University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE COUNCIL.

The setting sun flung his red beams over the
battle-field, tinging the atmosphere with a sanguine
hue, as if Nature sympathized with the scenes that
had just been enacted there, and glanced also upon
the plume and armour of an English horseman,
who was riding slowly over the ground towards the
British camp. The green fields and the pleasant
woods were strewn with the dead and the dying;
and the rivulets, which had meandered musically
in the morning through glens and over rocky beds,
were choked with dead bodies and turned from their
natural channels, their bloody waves staining their
banks with a crimson hue. Death in its most horrible
forms lay before the horseman's eyes for many
a mile. Beneath a perpendicular rock, against
which, facing his foes, it appeared, he had bravely

and desperately fought, lay an old man, his white
locks begrimed with gore from a deep cut in his
aged temples. He wore the dress of a yeoman of
the soil; of one who had thrown down the sickle to
grasp the sword in defence of his home. On either
side of him lay two youths, also dead, their bodies
pierced with many a ghastly wound. They bore
the old man's likeness upon their features, and had
died, no doubt, in defending the life of him who
gave them their own. Beside them lay a gory
heap of slain Hessians, the last and uppermost of
the pile, with his hand on the breast of the old man,
whose sword and that of one of his sons were both
buried in his body. The three seemed to have died
in one and the selfsame struggle. Farther on, beside
a brook that ran with blood, lay a soldier on his
face touching the red water with his lips; he had
crawled there, as it appeared from the bloody track
behind him in the grass, to quench his burning
thirst; but the water was turned to blood, and so he
died. At the foot of a spreading oak, beneath whose
widely-flung branches a thousand soldiers might,
at noonday, stand in the shade, were strewn half a
score of combatants. They were lying in every
shape of death around the trunk, as if it had been
an altar which the devotees of liberty had defended
with their blood. Against the tree leaned one
pale, and with an expression of anguish on his face;
one hand was pressed against his side, from which
the blood slowly oozed, and his eyes from time to
time rolled upward, and his parched lips moved as
if in unwonted prayer. Half way to the summit
of a little mound overgrown with fern sat a youth,
bareheaded, upon the dank ground, holding in his
arms the head of an old man who was already a
corpse; but he nevertheless still continued to bathe
his brows and lips from his helmet with water,
which, with filial piety, he had taken from the
stream running past at the foot of the hill.

On the verge of the field where the fight had
been thickest, their bodies upright against a hedge,
and eying each other with glazed eyeballs, stood,
face to face, stark and stiff, two dead men, each
with his bayonet buried in his fellow's bosom. Beside
them sat a horse on his haunches, with a sword
quivering in his breast, both his hind legs broken
by a cannon-ball. In vain, with terrible groans, he
strove to raise himself to his feet, and with his
teeth to draw the weapon from his chest. His
forefeet rested upon the corpse of his rider, whose
breast he had broken in with his hoofs as he
pawed the earth in the fierceness of his rage and
pain. Suddenly a bugle wound high and clear in
a distant part of the field: the noble animal replied
with a loud neigh; sprung with supernatural
energy upon his feet; stood an instant, then reeled,
tottered, and fell back dead.

Farther on, directly in the path of the horseman,
a youth lay upon his side. His face was as calm
as if he slept beneath his own peaceful roof-tree,
which, perchance, he had but recently left, followed
by a mother's prayers, and, perhaps, a maiden's
tears. A rifle ball had entered his temples, and,
the wound bleeding inwardly, had left but a slight
orifice. His hair fell in natural waves over his
forehead, which calmly rested in his hand. His
marble cheek only told that he slept the sleep that
never knows a waking. From his hand had fallen
a fowling-piece, which was lying beside him, discharged;
his companion in many a rural hunt, and
aimed only at forest game, it did not avail him in
the field of human contest. The hand that had
clasped it was placed in his bosom over a miniature,
worn, by a chain of silken brown hair, about

his neck. The horseman paused a moment to
contemplate the scene, and then rode on.

“Alas!” he said, sighing, “alas, poor maiden!
This day has filled thy young heart with grief!
Thou wilt see him for whom thou watchest no
more! Relentless war! The soldier's steel pierces
doubly! It strikes not only through his foeman's
bosom, but pierces the heart of wife, mother,
and mistress with the same fatal blow. If we
numbered the fallen in battle not alone by counting
broken heads or gashed limbs, but also by numbering
the broken and crushed hearts of those who,
in secret and silent suffering, fall with the slain, our
catalogue would swell! Oh, war, war! When
will an evil that assimilates earth to hell have an
end?”

“When the kings and princes of the earth shall
learn to fear the King of kings! When justice and
the love of the truth shall live in the hearts of those
who sit in high places! When men's hearts are
turned from the vanities of this world to seek after
the realities of the next! When, at the second
coming, He shall come who came first! Then
shall the sword be turned into a ploughshare, and
the spear into a pruning hook! Then shall all nations
know the Lord, that he ruleth in the armies
of heaven and over the inhabitants of the earth!
Then shall the lion lie down with the lamb, and
the child play with the adder! Then shall men forget
war, and the rumours of war shall cease; the
nations shall delight themselves in the abundance
of peace, and each man sit under his own vine and
fig-tree, with none to molest or make them afraid!
Then will the devil be bound in chains, and Israel
conquer for evermore. Verily, thou art answered,
son of Belial!”

The horseman turned at this unexpected reply

to his soliloquizing interrogation, and beheld, sitting
on a stone a few feet distant, a middle-aged
man, with a sallow complexion, and lank, straight
black hair, which came over his forehead nearly to
his eyebrows, and was cut perfectly square above
them. His face was long, sharp, and thin; his
cheeks hollow and cadaverous, with angular bones.
His brows were black and shaggy, and a pair of
wild, lambent gray eyes glowed beneath them with
the expression of incipient insanity. His garments,
which were of a faded black colour and much worn,
were shaped after the fashion of the followers of
Penn. He leaned on a musket, and appeared, by
a red silk handkerchief tied around his knee, to
have been wounded. The horseman gazed upon
him with curiosity as he spoke in a wild, enthusiastic
manner, with a sharp nasal voice, and with a
volubility of tongue that betrayed familiarity with
extemporaneous speaking.

When he had concluded his address, he folded
his hands upon his musket, and, shutting his eyes,
began, in the same nasal strain, to chant, with a
prolonged accent upon every other syllable, a hymn
to the tune of Old Hundred, of which the horseman
could only remember the following words of
the last two stanzas:

“My good sir,” said the horseman, smiling, “methinks
your own bones have been broken instead of
your enemies', and that you rather have been watering
the ground with your blood than your tears.”

“Thou art a Gentile! a son of Ishmael and a
lost child of Mammon! an enemy of the Lord and
his saints, and an oppressor thereof! Wherefore
comest thou here with thy proud trappings, which
are the livery of the devil, to mock me? Thy
voice is yet warm with shouting to the battle
against my brethren! Thy sword is reeking with
the blood of the slain! Thou hast now conquered!
But we have the sword of the Lord and of Gideon,
and the day shall come when ye will be driven
from the land like locusts! Ride, ride!” he added,
sternly, “and leave me to the devotions thou
hast interrupted.”

“Thy devotions are likely to be again disturbed,”
said the horseman, as a party appeared numbering
the slain, carrying off the wounded, and securing
what prisoners they might fall in with.

At this moment three or four of the party, seeing
the horseman, rode up, and the foremost, passing
him with a respectful military salutation, approached
the wounded rebel with his pistol levelled.

“Surrender, prisoner!”

“Verily, I will not surrender to thee, Philistine!”
said the man, without moving; “if thou wilt have
my weapon, get thee down and take it.”

The soldier, with a suppressed oath, sprung from
his horse to seize his musket, when, springing suddenly
upon him as he was releasing his foot from
the stirrup, the man struck him to the ground with
a single blow of his fist; then, drawing the sabre
of the fallen dragoon, he waved it above his
head, shouting, “The sword of the Lord and of
Gideon!”

Before the mounted officer could interfere, one
of the comrades of the dragoon levelled his pistol
and fired. The sabre fell from his grasp, and, rolling

his eyes wildly, he sunk upon the ground, muttering—“of
the Lord and of Gid—” and breathed
out his life.

The horseman paused a moment and gazed
thoughtfully upon the body.

“When will a war end,” he mused, reflectingly,
“that draws the patriarch from his fireside, the
ploughman from his field, the youth from his betrothed,
and the enthusiast from his humble pulpit,
to share its dangers? Never will a people be conquered
who, actuated by the same feeling, rise as
one man, and expose their breasts as a bulwark to
their liberties! From their wonderful Congress and
their remarkable leader down to the lowest hind,
these Americans seem to be actuated by one sentiment.
It must be a long and fruitless struggle to
subdue such a people! We have gained a victory
to-day, indeed; but defeat will only rally men, engaged
in such a cause as these are, in greater numbers.
For every dead patriot that lies on this
dearly-purchased field, ten men will rise up to
avenge his death. A rebel army is like the fabled
hydra; new heads spring multiplied from the bleeding
trunk. Well, Chester,” he said to an orderly
sergeant who rode up as he passed the outposts of
the British camp, “you look as if you bore a message.”

“I do, my lord, and was now on my way to your
quarters. 'Tis from General Howe.”

“I am riding to meet him. Continue on to his
tent. I follow.”

They galloped forward and entered the camp,
which was not yet quite settled into military order.
At one place they passed a party of wounded soldiers
sitting on the ground, and a surgeon inspecting
their wounds, which were bound up hastily, but
firmly and skilfully, by two of his assistants. On

the opposite side a company were eating their supper
before a half-spread tent that some of their comrades
were pitching; while far beyond were regiments
or smaller detachments similarly occupied,
and all presenting a busy, bustling scene. Farther
on, a line was drawn up, and an officer was preparing
the report of the missing in the day's fight;
the fortunate soldiers—themselves unharmed, and
perhaps, on that account, the more gay—careless,
cheerful, and unconcerned. Those among them
who in the morning stood far removed from each other
by intervening comrades, and now found themselves
shoulder to shoulder as they assembled at this
roll-call, made even their contiguity a matter of jesting;
happy in their own escape, they were forgetful
of their fellows who but a little while before had
separated them. Companies that now heard themselves
commanded by a strange voice obeyed mechanically,
nor seemed to mark the absence of their
usual leader. The officer made these observations
as he slowly rode through the camp; at length he
came upon a more open space to the right, and in
front of the lines of the Americans, who were silently
lying on their arms within their defences, and a
livelier scene presented itself. A tall pavilion was
spread in an area surrounded by many smaller tents,
and above it waved in the evening wind, and flashing
in the setting sun, the red tri-crossed flag of Great
Britain. Around this tent were gathered several
British officers; some in pairs, conversing as they
walked backward and forward before the pavilion;
others, in small groups, both on horseback and on
foot, talking earnestly, and pointing towards the intrenchments
of the enemy or the distant city, the
spires of which, flaming in the sun, could be distinctly
seen from this point of observation; and one
or two were sitting beside a third, who reclined
upon a cloak, and seemed to be suffering from recent
wounds. Around the tent and outside the
groups of officers were posted sentinels, who paced
their silent round with the formal indifference of automatons.
Nearer the tent, and within the groups
of officers, was a second chain of sentinels, two of
which, with fixed bayonets, stood before the door to
guard the entrance. In the door also stood an officer
with a drawn sword, as if stationed there in the
discharge of his duty. Everything indicated that
the pavilion was the headquarters of the conqueror,
who had pitched his tent in the face of the enemy
on the field he had won.

The horseman rode forward and dismounted at
the first station in front, where several richly-caparisoned
horses, held by privates, stood in readiness
for their riders to mount at a moment's warning.

Here leaving his horse, he walked through the
group of officers, who stood aside with marks of
deep respect as he approached; while two or three
others, whose rank and friendship allowed them
the liberty, addressed him familiarly, and congratulated
him on the success of the day. After exchanging
a few words with them in relation to some
individual exploits on the field, and shaking his
head at a guess ventured by one of the young officers,
that the Americans might make a sally and
attack them in their camp during the night, he entered
the tent of the British general. The pavilion,
though conspicuous in the tented field, was only
so from its size and peculiarly beautiful shape;
otherwise it was plain as those of the common
soldiers. A straw carpet or Indian mat was laid
upon the ground; and several camp-stools, covered
with the rich carpeting of Brussels, a portable mahogany
table, above which, suspended from the

centre of the dome of the tent by a cord, hung a
massive bronzed lamp, and a narrow cott bed, with
a military cloak thrown over it, constituted the sole
furniture of the warrior's abode. A bass-drum
standing near the entrance, one or two bugles, and
several swords and articles of uniform lying about
on the ground or thrown upon the seats, relieved
the air of nakedness it would otherwise have worn,
and added to its warlike character.

Around the table, at their wine, sat four gentlemen,
three of whom were evidently of high military
rank in the British army; the fourth wore the uniform
of an American major-general. They were
conversing in an animated manner as the stranger
entered.

“Good even, my Lord of Cornwallis,” said one
of the gentlemen, a tall, noble-looking soldier, who
sat at the head of the table, rising to meet his guest
with an open, frank countenance, and an air of a
man of high rank; “I rejoice with you on the success
of his majesty's arms this day.”

“A great victory, Sir Henry, but dearly purchased
with the lives of many of our bravest officers,
and some four or five hundred men.”

“No, no, my lord, not dearly purchased with all
our lives. Freely would I sacrifice mine to end
this war, and bring back these erring colonists to
their allegiance. I beg your pardon, General Sullivan,”
he said, turning with courtesy to the American
officer, “but you must train your ears to hear
plain language in a royal camp. My lord,” he
continued, “I have the honour of making known
to you our brave enemy, for such is the fortune
of war, and distinguished prisoner, Major-general
Sullivan.”

The American bowed with cold and distant politeness;
the English earl with a cordial and friendly

manner, as if he respected his situation, and, so
far as politeness would extend, sought to lessen his
embarrassment. With one of the other gentlemen
he shook hands, at the same time addressing him
familiarly as Percy; to the fourth, who appeared
to be a foreigner, he slightly and haughtily bent
his head, a salutation that was returned with equal
hauteur; and then, seating himself between Sir
Henry Clinton and the American general, the conversation,
which had been interrupted, by his entrance,
was continued:

“So, general,” said Lord Percy to General Clinton,
“you do not attempt to force the lines in the
morning?”

“By no means. I am not adviser of the actual
strength of the enemy, and am unwilling to commit
anything to hazard.”

“It ish kreat victoories, vat ve gain by our swort
dis day,” said the foreign-looking officer, whose
breast was covered with insignia of military rank,
prefacing his remark with a tremendous oath, “ant
it were petter, lords and gentlemans, to holt on vat
ve have cot; von pird in de push, as you English
proverb say, wort two in de hant.”

General Sullivan stared at the speaker, and a
smile of contempt curled his lip as he glanced from
him to the British general. Clinton understood
him, and whispered in his ear,

“You don't admire my Hessian ally. But in
him you see how ignorance of a language undignifies,
as it were, and lays a man of education, sense,
and talent open to contempt and ridicule. I cannot
hear De Heister speak English without laughing
and losing my respect for him; but, when I
hear him converse in his own tongue, I am forced
to respect his eloquence and admire his genius.
He is as noble in German as he is low in English.

It is for this very reason I never speak a language
that I do not well understand. We wear foreign
languages like foreign garments, awkwardly and
ridiculously.”

General Sullivan assented with a nod to the truth
of this remark.

“I do not quite agree with you, General de
Heister,” said the Earl of Percy in the blandest
tones, and with the smile which usually prefaced
his remarks, “if it is your intention to be satisfied
with beating about the bush—to carry out your
very happy figure—and not enter to catch the bird.
It is my opinion,” he continued, turning, with his
usual formal dignity, to General Clinton, “that we
should make an attempt at daybreak to force the
enemy's lines. Men that could fly—I intend no
offence to your feelings, General Sullivan,” he said,
bowing apologetically, “as they fled this day, can
have little stomach to withstand a well-directed
charge from their victors. What says my Lord of
Cornwallis?”

“As I am a late participator in your councils,
gentlemen,” replied this nobleman, “I will listen
further to the expression of your several opinions
before I decide. Will General Clinton oblige me
by informing me of the course he has decided to
pursue?”

“It is to encamp here until to-morrow night, and
refresh the army, and then break ground in form.
General Howe has been riding over the field, and
reports that, within six hundred yards of a redoubt
on our left, we can work with ease and be defended
by the shipping. We shall press them so closely,
that, with the sea behind, their only alternative
will be to surrender prisoners of war.”

“I coincide with you,” said Cornwallis, after a
moment's reflection. “It will not only save bloodshed,

but ensure the entire dispersion of their force,
which even a successful attack might not do.
Howe is of the same mind, you say?”

“He is, and should now be with us. He left
shortly after the fate of the day was decided to
communicate with his brother Lord Howe, who
had returned on board his frigate. They will, no
doubt, soon be here to aid our councils. Percy,
you are silent,” he added; “shall we not be honoured
with the weight of your influence?”

“I resign my opinion, being in the minority,” he
said, bowing to them; “but,” he continued, pleasantly,
“if the rebels escape our hands thorough our
delay, I shall be sure, like the good wife in the tale,
to remind you that I told you so.”

“The responsibility rests with me, and I cheerfully
assume it,” said Clinton. “There is no danger,
judging from their play to-day, that they will
outgeneral us. I have never been more astonished
than at the carelessness shown by the enemy.
They left their passes open as if they had invited
us to enter. The genius of your chief, General
Sullivan, appears to have deserted him on this occasion.”

“A judicial blindness,” said Percy, dryly.

“Not so,” said Sullivan, his eyes kindling with
animation; “it was no fault of Washington. In
my presence he charged General Putnam, who
took the command at Brooklyn, in the most earnest
manner, to be in constant readiness for an attack,
and to guard most strictly the passes through the
heights. His orders were explicit, and so often enforced
respecting the defence of these outposts,
that he evidently regarded them as of the last degree
of importance, and seemed to foresee the consequences
of their being left without a sufficient
guard.”

“Then Putnam's laurels are somewhat tarnished,”
said Lord Percy.

“Nor was it Putnam's fault, my lord,” said Sullivan,
turning to him. “If any are tarnished, they
are my own, for I commanded the troops without
the lines, although during the action I was joined
by Putnam. Detachments of troops occupied by
my direction all the highland passes, and should
have interrupted the advance of your column.”

“Our patrols, it is true, encountered a small
body of troops before daybreak in the eastern pass;
but, after discharging their firearms, they threw
them down and surrendered, and we entered the
gorge without interruption. No doubt one or two
must have escaped in the darkness, and I am sur
prised you had no intimation of our approach till
we came upon you.”

“It is alone owing to our entire destitution of
horse. Our army did not contain a single corps of
cavalry. Had we been in possession of a few hundred
lighthorse to act as videttes, stationing them
at each of the passes, your approach would have
been communicated to us in time to have prevented
this movement from being so fatal to our army.”

“But, Sir Generale,” said De Heister, “dere
vas no use for de horse ven de van vas drawn off
vrom Vlatbush to Vlatland last nicht. Den you no
see de column move—ah! de horse no see in de
dark more petter nor von rebel.”

“Videttes, General de Heister, seem to me to
have been equally necessary then,” said Lord
Cornwallis; “foot are of no use half a mile in
front of lines. Videttes are the antenna of an encamped
army; they are as useful, and are of better
service to a general than the hundred eyes of
Argus would be.”

“It is entirely to the want of videttes that the

fortune of the day has been decided against us,”
said General Sullivan; “and to no other causes can
be ascribed our ignorance of your movements.”

“Dere be no use of de vidette now for your
army, Generale Sullivane,” said De Heister, ironically;
“dey can see us plain if dey poke de top
of der head above de parapete.”

“Horse neither will be useful, nor will they have
room for action in the lines, I allow,” replied Sullivan;
“so you will be met on more equal terms.”

“How think you, general,” asked Percy, twirling
like a top a wineglass on the board as he spoke,
“the news of this battle will affect Congress?
Such a defeat, with your forces besieged on a
small peninsula without resources, must bring this
body to our own terms, if only to save its army
from certain destruction.”

“The events of this day, doubtless, will give a
gloomy aspect to our affairs, both in Congress and
Parliament; but, after the first shock is over, they
will have a tendency to bind the colonies more
firmly together. The safety of our army is a light
weight thrown into the scale, my lord, against a
nation's freedom. New armies will rise from the
ashes of the old, and, like the young phœnix, in renewed
strength and vigour.”

“Here be generale my Lord Howe,” said De
Heister, tossing off a glass of wine, and going to
the door of the tent as a trampling of horses' feet
was heard without.

The next moment voices were heard at the
door, and a stout, handsome man, in the prime of
life, with sun-browned cheeks and a cheerful and
benevolent countenance, wearing the uniform of a
British admiral, accompanied by a taller and sterner
man in the dress of an English general officer,
entered with some haste.

“Ah, De Heister,” he said, “I am told your German
blood was up to-day: no doubt you wore out
two good Toledos. Cornwallis, your most obedient!
Why, you look as grave as if you were a
prisoner and not a conqueror. My Lord of Percy,
you've got something worth smiling at to-day!
Clinton, I see you are at your Te Deum. Well,
my old chaplain says wine maketh the heart glad.
Ha!” he added, his countenance suddenly changing
to one of deep respect and sympathy as his eye
fell on the American general, “have I the pleasure
of seeing General Sullivan?”

“You do, my lord,” said the American; “our
present meeting is not like our former one.”

“It is not, sir; but such is the fortune of war,”
answered Lord Howe, seating himself at the table.
His companion, after bowing with dignity and in
silence to the gentlemen present, took a seat a little
to one side, as if from habit or natural reserve he
shunned communion with his fellow-men, and chose
rather to be an observer than a sharer of their pursuits.
Yet his voice was equal with the noblest in
that council by his rank as the brother of Lord
Howe, and his opinions entitled to high consideration
from the extent of his military talents.

“Gentlemen,” said Sullivan, rising, “permit me
to leave you to your councils, to the freedom of
which my presence, I fear, will be a bar.”

“Remain, if you please, General Sullivan,” said
General Howe, taking his hand as he passed him;
“we have an important trust in prospect for you,”
he added, with gravity; “our discussions need not
now be kept secret, even from our enemies.”

“From which,” said the American, smiling, and
resuming his chair, “I must infer that we are too
feeble to take any measures to oppose the accomplishment
of your decisions.”

“It is dat very truth, mine Generale Sullivane!
dere is too much ob defeat total for de rebel to be
wort noting more. You be altogedder vat ve say
in de Fransh, hors de combat. Is it not so, my
lor?”

“You have made it out very clearly, De Heister,”
said Lord Howe, in reply. “Gentlemen, I
beg leave to solicit your opinions in relation to the
use we are to make of this victory. My brother,
the general here, and myself, you are aware, have
full power to compromise this unhappy misunderstanding
between Great Britain and her colonies.
It was to obtain this authority I was detained two
months in London; unfortunately, too long; for
the Congress of the states had declared their independence
when, at length, I reached here. This
was sincerely to be regretted, as, before this decisive
step had been taken, our differences could
have been accommodated on terms mutually advantageous
to both.”

“Were those terms taxation with representation,
my lord?” asked General Sullivan.

“Not exactly; but the conditions of pacification
would no doubt have been acceptable to the belligerant
parties.”

“Never, my lord,” replied Sullivan, firmly; “for
taxation and representation cannot, on the principles
of the British constitution, whose privileges we
claim, be separated.”

“We will waive, if you please, this point of discussion,
General Sullivan,” said Lord Howe. “Although
your Congress has assumed the attitude and
dignity of a political body, I cannot treat with them
in this character, and thereby virtually acknowledge
their claim to be so considered. I am desirous,
however, of having an interview with two or
three of its prominer members, whom I shall look

upon only as private gentlemen met to consult on
mutual public interests. If I can obtain the consent
of some of these gentlemen to a conference, especially
of Franklin, I will meet them in a private
capacity wheresoever they shall appoint.”

“It is our duty, gentlemen,” quietly observed
General Howe, “to avail ourselves of the impression
the defeat of their army will make in the Colonial
Congress, and to open a negotiation in conformity
with our power as the king's commissioners;
although, as his lordship has just observed, we
are not empowered to recognise them as a constitutional
assembly. Can you, gentlemen, perceive
reasons why this step should not be taken?”

“It meets with my cordial approbation,” said
Clinton.

“And my own,” replied Lord Percy; “but I fear
your interview, gentlemen, will bring forth little
fruit.”

“My lord,” said Sullivan, as Cornwallis, Clinton,
and De Heister severally gave this proposition their
approval, “there is one objection, and, I think, an
insuperable one, to this plan. Your lordship is
aware that the Congress represents several free and
independent governments, uniting only for mutual
protection against a common danger, and cannot,
therefore, with more propriety than the British parliament,
send a deputation of its members to confer
with commissioners of a hostile country in their
private characters. Could it, however, do so, a
restoration of the connexion between the colonies
and Great Britain, without representation, is impracticable.
Even your eloquence, my lord, would
fail to subdue, in this case, its rebellious obstinacy,”
he added, bowing with a smile.

“I will, nevertheless, attempt to bring about a
negotiation after some fashion,” replied Lord Howe,

“and communicate with the Congress at once,
while the freshness of defeat intimidates and startles
it; and, as General Howe has intimated to you,
we offer you your parole, General Sullivan, and
beg that you will convey a verbal message from us
to your Congress, and inform it, either by addressing
individual members or its assembled body, of
our wishes.”

“Your lordship honours me by this confidence
and high trust,” replied Sullivan; “I am equally
desirous with yourself to have this unnatural dispute
amicably and speedily terminated. I accept
my parole, and will bear your message to Congress,
and will exert all my influence, as a true lover of
my country, towards bringing about an honourable
adjustment of our unhappy differences. But I fear
you must be very liberal to get Americans to waive
their independence, my lord.”

“Then you think, General Sullivan,” asked Sir
Henry Clinton, “that, unless we grant the colonists
equal rights with native-born Englishmen, that
Congress is immoveable in its determination to
maintain its independence, which it has so rashly
declared?”

“I do, sir. Nevertheless, I shall faithfully represent
to them the wishes of his majesty's commissioners.”

“Then, General Sullivan,” said Lord Howe, rising,
and speaking with much animation, “you will
be pleased to state to this Congress what you have
in part already heard; that General Howe and myself,
three months since, obtained, through the benevolence
and goodness of King George the Third,
full powers to compromise the dispute which has
brought on hostilities between the mother country
and her American colonies; and that they were
such as would have been for the mutual advantage

of both countries; that the difficulty and delay
which unfortunately attended the obtaining of these
powers detained me in England two months, and
prevented my arrival here before the promulgation
of its declaration of independence: nor, indeed,
as you are aware, General Sullivan, was I deterred,
by this open act of Congress, from exercising the
powers of pacification with which I was intrusted.
The result you know.”

“Your lordship alludes to your circular letter
dated off the coast of Massachusetts!” said Sullivan,
with a slight, scornful movement of his upper
lip.

“Yes, sir,” said, somewhat sharply, General
Howe, who had observed this expression; “and, if
it had been obeyed, it would have restored to his
majesty his rightful colonies, put a period to a disgraceful
war, and saved the blood that has this day
been so freely spilled.”

“You are right, sir,” replied Sullivan; “it is a
disgraceful war, and one that will for ever tarnish
the escutcheon of Great Britain.”

General Howe was about to reply, but bit his
lip and remained silent.

“There you have it, William,” said Lord Howe,
laughing; “you should know it is our business to
fight our foes, not talk to them, especially when fortune
has made them our prisoners. Nay,” he continued,
turning to Sullivan, “it was the wish of his
majesty that a compact should have been settled at
this time, when no decisive blow had been struck,
and neither party could allege being compelled to
enter into such agreement. Say to the Congress,
if you please, whether individually or collectively,
that, on account of the unfortunate attitude they
have now assumed, our negotiations must wear
somewhat of a different face; but, if they are disposed

to treat, many things which they have not
as yet asked may and ought to be granted to
them.”

“Will what they have already petitioned for be
granted, my lord?” inquired the American general.

“Tell them that if, in our private conference
(provided they see fit to grant one to the commissioners
his majesty has been graciously pleased to
appoint), we find there exists any probable appearance
of effecting an accommodation, their authority
as a political body may be afterward acknowledged.”

“But should there be no ground of accommodation,
or, at least, such as will meet your views, my
lord?”

“Then,” replied General Howe, sternly, “the
compact will be incomplete, and there would be
an end to further negotiation.”

“Except, my lor and generales, py de cannon
mout and de point of de swort,” said De Heister,
with a fierceness to which his repeated draughts
of wine had not a little contributed. “Onse vader!
Neuve Amsterdam is de city of de Deutsche. Tell
Mynheer Congrish we men of de Hesse will take
it back at de point of de bagonet. 'Tis our own
city, Neuve Amsterdam!”

“Then you are fighting for your own domain,
De Heister?” said Lord Howe. “If you and your
bearded Hessians take New-York, as reward for
your share in the conquest you will no doubt be
chosen burgomaster. By St. George! I will swear
you would keep a good wine-cellar.”

“Himmel!” shouted De Heister, in a rage; “does
dat mean for one tamn insult, mi lor? De Heister
von name from de classiker, mi lor! tree undred
year ol', mi lor! I von burgomaster? Sapperment!
ve vill settle dis pretty quarrel wid de swort.

Generale Sullivan, you vill oblige me to pe my secont,”
he said, turning to the American officer, and
laying his hand with drunken solemnity upon his
heart, while, excepting a fierce glow in his eyes,
his face was as unmoved as if he had asked for a
pinch of snuff.

“My dear De Heister,” said Clinton, soothingly,
laying his hand upon his arm, “General Sullivan
is to leave camp immediately. I myself will
see that you have the satisfaction of a gentleman in
the morning.”

“By St. George! De Heister,” observed Lord
Howe, with a smile, as if amused at the serious
and hostile countenance of the Hessian general,
“I will then give you, if your anger abate not before
dawn, what shall suffice the honour of all your
ancestors, from Von Brom de Heister, the first of
the name, down to your own valiant self, in whom
doth centre all their honour. So, general, let us
take wine together in token of our friendly consideration
for each other.”

The Hessian smoothed his mustache and pledged
his antagonist amicably, in anticipation of the
morning's hostile meeting; and, as he replaced his
glass upon the table, his face wore an air of inward
satisfaction.

General Sullivan now took leave of the council,
and was accompanied without the tent by Lord
Howe and General Clinton. As he mounted a
horse to accompany his escort to the American
lines, he said,

“You don't think of giving this Hessian a meeting,
even if your rank would permit it?”

“No, no! he is now on his high German horse;
he'll forget it in the morning, and be as courteous
as a well-bred bear.”

Lord Howe again enforced his instructions:

“You will meet me, general, the fifth day from
this, at the late quarters of Lord Percy on Staten
Island, and inform me of the result of your interview
with Congress?”

“I will do so, my lord; but I think, if Congress
confers with you at all, it will do it only by delegating
a committee of its body to wait on you in an
official capacity. But nous verrons!”

He bade them adieu as he spoke, and rode forward
to join his escort.

For the answer of the American Congress we
refer the reader to history, our tale following General
Sullivan no farther in his mission. Clinton
gazed after him a moment as he disappeared in the
darkness, and said,

“A noble gentleman! 'tis a pity he should defend
such a cause.”

“The devil's in it! since this rebellion broke out,
extraordinary men have sprung up among the rebels
to meet the exigences of the times, as if it were a
second crop of warriors from the teeth of—of—
deuse take it! this salt water rusts one's classics,
Clinton.” Thus speaking, Admiral Howe re-entered
the tent.

The council broke up after a free discussion of
the plan of attack upon New-York. It was decided
that a part of the fleet should sail round Lond
Island, coasting the southern shore and entering the
Sound by doubling Montauk Point, approach New-York
through Hell Gate, the entrance to East River
being protected by the batteries of New-York,
Governor's Island, and Red Hook; that, on the
arrival of their fleet through the Sound, instead of
making a direct attack on New-York, they should
land at Kingsbridge, and take up a position across
the island of New-York, cut off all communication
with the mainland, and, blockading General Washington

by land and water, compel him to capitulate
on their own terms.

“You speak, admiral,” said Cornwallis, as Lord
Howe detailed his plan, “as if Putnam and his
army were already in our hands.”

“He will be, with every man in his garrison, before
ten days. He cannot escape us. I am so sanguine
of our success, that I should be willing to
anticipate it, and write to England that we had
taken the whole army prisoners of war.”

Lord and General Howe and the Earl of Corn
wallis now mounted their horses, accompanied by
De Heister. The Hessian was formally polite to
his antagonist, and equally remarkable for his blunt
address to the others; for men are never so punctilious
in their bearing towards each other as when
they are on the eve of blowing out one another's
brains.

Taking leave of Clinton and Percy at the door
of the pavilion, the party rode away to their respective
quarters—Cornwallis to his tent on the
heights; De Heister to seek a pillow in the midst
of his bearded followers; and the noble brothers,
accompanied by a small party of officers, who joined
them without the line of posts, to go on board the
admiral's frigate, which, with the majority of the
British fleet, lay at anchor nearly a league below
the field of battle.