University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE INTERVIEW CONTINUED.

“Come in,” said Rosalie, in a firm tone;
and a servant appeared, who, approaching her
mistress, whispered a few words in her ear.

“Say I am engaged; but if he will call to
morrow, I shall be happy to see him,” was
Rosalie's answer, aloud, to the servant. The
latter retired, and our heroine added: “Come,
dear Edgar, finish your deseription of the
closing scene in the life of the unfortunate
Andre, and then I have some important questions
to ask you.”

“I fear I shall weary you, dearest—you are
not strong, remember.”

“O, no, you will not weary me, believe me.
It seems I could listen to you forever.”

Edgar rewarded the fair maiden with a look
more eloquent than words, and then resumed
his touching story.

“I think I mentioned, that after entering
the prisoner's apartment, to conduct him to
the gibbet, I unavoidably gave way to my
emotions, and also what he said to me on that
occasion. I replied, that though the fate of
war made it my duty to be one of his conductors
to the fatal tree, yet there was no one
who would deeper sympathize with him in his
misfortune than myself. He thanked me in
heartfelt terms, and said he had one regret in
being so soon called away, and that was, that
he would never be able to show his gratitude
to American officers, for their universal kindness
to, and sympathy with him, during his
sojourn among them.

“Andre possessed a self-sacrificing heroism
seldom met with in any country or age. One
remarkable trait in his character, was, that he
seemed never to think of himself when there
were others in the case, Even here, in his
last moments, when about to set out on his solemn
march to the place of execution, he apparently
gave no thought to death, only so far
as it would deprive him of the power of serving
his friends; and while all around him were
moved to tears, he alone was calm and composed.

“On that fatal morning, Andre had taken
great pains with his personal appearance
But an hour or two before our entrance, he
had washed, and shaved, and dressed himself
with great care in the rich full uniform belonging
to his distinguished rank, which his
servant had brought from New York, during
his confinement, for this especial purpose.
His features were pale, and his look was solemn—but
otherwise he might have been taken
for an officer going forth to attend a review.

“Giving the other officer and myself each
an arm, he quitted his prison with a firm step.
On coming without, and perceiving such a
concourse of military and citizens before him,
with every eye fixed upon himself, and every
look expressive of the deepest sympathy, a
sweet, sad smile was called upon his pale
countenance, and there remained during the
first part of his last solemn march. I have
said that the military, with the exception of
that detached as a guard to the prisoner, was
paraded in two, long, parallel lines, reaching
from the stone house to the hill on which Andre
was to suffer, and that outside of these

lines, on every commanding position, the citizens
were assembled in vast numbers, all anxious
to behold the doomed one. With the exception
of General Washington and staff, all
the general and field officers were present on
horseback, and had taken up their positions
along the lines on both sides, where, in silence,
and with looks of melancholy, they awaited
the approach of Andre. A solemn, mournful
death march was played, and the guard, with
the prisoner in the center, began to move forward.
Never shall I forget that slow, impressive
procession. Save the music, a death-like
stillness prevailed; for the very soldiers moved
forward, apparently, without making the least
sound. Pity, awe, and gloom pervaded all
classes. Every eye was bent upon poor Andre,
and tears flowed fast and freely on all
sides, even from men unaceustomed to the
melting mood. Andre alone seemed composed
and firm, and his arm, resting on mine,
did not tremble in the least. To use his own
language, he felt buoyed above the terror of
death. As his eyes glanced from right to
left, he here and there recognized a recently-made
acquaintance among the American officers,
to whom he bowed gracefully, and with
an air of noble serenity, which caused them
to turn aside their faces to conceal their emotion.
Oh! the annals of the world do not
produce a parallel, of a man being led to execution
so universally lamented by friends and
foes. When I say foes, I mean those of course
politically opposed to him—for I do not believe,
that in that awful moment, there was a
single soul who beheld Andre, that did not
wish his fate were otherwise. Even Washington,
it is said, shed tears when he signed
his death-warrant. Of all the noble beings
that have from time to time perished ignominiously,
there have always been some who rejoiced
in their doom—Andre alone forms an
exception.

“I have said, that during the first part of
our fatal march, a sweet, sad smile lingered on
the pale features of the prisoner; but when
we came in sight of the gallows, the smile suddenly
forsook his face, he involuntarily shrunk
back, and for the first time I felt his arm tremble.

“ `Why this emotion, sir?' I said to him.

“ `Captain Milford,' replied he, in a tone I
shall never forget, it was so touchingly mournful,
`I fear not death, but I detest the mode.'

“Death itself had no terrors for Andre—
but the idea of being hung appalled him.
His last request to Washington was, that he
might be shot; and until he beheld the awful
gibbet, looming up dark and terrible from the
brow of the eminence, he had entertained the
hope that he would be permitted to die a soldier's
death. Washington would have granted
his request, had it not conflicted with imperative
duty.

“At last we reached the fatal spot; the
music ceased, and an awful gloom and silence
prevailed. For some moments Andre had to
wait at the foot of the gibbet, while things
were put in complete readiness for the last
part he was destined to play in this drama of
life. During this momentary suspense, I observed
that he was uncemmonly agitated. He
placed his foot upon a loose stone, and rolled
it back and forth nervously, while there
seemed to be a choking sensation in his throat,
as if he were vainly attempting to swallow.

“Perceiving at length that all was ready,
he stepped quickly into the wagon, which had
been placed under the gallows. For a moment
he seemed to shrink, as he contemplated the
horrible engine of death, and a visible shudder
passed through his frame; but instantly
regaining his composure, he elevated his head,
with heroic firmness, and exclaimed:

“ `It will be but a momentary pang.'

“He then produced two white handkerchiefs,
and taking off his hat and stock, bandaged
his own eyes with one, and handed the
other to the provost marshal, who loosely pinioned
his arms with it. During this proceeding,
the spectators, military as well as civil,
literally rained tears. I did not observe a
dry eye in all the crowd.

“The executioner now fastened the rope to
the cross-beam of the gallows, and with a firm
hand Andre adjusted the noose to his neck,
without assistance. Now came the most awful
moment of suspense; and nothing could be
heard but here and there a long drawn sigh,
or a choking sob, from the deeply-affected

spectators. The bandage was around his eyes,
the rope around his neck, and all were waiting
to see the victim launched into eternity,
when,

“ `Major Andre,' said Colonel Scammell,
in a clear, distinct, but slightly tremulous tone,
`if you wish to speak, you now have an opportunity.'

The unfortunate prisoner, with a gesture of
graceful dignity, slowly raised the handkerchief
from his eyes, and glancing calmly
around, said, in a low, firm tone, placing one
hand upon his heart:

“ `I pray you bear me witness, that I meet
my fate like a brace man.'

“These were the last words poor Major
Andre ever uttered; and as he again drew
the handkerchief over his eyes, the signal was
given, the cart moved from under him, and he
remained suspended by the neck. His struggles
were brief and slight, death soon came to
his relief, and so he perished, in the noon tide
of life and glory: God rest his soul in peace!”

“Amen!” returned Rosalie, from whose
soft, dark eyes warm tears of sympathy were
gushing, at the remembrance of the noble
victim.

A pause of several moments ensued, during
which each seemed occupied in contemplation
of the melancholy subject; and then
wiping the tears from her eyes, Rosalie said,
hurriedly, and with a look of great anxiety:

“And now tell me of yourself, Edgar—how
is it I find you here? and have you not periled
your life by coming hither?”

“Fear not, dearest,” answered Milford, in
a low tone, but full of assurance. “I have
not ventured hither rashly. But we must
speak low, while I communicate the secret;
for should it get wind, my life would be the
forfeit.”

Oh! Heaven be merciful, and prevent so
horrible a catastrophe!' shuddered Rosalie.
“Oh! Edgar, since I have told you I love
you, I now freely confess, that were any evil
to befall you—were you in fact to lose that
life so dear to me—I do not think I should
survive the blow.”

“O, bless you, sweet, dearest Rosalie! this
is indeed love worth living or dying for!” ex
claimed the Captain; and impulsively he
caught the fair girl in his arms, and strained
her to his heart, while his lips were pressed
to hers, with that sacred, holy, feeling of intense
affection which has in it more of heaven
than earth. “Henceforth, dearest,” he continued,
“I will consider my life not my own,
but thine, and will jealously guard it as a trust
from thee.”

“Thanks! Edgar, thanks! for in that life
I live. You may think it strange, to hear me
speak thus, and may perhaps think I exaggerage
under the impulse of the moment; but
oh! believe it not! for I speak what I know,
from a calm, sober review of my inner self.
I am not as others, and the world calls me eccentric,
and many doubtless think my eccentricity
originates in a foolish desire to attract
attention—to be the observed of all observers
—but they are mistaken. I act as nature
prompts, with perhaps a too contemptible
opinion of the so-called world, but certainly
with no desire to be one of its favorites. My
nature, being different from others in one particular,
may, for aught I know, be so in all:
but one thing is certain, I can have no lukewarm
friendship nor love. Love, in fact, is
a term, which, in my vocabulary, is synonymous
with idolatry and adoration; and hence,
if the object of my love were destroyed, all
desire of life would go with it. Thus, you
see, dear Edgar, to what a strange, exacting
creature you have pledged your affection, and
in my heart I pray you may have no cause to
regret it.”

“O, no I never, never!” cried the other,
with passionate warmth. “Regret it? regret
a happiness second only to that of heaven?
O, yes, I will regret it, when the repentant
sinner regrets his entrance into immortal paradise.
But, dear Rosalie,” added Milford
looking with a lover's look into the soft, dark
melting eyes of the lovely being before him,
“though I would remain in your sweet presence
forever, yet I know that my time is limited,
and duty compels me to hasten our interview
to a close. You are naturally anxious
to know wherefore I am here—I will tell
you;” and Milford drew up his chair close to
that of Rosalie, and, in a voice scarcely above
a whisper, thus proceeded:

“Soon after the flight of Arnold became
known to Washington, a paper was intercepted,
in which the name of a certain American
general was found in such a connection
as leads our commander-in-chief to fear there
are others, high in power, concerned in the
recently-discovered plot of treason. At all
events, it is important he should know whether
or no he is justified in entertaining suspicions
of this general's integrity, and for this purpose
I am here, with his private sanction;
though it is of course believed by my comrades
that I have deserted.”

“In other words, as I said before,” whispered
Rosalie, with an expression of alarm,
“you are here in the capacity of an American
spy?”

“Such, I must admit to you, is the truth.”

“Oh! then, for heaven's sake! be prudent!
oh! be very prudent, and cautious, or you will
be detected; and I hardly need tell you what
will be the result of detection.”

“No, I know my danger, and have come
prepared for the worst. Washington advised
me to see you, but cautioned me not to do
any thing that could possibly fasten suspicion
upon you, even should my own plans be frustrated.
And yet, you perceive, I scarcely arrive
in the city, ere I call upon you openly, in
the broad light of day. Do you not fear, dear
Rosalie, I have compromised your safety?”

“I fear nothing for myself, Edgar, but
every thing for you. Tell me! have you run
any risk in coming hither?”

“I think not, for I came with Sir Henry
Clinton's sanction.”

“Indeed! you have seen Sir Henry then?”

“Yes, I was with him this morning. In
fact, the guard who arrested me, immediately
on my crossing the lines, gave me over to an
officer, who insisted on taking me at once to
head quarters. This, by the by, was exactly
what I desired. Sir Henry received me
kindly, but with an air of reserve. He wished
to know my object in crossing the British
lines in the uniform of a rebel, and I replied
by stating, that, being tired and disgusted
with the rebel service, particularly since being
compelled to officiate in the execution of poor
Major Andre, I had deserted in my regimen
tals, and hoped to find a safe asylum beneath
the banner of St. George. He then asked
me if it were my intention to enlist in the
American Legion, explaining himself by saying,
that the deserters from the rebel army, of
which there were quite a number in the city,
would form a select corps, and be under the
immediate command of Brigadier General
Arnold. I answered to this, that for the present
I wished to rest and look around the city
but that it was not improbable I would enlist,
should any action against the rebels be meditated.

“ `Well,' he said, `there will soon be work
for all to do; and if you see proper to join us,
you shall be allowed to retain your rank.'

“I thanked him for his kindness, and said
I would take it into serious consideration, and
would let him know my resolve in the course
of a week, or ten days at the furthest. He
then inquired particularly about the last hours
of poor Andre, what the rebels thought of
and how they felt toward him; and during
the time he was the subject of our conversation,
I observed that Sir. Henry was much affected,
and that he was often obliged to turn
aside his face to conceal his emotion. Of
course I spoke in the most enthusiastic terms
of Andre, and told him I did not think there
was a single individual who knew him, that
did not regret his death.

“ `Poor Andre!' he exclaimed, in a voice
husky with emotion. `Poor Andre! I loved
him, sir, as I would my own son, and feel that
his place can never be supplied;' and as he
said this, I observed the large tears roll slowly
down his cheeks, which he did not attempt to
conceal.

“I was deeply affected myself, and my heart
yearned toward his excellency for this pathetic
tribute to the memory of the unfortunate victim
of circumstances. We dropped the subject,
and Sir Henry resumed his wonted composure.

“He then made several inquiries respecting
the American army, its numbers, the result
of Washington's visit to Count Rochambeau,
and what I supposed were his present
plans. I answered as best I could, and at the
same time appear frank, and give him as little

information as possible. My answers were
evidently satisfactory, for he said they tallied
with those of another American officer who
had deserted, and whom he had questioned a
day or two previous. I inquired to whom he
alluded, and he replied his name was Champe,
and that he had been an orderly sergeant of
Major Lee. Now I knew of Champe's desertion
before I made the attempt myself; and
it is my belief that his object and mine are
much the same, though I know nothing positive,
for my instructions did not mention him.
It was intimated in them, however, that I
should find assistance where I least expected,
in the development of my scheme.”

“But is this Champe a man of honor and
strict integrity?” inquired Rosalie.

“Yes, in every sense of the word; and
what is more, he and I are sworn friends.”

“But you have not seen him?”

“No.”

“And when do you expect to?”

“If he is one of us, to-night—or if I do not
see, I shall hear from him.”

“And what do you mean by one of us?”

“This question from you, Rosalie?—are not
you in the secret?” asked Milford; in some
surprise.

“If you mean by the secret, the little band
whose watchword is `Liberty,' I think I understand
you.”

“The same—I was right.”

“But you spoke of some scheme to be developed;
that I do not understand; for if
your business here is merely to ascertain
whether a certain general be treacherous or
not, I see in that no complexity.”

“That is only one part of my mission here,
and is easily executed; the other is more difficult.”

“And pray what is that other?”

“The seizure of the traitor Arnold—no
less.”

“Good heavens!” cried Rosalie, in alarm
“surely you are not enlisted in so dangerous
a project as that?”

“Yes, it is even so.”

“But it may cost you your life!”

“I hope not; for since I have seen you, I
have every wish to live.”

“Oh! the thought that you may fail is terrible,
and makes me tremble.”

“God bless you, sweet Rosalie! I will be
trebly cautious for your sake.”

“Oh! you must, dear Edgar, you must; for
now you know how much I love you, you can
easily divine the consequence to myself, should
you fail and be detected.”

“There is hazard in the undertaking, I
know—but God is above us all, and in him I
put my trust.”

“Ah! Edgar, I thank you for that consoling
thought! and for that noble sentiment, I
love you still more, if that such a thing be
possible. Yes, we will put our trust in God,
and hope for the best. That he is with us, in
our glorious struggle for liberty, I believe;
and if he is with us, we shall yet be triumphant.
To God let us ever look, in prosperity
or adversity—such is my religion.”

“And such is true religion, a thousand
times more acceptible in his sight than canting
creeds.”

“But how will you pursue your plan? and
where do you expect to meet your confederates?”

“You know one Signor Carlini?”

“Yes, and now I understand all. Well,
may God watch over, prosper, and protect
you; but oh! dearest Edgar, as you love me,
do nothing rash! Better your design should
fail, than that your dear life be too much put
in jeopardy.”

“Should I be led to contemplate any thing
rash, I will think of Rosalie du Pont, and
pause to reflect,” was the gallant rejoinder.

“Thanks! thanks!—but go on and finish
your story. You have not yet informed me
how you came hither with Sir Henry's consent.”

“True. Well, as our interview was about
elosing, I mentioned your name.

“ `Do you know her?' he inquired, with a
look of some surprise.

“ `I have reason to know something of her,
your excellency,' I said, `for mainly to her do
I owe my release, as a prisoner of war, after
the taking of Charleston.'

“ `Ah, yes, I remember now her intercession
in behalf of an American officer. And you,

then, were the person? Milford! Milford!”
he added, musingly; `yes, that was the name.
You are very fortunate, sir, in standing so
high in her esteem. You could not have
had a better intercessor; for well I recollect
that, at the time, I felt as if I could refuse her
nothing, knowing her as I did to be so loyal

“ `I have to thank both your excellency and
herself for that especial favor, and I assure
you I am not ungrateful,' I replied.

“ `Yes, you say well, it was a special favor
in your behalf,' he replied; `for in setting
you free—or rather, in conniving at your escape—I
acted contrary to what I then believed
my duty; but, as I said before, I felt at
the time I could refuse the fair petitioner nothiug.,”

“Ah! that is what troubles me,” sighed
Rosalie. “Sir Henry Clinton has been very
kind and indulgent to me, and my conscience
oftentimes reproaches me for abusing his confidence.
He believes me so loyal, and puts
such implicit reliance on all I say or do, that
I often feel guilty, self-condemned; and I am
obliged to call to mind the vast importance of
the cause I serve—not only to the present
generation, but to generations yet unborn—
more, to the world, the whole human race,
—I am obliged, I say, to call to mind the superior
consideration of liberty over all minor
matters, to justify myself in my own eyes for
my duplicity.”

“Ay,” returned the Captain, “I have
thought and felt the same, and only console
myself with the reflection, that the end must
justify the means. But I must hasten my departure,
for already have I overstayed my
time. In reply to Sir Henry's observations
concerning the wherefore of my release, I said
that I hoped he had never had reason to regret
his clemency on that occasion, and adled,
that Miss Rosalie Du Pont and myself
had corresponded ever since, and that I
loubted not he had more than once had the
benefit of intelligence conveyed in my epistles.

“ `Ah, then,' he replied, `you, I am to understand,
were the source from which she obained
her information of the doings of the
ebel army.'

“ `I flatter myself some portion of it came
through me, your excellency,' I answered.

“ `Thanks,' he rejoined, `thanks, sir, for
your loyalty, even while in the enemy's ranks!
Do you know the address of Miss Rosalie Du
Pont?' he inquired.

“ `I know she resides in Queen-street, your
excellency.'

“ `You would do well, I think, to call on
her.' He then gave me your number, adding:
`I think she is now about, so that you
will have no difficulty in seeing her.'

“I knew not then to what he alluded, but
now suppose he referred to your illness, of
which I had heard nothing till informed by
the servant. Rest assured, dear Rosalie, I
gladly availed myself of Sir Henry's permission
to visit you—or rather, perhaps, his intimation
that I should do so—for, above all
others, it was what I most desired.”

Some further conversation followed, and
then Milford took his leave, Rosalie charging
him, with tearful eyes, as he valued her happiness,
to do nothing rash, and fervently praying
that guardian angels might attend his
steps and keep him from a fatal failure.