University of Virginia Library

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

of the dark eyes, are all lost in a pale fixed expression of resolute despair.
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

is revealed; the portrait of a gallant cavalier with hazel eyes, and
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

sword, whose foot sprung as lightly toward the cannon's muzzle, as it
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

help it, if your fate was so dark and cold? Your death so hideous? Your
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

this still hour—while the stars came shining out above the mountains and
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

gallant, so chivalrous, he has the hearts of all men with him. And yet
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,

that Champe had been seen taking the route to Paulus Hook, opposite the
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

thundering down with one sound, was very pleasant to hear. But those
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

for the foot-tracks of the deserter. The villagers roused from their slumbers
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

the morning sun glitter on their buttons—yes, their faces convulsed with
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 silks, laces, pearls, jewels. She, so strange in the majestic loveliness
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

no more the light laugh, nor the careless repartee. All was silent around
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,

clad in the dress of John Andre—“Do not rend my heart with these
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

street trusty men are waiting for him, even now. That street leads to the
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

Lee, the entire Legion come running to the scene: on every side, you
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

and death, in the cause of Humanity and Justice! He wished to save John
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:

John Champe.