By the 7th of September Marquis Lafayette was holding the neck of the peninsula of York. A more daring man than Cornwallis would have tried a fall with this army, but he waited for a fleet to relieve him, and behold! none came save that of De Grasse. By September 26 sixteen thousand men were added to those of the marquis, and lay about Williamsburg. Our quiet old hawk had my lord in his clutches, and meant no long delay.
Not to be in advance of the army, his Excellency, who left Philadelphia before us, lingered a few days on the way to visit the home he had not seen for six long years, and we of the staff followed him the day after. Both in town and on the march through Delaware I was occupied as I had never been in my life. The French marched with us, and to keep things straight duplicate orders in both tongues were needed, and there were notes, letters, and despatches to be done into French or English. An aide who spoke French fluently was apt to be in the saddle whenever his pen was not in use.
The life was to me of advantage, because I came daily into contact with officers, young and old, who had seen the finest company in Europe, and from whom there was much to learn. It is Chastellux, I think, who has said that Mr. Washington possessed the charm of such manners as were rare among our officers. With these gentlemen, our allies, the way of doing every little act of the life of society seemed to have been studied and taught, until these gracious and amiable forms were become, as one may say, a part of the man.
No wonder they found us clumsy fellows. Too many of our gentry were not in the war, or were opposed to it. Many regiments were strangely officered, and this, as Graydon says in his memoirs, was especially the case as to the New England troops. But a man with no manners and with brutal habits may fight as well as a marquis.
Now toward the close of the war, if we were still as to looks but a Falstaffian contingent, the material in men and officers had been notably sifted, and was in all essential ways fit for the perilous service to which we were about to address ourselves.
At Mount Vernon we camped—we of the staff—in and out of the house, and were bountifully fed, nor did I ever see his Excellency more to advantage than here. He personally looked after our wants, and lost for a time much of the official reserve with which he guarded himself elsewhere.
At table after dinner he was in the habit of asking one of his aides to propose toasts for him. The day before we left, as we were about to rise from table, Colonel Tilghman said, “One more toast, with your permission, Excellency,” and cried out, “My Lord Cornwallis, and may he enjoy the hospitalities of our army.”
Our host laughed as he rarely did, saying, “We must first catch our fish, Mr. Tilghman.”
I ventured to say, “He is in the net already.”
His Excellency, looking round at me, said gravely, “Pray God the net hold good!” After I had offered the toast of Lady Washington’s health, and our thanks for the pleasant days of rest and good cheer, he left us, desiring Mr. Tilghman to see that we had wine enough.
On the 14th we reached Williamsburg. The army rapidly came in by divisions, French and American. Before the 25th we had from the fleet cannon and intrenching-tools, and all our available force was to hand.
I can make clear in a few words the situation of the enemy. The peninsula of York lies between the James and the York rivers. On the south bank of the latter sits the little town of York. Seven redoubts surrounded it. The town was flanked right and left by deep ravines and creeks falling into the York River. Intrenchments, field-works, and abatis, with felled trees, lay to landward.
Gloucester Point, on the opposite shore of the river, was well fortified, and before it lay a small force of British war-ships, the channel being obstructed lower down by sunken vessels. The French fleet held the river below the town, and we the peninsula.
On the night of the 25th, after a brief visit to the fleet, our chief lay down in the open under a mulberry-tree with one of its roots for a pillow, and slept well, as was audible enough to us who lay at a distance.
That night his lordship abandoned his outworks and drew within the town. We seized these lines next day, losing Colonel Scammel, formerly of the staff, in whose amusing songs and gay talk our chief had used to take much pleasure. On the 28th the armies marched twelve miles down the peninsula, and camped two miles from the town, driving in the pickets and some parties of horse.
By October 1, the weather being fine, we had completed a half-moon of intrenchments, resting at each wing on the river. Two advanced redoubts we threw up were severely cannonaded, so as to interrupt the men at work.
His Excellency, somewhat anxious, came out of his tent, and calling Mr. Tilghman and me, who were writing, rode forth, followed by his faithful black Billy, whom we used to credit with knowing more of what went on than did we of the staff. Mr. Evans, a chaplain, was fain to see more of the war than concerned him, and came after us. As we approached, Billy, riding behind me, said as the cannon-shot went over us:
“Dem redcoats is p’intin’ us mighty well.”
Then a shot ricochetted, striking the ground in front and covering us with dust. Mr. Evans, who was standing by, and had now seen quite enough of it, said, “We shall all be killed,” and then looked ruefully at his new beaver, well dusted and dirty.
“You had better carry that home to your wife and children,” said the chief. “This is not the place for you, sir.”
Neither was it much to my own liking, and I was not sorry when we rode back.
On the night of the 9th of October his Excellency put a match to the first gun, and for four days and nights a furious cannonade went on from both sides.
Late on the night of the 10th Jack came to my tent, and we walked out to see this terrible spectacle, climbing a little hill which lay well away from our lines. For a time we were quite alone.
A monstrous dome of smoke hung over the town. Now and then a gust of sea wind tore it apart, and through the rifts we saw the silver cup of the moon and the host of stars. We lay long on the hillock. I suppose the hour and the mighty fates involved made us serious and silent. Far away seventy cannon thundered from our works, and the enemy’s batteries roared their incessant fury of reply.
Presently I said, “Jack, how still the heavens are, and under them this rage of war! How strange!”
“Yes,” said Jack; “once I said something of this tranquilness in the skies to our great Dr. Franklin. He is very patient with young fellows, but he said to me: ‘Yes, it is a pleasing thing, even to be wrong about it. It is only to the eye of man that there is calm and peace in the heavens; no shot of cannon can fly as these worlds fly, and comets whirl, and suns blaze; and if there is yonder, as with us, war and murder and ravage, none can say.’ It all comes back to me now,” said Jack, “and I thought to tell you.”
“It is a terrible sight,” said I, as the great tumult of sound grew louder. “Let us thank God the cause is a just one.”
“And there are the stars again,” said Jack, “and the moon.” And we were silent once more, watching the death-struggle of a failing cause.
Our own mad world was far other than at peace. The great bombs rose in vast curves overhead, with trails of light, and, seeming to hesitate in mid-air, exploded, or fell on town or ship or in the stream between. As we looked, awe-struck, hot shot set fire to the “Charon,” a forty-four-gun ship, nigh to Gloucester, and soon a red rush of fire twining about mast and spar rose in air, lighting the sublime spectacle, amid the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, and multitudinous inexplicable noises, through which we heard now and then the wild howl of a dog from some distant farm-yard.
At last the war-ship blew up, and a wonderful strong light lighted the town, the river, and the camp. As it fell the dog bayed again, a long, sharp, wavering cry.
This seemed to me to impress Jack Warder more than anything else in this din of war. He said now and again, “There is that dog,” and wondered what the beast thought of it all. It is curious upon what the minds of men fix on grave occasions. I meant to ask Jack why he spoke over and over of the dog when before us was the bloody close of a great historic tragedy: a king humbled; a young republic at sword-point with an ancient monarchy.
It seemed to me a man’s mind must grow in the presence of such might of events. The hill, a half-mile from the lines, was a good vantage-ground whence to see and hear. Jack and I smoked many pipes, and, as he was not for duty in the trenches, lay here most of that cool October night, wrapped in our cloaks. Sometimes we talked; more often we were silent, and ever the great cannon roared from trench and bastion, or were quiet awhile to let their hot lips cool.
Once Jack fell to talk of how he and I were changed from the quiet Quaker lads we had been, and did I remember our first fight, and Colonel Rupert Forest, and Master Dove? That greater master, War, since then had educated and broadened us. He was more philosophic than I, and liked thus to speculate; but of Darthea he said never a word, though we spoke of many things that memorable night.
At last, when it was near to dawn, Jack jumped up, crying, “Oh, confound that dog!” He had, what I never had, some remnant of the superstitions of our ancestors, and I suspect that the howl of the poor beast troubled him. I guessed at this when he said presently, “I suppose we shall have to carry the place by storm.”
“Now don’t tell me you will get hit,” said I. “You always say that. There are enough dead men to set every dog in Virginia a-howling.”
Jack laughed, but I had shamed him out of any desire to repeat his predictions of disaster, and with the signal-rockets in air, and the resounding thunder of this storm of war ever rising and falling, we went at last to our tents.
For two or three days his Excellency kept me busy; but since, except every third or fourth day, Jack had no active work, his diary at this time is very fully kept. I see from its pages that he thought over and over in this leisure of what we had so largely discussed on that night when we lay upon the hill.
“October 11,” I find written.—“Hugh and I had a long talk over our own lives. It is a good thing and wise at times to take stock, as merchants say, of one’s self and of one’s friends. Indeed, if a man could contrive a moral likeness of his inner self such as he may have of his body, and this at different ages, it were an interesting and perhaps, too, a useful thing. It might much surprise him as the years went on. I think of myself as not so changed as Hugh. I am indeed more shy. As time goes on I arrange to hide it. I am less ambitious. Duty seems to me more and more a thing which I must do by reason of habit, that being strong with me owing much to the constant example set by my friend’s life. If I have in me something of the woman’s nature, as Mistress Wynne used to declare, I do not now so much dislike the notion. It may explain why, as I mature, nothing in life seems to me so greatly to be desired as the love of my fellows. If I think a man I esteem has no affection for me, I will fetch and carry to get it. Thank God I need not for Hugh. For him I would give my life, should he want it, and what more can a man do for his friend? Yes, there is a greater test, but of that I need not think, since she does not love me, nor ever could I think to win her love.
“My Hugh is a big handsome fellow nowadays, builded to be of the bigness of his father, but cleaner fashioned, from early use of his muscles. He has the strong passions of these hot Welsh, but is disciplined to control them, though not always. He is more serious of late, and has thoughts which surprise me, and show that his mind has grown. I used to think he was too abrupt with people, but he has a gift I have not—the power to capture the fine ways which these French gentlemen possess, so that nowadays he has quite lost the stiff ways in which we were brought up. But this art I have not, nor ever shall have.”
Now all this is more or less true, and as I have said whatever was ill of myself, I like to let another, if a too partial judge, say of me, for the flattery of our blood, what may one day pleasure my children to read.
On the night of the 12th of October our second parallel was opened by Baron Steuben’s division, in which was Jack’s command. It brought us within three hundred yards of the enemy’s works. Here our people, while at the labour of digging, were greatly annoyed by the flanking fire of two redoubts, one on each side, and lying nearly as far out to right and left as were now our advanced trenches.
On the 13th Colonel Tilghman came to ask me to write the needed orders for an assault on these two redoubts. He told me that Marquis Lafayette had asked that his own aide-de-camp, Captain Gimat, should lead the storming-party of Americans from the troops for duty on the 14th, but Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton had insisted on his own right to this honourable risk, he being, on the day set for the assault, in command in the trenches.
This officer, my lifelong friend, had, in February of ‘81, resigned from the staff, of which resignation too much has been said. It in no way affected the regard for him which our chief entertained, and the occasion of his leaving the staff was not one, I thought, to justify my friend in so doing, as indeed I made bold to tell him.
He had now written a spirited letter to our chief, claiming the right of command, as he had that day the tour of duty in the trenches. His Excellency, with his strong sense of justice, had decided in Mr. Hamilton’s favour, and it was thus settled that he should head our assaulting column, and the marquis have command of the whole detachment, which was to be made up of picked men from the divisions for duty in our works.
I wrote the required orders, and set them forth in the orderly-book. The same day toward nightfall Jack appeared at my tent. He said his company was selected to be of the assault, adding with a fine colour and very cheerful, that here in a packet were letters he had writ to his father and to my Aunt Gainor, and here, too, another—this with a little hesitation—for Miss Darthea.
I laughed, and said I was a bad person to be his executor, as I meant in some way to contrive to be of the party; how, I did not yet know. He begged me not to risk myself on a business out of my line of duty, but I was firmly set as to the matter, and he went away more serious than I thought worth while. In fact, I was tired of the every-day sameness of staff-duty and incessant letter-writing.
Later in the evening I was sent for to the tent of his Excellency. I found him with the Comtes de Deuxponts and de Rochambeau. I was wanted to act as interpreter. Although his Excellency could comprehend what was said, he possessed no such knowledge of French as to be able to speak it.
The business was soon despatched, and as I lingered, the general asked what other matter needed attention. Upon this I replied that I greatly desired to be of the storming-party.
He returned, “I presume of course, sir, that you are not for duty on the 14th?”
I said, “No.”
“Then your business is with the staff. I am unwilling to permit gentlemen to step aside out of their work.” He spoke in his usual deliberate manner, and with a certain sternness such as he well knew how to assume.
I saluted, but stood still a moment, and then said, “I trust, Excellency, that I have fulfilled my duties to your satisfaction.”
“Entirely. I should have made it plain to you had it been otherwise.”
“And I have never asked a favour of your Excellency. I have been twice wounded, have had no home leave for four years, and have spent five months in a British jail.”
I saw a faint smile come over his grave face. “You boys are all alike. Here is Colonel Hamilton in a rage because the marquis would have given his place to Captain Gimat, and now it is an obstinate Welshman must go and get into mischief. I wish the whole army had your spirit, sir.”
I ventured to observe that Colonel Armand had been permitted to serve as a volunteer, and that I had hoped that I too should be allowed a like favour.
His Excellency smiled, and returned, “As a volunteer, Mr. Wynne—well, as a volunteer. Ask Colonel Hamilton. I trust that is satisfactory. Are the orders and detail all made out?”
I said yes, and, thanking him, went away.
Colonel Hamilton, whom I saw early on the 14th, was as much surprised at the result of my request as was I, and was pleased to say he should be glad of my company, and would I be on hand in the trenches before dark?
The French of the old regiment D’Auvergne, which that night won the right to be called D’Auvergne sans tache, were to carry the redoubt to the right of the enemy’s line. The Baron de Viomenisle was to lead them. Gimat was to have a chance with us.
“There are Connecticut men, and Massachusetts and Rhode Island men, with a reserve from Pennsylvania. The North has the whole business,” said Hamilton, “and your friend Warder has the luck to be with us.”
The redoubt Number Ten on the enemy’s left, and nearest the river, fell to us, and Hamilton by no means meant that we should be later in the work than our allies.
I am forced to be thus particular because, although in God’s providence I knew it not, I was about to pass through another crisis of my adventurous life. Before dusk I was in the trenches, and lying down amid a crowd of silent men. Hamilton walked to and fro among them, seeing that all were ready, and at last tied a piece of surgeons’ bandage around my left arm, a precaution also taken as to the men that they might be distinguished in the darkness from the enemy.
Pioneers with fascines and ladders were a little later put out in front of the trenches, and with them the sappers and axemen under Captain Kirkpatrick. Within the crowded trenches and behind them the detachment of four hundred men lay ready.
It was cold, and a drizzling rain would have made it needful, under ordinary circumstances, to keep the pans of the muskets dry; but all loads were drawn, and the marquis meant to trust to the bayonet alone. Jack was afoot, and in his gay fashion was saying something merry to his men. I heard the marquis cry, “Silence!” in queer English, and down the line I could hear officers repeating his order.
For a little while all was still.
“Good-by,” said my Jack. His hand was damp, and shook.
“You dear old idiot!” said I.
It was now close to eight, and of a sudden our cannon ceased. I dimly saw, a few yards away in the deep trench, the marquis looking back toward our camp. The enemy, glad, I dare say, of a chance to cool their guns, also stopped firing. I wished to heaven this horror of waiting were over.
Then a rocket rose high in air over our camp. “Ready, men!” said Hamilton, while I drew my long Hessian blade.
Six bombs in quick succession rose and went over us. I heard the marquis cry out, “En avant! Forward!”
“Forward, sappers” cried a voice in front.
“Come along, boys!” cried Jack. And not giving the sappers more than time to scramble up, we were off in a swift rush through the darkness. The quickly formed line broke irregularly, as we ran over the space between us and the abatis, the sappers vainly trying to keep ahead.
As we rushed forward, my legs serving me well, I saw that they in the redoubt knew what was coming. A dozen rockets went up, Bengal fires of a sudden lighted their works, a cannon-shot went close to my head, and all pandemonium seemed to break loose.
At the stockade, an hundred feet from their works, our men pushed aside the sappers, and tore down the rude barrier, or tumbled over it. They were used to fences. Here Gimat was hurt, and Kirkpatrick of the pioneers, and a moment later Colonel Barber.
The hundred feet beyond were passed at a run, and the men with fascines cast them into the ditch. It was already half full of the wreck the cannon had made in the earthwork. We jumped in, and out; it was all mud and water. Ladders were set against the parapet, but the slope was now not abrupt, having been crumbled away by our guns, so that most of us scrambled up without delay. I saw Captain Hunt fall, the enemy firing wildly. If Sergeant Brown of the Fourth Connecticut, or Mansfield of the Forlorn Hope, were first on the parapet, I do not know. Hamilton got by me, and I saw him set a foot on the shoulder of a man, and jump on to the top of the redoubt. Why more or all were not killed seems to me a wonder. I think if the enemy had been cooler we had been easily disposed of. I saw the girl-boy leap down among the bayonets, and we were at once in a hurly-burly of redcoats, our men with and after us.
For a little there was fierce resistance and a furious struggle, of which I recall only a remembrance of smoke, red flashes, yells, and a confusion of men striking and thrusting. A big Hessian caught me a smart thrust in the left leg—no great hurt. Another with his butt pretty nearly broke my left arm, as I put it up to save my head. I ran him through, and felt that they were giving way.
To left and right was still a mad struggle, and what with the Bengal fires still blazing, and a heap of brush in flames at one side of the redoubt, there was light enough to see. Near about me was a clear space, and a pause such as occurs now and then in such a scrimmage. There were still men who held back, and to whom, as I pushed on, I called, “Come on! We have them!” A great wind from the sea blew the smoke away, so that it was easy to see. As I called out to the men who hesitated on the outer slope, as some will, I heard before me a voice cry, “This way, men!” and, turning, caught sight of the face of Arthur Wynne. He too saw and knew me. He uttered an oath, I remember, crying out, “At last!” as I dashed at him.
I heard ahead of me cries for “Quarter! quarter!” The mass of striving men had fallen back, and in fact the business was at an end. I saw Jack run from my left toward me, but he stood still when he saw what was happening, and instantly, as he came, Arthur and I crossed swords. What else chanced or who else came near I knew not. I saw for the time only that one face I so hated, for the heap of brush in the work was still blazing.
As is true of every Wynne I ever knew, when in danger I became cool at once. I lost no time, but pressed him hard with a glad sense that he was no longer my master at the game. I meant to kill him, and as he fell back I knew that at last his hour had come. I think he too knew it. He fenced with caution, and was as cool as I. Just as I touched him in the right shoulder I felt a wounded Hessian clutch my leg. I fell squarely backward, my cousin lunging savagely as I dropped. I had been done for had not Jack struck up his blade as I lay, calling out:
“Coward!”
I was up in a moment, pretty savage, and caught sight of my Jack fencing with my man, as calm as if we were in old Pike’s gallery. As I stood panting—it was but a moment—I saw Jack’s blade whip viciously round Arthur’s and pass through his breast, nearly to the guard.
My cousin cried I know not what, fell to one side, and then in a heap across a dead grenadier.
“Better I than thou,” cried Jack, blowing hard. “He will play no more tricks. Come on!”
“With a glance at my enemy I hurried past him over dead and wounded men, a cannon upset, muskets cast away, and what not.
“This way, Wynne,” said the marquis. “C’est fini! Get those fellows together, gentlemen.”
Our men were huddling the prisoners in a corner and collecting their arms. A red-faced New Hampshire captain was angrily threatening Major Campbell, the commander of the redoubt, who had just surrendered. Colonel Hamilton struck up the captain’s blade, or I do believe he would have killed the major. He was furious over the death of Colonel Seammel, who was greatly beloved, and had been killed by Hessians after having given up his sword.
{Illustration: THE DUEL Page 504 Hugh Wynne}
{Transcriber’s Note: Two men are fighting with swords, as a third looks on. There appears to be flame, smoke, or clouds in the background.}
It was over, and I went back to see what had become of Arthur. He was alive, and having dragged himself to the inner wall of the redoubt, was now seated against it. Jack soon found a lantern, and by its light we looked at Arthur. He was covered with blood, but was conscious, and stared at me with dull eyes, without power to say a word.
“Take care of him, Jack,” said I, and went away down the crumbled slope and through the broken abatis, while overhead the bombs howled with unearthly noises and the cannonry broke out anew.
I was still angry that I had not killed the man, and went off to my tent in no very happy state of mind, so tired in body that I could not sleep for hours.
Says Jack, “October 15.—I can never cease to be thankful that, when we had them driven like seared sheep into the far side of the redoubt, I ran back to see what had become of Hugh. It was but a minute I had missed him, and when I saw him slip I had only just time to catch that devil Arthur Wynne’s blade. He was used in old days to play with me like a child, but either I am become more skilful or he was out of practice, for I knew pretty soon that he was delivered over to me, and had small chance to get away unhurt. If my friend had killed him,—and that was what he meant, I fear,—would Darthea ever have married Hugh? I know not, but it has been ordered otherwise. There was indeed a way opened, as Friends say. A nice Quaker I am become!”
I was not of his opinion that night. Just before reveille I fell into a broken slumber. I awakened in a sweat, having dreamed that I had put a sword through my cousin, and was troubled that Jack was to tell Darthea. Thus it came to my mind—dulled before this with anger and unsatisfied hate—that I had made a fortunate escape. The morning brought wisdom. I was beginning to think that all was not well between Darthea and Arthur Wynne, and that to kill him would do anything but add to my chances with a woman so sensitive, nor would it much improve matters that his death had come out of the unhappy chances of war.
When in happier mood I began to dress at dawn, I found my left arm very stiff and sore. I must have been much distracted overnight not to have felt it, and not to have seen that I was seriously bruised; my breeches were starched stiff with blood from a bayonet-prick. Jack’s quarters were on the extreme right, and as soon as the lines broke after morning drill I rode over to find him.
He told me that Dr. Bush was come to camp the day before with other surgeons, and that Arthur was in a tent and cared for by our good doctor, who informed Jack that his sword had traversed the right lung, but had not gone through, as it seemed to me it must have done. The doctor thought he might possibly get over it. Out of his affection for my aunt he would see that Arthur had such care as she would desire for one of her kin, but was it not a most unfortunate accident?
“I assured him,” said Jack, “that it was most lamentable, but might have been worse—as I intended it should be,” added Jack, with a grin. He then asked me had I heard of that good Free Quaker, Colonel Forest, who had taken Major Campbell, saying, “I advise thee to surrender, or thou wilt repent it, d—- thee!” to the delight of Hamilton, who must tell his Excellency that night, having supped with him on his return.
I made haste to write to my aunt, and was able to send our letters North with the general’s despatches to Congress. I said nothing of my own encounter with Arthur, but made mention of Jack’s affair as one of the chances of war.
Dr. Rush dressed my arm, and I went back to duty with the member in a sling, and aching like mad. His Excellency, seeing my condition, asked me if my right arm was in good order, but made no reference to the left. After I took his commands for the morning he said, seeing me limp, “Were you much hurt?”
I said, “No; I ran against something sharp in the bastion.”
He smiled, and that was the end of the matter. Fair women and brave men were to his Excellency’s liking.
This was my last of active warfare. The marquis tried his hand at a sally, and made ready too late to get away over the York River; but the sally came to nothing, and the belated effort to run to still less.
I neglected to say that the French, having come to the abatis, waited in line while the pioneers used their axes to clear it away. Meanwhile, thanks to too good discipline, they suffered severely. As we rushed the whole thing, we lost far less. “It was very fine and en regle,” said Hamilton, “but I like our way better.” And so, I think, do I.
The good doctor liked to come to my staff tent in those days, to talk to me or to others. He seemed to think it necessary to inform me of my cousin’s state, and I dare say thought me cool about him.
“And if, doctor, I had stuck him through the left side?” said Jack, lying at ease on a bearskin in my tent.
“In that case,” said our doctor, in a quite professional way, “the heart or the great arteries had like enough been pierced.”
“And what then!” asked Jack of the doctor, who was sitting on the camp-bed.
“Probably death would have occurred.”
On this Jack looked up with those innocent eyes, and, pushing back the blond locks, said: “It is a great thing to know anatomy. If only I had made a little study of that science, Dr. Rush, I might have had better success at this pig-sticking business we call war.” The sly humour of the fellow set Hamilton to laughing, but the doctor did not smile.
“It might have been better for Hugh’s cousin,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jack, sweetly; “perhaps.”
As they talked I was automatically putting into fine French a letter of his Excellency to Comte d’Estaing, and I took in readily what was passing. When Jack said, “Perhaps,” I cried out, “It would be a fine thing, doctor, to have all this saving knowledge on both sides, so as to know where not to hurt one another.”
Hamilton was on the side of Dr. Rush. “It were more to the purpose,” he said, “to sit down and not to go to war at all.” This was set forth demurely, the colonel seeing how serious a dose our fun was for the great physician, who did somewhat lack the capacity to discover the entertainment to be found in this manner of jesting.
He returned gravely that this was his opinion, and that had he his way, war and drinking of spirits should alike cease.
To this we agreed in part as one man, for of war we were tired enough. As to the other matter, we did not mention it. To think of such a revolution was too astonishing in those days, nor have we come to it yet.
After that the doctor discussed Arthur’s case with much learning and evident satisfaction. I might like in a day or two to see Captain Wynne. I was of opinion that it would do him harm, and when the great doctor said, “Perhaps, perhaps,” Jack began discreetly to talk war, and asked where was General Gates.
But by this time our doctor had become cautious. His favourite commander was dismissed with a word or two, and so our chat ended, Mr. Hamilton and the physician going away together, each pleased with the other, and, despite some differences in politics, to remain lifelong friends.
On the 17th of October, the Marquis Cornwallis having had a stomach full of fighting, and having failed of his schemes to get away across the York River, beat a parley, and after some discussion signed the articles of capitulation. The soldiers were to remain prisoners in Virginia and Maryland, the officers were to return to Europe upon parole. The beaten army at two on the 19th came down the road between the French and our lines, with the colours in their cases, and the bands playing a British march; for it is of the etiquette of such occasions that the captured army play none but their own tunes. Some wag must have chose the air, for they marched by to the good old English music of “The World Turned Upside Down”; such must have seemed sadly the case to these poor devils.
As I was of the staff, I was privileged to see well this wonderful and glorious conclusion of a mighty strife. Our chief sat straight in the saddle, with a face no man could read, for in it was neither elation nor show of satisfaction, as the sullen ranks came near.
At the head of the line rode General O’Hara. He paused beside our chief, and begged his Excellency to receive the excuses of my Lord Cornwallis, who was not well enough to be present, which no one believed nor thought a manly thing to do.
His Excellency bowed, trusted it was not very serious, but would not receive General O’Hara’s sword. With quiet dignity he motioned him to deliver it to Major-General Lincoln, who now had these grateful amends for the misfortune of having had to surrender his own good blade at Charleston.
After this the long array of chagrined and beaten men went by, and, returning to York, were put under guard.
A day or two later a letter of my aunt’s informed me of the disorder my father’s condition had brought about on his tobacco-plantation in Maryland. This caused me to ask for leave, and, with the understanding that I might be recalled at any time, I received permission to be absent two months.
I set out on November 5 for Annapolis, with two horses and my servant. Arthur Wynne, being found unfit to go to Europe with the rest, was taken a week later by our doctor on a transport to the Head of Elk, and thence by coach to Philadelphia. There, as I heard, the doctor took him to his own house, much amazed that Mistress Gainor would not receive him. Arthur won the good doctor, as he did most people, and, despite all expectations, was said to be mending fast, being much petted by the Tory ladies; but if Darthea had seen him or not I did not then learn.
My affairs in Maryland, where we had many slaves and large interests, kept me busy until near the close of December, when I set out to rejoin the staff in Philadelphia, my leave being up.
During this winter of ‘81 and ‘82 my duties were light, and except to write a few despatches daily, and to attend his Excellency on occasions of festivity, I had little to do save to look after my father’s affairs.
It is now fit that I return to the narration of such things as immediately concern my personal interests. Arthur Wynne was able to ride out by the end of January, as I heard, for I did not chance to see him. My father remained much as he had been for a year.
Darthea, to our great surprise, on Captain Wynne’s return became desirous to yield to her aunt and to go to New York. My aunt said she would get them a pass through our lines in the Jerseys; but this proving difficult, they stayed in and about the city, spending much time at their old home in Bristol. Darthea was so clearly unwilling to see me that I was fain to give it up, and accept what I could not better. When I said I was sorry she wished to go away, my Aunt Gainor replied that I was a fool, and would never be anything else. I asked why, but she was away from my question at once, and went on to tell me what officers were to dine with her that day, and did his Excellency like Madeira? and why was her doctor so fond of quoting Mr. Adams’s letters from Holland, where he now was on a mission, with his nasty sneers at Virginians and Mr. Washington? She gave me no time to reply. Indeed, this and much else I saw or heard in those days was quite beyond me.
My aunt’s way of dismissing a question she liked not was to pour out matters which were quite irrelevant, when to stop her was altogether past hope. I had learned to wait. She, at my desire, made Jack her aid in her affairs, as I was fully occupied with my father’s neglected business. Now, too, she was busy finding Jack a wife, and would tell me all about it, striding to and fro, and with vast shrewdness and humour discussing the young women we knew.
“Cat” Ferguson was very humble, and the Chews in great favour with his Excellency. I was fain to dismiss my wonder as to Darthea, and, unable to recur to the question I had asked, I went away to headquarters in the great Chew house in Third street.
The town was gone wild with feasting and dinners, and as the general liked his staff to attend him, I had more of these engagements than I cared about.
Arthur, still weak and on parole, lingered; but why he did not get permission to go to New York, as had been easy, I could not well understand.
In February, ‘82, I came home to my father’s one morning at an earlier hour than usual, and to my surprise heard my cousin’s voice.
“I fear, sir, I am not understood. I came for the deed you promised me.”
My poor father, a huge, wasted framework of a big man, was looking at him with lack-lustre eyes. He said, “My wife will be with us presently. Wilt thou stay for dinner?”
I went in at once, saying, “I am more than amazed, sir, to see you here. As to the deed you would have stolen—”
“What!” he cried.
“I said ‘stolen,’ sir. As to the deed you would have stolen from a man too feeble in mind to guard his own property, I have only this to say” (amid constant duties it had gone from my mind): “I shall put no obstacle in the way of your seeing it.”
“I have no other purpose,” he said quietly—“none. To you I could not go, and, sir, if you choose to consider my effort in any other light than an honest one, I have no more to say. We have enough causes of difference without that.”
“Quite enough,” said I. I was beginning to lose grip of my patience. “Quite enough. That they were not settled long ago an accident alone prevented.”
“I am not, sir, in a way fitly to answer you. Neither is this a place nor a presence for this discussion.”
“At least we can agree as to that,” said I; “but I did not seek it. At my own leisure I shall have to ask you certain questions which, as a gentleman and a man of honour, you will find it hard to answer.”
“I fail to comprehend,” he returned, with his grand air, looking all the better for his paleness.
I said it was not now needful that he should, and that in future he would understand that he was no longer a welcome guest.
“As you please,” he said.
I thought he showed little anxiety to hear at length what was in my mind.
Meanwhile, as we spoke, my father looked vacantly from me to him and from him to me, and at last, his old hospitable instincts coming uppermost, he said, “Thou hast not asked thy cousin to take spirits, Hugh.”
Arthur, smiling sadly, as I thought, said: “Thank you, none for me. Good-day, Cousin Wynne,” and merely bowing to me, he went out, I ceremoniously opening the door.
I had said no more than I intended to say; I was resolutely bent upon telling this man what he seemed to me to be and what I knew of his baseness. To do this it was needful, above all, to find Delaney. After that, whether Darthea married my cousin or not, I meant that she should at last know what I knew. It was fair to her that some one should open her eyes to this man’s character. When away from her, hope, the friend of the absent, was ever with me; but once face to face with Darthea, to think of her as by any possibility mine became impossible. Yet from first to last I was firm in my purpose, for this was the way I was made, and so I am to this day. But whether I had loved her or not, I should have done my best out of mere friendship to set her free from the bonds in which she was held.
I had heard of Delaney as being in the South, but whether he had come out alive from the tussles between Morgan, Marion, and Tarleton, I knew not. On asking Colonel Harrison, the general’s secretary, he told me he thought he could discover his whereabouts. Next day he called to tell me that there was an officer of the name of Delaney at the London Inn, now called “The Flag,” on Front street, and that he had been asking for me. I had missed him by five minutes. He had called with despatches from Major-General Greene.
To my joy this proved to be the man I wanted, nor was it surprising that he should thus luckily appear, since the war was over in the South, and a stream of officers was passing through Philadelphia daily to join the Northern army.
For a moment he did not know me, but was delighted when I named myself.
I said I had no time to lose, and asked him to meet me at my aunt’s in the afternoon. I much feared that Arthur would get away before I was ready to talk to him.
Delaney had received my last letter and had answered it, but whither his reply went I cannot say. At all events, he had lingered here to find me. When we met at my Aunt Gainor’s that afternoon, it took but a few minutes to make clear to her the sad tale of Arthur’s visit to the jail.
My friend had no sooner done than the old lady rose, and began as usual to walk about, saying: “You will excuse me; I must think of this. Talk to Hugh.” What there was to think of I could not see.
Delaney looked on amused, and he and I chatted. She was evidently much disturbed, and while the captain and I talked, I saw her move a chair, and pick up and set down some china beast. At last she said: “Come in at nine to-night, Mr. Delaney. I want to think this over. I have still much I desire to ask you. It deeply concerns my nephew in a way I cannot now explain to you. May I have the privilege of another half-hour?”
Delaney bowed.
“Of course I do not want you, Hugh,” she added.
When you have known a woman as long as I had known my aunt, there are sometimes hints or warnings in her most casual expressions. When my aunt said I was not wanted that evening I knew at once that she was meditating something out of the common, but just what, I did not think to ask myself. My Aunt Gainor was all her life fond of what she called inventing chances, a fine phrase, of which she was proud. In fact, this sturdy old spinster liked to interfere authoritatively in the affairs of men and women, and believed that for this she had a special talent, which in fact she discovered no inclination to bury; but what now she had in hand to do I knew not.
She was deeply grieved for a season to find that her plans went awry, or that men were disappointed, or that women would not go her way. “When she hurts you,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “she is like a child, and has a dozen silly devices for doctoring your wounds. We have fought many times, and made up as often. There is no real malice in her,” which was true.
Jack Warder once remarked in his lively way that Mistress Wynne had a richly coloured character. I fear it may have looked at times very black to some and very rose-tinted to others, but assuredly never gray in its tones, nor other than positive.
With me she took all manner of liberties, and with Darthea too, and if ever she were in doubt if it were well to meddle in our affairs I know not. A vast richness of human love and an urgent desire of rule lay underneath the life she showed the outer world of quadrille and dinners and gossip.
When she hurt us, or, as Darthea said, broke her china in trying to wash it, she fell back on our love with a quite childlike astonishment that what was come out of affection should give rise to resentment.
With a slight puzzle in my mind I went away with Delaney to dine at the London Coffee-house, which now showed our own new flag, where so often I had passed in under the cross of St. George.
“We have a new St. George now,” said Mr. John Adams, in one of those ill-natured letters to Dr. Rush which filled my aunt with rage. “Sancte Washington, ora pro nobis.” The Massachusetts statesman admired our grave and knightly St. George, but there are those who cannot fly a kite without the bobtail of a sneer—which is good wit, I think, but not my own; it was Jack said that.
When Delaney left me to call again upon my aunt, I little dreamed of what part she meant him to play. He left the town early next day, and had it not been for Jack I should not for a long while have known fully what an hour brought forth.
“On the afternoon of February 28 of this 1782,” says Jack’s diary, “I got a note from Mistress Wynne asking me to see her on business at nine. I found with her, to my pleasure, the good fellow Delaney, and was able to thank him for the service he had done us all in his noble care of Hugh. We talked over our battles, and presently comes in Darthea, whom now we see but rarely, for reasons best known to herself.
“I do believe Hugh has given up his love-affair as a thing quite hopeless, and no wonder. I think she still sees that rascal of an English captain, and perhaps he will not have her keep up a closer friendship with such as no longer desire his own acquaintance.
“Mr. Delaney was, like all men, charmed with Miss Peniston, and the talk went on busily enough, the young woman in good spirits and the captain most amusing.
“By and by he spoke quite naturally of the horrors of their life in the provost’s prison, and upon this Darthea, becoming of a sudden seriously attentive, listened with fixed gaze. Our hostess, seeing her chance, said: ‘I meant to ask you more of that to-day, but my nephew hates even to hear of it. How long were you there?’
“‘I was taken at Germantown like Mr. Wynne, and was kept until June. After Wynne nearly killed that rascal, Cunningham, things were worse than ever.’
“‘And was Hugh so very ill?’
“‘He could not have been worse to live at all.’
“‘And was there no inspection amidst all those horrors? Do you suppose Sir William knew nothing of them? I can hardly credit that.’
“Darthea looked round at Mistress Wynne. She had been unusually silent. Now turning to Delaney, she said, with slow articulation: ‘I also am curious, Mr. Delaney. We heard many rumours and some unpleasant facts. Could Sir William Howe have known? I cannot think it.’
“‘But he must, after the inspections, and there were three to my knowledge.’
“‘Indeed!’ said Mistress Wynne. ‘’T is most strange!’
“Delaney hesitated, not liking, I suppose, to mention Arthur, her cousin, of whose close relation to Darthea, however, he was not aware.
“‘And one,’ Mistress Wynne went on, ‘was, I hear, made by our kinsman.’
“‘Yes,’ said Delaney, ‘and that did certainly amaze me. Captain Wynne—’
“‘Captain Wynne!’ exclaimed Darthea, and, turning her head, she looked sharply at Mistress Wynne and then at me. I think that Delaney, being unfamiliar with her habits of speech, did not notice how strange was the tone in which she added, ‘We all know Mr. Arthur Wynne.’
“‘Indeed!’ said Delaney; ‘but of course I might have known that.’
“‘Yes, yes! I interrupted you. Pray, go on; it is most interesting.’
“‘Very,’ said Mistress Wynne. And now I saw what a wicked trap our spinster-fox had laid for poor Darthea. Delaney, a bit puzzled, glanced at me. I made no sign. It must not stop here.
“‘It is a queer story, Miss Peniston, and not much to the credit of his Majesty’s officers.’
“‘What next?’ said Darthea.
“‘Oh, the tale is brief and brutal. I was seated on the straw one day, with Hugh’s head in my lap, putting water on his forehead and trying to quiet him, when the turnkey came in with an English officer. This gentleman looked about him at the few left alive, asked carelessly who broke the window-panes, and then suddenly seemed to notice Hugh. He asked who was this poor devil. The turnkey said, “Name of Wynne, sir.” Then the captain stood still a moment, staring at us, and, as if curious, bent down, asking me what Hugh was saying. Now my poor friend was muttering over and over, “Dorothea! Dorothea!”—some woman’s name, I suppose, but what woman he never told me.’
“At this I saw Darthea flush, but perhaps remembering that Mr. Delaney might know her only as Miss Peniston, which was the fact, she controlled herself and said quickly: ‘He asked his name? Are you sure he asked his name? Could there have been no mistake?’
“Delaney looked the surprise he no doubt felt, and replied, ‘Yes; of that I am sure.’
“‘Do you think,’ said Darthea, ‘he knew how ill Mr. Hugh Wynne was?’
“‘Certainly; I heard the turnkey tell him that a day or two would see Hugh in the potter’s field with the rest. The doctor had said as much. This was true; he had told me it was useless for him to return, and indeed I thought so too. They buried a half-dozen a day. When told that this man Wynne had jail-fever, the captain seemed in haste to leave. At the door lie turned and took another look at Hugh, and then went out. I asked his name next day, but the turnkey laughed, and said it was none of my business. I had a fancy that the inspector desired to remain unknown. I was sure of this when, a few days after, I described the officer to Hugh, who was then quite himself. When Hugh said at last, “Had he a scar over the left eye!” and I said he had, Hugh cried out in a rage that it was his cousin, and would talk of nothing else for days. I fear there can be no doubt that the inspecting officer was Captain Arthur Wynne.’
“‘Horrible!’ exclaimed Mistress Wynne. ‘Incredible!’
“‘Yes; it seems to me a quite inconceivable thing, but I am certain, though the man looked a gentleman all over.’
“‘He looked a gentleman all over,’ said Darthea, with strange deliberateness of speech.
“This while Mistress Wynne sat drawn up, her face set, and one hand moving on the arm of the chair, just the same queer trick her brother had. As for me, I watched Darthea. It was a merciless plot, and may have been needed; but in truth the way of it was cruel, and my heart bled for her I loved.
“As she spoke her tones were so strange that Mr. Delaney, who was clearly but an innocent though sharp tool, said: ‘I beg pardon, Miss Peniston. These sad stories are too dreadful to repeat. Miss Wynne would have it—’
“But Darthea was now quite lost to the common ways of life. She went on like a person questioning herself, as it sounded to me. ‘Arthur Wynne asked his name. Is that so?’
“Delaney said, ‘Yes,’ now, as I saw, quite troubled, and wishing himself out of it, I dare say.
“‘And he knew he was in rags, starved, dying, and he left him?’ continued Darthea, ‘He left him—to die.’
“‘Yes; but—’
“‘No matter. I must hear all—all!’ she cried sharply—‘all! I am the person most concerned.’
“‘Darthea!’ then exclaimed Miss Wynne, alarmed, I suppose, at her wild manner and breaking voice.
“But Darthea went on. ‘This is my business, madam. You are sure, sir? This is no time to trifle. I—I am—I must know! I must know! Would you say this to Captain Wynne were he here? Answer me, sir!’
“‘Certainly I would, Miss Peniston.’
“‘Mistress Wynne,’ said Darthea, rising, ‘I have been brought here to let a stranger see my—my weakness. It is plain. Did you think I could hide it, madam? Pardon me, sir. You have done me a cruel service. I—I thank you. I bid you good-evening, Mistress Wynne. Was there no other way, no kinder way, to tell me? Will you take me home, Jack? I—I am tired.’
“We had all risen with her at the beginning of this last speech, I troubled, Miss Wynne very red, and only fit to say over and over, ‘Darthea! Darthea!’ Mr. Delaney annoyed, and lacking knowledge of the situation; all of us awkward and confused save Darthea, who passed out into the hall, followed by Miss Wynne, and saying, as she went forth, ‘I will never forgive you, madam, never! never! You are a wicked old woman! I shall never speak to you again. I did not think it.’
“I walked in silence beside her to Mrs. Peniston’s home. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ said she, in a sweet, low voice. ‘You did not know, did you, of this sad story?’
“‘Yes, dear lady, but of this disgusting plot, no.’
“‘But why did you, who are my friend, and Mr. Hugh Wynne, and all of you, leave me in the dark as to this—this man?’
“I said quickly that it was not well to have told her until Mr. Delaney could be found. He had but just now come. She had seemed to trust Captain Wynne’s story; Hugh’s was but the hearsay of a man just out of a deadly fever. We had waited.
“As I spoke, she stood with her calash bonnet fallen back, clear to see by the full moonlight, and looking with intent face across Arch street, as it might be with envy of the untroubled dead of generations who lay around the meeting-house. As I ended, she said:
“‘I have been a fool, Jack, but I loved him; indeed I did. Is there more? I know Hugh hates him. Is there more?’
“‘Too much, too much, Darthea,’ I said.
“‘Then come in. I must hear all—all.’ And she knocked impatiently.
“Presently we were in the parlour. ‘Fetch a light,’ she said to the black who opened for us. When we were alone and seated, she said quietly: ‘Jack, you are my only friend. I do trust you—oh, entirely. Now what is it? I must know all. Why has Hugh Wynne been silent? It is not like him.’
“‘I have already told you why. Partly because, Darthea, you were away, or would not see us. That you know. Partly because Hugh had only his own word to give; but this I have told you.’
“‘Yes, yes,’ she cried; ‘but what else?’
“‘I think,’ said I, ‘knowing him well, that Hugh meant, when once he had Delaney’s evidence, to tell his cousin face to face, and so force him to release you.’
“‘That is my business, not his,’ she broke in. ‘What has Hugh Wynne to do with it! Am I a child?’
“‘It had been the kinder and the manlier way,’ said I. ‘Now there is no need; but Hugh will be furious with his aunt.’
“‘I am glad of that. What else is there? You are hiding something.’
“‘There was that scene in the garden, Darthea.’
“She coloured at this. ‘Yes, I know; but there were reasonable excuses for that, and no one had time to think.’
“‘Two people had, Darthea.’
“‘We will let that pass, Jack. Don’t play with me.’
“Then, driven to the wall, so to speak, I told her of the sad revelation Andre had made to Hugh, and how, being Hugh’s enemy, Arthur had been base enough to involve him in an affair which might have been his ruin.
“‘Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘I see; but who could know, or who think to use such knowledge?’
“I was taken aback at her seeming to have any doubt. I coldly set myself to tell her of Arthur’s double dealing about the estate, and of how he had made Hugh’s father believe he was minded to consider the ways of Friends, and at last of how he had borrowed money and had set poor Hugh’s half-demented father against him. I did not spare her or him, and the half of what I said I have not set down. The Arnold business I did return to, seeing that it struck her, or seemed to, less than it did me; for to my mind it was the worst.
“‘Darthea,’ I said, ‘how could a man of honour or even of good feeling put any gentleman in such peril of worse than death? There were Tories enough to have done his shameful errand. But oh, dear Darthea, to suggest to send on such business an open, frank enemy,—his cousin too,—that was too bad for the lowest and vilest!’
“‘Hush!’ she said, ‘I know enough. You have been both brave and good. You are the best man I know, Jack Warder, and the kindest. I wish I loved you. I am not worthy of you. Now go away.’
“I obeyed her, and this was so far the end of a miserable affair. What Hugh will say to Miss Wynne, God knows. I have given a thorough rascal his dues; but I cannot do this and not tell him to his face what I have said behind his back.
“This was at night, but I had no better counsel in the morning.
put on paper what he had seen and heard in the Provostry.”
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