Part 46 (1/2)

I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready to cry like a child. He went on to bid me say to the good Attorney-General Chew that he had not forgotten his pleasant hospitalities, and he sent also some amiable message to the women of his house and to my aunt and to the s.h.i.+ppens, speaking with the ease and unrestraint of a man who looks to meet you at dinner next week, and merely says a brief good-by.

I promised to charge myself with his messages, and said at last that many officers desired me to express to him their sorrow at his unhappy situation, and that all men thought it hard that the life of an honest soldier was to be taken in place of that of a villain and coward who, if he had an atom of honour, would give himself up.

”May I beg of you, sir,” he returned, ”to thank these gentlemen of your army? 'Tis all I can do; and as to General Arnold--no, Wynne, he is not one to do that; I could not expect it.”

Before I rose to go on his errand I said,--and I was a little embarra.s.sed,--”May I be pardoned, sir, if I put to you a quite personal question?”

”a.s.suredly,” he returned. ”What is it, and how can a poor devil in my situation oblige you?”

I said: ”I have but of late learned that the exchanges were all settled when I met my cousin, Arthur Wynne, at Amboy. Could it have been that the letter I bore had anything to do with this treason of General Arnold? Within a day or two this thought has come to me.”

Seeing that he hesitated, I added, ”Do not answer me unless you see fit; it is a matter quite personal to myself.”

”No,” he replied; ”I see no reason why I should not. Yes, it was the first of the letters sent to Sir Henry over General Arnold's signature.

Your cousin suggested you as a messenger whose undoubted position and name would insure the safe carriage of what meant more to us than its mere contents seemed to imply. Other messengers had become unsafe; it was needful at once to find a certain way to reply to us. The letter you bore was such as an officer might carry, as it dealt seemingly with nothing beyond questions of exchange of prisoners. For these reasons, on a hint from Captain Wynne, you were selected as a person beyond suspicion. I was ill at the time, as I believe Mr. Wynne told you.”

”It is only too plain,” said I. ”It must have been well known at our headquarters in Jersey that this exchange business was long since settled. Had I been overhauled by any shrewd or suspicious officer, the letter might well have excited doubt and have led to inquiry.”

”Probably; that was why you were chosen--as a man of known character.

By the way, sir, I had no share in the selection, nor did I know how it came about, until my recovery. I had no part in it.”

I thanked him for thus telling me of his having no share in the matter.

”You were ordered,” he continued, ”as I recall it, to avoid your main army in the Jerseys; you can now see why. There is no need of further concealment.”

It was clear enough. ”I owe you,” I said, ”my excuses for intruding a business so personal.”

”And why not? I am glad to serve you. It is rather a relief, sir, to talk of something else than my own hopeless case. Is there anything else? Pray go on; I am at your service.”

”You are most kind. I have but one word to add; Arthur Wynne was--nay, must have been--deep in this business?”

”Ah, now you have asked too much,” he replied; ”but it is I who am to blame. I had no right to name Captain Wynne.”

”You must not feel uneasy. I owe him no love, Mr. Andre; but I will take care that you do not suffer. His suggestion that I should be made use of put in peril not my life, but my honour. It is not to my interest that the matter should ever get noised abroad.”

”I see,” he said. ”Your cousin must be a strange person. Do with what I have said as seems right to you. I shall be--or rather,” and he smiled quite cheerfully, ”I _am_ content. One's grammar forgets to-morrow sometimes.”

His ease and quiet seemed to me amazing. But it was getting late, and I said I must go at once.

As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said: ”There are no thanks a man about to die can give that I do not offer you, Mr. Wynne. Be a.s.sured your visit has helped me. It is much to see the face of a friend. All men have been good to me and kind, and none more so than his Excellency. If to-morrow I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known in happier hours--it is much to ask--I may count on you, I am sure. Ah, I see I can! And my letter--you will be sure to do your best?”

”Yes,” I said, not trusting myself to speak further, and only adding, ”Good-by,” as I wrung his hand. Then I went out into the cold October starlight.

It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I told him briefly of my interview, and asked if it would be possible for me to deliver in person to the general Mr. Andre's letter. I had, in fact, that on my mind which, if but a crude product of despair, I yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be considered.

Hamilton shook his head. ”I have so troubled his Excellency as to this poor fellow that I fear I can do no more. Men who do not know my chief cannot imagine the distress of heart this business has caused. I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had the least indecision concerning the sentence; but I can tell you this--the signature of approval of the court's finding is tremulous and unlike his usual writing. We will talk of this again. Will you wait at my quarters? I will do my best for you.”

I said I would take a pipe and walk on the road at the foot of the slope below the house in which Was.h.i.+ngton resided. With this he left me.

The night was clear and beautiful; from the low hills far and near the camp bugle-calls and the sound of horses neighing filled the air. Uneasy and restless, I walked to and fro up and down the road below the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I saw the tall figure of the chief pa.s.s across the window-panes. A hundred yards away was the house I had just left. There sat a gallant gentleman awaiting death. Here, in the house above me, was he in whose hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and wondered if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet the little brook babbled in the night, while the camp noises slowly died away. Meantime, intent on my purpose, I tried to arrange in my mind what I would say or how plead a lost cause. I have often thus pre-arranged the mode of saying what some serious occasion made needful. I always get ready, but when the time comes I am apt to say things altogether different, and to find, too, that the wisdom of the minute is apt to be the better wisdom.