University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Scene 1.

—Washington's Camp at Valley Forge: he lies on a couch sick of a fever, tended by his wife, and by Bishop, his bodyservant.
Washington.
How my poor soldiers must be suffering, wife,
In this hard winter,—shame upon the Congress
That their conflicting factious jealousies
Leave these true patriots perishing of cold
And hunger and disease, unshod, ill clad,
Watching on cold bleak ice-fringed river banks,
Sleeping in snow-wreaths, naked and half starved,
Destitute in this agueish fever swamp!
Yet is their spirit unbroken,—gallant hearts,—
And still they stand with me for liberty.
O wife, it is not on the battle-field
With all its thrilling energetic joys
Where the hotblooded wound is never felt
Nor known until it stiffens and is sore,
But in the weary noisome hospital
The soldier is most tried; there is his patience,
There is his grandest calmest courage seen,—
More truly even that at Trenton Falls
Where we joined battle with those furious Hessians.
Good wife, you have been the rounds: how fare they all,
My noble poor sick fellows?

Martha Washington.
The reports
Are better, dearest George,—and I myself
Have tended many of them, as they lay there
Fevered with wounds, or fainting from disease:
And how they blessed me, ev'n unworthy me,
While I pass'd on between those squalid litters
Dropping the smile of hope, the look of love,
The word of faith in prayer! Husband, we know
There is a force more potent than all drugs
In faithful, earnest, and affectionate prayer.

Washington.
The best of remedies, in all men's reach:
How often has its potency sufficed
To cure my sharpest pains, most aching cares.
Well may we praise for having leave to pray.

Martha Washington.
Now;—now I am come back to be your nurse,
I cannot let you talk,—it is high time
To take this sleeping draught; and I must urge
The doctor's orders,—quiet.

Bishop
comes in and says,
Please you, my Master, there's a woman here,
I'd said a madwoman, would speak with you,
She says her name is Arnold, and her errand
One word alone,—only one word, she says.

Washington.
Arnold?—his sister again? can it then be
That double traitor thinks to serve himself
By some new treachery?—I abhor ill means;
Hands foul as his shall never help my country:
Yet, hapless Mary Arnold, I will see her,
If only to show kindness and forgive,
As sick men should; she too may well forgive
What duty, painful duty, forced me to,
Hanging her paramour, that wretched spy.
To Bishop.
Let her come in.

Martha Washington.
Now husband, be advised,
You can see no one yet; the ague fit
Will soon be on you, dearest,—say not yet.

Washington.
I feel your faithful love, and love you for it;
But let it be:
To Bishop.
She may come in.

Enter Mary Arnold, in deep mourning, cloaked.
Mary.
Alone,—
I said—alone, only one word, alone.
General, I have a message to deliver,
But we must be alone.

Washington.
None but my wife,
My angel always watching over me,
The more that I am sick and weak.

Mary.
His wife!
Alone, I prayed only one word alone!
aside.
And yet, O chance! O joy! that she shall see it!

Martha Washington.
I will not leave my husband,—George, be still,—
No, stay here with his Excellency, Bishop;—
Lady, I speak for him, and I will hear you.
What is your errand? you look wildly on him:
Stand further;—not so near:—can she be mad?

Mary Arnold.
I have a message to him from the dead
[Fail not, my hand! be swift and sure my purpose!]
And if not quite alone—it is enough—
This message to his heart!

(She rushes to stab him.)
(Martha Washington and Bishop struggle with her and disarm her.)
Martha Washington.
Hold her back, Bishop! cruel, murderous wretch,—
Why strike so fiercely at this most precious life?

Mary Arnold.
In fierce revenge for a most precious life!
O that I had another dagger here!
Unhand me! let me go! I must away!

Washington,
rising.
Let her escape, poor soul! she cannot harm me:
I will be still, dear wife. Take her away (to Bishop),

See to her safety well beyond the lines.
Let no one know of this, I charge you both;
Be silent and be faithful: if the camp
Heard of her coming, 'twas some madwoman:
Let no one guess her name, or her intent.
(They go out.)
Dear wife, I praise the Overruling Power
That every inch and instant guideth us:
The merest seeming accident is of Him,—
Even the fiercest storms are in His hand;
Let us walk straightway on the path of duty
Trusting in God, no shot or shell can strike us,
No poison sap our life, no murderous steel
Summon us to His throne before our time,—
Quiet?—I will be quiet, dear, dear wife.

(Sits down)
Martha Washington.
Here, slumber awhile,—thy head upon my breast;
I trust this fright has scattered away the fit.
Rest thee: no sleeping draught? well—

Washington.
Precious wife,
I will be quiet; yet it calms me more
To speak than to be silent: that poor woman
[God show more mercy to her than man has shown!]
Let none attempt to seize or punish her.
If you forgive her, it will cheer my sadness.

Martha Washington.
For thy sake, at thy word, but only so,—
Be it,—that I forgive her; yet my husband,
Think what America had lost in thee
If that mad wretch had murdered Washington!

Washington.
Heaven ordered otherwise: all is guided well:
Still are my fortunes and America's
Now at their lowest: I am sad, dear wife;
It is a bitter season now for me;
Both foes and friends malign me; General Gates
Whose triumph northward I have helped so well,
Has turned to be my rival, not my colleague:
I battle on, but under cloudy skies;
And in these dreary swamps of Delaware
Hope grows heartsick: well, even at the worst
With all else failure, at our bitterest need,
May Heaven's High Providence yet grant Success!

(An Orderly comes in.)
Orderly.
General, a well attended gentleman
Lately from France, the Marquis of La Fayette,
Craves audience.

Washington.
Let him come in.
(he rises.
I thank my God!
Scarce can we breathe a prayer, He answereth us:
Herein I hail the dawn of brighter things,
France and America in glad alliance!
(They come in.)
I bid you welcome, Sirs; yet you may see
How woefully we speed here in these marshes.
Not but that hope is ours, hope, no despair,
But stout determined courage and endurance
Yea to the end, Triumph and good success!

La Fayette.
Your Excellency, let a fervent heart
Bring sunshine to your quarters with good news,
France sends a fleet and army on your side
Standing for you and liberty: these friends,
Admiral De Grasse, St. Simon, Rochambeau,
Haste here to cheer you.

Washington.
Thanks, good gentlemen;
From my poor country, thanks; from this dear wife
[My brave companion greets you courteously]
And from my humbler self, thanks, gentlemen.
Indeed the dawn is breaking while we speak,
The darkness vanishes, mists melt away;
I see new hopes, like distant hilltops bright
As with the morning sun,—America
Yet, yet, thou shalt be Free; that happy thought
Glows at my heart, and fills it with new power,
Liberty smiling on this golden hour!

They go out together.

Scene 2.

—Changes to a Street in Baltimore.
A crowd of recruits come in, armed variously and with the national flag; among them Eldad and Nathan, with muskets and ridiculous attempts at uniform, spectacled, &c.
Opposite, enter Timothy.
Timothy.
Can I believe my eyes? Why, Deacon, Deacon,
Do I see straight that this is you,—and Nathan?
Dear simple souls, how got you in this guise?

Nathan.
I do opine this is myself—and Eldad;
Touching the firelocks, good Timothy,
I trow we somehow manage shouldering them
But as to loading them, or drawing trigger—

Eldad.
Verily, neighbour, we were forced to come,
That is, we liked not to be left behind
When everyone was mustering to the war
With guns and swords, and scythes and pitchforks too,
Saying they had caught the British in a trap
Down south at York Town,—much as with Burgoyne
Up north at Saratoga, Gage at Boston,
And divers other pitfalls—

Timothy.
Deacon Eldad,—
Come to the point—you are the text, not others.

Eldad.
As I was just expounding, we were forced,
Nathan and I—not to be left behind.
For all the folk were pressing hitherward,
And the whole country, like a swarm of ants,
Is black and red and blue and white with life,
Horsemen and footmen, cannon, carts, and stores,
All to one point converging in such streams
We couldn't help but come,—ey, brother Nathan?

Nathan.
Speak for thyself: I could, but would not, help it,—
What stirred me up in spirit was the shame
That mercenary Hessians should be here
Killing and burning; so I asked myself,
Nathan, shall such things be,—Nathan said Nay,—
And forthwith did I buy me this good gun;
If any friend will show me how to load it,
I'll dare to pull that trigger on a Hessian!

Timothy.
Bravo, my gallant Quaker! here's a change,—
The patriot flame flashes from heart to heart
Till even the coldest feels that glorious heat!
None can escape the wholesome happy fever.
(to the recruits)
What say you, countrymen,—are you prepared
To fight to the last gasp for liberty?
(they shout)
Ay, ay, All of us, every man of us!

Timothy.
Then come along in line—I'll be your serjeant,
Company! atten-shun!—right about face!
Step, left foot forward, maarch!
(they go out.)
I'll teach you, Nathan,
The drill of that same rifle, come with me;
As for you, Deacon Eldad—

(Nathan and Timothy go out.)
Eldad,
alone.
As for me,
I daren't be left behind, good Timothy,
I'll make what speed I can, for firstly, I—
(looking round and finding himself alone, he limps after them with all speed.)
I should have told him of my rheumatism!—

Exit.