University of Virginia Library

`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—

I hope—ere the print of your lips had left my forehead
—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

lightness, when I tell you that I myself, I; a woman
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

weep father—do not—nor you, brother—Help me out
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,

for keeping the good old fashion!—that we are to
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

him, regardless of his eye or attitude, took his position,
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,

full of deep religious composure,---his broad forehead
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

worse fitted for death, for having prepared myself for
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

snow, and brought us intelligence which tended to
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

the opposite quarter---so admirably timed had been the
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

the next moment, all the Hessians brought their pieces
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

his aged breast was literally blown to pieces; and the
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.'