 | Washington |  |
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ACT III.
Scene 1.
—A Room in Governor Arnold's House, at Westpoint.Arnold,
alone.
They have disgraced me, publicly, condemned me,
Abused me for the bondage of my debts,
Charged me with fraud, tried me, and punished me
The Commandant of Philadelphia
Who kept such generous state, and at such cost,
By open shame and formal reprimand
From Washington's own mouth before the Congress!
I will not bear it,—I will be revenged.
What,—had they all so speedily forgotten
How often I their hero, Benedict Arnold,
Led them to Victory?—witness my great deeds,
Ticonderoga, Champlain, and Lake George,
Crownpoint, Quebec, St. John's and Montreal!
Testify, Saratoga and my wounds,
Testify, graceless Philadelphia!
What? only shame, ruin, ingratitude
For such exploits—and me? I'll have revenge.
No longer shall this calm cold Washington,
This cruel mouthpiece of America,
Reap what I sow of great and glorious deeds.
Benedict Arnold shall be bought for gold,
Seeing they charge him fraudulent for gold;
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Seeing they dare despise him as a patriot.
It shall be done,—revenge. Ho, sister, sister!
She enters.
Arnold.
How? still in tears, as ever,—since the day
I bade you think no more of Major André:
Come, cheerily; I have good news for you,
I bid you seek him out, and bring him hither.
Mary.
O joy, O wonder!—but the peril, brother,—
And why? O for what cause? he is thy foe,
Thou wilt not do him harm?
Arnold.
Tut, silly girl,
I beckon him to me to do us good.
Mary.
But wherefore? how?—and still the peril, brother.
Arnold.
There is no peril: I will tell thee how;
The why is mine own secret: bring him hither,
Disguised as I shall counsel, at the time,
And to the place, and in the way I bid you.
Mary.
Thy will, my too stern brother, as of old,
Is for my woman's weakness overstrong;
I must obey; yet give one scruple hearing,—
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I seem to feel I dare not yet obey
If what thou willest is—I cannot speak
What yet is readable from those fierce eyes—
Is—shall I say?—of ill intent,—my brother.
Arnold.
That is my business, child: obey at once:
Bring André here: henceforth he is my friend;
Fear nothing from my sometime enmity,
He shall be now my brother as before
And I will give thee to him as his wife.
Mary.
O joy, O wonder—yet—
Arnold.
Not one word more:
I now command: here take him this sealed letter
(he has been writing and now seals it)
Of full particulars for his private eye;
Mark: not one word to any living soul:
Silence, and secrecy; bring André here,
As I have bade him.
Mary.
One word, Benedict:
Rachel, my maid, goes with me: not alone,
For this would ill become me,—and thy sister;
I cannot visit at the camp alone,—
It were not seemly so, for honour's sake
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Honour! both men and women mouth that name
And mean but seeming by it; seemly, true,
Honour is nought but seeming; in the dark
White is as black, and honour just like shame.
However, be it so: going to the camp
Seeming must carry it; take your maid with you;
But, not one word that I have sent you both
Thus to the British quarters; let her think
You meet your ancient lover there, and she
May like to find a new one; not one word
Of me, or of the letter, or disguise.
Mary.
Brother, I go—in fear, and yet—O hope,
O wonder!
Exit.
Arnold,
alone.
So, I'll take the enemy's bribe,—
This welcome thirty thousand offered me
For yielding up the stronghold in my trust.
O needful gold, O gladly welcome gold
More welcome than to pay those shabby debts
Because it buys me to revenge myself.
Look out, forsworn America! look out
Calmvisaged gentlemanly Washington!
Benedict Arnold shall be master yet
And none shall steal his honour but himself:
Benedict Arnold shall achieve the fame
What though it be—of Judas?—for Revenge!
Exit.
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Scene 2.
—Washington and his wife: letters are brought in by Bishop, who gives him some, and one to Martha Washington.Martha Washington.
Another of those wicked letters George,
From some anonymous slanderer; it says—
Washington.
Nay,—good wife, wise wife—heed not what it says;
Tear it up; if I neither see it nor hear it,
Calumny, like the scorpion when self-stung,
Perishes harmlessly: I will not read it.
Martha Washington.
But our dear Patrick Henry sends it here
That you with him may guess or know the writer;
He fancies him a certain famous Doctor.
Washington.
Nonsense; I'll have no fancies.
Martha Washington.
But he adds,
It is important, for a duplicate
Was laid before the Congress, and it said—
Washington.
I care not, Martha, what it said; if Congress
Is capable of listening secretly
To taunts against me, I will answer it
On charges openly brought.
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Yet, Patrick Henry,
That friend and brother who is half thy soul,
Asks me to read you this: “The nation needs
“A Joshua, not our loitering Fabius,
“A Conway, Mifflin, Gates, a North, a Lee,
“And not this vacillating Washington:
“Under so weak a leader we must perish,
“Having no chance for victory but in change.”
Dear Patrick haply lets you know of this,
Suggesting stronger efforts; for he adds,—
Our friend knows well how wise it is to learn
Even from foes: I spoke up stoutly for him,
Urging, and truly, that if he was weak,
It was in men, in stores, in sinews of war,
Not in the muscle of his own strong soul;
If he was lingering to assure great ends
It was for Congress to ensure full means,—
Washington.
He spoke but truth; there seldom is a slander
But in some particle was justified.
Factions and parsimony tie me down,
Forcing me to delays against my will.
Enough: let history, and my country's love,
In spite of whisperers and conspirators,
Vindicate Washington to after ages.
Let me hear nothing more of this, dear love.
(Enter Bishop.)
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Please you, my master, there's a young man here,
Timothy Brown, of Boston, asks to see you.
Washington.
He may come in.
Enter Timothy.
Your errand: to the point.
Timothy.
General, I want a little word in private.
Washington.
Speak it; we are alone: only my wife.
Timothy.
I ran down straight from Westpoint over there
To tell your honour what a friend of mine,
Miss Arnold's waiting-maid, has overheard
Her master saying—
Washington.
And you dared to come
With eavesdroppings to me from a false servant?
Martha Washington.
Yet, hear him, George: speak out, young man, what is it?
Timothy.
She said, she thought her master was unsafe,—
Washington.
You say, she thought; you said, she overheard.
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She well might think of what she overheard.
Washington.
I cannot listen to a treacherous tale:
Go: and be silent.
Martha Washington.
Tell me what it was.
Timothy.
She heard him talking of some money-bribe,
And swearing at his wrongs, and threatening vengeance
Against America and Washington.
Washington.
I'll not believe it! Arnold? General Arnold?
Our staunchest patriot since the war began,
The hero of a hundred well-fought fields,—
Incredible—impossible. Young man,
You hope to be rewarded for this tale:
Leave me; without one word: and take with you
My stern rebuke for having dared to breathe
Slander against a noble name.
(Exit Timothy.)
Dear wife,
To prove full confidence, I call with you
On Governor Arnold at Westpoint to-pay.
Bishop,—the saddlehorses in an hour.
(Exeunt.)
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Scene 3.
—A narrow slip of road or lane. Enter at opposite points, dressed for travel, meeting and passing each other, Timothy and Rachel. They turn back.Timothy.
A pretty mess you've got me into, girl,
By tittletattling.
Rachel.
I? who tittletattled?
Timothy.
Why, what you told me I have told the General,
And—
Rachel.
So 'twas you that tittletattled, then?
Timothy.
Ay, but I only said what I'd been told.
Rachel.
And that's the way all gossip gets abroad:
O Master Timothy, I'm ashamed of you
To charge poor innocent me with tittletattle,
When you were tittletattling all the while.
Timothy.
Well, Rachel, say no more; let us part friends;
I got enough, I tell you, from the General,
So, make it up; I'm going; just one kiss.
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One kiss indeed!
Timothy.
Then, Rachel, I'll take two!
Rachel.
Adone:—Now, Timothy I must be gone,
My mistress waits; there,—well then I'll forgive you,
(They kiss again)
Now don't go tittletattling about me.
Exeunt opposite.
Scene 4.
—Major André's Tent, open in front: he has an order book in his hand.Corporal Thompson
comes in and says
Major, a pair of as pretty country girls
As ever one set eyes on, are along,
And want to see your honour: shall I say
Your honour is engaged?
André,
aside.
Engaged? ay, once
I might have said so; but that day's gone by.—
By all means, Corporal, bring them: double luck!
A pretty couple truly; well, my girls,—
Enter Mary Arnold and her maid: he starts to see her.
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My beauty! what? it seems a thousand years
Since I set eyes on thee: come in, my beauty!
By what glad chance is it we meet again?
Mary.
My brother Benedict has sent me, John,—
André.
How? Benedict,—he hates us, hang the rebel!
Mary.
Pity him, John; in truth he hates us not,
He bade me tell you that he loves you well,
And all is changed with him, and we may meet
As freely and as gladly as of yore;
Here is his letter.
André.
Stay,—private and secret,—
Then you know nothing of this note, my pet.
Mary.
No, John,—for he looked stern and would not tell me,—
But Rachel here coming along with me
Has told me something strange she over-heard,—
(André meanwhile is reading the letter—and Corporal Thompson speaking with Rachel.)
André.
So;—he is changed indeed; more luck for us:
He bids me call and meet him in two hours
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Your cousin, or your lover, if you will,
An any dare to ask you.
Mary.
But, dear John,
So loved, so long betrothed, tell me the truth;
On what strange errand are we bound, and why
This secrecy, this silence, this disguise.
André.
Would it be like a soldier's honour, Mary,
To tell another man's confided secret?
Mary.
Nay, then, I cannot ask it; yet I fear,—
My heart misgave me at his strange wild eyes,
He will not, cannot, dare not harm thee, dearest?
André.
Fear nothing, darling: we will go together,—
You are my guardian angel, and my strength
Let it suffice for both—
But wait awhile,
It is so long since you and I looked love,
I cannot spare those glances yet, my beauty.
So, we shall soon be married? Blush again,—
You look so pretty: bid yon maid of yours
Go for a walk with Corporal Thompson there,
They seem already to have had much to say,—
And stay with me awhile, my pretty one—
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O John—I dare not say.—No! Major André,—
It were too sweet and perilous a joy
To stop one moment longer,—fare thee well:
I and my maid must leave at once: that letter
Tells all my brother's mind; I know not aught:
Farewell,—no more—we meet at Benedict's.
(Exit.)
André.
Gone! like a flash of joy and love and beauty!
Well, well; fortune of war: look at this life,
What a continual shift of scenes it is,
Sunshine and storm and good and evil mingled:
And here's a sudden change in that strange man
My would-be brother both in law and arms:
What can it mean?—That he has been disgraced,
Is deep in debt, and hates George Washington,
All this he tells me straight; and more, he writes
That for a good round sum, say forty thousand,
He, their last brigadier, and commandant
Of their stronghold on the Hudson at Westpoint,
Will give it up to Clinton with all stores
And guns and arms and garrison complete,
An easy netful, prisoners of war!
This is too good to be true; here, Corporal Thompson,
I'm going on private business to New York
As a civilian, not in uniform:
No one need know it. By the way, Corporal,
Did those red lips you seemed so taken with
Tell you upon what possible errand came
Her mistress to my quarters.
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Never a word:
We did but guess your honour's liking to her.
André.
Not a bad guess.—I'm gone for half an hour:
Bring me those clothes for change outside the lines.
(Exit.)
Corporal.
As if I couldn't guess more truths than one;
As if that little vixen didn't guess,
As if she didn't whisper all she guessed:
Well,—since the Major is no friend of mine
(I had been sergeant but he keeps me servant)
Let him look out: if money's to be got
I'll try to touch some too; master and man
Poor Richard calls them kin!—ay and he says
Forewarned, forearmed: Should General Washington
Hear from me of my Major and his friend,
I'd get a bag o' guineas for my news.
(Exit.)
Scene 5.
—Washington's Quarters. Aides-de-Camp and Orderlies go in and out: he at a desk with papers.Washington.
Take this despatch with speed to General Greene.
Send General Prescott here.
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Bid General Sullivan bring his forces up
With his best speed.
This goes to General Morgan,
I want his rifles quickly to the front.
This to Westpoint. Less hurry, but due care.
The Aide, young Custiss, to whom he gives it, says
My General, was that true?
Washington.
Wretchedly true:
I went myself to the fortress; they had fled,
That traitor and that spy; the first escaped
On board a British gunboat in the Hudson,
The other, caught with maps and plans upon him,
Has been condemned to death: a drum-courtmartial
Sentence him to be hanged,—hanged as a spy.
Bishop.
Can Master speak with a petitioner?
Washington.
I am engaged: upon what matter? urgent?
Bishop.
She says, on life or death.
Washington.
A woman then?
Orderly.
Yes, General, she would not be denied,
Assured that you would speak with Mary Arnold.
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The traitor's sister! O the bitter pang
That I have lived to call my lifelong friend,
Brother of my first love, as boy and girl,
My lowland beauty of those halcyon days,
A Traitor blackest dyed.
(To Bishop.)
Let her come in.
Aside.
She cannot yet have heard of his escape,
And comes to plead for him: it will be pleasure
However mixed with pain, to let her know
He got off in the Vulture. Franklin says
There is a spot of calm centering the midst
Of the most furious hurricane; these toils
And cares of war still find a heart of peace
Serene and quiet in their whirl;—
To his Orderlies, &c.
One moment,
Give space, and leave me: in the corridor
Be ready to my call. Speed these despatches:
he gives a second batch.
I will give audience to this lady alone.
Enter Mary Arnold.
Washington.
Well, Mary Arnold; only two short minutes
Can these my thousand cares afford: be quick.
Mary.
O, Sir, there yet is time,—is there yet time?
General, by all the love you bore me once
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So loved, so noble,—say he shall not die!
Washington.
Mary, it is a melancholy pleasure
To tell thee that he lives, and shall not die,—
The traitor will not meet his doom,—take comfort,
Thy brother has escaped.
Mary.
O, not my brother!
I do not plead for him: he is our shame,—
Myself I could have stabb'd him for his treason;
I pray for one less guilty—and more dear—
Betrayed as you were by that villain Benedict,
My own betrothed, my all but husband, André!
Washington.
How? That mean spy thy husband? I had hoped,
Poor Mary Arnold, to have gladdened thee,
My unknown passionflower of hot sixteen,
For sake of all the past, by the true news
That thy bad brother saves his shameful life:
But this unworthy plea for Major André
Cannot be heard one moment:—he must die.
Mary.
Not yet, not yet! O spare that precious life!
Washington.
The spy by all our laws of war must die,
And fourteen officers, the court of trial,
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I cannot help the matter if I would:
Justice commands and policy commends
No death less utterly shameful for a spy.
Mary.
Yet spare, if not his life, at least his honour.
Washington.
Honour? what honour is there in a spy?
Mary.
In some sort it was duty,—he was betrayed,—
He looked for better ends to those worse means;
The way seemed crooked, but the goal was straight,—
Washington.
Those who do ill that good may come, poor pleader,
Are caught in their own toils, and swiftly earn
Fit payment for such tortuous policy.
Enough. I cannot hear one word. Farewell.
However I may pity him, or thee,
And with whatever sorrow for his doom,
He dies! a terrible warning, gibbeted
On Westpoint battlements.
She swoons away, he summons the attendants, and the Act ends.
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