 | CHAPTER V. Seventy-six |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“And always careless, always—even in fight.”
Two whole weeks had passed away, and, such had
been the effect, of their zealous co-operation, that our
aged patriots had mustered one hundred and twenty-three
well mounted horsemen, and nearly two hundred
infantry, who, by the way, were wretchedly equipped.
The whole country had taken the alarm—the tremendous,
and unsparing violence of the Germans,
who, most inconsiderately, in the royal commander,
had been put forward in his extreme advance, forming
a chain of posts, utterly unable to communicate with,
or understand, or, to soothe the inhabitants; and,
too weak, by far—fully beset with the notion, that we
were a people of rebel savages, and, accustomed to
put our prisoners to death, if not of cannibals; the
falsehood of which belief, they only learnt, by being
taken prisoners; after it had quickened their natnatural
ferocity, and made them the scourge of all the
country round—the futility of the royal protections,
which were often thrust through with a bayonet, or
scattered to the winds by these foraging banditti, under
pretence, that they were unable to read them; or of
utter disbelief, in their authority—these things, with
the indiscriminate pillage, and butchery of friend and
foe—and worst of all, the uninterrupted, and brutal
profanation of our mothers, wives, and daughters,
before our faces—by the living God, it is true!—a
committee were employed in our little neighbourhood,
to report upon the subject to congress, and the result
was solemnly announced, that twenty-three women
there, had been violated—twenty-three!—where the
greater than it is in her brothers, fathers, sons
—what a multitude must have been sacrificed, for so
many to have been discovered, by accident!---for, by
nothing but accident, could it have been discovered---
a secret, so terrible---a violence, so horrible to her
nature. Men of America!---will ye ever forget it?---
if ye do, may your beautiful daughters and wives—
no---that were too awful a malediction-- may ye and
they, perish, strangled in each other's arms, suffocated
in each other's blood!---these things, at last, drove
us mad. We arose, as one people---a nation, about
to offer up its enemies in sacrifice; and, had our
disposition been rightly understood, the deep feeling
of religion, which began to work, like leaven, within
us, been rightly distributed, before the commencement
of the spring campaign, there would not have been a
man left alive, of our whole enemy---from Georgia to
Maine---nor a hostile foot, able to leave its mark upon
our land.
We found our guest one of the strangest creatures
in the world, altogether agreeable, and full of careless,
self possession; and, though he chose to call himself
Clinton, we had good reason to believe that his name
was not Clinton; and, that he was an aid of the
commander in chief; for, at the end of about two
weeks, after several attempts to write, which, were
successively made and abandoned, he called Archibald,
who had become a great favourite with him, to his
side, where he sat, lolling, with his sleeve ripped up,
and looped all the way, to his shoulder, and his right
arm in a sling; and, the following conversation ensued,
between them. I have, already, spoken of his beauty
---it was generally of a frank, careless, aspect; but,
at times, for a single moment, there was a lordly
shadow upon his brow, and his dark eyes loured imperiously,
like one accustomed to have his way, in
spite of all the world, and impatient of contradiction,
let it come from whence it would.
He had been talking about the affair of the lakes;
attempts upon the shipping, up the North river; the
ill advised defence of Fort Washington, the loss of
which, he attributed to the advice of General Greene;
though, he admitted that Greene manœuvred in a
masterly manner, to save the military stores at Fort
Lee—and finally, of the battle upon Long Island—
and, Mr. Arnauld, of whom it is time that I should
give you some clearer notion, than you have, sat
listening to him, with ardent admiration and pleasure.
Mr. Arnauld, was a small man, with a remarkably
spirited face; handsome eyes, full of a melting softness;
a rich, deep voice, and lips of a blood red—the most
perfect gentleman, that I ever saw—doing, whatever
he did, with that consummate self-possession, as if,
no matter how sudden the emergency, or unpremeditated
the thought, as if that alone had been the subject
of all his preparation. At first, such was his readiness,
that you could hardly persuade yourself out of a
notion, that he had forseen, or contrived the event,
or the remark, that brought out the peculiarity, of
which I speak; but, in a little time, that suspicion
would gave way, to the delightful certainty, that,
happen what would, there was never such a thing in
Arnauld's mind, as unpreparedness. His appearance,
was not striking, nor his countenance handsome, till
he became animated; but then, if the women were to
be believed, he was the most dangerous man living.
For my own part, I must confess, that, old as he was,
when I knew him—and, then he was nearly old
enough to have been my father, his manners were the
most fascinating; the play of his countenance, the
most eloquent; the carriage of his person, the most
dignified and intellectual, if I can make myself intelligible,
by such a word—(what I mean by it is, that
there was more of the soul, in it)—than that of any
other man, that I ever saw. He was not a learned
man, I think, yet there was no theme, upon which, his
passionate, and beautiful mind did not dilate with a
force and brilliancy, at times, which took away my
and fiery meditation. He was a profligate—a voluptuary---a
sensualist, perhaps; for he fed his mind
upon loveliness, and banquetted, all the day long, upon
colour, and sound, and perfume, with celestial creatures.
His very children, were a sort of spiritualities;
and, though I loathed, and abhorred, the earthiness
of his passion for women, yet he had the art of so
sublimating, and colouring, whatever he chose to touch
with his enchantment, that it was perilous as death,
to listen to him, when set upon conquering your reason.
I believe, that he had a good heart, and a brave
one---that he loved his wife, to adoration, and would
have torn away, his own heartstrings---split his own
arteries, to make his children happier, for a single
day, in any material thing. But let me return to
Major Clinton, or Colonel, as we ought to call him.
`Hither, Dapper,' said he, to Archibald, carelessly,
`I want your assistance.'
Archibald, lifted his eyes, slowly, to his face---
as if, I believed at first, that they meant to smile at
the man's impudence; but, then a deeper hue came
to them, as if it were well to put a stop to it, before
it should be too late.
He lifted his eyes, slowly, and fixed them upon
Clinton's face, with a serious impression; not so much
of displeasure, as of enquiry; and then, as slowly,
dropped them again.
`Dapper, I say!' said his persecutor, again, throwing
a wicked glance at the girls, who sat nearly opposite---`come,
come, I want to borrow your fingers.'
`Colonel Clinton,' said Archibald, calmly, raising
his eyes to the Colonel's face, `my name is Archibald
Oadley.'
Clinton laughed, and flinging his handsome leg out,
as if a sudden pain, had just taken his breath away---
`will---you---then---Ar-chi-bald Oad-ley'---carricaturing
the measured enunciation of my brother, so happily,
that he smiled, in spite of himself, and Lucia
coloured to the eyes, and gave a peevish sleat of the
escape the notice of Clinton, (for he glanced, rapidly,
to and fro, three or four times, from one to the other,
before he finished the sentence, like one reconnoitering)
—`will—you—then—do—me—the—favour—to—write
—pray, do you always talk with that solemn emphasis?—but,
no matter, now—will you write a line for
me?'
`With all my heart,' said Archibald, seating himself,
immediately, at the table; while Lucia hurried,
with a petulant activity, to get the writing materials
before him; occasionally glancing at the noble countenance
of Clinton, and then, at the richly, delicate,
but singularly intelligent one, of Archibald—in pity,
I thought—and perhaps, for I did not like the compassionate
trembling of her lips—nor the colour,
that came, and went, so rapidly, about her temples—
it was too like the expression of disappointment, and
even shame.
`All ready?' said Clinton.
Archibald, bowed—dropped his pen again, into the
ink.
`Well, then—Dear General—have you got that?'
Archibald, nodded. A profound silence, followed.
`Damn it,' said Clinton, after wriggling backward
and forward, in his seat, for a whole minute—
`it is like drawing your teeth,'
`Not mine, if you please,' said Archibald, lifting
his pleasant eyes, again to his face.
`Well mine, then. I'll tell you what it is—you'd
better write it yourself—come, will you?—there's a
good fellow!—no matter, what you say, so that he
can't read it.'
Archibald shook his head; and, Clinton continued
—`for he was never able to read one of my letters,
yet---stop---there's the date---put that down---whew!'
there was another dead halt, of a minute or two, while
every compassionate soul, in the room, was afraid to
look up, lest it should add to his confusion---poor
creature! he never suspected it!---`I'll tell you what,
I'd rather winter a whole campaign, upon White Plains,
than write a letter, any day---the first sentence, is so
unspeakably difficult. That is the tenth time, that I
have undertaken, to communicate the fact, that I am
alive, hearty, and ready to return to duty, as soon as
he pleases; but, hang me, if---stay---stay---make a
full stop.'
`O, that I did, half an hour ago,' said Archibald.
`Well, then---now sign my name to it---George R.
Clinton, A. D. C.---is it done?'
`Yes,' said my brother, without changing countenance,
but to whom shall I direct it?'
`To His Excellency, George Washington.' The
pen fell from my brother's hand, and we all looked up
in amazement.
`Why, what ails the boy?' said Clinton, `don't
you mean to finish the letter?'
Archibald took up the pen, again, with a trembling
hand, and wrote the direction, biting his lip, as he
did so---there was a strange variety of emotion in his
face.
`Is it done?'
`Yes sir,' said Archibald, reaching it to him.—
`Please to read it for me.'—
Archibald read as follows:—
`— New Jersey, 14th November, 1776..... Dear
general..... George R. Clinton.... A. D. C....
To his Excellency, George Washington.'—
Clinton stared him in the face, for half a minute, and
then threw himself back into the chair, and laughed till
the house shook again—and before he had ended, we
were all laughing with him; all, I should say, except
my father and mother, who sat a little apart from the
rest, holding each others hands, and looking as if
neither would ever smile again—and Arthur, poor fellow,
he had left us, to go alone, where he would be welcome—among
the armed children of America.
`Well, well!'—continued Clinton, after this obstreperous
peal had ended—`after all, I don't see but that
alive—in my senses—and he will know, at the first
glance, that it is no counterfeit—that I must have dictated
it—I say, I hope you have written with the wrong
end of the quill—if you have, it may go down for something
under my own hand—stop before you seal it—
take up your pen again, dot it a little, here and there—
and now just draw two or three crooked lines athwart
the paper, and I will defy the devil himself to detect
the counterfeit.—There—now seal it.'—
Archibald followed his directions—folded, sealed and
directed it.
`You will be good enough, Mr. Arnauld, to have
that conveyed, as soon as practicable to the out post at
the Four Corners.'—
`Is it possible!' cried Archibald, seeing that the
thoughtless creature was in downright earnest—`would
you really presume to send such a letter as that to
George Washington?'—
`Presume! why not?'
`But such a barren affair—it will be an insult.'—
`Pho—pho—it is the longest letter that he ever read
from me in his life. Sometimes, when I have been in
some hot scrape or other, for he is sure to send me,
where more speed and horsemanship than brains are
wanted, I have just scrawled the initials of my name
and sent them—stop! that letter must not go in that
fashion—just put down the initials—I am incog for a
while, and he won't know me by the name of Clinton.'
`Will you allow me,' said Mr. Arnauld, `to write
a note for you?'—
`O certainly,' was the reply, `but I see no necessity
for another.... Mr. Oadley can just draw his pen over
the name, and write G. R. C. under them—he will understand
by that same letter three things, which are all
that I could tell him, if you should write a whole day—
for I told him, when he took me into his family, that—
curse me, if I could either write letters, or copy them
—but that I could carry them, through fire and smoke
—into Sir Henry Clinton's quarters, if he pleased.'—
`Three things,' said Archibald—`what are they?'
`The date, name and address—I suppose,' said Mr.
Arnauld, pleasantly.
`Pho,' you're all out. First (making a flourish with
his left hand—) he will understand that I am alive—else
I should not be able to dictate that letter. Secondly,
he will understand that I am not able to write—else I
should not have employed another. And thirdly, he
will understand where I am, and send a wagon for me
directly.—Now, what more could I tell him, if I
blacked a quire of paper all over?—nothing—I hate
your long letters.—I never read them—I have a trunk
full at home, that I have just opened, far enough to
count the pages—and put them by for—a rainy day—
or a cold one—it matters not much which. Do you use
any letters? you may have them—you're welcome to them
all. I cannot deny that I have been brought into two
or three unpleasant scrapes about them—but then, I
can't read them, I can't, and what's the use of talking
about it. If people will quarrel—why, that's another
affair—I'm not fonder of it than most men, but I'd
rather quarrel, with any body, than read a long letter.'
`You have seen Washington, then,' said I, timidly.
He looked at me a moment, from head to foot, as if indeavouring
to understand whether I was in jest or earnest—and
then answered `yes, almost every day, for
the last six years.'—
My father arose, and came forward—as if anxious to
evince his respect for so favoured a mortal—and Lucia,
it appeared to me, began to look about her, with a more
distrustful eye, as if endeavouring to recollect all that
she had been saying, in the festivity of her heart, before
one, who had really seen George Washington, face
to face—and I—I cannot deny that I felt a strange commotion
within me, next, I believe, to what I should have
felt in seeing the great man himself—nay, more than I
did feel afterwards, when I actually saw him.
`Well,' said Archibald, shrugging his shoulders—
`even this is better than hearing of him—it is seeing
what kind of a man is he?'
`About the height of your father,' said Clinton,
measuring the august old man, as he continued—`and
not a little like him, in his carriage—about twenty-five
years younger, however—with a broader forehead—a
more awful meaning upon it—not so large, but boney—
and in short—a man, before whom other men feel, and
look, and act—like children—aye, sir, the wisest and
bravest.—Haven't I seen the stoutest heart among
us—hang his head, like a lubberly school boy, when the
General but turned his face upon him for a minute,
without uttering a word'—(There was a prodigious expression
of soreness—or something else, in the movement
of his haughty lip, as he said this.)
`Do you love him?' said Archibald.—
`An odd question, faith,' said Clinton—`to ask one
of his own family!—however, I won't baulk you, my
lad.—No—I do not love him—I cannot—he makes me
feel my inferiority too sensibly, for that—but I would
die for him, three times a day, for the rest of eternity;
isn't that better than love?'
`Not better than love,' said Arnauld. `Oh, of women
you mean,'—answered Clinton, glancing at Lucia,
who turned away her face with some little agitation,
looking sideways at Archibald, as she did so. `O, that
is another affair.—Whether I could love a woman or
not would be hard to tell. All that I know of the
matter is, that I have tried to, more than once, with all
my heart and soul, and I could never get farther into
her heart—and affections—than to be made a fool of—
laughed at, first by her, and then by all the world—
and then—however—I should love to be wrought upon
once more, if it were only to keep me alive till the
next campaign opens. Cannot you tell me, Archibald,
of some blessed creature,' (his tone grew deeper—and
the father glanced at him with a look of alarm, as if he
would read his very soul),—`that could love a soldier
all the day long—watch with him all the night long—
live with him—die with him—and never write him a
association of deep feeling and levity, apparent, not
less in the time of the stranger, than in his words—
`why, you might as well inhibit the use of speech—at
once,' said she.
`No, no,' he replied—thrusting his whole hand, into
his dark luxuriant hair, that shone in its abundance and
disorder, as if it had never been touched with aught but
the wind and rain—`there would be several objections
to that—gallantry—the love of contradiction—the impossibility
of the thing—what woman would ever surrender
upon such terms—no, no, Miss Clara, an
honourable capitulation is safer for both parties—if we
give no quarter, we cannot expect any—beside there
are some women, who wouldn't think my objection
at all unreasonable, to long letters.'
`Why not marry a deaf and dumb lady?' said Mr.
Arnauld.
`Why, to tell you the truth,' replied Clinton, carelessly
throwing his left arm over the chair in which
Lucia sat, so that his finely turned hand hung down
by her shoulder—and touched it, I believe, in some
subsequent movement, for she changed her position, and
I saw his eyes flash, with a deeper expression of meaning,
than I had ever seen before—and Archibald saw it
too, I thought—for he held his face lower, and began
a second time, at the top of the page, over which he
was poring:—`to tell you the truth, that would be a
needless preliminary—it would be well enough to be
sure, to have her deaf and dumb at first.'
`It might be a blessing to her,' said Lucia pettishly,
in a whispering tone, meant for Archibald's ear, but he
would not appear to have heard it.
`Pretty well!'—continued Clinton, `pretty well!'
for a beginner:—yes, it might be a blessing to her—
and it certainly would be one to her husband, if her
voice were not so full—of—of—hang me, if I
could ever pay a compliment in my life, when I wanted
to.'—
Lucia turned entirely away from him, now, notwithstanding
a gentle reproof of her mother, who moved
her feet upon the fender, in the accent of admonition,
and hemmed once or twice—while his nether lip worked,
and the light shot through his long lashes, as if not an
emotion or thought, of a single heart in the company,
could escape him—and even Mr. Arnauld, when their
eyes met, for a moment, and flashed a quick interchange
of meaning, like electricity, ten thousand times more
powerful and expeditious than your vulgar language of
sound and syllable—appeared to be thoroughly understood
by him. Heart answered to heart between them,
for a moment, as if each had a telegraph in his own.
`So then,' said Mrs. Arnauld, `you are for a deaf
and dumb woman—vita mia!—'
`O no—not at first—not till I was disposed to be a
windower.—I should like a wife at first, with a head on.
In a little time, I would answer for her being deaf and
dumb too. My voice would make her deaf—my talking
dumb.'
`You would break her heart perhaps,' said Archibald,
without raising his eyes.
Clinton yawned—`probably,' said he—`probably—
and after all, she might as well be deaf and dumb at
first—if dumb the better for me—deaf, the better for
her.—Yaw—aw—aw!—'
`And I dare say,' continued Mrs. Arnauld, laying
her hand upon his wounded arm, very gently, as she
passed—`that it would soon amount to the same thing,
if you rattled away, as you do sometime—you would
make her forget her own language.'—
`Or ashamed of it,' said he, putting his hand upon
hers, with the consummate assurance of one long familiar
with women. (The blood rushed over the temples
of her husband, as he saw it, and darkened his
eyes with a terrible shadow and lustre.) She caught
his look, or rather felt it—for she withdrew her hand,
and went to the window in silence—and stood there,
for several minutes.
`Pray, Colonel,' said my father, addressing him with
a gravity which if any thing in this world could have
awed the licentious festivity of his nature, would have
done it, `have you ever seen General Lee?'
`Charles or Harry?'—said Clinton.
`I do not know his first name, Colonel.'
`Pray, old gentlemen.'—(Archibald threw down his
book, and sat upright—but my father's eye fell, with a
serious rebuke upon him, before he had time to interfere,
and he gradually sunk into the same position
again.) `I must tell you—and all of you, now that I
think of it, to call me plain Mr. Clinton—some of the
scoundrel enemy have penetrated thus far—and it might
hurry us all into trouble, if they knew there was a colonel
here. A sharp game has been playing of late—one
of retaliation—they have sent Ethan Allen to England,
in chains, and we have just taken Prescott.'
We all assented to the proposition, and he continued,
`I should like to stay with you a few weeks longer—
till I am well enough to sit my horse, at least, for I
like this hospital, I confess, rather better than ours in
camp—that letter.'
`Do you really mean to send that letter? then,' said
Mr. Arnauld.
`Yes—no—perhaps it would be as well—damn it—
I beg your pardon ladies, a thought strikes me. I'll
send for Jasper, and have the lads drilled and taught
the broadsword—and then gallop into camp, as from
the recruiting service, with a squadron of horse at my
heels—and a broken arm. Yes Mr. Ar-chi-bald—
please to add, that I am recruiting—a little injured in
my right arm—and that, if he will order sergeant Jasper
into this quarter, with four of my old troop, we will
be ready, at a moment's warning, to cover any of his
foraging parties, or cut up any of the enemy's, till there
is an opportunity for more serious operations—just as
he pleases—for pastime till—'
Archibald wrote the very words down, and read
them, to him.
`Now—why the devil—damn this practice of swearing.
Ladies, I beg your pardon—I have been too
long in camp, not to offend, sometimes, where I would
wish to avoid it—I am only astonished, that, when I
wanted to say that, in black and white, just now, it was
a matter so difficult.'
`Would it not be well,' said my father `to give the
commander in chief, some account of your capture?'
`Report myself?—O, no—dead or disabled, he
knows well, that I must be, to be absent for a whole
day—yet, you may as well say, Archibald, that I have
heard of the enemy, and were afraid of their cutting off
my videttes, in detail—put it in your own language—
and, that I was taken prisoner—and—'
`Taken prisoner!' said Mr Arnauld.
`By us, you mean,' said Clara, smiling.
He nodded. `No, by the enemy; and, but for that
young coxcomb, who fell upon them—I—ha!'
Archibald shook his head, and Clinton continued—
`say that I was taken prisoner, and rescued, by—'
Archibald, threw down his pen, angrily, and Lucia
turned about, her beautiful face all in a glow, with her
passionate enthusiasm; while my father leaned half
out of his chair, dropping the hand of my poor mother
—and there was a breathless silence—`by—by—I am
not permitted to tell whom, or how. There!—will
that do?—and, add, if you please, Tinder-box, that,
if his excellency pleases, I will stay here, till I am
wanted—or, will—to protect the neighbourhood—'
Archibald finished the letter; sealed it, and received
a hearty shake of the hand, from Clinton, who
lifted his dark, expostulating eyes, to him, and said
something, in a low voice.
`No,' said Archibald, firmly—`no, Colonel, remember
your word—I shall hold you to it.'
`Pray, Colonel,' said Mr. Arnauld—
`Colonel!—Colonel!—again—Mister, if you please.'
`Well, then, Mister Clinton—you spoke, a few moments
since, of General Lee—is he popular?'
`Exceedingly, with them that do not know him.'
`A great soldier?' said my brother.
`Yes—but, not the man for our cause.'
`They mention his generalship, at the South,' said
Mr. Arnauld.
`I know it,' was the reply—the thing is wholly
misunderstood. Fort Moultrie would have been given
up—Sullivan's Island abandoned, if the advice of
Lee, had been followed. He swore, that Sir Peter
Parker would blow it into the air, with half a dozen
broadsides. No—that affair is Moultrie's alone—he
ought to have the whole credit of it, and he shall. For
ten whole hours, he, and his raw malitia, and palmetto
wood, held out, against the whole British fleet,
in one uninterrupted roll of thunder and fire.'
`But Lee has had a great deal of experience,
abroad; and is a man of extraordinary talent, is he
not?' said Mr Arnauld.
Clinton turned pale upon him, and answered, more
seriously, than I had ever heard him, before. `Yes,
Sir; it is all true—but Lee is a tyrant—an aristocrat
—and, if they that wish to see him, in the place of
Washington, will put him there. I will answer for his
being King Charles the First, before three campaigns
are over. No, Sir—neither he—nor granny Gates, is
the man to lead our armies. They are fighting for
themselves—Washington for us. He risks nothing
for popularity; takes all the peril upon himself, with
the rabble of the army, and puts the strength and flower
of it under the command of the very men, that would
supplant him—but'—standing erect, his noble countenance,
and haughty lip, all eloquent with deep and
unutterable reverence, `God is with George Washington!'
Clara—nay, even Lucia—my father—mother—all
—all—every living soul—stood up, and unconsciously
followed his movement—and, when the ceiling of
the large room, resounded to the manly voice of
Clinton, `God is with George Washington!' it seemed
as if every voice had united in the acclamation; while
Archibald, poor Archibald, stood looking, with his
Clinton; as if—heaven only knows, if the thought be a
true one; but, so it appeared to me—as if that burst
of enthusiasm, in Clinton, had wrecked his happiness,
forever—for, he went up to him; took his hand, and
bowed his head upon it; and sat down, in silence, as
if willing to give up—all—all, that was dearest to
him, in the wide world, for the loud, and gallant testimony,
that he had just borne to Washington.
Lucia saw the action; and a strange, tumultuous
light flashed over her white forehead; stirring her
very hair, with the rush of her blood; while her eyes
filled, and she came nearer to Archibald, as if she
would have comforted him, if she could—but, he carefully
avoided her eyes, and she was unable to speak.
`But what think you of this system of retaliation?'
said my father.
`The best thing, in all the world, to bring the
arrogant followers of his majesty, to their senses. After
that d—d affair at the cedars, I wish you could have
seen Washington's face. It was tremendous—and,
when he wrote his last letter, by heaven, my blood
ran cold. I could see, as plainly as I now see you, a
hundred or two, of fine looking fellows, with epauletts
upon their shoulders, swinging in the wind—I—'
`Would he have done it?' said Arnauld, shuddering.
`Would he—would George Washington do what he
has once threatened?—yes—though the sun turned to
blood, while he did it; and the sky fell in fragments
at his feet—aye—though it rained fire upon him!'
`But, how would that be possible?' said my father.
`How could Washington stand by, and see men
butchered, mangled, scalped, and roasted, as they were
at the cedars?'
`O, that was the wisdom of congress,' said Clinton.
`Washington never promised such retaliation—he foresaw
that, unless he wished to make his brave fellows
as bad as the enemy, he could not enforce an exact, and
scrupulous retaliation.'
`Yet, it was threatened; and, it is not wise or dignified,
for a nation to threaten, only.'
`So I say; right or wrong, after you have uttered
a threat, fulfil it. Bite; don't bark—but, if you must
bark, bite afterward—right or wrong.'
`That affair at Long Island, seemed to have lost
Washington a part of his popularity,' said Mr. Arnauld.
`Was it not rather too hazardous, to throw all
his forces upon our island, accessible on all sides, to
the enemy; where, if defeated, inevitable ruin must
have followed.'
`I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Arnauld; there is a
dangerous, discontented spirit, among us: we seem
to be weary already, of the good cause; anxious to
down with our natural born men of America; our
old fashioned republicans, and put any body---no
matter whom---if he has been educated abroad, in their
places. I use no disguise. Lee is a favourite with
our patricians here, because he is a haughty, over
bearing aristocrat; has been trained in Europe,
among their princes and nobility; and, because—damn
his impudence—nothing that we do, pleases him. He
must have his finger in the pie, or all that is thought
of, or done, is laughed to scorn. He goes about,
among our women, with half a dozen puppies, of one
kind and another, at his heels; growling and cursing,
at every step; and we are fools enough to think it all
an evidence of generalship. No, Mr. Arnauld, if
Charles Lee had been our commander in chief, we
should not have had a battalion in arms, at this moment;
except his own body guards. I hold him to be
the most dangerous man in America—and I know
him well—and, between you and me; if they make
him general of the American armies, I will make him
a head shorter, with my own hand, on that day, before
he sleeps.'
We looked at him---the flashing of his eyes; the
lordly swelling of his chest; and not one of us,
questioned, for a moment, I will venture my life upon
it, that he would have been as good as his word. The
a deep sofa, in the opposite corner, where, with their
arms intertwined, they had thrown themselves back,
so that nothing could be seen, in the deep shadow
where they sat, but an occasional glitter of the eye;
or flourish of a white hand; or a languid flutter of
drapery, as they changed their caressing attitude.
The mother's countenance lighted up, to great beauty
and expression, as she saw them---for there was more of
her own spirit of coquetry, endearment, and self-possession,
probably, in all this, than she had been accustomed
to.
`But,' continued Clinton, `the affair upon Long
Island, was not so despcrate as you imagine. We
were defeated, you know, yet we were not destroyed
---so there is fact, in answer to one of your speculations.
But, what would have become of General
Howe, had we whipped him?---we should have cut him
to pieces. Something was to be done. Our men fought
well, in their entrenchments, as Bunker Hill had shown
---it was proper to try them in fair field fighting. We
could'nt give up New York, without a blow---the eyes
of the whole country were upon us---a victory would
decide the cause at once---a battle, if we were not
beaten, would be a victory for us, because it would
retard the operations of the enemy, accustom our
troops to stand fire---and startle the country---and
even a flogging, would be better than a dastardly
retreat, without striking a blow---and, still better
than being enclosed upon the island, or shut up in the
city. These were the reasons of Washington---I know
all his thoughts---I know that his great heart bled in
the trial---that he was moved, even to tears, when he
saw his poor fellows, rode down, in the marshes, and
bayonetted rank after rank---but he had forseen it
all, and prepared for it. You are mistaken, in another
thing---his retreat was secured. We were in possession
of a battery, that commanded all the East river
---we had left a force, in the city, to cover us; and
the enemy had not a ship, nor a gun to bear upon us.
should have played Bunker-Hill over again. Just
before we embarked Washington rode up to us—'
`You were there, then,' said Mr. Arnauld.
`Yes,' said Clinton, colouring; but, without any
change of voice, he continued to relate the alarming
incidents that followed, and accompanied the embarkation;
and, never intimated that he had had any
personal concern in it, though we found, afterward,
that he had been especially distinguished; and was
engaged, for several hours, by the side of Colonel
Smallwood, and his highblooded Mary landers---shouting,
and cursing, all the while, like a fiend, and
dealing death about him, through the smoke, and
blaze, and thunder of the battle, as if that alone, were
his element. Nor did he appear to avoid it, with
any especial care---it was, really, I have no doubt, a
matter of perfect indifference to him; for, when put to
it, he spoke with the most natural expression of careless
concern, about what he, himself, had done---just as
if, chopping off the head of men had been about as
serious a matter, as cutting the throats of so many cattle;
or, cropping so many puppies.
`But how providential,' said my father; locking his
hands—
`The fog, you mean,' replied Clinton—`why, as to
that matter, every thing that happens, is providential.
But, I see no especial manifestation of providence,
there. We committed—or, rather, some of our officers
committed, some damnable blunders, at the embarkation;
and, we might have suffered, if the enemy had
known it—and the fog was certainly a lucky affair;
but, while I feel as thankful to God for it, as any body,
I believe, for I was in the last boat that came off—
and, the water was all in a foam about it, with their
shot, when the fog was blown away—and, they opened
upon us—yet, I am never in the habit of believing, in
any especial manifestation of God's favour—where,
if we believe in that, we must believe that he has led
us into a scrape, just that he might bring us out of it.
but you look too serious, for me—let us drop the subject—I
am not a religious man; but I respect one
that is—seeing death, as often as I do, I am afraid,
has not made his countenance more welcome to me;
and, it would be comfortable to me, to believe as other
men do—but, I cannot—that is plain—I cannot. I venerate
my Maker—I would die at his bidding—but
dam'me, if I can bring myself to believe, that he is so
ready to blow hot and cold, upon the same cause—sunshine
and fog—or—I beg your pardon—I see that I
have offended you all; so, let us say no more about it.
God prosper the right!'
| CHAPTER V. Seventy-six | |