Part 14 (2/2)

O'Neil and Harkness, too, were merry, making pretense that my glitter set them blinking; but the grave, gray visage of Sir Henry, and his restless pacing of the polished floor, gave us all pause; and presently, as by common accord, voices around him dropped to lower tones, and we spoke together under breath, watching askance the commander-in-chief, who now stood, head on his jeweled breast, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

”Sir Peter,” he said, looking up with a forced laugh, ”I have irritating news. The rebel dragoons are foraging within six miles of our lines at Kingsbridge.”

For a month we here in New York had become habituated to alarms. We had been warned to expect the French fleet; we had known that his Excellency was at Dobbs Ferry, with quarters at Valentine's; we had seen, day by day, the northern lines strengthened, new guns mounted on the forts and batteries, new regiments arrive, constant alarms for the militia, and the city companies under arms, marching up Murray Hill, only, like that celebrated army of a certain King of France, to march down again with great racket of drums and overfierce officers noisily shouting commands. But even I had not understood how near to us the siege had drawn, closing in steadily, inch by inch, from the green Westchester hills.

A little thrill shot through me as I noted the newer, deeper lines etched in Sir Henry's pallid face, and the grave silence of De Lancey, as he stood by the window, arms folded, eying his superior under knitted brows.

”Why not march out, bands playing?” suggested Sir Peter gaily.

”By G.o.d, we may do that yet to the tune they choose for us!” blurted out Sir Henry.

”I meant an a.s.sault,” said Sir Peter, the smile fading from his handsome face.

”I know what you meant,” returned Sir Henry wearily. ”But that is what they wish. I haven't the men, gentlemen.”

There was a silence. He stood there, swaying slowly to and fro on his polished heels, buried in reflection; but I, who stood a little to one side, could see his fingers clasped loosely behind his back, nervously working and picking at one another.

”What do they expect?” he said suddenly, lifting his head but looking at no one--”what do they expect of me in England? I have not twelve thousand effectives, and of these not nine thousand fit for duty. _They_ have eleven thousand, counting the French, not a dozen miles north of us. Suppose I attack? Suppose I beat them? They have but a mile to fall back, and they are stronger posted than before. I can not pa.s.s the Harlem with any chance of remaining, unless I leave here in New York a garrison of at least six thousand regulars. This gives me but three thousand regulars for a sortie.” He moved his head slowly, his eyes traveled from one to another with that heavy, dazed expression which saw nothing.

”Thirty thousand men could not now force Fordham Heights--and but a single bridge left across the Harlem. To boat it means to be beaten in detail. I tell you, gentlemen, that the only chance I might have in an attempt upon any part of Was.h.i.+ngton's army must be if he advances. In formal council, Generals Kniphausen, Birch, and Robertson sustain me; and, believing I am right, I am prepared to suffer injustice and calumny in silence from my detractors here in New York and at home.”

His heavy eyes hardened; a flash lighted them, and he turned to Sir Peter, adding:

”I have listened to a very strange proposition from the gentleman you presented to me, Sir Peter. His ideas of civilized warfare and mine do not run in like channels.”

”So I should imagine,” replied Sir Peter dryly. ”But he is my guest, and at his pressing solicitation I went with him to wait upon you.”

Sir Henry smiled, for Sir Peter had spoken very distinctly, though without heat.

”My dear friend,” said the general gently, ”are you to blame for the violent views of this gentleman who so--ah--_distinguished_ himself at Cherry Valley?”

A sour grimace stamped the visage of every officer present; the name of Cherry Valley was not pleasant to New York ears.

At that moment Walter Butler entered, halted on the threshold, glancing haughtily around him, advanced amid absolute silence, made his bow to Sir Peter, turned and rendered a perfect salute to Sir Henry, then, as Sir Peter quietly named him to every man present, greeted each with ceremony and a graceful reserve that could not but stamp him as a gentleman of quality and breeding.

To me, above all, was his att.i.tude faultless; and I, relinquis.h.i.+ng to a tyrant conscience all hopes of profiting by my blunder in angering him, and giving up all hopes of a duel and consequently of freedom from my hateful business in New York, swallowed pride and repulsion at a single gulp, and crossed the room to where he stood alone, quite at his ease amid the conversation which excluded him.

”Mr. Butler,” I said, ”I spoke hastily and thoughtlessly an hour since.

I come to say so.”

He bowed instantly, regarding me with curious eyes.

”I know not how to make further amends,” I began, but he waved his hand with peculiar grace, a melancholy smile on his pale visage.

”I only trust, Mr. Renault, that you may one day understand me better.

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