 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
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.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |