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
goblet of rich old wine, and that letter bore the signature of George
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
his hand. He knew one trait of the Colonel; when he appeared most
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
came along the carpet with an easy stride, somewhat lessened in dignity by
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!
