 | CHAP. VIII. Seventy-six |  |
8. CHAP. VIII.
“The trumpet's dread hourra!”
The stirring minstrelsy of the camp, the martial
aspect of the mounted Virginians, whose brown, manly
faces, athletick frames, and weather beaten furniture,
showed plainly that they were men to be depended
upon, and had been, ere then, put to the proof: the
trampling of the horses; the pressure that I still felt
about my bosom, whereon Clara had leant—the affectionate,
strange Clara!—All these things, and the
deep tumult within me, could not so utterly employ
my senses, but that I would sometimes start, like a
man waked from a dream, by the challenge of some
distant sentry—the sudden pistol shot—the word—the
rattling of cimetars and chains—or the quick trumpet
blast—and almost wonder, for a moment, to find myself
on horseback—and then, my mother!—father!
But while I was pursuing this train of reflection, in
a dead silence, like that of our last trooping, though
the sun shone hotly upon us now, I heard the noise of
horse's feet, pressing behind me; and the next moment,
Clinton's voice—addressing some one, with a
sort of sarcastick mockery.
I turned, and saw him, just abreast of my brother,
who slackened his trot, and fell behind, with him. I
was alarmed for a moment, by hearing (for we had
actually forgotten his situation, till then) him say,
`You forgot that I was disabled in the sword arm.'
`In truth, I did,' said Archibald, in a louder voice,
rather of surprise---`but---you look angry, Clinton.
Are you disposed to quarrel?'
`Yes.'
`Wait till your arm is well.'
`Never mind the arm,' said Clinton, turning his
horse aside. `We can ride into you wood, there. I
am a tolerable shot, with my left hand.'
My brother followed him, and I, indignant at such
wickedness, struck the rowels into my beast, and was
at their side in a moment.
`What is the meaning of this?' said Clinton, imperiously.
`Back to your place, Sir.'
`This is my place,' I replied.
He reined short about---looked me in the face a
moment; and, then said, `Young man, I have half a
mind to order a brace of Virginians down upon you.
`What! do you menace me. Jasper! hollo! Jasper!'
(Flourishing his sword with his left hand)
The troop instantly halted, and down came a rank of
horsemen---full gallop.
`What do you mean to do?' said Archibald, eyeing
him haughtily.
`Order him to be bound, hand and foot, to one of
the trees, there,' was the reply, `or hewed, limb from
limb, where he sits.'
`There will be two swords to that bargain, Clinton,'
said Archibald, taking out his pistols, cooly. `Remember!
we are not in service, yet. Brother, look
to your pistols.'
`Would you shoot a wounded man?' said Clinton,
reining his horse. `Woa, Rocket, woa! Fire, if you
dare!'
`No---you are safe; but look ye, (taking a silver
whistle from his pocket), `my men know the sound of
this---we are too many for you. The first sword that
is drawn, Clinton, in wrath, will bring every man
down upon your Virginians. A pretty figure you would
cut, then, would'nt you? before the commander in
chief.'
Clinton bit his lip; waved his sword for them to go
back---they obeyed; and we followed slowly, after
them.
`Archibald,' said he, `this is a damned foolish affair.
Will you forgive me?---there is my hand.
These cursed women are eternally in my porridge.
I—'
I reined up, expecting to hear the report of a pistol;
but Archibald went by me, showing no sign of
agitation, except a vigorous swelling of the nostrils,
and a little more steadiness of eye.
`I never was out on a foraging party, in my life---
curse it Rocket, stand still! can't you? Have you
been among the idiots, too---hey!'
Rocket leaped out, almost from under him; and
Archibald I saw, with his hand---riding abreast of
Clinton, nearly at a gallop—upon Rocket's mane.
Their ill blood was not quite down, I saw, and therefore,
I took the liberty to dash along side, too.
`Hold in a moment,' said Archibald, through his
shut teeth---`let the troop pass out of sight. Brother,
leave us awhile.'
`I will not,' said I.
Archibald looked astonished; but, seeing that I
was determined, he waited in a dead silence, till the
last man had turned the road in our front, throwing
his head round, as he did so.
Archibald then wheeled short, and came up to Clinton,
so that their horse's heads touched. `Well, gun-power,
what's the matter now?' said Clinton, with
a laugh, `you seem quite as ready for a shot, just at
this moment, as I was ten minutes ago.'
It was a minute before my brother could speak;
and twice, before he uttered a sound, his hand was upon
the holster—and twice, as if the wounded arm of Clinton
had not been thought of, till he was ready to bring
him from his horse, was it withdrawn. `Clinton!'
said he, at last, `do not make me shoot you—upon the
spot—hate you—curse you, and despise you—do not!'
`Why what the devil is all this about!—a drivelling
girl! Dam'me! when you have been in the army as
long as I have, you will laugh at such Quixotism---
pho---pho. I love the wench---that's the truth on't---but,
Oadley! don't let him murder me!'
I had just time to lay my hand upon Archibald's
arm; when, struck himself at the peril of his own
temper, he turned pale as death---took out his pistols,
and discharged them at a tree. The bark flew
at each shot, and Clinton changed colour---and well
he might, for there was'nt such a marksman in the
state.
`Clinton,' said my brother, in a low voice, `I am
unwilling to believe that you are a fool, or a scoundrel.
I am trying hard, to persuade myself that
this is all a sham. Tell me, Clinton, if you would'nt
break my heart---tell me that you do love her.'
`Love her!' cried Clinton, touched by his manner,
till his feet shook in the stirrups—`Yes! I do love her,
Archibald, more than all the women upon earth—more
than I ever thought that I was capable of loving any
woman on earth—any thing.'
`Thank you,' said Archibald, `but—'
`Any thing but Rocket, I mean,' said the incorrigible
Clinton.
I was obliged to speak. `This levity, Colonel,'
said I, `to say the least of it, considering my brother's
situation and mine, in regard to that family, is neither
thoughtful nor generous—(his eye kindled)—but I have
no disposition to quarrel with you. I am principled
against duelling, and prefer spilling my blood, and
seeing your's spilt, for our common country, and—'
`Mighty fine, Mr. Oadley; but I shall find a
time—'
`When you please!' said my brother, striking his
hand upon his thigh, and looking up in his face.
`Country or no country—when you please!—where
you please!—how you please. Across a table—left
handed.'
Clinton stopped a moment for the troop, it appeared;
had halted again upon a rising ground, where they
could see our movement, and their's seemed to indicate
that they had discovered some signs of hostility
while we were looking upon them, man after man,
until they occupied two different and distinct pieces of
ground—our men on one, and the Virginians on the
other, facing—partially inclined to the direction where
we were—as if, but a word, and they would have galloped,
sword in hand, upon us—or upon each other.
`Not now,' said Clinton, `not now—blood will be
spilt, if we waste any more time. Give me your hand,
Archibald—your's Oadley. Mark me—I hold you
both answerable to me—and myself, to both—but let us
do our duty, first, to Washington.'
The proposal was accepted, and on we rode, in a
sullen, terrible silence; until at last, my horse reared
with the sound of Clinton's loud voice, and unaffected
laughter. `Come, come, Archibald,' said Clinton,
`no more of this—we have carried the matter far
enough.'
Archibald contracted his forehead, and replied,
nearly in these very words; for they made a strange
impression on me, being delivered with a cool, deliberate
expression of sagacity, as if his whole opinion of
Clinton had changed—and could never be changed
back again:—
`Colonel Clinton, I can bear to lose her—bear to
see her wrested from me, after a three weeks acquaintance,
by a stranger; but I cannot bear to hear her
affectionate, noble nature, treated irreverently. No
man that ever knew her worth—no man that was ever
worthy of her, could do it. Pshaw—do not menace
me, Clinton. There is not that man alive; there
never was—whom I would permit to speak lightly of
Lucia Arnauld.'
`You are certainly under some mysterious obligation
to her, Sir. I—'
`Your sneering, Clinton, does'nt disturb me—if it
be true, as you think it is, that I have loved her, even
unto death, and been put aside for you, that does not,
and shall not give you a title to make one profligate
allusion to her. I am no longer her lover. Ride
time that I shall name her name to you. I shall never
be her husband; but I am a brother—and as her brother,
Sir, whatever she may wish or say, I shall hold you
answerable for every word and deed, said or done, in
relation to her. You are amazed, to hear a boy talk
in this way. Sir, men have grown old in a single day
—grey headed, in a single night—very wise, in a
single hour. Attribute all that you see strange in me,
to what has passed within the last forty-eight hours.
In that time, I have lived an age of agony and horrour
—passion and disappointment—sorrow and humiliation.
She that I loved, has abandoned me—he that
I would have died for, speaks of a woman, whose very
name, if he knew her, with all her frailty and infirmity,
he could not pronounce aloud, for his life—
speaks of her, as if she were the bireling wanton of a
camp—some polluted creature—the abused strumpet
of a whole army. I do not ask if this were pleasantry—for
if it were, it would make me tremble and
weep for her. Men that love truly, can no more
trifle in that way, with the sacred and beautiful, and
tender relationship of love, than they could stand and
assist in dishonouring their own mother. But it is not
true, Clinton. It was not pleasantry—it was no premeditated
contrivance—it was the expression of habitual
profligacy—a constitutional and settled irreverence
for women—an utter incapability of loving—except
as a sensualist, or voluptuary. So, no more of
that—here let us part. I shall take care, with my
own hands, to inform Lucia of this conversation—
she may then judge for herself. You appear disturbed—I
am glad of it. I would fain see you moved,
Clinton, to tears—that might be some expiation for
the outrage that you have done—not to me—not to
Lucia—but to the sequestered, timid, and holy image
of Lucia that I bear in my heart. You were never
worthy of her, Clinton—you never will be. I have
been deceived in you—I have assisted in deceiving her.
But, as I am a living man, it shall not be my fault if
Oadley yet has a place in her heart, to which
your image will never penetrate—never!—It is the
best, and the least visited spot there—and when she
dies, my name will be found there. I could have told
her this—but I feared, mistaken boy that I was, to
thwart her pleasant dreaming with you. Farewell,
Clinton. With my consent, we shall never meet again.
I shall do my duty—nay, I understand you—but I have
thought better of it. Whatever you may think of my
courage, I will never meet you, for any thing that has
yet taken place between us, until your arm is well—
and our country has no further need of us. Not then,
Clinton—not even then—whatever you may do to provoke
me—if you should be the husband of Lucia—
the—the—father of her child—that smile! O God,
Clinton! is not the very thought of being the father of
children, borne by Lucia, enough to purify your whole
nature?—if not—heaven have mercy upon you!'
His voice was inarticulate with emotion—and whatever
Clinton may have thought, I am sure that he felt awe
struck, in the presence of the intreped boy. Soon
after, we joined the troop; and, about an hour before
sunset, fell in with the advance of Washington's army.
Signals and salutes were exchanged; and a general
hourra was uttered, at the sight of Clinton, (yet the
name that they hailed him by, was not Clinton—though
I shall continue to call him so.) and his noble horse
pranced, and stamped about, as if impatient to rush
anew into the battle.
`Halt!' cried Clinton, putting his horse at speed.
`To your place, Captain Oadley—that is the baggage,
coming ahead. We shall meet the commander in chief,
in half an hour.'
`Yes Sir,' said an officer, facing about, `he is with
the rear guard; and Cornwallis' advance is constantly
engaged with it—(and off he set at full speed.) `We
must cross the Delaware, to night, orall is lost!'
`Masterly! by heaven,' said Clinton, his noble
face blazing outright, at the noise of the distant
for ten days.'
Our horses grew impatient; but we were soon relieved,
for a young fellow rode up, his horse all covered
with foam and sweat, made his salute without stopping,
said a single word to Clinton, who gave the word to
gallop, and then set off, toward the sound.
We followed; but as our course was on the side of the
road, for the whole centre was taken up with wagons,
artillery, baggage, and the hospital stores—(including
sick and wounded) we could not go beyond a slow trot.
`Hourra! for Washington!' cried Clayton, rising in
his stirrup, `that's his trumpet!—I should know it among
a thousand.'
My blood thrilled at the sound—my brother fell back,
inconceivably agitated, to where I was—and Arthur, his
horse keeping time proudly, to the cheerful roundelay of
the trumpet—came upon my left, so that we occupied,
precisely, our old relation to each other.
A trampling of horse was now heard—a solemn stillness
followed—and at the end of about five minutes,
Washington appeared, a little in advance of several
young officers, superbly mounted—upon a magnificent
white charger, whose hoofs rang, when they struck the
frozen ground, like the blow of a battle axe. I heard
Archibald catch his breath—and saw his head droop as
Washington approached, with Clinton at his side, in
earnest conversation. They rode directly up to my
brother—who, whatever might be his thought, for I
looked for something terrible—had the presence of mind
to sit suddenly erect in his saddle, fasten his keen eye
upon the eye of Washington—and make his salute—in
a manner that made the whole line of horses start back.
It was beautifully—gracefully—done; and Clinton,
I could perceive, was proud of it.
`Captain Oadley,' said Washington, to me, in a voice
that made my heart sink within me—I attempted to
stammer out some reply—but I could not.
`No, your Excellency,' said Clinton, spurring to his
side, `that is Captain Oadley,” pointing to Archibald.
`Indeed!' was the only reply, after a pause in which
you might have counted twenty—while the commander
in chief, with that sublime stately serenity, which is to be
seen even now in the picture of Stuart, although taken
at a much later period—turned his large steady eyes
upon my brother, till I thought that he would have fallen
from his horse—abashed and overpowered with veneration.
`So very young! Colonel Clinton, you will put them
upon duty to night—we have no time for refreshment—
and tomorrow, bring Captain Oadley to me—' Saying
this, he put his handsome horse into a slow gallop, and
passed on.
`Captain Oadley,' said Clinton, dropping behind, and
assuming all at once, the air of command, best fitted to his
countenance, the occasion, and the place—he sat his horse
royally indeed—and the superb uniform which he wore
laced athwart the breast, gave all the properties of his
full chest, and broad square shoulders to the eye—`you
will keep your men upon the wing younder,' pointing
to the right—`take what prisoners you can, without
hazard; cut down every straggler and deserter without
mercy, and give notice of all that drop from fatigue.'
Captain Oadley made the salute, as if he had never
seen his face before, gave his orders, and immediately
took his position, scouring the plain ground, far and near,
till past eleven o'clock that night—having been nearly
twelve hours in the saddle.
Our army was now in full retreat to Princeton, having
left Newark, and Brunswick, before Cornwallis
with a light body of picked men, amounting to more than
double the number of ours; and so hotly pressed was
Washington by the unexpected vigour of the enemy,
just at the time when he was supposed to have gone into
winter quarters—and the term of enlistment was expiring
with our troops, that the van of the enemy sucessively
entered New Ark, Brunswick, Princeton and
Trenton, while the rear of our army was leaving each
place. But at last, blessed be God! we left the banks
van appeared upon them.
My children! I must pause. I would have you realize
the tremendous peril in which your father and uncle—all
his family and friends—nay! all the hopes of
America were placed at this hour. Cornwallis was
dashing after us, with all his strength and zeal, at the
head of six thousand men: and every man that we could
count made only twenty-two hundred, on the day that
we crossed the Delaware! Nay, in a few days after,
we were reduced to about fourteen hundred and fifty!
Think of this—a broad river in our front—scarcely men
and horses enough to drag our military stores—no possibility
of resistance, or retreat—the whole country
struck with terrour, and silence. What would have become
of us, had we been overtaken, but a single hour,
before we embarked? God only knows—but it is my
belief that we should have been, at this moment, with
the gallant men of Ireland, the vassals of England, the
hewers of wood and the drawers of water, to a patrician
rabble, and a profligate king. But why was not Washington
pursued further? The shores of the Delaware
were encumbered with materials for the construction of
rafts and platforms—and he, himself, in a letter to Congress,
declared that nothing but the infatuation of the
enemy saved him. Some have pretended to say, that
Sir William Howe was not seriously disposed to destroy
Washington—but the truth probably is, that he was
a cautious commander, knew not the strength of our
army—or rather its weakness, and was unwilling to
cross a broad and rapid river, with a division that could
could not be readily supported, if Washington should
turn upon it, supported by a general rising of the country.
Sir William Howe has been blamed for his circumspection—Burgoyne
for his impetuosity—Cornwallis,
for one can hardly tell what—any thing in short that
would exhonerate his country from the disgrace of being
beaten, by men, who wanted only to be slaves, to be
the best troops upon the earth.
Yet, after all, there was something inexplicable, not
only in the movements of General Howe, and Lord
Cornwallis, but in those of Washington at this time:—
for the former, but for the destruction of a little bridge
over the Raritan, would certainly have taken our baggage—and
when the latter did not move from Princeton
until Cornwallis was within three miles of it. yet,
Cornwallis consumed seventeen hours there!—actually
sleeping on the way—before he advanced upon Trenton,
which is only twelve miles distant. There is only one
way of accounting for this. Cornwallis must have had
positive orders, and Washington must have known it—
or, becoming careless and desperate of the result, which
is possible even in Washington, he loitered upon the
road—and the enemy, taking it for a stratagem, were
intimidated into extreme precaution.
Soon after this, General Lee was captured—and Congress
abandoned Philadelphia. It was a general season
of darkness and dismay, but—let me not anticipate.
Place yourselves with us in the boats, my children;
imagine that you see Archibald and myself holding our
horses by the head, with one foot upon the gunwale,
looking into the black deep water—the enemy just coming
in sight—flash after flash—shot after shot, sent after
us—with a loud word or too—in laugh and scorn—
from the enemy; and now and then a horseman dashing,
at full speed, along the bank, before the torches.—It
was a magnificent night, but very dark—except in a part
of the heavens which were all on fire with a storm just
rising.—The opposite bank, we found in possession of
a small body that had been thrown over in advance, but
such was our timidity for a while, that, when some fellow
shouted—`the enemy!'—we were all thrown into
disorder for a moment, without reflecting on the impossibility
of such a thing. There was a strange, cold
hurry of my blood, when the water, and foam of the
horses at windward, as they fretted upon their bits, and
shook their wet manes in the wind, blew in my face.
And when I landed, wet through,—and chilled and stiffened
in all my limbs, I cannot deny that somewhat of
appeared extinct within me. Ours was the third or
fourth boat—and I recognized Washington immediately—and
he, my brother; for he rode down, directing
him to form upon the right, saying as he did so—`I
have heard of your good conduct, young man. You
have joined a sinking, but not a desperate cause; and
I am sure that the brave men with you will live to experience
the effect of their example. Remember me to
every individual, at your leisure, and give me a list of
their names. Where so many are leaving me, the country
ought to know who are coming in.'
`By all the stars of heaven!' cried my brother, flourishing
his light weapon in the wind, as Washington
rode off—`How a few words, from such a man as that,
can agitate a human heart!—brother! I am no longer
a boy—no longer weak—Washington has spoken with
me, face to face!—and hereafter, mark me, I give way
to no man upon this earth!'
I was carried away with his enthusiasm; and, now,
being safe from pursuit, we were thrown off, into a separate
covering party, while the Virginians, saluting us
as they passed, with something more than a military feeling—for
had'nt we been in battle together?—filed off in
a contrary direction to join their companions—.
The next morning, at an early hour, Clinton joined
us, still with the air of a superiour in command, and addressing
my brother, who was smoothing the mane of
his beautiful mare, said to him—
`The Commander in Chief has confirmed your appointment,
Sir; and permitted you to select one hundred
men for a while;—hereafter, they will be reduced
--at present, they are too numerous for your command--
you have the liberty of naming your own officers.'
`My men shall choose for themselves,' said Archibald.
`No Sir, that will not be permitted---the service has
been too long the sport of that shameful practice. It
leads to indulgence, carelessness, and neglect of duty---
whom would you name?'
`Arthur Rodman,' said my brother, bowing, `and
Jonathan Oadley,—and whom you please for the rest.'
`Your recommendation will be attended to,' said
Clinton, facing his horse—`but I would have you know,
gentlemen, that the eye of the general is upon you. He
expects the greatest vigilance and severest discipline.
You are now in service, and subject to martial law.'
There was something sarcastick in the tone, with
which this was said, as if meant to irritate; but my brother
took no notice of it—observing only—after he had
gone—
`His manners mend apace brother—but that arm of
his seems wonderfully improved in camp'—(I had
observed that it was no longer in the sling)—`Do you
know the surgeon that attends him?' `No,' I replied,
`he came very opportunely to the house—and I believe
had been in service.'
`Did you ever see the arm?—were you ever by, at a
dressing?'--`No—but I remember hearing Mr. Arnauld
say to him, that his movements were wonderfully easy,
for a broken limb.
`I do not believe that it was broken—' said
Archibald—`It was bruised, and perhaps dislocated
—for I know that the wrist was terribly swollen—but
my notion is that it will be soon well.'
`So be it,' said I—`the sooner the better.' We understood
each other, and shook hands upon it.
In this manner with some little alterations of incident,
and command, several days had passed, during
which short time, our spirited little troop, out early and
late, upon hazardous and fatiguing, if not dangerous
service, began to attract the admiration of the General's
Staff:—La Fayette, in particular, then in the prime and
beauty of manhood, full six feet high, riding a dark bay
horse, of superb carriage, frequently passed by us at
our exercise, and threw in a word or two of incitement
to my brother, which fired his very heart.
`I told you,' said I, when he had left us one day, after
addressing him, with that princely air, which yet characterises
the ancient nobility of France—`I told you
name.'
`No,' he replied—`I had not reflected upon it then—a
little timely precaution before we met the Virginians,
might have done it—but, it was a vain thought after all:
—a secret cannot be well kept by one hundred. I have
abandoned it. Let our old father have the comfort of
it.'
`It is said to have been a masterly retreat,' added
my brother—`this, of our commander through the Jerseys.
I just heard that rough, honest, weather beaten
man (pointing to General Knox) and that tall one there
---with the fiery grey eyes, (pointing to General Cadwallader)---in
conversation, as they halted at the left of
our troop, say that it beat Xenophon's retreat, all hollow---and
that nineteen days had been consumed on it.'
`Wonderful!' said I---hardly knowing why so---except
that other men called it wonderful, whose judgement
and truth were authority with me.
`The country have taken the alarm too,' said my
brother, `they came pouring in, on all sides---and the
talk is of a speedy battle, if we can get enough about
us to make a stand. Let us be prepared—Arthur I
find, is melancholy as ever—does he sleep at all?'
`Very little,' I answered---`wake when I will, he is
always lying in the same position, with his eyes half
shut---in the saddle too, night and day.'
`So much the better,' said my brother---`Jasper says
that my troop are better horsemen, in all but running
at the ring, than any troop of cavalry in the service---
and I---'
`Do you improve?'
`Yes---I am more than a match for him now—he
confesses it himself. A French gentleman here---that
thin, sprightly fellow that you saw talking awhile ago
with the Marquis—'
`La Fayette:—'
`Yes---he has promised to teach me small sword: he
says that Clinton is the best man in the army at that.--
But---patience---patience brother---a small sword is a
in; and I am determined to be first, or nothing.—
I have played three or four hours a day, and my master
predicts wonders.'
The British troops were thrown into cantonments,
extending all along from Brunswick to the Delaware,
and presenting a front toward Philadelphia.
This began to agitate our Commander, till he could
neither eat nor sleep. We could perceive that his manner
was more solemn and thoughtful than ever; and
one day, when I was detailed upon duty, and paraded
in front of his quarters, I remember that, as he came
out, there was a handsome, florid looking young man,
named Wilkinson (since then General, then Major)—
with him, on whom the eyes of Washington were turned,
with an expression of mournful, but intensely deep resolution.
Wilkinson appeared a good deal affected, and
as he passed me, walking with his sword—he had the
air of one, who was willing to have it known that he
had been dining with the General in Chief. His eyes
were full to overflowing.
`Now then to clip their wings! while they are so extended,'
said Washington, to the poor boy who brought
an account of the enemy's situation and numbers, Jemmy
Rice, the ideot, as he was called—and soon after, a
blow was struck that startled all America from her
sleep—like the trumpet of resurrection.
It was about this time that a damp had fallen upon
the very heart of our people, by the capture of Lee. He
had been an universal favourite—his talents abundantly
overated—his achievements at the south, magnified
beyond all belief—and all his faults—his domineering,
arrogant pretensions, forgotten or forgiven—and, some
how or other, the people took it into their wise heads
that he had suffered himself to be surprised, as the handsomest
way of abandoning a desperate cause. They
were mistaken—Lee was surprised; and had no good
reason to wish himself out of our hands, or in the hands
of the British, for, he and Lord Stirling, were, for a
long time, kept in confinement as rebels—and traitors,
capture was providential, in the extreme. Look at his
position, upon the map. See where he was taken—
entirely out of his line of march. No—if the truth
must be told, it is this—Charles Lee was willing to
sacrifice Washington to his popularity. He loitered
upon the road, and went aside from it, under the idlest
pretence, at the time when Washington was vehemently
pressing him for succour—with no other object, or
at least, it is difficult to imagine any other, than to
strike out some such brilliant coup de main, upon the
extended out posts of the enemy, as Washington then
meditated, and afterwards performed upon Trenton.
And had he succeeded!—merciful heaven!—my
blood curdles at the thought—he would have been in the
place of George Washington, commander in chief of
our armies—and the Cæsar of America.
But, let me return. Just before the battle of Trenton,
of a most beautiful evening, while we were walking
in front of our troop, that had been out on a fatigue
party through our cantonments, along the Delaware,
there was a fine, martial looking young man,
halted near us; accompanied by another, of a stouter,
more substantial, and farmer-like aspect; one of whom
we found to be Colonel Reid, and the other, old Put,
or General Putnam. `Well primed!' said Put, `well
primed!' (returning a large rusty horse pistol to the
holsters.) `Reid, we are in troubled times—I would'nt
sleep without a cocked pistol in my hand. Dark times,
dark times, Reid.'
`The darkest time of night,' said Reid, `is just before
day, general.'
`Ha!—by heaven and earth,' cried my brother,
dropping my arm, `there goes our father!'
He was right—the old man had come at last—stout
and terrible as ever, passing, with the indifference of
a veteran, through all the paraphernalia of war—with
fifty nine horsemen, and nearly two hundred foot, at
his heels. Washington mounted, and rode down to
the soldiers.
There was our reward!—there it was!—who
would'nt have spilt blood for his country, to see the
hand of his old father so taken, at the head of a whole
army!
The old man bowed his grey head upon the general's
hand, and I could see that his knees trembled—and his
eyes were nearly shut, and quenched, when he lifted
them. A word or two passed between them, when the
general pointed to Archibald, who stood patiently waiting
the issue—and then rode off.
Our father got leisurely from his horse—embraced
us affectionately—told us that all were well—all—
spoke of Clinton, and Lucia. I was amazed at my
brother's self possession. He showed no weakness—
no emotion, at the name. My father bore a letter for
Clinton, which was sent to his quarters, but not an
hour had passed, before a messenger came with orders
for Captain Oadley.
I arose to accompany him.
`At your peril,' said the messenger. `I am ordered
to keep my eyes upon you. He must go alone.'
`Tell your master, Sir, that I shall not go alone.
If Colonel Clinton would see me, he must come to my
quarters; or wait till I am under his command.'
`That's my noble boy,' said my father, `but—hey?
—how's this?—you look pale, Archy. Can't you
forgive him yet?—pho, pho—never mind the girl—
she—'
`Hush, father. I can bear any thing, but that!'
They then walked away, till the canvas was rudely
thrust aside, and Clinton stood before us—his eyes
sparkling with rage—his lips bloody.
`Is that your work, Sir?' said he, to Archibald,
throwing down a letter.
My brother smiled darkly, but took it up, without
any sign of trepidation. keeping his eye upon him for
a while, and then running it over the page.
`Yes Sir, it is,' said he.
`And how dared you?'
`Dared!—O, it was no such daring matter. I told
you that I should do it, and I always do what I promise.'
`Fool—mad man!'
`Colonel Clinton, these are my quarters. I should
be loath to strike you, my superiour officer—but—'
Here Clinton's eyes fell upon my father—and his
manner instantly changed, to the same careless, unthinking
levity, that he wore when we first knew him
—captivating all hearts, yet confounding them at the
same time, by the violence and suddenness of its transitions.
Archibald went a step nearer, as if distrusting his
own eyes.
`Damn it, Oadley,' dashing the back of his hand
over his eyes, I don't half like this affair. I have
been very like a villain—and—will you give me your
hand, and forget what has past.'
`No,' said my brother—`no. When Colonel Clinton
has explained two or three little matters—reformed
in two or three, not very important particulars
—repented, deeply and truly, of two or three matters
of no moment—if he want a friend, here stands one
that will be his friend—his friend indeed. Till then,
never.'
Clinton looked disturbed; but finally, the natural
wild levity of his character, prevailed. `Done!--I
subscribe to your terms—I will be what you desire,
my little chaplain. I—'
Archibald looked, and I felt, deeply offended. He
felt that he was no longer a boy, and he would not be
treated as a boy.
| CHAP. VIII. Seventy-six | |