Part 47 (1/2)

Thus encouraged, I said, ”If on any pretext the execution can be delayed a week, I am ready to go with a friend”--I counted on Jack--”to enter New York in disguise, and to bring out General Arnold. I have been his aide, I know all his habits, and I am confident that we shall succeed if only I can control near New York a detachment of tried men. I have thought over my plan, and am willing to risk my life upon it.”

”You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would be certain to fail; the service would lose another brave man, and I should seem to have been wanting in decision for no just or a.s.signable cause.”

I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief of my failure I forgot for a moment the august presence--which imposed on all men the respect which no sovereign could have inspired.

”My G.o.d! sir,” I exclaimed, ”and this traitor must live unpunished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his duty must suffer a death of shame!” Then, half scared, I looked up, feeling that I had said too much. He had risen before I spoke, meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an end, and was standing with his back to the fire, his admirable figure giving the impression of greater height than was really his.

When, after my pa.s.sionate speech, I looked up, having of course also risen, his face wore a look that was more solemn than any face of man I have ever yet seen in all my length of years.

”There is a G.o.d, Mr. Wynne,” he said, ”who punishes the traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year must bring. Your scheme I cannot consider. I have no wish to conceal from you or from any gentleman what it has cost me to do that which, as G.o.d lives, I believe to be right. You, sir, have done your duty to your friend. And now may I ask of you not to prolong a too painful interview?”

I bowed, saying, ”I cannot thank your Excellency too much for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young man.”

”You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honour. Make my humble compliments to Mistress Wynne.”

I bowed, and, backing a pace or two, was about to leave, when he said, ”Permit me to detain you a moment. Ask Mr. Harrison--the secretary--to come to me.”

I obeyed, and then in some wonder stood still, waiting.

”Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne's papers.” A moment later he sat down again, wrote the free signature, ”Geo(e) Was.h.i.+ngton,” at the foot of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying, ”That boy Hamilton has been troubling me for a month about this business. The commission is but now come to hand from Congress. You will report, at your early convenience, as major, to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will gratify your aunt. Ah, Colonel Hamilton,” for here the favourite aide entered, ”I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission.” Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the small, slight figure. ”You will see that the orders are all given for the execution at noon. Not less than eighty files from each wing must attend. See that none of my staff be present, and that this house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall transact no business that is not such as to ask instant attention.

See, in any case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good-evening, Mr. Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honour me with your company at dinner. Pray, remember it, Mr. Hamilton.”

I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this great and n.o.ble gentleman.

”He likes young men,” said Hamilton to me long afterward. ”An old officer would have been sent away with small comfort.”

It was now late in the night, and, thinking to compose myself, I walked up and down the road and at last past the Dutch church, and up the hill between rows of huts and rarer tents. It was a clear, starlit night, and the noises of the great camp were for the most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the hill, back of Andre's prison, and at the top I came out on a s.p.a.ce clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under the quiet of the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint and steel, and, walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on two upright posts with a cross-beam above. It was the gallows. I moved away horror-stricken, and with swift steps went down the hill and regained Jack's quarters.

Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall say very little. A too early death never took from earth a more amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his scarlet coat, smiled, and said, ”Thank you, Wynne; G.o.d bless you!” and went on, recognising with a bow the members of the court, and so with a firm step to his ign.o.ble death.

As I had promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth.

A long range of hills rose to the northward. On all sides near and far, was the [Transcriber's Note: 1-2 words are illegible] of the autumn-tinted woods, and to west the land swept downward past the headquarters to where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all now--the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful.

I shut my eyes and prayed for this pa.s.sing soul. A deathful stillness came upon the a.s.sembled mult.i.tude. I heard Colonel Scammel read the sentence. Then there was the rumble of the cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps was heard. It was over. The great a.s.semblage of farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, and many in tears.

The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as all men now know. Yet I am honestly of opinion that I should have succeeded.

Years afterward I was walking along the Strand in London, when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was Arnold with his wife.

His face was thin and wasted, a countenance writ over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine vigour was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer marks of vain remorse. He looked straight before him. As I crossed the way, with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at him, a strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our once beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him; poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave. Where now he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears on that gentle breast?

G.o.d only knows. I walked on through the crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief, ”There is a G.o.d who punishes the traitor.”

XXVI

The long winter of 1780 and 1781, with its changeful fortunes in the South, went by without alteration in mine. There were constant alarms, and leaves of absence were not to be had. We drilled our men, marched hither and thither, and criticised our leaders over the winter camp-fires, envying the men who, under Williams, Marion, and Morgan, were keeping my Lord Cornwallis uncomfortably busy in the Carolinas. By the end of January we knew with joy of the thras.h.i.+ng Tarleton got at the Cowpens, and at last, in April, of the fight at Guilford. It began to dawn on the wiseacres of the camp-fires why we were now here and now there. In fact, we were no sooner hutted than we were on the march, if there were but the least excuse in the way of a bit of open weather, or a Tory raid.

Sir Henry was kept in doubt as to whether our chief meant for New York from the north or from Jersey, and when at last he began to suspect that it was not a city but an army which he intended to strike, it was too late. Our brave old hawk, so long half asleep, as it looked, had begun to flutter his wings, and to contemplate one of those sudden swoops upon his prey which did to me attest the soldier of genius within this patient, ceremonious gentleman. He was fast learning the art of war.

At last, as I have said, even we who were but simple p.a.w.ns in the game of empire knew in a measure why we had been thus used to bother and detain this unlucky Sir Henry, who had failed to help Burgoyne, and was now being well fooled again, to the ruin of Lord Cornwallis.