University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

For two whole hours, not a word had been spoken.

`John!' said Arthur, turning about, and looking me
steadily in the face, `are we in our right senses, do
you believe?'

`We! I cannot be positive for more than one,' said
I, laughing—`but' —

`I am serious,' he said, interrupting me, `I am
deeply troubled here, (laying his hand upon his heart,)
and I do fear, that, I am not sufficiently grateful to our
Father above, for this to prove a reality.'

I was struck by the expression of his face—it was
cloudy.

`My dear Arthur,' I replied, riding up abreast, and
taking his hand, `I do not wonder at your feeling.
Few such mercies as these, are ever vouchsafed to man
—and at this period of our lives, while the hot blood is
racing through our veins, with every thought and impulse,
we are apt to be especially neglectful of our
duty to God. Let us be wiser. The battle is forever
at hand now. Let us not be found asleep upon our
post.'

`Right, cousin,' said he, recovering, and with a solemn
movement of the arm, confirming every word that

I uttered, as if it had been a vow, about to be registered
above; `I have thought much of it, during the darkness
and terrour that have been about me; but never
so intensely, so emphatically, as since the hour that
Mary, dear Mary, stood up before me, like one touched
by the hand of a prophet, and brought anew into life,
that I might be a better man. Yes—I have thought
much of it, and have came to this resolution—to be
prepared for death, at any moment; not, as I have
been, by desperate hardihood, indifference, or a desire
of quieting the dark tumult in my mind; but as a man,
a Christian. Let us be prepared; not by burnishing
our arms, or sleeping upon them; but by a prayerful
and uninterrupted reference to our Maker, in every
moment of our life. O, John! our lives have been a
reproach to us. Say what we will, of His mercy;
comfort ourselves as we may, with the thought, that
we have no heavy sins to our charge, yet, yet, cousin,
considering our temptations, we have transgressed
heavily. I feel it—I know it.'

The tears ran down his manly face, but he did not
appear to be sensible of it, for he kept on, in a slow
walk, side by side, with me, stopping now and then, and
putting his hand upon mine, as if to enforce what he
said.

`I have rushed into battle, headlong, like a wild
beast—careless of my destiny, and drunk with passion.
So have you; we have never stopped our horses, in the
smoke and flame, for a single instant, to bless God, that
we were yet on the saddle—nay, nor when it was over,
have we ever fallen upon our faces, among the dead and
dying, to thank our Almighty Father, that we were not
of the number. O, cousin! these are sins, unpardonable
sins, when creatures like us, so untutored in the
way of blood, can spur our horses over whole ranks
and layers of the dead: behold the lacerated bosom of
a human creature gushing out, under the blow of our
iron hoofs; stumbling over human faces, gashed lips
and ghaslty eyes; we, who have been so peacefully and
quietly brought up, without emotion, after a few weeks

of desperate familiarity with blood; what will become
of us, if the war should last for many years? will our
hearts be human then? will there be one atom of our
earlier nature left? one atom, that has not been baptized
in blood, and hardened in fire? No cousin! this
is my resolution—to say little of my duty henceforth,
but to do it, night and day—never to talk of religion,
but to nurse it, in the holiest place of all my heart—to
fight the battles of my country, though there be no
end to them, till she be the conqueror—before I dream
of any other duty.'

`What! Arthur, you would not give up Mary, the
new found Mary?'

`No—never, but with life. But love shall not sway
me, as it does other men; it shall not make me forgetful
of my country, or my God. No! He has given her
to me again, from the fire and smoke of the midnight
ravisher—untainted—unprofaned; and He can preserve
her for me, till the night of darkness hath gone
over my country.'

`You will marry her tho'?'—

`Marry her! while the question of slavery is unsettled—while
America is loosened to her foundation—
marry her! and make a coward of myself—in the battle—a
traitor to the great cause—double and treble the
stake that I am now playing for—her widowhood and
the orphanage of our children—slavery!'

`Children!' said I, smiling.

`Aye, cousin—children! I do not tremble in pronouncing
the word; I do not, and will not, affect an
impious insensibility on that subject; if I marry, I look
to have children, or I never would marry, never! and
would I, think you, hazard the begetting slaves—what!
leave the children of Mary Austin and Arthur Rodman,
the dark heritage of slavery! no—let us die, if it
must be—toiling and wrestling for freedom; but till
we are free—let us not put in hazard the freedom of our
posterity. No! let the nation be extinguished—the
whole nation—rather! But —'

Our horses plunged together, as he spoke, and set off
at full speed; we rode breast to breast, for half a mile,
before we could fairly subdue them.

`A good omen,' said I, `we must ride together,
Rodman, together! whatever happen.'

`Agreed,' he replied, striking my horse upon the
swell of his chest—`agreed! the heart of that beast,
John, is beating with the contagion—hark! how it rattles
in his chest. Think you, that men have less ardour,
less emulation—no! blood horses will split their
arteries in the race; and shall men, like ourselves, faint
and fall away, at a less hazard?'

Thus you see, my children, somewhat more of this
man's character. I had never known him, nor myself;
nor indeed, had we known each other, till the
war broke out, and we had ridden man and horse, over
man and horse, elbow to elbow, in the red battle.

Whether it be, that trial and calamity, war, and the
perilous vicissitude thereof, do really create a new
character, or only develope the sooner that which is,
that which might never have been known, under a more
quiet sky, and less troubled temperature; whether it be,
that all men have certain hidden capabilities, or hidden
faculties and talents, that are only to be revealed,
improved in the storm and convulsion, I know not; but
this I know, that out of four or five men, whom I had
known all my life, before we went into battle together,
—there was not one, who did not, ere the war had ended,
manifest a grandeur of thought, a sublimity and energy
of expression, and a steadiness in action, infinitely
transcending all that I could have conceived of him,
before the war.

Look at the men of our revolution; where do you
find such faces now? Why are not their children's written
over, and sculptured as deeply? Why! because
the impress of relationship—the hand of nature, never
yet operated upon the countenance of man, and never
will, with aught of that terrible distinctness, with
which political convulsion chissels out the head and the
face of her chosen ones. Look at the men of our revolution—their

very countenances are the history of the
time.

You may believe me, my dear boys, that this abrupt
disclosure of Arthur had an amazing effect upon me.
—It set me meditating upon my own imprudence—upon
Clara—and ere we arrived at the tent of Archibald,
for we took a wide circuit in reaching Morristown—
I had made up my mind, to be a better man, and a
truer one, to heaven and to her.

`Brother,' said Archibald, who was sitting up
when we entered, `I have been impatient for your return.
We must not leave our lone mother in a strange
house.'

`Why not,' said I, `Lucia ministers to her like a
daughter; and where shall she go?'

Arthur could contain his feelings no longer; he
threw himself into a chair, and sobbed aloud—continually
repeating the name of Mary, Mary.'

`Poor fellow,' said Archibald, turning towards him,
and leaning upon his shoulder; `what has happened to
him?'

I was fain to tell the whole; for some minutes, Archibald
stood upright, looking at me, with a stern, pallid
countenance, as if doubting whether I was not in sport;
his eyes then began to move—tears ran round the balls,
and he put his hand upon my temples, and shook his
head, as if, perhaps, he thought that I was disordered;
but be that as it may, he soon knew the whole truth,
and of the whole three, he was the happiest! Never did
I see his heart so full; his religious, devout rapture, so
eminently expressive, as now, in his mute blue eyes;
shaking hands, and convulsed lips.

`Let us separate,' said he, `I cannot talk now—
leave me awhile.'

We arose at his bidding, and went out, traversing
the camp, and maturing our thought for the future; but
almost in silence, for the stillness was only broken, now
and then, by some contraction of the hand, and a deep
breathing for a moment, as we turned, alternately, in
our march, and caught each other's arm—unable to
speak, yet too happy, far too happy for silence.

And here my children, you will allow me to pause
awhile, remarking, that no matter of importance took
place for several weeks in our little camp, till Archibald
was restored, and Clinton, rejoined us—for
the purpose of carrying your thought abroad, to the
more distant operations of our country, in the field
and council.

Congress was now sitting in Baltimore; and one of
their first movements was to declare George Washington,
supreme and independent, as the commander of
our armies, and manager of the war—nay, to declare
him little else than a military dictator.

They were wrong. They deserved to be tumbled
from their seats for it. At first, they were so niggardly
and dastardly in their grants—so bountiful in their
limitations, and restrictions, and qualifications, and
conditions, that he was little else, than a nominal commander,
incapable of exercising any discretion, but at
the peril of a court martial. And now they put into
his hands—the sword—and the purse—and the law—
at one, and the same moment. They betrayed their
trust. They behaved unwisely—and though it gave to
George Washington's virtue, the last trial—the trial
of fire—yet the men that put him to the proof, deserved
to be trampled to the earth—bound hand and foot,
and driven over by the iron chariot of despotism. It
was no virtue of theirs—no want of power, or opportunity
in Washington—nothing but his own sublime and
heroick disdain of crowns and sceptres, and all the
paltry baubles, that other men—and the greatest too—
have coveted—nothing but that—which prevented him,
from being a king in the land—backed by the whole
power of Great Britain. He was left to appoint, and
displace his officers at pleasure, establish their pay—
call for any number of men, that he pleased, from the
several States, and compel the publick to receive the
continental paper at par—as if any human power
could do that!

The enemy began to threaten Lee, too, with the
punishment of a deserter; and Congress immediately

authorised Washington to retaliate, blow for blow, in
dignity for indignity, upon Colonel Campbell, and five
Hessian field officers. This led to an alarming agitation
in the publick mind; and then there had been a
serious disagreement brewing at the North, which finally
led to a reproof, of General Schuyler, one of the
most indefatigable men, that ever lived—and one of
the truest hearts, that ever beat for America, by Congress—and
the appointment of General Gates, to the
command of the Northern army—Gramy Gates, as
he was called—a talkative, pleasant old gentleman—
who is remembered now, rather for his good fortune,
than his generalship.

General Arnold, the traitor, had also begun, about
this time, to make a noise in our camp—several desperate
affairs on land and sea, had made him a subject of
universal attention—and, had he been a better principled
man—a religious one—not a pretender—he would
have ranked with the foremost of our heroes. His
courage, however, sometimes degenerated into rashness—and
his singular good conduct, to downwright
madness.

But still, our little army encreased so slowly, that
the month of June, was about to open upon us, without
our having the power to strike a blow. And often
since, in reflecting on this season, I have thought it
past all explanation, that Sir William Howe should
have been ignorant of our weakness; and I have wondered
why he did not make a dash into our very encampment,
months before he manifested any disposition
of the kind. But so it was—we slept upon our
oars, from necessity—he upon his, from choice; and
while we drifted down the current, about the same distance
and relationship were preserved, for months and
months, when a few stout pulls on his part, would have
brought him along side. During this state of indolent
suspense, two or three slight affairs took place in our
parties, just sufficient to keep us awake, and talking,
within our entrenchments, but nothing of any note except

at Sag-Harbour—a smart decided thing. So—
let us return to our story—.

I shall take it up, at the time that I first saw Clinton,
face to face, which was about six weeks after his return to
camp—and nearly three months from the time of his
would—perhaps nearly four. He was an altered man;
and the intercourse that had once subsisted between
him and Archibald, who had now become one of the
heartiest and strongest, as well as most active young
fellows in the army—seemed to be entirely forgotten.
There was no sign of recognition between them, not a
word nor a look—but, in the deep blue eyes of Archibald,
and the dark flashing balls of Clinton, there was
a mute expression of mortal antipathy, or at least, so
I thought, whenever they passed each other. Clinton,
I observed, was perpetually practising with the small
sword; and Archibald, it was thought, had no equal
now in the army. Every leisure moment was spent in
the exercise—and I was constantly on the watch—together
with Rodman, to prevent the deadly contention
that seemed about to place. But I never spoke of it to
Archibald; or rather, he would never permit me to approach
the subject, though I tried, repeatedly, to sound
him. Nor could Arthur, whose intrepid, heroick calmness,
led him directly to the point, when he bore down
like a tempest upon the doctrine of false honour—nor
could he provoke my brother to utter one word in their
defence.

Clinton too, though an altered man—was fuller of
levity than ever; but it was a bitter and sarcastick
levity, and such as, I should think, would escape from
the heart of a high blooded profligate, mortified and
cut to the soul, by some unknown, unforeseen disappointment:—but
his voice was louder than ever—his
carriage, more imperious than ever—his jovial, frelicksome
manner, more delightful than ever—to them with
whom he associated—and the leisure of the camp,
his high stature, his acknowledged personal pre-eminence,
and his perpetual absence, round the neighbourhood,
were alarming indications of his nature—intrigue

after intrigue, came to our ears—and one or two
serious encounters—and often, have I seen him
at a distance, reining his beautiful horse, like a centaur—as
if the animal were a part of himself—all eyes
upon him, every mouth repeating his name, as he rode,
proudly and confidently, through his evolutions—when
there would be a sudden change in his career—his arm
would drop, he would heave his body back in the saddle,
and sit for a moment, as if his thoughts were not upon the
display, in which he was employed; and then, erecting
himself suddenly again, as if ashamed of his absence,
and impatient for action—he would strike his
rowels, inch deep, into his horse, and shoot, like an arrow,
along the whole line of tents: and often too, when
I have heard the laugh and song in some officer's marquee,
with the voice of Clinton ringing like a trumpet
in the middle, it has suddenly died away; and if I
could, by any means—and Arthur had observed the
same thing—obtain a glimpse of his person in full—I
was sure to find him dark and mournful—his attitude,
like that of a man sick at heart, and absent in mind—
scorning the noisy revel, in which he had been goaded
by his proud, reluctant, tyrannical spirit, to participate;
and scorning himself that he had participated—indeed,
whenever I saw him, his face was thoughtful—
not solemn—not stern—but thoughtful—until
he saw himself observed, when his spirit would
brighten outright, and the boisterous merriment of a
soldier—rioting in his unquestioned dominion—would
ring, with a startling loudness, upon the ear.

But these things could not last long. The French gentleman,
of whom I have before spoken, Monsieur du
Coudray had become exceedingly fond of my brother,
and swore impetuously, wherever he went, that there
was'nt his match in America, at the small sword. Clinton
heard of it, and one evening, as we all sat together,
playing cards, Archibald, in a remarkable good humour;
and Arthur, altogether the man that he had been
for months before, his heart running over at the lips,

every word—a gentleman entered, and presented a note
to my brother.

He took it—read it—layed down a cigar that was in
his mouth—faced the cards before him—without looking
at the bearer—and wrote, with a pencil, upon the
face `accepted.'

The stranger retired—and Archibald played out his
hand.

Du Coudray, a creature brimful of chivalry, threw
himself back in the seat; and, pretending to arrange the
cards, sat for several minutes, studying the countenance
of Archibald—and at last—tapping, first my
brother's heart and then his own, said—`Monsieur—ah,
ha! Monsieur!—Je suis à vous!—ne m'oubliez pas!'

`No,' said my brother—as if he understood him,—
`no—there is my hand on it. He says fencing, not
fighting, sir.'

The frenchman smiled—lifted his eyes—made a motion
with his hand, as if to lunge to the very hilt—
shrugged—and returned to his cards.

`Brother,' said I—`it is time to be serious; what is
the meaning of this? I cannot remain silent—I cannot
pretend to misunderstand you.'

`Well then,' he replied, smiling—`Clinton is disposed
to fence a little with me—have you any objection?'

`With foils?—brother—or blades?'

`Foils, I suppose,' was the reply, `for he speaks of
doing it to-morrow, before some of his companions—
and he could hardly think of that, if there were any
thing very serious in his thought.'

`I am not so sure of that,' said Arthur, `and, happen
what will, I shall go with you.'

`And I, brother.'

`For,' continued Arthur—`I don't like all this preparation—there
is some trick in it. We know the
rules of the camp—and while Washington commands,
we cannot fight.'

`Very well, then—come brother, 'tis your deal—
you shall go with us—Ha! Rodman—don't look at
your cards—face the trump, man—what the deu

ails you?—well, Coudray—(sorting his cards)—I
hope you have something—you lead, you know—
come.'

One trick was taken—in silence;—when the next
came, Archibald jumped up from his chair, crying—
`why! what a blunderhead! the game was ours—ah,
poor Coudray, you will never learn the vile game—
how many times, I have told you not to lead from a
king and knave—or ace, queen—there! just what I expected.'

I looked up, and was satisfied. Could a man feign
so well? no, it was impossible, the passionate eagerness,
that he felt in the game was natural—my heart was
easy from that moment. I felt that he could not have
any deadly intention in his.

Du Coudray too, threw down his cards, with a smile,
and began a conversation about the movements of Congress,
who had adjourned to Philadelphia. It appeared
that he had joined our cause, as a volunteer; and
that his influence had been so great in France, as to induce
several fine spirited young fellows, of high rank,
to stake their fortune with him. He had been made
inspector-general of ordnance in our staff, with the
rank of major general; but some jealousies having
arisen, the noble fellow, had just written a letter to
Congress, offering to accept the rank of captain for
himself; and that of ensigns and lieutenants, for the
few of his friends, who had thrown up their rank at
home, to accompany him in this perilous adventure.

The intelligent countenance, and dark eyes of the
young Frenchman were full of the deepest expression,
while he was engaged on this subject; but it vanished,
instantly, when he arose—as if giving place to some
thought yet deeper—and he shook my brother's hand
more seriously, I thought, than the occasion seemed to
demand.

I took Archibald's arm, soon after, and led him out in
front of the tent, where we could talk together, awhile,
without the risk of interruption.

`How has Clinton succeeded?' said I—`you never-speak
of the family of late; yet something must have

happened—I am sure of it—for you have heard from
them, and yet have never told me what. Nay, if I
pain you—I will forbear—I do not ask you how Clara
is—or Lucia, or—.'

`Lucia and Clara are both well,' said he, firmly,

`Why do you never speak of her, then?'

`Of Lucia you mean?' said he.

`Yes—I am sure that she loves you.'

`So am I,' said he.

`And that she has cut Clinton adrift, on account of
her love for you.'

`I have no doubt of it,' he answered, in the same
tone—.

`And what do you mean to do Archibald?'

`Nothing,' he replied.

`But surely,' I continued, willing to probe his
heart, no matter how deeply, so that I could touch the
place, where all his hatred of Clinton lay, `surely, you
cannot have forgotten her?'

`Forgotten her? brother—' said he, facing upon
me—putting both of his hands upon my shoulders, and
looking me steadily in the eyes—`You have some design
in that question; you never could ask it else; it
never came from your heart; what is it?'

`I would know, dear Archibald,' said I—`if you have
forgiven Clinton.'

`Then why not say so, John—why not say so at once?
I should not wince; or prevaricate. No—I have not
forgiven him. I cannot forgive him. He broke in
upon the only heritage that I had—and spoiled it, with
fire and sword. He took the only dear one—the only
unspeakably dear one, of all this world, from me—the
heart of—of—Lucia. She loved me—and he knew it.
Yet he took advantage of her proud temper, a peevish
moment, such as they, that love truest, will have, now
and then. And—poor Lucia! she believed that he
had supplanted me. I knew better—I knew her well.
I expected to see the earth give way under their feet; yet,
in my hushed agony, I prayed so long, and so devoutly,
that it might not be—for her sake—that at last

I had persuaded myself that it would not be; and that
she, whom I most loved, of all created things—she,
whom he had taken out of my heart, almost without
desiring it—certainly, without knowing aught of her
value, and, assuredly, judging of her as a wanton—that
she might yet he happy in his arms. I ought not to
have prayed it. I ought not to have believed it. I
ought to have known better. I ought to have known
that the woman who has once loved Archibald Oadley,
can never love another man. John, John—I cannot forgive
him. Yet, for her sake, I would not lift my hand
against him. Nay, not so fast. I deserve no thanks.
I shall not provoke him; not throw myself in his way;
but mark me, I do not promise, that, if he put himself,
wilfully, in mine—I shall not, as I once threatened, to
do my best, to bring his proud forehead to the dust.
You tremble. I know your sentiments on duelling—
and those of Arthur—and you know mine. You are
disturbed. I do not wonder. You are the only living
creature that knows my real thought. No—I cannot
forgive him. For myself—for all that I have suffered,
though it is bitter, to be supplanted in a few hours—no
matter by what hellish stratagem—no matter by what
accident—after a few hours, by a stranger—Yet
I could forgive that—as I am a living man, I could, I
call God to witness it, brother—I could—but I cannot,
I will not forgive his profligacy—his—I cannot
proceed—I have spilt my blood for that family, and
I am willing to spill it again—Dishonour—.'

`Your eyes are frightfully brilliant, brother—what
have you to complain of? The dishonour is his—not
her's. She has stood up, when he lay prostrate at her
feet, and refused him—him! that never sued to woman
before in vain.'

`I know it! and I bless her for it,' cried Archibald,
wringing my hand—`I know it! I know it! I love her
for it, more than ever! Nay, she did more—she tended
him through his illness—wept over him, prayed with
him, watched with him, gave him every opportunity that
a lover could wish—and yet—O, righteous heaven!

what a magnificent heart, had that man once within his
reach, had he only known its value!—yet, she refused
him again and again. Nay, when he was in health—
backed by all his beauty, and pride, and sorrow, and
penitence—the solicitation of all her friends, the sincerest
love, tears from a man that never shed tears before,
at the foot of woman—the remembrance of past tenderness,
and the belief that she should never see him
more—nor me—yet, she stood upright, before all her
family, and calmly put aside the naked heart, that he
offered too—upon his knees. God bless her for it!'

`Bitterly, bitterly hath she repented of her rashness.'
said I, `Yet—yet—there is something more than humiliation
required, to bring back the proud heart of
Archibald, I fear. He has no compassion for frailty—
no forgiveness for a sin like hers—no mercy—O my
brother!' —I fell upon his neck, awestruck, at the
solemnity of his eyes; they were severe and terrible—
unrelenting as death.

`Do you utterly abandon her?' said I.

`You have no right to ask that question,' he replied,
`no man living, not even her own father, has the right
to — yet, I will answer it; I do not mean to abandon
her—what more? Ask me no questions. I shall
answer no more. Henceforth, I go alone, to accomplish
the thought of my heart. She has suffered—she
must suffer more; how much, I cannot pretend to say
—but enough to make her a reasonable creature.'

`Yet, Clinton has no hope,' said I.

`None—I could have told him so, before he asked
her—none!'

`And you love her?'

`Yes—as never man loved woman.'

`And she loves you, with all her heart and soul—
without hope?'

`Yes—so I believe.'

`Brother—brother!'

The sentinel here levelled at us, and would have fired,
but for my timely recollection. He had challenged
already, it seems, but we had not heard him.