University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

`Captain Oadley,' said Washington, to my brother,
as we entered his quarters, about an hour after our arrest;
there was something exceedingly solemn in his
tone; `how happens it, sir, that I see you with your
side arms?'

Archibald stood proudly, yet reverentially, before
him, pale as death—his brown hair saturated with
sweat, and frozen upon his white forehead; his large,
deep blue eyes fainting not, nor fading, in the awful
presence. He replied.

`I refused to give up my sword to any body but the
commander-in-chief.'

Washington raised his head; a slight movement of
his nether lip, seemed to betray an inward agitation, as
slight; but he merely stretched out his hand in silence;
and Archibald obeyed it, by unbelting his sword, with
a resolute hand, and laying it, respectfully, upon the
table.

Washington then turned, and made a motion to a fine
spirited looking officer (Colonel Reid,) which he obeyed,
by leaving the room.

A deep silence, of some minutes, followed; during
which, the commander's steady look was never taken
from the sword, except to glance, for a moment, at my
brother, who stood, rather haughtily, I thought, after he
had given it up; and then at me.

`You are brothers, I believe?' continued Washington.

`Yes, Sir,' said Archibald.

`You knew that duelling was prohibited in the
army?'

`Yes, Sir.'

There was another silence of some moments, in
which I could see the lip of Washington writhe again,
and his broad forehead darken with thought; yet it was
but just visible, like the emotion of one, that, great as
he is, cannot, when his bones and blood are jarred, cannot
forbear showing it, in the calm of his eye, or the
hue of his lip.

`Am I to believe that the death was accidental?'

`No, Sir—I slew him, deliberately,' said Archibald.

`What!' answered the general, raising his arm in
wrath, and then letting it fall upon the table, before
him, as if his great nature had rebuked him; and
then he continued in a deep, tranquilized tone, to
speak, as follows:

`I have been assured, that the affair was an accident
—that several gentlemen, had assembled for fencing—
that, by some accident, Col. Clinton was slain. Yet,
it was intimated to me, that there had been a growing
hostility between you for some time. It was for that
reason, that I have ordered your arrest. It is no light
matter, young man, to have put in jeopardy, the lives
of eight men—eight officers. But my duty is a plain
one. The law shall be enforced. Is it not enough,
that we have the enemy upon us, from without; but we
must be murdering each other in cold blood!

He was evidently very much disturbed; either, at
the thought of putting seven young men on trial for
their lives, before a court-martial; or at the death of
Clinton, who had long been a member of his family.

`I did hope,' continued Washington, with a temperate
fervency of manner, that brought tears into Archibald's
eyes; `that this would prove, what it has been
represented to me—a hasty, accidental affair; and
that a young man of such promise, would not have been

the first, to set that discipline at naught, which he has
been so long conspicuous in the support of.'

`May I be permitted,' said Archibald, faltering a
little in his voice, less, it was evident, from any terrour
of punishment, than the fear of having offended his
commander, `to —'

Washington signified to him to proceed—and he continued,
standing before him, with his arms folded, and
his slight frame shaking with emotion, till he had told
the tale as it was; and till the face of Washington altered—
first to compassion, then to sorrow, then to admiration.
I do not mean to say, that he told the cause of
the quarrel; but the whole of the quarrel, which ended
so fatally, he did tell, modestly, but manfully, till
Washington himself changed colour—and then, turning
slowly to us both, said:

`I shall enquire into this. In the mean time, you
will remain under arrest—but not in confinement.'

We bowed, for the motion of his hand was not to be
misunderstood, or resisted; and withdrew—just as Colonel
Reid was returning. He stopped, as we passed
him—wiped a tear from his eyes, and gave his hand to
Archibald; `poor Clinton,' said he.

`Poor Clinton,' said Archibald, from his heart; and
we passed on.

The whole encampment was in an uproar; soldiers
and officers were crowding about us, at every step,
—some with menacing—others with compassionate
looks, for Clinton was an universal favourite with the
southern men, and universally execrated by the northern
ones; nay, so far had things gone at times, that a
mischievous spirit might have made a drawn battle of
it, more than once, by a little meddling.

`Dear brother,' said I, seeing him stop, and put his
hands to his head, as if in extreme pain, after we had
passed the crowd, `you look wretchedly—are you
wounded?'

`I feel so,' said he—`put your hand here'—I gave it
to him, and he laid it on his temples—they beat furiously—but,
as he moved his neck under the pressure, I observed

that his bosom was full of blood. I was terrified
at the quantity—it was coagulated, and I could
have taken it out by handfulls. I hurried him to the
tent, and found that, at every movement of his head, it
gushed out again, like a little spout; but the surgeon
who examined it, put me out of all apprehension immediately,
as to the wound. `That is nothing,' he said,
with emphasis; `but — God bless me, what a fever
he is in!'

He was in a fever—and, for two weeks, I never
left his bed side; but at last, I had the happiness to see
him on the saddle again—paler, a little, than usual—
weaker, but not sadder, for that were impossible.

`There is your sword,' said an officer, entering one
day after dinner, and handing a sabre to Archibald;
`the commander bids you use it, hereafter, not against
your friends, nor his friends, but the enemies of your
country.'

Archibald bowed, and, the moment that the officer
had left the room, threw the weapon from him, saying:

`Brother! I have half a mind never to buckle it on
again.'

`Why?' said I, in surprise.

`I am weary of the trade of blood—it wears me to
death.'

`Archibald!' said I, `hear me; we have gone too
far now, to retreat—we have sinned, and have been dishonoured.
Let us first atone for our transgressions—
recover our name—and then! there is my hand—go
where you will, when you will, I will follow you.'

`How atone for them?' said he, `how recover our
name? By spilling more blood! fighting more battles!
killing more human creatures! Brother, I am not
very sure—not so sure, as I have been, that this war is
a righteous one.'

`For shame Archibald,' I cried, `for shame! would
you have your children slaves!'

`God can make them free,' he replied—`and they
were better and happier, as slaves—than if their freedom—that
princeless heritage, were bought with
blood.'

`But God will not, cannot be hoped to work miracles
for us—we must labour?'

`God hath said—thou shalt not kill; we dare
to say thou shalt kill? God hath bowed the heavens,
and come down to us, and taught us that we are one
great brotherhood—yet man, presumptuous man—
hath dared to set his majesty at nought, trample on
his law, and make the nations of the earth murderers.
No! I must think of this. What I do, shall be done,
not rashly, not unadvisedly—but temperately. There's
much blood upon my hands—too much, it may be, for
me ever to sleep quietly again—but all of it, all!
that I have hitherto shed—nay, not even my own—is
so loathsome and sickening, so terrible and blinding,
as that of poor Clinton; yet—yet!—as I am a living
man—brother, were it to do over again, I would do
precisely what I have done, though I went to hell for
it—.'

I shuddered from head to foot—`brother,' said I—
`what devil possesses you! You have been, at intervals,
since that affair, frightfully blasphemous—yet you
used to be somewhat solemn of thought, at times, and
humble—and would pray, now and then; but since
Clinton's death—.'

`I cannot pray—I cannot,' he said, turning abruptly
away from me, `I dare not.'

`But, whatever be your resolution,' said I, `you will
not think of abandoning the army, while it is in danger.'

`What danger?'

`Sir William Howe has taken the field—left New
York; put all his troops in motion, and we are hourly
expecting an attack. Lord Sterling has just been sent
out. La Fayette—and, if the enemy does not attack
us, we shall have the finest opportunity in the world,
for distinguishing ourselves; for, his line of march,
encumbered as it is with baggage for an army of eighty
or a hundred thousand men, we are told, reaches
nearly twelve miles along the road.'

His eye flashed fire. `The sooner the better,' he
cried, `I only want to hear the stirrups ringing again,
the trumpets blowing, and I shall be happy, happy!
alas poor Clinton!—to die may be very terrible—
to die so suddenly, is so—but to survive—Oh! that is
to suffer. Every thing that I touch feels of blood.—
Every thing that I see, or smell—looks and smells of
blood, detestable hot blood—foaming and smoking
from the ground—Ha! was that lightning!'

`No,' said I, `hark!—it is one of the cannon at
the north—ah! that's the report.'

`By heaven,' he exclaimed, putting his hand before
his eyes, `I have become the veriest coward that
breathes. Strange delusions are upon me. I thought
just then, that I was upon the Delaware again—that I
saw a horse, drowning, in the black water—the body
of Clinton, entangled in the trapping. I was just on
the point of leaping in, when the thunder broke about
my heart; and the blue lightning flashed like a serpent
of fire, hissing, through the water—are you sure
that it was a cannon?'

`Certainly,' I replied—`I'll lead to you the very gun
in five minutes.'

`And this! (striking the snow with his foot,) this is
the solid earth? You would persuade me of that, I
suppose; why, John, I can feel it heave under my
tread like the ocean—no! like graves about to give
up their dead—and, when I strike my foot upon it
thus,—hark! do you not hear a moaning? a jarring
too, as if you leaned against a great organ, while it was
in full play?'

`You distress me, exceedingly, dear Archibald,' said
I, `rouse yourself. These humours will be the death
of you, yet.'

`The sooner the better, brother.'

`That is impious,' I replied. `You are young—
full of high thought, and—.'

`Weltering in human blood—go on—.'

`And fitted,' said I, `for much blessing to mankind.'

`Rouse yourself—tear away the grave clothes that
are about you, and come forth!'

`Come forth! come forth! speak to Clinton, brother.
Bid him come forth; bid him come forth from the
holes of the rock, the charnel house; and I, by heaven!
I will take his place joyfully—you weep! Brother
it is unmanly to weep. Unmanly of you—yet I, I,
would give the world to weep, but I cannot; there
is nothing but molten lead, at my heart, no tears, none;
they are all dried up; the fountain is full of dust and
reptiles.'

`A fierce and wayward spirit, brother,' said I, deeply
affected by his manner.

`A wayward spirit, brother—not a fierce one;—a
melancholy spirit, weary of slaughter, bowed down—
not by calamity, not by peril, not by sickness, but by
doubt and sorrow. That sky—look up, brother—so
blue and beautiful, sweeping darkly above us, with a
swiftness of motion—so uninterrupted and eternal—
that we mistake it for an immoveable vault—so swift!
that we mistake motion for solidity! Brother I never
look up to that sky, when the stars are in it, but, there
comes, rushing over me, a flood of brightness and disorder—I
hear the neighing of horses, the clashing of
armed men; the breaking of water about me, and under
me—and all the earth in commotion—wind
and fire—while that serene and beautiful dome above,
thickly beleagued with God's bright Cherubim, rolls
forever above us, undisturbed, unmoved, in its sweet
and awful repose.

`At this moment brother, dark as it is—I can see a
troop of horsemen, racing like a disorderly rabble,
over the white snow; and wheeling and galloping in the
moonlight—I can see their faces, count them, one by
one; distinguish all their horses; see the dark eyes of
Arthur, streaming with fire—hear my own voice in
the wind—all this, with my ears stopped, and my
eyes shut, as plainly as I saw it, and heard it all, the
night before that inroad of murderers, upon our house;
the night before!—no, the very night—brother!—

O brother—could we but have met them!—and
now—ah! a storm.'

`No, dear Archibald—no, it is is only the noise of
distant cannon—surely you can see as well as I!'

`No, I fear not—I am blind and dizzy, shattered, I
fear—let me lean upon your arm—dark shadows are
about me, unpleasant faces— they jar my blood,—
and—Ha! there! that splash of the water! O, it was
precisely the same that sounded on my ears, when the
mare leaped out of the boat.'

`It was not water, brother—it was the broad striped
flag there, flapping in the wind.'

`We were just under it—it was the red and blue flag,
striped and stained—and that was the first day of its
floating.'

`Where,' said he—`it is very dark—there was a
beautiful starlight, when I came out.'

I stopped. There was something in his manner,
more than in his words, that frightened me; for lie
leaned upon me, with his whole weight, like a sick man.

`I see no stars,' said he—`let us go back, I know
not where I am. The ground is unsteady, and I expect
it to fall in, at every step. And while I hear a
continual hum of voices, rattling of armour—a flapping,
like many eagles above me—yet I can hardly persuade
myself that we are not upon the Delaware again: it is
a strange phantasy; but I can hear the quick sound of
the rifles along the bank—and almost distinguish the
horses that dash, hither and thither, as they did, on the
night of our first embarkation—and there too is the
same cold, troubled moonlight, away at the north
east, gushing over the barrier of black clouds, like a
white torrent, bursting in the wind—and now!—by
heaven! brother, you are weaker than I—how you
tremble?—does it snow?—I can feel it driving in my
face—or rain?—or—what! are you weeping—Stop!
speak to me—am I awake! or not?—Are we going on;
—speak!—are we upon the water?—or the land?—
going, or coming from Trenton—?'

I was utterly overcome—unable to articulate a word.
And it was only when I had led him back to our quarters,
and sent for our good physician, that I was able to
step without reeling. The doctor looked alarmed—but
attributed the sudden blindness of Archibald, to a quick
rush of blood into the brain, after sitting in a recumbent
posture for a long time; yet, with all our care,
it was some days before we were able to repeat the experiment
of leading him into the open air.

But when we did—he took a new and firmer aspect.
And when Arthur returned, (for he had been absent
several days, on a visit to Mary) he was able to
mount his horse, and accompany us in our little scouting
parties.

At last, however, the signal was given. Our tents
were struck. Our log huts demolished—and our whole
army put in motion. At the first sign of preparation,
the noble fellow started up, as from a trance,—leaped
into the saddle, and dashed away to the head of his
men, with all that high, heroick expression of earnestness,
which used to characterise him.

`Now John,' said he, plucking out his sword—
`now! for something better than complaint!'

Yet, though we were constantly under arms, marching
and countermarching, it was not until the nineteenth
of June, that we were able to make any calculation
from the capricious movement of Sir William Howe.
At first, we thought that he would cross the Delaware,
and pour into our entrenchment, man and horse, without
giving us time to breathe; but, we soon found that
he had left all his boats, and bridges, and heavy baggage
at Brunswick, and come, after a rapid march, unparalleled
indeed for him—all at once, to a—full stop.
Washington, himself, we could perceive, was confoundedly
puzzled; but, neither alarmed nor intimidated by
these contradictory operations of his antagonist; and
finally, when that antagonist had, after having thrown
up a chain of redoubts, extending from Somerset to
Brunswick---suddenly abandoned them, as soon as they

were completed---retreating to Brunswick---and thence
to Amboy, without striking a blow---except at the
churches, court houses, and other buildings upon the
road---which he left, reddening and smoking with
devastation, our perplexity was increased to a distressing
degree. We were willing to fight, anxious to
fight---but few men could have borne, as we did, the
uninterrupted tension of their faculties, for such a length
of time, as we did---bodily and mental, during the
period of indecision. All felt it, but no man more than
Archibald;---his sinews were strung to snapping, again
and again during the day. Again and again, would
the drum roll `at dead of night'---and we would hear
the trumpet ringing over our faces, as we lay, each
man by his own horse---while the trooper that blew it,
galloped along the darkly mustering battalions—
we would leap into our saddles---form, and await the
signal of battle, in the expectation that the enemy were
upon us---a few vollies would roll over the clouded sky
---a distant drum or two, rattle for a moment--a solitary
cannon peal like an earthequake, along the trembling
ground—and we would be ordered to our repose
again.

To Archibald, more than to any of us, this trial was
terrible!—naturally impatient, he was—(chiefly, I believe,
that the uproar might drown certain recollections
of Clinton)—unspeakably so, about this time. And, at
last, when General Greene had been advanced, to fall
upon the enemy's rear,—and Wayne and Morgan, upon
their flanks; with Washington, and the whole main
body to support them—Archibald could be restrained
no longer;—and, just at day light, when Morgan's infantry
attacked the Hessian pickets, and drove them
in, he rode suddenly down upon them, at the head of
his troop, without waiting for orders—heedless, it
would seem, of every thing but employment; for, such
was the disorderly nature of his attack, that, but for
Morgan, who, for a moment, mistook him for an enemy,
and suddenly called in his men, to receive him, he would
probably have been sacrificed for his impetuosity.

I heard Morgan speak of it, afterward. `Damn the
young mad-cap,' said he, in his broad, fearless way—
`I had brought my men off, and was just ready to give
him a volley, that would have left half his troop upon
the field—when he came round upon the enemy in such
a style, that it took my breath away—broke in upon
them—cutting and slashing, like so many devils—and
would have been shut up, but for a company of my
boys that poured in a round or two upon some infantry,
who were rallying to support the picket.'

Morgan, literally, rained fire upon the enemy that
day;—and so hot and fierce was the tempest, that they
crossed the bridge (at Brunswick) and threw themselves
into redoubts on the eastern side of the river; and then,
without waiting our approach, abandoned them, and
hurried, with unspeakable precipitation, along the
Amboy road.

What possessed Sir William Howe to cut so many
flourishes, before a handful of men, and afterward to retreat
so precipitately, without coming to action—has
always been a question with military men. The uncharitable
have attributed it to every thing but a want
of courage; but I—I am not uncharitable to a brave
man—nor unkind to the memory of an honorable one.
My notion is that he overrated our strength—and
what wonder? our own countryman did so, at least
five hundred per cent!—that he had been electrified by
some recent operations of Washington, when, he was
literally alone, standing up, amid the war of darkness
and ice that thundered upon America—deserted, doubted,
and alone. This had taught Sir William a wonderful
degree of wisdom and circumspection.

Our army now moved to Quibbletown; and Howe
passed over a part of his troops, and his heavy baggage
to Staten Island, evidently with the hope of perplexing
us still more. But Washington was too many for
him; he drew in his light parties, and kept possession
of the high grounds, determining not to avoid a battle,
if it were offered—on such terms as would do—nor to

invite one, unless at some manifest advantage of position,
that should counterbalance the difference in number.

Yet, nothing effectual could be done. Lord Sterling,
it was true, had a scuffle with the enemy, for two or
three hours, in which he manifested infinitely more
courage than generalship—more rashness, I should say.
His lordship was a brave man—but—(and a bitterer
thing could not be said of a soldier, though we have
chosen to take it as a compliment, in the late war)—he
did not know when he was beaten—nay, nor when he
was in mortal peril:—Some changes in the northern
army had taken place about this time; the long
pending dispute, between General Gates and Schuyler,
was brought to a precipitate and foolish termination
by the block-heads in Congress, who turned, first one,
and then the other out of command, neck and heels,
without trial or examination. And Howe finally passed
over to Staten Island, leaving us in possession of
the Jerseys again—with nothing to do, but to listen to
frightful stories of Burgoyne, who, it was believed, had
already begun to pour in his legions upon us, like an
inundation, from the north. I remember my own feelings;
and love to recall the bright eye and clouded
aspect of Archibald at this time, who was, really—I
believe it in my soul—the only man within our entrenchments,
whose heart did not stop sometimes,—when the
tale of Burgoyne and his army of veterans, his world
of artillery—his own reputation—and the hordes of
Indian marksmen that followed his camp—came to
our ears.

But we were becalmed. We had no power to get up,
and stir our limbs. The enemy stood aloof from us;
and we had the mortification to lie, like chained giants,
ironed ancle and wrist, upon our beds; and hear clap,
after clap, from the North and East—the capture of
Prescott—the retreat of St. Clair—the affair of
General Herkimer, and Staten Island—the valiant
conduct of Arnold—and, finally, one report, that
shook us to the dust, and jarred the whole country,
the battle of Bennington, where farmer Stark, served

the enemy, hour after hour, with bayonet and ball;
and brought them down, at last, a thousand men of war
prisoners and dead, to the sturdy yeomanry of the
north. I remembered the noise in our camp, when
the news came, as if it were but yesterday. There
was a great outcry and tumult.

Archibald leaped upon his feet, struck his hands together,
with a loud shout;—and then, the tears gushed
out of his eyes—and he shook from head to foot,
with shame and vexation. One only thing found we to
relieve us.[1]

Again we were put upon the march. For nearly a
month, by continual and contradictory evolutions of
Sir William's army, and the fleet of Lord Howe—we
were kept in a state of perpetual anxiety and doubt, not
knowing whether the enemy meant to strike at the
north or south; one was as probable as the other;
and we, unluckily, had no army of observation, but
our main body, which we dared not move, a day's
march from the centre, between what we believed to be
the points of attack, meditated by the enemy; lest, the
moment that we had turned to the right, he should
dash to the left; or, if we turned to the left, for the
choice was always in his power, as it generally is,
with the assailant, he should face suddenly about, and
play the devil with our right. Yet, for a whole month,

from the 23d of July, to the 22d of August, this state
of suspense and trial continued—altogether more
painful and discouraging, I am sure, not only to the
army, but to Washington himself, than any time of
the sam duration during the war.

But, at length, we were done with feints and manœuvres—and
were put, seriously, upon the march for Philadelphia;
for intelligence that could be depended upon,
had arrived. The enemy were in the Chesapeake.—
We were about eleven thousand strong, then; and, at
last, on the 10th of September, we took possession of
a commanding ground on the east side of the Brandywine—our
main body at Chadsford, with General
Maxwell, occupying a hill on the opposite side, on
which he entrenched himself, tolerably, the same night.

`Now,' said Pulaski—riding up to Archibald, and
saluting him with a motion of his keen weapon, that
looked very like a play of fire work, for a moment,
`now! my brave friend, we shall have an opportunity
to try your metal—horse and blade.'

`And temper?' said Archibald—whistling the sword,
in a circle of light (that one of the men swore was to
be seen there, after he rode off,) about his head.

La Fayette was riding slowly by, at the moment, and
smiling, with that expression of calm benignity which
made him the favourite of the whole army, reined up,
and exchanged a few words in French, (which I did not
well understand, then,) with Pulaski, whose eye flashed
fire, as he exclaimed, in downwright English.

`Aye! by the virgin, as brave a heart as ever beat!
He only wants age,' (glancing at Archibald.)

We were soon after abreast of each other.

`A battle, is at hand now,' said I, `brother what
are your feelings?'

`Calm, unutterably calm.'

`Do you ever think of home now? You have done
speaking of it.'

`You,' he smiled, `you have a round about way
asking a question. But I understand you; yes, I do
think of home, my only home, night and day.'

`I am glad of it,' said I, cheerfully. `We seemed by
a common consent to have abandoned all conversation,
and even all allusion to it.'

`You do not understand me,' he said, `I do not
speak of our mother—God be merciful to her! nor of
Mrs. Arnauld, Mr. Arnauld, Mary Austin, Clara,
your Clara; what! a blush, a thrill! well brother, if
we pass through this trial, a way must be found to
make her acquainted with this; I thought that you had
forgotten her.'

`No,' said I, resolutely, `no! if we ever meet
again, it must be by accident. I will have no interference.'

`Nor I,' he replied, `and henceforth, when you
mean to ask me, if I have forgotten Lucia Arnauld,
do not put your question in the shape of `Do you ever
think of home now?' Be frank with me, and I will
with you. Artifice defeats itself. I hurt you; but it
is well that I should. You will be the better for it.—
Deal plainly with me, like a soldier, like a man, John,
and I will conceal no thought of my heart from you.
Would you have me believe that you are a wily, love
sick fellow, toiling to win another into some talk of
her that you love, without the manhood to speak boldly
about her? For shame brother! You love her; and
you pay her a poor compliment, if you deal thus with
her. No, speak out, speak boldly, however she may
have treated you; and, whatever happen, she will be
proud of you, and that is better than her love.'