes away
from the British Spy—salutes the Indian chief—hark! They converse in
the wild, musical Indian tongue.
“My brothers are willing to own the Death Eagle as their chief,” exclaims
the Indian. “Yet are they afraid, that he loves the pale faces too
well —”
“Try my love for the pale faces,”—mutters Arnold with a look and a
sneer that makes even the red Indian start.
The chief resumes: “My brothers who are many—their numbers are as
the leaves of the forest—my brothers who sharpen their war-hatchets for
the scalp of the pale-face, will ask the Death Eagle to lead them on the
towns of the pale-face; to burn, to kill, till not a single pale-face is left in
the land.”
“Try me!” was the hoarse response of Arnold, given with knit brows,
and clenched hands.
“Then shall the Death Eagle become the chief of the red men”—said
the Indian—“But his pale face squaw there! He must leave her; she can
never dwell in the tents of the red men.”
Then it was that Arnold—who had embraced with a gleam of savage delight,
his heart grow cold!
Ah! how he loved that wife!
Arnold who in his mad revenge, was willing to sweep the towns of the
whites with torch and knife, quailed at the idea of leaving that fair young
wife.
“The Death Eagle cannot be your chief!” he said as he turned from the
Indian. The red man went from the room with a sneer on his dark face,
for the man who could not sacrifice his wife—the loved one of his heart—
to that revenge, which was about to stamp his name with eternal scorn.
`Now take this letter to Sir Henry Clinton!” gasped Arnold, placing
the fatal letter in the hands of the British Spy. And then Arnold and his
wife were alone.
Then that wife—gazing on the noble countenance of her husband, now
livid as ashes,—gazing in that dark eye, now wild and rolling in its glance,
—gazing on that white lip, that quivered like a dry leaf—then that wife of
Arnold trembled as she felt that the dread Rubicon was passed, that Arnold,
the Patriot, dead, she sat in the presence of Arnold, the Traitor.
14. XIV.—THE FALL OF LUCIFER.
How often in the lower world, does the tragedy of life, walk side by side
with the Common-place!
A dark cavern, where no light shines, save the taper flashing from the
eyes of hollow skull—a lonely waste where rude granite rocks tossed in
fantastic forms, deepen the midnight horror of the hour—the crash of battle,
where ten thousand living men in one moment, are crushed into clay—such
are the scenes which the Romancer chooses for the illustration of his Tragedy,
the Historian for his storied page, every line full of breathing interest
and life.
But that the development of a horrible tragedy, should be enacted amid
the familiar scenes of Home? What is more common, what appears more
natural?
That the awful tragedy of Arnold's treason, should find its development
at a—Breakfast-table!—Does it not make you laugh?
Treason comes to us in history, hooded in a cowl, dagger in hand, the
dim light of a taper trembling over its pallid skull. But Treason calmly
sitting down to a quiet breakfast, the pleasant smile upon his face, hiding
the canker of his heart, the coffee—that fragrant intensifier of the brain—
smoking like sweet incense, as it imparts its magnetism from the lip to the
soul—Treason with a wife on one side, a baby laughing on his knee!
Does it not seem to mingle the ridiculous with the sublime, or worse, the
dull Common-place with the Demoniac?
And yet, there is nothing under Heaven more terribly true! Search
events—things that your blood congeals but to read—were mingled with
the dullest facts of every-day life.
—While the head of Mary Queen of Scots, falls bleeding on the sawdust
of the scaffold, every vein of that white neck, which Kings had deemed it
Paradise to touch, pouring forth its separate stream of blood, in yonder
chamber Queen Elizabeth, the sweet Jezebel of the English throne, is
adding another tint to the red paint on her cheek, and breaking her looking
glass, because it cannot make her beautiful!
Napoleon, flying from the field of Waterloo, where he had lost a World,
pauses in his flight to drink some miserable soup, made by a peasant, in the
hollow of a battered helmet!
General Nash, riding to the bloody surprise of Germantown, from which
he was to come back a mangled corse, turns to Washington, and gravely
apologizes for the absence of powder from his hair, cambric ruffles from
his wrists!
We might multiply our illustrations of the fact, by a thousand other
instances.
Yet among them all, that Development of Arnold's Treason, which took
place at a Breakfast-table, has ever seemed to us most terrible.
Yonder in Robinson's House, which you behold among the trees, on the
sublime heights of the Hudson, opposite the cliffs of West Point, the Breakfast-party
are assembled.
The blessed sunshine of an autumnal morning, which turns the Hudson's
waves to molten gold, and lights the rugged rocks of West Point with a
smile of glory, also shines through these windows, and reveals the equip-age
of the breakfast-table, the faces of the guests.
Why need I tell you of the antique furniture of that comfortable room, or
describe the white cloth, the cups of transparent porcelain, or the cumbrously
carved coffee urn, fashioned of solid silver? These things are very common-place,
and yet even the coffee urn becomes somewhat interesting, when
we remember that its polished silver reflects the bronzed features of a
Traitor?
That traitor sits near the head of the table, his imposing form attired in a
blue coat, glittering with buttons and epaulettes of gold, a buff vest, ruffles,
and neckcloth of cambric. That face whose massive features have glowed
with demoniac passions, is now calm as marble. The hand which has
grasped the Sword of Quebec and Saratoga, now lifts a porcelain cup. And
yet looking very closely you may see the hand tremble, the features
shadowed by a gloom, not the less impressive, because it is almost imperceptible.
Near the General are seated two young officers, his aids-de-camp, whose
the form of the General, to the figure by his side.
That figure, the most beautiful thing out of Paradise—a young wife, with
a baby nestling on her bosom!
At the head of the table she is seen; her form now ripened into its perfect
bloom, negligently attired in a loose robe, whose careless folds cannot
hide the whiteness of her neck, or the faultless contour of that half-bared arm.
And the child that sleeps upon her full bosom, its tiny hands wound
among the tresses of her golden hair, is very beautiful. The Darkness of
its Father's Crime, has not yet shadowed its cherub face.
Arnold is silent. Ever and again from the shadows of his deep drawn
brows, he gazes upon her, his wife! Upon the burden of her breast, that
smiling child.
How much has he risked for them!
Her eye of deep melting blue, first trembles over the face of the infant,
and then surveys her husband's visage. O, the fearful anxiety of that momentary
gaze! Does she fear for the future of her babe? Shall he be the
heir of Arnold the Earl? Does she the child of wealth and luxury, lapped from
her birth in soft attire, for a moment fancy that Arnold himself, was once a
friendless babe, pressed to the agonized bosom of a poor and pious woman?
—Ere we listen to the conversation of the Breakfast-table, let us approach
these windows, and behold the scene without.
Not upon the beautiful river, nor the far extending mountains, will we
gaze. No! There are certain sights which at once strike our eye.
A warrior's horse stands saddled by the door.
Yonder far down the river, the British Flag streams from the British
Ship, Vulture. To the north-west, we behold the rocks and cliffs of West
Point.
Let us traverse this northern road, until having passed many a quiet nook
we stand upon the point, where a narrow path descends to the river.
From the green trees, a brilliant cavalcade bursts into view. Yonder
rock arises from the red earth of the road, overshadowed by a clump of
chesnut trees. A General and his retinue mounted on gallant steeds come
swiftly on, their uniforms glittering, their plumes waving in the light.
It is Washington, attended by La Fayette and Knox, with the other
heroes of his band. In this gallant company, need you ask which is the
form of the American Chief?
He rides at the head of his Generals, his chivalric face glowing with the
freshness of the morning air. By his side a slender youth with a high forehead
and red hair—La Fayette! Then a bluff General, with somewhat
corpulent form and round good-humored face—General Knox. And on the
right hand of Washington, mounted on a splendid black horse, whose dark
sides are whitened by snowy flakes of foam, rides a young man, not remarkable
for heighth or majesty of figure, but his bold high forehead awes,
Alexander Hamilton.
As we look at this gallant cavalcade, so gloriously bursting into view
from the shadows of these green trees, let us listen to La Fayette, who
gently lays his hand on the arm of Washington.
—“General, you are taking the wrong way,” he says, in his broken accent
—“That path leads us to the river. This is the road to Robinson's
House. You know we are engaged to breakfast at General Arnold's head-quarters?”
A cheerful smile overspread Washington's face—
“Ah, I see how it is!” he said, alternately surveying La Fayette and
Hamilton—“You young men, ha, ha! are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and
wish to get where she is, as soon as possible. You may go and take
breakfast with her, and tell her not to wait for me. I must ride down and
examine the redoubts on this side of the river, and will be there in a short
time!”
The officers however, refuse to take advantage of their General's kind
permission. Two aids-de-camp are sent forward to announce Washington's
return from Hartford, where he had been absent for some days, on a visit
to Count De Rochambeau.—In the meantime, the Chief and his retinue
disappear in the shadows of the narrow path leading to the river.
The aids de-camp arrive, announce the return of Washington, and take
their seats beside Mrs. Arnold, at the breakfast-table.
“The General is well?” asked that beautiful woman, with a smile that
revealed the ivory whiteness of her teeth.
“Never in better spirits in his life. Our visit to Hartford, was a remarkably
pleasant one—By the bye, General,”—turning abruptly to Arnold
—“What think you of the rumor now afloat, in reference to West Point?”
The porcelain cup, about to touch Arnold's lip, was suddenly stopped in
its progress. As the sunlight pours in uncertain gleams over his forehead,
you can see a strange gloom overshadow his face.
“Rumor? West Point?” he echoed in his deep voice.
“Yes—” hesitated the aid-de-camp—“On our way home, we heard
something of an intended attack on West Point, by Sir Henry Clinton—”
The smile that came over Arnold's face, was remembered for many a
day, by those who saw it.
“Pshaw! What nonsense! These floating rumors are utterly ridiculous!
Sir Henry Clinton meditate an attack on West Point? He may be
weak, or crazy, but not altogether so mad as that!”
The General sipped his coffee, and the conversation took another turn.
The latest fashion of a lady's dress—whether the ponderous head-gear
of that time, would be succeeded by a plainer style—the amusements of
the subjects of conversation.
Never had the wife of Arnold appeared so beautiful. Her eyes beaming
in liquid light, her white hand and arm moving in graceful gesture, her hair
now floating gently over her cheek, now waving back in all its glossy loveliness,
from her stainless neck her bosom heaving softly beneath its beloved
burden, that peerless woman gave utterance to all the treasures of her musical
voice, her bold and vivacious intellect.
Arnold was silent all the while.
Suddenly the sound of horses' hoofs—the door flung rudely open—a
soldier appears, covered from head to foot with dust and mud, and holding
a letter in his hand.
“Whence come you?” said Arnold, quietly sipping his coffee, while his
eye assumed a deeper light, and the muscles of his face suddenly contracted,
—“From whom is that letter?”
“I came from North Castle—that letter's from Colonel Jamison.”—The
Messenger sank heavily in a chair, as though tired almost to death.
Arnold took the letter, broke the seal, and calmly read it. Calmly, although
every word was fire, although the truth which it contained, was
like a voice from the grave, denouncing eternal woe upon his head.
You can see the wife centre her anxious gaze upon his face. Still he is
calm. There is one deep respiration heaving his broad chest, beneath his
General's uniform, one dark shadow upon his face.—as terrible as it is
brief—and then, arising with composed dignity, he announces, that sudden
intelligence required his immediate attendance at West Point.
“Tell General Washington when he arrives, that I am unexpectedly
called to West Point, but will return very soon.”
He left the room.
In an instant a servant in livery entered, and whispered in Mrs. Arnold's
ear—“The General desires to see you, in your chamber.”
She rose, with her babe upon her bosom, she slowly passed from the
room. Slowly, for her knees bent beneath her, and the heart within her
breast contracted, as though crushed by a vice. Now on the wide stairway,
she toils towards her chamber, her face glowing no longer with roses, but
pale as death, her fingers convulsively clutching her child.
O, how that simple message thrills her blood! “The General desires
to see you, in your chamber!”
She stands before the door, afraid to enter. She hears her husband pace
the room with heavy strides. At last gathering courage, she enters.
Arnold stands by the window, with the morning light upon his brow.
From a face, darkened by all the passions of a fiend, two burning eyes,
deep set, beneath overhanging brows, glare in her face.
She totters towards him.
For a moment he gazes upon her in silence.
She does not breathe a word, but trembling to him, as though unconscious
of the action, lifts her babe before his eyes.
“Wife—” he exclaimed, in a voice that was torn from his very heart—
“All is lost!”
He flung his manly arms about her form—one pressure of his bosom,
one kiss upon her lips—he seizes the babe, kisses it with wild frenzy, flings
it upon the bed, and rushes from the room.
Then the wife of Arnold spread forth her arms, as though she stood on
the verge of an awful abyss, and with her eyes swimming in wild light, fell
heavily to the floor.
She laid there, motionless as death; the last fierce pulsation which
swelled from her heart, had burst the fastening of her robe, and her white
bosom gleamed like cold marble, in the morning light.
Arnold hurries down the stairs, passes through the drawing room, mounts
the saddled horse at the door, and dashes toward the river.
Awaking from her swoon, after the lapse of many minutes, the wife
arises, seeks her babe again. Still it sleeps! What knows it, the sinless
child, of the fearful Tragedy of that hour? The Mother passes her hand
over her brow, now hot as molten lead; she endeavors to recal the memory
of that scene! All is dim, confused, dark, She approaches the window.
Far down the river, the British Flag floating from the Vulture, waves in
the light.
There is a barge upon the waters, propelled by the steady arms of six
oarsmen. How beautifully it glides along, now in the shadow of the mountains,
now over the sunshiny waves! In the stern stands a figure, holding
a white flag above his head. Yes, as the boat moves toward the British
ship, the white flag defends it from the fire of American cannon, at Verplanck's
point. As you look the barge glides on, it passes the point, it
nears the Vulture, while the ripples break around its prow.
Did the eye of the wife once wander from that erect figure in the stern?
Ah, far over the waters, she gazes on that figure; she cannot distinguish
the features of that distant face, but her heart tells her that it is—Arnold!
—In the history of ages, I know no picture so full of interest, as this—
The Wife of Arnold, gazing from the window of her home, upon the
barge, which bears her Husband to the shelter of the British flag!
It was now ten o'clock, on the morning of the 25th of September, 1780.
Soon Washington approached Robinson's house, and sat down with
Hamilton and La Fayette, to the Breakfast table. He was told that Arnold
had been called suddenly to West Point. After a hurried breakfast, he
resolved to cross the river, and meet his General at the fortress. After
this interview it was his purpose to return to dinner. Leaving Hamilton
at the house, he hastened to the river.
In a few moments the barge rippled gently over the waves. Washington
gazed upon the sublime cliffs all around him, upon the smooth expanse of
water, which rested like a mirror, in its mountain frame, and then gaily
exclaimed:
“I am glad that General Arnold has preceded us. He will receive us
with a salute. The roar of cannon is always delightful, but never so grand
as when it is re-echoed among the gorges of these mountains.”
The boat glided on toward the opposite shore. No sound of cannon
awoke the silence of the hills. Doubtles, Arnold was preparing some pleasant
surprise. Nearer and nearer to the beach glided the barge. Still no
salute.
“What!” exclaimed Washington—“Do they not intend to salute us?”
As the barge grated on the yellow sand, an officer in the Continental
uniform, was seen on the rocks above:
He was not prepared for the reception of such visitors, and hoped that he
would be excused for any apparent neglect, in not having placed the garrison
in proper condition for a military inspection and review.
“What? Is Arnold not here?” exclaimed Washington, as he leaped
upon the beach.
“He has not been here within two days, nor have I heard from him
within that time!” replied the officer.
Washington uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then for a moment
stood wrapped in thought, the sheath of his sword sinking in the sand as he
unconsciously pressed his hand upon the hilt.
Did the possibility of a Treason, so dark in its details, so tremendous in
its general outline, burst upon him, in that moment of thought?
Soon he took his way up the rocks, and followed by his officers, devoted
some three hours to an examination of the works of West Point.
It was near 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when he returned to Robinson's
house.
As the company pursued the path leading from the river to the house,
an officer appeared, his countenance stamped with deep anxiety, his step
quickened into irregular footsteps. There was an unimaginable horror
written on his face.
That officer was Alexander Hamilton.
As Washington paused in the roadside, he approached and whispered a
few words, inaudible to the rest of the party.
Neither La Fayette or Knox heard these words, but they saw that expression
of horror reflected from Hamilton's visage to the face of Washington,
and felt their hearts impressed with a strange awe. As a dim, vague
forboding thrilled from heart to heart, the party approached the house.
Washington beckons La Fayette and Knox to his side:
“These letters and papers, despatched to me two days since, by Colonel
Jamison of North Castle reveal a strange truth, gentlemen.—We journeyed
messenger has been chasing us for two days, and the information has not
reached me until this morning.—The truth gentlemen, is plain—General
Arnold is a Traitor. Adjutant General Andre—of the British army—a
—SPY!”
La Fayette sank into a chair, as though the blood had forsaken his heart.
Knox uttered an involuntary oath.
Then the agony which was silently working its way through the soul
of Washington—leaving his face calm as marble—manifested itself in these
words:
“Whom,” he whispered, quietly folding the papers,—“Whom can we
trust now?”
Hamilton immediately started, on the fleetest horse, for Verplanck's,
point his intention being to intercept the Traitor. He returned in the course
of an hour, not with the Traitor, but with a letter headed “His Majesty's
Ship, Vulture, Sept. 25, 1780,” directed to Washington, and signed “Benedict
Arnold.”
Meanwhile a strange, aye, we may well say it, a terrible interview took
place at Robinson's house.
The actors—Washington and the wife of Arnold.
The General ascended the stairs leading to her chamber. He was met
at the threshhold by a strange apparition. A beautiful woman, with her
dishevelled hair floating over her bared bosom, her dress flowing round her
form in disordered folds, her white arms convulsively clutching her frightened
babe.
The tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Do not harm my child!” she said, in a voice that brought tears to the
eyes of Washington—“He has done no wrong! The father may be guilty,
but the child is innocent! O, I beseech you, wreak your vengeance on me,
but do not harm my babe!”
“Madam, there is no one that dares lay the finger of harm, on yourself
or your child!” replied Washington.
You can see this lovely woman turn; she places the babe upon the bed;
she confronts Washington with heaving breast and flashing eyes:
“Murderer!” she cried, “Do not advance! You shall not touch the
babe! I know you—know your plot to tear that child from a Mother's
breast, but I defy you!”
Strange words these, but a glance convinced Washington, that the wife
of Arnold stood before him, not calm and collected, but with the light of
madness glaring from her blue eyes.
She stood erect, regarding him with that blazing eye, that defiant look.
“O, shame!” she cried, curling her proud lip in scorn—“A warrior like
you, to harm an innocent babe! Wreak your vengeance on me. I am
ready to bear it all. But the child—what has he ever done?”
Her voice softened as she spoke these last words: she bent forward with
a look of beseeching eloquence.
“On my word, I will protect you and your babe!” said Washington,
and his voice grew tremulous with emotion.
For a moment, she stood before him calm and beautiful, even with her
disordered robes and loosened tresses, but that moment gone, the light of
madness blazed again from her eyes.
“Murderer!” she exclaimed, again, and grasped his arm, with a clutch
like the last effort of the dying; but as she spoke, her face grew paler, her
bosom ceased to beat; she dashed the thickly clustered tresses from her
face, and fell to the floor.
The only signs of life which she exhibited, were a tremulous motion of
the fingers, a slight quivering of the nether lip. Her eyes wide open, glared
in the face of Washington. Then, from those lips, whose beauty had been
sung by poets, celebrated by warriors, pressed by the Traitor, started a
white foam, spotted with drops of blood.
And the babe upon the bed, with its face baptized in the light of the setting
sun, smiled playfully as it clapped its tiny hands and tried to grasp the
fleeting beams.
Washington stood beside the unconscious woman: his face was convulsed
with feeling. The tears started from his eyes.
“May God help you, and protect your babe!” he said, and hurried from
the room.
What mean these strange scenes, occurring on this 25th of Sept., 1780?
What were the contents of the letter which Arnold received at the Breakfast
table? Can you tell what Revelations were those comprised in the letters
and papers which Washington perused, on the afternoon of this interesting
day?
Who was John Andre?
Was the Wife of Arnold a Partner in the work of Treason?
The first question must be answered by another picture, painted on the
shadows of the Past.
Ere we survey this picture, let us glance for a moment, at the last scene
of that fatal day.
While the Wife lay cold and senseless, there, in the chamber of her desolated
home, the State Room of the Vulture presented a scene of some
interest.
The British ship was gliding over the Hudson, its dishonored flag tinted
by the last beam of the setting sun. On the soft cushions of the State
room sofa, was seated a man, with his throat bared, his brow darkened,
every line of his face distorted by passion. His eyes were fixed upon an
object, which rested on the Turkish carpet at his feet.
That man, the Hero of the Wilderness, whose glory had burst upon his
northern sky with dies of matchless beauty—Benedict Arnold.
That object was an unsheathed sword—the sword of Quebec and Saratoga.
XV—THE TULIP-POPLAR;
OR
THE POOR MEN HEROES OF THE REVOLUTION.
One fine morning in the fall of 1780, seven men went out by the roadside
to watch for robbers!
It was two days before the scene of the Breakfast table.
Four of these men concealed themselves in the bushes on the summit of a
high hill.
Three of their comrades sat down under a large poplar tree—some hundred
yards to the northward—for a pleasant game at cards.
These are plain sentences, telling simple facts, yet on these simple facts
hinged the destiny of George Washington, the Continental Army, and the
cause of freedom.
Let us go yonder into the hollow, where the highway, descending a hill,
crosses a gentle brook, ascends the opposite hill, and is lost to view among
the trees to the south. On either side of the road, darkens the foliage of
the forest trees, scarcely tinged by the breath of autumn.
This gentle brook, tossing and murmuring on its way, is surmounted by
a bridge of rade pine planks, defended on either side by a slender railing.
A dark-brown horse stands champing the bit and tossing his black mane
in the centre of the bridge, while his dismounted rider bends over yonder
railing, and gazes down into the brooklet with a vacant stare.
Let us look well upon that traveller. The manly form, enveloped in a
blue overcoat, the young brow, surmounted by a farmer's round hat, the
undercoat of a rich scarlet hue, with gold buttons and tinselled trinkets, the
well polished boots, all display the mingled costume of a yeoman and a
soldier.
His rich brown hair tosses aside from his brow: his dark hazel eye
grows glassy with thought: his cheek is white and red by turns. Now his
lip is compressed, and now it quivers. Look! He no longer leans upon
the railing, no longer gazes down into the dark waters, but pacing hurriedly
up and down the rustic bridge, displaying the elegance of his form, the
beauty of his manly face, to the light of day.
The sun is seen by intervals through the tops of these eastern trees; the
song of birds is in the woods; the air comes freighted with the rich odours
of fall. It is a beautiful morning. Light, feathery clouds floating overhead,
only serve to relieve the clear blue of the autumnal sky.
It is a beautiful morning, but the young traveller feels not the breeze,
cares not for the joyous beam. Nor do those wreaths of autumnal mist,
his hazel eye.
He paces along the bridge. Now he lays his hand upon the mane of his
horse; now hastily buttons his overcoat, as if to conceal the undercoat of
claret, with its handsome gold buttons; and at last, pausing in the centre
of the bridge, he clasps his hands, and gazes absently upon the rough planks.
Well may that man that paces the bridge, thus clasping his hands, thus
stand like marble, with his dark hazel eyes glassy with thought.
For he is a Gambler.
He has matched his life against a glittering boon—the sword of a General.
The game he plays is—Treason—if he wins, an army is betrayed, a General
captured, a Continent lost. If he loses, he dies on the gallows, with
the rope about his neck, and the bandage over his eyes.
Was he not a bold Gambler?
He has been far into the enemy's country. Over the river, up the rocks,
and into the secret chamber. With the Traitor he has planned the Treason.
Now he is on his way home again to the city, where his General
awaits him, trembling with suspense.
Is that not a handsome boot on his right foot? I do not allude so much
to the heavy tops, nor to the polished surface, but to the glove-like nicety
with which it envelopes the manly leg. That boot contains the fortress of
West Point, the liberty of George Washington, the safety of the Continental
Army! An important boot, you will admit, and well adapted to create
fever in his mind who wears it.
One question is there before the mind of that young traveller: Can he
pass unmolested to the city of New York?
He has come far on his journey; he has passed through perils that
chilled his blood, and now thirty miles alone remain. But thirty miles of
neutral ground, ravaged by robbers from both armies, who plunder the
American because he is not a Briton, and rob the Briton because he is not
an American.
This is a thrilling question.
Those papers in his boot, once transferred to Sir Henry Clinton, this
young gentleman will be rewarded with a General's commission.
As this brilliant thought passes over his mind, there comes another
thought, sad, sweet, tender.
The little sitting room yonder in England, where his fair-haired sister,
and his sister with the flowing dark tresses, are seated by the mother's
knee, talking of him, their absent brother! O, it is sweet to dream by
night, but sweeter far, to dream by day, with the eyes wide open. A beautiful
dream! That old familiar room, with oaken wainscot and antique
furniture; the mother, with her placid face, venerable with grey hair; the
fair girls now blushing and ripening into women!
He will return home; yes, they shall hear his manly step. They shall
General. The thought fires his soul.
He gives his fears to the wind. For he is a brave man, but now he is
afraid, for he is doing a coward's work, and feels a coward's pangs.
He springs on his horse, and with Washington, West Point, and the Continental
Army in his right boot, he passes on his way.
Let us go up yonder hill before him. What is this we see?
Three men seated beneath a tree playing cards! Alone and magnificent
stands that Tulip-Poplar, its broad limbs extending at least forty feet from
the trunk, and that trunk six feet in diameter. Such a tree you may not
see in a life-time. A trunk, like the column of some Druid Temple, hewn
of granite rock, a shade like the shelter of some colossal war-tent. How the
broad green leaves toss to and fro to the impulse of the breeze!
It stands somewhat aside from the road, separated from the trees of
yonder wood.
While these men pass the cards and fill the air with the song and laugh,
let us draw near.
That small man, leaning forward, with the smile on his lips, is named
Williams. He is near forty years of age, as you can see by the intricate
wrinkles on his face. His costume, a plain farmer's dress, with belt and
powder horn. By his side, reclining on the ground, a man of large frame,
stalward arms, broad chest, also leans forward, his eyes fixed upon the game.
He is named Van Wert. His face, dogged and resolute in its expression,
gives you an idea of his character. The third, a tall, well-formed man of
some twenty years, with an intelligent countenance and dark eye, is dressed
in a faded British uniform. He is at once the most intelligent and soldier-like
man of the company. His name is Paulding.
Their rifles are laid against the trunk of the tulip-poplar. Here we have
them, intent upon their game, laughing in careless glee, now and then singing
a camp song, while the cards move briskly in their fingers.
All at once the party turned their faces to the north. The sound of
a horse's hoof struck on their ears.
“Here comes a stranger!” exclaimed Van Wert, with a marked Dutch
accent, “A fine, gentleman-like man. Hey, Paulding? Had not we better
stop him?”
Paulding sprang to his feet. He beheld our young traveller riding slowly
toward the tree. In a moment he was in the highway, intently regarding
the stranger, whom he surveyed with a meaning glance.
As his horse reached the poplar tree, Williams sprang forward and seized
the reins, while Paulding presented his rifle to the breast of the young man.
“Stand!” he exclaimed, in a deep, sonorous voice, “Which way?”
For a moment the stranger gazed in the face of the soldier, who stood
before him, clad in a British uniform. A shade of doubt, inquiry, fear
passed over his handsome face.
“Gentlemen,” said he, in a voice which struck their ears with its tones
of music, “I hope you belong to our party?”
“Which party?” ashed Paulding.
“The Lower Party!” returned the traveller.
A smile darted over Paulding's face.
“So do I,” said he, still keeping his rifle at the breast of the unknown.
`I am a British officer!” exclaimed the young man, rising proudly in his
stirrups, as he displayed a gold watch in his extended hand. “I trust that
you will know better than to detain me, when you learn that I am out of
the country on particular business.”
The three soldiers started. The athletic Van Wert advanced to the side
of Williams, and seized the other bridle rein. Paulding smiled grimly.
“Dismount!” he said, pointing the rifle at the very heart of the stranger,
who gazed from face to face with a look of wonder.
“My God!” said he, gaily, with a faint laugh, “I suppose I must do
anything to pass.”
He drew from his breast a paper, which he extended to Paulding. The
other soldiers look over their comrade's shoulder as he read it aloud:
Permit Mr. John Anderson to pass the Guards to the White Plains, or below
if he chooses. He being on Public Business by my Direction.
“Now,” said the bearer of this passport, as he dismounted, “I hope you
will permit me to pass. You will risk a great deal by detaining me. General
Arnold will not lightly overlook my detention, I assure you!”
Paulding, with the paper in his hand, turned to his comrades, who, with
surprise in their faces, uttered some hurried words, inaudible to the stranger.
“You see, sir, I'd let you pass,” said Paulding, “but there's so many
bad people about, I'm afeerd you might be one of them. Besides, Mister
Anderson, how came you, a British officer, in possession of this pass from
an American General?”
For the first time the face of the stranger was clouded. His lip was
tightly compressed, as though he was collecting all the resources of his
mind.
“Why do you wear a British uniform?” he exclaimed, pointing to Paulding's
dress.
“Why you see, the tories and robbers belongin' to your army, would not
let me live a peaceable life until I enlisted under your king. I staid in New
York until I could escape, which I did one fine day, with this uniform on
my back. Here I am, on neutral ground, but an American to the backbone!”
“Come, Mister,” exclaimed Williams, “You may as well walk into the
bushes; we want to sarch you.”
Without a word, the stranger suffered them to lead him under the shade
canopy overhead. Around him, with suspicion, wonder, curiosity, stamped
on their faces, stood Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert.
He was calm, that unknown man; not a flush was on his face, not a
frown upon his brow. Yet his hazel eye glanced from face to face with a
look of deep anxiety.
They took the overcoat, the coat of claret hue, glittering with tinsel, the
nankin and flannel waistcoats, nay, the ruffled shirt itself, from his form,
and yet no evidence of his character in the shape of written or printed paper
met their eyes. At last his boots, his under-garments, all save his stockings,
were removed; yet still no paper, no sign of mystery or treason was
revealed.
He stood in that silent recess, with all the proud beauty of that form—
which, in its manliness of chest, grace of limb, elegance of outline, rivalled
the Apollo of the Sculptor's dream—laid bare to the light. His brown curls,
tossed to the impulse of the breeze, about his face and brow. His arms
were folded across his breast, as he gazed in the soldier's faces.
“Your stockings, if you please,” said Paulding, bending down at the
officer's feet. The stocking of the right foot was drawn, and lo! three
carefully folded papers, placed next the sole of the foot, were disclosed. In
a moment the other stocking, and three papers more.
The young man shook with a sudden tremor.
One burst of surprise echoed from the soldiers as they opened the papers.
The stranger had one hope! They were but rude men; they might not
be able to read the papers, but that hope was vain, for in a clear, bold voice,
Paulding gave their fatal secret to the air.
Artillery orders, showing how the garrison of West Point should be disposed
of in case of an alarm; an estimate of the force of the fortress; an
estimate of the number of men, requisite to man the works; a return of the
ordnance; remarks on the strength and weakness of the various works, a
report of a council of war lately at head quarters, concerning the campaign,
which Washington had sent to Arnold—such were the secrets of these
papers, all in the undisguised hand writing of Benedict Arnold.
It is in vain to picture the dismay which was stamped upon each soldier's
face, as word by word, they spelled out and guessed out the terrible treachery,
which, to their plain minds, seemed to hang over these letters.
The young man—now their prisoner—stood silent, but pale as death.
For a moment all his fortitude seemed to have forsaken him.
At last, laying his hands on Paulding's arms, he said, in tremulous tones
“Take my watch, my horse, my purse—all I have—only let me go!”
This was a terrible temptation for three poor men, who, living in a land
demoralized by war, where neither property nor life was safe for an hour,
had never, in all their lives, owned such a fine horse, elegant gold watch,
or purse of yellow guineas.
For a moment Paulding was silent, his manly face wore a hesitating look.
“Will you gif us any ting else?” said Van Wert, with a strong Dutch
accent.
“Yes, I will make each man of you rich for life,” repeated the young
man, his manner growing more urgent, while his face was agitated with
emotion.—“Lands—dry-goods—money, to enable you to live independent
of the world—anything you like, only let me go!”
Poor fellow! His tones were tremulous. He was only pleading not for
a free passage, but for life, and a—Generalship. A terribly distinct vision
of his mother and sisters flashed over his soul.
“But, Mister,” exclaimed Williams, “How are we to know that you'll
keep your word?”
“I will stay here until you go into the city and return!” was the response
of the prisoner.
Paulding was yet silent, with a shade of gloom on his brow, while Van
Wert and Williams looked in one another's face. The prisoner, with agony
quivering in every feature, awaited their reply.
“Dress yourself,” muttered Paulding, in a rough voice.
“Then you consent,you will let me go?” eagerly exclaimed the diguised
officer.
Paulding made no reply.
Slowly he resumed his apparel.
He then looked around, as if to read his doom in the faces of these
rude men.
For they were rude men. It was an awful time of fear, doubt, murder,
that era of 1780. No man could trust his neighbor. This thirty miles of
neutral ground was as much under the control of law as the Desert of Arabia.
These men had felt the hand of British wrong; they had been robbed,
ill-treated, trampled under foot by British power.
Here was a chance to make them all rich men. The young man's words
were fair. He would remain a prisoner until they had tested his truth, by
going to New York. They knew that some strange mystery hung about
his path; they guessed that his escape would bring danger to Washington.
But more than this, they could neither know nor guess.
Admit, as some have urged, that these men were robbers, who came out
this fine morning of September, to try their fortune on the highway, and
the case becomes more difficult. If poor men, they would scarcely refuse
his offer; if robbers, they would at once take watch, and horse, and gold,
and bid him go!
For some moments deep silence prevailed.
“Will you accept my offer, gentlemen?”
Paulding turned and faced him.
“No!” said he, in a voice which chilled the young man's blood; “If
you go!”
The prisoner said not a word, but his face grew paler.
They went slowly forth from the wood, and stood once more beneath the
Tulip Poplar.
The young stranger looked upon his horse, which was to bear him away
a prisoner, and his heart thrilled with a pang like death.
At this moment, turning to the west, he beheld a sight which chilled his
blood. The British ship Vulture,—which he had missed near West
Point, by some accident never yet explained—rode there, upon the calm
Hudson, within a mile from the spot where he stood. Escape, safety,
honor, so near, and yet he was a prisoner.
Once more he turned, once more in piercing tones, with hurried gestures,
he besought them to take all; he promised them fortune, only that
he might depart.
But still that stern answer:
“For ten thousand guineas we would not let you go!”
The sun was up in the heavens. The breeze tossed the magnificent
limbs of the Tulip-Poplar. Grouped under its shadow were the captors
and their prisoner. Here, the manly Paulding, with an expression of pity
stealing over his face; there, Williams, his countenance expressing a dull,
apathetic wonder; farther on, Van Wert, his form raising above his comrades,
while his arms were folded across his breast. The cards were littered
over the grass, but each man grasped his rifle.
O, silken people, in fine robes, who read your perfumed volumes, detailing
the virtues of the rich and great, can you see no virtue under those rude
waistcoats, no greatness in those peasant faces? It has been my task again
and again, to portray the grandeur of a Washington, the chivalry of Lafayette,
the glorious deeds of Wayne; but here, in these half-robber, half-soldier
forms, methinks is found a Self-denial, that will match the brightest
of them all. Honor to Washington, and Lafayette, and Wayne, and
honor to Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, the Poor Men Heroes of
the Revolution.
They stood grouped under the Tulip-Poplar; but their prisoner?
He laid his arms upon his horse's neck, and hid his face on its dark
mane.
Long ago the bones of that young traveller crumbled to dust, in a felon's
grave, beneath a gibbet's foot.
Long ago, on a stormy night, the lightnings of God descended upon the
Tulip-Poplar, and rent its trunk to the roots, and scattered its branches to
the air.
And Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, are also gone, but their names
which they belonged, let us take one of these humble men and paint the
picture of a Poor Man Hero,—
—He crouches beside the trunk of the giant oak, on the wild wood
side. He sweeps the overhanging leaves aside with his brawny hand—the
light falls suddenly over his swarthy and sunburnt face, over his fur cap,
with its bucktail plume, over the blue hunting shirt, over his forest moccasins,
and huntsman's attire. He raises the glittering rifle to his eye, that
keen, grey eye, looking from beneath the bushy eyebrow, and fixed upon
the distant foeman—he raises his rifle, he aims at the star on the heart—he
fires. The wood rings with the sound—the Britisher has taken the measure
of his grave.
And thus speeding along from tree to rock, from the fence to the secure
ambush of the buck wheat field—speeding along with his stealthy footsteps,
and his keen eye ever on the watch, the bold rifleman heeds not the battle
raging in the valley below; he cares not for the noise, the roar of cannon,
the mechanical march of the drilled columns; he cares for naught but his
own true rifle, that bears a death in every ball—that shrieks a death-knell
at every fire. A free man was the old rifleman. His home was the wild
wood, his companions the beasts of the ravine, and the birds of the cliff;
his friend, true and unfailing, was his rifle, and his joy was to wander
along the lonely pathway of the wilderness, to track the Indian to his
camp-fire, the panther to his lair.
A free man was the old rifleman. At the close of the day's hard chase,
what king so happy as he? He seats himself on the green sward, at the
foot of the ancient oak, in the depths of the eternal woods, while the setting
sunbeams fling their lines of gold athward the mossy carpet, and between
the quivering leaves of the twilight foliage.
He rears the booth of forest branches, with its walls and roof of leaves,
he spreads his couch of buffalo robes, and then gathering the limbs of decayed
trees, he lights his fire, and the rosy gleam flares over the darkening
woods, a sign of home built in the wilderness.
The victim of the day's chase, the gallant deer, is then dragged to the fire-side,
divested of his skin, and anon the savory steak smokes in the blaze,
and the tree hermit of the woods, the free old backwoodsman, rubs his bony
hands with glee, and chuckles with all a hunter's delight.
Such were the men that thronged the woods and peopled the solitudes
of this, our glorious land of the New World, in the year of grace, Seventy-Six,—in
the year of freedom—One. To this class belong the captors of
Andre, who refused a fortune, rather than aid the enemy of Washington.
Such were the men whom the British were sent to conquer: such were
the men who knew nothing of pretty uniforms, mechanical drills, or regular
lines of march, whom the stout red-coats were to annihilate.
The huntsman's frock of blue was not very handsome, his rough leggings
fur was a shapeless thing altogether, and yet he had two things that sometimes
troubled his enemies not a little—a sure rifle and a keen eye.
Let us be just to their memories. While we honor Paulding, Williams,
and Van Wert, let us remember that ten thousand such as these, rest unknown,
unnamed, beneath the graves of the Past, while the grass grows
more beautiful above, moistened with their blood, the unhonored Poor Men
Heroes of the Revolution.[3]
It now becomes our task to examine the contents of the letter which
Arnold received at the Breakfast table.
Andre, when captured, was taken to the nearest military post at North
Castle, where Colonel Jamison was stationed with a regiment of dragoons.
This brave officer was utterly confounded by the revelations of the papers,
which had been concealed in the boot of the Conspirator. He could not
imagine, that a General so renowned as Arnold was a Traitor. His confusion
may be imagined when it is known, that the letter perused by the
traitor at the breakfast table, was a hasty note from Jamison, announcing the
capture of a man named Anderson, who “had a passport signed in your
name and papers of a very dangerous tendency.”
At the same time, he announced that he had sent these dangerous papers
to Washington.—You have seen the agitation of the American General,
when after two day's delay, he received these documents at Robinson's
House.—The honest blunder of Jamison saved the Traitor's neck.
Next comes the question—Was Arnold's wife a Partner in the work of
Treason? Again let us question the shadows of the past for an answer.
Was her fate, in any manner, connected with the destiny of John Andre?
Let these scenes, which break upon us from the theatre of the Revolution,
solve the question,
Note.—There is a strange mystery connected with:this capture. Like other
prominent incidents of the Revolution, it has been described in at least twenty
different ways. The distinguished historian, Sparks, presents a plain, straightforward
account, which in its turn is contradicted by a late article in a western paper,
purporting to be reminiscences of a gentlemen named Hudson, who professes to be
conversant with the facts, from an actual acquaintance with Paulding, Williams,
and Van Wert. Mr. H. states that Paulding wore a British uniform; that Williams
was despatched with a note to Arnold; and that the prisoner was taken to Sing Sing,
and from thence to Tappan, where Washington arrived in a few minutes. Sparks,
the FIRST Historian of our country, makes no mention of the uniform, and by the
evidence of the three heroes, directly contradicts the other statements. Andre
was taken to North Castle, while Washington was absent on a journey to Hartford.
Not a word (on the trial of Andre,) was said by either Paulding or his comrades, in
relation to the departure of Williams with a note to Arnold. There is an evident
ambiguity here, which should be removed. Mr. Hudson's statement, plain and decided
as it is, contradicts the evidence of the men from whom he received it. If correct,
then they uttered falsehoods on the trial of Andre,—if untrue, they are guilty of
wilful or involuntary misrepresentation. The mention of the British uniform places
a new construction upon the whole affair, and is, in my opinion, the only satisfactory
explanation of the conduct of Andre, ever yet published.
XVI.—THE KNIGHT OF THE MESCHIANZA.
Two scenes from the past; two scenes from the dim shadows of Revolutionary
Romance. One is a scene of Light—the other, of Gloom.
The first scene took place when the British Army was in Philadelphia;
and while Benedict Arnold was confined to his room, in the city of New
Haven, with the wounds of Saratoga.
The other scene occurred more than two years afterwards, when Benedict
Arnold was in command at West Point.
Yonder, on the outskirts of Philadelphia, stands an old house, with the
marks of decay about its roofs, its windows and walls. An old house, with
scattered tenements and broken commons all around it. Not long ago,
fallen into utter neglect, it was occupied as a coach-shop; now it is crowded
with the young faces, the busy hum of a common school.
There was a time, when that old house was a lordly palace, with one
wide green lawn stretching away from the hall-door for half a mile, away
to the brink of the broad Delaware.
There was a night when that house shook to the tread of warriors, and
the steps of dancers—when every tree along that wide lawn shone with
lights on every bough. Yes, a night, a banquet was given there by the
officers of Sir William Howe, in honor of his glorious victory! Victory?
Yes, in honor of the fact that he hadn't been worse beaten, by Mister
Washington.
Ah, it was a glorious night. A midnight sky above, and light and glitter
below. Then gondolas, freighted with beauty, glided over the waters,
flashing streams of light along the dark waves. Then the gallant officers
put off their red coats to put on armor and helmet, like knights of old, and
a gay tournament, with heralds, and plumes, and steeds, and banners, flashed
over the wide lawn.
Let us for a moment look upon this tournament.
In yonder balcony, on the southern side of the lawn—that balcony, overhung
with the blood-red banner, festooned with flowers—is croweded one
living mass of womanly beauty. Blue eyes and hazel, eyes dark as midnight,
or soft and languishing as June, there mingle these glances in one
blaze of light. There you behold the tender forms of girlhood, the mature
bust of womanhood, there crowded into one view, you see all that is like
the ruby or the rose on woman's lip, like the summer dawn on her cheek,
like the deep stars of night in her eye.
These are the flowers of the aristocracy, assembled in one group of loveliness,
to grace the Meschianza of Sir William Howe.
Meschianza? That is a strange word, what does it mean? I cannot
tell you, but my mind is somewhat impressed with the fancy of its Hindoo
to be glad at not being worse beaten, to be exceedingly joyful on limited
victories, to be thankful that one's neck is safe. That is the only derivation
I could ever find for Mechianza.
Below the balcony spreads the scene of the tournament. There, at one
end, through the trees, you see the palace, flaming like a funeral pyre, with
lights, and yonder, far down the lawn, the broad Delaware glimmers into
view.
Hush every whisper; the Tournament is ready to begin.
From these groups of Knights at either end of the lists, two cavaliers
sally forth and confront each other. One in armour of plated gold, mounted
on a dark steed, with a black plume shadowing his brow. The other, on
that milk-white steed, is cased from head to foot, in an armour of azure
steel. A white plume tosses from his brow.
Now hold your breath, for they come thundering on. On, on, over the
green lawn, on to each other's breasts, on with the levelled lance.
There is a pause—they crash together—now there is a moment of doubt
—but now—look! How the white scarfs from yon gallery wave like
snow-flakes on the air.
The Knight on the dark steed is down; but the Knight in armour of
azure steel, mounted on the milk-white steed, rides round the lists in
triumph, with his snowy plume tossing as he goes.
Oh, this is a glorious show, a grand Tournament, a splendid display of
lovely women, and oh, for a swelling word from the vocabulary of adjectives
—a Meschianza; and all in honor of Sir William Howe, who is so glad
that he is not worse beaten by Mister Washington.
Yonder fair girl bending from the gallery, lets fall upon the brow of that
white-plumed Knight, a chaplet of laurel, woven with lilies and roses.
His dark hazel eyes upraised catch the smile as it speaks from her lips.
The Queen of Beauty crowns the Victor of the Tournament. It is a
lovely picture. Let us look upon a lovelier.
Yonder, in the deep shadows of the grove, where the lights glare flickering
and indistinct, over the tufted sward, a knight cased in glittering armour
kneels at the feet of a lovely girl.
For she is lovely, even into that towering head-dress that lays back her
golden hair from her white brow, in a mass of powder and pearls; she is
lovely in that gorgeous dress, trailing in luxurious folds upon the ground, its
jewels and satin and gold, hiding the matchless outline of her form. Yes,
she is lovely, for that deep, yet wild and languishing eye, that laughing lip,
would be more beautiful, were the form girded in a peasant garb, instead of
being veiled in the royal robes of a Queen.
And tell me, as that fair girl, extending her hand, half turns her head
away, the blush ripening over her cheek, while the lover looks up with glad
and grateful eyes, tell me, is it not as lovely a picture as artist ever drew?
Now change the scene. Let the Tournament pass. Let Sir William
Howe go home to England. Let the gay Knights of the Blended Roses
and Burning Lances go to the battle-field again, there to be beaten by Mad
Anthony, that Knight of the Iron-Hand; or George Washington, the Knight
without Fear and without Reproach.
Now let us go to West Point.
In the Southern window of the mansion, opposite that fortress stands a
beautiful woman, with her long hair all scattered in disorder about her shoulders,
while her blue eye, glaring with a look like madness, is fixed on the
Southern sky.
In that beautiful woman, you recognize the lovely girl of the Meschianza.
That woman is now the wife of Benedict Arnold, who fled from West
Point but a few brief days ago, in the British ship Vulture. That child
laughing on her bosom, is the child of a Traitor.
Yes, she has linked her fate with the destiny of Arnold. Yet, still after
her marriage, she continues her correspondence with the Knight of the
Meschianza, who dwells in New York, the favorite of Sir Henry Clinton.
In those letters, the first letters of Arnold to Clinton, signed Gustavus,
and speaking Treason, were enclosed. Thus, the letters of the Wife, to
the gallant Knight, were the vehicles of her Husband's dishonor.—
Why does she gaze so earnestly toward the South? She looks for the
Knight of the Tournament!
There on that piece of table-land, which looks down upon the Hudson,
where its waters sweep in their broadest flow—at Tappan Zee—there
under the light of the noon-day sun, a dense crowd is gathered near a small
stone house; not a murmur is heard in that crowd; all is silent as the clay
cold lips of the dead.
Ere we look upon the sight which chills the crowd into such deep
silence, let us go back to the daybreak hour.
Day was breaking over the broad Hudson, over the hills crowned with
gorgeous autumnal foliage, over yon solitary stone house and along the level
space, when two figures came hither with spades in their hands.
They were rough men, embrued in life-long deeds of blood, but as they
sunk two holes in the sod, with the distance of a few feet between, they
were at first silent; then a scalding drop of moisture stole from the eyes of
that rough man, while his comrade cursed him for crying, as his own eye
was wet with a tear.
It must have been a dark matter indeed to make men like these, shed tears.
When those holes were dug, then they brought two thick pieces of
scantling, and placed them in the cavities; then another piece at the top
connected these upright timbers; and last of all, a rope was brought, and
then behold—the Gallows!
It was around this gallows as the hour of noon came on, that a dense
dress of the farmer. That high-browed man, whom you see yonder,
among the crowd of officers, bears the great name, which the nation always
loved to repeat—Alexander Hamilton.
It is noon—and look! From yonder stone-house comes a young man,
in a magnificent scralet uniform; a young man, with glossy brown hair and
a deep hazel eye.
As he comes through the lane, made by the parting of the crowd, you
can see that cart moving slowly at his heels; that cart in which crouches a
grim figure, sitting on a pine box, with crape over its face.
Does this spectacle interest you? Then look in that young man's face,
and behold the Knight of the Tournament. When we beheld him last, a
fair lady dropped laurel on his brow, a chaplet of laurel and roses. To-day,
that grim figure will crown him with a chaplet of death!
He draws near the foot of the gallows. For a moment, he stands, rolling
over a little stone with his foot, as he tries to smother that choking sensation
in his throat.
There is silence in that crowd.
Look! the cart waits for him under the dangling rope—that grim figure
lays the pine coffin upon the ground—and then binds his arms lightly with
a handkerchief.
The silence is deeper.
Now the young man turns very pale. With his half-pinioned arms, he
arranges the frill of the ruffle around his wrist; he binds the handkerchief
over his face.
Oh, father of souls, that look! Yes, ere he winds the handkerchief
around his brow, he casts one glance, one deep and yearning look over the
faces of men, the river, the sky, the mountains.
That look is his farewell to earth!
Why do those stout men cry like little children? Heads bowed on their
breasts, faces turned away, showering tears—the sun shines on them all.
The young man leaps lightly into the cart—Does'n't it make your blood
run cold to see the rough hangman wind that rope around his neck, so fair,
so like a woman's?
Now, there is silence, and tears, and veiled faces, in that crowd.
—At this moment let us look yonder, in that quiet room, away in England.
A mother and two fair sisters sit there, embroidering a scarf, for the
son and brother, who is now in a far land.
“Hark!” exclaims the dark-haired sister; “it is not his footstep?”
And as she goes to the door, trembling with suspense and joy, and looks
out for her brother—Here, that brother stands, upon the death-cart, with
the hangman's rope about his neck!
Even as the sister looks forth from her home, to behold his form —
Ah, at the very moment the hangman speaks to his horse, the cart moves
on—look!
There is a human being dangling at the end of a rope, plunging and
quivering in the air. Behold it, nor shudder at the sight! That blackened
face, livid, blue, purple at turns, those starting eyes,—Oh, hide the
horrid vision! What, hide the Poetry of the Gallows?
Hide it you may, but still the thick, gurgling groan of that dying man
breaks on your ear.
That is the Music of the Gallows.
Ah, can that loathsome corse, with the distorted face, can that be the
gallant Knight who fell at the feet of the lovely girl, in the gay Tournament?
While he hangs quivering on the gallows, yonder in New York, before a
glittering mirror, stands Benedict Arnold, surveying his proud form, attired
for the first time, in that hangman's dress—a scarlet uniform.
Yonder—even while the last tremor shakes his form—yonder, alone,
kneels George Washington, in prayer with his God.
And now, as they thrust his young form—scarcely cold—into the pine
coffin, his mother and sisters, in that far English town, have done embrodiering
the scarf—nay, that one dark-eyed sister has even worked his name
in the corner—
“My Brother * * * * John Andre.”
From that Gibbet of John Andre, the fairest flowers of Poetry and
Romance wave fragrantly from the night of ages.
Around that hideous thing of evil, whose blackened timbers rise before
us from the twilight of sixty-seven years, are clustered the brightest and
the darkest memories, like a mingled crowd of fiends and angels.
His fate was very dark, yet on the very darkness of the cloud that hung
over his setting sun, his name has been written in characters of light.
All that can melt the heart in pathos, all that can make the blood run
cold in tragedy, scenes of tender beauty, memories of immeasurable horror,
are grouped beside the dishonored grave of John Andre.
A volume might be filled, with the incidents connected with his closing
hour; the long winter night passed unheeded away, ere the narrator could
tell but half the Legends that hover round his tomb.
There was that in his fate, which made his friends stand palzied with
horror, his very enemies shed tears for him. The contempt, which all
honorable men feel for one who undertakes the lacquey work of Treason,
and plays the part of a Spy, was lost in the unmeasured scorn which all
men felt for Benedict Arnold.
Behold the Legends that hover above the grave of Andre the Spy.
XVII.—JOHN CHAMPE.
A soft voluptuous light pervaded that luxurious chamber.
It was the night of November Second, 1780. The mansion was one
of the most magnificent in the New York of that day. It stood in a
garden, planted with vines and flowers. Near this garden a dark alley led
to the river.
The vines and flowers were withered now. The night was dark, and
the spacious mansion lay wrapt in shadow. There were dim shadowy
figures moving along the darkness of the alley. Yet from a single window,
through the closed curtains, the warm gleam of a light flashed over the
deserted garden.
In the centre of this chamber, stood a beautiful woman, her form clad in
a habit of black velvet, her dark hair laid plainly back from her clear
forehead.
As the light falls over that form—one hand laid upon the table, the
fingers touching a parchment—while the other clasps the bosom, heaving
through its dark vestment, let us gaze upon this beautiful woman, and ask
the cause of her lonely watch?
The chamber is elegantly furnished. The gorgeous carpet was woven
in a Turkish loom, the massive chairs are cushioned with crimson velvet,
the wainscot blooms with fruits and flowers, carved from the forest oak.
The lamp standing on the table, its warm light softened and refined by a
shade of clouded glass, is upheld by a sculptured figure of Apollo. The
hangings of dark crimson velvet depending along these windows, their folds
presenting masses of light and shade, are worthy the hall of a Prince.
In yonder corner from a shadowy niche, the marble form of the Medicean
Venus steals gently on you. Beautiful in its spotless whiteness, this image
of womanly loveliness, with the averted head, the gently bending form, the
half-raised hands steals softly on your eye, like a glimpse from Eden.
And the living woman, who stands by the table there, her tall form clad
in dark velvet, impresses you with her strange wild beauty, more than all
the statues in the world.
Do you mark the bosom heaving from its vestment? The alabaster of
that rounded neck, contrasted with the black velvet which encircles it?
The falling symmetry of the waist, contrasted with the ripe fulness of the
other part of her figure! The foot protruding from the folds of the habit,
small and delicate, cased in a satin slipper and beating with an impetuous
motion against the carpet?
The form bewilders you with its impetuous loveliness, but the face
startles you with the conflict of passions, impressed on every outline.
The bloom of the cheeks, the love of the warm lips, the melting softness
Yes, there is Despair written on that beautiful countenance, but Revenge
glares in the deadly fire of those dark eyes. The white brow is deformed
by a hideous wrinkle, that, black and swollen, swells upward to the roots
of the hair.
Who is this woman so pale in the face, so voluptuous in the form, now
waiting alone in this silent chamber?
Her hand rests upon a letter, inscribed with the name of—Benedict
Arnold.
That sword resting on the table, with the dented edge and battered hilt,
is the sword of Quebec and Saratoga.
The blue uniform thrown carelessly over the arm of the chair, is the
costume of a Continental hero. Wherefore are sword and uniform thrown
neglectedly aside, in this luxurious room?
It is the apartment of Benedict Arnold. He does not wield that sword,
or wear that uniform any longer. He is a Traitor, and makes his home
here in the city of New York, in this spacious mansion.
The sound of a bell disturbs the silence; it tolls the hour of twelve.
The beautiful woman is still there, her bosom fluttering with those
pulses of revenge, which resemble the throbbings of love, as the lurid torch
of the assassin resembles the soft sad light of the moon.
Presently raising her dark eyes, she unfastens the gold button that rises
with each throb of her heart. She uncovers that bosom, now the home of
hideous passion. She draws forth not a love-letter, nor yet the lock of a
lover's hair, but a glittering and pointed dagger.
Grasping that dagger with her small hand, while the lines of strange
emotion are drawn more darkly over her face, she speaks in a hollow
voice:
“If the plot fails, this must do the work of my love and my revenge!”
Then sinking in the arm-chair, this woman overcome by her emotion,
lets the dagger fall, and bursts into tears.
O, that agony of a heart that loved so truly, hoped so madly, and then
lived to see both love and hope turned to hatred and despair, by the hand
of death!
Is this the wife of Arnold? Gaze on her dark eyes and black hair, and
remember that the hair of the wife waves in flakes of sunshine gold, that
her eyes are summer blue. Is it his Ladye-love? The thought is vain.
Say rather, as you behold the bosom torn by fiery passions, the eyes darting
the magnetic rays of revenge, the dagger gleaming death from its keen
blade, that this lovely woman waiting alone in his most secret chamber, is
his Executioner!
You observe the chain, with its slender links of gold falling from the
neck, into the shadowy recess of her bosom. She raises the chain; a miniature
locks of dark brown hair.
“So young, so gallant, so brave! The last time he pressed my hand—
the last time his kiss melted on my lips! O, God, shall I ever forget it?
And—now—”
As the hideous picture broke in all its details upon her brain, she started
to her feet, grasping the dagger once more with a hand that knew no tremor.
She heard the sound of a footstep echoing from afar, through the corridors
of the mansion. Bending her head to one side, she listened, as her
lips parted and her eyes dilated.
She then approached the window. The rope-ladder which had gained
her admittance, was still confined beneath the sash. A dark object touched
her feet; it was her velvet mantle, concealing a precious relic of the dead,
the warrior costume of one loved and lost.
She shrouds herself within that voluminous curtain. Shrouded from the
light within, and the profane gaze without by this impenetrable veil, she
loosens the fastenings of her dress, while her bosom freed from those velvet
folds, soars more tumultuously upward. Another moment, and her
woman's costume flutters from her form. You hear a sob, a sigh, a muttered
word, and stepping from the curtain's shadow, this beautiful woman
comes once more toward the light, attired—
In the silken robes of a queen?
Or, in the majesty of her own loveliness?
No! She stands before us attired as a young and gallant cavalier.
From those white shoulders descends a red coat, with wide skirts and
facings of gold. The bosom is veiled beneath a vest of finest doe-skin,
which falls in loose folds around the waist. Cambric ruffles hide the whiteness
of the throat, while eacli elegantly moulded limb is encased in a warrior's
boot. Those dark tresses are covered with a gay chapeau, heavy
with lace and waving with plumes.
Beautiful in her woman's costume, but most bewitching as a gallant
cavalier!
You now gaze upon the movements of the disguised woman with deepening
interest.
She listens—the echo of that footstep grows near and near. Gazing on
the mahogony panels of the folding door, the lady sinks in the arm chair.
Her position is peculiar. The head bowed, the cheek laid on the hand,
the face averted, she awaits the approach of the Unknown, with statue-like
immovability.
As she sits there, with the light playing downward over her form—the
chapeau hiding her face in shadow—tell me, what strange resemblance chills
you with an involuntary horror?
This beautiful woman resembles—O, fearfully resembles—a young and
gallant cavalier, whose hand could write poetry, paint pictures or wield a
bounded in the dance.
But what young and gallant cavalier.
You dare not repeat his name! A sickening tragedy crowds on your
memory, as that name arises! The image of a handsome form, hidden
beneath clods of clay, the worms revelling over its brow, the taint of the
gibbet's rope about its neck!
How the heart of that woman beats, as she hears that foot!
“He comes!” she murmurs, still preserving that strange position—
“Murderer and Traitor, he comes! At the dead hour of midnight, to his
most secret chamber, he comes, to lay his plans of ambition and plot new
treasons! But here, in the silence of this room, where his guilty heart can
find no refuge from its remorse, here, placing his foot on yonder threshhold,
he will feel his blood curdle with horror, as he beholds, seated at his table,
waiting for him, the form of the murdered—John Andre!”
You will confess with me, that the revenge of this impetuous woman is
terrible.
“Arnold! That sight should blast you into madness!”
Nearer—nearer yet, the sound of that step is heard. The woman trembles.
There is a hand upon the door—she hears the step on its opposite
side. Still that statue-like position—still the endeavor to hide the anguish
of the heart, by laying one hand upon the swelling bosom.
The door opens. The disguised woman hears the footstep cross the
threshhold. Is it a warrior's footstep? Too light, two soft, too delicate!
She does not raise her head to look, but suddenly the sound of that stealthy
tread is lost in silence.
There, slightly advanced from the shadows of the threshhold, stands—
the appalled form of Benedict Arnold? No!
No! Would that it were! But there, disclosed by the light, stands a
young woman, her blooming form clad in a loose robe, her unfastened hair
drooping to her uncovered shoulders.
You see her blue eyes centred on the figure by the table. At that sight
the roses wither on her cheek—her bosom bounds from its slight covering.
Her uplifted arm, grasping a bed-room candle, is palzied—her lips slowly
part—unable to advance or retreat, she stands before you, a picture of unutterable
anguish.
At last she gathers courage to speak—to address the Phantom.
“Andre speak to me!” she gasps.
At that voice, the disguised woman feels her blood grow cold. Slightly
turning her face, she gazes on the woman with golden hair, between the
fingers of her right hand.
“Andre!” again the voice of the horror-stricken woman is heard—“You
come from the grave to haunt me! Speak—O, speak to me! Could I
grave so dishonored?”
The woman clad in the attire of John Andre slowly rises. She turns,
and flinging the chapean aside, confronts the—Wife of Arnold.
Yes, the lady-love of John Andre, confronts the wife of his Evil Genius,
Benedict Arnold.
You will remember that this Wife, when a blooming virgin, once in the
revelry of a Tournament, crowned John Andre with a chaplet of laurel and
roses, that she corresponded with him some months after her marriage,
that in her letters, the letters of Arnold to Sir Henry Clinton were enveloped,
that—perchance—from her girlhood memories,—perchance—from
deeper reasons—he was dear to her heart!
Therefore, you will understand, that this meeting in the secret chamber
of Arnold, was a strangely interesting scene.
The lady-love of the Spy—the Wife of the Traitor! Behold them survey
each other. The wife sweeps back her golden tresses from her brow,
as if to gaze more clearly upon the Disguised woman. The lady-love
stands erect, in her voluptuous beauty, a mocking smile upon her lip, a fiend-like
scorn in her dark eyes.
“Virginia De * * * * *!” exclaimed the Wife, breathing a name renowned
for virtue, wealth and beauty—“You here! In the chamber of —”
“I await your husband, madam!” replied the strange woman, laying her
hand upon the dagger, and a deadly light blazed from her dark eyes.
At this moment a sound is heard, like the raising of a window. A shadow
steals from the curtains, approaches the light, and you behold the form of a
Soldier, clad in scarlet uniform.
He surveys the two women, and unfastening his coat, reveals the blue
and buff Continental uniform. His features are concealed by a veil of dark
crape.
“Is all ready?” whispered the lady disguised in the attire of Andre;
“The Traitor is not yet come. But there, you behold his wife. It is well.
She shall behold his Punishment!”
And as the Wife shrank back appalled, there commenced in that lonely
chamber of Arnold, a scene of wild interest.
This, you will remember, was on the night of November Second, 1780.
Andre had been captured some forty-two days before, on the twenty-third
of September.
We will now reveal to you, a scene which took place but a few days
after his capture.
Alone in his marqué, on the heights of Tappan, sat General Washington,
his sword placed on the table, which was covered with piles of papers.
He was writing.—Not often was his face disturbed by emotion, but at
over the river—his entire form was shaken by a powerful agitation.
As the light streamed upon his face, his lips were compressed, his eye-brows
drawn downward, his eyes wet with moisture.
It was plainly to be seen, that the sense of a severe duty, to be performed
by him, was struggling with the softer feelings of his heart. Still he wrote
on. Still, combatting the writhings of his breast, he committed his thoughts
to paper.
Presently a shadow stood in the doorway of his tent.
Do you behold that form? That is one of the most renowned Knights
of the Revolution. Yes, this young man, whose slight form is clad in a
green coat, with pistols in his girdle, and a trooper's sword by his side, is
a true Knight, who loves danger as a brother, and plays with sword and
bayonet as though he thought Death itself a pastime.
His face is swarthy and freckled, his eyes, dark grey, and piercing as a
dagger's point. His frame is very slight, and yet you see in every outline
the traces of an iron will, a knightly daring.
Washington gazes upon him with pride, for that young man has played
sad tricks in his time, with the good soldiers of King George.
Sometimes, in the hour of battle, when the British thought the Rebels
altogether beaten, aye, when their legions drove the Continentals from the
field, like sheep before the wolf, this young man, would dart from the covert
of a thicket, and write his mark upon their faces. He came not alone, you
will remember. Eighty iron forms, mounted on sinewy steeds, were wont
to follow at his back, with eighty swords flashing above their heads. And
the way they came down upon the British, was beautiful to see, for each
trooper marked his man, and that mark always left a dead body beneath
the horse's hoofs.
There was not a soldier in the British army who did not know this
young man. He was so unmannerly!
They sometimes, after having plundered an American farm-house, and
murdered a few dozen farmers, would gather round a comfortable fire, for a
quiet meal. But then, the blaze of rifles would flash through the shutters,
the door would give way, and this Young Man, with his troopers, would
come in, rather rudely, and eat the meal which the British had prepared.—
You may be sure that he took good care of these red coat gentlemen, before
eating their supper.
Still he was a glorious young man! You should have seen him, on
some dark night, scouring a darker road, at the head of his men, and marching
some fifty miles without once pulling a bridle rein, so that he might
pay his regards to his dear friends, the British!
Then, how he crashed into their camp, making sweet music with his
eighty swords!
He loved the British so, that he was never happy, unless he was near
them.
Oftentimes, in the hour of battle, Washington would turn to La Fayette,
and pointing with his sword, far down the shadows of a defile, observe in a
quiet way—“The Major is yonder! Do you see him, at the head of
his men? Ah, General, it does one's heart good to see him pour down
upon the enemy, when they think he is a hundred miles away!”
His men loved their captain dearly. It mattered not how dark the night,
or how tired with the previous day's toil, or how starved they were, let the
Major once whisper—“There is work for us, my friends!” and ere five
minutes passed, eighty horses bore eighty men on their way, while the
stars played with the blades of eighty swords.
And as the Men of that hero-band loved their captain, so the horses loved
the men,—That man who does not love his horse, even as a comrade, is no
warrior.—Gathered like the Men from the beautiful hills of Carolina, these
horses always seemed to know that a battle was near, and when it came
dashed with erect heads, firm front, and quivering nostrils, on the foe.
Even when the bullet or the cannon ball, pierced their smooth flanks,
these horses would crawl on while life lasted, and with their teeth tear the
horses of the enemy.
Why all these words to describe the chivalry of this hero-band?
You may compress courage, honor and glory in three words—The
Legion of Lee!
Aye, the Legion of Lee, for it was their Captain, who now stood uncovered
in the presence of Washington.
“Major,” said Washington, pointing with his right arm, through the
door of the tent. “Look yonder!”
The Major turned and looked—not upon the beautiful Hudson, nor the
mountains—but upon a small stone house, which arose from the bosom of
the sward.
The Major understood the extended finger and look of Washington.—In
that stone house, John Andre was a prisoner. Taken as a Spy, he would
be hung on a felon's gibbet.—
“Is there no way to save him?” said Lee, in a voice that quivered with
emotion.
“There is,” said Washington, “I depends upon you to save him, and
at the same time, save the honor of an American General!”
Lee started with surprise.
“On me?” he echoed.
“You behold these papers? Intercepted despatches of the enemy, which
implicate one of our bravest general's in the treason of Arnold?”
Lee glanced over the papers and suffered an ejaculation of surprise to
pass his lips.
“Andre has your sympathies—” said Washington—“So young, so
unless a certain thing can be accomplished, he must die. Not even the
death of a soldier will be awarded him, but the death of a common felon.
You can save him, Major Lee! You can rescue the name of this General
from the taint of Treason!”
And thus speaking, that Deliverer Washington, turned the eloquence of
his face and eyes full upon Major Lee.
Never had the Knight of the Legion beheld his Chief so powerfully
agitated.
Lee trembled to see this great man—always so calm and impenetrable—
now affected almost to tears.
“General, speak the word and I will do it!” exclaimed the Partizan,
sharing the emotion of Washington.
The Chief reveals his plan. Why is it, that Lee turns pale and red by
turns, knits his brows and clenches his hands, and at last falters a refusal?
But Washington will not be denied. Again with his face and voice all
eloquent, with deep emotion, he urges the enterprise.
“Andre must die unless you consent. There is no hope for him! Every
one pities, every one confesses the justice of his doom! What have I
neglected, to save his life? No sooner was his capture known to me, than
I despatched a Special messenger to Congress. I asked the counsel of my
Generals. I questioned my own heart, I besought guidance from my God!
Behold the result! My Generals weep for him, but condemn. Congress
confirms that sentence. The struggle of my own soul, and my prayers to
Heaven, have one result. This young man must pay the penalty of his
crime, and die a felon's death!”
Washington passed his hand over his brow, as with every feature quivering
with emotion, he surveyed the face of Lee.
“And all this you may avert! You—Lee—whom I have never known
to falter—may save the life of Andre!”
How could Major Lee refuse? To stand and hear Washington, with
tears in his eyes, beseech him to save the life of Andre!
“General, I consent!” he said, in a voice husky with emotion. Washington
wrung his hand, with a grasp that made Lee's heart bound within
him.
The camp of Lee's Legion was pitched near the roadside, in the shadows
of a secluded dell. Their white tents were constrasted with the dark rocks
all around. The music of a brook rippled on the silence of the air. From
afar, the broad river flashed in the light of the stars.
In the centre of the encampment arose the tent of Henry Lee. The
furniture of that tent was by no means luxurious. A chest, on which a
flickering candle was placed—a narrow bed—a military cloak—a sword and
pair of pistols.
Lee was seated on the bed, with his head placed between his hands.
But a half an hour ago, he had conversed with Washington, and now, he
was to hold a similar conversation with one of the bravest men of his iron band.
There was the sound of a heavy footstep, and that man stood before him.
It must be confessed, that he looked the Soldier in every inch of his form.
Imagine a man of some twenty-four years, somewhat above the common
size, with a bronzed visage, a form full of bone and muscle, and the air of a
soldier, whom danger could only delight. He was attired in a green
trooper's coat, breeches of buckskin, and long boots of dark leather. A pair
of pistols hung from one side of his belt; a long and ponderous sword from
the other.
He stood before Lee, with his heavy steel helmet faced with fur, in his
right hand.
The Major surveyed him for a moment with a look of admiration, and
then stated the desperate enterprize in all its details.
The brave man trembled, shuddered, and grew pale, as he heard the
words of his commander. Yes, Sergeant John Champe,—an iron man,
who had never known fear—now felt afraid.
No words can depict the agony of that half hour's interview.
At last, as Lee bent forward, exclaiming, “Would you save the life of
Andre?” Champe hurried from the tent.
From a nook among the bushes he led forth his steed. While the helmet,
drawn over his brows, shadowed the emotion of his swarthy visage
from the light of the rising moon, he silently flung his cloak over the back
of the horse, tied his valise to the saddle, and placed his orderly book within
the breast of his coat.
These preparations all betokened the stern composure of a mind bent
on a desperate deed.
In silence he led the horse along the sward, under the shadow of the
thicket. At last, emerging into the light, where two high rocks, overlooking
the road, raised their brows in the beams of the moon, he placed his
hand on the saddle, and laid his face against the neck of his steed. His
emotions were dark and bitter.
The beauty of that horse's proportions was revealed in the calm, clear
light. His hue was dark as ink. A single star on the forehead varied the
midnight blackness of his hide. A small head, a sinewy body, supported
by light and elastic limbs, a long mane and waving tail, an eye that softened
as it met it's master, or glared terribly in the hour of battle—such was the
horse of John Champe, the renowned Sergeant Major of Lee's Legion.
That horse had been given to him in 1776, by the old man, his father.
Before the door of his home, in a green valley of Loudon county, Virginia,
the white-haired patriot had bestowed this parting gift to his son.
“John, I bid you good bye with a single word! When you fight, strike
with all your might—and never let this horse bear you from the foe!”
And now this Son, blessed by his Patriot Father, was about to turn the
horse's head toward the British Camp, the soldier, praised by Washington
and loved by Lee, was about to turn—Deserter!
He had never groaned in battle, but now he uttered a cry of anguish, as
he thought of that fatal word!
“You have borne me many a time, old Powhatan, into the ranks of the
foe! Now—now—you must bear me to New York—you must carry the
Deserter into the enemy's camp! Come—we have many miles to travel—
many dangers to dare!”
This horse,—known by his master as Powhatan—after the Indian king
—raised his head, and with quivering nostrils, uttered a long and piercing
neigh. He thought that he was about to bear his master to battle! What
knew he of that word of scorn—Deserter?
As Champe stood beside his steed, wrapped in deep thought, a mass of
dark clouds, that had been gathering on the mountain tops, came rolling
over the moon. From an aperture in the black mass, a parting ray of
moonlight streamed down upon the soldier and his steed.
All around was dark, yet that picture stood out from the back-ground of
rocks, in strong light—the mounted soldier, his horse starting forward, as
he raised his hand to heaven, with the moonbeams on his writhing face!
The horse moved onward! Champe passed the boundary of the camp,
and dashed along the road. The thunder growled and the rain fell. Still
down into the shadows of the road. On the corner of a projecting rock,
stood a Patrole of Lee's band, his horse by his side. A challenge—Who
goes there? No answer! The crack of a rifle!
The button is torn from the breast of his coat, yet still Champe the
Deserter dashes on.
The rain fell in large drops, sinking heavily into the roadside dust. From
afar, the thunder moaned, its sound resembling the echo of huge rocks, precipitated
from an immense height over an inclined plane of brass.
Ere half an hour passed, Captain Carnes, a brave and somewhat sanguinary
officer, rushed into Lee's tent, with a pale face and scowling brow.
Lee was on his couch, but not asleep.
“Major, a soldier has just passed the patrole, and taken the road to the
enemy!”
“What?” cried the Partizan, with an incredulous smile—“A trooper of
Lee's Legion turn Deserter? Impossible!”
“Not only a trooper of the Legion,” cried the indignant Captain, “But
John Champe, the bravest of the band!”
“John Champe desert? By Jove, Major, you must be dreaming!” And
Lee turned himself to sleep again.
But the Captain would not be denied. Again with many an oath and
exclamation of contempt, as he named the Sergeant, he stated on his honor,
city of New York.
Lee heard this information with deep emotion. He could not believe that
Champe would desert. The idea was ridiculous; some mistake had happened;
he wished to sleep, for he was fatigued with his ride to head-quarters;
in fact, half an hour passed before Captain Carnes could impress the
Partizan with the fact, that one of his bravest men had gone over to the
British.
At last Lee arose, and sent for Cornet Middleton, a man of stout frame,
with a ruddy face with light brown hair. He was noted for the mildness
of his temper, while Carnes was fierce to cruelty.
“Cornet, it appears that Sergeant Champe has taken the road to Paulus
Hook. Take with you twenty dragoons and pursue him. Bring him
alive—” his face quivered in every feature as he spoke—“so that he may
suffer in presence of the army! Kill him if he resists!—” Every nerve
of his form trembled with an emotion, the cause of which was unknown
to the bystanders—“Aye, kill him if he resists, or escapes after being
taken!”
Lee was now alive in every vein. So anxious was he, that the Deserter
should be taken, that he spent another half hour in giving the Cornet directions
with regard to the pursuit.
At a few minutes past twelve, Henry Lee, standing near the door of his
tent, beheld the Cornet and his Dragoons gallop forward, their swords glittering
in the light.
As the last man disappeared, Lee entered his tent and flung himself upon
the couch.
He passed that night like a man under sentence of death.
All the mildness of his nature turned to gall, by this flagrant act of
Treachery on the part of one so renowned as Champe, the Cornet dashed
along the road, at the head of his men. Every lip was clenched, every
brow wore a scowl. Woe! to the Deserter if he encounters these iron
men, his pursuers and executioners!
They hurried on, pausing now and then in their career, to examine the
print of hoofs, stamped in the dust of the road. The moon came out and
revealed these traces of the traitor's career. The horse-shoes of the Legion
were impressed with a peculiar mark. The recent rain settling the
dust, left each foot-print clear and distinct. There was no doubt of success;
they were on the track of the Deserter.
Their swords clattering, the sound of their horses' hoofs echoing through
the wood, they dashed on, eager for the blood of this man, who lately
shared their mess, and fought among their bravest.
It was at the break of day that the most exciting scene took place.
Some miles to the north of the village of Bergen, arose a high hill, commanding
a view of the road far to the south.
Cornet Middleton, riding at the head of his men, led the way up the hill;
a wild hurrah broke from his band.
Half a mile to the south, they beheld the black horse, his sides whitened
with foam; they beheld the Deserter, with his head turned over his shoulder.
He saw them come, he knew his doom if taken, so, digging the rowels
into the flanks of his steed, he bounded away.
It was a splendid sight to see the troopers thundering down one hill,
while Champe—alone, desperate, the object of their vengeance—excited his
horse to unnatural efforts of speed, in ascending the opposite hill.
He gained the summit, looked back, uttered a hurrah in scorn, and was
gone.
On the brow of this hill, by the roadside, arose the hotel of the Three
Pidgeons.
The Cornet reined his steed in full career:
“Beyond the village of Bergen, the high road crosses a bridge, which
the deserter must cross in order to reach Paulus Hook. You see this bye-road
on your left? Sergeant Thomas, you will take four dragoons, and
gain this bridge by the short-cut—conceal yourselves—and wait the approach
of the traitor—while we drive him into the ambush, by pursuing the
high road!”
You see the veteran Thomas—whose face bears the marks of battles
fought amid the snows of Canada, under the sun of Carolina—with four
dragoons dash into the shadows of the bye-path, while the Cornet hurries
on in the high road. The capture of the deserter is now certain.
The road-side tavern is soon left behind. Cornet Middleton, his face
flushed with the fever of pursuit, his eye fired with the ardor of the chase,
points the way with his sword, speaks to his horse and at the head of his
band thunders on.
For a moment they lose sight of the chase. He—the Deserter, the
Traitor—is lost to view behind those trees, on the summit of yonder hill.
Now he bursts into light again, urging his black horse to desperate feats:
they see him bending forward, they see the noble steed dash on with the
speed of a hurled javelin, while the white foam gathers on his neck and
bathes his flanks.
“On, my comrades! We must secure this villain, or be disgraced!
Only think of it—one of Lee's legion a deserter! The honor of the corps
is at stake! Ha—ha—we gain on him, we will have him, aye, before the
day is an hour older! There he is again—you see his horse is tired, he
seems about to fall! On—on my boys! Through the village of Bergen,
we will drive him toward the Bridge, and there, ho, ho! The fox is
caught—we'll be in at the death!”
The music of those rattling bridles, those clanking scabbards, those hoofs
compressed lips, those eyes glaring from beneath the steel frontlet of each
trooper's helm, did not indicate much mercy for the Deserter.
But a quarter of a mile in front, Champe looked over his shoulder, and
saw them come! Now is the time to try the mettle of Powhatan! Now
—if you do not love the gibbet's rope—make one bold effort and secure
your neck, by gaining Paulus Hook!
Champe saw them come. His dark face assumed a ferocious expression,
his eyes shone with a wild intensity.
“On—on—Powhatan!” he muttered, while the blood and foam streamed
down the flanks of his steed.
Like the limb of a tree, rent by the hurricane and hurled along the
darkened air, Champe dashed into the old town of Bergen, and was lost to
view, among the shadows of its rustic homes.
Close at his heels followed Middleton, marking the traces of his horse's
hoofs, winding where he had wound, turning where he had turned—while
the dragoons at his back, preserving a death-like silence, began to feel that
the crisis of the chase was near.
Suddenly they lose all traces of the Deserter's course. Amid these
streets and lanes he has doubled, until the foot-tracks of his horse are no
longer discernable.
“Never mind, my boys! He has taken the road to Paulus Hook—to
the bridge, to the bridge!”
“To the bridge!” responded the sixteen troopers, and away they
dashed.
It was a fine old bridge of massive rocks and huge timbers, with the
waves roaring below, and forest trees all about it. The red earth of the
road was contrasted with autumn-dyed forest leaves above.
They turn the bend of the road, they behold the bridge. Yes, they
have him now, for yonder, reined in the centre of the road, are the bold
Sergeant and his comrades. Near and nearer draws Middleton and his
band.
Leaning over the neck of his steed, he shouts:
“You have him, Sergeant? Yes, I knew it! He plunged blind-fold
into the trap!”
The Sergeant waves his sword and shouts, but they cannot distinguish
his words.
Still on in their career, until with one sudden movement they wheel their
steeds upon the bridge.
“The prisoner—where is he?” thunder sixteen voices in chorus.
“He is not here. We waited for him but he came not this way—”
growled the old Sergeant.
With a burst of cries and oaths, the whole band wheel, and hasten back
to the village. In a moment dispersed through all the streets, they search
saw him pass—a solitary man, with despair on his face, urging his
steed with spur and bridle-rein—but cannot tell the way he has gone.
The search is tumultuous, hurried, intensely interesting. At last a
trooper's cry is heard—
“Here he is! I've found his track!”
And ere the word has passed from his lips, another trooper points with
his sword—
“Yonder, look yonder! On the road to Elizabeth Town Point, he
rides! Ah—he has tricked us! Foiled in his purpose to gain Paulus
Hook, he is determined to make at once for the Bay, and take refuge
a-board the British galleys!”
And there on the road to the Point, they beheld their chase. He must
gain the shore of the bay, swim to the British galleys or be taken! It is
his last hope.
But three hundred yards of beaten road, separates the pursuers and pursued.
Only that space of red earth, between John Champe and the Gallows!
Let his brave steed but miss his footing, or stumble for an instant,
and he is a doomed man.
It was terrific to see the manner in which they dashed after him, every
horse nerved to his utmost speed. As the troopers dug the rowels into the
flanks of their steeds, they drew their pistols.
John Champe felt that the crisis of his fate was near. Patting gently on
the neck of his brave horse, whispering encouragement to him in a low
tone, he looked back and felt his heart bound. His pursuers had gained
fifty yards—were rapidly nearing him!
As this fact became evident, the river, the city, and the bay broke upon
his view! A beautiful city, that thrones itself amid glorious waters—a
noble river rushing from its mountain fortress, to make battle with the sea
—a lordly bay, that rolls its waters from island to island, reflecting on
every wave, the blue autumnal sky, the uprising sun.
It was a beautiful sight, but John Champe had no time, no eye for beautiful
sights just now. The only beauty that met his eye, was the vision of
the British Galleys, rising and falling upon the waves, within pistol-shot of
shore. The fresh breeze played with the British flag, and tossed it gaily
to and fro.
John beheld the galleys, the flag, and knew the moment of his fate had
come.
Let us look upon him now, as three hundred yards lie between him and
the shore, while his pursuers are within two hundred yards of his horse's
heels.
He looked back, every vein of his face swollen, his eyes starting from
the expanded lids. He counted the number of his pursuers. Twenty
men, twenty horses, twenty swords, twenty levelled pistols! He could see
rage, their horses with quivering nostrils, were there clearly and distinctly,
in the light of the new-risen day.
But two hundred yards between him and death!
“Yield!” shouted Cornet Middleton, whose white horse led the way—
“Yield, or you die!”
Champe turned and smiled. They could see his white teeth, contrasted
with his sun-burnt face. That laugh of scorn fired their blood. Without a
shout, without an oath, they crashed along the road.
The movements of Champe were somewhat peculiar.
Even in that moment of awful suspense, he took his valise and lashed it
to his shoulders. Then, rising magnificently in his stirrups, he flung away
his scabbard, placed the sword between his teeth, and threw his arms on
high, grasping a pistol in each hand.
“Now, come on! Come—and do your worst!” he said in a voice,
which low-toned and deep, was yet heard, above the clatter of horse's
hoofs.
Even now I see him, yes, between the troopers and the uprising sun!
That hunted man, mounted on a steed, which black as death, moistens
the dust, with the foam, that falls in flakes from its sides, that miserable
deserter, rising erect in his stirrups, the sword between his teeth, a pistol
in each hand!
“Powhatan, save your master! If I fall, may God pity my mother—
my poor father! A Deserter, rushing to the shelter of the British flag!
Help! Help! I come to seek the protection of the King!”
A blue smoke, wound upward from the deck of each galley—a report
like thunder startled the air.
And while the decks, were crowded with spectators, while the pursuers,
thundered nearer to the shore, every pistol, emitting a volume of smoke
and flame, that lonely man on his black horse, held on his dread career.
It was a moment of fearful interest.
That same day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a wild hurrah, disturbed
the silence of Lee's encampment.
Lee, sitting alone, his whole frame, shaken by some indefinable emotion,
heard that hurrah, and started to his feet. Rushing hurridly to the door of
his tent, he beheld a group of draggons, dismounted, surrounding a band of
mounted men, whose trappings were covered with dust.
In the midst of this band, a riderless steed, with a cloak, thrown over
the saddle, was led along, exciting the attention of every eye.
Cornet Middleton and his band had returned. That horse, was the steed
of John Champe, the gallant Powhatan.
“Joy, Major—good news!” cried a trooper rushing forward—“The
troop have come back! The scoundrel's killed!”
Lee was a brave man, but at that word—as the sight of the riderless
horse, met his eye—a sudden faintness came over him. He grasped the
tent-pole, and grew very pale.
“Killed did you say?” he cried in a tone of wringing emphasis—
“Champe killed? My God, it cannot—cannot be true!”
The trooper was thunder-stricken, with astonishment, as he beheld, the
sorrow painted on the Major's face. Sorrow for a traitor, grief for the
death of a—deserter!
Let us return to the chase.
It was the crisis of the Deserter's fate.
A pistol bullet, tore a button from his breast, as he reached the bank.
His pursuers were not fifty yards behind him.
As his noble horse, stood trembling on the shore, recoiling on his
haunches, while the sweat and foam, streamed down his sides, Champe
turned his head to his pursuers—beheld them come on—saw their pistols
levelled once more—and in a moment was wrapt in a cloud of smoke.
When that cloud cleared away, a riderless horse, dashed wildly along the
bank. Is he killed? The eyes of the British on the galley-decks, the
glances of the troopers, who scatter along the shore, all search for the corse
of the traitor.
From the shore, for fifty yards or more, extends a dreary march of reeds.
You see their tops wave, as though a serpent was trailing its way over the
oozy mud, you see a head upraised, and then the sound of a heavy body,
falling into the water is heard.
Look once again, and look beyond the marsh, and see that head, rising
above the waves, those arms dashing the spray on either side.
It is John Champe, swimming with sword in his teeth, towards the
nearest galley.
Middleton and his troopers, gaze upon him, from the bank, in dismay,
while the Commander of the galley, surrounded by sailors and soldiers,
encourages the deserter with shouts.
An old trooper of the Legion kneels. He carries a rifle—a delicate
piece, with stock mounted in silver—at his back, suspended by a leather
strap. He unslings it, examines the lock, takes the aim. Old Holford,
has been in the Indian wars; he can snuff a candle at a hundred yards.
Therefore you may imagine, the deep interest, with which the other troopers
regarded him, as raising the rifle, he levelled it, at the head, appearing
above the waters.
John Champe may look his last upon God's beautiful sky!
Yes, as the sword in his teeth, gleams in the sun, Old Holford fires. At
the same instant a heavy volume of smoke and flame, rolls from the
galleys; certain missiles make an unpleasant hissing over the trooper's
heads.
When the smoke rolls away, the troopers look for the corse of the
doomed man, writhing its last, ere it sinks forever.
But the Commander of the Galley, reaching forth his arm, grasps the
hand of John Champe—whose cheek bleeds from the touch of a bullet—
and assists him to reach the deck.
The sword still between his teeth, his cheek slightly bleeding, his uniform
dripping with spray. John Champe, with a pistol in each hand,
gazes calmly over the waters. After that composed look he hails his late
comrades with these words.—
“Good bye my boys! Take care of Powhatan and d'ye hear? Present
my respects to Washington and Lee!”
—From a multitude of expressions, uttered by the troopers on the bank,
we select a single one, which fell from the lips of old Holford:
“I'm a scoundrel,” he said, doggedly, slinging his rifle—“You're a
scoundrel”—to a comrade—“and you, and you, and you! There's nobody
honest in the world after to day. We're all scoundrels. I dont trust
myself. Do you axe why? Yesterday, the best of our Legion, and the
bravest was John Champe. To day—look yonder, and see, John Champe
aboard a British galley! Why I would not trust my own father, after that!”
In silence the band, returned their steps to camp, leading the riderless
steed by the bridle rein. Lee, soon, discovered the falsity of the
rumor, which announced the Deserter's death. Cornet Middleton, with
his handsome face, covered with chagrin, told the whole story, and in terms
of sincere anguish, regretted, that he had not pistolled the Deserter, and
cursed the hour when he escaped.
To the utter confusion of the good cornet, Major Henry Lee, burst into
a roar of laughter.
He took horse, without delay, and riding to head quarters told the story
to the Chieftain, who heard it, with a countenance, beaming with smiles.
Though Champe has basely deserted the cause of freedom, his future
history, is fraught with interest.
Behold him, standing before Sir Henry Clinton, who delighted to receive
a deserter from the famed corps of Lee, questions him, with an almost ridiculous
minuteness. Yet, the rough soldier, answers all Sir Henry's
questions, and satisfies him, on various important points. The army were
tired of Washington. Other Generals were preparing to follow the example
of Arnold. Neither discipline, nor patriotism could keep the Mob of Mister
Washington together much longer. The good Sir Henry, was
delighted with the information, and laughed till his fat sides shook, and
gave John Champe three golden guineas.
The fourth day, after the desertion, Lee received a letter, by the hands
of a secret messenger, signed, John Champe. What did the recreant desire?
A pardon, perchance?
On the 30th of September, Champe, was appointed one of Arnold's recruiting
sergeants. The traitor Sergeant and the traitor General, were thus
brought together. That scarlet costume, which they had so often rent and
hacked in battle, was now their uniform.
Every day, or so, a secret messenger, in New York, forwarded to Lee,
certain letters, signed by Champe. Perhaps, he repented of his treason?
Or, did he wish to impart information, that might prove the ruin of Washington?
What was the Deserter's object?
Behold him now, an efficient soldier of Arnold's American Legion,
dressed in a red uniform, and doing the work of a Briton. Did he never
think of the old man, even his father, who had bestowed upon him, the
noble horse, Powhatan?
At this time, there was not a home on New York, but morning, noon
and night, rung with the name of John Andre.
Would Washington dare to execute him? Had Sir Henry Clinton
spared one exertion to save the life of his favorite? What would be Arnold's
course, in case Andre was put to death as a spy?
These questions were often asked, often answered; but on the evening
of the Second of October, a rumor came to town, which filled every heart
with joy.
Andre was to be set free.
At midnight, on the Third of October, a brilliant company thronged the
lighted halls of an Aristocrat, who was pledged to the cause of “Our Blessed
King.”
The soft light of the chandeliers streamed over the half-bared bosoms of
some two hundred beautiful women. Their forms fluttering in silks and
laces, their necks circled by pearls and jewels, these beautiful dames went
bounding in the dance. And the same light that revealed the lovely women,
and disclosed the statues, pictures, hangings and ornaments of those brilliant
saloons, also shone over groups of British officers, young and old, who
mingled with the fair Americans, or stood in the deep-framed windows,
talking in low, earnest tones of the fate of John Andre.
On a luxurious divan, cushioned with dark crimson velvet, with a statue
of the good King George forming the centre, Sir Henry Clinton reclined,
surrounded by a crowd of officers, mingled with beautiful women.
Among those women, there was only one who did not wear the tall
head-gear, in fashion at that time; a sort of tower, that ladies had agreed
to carry on their brows, as an elephant carries a castle on his back.
She stood apart, while in front of her chattered a bevy of beauties, whose
cheeks, rendered surpassingly white by the contrast of patches, were relieved
by their intricately arranged hair.
Her dark locks gathered plainly back from her brow, fell behind the
small ears in glossy tresses. The other ladies were clad with a profusion
of her dark eyes, so melting in the warm ripeness of her lips, in the voluptuous
fullness of the bosom, stands alone, clad in a white dress that eminently
becomes the beauty of her commanding person.
This is the Heiress of the Aristocrat who gives the festival to-night.
Do you see her eyes flash, her bosom heave, as those ladies converse
with Sir Henry Clinton?
“Do you think indeed, Sir Henry,” lisps a fair haired beauty, “that
Major Andre will be set free by that odious Washington?”
“I have no doubt that we will be able to snatch him from the ogre's
grasp,” replies Sir Henry, with a smile, “But to speak seriously, the intelligence
received last night, sets my mind at rest. Andre will be with us in
a day or so!”
A murmur of satisfaction thrills through the group.
The Heiress feels her heart bound more freely: glancing towards a large
mirror she beholds the roses blooming once more upon her cheek.
“Andre will be free in a day or so!” she murmurs, and suffers a gallant
officer to lead her forward in the dance.
Presently the wide floor—chalked like the mazes of a puzzling garden,
is thronged with dancers. Such a fluttering of pretty feet over the boards,
that bound as they seem to feel the value of that beauty which they sustain!
Such a glancing of fair necks and white arms in the light. Music too, filling
the air, and making heart and feet and eyes, go leaping together.
The floor is crowded with dancers; Sir Henry Clinton smiles with delight
as he surveys the beautiful prospect.
And among all the dangers, that ONE, with the dark hair and brilliant
eyes, and voluptuous form, clad in white, most attracts the eye of Sir
Henry, for John Andre had kissed her hand, his arm has encircled her
waist, his lips felt the magic of her rosy mouth.
Presently an officer is seen treading his way through the mazes of the
dance. Strange to say, he is not clad in ball costume. He appears in boots
spattered with mud, while his hard-featured face seeks the form of Sir
Henry with earnest eyes. He comes through the dancers and whispers to
Sir Henry Clinton, who says never a word, but hides his face in his
hands.
I cannot tell how it was, but assuredly, the presence of that officer, with
the hard-featured face and spattered boots, spread a chill through the room.
One by one the couples left the dance: a circle, gradually deepening
was formed around Sir Henry: at last, the Heiress and her partner were
left alone in the centre of the room, pacing a solemn minuet, while her eyes
and cheeks and lips smiled in chorus. She was entirely happy: for she
conversed with her partner about John Andre.
Presently she observed the circle gathered about the British General.
She turned her gaze and beheld every feature clouded in sorrow. She heard
the divan, from whose centre arose the statue of the King.
The Heiress turned to ask the cause of this strange gloom, which had so
suddenly possessed the place, when a little girl, not more than six years
old, came running to her, spreading forth her tiny hands, and in one breath
she called the beautiful woman by name, and —
—Spoke a fatal truth, that had just broken on her ears.
John Andre was dead. He had been hung that day, about the hour
of noon.
The shriek that thrilled through that lighted hall, stopped every heart in
its throbbings.
One shriek, and one only: the Heiress fell, her hair showering about her
as she lay senseless on the floor.
So you may have seen a blossoming tree, which has long swayed to and
fro beneath the blast, suddenly tower erect, each leaf quivering gently, and
then—torn up by the roots—precipitate itself in ruins on the ground.
At the same hour, Benedict Arnold was writing in his most secret chamber,
while his brother-traitor, John Champe, waited near his chair.
The shaded lamp spread a circle over Arnold's face and hand, while all
around was twilight. Champe stood in the shadow behind the back of
Arnold, his dark visage working with a peculiar expression.
Arnold was just writing these words, when the door opened —
`If this warning shall be disregarded, and he suffer, I call Heaven
and earth to witness, that your Excellency will be justly anwerable
for the torrent of blood that may be spilt in consequence.'
“Let them put Andre to death, if they dare! Thus I wrote to Washington
yesterday, and now I write it again, so that my soul may never forget
these words! If Andre perishes —”
As Arnold spoke, the door opened and a Soldier entered the room—
“General, Major Andre was put to death at noon to-day!”
Arnold gazed in the face of the Soldier, with a look of vacant astonishment.
“You spoke, I believe? The next time you intrude upon my privacy,
I will thank you to use a little more formality!”
“Excuse me, General, but this news has set us all a kind o' topsy-turvy!”
“News? What news?”
“Major Andre was hung to-day at noon.”
Arnold did not speak for five minutes. For that space of time, he sat in
the chair, with his eyes fixed on the paper, but in truth he saw nothing. A
hazy vapor swam before his sight, the sound of bells was in his ears. When
he saw clearly again, the stupified soldier stood in the doorway, gazing upon
the general in awe, for the agitation of that iron face was horrible to behold.
“How did he die?—” His voice was hoarse; he spoke with a great effort.
“By the rope,—at noon—Washington wouldn't allow him to be shot.”
As the Traitor turned he beheld Champe, seated on a military chest, his
frame writhing in agony, while his swarthy face was bathed in tears.
“I thought you were a man—a soldier! Why, you weep like a child—”
Arnold spoke in scorn, but took good care to keep his own eyes from the light.
“Andre—” was all that Champe could gasp.
Arnold paced the room, now folding his arms, now clenching his hands,
now uttering in a low voice, horrible blasphemies.
“Champe—” he said, abruptly pausing, as his distorted countenance
glowed in the light—“They have known me in the Wilderness—yes, at
Quebec—at Saratoga; my sword has been tried, and it has crimsoned its
blade in victory! Now—by—” he muttered a horrible oath, “they shall
know that sword once more, know it as the instrument of vengeance—aye,
they shall know it as the Avenger of John Andre!”
Terrified, as though he beheld a fiend instead of a man, Champe slowly
rose to his feet.
“By the light of their desolate homes, I will offer victims to the ghost
of Andre! Take care, Washington! Your towns will blaze! Take
care—the Traitor Arnold will stand amid heaps of dead bodies, shouting as
he plunges his sword into your soldiers' hearts, This and This for John
Andre! Traitor—I accept the name—I will wear it! From his hour,
every tie that bound me to this soil, is torn from my heart! From this
hour, in camp and council—by my wrongs, by the death of Andre I swear
it—I stand the Destroyer of my native land!”
He turned to Champe, who shrank back from the blaze of his maddened
eyes.
“You loved Andre? Then join swords, and swear with me to avenge
his death! Swear to have vengeance upon his Murderer!”
“I swear to have vengeance upon the Murderer of John Andre!” said
Champe, with a meaning emphasis.
Arnold stood erect, one hand laid upon his sword, while the other uplifted
in the awful formality of an oath, attested the deep sincerity of his
resolve.
This was on the night of October Third, 1780.
In the space of time between this night, and midnight of November Second,
the current of John Champe's life flowed smoothly on, scarcely
marked by the ripple of an event.
It was however observable, that in the intervals of his time, he was wont
to visit the secret messenger, who had conveyed his previous letters to Lee.
On the 19th of October, he despatched another message to his former
Commander. Still his object is shrouded in mystery. What mean these
communications sent by a Deserter from the cause of freedom, to a renowned
Champion of that cause?
One, whose years are scarce beyond girlhood, stands as if paralyzed; her
uplifted hand grasping a taper, while the light reveals her form, attired in a
white robe whose loose folds disclose her bosom—so pure and stainless—
her small feet and bared arms.
The hair which falls along her cheeks and over her neck and breast, in
hue resembles the first mild sunshine of a summer's day.
The other, rising in queenly stature, her form—more round, more voluptuous,
more commanding in its outlines—attired in the scarlet coat of a
British officer, with cambric ruffles fluttering over the virgin breast, military
boots enveloping the finely formed foot and limb. Her hair showers to her
shoulders, in dark masses. Her face—whose faint olive tint deepens on
the warm lips and rounded cheek into bright vermillion—is marked with
the lines of conflicting passions.
Her full dark eye pours its light upon the clear blue eye of the woman,
who shrinks back from her gaze.
“You here! In the chamber of my husband!” faltered the Wife—“In
this guise, too —”
“Here, in the dress of John Andre! Here to welcome Benedict Arnold,
in the garb of his victim! Here, to award justice to the Double Traitor!”
The strange lady folded her arms, as if to still the throbbings of her
breast. The Wife stood like one fascinated by a serpent's gaze.
“Do you remember the days of your girlhood, Madam, when the threshhold
of your home was crossed by a young soldier, who won all hearts by
his knightly bearing? Do you remember him so young, so brave? His
heart warmed with all that is noble in man, the light of genius flashing
from his hazel eye?”
“O, do not—do not speak of these memories—” gasped the wife of
Arnold.
“But I will speak, and you must hear!” was the reply of the proud
maiden, with the dark eye and scornful lips—“You do remember him?
Every body loved him. You can witness that! For you saw him in his
young manhood—you surrendered your waist to his arm in the dance—you
heard that voice, which was at once Music and Poetry! O, do you remember
it all?”
The wife stood like a figure of marble, her blue eyes dilating, her lips
parting in an expression of speechless horror.
“Where now is this gallant soldier? Where now the Hero, whose
sword flashed so fearlessly in the hour of battle?—Wife of Arnold, ask
your heart—nay, go to the river shore, and ask the sod of that lonely grave!
Yes, the hand that pressed yours in the dance, is now the food of the
grave-worm! The eye that gleamed so brightly, when your hand dropped
the crown of roses and laurel on the plumed brow, is dark forever!”
The Wife of Arnold sank on her knees.
“Spare me!” she cried, lifting her ashy face toward that beautiful woman,
words—”
“How died he, the young, the gifted, the brave?”—You see that eye
dart an almost demoniac fire—“Perchance in battle at the head of legions,
his good steed beneath him, his true sword in hand? Yes, charging into
the thickest of the fight, he fell, his last smile glowing in the sunshine of
victory! Or, maybe he perished in some midnight massacre, perished in
the act of an heroic defence? No—no—no! There was no sword in his
hand when he died. He died—O, does it wring your heart—with the rope
about his neck, the vacant air beneath his feet. Beguiled into the lines of
an enemy by a Traitor, he died—not even by bullet or axe—but quivering
on a gibbet, like a common felon!”
How like the voice of an Accusing Angel, sent on earth to punish guilt,
the tones of that dark-haired woman rung through the chamber!
“Could I help it?” faltered the beautiful Wife of Arnold, her face now
deathly pale—“Did I hurry him to this fatal death? Wherefore wring my
heart with these memories? Have you no mercy?”
“Mercy!” sneered the disguised maiden—“Mercy for the Wife of Benedict
Arnold, who after her marriage suffered her letters to John Andre, to
enclose the letters of the Traitor to Sir Henry Clinton! Ah, droop your
head upon your bosom, and bury your face in your hands—it is true!—
Had you no share in that dark game? Did you advise Benedict Arnold to
make John Andre the tool of his Treason? O, if in your heart there ever
lurked one throb of love for this noble soldier, how could you see him led
on to infamy?”
That proud virgin, transformed by her dress into a living portrait of John
Andre, by her passions into an avenging spirit, was now bitterly avenged.
For the wife of Arnold knelt before her, her face upon her breast, her
golden hair floating to the knees, which crouched upon the floor. And the
light revealed the shape of her beautiful shoulders, a glimpse of her
tumultuous bosom.
“You ask why I am here? I, a maiden whose good name no breath
has ever dimmed, here in the chamber of Arnold?—I am here, because I
am a woman, because that love which can never be given twice to man,
now lies buried with the dead,—here to avenge the murder of that brave
soldier, who ere he started on his horrible journey, pressed his kiss upon
my lips, and told me, he would return on the morrow!”
“How—” sobbed the kneeling woman—“How will you avenge his
death? You cannot reach Washington?
“But Washington can reach Arnold!”—her voice sinks to a whisper, as
she repeats these meaning words. A shudder thrilled the kneeling woman.
“Yes, as Andre died, so Arnold shall die—on the gibbet! Aye, raise
your face and gaze on me in wonder. I speak the solemn truth. From
this chamber, bound and dumb, Arnold shall be led this night. In the dark
river—a boat is ready for the traitor, there. On the opposite shore, certain
brave Americans under the gallant Lee, watch for the coming of the Traitor!
Ha, ha! Washington will not sleep to-night—he expects a strange visitor,
—Benedict Arnold!”
As though all life had fled from her veins, the Wife of Arnold glared in
the face of the dark-haired woman. The words of the strange maiden,
seemed for the moment to deprive her of all power of speech.
“It is not so much for myself that I strike this blow! But the Mother
of Andre—those innocent sisters who await his return Home—they are
before me now—they speak to me—they call for vengeance on the Double
Traitor!”
As she spoke, the Soldier with crape about his face advanced a single step,
his chest heaving with emotion.
“You cannot do this. Deliberately consign to an ignominious death, my
husband, who never wronged you?”—The Wife raised her eyes to the face
of the dark-haired lady, while the fingers of her small hands were locked
together.
But there is no mercy in that determined face; not one gleam of pity in
those brilliant eyes.
“As I stand attired in the garb of Andre, so surely will I take vengeance
on his murderer!”
The Wife of Arnold made no reply. Bowing her face low upon her
bosom, with her loosened robe slowly falling from her shoulders, she
crouched on the floor, her luxuriant hair twining about her uncovered arms.
The dark-haired woman beheld her agony, heard the sobs which convulsed
her form, aye, heard the groan which the Soldier uttered as he witnessed
this strange scene, yet still she stood erect, her unrelenting eye fixed
in a steady gaze, upon her victim's form.
“If the plot fails, this dagger will do the work of my revenge!”
The word has not gone from her lips, when the Soldier approaches—
whispers—you see the determined woman start—change color and sink
helplessly into the chair.
“Does the fiend protect him?” she gasps, in a voice utterly changed
from her tone of triumphant resolve.
“Yes—this very night, he sails for the coast of Virginia,” the Soldier
whispers—“This night, selected for our purpose, has by some strange
chance, torn him from our grasp. Already on ship-board, he plans the
destruction of American towns, the murder of American freemen!”
You see the Wife of Arnold start to her feet, her blue eye gleaming,
while with her upraised arm she dashes back from her face those locks of
golden hair.
“He is saved! Thank heaven your schemes are foiled. The angels
need not weep, to behold another scene of murder!”
For she loved him, her Warrior-husband, that Wife of Arnold; and now,
with her entire frame quivering with a joy which was more intense, from
the re-action of her despair, she beheld the schemes of her enemies crushed
in a moment.
“The angels need not weep to behold another scene of murder?” spoke
the deep voice of the Soldier, who stood with his face veiled in crape;
“And yet the Bandit and Traitor, who betrayed Washington, and left
Andre to perish on the gibbet, is now unloosed like a savage beast, on the
homes of Virginia!”
The tone in which he spoke, rung with the hollow intonation of scorn.
“Who are you? Attired in the garb of a British soldier, with a rebel
coat beneath?”
Even that Wife, felt a throb of pity as she heard the sad voice of this
unknown soldier.
“I have no name! I had once—was once a brave soldier—so they said.
But now, the Americans never speak of me, but to curse my name, in the
same breath with Arnold!”
He slowly retired toward the window: standing among the heavy curtains,
he beheld the conclusion of this dark scene.
The woman attired in the dress of Andre slowly rose. The Wife shrank
back appalled, from the settled frenzy of her face, the sublime despair
stamped upon her features and flashing from her eyes.
“It is well! Arnold escapes the hand of vengeance now. Now, flushed
with triumph, he goes on to complete his career of blood. He will gather
gold—renown, aye, favor from the hands of his King. But in the hour of
his proudest triumph, even when he stands beside the Throne, one form,
invisible to all other eyes, will glide through the thronging courtiers, and
wither him, with its pale face, its white neck polluted by the gibbet's rope,
its livid lip trembling with a muttered curse—the Phantom of John Andre!
That Phantom will poison his life, haunt him in the street, set by him at
the table—yes, follow him to the couch! As he presses his wife to his
lips, that pale face will glide between, muttering still that soundless curse.
“To escape this Phantom, he will hurry from place to place! Now in
the snows of Canada, now amid the palm groves of the Southern Isles, now
on ship-board, now on shore—still John Andre's ghost will silently glide
by his side.
“That Phantom will work for him, a Remorse more terrible than madness!
It will glide into men's hearts, enrage their souls against the Traitor,
teach their lip the mocking word, their finger the quivering gesture of scorn.
As the Traitor goes to receive his Royal Master's reward, he will hear a
thousand tongues whisper, Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! He will turn to
crush the authors of the scorn—turn and find, that the sword which may
hew a path through dead men, cannot combat the calm contempt of a
World!
“Scorned by the men who bought him—his children and his wife all
swept away—he will stand a lonely column on a blasted desert. He will
be known as the Traitor Arnold. As the General who sold immortal
glory for twenty thousand guineas. As the Traitor who left John Andre to
perish on the gibbet. As the Man WHO HAS NOT ONE FRIEND IN THE
WORLD.
“And when he dies; behold the scene! No wife, no child! Not even
a dog to howl above his grave!
“Yes, when he dies—while the Phantom of Andre glides to his side—no
hand of friend or foe shall be placed upon his brow, no one shall wait by
his couch, no voice speak to him of Heaven or Hope, but in the utter desolation
of a Blighted heart and a Doomed Name, shall depart the soul of the
Traitor, Benedict Arnold!”
The scene of War was changed. The South was given up to the torch
and sword.
In Virginia, Cornwallis superintended the murders of the British, and
won his title, the Amiable, by a series of bloody outrages. Arnold, the
Traitor was there also, heading his band of Assassins. In the Carolinas
Lord Rawdon, that noble gentleman, who hung an innocent man in the
presence of a son, in order to terrify the Rebels, carried the Red Flag of
England at the head of a mingled crowd of Tories and Hirelings.
It was on the day when the glorious Nathaniel Greene, passed the Congaree
in pursuit of Lord Rawdon, that the Legion of Lee pitched their tents
for the night, where the trees of a magnificent wood encircled a refreshing
glade of greenest moss.
Through the intervals of those trees—crowning the summit of a high
hill—many a glimpse was obtained of the wide-spreading country, with
arms gleaming from the trees, and the Congaree, winding in light until it
was lost in the far distance.
The soldiers of the Legion were scattered along the glade, with the tops
of their tents glowing in the warm light of the evening sun. You may see
their horses turned loose on the green sward, while the brave men prepare
their evening meal, and the sentinels pace the hillside, beyond these trees.
In front of the central tent, seated on a camp stool, his elbow on his
knee, his swarthy cheek resting in the palm of his hand, you behold the
brave Lee, his helmet thrown aside, his green coat unfastened at the throat.
That sudden gush of sunlight, falling over his swarthy face, reveals the
traces of strong emotion. Yes, Lee is sad, although they have gained a
victory, sad, although he has been rewarded with the rank of Lieutenant
Colonel, sad, although his men love him like a brother, and would give their
lives to him.
Suddenly a wild murmur was heard, and two dragoons are seen advancing
with a prisoner, led between their steeds. As they ride toward Colonel
behold men starting up from an untasted meal, and hurrying toward the
tent of their leader.
A miserable prisoner!
Every eye beholds him. Pale, hollow-eyed, his flesh torn by briars, his
form worn by famine, and clad in wretched rags, he is led forward. All
at once, the murmur swells into a shout, and then a thousand curses rend
the air.
“Colonel—” the discordant cries mingled in chorus—“Behold him!
The next tree, a short prayer, and a strong cord for the traitor! Colonel—
here is our deserter—the Sergeant Major! It is Champe!”
Utterly absorbed in his thoughts, Lee had not observed the approach of
the dragoons. His eyes fixed upon the ground, he grasped his cheek in
the effort to endure his bitter thoughts. Yet at the word “Champe!”
spoken with curses, he raised his head and sprang to his feet.
“Where?” he cried; his whole manner changing with the rapidity of
lightning. His eyes encountered the strange hollow gaze of the Prisoner,
who stood silent and miserable, amid the crowd of angry faces.
“To the next tree with the traitor! Ah, scoundrel, you would disgrace
the Legion, would you! Champe the Deserter!”
The uproar grew tumultuous; it seemed as though the brave soldiers
were about to transgress the bounds of discipline, and take the law in their
own hands.
Lee gazed steadfastly upon the prisoner, who pale and emaciated, returned
his look. Then, starting forward, his face betraying deep emotion,
he exclaimed:
“Is this indeed John Champe?”—He was so wretchedly changed.
The silence of the poor wretch gave assent, while the dragoon stated that
they had taken him prisoner, as he was making his way toward the camp.
Lee manifested his opinion of the recreant and deserter, by an expressive
action and a few decided words. Suddenly that group of soldiers became
as silent as a baby's slumber.
The action! He took Champe by the hand, and wrung it, while the
tears came to his eyes. The words:
“Welcome back to the Legion, brave and honest man!”
Those iron Legionists stood horror-stricken and dumb, while the reply
of the prisoner increased their dismay:
“Colonel, I am back at last!” he said, returning the pressure of Lee's
hand, and while the large tears streamed down his face, he whispered with
the Colonel.
“My comrades,” exclaimed Lee, as he took Champe by the hand and
surveyed the confounded crowd—“There was a time when General Washington
appealed to the Commander of a body of brave men, and asked him,
whether in his corps there could be found one man, willing to dare dishonor
Andre by taking Benedict Arnold prisoner. In order to accomplish this, it
would be necessary to find a man who would desert to the enemy—desert,
pursued by his indignant comrades, desert in the sight of the British, and
take refuge in their ranks. This man was found. After a bitter struggle,—
for he could not make up his mind to endure his comrades scorn—he deserted,
and barely escaped with his life. Once in New York, he enlisted
in the Legion of Arnold. While he was making his preparations for the
capture of the Traitor, Andre was hung. This wrung the Deserter to the
heart, for his great reason for undertaking this work was the salvation of
Andre's life. One object remained—the capture of Arnold. After the lapse
of a month, everything was arranged. You remember the night when a
detachment of our Legion watched until day, in the shades of Hoboken?
The traitor was to be seized in his garden, tied and gagged, hurried to the
boat, then across the river into our clutches. But we waited in vain, the
plot was foiled! That night Arnold went on ship-board, and with him the
Deserter, who, taken to Virginia, left the British at the first opportunity,
and after weeks of wandering and starvation, returned to his comrades.
What think ye of this Deserter? This Hero, who dared what the soldier
fears more than a thousand deaths—the dishonor of desertion—in order
to save the life of John Andre? In short, my comrades, what think you
of this brave and good man, John Champe!”
No sound was heard. At least an hundred forms stood paralyzed and
motionless; at least, an hundred hearts beat high with emotions, as strange
as they were indefinable. Not an eye but was wet with tears. When
iron men like these shed tears, there is something in it.
At last, advancing one by one, they took Champe by the hand, and without
a word, gave him a brother's silent grasp. There was one old war-dog,
terribly battered with cuts and scars, who came slowly forward, and looked
him in the face, and took both hands in his own, exclaiming, in his rough
way, as he quivered between tears and laughter—“Have n't you got another
hand, John?”
It was the Veteran, who from the shore of Manhattan Bay, had taken
aim at the head of the deserter Champe.
“This moment,” said Champe, his voice husky with suffocating emotion,
“This moment pays me for all I've suffered!”
Never in the course of the Revolution, did the sun go down upon a scene
so beautiful!
The trees encircling the sward, with the horses of the legion tied among
their leaves. The scattered tents, and the deserted fires. The prospect
of the distant country, seen between the trees, all shadow and gold. The
tent of Lee, surrounded by that crowd of brave men, every eye centred
upon that ragged form, with the hollow cheek and sunken eyes.
Lee himself, gazing with undisguised emotion upon that face, now reddened
by the sunset glow, the visage of John Champe, the Deserter.
Nothing was wanting to complete the joy of the hero—yes, there was
one form absent. But, hark! A crash in yonder thicket, a dark horse
bounds along the sod, and neighing wildly, lays his neck against his master's
breast.
It was Powhatan.
You may imagine the scene which took place, when Champe mounted
on Powhatan, rode to meet Washington!
After many years had passed, when Washington was called from the
shades of Mount Vernon, to defend his country once again, he sent a Captain's
commission to Lee, with the request that he would seek out Champe,
and present it to him.
The letter received by the American Chief, in answer, contained these
words:
—`Soon after the war, the gallant soldier removed to Kentucky. There
he died. Though no monument towers above his bones—we do not even
know his resting place—every true soldier must confess, that the history
of the Revolution does not record a nobler name than—
John Champe.
XVIII.—THE TEMPTATION OF SIR HENRY CLINTON.
One more scene from the sad drama of Andre's fate!
On a calm autumnal evening—the last day of September, 1780—Sir
Henry Clinton sat in his luxurious chamber, in the city of New York,
pondering over matters of deep interest.
The wine stood untasted in the goblet by his side, as reposing in the
arm-chair, by yonder window, with his hands joined across his chest, he
fixed his eye vacantly upon the rich carpet beneath his feet.
There was every display of luxury in that chamber. High ceiling and
lofty walls, hung with pictures, carpets on the floor that gave no echo to
the footfall, furniture of dark mahogany polished like a mirror, silken
curtains along the windows, and a statue of his Majesty, George the
Third, in the background.
The view which stretched before that window was magnificent. The
wide expanse of Manhattan Bay, dotted with islands, and white with the
sails of ships of war—the distant shore of Staten Island and Jersey—the
clear sky—piled up in the west, with heavy clouds, tinged and mellowed
with all the glories of an autumnal sunset; this was a lovely view, but Sir
Henry Clinton saw it not.
His thoughts were with a letter which lay half open beside the untasted
Washington.
Now, as some persons are always forming wrong ideas of the personal
appearance of great men, I ask you to look closely upon the face and form
of yonder General. His form is short, and heavy almost to corpulence;
his face round, full and good-humored; his red coat glittering with epaulettes,
thrown open in front, disclosed the buff vest, with ample skirts, and
the snowy whiteness of his cambric bosom, across whose delicate ruffles
his hands were folded. He wore polished boots reaching above the knee,
where his large limb was cased in buckskin. His sword lay on the table
by his side, near the letter and goblet.
Sir Henry had been sitting in this position for an hour, thinking over the
ONE TOPIC that occupied his whole soul; but strange it was, which ever
way he tried to turn his thoughts, he still saw the same picture. It was
the picture of a wan-faced mother, who sat in her lonely room, with a fair
daughter on either side, all waiting for the son and brother to come home
and he —
Sir Henry dared not finish the picture. He was afraid when he thought
of it. And yet the Picture had been there before him, for an hour—there,
on the space between his eye and the western sky.
Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the low tread of a footstep.
Sir Henry looked up, and beheld a man of harsh features, arrayed in a
Colonel's uniform.
The Colonel was a singular character. Harsh in features, with a
bronzed skin, long nose, thin lips—his character was moody, reserved and
misanthropic. He was attached to the General's staff, and yet he had no
associates. He never spoke except in monosyllables. Sir Henry had a
high regard for his military knowledge, as well as an admiration for his
blunt, soldierly bearing; so he spoke to him kindly, and invited him to be
seated.
The Colonel sat down in the opposite recess of the broad window, with
his back to the light.
“So, John Andre is to be—hung?” uttered the Colonel, in a quiet, unconcerned
tone.
Sir Henry moved nervously in his seat.
“Why—why—the fact is,” said he, hesitatingly, “this letter from
Washington states that he has been tried as a spy, and will be hanged tomorrow
morning as a spy.”
A shade of gloom passed over Sir Henry's face. He bit his lip, and
pressed his hand violently against his forehead.
“Very unpleasant,” said the Colonel, carelessly. “Hanged! Did you
say so, General? And he had such a white neck—heigh-ho!”
Sir Henry looked at the Colonel as though he could have stabbed him to
the heart. He said nothing, however, but crumpled Washington's letter in
careless and unconcerned, he was most serious.
“So, they 'll take him out in a horrid old cart,” said he, languidly—“a
cart that 'll go jolt! jolt! jolt! With a hideous hangman, too—and a pine
box—faugh! I say, General, who would have guessed it, this time last
week?”
Sir Harry said not a word.
“Will it not be unpleasant, when your Excellency returns home? To
wait upon the Major's mother and sisters, and tell them, when they ask
you where he is, that he was—hung!”
Sir Henry Clinton grew purple in the face. He was seized with deadly
anger. Rising in his seat, he extended his hand toward the Colonel—
“Zounds! sir, what do you mean? The man who can make a jest of
a matter like this, has no sympathy—”
“For the General who will calmly consign one of his bravest officers to
the gallows!” interrupted the sardonic Colonel.
Sir Henry now grew pale; the audacity of his inferior awed him.
“Do you mean to say, that I consign John Andre to the gallows?” he
said, in a low voice, that quivered with suppressed rage.
“I do!” coolly responded the Colonel.
“Will you be pleased to inform me in what manner I am guilty in your
eyes?” continued the General, in the same ominous tone.
“You can save John Andre, but will not!”
“How can I save him?”
“This Rebel Washington does not so much care about hanging Andre,
as he does for making an example of—somebody. You give up that—
somebody—and he will deliver Andre, safe and sound, into your hands.”
Had a thunderbolt splintered the floor at Sir Henry's feet, his face could
not have displayed such a conflict of wonder and alarm as it did now. He
looked anxiously around the room, as though he feared the presence of a
third person, who might overhear the deliberate expression of the Colonel.
“That—SOMEBODY—I met just now in Broadway. What a splendid red
coat he wears! How well it becomes him, too! Don't you think he feels
a little odd?”
Sir Henry rose from his seat, and paced hurriedly up and down the
room. Now he was gone into shadows, and now he came forth into light
again.
At last he approached the Colonel, and bending down, so that their faces
nearly touched, uttered these words in a whisper:
“Give up Benedict Arnold for John Andre—is that what you mean?”
“It is!” and the Colonel looked up into the flushed face of his superior.
“Pshaw! This is nonsense! Washington would never entertain such
a proposition,” muttered Sir Henry.
The answer from the Colonel was deep-toned, clear, and deliberate.
“Your Excellency will pardon my rudeness. I am a rough soldier, but
I have a heart. I'll be frank with you. The fate of this Andre fills me
with horror. He is a good fellow, though he does paint pictures, and
write rhymes, and act plays, and do other things beneath the dignity of a
soldier. But he has a soul, your Excellency, he has a heart. I would
peril my life to save him. I can't help thinking of his mother and sisters
in England—he is their only dependence, and—
“Well, Colonel, well”—interrupted Sir Henry.
“An officer from Washington waits in the room below, with authority
from his General to make this proposition to you—Give me Arnold and I
will give you Andre!”
Sir Henry Clinton fell back in his seat as though a shot had pierced his
breast. He said not a word, but as if stupefied by this proposition, folded
his hands across his breast, and gazed vacantly upon the sunset sky.
The last gleam of twilight fell over the broad expanse of Manhattan Bay.
All was silent in the chamber, save the hard, deep breathing of Sir Henry
Clinton, who, with his head inclined to one side, still gazed upon the western
sky, with that same vacant stare.
At last two liveried servants entered, and placed lighted candles on the
table.
The Colonel started when he beheld the strange paleness of Sir Henry's
countenance. He was terribly agitated, for his lips were compressed, his
brows contracted, his hands pressed fixedly against his breast.
At last he spoke. His voice was strangely changed from his usual bold
and hearty tones.
“Had George Washington offered me the Throne of the Western Continent,
he could not have so tempted me, as he does by this proposition, to
exchange Arnold for Andre!”
“Exchange them,” growled the Colonel.
“But what will the world—what will my King say? It would be a
breach of confidence, a violation of a soldier's honor—it would in
fact, be —”
“An easy method of rescuing the white neck of John Andre from the
gibbet!” coolly interrupted the Colonel.
This was a hard thrust. Sir Henry was silent for a moment; but that
moment passed, he flung his clenched hand on the table.
“I am tempted, horribly tempted!” he exclaimed, in broken tones. “I
never was so tempted in my life. Speak of it no more, sir, speak of it no
more! Did you say that the rebel officer waited below?”
“General, shall I call him up?” whispered the Colonel, fixing his eyes
firmly on Clinton's face.
Sir Henry did not reply. The Colonel arose and moved towards the
door, when he was met by an officer attired in a rich scarlet uniform, who
a perceptible lameness.
The Colonel started as though a serpent had stung him.
For in that officer with the rich scarlet uniform, glittering with epaulettes
of gold—in that officer with the bold countenance, and forehead projecting
over dark eyes that emitted a steady glare, he recognized—Benedict Arnold.
“Good evening, Colonel!” said Arnold, with a slight inclination of his
head.
“Good evening, Colonel Arnold!” at last responded the Colonel, with a
slight yet meaning intonation of scorn. “I never observed it before, but—
excuse me—you limp in the right leg? Where did you receive the
wound?”
It was not often that Arnold blushed, but now his throat, his cheeks, and
brow were scarlet. For a moment he seemed stricken into stone, but at
last he replied in a deep sonorous voice, that started Sir Henry Clinton
from his chair:
“That leg sir, was twice broken; the first time, when I stormed Quebec.
The second time, at Saratoga, when I took the last fortress of Burgoyne!
—Are you answered, sir?”
Without a word more, leaving the astonished officer to remember the
glare of his eye, he passed on, and saluted Sir Henry Clinton with a
deep bow.
Sir Henry received him with a formal bow, waving his hand toward the
chair, in the recess of the window. Arnold sat down, and crossing his legs
in a careless position, fixed his dark eyes full in Clinton's face, as he spoke
in a laughing tone:
“Do you know, General, I heard a very clever thing as I passed along
the street. Two of our soldiers were conversing;—`I tell you what it is,'
said one of the fellows to the other, `Sir Henry Clinton couldn't do a better
thing, than send this Arnold—(ha! ha! this Arnold, mark you!) to
General Washington, who will very likely hang him in place of Andre!'
Wasn't it clever, General? By the bye, this evening air is very cool.”
Sir Henry saw the sneer on Arnold's face, and knew at once that Andre's
fate was sealed!
XIX.—THE SISTERS.
It was a flower garden, watered by a spring that bubbled up from yellow
sands.
It was a flower garden, environed by a wall of dark grey stone, overshadowed
with vines and roses.
It was a flower garden, standing in the centre of a wood, whose leaves
blushed like the rainbow, with the dyes of autumn.
Yonder rises the mansion, something between a stately dwelling and a
quiet cottage in appearance, you see its steep roof, its grotesque chimneys,
vines.
A dear retreat, this place of fragrant beds, and winding walks, of orchard
trees heavy with fruit, and flowers blooming into decay, trembling with
perfume ere they die.
It was that calm hour, when clouds hasten to the west, and range themselves
in the path of the setting sun, as though anxious to receive the kiss
of their Lord, ere he sank to rest. It was that beautiful moment, when the
tree tops look like pyramids of gold, and sky resembles a dome of living
flame, with a blush of glory pervading its cope, from the zenith to the horizon.
It was the close of one of those delicious days in autumn, when we
love to bury ourselves in the recesses of brown woods, and think of the
friends that are gone, when it is our calm delight to wander through long
vistas of overarching trees, treading softly over the sward, and give our souls
to memories of love, or dwell sadly and yet tenderly upon the grave which
awaits us, when the play of life is over.
In the centre of the garden there grow four apple trees, their gnarled
limbs twining together, while their fruit of various colors glowed in the rosy
light. Beneath the shade and fruitage of these trees, a rugged bench, formed
with plain branches of oak twisted in various fantastic forms, was placed,
presenting a delightful retreat amid the recesses of that rustic garden.
Just as you may have seen, two flowers, alike beautiful, yet contrasted
in their style of loveliness, swaying side by side in the summer breeze,
their varied tints affording a picture of never-ending freshness, so two beautiful
girls bloomed side by side, in that quiet recess.
Their faces are turned toward the evening light, as they feel the deep
serenity of that hour. One, a delicate, fragile thing, with skin almost supernaturally
fair, eyes blue as an Italian sky, hair like threaded gold, lays
her hand upon her sister's shoulder, and nestles gently to her side.
Young Alice! A tender flower, that has just ripened from the bud, with
the dew yet fresh upon its petals.
The other, a warm figure, ripened into perfect womanhood, her breast
rounded, her small feet and hands in strong contrast with the blooming fullness
of her shape. Her brown hair, that falls back from her white neck in
glossy masses,—here, dark as a raven's wing, there, waving in bright chesnut
hues—affords a fresh beauty to her boldly chisseled face, whose lips
are red with mature ripeness. Her deep grey eyes, the clearly defined
brows and impressive forehead, combine in an expression of intellectual beauty.
Womanly Mary! A moss rose, blooming its last hour of freshness, its
leaves crimsoning with all the beauty they can ever know.
On her full bosom the head of the younger Sister was laid, among her
brown tresses, the flaxen locks of her sister wandered, like sunshine rays
among twilight shadows.
“It is so sweet, at this still hour, Mary, to think of him! To remember
days, yes, the moments that must elapse before he will return to us!”
Thus spoke the young sister, her eye gleaming in moisture, but the elder
felt her face flush, and her eye brighten, as these words came impetuously
from her lips:
“But sweeter far, Alice, to think how proud, how noble he will look,
when he stands before us, so like a hero, with the star upon his breast, the
warrior's robe upon his form! To think of him, not coming back to us as
he departed, an humble Cadet, but a titled General, welcomed by the favor
of his king, the applause of his countrymen!—His last letters speak of his
certain ascent to fame. Even now, he is engaged upon a deed—whose
nature he does not reveal—that will cause his name to burst in glory on his
country's fame!”
Sisterly love—pure and child-like—spoke in the words of the first.
Sisterly love, tender yet impetuous with ambition, rung in the strong tones
of the other.
“And Mother, O, how glad she will be! We shall all feel so happy,
and —” The younger Sister started, for she heard a step. With one assent,
they turned their eyes and beheld a widowed woman, with her silver
hair laid back from a mild and beaming face, come slowly along the garden
walk.
It was their Mother. They rose and greeted her, and in their different
ways, told their young hopes and fears.
She sat between them on the garden bench, each small hand on which
were marked the lines of time, laid upon a daughter's head.
“How strange it is, that we have had no letters for a month! Not a
word from your brother, my children! Perhaps, since we have retired to
this quiet cottage, near a secluded country town, the letters miss us. Come,
girls—it is a pleasant evening, let us walk in the woods!”
Taking their soft hands within her own, the Mother beside her daughters,
looked like a beautiful flower, whose young freshness has been but faintly
preserved in the leaves of Time's volume, contrasted with the young loveliness
of ungathered blossoms.
She led the way toward the garden gate. Along this narrow path, where
the thicket stored with berries, blooms in evergreen freshness, into the dim
woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and
shadows.
They strolled along, the younger sister now stooping to pluck a wild
flower as gay as herself, the other talking earnestly to her mother of the
absent Soldier.
“Don't you remember, Mother, how a month ago, when we were working
together, at our embroidery, I thought I heard my brother's step, and
went to the door to greet him? I am sure I heard his step, and yet it was
all a fancy!”
As the Sister Alice spoke, in a tone full of laughing gaiety, Mary changed
color and leaned upon her mother's shoulder, her breast throbbing violently
againt her dark habit.
The Mother looked upon her with unfeigned alarm:
“You are ill, Mary, and yet the evening air is by no means unpleasant,”
she said.
“It was the Second of October!” she whispered, as though thinking
aloud.
“How can you remember dates?” said Alice, laughing: “I'm sure I
can remember anything but dates. You know, Mary, when I read my
history at school, I always jumbled Henry the Eighth and Julius Cæsar
together!”
“It happened to fix itself upon my memory,” replied Mary, raising her
face and walking statelily onward again. “That sudden faintness is past: I
am quite well now,” she said, passing her hand lightly over her brow.
“O, I remember—” said the Mother, in a careless tone. “On that day,
even as Alice hurried to the door, expecting to greet her brother's form, you
swooned away. You remember it, on account of your swoon? Now that
I call the circumstance to mind, I recollect, the old clock struck twelve, as
you fainted.”
“Twelve o'clock—the Second of October!” faltered the pale Mary, as
the remembrance of the strange hallucination which possessed her, on that
day and hour, freezing her blood and darkening her reason, came to her
soul with redoubled force.
The Vision that she saw, sitting in that quiet chamber, she dared never
tell, it was so strange, so like a nightmare, pressing its beak into her virgin
breast, and drinking slowly the life-blood from her heart.
They wandered on, Alice tripping gaily over the sod, the Mother conversing
cheerfully, even Mary felt her heart bound, in the deep serenity of
that evening hour.
There was a nook in that wild wood, where the bank shelved down and
the trees stood apart, forming a circle around an ancient pile of stones, over
whose moss-covered forms bubbled a fountain of clear cold water. Above
the fountain arose a form of wood, overgrown with vines, and leaning forward.
It was a Cross, planted three hundred years before, when these
lands belonged to a Monastery, and the Old Religion dwelt on the soil.
The Mother and her Daughters approached, and started back with wonder.
A rude form, clad in tattered garments, crouched on the sod beside the
fountain. His war-worn face was laid against the bank, while his unshaven
beard, white as snow, gleamed in the light. His coat, which had once been
bright scarlet, betrayed the old soldier. There was dust upon his gaiters,
and his much worn shoes could scarce conceal his galled feet.
As he slept he grasped his staff, and thrust one hand within the breast
of his coat. His slumber was disturbed; he seemed laboring under the
with a horrible cry, he gazed wildly round, and trembled, while the clammy
moisture stood in beads upon his brow.
`Who are you? Back! You shall not kill me!” he cried, and put
himself in an attitude of defence.
“It is the old Soldier, who went with my Son to the wars!” cried the
Mother—“Abel, don't you know us?”
The effect of his dream passed away, and the aged Soldier advanced, his
hard hand pressed by the warm fingers of the young girls. As he stood
before them, his eyes seemed to avoid their gaze—now downcast—now
wandering on either side—his sunburnt face was flushed with a warm
glow.
“Speak! Our Brother!” faltered the girls.
“My Son! You bear a message from him?” exclaimed the Mother.
The old Soldier was silent.
“Your Son? You mean my Master—eh? The Major—” he hesitated.
“Why have you returned home? Is the war over?” exclaimed Mary.
“Ah—Brother is on his way home—he will be here presently—what a
delightful surprise!” cried Alice.
Still the Soldier stood silent and confused, his hands pressed together,
while his downcast eyes wandered over the sod.
“My goodness, ladies—” he muttered—“Have n't you received a letter?
Sir Henry wrote to you, Ma'am, and —”
“Sir Henry write to me?” echoed the Mother, her face growing deathly
pale—“Why did not my son write himself?”
And the sisters, laid each of them, a hand on the veteran's arm and looked
up eagerly into his rough visage.
His nether lip quivered; his eyes rolled strangely in their sockets. He
endeavored to speak but there was a choking sensation in his throat; all
the blood in his frame seemed rushing to his eyes.
“I can't tell it! God help me and forgiv' my sins, I aint strong enough
to tell it! Ladies, can't you guess—you see—the Major—”
Through the gathering gloom of twilight, the Mother looked and beheld
his emotion, and felt her soul palzied by a terrible fear. You may see
Alice, stand there, gazing on the soldier with surprise; Mary, that stately
sister, is by her side, her face white as a shroud.
They stood like figures of stone placed in the midst of the wood, with
the moss beneath, and the autumnal leaves above. The sound of the fountain
gurgling over the grey rocks alone disturbed the silence of the air.
The bluff old veteran stumbled forward, and fell on his knees.
“Look ye,—I'm rough—I aint afraid of man or devil, but I'm afraid
now! Don't force me to speak it —”
Adown that sunburnt face, slowly trickled two large and scalding tears.
You see the Mother, her face manifesting sudden traces of that agony,
you see her advance and take the veteran by the hand.
“Rise, friend Abel!” she said, in a voice of unnatural calmness. “I
know your message. My son is dead.”
The Soldier bowed his head and gave free vent to his tears.
Alice hears that word, and shrinks toward yonder tree, her eyes covered
in a strange mist, her heart suddenly palsied in its beatings. The Mother
stands as calm, as pale as a corse.
Mary alone advances, gasps these words as with the last effort of her
life—
“He died in battle—at the head of his men—Speak! A soldier's
death —”
Transformed in every nerve, she quivered before him, her fingers clutching
his iron arms, her eyes flashing a death-like glare into his face. Her
falling hair sweeping back from her face, completed that picture of a sinless
maiden, trembling on the verge of madness.
The old Soldier looked up and answered her:
“He died on the Second of October, at the hour of twelve—on the Gibbet
—as a spy.”
These words, in a hollow yet deliberate voice, he slowly uttered, and the
Mother and the Sisters heard it all! Heard it, and could not, at the moment,
die!
God pity them, in this their fearful hour.
The Mother sank on her knees. Alice, the fair-haired and gentle, tottered
and fell, as though her life had passed with that long and quivering shriek.
The rough soldier wept aloud.
Mary, alone, stood erect: her pale countenance thrown into strong relief
by her dark flowing hair, her eyes glassy, her lips livid, her form towering
in marble-like majesty.
And as she stood—as though suddenly frozen into marble—her eyes
were fixed upon the heavens, visible through the intervals of the forest trees.
The last flush of sunset had died, and the first star came twinkling out
on the blue walls of space.
Only one expression passed her lips. Stifling the horrible agony of that
moment, she fixed her eyes upon that light in heaven, and said—
“It is my brother's star!”
XX.—ANDRE THE SPY.
We have now traversed the career of the ill-fated Andre in all its changes
of scene, in its varied phases of absorbing interest.
Pity that young man if you will, plant flowers over his grave, sing hymns
to his memory, but remember, he was a SPY.
That dishonored thing, which no true warrior can look upon, save with
SPY.
Remember, that the wife of Benedict Arnold, on terms of intimate friendship
with Andre, while the British held Philadelphia, corresponded with
him long after her marriage, and then call to mind a single fact: her correspondence
was the channel of communication between Arnold and the
British General. Can we, with any show of reason, suppose this wife
innocent of participation in the treason of her husband? Is it at all plausible,
or probable, that she was ignorant of the contents of Arnold's letters?
Remember that Andre was a partner in this conspiracy, from the first
moment of its dawn, until by his manly letter to Washington, he avowed
himself a British officer, captured in disguise, on American ground. He
was elevated to a Majority, dignified with the post of Adjutant General, in
order that he might more effectually carry out the plan, originated between
himself and Arnold. He was to enter West Point, not as an open foe,
ready to combat with his enemies on the ramparts of the fortress, but as a
Conspirator; he was to conquer the stronghold, laid defenceless by the removal
of the Continental force, by a juggle, and wreathe his brows with the
parchments of a purchased victory.
For this, his promised reward was the commission of a Brigadier General.
For aiding an American General in his midnight campaign of craft and
treachery, he was to receive the honors that are awarded to a Conqueror
who fights in broad day; for taking a deserted fort, his brows were to be
wreathed with laurel, which is given to the leader of a forlorn hope, who
dares the sternest front of battle without a fear.
With all his talent—displayed as an Artist, a Poet, and a Soldier—with
all the genius which made him an admirable companion, with all the chivalry
which won praise and tears from his enemies, with all the rich cluster
of his gifts, and the dim memories that gather round his name, we must
confess, that he was one of the originator's of Arnold's Treason, that he
descended to a course of intrigue, beneath the honor of a warrior, that he
was justly condemned and hung as a Spy.
There is one dark thought that crowds upon us as we survey this history.
We may endeavor to banish it, but it will come back with overwhelming
force. It starts from the history, and moves along every page, a brooding
and fearful shadow.—John Andre and the Wife of Arnold, first planned
the Treason, and then—while his heart was lacerated by a sense of his
wrongs—lured him into the plot.
That is a startling thought.
There is no point of Washington's career more thoroughly worthy of our
veneration, than his course in relation to Andre. He did not know—he
could not guess the extent or ramifications of the Treason. A base plan
had been laid to capture a Fortress and crush his army. This plan aided
by an honorable gentleman in the guise of a Spy. It was necessary to
bitter truth, that the American leader was no less ready to meet his foes,
sword in hand in battle, than to hang them on the gibbet's timbers as Spies.
At once he stood resolved in his course. Andre must die. No persuasions
could change his firm purpose. He pitied the victim, but condemned
him to death. He wept for his untimely fate, but hung him on a gibbet.
His heart bled as he signed the death-warrant, but still he consigned Andre
to a felon's grave.
There have been many tears shed over Andre, but while I pity him, I
must confess that my tears are reserved for the thousand victims of British
wrong, murdered during the war. Then the thought of Benedict Arnold,
hurled from the Patriot and the Hero, into the Bandit and Traitor, as much
by the persecutions of his enemies, as by his own faults, as much from the
influence of Andre and his own wife,[4]
as from inclination, has for me an interest
that altogether surpasses the fate of the Spy.
The historical pictures which I have placed before you, show the mystery
in every light. I have endeavored to embody in these pictures the
manners, the costume, the contending opinions, the very spirit of the Revolution.
Let me now present to you another illustration, in order to show,
that the British in a case similar to that of Andre, never indulged one throb
of pity.
Behold the Mercy of King George!
It is stated on the authority of Aaron Burr, that the Wife of the Traitor, after
she joined her husband in the British lines, expressed her contempt for the American
cause, sanctioned the course of Arnold, and uttered other expressions of feeling,
which showed that she was a co-partner in the work of Treason.
XXI.—NATHAN HALE.
It was a calm, clear evening in the early spring of 1775, when a young
man came to his native home, to bid his aged mother farewell.
I see that picture before me now.
A two-story house, built of grey stone, with a small garden extending
from the door to the roadside, while all around arise the orchard trees,
fragrant with the first blossoms of spring. Yonder you behold the hay-rick
and the barn, with the lowing cattle grouped together in the shadows.
It is a quiet hour; everything seems beautiful and holy. There is a purple
flush upon the Western sky, a sombre richness of shadow resting upon
yonder woods; a deep serenity, as if from God, imbues and hallows this
evening hour.
Yonder on the cottage porch, with the rich glow of the sunset on her
face, sits the aged mother, the silvery hair parted above her pale brow.
The Bible lays open on her knees. Her dress is of plain rude texture, but
there is that about her countenance which makes you forget her homespun
of her countenance, are upraised. She is gazing in the face of the son,
who bends over her shoulder and returns her glance.
His young form is arrayed in a plain blue hunting frock, faced with fur,
while his rifle rests against the door, and his pistols are girded to his waist
by a belt of dark leather. A plain costume this, but gaze upon the face of
that young man and tell me, do you not read a clear soul, shining from those
dark eyes? That white brow, shadowed by masses of brown hair, bears
the impress of Thought, while the pale cheek tells the story of long nights
given to the dim old Hebrew Bible, with its words of giant meaning and
organ-like music; to the profane classics of Greece and Rome, the sublime
reveries of Plato, the impassioned earnestness of Demosthenes, or the indignant
eloquence of Cicero.
Yes, fresh from the halls of Yale, the poetry of the Past, shining serenely
in his soul, to his childhood's home, comes the young student to
claim his mother's blessing and bid her a long farewell.
But why this rifle, these pistols, this plain uniform?
I will tell you.
One day, as he sat bending over that Hebrew Volume—with its great
thoughts spoken in a tongue now lost to man, in the silence of ages—he
looked from his window and beheld a dead body carried by, the glassy eyes
upturned to the sky, while the stiffened limb hung trailing on the ground.
It was the first dead man of Lexington.
That sight roused his blood; the voice of the Martyrs of Bunker Hill
seemed shrieking forever in his ears. He flung aside the student's gown;
he put on the hunting shirt. A sad farewell to those well-worn volumes,
which had cheered the weariness of many a midnight watch, one last look
around that lonely room, whose walls had heard his earnest soliloquies;
and then he was a soldier.
The Child of Genius felt the strong cords of Patriotism, drawing him
toward the last bed of the Martyrs on Bunker Hill.
And now in the sunset hour, he stands by his mother's side, taking the
one last look at that wrinkled face, listening for the last time to the tremulous
tones of that solemn voice.
“I did hope, my child,” said the aged woman, “I did hope to see you
ministering at the altar of Almighty God, but the enemy is in the land, and
your duty is plain before you. Go, my son—fight like a man for your
country. In the hour of battle remember that God is with your cause;
that His arm will guide and guard you, even in the moment of death.
War, my child, is at best a fearful thing, a terrible license for human
butchery; but a war like this, is holy in the eyes of God. Go—and when
you fight, may you conquer, or if you fall in death, remember your
mother's blessing is on your head!”
And in that evening hour, the aged woman stood erect, and laid her
withered hand upon his bended head.
A moment passed, and he had grasped his rifle, he had muttered the last
farewell. While the aged woman stood on the porch, following him with
her eyes, he turned his steps towards the road.
But a form stood in his path, the form of a young woman clad in the
plain costume of a New England girl. Do you behold a voluptuous
beauty waving in the outlines of that form? Is the hair dark as night, or
long, glossy, waving and beautiful? Are those hands soft, white and delicate?
You behold none of these; for the young girl who stands there in
the student's path, has none of the dazzling attraction of personal beauty.
A slender form, a white forehead, with the brown hair plainly parted around
that unpretending countenance, hands somewhat roughened by toil; such
were the attractions of that New England girl.
And yet there was a something that chained your eyes to her face, and
made your heart swell as you looked upon her. It was the soul, which
shone from her eyes and glowed over her pallid cheek. It was the deep,
ardent, all-trusting love, the eternal faith of her woman's nature, which gave
such deep vivid interest to that plain face, that pale white brow.
She stood there, waiting to bid her lover farewell, and the tear was in
her eye, the convulsive tremor of suppressed emotion on her lip. Yet
with an unfaltering voice, she bade him go fight for his country and conquer
in the name of God.
“Or”—she exclaimed, placing her hands against his breast, while her
eyes were rivetted to his face, “should you fall in the fight, I will pray God
to bless your last hour with all the glory of a soldier's death!”
That was the last words she said; he grasped her hand, impressed his
kiss upon her lip, and went slowly from his home.
When we look for him again, the scene is changed. It is night, yet,
through the gloom, the white tents of the British army rise up like ghosts
on the summit of the Long Island hills. It is night, yet the stars look
down upon that Red Cross banner now floating sullenly to the ocean breeze.
We look for the Enthusiast of Yale! Yonder, in a dark room, through
whose solitary window pours the mild gleam of the stars, yonder we behold
the dusky outlines of a human form, with head bent low and arms folded
over the chest. It is very dark in the room, very still, yet can you discover
the bearing of the soldier in the uncertain outline of that form, yet can
you hear the tread of the sentinel on the sands without.
Suddenly that form arises, and draws near the solitary window. The
stars gleam over a pale face, with eyes burning with unnatural light. It is
dusky and dim, the faint light, but still you can read the traces of agony
like death, anguish like despair stamped on the brow, and cheek, and lip
of that youthful countenance.
You can hear a single, low toned moan, a muttered prayer, a broken
ejaculation. Those eyes are upraised to the stars, and then the pale face
no longer looks from the window. That form slowly retires, and is lost in
the darkness of the room.
Meanwhile, without the room, on yonder slope of level ground, crowning
the ascent of the hill, the sound of hammer and saw breaks on the silence
of the hour. Dim forms go to and fro in the darkness; stout pieces of
timber are planted in the ground, and at last the work is done. All is still.
But, like a phantom of evil, from the brow of yonder hill arises that strange
structure of timber, with the rope dangling from its summit.
There is a face gazing from yonder window, at this thing of evil; a face
with lips pressed between the teeth, eyes glaring with unnatural light.
Suddenly a footstep is heard, the door of that room is flung open, and a
blaze of light fills the place. In the door-way stands a burly figure, clad in
the British uniform, with a mocking sneer upon that brutal countenance.
The form—which we lately beheld in the gloom—now rises, and confronts
the British soldier. It needs no second glance to tell us that we behold
the Enthusiast of Yale. That dress is soiled and torn, that face is
sunken in the cheeks, wild and glaring in the eyes, yet we can recognize
the brave youth who went forth from his home on that calm evening in
spring.
He confronts the Executioner, for that burly figure in the handsome red
coat, with the glittering ornaments, is none other than the Provost of the
British army.
“I am to die in the morning,” began the student, or prisoner as you may
choose to call him.
“Yes,” growled the Provost, “you were taken as a spy, tried as a spy,
sentenced as a spy, and to-morrow morning, you will be hanged as a spy!”
That was the fatal secret. General Washington desired information from
Long Island, where the British encamped. A young soldier appeared, his
face glowing with a high resolve. He would go to Long Island; he would
examine the enemy's posts; he would peril his life for Washington. Nay,
he would peril more than his life; he would peril his honor. For the soldier
who dies in the bloody onset of a forlorn hope, dies in honor: but the
man who is taken as a spy, swings on the gibbet, an object of loathing and
scorn. But this young soldier would dare it all; the gallows and the dishonor:
all for the sake of Washington.
“General,” was the sublime expression of the Enthusiast, “when I volunteered
in the army of liberty, it was my intention to devote my soul to
the cause. It is not for me now to choose the manner or the method of
the service which I am to perform. I only ask, in what capacity does my
country want me. You tell me that I will render her great service by this
expedition to Long Island. All I can answer is with one word—bid me
depart and I will go!”
He went, obtained the information which he sought, and was about to
leave the shore of the Island for New York, when he was discovered.
Now, in the chamber of the condemned felon, he awaited the hour of his
fate, his face betraying deep emotion, yet it was not the agitation of fear.
Death he could willingly face, but the death of the Gibbet!
He now approached the British officer, and spoke in a calm, yet hollow
voice:
“My friend, I am to die to-morrow. It is well. I have no regrets to
spend upon my untimely fate. But as the last request of a dying man, let
me implore you to take charge of these letters.”
He extended some four or five letters, among which was one to his betrothed,
one to his mother, and one to Washington.
“Promise me, that you will have these letters delivered after I am dead.”
The Briton shifted the lamp from one hand to the other, and then with
an oath, made answer:
“By —, I'll have nothing to do with the letters of a spy!”
The young man dropped the letters on the floor, as though a bullet had
torn them from his grasp. His head sunk on his breast. The cup of his
agony was full.
“At least,” said he, lifting his large bright eyes, “at least, you will procure
me a Bible, you will send me a clergyman?—I am ready to die, but I
wish to die the death of a Christian.”
“You should have thought o' these things before, young man,” exclaimed
the Liveried Hangman. “As for Bible or Preacher, I can tell you at once,
that you 'll get neither through me.”
The young man sank slowly in his chair, and covered his face with his
hands. The brave Briton, whose courage had been so beautifully manifested
in these last insults to a dying man, stood regarding the object of his
spite with a brutal scowl.
Ere a moment was gone, the young man looked up again, and exclaimed:
“For the love of Christ, do not deny me the consolations of religion in
this hour!”
A loud laugh echoed around the room, and the Condemned Spy was in
darkness.
Who shall dare to lift the veil from that Enthusiast's heart, and picture
the agony which shook his soul, during the slow-moving hours of his last
night? Now his thoughts were with his books, the classics of Greece and
Rome, or the pages of Hebrew volume, where the breeze of Palestine swells
over the waves of Jordan, and the songs of Israel resound forevermore;
now with his aged mother, or his betrothed; and then a vision of that great
course of glory which his life was to have been, came home to his soul.
That course of glory, those high aspirations, those yearnings of Genius
after the Ideal, were now to be cut off forever by—the Gibbet's rope!
I will confess, that to me, there is something terrible in the last night of
history, that I do not feel for his fate, and feel more bitterly, when I think
of the injustice of that history. Yes, let the truth be spoken, our history
is terribly unjust to the poor—the neglected—the Martyrs, whose fate it
was, not to suffer in the storm of battle, but in the cell, or by the gibbet's
rope. How many brave hearts were choked to death by the rope, or buried
beneath the cells of the gaol, after the agonies of fever! Where do you
find their names in history?
And the young man, with a handsome form, a born of God genius, a
highly educated mind—tell us, is there no tear for him?
We weep for Andre, and yet he was a mere Gambler, who staked his
life against a General's commission. We plant flowers over his grave, and
yet he was a plotter from motives altogether mercenary—We sing hymns
about him, and yet with all his accomplishments, he was one of the main
causes of Arnold's ruin; he it was who helped to drag the Patriot down
into the Traitor.
But this young man, who watches his last night on yonder Long Island
shore—where are tears for him?
Night passed away, and morning came at last. Then they led him forth
to the sound of the muffled drum and measured footsteps. Then—without
a Bible, or Preacher or friend, not even a dog to wail for him, they placed
him beneath the gibbet, under that blue sky, with the pine coffin before his
eyes.
Stern looks, scowling brows, red uniforms and bristling bayonets, were
all around,—but for him, the Enthusiast and the Genius, where was the
kind voice or the tender hand?
Yet in that hour, the breeze kissed his cheek, and the vision of Manhattan
Bay, with its foam-crested waves and green Islands, was like a dream
of peace to his soul.
The rough hands of the Hangman tied his hands and bared his neck for
the rope. Then, standing on the death-cart, with the rope about his neck,
and Eternity before him, that young man was very pale, but calm, collected
and firm. Then he called the brutal soldiery the Refugee Hangman, to
witness that he had but one regret—
And that regret not for his aged mother, not even for his meek-eyed betrothed,
not even for the darkness of that hour,—but, said the Martyr,
“I regret that I have only one life to lose for my country.”
That was his last word, for ere the noble sentiment was cold on his lips,
they choked him to death. The horse moved, the cart passed from under
his feet; the Martyr hung dangling in the air! Where was now that clear
white brow, that brilliant eye, that well formed mouth? Look—yes, look
and behold that thing palpitating with agony—behold that thing suspended
in the air, with a blackened mass of flesh instead of a face.
Above, the bright sky—around, the crowd—far away, the free waves—
gibbet!
Like a dog he died—like a dog they buried him. No Preacher, no
prayer, no friend, not even a dog to howl over his grave. There was only
a pine box and a dead body, with a few of the vilest wretches of the British
camp. That was the Martyr's funeral.
At this hour, while I speak,—in the dim shadows of Westminster Abbey,
a white monument arises in honor of John Andre, whose dishonorable
actions were, in some measure, forgotten in pity for his hideous death.
But this man of Genius, who went forth from the halls of Yale, to die
like a dog, for his country, on the heights of Long Island—where is the
marble pillar, carved with the letters of his name?
And yet we will remember him, and love him, forevermore. And should
the day come, when a Temple will be erected to the Memory of the
Heroes of the Revolution—the Man-Gods of our Past—then, beneath the
light of that temple's dome, among the sculptured images of Washington
and his compatriots, we will place one poor broken column of New England
granite, surmounted by a single leaf of laurel, inscribed with the
motto—“Alas that I have but one life for my country!” and this poor
column, and leaf of laurel and motto, shall be consecrated with the name of
Nathan Hale.
Do you now condemn Washington for signing the death-warrant of
Andre?
The British visited their anathemas upon his head, denounced him as a
cold-blooded murderer, and talked long and loud of the `Cruel Washington.'
Their poets made rhymes about the matter. Miss Seward, one of those
amiable ladies who drivel whole quires of diluted adjectives, under the
name of Poetry, addressed some stanzas to Washington, which were filled
with bitter reproaches. Even their historians echoed the charge of cruelty,
and assailed that Man whose humanity was never called in question.
Let us, after the case of Nathan Hale, look at another instance of British
humanity. Let us see how the British leaders spared the unfortunate, let
us contrast their ruthless ferocity, with the Mercy of Washington.
XXII.—THE MARTYR OF THE SOUTH.
There is a gloom to-day in Charleston.
It is not often that a great city feels, but when this great heart of humanity
whose every pulsation is a life, can feel, the result is more terrible than
the bloodiest battle. Yes, when those arteries of a city, its streets, and
lanes, and alleys, thrill with the same feeling, when like an electric chain it
darts invisibly from one breast to another, until it swells ten thousand
hearts, the result is terrible.
I care not whether that result is manifested in a Riot, that fills the streets
with the blood of men, and women, and little children, that fires the roof
over the head of the innocent, or sends the Church of God whirling in
smoke and flame to the midnight sky; or whether that feeling is manifested
in the silence of thousands, the bowed head, the compressed lip, the
stealthy footstep, still it is a fearful thing to see.
There is gloom to-day in Charleston.
A dead awe reigns over the city. Every face you see is stamped with
gloom; men go silently by, with anguish in their hearts and eyes. Women
are weeping in their darkened chambers; in yonder church old men
are kneeling before the altar, praying in low, deep, muttered tones.
The very soldiers whom you meet, clad in their British uniforms, wear
sadness on their faces. These men to whom murder is sport, are gloomy
to-day. The citizens pass hurriedly to and fro; cluster in groups; whisper
together; glide silently unto their homes.
The stores are closed to-day, as though it were Sunday. The windows
of those houses are closed, as though some great man were dead; there is
a silence on the air, as though a plague had despoiled the town of its beauty
and its manhood.
The British banner—stained as it is with the best blood of the Palmetto
State—seems to partake of the influence of the hour; for floating from
yonder staff, it does not swell buoyantly upon the breeze, but droops heavily
to the ground.
The only sound you hear, save the hurried tread of the citizens, is the
low, solemn notes of the Dead March, groaning from muffled drums.
Why all this gloom, that oppresses the heart and fills the eyes? Why
do Whig and Tory, citizen and soldier, share this gloom alike? Why this
silence, this awe, this dread?
Look yonder, and in the centre of that common, deserted by every human
thing, behold—rising in lonely hideousness—behold, a Gallows.
Why does that gibbet stand there, blackening in the morning sun?
Come with me into yonder mansion, whose roof arises proudly over all
other roofs. Up these carpeted stairs, into this luxurious chamber, whose
windows are darkened by hangings of satin, whose walls are covered with
tapestry, whose floor is crowded with elegant furniture. All is silent in this
chamber.
A single glow of morning light steals through the parted curtains of
yonder window. Beside that window, with his back to the light, his face
in shadow, as though he wished to hide certain dark thoughts from the light,
sits a young man, his handsome form arrayed in a British uniform.
He is young, but there is the gloom of age upon that woven brow, there
is the resolve of murder upon that curling lip. His attitude is significant.—
His head inclined to one side, the cheek resting on the left hand, while the
right grasps a parchment, which bears his signature, the ink not yet dried.
That parchment is a death-warrant.
If you will look closely upon that red uniform you will see that it is
stained with the blood of Paoli, where the cry for “quarter” was answered
by the falling sword and the reeking bayonet. Yes, this is none other than
General Grey, the Butcher of Paoli, transformed by the accolade of his
King into Lord Rawdon.
While he is there by the window, grasping that parchment in his hand,
the door opens, a strange group stand disclosed on the threshhold.
A woman and three children, dressed in black, stand there gazing upon
the English lord. They slowly advance; do you behold the pale face of
that woman, her eyes large and dark, not wet with tears, but glaring with
speechless woe? On one side a little girl with brown ringlets, on the other
her sister, one year older, with dark hair relieving a pallid face.
Somewhat in front, his young form rising to every inch of its height,
stands a boy of thirteen, with chesnut curls, clustering about his fair countenance.
You can see that dark eye flash, that lower lip quiver, as he
silently confronts Lord Rawdon.
The woman—I use that word, for to me it expresses all that is pure in
passion, or holy in humanity, while your word—lady—means nothing but
ribbons and milinery—the woman advances, and encircled by these children,
stands before the gloomy lord.
“I have come,” she speaks in a voice that strikes you with its music
and tenderness, “I have come to plead for my brother's life!”
She does not say, behold, my brother's children, but there they are, and
the English lord beholds them. Tears are coursing down the cheeks of
those little girls, but the eye of the woman is not dim. The boy of thirteen
looks intently in the face of the Briton, his under lip quivering like a
leaf.
For a single moment that proud lord raises his head and surveys the
group, and then you hear his deep yet melodious voice:
“Madam, your brother swore allegiance to His Majesty, and was afterwards
taken in arms against his King. He is guilty of Treason, and must
endure the penalty, and that, you well know, is Death.”
“But, my lord,” said that brave woman, standing firm and erect, her
beauty shining more serenely in that moment of heroism, “You well know
the circumstances under which he swore allegiance. He, a citizen of South
Carolina, an American, was dragged from the bedside of a dying wife, and
hurried to Charleston, where this language was held by your officers—`Take
the oath of allegiance, and return to the bedside of your dying wife: Refuse,
and we will consign you to gaol. This, my lord, not when he was free to
act, ah, no! But when his wife lay dying of that fearful disease—small pox
—which had already destroyed two of his children. How could he act
otherwise than he did? how could he refuse to take your oath? In his
case, would you, my lord, would any man, refuse to do the same?”
Still the silent children stood there before him, while the clear voice of
the true woman pierced his soul.
“Your brother is condemned to death! He dies at noon. I can do
nothing for you!”
Silently the woman, holding a little girl by each hand, sank on her knees;
but the boy of thirteen stood erect. Do you see that group? Those hands
upraised, those voices, the clear voice of the woman, the infantile tones of
those sweet girls, mingling in one cry for “Mercy!” while the Briton looks
upon them with a face of iron, and the boy of thirteen stands erect, no tear
in his eye, but a convulsive tremor on his lip!
Then the tears of that woman come at last—then as the face of that stern
man glooms before her, she takes the little hands of the girls within her
own, and lifts them to his knee, and begs him to spare the father's life.
Not a word from the English Lord.
The boy still firm, erect and silent, no tear dims the eye which glares
steadily in the face of the tyrant.
“Ah, you relent!” shrieks that sister of the condemned man. “You
will not deprive these children of a father—you will not cut him off in the
prime of manhood, by this hideous death! As you hope for mercy in
your last hour, be merciful now—spare my brother, and not a heart in
Charleston but will bless you—spare him for the sake of these children!”
“Madam,” was the cold reply, “your brother has been condemned to
die. I can do nothing for you!”
He turned his head away, and held the parchment before his eyes. At
last the stern heart of the boy was melted. There was a spasmodic motion
about his chest, his limbs shook, he stood for a moment like a statue, and
then fell on his knees, seizing the right hand of Lord Rawdon with his
trembling fingers.
Lord Rawdon looked down upon that young face, shadowed with chesnut-curls,
as the small hands clutched his wrist, and an expression of surprise
came over his face.
“My child,” said he, “I can do nothing for you!”
The boy silently rose. He took a sister by each hand. There was a
wild light in his young eye—a scorn of defiance on his lip.
“Come, sisters, let us go.”
He said this, and led those fair girls toward the door, followed by the
sister of the condemned. Not a word more was said—but ere they passed
from the room, that true woman looked back into the face of Lord Rawdon.
He never forgot that look.
They were gone from the room, and he stood alone before that window,
with the sunlight pouring over his guilty brow.
“Yes, it is necessary to make an example! This rebellion must be
crushed; these rebels taught submission! The death of this man will
strike terror into their hearts. They will learn at last that treason is no
crime!”
Poor Lord Rawdon!
The streets were now utterly deserted. Not a citizen, a soldier, not
even a negro was seen. A silence like death rested upon the city.
Suddenly the sound of the dead march was heard, and yonder behold
the only evidence of life through this wide city.
On yonder common, around the gibbet, is gathered a strangely contrasted
crowd. There is the negro, the outcast of society, the British officer
in his uniform, the citizen in his plain dress. All are grouped together in
that crowd.
In the centre of the dense mass, beside that horse and cart, one foot
resting on that coffin of pine, stands the only man in this crowd with an
uncovered brow. He stands there, an image of mature manhood, with a
muscular form, a clear full eye, a bold forehead. His cheek is not pale,
nor his eye dim. He is dressed neatly in a suit of dark velvet, made after
the fashion of his time; one hand inserted in his vest, rests on his heart.
Above his head dangles the rope. Near his back stands that figure with
the craped face; around are the British soldiers, separating the condemned
from the crowd. Among all that rude band of soldiers, not an eye but is
wet with tears.
The brave officer there, who has charge of the murder, pulls his chapeau
over his eyes, to shield them from the sun, or—can it be?—to hide his
tears.
All is ready. He has bidden the last farewell to his sister, his children
in yonder gaol; he has said his last word to his noble boy, pressed his last
kiss upon the lips of those fair girls. All is ready for the murder.
At this moment a citizen advances, his face convulsed with emotion—
“Hayne,” he speaks, in a choking voice, “show them how an American
can die!”
“I will endeavor to do so,” was the reply of the doomed man.
At this moment the hangman advanced, and placed the cap over his brow.
A cry was heard in the crowd, a footstep, and those soldiers shrank back
before a boy of thirteen, who came rushing forward.
“Father!” he shrieked, as he beheld the condemned with the cap over
his brow.
One groan arose from that crowd—a simultaneous expression of horror.
The father drew the cap from his brow: beheld the wild face, the glaring
eyes of his son.
“God bless you, my boy,” he spoke, gathering that young form to his
heart. “Now go, and leave your father to his fate. Return when I am
dead—receive my body, and have it buried by my forefathers!”
As the boy turned and went through the crowd, the father stepped firmly
into the cart.
There was a pause, as though every man in that crowd was suddenly
turned to stone.
The boy looked back but once, only once, and then beheld—ah, I dare
not speak it, for it chills the blood in the veins—he beheld that manly
form suspended to the gibbet, with the cap over his brow, while the distorted
face glowed horribly in the sun.
That was his Father!
That boy did not shriek, nor groan, but instantly—like a light extinguished
suddenly—the fire left his eye, the color his cheek. His lips opened in
a silly smile. The first word he uttered told the story—
“My father!” he cried, and then pointed to the body, and broke into a
laugh.
Oh, it was horrible, that laugh, so hollow, shrill, and wild. The child
of the Martyr was an idiot.
Still, as the crowd gathered round him, as kind hands bore him away,
that pale face was turned over his shoulder toward the gallows:
“My Father!”
And still that laugh was borne upon the breeze, even to the gibbet's
timbers, where—in hideous mockery, a blackened but not dishonored thing
—swung the body of the Martyr Hayne.
“This death will strike terror into the hearts of the Rebels!”
Poor Lord Rawdon!
Did that man, in his fine uniform, forget that there was a God? Did he
forget that the voice of a Martyr's blood can never die?
This death strike terror into the heart of the Rebels?
It roused one feeling of abhorrence through the whole South. It took
down a thousand rifles from the hooks above the fire-side hearth. It turned
many a doubting heart to the cause of freedom; nay, Tories by hundreds
came flocking to the camp of liberty. The blood of Hayne took root and
grew into an army.
There came a day when George Washington, by the conquest of Yorktown,
had in his possession the murderer who did this deed; Lord Cornwallis,
who commended, nay commanded it: Lord Rawdon, who signed
the death-warrant.
Here was a glorious chance for Washington to avenge the Martyr Hayne,
who had been choked to death by these men. The feeling of the army,
the voice of America—nay, certain voices that spoke in the British Parliament,
would have justified the deed. The law of nations would have proclaimed
it a holy act. But how did Washington act?
He left each murderer to God and his own conscience. He showed the
for this humilitated Cornwallis, who, so far from bearing Washington
home to London a prisoner in chains, was now a conquered man in the
midst of his captive army.
But this Lord Rawdon, who, captured by a French vessel, was brought
into Yorktown, this arrested murderer, who skulled about the camp, the
object of universal loathing, how did Washington treat him?
He scorned him too much to lay a hand upon his head; from the fulness
of contempt, he permitted him to live.
Poor Lord Rawdon!
Who hears his name now, save as an object, forgotten in the universality
of scorn?
But the Martyr—where is the heart that does not throb at the mention of
his fate, at the name of Isaac Hayne?
XXIII.—ARNOLD IN VIRGINIA.
In the history of the present Mexican war, it is stated, that fifteen women
were driven by the bombardment of Vera Cruz, to take refuge in a church,
near the altar, their pale faces illumined by the same red glare, that revealed
the sculptured image of Jesus and the sad, mild face of the Virgin
Mother.
While they knelt there, a lighted bomb—a globe of iron, containing at
least three hundred balls—crashed through the roof of the church, descended
in the midst of the women, and exploded—
There is not a Fiend, but whose heart would fail him, when surveying
the result of that explosion.
So, upon the homes of Virginia, in December, 1781, burst the Traitor,
Benedict Arnold.
As his ship glided up James River, aided by wind and tide—a leaden
sky above, a dreary winter scene around, the other vessels following in the
wake—he stood on its deck, and drew his sword, repeating his oath, to
avenge the death of John Andre!
How did he keep that Oath?
He was always excited to madness in the hour of conflict, always fighting
like a tigress robbed of her young, but now he concealed the heart of a
Devil, beneath a British uniform. The homes that he burnt, the men that
he stabbed, the murders that dripped from his sword, could not be told in a
volume.
At midnight, over the ice-bound river and frozen snow, a red column of
flame flashed far and wide, rising in terrible grandeur into the star-lit sky.—
It was only Arnold and his Men, laying an American home in ashes and
blood.
When morning came, there was a dense black smoke darkening over
visage of Arnold, cheering on his men to scenes of murder.
The very men who fought under him, despised him. As the officers
received his orders, they could not disguise the contempt of the curved lip
and averted eye. The phantom of Andre never left him. If before he had
been desperate, he was now infernal—if Quebec had beheld him a brave
soldier, the shores of James River, the streets of Richmond saw in his form
the image of an Assassin.
Tortured by Remorse, hated, doubted, despised by the men who had
purchased his sword, his honor, Arnold seemed at this time, to become the
Foe of the whole human race.
When not engaged in works of carnage, he would sit alone in his tent,
resting his head in his clenched hand and shading from the light, a face
distorted by demoniac passions.
The memory of Andre was to him, what the cord, sunken in the lacerated
flesh, is to the Hindoo devotee, a dull, gnawing, ever-present pain.
One day he sent a flag of truce, with a letter to La Fayette. The heroic
Boy-General returned the letter without a word. Arnold took the unanswered
letter, sought the shadow of his tent, and did not speak for some
hours. That calm derision cut him to the soul.
There was brought before him, on a calm winter's day, an American
Captain who had been taken prisoner. Arnold surveyed the hardy soldier,
clad in that glorious blue uniform, which he himself had worn with honor,
and after a pause of silent thought, asked with a careless smile—
“What will the Americans do with me, in case they take me prisoner?”
“Hang your body on a gibbet, but bury your leg with the honors of war.
Not the leg that first planted a footstep on the British ship, but the leg that
was broken at Quebec and Saratoga!”
Arnold's countenance fell. He asked no more questions of that soldier.
One dark and cheerless winter's evening, as the sun shining from a blue
ridge of clouds, lighted up the recesses of a wood, near the James River, a
solitary horseman was pursuing his way along a path that led from the
forest into a wild morass.
On either side of the path were dangerous bogs, before the traveller a
dreary prospect of ice and reeds, at his back, the unknown wood which he
had just left. He had wandered far from the road, and lost his way.
He covered his face and neck with the cloak, which, drooping over his
erect form, fell in large folds on the back of his horse. The sky was dark
and lowering, the wind sweeping over the swamp, bitter cold. From an
aperture in the clouds, the last gush of sunlight streamed over the ice of the
morass, with that solitary horsemen darkly delineated in the centre.
Suffering the horse to choose his way, the traveller, with his face concealed
in the cloak, seemed absorbed in his thoughts, while the sun went
down; the night came on; the snow fell in large flakes.
The instinct of the horse guided him through many devious paths, at
last, however, he halted in evident distress, while the falling snow whitened
his dark flanks. The traveller looked around: all had grown suddenly
dark. He could not distinguish the path. Suddenly, however, a light
blazed in his face, and he beheld but a few paces before him, the glow of a
fireside, streaming through an opened door. A miserable hut stood there,
on an island of the swamp, with the immense trunks of leafless trees rising
above its narrow roof.
As the traveller, by that sudden light hurried forward, he beheld standing
in the doorway, the figure of an old man, clad after the Indian style, in
hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins, with a fur cap on his brow.
“Who comes thar?” the challenge echoed and a rifle was raised.
“A friend, who will thank you to direct him to the path which leads into
the high road!”
“On sich a night as this, I'd reether not!” answered the old hunter—
“How'sever, if you choose to share my fire and Johnny cake, you're welcome!
That's all an old soldier can say!”
—In a few moments, looking into the solitary room of that secluded hut,
you might see the traveller seated on one side of a cheerful fire, built on the
hard clay, while opposite, resting on a log, the old man turned the cake in
the ashes, and passed the whiskey flask.
A lighted pine knot, attached to a huge oaken post which formed the main
support of the roof, threw its vivid glare into the wrinkled face of the hunter.
The traveller, still wrapped in his cloak, seemed to avoid the light, for while
he eagerly partook of the cake and shared the contents of the flask, he
shaded his eyes with his broad chapeau.
Around these two figures were many testimonials of the old man's skill,
and some records of his courage. The antlers of a deer nailed to a post,
the skin of a panther extended along the logs, five or six scalps suspended
from the roof, bore testimony to a life of desperate deeds. By his side,
his powder horn and hunting pouch, and an old rifle, glowed redly in the
light.
The rude meal was finished; the traveller raised his head and glanced
covertly around the place.
“You seem comfortable here? A somewhat lonely spot, however, in
the middle of the swamp, with nothing but ice and reeds around you?”
The old hunter smiled until his veteran face resembled a piece of intricate
net work.
“If you'd a-been some five years cap-tive among the Ingins as I have
been, you'd think this here log hut reether comfortable place!”
“You—a captive?” muttered the traveller.
“Look thar!” and raising his cap he laid bare his skull, which was at
once divested of the hair and skin. The hideous traces of a savage outrage,
were clearly perceptible.
“Thar's whar the Ingins scalped me! But old Bingimin did n't die
jest then!”
“Where were you, at the time the Indians captured you?”
“In Canada—”
“Canada?” echoed the traveller.
“Does that seem pecooliar?” chuckled the old man—“Taken captive in
Canada, I was kept among 'em five years, and did n't get near a white settlement,
until a month back. I haint lived here more nor three weeks.
You see I've had a dev'lish tough time of it!”
“You are not a Canadian?”
“Old Virginny to the back-bone! You see I went to jine the army near
Boston, with Dan'el Morgan—You mought a-happened to heard o' that
man, stranger? A parfict hoss to fight, mind I tell 'ee!”
“Morgan?” whispered the traveller, and his head sunk lower in his cloak.
“Yes, you see Morgan and his men jined Arnold—you've heered of
him?”
The traveller removed his seat, or log, from the fire. It was getting uncomfortably
warm.
“Arnold—yes, I think I have heard of that man?”
“Heer'd of him? Why I reckon, if livin', by this time he's the greatest
man a-goin'! Yes, stranger, I was with him, with Arnold on his v'yge
over land to Quebec! What a parfict devil he was, be sure!”
“You knew Arnold?”
“Wer n't I with him all the way, for two months? Die n't I see him
every hour of the day? Nothin' could daunt that fellow—his face was
always the same—and when there was danger, you need n't ask where he
was. Arnold was always in the front!”
“He was a rash, high-tempered man?”
“A beaver to work and a wild cat to fight! Hot-tempered as old Sattin,
but mind I tell 'ee, his heart was in the right place. I recollect one day,
we brought to a halt on the banks of a river. Our provisions were gone.
There were n't a morsel left. E'en the dogs an' sarpints had run out. Our
men set about in squads, talkin' the matter over. We were the worst
starved men, that had ever been seen in them parts. Well, in midst of it
all, Arnold calls me aside—I see his face yet, with an eye like one of them
fire-coals—ses he, “Bingimin, you're a little older than the rest of us!
Take this crust!” And he gives me a bit of bread, that he took from the
breast of his coat. Yes, the Colonel—sufferin' himself for bread—give me
the last he had, out of his own mouth!”
The old man brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. The traveller
seemed asleep, for his head had fallen on his breast, while his elbows rested
on his knees. The hunter, however, continued his story.
“Then you should a-seen him, at the Stormin' o' Quebec! Laws help
us! Why, even when his leg was broke, he cheered his men, and fought,
Arnold was a born devil to fight!”
“You said you were captured by the Indians?” hastily interrupted the
stranger, keeping his face within the folds of his cloak.
“I carried Arnold from the Rock at Quebec, and was with him when the
Americans were retreating toward Lake Champlain. One night, wandering
on the shore, the red skins come upon me—but it's a long story. You
seem to be from civilized parts, stranger. Can you tell me, what's become
of Benedict Arnold? Is he alive?”
“He is,” sullenly responded the traveller.
“At the head of the heap, too, I'll be bound! A Continental to the
backbone? Hey? Next to Washington himself?”
The traveller was silent.
“Maybe, stranger, you can tell me somethin' about the war? You
seem to come from the big cities? What's been doin' lately? The Continental
Congress still in operation? I did heer, while captive among the
Ingins, that our folks had cut loose altogether from King George?”
The strange gentlemen did not answer. His face still shrounded in his
cloak, he folded his arms over his knees, while the old man gazed upon
him with a look of some interest.
“So you knew Benedict Arnold?” a deep, hoarse voice echoed from the
folds of the cloak.
“That I did!—And a braver man never—”
“He was brave? Was he?”
“Like his iron sword, his character was full of dents and notches, but
his heart was always true, and his hand struck home in the hour of battle!”
“The soldiers liked him?”
“Reether so! You should have seen 'em follow his voice and eye on
the ramparts of Quebec! They fairly warshipped him—”
“Do you think he loved his country?”
“Do I think! I don't think about it—I know it!—But you don't seem
well—eh? Got a chill? You trimble so. Wait a moment, and I'll put
more wood on the fire.”
The stranger rose. Still keeping his cloak about his neck and face, he
moved toward the narrow door.
“I must go!” he said, in that hoarse voice, which for some unknown
reason, struck on the old man's ear with a peculiar sound.
“Go: On sich a night as this? It taint possible!”
“I must go! You can tell me, the best path from this accursed swamp,
and I will leave without a moment's delay!”
The old man was conscious that no persuasion on his part, could change
the iron resolve of the stranger's tone.
In a moment standing in the door, a lighted pine knot in his hand, he
gazed upon the sight revealed by its glare—That cloaked figure mounted on
and eye rolling, stood ready for the march.
It was a terrible night. The snow had changed to sleet, the wind swelling
to a hurricane, roared like the voices of ten thousand men clamoring in
battle, over the wilds of the swamp. Although it was in the depth of
winter, the sound of distant thunder was heard, and a pale lurid lightning
flashed from the verge of that dreary horizon.
The old man, with the light flaring now over his withered face, now over
the stranger and his steed, stood in the doorway of his rude home.
“Take the track to the right—turn the big oak about a quarter of a mile
from this place, and then you must follow the windin's of the path, as best
you may!—But hold, it's a terrible night: I'll not see a fellow bein's life in
peril. Wait a minute, until I get my cap and rifle; I'll go with you to the
edge of the swamp —”
“So you would like to know—” interrupted the deep voice of the Stranger—“So
you would like to know what has become of Benedict Arnold?”
That voice held the old man's eye and ear like a spell. He started forward,
holding the torch in his hand, and grasped the stirrup of the traveller.
Then occurred a sudden, yet vivid and impressive scene!
You hear the winter thunder roll, you see the pale lightning glow. That
torch spreads a circle of glaring light around the old man and the horseman,
while all beyond is intensely dark. You behold the brown visage of the
aged soldier, seamed with wrinkles, battered with scars, its keen grey eyes
upraised, the white hairs streaming in the wind.
And then, like some wild creation of that desert waste, you see the impatient
horse, and the cloaked figure, breaking into the vivid light, and distinctly
relieved by the universe of darkness beyond.
The old man gazed intently for a moment, and then fell back against the
door-post of his hut, appalled, frightened, thunderstricken. The mingled
despair, wonder, fear, stamped upon his battle-worn face, was frightful to
behold.
—The cloak had fallen from the Stranger's shoulders. The old man beheld
a massive form clad in scarlet, a bronzed visage disturbed by a hideous
emotion, two dark eyes that flashed through the gloom, as with the light of
eternal despair.
“Now, do you know me?” thundered that hoarse voice, and a mist came
over the old man's eyes.
When he recovered his consciousness again, the tufted sward before his
hut was vacant. There was the sound of horse's hoofs, crashing through
the swamp, there was the vision of a horse and rider, seen far over the
waste, by the glare of the winter lightning.
The space before the hut was vacant, yet still that old man with his paralyzed
hand clenching the torch, beheld a hideous vision rising against the
dark sky—a red uniform, a bronzed visage, two burning eyes!
“To-night,” he faltered—this brave old man, now transformed into a
very coward, by that sight—“To-night, I have seen the Fiend of Darkness—for
it was not—no! It was not Benedict Arnold!”
And the old man until the hour of his death, firmly believed that the
vision of that night, was a horrible delusion, created by the fiend of darkness,
to frighten a brave old soldier. He died, believing still in the Patriot
Arnold.
Arnold was afterwards heard to say, that all the shames and scorns,
which had been showered upon his head, never cut him so thoroughly to
the soul, as the fervent admiration of that Soldier of the Wilderness, who
in his lonely wanderings still cherished in his heart, the memory of the
Patriot Arnold.
XXIV.—THE THREE WORDS—
WHICH FOLLOWED BENEDICT ARNOLD TO HIS GRAVE.
When we look for the Traitor again, we find him standing in the steeple
of the New London church, gazing with a calm joy upon the waves of fire
that roll around him, while the streets beneath, flow with the blood of men
and women and children.
It was in September 1781, that Arnold descended like a Destroying Angel
upon the homes of Connecticut. Tortured by a Remorse, that never
for a moment took its vulture beak from his heart, fired by a hope to please
the King who had bought him, he went with men and horses, swords and
torches, to desolate the scenes of his childhood.
Do you see this beautiful river, flowing so calmly on beneath the light of
the stars? Flowing so silently on, with the valleys, the hills, the orchards
and the plains of Connecticut on either shore.
On one side you behold the slumbering town, with the outlines of Fort
Trumbull rising above its roofs; on the other, a dark and massive pile,
pitched on the summit of rising hills, Fort Griswold.
All is very still and dark, but suddenly two columns of light break into
the star-lit sky. One here from Fort Trumbull, another over the opposite
shore, from Fort Griswold. This column marks the career of Arnold and
his men, that the progress of his Brother in Murder.
While New London baptized in blood and flames, rings with death-groans,
there are heard the answering shout of Murder, from the heights of
the Fort on the opposite shore.
While Benedict Arnold stands in the steeple, surveying the work of
assassins, yonder in Fort Griswold a brave young man, who finds all defence
in vain, rushes toward the British officer and surrenders his sword.
By the light of the musquet flash we behold the scene.
Here the young American, his uniform torn, his manly countenance
red uniform, with a scowl darkening his red round face.
The American presents his sword; you see the Briton grasp it by the
hilt, and with an oath drive it through that American's heart, transfixing
him with his own blade!
British magnanimity! Now it chains Napoleon to the Rock of St.
Helena, poisoning the life out of him with the persecutions of a Knighted
Tookey, now it hangs the Irish Hero Emmet, because he dared to strike
one blow for his native soil, now it coops a few hundred Scottish men and
women in the ravine of Glencoe, and shoots and burns them to death!
British mercy! Witness it, massacre ground of Paoli witness it, gibbet
of the martyred Hayne, hung in Charleston in presence of his son, witness
it, corse of Leydard stabbed in Fort Griswold with your own surrendered
sword!
Do not mistake me, do not charge me with indulging a narrow and contracted
national hatred. To me, there are even two Nations of England,
two kinds of Englishmen. The England of Byron and Shakspeare and
Bulwer, I love from my heart. The Nation of Milton, of Hampden, of
Sidney, I hold to form but a portion of that great commonwealth of freedom,
in which Jefferson, Henry, and Washington were brothers.
But there is an England that I abhor! There is an Englishman that I
despise! It is that England which finds its impersonation in the bloody
imbecile George the Third, as weak as he was wicked, as blind as he was
cruel, a drivelling idiot, doomed in his reign of sixty years, to set brother
against brother, to flood the American Continent with blood, to convulse a
world with his plunders, and feel at last the Judgment of God in his blighted
reason, his demoralized family, his impoverished nation.
Behold him take the crown, a young and not unhandsome man with the
fairest hopes blossoming round him! Behold him during the idiocy of
forty years, wandering along that solitary corridor of his palace, day after
day, his lip fallen, his eye vacant, his beard moistened by his tears, while
grasping motes with his hands he totters before us, a living witness of the
Divine Right of Kings.
And yet they talk of his private virtues! He was such a good, amiable
man, and gave so many half-pence to the poor; he even took a few shillings
from the millions wrung from the nation, to pamper his royal babes, and
bestowed them in charity, mark you, upon the—People whom he had
robbed!
I willingly admit his private virtues. But when the King goes up to
Judgment, to answer for his Crimes, will you tell me what becomes of
the—Man?
There is a kind of Englishman that I despise, or if you can coin a word
to express the fullness of honest contempt, speak it, and I will echo you!
Behold the embodiment of this Englishman in the person of George the
elaborate pollution, after making his court a brothel the very air in which
he walked a breathing pestilence, went groaning one fine morning from his
perfumed chamber, to an unwept, a detested grave!
On that grave, not one flower of virtue bloomed; on that dishonored
corse, lying in state, not one tear of pity fell. The meanest felon, may
receive on his cold face one farewell tear—all the infamous tyrannies, enacted
beside the death-bed of Napoleon, could not prevent the tears of brave men
and heroic women, falling like rain, upon his noble brow. But will you
tell me, the name of the human thing, that shed one tear—only one—over
George the Fourth?
It is thoughts like these, that stir my blood, when I am forced, to record
the dastardly deeds, performed by British herelings in our Revolution.
That single corse of the heroic Leydard, stabbed with his own sword,
should speak to us with a vice, as eternal as the Justice of Heaven!
While he laid, cold and stiff, on the floor of the conquered fort, the flames
from the burning town spread to the vessels in the river and to the light of blazing
roofs and sails, Benedict Arnold looked his last upon his childhood's home.
Soon afterward he sailed from our shores, and came back no more. From
this time, forth wherever he went, three whispered words followed him,
singing through his ears into his heart—Arnold the Traitor.
When he stood beside his king in the House of Lords—the weak old
man, whispered in familiar tones to his gorgeously attired General—a
whisper crept through the thronged Senate, faces were turned, fingers extended,
and as the whisper deepened into a murmur, one venerable Lord
arose and stated that he loved his Sovereign, but could not speak to him,
while by his side there stood—Arnold the Traitor.
He went to the theatre, parading his warrior form, amid the fairest flowers
of British nobility and beauty, but no sooner was his visage seen, than the
whole audience rose—the Lord in his cushioned seat, the vagrant of London
in the gallery—they rose together, while from the pit to the dome
echoed the cry—“Arnold the Traitor?”
When he issued from his gorgeous mansion, the liveried servant, that ate
his bread, and earned it too, by menial offices, whispered in contempt, to
his fellow lacquey as he took his position behind his Master's carriage—
Benedict Arnold the Traitor.
One day, in a shadowy room, a mother and two daughters, all attired in
the weeds of mourning, were grouped in a sad circle, gazing upon a picture
shrowded in crape. A visitor now advanced; the mother took his card
from the hands of the servant, and the daughters heard his name. “Go?”
said that mother, rising with a flushed face, while a daughter took each hand
—“Go! and tell the man, that my threshhold can never be crossed by the
murderer of my son—by Arnold the Traitor.”
Grossly insulted in a public place, he appealed to the company—noble
lords and reverend men were there—and breasting his antagonist with his
fierce brow, he spat full in his face. His antagonist was a man of tried
courage. He coolly wiped the saliva from his cheek. “Time may spit
upon me, but I never can pollute my sword by killing—Arnold the Traitor!”
He left London. He engaged in commerce. His ships were on the
ocean, his warehouses in Nova Scotia, his plantations in the West Indies.
One night his warehouse was burned to ashes. The entire population of
St. John's—accusing the owner of acting the part of incendiary, to his own
property, in order to defraud the insurance companies—assembled in that
British town, in sight of his very widow, they hung an effigy, inscribed
with these words—“Arnold the Traitor.”
When the Island of Guadalope was re-taken by the French, he was
among the prisoners. He was put aboard a French prison-ship in the harbor.
His money—thousands of yellow guineas, accumulated through the
course of years—was about his person. Afraid of his own name, he called
himself John Anderson; the name once assumed by John Andre. He
deemed himself unknown, but the sentinel approaching him, whispered that
he was known and in great danger. He assisted him to escape, even aided
him to secure his treasure in an empty cask, but as the prisoner, gliding
down the side of the ship, pushed his raft toward the shore, that sentinel
looked after him, and in broken English sneered—“Arnold the Traitor!”
There was a day, when Tallyrand arrived in Havre, hot-foot from Paris.
It was in the darkest hour of the French Revolution. Pursued by the
blood-hounds of the Reign of Terror, stripped of every wreck of poverty
or power, Tallyrand secured a passage to America, in a ship about to sail.
He was going a beggar and a wanderer to a strange land, to earn his bread
by daily labor.
“Is there any American gentleman staying at your house?” he asked the
Landlord of his Hotel—“I am about to cross the water, and would like a
letter to some person of influence in the New World—”
The Landlord hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“There is a gentleman up stairs, either from America or Britain, but
whether American or Englishman, I cannot tell.”
He pointed the way, and Tallyrand—who in his life, was Bishop, Prince,
Prime Minister—ascended the stairs. A venerable supplicant, he stood
before the stranger's door, knocked and entered.
In the far corner of a dimly lighted room, sat a gentleman of some fifty
years, his arms folded and his head bowed on his breast. From a window
directly opposite, a flood of light poured over his forehead. His eyes,
looking from beneath the downeast brows, gazed in Tallyrand's face, with
a peculiar and searching expression. His face was striking in its outline;
the mouth and chin indicative of an iron will.
His form, vigorous even with the snows of fifty winters, was clad in a
dark but rich and distinguished costume.
Tallyrand advanced—stated that be was a fugitive—and under the impression,
that the gentleman before him was an American, he solicited his
kind offices.
He poured forth his story in eloquent French and broken English.
“I am a wanderer—an exile. I am forced to fly to the New World,
without a friend or a hope. You are an American? Give me, then, I beseech
you, a letter of introduction to some friend of yours, so that I may be
enabled to earn my bread. I am willing to toil in any manner—the scenes
of Paris have filled me with such horror, that a life of labor would be Paradise,
to a career of luxury in France—you will give me a letter to one of
your friends? A gentleman like you, has doubtless, many friends—”
The strange gentleman rose. With a look that Tallyrand never forgot,
he retreated toward the door of the next chamber, still downcast, his eyes
still looking from beneath his darkened brows.
He spoke as he retreated backward: his voice was full of meaning.
“I am the only man, born in the New World, that can raise his hand
to God, and say—I have not one friend—not one—in all America.”
Tallyrand never forgot the overwhelming sadness of that look, which
accompanied these words.
“Who are you?” he cried, as the strange man retreated toward the next
room—“Your name?'
“My name—” with a smile that had more of mockery than joy in its
convulsive expression—“My name is Benedict Arnold.”
He was gone. Tallyrand sank into a chair, gasping the words—“Arnold
the Traitor.”
—Thus you see, he wandered over the earth, another Cain, with the
murderer's mark upon his brow. Even in the secluded room of that Inn,
at Havre, his crime found him out and faced him, to tell his name, that
name the synonomy of infamy.
The last twenty years of his life, are covered with a cloud, from whose
darkness, but a few gleams of light flash out upon the page of history.
The manner of his death is not distinctly known. But we cannot doubt
that he died utterly friendless, that his cold brow was unmoistened by one
farewell tear, that Remorse pursued him to the grave, whispering John
Andre! in his ears, and that the memory of his course of glory, gnawed
like a canker at his heart, murmuring forever, `true to your country, what
might you have been, O, Arnold the Traitor!'
In the closing scene of this wild drama. I have dared to paint the agony
of his death-hour, with a trembling hand and hushed breath, I have lifted
the curtain from the death-bed of Benedict Arnold.
XXV.—ARNOLD: HIS GLORY, HIS WRONGS, HIS CRIMES.
Did you ever, reader, journey among dark mountains, on a stormy night,
with hideous gulfs yawning beneath your feet, the lightning enveloping your
form, with its vivid light—more terrible from the blackness that followed—
the thunder howling in your ears, while afraid to proceed or go back, you
stood appalled, on the verge of a tremendous chasm, which extended deep
and black for half a mile below?
Did you ever after a journey like this, ascend the last mountain top in
your path, behold the clouds roll from the scene of last night's danger, and
the eastern sky, glowing with the kiss of a new-born day? Then you
surveyed the past terror with a smile, and counter the chasms, and measured
the dark ways with a look of calm observation.
So, after our dark and fearful journey over Arnold's life, do we reach
the last mountain top, and the day breaks over us. Not upon him, dawns
the blessed light—ah, no! But upon us it glows, and we will now look
back upon the long track of his deeds, the waste of his despair, spread far
behind us.
Yes, our journey is near its end. The pleasant valleys of the Brandywine
will soon invite us to their shadows, soon we will repose beside their
clear waters, and drink the perfume of their flowers, while we listen to the
Legends of Battle, and Love, and Supernatural beauty, that rise like spirits
from those mound-like hills. Yet ere we pass to those shades of Romance
and Dreams, let us, at one bold sweep, survey the life of Arnold, his Glory,
his Wrongs, his Crimes.
He was born at Norwich, Connecticut, on the 3d of January, 1740.
At the age of sixteen, he ran away and joined the British army, was
stationed at Ticonderoga, but unable to endure either the restraint of discipline,
or the insults of power, he deserted and returned home.
He was now the only son of a devoted Mother. Left by a drunken father,
to the tender mercies of a World, which is never too gentle to the widow
or the orphan, his character was formed in neglect and hardship. He was
apprenticed to a druggist, and after his apprenticeship removed to New
Haven.
He next became a merchant, shipping horses and cattle and provisions
to the West Indies, and commanding his own vessel. In the West Indies,
his ardent temper involved him in a duel. His strong original genius, soon
led him in the way to wealth; his precipitate enterprize into bankruptcy.
He married at New Haven, a lady named Mansfield, who bore him three
sons, Benedict, Richard, and Henry. The first inherited the father's temper,
and met an untimely end. The others settled in Canada after the war:
the wife died at the dawn of the Revolution.
One sister, a noble-hearted woman, Hannah Arnold, clung to him in all
the changes of his life, and never for an hour swerved from the holy tenderness
of a sister's faith.
In May, 1775, he shared with Ethan Allen, the glory of Ticonderoga.
In September, 1775, with such men as Daniel Morgan, the great Rifleman,
and Christopher Greene, afterward the hero of Red Bank, under his
command, together with eleven hundred men, he commenced his expedition
through the Wilderness, to Quebec. After two months of suffering and
hardship, without a parallel in our history, he arrived at Point Levy, opposite
Quebec, having accomplished a deed that conferred immortal honor to
his name.
On the last day of the year, 1775, he led the attack on Quebec. Congress
awarded him for his gallant expedition and brilliant attack, with the
commission of brigadier general.
After the campaign of Canada was over, Arnold was accused of misconduct
in seizing certain goods at Montreal. The testimony of the first historian
in our country, proves, that in the removal of these goods, he was
neither practising any secret manœuvre, nor did he endeavor to retain them
in his possession. It is well to bear these truths in mind: the charge of
misconduct at Montreal, has been suffered almost to grow into history.
He was next appointed to the command of a fleet on Lake Champlain.
The nation rung with the fame of his deeds. On the water, as on the land,
his indomitable genius bore down all opposition.
A week before the battle of Trenton, he joined Washington's Camp, on
the west side of the Delaware, remained with the Chieftain three days, and
then hastened to Providence, in order to meet the invaders on the New
England coast.
In February, 1777, the first glaring wrong was visited upon his head.
Congress appointed five new major generals, without including him in the
list: all were his juniors in rank, and one was from the militia. Washington
was astonished and surprised at this measure; he wrote a letter to
Arnold, stating “that the promotion which was due to your seniority, was
not overlooked for want of merit in you.”
While on a journey from Providence to Philadelphia, where he intended
to demand an investigation of his conduct, he accomplished the brilliant
affair of Danbury.
Congress heard of this exploit, and without delay, Arnold was promoted
to the rank of Major General. With an inconsistency not easily explained,
the date of his commission was still left below the other five major
generals.
We next behold him in Philadelphia, boldly demanding an investigation
of his character, at the hands of Congress. The Board of War, to whom
all charges were referred, after examining all the papers, and conversing
with the illustrious Carrol, (Commissioner at Montreal) declared that the
aspersed.
Congress confirmed that report, complimented Arnold with the gift of an
elegantly caparisoned horse, yet still neglected to restore him to his hard-won
rank. This was the best way that could have been adopted to worry
a brave man into madness.
While his accounts lingered in the hands of Congress, Arnold was appointed
to command the army then convening in the vicinity of Philadelphia.
This duty he discharged with his usual vigor.
At last, chafed by the refusal of Congress to settle his accounts, and
adjust his rank, he resigned his commission in these words:
“I am ready to risk my life for my Country, but honor is a sacrifice
that no man ought to make—”
At this crisis came the news of the fall of Ticonderoga, and the approach
of a formidable Army under Burgoyne. On the same day that Congress
received the resignation, they also received a letter from Washington, recommending
that Arnold should be immediately sent to join the northern
army.
“He is active, judicious, and brave, and an officer in whom the militia
will repose great confidence.”
This was the language of Washington.
Arnold did not hesitate a moment. He took up his sword once more,
only hoping that his claims would be heard, after he had fought the battles
of his country.
He even consented to be commanded in the northern army, by General
St. Clair, who had been promoted over his head. With all his rashness,
all his sense of bitter wrong and causeless neglect, on this occasion, he acted
with heroic magnanimity.
In the two Battles of Saratoga, the one fought on September the 19th,
and the action of Oct. 7th, Arnold was at once the General and the Hero.
From 12 o'clock, until night on the 19th, the battle was fought entirely by
Arnold's division, with the exception of a single regiment from another brigade.
There was no general officer on the field during the day. Near
night, Col. Lewis, arriving from the scene of action, stated that its progress
was undecisive. “I will soon put an end to it,” exclaimed Arnold, and set
off in full gallop for the field.
Gates was so far forgetful of justice, as to avoid mentioning the name of
Arnold or his division in his despatches. A quarrel ensued, and Arnold
resigned his command.
On the 7th of Oct., without a command, he rushed to the field and led
the Americans to victory. “It is a singular fact,” says Sparks, “that an
officer, who really had no command in the army, was leader in one of the
most important and spirited battles of the Revolution.”
At last Congress gave him the full rank which he claimed.
If ever a man won his way to rank, by heaping victory on victory, that
man was Benedict Arnold.
In May, 1778, Arnold joined the army at Valley Forge.
But a short time elapsed ere he established his headquarters in Philadelphia,
as Military Governor or Commander.
Here, he prohibited the sale of all goods in the city, until a joint Committee
of Congress and the Provincial Council should ascertain, whether
any of the property belonged to King George or his subjects. This measure,
of course sanctioned by Washington and Congress, surrounded him
with enemies, who were increased in number and malignancy, by his impetuous
temper, his luxurious style of living, and his manifest consciousness
of fame and power.
He had not been a month at Philadelphia, ere he solicited a command in
the navy.
It was at this time, that he sent five hundred dollars, out of his contracted
means, to the orphan children of Warren, and pressed their claims upon
the notice of Congress.—Six weeks before the consummation of his treachery,
he sent a letter to Miss Scollay, who protected the hero's children, announcing
that he had procured from Congress, the sum of thirteen hundred
dollars, for their support and education.—
Soon after he assumed command in Philadelphia, he married Miss Shippen,
a beautiful girl of eighteen, daughter of a gentleman, favorable to the
King, and an intimate acquaintance of John Andre. This marriage encircled
Arnold with a throng of Tory associates. So familiar was the intimacy of
his wife with John Andre, that she corresponded with him, after the British
left the city and returned to New York.
His enemies now began their work. A list of charges against him, with
letters and papers was presented to Congress, by General Joseph Reed,
President of Pennsylvania, and referred to a committee of inquiry.
That Committee vindicated Arnold from any criminality in the matters
charged against him.
Congress did not act upon their report, but referred the matter to a joint
Committee of their body and of the Assembly and Council of Pennsylvania.
At last, Washington ordered a Court Martial, and gave notice to the
respective parties.
The accusers were not ready at the appointed time. The trial was put
off “to allow them to collect evidence.”
Three months had now elapsed since the charges were first presented to
Congress.
On the 18th of March, 1779, Arnold resigned his commission.
The day finally agreed upon, was the 1st of June, 1779, the place,
Middlebrook.
At this time the enemy in New York made threatening demonstrations,
and the Court Martial was again postponed.
Arnold then formed the project of forming a settlement for the soldiers
and officers who had served under him. He wished to obtain the grant of
a tract of land in Western New York. The members of Congress from
that state seconded his wishes, and wrote a joint letter to Governor Clinton,
soliciting his aid:
—“To you Sir, or to our state, General Arnold can require no recommendation:
a series of distinguished services, entitle him to respect and
favor —”
The President of Congress, the virtuous Jay, enforced the same application
in a private letter to Governor Clinton. He said—
—“Generosity to Arnold will be Justice to the State.”—
These testimonies speak for themselves. Was Arnold without noble and
virtuous friends?
Still with the odium of an “unconvicted criminal” upon his head, he was
attacked by a Mob, his person assaulted and his house surrounded. In
tones of bitter indignation he demanded a guard from Congress, and was
refused.
Time wore on, and the trial came at last. It commenced at Morristown,
on the 20th of December, and continued until the 26th of January 1780.
He was thoroughly acquitted on the first two charges; the other two
were sustained in part, but not so far as to imply a criminal intention.
He gave a written protection, (while at Valley Forge,) for a vessel to proceed
to sea. He used the baggage wagons of Pennsylvania. These were
his offences; for these he was sentenced to be reprimanded by Washington.
At least thirteen months had passed, from the time of the first accusation
until he was brought to trial. In the course of this time, he made his first
approaches of Treason.
Plunged into debt, he wished to enter the service of the French King,
to join an Indian tribe, to betray his country to the British. The
French Minister met his offer with a pointed refusal, his mysterious proposition
to become the Chief of the red men, was never carried into effect;
the only thing that remained, the betrayal of his country, was now to be
accomplished.
Supported by powerful influence, he obtained command of West Point.
He had corresponded for some months with Sir Henry Clinton, through
the letters of his wife to Major Andre. Andre affixed to his letter the signature,
John Anderson, and Arnold was known as Gustavus. Andre from
a mere correspondent and friend of the wife, was at last selected as the
great co-partner in the work of Treason. He was raised to the position of
Adjutant General, and when the fall of West Point was accomplished, was
to be created a Brigadier General.
The Conspirators met within the American lines; by some inexplicable
mistake Andre failed to go on board the Vulture, attempted to return to New
York by land, and was captured by Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert.
He was captured on the 23d of September, 1780. On the 25th, Arnold
escaped to the Vulture. On the 2nd of October, at twelve o'clock, Andre
was hung.
In May 1781, Arnold returned to New York from Virginia, thus narrowly
escaping the capitulation of Yorktown; in September he laid New
London in ashes; and in December he sailed from the Continent for
England.
—Thus plainly in short sentences and abrupt paragraphs, without the least
attempt at eloquence or display, you have the prominent points of Arnold's
career before you.
Judge every heart for itself, the mystery of his wonderful life!
A friendless boy becomes a merchant, a man of wealth, a bankrupt, a
druggist. From the druggist he suddenly flashes into the Hero of the Wilderness
and Quebec, the Victor of Champlain and Saratoga. In renown as
a soldier and general, having no superior save Washington, he is constantly
pursued by charges, and as constantly meets them face to face. The best
men of the nation love him, Washington is his friend, and yet after the torture
of thirteen months delay, his accusers press their charges home, and
he is disgraced for using the public wagons of Pennsylvania.
Married to a beautiful wife, he uses her letters to an intimate friend as
the vehicles of his treason, and afterwards meets that friend as a brother
conspirator. Resolved to betray his country, he does not frankly break his
sword, and before all the world proclaim himself a friend of the King, but
in darkness and mystery plans the utter ruin of Washington's army.
His star rises at Quebec, culminates at Saratoga, and sets in eternal night
in the reprimand of Morristown. When it appears again, it is no longer a
star, but a meteor streaming along a midnight sky, and flashing a sepulchral
light over the ruins of a world.
The track of his glory covers the space of five years.
When we contemplate his life, we at once scorn and pity, despise and
admire, frown and weep. His strange story convulses us with all imaginable
emotion. So much light, so much darkness, so much glory, so much
dishonor, so much meanness, so much magnanimity, so much iron-hearted
despair, so much womanly tenderness in the form of Benedict Arnold! In
the lonely hours of night, when absorbed in the books which tell of him, or
searching earnestly the memorials which are left on the track of time, to
record his career, I have felt the tears come to my eyes, and the blood beat
more tumultuously at my heart.
If there is a thing under Heaven, that can wring the heart, it is to see a
Great Man deformed by petty passions, a Heroic Soul plunged all at once
into the abyss of infamy. We all admire Genius in its eagle flight—but
who has the courage to behold its fall?
To see the Eagle that soared so proudly toward the rising sun, fall with
broken wing and torn breast into the roadside mire—to see the white
memorial of some immortal deed, suddenly crumble into dust—to see the
form that we have loved as a holy thing, in a moment change into a leprous
deformity—Who would not weep?
And then through the mist of sixty-seven years, the agonized words of
Washington thrills us with deep emotion—“Whom—” he cried, “Whom
can we trust now?”
You may not be able to appreciate my feelings when I survey the career
of Arnold, but you will in any event, do justice to the honesty of my purpose.
Arnold has not one friend, on the wide earth of God, unless indeed
his true-hearted sister survives. His name is a Blot, his memory a Pestilence.
Therefore no mercenary considerations sway me in this my solemn
task. Had money been my object, I might have served it better, by writing
certain Traitors into Heroes, and believe me there are plenty of grand-children,
with large fortunes, who would pay handsomely to have it done.
But Arnold—where is there a friend—to pay for one tear shed over his
dishonored grave?
Guided by the same feeling with which I investigated the character of
Washington, and found it more Pure and Beautiful than even the dull history
tells it, I have taken up Arnold and looked at him in every light, and to his
good and evil, rendered—Justice.
Those who expect to find in my pages, a minute record of his petty
faults—how he burnt grasshoppers when a little boy, or swindled grown
men out of fine black horses, when a warrior—will be wofully disappointed.
It may be true that he defrauded some one of the price of a horse, but
while we abuse him for the deed, let us at least remember, that he had a
strange way of killing his horses throughout the war. It was his chance
to ride ever in the front of the fight. Then as he plunged into the jaws of
Death, snatching the laurel leaf of victory from the brow of a skull, his
horse would fall under him, gored by a chain-shot, or rent by a cannon ball.
It was my intention to have drawn a portrait of his character, in conclusion
of this Tragedy, to have compared him with the heroes and accursed
ones of olden times, but the pen drops from my hand—
I can only say—
Lucifer was the Son of the Morning, brightest and most beautiful of all
the hosts of Heaven. Pride and Ambition worked his ruin. But when he
fell, the angels were bathed in tears.
XXVI.—THE RIGHT ARM.
Fifty years ago, a terrible storm shook the city of London. At the dead
of night, when the storm was at its highest, an aged minister, living near
one of the darkest suburbs of the city, was aroused by an earnest cry for
help. Looking from his window, he beheld a rude man, clad in the coarse
came down in torrents, and the storm growled above, that preacher, leaning
on the arm of the scavenger, threaded his way to the dark suburb, listening
meanwhile to the story of the dying man.
That very day, a strange old man had fallen speechless, in front of the
scavenger's rude home. The good-hearted street-sweeper had taken him
in—laid him on his bed—he had not once spoken—and now he was dying.
This was the story of that rough man.
And now through dark alleys, among miserable tenements, that seemed
about to topple down upon their heads, into the loneliest and dreariest
suburb of the city, they passed, that white-haired minister and his guide.
At last into a narrow court, and up dark stairs, that cracked beneath their
tread, and then into the death room.
It was in truth a miserable place.
A glimmering light stood on a broken chair.—There were the rough
walls, there the solitary garret window, with the rain beating in, through
the rags and straw, which stuffed the broken panes,—and there, amid a heap
of cold ashes, the small valise, which it seems the stranger had with him.
In one corner, on the coarse straw of the ragged bed, lay the dying man.
He was but half-dressed; his legs were concealed in long military boots.
The aged preacher drew near, and looked upon him. And as he looked,
throb—throb—throb—you might hear the death-watch ticking in the shattered
wall.
It was the form of a strong man, grown old with care more than age.
There was a face, that you might look upon but once, and yet wear in
your memory for ever.
Let us bend over the bed, and look upon that face: A bold forehead,
seamed by one deep wrinkle between the brows—long locks of dark hair,
sprinkled with grey—lips firmly set, yet quivering as though they had a
life, separate from the life of the man—and then two large eyes, vivid,
burning, unnatural in their steady glare.
Ah, there was something so terrible in that face—something so full of
unutterable loneliness, unspeakable despair—that the aged minister started
back in horror.
But look! Those strong arms are clutching at the vacant air—the death-sweat
starts in drops upon that bold brow—the man is dying.
Throb—throb—throb—beats the death-watch in the shattered wall.
“Would you die in the faith of the Christian?” faltered the preacher, as
he knelt there, on the damp floor.
The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled, but made no sound.
Then, with the strong agony of death upon him, he rose into a sitting
posture. For the first time, he spoke:
“Christian!” he echoed in that deep tone, which thrilled the preacher to
the heart, “will that faith give me back my honor? Come with me, old
my native town. Yonder is the church in which I knelt in childhood—
yonder the green on which I sported when a boy. But another flag waves
yonder in place of the flag that waved when I was a child. And listen,
old man, where I to pass along the street, as I passed when but a child, the
very babes in their cradles would raise their tiny hands and curse me.
The graves in yonder graveyard would shrink from my footsteps, and yonder
flag—would rain a baptism of blood upon my head?”
That was an awful death-bed. The minister had watched the “last
night” with a hundred convicts in their cells, and yet never beheld a scene
so terrible as this.
Suddenly the dying man arose. He tottered along the floor. With those
white fingers, whose nails are blue with the death-chill, he threw open the
valise. He drew from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, an
old parchment, a piece of damp cloth, that looked like the wreck of a
battle-flag.
“Look ye, priest, this faded coat is spotted with my blood!” he cried, as
old memories seemed stirring at his heart. “This coat I wore, when I
first heard the news of Lexington—this coat I wore, when I planted the
banner of the stars on Ticonderoga! That bullet-hole was pierced in the
fight of Quebec; and now—I am a—let me whisper it in your ear!”—
He hissed that single, burning word into the minister's ear.
“Now help me, priest,” he said, in a voice grown suddenly tremulous;
“help me to put on this coat of blue and silver. For you see—” and a
ghastly smile came over his face—“there is no one here to wipe the cold
drops from my brow; no wife—no child—I must meet death alone; but I
will meet him, as I have met him in battle, without a fear!”
And while he stood arraying his limbs in that worm-eaten coat of blue
and silver, the good preacher spoke to him of faith in Jesus. Yes, of that
great faith, which pierces the clouds of human guilt, and rolls them back
from the face of God.
“Faith!” echoed that strange man, who stood there, erect, with the
death-chill on his brow, the death-light in his eye. “Faith? Can it give
me back my honor? Look, ye priest, there over the waves, sits George
Washington, telling to his comrades, the pleasant story of the eight years'
war—there in his royal halls sits George of England, bewailing in his idiot
voice, the loss of his Colonies. And here am I—I—who was the first to
raise the flag of freedom, the first to strike a blow against that King—here
am I, dying, ah, dying like a dog!”
The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look of the dying man,
while throb—throb—throb—beat the death-watch in the shattered wall.
“Hush! silence along the lines there!” he muttered, in that wild absent
tone, as though speaking to the dead; “silence along the lines! Not a
word, not a word on peril of your lives. Hark you, Montgomery, we will
Hist! Silence, my men—not a whisper, as we move up these steep rocks!
Now on, my boys, now on! Men of the Wilderness, we will gain the
town!—Now up with the banner of the stars—up with the flag of freedom,
though the night is dark and the snow falls! Now—now—” shrieked that
death stricken man, towering there, in the blue uniform, with his clenched
hands waving in the air—“now, now! One blow more, and Quebec is
ours!”
And look! His eye grows glassy. With that word on his, he stands
there—ah, what a hideous picture of despair, erect, livid, ghastly! There
for a moment, and then he falls! He is dead!
Ah, look at that proud form, thrown cold and stiff upon the damp floor.
In that glassy eye there lingers, even yet, a horrible energy—a sublimity
of despair.
Who is this strange man, dying here alone, in this rude garret—this man,
who, in all his crimes, still treasured up that blue uniform, that faded flag?
Who is this being of horrible remorse?—this man, whose memories seem
to link something of heaven, and more of hell?
Let us look at that parchment and flag
The aged minister unrolls that faded flag—it is a blue banner, gleaming
with thirteen stars.
He unrolls that parchment. It is a colonel's commission in the Continental
army, addressed to—Benedict Arnold!
And there, in that rude hut, while the death-watch throbbed like a heart
in the shattered wall—there, unknown, unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation,
lay the corse of the Patriot and the Traitor.
O, that our own true Washington had been there, to sever that good right
arm from the corse, and while the dishonored body rotted into dust, to bring
home that good right arm, and embalm it among the holiest memories of
the Past.—
For that right arm struck many a gallant blow for freedom, yonder at
Ticonderoga, at Quebec, Champlain, and Saratoga—THAT ARM, YONDER,
BENEATH THE SNOW-WHITE MOUNTAIN, IN THE DEEP SILENCE OF THE RIVER
OF THE DEAD, FIRST RAISED INTO LIGHT THE Banner of the Stars.
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