 | CHAPTER IX. Seventy-six |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
“Each horseman drew his battle blade;
“And furious, every charger neighed,
“To join the dreadful revelry!”
`We shall keep our Christmas in a serious way,
father,' said I, in answer to some remark of his, the
evening of his arrival, respecting the preparation in our
neighbourhood.
`No more so, than they will,' answered the old
man, passing his hand athwart his eyes. `This will
be the first one for, twenty-six years, that your mother
and I, have passed away from each other; or abroad
from our own roof. God help the aged, who, in the
dead of winter, are driven asunder, as we are!—The
winter of the year plays bitterly upon them that are
exposed, in the winter of the heart, for the first time,
under such a miserable contrivance as this'—(The
snow was blowing through the rent canvass, at the
moment, and sprinkling the table, upon which my
brother lay, with his arm stretched out, and his face
lying upon them, as if spent and overpowered with
fatigue)—for the first time in their old age. It is no
merry Christmas to them.'
`Nor will it be to the enemy, I'm a thinking, father,'
said Archibald, lifting his head for a moment. The
traces of weeping were yet upon his eyes—and a quick
confusion passed over his face, as he saw our eyes
glancing, where the moisture and breath of his wet lips
had frozen upon the table; and the tears had fallen like
rain, and dashed his arm athwart the whole, exclaiming,
be weather proof indeed.'
`What mean you, Archibald?' said my father to
him. `Your countenance was fuller of expression than
common—are the enemy in any peril?'
`Hush, father—we are not permitted to talk aloud
of such things. All that I can tell you is, that a double
portion of rum has been issued to the soldiers—several
days provision ordered to be kept constantly cooked—
all the surgeons kept busy, in preparing their instruments
and bandages—and that, something, I know
not what—or if I did, I would not breathe it, is
in agitation. Let us be prepared then—at a moment's
warning. I have not taken off my clothes, for these
six nights; and the saddle has almost grown to Hetty's
back. And besides—I can tell you further, that
Washington has not shut his eyes, for the last forty-eight
hours. I saw him, at three o'clock yesterday
morning, pacing the hard ground, in the rear of his
quarters, for an hour together. Council after council
has been called, at which only two or three of his
most intimate and confidential officers have been admitted.
So let us be prepared. Whatever it is, I
feel assured, from the bearing of our commander, that
it is a desperate matter. Let us be on the alert—
silent as death, and prompt as the angels of death.'
`Amen!' said the old man, putting his hand upon
Archibald's head. `Verily, verily, thou art the child
of my old age!'
I was startled at the sudden reply of Archibald.
There was a peevishness and impatience in it—and he
talked with that hurried earnestness, which is common
with them, that talk to drown their own thought. I
wondered at it. I had wondered too, at the strange
communicativeness that he had just manifested, and
began to study him with more attention, to discover,
if possible, what it was, that so wrought upon him.
`You are disturbed,' said I, at last. `What has
happened to you?'
He lifted his deep, beautiful, intelligent eyes, upon
me—attempted to speak—dropped the lids, two or
three times, and opened and shut his lips, with that
dry, peevish expression, which shews the unquiet nature
of the spirit within, more forcibly than any words
—and then, as if ashamed of his own weakness, stooped
to the floor, or rather to the trodden earth, for we
had no other floor, and picked up a letter, which he
pushed toward me, and then turning suddenly to my
father, while I began to read it, asked him how Mr.
Arnauld was.
`Bad enough, poor gentleman.'
`Not dangerous, I hope.'
`No—we hope not; but his hurts have been followed
by a fever and derangement, during which he raved
incessantly of Mary Austin. Don't frown, Archibald;
the hand of God hath fallen heavily upon him—but
his proud spirit is humbled to the earth. If ever mortal
man was truly and deeply penitent, sorrowing,
ashamed and submissive, Robert Arnauld is so—and
when I left him, sick and sore as he was—bereaved and
darkened as they all were, I have good reason to trust
that they were all happier with him, and prouder of
him than ever.'
`And my mother?—' said Archibald choking—
`There is no consolation for her, boy—earthly consolation
I mean. She is going to her grave; and I am prepared
to go with her. May it be God's will that we
shall sleep together, in the same grave!—our bridal,
and marriage, and death should be the same.—I could
pray to die first, and away from her—but that would be
unnatural—selfish. I am better able still than she, to
withstand the wintry desolation of survivorship. Her
heart is sick and sore yet—even unto death.'
`Let it not be agitated then,' said Archibald,—`for
that would be a death to it now, perhaps, which at another
day, it would resist for ever—' (pressing his own
hand upon his own heart, with all his strength)—`well
brother, you have finished, I see—what think you of it.'
I shook my head—
`Mistaken girl!' said Archibald, `how little she
knows her own heart.'
`Read that,' said I—giving him a letter that my
proud Clara had written me. It was as follows.
`We had hoped, dear Oadley, to see you for a few
hours, at Christmas; and, sad as the prospect is, we
shall not give up the hope, until the night has passed.
We feel, it is true, when we hear of your movements,
for in one way and another, while you are near us, we
seem to hear of every thing that is done by our little army—we
feel strangely, as the thought comes over us,
that near as you are, you cannot be with us—sick or
well, living or dead, without the permission of others
that never heard of, or care for us. I have no time to
write more; your father goes sooner, by three days, than
he had meditated—in consequence, though he will not
own it, of a dream that a little mad cap here had, respecting
him—and his reinforcement. My dear father, blessed
be heaven, is in the way of restoration—but—you
cannot well imagine my delight and gratitude—his
heart is not the heart that he fell sick with. Our Heavenly
Father hath touched and purified it.—Your mother
has consented to sit with the family, now, and we
hope to make her feel more comfortable after a while.'
`Ellen Sampson, who arrived just as you were setting
out, and caught a glimpse of Rodman and your
brother, is strangely infatuated about him. She is the
life of the whole family, and vows that, solemn and
strange as he is—and wild and frolicksome as she is—
he shall be her true knight, and bids you tell him so,
sending a lock of her bright hair for an amulet.' `Here
it is brother,' (offering it to him.)
`Pho, pho!—read on,' said Archibald, without looking
at it—`read on, what says she of—of—
I lifted my eyes to shew him that I understood of whom
he would inquire, and glancing at my father, whose
loud breathing announced that he had fallen asleep—
while Archibald threw off his watch cloak, covered him
with it, and sat by his side so as to support his head
upon his bosom—I read as follows—
`Remember me to Mr. Rodman, who, we are told, as
well as yourself (bad English, but I cannot help it, in
the hurry of my feeling) is an officer—and tell him that
the stout hearted never despair—that it is unmanly
to be stricken to the heart, by any sorrow, any calamity,
any humiliation—tell him that a woman says so—
and bid him awake, stand up, bare his forehead to the
sky, and shake off the fetters that encumber him.—
His Maker will not hold him guiltless of his own blood,
if he rashly, presumptuously, or with a feeling of despondency,
let it out, no matter in what cause.'
`And now, as for you, dear John—allow me to address
you so—it is an endearing appellation—and may
be a comfort to you, if any thing should hereafter happen
to sunder us—'
`To what,' said Archibald—starting—
`To sunder us!”
`She writes very composedly—' said he, in reply,
with a sort of bitter pleasantry—`as if such an event
were in her contemplation, but proceed—'
`I never used it to mortal man except to you—I
have reserved it to this moment. I have been thinking
much of you since you left us, and I have come to the
conclusion, impelled to the enquiry perhaps by what
Archibald said, when we parted, that we have all misunderstood
your true character—that, sedate and quiet
as you are—you have a slumbering earthquake in your
breast.—Beware of it, in time. Things lightly done,
with such a temper—may convulse and shatter the
whole constitution of your happiness. I may be mistaken,
but my belief is, that, once put to it—your temper
will be most terrible, more implacable and tempestuous:
your wrath, fiercer than that of any creature about us-Beware
of it. No fitting occasion has yet happened for
the developement of your power—I almost pray that
one never may happen—for I tremble, when I think
what else may start up with it.—And now—let me
tell you, that when we meet again, I have something,
for your private ear—a matter of little importance, I
endeavour to persuade myself—but possibly, of sufficient
I allude to it now, that, if your own heart smite
you, you may be prepared against our next meeting;
and that you may not attribute the kindness of my manner
in this letter, to ignorance—but rather to an unshaken
principle of my nature, which leads me never to
withdraw my confidence, in any degree, from the heart
where it has once been placed, without proof—proof
like holy writ. Whatever it be therefore, dear, dear
John—let not your heart be disturbed, unless you are
deliberately guilty. Then—it may be—we might as
well never meet again. But if innocent altogether—or
in a degree—or only surprised into that, which manhood
and delicacy made you conceal from me—you may be
sure of my forgiveness, blessing, and perhaps, of my unalterable
affection. Meantime, you may be assured that
there will be no change in my deportment toward you,
till I see you confronted, face to face, with your accuser,
and if—for O, my friend—in the peril of war and the
vicissitude of chance and life—such a thing may well
be—and it is our duty to be prepared for it—if it be, that
we are never to meet again—never!—let this consolation
abide with you, that I shall hold you innocent,
and love you, venerate you, as so, until you are proved
to be guilty—face to face!'
`Christmas is at hand: we have agreed to leave a vacant
seat, for each of you—yet—O! merciful heaven!
my heart hurries and stops at the thought—my assumed
calmness all deserts me—apprehension and darkness
rush in upon me, and my tears will fall, in spite of all
my strength and preparation—Yet—who can tell but
that seat may never be filled again!—You— or your father,
or Archibald, or Arthur, or Clinton— no, no it
is not only possible, but probable, that we shall never
all assemble again, about the bright hearth and bountiful
table of the season. But faint not—nor sleep. Remember
us—me—and do your duty. If you can be with
us—if you can, without any sacrifice of duty—I shall be
the happiest woman upon earth—but if not—remember,
on Christmas next, if you are out on duty, where you
and praying for you, all night long; for that will
certainly happen. Our mother's love to you, and Archibald,
whose name agitates her to tears, whenever it
is mentioned; and Mr. Rodman—our father's too. We
expect great things of you all.—Farewell—Your
country first—Clara last.'
`What! not one word—' said Archibald, dropping
his hands, with a sick and despairing helplessness, upon
the table.
`Yes'— I replied, reading on:
`Poor Lucia does nothing but weep all day and all
night—she is so altered, that you would scarcely know
her. Why she suffers more cruelly than I, is naturally
to be accounted for:—she is younger, and her swain is
pestering her continually with letters that would make
any heart bleed—never more than a line or too—and
written—as if he were on horseback—while the pen is
never out of her hand. Poor dear Lucia.—I like not
the commencement of this affair—but her happiness is
in the keeping of heaven—of an honourable man,
though an imprudent one—and of your brother Archibald—tell
him this.'
`God bless her,'—said Archibald, covering his face,
and bowing his head, religiously—till it touched the
gray locks of our father.
`Tell him also that he is properly appreciated—his
honesty, I mean, and good intention, in his note to poor
Lucia.—It appeared to jar her a good deal at first,
but she pronounced his name, with a benediction, when
she had read it—and then turned deadly sick—but, as
she did not offer to let me see it, I have never importuned
her about it, feeling assured that I may trust the
dear creature to Archibald now, as I would, if he were
her twin brother.'
The tears trickled through his fingers, and fell, drop
by drop, past the light, so that I could count them,
where I sat, though little did he think that they could
be seen.
`What did you write to her?' said I—`is it a secret?'
`No,' he replied—taking a paper out of his pocket.
`That is the very note. She returned it to Clinton—
but finish the letter.'
`I have finished it,' I replied.
`No—there is some writing atwhart the outer page.'
I turned the letter, and found the following words written,
as if—after the letter had been folded—`What is
Clinton's real name? Lucia knows it—but father does
not—and he is a little angry and sore about it. Tell
the colonel—if he be a colonel—to tell his name quickly
—if he have any—or—' (the rest was illegible).
`But why did she return your note?' said I, opening
it—`and to you?'
`She did not. I wish that she had kept it, and sent Clinton
a copy—pshaw!—what drivelling tenderness is this!
Why should I wed the wife of another man—his wife—
(his voice died away, into a low muttering sound, as he
continued)—aye—let me believe it—let me accustom
myself to think of it—Lucia—Lucia Clinton—ah—
well, well—'
The note—
`Clinton has spoken disrespectfully of you. You best
know whether you have merited it. My notion of the
man is, that he is a dissolute, unthinking fellow—a tyrant
in temper—changeable as the wind—and utterly
unworthy of your love. I have told him so. I have
told him that I would inform you of it. But I did not
tell him—as I do you, that there are noble qualities in
his nature—that, much of his profligacy is, of manner,
rather than heart; that I believe he may be, in time,
worthy of the unutterable happiness that—no matter,
Lucia—I only pray that you will be firm; such men
are only to be taught wisdom by their suffering. Make
him suffer—be firm—they value nothing, but in proportion
to the difficulty of attainment.—Would you
win him?—Beware how you let him see his power over
you. Would you keep him?—Set a guard upon your
very pulse—thought—and eyes. Would you charm
away the licentious spirit of his nature?—banish the
evil one that abides in his heart, and settle him down
him—I would not hurt your innocent heart, Lucia, you
know that I would not—be wary—unyielding---prepared—and
let him having nothing to boast of, in any event
—something to hope for—whatever may happen. You
understand me—I know your noble, unthinking, pure
and lofty confidence—but he is not the man for such
confidence—not yet, I mean;—what he may be, must depend
upon you.'
Having copied this, for your eyes, my dear children,
from the original, which is yet in my possession; I
will now endeavour to give you the substance, and indeed
much of the very language (for, I had that, till the
house was burnt) of her's to Clinton, which enclosed
Archibald's to her.
`Am I never to see you again?—Where are you?
We hear the noise of artillery—and, night after night,
the sky is reddened with the blaze of some farm house.
Heaven only knows what will become of us—I am very
wretched, very—need I tell you why—O! Clinton,
there is a yearning here, an unsatisfied, dreadful—I
know not what to call it—it is, as if my heart had been
exhausted in a receiver—it is very terrible. And sometimes,
when I catch a glimpse of my haggard face in
the furniture—for I dare not look in a glass—I—I—cannot
but weep. Do come to me—we are not safe—I am
sure that we are not. There is no body but my poor
sick father, and four or five men, chiefly servants, to
defend us in case of another midnight—gracious God,
Clinton, can you bear to think of such an event!—
But why need I ask you—what have you at hazard?
—what have I now?—Ask your own heart—mine
cannot answer. It would die—to meet your face—I
know not how I have been able to write thus much—
there is a rush of shame, and horrour, and indignation
through my whole frame. Clinton—is that true?—read
that note. Have you dared to—not to outrage my name—
—but have you dared to speak of me lightly?—dis—
yes, that is the word—but I cannot write it—read the
note for yourself: read it—is it true? If it be—hear
me Clinton—hear me—You little know me—but you
know something of what I may be able to do, by what
I have already doen—you little know me, if you believe
me tame or spiritless. Ask Archibald—that stout hearted
boy—Archibald, whom I—O, do not flatter yourself
Clinton, it was not all love—so sudden—measureless—
appalling—O, no—it was not—but I sacrificed him to
you—and—I rave strangely Clinton, and cannot for
the life of me, retain, even in conversation, the ordinary
coherency of life. Perhaps I am disordered—I could
almost pray that I may be—but let me see you first—
once more, only once. Yet what do I say—he is honest,
so honest that I cannot doubt him—so fearless that, I
am mad to put his godlike spirit in such peril—and
therefore I must believe him. Hear me! My thought
is steadier for a moment. Hear me!—what I say, that
will I do. Much as I have loved you—do love you—
if you have spoken disrespectfully of me—(yes! that is
the very word—I have written it, at last)--farewell, for
ever!—farewell! farewell!—There is no hope for
you---none!—Depend upon nothing that has passed
---place no confidence in my weakness---nor in the recollection
of it---you understand me----the heat that
thawed in your breath, will have been frozen to adamant
---never to melt again---never---never!---if it be true.---
I know what your hope will be---but you will be disappointed---sorrow
stricken. Young as I am--beautiful as
they say that I am---passionate and tender, as you know
me to be---that---even that---will have no weight with
me. Shame, I can endure---death, death, Clinton---but
not INDIGNITY!'
I heard my brother gasping for breath, but I dared
not look up---and continued to read—
`I believe that Archibald tells the truth--I believe therefore
that this is a final adieu---and I think that I can see
you smile---but my early hope, and you can estimate its
in love to distraction—believe it to be a desperate one
---for I have known Archibald for many years---you
but for a few weeks---I think that I can see you smile,
haughtily and confidently, while you read the threat---
as if assured, in your own heart, that one word or
look of your's, will bring the love sick girl---now that
she is so utterly in your power—upon your bosom
again. You are mistaken. If it be true---farewell for
ever! But beware of my father---of John---of Arthur
---and most of all, of Archibald—your blood Clinton,
I would not have it spilt for me—but, I cannot prevent
it. I foresee that, if Archibald tell the truth—if
---do I say if---O! God that that should be my only
hope---falsehood in Archibald Oadley.! Do not believe
that I doubt him, because I enclose his letter to
you---No---it is because I would show my confidence
in you.— — If you are innocent---put your sword
---not through his heart---not---no, no---let him alone
---let him perish in his own way:---if guilty---God forever
bless you Clinton---but I have done with you.'
My tears, in spite of all my efforts to the contrary,
now ran, with a feeling of insupportable heat and soreness,
down my cheeks. I folded the letter, and reached
it to my brother without lifting my eyes—but having
held it for a moment—and not observing any motion to
take it, I spoke.
`The letter brother — —'
He returned no answer—and in turning round—for he
was a little at my left side, I found him, with his head
and arms hanging lifelessly over the body of my father, as
if his noble heart had stopped forever. For twenty minutes,
that I employed myself in chafing his temples,
our father standing over him, like a dead man, helpless
and horrour struck, he gave no sign of life. But, at
last,—O! it was the happiest moment of mine,—he
opened his eyes—moved them about, faintly, for a moment
or two, rested them upon our father, and then
put out his hand, with a slow, reverent motion. `Do not
into the air awhile, and I shall be well.'
`It snows violently, dear brother—and you are all in
a sweat—' said I, putting out my hand through the
canvass—
`It matters, not—lead me out,' he replied—`I can
bear the snow—but not the heated atmosphere of this
apartment—it chokes me.'
`Poor fellow' our breath was congealed upon our
cloaks, within that heated atmosphere.
We led him out, therefore—and the wind whistled, and
the fine snow was driven, through and through, his beautiful
hair, and into his bosom—yet it melted, as soon
as it struck his forehead—and his patient eyes shone
out, so brightly, that we were terrified —
At last he stood up—knit his brows—brushed away
the snow from his coat, and turning to us—said that
he was `ashamed of himself'—but, while he spoke,
evidently, with the desire of proving that he was altogether
restored,—he fainted away again, and would
have fallen into the drifted snow, but for my father.
We were justly alarmed now, and sent for the physician
of the corps.
He came, and ordered Archibald to be brought immediately
to his own quarters, which were rather
better furnished, than the others,—and fitted up as a
sort of hospital.—All the next day he never opened his
lips—nor the next night, except to ask the time, and
order the horse to be out, at the exercise, an hour earlier
than usual—intending to be with them, but he could
not—and it was not till almost noon, when the stirring
about him, as we struck our tents, awoke him, that he
seemed to recollect himself, for he immediately arose,
and with a little assistance, dressed himself, in spite of
the remonstrance of the physician.
`You do not understand my malady, dear doctor,'
he said, buckling his cimetar upon his side. `It is
inactivity—thought—ha! Clinton—what are they doing?'
`First let me ask you—' (giving him his two hands,
with the utmost cordiality and frankness)—`are you
able to undergo another night's duty, before sleep.'
`Yes—but I hope that it will be the last.'
`Nay, do not flatter yourself—weary so soon?—ha!
what do you mean, Oadley—are you desponding?'
`No, no—what's to be done?—tell me,' said my brother,
repeatedly—setting his foot upon the table, which shook
with the unsteady pressure—and belting his spurs, with
a faint trembling hand, and a sick aspect.
`You are very weak, dear Archibald,' said Clinton,
taking the strap from his hand—but, if you can sit your
horse, you must. `Washington has spoken of you, in
Council, not an hour since; and you are to be entrusted
with serious duty. I knew that you were ill—but I
kept it a secret, till I had seen you. Can you keep your
saddle.'
`Yes—For awhile. What is to be done?'
`About an hour before dark,' said Clinton, all on fire
with the thought of battle—`you will put your men in
motion, secretly, and come in, by a circuit at McKonkey's
Ferry, there to cover an embarkation, which will
take place, at dark. You will be particularly wanted
—Sullivan and Greene have no horse there—and my
notion is, that, after taking your party, we shall have
to dismount all the troops, and take their horses, for
our light artillery—but that is not yet determined upon.
Don't interfere with Knox's men—they are jealous as
the devil of the southerners. Keep clear of them—
and consider yourself under Washington's command
alone, and move only for yourself, when he is away.'
`But whither are we to march?' said my father—
`I feel rather awkward.'
`New levies always do,' said Clinton, laughing.
`But we shall soon put you in training; not a man
knows the design yet. First, we are to cross the Delaware—
that is all that we know yet. Cadwallader has
moved off, in beautiful style—not a man knows for
what—and Irwing I saw, a few hours ago, putting his
men in motion. My thought is—God bless Washington,
give the enemy a Christmas ball—and dance—
`Christmas!—' said I, involuntarily—glancing at
Archibald—
`By heaven!' he replied, walking to the door of the
tent, `so it is;—who knows what may have happened,
at the appointed hour. Brother, brother—the chairs
may be empty—of our bodies—but—which of our spirits
may not be among them, at the hour of their fullest
revelry.'
I was inconceivably affected—his manner was so
solemn, settled—and the tone of his voice so inward and
prophetick. But we had no time to exchange either
congratulation or encouragement, for every moment was
precious. Our men were paraded—in the light of the
setting sun—the whole camp under arms—tents struck,
and a general, but beautiful celerity, full of strictness
and precision, gave evidence that something momentous
was in agitation.—Washington came out, just ahead
of us, and mounted his great white horse, with that air
of absolute authority, which began to distinguish all his
movement about this time—for congress had made
him little less than a dictator at last—and Archibald,
when once upon the back of his spirited little
mare, seemed to forget, in the presence of his Commander
in Chief, all sense of infirmity, if not of mortality;
for when Clinton raised his sword, while he rode by
the side of Washington,—as a signal to my brother to
set off, it was done in such a gallant, soldier like style,
that Washington pressed his white charger forward at
least twenty yards abreast of my brother, utterly regardless
of the young cavalcade about him—as if carried
away, for a moment, with enthusiasm—and well
he might have been, for my brother's eyes shone intensely
bright—and his pale, boyish face was illuminated with
a strange settled sternness, well calculated to startle the
boldest. — For my own part, I forgot his age,
and moved after him as if I had been the junior—but
so it has been through my life; that boy, after the first
twenty years of his course, during which I had passed by
all at once, and was never afterwards driven from it.
I tried, again and again—to recover my ancient sway—
that was in vain—my equality next—that was equally
so—till at last, wearied out with a perpetual warfare
against a spirit that always would keep in advance,
though all his arteries, heart and veins had been ruptured
and burst in the effort, I silently abandoned
myself to his steady dominion:—acknowledged his
supremacy, and slept quietly ever afterward.
The night was intensely cold, and we were delayed
many hours longer than had been anticipated, by an
accumulation of ice in the river. And here, if you
would get a good notion of the countenance of Washington
at this time—the most eventful and trying
moment of his life, I would recommend that you study
a picture just painted by a Mr. Sully of Philadelphia,
upon this subject. He has been singularly happy---
and when I recollect the face of Washington, as he
reined up, for half an hour, within pistol shot of me, it
appears to me that some man must have painted it, who
was with us at the time. Before we came down to the
Ferry—there was an awful solemnity, darkness and
repose in it. But there, when in sight of the troops, as
they were severally embarking, every man of whom, so
long as the face of their Commander could be seen,
even after the boats had put off, kept his eyes upon it,
was full of a loftier, more animated, youthful and heroick
expression, of encouragement and confidence.
You have heard of general Knox, then Colonel---and
of his stentorian voice. I assure you that no justice
can be done to him or it; my ears rang, for a fortnight
after, at the same hour of the night; and do yet, when
I remember how he galloped about, cursing and swearing,
dismounting every five minutes, and lifting at his
own artillery, like a giant. He was a gallant fellow---
full of blood—with all the blunt, strong New England
hardihood. And Greene too--he was there---the only
man of all our armies, capable, I believe, in case of any
disaster, to take the place of Washington, there he sat,
fronting the fires, that were kindled near the place of
embarkation.
At last, though not until three o'clock in the morning,
we were fairly landed upon the Jersey shore, and,
by five, had taken up our line of march. Clinton was
every where—riding through the horsemen, along by
the infantry and artillery, carrying orders, cheering
the men, and infusing, wherever he moved, the very
spirit of chivalry. But my brother—poor fellow,
and my father too—were silent as death—I saw them,
while the division was forming, meet—shake hands—
and part—but I, alas! I had no opportunity to
embrace the old man, before we were upon the march;
but he saw me, and, holding out his sword, shook it
manfully, as if to encourage me.—I answered the signal.
I saw no more of him till the affair was all over.
`It was very remarkable,' said my brother, in a low
voice—`Rodman take the command awhile—(Rodman
leaped forward, and as he passed me, I heard his loud
breathing, as if now, he was about to be happy indeed)
—`it is very remarkable, my dear brother, that they
should be, at this moment, sitting about a table, with
three or four empty chairs at it—for three or four living
men—a father, two sons---and a cousin—is it
not awful to think what may happen?'
`It is impossible,' said I---`you forget the hour---it
must be near morning.'
`There,' said he---as if awaking all of a sudden---
`and it is not till to-morrow night, Christmas night,
that the chairs will be set for us---dead or alive. I had
forgot. I had half persuaded myself that, at this moment,
their eyes were fixed on a screne blue sky, it may
be, in prayer for us---little dreaming that the snow,
and rain, and darkness are driving in our faces, and
that—'
`Hush brother,' said I---`we are overheard.'—`I
care not, though it be by Washington himself,' continued
my brother---`Nay, do not trouble yourself to look
behind. Whoever it be, he shall see that I am not the
it.
`Death!' said I---and would have added some words
of reproof, had not a tall majestick figure, on a horse,
that, even in a rank of white horses, appeared unusually
white, rode slowly athwart our rear—followed by
ten or twelve other horsemen.
`By heaven---brother!---You will have lost his favour.
It was Washington himself',---said I---
`I care not,' he replied, `George Washington himself,
if he be the good and great man that I think him,
has a heavier heart than I, at this moment—is as sorry
at the thought of the blood, that he is about to spill—
and altogether better prepared for death.'
`Brother,' said I, after a moment's pause, `we are
strangely disturbed by our disorderly watching and
sleep—last night was Christmas eve after all—this
morning—I feel it at my heart—yes, I am sure of it!—
eyes that we know—lips that we love—hearts that we
would die for, are all in prayer for us—at this blessed
moment. As I live, the thought rushes in upon me,
distending my own heart, till it aches, with fullness.'
`And so it is, as I hope for mercy! Well, heaven be
praised--farewell brother—let us do our duty--and
commit ourselves to God—I see the light breaking
in there, and a movement--hush--hush! farewell!'
`Farewell!' said I `brother'—and just then, our
whole army passed softly, and silently, by two or three
officers, one of whom I knew to be Clinton, posted
upon the road side, continually waving their swords,
with a motion, as if to enjoin the most deathlike stillness;
and deathlike it was, for nothing could be heard,
but the blowing of the horses, a jolting sound, now and
then in the wet snow, where the Artillery wagons and
gun-carriages cut through into the ground—and
a general rush, as of deep heavy water.
A few moments after, a troop of Virginians, under
Captain Washington, (afterward so distinguished at
the south) paraded, in beautiful style, through the heavy
accelerate our march. Before his arrival, we had
hoped (as I afterward found) to surprise the enemy, at
Trenton, while yet overpowered by the festivities of
the preceding night—and make his morning sleep,
the sleep of death;—but now that hope was abandoned,
for Captain Washington had encountered his
picket, exchanged a few shot, and left him prepared
for, what, it is remarkable that he had already heard
a vague rumour of—our intended attack. Yet this very
affair, which, at first, threatened to be so disastrous,
the frolick of Captain Washington, was probably the
chief reason why we succeeded in surprising the enemy,
at last; for, as that was not followed up, he retired to
quarters, after waiting a reasonable time, as we afterward
found, thinking the whole a Virginia row.
Our troops were now thrown into two divisions.—
We were separated from our father—who was detailed
under Sullivan and St. Clair to take the river road—
while we, under Washington himself, Greene, Morris,
and Stevens, pushed onward through what is called
the Pennington road:
A few moments afterward—just while I thought my
heart had lost its motion entirely—for I felt, in looking
about me, and seeing the dark array of substantial, but
noiseless creatures, horses and wagons—as if the whole
army were an apparition—a cavalcade of dead men—
marching from one place of burial to another:--I heard
a shot, so near me that my horse leaped out of the rank.
This was followed by a loud cry—two or three words
---a volley—and then, shot after shot, as if a line of
sentinels, sleeping upon their post, had suddenly started
up, one after the other, fired off their pieces, and
run in.
Our advance were well furnished with bayonets---
and they immediately charged upon the picket, and,
we dashed after them, trampling them to death, with our
horses, riding over them like a whirlwind, without
speaking a word, or firing a shot. This was scarcely
done, when we heard the firing of the other division, at
arrangement—and we immediately galloped into the
centre of the town, horse and foot, determined to ride
the enemy down, or bayonet them, before they had time
to form. Washington was dreadfully exposed. The
first picket, thinking this a second attack of the same
little skirmishing party, that had fired into them before,
neglected to give the alarm:---an dthe outposts, though
they fought most gallantly, retreating, step by step, behind
the houses, disputing every inch, and presenting
their bright bayonets, without a flash of powder, where-ever
we rode in upon them---so that we could not, with
all our cutting and spurring, force our horses upon
them—and then, the moment that we faced about, blazing
away upon us, and running to the next house—were
driven in.
At last we had an opportunity for fair play; the
Hessians were formed and forming, with the whole
front glittering with bayonets. A tremendous struggle
was going on at our right, under the very eye of Washington,
with the enemy's artillery, which was taken,
when, with a troop of horse, in which I fancied that I could
see my father, nay, I am almost certain that it was
he, by the disorderly movement of his horse, for he broke
out of the ranks, and was twenty yards ahead of the
other men—Archibald rode down, his cap off,
his sword flashing, like a fire brand, in the light and
smoke of the musquetry—`charge! charge!' they cried—`charge!
my brave fellows! and provoke them to
fire'—Another troop! Another! and another! thundered
down, from the right and left, but with no effect
at all, upon the invincible Germans--their front rank
kneeled all round--while the rest were forming, and
presented their bayonets, without firing a shot.
`By heaven!' said Archibald, shouting as if his heart
would break, to Captain Washington—`I will try
them again!' And, as he said so, he rode at full speed,
so near that it appeared to me that he could have struck
the enemy with his sword---and fired his pistol into
their faces. Our front rank followed the example---and
up to their cheeks, and poured a tremendous volley in
upon us---I saw my father fall---Arthur reel in his stirrups---but
Archibald, as if prepared for this very thing
---shouted, `wheel and charge!'
`Wheel and charge!' repeated a hundred voices in
our rear—`wheel and charge!'
We obeyed—and the snow flew—and the swords flashed—and
the next moment, a hundred of the enemy—the
whole of his front rank were trampled to death before
us, and twenty human heads rolled upon the ground,
among the feet of our horses.
The infantry under Greene poured in, volley after
volley, at the same time; and Knox, having brought
round his light field pieces to bear, as if they had been
blunderbusses, played in upon them, with an uninterrupted
roll of thunder and smoke.
It was impossible to stand it—no human being could
have endured the hurricane of fire and bullets longer.—
They threw down their arms—about one thousand men
in all—and then was it—then—when it was necessary
to move about the quieter operations of strife, that we
began to feel the intense coldness of the night—the keen
air cutting into our new wounds, like rough broken glass.
—Several were frozen to death, and two of our own men.
But my agony was for my father: heedless of the reiterated
command of Arthur, and Clinton, and Washington
himself, who was impatient to be away—with
his prisoners, before a rescue---I continued riding over
the field, and examining the bodies. At last I found him
---the good old man---flat upon his back---his great
heart heavy with the bullets that had been poured into
it. I wondered at my own calmness---when I first discovered
the body---at my own unspeakable collectedness.
At first there was a darkness and dizziness about my
eyes---and then I began to doubt if I were in my right
senses---but Archibald and Arthur rode up to me, the
latter with his white pantaloons covered all over with
blood and dirt---and we alighted---and tearing open his
bosom, discovered that there was no life in him---that
trumpet blowing---we took the dead hand in ours, sucsessively,
without looking at each other---cut off, hurriedly
a lock of his grey hair---saturated and stiff with
frozen blood---mounted and left him—with an inconceivable
calmness—for—it was not till our wounds
were dressed, that we thought of our mother—our
poor, dear mother.
`One of the chairs,' said my brother passing me, and
pointing to a litter in which I could distinguish a wounded
officer—`was not vacant—although it might not
have been given to mortal eye to see, with whom it was
filled—and another had well nigh been at the feast of
the dead.'
`God be thanked, brother,' said I, `that it is neither
you nor Arthur. But whom do you mean?'
`God's will be done!'—was the reply—`I spoke
of Clinton—he had two horses shot under him---and
was brought down, at last, by the same volley, with captain
Washington. I saw him, when he fell—he waved
his sword to me —and if ever man's face spoke,
without sound, his said—Archibald I repent—God
bless the woman of my heart! I hope that he is not mortally
wounded. He was a brave fellow---and—and---I
have been very hard upon him---I could not have borne
so much, I fear—a generous fellow, for—'
`Are you not grateful, brother, for the protection of
heaven?'
`Grateful! brother!'—he replied—smiting his
breast—`that were a poor word to express the unutterable
thankfulness of my heart. Washington is safe—
you are safe---Arthur is safe---our country is safe—and
I—I have not been cut off in the bossom of my pride.'
| CHAPTER IX. Seventy-six | |