University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE BONNET BLEU.

About nine o'clock on the evening following
the events recorded in the last chapter, a youth,
wrapped in a military cloak, and wearing the bonnet
bleu, issued from a steep and narrow street in
the eastern quarter of the city of New-York into
an open square intersected by old Queen-street.
He paused in the shadow of a brick dwelling on
the corner, as if fatigued by ascending the hill, and
as if desirous, at the same time, of withdrawing
himself from the observation of the few chance
passengers while he stopped to reconnoitre the
space before him.

It was a small triangular area on the summit of
the hill, from which several streets led to different
quarters of the town. It was surrounded by dwellings
of the better sort, and, altogether, displayed a
certain air of aristocracy. The most conspicuous
of these dwellings was a large quadrangular edifice
three stories in height, facing the south, and occupying
the whole northern side of the area, and
built in that firm, massive style characteristic of
the architecture of that period when men did not
expect the world to end with their generation. A
strong battlement ran around the roof, from the
summit of which, in a clear day, was an extensive
prospect of the environs for many a league. The
main entrance to this dwelling was hospitably capacious,
and adorned with columns and carved
friezes, which elaborate style was also visible in

the strong window-frames and cornices. A narrow
lawn, garnished with a few trees, plants, and
rose-bushes, was enclosed by a strong fence of
complicated construction, with a gate in the centre
flanked by tall pillars. Each of these, at the beginning
of the war, had been crowned with a symbolic
piece of carved work representing Britannia;
but, after hostilities commenced, they were demolished,
no doubt by some pious whig. The dwelling
wore a cheerful aspect; lights were gleaming
from many windows, and dissipating, in some degree,
the gloom of the square, which otherwise was
but dimly lighted by the faint glimmer of the stars;
and occasionally a voice of merriment reached the
ear of the youthful stranger, which he echoed by
a low sigh as he folded his cloak closer about his
person, and shrank farther back within the dark
shadows of the corner. Save the occasional footfall
of a citizen hastening to his home; the heavy
tramp of a party of soldiers at the extremity of one
of the diverging streets, on their way from post to
post to relieve guard; and the slow tread of a solitary
sentinel pacing before the gate of the dwelling
we have described, there was neither sight nor sound
of human being; for, in that primitive era—aside
from the annoyances to which peaceful citizens
were subject who chanced to be abroad after nightfall
in a beleaguered and garrisoned town—people
were content to go to bed and get up with the sun.

After reconnoitring the square with timid caution,
the youth stepped briskly forth from his
concealment; and, with a bold step, crossed the
open space and advanced directly towards the gate
of the edifice. The sentinel stopped in his walk
as he observed his approach, and challenged him.
His brief, stern tones seemed to startle the stranger,
for he recoiled, and appeared to hesitate whether to

advance or retreat. The struggle, however, was but
for an instant; and, regaining his previous confident
demeanour, he approached the guard, and said, in
the tone of a youth of some seventeen years, and
with a slight foreign accent,

“Soldier, I would speak with Major Burton, if,
as I think, here are the headquarters of General
Washington.”

This is headquarters, sir,” said the sentinel,
in a respectful tone, “and I believe Major Burton
is within, Holton,” he added, to a sentinel whom
the stranger had not before observed, who was
standing in the door of the mansion, “say to the
general that a stranger desires admittance.”

“Oh no, no! not the general,” interposed the
youth, earnestly; “I wish not to see your chief, but
his aid, Major Burton.”

“See, then, if Major Burton be in, Holton.”

While he was speaking the door of the mansion
opened, and an officer made his appearance in full
uniform, accompanied by a gentleman without his
hat in a military undress, who seemed to be taking
leave of him at the door.

“Then we are to have the honour of your excellency's
presence at Brooklyn at eight in the morning?”
said the officer who was leaving.

“At eight, General Livingston,” replied the individual
addressed; “I wish to inspect your works
in person as they progress. We must defend
Long Island at all hazards; for, if we give General
Howe possession at Brooklyn, we resign him the
key of New-York.” The officer, who, as Major
Livingston, is already known to the reader, then took
his leave; and, hastily passing the sentinel, crossed
the square and disappeared through a close street
at the left leading to the East River.

“A stranger to speak with Major Burton!” repeated

the gentleman who had been addressed as
his excellency, in reply to a communication from
the guard at the door; “invite him in, and inform
that officer.”

“Pass, sir,” said the sentinel, standing aside for
the youth to enter.

He hesitated, and remained standing in the same
attitude, without making any reply, when the gentleman
stepped forth, and, approaching the gate,
said, in a manly and placid voice,

“If your business is with Major Burton, sir, and
of importance, walk in, and he shall be made acquainted
with your presence here.”

“Oh no, sir, 'tis of no importance; but, if I could
see him, I should rather not go in.”

This was said in a tone of extreme embarrassment,
as if the speaker was greatly agitated, while
the voice, which at first was bold and boyish, became
soft, and the words were tremulously uttered,
like the broken notes of a glassichord rudely swept
with the fingers.

The gentleman surveyed the speaker, who shrank
away from his glance, fixedly for a moment by the
glare of light from one of the windows; but his
face, concealed by the fold of his cloak and the
drooping front of his bonnet, defeated his curiosity,
which was at once excited by the voice and manner
of the stranger. At length, as if influenced by
a sudden resolution, he approached him and said,
in a tone calculated to sooth and restore confidence,
while it carried with it the weight of a command,

“I fear, my young sir, that we shall be compelled
to hold you under gentle arrest as one arousing
our suspicion; nay, my child,” he continued, with
paternal kindness, as he surveyed his agitated form,
“I will send for him you wish to see; I half guess
your secret already.” Partly leading, partly persuading

him, he drew him into the dwelling, conducted
him into the library on the left side of the
hall, and, closing the door, led him to a sofa, upon
which he immediately sank in excessive agitation.

“My child,” he said, in a voice of dignified tenderness,
“do not charge me with intrusive or uncalled-for
curiosity for so rudely pressing upon your
privacy. But the honour of my military family is
dear to me, and the individual you have called to
see is a member of it. The mystery of your conduct
leads me to suspect there is something wrong,
for virtue and honour neither require concealment
nor fear exposure. I have penetrated your disguise,
for your voice is all too gentle to sustain you in the
character you have assumed. Throw aside this
unsexly disguise, my child, and resume the habits
of your sex, and with openness and candour give
me your confidence. If you have suffered wrong,
as I greatly fear, you shall be righted; but if, as I
hope, good faith and honour have not been broken
by those you have trusted, you will then find in me
a friend and adviser.”

“Oh neither, neither, sir,” said the youth, covering
his features with his fingers, through which the
tears trickled freely, while his whole frame heaved
with emotion

“Then allow me to remove this unworthy headdress,”
he said, with a voice of the deepest sympathy,
at the same time gently uncovering his head,
around which fell a cloud of golden tresses, shielding
it like a veil. For an instant he gazed on the
bright abundance of wavy hair, and then, parting it
from her brow, as if he were soothing a grieved
child, he removed, one after another, the scarce
resisting fingers which strove to hide the blushing
face, and gazed with admiration upon the features

of a lovely female of seventeen, checkered with
mingled sunshine and showers.

The officer beheld with surprise, mingled with
commiseration, the face of the beautiful creature
who now stood confessed in all her feminine loveliness,
and became deeply interested in her fate.
Affectionately holding her hand within his own, he
questioned her respecting the nature of her engagements
with his aid, her name, and the place of her
birth, but her only replies were tears and blushes,
which chased one another across her cheek like rosy
clouds. The original suspicions hinted at on his
first addressing her were confirmed by her silence
and mysterious bearing, and with a clouded brow
and stern aspect he crossed the room, rang the bell,
and ordered a servant to inform Major Burton that
a stranger was in the library who desired an interview
with him.

The appearance of the gentleman who had taken
such a deep interest in the fate of the stranger was
in the highest degree dignified and commanding.
He was tall of stature, and, although his person was
large-framed, it was symmetrical, and remarkable
for the harmonious case of its motions and its lofty
carriage. His step was firm and resolute, and his
air soldierly. His address was that of an accomplished
gentleman, in which politeness was dictated
rather by the heart than by fashion or policy. His
countenance was remarkable for its power of expressing
strong emotions; and majesty dwelt upon
his expansive brow, as if nature had placed there
her seal of greatness. His eyes were full, calm,
and impressive when in repose, but when he was
excited they emitted flashes of light. The Roman
strength of his nose, the bland and quiet expression
of his habitually-closed mouth and resolute compression
of the firm lips, the massive chin and angular

cheeks, with the majestic breadth of his face,
and noble expanse of forehead, presented striking
combinations of features that could belong to no
common man. He appeared to be about forty-five
years of age, although the powdered wig which he
wore after the fashion of the period, and the lines
of thought and wisdom traced on his countenance,
gave him the appearance of being several years
older. He was without sidearms; and his dress,
which was plain, aside from its semi-military character,
exhibited no insignia of rank. Yet the maiden,
as she gazed on him and made the observations
we have recorded, was convinced that she was
in the presence of Washington.

After sending the message to his aid, he seated
himself by a table in silence and in an attitude of
deep thought, while his companion, seemingly forgotten,
remained timidly gazing, as if she would
there read her fate, upon his noble features, rendered
still more striking by a strong beam of light
from a suspended chandelier falling upon the more
prominent parts, and casting the remainder into
deep shadow.

At the sound of an approaching footstep without
the door, he turned and said to the disguised female,
“Replace your bonnet.” She obeyed mechanically,
when the door was thrown open by a servant, and a
young officer in full uniform, and with spurs, as if
he had just been on horseback, entered the room.
He gracefully approached his commanding officer,
mingling in his manner the usual forms due to the
military rank of the individual he addressed with
the gentlemanly ease of an equal in society. The
commander-in-chief rose and received him with
that dignified courtesy which never deserted him,
while the severe expression of his eye promised no
pleasing termination to an interview so inauspiciously
begun.

“Major Burton,” he said, in a grave tone and
with some sternness, “you doubtless will admit that
the honour of my military family is infinitely dear
to me?”

“It should be so, your excellency,” replied the
young officer, fixing his eyes upon him in surprise
at his words, and then casting them to the opposite
side of the room, his attention being drawn thither
by the unaccountable emotion of a third person,
whom he now for the first time discovered.

“And you are prepared to acknowledge that I
must feel a deep interest in the honour of all the
officers under my command, and will not deny my
right to inquire into the moral as well as military
character of the few who compose my staff, and
reside with me beneath the same roof?”

“I am not prepared, your excellency, either to
deny or admit the right you would claim,” replied
the officer, with some pertinacity; “but, if you
will honour me so far as to state any particular instance
which calls for the application of this system
of morals to your staff, or any under your command,
I shall then be better able to give you my
opinion.”

“I will do so, and explicitly, Major Burton,” said
the chief, with emotions of mingled displeasure and
reproof; “I am not ignorant, sir, of your vanity,
from causes which should tinge the cheek of an honourable
man with shame, nor of the testimonials
you have displayed to your brother officers, in my
presence, of the weakness of the sex which, by
every tie as a man and as a gentleman, you are
bound to protect, but which it is your boast to degrade.
This morning, sir—nay, your hand need not
seek your weapon! Hear me! In that very hall
I overheard you shamefully boast to a group of officers
of an instance of successful passion, wherein

you had grossly violated the solemn bonds of friendship.
It would appear, sir, that, like the Indian
who preserves the scalps of his foes, you delight
to cherish trophies of your victories, where defeat
would be honour, though it could not lessen your
infamy.”

“You presume, General Washington,” replied
the young officer, trembling with passion, “upon
your rank to insult me. From this moment I resign
my commission, and then you shall meet me
where your rank shall not protect your tongue. But
I beg leave to ask your excellency,” he added, in a
tone of inconceivable sarcasm, “from which of your
trusty spies you have heard of some recent, and,
as it appears, aggravated liason, that you call me
to so severe an account?”

“Approach that trembling child, who has sought
you out even in the headquarters of your commanding
officer, which at least should be sacred from the
atmosphere of licentiousness, and let your own conscience,
sir, answer the question.”

The young aiddecamp approached the disguised
female, who had listened with fearful excitement
to this accusation. She threw aside her disguise,
and, with a bound and a wild cry of joy, sprang
into his arms.

“Eugenie!” he cried, pressing her to his heart,
the angry cloud on his brow giving place to an expression
of pleasure; “what grateful gale has wafted
you hither?”

The maiden clung to the neck upon which she
had flung herself, but spoke not. He raised her, and
found that she had fainted. The general, moved by
the scene, pulled the bell, and ordered two of the
maids to be sent to him, when, by his direction,
the insensible girl was removed to the apartments
of his lady, and the two gentlemen were left alone.

For some time they remained silent, differently affected
by the events that had occurred, when the
elder officer, in a voice of stern displeasure, said,

“Major Burton, here is another trophy of your
victories. If your heart was steeled against so
much innocence and beauty, her affection, at least,
should have pleaded eloquently in her behalf. Thus
to blast the fairest piece of God's workmanship, to
desecrate so fair a temple, is worthy the genius
only of a demon. Leave me, sir! from this hour
we are strangers.”

“Ay, and mortal foes!” replied Burton, striking
his sword till it rang again; and, with a flashing eye
and a haughty step, he left the apartment.

With a single word he might have cleared his
own honour from the dark stain which, in the opinion
of his superior officer, tarnished it; but resentment
at being so boldly charged with crimes which,
though not amenable to the laws, were unworthy of
a gentleman and a man of honour, deterred him from
offering any defence or explanation. This silence,
however, could be traced to another cause, peculiar
to the seducer of female innocence: the secret pleasure
he experienced in being thought the beloved
possessor of so much confiding loveliness, even
when the opinion was coupled with dishonour to
himself. It was a kind of gratification too exquisitely
enjoyed by him to be willingly resigned; and,
therefore, rather than renounce a triumph so nearly
allied to his vanity, he willingly permitted his own
reputation to suffer, on the present occasion, at least,
innocently, and the fair fame of the lovely girl, who
had abandoned for him all but honour, to be blighted,
if not for ever blasted.

Hastily passing through the hall, he ordered his
horse, and, mounting at the gate, turned a corner
to the right and spurred up Queen-street into Broadway;

then, again turning to the left, he dismounted
before a large brick mansion imbowered in trees and
wearing an antiquated air of respectability. It stood
a little back from the street, with which it was connected
by an avenue of trees. A negro servant was
holding two or three horses at the gate; throwing
his bridle to him, he inquired if President Hancock
had yet left town on his return to Congress. On
receiving a reply that he would not leave till morning,
he hastily ascended the stone steps to the door,
and was admitted into a lighted hall.

“Give this card,” he said to a footman, “and say
the bearer desires to see President Hancock in
private.”

The servant entered a room to the left, from
which, as the door opened, several voices were
heard in lively conversation, and in a few moments
a gentleman came forth, richly dressed and with
his hair highly powdered, which he covered by a
cocked hat as he came out into the hall, as if to protect
his head against the evening air.

“Ha, Major Burton, my young soldier, how do
you do?” he exclaimed, in a hearty, cordial tone and
manner; “'tis some time since I have seen you.
Upon my soul, I can almost believe it is my old
friend, your father, I am speaking to; you are his
genuine scion. But come in, come in; there's Sullivan,
Putnam, and a host of `goodlie companie.”'

“No, sir,” replied the young officer, returning
his warm salutation, “I beg leave to decline your
invitation. I have called on you, as an old friend
of my father, to ask your advice before taking an
important step.” Offering his arm, he then led
him forth into the avenue, and stopped beneath a
tree which overshadowed it.

“You shall receive all the benefit my advice
can bestow. But why this secrecy, this clouded
brow, this solemn air?”

“I have been grossly insulted this evening by
the commander-in-chief, and, knowing that you arrived
this morning from Philadelphia, I have hastened
hither to consult with you, as my father's
friend and the president of Congress, respecting
my withdrawal from the service.”

“Leave the service, my young sir, for a hasty
word or so? That will never do, Major Burton;
your services are too valuable to be lightly dispensed
with.”

“But, your excellency, I cannot longer remain
in the family of General Washington; and his language
to me has been so personal, that I wish to
meet him on ground where grades of rank shall offer
no obstacle to an honourable satisfaction.”

“That is to say, Major Burton,” observed the
governor, gravely shaking his head, “that you wish
to meet the commander-in-chief in single combat.”

“That is my wish, your excellency,” he replied,
decidedly. “If the high rank of an officer does not
restrain him from inflicting injury, it ought not to
protect him from the resentment of the wronged.”

“True, my dear Major Burton; but it will never
do for you to send a challenge to your superior
officer. He will, in the first place, pay no regard
to it, and it will do you infinite harm. I will not
inquire into the nature of the injury you have received,
but I think there must have been a mutual
misunderstanding. General Washington, you are
aware, has a good deal of the lion's irritability as
well as his courage, and your own blood is not
over cool.”

“Does your excellency mean to say the commander-in-chief,
like the king, can do no wrong?”

“Not so, my gentle Hotspur, but that you had
best pass it by. But do not think of retiring from
a profession you are so well calculated to adorn,

and wreck your future hopes in life for the hasty
words of your superior officer.”

“I regret, your excellency,” said Burton, with
energy, “that I cannot comply with your advice.
I will not return to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief.”

“But, my dear Burton, you should subdue this
sensitive and fiery spirit which kindles so readily.
'Twill one day bring evil upon your head and
blood upon your hand. But, I beg your pardon, I
meant neither to advise nor reprove. As your prejudice
is only against an individual, and not the
service, I think I have a plan to retain you still.
How would you like the staff of General Putnam?
If the appointment would please you, I will speak
to Putnam this moment, and you can at once remove
to his quarters.”

The young soldier hesitated a moment, and then
said, “Willingly, your excellency.”

“Then excuse my absence, and I will inform
him of your wishes.”

He entered the house, and soon returned, accompanied
by a gentleman in the uniform of an
officer of high rank.

“My dear Burton,” said the president, “I have
preferred bringing Putnam to you, as the thing is
better settled in a quiet way here than before a
room full. I have told him that you are dissatisfied
with your present station in the commander-in-chief's
military family, and that you would like a
similar appointment in his own.”

“Major Burton,” said the officer, in a frank and
manly way, in which good-nature predominated,
“I feel honoured by your choice, and cheerfully
comply with your own and the president's wish.
I shall be happy to have you breakfast with the
ladies and myself in the morning. I shall,” he

laughingly added, “have a brace of protégées, but
of different metal, in one day. The daughter of a
Major Ney, now with Percy on Staten Island,
sent me a letter this morning, dated Elizabethtown,
saying she was anxious to reach her father, and
desiring my assistance and protection until she
could do so. So I have sent for her, and she has,
no doubt, arrived by this time. I am told she's a
beauty, and a little devil in her way. So, Major
Burton, I give you fair warning.”

Here Major Burton took a cordial leave of the
two gentlemen, who re-entered the house to rejoin
the party they had left, while with rapid steps he
traversed the avenue, mounted his horse, galloped
to the quarters he had left, and precipitately
sought his room. Securing the door, he cast
himself upon his bed in a fever of excitement
caused by the events of the evening. His brain
whirled, and his thoughts, like the rapid changes
of a kaleidoscope, took a thousand shapes and retained
none. At length he became calmer, and
was enabled to reflect deliberately on the incidents
of the night. His resentment at the dictatorial position
assumed by his commanding officer finally
gave place to his wonder at the mysterious appearance
of Eugenie; and, as he recalled the scene, he
could hardly convince himself that it was not all a
dream.

When he last beheld her she was leaning from
the prison window of the chateau, waving her fair
hand till it was no longer visible. Amid the stirring
scenes through which he had since passed, her
image had gradually faded from his heart, or had
been replaced by others, to hold there an equally
ephemeral existence. Not more than seven months
had expired, and yet Eugenie was forgotten, or only
remembered with that kind of feeling with which

some men look back upon an opportunity when they
might have gained an unlawful advantage which,
from some compunctious visitings, they permitted
to pass unimproved and now regret. That he sincerely
loved Eugenie at that time does not admit
of question. It was, perhaps, to the depth and
sincerity of his love—conquering and excluding
passion, which, in a case where the heart was less
engaged, would have reigned paramount—to which
alone the guileless novice owed her preservation
from the imminent danger to which her attachment
then exposed her.

The commonly repeated adage, that man can love
but once and love truly, will only be true when
Cupid bears but one shaft in his quiver. The
youthful heart has not been inappropriately compared
to soft wax, on which impressions are easily
made and as easily effaced. The daily experience
of life shows us that men, and women too, can love
many times, and love well and heartily. There is
not a schoolboy but has loved in turn every pretty
schoolmate who would deign to look kindly upon
him with her laughing eyes; and there are few instances
where a man marries the maiden who stole
his heart in his teens. There is no passion to which
the youthful heart is so susceptible, and which it
so readily receives, and none so evanescent when
the object is removed, as love. This is not so true
of the female as of the male sex. Love in the
heart of woman may be likened to that mysterious
principle in the vine, causing it to stretch forth
and curve its tendrils, and which gives it a tendency
to cling around the neighbouring trunks and limbs
for support, at the same time relieving them by its
graceful beauty. 'Tis thus woman, guided by love,
clings to man. He, like the unbending oak, towers
proudly in his own strength, and needs not this principle
of support.

For a few days the lover had cherished the image
of Eugenie with religious devotion. But gradually
it faded away, or was obliterated by a fresh impression.
It was not so, however, with the lovely
novice. Love, once admitted into her heart, she
gave herself up to that delightful abandonment of
the senses it produces. Her thoughts became intoxicated
with delight, while her soul seemed to be
suddenly endowed with new being; and she experienced
the most ecstatic enjoyment in the contemplation
of one, the knowledge of whom had unfolded
to her a new element of happiness. Day
after day she feasted on the luxurious banquet love
had spread before her senses, till her passion, resembling
fire in its purity and strength, partook
also of its intensity, gradually began to consume
the rose in her cheek and dim the liquid brilliancy
of her eye.

At length Governor Carleton, who continued to
extend a parental regard towards her, in order to
restore her health and spirits, permitted her to visit
Saratoga, even at that early period celebrated for
its springs, in company with a Canadian family,
which had obtained the necessary passports, and
were going to try the effect of the waters. Eugenie
embraced this proposal, for it would bring her
nearer her lover, from whom she had not even
heard since his escape; so ungrateful are ardent
lovers when they once forget the object of their
passion.

After a few weeks spent at the springs, the Canadian
party proceeded to New-York previous to
their embarcation for Charleston, where they intended
to spend the winter. They had arrived in
a Hudson river packet on the morning of the day
we have again introduced Eugenie to the reader.
The impatient maiden, on making inquiries

at the rooms her friends had taken in Broadway,
and learning that her recreant lover was in the
city and had been for some weeks an aiddecamp
to the commander-in-chief, waited impatiently until
nightfall, and then, with more of romantic passion
and womanly devotion than, perhaps, maidens countenance
at the present day, sallied forth in disguise
to seek him. Although a stranger in the town, this
was no very difficult enterprise, as New-York at
that period was not so large as Providence in
Rhode Island at the present day; and the headquarters
of the commander-in-chief were too conspicuous
not to be readily found, even in a place
of much greater extend and by a less anxious seeker.