University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE TALISMAN.

It was about half an hour after the scene
witnessed in the foregoing chapter, that Rosalie
Du Pont was closeted with Sir Henry
Clinton. She had been conveyed into the
mansion, in a state of insensibility, and female
domestics had been summoned to attend upon
her. Her swoon—to which kind of disease,
or debility, she was constitutionally subject,
when laboring under violent excitement—
soon passed away, and she gradually recovered
all her faculties; and with them that
self-control, and great presence of mind,
which, paradoxical as it may seem, was also
another of her several peculiarities.

On regaining her senses, therefore, she exhibited
no more paroxysms of excitement, and
the name of him she loved did not pass her
lips. She calmly inquired if Sir Henry Clinton
were at home; and being answered in
the affirmative, she requested to have a private
interview with him, on very important
and urgent business. This message being
conveyed to the General, a polite answer was
returned, that his excellency was at present
engaged with some gentlemen, but in a few
minutes he would have the pleasure of waiting
upon her.

The council with which, as the reader
knows, Sir Henry was engaged, soon broke
up, when, with true gallantry, in immediately
repaired to a private parlor, where his fair
guest was awaiting him, with that anxious and
painful suspense, which barely divides hope
and despair, happiness and misery.

The greeting of Sir Henry Clinton was
courteous, but bore a marked air of coldness
and restraint, which Rosalie had never before
perceived, and which made the heart of the
poor maiden sink with a certain degree of
fear and shame. The first salutations over,
for a few moments she remained embarrassed
and silent; but remembering the important
mission which had brought her hither, and
that it was absolutely necessary for her to
state her business, she rallied a little, assumed
a courage she did not feel, and in a tolerably
even, but low tone of voice, said:

“Sir Henry Clinton, I am here to ask a
favor.”

“Say on, madam,” replied the other.
“What you seek is doubtless no trifling matter,
or you would not have come in such hot
haste, at so late an hour of the night.”

“Your excellency is right,” returned Rosalie,
who began to gather courage as she proceeded;
“it is no trifling matter; it is the
life of a fellow being.”

“I anticipated as much,” was the cold response.
“To come directly to the point—
suppose you are here to ask the pardon and
release of one who has just been condemned
as a spy?”

“Is Captain Milford already condemned,
then?” cried Rosalie, in great agitation.

“He is, madam.”

“But—but—he—he is—not—yet executed?”
gasped the other, clinging to her chair
for support.

“He is still alive, madam, but his hour is
near. He dies at sunrise.”

“Oh! no! no! no!” cried Rosalie, wildly,
losing all self-possession, as the horrible picture
of him she loved, dangling at a rope's
end, rose up vividly in her imagination.
“Oh! no! no! this must not—must not—
shall not be! Oh! Sir Henry, unsay those
cruel, cruel words, and on my knees I will
bless you!”

“Calm yourself, madam,” replied the other;
“calm yourself; you are excited, and know
not what you say.

“I tell you, Sir Henry Clinton, he must
not, shall not die!” cried Rosalie again, with
a wild, haggard look. “Sir Henry, it is in
your power to save him; and oh! sir, that
power must be exercised, at all hazards!”

“I pray you, madam, be clam, and let sober
reason resume her sway. You permit
your feelings to get the better of your judgment,
and do not rationally consider what you
ask. Remember your position, madam; that
you, a maiden, are sueing for the life of a
condemned spy—condemned by a military
tribunal, and by his own voluntary admission.
Were you even the wife of this man, you
could not exhibit more passionate, riotous,
maniacal, hysterical emotion.”

“And I am his wife,” said Rosalie, solemnly;
“his wife in the sight of that God before
whom we must all appear in judgment. The
worldly forms that would make him legally
mine, have not been gone through with, it is
true; but I have a right to plead for him,
which is as just, and holy, as the sacred ceremony
of chaplain or Church could give me.”

“Well, madam, even admitting that, you
surely can not expect me to so far swerve
from my duty, as to set at liberty a rebel spy.
And you, Miss Du Pont—you, who are, or
profess to be, so loyal (and there was a cutting
emphasis on the italicised words)—I am astonished
that you, madam, should so earnestly
plead for an enemy of your sovereign. I am
loth, Miss Du Pont, to bring home to you certain
little matters—but present circumstances
justify me in speaking plainer than I otherwise
should. I can not forget, madam, that
this man was once a prisoner-of-war, and that,
through your intercession in his behalf, I connived
at his escape. He was not regularly
exchanged, as is the custom of war, nor did I
exact of him a parole that he would not again
serve the enemies of his king. Well, he went
back to the rebel camp, and took up arms
against our cause; and while acting in this
capacity, you, madam, as I have it from his
own lips, corresponded with him. Next he
assists at the execution of the unfortunate
Andre; and then, pretending to desert the
rebels, comes to me with a lie in his mouth—
pardon me! but I am in no humor for being
fastidious in the selection of terms—comes to
me with a lie in his mouth, I say, and, in order
to blind me to his true purpose, acknowledges
what I have just set forth, and endeavors
to prove he had long been loyal, and that
you had obtained much of your information
regarding the enemy's movements and plans
through him. This seemed all straight-forward,
so long as I believed him a true deserter;
and I acknowledge I was for the time
being his dupe; for in you I had unlimited
confidence; and in using your name, he rendered
the deception complete; but now, since
I know him in his true character—since he
has boldly denied he was ever a deserter, and
has as boldly stated, that were he free, and
the same opportunities were to present, he
would do the same thing over again—since all
these matters have come to my knowledge, I
say, you must pardon me, madam, if I err in
attaching even to yourself a suspicion of
double dealing.”

Rosalie was confounded. This strong array
of facts, set forth in so straight-forward a
manner, came home to her with terrible force;
and completely overcome by her feelings, she
covered her face with her handkerchief, and
burst into tears. Sir Henry gazed upon her
in stern silence for a few moments; and then,
seeing she was not inclined to speak, even in
her own defense, he resumed:

“Your silence, madam, on the point of my
implied accusation, leads me, I grieve to say,
to a serious conclusion—I grieve to say it, because
it is very painful to find ourselves deceived
in those we have regarded as our true
friends, and because a breach of confidence
tends to make us suspicious of all we meet,
hardens us against the world, sours our temper,
closes our hearts to sympathy, and, in
short, renders us very unhappy. But, madam,
though never so guilty, you have nothing to
fear from me; your sex protects you; we do
not war against women, and you are at liberty
to depart; but if you would have me keep
my temper, and separate from you with a
show of friendship, ask nothing for the prisoner.”

As Sir Henry said this, he rose to take his
leave; and this action, together with his last
words, produced an immediate and marked
change in the humble maiden.

There was no more weeping—no more of
that wildness and agitation which she had exhibited
during much of the interview. She
lifted her head, proudly, loftily, haughtily;
and there was more of command, than entreaty,
in her voice, as she said:

“Pray, sit down, your excellency—we must
not part thus.”

“It is late, madam, and I—,” hesitated the
other; but he was interrupted by Rosalie, in
an imperious tone, that would have done credit
to the proudest queen; while her eyes, which
so lately were dim with tears, now flashed and
sparkled with lofty indignation.

“Sir Henry Clinton,” she said, “sit down

and listen to what I have to say—unless you
have resolved to arrogate to yourself the tripple
province of accuser, judge, and executioner!”

“Madam, I listen,” replied the General,
biting his lips, as he resumed his seat.

“In the first place,” said Rosalie, speaking
in a calm, firm, almost haughty tone, “I am
going to admit that I am guilty of all you accuse
me, and doubtless of all you suspect me;
and in the second place, I shall proceed to
state such matters as I think proper for my
own justification, trusting your excellency is
too much of a gentleman to refuse to listen to
my defense. To do this, it is necessary that
I touch briefly upon my own history, as well
as some things pertaining to this war.

“To begin, I must set your excellency
right on one point, by telling you—what you
appear to have overlooked, forgotten, or are
ignorant of—that I was born and educated in
France; and that when you speak of my sovereign,
and allude to George the Third of
England, you commit a great error. The
rank and name of my father—who is at present,
I am proud to say, a distinguished officer
in the allied forces of the Americans—I do
not deem proper now to mention; nor shall I
trouble your excellency with any more of my
history than portions directly to my defense.
Suffice it, therefore, to say, that when the
colonies here, by reason of unjust legislation,
revolted against the Mother Country, as England
is termed, I was a mere girl, in my teens;
but, sir, I was old enough to think, and feel,
and sympathise with the oppressed; and when
I had read both sides of the question, with
which the French journals teemed, I said the
Americans were right; I even gloried in the
bold, manly, noble stand they had taken; and
I sometimes regretted I was not American
born, that I might do something toward assisting
them in their unequal struggle.

“From my earliest recollection, your excellency—though
nobly born myself, and
mingling among the great, the tilted, the
proudest of the realm—one idea, which I
must think inherent in my nature, even held
full sway in my mind, namely: that kings,
princes, and all hereditary nobilities, were
wrong; and that if all such distinctions were
swept from the face of the earth, the great
mass of mankind would be the gainers. Why
should one man be better born than another,
I reasoned, and usurp the seanty pittance of
his fellow man—roll in wealth, ease, luxury,
dissipation—and leave his brother to starve,
or grind out a life of misery worse than death?
Surely, the same God made all, would judge
all, and before his awful and searching eye
the meanest beggar must stand on an equality
with the proudest king. Death, too, the great
human leveler, would know no distiction; and
the man that feasted, and the man that starved,
the prince and the peasant, would alike crumble
to dust in the great tomb of earth.

“With these sentiments, your excellency,
unalterably impressed upon my mind, it will
not surprise you if I say, that when first I
read the declaration of independence of these
colonies, I exclaimed, `There is a people after
my own heart, who boldly assert the true
principles of right; and the good God, whose
three great attributes are justice, love, and
mercy, will sustain them.' I longed to be
with them, if I might in any way aid them;
and though at the time I regarded my wish
as hopeless, yet circumstances gave me an opportunity
to accomplish my desire.

“But I will not weary your excellency
with detal. Suffice it to say, that my beloved
mother, who was then living, soon after died;
and as I felt inconsolable for her loss, my
father advised me to travel. We went to
England; and there, for the first time, I saw
the sister of my poor deceased mother, the
present wife of Graham Percy, who is, as
your excellency knows, a distant kinsman of
the Earl of the same name. She had resided
many years in the colonies, chiefly in this
city, and was here on the breaking out of the
war. As her husband was a staunch royalist,
he left New York during the time it was occupied
by the American army, but returned soon
after the British got possession. But why repeat
what your excellency already knows!

“I questioned my aunt eagerly with regard
to America and the Americans; but soon
found her prejudices were all against the latter,
and that her sympathies were altogether

with the British. However, as she was about
to return to this country, this did not prevent
me solliciting, as a great favor, to be allowed
to accompany her—for I was desirous of seeing
and knowing the true character of a people
that, in my view, had acted so nobly. My
father at first objected to my coming, but finally
consented, and we shortly after embarked.
I took with me only one domestic, a dumb
mulatto girl, whom I persuaded my aunt to
allow me to dress as a youth. I also assumed
the maiden name of my mother, by which I
am known to your excellency, and made my
kinswoman promise not to divulge my real
name and rank.

“Your excellency is already acquamted
with the circumstances which induced me to
accompany your excellency in your expedition
against Charleston. While in that place,
after its surrender, I accidentally became acquainted
with Captain Milford; and my sympathies
being altogether with the Americans,
and a mutual liking springing up between us,
it will not perhaps surprise your excellency,
when I say, we became intimate as friends.
I subsequently interseded in his behalf, and,
thanks to your excellency's noble generosity
and kindness, procured his release.

“That there was an understanding between
Captain Milford and myself, with regard to
keeping up a correspondence, I do not deny;
but to the best of my recollection, I made no
promise to him that I would communicate any
thing beyond personal matters: if I did more,
it was voluntary, and unsolicited. When he
told your excellency that much of the information
I had imparted to you had been obtained
through him, he told you, sir, no falsehood;
but if your excellency will recollect a
moment, the truth will flash upon your mind,
that I never gave you any intelligence concerning
the Americans, but such as your excellency
had already obtained, or such as was
of little or no importance.

“That I am personally known to the noble
Marquis de Lafayette, and that I have once
looked upon the mild, majestic, sublime face of
the great champion of freedom, the immortal
George Washington, is equally true; and to
those two great generals, have I generally
forwarded such communications as I had to
make.

“Your excellency has alluded, in a rather
unpleasant manner, to a breach of confidence
on my part. Sir, I am not aware that your
excellency ever made a private communication
to me, that I ever imparted to a living
soul; nor would I have done so, had your excellency
confided to me a secret that jeopardised
a nation whose cause I have esponsed.
No, sir, base as I may seem in your eyes, I
feel myself incapable of such an act, which
would in truth be a breach of confidence:
that, sir, is a double-dealing foreign to my nature.
The most I have done, is in having
sent off such intelligence as I chanced to
gather casually; and in doing this, I pledge
you my word, I have often and often regretted
that I was personally acquainted with
your excellency; for I looked upon you as a
true gentleman, an honorable man, high-minded,
generous, benevolent, and humane—
an ornament to society and your distinguished
position—and I have had for you that veneration,
esteem—ay, sir, even affection—which
a daughter may have for a parent. I say this,
sir, candidly—not as flattery, to cause you to
swerve from what you regard as a duty—but
as a sacred truth, which is only just and proper
your excellency should know.

“Your excellency is aware, there is an old
maxim, much in use, to the effect, that all
stratagems are fair in war, and on this principle
I have acted. I have never warred—if
I may give to my humble doings so strong an
appellation—against persons, but principles;
and for the little I have done toward assisting
a wronged and oppressed people in their
manly efforts to establish a glorious independence,
my conscience gives me full justification.
And if your excellency will regard my
acts in their proper light, taking all the circumstances
into consideration, I think your
excellency will be forced to admit, that I
could not have done otherwise and been true
to myself.

“And now, your excellency, not to detam
you too long, I will, in conclusion, state a few
brief facts. As your excellency has been
plain with me, you must pardon me if I am

so with your excellency. A man, holding a
high and distinguished position in the American
army, and possessing in a great degree the
confidence of his chieftain, makes known to
your excellency a desire to betray his trust
—to put your excellency in possession of that
wherewith you can crush the hopes of a struggling
nation, as it were, by a single blow,
And for this base action, prompted by the
vilest of motives, what does he exact in return?
Gold, and a position as high in the British
army as the one he would vacate in that of
your noble foemen. Does your excellenc
scruple to treat, to bargain, with this vile traitor—to
pay him his price for his dishonesty—
to reward him unjustly for chaining himself to
infamy here, and in all probability hereafter?
No, your excellency exhibits no scruples on
this point, because your excellency fancies
you can shield yourself and your motives behind
a rampart of pseudo-policy. But your
excellency does more. Instead of letting this
miscreant come to you, to sell his honor and
his soul, you select one who stands as far
above him as angels of light above demons of
darkness, and send to him—send, too, without
the pale of your jurisdiction, and within
that of a people you are heavily wronging by
his very mission—thus, in actual deed, sanctioning
and approving what your excellency
has seen proper to so bitterly condemn in
others. Well, sir, what are the consequences?
By that dimmed eye, that quivering lip, that
averted face, I perceive your excellency full
well and painfully remembers them. And
now, sir, when one comes, armed with right,
to seize this traitor, and drag him to the doom
he so richly merits, you are possessed with a
holy horror of his mission, and are pleased to
hurl upon his devoted head the last and greatest
penalty you can inflict; and when another
ventures to intereced, indignant that any one
should have the temerity to ask such a boon. On
reconsideration, sir, perhaps your excellency
is right; for the miscreant that has been purchased
by a royal commission, ten thousand
pounds from the royal treasury, and the life of
one of the breavest, noblest, most accomplished,
and devoted of the King's subjects, should be
preserved at all hazards, as a priceless value
and the gibbet is only too light a punishment
for him who dares to think of molesting so expensive
a treasure. And now, sir, I have
done with my defense. If, when your excellency
shall have calmly considered all I have
said, your excellency sees no extenuation, no
justification, of my motives and deeds, I must
suffer myself to be visited with your excellency's
displeasure in an unequivocal denial
of the boon I crave.”

For some time after Rosalie ceased speaking,
Sir Henry Clinton remained silent and
thoughtful. He had lisened attentively, to
what she termed her defense, with varied feelings;
and toward the last, as one who was
struck with the force of the statement she put
forth. His slience was an awful suspense to
Rosalie, who secretly trembled in anticipation
of his reply, though she strove to appear calm
and composed. At length he spoke, in a tone
that denoted his feelings had undergone a
material change.

“Miss Du Pont,” he said, “you are a remarkable
lady, and possess talents of no common
order. It would certainly be impolite in
me to acknowledge any weight to your statement,
beyond personal feeling; but I will admit
you have made out a better care than I
thought possible; and if it will be any satisfaction
to you to know it, I will frankly admit,
also, that though I now know you as an
avowed enemy of the royal cause, I entertain
for you feelings of deep respect; and though
in my numble opinion you have greatly erred
in espousing what you term the cause of liberty
—but which, if successful, would only prove
to be another name for anarchy in the aggregate,
miss rule and confusion—yet I believe
you have acted conscientiously in the main,
and that your error belongs rather to the head than the heart.”

“I humbly thank your excellency for this
admission,” replied Rosalie, “and rejoice to
say, that though enemies in principle, we may
still be friends in person.”

“That will, perhaps, depend somewhat on
circumstances,” rejoined the other, warily;
“but I trust we may yet be friends in both. I
shall seek an early opportunity to confer with
you privately, and I hope to be able to make

a true convert of one as intelligent and clear-minded
as yourself.”

“That your excellency could never do, even
should your excellency have an opportunity
for the trial,” replied Rosalie, firmly; “but I
feel constrained to say, that this will probably
be our last meeting.”

“You intend to leave the city?”

“Immediately, sir, with your excellency's
permission.”

“Well, then, Miss Du Pont, all things considered,
I must own I think the course proposed
the wisest you could adopt.”

“But the prisoner, your excellency?”

“Madam, I must repeat, that you ask nothing
for him,” answered General Clinton,
the frown again gathering on his brow. “Be
satisfied that I let you off thus easily; but do
not add insult to injury, by asking me to
violate my duty—to forget the respect due to
the laws of my soveriegn.”

“But, sir, your excellency is likewise bound
to respect yourself; and as a man of honor,
sir, you can not violate your plighted word.
Know you this ring, sir?” and Rosalie disengaged
one from her finger, and handed it to
the other, who, on receiving it, looked perplexed
and troubled. “That, sir, was a present
from your excellency to my humble self,
through the hands of the lamented Major
Andre—whom you loved, and whom I trust
is now in heaven—and was accompanied by
the pledge of your excellency, that whosoever
should return it to you, and ask a favor within
your power to grant, should not ask in vain.
I now return it, sir; and by the soul of Andre,
and the honor of Sir Henry Clinton, demand
the instant release of Captain Milford.”

“Your are cruel, Miss Du Pont,” replied
the General, with considerable embarrassment.

“No, your excellency, I am only just. I
did not exact the pledge—it was voluntary on
your part—I only exact that it shall be redeemed;
and, sir, your excellency is bound
in honor to redeem it. And besides, what is
the life of this man to you or your cause?
One great attribute of heaven is mercy; and
they who show it here, will never regret it
hereafter. Your excellency perceives I am
now calm, but firm. I no longer sue for a
favor, but demand it as my right.”

“And you demand that I set free a spy, and
thus add another enemy to the crown,” rejoined
Sir Henry, bitterly.

“Sir, I will pledge you my honor, as a lady,
that if your excellency will liberate Captain
Milford, he shall not serve again in this war
of the Revolution.”

“Madame,” returned the other, somewhat
haughtily, “that honor of a Clinton is sacred
—the pledge of a Clinton shall be redeemed
—your suit is granted.”

“O, thanks! ten thousand, thousand thanks!”
cried Rosalie, sinking on her knees at the feet
of the other, and bursting into tears, so overcome
was she with joy and gratitude.

“Rise, Miss Du Pont,” returned Sir Henry,
coldly. “You owe me no thanks for keeping
my plighted word; that which is accorded to
your demand, backed by my honor, would
certainly have been denied to your pleadings.”

There was some further conversation between
Rosalie and Sir Henry, maintained on
his part with studied coldness. He then wrote
a few words on a couple of slips of paper,
which he handed her, saying:

“And now, madame?

“It only remains for me to bid you farewell,”
replied the warm-hearted girl, taking
his unresisting but not proffered hand, and
pressing it with a feeling of gratitude. “I am
sorry your excellency sees proper to part
from me with this reserve, for it is not likely
we shall ever meet again. But I will not
complain. Whatever you may think of me,
the name of Sir Henry Clinton shall be ever
in my prayers. May you live long, and enjoy
the blessings of heaven! Farewell!”

“Farewell!” returned Sir Henry, in a softened
tone, moved in spite of himself.

A moment more and he was alone. He
and Rosalie had parted for the last time.