University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

`Brother,' said I, as we stood side by side, again,
holding our horses by the bit and throat lash, to steady
them, under the movement of the boat—`this is the
third time that we have been upon the waters of the Delaware,
in darkness, with horsemen and horses about us.
What fearful vicissitudes for men like us, to have experienced
within so short a time.'

`True—true brother,' he replied, `the water here,
that ripples along our boat side, shining like broken
silver—drifting against it, may run blood yet, under
the burden that is now upon it. We are growing
old apace. If years are to be numbered by events and
trial, we are already aged men!'—He stopped—and a
long breath showed how deeply he had been employed.

`They fought gallantly,' said I.

`They did indeed brother; and Wilkinson—you remember
Wilkinson, he was close at my side during a
part of the hottest fire, cheering us on, in the finest
style (it was the present General Wilkinson, my children)—and
Washington—the Captain—his voice and
sword were every where.'

`But who was that young man, that I saw rushing
forward, his face blackened with the smoke of the enemy's
cannon—just under your horses hoofs, as you
charged on the left?—some young officer; was he not?'

`You probably mean Lieutenant Monroe—once, I
was so struck by the solemn, undisturbed earnestness

of his countenance, that I reined up, in the middle of a
charge, to look at him.'

That same Lieutenant Monroe, is now the President
of the United States.

`Have you learnt the enemy's loss? It must have
been very considerable, for our fire was like one continual
clap of thunder—' said I.

About forty, I heard General Greene say, as I passed
him, to Archibald—and among them, their gallant
leader, Colonel Rahl—God have mercy upon him! It
is a fearful thing to die, so suddenly, in a foreign land
—where we have gone to let out our blood, for money—
or for glory. Every man has his price—the soldier is
little better than the bravo, if he be paid in the same coin
—among strangers—poor fellow! and yet—who would
wish to survive a blow like this?'

`I should not'—said Archibald.

`His officers, I am told, complain that he would not
permit them to entrench.'

`Nonsense, brother—his officers, like all other men
—will not take more than their own share of humiliation
and shame, you may depend on it. The truth is,
that they did not expect us—scorned us—and Cornwallis
himself, so it was said yesterday at Washington's
table, had once gone back to New York, intending to
embark for England—regarding the war as all over—
our power extinct. But, it may be, that his lordship
was very discreet--very--in postponing such a communication.
Washington, it is said, dark and desperate
as it was, on all sides, listened to the story, and repeated
it, with a pleasant countenance--as the harmless vanity
of a young man, who knew not the spirit with
which he was contending—a spirit that iron could
not bind--nor fire consume--nor darkness, wind nor
rain extinguish.'

`I saw poor Rahl.'

We were now in the deepest part of the river, where
the new ice had rushed together, and piled itself up, like
a snow drift upon the black water---yielding nevertheless
to the pressure of our boat, as, by some unskilful

management, she was brought against it, in the eddy,
and merging all under the water, as if it had been a
frozen spray, light as the very vapour. We were jarred,
horse and man, by the contact, for a moment, as if our
boat had suddenly foundered---but after a brief, violent
struggle, our horses recovered their foot hold, braced
themselves, anew, with their instinctive sagacity, against
the ridges, purposely provided in the bottom of the boat,
and my brother continued.

`I saw him---poor fellow---while his officers were gather
round him---his nostrils swimming in blood---his
dark eyes hardly yet extinct---and his shoulder absolutely
shot away. There was a calm, terrible darkness
in the aspect of death then---so suddenly---hot with the
festivity of the night, dreaming, but one blessed moment
before, of his babes and his dear one. Brother!
say what you will, this trade of war, demands a tremendous
preparedness—a heart of stone—an eye of
fire—a hand of iron. A trade that—O, we may
yet live—till the rush of our blood is done—the eddy
of our heart frozen---the foam and froth of our arteries
hushed, in a repose, more awful than death---when,
for the very deeds, that we have done this day, tears
from the eye, and blood from the heart---may be no expiation.
Brother I tremble.'

`It is the night wind Archibald.'

`No brother, not the night wind; that could not penetrate
to my vitals, or make me feel so coldly; so like
death, just here.'

Our boat struck just then, and so unexpectedly, as
to make our horses stumble upon us. We were in some
danger, but Archibald's presence of mind, and my
bodily strength prevented any disaster. He leaped
out of the boat, to avoid the hoofs of the mare—and
she plunged, headlong, after him, followed by half a
dozen other horses, that had been first thrown upon
their knees by the sudden jar, and kept there by the
boat swiming round. It was not deep, and Archibald
had the self recollection, to abandon the bridle, and
dive under our boat,—while I, leaping into the rotten

ice, and half frozen water—kept off the horses from
the shore till he had secured his foot hold. We had
then little difficulty in bringing out all of them but
one, and he, poor fellow, was of such prodigious
strength, and temper, that we feared to approach him.
Several times he swam up to us, and stretched out his
head, as if to bring the bridle within our reach, but
we were too far from him. He then attempted to
mount the ice, and plunged, at least fifty times, into the
deepest part of the river, blowing and snorting the
while, so that we could hear him all along the shore.—
And, now and then, through the sleet and darkness,
we could see the noble creature throw himself half
out of the river—place his fore feet upon the newly
formed ice—make a desperable effort—the ice
would give way—we would hear the rush and
plunge—he would go under—and rise. Our boats were
such great unmanageable things, we were utterly unable
to assist him—at last he grew desperate—the rattling
of his nostrils became incessant—his blows upon
the ice—one uninterrupted struggle, then—poor creature,
a long, loud, half suffocated neigh—a few more struggles,
and he passed under the ice, as we supposed, for
we heard a sound as if it came from the bottom, long
afterward—afar off—and dying away in the distance
and darkness. I declare, strange as it may seem, that
men who had been in battle—and seen their own father
dead without shedding a tear—should be so overcome
by the death of a brute—yet I declare to you
that our hearts were heavy—even to tears; and either
of us would have risked his own life, I have no doubt,
for the safety of the noble animal—when we heard
his last loud, convulsive sobbing, and saw the amazing
strength of his blows, as he broke through the ice at
every leap.

We were instantly formed, and all the prisoners, to
prevent the possibility of recapture, from a desperate
enemy, stung to madness at the nature of the blow,
that he had received—were marched off to Philadelphia,
under a strong escort;—composed of all our

horse, and the chief part of our light infantry—so called—not
because we had any heavily armed infantry—
but because they were in a measure provided with
guns and bayonets. This step was a wise one, for the
enemy had a force along the Delaware, far superior to
ours; and, at Princeton, a battalion of infantry.

This was the first time that I had ever been in Philadelphia—and
I rode along, street after street, of
noble buildings, side by side with my brother, who
seemed—I know not for what reason, except that his
face was remarkably pale, and full of a noble, uncommon
expression for one so youthful—to attract universal
attention. The streets were thronged, but whether
in congratulation or not, it would have been difficult to
say. The women certainly looked pleased, and some
were beautiful indeed,—so beautiful, that many a stout
heart rode unsteadily by them; and so I remember
particularly, as we wheeled from Sixth into Market-street,
a throng of girls—among whom was one—who
laughed as we passed—and one that uttered a cry—I
heard the voice, but did not see her—by Heaven, I
thought that Arthur would have fallen from his horse.
I dared not look at him—till the animal, surprised by
the loose rein, dashed over the pavement, as if he had
been shot through the heart, the length of two or three
squares, before Arthur could bring him to his place again.
And now and then too, as I passed along, I could see
a broad brimmed hat, a pretty little bashful face, with
the hair parted smoothly upon the forehead, a something
in a drab coloured dress—conscientiously scrupulous
against being seen to look upon military parade,
in the open street—here and there, peeping with scandalous
if not impious eagerness, through the half open
curtains, or shutters of a high window—or door
standing just upon the jar.

For several days after the battle, we were kept in
continual motion—scarcely eating or sleeping—marching
and countermarching in all directions; first, after
collecting a body of Pensylvania militia, under General
Mercer, as brave a fellow as ever stood fire, and

leaving our prisoners at Philadelphia, we immediately
returned to the Delaware, and recrossed it again, making
the fourth time, that Archibald and I had gone
from one shore to the other, with swelling hearts and
mournful thoughts—alike in that—yet how unlike in all
that shakes the sinew, or shortens the breath of men!—
At first, we were adventurers—untried in battle, going
to camp, and flying, in consternation, before a scornful
army that lined the opposite bank, and kept squibbing
at us, in derision; the second time, upon a matter of
such peril, that, if we failed—and that we did not, was
miraculous, as two out of three of the divisions did
fail, (I speak of those under Cadwallader and Irwing,)
the pulse of all America would have stopped—perhaps
forever:—desperate men, going in darkness and storm,
upon the sleeping and dreaming, like the angels of
death; the third time—conquerors, high in heart—covered
with blood and glory—with all the sleepers and
dreamers in our power—the fourth which was the
present time, with a complicated feeling of apprehension
and thrilling delight.

We marched to Trenton, and took possession of it,
with an army of only eighteen hundred men. This
was on the twenty ninth of December—and, of this
number, twelve hundred were to be discharged on the
first of January!—Tremble my children—read the history
of these days, and tremble!—God fought with us, or
we had perished, again and again, in our blindness and
infatuation:—bounties were offered—enormous for the
time—two dollars a head—they were taken, pocketed—
and carried off; but at last, the Pennsylvania militia
came in, electrified by the shock at Trenton, which
had caused the enemy's heart to contract, and his extremities
to be drawn in—and our force was augmented
to about five thousand men.

One day, while we were in this situation, my brother
came to me, with the traces of, what always astonished
me, when I saw them upon his face,—tears upon
his countenance. `I have just left Clinton—I have

wept with him—I shall love him, I fear, better than
ever.'

`Fear—why so?'

`Because if I once love him—my hand will tremble,
I am afraid, when the time of judgment is at hand—
I—.'

`What mean you brother?---There is that in your
eyes which I would fain see dissipated—you are not the
man I hope,---I believe, Archibald, to spill the blood
of a human creature, for any lighter cause than the salvation
of your country. You shake your head.---Archibald---my
brother!---have I not heard you denounce
the duellist, duelling!---You do not deny it—
then why—'

He interrupted me impatiently---`let us talk no
more about it, now—I shall do nothing rashly. Be assured
of that—but we are exceedingly earnest to get
Clinton away. I think that—what say you to it?—
if he could be nursed tenderly; very tenderly by—
by—I cannot well utter my thought, brother; but
what need of words? You understand me—will you
escort him to Mr. Arnauld's?—I see that you are surprised—but
if you will not, I will, and deliver him,
with my own hands into the arms of Lucia, and help
him to make his peace with her.'

`That is my noble Archibald!' I cried, embracing
him—`that is what I looked for. Yes—I will go—
or you—or—'

`No---brother—I prefer that you should go. I
shall never enter the door again, if I can help it.—
But you may—'

`You have forgiven him then—relented?'—

`No---but Lucia may, if she please. I have no concern
with her. I have done my duty, and I leave it to
her, to do hers. My opinion is, that there is only one
course for her to pursue—but that—O, it is only
one star in a midnight firmament of total blackness.'

I looked at him for sometime, without opening my
lips. A strange thought darted, like a startled eaglet,
from the high place of her abiding, athwart my mind—

but, ere I could look to her place in the sky, or her shadow
on the earth, she was gone, unseen and unheard---
and all was hushed and beautiful, as the pale blue air
of a warm day. I dared not lure it back---I dared not
mention it---it was a flash of unutterable brightness, and
I dropped my eyes, when it passed, as if blinded by it.
I don't know that you will understand me, my children,
but I have been endeavoring to be very fine—after
the fashion of the day.

`You will go then?' said he, laying his hand upon
my shoulder, and looking me, affectionately, in the face
---`you will go---and you will see—her---her whom
you love—and you will be happy. Forgive my perturbation,
brother; it is not envy—no!—but it is
a far deadlier feeling, to a heart like mine—it is hopelessness—God
bless you, and her—and (hesitating
her too!'

`Are we to have another battle?' said I—`thert
are mysterious movements in camp—and midnight
councils.'

`I believe that we may begin to look for one,' was the
reply. `Washington cannot retreat---all the eyes of
America are upon him—he is supposed to be five times
as strong as he is; and if he should retreat, with his
augmented force, the people would fall back into their
old despondency. The enemy are cruelly exasperated,
and bent upon retaliation. Cornwallis, I know, has
abandoned his design of carrying out the news of our
destruction—for a few days longer,—joined his men
in the Jerseys, concentrated his whole power—left a
body at Princeton, and is now moving upon us, at
this place. The firing that we heard just now, was
the advance of his army, encountering that of our's
under Greene.'—

While we were yet speaking, several horsemen came
in, at full gallop; and it was soon known, for we were
in our saddles, before the noise of their hoofs, had
ceased ringing in our ears, that Greene, who had been
sent out to reinforce a small advance, placed about a
mile in front—had met them in a disorderly retreat

and was himself thrown into confusion, by their rascally
impetuosity, to get away from the enemy.

There was only one way to arrest them. Knox and
Greene advanced four capital field pieces, to the bank
of a little stream before us, called the Suspinck creek,
and played upon them, with such a blaze, and tempest,
that they fell back, and left us at leisure to arrange
nearly forty pieces, some of which were ready to open
upon them, at their first approach. It was a beautiful
night—

`Would that I might communicate with Lucia, for
a single moment!' said Archibald, as we drew out our
whole cavalry, to the left of the line of cannon, from
which an uninterrupted roll of thunder, smoke and
brightness, was kept up, while we were conversing
—`but—my heart is heavy brother, not, I believe
with apprehension, or doubt, but with—do not smile
upon me—with a foreboding. I may not see Lucia
again.—I have treated her harshly—We are on
the eve of another battle—that little creek is fordable—the
whole force of the enemy is assembled on
the opposite bank—our's upon this.—Cornwallis—
look! by heaven, the whole sky is in a blaze!'—

I turned about, and saw the heights at the westward
of the town, all alive with bustle and light—
Cornwallis displaying, and extending his columns,
with narrow intervals—(whence the artillery. thundered
upon us, incessantly,)—as if to gain our rear
—outflank us, and put us to the sword without mercy.
—Yet it was beautiful, magnificent. The very earth
shook under the roar of the cannon—and the air
was loud with a perpetual reverberation—the sky
black with smoke.—Add to this, that we were not
one thousand yards apart.—

`A battle is inevitable.' continued my brother—
`It may be fatal to one of us, and if these feelings may
be trusted, it will—they are not those of fear, or
despondency, but rather of a solemn religious belief,
that I am not to survive it.—If I fall'—(drawing his
bright weapon, and severing a lock of hair from his

temples,) `give that to Lucia; tell her that—that—
I loved her to my last breath—and bid her love another
—if she can!'—

His manner was awful, really awful—my blood ran
cold at the sound of his voice—and his lips, it appeared
to me, were motionless, emitting sound, in some inward,
preternatural way.—

`I accept the hair,' said I, `but I am ashamed of
my brother—ashamed of him, for the first time in my
life'—

He smiled mournfully—took my hand—and holding
it, for a moment, to his breast, said—`I do not
blame you. You have no such feelings. Heaven doth
not vouchsafe them to you—to any but the weary
and wasted—to them that pray not to live.—
Ashamed of me! are you?—By to-morrow night,
John,—when the red sun hath gone down—your feeling
will be more of sorrow than shame—perhaps for
these words;—if it should be—remember—remember
that Archibald forgave you, and blessed you!'—

He fell upon my neck, and kissed me, while his soft
hair was blown into my eyes,—and over my lips.—

`But—if I survive—if—why then brother, you
shall be welcome to feel ashamed of me, and of what
I have said—the weather is very moist and warm
—I am sweltering under this cloak.'—

`But keep it on, nevertheless,' said I—`we have
sudden changes along here; and before morning you
may want more cloaks than one.'—

An officer here rode up to my brother, and ordered
him to trot his horses loudly about the rear—while the
baggage, and three pieces of ordnance moved off to
Burlington—

`They are in Council,' said the officer—`and we
know not what will be done—it is getting very cold'—
`Yes'—said Archibald,—`the most sudden change
that I ever felt. It is not five minutes since I was
complaining of the strange closeness and warmth
of the air!'—

`I felt the same, half an hour ago—Ha! what means
that! some stratagem I suppose.'—

I looked, and found that our troops were doubling
their fires the whole length of their line—

`It will be intensely cold, I am sure,' said I—`the
iron tread of the troop, rings famously already upon
the ground—a single hour since, it was a soft, noiseless
blow.—They will want all those fires before
morning—look. The north wind has got among the
smoke, and the dark blue sky can be seen, in patches
all over us—another hour, and I will answer for it,
that we have a bright, unclouded starlight over
head.'—`And a wind, that you could sharpen razors
against'—said the officer—`these norwesters are
mighty keen and wholesome—to people (lowering his
voice) in a well built house—before a roaring fire.'—

`Shall we fight,' said Archibald—

The officer shrugged his shoulders—and replied
—`yes—or retreat, by the Jersey side, and cross
at Philadelphia—either of which is—speaking after
the manner of men—damned hazardous.'

Archibald turned away, in displeasure. He would,
sometimes, when violently heated, suffer an oath or
profane word to escape him, but never, of late, in a
serious moment, and never at all, without deep penitence
and shame—

At length, however, we were directed to gallop along,
as silently as we could. And the whole army, upon a
road like the solid pavement, now filed off toward
Princeton—crossing the creek in a death like silence—
behind our double fires, without disturbing the enemy,
who deserved to be broken, man and horse, for permitting
it,—and arrived at Princeton, a little before
day break.

This, as you will perceive, in the event, was a masterly
manœuvre, and is said to have been proposed by
St. Clair, a lion hearted fellow—when all were looking
in each other's faces, dreading to speak.—`Right!'
answered Washington, after a moment's consideration,
`That must be the blow. Cornwallis, it is probable,

impatient to retrieve the disaster of Trenton, has
pushed upon us with his main body—and left, it is
also probable, a weak rear guard at Princeton.'—

For eighteen hours had we been under arms—and,
for two whole days, constantly employed, in marching,
countermarching, and fighting, without an hour's interruption:
except at the creek.

No sooner said than done!—Our army was in
motion; we crossed the creek, as I told you, in a
silence like the wind of midnight, and arrived at
Princeton, almost without having spoken a loud word,
just before day break. The weather was intensely
cold, but the whole sky was luminous and beautiful—
not a bird could have hurried over it, like the scared
swallow, or the drifting eagle, asleep upon the high
wind—without being seen. We were already about
to join battle—yet—wonderful as it may seem, I felt
little or no emotion, certainly none of terrour, but
rather, a profound repose in all my faculties, as if
they had been overwrought, and slept, as men will
sometimes sleep upon a rocking precipice, loosened by
the turbulent ocean.—General Mercer was a little
in advance, when Major Wilkinson, who first discovered
the enemy, (three regiments) about a quarter
of a mile distant, on the march for Trenton, dashed
athwart the advance, and communicated the intelligence.—At
the same moment, an order was given, and
Archibald wheeled off to the left, leaving us to follow,
and as I approached, giving me his hand for a moment
—`farewell! brother, farewell!'—said he, stretching
his bright weapon at the full length of his arm, and
heaving out his chest, in the star light—

`Farewell,' said I, striking the rowels home—and
leaping past him—I could not bear it. Colonel
Mawhood on account of the ground, saw us, but partially;
and taking us for a light party, sent out to harass him,
gave himself no trouble about us; neither halted nor
formed, but came down upon our infantry, with a steady
countenance and quick tread, till the very bayonets
clashed—then poured in a volley upon us, and charged.

Our men had scarcely a hundred bayonets with them.
Most of their pieces were rifles, and they instantly broke,
fell back, in disorder. It was a moment of the extremest
peril—Washington saw it, and leaped into the space,
between the two parties, while our men were forming,
reined his magnificent white charger, like a madman,
I confess, shot upon the enemy—and received, successively,
the whole fire of the two parties without losing
a hair of his head. At the same moment, Mawhood,
sword in hand, mounted upon a superb animal, with
two little spaniel dogs barking and yelping at his
heels, wheeled, and galloped, hither and thither, among
our men, and finally, cut his way through them, and
escaped, over fields and fences, with a few, a very few
of his men toward Pennington. At the moment
when this charge was made by our troops, in consequence
of the desperate hardihood of Washington—the
result of which was that sixty of the enemy were bayonetted
upon the spot, our little troop darted in upon
them, in one uninterrupted blaze and thunder. Never
did I hear such a trampling of horses and clashing of
swords. We broke our way, literally through the disordered
rabble. A party of them escaped to the Colleges,
but we pursued them, at full gallop, hewing them down
at every plunge, and entered with them, some of us on
horseback,—and others, at the head of whom was Arthur,
on foot------and soon dislodged them. Greene,
we found afterwards, had a slight brush with Cornwallis,
who, alarmed at what he took at first to be thunder,
in the direction of Princeton, had pushed forward, with
desperate eagerness, to the protection of Brunswick,
where lay his whole baggage, and where General Lee
was held prisoner. We would—but human nature
could not hold out longer—we would have set fire to the
one, and released the other, before his lordship had
recovered from his consternation—but, it was impossible.
Our men actually dropped from their horses upon
the road; and at every step, some poor fellow threw
himself down, praying permission to sleep—what must
have been, in the heat, and delusion, and exhaustion
of the moment, the sleep of death, undisturbed—upon
the drifted snow. Our horses too, during the remainder
of our pilgrimage, dragged their very limbs after
them so feebly that, while their flanks ran with blood,
and their flesh quivered at the touch of the spur, they
were unable to keep in a trot for more than fifty
yards at a time—and, finally, we were obliged to dismount
and lead them, some dropping off by the way,
and our men employing themselves all the while in
destroying the bridges and breaking up the road, until
we arrived, on the sixth, at Morristown, with our
prisoners, nearly three hundred in number.

Two of the British regiments escaped, the fifty-fifth,
by the way of Hillsborough, to Brunswick; and the
fortieth, after a little scuffling, to the same place. But
the enemy were panick struck. They fell back, shaking
in every joint—concentrating at every step, and
successively abandoning, in their trepidation, without
firing a shot, every foot of ground that they had gained
south of New York, except Brunswick and Amboy;
while the American Militia awoke all at once, overran
the whole country with whatever implements of warfare
they could lay their hands on, cutting the enemy
up, whenever he dared to shew his face in small
parties, till, at last, he was obliged to forage with his
main body.

Within thirty days, my children, this mighty deliverance
had been wrought. Within thirty days, the
whole of New Jersey, lying between New Brunswick
and the Delaware, had been lost and won, and lost
and won again—won first, by a gallant and well
appointed army from a shattered and flying rabble—
and retaken from the conqueror—wrested from him—
in a clap of thunder, by the ghost of an annihilated
militia—who had suddenly leaped out of the ground,
as it were, at the noise of the cannon at Trenton, as
if the trumpet of God had been blown over the buried
nations, and the battle field—and each that slept, as
he leaped into his saddle again, while the skies were
passing away—the stars falling—the sun going down

in a rain of blood and fire—had sought his enemy anew,
as he was emerging with the dark population,—and
thundered upon his crest, as he arose.— —

There, my dear Children—I have been willing to
forget the battle, and the subject for awhile, and amuse
you, for I know your taste and that of our people, with
a few rockets,—and—but let me return—

`Where, in the name of heaven, is Archibald?' cried
Arthur, galloping by me; about four hours after
the battle—it was the first time that I had heard his
voice for weeks—`I have ransacked the whole field—I
have asked every human being—I—'

For a moment—I felt as if I were shot through the
heart—I remembered Archibald's farewell—I remembered
too, seeing him, a little before, dashing among
the enemy when they stove into the College, and—`God
of heaven,' I exclaimed—dropping the reins of my horse,
and reflecting back the terrified paleness of Arthur
upon his own forehead—as I recollected where I had
seen him—`that must have been he.'

`Where! where!' said Arthur, his voice ringing
through and through me, like a strong trumpet—

`O, it was he! it was he!'—I repeated—`no other
living man could have done it—his horse reared as
they faced upon him, and fired a volley into his bosom.'

`Gracious God,' said Arthur—`did he fall?'—`I
know not,' said I—`I did not think of my brother, then
—but I remember reining up, and holding my breath,
as the smoke rushed out of the College doors and windows—and
a man, on horseback, appeared leaping amid
a perpetual blaze of powder, and whistling of bullets—'

`That was in the College—was it not?' `Yes'—I,'
answered, catching at the eager light of his wonderful
eyes—`yes!—what hope is there?'

`He escaped!—he escaped!—I saw him leap down
the high steps, firm in the saddle, giving a cut in the
rear as he went; and our party broke in upon the
enemy just as a whole platoon was levelled at him—
nay, I am sure that not a ball struck him then—but
I know nothing more—I have not seen him since.—The

piece that was brought up, was so well served, that
the enemy surrendered after three or four shots, and
I saw no more of your brother—'

`He is safe! he is safe!' said one of the troop, riding
up, with my sword, which I had dropped, without
knowing it, startled at the cry of Arthur, I suppose, as
if a dead man had broken silence, while I was standing
over him—for he was on foot—

`Who is safe!' I cried—striking my spurs into the
lacerated flanks of my poor horse, and determining to
return to the battle ground, at all peril, and continued
the search—

`The Captain—the Captain!' he cried—and true
it was—for the next moment, Archibald himself appeared,
coming in with five of his men at his heels,
driving ten or twelve prisoners before them. His
action was menacing, and his look frightful.—I should
hardly have known him—his whole uniform was saturated
with blood, as if he had been bearing wounded
men to the hospital.—Upon his white forehead were
spattering drops, and his beautiful hair itself, stood
out, stiff and frozen, under the pressure of his iron
bound cap, as if that too were full of blood. I shuddered
as he passed me—I could not speak—I tried, and
my lips moved—but I could utter no sound—I felt as
if a spirit had gone by me—the hair of my flesh rose,
and my flesh itself crawled. Nay, but for me, I verily
believe that he would have cloven the skulls of two or
three of the prisoners, as they drove them along like
wild beasts before them, pricking them at every step
with their swords—and flourishing their sabres round
their heads—heads that disdained to duck, in the whistle
and blaze of the sabres, but looked with a steady eye
upon them. Archibald, in particular, seemed as if he
could hardly keep his hands off.

`For shame,' said I, `brother—O, for shame!'
leaping forward, and catching at his arm,—I had half
a mind to strike it down with my sword, such was my
wrath and horrour,—`warring upon the prisoned, and
the helpless!'

`Brother!' he replied, wiping the blood from his
forehead, and looking at me sternly—`brother, you
know not what you do. Were I prone to bloodshed,
this foolish interference had cost every man of them,
their lives, and you, perhaps—nay, I do not say it
jestingly—I am in no humour for trifling now—it
might have cost you, yours.—Brother—these eleven
men are murderers—they have just put all their bayonets,
again and again, through the bravest heart that
ever beat—

`Whose! I cried'—my blood running cold—at the
look of his terrible eyes—`whose?'—

`Mercer's!'—

`What, have they slain him—how? tell me—I never
shall forget him. I saw him but once or twice, but—
I shall never forget his carriage or voice!'—

`He had leaped to the ground, and was leading on
his men to the charge, when, by some mistake in the
evolution, he found himself a prisoner—surrendered,
by the living God, I saw it! I saw him surrender!—
I saw him throw down his sword—I had just escaped,
with about twenty of my troop, from the cottage—yet
before I could get to the spot, thirteen bayonets were
in his noble heart!—

He suddenly stopped—`why how is this? said he—
`Arthur!—dear Arthur!—I have never seen that smile
upon your broad forehead since—dear Arthur speak to
me—are you wounded?—do you feel that it is mortal!'—

Arthur shook his head—and a shadow went over his
face—

`What! so cheerful Arthur—and yet, unharmed—afar
from the place of sleep—and quiet—and deep, deep
loveliness and innocence.'—

`Are you wounded, brother?' said I—seeing the
blood bubble over the top of his tight boots, as he rose
in the stirrups, or pressed upon them, with the movement
of his mare—

`Yes,' he replied, smiling—`yes, and if it were not
to be a tedious affair, I should not be sorry if—if it

should be seriously—or even—pardon me brother, but
I cannot forbear the truth—even mortally'—

`It is impious,' said I—`impious, Archibald: whatever
is, is right.'—

`True,' he replied, locking his hands—and reeling
a little, in the saddle, `true brother—and God be praised,
that, in the heat of battle—I remembered that, and
thought of Him—Him the Everlasting—and felt that
inexpressible awe and devotedness that—I cannot well
express it—it was, in a measure, as if, to some one
of his Angels, I had heard him give Washington in
charge.—