University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
CONCLUSION.

Captain Milford sat alone in his cell,
heavily ironed, ruminating upon the past and

its associations, the present with its terrible
realities, and endeavoring to prepare himself
for the last great charge that awaits us all.
He heard, with painful distinctness, the busy
sounds of the workmen preparing the gibbet,
from which, as he believed, he would soon be
launched into eternity. Had there been
light in his cell, it would have exhibited features
pale, but firm and composed, as one who
is fully resolved to meet his fate in a manner
becoming a brave man and a true soldier. He
had no hope of pardon or reprieve; and he
looked upon himsell as one already done with
the things of earth, and standing within the
very portals of the invisible world. And yet
he was still humane; and there were moments,
when he pictured to himself the inconsolable
grief of her he loved, that he felt his heart
quail, and that his doom was indeed terrible.
Death, abstractly considered, had no terrors
for him; it was only as regarded the living
that he trembled.

“Poor Rosalie!” he murmured—“it will
break thy fond heart, and thou wilt sink to a
premature grave! But then,” he added, in a
more cheerful mood, “we shall the sooner
meet again, to roam forever through the blissful
fields of paradise. Oh! but for thee, dearest,
and my country, I could die content—but
God's will be dene.”

As Milford said this, half aloud, he heard
footsteps in the corridor that ran past his cell.
The next moment he heard a key applied to
the lock of his door, the rattling of bolts and
chains, and as the door was thrown open, he
beheld the under turnkey, with a light in his
hand, and just behind him, somewhat in the
shade, the martial figure of Colonel Dundas.

“Ah!” said Milford—“so my hour has
come. Well, I am prepared; though if it
be now sunrise, time has flown more swiftly
than I thought.”

To this there was no answer. The turnkey
entered and took off his irons; and the
moment he stood unshackled, Colonel Dundas
said,

“Captain Milford, you will please to follow
me.”

On entering the corridor, Milford was surprised
to see no guard in attendance. He
made no comment, however, asked no questions,
but followed his military guide in silence.
He was still more surprised when he
found himself conducted to the street, instead
of to the yard of the prison, and perceived
that darkness still enshrouded the earth. A
carriage stood in front of the prison; and between
it and the steps, which he now descended,
a solitary sentinel was slowly pacing.
The latter halted, on perceiving Colonel Dundas,
and lowered his musket, in military deference
to his superior. The Colonel took no
notice of the man, but moved direct to the
carriage, the door of which was opened by a
small lad, who stood in waiting. Motioning
Milford to enter, Dundas sprang in after him,
the door was closed, the boy mounted the
rumble, the driver cracked his whip, the
horses sprang forward, and the carriage rolled
away with great velocity, bearing our hero
he knew not whither.

Milford was all amazement and perplexity;
but he asked no questions, and his military
conductor vouchsafed no explanation. On
entering the carriage, he fancied he caught a
glimpse of a figure on the forward seat; but he
was not certain; and the moment the door
closed, it was too dark within to distinguish
any object. Not a word was spoken during
the ride; and when the carriage stopped, the
door was again opened by the boy. Colonel
Dundas was the first to alight, Milford followed
next, and then, to his surprise, was in
turn followed by a female, so closely muffled
in hood and cloak that neither her figure nor
features could be seen, even had there been
light enough for the purpose. But what surprised
the Captain still more than all, was the
fact, that he had been conveyed to the bank
of the Hudson, which he could faintly perceive
flowing along before him, and at a point
of the town where there were no houses.

The whole party, as by pre-arrangement,
now moved to the edge of the water in silence
where a boat was discovered, half hidden
among a cluster of bushes, and tied to a sapling.

“There,” said Colonel Dundas, pointing to
it, “my business ends here;” and without
another word, he hastily retraced his steps to

the carriage, which was soon whirling away
and lost in the darkness.

Milferd, as may be readily conjectured, was
stupified with amazement; and he rubbed his
eyes, to assure himself it was not all a dream.
Suddenly the whole truth flashed upon him;
and advancing to the female, who seemed to
tremble at his appaoach, he exclaimed,

“Rosalie!”

There was a thrilling cry, and the next moment
his neck was encircled by the arms of
her he loved, her head was pillowed on his
manly breast, and tears and sobs alone attested
how deep were her emotions of joy.

“And have you then resolved to fly with
me, dearest?” he tenderly inquired, when
the first transports, on the part of both, had
begun to give way to calmer, but not less
happy feelings.

“Yes, dear Edgar, yes,” she murmured;
“I will fly with you, even to the end of the
earth: we must part no more.”

“Bless you, fairest and best of mortals! my
own loved one, bless you! and as I deal with
you, so may Heaven with me. Oh! this happiness
is too great for me to bear; and to you,
my own, sweet Rosalie, I owe it all—ay, even
my life and freedom—and to you, from this
moment, that life shall be devoted; and I will
guard and cherish you as a tender flower, on
which even the winds of Heaven might blow
too roughly.”

The party, the third one of which was Munee,
now entered the boat; and as Milford
rowed slowly across the stream, Rosalie gave
him a brief account of her interview with Sir
Henry Clinton.

“But how did you first learn of my arrest?”
he inquired.

“You remember Henry, Edgar?”

“Ah, yes; and so the poor lad escaped?”

“He fell behind your party in running; and
finding his pursuers gaining on him, fortunately
secreted himself till they had passed, and
afterward saw you in custody. He then hurried
home, changed his habiliments, and now
appears before you in proprio persona.”

“I do not understand you.

“Ah, Edgar,” said Rosalie, laughing, “I
fear you will think me a strange creature, and
unworthy of your high encomiums. You little
dream how often I have been your companion,
when you thought me far away. But I
have no longer a reason for concealment, and
you must know all. In a word, then, Henry
Pierpot and Rosalie Du Pont are one and the
same person.”

“Good Heavens!” cried Milford, dropping
his oars in astounding amazement, and for
some moments sitting as one stupified. “Yes,
yes,” he said, at length, “I see it all now. O,
Rosalie, Rosalie—fool, fool that I was to mistake
thee for a mullatto youth! Yes, I see it
all; and now I understand why that impertinent
lad called me Edgar in the country.”

Rosalie indulged her mirth freely, and Milford
soon joined her, though he felt chagrined
at what he considered his want of penetration;
but when she assured him that others, even
Carlini, had failed to recognize her till she
had made herself known, he became better
satisfied with himself, and replied,

“After all, dear Rosalie, you looked and
played your part so well, that, in giving you
great credit, I hope to escape being thought
a simpleton.”

“But you will forgive me, dear Edgar?”

“Forgive you? Come, come, that is too
much. I shall be happy to exchange pardons,
and still remain your debtor.”

Reader, our story has run its course, and
there is little more to be said. On reaching
the west bank of the Hudson, Milford was
soon fortunate in finding his friends, and great
was the rejoicing of all parties. Carlini, Josh,
and Dame Hagold, had all succeeded in making
their escape. They had waited in their
boat, near the city, for more than an hour,
hoping to be joined by Milford; but as he
came not, they finally gave him up for lost;
and rowing across the stream, reported to Lee
their failure. The latter was greatly disappointed,
for he had indulged the hope of soon
having the traitor in his possession; but he
was in a measure prepared for the news, having
heard the alarm that had been so uproariously
sounded. He thought it not impossible,
though improbable, that Milford might yet escape;
and had resolved to wait till daylight,
before abandoning him to his fate.

Our friends now prepared to set out for the
American camp; and just as the morning
guns resounded from the different forts, batteries,
and shipping in the harbor, and the first
streak of day shot up in the east, the cavalcade
ascended a slight eminence, whence the
city of New York could be faintly seen in the
distance. An angle of the hill soon shut it
from the view of all, more than one of whom
had beheld it for the last time.

On reaching Tappan, Major Lee, Captain
Milford, and Rosalie, at once repaired to head-quarters,
where they had an interview with
the commander-in-chief, which lasted more
than an hour. When they were about to depart,
General Washington arose, and taking
the hand of our hero, said,

“Captain Milford, I sincerely regret that
the circumstances you have named will deprive
us of so valuable an officer; but as a
man of honor, you can not serve again during
our struggle for independence. That you
have failed in your gallant attempt to seize
the traitor, I am convinced was more your
misfortune than your fault. You deserve well
of your country; and as the military executive
of the nation, I thank you for your zeal.
It was my intention, at the first suitable opportunity,
to have recommended you to Congress
for promotion; and had you volunteered
less in the great cause of liberty, perhaps your
military reward would have been greater;
though I trust that your conscience, and the
happiness I see in store for you, will be ample
compensation for what you have lost. Retire
to peaceful and domestic life, and may the
blessings of Heaven attend you! In my view,
your lot is enviable; for deeply do I long for
that time when I may be permitted to enjoy
the same quiet retirement.”

Milford was too much overcome with emotion,
to make any reply, and he pressed the
hand of the great American chieftain in silence.
Turning to Rosalie, Washington now
took her hand, and continued:

“And from you, Rosalie Arminé Countess
d'Auvergne, daughter of one of our distinguished
allies, I can not part, without returning
you my humble thanks, in behalf of that
oppressed and struggling people you have so
long and faithfully served, at so much noble,
heroic self-sacrifice. Your ladyship's history
is not unknown to me; I have long since
heard all, from your gallant friend, the noble
Marquis de Lafayette; and I, at least, can
appreciate your ladyship's generous efforts, in
behalf of the cause of liberty, as they deserve.
Nobly born, surrounded by affluence,
with a lofty title and unspotted lineage, your
ladyship might have passed your days in ease,
and luxury, and sat down an equal with the
greatest and proudest of the earthly titled.
Without ambition, because unneeded, and
because it could add nothing to the lustre of
your ladyship's name, it required naught but
the pure and generous promptings of your
ladyship's heart, to induce you to boldly venture
thousands of miles, among strangers, and
espouse a cause, which many, in your ladyship's
station, deem disgraceful, and which is
diametrically opposed to the system of monarchy
under which your ladyship was born
and bred. In consideration of all I have
named, I feel that my poor thanks is a miserable
reward for your many sacrifices; but,
Countess d'Auvergne, it is all I have to offer.
May your ladyship live to see liberty triumphant,
and in a happy and contented heart
find heaven's greatest boon, without which
earthly treasures, titles, and distinctions are
to be counted as dross.”

Rosalie was deeply affected, and it was
some moments ere she ventured to trust her
voice in reply. At length she articulated, in
a scarcely audible tone:

“Your excellency has been pleased to
overrate my poor abilities, my humble endeavors,
and to flatter me far beyond my deserts;
and had I been ambitious of reward, the present
would a hundred fold repay me for the
little I have done. I will only say, in conclusion,
that I, who have associated with kings,
princes, and the noble of the realm, now look
upon this moment as the proudest and happiest
of my life; and had I a single claim to
prefer, I wouid only ask, that I may ever enjoy
the regard and esteem of your excellency.”

A short time subsequent to the foregoing
events, the solemn, sacred ceremony, which

united in a tie indissoluble the fortunes of
Edgar and Rosalie, was performed by the
chaplain of the army, in the presence of General
Washington, the Marquis de Lafayette,
Count d'Auvergne, and many other noble and
distinguished officers of the allied armies.

Captain Milford settled in the interior of
Massachusetts, and, with his lovely wife, long
lived to enjoy the blessings of that liberty
which both so dearly prized, and to assist in
gaining which both had undergone so many
perils and privations. Rosalie received a
large fortune from her father, who, at the
close of the war, went back to his native land,
settled up his affairs, and returned to the
country of his adoption, where he lived to an
advanced age, enjoying a quiet happiness, in
being surrounded with numerous descendants,
all of whom venerated and loved him.

Munee followed the fortunes of her mistress.

Josh took up his abode with Captain Milford,
and died a confirmed old bachelor; declaring
to the last, that “he never seen a gal
he cared a cent abeout, without 'twas Sally
Stacy; and as she'd kind o' gin him the mitten,
he wasn't so darned particular abeout
her; and he guessed he'd have his revenge,
by letting all the tarnal coquette critters alone,
the rest o' his born days, and content himself
with being Capting Milford's hired man.”

George Nugent enlisted in the army, and
so distinguished himself, that, before the close
of the war, he received the commission of
Lieutenant; and, afterward, by energy and
perseverance, accumulated a fortune, which
he long lived to enjoy, under the benign reign
of peace, in the land of liberty.

Carlini found means to secretly return to
New York, where he remained, during the
war, in the tripple capacity of astrologer,
magnetizer, and spy. After the war, he took
up his abode with George Nugent, with whom
he lived till appointed to a foreign office under
the administration of Washington. He
died abroad. His early history was never
known beyond his most intimate friends, with
whom the secret perished.

Dame Hagold, we regret to say, died of
grief for the loss of her unworthy son, who
was executed by the British shortly subsequently
to the events narrated.

Paulding, Williams, and Van Wert, the
captors of Andre, were rewarded by a public
vote of thanks from Congress, an annual pension
of ten hundred dollars each for life, and
a silver medal each, from the same source,
bearing on one side the inscripton, “Fidelity,”
and on the other, “Vincit Amor Patriæ:”
“The Love of Country Conquers.”

Smith was ruined by the part he took in
the schemes of the traitor—whether innocently
or not, we have no positive means of
knowing. He was tried by a military tribunal;
but not being convicted, was handed
over to the civil authorities, from whom, after
great mental and bodily suffering, he eventually
escaped, by breaking out of prison, and
subsequently fled to England, where he published
a book, containing his adventures and
defense, in which he bitterly reflected upon
the Americans and their commander-in-chief.
His wife had previously died of bodily disease,
assisted by family affliction.

On the night when the last trial of our gallant
spies was made to seize Arnold, Sergeant
Champe was safely aboard one of the British
transports in the harbor, whither he had been
removed during the day, together with the
whole of the American Legion, preparatory
to an expedition against Virginia, to be conducted
by the traitor himself. This explanation
accounts for the absence of both Champe
and Arnold on that eventful night. The
former finally made his escape from his enemies,
in Virginia, and returned to his friends.
He afterward had an interview with Washington,
“who,” in the language of a biographer,
“munificently anticipated every desire
of the Sergeant, and presented him with a
discharge from further service, lest he might
in the vicissitudes of war, fall into the hands
of the enemy, when, if recognized, he was
sure to die on a gibbet.” The close of his
life was spent in Kentucky.

Of Arnold the traitor, we will only say in
conclusion, that, at the close of the war, he
sailed with his family for England, where, as
a general thing, he was treated with that neglect
and contumely his base conduct merited.

Men of high standing did not scruple to openly
despise and insult him; and if he ventured to
demand satisfaction, by the code of honor, the
insult was doubled and thrown back in his
teeth, by the reply, “that no gentleman could
stoop to fight a traitor.” He finally died in
obscurity, without a single friend to mourn his
loss. Surely, his fate was not an enviable
one.

Of the other characters introduced in the
foregoing pages, it is unnecessary to speak—
their names and deeds are already recorded
on the living pages of history.

Thus we close an important episode of the
American Revolution. If we have succeeded
in pleasing you, reader—in beguiling a few
hours that you will not look upon as misspent
—if we have succeeded in presenting to your
imagination one striking picture of “the times
that tried men's souls,” and arousing in your
breast one patriotic feeling for our beloved
country—one single desire to see that Union
preserved which cost our fathers so much to
establish—then is our end gained, and we
shall rest satisfied: otherwise, our labor has
been in vain. In either case, adien.