University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
A PUBLIC INSULT.

At the time of which we write, and for
many years after, the site of the present pioturesque
edifice, known as the City Hall, was

a steep, unimproved hill, up which frolicsome
urchins were wont to drag there sleds in winter,
and slide down again, and which modern
innovation has completely removed, and converted
into a public promenade, denominated
the Park. This hill, during the period the
British occupied New York, was used as the
grand encampment of such portion of the
army as went into quarters here; and on every
side it was thickly dotted with white tents,
with occasionally the marquee of an officer
looming above the rest—though a large number
of the latter either had private residences
of their own, or took lodgings among the citizens.
The camp, owing to its elevation, was
picturesque, delightful, and healthy. A tall
pole on its summit, with the banner of St.
George streaming in the breeze, could be
seen from nearly every quarter of the city,
and from the shipping in the harbor.

At a convenlent distance from the camp,
was a broad, level plain, of several acres in
extent, which was used as a grand parade-ground
for the soldiers. At the moment Ar
nold and his companion came in sight of this
plain, it was occupied by several thousand
troops, going through various evolutions. The
scene was grand, beautiful, and war-like.
The soldiers, clad in scarlet uniforms, with
their polished muskets, bayonets, and swords
glittering in the clear sunlight, and continually
changing positions, as they marched and
countermarched, made an imposing and attractive
sight; while martial strains of excellent
music, discoursed by numerous bands of
musicians, filled the welkin with melodious
and inspiring sounds. Officers, mounted on
splended steeds, richly caparisoned, were seen
dashing hither and thither, to issue or obey
some command, giving a brilliant life to the
moving picture, the charm of which the very
fewest number would find themselves able to
resist.

In the center of the plain was a slight elevation,
which commanded a view of the whole;
and this was occupied by a group of distinguished
officers, which Arnold and Malpert at
once recognized as Sir Henry Clinton and
staff. Occasionally an officer dashed up to
this group, remained a moment in apparent
conversation, and then dashed swiftly away
again to a distant part of the field, where he
scemed, by his gestures to be conveying to
the next in rank below him the orders he had
just received.

On two sides of this plain, just without the
prescribed limits—and which limits were preserved
entire, by numerous patrols, each with
his musket to his shoulder, walking slowly up
and down the lines—a large crowd of citizens
was collected, of all ages, sizes, and colors.
Men, women, and children, black and white,
were indiscriminately mixed together, and all
seemed to be enjoying themselves, each in his
own peculiar way. A number of sutlers, with
an eye to speculation, had pitched their tents
here, and appeared to be doing a thriving business,
in the retailing of cakes, confectionary,
and liquors. Gamblers, too, with their many
devices to win a few shillings from some “luckless
wight,” were not wanting to complete the
exciting amusement of the day; and roulette,
cards, and dice, appeared to receive their
full share of patronage.

As the crowd of citizens occupied the two
sides of the parade-ground nearest the city,
Arnold and his companion, in riding down to
select a position where they could best witness
the evolutions of the soldiers, necessarily
come in contact with the rabble. Glancing
carelessly around him, without taking particular
heed of any person or object, Arnold was
walking his horse, and carefully picking his
way through the disordered congregation of
human beings, when his ear was suddenly
saluted by a coarse, rough voice, which articulated
the words:

“Here comes the traitor! make way for the
traitor!” and this was followed by a taunting
laugh.

Instantly every kind of occupation was suspended
in the immediate vicinity of Arnold,
and every eye was fixed upon him, with that
look of vulgar curiosity by which a monster
of any kind is usually regarded. As Arnold
heard these words, and found himself the
cynosure of a thousand eyes, his features
flushed to the very roots of his hair, and his
countenance, which so recently wore a look
of listless indifference, now suddenly assumed
a mingled expression of mortification, confusion,

and diabolical rage. Tightening his rein
with a nervous jerk, he ran his black, piercing
eye rapidly over the mass of up-turned
faces, as if in search of the person who had
dared make use of such insulting language;
and then, while the crowd stood breathless
with suspense, as if expecting something terrible
to follow, he suddenly buried his rowels
in the flanks of the fiery beast he bestrode.
The noble animal, unused to such treatment,
instantly reared, and plunged forward,
amid a universal yell of consternation from
the excited populace, most of whom rushed
back upon one another in terror and confusion.
All were not fortunate enough to escape
injury; for a large, fleshy woman, who happened
to be standing right in front of the
horse, was knocked down, run over, and left
bleeding upon the ground. The fall of this
woman was witnessed by several of the spectators,
whose cries of terror instantly changed
to those of rage and execration.

“Stop him!” “Block the scoundrel's path!”
“He's killed a woman!” with other like expressions,
were now shouted on all sides; and
instantly a dozen athletic fellows, a few yards
ahead—who, on the impulse of the moment,
had parted right and left, to give the horses a
passage—now rushed together; and two of
them seizing the animal by the bit, bore him
back almost upon his haunches.

With a horrid oath, and a fiendish gleam
of rage upon his countenance, Arnold tore
his sword from its scabbard, and swinging
it over his head, aimed a death-blow at his
nearest assailant. The man, who chanced to
have a heavy cudgel in his hand, anticipating
the murderous intention of the traitor, parried
the stroke with wonderful dexterity, shivered
the sword-blade, and dealt the General a blow
on his sword-arm, which completely paralyzed
it for the time being. He then, in a tone of
authority, ordered his comrades to fall back,
and very coolly led Arnold's horse out of the
crowd, saying, as a parting advice:

“You miserable scoundrel of a traitor!
never do you again attempt to ride rough shod
over British subjects—or, if I form one of
the number, by the living mass, I will put a
period to your infamous career! Go, murderer
of Andre—go, get you hence!” and as he
spoke, without waiting a reply from the confused
and thunder-struck traitor, he released
his hold on the bridle rein, and at the same
time struck the horse a blow that caused him
to bound away furiously, amid the hootings
of the mob.

At first Arnold seemed disposed to turn
back his beast, and rush upon the crowd, in
open defiance of the threats which he knew
were now being uttered against him; but a
moment's reflection convinced him of the folly
of such a dangerous proceeding, and he allowed
his horse to take his own course.

He had gone about two hundred yards,
where he was overtaken by Colonel Malpert,
who, instead of following Arnold's rash movements,
had ridden quietly out of the crowd,
where he calmly awaited the termination of
the unpleasant affair. It may perhaps appear
strange to some, that Malpert, being of a nature
as rash as Arnold, and keenly sensitive
to an insult, did not second the man he called
his friend in his attempt to ride furiously over
his fellow beings; but the truth was, Malpert's
friendship was only seeming, not real, and
therefore he had wisely decided not to meddle
in what did not positively concern him.

As he overtook Arnold, the latter was fairly
gnashing his teeth with rage, and uttering
bitter curses against the whole human race.

“Hold up, my friend,” said the Colonel;
“you are going out of your latitude altogether.
Here—this way—turn off here, and you will
have a fine view of the doings on the field.”

“Curse the review!” said Arnold, savagely,
scarcely checking the speed of his horse. “I
could fight my best friend now, out of sheer
vexation.”

“So it would seem, since you treat me so
cavalierly,” returned the wily, smooth-spoken
Colonel. “Pshaw! some scoundrel had the
ill-manners to insult you, and now you are
ready to curse friends and foes. Out upon
you, for more fire than judgment! Why, I
did not think a trifling matter could affect you
so seriously—you should have borne it as
calmly as I did.”

“You!” rejoined Arnold, savagely, while
his lip slightly curled with a sneer. “Yes, of
course you bore it calmly, because you were
not insulted.”

“Indeed I was, let me tell you.”

“How so?”

“Why, am I not your friend? and is not an
insult to one's friend, an insult to one's self?
But check your horse, I say—or, by heavens!
I will not keed you company—for see, you
are running away from the review entirely.”

Arnold mechanically reined in his beast,
and said, in a calmer tone, with something
like a sigh:

“Ah! Malpert, you know not what it is to
be called a traitor.”

“No, that is true, upon my honor,” returned
the other, laughing; “but I know what it is to
be called almost every thing else. But then
what matters it what a man is called, so he is
conscious of his innocence? You were called
a traitor—very good—but you are not a
traitor, nevertheless; and words are merely
words, after all—mere unsubstantial sounds,
that linger only while they are being spoken.”

“I beg leave to differ with you there, Malpert,”
returned the other, seriously; “words
are not unsubstantial things; they do linger
long after they are spoken; they cut to the
heart, as they come from the heart, and they
often leave an impression there that time can
not efface.”

“Well, well, have it your own way,” responded
the other; “I am not in a mood for
argument just now, and shall content myself
with saying, that I think you have no cause
to dwell on the mere matter of being called a
traitor, doubtless by some rebel at that, since
no man who faithfully serves his king and
country, as I know it is your intention henceforth
to do, can have such a foul epithet applied
to him with any weight of truth attached.
Here, let us ride down here, where we can
have an excellent view of all that is going on,
and be entirely to ourselves.”

It was about one hour after this conversation,
that Malpert, begging to be excused for
a few minutes, rode away, leaving Arnold
alone. At this moment two persons were
seen to separate from among the distant spectators,
and advanced directly toward the
traitor, who still remained seated on his horse,
noting, with the eye of a connoiseur, the movements
of troops on the field, but who, for reasons
of his own, did not care to take his place
among the other officers. The persons alluded
to drew close to Arnold, without his perceiving
them, when one of the two said, in a bland
tone:

“How fares your excellency to-day?”

Arnold started, and turned quickly on his
saddle, evidently under the impression that
this might be a new mode of insult; but on
perceiving who addressed him, his countenance
changed from a severe expression to a bland
smile, and he said with a show of much cordiality:

“Ah, Sergeant Champe, I am delighted to
see you. And my old friend, Captain Milford
—this is really a pleasure I did not anticipate.
I learned, from Sir Henry, that you were in
town, Captain, and I left word with him, if he
saw you again, to request you to call upon
me.”

As he spoke, Arnold dismounted, and shook
both officers by the hand warmly. He either
felt greatly pleased at meeting them at this
time, or else played the hypocrite to perfection.

“I am happy to see you looking so well,
General,” said Milford: “and for that matter,
I think our recent change agrees with all of
us. I, for one, I know, never felt better in
my life, both physically and mentally.”

“I suppose, like myself, you have had
enough of rebel glory, and false promises of
pay,” returned Arnold, smiling, “and now
feel disposed to serve a better master?”

“I believe that is the truth, in every particular,”
answered the Captain promptly.

“What was the state of the rebel camp
when you left?”

“Not a very desirable one for its ambitious
leaders, I assure you. I believe Washington
and his generals are beginning to fear their
own shadows. All is consternation and confusion;
the men are ready to desert, and only
wait a favorable opportunity. I would rather
be a private here, at this time, than a general
there.”

“Ay, sir, and no doubt you would fare better
in the end. Did any of my circulars
reach there before you left?”

“A few.”

“What effect did they have?”

“To convince the soldiers they are doing
injustice to themselves, as well as to their
righful sovereign, by remaining where they
are.”

“I thought my arguments were strong,” returned
Arnold, with a self-satisfied smile.

“You have sowed a seed that will be certain
to bear fruit.”

“I am glad to hear it. Ah! little did the
cursed rebels know how deep would be my
revenge for all the injuries and insults heaped
upon me! I suppose you will join the Legion,
Captain? You will be allowed to retain your
present rank, and draw the same pay as any
other officer, of the same grade, in the British
army.”

“I think it altogether likely I shall join the
Legion,” replied Milford, “though I will not
say positively. I told Sir Henry I would like
a few days to consider the matter, and he
readily granted me the favor.”

“Ay, Captain, Sir Henry is a true gentleman,”
responded Arnold; “none of your upstart
Washingtons, Greenes, Knoxes, and the
deuce knows how many others of like pretense;
but one of your real old English stock,
and worthy of all praise. I warrant me, he
knows how to grant a favor to a gentleman,
and not think it sufficiently wonderful to be
placarded about the town, or mentioned in his
report to the War Department. Well,
Champe, I suppose you are in a quandary,
too, and don't know whether to enlist with us
or not?

“Why, my mind is pretty well settled now,
as I was saying to the Captain here, not an
hour ago.”

“Well, what have you decided on?”

“Enlisting.”

“Good! I am delighted to hear it; for men
of your stamp are just the kind we want. Have
you seen the recruiting officer?”

“Not yet.”

You will find him at the barracks, just under
the hill yonder.”

“I shall call on him in a day or two.”

“There is bounty money of three guineas
for privates, and duly proportioned for officers.”

“So I have been told, your excellency.”

“I am trying to persuade Sir Henry to
make it ten guineas, in place of three, don't
you think that would be strong temptation for
men, half starved where they are, to desert?”

“I do, indeed. Only proclaim ten guineas
bounty, and in one month, I will answer for it,
General Washington abandons the field, for
want of an army to support him.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Arnold, “I know it. Sir
Henry must be persuaded to raise the bounty;
or if he can not do it, as he says he has no
power, he must get permission from over the
water. It must be done. Well, gentlement, I
see my friend coming, and I must ride and
meet him. Call on me as soon as convenient,
and take a glass of wine, and we will talk
over such matters as most interest men
who love their country, and feel a pride in
her victories. Adieu, gentlemen;” and waving
his hand, accompanying the motion with
a bland smile, Arnold turned away to remount
his horse.

Milford and Champe bowed and retired, as
if highly pleased with so much condescension
on the part of so distinguished a general.

“They are mine,” smiled Arnold, as he
watched their departure, till joined by Malpert.

“The hypocritical, palavering old scoundrel!”
muttered Champe, when he had gained
a sufficient distance, to venture, without risk,
to give his thoughts free expression. “Does
he take us for fools, as well as knaves?”

“He evidently does not suspect us, and that
is by far the most important to us,” returned
his companion.

“Come,” said Malpert to Arnold, “I am
tired of this—what say you to riding back,
and taking a quiet game of cards?”

“Agreed,” returned Arnold, readily; and
the next minute these two worthies were galloping
away to the city.