Part 46 (2/2)

At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through the gloom. ”Come,” he said. ”His Excellency will see you, but I fear it will be of no use.

He himself would agree to a change in the form of death, but Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of opinion that to do so in the present state of exasperation would be unwise and impolitic. I cannot say what I should do were I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is not I who have to decide. I lose my sense of the equities of life in the face of so sad a business. At least I would give him a gentleman's death. The generals who tried the case say that to condemn a man as a spy, and not at last to deal with him as Hale was dealt with, would be impolitic, and unfair to men who were as gallant as the poor fellow in yonder farm-house.”

”It is only too clear,” I said.

”Yes, they are right, I suppose; but it is a horrible business.”

As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels around the old stone house and through a hall, and to left into a large room.

”The general sleeps here,” Hamilton said, in a lowered voice. ”We have but these two apartments; across the pa.s.sage is his dining-room, which he uses as his office. Wait here,” and so saying, he left me. The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen feet, but so low-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to contrive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place for the tall Dutch clock he had brought from Holland. Around the chimney-piece were Dutch tiles. Black Billy, the general's servant, sat asleep in the corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor, tired out, I fancy. I walked to and fro over the creaking boards, and watched the Dutch clock. As it struck eleven the figure of Time, seated below the dial, swung a scythe and turned a tiny hour-gla.s.s. A bell rang; an orderly came in and woke up an aide: ”Despatch for West Point, sir, in haste.” The young fellow groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out for his long night ride.

At last my friend returned. ”The general will see you presently, Wynne, but it is a useless errand. Give me Andre's letter.” With, this he left me again, and I continued my impatient walk. In a quarter of an hour he came back. ”Come,” said he; ”I have done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail. Speak your mind freely; he likes frankness.” I went after him, and in a moment was in the farther room and alone with the chief.

A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen hearth, and at a table covered with maps and papers, neatly set in order, the general sat writing.

He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, ”Take a seat, Captain Wynne.

I must be held excused for a little.” I bowed and sat down, while he continued to write.

His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and then went on apparently with the utmost deliberation. I was favourably placed to watch him without appearing to do so, his face being strongly lighted by the candles in front of him. He was dressed with his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-buff uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue and carefully tied with black ribbon.

The face, with its light-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and rather heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now grave and, I thought, stern. At least a half-hour went by before he pushed back his chair and looked up.

I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since on my return I set it down in a diary which, however, has many gaps, and is elsewhere incomplete.

”Captain Wynne,” he said, ”I have refused to see several gentlemen in regard to this sad business, but I learn that Mr. Andre was your friend, and I have not forgotten your aunt's timely aid at a moment when it was sorely needed. For these reasons and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and the marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I ask you to be brief?” He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words.

I replied that I was most grateful--that I owed it to Major Andre that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now to be his.

”Permit me, sir,” he said, ”to ask when this occurred.”

I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's desire, I had entered Philadelphia as a spy; and then I went on briefly to relate what had happened.

”Sir,” he returned, ”you owed your danger to folly, not to what your duty brought. You were false, for the time, to that duty. But this does not concern us now. It may have served as a lesson, and I am free to admit that you did your country a great service. What now can I do for you? As to this unhappy gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. I have read the letter which Captain Hamilton gave me.” As he spoke he took it from the table and deliberately read it again, while I watched him. Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his big, patient eyes were overfull as he spoke.

”I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Neither shall I reply. It is not fitting that I should do so, nor is it necessary or even proper that I a.s.sign reasons which must already be plain to every man of sense.

Is that all?”

I said, ”Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute more?”

”I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it?”

I hesitated, and, I suspect, showed plainly in my face my doubt as to the propriety of what was most on my mind when I sought this interview.

He instantly guessed that I was embarra.s.sed, and said, with the gentlest manner and a slight smile:

”Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be done to save your friend, nor indeed to alter his fate; but if you desire to say more do not hesitate. You have suffered much for the cause which is dear to us both.

Go on, sir.”

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